putting words back into poetry, a glee fanfic

Author's Notes: Blatantly, shamelessly ignores canon from the end of season 3 onwards but compensates for it by keeping character development continuity (a fair trade-off, I would say).

The extended notes (meta commentary) can be found on my Tumblr; same name, but with a hyphen in between.

But with all my education I can't seem to command it
And the words are all escaping, and coming back all damaged
And I would put them back in poetry if I only knew how
I can't seem to understand it

And I would give all this and heaven too
I would give it all if only for a moment
That I could just understand the meaning of the word you see
'Cause I've been scrawling it forever but it never makes sense to me at all

All This And Heaven Too – Florence + the Machine

When the door slams shut, Rachel is already up and moving.

Quinn has her shoes in her hands. She looks up sheepishly when Rachel approaches. "Oh. Sorry for disturbing you. I just – "

" – bad date. I know. It's okay." Rachel reaches for Quinn's free hand. Quinn sheepishly drops the shoes, letting herself be led to the couch. Rachel motions for her to sit.

"... How did you know?"

Rachel chuckles, emerging from the kitchen with two pints of ice cream – Rocky Road for Quinn, organic vegan strawberry swirl for herself – and two spoons. "It's written all over your face."

"I'm not that obvious," mutters Quinn under her breath. She takes the ice cream from Rachel and glumly digs in with her spoon. "Rocky Road. Really?"

She grins. "The metaphor is important." Her roommate pats her knee sympathetically. "You are painfully obvious sometimes, Quinn, but it's okay. He wasn't worth it."

"Again, how do you know that?" asks Quinn again, quieter this time.

"Okay, so I might not know that for sure but it's Saturday night and you're home early watching Netflix with me with a pint of ice cream in your lap. I have learned quite a bit about normal people's social habits since graduating from high school; give me some credit." Rachel follows her words with a playful nudge.

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Guess even socialising with normal human beings couldn't cure you of that encyclopedia mouth, Berry." But she gently nudges Rachel back to let her know she's joking, and Rachel beams at her. She reaches for the remote control and selects Veronica Mars from their Netflix queue. Quinn shakes her head, and takes the remote from Rachel's hand. The title screen for Orange Is The New Black comes up, and it's Rachel's turn to shake her head.

"That bad?"

"That bad."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Maybe later."

Rachel makes a soft sound and scoots closer to Quinn, who slouches in her seat so she can rest her head on Rachel's shoulder.

"Are you seeing Ethan tonight?"

Rachel shrugs a shoulder. "I highly doubt so. We broke up."

Quinn gapes at her. "Wait, you did? When?"

"Last week."

"Last week – and you didn't tell me?"

Rachel quails a little under Quinn's gaze. "It wasn't a big deal. Honestly, Quinn. We only agreed to date casually until we met other people." She waves a hand dismissively. "And he, apparently, has met that other person."

"Casual – ? Rachel, last week he surprised you with a home-cooked vegan meal with all your favourite foods when you got home from the theatre."

"My partner should be at least aware of my dietary preferences."

"He did that spontaneously after you mentioned once, in passing, that you don't eat after shows because you're usually too tired even to order takeout no matter how hungry you are."

"Listening to one's partner is a basic foundation of any relationship, Quinn."

"While waiting for you to finish showering, he told me that he planned on proposing to you within the next six months."

"Clearly he was delusional and I'm lucky to have gotten out before it was too late. We haven't been dating that long."

"Rachel, you and Ethan had been dating for nearly a year."

"... They say time flies?"

"Rachel!" Quinn slams the flat of her hand on the kitchen counter, making the other woman jump. "I'm worried about you," she continues in a softer tone, "you haven't had a relationship lasting longer than a year since Finn."

Rachel huffs. "You're one to talk, Miss Spread-and-Fled."

Quinn goes an impressive shade of magenta. "Rachel!" she hisses between gritted teeth. "You promised you would never bring that up again!"

"In public or in the company of other people," says Rachel with a smirk. "We're home alone."

Quinn growls at her – actually growls – and Rachel finds herself taking an involuntary step backwards. "You don't mention it ever," she snarls. Rachel nods furiously, eyes wide.

When Quinn wanders off, muttering mutinously under her breath, Rachel realises that she's somehow managed to change the subject, though at a high cost; the heart palpitations she's having now? That's easily a year of life she'll never get back.

Once Rachel's heart rate has reached a healthier level, she roots around the kitchen in search of her emergency kit, emptying the contents on the kitchen counter. Rachel hums the opening song from her current show as she prepares to go knock on Quinn's door.

She's only a member of the chorus but whatever. She has to be prepared for the worst, such as the lead actress and her understudy having sudden gruesome accidents, and she'd have no choice but to take the role thrust upon her.

"Come in," she hears from inside. "It's not locked."

She opens the door but doesn't go in; she sticks the tin in her hand through the ajar door and waits.

There's a chuckle. "Rachel, what are you doing?" asks her roommate, sounding much closer. The door's yanked properly open and Quinn's standing in front of her, eyebrow arched in bemusement.

"Peace offering," says Rachel. "I realise I've said some things that made you uncomfortable, and I apologise. To that end, I've brought you some cookies which I baked last week as a token of my sincere regret and I hope you will find yourself more inclined to forgive me."

Quinn stares at her. "Rachel, you say things "that make me uncomfortable" practically every other day." But she grins immediately after and takes the tin. "I was wondering where you'd hidden the last of the batch." She disappears back into her room and sits on the bed to enjoy her treat. Rachel follows her.

"If you just wanted my trademark "I'm Sorry" cookies, you could have just asked."

"They taste better when baked with remorse," says Quinn very seriously.

Rachel perks up. "Really? That might explain the improved rate of forgiveness after I bake people cookies, compared to simply apologizing to them."

"I'm kidding, you dork." Quinn has a fragment of cookie poised in her hand as though she's about to throw it at Rachel, but seems to think better of it, popping it into her mouth.

"I'm well aware. I just wanted to see how many times I could make you do that signature facial quirk of yours – ah, there it is again."

"... You know, had I known you better in high school, I'm not sure if I would have wanted to be friends with you, or slushie you more."

"Hopefully the former." Rachel gets up, brushing off her skirt. "While it was nice aiding and abetting the accumulation of cookie crumbs in your bed, I have to get back to my script."

"Thanks, Rachel." Quinn glances at the tin. "For the cookies – everything."

She beams. "You're very welcome, Quinn."

Rachel comes in, sore after a long day in the studio, to find Quinn working in the kitchen. Her books are strewn around her laptop as she scribbles page after page of notes, humming along to the music from her iPod.

Her phone lights up. Quinn drops everything to pick it up. Her smile broadens as she reads the message.

Rachel slides into the chair opposite her. "Someone's happy."

Quinn glances up. "Hi."

The brunette nods at the phone. "So. Met someone new?"

"His name's Nick. We preordered the limited edition print of Bukowski's compiled poetry and got talking while filling in the forms." Quinn's eyes are shining. "We're meeting this Friday night for coffee."

"He sounds bookish, that's one big checkmark off your list. Is he good-looking?"

"Blonde, blue eyes, at least six feet tall." Quinn blushes a little.

"The two of you together would be perfect poster Aryans. You'd make Hitler proud."

Quinn rolls her eyes and swats at a cackling Rachel's shoulder. "You're ridiculous. And a terrible Jew – incidentally, that's your free pass for making a Hitler joke. Are you hungry? Shall we order takeout? How about Thai?"

Rachel squints at her. "You hate Thai. Are you trying to butter me up – figuratively, of course, knowing my feelings on food products derived from animal suffering?"

"Nothing of the sort." But Quinn is grinning at her, and Rachel just wants to play along.

"Alright. Thai it is, then. I'll have my usual vegetarian – "

" – pad thai and a side of stuffed tofu with extra sauce," recites Quinn. Rachel shoots her a dirty look.

"If you think I'm going to order your pandan chicken now, Quinn Fabray, you've got another thing coming."

Quinn has her eyes open wide, blinking in mock-hurt. "But I remembered your order, down to the extra serviettes – yes, serviettes and not paper towels like the rest of the world calls them – that you ask them to throw in so we don't have to buy them and in any case, they give them out for free, Quinn," The last is said in a deliberately-terrible impression of Rachel, whose mouth falls open in outrage.

"To think Yale accepted you for drama," Rachel says, outraged. "I regret the day I agreed to be roommates with you."

It doesn't seem like very long ago that Santana comes home one evening to tell her that Quinn Fabray is in town. Rachel is only tangentially interested; she's engrossed in the script her agent sent her, wielding her highlighter over bits she really likes. When the pages start becoming luminescent, she'll sign on to do it; it's her personal system for selecting roles.

"Perhaps you're too busy imagining applause in your head to listen, midget, but she's not here for this sweet ass. She's moving here."

"Mmhmm."

"She's looking for a roommate."

"Mmkay."

"I volunteered you."

"'Kay." Rachel pauses mid-swipe, yellow ink bleeding into the paper. "Wait. What did you say?"

"The lease on this place is up next month." Santana waves a hand casually, conveniently oblivious to the sounds of Rachel's spluttering. "I'll be moving in with Britt, so you're on your own, Berry."

"Santana, how could you?"

Santana clasps her hand to her chest, eyes wide and indignant. "Well excuuuuuuuse me for helping you out. A simple 'thank you, Santana' would have been fine – not that it's overdue – but I'm a generous woman."

"How is this helping?" Rachel tosses her script and highlighter aside. "You just ditched me to move in with your girlfriend."

"God, Berry, you're shallower than a pygmy's paddling pool. I did not ditch you; I went to the trouble of finding you a new roommate, thus saving you from the hassle of finding a new place to stay. Quinn gets help with the rent. I get lots more sex with an infinitely more bangable roommate."

"Santana!"

"Hey, I tell it like it is." She perches on the arm of the couch nearest to Rachel. "Stop looking like Streisand died, Berry. This is a golden opportunity for you."

"To what? Get rid of my hot-water hogging, morally bankrupt, privacy-violating roommate?"

Santana just walks away, cackling.

Meeting Quinn for the first time since they graduated from college goes a lot smoother than Rachel expected. They haven't been seeing a lot of each other through the college years as they would have liked (even armed with train passes), but Rachel takes what she can get.

Over coffee and vegetarian lasagna it transpires that Quinn was offered a prime position on the New York Times' staff ("with the obvious proviso in terms of living arrangements," she explains with a wry smile). She's found a place to stay, but the rent is a bit too steep for her salary and is thus in need of a roommate.

Rachel, on her part, is a lot less apprehensive about sharing a living space with Quinn than she would have been immediately after high school (and especially, god forbid, during). Living with Santana has taught her valuable lessons about compromise, tolerance, and the most efficient way of dividing bathroom time between three high-maintenance divas.

Plus the fact that Quinn is considerably more respectful of privacy than Santana has ever been, and considerably less foul-mouthed? Sold.

She follows Quinn to see the little nook in Williamsburg she's so proud of, and promptly falls in love herself with the brick walls, high ceilings, and actual lockable doors.

Her sixteen-year-old self would have laughed, and then gone off to write appropriately angsty songs to express her conflicting emotions. Twenty-four-year-old Rachel Berry simply pops open a bottle of wine (pilfered from Santana's private stash as a last fond up-yours to her friend) as she signs the lease with Quinn.

"We should christen the place with a slushie," suggests Rachel, and laughs uproariously at the expression on Quinn's face.

To her credit (and Rachel's pleasant surprise), Quinn recovers quickly. "Better a slushie than Brittany and Santana throwing us a housewarming party on every surface."

Rachel makes a face. She's walked in on them too many times for her to feel anything other than mild discomfort that they can sustain that uncomfortable-looking pose for any length of time or there's no way Santana is that good. Quinn just laughs and says, "I kept walking in on them in the locker rooms after practice."

"How do they do that? And by that, I don't mean the mechanics, but the complete and utter disregard of – you know."

"I honestly don't know. I have high hopes for you, Berry; don't let me down," drawls Quinn, and Rachel grins, already reassured she hasn't made a mistake agreeing to live with Quinn Fabray.

When Rachel comes back from her aftershow party, immediately she senses something is wrong.

Quinn's bag is on the couch at an odd angle like is was thrown there. Her shoes are haphazardly strewn in the hall, and her keys are on the kitchen island.

"Quinn?"

The trail leads to her roommate's door, which is ajar, and Rachel can hear quiet sobbing coming from within. She gently pushes it open. Quinn is lying on the covers, fully dressed, sobbing into her pillow.

"Oh, Quinn," Rachel murmurs.

Rachel sits on the bed and rests her hand on Quinn's shoulder. Quinn immediately turns over and buries her face in Rachel's lap.

"Let's be single together forever," says Quinn. "We'll get five cats and matching Zimmer frames, and we'll regale the nursing home with tales of how we used to sing everything we were feeling."

"While I'm not averse to the idea," replies Rachel, "you're allergic to cats, I hope you like a gold star theme on your Zimmer frame, and I'm sure between your very successful career as a journalist and my Broadway triumphs, we'll have enough to live in a nice apartment in Manhattan." She pauses. "We'll be those chic old ladies who have luncheons in nice restaurants."

"I still want those cats. Sneezing constantly and having fur everywhere is still better than someone who neglects to tell me they've been seeing three other side hoes and lied that they was visiting a sick grandmother when they were really off at Side Hoe #2's beach house last weekend," says Quinn. Her voice rapidly rises in pitch towards the end.

Rachel blinks. "That was… oddly specific." She squeezes Quinn's hand. "I'm sorry that happened. Even though it's very apparent what the answer is, I'm still going to ask: are you okay?"

"I will be, after we finish this season of Orange is the New Black." She unpauses the show and the woman continues murdering a balding man horribly. Rachel watches quietly.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," says Rachel, stroking Quinn's hair.

"Me too."

It takes two-and-a-half episodes before Quinn sighs and says something. Rachel quickly hits pause and glances at Quinn. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I don't get it," mumbles Quinn.

"Don't get what?" asks Rachel, doing her best to keep the excitement from her voice. It's taken her the better part of two years of living with Quinn to finally coax her into opening up about her feelings – occasionally. She doesn't want to scare the skittish girl into clamming up by being her overeager high school self.

"I don't get why all the guys I date are assholes."

"You're very beautiful, Quinn. Of course, you have other attractive qualities but for this context we'll stick to physical appearance since that's easily quantifiable. It stands to reason that you'll attract each and every man within a certain radius. But since that's a rather large sample size as we live in New York, the chances of meeting less-than-pleasant men are rather high." In response to the look Quinn shoots her, Rachel clarifies: "I had to take a math basic requirement at NYADA. I picked statistics to better calculate the chances of winning my EGOT before I'm 25."

Quinn snorts. "In that case, Rachel, what are the odds that the seven guys I've dated in the past two years since I moved to New York would all turn out to be complete bastards?"

