I Don't Want to Jump In (Unless This Music's Thumping) Chapter 5, a glee fanfic

A/N: Hi there! So, here we are at the final part! I feel like it's been a while, but I really do want to thank everyone for their patience. I recognize that the last chapter was a little polarizing for some people. I've viewed this story as more of a journey, than a fluffy romance, but a story always will affect someone in a different way. People like what they like. That's valid. That said, I hope you enjoy the last chapter, because I really did enjoy writing this story, and I really do thank everyone who took the time to read or comment or even yell at me. Now that this is done, it's back to the other in progress stories, most notably 'Got You Stuck On My Body (like a Tattoo) ' and 'We Really Shouldn't Be Doing This'. Feel free to also check out my tumblr at 'nuthintasee' for a fanmix, some artwork and just any general questions you may have. Thanks again to Kay, my beta, for sticking with me. Now it's back to work for me.

PART 05.

We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in

I had to learn what I've got, and what I'm not, and who I am

- Jason Mraz, I Won't Give Up

Rachel is no stranger to heartbreak. She's always been prone to feeling things so vibrantly and painfully they seem to swallow her whole. She's been accused of being selfish before, of putting her ambition before anything else. She remembers vividly the look of disappointment on Finn's face every time he accused her of caring only about herself.

She's been selfish, and she's been selfless. Rachel has never been accused of being a saint. Her real, true connections and friendships have emerged with people who are just as flawed as she is, and Rachel cherishes that. She understands what it means to be human: to have doubts and insecurities that manifest themselves, sometimes at the worst possible moments.

She also understands the need for a perfect façade. Not everyone appreciates a well-rounded character.

She understands ALL of it.

She hates it. Right now she just HATES it.

Rachel has had other relationships between Finn and Santana, and it's odd that it's him she thinks of now, as her heartbeat thumps so painfully it's difficult to breathe and she sits in JoAnn's New York office, eyes red and dry.

But she wore a Finn necklace for so long, and she had loved him enough to want to marry him, to believe utterly and sincerely that they were inevitable. Meant to be.

She and Santana? They were never inevitable. She knows that. No one took a look at the bitchy lesbian heartbreaker and the dramatic Broadway ingénue and immediately thought, "Those two belong together." Every moment they shared was earned, fought for. Theirs was a relationship forged through years of pushing and pulling: as rivals, as enemies, as tentative colleagues, as friends and roommates… and now…

Rachel licks her lips, feels the rough skin of her lower lip against her tongue and sighs harshly.

She knows to hurt this badly means she cared this much. To feel this empty means she left her heart with Santana.

Santana, who wanted them to face this together, who probably hates her now as much as she showed her she might have loved her last night.

Rachel needed time. Santana needed security. Somehow, the two just didn't seem compatible, and Rachel doesn't know how it even got to this point.

A night like the one they just shared shouldn't have ended the way it did.

The door clicks open behind her, and she shifts in her seat, composing herself as quickly as she can as she hears the tell-tale clomp of JoAnn's heavy footed steps behind her.

She waits like a chastised school girl as JoAnn rounds the desk and settles into her chair. Her publicist takes a moment to regard her, inquisitive, searching eyes taking in Rachel's stone-faced, tired expression.

"I'm sorry. I know you're upset. But this is bad, Rachel," JoAnn says, fingers tapping down lightly on her shiny black desk. "I don't have to sit here and explain that to you."

Rachel's head lowers. A sliver of a mocking smile etches itself on her lips. "Well maybe you should. I thought you said there was no such thing as bad press."

"I thought I told you not to sleep with Santana Lopez."

Rachel's lips twitch again. "Why not, exactly?" Apparently she's going to be difficult about this. "She's sexy. She's smart. She's successful and as big a star as Troy."

"And if you had talked to me honestly and told me what was going on, then I would have thrown you a fucking coming out party," JoAnn snaps.

"When?" She shoots right back, because Rachel knows bullshit when she hears it. "When you told me that her audience wasn't 'my audience'?"

JoAnn just narrows her eyes. "If you were determined to do this, we could have quietly ended things with Troy, built some speculation in the press, have you two fall in love ON CAMERA, and then it would have been a story of triumph just in time for your show opening and your single release while strictly stating that you are BISEXUAL. We could have controlled it." JoAnn drops her pen and rubs her face in frustration. "But you didn't, and this is what we have. You come out now? You're the bitch that broke Troy's heart. No one gives a shit if he's a playboy. No one gives a shit if he's a drunk. All they see is a poor boy who's been cuckolded and you know what that makes you? A cheating bitch." Rachel sighs raggedly. "Do you think I like it? No. But there's a reason why Tom Cruise can be over fifty and still get romantic action star roles and why his love interests never age past 30. It's because this industry sucks for women. And Rachel, I didn't sign you up to be tabloid fodder. I'm not in the business of making Team Troy or Team Santana t-shirts. I signed you up to be the next Barbara Streisand… Bette Midler… Megan Hilty."

She's too exhausted to cry, and she's past getting angry. All that she really feels right now is the heavy fog of defeat. "Just tell me what to do, JoAnn."

JoAnn watches her for another moment. "Fine." She looks at her phone and thumbs across the screen, before clearing her throat and crossing her legs, settling back in her chair. "I've talked it over with Troy's team, and we're prepared to make a statement." Rachel makes a determined effort not to roll her eyes. "Troy saw you and Santana together, and he misconstrued it. He ran away before you could explain it to him. Simple as that." JoAnn claps her palms together, loud and pat. "You two have worked it out. He is going to go to rehab for his alcoholism, and you, the loving dutiful girlfriend, will stand by him."

It's a complete fabrication. Rachel can only stare at her publicist in complete disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

JoAnn does not seem to take well to the curse word. "I'm really really not," she answers crisply.

"After all this, you want me to stay with Troy."

JoAnn only nods. "It's just for a few months, Rachel." Rachel chews on her lower lip. "And then you can go back and do whatever you want. It's not real."

It's not real. Rachel's fingers knit together. That's her genius publicist's proposed solution. This is the reason she ran out on Santana to run to JoAnn.

Just so she can go back to the way things were. So she can stand at Troy's side and smile and wave for the cameras. His human prop. So she can lie through her teeth in every interview she gives, laugh off those stupid 'gay' rumors and pretend to avoid the cameras when they just so happen to catch her and Troy at Starbucks or on Rodeo Drive or eating at Casa Vega in the Valley.

Everything will go back to the way it was.

It's … it's horrifying. The very idea of being pushed back into the gold-trimmed gilded cage makes Rachel so terrifyingly claustrophobic she's nearly pushed into another panic attack.

"I'm tired of things not being real, JoAnn," she manages, low and tight.

JoAnn has no sympathy. "Welcome to Hollywood, Rachel," she snaps. "Where the hell have you been?" JoAnn's phone rings. Her ringtone is Rachel's song. It's the bridge that comes in, loud and insistent as it soars into the chorus, Rachel's voice blending into Santana's sweet, simple harmony.

The notes tear at her soul, rip her open and cause her eyes to blur suddenly with stinging, angry tears.

"No… " she finds herself saying, suddenly furious. "That's ridiculous!" JoAnn just stares at her. Rachel swallows down her emotion, struggling to contain herself in the face of her publicist. "I'm not going to do that with him anymore. I'm done with Troy, JoAnn. There has to be another way to manage this."

"Oh?" Maybe JoAnn's a little bit angry too, because she doesn't do anything but rip off her glasses and glare at her. "Well, would you care to enlighten me?"

Rachel isn't in the mood for sarcasm. Not now. She can't go back to Troy. She can't go back to that. She can't go back to a farce…

She and Santana have fought for every bit of their relationship, and they've done it together. They've faced Glee Club competitions, they've faced pregnancy scares and graveyard shifts, and yes it's been years and Rachel has always been stubborn, but Santana? Santana's always been right.

Santana's so stupid sometimes, but she's also been right and she wanted them to face this together. God, why aren't they together now? Why isn't Santana here with her?

The anger gives away to shaky, sudden fear. Rachel is alone because she wanted to be. Because THIS is what she chose instead of facing the truth.

The panic hits her again, but it's different now. It feels choked and consuming.

"We give them another story," she says, harsh and winded. "What if…" Rachel tangles her fingers, and forces out the words. "What if I release a statement… what if me and Santana together-"

JoAnn pushes out a puff of air out of her mouth that's noisy and rude. "You want to come out?" she sneers. "Now?"

"I'm already OUT, JoAnn," Rachel snaps, because the articles are already there; the rumors are already circulating. "And I care about her," she admits, like it's that easy. "It's terrifying and it's not what you want, but I care about her."

And maybe it is that easy. She wants Santana. Santana wants her. Maybe if… like Santana said… maybe if they faced this together, they'd come out of it together. Everyone loves the way they sound together… how is this different?

"Well that's very lovely and sweet, but you see Santana's already released a statement."

Rachel's eyes immediately lock back onto JoAnn. "What?"

JoAnn looks infuriatingly smug. "Yes. Her rep released a statement an hour ago that there's nothing going on between the two of you." Rachel blinks, too stunned to respond as JoAnn turns her lap top around so that Rachel can see the screen. It's steady on an online article that features a Getty Images photo of Santana at a recent press event. "In which Santana says that the two of you are just colleagues and friends and that you're straight and that what Troy saw was her comforting you as a friend after you came to realize that Troy had fallen back into his drinking. That's all."

Rachel doesn't have to read the article. She notices only the headline, the way JoAnn just smirks. "… You got her to go along with this?" she asks, voice winded with her own horror. "This stupid story?"

JoAnn's smile fades in the face of Rachel's obvious disgust. "Some people understand that this is the way the industry works, Rachel. Santana is no stranger to this game."

Fuck the game.

Seriously.

Rachel can't see anything beyond the fact that Santana, her Santana, who only hours ago promised her that they could weather this together, has been approached by Rachel Berry's publicist and asked to lie.

And she complied. She agreed.

Dammit.

The tears come back so easily… too easily. Hot streaks of anger and frustration, Rachel's hopes withering away with a press statement and a phone call. "I can't believe you," she whispers. "I can't believe you talked to her team without talking to me- "

Santana would hate her after this. There was no going back. It was done.

"Rachel-"

"NO," she snaps, hand clamping down over the desk, loud enough to startle JoAnn and shut her up. "No," she says again, enunciating as clearly as she can. "Listen to me, I'm done."

"Rachel-"

"I'm not going back to my sham of a relationship with Troy. I'm not." Her eyes flash, pinning JoAnn with her glare. "And you can quote me on that."

It's almost amusing, to see the way JoAnn huffs, looks on the verge of almost babbling. "Rachel, this your career-"

She feels oddly like laughing. "Yeah," she agrees. "It's MY career, and you know what? I've done it your way, JoAnn. I've done it your way for YEARS, and all it got me were bit parts and mediocre plays, because you wanted me to be like every other B-List celebrity out there." Rachel shakes her head at her own stupidity. "And that's what you made me. Just like everyone else." It's not hard to picture the look of Santana's face… the way she stared at her as if she didn't know her. Rachel feels her eyes sting in her emotion, but she doesn't waver. "Except I'm not like everyone else, JoAnn. I'm Rachel Fucking Berry, and I'm not just another B-List fame hungry celebrity." She straightens, her words gaining power and conviction. "I'm special. I'm different. I'm never going to be like everyone else. Even if I have the audacity to fall for a famous lesbian who happens to be one of my best friends." She sucks in her breath, and finds herself suddenly clear-headed. It feels like breaking free of a fog. "So what you're going to do is leave this alone. You're going to release a statement that Troy and I are done. That's all."

