Warnings: Abuse (not depicted)

Diana Kind.

Quinn paused while brushing her teeth and rolled her eyes, texting back quickly.

Barbra Streisand's mother.

Seconds later, her phone beeped again.

Impressive, very impressive. But you are not a true Barbra fan yet.

Quinn nearly choked on her toothbrush, and finished up before texting again.

Did you just paraphrase Star Wars at me?

I haven't actually seen it, was Rachel's response. But everyone knows that line.

Maybe we can watch it.

It was five minutes before Quinn's phone sounded again, and she had begun to worry that once again, she had asked for too much.

I think I'd like that.

Emboldened, Quinn texted back as she stared at the books scattered across her couch. Why did history involve so much reading? Oh well, at least she wasn't an English major.

She practically clapped her hands when Rachel texted back that yes, she could meet Quinn that weekend to watch Star Wars – as long as nothing else came up.

They hadn't talked, in the two weeks since they'd met at Quinn's apartment to bake, about the "something else" that had come up, aka Rachel's mother. Quinn still wasn't able to shake the feeling that there was more going on than she had originally thought, but neither Sam or Quinn's other friends were able to offer her much more than sympathetic looks.

So Quinn picked up the phone, and dialed one person she knew could give her pretty sound advice.

Judy Fabray was alarmed to receive a phone call from her daughter in the middle of the week, and it took Quinn twenty minutes of answering questions about her health and her grades before she could finally get to the actual reason for wanting to talk to her mom.

"Maybe her mother is ill," Mrs. Fabray suggested, after listening. "It does sound like she relies on Rachel a lot; maybe she's too sick to take care of herself."

"I don't think that's it," Quinn said. "I can't explain why, but I think it's more than that."

"It doesn't sound as if Rachel's being hurt," her mother said carefully, and Quinn's hand tightened around the phone.

"I'd kill her," she said through clenched teeth; her mother sighed.

"You need to be careful, Quinn."

"You're just saying that because you and dad don't even want me with Rachel."

"Excuse me, young lady?"

There was an edge to her mother's voice, but Quinn was past the point of caring.

"Ever since I was seven years old you and dad haven't been happy that my submissive is meant to be a girl. When Rachel broke the connection you both kept saying that 'maybe I'd find a nice boy.' I mean I'm sorry I'm not the proper little straight girl you guys wanted, but I can't stop trying to protect Rachel just be—"

"That is enough, Quinn Charlotte Fabray," Judy snapped, and her daughter clamped her mouth shut, instantly feeling like a little girl once more.

Her mother sighed again, and when she spoke again, sounding old and weary, Quinn immediately felt guilty.

"First and foremost, you are our daughter, and no matter who you are destined to love you will always be our daughter. Yes, your father and I were surprised to see that you were destined to be with a female submissive, but Quinnie, fate is what it is, there's nothing we can do to change that."

"I know…"

"But not everyone accepts that. Clearly Rachel's mother didn't. And your father and I are your parents. We want to protect you. But we couldn't protect you from Rachel breaking the connection." Mrs. Fabray took a deep breath, sniffling, and Quinn felt the tears rush to her own eyes.

"Your father and I don't want to have to go through that again, to see you cry and in so much pain. We don't want you to have to go through that again. So please, forgive me for being your mother and trying to keep my baby girl safe. Even from the one you're destined to love."

"I love you, Mom," Quinn said, wiping her eyes. "You're awesome."

"I know," Mrs. Fabray said, and she and Quinn both laughed. "I do think you're right. I do think there's something going on, but I haven't the slightest idea what it might be. Other than it is definitely related to her mother."

"So what do you think I should do?" Quinn asked, sprawling onto her couch and shoving some of her books onto the floor. One hit Van in the tail and he darted off with a hiss, jumping onto her bed and glaring at her.

She sighed. He'd been even grumpier ever since Rachel had left, the traitor.

