Summary: "You do the best you can—give her space, tell her you love her, and you wait." — or 4 times Rachel needs to lovingly remind Quinn that she is a little shit (with the help from a friend), and 1 time she does not – Faberry, Rachel's POV, Our Breath Softened the View universe, college!Faberry, post-college!Faberry

Rated: T

A/N: A new addition to the "little shit" series, which (if you didn't know) is kind of a fanfic AU lovechild of my headcanon combined with possibilist's. Possibilist graduated, so this is her graduation present, and you should read all her stuff because it's fabulous. This takes place I've been doing a lot of reading and writing original stuff, but I took a break to sit down and write this because possibilist graduated. This takes place in the same timeline of Our Breath Softened the View. Trigger warning for ED stuff.

We Live the Opposite, Daring

24A

]
]you will remember
]for we in our youth
did these things

yes many and beautiful things

]
]

24C

]
]we live

the opposite

daring

]
]

- Sappho (translated by Anne Carson)

1.

Why didn't you take the Aleve I left you, Quinn Fabray?

You are currently glaring at your phone because your girlfriend can be extremely frustrating.

Quinn is taking her last final before summer break, and then meeting with one of her advisors about her thesis. Since you finished your NYADA projects earlier than planned, you surprised her by arriving a night early. Quinn looked happy to see you, of course, but exhausted, of course. You did your best not to lose your temper when Quinn insisted she was fine after dragging her tired body to the kitchen for tea and then back to the futon with all her books spread about, her back popping loudly as she stretched out.

Rather than argue, you left her a small note and a couple Aleve for her on the kitchen counter before you woke her up on the futon to make her go to bed.

You know that she was probably distracted with a million thoughts about the poetics of geophysics or something when she rushed off this morning, but the Aleve you left for her on the counter is still sitting there. You stare at them, wondering how pathetic your girlfriend probably looks walking around campus.

Your phone vibrates, so you unlock the screen to read Quinn's response.

I know. I forgot. Sorry. I'll take it later.

You type out a response, I'll be sure to remind you.

Don't be mad at me :(

I can be as mad as I want. I know you're hobbling all sad-looking on campus.

I aced my final :) and I'm wearing a pretty maxi so it's like. Majestic magickal hobbling my way to Jessica's?

Keep calling it that, Quinn.

You wait under a pretty cherry blossom tree on Yale's campus. You acquired a picnic basket and blanket when you visited in the fall (as an apology for your UPenn meltdown), so you're putting it to use in the nice May weather. You let your skin soak up the sun, closing your eyes and enjoying the breeze. You look down at your phone when it makes the light ping sound you reserved for Quinn's texts.

Hey. On my way.

You frown at your phone, but before you can respond, she sends another message.

Sorry. I'll see you in a second.

You eventually see Quinn appear at the opposite end of the grassy area, and you can tell she's smiling. You hate to admit that she actually does look kind of majestic in her Anthropologie maxi—black and white with a gray blazer over it—you'd have spotted her a mile away, even if she wasn't doing her "I'm Quinn Fabray, and I'm not hobbling or in immense pain" walk.

"Hey," Quinn says once she's close. She still looks tired, but you grin because she looks relieved and lighter, despite the heavy thud of her bag when she drops it on a corner of the blanket. You find yourself often offering to carry her books, wishing you could take more than the weight of her academics off her tired mind and body.

"Hey," you reply, patting the empty space beside you.

With some effort, Quinn sits down, scooting over to kiss your cheek.

"Have you eaten today?" you ask, passing her usual cappuccino order to her before opening the picnic basket.

"Are you going to be mad if I say 'No'?" Quinn says, giving you a tentative smile.

You sigh and roll your eyes, "I figured. But… today's okay, right?"

Quinn nods and takes a sip of her cappuccino. "Yeah. I just ran to take my final. But now I'm ready to eat lunch with my beautiful girlfriend," she says, giving you another kiss.

"I know you know you were being a shit because you're being super sweet," you say, poking her side to make her squirm a bit. "Oh, and I called your chiropractor."

"You don't even know which chiropractor I go to," Quinn says skeptically.

"I'm an internet sleuth. So you're going tomorrow morning," you say, giving her your sweetest smile.

"I… Shit, I guess I can't get out of it, huh?" Quinn says with a sigh.

"Aren't you so glad your beautiful girlfriend cares so much about you that she takes care of your poor little body when you're being a little shit?"

"I knew you only wanted me for my body," she says with a pout.

"That's the only reason why I want you," says a voice from behind you.

Quinn pathetically shifts her body to look up at him with a grin. You look up to see a smirking boy with short brown hair and bright brown eyes.

"Hello, I'm Rachel," you say, extending your hand to him. He takes a seat in the grass before shaking your hand.

"David."

You know this because you've seen pictures, but you don't say this because a lot of those pictures were during darker times when you weren't Facebook friends with Quinn and would go on Santana's after drinking too much wine and crying.

"Quinn's told me a lot about you," you say, and you refrain from thanking him. Since Quinn and you got back together almost a year ago, Quinn always says his name with a certain smile, tells you cute stories and all the ways he was there for her when you weren't, but not in those words, of course.

"I've heard a lot about you," David says with an earnest grin, "For a long time, actually. I'm glad we finally got to meet, but I don't want to interrupt your cute picnic."

