Marge was surprised to find Geoff Fielding already at the counter when she started her shift at midnight. Saturday and Sunday mornings brought the most customers, almost all NYU rats. Of all of them, Geoff was the newest, a freshman, and her favorite.
He was a surfer from California, small and powerfully-built, with shaggy, sun-bleached hair, deep tan, and intense blue eyes. He wanted to be a writer. Like Rachel, he was involved in a long-distance relationship that screwed with his sleep. He and Rachel had commiserated here at the diner in the first few weeks of classes, and became friends. They hadn't seen each other much since Rachel left the dorms to move in with Kurt , but they often ran into each other at the diner when they couldn't sleep, and sometimes played Frisbee with a few others (even Kurt, once) in Central Park on weekends when the weather was good.
"Getting an early start?" Marge put on her apron, and noticed his cup was half full. Geoff just nodded, like a zombie, so she filled his cup and attended to the two other customers, who had asked for their checks. When they were gone, she came back to him. He seemed to have revived, somewhat.
"Sorry," he said, ruefully. Marge didn't like they way he looked: eyes red-rimmed, exhaustion exuding from every pore.
"It's Elena, isn't it, hun?" Marge knew that Elena had been suffering from insomnia as well, and that Geoff worried about her. She was a freshman at UC Berkeley, also a writer and surfer, who he had met on the beach in LA when they were just thirteen. They were extraordinarily devoted to each other, much like Rachel and Finn, only without the heavy drama. Marge wondered if it was because they shared two passions, surfing and writing, and that each edited the other's work, even term papers. He had once shown Marge a picture of her. She was tall, blonde and gorgeous, with high Slavic cheek bones, green eyes, and full lips. They both were trying to hold on for Thanksgiving, where sleep and surfing were on the agenda.
Geoff nodded in reply, finally just saying, "I miss her, Marge." Then he pulled out a book and began studying.
Marge left him alone and began polishing the counter, even when it didn't need it, like sailors used to ritually holystone wooden decks. She liked to be able to see her face in every inch of the old cherry wood. Every so often she thought she saw Nigel in there, too. It grew very quiet, no cars on the little street, just the background roar of the city to which each had long become accustomed.
Both of them were startled by the sound of the little bell on the door, and voices, and laughter. Two young men entered, dressed fashionably in tight –fitting button-down shirts and jeans under their coats. One was shorter than the other, very buff. The other was slender, more lithely-built, with dark, curly hair. He smiled at Marge.
"Are you Marge Bailey?" he asked politely.
"Yes," she said, putting down her polishing cloth. She would have bet a week's tips these guys were from NYADA.
"Hi, I'm Patrick de Valera and this is Brody Weston. We're friends of Rachel Berry's, and wanted to talk about the song contest here after Thanksgiving."
"Oh hello, "Marge said, shaking Patrick's hand, "I've wanted to meet both of you." She shook Brody's hand as well. "By the way, " she gestured at Geoff, "This is Geoff Fielding, another friend of Rachel's." Geoff shook their hands.
"Oh yeah, you're the NYU guy with the surfer girlfriend, right?" Brody asked genially, but Marge saw him coldly assessing Geoff's surfer hoodie and jeans before freezing a smile on his face.
"That's me." Geoff kept his easy grin, though Marge knew he noticed Brody's look.
"We were just wanting to get an idea of the layout, where we can put the electric piano," Patrick told Marge.
"So, are your songs ready yet?" Marge asked, seemingly innocent, but with a hint of an edge. Brody shrugged.
"Not yet, at least for me. But it's coming along." He winked.
Patrick was more thoughtful. "It's far more difficult than I imagined," he said, gratefully accepting the cup of coffee Marge poured for him, "But I can beat the song Finn wrote, that's for sure." Brody even snickered.
Marge said nothing. The two of them looked around, and agreed where they would put the piano. It was strange; they seemed more like buddies than romantic rivals. And Rachel was right: they didn't seem to think much of Finn, which made Marge wonder if either of them had even an inkling of how much she adored him. She started polishing the counter again, after slyly rolling her eyes at Geoff.
Patrick paid for the coffee, saying, "It was a pleasure meeting you both. See you at the contest, Geoff? "
Marge loved how Geoff smiled brightly, replying "You bet."
"Kawabunga, dude!" Brody joked as they left. Geoff laughed.
