Chapter Text
Her voice has always been loud. Obnoxiously so, you'd once thought.
Then you fell in love with her, and that voice.
The way it would flow over you, into you, through you… the way that every time she sang, it seemed as if it was just Rachel and you, alone in the world and outside of it.
The way that she would whisper words just for you, her fingers spelling out want and love on your body, her voice dark and husky, a decibel no one but you knew she could reach.
But now… her voice is even louder.
She doesn't notice how the people around her wince. You're glad that she can't hear it when Kurt mutters something to Mercedes about gagging her.
Rachel's voice has always touched the rafters when she sings; now it seems as if she's trying to bring the roof down on everyone's head. Schuester seems annoyed; he looks at you as if to say "Fix it."
You don't know how.
You've talked to Rachel's dads, because of course they've noticed it too: the loudness of her voice, her radio and the television; the constant need to repeat what they say so that she'll hear it; how her assumption of what they've said is twisted and wrong – because she keeps missing the important words.
So when Rachel has to ask Kurt to repeat something for a second time at glee practice, you catch up with her afterwards, in the hallway. It's the first time you've ever held her hand in school, and you know it startles her.
But her shock fades into fear when you lean in and softly whisper against her left ear – the one that seems to be the worst.
"You need to go to the doctor."
Her eyes darken and you steel yourself for an epic Rachel Berry rant… but to your surprise, she visibly deflates and clings tighter to your hand before she just nods.
At home, you throw yourself into phone books, looking up names; and then onto the internet, researching reviews of those names. Rachel has always laughed at how obsessive you are when it comes to her health.
She doesn't realize that you refuse to forget what you used to do to her. The insults, the name calling, laughing every time cold corn syrup and ice struck her face.
And if caring about Rachel Berry's health to the point of obsession is your penance, then so be it.
Rachel insists on calling herself to make the appointment, so you sit next to her on the bed as she dials the number on her cell phone.
When she quietly says, to the receptionist, "I think I'm losing my hearing," you take her hand and squeeze.
You hate doctor's offices, but when she asks you, chewing on her lower lip and looking scared, you know you're going with her. You sit in the waiting room with her, ignoring her offers of magazines; your eyes scan the wall of brochures, full of terms you don't understand, and drawings that make bile rise in your throat. You hate the peculiar smell that these places have; they remind you of death and tragedy and the soft feel of baby weight in your arms.
More than anything, they remind you of emptiness.
And Rachel's eyes are empty as she takes it all in, chewing on her lower lip.
You haven't prayed much since your parents kicked you out of the house, but you think today might be a good day to start again.
The two of you don't really talk, until you notice that she has tears in her eyes. You tuck your lips next to her ear, kissing the shell of it before you speak.
"It's all right, baby, it's all right, everything's going to be fine. I love you; you're going to be okay."
You pray that what you're saying is true.
Rachel hisses in pain when the doctor's fingers are on her ear, tugging it in order to shine the light inside. You don't realize you've growled until the doctor quirks an eyebrow at you and Rachel rolls her eyes, patting your hand.
You didn't even know that eardrums could rupture; you have to fight off a laugh because the very idea reminds you of how Finn plays the drums. You know the reaction that would get you from Rachel, and you're worried, anyway, because there are audiology appointments to make and CT scans to schedule.
And for a girl who hates doctors and hospitals, you know you'd take Rachel's place in a heartbeat.
Since you can't, you also know you won't leave her side.
So it's a knife in your gut when she refuses to let you go to her second ENT appointment with her. You sit in the living room, idly flipping through the channels and not really paying attention. The results from the audiology test glare harshly up at you from the table. It's grotesquely funny to you, how something as important as a person's hearing, something so important to a person's life can be reduced to bar graphs and circles, a simple phrase reducing it to cold, analytical fact.
Severe conductive hearing loss.
The tears start when a sudden realization strikes you.
Will she still be able to sing?
You force yourself not to worry about it, and when Rachel comes home and loses it when she discovers you turned on the television captioning, the only thing on your mind while you hold the crying girl in your arms is Rachel, soothing Rachel, protecting Rachel…
Making sure Rachel doesn't forget your voice.
Cholesteatoma. The word rattles in and out of your brain like a snake, as you sit in the hospital waiting room with Rachel's dads for three hours, while Rachel is in surgery. You'd looked it up, as you always do with things involving Rachel that you don't know, and the pictures are gross, frightening, the prognosis doing nothing to soothe you. The list of complications doesn't do anything to assuage your fears.
Dizziness. Meningitis. Facial paralysis. Brain abscess. Spreading of the cyst into the brain.
You know that if things don't go the way you want them to, it'll be surgeries every six months, hearing aids, and possibly, eventually, complete deafness.
The doctor comes out and a warm arm is around your shoulders as he explains that your worst fears are coming true.
How are you going to tell Rachel?
Her dads volunteer, but you shake your head.
