AN: Long and overdue chapter is long…and overdue.

I was very disappointed with the response with my last chapter and I wasn't sure if it was because I waited so long to update that no one really cares about the story anymore, or because the chapter really sucked. I know I promised to have this chapter up the day after the last one but the reaction (or lack of it) to the previous chapter put me in a bit of a funk. Hence me rewriting this one at least three times. Sorry if it isn't up to par with the angstfests that went before but if you didn't like something about the story, please push the nice button at the end and tell me about it. Conversely, if you did enjoy it, please let me know. Think of me as a fanfic Tinkerbell; I need reviews to live ;)

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my fab friend maggiequeen, who is, quite honestly, one of the best cheerleaders in the world, aside from being an awesome writer. You rock, hun!


In stunned silence, the two left at the table hear the echoed clomping of feet overhead and the almighty slam of Becca's door. Rachel's breath whooshes out. It's just normal teenage angst, she tells herself. But picturing the expression on Becca's face as she stormed out (a tiny part of her is proud of the girl for her dramatic exit), she's not so sure.

Puck looks at her. "Well, that went well," he deadpans. She just gives him a look and, without a word, leaves him to his dinner and the rest of her rigatoni primavera.

Making her way upstairs, she wonders who this sullen teen is. Was this the same 10 year-old girl who danced at her wedding? Who had joyfully declared, once the news of her engagement to Noah came out, that she was so happy she finally had a sister? Who snuggled up against her on the couch while they watched 'Wizard of Oz'?

Rachel makes her way upstairs quickly but hesitates in front of the door plastered with various stickers and a sign saying "Becca's Room: KEEP OUT!" in bold, multicolored script. It takes several quick raps on the wood before she hears Becca padding to the door. Now, previous research (namely, Lifetime movies and dramatic features) has led her to expect a shouting match through the closed door. Which is why she doesn't expect the door to open with a flourish and the cold stare of one Rebecca Puckerman.

"What do you want?" the girl in question says, her arms crossed.

"Bec—Rebecca, I want to talk to you."

She gives a deceptively careless shrug. "So talk." Turning her back on Rachel, she walks to her desk chair and sits down, arms and legs crossed defensively.

Becca's face is stony and carefully wiped clean of any expression but Rachel can feel the hostile way her eyes bore into her. Okay, genius, you got in; now what? She wishes there was a script she could follow or a monologue she could deliver that would make everything alright. Except, of course, there isn't and now Becca is looking at her in a way that says, Well? I'm waiting. Dammit. What does one say to an angry teenager?

In her panicked state, Rachel hunts around the room for the words that she doesn't seem to have and her gaze focuses on the numerous trophies lining the shelves. Trophies for soccer, spelling bees and dance glint dully from their places, a testament to the talented, well-rounded girl (young woman, the voice in her head insists) in front of her. No slushies or bullying or, on the other end of the spectrum, juvenile delinquency for this Puckerman.

She ends up in front of one such shelf, trailing her finger along the edges of a photo of Becca in a perfect arabesque. The photographer (Aviva? Noah?) captured the emotion on her face and the determination in the lines of her body. Rachel can't help the swelling of pride within her chest.

"Don't," Becca repeats firmly, her hand reaching out to snatch the frame away, breaking the spell.

Rachel bites back her response to this and faces her calmly. She gets why the girl is angry. After all, she was the woman who had hurt her brother, who had up and left him.

"Look, Becca," she begins, hesitant. "I know you're angry for what happened and you are perfectly within your rights to feel that way. He is your brother and it's only natural for you to form this reaction towards someone who you perceive hurt him. I know I did, Becca, and I'm so sorry for that, for leaving him. It wasn't the wisest course of action but you're older now and you have to realize that there are two sides to every story and you only know half of it. I'm sorry I had to do what I did but it isn't your problem; it's mine and Noah's."

For a brief moment, Becca appears for all the world like she's 14 going on 30. She looks back at Rachel with an unfathomable expression in her hazel eyes and gestures with the picture still in her hand.

