Quinn stood back a little ways from the doorway, watching as Rachel's eyes scanned rapidly over every inch of her apartment, from the tiny kitchen to the couch in the middle of the floor acting as a "wall" to separate the living room and bedroom. Quinn finally moved inside when Rachel didn't speak, and quietly rested the box full of baking supplies Rachel had brought onto the counter next to what Quinn had bought to make her grandmother's chocolate chip cookies.

"It isn't much," Quinn admitted, leaning over the counter and watching Rachel. "But it suits me and Van, and it's pretty much what I can afford right now. Still, it's—"

"Yours," Rachel said, sounding wistful. Quinn was beginning to hear that tone in her voice a lot, and she hated it. "A little place to call your own. Comfortable," she added, turning in a circle and looking at all the drawings on the walls, before finally facing Quinn with a small smile on her face.

"It's lovely, Quinn, it really is." She was twirling a lock of hair around her finger, a gesture Quinn found adorable, but she knew it also belied how nervous Rachel was, being in her apartment. She couldn't help but think back to their first meeting, back at the diner when she'd stupidly thought that Rachel would come back with her, that they could pick up where they left off, as if nothing had changed.

But so many things had changed. Quinn still loved Rachel, still wanted her, but now she was stuck in the position of backing off, of maintaining her distance, and not just emotionally, but physically as well. She'd held Rachel's hand in the coffee shop just days ago, but today she stood a few feet away, with the physical barrier of the counter between herself and Rachel. Quinn would have laughed, if anyone other than the cheerleaders at her old high school had found her threatening, but it was the hardest for her to realize that Rachel might think of her that way. Every instinct within her was to hold, to hug, to protect. Quinn was beginning to understand that to protect Rachel might mean staying away.

She was brought out of her thoughts by Rachel's sudden gasp, and everything in Quinn went into offense mode, ready to take on whatever it was that was hurting Rachel.

But it turned out that what was hurting Rachel was a 9 pound fur ball, his head raised from his position lounging on the bed. He stared at Rachel, unmoving, as she clasped her hands together and let out another gasp. This time it sounded like a little, excited squeal, and Quinn grinned.

"That's Van," she said. "And a grumpier beast you'll never meet."

"He's adorable!" Rachel said, and went immediately over to the bed.

"No, Rachel, don't, he'll—"

"Who's a sweet boy?" Rachel cooed, sitting on the bed and reaching out to pet Van, who rolled over and offered up his belly for rubs. Rachel obliged, giggling, her eyes lighting up, and soon the apartment was filled with the sound of Van's purrs and his apparently new favorite person's whispers.

"—bite you," Quinn finished lamely, feeling simultaneously jealous and happy.

"You know, it took me two months to get him to purr. It's taken you two minutes!"

Rachel smiled at Quinn as Van batted her hand with his paws, mewing pitifully that she had stopped petting him. "You're still his mommy though," she reassured. "I'll just be content to be his friend."

She tickled his belly, and then stood up. "We should get started baking!"

"I thought you were allergic to cats," Quinn said suddenly, and instantly regretted it when Rachel backed up a little bit. Her face had darkened, become troubled, and Quinn felt like kicking herself.

"I-I mean you said you didn't have pets, because you had…" She trailed off, not knowing what else to say. She had wondered if Rachel had allergies, or if they were her mother's. Or if it was just an excuse.

Rachel shrugged, moving around the counter so that she was next to Quinn. She didn't look at her though, just occupied herself with removing items from the bags she'd brought with her. Flour, eggs, milk, brown sugar, butter… Soon Quinn's tiny kitchen was ready to receive more action than it had in her entire year of living there.

"Maybe Van is just different," she said, but there was no conviction behind the words. "I have medication at home I take if they get too bad, so perhaps I still have some left in my system."

"Maybe," Quinn agreed, awkwardly shuffling the ingredients for her grandmother's cookies to different places, trying to look like she was actually getting ready to bake, rather than trying to figure out a way to stop making things worse every single time she talked to Rachel.