"Oh no, please stay," you say, moving to allow David a place to sit. "I'd love to hear how Quinn behaves when I'm not around," you joke, sticking your tongue out at Quinn who merely rolls her eyes.

"I hope you have more than orange water sticks," David comments, lightly bumping Quinn with his shoulder.

"He says carrots are just orange water sticks," Quinn explains.

"I'm glad someone else acknowledges that carrots, while they are nutritious, are not sufficient enough for such an active person as yourself," you say pointedly to Quinn, pulling out a baggy of cut carrots, "But I did bring some." You continue to unpack the contents of the basket—hummus, celery sticks, a salad, frozen grapes, and bagels with whipped cream cheese, cucumber slices, and tomato—Quinn's favorites that are relatively easy to handle. You hand David a plate and place half of your bagel on it.

"So generous; thank you," he says, taking a bite.

"You're welcome," you say, picking the cherry tomatoes out of the salad you put on Quinn's plate before handing it to her.

"Wow, you two are as grossly adorable as I thought," he comments, laughing when Quinn backhands his shoulder. "Ow! I have very sensitive skin, Quinn!"

You laugh when Quinn just rolls her eyes at him, kisses her hand, then gently pats the place she hit on his arm.

"I'm headed over that way, so I can help carry Quinn's always ridiculously heavy bag if you'd like," David says, helping you clean up.

"You don't have to," Quinn insists, struggling to get to her feet, but doing so with grace.

"That means she's being stubborn," David says to you, "I don't know how you stand it."

"She's pretty intolerable."

"I'm right here," Quinn says with an exaggerated huff, subtly stretching her back.

"You might want to start going, Quinn. You probably need a head start," David says with a sarcastic grin, helping you pack up the last of the leftovers into the basket.

Quinn puts her hands on her hips, and you fear for her future students because she gives David a fierce glare.

"I'm so glad I know you love me because otherwise, you're terrifying," David says. You and David laugh, and there's something about his smile that makes him seem like a young soul, something youthful and strong, so you can understand his ability and willingness to care for Quinn on her heavy days. You watch as he lifts Quinn's bag from the ground with ease, "Actually, not too bad today," David notes, doing a few quick bicep curls with the bag, "Guess I still have to work out later," he says, putting one strap over his shoulder.

"Well, you have very impressive biceps already," you note.

"I like her," he says to Quinn, gesturing to you with his thumb. "I can't believe you were so selfish to keep her to yourself all this time."

"Rachel, he's super gay," Quinn says, faking a glare, making you scoff, "And David, I'm so sorry I hurt your feelings by not sharing my girlfriend with you," Quinn teases, pinching David's side.

"It's okay. You're still my favorite," David says, wrapping his arm around Quinn's shoulder and kissing her temple. "Even if you're an ass sometimes."

"I'm hard to love," Quinn says with a sigh as you walk on her other side.

You take her hand and she smiles at you, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

"It'd be harder not to," you say, kissing the scar on the back of one of her knuckles.

2.

You know you shouldn't be worried because you saw Quinn this morning. She was quiet, and you know there are her days when she needs some space, but these days are difficult for you to judge what her needs are. Sometimes she needs to be held, but sometimes she exists in a difficult space in her body and doesn't like to be touched. You made her a small breakfast, and you tried not to notice the way she pushed the egg whites around her plate, took small bites of her toast, and swallowed the few mouthfuls with difficulty.

Now you're preparing an easy, safe dinner because Quinn is finishing up her last day of courses before you spend most of your fall break together. You're seniors, and you've never had as much time together on your breaks as you'd like, so you both made it a point to request off these few days for one another. You try not to be too concerned with the text she sent you.

Quick run. Be home by six.

You know she runs to clear her head, but you also know she runs when her body can't sit still with all the burdens of her past and the small amount of food she manages to eat on hard days. You do the best you can—give her space, tell her you love her, and you wait.

"Quinn, it's me. Where are you? It's late. I know this is the third voicemail I've left you, and while that may be a bit much for the past ten minutes, I hope you appreciate my restraint and that I waited until fifteen minutes after your expected time of return. Please call me back."

You're hanging up when you hear the apartment door open and close. Her slow footsteps and the sound of her bag dropping to the floor echo in the small foyer.

Your arms are crossed, and you're about ready to lecture her when she walks into the kitchen.

"Hey," she says softly, her head bowed as she walks over to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water.

"Hey?" you repeat with a scoff of disbelief, but it gets halted when she looks up and you see dried blood lining the right side of her hairline down to her jawline. "What the hell happened to you?" you ask, rushing over.

Quinn turns her head so you can't touch her face, and you're not sure if your face is conveying your rage or concern more.

"There was a low-hanging branch, and I ran right into it," Quinn says with a shrug. "I was just lost in my head…" You watch her throat move as she lifts the water bottle to her lips, but then you look at her hands. You always look at them because they move like her body does, they create beautiful things—the closest things you can get to seeing inside her mind. But they're scraped up now, marked with dirt and gravel.

"And the ground came up and cut your hands?" you say, pulling them toward you to examine them further. Quinn tries to pull them back, but you hold them tightly, lifting up her free hand to see her skinned elbow.

