"Hello. Is my daughter Rachel he-"

"No."

Quinn closed the door and turned around; Rachel just looked at her.

An unintended consequence of a confiscated phone was Shelby Berry having not just Quinn's address, but clear directions on how to get there.

Quinn reopened the door.

"She's fine," Rachel heard her say, even though she knew Quinn was keeping her voice low to shield her. "She's fine, and she'll talk to you if and when she's ready."

If.

The mournful tone in her mother's voice almost had Rachel rushing for the door.

"Would you just... tell her that I love her?"

"I will."

Ice dripped from Quinn's tone, but her face was tender when she shut the door and turned to Rachel, the words on her lips, but Rachel shook her head.

"I heard."

"You weren't supposed to."

Rachel smiled wryly. "I have impeccable hearing in addition to impeccable pitch."

Quinn smiled and moved to sit on the couch next to Rachel, too close and too warm in her NYU sweats and tee-shirt. It was old habit, Rachel told herself, that she drew away just a little - but she also felt a little awkwardly underdressed, especially considering that it was Quinn's boxers she wore. Quinn's shirt.

That smelled like her.

"So you do," Quinn said, and now she sounded light and easy but Rachel had seen the wince, a fleeting reaction to what she had thought was a subtle raising of that wall between them.

It had come down. Not much, a little. But now it seemed back again.

"Are you all right?"

"I suppose so."

"You could have talked to her, if you wanted. I'd never keep you from her." As if to illustrate her words, Quinn held out Rachel's phone, that Shelby must have handed her in the brief second before Quinn had shut the door the last time.

Rachel took it, turning it over in her hands, then set it down on the coffee table in front of them.

"I know."

There was a moment of awkward silence, probably appropriate since it was merely a few hours after Rachel had woken up in Quinn's apartment. In Quinn's bed. The remnants of breakfast still lay scattered on the countertop, and Rachel smiled a little again, remembering how flustered Quinn had seemed. Almost like she was trying to plan the perfect breakfast. Just to take care of her.

It was so domestic, she thought. They'd sat and ate breakfast together, but they hadn't talked much after Rachel had told Quinn all that Shelby knew, and most of the things that had happened between them. Most.

Afterwards, things had fallen into a kind of comfortable silence. It was almost, Rachel thought, like things had been before she'd broke- before the connection had been broken. It had been so easy to just sit there with Quinn, at the counter in the "kitchen" of her little one-room apartment, with no words but just a kind of... contentment. So easy that Rachel had wondered, for a split second, if a connection had ever even been necessary.

And now Quinn was looking at her in the same way that seemed to be usual for Quinn: worriedly, hazel eyes scanning over Rachel's face searching for any sign of sadness or discomfort. She never needed to look far, Rachel figured, which is why a sudden bright smile crossed over Quinn's face.

"So, what do you want to do today? Shopping? I know you said you needed clothes."

Ordinarily, shopping would give Rachel a thrill. If it was for new music, or a new sweater. But today, shopping was the last thing on her mind. She glanced around Quinn's apartment, trying to find some excuse, but the words were failing her. She still wasn't used to not being able to say—or sing—how she felt, especially in front of Quinn. For 8 years she hadn't had to use words, and now... words were all she had, and they were infuriatingly elusive.

Rachel's eyes fell on Van, then the still-messy kitchen, the painting of the blond boy that had hung in the gallery not so long ago, the books on the coffee table... The books.

"Class!" Rachel said suddenly, and felt guilty when Quinn jumped a little. "You have class."

"What?" Quinn said, looking confused. "No. I mean yes, I do have class, but I'm not going, not today."

"Why not?" Rachel knew the answer already, and hated herself for the tiny glimmer of something resembling love that it gave her.

"Because of you," Quinn answered simply. "And I don't mean that you're a burden keeping me from my every day life, because that's not it. I mean... You might need me, and I want to be here if you do."

