you say you've gone away from me (but I can feel you when I breathe), a glee fanfic

Author's Note: Set during and after season 6, interwoven with the events of the last episode and the epilogue. Rated for implied sexual content.

This is the kind of fanfic I'd call a 'Bob-the-Builder' fic, because the main driving force behind this was an endless chorus of can we fix it YES WE CAN after watching and digesting all 6 seasons of Glee.

I'm joking, of course. But that doesn't mean I can't write my own version of what I think should happen, that's what fanfic is all about.

I have begun to long for you,
I who have no greed;
I have begun to ask for you,
I who have no need.
You say you've gone away from me,
but I can feel you when you breathe.

Avalanche by Leonard Cohen

Things are going great in a way it hasn't been since – well, ever. From the continued derision of her peers through school, to the struggles in college, and the pitfalls of her early career, Rachel Berry hasn't gotten a break.

Now? She's twenty-five-years old, with a loving husband and her dream career; the undisputed darling of Broadway as the critically-acclaimed lead in the very successful Jane Austen Sings! She has the support of her closest friends, also theatre actors.

In the light of her current successes, her past struggles fade into great material for her biography and the movie adaptation that's certain to follow (she may not be a writer, but she wants that line in somewhere). Blaine and Kurt are the ones she sees regularly, though she did create a Whatsapp group for their old Glee club in which she posts things she thinks will interest them. They don't always respond, which Rachel attributes to their being busy with real life. She knows she is.

But Blaine and Kurt are both on Broadway, and are practically colleagues. When they meet up – mostly instigated by Rachel and her matching calendars (thankfully, she's outgrown physical cat-covered ones and uses Google Calendar now) – it's for late lunches and after-show drinks, plotted around three packed show schedules.

(She's learned that her dreams are missing a vital piece without friends to share them with.)

It's because she sees them so often that she can pinpoint the exact moment her life changed. Rachel has just finished a matinee when Blaine calls her. He sounds… strange. She hears herself promise to meet them at their usual coffee place in an hour, internally panicking. Kurt is already there, sipping his coffee, when she arrives. They exchange small talk while waiting for Blaine, stilted like it used to be in their sophomore year of high school when she was Queen of the Slushies and Kurt was in the closet so deep he might as well have been in Narnia, and they weren't friends.

"Okay, what's wrong?"

"Oh." Kurt almost drops his coffee, mutters, "nothing" and starts chewing on his lower lip.

Rachel narrows her eyes. She's known him long enough to know that it's big news that concerns her but he's not sharing (and definitely not "nothing") but it's apparent from his tense posture that he's waiting for Blaine before he'll spill.

When Blaine joins them with his medium drip in hand, Kurt practically scrambles closer to his husband. "Save me," he says, kissing Blaine's cheek. "She knows we're keeping something big from her."

Rachel scowls. "I only asked once, and nicely too."

"Now, now," says Blaine like he's talking to small children. They both scowl at him for that, but it has the effect of lightening the mood.

"So, now are you going to tell me what's so important, because it's certainly not nothing," says Rachel, the last bit directed at Kurt.

Kurt's hands flutter. "Blaine and I were talking." He pauses. "And that, uh, we think it's time. To settle down. You know…start a family." Blaine's hand sneaks into his and squeezes. His husband smiles encouragingly at him. They exchange a long look, and then Blaine finishes the sentence for Rachel's benefit.

"We want to have a baby and we'd be honoured if you could be our surrogate."

"Oh," says Rachel faintly, and then again, louder. "I – oh! Of course I will!"

Kurt claps his hands together; Blaine's grin becomes impossibly wide. As they envelop her in a hug, squished between the two of them, Rachel can't help but smile.

Jesse is a... little less than thrilled. Rachel understands why; despite his seeming self-centredness, he's a family man, through and through. His own parents were rarely around while he was growing up; it was the main reason he'd gravitated to Shelby back in high school when she was missing her teenage daughter. She was the mother figure he never properly had.

He'd often talked about starting a family since they got married – something that was still a sore point between him and Rachel, because she was adamant on concentrating on her career for the time being.

"I don't understand, Rachel," he says hotly, "make me understand. You've been telling me all this while you can't put your career on hold to start a family – I can understand that. But Kurt and Blaine ask, and you'd do it in a heartbeat? You'd even give up a show to do it?"

"First of all, these things take time. I might not get pregnant immediately, and Jane Austen was only confirmed for a season."

"That's because we're planning on finding a new producer once we show Broadway what we've got."

Rachel can't help smiling at his confidence. "Even then, there's a lot of things that need to be done, Jesse." She had done a lot of research on surrogacy at the age of eleven, when her fathers deemed her mature enough to know the truth about where she came from (they didn't believe in telling children about the stork). "Secondly and most importantly, I promised them."

"You promised them? What about me? Don't I get a say in this? I'm your husband, for God's sake."

"Jesse, for goodness' sake; I think I should be able to decide what I want to do with my own body," says Rachel peevishly.

"I know, but – you could've asked my opinion before you decided!"

"We've talked about this before and you agreed." Not exactly – shortly after getting married, she had given him the entire PowerPoint presentation on her decision to be Kurt and Blaine's surrogate when (not if, but when) they decided to have children, and basically talked him down into silent agreement – but Rachel doesn't want to bring up that point. "You know why this is important to me, Jesse. I would have never existed if not for Shelby. My dads wouldn't have had the chance to be dads. I want to give back."

"I know, but... " He sidles up close, his hand brushing her stomach. "I was just about to suggest having a baby of our own now."

Rachel's insides lurch. "Jesse, we were just talking – "

"I know, but hear me out first." His fingers start to trail downwards. "I know we're hoping to extend Jane Austen's run, but I'm sure your understudy would like a chance to earn her salary – " she snorts, and he grins, " – and I've got another big project in the works. The timing's perfect." He kisses the top of her head. "Alas, you beat me to it. This space already reserved." Jesse pats her belly briskly.

"You're ridiculous."

"Ah, that's part of my charm."

She sighs. Already, she feels that magnetic pull of his crumbling her decision. "I know, but – "

"Just think about it. That's all. Okay?"

She can hear the hope in his voice, and suddenly she's picturing him with a baby – their baby – in his arms. Rachel caves a little more. "I promise that the instant I give birth to their baby, I will give serious thought to having ours." She wrinkles her nose. "Though maybe not immediately after."

He laughs. "And that's all I'm asking for." Jesse's hands resume roaming her body, slipping lower and lower still until Rachel gasps and arches into him with a breathy, "fuck".

"That's the idea," he says smugly. Rachel swats at him.

Rachel was thankful she hadn't been taking a drink while Kurt was talking otherwise she might have spit it out all over him – and the last time she had gotten coffee on one of his ridiculously expensive designer pieces, he hadn't spoken to her in weeks.

(In her defence, Santana had picked the wrong moment to tell her about her callback and the jacket turned out to be a cheap knockoff anyway.)

"Let me get this straight," says Rachel incredulously. "You want me to be your surrogate but you're not using my egg? So I'm basically an incubator?"

"No offense, but I'm not risking my baby's genetic future," Kurt says as sympathetically as he can. "Your height would be cute for a girl, but that nose? What if the baby doesn't want to follow in Barbra Streisand's footsteps? He or she would be doomed to a life spent jumping for things on shelves and being suffocated in crowded places. I'm only being practical," he adds on hastily, seeing the expression Rachel is wearing.

"You'd be the best incubator we could ask for," adds Blaine hurriedly, seeing that Kurt's speech hasn't helped at all. "We wouldn't trust any other woman to carry our baby. Who else would ensure he or she gets an excellent grounding in music and the performing arts while still in the womb?"

Rachel nods, albeit very grudgingly.

"They'd have the advantage for achieving stardom," says Kurt with a nod.

"Not to mention the impeccable care you'd give. You're the only person we know who fully appreciates the importance of a well-balanced diet and exercise regimen, and can follow through." In case words aren't enough, he drives an elbow into his husband's side, hoping one or the other can mollify Rachel.

It works. Rachel smirks when Kurt hisses in pain. "Fine," she huffs. "Since my genetic material is undesirable but my womb space isn't, may I enquire as to whom is the lucky woman donating the egg? Do I know her?" Idly, she runs through the list of women they know. "Oh god, I hope it isn't Santana."

Kurt and Blaine exchange looks of disgust before Blaine blurts out, "It's Quinn."

"... Quinn? As in Quinn Fabray?"

"Do we know any other?" mutters Kurt under his breath, but Rachel barely hears him.

She can appreciate the logic of that decision. Quinn is a natural beauty (Lucy Caboosey notwithstanding, because after puberty and hard work, the end result was a sight to behold) and she certainly would produce beautiful babies – she has never seen Beth in person before but she's listened to Puck gush about her, and dutifully cooed over the photos he showed her.

Given her history with Quinn and their tangled familial connections, it makes perfect sense (if one was a television show writer, that is) for her to carry Quinn Fabray's egg, fertilized with Kurt or Blaine's sperm (they're planning on mixing the outputs to make the paternity a surprise) to full term. Her biographers would definitely have a field day with that one.

Quinn Fabray. She hasn't thought about her in a long time, not since… Rachel squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head. The pain has diluted over time, but it's still there.

Rachel realises her friends are still watching her, and gives them her best stage smile. "That sounds great."

"You're sure? Because if you're not comfortable, we can always find someone else…" begins Kurt.

"Like who? Santana?"

They all snort. "Maybe not Santana," says Blaine diplomatically.

Rachel reaches for Kurt and Blaine's hands. "I'm fine with Quinn. Your baby should come from people that you know and trust, not to mention might be amenable to providing a family history of medical complications." She pauses. "And a verified track record."

Kurt brushes off her rambling. "You're absolutely sure?"

"Absolutely." A thought strikes her. "I do wonder how you're going to broach the topic with Quinn."

"We've already asked her – she said she'd do it."

"What?! When?"

"Quinn and I kept in touch after graduation," explains Blaine, looking apprehensive now. "Mostly through email and the occasional Skype call. I didn't like the idea of everyone going their separate ways just because we'd graduated from high school; I mean, those were some of the greatest years of our lives."

"Speak for yourself," says Kurt dryly, but he leans his head against Blaine's shoulder.

"I didn't know you and Quinn were such close friends," says Rachel. The thought of Blaine and Quinn keeping in touch over the years just makes her feel guiltier; she'd put in so much effort into being friends with Quinn during their high school years and promptly threw it all away the instant she set foot in New York.

Kurt seems to guess what she's thinking because he says: "She hasn't changed her phone number or email since high school. You should meet up before our clinic appointment, just so it isn't too… awkward. You do have – "

"Yeah," she says a little too quickly. "I do." Rachel briefly considers postponing their meeting to the very last minute but then remembers the last time she and Quinn were in a clinic together. It won't do for her to make another Freudian slip like before, and get away with it like before; it only went unchecked because Quinn had plenty on her mind to ask Rachel why it was so hard for her to consider Quinn a friend.

Much later that night, she taps out a quick text message (that was the intention, because she writes multiple drafts before she sends it). She doesn't sleep until she gets a reply, and still doesn't afterwards.

She's due to meet Quinn at a new cafe downtown appropriately named Strangers' Reunion (because that's essentially what she and Quinn are doing). Rachel's thirty minutes early and spends the time clutching at a rapidly-cooling soy latte, running through their potential conversations in her head with the fervour with which she approaches her shows. There is a lot Rachel would like to say to Quinn Fabray if she can find the courage to start.

The post-high school years have gone by in a blur of crises and drama. Rachel has the time to look back on them with the clarity of hindsight and maturity, and she's not proud of what she sees; plenty of opportunities to maintain a friendship – a text, a call, a Metro pass – thrown away because she'd been wrapped up in her own affairs.

Their rare interactions in this period were mostly third-party. Santana was the one to call her back to save the Glee club (again) and they had been so busy, she hadn't the time to talk to Quinn. After everything was over and done with, Quinn had left immediately because she had classes she couldn't miss – or so she heard from Santana.

She thinks back guiltily to the Metro pass (still pristine and long expired) tucked in her nightstand drawer. She'd never had the heart to throw it away.

Rachel's thoughts are rudely interrupted when Quinn walks in the door looking impossibly put together despite the chill winds outside. Her eyes scan the cafe, alight upon her (Rachel gulps), and then Quinn beams, gliding around the tables towards her.

"Hi," she says once she's gotten within earshot. And Rachel is undone; she's seventeen again with all the awkwardness, none of the confidence, feeling horribly inadequate beside Quinn.

"Hi, Quinn." A thousand trivial things flit through her mind as she stands to greet Quinn, but she settles on congratulating herself on her voice not wavering when she spoke. "You look wonderful." Her hands hover at her sides in her uncertainty; Quinn laughs and holds out her arms for a hug. Rachel's expression relaxes as she complies.

"So do you." The menu is in Quinn's hands, but her attention is focused on Rachel. "I've heard so much about you. You've done really well for yourself."

She wants to rebut by saying Quinn has done equally well for herself but finds she has no idea precisely what Quinn has done for herself. The blonde visibly fights back a laugh.

"I ended up switching majors halfway through my freshman year to English literature," she says, saving Rachel from further embarrassment. "I'm a junior editor in Chicago."

"That's amazing." Rachel is certain she's blushing now. She's always known Quinn would be so much more than the realtor-married-to-Finn-living-in-Lima ideal she held for herself back in school. She just didn't know how much more. "So, what exactly do you do, apart from the glaringly obvious 'working with books'?"

Quinn smiles and launches into an animated monologue about the ins and outs of her job; Rachel honestly tries to pay attention but Quinn herself is so much more interesting that her work. She does manage to look interested (she is a talented actress) and nod at the appropriate moments.

Her hair is long again, but not in that high Cheerio ponytail. It falls around her face in gentle waves, somehow looking much less harsher than how she wore it in high school. Rachel notes the rings she wears on her fingers, biting her lip to stop herself from asking about them.

She can imagine Quinn being married, but certainly not being a housewife. Rachel can practically visualise a tall good-looking man, his features an amalgam of Finn, Puck, and Sam, standing at Quinn's side.

Quinn pauses to take a sip of her coffee. "And you? What else is going on with you?"

Rachel laughs. "I married Jesse St. James last year." From the nod she gets, she knows that she doesn't have to clarify that she's married to that Jesse St. James. "It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, really; we'd rekindled our relationship when we were cast in a show together. We were in Las Vegas as part of our tour and it just felt right."

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised. You do love the romance of surprise weddings."

"Guilty as charged," says Rachel, and they smile at each other – nervously, on Rachel's part, until she sees that Quinn's smile holds no ill feeling.

"I'm happy for you both," says Quinn sincerely. And there it is; the old feeling of overwhelming joy at receiving approval. Somehow Quinn's has always mattered more than anyone else's.

"Thank you."

A waiter chooses this lull in the conversation to take their orders. When he leaves, Rachel decides to be blunt.

"… there's something I've been dying to ask."

"Oh?"

"What made you decide to do this? Donating your egg, I mean." She feels her face growing hot; really, no matter how many times she says it, she'll never get used to it.

Quinn doesn't blush. Her expression is serene as she says: "I could ask the same of you."

Rachel makes a vague gesture with a hand. "Besides the very evident coming-full-circle reason – because of my dads – " Quinn nods, " – Kurt's been there for me through high school, NYADA, my disastrous early career. Blaine has been a good friend and support. It makes sense I do something for them, and I'm honoured they would trust me with something as important as this." She grins, and adds: "Kurt's sad clown hooker makeover aside, of course."

Quinn has been looking thoughtful throughout Rachel's explanation, though she laughs at that last comment. "I suppose my reasons are somewhat similar to yours – gay fathers aside. Kurt and Blaine are my friends. We joked about me donating in high school but when they were exploring their options, it actually became a distinct possibility. I offered to be their surrogate as well, but since I live in Chicago, it simply wasn't an option."

Rachel nods. "I see. So you've taken time off work for this? When will you be flying back?"

"This Sunday night."

She wants to ask more superficial questions, make more small talk that she can ignore in favour of staring at Quinn. But a question about living in Chicago comes out as: "I didn't know you still kept in touch with Kurt and Blaine. They never mentioned it."

And Quinn's expression is frosty now, decidedly reminiscent of their sophomore year of high school; Rachel's missed it, strangely enough. "Well, I am. We made the effort to stay in touch."

She cringes. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. We've never really been friends anyway; we fell out of touch after high school," says Quinn politely.

But you bought us Metro passes dies on the tip of Rachel's tongue when she sees the hurt in Quinn's eyes. "... I can't express how much I regret that."

"It's past now," she says dismissively. Rachel understands now why Kurt didn't tell her anything about Quinn; he wanted her to learn her lesson the hard way. "Frankly, I'm only meeting you now because I promised Kurt and Blaine I'd do this for them, and, well – we're in this together. Quite literally."

"I understand," says Rachel meekly.

Quinn nods. She turns her attention to the waiter who has been hovering nervously beside their table for the past five minutes with their drinks, giving him a quick apologetic smile.

