A/N: Wow, I didn't realize how long it had been since I posted this! Sorry, I didn't mean it to take so long! Is anyone else as excited as me about the rumors that Jonathan Groff is returning to Glee soon?

All standard disclaimers apply.

Scale the Glass Mountain

JFK was loud and dirty, filled with ten thousand different unpleasant smells and dozens of lilting, foreign languages. Jesse grimaced, ignoring the people hawking Bibles and panhandling boldly - illegally - inside the airport. He pushed his way through the glassy doors, exiting into dirty New York rain. Waving to a taxi driver who looked like he might hopefully speak at least a little English, Jesse slid onto the cracked vinyl of the cab's backseat and barked the intersection of his aunt's brownstone in Brooklyn.

"Going home?" the brown-skinned driver asked. At least he was understandable through the accent.

"I'm not much of a talker," Jesse said tightly, turning to stare out the window as the wet lights and dark, hunched people rolled by outside. It was past rush hour but not yet time for the family shows to end or the club scene to really get going, and traffic was light by New York standards. Jesse couldn't care less. This whole fucking day had been wasted. He couldn't start actually looking for Rachel until the morning, when he could get his hands on a copy of the new casting calls. Then it would be just a matter of trolling the offices in the paper until he found her. When he did, he'd haul her - by that long, tantalizing hair, if necessary - to Union Station and put her firmly on a train back to Ohio. He glared out the window, not even in the mood to listen to music. There was no music in his mind, no music in his heart. It had fled, and all had been replaced by rage. He couldn't verbalize just what he was mad about - or at. But wasn't that part of being a young man, he wondered? Some sort of burning anger, emotion that could not be explained?

They pulled up at a darkened brownstone. Alder trees rustled on the curb in front of the tall house. Old-fashioned lace curtains fluttered in an open upstairs window, even in the rain. Jesse paid the driver, tipping no more than was necessary, and palmed his keys. His cranky Aunt Becca had told him not to make a ruckus when he got in, but to go directly up to the room he used when he visited. He did as he had been told without causing trouble. She'd kicked him out before, for a night or two, and his mother always bitched when she saw the New York hotel bill on his credit card statement. He didn't want to hear about it this time, so he tried to behave.

His Aunt Becca was an odd one, Jesse had to admit. She was his father's older sister, and had married young and divorced early when her husband ran off with some French chorus girl. Becca got the house before real estate in Brooklyn was worth anything, and now her ex was a bum in Paris, and she a millionaire. The top floor of the brownstone had been renovated as a well-appointed apartment, and it rented for what Becca assured Jesse was an astronomical sum by Ohio standards. She lived very comfortably on the lower floors, occasionally taking in students or artists as boarders - for the company as much as anything, for she did not need the extra income.

Jesse flicked on the light in "his" room, grimacing as he always did. His aunt had not redecorated the main part of the house in decades, and the tired orangey-beige walls had dings and little white scraped spots where the paint had chipped. There was a long chest of drawers with a stained lace runner across the top and a potted silk plant that wanted dusting. The queen-sized bed, with heavy, dated head- and footboards, was dressed in an orange and brown patterned comforter, with a hideous pale pink thread weaving through the geometric design. A dark wood nightstand and tired brown shag carpeting finished the utterly unpleasant ambiance.

Jesse threw his bag on the bed and followed it with his body, pulling out his phone to text his parents quickly, informing them of his whereabouts. Not for emotional reasons, but so they wouldn't cancel his credit card when they started seeing charges from the wrong coast. The mattress creaked and sagged; it was lumpy, the three pillows limp and flat. They were clean, but Jesse could feel the years of use like grime, clinging to everything. This was what he disliked about this house, this city, and what he loved about Los Angeles. In L.A. nothing was sacred. No, that wasn't quite true. Newness was sacred, Jesse corrected himself. Youth was sacred. A room like this in L.A. - if it existed at all - would be meticulously crafted out of shiny new materials for the retro kitsch value, perhaps purposely distressed, like the jeans that were so ridiculously popular right now.

He needed to take a leak, but resisted the urge. The tension in his bladder echoed the tension in his mind and, in a sick way, he liked it. He grimaced, also wanting a shower. He hated being dirty. Hell, even this room made him feel dirty, no matter how tidy a housekeeper his aunt and her help were. Jesse muttered a string of tired curse words and hauled himself into the closest bathroom, taking the bag with his toiletries along.

This room had been remodeled during his lifetime, at least. Stark white and cloudy blue schoolhouse tiles inlaid an open shower with a large showerhead. Bright, unshaded vanity bulbs threw the room into sharp shadow. Jesse threw on the fan, and the heat lamp for good measure. The red of the hot light mellowed the sharp edges of shadow somewhat. He set his things in the shower, grabbed a maroon towel from the bottom drawer of the vanity, and hopped onto the cold tile. The water rained down, chilly at first and smelling like iron. Remembering, Jesse clamped his mouth shut. He hated the taste of New York municipal water. Back in Ohio he was happy to drink from the tap - save the planet, and all - but in the city here it was bottled water only for him.

