A/N: sorry for taking forever to update between chapters. Between writer's block and uni, it's hard. Thanks everyone who's been patient with me. You guys are all awesome.

David sat in Rachel's living room, waiting for her while she brewed a pot of tea, their chosen drink of the day. His eyes flitted around the space, his brain sensing that there was something wrong, though it hadn't quite registered yet. The clock hung in the same space, ticking away, like it always did. The television stared at them with its blank screen. The couch smelt just the same. David's eyes, sliding over the bookshelf, did a double take. There, were he had grown used to seeing a small replica motorcycle, was an empty spot. He frowned at the lack of the ornament. He knew something was off about Rachel that night, the way she spoke her lines, the way she sang, as if the heartbreak was coming from somewhere more real this time, deeper inside herself than she'd ever revealed on stage. Squinting, he could see a sliver of a tiny tyre peeking out from behind a photo frame sporting a photo of Rachel and a young man, the one he'd met the other day in the alley, who thought he and Rachel were dating. Finn, he vaguely recollected, that's what the young man's name was. What was the bike doing there, behind that particular picture? What the hell did he miss?

Rachel shuffled back into the room with a tray laden with teapot, teacups and saucers, breaking David's thoughts. Or rather, shocking them into verbal existence. As soon as he saw her carrying the trays, he blurted out, "what's happened with Quinn that you didn't tell me about?"

Rachel sighed, as if she'd known that the question was coming, and pouring herself some of the tea, settled back into the couch with three of her fingers curled around the teacup's handle. She took a sip before answering.

"I ran into her the other day in a dodgy neighbourhood. Or rather, she ran into me. Literally. She bowled me over to save me being hit by a drunk driver," she explained, not meeting David's eye. But she could still see the incredulous look he was giving her, out of her periphery.

"And?"

"And, she walked me home, we argued and then she left. End of story. There's nothing else to say."

"There's plenty more to say, Rachel. Someone like Quinn doesn't just walk in and out of your life without you having any feelings about it, so don't pretend like this doesn't matter to you," David snapped, and then bit the inside of his cheek, realising that he might have given away more than he intended.

"What do you mean 'someone like Quinn'?" Rachel asked, her voice colouring slightly in anger that David thought he had a right to know more about her life than she was willing to tell him.

"Nothing, I didn't mean anything. Why did you argue?" he murmured, staring into the depths of his tea, not drinking it, but rubbing his thumb on the rim of the cup.

"David, don't lie to me. I couldn't take a lie from you. So what did you mean? Tell me!" Rachel insisted, ignoring his question.

"I mean that Quinn isn't just some stranger to you," he answered evasively.

"No, she's not, but that's still not what you meant. For god's sake, David, can't you just tell me what the hell it is you mean?"

"Someone like the love of your life!" he cried, needing Rachel to stop getting angry at him. They almost never fought, it was too painful. She was his best friend, he needed things to be ok between them, so if it meant speaking his mind to hold on to that, then that's what he would do.

Rachel blinked, taken aback. "What do you mean?" she whispered, her eyes wide and a brown so soft they almost looked like they were melting. Paint that, Dali, David briefly thought, staring straight into them. He looked away, the depth of her need to know reflected the ache in the pit of his stomach to tell her; but he couldn't do it looking her in the eye. Even close friends could overstep the mark, and he was terrified of taking the chance. He sighed.

"You're in love with her, and you have been since you were fifteen. That's why no one has ever come close to winning your heart since then, that's why you keep that little motorbike on your bookshelf, and even now that she's hurt you, you haven't brought yourself to throw it out, so you hid it, but it's still there. It's that little piece of her you can't let go. That's why, when you saw her friend, that guy in the alleyway, your heart stopped beating, because for a second, you thought your dreams were coming true, that she'd come to New York for you," he breathed, hoping he wasn't destroying their friendship beyond repair with his observations. Caution nudged him in the ribs, and Worry clamped a hand over his mouth. Rachel simply stared. Neither of them moved a muscle for a long moment. Then abruptly, without a single utterance, Rachel stood and pulled the replica motorcycle off the bookshelf. She held it in the palm of her hand, balancing it so that David could see it clearly.