The first visit at the fertility clinic is… odd, to say the least. It's New York, so the doctor doesn't bat an eye when meeting the gay male prospective parents, their surrogate, and their egg donor. They are piled high with pamphlets and information (Kurt mouths, Miss Pillsbury and they fight to stifle laughter, even Quinn; they're supposed to be adults now) together with a plan on how things will go.

"I thought homework ended with college," mutters Quinn under her breath as she tucks the pamphlets into the plastic folder helpfully provided for them. Rachel grins, Blaine grumbles his agreement, and it's almost like nothing has changed.

Quinn has brought the results of her most recent health examination to show the doctor. She nods, pleased at what she sees, and then hums as she checks Rachel's next. "Well," she says, bringing her hands together, "Mr. and Mr. Anderson-Hummel, you have a very healthy pair of ladies here. I wouldn't worry too much about the chances of successful fertilisation."

Rachel breathes out a silent sigh of relief, because she really can't envision them all being back here again, like this.

"I went to the fertility clinic today."

"How was it?"

Rachel pulls a face. "Okay. Less weird than I was expecting."

"Your other high school friend was there, am I right? The pretty blonde cheerleader – Lynn or something – "

"Quinn," she corrects him. "She's donating the egg."

"Making you the very attractive incubator."

She rolls her eyes. "It's impossible to make that sound nicer than it is."

Jesse laughs. Around a forkful of salad ("You're disgusting," says Rachel) he mumbles, "She'll produce beautiful babies. Not as gorgeous as you and I will, of course."

"You're so vain."

"You probably think this song's about you, don't you, don't you?" he sings.

Magically, it takes just one try for her to fall pregnant. When she breaks the news to Blaine and Kurt, they spend five minutes in hysterical laughter over the viability of two gay men's sperm and the rest sobbing over the phone.

She texts Quinn the news. Quinn responds by showing up at her doorstep that Saturday evening with a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne.

"Where's Jesse?" she asks as she steps through the door. Rachel takes her coat dumbly.

"Workshop for a new script. He'll be back later." Then she regains control of her wits. "Quinn, what are you doing here? Not just New York, but – my apartment, here."

Quinn arches an eyebrow, lifts the bottle. "We're celebrating that we got pregnant."

A bubble of laughter erupts from Rachel. Out of all the (amazing) ways Quinn has changed, she was not expecting this dry sense of humour. "Being pregnant with Quinn Fabray's baby? I'll definitely drink to that," she says, reaching for the champagne, laughing harder at the expression on Quinn's face.

Jesse walks in and frowns when she's standing in front of the wardrobe. Her skirts are uncomfortably tight so she has on a pair of yoga pants; currently, Rachel is preoccupied with selecting a top that can last her until she can find the time to purchase maternity wear.

"You're starting to show," he says unnecessarily.

Rachel huffs. "As though I'm not aware of that, since I'm unable to fit into most of my clothing."

He wraps his arms around her, hands resting over her belly where the faintest bulge peeks over the waistband of her pants. "You're beautiful," says Jesse, kissing the top of her head.

She brings her hands over his and contemplates their reflection. They look so good together, Broadway's power couple. It's easy to forget it's not their baby she's carrying, not in any sense of the word.

Jesse seems to sense her thoughts because he says: "I can't wait for ours."

"Jesse."

"Our theoretical baby. Just saying."

"Theoretical or not, you're carrying it," she says petulantly.

"If it was physically possible, I would," he answers seriously, "I think it'll be a valuable experience for any future roles."

Rachel simply arches an eyebrow. "And if it were physically possible, I think I'd let you take over carrying this one now."

Rachel spends two hours in front of her laptop, writing the first few sentences of an email to Quinn, deleting them, and repeating the process. In the end, she loses her nerve and simply sends her a generic email filled with pictures of baby animals. In her defence, the pictures she sends are of animals she's currently following on Instagram (a good mixture, because she doesn't know if Quinn is a cat or dog person) and personally finds adorable.

I got your email.

Rachel frowns. Her fingers move hesitantly over her phone screen as she pieces together a reply. Okay…? Honestly I'm not sure how to respond to that as it's neither a positive or negative comment, just a statement of fact.

It's positive. I liked it. Actually, I was a little surprised to see that it was from you. I was expecting smth a little more...wordy.

My sincere apologies, I wasn't sure whether you would appreciate 'meme' images of animals. Blaine told me you seemed to like them.

Relax Rachel. They're fine. A chime from Rachel's phone shows her that she's received an email from L. Quinn Fabray. She opens it with a swipe of her thumb, and then smiles; Quinn's sent her pictures of hedgehogs.

They're adorable. I think I've found a new favourite animal.

Get your own, Berry.

"What issit?" mutters Jesse sleepily from beside Rachel. "Everythin' okay?"

She bites her lip to smother her laughter. "Nothing. Go back to sleep," she says, kissing his cheek and snuggling closer.

He grunts and rolls over, falling back asleep in seconds.

She checks her phone after rehearsal to find a few text messages and missed calls, all from Jesse. "I was in rehearsal," she says when he picks up the phone.

"I gathered," he says with an apologetic laugh. "My reading was cancelled – something about salmonella, I did tell them not to eat the potato salad – and I was just wondering if you're free tonight? I saw your schedule and you don't have a show, and I was thinking we could try the new salad bar we saw the other night."

Rachel sighs. "Jesse, sweetie… I'm sorry, but I'm meeting Quinn, Kurt, and Blaine for dinner. I thought you were busy."

"You met them the night before, and then the afternoon before that," says Jesse.

"Quinn's only in town for a few days before she has to go back to Chicago."

"She's practically here every weekend anyway."

Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose. "Jesse…"

"No, it's fine," he says – a little curtly, but she might have been imagining it, because his next words are in his usual jaunty manner: "I'll see you later tonight then? Take care of yourself. No alcohol."

"I know. Love you."

"Love you too."

Rachel actually likes spending time with her friends like this; she's comfortable enough with just Blaine and Kurt, but having Quinn around makes things a little more even.

Theoretically, of course; she and Quinn are still a little awkward (at least on her part) after the last time they talked.

Since she can't have alcohol anymore, they end up at an upscale coffeehouse called Better Latte Than Never (Blaine picked it because he liked the name).

"Tony? You're seeing a guy named Tony?" asks Rachel.

Quinn sighs. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, not at all."

"It's still a better name than Biff McIntosh, no matter how good-looking he was," says Kurt, playfully bumping Quinn's shoulder. "He has to be Italian, at least, or else there's really no excuse to be called Tony. Do you have photos?"

"Aren't you married?"

"So are you, Rachel Berry," retorts Kurt. His petulant expression melts away when Quinn shrugs and passes him her phone, with strict instructions to only swipe right.

"I'm not the one asking to see photos." Nevertheless, Rachel cranes her neck in an attempt to peek. "Besides, the only thing I like about him so far is his name," she defends. "Also, I am currently carrying your baby, so I believe I am at least entitled to a free pass over the course of my surrogacy."

Kurt gives her a look. "I knew we should have gone with Santana."

Rachel snorts.

Kurt and Blaine drop everything to accompany her at the first ultrasound – as does Quinn. It surprises them all since she has the most inflexible hours (not to mention she lives 800 miles away) and her presence here at this time of day means that she left her office during lunch hour and hopped on a plane. "That's what interns are for," she says, gracing them all with a dazzling smile. Rachel feels her heart lurch in a way it hasn't since high school –

Dangerous territory. Very, very dangerous territory. She tamps her thoughts down and refocuses her attention on Quinn.

" – good thing about my work is that I can take it home with me," she's saying, and the men are laughing. Even the technician appears to be charmed by Quinn.

Quinn turns to her. "Hi, Rachel."

"Hi, Quinn," says Rachel a little uncomfortably – she blames it on the fact that her legs are in stirrups. "It's good to see you. Thanks for coming."

"I certainly wouldn't miss this for anything."

The technician picks up the gel. "This might be a little cold," she warns. Rachel nods, but then she slathers it on and Rachel inhales sharply.

"It's always colder than they warn you it'll be," says Quinn from her left very placidly.

"No kidding," says Rachel through gritted teeth. Kurt tuts but then again he and Blaine are very pointedly avoiding looking at Rachel's lower section, so they aren't much help. The technician runs the device over her tummy and it's not a pleasant sensation at all. She wants to complain but then –

"Ah, there we go." The grainy black-and-white image on the screen captivates them all. "Baby looks healthy," muses the technician. "Development on schedule. Would you like to know the sex of the baby?"

They all take turns to exchange looks with each other. It's rather comical. Eventually, Blaine clears his throat and says, "Yes, please."

The technician nods. There's a terse silence as she presses buttons on her console and stares at the image. "Congratulations, she's a healthy, thriving baby girl." Kurt and Blaine promptly burst into tears simultaneously. Rachel's a little teary-eyed herself and there's no support forthcoming from her best friends.

Then a hand slips into hers and squeezes. She glances up at Quinn, who smiles reassuringly at her.

She brings a printout of the ultrasound home to show Jesse. It lies untouched on the kitchen table, note and all, for a week before she tucks it into her nightstand drawer, beside her Metro pass.

Rachel gets her Tony award nomination letter in the mail a few weeks later. The first person she texts (or, more accurately, sends a Snapchat full of incoherent shrieking followed by a photo of the letter) is Kurt, then Blaine, then Quinn. They are just as excited as she is (okay, so maybe all Quinn does is arch that eyebrow of hers and beam at her, but that counts as excited for Quinn Fabray). Her friends throw her a surprise Congratulations-On-The-Tony-Nomination party at her favourite bar, with equally surprising guests in attendance.

"Congrats on that Tony, Rachel," says Puck, scooping her up in a hug.

"Noah! I wasn't expecting to see you here," she gushes. "Also, I've only been nominated; it's not a definite win, especially not since I'll be competing with other noted leading ladies with far more illustrious careers…"

He shrugs. "I've known you long enough to know you got this, babe. And I just got back from Berlin, so the force gave me a couple of weeks off." From the way his eyes slide sideways to Quinn and back to her, Rachel knows he was visiting Beth. She squeezes his arm reassuringly.

"And there's my other hot babe!"

"I'm not yours, Puckerman." Quinn rolls her eyes at him, but kisses his cheek with a smile immediately after. "It's rather depressing to know that even years in the Air Force couldn't iron the pig out of you."

"Oink, oink. The German girls were all over me, just so you know. It's the uniform."

"I'm not surprised. They like their pork knuckles over there," snipes Kurt. Puck just laughs.

"Hi, Quinn. You know, I'm fairly certain normal white-collar jobs have a fixed number of leave days," says Rachel dryly. Quinn just smirks back and hands her a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne.

Puck wrinkles his nose. "I know being a hot Jew baby mama means you can't indulge, but that stuff is nasty. I'm serious, I'd rather drink soda than that shit."

"Shove it, Puckerman," says Rachel. Truthfully, she agrees with him, but non-alcoholic champagne is their thing now, like bathrooms and adopted babies and nose jobs (not that she's been keeping track).

Later while Blaine and Puck are talking animatedly about (of all things) Top Gear, Rachel says to Quinn. "Honestly, I'm really glad you could come down on such short notice because I know that you're very busy, and I really appreciate your support."

"Rachel, you talk too much, has anyone ever told you that?" But Quinn smiles and pats her shoulder, and Rachel smiles back. "It's fine. I don't mind coming down, and I never have."

Much later that night, when she comes back to find her note to Jesse telling him not to wait up because she'll be out late still untouched on the kitchen counter, it occurs to Rachel that she hasn't yet told him about her nomination.

She isn't sure if that bothers her more than the fact she isn't very upset over it.

Rachel's… not having a great time. Despite Quinn's help and the support of Kurt and Blaine, pregnancy isn't easy on her – and her marriage. She squabbles with Jesse over trivial things more often than not – that is, on the rare occasion he happens to be home. He's got a new project directing and starring in a much-anticipated musical adaptation of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Jane Austen's initial run ended the week before. They managed to find a new producer to run the show in the Gielgud, but they all agreed it was best if they cast another Jane.

Rachel was fine for all of one week. She's never not done anything before, and being cooped up in the house by herself was absolute torture.

To say her mood isn't the best is an absolute understatement.

"You didn't use to be like this," he says hotly one evening. She's just berated him for leaving the rice cakes on the shelf that she can't reach anymore – not with her 28-week-belly blocking her, and she'd rather not fetch the stool for fear she would fall.

"Use to be like what, Jesse? Just say it," she snarls back. She's hungry, and sore, and the baby is picking up on her agitation and using her bladder as a football.

He throws his hands into the air. "Sane. You bite my head off for every little thing – and not even in a good way."

She had loved these hilariously inappropriate and narcissistic asides of his, but now she finds them infuriating. "I'm pregnant, Jesse St James!" Rachel growls, crossing her arms.

"As though I don't know that, given you've been reminding me every second of the damned day." He glares at her belly. "Every time I look at my wife and remember, oh, she's pregnant with someone else's kid."

"That's not fair."

"I hardly see you anymore," he says abruptly. Rachel stills. "We already had busy schedules and now whatever free time you have, you spend it with Kurt and Blaine or Quinn."

There's a newfound hostility in the way he pronounces their names that disturbs Rachel. Her mouth falls open, the words tumbling free and increasingly high-pitched. "You talk as though you aren't busy with work," she shoots back. "And why wouldn't I spend time with them? They are helping me through this. It's their baby too. You can't honestly be jealous of my friends – "

" – I'm not," snapped Jesse.

"You are!"

"I'm not going to waste my time stooping to petty schoolyard squabbling with you, Rachel."

"What do you call this, then?" she hisses, gesturing between them.

"You being childish and spoilt and unreasonable." His expression is cold. She hasn't seen this side of him since they were teenagers, and he'd just crushed a carton of eggs and her heart in the school parking lot. She flinches.

Rachel regains her composure a moment later, gritting her teeth. "Out."

"Like I don't know that by now," he sneers, turning on his heel and executing a perfect diva storm-out.

After a week without speaking to each other, without seeing each other (Rachel in their apartment, Jesse in a hotel), she calls him. He picks up after a single ring.

"Jesse?"

"Yeah, Rachel?"

"That night, what you said…"

A long, tired exhale. "I know. I'm sorry."

"I know." A pause. "I'm sorry too. I overreacted. I was tired and hungry and sore – I know that's no excuse, but you have no idea what it's like to be pregnant."

"Of course not."

"But I think we should talk."

"Talk?"

"Not that kind of talk!" says Rachel hastily, picking up on the trepidation in Jesse's voice. "Face to face. I would like to bring up some issues for discussion that are long overdue because of our busy schedules."

"Fine," says Jesse. "I have the afternoon off anyway. I'll be home in half an hour."

"Great. See you, then."

"I am a little hurt that you haven't been as supportive as you could have been over the course of my pregnancy," says Rachel in a rush when he joins her on their couch, coffee in hand.

Jesse doesn't bat an eye – he's used to his wife's bluntness. "I am supportive. I've just been very busy lately."

"Every time I try and talk to you about the baby, you change the subject. You didn't even look at the ultrasound picture I left for you. You're always not free when I ask you out."

"And when I ask you out, you're not free. Rachel, when you ask me out, you're with Kurt and Blaine, or Quinn. I like your friends, but they're not exactly my friends."

"If it's about high school…"

"Good god, no. I didn't even like them back in high school. In any case, we're not that couple who wants their friends to get along like we're all on Friends. I certainly don't force you to spend time with my friends."

Rachel frowns. "Are you implying I force you?"

"I'm not implying anything. It's their baby you're carrying. I respect that you're doing this for them, and I understand why you're doing it, but that doesn't mean I have to like it." He reaches for her hand. "All I want is for us to start a family of our own. That's it. I'm not asking for something impossible."

"I know, and I do want us to have a family, Jesse. It just wasn't a good time."

"Not a good time? Career-wise? You're pregnant now. How is that different?"

"They're my friends."

"And I'm your husband. Or does that not mean anything to you?"

"Jesse, you're being ridiculous."

"Am I? Because from where I'm looking, it's very simple, Rachel. You just don't want to have a baby with me."

"That's preposterous!"

"Then what? What am I supposed to think if my wife tells me she won't have a baby because she wants to focus on her career, and then promptly offers to carry her best friends' baby in practically the same breath? And you have to be persuaded to give serious thought to having our baby once this one is born." His lip curls. "I don't even feel like I'm second-best. I come in after all your friends. You know, it makes me think you don't want to be married to me at all."

"Jesse…"

"I should have known. When you approached me in Vegas that night. You needed your leading man, and you happened to run into a fool who still hadn't gotten over you after so many years, and who just happened to be looking for a leading lady for a musical."

"Jesse, stop."

"All your boyfriends have followed that pattern, haven't they? You only loved them for what they could do for you, and I – I happened to be the one that could offer you the most. That's why you turned me down at first, right? Because you didn't need me yet. I understand now."

Rachel had been looking down at her lap as he talks. Eventually, she asks: "How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long have you thought this?"

"Rachel."

