Monday mornings were never Quinn's strong suit, especially not after last week's Thursday. She had dragged herself through Friday, only the thought of helping other people keeping her going. Tina had been a nice replacement for Santana, but Quinn couldn't say she liked it when Santana took days off. In fact, it usually made her want to jump off of a cliff. Tina almost didn't wake her up in time for her 4:00 appointment, and she didn't put her back on her chair when she passed out on the floor. These were all major flaws. She would have to get Santana to explain these things to Tina for next time.

Quinn had slept all weekend and had found it difficult to put herself together when she woke up this morning. It was clear in the way she had dressed. She was wearing a short white skirt and a black blouse with a pink jacket. A very bright, pink jacket. She seriously, seriously needed someone to pick out her clothes for her on Mondays. She hoped no one would mind that she was walking around the office with no shoes on. She had accidentally put on sandals this morning with socks on, and she thought that she might lose clients for looking insane when she was supposed to be fixing the insane.

Over the weekend, she had seriously considered drowning herself and on her way to work this morning, she had considered jumping into busy traffic. She was so screwed, it wasn't even comical. Although, she was sure if she explained her dilemma to Santana, she would find it more than entertaining.

It had been three days, and she still couldn't get the image of Rachel Berry's stunning smile and mile long legs out of her head. Considering, she wanted those legs underneath her, and that smile...

Quinn had been having completely inappropriate thoughts all weekend. She would stare at the TV on mute, not really seeing it, imagining Rachel's full lips on her own. In Quinn's humble opinion, that was an utterly wrong thought to be having about someone she'd just met, especially a client. Therefore, every time she caught herself daydreaming about kissing Rachel, she'd snap an elastic on her wrist. Currently, she had six elastics around her right wrist and seven around her left. Least to say, she'd been thinking about kissing Rachel quite a lot. It was like Olivia Wilde all over again.

Unfortunately for Quinn, her elastic band method was failing her. She still thought of Rachel, the girl was constantly in the back of her mind, just sitting there, filing her nails, waiting for her turn to be the centre of Quinn's attention. Quinn wished she'd go away, and she wished that the incessant silence Rachel had left behind in her head would go away. She was constantly asking herself if Rachel meant that sometimes even Quinn needed a therapist, or if she was just being an idiot. Quinn rounded it up as she walked, deciding that she over thought things too much and that Rachel was probably just being an idiot.

Quinn hadn't meant to snap at Rachel so abruptly at the end of their session, it was just that she needed control like she needed air. She was aware that Rachel might just have trust problems and that she needed to be sure that Quinn was willing to also tell her the secrets she hides, but she'd been on her own for so long, peacefully at that, that she wasn't really used to people trying to get to know her. Especially not as extremely as Rachel had.

Not to mention, she thought she was better off alone. People were poison, her mother had once told her.

Quinn kept thinking about everything until she reached the front door of her office. She stopped there and let out a huge breath. Oh, was she ever tired. Quinn knew what she wanted and she knew what she needed. She needed somebody to trust, to confide in and to love her. She wanted to keep suffering endlessly until it became too much and she just died.

She was so, so tired and it was killing her.

Quinn opened the door and did not say anything to Santana. She dropped her bag on her desk and stopped to consider her chair. She guessed she stood there for about five minutes before just falling onto the floor. She spread out and felt very glad at that moment that the custodians she had hired came in before she or Santana got there. That was rather considerate of them, she thought. She would have to leave a thank you note for them one day.

"It's a tad early for you to be on the floor already."

Suddenly, Santana is standing over her, and seeing the familiar girls face reminds her of Thursday where the same face had mouthed the word 'hot' to her and where Quinn had panicked and thought that the meeting was going to go horrible. Sometimes, Quinn figured she was psychic.

"I'm so screwed, San."

"My date with Brittany was great, actually. We had sex – lots of it – afterwards."

"Fuck you."

"You know?" Santana said, lying down next to Quinn on the floor. "Maybe, the reason I refuse to tell you certain things is because every time I try and speak to you, you reject me and start babbling on about how everything sucks, but you never tell me why."

"Congratulations on the sex, how was it?" Quinn narrows her eyes.

"Great, but what I was aiming for saying thanks for the advise. As it turns out, the guy Brittany's teaching dance with? Sam or something? He's as gay as I am. You saved me from a world of pain, so thanks. Yeah."

