Author's Notes: Apologies for the delay, I had an extra-large dose of real life to deal with (not COVID btw). As always, thanks and due credit go to Mike Ownby for Americanization, various localization errors, and for letting me know that the US of A does not have Lemsip.

For everyone reading this, I apologize for this chapter in advance.

There was a bug going around McKinley, and given Quinn's luck thus far, she had been one of the first to catch it.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Quinn blinks at Rachel blearily. "School?"

Rachel narrows her eyes at Quinn. "No. You're sick, Quinn; you're staying home today."

"It's only a cough, I feel fine."

"Absolutely not!" says Rachel shrilly. "You are not going to Glee and spreading the virus there!"

"I don't have to go to Glee, I'll just go home after class."

Rachel puts her hands on her hips and glares. "No. Frankly, you need the rest. I know you've been running yourself ragged lately at work and at school."

Quinn glares at Hiram. "Tattletale."

Hiram shrugs.

"Beth will be at work with Daddy, so you needn't worry about passing the bug to her, or having to look after her while sick," continues Rachel before Quinn can say anything, "and I will collect your assignments for you. There's plenty of cough medication in the pantry, I expect you to stay hydrated and get some rest."

"Yes, mom," says Quinn, rolling her eyes.

"I will let that go because you are unwell, and thus cannot be held responsible for your words or actions."

There's a muffled snorting sound from behind Hiram's newspaper. Quinn glares at him even though she knows he can't see her.

Once she'd gotten over being kept home from school like she was five years old again, Quinn welcomed the break. She had the house to herself and plenty of time to mope and mull over her problems (not to mention her throat was definitely feeling a little scratchy) except –

She'd napped all morning, she'd had her medicine, she'd caught up with outstanding homework. She'd even read ahead. Quinn feels like she's earned a break, so now she's lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling and seeing nothing, getting a sense of deja vu.

Currently, she is doing her best not to think about the conversation she had with Sam, because – well, it's not one of her finest moments. It would take a lot to beat telling a perfectly nice boy who is crazy about her that she doesn't want him – or any other boy, for that matter. Quinn doesn't want to entertain the latter thought too much.

She sighs – possibly deep enough to dislodge any spiders from the ceiling – and rolls on her side. "How is this my life now," Quinn mumbles.

The old Quinn, after being suitably horrified and aghast by teen mom Quinn, would probably have tried to win back Sam tomorrow, doubling down on her heterosexuality, determined to win that prom queen title. The normalcy that it promises is very tempting, but Quinn lets the thought go. Living with the Berrys (mostly Rachel) has taught her the value of authenticity. She's considerably more relaxed with all her major secrets out (okay, maybe one or two like I don't want to kiss boys in progress) and she doesn't think she could go back to living like the old Quinn.

… though she thinks she can definitely go without the weekly musical movie nights and dinner table confessionals.

Her thoughts are disrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Quinn frowns at the time on her phone; it's too early for anyone to be home.

"Rachel?"

Her frown deepens when she hears footsteps, and voices – plural. Quinn wishes she had thought to get her pepper spray from her bag.

"You know, the decor isn't that bad once you've gotten used to it – and gouged your eyes out, of course," says Santana by way of greeting, sauntering in like she owns the place. "Cueball," she adds with a nod to Quinn. "Good to see you didn't die."

"What're you doing here? Where's Rachel?"

"I'm doing my good deed for the day," replies Santana. "Does this cat belong to you, ma'am?"

"Very funny, Santana," says Rachel from behind. "Hello, Quinn. Are you feeling better?"

Quinn blinks. "Wait, you two are friends now?"

"Keep up," replies Santana.

Rachel frowns but follows Santana into the living room. "I wouldn't use the term friends, per se," she says. "Allies, maybe. Partners, in the strictest non-romantic sense. And you haven't answered my question, Quinn."

And maybe Quinn's just projecting, but she thinks that last clarification may have been done very hastily.
"I'm fine. Bored out of my skull too, thanks for asking."

