Author's Note: I am incapable of writing shorter fics, or even in breaking down monster fics into bite-sized pieces. Apologies for the length of this as well as the inevitable rambly-ness. Title comes from Lea Michele's Empty Handed because there is no way I'll write a fic dealing with Finn's passing without mentioning her.

Much of this fic stems from me trying to cope with my own real-life loss of an old friend.

She didn't do this for just anyone, but then again; Rachel Berry had never been just anyone.

Her train pass was just about to expire. Almost-pristine, fished out of the envelope she'd gotten them in, and then tucked back for what Quinn hoped wasn't the last time.

"You need to come, Q. She's not doing anything, and it's scaring the fuck out of me."

"She can't be doing nothing," said Quinn in her most scathing unamused-Head-Cheerio tone, "you're exaggerating."

"I'm really not, Quinn." Santana's voice carried the right note of panic, but it was the use of her name proper that made Quinn sit up and pay attention. "I haven't seen her eat in two days. I don't even know if she's going to the bathroom, I don't see her moving from her bed and Kurt's not exactly in the right frame of mind to be dealing with her. You can't expect me to –"

"Alright, alright. You've made your point." Quinn checked her schedule on her laptop. "I'll be there this Friday."

"Finally. Okay. I'll try and keep them alive until you get here."

"Stop exaggerating, Santana."

"Who said I was?" came the response, before she hung up.

Quinn boarded her train and found her seat. Her carry-on bag went into the rack overhead with little difficulty (she'd mastered the art of packing light) and she pulled the book out of the side pocket before sitting down.

So much had happened in one short year. She'd been in and out of relationships (and people's beds), and was slowly starting to understand who Quinn Fabray was. There were classes and professors, new friends and people that were something more, dorm living and adjusting to roommates. It was part of the college experience, she'd heard.

Dying really shouldn't have been part of this stage of their lives.

She didn't attend his funeral, or the memorial week. It was already hard for her to deal with her own grief (ie. not at all), and she knew she wouldn't be able to handle her friends'. Quinn had stayed in New Haven, worked through her emotions (ie. locked them away and pretended they didn't exist), and pulled herself together like a Fabray.

But everything had collapsed when Santana called. She was being dragged, kicking and screaming, into that mass of feelings that she'd locked away neatly, all because of Rachel Berry.

The book rested, unopened, in her lap as Quinn stared out the window.

She still remembered how to get to the Bushwick loft from the intervention they'd staged last year. Santana opened the door for her, relief and worry intermingled on her face. "You're here. Oh my god, finally."

"How bad is it?" It was pretty bad, Quinn guessed, from the normal – read, civil – way Santana was treating her. She hugged Santana, worry intensifying when Santana hugged back.

"I think you should see for yourself." Santana led the way to the green curtained-off area that was Rachel's room. "Rachel? Quinn's here," she called.

There was no response.

"I'm coming in." Santana pushed aside the curtain. Rachel lay in bed, curled in the fetal position, facing away. She gave no indication that she had heard them.

Quinn took a step forward. "Hi, Rachel."

No reply.

When Quinn looked back, Santana was gone. She sat on the bed, closer to Rachel, and rested a hand on Rachel's. "Santana said you haven't been eating." The hand underneath hers felt fragile. Rachel stared dully ahead. "I'm gonna make a guess, and say you haven't been sleeping either."

The cracked lips moved. "I don't feel like it."

Quinn smiled sadly. "You need to." Her hand moved to stroke Rachel's hair.

She didn't flinch when Rachel let out an unexpected, broken sob. Quinn just held her and set herself to wait until Rachel had cried herself out.

After an undetermined length of time (in which Quinn watched the sunlight cast through the window change and occasionally rubbed Rachel's back), Rachel's sobbing eased.

"Do you feel better?"

"No."

Quinn gave her a half-smile. "Maybe you will after you drink some water." Truthfully, she thought Rachel would need more than water; her hair was tangled, she had dark circles under swollen red eyes, and she was rumpled and pale. She reached for the water bottle on the nightstand and handed it to Rachel.

Rachel didn't take it. "My dads used to make me drink water every time I cried," she said, eyes fixed on the bottle. "After a while, it was hard to tell if I was sad or thirsty."

"I know." Quinn really didn't, but something told her that wasn't the answer Rachel was looking for.

"This is the first time in years I haven't been confused."

Quinn sighed. She was at a complete loss for what to say to someone in mourning – that is to say, someone who wasn't her. "I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"Do you… want to talk about it?"

Rachel chuckled – actually chuckled weakly. Quinn was taken aback. "You know, I believe this is the first time that you're not asking me to shut up."

She bit on her lower lip. The reminder to be gentle with Rachel – that she was grieving and didn't know what she was saying – warred with her reflex to lash out, to snap at the reminder of who she used to be. "Just drink the water, Rachel."

"... You're right. I'm sorry." And she was back to the quiet, pale shadow of herself. Rachel took a few sips from the bottle and set it back on the nightstand.

"That's all?"

"I'm not thirsty."

Quinn clenched her jaw. "You know what? I didn't come here to argue with you. If you want to waste away, fine. That's your business."

"Then go," said Rachel, the flatness of her tone at odds with the words. "You don't care anyway. You didn't even come to the funeral."

Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Rachel looked unsure, but stared back nonetheless. "You think I... just because I wasn't there, you think it means I don't care?" asked Quinn incredulously.

"What other reason could you have had?"

"Rachel." She glanced up, inhaled sharply. She forced down the waves of anger that threatened to break free. "Of course I care. He was my first boyfriend, he was supposed to be my baby's father. He was my friend."

"He's more than that to me but that didn't count for anything."

Quinn gaped at her.

"He is… he was supposed to be the one." She wiped away tears with the heel of her hand. "He'd always been there no matter what happened, but now he…" Rachel trailed off, shaking her head, fresh sobs starting. "I feel so lost. I don't know what to do now."

Quinn held her arms out, unsure if Rachel wanted her comfort – and then found herself with an armful of crying girl. "It's okay," she said, stroking Rachel's hair.

"Are you just saying that because it's what you're supposed to say when someone dies, or do you really believe that?"

Quinn rested her head against Rachel's. "Rachel, you know I've always been completely honest with you, right?"

"Yes. Brutal, even, on several memorable occasions," came the soft reply.

Quinn smiled in spite of herself. "I didn't know what to say to anyone," she said. "I still don't. All those phrases seem so cliched, and you hear them over and over again until they lose their meaning. 'It's going to be okay', 'he's in a better place now'."

"You're the Christian, you should be quite familiar with that."

She ignored the barb. "That doesn't mean I mindlessly parrot whatever's written in the Bible. I've… been doing a lot of thinking about my faith recently… joined a new church in New Haven and all. I lost my way for a while after the accident, and it's been good reconciling with God, in a way."

Distantly, Quinn wondered what it was with Rachel Berry that she always ended up voicing thoughts that she'd never known she'd harboured.

Rachel sniffed. "I'm really glad to hear that," she said, ever polite and considerate, even when crying.

"My point is, I don't just want to offer empty words of sympathy, and I'm not very good at saying anything in the first place – as evidenced by the shouting match earlier," confessed Quinn; she felt Rachel smile into her neck. "But I want to be here for you. I am here for you. I'm sorry I can't make you feel any better, or be more comforting, but… I'm trying. I want you to know that."

"I do know that, and I'm grateful. I'm really glad you're here, all appearances aside." Rachel's arms tightened around Quinn's waist. "I appreciate that I'm not alone in getting through this."

"You've never been alone," Quinn whispered, running her fingers through Rachel's hair.

"It felt like it for a while back then."

Intuitively, she knew what Rachel was talking about. It was confirmed when she continued: "I was still in shock, even when I arrived at the service and saw… it didn't feel real. I needed him to be there but he wasn't, and you weren't there either. Not when I needed the both of you."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are." Rachel took a few shuddering breaths. "It's still hard for me to get over." She withdrew, eyes downcast. "I'm sorry. I think I need to be alone for a while."

"… okay." Quinn got to her feet, and left the room.

Santana was waiting outside with a mug of coffee. "Yours is in the pot," she said, nodding at the coffeemaker on the kitchen counter, "I didn't want it to get cold."

"Thanks, S." She poured herself a generous portion, with plenty of milk and sugar, seating herself opposite Santana. "How are you?"

"Peachy," said Santana, "just peachy."

Quinn let it go. "Where's Kurt?"

"Sleeping in his room. I'm surprised he didn't wake up when you and Rachel were having that mudslinging match."

She pushed her fringe out of her eyes. "He must be exhausted. We all are."

"Yeah."

Quinn focused on her coffee. Santana would talk when she wanted to, and it was up to her to wait until then. That was how they worked.

"I can't believe this is real."

"You and me both."

Santana gave a short laugh. "It's fucked up. That's what it is."

"Do we know what happened…?"

"I don't," answered Santana. "Only Kurt and his parents know. Next of kin and all. Rachel, she… she didn't want to know." Her voice was strained, as though she was fighting to keep the emotion from it. "I didn't bother to ask."

"Okay."

Santana took a long sip. "How long will you be here?"

"I have a lecture on Monday morning I can't afford to miss, so… Sunday afternoon."

"Monday morning? That's criminal. Your professor is fucking evil."

Quinn smiled. "Yeah."

Santana looked back down at her coffee. "She's been like that ever since we got home from Lima," said, answering the unspoken question.

"… Santana, that was almost a week ago."

"I know," said Santana in exasperation, throwing her hands up, "believe me; I tried getting her up, kicking her ass into shape, but… you know Rachel."

"Yeah," said Quinn, sighing.

"I called you when I was getting desperate. Like, Kurt's practically comatose, but he's still somewhat functional, y'know? I love the midget – I'll kill you if you ever tell her that I said that – but I'm not her mother, or her keeper. And honestly… I don't know who else I can call." Santana shook her head. "Goddamn midget and her goddamn lack of friends."

"I don't know, S; she's got you, and me."

Santana snorted. "The best damn people."

"You know it." Quinn tapped her mug to Santana's. "The best damn bitches for this fucked-up situation."

She started to laugh. "Must be bad, if Quinn fucking Fabray is dropping swears like Big Sean. Lucy Caboosey, in her debut rap album. Classy, Q."

Quinn snorted. "Only you would turn an honest-to-God genuine moment into something crude." She stood up, and moved over to the fridge. "Would it kill you to admit you have feelings just once, Lopez?"

"Yeah, maybe." She frowned. "What're you doing? The gas oven is the other way, Sylvia Plath."

Quinn ignored her. She continued to pull out items from the fridge shelves, examining a shriveled onion and wincing. "My God. When was the last time any of you cooked?"

"Define cooked."

"Never mind." She shut the fridge door. "I'll need to buy more groceries later. I wasn't expecting things to be this bad."

"Take Streisand with you."

"Yeah, okay." She retrieved the grocery bags she'd brought into the loft from the counter, and started unpacking. "Do me a favour, will you? Get her up and changed?"

Santana scoffed. "I'll try," she said, and disappeared.

She had brought enough for one meal, and that was it. Quinn anticipated a long battle between Santana and Rachel, so she decided to start lunch first instead of later.

Cooking had never been a source of pleasure for her. She'd had a difficult relationship with food since young, and being a Cheerio had meant a strict diet. Her mother had ensured Quinn knew how to prepare fancy dishes for special occasions, but she had never learnt everyday cooking until starting college.

Quinn went about her meal preparation with a quiet resignation. If she knew Rachel as well as she thought she did – and there was a lot she'd seen – then she was fairly certain that she would end up eating this food. Rachel was stubborn and dramatic, but at her core Rachel was emotionally mature enough to know life had to go on.

"She's back in bed again," announced Santana. She sniffed the air, much like a hungry dog, and retreated to the living room.

"Thanks? I think."

Her skills were hardly up to the challenge of cooking vegan food. The butternut squash soup recipe she'd looked up online didn't have the texture that was promised, but it tasted good enough, and there was plenty of soup to last them. Quinn ladled a small portion into a bowl, completing the meal with a slice of brown bread.

"Smells decent." Santana called from her couch.

"Help yourself."

She squinted at the tray Quinn held. "What, that isn't for me? Cold, Fabray."

Quinn ignored her and walked over to Rachel's room. "Rachel?" she called. "Can I come in now?"

"Okay."

She was sitting up; a distinct improvement. Rachel was wearing an oversized pullover that had a penguin on the front, and sweatpants that looked like they could have come from Santana's closet. Her hair was up in a messy bun. "I made you lunch," said Quinn with forced cheerfulness, setting the tray on Rachel's nightstand. "Butternut squash soup. It's my first time cooking vegan food, I'm not sure if it's good."

Rachel's eyes moved from the unspecified point in the distance they were focused on, to briefly look at Quinn. "I'm sure it's fine." They drifted back. "Thank you, but I'm not hungry."

"Stop giving me that bullshit."

"I'm not hungry," repeated Rachel, a fraction louder. It still wasn't very loud.

"I don't care if you're hungry or not," snapped Quinn. "You're snapping out of that funk, and you're eating every bit on this tray."

"What are you going to do to me if I don't? Slushie me? Call me Manhands?"

Quinn looked away, blinking back the sudden, stinging tears.

"God, I… I'm sorry, Quinn. That was cruel, and uncalled for."

"I'll forgive you if you eat the damn soup," said Quinn, still blinking furiously.

Rachel was silent. Slowly, she took the tray from the nightstand and eased it over her knees. The spoon dipped into the bowl, and made a few circuits of the bowl before Rachel took a sip. She blinked. "Did you make this from scratch?" asked Rachel, eating another, sloppier, spoonful.

"Yes," said Quinn sniffily, "I brought some groceries with me. Santana warned me that this place has no food but it's worse than I thought; I don't know how the three of you are even alive."

"I have a binder filled with a comprehensive selection of takeout places, organized according to cuisine and proximity." Rachel ate the rest of her soup with more gusto under Quinn's watchful eye. She mopped the bowl with the last of her bread. "Your soup makes me wish I wasn't banned from touching the stove."

Quinn actually smiled at that. The warm soup had brought a touch of colour to Rachel's cheeks so that she didn't feel like she was talking to a corpse. "There's more if you want seconds."

She made a small noise. "Give me a minute, please. I don't really remember the last time I had anything to eat." Rachel leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.

"And whose fault is that?"

"Point taken," said Rachel. She opened her eyes. "Okay. I'm okay now."

Quinn slid off the bed and took the tray from Rachel. She stood, halfway out of the room, waiting patiently as Rachel let her legs dangle off the side first. Her hands rested on the edge, the muscles working; she got up, looking unsteady, and sighed. "You staring at me is incredibly unnerving."

"I thought you love having an audience," riposted Quinn. She pushed aside the curtain with the tray, waiting for Rachel to exit before her.

"Not when I walk like a zombie, and probably look like one to boot." She shuffled outside obediently.

Santana was still seated on the couch with her phone, and looked up when she heard their voices. "Berry, you're up – and you look like shit. Welcome back to the world of the living."

"Charming," was all Rachel said. She spotted the pot on the stove and walked towards it –

Quinn's hand rested on her arm. She pointed at the kitchen table. "Sit."

"I can do it myself," protested Rachel.

"No. Sit."

"Be a good girl and sit, Rach," called Santana, "that's Q's Head Cheerio voice. Disobey The Voice and you won't like what happens next."

She turned to Quinn. "You wouldn't…?"

Quinn arched an eyebrow.

"You would," muttered Rachel under her breath. "Fine." She pulled out a chair and sat, as indignant as a small child denied a promised treat.

Quinn ladled more soup into the bowl and set it back in front of Rachel. "S, want some?" she called.

"Oh, now you're offering? Bitch."

"I'll take that as a no." Rolling her eyes, Quinn poured herself a bowl and joined Rachel at the table. Rachel picked up her spoon and said: "I hope you'll leave a few gallons of frozen soup before going back to New Haven."

Quinn chuckled. There was something endearing about her friend trying not to look overly enthusiastic over a simple bowl of soup. "Rachel, it's made from the first vegan soup recipe I found on Google. It's really nothing special."