"I just… fell," Quinn says, looking at her water bottle, mindlessly peeling the label.

"Quinn, look at me," you demand, pursing your lips as you wait. When she finally does, you almost pull her into a hug. Her eyes are almost glazed over, barely able to focus on you. "Just—finish your water," you murmur before walking to the bathroom and starting the water.

"I'm tired, Quinn," you sigh, letting the water hit your hand to test the temperature, hearing her shift on the hardwood floor outside the bathroom by the doorway.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly.

You turn and look at her, and your heart breaks because she has her arms wrapped around herself. Even though she's about six inches taller than you, in these moments she looks so small. It took time, but you've learned to keep your gaze on her; times like this only remind you of the smell of sanitizer and the beeping monitors and the same small body in a hospital bed with red-stained gauze and too many tubes needed to keep her alive.

"I don't mind taking care of you," you say gently, and you let out a small laugh, "I love you, so so much… even when you're being a shit," you smile when this makes the corners of Quinn's mouth turn slightly upward, "I know you go on runs to calm down, to stop yourself from being mean, but we've made it this far."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Stop being sorry," you plead, "Just tell me the truth because… while I can handle absolutely everything else, I will not tolerate you lying to me this far into our relationship," you take a breath to steady yourself, "We're going to be living together in a few months, Quinn."

You watch the muscles in her jaw tighten, the way her shoulders lift as she inhales deeply. "I fainted. I'm sor— … I didn't want to scare you."

You push the image of her unconscious somewhere, vulnerable, alone. "I'm already scared when you're gone for longer than you say. Whenever you're late. You need to tell me these things."

Quinn nods, licking her lips, as if preventing another apology from slipping out.

"Come here," you say softly.

She takes the few steps toward you, and you reach out to her slowly. When she doesn't move away, you look for any sign of disapproval as you begin to lift her shirt. She gives you a small nod and lets you undress her. You kiss her bare shoulder before pulling off your own clothes.

You step under the stream of water and gently tug her in after you. You pull her head down and kiss her tenderly.

"I will always worry about you because I will always love you," you say, against her lips, "Whatever kind of day it is, I'll be here in any way you need. Just don't lie to me, Quinn. You can push me away, but don't shut me out completely."

She nods and ducks down to kiss you in a desperate way that steals the air from your lungs, but you willingly give it. She tastes like the salt of her sweat, maybe her tears, but you kiss her until you feel her stop trembling. When she manages a sad sort of smile, you use a soft washcloth to start to clean the cut along her hairline. She ducks down so you can see, and although she cringes, she lets you continue. You kiss her temple before you move your work to her elbow, then her hands. Every part of her body you wash, you kiss—replacing the evidence of the unforgiving ground with something softer.

Then you press your lips to the scars that mark her body, and you hear a low sob escape her. You kiss your way up her stomach to her sternum, then wrap your arms around her as the hot water continues to pour over your bodies.

You nuzzle into her shoulder, "You know I only call you a shit because I love you, right?"

You feel her nod, hear a soft, breathy laugh.

"You aren't shit. You're beautiful and smart, and the only shitty parts are the parts of you that don't always let you see that—see what you deserve," you say, and you try not to cry because Quinn is the one struggling today. You can only ever hold onto her and repeat the reasons you love her until she believes it again, or at least trusts you enough.

"I love you," Quinn says, kissing your damp forehead. She repeats it over and over and kisses your face until the water starts to run cold.

3.

Don't freak out.

That's the text David sent you approximately ten minutes ago. Now your bag is packed, and you're opening Google Maps on your phone to check the best trains to transfer to in order to make the earliest train to New Haven possible.

Due to your lack of response I'm going to assume you're looking at train times.

You glare at the message, wondering if you appreciate or hate how quickly David has come to know you. David and you have grown close, keeping in touch primarily via text and e-mail, as well as an occasional phone call. You initially started talking mostly regarding Quinn: when she's having an off day, if she's feeling sick, or when she's being uncommunicative. But you've also gotten to know David—his love for themed parties, his good cuddling abilities, and his everyday missions to make people, mostly Quinn, laugh, even if that involves browsing thrift shops and putting on silly hats. He wants people to be happy, and you're glad someone like him exists and is a part of Quinn's world, and now yours as well. You're also glad that David has taken up the responsibility for scheduling Quinn's regular chiropractor appointments, but Quinn was only persuaded because you threatened to show up and wheel her in a wheelchair to the Yale New Haven Hospital. (You even showed up one visit with restraints, but you found other uses for them.)

Your packing gets interrupted by your ringing cellphone.

"What, David?" you say curtly.

"Nice to hear your lovely voice too, Rachel," he says. "Stop packing, because I know you are."

"Wrong. I'm already packed."

"God, you're so predictable. I told you not to freak out!"

"Just a note for the future, if you don't want me to freak out, try not to open a text conversation with 'Don't freak out.'"

"Noted. But look, we both know this time of year is hard for Quinn, for good reason."

"Why do you think I'm about to take a train? She can't be alone."

"Breathe for a second, Rachel," David says calmly, "I wanted to tell you because I care about Quinn and you care about her too… and you also threatened to burn my wardrobe if I didn't report all things sad-Quinn-related."