"You can't skip your studies because of me," Rachel protested, nervously tugging at the bottom of the I Love Oz shirt.

"It's one day, princess," Quinn said. "I can get the notes off Elle and Jamie, and I can make the test up later on in the week."

"Test?" Rachel stood up then, shaking her head with her hands on her hips. "No. No, no, Quinn Charlotte Fabray, you-"

"You remembered my middle name."

Rachel huffed, ignoring Quinn's sly grin and trying to play off how much it rattled her that yes, she remembered Quinn's middle name. "That is not the point. The point is I am not going to be the cause of you neglecting your studies and doing poorly on an exam, or, worse, getting a zero because your teacher doesn't accept what will no doubt be a very creative excuse as to why you couldn't take it on the expected day."

Quinn opened her mouth to speak, but Rachel wasn't about to give her the opportunity. "You're going to your classes today. Please," she continued, when it looked like Quinn was still stubbornly going to protest. "Y-you said that you'd give me whatever I need."

"I will. I'll try."

Rachel nodded and took a deep breath. "What I need is to just... be alone. For a little while. This is..." She gestured weakly around the room, and at Quinn. "A lot to take in. You can go to your classes and when you come back I'll- I'll cook," she decided. "Because I know you probably don't eat right when you're between classes. If at all."

One look at Quinn's sheepish face told Rachel that she had called that exactly right. "So I'll cook when you get home. If- if you want. If you'd like that?" She hated the endless questioning, the need for approval. The need to serve.

Quinn stood up and this time Rachel held her breath as the young woman cupped her cheek and looked into her eyes. What was it about Quinn that made her feel so different, so unnerved, but also so terribly small in that way that was good, and secure, and protected?

"The kitchen's yours," Quinn said in a tone that told Rachel she meant it, that she was excited about the prospect of Rachel cooking for her. "There's a stool in the closet over there if you need it to reach something," and Rachel rolled her eyes at the light-hearted teasing even though she couldn't help but smile.

"Just no spinach. I don't think I have any spinach, which is a good thing. No spinach."

"No spinach," Rachel echoed, and she sat on the couch and watched as Quinn disappeared into the bathroom to change, coming out looking as if she was a model that had just stepped off the runway, even if she was wearing only jeans and an oversized shirt.

"Sure you don't need me to stay?" Quinn asked softly as she gathered up books and papers and stuffed them into her bag.

"I need you to go on with your day like you would any other day."

"It's not any other day, Rachel."

"I'm aware," she said, and put on a smile to pacify the woman she might've called Mistress if circumstances were different. "Now go on, you don't want to be late."

Quinn shouldered her bag and started off to the door before turning around. "Rachel?"

"Hmm?"

"You'll... you'll be here when I get back, right?"

She supposed she deserved that question, but it still hurt. Rachel nodded, even if she knew that her decision was less out of a desire to be with Quinn and more because she really had nowhere else to go except home to her mother.

"I'll be here."

Quinn nodded with a half-smile on her face. "Okay. Well... I'll see you later."

"See you later... Quinn?"

She stopped and turned back, her hand on the doorknob, the door stood open.

Rachel blushed a little and bit her lip. What was she supposed to do? She was standing in the middle of Quinn Fabray's apartment, wearing her shirt. Her boxers. So domestic, as if she was the wife seeing her lady off to her day at work.

"Just... have a good day."

The apartment was quiet with Quinn gone, too quiet except for the sound of Van's purring as he curled up on Rachel's lap for belly rubs. She wasn't sure what she ought to do at that point; Quinn wouldn't be due back for hours and so Rachel knew she needed to find some way to fill her time.

Normally she'd be organizing her cd collection into genres, alphabetically by artist. And then she'd be dissatisfied and reorganize them again before going off to work at the diner. Or Rachel would sit and talk with her mother, or they'd watch a movie on television.

Never a musical.