"Don't sell yourself short; you're talking to the person who managed to burn water." Rachel scraped some crusted soup from the sides of her bowl, adding: "I'm still better than Santana and Kurt, though."

"What's worse than burning water?"

She grinned. "Ask them about the noodle incident," said Rachel, just as Santana bellowed: "Don't you dare tell her about the noodle incident."

Quinn glanced between them. "... Right. Incidentally, how did you manage to burn water?"

"I tried to boil water for pasta and forgot about it."

Quinn arched an eyebrow. "Really, Rachel?"

"In my defence, the last time I tried to cook was in grade school when I tried to surprise my dads with breakfast in bed." She eyed the pot longingly; Quinn caught her looking, and took the empty bowl for a refill. "I'm much better at baking anyway. My trademark 'I'm Sorry' cookies have never failed to disappoint, and Finn said – "

Rachel cut herself off. The tense silence that descended brought a rapid change in all three of them; Santana's grip tightened on her phone, Quinn almost dropped the bowl, and Rachel stared off into space.

"Rachel…"

"I'm fine. I don't even know why I – I'm just being stupid." She hunched forward, elbows on the table. "It's been – three weeks? Almost a month, and I… I keep thinking it's not real."

Quinn slid into the seat beside Rachel, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, talking in low urgent tones. "Rachel, it's okay. You're allowed to deal with this in whatever way you need. We're here for you. I'm here for you. Don't think that you need to be strong or anything."

She lifted her face from her hands. "I'm not," said Rachel tonelessly. "I'm not putting on a brave face or anything. Quinn, you literally just coaxed me out of bed. It's just… " She looked down at the table. "It's just like any other day when I don't see him, but I know he's out there, a phone call or text away. Except it's not."

Even completely focused on Rachel, Quinn was vaguely aware of Santana quietly slipping into her room.

"I know," said Quinn. The last time she'd talked – really talked – to Finn was when they'd gone back to McKinley for Thanksgiving. He'd given her a ride home for old times' sake, asking her to come back for Regionals and Nationals.

It seemed unthinkable that this was their reality now, a world without Finn.

Rachel made an unintelligible noise, pressing her face into Quinn's collarbone. Her arms tightened around Rachel. "This is hard."

"No one said it was easy."

"Quoting Coldplay is not an acceptable response, Quinn Fabray." Nevertheless, Rachel wasn't bursting into tears, retreating into herself, or lapsing into a near-comatose state. Given how violently her emotional state had yo-yoed over the past hour, this was an improvement that gave Quinn hope.

Quinn cleared her throat. "There isn't any food in this loft," she said, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, "I'll need you go grocery shopping with me later."

Rachel frowned. "Me? Take Santana."

"Do you think I'd trust Santana with my food? All Snix jokes aside, Santana's the only person I know who was banned from Home Ec. classes throughout school."

"It's just groceries. How bad can it be?"

"Famous last words, Rachel."

She sighed. "Fine. I suppose I have no say in this matter."

"Damn right you don't," interjected Santana, emerging from her room with impeccable timing that only could have been achieved if she had been eavesdropping the entire time. Quinn admired her friend's restraint – which was remarkable for Santana. "You look like you could use some fresh air – at least, as good as it gets here in the big city."

"That's enough, S." Turning to Rachel, Quinn squeezed her hand to get her attention and said: "Go wait on the couch. I'll clean up here."

Rachel put up no protest – not even a glare sent Santana's way – and sat on the couch obediently.

"Good girl," said Santana.

"Your restraint is commendable," said Quinn dryly.

Santana snorted. "As is your generous praise."

"Pot, kettle."

"Fuck you."

Quinn laughed at her. "Been there, done that. Never again," she added in lower tones, after a cautious glance at Rachel to check if she was listening.

Rachel led the way to the grocery store, since Quinn was unfamiliar with their neighbourhood. "Full disclaimer; the last time I was here was when I bought food for our Thanksgiving," she said, walking into the little corner store.

Quinn eyed her.

"Yes, that's when I learned that I can burn water," added Rachel sheepishly. "I didn't poison anybody; Kurt made me ask Brody to come over and cook everything."

"That's a relief." Quinn wasn't keen on talking about Brody Weston, given that he was the guy responsible for Rachel's pregnancy scare. "Thanksgiving food is a little difficult for a complete beginner, though, so I don't really blame you." Her eye was immediately drawn to a stack of boxes at the front of the store. "Maybe we can start small."

Rachel followed her, eyeing the box in Quinn's hand nervously. "We?"

"It's about time you guys learned how to cook simple things. It's only your first year, there's three more years of college to go. Takeout is expensive, isn't it?"

Rachel nodded, looking sheepish. "I had to switch to vegetarianism."

"There you go." She handed Rachel the box. "I think mac and cheese should be straightforward enough."

"Quinn!" exclaimed Rachel in dismay. "You can't be serious! This is all artificial colouring and preservatives!"

"Baby steps, Rachel." Quinn grabbed a cart from the corner of the store and set off down the aisle. "It's okay if you don't want to eat that, we'll feed it to Santana."

She was gratified to hear Rachel chuckle, and then the quickening of footsteps behind her. "When you put it that way, it's hard to turn down."

"Told ya." Quinn snagged a box of alphabet pasta off the shelf and handed it to Rachel. "I'm thinking alphabet soup for dinner tonight."

"Quinn, you and I both know that Santana will spell out obscenities all over her bowl."

"So? At least it's just words. It's better than her drawing penises with any other pasta shape we might buy, and it'll keep her quiet."

Rachel dropped the box into their cart. "Good point. Is it bad that I don't find treating our high school friend like a foul-mouthed toddler disturbing in the slightest?"

Quinn shrugged, and pushed the cart in the direction of the fresh produce section. It was considerably less smooth-sailing, what with the discrepancies in what Rachel and Quinn considered 'healthy'.

"Quinn, what's wrong with this broccoli?" She held up the head. "It's organic, and it's fresh. Look, it was brought in yesterday. Yesterday, Quinn."

"We're not paying six bucks for a measly head of broccoli," exclaimed Quinn indignantly. "The regular broccoli tastes the same, and it's twice as big for a fraction of the price."

"Your body will thank me."

"Right now, it's my stomach and wallet thanking me. We're all dying eventually, Rachel." She regretted the words almost instantly after they'd left her mouth, biting her lip when she caught the shimmer of fresh tears in Rachel's eyes.

"Well… yes. I suppose that's true." Rachel sighed, leaving the organic broccoli back on its shelf. "I never had to argue about any of this with Finn. We'd simply split up upon entering the store, and reconvene at the checkout."

"Since when did you and Finn go grocery shopping?" Rachel talking about Finn without crying, decided Quinn, was good. It was healthy. She definitely wanted Rachel to keep talking for as long as she could.

"I was at his house so often – half the time I was there for Kurt, don't look at me like that, Quinn Fabray – that his mom would ask us to run errands. He always volunteered to go grocery shopping because he liked having control over the snack foods in the house."

While Rachel talked, Quinn slipped the regular broccoli into the cart. She appeared not to notice. "You know, that sounds exactly like something Finn would do."

"Right? Oh, not to mention that Kurt was slipping him five bucks to conveniently forget the BBQ pork rinds his dad was always asking him to buy, and to remember to get his aged Gouda." She stared into the middle distance, a wistful smile on her lips. "In senior year, I remember thinking Finn was the best boyfriend because he'd always have a pint of my vegan peanut butter swirl ice cream in stock, but it was really because he also liked it and didn't want anyone to know. He told Kurt it was for me."

Quinn reached out to squeeze her hand. After a long moment, Rachel squeezed back.

"Sorry. I was… I'd almost forgotten that."

"It's okay." Quinn had guided them away from the fresh produce by this point. She glanced at the contents of the cart. "Let's see… vegetables, pasta, rice. Cooking oil, condiments… what else? Oh, yeah." She swung the cart in the direction of the meat section, and Rachel groaned. Much to Quinn's surprise, however, she did nothing else.

"I thought there would be some form of organized protest against our being here," said Quinn as she examined a package of ground beef. "Picket signs, petitions, chaining yourself to meat hooks…"

"Kurt and Santana support the consumption of animal cruelty," said Rachel, glaring balefully as Quinn put the package in the cart. "While I am fully committed to my beliefs, I understand that veganism is a choice that others must make for themselves."

"What did you do?"

"... I may or may not have replaced all the meat in the fridge with carrot and celery sticks without their knowledge or consent.." Rachel winced as Quinn stacked pack after pack of bacon in the cart.

"And you're still alive, how?"

"Presumably because the chore of disposing of my body was too much for her." Rachel glanced at the cart, and sighed. "Are we quite done here?"

"Yes, we are." Quinn steered the cart away, smiling at Rachel's sigh of relief. "We still have a few more things to get, though."

"As long as it's not dead animal flesh."

"Processed dead animal flesh?"

"Quinn!"

She chuckled. If, six years ago, someone had told Quinn that she'd be grocery shopping with Rachel Berry, she would have had a conniption. And yet, she was not only grocery shopping with Rachel Berry, but also enjoying herself immensely. There was a simple pleasure in grocery shopping with a friend, as opposed to the supply runs she was accustomed to in New Haven – and definitely opposed to the irregular takeout meals she had been subsisting on since she heard about Finn.

Quinn hadn't felt like taking care of herself, but when there were her friends to consider…

The simple errand seemed to be doing Rachel good as well; she was smiling and talking more, her thoughts focused on her surroundings rather than on her loss.

Rachel yanked the pack of sugar cookies out of the cart. "Quinn, you cannot be serious," she said. "Those are just empty calories. As a cheerleading National champion, I'm certain you know this."

She whisked the package out of Rachel's hand and back in. "And as a cheerleading National champion, this is one of the treats we were forbidden from eating for many long years. I know exactly what I'm doing." Narrowing her eyes, Quinn added: "Touch the cookies again, Rach, and I will tell Santana exactly why we didn't buy them like she asked."

Rachel withdrew her hand quickly. "You didn't say they were for Santana."

Quinn waited until they had paid at the cashier before saying: "Yeah, because they aren't. I lied."

Rachel's mouth fell open. "Quinn Fabray! If you had wanted the cookies, you could have just said so. There was no need to resort to such underhanded methods."

"If I said they were for me, you'd have lectured me to within an inch of my life."

"Because you, unlike Santana, can be counted on to at least reconsider!" Rachel scowled heartily at the package. "In any case, if you had told me you want cookies, I'd be happy to bake them for you, Quinn. At the very least I'd feel better knowing the provenance of the ingredients. I can easily make you a low-calorie and organic variation and I'll bet you wouldn't be able to taste the difference."

Quinn laughed. "I'll gladly take you up on that offer."

In this manner, the friendly bickering went back and forth until they arrived back at the loft. Santana smirked at them when they breezed in without looking at her and made a beeline for the kitchen counter. "So, Martha Stewart and Guy Fieri," she quipped, grinning when she received identical glares from Quinn and Rachel, "what's cooking tonight?"

"Vegan alphabet soup," said Rachel, still glaring fiercely.

"You're shitting me."

"Certainly not."

Santana turned to Quinn. "She's shitting me, isn't she? She's not allowed to touch the stove."

"Maybe I want vegan alphabet soup too," said Quinn, "I've been eating a lot of junk food recently." She returned Rachel's conspiratorial smile.

Santana made gagging noises.

"What on earth is that sound?" came a voice. Kurt emerged from his room, looking pale and peaky, frowning at them.

"Hi, Kurt," said Quinn, kissing his cheek. "I'm so sorry."

"Thanks for coming. It's good to see you." Kurt eyed Rachel, who was now quietly bickering with Santana over the groceries. "It's even better to see her up and about. You're a miracle-worker, Quinn Fabray."

"I honestly don't know what I did."

Kurt smiled. "You're you. That's all there is to it." Raising his voice, he added: "Rachel, as lovely as it is to hear you rant about animal cruelty, you're banned from cooking and thus you should let Quinn cook."

"I'm not ranting," she muttered.

"Rachel, help me chop up vegetables," said Quinn. To Kurt, she said: "We're having vegan alphabet soup tonight."

Santana paled. "Really? It's not just a joke? Isn't that from a can…?"

"Normally, yes, but I was thinking we could make it from scratch – the soup has to be vegetarian, you guys can order takeout if you want meat." The last was directed at a scowling Santana. She could see Kurt's eyes go from the soft, grateful expression on Rachel's face, to Santana, and then rest on her for uncomfortably long seconds. Quinn deliberately ignored him.

Quinn breathed a soft sigh of relief when he asked Santana, "Do you want Mexican or Chinese? I'm okay with either one." He sent her a significant glance as he went to get the takeout menus – meaning that she would have to answer to him later – but for now, Quinn felt relieved.

Rachel looked too excited for something as mundane as cooking. "Which vegetables do you need? This is rather exciting; I wasn't aware vegan alphabet soup is something that can be easily prepared from scratch."

"It's just soup, Rachel," said Quinn, fighting back the smile that threatened to show. "How good are you with a knife?"

"I am rather proficient. After all, I'm only banned from the stove."

"Okay. Then chop up the onions and celery finely." Quinn set out the vegetables they needed before pulling out another board for herself. "I'll do the rest."

"Q-ball," yelled Santana, "do you want to share beef quesadillas with us?"

Quinn considered it, looking between her friends on the couch, and Rachel. "Nah, I'm good," she called back. This time, when Rachel beamed at her, she didn't bother hiding her smile.

"Your loss," said Santana, effectively ruining whatever bonding moment that had transpired.

The plan had been for Quinn to share Santana's bed (the couch was strictly off-limits, according to an adamant and still-guilty-sounding Rachel). After the events of the day, Quinn was exhausted; she was showered, changed, and in bed by eleven.

"We are so fucking old," said Santana, also in sleepwear. Quinn smiled.

"We can always party another time."

"Count on it." She got into bed and curled up on her side, engrossed by her phone.

Quinn awoke with a start. She'd been dreaming; there was an ocean, and there was Puck, and Finn. The moon on water, and a little girl that called her Mommy. She rubbed at her face as though she could scrub the memory away.

When she padded out to get a drink of water, she heard noises coming from Rachel's room. Quinn hesitated a moment before going in.

Rachel was curled up tightly, whimpering in her sleep. Quinn took hold of her shoulder.

"Rachel. Rachel, wake up."

It took a while for Rachel to wake, but eventually Quinn heard a soft, "Quinn?"

"It's me," she said, "you were having a nightmare."

Rachel sat up. "It wasn't a nightmare."

Quinn sighed. "It sounded like one. Are you okay?"

"Yes. Thank you." Rachel's voice sounded heavy with tears.

"No problem." She made to leave, but was stopped when a hand caught the hem of her shirt.

"Quinn…"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think… I don't want to be alone." Her voice was subdued, almost shy; Rachel sounded nothing like the Rachel she knew. It tugged at Quinn's heart. "If you don't mind."

"I don't," assured Quinn, smiling even though it was dark, and she was certain Rachel couldn't see it. "Here. Lie down."

"Thank you," she whispered, scooting over. Quinn found the covers and climbed in, settling down with a sigh.

"It's okay. Do you think you can sleep now?"

"Yeah. Definitely."

Quinn shifted a bit. "God, your bed's so comfortable."

A soft giggle. "My dads bought me a Tempurpedic mattress as a graduation present."

"That explains it." Even in the gloom, she could vaguely make out that Rachel was on her side, facing her. "I'm moving here permanently."

"... I would really appreciate it if you did," confessed Rachel, voice suddenly shy. "Sometimes the bed feels a little big for me alone. It's weird, given that I've been sleeping alone in a queen size practically my whole life, but… yeah."

"It's not weird. Really."

"I'm glad you think so, Quinn."

Quinn chuckled. "Good night."

"Good night."

She woke suddenly again, but this time it was bright outside, and her dreams had been considerably more pleasant; Quinn didn't usually remember her dreams, but she retained the sense of warm contentment and comfort.

That warmth didn't dissipate on waking, because Rachel was draped over her.

Rachel was still curled up, but she was curled into Quinn, body much more relaxed, hands loosely gripping the front of Quinn's shirt. Quinn gently eased herself from under Rachel, careful not to wake her; she smiled when Rachel let out a huff and grabbed Quinn's pillow, still soundly asleep.

