Summary: "You can't decide if you want to cry and cling to Quinn when she returns or yell at her for being a complete, freaking moron." — or 3 times Quinn is (in Rachel's honest opinion) a little shit and 1 time she's not – Faberry, Rachel's POV, college!Faberry, post-college!Faberry

Rated: M (light?)

A/N: When headcanons collide! Basically, possibilist does things sometimes that are so Quinn Fabray, it's absurd. Then sometimes she's a bit of a shit, so this is what those exchanges (d)evolved into. She's also the loveliest writer. (Title is from Richard Siken because duh.)

Our Breath Softened the View

You weren't technically snooping – at least it wasn't your intention. It's not your fault that Quinn's kitchen cabinets have more books than food, so when you found a drawer full of random papers and syllabuses, you decided to organize them.

Quinn typically spends the day with you, but Yale doesn't have the same fall term break as NYADA. You're juniors, so there's a routine for days like these: You have a small breakfast with Quinn before walking her to class, then you go for a short run, stop by the grocery store to save Quinn the trip and restock her refrigerator, shower and change, and afterward you do some tidying to pass the time until Quinn gets back around noon. Santana calls you whipped, which you prefer over the times she calls you "Quinn's outsourced elven labor." You shrug it off because, to be honest, you like making time to do all these things for Quinn. She always makes time to see your performances and take you to auditions and listen to you rant over Skype about things, like Jesus being the worst actor ever (in Jesus Christ Superstar, of course); small tasks seem like the least you can do.

Normally it's not a huge ordeal, but you're staving off a mild panic attack as you look at the stack of papers in your hands.

University of Pennsylvania Graduate Programs

Pennsylvania.

Not New York.

UPenn is not in New York.

(You might not always comprehend the theories and poetry Quinn rattles off, but you know basic geography.)

You are tempted to flip through the pages, but you're afraid you'll find a photo of some smiling blonde pursuing a PhD, sitting in some ridiculous critical-political-something theory lecture with a quote about how much she loves UPenn and that it was the best decision of her life.

You shove the brochures and papers back into the drawer before distracting yourself with lunch. You can't decide if you want to cry and cling to Quinn when she returns or yell at her for being a complete, freaking moron.

It's true, you haven't officially asked Quinn to move to New York after graduation, but the way she talks about Columbia, the way you both whisper your plans at night – her curled up beside you, pressing her body against yours – they always sound like promises. Every time she says she loves you, you take it as a declaration that this – the two of you – is forever.

But you also know Quinn. You know how fast Quinn's brain and body move, but you know how tired she gets. Suddenly, you wonder if Philadelphia is a better city for her, closer to the comfort she finds in New Haven. Quinn is so exhausted sometimes, you could almost understand if she was looking for an alternative to the city that never sleeps.

Still, there is no Broadway in Philadelphia. You aren't in Philadelphia.

You put some avocado and vegan cheese on some bread before putting it in the toaster oven, careful to pay attention to your task as you slice some cucumbers. You take a deep breath to calm your nerves, putting the tea kettle on the stove to make some iced tea.

When you hear footsteps outside the apartment door, you decide this is a good time to put your acting skills to work. She's probably going to tell you she had this dumb idea for a fleeting second and that she's enrolled at Columbia already, and that's most likely why she had you visit this week.

"Hey," Quinn says, appearing in the kitchen with a smile, dropping her bag on one of the chairs and the obligatory three books, which never fit in her bag, on the table to join several others.

"Hey," you say, mustering a smile and hoping your tone is nonchalant.

She walks over and kisses you on the cheek, pulling you into a hug. For a moment, you think that you could make it work; you would take the Amtrak to Philadelphia and probably empty your bank account to see her just as often as you do now. When you conclude that it wouldn't be enough, that you've always wanted Quinn so much closer, you stiffen as Quinn pulls away.

"You okay?" Quinn asks, and you mildly hate how endearing her look of concern and quirked eyebrow are at a time like this.

"Mhm," you hum, pulling the kettle from the stove and pouring the water into a mason jar with several teabags.

She looks at you skeptically before moving to the table to make some space for the two of you to sit.

