Author's Note: Written for the FaberryCon Fic Fundraiser Project for the wonderful Chelseablu44. The prompt was: Santana is a chatty drunk. She blabs to Rachel about a number of things including sleeping with Quinn and that Quinn fixed prom queen for Rachel. Rachel confronts Quinn. Feelings happen.

I hope you like it.

Eternal thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being the most awesome beta.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

Sinking Ships

Rachel doesn't have much of a taste for tequila. In fact, she likes to think that she doesn't have a taste for alcohol in general—those pretty, pink wine coolers back in high school notwithstanding. She does occasionally enjoy a glass of wine, but probably more because she feels like it makes her seem sophisticated than because she actually enjoys the flavor of it. After all, the appearance of sophistication is important if she's to become a star of stage and eventually screen.

Sophistication isn't something that anyone can accuse Santana Lopez of in this moment. Rachel vaguely recalls flashes of the so-called 'crying-girl-drunk' that Finn had pointed out to her years ago, but she admittedly wasn't sober enough at the time to fully process everything that she'd seen and been told. Since then, Santana hasn't imbibed nearly enough in Rachel's presence to end up back in that state—until now.

Santana is curled up on the sofa with her too-tight dress bunched around her hips almost indecently, cradling a bottle of tequila in her arms, and looking like she's on the verge of tears. It's somewhat disconcerting to see, even if it is something of a welcome reprieve after the last two weeks of dealing with the bitchiest version of her. Kurt has taken to hiding out in the NYADA practice rooms and generally jumping on any extracurricular activity and free local event that he can find to stay away from the apartment during the hours when Santana isn't scheduled to work. Rachel has even accompanied him on several occasions—the Judy Garland movie marathon on campus had been particularly enjoyable. He's out with Adam tonight, despite the fact that his relationship with Blaine is still fundamentally unresolved. Rachel wishes that she had someone to take her out too, but her taste in men is proving to be somewhat problematic. She's not even entirely certain how she feels about Finn anymore, but that's neither here nor there, because right now, she's stuck at home alone with a very drunk, very sad Santana, and Rachel isn't certain what to do with her.

She tentatively slides onto the sofa next to her roommate, tucking one leg beneath her and turning to face Santana. "While I realize that it's not really my place to attempt to impose any kind of temperance upon you, as your friend, Santana, I have to express my concern with your current rate of alcohol consumption."

Santana dips her head, swaying forward just a bit as she glares—or attempts to—at Rachel. "You, with the talking," she slurs, pointing at Rachel and wagging her fingers, "is even more annoying when I'm drunk. Didn't think that was possible."

Rachel winces imperceptibly. She's heard worse from Santana in the past, but she'd really felt that they were getting closer, so the insult stings a bit more than it would have a year ago. "I'm just worried about you."

Santana waves her hand dismissively. "Worry 'bout yourself, midget. Your life's way more fucked up than mine."

Rachel's back stiffens and she crosses her arms—decidedly less concerned with Santana's well-being than she was thirty seconds ago. "I'm not the one drinking myself into a stupor," she says with a scowl, only to stare in wide-eyed horror when Santana dissolves into a sobbing mess of tears right in front of her. "Oh, my," she breathes, fidgeting uncertainly in her seat for a few moments before she silently chastises herself and determinedly slides over to envelop Santana in an awkward hug. She experiences an odd sense of déjà vu, recalling that less than two months ago, Santana had been holding her this way while she'd fallen to pieces. At least Rachel can be ninety-nine point nine percent certain that Santana isn't pregnant, and if by some incomprehensible circumstance she is, then she'll be receiving a very stern lecture from Rachel on the irresponsibly of drinking alcohol while in such a delicate condition.

Thankfully, Santana confirms her assumption when she twists her fingers—the ones not currently curled around the tequila bottle—into Rachel's sleeve and sobs into her shoulder. "I m-miss her…s-so m-much."

Rachel sighs and rubs a soothing circle over Santana's back. She should have guessed this was all about Brittany. "I know," she murmurs sympathetically.

"No, you don't," Santana argues, jerking herself out of Rachel's arms. "You had Plastic-Man McGigolo an…and Hothead Hudson warming your bed. Wh-what do I have?" she asks rhetorically, raising the bottle to her lips and taking a long, deep drink. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and points an accusatory finger in Rachel's face. "I'll tell you what I have. Cold sheets...that's what I have. I mean, yeah, I took a little tumble with the first willing blonde, but she's not Brittany," Santana laments. "She's not!"

"Who's not?" Rachel asks reflexively, because this is the first she's hearing of a new woman in Santana's life.

"Not. Brittany," Santana enunciates, poking Rachel's shoulder to punctuate each word, and then the tears start again. "Brittany's…she's up there all alone, with those big-headed, four-eyed, science-y people who…who've prob'ly never even seen a woman."

Honestly, Rachel is still more than a little perplexed as to how Brittany S. Pierce managed to get into MIT on scholarship—in the middle of the spring academic semester, no less!—after she'd failed every math class that she'd ever had, but regardless, Rachel is acutely aware of how unhappy Santana has seemed ever since Brittany left for college. It's a tad bit ridiculous, because, "She's really not that far away, Santana."

"She's in Cambridge. Fuckin' Cambridge!" Santana growls.

"It's only a four hour drive."

"Don't care," Santana mutters, angrily wiping at her wet cheeks. "She was…she was supposed to come to New York. That was the plan. She was gonna dance. I mean…you've seen her dance," she says, poking Rachel's shoulder again before she smiles drunkenly. "She's like…like…sex…you know?"

Rachel rubs at the spot that Santana keeps needling, crinkling her nose at the comparison. "Mmm…well, not exactly," because Rachel really hasn't ever thought of Brittany in that way, "but I certainly agree that she's an amazing dancer."

"I know, right? The way she moves," Santana trails off with a dreamy expression for which Rachel would really prefer to never know the cause. She sighs and takes another drink. "I was gonna get her back. I'd'a hadta kick you outta the bedroom," she reveals, eyeing Rachel critically before she shrugs dismissively, "but you're tiny. You coulda slept on a shelf or something. Maybe even joined us if you wanted. Get your college experimentation outta the way," she adds, waggling her eyebrows, or attempting to since her coordination isn't exactly up to par.

Rachel ignores the very inappropriate little thrill she feels that Santana would even think to make that suggestion—it's not that she's at all interested, but she won't deny that, even as a joke, it's a bit of a balm to her ego after so many years of listening to Santana's very creative insults meant to make her feel as unattractive and undesirable as possible. And that's all the more reason for Rachel to cut Santana off. "I think you've had too much to drink," she says gently, making a cautious grab for the bottle of tequila.

"Hey," Santana grunts, jerking the bottle away from Rachel's hand and tucking it out of her reach. "I can hold my liquor, Rae…Rachel. You should…you should stop tryin' to kill my buzz and get one of your own. I've got another bottle," she offers, attempting to stand as she speaks but tipping back into the sofa pretty quickly.

Rachel stifles a giggle. "No, thanks."

Santana nods. "I'm impressed. You're taking the whole," she waves a hand in front of Rachel's face, "rejection thing better than I thought. I mean, that was your dream role, right?" Rachel feels her stomach twist at the unpleasant reminder that she won't be playing Fanny Brice anytime in the near future, made more unpleasant when Santana laughs and says, "Losin' that's gotta suck."

Rachel purses her lips and glares at Santana, holding out a hand. "Give me that bottle."

"Don't think so."

Rachel huffs and abruptly lurches forward on her knees, catching Santana off-guard—a feat she wouldn't be able to accomplish if Santana were sober—and snatches the bottle from her grip. "Get off," Santana growls, grabbing for the tequila, but Rachel is faster, and Santana is drunk enough that she falls face forward into the sofa as Rachel stands up.

"Ha!" she shouts, holding up her prize in triumph.

"Fuckin' slippery little bitch," Santana grumbles, shakily pushing herself up.

