Archive of Our Own

Rachel Berry had always prided herself on knowing exactly what she wanted and how to get there. And, more often than not, she had succeeded. Sometimes through hard work, or just through sheer force of will, and occasionally in ways that might not have been considered entirely ethical. Oh well. Every goal she had ever set for herself had, eventually, come to fruition, as if the universe agreed she was meant for it. The fact that she had once believed this was somehow impossible now felt like a failure of determination more than anything else. Ridiculous, really, considering the fact that she was currently pressed back against the staircase in her own apartment, Quinn Fabray’s hands very much on her, kissing her with a hunger Rachel shuddered at the thought of during more mundane moments of her day.

Rachel wasn’t lying when she told Quinn she had had previous experiences with women. She’d had her fair share of flings with girls (and guys) during her first years of college, caught up in the kind of freedom that came with finally stepping into herself, and, if she were being honest, in the attempt to bury feelings that had once felt far too complicated to name. Those experiences had only made her more certain of who she was, and had done wonders for her confidence—something she hadn’t always had in high school, and something a certain blonde had never really encouraged at first.

And really, she had gone to a performing arts college, surrounded by beautiful, talented women, many of whom existed somewhere along the same spectrum she did. It would have been almost ridiculous not to take advantage of that.

It had been almost three weeks since their life-altering week in Lima, and they had both been busy. Just not in the ways Rachel suspected either of them might have preferred. With her routine settling back into place, Evita had kept her occupied throughout the week, performances ran late, most days also including matinees. And despite what she did over Thanksgiving, Rachel wasn’t hesitant to admit that she did not particularly enjoy using her understudy as an asset. As for Quinn, having finished her manuscript, everything came following rather quickly—meetings, contracts, the business of it all.

They had made time, of course, not wanting to put this delicate new thing in a fragile position. A few lunches squeezed between schedules, evenings that ended with them tangled together on Quinn’s couch, Quinn walking her to the Lyric Theatre before her shows, conversations stretching longer than either of them ever meant them to.

But this… this had been waiting.

They had just gotten back from a late dinner date, following Rachel’s Saturday night performance, and from the moment they’d sat down, there had been an understanding humming quietly beneath everything else they said. The conversation flowed more easily now—less stories from the past, more tentative mentions of the future, anecdotes from their days—but threaded through it all had been an unmistakable anticipation.

They had already talked about it in previous conversations.

“I consider clear communication to be one of the pillars for a good relationship, Quinn,” Rachel had said at one point, as if she were stating an undeniable fact. 

Quinn hadn’t disagreed.

She had only looked at her for a moment longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes, before replying, “Okay.”

Up until Rachel quickly declined the dessert menu, earning a distinctly unladylike snort from Quinn, she had been practically buzzing in her seat. Quinn, on the other hand, had looked as serene as ever. It drove Rachel slightly insane that there were still parts of Quinn she couldn’t quite read, even if she knew with certainty that Quinn was just as eager, if not more, to get to her house as soon as possible.

Quinn kisses her harder this time, hand exploring every inch of Rachel’s body with the barrier of her skirt, and Rachel responds intuitively, hands tightening on Quinn’s toned forearms as her legs thankfully plant her by the railings.

And yet—

Quinn pulls back just enough to look at her, Rachel going after her to continue until she sees her brows knitting together slightly, hand warm at Rachel’s lower back now.

“Is this okay?” Quinn almost whispers, searching. “Are we going too fast?”

It isn’t doubt, not really. But something close enough to it that Rachel stills.

“What?” Rachel blinks, breathless, the question taking a second too long to settle. “No, no, not at all.”

Her hands slid up, instinctively, framing Quinn’s face.

“I was just…” she huffs out something close to a laugh, softer now. “I was just thinking about how ridiculously lucky I am.”

Quinn’s expression eases in slow-motion, until it settles into an expression more vulnerable than Rachel is used to seeing from her.

“You have a very inconvenient timing,” Quinn murmurs.

Rachel smiles, just slightly. “I’ll work on it.”

They just look at each other, until Rachel’s eyes get darker.

“But no,” she adds, more certain, already pulling in again. “We’re not going too fast.”

“Rachel,” Quinn says quietly, before meeting her halfway. “I’ll need you to tell me if you want me to stop.”

Rachel shakes her head. “I won’t.”

Their mouths met again, softer for a second before it deepened, any remaining tension dissolving between them. They move without much coordination, attempting the stairs and failing almost immediately, hands unwilling to let go long enough to think.

Quinn ends up pressed back against the wall, one foot braced on a higher step, with Rachel standing between her bent leg. Quinn’s cheeks are flushed and her blonde hair is disheveled and Rachel doesn't think she’s ever seen anything better than her current view.

Quinn’s hand slides into Rachel’s hair, tightening just enough to tilt her head back as she dips to her neck, her mouth lingering there, leaving slow open mouthed kisses. Rachel just melts, tilting her head back, breath catching as she gives her more room. Pressed against Quinn’s knee, she lets a huff of air as she starts grinding it. One hand bracing against Quinn’s shoulder as the other moves with far less certainty, until it finds the zipper of Quinn’s dress, and Rachel opens it slowly. 

It is only when Quinn hears a soft moan from Rachel’s slightly agape mouth that she realizes the pace Rachel is setting. For a moment, she remembers they are standing in the middle of the staircase, and Quinn musters every inch of clarity she can to lift her head, the trace of her mouth still warm on Rachel's skin. Her hands trail down Rachel’s arms until they reach her waist, stilling her, making the brunette open her eyes cluelessly.