"How were classes?" you ask, putting some ice in a couple of glasses as Quinn gets settled, pulling out her Moleskine agenda and flipping through it.

"I didn't pay much attention because a lot of it was reviewing…" she looks at you and decides to paraphrase, "stuff. But then this kid kept kicking me in Geophysics."

"What's geophysics? And why was another student kicking you?"

"Earthquakes. And it was a classmate's kid. Apparently her sitter canceled," Quinn explains, rolling her eyes as she twists in her chair to stretch her back. You admire her body, how it moves beneath her blouse, how she crosses her perfect legs in that floral dress she put on for her presentation later today.

You're growing more panicked as you bring your plates over to the table, quickly turning away to watch the tea steep. You can't look at her as you think this through, or as you try to think of something to say other than, What the fuck, Quinn?

You assume Quinn is busy reviewing her day's plans, but when you turn to face her again, she's looking at you carefully.

"So," you say, sitting across from her, "your polysci presentation should be easy, right?" you know it sounds forced when Quinn narrows her eyes at you. You already talked about it this morning, and she always gets nervous before presentations or tests even though she has a 4.4 GPA and calls all her professors by their first names.

"Yeah," Quinn says slowly. "Did something happen when I was in class?"

"Did you have something to tell me?" you ask abruptly. You wanted it to happen organically, like your director told you how scenes should unravel, but this isn't a scene; this is your girlfriend being frustrating.

"About what?" Her genuine look of confusion makes you inhale through your nose to steady your voice.

"Nothing you want to mention?"

"Rachel, I have no idea what you're talking about or what I should be talking about. What's going on?"

"Philadelphia?" It comes out in a high pitch, and Quinn just frowns in confusion.

"What?"

"UPenn?"

"Wh-"

"Say 'what' again, Quinn, so help me," you say, standing up from the table, stomping over to the drawer.

Once you pull out the stack of UPenn brochures and information packets and drop them on the table in front of Quinn, a look of realization dawning on her face.

"You're talking about this?" she finally says, motioning toward the incriminating material.

Your hands are on your hips when you huff, "Yes, Quinn. This. Were you going to tell me?"

"There's nothing to tell, Rachel."

"I'm completely supportive of where you and your absolutely ridiculous mental capacity takes you, but I'd like to know if you were even considering going somewhere other than New York."

You have to stop yourself from admiring the way her eyes glint and the muscles move as she clenches her jaw. This version of Quinn is so patient with you, frequently reeling in the explosive nature she cultivated as top Cheerio at William McKinley.

"My advisor is a UPenn alum," she explains in an infuriatingly gentle tone, "She thought it'd be a good fit."

"Well, is it?"

"Rachel, is that a serious question?"

"Don't patronize me, Quinn."

"No!" Quinn yells, running a hand through her hair. "I don't want to go to UPenn!"

"Then why did you keep that?" you ask, pointing at the smiling face on a program cover. "Why was it in one of your kitchen drawers?"

"Do you hear yourself right now?" Quinn asks in an exasperated tone, "It was in a kitchen drawer. For Christ's sake, I keep my old Bibles in the cabinet below it!"

"You are such an ass, Quinn Fabray!" you say, storming off, growing angrier when you realize that you can only storm off into her room.

"What is even happening?" Quinn groans from the kitchen.

You sit in her room with your arms crossed, and once you hear the door close and imagine her walking off to class without you, you start to cry. You were terrified. You still are because as much as you love Quinn, you know she was meant to do wonderful things with that brain of hers, that brain you can't quite keep up with all the time. You can sing like no other, but sometimes the flashy lights and song and dance of the city don't seem like enough for Quinn. Sometimes you don't seem like enough.

You aren't sure when you fell asleep, but you wake up after the sun has set and hear Quinn enter the apartment. You hear her footsteps drag across the floor, a bag drop, her back pop, then a light sigh and groan. You shuffle out to the kitchen and see that your lunches are still sitting out on the table. Quinn is leaning against the counter, clutching a bottle of water. She's in shorts and a tank-top, and her face is flushed from a run.

"You shouldn't have gone running," you say, leaning on the doorframe with your arms crossed; you're trying to make your body language project the defenses you're already letting fall.

"I know," she grumbles.

"Is your back okay?" you ask.