"You're welcome. It's my job."

"I didn't pay you," Santana says.

"You work for me."

"Do I?"

Quinn glared at her.

"Alright, alright. Fine, what's wrong with you?"

"That girl that came in Thursday? Rachel Berry?"

Santana sat up. It was rare that Quinn actually told her about any of her problems, and if today was going to be different, she wanted to show Quinn that she was her friend, and that she cared. Perhaps, if she translated this well enough, Quinn would open up more.

"Yes, I remember her."

"She..." Quinn makes a face, considering her words. "She treated me like a patient, and she was the doctor."

"Okay, so she's not coming back, I guess?"

"No – she said she would be."

Santana doesn't say anything for a moment, she just sits, studying her friends face. "You want her to come back, don't you?"

"Yes."

Rachel Berry was photographed a lot. She was in the paper a lot, and she often felt awkward going into stores because there was always pictures of her face on the covers of magazines. She was used to people stopping her on the street, in stores, everywhere. Rachel loved living in New York City, but she knew one thing was for sure. The population was incredibly large.

Rachel hadn't lied to the therapist the other day. She had grown up in Lima, Ohio. There weren't many high schools there, and she had probably been expected to go to the same one Quinn had gone to, but she had transferred to an art school the summer before her freshman year. In middle school, she had always been bullied for liking musicals, Broadway and whatnot. She had figured if she went to an arts school, she might fit in better.

She had been horribly wrong. It was just the same as middle school, only with ten times more people ready to torment her on a daily basis. She had no real friends, and any friend she did make left her right when she needed them most. Honestly, by her junior year, she completely gave up on trying to keep any of her friends. There was no point.

By the time she entered college, she was so detached from people she couldn't even tell her roommate her middle name. She could never get close to anyone. Every time her mouth opened to say something personal, her mind would scream and yell at her to run, to just get the hell away from everybody. Eventually, she learned that perhaps her mind knew better than her heart and she left everyone well enough alone. If no one got close to her, no one could hurt her. Easy.

Her agent had suggested she get a therapist. He – Noah Puckerman – had noticed that she stayed away from people, and every time she got too close to someone she would never contact them again. He would take call after call from people he thought were her friends, and she would say to ask them to stop calling every time. Beyond that, almost every night Rachel took three pills – two too many – to get to sleep. It was a pain for her, waking up in the morning after that, but at least she fell asleep and didn't dream.

If there was one thing Rachel Berry was not, it was stupid. She very well knew she needed a therapist. She also knew she was never going to tell the therapist anything. She didn't care what they said about therapists, how they can't tell anybody what you say, how they won't judge you. She knew that her therapist was a human being, and she knew human beings were specially designed to look, judge, and hurt. In that order.

Rachel had had a plan. She was going to go to one appointment, try and reverse the roles, tell her agent that the therapist had more problems than she did – with proof, hopefully – and never go back again.

At least she could pride herself in the fact that she had gotten through the first two steps before realizing she really wanted to make out with the girl lying in the chair across from her.

Rachel really wanted a girlfriend. She felt like a complete hypocrite whenever she thought about it, though. She wanted someone to kiss, to cuddle, to hug and love her, but she would never get really, emotionally close to them because she couldn't. It would not be fair to try and make the other person fall in love with her when she had nothing to offer them. She would never do that to someone.

Also, Rachel had never met anyone good enough. She'd seen plenty of beautiful girls, that was a given when you had a lot of back-up dancers working around you, but she'd never met anyone who could challenge her wordy, bossy self. She talked a lot, probably too much, and most of the time people would get annoyed or she'd act bossy and they would get mad and avoid her. Never had she ever met someone who could challenge her.

Until last Thursday, when her therapist had kicked her out. When she had refused to leave the office a few times, she expected Quinn to let up. But she kept trying. She didn't give up, and that was a sign to Rachel. She didn't care if the thing Quinn didn't give up on was getting rid of her. Rachel had never met someone like Quinn, and she was surprised when she woke up on Friday morning to make a decision. That decision was, ultimately, she wanted Quinn Fabray.

In most cases, Rachel would plan. Being as organized as she was, she did not need an agent. Planning was her thing, organizing was a hobby. She loved order, and it always gave her a sense of pride when she finished organizing some big thing, like the 300 Broadway CD's she had in her music library at her home. She had organized those by alphabetical order, it had taken her three days.