Santana spat out the mouthful of foam she'd had when Quinn entered the bathroom. "Oh, there you are, Q," she said, "had a good night out?"

"Perfect, thank you for asking," replied Quinn dryly, squeezing a blob of toothpaste onto her toothbrush.

She got a raucous cackle in response.

When Rachel appeared in the kitchen, Quinn greeted her with a smile and a plate of toast. "How about stir-fry for a late brunch?" she asked.

"Sounds good."

She turned to Santana. "And yes, we can have meat."

"Goody gumdrops," said Santana dryly.

Quinn ignored her. "Want to help me cook?" she asked Rachel, who visibly lit up.

"Cook? Really? Or did you mean preparing the ingredients?"

"I'm sure you'll be fine with a simple stir-fry," replied Quinn, to which Santana snorted.

"What did I miss?" Kurt showed up and received his own plate of toast.

"Q-ball's letting Rachel use the stove."

Kurt's eyes widened in horror, and he almost dropped his butter knife.

"Oh, my god, guys," said Quinn, rolling her eyes, Rachel's not using it unsupervised; besides, she's vegetarian. She has to learn to cook for herself, otherwise she's going to end up eating nothing but takeout."

"There're always instant meals," said Santana. Rachel bristled.

"This can only end in disaster," predicted Kurt gloomily. He disappeared back into his room to call Blaine.

"I'll have the fire department on speed dial, in case anyone wanted to know," said Santana, following him out of the kitchen. "Maybe they'll send those guys from the naked firefighter calendars. The fire won't be the hottest thing in this apartment, if you catch my drift."

Quinn shook her head. "Ignore them," she said, tugging on Rachel's arm, "you've used a wok before, right?"

"I know how to make scrambled eggs," said Rachel. "I made them for breakfast for my dads in grade school."

"Were they good?"

Rachel blushed. "Daddy said they were the best eggs he'd ever eaten," she muttered.

"... I'll take that as a solid maybe." Quinn handed her a handful of carrots to julienne, setting a pot of water to boil before retreating to a discreet corner of the kitchen to slice the chicken. For about ten minutes, there was no sound but the water bubbling and the rhythmic thok of knives on the chopping boards.

"Quinn?"

"Mmmm?"

"Do you mind if I put on some music?"

Quinn tried not to let the smile overtake her face. "Sure."

Rachel fiddled with her phone and set it on a shelf. What was unmistakably the soundtrack of a musical started to play. "Thanks."

"It's okay." Quinn started to mince the garlic. "What musical is this from?"

"Wicked. Have you heard of it?"

"Vaguely," said Quinn. "It's a retelling of The Wizard of Oz, isn't it?" and tried not to smile when Rachel's eyes lit up.

"Yes, but it's so much more than that!" Rachel waved her knife around in her excitement; as a result, a slice of carrot attempted to defy gravity. Quinn went to pick it up. "It's about friendship, first and foremost. The music is gorgeous, though; it was composed by Stephen Schwartz, the guy who also did Pippin."

Quinn let her prattle. It was comforting and familiar to see Rachel in her element, animated as she talked about her music; she eased the knife out of Rachel's hand before she could use it to make some other gesture and lose more of their lunch, finishing up the carrots and adding them to the pile of ingredients. "Okay. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I think we're about done. We can start frying now."

"Oh. That was quick."

"Stir-fry is pretty simple." Quinn grabbed a spatula from its drawer, pouring some oil into the wok and swirling it around. "Just make sure the aromatics go in first, then the vegetables, and finally the carbs. Here, watch me. You just need to keep everything moving so it doesn't stick and burn." As she talked, Quinn stirred the garlic and onions. "When the aromatics start to get fragrant, that's usually a good time to put the next thing in."

Rachel repeated the instructions quietly, adopting a determined expression as she stared at the wok.

"Everything cooks really fast, so it's best to keep all your seasonings and ingredients on hand." Quinn poured a little soy sauce in; Rachel squeaked when the wok hissed. She added a handful of noodles, tossed everything over a few more times, and then ladled it out onto a plate.

"It smells heavenly," said Rachel, already grabbing a pair of chopsticks to sample it. "And it tastes delicious – " She cut herself off, freezing mid-chew. "Wait. Is there any meat in this?"

Quinn laughed aloud at the comical stricken look of horror on Rachel's face. "Rachel, you watched me cook that. I didn't put any meat in it."

"Oh, right." She continued to chew. "This is amazing, Quinn. I had no idea you were this talented. And don't try to pass this off as just being a simple dish," she added sternly, "cooking is far more than just throwing ingredients together."

Quinn flushed, in spite of herself. "Well, thank you. And now, if you haven't eaten all of mine, I think it's time you started cooking your own stir-fry."

Rachel blanched.

"It'll be fine," coaxed Quinn. She pressed the spatula into Rachel's hand. "Here – pour in the oil."

Visibly steeling herself, Rachel added oil – drop by drop until Quinn's fingers closed over Rachel's wordlessly and helped her pour an appropriate amount of oil. "Let the oil heat up before you add the garlic and onions," Quinn reminded her.

The aromatics went in without little fuss – helped with a nod from Quinn – as did the vegetables. Rachel squealed a little when the water from the vegetables caused the oil to jump, but otherwise kept her head, handling the wok like she'd seen Quinn do.

Quinn beamed when Rachel scooped the food onto a plate. "There. Now that looks amazing – it wasn't so hard, was it?"

Kurt came out of his room, grabbing Santana's arm theatrically. "Look – our kitchen is intact."

"Ha ha," said Rachel, putting cutlery on the table.

"Mmm," said Santana, popping a forkful of food into her mouth. "This isn't bad at all."

Rachel gasped. "That's mine!"

"Too bad. I was touching it for five seconds more than you, so… five second rule. Mine now."

"That is so not how that works…"

Quinn elbowed Santana hard and grabbed the plate. "Cook your own, Lopez."

The rest of the day passed in a quiet lull. Rachel had gone to bed earlier, citing fatigue; Quinn let her go because she had done most of the cooking and eaten a decent amount of it to boot, garnering even Santana's approval. Before she'd disappeared, there was a stilted conversation:

"Quinn?"

"Yeah, Rachel?"

"I was wondering… last night, if it was just… "

Quinn waited patiently.

"... Would you mind if you shared my bed again tonight?" Once the important words were out, the rest came out as a jumbled mess: "I'd understand if you didn't feel comfortable because I know I'm a clingy sleeper with no concept of personal space, and I'm glad that you even agreed to share last night…"

"Rachel," she interrupted, "it's fine. I don't mind sharing your bed. Besides, you're a much better sleeper than Santana."

Rachel smiled shyly. "Okay. I, um, sorry for all that word vomit." And she'd excused herself, leaving a bemused Quinn.

Santana shrugged. "So, you're not sleeping with me tonight?"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Yeah. Don't miss me too much."

Santana cackled. "I won't, believe me. Now I gots all the private time with Mr. Big."

"I can't decide which is more disgusting; your oversharing, or the fact you named your dildo Mr. Big." Quinn turned to Kurt. "I still don't know how you and Rachel put up with her."

"It's either tolerate Satan or suffer Snix," he said, shrugging. Quinn nodded along, only because she knew it would piss Santana off.

She wasn't disappointed. "I was gonna offer to share Mr. Big, but you know what? Fuck you both – not with Mr. Big. Your losses."

"Oh damn," said Kurt lazily. "There's a void inside of me that will never be filled now." The expression on his face made Quinn snort.

By the time Quinn slid into bed, it was late. She'd set her alarm for her usual wake-up time, but she doubted she'd be up by then.

Quinn lay on her back, hands folded on her stomach. It was the most comfortable sleeping position since the accident, though admittedly her back hadn't been giving her much problems of late. Idly, she wondered if her scholarship would cover the cost of a Tempurpedic mattress if she filed it as 'living costs'...

The person in bed with her shifted for the third time in so many minutes, and Quinn turned her head towards her.

"Rachel? Are you awake?"

The rustling ceased abruptly. After a pause, she heard a small sheepish, "Yes. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Can't sleep?"

"Not really. I don't understand it myself; I'm tired, but I can't seem to fall asleep." She punctuated it with a yawn.

"It happens. Can I do anything for you?"

"No, but thank you for offering." Quinn could have sworn Rachel was blushing. "You must be tired. I'll try not to disturb you. Good night, Quinn."

"Good night." She closed her eyes. Her thoughts started to wander, through school and Yale and life. Being here, in Rachel Berry's bed, after spending the entire day with Rachel. More than once, the incongruity – and how could she have ever thought she'd be contented with spending her life in Lima, when she was using words like incongruity – of how her life had turned out struck her.

To be fair, to a pregnant and homeless Quinn Fabray at sixteen, the future had seemed pretty bleak. It was no wonder she had desperately clung to anyone that could have made it better.

She had never really apologised to Finn for lying. So much of her life, the people she'd hurt, had been glossed over with a thin veneer of trust that she knew would break the next time she needed help. There was so much she wanted to say to him, if only she had the chance.

But no one could have ever predicted this turn of events. No one would have expected that something like that would happen to decent, sweet Finn Hudson; and that lying, cheating Quinn Fabray would get everything and more.

"Quinn? Are you okay?"

She hadn't realised she'd been crying until Rachel's tentative question broke her reverie, and she became aware of the damp spots on her pillow. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry."

"You have nothing to apologise for." Rachel shuffled closer, and then there was a tentative hand resting on her arm. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," said Rachel, taking her reticence in her stride, "did you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"That's okay too." Rachel's hand slid down her upper arm, found her fingers, and squeezed. "I'm here whenever you're ready."

"Thanks."

"... Quinn?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind if I… touched you?"

"Not inappropriately, I hope," said Quinn, amused despite herself. Her amusement grew when Rachel, sounding flustered, immediately stammered: "N-no! Of course not, I – I apologise, that sounded incredibly creepy and vague. I simply meant to ask if you would be okay if I continued holding your hand like this, or would you be amenable to another form of physical comfort."

"I thought NYADA had toned down your vocabulary somewhat, but it seems that it comes back in full force when you're nervous."

"Astutely spotted," said Rachel with a huff.

Quinn squeezed Rachel's fingers in a gesture of apology. "I wasn't making fun of you. It was just something I noticed. It's rather… endearing, actually."

"While I appreciate the compliment, I can't help but to notice that you seem to think that it would distract me from noticing you haven't answered my question."

"Uhh…"

Rachel sighed; Quinn could feel the soft rush of warm air. "It's okay, Quinn. I'm sorry for pushing you for an answer. You don't have to, if you don't want – "

"I do," she blurted. "I'm just – if you haven't already noticed, Rachel, I'm not exactly the best at expressing myself."

"True," said Rachel with a giggle.

Quinn squeezed her hand. "Like this is fine," she said softly.

"Okay."

It was probably a side effect of having known Rachel for so many years, but Quinn sensed that she was holding back.

For now… she was content to leave it at that.

"Thank you," whispered Quinn.

Rachel's only response was to start stroking her thumb over the back of Quinn's hand.

Sometime in the night, they had switched positions; Quinn curled up into Rachel's side, an arm flung over Rachel's middle.

Quinn woke briefly to register it. The last thing she remembered was Rachel holding her hand. In her half-asleep, unguarded state, holding Rachel was infinitely preferable to that – though Quinn would never admit it in her normal frame of mind.

She tucked her face closer, falling back asleep to the soft snoring coming from Rachel.

Thankfully for Quinn's normal frame of mind, she woke the next morning to find Rachel draped over her, already awake and sheepish-looking. Her cheeks flushed crimson when she realised Quinn was awake. "I'm sorry," she said, disentangling her arms from Quinn's waist, "I only just woke, and I was figuring out how to stop encroaching on your personal space before you woke up."

"It's okay, Rachel. I really don't mind."

"You might not mind, but I'm fairly certain you, like anyone else, would prefer not to have their space violated, unknowingly or not."

Quinn laughed. Ridiculous Rachel, once annoying but now amusing, was in full force. "Seriously. I'm okay. And I'm not… I like it."

The words sounded incredibly lame, and she regretted it the instant they came out from her mouth. Now it was Rachel's turn to stare while Quinn blushed and fumbled.

"... well, in any case, I'm glad my nighttime conduct hasn't ruined your opinion of me," replied Rachel.

It was clear Rachel wasn't intending to be completely serious – judging by the half-smile she wore – but Quinn laughed in relief, grateful for the save. "No, but your snoring might have," she teased.

Rachel's jaw dropped. "Quinn Fabray! You take that back, I do not snore!"

"Oh? Then it wasn't a small herd of elephants I heard last night passing through?"

"Quinn!"

Laughing, she excused herself to the bathroom to wash up.

"Ah, young love."

The smile was quickly replaced by a scowl. Either Santana had impeccable timing, or hers was shit. "Shut up."

"I'm just stating a fact. Y'know, like it's a fact that you enjoy sleeping with Rachel," remarked Santana as Quinn bustled about, trying to complete her morning routine at breakneck speed. "Way more than with me, every sense of the word intended."

"I don't have time for this," said Quinn. "I have a train to catch."

Santana sighed. "Look, I'm going to say this only once, so listen up."

Quinn did.

"I'm sorry. I know I'm a bitch sometimes – "

"Most of the time," said Quinn.

"– most of the time," Santana corrected herself. "But you're good for her. She's most like herself when she's around you. And you're less of a cold bitch when she's around, too."

Quinn rolled her eyes.

"You're on shaky ground, Q. You have the power to really break her for good. I don't really care about Berry, but I share a living space with her, and it behooves me to tell you to be careful."

There was at least one lie in Santana's little speech – after all, Santana had been the one to ask her to come to New York in the first place and not Kurt – but Quinn didn't remark on it. "Behooves? You must not care about Rachel at all."

Santana's smile was tinged with relief; every part of her message had gone through, from one repressed and acidic bitch to another. "Don't be smug, it's not a good look on you. Glad we could have this little chat, but you have a train to catch, don't you?"

"Quinn!" exclaimed a panicked-sounding Rachel from outside, clearly having realised the same thing.

Quinn sighed.

After a hurried breakfast in which Quinn was plied with burritos made from leftovers ("You don't have to eat now, they're for later in the train") and non-stop fussing from Rachel. "You've got your purse? All your things?" she asked for the eighty-fifth time.

"Yes, Rachel," responded Quinn tiredly.

"Oh my god. She's not leaving the damned country, Berry. Anyway, if she's left anything behind, it's the perfect excuse for her to come back, right?"

Rachel glared at her. Santana stared back, prompting Kurt to dig a few notes out of his wallet – it took him a while because he was carrying Quinn's bag (under duress from Rachel) – and throw it at them. "You two are animals without your morning caffeine dose. Here. Go. Caffeinate."

Santana snatched the money with a lightning quickness that almost seemed like she'd anticipated his offer. "Americano with half a pack of sugar?" she asked Rachel, who nodded back, smirking.

Kurt's mouth dropped open. "My god. You two totally planned that."

"We'd be foolish to turn down free coffee, regardless of its provenance," said Rachel very matter-of-factly, linking arms with an amused Quinn.

Kurt met Quinn's eye; when she mouthed I'll pay you back, he simply shrugged, smiling a little.

Santana returned with three steaming cups. "No coffee for you, Tubbers; I'll bet Mr. Big that Berry packed you a nice Thermos of coffee in your bag, along with your lunch money and a note for the teacher."

"It's tea, not coffee," said Rachel sharply. "And isn't that the name of your dildo?"

"We're here," cut in Quinn before they could start another round of bickering; they already had the attention of a full quarter of the people around them (which was a significant amount since they were in Grand Central).

Kurt and Santana exchanged looks. "I'm gonna go check the platform," said Santana.

"I'll go with you."

They both disappeared. Quinn sighed.

"We're friends, aren't we?"

"Rachel, I just spent an entire weekend with you." She really wasn't in the mood for melodrama, given how close she was to losing control of her own emotions.