She nods, but when she stands up straight from against the counter, a small grimace briefly crosses her face. It's moments like these when you feel a hole in your chest, when it feels like the day of her accident and the possibility that there could be a world without Quinn in it. You don't want to exist in that world. You have Broadway, but even if you lost your voice like Julie Andrews, Quinn would always hold your hand and bring you flowers and make you smile, whether or not you were a Broadway star.

"Sometimes it astounds me how you can be simultaneously the smartest and dumbest person I know," you state, trudging over to her and taking her hand.

Quinn doesn't say anything, just gives you a small grin as you lead her to the bathroom. You get the water going, then help pull off her sweaty clothes.

You kiss the corner of her lips, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Quinn says with a tired smile. "You joining?"

"No, because you're still a little shit for going for a run without lunch."

"Just a little one?"

"Don't be a big shit," you say, pointing at her. "I'm going to make dinner."

"Rach?"

You do your best to focus on her face and not jump in the shower with her. You have a principle to prove. Or something. "Yeah?"

"You know I only want to be where you are, right?"

You nod. "But it's nice hearing it."

"Do you have anything you want to ask me?" Quinn says, quirking an eyebrow in mock innocence.

"What?"

"Anything to ask?"

"I don't–" You stop when you realize what game she's playing at. "Nope."

With that, you turn on your heel and make your way to the kitchen. You're making her favorite veggie stir-fry. You decide you'll ask her to move in with you after dinner, just because you can be a shit sometimes, too.

You're going over lines for your Off Broadway production that starts soon after graduation, enjoying the warm weather in New Haven. Having performed in almost every NYADA student musical and several off Off Broadway productions throughout the school year, you've been exempt from your senior final exams. You thought this would be a perfect opportunity to make time to see Quinn and celebrate, but Quinn wouldn't know what senioritis was if it bit her perfect ass.

Long story short, Quinn is co-writing a piece with her advisor on something-something-metalepsis-something-poetic-functionality-analysis-something on top of two theses and final exams. It's not that you tune out Quinn when she's raving about some ridiculous epiphany she had in some class (that she doesn't have to take, but is taking because she's Quinn), you just know you'll never fully understand. Plus you're always more distracted by the way her mouth moves when she says words you still don't think are real words. You've come to realize it's similar to the way that she'll never see the performing arts in quite the same way. She sees it all through her poetic and theoretical eyes, appreciating it as a performance, but it's not the same living and breathing thing you experience when you know what it feels like to be in the spotlight. Whatever this is, it works because you still feel your heart break and mend when you see her enter a room, hear her bare feet moving about her apartment. You swear something in your heart gets confused in those moments, like it forgets that you never lost her, that she's here and in love with you.

You decide to take a break from running through lines and stop by your favorite coffee shop, then catch Quinn before her last class to give her a pick me up.

You have your iced coffee with soymilk and Quinn's cappuccino (decaf, skim, extra dry – which always makes you feel like an ass when you order it, but you still glare if the barista gives you attitude) when you make your way toward Quinn's class. You're halfway there, passing the English department when you see messy blonde hair and the familiar leggings and UPenn hoody, which Quinn wears every time you see her if only to piss you off.

You're about to smile, but you notice her hunched form with her bag beside her on the ground. When you stop walking toward her, you realize she's limping her way along the sidewalk, dragging her stupid, teal backpack that can't fit her absurd number of books, therefore carrying two more.

"Oh, hell," you mutter with a sigh, proceeding to make your way toward your girlfriend's pathetic form. "Aren't you supposed to be going to Geography?" you say as you march toward her.

Quinn straightens at the sound of your voice, but winces. "Geology."

"Whatever. What are you doing?" If she weren't your girlfriend and if you weren't familiar with such a sad sight, you'd laugh.

"Walking?"

You pick up Quinn's heavy bag and help her hobble to the nearby bench.

"Why didn't you tell me your back was hurting?" you ask, watching Quinn adjust her glasses that slipped down her nose. She makes an adorable nerd, but you hate seeing her hurting and stressed and tired, even though the last two are entirely her fault for being an overachiever.

"It's fine," Quinn says, shrugging as you hand her the cappuccino.

