A/N: Hi, kittens. I'm back. I haven't been able to stop thinking about these two since "I Do." But can you blame me? This little plot bunny has been rabidly kicking at my brain, demanding that I write it. I'm not planning a mega-epic tale like "Second Chances" – probably just a 3 or 4 chapter story – but I need to get this out of my head before I can work on anything else.

Chapter 1

Quinn stared at her organizer calendar. Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Valentine's Day and the wedding that wasn't, and Santana Lopez had fallen off the planet. Or at least that's what Quinn told herself. There could be no other possible reason for why her best friend had been ignoring her. Santana hadn't responded to any of her texts, voicemails, or emails, and her social media footprint had been curiously quiet. No Facebook posts about how annoying Rachel Berry's nightly ritual was, no Tweets recording the height of Kurt Hummel's hair, no Instagrammed images of Brody's head photoshopped onto a Ken doll's body.

Rachel, however, insisted that Santana was alive and well and not facedown in a ditch in SoHo. So if Santana Lopez had not been sucked into a black hole to an alternate dimension, there was only one other explanation for why she refused to talk to her friend – they'd had sex. And sex changes everything.

When Quinn woke up on February 15th, naked in a hotel bed with her best friend, also naked and lightly snoring beside her, she'd promised herself she wasn't going to let things get weird between them. Santana had been her usual cocky, nonchalant self immediately after, and her casual attitude about what they'd done together the previous night had been all the reassurance Quinn needed that nothing was going to change.

They were friends. Very close, very good friends, and this kind of thing could happen without it being a big deal.

But if Santana's recent radio silence was any indication, it was a big deal. A plethora of worries had crowded Quinn's already busy brain as days turned to weeks without a word from the other woman. What if Santana had only been friends with her on the off-chance that they'd sleep together one day, and now that they had, she had no other use for her? Or what if Santana had been so grossed out by her body or the sex had been so bad, she couldn't talk to her anymore?

She desperately needed to talk to her friend. She needed to make things right between them. She wasn't going to lose her best friend over this. And if Santana refused to communicate with her while Quinn was in New Haven, then she would just have to use the Metro ticket she'd purchased her senior year of high school and come to New York. And when Rachel had called her, sick with worry and voice raw from crying over an unplanned pregnancy, Quinn had even more reason to ditch classes and go to New York.

A bell rang when Quinn entered the small coffee shop a few blocks from Rachel, Kurt, and Santana's Bushwick loft. While the sun was blindingly bright outside, the coffee shop itself was shrouded in darkness. Sitting by herself at a small table, looking as somber as her surroundings, was Rachel Berry. When the bell rang, she looked up. A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips when she recognized the blonde.

Quinn dropped her duffle bag on the floor and took the vacant seat directly across from Rachel. "What's up with this place? Have you recently become a vampire, Berry?"

Rachel apparently didn't see the humor in her statement. "No," she said gravely. "Just pregnant."

So much for small talk. Guess this was happening right now. "Have you thought about what you're going to do?" Quinn asked, leaning closer.

She'd had time during her commute from New Haven to think about Rachel's situation. As much as it pained her to rehash old memories about her own unplanned teenage pregnancy, she knew she was uniquely suited to help Rachel get through this.

Rachel fiddled with her ceramic mug. It looked like tea. "Ever since I took that at-home pregnancy test, it's the only thing I can think about," she admitted, looking down at her hot beverage. "And I just don't know." The final statement came out as a kind of choked whisper. It was clear to Quinn that her friend was falling apart, frayed at the edges like a blanket that's been washed too many times.

"Have you told your fathers?"

Rachel closed her eyes to squeeze back the tears. "No." Her voice sounded rough. "They're going to be so disappointed in me."

"I'm sure no more than mine." Quinn tried to be comforting, but she didn't have a lot of experience at it. Comforting Rachel Berry wasn't among the things in life she was very good at. Tormenting, yes. Being a shoulder to cry on, not so much. "But on the bright side, at least they can't kick you out of your house." She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

"Small comfort," Rachel sighed miserably.

"You're not sleeping, are you?"

Rachel self-consciously ran her hand through her long bangs. "Is it that obvious?"

Quinn gave her a gentle smile. "You look like crap, Berry."

Rachel's face crumpled. "Oh, Quinn," she cried. "This was never supposed to happen! I wasn't even supposed to have sex until I was 25 and had won the first of many Tony's. If I had just stuck to my plan," she said, impassionate, "this never would have happened."

Quinn pursed her lips. "You know the surest way to make God laugh, right?"

Rachel nodded and sighed. "Make plans."

"It'll be okay, Rach," Quinn reassured the other girl. "I mean, look at me. I made it through my pregnancy, and I was still in high school. And now I'm at Yale." And having sex with my best friend who also happens to be a girl. She kept that latter part to herself.

