Thank you for reading and reviewing. This chapter is mainly Quinn orientated. Please note that I know nothing about Yale and New Haven, so things will probably seem vague. :)

The journey from Santana's place to Quinn's room takes about two and a half hours, door to door.

Quinn makes it so often that she's made a playlist of songs, which is timed almost to perfection. She judges whether she's had a particularly good run on the basis of whether she has one song left, or two.

The final stretch usually involves her getting off the bus a stop early, if the weather is good, and lugging her rucksack the extra ten minutes, just to remind herself of what normal places look like, places that aren't New York. Quinn does so today, burying herself extra deep in her scarf to ward off the biting cold that comes with February sunshine.

New Haven is exactly the same. This serves to remind Quinn that she is exactly the same.

On impulse, she detours into a café, and raises a hand in greeting, before sliding into a booth.

She never really completed her reading for this coming week, and if Ashleigh, her room-mate, is in, she'll have no real chance because they'll just end up swapping weekend stories.

Her course notes are only in the vaguest semblance of an order, and it takes her a moment to find the extract she'd been churning her way through. Quinn frowns at it slightly when it does emerge, partly because it is a great deal more crumpled than she remembers, but mainly because she loathes contextual analysis in Victorian literature.

She's got a half formed idea in her head of staying on, doing post-grad study. Her tutor took her to one side about a month ago and said that her grades so far would mean that she'd be considered very favorably, if she applied for a grant. Quinn hasn't really decided yet, she doesn't want to stay if she's only using it as a method of pressing pause on the rest of her life, staying in her bubble for another year or so.

But if she does complete extra studies, it certainly will not be in the field of Victorian literature.

Sighing, Quinn takes a sip of the coffee that is placed next to her, and raises her eyebrows in thanks to her server. Then the cap of the highlighter comes off, and she attempts to bury herself in other people's ideas.

…

Ashleigh has decided to welcome Quinn home by spring cleaning their living space.

'Umm, Ash…?

Quinn cleans regularly; her room thoroughly, and she at least waves a duster at Ashleigh's discarded stuff, because it's easier to keep the place fresh if half of it isn't covered in a layer of dust.

Ashleigh cleans like it is special occasion. An annual special occasion. She has an outfit for the process.

Ashleigh is underneath one of the sofas, vacuuming what might be the underside of it, Quinn can never be sure. Quinn waits a second, and then unplugs the vacuum at the wall.

'What the fuck?'

Quinn pokes at Ashleigh's ankle with her toe.

'Hey Ashleigh. Can I help?'

Ashleigh squirms her way out, and Quinn can't help but wrinkle her nose a bit, at the sheer number of dust motes Ashleigh has got stuck to her. Ashleigh looks down at herself for a second, and then shrugs.

'Vacuum me? Hello. Did you have a good time? Minestrone girl well?'

Ashleigh keeps a million nicknames for Quinn's high school friends. Lately, minestrone girl has stuck for Rachel, because Quinn couldn't help but pass on how crazy Rachel's little outburst had been over the phantom soup. Quinn nods, and makes her way to her room to set her backpack down when…

'Yeah, they're all… Ashleigh, why is all of your desk stuff on my bed?'

Ashleigh jumps, and leans past her to pick up the mouse mat, as if that is the main cause of Quinn's distress.

'Aah, I needed a place to put them. Doing a deep clean on my room. And my bed had my laundry on it, and the floor had my course notes on it, and I didn't want to put anything out here because you know what some of the others are like. Sorry.'

Quinn's lived close by Ashleigh for nearly three years now, and shared a dorm space for this past year, with a couple of other students they don't know as well. Normally, she's a very good person to live with. Today is clearly not to be a normal day. Quinn dumps her bag on the floor, and turns to Ash, smiling once and saying 'Spring clean day, huh?'

Ashleigh smiles sheepishly. 'Yeah, sorry. I thought I'd have longer before you were back, did you get an early train or something? You usually spend every last second in New York.'

Quinn shrugs, waving away the apology. 'Wanted to get back, I guess. I'm going to fix some lunch, how long do you need to finish?'