"Yeah, okay," you say, rolling your eyes because Quinn can be impossible sometimes. "When was the last time you went to the chiropractor?"

She doesn't look at you, just takes the lid off the cup and lets her perpetually cold hands absorb some of its warmth.

"I guess it's been a while," she finally says before sipping. She hums and smiles at you, "Thanks."

"I'd have brought you Advil if you'd told me," you say, giving her a stern look. Quinn sometimes forgets how to take care of herself, how to be gentle, how to let her body recharge to keep up with her perpetually eager brain.

"I figured I could just do a lap around the building and maybe pop my back," Quinn says, another shrug. She does this when she's uncomfortable and lacking an explanation for why she doesn't ask for help. You hate that Russell raised her to be cookie-cutter perfect, that she was taught to lie her way through her struggles.

"You looked sadder than Quasi Modo," you state, making Quinn give you an exaggerated pout.

"That bad, huh?"

"Let's go back to your place, and you can take a bath and schedule an appointment with the chiropractor," you say, standing from the bench and hoisting her bag on your shoulder.

"Can it wait? I was skipping Geology to meet with Jessica about–"

"Lucy Quinn Fabray," she cringes at the sound of her full name, "Home. Now."

You take her by the arm and lead her back to her apartment.

"But I had this really crazy theory about Milton that we didn't get to talk about in class," Quinn whines.

"We live in the 21st century, Quinn. There's e-mail… and Advil," you say. In your periphery you see Quinn frown. "Why are you acting like I just ran over your puppy?"

"I feel like I just got run over," Quinn states. You give her a sharp look, resulting in a quick and quiet, "Sorry."

"You're such a little shit."

"But I'm your little shit," she comments with a smirk.

"You're really pushing it, Fabray," you say, and when you meet her glinting green eyes, you frown. "I also hate when you wear that outfit."

"Because UPenn?" She's smiling brightly now, teasing you. You like that you can do that – make her lighter.

"Also because I'd prefer other people didn't know the shape of your ass quite so well."

"Well, this ass will be in New York with you soon," she says, kissing your cheek briefly as you both slowly make your way through New Haven.

"Quinnnnn," you whine through the door. You know she hates when you do this. You just finished celebrating the closing night of your Off Broadway production with a day to spare a hangover tomorrow before you start rehearsing for your role as Elphaba in Wicked. You and Quinn spent the previous weekend celebrating in bed with wine and her going down on you until you practically lost your voice. Tonight, however, Quinn left after the show to return home and do some school work. You aren't upset, really. Maybe just mildly. You understand that she has midterms at Columbia, and – because she agreed to write a thesis, a critical theory piece, and an article for some literary magazine on top of her other work – she's doing her best to balance her time with you and school. Having drank three double gin and tonics, however, you're eager to be home and see your girlfriend.

"Quinnnnn," you say again, shuffling through your giant Coach purse that Quinn got for you as a present. You can hear your keys jingle at the bottom of the bag, but you really don't have the motivation to search for them. "My keys won't work!"

You hear the sound of her bare feet approach the door. "Yes, they do, Rachel."

You put your hands on your hips, "Now you're just being annoying."

Quinn finally opens the door and gives you a smirk. She's in her boxers and a Yale t-shirt. You can see the bags under her eyes from behind her glasses.

"Thanks, babe," you say, pecking her lips before brushing by her.

You flop on the chair next to the couch, which you have taken to calling "the Futon of Sadness," because it's piled with books of poetry and theory that, from what you can understand, only talk about how fragile everything is and how little we can truly know. Or something.

"How was the party?" Quinn asks, getting settled back into her Futon of Sadness with a cup of tea.

"Good," you say with a sigh, "Wish you'd been there though." You lean on the arm of the chair and give her an exaggerated pout.

"Me too, babe," she says, opening one of her books and continuing her reading.

You scowl, watching her rub her temples. She licks her finger before turning a page, all her focus on the text. You sigh, but there's still no reaction from her. Even when you stand up to go change, Quinn's head is still in her book. You're used to this because that's how Quinn behaves when it's time to get serious. You guess you're rather spoiled by her ability to multitask throughout the rest of the school year, like watch TV with you and read philosophy books at the same time, but those nights end with her closing her book and spreading your legs. Midterm exams and final exams are nights you spend in bed alone and fall asleep waiting, only waking up when Quinn cracks her back and stretches before starting her day on very little sleep.

