"She can stay."

Quinn had once thought that Rachel severing their connection had been the hardest thing she had ever faced in her life.

But it was nothing compared to Quinn walking away from Rachel, after she had told Burt at the diner that Quinn could stay.

"But I don't understand," Rachel had said.

She knew she didn't understand, Quinn had told her. But Quinn was upset, she was sniffling like a little kid, borderline hysterical. And even though she hoped Rachel wanted her to stay because, well, she wanted her to stay, part of Quinn thought that Rachel wanted her to stay just so that Quinn would calm down and stop crying.

"Because that's just what you used to do," Quinn had said to her, softly. "When we were younger, and I was upset or sad, you would do anything to make me happy again. So I can't be sure that that's not what you're doing now."

And she'd changed her mind so quickly, Quinn pointed out to Rachel, as gently as she could. Just a week ago, just a few minutes ago, Rachel was saying that she wanted Quinn to leave, and never to come back. But in the blink of an eye she had told Quinn she could stay. As much as she wanted to, Quinn said, she couldn't stay. Not until she knew Rachel really wanted her, that Rachel was truly ready for her.

And she knew now that she wasn't ready, Quinn said, to re-establish her bond with Rachel. If that was even what was going to happen. For all she knew, she and Rachel were now only destined to be friends. Whatever it was meant to be, she'd thought too long, and too hard, of what she, Quinn, wanted, and far too little of what Rachel needed.

"And I don't really… know what you need," Quinn had said.

"So you're just going to walk away?" Rachel said.

Quinn had smiled sadly, and nodded. "I'm just going to walk away, princess," she said. "I'm going to walk away so that we both can find out what we need."

"You'll never see me again," Rachel had said. It sounded less like a threat, and more like… a plea, but perhaps Quinn was reading into things.

"Fate bound us together once already," she had said carefully, leaving out any reminder of Rachel defying their connection.

"If we're meant to be together, it's up to fate to make that happen."

As she walked down the sidewalk, away from the diner, away from Rachel, Quinn had to pause, bracing herself against the brick of a building with the palm of her hand. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and though she felt as if she might be having a heart attack, there was only one thought.

Have you lost your fucking mind?

Rachel didn't believe in fate. Rachel had gone to battle with fate, and she had won. And now Quinn was hoping that fate would come back for round two? And that Rachel would throw the match? Maybe that day when Rachel had broken the connection had broken Quinn more than she had initially thought.

That first night, Rachel's face haunted her – scared, confused, angry. Quinn lay awake in her bed, petted Van Gogh, and prayed that not thinking about Rachel would get easier.

The few bright spots during the next month were Jamie and Elle, and Sam and the showcase. New York University hosted an artists' showcase every year, a chance for art and art history majors to exhibit the best of their talent, with live performances, student-produced movies, paintings, sculpture, and photography. It was considered the best opportunity to "get your foot in the door," to make yourself known, both in the academic community of NYU, and the artistic community of New York.

Since it was one of the biggest events of the year, every art student who was anyone at NYU wanted to be there, and wanted to be there as an invited guest. Students would begin their "auditions" up to a semester before, hoping they would be submitting their best work and that that best work would give them a coveted spot on the wall or the screen of the rented gallery. And for some lucky ones, it might lead to a job or a commission.

Quinn wasn't hoping for a job or a commission. Art history was her major, but her hobby was drawing anything and everything. She loved nothing more (besides reading) than curling up on her couch and sketching, or going out to a park and drawing the scenery, or a child playing soccer, a man on a bench holding hands with his wife of 50 years. When she had gotten her apartment, she hadn't bothered with purchasing many decorations. Instead, every available space was littered with pictures Quinn herself had created.

Many of them were of a girl with brown eyes and brown hair.

But now she had been forcing herself to draw nothing that would remind her of Rachel.

Her first instinct, when she'd heard of the showcase last semester, had to been to sketch a landscape, something that would capture the essence of a cold New York afternoon, a bench bathed in light, the gentle sway of the grass and leaves in the breeze.

"Everybody draws that," Sam said to her, his mouth full of food – as always.

Quinn rolled her eyes at him. "They do not."

"Listen to the stripper, Quinn," he said with a grin. "Look, landscapes. They're pretty, colorful, probably hard to paint. And you know what else?"

"What, Professor Evans?"

"They're also the paintings that you see on those starving artist commercials. You know, the ones where all you artists living on Ramen noodles get together and try to make a dollar or two. Landscapes and still lifes. You want to be different. Something that will make the judges or whatever, and the people at the showcase, sit up and notice you."

"So let me paint you."

"What?" The fork paused halfway to his mouth.