"This was two summers ago. My first solo piece. Do you know the first thing I wanted to do when my contemporary ballet teacher told me I had a solo?" she looks at Rachel searchingly. "I wanted to tell you. Not my mom or my brother. You. But of course, I couldn't do that, right? You weren't here. You weren't here for my bat mitzvah either, or my first day in high school or…" She suddenly lets out a chuckle. "Do you know how many times I sat around like a fucking idiot wanting to call you or email you or something? It pissed me off. It still pisses me off."

Rachel gets a sick feeling in her stomach and she remembers a different conversation during a different time:

"I'm nervous. What if I mess up?"

"You're not going to mess up. You, Rebecca Marie Puckerman, are going to be amazing."

"Mom won't be there because she's got work but you're going to be there, right?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"You promise?"

"I promise, Becca."

She sits down on her bed and fixes her gaze on Rachel, who is just standing there, stunned. Eyes focused on long fingers picking at a hole in the orange and pink bedspread, Becca continues along conversationally. "For the longest time, I thought you were going to come back. That it was all just a big mistake and you would come home and you and Noah would make up and everything would go back to normal. But obviously that didn't happen. I had to watch while everything fell apart." She shakes her head. "And guess who was left behind to pick up the pieces?"

Technicolor understanding washes over her and Rachel's face softens. Before she can say anything, Becca starts talking again, her tone harder. "The problem with you is you think this is just about the two of you. It's not." She rubs furiously at red eyes. "He wasn't the only one you abandoned."

Rachel stands by helplessly for a few seconds before sitting beside her and tentatively wrapping an arm around Becca's shoulders. "Becca," she says again, the shock of the past few minutes reducing her brain's ability to form any other words except for the name of the girl beside her.

"Whatever. It's not like you're really my sister anyway," the teenager scoffs, trying vainly to shrug Rachel's arm off. Rachel, however, doesn't let her.

"You are my sister, Becca. Whatever happens, that doesn't change," she whispers. "I know that I've made such a mess out of things but I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"You ran away! How does that not hurt anyone?"

"You don't know what it was like, those last few months." She screws her eyes tight against the rapid influx of tears. "It was hell. And I know what I did was stupid and selfish and cowardly but at that time, I felt like I didn't have a choice."

Becca stares ahead, her face still hard and Rachel hates the fact that she helped make her this way. She doesn't know what else to do except hold on tighter and simply say, "I'm sorry, Becs. I'm so, so sorry."

There is silence in the room and she can feel the thrum of her own pulse echoing in her ears. Minutes pass and she almost wants to give up the ghost. But she can't. She won't. This girl was (is) her family. Then blessedly, two arms slowly and grudgingly loop around her waist and before Rachel knows it, she feels the welcome pressure of a hug. Then a whisper so soft, she almost doesn't hear it. "I missed you."

Relief, sweet and swift, washes over her. "I missed you, too." She rests her head against the younger girl's hair. They stay like that for a while and to Rachel, it feels a lot like making up for lost time.

Before long, Becca interrupts the silence with a giggle. "I can't believe we're acting like a bunch of fucking girls," she says, awkwardly trying to wipe off tears while still holding on to Rachel with both arms.

"Probably because we are," Rachel responds drily. She laughs when something occurs to her. "I swear, you're like…mini-Puck. I blame myself."

"Blame him. He's the one who curses like it's his fucking job," she mutters.

After this profound and telling statement, they look at each other for a moment before bursting into uncontrollable laughter at Puck's expense. In the midst of her giggles, Rachel's mind wanders again to her husband and to the little 'moment' they shared in the kitchen. The mere thought of those few seconds, when it felt like the fate of the entire world revolved around the possibility of a kiss, scares her. Yes, she will admit it – she is afraid. Afraid of the emotions he still managed to stir in her. Afraid of what would happen if (once) she allows those feelings to take hold of her.

She doesn't notice Becca watching her and the play of expressions on her face. She shifts slightly and releases Rachel. "Go," and she lifts her shoulder towards the door. At Rachel's look, she explains. "There's someone you want to talk to and it definitely isn't me."

Still, she feels she owes Becca some kind of explanation. "He and I…we need to figure some things out," she says haltingly.

"Just—just don't hurt him again."

"I'm not trying to."

Becca's face hardens for a second. "You weren't trying the first time." At Rachel's quick breath of surprise, she backtracks, "Sorry, that just came out..."