"You're wrong," she said, and flung the metal ornament as hard as she could against the wall. The sound of it hitting the side of the room reverberated in David's chest, breaking his heart for Rachel, for Quinn, for what neither wanted to own up to feeling or wanting. The bike left an uneven dent in the wall, and a trickle of plaster rained down on the twisted piece of metal where it lay on the floor. "You're wrong," Rachel reiterated, more softly this time, "I have Finn now. I don't need to hold on to Quinn any longer."

David shook his head, staring at the remnants of the motorcycle. He should have been frustrated with her for not seeing what was so obvious to him, but he wasn't; he hadn't missed the catch in Rachel's voice, as soft as it had been, when she told him that he was wrong. Instead, he was left with a cold weight of sadness pressing down on his chest, weighing down his shoulders, making him slump forward and bury his face in his hands, as if shielding the room from his sight would change the way things were. After a moment, with a resigned sigh, he pushed himself off the couch, struggling to move his limbs, and picked up the broken ornament. Cradling it in his palms, like a cherished gift, he spared a glance for Rachel, who, though she tried to look defiant, shook slightly, her hands giving her away, but he let himself out of the apartment anyway, leaving Rachel to contemplate what she'd done, and what she really meant and felt. He couldn't be there if she was going to do rash things like throw objects against walls.

"I hope he treats you well enough for you not to regret this moment," he thought to himself as he let himself out of the building. Taking a few long strides to get away from the front door, his legs trembled slightly, and he had to lean against the building, the fabric on the back of his shirt catching in the minuscule grains of rock which made up the bricks the building was constructed from. He tipped his head back too, searching the night sky for answers, the way he imagined people from the days of old did. Only, in New York, there weren't any stars to look to for guidance, drowned out by the city's light pollution. And the moon, if there was one, was hiding behind some building or another, visible only to those who were fortunate enough to tower above the rest of the city. He sighed and turn his attention back to what was in front of him, an ordinary street, with yellow taxis weaving their way down the road, horns blaring at the rogue pedestrian who braved crossing where they weren't supposed to.

There, across the street, his eyes found the figure of a young woman, dressed head to toe in black, but for a shock of pink hair, marching to and fro in front of shop front, looking decidedly distressed. She walked as if she didn't know how to do anything else - five paces in one direction, then turning on her hell, five paces in the other, back and forth. David squinted. Yes, there, he wasn't imagining things, she had a long graze up one arm, and one of her hands was bandaged. The image clicked with something in his brain, and in an instant, he was gone, dodging traffic and earning more than his fair share of car horns from drivers. Even the girl looked up from her pacing to see him dashing across the street to her.

Making safely to the other side, despite the anger he'd caused with his inconsiderate, insane attempt at crossing the road, he leapt at the girl, grabbing her shoulders and dragging her into a patch of light to see her better. Hazel eyes stared at him with a mix of shock and anger. A second later, hands were shoving into his chest, pushing him away. He took a couple of steps back.

"Quinn Fabray?" he asked, causing the pink haired girl's eyes to widen considerably, one eyebrow cocked at him, incredulous, wary.

"And who the hell are you?" she retaliated.

"My name's David, I direct the play Rachel Berry's in at the moment, and I know all about you two. You shouldn't be here right now. If she sees you, she's going to freak out. I don't think she's ready to accept you back into her life. Trust me," he warned, gushing, the words tumbling out of his mouth almost as soon as they appeared in his mind. Quinn stared at him.

"And who the hell are you to tell me what the fuck I should be doing with my life? You think you can direct people's lives the same way you direct your plays? Guess again, buddy, you don't get a say in who I, or Rachel, or anybody, gets to see or do," Quinn growled, her unbandaged hand curling into a fist. But David didn't back off.

"She doesn't want to see you. I just came from up there, and right now, you walking in on her would be the worst thing that could happen," he insisted, but scoffing, Quinn started to move off. "You're not listening, why aren't you listening?" David muttered in annoyance under his breath, chasing after her. He stopped her just before she stepped off the kerb, spinning her around by his grip on her elbow. Anger flashed in her eyes at his action, until she saw what it was he was holding out to her in the palm of his free hand. Reaching out the forefinger of her uninjured hand, she stroked the twisted metal of the motorcycle that Rachel had flung at the wall.

"This is exactly how my bike looked when I ran it into a tree in senior year," she breathed, stroking it again, "it's even the exact model. Where did you get this?"

"Rachel threw it at the wall five minutes ago."

