A/N: Welcome to 2012. I love everyone in this bar.

Chapter 13

There's a crack in the ceiling. It's not wide or particularly long, but it's there, punched into the paint, it's there. She stares up at it for the longest time, until it's no longer a crack, but a spider's web, a lightning bolt, a strand of hair that floated up and attached itself to the ceiling. She stares up at it for so long, her eyes begin to blur and those tears that sting stick to her cheeks and make them itch. The steady tempo of the breathing occupant next to her is mildly comforting and Quinn finds herself resisting the urge to bury her nose in that warm, soft, sweet-smelling neck. Being awake at the witching hour, when all the world seems to be far off in some dream is incredibly lonely. For the first time in a long time, she feels the weight of her self-imposed solitude. For a while now, this carefully constructed isolation was something she valued above all else. Getting kicked out at sixteen does that – teaches you to build walls, teaches you to rely only on yourself. By college she'd mastered the art of isolation. She didn't even have to pretend to be something she wasn't anymore. It was liberating. No-one knew her as the ex-pregnant, ex-crazy, ex-cheerleader so disappearing into obscurity wasn't difficult. She worked hard at blending in. And it worked. Until her economic history professor, a greying yet attractive man in his late fifties, who reminded her of Russell Fabray on his best days, who told her on the second day of class that he saw 'great potential in her' and whose approval she so desperately craved offered her an A on her final paper in return for a blowjob at the back of his 1972 Camaro.

It took everything she had to keep from throwing up on his shoes when he shook his head and told her he thought she was smarter than that, when he told her he was disappointed in her.

After she dropped out of 'Economic History' her major was impossible to finish and she failed the year despite perfect grades in all the other subjects.

Quinn met Rory the summer after her first year. She had no idea what she was going to do with her life. She remembered Santana once talking about this church in San Francisco, a church where her grandmother had gotten married, a church where she swore (though inebriated at the time) she'd marry Brittany one day. Quinn remembered this with a sort of bittersweet nostalgia.

This is where Rory had found her. In the third pew of an enormous empty Catholic Church off the corner of Parker Avenue. Aurora Cecile Davies. Born on a ship somewhere in the south-pacific while her father, a decorated Navy SEAL who died when she was seventeen, was on military leave. Quinn came to learn that she was one of those rare creatures who came from a functional family equipped with loving parents and a Labrador named Lucky. Without any inhibitions, she had plonked herself down next to Quinn in that cold wooden pew and whispered with breath that smelled like orange Lifesavers, "I like your hair." For the first time in days, Quinn smiled.

...

The knock on the door breaks her out of her reverie and Quinn turns to look at the clock on her bedside table before remembering that she's in Max's room and not her own. Gingerly, she gets out of bed, careful not to wake the sleeping boy. He'd woken up once she'd gotten him home from Hector's and she had stayed in bed with him until he fell back asleep. That was at least an hour ago, which means it's well past one am.

She left The Tubin a mess. She barely remembers walking out of the bathroom after Rachel only to lose her in the crowd of people. Jess had tried to convince her to stay, but Quinn was barely holding it together, her façade of cool slowly slipping and she needed to get out, she needed space, she needed to take back those naked words she projected at Rachel. But the brunette was gone - like a succubus who stole a piece of her soul and disappeared into the night.

By the time she got to Paul and Hector's she was bordering on numb and fast heading towards cognitive dissonance. It was good that Rachel was gone, she reasoned. Having the brunette around was confusing at best, torturous at worst. Their argument was stupid and Quinn hated herself for showing her cards, but it had proved that neither of them was ready for whatever they were heading towards and perhaps Rachel was right. Space is what they need.

The knock on the door speeds up a little and Quinn makes her way through the dark living room, swearing under her breath when her bare foot lands on one of Max's plastic animals. The kitchen clock confirms the time: 1:53. She can't imagine who could be calling this late. Puck has a key and the last time an unexpected visitor turned up at her door, she ended up unofficially adopting a five-year old. So Quinn's a little wary as she approaches. She can't see anything through the keyhole in the darkened hallway, so she attaches the latch and cautiously opens.

The sight greeting her leaves her speechless. Literally. Quinn looks down at the shivering, soaking wet figure of Rachel Berry through the crack in the door and finds that she has no words.