Santana scowls at Rachel. "Non-romantic partners? You break my heart, Midgey. You're the one who was talking my ear off during the drive here about some alliance. The Women Against Finn the Fucking Loser Lying Egomaniac Sisterhood."

"... the what?"

"WAFFLES for short." Rachel looks simultaneously proud and exasperated. "While I appreciate the succinctness of the acronym, I would appreciate it even more if there were less uncomplimentary adjectives attached to Finn's name."

"What, and ruin the poetry?"

Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose. "That doesn't explain why you're home early, and why the two of you are suddenly BFFs."

"I had a heated discussion with Finn – "

"– she dumped Mr Loser Liar after he tried to kiss her," interjects Santana.

"What?!"

"Quinn, it's not as bad as it sounds – "

She can feel a headache building. Quinn points at Rachel. "You, please shut up." Rachel complies, albeit reluctantly. Her finger shifts to an impressed-looking Santana.

"Hey, nice trick."

"You, keep talking," Quinn says through gritted teeth. "What. Happened?"

"It was glorious," says Santana with obvious relish. "She cornered him after school and asked to talk privately. The idiot must've thought it was code for making out 'cause he dragged her out to the bleachers. He always brings girls there when he wants to make out with them, he's a dumb ass one-trick pony – "

"– get on with it. God, you're as bad as Rachel." Rachel shoots Quinn a deeply-offended look, which goes ignored.

"– so I thought I'd follow them in case he tried anything."

"You did that for me?" Rachel asks, quiet and astonished.

"I care about winning Regionals more than you think," retorts Santana. "Anyway, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, Assface pounces on her, Midge here sort of dodges, and she goes noooo Finn stop that, we broke uppppp." Her voice goes ridiculously pitchy in what is a horrible imitation of Rachel (which Quinn is certain Santana isn't even trying for accuracy at all). "Assface starts sulking, he wants answers, and Midge tells him they're donezo."

Quinn's eyebrow goes up. "Really, Rach?"

Rachel goes slightly pink. "Your choice of vocabulary seemed rather fitting at the time. And Finn understood it immediately."

Quinn doesn't respond to that.

"Anyways, he loses his shit. Finncompetent goes off on Midgey here and – "

"– he what?!" Quinn snarls.

"Love that rage boner but I'd appreciate it if you would tuck that back into your spanks and let me finish the story."

"Santana intervened, stopped Finn, and gallantly escorted me home," interrupts Rachel, clearly frustrated by both Santana and Quinn's antics.

"Yeah, what she said. If you count stopped as a fucking pussy way of saying kicked homeboy in the nuts and left him whimpering in stoner dirt."

With a superhuman effort, Quinn regains control over the blind rage that fills her. "Thank you," she says to Santana, begrudgingly respectful – and genuinely grateful. "For being there."

Santana smirks, looking far too pleased for the simple gratitude. But before she can say anything, Rachel steps forward. "As the both of you can see, I am completely fine," she announces firmly. "Though I will be having words with Finn about anger management classes on Monday. Clearly his inability to handle disappointment is becoming a liability to our Regionals victory and his own well-being."

"Yeah, that would be your order of priorities," remarks Quinn, earning herself a side glance from Rachel.

Santana grins. "Well, at least I know how to prioritize."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." She opens the fridge, grabs a red Vitamin Water – Quinn makes a distressed sound, it's her favorite flavor and that's the last one – and makes for the door. "Later, chicas."

Quinn follows her and heaves the door shut, prompting a muffled curse as Santana's exit turns into an ejection. "Moron," mutters Quinn at the door before rounding on Rachel. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Quinn," says Rachel quickly, eyes wide. "He didn't hurt me."

"Yeah, that doesn't sound bad at all," snaps Quinn. "I can't believe he would do something like that. He's even dumber than I thought, and I convinced him that he got me pregnant via hot tub."

"Quinn!" Rachel presses her lips together, looking both disapproving and amused. "I'm fine. Santana – despite a very colorful and one-sided recount of events – made sure nothing bad happened."

Quinn sighs. "Yeah. I'd rather die than say it to her, but I'm glad she was there."

