Author's Notes: Follows canon until the beginning of Season 3 and is mostly canon-compliant. Mostly. The title comes from Eric's Song by Vienna Teng.

Maybe, he thought, there aren't any such things as good or bad friends – maybe there are just friends, people who stand by you when you're hurt and who help you feel not so lonely.

It – Stephen King

There are a few things in life that Blaine wants more than anything: His boyfriend. Bowties to make a comeback in high fashion (they add a touch of flair to a dapper ensemble; what's not to love?). McKinley High to abolish their barbaric tradition of slushies. Wider colour choices of pants in the local Gap. The bullies to lay off his boyfriend. Polo shirts in bolder, brighter colours.

Many of these things seem impossible but he has faith. Blaine's an optimist – always has been.

Today, however, Blaine abandons all of these in favour of the most impossible of all; getting to call Quinn Fabray a friend.

Blaine starts his quest with research. He knows next to nothing about her – and at the same time, everything, thanks to the other Glee club members, but it never hurts to ask.

"Ah, Quinn Fabray. Where to begin? Your stereotypical blonde head cheerleader with bone structure to die for. President of the Celibacy Club who got knocked up and told her quarterback boyfriend he was the father when it was really his bad boy best friend," says Kurt primly. "We – meaning Mercedes and I –called it Babygate. There's more drama involving her and Finn and Rachel, of course, which I think is pretty evident..."

Blaine blinks. The most drama they got at Dalton was when they found two of the Warblers making out in the bathroom. Not like that was a surprise, either.

"... but focusing on Babygate for now, Quinn got kicked out of her home because her good Christian parents are assholes, she went to live with Finn and then Puck and finally my girl Mercedes, she gave birth right after we performed at Regionals, her mom came to her senses and took her back, and finally Quinn's baby was adopted by Rachel's birth mother."

"Wow."

Kurt smirks at him. "Beverly 90210, eat your heart out," he says, and then adds in a gentler tone: "Quinn and I were partnered together a lot in dance routines, and we used to hang out, back when she lived with Mercedes; she was different when she wasn't struggling with maintaining an image. Then she rejoined the Cheerios, cheated with Finn, made Rachel's life miserable – basically like nothing had ever changed – until this year." He arches an eyebrow. "For the record, let it be said that it's impossible for Quinn Fabray to look bad – unlike a certain other person I could mention." Kurt says the last part loudly for Rachel's benefit when she walks past. She merely rolls her eyes and says hello to Blaine, who waves back, clearly used to Kurt's (mostly playful) attacks on her fashion sense.

"She's cool," shrugs Artie. "After she got knocked up, that is. Before that she was a grade-A Top bitch, yo. And a pretty dope dancer if only she'd let go of her Christian puritanism and let those hips move."

Finn wrinkles his nose. "Quinn's scary. Hot, but scary. She totally has these different levels of being pissed off, and it's really hard to figure out what she needs you to do to make it up to her. Oh, and she's smart; I don't get what she's saying half the time." His eyes widen a little. "Don't tell Rachel I told you Quinn's hot."

"Scary. She got into a fight with Santana in the hallway once, and they were just pushing and shouting," Tina says with a shudder. "And sometimes in Glee, I see her just staring at Rachel and Finn like she wants to kill them, and totally would." Mike nods fervently. "She can dance, though," he adds, "and she's pretty awesome to hang out with."

"Quinn's my girl, always will be." Mercedes' fond smile slips a little. "I just wish she'd come talk to me, like she used to."

Blaine perks up a little. "Have you tried talking to her, then?"

"Oh, I've tried, but you know how that girl runs away from things that make her uncomfortable. " Blaine doesn't, but he nods anyway. Mercedes shrugs helplessly. "Nothing I can do but be here for her when she's ready to stop running and start dealing… which I don't think will be anytime soon. That girl's stubborn."

"Mmhmm."

"And determined. Yeah, like the way she and Rachel fought for Finn... I mean, I totally see why you gotta fight for what's yours, but those two? It was terrifying to watch. And I'm not even talking about Rachel yet." She pulls a face.

"Quinn just needs somebody to love her, like really really love her for her, and who'll make her not so sad," says Brittany a little despondently. Santana tugs on her arm urgently.

"Come on, Britt, Q will kill you if she finds out you've been telling people that she has a heart. Oh, and Blaine Warbler," she addresses him, "I've heard that you've been getting your Jewfro – or in your case, Gelhoe..." says Santana, eyeing his hair, "... on, questioning everyone about Q. Knock it off. It's creepy."

"We dated for a bit," says Sam. "She's cool and really pretty, plus she can be nice when she wants to. I wanted to marry her at one point. I know it's stupid, but yeah – that's the way Quinn made me feel." He laughs a little.

Blaine smiles. Finally, something positive.

Sam shrugs and says: "Then we broke up because I found out she'd been cheating on me with Finn."

"... Oh."

"Yeah. Not so cool."

Lauren smirks. "She cleaned up well. You have to admit, Quinn Fabray is really good at projecting the right image. Eh, and she's got some manipulation skills, though not a patch on me. And scary? Her? Come down to wrestling practice next week, I'll show you how a real headlock's done and we'll see who's scary."

Blaine remembers stammering out some excuses and then making a hasty retreat down the hall from a cackling Lauren.

He's a little scared to approach Puck – because, hello, guy who knocked up Quinn Fabray behind Finn Hudson's back and voted Most Likely To End Up In Prison – but somehow finds a moment after Glee.