"Can I-" Rachel's shoulders sag as through finally seeing Quinn has exhausted her. "Can I come in?"

Quinn nods, because her vocal chords seem to have gone on strike, and closes the door for a second to unlatch it. The funny thing is, for a moment, she considers leaving it closed. Leaving Rachel out there and getting back into bed with Max. Max who smells like limited-edition peppermint m&m's and doesn't require anything of her other than stories and regular feeding.

But she does open the door. Because something about Rachel's face, wet with rain, reminds her of Rachel's face, wet with Cherry Big Gulp and that image has her feeling sick inside.

"You're wet," Quinn says finally finding her voice.

Rachel brushes past her, literally drenched. "I forgot my umbrella," she says quietly, her dark eyes darting from Quinn's face to the floor. "I parked down the street and I didn't have an umbrella, so-" she shrugs and droplets of water fall from the tips of her hair onto the carpet.

"You need to get out of those clothes," Quinn says. "Your stuff is all still here. You should change." Her voice is toneless. She knows she sounds cold. Probably as cold as Rachel is feeling, but she doesn't know how to relate or where to start. She still has no idea what Rachel's doing here at almost two in the morning and really, she's too tired for more words. It seems the only thing between them is words. Words that suggest, words that comfort, words that confuse, words that hurt. She's tired of the words.

"Quinn, can we just talk? Please?" Rachel's looking at her now with this broken, desperate expression that makes her want to lash out and scream, because she hates, hates that she cares so much.

"Just," Quinn sighs and presses her fingertips against her eyes so hard, she sees lights. "Just get changed, okay, Rachel?"

"Quinn-"

"I'm going to bed," she says, turning around. She wants to go back to Max's room for the warm comfort, but ends up going towards her own bedroom, to a bed which is going to be cold and empty.

"I broke it off with David."

Quinn stops so abruptly she almost falls and hits the coffee table. She doesn't turn around though. She's not sure she can at this point. What is Rachel doing? Why is she saying this?

Apparently Quinn's silence is an invitation to continue, because Rachel goes on in that pleading, desperate tone that makes Quinn feel worse about everything.

"I-I called him and I guess we're on a break."

Quinn finally turns around. She realises they're still in the dark, which is silly and makes her feel like she's in some moody German expressionist piece, but neither of them has motioned to turn on the light, and the streetlamp shining through the window allows her to see the pained expression on Rachel's face quite clearly.

Rachel looks tiny, she thinks suddenly. She's dwarfed in that huge trench coat, stiff with water. Her hair's plastered to her head, even her eyelashes are wet. And she's staring up at Quinn with this look that screams "Say something! Anything!"

And so she asks, "Why?" in a voice so quiet, she hopes she won't have to repeat herself.

"I can't stand the thought of you hating me," Rachel replies in a voice equally low.

Quinn wants to groan at the dramatic statement, but it's spoken with just shattering sincerity, that she finds herself almost stumbling over her words to reassure the brunette, "I don't hate you, Rachel."

"But you would have," Rachel replies. "How could you not when I was starting to hate myself."

Quinn doesn't know what to say to this. What do you say to someone who's just broken up with their fiancé to ensure your good opinion of them? "Thank you" seems a little trite and she finds herself suddenly terrified of what this means, of what she wants this to mean.

That slow panic is starting to build up and Quinn feels her heart begin to pound dully against her ribcage, "I didn't-" she exhales slowly in an attempt to organise her thoughts. She doesn't want to say something she'll regret. She's good at that. Always has been. "You didn't have to call him."

"I know," Rachel is saying. She looks down, twisting her fingers together. "I did it for me, okay?" Her eyes are searching Quinn's now. Those brown eyes, swimming with feeling, urging Quinn to crack, to break out of whatever apathetic shell she's hiding in. "I did it because…you were right."

Quinn swallows hard. God, she can't do this. Why does Rachel ask so much of her? She always has, even in high school, even when she didn't know it. Just by being this force around her, by mouthing off about her dreams and ambitions, making Quinn hate herself for not being more, making Quinn want to be more. It was part of Rachel's appeal. Even then, she was the only person who could get past Quinn's arsenal of defences and leave her stripped bare of all the bullshit she padded around herself.

And now she's standing here, listening to Rachel prepares to dredge up the words she uttered in the bar, the words which basically left her an open, vulnerable wound.