"What? Why would Rachel have something like this? It's not at all to her style," Quinn frowned, catching David's eye. He raised his eyebrows at her in disbelief.

"You can't guess?"

Quinn's frown softened, and she nodded, a small smile threatening to overtake her lips. She nodded.

"I can guess."

"What do you mean when you ran it into a tree in twelfth grade? What's wrong with you? It was deliberate? You could have died!" David began, questioning on the sentence which had disturbed him a moment before.

"What do you mean Rachel threw it against her wall? Why would she do something like that?"

"I asked first," David prodded.

"I was angry, drunk, depressed and stupid. Now answer the question," Quinn growled.

"She was angry, confused and rash. Was it over Rachel?" David shot back.

"Was it over me?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment. David feared that Quinn might bolt across the road and into the mess that was Rachel's life anyway, despite his warning and revelation. Instead, she stepped back further from the kerb, away from the cars which rushed by. Sighing, she jerked her head to indicate that they should walk down the street, so David fell into step beside her, keeping pace easily with her fast strides, though she was slightly taller than he. With unerring confidence and an never faltering stride, she led him along the New York sidewalk, bringing him to a small, dingy diner, the sign above its door flickering and giving off an electrical buzz. David eyed the place dubiously, but followed her in. They took a seat in a booth with what might have been red leather upholstery, but which had since faded and been dirtied into a rusty brown. It reminded David of dried blood.

"So, how do I get her back?" Quinn asked, the first words she'd spoken to him since he'd told her that the thought of her made Rachel angry enough to throw a replica of Quinn's bike at the wall of her apartment.

A waitress came to take their orders, bored looking, with wisps of hair clinging to the side of her face. Quinn barely glanced at her, ordering a plate of chips. David replied with the same answer after a moment's hesitation. The waitress shuffled off, completely despondent, as though she'd rather be anywhere else in the world. David couldn't blame her, in a place like this, open late nights, but with barely any hint of a customer, apart from himself and the pink haired young woman sitting across from him.

"Stop sending her X-marked maps of New York?" he haltingly responded. Quinn waved the notion away.

"I know, Rachel and I already discussed that. What else?"

"What do you mean you already discussed it? Is that what the two of you fought about?" David asked, still not knowing the details of that night.

"Of a sort. Mostly it was pent up anger that neither of us reunited the way we wanted to be reunited, I think. It wasn't the touching of kindred spirits, it was more like stepping on a landmine. We both lost control of ourselves. I might have let her think that I wasn't going to be in her life anymore, but I don't want that. I want back in. I've wanted back in the second I knew I was out, all those years ago," Quinn confessed, looking down at her hands, which were knotted on the table top. David stared at them too, noticing the dirty fingernails and wondering just what it was that Quinn was doing with her life, and tried to think of a constructive thing to say.

The waitress then reappeared, holding a plate of chips in each hand. She plonked them unceremoniously on the table.

"Cutlery and ketchup's over there if you want any," she said, waving in a vague direction somewhere behind her, "enjoy your meal."

To give himself more time to think over what he ought to say, David bit into one of the greasy chips, nearly gagging when its heat burnt his tongue. He forced himself to swallow, feeling the hot potato scalding his insides as it travelled to his stomach.

"Easy there, Tantalus, the food isn't going away. You can wait a second till it cools down some," chuckled Quinn, amused as she watched him down a glass of water desperately.

"You are possibly the most peculiar person I've ever met," David managed to choke after downing a second glass, "and I've met a lot of odd people. Not many of them would know who Tantalus was though."

"Yes, well, you don't come to write a novel by knowing nothing about literature and mythology."

"You've written a novel? Congratulations! I don't doubt that it was a monumental task," David said, nodding his approval. Quinn shook her head.

"Monumental doesn't even begin to cover it. It took me four years."

"What's it about?"

"Rachel," came the reply, surprising David, "but then, everything's about Rachel. I suppose, if you want the blurb, then it's about a young woman who struggles to fulfill her dreams, only to find that when she does, she's dissatisfied anyway, because it hasn't filled the gaping hole in her the way she thought it would. It took a lot more dedication and patience than I've got," Quinn joked. David cleared his throat.

"Sounds like an interesting book. Have you sent Rachel a copy? She hasn't mentioned it, but she doesn't tell me everything."

