A little drabble of mine, that I may or may not continue.

What d'ya think?

It's just another job, it's just another job.

Maybe if I had kept repeating it, I would've believed it. I had gotten the message, it was clear cut, simple. Just another job.

That was until I saw the intended target.

When I was younger my Daddy used to tell me that there was an invisible red string tied to my ankle, and to the end of that string was my soul mate, who was also tied to the string, he told me that this string could tangle and even stretch, but it could never break.

I never believed him, I used to laugh and smile at his stories of old Romanticism and hope, but I knew they were fairy tales, because real life is cruel and you never get what you want, or what you dreamed of having. Even as a child I was cynical and hard. It's what kept me going, through the torturous years of education, it's what allowed me to hold my head up high and carry on, after every slushie, after every cruel insult or nickname thrown at me.

Now, perched on the roof of the Siegman building overlooking the tall apartment block, which lit up like a firefly in the night on a wet summers day in Ohio I counted thirteen down, six across and spotted my target.

I settled myself, unattached the scope of my .50 Rangermaster sniper rifle and put my eye to the end, searching for the targets room. Today, I was told to observe, sometimes a client would like a quick assassination, others, long, drawn out. Either way, I had become somewhat immune to the pain of others, become desensitised and impervious to the effect of my actions on people.

I was a far cry from the sensitive souled diva Rachel Berry of old, I was now Rachel Berry, Assassin. Killer. Murderer.

It's funny how the prey had become the predator, because that was what I was now, a cold blooded killer, I was told what to kill, and I'd do it, then I would go to my humongous apartment and listen to music, sip my glass of wine and read a romance novel. As if hours previously I wasn't torturing a man child in front of him in order for him to tell my client a few numbers. Yes, of course those numbers gave him access to a large off shore account that possibly had over 23 million U.S Dollars stored. But never the less.

Emotionless. That summed up this Rachel Berry, emotionless. I had forgotten how to feel.

And therefore you can understand my undiluted shock when I hesitated, I had the perfect shot -me, the most sought after assassin in the state of New York, hell in America- I had the shot, and I hesitated.

And I missed.

"Damn it" I slam the newspaper down on the table, garnering a few strange looks.

"Look, Rachel, there is no point in you getting frustrated. You didn't get caught did you." Kurt whispered the latter comment, then leant back in his seat, sipping his coffee and crossed his legs regally.

"Because, Kurt, I missed. I don't miss. I have never missed!" I hissed viciously.

Kurt rolled his eyes "Rachel, stop beating yourself over it. Did the client not say that this was actually for the best? That the publicity was actually doing wonders." he set down his mug and picked the paper up.

"Quinn Fabray, CEO of Siegman Industries, was taken into police protection late last night, after an attempt on her life. Miss Fabray had been relaxing in her apartment when a .50 calibre bullet shot through her window, narrowly missing her head. Police officers are avidly searching the perportrator but so far have no leads.

An inquiry is also being put forward into Fabray's "dodgy" money embellishment ways and will have to attend a court hearing, a source told us here at Layle that Fabray had been hot wiring money from clients of Siegman into an off shore account to be used for personal means.

All in all it hasn't been a good day for Quinn Fabray."

Kurt shrugged his shoulders and threw the paper back onto the table "You get away with it, the target takes all this bad press and you still get the money for the job, what's the big deal?"

"Nothing, nothings the big deal, I'm just pissed that I missed!" I slump back in my chair.

Kurt hums and crosses his legs, staring at me as if he was attempting to read my mind. "That's strange that you missed, you'd only miss for to reasons. If you thought it was wrong, or if you didn't want to hit the target...Which is it Rach?"

"I could have just missed?" I meant for it to come out as a statement, but it sounded more like a question.

"No, because Rachel Berry doesn't miss. So?" Kurt raised an eyebrow.

I sighed heavily "I don't know, Kurt, I-I just looked at her, and...and I just couldn't. I just couldn't ." I raked my hands through my hair. "I swear, it's like I've met her before."

"Oh, yak, please pass me a bucket." He sticks out his tongue and pretends to gag.

I throw a chip at him "Shut up!"

Six months later.

