A/N Future fic, not related to my happy puckleberry universe. This is kind of dark and angsty, but it was trying really hard to get out so I let it... the 'him' is not anyone in particular, it's not meant to be a glee guy, it's just someone (anyone)

Warning for details of spousal abuse.

Disclaimer: Don't own Glee, don't own Noah or Rachel. Just using them in my story...

The transformation of Rachel Berry was slow, insidious and almost imperceptible. She cannot pinpoint the singular definitive moment in which she became a victim, but she can pinpoint her moment of clarity, the flash of realisation (followed by an overwhelming feeling of nausea) that she was that girl. She was that girl who knew how to disguise bruises, she was that girl who knew what events, routines or topics of conversation would be catalytic to certain consequences, she was that girl who avoided friends, co-workers, even random strangers who initiated conversation with her in the line at Starbucks. She was that girl, and she had been for so long (how had she not seen it?) that she had no idea how to not be.

Saturday:

She heard the crack of her skull meeting the wooden window frame, saw the fireworks burst in the blackness inside her mind before she crumpled to the floor. She was dazed, yet awake. He pulled his foot back and kicked her where she lay. She curled into the foetal position, sobbing silently. Her tears slowly made tracks down her cheeks, some curving down to her mouth, others dripping unheeded to her shirt. She heard the door slam as he left, and she felt grateful that, for now at least, it was over.

Six months ago:

The first time it happened, Rachel had been on her laptop most of the evening. She was updating her myspace and her facebook, returning messages and replying to comments. When he leant over her, trapping her with his arms so she was pressed against the desk, she was taken by surprise - she hadn't even heard him get home.

"So, where's my dinner?" His tone was off somehow, he seemed angry and Rachel couldn't understand why he would be angry with her. So she hadn't prepared dinner, that wasn't a new thing. She used to always wait until he got home. They used to do it together, working in tandem, their actions complementary and easy. Now there was hostility.

"I didn't realise the time. Give me a second, I'm just trying to find something" she told him, her eyes on the screen. He grabbed her face roughly with one hand, and pulled it around towards him.

"Fucking look at me. Do I look like I want to wait for you to find something? How about you find me some fucking dinner?" His voice was harsh, and Rachel reacted. She stood and turned to him.

"Don't use that language with me" and then she gasped as he pushed her. She went backwards into the bookcase, banging her hip hard on the corner.

"Shit, baby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to" she saw the shock she was feeling reflected in his eyes. "I just, it's been a long fucking day, y'know?"

She was used to his mood swings. He worked long hours at various construction sites, and as for his language? She put it down to the calibre of people he generally interacted with on a daily basis. She had been in to see him at work before - it was as though the men were competing to see who could be the most crude, the most offensive. Of course it was going to come home with him from time to time. But this was the first time he d actually physically hurt her.

He pulled her to him, an embrace she wasn't sure she was ready for. He ran his hands through her hair murmuring apologies and I love you's as she stood there, frozen in her uncertainty.

Saturday:

As she lay there on the cold wooden floor, Rachel despaired. She had nowhere to run away to. No money to run away with. No friends to wonder where she was, to worry about her. The tears had dried, leaving salty trails on her face. She could tell that her head was bleeding a little, that one or maybe two of her ribs were (at the very least) cracked. Her cheek was throbbing, and there was the coppery taste of blood in her mouth. She tongued the inside of her cheek gingerly. She felt the rawness of fresh scrapes where her teeth had cut into the tender flesh. Experimentally, Rachel moved her jaw around. It ached, but dully not the fire siren scream of pain that would indicate it was broken. She closed her eyes in resignation, realising how wrong it was that she knew these things.

Six moths ago:

Rachel had sat for almost an hour, painstakingly concealing the fingerprint sized bruises that bloomed up her throat and across her jaw. He sat on the bed, watching her. She could see his eyes following the movements of her hands in the vanity mirror. He had apologised a hundred times, cried and begged for forgiveness. He had promised that it would never happen again, and Rachel had believed him.

He lied. The next time, he'd come home late smelling like alcohol, cigarettes and women. There was lipstick smeared down his throat, and Rachel had yelled at him, angry. He had pulled his hand back and slapped her across the face. Hard. His face was red with unrestrained fury as he screamed at her, punctuating each insult with an open handed slap.

"You're a fucking useless piece of shit! You're disgusting! Of course I was fucking her, you think you're enough for me? You don't even have a job! You've got no friends! Your faggot fucking fathers don't even talk to you anymore!"

