A/N: This story deals with mature subject matter. Subjects addressed are dissociative identity disorder, (non-graphic) abuse, and attempted suicide. Please read at your own discretion.

Rachel Berry was late.

In the binder that she kept by her bed, of which the first page was entitled "Rachel Berry's Foolproof Plan of Life: How to Win the EGOT (And Possibly Fall in Love, Though Not Likely)," the premier entry was: Take Broadway by storm at the age of twenty.

Sitting in Dr. Alan's poetry and poetics class at the age of 19, hearing that she'd been assigned to partner up with Matt Rutherford (who was eyeing her like she was bacon on the slab), Rachel was painfully aware of just how far off-track her plan had gotten.

Born and raised in Cincinnati, Rachel had had no problem convincing her dads (yes, she had two, and if anyone objected she'd be happy to hand them a pamphlet and a business card with contact information for the ACLU) to let her go to New York for college, even after Juilliard rejected her. True, it took two weeks of being curled up on her bed crying to G-d and Barbra Streisand before she'd gotten up, inked "Chapter Three: Finding Your Strength in the Midst of Soul-Crushing Rejection By the College of Your Choice" into the outline for her autobiography, and applied to NYU.

Her freshman year, she'd roomed with Brittany Pierce in one of the dorms on campus. The other girl was a dancer, sweet if a little dim, who grinned and shook her head at Rachel's side of the room, decorated with posters of Broadway – and a Bengals jersey in the middle. At the end of their first semester, both Rachel and her friend had had enough of dorm life. They scoured the city until Brittany had landed a lease for a small two-bedroom above a dance studio. It wasn't long before the dance studio folded, and Brittany, who had some money saved up from her grandmother, bought it for next to nothing and dropped out of college. It was Rachel who had had the bright idea that they should also offer music lessons in addition to dance, and Brittany had agreed – despite Rachel putting her foot down against the name of Berry-Pie Studio of Music and Dance. So Britt taught classes while Rachel was in class, and then hit the clubs at night. Rachel gave piano lessons twice a week, sometimes to the grandchildren of the women in Brittany's dance classes.

The girls were both perpetually exhausted, but were surprised that they had become very good friends despite their differences. Rachel knew that Brittany was smarter than she let on, and Brittany was always there with tea and chocolate each time Rachel came back to the apartment with downcast eyes after a failed audition. She'd thought it would be easier. She'd thought she would show up in NY and take Broadway by storm, as her fathers and all her music instructors in Cincinnati had told her she would.

In Cincinnati, maybe, Rachel was unique.

In New York City, Rachel Berry was just another in a long line of girls, all with the refrain "god I hope I get it" lingering in their minds as they mounted the stage steps to put their hearts on the line, only to have those hearts handed back.

Not good enough.

So she taught music to eight year olds after classes during the week, and on the weekends when Brittany was sweating on the dance floor, Rachel took the stage at Mike's on the corner, in front of men and women too drunk to know the difference between Lloyd Webber and Rodgers and Hammerstein. But every Friday night, without fail, she sang.

Dr. Alan's poetry and poetics class was Rachel's favorite, other than her music classes; she didn't need that class but she'd always prided herself on being well-rounded. Still, the minute she moved her notebook and papers so that she could sit at the desk across from Matt Rutherford and the words left his lips, she began to regret her decision to take the class.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go out sometime?"

He was a nice enough guy, even if he had been pursuing her since the start of the semester. And it wasn't that he was bad-looking either; he was tall with dark skin and muscles that rippled in his arms below the sleeves of the tee-shirts he always wore. And he was a phenomenal dancer; Rachel had seen him a couple of times when she'd met Brittany outside her classes freshman year. He was in a few of her classes this semester, and Rachel was pretty sure the guy was going to be a certified triple threat: singer, dancer, and actor.

The problem was… she just wasn't interested.

She'd had a relationship or two in high school, one with a football player who was too tall for his own good, and the other with a girl in her glee club, but both of them had fizzled out within a few months. Rachel suspected they just couldn't keep up with her: she was far too driven, far too focused to let something like love get in the way of her dream.

So she smiled politely and turned Matt down, once again.

"We should get started on our analysis of the 'May Magnificat,'" she said, and Matt just grinned and shrugged good-naturedly, probably thinking he'd wear her down sooner or later.