"Before Finn… we barely exchanged a few words for months after high school, not counting those emergencies," said Rachel. By this point, she had pulled her face from Quinn's neck. "After we'd promised to stay in touch."

"Well, are you going to lose contact with me?"

"No!"

"Neither am I. Friendship goes both ways, Rachel. We'll keep in touch."

She nodded fiercely.

"Speaking of which, I have something for you."

Rachel frowned. "You didn't need to…"

"Actually, I kinda did." Her heart hammered in her chest as she fumbled for the crisp white envelope in her handbag, and handed it to Rachel.

Still frowning, Rachel tore open the envelope and slid out its contents.

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Quinn," she said, looking up from the rail pass, "you shouldn't have."

"You asked me if we are friends, Rachel," said Quinn, hurt. "Distance shouldn't be an excuse, not when we live a train ride away – " She was cut off by the gentle pressure of Rachel's hand on hers.

"I meant, you really shouldn't have." Sheepishly, Rachel pulled an identical envelope from her purse.

Quinn chuckled softly. "We're quite a pair, aren't we?"

"No comment." Rachel handed Quinn her envelope, and slipped Quinn's into her purse. "I'm sorry for saying those things. You're right. It goes both ways, and you've more than done your share in keeping this friendship alive – and this lack of communication is a clear sign of that."

"Hey, Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez," yelled Santana, rudely interrupting them, "stop making out and get over here."

Rachel scowled. "Honestly, Santana; must you always be this crass? Also, I'm assuming I'm Selena?"

She cackled. "What do you think, Berry? I like to keep things real. That's how I roll. Anyway, I think that's your train over there, Q."

Quinn checked, hating that Santana was right. "Yeah, it is."

"I miss you already," muttered Rachel. She rested her head against Quinn's shoulder.

"So come down to New Haven for the next long weekend," said Quinn, instantly regretting it when Rachel's eyes lit up. She glanced over at Santana, who only cackled.

"Oh! We'll have to coordinate; I'm not sure what Yale's semester dates are. Or maybe we could meet up and – hey!"

"Let the woman breathe, Berry Noisy," said Santana. She'd grabbed Rachel by the edge of her coat, dragging the girl away from Quinn. "You'd think you're sending your girlfriend off to war, the way you carry on."

Rachel spluttered. Quinn's reaction was more controlled, but no less violent.

The announcement over the speakers overhead informing them of Quinn's train's imminent departure saved Santana from whatever wrath they had in store for her. Rachel went from indignant rage to subdued glances instantly.

"Bye, guys," said Quinn. She took her bag from Kurt with a smile and a one-armed hug. Nodding to Santana, she crossed the ticket gantry without looking back, and made it to her seat with seconds to spare. As the train pulled out of the station, the last thing Quinn saw was a frantically-waving Rachel.

Quinn texted Rachel the minute she reached her dorm room, dropping her bag on her bed.

"Oh, you're back. Hey," said her roommate Elaine, looking up from her phone. "It's good to see you."

"Hey. Good to see you too." She returned the one-armed hug, eyes still glued to her phone; Rachel was still typing a response.

Elaine chuckled. "You know how to make a girl feel so loved, Fabray."

Quinn tore her eyes from the phone screen guiltily. "Sorry."

"It's good. Who're you texting? Rachel?"

"Yeah."

Elaine chuckled again. "Go figure."

Quinn frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

But the other girl had already left the room. The ping of Quinn's phone quickly pulled her thoughts away from her roommate, and towards replying Rachel.

Rachel arrived on a Friday afternoon a few weeks later, despite Quinn's objections. They had planned to return to Lima for Christmas the following week and she didn't think it made sense for Rachel to be traveling back and forth unnecessarily.

"It's fine, Quinn," Rachel had said, "I'll take any opportunity to see you, and it doesn't cost me anything."

Quinn, as always, was helpless to argue in the face of Rachel's determination.

Quinn was waiting for her when she came out of the ticket barrier, a warm smile on her face. "Hi, Rachel," she said, opening her arms for a hug.

Rachel didn't hesitate. She flung herself at her friend, laughing joyfully as Quinn grunted. "Oh my god, it's so good to see you, Quinn! Skype simply isn't the same." She withdrew, a hand lingering on Quinn's arm.

"It's nice to see you too, Rach; though the running tackle is something I could have done without." Quinn smiled privately when she saw how widely Rachel beamed when she called her 'Rach'. It was something that had started spontaneously over Skype sessions, and Quinn loved how happy it seemed to make Rachel.

"Don't exaggerate, Quinn. You love my Rachel Berry hugs; how else am I to convey how much I've missed you?" The smile turned into a scowl when Quinn attempted to reach for her bag; Rachel swatted Quinn away. "It's not heavy, you don't need to take that."

"You're my guest," said Quinn, leading the way to the station exit.

"And I'm not an invalid, despite whatever Santana may have insinuated about my physical capabilities."

"Sure you aren't. But you are my guest, and so I'm allowed to carry your bag for you."

There wasn't much planned for that day; Quinn had assumed (correctly) that Rachel would be tired after her journey, and the short winter day meant that little sightseeing could be done. They returned to Quinn's room after a leisurely dinner, stopping by a local coffee shop along the way, and got ready for an early night.

Rachel was already curled up in bed, facing the wall, when Quinn emerged from the bathroom. She climbed under the covers as quietly as she could manage so as not to disturb her.

Once she'd settled in, Rachel rolled over. "Hey," she whispered.

"Hey. I thought you were already asleep."

She smiled sheepishly. "I was trying to, but no luck. I feel wide-awake for some reason."

"I see." Even in the gloom, Quinn could see the glassy sheen to Rachel's eyes. She sighed. "Are you okay? Be honest."

Rachel sighed. "Nothing gets past you."

"No, I'm just amazing that way," said Quinn, deadpan; the corners of her mouth twitching when Rachel smiled. "Talk to me, Rach."

There was a moment of hesitation, before Rachel shifted closer; close enough that Quinn could smell the fragrance of her shampoo. "I miss him."

"Rachel."

"I feel like I have all these feelings inside, and they need to get out; but there's nothing that hasn't been already said, and I feel like I'd bore whoever I talk to."

"You're not boring me," replied Quinn. "I'm here for you."

"Who have you been talking to?"

"Huh?"

"I know you've been here for me, but who have you been talking to, Quinn?" Rachel's voice took on a strained edge. "You haven't been bottling everything up, have you?"

Quinn stayed silent. She knew it said more than her words could.

"Oh, Quinn."

"You know I'm not good with difficult emotions."

She felt fingers brush hers, then Rachel slipped her hand into Quinn's. "I do," she said.

She felt exhausted. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I know."

Rachel's quiet acceptance unlocked a floodgate deep within Quinn. The weight of emotions finally, finally being released caused tears to form in Quinn's eyes; she was only distantly aware of Rachel shushing her, of arms gathering her close.

"I'm supposed to be here for you," she managed through broken sobs.

"And you are," replied Rachel quietly. The hand brushing through Quinn's hair never paused.

"This isn't me being here for you."

"Yes, it is – Quinn, it's perfectly possible for us to support each other through this, don't you see? I know you're trying to be strong, but even you need to let someone take care of you." Rachel squeezed her shoulder. "You know you never need to prove anything to me."

"I feel like I don't know anything anymore," admitted Quinn.

"And that's fine too."

A snort escaped Quinn before she could stop it. "What's not okay, then?"

"You slapping me, maybe?"

"Not funny, Rachel."

"You're right," she agreed amicably, "it's not funny."

There was something warm and soft resting under Quinn's hand; her hand flexed experimentally, and she found it to be Rachel's shirt.

Rachel fidgeted under the movement. "Are you comfortable?" she asked.

"Very," said Quinn, and felt Rachel chuckle.

"That's good."

They didn't talk about their conversation last night. Quinn had been so certain that Rachel – being Rachel – would subtly and unsubtly nudge her towards talking about it.

It didn't happen. Rachel remained perfectly comfortable and happy to be taken around New Haven and to do whatever Quinn had planned for them.

By the time they had dinner and returned to the residence hall, Quinn was on edge. She had no doubt she would fold like a house of cards if Rachel pressed her. It was a weakness she had long given up on fixing, a soft spot she had resigned herself to having for Rachel.

Perhaps Rachel, knowing this, had avoided asking for this same reason.

In any case, Quinn had no idea how she was supposed to feel. She was familiar with the stoic Fabray way, and thus that was how she carried herself. Returning to the room, she was both terrified and relieved to find Elaine gone.

"She went to Matt's place for the night," said Rachel, anticipating Quinn's question.

"Oh." She didn't feel much better; Elaine being at her boyfriend's dorm meant that she wouldn't be back until the next day, leaving her alone with Rachel and her emotions.

"Quinn?" Rachel had put her phone away, frowning. "You look upset. Is everything alright?"

She opened her mouth to say: "Yes, of course," but Rachel was looking at her carefully, and what came out was: "I don't know."

Rachel's mouth tightened. Instead of hugging her as Quinn expected her to, she approached and stopped an arm's length away. "Quinn?"

She glanced away from those concerned brown eyes. "I don't know how to deal," she said.

"With?"

"Everything."

Rachel made a soft sound. "Do you think you can talk about it now?" she asked, and Quinn appreciated her mentioning their conversation last night without actually mentioning it.

She sat down heavily on the edge of her bed. Rachel scooted a little closer.

"I don't feel anything, and I feel bad for that. Because he was… I liked him enough to date him. I wanted him to be Beth's father. I was going to marry him." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "He was so many things and I… I can't feel anything at all."

"Everyone grieves differently, Quinn," said Rachel. She was crying as well. "No one thinks any worse of you. I certainly don't."

"That's because you're Rachel Berry. You see the good in every damn thing."

"I can't argue with that," she replied primly; Quinn chuckled through her tears.

"I'm sorry I'm such a mess."

"We've both been worse." Rachel's hand stroked Quinn's cheek. "We seem to be in the habit of bringing out the best and worst in each other."

"I'm not so sure that's a good thing," said Quinn.

"It has its pros and cons," agreed Rachel. "Mostly, I'm just glad I get to see these other sides of you. The entire Quinn Fabray package."

Quinn wasn't sure how to feel about that. It must have showed, because Rachel gently added: "It's been a long day. I think we should shower, and then go to bed early. Our flight's tomorrow, isn't it?"

Quinn nodded, grateful for the respite.

Rachel was able to fall asleep quickly, judging from the deep slow rhythm of her breathing. Quinn remained awake.

While she felt embarrassed about letting her emotions run rampant like that – even if it was only Rachel – there was another, strange emotion mixed up with it. She wasn't sure what was causing her anxiety, as well as that unsettledness in her belly.

It wasn't simply grief over Finn; that much she was certain of. It also wasn't the vulnerability of losing control. She'd spiralled enough times to know.

Whatever it was, it burned brighter whenever she moved, and her hand brushed against Rachel.

She willed herself to ignore it, a feat that kept her awake for the rest of the night.

The journey back to Lima was completely silent. Rachel kept trying to catch Quinn's eye, and Quinn kept trying to avoid Rachel's.

She wasn't ready to talk about whatever this was – it had taken her this long, and that much, just for Quinn to open up to Rachel about Finn. In a way, she was glad that they would be with their respective families over Christmas break, and she would have the space she needed.

When they arrived at Lima Domestic, much to Quinn's horror, she spotted her mother chatting with a man she recognized as being one of Rachel's fathers. "Quinnie!" called Judy upon spotting them.

"Hi, Mom." She accepted the kiss to the cheek, turning to Rachel and her father. "Hi, Mr. Berry."

"Hiram is fine, dear," replied the man genially, his arm around his daughter. "You must be Quinn. Goodness me, it's so nice to finally meet you. Our Rachel talks about you constantly – only good things, of course."

"Daddy," hissed Rachel, jabbing at his side; despite how weird things were between them at that present moment, Quinn smiled at her friend's embarrassment.

"It's very nice to meet you too, Hiram."

"The pleasure's all mine. Now, I hate to run off so quickly, but I promised Rachel's dad that I would bring her home speedily, along with more cranberry sauce." He shook Judy's hand, then Quinn's. "We must have coffee together sometime, Judy."

"I would love to, Hiram."

Quinn stood stiffly while the parents chatted.

"Quinn?"

She forced a smile. "So… I guess I'll see you around?"

Rachel didn't smile back. "I guess… is it okay if I hugged you?"

"Of course. Rach, you never have to ask me." She opened her arms and let Rachel hug her. Quinn buried her face into Rachel's hair. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to apologise for." Rachel pulled away, her hand brushing the front of Quinn's jacket. "Have a good Christmas, Quinn."

Christmas in the Fabray household was – like the year before – a stilted affair. Quinn still didn't feel welcome with her maternal grandparents, and her father's side of the family had yet to speak to them since the divorce.

So it was a surprise when there was a knock at the door while Quinn was watching television with her mother.

Judy blinked. "Were you expecting anyone, dear?"

"No." Quinn got up to answer the door. "Christmas carollers?"

A bundled-up Rachel was at the door, a basket in her hands. "Hi," she said, smiling over the most hideous tartan scarf Quinn had ever seen, "can I come in?"

She automatically stepped aside to let Rachel in, and shut the door to keep out the cold. "What are you doing here, Rachel?" asked Quinn.

Rachel unwrapped her scarf. "It's quite obvious, I think," she replied.

"You came all this way in the snow to deliver a basket?"

"Quinn, honey, who was that at the door?" called her mother from the living room.

Quinn sighed. "A friend from school."

"Who is it? Is it Rachel?"

"Mom!"

Rachel had a good chuckle at Quinn's expense. "Hello, Mrs. Fabray: Merry Christmas," she said, walking to greet the older woman, sticking out a hand. "I do hope I'm not imposing."

"Call me Judy, dear. You aren't imposing; it's just Quinn and myself these days. We're always glad to have company over the holidays, especially yours. Quinn's talked about you a lot but I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you – as well as your father – until very recently." She shot Quinn a reproving look.

"Mom!" hissed Quinn through gritted teeth. If looks could kill, both her mother and Rachel would be dead.

Instead, Rachel smiled. "The pleasure is all mine, Judy." She handed the basket to Quinn's mother, who took it graciously and left the living room.

Quinn rounded on Rachel the instant her mother left. "If you wanted to talk to me, you didn't need to come all the way here."

Rachel offered up a half-hearted smile. "We didn't part on very good terms, Quinn."

She blew out her bangs. "I was embarrassed, Rachel. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I'm not very good at acknowledging that I have feelings."

"I think I might have noticed." She drew closer. "Seriously, though; I wanted to make sure you're alright."

"I'm fine."

"But – "

"I'm fine," she repeated.

"Quinn…"

"Can we leave it, please?"

Rachel looked like she was on the verge of saying something; Quinn, thankfully, was saved when her mother chose that moment to come back into the room, carrying a wrapped bundle.

"It's not much, dear, but please take this back to your… parents." Quinn cringed as her mother tried to cover up her hesitation with a warm smile.

Rachel, however, didn't seem to notice. "Thank you so much, Judy." Without a second glance at Quinn, Rachel made her excuses and left.

If she had thought Rachel showing up uninvited on her doorstep was a surprise, Quinn hadn't counted on Rachel doing the same thing again.

She came downstairs on Boxing Day to find Rachel and her mother chatting amiably over gingersnaps and hot cocoa. Quinn stood in the doorway, stupefied.

"Quinn, dear, come in. Would you like some hot cocoa? Rachel was kind enough to bring some of her family blend, along with some homemade gingersnaps, and I'm hoping she'll share the recipes for both." Judy winked conspiratorially; Quinn winced.

Rachel laughed. "Of course, Judy. Daddy was quite adamant, in fact; he insisted I write out the recipes and bring them with me." She passed the envelope to the delighted woman.

"What are you doing here?" It seemed very unlike Rachel Berry to show up unexpectedly two days in a row, especially when her motivations had not been clearly and precisely declared at the start.

"My dads are planning on driving to Columbus to visit some of their friends," said Rachel. "I didn't feel up to spending the entire day in the car, so I opted to stay here. I hope you don't mind me imposing again."