“As much as I'd love to make you come right here on these steps,” she says, making Rachel involuntarily squeeze her shoulder even tighter as another small whimper leaves her mouth. “I really wanna take you to your bedroom, Rach.”

“Quinn—” Rachel protests, trying to move against Quinn’s grip as she looks at her with heavy-lidded eyes, lashes fluttering slowly.

“No talking, come on.” Quinn doesn’t allow herself to get carried away with lust, wanting their first time to be perfect, so she grabs Rachel’s waist tightly and kisses her once more, tongues meeting in a dance, before pulling back suddenly and skipping towards Rachel’s bedroom, pulling her by the hand.

“Quinn!” Rachel, surprised by the sudden movement, cries out, as if her mind short-circuits into making her vocabulary consist of only Quinn’s name. “If you think I’m just going to let you throw me around tonight, you’re very mistaken.”

Quinn glances back at her, amusement and pleasure mixing in her expression. “We’ll see about that.”

By the time they reach the bedroom, Rachel moves ahead of her. She turns them both just enough to guide Quinn backward until the edge of the bed meets the back of her knees, and with a gentle push, Quinn sits.

Rachel follows immediately, settling over her, straddling her with one hand braced against her shoulder as the other finds the straps of Quinn’s dress.

“We’re in my bed now,” Rachel says, breathless, her mouth hovering just close enough. “So you can have me properly.”

Quinn lets out a quiet laugh, something softer than before but no less charged. “I knew you were insistent,” she murmurs, her hands settling at Rachel’s waist again, “but this is a different level.”

Rachel doesn’t bother responding; her attention is already elsewhere, fingers finishing what they’ve started, guiding the fabric down slowly and letting it pool around Quinn without any urgency. Her eyes go straight to the black lacy bra, then trace every muscle of her toned abs and something about the way she looks at her makes Quinn's breath catch before Rachel even touches her.

“Prettiest girl in the world,” Rachel says before she acts, cupping her breasts, fingers grazing the fabric, before moving around to her back, nails dragging a slow line up her spine, feeling the scars of her accident and treating them with the lightest touch before unclasping the bra in one swift motion. “So pretty.”

The air hits her skin all at once and Quinn feels her nipples harden further, her hands flexing against Rachel's ass on pure reflex. When Rachel's fingers return to her chest, Quinn pulls their bodies closer, a quiver moving through her that she has no interest in hiding. Her head falls to Rachel's shoulder and she just stays there for a moment, breathing heavily and just feeling.

They haven’t even done that much. And yet heat is already settling deep between her thighs, heavy and insistent, impossible to ignore. She feels entirely at Rachel's mercy, undone in a way she has only dreamed of, and it is almost a relief when Rachel's hand travels up to cup her jaw and draw her into a firm kiss while her other hand traces slowly down over Quinn's ribs and waist before slipping beneath the bunched fabric to tug lightly at the elastic of her matching underwear.

The kiss is what finishes her. Quinn feels her whole body loosen with it, sinking back into the mattress as Rachel follows her down, ending up fully on top. Then Rachel pulls back suddenly, hands already moving to Quinn's hips with a clear intention to shift off her and finish undressing her.

Quinn feels the shift and understands immediately. She also understands, in the same instant, that Rachel has been the one in control this entire time, that it has been Rachel throwing her around, and though she would never admit that out loud, not outside the specific insanity of this moment, she likes it a lot. But she deserves to have her fun, too.

So when Rachel moves, Quinn moves faster. One smooth roll and positions flip, Rachel underneath her now, looking up.

"If you think it's fair," Quinn says, slightly breathless, "that you're still wearing all of these clothes while I'm practically naked, you're very mistaken, Rach."

Rachel's hands come up to Quinn's shoulders the moment she feels her reach for the hem of her top.

"Quinn. I was in the middle of something," she says, tilting her head, trying to look unbothered while feeling the opposite.

Quinn looks at her flatly, shrugging. "Oops. Sorry, baby."

Quinn leans down for a second, leaving a long peck on Rachel’s lips before returning to her previous position.

"So mean,” is all Rachel can say.

Then Quinn simply leans back and finishes what Rachel has started — pushing the bunched fabric the rest of the way down her legs and stepping out of it entirely, kicking it aside without breaking eye contact. She lets Rachel look, just for a second, because fair is fair.

Rachel’s warm hands find Quinn’s waist, then slide down to her ass, and her thighs, until they are grabbed and pinned to her head by one of Quinn’s. While the other reaches for Rachel's hem.

"You had your turn," Quinn says simply, and pulls the top over her head, leaving Rachel's hair messed up and her look of protest with it. She unclasps her bra next and slides it off her shoulders, all while maintaining a fairly composed posture.

Everything is done with one hand, while the other still holds both of Rachel’s pinned to the mattress, which is very impressive—and Rachel can’t help but feel her cheeks burning, along with something else.

"For someone who was so confident two seconds ago," Quinn says, setting the bra aside, "you got very quiet."

As she feels Quinn’s gaze all over her body, Rachel says nothing. Which is practically unheard of. She only lets the moment be, lets herself soak up the glory that is to be half-naked, being straddled by Quinn Fabray, while she looks at you with lovely hazel eyes and long lashes that blink heavily with it.

“Fuck, Rachel, you’re so beautiful,” Quinn declares, hands hovering through Rachel’s body with a feather-like touch. “You have no idea what you do to me.” And as Quinn really looks, taking her time, Rachel is gazing back up at her with that expression again. Unguarded, and wanting, like she isn’t trying to be anything other than exactly what she is right now.

