A/N:I hate to do more than one story at a time, but I need a little advice. Pezberry, Puckleberry, or Puckleberry Pez?
Please read and give me your opinion. That please comes with dessert toppings, so don't be stingy.
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You sold your soul
Like a roamin' vagabond
And I found out you got lost,
But you made your way back home
You went and sold your soul,
An allegiance dead and gone
I'm losing touch
-The Killers
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She'd always taken care of her body. She ate right, exercised regularly, worked her muscles hard, but never too hard, because she knew this body was her future. It was her to ticket to bright lights, shiny awards, and that thunderous applause she could never get enough of.
She lets bitter tears run down her cheeks and doesn't wipe them away. She's got the aisle to herself and when the flight attendants walk past she turns her head to the window, not that they'd notice anything beyond her headphones and over-sized sunglasses.
It's actually quite lucky that she's all out of theatrical scenes, all out of dramatic angst. She could have had at least two of the flight attendants and several passengers hovering over her, sympathy pouring from their bodies, but she's all out of energy, too tired to share her emotions; it's probably fate, because she no longer has a stage and there will be no more audiences where she's going.
The plane lands, not even at her destination; Lima is just that cruelly backwards.
The flight attendants try to make her use a wheelchair, but she pulls herself up to her full, unimpressive height and gives them a glance so withering they hesitate before the bravest offers to at least walk her to baggage. She agrees—only because they stress that it's procedure. Rachel truly hates any variation from procedure.
"Dad! Daddy!" She almost forgot how much she loves her fathers' hugs: the way her daddy, Aaron, looks so short and soft until he's squeezing her like he'll never let go and the way Judah, so tall and imposing, touches her tenderly, like she could break at any moment.
Judah asks her how she's been and if she's in any pain and reassures her how glad they are that she's back home, even if it's under such awful circumstances. Aaron just narrows his eyes and asks about doctors and appointments and how could this possibly happen? He shakes his head at the horrendously chaotic world and orders Judah to help her back to the car while he waits for "those awful bagboys with no work ethic and no respect for people's property to actually do their job".
She falls asleep on the car ride home and has scarily vivid dreams about things she won't remember when she opens her eyes.
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That night she paces endlessly around her girlhood room. Or hobbles, to be more accurate.
She calls Julian for the second time in half an hour.
"I'm coming back immediately and there is nothing you can do to stop me!" she rails, one hand pressed determinedly into her hip.
There's a thump, and she can imagine him pressing his forehead into the wall. "Yes, Rachel, you can come back whenever you want and there's nothing I can do to stop you," he admits tiredly. "But you're not getting on my stage. Or anyone else's. Not until you're clean and healthy and can give me a hundred and ten percent and then more."
His director's voice scares her. She knows there's little in her arsenal that will outmanoeuvre director Julian.
She sniffs, tears pooling in her eyes. "I miss you."
People can hear facial expressions over the phone; it's a proven fact and Rachel knows it.
He sighs and it's not dramatic, just exhausted and pained. "I watch you cry under the spotlight every night, Rach, don't think you can your own way like that. This isn't a punishment. You think your career is going to last long with you limping around on my stage with nothing but Adderall and pig-headedness keeping you upright?"
"Then I'll come back and get better! New York has better doctors and—"
"No," he says with finality. "This isn't a punishment. This is me doing what's best for you, so stop trying to talk me out of it."
There's a long silence. She's never known how to accept defeat gracefully.
"I don't know what to do," she says pathetically.
"Think of it as a holiday. Have fun. Be young. Be young and stupid with people just as young and stupid. And enjoy it, because when you get back you're not getting another break till you retire. Or die."
Rachel's lips quirk. "I'll try."
"Good."
"I love you," she says in parting.
"Margaret just walked in. I'll call you tomorrow."
He hangs up and Rachel falls into her bed.
It's pouring outside. The cold and the wet seem to seep straight through her bones to magnify the other aches.
She rubs at her leg, trying to warm it even through her jeans and the tight black material below that stabilizes her knee.
It would be easy, so easy, to swallow her pain killers with a benzo chaser and spend the rest of the night pleasantly unoccupied.
But she wants to get back to New York, back to the stage, back to the only place she's ever been loved.
She knows she won't get back there unless she's strong.
She grabs her car keys and leaves before the silence leaves her no option.
Judah and Aaron had wanted to sell the car when she left for college, but the thought of saying goodbye to her pretty, little, eco-friendly ride had been too much. She was glad for that now.
The bar was one of those seedy establishments on the outskirts of town where the calendar never moved beyond 1989 and bright light was strictly forbidden, as if to keep patrons from truly seeing their miserable surroundings.
Rachel regrets coming the moment she walks in. The turnout was probably the usual Tuesday night crowd: men over fifty and a few tradesmen whose after-work beers would accidently turn into overnighters and no work tomorrow.
Rachel saunters to the bar, painfully compensating for her limp, and pretends she belongs.
It's sad, but she has nowhere else to go.
She beams meaninglessly at the blond bartender and orders a scotch and diet coke. She doesn't usually drink outside of celebratory champagne, but scotch reminds her of Thursday nights at Julian's penthouse when his wife has her squash match and there's nothing but lazy hours spent watching bad movies.
(It reminds her of the one place where she's closest to being wanted.)
She sips it while leaning on her dark table by the wall. It's sharp and acrid and nothing like the silky brown liquor Julian keeps in crystal decanters.
