Author's Notes: A friendship fic written around the events of S5E3, from Kurt's point of view. Companion fic to, and overlaps, let's take what hurts, and write it all down. The focus is on Kurt/Quinn friendship, though there's references to canon pairings and Rachel/Quinn if you squint really hard. It's recommended you start here.

Kurt doesn't remember exactly what happens in the space between him receiving the phone call and their arriving at Lima Domestic, numb and silent (Rachel bordering on comatose), but he has a vague impression of Santana frog-marching them all everywhere they needed to be. He remembers his dad picking them up – mostly because it's one of the very few times Kurt's seen him this devastated – and he remembers Blaine's quivering smile, but that's about as far as his recent memory stretches.

He finds himself showered and dressed, sitting on his old bed in his dad's house with Rachel on his right sobbing into his neck, Blaine on his left holding his hand like he's afraid Kurt will disappear. They have a funeral to attend in five hours, and he doesn't feel like sleeping ever again.

(They both wanted to be anywhere but in his and Finn's house, but Rachel doesn't have a home in Lima anymore, and they can't do this alone.)

At the funeral, Kurt lets himself sleepwalk through the entire thing. He's gotten experienced since his mom's funeral years ago, but he doesn't let his dad see him go through the motions. Burt's got his hands full with Carole, anyway. Poor Carole. First Finn's dad, and now Finn. She's got him and Burt, of course, but Kurt knows that's not quite the same.

Blaine leaves his side for the first time since the whole thing started to get them some water. It's probably a good thing he does, because the abrupt sensation of Santana's hand on his shoulder is tight, almost painful, and he welcomes it. "Hey, Santana," says Kurt softly.

"Oh, good. You're marginally more functional than Rachel is," she says. He smiles a little.

"I've had more experience attending funerals."

She doesn't comment. Her grip tightens a fraction, and then is gone, as Santana says: "I'm going to get Rachel. Don't fall apart while I'm gone. Where's Hairgel – no, on second thought, never mind. He has his inbuilt radar."

"Santana?"

She pauses. "What?"

He wants to thank her for holding them all together when he's perfectly aware she's hurting as well. He wants to tell her everything's going to be fine, somehow, even when he doesn't want to believe it himself.

But instead, he asks, "Where's Brittany?" He remembers seeing a blonde woman at the graveside, but it was hard making out who it was through the haze of tears.

"She left already." Santana pauses. "She went to Q's house."

"Quinn?" Kurt frowns, trying to remember if she was among the mourners.

Santana chews on her lower lip. "Yeah. She's in town. She was supposed to come, but…"

"Oh." He understands, sort of. But then Santana scowls, interpreting it as something else altogether.

"She would have been here if she could, you know that, right?"

"I know," says Kurt quietly. "It's alright."

Santana sighs, dropping her defensive exterior. "Okay. Good. It's – Quinn, you see, she – hasn't had the easiest time. Shit at Yale or something, I don't know. But she's – not great – at the moment, and with Finn d – " Santana breaks off, takes a shaky breath, and finishes, " – it came at the worst possible time and she's having trouble dealing."

He tries so hard, but the expression she wears makes him assume the worst. "Oh, God. Is she okay?" It's the first thing that leaps to mind, especially after that incident with Karofsky – Dave. God, he remembers that conversation he had with her afterwards, and he feels bad, especially since her accident afterwards.

Kurt had spent three hours pacing outside her ward, trying to work up the courage to walk in and apologise. He'd chickened out in the end; he regrets it now, even if outwardly Quinn doesn't seem to have held it against him.

Santana nods. "She really wanted to come today," she says softly.

"I know."

"Anyway, Britt's with her now while I'm here making sure you two don't dehydrate and shrivel up."

Kurt nods; it was too much, perhaps, to expect Santana to be civil for an extended period. He places a hand on her knee. "Okay. Thank you."

"I'm doing okay myself, thanks for asking."

He squeezes her knee. "Yeah. That's good. Do you – do you want a hug?"

"God, Hummel, no. Especially not from you." But she leans her head against his shoulder, letting him put his arm around her.

Blaine chooses this moment to return. His offer of a hug is similarly rebuffed by Santana, but he doesn't take any offence as usual, seating himself on Kurt's other side. "You okay?" he asks softly, running his thumb over the back of Kurt's hand. Kurt closes his eyes. "Better now," lies Kurt. He's thinking of Quinn now, not Finn, but the tight feeling in his chest doesn't ease.

Kurt's on his own tonight; Rachel's staying with one of her dads and Blaine's with the junior Glee members. He dials a rarely-used number and waits while it rings.

It connects on the third ring. "Hello?"

"H-hi," he says. The voice on the other end is feminine, but it doesn't sound like Quinn. "I – Quinn?"

"No, she's sleeping," answers the voice, "but she said that I'm totally in charge of her phone for now."