She'd hoped that they'd text a few times before Rachel came over, but they hadn't. She hadn't texted Rachel herself; she knew she had to wait for Rachel to approach her on her own time, and apparently, it hadn't been time yet. Quinn had been terrified that Rachel would back out of their "date," but she hadn't. Probably mostly due to the fact that she had set them up herself, Quinn thought. If Quinn had set the meetings up, Rachel might have been more inclined to bail. Maybe setting the meetings on her own terms had given Rachel more confidence, made her feel as if she had more control over how things might go. Quinn hoped so, as much as it was still slightly annoying.

But that first text, late last night, had been exhilarating.

She'd been lying in her bed, trying to get herself back into the routine of doing homework for the new semester, but instead she was doodling in the margins of her book. Some things never changed, she thought to herself with a smile, remembering all the times she'd been caught drawing in her notebook when she was meant to be concentrating on schoolwork. As much as Quinn loved learning, it was far too easy to get distracted, and the soft chime of her cell phone indicating a text had been all too welcome of one.

This is a text of the Rachel Berry cell phone system. This is only a text. For your address.

Quinn had laughed harder than she thought she'd ever laughed in her life, and immediately texted back her address, with directions on how to get there from the diner. She'd resisted ending the texts with a heart, and instead attached a smiley. Rachel had only texted back a thank you and nothing else, which was disappointing, but at least she'd gotten two texts.

Baby steps, Quinn told herself. Baby steps were better than no steps at all. She'd always been so used to barreling headfirst into any situation, whether it was a cheerleading competition, a test, or finding Rachel. She never expected that finding Rachel would start to teach her a little more about patience, a little bit more about relaxing and letting things take their own course. A lot about letting Rachel take the reins and dictate things at her own pace. Quinn still had to fight her nature, quite a bit, but she was discovering that it was probably best for both of them, a little less stressful, to just be patient and let life, let fate, take them both wherever she wanted them to go.

"What would you like to bake first?" she asked Rachel softly.

Rachel pondered, and then offered Quinn a shy smile. "Your grandma's cookies."

"Really?" Quinn said in surprise, and Rachel nodded.

"Really."

It was giving her whiplash, if Quinn was going to be honest about it. Rachel wanted her distance, and yet she wanted little reminders of her life with Quinn. She'd remembered little things about her life with Quinn.

She probably, Elle had told her the other day, remembered everything. Rachel was still there, Jamie agreed, even if the connection wasn't. She could try to bury things as far as she wanted, but little memories were bound to come up.

And if Rachel wanted to make Grandma Connie's chocolate chip cookies, well then… Quinn reached for the flour.

"Can you follow a recipe?" she teased gently, and her smile only grew broader when Rachel rolled her eyes.

"Bring it on, Fabray," she said, but then she winked, and Quinn's own eyes widened as she felt her mouth suddenly go dry.

Well then.

They worked together in companionable silence for a little while, broken only by Rachel's soft requests to be handed a spoon or measuring cup, and for Quinn to giggle a little when she had to take a bowl off the shelf for her. Rachel had huffed, which only made Quinn laugh louder, and after a second, Rachel joined in.

"Do you like to bake a lot?" Quinn asked. "I mean, when you're not baking for the community center."

"Not really. I bring enough cakes and pies home from the diner, Mom says I really need to watch my figure."

Rachel paled instantly, biting her lower lip, and Quinn knew without a doubt that Rachel had revealed something she had never meant to, that she never should have. She thought back to when she and Rachel were younger, to how Rachel never spoke of having ice cream on the weekends, or cake except for perhaps on her birthday. There hadn't been candy either, except on a rare occasion. But Rachel hadn't ever really mentioned her weight, either.

Apparently, her mother had mentioned it enough for her. Quinn's hands tightened on the counter, but she took a deep breath and steadied herself. When she spoke, her voice was kind, loving, if still a little broken.

"There's nothing wrong with your figure, Rach. You're beautiful. You always have been."