"Quinn's a lot more than what people see, y'know? My baby mama's smart and she's got grit. She and me, we're bros for life 'cos we'll always have Beth." It's surprisingly deeper than Blaine was expecting. But then Puck adds, with a leer and a lewd hip thrust: "But I won't say no if she wanted another ride on the Puckasaurus."

Rachel tilts her head to the side, considering Blaine's question. "Quinn? She's not just the small town prom queen she thinks she's going to end up being." She actually looks offended by the idea. "Prettiest girl I've ever met, but she's so much more than that. She's smart, and determined; she's meant for so much more than being stuck in Lima just like I am destined for New York and Broadway. She deserves everything good after all that she's gone through. She inspired the song I wrote and performed at Sectionals."

"Really?" He remembers that performance, and how emotionally charged it was.

(Rachel's insight casts it in an entirely different light.)

She nods fervently. "It was one of the defining moments of my career I'll be sure to reflect on in greater detail in my biography. Especially since our shared history hasn't been the most flattering or uncomplicated..."

"I've heard," admits Blaine.

"...but since I've gotten to understand Quinn better over the past two years, I believe that this current...phase, is only temporary." Rachel smooths down her skirt, tilts her chin up, gives him her most winning smile. "I don't intend to give up on Quinn, and look forward to welcoming her back to Glee club."

"You and me both," says Blaine.

There aren't many people outside during lunchtime because it's Ohio, and the weather is downright hostile eight months out of the year – three of those months being summer, when the students have better places to be anyway. But Blaine has been planning something big, and he's picked a day next week because the weatherman promised unusually warm temperatures.

Kurt is off with Mercedes and Tina having much-needed 'girl time'. He doesn't begrudge him that, because apart from his definite attraction to men (drunken making-out with Rachel Berry notwithstanding), Blaine is a typical boy in most ways, unlike Kurt. He's admittedly more comfortable killing aliens on Finn's PlayStation or watching college football with Kurt's dad than sleepovers and painting toenails.

But Blaine prides himself on his fashion sense. On a scale of fashion consciousness from Burt Hummel to Kurt, Blaine is a solid seven; he'll wear pastel-coloured jeans with the cuffs rolled up, and he's a firm believer in layering, but draws the line at skintight mesh (never a good look unless you're a goth; in which case you don't care what others think of you, or you're Quinn Fabray, who makes a garbage bag look good).

His train of thought derails from there. Quinn Fabray has worn many outfits and trends, and has yet to miss (according to a resentful yet impressed Kurt). Even her skank look suits her, like she was born on the wrong side of the tracks and not to a white middle-class Christian family.

Speaking of Quinn Fabray...

… A familiar shade of pink parks itself at the bottom of the bleachers.

Blaine decides to go over and say hi. He sorta knows her, even if she isn't in Glee at the moment, and he counts her as a friend (although they never really talked).

He's really, really nervous, for some reason.

"Hi, Quinn."

Her gaze darts over to him, assesses him coolly, and then loses some of its guardedness. Blaine feels strangely elated not to be seen as a threat.

"Hi."

"Do you mind if I sit?"

"Not my bench," she says, sounding scornful, but she doesn't say anything else when he sets himself down primly. Blaine pulls out a Thermos from his bag and offers it to her. "Coffee from the Lima Bean," he explains, "Kurt brought it in this morning."

Quinn declines, but politer this time. He accepts it gracefully.

"You look pretty today. Not that I've been noticing," he adds hastily before she can open her mouth, "but given the weather and the aesthetic I assume you're pursuing, it's rather admirable." Blaine's eyes trail over her outfit, taking in her baggy band T-shirt, cut-off denim shorts, the fishnet stockings and combat boots. He tries to find something specific to compliment her on.

"And cold," Quinn says, deadpan. She adjusts her collar, tucking her stockinged legs underneath her in a very ladylike manner at odds with her clothing. Blaine is impressed.

"Fashion doesn't bow to weather."

"I see Kurt's been quite the influence," she says with a sneer.

Despite the chill, Blaine blushes a little at the mention of his boyfriend. "What can I say? If he's going to discuss the Burberry Winter collection in such great detail, the least I can do is flip through the thing so I'd know which maroon monstrosity he's passing judgment on. Anyway, he watches football with me, so it's a compromise I don't mind making."

Quinn looks interested – as opposed to the bored indifference she seems to be cultivating with her skank look, or the open scorn reserved for her former friends. "Kurt watches football?"

"Tries to." Blaine feels vaguely guilty as he explains: "Burt and I have a running bet on how long until he stops feigning interest and picks up a magazine."

"He told you he used to play for the Titans, right?"

"Yeah. He told me the whole story; it was one of the most endearing things I'd ever heard." Blaine's relationship with his father never really recovered after he'd come out. He's admitted that he might have daddy issues, but really, he's just a sucker for the amazingly close bond Kurt has with his dad. "The funniest bit was when the football team guys joined Glee after."

Quinn's expression turns distant. "I suppose."

He doesn't pry. He was raised to be a gentleman, even if those rules turned out irrelevant to his private life, so he knows how to treat girls. "If you ever want to talk about it, I'd be willing to listen," says Blaine.

That gets him a sharp look. "We aren't friends." Quinn looks briefly apologetic, and clarifies, "As in – we don't really know each other."

He shrugs. "That just means I don't have any preconceived notions about you," he says, with a half-smile. "And I'd really like to change that."

Quinn laughs once, derisively. "What – the preconceived notions?" She lifts her middle finger. "Preconceive this."

"I meant us not being friends." Blaine tacks on his most winning smile, the one Kurt tells him makes people walk into doors around him, and ignores her hostility.

