hi guys! i'm back! ever since Sweet Vengeance, my head's been flowing with fanfic ideas that i can't help but start writing again lol. anyway, i went with this idea and it's AU so if you're not into alternate universe, you should leave now.

thank you to my amazing beta reader, CES5410 aka Stephanie! find her if you need any beta reading. she's awesome

anyway, read, ponder and enjoy.

She struggled to keep the military aircraft balanced in the air as dozens of cannon shots and whatever those green lights were flew up in the air around her. She took a deep calming breath and cursed her headphones mentally. Of all times, they had to stop working now. She had lost communications with the headquarters and she was left on her own. Truly alone.

The aircraft's missiles were long gone. She had used them when she infiltrated one of the military stations somewhere on the east side an hour ago. The craft rattled as a shot hit it and she knew that one of the wings was busted. Usually when one of the wings was busted, that meant everything was over for the pilot and passengers; but Quinn was nothing if not stubborn. She refused to give in to it and she quickly looked around herself, arms aching from pulling on the steering with as much force as she could. She clenched her jaw and suppressed a groan of pain, and kept pulling and pulling.

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing to be used to save her. She was at a dead end.

She turned back to the front and saw – she didn't know if she should call it luck or just simple coincidence – but there was a flat terrain that was long and wide enough in front of her for the aircraft to land – or crash. She let out a laugh and exerted more force into pulling the plunging head of the craft to a more balanced situation. All she could do now was that…and hope that she'd survive.

There was someone calling her name. The voice was very familiar, and also annoying at the same time. She frowned and groaned, attempting to open her eyes and failing at the same time. She struggled again and managed to open her eyes just a little, allowing light to enter her vision and blinding her momentarily as she adjusted to it.

"Quinn," the voice called and it sounded anxious. "Quinn, wake up," the voice persisted and she could feel herself being shaken.

She shut her eyes again and slowly blinked them open. Her mouth opened to say something but her throat felt dry and sandy. So she closed it again and blinked the water in her eyes away, her vision finally adjusting and she could see a Latina looming over her with an anxious and frustrated look on her face. Quinn frowned and tried to remember who in the hell this lady was. God, her head hurt and she just wanted to go back to sleep, but this woman was shaking and practically yelling at her and all she wanted was to smack her upside the head.

She groaned again, hoping this woman would take the hint. Luckily for her, the Latina was smart enough and she stopped shaking and talking to her at the same time. Thank goodness, Quinn moaned inwardly and sighed. She carefully turned her head to face the woman, fully aware of the dull ache settling in her neck. She scrutinized her, trying her best to remember. Then it hit her.

Santana Lopez.

She frowned and wondered what the hell Santana was doing here. She should be in Washington, doing stuff at the White House or wherever she did her job. She should be monitoring the army stationed in Afghanistan. So what the hell was she doing here? Quinn noticed a jug of water sitting on the bedside table and moved her arm – slowly and painfully – to gesture at it. Santana glanced at the water and smirked.

"Get it yourself," she said. Quinn looked at her in a way that shouted I-would-if-I-could-but-I'm-kind-of-disabled-right-now-so-get-me-the-damn-water. Santana chuckled and poured a glass of water and handing it to her. Quinn took it and drank like she hadn't had a sip of water in ages, which was sort of true. "Now, can you talk?" Santana asked as soon as Quinn put the glass down. She nodded. "FYI, you're in Washington now. Okay, what the fuck happened in Afghanistan?" Santana said immediately and Quinn wanted to laugh at her straightforwardness but her throat still sort of hurt.

"I crashed my bird," Quinn croaked, clearing her throat afterwards to get her normal voice back.

Santana nodded knowingly and lifted a clipboard in her hand, scribbling on it. Quinn rolled her eyes. Stupid protocol and shit like that. Those things never did their job the way the government said they would.

"Yeah, I know that, Q. But how in the living hell did you get in a crash? You're like, the best fucking pilot I've ever known. And how could you not have a co-pilot with you? That's not following protocol."

"The protocol, Santana, says that the captain is required to be the last to jump if there are people in the aircraft. And there were people in the aircraft, okay? Soldiers, injured soldiers and my co-pilot. They all took the parachutes and there were none left. So I stayed. And you should know how freakin' stubborn I was – and still am," she added. "I do not regret staying in that plane, Santana."