Rachel finished placing the last batch of cookies into the oven before turning to Quinn.

"Even now?"

She was in an old (Broadway, Quinn noted) tee-shirt that Quinn guessed Rachel wouldn't care if she got it dirty while baking. And really, who wore a skirt to bake cookies? But her hair was long and soft, her curves were perfect, and Quinn's hands ached to touch her face. But she couldn't.

Quinn met her eyes. "Especially now."

Rachel smiled, a flush appearing on her cheeks. "We should get started on the other cookies."

Soon the apartment smelled like a bakery, and anyone walking by Quinn's door would hear the loud chatter and giggles of two young girls, behaving as if they had been friends for years. Quinn was discovering that despite the awkwardness, despite the loss of their connection, she and Rachel had had 9 years of being so tuned into each other it was sometimes as if they were one person. And though that no longer existed, the memory of it remained – for both of them. And though she knew she couldn't ask questions about Rachel's life – or Rachel's mother, which is what she really wanted to ask – she could still talk to Rachel about her own life, about her school and funny things that had happened in her sorority. The words flowed easily, and Rachel clung desperately to every one of them.

It was as if she was hungry for every little piece of information she could get about Quinn, and though Quinn felt that it was a little hypocritical since she couldn't ask anything about Rachel that was little more in-depth than a discussion of the weather, at least Rachel was talking with her, interacting with her. At least she was interested. And at least she was smiling and seemingly happy, seemingly relaxed and content. She wasn't leaning against a building in a New York alley, crying over a …

"Oh!" Quinn said suddenly, and Rachel jumped. "Sorry about that," she added in apology. "But I have something for you; I can't believe I forgot to bring it to the coffee shop."

She went over to her desk, barely hearing Rachel's protest as she began to rummage through the papers and art books.

"You really didn't have to get me anything, Quinn, I told you that it wasn't a date, none of this is—"

"Aha!" Quinn stood up triumphantly, and then crossed back over to Rachel, holding it out.

Rachel looked down at what Quinn held in her hand, then back up to Quinn.

"It's yours," Quinn said quietly.

"I-I can't," Rachel faltered.

"It's yours," Quinn said again.

"I have others…"

But the protest was feeble, and Rachel's hands trembled as she took the playbill from Quinn.

"How many others?" Quinn pulled the sheet of cookies out of the oven and placed them on the stove to cool, putting another sheet in to bake.

"Ten," Rachel answered, and Quinn turned to see her hoisting herself up on the counter, her feet swinging like a little girl's.

She smiled.

"Six from New York, and four that I ordered online, from the tours. Five of them are autographed!"

"Six," Quinn corrected, tipping her chin at the playbill still clutched in Rachel's hand.

She hadn't even gone to the show. Just stood outside in the alley for two hours.

"Six," Rachel echoed, tracing the signatures with her fingers, almost like she had done that day in Times Square. "Thank you."

"Tell me about Wicked."

"You've seen it already," Rachel pointed out, and Quinn could see the beginnings of that wall that she was so accustomed to coming up, but she was having none of it.

"I know, but I want you to tell me about it. Just humor me."

Rachel looked at her oddly, but spoke anyway, and Quinn smiled to herself to see the girl's eyes light up.

She listened as Rachel explained the story of the "misunderstood witch" and her college companions, of the deep and abiding friendship between Elphaba and Galinda with a guh. She laughed when Rachel did an impression of Morrible, felt like crying when the wistful tone returned to Rachel's voice as she talked about the beauty of Defying Gravity.

Defying Gravity wasn't meant to be talked about, Quinn knew. It was meant to be sung. It's what she had wanted, all along. But whether Rachel knew what she was trying to do or not, she didn't take the bait.

"And then she leaves Glinda in the end," Rachel said quietly.

"Why did she do that?"

Rachel looked at her, and Quinn steeled herself for the inevitable lecture, the slamming of a door, the loss of contact yet again.

