In a New York City winter, the sun sets just before 5 p.m. The temperature dips to a cold, but not necessarily frigid, thirty-eight degrees. An inch or four of snow crunches under boot, and the wind blows a chill almost through the very skin of a girl who might be walking through the park, on the way back to her apartment after her last class of the day.

Quinn Fabray reached into her pocket for her brown leather gloves, slipping them on and then furrowing her brow when she realized, how was she going to operate her iPod now? Rolling her eyes, she tore off one glove, and selected the playlist.

Her.

Walking past a coffee shop, Quinn stopped in her tracks and reversed her direction, actually walking backward to retrace her steps until the windows of the shop were in front of her. She glanced in, and then sighed in disappointment. She thought she'd seen…

Quinn hit play, the first of a hundred songs meeting her eardrums, then tucked the iPod into her pocket and pulled on the other glove. She shivered a little as the wind blew, grateful that her apartment was only a three block walk, and glad that it was one of the few in her building where the heat actually seemed to work. Last year when she'd started at NYU, she'd been tempted to live in one of the dorms, to "get the full collegiate experience," as her father had said, but after making a couple of campus tours, Quinn had declined.

In spite of her not living in one of the dorms, Quinn had immersed herself in the world of NYU, in the life of 70 Washington Square South. She was an art history major, something that played into both her love of the past and her love of doodling in the margins when she was supposed to be doing homework. Though her doodling had grown more into full-blown expressions of art and emotion, even now at the age of 19 her subject was primarily a specific name, a specific face, as familiar and dear to her as breathing.

Even though it had only been a year, Quinn had already made a name for herself at CAS-NYU. Much to her mother's surprise she'd actually joined a sorority for Dominants, a group less situated around buying friends and more for camaraderie, girls who cared more about the submissives they were bound to than they did about nail polish. There had been trips to the mall, of course, and a few parties here and there, but Quinn was emboldened by the fact that most of her friends seemed to enjoy academia and the prospect of a future with their intended than they did seeing who could drink the most alcohol and not throw up. (Quinn lasted one drink. Stupid wine coolers.) And she had also gotten involved in a "justice forum," designed to ensure that submissives weren't viewed as second-class citizens in their society. Every now and then an offshoot of the old guard would crop up, people who thought that submissives needed to not only be treated as lower, but registered as well. There had been a push with some of the more conservative members of their society for a national submissive database, a list of names and addresses and claims. The very idea disgusted Quinn; she supposed she'd gotten that streak from her father, who had always been involved in Dominant/submissive politics when she was a child. He had never treated Quinn's mother with anything less than dignity and respect, even if he was her Dominant. Quinn had never seen any abuse, any mistreatment, just the loving bond of two people who had known each other since they were twelve years old. There was no mark in their society that delineated who was submissive, dominant, or switch, and Quinn didn't understand why some thought the separation of "classes" needed to be more than what it already was.

Quinn had been Dominant since she was seven years old, when she was too young to even understand what it meant, what it entailed. In fact it wasn't until she was older, after a lot of soul-searching, that Quinn was sure of what she was. But everything had changed that day. The day when a little girl with brown hair had slipped into her life, into her mind, and changed everything. Her mother had tried to explain it in terms that a little girl would understand, but even then Quinn could have had no idea about how her future was taking shape from that moment on. What had followed had been a whirlwind of eye-opening experiences and realizations. They had taken her out of her art class at school – a decision that had been met with a kicking and screaming tantrum – and put her in another one, vaguely called Learning to Be You. It was taught by a meek and mild woman with red hair, who hadn't necessarily appreciated it when on her first day, little Quinn Fabray had tilted her head, one blonde curl wound over her index finger, and said "Are you sure you're qualified to teach this?"

The class itself had been meaningless; the only lesson that Quinn had really learned from it was that every person was bound to another, in a way that was unique to them. Look at it as a rope, Miss Pillsbury had said, or a ribbon, that attaches you to the other person.

"What color is the ribbon?" Quinn had asked.

"Any color you want."

Quinn liked that idea. She had raced home, full of wonderings about colors, reds and purples and blues.

Later that night, the little girl that occupied her mind told Quinn that it was green.

So she was bound, in light green, twirled around her heart and tied in a bow.