(Kurt is his boyfriend, so he may have exaggerated a little, but Blaine thinks it's adorable.)

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever," drawls Quinn, flipping him the bird again before she swaggers off, leaving him sitting there.

It takes an entire week of similar exchanges before his cheerful "Have a good day, Quinn" isn't met with her usual condescension.

"Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

A moment passes – the longest moment of his life – but eventually she meets his eyes, gives the faintest of nods.

The grin doesn't leave Blaine's face all day.

When Blaine sees the purple piano outside (it was very conveniently placed, he thinks, because word might or might not have spread about what he was planning), he serenades Kurt just because he can (now that they're in the same school again, and they're officially together). Blaine winks at Quinn during the performance. She doesn't respond. He's okay with that, because she's wearing sunglasses and he might not have seen it anyway.

But then she sets the piano on fire.

Blaine finds himself at a loss for words, but he doesn't give up easily.

She doesn't show up at their lunch spot. He passes her under the bleachers at the football field; she flicks her cigarette ash in his direction.

Blaine shrugs. He sneaks out to buy a latte and leaves it next to the stained sofa he saw her sitting on.

"Have you been giving swirlies to freshman girls?"

She stares askance at him. "What's it to you if I did?"

"Nothing." He shrugs. "I just think there are better things to do with your time."

"Like what? Sing 'ooh's and 'aah's while swaying gently in the background in Glee club?" says Quinn.

"Like read. I remember you used to have a book with you all the time."

"Reading's for nerds."

"No, it isn't," says Blaine softly.

("I guess you like lattes."

"I don't particularly like or dislike them."

"Okay, cool. I'm partial to filter coffee, myself. With plenty of cream and a dash of sugar."

"Did I ask you to share, Anderson?"

"... No. Sorry."

"Fuck you. Don't give me that look.")

Blaine arrives at his lunch spot muffled in a knitted scarf to find a paper cup sitting on his usual seat.

His coffee is perfect, and it's still hot.

Her daily latte now comes with smiley faces drawn on the side. When he walks past the skanks' territory, an empty cardboard cup sails over and bounces off his forehead.

He isn't quite sure what he missed, but it had to be big because Quinn Fabray is back in her nice dresses, her hair is blonde again, and she's dutifully enrolled in booty camp. Currently, she's going through the routine Mike and Mr. Schue set as practice without complaint, biting her lower lip as her feet move.

Blaine's aware he's been watching her for a while, but at least he's less obvious than a pleased-looking Puck.

Whatever's happened, he's happy for her if she's happy. Blaine isn't sure if Quinn remembers his offer, but it would be nice if she felt like sharing. He waves at her as he leaves; she ignores him.

"Here."

It takes a while for him to come back from whatever reverie he'd went on, but when he does, Quinn Fabray is looking at him, wearing a neutral expression and a particularly demure white dress. She has a cardboard cup in her hand.

"Quinn?"

"Who else?" she says with a roll of her eyes. But the cup is pressed into his hand, and he melts into its warmth. "Thanks," says Blaine dumbly, and she smiles a little.

"You've been buying me coffee for a while, plus you look like you need it."

He laughs a little. "It was my understanding that the coffee thing was a two-way street, but anyway, I always need coffee." Patting the bit of bench next to him, he says: "Sit down."

"Not your bench," she says, and laughs, sitting down anyway.

"I like your dress."

She tilts her head to one side. "You need to update your conversation starters."

"What?"

"Are we going to talk about Kurt next?" she asks, a smile playing about her lips.

This Quinn is disconcerting to talk to after he's gotten used to her skank version. She's got the upper hand, but he's not about to back down. "That depends on whether you feel like talking about him."

Quinn shrugs. "He helped me choose this dress, by the way."

"Really?"

"We went shopping together once or twice, back in sophomore year." Her face closes off. He changes the subject.

"So. Booty camp?"

Quinn makes a face. "Yeah, I need to catch up on what I've missed so far this year."

She looks guarded. He can guess she's afraid he'll ask her about her sudden about-face; Mercedes' words about Quinn's tendency to run from her problems play in his mind. So Blaine smiles, asks her about the homework from their shared AP European history class. He notes the tension visibly leaving her shoulders, and knows he's made the right decision.

Most of the time, their friendship consists of this: they sit together outside. She brings him a coffee (he'll return the favour afterwards) and they don't speak apart from 'hi's and 'bye's, and the occasional, "thanks". Kurt finds it amusing; apparently, when he and Quinn spent time together, there's a lot more talking involved ("Mostly gossip, and the previous night's episode of Grey's Anatomy. She'll deny it all she wants, but she is such a shameless McSteamy fan.").

"But I'm glad she's got someone to talk to," he tells Blaine one night.

They'd been making out furiously five seconds before, so it takes a while for Blaine's mind to focus on Kurt's words. "You mean Quinn?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. "No, Brittany. Of course I mean Quinn." He settles more comfortably against Blaine's body, fingers hooking in the collar of Blaine's shirt. "She's having a rough time, and I'm glad she isn't alone."

"I'm not doing much," protests Blaine.

Kurt smiles. "It's enough, trust me," he says, kissing the corner of his boyfriend's mouth. "When it comes to Quinn, it's the little things that matter."

"I really think we should stop talking about Quinn now," says Blaine breathlessly.

("I heard from Rachel that you and her are 'kind of' friends."

"Yeah?"

"So what does make us?"

"Sorta friends."

"How... original.")

