A/N: Alright, kids. Here's chapter four. It's long. Over 10k words and eighteen pages, single spaced. I have cut it apart and patched it back together five times. If there are glaring errors, apologies all around - ten thousand words is a lot to sift through in one go. As always, thank you to everyone who has read and commented and favorited. I'm just shy of 700 favorites, and it blows my mind. You guys are the best! Still love to hear what you think.


Rachel's dad opens the door for me, and I enter the Berry house for the third time in my life. The first time was last year when Rachel threw a party for the glee club. I was still battling my feelings for her, fresh off Sam dropping me for Santana. The second time was last night after Cheerios practice. After kissing her in the lounge; after wondering for hours if I'd overstepped my boundaries, dreading the look on her face when she saw me again. Dreading the words, "You're a really sweet girl, Quinn, but..."

Both times I was on enemy ground, expecting an ambush at any moment. Both times, I was defeated before I even got here. But this time... This time, Rachel is expecting me. She wants me here; she's waiting for me as much as I'm waiting for her. This time, I belong here. So, I finally let myself relax and take it in.

The foyer is lined with photographs, nearly floor to ceiling. All sizes, mostly black and whites; a few in color. All of them candids. All of them startlingly clear, intimate.

"Who's the photographer?" I ask Rachel's dad as he closes the door behind me.

His sheepish smile gives him away, but he shrugs and says "guilty" anyway.

"They're beautiful." I feel like I'm telling him something he already knows; like, if I'd said, 'the sun is very hot.'

"Rachel will be right down, Quinn," he tells me. He has the kindest eyes. Brown and soft, like Rachel's. "She hasn't stopped talking about you all afternoon. We already love you." And then, "I won't even tell her that you stood on the front porch for ten minutes before you rang the doorbell."

I suddenly feel like I've just eaten a box of chalk. Fantastic. I try to swallow it down and defend myself. "I rang the doorbell." It's a feeble attempt, at best.

He's halfway down the hallway, laughing, before he throws the word "barely" over his shoulder.

I feel like I should be embarrassed, but I'm not. He's not like most adults in my world. I actually kind of like him.

He disappears into the kitchen, and I find myself alone, surrounded by these black and white memories. Rachel's memories, frozen in time.

To distract myself from the nervousness fluttering around inside my stomach, I look at them. There are so many. A Rachel Berry timeline, framed and quilted together on the wall.

I start at the beginning.

The tiniest Rachel Berry. Weeks old, perhaps. She's not much bigger than Beth was when I held her those first few minutes of her life. Eyes closed, sleeping. The photograph is so vivid, I can almost see her tiny chest rising and falling with breath.

Several more baby pictures, all of them as riveting as the first. Then, a rosy-cheeked toddler Rachel in a blue hooded windbreaker (one of the only color photographs on the wall), scooping up an armful of brown leaves. She's giggling, her tiny head thrown back, eyes squinted against the sun, leaves tumbling from her arms.

First day of school. Little white baby teeth in a perfect row except for one gaping hole on the top right. My Fair Lady lunchbox dangling at her side. Sweater vest, plaid skirt, Mary Janes. So excited to be going to school for the first time!

The most adorable little girl I've ever seen (what is she here, seven? eight?) holding up a giant bloated toad, her hair a gleaming black in the sunlight. Rachel. This one, like the others, is unbelievably clear; I feel like seven-year-old Rachel is standing right in front of me. I can almost feel the heat shining down on her. It makes me shiver in the Berry's shadowy foyer.

A few years older, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Another, sitting on the lap of the other Mr. Berry. Each photograph startlingly clear. All of them happy. This is Rachel's world? No wonder she's so unsinkable at school. It's such a far cry from the dynamic in my own family; I'm fascinated.

There are others, too. Several of the two Mr. Berrys (Berries?) together. I wonder if Rachel took these. She's almost as good as her dad.

I'm at the high school section of the wall, nearly at the end. Here's Rachel in her football uniform, shoulder pads encasing her, black lines beneath her eyes. I remember this! The way she looked, the way I wanted to pull her under the bleachers and kiss her senseless. Mostly, the way I worried myself sick that she would get hurt.

The last photograph stops my breath in my throat. It's the largest one on the wall. It's Rachel. High school Rachel. My Rachel.

She's alone, on stage. Performing. Microphone curled into her hand, lights sparkled into stars behind her shining down, lighting her up. She looks... unstoppable.

My chest tightens, staring at it. There's not enough air.

There's a soft thudding on the stairs and I look up to see that Rachel dropping down them lightly, almost skipping, her face lit up in the most breathtaking smile.

"Rachel," I say, and all the air I was fighting for escapes my lungs in a rush. I feel like I might capsize.

Even now, with her hair braided loosely in pigtails and wearing a charcoal hoodie, chucks, and the tightest jeans I've ever seen, she's unstoppable. She's fantastic.

She's perfect.

She jumps off the bottom step, and her arms are immediately around my waist. I don't even remember going to her, but here I am, holding her against me. I feel like my face may spontaneously combust and burst into flames, I'm smiling so big.

"You look adorable," I murmur.

"Somebody told me to wear a hoodie," she says. Between her giggling and her pigtails, I have this urge to pick her up and twirl her around in my arms.

Instead, I tug a pigtail lightly and kiss the tip of her nose. I tell her, "You'll be happy you listened. Trust me."

"I'm already happy," she says, and then her hand is on my cheek, guiding our lips together in the softest, sweetest kiss. Her lips are full of heat, like the rest of her, and they fit with mine perfectly. She caresses my cheek with her thumb, holding me steadily against her. I love the way her mouth tastes.

My heart is actually fluttering in my chest.

It feels so good, but somehow it also aches.

"It's been too long since you've kissed me," she murmurs against my mouth, and I'm inclined to agree. Can we just skip the date and stand here in the foyer kissing all night?