Rachel smirks down at her, lifting the bottle to her lips and taking an experimental drink. Santana's eyes widen in muted surprise, but then Rachel actually tastes the tequila and feels it burn down her throat. Her own eyes widen as she coughs and sputters around the vile liquid, and Santana snorts in laughter, falling back against the sofa as she clutches at her stomach.

Rachel presses a hand to her chest as she catches her breath and sets the offending bottle down on the coffee table before she sits down next to Santana again. "That's awful," she rasps, horrified by the hoarseness of her own voice.

Santana manages to get her giggles under control and rolls her head in Rachel's direction. "Ya gots ta tuffin' up, Berrylicious. Get some life experience," she says pointedly, purposely—Rachel just knows it's purposely—paraphrasing the words that she'd heard mere weeks ago.

"Stupid casting directors," Rachel hisses, crossing her arms over her chest. "My tender age is hardly proof that I haven't had the appropriate life experiences to play Fanny." And really, how shortsighted! It's called acting for a reason. Certainly, no one expects the actresses who play Roxy Hart or Velma Kelly to actually murder someone before they can convincingly portray their characters. "I've had plenty of experience."

Santana snickers and manages to sit up straight again.

"I have! I've suffered," Rachel insists, scowling.

"Oh, please," Santana scoffs, reaching for the bottle again. Rachel no longer cares to try to stop her. "A few slushy facials and some playful insults."

"You told me to go back to Israel," Rachel reminds her heatedly.

"I wanted you to be with your people," Santana says with a shrug. "Anyway, that's kid's stuff, ya know? It's not experience. Dating Mister Bill By-The-Hour and almost getting knocked up at eighteen. That was life experience."

"Exactly," Rachel reluctantly agrees—even though it's an experience that she'd rather forget.

Santana nods. "And getting engaged in high school...completely stupid and pathetic, but total life experience."

"It was," she mumbles sadly.

"Getting conned by your bitchy bio-mom and dumped for a newer model. Life experience."

Rachel frowns, slumping in her seat. "Yeah."

"Having drunken sex with me. That's life experience."

"I'm not having sex with you," Rachel says with a faint smile and a roll of her eyes.

Santana furrows her eyebrows for a few seconds, and then her face clears, and she chuckles. "Oh, yeah. That was Quinn's life experience," she amends with a smug grin. "Mmmhmm. That was a really good night."

For a moment, Rachel wonders if that one sip of alcohol is enough to cause her to blackout, because her ears kind of buzz, her vision blurs slightly, and she feels a little lightheaded. She takes a deep breath and curls her fingers into the cushion beneath her, muttering a stilted, "Excuse me," because she's certain that she must have misunderstood what Santana said.

Santana takes another drink, still looking like that cat that got the cream, before she hums again and says, "I didn't know she had it in her, but let me tell ya," and she wags a finger under Rachel's nose that Rachel is very tempted to slap away, "for a straight girl, Quinn Fabray sure knows her way around lady parts, if ya know what I mean."

"N-no," Rachel stutters. "I…I don't…" Believe you, she wants to say, but her mouth feels suddenly dry, and Santana's laughter makes her want to claw her own ears off.

"No, but Quinn does," she says, and Rachel feels a little nauseous—the way she used to back in high school when she was just a loser with no friends and Quinn was…

"You're making this up," she accuses.

"Nope. Totally tapped that. Twice," Santana brags, holding up two fingers to illustrate her point, then snickering again as she presses them together and curls them lewdly.

This time, Rachel gives into the urge to slap her hand down, growling, "That's disgusting."

Santana scowls at her. "It was fuckin' awesome. Lemme tell ya, Rachie," she drawls, placing a hand on Rachel's shoulder that she immediately shrugs off, but Santana continues undeterred. "Q-Fab's got natural talent." Santana chuckles wickedly, leaning closer to Rachel and dropping her voice to a loud stage whisper. "I think she's a little bit gay."

Rachel tries to swallow, but her throat feels raw—it must still be burning from the tequila. She closes her eyes, trying to make Santana's smiling face disappear as she attempts to wrap her mind around the fact that Quinn would—that she would be willing to—and with Santana! But then she remembers Valentine's Day and catching a brief glimpse of Quinn and Santana sharing a slow dance while she'd been slipping back into the old, familiar song with Finn.

"You shouldn't be telling me this," Rachel mutters flatly, forcing herself to meet Santana's glassy eyes. "I'm certain Quinn would prefer that her...her indiscretions remain private."

"Hey, bitch," Santana warns, lightly shoving Rachel's shoulder. "Santana Lopez is nobody's indiscretion. Believe me, Quinn had no complaints." She squints, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Well...I mean, she was complaining about you being all up in Hudson's business again." She curls her lip in distaste at the thought. "And those expensive-ass train tickets she bought that you never used."

"Did she say that?" Rachel demands.

"Mmmhmm."

"Well, she never used hers either," Rachel spits back angrily. "She came once…once…because Kurt asked her to, after I'd asked her to come so many times." Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but Rachel had asked Quinn to come—before Kurt had moved to New York anyway.

"I got her to come so many times," Santana boasts.

"Stop saying that," Rachel snaps.

Santana's expression grows a little soft around the edges, and she pats Rachel's leg. "Aw, look, Rachel. This friend thing is like...like dating, 'kay? You gots ta work for it. Like...like how Quinn made you prom queen 'cause you were being a pathetic Lima loser," she reveals before she takes another drink.

Rachel gasps, staring at Santana in confusion. "What?"

"You'd'a thought when she suddenly decides she doesn't care about that cheap-ass, plastic crown, she'd'a let me have it," Santana continues, oblivious to Rachel's dismay. "Bitch won by one fuckin' vote. But no, she has to go and get all sappy, whining about how much it would mean to Rachel," she complains in a high, nasally voice that, frankly, sounds nothing like Quinn. "Like...what the hell?" she sneers, looking Rachel and up and down with a too-familiar look of disgust.

"Quinn won prom queen," Rachel repeats mechanically, feeling nauseous. She'd known—deep down—that hearing her own name announced must have been some kind of prank, but Finn had convinced her otherwise—convinced her that she'd somehow won the affection of her peers, when really, it had been Quinn. Quinn who'd won and—and what? Taken pity on her?

Santana rolls her eyes. "Well, duh. She's Quinn fuckin' Fabray. She always comes out on top." She grins again. "She sure came on top of me."

"Why are you still talking?" Rachel pleads softly, closing her eyes.

"Um, 'cause you hafta step it up on the friend-y thing," Santana explains, poking her shoulder again. "Quinn's way ahead on points. Prom," she repeats, holding a finger up, "buying you train tickets," she holds up another finger, "stopping you from being the Bride of Frankenteen," a third finger goes up, and Rachel winces at the memory of just how Quinn had ultimately stopped her, "bribing Sylvester to get you a yearbook page…"

"Quinn got the yearbook page?" Rachel interrupts breathlessly.

Santana pauses but doesn't answer, squinting at her own fingers. "Did I mention the whole nose thing?" she asks uncertainly, waving her extended fingers in a circle around her own nose.

"Santana…"

"Oh, talking you out of flashing your tits," she remembers triumphantly. "She was totally into seeing mine, by the way. Also, touching and tasting. Who knew Lucy Q was so into boobs?"

Rachel can't listen to another word. Her mind in spinning and her emotions are reeling, and honestly, in this moment, she doesn't care if Santana Lopez passes out in a pool of her own vomit. She jerks to her feet, but not before she has to hear Santana laughingly say, "But I guess she did date Finn with his pasty, pyramid nipples. Twice."

Rachel slams the bathroom door on Santana's drunken cackling—it's the only place in the apartment with a locking door—and she leans back against it, sliding down until she's sitting on the floor. She wraps her arms around her calves and leans her forehead against her knees as she concentrates on breathing—in and out.

Quinn had sex with Santana.

In.

Quinn rigged the prom votes so Rachel would win.

Out.

Quinn convinced Sue Sylvester to give one of the Cheerios' pages in the yearbook to glee club.

In.

Quinn.

Out.

Had sex.

In.

