The only person to whom Rachel will give a semblance of credit for her life is Quinn.

Forget that Rachel had a set of parents to raise her, because they've certainly forgotten it was a daughter, not some subject, they were to raise. Forget that one time in high school some teacher rehearsed their "you'll figure it out, one day these special talents of yours will be useful in some odd area" party line on her. Forget that one interviewer who picked her at random for that one job that led her, perchance, eventually to Everlasting. Forget that Jeremy stuck his arm deep in the trenches, pulling at a woman who willfully dug herself into a pit.

Quinn looked at the hole, poured some water to make for a good set of mud, set her mouth in a firm line, and ordered her (Rachel) to dig her fucking way out, no rope to throw her way, figure it out.

(Rachel could kick herself pretty well, but Quinn did it better some days.)

That's one way to love someone, actually the only way Rachel's decided to keep in her life. (Yeah, fuck Quinn for that Adam shit, but in the long way version, Rachel would have ended up exhausted just the same, telling Quinn the same love note-except in the long way version, Adam would be drowning in a Rachel trench.)

.

At first, she keeps the her phone number because it's Quinn's direct line to her. But then she's living underneath the office desk of her new, well, office in Quinn's newly leased production building.

"Please don't be living here," Quinn always sighs at the end of day, which might be 11pm on a good, rare night, but is mostly three or four am, and some horrible, rare nights, six or seven am.

"Just shut the light," Rachel half murmurs, glad to to be living with work, so she no longer has to see her phone blink 'missed call ADAM'.

She gave up her phone before changing her number even once, because yes, just his name set her body off in a hum. Luckily, even that was unnerving enough for her to be an adult and stop making payments, forcing her carrier to disconnect her phone line.

.

From her monitor, she watches season 14 suitor mutter something to himself yet again, while his fingers flex in a beat-clench, clench, rub fingers together, stretch, repeat.

He had to be a little neurotic, something Rachel caught when she met him the day of his signing, or she should clarify, some minutes after his signing, when it was too late, not that she cared enough. The guy was related to the Kennedy's (barely) and he was particularly easy to control.

Ceremony time, third episode, goodbye aspiring fitness trainer to the stars with a blank stare, hello staticy radio.

"Rachel, Quinn needs you on 'After'."

"On my way," she clicks back.

She pushes past, what she considers strangers, because she's known everyone on Everlasting for years, but they all look at her with one eye, like she's a bomb, the worst kind, the leaking poison kind that just won't run out of acid even after years of having detonated, so she'll treat them like strangers if she so wants it.

Then, Jeremy's hand on her wrist.

"Shocking you haven't slipped the guy some drugs to deal with that OCD," he says, eyes her straight.

She blinks. Sometimes, he feels like concrete. He could hold her there, even without touch, because love means being good and holding your place. She remembers then, reminds herself every time, that it's only a studied love. Like she's read a book on how to be this certain way, how others so easily do it, and so she should at least attempt this so called normalcy. So when she reminds herself she's studied a love for Jeremy, and she shouldn't have to hold that love for Jeremy or anyone, won't hold still.

She screws her mouth tightly, moves her legs, and wonders while she steps away, had someone told him of Mary, why mention drugs. She shakes her head, to herself, radio clenched tightly in her fist, because there was no one to tell him of such a thing. She shakes her head because she can't think of Mary ever. She shakes her head because Jeremy has turned some color of bitter in the wake of his love for her.

.

The first show she and Quinn developed was After the Last.

Ana wanted to own her life again, not have a producer be a part of her life.

Grace walked off the set with a deal already set on another network.

Faith needed to work her own way to, well her after.

Maya they could work with.

Throw in some therapy, transfer to a big city to work a big job, introduce some less asshole-y guys as love storylines.

Bring in Adam for some shit called closure.

(It wasn't solely on him to bring it, but he refused to appear at all if Roger was brought in. Sometimes, once every 12 years, Rachel is capable of compromise.)

The episode runs mildly smoothly, and yes Rachel breaks into Maya's room when she barricades herself after a producer tells Maya that Roger has evaded charges three times in the last five years, thank you very much money; however, this is a day in the life of...so on.

Adam breaks a wine glass, yells at everyone but Maya and Rachel, and it's worse than yelling at Rachel. How dare he make an exception for her.

"Get out, you're useless," she says, the night slowing, and she feel the few inches of space between her back and his front, can almost hear his outstretched hand aiming for the right of her waist.

"I miss you," he says, a whisper.