"1 to 1," says Rachel softly, shifting closer. "You're just too good for all of them. You broke my maths."

Quinn rolls her eyes but laughs anyway. She leans into Rachel.

"You'll find The One soon," promises Rachel, emphasizing the capitalised words. "He's probably too busy fighting off the bitches attracted to him within his certain radius to get around to asking you out."

Quinn makes a scandalised noise at Rachel's language. "Maybe, but what are the chances of that happening within our lifetimes?"

"Probably around the same as the chances of my winning a Best Leading Actress Tony for my current show, which is pretty darn good, if I do say so myself." Rachel starts to card her fingers through Quinn's hair, eliciting a contented sigh.

"You're insane."

"Arguably. I would describe myself as being focused, driven, and very goal-oriented." Rachel starts to laugh, certain that (even though she can't see her) Quinn is rolling her eyes at her.

Even though it's Saturday, Rachel's gone by the time Quinn wakes up. The entire apartment smells of vanilla and brown sugar, and there's a heaping plate on the dining table with a note:

Quinn,

Hope these 'He's-Not-Worth-It' cookies (patent pending) make you feel better. See you at 6 tonight.

* Rachel

Quinn's rebound is named Tony. He's tall and lanky, he's also Ivy League ("I thought we'd learned our lesson after Biff," sneers Santana later), and his first introduction to Rachel consists of his walking through their living room wearing a tiny towel around his hips while she's in the kitchen.

To be fair, she wasn't expecting any company and she really needed a drink, so she didn't bother to change out of her sweaty sports-bra-and-obscenely-short-spandex-shorts combo.

"Oh," he says, looking just a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone to be up this early. You must be Rachel, Quinn's roommate?"

"It's okay. And it's nice to meet you." She's seen enough male anatomy during her NYADA days, and so Rachel merely nods and drags her eyes to his face (after a quick up-and-down evaluation, of course). "And you're Quinn's… boyfriend?"

He laughs awkwardly. "Quinn and I haven't gotten around to discussing labels yet." The fingers of his right hand twitch on his hip, as though he is contemplating offering his hand. "I'm Tony."

"It's nice to meet you, Tony." She excuses herself to go back to her workout, pretending not to notice his relief…

… and the rather large tent in his towel she was absolutely certain wasn't there when he walked in.

It's not the best of first impressions, to be sure, but Rachel's an optimist and tells herself things can only go up from here. Quinn must have seen something in him, and she only thinks the best of her high-school-bully-turned-kind-of-friend-turned-roommate-and-best-friend.

Rachel glances up from her new script. Quinn has just finished her shower, and she should be getting started on hers, she's got a big day tomorrow with the first workshop and –

Her eyes snap back to Quinn, who is rooting around the fridge. Quinn's hair is pulled away from her face in a messy bun, but the most striking thing is her glasses (she wears contacts everywhere except at home) – not on her, but dangling rather precariously in front of her. One arm is clenched between her teeth.

"Quinn?"

"Mmmm?"

"What are you doing?" Rachel tries not to laugh. Over their two years of cohabitation, she's seen many more sides of Quinn Fabray than she has in eight years of high school and college, but this dorky yet endearing aspect never fails to charm her.

Quinn blushes. Taking her glasses out of her mouth, she explains, gesturing to her face: "I've got moisturizer on. I can't put my glasses on, and if put them down, I won't be able to find them again." Quinn clears her throat. "Because I can't see," she adds unnecessarily.

Rachel just stares at her. Absurd thoughts float through her mind as she struggles to keep a straight face; animals being slaughtered for food. Hitting a sour note in an audition. Being pelted with eggs in the school parking lot. Years of slushie facials. "I see," she says very gravely – and her lip twitches.

Quinn tries to glare and fails miserably. She stalks away to her room in a surprisingly good imitation of Rachel's diva storm-out, glasses safely back in her mouth.

Rachel doesn't make it to hear the door slam shut before she reaches for a throw pillow to muffle her hysterical laughter. "It's not funny, Rachel!" Quinn yells from her room, and it only makes her laugh harder.

The – thing – Quinn has with Tony is short but brutal. It ends in the most cliché way possible; she catches him cheating on her.

Rachel is surprised, though, by the dramatic twist in the story that even she would never have dreamed of (and to be fair, as someone who lives and breathes musicals, Rachel's dreams have been bizarre).

It's a good thing both Kurt and Blaine are actors, meaning their schedules are closer to hers than Quinn's, and she gets to them before Quinn can. "Dare I ask what exactly happened?" she asks over coffee. Blaine turns a vibrant shade of magenta, rivalling Quinn's finest.

"He suggested it first," Kurt says. "Quinn should be thankful we exposed him for the deeply closeted, cheating douchebag he is before she found out herself."

"She did find out herself. She walked in on the three of you in his room."

"He was the only one naked," says Kurt. "Blaine and I were trying to get out of there without attracting attention, because cheating is not something we do." He shoots a sideways glance at Blaine, who is suddenly very interested in his coffee.

"It could've been worse, though," continues Rachel placidly, "she could have walked in on all three of you in flagrante delicto."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Only Rachel Berry would use the appropriate Latin term for hot gay sex."

Rachel scowls. "Well, I knew the only thing I liked about Tony was his name. Tony aside, you'd better hope that Quinn forgives you two some time this century for your part in this."

"There was no part to speak of," mutters Kurt, but softens when Blaine squeezes his arm.

Alan isn't like any of the men Quinn's dated before, and it throws Rachel's idea of Quinn's type completely off-kilter.

"I thought she went for gigantic sculpted hunks of man meat with just a touch of scruff," says Rachel bemusedly. Santana snorts into her sandwich.

"Firstly, Berry, so do you – see Finnept and Manwhore – and secondly, why exactly are you gossiping about Quinn's love life with me? I'm not about to enthuse excitedly about my sausage preferences when I'm clearly a taco woman."

Rachel sticks her tongue out at her. "Very classy. Clearly I am desperate and worried enough about Quinn to broach this – unsavoury – topic with you, Santana. And as one of her oldest friends, I would presume you would have some knowledge of her personality predating mine to be able to share some insights with me."

"NYADA only boosted your vocabulary. I would've guessed," mutters Santana under her breath. Rachel pretends not to hear. "But to answer your question – or whatever it was you were trying to say, Berry – I wouldn't be worried about Q. She wants whatever she wants, when she wants; it's as simple as that."

Just then keys sound in the lock. Rachel and Santana look up guiltily as Quinn pokes her head in. "Oh. Hi, Rachel. Santana," she adds. "I thought you guys wouldn't be here until later."

"Change of plans," says Rachel smoothly, getting up to kiss Quinn's cheek and give her a hug. "We decided get our coffee to go because there wasn't anywhere to sit."

"Oh. Okay." Quinn looks a little uncomfortable; five seconds later, it's made abundantly clear why.

"Hello!" says Alan brightly from behind Quinn. "Quinn dear, I thought I heard you say Rachel and Santana. Are they home?"

"They are," says Quinn, smiling a little too brightly, opening the door a little wider so Alan can come in. He sticks out his hand to shake Rachel's and Santana's.

"Always a pleasure to see you both," says Alan in his thick Scottish accent. "So you'll be joining our night in?"

"No!" Quinn and Rachel say simultaneously just as Santana says, "Hell yes". They all exchange guilty glances – incredulous, in Santana's case. "We wouldn't want to interrupt your private time," explains Rachel.

Santana shrugs. "I like hanging out with all of you guys," she says, and then winces when Rachel steps on her foot, hard.

"You know, it just so happens Kurt called and asked if we could join him for dinner," babbles Rachel, "we should get going, don't want to be late. You two have fun! Don't do anything we wouldn't do – oh, no, wait, do what it is you would do..." Rachel gets all of this out while clamping her hand on Santana's arm and whisking them out the door before Quinn or Alan can get a word in.

They get to the lobby in silence before Santana completely breaks down on the sidewalk outside. "It's not funny, Santana," grumbles Rachel.

"Oh my god Berry, I don't think I've ever seen you fumble so much before," manages Santana between great hacking coughs and semi-hysterical laughter. "Their faces were epic. God, I'm so telling everyone we know about this."

Rachel squeaks, smacks Santana's arm as hard as she can; it's not effective at all, since she's Rachel Berry and Santana is laughing too hard to feel pain.

"It's almost… as good as that face you made when... Quinn brought Alan to meet us... for the first time," wheezes Santana.

Rachel colours. "As we were discussing earlier, I had thought Quinn had a very specific type when it comes to her taste in men. I was expecting Alan to be in the same mould as her previous boyfriends, not being – "

" – a tiny, clean-cut ex-man?"

"Santana Lopez! That is completely inappropriate!"

"It had to be said." Santana has stopped gasping for air at this point, wiping tears from her eyes. "You could have tripped over my jaw, it dropped right to the floor. Who would have guessed that Christian, whiter-than-snow, WASP-y as all fuck – "

"Santana, are you somehow physically incapable of refraining from filthy language?"

" – head cheerleader Quinn Fabray would be interested in someone like The-Man-Formerly-Known-As-Allison? There's nothing wrong, of course," she adds upon seeing the expression Rachel is wearing, "but… would you have imagined this day would come, ten years ago?"

"No," admits Rachel. "Alan is incredibly sweet and good for Quinn, but… I suppose I am just shocked."

Santana smirks. "I bet it was that accent. That sexy Scottish burr just wants to make you tear your soaking-wet panties off, doesn't it?"

"You're disgusting."

With Alan's perfection, it takes Rachel a long time to absorb the news that he and Quinn have broken up.

She blinks rapidly. "But you – it was – I don't –"

"Perhaps it was going too well," says Quinn with a soft sigh. She is much calmer now than in the aftermath of her earlier breakups, and Rachel knows that's not a good sign. Rachel scoots closer. "I honestly didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. We were making plans to go to LA for the Memorial Day long weekend, and then he called – "

" – and said, let me guess, "We need to talk"?"

"Right in one."

Rachel reaches out to pat Quinn's hand as the blonde woman continues, "I suppose the signs were there, right from the beginning. The long hours he shut himself up in his studio – "

" – Quinn, he's an artist. I myself spend a substantial portion of my time in rehearsals or in the recording studio."

"Not with your model," says Quinn pointedly, giving Rachel a long look. "In bed."

"... ah." Her feelings on Alan shift rapidly from annoyance, to hatred, to irrational bloodlust. "Why, that – that – asshole!"

Quinn smiles weakly. "Don't tell Santana, okay? As tempted as I am to unleash her on him, I know he's not worth it. None of them are," she mutters lowly.

"I won't tell Santana," vows Rachel. Directly, she adds in her head. As much as she's motivated by revenge on the unthinking bastard who broke her best friend's heart, a small part of Rachel is genuinely curious if Santana really does store razor blades in her hair.

It turns out she does. Rachel makes a mental note to never, never, piss Santana off.

Rachel spends her Thursday morning baking 'sorry-I-inadvertently-unleashed-Santana-on-your-ex' cookies (butterscotch), which Santana immediately claims a share of. She ices razor blades on half of them before Rachel can stop her.

A string of bad dates follow that Quinn doesn't even deign to introduce to Rachel, with a few one night stands mixed in. Rachel takes to making two pots of coffee when she wakes up for her 6am elliptical routine for the bleary-eyed men that stumble out of Quinn's room; her way of showing her silent yet unwavering support for whatever – endeavours – Quinn chooses to pursue.

Until the morning she is having her strawberry smoothie breakfast and a woman appears at the table.

"Hello," says Rachel, a little startled.

"Hi." She is tall and blonde and beautiful, more than a little reminiscent of Brittany. She offers Rachel a smile and then sticks out a hand. "I'm Stacey."

Rachel shakes the proffered hand. "Rachel. Quinn's roommate."

Stacey's eyes brighten with recognition. "Oh, Rachel! It's so nice to meet you. Quinn talked about you a lot last night."

"Did she?"

"Yes, she mentioned you're an actress on Broadway?"

Rachel laughs self-deprecatingly. Years at NYADA plus the constant not-so-gentle jabs at her ego from Santana (and Kurt, to a lesser degree) have made her less overbearing. "An aspiring actress hoping to appear on Broadway is more like it. I've done a few chorus parts here and there, and workshopping a part in an upcoming play."

"Really? The way Quinn talks about you, i thought you were starring in a famous musical," Stacey laughs.

Rachel is momentarily caught off-guard and it takes her a while to remember the rest of her manners. "I – thank you. Uh, I made coffee, if you'd like some."

"Please. Thank you so much. I'll help myself, don't worry about it." She moves over to the coffee pot Rachel pointed out, and the brunette gets an eyeful of long tanned leg disappearing into sinfully short shorts. Another moment passes before Rachel recognises the McKinley Cheerios logo on the shorts.

Her fingers tighten around her mug. Stacey is wearing Quinn's clothes. Stacey came out of Quinn's room this morning. Stacey slept in Quinn's room. Stacey slept with Quinn.

But Quinn's not gay.

Rachel isn't a stranger to experimentation. She's done plenty of that herself in NYADA – it's practically a graduation prerequisite as a musical theatre major – and she knows about Quinn and Santana's drunken fling at Mr Schuester's non-wedding. Quinn had insisted it was a one-time thing.

Okay, so maybe this it a two-time thing. Santana, bless her, is more of an aberration (abomination) than a norm. Maybe Quinn wanted a second opinion. Maybe she was blind drunk – as mean as it is, Rachel remembers that it took a few wine coolers and a healthy dose of insecurities for her to be coaxed into sleeping with Puck.

"Someone's away in her castle on the cloud," says an amused voice.

Rachel blinks. Quinn has appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and she has a smirk on her face. "I regret taking you to watch Les Miserables," says Rachel archly.

"I couldn't resist, you were so out of it." Quinn accepts a mug of coffee from Stacey – and Rachel really has been dreaming for a long time, if she has had time to make another mug – and a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks, Stacey."

"No problem, babe."

Really, Rachel has had the past five minutes to digest the fact that Quinn Fabray slept with a woman last night. Still, it's an effort for her to smile brightly at them both as though nothing is happening.

Santana lets herself in later that afternoon, shouting, "Did I hear right, Fabgay? Did you gets your lady loving on last night?"

Quinn glances at Rachel, who mouths a 'sorry' at her, and sighs. "Santana, stop talking like a ghetto reject. You grew up in a gated community in Lima, not Lima Heights, which isn't the den of sin you claim it is."

"You're not denying it," Santana ripostes gleefully. She flops on the couch, thumbs flying over her phone screen. "I'm telling everybody we know: Quinn Fabgay finally entertains her repressed lezzy urges after being shown the light by yours truly."

Quinn moves so quickly Rachel actually sees a blur; the next moment she is on a squawking Santana's lap, the latter's phone held aloft. "You are doing no such thing," says Quinn through gritted teeth. "Don't think I've forgiven or forgotten what happened with Alan."

