A/N: So I just want to go ahead and let you guys know that chapter fics are not my forte. Oneshots are for me. I lack the motivation to carry out stories. However, I sat down after watching a movie and thought "I wonder if there's a fanfiction for Quick for this." So I searched for it and searched for it, and alas, there was none! So I was disappointed for awhile, but this story just kept churning around in my head for more than a couple weeks. I could not just get the ideas to shut up! And hey, maybe if a potential chapter fic floats around inside my brain for so long, maybe it won't be so mind-numbing to actually sit down and write it!

So here it is, my newest attempt at a chapter fic. Please don't kill me if it takes forever. Feel free to bug me on Tumblr, though. Your enthusiasm inspires me to write more quickly!

"Q!"

"Hurry up!" Quinn demanded of him, her thin legs working even as she turned to look back to make sure he was still following after her.

At ten, both Noah Puckerman and Quinn Fabray were gangly, their limbs willowy. Puck, however, had hit a growth spurt a few months back and he looked nearer to thirteen than ten. He had an untidy mohawk, long and dark eyelashes that any girl would kill for, and wide enough shoulders that most of his shirts were five inches longer than they needed to be.

A crackle of thunder resounded overhead, a bolt of lightning striking the rolling waves that stretched in front of the two children.

"Whoa! Did you see that?!" Puck's voice was thick with the southern drawl that only someone very uneducated or very young could have. His long legs were quick to catch up with the girl in front of him, bumping into her bony shoulder a little. Her eyes were trained on the sky, thin lips mouthing what he knew were numbers, counting how far away the lightning was. She wasn't enjoying the thrilling weather, she was measuring the danger of it.

Quinn looked exactly like she was ten. Her eyes took up about half of her face, Puck thought, and her dirty blonde hair still had that fineness to it, as soft as his baby sister's. Her mama liked to put it in braids all of the time, but Puck secretly thought she preferred it down.

Apparently deeming the lightning far enough away to safely run across the beach, Quinn took off again, kicking up sand behind her as the sky got darker and darker. "I gotta get home or my mama's gonna kill me!" She called out in explanation, her own southern accent trickling into her words, though he knew her mama was coaching her to get rid of it. Puck took off behind her once again, but kept his eyes on the clouds. Her assessment was probably not as accurate as Quinn wanted to believe, not with the way the waves were rolling and the sky was moving. It was just like Quinn to go running into the danger zone in determination to stay out of trouble, but he didn't care so much. He thought it was safer away from the water, and he wasn't going to let her get struck by lightning. That, and she had yet to answer his question.

"Are ya gonna answer?!" He called out, and ahead of him where he couldn't see, Quinn smiled to herself. "No!" She yelled back as thunder rumbled overhead, hoping her voice at least had remnants of confident rejection.

Sidestepping a piece of driftwood, it was easy for him to catch up to the blonde girl in just a few strides. "No, you're not gonna answer, or no, you won't marry me?"

"Noah Puckerman, I'm ten years old!"

In a great sudden moment, lightning struck the sand in front of their small limber bodies, not but eight feet away.

With a high-pitched scream that only a little girl could have, Quinn turned on her heel back to the forest, almost sinking into the sand with how quickly she pivoted, but was yanked back as Puck caught her elbow. He expected a glare from the girl, not a stricken look that made her eyes even wider. "This way!" He insisted in a sure voice, the kind Quinn usually carried around.

It didn't take long for his reassurance to dissolve Quinn's panic, and within a matter of heartbeats they were standing at the small space where lightning had touched down. Some sort of clear liquid mass had formed there in result, steaming. Quinn's hand outstretched, just like he knew it would, and he was quick to grab her fingers. "Don't touch it. It's hot." He pulled her up quickly, forgetting as always that girls of his age weren't quite as durable as boys of his age. "We'll be safe here," He insisted, pulling her even closer so their arms touched, diffusing the space between them so there'd be even less of a chance of getting struck. "Lightning never strikes the same place twice."

His fingers, holding so tightly to hers, reminded her of their earlier subject, of his question spoken in the middle of a game of hide and seek, after she had so swiftly found what he had thought of as his best hiding spot. "What would you wanna marry me for, anyhow?" She asked, her fingers slipping from his and placing themselves on her hip.

After a moment of realization, a half smirk curled up his lips and he turned to face her. He took a step closer, knowing it'd bother her because he was approximately five inches taller than her and she'd be reminded of that. "So I can kiss ya anytime I want," He insisted, his tone suggesting that he'd rehearsed it well in his mind.

Her face went blank with surprise, and her lips parted to say something. But she was stumped. A loud loud crackle of thunder shook her to her bones, but she didn't move as he dipped his head lower to hers so he could press his lips into hers. Her eyes squeezed tight, and didn't open until the light blazing behind her eyes was white hot, just in time to get hit with a bolt of lightning.

Quinn's eyes opened.

Her heart was pounding, her blood was pumping, and she was suddenly aware that the weather in New York City was no longer mild like it had been earlier. It was storming, storming so hard that it could've rivaled even the Alabama storms that she knew so well.

The dream was reoccurring, almost always on the night of a storm. Probably because it was a memory, one she'd tried so so hard to repress. Of course, they hadn't been hit by lightning. It had only felt like it, really.