"Because it was for the best," Rachel said, her voice steady, even as she turned away. "Elphaba knew she had to go to keep herself safe, and she knew that in the end, Glinda would be all right."

"I don't think Glinda was all right."

"I know."

"But…" Quinn hesitated. "I think it hurt Elphaba more than it hurt Glinda."

Rachel still wouldn't look at her. "I think it did too."

They were quiet for a little while, before Rachel looked at her and Quinn was surprised to see her grin.

"You have flour on your nose."

"Do I?" Quinn reached up to rub her nose; her fingers were white when she brought them away.

"Huh, I do." Quinn's grin matched Rachel's, then suddenly turned evil. "But you don't," she said, and reached for the flour.

"Oh no, no you don't!" Rachel squeaked, and tried to dart away, but Quinn's hand found her face lightly in a puff of powder, and Rachel shrieked.

"Quinn Fabray that is not fair!"

"All's fair in love and war, Berry," Quinn retorted, not bothering to stop and think about how right that statement was, because suddenly she was blinded with a handful of flour, and she coughed.

"You should know that I always win," Rachel said, dodging Quinn with a giggle, only to squeal again when Quinn feinted and plopped flour on her head.

"I can't walk down a New York street with flour in my hair!"

"They do it in San Francisco?" Quinn laughed when Rachel's response was to growl and lunge at her, which she swiftly avoided.

"That's flowers, you insane woman!"

She couldn't help but keep laughing, seeing Rachel standing in the middle of the kitchen, her hands on her hips, glaring at her with a face white with flour. A few seconds later, Rachel joined in, the sound bubbling out of her and filling the apartment, and Quinn stopped just to listen to her, before the sound was interrupted by the sudden blaring of Rachel's phone.

Still giggling, Rachel reached for it where it lay on Quinn's bed, and in an instant, the air changed.

The tension was palpable, as soon as Rachel uttered two little words.

"Hi, Mom."

Quinn busied herself packing the cookies up into the plastic containers Rachel had brought, so that the other girl wouldn't think she was eavesdropping. But still the tone, or rather, the yelling, of the voice on the other end was unmistakable.

"Mom, I'm making cookies for the community center, remember I told you I was going to do that?"

More yelling.

"I'm at the c-center, where else would I be?"

Quinn winced.

So Shelby didn't know she was in New York. Quinn had expected as much; she didn't think that Rachel would be in much of a hurry to reveal that Quinn had found her, but she couldn't deny that it still hurt a little bit. But she tried not to focus on that, and instead focused on the cookies, while still watching Rachel, who was now pacing back and forth across her apartment, one shaking hand fumbling through her hair.

"No, they're not done yet." They were, and Quinn quirked an eyebrow at her, but Rachel wasn't paying attention.

"Probably another hour, I—now? But—"

More yelling. Quinn wanted more than anything to run and grab the phone from Rachel, to take it from her and… throw it out a window. Flush it down a toilet. Or something. Especially when Rachel sighed, and Quinn saw the girl once again shrink into herself.

"Just let me pack everything up, and I'll be home in a few minutes." A pause, and then, obediently, softly…

"I love you too. Bye, Mom."

"You have to go?" Quinn asked. She knew the answer, but hoped it would be different.

It wasn't. "Yeah. Mom says she doesn't feel well."

"Oh. You have to pick up something for her?"

"No," Rachel said, shaking her head, bits of flour flying off, and Quinn tried to remember where her mop was.

"She has medicine at home, but she doesn't… she doesn't like being alone when she's sick."

"Oh," was all Quinn could say. She could understand it, she supposed; she'd wanted to be home when her father had called to say Judy Fabray was ill with the flu. But something about the yelling on the other end of Rachel's phone… she didn't like it.

"Do… may I use your restroom?" Rachel asked. "I want to…" She gestured to her face and her clothes, and Quinn quickly nodded.

"Sure, you can wash up," she said, and tried to smile. "There's soap on the sink, and towels next to the tub."