"You're so much braver than I could ever hope to be, Quinn."

Quinn shook her head. At the time, she hadn't felt brave at all. She'd lied to Finn about him being the father. She had kept Beth a secret from everyone who mattered. Thinking back to that part of her life felt like a lifetime ago. But being here in New York though, ready to confront Santana, this felt brave.

"You won't have to go through this alone," Quinn consoled. "You have so many people in your life who care about you."

"Like you?"

"Hey, if I cared enough to stop you from getting naked on camera," Quinn lightly laughed, "I'll certainly be here to help you through this."

Rachel sighed and rubbed roughly at her face. "You and Santana were so right about that. If only you'd been there to stop me from making a bad decision on Valentine's Day, too."

The comforting smile fell from Quinn's face. "Yeah. Sorry. I was a little busy that night." And the following morning. She cleared her throat uncomfortably, hoping she wasn't blushing. "So, um, how has living with Santana been?"

Rachel dried her eyes, happy to have a new topic to discuss. "You know she doesn't believe in personal boundaries or privacy, right?"

"That sounds about right," Quinn chuckled. "We bunked together once at cheerleading camp, and I came back to the room to discover she'd dumped out the entire contents of my suitcase and was using my toothbrush."

Rachel looked appropriately horrified. "Your toothbrush?"

"It was a new one, still in the packaging," Quinn clarified, "but she had apparently decided it was hers now. I stopped rooming with her after that, and so she and Brittany became roommates instead."

"It's funny how things work out, huh?" Rachel mused out loud. "Do you think those two will get back together someday?"

Quinn didn't like the trajectory of the conversation. "I don't know." She squirmed a little in her chair. She didn't like this feeling. It felt a whole lot like jealousy. "I think maybe they've both realized they're better as friends."

"Wouldn't it be romantic though?" Rachel's dark eyes had taken on a faraway look. "They both go out into the world and forge their own paths only to reconnect years later?"

"Kind of like you and Finn?" Quinn's voice was icier than she intended, but probably not for the reason Rachel thought.

Rachel's eyes snapped back into focus. "Quinn," she lamented, "how am I going to tell Brody? How am I going to tell Finn?"

Realizing she'd brought their conversation full-circle, Quinn tried to keep her tone light. "You'll figure it out. It's too bad you don't have an annoying, precocious, pint-sized diva to spill the beans for you though." She smiled warmly to let Rachel know she was joking.

Rachel looked thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, you do owe me for that."

"More like owe you a smack across the head, Berry," Quinn teased.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure you've slapped me enough for one lifetime," Rachel laughed back. It was strange that they could joke about this now, not even a year removed from high school, but she wasn't going to question it. She liked this version of Quinn. She liked that it felt like they were truly friends now. "By the way, I heard about you and Santana."

Quinn jerked alert and nearly knocked over Rachel's teacup. "Heard what?" Her voice had taken on a falsetto tone and her heart pounded heavily in her chest.

"How she mouthed off to you over Thanksgiving as only Santana can, and you slapped her," Rachel clarified.

"Oh. That." Quinn could feel her breathing return to normal.

Rachel worried her bottom lip. "I hope that won't make things uncomfortable for you at the loft."

"No. We talked about it and made up at Mr. Shue's attempt at a wedding." Made up and made out. Now they had something else to be uncomfortable about.

"How, um, how is she doing, by the way?" Quinn didn't really know what she was asking or referring to, but she felt the need to talk about the girl who had been blatantly ignoring her for weeks. And if Santana wasn't going to tell her herself, Rachel would have to do.

"She's good, I suppose. Trying to find one's place in this city can be hard," Rachel noted wistfully. "I had a really hard time adjusting to everything when I first moved here. I don't know how many times I wanted to hop on a plane back to Lima."

Quinn had to suppress an eye roll. It shouldn't have surprised her that Rachel had found a way to make a question about Santana into an opportunity to talk about herself. She stood from the table. "You done nursing that tea, Berry? I'm anxious to drop off my bag at your apartment." And see Santana. "Rumor has it you can get mugged in this city if you look like a tourist."

Rachel stood up and bussed her table. "Oh, we don't have to worry about that. I always bring my whistle and pepper spray."

Quinn shouldered the duffle bag she'd brought. It was heavy and awkward and she'd cursed her decision to bring it once she'd reached Grand Central Station. It had taken her an embarrassingly long time to decide which bag to bring to New York, but she'd ultimately settled on the weekend-sized bag. Even though a conventional wheeled suitcase would have been easier to lug around the city, she didn't want to give Santana the opportunity to accuse her of bringing a U-Haul to New York. She was only staying for the long weekend and then she had to get back to Yale. She had responsibilities and obligations and a GPA to consider, after all. But first she had a friendship to salvage.

