AN: This started out as something I wrote for fun, but then it turned into Intense And Angsty Conversation In Weird Place because, you know. Faberry.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It's twelve-fifteen on a Wednesday afternoon, weather mild, temperature slightly chilled, and Quinn Fabray is smoking. Again. She takes a long drag, pink lips puckered perfectly on the edge of that death-stick. It's kind of dark underneath the bleachers, but it only makes her hair and outfit seem more intense. Wild. Cool. She's so pretty. It's a shame, though, because she won't be able to rejoin Glee club when she gets throat cancer and they have to replace her larynx with one of those voice-box thingies. She's ruining her life, and as Glee co-captain, I, Rachel Berry, simply cannot allow that to happen!

"Is someone there?"

Crud. I really must cut down on the feet-stamping. It's childish. And worse, it almost blew my cover - and then these camouflage clothes Noah surrendered - ahem - gave to me will have been a complete waste.

"...Rachel?"

Uh.

"Are those - Why are you wearing face paint? Are those binoculars around your neck?"

I have an excuse, I have an excuse. Just relax, okay? Breathe. Picture NYADA. Picture the stage. I'm not lying, I'm acting. Breathe, breathe. Aaaaaahhhh.

"Jesus, Rachel, are you actually stalking me?"

I can do this.

"Oh, hello, Quinn! Beautiful day, isn't it. Yes... Quite the day for a spot of bird-watching. Or... smoking, I suppose. It seems our two choices of activity seem to have coincided at this very place and time. How completley bizarre! Now if you'll excuse me, your illegal, life-threatening "hobby" is frightening the sparrows."

That. Was. Magnificent! Brava, brava! I deserve a real standing ovation for this performance, and not just the one in my head that my therapist refuses to drop. You're jealous, Brian. Deal with it.

"If this is the latest in your crazy attempts to get me back in Glee, you can forget it. This is who I am now."

As if to punctuate that point, she tilts her head to the side and blows one wobbly, perfect smoke ring. But it's not attractive. Smoking is bad, and Quinn definitely does not look like a - a- like some gorgeous, disinterested, elegant -

"I'm over it. I'm done with everything high school, you know? Meet new Quinn. The old me is gone, and you'll just have to get used to it."

Woah. I have no idea where that thought was going. And I am not interested in chasing it to its conclusion. Repeat, not. Now where was I? Oh yes. Quinn has clearly gone entirely off the rails.

"Well, I have a couple of things to say to that. Firstly, hello "New Quinn", as you've dubbed yourelf. I don't think we've been formally introduced. Secondly, I hate to repeat myself, but like I said, I was bird-watching. Thirdly, although our meeting here was a complete coincidence, as it happens, I do have a number of things to say about the issue of Glee club, and perhaps even a presentation if you're not too busy flunking all your classes, which, by the way-"

"Rachel-"

"- is SO irresponsible of you, and you'll really regret it when this phase is over, Quinn! Not that I'm trying to illegitimize your state of mind right now, since it's clearly some sort of coping mechanism, and one that wouldn't be necessary if you simply allowed me to help you-"

"Rachel-"

"- out once in a while, I mean, would that really be so bad? I could bake you cookies, or bring you vegan ice cream, and we could partake of traditional female bonding activities, like watching chick-flicks together, having sleepovers, you know, that kind of thing-"

"Rachel! Shut up, for once in your life! For God's sake!"

I...

"I... Quinn, I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me. I just want to help you, okay? And I think Glee could really help you get back to your old self again."

She looks at me. Dead in the eye. She's so pretty, she's so pretty, she's so pretty, she's so sad.

"Well you can't. Help me, I mean. No one can. I don't want to be that Quinn again, because she was a big lie, okay? You know that. And since prom last year, everybody knows it. I'm not Lucy Caboosey. I'm not Cheerio Quinn. And I'm certainly not your friend. There are some problems Glee can't fix, Rachel. Get over it."

Her cigarette has gone out. She hasn't touched it once in the past ten minutes. And now, she gives me one last, lingering gaze as she bites her lip. I'm not imagining it.

"Shouldn't you be in class, Berry?" she says, softly, before she walks away.

It's twelve-thirty-seven on a Wednesday afternoon, weather mild, temperature slightly chilled, and Quinn Fabray has gotten the last word over me. Again.