JoAnn just stares at her. "Rachel, that's not good enough."

"I know," she admits. "But I'm good enough." She crosses her arms, nods with her own confidence. "And I'm going to figure out how to fix this, and if you want to still be my publicist, then you're going to help me, but it's going to focus on my play and my music, and what makes me special, which is not a guy or my admittedly fluid sexuality. It's me."

Truthfully, Rachel does half expect JoAnn to walk out on her. She's having what is probably a textbook diva fit, and ranting and raving at her publicist in a way that she knows only a person with a huge ego would do, and JoAnn has never been above dropping clients before. This is a challenging problem; media is a fickle friend.

Oddly, JoAnn only shakes her head. "God, you really are something else," she sighs. Rachel blinks, but can't question what that means because JoAnn just continues. "Fine. We'll do it your way for now." Rachel's tongue clicks against her teeth as she turns away. She waits as JoAnn picks up her phone and heads to the window of JoAnn's New York office to look out over the city, glistening sky scrapers and dotted cars that inch like ants through the streets below. "But Rachel?" Rachel turns back. JoAnn's eyes are dark, her look firm. "If this gamble doesn't pay off, you can find yourself another publicist."

Rachel considers the threat with a twitch of her lips. There are advantages to being a self-absorbed bitch with a massive ego and the talent to back it up. "It's not a gamble," she retorts quietly. "And it'd be your loss." JoAnn arches a brow, but says nothing.

Despite her assertion of strength, Rachel's chest feels hollow, as if her lungs are made of glass. She considers her position, and her own advantages. Her eyes close and all that comes to mind is the look on Santana's face that day in the studio, when the music began to play and Rachel had begun to sing.

It's a memory that feels bittersweet in retrospect. Rachel's heart pulses with her emotion and her own regret. The memory leads so easily to another and the phantom sensation of Santana's lips on hers, her whispers in her ears cause a shudder that makes her ache with own longing.

"Start with leaking the song," she suggests quietly. JoAnn lifts her head away from the phone. Rachel offers a tight smile. "People will want to hear it, especially now."

She's not sure what makes her think of it, but she knows as soon as she says it, that this next step makes sense. This song is both a way to satisfy the masses and offer a distraction. There's no way to avoid the media now, and whatever personal relationship they're inferring she and Santana have, it will feed interest in the song. That's enough to get it plays, get it heard. And the song itself? It's good enough to stick. She knows that.

It's a song written and sung by two people falling in love.

In this vacuous industry, in the midst of this madness, it will carry with it a sense of substance because of that. Rachel isn't sure how she knows that, but she does.

She hears a soft chuckle. "Rachel, you're a bitch. You're lucky you're talented."

Rachel doesn't look back at JoAnn, but she smiles anyway. Her heart, broken but still beating, thuds painfully inside of her as she responds, "Thank you. I learned from the best."

JoAnn has rented her a condo in a high-rise in the Upper Westside. It's fully furnished, decorated beautifully, and absolutely nothing like the worn and lived-in loft in Bushwick that Rachel used to call home.

She sits on the fluffy, stylish couch and curls her feet under her thighs. The room is dead silent, save for the buzz of the electric appliances in the small kitchen and the hum of the air conditioner.

It takes her three tries to fumble with her cell phone and connect with Santana's phone number.

Her heart sinks when her call immediately goes straight to Santana's voicemail.

Rachel sucks in another deep breath and tries again. There is only one ring before she gets an immediate connection of Nathan's pre-recorded voice stating in an oddly formal way that the owner of this cellphone is unavailable and to please leave a detailed message stating the reason for the call.

Rachel's head aches from the crying, but the tears come again so easily.

"Santana," she manages after a few seconds of dead silence. "I just… I'm sorry. I just… I didn't ask JoAnn to ask you to do that and I… God, I hate that she did and… I wish… It wasn't a mistake, okay? It wasn't a mistake and I'm so sorry. Please…" Rachel's voice trails off… she has no idea what else she can say. "Please tell me this isn't goodbye."

The ending tone beeps, cutting off anything else she may have wanted to say.

Rachel closes her stinging, wet eyes, and after a moment, curls her phone against her chest and sinks sideways into the couch.

She asked for the evening to herself. Her publicist, her manager and her part-time assistant have been given strict instructions to keep away from her for at least the rest of tonight. Rachel is no less dramatic than she used to be, and she needs the time to mourn her own situation and wallow in her heartbreak.

It's for that reason she finds herself supremely irritated when she's woken up to loud banging at her door and the gong of the door bell ringing through the rented condo.

Tired, body heavy and eyes crusted, Rachel pushes up from the white couch and reaches up to wipe the dried saliva from her mouth as she glares blearily around the unfamiliar room.

The sun has set.

"Rachel!" she hears a familiar voice snap, muffled and annoyed. The banging persists. "We know you're in there! Open up!"

Kurt. Of course.

For a moment, Rachel considers not opening the door at all. She knows what's going to be waiting on the other side. As amazing as Kurt is, he is not exactly objective when it comes to things like this, and he's always been the first to accuse her of being a selfish bitch, even when he's acting the exact same way.

But it's KURT, and she knows that after he's done doing that, he'll open his arms with an exasperated sigh and let her cry her heart out.

With a bitten in sigh, Rachel pushes to her feet and heads for the door.

It takes her a moment to figure out the complicated locks. Her fingers feel swollen and heavy, and every other part of her is still heavy with sleep, and thus slow and unresponsive.

"I'm coming!" she yells, when Kurt huffs impatiently, and finally manages to twist the complicated mechanism into place.

She opens the door and discovers, to her surprise, that Kurt isn't alone.

"Oh my God, you look like crap," Quinn Fabray says, looking perfectly put together and infuriatingly gorgeous as she gives Rachel a judgmental once-over.

"Quinn!" Kurt rolls his eyes, but Rachel doesn't have the emotional capacity to be even remotely offended at the comment.

She does look like crap. She feels like it. And she's in no mood to have it shoved so obviously in her face.

"What are you doing here?"

Unceremoniously, Kurt pushes past her and heads into the living room. He gives the area a quick once over and grimaces, obviously unimpressed. "There is no color in this place. I feel like I'm in an asylum."

"Kurt."

"Oh come on, Rachel." Kurt has no issue with making himself at home, settling into the couch, taking care to avoid the wetspot where Rachel apparently drooled into the cushion. "Why else would we be here?"

"Does this place have pots?" Quinn's already at her dining table, pulling out what looks like containers of soup.

Rachel crosses her arms, gnawing on her lower lip as she realizes exactly what Kurt and Quinn are doing. They're playing the part of her supportive best friends.

She rubs at her chest, as if doing so will help get rid of the heavy ache underneath her skin. "Have you talked to Santana?" she finally asks.

Quinn pauses to share a quick look with Kurt. "Kurt has," she answers, curiously flippant.

He hums agreeably, but there's a grimace on his face. "She was human for about a minute," he says. "And then she reverted back into her typical bitchy mask and started insulting my shoes." It's a testament to how much he's come to know Santana that he seems less offended by that than she knows he normally would be. He catches Rachel's eyes intensely. "You really hurt her."

Rachel isn't sure how she can stop herself from crying again. Maybe she's just out of tears. "I know."

"Do you?" Quinn has finished arranging her containers. She doesn't look at her.

"Yes." Rachel sucks in an even breath, and watches Quinn, picture perfect, beautiful Quinn, grind her teeth like she's trying her very best to hold herself in. Somehow, that small action sets off every jealous insecurity Rachel has tried so valiantly to keep hidden. "I'm surprised you're not thrilled about this."

Quinn arches a curious brow. "Pardon?"

"You want her too." It's almost validating to see the way her jaw tightens, muscles flexing dangerously underneath her skin. "So why aren't you with her?"

"Rachel." Kurt warns, tired.

But Rachel can't help herself. It's easier to be jealous and angry than it is to feel hurt. She's so tired of being hurt.

"You told me last night that I had one shot before you'd swoop in." Quinn stops, crystal eyes beaming heatedly in her direction. Rachel lifts her chin and meets the glare. "I had my shot. I screwed up. She's vulnerable and alone. This is your chance, Quinn."

The statement dies in the midst of a loaded silence.

Maybe she deserves the stinging slap that whips across her cheek. It doesn't mean she sees it coming.

Tears of pain immediately cloud her eyes, and Rachel finds herself gasping in aching surprise, palm lifting up to the reddened check.

"Quinn!" Kurt is up and off the couch. "What are you-"

"Stay out of this, Kurt!" Rachel hears, and finds a cold bottle of water slapped into her palm. "You deserved that."

With a petulant sigh, she hisses in deep as she presses the cool bottle to her aching hot cheek. "Ok," she mumbles sardonically. "Can you be a little more specific as to why?"

"Did or, or did you NOT pimp me out to Santana two seconds after you broke her heart?"

The statement registers. Rachel deflates. "Oh."

"Yeah, OH."

Kurt, sensing the danger of a full out physical assault has passed, retreats back to the couch with an annoyed huff. "Gross, you guys, seriously."

The revulsion shudders through Rachel as well. "It wasn't like that's what I was actually trying to do." Gingerly keeping the water bottle against the hot, red skin of her cheek, Rachel winces in pain. "And we're not in high school anymore. You can't just keep SLAPPING people."

"Why? You're too old to appreciate the drama of it?" Quinn snaps sarcastically.

Rachel rolls her eyes, but says nothing.

Quinn seems just fine with that. "Okay, two things," she begins, index finger pointing up and in Rachel's direction. "One: I am NOT in love with Santana. Okay?" Rachel finds any response she may have given cut short by Quinn waving the digit wildly, coming close to poking her eye out. "I'm attracted to her, and I know she's a good lay, and when she was single and un-tainted, she was an option."

What does that even mean!? "And what?" she asks, unsure if she should be offended. "Now that she has Rachel cooties she's undesirable?"

"Yes!" Quinn retorts, not missing a beat. "Now she has Rachel-cooties. And I'm not going there after you two spent the night fucking each other's brains out. Because that is gross."

"I can't believe this is an actual conversation we're having." Rachel doesn't have the energy to glare at Kurt, who is currently splayed back on the couch, eyes tiredly on the ceiling. "I miss so much when I live in Spain."

Quinn ignores the comment. "And secondly, ARE YOU out of your mind? Seriously, what the hell are you thinking, Rachel?" Rachel has no idea, but it appears to be a rhetorical question because Quinn doesn't wait for an answer. "Do you honestly want me to go over there and present myself as some sort of consolation prize? Because I will slap you again." She raises her hand in warning, and Rachel immediately flinches, jerking back to avoid it.

"I didn't mean it like that!" she snaps, lifting off of the chair in an attempt to get away from that surprisingly powerful hand and the woman behind it. "It's just…" Rachel groans, head tilting into her bottle as she tries valiantly to put voice to her fear… her panic… her turmoil. "I was scared and she just…" Santana, with those dark beautiful eyes, with that open and bleeding SOUL… wanting to face the world together… because it was that easy. "She deserves something real… I thought you could give her what I couldn't," she adds feebly.

"How noble," Kurt drawls dryly, making her flush with anxiety.

"Shut up, Kurt."

"Rachel, that's gross," is Quinn's clipped comment. But the anger at least, seems to have faded, and that terrifying hand has come down. Her friend's head dips, as if she's contemplating how to even begin to work around this. "Rachel," she begins, softer than before. "She is a person, okay? You can't just GIVE her away. Santana wants who she wants."