"I think you should do exactly what I told you to do, be careful."

"But Rachel needs m—"

"What every submissive needs, Quinn," Mrs. Fabray began gently, and Quinn forced herself to listen. Her mother was speaking from experience, after all.

"Is for someone to be patient. For someone to be patient, and to wait. To teach, to train."

"Train?"

"When you found Rachel, you thought your duty was to train Rachel how to be your submissive, to teach her to do things that your dear old mother would prefer not to know about."

Quinn giggled, and Mrs. Fabray went on.

"But what you really need to teach Rachel is to trust you. You need to train her that when she thinks she has no one else to come to, no one else to lean on, she has you. And if you have to do that by being patient and waiting for her to realize that, then that is what you have to do. I think, in the end, that it'll all be worth it."

"I've already waited five years," Quinn said petulantly.

"This isn't like waiting for a new laptop, Quinn," her mother reprimanded, and she sighed.

"I know. It's just hard."

"Trust me, I know. When you were a little girl you were insufferable at Christmas."

"Mom!"

"Just wait, Quinn. When she's ready, you'll be the only person Rachel runs to."

She couldn't stop imagining it. When would it happen? Would they be at the supermarket and the connection would happen over the fresh vegetables? Or would Quinn hear Rachel's thoughts when it was revealed that Darth Vader was Luke's father? Would Rachel run to her in Central Park?

Or would Rachel show up at her door with a smile and "I love you, Mistress" on her lips?

Quinn wasn't sure which one she was hoping for more, and as the days went by, the scenarios got even more outlandish, even more romantic. She would fall asleep and dream that Rachel was in bed next to her, only to be disappointed when she woke the next morning and the bed was empty except for Van poking her in the nose for food.

But the one bright spot in it all was that she and Rachel were re-connecting. Not mentally; there hadn't been any indication of that at all. But reconnecting they were, by the wonderful innovation known as text messaging. It was slow at first, Rachel would text her good morning usually every other day and that was it. But then there came the day when they must have exchanged over 100 text messages over the course of the day, and Quinn thought her mouth was going to freeze that way, she had smiled so much.

It was like old times, almost. Rachel would tell her what was going on at work, Quinn would surreptitiously text while she was bored in class and Rachel would send her a 3-text lecture on the importance of paying attention in order to get a good education. Quinn had gotten a lot of those lectures from Rachel when she was younger, and nearly cried with joy at receiving another one. It wasn't the same as having their old mental bond back, which didn't seem to want to come back no matter how much Quinn still kept trying, every night.

But it was something, and Quinn would take every little thing she could get.

Sleepy, Rachel texted her one night, around 11:30.

It was two days before their movie "date," and Quinn was growing more excited as the minutes ticked by. She turned over in bed and held the phone up as she typed her response.

Go to bed, silly.

I have been educating myself on Star Wars, Rachel texted instead. Don't worry, I haven't read about the endings. But people certainly do have a love/hate relationship with George Lucas, don't they? I've enjoyed the arguments about Leia being better suited as a submissive than Han. I'll make my judgment after I see the movies.

Quinn laughed and shook her head, fingers dancing across the virtual keyboard.

Go to bed, Rachel.

Seconds later, the text on her screen caused Quinn to sit bolt upright in bed.

May I call you?

Of course, of course you can, she answered. Really, what else was she meant to say?

Rachel wanted to talk to her.

Hell would freeze over before she would ever tell Rachel Berry no.

Ten minutes later the phone rang, enough time for Quinn to be up and pacing the floor, worried that Rachel would back out. She dove across her bed on her stomach, seizing up her cellphone.

"Hi," she said breathlessly.

"I-it's not too late?" Rachel said, sounding nervous and quiet. Her voice was so low that Quinn almost couldn't hear her, and her eyes widened with the realization that Rachel was sneaking around to call her.

"It's never too late for you to call me, Rachel. I don't care if it's two in the afternoon or two in the morning."

