Because their story deserved to be told and finished…

To all of those still here, still caring, thank you for going on this journey with me. xx

Chapter 18

"A little more to the left!"

He sighs and moves over slightly, making his position on the stepladder just a little more precarious. "I don't know why you don't have one of those mercury bubble straightener things from Home Depot. How's this?"

Rachel takes another step back to assess the tableau before her. Kurt, on a stepladder, holding up an enormous silver frame that still looks just a little… "Kurt, it's still crooked, if you could just-"

She sees it happening in slow motion. Kurt whipping his head back to glare at her, the gentle wobble of the ladder, his high-pitched yelp just before his ass lands on her new wool rug.

"Dammit Rachel!"

"It's perfect!" And it is. Perfectly straight, set against the stark, colour-washed white wall, immediately becoming the focal point of the entire room. The longer she stares at it, the more…centred she feels.

"I'm fine, by the way," Kurt mumbles as she walks over him, her gaze fixed on the canvas. "It's really beautiful, don't you think?"

"Yes." Kurt scrambles up with a huff, vigorously brushing carpet fluff off his jacket. "It's beautiful and spectacular and just about every other adjective you've made me attach to this thing since it got here." He follows her gaze to the painting and sighs. It really is a stunning piece of art. There's some sort of starry theme happening, which he can appreciate. His knowledge of art is limited to the brief fling he had with an aspiring painter-slash-musician who called himself Jon-Luc, spoke with a broad Jersey dialect and smoked 3 packs of Camels a day.

Still, Kurt supposes that if a piece is really good, you'd know right away. And if the way Rachel's mooning over the canvas is any indication, this is up there with Botticelli. Then again, he does notice how her eyes persistently flicker over the scribbled "Q Fabray" in the bottom right-hand corner.

"It's nice," he ventures. "That she sent this to you."

"Yes, well," Rachel takes a step back suddenly, as if aware that she's been caught out. "I did express interest in the piece when I first saw it. I mean, she knew I liked it, so-" she clears her throat and turns to Kurt with a painted on smile. "It was nice of her, yes."

She obviously wants to leave it there. There's a certain desperation in those pretty brown eyes of hers that seems to scream, "Kurt, leave it alone. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about her." It's not like she hasn't actually yelled those words to him a dozen times since she got back from Boston. And he should respect her privacy and her desire to repress. He should, because he's Kurt and she's Rachel and that's exactly why he says, "Are you going to thank her?"

She shrugs tense shoulders. "I haven't thought about it."

He makes a disbelieving noise, the one he knows Rachel hates before turning on his heels and making his way to into the kitchen. 3-2-

"What is that supposed to mean?" Like clockwork, she's storming after him. He doesn't have to turn around to know her hands are fisted at her sides, her face set in that particular scowl.

"What's what supposed to mean?" he asks innocently, pulling a bottle of water out of the fridge.

"That," she waves her hand over his torso. "That 'hmm-mm'. What are you trying to say?"

Kurt sighs and wishes, not for the first time that she wasn't this stubborn. "Rach, it's been four months. Not a word, not a call or a 'Hey, remember that time we had soul-shattering sex and then you left your fiancé and I couldn't commit?' text. And then she sends you a painting with a note less personal than my Great-Aunt Jean's Christmas cards and you haven't thought about contacting her?!" He takes a breath. "Really, Rachel?"

"Kurt," her voice is softer now, calmer and Kurt's eyes narrow. He knows this Rachel. He's mildly terrified of this Rachel. "You don't know what you're talking about, okay?" Her lips curve up into a syrupy smile. "So drop it."

They stare at each other for a moment. Kurt's suspicious, narrowed eyes bore into Rachel's obnoxiously sweet-doe eyes. "What aren't you telling me?" He finally asks.

"I-" Rachel breaks first and looks down. "It's nothing."

"Rachel?"

She makes a frustrated sound before rolling her eyes. "Okay, fine. Fine!" She snatches the bottle from his hand and takes a long swig before indelicately wiping her mouth on the back of her hand and saying, "We've been talking."

Kurt's face crumples in confusion. "You've been talking? With Quinn?"

"Yes," she consents quietly.

"When?"

Rachel shrugs a little weakly. "I don't know. Last night, the night before. It's been going on for a while."

"Define a while." Kurt leans back against the counter top and crosses his arms over his chest.

"She called to wish me luck on the play and then... it just sort of happened, Kurt, I don't know what you want me to say."