He screwed up his face, pushing it into the shower's stream. Fucking fool girl. Jesse was ready to wring her lovely little neck when he found her. He could see her now, in his mind's eye, amid the shower's steam. How her shining hair was long enough that he could wrap it around his hand, gaining a thick handful that felt like a fall of cool water against his palm. That smooth line of throat, of ribs under trembling, milky skin - just a hint of Mediterranean blush to her complexion, like a child's first splash of coffee drowned in sugary milk. Caramel cream when he bit and licked at her throat, color rising to the surface. She was possibly the most beautiful girl he'd ever dated. Certainly the most talented. He'd been telling the truth when he told her making it to Broadway was an inevitability, but not right now. She was too blindly nave. New York would eat her alive without a thought. For the first time though, as he stood under the hot shower, Jesse began to feel a little afraid for her. Rachel was lost somewhere in one of the biggest, dirtiest, most crime-ridden cities in the world. Where was she staying? With whom? What sort of filthy-minded false producers had she met already? Was she lost? Hurt? Cold, wet, afraid? Jesse shifted restlessly and shut the shower off, grabbing his towel and wrapping it around his waist. Part of him - and he didn't know how big a part - wanted very much to wake up tomorrow morning to find her body's indent in the lumpy bed next to him, the sound of her in this shower soothing in his ears and her ridiculous knee socks thrown across that awful brown carpet. Another part of him wanted nothing more than to just walk away, to return to UCLA and leave her to her fate. But he couldn't. Something had brought him here; something was holding him, forcing him to this place where she had fled.

And why had she done so, Jesse wanted to know? Not that he cared, he tried to tell himself as he brushed his teeth for the required two minutes and then rinsed with spearmint mouthwash, following the directions on the bottle to the letter. No, it wasn't that he cared, he assured himself. It was just that there was no reasonable explanation. Of course he was curious; anyone would be. Jesse eyed his reflection in the mirror, pasting on his best smile. Shelby might have been able to tell that something was off, but likely nobody else would. Not even his parents. He examined his eyes carefully, noting the hint of darkness below them. He'd have to soak them in the morning if he didn't get enough sleep tonight.

He left the bathroom tidy, exiting into a dark hallway that now felt chilly. The sound of a television or radio buzzed from somewhere nearby, though he could not make out anything that was said. He thought about taking his headphones with him to bed, but decided against it. For some reason, music wasn't working its calming magic on him right now. Shaking his head, he turned off the light and burrowed into the uncomfortable old mattress.

Sleep was a long time coming.

The next morning was no better. Jesse blindly fumbled his way out of the bed with a backache from the lumpy old mattress and a headache from lack of sleep. He hated mornings - absolutely loathed them. And today was even worse, his body thrown into chaos from the three-hour time difference between Los Angeles and New York. He cursed under his breath as he brushed his teeth hard enough to leave a trace of blood in the sink, and splashed his face with cold water until he could finally open his eyes more than a squint.

Fucking Rachel. This was all her fault. He kept up a string of curses as he threw a backpack over his shoulder and slammed out the front door. His aunt would be angry about the noise, but he didn't have to deal with her until he returned that night. If all went as planned, he'd have found Rachel by then. Task accomplished, he'd have all the time in the world to placate a cranky relative before heading back to school.

Jesse walked through dingy morning overcast to the nearest subway station, then caught a train heading in the general direction of Greenwich Village. It wasn't the fabled neighborhood it used to be, before his time, but it had a number of good coffee shops, and there were enough artists still living in the area that plenty of newsstands still stocked a paper publication with all the local casting calls listed. With any luck, all he'd have to do was follow the paper trail, as it were. It would have to lead to Rachel, sooner or later.

He bought a paper from a newsstand just outside the subway station, then glanced around. The nearest coffee was Starbucks, of course. Whatever. It wasn't like he was here to take in the local roasts. He entered the chain and ordered something full of sugar and caffeine from the bored-looking barista in the green apron. She was chewing gum, and as she heated milk she eyed the publication in Jesse's hand.

"Looking to be the next somebody, pretty boy?" she asked, and she would have pulled off the disaffected city-girl stereotype perfectly, except she had actually spoken to him. Jesse sneered inwardly. A true New Yorker wouldn't have bothered saying anything. This girl clearly knew at least something about city life, but she hadn't grown up here. She was a transplant, same as most of the other people hurrying through the Village. Probably she had had a dream of her own at one point. By now it didn't matter. She was a barista. Someday she would probably return to wherever she came from, find a nice nobody to marry, settle down to a nice nothing job.

But not him. Not Jesse St. James. He had never been a nobody in his life, and he had no plans to waste the future. He was paying his dues now in college, but soon he'd be ready to go out on his own. Most people didn't succeed when the dream was stardom. Jesse would be different.

"I already am somebody," Jesse snarled, taking his drink and refusing to drop change in the tip jar. He was in no mood to talk to anybody, and he certainly wasn't going to reward them for bothering him.

Resolutely, Jesse stalked to a free table and sat down. He fished a highlighter out of his pack and started marking the addresses of everyone looking for a leading lady. There were quite a few, if you counted the off-Broadway and off-off-Broadway companies and productions. He hesitated, wondering if he should check everyone looking for a girl around Rachel's age and size. But, no. That would be a waste of time. Everyone knew Rachel was pushing to be a star. She had no interest in a supporting role.

And rightly so. Jesse swallowed hot coffee, grimacing as it burned his tongue. She deserved to play second to no one. Miss Rachel Berry was an amazing creature - alternately soft and fierce, commanding and adorable -

Jesse squelched that line of thought, clenching his jaw so hard that it hurt. No. No, he couldn't allow himself to think about her like that. Not anymore. Seducing her had been a game, only. Something Shelby ordered him to do. He wasn't supposed to get emotionally involved. He never got emotionally involved. So maybe he'd broken that rule with Rachel. It had been a mistake, pure and simple. The moment of weakness had passed, and while he would forever suffer the aftereffects, he was strong enough to push through it. Strong enough to stop himself from making the same mistake again.

A/N: Sorry this one is short. The next one should be longer as we get more into the plot, but I didn't want to cram it all together.