"Let me paint you," Quinn said. "I've wanted to do some portraits anyway."

Sam considered this. "Can I keep my clothes on?"

He really did squeal like a girl, Quinn thought, especially trying to dodge a carrot thrown at him.

Where Sam's portrait was done in vibrant hues of orange and yellow, with a shade of blue thrown in to represent his favorite movie, Jamie and Elle's portrait (Elle was, once again, sitting on Jamie's lap) was done in the richness of dark red and black, complemented with delicate lavender.

"I don't know why I have to do this," Jamie complained. "Nobody at that exhibition wants to see my ugly face."

"Anyone who doesn't want to see your ugly face is crazy, my lady," Elle said with a grin.

Jamie quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if I should spank you or kiss you."

"Well, that's easy. Do both."

"Ugh, get a room, you two," Quinn said, but she was laughing.

Her next portrait required leaving New York City for a long weekend that began with a 2 hour flight, and then a 2 hour drive from the airport. Quinn stared up at the stone building with its red roof, and smiled.

Home.

Home had always been her refuge, her peace of mind. Home had been her escape from the pressures of school, of being captain of the Cheerios, of friends who were more interested in moving up the social ladder than they were of being her friends.

Home had been where she had first "met" Rachel Berry.

And home had been where she'd tried to understand, when Rachel had severed the connection.

Home had Mom and Dad, but it was Grandma who answered the door and pulled Quinn into the house for a hug.

"Let me look at you," Connie said with a smile. "My big city girl."

Quinn hugged her grandmother again. "Not too big city," she said with a grin, dropping her duffel bag in the foyer and following her into the living room.

"Maybe, since I don't know what big city would want a painting of your old grandma."

Quinn rolled her eyes. Connie Martin looked as if she was Judy Fabray's sister, rather than her mother, and she'd never been resigned to sitting around knitting sweaters. Growing up, Grandma Connie had always been known as the "fun grandma," a welcome respite from the prim and proper Grandfather and Grandmother Fabray. Some of Quinn's most favorite memories had been going shopping with Connie, driving around in her convertible and going with her to karaoke parties. Theirs was a singing family. None of them were particularly good; they wouldn't be winning any Tonys or Grammys anytime soon. But that didn't matter. What mattered was Connie and Quinn riding with the top down on a summer afternoon, singing along to the radio at the top of their lungs.

"Maybe I want to hang it in my apartment," Quinn said, settling down on the couch next to Connie. "Or maybe I'm going to paint you, it'll launch me into artistic stardom and in twenty years you'll be hanging up in a museum."

"Or maybe you've gone insane at that school of yours," Connie chuckled, pouring herself a drink from the carafe that sat on the coffee table in front of them. "But if it makes you happy then the least I can do is sit for a picture." She smiled at Quinn over her glass. "You know I still have a box full of your little drawings."

"I know," Quinn said, then nestled herself into her grandmother's side. She missed this; as much as she loved NYU she missed home and family. They weren't as close as they could be, and Quinn had a little anger towards her parents for the way they'd reacted when she was fifteen years old, but, like Dorothy had said, there was no place like home. There was no other place that she could get the love and care that she craved.

"So tell me everything about school, about your friends, about that demented cat of yours."

Quinn giggled and let everything spill; she hadn't seen Connie in nearly six months and so they had a lot to catch up on. She told her about her apartment and her classes, about Jamie and Sam and Elle. She talked animatedly about the professors she enjoyed, and the one professor that she'd be grateful to never have to take again. Connie had been to New York and so Quinn supposed she already knew about Artist's Gate, the Life Café, and all of the other tourist traps; but she told her anyway, her voice rising and falling as she told her grandmother everything new about her life in New York.

Everything, that is, except Rachel. But as she had always been able to do, Connie Martin zeroed in on the things not said.

"There's something different about you," Connie said suddenly, tilting back just a little bit to regard Quinn with serious eyes.

"What do you mean?" She glanced off to the side, suddenly nervous under her grandmother's gaze.

"That," Connie said, poking her lightly in the side. "You're avoiding something. What is it? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No," Quinn said, raising an eyebrow.

"You're not pregnant, are you? Is he a good boy, is he Jewish?"

"We're not Jewish," Quinn said, shaking her head in amused exasperation.

"It sounded like something I ought to say. But come on, out with it. What's going on?"

"I'm not pregnant, and I'm not in trouble," Quinn said, picking at a loose thread on the couch before looking at her grandmother.

"I found her."

"Found…?"

"Rachel."

"My god."

"Yeah."

"Judging by the expression on your face and the fact that you're here rather than in your bedroom with her, I'd say it hasn't gone well."