She takes a few steps before turning on her heel. "Okay." And she shrugs, and he makes himself small, shrugging his shoulders in, face scrunched, but he makes no other sound.

Just useless.

.

It was not always easy for Rachel to run. She did not know how to cut loose before, found it easy to tie herself around constants, keeping other's hearts all to her own, lifelines that would never belong to her. Trace it back to her mom, or to her high school best friend, but once she burned one bridge, it was easier simply to let foundations falter. Let it come crumbling down with the press of a heel.

So Adam comes along, and oh she was ready to stay only with a fading memory, but he offered his hand and something he called real…

Curled up underneath her desk, blanket over her head, she thinks, I betrayed myself, I believed, I wanted ties, and what for? His way or mine on that day, I'd still be here.

Here, away from him, here with her title, with Quinn.

And the only thing she feels guilty about is how glad she is to have her show to run, even if it means the absence of him.

(And she thinks, Rachel always thinking, she could have both, but one thing is easier to keep reins on than the other, whereas people, people change their minds all the time, and if she'd kept her Adam, well he'd change constantly, and she wouldn't be able to brace herself every time, keep a calculated storm. But this show, any show, she can always, no question, tune to the proper channels.)

She squeezes her eyes shut, forcing a deep sleep, it's just another night.

;;

There was a gap between seeing Rachel in his bed the first time, to seeing her in his bed the last time, where he knew he could make a promise that could prevent a last.

And then there was a doubt, not when Quinn caught him, but when he opened the door, rain on one side, a fully furnished living room on the other.

What if she bore of his insanities, and, absolutely she would miss having a set, having characters, being the best among dozens. It would be him and her, maybe they'd build something, she'd run a charity, he would show off this crazy girl to everyone in London, but it wouldn't be a set. Without a word, tired of the distance, she'd take off, back without him, him helpless without her.

The rain pattered, he tightened his grip on his small luggage, and he didn't care. He'd just love her more, chase her, and stay wherever she went, be a fool and all that.

But then Quinn caught him, and a new doubt tied him up-he could hurt her, not the other way around. He was very good at being an idiot, he knew.

.

Royal Renovations was a fever dream, not even his, but there was interest all around suddenly for his project. Investors, networks, supposed journalists, they all called. He seriously considered many, looking at blueprints and financing.

He attempted happiness, thought big, slept with a handful of women, decided he could stay in love with his never but not let it determine his character.

But all big ideas fell through, and he saw they way others saw him. A joke, unchanged, doomed to fail without the ropes of his family.

He stopped calling investors back, and on some drunken nights, wondered how arduous the process to change his name would be, then soberly remember the next day that his face was still recognizable most of the world over.

Adam calls her a lot, an embarrassing amount. He's very proud that he never leaves a voicemail, never sends a text. Glad even that she doesn't answer. He wouldn't know what to say. What a joke.

.

"This one," he says to the apartment manager, "I like."

He smiles, and she rattles off the leasing terms, the included amenities, the process that involves being approved, but he's already thinking of where to put what furniture, how much Rachel would ridicule his leasing a place in the states. Her state specifically. Only a few miles from the main studio she worked in.

"Mr. Cromwell?"

He had spaced off, and when he refocused, the manager was staring at him, and he could read an oncoming storm of impatience at her dock already.

'Stay on her good side,' he tells himself.

"Just tell me where to sign, this place is exactly what I was looking for."

She nods, smiling again.

They head back to the leasing office, lays down everything about himself on the application-everything factual, anyhow. The personal everything he'd flaunted to cameras mostly already, and for the first time in his life, he found himself intent on investing his life more properly. This apartment, one bedroom, one restroom and a half, 1065 square feet, all under his name with the small pool of money (not so small, but the last of it after selling the vineyard) he's got left, is step one.

Start small, he planned after impulsively buying a one-way ticket to California. Don't go overboard, he'd written on the in-flight magazine, then deciding he should live some place close to Rachel.

Pace yourself, he mutters in the same leasing office five days later, signing a one year lease after having been approved, before even attempting to contact Rachel after that last meeting on After Ever.

("Useless," she said, and he had felt his temper rise to heights unseen since his father had called him a grand disappointment.

But he felt it, useless as he retreated his hand, clenched it instead.

He'd had a semi-plan, which was a lot more than he usually had. Tell her he wasn't going to ask the world of her, didn't come along with a ring, would never ask her to bring him home to the parents. He just wanted her, and selfishly, wanted her to want him. The smallest bit of faith, have each other, screw everyone over but each other, screw only each other. But they could start small, however she wanted, dates or talks once a week, they didn't have to jump to point B, start at one or backwards, her choice.

