Author's Note: Thank you for reading. I'm not trying for elegant prose here, just an easy story. Typos are of course mine. Spencer as mentioned in a previous 1 shot is from Pretty Little Liars. I'm not sure if its annoying as a reader how random these 1 shots and they likely don't flow but I like how jumpy they've turned out. The quote on Quinn's desk is from my friend whose story on fanfiction (under the pen name EterniteProfonde) she's brilliant. All other references will be at the end note. A good portion of things I love, traits, things that have been said to me, etc go into these stories. Also you can blame reading 3 books a week on the literary references. Lastly thanks to the Guest who keeps reviewing these Faberry stories (though I wish I could send a message & say thank you). Lastly-like I've said-I like how these narratively skip between past & present.

"I forget about stem cells and certain areas of study," the blonde said as she looked up from the magazine she was skimming.

Rachel paused as she stirred the batter to the muffins she was making, an every other weekend thing she did.

"I get too..." Quinn tried to explain as she put the magazine down. She didn't like magazines and expressed they were only good for a three to five minute distraction.

"Engrossed in your books and writing?" The brunette asked once she had set the bowl down and stood in front of her wife. She traced her index finger from her temple to her jawline to her chin where she rested her thumb against her bottom lip because Quinn was so cerebral and occasionally forgot there was a world outside their apartment.

"Mhmmm," she hummed, glad Rachel understood why she got so wrapped in certain things than remembering science or whatever else was beyond her daily interests. The singer had tried to understand her for years. Even in high school as they fought, were passive aggressive or just aggressive with one another.

She knew she was incredibly lucky. Especially when she was being annoyingly independent. Because "God forbid Quinn you ask anyone to help you." Quinn had the tendency to pull away and what Rachel dubbed as "the wonder woman syndrome" when she'd act like she could handle everything herself or felt she had to. When Quinn would escape and take the metro train to Greenwich with her mace she knew Quinn was feeling overwhelmed from her writing deadlines, her family, her friends, her own expectations and finally confided in Santana about it.

"Why take that train?" Rachel raised her voice and asked because she couldn't fathom what was so interesting about it. "She comes home with something from The Loft or J Crew but its filled with office workers, people from wall street...and..."

"Yeah, a bunch of yuppies. That's why Quinn feels oh so comfortable on it. She's going somewhere but has the feel oh her Lima, childhood home. Everyone gets nostalgic Berry. Even Q. Even with all that dysfunction," she said and took a shot like it didn't even phase her. Rachel blinked at Santana in surprise that she cared that much to analyze Quinn . "She comes back with good writing anyway," she said after she bite into the lime slice.

"That's true," the singer said, finding her voice again. She had paused in her shock that Santana actively tried to understand Quinn's inner workings.

If she were the type to be intimidated she would have been by her wife's writer friends. The blonde would print out exerts of writing she'd love and frame it. Each morning she would walk by it on Quinn's desk, she had practically memorized it and thought it would even make a beautiful monologue in a play. Quinn had practically memorized her. She could say it from the heart...

And you take a tiny moment of your present time, to contemplate that word; despair. And you decide that you find it esthetically beautiful.
And it makes you wonder why it is so, what makes it beautiful and if under different circumstances you would still consider it to be so. Because what if beauty is nothing but a figment of our recollection, a scheme of our emotions leading us to dub things with more meaning than they would have.
I think casual masochism translates into hope. We hold on to the things that hurt us, not because we love the pain or cherish the humiliation, not because we love to have our hearts pulled out and stomped on, our heads twirled around and messed with or for our lives to become specters or blur; we simply do so out of wishful thinking.
We hold on to the things that hurt us the most, because they mean the most to us and we just cannot seem to give up on them.
Because we are hopeful creatures. Even pessimism, which we use as a defense mechanism, fearing that if we ever get our hopes up, they'll end up in ruins. We hope for the worst, in hope for less disappointment.

It didn't shock her that Quinn had it memorized, almost verbatim considering she always had a book in her hand throughout high school and college. When she asked why she'd read books multiple times Quinn had said, "Mmm how I interpret them now is different from how I did years ago or the meanings become a little more clear or its like falling in love a little bit more but mostly its like having a friend with you," and gave a small smile because for years, before high school the blonde hinted she didn't have friends.