You won't let anyone else tell your Rachel that her inner ear bones have been destroyed, that she is deaf in one ear, and will be completely deaf in both by the time she's 21.
One hand is gentle in her hair, the other feeding her ice chips; you hope your voice is warm and soft because the look in Rachel's eyes is slowly killing you. You have to fight to keep from breaking when Rachel turns away from you and begs you to just leave.
When Rachel cries herself to sleep, you slip in behind her and curl your body around her. Take it in, take the pain, take the fear, take it on yourself so Rachel won't have to deal with it. Your mind fades back to your childhood, bible verses drilled into your head with a fatherly harsh hand, and you never truly understood the meaning of some of them until now.
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
"Father," you whisper into the darkness. "If it is thy will, take this cup from her. Give it to me instead. Nevertheless, thy will be done."
Rachel's voice is harsh and angry when she wakes up and again orders you to leave her.
It's the first time you've ever refused her.
The library of William McKinley High School is woefully inadequate for the research you need to do now; you're grateful for the Lima City Library, and you take six books home. While Rachel is sleeping upstairs you flip through them, and it hits you.
She'll be deaf by the time she's 21.
After that, Rachel Berry, who could sing before she could talk, may never sing again.
You cry when she signs that she loves you, because you love her so much it hurts, and you're just so scared.
You start listening to every recording of Rachel you can get your hands on. From her first recital as a 7-year-old, to even those MySpace videos that you'd once hated. You're glad that she let you delete your comments. The tears fall fast and hot as On My Own fills the guest room that had, at one time, been your bedroom – before Rachel's room had become our room. You don't sing along like you usually do; you put on your headphones so that the sound of Rachel seeps into every part of your body.
And you sob.
You don't realize that Rachel has entered the room until you feel the headphones being lifted off, and she is kneeling at your feet with a hand on your knee, looking up at you with concern written all over her beautiful face, silently asking you what's wrong.
You shake your head. "I don't want to forget your voice."
Because you don't what this is, you don't know how this works; you're pretty sure she won't be able to sing again, but that doesn't even matter.
What matters is Rachel's laugh when something is funny. The excited way she talks about something in glee. The soft "Good morning, love," whispered into your ear as the sun slipping into a bedroom window reveals a tender body curled against yours. Gentle giggles when you tickle her; quiet moans when your fingers dance over every inch of her.
The way you know, just by the sound of her voice, that no one will ever understand you – will ever love you – like Rachel Berry.
Shock registers on her face, before her own tears start. She stands up and takes your hand, leading you to the bed.
And as she undresses you and takes you over the brink, every word, every sound is in your ear, meant only for you.
But then something begins to happen, and you're not sure how to make sense of it.
Rachel starts pulling away from you, and you're stuck in this helpless limbo of anger and confusion, jealousy when Rachel keeps whispering to Artie in glee practice, and he nods and gives her a high-five. She stops riding home with you after glee practice, making up an excuse that you both know is lame, something about needing to help Schuester with his woeful skills of song selection.
You've seen Schuester twice leaving the parking lot before you've even pulled out, and you know Rachel is lying to you.
She knows that you know, but she doesn't say anything.
Finally, one night you angrily tell her that if she doesn't want you anymore to just tell you, because you just can't take this.
She stares at you, her eyes wide and unreadable.
She says nothing, and you spend the night crying in the guest room.
When you wake up that Saturday morning, something glints in the sunlight, on the pillow next to you.
You pick up the cd case; against the harsh gold of the cd are words, carefully scrawled in black sharpie.
For Quinn, so you will remember.
You slip the cd into your laptop; the headphones are securely over your ears when Rachel's voice speaks to you.
"Hi, baby. I've been working on this with Artie after glee practices. I hope you like it. I love you, Quinn."
Your hand cups your mouth and your tears soak your fingers as that voice floods your ears. Rachel's laugh when Artie tells her a joke. Her soft, gentle voice as she says things that only she knows, that only you know (and you think that Artie better damn well have been out of the recording area when she was saying those things), and around it all, Rachel's singing.
Songs you love and know well, songs you've never heard before but love because Rachel's singing them, Rachel acapella, Rachel backed with Artie on the guitar. The songs lack their usual ceiling-busting power, because this is the way that Rachel sings only for you: soft, muted and low, an element to her voice that sends shivers down your spine.
You're crying openly when you reach the last song on the cd, one of the last songs you heard before a hospital and a pretty baby with brown hair and her daddy's eyes changed your life.
Before Rachel came into your life in full force after Regionals, and changed everything you thought you knew about yourself.
And then once again the headphones are being lifted off and you're being lifted to your feet, Rachel's arms soft around your waist.
She leans into you and gently sings against your lips.
Oh girl, you stand by me… I'm forever yours, faithfully…
Rachel smiles as you rest your forehead against hers. "Don't ever forget that," she says tenderly, kissing you.
You kiss her back.
She doesn't need to worry.
You will remember.
Faithfully.