A/N: Hi, guys! So the reason this wasn't updated during St. Berry Week was because this is an angsty chapter, and St. Berry Week was supposed to be about non-angsty things. So now we get to see the first night Jesse & Rachel have to share a room (gasp!). I think the next chapter will have the big reveal of the musical they'll be working on (don't quote me on that!)

All standard disclaimers apply.

Scale the Glass Mountain

At ten minutes to ten that night Rachel found herself pacing a dark hallway, reluctant to enter the room Jesse's aunt had insisted she was to share with him for the foreseeable future. Calling her dads had done nothing in her favor—Hiram had sided with Becca, and Leroy had said he didn't agree but it wasn't his choice to make. No matter how much she fumed and cried, Rachel was unable to change their minds. She wasn't used to that, and she didn't like it. Her fathers had always—always—taken her side before. In any us-against-them situation, she and her daddies were always the us.

Apparently not anymore.

Tears stung her eyes, and Rachel wiped furiously at them. Crying wasn't going to help anything right now. She'd got herself into this mess, and she was going to have to live with it until her fathers, Shelby, and Becca saw fit to let her go home. On one hand, she did understand at least intellectually that she had not acted appropriately when she ran away from her dads in a rash attempt to start over somewhere new. But she didn't understand why her punishment had to entail being abandoned to Shelby and Jesse—two people she didn't care if she never, ever saw again. Wouldn't it be more sensible, she reasoned, to bring her home? Ground her? Tell her she was never allowed to leave the house again? If she couldn't be trusted not to run, what was the point of pushing her further away?

The fact that her fathers really had left her here was perhaps the most hurtful thing of all. She sniffled quietly, desperately hoping Jesse couldn't hear the sound. She didn't need to give him any more ammunition to hurt her with. He'd done enough already.

She missed her dads. She missed Finn, even though he'd broken up with her, and Kurt and Mercedes and Tina...even Noah. She missed her room, in her house, and the comfort of being surrounded by her things. She wanted to run downstairs to her kitchen to find her fathers arguing amicably about one of their signature dishes as they prepared dinner, the familiar sound of showtunes playing in the background. She wanted her trusty to-do list, abandoned in her locker at McKinley, and the paper calendar she kept complete with all the events she needed to remember.

But most of all—more than anything else—she wanted to feel at home again. Needed. Wanted. Like she mattered. That was the problem with this city, this house, and this punishment. Nobody wanted her. Nobody cared what happened to her. New York was just as cold as McKinley; it was bigger, that was all. She still mattered to nobody but herself. She was in Aunt Becca's house on sufferance. Jesse certainly didn't care, and neither did Shelby. All three would just as soon be rid of her, she was sure of it. Just as she'd gladly be rid of them if someone let her.

Shelby wasn't her mother. They'd made that perfectly clear to each other last year, so she had no idea why the woman was so insistent on being part of this plan. Yes, Rachel had gone by her apartment and looked in the window. It was curiosity only, she told herself firmly. She didn't want or need Shelby Corcoran in her life. Her fathers were enough. They had always been enough before. The fact that her birth mother now had a face and a name didn't change things.

And Jesse? With Jesse, things were more complicated. Rachel couldn't deny that, even to herself. When she'd first stumbled off that fire escape, she'd desperately needed something familiar, something known to grasp on to. He'd been there, and when she looked at him, it was like no time had passed at all since the brief span when she'd called him her boyfriend. He was just as beautiful and just as confident as ever, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his black jeans, dark hair just as perfectly curled as she remembered. He had not looked terribly pleased, but she really hadn't cared. He was familiar, and the familiarity had passed for comfort as she shoved herself into his arms, not really caring what the consequences might be.

And for a few minutes, it had almost seemed right. He'd not only allowed the contact but had held her, letting her take the comfort she needed from him—going so far as to call her baby, which he'd never done while they dated. He told her she was okay, and that everything would be all right. She hadn't really listened to his words, feeling numb and perhaps in shock after her ordeal. All she'd wanted in that moment—all she'd needed—was the feel of his arms firm around her, the smell of him as she ducked her head against the lapel of his jacket. That had been what grounded her. Not the food he tried to feed her, not the promise that they would go to the police. Just him.

But later, in the taxi, everything had changed. The darker part of his Jekyll & Hyde personality popped up, and before she really knew what was happening, they were arguing. He wanted to send her home, and at that point she hadn't wanted to go. Certainly not on his orders, anyway. There was no way she was letting Jesse St. James tell her what to do. Never again.