You strip down to only your panties and pull on one of Quinn's oversized Columbia sweatshirts before sauntering back out to the living room. You decide Quinn should take a break. Okay, so you just want to distract her for a moment because you miss her eyes on you, her touching you.

"Quinn?" you say, moving a few books from beside her to plop next to her.

"Hm?" It's incredible that you can be jealous of a book for holding her attention, her green eyes, more than you right now.

"I missed you," you say quietly, leaning over and kissing her cheek.

"I did, too."

You begin to trail kisses down her neck, gently sucking at the skin above her pulse point.

She lets out a low hum of approval, but then a sigh. "Rach," she says, "I'd love to. Really. I just… this," she says, motioning to all the books around her.

"I feel like this stuff sucks you into a black hole for a week," you say, sticking out your bottom lip.

"It kind of does," Quinn says with a shrug, "Just a couple more days."

"I don't want to wait that long."

She runs a hand through her hair and looks at you with a stern look. "Don't start, Rach."

"Start what?"

"That. Exactly that."

You sigh, not wanting to argue, so instead you just wrap your arms around Quinn and lean back with her against the couch.

"Just a few minutes," you mumble into her shoulder, kissing her collar bone and nipping at it affectionately.

"A few," she says, pulling you closer and pressing her lips to your forehead.

She can't see you frown because cuddle time wasn't really what you meant, so you drag your lips to her sternum, tracing your hand across her waist and slipping it under her shirt. Then you pull her face toward yours and kiss her fiercely.

"Rachel," she says, and you smile a bit because it's laced with a moan as you trace the pad of your thumb over a nipple and bite her pulse point. When you use her other hand to guide hers to your own body, you realize she's still holding her book. You pull away and see Quinn is obviously trying to read.

"Really?" you groan before standing up.

"Two more days. If I get enough done tonight, I might be able to–"

"What? Sign up for another thesis with Dr. Hot Pants?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose before looking at you with a muted glare. "I have work to do."

"Fine," you say, "Continue." You storm off toward your bedroom before pulling off her stupid hoody. You're still topless when you walk back out for water in the kitchen, hoping to nip a potential hangover in the bud. Quinn Fabray can eat her heart out for all you care. You know she likes the way your ass looks in lace panties, so you take your time walking through the living room, hoping this might convince her to eventually come to bed.

But nothing. Instead, Quinn has her headphones on and is going back and forth through four books, then typing quickly on her laptop.

Once you have your glass of water, you sit back down in the chair beside her and turn on the TV. You almost want to throw the remote at Quinn when she doesn't look up from her laptop as she types with her pen in her mouth.

You attempt a casual yawn, stretching your arms overhead. You're a bit cold, but you're rather desperate at the moment. You're staring at the TV for ten minutes, but you're hardly paying attention. In your periphery, Quinn continues to type away. All the things you love about Quinn also make you want to scratch your eyes out sometimes. Those hands typing, those teeth biting the pen, those lips – you really hate Columbia right now.

You applaud yourself when you finally throw something at Quinn and that it was a pillow and not one of the numerous hardcovers littering the living room. Finally she looks up, and her eyes scan your mostly naked body. She pulls off her headphones and glowers at you.

"What?" She knows you hate that.

"At least pretend you really want to fuck me right now!" you burst as you jump up from your seat. There's a small feelings of triumph when Quinn's eyes fall to your breasts for a moment, but back up to your face. She's glaring again, but you give it right back.

"You honestly think I don't want to?" Quinn growls between clenched teeth. "I'd really, really like to. I would, but–"

"But books! But theses! Because holy shit Quinn, why fuck your mostly naked girlfriend when you can read Lacan?!" You're shouting as you pick up a book, "Because this asshole is so much better than me. Your brain must have so many orgasms because of this shit!" you say, pointing to the portrait on the cover of a very boring looking book.

Quinn's shaking her head and laughing bitterly, "You said you understood when I told you I couldn't go out tonight!"