"Well yeah, of course you wouldn't. Your nickname is Hardy McHardhead, so of course, you wouldn't regret it. But now, because of you, I've gotta move away from my extremely comfortable office and follow up on your shit. You're lucky you're not fucking dead and meeting Hades right now."

"I don't believe in that crap, S," Quinn said with a grimace and grunted.

"I don't care if you believe or do not believe in that crap, Q. I'm fucking pissed off at you because you went and crashed yourself and left me with a pile of paperwork that is not going to be useful in the future," Santana shot back. "And you are so very fucking lucky that you're my best friend and I fucking care about you."

Quinn grunted and looked up at the ceiling. "Stop with the f-bombs, Santana. I have enough in my head now."

Santana rolled her eyes and tapped her pencil on the clipboard. "Like I don't have shit in my head. I bet the shit you have in your head can't even compare to the shit I have in mine. Now stop fucking complaining and answer my friggin' questions." She glared at Quinn before she looked like she just realized something. "Oh and by the way, you're on paid leave for the next two years. You've also been given the option to be honorably discharged at this point. The President is very impressed with you and he thinks he's offering you a reward, when really he doesn't know that military and you are match made in hell."

"What?" Quinn exclaimed. "Why am I on leave? I'm perfectly capable of flying another plane."

"No, you are not. Apparently, you exerted too much strength and it tore your muscles and you have a shoulder injury. It might act up every now and then. And it's going to take a looong time fixing up. So yeah, Q Fab, you're going to have to sit back and relax for the next couple of years. Now stop changing the subject and answer my fucking questions. I'm sweating balls here."

"Oh yes that's nice to hear, Santana. You're giving me really pleasant images in my head. I just heard that I'm on a leave for two fucking years and there you go, cracking disgusting jokes, thus sending disgusting images into my head. So great," Quinn said, unamused.

"Yes, great. Okay, here's the next question. Why didn't you jump out of the plane after all the passengers did?"

"Kurt, you need to take off those heels and give them back to me," Rachel said in a bored tone as she applied her eyeliner.

Kurt Hummel, her publicist and also the 'captain' of her 'glamour' team, shook his head and glared at her through the mirror. "You are not wearing any heels tonight, Rachel Berry. Remember the last time you did? You almost face planted on the ground in freaking Central Park."

"That wasn't my fault!" Rachel shrieked in protest. "That stupid reporter wouldn't stop hounding and somehow he tripped me."

"I've told you a million times to hire a bodyguard but you won't listen," he said absentmindedly as he checked himself out in the mirror. She rolled her eyes and ignored his remark; instead she focused on combing her hair and sweeping her bangs to the side. "No, seriously, Rachel, you're a famous superstar. You're going to somehow be involved in something scandalous and as your publicist, I can't have that! Hire a bodyguard, will you?"

"No, Kurt. I am not hiring a bodyguard."

"Fine. If someone wields a knife at you in the future, don't regret it."

She chuckled and shook her head. "I'm not that famous you know."

"Uh, yes you are. You're going to be in a film directed by the famous Artie Abrams. Yes, you're that famous. At least, you're going to be. And don't think I don't know anything because I've been doing this for my whole life, but this film you're doing right now s very risky. The content might offend someone." Rachel frowned. "Come on, you're acting as a lesbian in the army. How much more offensive can it get?"

"What you just said is offensive. Also, I love this job. I love the script, so shut your beak and help me put that damn dress on!" she said, jumping to her feet and stalking towards her closet. "I need to get on set as fast as possible."

When she arrived on set, Artie just had to prove Kurt right by telling them they received a threatening letter specifically addressed to her. Artie had summoned them to his office and offered Rachel a chance to pull out of the project if she wanted to. Honestly, she had never seen a director as kind as the one sitting before her in his wheelchair. Rachel rejected his offer the second he stopped talking.