Just quietly giving Quinn permission to do anything she wants to do to her, right there.

Quinn feels something tighten in her chest.

She lets her grip go slack around Rachel’s wrists, lowering her hands slowly.

"I've thought about this in so many ways," Quinn says, quieter now. "For so long."

Rachel holds her gaze for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is soft, though it hides . "How many times?"

"Too many to be reasonable."

"Quinn." Rachel's hand comes up to her jaw, thumb at the corner of her mouth. "I've thought about it too."

"I know."

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug," Quinn says. "I'm just—" she stops. She tucks a strand of Rachel’s hair behind her ear. "I can’t believe I get to look at you looking at me like this."

Rachel pulls Quinn down by the back of the neck.

“So do something about it," she says against her mouth. "Please."

When Rachel pulls back, she has about half a second to notice how dark Quinn’s eyes got before she was pinned to the mattress again. Quinn drags her mouth down Rachel’s neck, kisses the hollow of her throat, their bare breasts rubbing against each other before she drags her mouth even lower, licking one of Rachel’s stiff nipples, tracing hot circles around it. Rachel squirms under her, back arching as Quinn starts sucking gently on it, massaging the other one with her free hand. 

The pulsing between her thighs is incessant, and she feels constrained by her skirt still being on and the weight of Quinn’s on top of her, not allowing her to find more friction. “Quinn, please, baby.” Rachel all but whines.

“Patience, Rachel, I want to enjoy every single moment of this.” Quinn whispers, smiling before going for the other nipple, lavishing on the flesh. When she feels she’s done enough to overstimulate Rachel, she resumes her move down.

Quinn leaves kisses on the way down Rachel's stomach without hurry, scraping her teeth on the skin when she reaches the top of her skirt and loving the sounds Rachel makes while she does it all. Quinn is so high on the feeling, she thinks she could spend whole days just exploring Rachel’s body and what each place makes her do. But she must continue, so she straightens herself up on her knees to be able to take the remaining clothes off Rachel’s body.

Her fingers hook on both sides of the waistband, and she chuckles when noticing the silk skirt has a wet patch right where she was straddling Rachel, before pulling everything down. Quinn locks eyes with her while doing so, brown eyes looking back at her through heavy blinks as Quinn lowers herself again and Rachel’s hips buck immediately, looking for friction by instinct. 

Quinn’s eyes lower slowly, taking in each inch of Rachel, until she gets to her sex and she has to stare for a moment. One of her hands goes on Rachel’s hips as the other spreads her legs before she feathers the inside of her thighs. Rachel closes her eyes with anticipation, so close to an orgasm she just aches. “If you keep teasing I swear to G—”

Is all she can say before a hot puff of air is left on her inner thigh before fingers dip into her wet folds, followed by Quinn’s tongue circling her clit. Rachel moans, lost to the various sensations, so stimulated she doesn’t feel in control of her own body.

Quinn has to hold Rachel down, as her back arches off the bed and she begs senseless for more and more and more. Quinn feels like she could definitely come just by pleasuring Rachel, God, if the pulsing of her clit indicates anything is that she almost is coming because of this.

Quinn removes her slick fingers from Rachel for a moment, and Rachel protests at the absence before Quinn presses firmly against the nub, which earns a cry from her, whose mouth is open begging for air, letting every sound out, eyes thigh shut.

Quinn looks up, admiring Rachel in all her naked splendor, before licking her folds. Rachel can feel her hips rolling, needing Quinn to go deeper, which is something she might’ve voiced in her bliss because Quinn then inserts two fingers into her, thumb massaging her throbbing clit at the same time.

Rachel feels an urge to open her eyes, and what she sees is simply glorious. Quinn, almost bent over, leaving open mouthed kisses and teeth scrapes on her clit as she thrusts her fingers even faster inside Rachel. Messy blonde hair, hazel eyes glinting and her mouth a shiny red as she looks back at Rachel.

As Rachel gasps at the contact, fingers curl inside her just right, whimpers make her throat feel sore and she has a quick realization that her orgasm is coming seconds before it does. Lost to the bliss, Rachel isn’t even sure what her body is doing, just that she has never felt this good in her life. Waves of pleasure roll through her and she sees hot-white. The only certainty she has is that Quinn’s name has never rolled off her tongue so many times.

When she comes back to her body, Quinn is kissing her softly, in little pecks. As she rides out the last of the feeling, her body trembles still as Quinn removes her fingers from inside her. Rachel notices that in her haze, and shifts a little, before gathering the strength to grab Quinn’s wrist and lick her wet fingers, tasting herself.

Quinn whimpers at the sight, hips twitch as she settles against Rachel’s side, still having not reached her climax. In a clear-ish state of mind now, Rachel notices, too, that Quinn is moving in slow circles against her, “Just… give me… a second, baby. I just have to catch my breath.”

“You don’t need to, Rach, I’m fine. I got… everything that I wanted.” Quinn replies, leaving a kiss on Rachel’s forehead.

“Shut up, Quinn.” Rachel says, moving slowly to sit on top of Quinn, leaving a tender kiss on her lips. “You’re delusional if you think I don’t simply need to feel you.”

And so Rachel does. 

Afterwards, Rachel lies there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling with Quinn's arm across her stomach and Quinn's breath warm against her shoulder, (after they’ve gone down each other multiple times) and thinks about power.

