Hello friends. Please excuse the incredibly out of season holiday theme. I guess this just proves I'm the type to leave their Christmas lights up all year round.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters. This is just for fun (the non-profit kind).

I Don't Wanna Talk About It

She's like, semi-okay with what's happening right now. Semi, as in kind of, as in not really. Not at all.

When Kurt had suggested they host their own little Friendsgiving, she'd had this crazy romantic idea that at least one friend of hers would be in attendance.

But out of the two dozen "friends" mingling around her apartment, she recognizes exactly one of them, whose name, of all the names in the world, happens to be Adam of the Adam's Apples.

And, okay, he's nice, and she's pretty sure Kurt has a crush on him, but she can't shake the feeling that he's secretly some 30-year-old posing as a broke college kid. Something's off. She can't quite put her finger on it, except that he's just one of those people you look at and go, "Really?"

The same could be said of the cast of characters he brought with him. They're all dressed like pretentious homeless people, with strategically-ripped holes in their designer sweaters and flannel shirts. They could've easily gotten lost on their way to an audition for Roger from Rent.

And she would be happy to inform each and every one of them that they did not get the part.

Nice mood, Rachel. That's the spirit.

Alright, so maybe she's a little pouty because she couldn't afford to fly home this Thanksgiving. Her fathers had offered to buy her a plane ticket, naturally, but she'd refused.

It had seemed like the adult decision at the time. Not to mention she and Kurt both agreed to have these be the "Doing It On My Own" chapters of their future memoirs.

But while Kurt's swooning over Adam—all forty-five years of him—she's brooding, friendless, in the corner. By choice, yes. But still.

And yes, this is quite literally a testament to how few lasting relationships she's maintained since moving to New York nearly two and a half years ago.

She had Brody, for a little while...and then, suddenly, she didn't have him at all. Same with Finn, except that story's a tad more convoluted. Longer, too. And no, she doesn't feel like going into it.

She also doesn't feel like being aggressively hit on by the guy in the striped scarf (did he forget to tell her his name, or did she forget to care?)

Go away, Striped Scarf! Go away, Adam's Apples.

In light of the holiday season, she'd just like to say: "Who the hell are these people?" Why are they treating her vegan charcuterie board like the vegan horn of plenty? Everyone should just get out.

Because screw this. This is not Friendsgiving. This is Strangers Taking.

She's got to go.

She stumbles upon a coffee shop called Rising Star. If she was in a better mood she might entertain the notion that it was named after her. But her mood is crap, because she has no friends and she lost her favorite mittens on the subway yesterday, so she approaches the door with chattering teeth and a cloud of gloom hanging over her head.

But at least the coffee shop is a pocket of soft sweater-y goodness when she enters it. The warmth literally wraps her up and takes her right in.

There isn't another customer in sight and her gaze sweeps curiously around the room before falling on a mop of feminine blonde hair behind the counter. Her face is obscured, her head bent over a book; a very good book, apparently, and Rachel hates to be the one to bother her in the middle of it.

The girl is completely absorbed in her reading. It's charming, soothing in the strangest way. Rachel could turn right around and vanish quietly out the door, having already got what she came for without the blonde ever knowing she'd been there at all.

She stays put, however, holding her tongue in silence a moment longer. She likes to think she's giving the girl the space to finish whatever page that she's on.

"Pardon me," Rachel says finally.

The blonde's head snaps up, hair falling away from her face, Rachel's mouth falling open at the sight of...

"Quinn."

"Rachel."

It's the strangest thing. In two and a half years, New York has shown her every eccentricity under the sun. Just yesterday she bought a bagel from a grown man dressed in a onesie and hardly batted an eye. But she simply cannot wrap her head around the image of Quinn Fabray, former head cheerleader, standing behind the counter of the coffee shop slash alternate universe she just stepped into.

On the flip side, Quinn Fabray, queen of reining in her emotions, appears almost criminally unfazed. She'd been caught off guard initially, sure, but now her expression is polite, customer service-like, generic even, as if the only pressing issue on her mind is, Decaf or regular?

"Rachel?" Quinn asks. "Can I get you anything?"

"What? No. I mean, yes—I mean...sorry, what?"

Quinn tilts her head to the side. "I mean, you must've come here for a reason...a coffee, maybe?" She points to the chalkboard menu behind her. "What would you like? Anything?"