The class taught by Miss Pillsbury had been Quinn's only real introduction to the society in which she lived, except for whispers and rumors in hallways and locker rooms, trying to figure out right and wrong. College had opened up a world of opportunity for Quinn Fabray, something she'd never be able to have in Lima. New people and new places, new ideas, new theories for her mind to dance around and absorb. There were other classes that she could take at NYU, which went beyond math and medieval art and architecture. Classes like The Psychology of the Dominant. Submissive Feminist Theory. Advanced Aftercare. Quinn had taken one or two already; on the one hand, she felt like her very nature would help her with all she needed to know about being a Dominant. On the other… there was no excuse for not learning. And she'd heard stories from other students that made her toes curl, stories of abuse and tragedy. There was no way Quinn would ever allow herself to be a person like that, be in a relationship like that, and so it didn't matter if the classes were electives. She'd take them anyway, just to be sure.

She owed it to the small girl who used to hold that ribbon around her heart.

Quinn's apartment was situated on the corner, a broad, squat Georgian-style building of 6 floors. She lived on the fifth – and the elevator never worked, so she grumbled slightly as she entered the front door and started up the steps. She was late getting back, because she'd actually taken the long way round so she could look in a couple of windows. It was the same as it had been every night for the past year – no one. She wondered if the other New Yorkers thought it odd, a slim blonde girl in a stylish coat with ear buds glued to her ears, peeking into the window as they drank their coffee or read their book, sipped tea and indulged in a cheesecake, or beer and a pizza.

Her ritual was always never-wavering, even though the process varied from morning to morning, night to night. Scanning the subway with hopeful eyes, heart lurching at the sight of brown hair, and then sinking when it just wasn't who she hoped. Scouring the village, sitting for hours at the Life Café singing the songs to herself as she waited and watched. Was today her no day but today?

I die without you…

She'd take alternate routes; go to different pharmacies besides the one that was closest to her apartment, just in the hopes that this pharmacy, or that one, would hold her answer. She'd buy silly stuff she didn't even need just for the excuse to look into a shop, cough drops and candy bars and tooth brushes, and leave the packages in the common room of her apartment building for the others. She knew they must think she was weird, but she didn't care. She had one purpose, one reason why she chose a New York school instead of one closer to home. One reason why she didn't listen to her parents' advice to just move on, maybe it wasn't the right thing for you anyway, Quinn, maybe there's a nice boy out there… Her parents had tried not to make it seem like they didn't want her to be with a girl, but Quinn knew. It wasn't that they were particularly intolerant, it was just… image. Pretense. She loved her parents, but Quinn knew she had roles to play. She was a Dominant, and she was a Fabray; she just wasn't sure being a lesbian was an accepted part of the role.

She was breathing a little heavier by the time she made it upstairs to the door marked 505. Pulling off the gloves and stopping the iPod, Quinn tucked it back into her coat pocket and brought out her keys. A swift turn of the lock brought the sound of a bell jingling, and she grinned.

"Hey, Van!" she greeted the brown and white cat, who had padded to the front door and now sat watching her. Van, or Van Gogh, was so named because he had part of his left ear missing, a product, the shelter attendant had said, of him getting into one too many fights on the street. With a face like his, Quinn had thought at the time, she could see why. She'd adopted him anyway, though; something about the damaged little fella had endeared him to her, and now one of the highlights of her day was coming home to him.

"Did you miss me?" she said, hanging her coat up in the closet and rubbing her hands together to warm them.

Van Gogh turned around and padded back to his empty bowl, pausing to look back at her reproachfully before flopping down in front of it.

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, how silly of me to forget my role as food person." She quickly gave the grumpy cat something to eat, and then set about making her own dinner.

Quinn had gotten scholarships that had taken care of her NYU tuition so she wouldn't have to rely on them, but still her parents had insisted on contributing something to her education, and it had taken the form of her studio apartment on the fifth floor. At $1500 a month, the apartment wasn't large by any means, but it wasn't a hole in the wall either. Quinn had brought her bed and other furniture from home, preferring to blow some of her graduation money on bookcases that now separated the apartment into "rooms." There was enough space for her bed, a chair with two tables in the "kitchen," a small loveseat, and her television. That was all she needed, really; she didn't spend near enough time resting, and so she probably could have used a hotel room more than an apartment. Still, it was home, and Quinn had decorated it as best she could in her own style. Books littered nearly every inch, and her drawings hung on the walls.

One in particular, of a girl with brown eyes and a wide smile, took a place of prominence just to the left of Quinn's bed.