As was intended, each barb hit home, digging deeper than the one before. Then he hissed, right in her face as she cowered on the couch in front of him

"I am all you have. I can do whatever the fuck I want, because no-one gives a fuck about you. No-one else would want a crazy, useless bitch like you around. Without me, you are nothing. You mean nothing. And if you ever try to get up in my shit again, I. Will. Kill. You. Got it?"

With that, he straightened himself to his full height, and walked into the bathroom. She could hear him singing in the shower, a bright and breezy pop tune she kind of recognised from the radio. It was like he was mocking her hollow heart.

Saturday:

Rachel thought back to the warning signs she had missed, dismissed and excused. The first couple of years after they'd met at college were everything she'd ever expected a relationship to be. He bought her flowers, sang to her, introduced her to all his friends with pride. She'd felt lucky to have him.

At first his jealousy and possessiveness had seemed almost sweet. He explained it (justified it) by saying it just showed how much he loved her, that he didn't want to share.

When he suggested they put all their money into a joint account (that he controlled) she didn't think anything of it, he told her it was another symbol of their commitment to each other.

He'd seemed to support her efforts to make it in the theatre world, too. To start with. She hadn't realised until much later that his comforting words following failed auditions were veiled criticisms and doubts. That his suggestion that she 'let it go' before it crushed her was a way of him saying he didn't think she was talented enough.

He was rude to her friends. Some had even approached her saying he'd come on to them some time or another. She had brushed them off - he told her they were jealous, and trying to break them up.

She felt like a fool, now.

Sunday:

Rachel made herself get up. She cleaned herself up as much as she could, rinsing the blood from her hair, bathing her face in cool water. She hid the damage as best she could with makeup, and dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and running shoes. She packed a small backpack with some toiletries, clothes, food and a couple of bottles of water. Nothing too heavy, because she didn't know how long she would have to carry it. She had to leave her cell phone behind. It was on a contract, so he could monitor her use of it.

She worked quickly, her nerves on edge. If he came home, and realised what she was doing, she was as good as dead. Her certainty of this should have scared her, but adrenaline had taken over, Rachel was on auto pilot.

Three months ago:

She was already in bed, half asleep, when he came to her. He assaulted her mouth with his, crushing her breasts with hands made clumsy by drink. She pushed against him, turning her head to escape his kiss.

"C'mon, Rach" he wheedled "Y'know you like it once we get started"

"I'm tired, I want to go to sleep. Stop it!" She tried to keep her voice steady, but it broke as she tried to twist away from him.

He grabbed her arms, roughly, and held them to the bed. She choked back a sob, knowing what was coming, what was going to take place (what took place every other night).

"You like it rough, don'tcha babe. You're such a little tease, you slut" as he grunted out curses and insults that he liked to describe as dirty talk (his idea of foreplay), he moved to hold her hands above her head in one of his, so he could undress her. Rachel let a single solitary tear escape before she blacked her mind to what was happening.

'You are in your cave. He can't hurt you.' she told herself, over and over.

Sunday:

Rachel walked alongside the highway, thumb extended. The further from New York she got, the more she was thinking that this had been a bad idea. She could have gone to a shelter, the police, anything. But she was trying to go home, to her dads. She knew that they would keep her safe, even if it had to be from herself. She was scared that she would go back to him if she didn't have someone to stop her.

A car slowed. It stopped. Thank god, because she had been getting increasing worried about him finding her alone on the side of the road. A nice looking older couple peered at her from the front seats of a mid nineties sedan. They didn't ask too many questions, and they were driving to Pittsburgh. Rachel felt like first the first time in a long time, she had hit the jackpot. She slept for most of the eight hour trip, a dreamless sleep of true mental and physical exhaustion.

Thursday:

It took Rachel three days to reach Wheeling on foot. She slept in bushes, ate meusli bars and cookies, and replenished her water at public restrooms. She felt like crap, and she knew she looked worse. That's why, when a big rig pulled over in the early hours of the morning and the guy inside offered her a ride, she figured 'what the hell' and jumped in.

"Where are you headed, missy?" he asked. He looked about forty, he was wearing a wedding ring, and Rachel could see a photo of a couple of kids tucked in the visor.

"Lima" she offered.