Once again she felt the firm resolve that had filled her then—the adamancy that she wasn't going to let him dictate her life. She couldn't deal with his mercurial tempers or the way he always assumed he was right, no matter what. The bruises on her arms were only a symbol of the deeper problem between them, and it was a problem Rachel was pretty sure was insurmountable. At this point, she didn't even want to try.

It seemed, however, that that choice had been taken from her.

Well, she'd play along. She'd go to Shelby's teaching theater—whatever that was—and she'd play nice with the other students. She'd listen to the tutors and do what they said, and she'd do it all while in the same room with Jesse. But their plan wouldn't work. She wasn't going to talk to him, wasn't going to even acknowledge his presence except for the bare minimum. If Shelby thought her relationship with Jesse could somehow be fixed, she was wrong. After last night, there was nothing left to salvage. He'd made his feelings perfectly clear, and she hoped she'd done the same by dousing his clothes. If he wanted to throw a tantrum because he was stuck with her, well, she could throw tantrums, too. She wasn't going to let him get away with treating her like that, no matter who he was.

Taking a deep breath, Rachel put out her arm and pushed the door to his—their—room firmly open.

It was empty.

She frowned, peering into the corners of the tackily-decorated space. No Jesse. That was strange. She was sure he'd be up here sulking.

Slowly she turned to her suitcase, which Shelby had fetched from the hotel for her, and pulled out her pajamas. She eyed the dresser with her lower lip between her teeth, considering. Since Jesse wasn't here, now was the perfect time to set some of her things around—put some clothes in drawers—and show him that he couldn't push her around. Maybe this was his room when he was here alone, but they had to share it now and she wasn't letting him shove her into a corner like some lost waif even if that's what she technically was.

But if she made him angry, Jesse might retaliate just as she had, and Rachel fervently did not want that. What if he put her clothes in the shower—or worse?

With that thought, Rachel firmly zipped her bag up and shoved it far under the bed. She sneezed three times as she straightened again, wrinkling her nose. She had no idea dust bunnies could get that big, especially on carpet! If it wasn't so late, she'd immediately demand a vacuum from Becca—assuming the old woman had one. She'd mentioned that she had cleaning help.

"Obviously they don't help in this room," Rachel muttered, looking at her outstretched hands. They didn't look dirty, but after putting them on the old brown carpet she felt like washing them. With an irritated little half-sigh, she grabbed her pajamas and dashed to the bathroom to change and wash her hands. There was no way she was changing in the bedroom if there was a possibility that Jesse could return at any moment.

Thankfully, the room was still empty when she came back. She wrestled with her new phone for a while, but could not find an alarm clock function, if it had one. "Stupid thing." She glared at it, wanting to throw it across the room. What good was a cell phone that only let her call her fathers, Shelby, and Becca, and did absolutely nothing else? Grumbling, she dug her pink suitcase back out and found the little travel alarm clock she had packed just in case of an emergency. Well, this certainly counted as an emergency, she figured. Bereft of everything and everyone—because Jesse St. James absolutely did not count—in a strange house in New York City. Definitely an emergency.

Approaching the bed, Rachel considered it with trepidation. Despite the fact that she and Jesse had apparently shared it last night without her knowledge, she was not looking forward to this. It was awkward enough that she had to be in his presence again, but this was really over the top. She was shocked that her fathers hadn't protested when she told them, but Hiram said calmly that it wasn't like she was still dating Jesse.

"Well, what if I was?" she'd shot back, furious that they weren't taking her side on this. "What would you do then?"

"Honey, you can quit with the self-righteous act," Hiram had said, his voice over the phone sounding more tired than Rachel had ever heard him before. "I know you like to think we were pretty clueless, but your father and I found Jesse in your bed more than once back when you were dating. We didn't raise a fuss then because we trusted you to be careful. We're not raising one now for the same reason."

"We weren't…doing anything," Rachel had protested, her face growing hot at the realization that her dads weren't quite as blissfully ignorant as she'd hoped. "I didn't sleep with him. I mean, I slept with him, but I didn't…do that." She was stammering now, and hated it. When her dads gave her the routine sex-talk reminder with Finn, she hadn't felt this nervous. What was it about Jesse St. James that always made her so flustered, even in conversation? "He'd come by sometimes to talk, and then he just…wouldn't leave."