"I invited her to a reading, actually. That's what the whole affair with the New York map was, but I don't think the journey to the ticket appealed very much to her. It's a ticket only event, and as a participant, I got five free tickets, so I tried to give her one and make an adventure out of it, considering I've heard that Rachel has found that she's quite adventurous, but it didn't go exactly as planned," confessed Quinn, popping a chip into her mouth and sighing, staring out the window into the dark street, where the iconic yellow taxis continued to roar past.

"I think she'd enjoy hearing you read your book," David replied earnestly, "if you could get her to go. She does enjoy those kinds of private, intimate events, but isn't afforded the luxury of going to them very often because they conflict with performance times."

"Yes, well, I think that one's gone out the window," Quinn muttered, still looking through the glass which separated them from the city, "after our fallout the other night, I'm certain she wouldn't come within a twenty mile radius of the place. You could come, if you like, I still have four tickets to give," she added, turning to face him, then rummaged around in the little bag she'd been carrying with her. Pulling a ticket out, she handed it to him.

"Imaginative Nights," he read aloud, "that's not a very imaginative title."

"No, it's not," Quinn laughed, "if it were up to me, it would have been called A Gathering of Souls, or something of the like. As it is, it wasn't up to me, so Imaginative Nights it's been called. I'm reading from my novel, there'll be a short film, some poetry readings, perhaps a short play," she said, her eyes gleaming as she saw David's face light up with interest at the word 'play'. "Do you think you'd like to come?"

"Sure. Sounds like it could be a great night," David smiled. "Now, back to your problem of Rachel."

"How do you solve a problem like Rachel Berry?" Quinn softly sang, then shrugged nonchalantly at David's incredulous look. "Sorry, it's the wrong meter for the line, but I couldn't resist."

David blinked. "Anyway," he continued, "I think I should try convince her to come to the reading. I could say that I bought a ticket and ask if she wanted to come. I could offer to buy her a ticket. She might say yes if I pretend I don't know you're going to be there."

"But she'll know I'm there," Quinn said dubiously, "I don't think that would work."

Sitting there in that small, old diner, the two of them conspired, finishing their plates of chips and then following them with orders of hamburgers to fuel them for the night. Ideas were passed back and forth, from "chance" meetings, to plots of trickery, but nothing seemed to fit right with the two of them. Eventually, David leaned back into the leather of the seat, growling in frustration.

"Why don't you just come to the play?" he asked, only half meaning it. Quinn blinked and cocked her head to one side.

"That's a great idea, actually. What if I wait for her in her dressing room instead of sitting in the audience though this time? She couldn't run that way, and she and I need to have an honest talk, not just an argument. And you could mediate for us. David, please, I need you to agree to this. I don't have any other ideas," Quinn pleaded, seeing the doubtful look on David's face. Still, he hesitated.

"You know there's that Finn boy in the picture now too. You mustn't forget him," he began.

"I don't care. He's been in the way before, and that wasn't a problem then, I doubt it will be a problem now. Besides, at this point, she and I just need to talk." Quinn was adamant.

"I don't know, Rae's been pretty happy with him. I don't think he's the same guy you think he is," David trailed off.

"One problem at a time," Quinn replied, and then smiled, "did you just called her 'Rae'?" David shrugged.

"I do it all the time."

"I like it. I might just have to steal that from you," she smirked. David shrugged again. "So you'll let us do this? Please?"

David looked out the window this time, pondering. It was going to be a highly charged, emotional confrontation, was he sure he should be there? Was he sure he could even have it in a place so public as a theatre? And yet, even as he thought it, he remembered the mangled motorcycle, the look on Rachel's face when she told him he was wrong, the utter lie of it, the desperation that she wanted it to be true. Emotional damage could only be healed by an emotional meeting, he realised. And Quinn and Rachel were each other's no matter who else might come along, even if neither of them knew it. Well, it seemed Quinn knew it, but it was a matter of convincing Rachel, of getting her to acknowledge the truth. So with a sigh, he nodded, looking back at Quinn, who grinned from ear to ear.

"And what do you mean 'instead of sitting in the audience this time'?" he asked, remembering the sentence he'd forgot to question earlier. Quinn grinned even wider.

"You honestly don't think that I wouldn't come see Rachel on Broadway, did you?" she chuckled mischievously, "I've seen at least one performance a week since the play opened."