Chapter I: Do You Regret It?

New York is notorious for crime. It is the most populated, most coveted city in the nation, teeming with life, organic and artificial. Not a moment in this concrete jungle is quiet or mundane. It's no wonder it is called "The City That Never Sleeps". If you blink, you will literally miss something.

In some cases, blinking won't just cause you to miss something. It'll change your life.

Friday night. Best day of the week, when teenagers flood the nightlife with fresh adrenaline due to the relief of no school and most people get a break from their jobs to roam the sidewalks and spend time out with friends or family, if they're lucky they stuck around to live somewhere in the city. But with this extra hustle and bustle also means that the chances of scoring a taxi is slim to none.

Stepping out of the presigious building that houses none other than Broadway, Rachel Berry takes a breath of what she deems fresh air (though it might be a little polluted due to the products of a city and the constant traffic, not to mention the sketchy, greasy hot dog stands with vendors that fit the profile of picks-their-nose-and-doesn't-wash-their-hands.) Slinging her purse straps over her shoulder, she heads in the general direction of her loft, one eye out for a vacant cab if the opportunity to snag one arises. In the meantime, she pulls out her phone, checking her multiple emails and texts and sorting through them (she still likes things to be organized and puts all her emails she needs to open later in labeled folders. Some habits die hard.) She's walked this way plenty of times, after all, she has lived in the city since she could ditch the little backwater town in Ohio, which was at the crisp age of 18, and climb her way onto the bright lights and stage. Now 22, she has just finished her last showing of her play, Monday making its way with a new audition for a new play that she plans on stealing the lead role for again. Of course there is competition, but there's little Rachel Berry can't handle.

Fortunately, that includes saving a life.

For some odd reason, be it fate, she decides to take that dark, dank alleyway she has always tried to avoid if she could, but is a clear cut across a couple blocks that would lessen the time and walk to her loft. She pauses at the mouth of the alley, the light of her phone illuminating her ponderous features as she battles with herself if she should stick to her beliefs and never trust a place like that or risk it, just this once. The thrill of the stage, of the audience, of acting and singing varies a lot from the thrill of experiencing something completely new, going against the norm, even it is something as trivial as a simple alley. Looking past the fire escapes that crawl up either side of the two buildings, the Dumpsters and trash cans, and the manhole that leaks steam, she can see the next street glaring with light, just barely making out pedestrians on the other side as they stroll by. It can't be that bad. What's the worse that could happen if after four years, she hasn't even witnessed someone else getting mugged, let alone her?

Deciding the whole walk through will be quicker if she continues to read her opened email, she casts her dark eyes down and boldly turns on her heel, heading into the alleyway. It's surprising how much after a few steps life is muffled after all the noise she's grown accustomed to hearing constantly. Now she can clearly hear the hissing of the manhole with its wafting steam. She hears a rustle and then the wet pads of feet as a stray cat skitters past in the edge of her vision, but she continues on. She can feel her heart hammering in her chest, the dark enclosing the closer to the middle of the alley she reaches, and her heels click dully on the damp concrete, echoing in her ears. She notices her thumb is shaking as she scrolls the email up to read the last of it. She doesn't quite feel afraid but more... aware than usual. Maybe after this first time through, she could learn to trust this shortcut after all and use it more often.

A door bursts open, swinging completely open and cracking against the brick wall. A wide shaft of harsh, bright light spills into the alleyway, and a man dressed in complete black, ski-mask and all, creates looming shadows with his figure as he darts out in the light, a rucksack over one shoulder and appearing to carry quite the load. He turns to Rachel, taking note of her, and with his left hand, pulls out a butterfly knife, flicking the long blade open as if the petrified starlet would actually attempt an attack. On the contrary, she is rooted to the spot, fear coursing pure and raw through her being. Her eyes are wide, her phone clutched to her chest in some semblance of protecting herself, and sharp breaths escape her dry lips and mouth. She can't think, she can't comprehend this man before her, and it seems much longer than it really is, but the man is suddenly preoccupied once more with another figure in the doorway of the building, its stature blocking most of the light now but not enough to conceal the gun in hand.