One day she finally asked her, "why do you take the train?" Quinn had tilted her head and then walked over to her bookshelf. Quickly she found a certain book and part she had underlined. Gently she handed it to her like an offering. "I wonder what the other passengers think when they look at me. They see a woman who is neither young, nor old, fairly well preserved. A somewhat inscrutable expression, lips that could stand to be a little fuller, a deep line across her forehead, two others on either side of her mouth. Light makeup. Nicely tailored clothes. Discreet elegance. Relatively slim figure. Why isn't she traveling first class?" The brunette looked back with some confusion and waited for Quinn to explain.

"I get to be separate from myself when I'm on the train...I can detach and wonder...or be slightly existential but know at the end of the day it doesn't matter what they think of me. I'm not exactly like the character but close enough that its nice to relate to something fictional and when I curiously consider what the other passengers lives are like its clear we're all so separate but in the same moment."

Honestly Rachel didn't get it fully. A train was a way to get from point a to b, but leave it to Quinn to over think. If she didn't carry some self defense weapon on her she'd worry because she knew they had enough awful moments that left her feeling like it was hard to come back from the grocery store or brief venture into the world and return unscathed. They would be walking to dinner, holding hands, and someone had the nerve to say to Quinn "you look like you'd be good in bed." Rachel had told him to fuck off with so much venome that it would have made Santana proud.

Quinn loved that Rachel could be brazen, fearless and a majority of the time give a flying fuck what people thought of her-with the exception of her talent. She worked out for herself, she sang to earn a living but mostly because she loved it. But often Quinn had to mentally brace herself for interactions, whereas Rachel was the strong one. And she was certain most people knew that. It was incredibly obvious when anyone male or female looked like they wanted to fuck them. Unfortunately that was the best fitting word for it and yet without fail Rachel with her refined manners would say, "kindly fuck off."

By the time they had finished dinner Rachel could tell Quinn was still tense. On the couple blocks back she noticed the blonde clench and unclench her jaw. "Babe, do you want to say something?"

"I don't...I didn't want to ruin dinner."

"You didn't, you're not about to ruin the night," Rachel said and gave the hand that fit well with hers a soft squeeze.

"I hate that being female involves being scrutanized. I hate that I can tell when a woman looks me up and down, judging my clothes, my look, my skin, all in a quick appraisal. And we're raised to do it! Just...in a snap...sort of...calculate and compare." She said shaking her head.

Rachel nodded, knowing women did this. "Do you think its...partially from competition?" She asked, forming her thoughts as they walked. "I mean in a sadistic way and slightly spite, don't you think?" She asked and turned her head a little to see Quinn nod. "It flips over..into masochism because most of the time...women then ask themselves why can't I have what she has.." she said, working off of Quinn's comment on comparing. "Or its fast judgements of I'm better than you..which is hard to stomach," she admitted and saw Quinn nod again. She didn't know if Quinn was oblivious to it since she was often in her head, but Rachel had seen women sometimes flash jealousy when Quinn walked holding hands, leaning into one another, but she imagined that was a whole denial of sexualily and repression she thankfully didn't have to come to terms with.

The moment they got home Quinn had gone to her bookshelf. She quickly found the book, flipped through, knowing fully where her search ended and handed the thin material to Rachel. A small part already underlined. Quinn was too annoyed to use her own words and relied on others; that and she was too livid to speak because she had wanted to hit the guy. 'All the instances of disgust you experience simply by virtue of being a girl.'

"I've never felt you tallied up my traits and ranked me. Thank you for not doing that."

"You're welcome," she said sincerly and kissed Quinn like she had wanted to kiss her in high school-like she was the prettiest girl she had known but more importantly the smartest.

"Would you mind if I read this book?" Rachel asked happily as it was still in her hand.

"You don't have to ask babe," the writer had whispered, glad her wife was interested.

"But its...seeing another another layer to you. That's why I ask," Rachel offered as she pulled Quinn closer.