It's like she's talking to a five year old, and Rachel hates that it's being directed at her. "Don't you think I know that?" A miserable laugh floats out of her, almost manic in its turmoil. "Do you think I want her to be with you?! I don't, okay Quinn?" She feels the nausea come back full force, her stomach churning at the image her brain so helpfully produces. "God, just the … the IDEA makes me want to … not to be a stereotypical girl here… but Quinn, it makes me want to tear your eyes out."

"Oh really?" Quinn's voice is way too smooth and calm considering the current length of Rachel's nails. "You sure?"

"Yes!"

"You don't want me eating out Santana?"

"No! God!" Rachel shakes her head violently in disgust.

The smirk on Quinn's face is practically demonic. "Spreading her legs open," she continues, in that honey velvet voice that literally drips sex. "Dragging my tongue along those strong, lean thighs, smelling her arousal, pungent in my nostrils-"

She literally feels the bile rising up.

"Oh My God," Kurt squeals, clamping his own hands over his ears. "Now I'm going to be sick."

It's festering in Rachel's brain like a disgusting horror movie. "Stop!" she squeaks, shutting her eyes against the onslaught.

"Why? I like this!" Quinn smiles smugly. "I am a romance author, Rachel. I'm an expert at smut, and I've never gotten the chance to write a really amazing lesbian – "

"GOD NO," she sputters. "NO, okay? I HATE the idea of you being with her. I hate the idea of you being anywhere near her."

Quinn folds her arms calmly. "Why?"

"Because I want her, okay?" There's a stunned silence. Rachel realizes she's said that out loud. The color drains from her face as her chest explodes with the sincerity of her own emotion. "I… really want her." Any strength she had is gone. Rachel falls back in the same chair as before, shoulders slumping with defeat. "Quinn, I want her more than I've wanted anyone in my entire life."

Rachel hears the distinct click of Quinn's heels, the sound of her friend settling quietly beside her. Another cold water bottle replaces the one that is now sweating its chill out in her hand, and Quinn gently lifts it to her cheek. Rachel's eyes close in gratitude. "Well good luck, because you've really fucked this up."

Rachel wonders if she has it in her to cry again.

Kurt flops into the chair on the other side of her. "In all fairness, Santana didn't handle this all that well either."

Rachel bites against her lower lip, studying her friend intently. "Seriously, Kurt. How is she?"

Kurt's tired smile fades. "I wouldn't know. She's reverted back to being a complete uncaring bitch and is now, I believe, on a plane to Europe. At least according to her adorably cute assistant, since Santana isn't answering anyone's calls herself now."

God.

Quinn squeezes her hand lightly. "Rachel, listen to me." Exhausted and overwhelmed, Rachel sees no reason not to. "I am not a threat here. And I am not Santana's second choice." Rachel chuckles painfully. Even the thought seems so ridiculous now. "There is no choice because you want Santana and Santana wants you, and as much as I think you're both being stupid bitches, I also really care about you guys." She does. Rachel knows she does. Quinn has her history of selfishness and crazy scheming, just like the rest of them, but she's also proven herself to be willfully selfless and good-intentioned. Rachel feels violently stupid for allowing herself to consider her anything but an amazing friend. "But you have to decide what you want. You have to take the initiative here."

Rachel sniffs, feeling small and defeated. "What does it even matter?" she asks in a tiny voice. "She hates me. She's gone."

Quinn's eyes could not roll any harder. "She doesn't HATE you, Rachel," she says, in her 'Rachel you're being an idiot' tone. "The fact that she's THIS hurt and pissed is a testament to the fact that she actually kinda loves you."

God… the way Rachel's chest expands, the way her heart jumps and her pulse pounds at even the thought? It's not fair. It's terrifying.

"Santana really has been kinda pathetically devoted when it comes to good pussy, hasn't she?" Kurt sighs, so flippant Rachel can't help but laugh through her tears.

"You're not exactly one to judge, Mr. I-Was-Engaged-To-My-High-School-Boyfriend-At-18."

"Oh… shut up."

Tired, lost, Rachel's smile is faded. "You know," she begins quietly. "Until I saw her again it felt like I was living in a fog." Rachel loses focus of her friends, lost in her own memories. "I was trying to so desperately to play this stupid Hollywood game… I wanted to believe that if I did everything everyone told me to I would be a star. And that's all I told myself I needed. That's it." She feels the moisture on her cheeks, but doesn't wipe at her tears. The wetness feels almost precious. "And then she came along and I just… the fog lifted. It was like I could see again. I could see everything so… clearly. I didn't even have to try. I didn't even realize I wasn't being myself until she reminded me who I used to be. With her voice. With her music. With her passion." Rachel shakes her head in wonder. "When I kissed her, I felt like I was home."

It may be too much for this particular crowd, but it makes so much sense to Rachel.

"Oh God," Kurt sounds horrified. "You really do love her."

For some reason, that's enough to wrench a harsh chuckle out of Rachel's wounded soul. She flashes her best friend a sympathetic look, reaching for his hand to tangle his fingers in hers. "Yeah," she admits. She does.

She loves Santana.

The smile fades. It's a simple, obvious truth. Oddly refreshing in the haze of all this complication.

"Thank you," she tells Quinn, and means it sincerely. "I'm lucky to have a friend like you."

It's adorable, how that makes Quinn blush. The affection Rachel feels is infectious, lifting her spirits, and making her next decision a very easy one.

"I need to fight for her," she decides. Behind her tired, weak voice, is a conviction she knows has been missing for a while.

"Oh thank FUCK." Rachel blinks to discover a quiet smile lingering on Quinn's perfect face. "That, at least, I can help you with."

That's bewildering. "I don't understand."

A haggard bit of laughter breaks free. Rachel frowns, unsure if she's being mocked. "Seriously, Rachel? One of your best friends is a romance novelist." Quinn shrugs. "You sing, Santana mixes…this is what I do. We'll figure it out.

A pale hand waves daintily. "And I will judge bitchily on the sidelines. That's what I do."

"But Quinn…" She doesn't understand. "You write those novels ironically. You told me countless times that there's no such thing as true love."

Quinn absorbs that with a contemplative nod. "So make a believer out of me."

Rachel wants to believe in happy endings. She wants to think that all it will take is some grand declaration or some beautiful gesture that proves to Santana that they can get this right. That their journey is just like a classic fairy tale, complete with a predestined happy ending.

It's funny in a terrible sort of way, because Rachel's also the lead in a musical that speaks to a reality where a happy ever after doesn't exist. Cinderella loses her prince. Rapunzel loses her mind. Jack gains riches but murders a giant and brings about the massacre of his entire kingdom. The baker gets the son he so longed for, but his wife is killed in the process.

And Rachel? Rachel is playing a witch who finally achieves her ultimate goal to regain her eternal youth and beauty… and loses the only thing she's ever loved: her child.

Rachel knows better than to see too much into it. This isn't an exact parallel, but it does feel very much like her life is in a permanently displaced second act. She's navigating a dangerous tightrope of publicity and quiet suspense, and there is no Santana by her side.

Yes, Quinn is a schemer and she wants to help her get Santana back, but a scheme is only successful, it seems, if both parties are in the same country.

Her would-be lover has fled for the safety of Europe and her music festivals. Occasionally the paparazzi will catch a glimpse of her, always with a woman on her arm. It only fuels the rumors, and now when Rachel steps out, she's barraged with flashing lights and people behind cameras asking her what it feels like to be just another woman in Santana's bed.

Santana is no prince. Rachel knows better than to believe she is. She's the woman that Rachel cares for deeply. She was her lover, but for the moment, she's not even a friend, and she has fled.

Rachel will not judge her for it. Rachel herself is no fairy tale princess who needs to be rescued.

No, Rachel is the witch.

She takes her turmoil, those ugly emotions that clog her heart and make it difficult to breathe, and she channels it all into her performance. Whatever discussion there was about possibly replacing her in the wake of her 'lesbian' scandal is quieted during a run-through. There are no costumes, no make-up, and no stage, just a studio with hard floors and wide windows and Rachel in tight black leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt.

Rachel's rendition of 'Last Midnight', the way she carries herself throughout the performance reportedly sends chills through the producers and investors alike.

The rehearsal space fills with thunderous applause when she's done. Rachel, face flushed and eyes glistening, jaw tight with her witch's anger, wonders momentarily why it feels almost meaningless.

Later, JoAnn, giddy with her success, tells her that already she's hearing buzz words like 'Tony' and 'ingénue'. Her producer, the one who took a chance on her with Cinderella and took a chance again with Into the Woods, tells her that his instincts paid off… that this is a new side of Rachel Berry. She's always been talented, but she's come into her own with this role, revealing a powerful, devastatingly sexy woman underneath that talent. She's emerged a star.

Little Cinderella's all grown up and she's become the Witch.

Rachel, whose calls to Santana remain unanswered, smiles tightly and considers the lyrics she sings, ripped out from her heart:

Told a little lie,

Stole a little gold,

Broke a little vow,

Did you?

Rachel's song has leaked and her instincts were right. The song is a hit. She's getting buzz, more press than she's ever had. The scandal is still there, and her coworkers still whisper behind her back along with those gossip blogs, but it doesn't seem to matter now because the world is taking notice of Rachel Berry for more than her unconfirmed dalliance with a lesbian or breaking up with Troy Ross.

Had to get your Prince,

Had to get your cow,

Have to get your wish,

Doesn't matter how-

Anyway, it doesn't matter now.

Rachel Berry is gathering momentum to be huge. To be a star. She finds herself invited to VIP functions. She gets paparazzi. Happy producers. Offers for roles. That's what the fame gets her.

That's what the music earns her.

Rachel is so alone. She's in love. She's lost what she really wanted before she even understood it's what she needed, and now, all that's left is this stupid fame and her music.

It's silly, because this is what she chose. This is what she's worked so hard for.

But it feels empty. Rachel has a career and a bundle of preciously guarded memories. And she has her song, that phantom memory of that moment when Santana and Rachel fell in love over beats and notes, and Rachel came home.

The nights are long, and New York has never been this lonely.

Insomnia is her new best friend. Rachel passes the sleepless nights trying to be as productive as she can, hunched over on her couch, scribbling her own lyrics until she passes out from exhaustion. If Margot notices the dark circles under her eyes when she applies Rachel's make up at her various appearances and events, the makeup artist has the good grace not to say a word.

Rachel is grateful for that. She's come to appreciate it when people don't talk. So many people, it seems, want to talk to her about her situation and offer advice, direction… opinions.

Rachel cares for no one's opinions but the one woman who won't return her calls.

It's nearing 3AM, the witching hour, when Rachel's phone begins to buzz and drum against her naked thigh. She's tired. Her eyes sting.

Lethargic and close to passing out on the couch (pretty much her usual routine nowadays), the last thing she wants to do is answer a phone call in the dead of the night.

She's not sure what possesses her to reach over and look at the phone, but when she does, the jolt that fires through her feels like a sucker punch to her stomach.

It feels like a wicked hallucination. She can't quite believe it at first. Licking suddenly dry lips, Rachel is tentative, too afraid to hope, but she connects the call. "Santana?"

"… Hi Rachel." It's been at least a month since she's heard Santana's voice. Rachel's eyes shut, her breath escapes harshly.

"Are you crying?" she asks, quiet and fragile.

"Maybe." Santana sounds strained and weak. Her words are slurred and somehow distinct, but they're coated with emotion. "… I… I took something and I'm also pretty drunk."

Rachel presses her lips together, fighting hard not to betray herself and lecture Santana on drug use. It's more common in her industry than most people think, and when they talked about, Santana told her that hers is a social habit… if that. It's a big reason she respects Santana. She does seem to know better. Most of the time.

