Author's Note: Set after Dust On Every Page and before Every Hour Has Come To This.

Hungry For the Meeting

Hungry for the meeting,
the dinner we'll be eating,
wine that we'll be drinking,
and kinky thoughts I'm thinking.
~Happy Meal, The Cardigans

The recipe seems easy enough—penne pasta with herbs, tomatoes, and peas. Rachel thinks that she can manage it without incident. She's finally gotten the hang of cooking the pasta to the desired consistency after several frustrating attempts that had her either turning the entire pot into a big pile of mush or forcing her girlfriend to swear that she preferred her noodles extremely al dente in between every crunchy bite. She just needs to make certain that she keeps checking them diligently instead of allowing her attention wander to the countless other distractions that usually precede all of her major kitchen disasters.

She's made sure that there are no distractions.

Oliver is napping in the guest bedroom.

Quinn is at work, running herself ragged as she tries to keep up with her job responsibilities at the same time that she's working with her own editor and agent to get her first book to print. She'd officially gotten the agent late last year, not long after she'd finished her manuscript, although she'd pretty much had Devon sold with the early chapters that she'd shown him while she was still finishing her final draft. Selling the book to an editor had happened quickly after that. It helped that Quinn has made so many contacts in the publishing business through her job, and it certainly didn't hurt that her finished product had been pristinely edited. That's kind of her thing, after all.

Quinn isn't quite ready to quit her day job and start writing full-time, but she is beginning to talk more and more about the possibility of resigning as an editor and doing freelance copyediting instead. She already has the references and the good reputation. Meanwhile, Rachel is currently between shows—again!—but Evelyn has gotten her some voiceover work to tide her over while she waits to see if the rumored revival of Funny Girl is actually a go this time. Evelyn has strict orders to get her an audition as soon as the production gets the green-light.

But for now, Rachel has nothing to pull her concentration away from the task at hand. She'd printed out the recipe this morning, and after poking around the kitchen cabinets to see what ingredients she already had versus the ones she needs, she'd gone to the market, list in hand, to buy the necessary supplies to make a perfect meal for Quinn. She'd also picked up a nice bottle of Chardonnay on the way home to pair with their dinner. Now all she has to do is get everything cooked and ready to be eaten by the time Quinn gets home.

Rachel scrapes her hair back into a ponytail before she takes a deep breath and dives in to the food preparation. She starts with the salad because—well, it's a salad. She's an expert at tossing those together. Then she puts a pot of water on the burner and brings it to a boil while she rummages around for a skillet. To her distress, Quinn has about seven of them in varying sizes, and Rachel frowns as she studies the different colors and textures. Hmm, well—the recipe calls for a non-stick skillet, so Rachel runs the pads of her fingers over two of the largest ones, but neither of them really feels less sticky than the other. She ultimately opts for the smoother of the two, laying it on the countertop as she checks on the water. Seeing that it's come to a boil, she dumps the penne in, jumping back with a squeak when the water splashes out and causes the flame beneath the pot to hiss.

"Okay…okay. Just slow down and take your time," she reminds herself.

Squinting at the recipe, Rachel begins to measure out the ingredients, stopping to check on the penne—still not cooked—before she slices the garlic cloves and tomatoes. Once she has enough to fill the recipe, she unwraps the fresh block of parmesan cheese and slowly drags it over the grater, careful to keep her fingers away. She doubts that Quinn would appreciate Rachel using her blood as a zesty pasta spice any more than Rachel would appreciate ending up in the emergency room to get stitches for an injury by kitchen utensil.

She pauses to check the penne again, noting that they're almost done, but still slightly al dente, so she adds in the cup of green peas to the water just like the recipe calls for and sets the timer for two minutes. She decides not to push her luck by multitasking anything else before the pasta and peas are done, so she leans against the counter and waits out the two minutes while she rereads the rest of the recipe three times.

Once she removes the pasta from the heat and drains the water—she'll totally clean up that puddle on the floor in a minute—she puts the bowl aside and turns her attention to the skillet, placing it over the heat and adding in the olive oil to coat it. Then she adds the garlic cloves and sets the timer for four minutes, stirring occasionally as the garlic turns brown.

Then it turns black.

Rachel frowns, reading over the recipe again with the spatula suspended over the skillet and noticing that it says four minutes or until brown. "Damn it," she mutters, glancing back at the stove, only to see the smoke pouring off the skillet. "Oh!" she squeals, quickly pulling it off the stovetop and racing to the sink where she drops it and waves away the smoke, trying to survey the damage. The garlic is a blackened mess, sticking to the bottom and sides of the skillet, and Rachel braces her hands on the sink and bows her head dejectedly.

"Son-of-a-bitch."

How hard is it to brown some freaking garlic?

