4. Love The Way You Lie - Eminem Ft. Rihanna

The first time Jesse hits her, Rachel thinks she should have seen it coming.

Initially, the idea of an undercover relationship - something so special and just theirs - seemed romantically poetic, and his boyish eyes pleading with her, well, she couldn't resist. He was Jesse St. James, her star-crossed lover: she chooses to forget in the story both Romeo and Juliet died, and stars only burn as bright as the back of her eyelids, stinging with pain and fear.

She doesn't blame him, his scholarship is counting on Vocal Adrenaline's success, he's stressed, he's overworked. It was a one time thing.

So the first time Jesse hits her, Rachel lies when she walks into Glee rehearsal; everyone can agree mutually that Rachel Berry trying to perform a particularly difficult choreography move in her bedroom could reasonably lead to the bruise tainting her face, and they roll her eyes in jest.

Except Quinn. She's not laughing, and it's making the brunette nervous.


She's not sure when it became a cycle.

But she's sure she loves him, lust for violence and all. Rachel wants to ask him, sometimes, why.

Jesse always repents in broken tears and promises of change, though, so she doesn't. She's convinced he doesn't even know he's lying to her.

It makes waking up in the morning to an aching body a little easier.


Rachel's late from Glee practice - accidentally, probably. What counts is that it isn't the first time, it's an again and Jesse hates repeat offenses.

When he watches her from his car, walking idly with a blond by her side, touching her arm every so often and smiling, his fists clench. His knuckles start to strain against the white stretch of skin, itching, begging for release. The growling monster in his chest is in agony, barely satiated by promise of redemption later on. It becomes a conscious choice to soothe the animal within or risk drowning in its fury should he hold back on the girl that holds whatever semblance of his humanity in her hands.

Jesse tries. He really does. But not all princesses need to be saved, and not all princes are meant to slay beasts.


He hates feeling like the only time he feels alive is when he's the artist painting blue and black all over her skin.

It's a delicate craft: to paint her, to twist fragile limbs in ways not meant to be twisted, the symphony of a sob - from her when it starts, from him when it ends.

This is just another routine, a rehearsal grained into the very back of his mind that screams focus, focus, focus. It's all interchangeable.

He's not sure what this art is counting on, but it's certainly not a scholarship to UCLA.


She knows. Somehow Quinn Fabray inherently knows, and it makes everything so much more apparent. Suddenly Rachel can't remember when she wasn't wearing sweaters in May, but Quinn's managed to shove her into the janitor's closet at lunch one day and they're much too close for her to think of anything else.

"I'm so fucking sick of looking at you, Berry." Her voice speaks venom and Rachel wants to shrink away because honestly, Quinn had seemed to be getting increasingly nicer towards her, but maybe that was a delusion, too. Real and imaginary, her parallel universes formerly associated with Broadway dreams and Finn Hudson, are now intertwined into something else; something that only whispers a language of hurt and fear, a fluency she'd never thought she'd ever know.

"Q-Quinn?" But Rachel has to make sure. It's Quinn, and while Jesse has become predictable, Quinn is not, has never been, and she has to make sure the girl means it. "I'm sorry - "

"No!" Rachel's said the exact thing she doesn't want to hear, and Quinn's hiss is harsher now. "Don't be sorry!" She grips Rachel's arms and pushes her back against the door, preventing her escape; a sharp intake of breath tells her exactly what she wants to know, exactly where the portrait of pain lies across her body.

"Am I hurting you?" she asks, but she can practically feel Rachel bite down on her lip, chest rising and falling in practiced routine. Routine. Quinn wants to throw up.

"Am I hurting you?" Quinn tries again, because she knows she's not letting either of them leave this stupid closet until she admits it. She has to, because watching this go on any longer is the worst kind of torture she's ever endured; it's been ages since she's seen the girl's smile, longer since she's heard her sing anything but a broken melody.