"Even during finals week?"

Quinn chuckled. "Even during finals week, Rach. Especially during finals week, maybe. I might need you to keep me from going insane. Or keep me awake. Maybe both."

"Maybe I won't call then. Maybe I'll just… come over with coffee. If—if you think you might like that?"

God, she loved that questioning tone in Rachel's voice, and Quinn shivered. As much as Rachel tried to hide it, every now and then her natural submissiveness would come through, and Quinn absolutely craved it. It made things harder, sure, but the little flashes of Rachel's true self that Quinn saw, the more she knew that there was still hope, for both of them.

She just had to wait.

"I'd like that. I think I'd like that very much. Just make it a little weaker than that tar you like to drink."

On the other end of the phone, Rachel huffed sleepily, and Quinn smiled, lying back down against the pillows.

"The French like their coffee that strong, you know."

"Oui, mais je ne suis pas française," Quinn said smoothly.

"… wow," Rachel said, and she grinned.

"What are you going to be up to tomorrow?"

"Nothing really," Rachel said, sounding drowsy and happy, the way that Quinn felt. Rachel's voice was still low, and Quinn wondered where her mother was, if she was out or in the next room.

She tried not to think about what might happen if Shelby walked in while Rachel was talking on the phone to her.

Be safe, my princess, she tried to send to Rachel, even if she knew it probably wouldn't work.

"Just working at the diner. Then I think I'll come home and organize my music player. The files have gotten woefully confused, and I can't stand that."

"Sounds like a good plan," Quinn said, fighting a yawn and losing. "I have a test tomorrow and then after that I think I'll be lazy. I might play a video game with Sam or something."

"That sounds like fun," Rachel said, and once again Quinn's heart broke a little. She'd have to ask Sam if it was all right for Rachel to play with them sometime.

"You should go to sleep, you sound very tired."

"That's what I tried to get you to do ten minutes ago," Quinn pointed out. "But someone's a brat and doesn't like to listen."

She bit her lip, worried that that was decidedly the wrong to say, but Rachel giggled a little on the other end and Quinn relaxed.

"If you say so. But I do think we should both sleep now."

"I just don't want to say good night…" Quinn trailed off, shaking her head at herself. She was acting like a lovesick idiot.

Which she was, really.

"So then… we won't say good night. I'll talk to you tomorrow, all right, Quinn?"

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, princess." Shit. She'd told herself she wouldn't call Rachel that anymore.

"Sorry, Rach, it's… habit."

"I know," Rachel whispered. "It's okay."

She had just started to drift off to sleep when Quinn's cell phone signaled yet another text, and she grumbled, but flipped it open anyway to see a message from Rachel.

You can call me princess.

It had her on cloud nine for the rest of the week, and it felt as if time flew by while she began to ready preparations for their little movie not-date. It was getting harder not to call them dates, but she knew that it would freak Rachel out if she started referring to them as that. And they were already in such a delicate position that the last thing Quinn wanted to do was scare her again. It was enough, really, that Rachel was arranging their little meetings, that Quinn didn't even have to ask for her time and her texts.

Maybe, as Quinn's mother had suggested, Rachel finally trusted her.

That theory came crashing down with another text, the day of their movie not-date.

I can't come. I have to work late. I'm sorry.

Quinn actually sat down, the pain was so swift and deep. The tears coursed down her cheeks and she told herself she was behaving like an idiot, but she couldn't help it. She hadn't known any disappointment like that, other than when Rachel had first broken the connection and Quinn had tried with all of her might to get it back. Each day that had gone by the pain had gotten a little less, maybe even a little easier, but it was still there.

Only to come rushing back when Rachel bailed.

But having to work late wasn't really bailing, Quinn told herself. Burt knew that Rachel was seeing Quinn again; he'd been a good friend to Rachel and had told her exactly the same things that Quinn's friends were saying to her: be careful. But work was work, and if Burt needed her, Quinn knew that when push came to shove, Rachel wouldn't abandon her job.