With Santana.

The breath stutters from her lungs in a sob, and she digs her nails into her skin. She feels like such a fool. Such a—a fucking fool! She thought they were friends. She thought that she was finally a part of the inner circle—that she wasn't some pathetic little joke to be lied to and laughed about—but she's still the last to know everything that's going on around her.

Oh, how Quinn must have been silently laughing when she'd come here, pretending to care so much about Rachel when she'd really just used the whole trip as an excuse to go shopping with Santana. God, was shopping some weird Quinn euphemism for sex? How long had they been…? How many times…?

With Santana! Of all people!

Rachel's stomach twists unexpectedly, and it's all she can do to scramble to her knees and lurch for the toilet just in the nick of time. The tequila tastes a thousand times worse coming back up. She wretches into the bowl until there's nothing but bile, and it's disgusting and suffocating and, for a minute, she honestly thinks that she's going to die right here like this—hunched over a toilet and choking on vomit and tears. When her stomach finally stops revolting and her gasps and sputters calm into uneven breaths, she lifts her head and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, sitting down heavily on the floor. She slams the lid shut and leans her forehead against the cold porcelain. It's ironic that she's the one in this position right now when Santana's the one who's busy poisoning her liver.

Santana!

And here come the tears again. Why does this hurt so much?

The sudden pounding on the door makes her jump, and she grits her teeth at Santana's impatient, "Hey! Hey, Hobbit. You fall in or something? I gots ta take a piss."

Rachel lifts her face and drags her fingers over her cheeks, wiping away her tears. Ignoring Santana's insistent knocking, she takes her time standing and moving to the sink, letting the water run cold as she rinses her mouth and washes her face.

"Come the fuck on," Santana yells, rattling the doorknob.

Rachel sets her jaw and takes a last look at her red eyes in the mirror before she finally opens the door. Santana roughly shoulders past her, muttering in Spanish and already hiking up her skirt. Rachel turns away in disgust, pulling the door shut behind her. She doesn't have any desire to see or talk to Santana for the rest of the night, so she pulls the curtain to Kurt's bedroom and slips into his bed—she knows he won't care. Curling onto her side, she closes her gritty eyes and tries to clear her mind, but images of Quinn and Santana, wrapped in each other's arms and laughing at her, chase her into her fitful dreams.

xx

She wakes up to Kurt's carefree humming as he sifts through his wardrobe. For some reason, it's particularly annoying this morning, and Rachel groans as she rolls over, flinging an arm over her stinging eyes to block out the light. The humming stops immediately, but it's replaced by a low chuckle that annoys Rachel even more.

"How much did you have to drink last night?" Kurt asks jovially.

Rachel drags her arm away from her face and lifts her head just enough to glare at him. "I'm not hungover."

Kurt's eyes widen in surprise. "Really? Because, honey, you know better than to fall asleep in your makeup when you're sober. I can hear your pores screaming from here."

Rachel presses her palms to her cheeks, groaning again as she silently curses Santana for completely throwing off her nightly routine. She drags herself into an upright position, cringing at the way her head throbs—she might as well be hungover for how awful she feels.

"I wasn't feeling well," she mumbles semi-truthfully, "and I didn't feel like dealing with a drunken Santana last night."

"I did notice the empty bottles on the table last night, but I assumed that you'd imbibed as well," Kurt admits with a shrug. "Especially since you were passed out in my bed, and Santana is currently dancing around our kitchen, making some questionable concoction from Mama Lopez's recipe book that she's calling breakfast. Frankly, I'm relieved that she seems to be in a better mood this morning."

Rachel frowns, standing hastily and smoothing the wrinkles from her clothes as best she can. Santana was drunk off her ass last night, gleefully blowing apart everything that Rachel believed was true. She doesn't get to be in a good mood while Rachel still feels like her chest is going to implode! She presses a hand there, feeling the steady heartbeat underneath her palm despite the worrisome tightness. Ignoring Kurt's inquisitive expression, Rachel roughly pushes the curtain aside and pads out of the bedroom, heading directly for the kitchen, where, sure enough, Santana is swaying to the soft music spilling from the radio and frying something that looks a bit like scrambled eggs but smells like salsa and peppers.

"Unbelievable," Rachel mutters, gaping at her roommate.

Santana turns to look at her and snickers. "Nice raccoon eyes. Can I offer you breakfast, or are you planning to forage through our garbage for scraps?"

"You need to move out," Rachel tells her bluntly, not even fully realizing what she's saying until the words are out there, but once they are, she has no desire to call them back. "I can't live with someone who doesn't respect me."

Santana silently stares at her for a few seconds before she slams her spatula down into the skillet and twists the burner off with a flick of her wrist. "What the hell, Rachel?" she demands. "Let's ignore the fact that I don't respect anyone who isn't me while I remind you that you had no problem living with your plastic, life-sized, sex toy who didn't even respect you enough to be honest about his dirty, little side job."

Rachel really wishes that Santana would stop bringing up her unfortunate experience with Brody. "He's not living here anymore, is he?"

"Because I got rid of him for you," Santana reminds her, jabbing a finger into her own chest. "Me," she stresses. "Auntie Tana, watching out for your ungrateful ass out of the kindness of my heart."

"Oh, please," Rachel scoffs, crossing her arms and scowling—fed up with Santana and her half-assed attempts at friendship. "Like you did that for my sake and not because you wanted the extra fifteen minutes of shower time and Brody's half of the closet."

Santana rolls her eyes. "So it benefited both of us. So what? And why is this even a thing again?"

"Because it's what you do," Rachel screeches, flinging out her arms in frustration. "You just impose yourself on people…whether they want you or not," she accuses on a trembling breath, dragging her hands through her tangled hair. She's half-aware of Kurt coming out of the bedroom, still tucking his shirt into his slacks, but her focus is on Santana and her maddening vanity and stupid, perfect complexion that doesn't betray even an ounce of shame. "You act like you're doing them some big favor even though it's always about you and your," her voice cracks, and she swallows heavily before rasping, "your selfish desires. And the whole time you're just…laughing about it behind my back and making me feel like an idiot for thinking that she actually cares about me."

Santana's angry scowl shifts into confusion for just a moment. "She? What are you even talking about?"

"You," Rachel shouts, shrugging off Kurt's hand when he gingerly places it on her shoulder. "You obviously don't care about me or my feelings if you can just lie to me like it's nothing and keep all these secrets that I should have been told about." She runs her tongue over her lips in a vain attempt to moisten them and tastes salt. The realization that she's crying only increases her frustration, and she wipes angrily at her tears. "You should have told me."

"Rachel, honey," Kurt murmurs, trying again to rest a comforting hand on her back. This time she lets him, leaning into his familiar body.

"I want her to go," she whispers, still glaring at Santana through blurry, burning eyes. "I can't…I can't have her here anymore." It hurts just to look at her.

"I don't understand," Kurt says, glancing back and forth between them. "What's going on with the two of you?"

Santana starts to shake her head, but then she freezes, eyes widening and lips parting in realization. "Wait. Is this…are you pissed about what I said last night?" she asks incredulously, planting a hand on her cocked hip. "Seriously?"

"Do I even dare ask?"

"Oh, I'm sure Rachel will tell you all about it," Santana informs Kurt with a nasty smirk. "But right now, I'm gonna have my breakfast and my coffee, and then I'm gonna take a shower in the bathroom that is one third mine," she holds up a finger in emphasis, "thanks to that rent check that I hand over every month. So if you" and she points at Rachel, "want to wash that sad, mess of tarnished dreams off your face before it's permanently tattooed there, you should probably get on that now."

The tightness in Rachel's chest intensifies, and she rubs a hand over it again. "You're not even sorry, are you?"

"No, I'm not," Santana confirms, taking a few steps closer and lowering her voice. "Because I didn't do anything wrong, Rachel. And neither did Quinn. And that's what's really getting your panties all twisted, isn't it? It's not about me keeping secrets that weren't really secrets at all. It's that Quinn never bothered to tell you any of this, did she?"