"I want you to tell me why you haven't told me, your best friend about this. God, Rachel. For months I've been worrying about you, wondering why you were holding this all inside."

"No, for months you've been pestering me, coercing me into talking about a problem that didn't exist! Just because your love life is in ruins doesn't mean you get to project that misery onto everyone else!" She's yelling now. She does this when she's angry, or defensive or hurt.

"Well it would have been nice to know that you were okay. That all my worrying, excuse me, coercing, was in vain!" Now Kurt's shouting, because that's something they do. Rachel seems to bring out the yeller in him. One of them will be crying in a minute, if their history is anything to go by, but Rachel instantly deflates and throws her arms around him.

"I know. I know and I'm sorry." Rachel apologising is an anomalous occurrence, one which he would be smart to accept. And so he does, and gently brings his arms around her.

"My love life has been pretty apocalyptic recently." His voice is muffled into her shoulder.

She pulls back and offers him a tearful smile. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes you did." He shoots her a self-deprecating smile and takes the half-empty water bottle from her hand. "How about we swap this for something with a little more bite?"

"Kurt, it's barely 2pm."

"And your point?" He raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and she grins.

"Pour away."

Rachel's laugh, which should actually be defined as a cackle, echoes through the freshly-papered walls of her new West Village brownstone. It's not as grand than her previous place. But it's exactly where she wants it to be and she loves it because it's hers. She tops up her glass and then Kurt's, despite his half-hearted protests.

"So wait, wait," Kurt takes a hearty sip of his Pinot before grinning stupidly at Rachel. "She actually said that you were the reason she realised she was gay?"

"Well, not in so many words, but-" Rachel shrugs.

It feels unbelievably good to talk to Kurt (to anybody really) about Quinn. After Boston, after David, after everything all Rachel wanted to do was sleep for a hundred years. Not because she wasn't fine, because she was. She understood exactly where she and Quinn stood and that was fine. She was just tired. Utterly and excruciatingly tired. She managed to get in a week of sleep and a half before her agent called and told her that she had an "audition" for Michael Mayer's new production. The pro of this was of course working with Mike again, which always shook her world up one way or another. The con was that she'd need to actually get out of her pyjamas for the first time in almost two weeks. Ultimately, ambition won, as it always does, and Rachel showed up for her audition, nailed it and was taken out for lunch by Michael a day later. "The part was practically written for you," he said. "You're the voice in my head when I think about Moira," he said. "Production begins in a month," he said. And so Rachel said yes, and immersed herself in the part and felt more at home on the stage than she did in years. And she didn't speak or think about Boston or David until 10:45 on the night before their preview performance when Quinn called just as Rachel was getting ready for bed.

That first conversation was stilted and strange. They spoke over each other and laughed awkwardly. They didn't mention Rachel's time in Boston or anything related to those few stolen weeks. They spoke, instead about the future. About Rachel's feelings about being back on stage, about Quinn's latest piece. Rachel mentioned wanting to move into a new place and Quinn stated that she always imagined Rachel to be living in some pretty brownstone in the heart of the city. Three and a half weeks later, Rachel was doing just that.

She tells Kurt about most of these conversations. She tells him about Hector and Puck and Vanessa. He laughs when she tells him about Max's antics and cringes when she tells him about Francine's drama. It all comes pouring forth. Her proposition to Quinn, the night she showed up soaked to the bone, their moment in her trailer, her panic attack, waking up next to the most beautiful woman she's ever met. And then she's telling him about their last interaction, the one in Max's bed. And she's halfway through justifying Quinn's decision, because she understands and because Quinn was being an adult and because she can hardly be angry at Quinn for feeling the way she felt and because she's okay, she's fine and -

"Rachel. Honey?"

Rachel looks over at Kurt and the expression on his face says it all.

"I'm really fine," she insists, reaching over for the almost empty bottle of Pinot Noir. But Kurt pulls it out of her reach and scoots closer.

"Rachel, it's okay to be angry with her." Kurt waits until her gaze flits up and meets his. "And it's okay to not be okay."

"But I am," she counters as if it were obvious. "I told you, Kurt-"

"You told me that you said you loved her and she asked you to go. I know you, Rachel, I know what that must have-"

"What are you trying to do?" She gets up, because it's easier to yell when she's standing, but the wine has made her dizzy and she sways slightly. "Why are you saying these things?"

"I just want you to be honest with yourself." Kurt's tone is soft and tentative, but all Rachel hears is condescension.