A deafening fire rings through the alleyway, amplified by the accoustics of the narrow passage and its bricks. Rachel starts, shock riddling her body now as the masked man crumples backwards, falling onto his back, the rucksack tossed free of his hand. The man doesn't move on the ground and the figure, also identified as a man, steps from the doorway, only stooping by the burglar to grab the rucksack, spit on the body and walk back inside with no qualms about potentially killing a person. He doesn't even look at Rachel.

For some reason, Rachel finds the motivation, the drive, the courage to drop her purse to the ground as well as her knees beside the masked man. She looks up at one end of the alley, expecting, hoping, to see someone, perhaps paramedics, rushing down to meet her and help her take care of this wounded man. She even glances back the way she came, suddenly aware that the only real noise in the alley now is her sharp, loud gasps that pass as breathing. No one seems to really notice anything has occurred and there is definitely no one coming to help her save this dying man. With nothing else to do, she taps 911 into her phone, calls, sets on speaker, and places it on the ground beside her as she struggles to remember the basics of CPR. Grabbing the mask, she peels it off, revealing a rather rugged face and dark hair. If she saw him on the street, she would have found him attractive. His eyes are closed and he rather looks like he is sleeping, if not for the apparent bullet in his chest and the blood dripping onto the concrete.

"911, what is your emergency?" a calm but quick woman's voice says through her phone, ricocheting off the alley walls.

"Yes, hi, someone has been shot!" Rachel strangles out, looking over the man for something to do next, her hands hovering above him without knowing what to really do with them.

"Are you with the victim now?" the woman asks, her voice more urgent now.

"Yes, I'm the only one here!" Rachel says, panic rising like bile in her throat.

"Ma'am, you need to stabilize the victim until an ambulance arrives. Can you tell me where you are?"

"Uh, I—" Rachel glances around but she can't decipher anything that'll tell her where she is exactly. She feels tears in her eyes. "I don't know where I am. I'm in some alleyway, near Broadway, that's all I know!"

"That's alright, ma'am, that is specific enough that we can now follow the coordinates of your cellphone to your location," the woman assures. "Now, I need you to remain calm for me. I'm going to stay on the phone with you until the ambulance arrives, okay? Ma'am, do you know CPR?"

"No, no, I don't," Rachel stutters out, closing her eyes briefly and trying to regulate her breathing if she wants to remain calm enough to stabilize this man.

"That's okay, just follow my instructions. I need you to place one hand on the victim's forehead and two fingers under their chin, to lift their head up and open their airway. Can you do that?"

"Yes, I think," Rachel replies dumbly, doing as instructed. Her hands shake as she places them in the appropriate positions and she tilts the lolling man's head back, so that he looks more like he is staring at the sky, if his eyes were open. "Okay, I have his airway open, what do I do now?"

"You need to open his mouth and place your ear close enough to tell if he is breathing," the woman instructs, her words articulate and firm.

Rachel ducks her head down, and in the process of turning her head to hear if the man is breathing, she sees the way the light reflects off the shiny patch of liquid gathered in the center of his chest where he has been shot. It sickens her and she remembers the man pulling out his knife like he might just attack Rachel if she got in his way, but that alone isn't enough to stop what she is doing. No matter who they are, no person deserves to die alone in an alleyway, when most burglars are stealing just to get by.

"He's not breathing," Rachel murmurs, more to affirm it for herself. The man's chest isn't moving, she doesn't hear even a wheeze, or feel warmth against her cheek. She sits up, shaking herself, and then repeats, louder this time, "He isn't breathing."

"Okay, what I need you to do now, ma'am, is to place your mouth over his and breathe two strong breaths into his lungs, with a second-long interval in between," the woman explains. "Can you do this for me?"