"You sometimes don't even pretend that it's hard! That you have a hard time choosing!"

"What in the world makes you think I'd ever choose something over you?" Quinn says, and her tone is softer, making you that much angrier.

"You're a complete shit, Quinn Fabray," you say, dropping the book to the floor. "Enjoy sleeping with your dead douche bag theorists," you mutter before storming off toward your bedroom.

When you wake up the next morning, your head is throbbing, and you're wrapped in one of Quinn's t-shirts. Quinn's not in bed with you, so you sprawl out across the bed and look up at the ceiling. You wonder if Quinn went for a stupid long run, if she'll let you apologize and give her a massage, or if she's going to be an ass again.

"Rachel?" Quinn's voice calls from the other side of the door.

"Yes?" you reply, attempting to sound like your anger is still present, but instead sounding miserable.

"Can I come in?"

"It's your room, too," you respond.

"You locked the door."

"Oh," you roll out of bed and open the door, keeping your face neutral to prepare for whatever comes next. It quickly melts into a pout when you see Quinn standing there in a sweatshirt and a pair of your shorts she must have gotten from the laundry pile, holding a bouquet of perennial sunflowers and helenium and a coffee cup from your favorite café, two Advil resting atop the lid.

"I'm sorry," she says.

You kiss her immediately, morning breath be damned. "I'm sorry, too."

You pull her into the room and set the flowers and coffee down and begin to pull off her clothes.

"I always want you," Quinn mumbles against your mouth as you dip your hand below the waistband of the shorts, teasing her briefly before pulling them off with her underwear.

"I know," you say, your tongue burning a path along her jawline and taking her earlobe into your mouth, "I'm sorry I'm a needy drunk."

"I'm sorry I'm a shit sometimes… most of the time."

You laugh as you duck down and kiss her sternum. "It's okay. I love you."

"I love you, too," Quinn says, lying down with you on the bed.

You get lost and tangled and you swim in the green of her eyes that don't leave you for a second as you feel her hands trace over your stomach, then slip between your legs. Her mouth takes a nipple between her teeth before it's all tongue and softness. You feel her hum in approval when your hips cant to meet her hand, and you moan her name. She strokes your clit until you start to tremble, and when you start to come, she slips two fingers inside you and curls her fingers, so your body is a shaking mess as wave after wave of multiple orgasms course through you.

Eventually, when you can breathe and you're blinking stars from your vision, you see Quinn smiling down at you. You kiss her gently. You start to push her onto her back, but she resists.

"I also made you breakfast," Quinn says, pulling away from your eager lips.

"While I appreciate your intentions, and I'm sure it's really lovely, I can make something later when you're working on your thesis," you say, reaching between your bodies to touch her.

Her eyes slam closed, and she lets out a small moan before she pulls your arm away from her. "Today, you're all mine."

You look at her curiously.

"I sent in my work early. It's not the best, but it's above and beyond what was expected, so I finished it all," she explains, leaning down to kiss you sweetly on your lips before dotting kisses down to your chest. "So I have all day," she whispers, using her hands to spread your legs.

A couple of hours later, you're in bed eating toast since the fake bacon and eggs got too cold and the refrigerator is otherwise empty.

"You spoil me," you say as Quinn returns with a cup of tea. You appreciate the shades in the apartment that let Quinn walk around naked. You like when she acts like a nudist, with just you of course.

"See? I'm not always so bad."

"You're okay, I guess," you say with a smirk. She just smiles back before lying beside you and drawing patterns across your skin with her fingertips.

You always knew loving Quinn wouldn't be easy, and you're sure you're not the easiest person to be with. Still, every time she kisses you and every time you hear her say she loves you, you remember why the both of you are always trying and working at this confusing and absolutely wondrous relationship.

You smile at her reading the New Yorker, her free hand still skimming over your stomach.

She looks up at you when she feels your stare, "What?" You don't get mad because you know she genuinely wants to know what's going on in your head.

"Nothing," you say, leaning over to kiss her lips softly, taking a breath from her lungs. "We're both here, like this, and… thank you."

"I love you," she says, her hand finding yours.

"I love you, too, Quinn."

You might call her a lot of names, but at the end of the day she's Quinn. Just Quinn.