"Nonsense. Any friend of Quinn's is always welcome," said Judy. Her hand on Rachel's arm was gentle; it was clear she knew about Finn, but was tactful enough not to mention it. "Why don't you two go out for coffee and a late lunch? I'm supposed to be meeting Fiona at the club anyway, so you'll be doing me a favour keeping Quinn company."

Quinn found her voice. "I'll be back in ten minutes," she said briskly, turning on her heel and vanishing upstairs before either woman could respond.

In the sanctuary of her room, Quinn allowed herself to drop face-down on her bed, heaving a muffled sigh. She supposed it had been too good to be true, that Rachel had controlled herself this long, but it seemed her patience was at an end.

In truth, Quinn wanted to confide everything in her – not just about Finn. She needed to confide in her, even; long years of being Quinn Fabray had taught her that keeping emotions bottled up was exhausting. It wasn't even as though Rachel was a stranger, or even that they were in their sophomore year of high school. Rachel had grown and matured, and so had she; they were actually friends, and there were worse people she could reveal her innermost thoughts and feelings to.

And yet, she couldn't help but feel that the boundaries of their friendship had changed again.

They had migrated to the living room by the time Quinn came downstairs. Rachel excused herself gracefully, taking two Thermos mugs from the kitchen which Quinn didn't recognize, and following Quinn out the door.

"So," said Quinn, stopping at the end of her walk.

Rachel handed her a Thermos mug with a soft smile. "Walk with me to the park?" she said, and it wasn't a question.

The walk there was completely silent. They found a bench that wasn't completely covered by snow, and sat down. Quinn took a sip of her Thermos and sighed contentedly. "You can talk," she said.

"I know I can," retorted Rachel, "but before I say anything else, I'm sorry I resorted to such dramatic methods of getting your undivided attention."

"But it worked."

"It did."

Rachel pulled a small paper bag out of her jacket and handed it to Quinn, who took it disbelievingly. "What's this?"

"Open it."

Inside were some sugar cookies. "I remember that I promised you some low-calorie, organic sugar cookies," said Rachel, a hint of a smile on her lips.

"You didn't have to."

"My dads were quite insistent that it wouldn't be a Berry Family Chrismukkah without my baking, so I suppose you have them to thank."

Quinn bit into a cookie. It was good – better than the store-bought ones – but she wasn't about to tell Rachel. "They're not bad. Thanks, Rachel."

She smiled. After a long moment in which Quinn ate another cookie, Rachel said: "I've booked an appointment with a grief counsellor."

"What?"

"I think… I should talk to a professional. Not that I'm belittling the support from you and Kurt and Santana," she said hastily, "but I know it's taking its toll on everyone. It's not fair that they should put their own grief on hold to deal with mine."

"Rachel – "

"Quinn, I know you. You've been incredibly brave this entire time, and it's been hard watching you struggle." Rachel shifted closer. "I'm selfish; I know. I've leaned on you, putting aside my guilt at your discomfort, but it's time I stopped."

Quinn was at a loss for words. On one hand, it seemed that Rachel was taking the pressure of making decisions from her. No more awkward conversations when Finn's name came up, no crying fits and comforting.

But if Rachel didn't have a reason to come to New Haven, or Quinn to New York – just like the last year – would their friendship survive? There would be no reason for her to hold Rachel at night, to teach her to cook, to do nothing in each other's company.

They were friends, of course. But being just friends had meant that the train passes stayed pristine in their envelopes until an emergency arose.

"You don't have to explain anything to me," said Quinn at last. "I'll support you no matter what you choose; you know that, Rachel."

"And I can't emphasise often enough how grateful I am for that." Rachel leaned her head against Quinn's shoulder. "Thank you, Quinn."

Quinn wrapped an arm around Rachel. "You're welcome."

There was a period in which they didn't talk to each other while they readjusted back to school; Quinn with the spring semester, Rachel with the end of her leave of absence.

While Quinn was walking back to her room after classes on Thursday, her phone pinged. It was a new email; she swiped it open without checking the recipient because she was expecting an update on her research application with her Elements of Drama professor –

She was confronted with a wall of text, and paused, momentarily confused. Checking the recipient, she was further perplexed to see it was from Rachel – and another email from her arrived.

Elaine wasn't in when she got back. Quinn tossed her bookbag on the bed and reached for her laptop to read the first email; her phone was far too small to comfortably display the sheer amount of text.

To: qfabray gmail com
From: goldstarberry gmail com

Subject: Hello

Dear Quinn,

It's been a while since we last communicated. I apologise in advance for the wall of text that you indubitably have received, but as you probably have guessed, I started my grief therapy today. Dr. Chambers (or Doctor C, as she prefers I address her) came highly recommended by both NYADA's student counsellor and the independent reviews I found online, so I trust I'm in good hands.

I put on a brave front when I walked into Doctor C's office. I can practically see you arching that eyebrow at me; yes, I was nervous about what the session might contain. I have had therapy when younger, but I have never had grief counselling before, so you understand my trepidation. For a first session, Doctor C told me to take things as slowly or quickly as I prefer, and we would work out a comfortable pace.

I told her about Finn. How we started out complicated (I had to mention you for things to make sense – I'm sorry!) and went through a lot of things together. Getting together, breaking up, getting engaged (before you ask – yes, she thoroughly lectured us for our foolish impetuousness), going on a break… everything. That took up most of our session, so she didn't provide much apart from outlining briefly what we would do next week, and my homework.

One of the exercises that she's having me do is this one: she asked me to choose three people I trust, and can comfortably share my emotions with. You're the first person on my list.

Quinn, I know you don't want to talk about him. I respect that. But I can't think of anyone else I trust more than you. So this is a compromise of sorts? It's a little impersonal, but I do feel that writing an email is easier for us. You don't have to respond or even read it.

This is just my account of my therapy session; I'm sending my exercise email separately. I hope to talk to you soon, Quinn.

Love,

Rachel

She took a deep breath at the conclusion of the email; Quinn's thumb hovered over the second email in her inbox.

To: qfabray gmail com
From: goldstarberry gmail com

Subject: Counselling Exercise

Santana told me she got Finn to beat Brody up.

Apparently, the only reason he moved out of the loft was because Santana found out about him being a male prostitute, and told him to stay away from me. I'd only heard from Brody that Santana threatened him because she didn't like him at that point.

Of course, that was only part of the whole story. Later, Santana called him, posing as a client, and left him alone with Finn.

I was shocked. Not by Santana – because, you have to admit, it's near impossible to have known her this long and be shocked by some of the things she does and says – but by this new information. So I called Brody to hear his side of the story. He confirmed it, and went on to say that Finn had punched him, and told him to "stay away from his future wife".

I didn't know what to make of that. I still don't.

Considering I started dating Brody in the first place to get over the fact that my fiancé had dumped me on a train to New York alone, you can imagine how guilty this made me. He had my best interests at heart, and I repaid him by trying to get over him.

Then again, you and everyone else already has an idea of how self-centred and childish I am (re: my attempted wedding).

In retrospect, both Finn and I could have handled everything better. You were right, as always; we were nowhere near mature or stable enough to get married while still in high school. I get the feeling (which Santana and Kurt confirmed) that everyone reluctantly went along with it mostly because they were afraid of the diva tantrum I'd throw, and partly because they felt sorry for me choking on my NYADA audition. But you were the only one who respected us enough to be honest with your feelings about our wedding, and cared enough to agree to attend.

I never properly thanked you for that.

I suppose part of the shock of his passing is all these things I'm only just finding out, and my first instinct is to call him to ask him about it before it hits me that he's gone. I thought I knew him but there are all these unresolved things that I have to puzzle out on my own.

And then there are the little things. Someone on the street that looks like him from afar. Hearing his laugh. A stranger that wears the same awful cheap Axe cologne. Photos of him popping up in my Facebook memories, scattered through my social media like little landmines.

I daren't let myself dwell on thoughts of what could have been, especially with everything that we planned for our future together, but sometimes it gets too invasive, and I –

Quinn stopped reading. Her heart was pounding, eyes stinging with tears, chest too tight to breathe.

It was all a mistake. It was bad enough listening to whatever Rachel could compose herself enough to say; in writing, there was too much, too quickly, for Quinn to deal with. There was no Rachel in front of her to focus on taking care of, to distract her from dealing with her own feelings.

There was another email almost exactly a week later.

Quinn deleted it immediately.

Her phone rang. Quinn answered without looking at the caller. "Quinn Fabray speaking."

"Wow, that's formal," said a soft voice on the other end. "Do you get a lot of business calls these days?"

Her heart stopped. "Rachel?"

"Hi, Quinn. Sorry I haven't been very contactable lately… I've been trying to catch up with school. If I don't make the cut, I'll have to make it up over the summer, or worse – repeat the year."

"No, of course. It's fine." Quinn was relieved that Rachel didn't seem to notice she was being avoided. "I'm pretty packed recently, too."

"Oh. Is this a good time to talk?"

"... not right now," she lied. "Can I call you back later?"

"Okay. Have a wonderful day, Quinn."

Quinn let her texts from Rachel go unanswered, and made excuses that she was busy for the few times she was forced to answer Rachel's calls. Most of Rachel's increasingly probing questions were met with a brusque "I'm fine".

After three weeks of deleting her weekly email, they stopped altogether – as did all communication from Rachel.

Quinn wasn't sure whether to be relieved, angry at herself, or disappointed.

Santana showed up on her doorstep the next week. More precisely, Quinn returned from grocery shopping to find Santana sitting on her bed.

"How did you know where I live?"

Santana rolled her eyes. "I have my ways. And to answer your next question, your roommate found me outside and let me in, after I proved that I'm your friend and not some creepy stalker."

"Dare I ask how?"

"You're better off not knowing, trust me." Santana stood. It was clear, once Quinn got closer, that there were dark circles under her eyes that makeup couldn't completely conceal.

She knew she looked the same.

"You look like a panda."

She snorted. "Yeah? Fuck you too. The quality of your comebacks have really gone down of late, Q."

"Why are you here?"

"You know damn well why I'm here."

Quinn looked away.

"Yeah, exactly. You know what? Rachel – in between crying her eyes out that she'd made her best friend hate her – didn't want me to come. Quinn's probably busy with school, she said. We spent most of last year not talking, it stands to reason that Quinn and I would gradually fall out of contact. So, Tubbers? What's so important here that you're ignoring Rachel?"

"I'm not ignoring her," said Quinn vaguely.

"Fuck you. Don't pull that shit with me. She's worried about you – waste of time, if you ask me."

"I don't need her to worry about me," said Quinn. "Since you seem to be taking messages for her now, how about you tell Rachel to mind her own business?"

There was a terrible silence.

"Santana…"

"What's gotten into you, Quinn? You haven't been this much of a bitch since…" She trailed off.

"Since junior year," finished Quinn.

"And senior year. And most of your life, really."

Quinn didn't smile.

"Yeah, I'll concede you had more than your fair share of shit, but that was no excuse to push your friends away," said Santana. "Especially the midget. Persistent, annoying, and horrifyingly chirpy as she was… You didn't deserve her then, and you don't deserve her now."

She swallowed hard, took the jab in her stride. "I know."

Santana spared her a lingering glance, before pushing off the bed and making for the door.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"Back." She didn't even bother to look at Quinn. "I've got a shift tomorrow."

"But you just got here."

She paused in the doorway. "I've seen enough. I've accomplished a lot of shit – surviving four years of Sue Sylvester being the least of it – but even I can't work miracles, Q." Santana pointed a finger at her. "You're scared, and you know it; that's why you're putting up walls faster than Bob the Builder. I should know. But you also know it ain't gonna work this time, Fabray. So sort your shit out."

The door clicked shut behind her. Quinn stood, dumbfounded, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

She was wrong. It wasn't just her going out of her way to do things for Rachel; it was clear that Santana was in the same boat as she was, if she was taking a train out to New Haven just because Rachel was upset – for reasons she couldn't yet bring herself to acknowledge.

The rational part of Quinn that had gotten her that place in Yale was unflinching: suck up her courage, swallow her pride, and go to New York. The rest, however, compelled her in the opposite direction. Quinn Fabray did not grovel. Quinn Fabray did not do feelings.

At this rate, Quinn Fabray was going to die alone and unhappy.

If Elaine noticed that Quinn was even more surly and bitchy than her usual self, she didn't comment on it. Quinn continued to plod through life, alternating between bouts of anger at herself and throwing herself self-pity parties of one.

Until Kurt showed up early on Saturday morning.

Elaine was already awake because she had a club meeting. She paused, frowning, when she heard the knock at the door. "Quinn? Were you expecting anyone?" she called, moving to answer the door.

Quinn, at that moment stuck in her self-pitying stage, pretended to be asleep and didn't reply.

A weight settled at the foot of her bed around the same time the scent of coffee and pastry filled the air.

Quinn sat up. "Rachel?"

The look on Kurt's face was half-amusement, half-exasperation. "Well, that explains so much."

She blushed. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I didn't see… only Rachel has the train pass, so…" Quinn trailed off as she realised what was going on.

He smiled at her. "Why don't you go get dressed? Meanwhile, I will feed your roommate breakfast to thank her for putting up with her roommate's high school friends randomly dropping by." Kurt pushed off the bed.

The common kitchenette was, thankfully, devoid of other people on a Saturday morning. Quinn, freshly showered and changed, sat at the table as directed.

"I got these from the cafe down the block," said Kurt, setting a brown paper bag that had Murphy's written on the side in front of her. "It seemed pretty packed for a Saturday morning, so I suppose that's as good an endorsement as any."

"Yeah, they're quite popular around here." She pulled out the still-warm croissant and took a bite.

Across the table, Kurt had a croissant as well. He took a dainty bite and chewed thoughtfully. "Mmm. Not bad."

She sipped her coffee, leaving the sugar and creamer he'd brought. He continued to eat his breakfast. "I'm assuming you didn't come all the way from New York just to bring me breakfast," said Quinn.

"No, of course not."

She eyed him. "Say what you need to say, and then I think you should go. Thanks for the breakfast, but you really shouldn't have."

Instead of scowling, or repaying her sarcasm, Kurt smiled. "Oh, Santana was right. You are repressed… in another way entirely."

Holding her hands up, Quinn retorted: "My apologies; you came here to mock me."

"I came because I think you could use a friend," he said, and added pointedly: "One who isn't going to press you into emoting, that being an entirely foreign concept to you."

"Fuck you."

"I love you too – despite you being a sulky brat now – but you don't have the right parts, sweetie." Kurt sipped his coffee. "Besides, I know what it's like. I'm not going to judge your coping process, no matter how… anti-social, it is. I went through that phase of being angry at everything and shutting everyone out myself when my mom died."

All the fight leaked out of Quinn. Too late, she remembered what Kurt had said before about losing his mom, of his dad's hospitalization; all this, on top of their recent, common loss. "... I'm sorry."

He accepted it with a graceful nod. They finished the rest of their breakfast in silence, and packed the trash back into the paper bag. Kurt brushed the crumbs off his immaculate shirt and cleared his throat. "Now, are you gonna show me around?"

Predictably, Kurt was most taken with the modest town centre and its cafes – though the Yale University Art Gallery was a surprising close second.

"I'd have thought you'd be tired of all the culture, after being spoiled for choice in New York."

He shrugged. "I've been busy."

She shot him a sideways glance. Much like Rachel, he seemed perfectly content to let her take him through the town and campus; unlike with Rachel, however, Quinn didn't feel like she was on the verge of something unfamiliar and scary. "Speaking of New York, when are you heading back?"

Kurt checked his phone. "Later. I didn't plan on staying overnight."

"You borrowed Rachel's pass for a day trip to New Haven?"

He shrugged. "And you."

"Why?"

"Why not? Diva crises aside, we haven't really spoken since high school." Kurt offered her a soft smile.

"... Yeah." Quinn felt her face grow hot. Theirs was a friendship born out of mutual friends and shared spaces; he was a common fixture at Mercedes' house while she was living there. They'd had movie nights and gossip-filled sessions in which the other two had done their best to make her feel like part of their clique.

"Not that I'm blaming you, or anything," he said gently. "We were both hot messes, with way too much going on."