"How long?" With no answer forthcoming, she starts, "Since we…?"

"Since you rubbed it in my face that you were going to be pregnant with someone else's kid," he interrupts. Jesse pauses, and adds, "But I've been thinking about us for a while now."

The bottom drops out of Rachel's stomach. "Jesse."

He holds up a hand. "It was crazy and romantic and amazing, but the more time passes, the more I think it was the wrong thing to do." Jesse stares at her penetratingly, as though seeing her for the first time. "We don't want the same things in life, Rachel, and I think it's time one of us was mature enough to acknowledge that."

"No, don't say that, we – "

"We what? We work on it? You can't have everything go your way, Rachel; even I know that's not how a relationship – let alone a marriage – works," he says.

She hopes she doesn't look as lost as she feels. "... I didn't know you felt that way."

"I didn't know either, until you made me reconsider marrying you."

The silence is deafening, punctuated only by the sounds of New York filtering in the closed window. Jesse stands. "Well," he says, voice hoarse, "I think we're done." There is a finality to his tone that makes Rachel snap up straight, eyes wide and wild, as Jesse looks at her and adds, "In more ways than one." Distantly, she can appreciate the drama of it all because she's expected nothing less from two tempestuous people with a colourful history. But she focuses on the now.

She wants to apologise. She wants to beg him to take it all back, that they can be better, that she can do better.

But… he's right. Something deep inside of her tells her that all he's done is bring up things she'd suppressed for a long, long time.

"Fine," is all she can force out through suddenly-dry lips as she watches Jesse leave.

Rachel's fingers fly over her laptop keyboard as she composes her email reply to Quinn. It's banal – mostly daily updates and questions about pregnancy – but at least it's more personal than the animal pictures they were exchanging a few months ago.

She always includes a hedgehog photo at the end, just in case.

Before she reaches the end, she wonders if she should tell Quinn about the end of her marriage. It's what friends would do, and her friends are already aware that she tends towards oversharing when it comes to her personal life. Rachel decides against it. She presses the delete button, vanishing the neat paragraphs. She and Quinn aren't really friends right now, and she doesn't want to burden Quinn with her troubles anyway.

She attends the awards ceremony heavily pregnant, with makeup and a smile plastered on. She's fairly confident of her win – given the formidable combined talents of herself and Jesse – but the real challenge of the night is playing the loving wife to her adoring husband.

They've agreed they'll formally announce their split after the ceremony to minimize media attention, and that means Rachel puts on her happy face when greeting her friends. Jesse is the perfect gentleman all night, but he is an excellent performer, and only she notices that his caring for her is perfunctory and distant.

His arm slips around her shoulder as he helps her put on her coat and he whispers, "Showtime" in her ear. Jesse's expression glazes over into bland pleasantness when he pulls away. Surrounded by her beaming friends and blank-faced husband, Rachel wants to burst into tears. She saves that for her acceptance speech so no one will ask difficult questions.

She's requested as few people as possible be present when the baby is born. Kurt and Blaine are invited into the room but both decline, choosing to wait outside until "it's all over". Rachel would have huffed if she wasn't going through contractions.

Jesse shows up halfway through labour refusing to leave. She's in no condition to protest by that time, and latching onto his proffered hand, proceeds to shriek abuse at everything and everyone at the top of her considerable lungs. There's no father to blame for impregnating her, so Rachel relishes the chance to get creative.

Rachel is eight hours into labour when the doors burst open, and Quinn enters – followed, surprisingly, by Shelby. "Rachel? Are you alright?"

She's so surprised she almost forgets to breathe, but then another contraction starts and she winces. "What do you think?" she bites out.

Quinn looks unperturbed. "If you can still talk, you've got a way to go."

Jesse looks between Rachel and Quinn. He pries Rachel's fingers off his hand (with great difficulty) and sets it back on the bed, exiting the room without a word. Rachel's vaguely aware of Shelby glancing curiously between them but she's breathing hard through the stabbing pain in her belly and oh god it hurts –

Quinn takes her hand. "Kurt and Blaine told me you went into labour," she explains, grimacing, as she lets Rachel crush her fingers. "I would've come sooner but my flight was delayed."

"It's fine," replies Rachel once she has a chance to unclench her jaw, and speak actual words. Shelby hovers near the bed uncertainly until Rachel stretches her free hand out to her. The older woman's anxious expression blossoms into a smile, and she takes it. "Can we talk later? Not that I don't want to, but now is..."

"Of course," says Shelby quickly.

Kurt and Blaine both burst into tears when she hands them their daughter, and haven't stopped crying since. She's a little teary-eyed herself, but she thinks it's because she's exhausted. Shelby's already gone but Rachel knows it won't be the last time they see each other.

She feels more mature. Maybe it's because she's a mother now.

"You should take a nap."

Her eyes flutter open; Quinn is wearing a half-smile. "I thought you were outside," says Rachel stupidly.

Quinn arches an eyebrow. "I was, but I came back in. Didn't you notice?"

"Not really."

She honestly doesn't care what goes on around her. Quinn laughs quietly and pats her hand. "Sleep. We'll be back later, when you're less cranky. Where's Jesse?"

"Don't know. Probably home."

Quinn frowns. "Shouldn't he be back by now?"

"He doesn't have to be here."

Quinn pulls up a chair. "Rachel," she says firmly, "is something wrong?"

She closes her eyes. "Jesse and I are getting a divorce."

"Oh, Rachel." There's a pause, and then Quinn is hugging her. It's a little awkward, but Rachel throws her arms around Quinn's neck and holds on. "We'll talk later, okay? Get some rest."

It's terribly apparent that Quinn told Kurt and Blaine about Jesse because they show up at the hospital to pick her and the baby up when they're discharged looking unusually solemn for new parents. "We've gotten some of your things," says Blaine, nodding at the duffel bag in the boot of the taxi, "we need your help looking after the baby for a while."

"You spent the past nine months taking parenthood classes at the local Y, Blaine."

"Well, we can't possibly handle everything by ourselves," says Kurt, sounding offended. "We've already decided that I'll be in charge of coordinating her wardrobe, and Blaine is in charge of her holistic upbringing. We'll still need you to… feed her."

She wonders why they're being so nice to her. They're her best friends, she was carrying their baby girl, and she didn't tell them she and Jesse are getting divorced.

Then Kurt leans over to squeeze her shoulders in a one-armed hug and whispers, Whenever you feel like talking we're here, and Rachel bursts into tears. She blames the hormones.

"Rachel Berry, meet Miss Olivia Tracy Anderson-Hummel," says Kurt, beaming down at his daughter. "Olivia after Ms. Newton-John – "

" – of course," interjects Rachel, and they exchange smiles.

" – and Tracy after Spencer Tracy. Blaine's already calling her Livy and there's nothing I can do to change his mind."

"Livy's a pretty cute nickname." Rachel peers at the infant swaddled in Kurt's arms. She yawns at them, blinking hazy blue eyes, and she falls in love all over again. "She's perfect," says Rachel in a tone of voice normally reserved for Barbra Streisand or anything Broadway-related.

Kurt clearly noticed, because he smiles and scoots over, resting his head against Rachel's. "That goes without saying. Between Blaine's and Quinn's genetic perfection, my fabulousness and your – uh – volume…" Rachel rolls her eyes, "I think she's going to be pretty darn amazing." He addresses his daughter, grinning. "Aren't you, Livy?"

The baby gurgles her agreement. "She's a part of you too," says Rachel. Kurt shakes his head. "Look at that smile," he gently pinches Olivia's cheek, "that's 100% Blaine. I had no part in the conception of this child."

Rachel bumps his elbow. "Genetically."

He nods. "Genetically."

"That makes two of us." She rests her head on his shoulder.

Uncharacteristically (of Kurt, mostly), they wait patiently for Rachel to talk to them first. She does go through the bare bones of what happened between her and Jesse (minus his insistence on having children – she doesn't want them to feel responsible).

To Quinn she tells the full story. Quinn's silent for a while after she finishes recounting the entire thing, and Rachel starts to think the Skype connection's broken, until Quinn says: "I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn't talk to me about this, Rachel."

Rachel's completely taken aback. She's expecting silent frostiness, or deliberate calm, or even anger. "Quinn, no; you didn't do anything wrong. I didn't want to burden you."

"Because we aren't really friends?"

Either Quinn Fabray should stop reading her mind, or Rachel should stop being so predictable. She's speechless for the second time in approximately a minute. "... Yeah. That's also my fault. I'm sorry."

Rachel disconnects the call, and then switches off her phone just as it starts to ring.

Kurt and Blaine practically bar the door when she tries to leave after two weeks, insisting that three parents are just enough to trade off nights with Livy without becoming zombies ("Do you know what that does to my complexion, Rachel?"), and that someone needs to be home with the baby anyway. Rachel doesn't put up more than a token protest; her apartment is a little too big for one person anyway, and she loves that they're being supportive but not babying her.

She's just settled in bed with a book when the doorbell rings; Rachel groans softly as she swings her legs off. "Coming – just a moment," she calls as she makes her way to the door, huffing with exertion. Rachel doesn't check the peephole before she opens it. It was a mistake.

"Hi, Rachel." Jesse's eyes scan up and down. "You look well. Surrogate motherhood becomes you."

"Jesse. What are you doing here?"

"You just gave birth. As your soon-to-be-ex-husband, I came to see how you're doing." He tilts his head to the side, smiling that roguish smile that used to make her heart race. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

She moves to the side so he can enter, closing the door behind him. Wordlessly, Rachel walks to Livy's room and he follows, peering into the crib.

"She looks lovely. Nothing like you, of course, but lovely all the same. That's to be expected, don't you think? She does come from excellent genetic stock."

"Jesse, are you drunk?"

He rears back, affronted. "I find that insulting, Rachel. I would never visit an infant while drunk."

She ignores the stab of guilt, folding her arms across her chest and moving in between Jesse and the crib. "Then what prompted this visit? I find it difficult to believe you came just to check on me and visit the baby. You're scaring us both."

He stares at her for a long moment. "I didn't mean to upset you," says Jesse quietly. "I'm sorry. That was incredibly petty, even for me."

She forces a smile, uncrosses her arms. "It's fine. Would you like coffee?"

"Please. I hope your friends have a good coffee machine. My hotel doesn't believe in investing in a machine that doesn't use styrofoam cups. I'm seriously considering moving out. I pay too much to put up with substandard coffee in my room; we're supposed to be a First World nation."

Rachel smiles faintly at that nostalgic, self-absorbed rant. It's funny, she thinks, how something I found so endearing before now seems annoying. "It's good. Trust me."

"I trust your taste," he says, shucking his jacket and taking a seat at the dining table. After Rachel sets the coffee maker, she doesn't sit down; she remains standing, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"I may have had a drink before I decided to come over," he confesses, running a hand over his face.

"I know." She has seen Jesse tipsy, fairly intoxicated, drunk, and wasted, and she knows when he's had a little liquid courage. If it was her in his position, she's certain she would have done the same. "It's fine." Rachel takes the freshly-brewed pot and pours the contents into two mugs, adding a spoon-and-a-half of brown sugar and a splash of non-dairy creamer to one, liberal amounts of milk and sugar to the other. Rachel sets the second mug in front of him.

He takes the mug, inhales deeply, takes a sip. "You remembered how I like my coffee," he says, and Rachel's a little insulted. It must show on her face, because Jesse adds quickly, "Sorry. I didn't mean – God, I'm awful at this, aren't I?" He sets down the mug but continues to toy with the smooth handle, and it occurs to Rachel that he's nervous. She's never seen him nervous – even before nerve-wracking auditions and while waiting for callbacks – and it's vaguely unsettling.

"You're not awful," she says. "I've known worse." Brody had sent her flowers; the attached card managed to simultaneously congratulate her on giving birth and convey envy that she had attained the Tony she'd dreamed of before turning 30.

"Damn. I thought I would be the worst you've ever known," he says, and there's that competitive spirit and touch of cockiness she knows. Rachel laughs.

"What's her name?" He jerks his head towards the bedroom. "The baby," he adds unnecessarily.

"Her name is Olivia."

He nods. "That's a nice name. After Newton-John? I met her once; she attended the premiere of Eternal Sunshine. Lovely lady, immensely talented."

Rachel smiles in spite of herself. "Yeah. Her middle name is Tracy, after Spencer Tracy."

"A surprisingly pleasing combination. Here's hoping she'll bear some of her namesakes' talent; if not merely by circumstances of birth then at least by her upbringing. Olivia Tracy would make a good stage name."

"That's for sure. You don't want to know how many daycare centres and preschools Kurt and Blaine have already shortlisted, not to mention the overall life plan they've already made," says Rachel, and bites her lip.

"Ah." He takes another sip of his coffee. Then he says, in a soft intimate voice she's only heard late at night when they're alone: "I dreamed of doing that with you."

"Jesse…"

"I'd imagine you taking that single-minded determination and planning out every step of the way for our kids, because it was what your dads did for you and it all worked out for the best, you'd say." Jesse pushes aside his half-empty mug. "I imagined our kids receiving the love, acceptance, and support I never really had."

His reasons for coming are immediately apparent; he's sad, not angry or resentful, and that hurts Rachel more than a physical blow. "I'm sorry we couldn't make it work, Jesse. But you don't get to say those things to me anymore."

He sighs. "I know."

The wailing of the baby interrupts them. Jesse stands up. "I should go," he says. "Rachel…"

"What?"

"… It's really over, isn't it?"

Her eyes fill with tears. "Jesse…"

"No, don't. Let the drama play out. This makes excellent fodder for your memoirs, doesn't it?" His smile is faintly mocking. Rachel wants to hate him, but she can't because what he's saying is true.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too," he says, and closes the door behind him.

The official divorce is as clean as their respective PR teams can make it, but Rachel was expecting nothing less than the media circus they get anyway. She's just won a Tony and given birth to her best friends' daughter in quick succession, after all.

Really, she shouldn't have been as surprised as she was by how her marriage turned out. She and Jesse have always been a volatile, intensely passionate pair, fueled by drama. He didn't need to have an affair with his attractive young co-star (as implied by Perez Hilton), she didn't need to be involved in a torrid threesome with Blaine and Kurt (as suggested by the celebrity gossip blogs), and they certainly weren't staging a showmance to hide the fact that they were both outrageously gay (as postulated by a conspiracy blog on Tumblr).

(Much later on, she'll find out about that last theory when Kurt shows her a Youtube video of the blog's owner explaining his theory to Jesse. His response was a hysterical laughing fit that sent the video viral.)

So that leaves Rachel Barbra Berry, twenty-six-year-old Broadway actress and singer, surrogate mother to her best friends' daughter, and divorcee of four months, at a loss for the second time in her life. The last time she had foundered like this, she had gone back to Lima to wait for the fallout of her television show to settle.

Honestly, things weren't as hopeless as before. Her career is nowhere near stalling; Rachel's agent reports that the divorce hasn't damaged her image in the slightest. She's just not looking for new projects at the moment.

Which brings her to said present moment; sitting alone on the couch in Mr. and Mrs. Schuester's home, nursing a flute of non-alcoholic champagne. The Schuesters are throwing a party to celebrate the latest New Directions' Sectionals victory, and that means the house is packed with plenty of youthful faces Rachel doesn't recognize. They do recognize her, and she takes a lot of pictures with people, signing autographs on everything they give her; but they're also teenagers, and their interest wanes quickly.

She has yet to take a sip since accepting the drink from Jake Puckerman an hour ago. Rachel doesn't like champagne, especially not the non-alcoholic variety, but it reminds her of the bottle Quinn brought when she'd gotten pregnant.

Santana glides over. "There you are. You're already ridiculously hard to find when you're standing, Rachel, and yet you insist on blending with the furniture."

Reflexively, Rachel rolls her eyes but grins. "Hello to you too, Santana." She eyes the pink drink in her hand a little enviously as she leans in to hug her friend. "You look good."

"As always." She sighs then, and hands her drink to Rachel. "You hate non-alcoholic champagne. What are you doing with that shit? Didn't Mercedes tell you the good stuff is in the kitchen? Anyway, you've already popped Porcelain Junior out, so there's no excuse for not getting your drinks on. You're just lucky I changed my mind about that fruity shit because it tastes like pink."

Rachel sets the champagne on the table and gratefully sips her new drink, taking Santana's unique brand of concern in her stride. "I took it without realising what it was and couldn't get rid of it without attracting attention."

"You should've refused it on principle. Puckerman boys should be banned from giving girls drinks." Santana sits up suddenly. "Quinn Fabray!" she shrieks. "Get over here, bitch!"

Rachel stiffens. She'd heard from Blaine that Quinn had a work function and wouldn't be able to attend this reunion, but it seems that he's mistaken.

Quinn walks over. "Hi, S. Good to see marriage hasn't eroded your charms."

"And singlehood has only increased yours. Glad to hear you dumped that tool." Santana grabs Rachel's abandoned drink, and raises it in a mock toast. "Speaking of marriage, you still haven't explained why you didn't attend mine and Britt's wedding."

"I was on exchange in Oxford. I think I've told you this a thousand times."