Sighing, Rachel attempts to dump the mess out of the skillet so that she can start over—she'd been proactive enough to buy extra ingredients just in case. Unfortunately, the skillet doesn't quite come clean, so she runs it under the faucet and begins to scrub at it with the spatula, and when that doesn't work, a cleaning sponge. The black scorch marks don't lesson, and with a sinking stomach, she realizes that the skillet is ruined. She takes a trembling breath and stares at the damnable skillet for a full minute while she debates what to do.

"I'll just buy her a new one," she reasons with a stubborn nod, turning the skillet face down on the towel next to the sink. Or maybe she'll just throw it away later. Quinn has six more of them—she'll never even notice.

"I can do this," she insists with a determined frown, pulling out the other large skillet and placing it on the stove. She adds the oil and swirls it around. Then she carefully slices the remaining garlic cloves before adding them to the skillet and watching them like a hawk. The moment they turn brown, Rachel tosses in the tomatoes and slowly turns up the heat. Everything seems to be sizzling but not scorching, so she decides to add in the pasta and peas, watching the entire thing cook as she methodically stirs it.

A quick glance at the clock shows her that she has about twenty minutes before Quinn is due home, so she turns off the heat and puts an oversized lid over the concoction to keep it warmish. She can easily reheat it and add in the parmesan after Quinn arrives. Wiping her hands on her jeans, Rachel grabs some plates, silverware, and two wine glasses and quickly sets the table before she rushes back to the stove and obsessively checks under the lid to make sure nothing is suddenly burning. Satisfied, she cracks open a few windows to air out the scent of scorched garlic and disposes of the ruined skillet before she cleans up the bulk of the mess that she made in the kitchen.

With a little time to spare, she retreats to the bedroom and puts on a fresh shirt before brushing out her hair, and when she hears Quinn's key in the lock, she skips out to see her exhausted girlfriend dropping her coat and her briefcase in the entryway. "Hi, baby!" Rachel greets enthusiastically, moving to intercept Quinn so that she can brush a kiss over her lips.

"Mmm. Hi," Quinn murmurs, smiling tiredly before her brows furrow. "Is the heat on the fritz again? It's freezing in here," she complains.

"Oh, I forgot that I left some windows open," Rachel apologizes, rushing over to close them again.

"It's the middle of winter," Quinn points out with a frown.

"I know, but it was hot in the kitchen with the stove on," she explains with a grin. Okay—so that isn't exactly the reason they were open, but Quinn doesn't need to know that.

Quinn pauses, staring suspiciously at Rachel. "Why was the stove on?" she asks warily before she visibly sniffs the air. "What's that smell?"

Rachel frowns, taking a few panicked sniffs of her own and worrying that the rancid scent of her snafu is still lingering in the air, but all she smells is—well, "Dinner," she supplies, smiling again. "I cooked for you."

Quinn takes a stunned step back. "You cooked? An actual meal?"

Rachel's smile droops. "You don't have to sound so surprised. I'm getting better at it."

Quinn's gaze drifts to the table, and a slow smile spreads over her lips. "You really cooked dinner for me?" she asks softly, reaching for Rachel, who gladly steps into her arms.

"Penne with herbs, tomatoes, and peas," Rachel proudly tells her as she wraps her arms around Quinn's waist. "So why don't you go change into something more comfortable while I open the wine and get the salad out of the refrigerator. You don't have to do anything tonight but relax and enjoy the food."

"Sounds like heaven after the day I've had," Quinn admits, dipping her head to catch Rachel's lips in a grateful kiss. "I don't even care if you set anything on fire."

Rachel huffs and slaps her ass. "I didn't." There were no flames, after all. Only smoke.

Quinn laughs, breaking away from her girlfriend and heading for the bedroom with her fingers already busily unbuttoning her blazer. Rachel sighs and walks back into the kitchen, setting out the salad and dressing before she opens the wine and pours them both a glass. Returning to the stove, she lifts the lid from the pasta—thank God it still looks and smells okay—and turns the burner back on low heat.

Quinn, having changed into comfortable track pants and a sweatshirt, pads into the kitchen while Rachel sprinkles the parmesan cheese over the pasta. She slides her hands around Rachel's waist from behind as she watches her stir the mixture. "Oh, wow," she breathes, dropping her chin onto Rachel's shoulder. "That looks delicious."

Rachel beams with pride, leaning back into Quinn's body. "I told you I was getting better at this cooking thing."

Quinn hums in agreement, slipping a hand under Rachel's shirt. "And you look really sexy doing it," she purrs into Rachel's ear before placing a kiss to the skin beneath.

Rachel flushes with pleasure, almost melting into Quinn as her head tips to the side, but then she straightens, shaking off Quinn's far too tempting touch. "Oh, no you don't, Quinn Fabray," she chastises, turning around with a playful glare. "I worked very hard on this meal. There will be no seducing me until we've actually eaten it."

Quinn laughs joyfully and pecks Rachel's lips. "So let's eat. I'm starving," she admits with a sexy grin. "And after dinner, you can show me what's for dessert," she murmurs suggestively.

Rachel shivers in anticipation. She already knows that dessert is going to be far more delicious than the pasta.