Quinn made a face, thinking that the last person she'd ever want to hear say something like that was her grandmother, but she shrugged.

"I went a little crazy and stalked her at the diner where she works."

"She works at a diner? You always told me she'd be a famous singer."

"I always thought she would be," Quinn said, taking a deep breath. "But she's working at some greasy restaurant and she pretended not to even know me. Kept telling me that she wanted me to leave, wanted me to get out, but when I did leave, she begged me to stay."

"Hmm," Connie hummed softly, slipping her arm around Quinn's shoulders and pulling the girl closer to her, tucking her chin on top of Quinn's head. "It sounds as if she doesn't know what she wants." Quinn was quiet, and her grandmother lightly kissed her hair.

"It'll work out."

Quinn laughed bitterly. "You're the eternal optimist, Grandma."

"I'm not living my life thinking of the worst case scenario, Quinn Fabray," Connie chided, "And I thought I'd taught you better than that. Your grandpa and I had some rough times and we always made it through, didn't we?"

They had, Quinn had to admit. Quinn had been only eleven when her grandfather had died, but she remembered well how many times the calm and quiet Dominant had come up against the vibrant stubbornness of his wife. But it was their relationship that had really shown Quinn the kind of life she could have, the kind of love she would always want. She hadn't wanted an everyday love, Connie had told Quinn once. She'd wanted something special, something different, and Robert Martin had provided it. That love, for Connie Martin, was still strong, even years after her Master had passed. Quinn knew her grandmother still kissed his picture every night before she went to bed, that she still adhered to most of the rules that Quinn had seen posted to the back of a closet door.

"Love always wins, sweetheart," Connie said, squeezing Quinn close, and her granddaughter rolled her eyes even as she smiled.

"I told her if we were meant to be together then fate would have to do all the work again," Quinn sighed.

"Ooh. So eyes meet across a crowded room, violins start playing a romantic tune, and you two run into each other's arms? I like it!"

Quinn laughed and shook her head. "I'm not sure that's how it works."

Connie shot Quinn a knowing look as she stood up and retrieved another drink from the carafe.

"Nothing about you and Rachel has been 'how it works.'"

Quinn thought about it while she was at home, while she was painting her grandmother's portrait and trying to convince her parents to sit for one as well. She had been raised to know that her life, her relationship, was supposed to work one way: she would find the one for her, and they would live happily ever after. And yet, none of that had happened. At least not the happily ever after part.

"You'll have to up your game, fate," Quinn muttered to herself, just as she dialed Sam to check in with him. She'd asked him to watch over Van while she was gone – and was relieved when Sam was still alive enough to answer the phone.

"Hey?" he said breathlessly, and Quinn quirked an eyebrow.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"Nope, nope, just trying to stop the bleeding."

"Bleeding? What?"

"I tried to pet him."

Quinn closed her eyes. "You didn't."

"Well I had fed him and while he was eating I thought—"

"Tell me you didn't try to pet him while he was eating."

"I didn't try to pet him while he was eating?"

Quinn let out a puff of air from her lips and shook her head. "You're lucky you still have a hand," she said. "I told you not to try to pet him; he barely lets me do that."

"Stupid cat."

"Hey!" Quinn said indignantly. "Anyway, are you all right?"

"I'll live," Sam said, "as long as you come back soon and save me from the demon cat."

She did come back, just in time for classes to resume, and couldn't help but laugh at the three bandages that topped Sam's left hand. He'd glared at her, saying that he'd never babysit the devil again and Quinn had better not ask, unless she was willing to pay him double. She'd laughed at him again and treated him to Chinese food, gloating when Van padded over and curled up in her lap, staring at Sam reproachfully.

It felt strange, the first night in her apartment after having been at home for a few days. Home had meant security and peace, the chance to almost be little girl Quinn again, spoiled by her parents and grandmother, and protected from the evils and harshness of the world outside. Inside the big house at the end of the long driveway on Allen Street, Quinn could forget. Forget about tests and finals, the pressures of the showcase, the need to find a good job after college and prove to everyone that she had made the right decision to go to New York. Quinn could wrap herself up in the love of her family and forget.

Forget about Rachel.

But she was again confronted by the brown haired, brown eyed beauty the minute she unlocked the door to her apartment, because of the pictures on the walls. Drawings, painstaking and – for the most part – strikingly accurate. Quinn had stood in the center of her floor, staring at all of them, before finally, one by one, taking them down. She didn't have room in the closet and nowhere else to really store them, so she simply tucked them under her bed. Van sat atop the pillows, watching her intently.

"Leave them alone," she warned, wiping her eyes and smiling a little. "I'll kick you out on your poor little ear if even one of them goes missing or shows up torn to pieces."