"Oh yeah, like being on exchange is a perfectly good reason why you couldn't attend a wedding that Streisand could. She even found Britt a lizard." But Rachel knows Santana well enough to tell that she's joking now. Quinn clearly knows it too; she rolls her eyes and hands her friend the bottle of beer she's carrying. "Here. You get bitchy when you're not buzzed."

"That is so not an excuse for missing the gayest wedding of the century," says Santana, and honestly she needs to be gone yesterday so the adults can have a dignified conversation, but she quickly becomes occupied with her beer.

Quinn joins them on the couch. "Hey."

"Hi," she returns nervously. She hasn't spoken to Quinn since that disastrous Skype session, but Quinn hugs her without a trace of awkwardness. Santana glances between them, eyes moving back and forth like she's watching a tennis match, and then she snorts. "Oh, no way. What, you two are friends now? Three years spent hoisting Tubbers here to the top of the pyramid and she blows this hot piece of ass off for you?"

"Santana Lopez!" Rachel can't see, but from the brief movement of Quinn's arm and the loud cackle Santana releases immediately after, she guesses Quinn has made some rude gesture.

"Leave them alone, Satan," drawls Kurt from his corner where he is busy showing Tina and Mercedes photos of Livy. Santana splutters indignantly.

"You too? Has being a baby daddy mellowed you out, Lady Hummel, or are you already sloshed?"

Fortunately, she seems to have been telepathically transmitting her thoughts loudly enough to summon her wife. Brittany appears seemingly out of nowhere and squeezes Santana's hand; the latter instantly deflates and is tamed. "San, you should come with me to say hello to Marley and Kitty," she says. "Hi Quinn, Rachel." Job done, Brittany lets go of Santana to hug her friends.

"Fine. Do whatever you want. Later, bitch. Don't think this is over." To Rachel she adds a fond, "Midget," before she allows herself to be whisked away.

Quinn turns to Rachel and arches her eyebrow in a painfully familiar gesture that makes Rachel laugh. "She hasn't changed at all, hasn't she?"

"Sadly, no." Rachel takes a deep breath. "Quinn… about the other night, I'm sorry. I panicked."

"It's alright. Believe me, I know exactly how that feels."

Rachel laughs despite herself. "It wasn't… there was a lot going on at the time, and it didn't feel right to burden you and Kurt and Blaine. I don't want you to feel guilty, as though you were responsible for this."

"Berry, if I hear you say the word 'burden' one more time, I will ask Britt to unleash Santana on you."

Rachel's eyes go wide. "You wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't," admits Quinn easily enough, after a dramatic pause.

Rachel smiles. "Thank you for being understanding, Quinn, even if frankly I don't feel that upset about it. It wasn't nasty or anything. We're still friends – or as friendly as our talents and egos will allow – which is good, since we run within the same circles. Entirely professional too. I expect our stage chemistry will lead to our being cast as love interests again one day, when it's no longer painfully awkward." Rachel sighs. "We rushed into marriage without really thinking about making a long-term relationship work, which honestly, I have no excuse for not doing." Her voice might have wobbled towards the end; Rachel isn't sure.

Quinn doesn't say anything further, but simply opens her arms, silently offering a hug; Rachel accepts it gratefully. "We're friends now," says Quinn quietly into Rachel's ear, "so I don't want to hear any more excuses from you the next time you have an internal crisis without telling anyone."

Rachel nods, teary-eyed, giving Quinn an extra squeeze before they part.

"How's Livy?" asks Quinn. Rachel grins, desperately grateful for the change of subject.

"She's started to sleep through the night, thank goodness. It's the only reason Kurt and Blaine and I were alright with leaving her with a babysitter so we could come tonight."

"I wish I could see her more often. Blaine sends me photos almost daily, but it's not quite the same."

"Speaking of photos," interrupts Blaine cheerfully, phone out, "you haven't seen these yet, Quinn. She's still a bit young, but we gave her a mashed banana just to see what would happen."

Rachel has already seen the entire photo album, so she merely smiles at them both and goes back to sipping her drink, feeling more at ease here than she's been in months.

The party ends early since most of guests are underaged, but someone (Rachel guesses a Puckerman, both or separately) suggests the original New Directions members visit their old school. After most of the group decide to go vandalise what remains of Sue Sylvester's trophies, Rachel takes the opportunity to sneak off to the choir room for some alone time with Finn's picture before the rest join her.

"I guessed I'd find you here," says a quiet voice.

Rachel smiles at Quinn, who's standing in the doorway. "Perfect timing, Quinn. I was just about to go look for you."

"Look for me?"

"Yes, after talking to Finn." Rachel nods up at the picture with a small smile. "I was just filling him in on what's been happening since the last time I came back."

Quinn's expression is inscrutable. "Oh. Should I – I'll wait for you outside."

"No, it's alright." She digs in her purse, pulling out a small card and handing it to Quinn.

"My new address," she says. "I can't stay with Kurt and Blaine forever, and I couldn't go back. Whenever you're in New York and you're free, give me a call. We can have lunch, or coffee, or… anything you might prefer," she finishes.

"Alright," says Quinn. She tucks the card into her purse. Before she can leave, Rachel surprises herself by blurting out: "Quinn?"

She pauses but doesn't turn around.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

Rachel chews on her lower lip. She's standing on the precipice, and her next words will make or break everything. "We promised we would stay friends."

Quinn turns around fully. "Where did this come from? We've talked about this. We were teenagers, Rachel," she starts, "there was school and other things, not to mention the distance. People lose touch all the time."

"But you weren't planning on losing touch. You bought us Metro passes."

Something flickers in Quinn's eyes.

"I dropped the ball. I'm sorry for everything that didn't happen." She takes a step forward, and then two, until she's standing directly in front of Quinn. Rachel looks straight into hazel eyes. "I want a second chance." When there's no response immediately forthcoming, she gives in to nerves and starts to babble: "I know, I haven't done anything to warrant a second chance at friendship but that – opportunity – for us to reconnect made me realise that I've missed your friendship more than I knew, and now that I'm older and more emotionally mature I am fully prepared to put in the effort to make a long-distance friendship work – "

"– Rachel."

"... Sorry," she says meekly. "Yes?"

Quinn gives her a small smile. "We're friends, remember? While the apology was nice…" Rachel smiles sheepishly, "... it's really okay."

"Okay. I... wanted to be sure."

"So what's it like, having a baby but not really having her?"

Quinn's smile bears a faint trace of bitterness. "I think you should be asking Shelby that question." They are seated in Stranger's Reunion having coffee, Quinn having taken the long weekend off to come to New York to visit her goddaughter.

"While Shelby and I have kept in touch over the years – especially after her surprise visit at Livy's birth – I don't think that is a topic I would be comfortable mentioning, let alone discussing in depth."

"So no, you meant to say."

Rachel blushes. "Yeah. Sorry. Brevity still isn't my strongest suit."

"And that is also a good thing – at least in my line of work." Quinn leans back in her seat. "Let's just say I've had plenty of moments I'm not proud of."

Rachel shares a laugh with her. "Same here, actually."

"What, you mean like sending my rival to a crackhouse?"

"It was abandoned. Or like wearing sunglasses indoors to regain my popularity."

"Getting three guys to make a cheesy, over-dramatic music video with me for the sole purpose of making myself look like the most desirable girl in school."

"Dyeing my hair pink and taking up smoking, thus damaging my beautiful singing voice."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Don't start with me, Berry. We both know the outcome of this war."

"That's true," says Rachel very seriously, "I shouldn't antagonise the person who could destroy my reputation as one of Broadway's most fashionable actresses by leaking high school photos of me."

Quinn snorts. "Most fashionable? I find that hard to believe considering you made the entire student body's eyes bleed for years with your numerous fashion failures. Animal sweaters and an argyle skirt." She tacks on a shudder, and Rachel huffs.

"You wore one of those animal sweaters, Quinn Fabray, with an argyle skirt. And a headband. Though I must say you looked very cute."

She rolls her eyes at Rachel but follows it with a grin. "Those were dark days indeed."

"I heard from Anna that Eternal Sunshine was nominated," says Rachel breathlessly when Jesse picks up the phone. "Congratulations. It's a wonderful show and you deserve every accolade."

He's silent for a long moment. "Thanks, Rachel."

"I… "She bites her tongue, the entirety of her meticulously-planned speech forgotten. Jesse laughs.

"I never thought I'd see – or hear, as it may be – the day when Rachel Berry would be speechless. I'll take it that you're too awestruck by my performance in Eternal Sunshine to form coherent words."

"You wish," she retorts out of habit, smiling at his laughter.

"How are you?"

Rachel's hand stills on her knee. "I – good. I'm good. You?"

"Not too bad. To be honest, I haven't had a moment to myself since Eternal Sunshine opened."

"That's good. I mean, that you're keeping busy. It's imperative that us actors be constantly working to keep ourselves in the public eye. Are you getting enough rest? I know you have this tendency to starve yourself and then binge on greasy meat by-products that are laden with empty calories – "

"Rachel!" Her mouth snaps shut, a hot blush coming to her cheeks, but Jesse is – laughing? "Rachel, I know. God, you – you're insufferable."

"… oh. Sorry."

"I've missed it," he admits.

As part of her efforts in being a better friend, Rachel resolves to email Quinn regularly. It's Wednesday, and she's sending off the fifth this week so far; she has a lot of free time on her hands, and she's always been the type to share everything random that comes to mind.

(She's progressed beyond just pictures of baby animals, thankfully.)

Quinn, on her part, responds at a sensible rate but just as regularly. She is (unsurprisingly) an excellent correspondent and writer. Her anecdotes, written with that newfound dry humour Rachel is growing to appreciate, are riveting to read.

Nothing less than a starring role will tempt Rachel Berry out of her post-baby break, and the role of Elsa in Broadway's new adaptation of Frozen (itself already a musical) does the trick. Kurt and Blaine offer their sincere congratulations (even Kurt, who says there are more important things in life now that he has a daughter).

And Quinn? A few days after the news is splashed over the Broadway website, there is a text message waiting for Rachel after she comes back from rehearsal. In true Quinn fashion, it briefly offers her congratulations and requests she let her know when the show opens so she can make time to come down.

Rachel's fingers slip over her phone's keyboard a few times when typing her reply. She tells herself it's because they're slippery with sweat from rehearsal; building an ice castle from scratch while singing is exhausting.

When her schedule starts to pick up, their email correspondence decreases in volume but (she's immensely proud of herself for this) doesn't stop.

Her last email from Quinn is a cordial one, talking about her new manuscript and the changing weather in Chicago. Therefore, Rachel is more than a little surprised when Quinn shows up at the end of her show with a smile and a bouquet of flowers.

"Surprise," says the blonde, smiling.

"Quinn!" Rachel doesn't hesitate; she flings herself onto Quinn, practically knocking the flowers out of her hands. Her friend laughs somewhere beside her left ear and hugs back. "Someone's enthusiastic," she comments as she sets Rachel back on her feet.

"I haven't seen you in a few months, I think I have a right to be enthusiastic to see you, and this unexpectedly," responds Rachel. "Did you watch the show? Did you like it?"

"Yes and yes. You were amazing."

"Thank you." Rachel slips her arm into Quinn's, dramatically scanning their surroundings. "We should go before the fans find me," she says in a conspiratorial whisper, "are you hungry? There's a nice deli not far from here that has wonderful Reuben sandwiches."

Quinn already has one eyebrow raised in reaction to Rachel's antics, and the other joins the first at that statement. "That sounds nice, but wouldn't you want to have Thai or something? I mean, you're always going on about that pad thai you like in your emails."

Rachel grins. "Never mind the pad thai. You're here, you should try some of New York's finest specialties and I'm assured that it doesn't get better than this."

"How would you know what makes a good Reuben sandwich anyway, Rachel Berry? Aren't you vegan?" asks Quinn teasingly.

"I read food blogs, Quinn, and take customer reviews very seriously."

Unexpectedly, Quinn blushes. "You didn't have to."

"But I wanted to," smiles Rachel, "and don't worry; I've made sure they also have an acceptable vegan menu. Years of what barely passed as salads at Breadstix was an experience I don't want to repeat."

Her smile widens when Quinn ducks her head, mumbles a quiet thank you, and lets Rachel drag her away.

Rachel is visiting Quinn in Chicago after taking a few days off ("Yes, Quinn, I have been known to give my understudy a chance to earn her salary on occasion") when it happens.

There is an attractive young redhead that greets Quinn familiarly when they walk into a cafe Quinn chose, and their conversation hints at past intimacy. Frankly, Rachel is more than a little surprised to see Quinn speaking with someone this way to process the deduction that Quinn Fabray has been in a relationship with a woman.

"Sorry," says Quinn with a trace of awkwardness when the other woman leaves. "That was Gabby. We dated for a bit after I moved here for work."

She takes a sip of her tea, aware that what she says next will make or break their still-recovering friendship. "I didn't know you were attracted to women," she says, "apart from that tryst with Santana."

Quinn gives a short laugh. Rachel knows her well enough that it means she doesn't know how to respond. "She told you?"

"She may have bragged about it. Once or twice." With plenty of details that a tipsy Rachel was entirely too curious about.

"I'm going to kill her," says Quinn very calmly.

"Please don't. You'd make Brittany sad. That's the only reason I haven't murdered Santana yet after all these years of knowing her," adds Rachel with a roll of her eyes.

Quinn sniggers. "True."

"Did you date any girls in Yale?"

Quinn shakes her head. "I refuse to dignify this conversation with a response."

"It's only a conversation if you contribute, Quinn," Rachel informs her. "Did you sleep with any of them?"

"Rachel!"

"I did," continues Rachel, unfazed by the expression Quinn is wearing, "sleep with women, I mean. At NYADA one has plenty of opportunities to explore one's sexuality. It's important that a performer be open to diverse experiences that may come in handy when authentically portraying different characters."

"Oh my God, Rachel." She covers her face.

Rachel's smile slowly disappears. "Quinn? Are you alright? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pressed you to disclose something so private – or overshared, for that matter."

"... It's not that," says Quinn. She gives Rachel a sheepish smile, cheeks still tinged with pink. "I was just thinking that I'd never have imagined having a conversation with you about this."

Rachel is spared from answering when their food comes, and she falls instantly in love with her eggplant parmesan after her first bite. Quinn grins triumphantly at her, seemingly glad for the change of subject. "Good?"

"I think I might move to Chicago now. Screw Broadway."

Quinn feigns shock. "Rachel Berry!"

Rachel pretends to contemplate her dish. "But then I'd have to bring Kurt and Blaine and Livy, not to mention my entire cast and crew, here with me. Uprooting everyone is a small price to pay for getting to eat this every day." She takes another forkful. "How did you find this place, Quinn? Should I start unleashing you on New York to sniff out vegan delicacies for me?"

"I browse militant vegan food blogs," says Quinn, smiling at her over the rim of her coffee cup.

"Oh." She hasn't been expecting Quinn to put effort into finding vegan restaurants, and it brings a pleasant warm feeling in the pit of her stomach unrelated to her lunch. "Thank you."

Quinn shrugs. "It's the least I could do, honestly."

They turn their attention back to their food. After their plates are empty, Rachel says: "I know you're expecting me to give you a typical Rachel Berry-style lecture on my support of LGBTQ issues due to my upbringing – "

"– please don't," says Quinn a little too earnestly, and Rachel laughs.

"– but I'm not that person anymore. So I'll just say that this was the most amazing meal I've ever had, and you need to help me scheme ways to kidnap the chef back to New York with me."

Quinn smirks. "Glad to see you've got your priorities straight, Berry."

"It's been a year," says Rachel abruptly.

Quinn looks up from the pile of carrots she's supposed to be julienning. "Since?"

"Today is mine and Jesse's wedding anniversary." She pauses to contemplate her bare fourth finger. "Or would have been."

"Oh."

"Not that I have overly fond memories of the last occasion we celebrated – my birthday, I believe. He spent the whole day at the theatre until Kurt called him to yell at him, and then he rushed back home with a bouquet of roses, which I promptly threw into his face. It's not that I didn't appreciate the romanticism in that spontaneous gesture, but they still had the blank stock greeting card attached, and I was hoping for something a little more special considering that we'd only just gotten married." She sighs. "I'd always thought that we'd laugh over it in years to come, but…"

"I'm sorry that happened to you."

"Me too." She looks up at Quinn, flashes her a smile. "Now hurry up with those carrots. Kurt and Blaine will be here soon."

"Watch it, Berry. I'm armed and dangerous."

Rachel supposes the exaggerated Head Cheerio-esque pose Quinn strikes to go with her threat is meant to amuse her, and the thought alone makes her smile. "Like that's supposed to be scary. I'll have you know I excelled in my stage combat classes."

Quinn rolls her eyes at her. "Whatever, Rachel," she says, tossing a shred of carrot at her. "Get back to work. You said Kurt and Blaine would be here any moment."