"I wasn't actually going to, but continue," you clarify. Part of you takes pride in the fact that you absorbed some of Quinn's intimidation.

"Right, so don't freak out, but Quinn may have busted up her knuckles a teeny bit."

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.

" But she's not in danger," David adds quickly, "She was drunk and upset."

"And a little shit," you groan, "I did not buy her new boxing gloves to hang as decorations!"

"I know, but Quinn is an adult," he says in a gentle voice, one he's mastered to keep moments like this from spiraling into delirium, "If you show up because she has bruised knuckles, she'll know it was me. She asked to be left alone tonight, and I know she told you. We just need to give her space."

"I understand. She has these days when she needs space, and I thought I'd be used to it by now. I just… can't handle her hurting alone."

"I know. Trust me, I'd go spy on her if I knew I could avoid her catching me and then yelling at me and making me cry, but sometimes she needs to heal by herself."

"I know… but you should still try and spy on her."

"Rachel…"

"What? There's plenty of bushes near her apartment. Do a stake out or something, and don't get caught. Just for tonight?" you whine.

"You're insane."

You scoff. "I like to claim I'm an extremely compassionate girlfriend who sometimes has to bend the agreed upon rules she made with her girlfriend."

"I don't want to rule-bend. Rule-bending means David ends up sad and scared of Quinn for an unintelligible amount of time. Everyone needs to sleep on this. Quinn will inevitably fall asleep after her fourth beer—"

"Meaning pass out drunk because one beer gets her drunk."

"This is true, but you should sleep tonight, and if you're worried by morning, take an afternoon train in to see her."

You look at the clock and realize you would miss the next train to New Haven, and it's already eleven o'clock. "Fine, but be in touch?"

"I'm sure she'll be texting the both of us, so I'll let you know what she says, okay?"

"Thanks, David."

You hang up and flop onto your bed. You hate how helpless you feel, but you can only do so much, despite whatever distance is between you and Quinn.

Hey, I know you're having a hard time, and I know you say you wanted to be left alone today. Still, you know I can only half-follow the rules. I just know you're drinking and coping and processing and hurting and healing. I understand the importance of catharsis and that it's necessary right now, but all things are safer in moderate proportions. I just don't think your little body can handle hanging your head over the toilet for the entire night, so be safe? Try and be a little shit and not a huge one, k? I'll be here if you need me. Just please don't make me have to retrieve you or send David. Because I will. I love you so much.

You take a melatonin and drink a cup of chamomile tea, changing into your pajamas as your mind worries about Quinn. You're curled up in bed when your phone displays a message from Quinn.

Thanks. I love you more. I'm sorry.

That's impossible. Don't be sorry.

Yes it is. Sorry.

You almost laugh when you see the ellipsis pop up on your iPhone and she sends you another message.

I mean. Yeah… I just love you a lot.

You called David at midnight when Quinn's sporadic texts stopped altogether. He went and checked on her for you, but then his last text was, I'm with her. She's just drunk. It's okay.

So you obviously caught a seven o'clock train to New Haven and are now standing outside her apartment door, holding both your coffee orders. You tuck hers under your left arm and pick up the New York Times sitting on her doorstep before you knock.

You hear an undeniable groan and shuffling footsteps approach the door. You hold back tears when she opens the door and you see her hung-over figure, clad in boxers and a tank top. She gives you a tired smile, and you can tell she spent most of the night crying.

"Hey," she says, and her voice is still clinging to sleep, left behind in some undoubtedly unpleasant dream. Your heart swells at the thought of waking up to it once you move in together, but it breaks as you hope it sounds less broken than it does now.

"Are you okay?" you ask carefully.

Quinn nods, "I'm glad you're here."

You smile, "I'm glad I'm here too." You cross the threshold and close the door behind you, placing the coffees down on the table where she keeps her keys and to-do lists (that aren't top priorities like what she scrawls on her hands).Then you wrap your arms around her and kiss her gently.

"I love you," Quinn whispers against your lips.

"I love you too," you say as you part, "But you're really okay?"

"Yeah," Quinn says, a genuine smile forming, "Especially since you're the first person I'm seeing today."

You grin back, "Good. I like seeing you too, but," you stop, fold the Times in half, and swat Quinn on the side of the head with it.

"Ow! What was that for?" Quinn asks, a hint of a smile playing at her lips because you're sure you look ridiculous as you put your hands on your hips.

"Please, that didn't hurt," you say, then smack her harder (which isn't hard at all) on the shoulder, "I. Am. So. Mad. At. You. Quinn. Fabray," you say, repeatedly whacking her with the newspaper with each word.

Quinn starts laughing, and despite your urge to smile, you give her one last hit with the newspaper before tossing it onto the table.

"This is not funny," you say, pointing your finger up at Quinn's face. You ignore the loving expression on her face and continue, "You know what else isn't funny? Not responding to your girlfriend's texts when she's worried about you."

"I made David text you."

"Yeah, I could tell. And then he stopped responding. Do you know what it's like to have a million thoughts at once on melatonin?"

"I told you not to use sleep aids; it's really not good for developing a healthy sleep pattern."

You sigh, "I know, but…" you reflect on it for a moment before you shake your head abruptly, "Wait, you're not good for my sleep pattern if all I know is that you're getting drunk and crying on the floor while listening to sad songs."