Dinner was simple; Quinn ate a sandwich and some soup as she scanned the news on television. Nothing much was happening lately; the world seemed peaceful and quiet. Van Gogh eventually made his way over to her and hopped onto the couch, allowing her a brief moment of petting and relaxation. But soon he too stalked off, and Quinn sighed.

She glanced around her apartment, empty save for her and an antisocial cat. She very rarely had friends over; despite the little amount of time she spent in her apartment it was her sanctuary, and she didn't feel like having it invaded by people she barely knew, even her classmates. Still, it was easy to get lonely, once the rush of getting from class to class, completing papers, engaging in spirited debates about submissives' rights was over.

Quinn took a deep breath. "I miss you," she said aloud.

She paused, and shook her head when there was nothing around her but silence. But it didn't stop her from speaking, as she did every night.

"I had a good day today," she said. "I-I got an A on my test, you know the one I told you I was so worried about? You should probably say that there was no reason for me to worry, that you knew all along I'd do fine. You… you used to always say that."

Still no answer. She waited for it, strained for it, a hint, a little tendril of pride dancing around her head.

Nothing.

But Quinn went on, her voice shaking even as she struggled to sound cheerful. "I've been hanging out with the girls a little too much; they say I'm turning into a city girl now instead of a Lima loser." She tried to laugh, but it was hollow. "I guess my New York conversion is almost complete. Which is fine with me, since it's home now. You know that, right? New York is my home now."

Quinn knew she was rambling, that her statements were soon to be bordering on desperation, but she didn't care. It was the same every night: she would come home, feed Van Gogh, have her dinner, and tell the space around her about her day.

"I'm doing a painting for the winter showcase, did I tell you? Well, it's not for the showcase yet; it's kind of like an audition. You paint and then you submit it, and if the judges like it you're asked to have it in the showcase. It could be a really good thing for me, there are galleries that come to the showcase and it might help me get some work. Or at least get my foot in the door. I'm really excited about it. Nervous too."

What was that?

Quinn sat bolt upright on the loveseat. Had that been… something? A touch, a caress, a gentle sliding over her mind almost like a hand on her shoulder, a squeeze? She waited, her mouth open a little, but after a few short moments, she slumped back.

She'd imagined it, of course. She wanted it so much that now she was projecting.

Taking a deep breath, Quinn closed her eyes. Balling her hands into fists, she concentrated.

Let me see you.

She searched, for something, anything, for a glimpse of a room, pink and bright. Of gold stars on the walls flashing in the moonlight. Stretching her hands out again she imagined that she was stroking brown hair, fingers threading through softness, comforting, giving strength.

Princess Rachel, please…

She heard nothing, felt nothing. Quinn choked back a sob as she opened her eyes, swiping the back of her hand across them and taking another deep breath.

"Okay," she said into her apartment. "Okay, gold star. Whenever you're ready."

After washing the few dishes and setting them on the rack to dry, Quinn remembered that tonight was laundry night. She made a face, but nonetheless went to her "bedroom" and gathered up all the clothes that were thrown on the bed and on the floor, shoving them into a basket. She hated the two flight trek to the laundry room, which is why she put off doing it as long as she could. She shoved a bottle of detergent down into the pile of laundry and cast a look at Van Gogh over her shoulder.

"Hold down the fort while I'm gone, boy."

Van Gogh responded by turning onto his side away from her, and Quinn laughed.

"Ass," she said affectionately, pushing the door shut with her foot and heading to the laundry room.

There were 6 washers and 6 dryers in the laundry, a nevertheless cramped and hot little room that perpetually smelled of sickly sweet fabric softener and dirty socks. Quinn struggled to get the door open but nearly fell through when she felt it pulled from the other side.

"Sorry about that," the guy said apologetically, then lifted her basket out of her hands. "Let me help with that."

"Sam," Quinn said, returning his smile with her own.

"Sam I am," he nodded, and sat her basket on one of the washers, then hopped up on to the one next to it, his legs swinging lazily.

Quinn shook her head. "Finish that with something about green eggs and ham and I don't care if I'm not the one you're bound to, I'll still put you on your knees." She grinned to show him that she was kidding; a submissive who was already bound would never respond to a Dominant that wasn't his, and Sam had been bound for almost as long as Quinn had.

The apartment was a mixture of both students and non, and Sam didn't go to NYU. Quinn didn't necessarily like that Sam worked at one of the strip joints in the city, but she knew that he was doing it to send a little money to his family back home. Plus that was more his Dominant's business, and not hers. Sam was a good guy, if a little dim, and had been her very first friend in New York, having helped her dad lug Quinn's bed up the flights of stairs to her apartment. They didn't hang around much except in the common rooms or at the laundry, but it was nice knowing that she had someone to connect with both at home and at school.