I bury my nose in her neck and breathe deeply. There's nothing on earth that smells like Rachel. She doesn't wear perfume; it's all her. It's kind of earthy and peppery and, well, Rachel. I nuzzle her, and the way she tips her head to the side makes me think she might want me to kiss her there.

The thought is intoxicating, her wanting my mouth on her body.

"Girls, I'd like to get—" Rachel's dad says, coming back down the hallway. I don't hear what he'd like to get because I spring back from Rachel like she's doused me with scalding water.

"Quinn!" She looks slightly shocked and more than a little hurt.

"Your father," I hiss, and she rolls her eyes dramatically.

"Oh, good grief, Quinn," she says, catching me by the hand and pulling me back into her arms. "No one cares."

I look to Mr. Berry for confirmation, but he only shrugs and shakes his head.

Rachel kisses me to prove her point and when I break away nervously, Mr. Berry is smiling warmly at us.

He's fine; Rachel's fine; I'm fine. I feel myself relax slowly back into Rachel until I notice that in one hand, Mr. Berry is clutching a bulky camera with a heavy-looking lens. "How about a photo?" he says, and I feel myself stiffen all the way down. Getting my picture taken is almost like a punishment for me. I don't look good in pictures; every flaw frozen for eternity.

The lost girl inside of me is pounding her fists, trying to get my attention. She's panicking.

"Do we have to do this?" I mumble. I don't want to look at Rachel right now. I don't want to look at her dad. My cheeks are burning. We don't need a picture. We especially don't need a picture of me.

"Come on, Quinn. One photo," Rachel says. The warmth in her voice captures me; I'm unable to escape and I find myself falling easily into her eyes once again.

"A first date memento," Mr. Berry adds helpfully. "Besides, don't steal this away from me, Quinn. I'm a bit of a shutterbug. It's what I do."

"For a living?" I can't help the question. He's certainly talented enough to be a professional.

He laughs at that. "Goodness, no. I'm a computer guy. It's just a hobby. So? How about it?" Mr. Berry lifts his camera slightly like he's temping me with it.

Rachel squeezes my hand. "We'll add it to the wall," she whispers into my ear, and I'm instantly overcome with the thought of my face on Rachel Berry's family wall.

On her timeline.

Could I fit there? Could Quinn Fabray fit into Rachel Berry's perfect world? One picture can't hurt, I tell my lost girl, and she sulks. I know I can't win her trust, but maybe Rachel can.

"If we're going to do this, we're doing it my way," I say and pull Rachel to stand in front of me. I press against her back, rest my chin on her shoulder and wrap my arms around her middle.

Nervousness flares in my chest over holding Rachel like this in front of her father, but the necessity to hide myself behind her trumps my shyness.

With Rachel in my arms, with her shielding me like this, I feel instantly at peace.

She rests a hand on my forearm, toying with my sweatshirt, and laces her other hand in mine over her stomach. She leans back into me, letting me support her completely. I hide my grin on her shoulder. Even when she's shielding me from an irrational fear, there's a certain give and take.

Picture or not, I haven't felt this happy in a long, long time.

"One, two, three," Mr. Berry says, and the camera clicks several times in a row. "Another?" he asks, and I groan.

Rachel only giggles, cranes her neck back, presses her lips lightly to my cheek. My eyes flutter closed and I can hear Mr. Berry's camera shuckshuckshucking.

Now Rachel's spun completely in my arms, pushing herself up on her tiptoes with her lips touching lightly to the tip of my nose. I'm focused completely on her, and at some point, I forget about Mr. Berry and his camera.

"Well, this feels familiar," I murmur. I adore the look on her face. She's so innocent and sweet. I suddenly feel like a suitor from the olden days. Miss Berry, I'd be pleased if you'd allow me to sit in your parlor this evening. I'd be delighted to accompany you to the Sunday social this week, Miss Berry.

I indulge in my dream world, snuggling into Rachel and mentally wooing her, while Mr. Berry's camera snaps picture after picture.

Rachel is hamming it up now, throwing looks over her shoulder dramatically, arranging me in ridiculous poses like she's the photographer, saying things like, "Quinn, can you do that pouty thing with your mouth? Perfect. The camera looooooooooves you."

I'm laughing, and when Mr. Berry finally lowers his camera, I feel good. It's like nothing I've ever felt before. It feels warm and happy and relaxed. It feels like family.

It hits me in the chest like someone socked me with a big, fluffy pillow.

I want this. I want this with Rachel.

I catch her hand, swing it between us. This is the moment that I know without a doubt that we're good together. Our date has already been perfect, and we're still standing in the foyer.

"Ready to go, Rach?" I ask. I know she is. She's beside herself with excitement.

"Where are we going?" I'm surprised it took her this long to ask. I think she knows that I'm not going to answer her, and I love it that she looks appropriately devastated when I don't.

She hugs her dad goodbye and I hear him whisper something about turning into a pumpkin after midnight. She giggles into him, kisses his cheek.

"Midnight, Quinn," he tells me in a louder voice. I get the feeling that he's trying to be tough.

It's the olden days again, and I'm asking Rachel's father for her hand for the evening. Out loud, I say, "I'd be delighted, Mr. Berry." It's way too formal considering the impromptu photo shoot we just had, but it fits with my courtship fantasy perfectly. Rachel has an eyebrow crooked, but she says nothing. It crosses my mind that Rachel Berry is not the most dramatic person I know.

I blush and pull her outside to my car.

"What was all that about?" she asks me in her driveway. The sun is setting, and her face is full of shadows but her eyes are clear.

I was going to open the door for her, but her question throws me off. I pull her, spin her so her back is against the door of the car, press my hips against hers. Her eyes widen impossibly, her throat muscles ripple as she swallows.

"Rachel." I love the way her name sounds on my voice. I think she does too, if the way she's looking at me is any indication. I map her ear with the tip of my nose. Her breath is puffing steadily on my neck, her hands fisted in my sweatshirt. "Are you cold, sweetheart?"

"A little."