She flipped through a couple of Quinn's magazines but nothing held her interest for very long, so Rachel tossed them back down onto the table. She angered Van by displacing him long enough to make up her—Quinn's—bed, but he decided he loved her again once his empty bowl was filled. Rachel changed out of Quinn's boxers and shirt, folding it up neatly and laying it on Quinn's bed, then sat back on the couch again.

Her thoughts turned, once again, to her mother. Rachel knew what Quinn must think of her mother; Rachel didn't want to think of it herself. Clearly Shelby had been worried; she'd called five times to Quinn's cell phone before she'd shown up at her door. Each time Rachel had told her just to ignore the call. Rachel didn't want to think of her mother sitting up all night, wondering where she was and if she was safe, and she certainly didn't want to talk to her and have to answer all of the inevitable questions.

No, she didn't know when she was coming back.

If she was coming back.

Worse than not knowing when she was coming back, though, was the guilt. Always the guilt, indescribable and thick. Words familiar as the lyrics to a Broadway melody that kept playing over in her head.

How could you do this to me?

Don't you know I only want the best for you?

I'm trying to protect you, doesn't that count for something?

You know how much I love you, how much I need you.

"I'm tired of being sad just to keep you happy!"

Her cheek didn't burn anymore; it was the memory of it that hurt. A war was going on with Rachel, a war that seemed to be between her mother and Quinn. Her mother's reasons and Quinn's gentle consistency, that constant there... even after the connection had been broken. Because Rachel may have torn herself from Quinn as abruptly as possible, but little things had remained, things Rachel hadn't expected.

A gust of wind sliding a piece of green ribbon onto the sidewalk alongside her foot, as she walked to the diner. A song on her playlist, blasting through her ears when she least expected.

How to be brave... how can I love when I'm afraid to fall?

A scent, sweet and heady like rain in the springtime, captured in a shirt with two witches on the front.

And a heart.

A flash of blonde hair that would make her turn her head, a laugh that she could swear... but when she'd look that laugh would belong to a brunette or a redhead.

She'd tell herself that she was relieved, when it turned out not to be Quinn.

She'd tell herself she didn't need Quinn.

She'd tell herself she didn't think about Quinn.

And always, always, Rachel would think about her mother, and what it would do to her mother. If she sang. If she went to the theater. If she quit her job at the diner and started going on auditions.

If Quinn found her.

If she left.

Rachel glanced up at the clock. It had only been two hours. She rolled her eyes. If she was going to stay with Quinn, even if it was just for a week, she needed to find something to do.

"Do I start twiddling my thumbs?" she joked to Van, who had meandered back over to her and was now padding at her lap.

That's when the doorknob turned, as far as the lock would allow.

Rachel furrowed her brow and checked her watch. She didn't know when Quinn's classes would end, but Quinn had said "see you later," and Rachel was sure later didn't mean two hours after she'd left.

Still, "Quinn?" she called, tentatively.

The doorknob rattled.

Was it her mother? Rachel thought, feeling the unease rise within her. Had she come back to, what, kidnap Rachel and take her somewhere far away from New York, away from the diner, away from Quinn?

You're being ridiculous, Rachel told herself, but began to panic as she heard the sound of something scraping at the lock and a loud, harsh knock.

She looked around frantically, cursing the fact that she had left her mace behind when she'd walked to Quinn's. She'd heard stories like this, of people's homes that had been broken into, and, well, it was New York. Rachel always supposed she'd die from being mugged or in some tragic yet beautiful way that would end up in the papers, but she'd never imagined death by breaking and entering.

The rattling and scraping at the doorknob was louder, punctuated by a few more loud bangs against the wood.

Quinn had left one of her books behind, Rachel saw; she reached out and grabbed at it, still looking around. Quinn's pillow was on the other end of the couch, half hanging out of its case. Rachel dove for it, slipping the book inside and testing its weight.

The doorknob started to turn, slowly.