Blaine likes to compare his friendship with Quinn to a rollercoaster; uneventful meandering punctuated with truly defining moments that shake up everything he's known up to that point, for good or bad. As always, most of the things he knows about her are inferred rather than informed. They don't spend that much time together despite his best efforts; she hangs out with the Skanks after school, and she doesn't really attend class these days.

He hears about the bridal shop incident from an indignant Rachel when she meets him and Kurt at the Lima Bean (Kurt has chosen to make his disapproval of the wedding clear, but he's also chosen to be politically neutral since Finn is his stepbrother). Much of Quinn's behaviour this year has been erratic (the punk phase and the sudden U-turn back to her usual self, and now this outbursts-in-bridal-shops phase) and Blaine's thoughts immediately go to her.

Rachel and Kurt's conversation has segued into plans for the reception, along with logistics. He politely excuses himself citing errands to run; Kurt looks like he wants to follow, but Rachel's eyes are manic and her grip on his arm tightens, forcing him to stay.

Blaine dials Quinn's number as he walks out to his car.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Quinn."

"Blaine? What's up?" She sounds wary, much like before, when their friendship couldn't even be called that. It's justifiable, thinks Blaine, especially since it's the first time he's ever called her.

"Nothing much. I was just wondering if you'd like to meet up for coffee or something like that? Anything you feel like having?"

After a pause, she says: "My mom's out at some afternoon workshop. Bring some popcorn over to my house. Do you know where – ?"

"Yeah, I do. And sure. I'll be there in fifteen."

The drive is silent as he mulls over the best way to ask the questions he has. Past experience has taught him that being upfront with Quinn has very polar and unpredictable results; either she'll be frank and forthcoming with the answers, or she'll clam up tighter than any mollusc can hope to achieve.

By the time he pulls up in her driveway, he's no closer to formulating a strategy. Blaine decides to wing it.

Quinn answers the door with a smile. She's wearing a baggy sweatshirt and shorts and he can't help but follow her legs with his eyes as she invites him in; he's very gay, but he has eyes, for goodness' sake, and he can appreciate beauty in all its forms.

"Thanks," she says, accepting the tin of popcorn from him.

"You're welcome." Blaine sits himself on the couch gingerly. The Fabray house is one of the fanciest he's ever seen, but it doesn't look like a teenage girl's home, let alone someone like Quinn. "You have a lovely home."

She rolls her eyes. "Save the pleasantries for my mom. But thanks, anyway."

"Rachel told me what happened at the bridal shop," he blurts out.

Blaine immediately regrets saying it when her hand stills, face freezing into a mask. When she eventually looks at him, it's Head Cheerio Quinn Fabray he's looking back at, and not the Quinn he's been privileged to know.

"Rachel has a big mouth," she snaps.

"We all know that. But that's not what I'm concerned about."

She glances away. "Then there's nothing to be concerned about."

"Quinn, we all don't approve of what they're doing. They're too young to get married. But we're too cowardly to tell it to their faces – to Rachel, especially, because once she starts talking she'll never stop." He considers placing his hand on her knee, and then decides against it. Her current mood means there is a chance he'll be eviscerated if he pushes too far. "I just want to thank you for being a good friend to her."

Quinn laughs bitterly. "No one's ever said that to me. Nobody ever will, considering what I've done to her over the past few years, which makes it supremely ironic that I'm trying to stop her from making the biggest mistake of her life."

"That doesn't matter. What matters is that you're doing something about it now."

All the fight seems to leave her. "I just can't stand by and watch her make all the same mistakes I made. She's destined for so much more than getting married and throwing her life away. She thinks – she thinks that not getting into NYADA now means that she isn't cut out for her dreams." Quinn pauses to take a deep breath. "She's the one who keeps pushing everyone to better things, but she won't even push herself."

Blaine nods. He's heard about their Junior Prom spat – from Rachel, when she was tipsy and more than a little upset that her friendship with Quinn hadn't progressed much from that point.

"That's why I'm against the wedding. Not because I want Finn, or because I think that they aren't meant to be. Rachel's going to be so much more than some small town wife; she's going to New York to live those stupid, amazing dreams of hers, and she won't do that if she settles for him, now. Like she stopped me from doing." Her eyes are red.

"Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"You're amazing."

She stares at him for a long moment, long enough that he starts to feel uneasy, then she looks away. Her cheeks are pink. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are," he says earnestly. Blaine steps forward hands hovering at his side. He doesn't want to force anything on her. But then Quinn walks into his embrace. Her arms stay at her side even as she leans against him.

"I hate to parrot Rachel since I'm certain she's made sure she's said it multiple times to you," he begins, and she chuckles into his neck, "but she's right. You're more than a pretty face, Quinn Fabray."

"Yeah, a pretty good bitch."

Blaine jerks his head back to give her a stern look. "Hush. Let me, as one of two of your token gay male friends, finish my job of reassuring you." The smile she cracks is worth it. "As I was saying, you don't give yourself enough credit. You're strong. Even if you have a habit of pushing people away…"

He's pretty certain she's blushing.

"... and of running away from things that scare you."

Quinn pushes at his shoulders. "I do not run away."

"So you haven't been avoiding Rachel until she cornered you into dress shopping?"

She bites her lip. "... It's not that obvious, is it?"

He laughs softly. "It's okay, Quinn. I'm not here to judge. I'm here for you." Blaine pulls away a little so he can look her in the eye. "I'm so proud of you."

Her expression freezes; tears start to pool in her eyes.

"Oh," says Blaine, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – "

"It's not you," says Quinn thickly. "It's just… no one's said that to me in years."