"No, it's okay." She gives Becca a smile to let her know that everything's fine and one last squeeze before she gets up. She is at the doorway when Becca's voice stops her.

"Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Why'd you come back?"

She hesitates. Somehow, she doesn't think the reason that comes to mind (I came back to get a divorce from your brother so I can potentially marry another man) is the right answer, so she lies and goes for a safer choice: "I don't know."

Becca, for her part, merely nods as if she understands everything.

And as Rachel leaves, she can't help but think that somehow, neither of the two choices is the real answer.


"Noah!"

"Down here!"

After what felt like hours fixing her ruined makeup in the upstairs bathroom (Waterproof mascara? Really? Try again, L'Oreal), she went around the house looking for Noah. He wasn't in the dining room, kitchen or living room. She had even taken a quick peek into his old room and the garage but there was no sign of a Puckerman anywhere. It was only when she finally gave in to his old standby of ignoring inside voices and shouting like a heathen did she find him.

"What in the world are you doing down here?" she grouses as she clatters down the old wooden steps to the basement.

"Come and see."

She is about to retort that she had seen enough of their old basement to haunt her to the end of her days, thank you very much, before the words die a quick death on her lips once she steps into the room. What used to be a shrine to horrible design, unfortunate color choices and teenage ennui had been transformed.

She definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore.

Where there used to be mustard yellow shag carpeting, there are shiny hardwood floors. Pale green walls and old family pictures have given way to dark blue paint and framed album covers. In an area that used to be storage central for Aviva's barely-used exercise equipment and various tchotchkes, there is now a huge wooden recording desk with a professional soundboard, audio mixers, a computer, studio monitors and other equipment she didn't know the names of. There are headphones, racks of effects processors, amplifiers, preamps, recorders and tuners, and keyboards. Overhead lighting bathes the now spacious space in a warm yellow glow.

"Noah," she whispers, awed. "This is like—"

"A musician's wet dream?"

She rolls her eyes. "Well, not in those exact terms, but you know what I mean." Her eyes flit all over the room, cataloguing each new treasure, never knowing where to rest. "How did you— when did you…I can't believe you did this!"

He immediately bristles. "What? You thought I was going to be a grease monkey forever?" he says with a sneer.

"Noah, you know that's not what I meant," a note of censure in her voice.

He tilts his head back and sighs. "Sorry. Force of habit," he mumbles, the way he rubs the back of his neck betraying his discomfiture.

She knows. It had always been his Achilles heel, two little words strung together, a petty insult from a petty teenager (Lima loser, she can almost hear Quinn's voice whisper). She understands what it's like to be buried under the weight of other people's expectations, whether they were high or low. Most of all, she remembers the look in his eyes at the words she let loose in her fury yesterday, words that were designed hurt him in a way she knew intimately. She swallows the apology she so wants to give and instead moves silently around the room, paying him the ultimate compliment as she marvels at all the changes he wrought. She smiles wistfully as she spies a familiar object on a stand beside the desk – his most prized possession, his grandfather's old Martin. Oh, she remembers that guitar quite well.

"It's a lovely instrument, Noah."

"Lovely? Fuck, B, what's with you and that word? This isn't lovely. It's a fucking work of art."

"Huh. For the sake of argument, if someone made you choose between that guitar and me, what would your answer be?"

"…You. Of course, I'd choose you, babe."

"You hesitated!"

"It was a momentary pause!"

She hides her chuckle with a cough and moves on to what is probably the biggest change – a soundproof room. Years before, all that area had held was a ratty old brown couch and Noah's old entertainment system (and she uses the term loosely). Now there is a wall separating it from the rest of the studio. She can't resist peeking through the small window above the desk into the enclosed room. Gray studio foam covers the walls and simple gray carpeting, the floor. There are microphone and music stands, a drum set and amps. And guitars. Guitars everywhere – on the walls and on stands.

All Puck is doing is leaning casually against the wall. He watches her activities with the smuggest expression on his face before she turns to him.

"Okay, I give up. How did you end up with a professional quality recording studio in your basement?" she asks. "The last time I saw this place, it had a wagon-wheel coffee table and that awful sofa."