Rachel's not sure. It's true, she must've wanted something, at some point, but she remains blindsided by this barista dressed up as a choppy-haired, slightly hipster-ish version of a girl she used to know. Her sweater is grunge-y, oversized, and Dad-like, puffing out around the edges of a dark green apron. Her name tag serves as confirmation that she actually is a girl named "Quinn." And then there's the beanie—faded and frayed with artfully-ripped holes letting little tufts of blonde filter through. Contrary to her Skank days, nothing about her suggests she's picking fights with the world, daring you to have a problem. All in all, she looks cute, in a vaguely heartbreaking sort of way.

Rachel will have to wait and unpack that later.

For now, as coherent thoughts begin forming on the tip of her tongue, she stammers, "I'm...I, uh..."

"It's cold out," Quinn supplies. She leans in, elbows resting on the counter, hazel eyes imploring Rachel's in a manner that's both patient and pragmatic. "Maybe you'd like something warm to drink?"

"Warm?" Rachel asks. "Warm, yes. Yes, sure. I mean, I...okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

A beat of silence, and then Quinn raises her eyebrows expectantly. "So, coffee?"

"Sure."

"Great." Quinn pivots toward the stack of to-go cups on her left, but halts before retrieving one. "We also have tea, you know."

Rachel doesn't know anything.

"You drink tea, don't you?" Quinn presses.

"Yes." Rachel exhales, her breath steadying. "Yes, Quinn, I do."

Quinn stares at her intently for a moment, then nods. "Alright. I'll get you some."

"This tea is lovely," Rachel says, breaking the silence.

Quinn eyes her skeptically, as if to say how would you know, you haven't even tried it?

It's true, Rachel has yet to lay a finger on her steaming mug of Cinnamon Guru Chai. Quinn had mentioned it was one of their special autumn flavors, and, well, it's always nice to be special in autumn, isn't it? Not that Rachel knows the feeling; not lately, anyway.

"I can get you something else if you don't—"

"No," Rachel insists. "No, Quinn, don't be silly. And thank you. I'm sure this is, in fact, a very hearty, aromatic blend of seasonal…" she stops mid-rant, exhaling deeply as she attempts to gather her thoughts. There's just a few things she'd like to unpack here before moving forward.

"Quinn, I'm...confused. Confused is putting it mildly. I mean—this is New York. And I'm sure you're well aware of that, because people tend to know where they are, but I'm just telling you, I'm a little thrown off here. And I don't think you're being deliberately obtuse, acting as if this an ordinary everyday thing that we do...because it isn't."

"I know," Quinn says. Several emotions flicker across her face, some readable, some not, and Rachel thinks to herself, Now THERE'S a girl I used to know.

"I don't really know what to say," Quinn goes on, eyes twitching around nervously as she averts Rachel's gaze. She'd been confident a minute ago when helping a stunned, stupefied Rachel decide on a drink order; now, when pressed for an explanation, she's practically crawling inside herself, pulling her sweater up over her face as if she could pass for someone else entirely. "I sort of just...work here."

She leaves it at that, as if Rachel ought to just fill in the blanks herself, assume that a series of random, incidental happenings landed Quinn in this cozy little far-flung corner of New York City. There's more to the story, of course, but apparently nothing worth mentioning.

Rachel doesn't buy it, but knows better than to push and prod the girl for answers she isn't offering up willingly. "I see," Rachel says, nodding. She can pretend this is all fine and normal, if it's what Quinn needs. "Well, it's a lovely place, Quinn. Very quaint and charming. Do you like it here?"

Quinn shrugs. "I like the work...I like not working too," she admits, nodding toward the overturned book on the counter.

Rachel blushes slightly. "Well, I felt bad for interrupting your reading just now. I stood in complete silence for a minute, just watching you. Which...sounds creepy, I realize, but you just looked so blissfully absorbed. Your book, whatever it is, must certainly be captivating."

"Yes, very captivating," Quinn agrees, her expression deadpan save for the faint twinkle of amusement in her eyes.

It doesn't go unnoticed by Rachel, who frowns. She is not amused, thank you very much, and a sort of staring contest ensues. Rachel feigns indignation, her bottom lip jutting out comically as Quinn pulls a face of haughty, do I know you? indifference.

Rachel is first to break. She cuts up laughing and doesn't even know why. It's just funny, for some odd reason. And then Quinn laughs too, because...just because.

Sometimes it's okay to just laugh it off, just admit you don't actually know what's even happening right now.

"Quinn," Rachel says, a stray giggle bubbling from her throat. "Do you not want to talk about it?"

