Author's Note: A ficlet involving Quinn's glasses by several requests. Set a few months before Every Hour Has Come To This.

Time's Forever Frozen Still

We keep this love in a photograph.
We made these memories for ourselves.
Where our eyes are never closing,
Hearts are never broken,
And time's forever frozen still.
~Photograph, Ed Sheeran

Her first instinct is to forgo the photograph entirely. She doesn't mind having her picture taken in theory—she's amazingly photogenic after all—but the primary reason that she'd chosen to publish her first novel under the name Lucy Quinn is to maintain as much of her privacy as she can for as long a she can. She knows that her relationship with Rachel will eventually diminish that, especially once her girlfriend rises to her inevitable superstardom, but the more people that Quinn can keep from googling her real name in the meantime, the better for her peace of mind—the better for everyone's peace of mind, really. Who knows what cybertrail might remain to tie her back to the days of Sky Split's reign of internet terror?

Rachel has long forgiven her for that, and Quinn is hopeful that there isn't anything too damning floating around in the online world about her. Right now, searching her name only generates a couple of hits for those people finder and white pages sites, but Quinn knows there are one or two blurry images of her face posted on Twitter in sneaky photos of Rachel snapped on the fly by her more daring fans. (Quinn might have Rachel's name on her Twitter alerts even though she doesn't really use her account.) It's not enough at this point to be of any real concern or cause more than a passing curiosity about her identity or her relationship with Rachel, but Quinn suspects that it's only a matter of time. A picture on the back of her novel will just be asking for trouble.

But Rachel doesn't agree. "You have to have one," she insists. "All the famous novelists do it."

"I don't know, Rach," Quinn hedges with a frown. "I think I'd prefer going the mysterious route."

Rachel frowns. "It's not mysterious, Quinn. It's reclusive and avoidant. Your readers will wonder what's wrong with you that you won't put your face on your book jacket. And then they won't buy it even though it's brilliant because they'll imagine some beady-eyed sociopath with a handlebar mustache."

"You're ridiculous," Quinn tells her with a laugh, rolling her eyes.

"I'm right," Rachel argues with a firm nod. "Both Devon and Aileen would agree with me."

Quinn sighs, because she knows it's true. "I guess I could look through some old pictures to see if I have a decent mugshot to submit."

Rachel's eyes widen almost comically. "Absolutely not. You're going to let me take a proper headshot."

Quinn stifles a groan. "I don't think so."

Rachel frowns mildly, worrying her lower lip for a moment before shifting closer and lazily trailing a finger over Quinn's collarbone. "But Quinn, baby, you need a picture that will accurately capture your beauty to share it with the world." She reaches up to ghost the backs of her fingers over Quinn's cheek. "Who better to ensure that you're completely satisfied," she purrs through lips that are suddenly very, very close to Quinn's mouth, "than me?" She punctuates the question with a kiss.

When their lips part, Quinn inhales shakily. "Are you trying to bribe me into playing seedy photographer and reluctant model?" she quips throatily.

Rachel grins wickedly. "I wasn't. But now that you mention it," she drawls seductively, "we could make that your reward."

Quinn's eyelids flutter, and her fingers curl against Rachel's waist. She really does love playing with her girlfriend. "Okay," she relents. "You can take a few pictures for the book, but then I get to play the photographer."

Rachel hums in approval. "Whatever you want, baby."

Unfortunately for Quinn, the photo turns out to be whatever Rachel wants. Her fast and simple headshot isn't fast or simple. She'd figured that she would just sit down at her desk or on the sofa and let Rachel snap a few quick shots, but of course, it turns out to be more complicated than that. For one thing, Rachel is determined to avoid the typical author clichés.

"You're not sitting at your desk, and you are absolutely not doing any version of the Thinking Man pose," Rachel tells her in a no nonsense voice as she determinedly browses through Quinn's wardrobe for the perfect shirt that says sexy intellectual—Rachel's words.

Quinn rolls her eyes and laughs. "It's just a picture."

"No, it most certainly is not," Rachel insists, aghast. "It's the first thing that people will see. It's the pretty packaging that will make people want to buy your book when they see it on the shelf."

As much as Quinn hates the concept, she has to admit that Rachel's not wrong. "Fine. What do you suggest?"

Rachel grins. "First, put this on," she instructs, holding up a green, long-sleeve button down. Quinn eyes the shirt skeptically, but she takes it with a shrug. Tossing it across their bed, she reaches for the hem of her white tank top, but Rachel stops her. "Put it on over that."