Yes, in most cases, she would plan. Although this time, she would not. The only thing she needed to do was be slightly less extreme. As a child, her father had always told her she was very outspoken. She knew he was only being polite. Rachel liked being loud and sudden, because it kept people away from her. They did not like abruptness. In all truth, she did not either, but she kept up the facade to keep people away from her, but she would quit it to try for Quinn. She did not want Quinn Fabray falling for some facade she put up to get her to like her. If Quinn hated her, Quinn hated her. If Quinn liked her, she liked her. That was that. The only thing she could hope for was that Quinn would fall for her before Rachel got too wrapped up in her. If, she thought, if I fall for Quinn and she doesn't like me, I don't think I'll be able to handle rejection again.

Rachel was short and did not like heels, but she had had most of the upper hand last Thursday, and she liked having the upper hand. It gave her a sense of control she could not get over her own life. So, she wore heels today because maybe if she could stand taller – or at least eye to eye – with Quinn, she could manage to get information without getting kicked out again.

Again, she found herself in front of Quinn Fabray's building, reaching out for the door handle. She had not made an appointment like Quinn had told her to do. It was around eleven at night, and she was wishing on her lucky stars that Quinn was still here. The secretary had told her yesterday that she herself usually went home around midnight, depending on the night. Rachel couldn't imagine why.

Twisting the door handle, she found it unlocked and pushed the door inside. She walked in, her heels making an unnerving click-clack on the floor. Nearly tripping over the front mat, she continued further into the building, shutting the door behind her.

She hears someone typing in the room where she and Quinn had met the other day, so she heads towards it. She notices the door is closed, but confident that this must be the room Quinn is in, she opens the door.

Quinn's head jerks up, a hard look on her face. "Santana, I said – oh."

Rachel watches Quinn get up and take off black-rimmed glasses. She watches her smooth out her white skirt and adjust her black blouse. Rachel notices the Quinn's been running her fingers through her short hair, it's mussed about and Rachel can't help but imagine her fingers in that hair.

Quinn stalks towards her, and Rachel backs up against the wall. She fights a giggle, because Quinn looks positively furious. She finds it's not so hard to stop laughing when Quinn walks right into her, placing her hands on the wall above Rachel's head.

"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to treat your clients this way." Rachel says.

"We're closed, darling." Rachel smells alcohol on Quinn's breath, and she immediately regrets coming this late.

"You're door was unlocked, I apologize."

"Don't." Quinn says.

Quinn moves backward, tripping and falling into the chair Rachel had last seen her sit in. Rachel's regret only grows in size when she realizes how drunk Quinn actually is.

"I didn't see Santana on my way in." Rachel says.

"She went home with Brittany."

Rachel had no idea who Brittany was, but she could care less. She was more concerned with the intoxicated blonde sitting next to her.

"Drinking alone on a Monday night?"

"Why did you come here?" Quinn whines suddenly. "Did you come to make me feel worse than I already do?"

"No. I wanted to talk to you." Rachel says.

"I'm sorry. If I had known you were coming I would've waited 'till later to drink."

"Timing is everything, isn't it?" Rachel speaks.

Quinn doesn't say anything, just curls in on herself and stares at the wall.

"How are you getting home?" Rachel asks after a moment of silence.

"I'm not?" Quinn says it like a question.

"Where do you live?"

"I don't remember."

"Thanks, helpful."

Rachel gets to her feet and walks over to the computer sitting on Quinn's desk. She notices the mostly empty bottle of beer there and a small glass that smelled like vodka. She rolled her eyes – she had no taste for alcohol – and shook the computer to life. It was password protected.

"What's your computer password?"

"Betty." Quinn groaned.

"Cat?"

"Yes."

Rachel types in the password and waits for the main screen to pop up. The wallpaper is a boring picture of a river, probably the same one the computer came with. She double-clicks a shortcut named 'personal.' Since she find nothing relating to where Quinn lives, she clicks on another file named 'Santana.' Rachel thinks that's the name of the secretary. She ignores all the psychological bull that's listed, skipping to the end of the file, finding a phone number. She picks up the phone and dials.

"Quinn, this better be a goddamn emergency. Brittany was just -" Santana answers.