"Loved that sofa."

"I know." She smirks. "There were actual imprints of your ass and Finn's on it."

There is a bark of laughter from him and at this, the room feels lighter. "It's a long story," he stalls as he plops down in the swivel chair and faces her. Almost immediately, his long tan fingers drift to the soundboard, unconsciously fiddling with the knobs and the sliders. She studies him from beneath her lashes and notes the ease in the way he sits behind the huge desk. He belongs there, she realizes suddenly. If she didn't want to hear the story before, she certainly wanted to now.

"Tell me," she says softly, and makes herself comfortable on the other chair.

So he does. He tells her about being fired from his job for showing up to work drunk and about getting kicked out of the band for missing gigs and generally being an asshole ("Which really shouldn't bother me but come on, Rach, I was kicked out of a band called Gary and the Groovies. Fuck, if that shit ever got out…"). It takes a while but he picks himself up and starts working part-time as a guitar teacher. A guy named Joe Ballard, the father of one of his students worked in a radio station in Cincinnati and after hearing him play, helped him get a job as a session guitarist.

In the middle of this, Puck doesn't notice that he has taken his Martin from its stand. It is like he cannot tell a story without settling its familiar weight against him. "Almost every live act that came through Cincy, I played with. Got hired out for a few record companies, too. I did rock, country, pop, reggae, punk, folk… I don't know what else. I think I even did a campaign jingle or two. Basically anyone who needed an extra guitar, I was there. Shit was fucking exhausting, Rach. But it was good work, you know?" The smile on his face as he tells the story fills in the blanks.

"Then what?"

"Then one time, I was working with this band. Bunch of local dudes who wanted to record in the city where they started, garage rock, that sorta thing. They heard me messing around with one of my songs and, well…" He looks at her, the arrogance of the smirk on his face belied by the excitement in his eyes. "They liked it. Hell, they fucking loved it. Said they wanted it for their new album."

He stops and Rachel almost wants to smack him upside the head for pausing at such a critical juncture in the story. "And?"

"And I told them I'd let 'em use it if I had some creative control. So I ended up producing the song for the album." A pause. "An album that peaked at no. 20 on the Billboard Top 100." Another pause, as he takes his time drawing out the drama. "With my song as one of their singles," and he points to one of the album covers.

She turns and sees the cover art of the Greenhornes' most recent album. Contrary to popular opinion, she doesn't live and breathe only show tunes. Rachel Berry has always said, the more you love music, the more music you love. She has read the reviews, she has listened to the songs; to know that Noah has had a hand in it…it is amazing.

"And all these other ones?" she says, referring to the framed covers on the wall, with strange names like the Never Setting Suns, Koala Fires, Assembly of Dust, Graphite and others, bands she had never even heard of.

"Well, since then, it's all been word of mouth," there is a quick upturn to his lips. "Turns out, I'm pretty good at this producing thing. Those are some other people I've worked with here or up in Cincy." He takes a deep breath, like he can't believe it himself. "Now, Joe's my manager and I'm working on my own project, with my own songs, and I have my own studio and...fuck."

He scrubs a hand through his short hair and laughs. "Whodathunk, huh?"

Rachel's heart feels like it has expanded 50 times since the beginning of their conversation. This is beyond what she could ever have wished for him. She wants to clap her hands and jump up and down like a child and squeeze him and laugh and cry. 'Happy' seems too mundane a word for what she feels; 'unmitigated joy' felt more appropriate. But instead, she smiles and says quite simply: "You did it."

Looking at the big brown eyes in front of him shining in the old Rachel Berry fashion makes him bite his tongue, wanting to tell her that really, it was her. It was all her, the first person who had ever believed in him, back when he was 16 year-old screw-up. Almost unconsciously, his fingers are sliding across the strings, plucking this chord and that, providing his own indistinct soundtrack to this moment. The fact that she is so happy, so proud of what he was able to accomplish…well, it makes him feel like one lucky bastard.

He claps his hands. "Okay, enough talk about me. How's NY been treatin' ya?" At her look, he sighs. "It's not like it didn't happen, B. Might as well talk about it. I wanna know…what's been going on in Rachel Berry's life?"