Quinn shrugs again, picking up the shirt and slipping it on. She starts to button it, but Rachel's hands over hers stop her for the second time. "We're going for sexy intellectual," Rachel reminds her, taking the front tails of the shirt and tying them into a knot over Quinn's stomach. Then she fusses with the collar for a few moments before making sure the front of the shirt gapes open just so.

Quinn gazes down at herself warily. "This tank top is kind of low cut, Rachel," she warns. "And see through."

Rachel's lips quirk into a grin. "I'll only be shooting you from the shoulders up. You know, you have very lovely clavicles," she comments distractedly, running her fingers over them where they peak out from under the edge of the shirt.

"Is that why you're always kissing them?" Quinn asks with a grin of her own.

"Among other reasons," Rachel mumbles with a blush, turning her attention to Quinn's hair—which she runs her fingers through in a way that has Quinn thinking they should just skip the picture and the role-playing altogether and take advantage of their big, empty bed.

But then Rachel is pulling herself out of the moment and stepping back hastily as she surveys her work with a thoughtful frown. "Just one more thing," she mutters, mostly to herself, turning away from Quinn and circling the bed to Quinn's nightstand, where she rummages through the drawer.

"What are you doing?" Quinn wonders in confusion. When Rachel turns with Quinn's glasses held between her fingers, Quinn hold up her hands defensively. "Oh, no."

"Oh, yes," Rachel counters, marching toward her.

"I'm not wearing those," Quinn insists petulantly, crossing her arms. "You can't make me."

"Please," Rachel pouts.

"No."

"Pretty please," Rachel tries again, batting her eyelashes and puffing out her lower lip.

"No," Quinn repeats, but it sounds much less convincing the second time.

Rachel saunters closer to her, trailing a fingertip over the exposed skin of her chest again. "You know what it does to me when you wear them," Rachel murmurs enticingly. "And when I imagine intellectual you on the back of thousands of novels, everyone seeing the sexy writer only I get to enjoy in private," she whispers, swaying closer, "I get even more turned on."

Quinn's groan disappears into Rachel's kiss, and she knows that she's going to be wearing those damn glasses on her dustjacket. "You're going to owe me so big for this," she growls playfully.

Rachel smiles against her lips. "I'll be happy to be in your debt," she promises, and then she steps back, holding up the glasses in silent offering. Quinn reluctantly accepts them, slipping them on, and Rachel licks her lips wantonly—her eyes dark. "Yeah," she breathes, "we need to get this photo taken right now."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "I don't know. Suddenly, I'm not really in that much of a hurry."

Rachel's eyes narrow, but her lips are curving. "Go stand in front of the window," she demands, giving Quinn a gentle push.

Quinn glances outside at their meager view of the tree planted in the sidewalk outside and the brownstone across the street. "Really? That's your big picture idea?"

"You in those glasses in our bedroom with a halo of sunlight in your hair," Rachel explains simply, "is my idea of perfection."

Those damn butterflies erupt again—really, it's been three years and they still sneak attack her every time Rachel says or does something so unintentionally romantic—and Quinn obediently does as she's asked. Rachel smiles at her, following her to the window to unlatch it and throw it open, letting in the early summer breeze. She positions Quinn exactly where she wants her and then picks up Quinn's camera.

"Now, make love to the camera for me, baby," she teases.

"I'd rather be making love to you."

"Soon," Rachel promises, already clicking away at the shutter. "But first, give me that famous I'm Quinn Fabray and I'm better than everyone and I know it look."

Quinn laughs. "I never do that," she denies unconvincingly.

"You do it all the time," Rachel argues laughingly.

"I think you're confusing me with you, sweetie," Quinn fires back with a smile.

Rachel lifts her head from the camera for a second to grin at her. "But you are better than everyone. I mean, you chose me."

Quinn laughs again, shaking her head. "And I'm so glad I did. Now take the damn pictures so I can collect on that debt you owe me."

"With pleasure," Rachel husks, and Quinn knows it's a promise of what will come when Rachel puts down the camera and Quinn gets to pick it up. Maybe she'll even leave her glasses on.

Later—much, much later—when Quinn is naked and sated and curled around her equally naked and exhausted girlfriend, she'll grab the camera off the bedside table and scan through the pictures that Rachel had taken, surprised and impressed with how well some of them turned out. But there's one in particular that immediately captures Quinn's attention, with the sunlight dancing in her hair just right and her eyes shining with secret knowledge from behind those damn glasses. She can already see it on the back of her dustjacket, and she puts the camera back down carefully and curls around Rachel once again, secretly grateful that she'd let Rachel have her way. Because now when people buy her book—and they will buy it—they'll also be buying into a little piece of the love she shares with the amazing woman who owns her heart.