AN: Wow, 106 reviews. One hundred and six. I can't even…just, wow.

My muse has been a bitch these last two weeks so apologies for the long wait. I hope this chapter is worth it, although I'm not entirely satisfied with how it turned out. Again, thanks for all the wonderful reviews and the alerts/favorites. I can't respond to each and every one so instead, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I'll be laptop-less for one whole week so any expect another long wait for the next chapter. As always, hope you guys enjoy.


4:12 am.

It's been 17 minutes since she last checked the time and the red numerals are still telling her the exact same thing: You should be sleeping.

Nothing has worked. Not counting sheep, drinking warm soy milk (oddly disgusting, so she won't be trying that trick anytime soon), meditating or aromatherapy with lavender essential oil. This day has exhausted her but she can't seem to quiet her brain long enough to catch some sleep.

Stifling a groan of frustration, she drums her fingers against the bedspread and glares at the outline of the Siamese cat deep in contented repose atop the dresser. Directing her frustrations on a (somewhat) innocent house pet doesn't detract from the fact that she is once again spending an entire sleepless night staring at a ceiling. Despite the rather obvious difference in décor (personally, she was never into Laura Ashley sheets), this feels a lot like déjà vu. The creaking of the house as it expands and contracts, the tap-tap-tapping of the branches against her window, the damning silence of the empty spaces – it is too much, much too much like before.

And like before, there are so many reasons keeping her from sleep, all of them involving one man.

This wasn't how imagined my life would turn out, you know?

That's what I am, right? A fuckin' Lima loser you just happen to be stuck with.

You didn't give a fuck. You never did.

I killed my baby girl.

It's that easy, huh? Just…forget about all about your stupid mistake. Forget about me…forget about her.

We named her Caroline Anne.

How's that working for you, Berry? Being a cold-hearted bitch?

At the end of the day, you left me first.

You talked about love and till death do you part like it meant something.

She had to hand it to him. He was still the only one who knew exactly which buttons to push. Hell, he was the only one who even knew what those fucking buttons were. Even now, hours later, years delayed, his words make her eyes burn and her chest constrict. She rubs her eyes with the back of her hands and takes deep calming breaths through her nose.

Rachel looks over again (4:14 this time) and groans.

She has been tossing and turning for what seems like forever, trying to get comfortable in her own skin. She still doesn't know how long she spent sobbing in Quinn's arms but thinking about it now makes her cringe. For a woman who has been so strong, so in control for so long, it is disconcerting, this helplessness she feels.

She feels…naked, for lack of a better term.

Dinnertime was spent in uncomfortable silence, with her eyes focused on her plate, chewing quickly and actively avoiding the Fabrays' eyes. She couldn't take seeing any pity in their eyes and honestly, she'd rather not break down again over spaghetti and salad.

With one last frustrated thump to her pillow, she finally gives up chasing slumber. Without really thinking, she sits up, swings her feet around and feels around for her slippers. Then it is her sneakers and coat over the sweatpants and oversized tee she wore to bed. It's amazing how quickly sneaking out of a house comes so naturally again. Before long, the darkened front yard greets her, no hint of blush on the eastern sky to herald the approaching sunrise. Bouncing lightly on her heels, she breathes in the cool spring air and picks up a small stone from the yard and tosses it once, twice in the air. It's still maybe 2 hours or so before the sun actually comes out. Definitely enough time for her to get where she's going.

Her feet have their own sense of direction, even if she hasn't walked the route in a long time. She might have put Lima out of her mind, said mind perpetually taking her elsewhere, but the rest of her knew what she couldn't keep running away from. She passes houses and apartment buildings, its occupants still sleeping soundly in their beds, cuts through a park and a softball field and skirts the edge of the small man-made lake where they have fireworks every 4th of July. And after another 30 minutes of walking, her mind blissfully blank the entire time, she finally reaches her destination. A slight breeze ruffles her heavy fringe and the wetness of the grass seeps through the fabric of her pants as she kneels down.

"Hi, baby, it's your mom."

She makes herself comfortable in front of the granite tombstone, its epitaph simply stating "Caroline Anne Puckerman" and the dates of her birth and death. The only other thing engraved on the stone is the outline of an 8-pointed star. Her heart expands a little when she sees the familiar shape.

"North Star," she presses her palm against it. A rustle of leaves from the sheltering tree is the only other sound in the cemetery when she whispers into the wind. "My little North Star."