"No," she points an accusatory finger at him. "No you want me to have some sort of melt down and cry in your arms and talk about how I wish things were different. But you know what?" She takes a breath and scans the room, looking anywhere but Kurt's face. She can't bear to see the pity written there. "I've made my peace with this, Kurt. Things don't always work out the way we envision them. This is one of those things. I know how Quinn feels."

"What about how you feel?"

"It doesn't matter." She shrugs a shoulder and finally looks at Kurt. "It doesn't matter how I feel because," she wishes her voice didn't crack, that those tears didn't blur her vision, she wishes she could be stronger. "Because she doesn't want me. Not like that anyway."

And then she's in Kurt's arms and she's crying and wishing things were different and it's everything she didn't want, but so desperately needed. The muffled words against Kurt's tear-stained shirt seem to resemble "Why doesn't she want me?" and also, "What's wrong with me?" All Kurt does is hold her tightly and let her cry. He's learnt by now that sometimes all you can do is let someone cry.

"I'm okay," she says eventually, and pulls back with a enthusiastic sniff.

"You don't have to be, you know?"

She offers up a watery smile and gently pats her best friend's cheek. "I know, and yeah, it hurts, but I'm dealing." Like a five-year old, she rubs her nose of her sleeve, causing Kurt to roll his eyes and pull a handkerchief from his pocket.

"Here."

Rachel scrunches up her face. "Ew. I'm not using that."

"Oh, because your sleeve is a much more hygienic option." He purses his lips and says, "It's clean, I promise." Then, without warning, Kurt dabs her face with his "clean" tartan hankie and holds it over her nose. "Now blow." And she does.

She's considering whether to use her lavender essential oils or French vanilla bubbles when her phone rings. Kurt left over an hour ago, with the promise of calling to check up on her, so Rachel's in no great hurry to answer. Heart-to-hearts with Kurt are cathartic, but also so very exhausting and the thought of any more conversation for the next few hours is daunting. In fact, she'd be very happy to get out of her bath, turn on her television and lose herself in some god-awful reality show involving money and people with bad grammar for the rest of the evening. She picks up with a distracted 'hello' and nearly drops her phone in the tub when Quinn answers. It's not that the call is completely unexpected, but Quinn's voice always seems to unhinge Rachel slightly. It's warm and intimate and though Rachel knows better, there's always a hint of flirtation laced among the octaves.

"Quinn, hi." She's suddenly conscious of her own voice and wills herself to sound less breathless. But, it's difficult when she can practically hear Quinn smiling and it's like taking a sip of really good whiskey because there's this sudden warmth that seeps through her whole body. "How are you?"

"I'm great." There's a momentary pause before Quinn says, "How are you? I, um… I heard the weather was insane in New York this weekend."

"If by insane you mean horribly humid then yes." Rachel moves out of the steamy bathroom and into her bedroom where she can pace and move, because talking to Quinn makes her restless and she'd rather not be naked in a bath while hearing that breathy voice on the other end of the phone.

"So…" Rachel takes a breath and mentally prepares herself for an hour of talking about everything but the one thing she actually wants to talk about and wills herself to enjoy the fact that she's talking to Quinn at all. "… How did your showing go?"

"Stupid, cowardly, ridiculous, stupid-"

"You said that already." Puck squeezes another sheet of bubble wrap in his fist and smiles at the satisfying pop that fills the nearly empty apartment.

"That's because it's true. I'm all of those things. Twice." Quinn flops down onto the couch with a veritable grunt of defeat. "Why is this so hard?"

Puck tosses his sad, deflated ball of plastic across the table before joining her on the couch. "Relax, okay? You've still got like a week before-"

"That's just it!" Quinn's vaguely aware that her voice has just gone three octaves higher. "I've spoken to her two dozen times since she left. I've had plenty of opportunities to say something and yet…" she throws her hands up in the air. "I'm a wuss."

"You're not a wuss." She aims a disbelieving look at him and Puck concedes, "Okay, maybe when it comes to Berry, you're a little bit of a wuss."

She makes a sound that is meant to convey her frustration with him and herself and the universe in general. "I miss Max. He didn't judge my inability to be functionally emotional human being." She sighs, "He just wanted my snuggles."

"It has been depressingly quiet since the little guy left. Can't say I miss your sister though. She terrifies me."

"I just want to go back, you now? Back to that moment when she was in my bed and everything was okay."