"Rachel," her voice cracks. "Let's just go to bed, okay? We can talk in the morning." She desperately wants Rachel to say, "Okay Quinn, we'll talk in the morning." But she knows her too well too hope and Rachel proves her right.

"No, wait…please," Rachel's coming towards her, her boots, making squishy wet footprints in the carpet. She really should get out of those clothes, Quinn thinks. Now that Rachel's closer, she can see her trembling. "You were right," she repeats, pushing wet bang off her forehead and looking up at Quinn with those goddamn eyes. "Everything you said in the bathroom was true. I was selfish and hypocritical and you were right, I can't expect you to act a certain way when I'm acting differently, so…I spoke to David and I told him-"

"About me?"

"No," Rachel answers cautiously. "Like I said. This is about what I'm feeling, what I've been feeling for a while now." She looks at Quinn pointedly. "I told him I needed space."

Quinn tries hard to remain expressionless. "How did he take it?"

"He's confused," Rachel says softly. "I can't blame him, I mean,I'm confused. I'm a mess, but I know one thing."

"What's that?" She doesn't want to know.

"I care about you, Quinn. I-I can't stop thinking about you." She says it almost apologetically.

"Rachel-" Please, stop, don't, yes, you're saying everything I've ever wanted to hear…

"I think about you all the time. Ever since we first ran into each other. And I thought, I thought it was just the remnants of some old schoolgirl crush, but, when I'm around you, I feel…" she wraps her arms around herself to keep from trembling, but it doesn't help, "I feel complete. And yes, that is incredibly hackneyed and I apologise for the cliché of it all, but I have no other way of expressing this feeling. It could just be that around you I'm happiest and when happiest, I'm the best version of myself and maybe I haven't been truly this happy in a long time, which really makes me sad and is contradictory to me being happy which makes me confused," she takes a breath, "but what I'm trying to say here is that this thing between us isn't just a product of residual high school feelings. It's something bigger than that. When we kiss it's like…" she makes a face as she tries to articulate her feelings, "God, it's like applause."

When Quinn gives her a quizzical look, she expands, "I just want more of it. And I-I can't be in a relationship when I'm feeling like this. And I'm sorry I thought that I could have it both, I was so stupid and selfish and you're worth so much more than this, Quinn. I'm so, so sorry." She uses a wet sleeve to wipe at the tears tumbling down her cheeks.

"Rachel, don't cry," is just about all Quinn can manage. She's literally digging her heels into the carpet to keep from taking those two steps and sweeping Rachel up into her arms in some big dramatic gesture. Everything Rachel's put forward is flitting around in her brain.

Rachel sniffs and swallows the rest of her tears. "Are we okay?" she asks in a quivering voice.

"Yes." Quinn final does take that step forward and takes the Rachel's wet jacket sleeve between her thumb and forefinger. "Come on," she says, giving it a light tug. "You should get out of these."

Without saying anything, she leads Rachel into her bedroom. She turns on the lamp and the room is immediately encased in a warm orange glow. Both of them blink against the light. She leaves Rachel standing in the middle of her room and walks to her bathroom without saying a word.

When Quinn comes back, Rachel's holding her wet coat in her hands and standing in her dress, the same dress from the pub, which is also soaked through. Just how far did she walk, Quinn wonders. She's visibly shivering now, looking so tiny, standing in the middle of the rug. "There's a fresh towel on the hamper and your old toothbrush is still there." Quinn looks down almost shyly, "I guess I forgot about it." She holds out a pair of cotton sleep shorts and a long-sleeved Red-Sox shirt.

Rachel takes the clothing from Quinn despite the fact that she has her own pyjamas just a bedroom away. "Thank you."

Quinn nods and gestures towards the bathroom. "Yeah. You can…" She sits back on the bed with a tired sigh, "I'll just…"

Rachel just hugs the clothing to her chest and nods. "Thank you," she says again, before disappearing into the bathroom.

Quinn waits until she hears the steady stream of water before she falls back with a thump and pulls her pillow over her face. The stuffy darkness is claustrophobic, so she ends up throwing it across the bed and just lying there, staring up at another ceiling, this one is crack-free. Although there is a strange dark spot in the corner that could be mould. She hears a faint humming coming from the bathroom and is instantly brought back to the situation at hand. At this point, Quinn is pretty certain that she's fucked. The whole denial thing she had going for her earlier in the evening is totally screwed now that Rachel's here and has basically confessed to having feelings for her and she's quite certain that her own feelings for Rachel aren't going anywhere. This of course leaves them in strange and dangerous territory that involves communication and honesty. Two things Quinn's never been particularly good at.