"Yeah, okay," Rachel says. She feels like she is in a daze now, just doing what she is being told to do. She guesses it's the surprise and shock of witnessing something as grotesque and sudden for the first time that is finally numbing her, but she doesn't dwell on it. Placing her mouth over his, she pushes breath into him, taking a breath in between. When she pushes in the second breath, she gets a jolt of relief to just see the man's chest fall after rising, like he might be breathing.

"Next, place your left hand flat against the center of the victim's chest with your right hand on top. Lace your fingers together, keeping your left hand flat. You need to be kneeling over them, and while keeping your arms straight and using all of your weight, perform thirty chest compressions. Can you do that?"

"I think so, yeah," Rachel replies. Licking her dried lips, she leans over the man, placing her hands as instructed. The gunshot wound is just below the center of his chest but she can feel the warm liquid moving down to where her hands are pressing, just beneath his thick shirt. Ignoring the feel of wet fabric against her bare hands, she puts weight onto her locked arms. Bracing herself, mentally and physically, she forces herself to begin compressions, counting aloud with the woman on the phone, who does so to make sure Rachel doesn't feel alone. Once she reaches thirty, she's told to give two more rescue breaths and start another compression cycle. The man's chest rises and falls with each breath but not on his own. She feels the panic roiling in her stomach as she shoves down on his chest, no longer counting as the woman does for her.

"Come on," she whines beneath her breath, fresh tears stinging her eyes. "Breathe. Just breathe."

"Ma'am, I need you to check for a pulse. Do you know where to look on the victim's neck for a pulse?"

"Oh, yes I do!" Only knowing this from counting how many beats per minute during her exercises, she quickly places two fingers in the dip of his throat. At first she feels nothing and she does start crying, believing this man is really dead, but then she notices that she is pressing too hard. Releasing some of the pressure, she feels a faint beat pulsate beneath the skin of her fingertips. He's still alive. He's still there. He just needs to breathe.

"There's a pulse!" Rachel says, and without being told, lifts the man's head up again and gives two more rescue breaths. Counting aloud again, she starts compressions. The woman on the phone picks up with her, relieving Rachel that she is still indeed with her. Around twenty compressions, she realizes the ache in her arms, in the shortness of her own breath. She thought this wouldn't be as hard; it actually seems pretty easy on TV or in movies. In reality, she can feel a dull discomfort in her lower back and the strain in the muscles of her arms. Still, she doesn't relent and the pattern of CPR is embedded in her brain now. She goes through the motions without being told and she even forgets that an ambulance has already been sent until she hears the sirens and they stop at the mouth of the alley facing her, its blare echoing against the bricks. Even when she hears the gourney rattling down the cement, the EMT's boots slapping the puddles here and there as they hurry over, Rachel continues.

"You can stop now," a male EMT instructs. With the last compression, huffing out "thirty!" Rachel leans back on her haunches. The EMT moves forward, lifting the man's head and ducking his own to check for signs of breathing. After several moments, the EMT doesn't perform the two rescue breaths and Rachel is about to ask why he isn't providing the care this man desperately needs. The question dies on her lips when she looks down to see the man's chest rising and falling, just barely, but of his own accord.

"You did amazing," the EMT assures with a quick smile. With the help of another, Rachel stands and steps aside to let the medical practioners take over. A new wave of shock washes over her as she realizes she has successfully performed CPR on a man and got him to breathe again. Even if the night isn't particularly cold and she is wearing a small leather jacket, a shiver rolls through her and she wraps her arms around herself, watching with new-found appreciation as the EMTs have managed to get the man onto a the gourney and begins to roll him away. The first EMT faces Rachel. He sees her shivering and shrugs off his large EMT coat, placing it around her shoulders.

"Would you like to accompany us to the hospital so you can be there when he wakes up?" the EMT asks, already guiding Rachel down the alley towards the ambulance. She looks forward and sees the two doors in the back open, and the other EMTs counting before hoisting the gourney up, folding the legs underneath and sliding the man inside. Rachel nods silently and the EMT guides her at a more brisk pace to the back of the ambulance where he assists her up. He climbs in himself and the ambulance starts driving even before he slams the doors shut.