Ashleigh surveys the damage, and bites her lip, grinning cheekily. 'Maybe…an hour? Have you got something to do? Apart from make me an excellent lunch?'

Quinn enjoys cooking. Ashleigh enjoys eating food that doesn't give her food poisoning, and is happy to contribute more than her fair share towards the shopping budget. There are worse arrangements. Quinn shrugs.

'Yeah, I'll be fine. Try not to have too much fun.'

…

She ends up just throwing together a pasta bake, and sits at the kitchen table, waiting for time to pass.

It's quiet. Quinn's kitchen serves eight people, but most of them tend to go travelling, or home, over the longer weekends. Quinn and Ashleigh appear to have the place to themselves.

She tries reading for a bit, but ends up staring at her phone, scrolling through photos.

She wants to message Rachel.

In fact she's feeling pretty overwhelmed with… temptation? Does this even count as temptation? She just wants to say hello, you see. Just to test the waters, really. Maintain this hard won normality. God knows it was hard enough when Rachel was leaving, when Quinn had her first moment alone with her, to try and figure out the correct things to say to fix things. Particularly after that god awful film Santana made them watch half of, which seemed to be primarily about cheating.

So now messaging Rachel feels like a hard won privilege.

But she can hardly just message her to say hi. That sort of thing doesn't happen.

In the end, Quinn carefully composes a text, which seems to be an extremely difficult challenge, these days. And then Ashleigh clatters into the kitchen, Quinn's distracted enough to just press send.

…

Rachel's in a class.

It's one of the few classes that isn't just practical skills. She has to watch other performances, and critique. Her turn was a couple of weeks ago. She's never been very good at just watching others.

She's close to the back, and there are at least twenty other people in here, so when she feels her phone vibrate she can get her bag on her lap and disguise the fact that she's looking at her phone easily enough.

I'm heating soup for lunch. Any last minute advice?

Rachel blinks at the phone for a couple of moments, and then has to fight down a bubble of laugher that threatens to emerge. She can't help the smile though, and hopefully nobody on stage is looking at her face, because this is supposed to be a tragedy.

What is this though?

After a second, Rachel thumbs back,

Trust your instincts. And stand well back.

…

Quinn snorts when she reads it, and then just grins at her phone like a lunatic. Ashleigh puts a plate down in front of her, and nods at the phone.

'What's that?'

'Oh…' Quinn launches into an explanation, which doesn't seem to make sense to Ashleigh, who waves her fork at her plate after a second.

'But… you weren't making soup?'

Dammit. Quinn puts a forkful of food in her mouth to avoid further questions, and shrugs, toying with her cell with her free hand. Ashleigh stares at her for a second longer, and then rolls her eyes.

'Okay…anyway, I'm going to the library in a while, I've got seventeen hours to finish an essay. I'll stop at the shop on the way back, do you need anything?'

Quinn nearly invites herself along, but doesn't really want to sit in the library for no good reason. She's done her reading. Maybe she'll go to the gym. She swallows and says 'No, I think we're good. We'll catch up tonight, yeah?'

Ashleigh nods, and takes a swig of water.

'Sure thing, I need to hear all about the Brittany party, you know I need updates on your people.'

…

At the end of the seminar, while she's at the subway station, Rachel checks her phone again.

Survived. Thanks

Rachel doesn't know why this makes her ridiculously happy. It just does.

…

Kurt meets with Brody for lunch.

Kurt's building is ten minutes walk from the place Brody had suggested, but Kurt is still frozen solid by the time he arrives, having failed to anticipate an extended outdoors excursion today, and so only having a light jacket with him.

He'd borrowed a scarf from a co-worker, however, and is feeling like a very debonair Popsicle right now, so it isn't a complete disaster.

Brody's already there, and raises a hand in greeting. Kurt slides into the booth opposite him, and looks down at the food already in front of him. Brody grins.

'I took the liberty of ordering for you, I hope you don't mind. It's just I don't get a very long lunch break, and you usually get a toasted bagel whenever you're out so…'

Kurt nods happily, and peels off his gloves, taking a bite the second his hands are released.