Roux de ange, Paris

I flopped down on the steel chair, flung my bag onto the table and proceeded to stretch every aching muscle in my body, from the tip of my toes to that coiled blocks that were my shoulders. The air was crisp and cool, the type that brings a flush to your cheeks and make your nose tingle.

Bringing a deep breath in, relishing the sting as the cold air cascaded down my throat, I surveyed the surrounding area. I was sat outside a small quaint cafe on the outskirts of central Paris. Along the fairly busy street people were bustling and chatting away happly mostly in French, you'd hear the odd couple speaking in English, or rabbiting away in some kind of Asian dialect, taking pictures this way and that.

Couples would cling to each other, in their romantic tirads. You'd see sweet caresses of the face, tucking of hair behind the ear, nuzzling noses together and chaste kisses when they thought no one was looking. There was something in the Parisian air that blossomed romance, brought out the inner Oscar Wilde, or Audery Hepburn in a person. Something that made you really appreciate the beauty of a human being, really understand what it meant to be in love.

And of course, I'm sat here, by myself, no one to love, no one to be loved by. That's the way its always been, always will be, it's not that I was unattractive or even that I haven't had my fair share of love and romance, because I most certainly have, and I can say without a doubt I'm hot.

What?

I am.

But I still haven't found that person who, who ignites that fire, makes me want to say "I want to spend the rest of my life with you." with utter conviction. No one has made my stomach make flips whenever they catch my eye or my heart clutch whenever they kissed me. I've never experienced what the couples in the streets here have, in short, I haven't found love yet.

However, that can't be expected when you're dayjob is killing people for money, it's a job, nonetheless, but not a job in which I can have a person by my side. And sometimes, well I regreted this life I had built for myself, because it was missing the essence that I really craved, and that would always be love.

My internal moping was distracted by a soft voice "Tu a voudrais quelque chose a manger ou boire?"

I look up to see an attractive young woman, with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes, she's pretty, definitely my type but I just don't feel up to seducing her, God, I'm such a slut!

"Ah, oui merci, une cafe au lait et des buscuits, s'il vous plait." I order a latte and some biscuits to go with it.

"Your francais c'est tres good, 'ow is mon anglais?" the waitress attempts, she's positively cute as a button.

"Very good" I praise "Although, it's more Fringlish really." I tease.

Her eyebrows knit together "Qu'est-ce que a Fringlish?"

I chuckle lowly "Fringlish c'est quand vous mix English and Francais."

She nods her head in understanding then beams at me "I shall get your coffee et alors nous sommes talk, no?"

I smile in a non committal way and she wonders off to get my order. I flex my tired toes and think how if this opportunity had been given to me even a year ago, I wouldn't be sitting here, I'd be in the storeroom with said very attractive girl being very...a-hem, vocal.

That's another thing I love about France, and Europe in general...well, excluding darling England, everyone here enjoys sex. It's celebrated, its worshiped, and gender almost is never a limiting point, if you want sex, chances are, 9 out of the 10 people in your vicinity will want it with you too. You just had to be a smooth talker, luckily for me, I am blessed with such a talent.

But after endless romps and meaningless shags, even sex becomes a chore, no matter how pleasureable that chore is, I suppose what I'm trying to say is that, right now, I'm not looking for great sex, I'm looking for someone to hold, and to mummur sweet nothings to, and to be able to wake up to their sleeping face, to make breakfast for them and have their warm arms wrap around my waist while I sip my morning coffee, someone to push our child on the swing whilst I watch and laugh as they play. What I really want is a relationship. A long lasting meaningful relationship.

Problem is, I can't let anyone, I can't trust anyone enough to break my heart into a million pieces, I'm too selfish to, wholeheartedly, hand over my soul to just one person. I'm scared of being trapped in something I can't leave.

Basically I'm scared of commitment, but long to have it.

Yep, I suck.

I sigh heavily and watch my breath cloud out, lift and dissipate into the atmosphere. "You're cafe au latte, et your biscuits, I also brought des gatteux for us to eat while we talk, it is chocolat, I 'ope you like it."

"Thank you very much..." I trail off asking her name without actually outright asking.

"Belle, and eet eez no problem." she twinkles, looking from under her lashes, as she spears a section of cake with her fork, and seductively pulls it into her mouth.

