**This fic is not part of the "All My Dreams" universe...just in case that wasn't clear. The ones that are will always be clearly marked in the summary.
"Lunch is served." Three words that Artie had taken great pleasure in saying to Quinn at least three times a week that summer.
She looked up. "Excellent, maestro, thank you."
"Isn't maestro more of a musical thing?" he asked, a sly grin spreading across his face.
She grinned back. "Well, yeah, but since you ARE musical, and you've definitely mastered this whole lunch making thing, I thought it fit nicely."
He pulled out her chair for her, and they sat down at the table.
As she picked up her neatly-built sandwich, her mind wandered back to the day Artie made her a sandwich for the first time.
She had said she'd help, but he insisted he had it covered. He said he was going to make chicken salad sandwiches.
After about ten minutes, Quinn had started to wonder what was going on. Surely making a couple of sandwiches couldn't take that long? She'd heard the occasional banging and crashing, and she'd thought she'd heard some minor swearing, but she figured he just couldn't find something. He had been so insistent that he didn't need help, that she knew she had to stay out of the kitchen unless he asked her.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Artie had emerged from the kitchen, a tray with two plates on it balanced across his lap.
"Sorry," he'd said, placing them on the table. "Butter-related disaster. I guess there's a reason Mom keeps that butter dish on the counter, but I just always worry about germs with that. It just seems...wrong."
She hadn't looked at the sandwiches yet, but as soon as she did, she could see evidence of the butter-related disaster. She tried to hold back the grin that threatened to spread across her face, and was failing miserably.
"It looks great," she'd said.
He'd grinned at her. "No need to be polite...it looks like someone poked giant holes in some bread with ridiculously hard fridge butter and stuffed chicken salad into them."
"It still tastes the same," she'd said, sitting down next to him. "Outside appearance isn't everything."
He'd let out a short laugh, and said he had to agree with her there.
"How do you feel about butter that's been on the counter, or...no butter?" he'd asked.
She'd grinned. "Your choice."
He'd grinned back. "Then next time let's skip the butter...I just don't trust that counter stuff."
"I think next time I'm going to make some sort of soup," he said, drawing her attention away from her memories and back to the present. "Would you prefer some sort of vegetable, or something with noodles?"
She shrugged. "You're the maestro."
"Then...I don't know. I guess it'll just have to be whatever's here. I am not ready to venture into the land of homemade soup just yet."
She grinned. "You open a can better than anyone else I know."
"Yeah, I am pretty awesome," he said, reaching for the second half of his sandwich.
"You are," she said, "and if anyone isn't sure about that...they can just ask you, right?"
As she reached for the second half of her sandwich, she remembered the first time he'd made her soup.
"Artie, maybe you should just use the microwave," she'd said, when he insisted that soup tasted much better when it was heated on the stove.
He'd shaken his head. "I've already got it in the pot," he'd said. "It's not rocket science."
She wasn't sure why she was reluctant to believe him when he said it was a good idea, but she let the subject drop.
She had returned to the living room, to grab the phone in case anyone called, when she smelled burning.
"Artie," she'd called, hurrying back to the kitchen, "I think something's burning!"
"Just had a minor incident. Apparently cream of broccoli sticks to metal pots when you have them on full heat," he'd said. "The soup doesn't taste burnt, but I think we're going to have to throw out this pot."
She'd looked into the pot. "Why would we throw it out? Just put it to soak...it'll come out."
He shrugged. "I thought it might just be best to destroy the evidence."
She'd laughed, and assured him that it wasn't as bad as it looked.
As they'd sat down for lunch, he admitted, albeit reluctantly, that he would use the microwave in the future.
"Quinn? You look a little zoned out," he said, waving his sandwich in her general direction. "What's up?"
"Oh...nothing," she said. I was just thinking about how your skills have developed in the lunch-making department in the last couple of years."
He grinned. "Yeah, I think about that every time I make lunch. Remember the butter? And that pot?"
She grinned back. "Better than you can possibly imagine."
A/N: QUARTIE FICATHON NOW IN PROGRESS! All the fics that have been posted so far are AMAZING, and anyone reading this should go read them all!
Or...better yet...join us and write some! Details can be found in the Quinn/Artie Forum, or you can PM me!