"Brittany, it's Kurt," he says, recalling belatedly what Santana told him on the day of the – that day. "Are you at Quinn's house now?"

"Yep. And hi, Kurt. I'm really glad it's you, the phone said an unknown number was calling and I don't like unknown numbers 'cause they ask lots of really hard questions like 'have I considered purchasing a life insurance policy' and – "

" – Britt-Britt," he interjects, "sorry to interrupt, but how long have you been there?"

"Since Santana sent me."

"But that was – you've been there all this while?"

There was a pause. "I don't want to leave her," says Brittany quietly.

And that settles it, really.

There's still the weekend to go before Mr. Schue's memorial week starts on Monday. He had planned to spend it at home with his dad and Carole, but Kurt finds himself parked outside Quinn Fabray's house.

Really, what possessed him to spend time with Quinn Fabray, especially at a time like this? They've never been the best of friends in high school, more like planets in constant orbit. They've seen a lot of each other through mutual friends and extracurriculars and classes. They were frequently paired together for Glee performances, but they rarely interacted outside of that. It's funny that he knows exactly how her hand fits into his, but he doesn't know what her favourite colour is. Favourite anything, really, come to think of it.

Living with Santana – and Rachel, indirectly – has given him a new perspective on Quinn, though. And even if he isn't very confident that she would appreciate his presence, all he knows is that he won't let her be alone in this.

And a tiny selfish part of him says the same for himself.

They used to be friends, kind of (he got the phrase from Rachel), until they went their separate ways after graduation. Now that he's lost someone who he thought would always be there, he's not going to let her slip through his fingers (again).

He heard someone was crying in the bathroom in the science wing no one went. Since Rachel was currently occupied with laughing too hard at Finn's lame jokes, and Mercedes was sitting alone, Kurt had a pretty good idea who it could be.

He decided to test his theory.

It was a good thing the boys' bathroom was very close to the girls', so Kurt could casually hang around outside. He rapped on the door and whisper-shouted: "Are you in here, Quinn Fabray?"

The crying stopped and was replaced by a hissed: "Go away, Hummel."

Kurt sighed. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He pulled a pack of Zebra Cakes from his pocket, checked the hallway, and went in.

Quinn gaped at him, open-mouthed and red-eyed, from the sinks. "What the fuck?"

He didn't say anything; merely held the snacks out towards her. Quinn's gaze traveled from the Zebra Cakes, to Kurt, back to the cakes again. Before he could retract them, she had moved forward to take them from him.

She slumped on the patch of floor farthest away from Kurt, muttering "I should have locked the door."

Kurt rolled his eyes. He locked it and went to lean against the sinks. "Better?"

Quinn made a noncommittal sound. Her attention was focused solely on the package of snack food in her hand. "What's this for?" she asked, turning it over in her hands, frowning as she noted the (undoubtedly) unhealthy amount of sugar in it.

"My mom loved these. Dad still buys a box every now and then, for old time's sake. They keep disappearing because no one will admit to eating them."

Quinn visibly softened. "... I'm sorry."

"It's fine. It's been awhile since she died, so… not like we dwell on it all the time." He tore his gaze from the sinks, nodding at her. "Eat. You're especially bitchy when you're hungry, and you're eating for two now."

She continued to glare at him, but she did tear open the package and take a bite, so Kurt counted it as a victory. No one spoke until Quinn was halfway through the cake. "Why'd you come here?"

He shrugged. "We're friends, sort of, and you missed lunch."

"Since when are you Rachel Berry?"

"Since when do you cry in school bathrooms?" he shot back.

Quinn smiled grudgingly. "Touche."

Kurt cast an appraising eye around their surroundings. Clearly, it was one of Rachel's slushie cleanup spots, because there was a folding chair in the corner, and he could spot a slushie clean-up kit hidden in one of the cubicles the janitor used to store cleaning supplies (the star-spangled design was a dead giveaway). "You should sit down on this," said Kurt, fetching the chair. "The floor isn't the most sanitary place to be sitting."

"I'm eating in a bathroom. I couldn't care less about hygiene."

"Fair enough. Then you won't mind if I sat down, right? These pants are dry clean only, and this is the first day I'm wearing them."

Quinn primly tossed the empty wrapper away, washing her hands at the sinks. "Then you shouldn't have come here."

He chose not to pursue that argument. The chair was set up in one corner, and he sat down, neatly crossing one ankle over the other. "An excellent deduction, but since I'm already here, that point is redundant. Really, Fabray, you used to have the best comebacks."

She scowled at him. "Shut up and give me that chair. I'm the one carrying the baby."

"Fine." Kurt acquiesced, with a faint smile of triumph.

Brittany answers the door in a baggy T-shirt and a tired smile. "Hi, unicorn," she says, wrapping him in a hug, "I've missed you."

He clings back. "Brittany, we saw each other… a few days ago." He doesn't want to say the word funeral.