They're quiet after dinner. While the new parents are napping in the guest room (they said they wanted to keep her company on this day, though Rachel suspects that another compelling reason for their visit is the free babysitting), Rachel has Livy on her lap and is running her fingers absently through the baby's hair. Quinn is seated next to her on the couch.

"She's definitely Blaine's," says Quinn, "look at that." She toys with a black curl.

"She has your eyes." The baby squirms under their combined scrutiny, and Rachel chuckles. She's forgotten how much she's missed that comforting warm weight on her belly.

As Livy gurgles, Rachel suddenly blurts out: "What is it like, having a baby but not really having her?"

Quinn freezes. "What do you mean?"

"Our situations are strangely parallel, Quinn. We both have a daughter who belongs to someone else." Rachel's finger brushes Livy's cheek, her touch feather-light.

"We've talked about this before."

"You skilfully changed the subject before, and I let you. But I just want to know if it's normal to hurt this much. To want someone so badly I knew I was never going to have." For a moment, Rachel wonders if she's still talking about Livy.

Quinn is silent for a moment. "It's normal to hurt. You've carried her around for nine months – she's been a literal part of you. And then she's gone. When I realised that, it was worse than getting hit by a truck – and now I can accurately compare the two. It was that sense of loss that made me go crazy trying to get Beth back. I felt like everything that had gone wrong would be fixed if I had Beth again."

Rachel smiles weakly. "I think I can understand how that felt, sort of. But the moment when I watched Kurt and Blaine hold her for the first time, I… I will never forget the looks on their faces. They're a family. I love Livy, but I'll never be her mom. It must have been like when my fathers held me for the first time."

"Yeah. Something like that."

They share a smile. The baby whimpers and subsequently ruins the moment.

Quinn holds out her arms. "Here, let me…"

Rachel passes Livy to her, watching as she expertly supports her head and neck, bouncing the baby. "You know," she starts, "she's kind of our kid."

Quinn's head whips around so fast Rachel's surprised she doesn't give herself whiplash. "Come again?"

"I was pregnant with Quinn Fabray's baby, remember?" says Rachel, and bursts into a fit of hysterical giggles.

"Oh, that." Quinn rolls her eyes. "That joke's gotten old, Berry."

"It's still amusing."

"You just want a soundbite for your memoirs, don't you?"

Rachel presses a hand to her heart dramatically. "Oh! How did you ever guess!"

"Just a lucky shot," says Quinn dryly. Rachel smirks, and gets up to fetch a drink from the kitchen.

"Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"You're nothing like Shelby, and you never will be."

"I know." A pause. "Neither are you."

Quinn calls her a few days ahead of their scheduled weekly phone chat to tell her about her new job. There is a lot of jargon, enough to lose Rachel along the way, but the gist of it is there is an opening in the New York headquarters, and Quinn has been offered the position.

"There's less money and more work, but it's still considered a step up the corporate ladder, can you believe it?" says Quinn. "It even comes with a fancier title, which just means the actual job is shittier."

The thing that Rachel gets from it is basically Quinn's thinking about moving to New York, and that means Quinn won't just be a page of text on her laptop screen, and the occasional lunch/dinner outing (she banishes the d-word with an embarrassed smile, and wonders where it came from).

"So you're not going to take it," guesses Rachel.

Quinn huffs an incredulous laugh. "Rachel, have you not been listening? I told them I'm taking it. I signed the papers already, and I should be moving next Friday."

"What? But Quinn, Chicago's your home. You said you were getting paid less. Why would you choose to take it?"

"Maybe, but you guys are my family," says Quinn in a quiet voice.

Despite Quinn's warnings, Rachel plunges herself into her latest project: Operation Finding Quinn's Perfect Home. It's an uphill task, given she stumbled upon the Bushwick loft and Jesse handled all the work for her current place.

She ropes in Kurt and Blaine, exerting their combined social networks to the maximum. She spends her pre-show afternoons scrolling through property reviews and buyers' guides on her laptop. She even books an appointment with a property agent, pretending to be interested in renting a place (the ruse falls apart twenty-two viewings later; the man is not amused). Finally, Rachel shortlists the resulting property listings into a report.

"Rachel!" shrills Quinn the instant Rachel answers the call. "There are fifty listings in this!"

"All stringently handpicked based on very important criteria, including being located within an hour's travel time radius of Kurt and Blaine's and my homes, within a 30-minute commute to your office, and a minimum number of reputable eateries in the immediate vicinity – I haven't forgotten Mercedes and that questionable burrito which nearly jeopardised our Nationals victory." Rachel's very proud of the last item; she and Blaine had pooled what remained of their high school maths ability to come up with a formula for it.

"What about price?"

"… Oh, I knew I forgot something."

"Rachel!"

"I'm only joking, Quinn. Really, you should know that I acquired a sense of humour after high school. Yes, all of the prices have been taken into account, based on the average yearly salary of a junior editor that I got from the internet. I'm aware that it's not polite to ask about one's yearly income."

The silence that follows is long enough that Rachel checks the screen to make sure they haven't been disconnected. Then Quinn says: "Has anyone ever told you how amazing you are, Rachel Berry?"

Rachel's glad it's just a phone call and Quinn can't see her, because her face is deep crimson. "Not nearly enough," she weakly jokes.

"So much for clear skies!"

Rachel opens her mouth to retort, but a blast of cold wind whips her hair into her face, so all that comes out is an indignant squeak. She struggles to get her hair back into a manageable state under Quinn's amused gaze. "You should wrap up before you catch your death, Fabray," manages Rachel archly, reaching out to tug Quinn's scarf up, muffling her laughter.

She's just a little upset; she'd planned a nice picnic in Central Park to celebrate Quinn's moving into her new apartment. The weather forecast had promised clear skies and unusually warm temperatures for August. And yet, here they are battling gale-force winds.

Laughing, Quinn drags her behind a statue for a brief respite. "Let's go have hot chocolate," she says, "my treat. My property report came with a map that showed all the good local cafes, and I'm pretty sure there was one that promised to have the best vegan hot chocolate in Brooklyn."

Being out of the wind is tempting, as is the offer of hot chocolate, but Rachel is still inclined to sulk a little; after all, her meticulous plans for the day have been ruined. Her cheeks are wind-bitten and stinging, her hair is an untameable mess, and her fingers are numb with cold.

"Rachel?"

"I'm sorry, Quinn."

The smile fades quickly from Quinn's face. "Sorry? What for?"

"Today was supposed to be perfect because it's your first official day as a resident of New York, and I wanted you to see how wonderful the city can be, but…" At a rare loss for words, Rachel gestures wildly around her. "I just wanted to show you my city," she finishes lamely.

Quinn shakes her head; Rachel swears she is laughing at her. "Rach," she begins, "it's fine. New York is already beautiful and perfect because all my favourite people are here." She steps closer to press a kiss to Rachel's forehead. "And my favourite person is right here with me."

To say Rachel Berry is caught off-guard is an understatement. It's the first time Quinn has done something so intimate, so tender, and despite knowing it was completely platonic, the colour rises in Rachel's cheeks. Her hands find Quinn's scarf (slowly, because they're still numb) for lack of something to do. She tugs it up properly around Quinn's neck, adjusting the knot, as she mumbles, "You're completely ridiculous, Quinn Fabray," under her breath.

Quinn only laughs and holds out a hand for Rachel's. "Come on, Berry, grab on to me; can't let you be carried away by the wind." Rachel pouts but complies, even if only because it makes Quinn's smile brighter.

"When I asked you why you chose to move here, you said we were your family," says Rachel quietly into the dark.

The sounds of New York traffic fill the space for a long time; just when Rachel decides Quinn's already asleep, she says: "My entire life has been people walking away from me. Blaine – and then Kurt – were the only people who have never done that."

Rachel's stomach lurches unpleasantly.

"I can hear you thinking from here, Rachel," continues Quinn. "I told you; it's fine. I know you were struggling with a lot of things."

"I've had worse," says Rachel bluntly. "And I managed."

"Daily slushies are nothing compared to a dance instructor that took lessons in bitchery from Sue Sylvester – according to Kurt and Blaine – a part-time job as a singing waitress, and a pregnancy scare."

Rachel sits bolt upright. "Quinn, how did you – she promised she wouldn't tell anyone."

Quinn sighs. Rachel hears fumbling in the dark. "I'm going to turn the lights on," warns Quinn, and does. Rachel blinks against the brightness, watching Quinn make her way over to the bed. "I didn't think we'll be going to sleep anytime soon," she says with a wry smile.

Rachel can appreciate the attempt at lightening the mood. But her stomach is churning unpleasantly. "Quinn, I'm sorry I never told you. Santana only found out by accident because she was snooping through my and Kurt's things. I never intended to tell anyone."

"Rachel."

Her mouth snaps shut.

"I'm not angry with you for keeping it a secret. What you do with your body is your own business."

"Yes, but – I really didn't want you to know about it." Rachel dips her head, starts picking at her shirt hem. "I was afraid to show you what a coward I was."

"Rachel, you're not a coward."

"I was going to abort it!"

Quinn looks taken aback.

"I was going to abort it," repeats Rachel, calmer now. "Not because I wasn't ready to be a mother, but because I didn't want anything getting in the way of my career." She laughs bitterly. "But then I found out it was a false alarm, and the first thing I felt was relief. Relief that the problem had been taken care of for me."

"That doesn't make you a bad person."

"Quinn, what kind of woman would kill her own child for the sake of her career?"

Quinn blows out her bangs noisily. "Rachel. Firstly, it was just a false positive on a drugstore pregnancy test, not an actual fetus. Secondly, at the time you were just a college student without the time or resources to care for a child. Thirdly, I know you know all this already and yet we are having this conversation at – " she glances at the digital clock on the nightstand "– 3am when we could be sleeping."

Rachel laughs; she can't help it. "I'm sorry."

"We can talk more tomorrow. Go to sleep now," commands Quinn. She gets off the bed to turn off the lights. Rachel nods and gets comfortable. She squeaks when the covers on the left rustle.

"God, Berry! It's me!"

"Quinn? This is my bed. Can you make it back to yours? Is it too dark?"

There's a pause, then Quinn says: "I thought you'd want some company tonight."

"I do," Rachel replies shyly, hoping her blush isn't visible in the gloom. "I didn't want to inconvenience you."

"We're supposed to be friends now, aren't we? How would sharing a bed with you be an inconvenience? Besides, your bed's more comfy."

Rachel turns on her side to face Quinn. She extends a hand until she finds what she's reasonably sure is Quinn's shoulder, and squeezes it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now sleep."

In hindsight, and when she's less emotional, Rachel thinks sharing a bed was a mistake. For one, she's only done that with her partners, never friends (Rachel's never had sleepovers).

Mostly, it's because her partners have complained she's a clingy sleeper. And that means she wakes up wrapped around Quinn. Rachel's mortified, but Quinn doesn't seem to think much of it.

"It's fine," is all she will say, as Quinn bustles around the kitchen making breakfast.

"When I found out I was pregnant, I wished it would just go away too."

Rachel doesn't say anything but her fingers tighten around her mug.

"I tried to make bargains with God; I'd read the Bible daily, I'd study Scripture, I'd be a better Christian, if he'd make it go away." Quinn shakes her head. "Obviously, it didn't work."

"Quinn…"

"It was a really difficult time for me then. I was so angry at everything and everyone. I kept thinking – what had I done that I had to be punished like this? Why me?" Quinn closes her eyes, shoulders rigid.

Rachel quickly goes over to her, wrapping her arms around her friend.

The next time Rachel visits the Anderson-Hummel household, Kurt is practically bursting at the seams of his tailored Armani blazer with excitement as he greets her. "Apparently," he says, thrusting a gossip rag under her nose so hard she narrowly avoids a papercut, "Rachel Berry's got a new paramour."

"What?" Rachel peers at the photograph accompanying the article and snorts. It's a rather flattering photograph of Quinn caught mid-laugh, head turned away from the camera towards – "That's you," explains Kurt, pointing at the indistinct figure Quinn is looking at. "And that's supposed to be our building. How scandalous."

"So? It's one of the hazards of being a celebrity, Kurt; we're constantly hounded by paparazzi who photograph us and publish the photos completely out of context, writing libellous articles to accompany them." Rachel shoves the magazine away. "Besides, we all know the only love affair I've got going on here is between me and my god-daughter. Speaking of Livy, where is she?"

"Blaine's reading her a story; it's daddy-daughter bonding time." He carefully cuts out the magazine article and puts it in a scrapbook full of clippings, under Rachel's disapproving gaze.

"What are you doing?"

"Souvenirs."

"You're insane."

Kurt waves her off.

Rachel decides to change the subject. "Daddy-daughter bonding time? So you're Dad, I'm assuming."

Kurt laughs. "She's still a little young for that, but yes, Blaine and I have established our roles. Between you and me, he's going to be the one that spoils her rotten," he says in a stage whisper.

"I heard that," exclaims Blaine, emerging from Livy's bedroom. "Hi, Rachel. Livy's just gone down for a nap."

"I gathered. Don't worry, I've got plenty of time." She kisses Blaine's cheek. "Kurt was just sharing the latest scandalous celebrity gossip."

"Ah, Rachel Berry and her newest squeeze."

"Blaine! You too?" says Rachel, going pink.

"Quinn looks stunning, even in this pap photo," comments Blaine, examining the clipping Kurt has just passed him. "That woman has no bad angles."

"Thanks to her, we only made page 5." The men bend over the magazine, scrutinising the article about Livy's first public appearance attending Blaine's film's premiere at Sundance.

"I can't believe this!" Rachel's fuming now. "Those bloodsucking muckrakers will concoct the most absurd stories for attention. Quinn enjoys her privacy, and now she's going to be hounded."

Blaine and Kurt exchange looks, and then Blaine stands up. "I've got to run out for a few groceries for dinner," he says, pecking Kurt's cheek. "See you in a bit."

Once the door closes behind him, Kurt turns to Rachel. "So," he says.

"So what?"

He rolls his eyes. "You and Quinn."

"Quinn and I what?"

"Don't play dumb, Rachel Berry; it's not a good look on you."

"There isn't a Quinn and I, Kurt."

He folds his arms across his chest. "Oh, really."

"We're best friends," huffs Rachel. "Quinn was generous enough to give me another chance after we lost touch."

"Rachel, why do you think Quinn moved here?"

"To be closer to Livy, of course."

"Not just that," says Kurt patiently. "Quinn likes you."

Rachel's mouth hangs open. She's never heard anything so completely offensive.

"And you like her."

"I certainly don't – not that I'm not open to love in different forms – but Quinn doesn't – she doesn't see me in that way. And I'm not looking for anything either, not after Jesse."

Kurt looks at her penetratingly. "Okay," he says at last. "Rachel – just be careful, okay?"

"How can I be careful when there's nothing there to be careful about?"

"Just keep what I said in mind."

She does keep his words in mind. In face, she spends a ridiculous amount of time thinking about it. It's like the polar bear trick; try not to think about a polar bear, and it's the only thing you can think about.

Except Quinn Fabray is an infinitely more compelling subject than a polar bear.

It's the little things that get to her first; how she sees something cute, and Quinn's the first person she tells. The times that her cast and crew comment on how she's smiling stupidly at her phone, because Quinn's texted her some droll comment which she finds ridiculously funny. When the highlight of her week is seeing Quinn for dinner, and she can't remember what she ate, because she was too deeply immersed in some discussion she had with Quinn.

Rachel used to obsessively document the stages of her developing attraction in high school, eagerly awaiting the signs that pointed towards having the great romance she'd seen in her movies and musicals.

This – stumbling into something far greater than she'd imagined – is new and scary and completely unlike the giddy whirlwind romances she thought she'd been a sucker for.

Well, shit.

Rachel knows she's running out of time when they are photographed coming out of a restaurant. Normally, this wouldn't be such a hot topic but Frozen has just opened on Broadway to rave reviews, and people are starting to sit up and take notice of Rachel Berry – and the woman she is frequently seen with.

The gossip blogs run rampant with wild speculation (her favourite is the one that she is writing a blistering tell-all on her failed marriage, which Quinn's company will publish) but they have done their homework. Old photos of her and Quinn at Glee performances are pulled out, as are candids of her and people she used to date from her NYADA days.

Quite a few of the blogs are twittering about rekindling high school friendships (and something deeper, claim a few of the more outrageous ones). There are even Photoshopped images of them posted on Tumblr; Blaine forwards her a few and Rachel can't help but to be impressed by the skill involved.

She tests the waters by sending Quinn a manipulated image of themselves singing onstage, looking into each other's eyes, with the caption: Future collaboration? Quinn's response is a frowning cat photo Rachel has seen online quite frequently, followed by I'm occasionally sharp, so I don't think it would work.

Ouch, Rachel texts back. Still sore?

Don't be ridiculous.

You should sing more often. Prove to me that your voice is still as mellifluous as I remember.

I know what you're trying to do. Kurt told me that a karaoke bar opened a few blocks from your place.

Rachel pouts, halfway typing her snarky response when her agent, Hugh, calls her to tell her to make an official statement that she and Quinn are just old friends catching up. Rachel tells him she'll get back to him, and she can practically hear him wringing his hands over the phone, plummy British accent filtering over the line.