And it was just one night, Quinn also said to herself. One broken not-date didn't mean that Rachel was never going to speak to her again. Even if that was what she was afraid of. Every interaction with Rachel, every time Quinn said goodbye or good night or talk to you tomorrow, she was afraid that that was the last time she would see Rachel Berry.

But what had she done when Rachel had broken the connection? She'd cried, she'd wailed, she'd raged, she'd sworn that she'd never, ever go looking for Rachel because Rachel Berry didn't deserve it, not after what she'd done.

And she'd hopped the first flight to New York the night she graduated.

Her mother and everyone else told her to wait for Rachel to come to her. And she'd done that, so far. Taken the baby steps and moved as cautiously as she thought Rachel would need. And fate had done its part bringing Rachel to her, but it was just a late night at the diner, and it couldn't be considered stalking if all she did was visit a friend for talk and coffee.

So Rachel couldn't come to her.

Well, Quinn reasoned, they were close now. Or, closer than they had been. And she wouldn't be showing up at the diner like she had that first time, with designs on taking Rachel back to her apartment and claiming her. There was no stopping her from going to the diner just as a friend. To have a coffee or a milkshake and just… just chat. She might even help Rachel clean up, if Burt would let her. Two people cleaning would get it done faster, and that meant they could sit and talk for a little while.

She could do that, Quinn resolved.

Rachel might like it. She might want some company, someone to talk to as she worked.

Quinn put on her coat and headed towards the diner.

New York was never quiet, but there seemed to be something different about this night. The people seemed to move slower, seemed to be mere shadows of themselves as Quinn passed by. She thought she saw a green ribbon hanging on a tree branch, but when she looked again it wasn't there. The wind was cold, chilling her to the bone and she pulled her coat tighter around herself. She thought about taking out her iPod, about listening to that playlist she had designed especially for Rachel.

Her.

Quinn decided against it, and turned down the sidewalk that would lead her, once again, to Rachel.

She knew this road by heart; she'd walked it so many times. She could find her way to Rachel with her eyes closed, Quinn thought, and then shook her head. She wasn't a poet; she should tell Rachel, because it would probably get a good laugh out of the other woman. It was her laugh that Quinn loved to hear the most, that she wanted to hear the most.

Well, no. More than anything, she wanted to hear Rachel sing.

She needed to hear Rachel sing, Quinn knew. Needed to hear it to know that Rachel was still there. Sure, there were little flashes of it here and there, but there had to be more, just below the surface. She needed to hear Rachel sing, and she needed to know why she stopped, and she needed Rachel to know that it was okay to keep singing.

And perhaps the fates were working overtime, because as Quinn approached the diner, warm from her walk and the anticipation of Rachel's (hopefully) happiness at seeing her there, she could hear a voice.

A voice, loud and rich and full, coming from the diner.

Rachel.

Singing.

It was a melody that Quinn thought she recognized, but through the glass of the diner she couldn't tell exactly what it was. But she stopped and looked, a smile on her face as she watched Rachel wipe off tables and sing. The diner was empty; apparently even Burt had gone home and it was left to Rachel to clean up. So she was alone, just the tables and a dishrag, and so she sang, with no one there to hear.

Slowly and carefully Quinn inched the door open, the words to the song becoming slowly louder.

"… you let me know what's real and going on below, but now you never show it to me, do you?"

A few more inches, and she was inside, and Rachel's voice soared as if it were reaching the rafters of some fancy Broadway hall. The seats and booths were her adoring audience, the red and white checkered floor her stage. The streetlights shining in the window were her spotlight.

Her tears were her accompaniment, and Quinn froze in the doorway.

"And remember when I moved in you, the holy dove was moving too? And every breath we drew was 'hallelujah'…."