Rachel beams at her. "Me too. I'm glad that you haven't charged out the door in search of Finn."

"Now that you mention it…"

"Quinn!"

"It was a joke!"

"Joke or not, you aren't fully recovered yet," says Rachel. "I don't want you over-exerting yourself."

Quinn squints at her. "... okay? You know, if you make that expression, I can't tell if you're joking."

Once Rachel's ascertained that Quinn is no longer infectious, she sets about putting Quinn to work.

"So, Thanksgiving is coming…"

Quinn looks up from her homework, dismayed. "Rachel, it's October."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, thank you Quinn. As I was saying – and I'm sure you'll agree – it's about time we work on our Thanksgiving menu."

"What's there to work on? There's turkey and cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes and… other sides." Saying the words brings an acute pang of longing for the Fabray Thanksgiving dinners from her childhood.

Rachel seems to notice; her expression softens in a way that seems reserved for Quinn. "It will be your and baby Beth's first Berry Thanksgiving; I want it to be special."

And there was no coming back from that. After that, Quinn had mostly been putty in Rachel's hands, which is why she's wrist-deep in flour, working on the pastry for Rachel's new vegan pumpkin pie recipe.

"Can you get the door, please?" Rachel says absently, her attention focused on measuring out ingredients for the pie filling.

Quinn nods, already brushing flour off her hands and heading to the front door. She's in a hurry to get back to the kitchen, which means she doesn't check who it is before opening the door –

– which turns out to be a fatal mistake when she sees who's standing on the doorstep.

"... Hey." Finn, looking miserable, hunched like he's trying to disappear into the pocket of his jeans, attempts a smile.

She almost growls. "You've got some nerve being here. She doesn't want to talk to you." She tries to shut the door, but Finn wedges his foot between the door and the frame.

"I know, I actually came to talk to you."

Quinn sneers. "No, I have zero interest in getting back with you now that Rachel's dumped you." She pushes against the door again, which doesn't budge.

He has the grace to look embarrassed. "Yeah, I know. I've been a bit of an asshole."

"You think?" She tries the door once more, for luck, putting her shoulder behind it.

"Look, you can call me all the names you want. I get that. But I came to talk to you about something, and it would be great if you let me talk before you go back to all the insults." He looks down at his foot and winces. "And maybe not shut the door on me, because it really hurts."

"You? Want to talk?" In her surprise, she releases the doorknob.

Finn sighs deeply. "Yeah." He bends down and rubs his foot.

She contemplates him. He definitely doesn't look sullen or resentful or even upset as she's seen him; he looks dejected. Repentance is a good look on him, she thinks.

Quinn reaches around herself to untie her apron. "Wait here," she directs over her shoulder, heading back into the kitchen, apron in hand.

"Who was that?"

"Brittany," she lies smoothly. "She was saying something about wanting to organize Thanksgiving dinner for the ducks at the park and, uh, going to ask for their opinions." Her apron goes over the back of a kitchen chair and she bats at her clothing, trying to get stray flour marks out.

Rachel smiles. "Figures. You should go, fresh air would be good for you."

"Thanks, Dr Berry. I'll be back soon."

Her demeanor immediately sobers when she comes back to Finn, standing woefully on the doorstep like an abandoned pet. "Let's go," she says, shutting the door firmly behind her.

They walk in silence until they reach the park playground.

"You wanted to talk? Talk," she says.

Finn sighs. "I'm sorry."

"You'll have to be more specific. I can think of a few things that applies to."

His sneakers scuff the gravel. "Uh… for cornering Rachel. I guess she or Santana probably told you."

Quinn's frown deepens. "Yeah."

"Okay, for that," he says, nodding. "I get that she probably hates me."

"Probably." Rachel being Rachel, she'd forgiven Finn a few hours later – something Quinn is determined not to tell him.

"Okay, and she doesn't want to talk to me, ever, which I also get. So I, uh, was wondering if you could tell her that I'm sorry, and I'm not gonna talk to her at school if she doesn't want me to." Finn frowns. "Glee might be kinda difficult, though."