"This show is going to be big, Rachel. You're moving on up in the world. First Broadway, and then back to television. Catch the producers' eyes, get a script or two, do movies even. You can't honestly want to toss that all away."

"I know, and I'm not. I promise I know what I'm doing, Hugh."

"No, you don't. You wouldn't have hired me otherwise. It's my job to be that uptight Jewish mother that never lets you do anything fun so you'd be wealthy and retired by 35."

"Yes, now I remember why I hired you," says Rachel, deadpan.

"Rachel." He turns serious now. "I'm going to be your agent right now. This is serious. While attitudes have changed, there are going to be some doors that will close the minute this becomes public – we go public. Do you understand me, love?"

"Completely."

"Oh, for God's sake, don't give me that tone. I'm not telling you to hide in the closet, alright? That would be pot and kettle. We can always work around that – this isn't 1977 anymore, thank God – but you have to give me something to work with. Nothing makes an agent's life hell like a client bollocking up."

"Hugh. You have nothing to worry about."

"Sorry to disturb you at such short notice," says Rachel. Quinn shrugs.

"You know it's fine. Wednesdays are my couch potato nights." She's wearing jeans and a cut-off band T-shirt that reminds Rachel of the first half of their senior year. "Is anything wrong?"

In answer, Rachel Googles herself on her phone and passes it to Quinn. The blonde takes the time to scroll through the first page that pops up and snorts derisively. "That's just what tabloids do, Rachel," she says, passing the phone back. "They make up stories and gossip. Don't take them seriously."

Rachel's eye falls on the headline of the page Quinn was looking at. Rekindling An Old Flame? screams the type, over a candid photo of them smiling at each other. She knows she should shrug it off like she did years of Slushies and bullying. But instead of agreeing with Quinn, she says: "I want to."

Quinn opens her mouth to say something but then it sinks in. She blinks rapidly. "What?"

"I want to," repeats Rachel, "take it seriously, I mean. Us." She hasn't felt this terrified since she stood on an empty stage to sing for Carmen Tibideaux. It's not a great feeling. Rachel takes a second to calm herself.

"I like you, Quinn." She enunciates each consonant with care. "Admittedly, it's been a while since I've been feeling this way, but I've never actually given it serious thought or exploration – after all, you're Quinn Fabray and I'm just Rachel. But here we are again after the most incredible circumstances, and we became friends again – I don't know, but it just feels like I've been given a another chance to make things right after I messed up the first few times."

"Rachel…"

"I've always been attracted to you, Quinn. You're pretty – in fact, you're still the prettiest girl I've ever met – but what I've always admired about you is that you're so much more than that. You're brilliant, and funny, and determined, and talented. I know that talking like I've swallowed a SATS prep book is my thing, but I'm honestly stumbling over myself here trying to summarise you in just words."

Quinn arches an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, simply nods.

Rachel starts to wind down, encouraged by Quinn's reaction (meaning she hasn't run away screaming). "I'm not expecting you to confess your own long-buried feelings for me, or anything as cliché as that, though I can't say I don't enjoy the drama of that," she says wryly. "I just… wanted to get it out there."

"Oh. Okay." Quinn is expressionless, but Rachel's known her long enough to tell when Quinn is simply uninterested and when she's struggling to mask her emotions. "Rachel, I know."

"I – what?"

"I know that you have feelings for me," says Quinn, sounding exhausted, "because I had feelings for you."

"… oh."

Quinn sits on her couch, pats the seat beside her. "I've liked you for the longest time, Rachel, but you never – it was too painful, having those unrequited feelings."

Rachel's biting so hard on her lower lip, she's surprised she's not bleeding.

"It took me years to get over you and move on with my life, and longer still to be able to rekindle our friendship. And now, you – " Quinn catches herself, shaking her head, and continues: " – you have the shittiest timing, Rachel Berry."

"I know," whispers Rachel. "I'm sorry."

Quinn nods jerkily. "Could you please leave? I need to be alone for a while."

"I understand."

As she walks away, Rachel makes a mental note to call Hugh and tell him she'll make the PR statement like he asked in the first place. At least she knows that it's the complete truth.

They stop calling each other, stop exchanging emails and texts. The gossip blogs die down. Hugh is visibly relieved by the salvaging of Rachel's career, though he does ask her if she's alright. Rachel tells him she's fine.

It seems like everyone is happy except for Rachel herself.

She's at Kurt and Blaine's playing with Livy when Kurt set down his mug and clears his throat.

"So," he says, "I spoke with Quinn the other day."

It takes everything Rachel has (and then some) not to drop the baby and whirl on him in slack-mouthed horror as her younger self would have. She's older, more mature, and with finely-honed acting skills, thank you very much. She gets up from the couch, hands Livy to a concerned-looking Blaine, and faces Kurt.

"Oh?" It's barely a question – more a syllable – but she has her hands on her hips, chin jerked up, daring Kurt to continue.

"She's been having a rough time recently."

Rachel is torn between indignant self-pity ("And me? I'm not exactly peachy keen either") and worry for her friend. "How is she now?" she asks, and it comes out a lot softer than she had intended.

Kurt arches an eyebrow – probably in reaction to her lack of a predictable reaction – but he tells her: "Better, I guess. We'll be meeting for coffee on Thursday."

"Okay," says Rachel meekly. "Blaine?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for being there for her all this while."

"It's not a problem."

When Rachel steps out the back entrance after her show, she certainly wasn't expecting to see Santana Lopez standing in the middle of the throng. "Berry," she says, "it's been a while. Now buy me coffee, I'm freezing my perfect ass off standing here for the past hour."

"Santana? What are you doing here?"

"Britt's on tour with Beyoncé and I tagged along. I saw this annoyingly familiar face on the billboards in Times Square and thought I'd say hi."

"Oh, you didn't watch the show?"

Santana rolls her eyes as she gives Rachel a hug. "No, I danced naked in Times Square while waiting. Of course I watched the show, midget. No sane person is gonna wait outside when they could be seated somewhere warm. You were tolerable, by the way."

"Thank you," she whispers into Santana's hair.

"You're welcome. Now, food. There are some things I need to talk to you about."

Santana doesn't waste time; the moment the waiter has walked away with their orders, she digs into her clutch and pulls out a rolled-up magazine. Rachel cringes, recognising the title she gave the interview to.

" 'Quinn and I have known each other since high school when we were members of the same Glee club'," reads Santana, arching an eyebrow, " 'and lost touch during college, but reconnected when she moved here for work. I consider her one of my oldest friends.'" She puts the magazine down. "What the fuck, Berry? I thought you two would've been mashing cats by now."

"Don't be crass, Santana," says Rachel weakly. She knows it's pointless; it's like asking Brittany not to dance or herself not to sing. Then she processes the rest of Santana's words. "Wait – you think Quinn and I are together?"

"Duh. All that high school smouldering glances and drama between the HBIC and the loser slushie queen. For once, the tabloids got it right." Santana rolls her eyes and cackles at Rachel's disgusted expression. "I'm kidding, Rachel. I've sort of been following you two through the gossip magazines since that Glee party for Schue. It's like high school all over again with the Jewfro experience."

"Santana!"

"Okay, okay." She makes a pleased sound when their drinks arrive, and promptly wraps her hands around her double espresso. Rachel, in contrast, stares disinterestedly down at her drink. "So you two are just friends? Because the vibe between you two was… not so friendly." Santana waves a hand vaguely. "My Mexican psychic third eye never lies."

Rachel laughs. "Yes we are. The best of friends. I gave an exclusive interview about the close friendship Quinn and I share, didn't you read it?"

"I did, but I knew Rachel Berry through her high school and college years, and for a bit after – longest years of my life." Santana pauses to take a long, luxurious sip of coffee; when she sets the cup down, the mischievous glint in her eyes is gone. "That was a bunch of bull Rachel Berry, Broadway's Hottest Shit, would say, but I'm talking to you right now."

"I – "

"Don't even think of trying to lie to me, bitch. You and I have history and you know what I am capable of."

Rachel smiles weakly at what passes for concern from Santana. "Fine. It's a statement my agent had me make to dispel rumours that Quinn and I are dating. Or more specifically, a statement I asked my agent to write for me."

"And…?"

"It's true. Quinn and I aren't dating." Rachel supposes there is something in the unhappy way she says it, or in her body language, because Santana is looking at her in this terribly soft way that is so uncharacteristic of her. "Don't, please," adds Rachel.

Santana sighs. "You know Quinn's liked you forever, right?"

"Yes, I was only just made aware that I have been incredibly blind and dumb for years, to the point that she's moved on rather than suffer in silence." Rachel glances up. "That's why she's been avoiding me whenever we went back to McKinley, hasn't she?"

Santana's silence is all the confirmation she needs.

"I figured," she says with a long sigh.

"You sure know how to pick them; don't you, Rachel?"

"I'm also well aware of that, thank you very much for the reminder."

The other woman snorts with laughter. She drains the rest of the coffee and checks her watch. "You want Auntie Snix's advice?"

"Not particularly, but I have a feeling you're going to offer it anyway."

"Damn straight. You need to talk to her."

"I already have, Santana, and that particular friendship has been ruined."

"This is Fabray we're talking about; she just needs time to think because her thought processes are slowed by that gigantic stick up her – "

"Santana!"

She bursts into raucous laughter at the sight of Rachel's red face. "Seriously, Rach," she says, "when you've known Quinn for as long as I have, you pick up stuff. She totally lied when she told you that she doesn't feel anything for you anymore."

"How do you know that for sure?"

"I don't know for sure," says Santana simply. "But Britt does. She always does. Anyway, that's my cue. Try not to run away."

Just as Rachel is going to ask her what she means, a movement out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. She knows that person.

Quinn Fabray walks through the door, eyes scanning the room, and spots them. She stops short. Santana moves to drag Quinn over and seat her in the recently-vacated chair. With a quick "Later, bitches," she is gone.

Rachel finds her voice first. "I – would you like something to drink?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Quinn doesn't sound angry or upset, just nervous. Rachel takes it as a good sign that she doesn't hate her. "Santana set us up."

"Typical. She always did have a penchant for confrontation." The shy, hesitant smile she gets simultaneously fills her with hope that their friendship can still be salvaged, and heartbreak that everything they've gone through to reach this point has been destroyed. Rachel takes a steadying breath as she searches for the courage to speak.

"Quinn – "

"I – "

They stop, bewildered, and then laugh awkwardly. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

"You were speaking first," says Quinn.

"I talk too much anyway," insists Rachel, and her heart leaps when she sees Quinn's lips twitch into a smile. "I've missed hearing you talk."

"I was about to suggest we talk outside." Quinn looks around the café; even at this hour, the place is half-filled with people. "In some privacy."

"Of course." Rachel leaves some money on the table and follows Quinn outside to the street corner, a little way from the noise and bright lights. Quinn stops suddenly and turns on her heel. "I'm sorry."

Rachel's eyes widen. "Quinn, you have nothing to be sorry for. I was the one to spring that unwanted revelation on you, and damaged our friendship irreparably – and it's not even the first time I've thrown your efforts away. I'm sorry, and I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me yet again." She pauses when Quinn opens her mouth.

"Rachel, that's – no, you didn't ruin anything." She looks away, and then back at Rachel. "I don't hate you, if that's what you're trying to ask." Her gaze softens. "I could never hate you."

Rachel gives a watery chuckle. "You know me too well."

They share smiles and fleeting eye contact.

"… Why?"

Rachel blinks. "Why what?"

"Why me." Quinn is determinedly not looking anywhere in Rachel's direction. "I... need to understand, Rachel, because I don't – what do you see in me? Why now?"

The crippling insecurity in Quinn's voice makes Rachel want to give her a hug. She opens her mouth, and then shuts it again – for some inexplicable reason, Quinn Fabray always leaves her speechless. Rachel takes the time to think. "Quinn, I'm sorry I've been completely blind to your feelings all this while, and for treating your friendship like it wasn't important to me. I've done a lot of growing up in college and afterwards, and I've learned that some of the things I've spent years looking for have been right there by my side, all along."

Quinn gives the faintest of nods. Go on.

"I know we have a long and complicated history, but you've never not noticed me." Rachel pinks. "This sounded a lot better in my head. What I'm trying to say is… I've never felt like I was just someone with you. I'm really – I'm just a short annoying girl with a big voice, but you made me feel like I was as special as I kept telling everyone around me, that my dreams weren't just that. Even when you slushied me, or called me horrible names, or all of those stupid things we did in high school. It just made me want to be better."

She avoids eye contact and focuses on Quinn's slim fingers, unnaturally still at her side.

"You've always been beautiful, Quinn, but I didn't realise just how much until you came

back into my life. You'd become so accomplished and funny and strong, and it was like meeting someone new, but it also brought back all those memories from high school – all those ups and downs. Junior Prom. That day you told us you'd been accepted to Yale. When I wanted your nose on my face."

Quinn makes a tiny strangled sound that could have been a laugh.

"I think the question is why wouldn't I have fallen for you." They are still in public, but their surroundings have long faded into a distant blur for Rachel; there is only herself and Quinn, and the sound of her own pounding heart.

"Rachel…"

"So are we still friends?" Rachel smiles at her, finally gathering the nerve to look directly at Quinn. "I promise I'll get over my crush in time. I like to think I've matured a lot with regards to managing my feelings since college." She laughs a little.

But Quinn isn't laughing. She's staring at Rachel like she's seeing her for the first time. And this open scrutiny makes Rachel uncomfortable like the scrutiny of an audience never did.

"Quinn…?" The continued silence snaps Rachel's nerve like thread. "No, never mind. You don't have to say anything. I'm sorry, I – "

"No, wait." Quinn's hand shoots out, catching her fingers; Rachel has no choice but to comply.

"I told myself I'd moved on," says Quinn. "I told myself it was an infatuation because we came from the same hick town in the Midwest, and that I'd change after meeting new people and having new experiences."

Rachel closes her eyes, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"But you'd changed so much and yet managed to stay the same." Quinn gives a shaky laugh. "I thought that I could survive us being friends, but you had to be so damned perfect and still that annoying and driven and anal-retentive Rachel Berry. I was so confident that we were going to be okay, until I woke up one morning and realised I hadn't had a date in nearly a year, not since I moved to New York."

"... Quinn?"

"I can't – return your feelings. Not right now."

The pit of her stomach falls away. "I understand," says Rachel around the lump in her throat.

"I need time."

"Anything you need," whispers Rachel. It's not an outright rejection, but she still takes it hard. Rachel's heart, already pounding, skips a beat when Quinn squeezes her hand. All thought disappears from her mind. All she can think to say is: "I'm going to hug you now."

This time, it isn't with the bone-crushing vigour that necessitates her warnings. She simply opens her arms and enfolds Quinn in them, who clings back. Rachel presses a kiss to Quinn's forehead as they part. "Whatever you decide," she says, "I'll respect it."

Quinn gives a small nod and smile.

"So."

Rachel, who has practically floated all the way home, comes crashing down to earth when she hears that smug voice. She takes her time locking the front door before wheeling around and placing her hands on her hips, glaring at a smirking Santana. "So what?"

"How'd it go? Oh, no, wait, don't tell me; since you're not at Q's place making her scream your name – "

"Santana Lopez!"

" – but you look like you're about to vibrate out of that horrible sweater, I'm guessing it went well. No need to thank me. Just tell Auntie 'Tana she did a good job pulling your heads out of your asses."

"I won't give you that perverse pleasure."

"So you did pull your heads out of your asses." Santana pulls out her phone and starts texting. "About time."

"Out!" screeches Rachel, grabbing Santana's hand and attempting to drag her off the sofa, but she digs in her heels and easily thwarts the smaller woman's efforts. After a lot of yanking, Rachel finally gives up and collapses on the sofa beside her. "I hate you," she mutters.

"No, you don't. It's cute to think you could even try."

Much later that night, Rachel pulls her phone out of her pocket and does a double-take upon seeing the sheer number of messages and missed calls. Frantic scrolling shows they aren't from her cast or crew, meaning…

Dear God. Santana.

She gets into bed and begins sorting through the lot.

Blaine: Patience

Kurt: The rainbow percentage of Glee just became a statistical improbability, but you and Quinn look good together. No complaints here

Kurt: That was a joke btw. Happy for you both :)

Brittany: So hppy 4 u guys no wont be so sad anymre

Rachel rolls her eyes. Her friends are the goofiest bunch of idiots and she wouldn't have them any other way. She decides she'll look through the rest tomorrow –

– and then she sees the most recent one is from Quinn.

Quinn: Good night, Rachel

Much like with the emails, Rachel types and deletes text for a good five minutes before she finally sends her reply.

Rachel: Sweet dreams, Quinn

Although she misses Quinn every second of the day, Rachel doesn't contact her at all for the next few days, throwing herself into her work. Her director, Brian, is pleased with the newfound longing to get to know her sister that Rachel's injected into her Elsa's portrayal.

Kurt is a little less impressed.

