A/N: My first OneShot! All written in one night, too. I'm proud of myself. I like the way this turned out. It is 12:08 a.m. right now for me, though, and tomorrow is school. Can you say 'darn', boys and girls? I just couldn't stop writing, though; no matter how tired I'll be in class tomorrow. I hope you enjoy it!

P.S. The first little bit is actual a drabble from my collection entitled 'Drabbles A La Glee'. If you want, check that out!

Please review!

Rachel has always loved the snow. Ever since she was a little girl she has sat at the bay window at the front of her house after a snow fall and just looked out at the world. It's best when the snow is still fresh, and the flakes haven't quite stopped falling yet. Before anyone, be it adults busily on their way or young children playing and making snowmen and snow angels, has trampled over it and disturbed the beauty it possesses. She loves the way the snow sparkles in the morning, shines oh-so bright in the afternoon, and glitters in the evening.

But there is nothing quite as magical as the drifts of the after-the-storm flakes positively glowing in the twilight.

The way the snow is littered about, haphazardly and uneven yet perfect in its own way. The way the snow lands on the bare branches of the trees and makes the skinnier trees appear completely white and the larger ones simply dusted with the frozen crystals. The way it all looks from that bay window in their living room, as she sits in her pyjamas sipping hot chocolate, listening to her Dad and Daddy singing a slightly off-key rendition of Let It Snow.

She has always loved the snow.

She's at home, sitting by the bay window, sipping hot chocolate, just before twilight, in her pyjamas, when he knocks on the door. She just sits still for a moment, broken out of the mystical spell the snow had cast upon her minutes before, before there is another knock. She stands up quickly, placing her hot chocolate on the side table beside the couch she was recently occupying. Normally she would not move from her spot, choosing to stay entranced by the beauty of winter, but her fathers are away on a business trip and she can't rely on them to answer the door.

She turns the locks (yes, locks, plural) before opening the door a crack; it never hurts to be cautious, especially when home alone. However, she throws caution to the wind and pulls the door wide open at the sight before her. Noah Puckerman is standing on her front porch, wearing jeans and a T-shirt (no jacket!) in the freezing weather. (Last time she checked, which was this afternoon when it was chilly as opposed to freezing, the outdoor temperature was about 23 degrees Fahrenheit.) He is looking down, but from what he can see his eyes are red-rimmed and he looks vulnerable. She mentally makes the decision that right now he is Noah, definitely not Puck; Puck does not allow himself 'weakness' as he himself would put it, while Noah does- in front of her only, she finds. (While she knows that it is really only one person, she feels the need to differentiate between the two for her own benefit; in order to determine how to act and react to whatever the situation with him is.)

She doesn't ask questions first, because she knows from experience that he will clam up and quickly transform into Puck if she pushes him too hard too quickly. So she simply grabs his hand in a friendly gesture- refraining from flinching away from the icy coldness of his skin- and leads him into the house. Closing the door behind him- effectively shutting out the cold- she leads him to the living room. He still hasn't spoken when she sits him down on the couch.

The cool feel of his skin- while not surprising given his clothing at the moment- worries her a little and she moves to go get him some hot chocolate. This, of course, requires letting go of his hand . . . something that he appears to be against at the moment. When she moves to walk away, he grips her hand tightly and looks up at her. His eyes are full of so much raw emotion- most of it pain, part of it something she can't quite identify. Her heart goes out to the boy- scratch that- man before her. She doesn't know what it is exactly yet, but she already feels for him.

"I'll be right back," she says, quietly and soothingly, attempting to convey her honesty to him through her gaze. He must understand, because he releases her hand (albeit still a tad reluctantly). She gives him a small, sad smile that doesn't even come close to reaching her eyes before briskly walking off.

Curiosity fills her being as she moves swiftly around the kitchen. What happened? Why did he come here? How is she supposed to help? These are all questions running through her brain. She stops her pacing of the kitchen, and closes her eyes before breathing deeply a couple times. She doesn't know what's going on yet, but Noah needs her. She'll obviously need to be the strong one, and she plans to be. She'll do her best as long as he is around.

She's brought back from her thoughts by the kettle whistling. Moving swiftly once again to pour the water into the mug containing the required amount of powder as per the directions, she stirs it briskly before moving back towards the living room. When she walks in, Noah is basically in the same spot.

Still sitting on the edge of the sofa cushion, his knees are partially spread apart and his hands are dangling in between them. His head in bent downwards and he seems lost in thought. He hasn't noticed her presence yet.

Not wanting to accidentally scare him, she places the mug of hot chocolate down on the coffee table, hard. She pretends not to notice when he jumps slightly. Picking the mug back up, she holds it out to him. He looks between it and her curiously, and she says, "To warm you up. You're freezing." Nodding slightly, he takes the mug and takes a small sip.

"Thank you," he says afterwards. It's the first words he's spoken since his arrival, and his voice is unusually rough and slightly hoarse. It could be from his venture in the cold, but something tells her it has more to do with his emotional state.