"Francine was in your bed?"

Quinn wonders if it's possible to eyeroll hard enough to strain one's muscles. "No, genius. Rachel. I just don't know how to start that conversation with her."

"The one where you tell her you were a dick for letting her go and you're moving to-"

"Yes, Puckerman," she shoots him a glare. "That conversation."

"So don't tell her." He looks proud of himself as he leans back against their tatty but comfortable old couch and says, "Show her. Do something that she can't ignore. You're always going on about actions versus words and all of that crap."

Quinn's about to dismiss his suggestion, because how could she possibly show Rachel how she feels if she can barely move beyond discussing the weather? But then Puck's words actually begin to make sense and the tentative beginnings of an idea begin to take root and suddenly, Quinn doesn't feel quite so inept.

"You know what?" Quinn smiles brightly and turns to Puck. "You're absolutely right."

If he's at all perturbed by her sudden change of tone, he doesn't show it. Years of living with Quinn Fabray, has taught him to expect the unexpected. "Of course I am." Quinn surprises him further by leaning into him and laying her head on his shoulder.

"Thanks," she finally says. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

She's being mildly sarcastic, but even so, expects some quip, some line about how of course she couldn't live without him, but there's nothing, only the subtle, rhythmic rise and fall of Puck's chest. Eventually, she tilts her head up to look at him. Her position means she can only really see his profile, but even at this angle; she can make out his frown. "Heeey," she sings it out and pokes her finger into his arm. "Why the sulk?"

He looks at her for a moment as if debating whether to speak or not and Quinn feels his body tense up before he says, "I'm gonna miss this place." And then, more quietly, "Gonna miss you."

"What's this all about?" she sits up to face him and Puck just shrugs as if he's embarrassed.

"Noah?" She rarely, if ever uses his first name. She's never really thought it suited him. But it has the desired effect and he sighs and finally looks at her. "I dunno. I guess I've just been thinking about these last few years. About us."

"Us?" Her immediate inclination is to raise her brow, that impetuous brow, and lightly scoff at the idea of her and Puck being an "us". But the look on his face is so achingly sincere, that she bites back the snark and scoots even closer to him.

"Yeah." Puck clears his throat. "You and me and like, this place. I mean, I lived with my mom and Sarah most of my life you know? But Lima never really felt like home. It was like this weird juvie I spent years trying to break out of."

"Yeah, I know what you mean." Quinn gives him a half-smile of sympathy, because for a long time, Lima felt like her personal prison, one where she was sentenced to stay for her multitude of sins.

"So like, when me and you moved in here, I guess it became everything that Ohio wasn't. For the first time in my life, I felt free and I wasn't a screw-up. Or so much of a screw-up." He rubs his hand over his head before shaking it. "I got to make things right, you know? With you and," Puck's gaze falters, "-and with Beth. And we're good together. This thing we have-"

Quinn's heart begins a heavy, nervous thud, because surely, surely he's not saying what she thinks he's saying. "Puck, where is this going?"

"You're my family." He looks back to her, all vulnerability and nervousness. "And I don't want that to change. I mean, with the move and the baby-"

Quinn's suddenly confused. "Wait, wait, wait. What baby?" This was not the direction she had anticipated this conversation would go.

Despite his strangely coy demeanour, Puck's face lights up as he says, "Van's pregnant. We're gonna have a kid."

To say that she didn't see this coming would be an understatement. It's not that she's not happy for Puck, because she is, she totally is. Except that for the longest time, he was hers, her… baby-daddy for lack of a better term. The whole having a kid thing was their thing. And she never thought she'd be particularly possessive about having a 'thing' with Noah Puckerman, but there it is.

"Puck, that's…" she musters a smile, "That's great! I'm really happy for you. Really." Except her "happy" face must have sort of resembled her pained face, because Puck's fragile, hopeful expression fades as he says, "Look, Quinn, the only reason I'm going to be any good at this, the only reason I didn't shit myself when Van told me, was cause of you."

She huffs in amusement despite herself. "Thanks?"

He lets out an exasperated sigh. "Okay, that came out wrong. What I meant was," he reaches down to take both of her hands in his. "You'll always be my first babymama." She laughs and rolls her eyes and hopes he doesn't see the tears welling up in them. "You're my family. And no matter what happens, that'll never change."

She swallows back a sort-of sob, but those tears end up on her cheeks anyway. "That kid is going to be so loved." She squeezes his hands and smiles, genuinely this time. "You're gonna be great at this."