For once, the rest of her words take their time in coming. She falters because what else is she supposed to say, can she say? I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I haven't been around. I'm sorry I wasn't enough. I'm sorry I tried to forget you. I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry.

There is tightness in her chest that doesn't go away as she stares at her daughter's grave and she is transported back to a June day long ago.

OOO

Standing under the trees, she wonders idly if maybe this was just some huge cosmic joke. But no - the bottomless pit that has formed in the general vicinity of her heart tells her this is all too real. The sun is shining so brightly, the birds are singing so sweetly, the sky so vivid a blue and it's as if the whole world is pointing and jeering.

Look at the woman burying her daughter.

She never thought anything could hurt like this. Raw, blinding pain that she wanted to tear out with her hands and yet wanted to hold on to because she had nothing left. She grits her teeth against it and focuses on a lone blade of grass perched on the very lip of the grave. Breathe in, breathe out. In and out. In. Out.

The collar of her simple black dress rubs against the back of her neck and she stops herself just in time from scratching it, preferring to keep her stoic façade. Once again, it is a small affair, the handful of mourners scattered here and there, like black holes in the beautiful summer day. She tunes out the sobs of her family and the soft murmurs of Rabbi Schram and stands up straighter, willing herself to be strong. She couldn't cry. She can't cry. She won't.

Noah stands to her right, sullen and hunched over, his hands clenched so tight, his knuckles were white. An errant waft of air disturbs the single torn black ribbon pinned over his left breast pocket. His face is set but he blinks once and a tear hangs from the edge of his lashes. He blinks again and it's like it was never there.

As the rabbi finishes his prayer, she follows Noah to throw a handful of dirt into the grave. Her hand trembles slightly but she somehow controls it. Strong, she thinks to herself. Don't show any weakness. Still, when the time comes to walk back, her hand feels around blindly for him, needing to feel his hand in hers.

But he isn't there anymore. She can see him walking further and further away, a blot of black against the horizon, and she is left alone.

They sit shiva at Aviva's home, their own home still in the process of repairs. People say it's lucky that the house survived but she curses the fact that it didn't burn down to the ground. Instead, aside from the nursery and the garage, the rest only sustained minor water and smoke damage and they cannot afford to move. Eventually, they leave Lima and their families and go back to Cincinnati, back to that house. She wants to plead with her husband to leave the house, raze it, do anything except live there again, and she would have…if he would only talk to her.

As it is, he barely looks at her, only says the barest minimum to her ("Yes", "No", "Okay" are the most of it). They are like two strangers now, merely existing in the same space. She returns to her job and goes in day after day, anesthetized, composed and controlled. Ladies and gentlemen - Rachel Puckerman, playing the role of her life. Then night after night, she waits for him so that she could take comfort in his arms and let go, break down just because she could, because he would understand.

He never goes to her. She curls herself up in a fetal position, the tracks of tears she denies shedding drying on her cheeks, and faces the wall instead. She would rather stare at the paint than see the cold, vast emptiness of the bed. Lying there, she listens to the various squeaks and groans of the house before she hears the creak of the floor when her husband finally comes home. She shuts her eyes and feigns sleep when the bedroom door opens slightly. She can feel the weight of his stare before she hears his footsteps retreating to the living room and in the silence, she tries to hold the pieces of her heart together.

Her life becomes a litany of sleepless nights in a house she had come to hate. It is mornings of waking up to her husband passed out on the couch, sometimes with the reek of alcohol still about him. It is being alone with the ghost of her failure as her only company. It is nightmares of smoke and fire and a little girl who cries out for her mama. Every day is the same old song and dance and soon, 4 months have gone by.

Then one night, she wakes up to the feel of Noah's lips on her own. He is looking at her with dark eyes, waiting. His hands, in the meantime, roam over her body and she gives in, wanting to feel something, anything, other than the numbness she lived with every day. She just wants her husband back. So she holds him against her body and prays that he stays. They move together in a dance they had long perfected, each caress a penance, each kiss a broken promise.

Once he falls asleep, sated and exhausted, she stays awake to watch him and whispers "I miss you" to his skin. Flicking a stray bead of sweat from his forehead, she feels like she finally has hope that they'd get through this.

Until the next day, when he acts like nothing happened and they go back to before.

After another 3 weeks, she's had enough.

She just wants it all to go away. She wants to forget.