There is a strange look on her face and she stills for a moment. His brow furrows in confusion. "What?"

"Nothing," she shakes her head lightly and gives him an apologetic smile. "It's just…'B'. It's been a while since anyone's called me that." You're the only one that calls me that, the voice in her head adds.

He doesn't comment on it except for a appraising look and a nod, before he continues in his line of questioning. "Come on, your turn in the sharing circle."

"Nothing much to tell." She doesn't look at him while she talks, her tone is deceptively casual. "Mostly, it was waitressing jobs and parts so far off Broadway, it wasn't even in the same zip code. Then I worked as a singer at a jazz club before becoming an understudy in Wicked."(She interrupts herself with a delighted 'I was in Wicked, Noah!', to which he laughs).

Composing herself, she continues. "I was understudy to Michelle Federer, you know her of course (him with a roll of his eyes, 'Of course'), for 8 months. Then I went on auditions for this revival on Broadway which is when I got cast in Funny Girl."

"What?" is his strangled cry. She has been biting her bottom lip, watching for his reaction and when she takes a peek, she wants to laugh. Honestly, his goggle-eyed look would be ridiculous if it wasn't so adorable.

"I'm Fanny Brice."

"No shit."

"Yes shit." Suddenly, she can't contain her emotions any longer. She tosses her head back to laugh in delight, the light illuminating the gold in her hair. She can't get her head around it. She has had the part for a while, has told her fathers and her friends (And Connor, you forgot Connor, says that voice again) but this, right now, there is joy, relief, exhilaration. It feels like the first time, like this is her first starring role ever. Telling him feels different.

It feels like more.

"Fuck, B. That's…that's amazing," he breathes out in reverence. "This is like, the first time it's been on Broadway since Streisand, right?"

A teasing, ear-to-ear smile blooms on her face. "Why, Noah Puckerman…I do believe you actually know your musical theater history."

"Please," he scoffs. "All those years of you yapping my ear off about Tonys and Tommys…mind like a trap, baby."

"More like a black hole," she snarks back automatically. He acknowledges her zinger with a mocking two-fingered salute but it doesn't erase the proud look on his face.

This is way more than he could ever have wished for her. To have all her dreams come true and have her do it in spectacular Berry fashion as always, he felt like writing a goddamned song. Hell, he feels like flailing around like, well, Hummel. "Seriously, B, I'm happy for you. Look at you, making Broadway your bitch." She narrows her eyes at him but can't help the giggle that escapes. The smile on her face is so beautiful, he wants to kiss if off.

"Thank you, Noah." She gives a little sigh. "Looks like you and I got everything we've ever wanted."

The hands that were idly fiddling with guitar strings moments before, suddenly still. "Not everything."

It is like everything screeches to a halt. Her smile falters at his sober whisper before it comes back, a little shinier, as the tiny part of her is repeating his words, not everything. He raises his head, looks her dead in the eye, and she has to avert her eyes because there is something dangerous in his gaze. Dangerous for who?, the voice in her head pipes in again.

She doesn't answer it and thankfully, he drops his head once again in favor of making his guitar weep softly. What was, mere minutes ago, light and comfortable, is charged with electricity. She finds herself resenting him for changing the rules of the game. They were doing fine, relaxed, joking with each other, laughing. Now it is as if the very air is tainted by memories (like how just inhaling his scent was enough to awaken longing within her or how the brush of his callused fingertips on skin was enough to erase her worries…stop it, Rachel. Stop).

When Rachel Berry puts her mind to something, nothing will sway her. Right now, it is to ignore whatever this is (Keep telling that to yourself, B, snarks the voice) and to focus instead on the chords that Noah is playing. She can hear an E sliding into A over and over again, then C# minor, B minor, A, F# minor then A again. Soon, it occurs to her that chords that she thought he was just playing over and over mindlessly actually form a melody. A song she can imagine a stadium full of people swaying and singing along.

"What is that?"

He stops. "What?"

"What are you playing?"

"It's nothing," he replies shortly.

"It doesn't sound like nothing," she persists. "It's one of yours, isn't it?"

He doesn't answer in so many words, except to tilt his head and give her a careless shrug.