"I know, and I still missed you."

"Me too," he admits, and oh god he'd thought he'd run out of tears but they spill over his cheeks, he's so happy to see her. Brittany dabs at his face with her sleeve and leads him to the living room, sitting him down on the couch.

"Quinn's mom is out of town," she says, taking his bag from him and laying it under the coffee table. "Quinn's in bed. Sleeping, I think."

"Sleeping? Still?"

"She hasn't gotten out of it in a while, so I'm not too sure."

Kurt frowns. It seems to be a lot worse than what Santana told him. "She's gonna be okay, though?"

"I don't know." Brittany looks sad. "We're all a bit broken since the rainbow fell out of the sky, but I know we're all gonna be okay eventually because we still have leprechauns and ponies and candy, you know, even though it'll never really be the same again."

"Okay," says Kurt. He knows enough Brittany-speak to understand what she's trying to say. "I'll look after her for you. Go take care of Santana. She's been really strong, helping Rachel and me over the past week, but she needs to take a break too – don't tell her I said that. Give them a hug for me, okay?"

"I will, and sweet lady kisses – just Santana, though," frowns Brittany. She runs her fingers through his hair – normally he'd freak out, because it would be perfectly styled, but he can't remember the last time he bathed. "Your hair's all sad too."

"Don't touch it, boo, it's gross. I'm gross."

"You can't be gross. We're like, a unicorn and a bicorn. Grossness happens to bullies and frogs and mean things that make people cry."

Well, he can't possibly respond adequately to something like that. Kurt shrugs and tilts his head to the side in defeat. With that last parting remark, Brittany disappears upstairs to say goodbye to Quinn.

Kurt knocks tentatively. "Quinn?"

She doesn't respond, so he doesn't wait for an answer before opening the door. The curtains are drawn, a single beam of afternoon sunlight streaming through a chink in the material, picking out the important contents of the room.

There's her desk, piled high with junk, against the wall. There's the dresser. There are a surprising number of posters and photographs on the walls. There are books crammed into every single available space and then some. There's her bed. And in the middle, there's Quinn herself, a lump in the bedclothes.

"Hi."

There's no response.

Kurt suddenly feels exhausted, like living has finally caught up with him, like the lack of energy in the room has taken its toll. He takes off his shoes and socks and vest, unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, and climbs into bed with her.

Only her golden blonde hair peeps out from under the sheets. He doesn't bother climbing in. He scoots closer, gathering her into his arms, inhaling the scent of Quinn Fabray as he falls asleep almost immediately.

"I hope you're ready for this, girl," announced Kurt as he marched through the front door of the Jones household, "because I have here with me the spring edition of Vogue and it ain't waiting for no one – oh." The thick magazine he was brandishing faltered a little when he saw the extra person in Mercedes' living room. Quinn Fabray looked up from her lap. "Hi, Quinn."

"Hi," she said softly.

Mercedes and Kurt exchanged looks; his 'you-got-some-'splaining-to-do' expression was in full force. "Kurt, why don't you put that in my room first, and I'll be right with you," said Mercedes.

Quinn was quick to interject: "Oh, no, it's fine; you had plans with Kurt, right? I can just go out for a while." She made to stand up but was glared into sitting back down again.

"I'll be right back," said Mercedes. She seized Kurt's elbow and propelled him up the stairs.

"What's going on?" he hissed at her. "Did you forget that we had plans, Miss Jones?"

"Quinn's staying with us from now on."

"What? But Puck – ?"

Mercedes shrugged. "She didn't explain, and I'm not about to pry. But she can stay as long as she needs to." Her eyes narrowed suddenly. "Don't go around telling people, okay?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Please. Do you even know me? We may be the biggest gossip queens in Lima but even I have my limits." His expression softened a little. "... She looked upset. Is she okay?"

"As okay as she's gonna be for now. She's having a rough time."

"I'd say."

Mercedes took hold of his elbow and gave it a firm shake. "Be nice, okay?"

"I will." He led the way back to the living room. "Quinn?"

Her head snapped up, and she looked at him quizzically.

"Do you like Vogue?"

"Yeah? I suppose," she said hesitantly, brow furrowing in confusion. "My mom has a subscription. I've flipped through a couple of issues." She winced when she mentioned her mom; Kurt pretended not to notice.

"Good." He sat himself primly beside her, Mercedes on his other side, snagging the thick magazine from where he left it on the coffee table. "The runway fashions this season are completely outrageous, and you need to brush up on them before you can join our Project Runway marathons."

"Boy, no," said Mercedes.

"Boy, yes," said Kurt. "I need to convert her if I'm going to put together a posse to take down the walking Goodwill donation rack that is Rachel Berry."

Slowly, very slowly – while Kurt and Mercedes are busy bickering – Quinn smiled.