So she buys a bus ticket to New York and packs a few belongings into Noah's old duffel bag. She leaves no note, stealing away one night while he is out drowning his sorrows. It is her dad that she calls once she gets to Penn Station. She tells him she's fine, she's okay and refuses to answer any of his questions.

However, she does ask him to tell Noah she is sorry.

She hopes that would be enough for him.

In a little corner of her heart, she hopes it's enough to wake up from his stupor. She is waiting for him to follow her to New York, swoop in like a knight in shining armor on a white horse and reclaim her. She wants him to tell her I'm sorry, come back home, I love you.

She waits for the longest time before she realizes that he's not coming.

Finally, she stops waiting.

OOO

Minutes go by and she is still staring at the words on the tombstone. For the first time in a very long time, words have failed her and she can't think of what to say. So she goes back to what she knows.

It starts as a slow humming under her breath and before long, she is singing a song she has forced herself not to think of or listen to in 2 years. Her voice starts to falter by the second verse and dimly, she realizes it is because she is crying. She traces Caroline's name slowly, lingering on the 'C', and practically whispers the last line. "If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why oh why can't I?"

The sun has risen by this time, its faint rays casting shadows on her face which is once again wet with tears. Something — a pain, an ache — surges up from deep within her chest and forces itself out in a hitching sob. It hurts but for someone who has been so numbed…it is freedom. The walls of Jericho have fallen.

"I've missed you, babygirl," she finally chokes out.

The world settles around her before she feels that distinct tingle in her skin. Shaking her head in resignation, she checks a sigh. "I'd really appreciate it, Noah, if you would refrain from the insults until later or until I've had some coffee at least," she says, discreetly wiping her eyes.

"I'm not here to fight, Rachel."

She turns around at this and sees him leaning against a tree. He looks like he just tumbled out of bed (and a very troubled sleep) himself. Faint purple is smudged under his eyes and he rubs a hand against the scruff on his jaw as he pushes himself off the tree to sit cross-legged beside her. She wonders why exactly he is there.

She is probably both the first and last person he wanted to see at that moment. Puck notes the reddened eyes and haphazard clothing choices; hell, she looks like how he feels. Almost conversationally, he answers her unspoken question. "I usually come by once in a while, usually when I can't sleep." He gives her a once-over. "Looks like you had the same problem."

She nods imperceptibly. Sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eye, she notices the contemplative look on his face and has to brush off the instinct to reach over and smooth away the wrinkle on his forehead like she used to. They just sit there, lost in their own thoughts. His knee bumps against her thigh and for a second, it feels familiar…comfortable even. Eventually, she breaks the quiet.

"When did you—?" and gestures awkwardly towards the tombstone.

"12 months after," he replies; the accompanying You weren't here hangs heavily in the air.

"And the star?"

He shrugs. "Figured she'd want something to remind her of her mom, you know?"

"Thank you," she says in a gratified whisper before they both lapse into silence.

Now, he has never been what you would call eloquent (let's say it like it is – he's shit with words) but he needs to get this out. "Look, about yesterday...we both said some things and I…Rachel, I never blamed you."

"Why not? I did."

Was she serious? Before he knows it, his mouth is running away from him. "Huh. I knew you were crazy. Just didn't think you were stupid."

She turns fierce eyes to him and opens her mouth to tell him where to shove it when he cuts her off. "Unless you got some magic powers I don't know about and you got lightning to strike the damn house, it wasn't your fault. It was never your fucking fault. When are you going to get it through your head?"

"If I had gotten to her sooner, she might have survived!" she shoots back.

"You don't know that!" he growls before visibly composing himself. He rubs his hand over his face. "It's a whole lotta what ifs and maybes and you know what? It wasn't your fault!"

All of his instincts are telling him to grab her and hold her close, maybe shake some sense into her; instead, he continues. "I never blamed you for what happened. And despite what you think, I don't hate you."

Was he serious? She almost laughs in his face. "You've got a really funny way of showing it then," she says, sarcastic. "What were those last few months then? Just my imagination? Dammit, Noah, I might as well just have been wallpaper to you. I lost my child – we lost our daughter – and you wouldn't even look at me. What was I supposed to think?"

"I needed my husband and he wasn't there." Rachel is mortified to feel angry tears spring to life. "You wanted to know why I left? Well, there's your answer."

The silence is heavy and tense and right now, a part of her heart is urging her to run. But the rest of her wanted – needed – to hear what he had to say. He looks unseeing into the trees before his voice, hoarse and low, startles her. "Every time I looked at you," a pause. "I saw her."