Quinn smiled wryly. "You mean, I was a hot mess."

"If you want to put it that way, that's fine by me. But everything aside, I had fun today." He linked his arm with hers. "I'm so glad we could do this."

"Me too." She'd forgotten what a good friend Kurt was. It seemed she'd lost sight of everyone in the excitement of getting out of Lima. Santana, Kurt, Rachel… "I've missed this."

"We need to lure Mercedes up here," he continued lightly, "recreate that night in which we marathoned Harry Potter."

Quinn burst out laughing. "Kurt, you hate the movies, because they "ruined the books". You hated most of the casting, and you cried when Cedric died."

"You and 'Cedes love them."

"I loved them only because the books were banned in my house, and Mercedes had a crush on Robert Pattinson. She only watched the other movies because "Neville got hot"."

Kurt waved a dismissive hand. "So we'll make new girl bonding traditions."

She couldn't find it in herself to disagree.

"Now, c'mon," he said, tugging her along, "you are helping me pick out the tackiest Ivy League souvenir for Santana and you'll say you're paying for it."

"You're either unbelievably brave or foolish."

They were torn between a large blue foam hand with a huge cartoon Y stenciled on, and a T-shirt with 'My Daughter Went To Yale' emblazoned on the front.

"They're both equally horrendous," said Quinn.

"The manufacturers should be shot," agreed Kurt. Checking his phone, he added; "We need to pick one though, then I should go to the station."

Just then, Quinn's eye fell on a throw cushion that had Yale's bulldog mascot, Handsome Dan, embroidered on. It was the most eye-wateringly garish item that she had ever seen in her life; more tacky than all of Rachel's high school wardrobe condensed into one outfit, more hideous than any fate Sue Sylvester's twisted mind could hope to inflict.

She caught Kurt's eye. A grin spread over his face when he spotted it.

"She's going to kill us."

"I'm already ruining my reputation by being seen in public next to it. It's perfect."

Giggling like teenage girls, they paid for their souvenir and headed back out onto the streets. Quinn insisted on paying for his takeout sandwich and mocha.

Quinn stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket as they stood outside the gantry. "So… I'll see you around."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Come here, Miss Thing," he said, wrapping her into a hug. "I'll miss you too. Come visit soon."

"We'll see."

"Okay," he said, unfazed by her answer. "But she misses you. We all do. I'm just saying."

She bit her lip.

The brand-new train pass Rachel had bought her came out of its sealed envelope a few months after it had been purchased, and was validated by the ticket clerk.

Quinn boarded the train and found a window seat, propping her elbow on the narrow rest and becoming absorbed in her thoughts.

She hovered for a good ten minutes outside the loft. Kurt and Santana had both repeatedly assured her that they wouldn't be back until later, that she and Rachel could do whatever they needed to do undisturbed (at this point, Kurt – having had the foresight not to have made Santana an admin of their Whatsapp group – booted her before she could fill the chat with lewd suggestions).

All Quinn needed to do was to go inside and talk to Rachel.

She knocked.

"Coming!" called a voice from within.

Then the loft door slid open – Quinn fought the urge to flee – and Rachel was standing there, before her.

"Quinn."

"Rachel, I'm sorry."

Rachel's mouth opened, and closed soundlessly. "Come in," she said eventually, stepping aside. Her tone was completely inflectionless. Quinn sat down on the couch, putting her bag on the floor.

Rachel joined her, sitting at the far end from Quinn. "So that's why Kurt and Santana are suspiciously absent."

"They were adamant on making sure I got my head out of my ass, and here on my knees."

She didn't even crack a hint of a smile. "And if you'll forgive my presumptuousness, exactly why are you here, Quinn?"

"To apologise," Quinn said softly. "And to talk."

"I'm listening."

"I'm sorry I shut you out, Rachel. I know I have problems opening up to people, but that doesn't excuse the way I treated you. Especially you."

Rachel waited.

"I… I started seeing a professional grief counsellor. And a therapist."

This prompted a response from Rachel; her eyes widened.

"It's helped. You were right, after all. You're always right, come to think of it."

Her expression looked less stony. Quinn took it as a good sign, and pressed on.

"I started about a month ago, but it took me this long to get my ass here because I wanted to be sure I was better. A better friend to you. That's what you deserve; not someone who's too wrapped up with their own issues."

"Quinn…" Rachel's hand closed over hers. "You've never needed to be anything but yourself. I told you once whenever you're ready – I think it still applies now." She squeezed. "Thank you, though. I know how hard this was for you, and I really appreciate it."

Quinn nodded. Her throat was still too tight to speak.

"Well," said Rachel lightly, "this also explains why Kurt insisted I make dinner tonight."

"You've started cooking?"

"Yes. I'm on probation, honestly, but nothing's been burnt." Rachel pulled groceries from the fridge. "I haven't been cooking for a while, though."

Quinn caught the unspoken meaning. "I'm sorry."

"I know." But Rachel smiled at her, the warmth in her expression taking the sting out of her words. "Are you… would you like to stay for dinner?"

A lump rose in her throat. "Rachel, I can't," she started gently.

Rachel's face fell. "Oh."

"Not that I don't want to, or I have other plans, but… I'm serious about working on myself," she explained. "Ms. Murray says I have a tendency for just steeling myself to put up with situations I don't feel comfortable in, and then letting the stress build up until I shut down. It has nothing to do with you, but I – "

She was gently interrupted by Rachel's fingers on the back of her hand. "And everyone seems to think I'm the one who rambles." Her fingers started a soothing, stroking rhythm. "Quinn, you've never needed to prove anything to anyone, least of all me – and you certainly don't need to explain anything – "

" – I want to," blurted Quinn, and cleared her throat. "I don't need to, but I want to. For you."

Rachel looked proud and pleased enough to burst.

"You've only just forgiven me, Rach. I'm not at that place where I'm ready to move on as easily as you do."

"Can I hug you?" asked Rachel. When Quinn nodded, she found herself swept up in a bearhug that would have strangled her if Rachel hadn't been the smaller person. She clung back; she'd missed Rachel's hugs.

"I'm so, so proud of you, Quinn," she heard muffled against her neck. "I'm glad you trust me enough to open up to me like that."

I'm just glad I still have you, thought Quinn. The lump in her throat prevented her from saying it aloud.

"Now, is coffee okay, or is it gonna put you in an uncomfortable situation?" Rachel had a half-smile playing on her lips, that made Quinn's heart lift. She'd missed her best friend so much.

"I can make an exception for coffee."

On the way back to New Haven, Quinn opened up the email client on her phone and started typing.

To: goldstarberry gmail com
From: qfabray gmail com

Subject: Re: Hello

Dear Rachel,

Sorry for this late reply. Doctor C sounds nice. My counsellor is called Ms. Murray, and our first session together consisted of me crying and her waiting for me to calm down (I'm happy to report that later sessions had more talking and less uncontrollable sobbing).

I think you're a lot stronger than I am, comparing our first sessions. Before you take to typing a lengthy reply to that, I'm working on getting better. That's what my sessions with Dr. Singh (my therapist) consist of. She thinks that my upbringing had a huge part in creating my emotional constipation (no shit; my parents let me get a nose job at 13).

She didn't suggest writing emails to people I trust; I borrowed the idea from you, and Dr. Singh agreed it would be a good idea. So, here I go.

Dr. Singh suggested that I'm not actually as emotional as I think I am. That all those breakdowns, times I lashed out, even some of the crazy stuff I did… that was because I repressed everything I was feeling, and it manifested in any way it could. It sort of makes sense. There were a lot of things I can't explain what I was thinking back then, like that scheme I had for getting Beth back. I know that I had this idea that she was everything right in my life, and if I got her back everything would start to make sense again. But I remember being so fixated that it scares me a little, thinking about it now.

I've started going through some old photos. Maybe it'll help me understand what I was thinking then…

To: qfabray gmail com
From: goldstarberry gmail com

Subject: Re: Re: Hello

Dear Quinn,

I'm glad you've started writing. My email inbox is mostly full of spam and unsolicited advertisements (I don't know what marketing algorithm decided I would be interested in buying Viagra at half-price; despite what Santana used to imply, I lack a penis), so your emails are a very welcome addition.

The next activity Doctor C is having me do is taking care of "unfinished business". Apparently, completing whatever Finn and I left undone is supposed to bring a sense of closure that will help reduce regrets. Objectively, that makes a lot of sense. I did that a lot when dealing with breakups, though my methods were arguably less focused on achieving closure, and more fun (do remind me to tell you, when you next visit, about the time I glitter-bombed Jesse (St. James)'s house).

I think Dr. Singh made an interesting point. I, too, have had my share of crazy moments where I wonder what I was thinking back then; for example, letting Mr. Schue manage our preparation for competitions. We were lucky to have done as well as we have with impromptu and frankly, last-minute setlists.

That was on purpose, by the way. I know you have a different idea of my crazy moments than I do; and through conversation with you, I understand why. But I was meticulous even as a teenager; that crack house I sent Sunshine to? That was defunct, so she would have been in no danger, and I needed her off the school premises in case she bumped into any of the other students auditioning…

To: goldstarberry gmail com
From: qfabray gmail com

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Hello

Dear Rachel,

By the time you read this, I've arrived back in Yale safely. Elaine sends her best, and asked me to ask you if you'll be coming to stay before summer break (I'm not sure if she likes having you around more, or those sugar-free peanut butter cookies that you brought the last time).

Before I completely forget, I think we should start another email thread. The number of Re:'s in the subject header is beginning to grate; it took a while for me to scroll down to a blank space for me to compose this reply.

Right now, I'm stuck on Ms. Murray's latest homework assignment. She wants me to keep some physical memories of Finn, because she thinks it would be healthy for me to practice associating positive thinking processes with objects around me – a trigger, if you will. I'm not about to go back to Lima and search for that box of keepsakes I have in my room just for this one exercise (yes, some things survived my closure process, unlike yours)...

To: qfabray gmail com
From: goldstarberry gmail com

Subject: Summer Holidays

Dear Quinn,

With regards to our new subject line, I hope it also helps serve the dual purpose as a reminder of our plans. I'm planning to attend summer school to catch up with the remainder of my missed coursework, as well as get a summer job to offset some of my college expenses. Needless to say, I won't be going back to Lima for any significant period of time (of course, I'm hoping you'd come stay with us rather than Lima for this reason).

I have another ulterior motive for getting you here. I was thinking that I could enlist your help with Doctor C's assignment with being adventurous; you always have the best ideas. I've been living in NYC for close to two years now, and I've never seen the city quite like that before (though I stand firm that there are other legal methods of achieving the same result)...

"Hi."

Rachel spun around, wooden spoon in hand, lighting up when she saw her visitor. "Hey, you." She marched forward to sweep Quinn into a hug with the unoccupied side. "You're just in time."

"For?" She eyed the assorted baking paraphernalia strewn around the kitchen.

"Welcome to my domain," said Rachel, making a grand gesture with her spoon. "I'm baking pies today."

"What's the occasion?" Quinn laughed suddenly. "Rach, you need to let go of me so I can put my things down and change. My sweater's not gonna survive whatever you have planned for the afternoon."

"I'll buy you a new sweater."

"It's cashmere."

"I'll do a bake sale," she said without missing a beat. "My famous low-calorie organic sugar cookies come recommended by the national cheerleading champion team."

Quinn laughed again. "Seriously, though. Let go of me so I can change. I promise I'll come back and indulge your temporary insanity."

"Since you asked so nicely." She let go of Quinn, and returned to the bowl of dough on the counter.

Quinn found that she was grinning like a fool the entire time as she changed into shorts and a tank top. Over the course of a few months' email correspondence, she'd learned more about Rachel than she thought was possible over years of knowing the girl; in return, she'd revealed parts of her that had been hidden since she'd answered to the name Lucy.

If Rachel had been unconditionally accepting of her from the very beginning, she was even more so now that she understood more of Quinn, and their friendship was a lot stronger for it.

Quinn returned to the kitchen to find Rachel arranging her crust into a pie dish. "What was the special occasion that called for pies today?"

Rachel laughed. "The music," she said, nodding at the iPod in the dock that was playing (an unknown to Quinn but unmistakably) a song from a musical. "Do me a favour? Could you check if the filling is ready, please?"

Obediently, Quinn lifted the lid on the pot and gave the contents a stir. She dipped a pinky into the sample on the spoon and tasted cherry. "Yep."

"That's great." Rachel was clearly distracted as she wrestled her crust inside, pushing the dough to fill the corners of the dish.

"Do you need help with that?"

"I'm fine," said Rachel. She accidentally tore a corner of dough off and slumped in defeat. "... okay."

Quinn bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing. "Here, let me…" She peeled Rachel's sorry-looking crust off and re-rolled it out. Expertly, she draped the circle of dough back onto the dish, rubbing it into the corners, and cutting off the overhang.

Rachel's mouth dropped open. "How did you…?"

"Thanksgiving dinners with my mom and Frannie," said Quinn with a shrug. "They insisted on making the pumpkin pie from scratch. Here, put the filling in and use the spoon to spread it evenly…" After setting Rachel on her task, she moved to roll out the dough for the pie lid.

"Done."

Quinn inspected the pie, and nodded. "Looks good," she said. Flipping the pie lid on her rolling pin, she draped it on the pie, neatly crimping the excess at the corners. "All yours," she said, smiling at Rachel, who huffed back.

"Are you gonna make those little dough vine and leaves decorations for the top?" asked Rachel as she made neat slits in the lid.

"Since you asked," teased Quinn.

"Okay, Martha Stewart."

Quinn gasped. "Stop channeling Santana," she said, and tossed a pinch of flour at Rachel, who shrieked her outrage.

"You started it. You stop channelling Santana first." She retaliated by flicking a small lump of dough at her. It bounced off Quinn's forehead.

A minor war erupted, which ended in an abrupt ceasefire when Santana walked in. "My god," she said, surveying the battlefield, "do I have to hose you two down? You're worse than five-year-olds."

Quinn and Rachel looked at each other and burst into giggles; Santana rolled her eyes at them before disappearing into her room.

Miraculously, the pies had survived the outbreak of hostilities unscathed. Rachel put them into the oven. "After the pies are done, we'll make cookies."

"Cookies? Are they your idea of adventure?"

Rachel scowled. "No, they were for you, in return for your help in this endeavour. And now they're for Santana and Kurt."

Quinn merely shrugged. Rachel always threatened to give her cookies away, but at the end of the day, a bag always found its way back to New Haven with Quinn.

They left the loft fairly dusted with flour, still giggly as though they were on a sugar high. "So," said Rachel, linking her arm with Quinn's, "what's our big adventure?"

"The whole point of having an adventure is not to think of it as a grade school trip, Rach," drawled Quinn.

She mock-pouted. "Fine. But I'll have you know that the point of having a plan is being able to mitigate any possible risks and anticipate events."

Quinn patted her cheek. "Okay."

"Okay."

Quinn tugged her towards the subway, pulling out her Metro card.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"But I want to know."

"You'll find out when we get there."

Rachel pouted.

"Pouting won't get you your way." Quinn paused. "Neither will those puppy dog eyes."

Rachel immediately schooled her expression into neutrality. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Quinn."

She arched an eyebrow at her friend. "Just relax, enjoy the ride," said Quinn, "and tell me about NYADA. You don't have that sadistic dance teacher again, do you?"

Rachel burst into incredulous laughter when she glimpsed the sign over the shopfront. "Crafts? Really, Quinn?"

"You said adventurous."

"Yes, but I thought that usually equated to more intense physical activity, like sports."

Quinn passed to glance at her. "I'm athletic, but are you?"

"... Fair point. My sense of physical coordination seems to be limited to performance, and the occasional game of football." She followed Quinn up the stairs.

There were a few people already present, seated around the large workshop table dominating the room. The instructor directed them to their seats, and informed them the class would start in a few minutes.

Rachel was practically bouncing in her seat in excitement. "What are we doing today?" she asked, taking in the boxes of colourful string and beads in front of them.

"It's a surprise."

She sighed. "Somehow, I knew that would be your answer."

Quinn smirked.

With the arrival of a few more people, the instructor announced the start of the class, and passed out the reference sheets.

