Author's Note: Gah, I seem to forget to mention that this story is very AU. Clearly, some facts stay, while others don't Furthermore, based on my outline, it's just a couple more chapters before we move back into McKinley and involve the rest of our Gleeks. Woo~ So we'll finally see the state of Fuinn as a relationship, Mike's friendships and how they often deal with the seasons which they aren't friends. Thanks to everyone who's liking/supporting this story. Remember: review. They make me smile

Let Me Tell You A Story

To say that Annabelle Rochester lives for summertime is an understatement. Not only is her pocket just a little bit heavier with the full payment of each camper's tuition, but it's also when she truly lives. The rest of the seasons are spent managing her grandfather's diner just off the highway with Dylan Fields, the love of her life and lifelong best friend.

Having founded the camp a good ten years ago, Annabelle has seen many campers come and go. She often tells Dylan, who somehow grows far too attached to the current campers about to leave, that it is "the same circus, different clowns". That there's not a big difference when one sees it from the grand scheme of things. To her, they are all apples who fall from the same tree. They're all just kids, they all just want to have fun. She's heard this story time and time again, and though she loves each one of them, she doesn't grow too attached. Until Mike and Quinn, of course.

She never fancied herself an emotional woman, or maternal. For that very reason, she and Dylan never planned on children. Being a seasonal camp owner, a seasonal parent figure, is enough for her. It always has been. But two years into running Camp Rochester-Fields, she's convinced she wants children. Doe-eyed, eight-year-old Mike Chang and sunflower blonde Quinn Fabray convince her of that.

There's something so beautiful about the way they interact with each other. And through the six years that she's observed them, silently watching their friendship develop. There were the more obvious things, like them bickering from dawn until dusk, or the dark-haired boy ushering her away from whichever camper offended her that day.

Then, there were the things only she could see: an outsider looking into something so special, she dared not mock it, up to this day. Through the years, she had witnessed the tiny moments that defined them, and their friendship. She witnesses Chang Junior's first defiant action against his parents at the age of thirteen: trading in his summer dedicated to tutors for another year of "mind rotting, useless summer camp". She watches the ever-confident Quinn Fabray fall for the very first time: literally and figuratively.

For two months every year, for the past six years, she watches as two peculiar children grow and change. Then there's their relationship. Annabelle couldn't be fooled by the snide remarks and the endless, pointless arguments about the shape of clouds or something equally idiotic. She sees beyond it, and into the true depth of their friendship. Often times, she overhears Quinn assisting a stressed Mike in going through his summer reading list, and along the way, she reads out loud just so he can better understand it. Other times, he's teaching her to dance, to laugh at herself, usually on the heels of a night dedicated solely to tears and "why can't daddy stop drinking?", with Mike cradling her in his arms.

They're so young, so fragile, and Annabelle has taken it upon herself to protect them. Well, protect them while they protect each other. She could never underestimate the power of Quinn and Mike to care for one another. Of course, she longs for her own children, children to call hers. The issue of her not being able to bear children, however, is an entirely different matter she doesn't like to think too much about.

As per every Thursday afternoon, approximately thirty minutes after the afternoon classes have been let out, Annabelle Rochester is cooking up her signature dish: ramen. No one has the courage to tell her ramen isn't exactly the most ambitious, courageous or complicated of dishes. And as per every Thursday afternoon, Mike and Quinn take time out of their busy schedule of soccer, bickering and bike riding to feast on the homemade (as homemade as instant noodles can be) meal. And as per every Thursday afternoon, they come into the Rochester-Field's camp-based, home arguing.

"You're an idiot," the nasally voice of one blonde-haired, teenager girl fills the bungalow, followed by the door being slammed shut.

"Just peachy, Quinn" the sarcastic yet polite, careful voice of her male companion manages to be received by Annabelle. Mike always had a habit of toning down his voice when he knew others could potentially be listening in. Of course, she only learned this after eavesdropping on him and Quinn talking in private years ago.

"Oh, I thought it was lemony," snaps Quinn.

"Was I being lime?" jokes Mike. Even from the kitchen, Annabelle could already see the pair, standing in her living, Quinn bursting with shallow anger and annoyance, and Mike cool and nonchalant. She could already imagine Quinn's stern expression melt, and that signature sincere smile, not the one she often likes to use on elders and children, take over her face. The camp owner can practically feel the anger simmer down, and the affectionate looks between both of them occur. And almost immediately, she knows the argument is over.

"Dork,"

"Priss,"

"Lime,"

"Lemon,"

"Cheesecake,"

"Q, cheesecake is irrelevant," says Mike, as if Quinn is a four-year-old who couldn't differentiate between similarities and differences.

"Remember this: cheesecake is never irrelevant,"

Deciding to break up the battle of fruits and food between the two, Annabelle tosses her creamy white dish rag on the island counter, making her way into the living room. Chuckling, she surveys the two with her sparkling Emerald orbs, she shakes her head, amused. "Eventually you two will have to stop these little arguments of yours," she directs it towards Quinn, more out of awareness that between the two, its Quinn who will carry forth the rest of the conversation.