He bites on his bottom lip. "Then they don't deserve to."

No one blames anyone for the accident – although each of them has had to reassure Rachel that it isn't her fault. She's still somewhat hysterical, and Brittany has to physically march her to the bathroom to get her to change out of her bride's dress.

Blaine sits in the hard plastic chair, bow tie undone, Kurt's hand tight in both of his. They wait wordlessly for the surgery light to go off, for the surgeon to come out and tell them everything's going to be okay.

"She'll be fine," says Kurt, reading Blaine's thoughts.

"Yeah."

When she wakes up, Judy Fabray goes in first, along with Quinn's older sister from Chicago. Santana and Brittany bully their way (mostly Santana) into being next after them. Not many people know about his friendship with her (it exists in some odd little bubble of its own), so it's a while before Blaine has the opportunity to go in.

Kurt declines to go with him. "She's your friend," he says, patting his boyfriend's hand. "You should talk with her alone."

"She's your friend too," says Blaine reflexively. Kurt chuckles.

"You're the one who reached out to her when she needed it most. I think you deserve that title more than anyone else." With a gentle push, Blaine's propelled on his way.

And so he's here, frozen in the doorway until she clears her throat.

"Aren't you going to come in?"

Her voice is almost the same but it's coming from a small and broken-looking figure in a bed. His heart breaks. "Hi, baby girl." He takes her poor unbruised hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, laughing a little at her disgusted expression. "Don't call me that."

"Noted. How're you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck." She tries to smile, but half of her face is too bruised to contort. "If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy."

He chuckles. "You think you're so funny." Blaine pulls up a chair, sits as close as he can to her bedside, now cradling her hand in both of his. "I'm so glad you're okay." Okay isn't the first word he would use but he doesn't want to think about how close he was to losing her.

Quinn notices. She squeezes his hand once.

"I was so scared."

She's silent, and then she is tugging weakly at him. Blaine hastily wipes at his face with the back of his hand.

"Come here."

He bends over her as she strains to kiss his cheek, the brush of lips feather-light. "I'm sorry."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," he says sharply. "Just… I'm glad you're still here." Blaine presses a kiss to her forehead, to a small patch of intact skin he finds.

"'M glad you're here too," says Quinn.

("I think I almost died in the ambulance."

"Quinn, please."

"I saw heaven. I think. It was white... or it could have been the ambulance roof."

"You didn't die. You're here with us, and you're gonna be okay."

"... Are you crying?"

"Can you blame me? Weddings make me emotional already, and then this..."

"Are you wiping your nose on my sheets? Blaine! Ew! I sleep in these!"

"... God, Fabray. You're terrible at lightening the mood."

"As though you're that much better.")

Quinn dozes off after a while, thanks to her medication. He leaves her room as quietly as he can and finds a red-eyed Rachel sitting across from the door.

"Blaine," she says, stumbling to her feet. She's wearing sweatpants too long for her, as well as an oversized sweater. Rachel looks like a child caught playing dress up, down to the smudged remains of makeup on her face and the stricken expression she wears. "How is she?"

"She's sleeping," he says gently. Rachel nods, sinking back into her seat. "Didn't you go home last night?"

"No."

He takes the seat beside her. "How're you feeling?"

"Really, Blaine, you should be asking Quinn that; after all, she was the one involved in a serious accident on her way to my wedding." The Santana Lopez-esque sarcasm is accompanied by a bitter, rueful smile. It doesn't suit her.

"You know what I mean." He takes her hand in his.

She deflates. "I'm barely holding it together," she confesses. "Finn wanted to be here, but I told him to go home. I don't want to leave, but I just – I'm not ready to see her yet."

At the very least, she isn't reticent with her feelings like Quinn, and Blaine finds it a refreshing change. He continues to wait.

"Everyone's been telling me it's not my fault, and I do know that, somewhere in the back of my mind, but she wouldn't be here in that bed like this if she hadn't been rushing to the wedding, and I hadn't texted her…"

"Whoa, whoa," he interrupts, because her voice is wobbling dangerously. "Rachel, you didn't cause the accident. You didn't do this to Quinn."

"But it happened to her anyway."

"But she's going to be fine."

"She almost didn't make it, and I was going to tell her – " She cuts herself off.

"Tell her what?"

Rachel turns a magnificent shade of fuschia. "Nothing."

Blaine looks at her, but decides not to pursue it. Enough drama has happened in the past 24 hours for a lifetime, and he'd like to keep it that way – although admittedly, that's impossible given his boyfriend and his boyfriend's best friend.

A guy can hope, though.

They've switched their lunch sessions to the choir room because he doesn't want her and her chair out in the cold despite her insistence that she's fine.

"Blaine?"

He looks up from his sandwich. "Yeah?"

"I won't be able to make it for our movie night this Thursday."

"Yeah, I know. Your mom told me you've got your first physiotherapy session this Thursday. What time is it? I was thinking we could go from here, but I don't mind dropping by your house first if you need to change."

Quinn frowns. "Actually… I'd much rather you didn't accompany me."

"...why not?"

"I've asked Joe to come with me."

"Joe?" Blaine knows he sounds hurt. "I... okay, Quinn. If that's what you want."

He gets up and walks out of the choir room, pretending he can't hear her calling his name, selfishly knowing she can't follow him.

Rachel approaches him after school bearing a note. "Don't shoot the messenger," she jokes weakly upon seeing his expression. "Quinn asked me to pass this to you."

Blaine gives her a tired smile. "Sorry. Thanks, Rachel."

As he unfolds the note, Rachel comments: "You and Quinn are really close friends."

