Quinn awoke with a start, all air escaping her body at once.

Rachel bared her teeth and swung again, denting the hood. "What's wrong with you assholes?" she raged. "You're screwing with people's lives, you know!"

Quinn tucked her head between her elbows as Rachel systematically destroyed each headlight before turning on the driver's side window, leaving jagged glass teeth in the umbrella's wake.

Before Rachel could knock the glass teeth down, her dads clamped their hands around her arms and lifted her clear off the ground. She struggled and they lifted her higher. "Enough," said Jerry. "Get in the house before you make an even bigger mess. Now!"

Rachel whimpered as she retreated, impetuous anger crumbling to an all-consuming shame.

"I'll make sure she's okay," said Paul, rubbing a hand across his husband's shoulder.

Jerry approached the battered car, glass crunching beneath his suede slippers, "Hello?"

Upon further inspection, the paparazzo in question looked very familiar. The poor girl seemed to be in shock, and who could blame her?

When the girl finally glanced up, Jerry grimaced, he recognized those hazel eyes anywhere. "Quinnie," he said gently. "It's alright. It's Jerry, you remember me? Rachel's dad?"

Quinn nodded numbly, rubbing at her ears, hoping to dull the ringing, to drown out the unremitting wail of her car alarm.

"Do you want me to call your parents?"

"No!" she gasped, panicked. "I mean, no, it's okay. I can drive myself."

"I think you should come inside, honey, you look a little shaken up."

Quinn swallowed, half listening. Her car was ruined. Her parents were going to kill her. At least she hoped they'd kill her. Death she could handle. In fact she welcomed it over every other alternative her parents had ever threatened her with. The prospect of death was vastly superior to the prospect of being "married" to God and living her life out in some Salsburyian mountain-top nunnery a la The Sound of Music.

Quinn shuddered-vastly superior.

"Don't worry about the car, sweetie," he said softly, easing her onto her feet. "We'll take care of everything. I'm so sorry. I don't know what's gotten into Rachel, she's just…," he sighed, reluctant to pawn any more of his daughter's reckless behavior off on stress, "I don't know…"

That was Rachel? Quinn frowned. Her Rachel? She hadn't really seen the assailant, it was dark and it had happened in one raucous blur. And even when Jerry was speaking to her, it hadn't really dawned on her that he was Jerry Berry, the Jerry Berry. "Mr. Berry?" she said, dazed.

"That's right, Quinn," he smiled. "Come on, I'll help you inside."

Jerry hissed once he saw Quinn under the kitchen's fluorescent light. Her forehead was bleeding, no doubt injured by a shard of glass. He sat her down and retrieved the First Aid Kit from beneath the bathroom sink.

He cleaned the gash up as best as he could and then slathered it with antibacterial ointment. "That should do it," he announced. "How about something to help the nerves? I make a mean hot cocoa. It's a three bean blend."

Quinn smiled delicately as he washed his hands and fixed three steaming mugs of hot chocolate. She sat quietly for the most part, hands clasped in her lap, eyes fumbling all over the place-at the kettle on the stove, at the magnetic picture frames and ancient crayon-rendered art spotting the fridge.

"Thank you," she said politely when Jerry offered her marshmallows.

Quinn knew she shouldn't be drinking hot chocolate, especially not hot chocolate studded with marshmallow buoys, or after 6pm as per Ms. Sylvester's dietary outline, but she reasoned Ms. Sylvester's rules only applied to real life, that is, real life as Quinn knew it, not the awful parody it had developed into in the last hour.

"What were you doing sleeping in your car, sweetie?"

Quinn blanked, brought the Santa-shaped mug to her lips to buy some time. "I had a…," she said, clearing her throat, "a… fight with my parents."

Jerry nodded, "I see."

"Please don't tell them."

Paul covered her hand with his, "Your secret is safe with us."

"Thank you," she sighed.

They sipped hot cocoa in pleasant silence and by the time her stomach was inundated with the chocolaty warmth, Quinn couldn't help but yawn and sway a little in her seat. Paul and Jerry took note and ushered the faintly protesting girl to their guest bedroom.

"We insist," said Paul. "We can't, with good conscience, let you drive in your state. Imagine if you were to fall asleep behind the wheel!"

Quinn thought it was a sensible request, plus she'd never been particularly attracted to the idea of going home, ever. So she stayed, wished the heads of the Berry household a good night, pulled the square mosaic accent sheets up to her shoulders and fell asleep with the notion that she'd soon enough actualize her innate, eight year long desire to see Rachel Berry.