"Now why would we do that?" teases the cheerleader, wrapping her arm around Annabelle's delicate, petite frame. "We happen to enjoy arguing,"

"You enjoy arguing," the Asian boy pipes in, following his friend's lead and bashfully wrapping his arms around the camp owner.

"Oh, like you don't?"

"Mike enjoys anything involving you, sweetie" the elder woman pipes in. Her eyes move from Quinn to Mike, gauging their reactions. Quinn barely blinks before giving them both an easy, polite smile, whereas Mike's cheeks burn at the accusation.

"But of course he does, I'm his lemon" chides Quinn.

"I will never understand this lemon-lime reference of yours," she watches as their eyes meet. It's probably what she loves the most between the two best friends. Whenever their eyes land upon one another, something fills the air. There's a mysterious understanding that somehow isolates everyone else. It's something only they can understand, but something neither comprehends to be anything more than a look. "I made ramen," she tells them conversationally, striding into the kitchen and picking up the pot with the finished ramen inside.

"I love ramen," mumbles Mike. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him pull out a seat, gesturing for his blonde companion to sit. She drowns them out as they bicker, yet again. One can only stand listening to their petty back and forth before they feel themselves becoming light headed.

"And so the fruits have found their way to our home, Annabee" Dylan's voice rings through the walls of the house. Sure enough, Annabelle's husband of fifteen years makes his way into the kitchen, the sweat trickling down his face. Clearly, the smoldering heat of Ohio is set on making everyone melt. "What are you two arguing about this time?"

"We're discussing, it's an entirely different manner all together," persuades Quinn.

"Yeah, Dyl. They're discussing, it's an entirely different manner all together," mocks the elderly woman, twisting her fiery red hair into a messy chignon. Rolling his eyes, Dylan refocuses his attention on the two, eyes sparkling with amusement.

"What exactly are Mike and Quinn discussing then?" he asks, running his fingers through his jet-black hair.

"Mike's sexist,"

"How so?" asks Annabelle. She walks over to her husband, slapping four cotton placemats against his chest, before turning back to the kitchen.

"He pulled out my chair for me-"

"I was being a gentleman!"

"You were being sexist. I could very well pull out my own chair. I don't need a man to do it for me,"

"Can't you at least appreciate that I was being polite?" snaps Mike, unable to comprehend why the girl always found a flaw in every little thing he did.

"How can I when it was your way of undermining my gender? Women have fought for gender equality. Who's to say I shouldn't be pulling chairs out for you, hm?"

"Is this the pre-adolescent, idealistic stage those parenting books talk about?" Dylan wonders out loud, moving around the tiny, iron white table, placing the mats in front of every seat.

"I hope not, I don't like seeing our fruits ripe," murmurs Annabelle, pouring an equal amount of ramen into both of their bowls. She sends them a cautious glance. Sometimes the two broke free from their teenage, pseudo-maturity and compare the amount of soup, noodles and vegetables they have. More than anything, she's already anticipating the day the two leave camp. It'll never be the same, that's for sure. The two are such deeply embedded fixtures in the camp, like the trees or the cabins, its impossible to imagine it commencing every summer without them.

"Thank you," drawls Mike, looking pointedly over at Quinn.

"Huh?" Quinn asks, bewildered.

"That's what you're supposed to say, Q: thank you,"

"I'm not thankful," she grumbles.

"It's the polite thing to do," rolling her eyes, she jabs his ribs with the back end of her fork.

"Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I always have to be 'polite'" the boy's eyes twinkle with achievement, shrugging as he purses his lips.

"You saying that means you're just as 'sexist' as I am," the blonde's eyes widen indignantly, slamming her hand on the iron white table. The claws were coming out, and Annabelle decides to cut Quinn's enraged rant on gender equality short.

"Food is ready," she announces proudly, snapping at both Quinn and Mike to make their way over to the counter. The cocky smirk on Mike's face, and the redness of Quinn's, disappear and change to longing. Both find their way out of their seats, walking over and picking up their respective bowls. Mike's has the plastic, Spiderman cup purchased from Walmart whereas Quinn has the simplistic, white bowl.

"Mature, Mike" she jokes, nodding to the Spiderman colors and pictures printed along his cup. Walking faster than him, she sets her bowl down, reaching for the back of his seat and pulling it out for him to seat himself.

Laughing, both Dylan and Annabelle join the two. The lengths in which their arguments would continue on to always amused them. Then again, the two Lima residents could stand against the wall and provide entertainment, no problem.

The four sit on each corner of the small, round table, silently sipping on the salty soup. Three out of the four, that being everyone that isn't Annabelle "I'm the next Iron Chef" Rochester, nod and avoid cringing at the high amount of sodium. Midway through the surprisingly silent meal, undoubtedly because the two campers were kicking each other from beneath the table, Dylan begins laughing into his soup.