"Not for lack of effort on my part."

An odd expression flickers across Rachel's face.

"I got your note."

She glances up from the piano where she's been plinking out melodies. He joins her on the bench beside her chair. 'Just so you know, I won't forgive you until I hear a good explanation."

"Santana made me," she says dryly, eyes still fixed on her fingers.

Blaine winces and sighs melodramatically. "I'm sorry, Quinn. I'd fight the entire football team at once for you, but Santana? You're on your own. Kurt told me she keeps razor blades in her hair and I value my manhood."

She laughs. He smiles at her askance over the piano keys.

"I'm sorry."

He nods for her to continue and waits.

Quinn doesn't look at him. "I... I just don't want you to see me like that."

"Like what?"

"Weak. Vulnerable." She slams down a discordant chord.

He's silent for a moment, and then starts spinning arpeggios out of her chord. "Honestly? I think you were at your most vulnerable when you walked into McKinley on the first day of senior year."

"Yes, but nobody was supposed to see that." Her voice cracks on the last syllable.

Blaine hums. "I don't believe that." He's added a melody to match his arpeggios. "You wanted someone to look at you, Quinn, and see you."

She snorts. Her fingers grudgingly play bass chords in harmony with his music. "Someone like you?"

He chuckles, pleased. He adds a riff and flourish on her chords. "I wasn't the first, and you know that."

Quinn starts. The last of the music fades away. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"She wants to be your friend, Quinn. You should let her."

"Did she ask you to – ?"

"– no," says Blaine. "She tries too hard sometimes, but Rachel cares about you. Even before this."

Quinn turns a little pink as she says: "I know."

She approaches him timidly on Thursday afternoon after school. "I need to be at the hospital at five," she says. "I'll buy you coffee afterwards."

He accepts the apology and peace offering with a smile, and a "Sure. Meet you out at the parking lot? I've got a few things to grab from my locker first."

("How's this?"

"Fine."

"How about now?"

"Fi – ow. Careful with that."

"Sorry. Now?"

"Better. I thought you were supposed to help me with the stretches, not mangle me."

"Rude.")

Blaine's supposed to meet her in the choir room but he's running late (totally not Kurt and his delicious little ascot's fault). There are voices coming from the room as he approaches, and he frowns.

He peeks through the window to see Rachel seated on the piano bench, deep in conversation with Quinn. Rachel looks happier than he's seen her in days – weeks, even – but Quinn?

Quinn is radiant.

He doesn't think Quinn will miss him. He takes out his phone to text her an excuse for his absence as he heads off back to the janitor's cupboard; if he hurries, he might be in time to continue from where he left off with Kurt.

How she managed to talk Finn into being her prom date escapes Blaine, but when he arrives at the Hummel-Hudson house to pick Kurt up, Finn is already there with Quinn. "Mom wanted photos with all of us," explains Finn through his fixed smile as Carole continues to take picture after picture, "and Quinn's mom really only wants prom king and queen photos."

"Ah," says Blaine. "Good luck." Finn flashes him a cheesy grin and thumbs-up.

Blaine puts his hand on Quinn's upper back, bending to kiss her cheek. "Hi, Quinn. You're as stunning as always."

Quinn's eyes drift to his hair, and she arches an eyebrow. "Hi. Don't you look dashing." The effect is ruined by the giggle that escapes her.

He groans. "I'll remember this night for the rest of my life, for all the wrong reasons. Seriously, who bans hairgel at a high school prom?"

"I know, right? Strange. Brittany normally has her pretty sensible – for her, at least – reasons, but this time she just said something about preventing Gelhoes from existing because there's already Jewfroes."

Blaine coughs into his hand. She pats his back absently.

"Anyway, don't be ridiculous, you look very handsome tonight." Unbidden, her fingers are already tweaking his unruly curls (ruffled by the slight breeze between his car and the house) and adjusting them. He keeps himself bent to accommodate her, ignoring the throb in his lower back (he won't squat down and ruin the perfect crease of his trousers). "There. Perfect." Quinn gives his bowtie a playful tug.

"Thanks, Quinn." He straightens up, beams down at her. He's so proud he could cry.

Blaine actually does cry when Quinn stands up onstage. She's Quinn Fabray, and of course she chooses the most dramatic moment when everyone's eyes are on her. But the real surprise of the night is when Rachel Berry is crowned Prom Queen to Finn's King. Not to say he isn't shocked or unhappy –the student body can be insane, as evidenced by last year's crowning of Kurt as Prom Queen, and he's genuinely happy for Rachel – but Quinn and Santana were in the running, and individually they both wield a lot of clout.

"I smell a conspiracy," says Kurt, but he's smiling fondly at Rachel. "I bet she stuffed the boxes again. Once an election fraudster..."

Blaine simply nods and holds his boyfriend close, swaying to the music. He makes up his mind to interrogate Quinn later – especially when he notices that her eyes never leave Rachel as she sings.

His opportunity comes when he leaves the gym, hand-in-hand with Kurt, to find Quinn sitting in her chair outside. Automatically he shucks off his jacket and drapes it around her shoulders without a word; she smiles at him.

"Oh, there you are, Quinn; Finn said to tell you that he can still give you a ride home like he said. If you want," says Kurt, giving her a sharp look. He pauses, then adds: "Or I can drive you."

Her smile, which has dimmed when Finn is mentioned – or he might have been imagining it – widens. "Thanks, Kurt. I'll take you up on your offer, if you don't mind."

"Certainly not." Kurt nods at her chair. "Milady, your chariot awaits."