"I might need you around to remind me of that at times."

"Consider it done."

They continue to smile at each other until it borders on creepy and Puck says, "So, uh, Van might want to tell you again when she asks about the godmother gig, and you'll have to act all surprised and shit."

Quinn instantly lights up. "You guys want me to be the godmother?"

He looks at her as if it were obvious. "What, you thought we'd ask Bas?"

She snorts at the image of Bas holding a baby. "No, I just… I'm really honoured."

"Yeah, well try to contain some of that excitement for Vanessa. She's been kind of… fragile lately. Hormones, you know?"

"I do." Quinn's expression goes deadpan and he looks sheepish.

"I think she's worried about being on tour and being pregnant, but I told her that musicians do it all the time. I mean, look at Beyonce and like… Madonna. They totally rock the MILF look. That's before Madonna got all spider-arms and scary cheek bones. But she's still like do-able."

Quinn makes a face. "Aaand just like that, this conversation just got uncomfortable."

"Speaking of uncomfortable," Puck winks and says, "Any idea about how to get you back under Rachel Berry's radar? And by radar, I mean-"

She holds her hand up in a desperate attempt to derail that sentence, despite the fact that he's now making hand gestures. "Yes, okay, I know what you meant."

"So?" he wriggles his brows playfully. "Cause I was thinking-"

"Then I'll save you the trouble." Quinn lets out a deep breath and says, "I have a plan. Maybe."

Rachel awakes slowly and in a significant amount of confusion. It takes her a few seconds to orientate herself and realise that there is not in fact a tiny Asian man standing in the corner of the room playing the triangle and the annoying ringing that persists is actually her phone. The generic ring indicates that the caller is not a known contact, so Rachel scrambles out of bed, cursing the fact that she left her phone on the dining room table and curious as to the identity of her mystery caller.

She barely makes it to swipe her screen and breathe out a measured, "Hello, this is Rachel Berry."

Rachel's not sure what she expected, but Noah Puckerman's voice was not it.

"Ray. Chel. Berry." She can just about imagine Puck's libidinous grin that always seems to accompany that specific drawl. "What's up, sugar lips?" Her eyes flick to the stainless steel cat-shaped clock on the wall.

"Noah, it's 1:46am. Not that I'm not happy to hear your voice, but what is this about?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry about the time, we just finished up a gig and I wasn't really-" he sounds sort of frazzled and Rachel's heart begins to pound in that specific way that accompanies worry.

"Puck, is everything okay? Is Quinn-"

"Nah. Q's uh, she's fine." There's a loud crash in the background, followed by indistinguishable whispers before Puck eventually says "I was actually calling about something else."

"Okaaay."

"The thing is, we just got a gig in the city and -"

Rachel's eyes are still heavy and her brain all fuzzy. "New York City?"

"The one and only." Another crash. "Hey sorry. We're in Connecticut and it's pretty intense."

"I bet." She yawns loudly. "Listen, Noah, I am sincerely happy about the performance, but can we do this another time? I've got to be up at five tomorrow for this big Allure photoshoot and-"

"Yeah, no problem, look," there's a pause before he says, "Can you like, try to come to our gig though?" Puck actually sounds embarrassed, which Rachel finds strangely endearing, despite the fact that it's almost 2am and she's supposed to be up in three hours for a photo-shoot at seven. "It's really important to… Bas. You know how he is. And Van's really looking forward to seeing you. You know, she never really got a chance to see you after everything went down. And you're like my number one Jew after JC, so-"

"When?"

"Hmmm?" He sounds surprised, like he wasn't expecting her to give in so easily.

Rachel sighs again. Loudly. "When, Noah? When is your gig?"

"Friday."

"The day after tomorrow?"

"That's it."

She wants to say no. Based on her schedule, she should say no. And, if she's being really honest with herself, she's not sure if she wants to see Puck or anyone that reminds her of Boston. At the same time, she's aware that in a weird way, he's the closest tether to Quinn and there's a chance that –

She sucks in a breath before, "So, is um, Joe back with you guys? I mean, he's… back?" The minute it's out there, she knows how lame it sounds.

"Yeah," Puck's voice goes soft. "Yeah, Joe's on bass. She's not…" He pauses before saying, "She's got work, you know?"

"No, I get it," she cuts him off before he can say more. She really doesn't want to discuss Quinn with Puck right now. "Okay, give me the details and I'll be there."