She liked to think that Van understood, because he licked her hand when she sat on the bed with a sigh and looked back at the now-bare walls.

"Your move, fate," Quinn said aloud into the emptiness.

"Your move, Rach," she whispered.

She wasn't surprised when neither answered.

Quinn returned to her classes with a new resolve, a new determination buoyed by the portraits that were now waiting to be entered into the showcase. She carried them to the art department on a Thursday, placing them down onto the desk under the watchful eye of the student aide, who glanced at the paintings then back at Quinn before gesturing to the paperwork she needed to fill out.

She quickly filled out her name, phone number, and campus box number on the three separate forms, fighting back the urge to seize up her work and run with it back to her apartment.

Title of Submission.

She almost snorted, considering the irony of it, but held back and wrote down Sam's portrait.

"Sunset Strip?" she'd said, one eyebrow perfectly arched. "You're joking, right?"

"Totally serious," Sam had answered, wincing as he'd pulled a bandage off one of his "war wounds."

"It fits! When the sun goes down I strip. And there's orange and yellow so…"

"You're so weird."

Connie's portrait was entry two, and Quinn smiled as she wrote down its title. A Sunday Kind of Love. She'd come up with that on her own, and Quinn was sure it was the right choice when her grandmother had teared up after she'd told her.

Last but not least, there was Jamie and Elle's portrait. Quinn gingerly pressed her fingertips to the bruise on her upper arm before writing down the title.

Better Late Than Never.

"Well is it accurate or not?" Quinn had snapped after Jamie had punched her, and Elle had just laughed.

She breathed a sigh of relief once out of the art department, feeling the weight of the world mostly drop off her shoulders. It was out of her hands now, Quinn thought to herself. And really, maybe she was thinking of the showcase as too much of a make or break moment anyway. She was good at her classes, Quinn knew, and she'd walk out of NYU with a degree that would leave her prepared for anything she'd set her mind to. But still, it would be nice to have a confirmation that her artwork was good enough to be considered by some of the best in the industry. She walked to the grocery store to pick up something for dinner with visions in her head of being a world-famous artist. Known wherever she went, people clamoring to have her paintings or to simply be in the same room with her.

Did she want Ramen or a microwave meal, she thought, as she wandered up and down the aisles.

She could almost hear her mother behind her, admonishing Quinn that being in college was no excuse for not eating healthy, and so she shook her head and went for the fresh vegetables. A salad, she thought as she reached for a tomato. Maybe with some grilled chicken and light dressing, that would be amazing.

The store was crowded, likely with fathers and mothers, businessmen and women picking up supper on their way home just like she was doing, and Quinn found herself being jostled more than once. But that was New York; she was used to it, and simply held her basket tighter as she made her way towards the front to check out.

And then she saw her, just visible above the magazine rack as she flipped through a magazine, then suddenly lifted her head as if some unseen force had compelled her to look up at that exact moment.

And Rachel saw her.

Your move, fate.

Your move, Rach.

There were so many things on the tip of her tongue to say as Rachel looked at her, but Quinn found herself powerless to speak any of them.

I didn't know you shopped here. What are you doing here? Are you all right? Do you want to go out for coffee sometime? I love you.

It was a fluke, Quinn told herself. Okay, sure, New York was a big place and there were hundreds of grocery stores. But it wasn't any big deal that Rachel just happened to be at this one when Quinn was shopping. It was just coincidence that Quinn had spotted her just before she left and that Rachel had been so engrossed in a magazine and yet… had found Quinn.

Fate's working, Quinn thought, a little thrill rushing through her, but she fought back a smile. She couldn't hope for this. Not now, not again.

It was just… coincidence. Happenstance. A nice accident that wouldn't happen again.

But what if it did…?

Quinn pushed that thought out of her mind, mostly because it hurt too much and also because Rachel's eyes were big and deep and soft as they stared at her, waiting. Rachel wanted something… but what? An answer? A hello? There was nothing, Quinn knew, no thought or emotion that could be encompassed in a simple hello, and she was terrified that if she opened her mouth to speak to Rachel everything would spill out the way it had at the diner, and Quinn wasn't sure she could afford to have that happen again. She was determined to move on with life, to not appear like she was stalking Rachel – which she was sure Rachel thought now that she and Quinn had shown up at the same store. Quinn could see Rachel chewing on her lower lip and shifting from foot to foot, seeming nervous, and Quinn wanted to cry because it was so adorable, so perfect. So Rachel.

But it was just… a coincidence.

Quinn offered Rachel the smallest of smiles before finally walking away from her and lining up at a register to check out.

She would swear she felt Rachel's eyes on her even as she walked in a daze towards home.