"The floor grounds me."

"I know that."

"But I did floor cry."

"I know."

"And I boxed… without my gloves."

"I know… David told me."

"Jesus, Rachel, did you hire him as a private investigator?" Quinn says, rolling her eyes as she runs a hand through her messy hair.

"Don't be ridiculous, Quinn. Private investigators require funds I cannot provide. Our mutual love for you and possibly a few mild threats are what fuel David's compassionate observations," you say, unwavering despite a stolid look from Quinn, "But yay! Today's better… right?"

Quinn nods. You pull her into a tight hug and kiss her shoulder that's slightly smudged with ink.

"Don't be a shit and not tell me if you're safe or not," you mumble into her neck, rubbing your hands along her back. "Or I'll personally deliver you the Times every day."

"That's encouraging, actually."

"Or I'll burn every issue of The New Yorker and Times and Paris Review," you amend.

"Okay, I'll behave," Quinn agrees with a chuckle.

You pull away and look her in the eye. "You really need to move to New York soon."

She gives you a small grin, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Why? So you can monitor me there?"

"No, so I can take care of you on all those days you think you don't deserve it," you say, standing on your tip-toes and kissing the tip of her nose. Her eyes are shining when you part. "But yes. Also to monitor you."

4.

"Daviiiiiid," you groan into the phone, "what do I doooo? She's being a shit."

"Honey, you tell me this like you didn't know."

You grab Quinn's favorite salsa from off the shelf and continue walking down each aisle for Quinn's safest foods.

"She's all stressed out," you say with a sigh, picking up some rice cakes and tossing them into your basket.

"About the Bunner Award?" you hear him snort, "What a terrible last name…" he mumbles to himself, "For her piece on the metaleptical nature of—"

"Queer history and literature in America, yes," you say quickly, "Trust me. I know. She couldn't find an empty classroom most of the time, so I have that and half of her defense currently occupying every window and mirror in the apartment. I now understand the cultural erasure of queer history and what a fucking palimpsest is now because I read her notes every time I wash my hands or brush my teeth!" you take a few breaths, "She has a beautiful, wonderful mind, but I'm about to lose it. She also sat me down for the whole, 'Babe, I love you, but my thesis,' which means I haven't gotten laid in over a week, David. Like, I've almost—"

"Nope," David interrupts, "No. We can talk about a lot of things, Rachel. Like that time you had to kiss the guy with too much nose hair because the lead and the understudy were sick because the two supposed heterosexuals both came down with the flu at the same time? Or the time you walked in on your castmate jerking off in his dressing room? Those things are fine because I don't know them, but you and Quinn—"

"I haven't gotten laid in a week, David!" you practically shout into your phone as you turn into the bread aisle. You clear your throat and give the elderly woman who's staring at you a polite smile and speed walk your way to Quinn's bread of choice.

"No! No more!" David says as you quickly disappear to the next aisle, "I love you both, but I do not want to know the details and regularity of your sex lives. If you want my opinion on the situation, keep it gay-boy friendly, Rachel."

You huff, but concede, "Okay. She's just super stressed out and nervous, despite the fact that she's kicking ass at Columbia, so she has yet to eat today, and the award ceremony is in three hours."

"Is she purging?"

"Luckily no. I made sure she was attempting to nap before leaving for the store. So what do I do?"

"I don't know, make her eat those orange water sticks she's so fond of."

You look at the two pound bag of baby carrots in your basket, "Think I have that covered."

"Maybe even try for a yogurt. If she gets nervous and nauseous, at least yogurt isn't… painful?"

"Good idea. I almost forgot."

"Mm, amateur mistake."

You nod in agreement to yourself. You walk into the dairy aisle and practically sweep a half-dozen yogurts off the shelf into your basket. "Okay, I'm going to check out, but I might need backup later."

"What does that even mean?"

"You know what it means," you say as you start removing items from your basket onto the counter. "I'll talk to you later."

"Still don't know what that means, but okay."

You enter the apartment quietly and put the groceries away, listening to the faint sound of Quinn's Netflix queue playing from the living room.

You make her some jasmine tea and tip-toe your way to the living room, running through the best ways to persuade her to have a small amount of food before getting ready for the award ceremony.

When you walk into the living room and find the Futon of Sadness empty, merely occupied by eight books, you roll your eyes before casting your gaze to the other side of the room where Quinn is passed out on her yoga mat.

"Why am I not surprised?" you grumble, sighing as you place the mug down. You walk into the kitchen, grab a yogurt from the refrigerator and a spoon before returning to Quinn's unconscious-but-definite-alive-and-breathing form.

You appreciate that Quinn is smart enough to work out her stress via crunches, so when she inevitably works out to the point she passes out, she's already on the floor. Still, you do not want to deal with this. Although it doesn't happen often, you unfortunately know how to handle this situation.

You take a seat on the Futon of Sadness before you text David, Quinn did her marathon of crunches.

A second later he responds, What a shit.

How should I proceed?

Put a bunch of lettuce in a bowl and tie her down until she agrees to eat it? Maybe cry?

I won't use my tears to manipulate my girlfriend.

You say that like you haven't before.

ONE TIME DAVID. ONE TIME.

Just follow your heart. She'll be fine. You're too wonderful for her to be a turd for an extended period of time.