She was crying. Hard. Barely able to get the words out, and still her voice was the most beautiful thing Quinn had ever heard. She had imagined what it would be like to hear Rachel for the first time; she had always pictured herself sitting in the front row while Rachel was the star in a musical.

Or accepting her first Tony.

"Hallelujah, hallelujah. Hallelujah, hallelujah…"

Now she was rooted to the spot in a diner doorway, watching as her princess sobbed and struggled to pry a ketchup stain from a booth.

What could she do? Should she say something? It seemed stupid, but it felt almost as if Quinn was in church, and to speak would interrupt something holy. She would interrupt Rachel, the real Rachel.

The Rachel that was broken, the Rachel that was a shade of her former self. The Rachel that was lost, alone, trying to find absolution in a song.

"I did my best, it wasn't much. I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch. I've told the truth, I didn't come here to fool you..."

She was singing to her, Quinn realized, and she nearly fell against the door, her hand rising to cup her mouth to shield her own tears.

Elle had told her it would've hurt Rachel. Elle had told her that to break the connection would have been agonizing to Rachel, but for whatever reason, Rachel would have had no outlet for it. Something was happening, something that wouldn't let Rachel grieve, to curl inside her own pain and mourn for what she had lost, by her own hand.

But here, in this, in her voice and in this song, Rachel was saying a kind of kaddish for her lost love. For her heart.

For Quinn.

"And even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but 'hallelujah'…."

Rachel had stopped cleaning now, leaning against the table with both hands, arms shaking with the force of her sobs. But she was lost, Quinn saw, lost in the song and the melody, living and breathing the music that had been kept from her for so long.

She'd kept singing, Quinn realized. In secret, at the diner or at the community center. On the street or in the park, wherever she could. Wherever she would be away from the person who seemed to want to stifle that gorgeous voice.

Rachel was still there. The one thing that was her true nature besides her submissiveness, her love for music and singing, was still there. It elated Quinn, destroyed Quinn; she had to hold to the door handle to bear herself up as she listened to Rachel finish giving voice to her own heartbreak.

"Hallelujah, hallelujah..."

She shouldn't be here, Quinn thought to herself. This was something so intensely private, something that was completely Rachel's. That no matter what they had shared in their five years "together," she couldn't even touch. Rachel's pain was her own, and it wouldn't help her for Quinn to invade that space, especially out of her own need.

But this was Rachel. This was the girl that Quinn had built her life around for so long, and even though she couldn't hear Rachel's cries in the night anymore, the feelings hadn't ever left her. The instinct to protect, to help, to comfort.

"Hallelujah, hallelujah…"

She took a step backward. Rachel's face was streaked with tears, and Quinn's heart clenched. How many times had she sung alone and cried here? Would she have done it that night that Quinn found her, once Burt had left and all the patrons had gone home to their Masters and Mistresses, to the submissives waiting adoringly in the bedroom or the foyer?

Would she walk home to the house where she wasn't allowed to sing, every word echoing loud and clear in a moonlit night?

Did she sing, after she had seen Quinn, or was she too scared to even find a melody?

"Hallelujah, hallelujah… hallelujah, hall—"

Quinn left the diner, as quickly and as quietly as she could. She probably got a few strange looks on her way back to the apartment, but she let the tears fall, not caring.

It didn't take long for Quinn to cry herself to sleep, only to be awakened by a knock on the door.

The clock on the bedside table read 1 a.m.

She rubbed her eyes and padded blearily to the door, swinging it open until it was stopped by the chain locking it.

"Quinn?"

She shut the door and unlocked it quickly.

"Rachel? What are you doing here, are you okay?" She blinked to clear her eyes, and Quinn's heart dropped.

The handprint was red and angry on Rachel's right cheek.

"Rachel… princess, what—"

Rachel looked down at the floor, then back at Quinn, fresh tears streaking down her face.

"I need a place to stay tonight… Please, Quinn. Please."