Quinn considers this briefly, then shakes her head. "I don't, really. Not right now."

Rachel nods in understanding. "It's fine," she says, smiling softly. A thought occurs to her then, and her brow furrows in concern. "But Quinn, are you alone? It's Thanksgiving."

The blonde shrugs dismissively as her gaze finds the floor.

"Quinn," Rachel sighs, her voice hitting a note of sadness. It's not like she can say much better for herself, but at least she has Kurt to go home to. She has her Dads, too; both are six hundred miles away in Lima, but she technically does have them, in her heart, where it counts. The same place she's certain they have her.

"It's fine," Quinn says abruptly. "I mean, don't feel bad for me or anything. The manager needed someone to work the holiday, so I offered. It's no big deal."

Rachel starts to apologize. She doesn't mean to pity Quinn's current predicament. It isn't a half-bad deal, honestly: spending the high-calorie holiday in peaceful, sodium-free solitude, rather than suffering the company of bickering and dysfunctional relatives. So she swallows her apology, fixes her face so that it's neutral, not bleeding sympathy out of her eyes like a moment ago. "You're smart," she says. "I mean, if given the opportunity to spend the holiday holed up in a place like this, I too would have seized it in a heartbeat."

Quinn looks at her curiously. "Really? I just thought—I mean, I would've assumed you'd be the type to—" she rolls her eyes "—to go home for the holidays or whatever."

"Well, I certainly would've liked to, but you see, I'm sort of trying this whole 'doing it on my own' thing," she explains, gesturing with her hands to emphasize the theatrical grandness of it all.

"Interesting," Quinn says monotonously. "So what exactly are you doing?"

Rachel shakes her head, brow furrowing. "I don't...actually know."

Quinn's face remains impassive, but there's a flicker of understanding in her eyes; as if she might know a thing or two about not knowing.

"Quinn?" Rachel asks after a beat.

"Hm?"

"Would you like to maybe, possibly hang out later? After your shift is up, that is...I mean, unless you, you have other plans, in which case—"

"Sure," Quinn answers. Her delivery is unflinching, but there's a note of indifference in her voice, the verbal equal of a shrug. Rachel can't help but hear it as a, Sure why not? I've got nothing better to do.

But come now, this isn't cow town Ohio where the pickings are slim, and anyone is liable to take any old thing they can get, for little reason other than: it's there. No, this is the big time, New York City. The potential is infinite, and the notion that there are better things to do is always a given. One doesn't simply resign to spend an evening with an old glee club acquaintance out of sheer boredom. "Boredom" shouldn't even be in a New Yorker's vocabulary. If it is, you're doing something terribly, terribly wrong.

So Rachel pushes down her insecurities, straightening her posture as she holds Quinn's gaze with confidence. "Wonderful," she states.

Quinn stares at her, eyebrows raised in anticipation. She thought Rachel Berry would have a lot more to say about that. Apparently not, and after a beat of silence she pushes off the counter and reaches for a nearby dishtowel. "I'm off at six," she says casually.

"Great," Rachel says, smiling brightly. Her gaze slides over to the antique cuckoo-clock mounted on the wall. It's an old clock that does appear to know the present time. Five-fifty-eight, she notes with some confusion before shifting her gaze back to the blonde. "Quinn, that's in two minutes."

Quinn shrugs. "I can close whenever I want, honestly. Don't think the boss would object." She makes a gesture denoting the emptiness of the place. It's true, the customers don't appear to be piling in by the truckload. "Do you mind waiting here while I shut everything down? Should take about twenty minutes."

"Oh please, take your time," Rachel insists.

"Can I get you anything else?"

Rachel shakes her head, hands grasping her now comfortably warm mug of tea. "No, Quinn. Thank you, I'm perfectly fine. Do you need any help—"

"No," Quinn insists. "No, I'm good. I've got it. You just make yourself comfortable...okay?"

And Rachel does. She settles into the overstuffed chair nearest the counter, marveling at what is possibly the strangest turn of events she could've fathomed. Quinn sweeps the floor like Cinderella, she muses, her eyes following the girl's graceful movements while she quietly sips her tea.

Had her focus wavered in the slightest, she might've noted something funny. Rather than pour her tea into one of the disposable to-go cups, Quinn had instead opted for a store-owned ceramic mug.

Which might as well be the "stay and don't go" cups; the kind you can't dispose of easily.