"Did you think Rachel would let something as insignificant as a breakup get in the way of Regionals prep?" Quinn asks, and they both smile.

"Yeah, you're right. If she can be professional, I guess I can too."

Much to her dismay, Quinn can feel her anger at him ebbing away. "... You're really taking her seriously this time, aren't you?" she says aloud.

Finn grimaces. "Ouch."

"You deserved that."

He grunts noncommittally, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaning against the swing set. "Doesn't mean I'm supposed to be all happy about hearing it."

Quinn takes a seat on the swings – one seat away. "Tell me about it."

"Huh?"

"I've been in your shoes," she clarifies for Finn's benefit. "I was a horrible person, especially to her. And she still forgave me, and got her dads to take me in, y'know? Rachel's capacity for forgiveness is… something else."

"Yeah," says Finn, smiling now. He slumps into the vacant swing seat, deaf to the creaking protest of the chains, idly swinging back and forth. "It's one of the things I really like about her."

"You mean, you like that she forgives you for not listening to her when she talks," says Quinn dryly, but without any malice.

"Yeah, that's really nice of her," replies Finn, completely oblivious. "It gets hard to keep up when she gets carried away and talks really fast? And she jumps to all these other things that aren't related?"

Much to her horror, Quinn knows exactly what he means. She decides that ribbing Finn is an unproductive exercise – particularly now, when he isn't doing or saying anything to deserve her ire (except existing, which she can't really do anything about now). Quinn joins him in swinging back and forth.

"How was that like for you?"

"How was what?" Quinn asks absently, focusing on the gravel under her feet.

"Feeling guilty all the time."

Quinn's swinging comes to an abrupt halt. "Excuse me?"

"You said you were horrible to her," he points out, "so it must've been difficult back then, right?"

"I suppose."

"And you guys are really good friends now, so I guess that's worked out."

"What are you trying to say, Finn?"

"I'm saying… do you have any tips? Like you've been there and all."

She barks out a surprised laugh. "I cannot believe I am having this conversation with you right now."

"Me neither."

Quinn sighs. She doesn't want to answer his question, plus she doesn't know what she can tell him. "Look, I have to get back." She stands up, ignoring the crunch of gravel underfoot. "I'm kinda glad we could talk about," she waves a hand, "all this."

"Can I ask you for a favor?"

"What is it?"

Finn looks completely ill at ease. "Could you not tell Rachel about this?"

"Why not? Don't want her to know that you're actually trying to be a decent human being?"

"I think she'd take it the wrong way."

Quinn sighs. "That's fair. But I'm expecting you to come clean eventually. I've got enough dirty secrets of my own, I don't need to be keeping yours too."

"Thanks," says Finn, looking immensely relieved. "I owe you."

"Pfft."

"There you are!"

She jumps a little. "What in the – "

Rachel narrows her eyes at Quinn. "Where have you been? I finished the pie without your help, thank you for asking."

"I didn't ask."

"Gesundheit. What took you so long?"

"I was out walking," says Quinn evasively.

"Walking?"

"Yeah. Getting some fresh air and all."

Rachel sniffs. "By yourself?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Nothing," says Rachel. "I thought you were out with Brittany."

Quinn stiffens. "I was," she lies quickly, "but she went home early and I took the long way home from the park."

"... I see."

If the guilt of keeping yet another secret from Rachel wasn't bad enough, now Quinn has to deal with Rachel and Santana being BFFs. She doesn't even have the right to get mad; she knows that Rachel knows she's hiding something.

And why would she even want to be mad that Rachel and Santana are getting along, anyway? Rachel's always wanted more friends, Santana is behaving herself (for once), and Quinn gets more time to herself as a bonus.

Except Quinn's not happy, and she doesn't know why. It's the little things that annoy her, like – she and Rachel have Honors English together on Tuesdays, so they'd walk to Glee after class. But now Santana's waiting outside the room and Rachel waves Quinn off saying you go on, I'll catch up. Or she walks into Glee to find them already there, whispering together, thick as thieves.