"You're welcome," she says, sitting down beside him. She starts off fairly far away, but she scoots closer as he takes a sip. He doesn't protest her close proximity to him, and she takes this as a good sign. "Do you care to explain why you are lacking a jacket, or even a sweater, when the weather outside is far below freezing temperatures?" She decides that a small question is safe at this point.

"I got a call that took me by surprise, and I didn't have time to think of a jacket before I left. I haven't been home since," he replies, hesitantly. It's obvious he's skirting around the bigger issue here, but for now she lets him. She still doesn't want to push him. "Honestly," he adds, his willingness to offer more- if unimportant- information coming as a surprise to her. "I didn't even notice it was cold out, and I didn't feel cold until you mentioned it." His lack of awareness of his surroundings and himself is slightly disconcerting, but she lets that slip too.

"It's important that you take care of yourself, Noah," she says, trying not to sound too much like she assumes his mother might sound upon this type of matter.

"Why?" he asks, bluntly. This question shocks her. Does he honestly think no one would care- or does care- should something happen? "Whose loss would it be?"

She can think of a millions things to say as an explanation, but she leaves it simple. "Your mother's, your sister's, mine . . . your daughter's . . ." At this last point his whole body tenses. She's hit the jackpot, accidentally. Now she can only hope he stays Noah and does not revert to Puck. She notes how his teeth clench and the unidentifiable emotion in his eyes multiplies tenfold. "Did something happen to you daughter, Noah?" she asks, quietly. He remains silent.

The seconds tick by, marked by the grandfather clock in the room, and turn into minutes. "Noah . . ." she tries again. She does not repeat her question, because she knows that it would be pointless. He heard her the first time and he will answer when he is ready. More seconds turn into minutes.

"The call I got was from Quinn," he blurts out. There is another pause. She thinks about this, and thinks about the dates before coming to a conclus- Oh . . . my . . . God. Quinn's due date . . . their daughter . . . before Rachel can even really begin thinking, he's talking again. "She called to tell me that her water broke and that she was on her way to the hospital. I guess my brain kind of stopped working, and I just kind of ran out the door to my truck. Thinking back, driving was probably dangerous seeing as I can't remember the ride there." There's dry humor in his voice, and she can tell he is only using it for his own benefit. Neither Noah nor Puck likes talking about serious topics for very long, though Noah is much more patient with it. He pauses again, but she remains silent. He needs to get this all out on his own.

"When I got to the hospital, I was going crazy. I'm not sure if she wanted me in the delivery room, but if she was against it she didn't say anything. She nearly broke my hand, I think . . ." he trails off, subconsciously clenching and unclenching his left hand. "It took a while . . . something about her body not dilating by itself . . . but, the doctors made it work somehow . . . and it was over.

"I got to hold her . . . my daughter; for all of two minutes. She was so small, and it was just so . . . unreal, you know?" No, she didn't know, but she nodded anyways, encouraging him. "I'd always kind of thought newborn babies looked weird, and I still think they do, but . . . she was just so perfect. But then a lady took her away, after having Quinn sign some papers . . . and I didn't quite understand at first, because I was still so . . . just, totally shocked. But then it all kind of clicked as soon as my daughter was out of the room.

"And now, she's off with her adoptive parents," he says, his breath hitching. He takes a few shuddering breaths as she takes his hand in hers again. A few tears roll down his cheeks, but he makes no move to wipe them away. "I only got to hold her for two minutes, max, but I . . . I love her," he continues, his voice hitching, much more violently this time, on the word love. "And now she's off with people I don't know.

"People who have given her a name, who get to hold her, who'll wake up every night when she cries. They'll be there when she says her first words; when she takes her first steps. They'll get to watch- and help- her grow. They'll set examples for her, and it's their legs she'll cling to on the first day of school. They're the ones she'll run to when some stupid kid makes fun of her for no reason or when she falls off the swings and needs someone to kiss it better, and they'll comfort her when she has nightmares. They'll teach her how to read, and how to count, and they'll teach her all the morals they think she'll need to know.

"They'll take pictures on graduation day, and help her move into her dorm for college or university. He'll walk her down the aisle and give her away when she gets married, and they'll get to watch as she starts a life of her own.

"And if they even decide to tell her that I exist, she won't know me. She won't know that I love her, and that I'll be thinking about her. She'll think that I abandoned her, that I didn't want her. And, God, so what if I just turned eighteen? The prospect of being a dad scared me, but this . . . this scares me more. And now I don't have a choice. I won't get to do all those things I talked about, and . . . I want to. But she's gone now, the papers are all signed- courtesy of Quinn- and I- I- I'll never see her again."

With this he completely breaks down, holding his head in his hands and sobbing. Rachel's eyes are far from dry, as tears have been rolling down her cheeks since his voice first hitched. But she knows that the sadness she is feeling is nothing- nothing- compared to the pain he is feeling right now. She wraps her arms around him until his sobs recede. She says nothing yet, knowing that it would not only be futile to say such empty words as 'it'll all be okay', but it would also be disrespectful to his anguish. This isn't something you can say 'it'll all be okay' to.