I press a kiss to that soft patch of skin just behind her ear, feel her hands grip my shirt tighter. "Wait here, Rach." I fish my Cheerios jacket out of the backseat and wrap her in it.

It looks way better on her than it ever did on me.

With Rachel in my jacket, we're way past the olden days. Now I'm not sitting in Rachel's parlor but asking her to go to the sock hop with me, wear my pin, be my steady girl. I actually love the way that sounds. An image washes up on the shore of my brain; the two of us in poodle skirts and saddle shoes, perched on stools at a soda fountain, sipping the same milkshake from two straws.

"Won't you be cold?" she asks.

"Of course not. I have you," I tell her.

She traces her fingers on my jacket almost reverently. I'd give anything to be able to translate that look on her face. She brings the collar to her nose, inhales. Her eyes flutter closed and she murmurs, "It smells like you."

I falter. "Is that... okay?" I ask, and she shoots me a look that's so pointed, I don't have to wonder what it means.

I curl my fists into the front of my own Cheerios jacket – I can feel her heart pounding beneath my hand – I pull her into me and press a soft kiss to her lips. If only Mr. Berry would come out here with his camera and take a picture of this, of Rachel in my jacket, of me holding her prisoner by the lapel, of us kissing against the side of my car in her driveway. I don't know who breaks the kiss, but the only thing I can do for a full minute is press my forehead to hers and let her bring me back to earth.

Then, I pull open the door for her, and she situates herself, looks up at me from inside. "Where are we going?"

She's kind of ridiculous. I love it.

I'm beside her, backing down the driveway before I say, "You'll see, Rach. Have a little patience."

She rolls her eyes. "If you honestly think that I'm going to be patient about something like this, you don't know me very well. Tell me where we're going."

I outright laugh this time and squeeze her hand over the console. "If you honestly think that I'm going to just break down and tell you that, you don't know me very well," I say, and that's the end of it because I slide a cd I marked 'Songs for Rach' with a black sharpie into the stereo, and piano chords fill the car. With this song playing, Rachel doesn't stand a chance.

Rachel turns those big brown eyes on me, and I smile the smile that's only for her. Those eyes are already shining, and when Rachel breathes, "Quinn," I know this is right.

The piano intro lulls, is joined by a strong, clear voice. She's got a way about her... don't know what it is, but I know that I can't live without her.

Rachel's staring at me, speechless, and I'm trying my best to keep my eyes on the road. All I want to do is fall into those eyes and swim away.

I sing softly to her in the car, my duet with Billy Joel, and she holds my hand, traces my knuckles with trembling fingers. I know what I've done. This is my song for Rachel, forever. I'll never hear it again without those brown eyes swallowing me whole.

For the next twenty minutes, I drive and Rachel grips my hand, pours herself into the music that reminds me of her. Love song after love song that I handpicked to serenade Rachel all the way to our first date. Finally, one of the songs I couldn't wait for her to hear starts playing, and it takes her a minute before she bursts into laughter.

"God, Quinn, really?" she laughs when Foreigner's Hot Blooded starts playing. "You are really something else."

I laugh, too. "Couldn't help it."

I do my best to waggle my eyebrows and leer at her at the lyric I'll show you loving like you never knew. Her laughter's bubbling over, but there's a hint of blush in her cheeks, and it makes my heart race just a little bit faster.

It's the song that's playing when we round the last grove of trees and the Ferris wheel comes into view.

"A carnival?" Her excitement is obvious. God, the way she sees the world. She doesn't do anything halfheartedly. She experiences – she feels – everything. She lays so much of herself in the open. I love that about her.

"Oh, is there a carnival in town?" I sound surprised, even to myself. I'm the picture of angelic innocence. I know absolutely nothing about anything. I lean over and sing in her ear, side-eyeing the road, "Maybe you can stay all night. Shall I leave you my key?" She flushes again, and I smirk. The picture of angelic innocence.

"Quinn, you know there is. There's a Ferris wheel right there." She bites her lip; I almost crack.

"Huh," I say, and she huffs. Adorable.

We pull in the parking lot, and I drive to the far end. I want to walk with her just us, hold her hand, maybe put my arm around her. Keep her warm in the cold night air.

I was going to open her door for her – this is my date, after all; she can have the next one – but she's far too excited. She throws her door open before the car even stops moving, and I throw it into park as she flies around to pull me out of the driver's seat and into a hug.

I get the feeling that she's far too excited to speak, but it's fine; we're very good at hugging by now, and I can sense how happy she is. I hold her for a few moments, feeling her skin against my cheek, matching her breath for breath.

Then, she snuggles into me and I drape my arm around her shoulder, walking us slowly toward the carnival.

As we weave between the cars, Rachel kicks a loose stone, scuffing her chucks in the dirt. She bends her arm at the elbow, links her hand with the one I have dangling over her shoulder. It's cold enough that I can see the ghosts of our breath swirling around one another against the night sky.

Even in the October evening, she still radiates heat; she's like a furnace. She moves her thumb over the back of my hand, leaves tingles trailing behind it.

"So, you got to choose the last fantasy," I begin, and I can feel my face flush. I'm wrapped around Rachel Berry, bringing up the subject of fantasies. I'm still wet from her last one. I need to focus if I'm going to get through this.

I stall out, embarrassed. Asking for things isn't something I'm very good at. Or comfortable with. Luckily, Rachel saves me. "Tell me," she says in a quiet voice, and when I look at her, she sets me free.

"I've always wanted to be kissed at the top of a Ferris wheel."

There. I said it; it's out there. She can do with it what she wants.

She doesn't say anything for a while, and when I finally seek her face for validation, her eyes are full of tenderness. "Your fantasy is to be kissed at the top of the Ferris wheel?" she asks, and I know I don't really need to answer. "That's... incredibly sweet."

"I can't imagine sharing that with anyone other than you, Rachel," I tell her, and I mean it. I want so many things with her; this is just one of them.

She snuggles into me and says, "I can't wait to give that to you, Quinn." I feel like I'm melting from the inside out.