"Noah, it's beautiful. Play it for me." She doesn't realize until now how much she has missed hearing him sing. "Please?"

She expects him to protest. He has always been protective of his songs, never wanting anyone to hear them unless he was ready. Of course, this hadn't applied to her. He had played his songs for her before – hundreds, maybe thousands of times before – for no other rhyme or reason but for the fact that music had always been their language of choice. But that was the key word: before.She has never had to ask except now.

She should have known that he never could refuse her anything. With a steadying breath, he starts the song from the very beginning. Immediately, she is hypnotized by the dance of his fingers across the strings and the magic he coaxes from them. Whenever she sees him like this – gifted, focused – she thinks back to all those people who had discounted him before, who had refused to see who he really was. And like all those times before, she wonders who were the real 'losers'.

If anything, he doesn't seem to notice the direction her thoughts have gone and she closes her eyes, preferring to let the music wash over her. She tries hard to figure out what it is about the song that is drawing her in. It is simple and beautiful, yes; but not sad. No, sad isn't the right word. Wistful. Yes, that's it. Just when she thinks the song is purely instrumental, his husky tenor surprises her.

Wherever I go
Whatever I do
I wonder where I am in my relationship to you

She had forgotten his voice's effect on her. Suddenly, she finds herself drawing closer, heeding the gravitational pull of the song and the man behind it. She can't tell if this swooping feeling in her gut is her flying or falling.

Wherever you go
Wherever you are
I watch your life play out in pictures from afar

Wherever I go
Whatever I do
I wonder where I am in my relationship to you

His eyes are closed and with the lyrics he wrote ringing in her head, she questions what he is seeing with his eyes shut. Half of her wants to know what he is trying to tell, if he is trying to tell her anything; the other half…well, the other half just wants to listen to him sing.

Wherever you go
Where ever you are
I watch your pretty life play out in pictures from afar

He ends the song by vocalizing on the last note and holding it. Once it is over, the silence seems to echo in the space, full of things said and unsaid. He looks slightly uncomfortable. "I mean, it's not finished yet. That's just the chorus and there are a lot of kinks but…yeah," he hastily explains.

"What's it called?" she asks finally, her throat dry.

"Can't tell you." His eyes linger on her. "I don't know how it ends yet."

That is when she looks up and notices that he is far closer than he should be. No matter that she was the one who had pushed her chair closer to his while he was singing. Now she is close enough to see the tiny white scar on his chin when he fell from his bike when he was 4 and the glint of moisture on his lips where he just licked it. She fields an idle question from her subconscious (why is it that men have such long lashes? It's unfair) as they stare at each other silently. Silently, almost stealthily, the distance between them is getting smaller and, if she wanted to be honest with herself, she doesn't really care. She can't really think about much of anything.

All she can think about is his lips.

And, suddenly, the ringing of her phone.

Whatever was there moments ago is gone. She closes her eyes (in resignation or relief, she cannot tell) before picking up and focusing on the voice on the other end of the line. He is just thankful she doesn't hear his hiss of frustration. He busies himself returning his guitar to its proper place and trying not to eavesdrop on the conversation going on behind him. When he hears the tell-tale sound of her cell flicking shut, he turns back around and sees her lost in thought. He figures he knows why.

"Your dads are back?"

"Yes," she says shortly. The way he looks at her, with understanding and more than a little bit of desire, makes her want to kiss him even more. She is not supposed to want to kiss him at all. Not anymore. Would it be stating the obvious if she says she's feeling a little lost right now?

Thankfully, he doesn't bring up their little 'moment'. He only nods briskly and gets to his feet. "Come on, I'll drive you home."


AN: Okay, so as some of you might've noticed, I exercised some artistic license here. Puck's "original" song is actually the outro from John Mayer's "In Your Atmosphere", which I'm just totally in love with, so I'm hoping he doesn't mind me using it just this once ;) Also, all the bands mentioned are actual bands based in Cincinnati and surrounding areas. The Greenhornes are this amazing garage rock band from Cincinnati and the album mentioned is actually their new one coming out in October 2010. Again, a little more artistic license there ;)

Next up: a gleek get-together, the return of Satan-a and a little more conversation.