"Sweet." There's a definite hint of relief in Pucks voice as he says, "So there's this gallery opening in SoHo…

Kurt waves his hand in front of his face in an exaggerated gesture as he glides into Rachel's bedroom, looking suave as ever. "Good lord, Rachel, how much of this stuff did you spray on?"

She sticks her head out of her gigantic walk-in closet. "Do you like it? Philip sent over the samples yesterday. This is my favourite."

He sniffs the air like a twitchy-nosed bunny-rabbit. "I do like the raspberry tones, and also," Kurt takes another hearty sniff. "What is that? Is that… pineapple?"

Rachel comes out with her unzipped back facing Kurt. "Yeah, it's great, right? We're thinking of calling it Summer Berry."

"It is interesting," he says, zipping her up with ease. Her cocktail dress fits like a pretty, plum-coloured glove.

"Tell me again," Kurt starts as she walks past him. "How did Noah Puckerman's garage band end up playing at a black tie event in Soho?"

"It's not a garage band!" Rachel calls out from the bathroom, surprised that she's actually offended by Kurt's suggestion. "They're really good! And it's a gallery opening, so don't expect too much."

She musses up her hair a little and stands back to observe the finished product. "You know, you just missed Chad. He and Eva left just a few minutes ago."

"You had your make-up artists come in for this gig?" Kurt sounds scandalised, but he's not really. He's seen Rachel do full make-up for the gym at times. He'd never tell her this, but he thinks it has something to do with the fact that deep down, she still felt the need to prove herself to the outside, prove that she was more than a sexless high-school girl in knee-high socks and tartan.

"No," Rachel has the decency to sound indignant and she walks back in. "They were in the neighbourhood and I mentioned that I was going out tonight, so…" she waves a finger at her face. "This happened." She waits until Kurt's done mocking before she says, "Chad's single by the way. He and Henri called it quits." She smiles slightly and adds, "He asked about you."

"Hmm," Kurt raises his chin and attempts to look disinterested. "What did he say exactly?"

"You know…" Rachel bends down to sling her shoe strap over her heel. "I just can't remember." She shots him a devilish look. "But I know you have his number, so you could always call him up."

Kurt makes a non-committal sound. "Let's just focus on your love life for now, shall we?"

Rachel straightens up and frowns at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Kurt answers quickly. "I just imagine that yours is more salvageable than mine."

Rachel scoffs. "Salvageable? Have you heard anything I've said in the last few weeks?"

He gives her a gentle smile and runs his fingers through her hair for good measure. "Come on gorgeous, we don't want to be late."

She's surprised that she actually likes the venue. There's a new gallery opening in Soho every three seconds. Some of them are great, most of them are awful. She'd like to think that all of those vacations she spent in Europe with her parents rather than attending all the cool kid parties she was never invited to anyway paid off. The gallery itself is a typical loft, with the first floor barely bigger than her living room, but it's intimate and beautifully lit and surprisingly crowded. She can hardly see the pieces lining the walls, but the few sculptures her eyes land on are gorgeous, and not for the first time, Rachel wonders who the owner is.

"This. Is. Stunning!" Kurt bumps hips with her and Rachel grins, and not just because of the camera flash that just went off. It truly is. She's glad Puck convinced her to make this appearance. She's barely given thought to her social life since her break-up with David. It became an unspoken rule that he got custody of their "couple" friends, most of whom have labelled her "the vicious cheating bitch", which she's fine with, because she's got Kurt and her old NYADA crowd and in a way, she's got Quinn, which, whether she wants it to or not, seems to be the only thing that matters.

There's a little stage set up in one corner, but the band are nowhere in sight. Kurt's eyes flit across the room as if he's looking for something. "Shall I get us a drink?"

"Yes, anything is fine." Rachel finds herself momentarily distracted by a specific piece in the far corner of the room.

"Coming right up."

Rachel shuffles past a menagerie of sparkly people holding sparkly drinks. She catches snippets of pretentious conversation and sees an industry-person or two among the glitter. It's all very typical and in a way, comforting, and yet, she's unreasonably unsettled. It's like that moment when you wake from a dream, only you're still dreaming and the second time you wake, everything feels just slightly off-kilter. It takes her a moment to realise that the paintings around her are vaguely familiar.