All he managed were steps, away from her, his anger and disappointment telling him fuck this shit and her, a slammed door.

And two and a half months later he couldn't stand how he needed her, missed her like the first day, sold the vineyard, figured anger had never done him too well.)

.

Flashes still follow him, but not so frequently. He gets the odd feature story, "Where Are They Now?" edition offer (it's been six months, for fuck's sake), and twice gets pitched a tv show (pitches he listens to because they sound ridiculously hilarious and he's never one to turn down lunch and drinks).

And it's the most privacy he's ever received in his life.

His investment in a restaurant some odd blocks away from his apartment takes up most of the time. He wasn't a fan of the paint color chosen, but it meshes well with the dark forest wood floors being installed that he did vote in favor of. Mostly he goes over finances and is constantly working on the roll-out advertising plan. A few dozen phone calls a day, the nighttime business class, and a necessity to sleep eight hours every single night, keep him busy.

He's found fear to replace anger, and he's found a deep disappointment that she hasn't sought him out yet, because she has to know he's near.

The odd flash is followed by a one page insert in a tabloid that the former, current disgraced bachelor is holed away in a no-name, under contruction restaurant in LA. If she didn't read it, someone would tell her. She worked in the business, though she had minor interest in the fodder, it was ingrained in her job.

He waits, to either go to her, or for her to go to him, as though two impossibles ever worked for anyone.

/

"How much longer you have on the lease?"

Her mouth plays with a smile, her eyes are wide, and he can see, she wants to cry.

"Eight months," he answers.

It's six thirty-seven pm. He was going over wines with another partner of the restaurant, something he would have kept at for a few more hours normally, when he thought himself exhausted and excused himself, promising they'd continue in the morning.

The sun was blinking in the background, blinding him, obstructing Rachel for that brief moment when it could not decide to let the night in or not.

"Four months," she sighs heavily.

"Practicing your math?" he teases her, smiling.

"Something like that," and she covers what may be a smile with a bite of the fingernail on her right thumb.

They're in mid-November, the softest of winds skipping through Los Angeles. It's 62 degrees, and Rachel is wearing maroon jeans, black leather boots that stop a few inches from her knees, a black tee peaking out from under her matching black pullover, her hair covering her ears, swaying from her cheeks to her shoulders.

Abruptly, she turns to him, and now they're covering the only entrance to his apartment building.

"Six and a half months," she says bluntly.

"Yes." Because he always knows what she means, mostly knows why she says what she says.

She shakes her head, pushes her hair away from her face. She coughs, and hearing footsteps, she moves away from the doors. Moves a little too far.

"Rachel," Adam calls when she doesn't stop moving, going after her.

He can smell the liquor wafting off her.

.

Adam looked exactly the same, of course he did, he was young and not as tired as she.

(Maybe.)

There he was, dressed in black slacks, dress shirt coming out of his pants, no tie, the small of his white tee showing from the unbuttoned top of his shirt. Once a week for the past three weeks she'd stopped by, glad he was always away. Glad he was here this time.

So, she stops, breathes.

She turns back to him, lets him see her smile.

"I'm thirsty."

"You're welcome to come up, Rachel."

She studies his face, wishing he could change his words and his tone. It's not a polite British man she came looking for.

Nothing.

She rolls her eyes, leads the way despite not knowing the way.

.

She only wanted water, and Adam doesn't know what to do with that, facing a sober Rachel after months of avoiding the reason he'd started over.

"So what's the point of all this?"

Rachel gestures at the apartment and him. "Proving something."

"Yes."

She's short on words, so why bother. He wants to hear her shout, or go on a long tangent, wants to hear the rasp that etches every word of hers.

Rachel sits herself at his dining table, staring at a wall. She came here. Maybe that was her play, and it's his turn now.

"Promise you won't laugh," he says.

Rachel turns to him and smirks. "I promise. And you know me and promises."

He does.

"I wanted to start small, and with a big gesture. Rent this place near Quinn's offices, work at some startup, show you I'm here for you, that's it."

She laughs, but only briefly, and not loudly.

"Alright, I saw that coming."

Rachel rubs her eyes, lets out a "sorry," and pushes herself up.

"Not that you ever showed me."

She stands, arms crossed over her chest, mouth a firm line.

"I realized it wasn't enough."

"Just admit you fucked up."

"About as much as you."

"I don't do well-"

"With happiness, I get it Rachel, we all do."