You grin, glad you have David to share this with because it's nice to know someone loves Quinn and worries about her too.

You pull the bottle cap off of her water bottle and toss it at Quinn. It bounces off her leg, but Quinn doesn't move. You toss a pen cap next, and it lands on her chest. Two points. When she doesn't move, you find her small pile of paperclips under one of her books and begin tossing those.

You're at twenty-six points when you grow tired of waiting and toss one of her fifty highlighters at her and it bounces off her forehead.

"The hell?" she groans. She slowly sits up, and you can hear all the paperclips falling off of her as she does so.

"Oh, hey, Captain Crunches," you say with a forced grin.

Quinn lies back down, moaning, knowing she's in trouble. You pick up the yogurt and walk over to her.

"I'm—"

"Don't," you say, holding up one hand to silence her apology. "Here's the deal. You're going to eat this yogurt, then we're going to get dressed and get a cab to Columbia," Quinn sits up and opens her mouth to respond, but you just press a finger to her lips, "where you'll read an excerpt of your incredible essay that I cannot understand for the life of me, but I will be right there cheering for you, or golf-clapping as snooty academics prefer—"

"But—"

"Shhh. Quinn. Our itinerary is very important," you say sternly, making Quinn shut her mouth and huff through her nose, "After, people will praise you, including some elderly white dudes who will try and seduce you into moving to Istanbul or god-knows-where for a ridiculous program or study or something pretentious sounding, and you will say no and introduce your girlfriend, who is soon to be the best leading actress on Broadway, and there is no way you could uproot her from her path to multiple Tony awards. Then we will schmooze like the fabulous couple we are and come home." You smile and thrust the yogurt toward Quinn.

Quinn pushes the yogurt away from her face and frowns, "Rach, I really don't feel like eating right now."

"Well, I don't really don't feel like picking up my girlfriend after she passes out during her reading," you say, a hand on your hip as you hold out the yogurt with the other.

"Just give me a second," Quinn says, reclining back onto her yoga mat and closing her eyes.

"Don't try delaying this, Quinn Fabray," you say.

"You're being mean," she says, giving you a pout.

"And you're being a big, big shit."

Quinn starts to roll on her side away from you, but you step over her waist and kneel so you're straddling her hips without crushing her pathetic looking form.

"Really?" Quinn says, trying to look stern, but you see a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Ideally, this position was supposed to be reserved for later," you say, holding the yogurt out to her insistently.

Quinn ignores the yogurt and smirks at you. "There's a lot we have reserved for later."

"Not if you don't eat this yogurt."

Quinn's smile falls. "You wouldn't."

"I swear on GramGram's grave I will withhold celebratory sex after this award ceremony if you don't eat this goddamn yogurt, right now. I mean it, Lucy Quinn Fabray."

Quinn gulps and tries to assess whether you're serious or not, but the full name conveyed the most of it. The one time you withheld sex before, which was sworn and sealed when you shouted her full name, it almost killed the both of you, but it got the point across.

"Yogurt," you say, holding a small spoonful of yogurt out to her.

"Fine," Quinn says as she props herself up on her elbows, "Just don't tell me to the spoon is a choo-choo train. That won't work."

"Stop talking," you order.

You want to laugh because Quinn just pouts before opening her mouth, but you just smile as you watch her swallow some yogurt, then kiss her forehead.

"Although you do some pretty stupid, little-to-big shit things," you say as you get another spoonful, "You are the most intelligent person I know."

She smiles, swallows another spoonful, so you kiss one of her perfect eyebrows, feel her fluttering eyelashes briefly graze your skin, "Definitely the most beautiful, inside and out."

Another spoonful, and another kiss at the corner of her lips. "But you are always so much more, Quinn."

Quinn finishes the yogurt before sitting up so you slide to her lap. She wraps her arms around you and rests her head against your chest for a moment.

You feel the hum of her lips, her light breath, and you realize she's saying something.

"What are you doing?" you ask with a small laugh.

"Thanking whatever power that be that I get to hold you and hear your heartbeat and live my life with you in it," she says with that tragic and beautiful half-smile on her lips. Sometimes you think Quinn's heart breaks a little bit when she tells you she loves you because it swells and stretches against so much scar tissue.

"You know you deserve all the love, right?"

Quinn shrugs, "I'm not always sure, but I'm glad you believe that enough for the both of us on the bad days."

You kiss her lips, and when Quinn tries to deepen it, you pull away. "Eager, huh?" you say with a smirk.

"We still have two hours before the reward ceremony," she suggests, slipping her hand up your shirt, tracing a zig-zag pattern up your spine to your bra.

You don't know how you possess the restraint to hide your shiver, but you do and manage a stern look and pull her arm away. "Two hours to get ready, and for you to have a small salad. Maybe toast," you say as you stand.

Quinn glowers, "That wasn't the deal!"

You're on your way out of the living room, but you turn around in the doorway, "It's for your own safety, Quinn. I was planning on giving you as many orgasms as books on the Futon of Sadness," you have to fight a smirk as you watch Quinn's eyes dart to the Futon of Sadness, "you know, to balance out all the sad with something good, but what's the point if you pass out from exhaustion after your third?" You lick your lips to stop yourself from laughing at Quinn's mildly panicked expression, "So that's the new deal," you say with a shrug and innocent smile before turning and making your way to the bathroom, "I'm showering first. You should get ready, too."