He's aware of her before he's even awake. Her breathing has changed; he can feel it from the way she's draped over him. Kurt can't remember where his hands are, but one is tangled in softness. He guesses it's her hair. He strokes her scalp gently; she makes a tiny sound.

"Hey."

"Hi," she croaks back, looking confused.

"Sorry I just invited myself. And for invading your personal space." Gently, very gently, he scoots up against the wall, keeping his arms loose so she has the option of following him.

She interprets it differently, and sits up, her hands brushing her clothes self–consciously. "Where's Brittany?"

"Brittany's with Santana. It was my idea. She didn't abandon you, okay?"

God, he has no idea what he's saying. It sounds stilted and weird, and he hopes he doesn't upset her, that she uses that Yale brain of hers to unpick the stupidity coming out of his mouth. "I just… I know we've never been close friends, not really, but I just wanted to make sure you're okay. I mean, I'm not." A self-deprecating chuckle. "Definitely not. But I'm still better than Rachel. Thank goodness for Santana. She made sure we didn't completely fall apart, she got us on that flight home, she made sure we functioned like normal human beings. I'm pretty sure she helped Rachel shower, though she'd kill me if I asked."

Quinn hasn't moved while he talks.

"Sorry we haven't really kept in touch. Rachel told me about the train passes. You're more amazing than you let on, you know? I don't think I've ever told you that. I don't think there's ever been an emotionally appropriate time for it." He sighs. "Then again, now isn't the best time for it, but… then when, right? You just… never know that you're never gonna get a chance." Damn, he's tearing up. He was doing so well.

Kurt takes a minute to compose himself – a minute, he notes, in complete silence. The tremor is gone when he speaks again. "Sorry. I was saying that… oh, damn it all. I'm going to start at the beginning, otherwise it won't make sense, and I'll never get this off my chest. Okay. When you were pregnant, I wasn't expecting that kind of drama, you know? You were this mean blonde cheerleader who made life hell for losers like me – and you were with the guy I wanted – and things were supposed to be like those high school movies. You with your glittering Prom Queen world, me being forced out of our small town. That was how we were supposed to be. But with you everything turned out so different."

Quinn blinks at this. Her lips part a little, ruining the perfectly composed ice queen image.

"You were a lot tougher and more amazing than I'd expected. Mercedes told me her side of Babygate much later – don't kill her the next time you see her, she had nothing but good things to say about you, Quinn Fabray." He pauses. "You lied to – them, but you owned up to what you did, and you held your head high the entire time. Okay, I'm only gonna say this once, but I cried after Sectionals. Not because we lost, but because Puck told us you weren't keeping Beth. I mean, I – I lost my mom when I was a kid. I miss her every day. I know there's that bond between a mother and her child, and it just made me cry that you loved Beth enough to give her to someone who was able to be that mother for her that you weren't able to at that time."

Kurt pauses to dab at his face with a handful of the bedsheets. He's planning on evicting Quinn and himself later to launder everything, so he figures he can get away with acting like a slob this one time.

"I'm just guessing things kinda sucked for you after that. I'm sorry I didn't really notice and didn't seem to care. And senior year…" Kurt trailed off. Senior year was really the time when things had reached boiling point, when she'd joined the skanks and quit Glee – and there was Karofsky. "… I said some things to you that I wish I could take back."

There was a heavy silence.

"I know everyone's said things to you after the accident. The same old regret, and relief." Kurt waves his hands as he speaks. "Me, not so much. I was just so angry that it happened to you because of Rachel, that you had to get hurt before they came to their senses."

"It wasn't Rachel's fault," says Quinn suddenly, her voice rough and scratchy.

"It wasn't," he agrees. "But you got hurt, and I believed… I believed you weren't going to be okay, and that the last thing I'd ever say to you were those hurtful, selfish things which I didn't even mean." He abandons his bedsheet, wiping his face on his sleeve. "I mean, you were my dance partner and fashion friend for two years and I acted like it wasn't anything important. How stupid was I?"

"It's not."

"Santana says you're going through a lot at school, and I'm sorry for that, that you've never gotten a break. I'm sorry I judged you and thought you had everything handed to you on a silver platter. I'm sorry all that shit happened to you. I'm sorry, Quinn."

She nods, smiles faintly. "It's okay."

Outside of McKinley was different. Everything was different inside of the bubble that was the Jones household. It felt perfectly natural for Kurt to walk over to the kitchen table where Quinn had spread her homework and ask her opinion on this jacket he was thinking of buying because Mercedes insisted the navy would suit his colouring better but the maroon was so much more gorgeous, and besides it was velvet, and velvet operated under a different set of rules altogether.

Quinn closed her mouth quickly and said, "Uh, maroon."

Kurt flung a triumphant look over his shoulder as Mercedes yelled from the couch, "You need glasses, the both of you!"