When they arrived at the Bushwick loft, Quinn was honestly disappointed to find that Santana was missing. She'd been getting increasingly nervous as they picked their way across the neighborhood, mentally preparing herself for a face-off with her friend, only to have her worries be premature. Rachel didn't know where Santana was; she remarked how Santana got feisty whenever she tried to keep tabs on her. Quinn didn't want to look like a stalker by demanding that Rachel text or call Santana and demand her location, but she worried that perhaps Santana had found out about her visit and wasn't planning on returning to the apartment all weekend.

Rachel had vocal exercises to run through that afternoon, so while her friend was busy, Quinn occupied herself with some psychology homework she'd brought along. The class had started out being one of her favorites, but now, having to see Richard 3-times a week, made the sessions awkward. Soon after Valentine's Day, Quinn had ended things with her psychology professor. She didn't think sleeping with Santana had anything to do with her decision, however. It's not like she was suddenly gay and was no longer attracted to men. But maybe it had provided her with a little more clarity. He was married. He was significantly older, and really not that attractive. It was an unproductive relationship and a waste of her time.

Quinn looked up when she heard the telltale sound of a key in the apartment door's main lock. Moments later, the door flew open and Santana barged through the threshold. Her arms were burdened with canvas bags with a grocery store's logo printed on the front.

"Seriously," the Latina snarled, kicking the door closed behind her. "How can they get away with charging so much for produce in this city? I'm gonna have to start hooking on the corner if I want to buy apples. Forget about oranges."

"Hello, Santana."

Santana froze just inside the doorway at the sound of the familiar voice. Her dark eyes blinked a few times as if she didn't believe what she was seeing. Lounging on the living room couch with a heavy textbook in her lap was Quinn Fabray. "What are you...Uh, hi. What are you doing here?"

Quinn set her textbook down on the coffee table and swung her legs around until her bare feet came into contact with hardwood floor. "Rachel asked me to come," she said. "We're having a Teen Mom Convention." She quirked her head to the side and appraised the other woman, still standing in the front foyer. "She didn't say anything to you?"

"No."

Quinn stood up. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She couldn't remember it ever doing that before just from her friend's presence.

"I have to go to work." Santana looked ready to run.

Quinn licked her lips. "Skip it." Her voice sounded deeper, even to her own ears.

"I can't, I'll get canned. My boss is a real ball buster."

"What's the job?"

Santana shrugged. "Bartending at some dump downtown."

"Don't you have to be 21 to be a bartender?" Quinn pragmatically pointed out. She folded her arms across her chest.

A peculiar smile stretched across Santana's generous mouth. The initial shock from seeing Quinn in her living room seemed to have dissipated. "Santana Lopez might not be 21 yet, but Rosario Cruz is 25."

"Santana!" Quinn exclaimed, hazel eyes wide. "You could get in a lot of trouble for that. You lied on your hiring paperwork and W2s?"

"Now you sound like Berry," Santana scowled. "I'm not on any payroll. I make tips, not an actual paycheck. I'm not going to federal prison anytime soon."

"When do you get home tonight?" Quinn asked. She needed to talk and she didn't want to delay it before the weekend came to an end without having the opportunity.

"Late. Or early. Depends on your perspective," Santana noted. The grocery bags were starting to get heavy and she shifted their weight in her arms. "When I work until close, like I am tonight, I usually get breakfast with the other bartenders afterwards."

Quinn sat back down and grabbed her textbook again. She opened it up to the page she'd been previously reading. She felt a little embarrassed, and she didn't want Santana to see that emotion. It hadn't occurred to her that Santana would have a job and be busy all weekend – that she wouldn't have the luxury like herself to spend countless hours reflecting on what had happened between them weeks ago.

"Have a good night then," she said without bothering to look up from the book.

Santana hovered in the entryway. She wasn't sure what to make of Quinn's dismissal. "Sure. Uh, see ya later, Q."

The next morning, Quinn stood outside of Santana's bedroom door with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She flexed her toes and grimaced when the hardwood floor creaked beneath her feet. She'd spent the previous night on the living room couch; Kurt had offered her his bedroom as he was sleeping over at his new boyfriend's apartment, but Quinn had politely turned him down. She'd tried staying awake as late as possible, hoping to catch Santana creeping in the early morning hours, but the combination of traveling from New Haven and Rachel's constant sniffling had exhausted her and she'd eventually submitted to the overwhelming sleepiness.

She was tempted to just turn the handle and peek inside to see if Santana had actually come home last night. But she didn't want to get caught letting herself into her room in case Santana was actually awake. She could practically hear Santana's voice in her head: "Round Three, Fabray?"