Not the kind she's used to, stage presence, a room full of people holding their breath, the authority of knowing you are exactly where you're supposed to be. She knows that kind well. She has built her whole life around it.

This is different.

Quinn Fabray has had some version of this hold over her since she was fifteen years old and didn't have the vocabulary for it, and the thing Rachel is only now understanding, lying here in the dark with every nerve ending still humming, is that it was never something done to her. It was something between them. Something that required both of them to exist, like a frequency only they could tune into, and Rachel had spent years changing the station without ever quite losing the signal.

She is so grateful she stopped trying.

She turns her head and looks at Quinn, who is looking back at her with an expression Rachel has dreamed of seeing in her: open, asking for nothing and content knowing she deserves all the love she just received. It occurs to her that she has never felt less like a performance in her life. Between them, there are no expectations, just this.

I fought for this, she thinks. We both did, in our own stupid ways, for a very long time.

It feels like something well earned.

"Hi," Rachel says softly.

Quinn's mouth curves. "Hi."

They peel themselves apart eventually, because they are adults and adults (or Rachel Berry, specifically) do not skip certain things regardless of circumstance, and Rachel leads Quinn to the bathroom with their fingers loosely linked.

They brush their teeth lazily at Rachel's mirror, Rachel sitting at the counter while Quinn stands between her legs. The blonde tucks wild strands of hair behind Rachel’s ear before messing with her bangs, and Rachel just smiles.

"What?"

"Nothing," Rachel says, toothbrush in her mouth. "You just look very at home here."

Quinn looks around the bathroom, at the organized chaos of Rachel Berry's skincare shelf, at their reflections, at the toothbrush she's currently using that is now hers.

"Yeah," she says simply. "I guess I do."

Rachel rinses and straightens, jumping off the counter, and Quinn does the same, and they turn the light off and find their way back to bed in the dark without discussion, settling into each other with an ease of two souls who were always meant for each other.

Rachel tucks herself against Quinn's side. Quinn's arm finds her without looking.

The room has a quiet buzz.

Outside, New York is doing what New York does, always alive, with shiny lights and neverending chatter. But inside, they might have just found a sanctuary, Quinn thinks.

Rachel is almost asleep when she hears Quinn's voice, low and soft.

"Rachel."

"Mm."

Quinn tugs her arm lightly, shifting to fit herself even further.

"I love you."

Rachel is quiet for a moment, not from hesitation but from the specific fullness of it, the way her heart beats so much faster by hearing something she already has the knowledge of.

"I know," she says softly, a proud tone behind her whisper.

Quinn huffs. "That's not—"

"I love you too." Rachel tilts her head up, pressing her lips briefly to the underside of Quinn's jaw. "I've loved you for a very long time. You know that."

Quinn exhales, her arm tightening just slightly around Rachel's shoulders.

"Yeah," she says. "I do."

Rachel closes her eyes. For a girl so sure of her place in this world, she might've just accidentally found her home. 

***

Rachel's alarm buzzes at eight on Sundays.

She reaches for her phone with practiced efficiency, silencing it before it has a chance to wake up Quinn, and lies still for exactly three seconds—her usual allowance for the luxury of not moving—before the pull of routine wins out and she carefully extracts herself from Quinn's arm and leg. She has to admit everything in her body is screaming for her to stay in bed, and enjoy blissful hours of sleep with the blonde by her side, but she truly believes that no morning shower means no luck for the day.

Quinn doesn't stir. She is, Rachel notes, an absurdly still sleeper for someone who takes up so much space when she's awake. One arm now reaching for where Rachel was, finding nothing, then settling against the mattress without waking.

Rachel stands at the edge of the bed for a moment longer than strictly necessary, looking at her.

Quinn Fabray, asleep in her bed, hair across her pillow, entirely unbothered by the world. And is that a little bit a drool that she sees? 

Right, Rachel thinks. Okay. Yes. Discipline!

She tears herself away before she does something impractical like getting back in, and pads to the bathroom, pulling the door most of the way closed behind her.

The shower is exactly as long as it needs to be and not a second longer, which Rachel considers a personal achievement given the circumstances. She goes through her routine effortlessly, following her order of products, temperature, timing — the warm water doing the additional work of loosening muscles she is choosing not to think too hard about. She does, however, allow herself one brief moment of gratitude for years of dance training and eight shows a week, because she suspects the morning would feel considerably less manageable without them.

She steps out feeling, if not entirely composed, at least structurally sound.

She wraps a towel around herself and reaches for the one she keeps specifically for her hair, working it through the ends as she moves back toward the bedroom, pushing the door open with her shoulder.

She sits on the edge of the bed, towel still in her hair, and reaches for her phone to check the time.

Eight forty-three.

They’ve scheduled lunch with Santana and Brittany at one. Which means she has time, which means she can—

Two arms come around her from behind.

Quinn presses her face between Rachel's shoulder blades, warm and lingering, and Rachel goes still for a second before she feels her smile pulling at the corners of her mouth without permission.

"You had a shower without me," Quinn says into her back, voice muffled and deeply unbothered.

Rachel turns her head slightly. "I beg your pardon?"

Quinn lifts her face just enough to be understood. "You heard me."

"I absolutely did, which is why I'm looking at you like this." Rachel twists far enough to see her — Quinn, squinting against the morning light, hair disasters, entirely unashamed. "Who are you and what have you done with Quinn Fabray."

"She's sleeping."

"Clearly." Rachel shoves her lightly, which Quinn absorbs without moving, tightening her arms instead. "You're ridiculous."