"I'm pretty sure Disney wasn't intending that foray into incestual lesbian porn, Rachel," he says dryly. Rachel snorts.

"That was a sentence I never thought I'd hear in my life."

They're quiet, occupied with their drinks, and then Kurt asks: "How are you coping?"

Rachel takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "I suppose I'm doing fine," she says. "For someone who's fond of epic romances and grand gestures, my unrequited pining seems quite apropos."

He reaches for her hand wordlessly.

"I tried not to feel this way about her," says Rachel numbly. "I suppose I am just a fool for people who lavish attention on me. If I had a therapist I could tell him about the insecurities I battled through my teenage years that might have resulted in this complex. I just cling on to people once I've established that they don't hate me." She rests her head against Kurt's shoulder. "How did you know Quinn likes me?"

"I didn't, actually; Blaine's the one who knows her best." He reaches for his phone, scrolling through his photos with a thumb until he finds what he's looking for.

Rachel stares blearily at the screen. She vaguely recognises the group photo from one of the times they all went out together; they all have their arms around each other but none of them is looking at the camera. "Blaine said this," he taps the photo, "was the first time he saw Quinn really smile."

Rachel looks at the soft expression on Quinn's face. She feels her stomach grow warm, because the Quinn in the photo is looking at her.

Rachel's grown used to her cosy nights in with a book and a glass of wine. Her phone chimes, and she reaches for it, eyes still glued to the page; she sent Kurt a text about fifteen minutes ago asking him about his and Blaine's plans for Livy's first birthday party, and it's about time he got round to replying.

The text she's received is decidedly not from Kurt. It's from Quinn, and Rachel nearly drops her phone and drink.

I miss you. Are you free this Friday night?

I miss you too, so much. Yes, of course. What did you have in mind?

I read that this chef from Chicago who does an excellent eggplant parmesan just opened a branch of his restaurant in New York, and I was wondering if you'd be interested in going with me

Say no more.

Rachel practically inhales her eggplant parmesan. "I've missed this so much," she sighs.

"I know." Quinn finishes up the last of her field mushroom tagliatelle. "I should go back to Chicago one of these days on a whirlwind food tour, see if I can convince anyone else that New York is a better place to open shop."

"Any other dishes as good as this?"

Quinn smirks. "What do you think?"

"...please say you'll take me with you."

"I can't imagine anyone else," says Quinn softly.

Rachel blushes, and attempts to cover it up with her wineglass.

The chapter of her life that will never be included in her official biography begins with uncharacteristic nervousness. Rachel finds herself analysing every interaction she has with Quinn (and it takes an incredible amount of self-control not to react). It's a masochistic endeavour, given she now sees what has been plain for everyone else to see, and it's a fresh stab of guilt every time she sees photos of Quinn and herself.

Kurt catches her. Wordlessly, he deletes the entire folder from her laptop over her half-hearted protests.

Rachel recalls belatedly (after a night out at her local karaoke bar with Quinn) that Quinn just said she needed time. She hadn't clarified whether she returned (or still returned) Rachel's romantic feelings.

The uncertainty would have killed her once upon a time. Now, she thanks her lucky stars (she always knew her choice of metaphor would be significant one say) that she even has Quinn in her life.

Their third attempt at friendship comes to an end when she sneaks out the cast entrance to find Quinn waiting for her, a single rose in her hand.

"I have no idea how to go about doing this," admits Quinn with an embarrassed little smile. Rachel has never seen anything so adorable.

"What are you talking about? You dated that Gabby girl, didn't you?"

"Honestly that was much less romancing and much more kinky sex on every available surface."

"Quinn Fabray!"

"I'm joking. But she and I were only dating casually." Quinn glances at the rose, flushing a little. "I didn't do this kind of thing."

Rachel kisses her cheek and takes the rose from her. "I, for one, am very glad you did. Thank you. Now, let's have dinner. I'm famished. What do you feel like having?"

"I've already picked out a place." Quinn lets Rachel take her hand as the other reaches into the pocket of her jacket and retrieves her phone. "There's this new vegan Thai restaurant that's opened on the corner of Park and 46th that's supposed to be really good."

"Sounds nice."

"That's good. I've already made reservations for two – apparently necessary, even at this time of night. I'd take that as a good sign."

Rachel laces their fingers together, pressing into Quinn's side a little. She can always blame the chilly winter night if the other woman protests. "For a woman who says she has no idea how to date another woman, you're doing marvellously."

Quinn laughs. "Positive reviews already. I'm flattered."

"I'd make the worst critic when it comes to you." It's so easy for Rachel to fall back into the banter of their friendship (which they do with gusto), but she's reminded it is so much more when later that night, Quinn adds a shy kiss on the forehead to their usual parting routine. Not to be left out, Rachel returns a kiss to Quinn's cheek. It lands on the corner of her mouth (entirely by accident) and they both blush.

Between Rachel's packed show schedule and Quinn's more regular hours, most of their time spent together is for eating meals and recovering from a long workday.

Rachel practically crawls through the door mumbling something about insane directors and overbearing producers who have no concept of theatricality. Quinn, having been thoroughly schooled on the behind-the-scenes part of shows, nods at all the right parts, and seats Rachel on the couch with a queue of musicals on the TV.

"Feeling better now?" asks Quinn much later.

Rachel makes a sound. "Much," she murmurs, face still pressed into the crook of Quinn's neck. Halfway through The Music Man, she'd decided that Quinn's neck was more deserving of her attention than poor Harold Hill.

"You're not even watching the show," says Quinn, sounding amused.

"I can still hear the music. Besides, this is far more soothing to my jangled nerves."

"Then you wouldn't mind if I switched to something else."

"I would mind very much, Quinn Fabray."

"I've been wanting to catch up with the latest season of American Horror Story."

Rachel can't hide the shudder that courses through her body at the mental images the title conjures up; she relishes the reflexive tightening of Quinn's arms around her that follows. "Don't come crying to me when you have nightmares."

"I won't."

One of the first things Rachel learns about this Quinn was that the old Quinn who liked to keep everything to herself wasn't entirely gone, as was the Quinn who tended to flee from things that made her uncomfortable.

(She's gotten a whole lot better, but it's still there; Rachel knows she's working on it.)

"I was supposed to get over you, but I never did," whispers Quinn into the dark. "It wasn't like I never tried, but nothing worked."

Rachel's breathing is deep and even, and she's never been more grateful for her acting skills.

"You grew on me like one of those wildflowers you see in the strangest places, that you didn't know were there, until they bloom, and they're so beautiful you don't know how you could have lived your entire life without them."

It's a bit ridiculous that Quinn edits other people's writing for a living, when clearly she should be doing the writing.

"I lied about not being able to return your feelings." A pause. "But I do need time. I'm sorry I'm not brave enough to tell you these things when you're awake, Rachel, but I'm trying. I really am."

The faint creak from near the doorway, and the clicking of the door being shut. Rachel presses her knuckles to her mouth to stay silent.

"I know you've tried my cooking before, but… I haven't really had a chance to cook for you," says Rachel.

"But this is something else entirely, Rachel."

Rachel blushes. It had been a good idea in her head earlier; she'd come home early because her leading man had sprained his ankle, and she was supposed to meet Quinn for dinner later that evening. Instead of sitting around the house until Quinn arrived, she'd gotten busy.

She suddenly became aware of Quinn's eyes on her; Rachel's blush deepens. Clearing her throat for lack of something to do, she walks over to the dining table and starts to explain: "I saw this recipe for grilled salmon that sounded quite nice, and you did mention the other time that it was your favourite dish. I can't have that obviously, so I modified the recipe a bit and made grilled tofu steaks for myself. The blog recommended the mango chutney, and I made a quinoa salad to go with the – "

"Rachel," says Quinn patiently, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She lets Quinn pull her closer, her hands resting on Quinn's elbows. "Though it's only dinner."

"It's not just dinner, Rach," insists Quinn. "No one's ever cooked like this for me before." She kisses the tip of Rachel's nose, her favourite spot for when Rachel is being insecure. "I really appreciate it."

Rachel smiles. Both she and Quinn are fond of metaphors and symbols, and the meaning behind Quinn's little habit isn't lost on her.

"I didn't know you'd learned to cook," says Quinn as they sit at the table. "I remember your numerous disasters in the few Home Ec classes we shared."

"Not exactly. I haven't had the time," says Rachel sheepishly. "I couldn't taste-test yours but I followed the recipe to the letter so it should be fine, right?" As soon as the words come out of her mouth, she wants to crawl into a hole in the ground and disappear forever.

Quinn's expression momentarily freezes, but she gamely puts a forkful of salmon in her mouth and chews. Surprise blossoms over her face. "It's really good."

Rachel perks up. "Really?"

"Really."

Rachel was supposed to be getting Quinn and herself another bottle of wine. She'd gotten distracted – music tended to have that effect on her – by the smooth jazz coming from her neighbour's living room, which was perfectly justifiable given that she was used to hearing rap. She pauses in the threshold. Quinn was still sitting in the high-backed armchair where she had left her, legs crossed Indian-style, glasses perched on the end of her nose. The blonde looked up as though sensing Rachel's eyes on her, expression easing into a smile.

"Hey," says Quinn. "You're too far away."

Rachel rolls her eyes. She strides across the room and plants herself in Quinn's lap. "Better now?" she asks.

Quinn's arms wrap around Rachel's waist, holding her close. "Much," says Quinn from somewhere behind Rachel's left ear, shifting so she can rest her chin on Rachel's shoulder. Rachel turns her face a little and kisses Quinn's temple.

"You make an excellent armchair."

The huff of Quinn's breath tickles the hair beside Rachel's ear. "Glad to know why you keep me around."

Rachel laughs. "It's certainly not for your hand-eye coordination."

"One time. That was one time."

"Quinn, I would be hard-pressed to find someone who can knock their glasses off a balcony while trying to catch them."

"I don't remind you of your embarrassing moments, do I?" Quinn squints at her. "Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"I thought you went to get wine?"

Rachel slips from Quinn's lap and slinks back into the kitchen, red-faced, to the sound of Quinn's laughter.

Maybe it's just her that's jinxed. More than a year ago, she'd planned an outing in Central Park that became a fiasco despite her attention to detail. Quinn decides on a spontaneous picnic in October and the weather cooperates. She shares this with Quinn, who just laughs and hands her a plastic flute of non-alcoholic champagne (Rachel rolls her eyes but refuses the other drinks Quinn offers her).

"No, I swear, the weather hates me," grumbles Rachel. "There was this camping trip my dads took me on when I was seven because they wanted me to develop an interest in the outdoors."

Rachel can see Quinn trying to hide a smirk. "Oh? How did that go?" she asks, far too casually for Rachel's liking.

"Do you even know me? It was absolutely deplorable. There were bugs everywhere, the tent wouldn't stay up, and it rained in the middle of the night and my sleeping bag sprang a leak." Rachel pauses to shudder at the horror. "I would ask but I think you're a regular outdoorswoman, Dr. Quinn."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "I can't believe you just made a reference to a 90's television show."

"And I can't believe you got it," rejoins Rachel.

"To answer your question though, Sue Sylvester should be explanation enough. The summer before sophomore year, she blindfolded and stranded us on the Ohio state border with a compass and instructions to show up on time for practice on the first day of school."

Rachel's mouth hangs open. "... I would say I'm shocked, but I'm really not."

"Frannie told me she gets her training methods from Mossad."

"Illuminating," says Rachel dryly. She turns her attention to the annoyingly beautiful weather. "Seriously, though? In spite of the weather obliging your whim, I would never have thought you possessed the sort of spontaneity which goes on picnics in October, and I wanted to get married at seventeen."

Quinn smiles. "Well... after your valiant but ultimately failed endeavour – " Rachel makes a face, " – I thought a do-over would be a good idea, especially since we've been so busy lately."

"That's true. I've almost forgotten what sitting down felt like," jokes Rachel.

"But also because today is the anniversary of when we met again." Quinn ducks her head immediately after saying that.

Rachel nearly chokes on her champagne. "I – what?" She thinks back over their tumultuous history and then the memory comes to mind. "... At Strangers' Reunion," she says.

Quinn nods. "I'd always thought it was appropriately named."

"So did I." Rachel covers her sudden nervousness with another sip of her drink. Knowing Quinn, there is a reason she brought it up – but mostly, the 'spontaneous' picnic was a ruse. She waits.

"Rachel… I've been doing a lot of thinking about us."

She finds herself leaning forward, breathless with anticipation and anxiety, eager for the next words that will make or break her. It's not a pleasant sensation when combined with the champagne she's already consumed.

Quinn kisses her.

It's over before Rachel even realises. Gradually, she becomes aware she's still hovering there, clutching the plastic flute, expression completely dumbfounded. "Quinn…?"

"I've decided," whispers Quinn.

Granted, it's simply an official confirmation of what they've been sharing, unofficially, for a while; nevertheless, those two words have never sounded sweeter. The smile on Rachel's face starts small, and then blossoms. "I'm glad," she finally replies. Her hand finds Quinn's, tangling their fingers together.

Even Quinn's abilities are no match for New York's weather, and they are forced to relocate indoors when the wind starts to pick up (Rachel turns to Quinn and says, "Not a word about my needing an anchor."). They end up in Quinn's place on her couch and under a mound of throw blankets.

Rachel's never seen the need for Netflix, and so she's fascinated with operating the system, scrolling through the menu with the glee of a seven-year-old.

Quinn sighs. "Pick one already, Berry, and settle down. Even a hummingbird couldn't keep up with the way you flip through the previews," she says, tossing a cracker at Rachel.

"Stop playing with your food. If you're not going to eat it, I will."

"These are my ridiculously-overpriced, vegan-friendly, gourmet crackers. Get your own."

Rachel leans over to playfully snag a cracker from the bowl in Quinn's lap, popping it into her mouth. Quinn chucks a grape at her in retaliation. Rachel attempts to catch it in her mouth but misses; Quinn laughs when it bounces off her nose instead.

"You're terrible," says Rachel sulkily, rubbing the end of her nose.

"It's not my fault you're not very athletically gifted."

"Yes, like you are." She scoots closer and lays her head on Quinn's lap, the latter's hands smoothing the hair from Rachel's forehead. "Miss Head Cheerio."

Quinn smiles fondly down at her. "Miss Broadway."

"You should feed me like this from now on," announces Rachel. "No way you can miss my mouth now."

"Are you sure? You have seen your nose in the mirror, haven't you?"

Rachel scowls. Quinn leans down to kiss it away. When Rachel deepens the kiss, she threads her fingers through Quinn's hair, tugging her gradually lower until they're both lying down, tangled up in each other. Half the blankets and the snacks have ended up on the floor, and Rachel couldn't care less.

"Your hair's getting long," says Rachel, twirling more of it around her fingers. "I like it."

"I was going to get it cut next week." Quinn hums as Rachel's fingers start to comb through her hair. "Want to join me?"

Rachel laughs. "Once, I wore a wig to see how I'd look with short hair because I didn't have the guts to actually cut it. You're definitely the more adventurous one of the two of us when it comes to hair." Her smile turns mischievous. "And attitude."

"You're never going to let me forget my punk phase, are you?"

"Never." Rachel lowers her voice. "To be perfectly honest, I found it ridiculously attractive at the time."

"Really?"

"Really." There's about an inch of space in between their bodies – wholly unacceptable, Rachel decides. She hooks an arm around Quinn's waist, fingers brushing the small of her back. "Did you remove Ryan in the end?"

"Yeah. Graduation present from my mom."

"That's a pity. I was thinking that it would be a great conversational topic if any of us got famous enough to meet him."

High school Quinn would have ordered a slushie barrage on her. College Quinn would have made herself scarce. This Quinn, however, seems unfazed. "Why am I included in this theoretical fame discussion? You're the one with a Tony on your shelf."

"We still have our explosive tell-all to write, Quinn. There'll be the inevitable series of talk shows and book tours to promote it. We'll be on Oprah. I think meeting Ryan Seacrest is a reasonable goal."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "I'll only do it if we split the profits fifty-fifty."

"It's my story. Seventy-thirty."

"I'm doing the actual writing."

Rachel pushes herself up on her elbows, staring down her nose at Quinn. "Sixty-forty, and I'll make it worth your while," she says, making her voice as husky as she can manage. Much to her chagrin, Quinn actually bursts out laughing.

"Rachel, did you think those cheesy Harlequin novel lines would actually work?"

"No, but it was worth a try," she says flippantly. She settles her head on Quinn's chest, humming contentedly when she feels Quinn's arms wrap around her waist.

"I can't believe we're here."

"Me too."

"I am the best lesbian whisperer ever," crows Santana.

"Oh, please," scoffs Kurt. "I am. I called you here to help in the first place."

"I pointed it out to you in the first place," says Blaine, grinning like a fool.

Even Livy has her input on the matter, babbling cheerfully to them, waving her stuffed duck for emphasis. Rachel smiles and pinches her cheek. "I agree, sweetheart. You're the one who brought us together again in the first place."

Rachel abuses her powers as the lead actress to let Quinn backstage after the show instead of making her girlfriend wait outside in the cold with the other fans.