When his sobs have almost stopped, she gently takes his face in her hands. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, and she can now identify the emotion in his deep, hazel eyes: love. Because all of his sadness and anger and pain- it's all a result of what he feels for his daughter. . . and that is love.

His breathing is still uneven. It hitches as he takes in a breath, and shudders as he releases it. She takes a deep breath herself, steeling herself for a speech of her own.

"I cannot even come close to imagining what you must be feeling right now, Noah, so I won't pretend to. But I know that you are a wonderful, caring, kind person- deep down- and you will make a wonderful father someday. I am positive that, had you been given the chance this time, you would have been a wonderful father to your daughter. It would have been hard, and scary, but the unconditional love you have for her would have made everything alright.

"But you have been wrongly denied that chance, and for that I am sincerely sorry. And, yes, you will miss all of those things. And, yes, she may never know of your existence, and she may resent you if she is informed. But- and don't tale this wrongly- you need to think of her right now." His face turns angry at this point, and she knows he wants to say something along the lines of 'Do you think I'm not thinking about her?', but she puts a finger to his lips. "I know you are thinking of nothing but her best interests, Noah, but let me finish," she continues. "You would have done a wonderful job of raising her, and I'm not saying that you taking care of her would have been worse than the situation she will find herself in. I simply mean to say that she will live a happy life. Her life with you would have been happy, too, but she will have a loving family this way, too, and someday I hope you can make peace with that fact."

His face softens as he takes in what she has said. She continues, "And this is going to hurt, a lot, for a long time. And, just bear with me here." She turns on the couch so that she is facing sideways, guiding him to do the same. She moves her gaze to outside, focusing on the glow. 'Perfect timing,' she thinks to herself. 'Twilight is always the best.' "Just look outside," she says. "Take in the scene."

"What the fuck, Berry . . . why are you making me stare at snow? How is this going to help, anyways," he grumbles. She hides the smallest of smiles at his statement; that's more like him . . . more like the mix of Noah and Puck that she prefers to either one on their own.

"Ever since I was little, and even now, the twilight right after a snow fall always holds a certain magic for me. And, admittedly, it started while I was in the Disney Princess stage when I loved magic and happily-ever-afters; but there is something calming about it. No matter what is going on, it is my constant. Strange though it may seem, the true magic is in the way that it is never quite the same."

"Yeah, because that makes sense," he mutters, though more playfully. There is an almost smile on his lips, and she's never been so glad to see it. The teasing is refreshing.

"Let me explain better," she says, defensively, blushing slightly. "It is comforting because, no matter what is going on in my life, what is good and what is bad, I can always count on the twilight. The fact that it is never the same helps keep me sane when things don't always go my way. The magic is in the consistency of change."

"That's oddly profound," he says. He seems to be mulling it over, deep in thought. She can only hope that he is finding the meaning of that magic for himself. "So . . . I think I got it," he continues. Taking a deep breath, he says, "Right now it's hard, and painful. But over time it will get easier, and she'll always be there, in the back of my mind. So things will change; even- though I won't see it- she will change . . . but we can always count on it to keep changing?" The last part comes out as a question. Rachel only smiles.

"I think you found your magic," she says, hugging him. He hugs her back, tears forming in his eyes again.

"Thank you, for helping me find it," he says. The: 'and everything else' is unspoken but she hears it loud and clear.

"Anytime, Noah," she replies quietly. It's a response to both the spoken and unspoken parts of his thanks, and this does not go by unnoticed by him. They release each other from their embrace, both turning fully so that they're facing the window. Careful to not fall off backwards, Noah puts and arm around her shoulder. She leans her head on his shoulder, and they both look on as the magic of twilight fades into the mystery of night.

It's the first night they spend doing it together, but not the last.

Five Years Later:

She sits in the window seat, looking out the window. The window seat is much more comfortable and convenient than her fathers' sofa had been. A lot had changed, including her last name. Her new home in Lima is not the penthouse on Park Avenue she had dreamed of as a child, but it's all she could ever wish for and more now.

She hears a key turn in the lock, but she keeps her gaze on the newly snow-covered world outside the window. Twilight is approaching, and will arrive any minute. If she so much as blinks, she could miss the transformation.

Footsteps approach from behind her. A smile spreads across her face when two strong arms wrap around her shoulders, embracing her. Her husband kisses he top of her head, whispering, "What, couldn't sleep?" in her ear, taking in the view.

"It's difficult," she begins. "When your spawn is doing summersaults inside my belly and pressing against my organs." She tries to sound irritated, but fails miserably. Pressing her hands to her six-month pregnant belly, she smiles wider than before. Noah's arms wrap around her middle and his hands come to a rest on top of hers. He smiles too as he feels their baby kick.

"That is true magic," he says quietly. He has been incredibly in awe ever since she discovered the existence of their little miracle. Then, the sudden transformation to twilight happens. Rachel mutters under her breath again, as they both blinked when it happened.

'Every time,' she thinks to herself, before saying out loud, "The best kind of magic there is."

Change is one of two constants in their lives; the second is each other.