Author's Note: Set after Make It Harder To Be Near You and before A Feline Casanova. Somewhat expanded from the semi-drabble first posted on Tumblr.

Dreaming While I Drove

I was dreaming while I drove
the long straight road ahead.
Could taste your sweet kisses,
your arms open wide.
This fever for you is just
burning me up inside.
~I Drove All Night, Cyndi Lauper

"I miss you so much."

The five simple words, uttered so dejectedly with glistening, brown eyes staring dolefully back at her through the webcam, instantly have Quinn's throat tightening and a familiar heaviness weighing on her heart. Her own eyes sting in commiseration as she forces out a choked, "I miss you too," and manages to smile sadly at the screen. "But it won't be for much longer," she reminds Rachel hopefully.

Rachel doesn't look impressed. "I hate this," she grumbles, glancing away from the camera. "I just want to be home…with you," she whines.

Quinn swallows down the lump in her throat—she wants that too. Their apartment is too quiet without Rachel in it. She'd been spoiled by months of (mostly) blissful cohabitation, of sharing meals and sharing showers, of cuddling on the sofa and talking about their days, of falling asleep tangled up in one another and waking up the same way. Sleeping alone again sucks.

They'd argued for a week about Rachel taking this job—a six month contract as Eponine with the touring company of Les Miserables. Rachel had been adamantly against leaving New York, despite her steady spiral into panic and depression after four months of booking nothing but a few voiceovers and jingles for local radio ads and singing eighties cover songs at someone's Bar Mitzvah, but Quinn had pleaded with her not to pass up a role that she'd always wanted just because it would require a little bit of travel and a temporary long-distance relationship. Rachel had eventually given in—she really couldn't bring herself to refuse the role. It was hard, but they were surviving the distance, and they've managed to see one another in person a few times when the show had been circling the Northeast. Quinn had seen Boston, Philadelphia, and Pittsburgh (or parts of them from the airport to the hotel window) in just under a month, but her finances really couldn't sustain the life of a groupie long term, so they mostly made due with Skype dates. The long weeks that Rachel had spent on the west coast had been the worst, especially with the time difference.

Quinn can see how exhausted Rachel is, and she wants nothing more than to be there, holding her until the dark circles under her eyes disappear. "This is only temporary," she promises, pressing the tips of her fingers to the edge of the screen as if it will somehow make her closer to Rachel—able to magically touch her. She has every confidence that Rachel will come home to her in a few months and get another role in a Broadway-based production. She's too talented and too dedicated for any other outcome.

A soft buzz hums through the speakers of Quinn's laptop, and she watches her girlfriend glance down at her phone before she looks back up to the camera with a frown. "I have to go," she tells Quinn sadly.

Quinn nods in understanding. Rachel has an eight o'clock performance at the Fisher Theatre in Detroit—one of eighteen over a two week period—and she's still in her hotel room. The hotel that the company is staying at is only a three minute walk, but there's wardrobe and makeup to contend with, and even though it's not quite seven yet, Quinn knows that Rachel really needs to get going. "Break a leg," she offers. "You know, later on stage. Not while you're walking to the theatre."

Rachel chuckles a little. "I'll do my best. Although, I would be able to come home sooner," she pouts.

Quinn knows Rachel doesn't really mean that—she would never renege on a contract. "Do you want me to call you later?" Quinn asks. Rachel actually managed to wrangle her own room this time, so Quinn won't have to worry about any late night conversations (or other things) disturbing her roommate.

Rachel sighs raggedly. "As much I would love that, I'm kind of exhausted. I think I should try to get a decent night of sleep."

"Take care of yourself, sweetie," Quinn urges with a worried frown. "I love you."

"I love you too, baby," Rachel breathes with a tired smile. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Quinn echoes before Rachel disconnects and her screen goes black.

She closes her laptop—she's in no mood to write anything tonight—and decides to distract herself with a few repetitive household chores, turning on the radio as she begins to clean up the kitchen. The weekends are the worst for missing Rachel. At least during the week, Quinn has her job to distract her, and the long hours at work help keep her from thinking too much about her empty apartment. It feels even emptier tonight.

There isn't much to clean since she's only cooking for herself now, but she'd let the skillet sit too long while she'd talked to Rachel and it needs a little extra scrubbing now. Her movements gradually still when an old Cyndi Lauper song floats into her ears—she likes this version much better than the Celine Dion one that Rachel has in her library—and the lyrics paint images in her mind of driving to Rachel, creeping into her hotel room, and curling her body around her girlfriend.

She could do it.

Detroit isn't exactly in her backyard, but it's not on the other side of the world either.

Quinn drops the skillet into the sink and grabs a towel to dry her hands as she races back to her laptop. She pulls up Google maps and calculates the distance. Over six hundred miles and almost ten hours of travel time make her stomach sink for a moment, and she starts looking up flights instead, but there's only one that could possibly work, and aside from being ridiculously expensive, she doesn't think she could actually make it to the airport in time. But she knows the nearby Budget Rent-A-Car is open until eleven, and it's only a few blocks away.