Swallowing hard, she sat upright and glanced around. Everyone was still at work, cutting fabric, modeling, stitching things up, the sewing machine the only thing cutting through the chatter and the sounds of the thunderstorm outside. No one had noticed. Quinn glanced down to the sketch she'd fallen asleep doing, the pencil in her hand having left behind a squiggly, evidence of when she'd drifted off. She quickly scrubbed it out and stood upright and walked with purpose, hoping her body betrayed none of her fatigue. Her only purpose was really finding a clock so she'd know exactly how long she had passed out.

"You know," a lilting man's voice interrupted the idle chatter, "Your accent makes reappearances when you're sleeping."

Quinn met eyes with her assistant, and then exhaled, busted. The room seemed to thaw out before her, because of course her impromptu nap hadn't gone unnoticed. They were just messing with her. "How come you let me sleep?!"

Kurt gave her a bemused smile and waved her off. "It was just a couple of minutes, and all we heard you mumble was something about high school football and pig intestines."

Her coworkers smiled at the joke. More than half of them were New York City natives, and it was often a running joke to poke fun at their boss's hometown. Quinn smiled herself, but it was out of relief. He was making it up, she could tell, because her dream had absolutely nothing to do with that and she remembered Kurt's reaction when she had explained that chitlins were a common appetizer back home in Alabama. "Right, well we better get back to work if any of us want more than just a couple minutes of sleep."

Kurt turned back to the model he was altering a dress for, a tape measure dangling around his neck, but mumbled something about needing some sugar to get him going.

And indeed, an hour or so later, Quinn and her various co-workers and models and seamstresses filtered out of her studio and Quinn began the early morning walk on the wet streets of New York City to her apartment.

Upon entering, she stopped dead on her heels. White, pink, and red rose petals made a trail from the door to her bedroom. Quinn felt a little like maybe she had slipped into another vivid dream as she followed it, and found bouquets and bouquets of flowers stacked along her dresser and coffee table and nightstand and vanity. But as her roommate slipped into her room with her arms folded across her chest, she knew she wasn't dreaming.

"Loverboy crawled in here around three am, but I was too drunk to care at first. Eventually, I came in here to make sure he wasn't digging around in your underwear drawer or anything, and almost puked. I listened to him go on about how proud he was of you for about ten minutes and how much he hated thunderstorms about five, and then just walked out. He said to tell you to 'Check the machine'." Santana, with her messy bedhead, left the stunned Quinn standing in the middle of her adorned room and Quinn obediently moved across to the phone sitting in the kitchen.

Jesse St. James' velvety voice filled the room. "Hi, sweetheart. There's a petal there for every time I thought of you last night. Good luck today and I can't wait to see you at the show. You must be so exhausted. Also, don't forget about Ireland. You promised you'd think about it. I love you."

Quinn grinned to herself, and nodded.

After what would be referred to as the most successful fashion show she'd ever seen to date, Quinn, Kurt, and Santana gathered up for photos. They all put on smirks for the camera. Quinn was only occasionally approached by paparazzi, but it was still often enough that she'd grown used to it.

"Quinn Anderson!" The reported exclaimed, clapping his hands. "We've managed to collect a few details about your life from other articles surrounding you and your work, but I was hoping to get a little confirmation and some deeper insight."

"Of course," She replied, stepping from between her friends and sitting down with the reporter, particularly ignoring Santana's sneaky look of knowing.

"First and foremost, I think the entire country is aware of your eight month long relationship with Secretary St. James, the mayor's son."

Quinn smiled graciously, happy that he'd began with her favorite question. "Yes. Jesse and I have been dating for awhile now and I think it's safe to say he's the love of my life." As soon as that last bit fell from her lips, her mouth had a bit of a metallic taste at the lie. She had pressed her past back, far back, but her consciousness knew what everyone around her did not.

The interview went on, where the metallic taste remained as she spoke of the Anderson Plantation, where all members of the Anderson family lived, which she was a part of, of course. She had been a cheerleader, and a pageant queen, but no, there weren't any videos or pictures left of her participating in either of them, courtesy of her publicist. She'd been accepted to Parsons School of Design, but did not enroll, sure that she'd skip the four years of college and start designing right away.

Lies. All lies.

Thankfully, a hand laid on her shoulder, putting a stop to her thoughts. She turned to see Jesse, smiling down proudly at her. "Hi!" She exclaimed, jumping up to embrace him. Of course, flashes started going off all around them, reminding her of her dream, but she ignored them. He bent down to speak into her ear, and she grinned before he had even spoken a word, picture perfect for the tabloids. "I have a meeting in the Bronx tonight before we meet my mother, so I'm asking my driver to just pick you up and meet me there tonight, alright?" He leaned back and she nodded, prompting him to press a tender kiss to her cheek and then retreating, some press following him away. The reporter had disappeared as well, and she stood alone until Kurt sauntered up to her side.

"Quinn."

"What?"

"He asked you to go to Ireland with him for Christmas, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"Sounds serious."

"Yes."

He met her eye and smiled smugly. "That's not all he's going to ask you."

Her face went blank with surprise. "Really?"

"Really. Oh, please let me pick out your wedding colors! And I don't care if Jesse has a brother, I'm still going to demand to be the best man. I'd say Maid of Honor, but Santana might claw me. Quinn?"

She was still looking a little left to his shoulder, and she blinked. "Yeah?"

"'Yeah?'" He mimicked, mocking the slight southern accent that had slipped into her voice just then. "You kind of went away there."

"Oh, I'm about to."