"Please, bitch, I did that puta a favour. He should be giving me credit for collaborating on his art." Santana smirks. "Back to the topic at hand, what was tha supposed to be? Drunken sex? Frankly, I'm not impressed, Q, given your track record in that aspect. Experimentation? Please. You told me it was a two-time thing, and I called bullshit, because look at this." Santana spreads her arms. "No way anybody can tap this and not come back for more. Unfortunately, since I'm already happily taken, you have to settle for less." She turns to Rachel. "Is she smoking hot? Legs that go on for miles? Our Quinnie deserves only the very best after me."

Quinn scowls. She knees Santana hard in the ribs and the other woman doubles over, letting out a pained, "fuck". "Shut up, Lezpez. You're the poster child for STDs, not awakening latent homosexuality."

Santana chuckles even though she's still got her hands pressed to her side. "Latent homosexuality? You sound like Berry. Has she been rubbing off on you then – in more ways than one?"

"Santana Lopez! There is nothing going on between myself and Quinn!" shrieks Rachel, going bright fuschia. She hurls the closest thing on hand at her – a ragged dishcloth – and watches as it sails through the air and lands with a wet smack on Santana's forehead. Quinn – who's ducked out of the way with Cheerios-honed lightning reflexes – makes an approving sound.

"Good shot, Rach."

"Fuck you both, this shit's wet!"

Once they shoehorn Santana out of their apartment, Rachel turns to Quinn, takes a deep breath, and says: "First of all, Quinn, I'd like to sincerely apologise for telling Santana about Stacey. She asked if you had come back safely from the party last night and I inadvertently mentioned you had company, and used the female pronoun."

"It's alright, Rachel. It would have come out sooner or later, and I'd prefer dealing with Santana sooner."

"Secondly, I want you to know that you have my full support with whomever you choose to date; it would be hypocritical otherwise, given my dads, but I'd like to put it out so there's no ambiguity whatsoever."

Quinn arches an eyebrow, and it's the first normal thing to happen today. "Um – thanks, but I prefer not to put any labels on it. Stacey's nice and fun to be with, but she's not looking for anything more, and neither am I. We're not in a relationship," she stresses.

"Oh," says Rachel. She ignores the small inexplicable uptick her heartbeat makes when Quinn tells her she and Stacey aren't serious. "Well – I'm always here if you want to talk. About anything. I've done quite a bit of experimentation with both genders myself…"

"God, Rachel, you make it sound so clinical, like Dr Frankenstein's lab," Quinn laughs. Rachel cracks a smile, the tension dissipated. "Anyway, as Santana so charmingly put it, it's not my first time with a woman either. I'll think I'll be fine, unless you want to compare notes, or something like that…?"

Rachel makes a disgusted face. "As much as I adore you, Quinn Fabray, I have to draw the line at that. That is such a guy thing to do."

Quinn takes 'I'm-sorry-for-outing-you' cookies to work for the next few days. She laughs when her colleagues ask if she's a Narnia fan based on the closet carefully iced on them.

Stacey is sitting on the couch with Quinn when Rachel comes home from her workshop. They are laughing about the movie that's playing on the television (Rachel has the sneaking feeling most of it went unwatched, judging by Quinn's mussed hair and Stacey's smudged lip gloss) and Stacey has a hand on Quinn's knee.

"Hello, Quinn, Stacey," she says politely. To Quinn, she adds: "I didn't know Stacey would be joining us for dinner."

"I'm not," says Stacey just as Quinn responds with "She's not." The other woman stands up, removing her hand (Rachel lets out a breath she hasn't realised she's been holding) and bends over to retrieve her purse. "I have a shift tonight and now I'm horribly late. Good night, babe. Bye, Rachel." She pecks Quinn on the cheek and heads out the door.

Rachel hovers uncertainly for a moment before Quinn makes the decision for her; she scoots over, patting the seat. "Come on. You're just in time for the midnight horror feature. I hope you like zombies." She doesn't, and Quinn knows this. Quinn's smirk becomes a full-on laugh as she ducks to avoid the pillow that was aimed at her head. "What? Did I say something wrong?"

"You know exactly what you said, Quinn Fabray," huffs Rachel. She seats herself primly beside her friend and turns her attention to the television. "There's more where that came from."

"If you say so."

Even if it was unwittingly, Quinn's succeeded in taking Rachel's thoughts off Stacey – until Rachel glances at her friend to find her attention occupied by her phone.

She's smiling in the way she has that's reserved for the people she's dating, and Rachel feels that little inexplicable rush of annoyance. Quinn notices. "Sorry," she says, tucking her phone away, "I know horror movie nights are sacred, but I needed to reply to Stacey's text."

"Should she be texting at work?" Part of Rachel is genuinely curious – there aren't many professions that require night shifts, and the ones that come to mind aren't… wholesome.

"Not really, but it's slow at the hospital now."

"Ah." Rachel is simultaneously relieved that Stacey's profession is respectable, and a little… disappointed, for the same reason. She doesn't have time to properly examine the conflicting emotions, because the heroine onscreen was just jump-scared by a zombie (God, she hates them so much) and she might have done some jumping herself into Quinn's lap.

Kurt arches an eyebrow. "A nurse? Really? With legs like that? You're sure it's not that other kind of nurse, Rachel?"

Rachel gasps. "You're absolutely filthy, Kurt Hummel."

"Wanky. I bet Q would love to play doctor and nurse with her. I bet she already has." Santana grins at Kurt, who grins back.

She rounds on Santana. "Oh, for – you two are ridiculous."

"Says the girl who made a music video for the worst song ever written just to make three guys jealous."

"Says the guy who tried out for the football team with a dance number by Beyonce," Rachel turns to Santana, "and the girl who called out my ex-boyfriend with a Paula Abdul song. Not that I took any offense to your motives, but the choices of music could have been better."

Kurt and Santana both roll their eyes at her. "Are you even listening to yourself, Rachel Berry?"

They all know the thing Quinn has with Stacey that is not a relationship is, at least, semi-serious when Quinn brings her along the next time they have a night out.

It's Kurt's turn to pick a bar. He's gone with a classic – Bar Chord on the corner of 17th and Smith – and Rachel's grateful for the opportunity offered to settle in her usual seat and consume endless Long Islands.

Tonight, though, she's treated to the sight of a considerably-intoxicated Quinn and Stacey all over each other on the dance floor. Lips pursed, Rachel orders a rum and Coke for her next drink.

Kurt sidles over. He's only had a beer so far, so he's only mildly buzzed. "Rum and Coke? A bit strong for you, isn't it?"

"You're not the boss of me," says Rachel sulkily. She takes a sip and tries not to wince at how strong it is.

He shrugs. "Okay then." Glancing over at the dance floor, he adds: "Stacey and Quinn seem to be getting serious. She looks like she'd be good for our girl."

"She's not," snaps Rachel. "She's irresponsible and immature and selfish."

"...wow, where'd all that come from?" mutters Kurt as Rachel's blush deepens, and she sinks lower in her seat.

"I don't know. I think i need another drink."

Kurt catches her hand as she rises. "I think the last thing you need is more alcohol, Rachel Barbra."

"Then what do you suggest?"

He does a little shimmy with his hips that makes Rachel smile a little. "I say we should heat up the dance floor. What do you think?"

She laughs and lets herself be dragged. Rachel's a little too wasted to dance properly (Cassandra July would be rolling in her vodka-soaked grave to see her now) but she's having fun being completely ridiculous with her best (male) friend. She whoops when the music picks up and grabs Kurt's hips, laughing harder at his horrified expression.

"Whoa there, Berrylicious," drawls Santana's voice in her ear. "Leave the poor gay boy alone."

Rachel barely registers Kurt's squeaked, "I owe you," as he scuttles away and the person in her arms becomes shorter and considerably curvier.

"If you want to get down and dirty, I don't think Kurt is woman enough for you," smirks Santana. "Who are we making jealous?"

"It doesn't matter," mutters Rachel, "she's already with someone."

"Whatever. You and I together? With my smoking good looks and your lack of height, we can change her mind."

Rachel presses her forehead into Santana's shoulder. "She's never going to change her mind."

Santana's eyebrows shoot up. "Okay, Rachel, I think you've had enough tonight." She drags a protesting Rachel to the side.

"So, when are we going to talk about the big gay elephant in the room?"

"Please stop shouting," whimpers Rachel.

Santana rolls her eyes as Kurt says: " Consider this an intervention, honey. We, as the rainbow-brite section of the McKinley High Glee Club ("Britt came up with that," says Santana proudly), need to talk about your crush on Quinn Fabray."

Well that was subtle. Rachel sets down her mug as primly as she can. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Santana makes a frustrated noise. "You've had a big ol' gay crush on Q since high school, Berry, but you were so deep in the closet that you tried to convince yourself and the whole damn world that your lady boner was for Finnept."

It's Kurt's turn to roll his eyes as Rachel's mouth opens in surprise. "Tastefully put, Santana."

"I did not – "

" – it really was, sweetie," interjects Kurt gently.

"But I – "

" – was completely fixated on her, when you were with and without Finn."

"I don't – "

" – just shut up for once in your damn life and listen to us, Berry," bites out Santana. Rachel folds her arms across her chest but complies.

"You like Quinn."

"She's my best friend."

Kurt makes a noise of irritation. Santana lifts her eyes heavenward and entreats a higher power for patience. "It seemed like those lady-loving urges got buried somewhere when you discovered New York and its mansluts – " ("You thought Brody Weston was hot too, don't lie," says Kurt) " – but you dumped Ethan at the beginning of the year and haven't bothered with dating since."

"You've been snappish –" ("A grade-A bitch, more like," interjects Santana) "– ever since Stacey," says Kurt. "Face it, Rachel. You're jealous of Stacey. If there was a Tony for obliviousness you'd have won it a long time ago."

Kurt is clearly the good cop, judging from the gentle hand on Rachel's. "Just… think about what we've been saying."

"There's nothing to think about," scoffs Rachel. "Quinn and I are roommates. She's one of my dearest friends, and I care about her deeply." Honestly, she loves her friends to death but sometimes they can be completely absurd. She can't possibly help the fact that she's an actress, and the vast majority of the men she meets are gay. Rachel doesn't have the time to be trawling the bars and streets of New York for a man, and she isn't inclined to be doing so in the first place.

More importantly, she loves Quinn as a friend. It's one of her triumphs, if she blows her own horn; two very different girls forging a friendship despite the admittedly ridiculous obstacles life threw their way.

Her subtle resentment of the men (and woman) Quinn is romantically involved with is just her subconscious' kneejerk reaction to having less time to spend with her friend.

Right?

Rachel's been thinking until her skull is starting to throb but she's no closer to understanding what her friends are trying to tell her. Keys sound in the front lock; Rachel's jolted from her thoughts. She rises smoothly and goes to the door.

"Hey," says a disheveled-looking Quinn. "Let's order takeout tonight. How's Italian sound? I'm starved."

"It's okay, I cooked. I hope you like pasta; it turned out a lot crispier than I would have liked, but it's still edible. There's plenty of sauce. Ignore the chunks." Rachel turns on her heel and flounces off to the kitchen, calling, "Sit down and I'll get dinner served!" over her shoulder.

Quinn was trying to kick off her pumps, but at Rachel's words she starts so badly that she almost ends up on the floor. "Wait, you cooked? Rachel – " she says, almost running to the kitchen.

She grins. "Just kidding," sing-songs Rachel, removing takeout containers from the cupboard she's hidden them in. "I ordered our usual from Cesario's when you texted me to say you'd be late."

Quinn groans. "I almost killed you before you could kill us. Warn a girl next time." She opens a container and groans again, this time in anticipation. "Spaghetti amatriciana, my favourite. Did you –"

"– your garlic bread is in the oven," points out Rachel. "I know you like it extra-crispy."

Her roommate beams at her and takes a bite of spaghetti. "I love you, Rachel."

Normally Rachel would laugh, but the words make her pause. She blushes, imagining the same words said in very different circumstances, and warm eyes gazing at her as hands slide lower –

"If you're gonna be daydreaming again, you could at least pass the parmesan first." Quinn has her attention focused on the pasta twirled around her fork, and so misses Rachel's expression.

"O-oh. Yeah. Okay. Here you go."

Rachel picks at her pasta primavera, appetite quite gone. They were right. She is in love with Quinn Fabray, and she's been completely oblivious to the fact. Until now.

… And I'd like to thank the Academy, my friends and family, and of course Quinn Fabray, without whom I would never have been eligible for this award.

When it transpires that Stacey has been seeing someone else on the side not long after she and Quinn agree to be exclusive, Quinn dumps her in a whirlwind of screaming and tearful accusations that wouldn't be out of place on a television drama. Rachel has much less comforting to do this round since Quinn's the dumper, not dumpee, and so finds herself curled around Quinn and a pint of ice cream (organic vegan chocolate and peanut butter chunk) at 1am.

"I don't understand women," fumes Quinn, stabbing her spoon into her ice cream.

"You are a woman," points out Rachel placidly.

"Well, I barely understand why I've done half the shit I've done, so that's still valid." Quinn reaches for the remote control and flicks through the channels. "Hey, Scream Queens. Airhead blonde sorority sisters being murdered. Sounds good." She turns to Rachel. "You know, if you ever turned that scary focus and determination from Broadway to murder, this could be how you'd turn out."

Rachel studies the show for a few minutes. "I highly doubt so."

Rachel has figured her own shit out. It's good. She understands a lot of things she's said and done, and she feels so much better now.

But Quinn doesn't know, and so Quinn continues to date a revolving door of guys – with the occasional girl mixed in. She's totally fine with it – as long as Quinn's happy, she tells herself – though she does wish it doesn't hurt so damn much.

"It's not that difficult, Rachel. You tell her how you feel. Either she decides that she likes you too – for some inexplicable reason – or she runs away screaming into the sunset and you move on."

"You are so incredibly helpful, Santana," says Rachel dryly. She's used to Santana's colourful descriptions.

"I tell it like it is. Anyway, this shit's all up to you now, Berry."

Rachel utters a soft groan. Her head sinks down into her arms. "I'm screwed."

"And not in a good way, either." But Santana spares her a sympathetic pat on the hand. To the passing stranger, it looks like a sharp slap to the hand, but Rachel's also used to Santana Lopez and her unique methods of showing affection.

Rachel takes a while to absorb the entire tableau; a guilty-looking Blaine and Brittany, supporting Quinn between them. Kurt and Santana following a step behind, wearing identical looks of fear, guilt, defiance, and worry. She folds her arms across her chest.

"Rachel – " begins Kurt.

She holds up a finger. "Blaine, Brittany," she says, "please help me get Quinn to bed. You two," she directs at Kurt and Santana, "sit and wait for us to get back."