"Dream catchers?"

"Yeah," answered Quinn, suddenly shy. "Uh… You mentioned having nightmares, so I thought that it would be nice to have something to hang in your room, for keeping away bad dreams."

Rachel's eyes looked suspiciously watery. "I thought I was the one who rambled."

"Having you for a best friend has its downsides," Quinn shot back.

She didn't think it was possible, but Rachel looked like she was about to burst into tears of joy. "I'm your best friend?"

Intuitively, she knew that humour wasn't the right choice. Quinn smiled at her. "Yeah."

Rachel insisted they exchange their dream catchers ("Aren't we a little too old for friendship bracelets?" Quinn had said, and was chastised for it); something Quinn had dreaded initially, knowing Rachel's penchant for shiny pink things. She was pleasantly surprised by the restrained – even by her standards – dream catcher she was presented with.

Meanwhile, Rachel looked completely overjoyed by Quinn's dream catcher. The first thing she did upon arriving back at the loft was to hang it over her bed.

Quinn found her sitting cross-legged at the foot of her bed, seemingly still admiring it, when she returned dressed for bed. "It's not that riveting, Rach," she said.

"It is," replied Rachel very seriously. She scooted over so Quinn could sit down. "I love it. I don't know how I've survived this long without it."

Searching her words for sarcasm and finding none, Quinn chose not to comment. Her pensiveness was interrupted when Rachel playfully flung her upper body over Quinn's legs, drawing her out of her thought space. "Hey! Get your own personal space, you're too tiny to be taking up this much room," she laughed, pushing at her friend.

"Make me."

Quinn rolled her eyes. She lay back on the pillows, taking out her phone. Eventually Rachel settled right-way-up, angling her head so she could press her cheek to Quinn's shoulder. She had her phone out as well as she scrolled through Facebook.

Even though they hadn't done much physical activity that day, Quinn felt surprisingly drowsy. The comfortable mattress and Rachel's warmth weren't doing much to help. It had been a long time since she had felt this relaxed around another person. Quinn found she didn't mind this loss of control as long as it was Rachel.

It struck her, then, that she'd almost forgotten.

"Rach?"

"Mmm?"

"I almost forgot to ask. Why pies?"

She stared at her for a moment, baffled, before bursting into a peal of laughter. "Oh. Right! Are you familiar with the musical Waitress?"

"You're my main source of information on anything Broadway," replied Quinn teasingly.

Rachel was quick to open up a few pages on her phone. "So, it's a musical about a waitress and expert pie baker…"

Quinn watched, half-listening to the synopsis; her attention was on Rachel's animation as she recounted the plot of the musical, interjecting her narrative with various side notes and anecdotes about the cast, crew, and whatever happened to be tangentially related to the story. All of which she clearly thought Quinn would be interested in.

It was, in a word, adorable.

Rachel completed her synopsis by playing a song from the musical on YouTube.

She let the lyrics and music wash over her. Rachel was right – Rachel was always right. The words struck a chord deep within her that rang true, and spoke to that hidden place in her soul. When she turned back to Rachel, she wasn't surprised to find the other girl had tears in her eyes.

"This song always reminds me of you," she said.

"I like it," replied Quinn. "Do you… I don't suppose you have a copy of the soundtrack?"

"Of course. I'll get it for you tomorrow." Rachel suddenly sighed, expression morose. "... I can't believe you're leaving tomorrow."

"Rachel," said Quinn, patient as ever, "I'll come back. Or you'll go visit me."

"I know, but… it feels weird not having you around all the time." She laughed awkwardly. "I know that doesn't make sense, especially since we barely talked most of last year. But I can't imagine my life without you now." Rachel pulled back. "Sorry. Was that… too much?"

Quinn nudged her shoulder. "If it's any consolation, it's the same way for me. I guess we're stuck with each other for life. Literally best friends forever."

"Friends, huh?"

"Yeah. Unless you liked me better as the bitchy cheerleader?"

Rachel bit her lower lip, looking on the verge of saying something.

"Rach? What's the matter?"

"... No. It's nothing." She shook her head with a smile. "I was just about to say that I'm not sure which Quinn I liked better; the bitchy cheerleader, or the hot punk."

Quinn laughed incredulously. "You thought I was hot? I had pink hair and the world's worst tramp stamp."

"Oh yeah. Do you still have it?"

"Yeah. My mom offered to pay for me to remove it as a graduation gift, but I said no. Ryan will serve as a permanent reminder of my idea of an ironic statement during my teenage angst phase."

Rachel turned towards her, propping her head up on her arm. "But… Ryan Seacrest."

"What better symbol of our times? Besides, I'd rather have Ryan than some flaming skull."

"You have a point." Rachel's expression turned wistful. "I almost wish I was back in high school."

"Strangely enough, so do I. Life – while still complicated – was a lot less complicated than now." Quinn pillowed her head with an arm. "Even if most seventeen-year-olds didn't have to deal with plots to win back custody of their daughter."

"Yeah," agreed Rachel.

A thought, faded by time and almost forgotten, slipped back to the front of her mind. "Rach? Can I ask you something?"

"Ask away."

"Why did you… I know you weren't on Shelby's side, but why did you stop me from reporting her and Noah to Figgins?" When Rachel didn't answer immediately, Quinn clarified: "Shelby's your mother, and I honestly thought that you were protecting her."

"Shelby's wellbeing never crossed my mind at all," confessed Rachel, "and while I love Noah dearly, he was never at the forefront of my mind at the time. My main priority was you and Beth."

Quinn blinked in surprise.

"I didn't want you and Beth to end up like me and Shelby," said Rachel. "Whenever she looked at me, I knew that she regretted her decision not to get to know me better. But I couldn't bring myself to care. There were so many feelings mixed up in how I saw her. Shelby isn't my mom; I don't even think of her as my mother. She's just this person who gave birth to me."

"But Beth will have you in her life," she continued. "She'll always have you and Noah. She'll grow up so incredibly loved."

"How do you know for sure? Shelby behaved like that to you. Goodness knows what she's capable of."

Rachel shook her head. "Shelby didn't want to keep me, but she chose Beth. She wanted to keep Beth." She reached for Quinn's hand. "Quinn. I grew up loved. My dads gave me everything I could ever want, and raised me into a happy and successful adult – I hope," she added, and Quinn smiled. "But that didn't stop me wondering if my mother would ever come back to see me. If she would be proud of me."

"Shelby and I made our own mistakes, and we'll always have our regrets preventing us from ever having a more meaningful relationship. But Beth knows who you and Noah are to her. She'll never have to wonder if you're proud of her accomplishments. She'll never feel like you abandoned her because you don't care. And that's so important." Rachel's voice cracked a little.

She was having a few problems holding her own tears back, but Quinn rubbed Rachel's shoulder comfortingly. "Thank you."

On the train, Quinn plugged in her earbuds.

It's not easy to know
I'm not anything like I used be, although it's true

The lyrics resonated with her, yes; but more than anything, they reminded her of Rachel. They reminded her that Rachel was someone who – just as she had – overcome plenty of hardships and came out triumphant. More importantly, Rachel had helped her through her own difficulties and she was a better person for it.

Was this how Rachel had seen her? Most of high school had been a confusing jumble of conflicting loyalties, and shifting priorities. Quinn wondered what her friend had seen in her that warranted so much effort to reach out to, and befriend. The niggling feelings from so long ago made itself known again with that thought.

She's imperfect, but she tries
She is good, but she lies

No matter what she had done – what she had almost done – Rachel had never judged her, or given up on her the way so many others had. Rachel had always treated her as someone of worth. When she was at rock-bottom, it was Rachel who had patiently waited for her to come back on her own terms, who had built her back up again.

She is hard on herself
She is broken and won't ask for help

Quinn liked to think that towards the end of high school, she had started to reciprocate some of the friendship and support Rachel had shown her. There had been mistakes made and feelings hurt, but they had made it this far.

Friendships like theirs were rare; most wouldn't have survived at least one of the issues that had arisen between them. Especially not Rachel's marriage to Finn, in which she had adamantly opposed from the very start – which had always puzzled her in hindsight. She hadn't been in love with Finn; there was no reason to urge Rachel to break up with him. If she had been genuinely happy for her friend, she would have advised them to postpone the wedding, at the very least.

She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time

That was all they were, right? The best of friends?

Friends didn't put aside their well-founded reservations just to see the other person happy. Friends didn't value the other person's life goals and happiness above their own. Friends didn't feel their own heart breaking from seeing the other person grieving, rather than from their own loss…

For a chance to start over and rewrite an ending or two
For the girl that I knew

Approximately twenty-eight minutes away from New Haven, Quinn knew what she had to do.

The lift was too slow.

Quinn fidgeted endlessly through the lift ride, squeezing through the gap in the lift doors and rushing around the corner –

– and nearly colliding with Rachel as she shot out of her apartment.

"Rachel?"

"Quinn!"

She eyed the shorter girl. "Are you going somewhere?"

"I – yes, I was going to catch – wait. Quinn, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in New Haven?"

Quinn ignored the question. "Where were you headed?"

Rachel couldn't meet her eye. "... New Haven. To find you."

"Why?"

"I have to tell you something. I was supposed to tell you earlier, but I chickened out, and I only just worked up the nerve to go after you and – " She cut herself off, eyes narrowing. "You came back. Did you forget something?"

"I have to tell you something, too," said Quinn, her heart pounding in her ears.

Rachel gave a short laugh. "Well, we can't possibly tell each other at the same time. Would you like to go first? It must be important, if you came back immediately."

"No, tell me yours first. You were going after me."

Rachel's mouth twisted. "Quinn, you… you might not like what I have to say. You might find it… I think it would change everything about us, that you might hate me."

"I could never hate you."

"Your corsage," said Rachel, "Finn didn't pick it."

Everything stopped. "... What?"

She shook her head, smiled fondly. "Finn was really stressed out by the preparations," said Rachel. "He was venting some of his frustrations on me, with all the things he didn't really understand; like cummerbund colours, and dress fabric swatches." She smiled faintly. "He especially didn't understand the fuss about corsages, and was talking about getting the cheapest one on sale. I told him exactly what to get, and…" Rachel looked sheepish. "I may have threatened him if he didn't comply."

"Why?"

Rachel's smile turned wan. "Because I wanted you to have the perfect prom night you'd worked so hard for."

"The ribbon matched my eyes perfectly," was all Quinn could think to say.

"I know."

And there was something in her tone of voice that made Quinn ask the question on the tip of her tongue. "... Rachel, did you know the meaning of the gardenia when you asked Finn to get it for me?"

A long pause. "Yes," said Rachel quietly.

"... You didn't…"

"I couldn't." She tilted her head to one side, eyes downcast. "You were so lost and angry, and you… I couldn't ruin your life that way. Not after you'd gone through so much."

"I went through worse shit later." Her blood ran hot in her veins as she understood. "You were always there."

"It was the least I could do." She lifted her chin; Quinn could see she was crying. "By then, I'd moved on and resigned myself to having you in that capacity only."

Her patience was rapidly fraying away into nothing, and the courage that had fuelled her way back to New York was running dry. Quinn couldn't bear the weight any longer. "Rachel, it was… I realised something very important on the train, and it couldn't wait. I was against you and Finn getting married from the very start, but I didn't want you to postpone your wedding. I wanted you to break up with him, because he was gonna tie you down and hold you back." Quinn drew a shaky breath. "I… I did it for selfish reasons. I didn't want you marrying him, because… I didn't want you being with him."

"... what?"

"It's always been you," said Quinn.

"Quinn, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I didn't understand all of this until now. But in hindsight, it's all suddenly so clear to me, because the answer has been staring me in the face all this while." Quinn swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and continued: "I made Santana give you Prom Queen because I wanted you to have that perfect prom night. With the guy you were in love with."

Silence fell over them.

Quinn shook her head in disbelief. "All this while…?"

"I think so." Rachel glanced up; they shared a shy smile.

It melted from Quinn's face as a thought struck her. "What about…?" It felt wrong to say his name, but Rachel had always been attuned to her, and Rachel grasped her meaning.

"I don't know."

"If things had been different, we wouldn't be here, like this," said Quinn flatly.

"But we are here, Quinn. I don't know about you, but Finn taught me that life's too short for regrets. I don't want to leave this unexplored, now that…"

"Now that?" asked Quinn, afraid of her answer, and yet so curious.

"Now that I know I'm not alone in this."

Quinn's eyes bored into Rachel's. "I'm not a replacement for anyone."

"And I'm telling you you're not. Life has a way of going on, whether we're living it or not." Rachel smiled sadly. "I know he would have wanted us to be happy. Even if it meant finding it with each other."

She was silent. "... all the things I did to you," said Quinn softly, "the things I said…"

"And the things you did and said that made up for all of it," rejoined Rachel, just as softly. "Don't sell yourself short, Quinn. You've come a long way from being my greatest tormenter to one of the most important people in my life."

"But how can you…?"

Rachel smiled. "I'm a big believer in second chances, Quinn," she said, reaching for Quinn's hand. "What about you?"

Her hand stayed limp in Rachel's. "I'm serious. I'm not a substitute for what you can't have."

"... do you really, honestly, think that I would…?" Rachel looked hurt.

Quinn felt ashamed. "... no. I'm sorry."

"You and Finn are two very different, very separate people. I don't love you because you're a warm body that stuck with me through the past year, Quinn." Her voice rose in crescendo. "I'm in love with you because you've always been the one who believed in me and supported me."

"Rachel," tried Quinn.

"That doesn't mean I was never in love with Finn." Rachel's voice cracked a little. "God, I know you didn't mean that, but… I won't pretend it didn't hurt." She withdrew her hand.

Quinn wanted to comfort her, but her hands stayed motionless at her sides.

"I'm allowed to move on. I'm allowed to do all the things Finn and I wanted to do – alone or with someone else. I'm allowed to be happy." She swiped at her face with the back of her hand angrily. "Quinn, there's more than one kind of happiness in this world."

Face still streaked with tears, Rachel lifted her chin. "Whatever I shared with Finn is gone and buried with him," she whispered, "but I'm still here. So are you." Her face crumpled abruptly. "...unless you don't want the same thing."

Fists clenched, spine straight. Quinn stood, terrified, on the cusp of something terrifying and took the plunge.

"I do. That's why I came back. To tell you."

It took a while for her words to sink in; both for Rachel, and herself. "You mean…?" Rachel started, and trailed off. She glanced at Quinn.

"I do."

"Oh."

A choked laugh escaped her. "Oh?"

Rachel looked relieved. "I had only planned on telling you how I feel, but I hadn't actually let myself hope… I didn't think you would want to…" Waving a hand carelessly, she added: "You've caught me off-guard, really. I haven't planned for this scenario."

Quinn took a chance. She reached for Rachel's hand; after a beat of shocked silence, Rachel's fingers curled around hers. "No plans," she said. It came out a lot shakier than she'd thought. "We can take each day as it comes."

Rachel nodded. "Okay. Can I still hug you? Or is that moving too fast?" A hint of a smile lingered on her lips.

She rolled her eyes and pulled Rachel into her arms in lieu of a verbal response.

To: qfabray gmail com
From: goldstarberry gmail com

Subject: What happens in New York...

Dear Quinn,

I hope you got back safe. Knowing you, you're probably typing me an email just as I'm typing this to you, except that I had zero patience and started the minute you got on your train (Kurt and Santana were kind enough to guide me safely home, though Santana was decidedly less nice about it).

I miss you already. You're probably tired of hearing me say that, and I hate to be the clingy, needy one, but the adjusting back is always the hardest. Like I needed soy sauce while cooking and I said, "Quinn, pass me the soy sauce please." I almost let the food burn before I realised you weren't there.

I know that's silly. Santana's informed me multiple times (loudly, as you know).

Speaking of Santana! She'll kill me and Kurt if we ever told, but she loves that Handsome Dan throw pillow you bought her. Okay, mostly because Brittany loves it. She is so whipped.

Anyway, back on point (our correspondence has made me realise that I can always edit myself). I'm attaching a tomato cream pasta recipe I found online which I think you'll like.