"Consider this an extended sleepover, then," Hiram had said, "since you're obviously used to it. I'm sorry, Rachel, but you're not getting out of this deal that easily. If Jesse's aunt says you're sharing a room, then you're sharing a room."

Which now left her staring at a garish bedspread on a sagging queen-sized mattress that she was supposed to share, for the foreseeable future, with Jesse. It was big enough, she supposed, that they wouldn't have to touch at all—provided he kept himself to himself. But based on her memories, he wasn't very good at that. No matter how they fell asleep, somehow she'd always woken up with his arms around her. At the time it had seemed impossibly sweet, but now it was a problem.

So was picking which side of the bed she was going to claim. Battered twin nightstands framed the bed, so there was no benefit one way or another. She could either pick the side closer to the window, or closer to the door.

She settled on the side near the door, figuring that she'd have just that little bit of an edge on him if they both lunged for the bathroom in the morning. He was one of those guys who took as long as a girl getting ready, she just knew it, and she wasn't going to have her morning routine disturbed because of him. She doubted there was such a thing as an elliptical machine in this house, but she could manage with a jog around the neighborhood if she had to. Protein shakes were easy to come by at any neighborhood market, and New Yorkers lived on coffee, so that wasn't a problem. The only problem was Jesse.

Speak of the devil, she thought, plopping herself firmly down on her side of the bed as she heard loud male footsteps ascending the stairs. Firming her spine in case he was still angry with her, she sat up straight and prepared for the worst.

"And where were you when Shelby dragged me off?" Jesse opened the door, letting it slam against the wall, more orangey-beige paint flaking off where the doorknob hit. "We're supposed to stay together. She chewed me out for at least half an hour about that."

Rachel made a face. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Jesse looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Rachel let herself look back. He seemed…tired. In truth, she'd disappeared into the upper floors of the house just so she wouldn't have to be around Shelby or Jesse any longer, but now she was rethinking her rash decision. What had Shelby said to him to make him look like that?

"Frankly, I don't care where the fuck you were. But the longer you play these games, the longer we have to do this." He pulled a hand through his hair hard enough that it looked like it hurt. "Shelby let it slide this time, but she won't anymore."

"Where were you?" Rachel asked hesitantly. The anger was still there, simmering just below the surface. She could see it in his eyes, but the tense set of his shoulders and the way he moved his body told her that he was tired—not sleepy, but tired with a kind of weariness she thought she could understand. The past two days had been hard, and there was no promise of it letting up anytime soon.

"Where do you think?" he snapped, holding up his duffel bag. "I was at the laundromat all afternoon, drying my fucking clothes. Shelby thought it was the perfect time for a heart-to-heart, and we were in public so I couldn't tell her to get lost."

"What did she say?"

Jesse didn't answer, and Rachel tucked her knees up close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she watched him. He unzipped his bag and started to put his clothes away, very slowly, in the chest of drawers. The meaning of his action was not lost on Rachel—it was a capitulation to their predicament. He was staying, but he wasn't happy about it. The tension in his body told her that much.

The silence in the room was deep and unhappy. Rachel played with the edge of the old bedspread as she watched Jesse, for lack of anything better to do. She wasn't getting to sleep anytime soon, her real phone had been taken from her, and her iPod was in her stolen purse. She did have her laptop buried deep in the bottom of her suitcase, but she didn't want to bring it out in Jesse's presence. Better he and Becca and Shelby didn't know about that. She was sure there were probably books in the house, but she wasn't about to go skulking around late at night to find one.

Finally Jesse shut the final drawer, kicked his empty bag under the bed, and dropped with careless grace into the desk chair. "Come here," he said.

Rachel stayed where she was. There was no way in hell she was moving. She couldn't place the carefully neutral set of his voice and didn't know the look on his face, so she wasn't budging. "No," she said stonily.

Jesse heaved a sigh and lifted himself back out of the chair. "Why is everything such a struggle with you?"

"Why is everything such a struggle with you?" Rachel scooted back until her spine touched the headboard of the bed as he neared her. "Don't touch me."

He paused, standing over the bed, his blue gaze fastened on her bare arm. Rachel began to wonder whether a tank top was really the best idea, and she wished for some sleeves to pull down. "Shelby said I did that," he said, his voice softer than she expected.

"Well, you did."

He looked at the small purple marks silently for another several moments. "I didn't mean to," he said finally.

It wasn't an apology—not really. Not for the bruises, or for the way he'd spoken to her. Not for any of it. It didn't make it okay, either. But Rachel couldn't help believing him when he said he hadn't meant to do it—the bruises, anyway. The rest of it he had certainly meant, and she did not forgive him.