Blaine laughs, plays along; he bows and offers her his hand, which Quinn laughingly accepts. They make a sight as they cross the parking lot; Kurt pushing her chair, Blaine holding her hand and theatrically bidding the invisible crowd to make way for the princess. Quinn vacillates between rolling her eyes at them and looking down on her imaginary subjects.

They pull up outside the Fabray house shortly. She insists on wobbling up her driveway to her porch, so Kurt gets into the chair and demands Blaine push him. When Judy Fabray opens the door, it's clear from her expression that she was expecting to see Quinn and Finn, wearing their crowns. She gets a tiara-less Quinn who is half-walking, half stumbling towards her, keeping pace with Kurt, who slouches grandly in his throne. Blaine has one hand on the wheelchair's handle and the other around Quinn's waist, keeping them all together. All three are laughing hysterically.

Much later that night (after a long overdue make-out session), Blaine turns on his phone to find a text from Quinn.

Come over tomorrow afternoon?

Sure. See you, he texts back.

The first thing she says to him is: "My legs are killing me."

Blaine tuts at her. "Of course they are, honey; you're the genius who took her first public steps out of that chair in those heels." He plops down on the couch beside her and pulls her legs into his lap, deaf to her protests, massaging her feet and calves.

There is silence as she relaxes, allowing him to work.

"How're you feeling?"

"Much better," says Quinn, nodding at him and his busy hands. Blaine rolls his eyes.

"You know that's not what I meant."

He looks up when there's no response forthcoming. Quinn is staring away, clenching her jaw.

"Quinn?"

"Mmm?"

"There's something you're not telling me." Blaine certainly didn't miss the odd message Finn asked Kurt to convey – because who in their right mind doesn't take their prom date home automatically? – and Quinn's expression hardens.

"Finn cornered me in the bathroom."

His jaw drops open. "What?"

"He came in and saw me standing up." She wraps her arms around herself. "He blew up, accused me of pretending to need the chair to gain the sympathy vote."

Blaine clenches his jaw. He's never hated anyone before, but Finn Hudson comes close to occupying that position, boyfriend's stepbrother or not. "Did he hurt you?"

"Blaine..."

"Did he hurt you?"

She places her hand on his. "It's over. Don't confront him."

"You didn't even win anyway. He's just a thoughtless boor."

An odd look flashes across Quinn's face, and he guesses the truth. "... You did."

"Beat Santana by one vote," she says with a strangled little laugh.

"And you gave it to Rachel."

She looks down at her lap.

"Quinn, honey..."

She shakes her head, mouths don't. So Blaine says, "Oh, Quinn," instead, and pulls her properly into his lap. She cries into his neck, shoulders shaking, saying, "I can't," over and over again.

They don't talk about it. If anyone notices that he is a little cooler towards Finn than usual, nobody calls him out on it. Quinn finishes up the last of her physical therapy. She spends less time in the wheelchair until the day she steps out of the chair and into McKinley High without looking back, head held high. Judy brushes a tear away as she packs the chair back into her SUV.

The next step is practically uphill compared to being able to walk again; Quinn's goal is to dance again at Nationals.

So they spend hour upon hour practicing. He holds her hands, leads her in a few twirls, laughing when she stumbles and lets slip a filthy word because not so long ago she was pale and lying motionless in a bed, and the doctors weren't sure if she'd ever walk again.

Blaine has always been a person to celebrate the little things.

In the giddy chaos after they win Nationals, there is a moment when they find each other. His arms go to her waist just as she flings hers around his neck, and they are shouting their delight. He spins her in one, two full circles.

Thank you, she mouths into his neck.

He holds her a little tighter.

("My feet are killing me."

"You think this is hard? Try getting paralysed in a car accident, relearning to walk, and then dancing in a national show choir competition five months later. in high heels. Now that's hard."

"Sure, Coach Sylvester. Ow! Quinn Fabray! You're supposed to be a lady!")

It strikes him that the Quinn before him now looks nothing like the terrifying creature described by his friends just over a year ago. She sits at the worn kitchen table nursing a coffee, dressed in an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants, her hair in a messy bun. She's visiting Rachel and Kurt from Yale over the weekend on her Metro pass and he's taken the long weekend off.

She looks up from her coffee when he pads into the kitchen area. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"No, not at all. Kurt and I got back pretty late, and I'm wide-awake now after my shower." He makes himself a mug of tea. "Late night?" He nods at her coffee.

Her smile turns sheepish. "Habit," explains Quinn. She may or may not have pinked; he can't be certain. "Too many actual late-nighters at school. I've gotten used to having coffee at this time of night; ironically, I can't relax until I've had a cup."

"Ah."

Conversation naturally at an end, they share a comfortable silence with their mugs and thoughts. Blaine idly runs a finger over the ceramic mug.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You."

She rolls her eyes but also smiles at him. "No, seriously. Because while it's flattering, you're gay and you have a boyfriend."

"I'm serious." Blaine sets his mug to one side. "I'm so proud of you, Quinn."

Her smile is shy and uncertain, her eyes brim, but she manages to nod.

She's the first person he can think to call. The first attempt rings out to voicemail, and he nearly loses his nerve and switches the phone off – but then just as his finger hovers over the button, his phone screen lights up with Quinn's face.

"Hello?" She sounds sleepy.

"Hi," he whispers.

Her voice loses its sleepiness instantly. "Blaine? What happened? Is something wrong?"

"I…" He works past the lump in his throat, "I slept with another guy."

"Oh, honey."