"Ignore her. She's just bitter to have been proven wrong about bling coming back into vogue this season." He pulled up a chair. "Is that Mr Orson's literature homework?"

"Yeah."

He groaned. "It's due tomorrow, isn't it?"

"It is. You haven't finished it yet?"

"Almost," said Kurt defensively. He'd been busy watching Finn Hudson's football practices from under the bleachers without getting heckled by the school skanks. "It's hard."

Quinn nodded. "Yeah. Here – let me finish up this last bit, and you can borrow mine. Don't bother about changing anything, he doesn't actually read what we write."

His mouth dropped open. "I – you don't really have to."

"But I want to." She smiled at him, one of her shy smiles that people rarely saw these days.

He wakes up when his stomach rumbles. It's been an hour or so since he dozed off, and Kurt wonders why he keeps passing out.

There's a vague memory in the corner of his mind that tells him that he hasn't been sleeping much over the past week, and the lapses of time aren't because he's been asleep, but because he's been phasing in and out of everyday life in his denial.

At the very least, Kurt is relieved to know he isn't losing his mind just yet.

The second thing he becomes aware of is that he and Quinn have switched positions. His knees are drawn up to his chest, and his arms are tangled in front of him, fingers grasping the bedclothes. Quinn has her arm over his shoulders, her face in his hair.

Kurt stirs gently, unsure if he's disturbing her. "Quinn?"

Her hand flexes. She stirs, makes a sound that isn't words, not quite.

"Hey. I'm sorry about – " he pauses as snatches of his half-hysterical, half-nonsensical ramble filter back into his mind like percolating coffee, " – uh, whatever I was saying earlier. I'm not being fair to you. I said I was here for you, but I – ugh. Never mind. The more I talk the stupider I get." Kurt shifts a little, attempts to smile at her.

Half-lidded hazel eyes gaze back at him. She shakes her head eventually.

"Okay. Okay, good. I – uh – made a mess of your bed. I'll just – I'll clean it up." He gets up, trying not to look down at himself, at his horribly creased shirt and rumpled corduroy pants. "You should go shower while I do that. Where do you keep your sheets?"

"The cupboard in the corridor, third door on the left." She's pulled herself up to sit cross-legged on the bed, arms around herself.

When he returns, arms full of neatly-pressed bedlinens, Quinn hasn't moved from her seat. Her eyes stay fixed on a section of blank wall.

"Sweetie."

No answer.

"Quinn." Kurt sets down the sheets on a corner of the bed and touches her shoulder. She jerks a little, blinking rapidly, and focuses on him. "Go shower, honey."

"Okay," she mumbles. He waits with folded arms as she meanders around the room, gathering clothes and her towel, only starting on his work when he hears water run from the bathroom.

They had almost cancelled their sleepover because Quinn's belly had grown too big for her to get comfortable for too long and she didn't want to be a drag. Kurt and Mercedes ignored her, piling into her room to take her hostage and paint her toenails, bickering about last week's episode of Project Runway the entire time.

Eventually Kurt and Mercedes had crawled off her bed into sleeping bags on the floor. Kurt woke up with a jolt, blinking. There were rustling sounds coming from above him.

"Quinn? Are you awake?"

The rustling stopped. "Sorry I woke you," she whispered back.

"Is it the baby?"

"Yeah. It's fine. Go back to sleep."

"In a bit." He crawled into her bed – Quinn squeaked in surprise. "Turn on your side away from me," instructed Kurt. "What hurts?"

"It's really late," she protested.

"Yeah, so your cooperation would be really great," he said, deadpan. "You've let me give you massages before. What's the big deal now?"

Even in the dark, he could see her blush. "I don't want – you don't need to go to such lengths for me."

"Quinn. You're a teenage mom-to-be who got kicked out of her home. You need all the help you can get," he said as patiently as he could manage at 3 in the morning. "Now roll over. You and your baby will thank me later."

"I think I never really got over him."

She doesn't say anything but the sudden softness in her eyes lets him know she knows who he is, and that's she's listening. Feeling needy all of a sudden, Kurt slips his hand into hers, smiling a little when her fingers twine with his.

"You never get over your first everything. I guess it's because it's the first time someone has ever made you feel that way, and it's so new and scary and wonderful. And he was everything." A short laugh. "There were a million reasons it couldn't be real, and it only made it worse. Crushes suck. Crushes on straight people suck worse."

Quinn smiles a little, and it makes the ache in his heart a little less.

"It was a little weird at first when Dad and Carole got married, because that meant living with him, seeing him all the time, and I wasn't quite over the crush. But he made me feel it was okay. That I wasn't wrong or terrible even for being me, for feeling that way." Kurt draws a shaky breath. "I don't – I never told him that. He just seemed – it really wasn't a big deal to him. He was just so good like that."

Kurt closes his eyes. Finn's face still drifts to his mind, and he still hurts, but it's diminished somewhat. Quinn's hand is warm and solid in his, anchoring him down, reminding him that they'll make it through eventually.