Naturally, I made myself a vegan version. Soymilk goes a long way.

How are your sessions? I know we've talked about how much I can ask, so you can give me as few details as you'd like. I hope you don't mind, but I've told Doctor C all about you, seeing that you've been a very important part of my life for a very long time… well, even more so very recently, but you've been my best friend for ages.

Our next visit! It's my turn to go see you, how about the end of next month? I'll have turned in most of my assignments by then.

Now that I've exhausted the news that's happened since you left NY, I'll end here. Can't wait to hear from you soon.

Love, *Rachel

To: goldstarberry gmail com
From: qfabray gmail com

Subject: Re: What happens in New York…

Dear Rachel,

I have to say I was completely unsurprised. Sorry it took a while for this reply, but you did write a lot.

I miss you too, and I am very glad you didn't let the food burn. It would have been a shame if you had your stove privileges revoked again after all the effort I put in teaching you to cook. (I'm kidding.) While I don't wait for you to bring me condiments, I do sometimes catch myself absently looking for you. I don't know what it says about us that we're displaying symptoms of dementia at an early age.

Whatever Kurt's told you about Handsome Dan is a lie. He was the one who picked it out, and he's the one who came up with the whole conspiracy in the first place. The only thing I'll admit to was wanting to see Santana's face when she saw him – though I'm not at all surprised that Britt likes him. She had a veritable army of stuffed animals on her bed which she insisted were hers and Santana's adopted children.

Elaine loved the pasta! I'm sure you've already seen the photos. I'm attaching her mom's recipe for tempe stirfry (at her insistence) which is surprisingly good for being meatless and therefore joyless.

This was the part of the email I was dreading. Don't worry; I appreciate your call after you'd sent your email, apologising for whatever offence you'd caused, but Rachel… it's okay. I think I'm okay; if not, I'm further along the way than I ever was.

So yeah. My sessions are good. Ms. Murray says I'm making progress – ie. I'm talking instead of staring sullenly out the window, or crying. We've moved on from my family to Beth now, which I anticipate will take a while.

I don't mind that you talk about me. It's the same way I talk about you – our histories have been pretty tangled over the past few years.

The end of next month's good for me, too. I'll keep my schedule open. Same old, same old; update me by text, and I will see you soon.

Talk to you sooner, Rach.

Love,

Quinn

Quinn had never been in a relationship – if she could even call it that – which moved at a glacier's pace. It was jarring, easing into new boundaries.

Holding Rachel's hand as they watched TV had been done unthinkingly; now she would do it unconsciously, and stare, momentarily befuddled, by Rachel's shyness.

Then she would remember they had mutually crossed the line, and blush.

"It's different, isn't it?"

She'd missed the murmured words because her attention was on Rachel, and the way Rachel's fingers curled around her own. "Sorry, what?"

"This feels different, somehow." Rachel's thumb traced one of Quinn's knuckles. "Good different."

"I'm glad."

She took Santana aside and said, without preamble: "Rachel and I are together."

Santana frowned. "Yeah, no shit, Barbie. You and her practically live in each other's pockets – hang on a sec. Did you mean, being disgustingly co-dependent gal pals together, or the baby gay coming out of the closet together?"

"The second one," said Quinn. She didn't bother with further comment.

"Holy shit. And here I was thinking that Hummel had breathed in too much glitter when he said there was something different about you two."

"And you didn't notice anything?" she asked. "About Rachel and me."

Santana shrugged. "I didn't."

"Huh?"

"I swear to god I never suspected a thing. It wasn't until now that I had any idea. I've known you since high school and my gaydar probably got used to all those mixed signals."

Quinn stared incredulously. "We had sex."

"Please. You're a small town bitch from a smaller-minded family, away from home for the first time. If you don't experiment, you're either dead or decomposing. Besides, you couldn't have picked a hotter babe to be experimenting with."

"Modest, too."

Santana flipped her the bird. "You had a good time. Twice. Now we know why. You weren't getting your experimentation done, you were signing for the toaster in your welcome pack."

"Excuse me? No, you know what? Forget I asked, I don't want to know," Quinn hastily cut in. Santana closed her mouth, looking highly disgruntled.

"Then why ask?"

She threw up her hands. "I don't know. Maybe I wanted to tell you when we were ready, since you're our friend."

"Well, you told me. And you know what? Partly because I'm your friend and all, but mostly because you really, really suck at coming out, I will break the news to Hummel and let him gloat about being right." Santana patted Quinn's shoulder. "The things I do in the name of friendship. Yippee for you, Fabray."

Quinn waited until she was almost out of the room before hurling a throw cushion at her. It was petty and childish, but it still gave her a perverse sense of satisfaction when she heard a muffled yelp.

Kurt walked into the living room, hands clasped together and eyes bright. He spotted Quinn sitting on the couch and made a beeline for her, stopping short in front of her. Before he could open his mouth, Quinn said: "No, you can't congratulate me for finally coming out of the closet."

His smile didn't waver. "Actually," said Kurt, "I was just gonna say that I'm happy for you both."

And there was that little undercurrent of guilt again. "Sorry."

"It's alright. I'm quite fluent in Quinn-ese." He held out both arms for a hug, which she hesitantly gave. "She's good for you; I know it."

"Thank you. That means a lot to me." The shadow of Finn hung over the both of them as they parted, and both looked away to disguise red eyes.

"I knew it," exclaimed Elaine when Quinn and Rachel walked into the room holding hands. Quinn rolled her eyes. Rachel blinked.

"You knew – about us?"

"Of course. Who caved first?" She turned to Quinn. "Was it Rachel? Nah, I'll bet it was you – you always looked like you were gonna pass out every time you looked at her."

Rachel cast an amused glance at Quinn, who now looked like she wanted to sink into the floor. "She's exaggerating," Quinn muttered darkly.

"I'm sure." Rachel followed it up with a kiss to her cheek that made Elaine 'awww'. Quinn, meanwhile, no longer wanted to sink into the floor; she wanted to spontaneously explode and take her embarrassment with her.

"Is it just me, or is Rachel really… subdued, recently?" Quinn fidgeted with her sleeve. "I haven't heard her sing in a while."

"Not just you," replied Santana. "I ate a triple cheeseburger in front of her and she didn't even notice."

Quinn frowned. "It's not school, it's not – oh." A rush of shame flowed through her because she had forgotten. "... what day is it?"

"Shit. Yeah." Santana exhaled softly. "Wow. It's been… a whole year already. Fuck."

"It's not your fault. We've been keeping ourselves busy and distracted." Quinn pushed off from her chair and went to Rachel's room. "Rach? Can I come in?"

"Okay."

She felt like she'd gone back in time somehow, to slightly less than a year ago. Rachel was sitting up, knees drawn towards herself, phone clutched in her hands. Quinn settled beside her.

"I'd almost forgotten."

"It's okay, Rach." Her arm found its way around Rachel's waist. It stayed there, giving her the option of accepting Quinn's comfort. She inhaled softly when Rachel leaned into her, head finding the place between Quinn's head and shoulder easily. Quinn pressed close, and peeked at Rachel's phone.

There was a photo of Finn and Rachel there, their cheeks smushed together. Finn was smiling; Rachel had her face scrunched up as she laughed.

Quinn waited.

Rachel sniffed. "He told me we were endgame." She shifted. "I didn't really believe him, and when he used that silly gardener metaphor…"

She'd heard this story before. Quinn made a soothing sound, her fingers rubbing over the small of Rachel's back.

"I never thought that would be the last time I'd see him," finished Rachel. She wasn't crying – though Quinn believed it was only a matter of time.

"I'm sorry," she said, pressing a kiss to the top of Rachel's head.

Rachel sniffed. "Thank you." She put the phone to one side so she could sink into Quinn's embrace more comfortably. The words came out muffled now that her entire face was in Quinn's shirt.

"You don't need to thank me."

Rachel emerged from her nest, looking simultaneously sad, indignant, and rumpled. "All the more I have to thank you for being here. You're not big on physical contact, and yet…" She gestured between them with her free hand. "You do things like these for me."

"It's small."

"It's the small things that matter the most," rejoined Rachel. "Besides, you've got to balance out my grand gestures, right?" She followed it with a watery smile that Quinn found infectious.

She hadn't wanted to leave Rachel alone. But at Rachel's insistence, Quinn reluctantly decided that she should finish up a paper she owed her Dramaturgy professor, kissed Rachel's forehead, and told her she would be back in an hour.

Which would have been the end of the matter, except that the paper refused to cooperate.

Quinn tried not to take her frustration out on the worn copy of The Field of Drama. It was a library book, and she didn't have the extra money to spend on a replacement.

Arms slipped around her neck. "Hey," said Rachel.

She glanced up. "Hi," said Quinn, pulling her earbud out, absently kissing Rachel's cheek. "Are you hungry?"

"A little." Rachel sat down. "Martin Esslin. Wow. He was assigned reading in freshman year."

"Makes sense, since he worships the stage above all forms of drama." She pushed her papers away. "Do you want to cook?"

"Mmm. Okay." Her attention seemed elsewhere.

"Soup okay?"

"Mmmhmm."

Quinn studied her, much more closely than she had the book. Rachel speaking in parentheses, not paragraphs, was a clear sign that her thoughts were elsewhere. She chose to wait it out; Rachel would talk to her when she was ready. "Soup it is," she said, standing up and walking to the fridge. "Shit. I forgot we were supposed to restock today."

"Grocery run?" asked Rachel.

"Grocery run," agreed Quinn.

The walk outside, and the fresh air, seemed to do wonders for Rachel. She was actually cheerful by the time they reached the store; enough that Quinn felt it safe to make a joke about Rachel riding in the cart.

She huffed. "You're ridiculous."

Quinn's smile widened. "You seem to like it, otherwise you wouldn't keep me around," she said, trailing after Rachel as she led the way to the fresh produce. "What are we making?"

Rachel eyed a display shelf of celery that was on offer. "I'm thinking… vegan alphabet soup."

Quinn's smile gentled. "Okay," she said, reaching for Rachel's hand, and was met halfway. "But we're still getting bacon later."

Her girlfriend sighed. "I suppose I don't have a choice, do I? I had hoped that our relationship would have been cause for you to re-evaluate your eating habits."

"Oh, I've re-evaluated my eating habits already," said Quinn brightly, "but I'm not ready to give up my bacon entirely." She put another pack into the cart under Rachel's disapproving gaze.

It was a good thing that both Kurt and Santana were occupied with their significant others over the phone, and thus safely tucked in their rooms; it meant Quinn got time alone with Rachel before she had to go back to New Haven.

Together, they had cleaned up the kitchen and packed away the leftover soup. There were sandwiches for everyone's lunch tomorrow, and even some non-vegetarian items (with Rachel's grudging acceptance).

"Cooking is exhausting," said Rachel, flopping on the couch. "I'm glad I didn't aspire to be a chef."

"Knowing you, you wouldn't have stopped until you were the presidential personal chef or something," teased Quinn. She joined Rachel on the couch; Rachel opened her eyes when Quinn's weight settled on the cushions before narrowing them at her girlfriend. "Something wrong?"

"You're too far away." Rachel's fingers brushed Quinn's kneecap. "Come here."

"Not my fault your arms are short."

"One more crack about my limbs, and you're not getting cookies."

She didn't dare smirk at that, even if at this juncture that threat was empty. Quinn scooted closer. She tried to pull Rachel into her lap and was met with a pout.

"What?"

"You come here." Rachel beckoned her forward with crooked finger, a silly grin on her face.

"Really?"

"Oh, come onnnn."

Quinn sprawled theatrically along Rachel's side ("Quinn!" she giggled), pressing her left cheek to her collarbone, arms around the smaller woman's waist. She smiled when she felt Rachel start stroking her hair. "How's it like, being the big spoon?"

"Shhh. Cuddling."

Rachel's nails scratched over her scalp lightly; the delicious tickling sensation made her want to purr. Just when she was about to doze off, she heard Rachel mutter something.

"Sorry, did you say something?"

Rachel's hand stopped its ministrations. "I, uh, thought you'd dozed off."

"Nope, still awake." She pushed herself up a little so she could look at Rachel. "All ears now."

She blushed. "I didn't mean for you to hear."

"Rachel, it's okay – "

"I was just saying that – "

They started talking at the same time. Both broke off, laughing softly. "You first," said Quinn.

"I, um, was saying that I'm really glad you're here."

"Me too."

"And I'm also glad that I can talk about Finn without bursting into tears." She gave a watery laugh. "I also have you to thank for that. This past year… it wasn't easy." Rachel swallowed hard. "But I have you."

"Rachel, it's not just that." Quinn straightened so she could look Rachel properly in the eye. "You've been there for me just as much as you say I've been there for you; perhaps more. Arguably I was worse – I wasn't even acknowledging the issues I had – but I'm not going to say we're even or anything. Not with something like this."

"And we found each other along the way." Rachel brushed a lock of hair from Quinn's eyes. "Or more accurately, rediscovered."

"Yeah."

"Is it wrong that I'm not feeling any guilt at all?"

Quinn sighed. "Rach… you already know what I'm going to say."

"Humour me, please."

She pressed a kiss to the end of Rachel's nose. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be happy. We all wanted that for you. I remember you telling me that there were other kinds of happiness in this world. I think…" She licked her lips, and looked back at Rachel. "I think that the same goes for love. Loving me doesn't cheapen or diminish whatever you had with Finn."

Quinn was looking straight into Rachel's eyes as she spoke, and caught the last shreds of doubt melt away. Rachel nodded, her mouth tight. "Thank you," she said.

"Hi," she started. "I'm Santana Lopez. If you don't know who I am, you're either at the wrong wedding hall, or I've grossly overestimated my importance to these two bitches."

Laughter echoed through the hall. She flashed a grin at a stony-faced Quinn. Rachel sighed.

"We should never have given her the mic."

"We didn't give it to her. She snatched it from Kurt."

"Ah."

Santana continued to talk throughout, gleefully summarizing their high school years for the benefit of anyone who hadn't yet heard that story. Despite the gross oversimplification of events (and the unflattering descriptions of everyone that wasn't Santana or Brittany), Quinn found their story, laid out like this, enthralling.

Rachel squeezed her hand. "We were really repressed, weren't we?"

"Speak for yourself," joked Quinn.

"... but that's enough about me," Santana was saying. "Now I'm gonna talk about someone who should've been here today."

Quinn's heart dropped. Her gaze went to the framed glossy photograph propped up on a chair, front and centre; she knew Rachel's did too, when her new wife's grip on her hand tightened.

"Most of us here knew and loved Finn, and I know he would have wanted nothing more than to be here today." Santana actually looked serious. "Of course, the circumstances would've been a little different, 'cause I can't imagine it would've been easy for him to watch his two exes get married to each other."

A ripple of laughter reverberated around the room, mostly from their high school friends. Kurt made a subtle grab for the mic.

"In a sec, Hummel! A bit premature, though I get the feeling you're familiar with that. Where was I? Yeah – nevertheless, I believe he would have wanted us all to be happy. Sure, he didn't always go about it in the best or most tactful way, but… Finn was genuinely the most caring, generous, big-hearted man I have been privileged to know."

Kurt stopped trying to snatch the mike away, shaking his head.

"Yes, y'all heard it from me, Santana Lopez. Here, Hummel, I'm done. I'd tell you to be careful with that, but I'm thinking you've had greater choking hazards near your mouth before."

Rolling his eyes at her, Kurt took the microphone and exhaled. "That was quite an act to follow," he said, prompting another ripple of laughter, "though I can assure you I'm much more family-friendly."

Quinn uttered a quiet groan. "Why did we think it was a good idea to let these two drama queens talk?"

"They're our best friends." Rachel sounded like she was torn between amusement at her new wife's plight and exasperation at their friends.

"I changed my mind," she muttered. Her eyes stayed fixed on Kurt as he spoke (with the odd interjection from Santana).

"She's right, though."

"Hmm?"

Rachel looked wistful. "That Finn would've wanted us to be happy." She looked back at Quinn, and smiled. "I know I am."

"I'm glad." Quinn's gaze traveled from her new wife's smiling face, to their matching wedding bands. "Me too."