Our walk across the parking lot goes too fast. We're at the ticket booth before I know it, and as I open my wallet and pull out a few bills, Rachel beams at the attendant and says, "We're on a date!"

He's completely apathetic, and when he mutters "good for you," I check to make sure he hasn't deflated Rachel's good mood. He hasn't. She's positively radiant.

I can feel my face burning and I mumble "thanks" to the attendant when he slides two tickets over the counter.

Once we're inside, Rachel casts me a nervous glance. "Was that too much? I didn't mean to embarrass you, Quinn. I'm just so excited that I want people we don't even know to know that I'm here with you."

I want to kiss her, to reassure her, but I'm still not sure how to behave around her in public. Every time I touch her, even in the most innocuous way, I get this tunnel vision and before I know it, she's the only thing in my world. I don't want to lose my sense of control in the middle of a thousand strangers. I also don't want them to judge me for it.

"Rach, you didn't do anything wrong. I asked you to help me through the public side of things tonight. You're perfect."

She chews her lip before she asks, "What will Monday be like when it's everyone we know?" She sounds so timid that my heart hurts a little bit.

"Don't worry about school, Rach. It's people we know, but it's also my element. Even if I'm nervous, which I will be, definitely, you won't ever see it. Okay? Do you want to maybe play some games? I could, uh, want me to win you a stuffed animal or..." God. That sounded lame before I said it out loud. Rachel only laughs and pulls me toward the shooting gallery.

"To break the ice," she says, when I follow her. "See anything you like?"

My eyes immediately drift to the glass counter in front. It's full of trinkets – key chains, tiny ceramic mugs, gaudy plastic necklaces. I don't do stuffed animals, so if there's something I'm taking home from a carnival, it'll be in a case like this.

I point at a ring lying on its side. It's silver and chintzy; the band is one of those separated bands that you can squeeze to adjust. The ring part is thin and flat, an imperfect rectangle made of the same silver as the band. It's a playing card.

The queen of hearts.

It's perfect.

Rachel's smile is incredible as she exchanges a dollar bill for a rifle.

She shoulders the gun, I'm riveted. Then, the attendant flips a switch, and the gallery roars to life.

Rachel doesn't move for a long moment. I realize that she's studying the pattern.

Then, she moves. And I completely forget how to breathe.

She's firing so fast, and targets are spinning and flashing in rapid succession. She's pivoting at the waist, her feet planted firmly in the dirt, as she cracks off shot after shot.

Rachel Berry can shoot a gun?

Every single one hits its mark, as far as I can see, and by the time the gallery grinds to a halt, she's breathless and her eyes are shining.

She glances at me, and I swallow thickly. She laughs, shakes her head, and returns the gun.

I can't move. I can see her pointing at the ring in the case, grinning like a fool at the attendant, shuffling back over to me. She offers me the ring shyly. She's really good at that through-the-eyelash look.

"Wear my ring?" she says, and I feel wobbly. I honest to god need to find a place to sit down. Where's a soda fountain when you need one?

I hold up a shaking hand and she slides it onto my ring finger. This is my date. I'm supposed to be the one winning her things, sliding rings onto her finger, offering silent promises and lingering caresses on her wrist.

She's still holding my hand when she kisses me on the cheek, and I can feel myself blush. You'd think that we hadn't held each other in bed all night; you'd think that Rachel hadn't sucked a purple bloom onto my neck just a few hours ago.

"Rachel, this is perfect," I whisper, because I don't know what else to say.

I spend the next few hours experiencing the carnival through Rachel's eyes. She's so expressive, so in the moment sometimes that she's almost childlike. I can't take my eyes off her the entire night.

I want to keep her.

"Are you hungry, Rach?" I ask her. "Want to get some greasy, fattening carnival food?"

She half groans, half laughs as she laces her fingers with mine for the hundredth time tonight. I'm starting to feel like I'll never want anything else but Rachel's hand in mine. "The carnival me definitely does," she says, "but the vegan me would be sick for a week. Ride the tilt-a-whirl with me?"

As we wait in line, I can feel someone's eyes on me. I look left. There, by a galvanized steel tub filled with rubber ducks.

Santana.

She's leaning against a pole, pretending to watch Brittany fish a duck out of the water and check its belly for the winning number. But she's really watching me.

Arms folded across her chest. Cold. Skeptical.

Challenging me.

Santana has changed so much in the past year – softer, more unsure of herself. Brittany broke her last year and is slowly putting her back together. So, when I see her old persona staring back at me with hard eyes, I'm surprised.

I arch an eyebrow in response and hold her gaze steadily, snaking my hand under my Cheerios jacket, holding Rachel more tightly around the waist.

Challenge accepted, Santana.

But not now.

Because, right now, Rachel Berry and I are riding the tilt-a-whirl. Before Rachel pulls me into the car, I see Santana nod almost imperceptibly. We'll finish this later. Monday at school.

That will actually be just what I need to act as a catalyst for my new Rachel and Quinn campaign.

By the time we stumble off the ride, holding one another up, Rachel is breathless and glowing. There are a million stars in her eyes and she's looking at me like I'm the one who put them there.

I want to ask if she had fun on the ride, but something in her face makes me hold my breath until I feel dizzy. Then she's on her toes, pushing into me, arms around my neck. My hands are immediately under the jacket, molding naturally around her upper ribs. I can feel her breathing beneath my fingertips, feel the beginnings of the curve of her breasts with my thumb. It might be my favorite place to touch so far.

"Ferris wheel?" she breathes into my ear, and I shiver.

It amazes me. In the course of a few hours, Rachel has dissolved all of my fears of touching her in public. All I can see is her face. All I can feel is her hope for us.

It makes me want to believe.

"Rachel," I murmur and toy with a strand of her hair that's come loose.

"Ferris wheel," she reiterates, and then we're strolling hand in hand, making our way to the giant wheel illuminated high into the night sky.