It's a slow reveal as Rachel heaves the enormous wooden door aside, wincing from both the exertion and the grating sound it makes. Not the most flattering introduction to her apartment, but it will have to do.

Thankfully Kurt and his guests have already cleared out, but not before leaving a post-Thanksgiving disaster in their wake. Dishes in the sink, red solo cups everywhere, food on the...couch? Ugh. She will so rip into Kurt later. Didn't he know Quinn Fabray would be dropping by this evening?

"Wow. Nice," Quinn comments, a note of intrigue in her voice as she follows Rachel inside.

"Sorry for the mess."

"What mess?" Quinn asks, her upturned gaze roaming over the large, warehouse-like interior of the place.

Rather than point out the obvious—god, can she take one single step that doesn't go crunch beneath her feet?—she asks, "Can I get you anything?"

When Quinn doesn't respond, Rachel adopts a more patient stance, head tilting to the side as she studies Quinn studying the intricacies before her. She could provide a running commentary to help enhance the visual; explain the logistics of how and why she'd wound up ditching freshman dorm life for this spacious, albeit severely lacking in room dividers, apartment in the city.

She spares Quinn the backstory, however. She hardly remembers it herself.

Still, this lingering spell of silence isn't something she can relax comfortably into. She needs feedback; preferably good feedback. Otherwise, she can only assume Quinn's had one foot out the door since the moment she walked in. Rachel wouldn't exactly blame her. After all, this charming abode that Kurt likes to call "urban decay chic" could just as easily be a haven for drug lords and pimps. How could Quinn not regret following her home to this unsavory armpit of the city? She's probably about two seconds away from using the Emergency SOS feature on her phone—

"Your place is amazing," Quinn says, turning to face Rachel.

...Then again, her apartment is quite charming, isn't it? So rustic, with its exposed beams and bricks. Such an aesthetic, honestly. The stuff Pinterest boards are made of!

Rachel never doubted it for a second.

"Why thank you, Quinn," she says, the compliment drawing an unexpected shyness out of her. She briefly plays it over in her head, searching for a note of sarcasm in Quinn's tone. Finding none, she smiles graciously at her hazel-eyed guest who is still wearing her coat. "Oh, Quinn," she says, hurrying forward with her arms outstretched. "Here, let me take your coat."

Quinn complies without protest, shedding her oversized sandstone-colored jacket. In her eagerness to be a good host, Rachel loses all concept of personal space, steps in closer to her guest, and then steps, more like stomps on her guest's foot. They just miss bumping noses, and Rachel lets out a shriek before jumping back as if she's been burned. "Oh God, I—I'm so—"

"It's fine," Quinn says.

"I'm so sorry, Quinn, how clumsy of me. You aren't hurt, are you?" She stares down at Quinn's boot-clad foot, brows knitted in grave concern (as if she even knows what she's looking for.)

"Rachel?"

Quinn's calm voice pulls her out of whatever absurd medical drama she thinks she's starring in. She drags her gaze upward, stopping when she meets spectacularly unbothered hazel.

"I'm fine," Quinn reiterates, then leans in slightly as if about to dispel the greatest myth of all time. "You're not going to kill me with your toes."

Rachel chuckles weakly, cheeks flaming. "Yes, well..." She clears her throat, ducks her head low, then extents a stiff arm out toward her guest, keeping an almost comically safe distance this time.

Quinn just stares in confusion, as if watching modern dance. She tilts her head to the side, trying to gain a better interpretive vantage point, but she truly has no idea what even.

Silence abounds until Rachel finally clarifies her intentions.

"Coat?" she asks.

"Oh!" Quinn says. "Oh, right. Um...here you go."

"Thank you."

"Thank you."

Rachel's smile is so forced it hurts. Ouch, ouch, ouch. The pains of awkward social interaction.

She turns and carries the hefty mass of material across the room, feeling the urge to gasp for air. Halfway to her makeshift bedroom, her senses unwillingly come alive. Quinn's coat smells like the cold; or rather, coming in from the cold. There's also the unmistakable trace of cigarettes, which Rachel silently berates the girl for, despite not being altogether put off by the scent.

After laying the coat on her bed, she takes care to fix the collar and smooth out the wrinkles. She lingers in the bedroom a moment longer, staring down at the rugged piece of clothing. She hopes it keeps Quinn very warm.

She finds Quinn crouched on the floor in the living room, flipping through her collection of vinyl.

"See anything you like?" Rachel asks.

Quinn glances up and cracks a smile. "It's a nice collection," she says.