Rachel and Santana's newfound friendship is driving the rest of Glee insane, and Quinn most of all.

Quinn wants to yell at the universe: I'm being a good person for once, and this is how you repay me? She can't think of a reason she's being punished this way, apart from being dead and inhabiting her own little pocket of hell.

At least it's warm.

"Hey, loser. Party this weekend, you in?"

Quinn frowns. "I have a baby. I don't think I'm going to be attending parties until she's old enough to – wait, this is at Rachel's house?"

Santana smirks. "Uh, your house too now? Didn't Rach tell you?"

Quinn grits her teeth, ignoring how mad Rachel's upgrading from insult to nickname is making her. "That's not the point! The point is, if Rachel was throwing a party in her basement – "

"– your basement."

"– Jesus, Santana. If Rachel is throwing a party in my basement, you would think she'd tell me and I wouldn't have to find out from this fucking flyer?" She waves the flimsy paper for emphasis.

"She has office copier access," Santana informs her serenely. "So useful."

"I don't give a flying fuck," grits out Quinn. "I wanna know why your new best friend didn't tell me there was gonna be a party and why I had to find out from a flyer."

"Hey, she's your roommate, right? Why don't you ask her?"

Quinn didn't bother with a response, turning on her heel and marching away.

"I can't believe you're letting Rachel do this," Quinn grumbles over the dishes.

Leroy raises an eyebrow. "Do what?"

Quinn's spider senses tingle. "Invite people over this Friday," she pivots smoothly, in her best "parents-love-me" tone of voice.

Luckily for her, Leroy – despite his finely-honed sense of bullshit detection – doesn't cotton on. "She told us it was a Glee club gathering to brainstorm for Regionals," he says, frowning at the soapy dishes in the sink. "They're having pizza and soda."

"Pizza and soda?"

Leroy grimaces. "There was a PowerPoint pitch."

"Ah." At least that answers the question of why the Berrymen let Santana and Rachel throw a party in the basement.

"It's nice to see you two girls getting along."

"Excuse me?" Quinn narrows her eyes at the non sequitur. It's usually Hiram doing this, as the lawyer of the family; Leroy's bluntness doesn't leave much room for mind games.

"From the day you came home, I was certain one of you would end up dead," says Leroy.

Quinn scoffs. "I hate to say it, but Sue taught us a lot of tricks."

He shoots her a look that could've been mistaken for murderous intent by anyone not familiar with the Berrys and their grafted-on branch. "I don't doubt that. Oh, that reminds me; Hiram and I would be happy to take Beth for the night."

"Oh." She makes an educated guess. "Yeah, Rachel asked you for me, didn't she?"

He gives her an odd look but nods. "Rachel told me you were busy with other things and might have forgotten to ask."

Which was true – what with Sam and Finn and the disaster zone that was her personal life – but Quinn couldn't believe her ears. Rachel was not only mad at her, going behind her back, and becoming Santana's BFF, but she was using Quinn to lie to her fathers as well.

Santana was a horrible influence, that much was clear. But at the same time, Quinn couldn't help the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Was it so bad that Rachel was having a social life? Surely Quinn wasn't expecting Rachel to stick with her and her baby for the rest of their high school lives. After all, what had Quinn done for Rachel? She hadn't really confronted Finn like Santana had. A few choice insults didn't count as defending her. And Rachel had done so much for her…

"Are you alright?"

Quinn blinks.

"You're about to rub the flowers off," he says, nodding at the dish in Quinn's hands.

"I'm fine," she says. "Just spaced out a little. Thinking about… Regionals."

"Yeah, isn't that why you kids are having that gathering on Friday?"

She forces herself to nod and smile. "Yeah, we are."

Thanks to Rachel's stringentness, there are only Glee clubbers in attendance. Then again, Glee club counts some of McKinley's most notorious students as members; Artie, of all people, has managed to sneak a case of beer in.

"Are you kidding me?" Rachel fumes. "We are underage. A literal underaged person lives here. If my dads find out, they will never let me have people over again."