She finishes it anyway.
She stiffens when the overly familiar waitress collects her glass.
"Santana." She forces a smile.
"Berry." Santana scans her dismissively.
Intellectually, Rachel knows she looks good. Her makeup is artful, giving her an effortlessly flawless look, perfected from her days in bottom tier productions that could barely afford lighting let alone stylists. Her jeans are fashionable and the Chanel jacket Julian bought her probably cost more than this entire bar made in a fortnight.
Santana's wearing skin tight jeans and a white wife-beater that's thin with age. Her eyeliner is too heavy and she looks tired.
She's still one of the most gorgeous women Rachel has ever seen.
Rachel feels like she may as well be wearing argyle and granny sweaters.
"What do you want?" Santana snaps.
She's probably said those words a hundred times today, but Rachel doubts they were ever that hostile.
"Scotch. On the rocks," she says coolly. She doesn't like what recent studies have said about diet sodas, anyway.
She looks away before Santana can see the hurt in her eyes.
She fends off a couple improper offers, but mostly the people are friendly and polite and if she spends an hour and a half drinking by herself, it's not because she was unwelcome at other tables.
She watches Santana out of the corner of her eyes. She watches how she laughs with a couple of the older men in the corner, and how she glowers at a couple others who try to engage her in conversation. She can't take her eyes away from the sway of her hips and the way she flicks her hair behind her ears. It's all so familiar, yet a million miles away.
When Santana waves to the bartender and disappears into a backroom, Rachel can barely believe it.
It was the first time she'd seen the other girl in two years. Two years. They'd been best friends, Santana had been one of her only friends and in two years she hadn't gotten a call, or an email, not even a Facebook message.
Just looking at Santana made her whole body hurt, and pine. She'd sat in there and waited and hoped for something, anything. It was disgusting, because the other girl hadn't even spared her a glance.
She throws some notes on the table, not bothering to count them out.
Outside, she tries to get the small umbrella she keeps in her bag up, but it's not cooperating. It fights with her hands, stabs at her fingers, and falls to the ground twice before she gives up and stumbles as quickly as she can manage back to her car. She's soaking wet when she falls into the front seat. The unlock button on her keys was being terribly unwieldy too. She'd have to get it checked.
Just as she was trying to fit her broken keys into the ignition there was a loud thwacking on her window. Rachel shrieks, hiding her face in her hands.
The knocking sounds again and Rachel peeks through her fingers.
Santana's face is eerily shadowed under the parking lot floodlights, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. Rachel lets her window slide down cautiously. No rain makes it past Santana and her umbrella.
"Having a little trouble there, alky?"
Rachel shakes her head silently. It's hard for her to think under Santana's cold gaze. "My keys are broken."
"Let me have a look." Santana holds her hand out expectantly and Rachel hands them over.
Without even looking at them, Santana shoves them in her pocket and walks away.
It's not until Santana's opening the door of her car when Rachel realises what just happened. She rushes across the parking lot. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" she screams over the rain, which seems to be hitting her relentlessly.
Santana pulls away.
"You can't just leave me here!" She stamps her foot in indignation then wobbles as her other leg complains at having to hold her full weight.
Santana stops the passenger door right in front of her, waving at her.
Rachel gets in before Santana can change her mind.
"There was no need for that behaviour," Rachel tells her sullenly, rubbing her hands in front of the heat.
Santana scoffs. "That behaviour was a lot more than you deserve, Berry. Would have let you and you're thick head on the road if it wasn't for innocent motorists."
Rachel falls silent, shivering in her wet clothes and uncomfortable at having to be sitting for so long.
"I'm keeping your keys. I'll have someone drop off your car tomorrow." Santana only frowns when Rachel doesn't respond. "You staying at your dads'?"
She nods, staring at Santana when she knows the other girl's eyes are fixed on the road. There's a million things she wants to ask, but she doesn't know how. The words won't come out; instead, they just sit dumbly on her tongue.
It's only a short drive, but Rachel doesn't get out when they pull into her driveway.
Santana's clutching at her steering wheel, fingers pale against the dark material.
"Why didn't you call me?" Rachel asks finally.
Santana looks at her disbelievingly. "Are you serious?" She shakes her head. "It's late, Berry, just sleep it off."
"No! I slept on it for two years!" Her voice comes out high and strained and not at all as forcefully as she'd imagined. "Just because he left me didn't mean you had to as well."
"Look, if you have issues with Puck—"
Just hearing his name makes her throat tight and her heart beat painfully. "This isn't about him," she says it softly; quietly praying that Santana will stop talking about him. "You were my friend, too. And when he—when he…I didn't have anyone and I just wanted you."
"Rachel…" Santana sighs and can't meet those huge brown eyes. She had been angry—angrier than someone who was just a friend had any right to be. And then Puck had been such a mess, she'd had to look after him first. "Things change, Berry. We might have all been happy once, but how was I supposed act after what you did?"
Her mouth falls open. "After what…I did?" She doesn't even know what just happened.
Santana's glare becomes almost violent. She can see all that confusion, somewhere under the hurt and intoxication. "Shit. Look, this isn't my problem, okay? Stop looking at me like that! It's been years and I'm not going back there." She slumps in her chair. "It's 3am. I want to go to sleep."
"Fine, but this isn't over." Rachel has never, in all her life, let something go.
She's not about to start.
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