"Really? The excess of showtunes doesn't put you off?"

Quinn shrugs lightly. "I don't know that I'd call it excess. More like...tiny excess."

Rachel's not quite sure what to do with that; with anything, really, so she moves to sit on the couch, eyes narrowed in on the blonde, who now stares intently at her copy of Blue by Joni Mitchell.

"That's a good one," Rachel supplies.

Quinn murmurs in agreement, then shifts her eyes to Rachel. "May I?" she asks.

"Of course," Rachel says, happy to have the blonde take initiative. She settles in against the couch cushions as Quinn places the delicate vinyl onto the record player. As soon as the music starts Quinn scoots over to the upholstered chair opposite the couch. Rachel tracks her movements, brow furrowing as Quinn remains seated on the floor, back against the chair, knees drawn up to her chest.

It's on the tip of Rachel's tongue to suggest that she might try sitting comfortably in the chair itself. She swallows the words before speaking them; she lets Quinn do as she pleases.

She can't, however, go on like this. Just sitting here with Quinn, listening to music and watching the snow fall, as if...as if this is them. It isn't, and they don't do this, haven't ever done this, and Rachel's still baffled as to what possessed them to start now.

Oddly enough, Quinn speaks up without so much as a nudge from Rachel. "So I live here now," she offers. "I mean, not literally here—"

"I know," Rachel interrupts. "I mean, I knew what you meant."

"Right. I moved to the city six months ago, after I…" She hesitates. "After I left Yale."

The news is far from earth-shattering to Rachel; she'd had a hunch that Quinn and a certain school in Connecticut were no longer one, at least not currently. Still, she tries to show some measure of surprise in her reaction. She doesn't want to appear unfazed, as if she'd merely expected an outcome like this.

Come to think of it, she'd truly had no clear-cut expectations of Quinn, except that she would flourish and be beautiful, always.

"You left?" Rachel asks, treading lightly.

Hazel eyes take a quick, restless flight around the room before landing back on Rachel's. "Yeah," she says.

There's a note of finality in Quinn's tone, and Rachel gathers that "yeah" is both the beginning and the end of the story. "Okay," Rachel says, nodding slowly. "Well, I'm sure you had your reasons."

Quinn looks contemplative for only a moment, then dismisses the whole thing—whatever it was. She shrugs, an airy "hm" sound escaping her as she plucks a piece of lint from her sweater.

Rachel, in her lack of any insight whatsoever, can only assume that, yes, Quinn had her reasons, and perhaps lint was one of them.

Yes, that's right, lint.

It certainly appears to be quite the pressing issue all of a sudden as another pesky particle of fluff captures Quinn's wandering eye, and then another and another. She takes care to pluck each one thoroughly from her sweater, flicking them into the air and watching them swirl and flutter and fall as if making fuzzy lint rain.

Rachel watches with rapt attention, not really knowing why. She's mind-bogglingly captivated by this strange, strange diversion that Quinn has created.

What is happening?

The reality police finally clubs her over the head. She snaps from her daze, blinking rapidly, then fixes her gaze on Quinn. "Would you like a roller?" she asks, tone rather abrupt.

Quinn is a bit slow on the uptake as her gaze drifts lazily over to Rachel's. "Pardon?" she asks.

"A lint roller. To roll your lint. You seem to be having quite a little bit of a problem."

Quinn's head dips slightly in embarrassment. "Uh, no, I think I'm good...but thanks."

"You're sure? Because believe me, you've come to the right place. Kurt keeps a package of Scotch-Brites in every drawer of the apartment." She shakes her head, scoffing at her roommate's antics. "You'd think they were condoms," she adds, then blushes to the tips of her ears.

Quinn reacts similarly, eyes darting to the floor as she squirms in her seat.

Rachel feels a surge of satisfaction at having just scandalized the former head cheerleader. Quinn didn't know Rachel Berry had it in her! A smug grin tugs at her lips. Yes, Rachel Berry most certainly does have it in her. Always has, always will.

Errr...wait, what? No, scratch that—she didn't mean—

"Well, let's hope he never confuses the two," Quinn says, embarrassment wiped from her face as if she's never known the feeling.

Now it's Rachel's turn to squirm. She recovers quickly, then opens her mouth to speak, realizing immediately that she'd prefer to never speak of this again. She snaps her mouth shut, feeling the urge to switch gears before the conversation derails any further. To her relief, Quinn switches them on her own.

"I love this song," Quinn says.