Rachel jumped up, casting a glance at Van. "Take care of your mom for me," she said grimly.

She'd go, but not without a fight.

She crept just to the side of the door, that was now opening wider.

"Hey, Quinn, you here? I came to get my vide-OOOF!"

The book in its pillowcase, swung with all Rachel's might, had met its mark, square in his stomach.

"Who are you?" Rachel demanded of the blond figure that was now hunched at her feet, clutching at his stomach and wheezing.

"What the hell - who are you?"

"I am Rachel Barbra Berry, and I assure you that if you are here to rob me, you'll receive nothing but another smack upside your head!" She shook the pillowcase for emphasis.

"Rob y- I came to get my video game, not rob you! Ow, that hurt, what the hell..."

Rachel looked down at him doubtfully. He didn't necessarily look like a robber. There was no mask, just a thick shock of blonde hair atop a figure clad in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, with a mouth much larger than necessary. He looked familiar, but Rachel couldn't place him.

"You're not here to rob Quinn?"

"I'm her neighbor! I have a key!"

Rachel looked at the doorknob. "Oh. So you do. Who are you?" she demanded again.

He stood up, still holding his stomach and nudging a hissing Van out of his way with his foot. "Sam."

"Sam?"

He pointed, feebly, towards the painting that had hung in the gallery. "Sam."

Oh.

"I am so sorry," Rachel said.

"Didn't recognize you either," was his answer. "But instant blinding pain will do that to a guy." He straightened up, taking a deep breath and wincing. "What the hell did you hit me with anyway? A brick?"

Rachel took it out of the pillowcase and looked at it. "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare."

"Close enough."

"I really am sorry."

Sam waved her off and collapsed onto the couch, staring up at her with a grin. "Rachel," he said. "The Rachel. Hey."

"Hi," she said awkwardly, putting down her weapons of self-defense and perching on the other end of the couch next to him. "No internal injuries?" she queried, still feeling the flush of shame on her cheeks.

"Nah, I'm fine, you just knocked the wind out of me," he said, still grinning.

"So you're a friend of Quinn's?"

"Mmhm, yep. Met here her first week of school. I know all about you," Sam sing-songed, and Rachel frowned.

"So you're one of her classmates?"

"I'm a stripper."

Rachel gaped at him and Sam shrugged. "It's a living."

She didn't know what to make of him, this Sam that she'd just assaulted, and now he was sitting on her - their - Quinn's couch acting as if he and Rachel had been old friends for years. But... she liked him, for some odd reason.

"You know all about me?"

"Not all," Sam hastened to say, looking suddenly guilty, as if he'd revealed a great secret. "But Quinn, she needs to talk sometimes, you know how it is."

"Yes." Oh, how she knew. She wondered how differently things might have turned out, if Rachel had had a Sam. Or a Jamie or an Elle.

Anyone.

Burt knew a little, only a little, and though he was kind and had fatherly advice he was still... Burt. Burt who had lost his "little girl" ten years earlier, Burt who said that it was never too late for second chances at love, Burt who never lost hope that his second chance was just around the corner. Who had told Rachel that giving up was the worst thing she could do, because she deserved a first, second, and third chance.

"So what do you talk about?"

"Yeah, I don't think Quinn would want me telling," Sam said. "But, you know, how stuff happened and how she tries to deal with stuff."

"Stuff meaning me."

"And me talking about stuff. Like work and home and Puck."

"Puck? Is that hockey?"

He laughed, and Rachel frowned again. It seemed as if someone in her life was always laughing at her. But then she told herself she was just being silly, nervous at being sat in Quinn's apartment on her first real day away from her mother. Not bad for your first day, she thought. You've had breakfast, made a bed, fed the cat, attacked a would-be intruder who turned out to be Quinn's best friend.

She sighed inwardly.

"Puck's Noah. Noah Puckerman, Puck. He's uh, my master. Or, well, he would be."