"You're not afraid of heights, are you, Rach?" I ask as we're waiting in line. My arms are around her again and she shakes her head against my shoulder. She playing with my fingers, my cheek is resting against the top of her pigtailed head.

To anyone passing by, it's obvious we're together. And, because of Rachel, I'm okay with that now. Monday at school will be interesting, for sure. McKinley is my town; I've had no problem in the past going after what I want – the Cheerios, prom queen, Finn/Puck/Sam. The only difference now is that what I want is Rachel Berry.

And Monday, I'll throw every single ounce of Quinn Fabray behind it.

There's bound to be an adjustment period, but I'm still head Cheerio, after all. I'm on the honor roll, we'll take Nationals this year in glee club. I have a lot going for me, finally. And once people get over the initial shock of me being with another girl, they'll forget and move on. No matter what you do, people always forget and move on.

And even if they don't, we can weather a few months together and then leave Lima and never look back. Rachel's worth trading a few months of intolerance for a lifetime of happiness. It'd be best if I can get Santana on our side, but either way, the plan doesn't change. I just need to be strong for a few weeks. Protect Rachel, stand up for us, and we'll be good.

It's funny – I spent the first half of high school leaning against lockers, waiting for prince charming to blaze down the hallway on a white horse for me. I mean, god. I'm Quinn Fabray. I should have had guys lining up all over the place. I should have been desirable; the catch of McKinley High.

Instead, I watched Finn first and then Puck choose Rachel over me. I stood idly by while Santana hooked Sam. Every guy I ever waited for was always waiting for someone else, and I just clung to the hope that someday someone might love me. I leaned harder against my locker, clutched my books a little tighter to my chest, begged the lost girl inside of me for forgiveness for letting her down.

And all the time I was waiting for my prince, someone else was waiting for me. I should have been the one to charge down the hallway on a white horse. I should have been the one lining up. For her.

She's the heroine of the story. She always will be.

And I want to be the one to sweep her off her feet. She deserves that. She deserves someone who will fight for the chance to win her heart.

I only hope it's enough to make up for all the things I'm not.

But looking into her eyes tonight, right now, it's easy for me to forget all the things I'm not. None of it matters when Rachel Berry looks me like that.

Before I know it, we're snuggled into the Ferris wheel car and it's moving, forward and up, and the night sky is so clear. It's so clear and the stars are so bright, they almost give Rachel's eyes a run for their money. Almost.

We're finally alone.

"So," I say and let my fingers find her hair.

"So." She's playing my game, playing coy.

"We're on the Ferris wheel," I inform her.

"We are."

"Rachel," I breathe. I want to taste her; I need to feel her mouth pressed to mine. It's all I've wanted all day.

I'll never get over the adoration in her face when she looks at me. She makes me forget myself, makes me feel gorgeous. I think the lost girl inside of me might even be starting to believe her.

She's playing this out. She's enjoying it, and I'm enjoying her.

"Are you ever going to kiss me?" I know I must sound desperate, but I don't care. I need her. Her fingertips are so soft on my face. She's so close, I can feel her breath.

"Quinn," she says, and I love the way my name sounds on her lips. "I'll kiss you." There's a catch. I can hear it in her voice.

"But?"

"I just want you to know – it's going to be so good," she says, and I choke down a small squeak in the back of my throat. I send up a silent prayer that she didn't hear it. "It's going to be the kind of kiss that tears you apart inside before rebuilding you from the ground up. It's going to wreck you, Quinn." The things she's saying are unbelievable. I'm shaking against her, and it's not from the cold.

I close my eyes and try to keep myself under control. I need her, now. "I want you to tell me a story," she says, and it's so innocent in contrast with her sexy whispering that I laugh out loud.

"God, Rach, you say things that make me want to –" Her eyes are so big, so full of emotion. "A story, huh?"

She nods wildly, like a little kid, and I collect myself, thinking.

If Rachel Berry needs a story to kiss me, she'll get a story.

"Once upon a time," I begin and she settles into me, my arm around her shoulder, her head in my neck. We fit together perfectly, and it shocks me for the hundredth time in two days that I never realized how happy we could make each other. When her hand slides easily beneath my sweatshirt and I feel Rachel's thumb rub softly against my stomach, I hitch a breath. "There were two bunnies." She giggles against me, and I smile into her hair. This will be a story hand-tailored to Rachel Berry, no holds barred. I will kill her with adorableness. I will get my kiss, if I have to talk about bunnies to do it. "And these two bunnies fit together perfectly," I say. "They were happy together." She sighs, and I know I'm close.

"One of them wore a daisy behind her ear and the other" (I glance down at the Converse sneakers that have been distracting me all day) "the other wore four red Converse high tops on her feet." She snorts into me. She's loving this. Her thumb moves slowly back and forth, kindling a fire deep within my belly. I fight for control of my breath.

"Daisy Bunny loved to climb the rock wall, make spaghetti, and" (I think of Brittany and her galvanized tub full of rubber ducks) "feed the ducks on the pond." Rachel's thumb is making love to the skin just below my belly button. It's making me lose my breath. I want her to kiss me so badly. I need it. I need her.

"Chuck Bunny" (Rachel guffaws at this and mutters 'Chuck Bunny' into my shoulder) "Chuck Bunny liked to draw on the sidewalk with pastel colored chalk, fly her bright yellow kite by the riverbank on windy days, and eat ice cream from a cone while Daisy Bunny fed the ducks."

"Vegan ice cream," Rachel corrects, and I smile against her hair.

"Vegan ice cream," I agree, and she melts further into me. And then, I honestly can't help myself. I murmur, "They belonged together," and wait like a block of stone for Rachel's reaction. It's only when she tilts her head up and kisses my neck softly, murmuring "oh Quinn" into my skin there that I can breathe again. I'm on fire where her lips touched, and my stomach is twitching beneath her thumb. We're nearly to the very top of the Ferris wheel now, and I know I need to get on with the story.

It's nearly our moment. Rachel is about to fulfill one of my fantasies.