Then Quinn lifts her head.

Her eyes find Rachel's hair then, damp with its natural wave coming through in a way Rachel never let it in high school, never let it anywhere Quinn had ever seen her. Not once, in all the years she'd known her. She had always assumed Rachel's hair just looked like that, no frizz and smooth shiny since birth, and the reality of it — the soft reality of it spread across her shoulders in the early morning light — does something to Quinn that she wasn't entirely prepared for.

She reaches out, almost without thinking, and touches it. Just lightly, fingertips curling it at the ends.

Rachel turns her head slightly. "What?"

"Your hair," Quinn says, a little quiet.

Rachel's hand comes up self-consciously. "I know, it's a mess, I haven't styled—"

"No." Quinn catches her hand before it gets there. "Don't."

Rachel looks at her over her shoulder, uncertain.

"I've never seen it like this," Quinn says simply. "I like it."

Rachel holds her gaze for a moment, something softening in her expression that she doesn't try to hide. Then she turns back around, and Quinn wraps her arms around her properly from behind, chin finding her shoulder.

"Ugh, I can’t believe you left," Quinn says simply, like that explains everything, pressing a kiss to Rachel's bare shoulder. “Left me here all alone,” she drags the ends of each word. Then another kiss. Then one to the curve of her neck, slower, and Rachel feels her focus on the whole morning routine thing slipping somewhat.

"Quinn."

"That’s me."

"We have plans."

"I know." Another kiss, just below her ear. "What time is lunch?"

"One."

Quinn pulls back just enough to look at the clock on Rachel's nightstand. Then she looks back at Rachel with a baffled expression at the urgency.

"Rachel," she says. "It's not even nine."

Rachel opens her mouth.

"We have time," Quinn adds, before she can say anything, and pulls her back into the pillows.

Rachel goes, because she is only human and it is not even nine, and her routine will survive one exception.

***

It is almost eleven when both women are showered and dressed appropriately enough to go downstairs to Rachel's kitchen, which is surrounded by big windows that let in the late morning light. Quinn stands in the doorway for a moment, taking in what she didn’t last night. The plants on the windowsill, the organized variety of the counter, the way the whole room smells like coffee already because Rachel is one of those fancy people that grinds actual beans to make coffee.

"Sit," Rachel says, without turning around.

Quinn sits.

Rachel moves around the kitchen with ease, pulling two matching mugs from the cabinet, sliding bread into the toaster, humming something low under her breath. She talks at the same time, like always, conversation flowing alongside everything else in a way that Quinn used to tell herself it was annoying, but who was she kidding? Because looking at Rachel going from one side of the counter to the other, frothed milk in hand while she yaps—something about the restaurant they're meeting Santana and Brittany at, whether Quinn has been before, a brief editorial on Santana's taste in brunch meals that is somehow both critical and affectionate—Quinn can’t describe the woman as anything other than endearing.

Quinn beams at her from the kitchen table, chin resting in her hand.

She thinks about the mornings she spent in Lima watching Rachel move around a kitchen. How she had filed away the tug her chest felt then under things that don't mean anything and how spectacularly that had failed.

"You're not listening," Rachel says, setting a mug in front of her.

"I am," Quinn says. "Santana's brunch taste is questionable but her heart is in the right place."

Rachel points at her. "Exactly." She turns back to the toast. "Although I will say, if she orders the same thing she ordered last time and then complains about it again, I will not be held responsible for my reaction."

"What did she order last time?"

"Something with baked oatmeal and honey that she then described as, and I quote, 'like biting into slightly wet cardboard.'"

Quinn laughs, wrapping both hands around her mug. "That's fair though."

"It is not the restaurant's fault that she has no appreciation for—" Rachel stops herself, shaking her head. "Anyway." She brings her own mug to the table and sits across from Quinn, and for a moment they just look at each other across the small table, in the late morning light, with toast about to pop and nowhere they need to be for another two hours.

Rachel reaches across and tucks a (still damp) piece of hair behind Quinn's ear that must’ve escaped the hairdryer earlier this morning, just because it's there and she can.

Quinn catches her hand before she pulls it back.

They stay like that for a moment, quietly, in Rachel Berry's kitchen on a Sunday morning in December, twelve blocks from an apartment Quinn is already thinking about spending less time in.

The toast pops.

Rachel squeezes her hand once before getting up to get it.

They eat without hurry, sipping coffee, chatting about how they’ll make plans for next week fit in their schedule while playing footsies. Until Quinn accidently stubs her toe on the chair leg. 

Then they decide to finish getting ready because it’s almost one o’clock and both of them agree it’s plain tacky to arrive late to plans.

***

They are, technically, going to be late.

This is Rachel's fault, which is something she will not be admitting out loud, and also Quinn's fault, which Quinn seems entirely unbothered by as she walks beside her with her hands in her coat pockets and her face tipped slightly into the cold December air.

It had started in the bathroom.

Rachel had been reaching for the blowout brush — a completely reasonable thing to do, part of her routine, something she is so used to doing she could do it with eyes closed in five seconds — when Quinn had appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame playing with a scarf that sits loosely on her neck, and said, simply: "Leave it."

Rachel had looked at her in the mirror. "Leave what, exactly?"

"Your hair." Quinn had nodded toward it, loose and almost-dry, the natural wave framing her face beautifully. "Leave it like that."

"Quinn."

"You look beautiful."

"I look like I just lived through a hurricane."