But Rachel refuses to relent, and worse, she seems to grow even smaller as her shoulders fall - Quinn releases her hold on the shorter girl, feeling like her hands are lit on fire; she doesn't, and decides she could never, understand what anyone could gain from inflicting this kind of damage.

"Please," whispers Quinn, aware that while Quinn Fabray has never begged for anything in her life before, Quinn now, formerly knocked up Cheerio, currently Gleek in denial, constantly in love with this stupid girl, is not proud enough to stop herself from anything that will set the other girl free.

The silence stretches into eons, until -

"It doesn't matter," answers Rachel quietly, so quiet Quinn thinks it might be all in her head, "if I say so or not. It doesn't change anything." She pauses for a brief moment. "What do you want me to do?"

That's when Quinn is definitely much too close, heart hammering against her chest and foreheads touching. In some delirious, hazed state of her mind, Rachel wonders if what she wants her to do is kiss her, right now, in her fucked up world, just to ravage the lines of fantasy and reality again, feel the steady Earth unsteady against her feet. Her breath is hot on her face, and Rachel isn't surprised to learn then that she wants to kiss her, because this is all some sort of messed up game anyway and eventually all plots have twists, don't they?

But Quinn doesn't kiss her. Instead, she says one thing that will change the entire ending of this sick little game.

"Fight."

She does.


Yes. She was different. There was no doubting that, he knew, as he watched the corners of her mouth move beyond a catatonic state.

Jesse had broken her, but the flicker in her eyes say different.

He can't hear what she's saying, but he can feel the hard shove against his chest, rousing the sleeping monster once again. Her lips are moving and he can't hear anything beyond the dull roar in his ears, and his hands are on her, all over her. It's no different than usual.

But it is. Jesse feels her voice burst through his consciousness as their limbs dance in a dangerous tango, scratching, kicking, biting, pushing. It's clumsy, not routine at all, and Rachel is blazing with feeling.

"No. No. No!"

He drops his hands and stares. He doesn't know the next part of the dance or what the orchestra's about to play next.

He's lost, lost, lost.


Jesse St. James is not a monster. Rachel Berry will always stand by this notion, and years later, when old age sheds into deep maturity, Quinn will agree.

As it is in the present, Quinn doesn't even look at him when she bursts into the house after Rachel's call, duffel bag in hand and ready to help her pack up anything she's left at his house over the months. She's shaking, and she knows if she's left in a room alone with him that she'll beat the creature inside of him that lay dormant for years, rising to cripple the girl both of them know deserve better. Relaxing only when Rachel touches her arm and tells her to get her favorite McKinley High sweatshirt upstairs, she nods stiffly; Quinn trusts the organ ticking blood into her veins will tell her if anything happens, but the way the older boy looks, crumpled against a corner and holding his knees, she knows she won't have to be too anxious.

She's leaving, Rachel knows that with finality. But she's not leaving like this.

Rachel lets him cry into her arms, even lets him go on his knees and beg. Words like "love," "next time," and "baby" echo in her head and pull at the strings on her heart, but she smiles softly at him and he knows it's no use. There's not enough words in the English dictionary to adequately express how much self loathing he harbors for himself, but it's as if Rachel senses this, and kneels down in front of him, hand on his cheek, eyes wistful but strong in their decision.

She loves him. He loves her. It's not enough. She can't save him.

And she's not going to let either of them die trying.


UCLA has pretty decent counseling, something akin to geniuses with the compassion of saints.

He sends her a letter once, seeking closure.

The fact she doesn't reply is all the closure he needs.

Jesse's confident she's happy, wherever she is, with Quinn.


Rachel glances at her bedside clock reading two a.m., and Quinn yawns from her sleep, blearily opening her eyes.

"Hey... Quinn?"

Quinn's arms are draped over her waist and she dips in closer, resting her chin on the girl's shoulder.

"Mmm...yeah?"

It's been almost a year. The amount of patience and understanding Quinn's shown her is more than astounding, it's pretty amazing.

"I've come to the conclusion I'm in love with you."

Rachel can feel her smile.

"I love you, too... but you're still making breakfast tomorrow."