Rachel can hear the sirens start again but they aren't nearly as loud as they were in the alley. She holds the lapels of the EMT's jacket closer to her chest, seeking the warmth she seems to need, and watches as the two work with the man on the gourney, inserting an IV and drip. The other EMT pulls out a scalpel and uses it to cut apart the man's black sweater, revealing the severity of the damage from the gunshot. But rather than gasping and staring at the man's chest, Rachel stares at the scalpel, thinking back once more the butterfly knife. She knows if it were anyone else that chanced upon this event, if anyone else watched this burglar pull the knife out on them, ready to attack, they would not have saved his life. They would have watched him get shot by the other man he stole from and then run away. But Rachel couldn't find it in herself to be so heartless, so emotionless. She just couldn't let this man die.

Hospitals have never been her favorite place. She never goes to them often but she did have to once during one of her first plays, when she twisted her ankle during a dance rehearsal and they suspected a fracture when it was just nasty bruising and a nice sprain. That stay was much shorter.

Twirling a wooden stick to churn the creamer into her coffee, Rachel turns to walk back down the hallway to the man's room. The EMT has been by since to retrieve his jacket, but he thanked her again for her services and complimented on "what a generous heart you have to help save this man's life." It felt nice to hear it from someone else, to solidify her beliefs that she was one of very few people to do something as saving the life of a man who could of potentially killed you themself.

Stepping back into the room, she says hello to the doctor who returns hourly for a check-up and sits down in her seat she pulled up beside the man's bed. She once again looks over the multiple machines and all the tubes they have plugged into him. His heart rate monitor bleats softly, recording his strong heart. They have already performed a minor surgery to remove the bullet and have luckily reported that the internal damage is clean and will heal faster and better than had the bullet actually shattered or hit a major artery. He now wears the hospital issued attire but they don't cover arms and Rachel can make out the faint stain of blood on the inside of his arm if she looks close enough. Looking down at her hands around her cup, she can't see the blood, having already washed her hands numerous times, but she can almost feel the stain of it in her fingerprints. She'll carry this with her for the rest of her life.

"Ms. Berry?" a woman's voice asks. Looking up from contemplating her hands, she is met with the visage of a beautiful woman as she steps cautiously into the room, as if asking permission to enter. The woman is about 5'6'', with long blonde hair past her shoulders and brilliant hazel eyes. Her fair skin holds no mars and she wears a dark pair of form-fitting jeans, a plain gray v-neck shirt, and a brown leather jacket. She holds herself with a sort of elegance yet with authority, like she has a purpose in just standing within the door of the hospital room. Her eyes search Rachel's face, and for a moment, she believes she saw a sort of flash of recognition in those intriguing eyes before disappearing altogether.

"Yes?" Rachel finds her voice and replies. She finds herself standing, needing to face this woman. She has never seen, heard, or met this woman in her life, yet, something about her is alluring. Maybe she's just really attractive. Since arriving to New York, Rachel has been able to fully be herself and that includes being the complete people-person she is, including her attraction to both men and women. She has had an experience or two with each gender, nothing to obtain the title of a "slut" if she were still going to use high-school terms, but she knows when she is attracted to a woman and she can't tell if it really is that this woman is gorgeous or if there is something else drawing her to the blonde.

The blonde nods and strides around the bed, facing Rachel. She drags the other chair over to the side of the bed with enough space for leg room, and seats herself, making herself comfortable. Rachel gives her a puzzled expression and slowly sits down, taking the first drink of her coffee. The woman doesn't appear to notice the look on Rachel's face and reclines in her chair, attention on the man in the bed. A humorless smile comes to the blonde's lips then, and she would appear even more attractive if she didn't seem melancholic just by watching the sleeping burglar. Each moment becomes more and more confusing for Rachel and she takes another drink to wetten her mouth before she speaks.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" Rachel leans forward on her knees, eyes on the blonde.