"No, Artie, I'm not quitting. I will continue filming. I don't care if I get threatening letters," she said and after Artie thanked her and told her that offer still stood, she and Kurt left his office and headed towards her trailer. Before Kurt could say anything, Rachel stopped him. "Stop before you say 'I told you so', cause I swear I will punch you if you do that." She threw herself onto her couch and laid face down on it.

Kurt smirked and raised his brow. He lifted his hand and checked his fingers as he muttered, "I told you so." Rachel groaned loudly and threw a plush cushion at him. With a lucky shot, she hit him in the head and he gasped. "Damn it, Rachel! My hair was perfectly combed."

"Not my problem," Rachel drawled, her voice muffled by the cushions.

He looked at himself in the mirror, taking out a comb from his pocket and re-styled his hair into what he called a 'perfectly angelic style'. Then he turned to her and asked, "So are you going to hire a bodyguard now or are you going to keep throwing yourself into dangerous situations?"

"I love the risk," Rachel quipped and Kurt rolled his eyes.

"I don't," Kurt said. "We should maybe get someone who was from the army or something."

"No!" Rachel quickly said, snapping her head towards him, truly glaring at him this time. "No one from the army, Kurt," she warned.

Kurt stared at her before his eyes brightened as it dawned on him. Then he looked at her with a sad smile. "You can't still be thinking about her, are you, Rachel?" She turned her head back into the cushion and ignored him, but he could see that she was just afraid. "Rachel, she's…she's gone. She went to the army and cut off all sorts of communications. You can't…you have to stop thinking about it."

She removed her face from the cushion and supported her weight on her elbows, looking at him with those oh-so-sad eyes she always had whenever she was thinking about her. "I can't, Kurt. I wanted to but I can't."

"Try."

"I've tried for four years, Kurt!" Rachel retorted. "And I can't. God, don't you think I've tried? I went out on dates. I slept with people. Gosh, I even got back together with Finn briefly, Kurt. And I can't stop thinking about her," she repeated. "I don't even know what got into my mind when I left her that day."

He sighed. "Because she joined the army. You were pissed. You weren't happy that she did it without consulting you. You thought you couldn't take it if she died."

"Stop," Rachel whimpered, rubbing her face and sniffled. "Stop," she repeated. "I know what I was thinking, okay, Kurt? I just…I regret it so much right now. I could have spent the last four months with her and be happy with her. But I had to leave. What the hell was wrong with me?

He nodded and stood up. He approached her and leaned down, putting a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eyes. "It's too late trying to regret anything, don't you think? Now, you should focus on your job. I don't know, maybe one day you'll have luck and she'll suddenly appear right in front of you." She was silent and he sighed again. "I'm hiring a bodyguard for you, Rachel. And it'll be better if they're from the army. I don't care if you want them or not, I'm hiring a bodyguard for you."

She clenched her jaw and just waved her hand dismissively. She composed her face into the one she always carried, where she always carried a tiny little smile on her face to let everyone know she was okay. Only people who really knew her could see right through that, she thought, and the person who really knew her was now somewhere in the world fighting people from Iraq or Germans or wherever the government always deployed soldiers to.

Her heart never stopped aching over the woman she had been so in love with – and still was – who was out there, maybe losing her life at that very moment.

Quinn sat in the plane, which was ironic to her, as she wasn't piloting the bird. She turned to her left where Sam Evans was sitting, flipping through a comic book. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. When Sam was reading a comic book or anything relatively comic-y, don't even bother trying to talk to him. She reached behind her and took out her wallet from her back pocket, flipping it open and stared at a worn out photo in it.

She had taken it out and put it back so many times now that the photo was dog-eared and yellowed at the rims. A sad smile tugged on her lips as her thumb hovered over the beautiful and wonderful brunette who had the greatest grin on her face, staring into the camera with her soul bared.

In the photo, she had her arm around the caramel-brown eyed woman and her chin was settled comfortably on the woman's shoulder, tucked into the brunette's neck and grinning into the camera as well. It was taken five months before she went into the army; six months before the brunette left her behind in their apartment because she was pissed at her.

No matter how much she wanted to hate the brunette for leaving her and pushing her to join the army, she couldn't. She loved her too much. God, how she loved this woman.

