These strange steps

7. Seven

A hand cups her cheek, afterward, until she manages to get her eyes open and blearily tries to read Quinn's expression.

If anything, this is sort of what her therapist looked like when she'd gone in to renew her Xanax prescription about three weeks before she was due to.

"Okay?" Quinn asks, and there's such calm and certainty in her attitude that Rachel nods and then flexes her wrists, wincing when they still can't budge.

Quinn hovers over her for a moment and long, graceful fingers pluck at the scarf binding her, until it disappears and she can lower her hands. They fall to the pillow, limp, and then her shoulders burn at finally being able to move again. It's the weirdest, most pleasure-inducing contrast to how utterly boneless the rest of her body is.

She feels a little helpless to explain all of this, even though Quinn is shifting back down and is still looking at her with some concern, and—God, she feels so much. She doesn't have the words for it.

Her eyes start watering without permission, and Quinn's eyes widen just enough for her to know she has to say something to indicate that she's fine.

That she's... just really, really alive right now. That she's probably not going to be able to sit comfortably for about three days, but that she's never felt so cared for in her...

And those words, they almost undo her completely; with a painful twist, she covers her eyes with her hand and wipes at them before she can actually start crying.

Then, she feels fingers slide under her back, and Quinn's hand starts digging into her shoulder, loosening the knot there. When it gives, and she moans audibly, Quinn reaches for Rachel's hand and pulls it away, looking into her eyes.

"Okay?" she asks again, more softly this time.

"Can—can you get me some water?" Rachel finally says, blinking at the light coming from the window; it's unexpectedly bright, and when she glances at her alarm clock, she realizes it's only three thirty.

It feels like a whole day has passed, but... it's only the middle of the afternoon.

The bed dips, and she watches as Quinn—naked as the day—disappears from the bedroom and pads down the stairs. A minute and a half later, she appears again with two bottles of spring water and, after a second of hesitating, sits down on the edge of the mattress. It takes her another moment, and a few sips of water, before she swings her legs back around, and then she settles next to Rachel again, handing over the second bottle.

Drinking the water grounds her; she starts feeling a little less like she's not even in her body with every sip that trickles down her throat, and when she's finished about half the bottle, she puts it on the nightstand and then turns to look at Quinn.

"I'm not much of a cuddler," Quinn says, after a moment, before capping her own bottle and putting it down on the ground; then, she lifts the covers and slips under them, and rolls over onto her side and looks at Rachel, hands folded under the pillow.

"Is that an assumption or a fact?" Rachel asks, ignoring the croak in her voice for now; hopefully, it'll be gone by the time she goes on tonight, and if not... well.

Quinn's eyes stare past her for a long moment, and then she tips her head back until she can look at Rachel's face. "I'm not really sure. I just don't want you to expect... things."

Rachel sort of snorts at that, unwillingly, and shifts down the bed until they're face to face again, nearly sharing a pillow; except she's on top of the covers, and Quinn is under them.

"I didn't push you too far, did I?" Quinn voices, after a moment of searching Rachel's face.

The uncertainty is unexpectedly gutting, and Rachel gambles; she's in Vegas, after all.