Rachel bites into her lip and looks away, feeling her tears threaten to intensify.

"Look, I'm not gonna be your whipping girl just because you and Quinn can't seem figure out your shit unless you're caught up in some crazy, melodramatic bit of stupid—like teen pregnancies and weddings and getting hit by trucks."

Rachel sucks in a harsh breath, releasing it on a sob even as Kurt hisses a cautionary, "Santana."

"What? It happened," she reminds them needlessly, "just like Quinn's little trip down south," she adds, purposely catching Rachel's eyes. "So deal with it, and then you can ask yourself why the hell it bothers you so much."

Rachel shakes her head in frustration, pulling away from Kurt and storming into the bathroom. She groans when she sees her reflection in the mirror. The streaked mascara, smudged makeup, curly hair sticking up in all directions, and bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes don't make for an attractive picture.

Deal with it.

Like that's so damn easy.

She huffs out a breath and slams her palms against the sink, bowing her head. Sometimes, she really hates Santana. She didn't even attempt an apology for any of the inappropriate things that she'd said last night, turning everything around on Rachel that way! And really—Rachel and Quinn had certainly worked out all of their shit (as Santana so crassly phrased it) by graduation. They were fine. Or Rachel had thought they were—until last night.

"Damn it," she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut against the realization that Santana is right. The thing that's bothering her most is the fact that she and Quinn obviously aren't fine. How can they be if Rachel didn't know anything about prom, or that yearbook photo, or—or—? God, she can't even think about that! Just the idea of Quinn and Santana together that way makes her want to tear out all of her hair and scream until her voice is raw. Of all the women that Quinn could have chosen to—to have sex with—and how did that even happen? Rachel had never seriously imagined that Quinn Fabray would consider exploring her Sapphic tendencies—and if she was going to, then it sure as hell shouldn't have been with Santana! It should have been with—oh.

She gasps, eyes flying open in harsh realization.

It should have been with me, she thinks weakly, closing her eyes again as she leans heavily on the sink. She's not completely certain where the thought even came from, but now that it's in her mind, she can't ignore it. Or maybe she can't go back to ignoring it, because if she's being completely honest with herself, she has to admit that this isn't the first time that she's flirted with the notion that her relationship with Quinn has always been just a little bit too intense—too intimate. There were even a few odd moments when Quinn would look at her in a certain way and—Rachel never let herself entertain those thoughts for longer than a few seconds. Even if Quinn could have actually wanted something more from her, Rachel was in love with Finn.

She was in love with him.

She doesn't know exactly what she is now—except that she's shaking like a leaf and feeling a little sick to her stomach. She can't stop thinking about Quinn being something more with Santana, and Rachel would give anything to make the knowledge disappear. She chokes down a bitter sob at the thought, because she's been doing such a stellar job of remaining willfully ignorant of everything up until this very moment.

Rachel uncurls her fingers from the edges of the sink and brushes away the remnants of her tears, and then she methodically turns on the water and begins the thorough process of scrubbing away her makeup. She makes a concentrated effort to not think about anything but the process. It seems only logical to extend her cleansing ritual to the rest of her body, so she strips off her wrinkled clothes, turns on the shower, and steps inside. She's not nearly as successful at occupying her mind under the gentle spray, and she finds her thoughts straying to high school and a dozen memories that revolve around Quinn—a song that she'd suggested to show her—their—support for Quinn, another that she'd written with Quinn's words echoing in her ears, a prom corsage that—Rachel laughs hollowly, ducking her head under the cascade of water in hopes of drowning out the truth. It doesn't work.

Feeling a tiny bit better once she's washed away the remnants of yesterday, she wraps a towel around her body, takes a deep breath, and opens the door. She can hear the quiet murmur of voices in the kitchen under the rattle of plates, but she refuses to dwell on whatever conversation Kurt and Santana might be having. It really doesn't matter anyway. She's already made a complete fool of herself in front of her roommates, and she doesn't have the energy to face them right now, so she slips into her bedroom and draws the curtain, shutting out the rest of the loft and wishing it was as easy to shut out her new-found awareness.

xx

It takes two days—two days of Rachel ignoring Santana and evading Kurt's concerned questions to the best of her ability. She's not completely oblivious. She knows that Santana is equal parts frustrated and angry at the way she's behaving, and that Kurt has managed to gather enough facts combined with speculation to form his own hypothesis of what's going on. Rachel keeps brushing him off with a sullen, "I don't want to talk about it," but it's rapidly losing its effectiveness. The truth is that Rachel needs to talk about it—just not with Kurt. So she skips her classes and rifles through her drawer, digging to the bottom where her senior yearbook is stashed. She opens it to a well-creased page and shifts aside the envelope that acts as a bookmark. Rachel runs her fingers over the photograph on the page—one of her and Quinn in the library studying.

When she'd first seen it, she'd been surprised to find it hidden in one of the collages of student-life pictures scattered throughout the book, and she'd struggled to remember when it could have been taken. She's fairly certain that Tina was probably at the table as well—the three of them studied together often since they all shared the same free-period last year—but the photographer had chosen to cut her out of the shot. Instead, the focus is on Quinn, ignoring the book in front of her and gazing at Rachel with a wistful smile. The Rachel in the picture is oblivious. The Rachel sitting on the edge of her mattress right now is all too aware—too aware of why the spine is cracked to fall easily open to this specific page and why the Metro North passes that Quinn had bought are tucked into it. She'd stared at this picture repeatedly when she'd first gotten the yearbook, slightly obsessed with it—both hoping to figure out Quinn's expression and hoping to explain it away. Maybe she should have been trying to figure out why it mattered so much to her instead.

Rachel sighs and sets the yearbook aside, tucking her fingers beneath the flap of the crinkled envelope and sliding out the pass. The expiration date mocks her. She'd never even used it once. She's been so stupid.

It doesn't take long to pack a small bag. She doesn't take much—just some essentials like a toothbrush and makeup and a spare pair of underwear. She's not really planning to spend the night—she doesn't even know if she'll be welcome—but it never hurts to be prepared. She takes a few moments to scan through her saved emails until she finds one of the first that Quinn had sent her from Yale—the one that tells Rachel the name of Quinn's dormitory and the floor that she lives on—and she hastily scribbles the information down. She leaves an equally hasty note for her roommates telling them that she's going on a day-trip and not to worry, and then she's out the door.

She takes the L train to Union Square and transfers, rolling into Grand Central Station in less than forty minutes and finding a ticket machine. She grimaces at the price of a one-way fare, feeling awful all over again for allowing Quinn's generous gift to be wasted, but she makes her purchase. The trains run nearly every hour, and as Rachel waits for the next one, she thinks about how ridiculously easy it would have been to visit Quinn or for Quinn to visit her, and she knows there aren't any excuses for why they didn't take advantage of the fact.

The two-hour train ride is measured by steady turns of the wheels against the track, and Rachel grows more nervous and uncertain with every mile. She mentally writes and rewrites her opening line a dozen times—she doesn't think that saying she was in the neighborhood will work—until she finally breaks down and sends Quinn a simple text saying that she wants to talk. She doesn't mention that she's already on the way to New Haven, which turns out not to matter anyway because Quinn never answers the message. Rachel tries calling when she reaches Union Station, but it goes directly to Quinn's voicemail. She begins to regret the impulsiveness of her trip, but it's too late to back down now. She's finally asking those questions that she should have asked last year (and the year before that and the year before that), and she needs the answers.

She asks an official looking gentleman at the train station how to get to the Yale campus, and he gives her directions both by foot and by bus. It's not very far—within walking distance if she's up for it—but she knows nothing about New Haven beyond the sparse anecdotes that Quinn had shared in her emails months ago, so she opts for what she hopes is the safer mode of travel. She has to wait fifteen minutes for the bus, and she tries twice more to call Quinn with the same result. She growls under hear breath on the last attempt, thinking how very irresponsible it is for Quinn to leave her phone off. Who knows what kind of catastrophic emergency could arise?