"You look like yourself. Beautiful." Quinn had pushed off the doorframe, crossing to stand behind her, meeting her eyes in the mirror. "I'd like to take that version of you to lunch, if that's alright."

Quinn smiled softly, blinking through her impossibly long eyelashes — honestly, how are they that long? Rachel thought — channeling the best puppy face she could as Rachel looked at her reflection for a long moment. 

Then she shook her head.

"You're not winning this one, pretty girl," she said.

Quinn's expression shifted, a soft glint in her eyes. "Just promise you'll try it someday."

Rachel turned from the mirror to face her directly, close enough that Quinn had to hold her ground. "I will," she said, "if you tell me about all those scenarios you mentioned last night."

Quinn's composure flickered — caught off guard while also thinking, look who’s smug now — and Rachel held her gaze for one more second before reaching past her for the blowout brush, plugging it in without looking away, and then turning back to the mirror as if the conversation had concluded entirely on her terms.

Which it had. 

Leave it to Rachel to guarantee she gets the last words.

Quinn stood in the doorway for a moment longer, watching her work the brush through her hair with practiced efficiency, and said nothing. 

When Rachel met Quinn by the living room, she was checking her phone as Quinn finished sorting their coats — left discarded by the front door last night in the midst of everything.

As they walked the few blocks to the restaurant, Rachel shook her head, the wind catching her bangs.

"I believe your unexpected hair intervention, though I know it was very well intended, has made us five minutes late. Santana will surely say something."

"I thought you were a professional at dismissing her jabs by now."

"Quinn—"

"Aren't you the one who appreciates a good entrance?"

Rachel stops walking long enough to look at her fully. "I appreciate an impactful entrance. There is a meaningful difference." She starts walking again. "Besides, this is our first official outing as a couple. This is not the impression we want to make."

Quinn falls back into step beside her, and Rachel feels her take her hand, threading their fingers together, swinging them a little.

"Screw impressions," Quinn says, shrugging in a way that makes it clear she genuinely means it and isn't performing nonchalance. "I don't feel the need to impress Santana right now. Or anyone, really."

Rachel looks at her sideways. It's one of the things that still catches her off guard about this version of Quinn, the ease of her, the way she moves through the world now without bracing for it. Yale did that, Rachel thinks. Or maybe Quinn did it herself, and Yale just gave her the space to do it freely.

"Okay, pretty girl," Rachel says, squeezing her hand once. "I wish I knew how to do that."

"You have to stop calling me that, I’m getting addicted to it," Quinn glances at her. “Besides, you will.”

It lands simply, without weight, like a fact Quinn has already decided. Even if she thinks Rachel isn't really Rachel without her need of approval, that it drives her even further than only doing things for herself, she could benefit a lot from learning how to not need it so deeply. Rachel opens her mouth, closes it.

"Was that a promise?" she asks instead, purposely vague as to which claim she is asking about.

Quinn just smiles, which is its own kind of answer.

They push through the glass door of the restaurant together, a small bell releasing a cheerful ding as they step inside, hands still intertwined, five minutes late and entirely unbothered — or at least, one of them is.

Santana is already looking at them from across the room, poking Brittany so she does the same.

"There they are," she says, loud enough to turn a few heads. "Gay Hobbit and her lesbian Gandalf. Five minutes late."

Brittany waves, bright and easy, like they've just come back from a short trip rather than six years of catastrophic miscommunication.

"Hi!" she says. "You two look really happy."

"We are," Rachel says, leaning in to hug her first, then Santana, who accepts it with the stiff dignity of someone who would never initiate a hug but will not turn one down either.

Quinn gets a look instead of a hug. Santana looks her up and down with a slow assessment, something she’s done ever since they met on cheerios tryouts at fifteen, that means Santana is trying to see Quinn fully.

"Lucy Gay-bray," she says finally.

"Santana," Quinn says pleasantly, sitting down.

"I'm just saying. All those years of repression and religious guilt and—" she gestures vaguely at Quinn's entire existence, "—and the most overdue sapphic situation in the history of my life has finally settled."

"Can we order first," Quinn says.

"We can do both." Santana picks up her menu without breaking eye contact. "I always knew, by the way."

Rachel, who is in the process of removing her coat, looks at her. “Yeah, yeah, I know you knew. No need to brag about my obliviousness, Santana."

Santana looks at her. "I think I deserve to brag, actually. After seeing you two fight for years in high school when you could’ve been getting it on, like…"

"Okay, can you be more quiet, please." Rachel sets her coat down very carefully. "We figured the scheme out after talking, how you have been very conspicuously not mentioning us to each other for years."

"Hey, I knew about you two," Santana says, with the precision of someone navigating a technicality. "What you felt was yours to tell."

Quinn takes Rachel’s coat-free arm, unamused by the banter. “At least we worked it out, even if none of you were interested in helping."

"You would, eventually." Santana settles back into her chair.

There is a beat of silence as they all settle in the space together after the initial gunfire of Santana’s energy. Quinn whispers about the menu to Rachel, Santana intertwines her and Brittany’s fingers, leaving them on top of the table.

But Rachel couldn’t fight the urge to break the silence.

"Just… For how long have you known, specifically," Rachel asks, in the tone of someone who already has an estimate and is checking it against the source.

Santana consults the menu. "I don't recall the exact timeline."

"Santana Diabla Lopez."

"I have always admired your use of my full name." Santana sets the menu down and looks at her with the expression of someone who has rehearsed this moment and is enjoying it more than expected. "Look. I knew Quinn was gay before Quinn knew she was gay, okay? I have awesome gaydar. And you had to be at least 50% gay, genetically—”

Rachel just shakes her head. "That's not how genetics work."