"Ah, I can get you pretty close, I'm cruising the 75 to Bellefontaine. Reckon the wife would let you clean up a bit if ya wanted," he glanced at her and added "and I reckon we could arrange a ride the rest of the way, after." Rachel swallowed tears as she thanked the man.

"I'm Rachel" she offered, figuring if this man was willing to open his home to a stranger (who looked like she'd been beaten up and subsequently slept in a bush) then the least she could do is be civil.

The truckie shook her hand. "Hi Rachel. I'm Alan. I'll be your chauffeur today. The music selection is strictly country, and you may help yourself to the twinkies in the cooler". He winked at her, then signalled their return to the road.

Alan's wife didn't comment on him bringing home a stray, rather she took one look at Rachel and set about getting her bathed, changed and fed. She offered her a bed for the night, but since it was still light out, agreed that maybe it was best just for Rachel to get home. She sent her off with a clean, warm sweatshirt (Rachel had been wearing hers for a few days and it looked like it). Alan drove her the 45 minutes to Lima, and dropped her right to her door.

For a moment Rachel didn't want to get out of the car. She looked around, making sure she didn't see his beat up old hatchback anywhere, before thanking Alan again (she honestly couldn't repay him for what he'd done for her). She approached her childhood home apprehensively. She hadn't spoken to her dads for over a year, and she was worried about what kind of reception she would get from them.

As it turned out, there wasn't one. They weren't there. Rachel used the spare key to get in (it was still under the fake rock thing in the garden), and stood in the foyer, looking around guardedly.

She'd forgotten the security alarm. It screamed at her for a few long seconds as she hurried to enter the code, holding her breath (yeah, it was still her birthday).

She sat on the bottom stair, wrapping her arms around her knees. She wondered when her dads would be home, what she was going to do now, if she dared go up to see if her bedroom was still her bedroom...

A loud knock at the door snapped her from her daze.

Rachel opened the door, hesitantly, with the chain still on. She peered through the gap, but she couldn't see very well. Dusk had fallen, and the light was rapidly fading. She snapped on the porch light and looked again.

"Noah?" she breathed. Great, she was hallucinating. Maybe she had some sort of delayed head injury or something.

"Berry?" he was as incredulous as she was. "Open the door, Rach."

Rachel couldn't believe she was sitting at the kitchen table at her dad's drinking coffee with Noah. An officer on the Lima police force (she hadn't seen that one coming). Apparently her dad's were on a cruise, and a neighbour had called the police when the alarm went off.

Noah had looked at her, her face, and reached a hand out to ghost over her still swollen and bruised cheek. He had sighed, and asked if she was going to offer him something to drink. So she did.

"I can not believe that Noah Puckerman is an officer of the law" she said with a smile. "I am proud of you, you know. I always knew you would do something, be someone ."

"Yeah well, I had someone pushing me through the last part of high school, so I kind of had faith in myself that I could do it. He raised his mug in a salute. But you, Berry, you I thought would have had your name in lights by now..." One eyebrow was raised quizzically.

"Let's just say choices and circumstance took me on a journey that led me here." Rachel met his eyes, pleading silently with him to drop it for now.

"Yeah? Well I guess the question that remains is is it going to lead him here?" Noah's question struck at the core of Rachel's fears. Tears welled in her eyes, as she realised she was going to have to face him without her dads to back her up.

"Probably. He knows where I lived growing up. I guess it's a bit obvious that I would come here. But, I thought my dads would be here. I couldn't ring them, he would have known..."her uneven breathing, the deafeated look on her face had Noah instantly at her side, kneeling and holding her gently (he cursed softly when she flinched at his touch).

"Tonight, Rach, I am going to take you to see my mom at the hospital. We are going to get you checked out and fixed up, and then you are going to come home with me". He saw the look of objection on her face "to my spare bedroom. You won't be where he expects you to be, and you will be with a cop. You will be safe with me, Rachel. I'll make sure of it."

"Why are you being so nice to me, Noah. I cut you off, out of my life, when he told me too. I cut everyone off. I have been so alone" she dissolved into tears, not really knowing how to talk about her so-called life. Not having had anyone to talk about it with.

"Berry, friends stick around no matter what. You need me. I am here for you. I am only sorry I couldn't be there for you all along, you know?" His embrace was gentle, and his caring words and actions led Rachel to sob harder.

She let go of everything she had kept bottled inside, it was like a dam had burst. It was cathartic. It was the start of healing. She wasn't alone anymore, and she was going to be okay.