"You know, it's been what…three? Four years since you guys broke up?" Sam questioned from next to her, his comic lying face down on his lap temporarily forgotten. "I never did understand why you didn't burn that photo the minute you landed in Iraq the first time you were deployed. You told me you were gonna burn it. And I was so freaking happy that you were finally 'letting her go'," he air quoted.

"I loved her," she whispered. "And I still do. This photo is like the only remnant of her I have. And I think the only reason I didn't die these four years is because I had this photo as my lucky charm or something."

"You believe in that kind of shit?" Sam said, looking at her incredulously.

She rolled her eyes and tucked her wallet back into her pocket. She released a breath and turned to him. "I believe in her," she finally replied.

He stared at her for a moment and twisted his fishy lips to one side. "Does Santana know you're still into her?" he asked and she stared at him, her jaw dropped. That was the most irrelevant question to be asked at the moment.

Quinn sighed and looked down at her hands. "Yes, she does. God, she knows everything about me, okay? I guess she sent you back to New York to keep an eye on me and stop me from thinking shit."

"Actually, yes. 'Keep her out of bar fights and shit like that and seriously, use a hammer if you need to when she starts to think. It's ridiculous how much nonsense she can cook up with her freaking leaded head'," he quoted with a crooked grin.

She laughed and shook her head. "That's so Santana," she commented and he nodded with an eyebrow raised. "So how you've been doing while I've been gone? You know, with the Secret Service and things like that. What department are you in again?"

"CIA, Quinn," he said, rolling his eyes. "I tell you this every time you come back."

"Sorry, I can't really remember cause of the army and trying to remember strategies and stuff. Did you know we have to do inventories?" she complained.

"You told me that as well," he deadpanned. "Are you sure you don't have amnesia? Cause you sure look amnesiac now." She slapped him on the arm and poked his ribs. He winced and rubbed his chest. "Anyway, it's all good. I get banged up once in awhile and I get to shoot sometimes. Found out, shooting ain't that fun," he said with a harsh exhale. "Now, I get to accompany a temporarily soldier on leave. How fun," he concluded sarcastically.

She smirked. "Any special girl I should know about?" She waited for a few seconds and only got silence. Slowly, she turned to him and he was pursing his lips, obviously pretending he didn't hear her. She grinned and smacked his chest. "There is some girl. Come on, tell me about her."

He flinched and massaged his chest again. "Seriously, girl, how much strength do you have? You're like a freaking superwoman or something." She rolled her eyes at his exaggeration and stared at him expectantly. "Fine. I just met her a few weeks ago. Her name is Mercedes Jones. She works in a coffee shop and she sings. Like, really awesome."

There was a light in his eyes as he talked about this girl and she smiled, remembering a time when she was like this as well. "She must be really special," she muttered and he nodded.

"Yeah," he murmured. "She's amazing."

She smiled and looked to the front, grabbing a random magazine from the seat back in front of her and started reading it. Though she was certainly not focused on the magazine, because she knew in the back of her mind she was going to be in the same city as her former love.

Quinn settled into the cab as Sam sat next to the driver. She looked out the window to gape at the city she had left and hadn't seen in four years. Her eyes were twinkling as they passed by and she stared at the billboards and the people and god, Central Park.

She saw someone called Blaine Anderson on one of the billboards and she grimaced when she saw the amount of gel he had in his hair. She wondered how people could have sex with him and tug on his hair. That would be…slippery. Then she froze when she saw a really large billboard hanging on one of the buildings.

It read:
Armed for the Better
starring...

"Rachel Berry," she whispered. Memories flooded her head and she gasped. From the moment they first met to the moment Rachel walked out the door. Quinn instantly moved away from the window and stared into space, trying to regulate her breathing and shut those memories out.

"Can you…can you go faster please?" she addressed the driver.

"Miss, with this traffic, I doubt it," the driver said and kept on chewing on his doughnut.

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the headrest. "God," she whispered brokenly. "Santana, you shouldn't have sent me back here in the first place."

"That's what I told her." She snapped her eyes open to see Sam looking at her with a knowing look. "I knew it would make you nostalgic, and I told her New York really isn't the place for you to rest up. But she said it's your home. You can't hide forever."

She stared at him for the longest minute before nodding. "I guess she's kind of right. I really can't hide forever."