You hear Quinn grumble followed by the sound of her footsteps making their way to the kitchen. "I'll be eating a salad," she calls across the apartment.

"Not iceberg! I got spinach. Pale green water leaves aren't sufficient nutrition," you call back.

"You're not allowed to talk to David anymore!" Quinn yells as you turn the shower on.

You laugh and shake your head. Sometimes you think the two of you are growing backward, but not in a bad way—just two kids in puppy love like you never could be in high school.

Your phone vibrates as you're about to step into the shower—a message from David.

You haven't responded. Did you kill Quinn?

You grin as you respond.

Nope. She ate the yogurt. And she's eating a salad.

You work magic. What convinced her?

I threatened to withhold sex.

Oh gross. Don't tell me anymore.

Sweet passionate sweaty lesbian loving David.

STOP.

dildos.

I'm not friends with you anymore.

Well that might be for the best because Quinn said we're no longer allowed to talk.

Aw why?

Aw see you'd miss me! And because I called iceberg lettuce 'pale green water leaves.'

I'll admit I'd miss you, but she'll get over it and we'll never be kept apart. Especially once I sign my lease to move to New York after graduation. Also, iceberg lettuce is totally just pale green water leaves. K, I'll let you get all pretty. Talk later Rach.

You hop into the shower and sing your best rendition of "Defying Gravity" with a grand sense of achievement. Not a day goes by that you don't love Quinn Fabray, and not a day will you ever let her doubt that.

5.

"Hello, you have reached Quinn Fabray. I'm unable to answer your call right now, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, I will return your call as soon as possible."

"Quinn, it's me. I texted you hours ago! I wanted you to come meet me after my performance for dinner. You know how I get. At least you should after knowing me for eight years. I hope you aren't home passed out on a yoga mat. I have many small items. And Sharpies. I will not refrain from writing Dr. No Pants on your face for your students to see tomorrow. Just… I hope you're home. I love you. See you soon."

You manage to only leave one voicemail before taking the train to your new apartment on the Upper West Side. In the past year, you've received several critics awards and (just two weeks ago) a Tony nomination for Best Actress for your role as Fanny Brice in the Broadway revival of Funny Girl, performed and hosted Saturday Night Live, and made frequent appearances on late night talk shows. You just finished shooting for a few cameos in Law & Order and a New York-based mini-series as a music instructor. Meanwhile, Quinn landed tenure at NYU, is frequently being offered a guest professor position at an elite university, and just published her second book. It's been a lot worth celebrating, and given Quinn's financial security and your newfound ability to splurge, you both invested in a small brownstone apartment next to Central Park.

You'd take a cab if it weren't a complete disaster, but new renovation projects sprouted up to welcome the spring, therefore increasing traffic and tourists on the West Side of Manhattan, especially during rush hour. You curse de Blasio as you make your way down the steps to the C train, ignore the stench of the subway, and manage to slip onto the semi-crowded car before the doors close.

You're holding the bar with one hand, reading the latest issue of The New Yorker (Quinn's copy, obviously) with the other, and grin when you see Quinn dog-eared a page: The Theatre — "Funny Girl Gets Serious"— This year's Broadway revival of Funny Girl not only brought Barbra Streisand's classic back to life, but Broadway itself was revived from a slumber by the talented supernova Rachel Berry. In the past year, Berry has exploded on Broadway, but she's not all song-and-dance. In a recent interview with , Berry hinted at future appearances on the small screen. If casting directors are smart, her agent will be handling many calls for the star to start shining on the big screen.

"Go ask her," whispers a voice behind you as you tuck the magazine back into your purse.

"I can't," a young girl practically whines.

"Fine. I will."

"Don't!"

"Um, excuse me." You turn around to see a tall man, about your age, with a timid half-grin, holding a young girl's hand in his own. You can't see her, however, as she hides behind him. "Sorry to bother you, but are you Rachel Berry?"

You smile, able to feel a few more sets of eyes on you, "Yes. I am." While you're quite familiar with people outside the stage doors, you're hardly ever met with recognition outside the theater district, or by people other than people within the performing arts community.

"My niece is visiting from Ohio, and we saw your matinee performance today. She's obsessed with musicals and Barbra Steisand, so obviously she's a big fan of yours. We really loved the show," he says, smiling brightly, tugging his niece's hand insistently.

Eventually, an eight-year-old girl appears beside him. She has her hair in braids, a dolphin on her cardigan, a plaid skirt, and white tights. You give her a smile, "I'm glad you liked it. You know, I grew up in Lima, Ohio and sang in the school's glee club. Does your school have a glee club?"

She shakes her head, "Just regular chorus, but I was in my school play! I want to be on Broadway someday."

"Work hard and maybe we can act together in the same play," you say.

She nods excitedly and smiles up at you, "Could you sign this for me?" You expect a Playbill, but instead it's an Entertainment Weekly magazine, opened to a recent photograph of you at a Broadway Cares event, your arm wrapped around Quinn, who managed to smile and look elegant the entire night despite her initial discomfort with all the cameras.

"Like I said," her uncle says, gesturing to the magazine, "she's a big fan."