As they ease Quinn onto her bed, Brittany smooths her hair from her forehead and whispers a good night. Rachel smiles at them. She knows they had nothing to do with whatever shenanigans Quinn got up to (or was instigated into) tonight.

Quinn stirs. "Rach?"

"Hi," she whispers, kissing Quinn's cheek. The blonde smiles sleepily.

"Stay."

"I can't right now, sweetie. I'll be back soon, I promise."

Quinn's head lolls to the side. She nods clumsily and attempts to look at Rachel through half-lidded eyes. Rachel shakes her head and turns the light off, slipping back outside.

Kurt and Santana haven't lost their nervous look (they seemed to have rubbed off on each other – which is a highly unpleasant thought given their respective gayness. Rachel lets the thought go). Blaine and Brittany join their partners on the couch.

"Well?"

"We took Quinn for drinks, since – well, we heard about Stacey – "

" – I was watching her, I didn't let her drink anything stronger than a Long Island – "

" – there was this guy who wouldn't stop hitting on her – "

" – must have given her strong drinks – "

" – she can't get that drunk on Long Islands – "

" – caught that asshole trying to sneak her out – "

" – Blaine took care of him, didn't you, sweetie?"

"Brittany did most of the work."

"I hope he gets a second go at puberty if he wants that voice to break and those balls to drop again, is all I'm saying."

"What?!" whisper-yelped Rachel. "You almost let some guy take Quinn home?"

They all exchange ashamed glances, and it would be comical if it wasn't so serious. Rachel rubs her temples. "You know how insecure Quinn gets after a breakup. You know she can't have alcohol when she's sad. And most importantly -"

" – we know that Quinn can't have alcohol when she's insecure and sad," they all chime together.

Rachel blinks. "Yes. And then…?"

"We're sorry," they say together, and she almost forgives them. Almost. Especially when Brittany does that puppy-dog face that even Santana melts for.

"We'll talk later. It's late, would you like to stay tonight?" Rachel turns to Santana and Brittany. "You can sleep in my bed – please, please try to refrain from any physical activities. I'll stay with Quinn and make sure she's okay."

"Sure, Rachel," says Santana so neutrally that the other girl squints at her, trying to parse hidden meaning from her. She gives up with a shake of her head and a last pointed glare at Santana before slipping into Quinn's room and closing the door behind her.

When Rachel crawls under the covers, Quinn shifts. "Mmmm," says Quinn, burrowing into Rachel.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I am." Quinn's eyes are still closed. One arm is slung around Rachel's waist, who chuckles and strokes Quinn's hair. She sighs.

"Okay then. Good night, Quinn."

Quinn has her face buried in Rachel's neck, which is why Rachel doesn't hear the slurred words until she feels wetness on her skin. She sits up, suddenly wide-awake. "Quinn, honey, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"I don't know why nobody loves me," she mumbles.

"Oh. Oh, no, no, sweetheart." Rachel taps Quinn's cheek to get her attention. "You are so very loveable. Don't ever think nobody loves you; there are so many people who care about you so much, Quinn."

"That's different." Drunk Quinn is belligerent, needy, and insecure; Rachel knows that much from hearing Noah's account of the time he got her pregnant (even if she was ready to castrate him afterwards). "Nobody loves loves me."

"There is somebody," whispers Rachel.

Quinn shakes her head. "Who?"

Rachel's thumb sweeps the tears from Quinn's face and continues to caress the soft skin. "Me,", she whispers, long after Quinn's eyes have drooped shut and her breathing becomes deep and even.

Lionel ("He'd better be an animal in bed to make up for that unfortunate name," smirks Santana. At this point in their friendship, Rachel has given up on trying to rehabilitate her and mostly finds her amusing) is a personal trainer at the gym Quinn belongs to. Funnily enough, they don't meet there; they are in the supermarket competing for the last box of organic soy milk (which, also funnily enough, Quinn was going to buy for Rachel).

Kurt approves wholeheartedly. "A personal trainer," he muses, "imagine that body." Judging from the look on his face, there is a lot more he'd like to say about Lionel but is holding back because Quinn has only just forgiven him and Blaine for the incident with Tony.

"Does he have stubble, Q?" asks Santana, and Rachel goes rigid.

"Um, yeah? Most guys do."

"Hmm, interesting. How tall is he, on a scale from Midget Berry to Finnocence?"

"Not as tall as Finn. Maybe a few inches shorter," says Quinn, shooting Rachel an apologetic look – which goes unnoticed, as Rachel is busy staring fixedly at Santana and stomping on her foot under the table. Santana's grin becomes a little fixed but she continues talking. "Wow, Q. Didn't know you like your men to be gigantic sculpted hunks of man meat with just a touch of scruff."

"Santana!"

Quinn pins her with a venomous look and then glances at Rachel, expression considerably softer. "Is this something I want to know?"

"No," says Rachel immediately, slamming a hand over Santana's to muffle her "Hell, yes". She removes it a second later, face screwed up in disgust.

"Santana Lopez, did you just lick me?! That's absolutely revolting!"

"Hey, if you got over yourself and started boning Q over there, I wouldn't have because god knows where that hand would have been."

Rachel seems incapable of speech. Her face is cherry-red, almost as dark as Quinn's, and she can't look at her.

Santana stands up. "Well," she says, rubbing her palms together, "looks like my work here is done. Later, Q. Rachel."

"Santana Lopez!" hisses Rachel later.

"What? If I left it to you, Berry, you'd just spend the rest of your life pining over her like you were in one of those horrible lesbian movies."

"Yes, but – she's seeing Lionel now!"

Santana stares at her for a long moment, and then sighs. "One day, you're gonna regret not being selfish for this one thing."

"Yeah? Because right now, I'm regretting that you're my friend."

"Claws in, kitty cat. No way you're a match for me. Don't start fights you can't win, 'cos you'll be sorry when Snix comes out to play."

"Why? Is she going to give me crabs?"

Santana narrows her eyes. "Oh, that was a low blow, RuPaul. Lucky for you, I'mma give you a free pass today out of the generosity of my heart (and because you can't take Snix on) but mostly because I've been where you are, and I know what it feels like."

"Where, Loserville?"

"...bitch, it is on."

Lionel doesn't cheat on her. They sort of fall apart after discovering they don't have much in common apart from the proper way to do calisthenics and having a vegan roommate.

Rachel doesn't know whether to be happy or sad that her friend is single again. She resolves the ambiguity by baking Quinn 'sorry-you-guys-broke-up' cookies (with real milk and eggs), and Quinn complains, "You'll make me fat," while licking up the rest of the crumbs in a very unlady-like manner.

After Lionel is Marcus, a fellow journalist from the New York Times, who asks Quinn out while they're at a press conference; she says yes because this isn't the first time he's asked her out, and she feels sorry for him. "He sounds unprofessional," says Rachel over takeout Chinese and a documentary about the psychology of American high school students. "Who asks someone out on a date in the middle of a press conference?"

"To be fair, it was afterwards when we were packing up to head back to the office. He's a pretty nice guy, actually, but..." Quinn trails off, attention captivated by a speaker.

"But?"

"Hmmm? Oh. But I was always seeing someone else when he asked me out." Quinn tears her eyes away from the television when the program switches to a commercial, looking sheepish. "I felt bad for not giving him a chance."

Marcus actually lasts longer than she thought.

Quinn brings him to Rachel's birthday dinner, where he gamely eats vegan pad thai and fried stuffed tofu, proclaiming it delicious. He matches Santana barb for barb and earns Kurt's grudging admiration when he appraises his outfit. Marcus listens to Brittany talk about – well, everything that comes to mind – and looks interested. He converses with Blaine about politics. He even chats about musical theater with Rachel, winning bonus points when he says he's #1, watched Funny Girl, and #2, genuinely enjoyed it, using words like pathos and liminal spaces unironically.

Most importantly, he treats Quinn like a princess. And the way he looks at her…

It's much like the way Rachel wants someone to look at her – and also happens to be much like the way she looks at Quinn (according to Kurt).

He's perfect. Rachel wants to hate him but she can't bring herself to, because Quinn likes him (and might even love him).

She sees Marcus all the way through Christmas and the new year; in fact, Quinn spends New Year's Eve at his apartment instead of attending the traditional party Santana hosts (which actually consists of Glee club members meeting up and getting drunk together).

This year, Finn, Puck, and Tina have made it. They sprawl on Santana and Brittany's hardwood floors in various states of inebriation and in pairs; Santana and Brittany, Kurt and Blaine, Puck and Tina (surprisingly), and Rachel and Finn.

"I saw your show," slurs Finn. His eyes aren't focused on Rachel, but on a point behind her. "You were awesome."

"I was swaying in the back," Rachel reminds him tiredly.

"Still 'swasome to be swaying in the back on Broadway." He says this with the reverence he normally reserves for the latest violence-packed console game, so she smiles inadvertently and pats his arm, feeling a sudden rush of affection for him.

"You're drunk, Finn."

He makes a non-committal sound. "Can't be. Only had onety-seven small cups of that stuff Puck mixed."

"Which is still too much." Rachel has had the 'privilege' of watching Puck mix the drinks earlier, meaning she saw the sheer volume of alcohol inside. "You should sleep it off or you'll be horribly hungover tomorrow."

Finn chuckles. "Quinn couldn't make it this year, huh?"

She blinks. Even sober, she's never been able to fathom the way Finn's mind works, and she's caught off-guard by the abrupt change of subject. "She's at Marcus' place. You've met Marcus already."

"Yeah. Pretty nice guy. Easy t'see why she likes him." Finn squints at her. "You don't like him," he pronounces.

"Why wouldn't I like him? He's very sweet, and he's highly intelligent. He treats Quinn well, and he gets along with all of us."

Finn raises a finger. His extreme inebriation means the tip sways haphazardly. "You're doing that 'I-don't-like-it-but-my-opinion-isn't-important thingy – ramble – that you do."

It's a little disturbing how drunk-Finn is a lot more perceptive than sober-Finn, especially when his eyes widen and he points his finger at her. "You like like Quinn."

Rachel sighs. "Yes, Finn," she says. There's no harm in talking to this insightful version of her ex-boyfriend and fiance, especially since he won't remember anything the next day. "I like Quinn."

"I knew it," he crows. "You guys never really seemed interested in me even when you were fightin' over me, an' when Santana said you guys moved in together it was like, finally." Finn narrows his eyes. "Wait. But she's with Marcus." He goes cross-eyed again as he struggles to process.

She gets to her feet. "Up, big guy," she says, yanking on Finn's arm. He's a lot heavier than she is, but he manages to lumber upright with her guidance. "Time for bed. They'll be aching in the morning but you're the lucky one who gets to sleep in a bed, Mr. Hudson."

"You gotta tell her," he insists. "You can't let it eat you up inside, Rach, 'cause it really hurts, this unrequired love stuff."

"Unrequited," she corrects automatically.

"Yeah, what you said." Rachel pushes him; his knees give way, and he topples on the bed with an 'oof' noise. "At least get it out of your system so you can move on and stuff."

"Maybe someday," Rachel tells him, crawling onto the bed with him and resting her head on his shoulder.

"'Kay, Rach."

It's only a matter of time before Quinn's colleagues put the pieces together; Quinn's encyclopedic knowledge of musical theatre. Her collection of personal anecdotes about Broadway actors. It soon transpires that her best friend and roommate Rachel is also that Broadway actress Rachel Berry, who recently starred as Maddie Wilkins in the surprising smash hit Slipping Through The Cracks.

Quinn comes home apologetic; the entertainment for her department's staff party has fallen through and they are in desperate need of a last-minute replacement. "I swear I'll never ask you for another favour again," says Quinn.

Rachel grins. "Honestly, Quinn, by now you should know that I'd never pass up an opportunity to sing."

Quinn shakes her head. "Thanks so much, Rach. I owe you one."

She climbs into a show-stopping red dress Kurt found for her for the party. Quinn is attending right after work, so she's taken her outfit there to change into afterwards.

Part of Rachel is nervous, despite her years of experience performing onstage. She thinks it's because these are Quinn's friends and colleagues she'll be singing for. She sort of understands why the thought of singing for Quinn now makes her heart flutter, but it's still nerve-wracking, even if Quinn's heard her sing hundreds of times, in a variety of settings; from show opening nights to impromptu shower performances.

While Rachel runs through the sound checks, she spots Quinn, who is… simply stunning. She's wearing a long black dress Rachel hasn't seen her wear before, her hair twisted up in a chignon.

Just as Rachel is about to tear her eyes away, Quinn looks up. Their eyes meet. Quinn beams at her. Her mouth goes dry right as she is testing the mike; Rachel swallows, mouths an apology to the technician, and continues.

Quinn's boss, a large man who introduces himself as Stewart, takes the mike. "Settle down, people. Thank you all very much for taking the time to be here tonight instead of being out there making the news. Tonight, we're very lucky to have the very talented Rachel Berry taking time off Broadway to be here with us. Miss Berry, please."

"Thank you for that kind introduction, Stewart. Hi everyone, thanks for being here tonight. But then again, this is an official staff function, so I believe it would be more accurate to say you had no choice."

A ripple of laughter goes through the room.

"Nevertheless, I'm glad to have a chance to perform for all of you tonight, my lovely captive audience." Another laugh. Rachel beams. It's so easy to slip into her professional persona and sing for yet another audience. She spots Quinn standing somewhere in the middle, looking practically incandescent with pride and joy. Rachel's heart skips a beat – until she notices Marcus at her side.

This can't be just another audience, and she can't be Rachel Berry, Broadway sensation. She's just Rachel tonight.

Her backing band starts the introduction to k.d lang's Constant Craving, a song Rachel has loved since she heard Santana's performance in Glee. She's never been able to match that rendition without the powerful emotion of unrequited love driving the song... until tonight. No one is as skilled in the art of singing one's feelings as Rachel, and her chosen set list is a masterpiece of that art.

She deliberately avoids looking at Quinn and Marcus throughout.

When the song ends, Rachel waits for the thunderous applause to die down before taking the mike again. "This next song is for those who love to dance," she says, and kicks off into Pat Benatar's Love is a Battlefield.

She sings a few more numbers (a medley of Broadway classics with crowd-pleasing pop hits) before it's time for her break. Quinn is waiting for her when she descends from the stage.

"You were amazing. As always." Quinn's hand finds hers and squeezes. "Thanks for doing this." Her gaze slips downwards. "Okay, I don't think I've seen you wear this before. Is it new? Have you been holding out on me? You look more stunning than usual."

"Thank you, Quinn. This is what happens when I let Kurt burn my wardrobe. And you're more than welcome. Just as long as your colleagues don't pester me for free tickets," jokes Rachel. She's doing her best not to be distracted by the feeling of Quinn's hand in hers. "You look… wow."

Quinn laughs. "Wow? I've broken Rachel Berry. What happened to the soliloquies of description?"