Without even thinking about it, she's reaching for her phone on her bedside table and pressing speed-dial.

It rings five times before Puck's sleepy voice grumbles on the other end. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to call."

"You wanted to call?" He clears his throat. "At 3am in the morning you called to chat? What the fuck, Q? I was dreaming about winning NASCAR. Are you sure you're okay?"

It's at this point that Quinn realises she seriously needs more friends. Preferably friends with vaginas. It's not that Puck's a bad friend, it's just that he's…not as sensitive as she'd like. Unfortunately, he's also the only one who really gets her.

"Rachel's here," she says softly, even though the spray of the shower's still going strong and there's no way that Rachel can hear her over the noise.

"Yeah, well, that why I'm here, right?"

"Right," she says, not really wanting to get into everything. "It's just-" she sighs into the phone and hears Puck get up and close a door somewhere.

"Come on," he sounds more alert now, like he's resigned himself to the fact that he's not going back to sleep anytime soon. "Tell Uncle Noah what's wrong."

She snorts without meaning to, "Firstly, don't ever call yourself that, it's creepy. Secondly…she— well she broke up with her boyfriend."

"Shit," he whispers. "She say why?"

Quinn rubs a hand over her face. "No. Well, yes. She said it's because she's not being fair I guess to either party. Which is true, I mean if she does have these so called feelings for me, then-"

"Wait," Puck's voice makes her pause immediately. "Did she actually say that? She said she has feelings for you?"

"Well," Quinn frowns. "She didn't actually use those words, but it was heavily implied, yes."

"Well, shit, Q, what are doing on the phone with me?" She actually sounds like he's smiling and Quinn's frown deepens.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've got a newly-single, hot as fuck Rachel Berry in your house. A girl who just confessed her feelings for you, a girl you've been in love with for like, forever and you're on the phone whining about what exactly? I mean, you should get in there. Tell her how you feel. Do one of those big love speeches you see in the last ten minutes of a Julia Roberts movie then get your lady lovin' on."

Quinn practically growls into the phone. "God, why did I think that talking to you would give me even an ounce of perspective? What do think this is, Puck? We're not in some romantic comedy where happy endings are guaranteed or your money back. I can't just declare my love, if that's even what this is. I can't just lay her down in a candle-lit room and make love to her, despite how badly I want to."

There's a low moan on the other end.

"She's New York," Quinn continues her rant, not really caring anymore who she's ranting to, "I'm Boston. This is my life. Here. I can't just… I mean. She just broke up with her fiancé for God's sake. She's not making rational decisions right now. I just," she sighs heavily and ruffles her hair in frustration. "What am I supposed to do, Puck?" she sounds lost now - a little girl asking directions to a place she shouldn't be going to anyway.

"I guess," Puck pauses before saying, "Just take it slow."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "And don't do that thing where you push her away, okay?"

Quinn swallows. "Okay."

"And Q?"

"Yeah?"

"When she says she has feelings for you or cares about you, believe her."

Quinn sucks in a breath, "She didn't actually say-"

"Listen," Puck interrupts. "It's impossible to know you and not fall in love with you. Believe me, Fabray, I'd know. So just give yourself a break, okay?"

"Yeah," she whispers into the receiver, "Okay."

"Good. Now, scram. I have a warm bed and a hot brunette in it who I can actually have sex with."

Quinn rolls her eyes at this, but finds herself smiling. "Night… and thanks."

"Sweet lesbian dreams," Puck murmurs before hanging up and leaving Quinn with the dialling tone.

…

It's another half-hour before Rachel gets out of the bathroom. She exits in a cloud of steam, wearing an apologetic expression. "You're out of hot water."

"That's alright," Quinn says, trying to contain her yawn. She's sitting at the edge of the bed, pretending to read a worn copy of Atwood's Surfacing. It's not really her go-to novel, but she likes the way the words kind of swirl around her head. "How are you feeling?" she asks, taking her glasses off the second she remembers they're perched on her nose.