"One day, Daisy Bunny and Chuck Bunny were laying side by side in the meadow, watching a fat yellow jacket fly from clover to clover. Daisy Bunny began humming along. She sang to Chuck Bunny, watching her fall asleep in the sunshine, nestled into her side. They slept curled together in the meadow all afternoon."

This feels cheesy and over the top to me, but I remind myself that Rachel is probably eating it up. I feel like someone else is saying these words and they're coming out in my voice. I'm not a sappy person. I should stop. Stop talking. But Rachel sighs against me, and I push ahead. "When they woke up," I say, "the sun was very low and the yellow jacket was no longer buzzing from clover to clover."

'It's time to go home,' said Chuck Bunny.

'Let's make spaghetti,' said Daisy Bunny.

'Yes, let's,' said Chuck Bunny.

"And they curled together later that night and fell asleep in each other's arms. The end."

"Quinn," Rachel says.

"What?" I'm embarrassed. That was the dumbest, silliest— "That was just for you, Rach. Please don't ever tell anyone –"

Rachel pulls me to her, kisses me. It's sweet and tender and it tastes like Rachel. I wrap my fingers in her hair and kiss her back. When I look at her again, I find myself completely taken with her. She's breathtaking. She's kissing me again and this time it's deep. It's not forceful, but it's so intense that our car is rocking back and forth. It's not just her thumb at my stomach any more, it's her whole hand, and it's insistent. It's such a deep kiss, I feel like she's searching for a way to connect our souls.

"God, Rach," I mumble against her. She drags her nails across my abdomen, and my hips cant up. I turn on the bench, crook my leg beneath me so I'm facing her. My hands grip tightly into her hair, pressing her harder against my face. There is heat in her mouth, and when her tongue slides against mine, I let my head thump sideways on the back of the car. She follows and, even though my eyes are closed, I can feel her repositioning herself above me.

She abandons my stomach and claws at my hip instead. I want to give her what she wants, to be closer, to feel her everywhere, but this space is small and awkward. The car is already swinging, and between that knowledge and the mewling sounds Rachel is pouring down my throat, I'm completely lost.

I want her hands on me. I want them all over me.

She pulls back slightly, breathless, and I've never seen that look on her face before.

It absolutely unhinges me.

"Rachel," I choke out.

In answer, she kisses me again, and I give myself up to her. She can have everything, all of me. Anything she wants, it's hers.

This isn't the first time she's made me wet, but it's the first time I've been terrified about what that means for the two of us. And I've promised her that I'll sleep in her bed tonight. I'm a quivering mess, and all she did was kiss me.

When we break apart, we're both straining for breath. Her eyes are dark, her hair escaping her pigtails in places from my clumsy hand grasping at the back of her head.

I touch our foreheads together and breathe out 'wow' against her lips, and then I hold her while she shivers against me.

"Rach," I say, locking into those delicious eyes. "You were right. That kiss did wreck me. God. You're amazing."

She kisses me again, sweetly this time. She's building me back up, and I smile against her mouth to show her that I know it.

I cup her neck, run my thumb over her jaw. She tastes amazing, natural. She tastes like Rachel Berry.

We kiss until the Ferris wheel brings us back to earth and I whisper into her ear how she's my fantasy come true. I know it's clumsy, that she deserves something smoother, better, but I need her to know how I feel about her, even if it doesn't do her justice.

When I take her hand to lead her out of the park, I glance at my watch. Ten thirty. There's still time.

We wander through the parking lot, and I fidget with my queen of hearts ring when she asks, "You're not taking me home yet, are you?"

"Do you want to drive this date?" I ask.

"No!" she laughs, "No way. This has been the best date ever." She links her arm through mine, and I'm inclined to agree with her.

"It's not over yet," I say.

The drive home is sweet, comfortable. She listens to the mix I made her on the stereo and holds my hand over the console. I keep an eye on the track number because if we're not to our next stop by the time it plays, I'll need to stop the cd.

When I pull into my driveway, Rachel casts a curious glance at me. I'm prepared for a barrage of questions about why we're at my house, so when she opens her mouth and then closes it with a snap, I kiss her gently on the nose. "I'll be right back, Rach. Wait for me, okay?"

When I come back outside lugging a picnic basket, I try to see Rachel's reaction, but there's a glare on the windshield from the streetlamp. I load the picnic basket into the car, and by the time I'm back beside her, her expression is unreadable. I kiss her lightly and murmur, "Ready, sweetheart?"

I drive us out to the field I found near my house and park us under the stars. It's so clear tonight; I got lucky.

"Quinn, where are we?"

"We're in the meadow, Chuck Bunny," I say and then cringe internally. I'm trying way too hard to make this special.

But Rachel doesn't seem to mind. She actually seems to like it, and I'm struck again that it's only one more reason we're perfect together.

I start the cd back up (I'd had to stop it, after all), pull Rachel from the car.

"Quinn?" She's hesitant, and I wonder if there's still some small part of her that doesn't trust me.

As I wait for her, the guitar and cymbals set a steady, optimistic rhythm and when Van Morrison's voice finally comes in with Hey where did we go days when the rains came?, Rachel's face softens and she lets me pull her into the glow of the headlights, the song pouring out through the open windows.

"Dance with me," I say, and when she grins, I twirl her to the music, pull her back to me. She wraps an arm around my neck and the other curls into mine.

I've danced with girls before, but not like this. It's still fun, sure, and Rachel's still laughing and letting me twirl her around, but it's also more... intimate. I feel like we're a couple, dancing like this in the middle of a field beneath the stars.

When it's time for the chorus, I hold her close and whsiper-sing in her ear. Do you remember when we used to sing... I'm humming the sha-la-las and even though it's a fast song, we're slow dancing now. Our hands are curled together under Rachel's jaw and I trace it with my finger without moving them.

"So hard to find my way now that I'm all on my own," I sing to her and can feel the tightness in my throat, imagining her not wanting me, not wanting this.