You ask her name and write, Alicia — Don't let anyone rain on your parade & follow your dreams! — Rachel Berry in your well-practiced autograph script. But you add, (See you on Broadway.)

"You and your wife are really pretty," Alicia says as you hand her the magazine and marker.

"Oh, she's n… Yeah, I think she's very pretty as well," you say, looking up at her uncle who's smiling appreciatively.

The voice over the intercom announces your stop, so you say goodbye and wave to Alicia through the subway door once you're off the train. You race your way to the apartment, excited to tell Quinn all about your adorable fan encounter after you've lectured her about regular communication practices.

You barge through the door, dropping your keys on the table in the foyer and hanging your jacket in the closet. "Quinn?" you call out.

"I'm in the dining room," she calls back. You smile because dining room; you and Quinn have a dining room now. But you put on your serious face and practically stomp your way past the kitchen toward the adjoined dining area and large living room space.

"Why are you even in the dining room? You could have met me…" All words die on your lips when you see the candlelit room: there's a tablecloth over the table, neatly arranged place settings, wine, and something that smells absolutely delicious.

"Hi," Quinn says, walking over to you and leaning down to kiss you.

"Hi," you say breathlessly. "What's this?"

Quinn shrugs, "We've both been pretty busy, and I know you have tomorrow off, so I made my students' day by cancelling tomorrow's class for us to spend the night together for an extended weekend."

"Aw, a 'just because' night? I love our 'just because' nights," you say with an excited little squeal, which makes Quinn laugh before kissing you. "So were you tricking me by not answering my texts or phone call?"

"I figured that'd get you here faster," Quinn says, smiling nervously. "Was that a shitty thing to do?"

You shake your head, "You just better have something sweet like this planned next time you don't respond."

"Deal. I even picked up all my underwear in the bedroom and cleared off the Futon of Sadness."

"Futon of Sadness two-point-oh," you correct.

"Right, rest in peace original Futon of Sadness," Quinn says with a feigned expression of sadness. "So many tears and books were held in that futon."

You laugh and stand on your tip-toes to kiss her again, feel her breathe against you. You like that, even after all this time, you hold your breath for a moment before you kiss her, the youthful, naïve insecurity held for a millisecond before it's gone, replaced by all the promise and security of Quinn's lips on yours.

"So what smells so good?" you ask.

"I made port wine seitan, mashed potatoes, and roasted vegetables," Quinn says, leading you to the table and pulling out your chair.

"If we weren't already together, I'd think you were trying to seduce me, Ms. Fabray," you quip as she sits across from you.

"I'm always trying to seduce you," she says, uncorking the wine and pouring you a glass. You always enjoy the fact that Quinn lets you have these silly moments with her, where it's a play but no one's acting.

"And I am always repeatedly falling in love with you," you say, taking her free hand in your own.

"Me too. Every day," she says, running her thumb over the back of your hand.

You're happy to say that Quinn is a much better cook than you, and you enjoy every bite as you talk about your day and things to look forward to. You tell Quinn about Alicia, and she smiles the whole time. You tell her that Alicia found her "really pretty," but don't share the misnomer. Instead, you take Quinn's hand and kiss her palm before thanking her for dinner and being simply amazing.

Eventually you both cuddle up on the clutter-free, sadness-free couch in the living room with cups of tea. Quinn lets you decide on a movie, so you randomly decide on Singing in the Rain. You don't watch any of it, just hear Gene Kelly's voice vaguely in the background as you kiss Quinn, listen to her breathy laughs as you tease one another, as if you were two teens who escaped their parents only to go to the movies and make out. You're both exhausted, so you let Quinn nuzzle into the crook of your neck as you play with her hair. It doesn't take long before she's sleeping.

"Quinn," you whisper as the credits appear on screen.

"Hm?" she hums sleepily.

"Let's go to bed."

"Okay," Quinn agrees with a yawn.

She sleepily stands up and waits for you as you turn off the TV and DVD player. You take her hand and lead her up the stairs to your bedroom.

"Oh, David wants to have us over for dinner next week," you say as you slip on your pajamas and Quinn strips down to her underwear and falls into bed, "Apparently to meet this boy. It sounds serious."

"You and David are weird," Quinn says, muffled by the pillow.

You laugh at her sleepy talk and climb in, wrapping an arm around the ridiculous little ball that's Quinn. "He only likes me because you're his favorite. Also, he probably wants me to mediate you meeting this guy."

"Yeah, I can be a real shit."

"True, but I love you every day anyway."

Quinn rolls over and the city lights make her eyes glow gold, and your chest always seems to swell too big for your chest on nights like these. "I love you. I won't apologize because you'll hit me with the newspaper tomorrow," you both laugh lightly at this, "But thank you for loving me every day, even on the difficult ones."

You find her lips in the dark. "You're always worth it."

You feel Quinn smile against your lips before she breathes a "goodnight," wrapping an arm around you and lying atop side of your body. Quinn has a habit of falling asleep on top of you, but you never mind the light pressure of her body on yours—you've always been willing to let her lean on you when her heart or mind feels too heavy. You can't imagine loving, feeling every ounce of life's aches and joys, any differently or with anyone else, so you're sure the love you share with Quinn is the best kind.