Hey guys! This is my first story so go easy :P. Just my take on a Fitzgerald/Charles Dickens like world with my favorite characters thrown in. I am in no way comparable to these writers but I try to make the world as believable as I can in a modern setting.

This is a Quinn/Santana story so if that's not your thing then please don't read.

I don't own any of these characters sadly.

The Greatest Expectations

Prologue

There's something about the city; the way the dirt and grime integrate perfectly with architecture akin to that of Babylonian ziggurats, hard stone and cool metal forming cyclopean spires that seem to reach so high they could touch the heavens. New York, the city of dreams and dashed hopes, thriving on the loss of wishes and out of reach desires... and to think I chose this over a city named after angels?

I watch the streets go by in a blur like scenes from an old time movie; the corners and dark alley ways lined with those who trade their bodies to the lonely for pittance. There's a slight cringe that runs through me when I make the comparisons to my surroundings against the scenes from outside, the smell of fresh Italian leather and mahogany against what I can assume is the aroma of gutter water and sulfur.

I had been summoned... requisitioned if you will; to write the memoirs of an eccentric billionaire and his family. He was a man of fortune and extreme wit; his brassiness and gallantry legend in the inner circle of his decadent society. Aside from his reputation of charitable donations to the obvious organizations and being the father of a war hero and an accomplished athlete; he was an insatiable lush and womanizer who became too rich too young. Of course those facts would be omitted from my chronicle of his privileged legacy, but they were facts that I would make sure to keep in the back of my mind. To be drawn into this world and to partake of its fruit is something I never wanted, but my own dreams will be within my reach if I were to do this and I can only hope they don't fall sacrifice to the city and the craven social scene I'm willingly plunging myself into.

In my peripheral I'm reminded that I'm not alone, my escort had been suspiciously quiet up to this point which was starting to greatly peak my interest, I turned in his direction to find him watching me; a mindful smile on his features.

"You writers… you're always brooding. I hope not due to your accommodations though? I was very particular in choosing your transportation for the upmost comfort." He said, seeming to seek my approval. I gave a short nod and smiled.

"Of course not Mr. Schuester, I would have been more than happy to take a cab; you and Mr. Puckerman didn't need to go through all this trouble."

He simply smiled wider and shook his head in disapproval.

"As I've told you; call me Will and you give yourself too little credit! You're an amazing writer; a cab would pale in comparison to the social standing your work reflects. Mr. Puckerman really is a huge fan of your musings and articles, he could think of no one better to write his memoirs."

His tone hinted that I should feel prideful, maybe even lucky that a man like Daniel Puckerman found my work in high caliber. I could only imagine what a man with his wealth and circumstance could be like in person.

Daniel Puckerman was a self-made man by all intents and purposes. He grew up on the out skirts of Alaska, his family so poor that by the age of fifteen it only saw fit that he start working. We were a country looking for self-preservation at that time; our dependence on foreign oil so great that the American government was in a desperate need to find its own resources. Private companies started to move in, hiring locals as labors; riding on patriotic ideals and a fair wage. It was kindred to another gold rush of sorts, thousands migrating to the Alaskan tundra to find what was most precious and most rare. The pay-off seemed out of reach and convoluted at best, a promise of compensation for any group that were to find a sustainable source of oil would be greatly rewarded.

By eighteen it seemed as though all his efforts were for naught, most by that time had given up; saying the government was chasing a false hope. The company that he had been contracted by was on the outs, one of the few that remained mainly on the premise that they had to find something, anything to keep the company afloat.

It is said that on his twentieth birthday his father passed; fate dealt by a hard life and a cancer that spread far too quickly. His mother had long died before that so he found himself the lone proprietor of his well-being. But he had grown up on those ice fields, the man who ran the company (Maxwell DuPont) he was contracted for becoming more of a father figure than a figure head. The story has been told countless times before, becoming more embellished by time and word of mouth but the plot was the same. A young rogue working only with his hands and tools manufactured by the U.S of A, Toiling for years and finally receiving the means to the end of his poverty and grief stricken existence. He was a self-made man, a young gun who by hard work made a fortune for himself and the company who procured him. When DuPont died out of unusual circumstance two years later, Daniel Puckerman became even wealthier. DuPont, having no heir and no family saw only fit to leave the company and its fortune in Puckermans hands.

DuPont/Puckerman industries were now the leading supplier in American oil as well some aspects of the tech industry. His story was grand, a true spectacle of the American Dream, one that I was chosen to put on paper to retain a legacy that Daniel Puckerman felt should not be forgotten.

I was so deep in thought that I barely noticed concrete and steel turn to wide open space and green foliage. Curious, I turned my attention back to my escort.

"I thought I was to be staying at the Waldorf?"

Will smirked like he had been caught with his had in the cookie jar.

"Oh no, Mr. Puckerman has decided that you might be more comfortable at his estate in the Hamptons. Too many distractions in the city, he is most at home when surrounded by fresh air and his family."

My nerves were slightly soothed by this news, being in a depressing cityscape was by far the worst setting to write a memoir based on hope and resilience.

"So I am to assume his son Jacob will also be in company then?" I asked, my tone expressed muted curiosity but I was teeming with intrigue. Jacob Puckerman was a very private young man; often seeming bothered by his father's legacy and the attention it brought him. Up until now he was enrolled at Yale, his major undecided but his athletic ability alone bringing him recognition to any college football fan or regular resident of the New York tri-state area.

"Oh yes, he is on holiday from school and has decided to spend Christmas at home this year. Of course the main event of all of this is the return of Mr. Puckermans oldest son; Noah. He's finished his tour with the military and for the first time in four years he will be home for good. Mr. Puckerman is beside himself with relief and joy as you can imagine."

His smile was beaming, obviously sharing in his employs elation. Noah was far different from his younger brother, Jacob was quiet and reserved and never liked to bring attention onto himself while Noah thrived from it; constantly giving interviews from the military base he was stationed about his "excursions" in the Middle East. I can only imagine how happy they were to be rid of him, a true security risk if there ever was one. No one could say that he wasn't brave though; too brave may have been the fact. He was always signing up for the most dangerous missions, practically walking away from Hilo crashes and saving his fellow soldiers from most certain death. Noah Puckerman was in every sense a war hero with the ego to boot.

"Well what more could a writer ask for? The greatest maverick of our time in his own setting; surrounded by his equally enigmatic sons."

Will chuckled; his tone was deep and held something I could not place.

"Don't worry Miss Fabray; I'm sure you will have a tale or two to tell by the end of your stay."

A strange sense of foreshadowing came over me, like somehow he already knew what I was in store for; the feeling sat uneasily with me. To be drawn into this world and to partake of its fruit is something I never wanted.