The night had embraced New York City, deepening the shadows between the skyscrapers, like furrows on an old woman's face. The moon shone over the buildings, too small against their hulking structures, and the stars, invisible to those who trod the ground, watched over them, guardians never recognised. The tranquility that the night brought to New York was lost on Rachel, who woke irritated and annoyed at the confines of her apartment. With no sense of where she was going to go, she snatched her bag up off the floor, and left her apartment without a backwards glance, with a sense of relief filling her chest the further she walked away from it.

She burst into the night with a deep breath of the New York air. Not knowing where she ought to go, she wandered, walking the streets she was familiar with, until, indiscernibly, they melted into streets she had never seen before. Street corners looked different, more sinister, like Malice crept in the shadows, ready to pounce at anyone who happened to wander too close. Rachel avoided them, keeping to the yellow pools of light emanating from rusting streetlamps. The quiet streets eyed her warily, this stranger who appeared, as out of place here as a smile at a funeral; she walked on, uncomfortable in this silent judgement.

Decrepit blocks of apartments leered at her with boarded up windows and fire escapes eaten away by rust. Even the graffiti looked sinister in the shadows. Rachel didn't see a single other soul, though once she heard shouts as she passed a block of units with one of the windows missing. She'd quickened her pace, not willing to hear something she didn't want to hear. So this was it, she realised, the part of New York people warned you about, that you could go your whole life without seeing, but that lurked there in shadows, just as alive as any other part of the city. If the life Rachel knew was all decent living with not much of a struggle, then this half the city was that life's evil twin. The thought made her shiver.

She stumbled past what used to be a shop, the front window spiderwebbed with cracks, painted over with layers of graffiti. Peering in as she walked by, Rachel could see broken chairs, blanketed with dust. On the wall was a stain that could either have been rust, leaking down after years of neglect, or blood, long dried and blackened; in the dim light from the streetlamp, Rachel couldn't tell. She hurried her steps.

Across the street, with a spire that reached into the sky, reaching an escape, a divinity non existent in its neighbourhood, was a church, just as desolate looking as the rest of its surrounds. The door had once been boarded, but someone had long since kicked it in, and it splintered, leaving a gaping hole behind. Metal mesh covered the outside of its stained glass windows, as if attempting to keep in some of the church's inherent goodness. Graffiti was sprayed across the sandstone bricks, black with grime. Rachel stopped and stared at it. Something in her chest tugged her towards the church. She balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to take off towards it at any moment, but she was hesitant, rocking back onto her heels, before repeating the process again. She took one step forward, standing with one foot on the road, and the other on the kerb.

Whatever was pulling her forwards was screaming at her now, trying to drown out the voice of uncertainty. Rachel shook her head, but it wouldn't quiet its shouting. She took another step forward, both feet now on the road. The shouting got less. Walking forward until she was standing in the middle of the street, she noticed the feeling got stronger, but the shouting quietened.

Suddenly, a car, speeding down the road, caught her in it's headlights. Stunned, Rachel stood, unable to move from where she was rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend the sudden switch from deep darkness to dazzling light. The car was closer and closer with every second, not slowing. It wavered from side to side, not driving smooth and straight like it ought to have been. Rachel still couldn't move. The rational part of her brain told her that she should get the hell off the road, that the car was going to hit her, that the driver was probably drunk or high, that they couldn't see her, or didn't care, if they could. Her legs wouldn't move. Her hands clenched into fists, and she could feel her two day old grazes sting as they came into contact with the sweat on her palms. Ignoring the sting, she braced herself for impact.

And it hit her, but from the wrong direction, and much sooner than she expected. She went sprawling across the ground, the force from the impact sending her flying into the gutter. She was dimly aware of a pain in her chin and her hands and hips. She was also dimly aware of a something tangled in her legs. Ignoring the pain it caused her, she pushed herself up onto one elbow. The car sped past, driving as erratically as before, evidently not even seeing Rachel lying on the side of the road. The stench of alcohol wafted in its wake. Sparing a moment to shake her head in disbelief, she then turned her attention to the figure at her feet, and found herself shocked to a standstill for a second time that night.

One cheek resting on the potholed asphalt, arms and legs spread eagled, with hair as pink as ever, was Quinn Fabray in clothes so dark she seemed part of the road. As Rachel watched, Quinn stirred from her momentary unconsciousness. Groaning, she pulled herself into a sitting position, hoisting herself onto the kerb outside the run down church. She gave Rachel a wary smile.

"Hey Rachel," she said, meeting Rachel's eyes and then quickly looking away, staring out across the decrepit neighbourhood, her eyes as dark as the shadows all around them.