"Okay." Rachel gnaws on her lower lip, willing her heart to stop pounding as harshly as it does. "But you're… you're safe?"

"Yeah, duh Rachel." She can practically see Santana's eyes roll. "I don't do this shit all the time. And never with people I don't trust. Is it late over there? It's late, isn't it?"

Rachel sighs raggedly, shaking her head in exasperated wonder. "It… Santana, it doesn't matter how late it is." She clutches at the phone tenderly. "I'm… I'm so happy to hear from you."

Her late night caller goes quiet. "… Yeah…" Santana releases the word in a tell-tale exhalation that feels like a rush of anger. "I just… I'm so pissed at you, Rachel."

Rachel can only smile miserably. "I know."

"No, you don't," Santana continues, audibly annoyed. "I can't stop thinking about you. Do you know that?" Tears sting, but Rachel doesn't respond to the obvious rhetorical question. "It doesn't matter where I go, or who I'm with, it's like… I feel like I'm carrying you with me." The joy that wants to rip through her at Santana's tearful confession feels like a betrayal somehow, and yet Rachel can't help but want to sob in relief. "And it's fucking annoying."

She presses her palm to her mouth, trying to still her helpless laugher that mixes in with her whimper. "Is it?" she asks.

"It is, Rachel," Santana answers solemnly. "I don't want to love you."

Oh God. "Santana…"

"But I don't want it to be good-bye either." Rachel presses her palm to her eyes and wills herself to sob silently, trying desperately to hide her torment from an already agitated Santana. She finds she's not quite successful, because she hears Santana inhale and whisper achingly, "I don't know what to do."

A terrible huff spills out of her, and Rachel is helpless. "Baby…"

"Was I ever anything more for you than just a feature on a single?"

And God, the way Santana asks… her voice is so small. This fierce, gorgeous, passionate woman is just so unsure, and it's Rachel who made her that way.

"Santana…" she begs, not even sure what she's asking for. "You're everything to me." In the wake of that breathless confession, Rachel hears tiny sobs that sound muffled and terrible. "Please stop crying," she whispers, even as the tears slide down her own cheeks. "I'm so sorry-"

"Stop apologizing."

Rachel can't. "Santana-"

"I'm not going to get pissed at you for being afraid."

The words are weighted. Santana sounds resigned but… for the first time… does she understand? Does she remember her own fear? Her own panic? The manic denial of her own feelings for Brittany and women in general?

Did it even feel close to Rachel's own turmoil?

And yet… "I regret what I said."

Santana sighs, heavy and spent. "Me too."

The words… it feels like they come with a click. Something's shifted, locked into place, and the terror that spikes in Rachel's throat makes her terrified that all these regrets and mistakes have come too soon for them, and all these apologies and measures of understanding have occurred too late.

There are no second chances. "There's nothing I can say that will fix this, is there?" she asks, terrified of the answer she thinks she already knows.

"Rachel." Santana's voice is low, exhausted and tired.

Rachel wants to curl into a ball, hug the phone into her and imagine Santana is there with her. She wants to be back in that room, shut away the world, and promise Santana that somehow, someway, they'll face it all together.

"What?"

"Do me a favor… sing a song with me, okay?"

Santana's request is an odd one, but after denying her of what she wanted once before, Rachel has no heart to do it again. "Right now?"

"Yeah."

It's a stark reminder of their duet, the beautiful song they wrote together. Rachel isn't sure how she can manage it, but she finds herself nodding. "Okay…" she says, unsteady but sitting up. "Are you going to pick the song or…"

A huff comes through the phone. "Like I'm gonna let you pick, you'll make me sing some crap from Evita or something!"

Rachel's mouth trembles with unshed laughter. "Okay," she says, soft and sweet. "So what are we singing?"

For a few long moments there is nothing but a few heavy breaths and then suddenly without warning, Santana's strong, beautiful voice floats through the receiver into Rachel's ear. "Waiting for your…" she begins. "- call I'm sick, call I'm angry, Call I'm desperate for your voice." Rachel's eyes close. Santana is singing to her Secondhand Serenade's aching love song Your Call. She remembers the song vividly: during Kurt's whirlwind engagement with Blaine, he would blast it on repeat, and nearly drove both of his roommates' mad in the process.

The realization both rips her heart open and stiches it back together. "Listening to the song we used to sing in the car, do you remember, Butterfly, Early Summer… It's playing on repeat, Just like when we would meet…"

A soft sigh, an inhalation, "Like when we would meet."

Rachel's eyes water with her unshed tears, but her voice is strong and delicate as she picks up the verse. "Cause I was born to tell you I love you…" She soldiers on, voice going unsteady only when Santana joins her for the harmony. "And I am torn to do what I have to, to make you mine…Stay with me tonight."

There's a moment of quiet as their voices die off, and then Rachel hears Santana suck in another breath and begin again, "And I'm tired of being all alone, and this solitary moment makes me want to come back home.. And I'm tired of being all alone, and this solitary moment makes me want to come back home…And I'm…"

Rachel's crystal eyes rise upward as she comes in over and around Santana's haunting refrain, "I know everything you wanted isn't anything you have. And I'm tired of being all alone… I know everything you wanted isn't anything you have."

Santana's voice gains power, blending in with hers, so beautifully, so perfectly. Rachel feels suddenly as if she's outside of herself as she sings with her soul, reaching out desperately for Santana.

"Cause I was born to tell you I love you… And I am torn to do what I have to…"

Santana stills. Her voice dies. Rachel's breathless and overwhelmed, but she finishes the song boldly and quietly. "To make you mine…Stay with me tonight." On the other end of the line, Santana is quiet, but Rachel knows, somehow she is absolutely sure, that Santana meant every word of what they sang together.

Somehow, the thought is quietly devastating. "Santana," she whispers, voice coated with tears.

"Yeah," comes the quiet acknowledgement.

"You're not going to remember any of this, are you?"

Santana laughs, this heartbroken chortle that makes Rachel's weak, struggling snippet of hope shrivel inside of her. "I don't know…"her friend admits, always honest to a fault. "I mean I'm a little high and super wasted and … yeah maybe not."

Santana sounds so sad about it.

Rachel can't fault her. How could she? "Well even if you don't… you should know..."

"What?"

Rachel licks her dry lips. "Santana, I'm not giving up on us. I know I made some choices and I know sometimes things just suck between us but… I want you. More than anything."

She means it. At this moment, she knows sincerely that this is it. This is who she wants. This is her home. This drunk, high woman on the other side of the world is meant to be her best friend, her partner… her person.

Rachel won't give up on her. Not now. Not ever.

"… kay." She hears, and rolls her eyes through her emotion, head shaking at Santana's placid acceptance. "Bye Rachel."

She doesn't want to say goodbye. She won't. "Goodnight Santana."

The call disconnects at just after 3AM.

Rachel wonders if it was all just a dream. She's not sure what would be worse, to realize that the entire conversation was just a figment of her over-exhausted imagination, or to decide that it actually happened, but Santana doesn't remember any part of it.

In the end, it doesn't matter. She doesn't hear from Santana, either way.

Rachel is an adult. She's no longer a dramatic teenager who can afford to let her life fall apart because she's lost a person she thinks could be her soul mate. Rachel wouldn't wear a 'Santana' necklace.

Maybe she doesn't smile as big as she used to, and maybe she feels an aching emptiness when she sits still for too long, but Rachel still has a career that is on the verge of exploding to think about, and despite every effort to get in touch with Santana, Santana still seems to not want anything to do with her.

It's Santana at her worst, really, but Rachel understands it. When hurt, Santana reverts, and time has proven that at their heart, people do not change. Rachel will always be dramatic and inclined to sing her heart out and internalize her fear, and Santana will still carry her anger inside her and see everything as black or white.

Rachel has fallen in love with Santana, but her eyes are wide open. She won't give up, but Rachel also knows that life has to go on.

So today, she sits in a tiny sound booth with huge expensive headphones on her ears that cancel out anything but the voice that belongs to the charming, scruffy thirty-something guy who mans the mixing board. His name is Mark 'the Beast' Schram, and he's currently punching keys on his laptop and pushing dials, almost on autopilot as he concentrates on what's important: interviewing Rachel Berry.

"So, you have a song!" Mark says, a cheesy grin splitting his face, stating the obvious.

It's still a little surreal that this is really happening. Rachel is actually sitting in the booth of a popular radio station, promoting a single that's gotten more airplay than she could have ever hoped for. At this moment, she's been able to gain traction, seen as a true triple threat: the genuine article, and not a flash in the pan scandal-laden hussy.

Troy and his fans have yet to forgive her (and won't ever) and every E!Online article about her is filled with inflammatory and ugly comments, of course. Santana's fanbase, rabid and loyal as Troy's, have concocted theory after theory on what actually happened between them. Most are increasingly farfetched, but some fall eerily close to the truth.

She ignores what she can. Still, Rachel finds that it takes every skill she's gained as an actress to muster an easy, carefree laugh. "I do have a song!"

Mark's head bobs as if to some unseen beat in his head. "It's pretty great." Rachel bows her head humbly. Is it cocky if she says she knows? Maybe. "Don't get me wrong. I watched those old YouTube videos just like everyone else did, but when I heard you and Santana Lopez were collaborating…"

Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel sees JoAnn visibly stiffen from her place behind the see-through glass partition.

Rachel just offers her a small, reassuring smile. This isn't Rachel's first interview since the scandal broke. It's never easy, but she thinks she's getting quite good at not visibly flinching when Santana's name inevitably comes up. It's done every single time, because every reporter wants a reaction from her.

Mark, however, is a radio personality, and therefore a little more interested in hearing himself talk. "-And the first thing I thought is what the hell do these two have in common? This is gonna sound like crap!" Rachel rolls her eyes, laughing good-naturedly as she does it. Mark lifts a brow, exhaling as he finishes his rant. "But it doesn't sound like crap!"

"Oh, it doesn't?" she asks, feigning surprise.

"NO!" Mark is an over-enthusiastic little boy, slamming his hand on the table like he's trying to kill a fly. "It's awesome. This is my new jam!"

And that's a good thing. A very good thing. Mark isn't known for kissing ass, but when something surprises him, when he likes something, he's a fierce supporter. And she needs all the support she can get. She knows that much.

"Well, thank you for taking a chance," she replies, as humble as she can be. "We worked really hard on it, and thanks to Santana and her talent, I think it came out amazingly well."

"And the rest of the album is coming?"

"Yes! Absolutely. It's little crazy right now," she explains, tucking an errant bang behind her ear as she does, "Since we're so close to launching the previews for 'Into the Woods', but I'm definitely working on it."

He whistles, impressed. "Sounds like you've got a crazy life right now!"

"That's how I like it!" she laughs.

"Good thing you're single."

Honestly, Rachel should have seen that coming. Mark is a cunning guy, and she didn't black list Santana as a possible interview subject.

A quick look at JoAnn provides no relief. JoAnn just takes another deliberate sip of coffee and makes a show of checking her phone. It seems her publicist has begun to favor a 'you wanted it this way, now deal with it' approach to this whole debacle, half, it feels, in genuine respect for Rachel, and the other half in a bit of petulant 'you dig your own grave' stubbornness.

Rachel can't blame her. She did want it this way. So she takes a breath, and waits.

"You know I heard some stuff," he continues.

"I'd be very surprised if you didn't."

The grin turns mischievous. "Can I ask you about that?"

Rachel's smile grows tighter "You can," she says easily. "But it doesn't mean I'm going to answer the way you want me to."