There are a dozen reasons why she should close her laptop and laugh off her insane idea and only one reason not to, but that one is more than enough. Her heart is screaming so much louder than her head, so she looks up the number of the rental agency and calls them while she's rummaging in her closet for a small suitcase. Luckily, they have a Hyundai Elantra with a full tank of gas available that's a little cheaper than the plane tickets would have been, so Quinn tosses a handful of clothes into her bag, not particularly caring if they match, and grabs her necessary toiletries.

It takes her thirty minutes to get to the lot, sign the papers, and get behind the wheel of the car. She programs the address of the Hotel St. Regis into her navigation and presses her foot down on the accelerator. The hardest part is getting out of the city. After that, it's mostly interstate driving, and she's familiar enough with the first half of the journey across Pennsylvania and into Ohio. Even though she flies back to Lima—well, technically Columbus—more often that she drives, she'd made the trip by car twice after she'd moved to New York in order to transport the last of her important belongings from her mother's house to her new home in the city.

Still, it's a long, boring drive, especially through Pennsylvania, and she's somewhere in the middle of the state when her eyes begin to get heavy, so she turns up the radio and cracks open the window, despite the fact that it's late October and the temperature has taken a turn for colder. The sharp bite of the night air helps to keep her awake, as does the ever-growing anticipation of holding Rachel in her arms again.

The gas gauge begins to dip into the critical zone at around one-thirty, so she finally stops for a few minutes at an exit north of State College, and her legs and back file a joint protest with her brain when she tries to get out of the car. She's stiff and sore and seriously doubting her sanity, but she's halfway there by now, so there's really no turning back. After working out the kinks in her body and making a quick trip into the restroom, she fills her tank and gets back in the car, and in a few more hours, she's crossing into Ohio and mentally counting down the miles until she's in Michigan.

And really, she'll never understand her ex's fixation on that state, but those are musings for another time when her brain is functioning on more than hazy thoughts of Rachel.

She tops off her gas tank again in Toledo and leaves Ohio in her rearview mirror around five in the morning, pressing her foot down a little harder on the accelerator to make those last sixty miles disappear even faster. She gets lost one time when she makes a wrong turn after getting off I-75—fucking unreliable GPS—and ends up driving around downtown Detroit for twenty minutes before she finally finds the hotel, and it's almost six-thirty when she puts the car into park.

Quinn knows that she probably looks like death warmed over after being awake for twenty-four hours and driving all night, but she doesn't care. She can feel the adrenaline pumping through her body as she walks into the hotel because she knows that she's finally in the same building as Rachel, and it's been far too long since they've seen each other in person.

She smiles at the woman at the front desk and turns on all her charm as she attempts to talk her way into Rachel's room, but the woman isn't having it, insisting, "It's against hotel policy to release information on any guests."

"Look, I live with Rachel," Quinn growls. "I guarantee you that she'll want to see me."

The woman—Yvonne—is completely unmoved, calmly staring her down. "It's against the hotel's policy, ma'am," she repeats curtly. "If you're a friend of Ms. Berry, then I'm sure you have a way of contacting her yourself, and if she wants to see you, she'll come down to the lobby. Otherwise, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

As much as Quinn would love to fly across the countertop and throttle the woman, she doesn't want to end up getting kicked out of the hotel after she'd traveled all night to get here, so she retreats to the lounge with a scowl, out of Yvonne's line of sight. She collapses into one of the chairs and tips her head back, closing her eyes for a moment before she reluctantly calls Rachel's cellphone. So much for stealthily creeping into her room and waking her up with a kiss.

A gruff and groggy, "'Lo," finally scratches over the line with an adorable lack of awareness, and Quinn feels simultaneously giddy at the sound of her voice and guilty for waking her up.

"Good morning, sweetheart."

"Quinn," Rachel breathes in happy confusion, and then, "Quinn?" with sudden alertness. "Why are you calling so early? What happened? Is something wrong?"

Quinn chuckles. "Nothing's wrong, Rach," she reassures her. She's about to tell Rachel that she's downstairs, but then she realizes that there's still a way to salvage at least a small part of her surprise, so she only says, "I just really miss waking up with you and wanted to hear your voice this morning."

"You could have heard my voice two hours from now," Rachel grumbles mildly.

Quinn smiles to herself, thinking about all those early mornings when Rachel had been up before the sun and working out—or tempting Quinn into a different kind of work out. But she also knows that Rachel just doesn't sleep as well without Quinn beside her these days. It's the same for Quinn.

"But you'd probably be up by then, and I want to imagine you in bed, with your hair all curly and spread out over the pillow and your body tangled up in the sheets…your pajama top riding up over your naked stomach and twisted under your breasts."

Quinn hears a muffled whimper hidden in Rachel's slow exhalation. "Is this one of those calls?" she asks breathlessly.