"You saved me," Rachel replied, realising how weak her words sounded, even as they left her mouth, "I mean, thank you. I don't doubt I would have died if that car hit me."

"I don't doubt it either. Lucky I was around to save your Broadway butt," Quinn said, her tone serious, but when she turned to face Rachel, the actress could see the smile that curved her mouth.

"Yes, lucky doesn't even begin to describe it. I can't thank you enough," Rachel sighed, "I heard you were in New York now."

"Really? I'm guessing Mark told you? That asshole. He promised not say anything to you when he went to see your show. What is it you're in again?" Quinn asked, looking to Rachel, who thought she saw something in the other girl's eyes, a knowing at the answer that was to come.

"The Phantom of the Opera. And you're right, it was Mark. I won't pretend it didn't surprise me. But I'm glad you're here, otherwise I'd be splattered all over the road right now," Rachel frowned, suppressing a shudder at the thought that her life could have ended a moment ago.

"Couldn't have had that. What would Broadway be without its Rachel Berry?"

"The same way it was before they had Rachel Berry," Rachel muttered sullenly, "but I appreciate the sentiment."

"Broadway could never be the same. No one ever is after meeting you," Quinn murmured, leaving Rachel speechless.

The two of them sat in silence, the conversation fizzled out. The fact that Quinn didn't elaborate on her being in New York was not lost on Rachel, but she knew better than to push. Quinn, unlike Finn, seemed to not have changed at all. If she wanted to tell Rachel about her life, she would, without any prompting questions from her. As it was, they didn't seem to have anything to say to each other. Ordinarily, Rachel would have been made uncomfortable by this, but with Quinn it was always different. She didn't have to say everything she was thinking or feeling to be understood, and it was the same with her and Quinn's thoughts and feelings, as though they had inherent ways of knowing.

The longer they sat there, the more Rachel felt she ought to leave. This walk, it had ended in the worst possible way. Not only had she almost been killed, she'd been saved by the very thing she'd been getting out of her apartment to avoid. She'd escaped thoughts of Quinn and her poem, only to run into her. Or, technically, run into by her. Rachel cleared her throat, trying to find the right way to bring up the poem.

"I'm sorry about the poem taped to your door," Quinn said, interrupting her thoughts and solving her problem. Rachel blinked at her in surprise.

"I - I just don't understand why. Why did you tape it to my door? You could have knocked and actually come in and we could have had a conversation, like normal people. We aren't teenagers anymore, Quinn. Sometimes we have to outgrow games."

"I know. But I wasn't ready to face you again after all these years. I just wasn't ready. If you hadn't stood in the middle of the damned road where that car was going to hit you, I would still be hiding in the shadows, watching you," she growled, gesturing to a lane that Rachel hadn't noticed before. "That's why I left you the New York map too, leading you to Central Park. I wasn't ready, and I thought you'd appreciate the adventure. You always were more adventurous than anyone ever gave you credit for."

"That was you?" Rachel exclaimed, though, realising that deep down, she had known all along.

"Guilty," Quinn shrugged, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. Rachel was overcome by simultaneous urges to both slap and kiss her.

"Why were you afraid of seeing me again? You know I would have loved to see you. I mean, I love seeing you again, but it would have been nicer if had been under different circumstances."

"Figured you didn't want exgirlfriends turning up at your door, especially ones who look like me, and ones you broke up with on a bad note."

"Oh, Quinn," Rachel breathed, "It doesn't matter. I never stopped lo- I never stopped feeling guilty. I would have preferred you turning up on my doorstep rather than meeting like this," she said quickly, trying to cover what was almost a slip of the tongue that could land her in trouble with Quinn. She wasn't going to jump into this so easily, not after all these years without so much as a whisper, not with Finn in the picture. Quinn just shrugged.

"Can I walk you home?"

Sensing that the discussion was over as far as Quinn was concerned, Rachel nodded, letting Quinn pull her to her feet. They walked side by side, close enough that their arms brushed. Rachel had to resist the urge to grab Quinn's hand, to remind herself how perfect the other girl's hand fit in hers.

"What are you doing in this part of the city anyway? It's not a place for someone like you," Quinn said, looking at her from the corner of her eye.

"What? And it's a place for you? What were you doing here?"

"Fine. Don't tell me why you were in a place that could kill you in ways other than drunk drivers. Don't tell me why you were walking to that church as if you knew."

"Knew what? Quinn, you're not making any sense."

Quinn simply shook her head. Rachel wanted to growl. She'd forgotten how frustrating Quinn could be with all her secrets. Clamping her mouth shut, she strode forward, too annoyed to be walking side by side with the other girl. As if to irritate her further, Quinn caught up and evenly matched her pace within a matter of seconds. Fingernails bit into Rachel's palm, the only indication of her anger. Her arm shook with the effort it took to channel all her anger into that arm only. She resolutely refused to look at Quinn, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Quinn didn't push for conversation either.