"That isn't important right now," the woman replies evenly. Her eyes gaze at the man before surprisingly snapping to meet Rachel's chocolate brown. A sort of spark sizzles between them, or at least Rachel believes it's mutual, and then that hazel is back on the man, almost as if she is... analyzing his slumbering state.

"Then may I know what you are doing here?" Rachel pushes. "Are you a nurse? Doctor? Officer?"

The woman chuckles and doesn't bother to look back at Rachel again. "Do I look like any of those professions?"

"Not exactly," Rachel mutters. She decides then that the ache in her lower back is too much to be leaning forward with and she sits back with a sigh, taking another drink of her coffee.

"Are you hurt?" the woman asks abruptly. Looking up, she finds eye contact again and is further perplexed.

"Not exactly," Rachel admits, shrugging a shoulder, which serves to remind her of her exertion in her arms. "I just ache. I've never performed CPR before. I've never saved a life before either."

"You did save this man's life," the woman says and Rachel can't tell if the woman is implying a question, a statement, or confirming it for Rachel. What the hell is going on? Who is this woman? "Did you know this man is a thief?"

The question catches Rachel off guard and she blinks. She glances at the man in the bed, with his tousled dark hair and peaceful, mature features, and then to his chest, where she imagines the stitches in his chest from the bullet wound.

"Yes, I do," Rachel says confidently. "That doesn't mean he should die. He was just a burglar. He could've been stealing something just so he could make some money to buy something to eat."

"Then you believe in the saying 'desperate times call for desperate measures'?" the woman asks, attention back to Rachel once more but with an air of interrogating someone. Maybe this woman was a detective. They wear leather jackets, right? She could even have a pair of Aviators in one of her jacket pockets.

"I suppose so," Rachel agrees. "I don't necessarily apply that to myself but I may have had a time or two back in my youth where I definitely could have done something 'desperate'. Not as desperate as stealing or shooting someone."

"Are you also aware this man is a murderer?" the woman says and this question strikes Rachel silent. A murderer? He couldn't be a murderer... could he? Now that she thinks about it, this man was quick to pull his knife out on her just by noticing she happened to be walking by. What if that man in the doorway hadn't shot this man? Would this man have stabbed her and left her to die, unlike what she has done for him?

"No, but how could you know?" Rachel fires back. This woman is bothing interesting and a little irritating. She seems to regard herself with a higher purpose, like she is all-knowing.

"I am someone who tends to know these sorts of things," the woman replies, further scratching that annoying itch with Rachel. What she says next just appalls her. "I also know you would have died tonight if the roles were reversed."

"How are you so sure this man would have killed me?" Rachel nearly shouts, on her feet again. She has to move to set the coffee on the little nightstand beside all the machinery or else she'll spill it everywhere, but she suspects the break in her angry character will make her appear less intimidating. When she looks back at the woman, she hasn't even moved in her seat. She watches Rachel with a completely blank face. She is serious about what she said. It isn't some assumption on her part. She is someone who tends to know these sorts of things and she knows Rachel would have been killed tonight had this man not be shot. She would have died because this man would not have saved her like she did.

"Do you regret saving him now?" the woman asks, and upon staring into her eyes, Rachel sees them harden. These questions become more and more probing, and the starlet can feel them each weighted with so much cryptic purpose, she doesn't understand. Slowly... she shakes her head.

"No, I don't," she says calmly. "He may be a robber and a murderer and he may not have saved my life or tried to get help if he stabbed me but I wouldn't be any better than him if I didn't try to save him."

The blonde continues to watch Rachel. The brunette can feel her face growing hot under the scrunity, which is very odd considering how often she is on stage in front of hundreds of people nearly every night for a week at a time, but beneath the look of this woman, she feels like she is being stripped of every layer of her being. She feels like she is being searched to the bone, to her soul, and those eyes penetrate her. However, she refuses to waver or break the eye contact. She doesn't move or hardly breathe.

Suddenly, the blonde stands. A new smile is on her lips, a small charming one.