Mike and Quinn, oblivious to them being the cause of this laughter, continue on eating, shaking every now and then when the other kicks harder. Annabelle stares at her husband, raising her thin, graceful eyebrows questioningly. His eyes move from the soup, over to his wife, Quinn, Mike, Annabelle, the soup, the two teens and finally back at his wife.

"Oh," both teens are broken out of their bubble of oblivion, looking at Annabelle expectantly.

"Oh?" repeats Quinn.

"We were just thinking, is all," excuses Annabelle, raising her hand to swat the air to signify nonchalance.

"Remembering, actually" Dylan adds.

"Remembering what?" mumbles Mike questioningly.

"This story we heard before," answers the elderly male, blowing on the hot broth.

"What was it about?" those expressive, hazel eyes widen in curiosity, as if she would die if she didn't find out what the story is about. Annabelle's gaze immediately shifts to Mike who, unsurprisingly, is carrying that look of unadulterated amusement. She loves looking at the way he looks at Quinn, there's so much love and amusement in it, she feels her heart melt.

"These two people," Dylan begins, coughing inwardly. "They fell in love," raising her eyebrow, Quinn shifts in her seat.

"Isn't every love story like that?" she immediately critiques, only for Mike to gently shove her.

"Shut up," rolling her eyes, the blonde complies.

"Well, they didn't know they were in love. They actually didn't figure it out for a long time," supplies Annabelle, holding her husband's hand from beneath the table.

"Idiots," comments Dylan.

"Very big idiots, indeed," agrees Annabelle.

"How couldn't they have figured that out? When you love someone, you know it right away," Mike nods along with Quinn. Only blundering, dense idiots would remain unaware of something like that.

"It's never that easy, Q" says Annabelle simply.

"Yes it is," Mike defends, picking up his and Quinn's now-empty bowls, walking over to the sink.

"Maybe it is," Dylan gives in. "But they were both pretty stubborn. They were in love for decades, and only really realized it after…" he trails off.

"After what?" asks Quinn excitedly, resting her chin on her hands, watching Annabelle and Dylan.

"After all the wrong people," he responds.

"Again; they're idiots. If there's a 'right' person, you know it's them right away. You don't get fooled by the 'wrong' people," the woman only chuckles at Quinn's criticism.

"Well there was more. They went through hell; society, family, heck, even they didn't want to be with each other!" exasperates Dylan. "It's like everything tore them apart. Even themselves. So they could never really see it,"

"So? Fight for the one you want. I don't get why it's so difficult," Quinn says again.

"Not everyone is as smart as you are, darling" the sarcasm in Dylan's voice escapes Quinn. "Not everyone as brave… As confident… As realistic,"

"That they aren't," the cheerleader agrees, standing up, she places her hands on her waist, smiling politely at the couple.

"Cocky, much?" asks Mike, moving behind the girl and snaking his arms around her dainty waste. He hides his face into her hair, a light kiss finding its way to the top of her head.

"Very much," she replies, shoving him slightly. "You smell like the sun," comments Quinn.

"You smell like lavender-you don't hear me complaining,"

"Except lavender smells good, whereas you don't," returns the blonde.

"Yet you're still here," he concludes. She doesn't honor him with a response, mostly because the redness of her face acts as a dead giveaway. If only she realizes that, and if only he figures that out.

"So how does the story end?" Mike asks the couple. They look at each other, smiling mysteriously, before moving their gazes back at the two.

"You figure it out," Annabelle answers.

Hours later, once Mike and Quinn have vanished from their household, the co-owners of the camp stand at their patio. They observe many of the campers floating around the area; the younger children playing hide and seek, with the older teenagers texting on their cellphones. From afar, they can already spot their two favorites sitting beneath the great, large tree. Mike's attention is captivated by the latest Archie comic book, while Quinn's is dedicated solely to applying her eyeliner. It's so simple, so obvious, Annabelle continues to chuckle every now and again. Dylan, having put up with his wife's embarrassing snickers long enough, drops his latest golf magazine to attend to her.

"What is it, red?" asks her husband, brushing his fingers along her arm.

"Think we should have told them?" she asks.

"The end? Or the fact that it's us?" he inquires in response. Annabelle shrugs.

"That they're playing out the same story," she replies simply. Dylan shakes his head profusely, as if he has never been more sure of anything in his life.

"Let them figure it out for themselves," he says confidently.

"It won't be easy," she points out. "How many people, how many things, did we have to go through before we finally realized all we needed is each other?" Dylan stares longingly at his wife. He wishes they had their own children. He really does. No one could be a better mother, a better person, than his wife. It's almost impossible to imagine anyone else being a better mother to his children.

"No one every wrote great love stories about 'easy', effortless, love"