So it was that they made their way back to Rachel's apartment complex. Traffic whirred past, a sound that Rachel never thought would be comforting, but after the silence of the falling apart neighbourhood, was. They stopped outside the entrance to the building. Headlights and tail lights blazed past, a dizzying swirl of red and white.

"This is me," Rachel muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. Quinn nodded.

"I know."

"Good night," Rachel nodded back, and turned her back, about to make her way into the building, when a thought stopped her. The questions she'd been biting back the whole walk back began to rise to the surface. She turned back to Quinn, anger cresting in her, then crashing down as she voiced her thoughts. "So were the gardenias from you too? And that ticket to whatever that event is, that was your way of taking me out on a date without actually asking? And that whole fucking set up with the lanterns? You thought that was romantic? Do you even realised how fucked up you are, Quinn?"

Quinn didn't seem surprised at the outburst. "Yes, the gardenias were from me. Secret love? Of course when I realised what the gardenia corsage I got at prom meant, I knew it wasn't from Finn. I knew it was you. I decided to return the favour. Yes, that ticket is to an event, a reading, actually, from the novel it's taken me four years to write. And yes, I was hoping you'd come and that's how we'd meet again, but obviously tonight's ruined that plan. And the lantern thing would have been romantic if you hadn't fallen into the ravine. I'm sorry that I thought it was a good idea. I'm sorry you didn't appreciate the effort that went into that. I had hoped that you would. And that's fine, now that you know that I set it up, I doubt you want to come. I'd hoped curiosity would make you come to that, just like it led you to Central Park in the dark. I can see that my efforts were wasted. Don't worry, I won't be making the same mistake again, considering how annoyed, angry and unimpressed it's made you," Quinn snapped, her own anger billowing to the fore. Rachel was taken aback by the attack, not used to seeing Quinn lose her cool in anger like she just had, but hid her surprise, clenching her jaw.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, thinking that a few parlour tricks and scavenger hunts would get me to fall back into your arms like we never said goodbye. The past few years of my life have been the best so far, and you know what, you weren't there for a single one of them!" she cried in anger, and was surprised when Quinn took a step back, as if she'd been slapped.

"You don't think I know that? You don't think I know that you achieved your dreams and I wasn't there beside you, encouraging you, loving you, or just being there for you? You think I don't fucking know that, Rachel? You don't think I regret that? I would do anything to take back that screw up in high school! Anything! As long as it meant that I could have seen you through these past few years, becoming a Broadway star, living the dream that was just as important to me as it was to you."

"You…you," Rachel spluttered, unable to get her words out, all her years of theatre training failing to work with Quinn, just like they always had.

"But I guess this is another screw up and you don't want to see me again. Fine. Fucking fine. I should have learnt the first god damn time. Maybe I'll disappear. This is New York. People go missing all the fucking time. It's not like you'd notice anyway," Quinn said miserably, the anger in her voice ebbing away in her last statement. They stood there for one tense moment, every fibre in their bodies zinging with taught energy, on the verge of something - though neither knew what. Then Quinn turned on her heel and stalked away into the dark. Seeing her walk away, Rachel's body began to shake. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. She called out after her, but Quinn didn't look back, let alone stop. With despair crushing her soul, Rachel watched Quinn slink around the corner, disappearing from view. The tears fell down her face, catching on the front of her shirt, leaving dark stains where they fell. She could barely move, the energy from her body drained, leaking into the New York City sidewalk.

How she made it back to her apartment, she never knew, but she collapsed onto her bed, shaking and clammy with sweat and tears. She curled up into a ball. She never knew that Quinn, rounding the corner of the building, threw her fists into its bricked side, fracturing the bones in her right hand, just as distraught by the outcome of their meeting as Rachel. No, instead, Rachel lay on her bed, imagining that Quinn didn't care, wishing that Quinn didn't care, that the words she said weren't real; she didn't want them to be real. She didn't want to think that she could have had Quinn all those past years, if only it weren't for their inability to reach out to each other. But the thought wouldn't leave her head.

Reaching out a shaking hand, she clutched the phone on her bedside table. Even as tears blurred her vision, she dialled a number, one she had revised until it was burned into her memory, that was a reflex path for her fingers. She didn't even pay attention as she did it. It was only when she brought the phone up to her ear and heard the calm, short rings of the line trying to connect that she wondered who she had dialled, whether it had been who she'd intended. When the line clicked and the person on the other end answered, she knew.

"Finn?" she whispered, her voice trembling and soft, "Finn, I need you."