"Quinn, do you mind if I – ?"

She seems to understand. "You don't need to ask," she grumbles, and then she wraps her arms around him, fingers slipping from his slack grip to cradle his head, letting him press his nose to her shoulder. His eyes are screwed up; if he relaxes his expression just a fraction, the tears will spill out and he can't have that.

Her nails scratch a little through his hair. It reminds him of when he was younger and his mother used to hug him like that.

"So what are you gonna do about her?"

Quinn bit on her lower lip. "I don't know."

"You have to do something."

"I know that," she snapped, and then blushed. "Sorry."

Kurt waved her off. "It's okay. I'd blame everything on the hormones, if I were you."

"... okay."

"Look," said Kurt, "you'll need to decide if you want to keep her or not, and then there's a lot of things to do after you've decided that."

"I know. I can't stay here," said Quinn, and continued to chew on her lip. Her hand rubbed slow circles over her belly. "Mercedes and the Joneses have been so kind, but I can't continue to depend on their generosity any more than I have to."

"Quinn… if you like, you could always stay with my dad and me."

"What?"

"He's forever complaining about the paperwork he has to do for the garage. You could work there in exchange for staying with us. You're good at organization, right? Miss Head Cheerio?"

"Former Head Cheerio," she said. "I don't want to impose. I've lived in four houses in eight months, and I – if I keep the baby, I…"

Kurt patted her knee until she looked at him. "Calm down. It's just a thought, okay?"

"Okay," she said.

"My greatest regret was lying to him."

It's Kurt's turn to listen, and he nods solemnly. They lie on their sides in brackets facing each other, hands tangled in the space between, Kurt's free arm pillowing Quinn's head.

He would laugh later on at the memory of them – him, ridiculously gay; her, mostly straight – drawing comfort from each other more intimately than lovers. But now it feels right to be warm and soft and together.

"He was so much better than Puck, but I – I regretted it when I saw his face." Quinn's closed her eyes; when she opens them, they're focused on a point beyond Kurt. "But he tried so hard. He wasn't perfect but he – he did everything he could've, and more. I just didn't see it until later."

"Why is it that hindsight is so clear?" asks Kurt, and she smiles bitterly.

"We hardly spoke after the wedding, and – everything that happened after. Senior prom. Mr. Schue's wedding that wasn't."

"There were plenty of honeymoon nights happening, though."

They share a quiet laugh at that.

"I wish I could've talked to him. I saw him waiting for Rachel. There was – I needed to tell him so many things. I told myself we would stay in touch, somehow, even if we weren't married to each other and living in Lima for the rest of our lives, and one day we'd both be happy and I could tell him everything and we'd laugh at how young and stupid we were – "

And then Kurt is making shushing sounds and reaching for her, and it's her turn to draw comfort from his arms. He doesn't tell her that everything will be alright because it won't; Finn's gone and he won't be coming back, and they'll have to whisper all the things that went unsaid into the air and pray that it reaches him somewhere. Kurt's hand cups the back of her head, fingers kneading the tight muscle there. He smiles a little when he feels her relax.

"Feeling better?"

Quinn doesn't respond verbally. Her hand finds his bicep and squeezes.

They're a bit better the next day, so they don't spend it in bed. They find frozen dinners in the freezer (Kurt silently thanks Brittany for being a genius when it comes to the things that matter) and eat them in Quinn's room. He sits on the desk after insisting Quinn take the chair for her back, his feet dangling as he forks wilted broccoli into his mouth.

"After Rachel and I got the loft, we ate nothing but baked beans for a week because we were broke after paying the deposit," says Kurt, pausing to smirk at the look on Quinn's face. "You can imagine the smell."

"God, Kurt, don't tell me; I don't want to know." Even then she eyes the beans in her tray warily, making him laugh.

"We'd come up with this plan to convince our dads to lend us some money so we wouldn't starve or asphyxiate before getting jobs – Rachel made a 50-slide PowerPoint – but then she went on Skype with her dads and they oh-so-casually mentioned they'd taken the liberty of mailing Rachel a housewarming check that morning."

Quinn giggles. "And then?"

"We camped by the mailbox until it arrived, ran to the bank to cash it, and then to the nearest diner."

"You guys are ridiculous," she snorts. But she finishes her food, even scraping at the sauce with her fork. He's glad. She hasn't eaten much recently – not over the past few months, judging from how thin she is – and with the news…

Kurt pushes the rest of his thought from his mind. He doesn't want to dwell. Instead, he focuses on the now:

He's sitting on a couch wearing a ridiculously oversized McKinley High football T-shirt, shorts, and socks, eating frozen dinners with a similarly-attired Quinn Fabray. His life has been people coming up with the most ludicrous situations to put him into.