As she turned the pages in her Norton Anthology, Rachel could just barely hear the soft voice of the girl sitting behind her. Quinn was her name, she remembered, the girl with the blonde hair and hazel eyes who always sat in the back of the room and was out the door as soon as class ended. The girl who talked about poetry as if it was second nature, who read aloud the poems of Keats and Lorca and Shakespeare as if the words were music rolling off her tongue, and who laughed rarely, but when she did, it was as if it filled the entire room.

Not that Rachel had noticed or anything.

But if she had noticed, she'd be aware of the fact that Quinn's voice was now just a little louder, and her words were coming out a little harsher, to Rachel's ears as she sat hunched over her anthology and tried to concentrate on Hopkins.

"I said no. Now please, we need to focus on Arnold."

Another voice, male this time.

"Aw, come on; just give me your phone number. I'll call you up this Friday, take you to dinner, a club, and treat you to a little dancing… then maybe after…"

If Rachel had turned around then (which she didn't, even if she was disgusted by the oily slick tone of the guy's voice) she would have seen his eyebrows waggle suggestively… and she would have seen the look on Quinn's face. And she might have been alarmed, but all her attention was suddenly focused on the sound of one pound of poetry textbook slamming to the floor.

Now turning around, Rachel saw that it was Quinn's book, and the aforementioned blonde was rigid at her desk, her eyes closed and her lips set into a tight, thin line. Her partner was staring at her, brow furrowed in confusion, and, Rachel noted, a little derision, which only served to make a feeling like anger start to rise up in her. And Rachel Berry was nothing if not a take charge kind of girl, so it was no surprise to her the minute she found herself next to Quinn's desk, squatting down low so that her face was level with the other girl's.

"Quinn?" She queried softly. No answer. "Quinn, are you okay?"

She didn't look okay. Rachel hadn't ever talked to the girl; they were barely acquaintances, much less friends, which was rather disappointing to Rachel because Quinn seemed like someone she'd want to know, just for the simple fact that she was pretty, smart, and had a voice that sounded like a thousand musical notes blended together to make a symphony of song.

Wait, what?

She shoved that thought back in her mind as Rachel became hyper-aware of the paleness of Quinn's face, the way every muscle in her body was stiff and unyielding, how her lips moved as if she were having a silent conversation with someone Rachel couldn't see. Her small (dainty) hands were gripping tightly onto the desk, and Quinn's breath was leaving her lungs in ragged gasps.

"Quinn?" Rachel reached out and lightly shook the girl's shoulder.

"No, no," Quinn muttered, sounding hollow. "Don't, I don't want him to hurt you…"

Rachel cast her eyes at Quinn's class partner, who backed up, his chair scraping the floor and his hands palms up in front of him. She became acutely aware that the exchange had caught the attention of the other students, and Dr. Alan was making his way to them from the front of the room. Rachel turned her focus back to Quinn, and saw that the girl's eyes were open, a frantic look in them, and she was shaking.

"No one's going to hurt you, Quinn," Rachel whispered soothingly.

Quinn turned those terrified hazel eyes to Rachel, and the brunette girl's breath died in her throat.

Beautiful… Stop it, she berated herself. Now is not the time…

"Oh, god," Quinn murmured, "I think I'm going to pass out… oh god…"

Rachel didn't hesitate, reaching down to gather up Quinn's books and papers and shoving them into her messenger bag, before her hand gently grasped Quinn's arm, lifting her to her feet.

"Come on," she said, and glanced at Dr. Alan, who hovered over them, a look of ill-concealed disapproval on his face. "We'll go outside and get you some air." She lifted her chin defiantly at him, smirking when the elderly man just nodded, anxious to get his class back under control, she figured.

To her surprise, Quinn didn't protest at Rachel carefully propelling her out of the classroom and out of the building. The girl was trembling and when her steps faltered, Rachel let go of the girl's arm, only to slide hers around Quinn's waist.

"He'll hurt you," Quinn mumbled, her steps becoming stuttered and weaving.

Rachel struggled to steady her, steering her in the direction of a bench on the quad. "No one's going to hurt anyone, Quinn," she said as calmly as she could muster – which was a feat, considering she was used to her own panic attacks – was that what this was? – And no one else's.