He laughs, pleased with the cheeky answer. "Fair enough." He frowns for a minute, watching Rachel carefully. "So what is the deal with you and Miss Lopez?" Rachel sucks in a breath, shifting in her seat with a disheartened chuckle. "Cause that's some serious chemistry in that video."

The music video, hastily edited and released, has garnered its fair share of attention, and just like Rachel suspected, fueled the speculation that an actual affair had taken place. It's usually regulated to gossip sites and blind items, but Rachel knows that reporters, hungry for an exclusive and a scoop, are getting bolder.

"You can't blame Troy for thinking … you know."

No, she can't.

Rachel pastes on a broad, winning smile. "Well, to be fair, have you seen Santana Lopez?" she asks, leaning forward in a jovial, conspirator's manner.

He laughs. "Uh yeah. She's gorgeous!"

Rachel nods, a simple smile on her face. "She's gorgeous," she admits. Her small grin fades, and she finds herself pausing, sucking in an unsteady breath. "But she's also one of the most amazing women I've ever met, and she's one of my very best friends."

The sober, almost wistful tone is not lost on the radio DJ. He watches her closely.

Rachel knows her eyes are sparkling with her emotion, but she manages to keep her voice even and sincere. "We've known each other since high school. I don't think enough people know the real Santana Lopez and it's a shame. She's seen as this callous heartbreaker, but that's only because you see her and you can't help but love her or hate her. I've done both. We've been friends and we've been rivals, and she's pushed me further than any other person I've ever known my whole life. There's no one like her. I'll always be happy and grateful to have her in my life."

She means every word.

Mark just presses his lips together. "That didn't answer my question."

The slightly pouty response makes her laugh unexpectedly, and for that, she's grateful. "I never said I was going to," she shoots right back, and he snorts. "Look, if you like our chemistry, just listen to the song and make your own conclusions. It's not like you'd be the first," she adds, brow lifting in playful accusation.

She knows he gets it when Mark laughs, raising his arms in surrender. "All right, that's fair." From the corner of her eye, Rachel sees her publicist attempt to chug down her coffee. "It's a hot picture, can you blame me?"

"Never."

Shoulders shaking in mirth, he raises a fist to pump it at his engineer. "All right, well, let's take a listen to 'I Don't Want to Jump In' by Rachel Berry featuring Santana Lopez, and let's see what conclusions we make!"

The engineer does his job and the notes begin to play, filtering through the headphones. Mark smiles winningly at her, slipping off his headphones and waits for her to do the same.

The interview is, for the most part, over. The cheery, jovial DJ is replaced with his true personality, the somber music lover who stares at Rachel knowingly.

"Off the record… " His expression is frank. "You guys are totally fucking, aren't you?"

Rachel digs her teeth into her lower lip. Her eyes remain moist. "Off the record," she answers just as quietly. "I wish we were."

He absorbs that, possibly surprised by the honest answer. "Me too," he says finally, and raises his thumb at her in support. "Good luck, girl."

"Well," JoAnn looks like she's gone through war as she settles in the town car that was arranged to bring them to the station. "That didn't suck."

Rachel has come to learn that what JoAnn responds to is her own taste of bitchiness right back. "I'm sure you're stunned," she drawls sarcastically.

"I'm surprised that I wasn't surprised," JoAnn clarifies. The car goes silent as driver begins the merge into traffic. JoAnn begins to scroll through her emails. Rachel takes advantage of the quiet, familiar moment to slink back into the sleek leather of the backseat, let her eyes settle on the old and new buildings that pass by her quickly just outside of her window.

"Rachel." Rachel's head tilts in JoAnn's direction. Her publicist gnaws on her lower hip, thumb hovering over her cellphone. "You're still sure this is what you want to do?"

It's a question that JoAnn's asked over and over and over again.

This time, Rachel doesn't bother to answer.

JoAnn sucks in her breath and presses down on her phone's touch screen as Rachel goes back to appreciating the color of the city from the viewpoint of her seat in the black town car. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees JoAnn crossing herself and offering a silent prayer. JoAnn only really gets religious when she's scared.

It's almost funny to see her publicist this close to panicking. She wonders why on earth she's not feeling the same hysterical fear.

Maybe it's because she's already felt it.

There is a quiet stillness that entered Rachel sometime this afternoon and never really left. It's odd and should be disconcerting. She doesn't know what else it is other than just the peace that comes with certainty. For so long Rachel has felt so unsure about so many aspects of her life. So many 'no's, so many pieces of useless advice that had her skittering around like a billiard on a pool table, never finding that perfect pocket.

She was trying to be a brand instead of a person, and it took its toll.

Now?

It's not nostalgia that fills her, but there is a sense of confidence that her body recognizes. Now that she's Rachel Berry again, she feels at home.

It's refreshing, to be reminded that Rachel Berry is unique; that even when the whole world has turned against her, she has the strength to stand alone if she has to, with her chin held high.

She remembers high school, losing Finn and being told by Quinn, so frustrated at Rachel's own stubborn conviction, that she didn't belong in Lima, that Finn wasn't enough for her.

Rachel wrote her first real song back then. Along on an empty stage, she stood up for herself through verse, sung her heart out to Finn and Quinn and the whole world and reminded everyone, reminded HERSELF, who she was.

Maybe that's the lesson she's needed to relearn this whole time.

In this world, she had lost herself. The music brought her back. SANTANA brought her back. But even that wasn't enough.

Rachel needed to figure out how to be happy with herself before even considering another relationship.

Otherwise, wouldn't she just be trading Troy for Santana?

And they're not the same.

Just like there's no one in the world like Rachel, she knows there's no one in the world like Santana.

"I heard the interview," Quinn Fabray tells her. Her gorgeous friend is sitting on her couch, drinking a glass of Pinot Noir that she brought with her. It's almost amusing, how Quinn is so determined to be her rock.

Not that Quinn won't ever change who she is. She'll always be mildly resentful and beautifully flawless, and she and Rachel will always have an undercurrent of tension that seems so unnaturally intense and unique, but Rachel loves her for that. Sometimes Rachel forgets that it was Quinn who all but begged her not to marry Finn Hudson at 17, who gave her a train pass in a bathroom senior year and asked her not to lose touch, who looked at her like she was someone who could break her… like Rachel mattered.

Over and over again, she's proven that even with all her bitchiness and insecurities, she's a better friend than Rachel could ever hope to be.

"Oh?" She knows where this is going. Rachel brings her own glass to her lips, letting the taste of the fermented grape settle on her tongue before she swallows it down. "And what did you think?"

"I think you may as well have gone down on Santana on the radio, because that tongue bath was revolting."

There's no catfight here. With a knowing smile, Rachel tucks her legs under her and turns to face her friend. "I love you too, Quinn."

Quinn's response is a roll of her beautiful eyes, huffing with irritation, but the soft blush betrays the fact that the sentiment is mutual. She plays with the stem of her glass, clicking the ring she wears against it.

"Have you heard from her?" Quinn asks seriously.

For all her aspirations to be Rachel's Cyrano, Quinn has (not shockingly) proven to be even worse at trying to reach Santana than Rachel. The one and only conversation that the two had resulted in some sort of screaming match over the phone. Quinn won't tell her the particulars, but she did mention to Rachel that it ended with them hanging up on each other and that she owed Santana a really good slap the next time she saw her.

Apparently that's what they do.

Rachel's head falls back against the soft cushion of the couch. This temporary apartment still doesn't feel like home, but Rachel has made it as comfortable as she can. "Aside from the phone call that she probably doesn't remember?" Rachel's lips quirk in painful memory. "No."

She knows she's never been so easy to read when she feels the pressure of Quinn's fingers squeezing gently against her wrist. "I'm sorry, Rachel." Quinn sounds soft and resigned, like this is a lost cause. Rachel doesn't blame her. "If it's one thing Santana's always been, it's stubborn as hell when she's angry."

"Yeah," she agrees, releasing a long sigh. "She is stubborn. But so am I." Quinn snorts. "You know that new reality talent show 'X-Voice Choice?" Quinn has no idea what Rachel's talking about, but Rachel goes on anyway. "They've asked me to perform the newest single at their results show. It's kind of a big deal. The show's ratings are huge."

"Wow," Quinn breathes, brows furrowing. "How are you going to do it without Santana? I mean she sings like… a third of that song."

"I'm not going to do it without Santana. She's going to do it with me."

Quinn, in the middle of another sip of her wine, promptly chokes. She hacks rather unattractively. It's now Rachel's turn to roll her eyes as she holds out a napkin for Quinn to take. "What?!"

"When her people and my people negotiated the contract for the song collaboration, she agreed to at least one public appearance to help promote the single."

Clearly, Quinn thinks she's gone insane. "And you actually think she's going to agree to that? Now?!"

There's a stain of wine on Quinn's lapel. Rachel blots lightly at it, avoiding Quinn's judgmental bewildered stare in the process. "She'll have to."

"Rachel, that's crazy."

Rachel's heard more than her share of that sentence in the last few days. Actually she's heard more than her share of that sentence her entire life.

"This is exactly what happened in your novel "Last Hope"," she points out reasonably. "And Clarissa got the guy to come back to her with her grand declaration!"

"Oh my God, you actually read that!?"

That may be too much for poor reasonable Quinn, because her fingers go completely lax and she almost spills the entire glass of wine on her lap.

Thankfully, Rachel has already had a few days of wrestling with this decision with her publicist, her manager, her agent, her show's producers, and Santana's barrage of people, who have been too afraid to even alert Santana to this and should be breaking it to her any day now. This is actually calm compared to how a few of the others acted.

She quietly takes the glass away from Quinn's frozen fingers and places it on the end table for safe keeping, before going back to blotting at Quinn's stain.

"Rachel," Quinn hisses, batting her hand away. "NEVER take advice from those damn books! They're trash!"

Dark eyes look up and pin to Quinn's. "You said to make a believer out of you."

Quinn blinks, lost for a moment, before her mouth opens and closes again. A deep flush colors her cheeks, before her friend just huffs, "I didn't mean it!" At Rachel's probing glance, Quinn relents. "Okay, yes I meant it, but Rachel, this isn't one of those stupid books and this isn't fiction." Quinn's expression is almost comical in her disbelief. "What are you even planning on doing? Singing with her on the show and what… outing yourself by sticking your tongue down her throat on live television?"

Rachel wonders if she's that transparent.

"Oh shit, Rachel!" Apparently she is. Quinn makes a shaky grab for her wine. "Does JoAnn know?"

Rachel rolls her eyes, but nods.

"And she's okay with it?"

"No, but I've made up my mind."

"You're insane."

Probably. But she thinks about Santana, that voice in her head in her heart, that emotion she feels every time she hears that song that now seems to be blasting on every radio station known to man, cementing the single as a bonafide hit.

"She loves me," Rachel whispers.

"JoAnn?!"

"Santana, Quinn," she snaps. "I know Santana loves me."

"How do you know that?"

"She told me," she admits after a long drink of her own wine. "She doesn't remember telling me that, but she does." Rachel's heard it over and over again, a beautiful echo in her ears that she has to keep reminding herself is not a figment of her imagination. "And I love her, Quinn. So I'm going to do this." Rachel crosses her legs, and tries to keep her furiously beating heart under control. "She's going to listen to me. And as for the rest… "

"What?!" Quinn squeals, squeaky in a way Rachel has never heard. "What about the rest?"

"We'll figure it out together," she decides finally. "Like we should have done in the first place." Like she's ready to finally do now.

She knows full well Quinn is gaping at her like some thunderstruck mute, but Rachel will not be dissuaded. Not anymore.