Ah what the hell, she's cute, might as well, getting my second 'charm' wind I lean forward, put on my infamous 'fuck me' smirk "Belle." I lean back and give her a complative look "It's fitting. Any other name would have been dim in comparison, because it is, in essence, you...beautiful."

She blushes deep red, and gives me a small smile. "I don't think so, in fact, I think quite the opposite." These young girls they have no confidence, it is a shame they are so beautiful.

"Belle." I admonish, she looks up, abashed. I give a long suffering sigh, and proceed to bullshit my way into her pants.

"You know there is an old fable, that says the Gods have a pot of names, and with each baby that is born the Gods would take a name out of this cauldron and the child should have the characteristics of the meaning of the name chosen. For example, my name for instance is Rachel it means O-"

"One with purity." she interupts, I raise an eyebrow "Je suis desole, it is a Hebrew name. My mother, she is hebrew."

"It is indeed, as you rightly said, it means one with purity! It's funny as I child I didn't have any siblings, I grew up rather lonely and spent most of my time with adults. There was a old woman living next door across the street, I was playing was ball and the ball flew over the fence into her backyard." I started to weave a story that I had plucked out of my brain. The ironic thing is, I was going to be called Calaka - it means cunning in Hindi.

Belle sat entrapped by my heart wrenching story about how the woman had cancer, and that was her knight in shining armour, the one thing that gave her hope, that kept her going yah dah yah dah. And she called me her little lamb, the pure one. In the end her eyes were shining with unshed tears and sweeping up my own crocodile tears with her thumbs.

And for the grand finale "And then, god, then I held her hand as her they began to switch off all of the machine to her life support, I begged to stay, to be with her in her last moments, b-but she said to me "Rachel, you have so much more to live for, don't watch this old woman drift off, you need to go now, so I can sleep, thank you dear, thank you for being my angel, my saviour...my lamb." They took me away, but I snuck back, I had to see her go. And one moment she was there, the next-the next...she was gone." I broke down, tears falling freely down my face.

In my head I was congratulating myself on my award winning performance, Belle came rushing over kneeling infront of my wiping away the tears quickly as she could, I looked at her through wet eyelashes. And I leant forward, and touched our lips gently together, just for a moment before pulling back.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...I.." waaait for it.

"Non, do not apollogise, I enjoyed it. I wouldn't mind another one." she ducks her head, god this is almost too easy. I tuck a finger under her chin, and lift her head to look at me.

This time I go slower, giving her time to back out, but she surprises me by quickly closing the gap and smashing her lips to mine. I part my mouth allowing my tounge to slide laungily over her bottom lip, she moans quietly giving me access, I explore her mouth with my tounge, she tastes rich and dark, very nice, mature for her age. Like a long roasted coffee. She threads her fingers in my dark tendrils and pulls me impossibly closer, I raise her up slowly, guiding her up with my hands on her hips.

She straddles my hips, so that we are both comfortable, completely forgetting that we're one; outside in a busy street and two; just outside her place of work. I don't want her to lose her job, I'm not cruel. I break the kiss, and open my mouth to speak to her, but she obviously doesn't like the loss of contact and attacks my neck with hot, open mouth kisses. Oh ho, was I going to have fun with this one.

"Wait, Belle, wait." I push on her shoulders gently, she lifts herself from my neck a little, I can practically feel her blushing as she realises the situation we're in.

"Shall we.." she starts, her face red as beetroot.

I giggle and give her a soft peck to calm her down "go somewhere more private? Oui. Ma maison ou vous maison?" she hits me on the chest.

"My house, I sink, it is nearby. Come." she steps of me and offers me her hand.

I chuckle sinisterly "Oh, you will."

"Putain." she curses, pulling me along.

the next morning

"Fuck, damn its cold." I curse as my breath billows before me. I close the door to the Belle's apartment quietly as I shrug on my leather jacket, and tuck my laces into my converses, before slinging my bag across my shoulder and twist it so it's resting on my back. I'm ready to go and looking fine.

I love this "just been fucked" afterglow I obtain after a GREAT night, I skip, hop and bounced down the stairs and stroll down the street, I feel I should start sing "Singing in the Rain" and prance around like a pillock, but I withold myself.

It's in my hazy state that I bump into the one person who could fuck everything up royally. Thing is that person doesn't even know who the hell I am.

The woman I tried to shoot, and failed to do so.

Quinn Fabray.