A/N:I own nothing. Wow, that was more reviews than I thought I was going to get and a shit load of story alerts/favorites. I would say that first chapter was more of a Prologue. I wanted to use this chapter to introduce you to Quinn a little bit more. You'll see one of the reasons there is possible angst in the future. You can thank a bout of insomnia for why I was able to get this chapter down on paper finally. Yes, paper. I always write with pen and paper before I type up my writings. Let me know what ya think again. Hope it's up to par.

Chapter 2

"So how has the past week gone?"

Quinn tore her gaze away from the pen and notepad poised for action and looked up into striking green eyes framed by a pair of wire rimmed glasses and bushy gray eyebrows.

"Well, Mack Attack., my week was just peachy. You know.. up until my sister called me during my break between classes last Wednesday, completely wasted, and proceeded to slur on about how much she loved me and to never take your loved ones for granted. Highlight of my week. By far."

The older man smirked at the nickname the blonde had chosen for this week's session. Dr. Charles Mack was an alcohol counselor for NYU. It had taken weeks for Quinn to muster up the courage to call the Student Counseling Services and schedule an appointment for an alcohol evaluation. Dr. Mack was surprised by the call. Most of his student patients were those that were required to attend session with the counselor for a set period of time. He usually dealt with the rowdy ones that had received a DUI, been arrested for public intoxication, or were addicted to recreational narcotics. Voluntary calls weren't a common occurrence in his department.

During Quinn's first session, the young woman sat in room with the counselor and filled out pages upon pages of paperwork and tests regarding her alcohol/drug intake and her medical and family history. Still, when she left the office about an hour later, she felt a bit lighter.

During Quinn's second session, Dr. Mack informed her he had gone through her tests and paperwork and it didn't look like she had anything to worry about. "You're not an alcoholic, Ms. Fabray. You're a young adult in college. Just about all students here would be considered binger drinkers if you held them to the scientific standards. Plenty of young adults are drinking and/or taking drugs as much as, if not more often than, you seem to be. You haven't had any thoughts of suicide. You don't let your drinking get in the way of your every day life. You aren't putting yourself or others in danger. Yes, you have a family history of alcoholism, but that doesn't mean that you will be affected by it necessarily. Alcoholism can be brought on by genetic and environmental factors, but ultimately it's a brain change where you simply have to have it. I don't think you're at that point yet. If you keep an eye on it, you should be just fine." After a few quiet moments, the girl gave him her thanks and left to process this new information, but not before scheduling another appoint on the way out.

When Quinn walked into her third session, the look of surprise that flashed across the counselor's face did not go unnoticed. She took a seat in the chair across from the man and sat quietly for a few moments before taking a deep breath and starting, "I hit rock bottom a few years back. And I think.. I think I need some help climbing back up. And maybe this will help to make sure I don't fall back down." Since that session, she had been returning to see the counselor once a week.

Throughout that semester, Dr. Mack learned about her alcoholic father. He learned about the emotional abuse she and her sister were dealt during his drunken stupor; the backhanded compliments and casual insults flung their way. Her older sister, Frannie, seemed to have been affected the most in this environment, following in her father's drunken footsteps. The older sibling had lost her best friend in college due to a drunk driving accident and naturally, turned to the bottle to help her deal with it. Although it pained Quinn to see her like that, she just wrote it off to being a Fabray.

"And after your sister called, what did you do?" the counselor asked.

The blonde sighs, "What I always do. I sat there and let her talk until she was crying into the phone. Then I became angry with myself for letting my sister turn out this way. Then I became angry with Frannie for her weakness of not being able to just deal with her problems.. or at least hide them away somewhere and forget about it." She snorts to herself at this point, "And after throwing a hissy fit on my cell phone, which is now broken, I went to a friend's open mic night where I proceeded to get drunk." The blonde chuckles coldly, "Who does that? Who gets upset at her sister's drunken depression and then heads to the nearest bar to get drunk herself? Oh right.. Fabrays.. kind of runs in the family."

"A lot of people drink after dealing with a crappy situation Quinn," Dr. Mack points out. "This doesn't make you an alcoholic. We've talked about this. You're a problem drinker. You don't drink because you have to; you drink because it's your way of dealin. We just have to find that something to help you deal with your issues and release that anger you have built up inside over the years."

"I just.. I don't know. I wish I were important enough to my sister to stop drinking. What do I expect, though? I did the same thing to –" she stops herself before she can say the name, as she feels an old but familiar ache radiate through her chest. Dammit. It had been months since she last thought of her, and longer since she's been able to say that name.

"Still not able to say it out loud?" the alcohol counselor asks, trying to distract her from her inner monologue.