"I will see you soon," she says, her smooth voice taking a more heartfelt lilt. She rounds the bed and leaves the room without a hesitant step or a backwards glance, and she leaves Rachel is stunned silence with her mind absolutely reeling at tonight's events.

Rachel is exhausted. It is four in the morning and she doesn't want to leave the hospital because 1.) she wants to be here when the man wakes up and she would like to have a few words with him and 2.) she wonders if the blonde will be as soon as she said she would be back. It doesn't seem likely and the nightstand beside Rachel is topped with four empty cups of coffee, each cup's bottom growing gradually dark as less and less creamer is used in favor for pure caffeine to help the brunette stay awake.

The door opens and Rachel lurches up in her seat, wanting to see the blonde. Only the doctor walks in, smiling at Rachel as she sinks back down in her chair. She watches him for the umpteenth time as he checks the man's charts and his IV drip. He writes a few things down, glances at all the machines and whatever the hell they say, and then hangs the clipboard at the end of the bed with a clang.

"He should be waking soon," the doctor announces. "His vitals are good, he seems to be quite stable, and his morphine drip will be allowing him to wane awake. An officer will be in shortly but you'll have a moment to speak with the patient."

"Thank you," Rachel says tiredly, rubbing the space between her brows. The doctor nods and leaves again. It's only a couple minutes later and an officer enters, once again causing Rachel to spin around only to be met with disappointment.

"Miss," he greets gruffly. He doesn't appear to so happy to be awake either. He rounds the bed and takes some cuffs to latch the man's right hand to the bed, and then his bed. Using actual handcuffs issued by an officer creates a different message than the restraints, if this man's bed has any at all. Looking up, Rachel sees the officer checking a notepad he's pulled from his waistband.

"Do you know this man's name?" she asks.

The officer tuts his tongue against the back of his teeth and flips a page. "Aaron Walters. He's 26." the officer glances up, almost like he is realizing Rachel saved Aaron's life, and adds with a bit more sober in her voice, "He killed his wife a few years ago. That's approximately the time he started having financial troubles and started breaking and entering to make a living."

Rachel places a hand over her mouth, feeling sick. That blonde woman was right. This man, Aaron Walters, is a murderer. He killed his wife and with breaking and entering, he is also bound to have a couple more murders on his hands as well. There is no doubt now that Rachel could have been killed tonight. As much as it disturbs her that this man would go the lengths he does now to make ends meet for him even if his life will never amount to much with all the crimes he has stacked against him, she still feels solid in her belief that she is right in saving his life. She thanks the officer quietly and he leaves the room with a pat on her shoulder.

It's not an hour later and Aaron stirs. He shifts his leg in bed and mumbles. Looking up from the dying light of her phone, Rachel sees his eyes open blearily. Of course he is disoriented. The last he probably remembers is getting shot and not exactly gaining consciousness since. Standing, Rachel pockets her phone and nears the railing of his bed. She looks down at his face until he really comprehends reality and his eyes land on her face, focusing.

"Where am I?" he asks, voice scratchy and unused.

"You are in a hospital," Rachel answers. "You were shot and I saved your life."

"Who are you?" he asks, gaining more and more awareness with each passing second. With it, he seems more and more dangerous, his voice still brusque even after he clears it. "Were you... were you that woman in my way? Did you bust me?"

"I wasn't in your way," Rachel tries to say, shaking her head. "You could have ran past me— I wouldn't have stopped you."

"I was shot because of you!" he says, furious. The bed rattles as he lurches upright. The cuffs strain as he reaches out for her. Her hand had been resting on the railing of the bed and he grabs it, his fingers course and rough as he clenches her hand to the point where she yelps in pain. He too gasps at the pain of suddenly sitting up, his other hand wanting to grab his chest where his stitches pull at his sensitive skin. His eyes screw shut before opening again, black and glinting, threatening. Rachel tries to yank her hand away but he is holding her so tightly, she feels like her skin is about to peel off. He jerks her even with the limited amount of movement, and she nearly stumbles closer as he leans forward, like the worst he could do to her is bite her.