"I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

Instead of seeming reassured, the minute Quinn's body touched the bench, she began to gasp for breath, clutching the wood and digging her fingernails in. Rachel dropped to her knees in front of her.

"Quinn," she said firmly, "You need to breathe. In and out, okay? In and out." When her words had no effect, Rachel sighed heavily. "Quinn," she said again, sharper this time. "You're all right. Breathe, Quinn, come on."

To her surprise, Quinn seemed to listen, drawing in one deep breath, then another. Her head dropped low as she stared at the ground; her lips moved in silent concentration. Rachel watched her anxiously, surveying her carefully. Suddenly she tilted her head in confusion, staring up at Quinn from her position on her knees.

Quinn wasn't blinking.

Rachel's eyes widened. "Quinn?" she whispered.

The blonde girl didn't answer… and still didn't blink. Her hazel eyes were clouded and she stared off into space, as if she were seeing something and seeing nothing at the same time. Rachel again reached out and carefully shook Quinn's shoulder.

"Quinn, are you okay?"

When she still didn't answer, and a full two minutes had gone by with the girl just staring and not blinking, Rachel began to panic. She began to rifle in Quinn's messenger bag, looking for bottles, pills, any medicine that would explain why there was a blonde zombie in front of her. She found nothing, her fingers instead closing over the cool smoothness of Quinn's iPhone. Rachel pulled it out and immediately went to Quinn's contacts. She scrolled through them, seeing one Lopez after another and having no clue who to call.

"Santy?"

Rachel's gaze snapped up. Quinn's eyes were open, clear, blinking, and Rachel breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled.

"Hey there," she said easily. "You scared me." She moved to sit next to Quinn, and was startled when she scooted away from her, right at the other edge of the bench.

"Quinn?"

"Where's Santy?"

Rachel scrunched her face in confusion. "Where's who?" she said slowly, wondering why Quinn's voice had increased in pitch. (She had perfect pitch, so it was natural that Rachel would notice that Quinn's had changed, she told herself.)

"I'm Rachel," she tried to explain, even though she was sure Quinn knew her. "I'm in your poetry class."

Instead of realization, a look of utter terror crossed over Quinn's face, and she started to cry.

Rachel shifted her position closer to Quinn, and was rewarded by a whimper as Quinn jumped up and moved away from her once more, staring at her in fear.

"Quinn, what's going on?"

In all Rachel's nineteen years, she'd never experienced this, never seen a girl standing in front of her, wringing her hands in front of her and bouncing a little on her heels, crying and mumbling something about "Santy."

"I want Santy," Quinn was saying over and over.

"Santa Claus?" Rachel said in confusion.

That only made Quinn cry harder.

"I want Santy," she sobbed. She looked at Rachel. "Please, please let me have Santy, I promise I'll be good…"

"Okay, Quinn—"

"Don't call me that!"

Rachel threw up her hands and huffed. She was faced with a classmate, at first going hysterical, and now… well, still hysterical, talking in a high, childish voice and demanding that Rachel not call her by her name.

Really, it was straight out of absurdist theater, and Rachel had apparently forgotten her lines.

"Please?" Quinn sniffled at her, her lower lip sticking out slightly. (It was really cute, Rachel would have thought, if she hadn't been so annoyed. But she was annoyed, and didn't think it was cute. Not at all. Nope.)

"Please can I have Santy?"

"I don't know who that is," Rachel entreated with frustration.

Quinn's eyes dropped and that lower lip trembled. "She's my Santy," she whispered.

"I promise I won't be a bad girl anymore."

Rachel's heart melted and she sighed at the sad expression on Quinn's face. "You're not a bad girl," she found herself saying. "I promise. I don't think you're a bad girl."

"You're Rachel." Quinn regarded her suspiciously.

She blinked in surprise, and took a deep breath. "I'm Rachel."

"Ray… chel," Quinn said slowly, tears still coursing down her cheeks, and she sniffled. "Ray."

Rachel smiled a little. "Yeah. Ray." She patted the seat next to her on the bench. "Come sit. I'll try to find Santy for you."

This seemed to brighten Quinn, and she sat down immediately.

"You'll find Santy?"

"Yeah," Rachel nodded, even though she was unsure. She glanced down at the phone in her hand and quickly scrolled through the contacts again, until she landed on a name.

Santana Lopez.

Santana… Santy?