He tries to ignore the hole that has opened up in his gut at the thought of the daughter he failed and goes on. "I kept seeing her and—fuck, I wanted to beat myself up because I couldn't protect her. I couldn't protect you. I couldn't fix it. I didn't make the big bucks or have a college degree but while I had you and I had her, everyone else could go to hell. I promised myself I'd take care of my family. The one thing I was supposed to do. Looks like I proved I was a loser at that too, huh?"

She has to close her eyes against the pain swirling around in the depths of his hazel eyes. "I couldn't save her…and I almost lost you, too," he continues. The bitter laugh he lets escape breaks the post-dawn stillness. "Hell, a few months later, I end up losing you anyway."

The last part is said to himself but she hears it anyway. "Why didn't you say something? Anything?"

"Well, why didn't you?"

Her eyes snap open. "I didn't think I would need to tell my husband to acknowledge my existence!"

"I'm not a fucking mind reader!" he growls. He hated seeing her like this, hated even more how he was the cause of it. But he couldn't seem to make himself stop. "How the fuck was I supposed to know? You didn't look like you needed me or anyone. Fuck, you never even cried!"

"You just weren't there to see it," she retorts.

They are facing each other now, like combatants in a ring, insults ready and aimed at weak spots they know all too well. Her long lashes stick in wet tags to her cheeks and she is just so angry. Angry at him, angry at herself. They were both just so, so…stupid. At that, all the fight goes out of her and she looks at him, at this man whose scars matched her own. Who was just as lost and as hurt as she was. And she realizes she wants to lay her weapon down and stop. She clenches her eyes shut and squeezes out her last remaining tears. She just wants to stop hurting.

"Why didn't you just say something, Noah?" she repeats weakly.

He can sense the change in her and just as suddenly, a certain weariness seeps into his bones."I wish I could tell you. I wish I knew. Maybe because I suck at talking about my feelings. Maybe because I was still a fuckin' messed up kid but…god, I don't know anymore," he sighs.

And maybe, for the first time, she actually understands. Right now, it was enough. She silences him with a hand on his arm and again, they just sit there. Her hand has a mind of its own, however, and before long, she is clasping his hand. He does the rest and twines their fingers together.

"I never meant to hurt you, you have to believe that," he says simply. "I know it doesn't make up the shit I put you through but I'm sorry. I should've been there." And she knows he doesn't mean just on that night.

"I'm sorry, too. For everything," she murmurs before looking up at him. "I thought that if I could run far enough, if I could forget, it would get better. It wouldn't hurt so much."

He smirks involuntarily. "Believe me, I tried. Turns out Jack Daniels is a pretty good mind eraser but it can only do so much." A sigh. "I don't think you're supposed to forget, Rach. You can't. If we're lucky, it just becomes a part of us and we learn to kind of…live with it."

They were certainly a matched pair, she thinks – one drank to forget, the other tried to run away from the memories. Just two broken, misfit toys. She doesn't know if he realizes that his thumb is moving hypnotically in circles over her skin. "Is that what you're doing? Living with it?"

He chuckles humorlessly a bit. "That's all I've been doing."

"And here I was thinking that was the easy part," she sighs.

When she turns her big brown eyes to his again, he thinks, Fuck it, and goes with his gut. The feel of his arms around her is (fuck, he's a big walking cliché) like coming home. He really hadn't meant to miss her so much. He breathes in the scent of her hair and realizes something and not for the first time – he doesn't think he can let go.

He startles her with the hug but she relaxes into it. The fact that they got some things off their chests is progress but she feels that their long overdue talk isn't over. Far, far from it. But right now, enveloped in him, with his distinct smell mingling with the tang of the grass beneath them, everything's fine. She ignores the swooping in her stomach, attributing it to hunger. She shifts her position to accommodate the crick in her back and inadvertently nuzzles her nose in his chest.

His shiver? She's choosing to ignore that, too.

"We still need to talk," she mutters.

"I know." He rests his chin on her head. "Come for dinner. Becca will want to see you."

"Okay." She nods decisively and repeats, "Okay."

By the time they are ready to leave, the sun is high in the eastern sky and their legs are sore from sitting so long on the hard ground. She asks him to give her a minute and when he starts walking away, she fishes out the stone from the Fabrays' front yard from her pocket. Pressing a kiss to it, she leaves it on her daughter's tombstone and starts on the long way back home.