She felt her cheeks grow warm at the memory. Round One had been rushed and a little frantic, as if both women – despite the alcohol fogging their judgment – knew that at any moment one of them would realize what was happening and put a stop to it. Round Two the next morning, however, had been languid – experimental caresses and contented sighs – bitten lips and curling toes. It was the memory of Round Two that kept Quinn awake at nights and the ache between her thighs habitually throbbing.

"Good morning, Quinn."

Quinn jumped at the voice and turned around. "Rachel," she breathed. "Hi. Good morning. I was just..." She frantically tried to come up with a logical reason why she had been standing outside of Santana's bedroom like a creeper. "I was going to see if Santana wanted to get breakfast."

"I wouldn't do that," Rachel advised. "She's pretty mean in the mornings, even for Santana."

Quinn nodded. She couldn't disagree and tell Rachel that Santana was actually pretty pleasant in the mornings if she'd had multiple orgasms. She didn't think Rachel would judge her, but it had just been a one-time thing – okay, two times – so there wasn't any reason to tell their friends about it.

"So what's the plan for the day?" Quinn asked.

"I was thinking about going down to the dance studio to get some extra practice in, but I don't have to." Rachel bit her bottom lip. "You traveled all this way; I don't want to blow you off."

"I don't want you to fall behind just because I'm visiting."

"Do you want to come with me?" Rachel proposed. She seemed to bounce on her toes at the idea. "I could get you a guest pass to use the studio."

"That actually sounds like a lot of fun," Quinn admitted. "I haven't danced in a while." She really should continue hanging around the loft to wait for Santana to finally crawl out of bed, but she wasn't feeling as brave as she'd been just the day before. If she'd been gutsier, she would have just walked into Santana's bedroom right now and confronted her. The longer she stayed in the apartment, the more cowardly she became. Maybe after a good workout, she'd be able to mentally regroup and harness some of that courage again.

Quinn was happy she'd taken up Rachel on her offer. She felt good. Sweaty and stretched, but good. She hadn't planned on doing ballet that weekend, so she didn't really have the right clothes. She and Rachel weren't the same size, and she wasn't about to wake up Santana and ask to borrow some of her clothes, but she'd made do with a pair of fitted yoga pants and a tank top.

Even though she hadn't danced in a while, she was proud of herself for being able to keep up with Rachel and some of the other NYADA students who were practicing in the studio as well. She planned on pursuing a theater degree at Yale, but she'd filled her freshman-year schedule with general education classes, a little afraid to really go after the degree she wanted. After this dance session, however, she promised herself that next semester she would rededicate herself to her passions without fear.

After a few hours of dance, they'd gone to a corner deli where she was able to get a BLT and a giant kosher pickle. Rachel ordered some kind of vegan Panini that Quinn reflected could in no way be satisfying. She privately wondered if Rachel decided to go through with her pregnancy if she might start having food cravings of the non-vegan variety. She kept those mental musings to herself, however. After the dance session, Rachel appeared far more relaxed than she'd looked since Quinn had arrived in the city, and she didn't want to ruin that.

It was early afternoon by the time Quinn and Rachel returned to the loft. When Rachel opened the front door, she was slammed with her Latina roommate's accusations.

"Why isn't anything where I last put it?" Santana growled. "Berry!" she yelled, noticing her roommate's return, "what did you do with my other shoe?" She threateningly waved a gladiator sandal in Rachel's direction.

Rachel straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin up. "I didn't do anything with it," she proclaimed. "I learned my lesson the last time I tried to pick up after you."

Quinn watched as Santana continued to snarl and grumble, rushing around the apartment in a mildly contained panic. She was starting to feel a little ridiculous for having come all this way just to be continually ignored by her friend. She could appreciate that Santana had a job and needed to get to work, but why did it always seem like they were ships passing in the night?

"Santana," she called out. She tried to get her friend to pause just long enough so she could talk to her. She needed to impress upon her how important it was that they talk this weekend.

Santana rushed past Quinn without a second glance. She pulled a long wool jacket off its hook in the front entryway and tugged it on. It covered her work outfit, which Quinn could only describe as country western hooker-wear. "Can't chat," she announced tersely. "I'm gonna be late. I'm supposed to be opening the bar tonight. See ya." The front door of the loft slammed closed with Santana behind it.

Quinn wet her lips and continued staring at the back of the door where Santana had been standing just seconds before. She felt a little shell-shocked, like a tornado had just blown through the loft. "Hey Rachel," she called out, "do you know where this bar is where Santana works?"

Rachel popped her head out of the kitchenette. "I think so, why?"

Quinn twisted to address her friend. "Because we're going. Tonight."

TBC