Summary: "When you decide to visit, you tell yourself it's not to see her. You're growing up and moving on from childish fantasies. You also tell yourself that what happened with Santana after Mr. Schue's non-wedding won't happen again, but the only reason you're visiting is because you hope it will." — college!Faberry, Quinn-centric, Quinntana friendship, post-'I Do'

Rated: M

A/N: I haven't written fan fiction in a long time. Probably about four years. But I started this and haven't been able to stop. This is slightly AU, taking place after "I Do." Quinn never had a fling with a professor. Also, you'll notice the timeline is slightly different in that I let more time pass between certain events that happened in the show. It's mostly an exploration of Quinn, starting with Quinntana, but just know that I am a Faberry and Brittana fan.

This is also greatly influenced by Anis Mojgani's poem "Baptism," which I quote before each chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Why the Wind Goes and Comes Back

Chapter 1:

your body is a church whose doors close to me

I'm waiting on your steps trying not to tremble

I don't know any other place that I can go and pray inside of

February 2013:

When you decide to visit, you tell yourself it's not to see her. You're growing up and moving on from childish fantasies. You also tell yourself that what happened with Santana after Mr. Schue's non-wedding won't happen again, but the only reason you're visiting is because you hope it will. (You haven't prayed since you returned from Ohio because you get flushed when you realize what hands and fingers can do when they aren't locked together in prayer.)

"I had fun seeing you... And I've been meaning to visit New York for a while. I'm only a couple hours away."

"Then get your ass here, Q."

So you finish the school work you owe early, lie to your professors for the first time about why you will be missing a day of class, and pack your things for a long weekend in New York.

You hold your MetroNorth pass the entire train ride. You stare at it for a couple of minutes and wonder if Rachel ever looks at hers and thinks of spontaneously visiting you in New Haven. You know you're not a good enough reason to visit Connecticut, that you would have to be the one to ask, and that Rachel would never randomly leave - she's had the same dream since she was three years old, and that dream is in New York.

You hug Santana as soon as you greet each other in Grand Central, and for a moment you wish you felt nervous, wish there was something to be apprehensive about. You exhale a sigh of relief and disappointment into her shoulder. You wonder if it ever gets easier to learn to love differently. (You know not to ask Santana this.)

"I still can't believe you haven't been here in so long," she says, picking up your bag and starting to haul it up the uneven steps. "And that it took Lady Hummel calling you to get you here last time."

"Well, you weren't living here at the time," you say with a shrug as you enjoy watching Santana struggle to carry your bag up the three flights of stairs. You know not to comment on her chivalry if you ever want her to help you again. "And there was the shopping."

Santana pulls her keys from her pocket, "Oh please, you were just hoping to see Berry's lady lumps in that terrible student film," she teases.

You're happy that the lock is finicky and Santana starts ranting in Spanish as she pulls at the door handle. She doesn't notice your reaction to her teasing; you wouldn't hear the end of it if she had seen your cheeks flush.

Santana tells you that Rachel is going to a workshop and a show for class tonight. Relief and disappointment escape in a sigh again, and something in your chest shakes at the sound of her name – a weathervane on an old barn creaking awake – and you realize you can't remember the last time you said her name aloud.

You go to Williamsburg for dinner and people watch, laughing lightly at Santana's commentary.

"I'm 90 percent sure he's wearing a carpet disguised as a vest," Santana says, sipping from her diet coke, "Berry's old wardrobe would fit right in here."

You chuckle as you stab at your salad, wondering if Rachel's animal sweaters are collecting dust back in Ohio, or if they're tucked away somewhere in their apartment.

"God forbid you lived here; I don't think I could let you," Santana rants, waving her fork at you, "You would find so many people like you, and then they'd make you some sort of super hipster. Next thing you know, you'd all be living in some hipster loft and painting hipster things on each other naked or whatever they do."

"Didn't you do something like that last week?"

"That's beside the point."

You hide your smirk with your glass of water, sipping from it to swallow the laughter.

Santana starts to sweet talk the server when he walks over to check on the table. He's a cute, bearded musician who lives in Bushwick (which is a pretty common thing, you start to notice), and it turns out he knows a good number of bars in the area.

You are confused why you keep drinking it, and why anyone would like whiskey. Apparently musician server, who got off work conveniently as you and Santana left, only drinks whiskey and terrible beer. You don't think much of him, just some guy you met, so you can't even begin to wrap your head around the fact that Santana is actually flirting back.

At one point, he orders you a shot and a beer. You cringe at the thought of the calories, and you swear that the last sip of whiskey you had ten minutes ago is still burning your throat.

You do it anyway because you're here for fun. Because, even though musician server continues to lean in close to Santana and some guy in a beanie has struck up conversation with you about Foucault, you feel Santana's hand run from your knee to the inside of your thigh.

Santana gives Jeremy (musician server) a brief kiss on the lips at the end of the night. You just shake his friend's hand and tell him to read more philosophy and theory before he talks about it to strangers. He laughs, and you give him a small wink.

"I'll call you," Jeremy shouts as you and Santana hop into the nearest cab.

You lean your head back against the headrest as Santana tells the driver how to get to her apartment. When you open your eyes and look outside the window, you don't see much - just lights for gas stations and bodegas.

You turn and look at Santana, about to tell her that approximately 50 thousand cabs run throughout New York, something you recently read in the New Yorker, but you stop caring and thinking when you see her eyes scan your body.

You've both seen each other naked on various occasions, but Santana's gaze seems to drag a light touch along your spine. You like it because she's looking at you as if she hasn't seen you at your worst, as if she hasn't touched your body - as if you both met tonight and agreed to go home together as strangers.