"Fuck you, Lopez."

Santana chuckled after she said it. "Um…I have a girlfriend for that, Fabray," Santana replied with a hint of teasing in her tone.

"This isn't funny," Quinn hissed. "I thought I told you to take care of my apartment before I left all those years ago."

"And I did. I hired a cleaner and she cleaned your apartment every week. It's good as new," Santana quipped, sitting down in her office and sipping from her coffee cup loudly.

"Don't play stupid with me. You knew what I meant when I asked you to take care of it. You said no problem and you were gonna get rid of her stuff," the blonde seethed, looking around her, eyes meeting Rachel's stuff almost everywhere. "And they are everywhere in my apartment."

"Oh, did I promise that?" Santana questioned, smirking. "Look, Fabray, I went to your apartment and I realized that almost everything belonged to her and if I really get rid of that stuff, your apartment would be as bare as that freaking hospital room you lived in two fucking days ago."

"I don't fucking care, Santana. You asked me to come back here to New York to relax and chill. I can't relax and chill when everything here reminds me of her," Quinn snapped, glaring at Sam who was trying to look like he didn't hear a word of her conversation with Santana.

Santana sighed. "Okay, fine. Get rid of them if you want. I'm not doing that for you, okay? I didn't even know what I was supposed to do with them in the first place. So either get your shit together or keep on hiding, Q," she said, losing the humor.

Quinn looked around her, her mind almost screaming in despair, as every item seemed to have Rachel Berry's face pasted on them. She could remember how they acquired each and every one of these things and she didn't want to remember.

"God, Santana," she whispered, her voice cracked and she sat down on an armchair, which was also chosen by Rachel, though Quinn paid for it. She remembered exactly how they bought this thing and what they did on it when it had been delivered there. "I can't live here."

"Yes, you can," Santana insisted strongly. She waved her hand at her assistant as he came in with a clipboard, and walked out immediately. "You are a strong woman, okay? And you're going to get through this. You've been running for four freaking years, Q. Every time you came back on days off you never went back to New York. Now, you gotta face the music and you have two years to do that."

"I had four years, Santana!" Quinn exclaimed. "Four years and I still couldn't get over it. Now you're saying two years? I'm not some freaking superwoman."

"Well, it's good to know that you're acknowledging the fact that you could have used these four years to do that. But you know what, you didn't. Instead, you chose to use these four years to run. And run you did. You did it spectacularly," Santana said, unamused. "Stop running, Lucy Quinn."

"Don't call me by that name," she gritted.

"See? That's the running. And I'd say you're doing a better job at it than I did when I got outed on freaking TV." Santana tapped her fingers on her desk. "Seriously, get your shit together. If you want to get rid of those things, sure, go ahead. Let Sam help you, even. But I ain't doing your dirty job."

"Okay, fine! Fine!" Quinn said loudly, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge nose. "Just so you know, you're a bitch."

"I can't do my job well if I'm not. Anyway, I've got news for you."

"What is it again?" Quinn grumbled.

Santana picked up a file on her desk and bit her lip. "Something I'm eighty per cent sure can help get over yourself and her," she muttered.

"What?"

"A job. While you're on leave, you can work for the Secret Service temporarily and there was a request for a bodyguard yesterday. They want someone from the army. And I thought you would fit the bill."

"Bodyguard? What? Do I look like a vest or something?"

"No, you look like someone from the army and you can get rid of your boredom with a job. Besides, you won't have to think too much about her while working. That way, you're going to gradually forget about her." Santana bit her lip harder and tried not to feel guilty. "You're going to be protecting a celebrity."

"Oh great. That's a bitch I have to deal with. Or son of a bitch. How about no, Santana?" Quinn said, standing up again and storming into the kitchen.

"Come on, Quinn. You get paid weekly. You're going to protecting the celebrity until their filming ends. Oh, they got a threatening letter so maybe that's why they have to…you know, get a bodyguard."

Quinn sat at the counter, tapping her fingers on the table. "How much?"

"Twenty-thousand per week."

Quinn raised her brows and whistled. Santana hummed in agreement and waited for response. "Where do I live?"