The blonde smiled in a way that was only reserved for Rachel who still asked and was considerate when she didn't have to. Mutual respect was a rare thing.

Quinn also had the ability to leave her speechless. "You know if the Nazi's just smoked pot I bet things would have been better. History would be different." She paused and adopted a somewhat passable German accent as she continued to speak English, "Man, the Jews, the Jews are bad." She said in faux seriousness that sounded militant and cold. Then in another voice but sounding like a pot head said, "Nah man, the Jews are okay, don't worry man, eat your schnitzel."

Rachel's jaw had fallen, eyes wide while her own father was laughing to the point of tears a few seconds later. "Do it again," he exclaimed happily.

"Quinn Fabray!"

"This das boot is zee best, my Jew fellow, come have a beer with me!" She carried on to Rachel's dismay as she shook her head, but smiled through her antics.

"Does she smoke pot?" Her dad asked quietly to his daughter. The brunette shook her head, still not able to talk.

"Never," she finally stated because it was a fact. Quinn preferred liquor.

"Keep her," he replied knowingly with an amused smile.

They also debated. Rachel loved it. She never had the chance with her previous romances. Quinn refered to it as discussing but with calm annoyance give her point to the singer. "Making out is better than sex."

Rachel almost spit out her wine but covered her mouth quickly. "Are you trying to choke me? God! You could have killed me and deprived people of my talent." She said after she coughed and swallowed.

"You know what I love about you? Your humblesness." She nodded and smiled through Rachel's dramatics.

"Quinn. Why the hell is making out better than sex? Because its not. You get to make someone feel intense and extreme...just...why is it better?"

"Intimacy." The delivery of her unwavering, assured, solid voice, and the smirk that accompanied it made Rachel swallow and pause.

"Explain." She patiently commanded because she was already surprised by Quinn.

"There's an...expected explosiveness that comes with sex or the potential of it. Or the promise..."she said working out her thoughts in puns. "Kissing is...more telling. Its this sort of neglected prologue. But there's a build up and its also more relaxed but can be frantic and rough. I could be biased since I can kiss you for hours." She said in a half lecture, half like she was telling a secret tone.

"And you have. But you've also made love to me and fucked me for hours before. Sometimes alternating between the two," she said factually. And then it was Quinn's turn to gulp because of course this was Rachel-the girl who said at a celibacy club meeting that girls wanted sex just as much as boys. "You prefer kissing?" She asked softer and with curiosity.

"Mhmm. The tightrope feel to it. That you can tip and fall into something heavier. The anticipation that it can lead to more." She gave a soft smile.

She was glad Quinn smiled more. Far more than she had when they were teenagers and then college students. And she had smiles that were private and a secret language. Like whenever she would make her come there was a proud, content smile that always made an appearance.

Later that night Rachel would say after their little debate, "you are soooo proud of yourself."

"Mhmmm." She admitted and kissed Rachel, clearly not in the mood for a conversation. Before they fell asleep Rachel thought of the one time she couldn't find Quinn and was forced to send a text-where are you? The ex cheerleader had replied-marveling at the endlessness.

At the time she had shook her head in amusement that Quinn couldn't simply say on the roof or stargazing. When she got up and saw Quinn smiling she paused and was glad to see smile and laugh lines. She loved how the features had moved in and settled beautifully. Rachel couldn't stop herself from loving that a certain smile was for playful talks or specifically for looking at stars and their formations that she once refered to as 'imaginative stories and myths compounded into what we call constellations'.

Years before she had sent Quinn a Strand giftcard in the mail. She remembered in college how people had forgot her birthday or as she put it to Quinn over text when she received it-pre adults are self indulgent and don't know how to value friendship or are "too busy" and throw around excuses so I wanted you to do something for you.

Partially in hopes Quinn would ask her to wander the shelves with her, but she didn't invite herself. A day after her text and no response Quinn called.

"There's a heaviness to some words," she said and dove head first into the conversation. "I got your card," she said almost whistfully, like she was disappointed Rachel hadn't come to see her, use one of the train passes she made a point of telling her she had gotten her their senior year. And clearly Quinn was drunk because she was talking a bit robotically.