"Let me know how that works for you," Sam smirked at her, and Quinn laughed again as she started the wash.

She sobered though at Sam's next question. "So did you find her?"

It was a source of endless embarrassment for Quinn that she'd blurted out everything about her to Sam that first night in her new home. But he'd found her in the common room, curled up in an impossible position on one of the armchairs, sniffling with tears of homesickness and uncertainty. He'd sat with her all through the night and into the next morning, just talking and listening to her life story since the age of seven. Sam had been gentle and sympathetic, offering her tissues and then going out and bringing them both breakfast.

A bacon, egg, and cheese bagel. Extra bacon.

She must have told him that too, in between her rambles about Dominants and submissives and green ribbons and the voice of an angel. She'd smiled at him, teary-eyed, and their friendship had been set.

Quinn shook her head. "No." She shrugged. "She's here, I know she is. I can feel it. She's not dead, she hasn't left. She's here. I just don't know where."

Sam reached out to pat her shoulder. "You'll find her. Just got to keep looking."

Quinn smiled a little. "What about you?"

"Nah," Sam said, his expression saddening. "Same old thing, you know? Puck says he's not ready."

Unlike Quinn, Sam knew exactly where his dominant was, in a tiny run-down apartment on the other side of town. Bound together with Sam since the two boys were ten years old, Noah Puckerman nonetheless was, it seemed to Quinn, more interested in having fun and fooling around than staking his claim. It angered her, though she would never tell that to Sam. He was far too sweet, far too sensitive, and she didn't like feeling as if the other boy was bent on just playing with his emotions, keeping him tethered while keeping him at arm's length.

She'd once asked Sam if he thought he could find another Dominant.

Sam Evans had looked at her, his blue eyes clear and steady. "Can you find another girl?"

And she'd understood that. Oh, how she understood that. She could no more find another Rachel than she could stop drawing.

"Maybe he'll come around," Quinn offered, hoping she sounded more encouraging than she felt.

"Yeah, maybe," Sam said with a wry smile. "You know, he doesn't like…" Sam gestured, his hand falling them to his side. "What I do. Keeps talking about wanting to rescue me. He gets mad, but then, well, you haven't rescued me yet, have you, Puck?" His eyes took on a faraway look before focusing again, and he shrugged. "Yeah, that was unfair, sorry, dude."

Quinn glanced away, feeling as if she'd just intruded on a private moment. She wondered if Rachel ever felt that way, like Quinn was being unfair and expecting too much. She hoped not.

But then again, she was expecting too much.

"Don't give up," Sam said suddenly, as if he hadn't given Quinn this same speech a million times. "You love her, and you know, you say she loves you too. There's got to be a reason for all of this."

"Wish I knew what it was," Quinn muttered. "But she's so damn stubborn!" She said that last part loudly, with emphasis, in the hopes that the girl she was referring to would hear it. She gave Sam another small smile.

"I won't give up." She couldn't. She was bound.

"Good," Sam nodded, then, his laundry done, hopped off the washer and gathered it all into his own basket. He regarded Quinn seriously, saying "You're too good to give up on her. I mean I don't know, but she probably needs you."

Quinn thought about Sam's words as she finished up her laundry, as she did her homework, as she tried to drown out her thoughts by watching mindless late night television.

She probably needs you.

Quinn tried to remind herself, as she took a shower, then as she brushed her teeth, then as she climbed into bed and pulled the covers around herself, that she was in New York to get an education. She was in New York to learn about art history. To learn about architecture and the Civil War, the Holocaust and narrative imagery. She wasn't there to stalk coffee shops and bookstores, to peer into windows like a madwoman, to have her heart race every time she caught a glimpse of brown eyes and curly brown hair…

Quinn growled and thumped her pillow with her fist, causing Van Gogh to jump off her bed with a hiss. Who was she kidding? She knew why she was in New York. She was there for one reason and one reason only.

To find Rachel Berry.

She probably needs you.

"I love you," Quinn whispered into the dark silence of her bedroom. "I love you, little one. Please, where are you?"

Once again, to Quinn's wounded heart there came no answer.

Quinn nodded into her pillow. "Okay. Whenever you're ready." The words that had become her mantra for the past five years.

"I'm here, Rachel. Whenever you're ready. I'm here."