"They have a pool house. The manager said you can live there."

The blonde considered the offer and looked around her. Her eyes settled on a glass. That freaking glass with the fucking gold star on it. She huffed and rolled her eyes.

"I'm in."

Santana got off the phone and stared at the file longer before flipping it open, laying eyes on the woman she hadn't seen since her best friend broke up with her. Her stupid grinning face on that photo was really irritating, because while she was taking this photo, Quinn was probably off somewhere in the world defending her country.

She scowled and picked up her phone, dialing a number printed on the paper. It rang a few times before a voice she knew too well answered.

"Yes, this is Kurt Hummel, Rachel Berry's fabulous publicist slash manager slash captain of her glamour team slash her best friend. What can I do for you?" he said in a bright voice. Santana could hear shouting and metals clanking in the background.

"Wow, I'm surprised you managed to snag jobs for Berry with that long ass speech, Gayface. Did you get infected by the Berry syndrome?" Santana quipped, not missing the opportunity to insult somebody.

Kurt sputtered and he cleared his throat a few times. "Wait a minute, I know that voice. Who's that again?" Kurt muttered to himself and Santana rolled her eyes as she sat there waiting impatiently for Kurt to just figure it out. "Oh my god, Satan – I mean, Santana Lopez."

"Yes, sweet Hummel, it's the female version of Satan here," she said with a fake smile on her face. "By the way, I, unfortunately, am the one in charge of your request for a bodyguard for Miss Rachel Man-hands Berry there."

"Oh," Kurt murmured and there was a little rustling before he added, "shit."

She nodded with an evil grin on her face. "Uh-huh, shit is the right word, Porcelain. You know, when I first got the file yesterday, I was really tempted to ignore it and go on with my lovely life here. You know why? Apparently we parted ways when our friends broke up and everyone picked their side. Me, Brittany, Sam, Puck and Joe picked Quinn. The rest of you losers picked Berry, when she was the one who walked out."

"Please don't tell me you really ignored my request, Santana, please," Kurt begged.

"Ah, begging," Santana drawled. "That's a new one. I've never heard Kurt Hummel beg before so that's refreshing. I kind of like it."

"Seriously, Santana. I know we haven't talked in four years, or even communicated in any way, but I really don't think this is the right time for jokes. This is serious matter."

"I know. That's why I've done my job and assigned a bodyguard for your precious fruit over there. And guess who I assigned?"

Kurt racked his brain and his eyes widened when he realized. "Oh no."

Santana laughed dryly. "Oh yes," she said loudly. "Yes, Hummel, I did."

"Wow, I'm surprised you can even call yourself Quinn's friend, Santana," Kurt remarked in a degrading tone.

"Hey, don't even try to pull that on me, okay?" Santana snapped, her humor long gone, replaced by anger. "Your girl left Quinn, not the other way around. And Quinn hasn't recovered from it since. It's been four years and I need her to get over it. So I think it's going to be easier for her to forget if they meet face to face and really talk it out."

"What in your right mind made you think that it's going to resolve just because she got assigned to bodyguard duty?" Kurt yelled. "I mean, this is just ridiculous."

"I'm not done," Santana yelled back, covering his voice. He silenced and her lips twitched in satisfaction to know she still had some power in her. "I also take my job very seriously and I know Quinn is the perfect one for it. Think about it. I don't think anybody other than Quinn is willing to risk everything to save Berry's ass, which I don't think is worth saving considering what she did four years ago."

He considered her explanation and moved his jaw back and forth a few times. "Yeah I guess you could say that."

She hummed and nodded. "And I'm not willing to get my ass kicked just because I was the unfortunate one to get my hands on this case. I can't let anything happened to Tranny there, so I picked the best. She's on leave for two years cause she got busted up in Afghanistan while piloting a plane and she's perfect for this job."

"You forgot to mention one flaw."

"No, it's perfect. They get to talk and figure their shit out. I get my ass saved. Win-win."

"Not a win-win for me. I might get my ass busted by Rachel when she finds out. Screw that. I will get my ass busted when she finds out."