"Hi Quinn," she paused and got comfortable in her seat, sensing it wasn't going to be a short call that was typical when she was sober and busy. "What words?"

"Daughter," she said through a sigh. "Its...linked to the idea of burden..and..she sent me a dress. I'm tired of dresses Rachel. The singer noticed over a year ago it was rare Quinn dresses. Skirts rarely, but mostly nice slacks from places like Banana Republic or Ann Taylor. A small part of her missed seeing the blonde in dresses but she also looked more refined and professional in her pants even if she had only one class to attend for the day. Rachel knew the Sophmore didn't own a pair of sweatpants and only pair of jeans that were so worn in and had paint drippings on them from painting Spencer's loft. But she refocused on Quinn's alcohol inspired topic and said, "you don't have to wear it," and it seemed to be the right thing to say because she faintly heard Quinn breath a sigh of relief. Even with the help of whatever it was Quinn indulged in she was never going to ask for acceptance, even if she craved it and desperately wanted support. "I miss you," she whispered. Her version of goodbye and hung up.

Months later when the short haired blonde showed up at her apartment, knowing she wasn't in class she convinced her to go to the overwhelmingly large bookstore. Instead of focusing on the literature like Rachel expected Quinn kept glancing briefly at her lips and thought their 'ambiguous love affair' as Kurt called it, since he had many expressions for them, seemed to one up Quinn's love for books.

Years later she stood outside Barnes and Noble with Quinn and commented, "this is your piece of heaven, isn't it?" Now Quinn smiled at her, both aware she didn't have to answer. Rachel looked at her, really looked and saw how if anyone asked what Quinn's occupation was and finding she's a writer wouldn't have been shocked. She looked the part. Casual, classic, and with an intensity that may only come from searching for the nearness of perfect expression.

And so she reasoned Quinn was addicted to books.

She knew her ATM pin was a literary reference from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo even though she said it wasn't well written. When she asked Quinn if she would get her own tattoos the blonde always mentioned quotes. She would go on searches that were more like hunting for weightless pens. "I need a light pen," she emphasized the word need. Rachel could only smirk and get pulled into the hunt and Quinn's peculiarities.

Like how her smile turned into a smirk and she slightly shrugged. Then abandoned her proper, stiff posture and said in a barely rap, mostly talk, "All I do is read, read, read no matter what. Got stories on my mind. I can't never get enough. And every time I step up in the building everybody's hands go up...and they stay there! Cause all I do is read, Read, READ!"

"Oh my god. I regret marrying you." Rachel said and saw Quinn's goofy smile disappear. "I'm very much joking babe. You're the best spontaneous weirdo on the east coast." She said with a proud tone and walked in feeling lighter and luxuriously absurd.

Sometimes Quinn made her head spin. She'd hold onto things or dismiss them without seemingly any rhyme or reason. It was without objectivity and so two years later, after they had graduated and Quinn still had and wore the paint splattered jeans Rachel had to sum them up that they were proof of another person before her. But she wasn't bitter or jealous of the taller woman. In fact there was a mutual understanding that wasn't forced, a nonverbal agreement they had similarities and enough differences that Quinn needed in a friend and a significant other. She had once found a letter Spencer had written Quinn on expensive stationary and conscientious penmanship that said-this is the closest thing I have come across that describes you-

"Oh, now I know what you are. You are an advocate of Useful Knowledge...Well, allow me to introduce myself to you as an advocate for Ornamental Knowledge. You like the mind to be a neat machine, equipped to work efficiently, if narrowly, and with no extra bits or useless parts. I like the mind to be a dustbin of scraps of fabric, odd gems, worthless but fascinating curiosities, tinsel, quaint bits of carving, and a reasonable amount of healthy dirt. Shake the machine and it goes out of order; shake the dustbin and it adjusts its beautifully to its new position."

Underneath it had said-With your writing I think you implore that people consider being more (more than a machine). Use your talent. It is and you are a beautiful dustbin.