She shrugged and hit Send, rolling her eyes a little when the chorus of Kick Ass met her ears.

Then, "Hey, baby sis, I was wondering where you—"

"Excuse me," Rachel interrupted, "Is this Santana Lopez?"

A pause. "Yeah, who's this?" The tone was cold, suspicious.

"Do you know a Quinn Lopez?" Rachel wasn't about to let her blonde… friend? (who was now swinging her feet on the bench, still sobbing quietly, and Rachel's brow furrowed) go with someone who might not know her, name in the girl's phone or not.

"Yeah. Who're you?"

"Oh, good," Rachel said, letting out a sigh of relief. "I was so afraid that I would call someone who didn't know her, and I wasn't sure what I should do after that, because even though I pride myself on always being prepared, I—"

"Hey!" the voice on the other end of the phone interrupted her, and Rachel had to bite her tongue to keep from snapping. "Who the fuck are you and why are you calling me from my sister's phone?"

Oh, Rachel thought. Her sister. Of course. "Well," she said primly, "really, there's no need for such language. I'm a classmate of Quinn's, and I'm here with her."

"Put her on the phone."

Rachel almost held the phone out, but Quinn's eyes were closed, and she was still mumbling softly to herself, trembling hands furiously wiping tears out of her eyes and off her cheeks. To Rachel, she looked almost like a terrified little girl…

"I'm afraid I can't do that, I'm sorry."

"Why the fuck not?"

Rachel growled. The woman's voice was harsh, angry, and Rachel felt that at least some politeness was owed to her, after spending the last – she checked her watch – fifteen minutes tending to a grown woman who was acting almost like a four year old.

She tried again, patiently. "Could you not swear—"

"Lady, I swear that you are going to regret it if you do not put my sister on the phone or explain to me what the fuck is going on!"

The words came out before Rachel had a chance to stop them, and as truthful as she may have thought they were, Rachel immediately kicked herself mentally for her lack of tact.

"I think there's something wrong."

The woman on the other end of the phone sighed heavily, and when she spoke again, her voice was low, tired, and Rachel felt a pang of empathy cut through her annoyance.

"Put her on the phone, please."

Rachel's lips curled in disapproval, but she held the phone out to Quinn anyway. "Someone wants to talk to you," she said encouragingly, when her blonde classmate stared at her warily.

Quinn took the phone. "Santy?" she said, and the hope in her voice nearly brought tears to Rachel's eyes.

She sounded fragile, young… still terrified, and Rachel felt guilty for being so harsh with her earlier.

"I want to go home."

Quinn listened to the voice on the other end of the phone, and then held it back out to Rachel.

"Hello?"

"Who are you?"

Quinn was crying again, and when Rachel reached out to gently rub her back, the girl jerked away. She gritted her teeth.

"Can you tell me what to do? I'm not sure what I can—"

"Where are you?"

Rachel closed her eyes briefly, wondering if Quinn's sister had ever learned the concept of manners. Quinn had learned them just fine, she thought, even if her blonde counterpart was now curled up on the bench, her legs drawn up to her chest and her forehead pressed to her knees as she still cried, but silently now. Rachel reached her hand out once more, heartened when this time, Quinn didn't pull away, but allowed Rachel to rub slow, soft circles on her back.

"We're at the school, on the quad. I'm a fellow student in her poetry class, and Quinn and I are acquaintances, well, not really acquaintances, though I've always wanted to get to—"

"Quad, school, I got it. Now who are you?"

Rachel pursed her lips, deciding once and for all that she really did not like this girl. "Rachel. Rachel Berry," she said evenly.

"Stay with her. I'm on my way."

Click.

Rachel growled to herself again and tucked the phone into her pocket. She noticed the warmth under her palm, and glanced over to see her hand still on Quinn's back. The girl wasn't looking at her, was just shaking her head, forehead still pressed to her knee, talking to herself.

"Quinn?" Rachel said tentatively. "Quinn… Santana's coming to get you."

Quinn stiffened, then relaxed, and her head lifted as she regarded Rachel with tear-stained cheeks.

"Santy's coming?"

Rachel smiled and nodded. "Yeah, she's coming, sweetheart."

Quinn sniffled again, then unfolded her legs and sat up on the bench. "Okay." She glanced at Rachel.

"Tell me a story."