"Yes, let's keep doing the 'assumptions about Rachel' thing."

"Point is, you did want happiness, you were convinced of it for one night, and it was with me."

"And I thank you for saving us, really, great job."

"You're here with me again."

"I'm not with you."

If Adam never believed in things he could not see or feel, and he didn't, it's upended now. The air is a smoke poisoning his lungs, mouth thick with tar.

Anger rolls back into him, and Rachel is sharing the same floor as he, so really, he feels like himself, right where he should be.

And when Rachel comes at him, hands in his hair, her teeth pulling his upper lip, he can finally breathe.

She was drinking a bourbon he cannot place, and he stops. He can normally tell the exact taste, but Rachel unfocuses him, not that he minds. But start small, he'd promised, and he'll fail at that, so at least he can start honestly.

"Wherever we go from here, whatever the hell shit we cook up, take me with you?"

.

There's a dimmed light in his eyes. She's not a fan of it. Still, that's a big thing to ask of her. Somehow, she musters, "I'll try."

Rachel drops her hands from him, but doesn't make any distance between them.

"I haven't eaten anything but set food in four days."

Adam glances at his kitchen and winces.

"I've no groceries to cook."

"I just need a place with a bar."

"I think, here in LA, that can be arranged."

(She eats, more like devours food as though she hasn't had a proper meal in weeks, which is probably true. She limits her drinking, but challenges him to a few shots.

As they sign the bill and stand to leave, Rachel reaches for his hand and mentions that before that night, she'd stopped by his apartment two times before, close to six pm as well.

Jeremy, mockingly, had informed her that her true love had moved in less than ten miles from her.

He asks how exactly Jeremy found the address, and Rachel shrugs, saying there is no power greater than working for a reality show, and she laughs at herself, knowing there to be no such power.

She pulls away from him on the street, waving down a cab with her newly free right hand, and Adam feels his body, literally feels it stop functioning.

"Drop me off," she says, pulling him into the cab.

She falls asleep on his shoulder, occasionally rubbing her face in his neck.

They arrive in a business district, Rachel having rattled off the drop off address mid slumber, and she awakens when the car stops.

"You're going to work?" Adam inquires.

"No, sleep," she assures him, pulling out some bills and paying the driver.

Adam steps out when she does, annoyed that she's still living where she works.

"I'm used to it," she assures him, and curiosity gets the best of him.

He waves the driver away, and follows her in. It's Sunday evening, and most of the lights are off. They pass a few offices with people inside, all who stop and stare at them as they pass. Rachel doesn't pause, doesn't question that Adam follows her, and they're both silent until they reach her office.

"Want to stay the night?" she raises an eyebrow.

"Absolutely. Where are the pillows?"

Rachel motions to a storage box besides a small two person sofa. Adam takes off his jacket, Rachel takes off most everything, and he unpacks a comforter, a pillow, a linen sheet, and an air mattress.

Turning, he rolls his eyes at the sight of her. Groggy already, in her boy-shorts, black tee shirt, and pulling off her bra with the deep intent of not taking off her shirt.

"I've seen everything, Rachel, no need for modesty."

"Just get everything ready," she mutters.

This is, he realizes, probably the most rest she'll encounter all week, and she's anxious to get to it.

He sets up while Rachel stretches herself out on the sofa, and while he pumps the mattress with an air pump, Rachel tells him, "I used to throw the comforter down beneath my table, sleep with my head underneath. I liked to wake up staring at that fake wood. It looks more like a house ceiling than that white stucco ceiling of this office."

He glances over at her, eyes fighting to stay open, she can barely register eye contact with him.

"Used to?"

"Kept hitting my head in the morning. Sat up too fast."

He laughs.

"Could be fixed by getting a proper house, finding one without a stucco ceiling."

"Shut up."

He hears her shuffle, groan as she tries to find a comfortable position.

"This will probably be my last sleepover, this thing looks horrendous," Adam complains.

When he hears no other "shut up", he turns again, sees she's fallen asleep.

He lays down the sheet, throws the pillow at the head close to her desk, opposite the door, picks up Rachel, who doesn't register a thing. He lays her down, lets her have the pillow, strips down to his boxers, turns out the light, pulls the comforter over them, and forms himself around her.

When she wakes up, and she feels okay despite the a gnawing hangover, she thinks, taking him with her, it could be one of the few promises she won't mess with.)

;;

Weeks later, she'll know she'll be keeping Adam to the same list as Quinn, differing categories, same single page book.

/