Rachel is barely on the bus for ten minutes before she's getting off at Chapel Street. It's the closest stop to the campus, and, in retrospect, she realizes that it probably would have been faster to walk. She barely takes time to admire the scenery as she walks the final few blocks to the old campus, where she knows Quinn's dorm is located, although she can't help but notice the grass and trees that fill those blocks before she finally reaches the grand, old buildings that encompass the freshman dorms. She suddenly feels small in a way that she doesn't in New York—as if Yale is some kind of sacred ground that she's not worthy of stepping foot on. It doesn't stop her, however, and she's flagging down the first person she sees to ask which building is Bingham Hall.

Of course it would be the one that looks most like a castle, complete with Gothic architecture and gargoyles. Rachel shakes her head at how perfectly the building—the entire campus, really—is suited to Quinn. She indulges in a very brief flight-of-fancy that she's a knight on a quest for truth and seeking the favor of the beautiful princess. It's ridiculous and dramatic, and Rachel refuses to think too deeply on the casting choice she's made—it's her fantasy after all.

It's not hard to sneak into the dorm—she just walks in with a group of girls who are too busy teasing one another and giggling about some secret joke to notice Rachel. In fact, she follows them right onto the elevator and up to the fourth floor, but when she steps off, she feels completely out of her element. She'd really spent so little time in her own dormitory at NYADA, and she'd never felt comfortable there. It's no different here, with students casually loitering in the hallway and a myriad of different musical styles drifting from open doorways to create a harshly juxtaposed mash-up.

Squaring her shoulders, Rachel marches up to a boy standing outside one of the closed doors and juggling his books. "Excuse me," she says, startling him slightly and causing him to drop his keys. He groans in frustration, and Rachel offers a mumbled apology as she swiftly bends down to retrieve the keys and holds them out to him.

"Thanks," he mutters, managing to finally get the key onto the lock.

"I was wondering if you could tell me in which room I might find Quinn Fabray."

He looks at her oddly, dark eyes roaming up and down her body until Rachel narrows her own in irritation. "I haven't seen you around before," he says with an interested smirk.

Rachel huffs, crossing her arms. "And I daresay that you won't again anytime soon. Now can you or can you not tell me where to find Quinn Fabray?"

His smirk turns into a sneer. "Figures you'd be one of them. Second to the last door on the left," he says with a jerk of his chin before he disappears inside his room and slams the door in Rachel's face.

So far, Yalies aren't impressing her much.

Rachel pads down the hallway and stops at the door that may or may not be Quinn's, taking a breath and lifting her hand to knock. It begins to swing open, and Rachel's stomach does a strange little flip in anticipation and then falls in disappointment. The girl looking back at her—who very much isn't Quinn—is quite attractive, with high cheekbones, dirty blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail, and square glasses that frame a pair of vivid blue eyes. "Can I help you?" she asks politely.

"I…I'm looking for Quinn Fabray," Rachel says, her voice rising uncertainly on the familiar name.

The girl's lips turn up into an odd smile. "Of course you are," she says in amusement, and she opens the door wider, gesturing for Rachel to come inside. "She's in her room," the girl tells her helpfully. "I'm one of her suitemates, Jackie. I was just about to head out, but why don't you go on in and surprise her," Jackie says with a smile that makes Rachel feel more than a little apprehensive.

"Oh…I…I don't want to intrude…especially if she's napping," Rachel adds, thinking of those unanswered phone calls.

Jackie laughs again, grabbing her bag off the table. "Oh, she's not napping. She's just finishing up her afternoon workout," she says with a smirk. "It's that room there," she points out, turning to leave. "I'm sure she'll be thrilled to see you."

Rachel isn't so certain, and she's especially dubious that Jackie would know such a thing. She didn't even bother to ask for Rachel's name, let alone any kind of identification! For all she knows, she's just invited a serial killer in to murder her suitemate. Rachel makes a mental note to discuss this serious matter with Quinn.

Despite the invitation to just go on in, Rachel hesitates, glancing uncertainly around the common room of the suite. It's neat and clean and seems quite inviting, although there's nothing that makes it immediately apparent that Quinn even lives here. She pauses in front of the door that Jackie had indicated and decides that knocking would probably be prudent. It's answered with a husky, "Fuck off, Jackie."

Rachel stills, sucking in a surprised breath. She instantly recognizes Quinn's voice, but she's never heard it sound quite like that before, and she's certainly never heard it use that language. "Q-Quinn? It's me," she calls out softly, then frowns and adds, "Rachel," just in case.

There's a long silence, and then Rachel hears a muffled, "Shit," from inside the room, followed by a dull thud than sounds like something heavy hitting the floor. Concerned, her hand automatically curls around the doorknob and twists.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks, opening the door without thinking.

"Rachel! Don't come in here," Quinn snaps, but the door is already open—enough to reveal a very naked Quinn kneeling on the floor and hastily pulling on a striped, button-down that doesn't cover much of anything. And oh, the things that aren't covered! Rachel takes far longer than she should to pull her eyes away.

"Oh, my God," she gasps. "I'm so sorry." She finally closes her eyes and starts to pull the door closed, but the laughter that bubbles up from inside the room—the very feminine laughter that certainly doesn't belong to Quinn Fabray (because Rachel knows what Quinn's laughter sounds like, despite not having had the pleasure of hearing it very often)—stops her short, and she reflexively pushes the door back open again. This time, her eyes manage to move past a flustered, tousled Quinn and latch onto the other girl in the room—a gorgeous and unabashedly naked brunette, sitting up in the tiny twin bed with an expression of utter amusement on her face.

"This isn't what it looks like," Quinn insists weakly. The other girl throws her head back and laughs again, pressing a hand to her perfectly flat stomach, and Rachel feels sick all over again.

"I've obviously come at a bad time," she manages to rasp between clenched teeth. "I…I'll just…go," she stammers awkwardly, hastily backing out of the room and nearly tripping over her own feet as she goes.

"Rachel, wait," Quinn calls after her, but she can't. She has to get out—get away from Quinn as quickly as possible before she humiliates herself even more by bursting into tears. They're already beginning to sting her eyes.

Quinn obviously has a type, she thinks bitterly as she runs toward the elevator, slamming the down button repeatedly, grateful when the doors slide open before Quinn comes after her—if Quinn even bothers to come after her, since she's obviously otherwise engaged!

Rachel angrily wipes away her tears in the elevator, wondering how she could have even imagined that Quinn would just be sitting in her dorm room alone, waiting for Rachel to show up and stupidly want to talk about their kind-of friendship, but kind-of more than that, now. It's obviously far too late.

She all but runs out of the building and into the courtyard, and she keeps walking for a good thirty seconds before she realizes that she doesn't really know where she is or where she's going. She needs to find the bus stop, but she thinks that she must have gotten turned around somewhere because this doesn't look like the same place where she came into Bingham Hall. She curls her fingers into her palm, focusing on the bite of her nails into the skin as she concentrates on her breathing. There's a bench nearby, and she makes her way over to it, sinking down onto the hard surface and closing her eyes. She just needs a minute—just a minute to calm down and find her center.

"You didn't get very far."

Quinn's voice effectively ends her futile attempt at tranquility. "I just needed a moment to...get my bearings," she says, forcing her eyes open to watch Quinn—blessedly dressed, though still atypically rumpled—worry the corner of her lip as she gingerly sits down next to Rachel.

"You really should have called first."

"Yes, I'm realizing that," Rachel snaps, not bothering to mention that she'd tried. She doesn't imagine that Quinn would consider a call from the train station to be sufficient notice anyway. "Is she your girlfriend?" she asks tactlessly.

Quinn laughs shortly and shakes her head. "No."

"Oh," Rachel breathes, pursing her lips and staring out into the deceptively tranquil afternoon. She can't quite decide if she's disappointed in Quinn—or relieved.

Quinn clicks her tongue. "Don't you dare sit there and judge me. Not when you," she starts to say, cutting herself off mid-sentence with a sharp shake of her head. "It's college, Rachel. I'm single. Why shouldn't I have a little fun?"