"Hey, don't get mad at Wheelie," says Santana. "I asked him to do me a favor. Like, your dad's a cop and he's not gonna fall for the old backpack trick, but nobody's gonna frisk a guy in a wheelchair, y'know?"

Puck goes wide-eyed, and starts nodding.

"Noah!" She turns her glare on Santana. "Santana, I cannot believe you."

"What? I just wanted Wheels to feel included with the booze smuggling operation and all."

"What booze smuggling operation?!"

Normally, in situations like these, Quinn would have actively taken Rachel's side. But right now she isn't speaking to Rachel, because Rachel can't be bothered to speak to her. And Rachel has a new BFF anyway, so it falls to Rachel to discipline said new BFF.

But then she sees Puck take Rachel aside and offer her a beer, and Quinn sees red.

"Back off, Puckerman," Quinn snaps, pushing at him.

"C'mon," he says, swinging the bottle by its neck, "my girl needs to relax a little."

"You're not taking advantage of her," snaps Quinn.

"I'm not, I swear."

"I can make my own decisions, Quinn," interjects Rachel. She looks a little bleary; it's clear that she's already had a few drinks.

"I know you can, but this is one you shouldn't need to think about." She shoves at Puck. "Get lost."

He does, sneering at her, but without further protest.

"What's your problem, Quinn?" Rachel snaps.

"My problem?" Quinn echoes incredulously. "My problem is that I don't want you making a mistake you'll regret later."

Rachel, face flushed, opens her mouth to respond –

"WHO WANTS TO PLAY SPIN THE BOTTLE?" Santana yells, waving an empty Stoli bottle over her head like she's flagging down a taxi. "First spin goes to the host."

A ragged cheer goes up, and people congregate around her. Quinn stands firm against the tide of sweaty bodies, unwilling to participate, until Brittany takes her arm and gently but firmly steers her to a corner of the circle. "What's eating you, Quinn?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're upset," notes Brittany. "Why is Rachel upsetting you?"

Quinn opens her mouth, pauses, and then closes it when she realizes she doesn't really have an answer. Brittany, as usual, has skipped the normal logical progression of thought. "I don't want her making the same stupid mistakes I did," she says eventually. "It's so dumb – I'm a living example of why accepting drinks from Noah Puckerman is a bad idea, there's no way I was gonna stand by and let her make stupid decisions."

Brittany smiles serenely and pats Quinn's cheek. "Give her time. Both of you need to adjust to it."

"To what?"

But the empty bottle of Stoli is already spinning, neck whirling around the ragged circle of drunk teenagers. The bottle eventually rocks to an unsteady stop in front of Puck.

He leers. "Guess it's my lucky day," he drawls, and leans in to kiss Rachel.

The sight of them causes Quinn's insides to feel like molten lava. She grits her teeth and looks away. There's hooting when Puck attempts to put his hands on Rachel's hips and she pushes him away, breaking the kiss. "Okay," she announces, face even more deeply crimson, hair mussed, "next round."

Puck gives the bottle a spin. People catcall and laugh when it points to Kurt, but Puck gamely goes for the kiss, prompting a shriek from Kurt and hysterical laughter from everyone else.

"I hate this game," proclaims Kurt, hiding between Mercedes and Quinn.

"Hate it all you want, but you still have to spin," laughs Santana.

"What's the matter, Hummel? Too much Puckster for ya?"

"Out of all the guys, why did it have to be you?" complains Kurt, fixing his hair, prompting more catcalls and jeers from the others. He mutters furiously under his breath as he spins, but cheers up when it points to a very uncomfortable-looking Finn. Even though it's an awkward peck on the lips (facilitated by a glare from Quinn directed at Finn), Kurt looks fairly pleased.

The next few kisses go without much fanfare, with truly interesting pairings. Quinn manages to loosen up, even laugh with everyone else when Tina makes a show of intense making out with Artie, complete with exaggerated heavy petting of his chair.

"Oh, hey!" says Tina, beaming when her spin points towards Santana. "Time to find out what every boy in McKinley was going on about."