Rachel blinked. "What?"

Quinn narrowed her eyes. "I wanna hear a story," she said stubbornly.

Rachel quirked an eyebrow, but the stony expression on Quinn's face was brooking no disagreement and Rachel chewed her lower lip, thinking.

"Once upon a time," she tried, and grinned a little when Quinn's face brightened and she scooted closer to Rachel, "in a kingdom far, far away called New York, there lived a princess named… uh… Quinn." She stopped and giggled when Quinn glared for her to continue.

"And in that same kingdom," Rachel went on, "there lived a peasant girl named Rachel."

"Ray," Quinn corrected firmly.

Rachel shook her head. "Yes, Ray. And, um… uh…"

She didn't have brothers or sisters, and so there weren't any nieces or nephews either, and she never told stories to the children who came to the studio. She'd never been told any bedtime stories by her fathers, since they'd been rather distant except to tell her she wasn't trying hard enough on the videos she posted to MySpace every week, hoping to be noticed by a talent scout.

So her repertoire of stories was very, very slim.

But it didn't matter, because Quinn had tipped her head toward Rachel and pronounced, "And Ray liked Quinn very, very much."

Rachel's eyes widened.

Well, okay, then. Never mind that she barely knew the girl. Just that, well, she had a nice voice. And her eyes were beautiful, light hazel with flecks of gold that she hadn't discovered after staring at them for the last five minutes while she tried to weave a story. Or that her hair was long and fell in curls over her shoulders, and Rachel was most definitely not wondering what it would be like to run her fingers through those strands, to find out if they were as soft as they looked.

And she was definitely focused on only the fact that Quinn was pouting, and not that her lips looked… kind of nice… while she was pouting.

Before Rachel could nod, though, before she could even think about saying the words "Yes, Ray liked Quinn very, very much," she saw a Latina woman hurrying towards them, and Quinn's face positively lit up when her gaze followed Rachel and she saw the woman.

"Santy!" she breathed, standing up.

Rachel watched as the tan-skinned girl came up to them and immediately Quinn's arms wrapped around her neck and she tucked her head onto the girl's shoulder.

"Santy," she murmured happily, holding on to her.

Rachel stood up herself, brushing off her skirt as she saw the Latina holding Quinn gently, rubbing her back.

"It's okay, baby girl," she was saying, "You're okay now; I'm going to take you home."

"She was fine," Rachel muttered. "Not like I hurt her or anything, but hey, I don't need a 'thank you,' not at all."

A pair of dark eyes turned to her, even as protective arms were wrapped around Quinn, and the Latina practically sneered at Rachel, gaze raking from her argyle skirt down to the knee socks she wore.

"Thank you for taking care of my sister," she said evenly. "I appreciate it."

She didn't sound like she appreciated it, Rachel thought petulantly, but didn't voice it. The girl looked like she'd lay you in a second.

Unfortunately, what she did voice was not at all the right thing to say.

"What's wrong with her?"

Santana separated herself from Quinn, reaching up to brush a tear away with her thumb, before advancing on Rachel.

"Nothing is wrong with her," she hissed lowly, fist closing around Rachel's collar and pulling so that Rachel was on her toes, her ear flush with Santana's lips. It'd be slightly arousing if she wasn't terrified for her life, and she squeaked.

"Nothing is wrong with her," Santana repeated, "Nothing."

"O-okay," Rachel agreed, nodding furiously. "I'm sorry, okay."

Santana glared at Rachel a moment longer before releasing her collar and Rachel dropped back down to her feet. She managed a huff but Santana quirked an eyebrow, smirking when the other girl squeaked. Santana wrapped her arm around Quinn and took the girl's messenger bag from Rachel, nodding once at her before the two of them continued off across the quad.

Rachel sank back onto the bench, taking a deep breath and trying to assess the day's events. She shook her head and ran a hand over her face. She remembered that her books were still inside the classroom and groaned, knowing the room was probably locked, and she had homework stuck in the binder under her desk, homework that was due the next day. Standing up, she shoved her hands in her pocket, only to furrow her brow and draw her right hand back out, fingers curled around a white iPhone.

Rachel stared down at it, and then glanced across the quad, at the retreating backs of Quinn and her sister, too far away now for her to call after them. A sly, slow grin spread across her face as she walked off towards her classroom.