She took a deep breath when Rachel whispered a soft "thank you" and disappeared behind the door; Quinn sank onto the bed and to his credit, Van padded over to her and flopped down on her lap, looking up at her.

"What am I doing, Van Gogh?" Quinn murmured, scratching lightly behind his ears, and he answered by nuzzling into her hand. "Rachel's bewitched both of us, seems like."

This was too hard, she thought. She'd been enjoying their time together, loving seeing the sparkle in Rachel's eyes and hearing the tinkle in her laugh, but with a simple cell phone ring all of that had vanished. Now Quinn was scared, worried. Now she was beginning to realize something that she'd only had inklings of, ever since she was seven years old.

Something wasn't right in Rachel Berry's life.

She'd wanted to deny it, wanted to put it past her and concentrate on the good, to maintain the distance that now Rachel expected of her.

But the dominance in Quinn, the desire to protect and defend, was screaming to be let out in full force.

Because something wasn't right in Rachel's life.

In fact, something, Quinn was beginning to believe, was very, terribly wrong.

The door opened and Rachel came out; Quinn's heart sank to see the same fake, pasted-on smile turned in her direction, but she said nothing, only stood up and went back to the counter to stack the plastic containers.

"I think the kids at the center will really like them," Rachel said brightly, and Quinn just nodded. "Though if they like your grandmother's cookies, I'm in a great deal of trouble. I might not be able to recreate the recipe."

"I can text it to you," Quinn offered, her voice quiet. She washed her hands and the flour off her face quickly, brushing as much of it off her clothes as she could. She avoided meeting Rachel's eyes, because she knew she wouldn't be able to stop the questions if she looked at the girl.

Rachel hesitated, noticing the change in Quinn, probably, before nodding. "That would be nice."

"Got your mace and whistle?" Quinn asked as Rachel picked up the containers, only to set them back down on the counter, moving to the other side to stand near Quinn.

"I always do."

"Good. We need… we need to keep you safe, I—"

She was cut off when she was suddenly met with the full force of Rachel Berry, flinging herself at Quinn in a hug. Quinn's arms flailed for a moment, before she finally wrapped them around Rachel and hugged her close.

She was hugging Rachel.

She was hugging her girl. Her little one. Her…

"Rachel…"

"I'm fine," Rachel said, her voice muffled against Quinn's shoulder. "I'm fine, Quinn."

"You're not fine," Quinn protested, holding her even tighter. "Rach, princess, please…"

Rachel shook her head, still hugging Quinn, and in fact pressing herself closer. Almost as if it was the last time they would ever hug…

She drew back, and smiled at Quinn, but it was still… like a show face, Quinn thought. The smile of an actress on a red carpet, or during an interview. It wasn't Rachel.

"I'm fine," she repeated. She picked up the containers of cookies and moved to the door, waiting for Quinn to open it.

She didn't want to open it, she wanted to keep it closed, to hold Rachel close and keep her safe from whatever was happening. To make Rachel tell her everything.

She opened the door.

"Send me that recipe," Rachel said, and her voice trembled only slightly. "I have a feeling I'll need it."

"I'll send you anything you need," Quinn said. "Rachel?"

She stopped, halfway down the hall, and turned.

"I mean it," Quinn affirmed. "I'll give you whatever you need."

Rachel nodded. "I know," she said, hugging the containers to her chest, and walked off.

A few hours later, after Quinn had tried to paint, read a book, take a relaxing bath, get drunk (hard to do when you don't drink much), eat a cookie that she'd forgotten to pack, pet Van (who had gone back to his old ways of clawing at her), and talk to Sam (he was gone to work), the text came.

She dove for the phone, her heart leaping when she saw the notification, and quickly swiped to read.

I see that my newest playbill has the autograph of Elphaba's stand-in. Her voice is passable, if a little sharp, but of course, no one beats the original.

Two seconds later, another text.

… Thank you.

Quinn shook her head, the phone clutched to her chest, and, in spite of everything, she laughed.