"Come here, Chang Squared, I'm about to blow. Your. Mind," says Santana, crooking a finger, and then they're kissing. The boys are hooting, Puck making obscene gestures. Quinn watches dispassionately, looking at Santana's technique.

Then Santana spins Rachel.

She can see it in slow motion; the way Rachel's eyes go dark, the smile spreading over her face. She doesn't approach Santana as much as pounce on her, hands on Santana's shoulders. Santana's fingers curl in Rachel's hair as the kiss deepens.

The noise increases exponentially, but Quinn doesn't hear any of it. All she knows is the pounding of her heart, and the rushing sound of the blood in her ears, and – most painful of all – the ache of her heart.

Her head is pounding, and Quinn doesn't understand why. She didn't drink any alcohol last night, and yet her eyes are red and her mouth dry.

She wants to avoid Rachel. But she knows that today's Saturday, and according to the bedazzled family calendar that's stuck to the fridge, she and Rachel were assigned the chore of bringing the Berry family cars to Burt Hummel's garage for their annual tune-up. Last weekend they brought the Berrymen's cars, so all they're left with is Quinn's.

Which is great, until Quinn realizes that she'll be spending half the day in Rachel's company – something that she used to look forward to, until she doesn't.

Her only consolation is that Rachel appears downstairs wearing sunglasses and doesn't say a single word until she's had two mugs of coffee.

Which is fine with Quinn. She doesn't feel much like talking, either.

"I'll drive," she says curtly.

Rachel nods and melts into the passenger seat, abandoning her usual perfect posture. The sight is so comical that Quinn, despite being mad at Rachel, can't hide a smile.

"Are we going to talk about why you're mad at me?"

Quinn starts badly. "What?"

"My sense of empathy is fairly developed."

"Not your common sense or your sense of tact, unfortunately," responds Quinn tightly.

"And I know you well enough to tell that you resort to insulting me when you don't want to talk about something," Rachel says without missing a beat.

"I'm not having this conversation with you while I'm driving."

"Which implies that this is a conversation we need to have eventually."

"How are you – I thought you were too hung-over to talk."

Rachel removes her sunglasses and winces. "This is important."

"Almost as important as you playing tonsil hockey with Lopez?"

"And there it is."

Quinn pulls into Hummel Tires and Lube, her heart hammering. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Quinn, you're upset. Clearly this is something we should talk about."

"No, we shouldn't."

"Oh, hey Quinn. Rachel. Good to see you girls."

"Hi, Mr Hummel," they chorus in unexpected unison.

"It's Burt, okay?" He eyes them both, hands stuffed in the pockets of greasy overalls. "Why don't you girls have a seat in my office and I can look over the car? It hasn't been too long since your last tune-up, so you two should be out of here real quick."

Quinn knows that Rachel is uncomfortable around Burt; she hasn't been a good friend to Kurt, and she knows Burt knows. But Burt has always been lovely to her, and that unsettles Rachel.

"Thanks, Burt," says Quinn quickly.

He nods at them, taking the keys from Quinn and driving the car to a vacant berth. That leaves Quinn and Rachel to awkwardly make their way to Burt's office, still not making eye contact.

"Quinn…"

"No," says Quinn.

"Okay." Rachel straightens her back. "We don't have to talk about – whatever is making you so mad."

"I'm not mad."

Rachel sighs. "Can we at least talk about you?"

"Talk about me, what?"

"I know about you and Finn."

Quinn is so surprised, she almost falls off the crate she's perched on. "Me and who?"

"I saw you two together." The worst part is how Rachel seems to slump when she says it, the picture of defeat. "I know you lied to me about Brittany."

"Okay, so I lied," says Quinn, "but it's not for the reasons you're thinking."

"And what reasons am I thinking, Quinn?"

She opens her mouth to snap back and then she remembers she sorta made a promise to Finn. Fuck. "I can't tell you. But I promise Finn and I aren't back together."

"Right."

She knows Rachel doesn't believe her. It's annoying, how the universe wants her to be a good person and then continues to screw her over like this. "I don't care if you don't believe me, but that's the truth."

Actually, she does care a lot, but that's beside the point.