Your lips crash together, and you're sure that bruised lips will always make you think of her and your mutual understanding of unrequited love.

You're hungover, and you desperately want to brush your teeth. You forgot your toothpaste, and, for some reason, the toothpaste is out of sight in the bathroom.

You're looking in one of the drawers when you hear "Sorry, I didn't-"

You spin around, as if you've been caught snooping. "Hey... Kurt," you say, standing awkwardly in your boxer shorts and one of Santana's t-shirts.

Kurt's quick. You know this. You know he knows. You may have been quiet, and Santana is good at swallowing whimpers when her fingers are inside you, but you know the paper mache walls and curtains can't hide everything.

"Toothpaste?" you say, unsure of what Kurt's facial expression means.

"Drawer on the far right," he says, now looking a little shocked as he processes it all. You see him wondering if there is a fault in his logic. "Rachel and I are making breakfast if you want."

You just nod before he walks away.

Your mind races as you get changed. You should have been more careful, less reckless, more in control. You realize your hands are shaking as you walk toward the kitchen, so you shove them in your pockets. You first see Santana cradling her head at the table, her other hand wrapped around a chipped mug full of coffee.

"So Santana, who'd you stumble in with at four in the morning?" Her tone is teasing, and it's not meant to mean much.

You walk in and the weathervane in your chest meets a hurricane.

"Quinn! When did you get here?" Rachel asks excitedly, dropping her spatula into the pan, sending bits of fake egg flying.

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Oh right! Santana told me you were coming," you can see Kurt in your peripheral trying to subtly shake his head at Rachel. You appreciate the gesture even though it's not helping. "I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to really clean. The living room is not really the best place to sleep at the moment..."

You watch her figure it out. Your face gets warm. You wonder if your drunk self is even more self-sabotaging than your sober self. The weathervane aches but keeps spinning anyway. You have to stop the wind in your throat from shaking your voice.

You don't really meet her eyes, "It's fine, Rachel," you say in a voice so quiet that the hum of your blood in your arteries seems even louder. You clear your throat and add, "I like the changes you guys have made with the place."

It shouldn't feel this awkward, but you're you and Rachel is still Rachel. Because you haven't seen her, because you purposely put distance between you both, you forgot how easily she takes your breath away - how bright she still shines.

You meet a really nice sophomore named Pete on the train back to Yale. You recognize him because he works at the coffee house you frequent after class. He's your favorite barista/DJ because he always gets your order right, and when he first served you, he was playing the White Stripes.

You think God is watching because it seems pretty significant that Pete played Get Behind Me Satan.

You find out that Pete can talk for years about music if you let him. Sometimes, when he talks about a song, you see the memory attached in his eyes. He transferred out of Berklee after his freshman year, trading in his bass for a degree in education.

"I'm not the rock star type," he tells you with a chuckle, "But I want other people to have their go if they want to be famous. I'd love to be the person who put that instrument in a kid's hands."

You wonder if his heartbeat matches the rhythm of whatever songs he talks about.

"What about you? Going to be famous someday?"

You shake your head, "I like to read and write. I always liked school, so maybe education will be my thing," you shrug and a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth, "I know someone who's going to be a star, and I'm nowhere near as talented as her. I think I'm more the type to write and admire the stars."

You're writing a cover letter to intern at Yale University Press when you get a g-chat message from Rachel.

Rachel: hey

me: Hi. How are you?

Rachel: why so formal?

me: ha. sorry, writing a cover letter. hard to snap out of it.

You see her typing. Your letter is forgotten as you wait.

Rachel: we haven't talked much lately.

You hope she doesn't try and talk about what happened when you last visited. You went out for lunch with Santana after the breakfast debacle, and when Rachel tried to see if you could all get dinner that night, you pretended to remember that you owed a paper by Monday. Even though you wish you stayed for an extra day in New York, you are happy to be back. You are happy you met Pete. You are happy that Rachel can't see you chewing nervously on your lip.

Rachel: which is my fault. i'm sorry i haven't used your metronorth pass. i'm still finding my way around here and with the course load and everything, it's hard to find time.

me: I know, Rachel. No worries.

Rachel: how's everything in New Haven?

me: Good.

You accidentally send it too soon. It seems too quick of a response, like a lie. But you are. You're okay. You're getting by. You and Pete are getting lunch tomorrow. But you also are realizing the girls in your dorm aren't friends now that the second semester has begun and people are settling into close-knit groups. You feel like you kind of got lost in school work on purpose during the first semester. Your cold aura and silence always protected you and made you strong at McKinley; here it just turns people away, and you wish you could shed that part of your skin.

me: i'm busy. classes are a lot of work, but nothing too difficult.

Rachel: i'm glad :)

i was thinking about you earlier. i saw an amazing student production with Brody.

me: what was it about?

You feel nervous and you hate it.

Rachel: a young girl who is adopted, who desperately wants to find her biological mother. it's beautiful and hit close to home for me. and it reminded me how wonderful you are. i don't mean to get so serious and personal, but i wanted to tell you that you including Beth in your life is incredible.

You don't respond for a few moments, your fingers frozen over the keyboard of your laptop. Your heart is all spinning windmills and weathervanes, making you feel dizzy.

me: thanks Rachel. that means a lot. i love her so much, and i'm happy she has someone who loves her and can raise her how she deserves to be raised.

Rachel: and you'll be there in your own way. you're so smart and she's going to grow up so proud of you.

You cry silently at your desk. You know Shelby's relationship with Rachel is not the best, but (like your relationship with Shelby) it's healing.

me: you know you're the most talented person i ever met, right? don't let new york get you down.

Rachel: thanks, Quinn. you have to promise to visit again soon.

me: i promise.