"Is that guy for real?" he asked. "I mean, seriously."
"I'm afraid so," Marge said.
"Surely Rachel isn't interested in either of them, though the other guy seems nice enough. "
"Rachel loves Finn," Marge said, "You know that. But she's also human, and isn't sure if Finn will ever come back." She hadn't told Geoff about Finn's decision, nor did she tell anyone else, including Rachel herself. He would be staying with her, at least until the contest, and he wanted his appearance at it to be a complete surprise.
"You can't blame her for seriously considering moving on", she said. "Too bad you're taken. She really likes you, hun." Geoff blushed.
"I like her, too. Maybe I can start scouting out some decent non-NYADA types that can go toe-to-toe with her. Something tells me these two aren't going to make the cut."
"Let's just see how the contest goes, first," Marge said, with a curious look, and started polishing the counter again.
Geoff just shook his head and got back to studying.
XXXxxxxx
It was four AM on a Saturday, and she was missing him. She curled into a ball in her bed. It felt warm, but Rachel had learned how much better it felt to have a bed warmed by two lovers. Sometimes she felt she wasn't big enough to warm it all by herself, and appreciated it when Kurt sometimes cuddled with her on cold nights. But it wasn't the same.
She tried willing herself back to sleep, since she had a Frisbee game in Central Park with Geoff at eight o'clock, but to no avail. The ubiquitous city noise no longer bothered her, so it wasn't that. She was just missing her lover something fierce, with no prospects for seeing him in the foreseeable future. True, Finn had sent her that touching text, but it didn't tell her much, and did nothing to ease her aching for him. There were times, when she was at her loneliest, when she fantasized about sleeping with Body or Patrick, but their contempt for Finn always quashed that fantasy. The contest may benefit them more than me, she thought, even if neither of them actually comes up with a decent song. Defeat would only let them know they had to look elsewhere, a luxury Rachel didn't have.
Rachel was also getting sick of the "You have to move on" advice she was getting. No, she certainly did not have to move on. Nor did she have to stay single for a while in order to "find out about herself". She knew who she was, thank you very much, and knew what she wanted, and how to get it, too. Well, maybe with one exception, hence her sexually-charged loneliness this very morning.
A truck backfiring on the street below actually made her smile, briefly. This sure wasn't Lima.
She did look forward to seeing Geoff, however. Ever since moving to Bushwick with Kurt, Rachel and Geoff hadn't seen each other that much. The last time they had talked, Geoff mentioned Elena was in a bad way sleep-wise, as was he. Sometimes Rachel found herself envying Geoff and Elena's relatively serene love affair. Hers and Finn's seemed so stormy and star-crossed, by comparison. But she kept coming back to that feeling their love affair was epic. Who was it that said no one writes songs about the ones that come easy? * Epic romances had heroes and heroines, and though she had always prided herself on being strong, there were times when Rachel just wished her hero could come back and take care of the crap, you know? The memory of her calling him her hero in the choir room flooded back, warming her heart.
Finally dozing off, she wished she lived in a different age.
XXXxxx
The offshore breeze at sunset ruffled the flowers in her hair and her long white dress. Seeing the shadowy figures of seabirds heading home to roost only made her miss him all the more. She could hear the boasting and singing of her suitors coming from the taverna.
At times she wanted to get up and join in the singing and dancing, because she was young, and full of life, but she knew what it would cost. It would silence her heart, which sang only to his song. Giving up on him would have her living out the rest of her life partially dead. To do so would dishonor what they once had, she knew.
She was comforted by the soft voice of Heimarmene, the spirit of fate and destiny, in her ear. There are signs all about you, my daughter, it said, you have only to look to them to find hope. Relaxing, she hugged her knees, enjoying the scent of pine and the restless sounds of the surf below, and the soft evening light.
It was then that she saw the owl, on the ground nearby, watching her. Sacred memories of walking through the forest at night with him, calling owls and listening to their soft, hooted replies, re-energized her heartsong. It flew away, and she swore she saw it alight on the shoulder of a figure, hidden in shadow among the trees,, with a helmet and spear.
"Who is it?" she called out, but there was no answer. Somehow, though, she knew who it was.
Years later, she would tell her children she had seen Pallas Athena herself, goddess of heroic endeavor, and found the strength to endure.
A/N: * Logan Echols to Veronica Mars.