"I can't even say it in my head. How am I expected to say it aloud? To her, I don't exist. Why should she still be able to exist in my world, in my thoughts, if I don't exist in hers? Do you know how foolish I feel.. Missing someone who's not even gone?" Quinn continues, getting lost in a whirlwind of old emotions becoming swept up in a storm that had long since passed. "Why wasn't I important enough for her to forgive? What wasn't I worth the extra effort? Was I too broken to fix?" The blonde was on the verge of tears at this point. Her eyes were red, puffy, and wet, but she refused to let any tears fall. It had been almost three years now. She was tired of crying over it. But it's not so easy to forget your first l - NO - best friend.

"I made one mistake; one horrible mistake. One that I have to live with, not her! A mistake I can't even remember. When you hit rock bottom, your bestfriend is supposed to help you back up. They're supposed to be the one to grab your hand and pull you back up. But that.. Person," she spit out, still not able to say a negative word about the other girl, "She just left me down there while she climbed higher to the top!"

The counselor and student sat in silence for a few moments as the clearly distraught girl fought to regain control of her breathing and piece back together her mask that had crumbled just moments earlier.

"How about we call it a day, huh?" Mack suggested, giving the girl an easy out. "This week I want you to come up with some alternative ways to deal with your problems other than drinking. Maybe try running, or video games, as long as it's something that keeps your mind and body occupied. It's like when a smoker holds a pen or pencil between their fingers just to keep their hands occupied so they don't grab for a cigarette. Hell, you could attempt knitting. My wife's been making me learn how to knit with her and.. Wait.. No, never mind. Two large pointy objects and a ball of yarn. That will either lead to you stabling something nearby like your precious $50 throw pillow your wife just had to have to bring together the sitting room décor, not to mention the shit fit Mrs. Mack threw when she found the cat after I tied it up with the tangled yarn ball."

He was able to get a gargled giggle out of the blonde who was trying to act as if she hasn't just lack of composure moments ago. "Oh, Mac Attack, you never cease to amaze me, old man," she said with a smile.

"Old.. Hrmph," the counselor grumbles, but the blonde can see the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. "Quinn," he begins, "Don't ever think you're not worth it. That just leads you down darker paths. Sometimes.. Sometimes people just get scared, and everyone deals with fear in different ways. But don't ever let someone make you feel like you weren't or aren't important enough for them. As for your sister, I think it would be beneficial for you to tell her how it makes you feel when she calls you drunk. You have your own problems. I'm not saying you have to completely ignore hers, but you can't be her rock when you're not that solid to begin with. You were forced to grow up faster than most people your age. Don't forget that you're still young. You don't have to be a 6-year-old to build a blanket fort. Breathe a little. Live a little. But really, talk to your sister. She just might listen."

The blonde nodded her head up and down even though that conversation would never actually occur. It wasn't the Fabray way. Drunken sob fests were one thing when one of the participants could act as if they don't remember it the next day, whether they actually blacked out or not. It was a whole 'nother story to soberly share your feelings or secrets. It only opened you up to being vulnerable, and vulnerable meant weak. Fabrays didn't do weak.

"Okay," she mumbles, standing up to leave. She throws her bag over her shoulder and heads to the door. "See you next week, Mack," she tosses back as she walks out.

Xx—Xx

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Running. Dr. Mack had told her to try running next time she wanted a drink. After that session, the former cheerleader could really use a drink. She needed something, anything to take her mind off of her old.. friend. That's how she found herself lacing up her old sneakers, sporting a pair of tight, black running shorts (the weather had gotten warmer thankfully), a deep purple sports bra, and a light windbreaker. She headed out the door and made it to Central Park as quickly as possible. Running through the streets of the City, she was able to push the anger from earlier down and clear her mind a little, but now the park benches, families, and trees were reminding her of home. She shouldn't be surprised, really. Central Park is where she came to get away from the hustle and bustle and relax. It was her little piece of Ohio almost. Sure, there weren't people with purple Mohawks walking around Lima, and at home it was a little easier to breathe without the smog, but the trees and green grass gave her a sense of home. And with the running she was reminded of the Cheerios' trail runs on the weekends. She would lead the squad around the outskirts of town where there was nothing but nature and silence. All you could hear was the steady breathing and footfalls of the girls. It was during these quiet times that the squad really felt like a team. The blonde always lead the runs with her dark-haired second in command right by her side. Light and dark. Day and night. They were best friends, always pushing each other. The two would listen to the other's breath and footsteps until they matched up. Left, right, left, right. They'd both be in sync, and sometimes Quinn would turn to smile at –NO, NO, NO, STOP IT! Theblonde shook her head to pull herself out of her thoughts. She must've yelled that last part out loud because the old couple on the bench she's passing are looking at her oddly. She ignores them, though, turning her music up higher. Stop doing this to yourself. She erased you from her life. You need to do the same! C'mon. Think of something else. She picks up the pace as her memory takes her back to Cheerios training again. C'mon, c'mon. Please don't do this. She's running along the trails in Lima, but this time when she turns to smile, she's met with Rachel Berry, wearing the same outfit she had on the night the two ran into each other (literally). Rachel's feet are moving in sync with her own and her breathing has evened out to match Quinn's. Her chest is heaving up and down from her deep breaths, causing her breasts to jump just a little – "AHH!"