But Kurt has never been happier with how things turned out – well, except this time. He picks at the shirt, recognising who it used to belong to.

Quinn says something. He leaves the shirt alone to listen to her.

They haven't spoken much since her mom took her back in and she had her baby in quick succession. She's too busy to talk to him in the halls, she sends monosyllabic replies to his texts, and she doesn't even look at him during Glee. He was worried about her, until Dave Karofsky happened.

By the time he was back at McKinley, they were both too different to even acknowledge their friendship (let alone revive it). But he caught her eye when they were singing Born This Way and smiled, and she returned it, and that was that.

She tells him about Yale, about being the scholarship girl in a sea of trust fund kids. She tells him about being too smart for the blonde cheerleaders and too pretty for the literature geeks. She tells him she went for a makeover more extreme than cutting her hair at Regionals, than dyeing her hair pink and wearing fishnet stockings; she let her hair go back to its natural brown, she wore glasses instead of contacts, she added jeans and flannel shirts to her wardrobe.

She tells him that she joins literature clubs and writing societies. She tells him she switched majors halfway through her first semester from drama to English literature with a minor in journalism. She tells him that she's been seeing girls as well as guys, but nothing serious, because she can't commit to a relationship without knowing who Quinn Fabray really is, and how Lucy Fabray fits in with that person.

She doesn't tell him what happens after she gets the phone call telling her that the biggest piece of her past (literally and figuratively) isn't there anymore. He already knows.

Kurt calls Santana. He's unsurprised when Brittany picks up.

"Hi, Kurt," she chirps. He feels the smile return to his face.

"Hey Britt. Where's Santana?"

"She and Rachel are out for lunch."

"Really?"

"Really." Brittany sounds happy.

"She's a miracle-worker."

"She's Santana. Oh, how're you and Quinn?"

"We're doing okay." Kurt glances over at the bed where a tangle of blonde hair rests on a pillow. Her sleeping patterns have gotten better lately, and he's not willing to disrupt them. "She's eating and sleeping better."

"You too?"

"Yeah, Brittany."

"Good. Santana says she'll be coming over this evening. She says she'll whip the loser out of Q, but she really means she misses her."

Kurt laughs. "That sounds like Santana."

Santana makes her presence known by hollering outside the door, threatening all sorts of violence if they don't open it immediately.

"Hello to you too, Santana," says a bleary-eyed Kurt, closing the door behind her.

"Lady Hummel," she shoots back, eyeing his messy hair curiously. She dumps her bag in the centre of the room, shouting a greeting as a disgruntled-looking Quinn appears at the top of the stairs. "God, you look like shit, Fabray," says Santana – in a tone of voice that passes for affectionate for her – as she enfolds Quinn in a hug. "So does Hummel. You two look like you had amazing sex last night – which I'm really hoping didn't happen. I always thought you have good taste."

Kurt has lived with Santana long enough not to react, but his face contorts in horror anyway on principle. Quinn doesn't even bat an eyelid; clearly, she's put up with worse. "We didn't. Even if we had, it would still have been better than what you'll ever get."

"Wanky." Santana turns to Kurt. "Whatever you did to Q, Kurt, it worked. She's even bitchier than I remember."

He rolls his eyes and makes his way to the kitchen to fire up the coffee machine. Kurt's been here for a couple of days now and has only just learnt to make coffee the way Quinn likes it. Santana's order is forever ingrained in his subconscious.

By the time he gets back, Quinn and Santana are seated on the couch, talking in low voices. They glance up guiltily when he sets the mugs on the low table – a sure sign they're talking about Finn.

Kurt lets it go. "Where's Rachel? How is she?"

"The loft. Marginally functional," says Santana, furrowing her brow in a decidedly un-Santana expression. She actually looks concerned about their housemate's wellbeing. "Britt's taking good care of her, though, so I don't really give a shit."

Well, there went that thought.

"Anyway, I thought I'd take the liberty of reminding you that we've got that memorial thing with Mr. Schue starting tomorrow."

Kurt blinks. He takes a sip of his coffee, willing the caffeine to power through his system and help him remember that time has passed. "It's tomorrow?"

"Uh, yeah."

Quinn mouths something, her shoulders hunched. Santana asks her to repeat it.

"I'm not going."

"… Okay," says Santana softly. "How about you, Hummel?"

"I'm going," he says, "Rachel needs me."

Santana shrugs. "Fine. I suppose I should keep an eye on the midget too." Addressing Quinn, she adds: "I'll ask Britt to stay here with you."

Quinn smiles. "Thanks, San."

Santana declines to stay the night – not when Brittany is in the same town – and leaves right after forcing them both to eat the dinner she cooks. They had prepared their stomachs for the worst but she's a pretty decent cook – though, Kurt comments dryly, anyone is better than Rachel who managed to burn water. They curl up in Quinn's bed out of habit, Kurt being the big spoon.