"She said you had a reason for running, but she wouldn't tell me what it was."

Well, Rachel wasn't telling either. It was no business of his.

"Damn it, Rachel!" His voice rose, and he turned abruptly away from her. "Say something!"

"Like what?" she snapped. "That you should never have touched me? That you don't have any say in what I do anymore? Tell me which of those you'd most like to hear. Or maybe you'd prefer the speech where I tell you I loathe being stuck here with you, and I wish it had been absolutely anybody else to talk me down from that fire escape?" She was panting now, breathing heavily as all the anger and frustration that had been simmering while she was alone now surged to the surface again. Why did Jesse's presence always do that? How, she wondered, did he know exactly how to get a rise from her?

"Maybe I wouldn't have gone so far if I knew you had a valid reason!"

That was it. Rachel pounced to her feet, ready to slap him if he said one thing more, despite the consequences. Yes, she'd been stupid to run away. She could see that now. But if he thought that made it okay to bully and frighten her, just like the jocks at McKinley, he was wrong. The fact that she had a reason for doing what she did—it didn't factor into this at all. If he was trying to explain away his actions, she wasn't going to let him. "Shut up!" She heard her voice quiver and instantly fought to steady it. He couldn't know how badly he got to her. She didn't need him to know that. "You were past caring about the consequences of your actions, so stop trying to play them down! It doesn't matter what my reasons were, because you're a stranger to me and you don't get to tell me what to do!"

She whirled, intent on slamming back into the bed, but warm, firm hands on her waist stopped her. Once again she regretted the choice of a thin white tank top as she pulled back but Jesse held firm. "Hold still," he said, and there was something in his voice that she did not like at all, though she could not put her finger on just what it was. It wasn't the command—she was used to that with Jesse, and just as used to ignoring it. It was something else—something that unsettled her just as much as the marks on her arms seemed to have unsettled him. "Rachel, I'm not going to hurt you. Just hold still, damn it!"

She didn't want to, but he was holding her in such a way that it would tear her shirt if she tried to rip out of his grasp. Shaking slightly and hoping he couldn't feel it, she leaned away from him but stopped fighting. He brushed the hem of her shirt up, exposing her lower back, and she felt the whoosh of an exhalation across her shoulder as he breathed out deeply.

"I thought I saw something through the material," he murmured, his voice dark. "Who did this?"

"Let go," she said, twisting out of his slackened grip.

"Tell me who did it."

"Why?" she demanded, sitting down and planting her back firmly against the headboard. "Afraid it was you?"

"Was it?"

"What does it matter?" She averted her eyes, staring resolutely at the dark window that only reflected the room back at her.

"It fucking matters, okay?" He sat on the edge of the bed and reached out, turning her face toward him with a firm hand.

Her frustration with his attitude bubbled over and she jerked her head free and pushed his shoulder, but he wasn't budging. "If it matters—if you cared at all—you'd stop grabbing me!"

Silence.

Rachel stared at him, eyes wide. His showface fell for a fraction of an instant, and she was startled by the horrified realization that swept across his expressive face. Just for a moment and then it was gone, and he pushed violently away from her, backing toward the door. The expression on his face twisted something inside her, and for an instant Rachel wanted to give him the information he'd asked for. She only just stopped herself. It didn't matter, she told herself firmly. He didn't deserve any answers from her.

"I didn't do that," he whispered, his voice devoid of almost everything. "Shelby told me I bruised your arms. She would have told me if I did anything else."

Rachel looked at him for a long moment before turning away, her eyes moving over his form reflected in the dark window. "Leave me alone, Jesse," she said quietly. "I just want to sleep."

"Rachel—" He moved toward her, his actions unsure. Rachel had never seen him look anything but perfectly confident and it shook her slightly. But she shied away from him, watching warily through the window. He was too unpredictable, and she did not want him close to her.

"Don't touch me," she repeated, trying to sound firm.

"I didn't—"

He ran his hands through his hair again, tugging at the curled ends. With a final frustrated noise he turned, striding quickly from the room.

Rachel lay down, not bothering to turn the light off or do anything else. Her heart was beating so fast it almost felt like it was humming, and there were tears swimming in her eyes though she didn't really know why. He hadn't hurt her. She was fine.

But it took a long time to fall asleep that night, and when she woke up—just as she'd feared—she was in Jesse's arms.