"Warmer," Rachel replies a little sheepishly. Her hair's a bit fuzzy from the quick blow-dry and the sleeves from the Redsox sweater hang over her fingers - all in all, Quinn thinks she looks fourteen. Rachel looks down at her feet. Her toes are painted a pretty shade of pink.

"Quinn, I-"

"Listen, Rachel -"

They speak over each other and Quinn laughs awkwardly. "You go."

"I wanted to apologize. For everything. In hindsight I realise that showing up here at 2am was a tad impulsive and could have waited until morning."

"No, I-" she tosses the book aside and stands up. In bare feet, she suddenly notices their height difference and how Rachel would fit perfectly just under her chin. "I'm glad you came."

Something flickers in Rachel's eyes before she says, "You're not mad? It's just, you seem…" she trails off.

"I'm not…mad." Quinn says slowly, choosing her words. "I'm…terrified," she quietly admits.

"Of what?" Rachel's voice is small.

"You." Quinn gives a mirthless chuckle. "I think I've always been a little terrified of you, Rachel. Everything about you is just so big," she rolls her eyes when Rachel's brow furrows. "I don't mean you're big. You're actually really tiny. I mean you're confident. You've always been so sure of yourself. You were everything I never was, and I think, in the beginning I hated you for it. Then maybe, maybe I envied you for it."

Rachel's brow scrunches up even more. "But, you had everything. You were popular and smart and so, so pretty, I mean sure there was the pregnancy thing and the homeless thing and the brief period of insanity, but Quinn, you were just so…cool. Wanted to be you."

"Yeah, well by the end of high school, I think I just wanted to be with you." Quinn licks her lips before she continues. "Not consciously. I don't think I really figured it out or admitted to it until much later, but Rachel with you, there's always been something. And now you're here and you're talking about your feelings f-for me," Quinn stutters. Rachel stares, barely breathing. "And you, you just broke up with your fiancé and I know you say it's not because of me, but it's 3:30am and you're standing here in my bedroom which sort of makes it hard to validate that claim."

Quinn takes a step forward and she finds herself looking down at Rachel. "And I'm terrified, Rachel. I'm terrified, because I want this, with you, whatever this is I want it so badly I can hardly stand it. But I can't help feel that we're going about it all wrong. Like we're, I don't know, like we're two planets in the same solar system, but on different orbits and no matter how hard we try, we can't sync up." She rubs her hand over her face after a second. "God, I just realised how incredibly lame that sounded." She attempts a wry smile. "I'm afraid that after midnight I'm all out of wit."

Rachel lets out the breath she's been holding. "I thought it was rather poetic actually."

Quinn rolls her eyes, but manages to smile. She sits down at the edge of the bed and looks up at Rachel. "So, what now?"

Rachel cocks her head to the side and pretends to think hard. "I don't know. All I know is that I care about you. Perhaps more than is prudent at this point, but I've never been particularly cautious in matters of the heart." She shrugs. "My fatal flaw I suppose."

Quinn finds herself intensely studying Rachel's face as she speaks. How this short, verbose, slightly neurotic young woman has managed to fuck her over so completely she has no idea.

Rachel's eyes, warm and dark in the lamplight stay fixed on Quinn's and something flares between them. It's not something Quinn can describe, nor is it sexual. It's more of an understanding, an acceptance that they've made it to another stage of their relationship. Whatever it is, Quinn finds herself leaning forward and tugging on the hem of Rachel's shirt until the brunette is knee-to knee with her.

"What are you doing?" Rachel asks, that breathless tone already beginning to creep into her voice.

"Getting you to bed." Quinn asks that patented brow-raise in play.

"Quinn, I have a bed," Rachel says as Quinn continues to finger the cottony hem of her sleep-shirt.

"But you're already here." Quinn looks up at her now, "And I want you to stay. Just to sleep." Rachel's eyebrows lift before those full lips pull into a wide smile.

"Okay," she says softly. "Okay, I'll stay."

They get in on opposite ends, Quinn lies on her back, Rachel lies on her side, facing her. Rachel's knee barely brushes Quinn's hip. It's close enough to be friendly but too far apart to imply intimacy.

"I feel like I've spent all night staring up at ceilings," Quinn says after Rachel flicks off the lamp. The darkness seems to push them closer together.