It didn't hurt to read what Rachel believed embodied Quinn and Spencer's past relationship. More than anything she was glad Quinn had someone in her life that supportive. As Spencer helped them move into their apartment together she had asked the serious woman, "How are you?" and was responded in kindness and jest to her own life, "oh, just trying to get through my early twenties" which made Rachel laugh loud and hard which made Quinn marvel how lucky she was they weren't competitive. The blonde watched for a few more minutes then finally shared her thoughts on her luck in relation to them.

"You are," Rachel had replied.

"Really," Spencer had added in agreement and good measure.

To Rachel it was surreal they were moving in together. She could also tell there was a moment in the start of herself and Quinn becoming a "we" and "us" that allowed Spencer to visibly relax.

The other brunette let go of being so worried about Quinn because they both felt inspired to protect the blonde. Neither of them discussed what it was exactly, what personality trait that made them want to put themselves between anything harmful and Quinn because it just was. But Spencer watched in her non-judgemental way, paused mid-pour of their tea and looked lighter after the singer had come back from a show, saw Quinn looking perplexed, glaring at computer and notebook in her left hand to pause. Rachel had quietly set her bags down, crossed the entry way to stand beside the pensive blonde and slowly removed her glasses. Hazel eyes blinked like she was being led out of a tunnel as Rachel cleaned the glasses with the hem of her shirt and gently placed them back on.

Quinn pushed the spectacles on the bridge of her nose with her middle finger and open palm, hand obscuring most of her face. But when she rested her hand back on the desk there was a content smile. Ascending. Spencer thought was the right word instead of rising as Quinn stood to be level with Rachel so she could kiss the tip of her nose. For a second Spencer thought she was encroaching because she was watching what she thought any semi-attuned person could see was intimacy. She could trust Rachel with Quinn.

Before she would leave for the night she told Rachel at the door in her candid, laid back tone that was only present in extremely small groups of people, "you make her better."

A week later they were about to go to sleep, both reading and Rachel came across a part she liked. "I've always wanted to be another person. Less disciplined. More intelligent. Brilliant. A meteor. Someone you see whiz by in the sky and you talk about them to your kids years later, all starry-eyed." Rachel could see her high school self being able to relate to this. She idolized Barbara and Patti because to some degree she wanted to be them. And she wanted to be a star. She had spoke the part aloud, reading to Quinn who had closed her book, index finger holding the page, keeping her place and listened intently. She thought Quinn would comment about how she could see the parallel but instead kissed her forehead and said, "You're you and I'm incredibly glad for it."

A few weeks later when Rachel finally, to her annoyance of her busy schedule, was finishing a book she had borrowed from her wife. She read and re-read what Quinn had taken the time to underline. "Babe, can you read this?" Rachel asked for the sake of hearing Quinn's voice something she loved. And because Rachel read it with her own voice in mind but knew Quinn's timbre and tone would do it more justice. Just be that much better.

"Have you been tricking me for years and you're illiterate?" She replied in a snarky tone after a hushed fake gasp that earned her a gentle hit on her exposed shoulder that turned into a soft graze of Rachel's knuckles. Falling asleep like this was not something she dreamed of when she was younger and thought of idealized romance and grand gestures, but something so simple and them. She knew she wouldn't have had this life with anyone else. It was how they intertwined.

Quinn took the book from her with care, like how some people treated bibles, but Quinn used books as her version of spirituality as she slightly cleared her throat while eyes flitted and stopped on the marked passage.

...'I could feel a tingling in my fingertips. I didn't want to be an observer anymore. Someone who absorbs. Someone who keeps to one side and stares out at the spectacle of the world with indifference. I wanted to be in the world. Really in it. I didn't want to be an artist. I wanted to be a protagonist. I wanted to live passionately, with love and hate and scorn, I wanted to throw myself on the bed of weeping floods of tears., tearing my hair out in despair, jumping for joy, flinging my arm around people, holding their hands, holding a hand-and leading the dance.'

The End

End note: The quotes about virtue, what passengers think, wanting to be another person, and tingling in fingertips are from the book The 6:41 to Paris. The phrase addicted to books is from the documentary He Named Me Malala. The dustbin quote Spencer uses is by Robertson Davies. The line "just trying to survive my early twenties" is by Lydia and it was wonderful to laugh and say my god that should be in a movie. Since I don't have the budget there you go!