When the runner opens her eyes again, a tiny monster licking at her face greets her. Or maybe it was a tiny dog.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry! He just got away from me."

Quinn looked down to find a leash tangled around her legs. She then looks to her hands and knees. Minimal bleeding with multiple scrapes, and that was definitely going to bruise. She winces as the dog pulls on the leash attempting to get to the side of Quinn's face he has yet to lick.

"Arthur, stop that!"

So the tiny monster had a name, Arthur. Getting a good look at him, since he was perched on top of her chest, she took in the dog's scrunched up face and stubby little legs. French bulldog. Her aunt used to have one of those.

"I really am sorry. He gets excited like me when he sees the ducks, and he took off towards the water as soon as he heard them. It's kind of funny actually. Usually I'm the one dragging him along behind me because I'm taller than him, and that means I can see the ducks quicker."

Quinn breaks eye contact with the tiny- er – Arthur to finally look up at this woman going on about ducks. That was what she was talking about, right? Maybe she hit her head when she fell or something. Great, Fabray. Two concussions within a week's span.

"Oh. Hey! I think I know you!" the woman exclaims. At this, the runner actually notices Arthur's caretaker. She appears to be the same age as herself. Blonde hair. Blue eyes framed by bangs. Cute smile. She does look familiar, but Quinn can't quite place the young woman. Her eyes travel along the taller woman's body, clad in a cut-off sweater, black leggings, and Nike high tops. Dancer, she realizes. Mike. Mike's a dancer. The shorter blonde's brain seems to finally be catching up with her.

"You're a Mike!" Quinn blurts out. The other blonde looks confused. "I mean a dancer. You're a dancer. Mike's a dancer." She's still getting a weird look.. "You dance with my friend, Mike Chang. I think I've seen you a couple of times when I meet him at the studio to walk home from class."

The dancer is now smiling at the runner her dog took down. "You're cute," she states.

"Uh, n.. no. I'm Quinn," the runner sutters. Oh, wow. Smooth, Quinn. But the taller blonde simply giggles. "Hi, Quinn. I'm Brittany, and this is Arthur." The blonde on the ground, who's blushing beyond belief right now, turns to pat the dog on the head, "Right. Hi, Arthur. You think I could get some help up, Brittany?"

Quinn extends her hand to the dancer and is yanked up and untangled from Arthur. "Thanks," she says, brushing off gravel from her knees and palms.

"Oh, no problem," Brittany chirps, "You looked like you could use a lift up even before Arthur took you down." Quinn tilts her head a Brittany questioningly. "You know, like you looked down and blue, even though you were up and blonde."

Was she really that obvious, or could this girl just read her really well? She was hoping for the first. She'd always been able to hide behind her icy façade or her polite Christian manners. She didn't know how she felt about someone being able to see beyond that just upon meeting her.

"You look like Arthur when you tilt your head like that," the tall dancer pointed out. Quinn looks down to the dog and notices he's staring up at her with the same tilt. "So, um, we should maybe hang out sometime. Arthur and I would really like to have someone to watch the ducks with us every now and then." Quinn wonders when the other blonde had gotten so shy all of a sudden, but quickly picks up on the tentative hopefulness in the girl's suggestion. Mike was the main reason Quinn even had friends at all. Him and class group projects that introduced her to people like Blaine. It could be hard to make friends in the City. The girl didn't seem like a serial killer, just a little different. And her dog really was adorkable.

She makes a decision, "Sure, Brittany. That sounds nice." The runner suddenly finds herself pulled into a fierce hug by the squealing dancer.

"Oh, this is so great! Here let me give you my number!" Quinn was about to tell Brittany that she had recently broken her iPhone until the other girl pulls out a marker from her bag and gabs her hand. "Oh wait, you've got scratches all over your hands. Here.." the excited blonde knelt down in front of Quinn and proceeds to write her name and number on the top of the runner's thigh, right where her shorts end. "There! Well, it was super great to meet you, Quinn, but Arthur here gets cranky when I keep him from the ducks for too long. Call me soon. Bye!"