"Well just...wear a short dress. "

… That's surprising. "Why?" she asks, brow arching as she turns back to her flabbergasted friend.

Quinn's exasperated expression is actually kind of charming, actually, as she inhales unsteadily, and shrugs. "Because you have amazing legs," she says finally, and makes a show of eying Rachel's long limbs. "And you're going to need as much help as you can get."

Rachel laughs, even if her eyes sting. When Quinn offers her a lift of her wine glass, she clinks it with her own.

Rachel honestly has no idea what to expect when Santana hears the news that she's basically being strong-armed into a face-to-face with the woman she seemingly wants nothing to do with. Somehow Rachel is still surprised when a week before the scheduled performance, it's Nathan that knocks on her door.

Rachel knows for a fact that Santana's handsome personal assistant is usually bound to Los Angeles, and yet here he stands in her hallway, with a red nose and cheeks flushed from the New York Cold. He looks so miserable that Rachel almost feels a little sorry for him.

"You know this is crazy, right?" he snaps without preamble. It appears that whatever hero-worship she used to carry has now faded in the wake of her wrecked relationship with his boss.

"Hi Nathan," she says apologetically, pushing her door open wide, giving the man the space he needs to come in. "Would you like some coffee?"

Nathan glares at her, but obediently trudges into her apartment. "Oh, I'm supposed to get her key back." He seems immensely relieved to notice the heater that makes the apartment toasty and inviting, and with a sigh, immediately begins to unravel the scarf from his throat. "She told me to tell you off," he sniffles, following her into her kitchen, hungrily eyeing the expensive little coffee station that goes everywhere she does. "And she wants me to get you to sign off on letting her out of this performance." He waves a manila packet at her. Rachel smiles softly in sympathy and adds a cartridge of her favorite blend as he adds miserably, "She threatened my job."

Clearly, these have been a trying few months for poor Nathan.

Letting the machine do its work, Rachel pulls a cup from the shelf. "If she fires you, I'll hire you."

He huffs, petulant and loud. "Right, 'cause she'll love that."

The machine whines with effort, expelling steam and starting a caramel colored drip that immediately sends the scent of delicious roasted beans throughout the tiny kitchen.

Nathan rubs at his hands and digs them into his pockets, staring at Rachel with a searching look that for some reason Rachel doesn't find at all disconcerting. His big brown eyes are looking for something, and Rachel wonders if he'll find it, and if he does, what it means for her and Santana.

The coffee finishes the single-serving drip, and Rachel reaches for the hot cup and holds it out to Santana's assistant. Her lips press together in sympathy. "How about I just promise her you did your best?"

He eyes the cup of coffee, clearly conflicted. Shoulders drop, and Nathan's tongue clucks with worry. "Rachel…" He looks at her again with that same wondering gaze. "You're not just fucking with her, are you?"

It's a valid question, and one she expects him to ask. If there are sides to take, he should be firmly taking Santana's. Considering how angry Santana's been, Rachel can only imagine what she's told Nathan, who is literally under contract to keep it all to himself. Santana hasn't always been fair in the way she tells their arguments.

But the way Nathan is still looking at her… it's like he's hoping against his own skepticism that her intentions are honorable, and that means that Nathan himself thinks there's a chance.

It's not much, and Rachel could be reading entirely too much into just a look and a question but…

She needs it. She needs to hold on to any sort of hope.

"No," she answers after a heavy breath. Her smile trembles, but her posture never falters. "I love her, Nathan. And I'm trying to make things right. For the both of us."

Nathan just keeps looking at her. It seems like forever, until he finally reaches forward and takes the cup from her. "Okay then," he says, and then pointedly sets the cup on the counter top. "Can you please add some cream and sugar to that? Two spoons of each."

Rachel frowns, unsure whether or not to be offended that she's just been ordered around like an assistant by an assistant. Nathan pays her no mind, digging instead into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone.

He steps out of the kitchen, until Rachel can only make out a mumble as he holds the phone to his ear and then immediately winces, jerking it away from him as she hears the tinny bleat of someone who is obviously not very pleased with whatever he's just said. It goes on like this for a few minutes, him trying to speak and that voice shouting, giving Rachel enough time to get the cream and sugar and let it dissolve into his coffee.

"Yeah, okay, hold on." Nathan swivels on his heel and heads back into the kitchen. He holds the phone out to her. "She wants to talk to you," he explains with a heavy, weary tone. "Please be nice, because she's fucking crazy right now."

Rachel's heart thumps a very pronounced beat. She pastes on a reassuring smile for Nathan, and gingerly takes the phone.

God.

With a deep breath in, she answers the phone. "Hello?"

"Tell that fucker that I heard that."

Rachel's eyes water suddenly, her lips pulling in an unintended smile as the familiar, acerbic tone snaps at her. "Hi, Santana."

"Are you fucking serious right now?" Santana, with her thick velvety voice, wastes no time in getting to the point. "You're forcing me to do this appearance with you?"

It's really kind of messed up that Rachel is so glad to hear Santana's voice that she can't actually bring herself to care that Santana is basically shouting at her. "Yes. You're obligated and I need to talk to you. I wish it hadn't come to this but you won't take my calls, Santana."

"Has it occurred to you that maybe that's because I don't want to hear from your pasty indecisive white ass?" Santana's tone is nasty.

Rachel wills herself not to crumple against it. Her chin lifts, and when Nathan glances worriedly at her, she just smiles reassuringly, for his benefit more than her own. "I told you I wouldn't give up."

Whatever rant that Santana was about to say, whatever insult she was about to deliver, dies. Rachel waits, but all she can hear is a heavy breath that sounds unsteady and unfamiliar.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Santana breathes.

Rachel can't tell. She wants so badly to be able to decipher whether or not Santana's lying. Does she remember? Does she remember singing that song with her, telling her she loves her, that she carries her wherever she goes?

If she does, then Rachel could tell her right back that it's all the same for her. That Santana is with her even when she's halfway across the world and so angry at her that she can't even bear to hear her voice.

That even if the first time she remembers speaking to her in months is angry and mean and bitter, it's okay, because at least she's SPEAKING to her.

That Rachel loves her more than she loves her career, that she's learned to be her own person because of Santana, and she thinks she's learned how to be a partner, and that means she thinks she's READY for Santana.

And maybe that means Santana's ready for her.

But there's no way of knowing, and so Rachel just takes what she can get and accepts the uncertainty. "It's okay," she settles on saying. "I'll see you in LA."

"Screw you, Rachel." Santana hangs up on her.

Rachel is actually surprised the conversation went as well as it did.

Rachel allows one private moment to settle herself before she glances up. Nathan watches her, eyes soft and serious. She manages a smile as she lifts up his phone.

He takes it gingerly. For a moment, he's silently regarding. "You're just as crazy as she is," he says finally. "You know that?"

A laugh tears out of Rachel's throat and thank God, she needs that. It breaks through the fragile emptiness inside of her chest, and fills her with affection, and with watery eyes and a simple smile, she stares at the young musician who stands in her kitchen.

"Do you feel like learning another song with me?"

If one isn't careful, the magic of Hollywood can quite easily overwhelm someone to the point where reality will begin to fade away, and then there is no ground to stand on. It's then that a person drowns, lost in lights and fame and flashes and drugs.

There's no transparent dance floor underneath her, but Rachel still finds it ironic that she knew that truth so well and yet somehow, she still came so close to drowning. Stepping foot on the sound stage that's currently packed with crew doing their very best not to run into each other with heavy equipment, barking orders and skirting around her, Rachel feels suddenly overwhelmed.

It's been months since Drew Barrymore's party, and yet Rachel's entire world has changed. No, that's not correct. This world, with it's expensive lights and cameras, and large stages and the excited twitter of the audience waiting to let in, that's the same.

It's Rachel who has changed, drawn a line that forced everyone to take notice.

And all it took was two broken hearts.

Truthfully, Rachel doesn't know what will happen. She has no idea where Santana's head is. Over the past week she's convinced herself that whatever Santana's feelings were, they're clearly hatred now, and then she's convinced herself again that drunken hearts tell no lies, and that Santana's feelings are what they once were.

"Ms. Berry?" The producer's assistant breaks her from her thoughts with a hesitant smile. "You asked me to let you know when Ms. Lopez arrived."

Rachel is not a tall person. She's short even in Hollywood, but she feels positively tiny as she stands in front of Santana's designated Dressing Room door. Her fingers slide together in a nervous tangle.

These past few months have been a whirlwind of interviews, rehearsals, paparazzi and lonely nights, and Rachel understands that this has been a journey. It's been HER journey. This is the culmination to that journey.

But who's to say that it's the same for Santana?

Santana, who has spent months hopping continents, popping up with texts and smiles and the gift of music, only to disappear again, losing herself in clubs and stages and movie sets the way Rachel's lost herself on a Broadway stage, has taken a different path.

What if this is just a crossroads and not a merge?

God, Rachel has proven she can survive without Santana. She knows she can do it. Rachel's happiness shouldn't HAVE to include her.

But why shouldn't it? Why, when being without Santana feels like she's cut out her own heart?

Maybe it's selfish, and maybe they don't deserve each other, but maybe they do.

It's kinda funny to think about their music video now. She was living a lie, trapped in a desaturated life that burst boldly into color the minute Santana burst on the scene with that haunting music. And God, doesn't it seem fitting to what actually happened? Santana wanted everything; Rachel was too scared to take even another step. They had both been so unwilling to leave anything to uncertainty, to meet in any sort of compromise that they hadn't seen the colors brought to life by the music in the middle of all that black and white.

Still… the music saved them once… maybe it can happen again.

She lifts her hands, ready to rap on the door when it suddenly swings open before her. It's Nathan who catches her by surprise, blinking as he pauses, inhaling sharply as he takes her in.

"Oh," he says, and then looks back, his mouth set in a grim line. "Right."

"Five minutes," Rachel says, low and quiet, for Nathan's ears only.

"Nathan!" The assistant jumps at the familiar voice that calls out to him. "I said I didn't want to see anyone before this fucking number."

The doorknob creaks with the strain that Nathan's putting on it. Rachel smiles sympathetically. He just sighs, obviously losing whatever war going on in his head because he just breathes a 'Fuck it' and opens the door wider. "You're hiring me and paying for the reattachment surgery when she tears my balls off."

With that, he brushes past her. Licking suddenly dry lips, Rachel forces herself to push forward. She feels almost dizzy as she enters the room that Nathan just vacated, closing the door behind her.

"Nathan, where the fuck are you-" Santana has half-risen off the makeup chair and frozen. Even with the large, expensive headphones half covering her face, she's heart-stoppingly gorgeous, dressed in her signature dark leather, feet wedged into stiletto heels and dark hair carefully sculpted in long, flowing curls.

She looks every inch like the superstar she's become, and she takes Rachel's breath away.

"You look beautiful." She can't help herself. It's not the first words she meant to say, but they come out regardless. Rachel is entranced, and it's a reminder that this is genuine; these feelings are real, because just the sight of this woman is enough to bring her to her knees.

She expects yelling. She expects maybe a curling iron thrown her way. Santana has rage, and that's always been an issue.

Instead, Santana breaks her when she just sinks back down into the uncomfortable make up chair, like she has no strength for this, and jerks her head away. Dark eyes settle on her uncertainly through the reflection in the mirror. A shaky voice whispers, "Why are you doing this, Rachel?"

She sounds so strained.

Rachel's eyes immediately mist with tears. "Because I didn't know any other way to see you." Her tone is a quiet rasp, but she does think it's a little funny that it's through a mirror they're finally making this connection. "To get through to you."