"I don't understand. Are you being poetic again?" Rachel asks from her side.

"No," Quinn laughs softly. "It's…nothing."

They fall into silence and Rachel's breathing evens out after a while. Quinn turns her head to see the slow and steady fall of Rachel's chest as she breathes. Her eyes trace the outline of Rachel's forehead, the bridge of her nose, the curve of her plump lips. She's staring at the subtle jut of her chin, when those lips curve in a small smile.

"Staring is creepy, Fabray."

Quinn swallows her gasp of surprise. "It's dark. How do you know I'm staring?"

"I can feel it," Rachel whispers. "I have a very keen 6th sense."

"Whatever," Quinn mutters, subtly moving closer. Rachel's knees are now firmly placed in her lap.

Another minute of silence goes by before Quinn's voice cuts through the darkness. "Hey Rach?"

"Hmmm?"

"You really get the same high from kissing me as you do from applause?"

Rachel's silent for a long time before she says, "Quinn, kissing you is like a ten-minute standing ovation."

Quinn wonders if Rachel can 'feel' her smiling. "Night, Rachel."

"Goodnight Quinn."

…

Quinn wakes up the same way she does every other morning – wrapped up in her duvet, with her head halfway under her pillow. She lies there for about half-a-minute before she stretches and then nearly squeals when her toe comes into contact with a naked calf. Quinn yanks her head out from under her pillow and squints against the bright-white winter sunlight. Her sleepy gaze focuses on one Rachel Berry, completely robbed of blankets, lying spread-out across the mattress as if she owns it. Feeling guilty, Quinn stealthily unwraps herself and attempts to cover some of Rachel. It's at this point that she notices the flash of ink on Rachel's hip. Quinn shoots a quick, surreptitious glance up at Rachel's face. She's out. Like really out. Slowly, with her eyes never leaving Rachel's face, Quinn gingerly tugs down the elastic waistband of the sleep shorts just enough to reveal the tattooed phrase on her hip. She bites down on her lower lip as she leans down close, squinting to read the cursive script without her glasses. A little fall of rain.

"It's from Le Mis."

Quinn sits up so quickly, she ends up bouncing back, causing a now very awake Rachel to chuckle, her voice husky with sleep.

"How did you do that?" Quinn asks, running her hand through her hair in an attempt to tame her messy mane. "Your eyes were closed."

"6th sense," Rachel says, leaning up on her elbow. "Do you have any?"

"6th senses?" Quinn leans back to check the time. 8:05. Hardly a decent time to be up on a non-work day.

"Tattoos," Rachel replies, pulling the duvet up to her chest.

"Uh, other than my very regrettable senior-year tramp stamp, no. No tattoos."

"Ah, I forgot about that," Rachel says with a smile. "That was a…interesting phase."

Quinn shoots her a wry glance complete with a raised eyebrow. "Interesting is one way of putting it."

Rachel turns to her suddenly with this face, this cheery, giddy face that makes her look like she's just stepped out of a kids cartoon or something. "Hey, let's go get breakfast," she breathes, practically bouncing on the bed.

"What?"

"Breakfast," Rachel repeats. "Come on, Quinn. Look outside. It's actually sunny. Granted it's probably freezing out there, but there's sun and I bet it's really pretty after last night's rain and we could just go get coffee or, or I could watch you consume a dead fried pig and just…let's go out."

Rachel's sudden exuberance confuses her, but Quinn can't say she isn't tempted. After last night, it would be nice to just get out and do something drama-free and pedestrian. She can't think of anything more pedestrian than eating breakfast, so she smiles. Rachel's enthusiasm is oddly infectious.

"Great," Rachel hops out of bed and begins walking towards the bathroom. "We'll have to bundle Max up really well though. I know he's out of the danger zone, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Oh, and there's this great little deli on Watson Street. They serve vegan pancakes. I don't know how you feel about banana, but…" the rest of her words are drowned out by the sound of the faucet.

It doesn't matter, because Quinn stopped listening the second she mentioned Max.

Quinn had forgotten about him. Rachel obviously hadn't. For some reason, this makes her feel unfathomably warm inside, like Rachel is slotting into her life, making an effort to slot into her life and for this first time since bumping into her in that poorly lit Wal-Mart, Quinn begins to think that maybe, just maybe this crazy thing between them could actually work.

...