'So, Brody? What can I do for you? Unless this is your attempt to woo me, in which case I expect far more than a bagel on a first date.'

Brody just laughs, and wags a finger at him. He says 'Please Kurt, you're way out of my league. I wouldn't even think I had a chance.'

Kurt laughs at him, and takes a drink of water.

'It's going well then? All the singing and dancing.'

Brody looks down at his plate for a second, but Kurt can tell it's to hide a smile, and he grins in response.

'Yeah, going good. Not been fired yet.'

God, he likes this boy. Seriously, Kurt's so glad Rachel got over whatever little moment she was having, because he'd miss Brody a lot, he realizes, if him and Rachel ever broke up. Kurt claps his hands together in response to Brody's self-deprecation, and then leans forward, a co-conspirator.

'Well then, what's going on? Because the last time you and I had secret meetings, it was for Rachel's twenty first planning.'

Brody had taken Rachel to Paris. Kurt had nearly died with envy.

Looking over his shoulder, Brody lowers his voice, as if they're in some kind of farce.

'Have you guys discussed possible living arrangements for after the summer?'

…

Kurt can hardly concentrate, for the entire afternoon.

He's been sworn to secrecy, naturally. The type that includes not telling Santana, and Kurt can understand why.

He's… processing, he supposes. Because this involves him just as much as it involves Rachel, and Kurt doesn't know what he thinks, yet.

He likes living with Rachel. He's not sure about the concept of changing things.

Brody suggested that next year he finds a place closer into the city centre, a place that he and Rachel could live, and Kurt, if he wanted. And Brody's endlessly generous parents have apparently already said that they are more than happy to help out with the rent, for the first six months.

Kurt knows that Brody just being his usual helpful self, by suggesting Kurt comes along too, because that cannot be the ideal scenario in his head.

He wants to just live with Rachel. And Kurt would be a reasonable extra factor to live with.

And Kurt doesn't want to be the third wheel. But equally isn't sure how he feels about suddenly having to find a new home.

He could always throw himself on the mercy of Santana, but from what he's seen of Santana's place those ladies live like feral cats. He doesn't know where Santana's found those girls, but they all seem to wander around half naked and are probably all sleeping together. Kurt's not sure he'd mesh well.

He could ask around. He knows enough people, with his job. Someone clean who is up to date with their rent and jabs is bound to have a spare room.

Poking away at the problem, like he's worry at a cut in his mouth, he decides that it isn't the inconvenience. It's that he'd miss living with Rachel. He doesn't like the idea of not living with her.

Pressing at both him temples, he re-attempts to focus on his inbox.

Clearly, he just needs a little processing time. And if he needs time, god knows what Rachel will need, judging from her current form. No wonder Brody mentioned it early.

…

Quinn does head to the gym, in the end, and spends an hour alternating between the running machine and the rowing machine in ten minute blocks.

She's nowhere near as fit as she used to be, when she was under Coach Sylvester's reign of terror, but she can at least ensure that she doesn't balloon like her mom had warned against, in the final few moments before Quinn had left for Yale, that first time.

She feels warm, good, afterwards, and walking back only helps to clear her head further, until the focus of last week seems a long time ago, a whole different life.

Quinn nearly texts Rachel again, when she gets back to her room, but for what purpose? Why can't she just trust her normal impulse to leave things well alone?

She toys with messaging Santana, but can't figure out what her reasoning would be. Besides, her and Santana don't communicate until they're in front of each other.

Quinn doesn't need to contact New York at all. She has people here.

Half five in the afternoon. Ashleigh probably won't be back for a while.

Sighing, Quinn turns on her Macbook, and lets it warm up as she shifts into the shared living space. As part of Ashleigh's lap of cleaning honor, she's pinned a post of some photogenic male on the shared notice board. Quinn looks away after a second.

She's got a new email from Brittany. She immediately feels unsettled, somehow. Her and Brittany don't email.

Hi Quinn!

So yeah, if you reading this that you have totally arrived back in Yale, unless you are still at Santana's, and stealing the wireless from the flat above, which is kind of unethical, I guess, but you aren't looking at porn, so Jesus will forgive you.