She's almost certain she hasn't actually seen them before, but something about the artist's strokes, their use of colour and depth, something about the pieces resonates with her. She's about to nudge past the other observers and take a closer look, when a voice on the microphone catches her attention. She turns to face the stage and finds herself taken aback at the image of Noah Puckerman, dressed in black and looking outrageously attractive. He searches the crowd until he finally finds Rachel's beaming face and darn it if she doesn't get a flutter or two in her belly when he pulls out that signature smirk. The rest of the band appears from behind him, all looking particularly dashing and Rachel can't help the bubble of disappointment that wells up inside when a cleaned-up Joe steps out from behind Bas.

Puck clears his throat before saying, "We are Boston Specific and very happy to be playing in New York tonight." There's a tremor of applause through the crowd, though with true New York nonchalance, most people are perfectly content to carry on their conversations and sip their drinks and peruse the art. "Before we play our first song, I'd like to thank Mr Diaz for the invitation to play the opening of this outstanding gallery." Puck extends his arm and winks at somebody at the make-shift bar. "You're the real deal, man. Boston represent." A few people whoop and Rachel follows Puck's gaze. Standing at the bar, next to Kurt and a shorter gentleman who looks suspiciously familiar, is Hector. Hector Diaz.

Quinn's boss.

The band begins to play and Rachel feels dizzy. The Mahjong tiles of thought in her head are struggling to fit together and make sense. If Hector is Mr Diaz, then this is Hector's gallery, and if this is Hector's gallery…

Rachel begins to walk with purpose towards the bar, where she watches Kurt duck and expertly gets lost in the sea of people between him and Rachel. She's going to get answers about this, one way or –

And then she sees it. Really sees it. The same painting that caught her eye earlier. The painting that isn't really a painting at all, but a sketch.

A sketch of her.

It's not obvious. In fact, it's just a body. The artist left the face vague and obscure. But she more than recognises it, she's overcome by the memory of it. Lying on Quinn's bed, the feeling of Quinn's eyes sliding over every curve, every freckle, every dip and flare. And it's all there, on canvas. Raw and exposed and overwhelmingly beautiful.

"It's called What I Couldn't Find."

Quinn brushes past Rachel and points to the title on the small white plaque below the sketch. "See?"

There are moments that stay with you until you die. Moments that become the stories you tell your children and grandchildren, moments that become so threaded into your personal mythology they are inseparable from your very identity. Rachel instantly knows that this is one of those moments.

She sucks in a breath and turns around to find Quinn. Quinn who called her derogatory names in freshman year. Quinn who offered to duet with her in an attempt to sabotage Glee Nationals. Quinn who kissed her under a tree and left her breathless. Quinn who touched her in places she'd never even touched herself and told her that she was everything.

"Quinn."

"Hi. Rachel." There's definite pause between these two words. As if they mean two distinct things. And there's that smile. That smile that transforms Quinn's entire face and makes you feel like you're the only person in the entire universe who's ever been on the receiving end of such adoration.

"You're here." Rachel's gaze sweeps up and down the vision that is Quinn Fabray. In a tailored double-breasted suit that accentuates all of her qualities, and hair, a little longer than Rachel remembers, tousled and just brushing her shoulders, she's like a 1920's mobster-slash-runway model. It's all very much for Rachel to take in. "Why," she lets out a breath she didn't realise she was holding. "Why are you here?"

"I'm… working," Quinn says simply, her eyes never leaving Rachel's face, as if she were soaking in every feature, every pore and freckle. "It wouldn't look very good for the assistant gallery director to be absent from said gallery's opening, now would it?" There's a sparkle of delight in Quinn's eyes as she watches Rachel work through the logic.

"You work here?" Rachel emphasizes the last word as if it is of great importance. Because when it boils down to it, it is. "How?"

"Hector." Quinn inclines her head towards the man at the bar, with his partner whom Rachel now recognises from her night at Quinn's art function. "He's been wanting to open up his own gallery for a long time and-"

"And he decided to open it in New York?!" Rachel's heart is pounding, but she doesn't want to hope, not yet, not when there's suddenly so much to lose.

"Well," Quinn's lower lip finds itself caught between her teeth as she debates how to answer. "He wanted me on board. The gallery, it was something we had always talked about and… he wanted me to be part of it. And when I told him I was coming to New York, it seemed to make sense that we'd open it here. I mean, Paul's from here and he's always wanted Theo to grow up in this city so I can't take all the credit."

"You were-" The behind them, Bas goes at it on a drum solo and Rachel has to speak up. "You were moving here?" She needs to know. She needs Quinn to say it. "Why?"