"I told him," Blaine sobs. "We're over. I think. I'm not sure if we're broken up, or –"

"Where are you now?"

"I'm still in Bushwick, but I'm going back to Lima this evening. You don't have to – I'll come visit you. When's your next free weekend?"

"Meet me at Grand Central in two hours," she says firmly, and hangs up on his protests.

The first thing she does is to wrap him in one of the best hugs he's ever had save from Kurt, and the memory makes him cry all over again. She whispers soothing nonsense into his ear, rocking him until he calms down. Quinn takes his hand, leads him to the nearest coffee shop, and buys him his medium drip.

She doesn't let go of his hand until he has to board his flight back to Lima. Quinn kisses his cheek, says, "Call me when you reach home," and then she's gone.

She picks up on the second ring. "I just got back," he informs her obediently.

"Okay." A beat. "How are you?"

"Not good," admits Blaine. "I – don't have any excuses for what I did. I knew it was wrong, that it didn't mean anything, but I didn't stop." He makes a frustrated noise. "I don't even remember his name."

She's silent as she listens, and then says: "I kind of know why you did it, and what you were thinking, but I'm not gonna say it was okay."

"I know. I deserved it."

"No one deserves anything bad."

"You know what hurts the most? Seeing Kurt so broken up like that – knowing that I hurt him so badly."

"Was it worth it?"

The memory of Kurt's face floats before him. "No."

"It never is," she says wistfully. "But we've got to learn that the hard way." And then she says, apologetically: "Oh shit. I'm sorry, that wasn't helping. I'm not very good at this."

He gives a watery chuckle. "No, you are. I knew you'd understand."

He hasn't really been in touch with Quinn Fabray for years, not after Finn's passing and life tearing them apart – there's the occasional email, but that's it. There's been a lot in between – dropping out of school, Karofsky, and then the gayest wedding of all time – but now he's found some stability.

She never replied his last email asking her if she was attending Santana and Brittany's wedding – and goodness, that was so long ago. Blaine remembers not having time to be disappointed by her absence before he and Kurt are whisked away by Sue.

He and Kurt are expecting their first child, since Rachel has graciously volunteered to be their surrogate (between Rachel and Kurt, he's also expecting nothing but the highest-quality dramatics). His life has turned out more amazing than he'd expected it to be.

But now and then he can't help but to think of Quinn, and wonder what she's doing.

("Hi, Quinn? I'm not sure if you've changed your number. It doesn't ring anymore, it just goes straight to voicemail. I emailed you but you didn't reply. That was... *rustling sounds, silence* wow, quite some time ago. Anyway, I miss you. I understand if you're busy, but I'd really like to hear from you. Call me. My number hasn't changed. Or email. Whatever works for you. Okay... I'm gonna go. Bye.")

One day he sees a familiar shade of blonde in the audience during his matinee of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and his heart skips a beat.

During his next scene, Blaine's eyes drift to that woman again; it's unmistakably Quinn Fabray, and only his professionalism stops him from smiling as he talks about his wife's hysterical pregnancy onstage. Blaine asks Tom, the stage manager, to ask her to wait for him at the back the minute he steps offstage only to be told that a Miss Quinn Fabray has already asked to meet him.

Blaine counts the seconds to the curtain.

"Quinn?"

She was contemplating the props backstage before he called. When she turns to look at him, he can see that time has only increased her charm. Quinn's smile is blinding as she walks towards him.

"Hi, Blaine."

He kisses both her cheeks. "God, I haven't seen you in years. I've missed you. How are you? Can I buy you coffee? Dinner?"

She laughs. "Coffee would be nice."

"So…"

"You've done really well for yourself, Blaine," says Quinn quietly. He opens his mouth, ready to protest, but realises he doesn't know anything about her life at all.

She smiles. "It's okay. I didn't know you were in this show until I came by and saw your name on the marquee."

"Oh."

Her smile broadens, and it strikes him then that she looks… content. From the glint in her eye, it's apparent she's caught him staring. "I'm happy," says Quinn, "I live in Chicago now. I'm an editorial assistant in a publishing firm."

"With a degree in drama?"

Quinn smiles. "I switched my major to comparative literature in my sophomore year."

"Ah." Even if he has no idea what that is, Blaine is genuinely happy for her, and says so. It makes her smile wider. "Then again it was a sign since I spent a lot of my time in the choir room reading instead of singing," she adds.

"Thought that was for nerds," mutters Blaine, and when she grins, adds: "Makes sense, since Rachel was taking all the solos."

Quinn's smile fades into something softer, more wistful. "I saw Rachel's acceptance speech. I can't believe she made it."

"Not without help from you," he says.

Quinn shakes her head. "And you for me. I-I happened to be here in New York for a conference, then I saw your face on the billboards and I… I had to come see you and thank you properly."

"For what?"

"For seeing me at my lowest and saving me. For being my friend." She reaches for his hand. Blaine's thumb strokes her back of her hand in an old forgotten gesture. "You helped me on my way."

He shakes his head. "Frankly, you didn't need much helping."

"I also want to apologise for dropping off the face of the earth. I just needed to be on my own for a while. Find who I really was, without any ties to my past."

Blaine nods. "Okay. That was suitably cheesy. You're forgiven."

Quinn rolls her eyes, though she can't hide the relief that overtakes her face. "That was easy."

"The hard part is making it up to me over the next few decades. I accept anonymous coffees, by the way."

They smile at each other. Maybe he doesn't know her as well as he used to, but Blaine imagines her eyes are a little watery.

Maybe he does.

"I'm still proud of you," says Blaine quietly.

"Me too."