"Is that what Santana was?" she asks unthinkingly.

Quinn's eyes widen in surprise before she can school her expression. "She told you?" Rachel gives a jerky nod, and Quinn huffs, sliding her gaze away from Rachel's eyes. "Look, we were drunk. I was curious, and she was convenient," she explains with a shrug.

"Convenient?" Rachel scoffs. "Santana Lopez is hardly what I'd call convenient."

Quinn sighs and pushes her hands through her hair, moistening her lips before she asks, "If you ever wanted to know what it was like to be with a woman, wouldn't you pick someone you knew and trusted?"

"I'd pick someone I love," Rachel answers reflexively, thinking of her own experience with Finn before she remembers Brody. "Or…at least someone that I could fall in love with." She refuses to acknowledge the possibility that Quinn could actually fall in love with Santana.

"Of course," Quinn mutters, rolling her eyes, "because you're a romantic."

Rachel is mildly offended at Quinn's patronizing tone. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"No," she admits, meeting Rachel's eyes unflinchingly. "But that's you, Rachel. I'm a pragmatist, and Santana was a safe bet. There were no expectations or pretenses, just two friends having fun with no drama and no complicated emotions getting in the way. It was only meant to be a one time thing."

"But it obviously wasn't," Rachel says with a frown.

Quinn's jaw clenches, causing a muscle in her cheek to jump before her shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath. "Look, I liked it, okay? I liked having sex with a woman, enough to leave my options open when I came back here." Her lips curve into a faint smile. "And, let me tell you, there are a lot of very attractive, not-straight women on this campus."

The admission shakes Rachel more than it should, and she licks her lips uncertainly. "So, are you...?"

Quinn's eyebrow arches. "Do I really need to label it?"

Rachel looks away. "No. No, you don't."

"Why did you come here?" Quinn asks.

Rachel's fingers curl around the edge of the bench, and she takes a fortifying breath. There are so many complicated answers to that question, but she chooses the easiest one—for now. "I know about prom. What you did."

"Wow, Santana must have been in a really talkative mood," Quinn says with a vague trace of humor in her voice.

Rachel shrugs. "She was drunk."

There's a telling pause—a moment when Quinn's body grows tense and still beside her, and when she speaks again, her tone is guarded. "What else did she tell you?"

Rachel wonders what else there is to tell, but she doesn't ask. "You know, I really thought that prom meant something. That...that I'd proven to everyone at that school that I was someone worthwhile, someone that they could like and...and respect. Winning that vote...it made me feel like I could do anything. Like I could go to New York and make my dreams come true, NYADA or no NYADA. But it was all a lie."

"No, it wasn't," Quinn argues forcefully. "The lie was you believing that you had no other option but to stay in Lima and marry Finn Hudson." The way she says his name—like it's leaving a bad taste in her mouth—instantly throws Rachel back to that bridal shop where Quinn had made one final attempt to convince her that marrying Finn was a mistake. "And you know what?" Quinn continues. "I don't regret fixing that election, Rachel. Especially not if it helped finally get you off your ass and start chasing your dreams again."

It's nothing that Quinn hasn't said before, in some variation or another, but it's the first time that Rachel really hears her, and the words spark in her belly, radiating a warmth unlike anything she's ever felt. "Do you even know how completely you've…befuddled me?" she asks softly.

"Befuddled?" Quinn repeats on a stifled laugh.

Rachel ignores her obvious amusement. "Yes. I was so certain that I had everything figured out, and now I find out that everything is just," she looks at Quinn, letting her gaze roam over familiar features that she feels like she's seeing for the first time, "is just completely wrong."

A rosy tint colors Quinn's cheeks, but she laughs off Rachel's words. "Oh, please. It was just a plastic crown."

"But it's not! It's not just that. It's you," Rachel says passionately, watching Quinn's eyes flash with awareness. "You're obviously not as averse to exploring your sexuality as I'd imagined."

"I can't help it that you made assumptions about that, Rachel."

Well, of course she did, but they were perfectly logical assumptions because, "You were a member of the Christ Crusaders."

Quinn tilts her chin defiantly. "So I'm automatically a repressed, bible-thumping homophobe?" she challenges.

Rachel's eyes widen, and she's quick to shake her head and say, "No! No, of course not, but you just," she trails off on a frustrated sigh. "There was always a boy."

"Is that it?" Quinn asks, crossing her arms defensively. "Because there's always a boy until there isn't. Look at Santana," she says pointedly.

"I'd rather not discuss her right now, thank you," Rachel mutters.

"Then what do you want to discuss? Because I'm having a little trouble believing that you'd come all the way to New Haven just because you found out that I had sex with Santana or that I rigged a prom vote last year."

Rachel fidgets nervously, turning toward Quinn on the bench. She's lost count by now of how many times she's seen that careful restraint etched across Quinn's beautiful face—the hard mask of indifference meant to deflect whatever new attack or disappointment that life throws at her, betrayed every time by the glittering emotion in her eyes that refuses to be hidden.

"You asked me if I was singing to Finn," she says quietly.

For a moment—just a moment—Rachel wonders if Quinn even remembers it, or if maybe it was all just some strange, pre-wedding hallucination that she'd conjured up, but then Quinn's entire posture changes. Her arms fall limply down across her lap, her shoulders sag almost imperceptibly, and she whispers a pleading, "Rachel…"

"I…I didn't understand why you would ask me that," Rachel rushes out, stopping whatever protest Quinn might try make before she loses her nerve, "or…or what you wanted me to say. I couldn't even allow myself to entertain the notion that you were…that you wanted me to be singing to…to someone else," she finishes lamely, finding that she's not quite able to complete the sentence the way she'd intended, just in case she's completely wrong about everything. God knows it wouldn't be the first time.

Quinn's gaze is firmly trained on her own hands, where they twist together in her lap. "I didn't, okay. I knew it was always Finn." She looks up, quickly revealing her glistening eyes to Rachel before she looks away again, taking a slightly ragged breath and confessing that, "I just…needed to hear you say it."

"But I didn't," Rachel murmurs, remembering that odd moment and her confusion. She'd only nodded dumbly because she hadn't known exactly what Quinn was trying to achieve, but "I didn't say anything, Quinn."

Quinn laughs hollowly, shaking her head as she stares at some unknown spot to avoid meeting Rachel's eyes. "You know, for all the constant talking that you do, it's the things you don't say that speak volumes."

"I don't understand," Rachel says with a frown.

"No, you never do." When Quinn's gaze settles on Rachel again, it's filled with sadness and regret. "I said and did everything that I could to show you how much I cared about you, short of actually coming out and telling you how I felt," she admits with a rueful smile, "because I wasn't quite that brave, but you chose to ignore it." Quinn jerks her left hand up, raking her fingers through her hair as she shakes her head in disbelief. "God, I even bought us Metro North passes so we could visit one another, and you," she says angrily, "your response was to not-so-subtly encourage me to give Puck another chance."

"I did not," Rachel denies, despite the sinking realization that she had, in fact, said something very much akin to that.

"You didn't visit me, Rachel. You never even mentioned wanting to," Quinn reminds her harshly.

"Well, neither did you!" Rachel counters. "You never invited me to Yale, and when I asked you to come to New York, you said it was a bad time."

"It was the first week of classes. I was still trying to get settled in," Quinn defends heatedly. "I told you that I'd come see you in a few weeks, but then you never invited me again because you suddenly had Kurt."

"That's not fair!"

"No, it isn't fair," Quinn says with a tremor in her voice that reveals just how deeply she'd been hurt by Rachel's failure to make the effort to see her. "You're the one who swore that my friendship was your biggest accomplishment, and then you all but ignored me for months. You didn't even come back to Lima for the holidays."

Rachel guiltily drops her eyes and shifts uncomfortably on the bench. "It…it would have been too awkward…w-with Finn."