Santana just looks at her with a pointed look that screams, oh, really? And then continues, “Anyway, we all know that theory was very much confirmed by an incident I promised never to speak of again."

Rachel's eyes go wide. "Santana."

"I'm not saying a name."

"You are absolutely implying one."

"I'm simply noting that what I walked in on that one time was very clarifying for everyone involved." Santana picks her menu back up serenely. "You're welcome, by the way."

Quinn, who has been watching this exchange with the detached amusement of someone not directly involved — and someone who might feel a bit of pleasure at seeing Rachel go defensive — goes slightly still.

"I'm sorry," she blurts. "Walked in on what, exactly."

"Nothing you should be worried about," Rachel says immediately, not looking at her.

"Mhm." Quinn reaches for her water. Takes a very measured sip. "Right."

"Baby—" And that makes Santana whip out a pretend-disgusted face.

"I didn't say anything."

"You have a very loud nothing," Rachel says.

Santana is watching this with barely contained delight. Brittany pats Quinn's hand sympathetically across the table, which somehow makes it funnier.

"For what it's worth," Santana says, "she was not nearly as pretty as you. She was blonde, though."

"Santana!" Rachel says.

"She sure as hell wasn’t allowed to leave hickeys like you did on Rachel’s neck. Gross, by the way.." Santana adds.

"Hey!" Rachel all but screams.

"I'm helping," Santana says.

Quinn sets her water glass down. "I won’t even—" she starts, then stops. "I'm fine."

"You're a little jealous," Brittany says, pleasantly, the way she notes everything.

"I'm not jealous of something that happened years ago."

"Retroactively jealous," Brittany clarifies, nodding.

Quinn looks at her. Then at Rachel. Then back at her water glass.

"She was pretty though, right?" she mutters.

"Oh my god," Rachel says. “We will talk about this later, okay?”

Quinn just nods, and leans into Rachel’s space slightly, not actually mad at her.

Brittany nods thoughtfully. "I always thought you two made sense," she offers, in the tone of someone stating something obvious. "Like, even in high school. There was a lot of—" she makes a gesture with her hand that somehow communicates the entire six years of tension. "Quinn always looked at Rachel with the biggest heart eyes during glee club."

"Okay, now." Quinn says dryly, reaching for her water.

"You're very calm about being the subject of this surveillance operation," Rachel says to her.

"Santana told me she always knew approximately forty-eight hours after I came out to her," Quinn says. "I've had years to process."

Rachel turns back to Santana. "And you never thought to perhaps—"

"Nope."

"Even when we were both in New York."

"Especially then," Santana says, without apology. "Quinn wasn't ready. And you…" she pauses, something shifting in her expression that is almost but not quite soft, "You were doing well. I wasn't going to blow that up on a maybe."

Rachel looks at her for a moment.

"Aw, Santana, that was almost kind," she says finally.

"Don't push it, Baby Gay Streisand."

"And there it is."

Quinn makes a sound that is almost a laugh, quickly converted into a sip of water. Rachel glances at her.

"You think she’s funny."

"I think this is very funny," Quinn confirms.

"Okay." Rachel straightens, picking up her menu with the composure of someone who has decided to be gracious about all of this. "Fine. But I want it noted that I am mildly betrayed."

"Noted," Santana says. "Now can we order? Because I've been looking at this menu for twenty minutes and I think I want the oatmeal thing."

Rachel lowers her menu just enough to look at her over the top of it. "Santana. You complained about the oatmeal last time."

"I know what I'm doing."

"You described it as—"

"I have grown since then," Santana says firmly. "People change, Berry. Look at you two."

Quinn catches Rachel's eye across the table.

Rachel presses her lips together, trying very hard not to smile.

She fails, which Quinn finds extremely satisfying. Just not as satisfying as the sweet kiss she leans in for a second later, and the opposing reactions of their friends, if the cheers accompanied by a gagging sound are anything to go by.

“This is so weird.” Quinn hears Santana mutter as her eyes are still closed, just savoring the moment.

Quinn has been to many lunches. She has sat on her designated place at the family table and smiles as she prayed, wishing to live a different life. She has been across from teachers and publishers and men who wanted something from her. Has learned to read a room and perform the version of herself most useful to the occasion. She has been good at it for years, moving through spaces with the careful ease of someone who knows exactly how much of herself to offer and when to hold back. 

This is not that.

This is Santana stealing food off Brittany's plate while maintaining eye contact with Rachel during an argument, and Britt asking Quinn thoughtful questions about her book with genuine curiosity, and Rachel's hand finding Quinn's knee under the table at some point and staying there, warm and steady, fitting like a missing piece.

Quinn thinks about high school. About the version of herself that sat in church pews and cheerleading practice and Sue Sylvester’s office carrying something she couldn't name, performing the life that had been built around her—for her—with focused discipline because she was proud to perform for them, until she wasn’t.

She thinks about Yale, about the slow, terrifying but thrilling process of finding her true self, about the people there who made it possible in ways she hadn't expected. She had arrived at New Haven fully prepared to reinvent herself. To come up to people and introduce herself as Quinn Fabray and let them see her for who she really was. It had taken exactly one semester and two hallmates who loved her without asking her to be anything in particular, and maybe a few nameless girls at parties, for that to happen, but it did.