Song? What song? Oh yes, the song playing currently. Rachel listens. It's "River" by Joni Mitchell. Rachel knows that one by heart.

Quinn obviously knows it too, her eyes watching the record revolve as her body sways in time with the music. Her knees are drawn in tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them like a lonely little hug.

Rachel smiles at the sight. Whatever this is, she's glad they're doing it. She's so glad Quinn's here.

She continues gazing thoughtfully at her guest, who appears to be a little lost...in the music, that is. "Does it make you sad?" Rachel asks.

Quinn looks at her. "The song?"

Rachel nods.

Quinn's brow furrows in contemplation. "In a happy way, yeah, I suppose it does."

The song ends, the record crackles like logs on a fire. Companionable silence falls over them like a blanket as Rachel tucks her feet underneath her, burrowing deeper into the couch as if she intends to stay there all winter.

Quinn looks as if she could to the same. Then, out of the nowhere, she sits up alertly as if someone just whispered the time in her ear. "Well, I should probably go," she says, then rises to her feet.

Rachel looks up at her in confusion. "Oh...are you sure? It's awfully late to be walking home all by yourself. Unless..." she breaks off, eyes widening as a realization strikes her. "Quinn, you're not—I mean you do have a place to go home to...don't you?"

Quinn stares at her for a moment. "Are you asking me if I live on the street?"

Rachel tries to show in her expression that it was a purely baseless assumption, a stab in the dark. Nothing whatsoever to do with the holes in Quinn's sweater. Definitely not the huge gaping one near her collarbone, which she's trying to look anywhere but directly at.

And she wants to be clear that despite looking more like a vagrant than a Park Avenue penthouse dweller, Quinn still looks...beautiful.

To get this, among other points across, she stammers, "I—I just...I thought maybe you—"

"Rachel," Quinn begins, taking a step forward, "I have an apartment two miles from here." She fishes something from her pocket—her iPhone. "I'm going to take an Uber, though, since it's a long walk and these boots kill my feet."

She goes right to work, using modern technology to summon the car that will deliver her to the home she does, in fact, have, and that will keep her off the streets of which she does not live upon.

Rachel's cheeks might as well be stained a permanent shade of crimson. After a brief spin around the block, she's right back in the familiar neighborhood of sheer mortification. She never should've left to begin with.

"What's your street address?" Quinn asks.

Rachel tells her, then says, "Quinn, I'm sorry. How incredibly foolish of me to even consider your not having a place of residence. I certainly didn't mean to imply that you…" she trails off and shakes her head. "Well. Anyway, I'm sorry. Really, I am."

"It's fine," Quinn says absently, eyes fastened to her phone.

Rachel narrows her gaze at the blonde, lips pursing in faint annoyance. She clears her throat. "So is there anything else I can help you with?" she asks, adding a dash of chirpiness to her tone.

Because she's helped so much already.

Quinn makes a few more swipes and taps against her phone, finalizing her transaction before lifting her eyes to Rachel's. "Nope," she says. "My ride should be here any minute. I just, um, need my coat."

They hold each other's gaze for a moment.

"Of course," Rachel says, voice a bit tight. She peels off toward her bedroom, officially irritated with the blonde, without really knowing why. It's mostly because she's leaving.

When she returns to the living room she finds Quinn staring straight at her, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape as if she's been caught in the middle of a lie.

Rachel's a bit taken aback as she stiffly extends the coat out to her guest. "Here you go."

"Come see me tomorrow," Quinn blurts out.

"What? Where?"

"At the coffee shop," Quinn answers. Confidence seems to repossess her on the spot as she accepts her coat from Rachel's grasp. "I'm working eight to five. You should stop in for a minute, if you can."

Despite Quinn's antics giving her whiplash, Rachel nods, smiling softly. "Yes, I'd like that, Quinn. Thank you."

"Thank you for having me."

Rachel's about to tell her what a pleasure it was when the door slides open and Kurt breezes into the apartment. His head is down as he crosses the room in hurried strides, waving distractedly at Rachel and Random Blonde Girl.

"Hi Kurt," Rachel says.

"Hey Rach."

"Hi Kurt."

"Hey Quinn."

He's halfway to his bedroom when he stops on a dime, nearly tripping and falling over himself before whirling around, face scrunched in confusion. The shock wears off quickly, recognition settling over him as he places a hand on his hip, then huffs in irritation. "Oh, so now you're friends?" he asks.

Quinn and Rachel look at each other and dissolve into giggles.