A hairbrush drops angrily against the illuminated vanity. "And you think this is the way? Get your staff to threaten me with lawyers?" Rachel presses her lips together. She has no defense. "Tell me to deny all the rumors and then-"

"That wasn't me," she croaks, and feels like an idiot, because it feels like an excuse.

Judging by the look on Santana's face, she thinks so too. "Same fucking difference, Rachel." There's a beat, a quiet moment before Santana continues in a fake, chipper tone, "And it's not going to help you with those gay rumors you know, showing up on stage with me, singing this song."

Rachel feels awkward, standing the way she does in the middle of the room, talking to the back of Santana's head and a reflection. But it seems to be what Santana needs, and so she does the best she can with it, smiling valiantly as she straightens her shoulders and says without hesitation, "I don't care about the rumors, Santana. All I care about is you."

Dark eyes flicker away. Rachel waits and watches, as Santana slowly turns, meeting her face to face. "Rachel," she begins, in a thick, quiet voice. "I'm doing this because I have to." Her expression is blank; unreadable. "But when this is over, my obligation is over, and if you call me even one more time, I will open my mouth and tell the entire world how much you loved eating me out." The burn that Rachel feels is painful. She flinches. She knows Santana sees it. "How do you think that'll affect your album sales?" Santana wonders meanly, head tilting.

There may as well be a literal wall between them. Rachel can see it, a physical manifestation of Santana's pain and fear, because she opened her heart once to Rachel and got it shredded as a result. The only thing that will save Rachel now is the truth.

She takes another deliberate step forward, into the other woman's space. She can't help but feel like she's approaching a caged, abused tiger.

"Santana," she begins, trying desperately to rise above the sting of Santana's words. "I know I hurt you." She feels like she's choking on marbles, and it doesn't get better when Santana stops meeting her stare. "Okay?" Rachel's sad smile is fragile and hesitant. "You wanted us to face it together, and I got scared. I can't say I know if I would have ever done it any differently, but …" Frozen, overwhelmed, Rachel has to stop and wipe at the wetness on her cheeks, smearing her palm with her own make up.

Margot is going to kill her.

She doesn't care.

"But it doesn't change how I feel about you and what I want to do now."

"You don't get to decide when you're ready, Rachel." Santana still won't look at her.

"Because you didn't?" she asks after a moment, because she does remember.

Santana inhales sharply. A flash appears in those intense, smoke-rimmed eyes as her head lifts to face her. "Don't turn this shit around on me."

Rachel wouldn't dare. She takes another step, until her eyes fall upon the discarded make up and styling products that have been used to apply Santana's face. Reaching for an expensive brush, Rachel tests the weight of it in her hands. It's encouraging, at least, that Santana just watches, letting her inspect her stylists' tools.

"Do you remember calling me in the middle of the night?" She keeps her gaze on this brush, even if her heart hammers with the need to look at Santana's beautiful face. "Do you remember what you said to me?" The glass that spins in her chest is fragile, pricking her with emotion. Rachel's eyes stay moist, but she keeps her strength as she glances up at the mirror, at the reflection that just stares at her. "Because I do."

The skin-tight halter Santana wears dips down with cleavage, and it makes it easy to see the way Santana's chest rises and falls, sharp, dangerous breaths that fill Rachel with a dangerous hope. "Rachel…" come the tortured plea.

Rachel can't stop. Not now.

"Santana," she says again, because she loves saying that name. It feels familiar. It feels right. "I'm sorry I was scared. There were a lot of things I didn't know about myself, and I needed to remember who I was before I could even begin to think straight. Or not straight," she amends, dropping the brush to rub at her ear, itching with the frustration of confessing herself. Dark eyes watch her throughout, and when they pin her, Rachel is reminded of a beautiful night where they hid from the world.

God. She loves Santana. She loves her so desperately. She ACHES from her desire and need for this woman.

"You reminded me of who I am." It's a quiet, devastating admission.

Santana struggles with that face. Years as friends and roommates and now, just a single night as a lover, Rachel knows that face so well, sees the cracks in Santana's well-applied armor. She knows it's terrifying, and so she waits, desperate to touch and reassure, and forcing herself not to.

Dark eyes blink back any emotion. Santana has beaten back her own weakness. Rachel's lips press together as Santana reaches for that stupid brush and begins to brush powder along her cheekbone. "Well, bully for you, Rachel," she retorts coldly.

Rachel loves her.

"You make me feel like a song, Santana." The brush stills. Rachel just shrugs, lost in her own truth. "Like a delicious harmony." The brush wavers. Those lips part, panting lightly. Still Santana won't look at her. Rachel pledges herself anyway. "I know that I belong to you. And maybe you don't know that," she continues because that's possible. Of course it is. "But I know you love me." The brush drops with a clatter. Rachel, heart full, shakes her head in bemused affection. "You told me you did. And I would give anything to hear that again."

A lone tear has begun to drift, trailing down a sculpted cheek, marring the lines so carefully constructed by Santana's makeup artist.

Santana's head whirls, wet eyes lock with hers. Rachel's breath catches. Santana looks so… broken. "Rachel-"

"It's okay," she whispers, and can't help herself. She fumbles for a tissue, and with a gentleness she can't help, Rachel leans forward, wiping at the moist drop, doing her best to will it away. "You don't have to-" Rachel's chest constricts, and she huffs in a deep breath, doing her best to smile reassuringly through her tears to the one woman who has somehow begun to matter most. "Look, I … there's a song," she tries, frustrated at the fact that the words won't seem to come, "I'm going to sing before ours." She does her best to remain gentle, bright and hopeful even as Santana just looks at her.

"And it's for you, and when I'm done," Rachel sucks in another painful breath, and keeps her fingers pressed against Santana's cheek, needing that connection. "I'm going to kiss you, on that stage."

Rachel's stomach twists. Santana's so close to her now. She can feel the heat of her body, the whisper of Santana's pants against her cheek. She can see the way Santana breathes in harshly through her nose. The tissue balls up in her palm, and Rachel wills herself to pull back. "And if you don't want me to…" Rachel exhales and straightens. "Then let me know and I won't. I'll respect that because this is a big deal and it's a decision that we should make together." Again, Santana is silent. There is nothing but the breathing, that vulnerable look in Santana's face that is so unreadable and heartbreaking at the same time. Rachel soldiers on. "But even then, even if you don't want me to kiss you and even if you tell the world how much I loved making love to you, I won't give up. Because I know who I am, and I know I'm in love with you."

The knock on the door does nothing to break the thickness that's permeated the room, but Rachel has no choice but to glance back and look at the PA who ducks his head in. "Five minutes, Miss Berry," he says, clearly more interested in his clipboard than Rachel or Santana and whatever is going on in this room.

Rachel's beating heart has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the woman in front of her, but she knows her time has run out.

She offers the silent, stoic reflection in the mirror one more loving smile. "See you out there, Santana."

It's during a commercial break when she's ushered on stage. She hears the audience whisper and wait as the band is set into place. Nathan drags his own stool to sit right beside her. It garners strange looks from the professional players, but Rachel doesn't care. The look she gives him is grateful. Nathan adjusts the guitar over his shoulder. His smile is tight and nervous.

Her ears ring with the rush of her own nerves. She waits, settles in the stool she's ordered for herself at sound check, and stares over the microphone at the darkened, full studio audience. She can feel the energy coming off of them. They know Rachel's here. They know she's going to sing her song first, but they also know that after that, there's a chance that Santana Lopez will join her and they'll sing that song together.

It's a badly kept secret – a coup for this show. Up until now, there hasn't been a live performance of this song with the two women together.

No one has confirmed, but there's been suspicion. Lots of it.

She doesn't know if she'll ever be ready to be feel this naked, but then Nathan twangs a chord on his guitar, testing the feel of it, and there is no going back.

Rachel has sung for a lover before. But this isn't Glee Club, an insular room where singing a song felt safe. This is national life television and with it Rachel, finally comfortable in her own skin, will be baring her heart to the world for the sake of the woman she loves.

And there are no guarantees; there are no expectations.

The only reward at the end of this is uncertainty: a possible kiss and if she's truly lucky, hope for a future with the woman she loves.

For now, all Rachel has is herself, a stage, and a song. That is what the music has given her.

The lights blink. The PA announces the end of the commercial break, and as she waits in the shadows of an unlit stage, Rachel allows herself one moment of weakness to turn and stare at the wings.

A woman in black leather stands at the edge of the stage, expression quiet and soft. Santana.

Rachel's heart skips a beat, and then the rush of emotion floods in when the lights go up and the recorded show music blasts, and the handsome hostess, Cat Deeley smiles beautifully into the camera.

"Set me free, baby," she whispers to herself, quoting their own lyrics, and it's never felt more right or real than at that moment.

"Welcome back! Tonight's musical guest is a Broadway star and seems to be Pop music's newest star. Please welcome, Rachel Berry!"

The audience claps, there are a couple whistles, and then the harsh spotlight is turned on her. They expect pop music. They expect the turntables to be used, but they stand.

Instead the opening notes are plucked sweetly off the guitar by Nathan, filling the studio with acoustic chords. A quiet hush comes over the crowd, and Rachel's cheeks burn as she inhales deeply, filling her lungs with air.

Nathan's intro fades, and so it begins.

"When I look into your eyes…" Rachel's voice is steady… whisper soft. "It's like watching the night sky… Or a beautiful sunrise…" She hears it in her own ears thanks to the earbuds. "Well, there's so much they hold…"

This is real. This is happening. Rachel's heart thumps harshly. The stool creaks underneath her and the lights burn down on her flushed cheeks. But it's real, and Rachel's eyes water because these words… she's chosen them for a reason.

"And just like them old stars… I see that you've come so far... To be right where you are…" Her lips tremble, but her voice holds. "How old is your soul?"

The audience has faded away. All of Rachel's awareness is now for the woman she knows is standing in the shadows. This song is for her, and even if Rachel didn't write it, even if these words weren't hers originally, they speak for her.

The music has always been her home, and she knows now that Santana speaks her language.

The band behind her begins to play, filling in the haunting silence with the sweetness of music.

"Well, I won't give up on us… Even if the skies get rough…I'm giving you all my love," Rachel knows her eyes are moist. She knows she keeps closing them, and that emotion has bled into her tone. She's singing, honest and naked, the real Rachel Berry.

That's okay. She's proud. "I'm still looking up."

She takes a breath, and when she begins again, with glistening eyes and a voice she knows is beautiful, the backup singers fill in behind her.

Rachel can't help but turn her head, into the darkness of the wings, to a woman she loves with every fiber of her being. Somehow, she can see Santana. That beautiful face that a few moments ago, stood stoic and expressionless, now flushes with color, eyes bright and beautiful: a mannequin come to life. "And when you're needing your space…" Rachel's smile trembles. "To do some navigating, I'll be here patiently waiting… To see what you find."

Santana's eyes shine… her lips tremble. Rachel can see it even from here, and there's nothing she can do but stare back. She's besotted, overcome, because Rachel has never been so sincere, so in love.

Her chest burns, and Rachel closes her eyes, remembers her microphone.

"'Cause even the stars they burn," Her tone lifts, growing stronger with the power of these lyrics. "Some even fall to the earth… We've got a lot to learn, God knows we're worth it." She smiles despite herself. "No, I won't give up."

The words settle into quiet. Suddenly, there's a lone shriek and then a roaring set of screams. Rachel's eyes blink open, unsure what to make of it, until her head swivels and her beating heart threatens to explode out of her chest.