"Finn used to hold me like this," says Quinn.

"I used to wish Finn would hold me like this," deadpans Kurt. She turns her head to look at him incredulously; he lifts an eyebrow in response, and they laugh softly after a beat. Even if Kurt's cheeks are wet and Quinn keeps swiping at her eyes with a sleeve.

It's a start.

"You're sure you'll be fine?" He's done his hair for the first time in weeks; studying his reflection in the mirror, Kurt thinks he looks almost normal, apart from the bags under his eyes and his pale skin.

Quinn smiles, fluttery like a nervous schoolgirl. "Yeah. Britt will be here by two."

He needs to pick Rachel up from his dad's place. They're meeting Santana at school. Kurt kind of wishes he didn't need to leave Quinn alone, even just for a while. "Call me if you need anything."

"I'll be fine, Kurt. Go and make sure Rachel doesn't fall apart or something."

"Pot, kettle."

She arches an eyebrow at him, hands on her hips like he's seen her do back then, when he wasn't picking up the dance moves quickly enough for her liking. But instead of berating him, Quinn reaches out to adjust the lapels of his vest.

"Okay. Perfect."

"Thanks." He leans in to kiss her cheek, and then he is gone.

"How was it?"

Kurt doesn't have to put on a brave face for her, and he appreciates that. "Tough," he admits. "Santana broke down."

"She did?"

"She was being her usual prickly self, but she burst into tears while she was singing." He neglects to mention the exchange that takes place after. Kurt has grown to care for Santana, prickly and standoffish as she can be, and sharing that side of her feels like a betrayal, even to Quinn. "She'll cut anyone who mentions it, though."

Quinn smiles. "That sounds like Santana. The last bit, that is."

"Rachel sang."

Quinn doesn't say anything. She's not even looking at him, but the sudden change in her demeanour tells him she's listening.

"She was crying, but she managed to make it through the song."

"That's Rachel for you. She's a professional." There's pride mixed with another emotion Kurt can't quite identify. "Did you cry?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Duh. There wasn't a dry eye in the room, if you'll pardon my use of an old cliche."

Her hand moves like it would slip into his, but she hesitates; he rolls his eyes again, and links their fingers. They exchange smiles – Quinn's tentative, Kurt's gentle.

They've been doing a lot of smiling these days, but it's better than crying.

Rachel insists she's fine after the week ends, but her eyes are overbright and her lip trembles, so Kurt doesn't stick to the original plan. He pulls up at Quinn's house; Rachel, belatedly recognizing the building, stares at him.

"I've been staying here for the past few days, not at Blaine's," he explains.

She nods – absently – like she already knows this. "I didn't know you and Quinn were such good friends."

"We weren't," he admits, "but we're working on it."

Rachel smiles a little, though he catches a flash of guilt in her expression. "I see."

Brittany welcomes them both in with warm hugs, but Rachel can only stare at Quinn. "H-hi, Quinn," she stammers. "I do hope I'm not intruding on your personal space... i-it's good to see you, you look well."

"Rachel," says Quinn quietly, and Rachel falls silent. The two girls simply look at each other for a very long moment.

Then Quinn opens her arms, Rachel bursts into tears, and then they're hugging so tightly that if not for the different shades of blonde and brunette, Kurt can't tell where Rachel ends and Quinn begins.

Brittany is resting her chin on his shoulder. "They're so cute," she comments thickly, sounding close to tears herself. Kurt's too choked up to respond, so Brittany simply takes his hand and leads him to join the group hug, wrapping her arms around them all.

They fly back to New York together, and then they all see her off on the train to New Haven.

"Take care of yourself, Q," says Santana, wrapping her arms around her friend.

Rachel nods. "Keep in touch?"

"The same goes for you, Rachel," retorts Quinn, but she reaches out to take Rachel's hand, squeezing it. Rachel's smile blossoms, and she pulls Quinn into a hug so tight Kurt can hear her grunt.

"You break, you buy, Rach," says Santana sardonically. They break apart; Rachel with a blush, Quinn with a scowl, and Santana merely smirks at them both.

Kurt was hanging back, but he steps forward now to enfold Quinn in a hug (partly also to prevent her maiming Santana). "You're okay, Quinn," he whispers into her ear. "I believe in you."

"Thank you." Her words graze his ear, raw and vulnerable, and Kurt wonders why no one's ever said that to her, when she needs it so much. He tries to convey his thoughts in the hug, gathering her close as though she'll fall apart any moment.

When Quinn pulls away, her eyes are watery, but she's smiling. She crosses the ticket barrier with a last goodbye and strides across the platform to her train. From the window, she has her hand raised, fingertips resting against the glass. Santana gives her a cocky smirk, Rachel waves so hard her entire body shakes with the motion. Kurt has a hand upraised, a vague gesture torn between greeting and farewell.

He thinks it's a fitting metaphor.