Rachel smiles weakly. "Wait a moment, I'll have recovered sufficiently to express myself in song."

They laugh. Marcus approaches them. "Hey, Rachel," he says, kissing her cheek and giving her a hug. "You were amazing out there."

"Thank you, Marcus." Rachel's smile dims a little when he moves away, slipping his arm around Quinn's waist.

As they leave, Quinn turns and blows a kiss over her shoulder. Rachel catches it, and tucks it someplace secret.

"I'm afraid this is my last number for tonight," calls Rachel, raising her voice to be heard over the chorus of groans that have emerged, "and I hope you've enjoyed tonight almost as much as I have." She takes the mike from the stand. "My last song is something close to my heart."

Rachel pours her soul into every lyric. She avoids looking directly at Quinn (even if she makes sure she always knows exactly where Quinn is) as she sings.

There is one moment where she sings the last line of the bridge and their eyes meet. Quinn holds her gaze for a moment longer than an ordinary glance would be. Rachel is eternally thankful that her professionalism and training carries her through without her voice faltering as she is undone.

Rachel is still awake when the door opens. She keeps her eyes closed as the sound of muted voices floats through the apartment, soon followed by silence. Shortly after there is the click of the door closing and footsteps getting closer.

A soft knock on her door. "Rachel? Are you still awake?"

She doesn't move. She hears her door open, and then her bed sag slightly as it takes Quinn's weight. Finally, Quinn says: "I know you're pretending to sleep, Rachel."

"How did you know?" she says sheepishly, rolling over and sitting up. "This is bad; I am supposed to be an acclaimed actress, as you know."

Quinn smirks. "You're not snoring."

Rachel gasps. "Quinn Fabray, you take that back. I do not snore."

"You do, and it's fine. We've all known since the first Nationals."

Rachel groans and flops back down. Quinn laughs and stands up, saying: "I'm going to make some hot chocolate. You're welcome to join me once you're finished resolving your internal crisis." She pauses in the doorway and adds – just as Rachel opens her mouth: "Yes, I bought you the ingredients for your weirdo vegan version."

She disappears into the kitchen. Rachel curses Quinn for being so damned perfect, and herself for being pathetically weak.

Quinn has changed out of her dress into an old Yale T-shirt and shorts by the time Rachel emerges from her room, a steaming mug in front of her. She nods at the other steaming mug opposite her. "Your cruelty-free abomination of nature," she says, teasingly.

Rachel takes a sip. It's perfectly smooth and velvety, with the right ratio of gelatin-free marshmallows to chocolate. She almost moans with delight. "It's perfect."

"Good," says Quinn, pleased.

They sip their drinks in the comfortable silence. "You were amazing tonight," says Quinn.

"You've already told me, Quinn. More than once. But thank you, again."

"I liked the last song you sang."

"Oh?" Rachel doesn't like the look in Quinn's eyes. She laughs, exerting her acting skills to their fullest. "That's good, I'm glad that you think I did the original performer justice. It's not easy for a woman to sing something originally performed by a man; especially since I am a classically-trained soprano singing a pop song – "

" – You were singing it to me, weren't you?"

Rachel is back to the gaping disbelief. She knows it's not a good look on her. "Wow. I – Quinn, I haven't heard that since high school. Quinn, why would you ask that?"

"I've known you for nearly ten years now, Rachel; please don't insult my intelligence."

"Quinn, I would never – "

"Please. Just answer me. For once."

"I thought – "

" – you never did, not really. You thought I wouldn't notice?"

Rachel chews on her lower lip. "No," she admits eventually.

Quinn nods. "Rachel – "

"Before you say anything further, Quinn, I want to apologise for my behaviour," says Rachel in a rush. "It was inappropriate of me to be singing a song like that so openly in front of all your coworkers and your b-boyfriend, no less, and I sincerely apologise. I hope you can forgive me and – "

"Rachel!"

Her mouth snaps shut.

Quinn stands up. She walks around the table, sitting in the chair next to Rachel. "I'm not angry or upset. But I'm disappointed," Rachel deflates a little, "that you felt like you couldn't talk to me about your feelings."

"I know, and I'm sorry. I just… I didn't want you to hate me." She whispers the last words.

Quinn shakes her head. "I can never hate you, Rachel."

"You will," says Rachel despondently.

"Try me."

This is her stage, and the script (which she's known by heart from birth) tells her it's her cue. Rachel takes a deep breath. "I know we have a long and complicated history, but you've always been so, so special to me." Rachel pinks. "Even when you were nasty to me, I could never bring myself to hate you. I'd always believed you had a lot to work through, and that I would be there to see you come out triumphant."

Quinn reaches for Rachel's hand and tangles their fingers together; after a moment's hesitation, Rachel squeezes back.

"I was ecstatic when you wanted us to stay friends after graduation. You were so serious about keeping in touch, and we did – all the way through Yale and NYADA – and when you got that job and moved here… I was terrified we'd drift apart but you didn't let us. You're my best friend, Quinn – but please don't tell Kurt, he'll throw a tantrum."

Quinn shakes her head, a small smile lighting up her features.

"I'm so lucky that things have turned out so well. I have the career I've always dreamed of, I've got the best friends I could ask for. But then I started feeling this way about you. You make me feel special, and cared for, and loved. And if back then I couldn't leave you alone when you were nasty to me, n-now I…" Rachel drops her gaze. "I don't want to go as far as to say I'm in love with you, but I get upset when I see you with someone else, and I can't help myself."

"Rachel…"

"I'm sorry." Rachel fights back a bitter-tasting lump in her throat as she adds, "I – if you feel awkward about us still living together after this, I can always move out – "

"No, don't."

Rachel closes her eyes, smiles faintly. "For someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, everyone saw this coming except me. Even Finn noticed. But it's fine. I'll be fine. My – this – doesn't have to ruin our friendship, Quinn. It's only awkward if I make it awkward."

When she opens her eyes, Quinn is looking at her. Her expression is tender but also heartbreakingly sad. "Rachel…"

"You don't have to say anything, Quinn. I understand." Slowly, she tugs her hand out of Quinn's – who lets her. "I'm going to bed. Good night."

Rachel doesn't have a show until that night but she makes sure she leaves the house before Quinn wakes up. She sits in a coffee shop far from their usual, sipping what she's convinced is the worst chai latte known to mankind. After her show, she accepts her surprised co-stars' invitation to drinks (she'd always turned them down so she could go home to Quinn).

She lets a attractive redhead with sea-green eyes buy her drinks. Rachel doesn't know what they talk about, but it's abundantly clear it's not conversation the other woman's interested in when kisses rapidly turn filthy. Before she knows it, she's stumbling through their front door, giggling, her new friend trailing after her.

"Shhhh," mumbles Rachel, "you'll wake up my roommate."

"Baby, when I'm done with you, you'll be screaming loud enough to wake up the dead."

That's all the incentive Rachel needs. She licks her lips and drags the woman to her bedroom.

Not long after, the redhead does something magical between Rachel's legs that makes her moan loud enough to have woken Quinn. She feels guilty for a moment before being distracted.

Rachel stumbles out of her room, bleary-eyed. God, she needs coffee, and a shower, and some breakfast, then coffee – or has that already been covered? She might need more.

She quickly sobers when she spots Quinn seated, ramrod-straight, at the dining table.

"Quinn," she starts. "I thought you'd already left."

"I was just about to leave."

"Oh." She blushes, unable to look at her friend. "I – apologise if I – we – disturbed your sleep last night."

"It's fine."

The next morning, she makes sure to lurk in bed until she's certain Quinn has left for work before coming out of her room. Her one-night-stand (a guy this time, with blue eyes she could drown in) thinks it's hilarious that they're waiting for Quinn to leave, and makes the waiting more pleasurable.

In this fashion, she manages to avoid Quinn for an entire week until one night, she quietly locks the door behind her and turns to find Quinn standing there.

"Oh," she manages. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"No," responds Quinn tersely.

"Okay. That's good." She takes a step forward, frowning when Quinn doesn't budge. "Um – excuse me, Quinn, I would like to go and shower; I'm rather grimy from tonight's show and there was this malodorous gentleman seated beside me on the subway…"

"We need to talk." Quinn steps to the side but continues to follow Rachel through the house. "You've been avoiding me."

Rachel wants to protest, but a quick glance at Quinn's expression from the corner of her eye makes her wilt. "Can it wait until – "

" – no."

"Fine." Rachel makes a huffing noise, flopping on the couch. "Then we'll talk."

Quinn sits down – a good distance from her, Rachel notes bitterly. "Rachel," she says, sounding heartbreakingly vulnerable, "I'm worried about you. You've been staying out late, sometimes you bring people home, and you never introduce them to me – "

" – that's because I'm fucking them, not dating them," interjects Rachel crudely, and Quinn winces.

"Yes, exactly. We're all worried about you."

"You know, as a person who is equally attracted to both sexes, I would have thought that i have twice the chances of finding someone and getting over you," says Rachel. "But it's only twice as hard. I thought I passed high school maths. It doesn't make sense."

"Rachel…" Quinn frowns, and then leans a little closer. "Rachel, are you drunk?"

"Nooo. I only had a few drinks." Rachel raises a finger, which sways slightly. "And stop saying my name like that. You're getting my hopes up. You're messing up my calculations."

Quinn bites her lip. "Fine. Would it help if I went back to calling you Berry, or M-manhands, or RuPaul?" A tear slides down her cheek.

"Oh. Quinn, sweetie. Don't cry." Rachel scoots closer, wiping away the tear. "It makes me sad when you're sad."

"I hurt you," whispers Quinn. Her hand clutches Rachel's, holding it in place. "I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. It's just me being stupid and wanting the things I can't have – isn't that stupid? I'm the stereotypical spoilt only child. My dad and daddy didn't mean to spoil me, but they did. But if they didn't have me, I wouldn't have known you." Rachel shrugs a shoulder. "Weird. Maybe you'd have found someone else to fight over a shared boyfriend in that parallel universe."

Quinn shakes her head. "Rachel, you're drunk. You need to sleep it off."

"Don't wanna be sober," grumbles Rachel. The alcohol is starting to take its toll on her verbosity.

"That wasn't a suggestion." Quinn tugs Rachel off to her room. "Here. Swallow this." She hands Rachel two aspirin and a glass of water, and waits until the glass is empty. "Sleep."

"See? This is exactly what you did to me. How can I not love you if you're going to be so nice?" complains Rachel.

Quinn just stares at her. "Good night, Rachel."

When Rachel wakes, it's to the smell of toast. Her stomach growls ferociously but her head doesn't hurt as much as she thought it would. Maybe Quinn forced her to drink water before putting her to bed. The image of Quinn caring for her makes her heart flutter.

Quinn sets a plate in front of her the moment she steps into the kitchen. "Morning."

"Good morning, Quinn." Rachel gratefully takes the glass of orange juice from Quinn and downs it in a single gulp. The tofu scramble on the plate before her (because what else could it be?) is seasoned to perfection. "Thanks."

Quinn sits down with her own breakfast. They eat in silence.

"Did you take care of me last night?"

There is an odd look in Quinn's eye as she asks, "What makes you say that?"

"The last I remember of last night, I drank enough to be having the mother of all hangovers this morning, but I don't. I'm assuming you force-fed me aspirin and water."

"So you don't remember anything from last night?" Quinn's voice sounds a little odd – and Rachel should know, she's had enough voice lessons – but she doesn't comment.

"Nothing. I don't even remember getting home."

"Oh."

"I said some things I should be regretting now, didn't I?"

"Rachel…"

"Oh shit." Rachel pushes her plate away, appetite gone. "I did, didn't I? Quinn, whatever it was, please forget it. You know me, you know I say the dumbest things when I'm drunk, and I was completely intoxicated last night – "

But she doesn't get to finish rambling because Quinn has reached across the table to kiss her hard. Their mouth slide across each other; Quinn sucks on Rachel's lower lip and she whimpers. Quinn's hands are cupping her face. She holds them there and kisses back frantically.

Suddenly Quinn lurches back, wide eyed and frantic. Rachel is about to protest the absence of contact when the realization hits hard.

"Quinn —"

"I'm sorry," she breathes, and then stumbles from the kitchen.

No amount of knocking or calling will induce Quinn out of her room. When she finally emerges, it's to an empty apartment and a note on the counter.

Quinn,

I'm sorry I left without telling you, but I think we both need some space and time away from each other.

Rachel

Quinn balls the note up with trembling hands.

"You did tell Quinn how long you'd be staying with us, right, Berry?"

Rachel looks up blearily. She's spent most of last night and this morning crying on Brittany's shoulder. "... No, I don't believe I have. Come to think of it, I didn't tell her I'm staying with you guys."

Santana growls. "That explains why Q blew up our phones. I had Lady Hummel and Blaine Warbler, separately and together, call me to ask if I knew where you are."

Rachel looks sheepish. "Sorry."

"Sorry won't cut it this time." Santana thrusts the phone at her. "Call your woman and tell her where you are. Now."

Rachel bursts into tears just as Brittany says, "San," very reproachfully and gathers Rachel back into her arms again. Santana throws her hands up in the air and dials the number herself. "Q? Yeah, she's at our place – you can hear her for yourself." Santana holds up the phone in Rachel's direction until Brittany glares at her. "Yeah, she's been here since last night. God, no. Britt's got her. You can hear that, right? That's a full fucking meltdown I did not sign up to handle. Yes, fine. Yeah, you bet you owe us big time."

"Santana."

"... actually, no, no, it's fine. It's our pleasure to look after her. Yeah, see you later. Bye."

"Whipped," mutters Rachel. Brittany giggles and kisses her forehead.

"I heard that, Berry. Shut up and go back to your meltdown."

As she camps on Brittany and Santana's couch, eating ice cream (organic and vegan, but not strawberry swirl) and watching bad reality TV, it disturbs Rachel that she's treating this like a breakup.

In a way, it really is. Her friendship with Quinn has been damaged beyond repair, and with it their working relationship as housemates, all because Rachel couldn't keep it in her pants. She sighs and takes another spoonful of ice cream; the annoying voice in her head is starting to sound a lot like Santana. She's been spending far too much talking to her.

Brittany comes in and joins her on the couch, stealing a bit of ice cream. "Hi, Rachel," she says, throwing an arm around Rachel's neck in a loose hug. Rachel ignores the fact Brittany's wearing barely-there panties and a tank top. She attributes her nonchalance to years of cohabitation with ex-Cheerios.

"Good morning, Brittany. Did you sleep well?"

"She did, and it would have been even better if there wasn't a voyeur on our couch," growls a voice from behind her.

"I'm sorry that my personal crisis is infringing on your sex life, Santana," says Rachel, rolling her eyes. "Additionally, I am not a voyeur as you insist; a voyeur would be spying on you and Brittany, and I haven't moved from this couch since last night."

"Shut up, Berry. Britt, get your cute butt back here. I'm not done with it yet."