Unfortunately, it means they get ambushed together by Rachel's fans. "Ms Berry!" squeals an over-excited young woman Rachel recognizes as Krystal, who she's spotted in the audience nearly every night this season. "Hi, Krystal," says Rachel, and smiles a little when Krystal practically swoons. Her smile fades a little when she feels Quinn tug her hand from hers.

Before she can turn to look for Quinn, Krystal boldly darts in front of her and says, "You were especially good tonight!"

"Oh?"

She's distracted by the fact that Quinn is no longer at her side, but has melted into the background. Rachel searches for her in the crowd and finds her; Quinn shakes her head minutely when Rachel catches her eye.

Rachel exhales, and puts on her best show face. "Thank you, Krystal," she says. "Would you like to take a selfie with me?"

By the time Rachel's signed a few autographs and posed for photos with a few more fans, Quinn's gone.

Rachel slips into the booth beside Quinn, who slides a drink over to her. "I got you a chamomile tea."

"Thank you." Rachel's hand ghosts over Quinn's, squeezing briefly, and then she picks up her tea in both hands.

"I'm sorry."

"No, I understand." She isn't sure how Quinn feels about public displays of affection – especially when she's in this mood – and presses into Quinn's side, feeling relieved when Quinn rests her head on her shoulder. "We got ambushed. It can be very overwhelming if you're not used to it." Rachel turns to kiss Quinn's temple. "It's fine."

Quinn shakes her head. "I made a decision. I knew what I was getting into."

"A horde of rabid fans competing with you for my attention?"

Quinn doesn't laugh, but she does smile into her hot chocolate. "I'll be dealing with that for the rest of my life, so there's no point in my getting jealous."

Rachel's heart skips a beat. It would seem Quinn's does the same, because her expression changes, and she stiffens.

"I'd like that too," admits Rachel very carefully. "Having you for the rest of my life. I know it's unrealistic, but – I really like the sound of that."

Quinn doesn't move for a while, but she eventually does return her head to Rachel's shoulder, and lets Rachel tangle their fingers together under the table.

One night while Quinn is over at Rachel's place, together but not really (Rachel has an unsolicited script in her hand she stole from Hugh's desk, Quinn is working her way through her email inbox) when Quinn shuts her laptop lid with a sigh.

Rachel immediately focuses on her, though she doesn't look up from her script. "Quinn? Is something bothering you?" she asks casually. Early on in their (restarted) friendship, she's learned that being her intense Rachel Berry self tends to scare Quinn into clamming up.

"There's a reason I never told you that I… had feelings, for you."

She pushes aside the papers in her hand, abandoning all pretense of casualness.

Quinn stops chewing on her lower lip and adds, "It wasn't because I was having trouble accepting myself, or whether the people I cared about could accept me – though that took a while too – but you always said you wanted a leading man, and you were always going to be in the spotlight, and I…" She looks down at her hands. "It was one of the things I told myself when I was getting over you."

Rachel's silent for a while. "Honestly, Quinn, I'm glad things worked out this way," she tells her. "Not the accident, or those terrible things that happened – but you and me finding each other in the end." She takes Quinn's hand. "If you had told me how you felt before, I think I would have broken your heart – wait, let me finish," laughs Rachel, seeing the look on Quinn's face. "I wasn't the most mature or responsible teenager, and I certainly wasn't throughout college. And yes, I think the Rachel Berry then would have chosen her career over love." Rachel pauses. "Wow, she's a terrible person."

"Rachel!" exclaims Quinn, nudging her girlfriend with her shoulder.

"But you agree, don't you?"

"I wasn't exactly an exemplary teenager or young adult either, Rachel."

"So we can agree that it was all worth it in the end?"

Quinn's lips curve into a smile. "Ask me again in another fifty years."

Rachel's heart leaps. "Don't think I won't. I'll keep you around just so I can make a point of asking you again."

"I'm nervous," admits Rachel.

"Nervous?"

"How do we explain this to Livy?"

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Rachel, Livy is barely two years old – no, she's turning two today. She has more important things than to think about her not-mommies being together, like presents, birthday cake, and her princess dress."

"Thank you for that insight into your toddler years."

Quinn gives a loud bark of laughter, swatting at Rachel, whose mouth falls open in exaggerated outrage. "You're one to talk. Don't forget your dads have shown me all your childhood photo albums."

"They're just out to ruin my life."

"But seriously, it won't have any impact on her, since she already has two daddies to spoil her rotten, and we aren't much better individually," says Quinn.

Rachel shakes her head. "Speak for yourself. You're the one who bought her that princess wardrobe."

"Oh, like you didn't buy her that bejewelled pink microphone and working speaker set? I don't think the boys have forgiven you for that yet, come to think of it."

Before Rachel can respond, the front door flings open and a harassed-looking Kurt takes hold of their hands, yanking them in. "Thank Versace you two are here. Help."

The apartment has been transformed into a fairytale kingdom, resplendent with pink jewels; it reminds Rachel of the parties her fathers threw her when she was younger. They stopped having them after the children went home gushing about how much fun they had with 'Rachie and her two daddies' and were banned from attending future parties at the Berry household. At least this was what Quinn told her.

In the centre of this is Livy, wearing a poofy princess dress and slightly-askew tiara, sitting on Blaine's knee. She looks up and shrieks, "Rachie! Quinnie!", scrambling off Blaine in her eagerness to greet them. "Hi, baby girl," says Rachel, sweeping her up and kissing her cheeks, accepting a slightly-sticky hug. Quinn spots the momentary grimace and smirks at her; Rachel retaliates by passing Livy to Quinn for her hug. "Hi, Blaine. You look positively regal."

"Hi Rachel." He kisses her cheek and then adjusts the drooping paper crown on his head. "Thank you. Do me a favour – Kurt refuses to wear his." Blaine hands her a matching crown. "At least long enough for us to get a photo."

"Those things are hideously garish," says Kurt in passing, carrying Rachel and Quinn's gifts across the room to add to the pile. "Like some of the bowties you used to wear in high school."

"Ouch," says Quinn, grinning. She's still carrying Livy. "Is that grounds for divorce?"

"He better hope not," says Blaine sulkily.

"Where are the other kids?" asks Rachel, heart in her throat. She knows New York is nothing like Lima, Ohio twenty years ago, but a part of her wishes she can protect Livy from the struggles of being the child of gay parents. Quinn senses her anxiety; she slips a free arm around Rachel's waist, kissing her temple. Rachel gives her a quick grateful smile.

"They're due to come at three. I asked you and Quinn to come a bit earlier to help us set up." Blaine checks his watch. "Santana and Brittany should be here soon." On cue, there is a thumping at the front door which Blaine excuses himself to answer.

Rachel turns to Quinn. "So, we're servants?"

"I believe the correct term is lady-in-waiting." Quinn kisses Livy's cheek, who giggles. "Isn't that right, Your Highness?"

They are interrupted by a loud "Holy shit" and a chorus of reproachful "Santana!"s; Livy squirms to be put down so she can go greet the new arrivals, screaming their names.

"My god, this house looks like Lord Tubbington ate a unicorn and then threw it up everywhere. Also, is there any reason why your little hellspawn is calling me 'Satan'?" says Santana, though she looks pleased by the fact. Kurt's mouth drops open.

"Olivia Grace! We do not call people Satan, no matter what they've done to earn it!"

"It'll be a good anecdote for her future biography," says Rachel brightly, speaking over Santana's indignant "Hey!". "My fathers were careful to note down endearing stories about my childhood for that express purpose."

"Oh, like the time Hiram bought you Disney princess underwear and you were so proud of them, you flashed half of Lima?"

Rachel turns pink. "I should never have brought you for dinner with my dads," she hisses at a smirking Quinn.

"You had no choice, they wanted to meet me."

"Ladies, hate to interrupt but we need you to pack the goodie bags while Blaine and I finish up the snacks in the kitchen." He steers them over to a corner of the living room and sits them down, managing to scoop Livy up as he goes. "Just put one of everything into each bag and tie them up."

Brittany squeals and picks up a bag of plastic rings. "San! Look! Aren't they pretty?"

"You've got a real one already, I don't know why you're looking at this cheap shit," says Santana dryly.

Quinn takes a plastic tiara from the goodie bags they are supposed to be packing and sets it on Rachel's hair. It's gold and shiny, and it instantly mollifies Rachel. "There. Better?"

"Much."

Beside them, Brittany has apparently forgotten about packing and is gleefully looting the bags for plastic jewelry; she has so much on, she resembles a Christmas tree. Santana is helping. Rachel giggles. Abandoning her work, she roots around until she finds a ring and slips it on Quinn's finger. "Marry me."

"Seriously, Rachel? Did you just propose to me with a fake ring?"

"I like the romance of surprise weddings," says Rachel as seriously as she can while wearing a cheap plastic tiara. "Is one not enough? Do you want another? Maybe a necklace too? Don't be shy, I've practically got a sack of jewelry. Tell me princess, now when did you last let your heart decide?" she sings dramatically, grinning at Quinn.

"Do your fans know how much of a dork you are?"

"Certainly not. Hugh is a genius when it comes to hiding my less-than-savoury aspects from the public." While Rachel is talking, she produces three rings, a pearl necklace, a sapphire pendant, and a silver bracelet in quick succession, putting them all on Quinn.

"Like me?"

Rachel freezes, bracelet hanging in midair. "Quinn, no. Never." She kisses Quinn's cheek, nose, jaw, and then lips. "I'll never not want to show off the gorgeous woman who has decided that I'm worth her time."

"Wanky," says Santana loudly, interrupting what Rachel would call a moment. "Though you two might want to take that into the bathroom since there is a child present."

They ignore her.

Of course, Rachel gets her a real ring. She'd never hear the end of it otherwise.

That doesn't stop Quinn from keeping the plastic ring in her nightstand drawer.

"The gardenia. Of course."

"Hmm?"

"Junior year prom? You helped Finn with my corsage, didn't you?"

Rachel props herself up on one elbow, blinking away sleepiness. "Oh. I guess there's no use pretending, not at this juncture. Yes, I did, if by helping you mean I told him exactly what to get."

"I knew it."

"What brought on this – belated – revelation? And at such a moment?" Rachel gestures down between their naked bodies. Quinn blushes.

"N-nothing in particular. I was just thinking and the pieces fell into place. Like – that time you told me to wear my green dress to that opening night of yours because "the colour matches your eyes"."

"It did, and it does. Your eyes are the most beautiful shade of hazel I've ever seen. And you're the prettiest – "

" – girl you've ever met; I know, Berry. If you say it that many times, I'm going to start to believe that's just a line you feed to people you want to bed." Quinn's eyes sparkle with mischief, belying her words, and she leans in to steal a soft kiss. "Don't change the subject. We were still talking about my deductive skills."

Rachel stifles a giggle at that, clearing her throat under Quinn's glare. "Yes. Sorry. Please continue."

"... as I was saying, and you agreed to produce and direct and star in that off-off-Broadway play despite being one of the hottest – figuratively and literally – highly-paid award-winning actresses on Broadway – "

" – you know the right things to say to turn me on, baby."

" – settling for a salary that was way below what you'd been getting previously," says Quinn, rolling her eyes and shoving at a grinning Rachel. "All because the play's title was A Single Gardenia and was about an illicit lesbian affair, and "the themes resonated with you" so much that you stole the script off your agent's desk."

"Oh, come on, Quinn. For someone who works with writers, you haven't a single romantic bone in your body. Didn't it set your heart aflutter when the lovers met for the first time but didn't know it yet? Didn't you weep when Emily wrote that letter but never got a chance to mail it?" Rachel pauses, arching an eyebrow (in a poor imitation of her girlfriend), and continues, "Or maybe I'm appealing to the side of you that never existed. Okay – in terms you would appreciate – didn't you rejoice when it made its Broadway debut a few months later and we more than made back our initial investment?"

Quinn gasps in mock offence, pushing at a giggling Rachel's shoulder. "You're horrible. Your sarcasm is more than a match for Santana – these days, at least. She's gotten soft since she and Brittany had Marianne."

"What can I say? I learned from the best." Rachel snuggles into Quinn, who has already forgiven her, judging from the arms that immediately wrap around her back and pull her closer. "So you figured it out. My clever girl."

"A bit late, but we got it right eventually." Quinn drops a kiss on top of Rachel's hair.

"That's our song."

"Yeah."

Rachel's silent for a long while. "So since you've figured it out, gardenias with green ribbons can be our thing, right?"

Quinn only laughs breathily.

Rachel gets nominated for a Best Actress Tony for playing Emily in A Single Gardenia, which is a surprise for everyone because it's a serious play with no singing whatsover. "What," says Rachel, laughing, "did you all doubt my acting skills?"

"Not after your dramatics in high school and college, no," says Kurt with a straight face. She scowls.

She attends the awards ceremony with Quinn as her plus one. It isn't the first time she and Quinn have attended a public event as a couple, though it is the first time she's attending with her fiancee (it makes Rachel feel warm inside), but this time there is a lot of hype surrounding A Single Gardenia and the rumours it might be adapted into a movie.

While Quinn has excused herself to use the bathroom, Rachel spots a familiar figure standing to the side.

"Jesse."

He smiles at her. "Hello, Rachel. I can't say I'm surprised to see you here. Congratulations on your nomination for A Single Gardenia, by the way; I saw the play. It's beautiful."

"Thank you. I – didn't know you watched it."

"Of course I did."

"By the way," says Rachel, "congratulations on sweeping the Tonys last year."

Jesse throws back his head in laughter. "That was a good year, though honestly The Magpie's Song would've stood a chance if they hadn't replaced Don Cunningham. That man was born to play that role. Remember that Christmas party after Jane Austen?"

"God, yes, I know. "It's flaunt it, honey, not – ""

" – not mount it."" finishes Jesse, and they laugh.

"So… how are you?"

"Busy, in a word. I've left Eternal to work on some top-secret-for-now projects." He puts his finger to his lips. "Shh."

Rachel laughs. "My lips are sealed," she promises.

The signal to be seated for the ceremony is given, and people start to drift towards the hall. "Looks like that's our cue," he says. "It was good talking to you, Rachel. You look happy."

Damn him for saying things that she has no idea how to respond to. Rachel just hugs him. "I'm sorry."

Blaine is the one to bring up the topic this time. "Livy's old enough," he says as he bounces his giggling daughter on his knee, "and we'd love to give her a sibling."

Rachel nods. "I don't mind being your surrogate again." She looks at Quinn. "Are you donating?"

"Please say yes," says Kurt. "I really don't want to risk that nose on any child of mine." He looks at Rachel and pretends to shudder.

"I don't think it's a very wise decision, insulting the woman who bore your first child and has just agreed to carry your second," grumbles Rachel. "Good luck finding another surrogate." Secretly Rachel is crossing her fingers hoping Quinn will say yes.

Quinn glances at her friends. "Sure," she says, "why not? It's not like it's weird, or anything..."

They all exchange looks for a moment, and then burst into hysterical laughter.

It takes three times before Rachel gets pregnant and it's a cause for celebration. "This is the last, I swear," she huffs after Blaine and Kurt have calmed down.

This time around she has Quinn, who doesn't bat an eyelash at her strange pregnancy cravings (they end up trading war stories), and who gives the best massages.

Her career has never been better, after headlining as Elsa for what is touted to be one of the great musicals of the decade – but funnily enough, that doesn't matter as much as it used to. Not when the proudest moment in Rachel's life isn't winning her first Tony (or even her second) or being hailed as the next Barbra, but seeing Livy toddling along while holding on to Kurt and Blaine's hands, Quinn by her side holding her hand and smiling nonstop.

Or cuddling with Quinn on the couch as they bicker halfheartedly about Rachel's seeming inability to watch a movie without singing (she's perfectly capable of it, of course, but she likes seeing Quinn exasperated).

Or watching Quinn walk Livy to her daycare centre, Blaine taking countless photos from behind, secretly imagining it's their daughter or son holding on tightly to Quinn's fingers.

Even having her hands full with Marianne and Livy while the exhausted parents take a short break is fun, especially when Quinn figures out that Rachel's singing calms them down sufficiently to realise their afternoon nap is way overdue (and that this trick works on Quinn herself).

Rachel's disgustingly smitten.

Luckily, Quinn is just as bad.

When Oscar Hepburn Anderson-Hummel is born, Quinn is right there in the delivery room with her. She holds her hand throughout, even when Rachel is screaming bloody murder at the two morons who inseminated her and the stupid egg donor who should be giving birth.

And after she's handed Oscar to his crying parents, Quinn kisses her sweaty brow and says: "I can't wait for us to have one of our own." Rachel promptly bursts into tears.

"Oh hell," says Quinn. "Rachel, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. We don't have to, if you don't want to."

"I do," she says between sobs. "I want your baby, and not just carrying your egg. I want one that's ours to keep."

"You're sure?"

Rachel looks deep into Quinn's eyes. "I'm sure."

(They never say the l-word, not even on their wedding day, but with a history like theirs, it's kind of unnecessary anyway.)