Quinn scoffs. "And yet Finn is the one person other than Kurt that you actually went out of your way to stay in touch with. You wouldn't even be talking to Santana right now if she hadn't shown up on your doorstep and invited herself to live with you. Every single time I emailed you, you sent back these short little replies that said exactly nothing, and even when I did come to New York, you could barely even manage to squeeze me in for dinner."

"I wasn't expecting you! I couldn't just drop everything, and anyway, you brought Santana with you," she fires back petulantly, aware that her jealousy is getting the better of her again. "It's not like we had any one-on-one time, and then you left the very next morning."

"I had classes that I couldn't miss if I wanted to be able to make it back to Lima for that disastrous wedding, where you barely even said hello to me before you went back to being Finn's personal cheerleader. I'm not a moron, Rachel. I know how to take a hint."

"I wasn't hinting anything," Rachel shouts, bouncing up from the bench and pacing a few steps away. She needs to calm down, but Quinn has always has such a knack for pushing just the right buttons with the perfect amount of hard truths to send her world spinning out of control. She turns around to find that Quinn is standing too, arms crossed beneath her breasts, and she waves her hands in agitation as she tries to explain that, "I just got so caught up in New York and school and everything else happening in my life."

"Like almost getting pregnant?" Quinn asks pointedly.

It feels like a solid punch to Rachel's gut, and she wraps her arms around her stomach protectively. "Santana told you?" she manages once she feels like she can breathe again.

Quinn's lips twist mockingly. "Yeah, we actually do keep in touch."

"Intimately, it seems."

"Will you just drop that, Rachel?" Quinn growls in frustration, taking a step forward until she's standing in Rachel's personal space. "It's really none of your business, especially when you couldn't even be bothered to tell me when you were going through the one thing that I could have actually helped you with," she says lowly.

Rachel clenches her jaw and looks away, unable to bear the look of disappointment in Quinn's eyes. "I didn't want you to know."

"Why not?"

"Because I knew what you'd say, okay? I knew you'd be so disappointed that I was flushing that amazing life that you imagined for me right down the toilet."

Quinn puffs out a breath, stepping back with a subtle shake of her head. "Well, I guess you'll never know what I might have said, because you obviously don't care enough about this friendship to put in the effort to maintain it."

A shiver of fear works its way down Rachel's spine. This conversation isn't going at all the way she wants it to, and she's truly afraid that she's somehow managed to undo every little bit of progress that she'd made with Quinn over the last four years. "That's not true! I care about you, Quinn. I care so much," she swears fervently.

"Yeah, well, the last eight months suggest otherwise," Quinn mutters, crossing her arms again as she visibly struggles to reclaim her practiced façade of emotional detachment. "You should be grateful. I finally got the message and moved on."

Rachel's stomach sinks, and she unconsciously presses a trembling palm to it. "What does that mean?"

"Exactly what you think it means," Quinn says with a dismissive shrug. "So, I'm sorry if whatever Santana might have said to you made you think that you needed to rush up here and, what? Make sure poor Quinn isn't self-destructing again?" she questions scornfully. "Because I'm not, Rachel. I'm finally figuring things out and enjoying my life. So, just go back to New York and enjoy yours, and maybe we'll grab a coffee the next time I visit Santana."

It's a well-aimed jab, and Rachel can tell by the glimmer of remorse in Quinn's eyes that she knows it, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. "So, that's it? We're not even friends anymore?"

Quinn swallows and glances away. "I'm not sure we ever really were."

The pain intensifies, so much that Rachel is barely able to force out a strained, "O-okay," under the sudden weight on her chest. She woodenly moves toward the bench, brushing past Quinn to reach for her bag. She never should have come here. She should have just forced herself to go on living in blissful ignorance—at least that way she could still call Quinn her friend. Now she won't even have that, and she'll never know how much more they could have become. Her hand stills on the strap of her bag, and she squares her shoulders and turns to Quinn with narrowed eyes. "No. You know what? That's bullshit."

Quinn's damnable eyebrow inches up. "Excuse me?"

"We are friends, Quinn," Rachel insists forcefully. "Maybe I made some mistakes…"

"Maybe?" Quinn interrupts disbelievingly.

"And maybe I did unconsciously push you away because it got so hard to be around you and ignore all these," Rachel waves her hand between them, "these moments and looks and feelings that shouldn't be there. They shouldn't be there, Quinn," she repeats desperately, "but they are, and I didn't know what to do with them. I just wanted to be your friend. That's all I've ever wanted. But you always make everything so much more complicated than it should be."

"I do?" Quinn asks incredulously.

"And now you just want give up on us," Rachel laments, "o-on our friendship, like it never mattered at all. But it does matter. It matters to me," she says, pressing a hand over her heart.

Quinn stares at her silently for what feels like forever. It's been a long time since Rachel has seen her face quite so unreadable. Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips before she says, "Obviously not as much as Finn matters, or Kurt, or even Santana."

Rachel sucks in a breath. "You're wrong."

Quinn sighs, shifting her weight into a stance that makes her appear almost bored with the conversation. "Look, Rachel, it's not like I hate you and never want to talk to you again. We can keep in touch. I won't delete any emails that you send me. I'm just done expecting you to actually care enough about me to want to know what's happening in my life or share what's happening in yours without having to hear it from Santana first."

Rachel doesn't know what to say. She wants to keep arguing, but she realizes with a sinking sense of dread that she can't. She's been a terrible friend, taking Quinn for granted when she should have been cherishing her and making use of those damn train tickets. Maybe then, they'd both be enjoying their college experience together. She's admitted to her mistake, admitted to feelings that still scare her more than a little, but Quinn Fabray can be so stubborn—so doggedly attached to her own opinion that she's virtually unmovable. Rachel is equally as obstinate, and when they clash, one of them typically walks away in tears. She hasn't fully realized until now just how much Quinn has bent for her in the past, and she wishes that she could figure out how to make it happen again, but she's afraid that sometime during the last year, she'd broken Quinn enough to make that impossible. And it hurts.

She's not ready to give up on Quinn. "There's one thing that I need to know before I go back to New York," she says softly, watching Quinn's face intently.

"What?" Quinn asks tiredly.

Rachel takes a fortifying breath and gathers up her courage before she swiftly closes the distance between them, brushing her lips across Quinn's and taking her completely by surprise. Quinn doesn't react, and Rachel's eyes flutter closed in disappointment as she reluctantly begins to pull away, but she doesn't get far before Quinn's lips part and recapture hers in a silken trap that Rachel falls into willingly—because Quinn really, really knows how to kiss. The pull that Rachel has always felt toward her intensifies to an infinite degree, and she realizes with sudden clarity that—yes, the attraction she feels is physical and not merely emotional.

She feels the inescapable need to be closer, and she slides her hands to Quinn's waist. The additional contact seems to pull Quinn out of the moment, and she hastily breaks the kiss and steps back, pushing Rachel's hands away and staring at her in undisguised shock.

Rachel involuntarily lifts her fingers to her mouth and brushes them across her lower lip in awe. "Finn was right," she whispers unthinkingly, recalling comparisons to fireworks and a goofy grin that had broken her heart at the time. She feels like she's probably wearing the same expression right now—but Quinn isn't. In fact, Quinn isn't smiling at all. Her jaw is tense and her eyes are shining, and those don't look at all like happy tears.

Rachel's smile fades. "Quinn?"

"Can you go now?" she asks evenly.

"Quinn, I think we should," but Rachel's words die in the throat when Quinn abruptly spins on her heel and walks away without another word or even a single glance back.

Rachel mechanically sinks down onto the bench, watching the Yale campus fade into a blurry mess of tears. It's a very long time later before she can muster up the energy to leave New Haven, and when she does, a piece of her heart stays behind.

xx

It's late when Rachel finally gets home. She'd sat at Union Station for over an hour, missing the first train that had passed through because getting on it had meant accepting that she'd ruined her one chance with Quinn—right along with their friendship. She's hoping that she'll be able to slip into the loft unnoticed, though she knows that she'll have to face Santana soon enough. They share a bedroom after all. Unfortunately, it happens sooner than she'd like, because Santana is lounging on the sofa watching television when Rachel slides the door open. She stiffens her shoulders and attempts to walk past without a word, but Santana is already turning off the television and sitting up straight. "So just how badly did you fuck it up?" she asks conversationally.

