A/N: This is very short and very simple, but I felt Quick needed something last night, and since we didn't get it, well... here you go.


He finds her outside the cafeteria during lunch hour, staring at the cars passing by on the road with her arms crossed. He studies her for a moment - the steely glint in her eyes, the way her nose scrunches against the sunlight - before he turns the corner fully to let her see him. Surely she must know he's there, but she doesn't spare him much of a glance as he sits down beside her.

"So…" He whistles underneath his breath. "What was that, back there?" Of course he'd been watching - he's got sonar for catfights and skirts - but he still didn't know what to make of it. That takes effort and he has none.

For a second he's sure she won't answer. Then, with a snort, she replies, "Just Santana being a bitch."

He quirks a smile. "She's always a bitch," he agrees. "But you looked ready to - well, I don't know - rip her face off or something." It's his own subtle way of asking what's wrong - and she might not see it, she might not even know it. He wonders briefly why it's so hard for people to say what they mean.

She lifts an eyebrow at him but he pretends not to notice. "I'm tired of people talking to my stomach," she mutters. "Or talking about me like that's the only thing they know about me. That I had her. Beth."

It still hurts to hear the name out loud but he's getting better at hiding it, and that's something. "You got Coach Sylvester to let you back on the team," he offers as a condolence. "She doesn't think of you like that."

"She told me to get out before I even spoke a word," she mumbles. He expects her to continue on with her story - explain how she got to head Cheerio again - but she doesn't.

"I don't think of you like that," he tries again.

She's silent this time, but he can hear her thoughts as if she spoke them aloud: That's easy for you to say. You're the one who knocked me up.

He follows her example and is quiet for the following minutes, before very suddenly blurting out, "Sorry." He thinks it's about time he said it. She hadn't heard it before.

She blinks at him quizzically.

"Uh, for the condom," he says awkwardly. "Or, I guess, the whole not-having-one part. And for the sex. And for making you do it. You didn't want to." That part stings but he sweeps on anyway. "So I'm sorry."

She hums a little to herself. Then, quietly, "I wanted to."

That's not the answer he expected but he figures it's the best he'll get.

She laughs out loud at his silence, and then she, too, closes her mouth, and they both watch the cars as they pass on by. He wonders what it'd be like to run away from it all. Just take his truck and drive anywhere. Maybe he'd take her with him. They could be like Bonnie and Clyde, but without the whole murdering part.

She turns her head to the side to watch him a bit, and when he meets her gaze, she smiles a little. "I'm sorry, too."

He furrows a brow. "For what?"

There's a frown in her eyes and a truth on her lips, but she decides not to say it. "Just… sorry."

The cars pass on by as if no one said a word.