"I don't really care about your hideous white ass, Hummel. I mean win-win for me and Quinn," Santana corrected him. "Now, I don't care what you have to do to tell Berry this but I got a job here that's going to pay me lots of money every month so goodbye. Oh, and please don't call me if there's nothing important."

With that she hung up. She looked at the file again and her lips curled in disgust as her eyes landed on the grinning brunette in the photo. She flipped it closed and huffed.

"I'm sorry, Q," she muttered.

Quinn slung her carry-on over her shoulder and turned to see Sam leaning against the door panel. He had his hands shoved into his pockets and he was staring at her, biting his lip worriedly. She rolled her eyes and strode towards him, wrapping her arms around him.

He returned her gesture and brushed her back. "You be careful, okay? I don't care if you got the SS training over and done within two freaking weeks; which is crazy by the way, cause I took like, five months to complete it." She snickered and he chuckled, sighing. "But you have to remember you're on leave because your body's not doing well enough. Don't push yourself too hard."

"God, you sound just like my mom, Sam. I'm going to be fine," she said, loosening her arms and leaning back. She bopped his nose and grinned when he scrunched his face. "I'm going to take care of myself. I will call you every night and give you updates. Don't worry. Take care of my apartment for me."

"Of course, of course. I have the whole place to myself. Well, for the next two weeks, anyway. Believe me, I'll trash it and you can't even imagine how," he muttered, looking around him with a grin on his face as if already planning what he was going to do to it. She punched him on the arm and he winced.

She rolled her eyes and walked out her room, grabbing her keys from bowl on the round table next to the door. "Bye, Sam." He waved at her.

She took the elevator to the parking lot in the basement and walked to her car. She whistled when she saw it sitting like brand new in the parking lot. "Thank you, Santana." She opened it and whistled again, as she hadn't been behind the wheel for a long time. "Hope I didn't get rusty," she murmured to herself and ignited the engine. "Yep, this baby is working good."

She keyed in the address she was supposed to go to in her GPS and followed the instructions. Turned out her road rage was still in her because she spent the whole time in the car yelling while driving, giving obscene gestures to drivers she wasn't pleased with. Forty-five minutes later, she reached the suburbs and was stopping in front of a huge gate. There was a guardhouse by the gate. A uniformed man came walking out, munching on a doughnut.

"Your boss will be expecting Quinn Fabray," she said and he nodded, opening gate for her.

She drove forward, thinking that the security measures of this place were mediocre. Look at how easily that guard let her in without even checking up with the people inside.

She couldn't help but gape in awe at the property. A cobbled driveway was lined with trees on both sides, while expanse of fields stretched out beyond them. Ten minutes later, the driveway led to a roundabout with a…music note fountain in the middle.

Wait, what?

The mansion was sitting right in front of her and it was huge. Two marble pillars were supporting the roof and there were two big oak doors at the front of the house with…music notes knockers.

Seriously, was this celebrity obsessed with music notes?

There was a man standing at the top of the steps, and he seemed to be nervous. She squinted to get a better view of him and as she drove nearer, her eyes grew wider. Oh no this couldn't be happening. If…if he's the manager, that only meant one thing.

The sudden and strong urge to flee attacked her, but her rational side was telling her to be professional and not let her heart rule this one. She gasped and slowed her car as the man walked down the steps slowly, biting his lips. She got out and stared at him from over the hood of the car.

"Good to see you again, Quinn," he said cautiously.

Before she could say anything, the oak doors opened and a short woman came out, walking with quick steps. She could remember the sound of those footsteps anywhere. She squeezed her eyes shut, taking in deep breaths. She swore she was going to kill Santana for this.

"Quinn," the woman muttered, sounding surprised.

She opened her eyes and finally looked at the woman. She hadn't seen her in four years. The squeezing of her heart came back but she ignored it.

"Rachel."

what do you guys think? anyone into army!Quinn and (as per usual) diva!Rachel? i know i am! review to tell me what you think! i'll come up with the next update as quick as possible!

oh yeah, did you guys see the latest Quinn Fabray spoiler? Quinn's dating a professor? WHAT?! and the Quinntana scene isn't pleasant, according to the spoilers anyway. i really don't understand what is wrong with Ryan. he just seems to hate Quinn so much. i feel so bad for my baby right now...

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