"See you later, Rachel," says Brittany, kissing her cheek and skipping away. Rachel sighs and turns up the volume of the television, hoping against hope it will drown out the sounds that are soon to follow.

It doesn't.

Quinn is huddled on the couch, watching a bunch of people get decimated by zombies. She snaps up when Rachel comes in. "Rachel," she says, hastily rubbing at her eyes. "You're back."

"I'm home," says Rachel, smiling a little.

"I – do you want to watch something else? I can change it." This is Quinn's way of asking if they're okay, and Rachel nods. She knows they need to talk about the kiss sooner rather than later, but right now, she just wants to watch people get mauled by undead creatures.

"It's okay." Rachel takes the other end of the couch. "This is fine."

They watch the rest of the movie in silence until Quinn says, "I ended things with Marcus," while the end credits are rolling.

"... what?"

"I couldn't hurt him like that."

Rachel stares.

"I've been… going through a lot recently, and I needed some time and space to think," continues Quinn, "and I don't want to keep hurting people I care about because I can't sort out my own stupid issues."

"Quinn Fabray," says Rachel severely, "I never want to hear you say that again. You're one of the kindest people I've ever known – you are, don't give me that look. You care about everyone more than you let on. You're so, so smart, and tough. You graduated from Yale with a first in two majors, and you impressed the heck out of your editor with your portfolio – fresh out of college, Quinn! You come to my shows – despite the fact I'm only a supporting cast member. I have no shortage of people telling me how amazing you are and that how lucky I am to have you as a friend." She pauses to give Quinn a fond look. "Which I completely agree with."

Quinn just shakes her head slowly.

"I haven't even mentioned how pretty you are – and that you're still the prettiest girl I've ever met, and I went to NYADA with all those hussies who thought they had talent and looks – because you're so much more than that." Rachel smiles. "Always have been."

"I… don't know what to say to that." Quinn lets out a watery laugh.

"That's okay. I'll do all the talking, I'm good at that." She rolls her shoulders; it's been a long day.

When she opens her eyes, Quinn is too close.

"Quinn?"

The blonde's eyes are fluttering closed even as she moves closer still. Rachel's eyes slide shut. She's wanted this so much, she's dreamed of it; but she knows it's not right. She leans away.

"Rachel…?"

"As much as I want to, we can't." Rachel forces herself to look away from parted lips. "It's not fair."

Hurt shimmers in Quinn's eyes. "But I thought you wanted this. Me."

"You're confused," says Rachel decisively. "I take full responsibility for that, and I'm sorry. I certainly didn't tell you how I feel about you with the intention of coercing you into kissing with me, or leaving your boyfriend for me. I'm your friend first and foremost, Quinn. I do have more than friendly feelings towards you, but I need you to be sure about this. I care about you too much to see you get hurt." She smiles reassuringly, the pad of her thumb brushing away the tear sliding down Quinn's cheek.

Quinn takes a shaky breath and nods. She leaves without a word.

Two days.

To be precise: one day, seventeen hours, and thirty-eight minutes since she threw the one thing she ever wanted away.

Rachel has spent those two days going through the motions of her life; eating, sleeping, showering, going to rehearsals. Any other person would have been able to get away with it, but she is an actress, and her job requires her to emote.

"No, no, no!" In his frustration, Jesse flings the script – already tattered from the constant wringing he has been doing since rehearsal started – at Rachel. It makes a sad arc in the air and crashes down barely three feet away from him. "Rachel, what is this? Tell me what it is that you are trying to do!"

She shrugs. "I'm playing Clementine in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," she says.

"No, you're not." He storms up the stairs onto the stage to come face-to-face with her. "You're a nervous understudy playing Rachel Berry in her life."

Rachel is startled enough to let a laugh escape. "Don't be ridiculous, Jesse. And I thought I was the dramatic one. I can't believe we actually dated."

Jesse looks up to see the rest of the cast and crew eyeing them both curiously. "Take fifteen," he snaps, and they scuttle off. To Rachel, he says, "Okay, what's bothering you? This isn't the Rachel Berry I know, and frankly, your lack of focus and drive disturbs me more than any personal crisis you've ever had because it never affected your professionalism."

His tendency to make long and narcissistic, yet strangely sweet statements, never fails to make her smile. "It's nothing much really, Jesse."

He scoffs. "As I said, your lack of professionalism disturbs me." Jesse stretches out a hand, grabs Rachel, and tugs her to the edge. They sit down, and he pulls a bottle of water from the orchestra pit, tossing it to her. "Tell me what's bothering you," he commands.

Rachel bristles. "My private life is none of your concern."

"It is when you are seriously defeating my attempts at playing the sensitive and shy Joel to your lobotomized Clementine." He produces a bottle of water for himself and takes a deep drink. "Seriously, Rachel, this play is my baby. I adapted it for the stage. I am producing, directing, and starring in it. Even though our romantic history is long over, we still retain that undeniable chemistry – not to mention your own prodigious acting talent made truly exceptional when paired with mine – that makes you the perfect Clementine."

"I know," she says heavily. "I'm sorry, Jesse, I know how important this is for you. I'm just – not in a great place at this current time."

"When do you expect to be in a better, more professional place?"

She rolls her eyes. "Jesse, are you seriously attempting to put me on a schedule to resolve my personal crisis?"

"... It was worth a try." Jesse gives her a thin-lipped smile. "We never had this sort of problem back in Vocal Adrenaline. We simply lacked the capacity for human emotion."

Rachel snorts. "Soulless automatons win titles."

"Yes, but you were never a soulless automaton, Rachel," he responds in a surprisingly soft voice. As people start to trickle back into the theatre, Jesse pats Rachel's hand and says in her ear: "Talk to her."

Rachel whips her head around so fast, her ponytail smacks Jesse in the face, making him splutter. "What?"

He shoots her a wounded look. "I said talk to her," he repeats, running his hands over his face.

"How did you know –"

"– please, Rachel; the blind, deaf, and dumb – or in my case, those attuned to unresolved sexual tension and its accompanying drama – can tell there's something going on between you and Quinn Fabray."

Rachel groans. "Am I that obvious?"

"Yes." Jesse folds his arms across his chest impatiently. "Can we start now?"

Quinn still isn't home when Rachel gets back. Rachel does up her hair in a messy bun and starts digging through the kitchen.

When she shows up on Kurt's doorstep, he takes a moment to stare at the large cookie tins she's carrying. "Have you been drinking, Rachel Barbra?"

She returns his incredulous stare. "Certainly not, Kurt."

"Then explain what crazy scheme you've got brewing under those improperly conditioned locks of yours," he snipes back as he steps aside to let her in.

It's a mark if how distracted she is when Rachel doesn't even respond to Kurt's insult. "Do you know where Quinn is?"

Kurt blinks at her, and then says softly: "Santana told me she's at Marcus' place."

"But… she broke up with him."

"Yeah."

Rachel nods. She's been expecting that, though it feels like a punch to the gut anyway. She hands the tins to Kurt, saying, "Could you do me a favour and give these to her, please?"

"... Of course." Kurt sets down the tins carefully and gives her a hug so big it musses his immaculate hair. Rachel appreciates his gesture of support, more so when he doesn't fix it immediately.

When she goes home and takes the time to properly look over the apartment, Rachel starts to notice things... missing. Sure, Quinn's shoes are in the rack, and Quinn's things are untouched in her room, but Quinn's favourite pair of scuffed ballerina flats are gone, and the long overcoat she loves to wear because it makes her 'feel sophisticated'. The small clutch that Rachel bought her for her twenty-fifth birthday. The old laptop – not the new one – because that's where Quinn's music library is stored, and she couldn't be bothered to import everything.

Quinn left.

Quinn left her.

She bakes another batch of cookies.

Rachel munches on her 'I'm-sorry-I-ruined-everything' cookies while watching Funny Girl and other Streisand classics on loop. Rachel's hasn't thrown a pity party for herself in a long time, not since Finn and his running off to the Army, but she does passably well.

Quinn was wrong. Her cookies are just as good when baked with with a broken heart.

"Yes, I'm coming!" calls Rachel. She's a little disgruntled at being interrupted, especially by a person who hasn't stopped knocking for a second, wondering who it can be at this time of night. She opens her front door, blinking in surprise at the unexpected visitor on her doorstep. "Santana? What happened? Are you okay?"

"Thank goodness you're home, midget; it's Quinn. She's not picking up her phone, and Britt's starting to get worried." Santana tries to peer past Rachel into the house. "Is Quinn here?"

"Now why would she be here?" says Rachel irritably – and bites her lower lip as a male voice from inside calls: "Babe? Who's at the door?"

"Babe?" asks Santana. Rachel flushes scarlet.

"Give me a second, Adrian," she calls back, shoving Santana out the door and closing it behind them. "Why are you really here, Santana?" Rachel says quietly, crossing her arms over her chest.

Her friend stares as though Rachel's grown two heads. "We can't reach Quinn," she says, holding up her phone. "We thought you might know where she is, and you weren't answering your phone."

Rachel's blush deepens. "I was occupied, clearly. Also, you wasted your time because I most certainly don't know where Quinn is, and thus am not in any position to be informed on her recent whereabouts. And even then? Quinn's a big girl now, she can take care of herself." Rachel turns to go back in but Santana catches her shoulder.

"Okay, look, I know you and Q aren't on the best of terms right now – "

"– she left, Santana; just say it."

" – but she's still your friend. You care about her."

"I used to care about her." Rachel looks away. "She's moved on, and so have I."

"Have you?"

She draws herself up to her fullest height. Even though she's still shorter than Santana, Rachel manages to look down her nose at her friend. "I would really like it if you stopped wasting my time with these highly invasive and uncomfortable questions. My boyfriend is waiting for me inside, if you don't mind."

Santana glares back – and then backs down, averting her eyes. "Okay, Rachel."

She honestly has no idea what she's doing. It took her all of fifteen minutes to push Adrian off her and out the door while he was kissing down her neck, and then grab her coat and beanie on her own way out.

She speaks into the phone without preamble the instant the call connects. "Kurt, have you heard from Quinn recently?"

"No, not for a while now? Why? What's wrong?"

"Santana just came to my house in a panic to ask me that same thing. It seems Quinn has been uncontactable for a while now."

"Yeah, okay, I'm not going to panic and imagine the worst right now."

"Kurt, focus." She rounds the corner of her building and stops at the intersection. "Can you do me a favour and go to Marcus' place?"

"Of course, Rachel."

She can't sit still. She paces around the park she knows Quinn likes to jog, waiting for Kurt to call her back and racking her brains for ideas where Quinn might be.

Her phone rings and she stabs at the answer button frantically. "Yes?"

"Marcus says he hasn't seen her since…"

"Since? Out with it, Hummel." Rachel swears she will throttle him with his own Gucci scarf the next time she sees him.

"Since she broke up with him – again – and moved out four days ago," says Kurt slowly.

Rachel's answering what might have shattered glass. She isn't sure except Kurt hissing damnit Rachel in her ear, sounding incredibly distant. "Sorry," she says, not sorry at all. "They broke up again? Quinn's not there?"

"That's what he told me, yes, unless he's got some reason for lying." The tone of Kurt's voice strongly suggests there is. "I can hear you thinking, Rachel, and let me preempt you; I don't mind lurking outside someone's house but I draw the line at breaking and entering."

"No, I believe him. If he says she isn't there, she isn't."

"I – uh – okay then."

"I'm going to hang up now," Rachel tells him.

"Okay. Keep me updated?"

"Of course, Kurt."

Rachel blows out her bangs. Her hair is getting long to the point of being sloppy, and she'd really like to cut it. If she was braver, she'd go for the shoulder-length style Quinn got in senior year, or even the still-manageable length she sported throughout college…

She starts sobbing noisily and doesn't understand why.

Santana calls, waking her from a troubled sleep. She sounds disgruntled.

"Kurt told me about Marcus, take two," she says without preamble, "but I don't trust that lying douchebag. I'll be paying him a visit later tonight."

"You are aware that you're violating at least three laws in that sentence? Also, I was fairly certain that you liked Marcus." Rachel doesn't realise she's up and out of the house until the first waft of cold air bites through her coat, and she finds herself outside a coffee shop Quinn gets her to-go caffeine fixes from.

"Any tool who breaks Q's heart deserves nothing less than my fist breaking his face. Also, Q's my girl so it's his fault."

This is the part where Rachel'll comment on Santana's crassness/proclivity to violence/both, but she doesn't; strangely enough, she echoes the sentiments. Evidently Santana knows her too well, because she says uncomfortably: "Uh, this is the part where you tell me off for excessive violence, Rach."

"Yes, I know. But can't I agree with you for once in my lifetime?"

Santana chuckles. "You really love her, don't you?"

"I do not," snaps Rachel.

"Yeah, okay. Chill, Berry."

"Just go back to your planned lawbreaking, Santana," says Rachel tersely.

Once she disconnects the call, Rachel thinks it over. If Quinn isn't at any of their friends' homes, or at Marcus', where could she be? On the surface it seems hopeless; there are a hundred thousand places in New York a person could be, and Quinn can probably find a hundred thousand more. She's good at finding liminal spaces.

There was a time she'd quite literally melted into the bookshelves while engrossed in a book she thought was too expensive, and thus decided to finish reading it before she left the store. Rachel had spent the better part of an hour searching for her, and Quinn wasn't answering her phone. Quinn had been apologetic when Rachel had eventually found her (with the help of store staff), but Rachel just huffed and bought the book for her, since I can't possibly hang around here all day waiting for you to finish the book, and you'd probably merge with the shelves if you stay in that uncomfortable-looking position for too long.

"Where are you, Quinn?" whispers Rachel.

Rachel goes back to her – still their – apartment, laden with bags of groceries. She then proceeds to spend the rest of the morning and afternoon baking batch after batch of cookies.

She makes a few phone calls while waiting for them to cool.

Once the tins are all full, she packs a bag, leaving the apartment smelling of vanilla and brown sugar.

She's only 5'2 in stockinged feet (even if she'll never admit her actual height to anyone else), and so she has trouble transporting four tins of cookies to the suburbs of Lima from the airport. Luckily, Finn's waiting for her in his old truck, and that makes most of the journey easier.

"You're crazy, Rach," he tells her, fingers tapping the steering wheel in time to the rock music blasting from the car radio, "and I've seen you send somebody to a crack house."

Rachel scowls. "Okay, I don't understand why everyone has to bring that particular incident up. It was abandoned, for goodness' sake."

He grins. "How about the time you – "

"– Finn, that was not a request for a detailed retelling of my misdeeds, thank you."

Finn shrugs and starts singing along when a song he knows starts playing. In the silence after the music ends, Rachel says: "Thank you for doing this, Finn. I greatly appreciate it."