"Quinn," she says again, and there's a tenderness in her eyes. She's pleading for something, silently, and it breaks my heart and makes it beat with life at the same time.

I swallow thickly and continue. "I saw you just the other day. My, how you have grown." One of my hands is rubbing her back lightly. The other, still clasped with hers. Her eyes are open and wet. She's giving herself to me right now, just as I'm giving myself to her. "Cast my memory back there lord, sometimes I'm overcome thinking about –" I nuzzle into her neck, kiss the next part into her skin with my mouth – "making love in the green grass behind the stadium with you, my brown eyed girl."

This is why I've chosen this song. I need her to hear me sing this lyric, need her to understand that this is not a new development for me. I've wanted her for such a long time. I've imagined us at school, imagined us kissing at football games and holding hands and, yes, I've imagined making love to her sweetly, tenderly. It may have taken me years to be willing to trade social acceptance in Lima for a taste of happiness with her, but now that I have, I need her to know it. I need there to not be any doubt in her mind about what I want. I don't care how long it takes us to get there; I just want her to know how I feel.

So when I sing the line about making love behind the stadium, there are tears in my eyes, and I hope she can see what put them there.

"Do you remember when we used to sing..."

And now she's settled back into me and singing softly with me, and nothing has ever felt more right to me than this moment.

When we're finished rolling through the chorus, Rachel sniffs and murmurs, "That's a break up song, Quinn."

I think for a moment before I correct her. "It's a song about never getting over someone," I say. When the next song begins playing, the last on the cd, she only looks at me. I think there could be tears in her eyes but I can't be sure through my own.

"Quinn," she says. "Is this...?"

I nod. "It's us. It's our song. The duet we sang in glee club a year ago. I saved it. I... listened to every night for months after we performed. Some nights it was all I listened to."

We're not dancing now. We're standing in the grass, flooded in headlights, arms around one another and foreheads together, listening to our younger selves sing to one another about self acceptance and love. We were lost then. Lost girls, the two of us, together.

We don't speak. We don't need to.

When the song ends, we stand together for a long moment. Rachel breaks the silence with a sniffle. "I can't believe you saved that."

I'm a little surprised. "You didn't?"

"Of course I did. I still have my baby teeth. I'm surprised you did. I didn't even think you liked me."

"Well," I say. "You were wrong."

She laughs through her tears. "Clearly."

I don't want to break our moment, but it's time for our midnight picnic. I lace our fingers together. "Come on, Rach."

"Where are we going?"

"We have one more stop on tonight's tour before I take you home."

I pull the sleeping bag and blanket from the trunk and arrange them on the roof of my car before hoisting the picnic basket up.

Then, it's Rachel's turn. I climb on the hood and reach my hand down. She takes it, and I pull her up until she falls into me. I tighten my hands around her waist. I hope it looks like an accident, but I really just wanted to hold her again.

"I'm so lucky that you're here with me tonight," I tell her.

I grin, kiss her nose, and say, "up," as I push her at the waist and hold her steady while she scrambles up the windshield onto the roof. I'm beside her in a second, pulling her to the sleeping bag and draping the blanket over us.

"You hungry, Rach?" I ask, and she is.

I bring out the bowls, paper cups, a thermos.

"What's all this?" she asks, and I grin.

"Spaghetti," I say, and her face amazes me.

"You brought me to a meadow and made me spaghetti? You planned that story?"

For an answer, I pull the single stem daisy that I packed into the picnic basket and hand it to her. I know I must look as sheepish as I feel. I should avoid trying to be smooth in the future. I'm not Puck or even Santana, for crying out loud. I roll my eyes at myself for trying too hard, but when Rachel presses a kiss to my mouth and weaves her fingers into my hair, I forget about everything else.

When she breaks the kiss, she whispers before pulling away, "You're the sweetest girl I've ever met, Quinn Fabray. I'm the luckiest girl alive to be here with you." She tucks the daisy into my hair just behind my ear and whispers "daisy" into my cheek.

Her words root themselves around my heart and grow up through me, blooming across my mouth in a smile. I'm the luckiest girl alive.

We eat in silence for a while and just enjoy being together before we settle back on the sleeping bag and I pull a blanket over us. I play with her hair for a minute before I say, "Nobody has ever made me this comfortable before, Rachel. I've always had to keep a mask in place, but I don't with you. I've never let anyone see this deeply into me, and it kind of scares me a little."

"Quinn Fabray, afraid?" she says.

I nuzzle into her. "Don't joke, Rach."

"I'm not," she says softly, and somehow I can physically feel her taking my heart from me.

"Don't break it," I murmur, and I know she knows what I mean.

"Don't break mine," she says after a long minute.

So, that's where we are. Some place between together and separate. Trying to find out how to fit together. I know we will, I just can't see it right this moment, and it scares me.

I'm not waiting tonight for her to ask me. I start singing softly in her ear.

"She's got a way about her; don't know what it is, but I know that I can't live without her." Her breath catches and she tangles her hand tightly in mine.

"Quinn," she breathes. It always makes me smile when I hear my name fall like that from her lips.

I keep my voice as soft as I can – there's no one here but this is just for us.

"She's got a smile that heals me..." and now I'm humming the tune against her neck, reveling in how deep she's breathing against me. I press a kiss against her skin there, and she clutches tighter at me. When the chorus is over, I find the words again and nudge my voice back into them. I sing her the whole song.

She's silent a long while and it's nearly driving me crazy, wanting to know what she's thinking. She finally says, "Did you mean what you said on the Ferris wheel? About us belonging together?"

"What do you think, Chuck," I ask, and she giggles.

"Daisy," she teases back, and my fingers go absently to the flower she tucked behind my ear. And then she says, "Chuck sounds so butch."

"Well, you did kind of own that football uniform last fall," I say.

Gasping, she sits up, her eyes wide in shock. "God, am I the butch one?"