"Do you know where Quinn lives?" Rachel interrupts.

"Huh? Who is this?"

"It's Rachel Berry. Where does Quinn live?"

"Why do you want to know?" Santana's voice is icy coming through the other line.

"She's drunk as hell and doesn't remember where she lives. I need to get her home." Rachel rubs a hand over her forehead. She did not want her Monday night to end this way.

Rachel hears mumbling over the other line and another woman saying something like 'no, don't leave.' She hears Santana sigh and the phone rustling as it's moved.

"Quinn lives in The Sierra on West 15th Street. Apartment 216. Goodnight."

The phone call ends before Rachel can reply. She doesn't really care, anyways. She's busier thanking the gods for letting Quinn live in the nearest apartment complex.

She turns the computer on to hibernate again and walks over to get Quinn. She pauses for a moment to watch the blonde's chest rise and fall as she sleeps. She feels like a demon for waking her up, but she doesn't know how to lock this building and she doesn't want some guy coming in the middle of the night to murder Quinn.

She grabs Quinn's arm and shakes her. She opens her eyes to stare at Rachel.

"Strawberry Shortcake?"

Quinn woke up the next morning on the couch in her apartment. This was normal, except she specifically remembered falling asleep on the streets of NYC. She should be dead, right? She wished she was dead. But she wasn't. She was awake, with a killer hangover from whatever she drank last night.

Quinn often prided herself on being able to remember important things when she was hungover. She remembered today was Tuesday, and she remembered she had to go to work. She supposed it must be daylight savings time or something, because the light coming in her window looked like it was mid-afternoon.

She yawned, nearly losing the contents of her stomach on the white carpet as she did, and stood up slowly. The first thing she noticed was the clean, white piece of paper on her black coffee table. She picked it up curiously. Had someone walked her home last night?

The note was written in handwriting she didn't recognize, long, scrolling letters. She read it quickly.

I'm going to get us breakfast. Don't leave, Santana called your clients. Happy day off. I'll be back. - Rachel Berry

She read it again, then again, then finally she just read the last two words over and over. Then, one thought came into her head.

What new hell have I gotten myself into now?

Quinn dropped the note and realized she really had to pee. She headed to her bathroom and found she'd rather throw up. She continued on around her apartment, her mind sifting through her thoughts one at a time, presenting them to her to see if she cared or not. Mostly, she did not.

She was staring out the window in her kitchen when the door to the living room opened. She idly wondered why she didn't lock the door. She didn't want Rachel Berry in her apartment. She wanted her to leave, because nobody had ever walked her home when she was drunk before. Nobody had ever got her breakfast. Nobody ever cared.

"Quinn." Rachel says from the doorway to the kitchen. "I brought breakfast."

Quinn was glad to hear in Rachel's voice the nervousness she felt. She turned on her heel and walked after Rachel into the living room. She froze in place when she saw Rachel wearing an oversized Mumford & Sons t-shirt – her shirt – and a pair of her jeans.

"You called me Strawberry Shortcake then threw up on me."

"Sometimes that happens. Did you sleep here?"

"Yeah. You have a very lush carpet. It feels European."

"You slept on the floor?"

The apartment was specifically a one-bedroom. Quinn didn't want company staying over. That really wasn't a problem, anyways, because the only people who ever came over were Santana and Brittany anyways.

"The floor." Rachel nods. "You kept jerking around in your sleep. I thought you were having a seizure, so I stayed to watch you so you didn't pee yourself or something and ruin your nice, white, European carpet."

Quinn suddenly feels sick to her stomach. Not because she's been drinking. This girl – one she barely knows – walked her home when she was drunk, put up with her even after she apparently vomited on her, spent the night to look after her, called Santana for her, and bought her breakfast with her own money, and Quinn had nothing to offer in return. She felt inadequate, and she hated that feeling. Quinn only knew how to deal with her feelings in one way, and that was to run away from them.

Only, she couldn't run now. She was in her own apartment with a girl – and oh, my god, she just realized she wasn't even wearing pants – who had just bought her breakfast. What was she supposed to do? Kick her out? She couldn't do that. Quinn had been training herself to be nicer, she couldn't kick Rachel out again after what she'd just done for her. Quinn supposed she would eat breakfast and think up an excuse to get the brunette out of her apartment.