"It's okay. Seriously. Quinn's not always the nicest person but she's lucky she has a friend like you. It's cool." He pulls up outside a modest house. "We're here. Good luck, Rachel. You're gonna need it."

She laughs. "I know," says Rachel, leaning over to kiss Finn's cheek.

Rachel makes the rest of the journey up the driveway with an undignified waddle as she juggles the tins while retaining her ability to see what's ahead of her.

A bemused Shelby answers the door – she's already expecting Rachel, so her curiosity is focused on the tins in Rachel's arms. "She's in the guest room; upstairs, second door on the left."

Rachel smiles. "Thank you, Shelby." She hands the older woman a tin. "This is for you and Beth. Homemade chocolate chip cookies." Rachel pauses. "Please don't read too much into this. I'm here for Quinn alone; whatever issues we have are yet to be resolved."

"Alright," says Shelby softly.

The final barrier on her journey is the plain painted wood of Shelby Corcoran's guest room. Rachel raps smartly before testing the handle – it's not locked, much to her surprise. She pushes the door slightly ajar and sticks both hands in, a cookie tin held between them.

There's a soft gasp from inside. "Rachel?"

"Hi, Quinn."

Quinn flings the door open, mouth agape with surprise. Her eyes look a little red and swollen. "Rachel, what are you doing here?"

Rachel tilts her head to the side. "Was that a figurative or literal question?" When there's no clarification forthcoming, Rachel explains: "Figuratively, I guessed you'd be here and so I took the liberty of finding you so I can tell our friends that you're fine. Literally…" She gives the tin in her hands a little shake. "I'm bringing you cookies. Though I think you should be more curious about how I managed to find you, rather than be surprised that I'm here. That would be the first question I would ask if our positions were reversed."

Quinn's gaze drifts to the tin, and then back up. "But why?"

Her voice trembles a little as she holds out the tin between them and says: "I thought you might need them, so I made you 'sorry-you-guys-broke-up' cookies."

Quinn lets out a shaky little laugh. "You brought me break-up cookies?"

"Also 'I-hope-you'll-feel-better' cookies, and 'men-are-pigs' cookies," Rachel says, jerking her head at the other tins outside. "I'm especially proud of the latter; it took me a while to ice the pigs on them properly because while I am gifted in performing, my other art skills leave a lot to be desired."

"Rachel, you… you came all the way here from New York to bring me cookies?"

"They taste better when freshly baked with remorse," Rachel says stupidly. She feels as though she's playing herself in the movie of her life now, and she's stuck saying the world's corniest script.

Quinn goes to inspect the other cookie tins, laughing softly at the contents. "Rach? There's another tin here – " She cuts herself off when she sees the cookies inside, reaching for one. It's chocolate chunk, and has 'I Miss You' iced on it in neat cursive.

"You left," Rachel says very quietly.

She can see Quinn worrying her lower lip with her front teeth. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm sorry too." Rachel holds out both arms with a hopeful smile. "I was hoping four tins would be four times as effective, or even better, have an exponential effect on the speed of forgiveness."

Tentatively, Quinn steps forward, looking as though she's about to jump off a cliff. Rachel's smile broadens, and she shakes her head in fond exasperation. "Quinn, it's okay to hug me; just because I have a crush on you, it doesn't mean I'm about to jump on you and ravage you in a fit of hormone-driven lust."

Quinn immediately goes a very alarming shade of red. "Yes, but – I don't want to make this awkward, and I definitely don't want to lead you on or anything…"

Rachel huffs. "And they say I talk too much." She practically grabs Quinn around the waist, pulling her in for a squeeze, chuckling a little when Quinn eventually relaxes into the hug. "So are you coming home? The couch is a little too big for me, and I really can't watch horror movies on my own."

"If you'll have me," says Quinn, sounding contrite.

"Of course I'll have you. You and your share of the rental, to be exact."

Rachel beams when she feels Quinn laugh softly into her neck.

There is some general skittishness around each other in the first few days after Quinn comes back, but it quickly wears off when they are faced with the force of chaos that is Santana Lopez.

"Q, I swear, if running away from actual feelings was an Olympic sport, you'd win every medal there was without trying."

Quinn raises her eyebrow, but does manage to look guilty. "I said I was sorry already."

"Yeah, sorry doesn't cut it if you keep doing the same damn thing over and over again." Santana glances over at Rachel. "Incidentally, Frodo, good job on the Sherlock Holmes-ing and finding the runaway bride."

Rachel wrinkles her nose. "Your slipshod mixing of popular culture references gives me a headache."

"No one asked you to take them seriously, Berry, just like no one asked us to take you seriously, but we do anyway for some weird reason."

"S," says Quinn warningly, and Santana raises her hands in mock surrender. "I'm sorry, Q, for dumping on your midget."

"She's not my midget."

"I'm not her midget."

They exchange glances and laugh, though Quinn's start a half-beat after Rachel's.

"Yeah? Could've fooled me, with all that creepy shared telepathy."

"Okay, you know what? I think you've outstayed your welcome, Santana," says Quinn, and turns to Rachel. "What do you think, Rach?"

"I agree, Quinn," says Rachel firmly. Together, they shove her out of the apartment.

Rachel hands an envelope to Quinn, beaming from ear to ear.

"What's this, Rachel?"

"Open it and find out." Rachel is practically bouncing in her excitement. "We're opening at the Ambassador this Friday night!" she squeals, and then throws her arms around Quinn's neck in her excitement.

"That's great, Rachel!" Quinn's brow furrows when she shakes out the envelope. "There's two tickets."

"Yes, well… it would be rude of me to offer you a ticket and neglect to extend the same courtesy to your partner, right?"

"Rachel… there isn't anyone."

"Nobody?"

Quinn smiles sheepishly. "Nobody."

"Then you've been…"

"Late nights at the office. The project I'm working on brought the deadline forward."

Rachel colours. "I – oh. I've just embarrassed myself again, haven't I, by jumping to unwarranted conclusions?" She holds out her hand. "I can – I'll just take that back."

"I can take Kurt or Santana…"

"I've given them their tickets already, and for Blaine and Brittany. In fact, I might have… handed out tickets to nearly everyone we know," mumbles Rachel. She wants to crawl into a hole and die.

"Oh."

Rachel forces a smile. "It's alright, you can ask one of your colleagues to come. I'd never pass up an opportunity to convert fans."

Quinn just smiles and nods.

She's nervous in a way she hasn't been in a while – which is perfectly normal, given that she's about to debut a starring role. The play is good, no doubt – Jesse St. James may as well be the world's largest man considering how full he is of himself, but he knows how to put on a good show – and she has the fullest confidence in him, her cast, her crew, and herself.

Especially the last. She's been preparing for this night since she was only an agreement on paper between her fathers and Shelby Corcoran.

But still. Rachel is nervous in a way she hasn't really been since her NYADA audition (and that is an experience she never wants to repeat).

Someone knocks on her dressing room door. "Come in, Jack," she says, "about time, I'm supposed to be on soon…" And she trails off because the person who comes in certainly isn't Jack.

"Hi," says Quinn shyly. "Am I...am I interrupting anything? Or are you expecting someone, I can always come back later, after the show maybe…"

"N-no, it's fine." Rachel gives her her best Rachel Berry, Broadway Superstar smile. "Thanks for coming."

Quinn produces a small bouquet. "From all of us. Funnily enough, nobody wanted to deliver it."

Rachel's smile stiffens a little. She'd bet her (not yet existent but soon) Tony award that Santana and Kurt have had a hand in that. "I'm glad you delivered it."

"Me too." Quinn glances around the dressing room. "So, this is it. Your dreams came true."

"Mostly. I'm still waiting on that Tony," jokes Rachel.

"But you got out of Lima and made something of yourself."

"So did you, Quinn. Most of us did."

"And they're sitting outside waiting for your Broadway debut." Quinn's smile softens when she turns to face Rachel. "Congratulations, Rachel. I'm so proud of you. We all are."

"Quinn…" she draws close enough to see Quinn's pink, plump lips part slightly, and the flutter of eyelashes over warm hazel eyes. Rachel takes another step forward, and then –

"Rachel honey, sorry I'm late," says Jack as he walks in. "I have your – I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to interrupt…"

"You're not," says Rachel quickly. She puts a respectable distance between herself and Quinn. "You're just in time, actually. Quinn, I apologise but…"

"I understand. I should be getting back to my seat." She exits without looking at Rachel.

If she thought performing for Quinn's company function was hard, she hadn't counted on performing for an audience that includes nearly every person she knows.

Jesse appears at her elbow. "You're not having stage fright, are you, Rachel? Because I had counted on your professionalism and it would be hard to find another actress as able to keep up with me as yourself."

"Shut up, Jesse."

"I'm being serious," he defends. "I understand you may have some concerns about playing Clementine in front of your high school friends, but if I might be blunt, you were very much the same back then."

She lets slip an incredulous laugh. "You're an asshole."

"No, I simply possess a lot of self-confidence which I know for a fact you find incredibly attractive, given that we dated while in high school. You're only saying that because you're so hung up on Quinn Fabray. Mind you, I can understand the appeal of reticence to the point of being brooding and sheer physical perfection, though I'm not very sure why you would want someone who can't match up to you in terms of performing talent."

Rachel has never been so relieved when Jesse's cue comes, because she's sure the audience came to see a love story, not a brutal murder.

They agree to go out for food after the show (after Rachel grudgingly promises she won't reenact that scene from Rent), even very generously asking Jesse along. He declines, citing a need to recharge his talent, much to everyone's relief.

"I really hate that guy," mutters Finn.

"Come on, guys; we're here to celebrate Rachel Berry finally doing that thing we all knew she'd do – "

" – burn all her argyle!" Laughter fills the tiny diner as Rachel tosses her napkin at Puck.

" – make it big on Broadway!"

"Speech, speech!" calls Artie, clinking his glass with a spoon.

Rachel clears her throat theatrically and stands up ("You might want to stand on the seat so we can all see you," says Santana). "First of all, thank you all for coming tonight. I honestly wasn't expecting to see so many of you guys here, and it really means a lot to me." She pauses. "Even you, Santana."

"I was promised free food and a place to crash," says Puck in a stage whisper, grinning and blowing a kiss at Rachel when she pauses to glare at him.

"Secondly, I've been told – repeatedly – over the years that I talk too much, and the message has only just sank in. Let's eat!" More applause and cheering greets her words.

Rachel doesn't have much appetite. She moves food around her plate, offering as much of it as she can to her neighbours (Finn and Tina). Her eyes are fixed on Quinn, who similarly has yet to take a bite.

When Quinn excuses herself from the table, Rachel practically falls over herself to follow. She hovers on the edge of the bathroom door, uncertain.

"You promised you wouldn't reenact any of the scenes from Rent," Quinn reminds her gently.

"We're not outside in the snow," insists Rachel, "and we're not Mimi or Roger. So no – I'm not violating any promises here." Her voice drops dramatically. "I won't tell if you won't."

Quinn laughs softly.

"I was hoping we could talk about what happened earlier," says Rachel. "I would have picked a better place and time for this conversation, of course, but I can't help but feel you would be avoiding me after tonight."

"Rachel…"

"I know it's hard, but… Santana's right. You can't keep running away from things that scare you." Rachel takes a step closer. "Especially when there's someone else involved."

"I…"

"I know you're sorry, Quinn. But this is one of those few times where being sorry isn't enough." Rachel closes her eyes. "I just… I need you to decide. I know exactly what I feel for you. I'm not ashamed of it. But you can't keep me hanging on. Either you think you might want the same thing as I do, and we work on it, or you let me move on. You can't – you can't kiss me, and then leave."

"It's not that easy for me," pleads Quinn.

"I know – "

"No, you don't."

Rachel stares, dumbfounded.

"You keep saying I know, but what do you know, Rachel? You wear your heart on your sleeve, because you had parents to tell you that it was okay to just be yourself. You aren't always worrying about what's wrong or right, because you weren't told that God was watching you, and that you'd burn in hell if you did the wrong thing. You don't know what it's like to be hated because you made one little mistake, and that it was a perfect girl they wanted and not you." Quinn's eyes are no longer brimming with tears, but with anger now. "You say you know everything, Rachel, but you really know nothing at all."

"... I'm sorry, Quinn. I had no idea you felt that way."

Instantly, all Quinn's anger evaporates from her, leaving her shoulders slumped. "No, I-I'm sorry. I'm just so confused," she mumbles.

Rachel sighs. She glances around, wrinkling her nose at their surroundings before sitting on the tiled floor and motioning for Quinn to follow. "It would be nice if just once," she quips, "we could have these talks somewhere more comfortable and hygienic."

Quinn doesn't reply. She tips her head back against the wall and lets out a long breath. "I wish I had had a cigarette before I did this."

Rachel swallows the rebuke on the tip of her tongue. She waits; she can see every muscle in Quinn's body is tensed, despite her seemingly-relaxed position, and doesn't want to startle her friend into fleeing.

She abruptly loses her train of thought when Quinn glances over at her and says, "I don't deserve you."

"... what?"

"I run from my problems by sleeping with the nearest available warm body. I lash out at people when I don't know how to express what I'm feeling, which is most of the time. I think too much about everything, and I don't know how to let go. I can't open up, and say the things that need to be said."

Rachel's been listening to all this quietly, with her hands folded in her lap. When Quinn trails off, she calmly asks, "Is that all?"

Quinn stares at her.

"You're not running away; you're sitting here in a diner bathroom talking to me about what you're feeling." Rachel leans closer, resting her chin on her hand, expression fond. "I think you need to give yourself more credit."

Quinn, who has started blushing when Rachel leaned in, manages a smile. "... okay."

"Okay." Rachel gets up. She brushes off her clothes with a grimace, washing her hands and wiping them on her pants (Quinn's eyebrow shoots up at that) before offering her hand. "We should get back out there before Santana and Puck start spreading groundless rumours."

As they prepare to leave, Quinn catches the hem of Rachel's sweater. She murmurs, we'll talk about it soon, Rachel, I promise before pushing past Rachel and hurrying outside. Rachel remains where she is, having momentarily forgotten how to breathe and walk at the same time.

Completely by accident, Rachel finds out what Quinn did with her extra ticket; it hangs proudly on the wall of her room in a handsome mahogany frame.

Unlike the last time, when Rachel had to go to extraordinary lengths to avoid Quinn, it seems that they are always missing each other. Quinn is still asleep when Rachel is on her elliptical, and hurrying to the office while she is showering. Rachel is at the theatre when Quinn gets off work, and it's late by the time she arrives home from her show.

Weekends aren't much better. Rachel has matinees and rehearsals, and Jesse works them all to the bone. She usually crawls home in dire need of a long, hot shower, and then bed.

Rachel isn't complaining; this is the life she has dreamed of…

… save for her co-star in life. More specifically, whether she'll be casting Quinn Fabray opposite her or not.