Rachel hadn't mistaken seeing Sam's eyes darken a little. "Would be?" she asked tentatively.

"We have some things we need to work out."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"You didn't, um..." She couldn't think of any other reason why a person wouldn't be with who they were meant to be with, unless... well, unless they'd done the same thing Rachel had.

Sam shook his head, and Rachel was surprised that he was looking at her with sympathy. "No, I didn't. Puck's just not ready. But you will be soon, won't you?" He tilted his head, listening.

For a split second, Rachel was jealous.

"So uh... You're at Quinn's."

Rachel nodded. "I'm just staying for a week, until things..." She hesitated. "Settle down."

"You okay?"

"No."

Sam studied her, then pursed his lips and nodded. "Bet you will be though. Quinn's pretty good at taking care of people. Especially people she loves."

"She shouldn't love me."

Sam shrugged at her. "Lots of us do things we shouldn't. But she does love you."

"I know," Rachel said.

"Do you love her?"

"So you came to get a video game?" Rachel stood up, moving to the kitchen and beginning to rifle through the cabinets. She had no idea what Quinn would like or want. All she knew was she didn't want to answer Sam's question.

"Yeah. Quinn borrows them and forgets to give them back all the time. I don't know, maybe she doesn't forget but she doesn't want to give them back."

"I didn't know she plays games." She was shaking, and Rachel held onto the counter for support.

"I didn't know she plays games. I don't know what she wants to eat when she comes home. I don't know what classes she has today or what's usually always on her grocery list. I don't even know if she alphabetizes her grocery list."

"Who alphabetizes their grocery list?"

"I do! By aisle!" Suddenly angry, Rachel pushed off from the counter, causing a cup to fall into the sink, clattering loudly. She sighed.

"I barely know anything about her," she said softly, embarrassed at having fallen apart in front of a man she'd only just met.

"Well sure you do," Sam said easily, not even looking at her strangely. He came to lean across the counter at Rachel, looking at her with no trace of judgment in his eyes.

"From what Quinn tells me you two were connected a long time."

"We're not anymore."

"Well yeah, that's pretty clear." He didn't sound mean, but Rachel winced anyway. "But like, you don't just forget stuff like that, do you?"

She looked away.

"And I mean, you're staying for a week, isn't that what you said?"

Rachel nodded. "After that, I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Week's not up yet, don't worry about that right now. Just... learn all you can this week. It might be fun."

"Fun?"

"Not as fun as a body roll!" He demonstrated, and Rachel couldn't help but laugh, even as she quirked an eyebrow.

"That looks pretty fun I suppose."

"Maybe I'll teach you sometime," Sam said with a grin. "But yeah listen, a week is a long time to have some good talks and to find out more. You about Quinn, Quinn about you. She really wants to know everything."

"What if I'm disappointing?"

"What makes you think you'd be disappointing?"

"Experience."

Sam shook his head. "Not to her you're not."

Rachel distracted herself by looking into the refrigerator as she mulled Sam's words over in her head. Spaghetti sauce, pizza sauce, not much else. Alphabetical grocery list or not, they needed to go shopping.

They.

What would it be like, to have someone for once proud of her?

"Pizza."

Rachel jumped and banged her head on the refrigerator with a yelp. She closed it and turned, glaring.

"Sorry," Sam said.

"Never mind, I suppose it's payback for earlier."

"You've got a pretty mean swing, have you ever tried out for baseball?"

Rachel laughed again, and Sam grinned.

"She likes pizza, and if you want some company while you get it all ready...?"

Rachel considered all this. She could get it ready early, and have some quiet time to herself while it baked. And Sam was still grinning at her, with absolutely no expectation.

"What's the video game you came to get?" she asked by way of answer, reaching for a towel so she could clean the few remaining dishes in the sink.

"Home Invasion II: Rachel Berry Attacks."

Sam barely managed to dodge the plastic cup thrown at him.