"It's not European."

"That's nice. Quinn?"

Quinn's head snaps up, breaking her out of her thoughts. "Yeah?"

"Did you want me to go home?" Rachel asks.

Quinn's jaw practically dislocates as it drops, was she that obvious? "No!"

Rachel looks up from her hands, a look that's sure to become familiar crossing her features. "Are you sure? Because it's pretty early, and the later I leave the more it's going to seem like we just had sex."

Quinn's mind finally becomes alert, and she grins at Rachel. "Wouldn't you like that?"

"What? Having people think we had sex, or actually having sex with you?"

"Well, I think it's safe to assume that you'd definitely love having sex with me. So, no need to ask."

"Cocky, aren't we?" Rachel raises an eyebrow.

"No, do you see me wearing boxers?"

Rachel laughs, and Quinn moves around the table to sit on the couch next to her. She reaches for the paper bag on the table, apparently her breakfast, but Rachel grabs it before she can.

"What?" Quinn asks, confused.

Rachel just stares at her. "I've just met you. You can't eat my food."

"This again? You slept on my floor. I threw up on you. Isn't that good enough for now?"

"No. I'll give you a piece of food for every fact about yourself you give me."

"Fine."

"Oh, and I get to ask the questions!" Rachel exclaims.

"What? No, no."

"Fine. No food for you, then. And I'd like to inform you that I checked your kitchen for food before going out and you have literally nothing."

Quinn's stomach grumbled and she really didn't feel like going out. She felt disgusting and the only thing keeping her from a shower was the gorgeous girl sitting on her couch. Quinn scowled at Rachel and Rachel took it as an agreement.

"Alright," Rachel began, unrolling the top of the paper bag. "When did you find out you were gay?"

"My first year of high school, when I joined cheer leading."

Rachel laughs for a good minute at that before pulling a french fry out of the paper bag and handing it to Quinn.

"This is all?"

"I'll handle the questions here, thank you."

Quinn rolled her eyes, not bothering to hide it. She ate the fry and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling them out slightly greasy. Nasty.

"Alright, who was your first girlfriend and what was she like?"

Quinn paused with her mouth open for a moment. "I..." She stares at the wall as she continues. "I was 15, and her name was Dianna. She was so nice, really, but she was just...experimenting."

Rachel frowned, and didn't hesitate this time before handing Quinn two french fries. "Did you really like her?"

"At the time, yes."

Rachel nods, and hands Quinn three more french fries.

"Okay," Rachel sticks a french fry in her mouth herself. "Are you a virgin?"

"Yes." Quinn nods, trying to ignore the fact that she feels a blush creeping up her neck.

"Uh-huh, as I expected." Rachel throws a fry at her.

"As you expected? What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, what does it mean, Quinn?"

"I don't know."

"How's that make you feel?" Rachel says seriously.

"No." Quinn shakes her head. "Don't make me kick you out again."

"Oh, please. I'm acting accordingly so you don't kick me out. I was slightly intense yesterday. For that, I am sorry."

"Yeah, only slightly, right?"

"What did I tell you about who's handling the questions?"

"Have I ever told you that every time you're around, I feel like I'm hanging out with a drug addict?"

Rachel left at eleven that night.

When Quinn had looked at the clock after letting Rachel go, she had nearly had a panic attack. She had not spent that much time with someone since her college years, but that was a roommate thing, and Quinn didn't count it as optional.

Quinn walked through her now empty apartment, reaching for the phone. She had to call Santana. She had a serious problem here, and although she was supposed to be the therapist, she needed help.

"Hello?" A bright voice comes through the other line.

"Hey, Brittany. Is Santana home?"

"Yeah, but she's asleep. I could help you with whatever problem you have, though." Brittany says.

"How did you know I had a problem?"

"It's eleven o'clock at night, Quinn. You never call this late unless it's some sort of emergency."

"Right."

"So what's the problem?" Brittany asks.

Quinn opens her mouth, ready to spill all about her problem, before she realizes she doesn't have one.

A/N: Alright, so the second chapter is up! I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, added this story to their favourites or put it on story alert! I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations, and your feedback is greatly appreciated. This chapter might not be as great as the last one, but I did read it over four times, so I hope it will be good enough to keep you sated until the third chapter is up. Reviews keep me writing, and thanks again.