"Are you in bed?" Quinn prompts.

"Yes."

"Your flannel pajamas or the Yale t-shirt that you stole from me?"

There's a pause, and Quinn can almost hear the smile in Rachel's voice when she answers, "The t-shirt."

"How big is the bed?" Quinn wonders as she cradles the phone to her ear and casually traces her fingers over the fabric on her chair.

"It's a queen. Plenty of room for you, baby."

Quinn grins wickedly. She plans to be there in a matter of minutes. "What's your room number?"

There's another pause. "That's hardly a sexy question, Quinn," Rachel censures.

"I want to create the perfect setting in my mind so I can be there with you. The room you're in, the floor you're on, the view, the décor," Quinn explains huskily. "Bring me there with you," she urges, standing up from her chair and peering over to the front desk to see that Yvonne is distracted with another guest.

Rachel sighs raggedly. "I'm on the fourth floor. Room 437. There's a view of the parking lot," Rachel mutters irksomely, but Quinn is already sprinting to the elevator and pressing the call button. "You'd like the room though," Rachel continues unknowingly. "It's clean and modern and not too flowery. There's a desk by the window with the terrible view that's the perfect height for…things," she reveals suggestively as Quinn slips inside the elevator and punches the button for the fourth floor.

"Things like writing," Quinn teases while the elevator slowly takes her up.

Rachel huffs. "You are terribly out of practice at your phone sex."

Quinn laughs in delight, shaking her head. "So let's get back to the bed. Is it soft? Are the sheets smooth against your skin?"

"So soft and smooth, Quinn," Rachel murmurs. "But so cold without you here."

"I can keep you warm," Quinn promises, silently rejoicing when the elevator doors finally slide open, and she races down the hallway in search of Rachel's room. "I can't wait to crawl into that bed with you…slip my hands under your t-shirt and tangle our legs together. I'll press you down into that soft mattress and kiss you until you can't remember a time when we've ever been apart."

"Quinn," Rachel whimpers.

Room 437 comes into view, complete with a Privacy Please sign hanging on the doorknob, but Quinn ignores that and raises her hand to knock sharply against the door.

"Son of a," Rachel growls. "Why is everyone up so damn early today?"

"Sorry, sweetie," Quinn apologizes. "Do you need to get that?"

"No," Rachel quickly tells her. "Just keep talking to me, so I can pretend you're here too."

Quinn smiles, knocking again—more insistently this time—before she says, "Maybe you should see who it is first? It could be important."

Rachel grunts, and Quinn can hear the swish of fabric over the phone and an irritated, "Fine," and then there's a rattle from the other side of the door. "Just give me a second while I get rid of this," the door is jerked open to reveal a sleep-tousled, scowling Rachel with her hair sticking up in every direction and wearing nothing more than Quinn's favorite Yale t-shirt. "Idiot," Rachel squeaks as her phone slips out of her hand, and she stares at Quinn in shock.

"Morning, Rach," Quinn says again as she disconnects the call and tucks her own phone into the pocket of her jacket.

Rachel closes her eyes, shaking her head slightly as if she thinks she's dreaming before she opens them again. "Oh, my God!" she squeals, flinging herself at Quinn and pulling her into a breath-stealing kiss.

Quinn wraps her arms around Rachel's waist and melts into her, urging her back into the room as she deepens the kiss. God, she's really missed this—missed Rachel—so much. The door falls closed behind them with a bang, and Rachel wastes no time pressing Quinn back against it. "I can't believe you're really here," she mumbles between kisses.

"I had to see you," Quinn confesses, cupping her hands to the curve of Rachel's ass and dragging her closer.

Rachel lifts her head and gazes up at Quinn with sparking eyes and an adoring smile. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"It was a last minute decision," Quinn admits with a grin. "I rented a car and drove through the night."

Rachel's smile slips. "You drove six hundred miles by yourself with no sleep? Are you crazy?"

Probably.

Definitely.

"Crazy about you."

Rachel stares at her for a moment before she laughs and hugs Quinn close. "I am so completely in love with you, Quinn Fabray."

Quinn will never get tired of hearing that. "I love you too, Rachel. Now," she drawls with a devilish smirk, "I believe we were getting back to that bed."

Rachel hums in pleasure, pressing a kiss to Quinn's jaw. "You did promise to keep me warm."

Quinn slips one hand down between Rachel's legs, curling her fingers into the dampness there until she makes Rachel moan. "You feel pretty hot to me," she purrs.

Rachel's blunt nails drag against Quinn's hips as she presses forward, grinding into Quinn's hand. "This is so much better than phone sex," she gasps before pulling Quinn back into a sloppy kiss.

Quinn couldn't agree more, and with renewed energy, she guides Rachel to the bed, determined to make every single fantasy that she'd had during her long drive come true. And together—they turn all of those fantasies into memories that will last a lifetime.

Quinn is so very glad that she drove all night.