"Yes, because you have a long history of trustworthiness when either Finn or myself are involved."

"Jesus, Rachel," says Quinn through gritted teeth. "That was cold."

"No, you know what's cold? I thought we were friends, but you can't even tell me the truth."

"We are friends. That's why I'm telling you the truth now, and hoping you'll believe me because I don't have any reason to lie to you."

Now Rachel is watching her closely – as far as Quinn can tell, anyway, because the sunglasses are dark enough. "You're mad about something else."

"What else could I possibly be mad about? Maybe my parents being gigantic assholes? Or the father of my baby being a jerk? The fact that I had a freaking baby at sixteen?" Despite herself, Quinn looks down at her midsection. "I used to have abs," she mutters, lip quivering.

It is a testament to the severity of Rachel's hangover that she doesn't comment.

"That's not all. You were mad at me last night, when we were playing spin the bottle."

A deadly silence fills the space between them.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

"Are you mad that I kissed Noah?"

"What? No. Why would I be mad? I don't give a shit who he kisses."

Rachel's mouth turns down at the corners. "Because you're back with Finn."

"God." Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose as she weighs her options. She's learned – through extensive experience – that her go-to tactic of insulting Rachel into agreement won't work. She can't really tell Rachel everything, because then Finn will be annoyed with her (again), and really, she has enough problems with boys not to make it a three-for-three.

"Or are you mad that I kissed Santana?"

Quinn is jolted out of her own mind. "Like I said, I don't give a flying fuck who you kiss," she snaps.

Rachel blinks. "Really? Then why are you yelling?"

Too late, she realizes she's drawn the attention of half the mechanics in the shop. Quinn blushes and ducks her head, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I understand that you may have problems with Santana and I – "

"– really, Rachel? You know I don't have a problem with gay people. For god's sake, I live with your dads. Get over yourself."

Rachel blinks rapidly this time, clearly hurt. "I was going to say that I understand it would be weird for you because Santana and I are your friends, but never mind that. It's fairly evident you're not in the mood to listen to me."

Even now, Quinn realizes there's no coming back from this trainwreck of a conversation. She reverts to an old favorite: pushing people away. "Yeah? What gave that away?"

"Honestly," Rachel huffs, and turns away. Quinn pretends she doesn't see Rachel wiping her eyes. She's too busy trying to keep her own emotions under control, at any rate.

Burt raps his knuckles on the open office door. "Hey, girls," he says, "I'm almost done. Quinn, I need you to take a look at this bit."

"What?" Quinn is genuinely confused. "I don't know anything about cars."

"I just need you to sign off on this part. It looks like it's about to give, but we don't stock parts for that particular model right now. I can always pull something from one of the other models, but it's your car, and I thought I'd run it past you first."

Quinn just nods, head reeling. She follows Burt out, closing the office door behind her, and lets him lead her around the corner.

"Here." He motions to a crate beside her car. "Are you okay?"

"What?"

Burt smiles crookedly at her; belatedly, she notices he and Kurt have the same smile. "I think there might've been some folks over in Columbus who didn't hear you and Rachel going at it."

Quinn buries her face in her hands; objectively, she knows what he means, but the way he phrased it makes her want to disappear into a hole in the ground.

"Car's all done, but I don't think either of you girls are fit to drive."

She looks up. "I'm fine," she insists, and Burt shrugs.

"Suit yourself. You know you can always talk to me?"

She laughs bitterly. "No offense, but I've got enough men in my life telling me to talk to them."

Burt chuckles. "Fair point. But I want you to know, my door is always open, y'hear?" He gingerly wipes his hand on a clean patch on his overalls before patting her shoulder. "You've been a good friend to Kurt. I love that boy, but as his dad, there's only so much I can be there for, y'know?"

"... Thanks, Burt."

"And I do mean anything," he continues. Quinn notices he's watching her closely now.

"Okay?"

He claps his hands together, smiling. "Right. Glad we got that sorted out. By the way, your car's in great condition, tell Rachel's dads I'll send them the bill. Okay?"

With one last pat, he's gone.