Lord Tubbington says hi.

Actually, he totally doesn't, he's at home with mom, that's just what I say when I am not sure what to say.

Santana thinks you need to go sleep with someone. I think she means fall in love. But Santana does that by sleeping with people, I guess, so she means well. Like, I know there was that man in first year, Steve? Or was it Sven? It was probably Steve. But I don't think you really liked him very much, but he did look like a nice boy. I don't know if you slept with him. You may have done. I asked him once, when you'd gone to get a drink, but he was super cryptic, and totally respected your privacy, so you don't have to go murder him, which must be a relief.

Anyway, sometimes falling for people is good, you know. It makes your heart feel like it is twice the size, like all the stuff you are doing in your life has a point. I can totally understand the temptation to fall in love with people and kiss them, it is super intense, the falling in love bit. You feel like you are flying.

But, like, falling for people can be completely full of ouch, too. Like, for example, if you are thinking about falling in love with someone who is, I dunno, in a steady relationship with someone else, and was probably just kissing you because they were drunk, then I'd stay away from that one.

So, I saw you kissing Rachel. It's fine, no-one else did, and I closed the blind on the kitchen window to hide you guys. But I'm pretty sure Rachel is just trying you out, because she's not certain about Brody at the moment and she's always secretly wanted to kiss you. So even if it was the best kiss of your life, don't try it again. Unless you are already in love with her. And in that case I say godspeed. Because love is fun, and worth the risk. And you and Rachel would be totally hot together. Just sayin'.

Yours sincerely,

Brittany

Oh, fuck.

Quinn checks their door is locked, in case she needs half a second extra, and then calls Brittany.

'Hey Quinn!'

Quinn breathes through her nose for a second, because she's not angry at Brittany, she's just angry that she'd been lulled into thinking this was settled.

'Brittany. Hi. I got your email.'

'Oh.' Brittany's quiet for a long second, and then says 'What is your face doing right now? Can you look at a mirror and describe it please? Are you angry?'

Quinn frowns, and then checks herself.

'I'm fine. But Brittany, seriously, I'm not falling for, or in love with Rachel. It was just a… thing, that happened because we were drunk. We've talked about it. It's fine. Please don't mention it to anyone else.'

There's a long pause, and Quinn can think she can hear Brittany's fingers drumming on a hard surface.

'Are you sure you aren't in love, or falling or whatever? It is always best to be self-aware about these things. Like, it looked a really happy kiss. I kind of wanted to keep watching, but felt a bit creepy.'

Quinn closes her eyes, but that doesn't seem to help. 'It was nothing. I'm nothing but Rachel's friend. If it looked happy, it's because… it's because Rachel and I get on well generally. It was just a friendly kiss.'

The fact that Brittany's approaching this as some kind of private detective is not helping Quinn remain calm.

'Was it a friendly kiss with tongues, Quinn?'

She nearly ends the call.

'No!' she hisses, scandalized. 'Jesus, Brittany, can you… can we not talk about this? I'm fine, Rachel's fine. If you mention this to Santana I will throttle you, okay? I don't care how innocent and lovely you are, I will murder you.'

Brittany tuts at her, and Quinn bites her lip to avoid saying more.

'Oh, sure, Quinn, you're fine, I can tell the way you are being all calm and reasonable about this, huh? That is sarcasm by the way. But whatever, I won't mention it again, to anyone, ever. Unless you get married, in which case I'm claiming the right to having known first, okay?'

It's only the fact that Quinn is three stories up which prevents her from just throwing her phone out of the window.

'Brittany, you are way out of line, right now.'

Brittany just sighs at her. 'Okay, seriously, I won't mention it to you again. But just… know that I'm here, okay. If stuff isn't fine? Bye.'

Quinn drops her phone on the coffee table from such a height that it clatters, and slams her MacBook closed for good measure.

Seriously. Fuck.

…

After half an hour, she's calmed down a bit, because she can rely on Brittany to keep a secret, these days. And it's hardly as if she, Brittany, and Rachel are ever in a room together that often. Maybe if it's left long enough, Brittany will get bored of the concept.