Quinn reaches out and it's like slow motion. Like the end of those terrible but wonderful eighties rom-coms when everything has a synthesized backing track. She gently tucks an errant curl behind Rachel's ear and says, "So that we'd finally be in the same orbit." Quinn shrugs shyly. "I thought telling you like this would be romantic. In retrospect it might be-"

"Perfect." Rachel turns back to the sketch. "How did you finish it? I know it wasn't done when we, when I left."

"Imagination," Quinn says from behind her. "Memory." Rachel feels the bloom of warmth on her cheeks.

"This one is for all the lovers," Puck's voice reaches them as if from very far away and it's only until Rachel hears her own name, that she's snapped out of the trance. "Thanks for coming tonight, Rachel." The entire band is staring at her from stage, causing a number of people in the audience to turn and face them.

There's a whoop from the bar and they both turn in time to see Kurt and Hector clink glasses.

Rachel's genuinely stunned. She had no idea Kurt was in on any of it. "That sonofa-"

"Hey," Quinn's suddenly a centimetre closer and all intelligent thought leaves Rachel's head. "They're playing our song." It's not really their song, or any song that Rachel has heard before. In fact, she suspects it may be a Boston Specific original. But it's sweet and sexy and Vanessa's breathy tones filter through the room, warming it up even more. Quinn holds out a hand. "Would you like to dance, Rachel?"

"Have you always been this cheesy?" Rachel accepts Quinn's hand and they walk to the middle of the room, where only one other couple is swaying rhythmlessly.

Quinn's palm snakes its way down Rachel's back until it finds a home and she fits their bodies together. "Says the woman who wanted "Wind Beneath My Wings" as her wedding song."

"Quinn!" Rachel clucks her tongue. "I told you that in confidence."

"And, I'm confidently mocking you."

"You don't get to mock me," she says it lightly, but the pain is there, clear and present in those expressive brown eyes. Rachel unconsciously grips Quinn even tighter, as if to anchor herself against what she's about to say, "You hurt me." It's a whisper and barely audible above the band, but Quinn hears nothing else.

"I know." She makes sure that Rachel's looking at her, that they're truly connecting before she says, "And I'm so sorry. And there is no excuse except… that I was scared." She shrugs her shoulders and suddenly, Rachel sees that sixteen year old girl, alone in the world, waiting for the other shoe to drop, to be displaced yet again. "I was scared." They're swaying out of time to the music, but neither notices, nor cares.

"I get scared too," Rachel admits softly.

"You just seem so sure of everything," Quinn counters. "Like you've got it all figured out."

Rachel actually laughs. "Do you remember anything about those three weeks in Boston?" Quinn raises her brow with a wry smile and Rachel laughs again. "My life was a mess. Most of the time, it still is. I'm hardly sure about anything, Quinn." She takes a breath before saying, "Except this." Her eyes flicker between their bodies. "This I am sure of."

Quinn searches Rachel's face, for a moment, as if the answers were there, written between her brows until finally, she presses her lips against Rachel's temple and sighs. "Then I'm sure too."

It's a fragile kind of moment, one that is both separate from and dependent on their surroundings. Rachel feels Quinn's body sort of deflate and mould into hers. Then they're swaying and there is no gallery, no band, no time at all.

Eventually the song ends, as songs are wont to do and Rachel steps away, but Quinn holds her close. "One more," she whispers and Rachel happily obliges.

Halfway through Vanessa's rendition of "Summertime", Rachel asks, "How's Max?" Because suddenly, being in the same room with Quinn and Puck and even Vanessa seems strange without the tiny tot zipping around.

"He's great." Rachel thinks it's amazing and endearing how Quinn's entire face animates at the mention of her nephew. "He and Frannie are back with my mom, so-" she shakes her head with a slightly concerned laugh as if the thought is just occurring to her, "I guess he'll grow up to be a Lima kid."

Rachel offers up a wry look. "There are worse things than being a Lima kid."

"There are?"

"We turned out okay."

Quinn's arched brow makes an appearance and Rachel smiles. "Sort of okay. I mean, we made it in the end, didn't we?"

"I don't know," Quinn suddenly twirls her and Rachel laughs. Really laughs. Like she hasn't laughed in months. "I guess we'll know 'in the end'," Quinn says, pulling her back in. "Right now, I'm kinda focused on the "here" of it all."

"Good," Rachel answers, slipping her arm back around Quinn's waist."Because I like it here."

FIN.