She only came out, in the real sense of the word, within her small circle. Had said it out loud for the first time in her dorm room with bad lighting and let out a few tears, which had been met with a kind, unceremonious acceptance that she hadn't known she needed. And then she just lived her life, flirted with girls (to try and forget about a specific one), and exchanged her dresses for jeans, all very naturally, like it was breathing.

After that semester, she officially didn't consider herself to be an uptight bitch anymore.

It was so easy for her to do so in her New Haven bubble that she sometimes caught herself even wondering why she hadn't done that sooner, though she wasn't that foolish to forget all the variables that had stopped her from making her life a little easier.

She thinks about the years between then and now that she had navigated with more openness than before, even if real emotions still had a way of making her close off and force herself to be alone when they got too close to something that mattered. 

She doesn't feel alone right now.

She feels, sitting at this table with these specific people on a Sunday in December, more like herself than she has in years. Maybe ever. Her heart swells with gratitude even as Santana says ‘soooo, I gots to ask, isn’t Quinn just amazing in bed?’ and Rachel has to be held down by Quinn to not slap her as Britanny just shakes her head. Here, as she is, with the woman she loves beside her and two people across the table who have known her long enough to know every version of her and show up anyway.

It is, Quinn thinks, a genuinely good feeling. And today, she knows she deserves it.

She is still thinking about it on the walk home, Rachel tucked against her side to combat the cool breeze, when her phone buzzes.

Then buzzes again.

Then several times in quick succession.

She pulls it out to find a group chat created by Brittany, named after Lesbos Island, of course.

Britt (3:47 pm) 

Made this so we can plan the next brunch!!

Santana Rosario Cruz Lopez (3:47 pm) 

i want it on record that after enduring YEARS of the very painful will they won't they between you two idiots, if i have to sit across from you being that snuggly and sickly cute again i am ghosting both of you irl

i mean that

do not test me q-tip

Britt (3:48 pm) 

We're really happy for you two! Let's make brunch a monthly thing!

Santana Rosario Cruz Lopez (3:48 pm) 

what she said

don't make it weird

Quinn stares at her phone for a moment.

Then she shows it to Rachel without saying anything.

Rachel reads it, then makes a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and an exhale, pressing her face briefly into Quinn's shoulder.

"She loves us," Rachel says, muffled.

"She would rather die," Quinn agrees.

"Same thing, with Santana."

Quinn puts her phone away, arm tightening around Rachel's shoulders as they walk. The city is doing its thing as December hits, cold and bright and she is so thankful to allow herself to have all this. The table, the people at it, the woman beside her, the feeling of being known and still loved.

***

They get back to the apartment in the early dark of a December afternoon, after strolling on the neighboring streets for a while, and Rachel moves toward the kitchen on instinct while Quinn shrugs off her coat and gravitates, just as naturally, toward the couch.

Rachel watches her from the kitchen doorway for a second — Quinn pulling her book from her bag, tucking her feet underneath her, as comfortable as she could be — and thinks about winding roads. About the ones that look like they're taking you away from something only to curve back around, and how you never quite know that's what's happening until you're already there.

She puts the kettle on.

She has always gotten what she was destined to have. It has never been easy, and it has never been quick, and there have been more than a few moments where she was absolutely certain the universe had made a clerical error. But she has always, eventually, arrived. She believes this about herself the way she believes that Funny Girl is the best musical ever made, or that being a vegetarian actually makes her healthier than others — completely, and with evidence.

She also believes that having Quinn Fabray reading on her couch as she makes both of them tea is one of the luckiest things to happen to her. Even if she has a hard time believing that is actually real, having to pinch herself sometimes. 

She makes the tea, adding a spoon of honey as usual, and carries both cups to the living room, setting Quinn's on the side table without interrupting whatever page she's on. She settles at the other end of the couch, reaching for the remote, and before she's even turned the television on, Quinn has shifted without looking up from her book, legs swinging across Rachel's lap like it's where they belong now.

Rachel lets her hand rest on Quinn's ankle.

She turns on some show about domestic animals, knowing she won’t be paying full attention to it.

The apartment is so warm. Outside, the wind threatens to make the windows whistle. Beside her, Quinn turns a page, and the tea steams gently on the side table, and it is all so unremarkably, perfectly ordinary that Rachel has to sit with it for a moment.

She has always been particular about her space. Controlling about it, even — the placement of things, the systems, the way a room should feel when she walks into it. She has thankfully lived alone long enough now to have strong opinions about it and not enough patience to compromise them for just anyone.

Because she is not eighteen, living with Kurt and Santana in a warehouse in Bushwick with curtains for walls anymore.

But Quinn's bookmark is on her coffee table. Quinn's coat is on her hook by the door. Quinn's pomegranate shampoo will soon enough be on her bathroom shelf. Her particular quiet way of taking up space, without apology, is already woven into the fabric of this Sunday evening.

Rachel knows it’s a little early even to be entertaining certain thoughts, but she (as well as the rest of the world) knows they’ve wasted enough time. And she also just doesn’t mind. Quinn can take up all the space she wants in her life.

She has been showing Rachel things without meaning to. How to walk into a room without bracing for it. How to let a morning be slow. How to simply let things be for a while.

Rachel wants to learn them. All of them.

She thinks about winding roads again, and how the prettiest (amongst other things, Quinn is full of qualities, really) girl in the world is currently stealing all the throw blanket without looking up from her book, and how Rachel is going to let her, and how that is perhaps the most telling thing of all.

She sips her tea.

On the screen, a kitty rolls around with a puppy, and its owner lets out an aww.

Quinn turns another page.