Rachel stops mid-step, eyeing Santana warily. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Please. The queen bitch called as soon you left, pissed that I flapped my mouth. Frankly, her screaming was making my ears bleed, so I stopped listening after the first minute, but the fact that she had yet another Quinnsane meltdown over the phone and you're here instead of there, working off four years of sexual tension, means that you obviously fucked things up spectacularly as only Rachel Berry can."

Rachel can't answer, she's too busy pressing a palm over her mouth to choke back yet another sob. She had no idea that she could shed this many tears over Quinn. Santana's expression grows unexpectedly sympathetic, and she's at Rachel's side, pulling her into an awkward hug before Rachel can really process what's happening. She turns her face into Santana's shoulder and cries, too aware of the irony, and it seems like Santana is as well. "We really have stop having these moments," she mutters, stroking Rachel's hair. "I only do this emotional crap with girls I'm sleeping with."

Rachel chuckles wetly. "We do share a bedroom."

She feels Santana sigh before she pulls away. "You wanna talk about it?"

Rachel sniffles and brushes the tears from her cheeks. "No offense, but you're the very last person I want to talk to about this."

Santana nods in understanding. "For what it's worth," she says, stopping Rachel from immediately escaping into the bedroom, "Quinn asked me to send her a text to let her know you got home safe." Then she shrugs and shakes her head in annoyance. "But I'm not her fucking secretary. You can send your own damn text." It's said with a faint grin, and then Santana is reaching for the television remote and making herself comfortable once again as if Rachel had never interrupted her evening.

Rachel does decide to send a text, but it only says, I'm sorry. She doesn't get a response, but she doesn't really expect one. What she does get is a pen and notebook into which she writes all of her jumbled emotions until they begin to make sense—and then she writes pages of poetry that turn into song lyrics and wonders if Quinn will listen if Rachel records it for her.

It takes seven days—seven days of repeating the same conversation with Kurt, who automatically takes Rachel's side even though there isn't really a side to take, and gritting her teeth through Santana's jokes and teasing offers to show her the basics of romancing a woman, though Santana had been far more vulgar in her phrasing. The simple fact is that Rachel doesn't want any other woman—she only wants Quinn, and that ship seems to have sunk.

She can almost accept that she's too late to reclaim Quinn's more tender affections, but she's nowhere near accepting that she won't be able to reclaim her friendship. She just needs a plan—a strategy of attack involving equal parts tenacity and humility to wear down Quinn's defenses and win her over again. Rachel Berry can be an amazing friend, and she's going to prove it—and okay, if she can make Quinn fall in love with her while she's at it, then she certainly isn't going to complain.

While she's (mostly) decided against sending Quinn any musical valentines—for now—Rachel does feel the need to bring her latest Quinn-inspired musical masterpiece to life, so she makes arrangements with a few of the musicians at NYADA to go over the song and polish the arrangement. They spend two hours in one of the practice rooms on a Thursday afternoon, and by the end of the session, Rachel has a rough demo that she's actually quite pleased with. She thanks the band members and sends them on their way before neatly packing up her sheet music, but when she turns to leave, she finds herself frozen in place. She wonders if she's hallucinating—somehow conjuring up a perfect vision of the object of her affection—because it's nearly impossible that Quinn is really standing there in front of her with her lower lip tucked between her teeth and her glittering gaze trained intently on Rachel.

"Quinn?" Rachel questions softly, needing to verify that she's not actually imagining the girl.

The vision moves, bearing down on her quickly, and Rachel's heart skips. She half-expects to be slapped, and the moment that Quinn makes contact certainly knocks Rachel off her feet, but only because she's being kissed like she's never been kissed before. Her bag drops to the floor, sending the sheet music flying around their feet, and she twists her hands into Quinn's jacket to keep herself upright. As quickly as it begins, Quinn is pulling her mouth away, looking nearly as tortured as she had the last time Rachel had seen her.

"Damn you, Rachel Berry," she growls.

Rachel doesn't understand what's happening, but she isn't about to let Quinn run again, and her grip tightens on the material between her fingers to keep Quinn close. "Quinn? What...?"

But her words are cut off by another kiss, slightly less desperate but no less passionate. Rachel moans and pulls Quinn closer. A sense of rightness melts into her soul when Quinn's arms slip around her waist, and she releases her death grip on Quinn's jacket only so that she can slide her hands up Quinn's body until they find a new home in her silky hair. Quinn sighs, gentling the kiss until their lips are barely touching.

"I was over you," she murmurs helplessly. "I was getting on with my life, and then you show up and you kiss me. And now it's all I can think about," she rushes out, pressing her mouth to Rachel's again, almost as if she can't help herself. Rachel doesn't want her to try.

"I need to know what it means," she whispers when they part again.

Rachel runs her tongue across her lower lip, tasting Quinn. "It means that I've been so, so stupid . I should have been kissing you all along."

Quinn's arms tighten around her. "Rachel, don't play with my emotions," she begs.

"I'm not. I'm finally figuring out my own," she says, thinking of the notebook that she'd filled. "You were right, Quinn. I did push you away. I was afraid…afraid of how I thought you might feel about me, but more afraid of how you make me feel."

Quinn's eyelids flutter, and she takes a shallow breath. "How do I make you feel?" she whispers.

"Nervous," Rachel admits. "Uncertain." When Quinn frowns, Rachel smiles, brushing back a strand of her hair before she trails her fingers across Quinn's cheek. "Infatuated. Like I just want you to smile at me because when you do, everything is brighter, and I feel like I can do anything."

Quinn's lips twitch. "And that scares you?"

"Yes, because it wasn't supposed to be you," she says honestly. "It's supposed to be Finn."

Quinn's frown is back. "It's always Finn," she mutters, and her arms slacken, dropping away from Rachel's waist.

Rachel reaches down in a flash and snags her wrists, pulling her back. "Except it isn't. I just…he was all I could see for so long, Quinn." He was her first crush, her first kiss, her first time, and Rachel will always love him, but being with him that last time hadn't felt the same. There had been something missing that Rachel knows deep in her soul is gone forever—because she suddenly feels it with Quinn. "Now I realize that…you've been right there behind him the whole time."

"What are you saying?" Quinn asks carefully, almost as if she's afraid to hope.

"I want to try, Quinn. I want to find out what we can be together. And I think the fact that you're here means that you feel the same way," Rachel says boldly.

"I can't seem to help myself," she admits with a faint smile, looping her arms around Rachel's waist again. "You just...keep me holding on."

The feeling of rightness clicks back into place, and Rachel leans into Quinn's body, enjoying the way they fit together so perfectly. "You know, I had a plan to woo you."

Quinn's eyebrows arch. "Really?"

"Mmmhmm," Rachel hums. "It was still in its tentative stages, but I did write you a song."

"I know," Quinn admits on a sigh. "I was standing outside for a while. It was beautiful."

Rachel flushes with pleasure at the compliment, but she's suddenly curious. "How did you find me here anyway?"

"Um, Santana," she reveals reluctantly, and it only bothers Rachel a little bit. "She may have also mentioned the song, along with a few other things." Quinn blushes, but Rachel doesn't have time to worry about what that might mean, because, "She told me to get my ass to New York and claim my midget."

Rachel chooses to ignore Quinn's decision to quote Santana verbatim. "For once, I think I'm actually glad that Santana doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut."

Quinn laughs happily, and it's the most beautiful sound that Rachel has ever heard. "We'll have to buy her a drink or something."

Rachel's smile droops slightly—she doesn't want Quinn anywhere near any combination of Santana and alcohol anytime in the immediate future. "Or something," she mutters.

Quinn smiles knowingly, tipping Rachel's face up to meet a breathtaking kiss, and everything else fades away—like falling into a beautiful dream with the certainty that a brand new day will be waiting the next time you open your eyes.

And Rachel lets herself fall.