She ends opening her inbox again, intent on deleting Brittany's email. Instead a sentence jumps out at her.

…she's always secretly wanted to kiss you…

Quinn stares at it for a second too long, and then presses delete.

She's fine.

She checks her phone, suddenly anxious for company. There's a new message from Ashleigh, claiming a raincheck because her on and off boyfriend seems to have decided to stop being a twat, and they're going to dinner. Quinn knows that means Ashleigh isn't coming back tonight.

Goddammit.

It's half six.

Maybe she'll sleep. She's tired.

…

It's completely black outside, when Quinn wakes suddenly. She gets up to close the curtains, and tries to resettle.

Checking her phone, it says that she has no messages. This does not help to distract her from why she awoke so abruptly.

She'd been dreaming of Rachel.

And not dreaming of Rachel in the way that she sometime does, when she flashes back to McKinley, and Rachel always seems to be singing something in the background as Quinn argues with someone, sometimes Puck, or Finn, or Santana, or Mr Schue.

This time she'd been dreaming of kissing Rachel. But they hadn't been on a wall, but rather on one of the crash mats Coach Sylvester used to make a younger Quinn get dropped onto, from a height, to check that the parachute landing training had succeeded in teaching her to fall without hurting herself.

They'd been sitting on a crash mat, with the party playing in the background, until Rachel had put a hand behind Quinn's neck, and pulled Quinn down on top of her.

Which had apparently felt so good that Quinn had woken up.

This is because of Brittany. Maybe Quinn will murder her anyway.

Quinn lies back, and tries to think of anyone but Rachel.

It really doesn't work.

Quinn tries to remember the last person she'd kissed before Rachel, but that had just been some dark-haired boy at some party Ashleigh had dragged her along to. He'd tasted of beer. It had all been deeply unsatisfactory.

Rachel had tasted of…

Quinn shuts her eyes hard, but it doesn't help, because she can remember now. Rachel must have been wearing some kind of gloss, because the taste of lips don't usually create such a vivid memory.

In a desperate attempt, she tries to remember her make out sessions with Finn, how deeply unsexy the entire thing had been, how she'd always been vaguely grossed out by the bulge in his jeans.

But that doesn't help, because that just bring the entire thing back around to Rachel, of Rachel being kissed, of how Santana had drunkenly told her that Rachel sounded amazing in bed, from what Kurt had said, of how Brody got to actually sleep with her.

Shit.

She's turned on.

This doesn't happen to her. She is Quinn Fabray, this is her body, she is in charge. Not the other way around. She decides whether she's turned on or not.

She's really turned on.

Particularly when she thinks about what might have happened next in the dream, if she hadn't woken up.

She'd have fucked Rachel.

Because there's no need for rationality, in a dream.

Quinn knows, somehow, that Rachel would have pressed up into her until Quinn had pressed a thigh, or a hand, down into her. And Rachel would have moaned.

Fuck's sake. Rachel's her friend. Quinn's subconscious clearly thinks Rachel's some kind of porn star.

This line of thought really isn't helping with the whole, really turned on, situation.

Something, at that point, changes gear, and Quinn decides that, clearly, getting past this is the only way to get through this. With that in mind she slides her hand down, until it is right there.

She's wet. Wetter than she can remember in a long time, and fuck, for how long had she been dreaming of Rachel?

Quinn isn't going mess around. This is supposed to be clinical, like taking a headache tablet. This is not a fantasy.

Moving fingers quickly, Quinn's hips are arching up off the bed, her eyes screwed shut as she tries to think of the quickest mental avenue to get herself off.

Rachel, on her back.

Looking up at her.

Without her top on.

Moaning at whatever Quinn's hand is doing to her, beneath her panties.

Directing Quinn's head so Quinn has no choice but to tongue over her breasts.

And then wrapping her legs up behind Quinn's back, pulling her further down into her.

Kissing her.

…she's always secretly wanted to kiss you…

Fuck. Quinn has to clench her jaw to stop herself making a sound, but that doesn't prevent the whine, when she comes, hard.

Two minutes later, Quinn's got her hand resting over her eyes, shutting out the world.

This is going to be a problem.