Quinn promised her they'd talk. Quinn, who called her terrible things and left nasty comments on her MySpace videos and ordered slushie attacks. Quinn, who slapped her and then apologised for it, who fought with her over Finn Hudson, who told her she couldn't hate someone for sending them on their way. Quinn, who also told her they were 'kind of' friends, who disapproved of her wedding but agreed to support her anyway, who nearly died doing so.

Quinn, who bought them Metro passes so they would keep in touch.

And so if Quinn promises her they'd talk soon, Rachel will wait until the end of time for her.

Even if the answer will break her heart.

"You look terrible. Are you getting enough rest? I understand the rigour of being the lead actress and performing ten shows a week can be overwhelming."

Rachel is too tired to roll her eyes at him. She settles for pushing herself against the barre in a punishing stretch.

"You're doing that thing where you ignore me because you know you've done something wrong. Rachel, I'm not going to lecture you because I know you know that you know better." He pauses. "Huh. That has a ring to it. I should note that down to include in my next project."

"I'm not in the mood for this, Jesse," she mutters.

He sniffs. Jesse puts an ankle on the barre, mimicking Rachel. "You haven't resolved things with Quinn."

Rachel was wrong when she thought the last people she'd talk about Quinn with were Santana and Kurt. Her life is a mess anyway, so she sees no harm in answering Jesse. "Yes and no. It's complicated – which is fairly normal when it comes to Quinn."

"She's not a lesbian?"

"She doesn't like labels, and neither do I." Rachel arches her back, sighing when the joints pop. "She and I both have slept with men and women."

"Mmm. I would expect gay panic to be the main issue with these straightlaced Christian types." Jesse runs both hands through his hair, studying his reflection in the wall mirror. "Is she not attracted to you?" He pauses his grooming to give Rachel a critical once-over. "You're still one of the most talented and physically attractive women I know. Apart from Laura Osnes, but only because her belt has more raw power than yours, and she has more impressive cleavage."

Rachel grins involuntarily. Jesse's brand of backhanded compliments is something that she will never not find funny in spite of the circumstances. "I don't know. Quinn doesn't feel comfortable talking about her feelings."

"Which I've always found to be a turn-off in your choice of partners – present company excluded, of course."

Rachel huffs. "Jesse, the only feelings we ever talked about were yours."

He waves her off. "Semantics. Anyway, how do you know what your woman wants if you don't ask her?" Jesse turns his head from left to right until he's satisfied with his hair. "How about you? Do you want her? Or do you just want to have sex with her?"

Rachel chokes. "No! I care more deeply about Quinn than just her – physical assets."

"Okay, but you don't know whether she feels the same way."

"... no." She stands up straight, taking deep breaths; Rachel's feet automatically fall into the first position. Jesse glances down and nods approvingly. "She promised me she'd talk about it soon, though."

"Alright. Try not to talk about it on a weekend, okay? I don't want you emotionally exhausted on a day we have two shows."

She rolls her eyes. "I'll try."

"Hey, baby," says Adrian, kissing her forehead and sitting next to her. "I missed you, it feels like ages since the last time I saw you."

"I missed you too." She leans against him, wishing his shoulder was softer, and that his kiss wasn't stubbly. Rachel blushes, banishing the guilty thoughts from her mind.

"You look exhausted. Are you okay? Jesse working you into the ground?" He laughs when she rolls her eyes at the mention of her director and leading man.

"Jesse is responsible for most of my problems."

"Mmm. Sorry to hear that." He squeezes her shoulder. "Maybe we should have a quiet evening in. Would that be better for you? Especially since our last date got interrupted…"

"Oh, god. I'm sorry about that; my housemate was uncontactable, and we were trying to find her."

Adrian's hand rubs up and down Rachel's arm. "It's fine, babe. She's okay now, yeah?"

"Yes. She's fine."

"Mmm. Great." The hand on Rachel's arm slides to her hip, scooping her up into his lap.

"Adrian, we shouldn't." But Rachel can't help the way her body responds to his touch, especially when he kisses her. Rachel moans into the kiss, mouth falling open, and Adrian's other hand curls around her waist. His hand on her hip tightens, even as her fingers dig into the front of his shirt. "Mmm – Adrian," they break apart, panting, "you need to stop."

He doesn't say anything, surging forward for another kiss; at the last moment, she turns her head and his lips latch on the side of her neck. "Seriously," she gasps, arching her back when he finds that spot on her neck and sucks hard. "You need to stop."

"Rachel, are you – oh shit, I'm sorry!"

Rachel shoves Adrian away so hard, she nearly tumbles off the couch. "Quinn! You're back."

"Yeah, I just got home." She averts her eyes. "Sorry I interrupted your – yeah. I can leave if you want…"

"No, don't. Adrian was just leaving." She shoots him a look; his jaw tightens before he nods curtly at her.

"Yeah. Bye, Rachel. Quinn." Adrian pushes past Rachel and shuts the door behind him.

"Quinn – "

"You didn't have to send him away for my benefit," says Quinn jerkily, tossing Rachel a smile over her shoulder. It doesn't quite reach her eyes. "God knows I've brought home other people before. I'm sorry for that, by the way."

"It's not – Quinn Fabray!" growls Rachel. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Quinn halts. She spins on her heel, looking Rachel up and down slowly. Rachel does her best not to shiver under her friend's intense gaze, tries not to think about what a mess she looks like. Her chin lifts upwards, defiantly, as she waits for Quinn to meet her gaze.

"I think we're done talking," Quinn says at last. The defeat in her voice collapses Rachel's defences instantly.

"Quinn, that's not fair. You haven't even given me a chance to say anything."

"I could say the same for you, Rachel. I asked you to wait. I have difficulty with this. You said you knew that." She clenches her jaw. "At the very least, you could have had the courtesy to tell me you were tired of waiting."

"It's been a month!" yells Rachel. "An entire month of me putting my entire life on hold!"

"I know your boyfriend's been around when I was staying with Marcus," says Quinn. "Did you put him on hold, too? Is he your backup plan in case our talk doesn't go as you wanted?"

Rachel goes cold. "I was trying to get over you with him back then. I was going to break up with him tonight."

"Yeah, that looked a lot like breaking up to me," remarks Quinn. "I can't believe you, Rachel. I thought you'd changed so much since high school, and it wasn't as though I didn't already like the person – " She catches herself, and continues, quieter: "But you're just like me."

"So help me, Quinn Fabray, if you say something like that and then run away from this conversation that we need to be having right now, I will – "

The door of Quinn's room slams shut. Rachel growls a, "oh no you don't," and lunges forward, pounding on the door with the flat of her hand. "Quinn Fabray! Open this door now!"

Silence. Rachel seethes quietly for a few moments, weighing her options. The last time this happened, they both fled in opposite directions; Rachel to Santana and Brittany's, Quinn to Marcus', and got precisely nothing resolved.

Rachel's tired of running.

The emotional turmoil of the past few months catches up with her in that instant, and Rachel lets out a sob. She sinks to the floor, pressing her palms to her face in a vain attempt to stop the tears.

"Rachel? Rachel, are you okay? I heard something and – oh my god, Rachel, what happened? Did you hurt yourself? Are you okay?" Rachel's hands are tugged away. She feels Quinn turning them over, examining them, and Quinn's anxious expression swims into view. Rachel keeps her eyes focused downwards.

"Rachel, talk to me," pleads Quinn.

"I'm sorry."

"What are you – Rachel, there's nothing to apologise for. We said things that we didn't mean."

"You're not like me. You're better than me. You had the courage to break up with Marcus because you didn't want to lead him on, and you were strong enough to be dealing with everything on your own, and I didn't have the right to be angry with you when I haven't been much of a friend at all."

Quinn exhales slowly. "Rachel, I was mad. I say things I don't mean when I'm mad; you know this. And when it concerns you, I think it was best we stayed distant to prevent our friendship from confusing things."

"Must you be so logical and sensible when you talk to me? Because I had a good dramatic rant building up."

"Someone has to balance you out," Quinn says softly.

Rachel chuckles, and then swipes at her face with her sleeve. "I'm sorry I scared you, I've been such a mess recently."

"How the roles have been reversed, with you apologising for everything."

"We seem to be taking it in turns to screw things up," jokes Rachel.

Quinn shakes her head. Her hand finds Rachel's, fingers brushing over the back of her hand. "Yeah, and I… that's what I wanted to talk to you about." She sighs. "Rachel, I love you. You're my best friend."

"I'm sensing a huge but," says Rachel.

"But we can't. I'm a mess, and I hate to say it but so are you, and I don't see us being good for each other right now. We're only going to end up resenting each other. I think… we need to get to a better place individually first."

"You're friend-breaking up with me." Rachel laughs shakily. "You know, a part of me has always believed that as long as there was love, things would work out for the best." She turns her palm over so she can hold Quinn's hand properly. "But now I know that doesn't always happen. I like you, Quinn, and I still hope we can be more than friends, but I also love you too much to rush us into making a huge mistake. You're right. We need to think this over properly, away from each other."

"... why are we so complicated?"

"Ten years ago, you made a MySpace account for the sole purpose of watching all my videos and leaving nasty comments on them. I would think complicated is a gross understatement."

Quinn smiles fondly at her. "True."

Rachel shuffles closer so she can lean her head on Quinn's shoulder. "Serendipitously, Jesse called me earlier this afternoon. The West End is staging a production of Eternal Sunshine, and he asked me if I'd be interested in playing Clementine there. You know, work on my international superstardom and give my understudy here a chance to earn her salary."

"How long?"

"Three months at the most. They already have a few lead actresses in mind, I'd just be going there for publicity's sake."

Quinn mulls it over. "And there's this overseas assignment my boss wants to give me. I'd be posted to Austria for about that long."

Rachel sits bolt upright. "Quinn Fabray, why am I only hearing about this now?"

"We haven't seen each other in nearly a month," Quinn reminds her, and Rachel deflates.

"Oh. Right."

"Yeah. So… I was thinking, there's about six months left on our lease, so we could rent it out to someone."

"As long as we get it back," says Rachel sharply, fixing Quinn with a look. "I'm not giving our home up."

"Of course not." Quinn smiles suddenly. "I – wow. This is happening."

"It is."

"You two are insane," Santana gently reminds her for the eighteenth time that week. "Normal people would just bone each other, get all that unresolved sexual tension out of the way, and boom! Either you want more boning and feelings and shit for the rest of your lives, or you don't. End of story."

Kurt wrinkles his nose. "You shouldn't let Brittany talk you into watching romcoms, Santana. They bring out a side of you that's best left buried deep, deep, in your marshmallow core."

"Shut up, Mrs. Warbler."

Rachel just shakes her head. "We're not insane," she tells Santana for the eighteenth time that week, "we just need to do this for ourselves first before we can even move on from whatever we have."

Kurt sighs, rolls his eyes, and says, "Lesbians."

"Don't you dare lump me in with these crazy bitches, Hummel!"

While Kurt and Santana continue to bicker, Rachel turns to Quinn. "What are the odds we'll come back to find one of them dead at the hands of the other?"

Quinn chuckles. "You're the maths savant, you tell me. Though my gut feeling tells me that they'll kill each other."

"Mmmm. Very true." Rachel brushes away a hair from Quinn's shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Quinn. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"The same goes for you," says Quinn softly.

The final boarding call for Rachel's flight to Heathrow sounds over the intercom.

"I'm going to hug you now," Rachel tells her.

"You don't have to warn me."

Rachel smiles briefly, then flings her arms around Quinn's neck, burying her nose in blonde hair. "I'll miss you," she whispers, dropping a kiss on Quinn's neck.

"Me too." She feels Quinn's arms tighten around her for a fraction of a second, and then Quinn is backing away. "Go knock 'em dead."

"You know I always do," she laughs through her tears.

Quinn's lips curve into a smile. "I do."

Even though she loves her city in all seasons, spring in New York has always been Rachel's favourite. It's brisk and cool without being frigid, and she loves the metaphor of new beginnings.

She's only been away for two months, but it feels like forever.

Rachel takes the subway to Williamsburg. She smiles when she sees the familiar buildings, her step quickening until she is practically running down the corridor to the apartment –

She skids to a halt. The door is open, and there is nothing inside.

Rachel walks inside. Her heels click on the hardwood floors. All the windows are open, letting in the fresh spring air, light spilling in. She wanders in a daze. Quinn's room is empty. Her bed, her dresser… There are no traces of the people who used to occupy this space.

Tears well in her eyes. Quinn broke her promise.

Quinn left.

She turns to leave –

"Rachel?"

Rachel freezes. When she turns around, a very familiar figure is standing in the doorway.

"Hello, Quinn," she croaks.

The smile on Quinn's face fades as she comes closer. "Rachel – why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying!" She swipes angrily at her eyes. "I have allergies." It's then she notices that Quinn is dressed down in splotchy jeans and an old Cheerios T-shirt. "... What are you wearing?"

Quinn blushes. "I – you weren't supposed to be back this early."

"Huh?"

"... I cut my posting short. I was supposed to be getting our house remodeled as a surprise for when you got back from London, but you…" Quinn makes a vague gesture. "You're here."

Slowly, Rachel's mouth falls open. "You… you cut your posting short. Why – "

"I missed you," confesses Quinn. She abruptly narrows her eyes. "Wait. You aren't supposed to be back for another month."

"I cut short my tour because I couldn't bear to be someplace where everything didn't remind me of you," Rachel says in an odd voice.

"Did you get my letters?"

Rachel takes a step forward. "All of them. Did you get mine?"

Quinn gives her a lopsided smile. "You replied every single letter with at least two of your own. And an email." She takes a step forward.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Just be grateful I didn't dedicate MySpace videos to you."

They are almost nose to nose. Rachel gazes into soft hazel eyes she's missed so much, and finds herself speechless. Which was fortuitous, because Quinn smiles at her before kissing her gently. Rachel's eyes flutter shut as she kisses back, pouring every unspoken emotion and word into Quinn's lips.

When they part, Rachel exhales shakily and rests her forehead against Quinn's. Sometime during the kiss, her fingers have curled in the front of Quinn's shirt, while Quinn's are tangled in her hair. "I wrote you a song, actually," says Rachel. "I was planning this grand gesture where I'd surprise you with an impromptu serenade, but… well. I guess that makes me Roger."

Quinn arches an eyebrow. "So I'm the one who flirts with you over a candle? If anyone's Mimi, it's you, Rachel."

"As much as I'm enjoying your ability to debate casting in Rent with me, Quinn, I would much rather be kissing you."

Quinn's other eyebrow goes up. "Rachel Berry not wanting to discuss Broadway musicals? What is the world coming to?"

Rachel laughs. Just as Quinn's about to kiss her again, Rachel stops her with a finger to Quinn's lips and says, "We're okay, right?"

Quinn chokes out a surprised laugh. "Rachel, I think we're more than okay."

"Okay. Just making sure." Rachel kisses her.