She's panicking, and it's adorable. "Calm down, Rachel. Neither of us is particularly butch. I think we have kind of a good thing going here; we can both fill masculine or feminine rolls comfortably with one another as needed without resorting to super strict labels. Besides," I pull her back to me again, and she relaxes, "you're pretty super girly and it drives me kind of crazy. Good crazy. You know that, right?"

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she sighs dreamily.

Rachel Berry sure can pull off an emotional one-eighty.

Before I can stop myself, I hear myself asking, "Go to homecoming with me, Rach?"

I freeze. She freezes. That... was not part of tonight's plan, but now that it's out there I don't want it back.

She's looking at me now and I can't look away.

"Are you... sure you're ready for that kind of step, Quinn? We've only been out together once. For us to go to homecoming together..."

"Everyone would know about us," I finish for her. I think about it, really think about it. It's nothing I can't handle. Being sixteen and pregnant proved that. Finally I decide that I finally feel happy. I shrug. "People can say what they want, Rach. You make me happy, and I'm tired of hiding from that. I want to take you to homecoming. As my date." Just so there's zero confusion.

She squeals and kisses me breathless. "Can we get each other corsages?"

I'm laughing now. She delights me. I only want to make her happy. "Yes, sweetheart, we definitely can," I tell her.

I want to stay with her here forever, and my heart swells to know she does too when she says quietly, "I don't want this to end, Quinn."

I hold her and promise, "Even though we have to go home tonight, Rach, those stars will always be above us and I'll always be here, holding you beneath them." When she doesn't answer me, I think I've said something too forward. I silently backtrack. Shit. I used the word always. On a first date.

Nice going, Quinn.

I'm trying to think how I can take it back without sounding desperate when I feel her lips on mine. I feel like my eyes might roll back into my head. She feels so amazing.

Nobody has ever kissed me like Rachel Berry kisses me. She deepens the kiss, rubs her tongue hotly against mine, and I can't help but imagine her mouth in other places on my body. I shudder against her, and suddenly her knee slides over mine.

We're thigh to thigh, and this could get very dangerous, very quickly.

I kiss her once more and then push her back gently. She looks positively wounded.

"Rach," I say gently. "This is our first date. I'm trying to be a..." I roll my eyes. Oh, why the hell not. "A gentleman," I finish lamely. All this talk about who's butch and who's not.

She laughs a breathy laugh. "My hero," she says and pushes herself up.

I catch her by the hand. "Hey," I say. "I want you. You have no idea how much. But... this is our first date, and I'm supposed to sleep in your bed tonight and behave myself, and you're making it kind of tough on me."

She kisses me again, and I know she understands.

"I get it, Quinn, and I kind of love this heroic side of you. It's romantic. You should let other people see how gentle and sweet you can be."

"Not likely. This is just for you, Rach."

I kiss her nose, mostly just because I can. "Come on, Chuck. Let me take you home."

"Okay, baby," she says, and it slips so easily off her tongue and nestles itself so soundly into my ear that I stop and hug her fiercely.

"God, do I love the sound of that," I tell her.

She lets me pull her off the car, and when she slides slowly down my body and lands in my arms, she steals my breath again. I've lost track of how many times she's taken it now.

We leave our meadow behind with murmured promises of how we'll return, and how I'll sing to her when we're there and how she'll hold my head in her lap and tuck daisies into my hair.

I take her home and help her out of the car, walk her to her door.

"Do you want to come up?" she asks coyly.

She's playing her romantic comedy part perfectly.

I get what she's doing, but part of me doesn't want to play right now. "Rach, I'm curious. What would your dads think about that? If I took their daughter out on a date and then slept in her bed afterward right under their noses."

She only rolls her eyes and says, "Oh, stop being so dramatic. You know they don't care, as long as we're... good. Daddy isn't even home right now. He works nights."

She makes no move to bring us inside, and I know instinctively what she wants. What every girl deserves at the end of the perfect first date. I slip into her romantic comedy scenario and lean forward, ever so slightly.

"I had a really good time tonight, Rachel," I say in a low voice.

"So did I, Quinn." She fidgets with her keys; the nervous first kiss goodnight. She's so adorable.

I won't make her wait any longer. I hold her gaze until it loses focus with our closeness and press my lips softly against hers. My arm tingles where I feel her hand glide smoothly up; she squeezes my bicep once and keeps moving until her arms are around my neck.

I leave mine on her waist, unmoving, playing my part as closely as I can. I end the kiss as softly as I began it, and when I pull back, her eyes are still closed and she has the dreamiest look on her face.

"You're so adorable," I murmur and tug at a pigtail lightly.

She giggles, kisses my cheek. "I really did have a good time tonight. It was the best first date in history."

"That makes me really happy, Rach."

"Come on in, Daisy," she says and pulls me along behind her.

We change our clothes with shy glances and then she's pulling again until we're tumbling into bed together, entwining arms and legs, melting into one another again. Skin on skin. Breath on breath.

Here, in the darkness where I can't even see her face, here is where I feel her. We communicate without words, sing to each other without music.

She makes my heart flare and feel so full. She makes me care just by holding me close to her.

I want to kiss her all night again, but I'm honestly exhausted, and I know she is, too. We settle for snuggling together, nose to nose, belly to belly. I can feel her whole body, feel the heat pouring off it. My hot-blooded little Chuck Bunny. I roll my eyes at the cheesiness, but it doesn't matter. It's a small price to pay for feeling this happy.

"Goodnight, Rach," I whisper to her through the darkness.

She's nearly asleep but she answers anyway with a groggy, "Goodnight, baby."

Baby.

I let the nickname roll around in my head for a minute while sleep overtakes me and I sink down slowly beside Rachel.

I could be Rachel Berry's baby. I could let someone take care of me for a change. She wants to. God knows why, but she's actually wants to.

When sleep finally claims me, my last conscious thought is that I finally belong with someone.

I might still be standing in the rain, looking in the window, but someone is out here with me, holding my hand, whispering baby in my ear.

For once, the rain pours down around me and I don't even feel it.