A hand grabs her wrist. Cool fingers wrap around her skin and pulls her away like she hadn't already tried that. The momentum of the pull from Aaron's hand has Rachel nearly stumbling backwards if she didn't turn around and basically fall into the blonde's arms. The woman helps her upright, and looking up at her face in the dim lighting, she can see her hard features centered on Aaron. An alarm begins to blare from one of the machines and Rachel turns to see that with all his thrashing, Aaron has torn his IV out as well some other tubes, which would normally alert the doctors that the patient is dying. In this case, Aaron is yelling crude insults and threats and trying to get out of bed. He is swinging his legs around and when Rachel looks at his chest, she can see a little blotch of red where his stitches are. It's not surprise they would be tearing.

"Are you alright?" the woman asks. Rachel becomes acutely aware that just one of this woman's hands is on her lower back, gentle and light. Remembering her hand, Rachel lifts it into some light and can just make out the beginning of bruising across some of her fingers and the back of her hand, as well as angry red blotches where he had felt like he was pulling her skin off. The woman's other hand slides up the underside of Rachel's arm, making her shiver just slightly and hopefully not too noticeably. She holds Rachel's hand, running a thumb over one of her fingers and making her hiss at the pain it causes, when the door opens again and several nurses, a doctor, and a police officer enters.

"Ladies, step outside please," the officer advises. With her arm still around Rachel's waist, the blonde manuevers them out into the much calmer hallway, where only medical staff remain. The blonde doesn't stop there and leads Rachel down towards the little room reserved for small conferences and has the coffee machine Rachel is allowed to use to fuel herself. Pulling her inside that little room, the woman turns of the lights, shuts the door and locks it.

Rachel has so many questions she wants to ask this lady but they all tumble over each other without a chance of getting out. However, the blonde moves to the other side of the room. She takes the coffee pot and pours a cup, just one, and then turns and gestures for the chair at the table right in front of her. Deciding it best to not argue, seeing as she is so tired, Rachel moves to the said chair and sits down.

The woman hands over the cup of coffee and that small, charming smile. It's so different in contrast with the hard, almost angry expression she wore when she first saw Aaron and how he had been treating Rachel. It makes her chest tingle without something she hasn't felt since high school and still isn't exactly sure what.

"Let me see your hand," the woman says after Rachel seems to have relaxed and had half her cup of coffee. Rachel sets her cup down and lifts her left hand as the woman kneels before her. Taking her hand again, she inspects the bruising, Rachel watching her carefully the entire time. Who knew holding someone's hand could be so painful?

Out of nowhere, the blonde lifts Rachel's hand and presses her fingers to her lips. The action is so surprising, Rachel's mouth drops open. What stranger does that to another stranger? Yet, those lips glide feather-light over her hand, across the bruises and the swollen areas. She does this for a few moments, her eyes closed, and her mouth moves almost like she is murmuring something that Rachel can't quite hear. She finishes with a subtle kiss to the back of Rachel's hand, and when she slowly pulls back, Rachel is speechless as to the difference of her hand.

Not a mark. Not a bruise. Not a bit of pain as she curls and uncurls her fingers. She turns her hand over and then back before meeting the woman's intense hazel eyes.

"What the fuck?" stumbles out of Rachel's mouth before she can stop herself but there is no real scared or angry intent behind them so they aren't taken seriously.

"My name is Quinn," the blonde woman says, standing. "I am your guardian angel."

N/A: Okay, seriously, I should be writing a chapter for What It Takes. Is anyone else mad at me? :s

So, this idea has been stuck inside my head and I just had to get it out. I can already see where it leads and I'm really excited, but this also means it's not going to be a "Part" story. It's going to become an actual chapter story. Thanks to my Part stories, however, I'm going to be named the chapters, which I haven't done before... and that bothers me. I'm really OCD. Bah.

Feedback is much appreciated! :-*

-x