Brittany walks off with her furry counterpart, leaving behind a dazed and confused Quinn. Once she notices the girl and dog have made it to the ducks, she brings herself out of her trance, deciding to start the trek back to her apartment. She received some funny looks and a random high-five in the first 10 minutes of her walk home. "Um.." she raises and eyebrow at the teenage boy that had just slapped hands with her. He points down to her leg, smirks, and keeps on walking. She looks down. Right. She has a girl's information written on her leg. Quinn decides to ignore the pain and run the rest of the way home.

Xx—Xx

*Ding*

Finally, Quinn internally sighed, getting off the elevator onto the floor of her apartment. She walked around the corner of her hallway, once again disappointed there were no signs of a certain brunette. She had been keeping an eye and ear out for the tiny actress since their disastrous encounter the week before. She left her apartment at different times to try and catch a glimpse of chestnut hair or tan skin. She tried chewing her morning cereal quieter to see if she could hear movement in the hall in the mornings. One night, she stubbed her toe on the coffee table before crashing with the floor trying to get to the peephole when she thought she heard a woman getting off the elevator talking on her cell phone. That time she simply laid on the floor afraid to get up and check the hallway, fearing the person had heard the loud crash and curse come from within her apartment.

Just down the hall, she mused, but where down the hall? The note hadn't left any indication of which door the famous star could be found behind. Quinn didn't really know any of her neighbors, or had never really paid attention to anyone on her floor, so she wasn't even given the luxury of being able to narrow down her options. As the blonde reaches her own door, she goes to pull out her key wedged between her shorts and skin, but it's not there. She pats around on her leg and butt. Then tries the other side when she feels no key. She even pulls her waistband out to visually check that there's no key in her pants, hoping for it to magically drop out of her running shorts onto the floor. Arthur, she realizes. It must've fallen out of my shorts when that adorable mutt tripped me up. Now here she stands at her door with no key, no phone to call the super, and all she thinks is, God, I could use a drink. She rests her forehead on the door. "Stupid," she mutters. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," she repeats as she bangs her head against her door.

"I take this to mean you regularly participate in conversations with yourself then?" she hears from behind her. Spinning around she comes face to face with her new neighbor. "And apparently you are also prone to weekly accidents," the actress observes as chocolate eyes travel the blonde's body taking in her damaged hands and injured knees.

"Rachel," is the only word Quinn's able to get out after the shock of seeing the brunette wears off. The other girl smiles, "Good! You know my name then. I realized after leaving the note on your door that it was a bit pretentious of me to sign it with simply my initials seeing as you might not actually know who I am. I mean not everyone owns a TV, and some people, though obviously uneducated, don't like to take in the theater or appreciate Broadway. Afterwards I realized that maybe I should have gone with the third draft of that note, but the fourth one was the shortest and I didn't want to try taping a three page note to your door and-"

"Where do you live?" the blonde asks, cutting off the rant. Rachel pouts at her a little having been cut off in the middle of her paragraph. "I mean, you said you lived just down the hall, but you didn't say where down the hall," Quinn elaborates.

This new information seems to fluster the singer. "Oh my goodness. How careless of me! And here I thought I scared you away, or you thought I was holding your clothes hostage. My apologies!"

She's so proper, Quinn notices. She thinks about how much her mom would beam at this woman's manners. She always said her little Quinnie needed to find more friends that were more polite. Judy Fabray couldn't stand the abrasive bluntness of her friends back in high school, especially – No, Quinn! – she shakes her head back and forth to knock away thoughts of the girl that had been plaguing her all day.

"I'm sorry. Is my talking annoying you that much?" Quinn realizes Rachel now has her hands perched upon her hips with a bit of an exasperated look on her face.

"No! No, Rachel. It's just.. my brain hurts. I've had a long day, and now I'm locked out of my apartment, and my cell phone is broken so I have no way to call the super," the blonde explains.

"Oh. I see. Well, if it's not too uncomfortable for you, you are more than welcome to come over to my place. You can call the super on my phone and take a shower while you wait. I'm sure I have some sweats and a shirt you can change into while you wait. Actually, if you don't already have plans, I have wine and my TV and DVD player are now set up and ready to be exploited for many, many Streisand marathons, unless you don't like Barbara. Although, I can't see why anyone wouldn't like someone so talented and –" As much as Quinn is enamored with this woman's antics, the hallway is getting quite chilly.

"Rachel!" she cuts the brunette off once again. "I'll watch whatever you want as long as I can get out of these sweaty clothes."

The brunette smiles, "Great! Ready?"I don't know. Am I? she asks herself as she follows Rachel Berry down the hallway to her apartment. "Oh, and I'll grab you a pen and paper when we get inside," the actress throws back over her shoulder. Quinn lifts an eyebrow to this. "Well, I'm sure you'll want to write down Brittany's name and number so it doesn't wash off in the shower," Rachel smirks looking down to the blonde's graffiti'd leg as she drags her into her place.

A/N: Who loves Arthur?