Out of the darkness, out of the left wing, comes Santana Lopez herself, dragging another stool behind her in one hand and a microphone in the other. She walks with purpose, crossing the space that separates them, eyes locked on Rachel.

"I don't wanna be someone who walks away so easily, I'm here to stay and make the difference that I can make…" she promises, eyes sparkling with unshed tears and the joy of this beautiful connection as Santana continues to make her way to her. "Our differences they do a lot to teach us how to use the tools and gifts we got, yeah, we got a lot at stake…"

Ten feet, then five, then two. The stool is placed beside Rachel. The studio is filled with insane noise, shrill whistles and screams that call out for Santana. But Santana, with her gorgeous dark eyes and her trembling, overcome smile, only seems to see Rachel.

"And in the end, you're still my friend at least we did intend for us to work we didn't break, we didn't burn…We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in-" Santana settles in her stool; her knee brushes against Rachel's. Rachel's breath falters, but Santana, beautiful, gorgeous Santana, just quietly reaches out, fingers wide and open, waiting for Rachel to take her hand. "I had to learn what I've got, and what I'm not, and who I am…"

Rachel meets her half way. Soft skin spreads over her fingers, and in that touch is magic. The sparks that light up within her are the sweetest sort of heaven, because they're here now. When she sings the verse that led her to this moment, it's Santana's gorgeous voice that joins her.

The song, sung solo by Rachel, a tribute to her bleeding heart and her journey and her own conviction, has now become a duet, and it's Santana who has joined her on this naked stage, to face the world with her.

The voices blend as perfectly as they did before, and Rachel remembers Santana's words months ago, that people were like songs, and duets… duets were…

The music stops, Santana stops, but her fingers stay clasped tight with Rachel's, intimate, reassuring and strong. There is no fear. Not now. And if cameras or JoAnns or Troys exist, Rachel doesn't care. She's at the center of her world, but she's looking deep into the eyes of her best friend as she does it.

So Rachel sings with no guitar, no back up singers. She sings as herself, and it's herself she offers as she gives her soul in the last verse. "I won't give up on us… Even if the skies get rough…I'm giving you all my love... I'm still looking up."

The song ends in a hush.

Rachel lowers the microphone. Fingers slide over her thumb.

Then Santana Lopez, Bad Ass DJ and Superstar Singer, and the annoying roommate who used to go through all of Rachel's things, kicks off her own stool and tugs hard, pulling Rachel in the meet her.

Rachel's lips are plundered, assaulted by the sweetness of Santana's kiss. Her body hums, a jolt of electric energy that's both joy and relief and the completely overwhelming presence of love.

There's a roar that fills the air around her. She's unsure if it's the rush of blood to her ears or the sound of the audience, but it doesn't matter. Not now, when Santana whimpers against her mouth, broad hands palming her back with possessive affection. She clings to Rachel, holds her so tightly, like Rachel's going to disappear, and there's no way. Not now. Not ever.

This is home. Arms are thrown carelessly around Santana's shoulders, lips plundered and cemented with mutual affection. Her heart beats so fast she's afraid she may faint because of it, and that's the only reason she breaks the kiss, taking a moment to suck in a deep breath. Even then, she keeps Santana close, eyes fluttering from pure sensation as she tilts her forehead against Santana's cheek, breathing her in.

There are camera flashes, hoots and hollers and this cacophony of chaos that surrounds them. It's a frenzy.

For once in her life, Rachel does not give a shit that the spotlight is all on her. Why should she? When finally, FINALLY, she's got Santana's warm body in her embrace. When she can focus instead on gliding fingers against the perfect lips on Santana's face, on gazing adoringly into those deep brown eyes and just APPRECIATE that this is what she's earned.

Thank fuck, Rachel's finally learned to live in color.

Choked, overwhelmed, Rachel's words are for Santana. "I love you."

Santana's mouth opens and closes. Those beautiful eyes look like liquid diamonds, bright and gorgeous. Fingers reach up to clasp over her own, and a ragged breath escapes as Santana's lips skid over her cheek to her ear.

"I was born to tell you I love you," Rachel hears, and then that mouth is back against her own, sucking on her lower lip.

Rachel's knees weaken; her heart bursts, because then she knows, SHE KNOWS, that Santana remembers that phone call. Remembers that song.

Later, Rachel will realize that the images and tweets of this event will be widely spread wide around the internet. JoAnn will yell and scream at her and threaten to quit (and never does). The gossip sites will implode, and though the Broadway show is a runaway success and Rachel is nominated for a Tony, and her freshman album produces three solid hits other than the single that featured Santana, for the next few months almost every interview will be dominated with questions about Santana and their relationship.

It will be completely worth it, even if their private life will hardly ever remain private again, threatened constantly by invasive paparazzi and fans desperate to know every single detail and the media that tries hard to indulge them.

At present, Rachel is only aware of the now, and it's only when a red-faced producer pokes at them that she realizes they've gone to commercial. It takes the length of the full commercial break to even come close to separating them and get them ready for the next song.

There's a single to perform, a show to finish.

The audience has become almost unmanageable with their screaming, but the smile on Santana's face is the most gorgeous thing she's ever seen.

There will be conversations after this. With each other and with managers and publicists and agents and fucking Ellen, of course. But for now, it's still just them: Rachel Berry and Santana Lopez.

And still…

Santana's at her station now, flipping switches and checking her settings. Heart still threatening to beat out of her chest, Rachel is almost afraid to leave her side.

"Are we okay?" she asks, because this is a lot to take, a lot to ask.

Santana's dark eyes flicker up and lock warmly with Rachel's. "Why wouldn't we be? Just because every damn thing we do has to involve some media circus? "

Rachel blushes. "That does seem to be our thing."

"I know." Santana smiles, digging out her expensive headphones and sliding them over her head. "We've got a date in the dressing room after this, Rachel. And as long as the cameras don't follow us in there, we'll be fine. Because I'm planning on making you scream." Santana's teasing. She's happy.

Rachel's cheeks burn. The euphoria and adrenaline hasn't worn off yet. She hopes it never does. "I missed you," she confesses, though it seems almost silly to admit that now.

Santana's movement stills. Her head lifts, and her dark gaze takes in Rachel and the way she looks at her. "I missed you," she says softly. "I'm sorry I accused you of running when I went and did the same thing. I got lost. Thank you for finding me," she adds so quiet and tender Rachel almost doesn't hear it. But dark eyes hold onto her own, and Rachel's chest heaves with her emotion.

Lights flicker on and off, and the AD claps her hands and calls out the warning, and Rachel sucks in another huge breath.

"You ready to get through one more song?" Santana's smirk is dangerous.

As if on command, Rachel's heartbeat trips unsteadily. The déjà vu is instant.

What they've done is special. Santana's taken the best part of them both and created a song from the pieces. Rachel studies the beautiful face intensely, notes how close Santana is to her now. She smells her perfume, feels her heat. "I'm ready for the world, Santana." Rachel says in a low, careful voice.

Santana's kiss is soft and sweet. It lingers, like the last haunting note of an amazing song.

"Get your ass to that mike, Berry," are the words whispered against her lips.

Rachel kisses back just as fiercely, and with a microphone in hand, stands and listens as the Cat Deeley introduces her once again.

With the world in front of her, and Santana beside her, the music plays and the show goes on.

EPILOGUE

Nothing Really Matters

But the Beat

- David Guetta, Nothing Really Matters

It's not until Santana Lopez openly tongue-kisses Rachel Berry on live national television on X-Voice Choice in Los Angeles she realizes that if people are like songs, then her life has quite suddenly become a duet.

Santana shouldn't be surprised. She's known for a while now how music ebbs and flows, how beats are constructed, how notes are built together in such a way that it can suck the soul right out of a person and put them back together again.

And she's really fucking good at it. It's the music. It infects her. It takes her over. The pulse scorches her, digs into her bloodstream and pumps through her body. Nothing else really seems to matter.

Okay, nothing else USED to matter, but that's not really the case anymore.

Duets mean that she now has a partner. A long-term, monogamous adult relationship with a hot up-and-coming pop singer slash Broadway starlet who is more than likely the love of her life, which, apparently doesn't vibe with her Super Star DJ – slash- Actress mystique.

At least that's what her manager thought after the said tongue-kissing. But then Santana told him that if he continued to think that way, he could find another person to rep and kiss her ass on his way to unemployment.

He's been a big supporter of her and Rachel ever since. And surprisingly, so have a lot of Santana's fans. Apparently, there's something almost charming about the idea of a lothario being 'tamed'. Quinn, bitch that she is, is amused as hell by it, and says it's the stuff of romance novel: every girl wants to believe that a bad boy (or girl in Santana's case) is capable of reform, that all they need is to find the right woman and suddenly they transform into the perfect devoted husband (or wife).

Of course it's a load of bullshit, because anyone who knows the real Santana remembers that she is at her happiest when she's in a monogamous, long-term relationship, but the public sees what it wants to, and as far as they're concerned, she's the Prince (Princess but for some reason people keep wanting to stick the masculine thing on her) in some crazy fairytale that stars her and Rachel as star-crossed lovers.

And yeah, making up and making out for the first time in months in front of a studio audience didn't help any, but whatever, shit happens. Rachel sang for her, bled out her soul for her in public, and in the wake of that, Santana, who was already broken and desperately in love and scared as hell about it, stood no chance.

Her love for Rachel is all encompassing, torrid and in no way fleeting.

Not that it's always easy with Rachel. It's not. Santana may be happiest when she's got a partner, but that doesn't mean she's used to it anymore. Being an international celebrity used to mean being able to fly off at a moment's notice, and nowadays fleeing an argument doesn't just mean leaving the room when she's angry, but maybe flying off to another continent. Santana is too used to doing whatever she wants, whenever she wants it. And she's selfish enough to want to be resentful sometimes when she realizes that she can't. She and Rachel are both passionate and dramatic, and that means that these arguments are explosive.

But that never lasts. Because the times when she does have to go overseas, when Rachel is off on a project or touring for her new album or when Santana is on set for a new movie or guesting at some concert, she's fucking lonely, and she thinks about Rachel, and texts Rachel and calls Rachel, and at night, whenever she can, whispers dirty things in her receiver so Rachel can hear them, fingers sliding through her own wetness. She MISSES Rachel wherever she goes, and coming home doesn't mean opening the door to an empty loft.

It means coming home to Rachel.

And yes, sometimes it blows her mind a little that Rachel's the one, after all this time. That never lasts either, because why wouldn't it be Rachel? Rachel's beautiful. She's talented. She's intelligent and sweet and selfish in a way that Santana admires and selfless that Santana envies. She's sexy, with her gorgeous long legs and big brown eyes, and she's devoted, as in this as Santana is.

Santana's not easy, she knows that. She spent months running around different continents when Rachel broke her heart, and never once tried to really fight for the girl she wanted. Santana can be a coward, and she proved it. It took a drunken phone call to even make contact with the woman who she loved, and in the end it was Rachel that didn't give up, who had to go as far as threaten legal action to prove to her that they were worth it.

But God, Santana has to admire it. What Rachel wants, Rachel gets, and she looked at Santana and looked at her career and decided she wanted both and fuck it, that's what she got. She's got Santana (wholeheartedly), and she's got her career (climbing steadily), and she's proved to every fuckhead that told her she couldn't have both that they're idiots.

She's got the band on her left hand that proves how idiotic they are.

Santana knows she got lucky. She won't ever forget it.

Because yeah, Santana still gets VIP lists and paparazzi and a reputation and invitations to lots of meaningless sex with some seriously gorgeous women. That's what the fame gets her.

But now, she's also got Rachel, whose kisses linger on her lips when she comes home like she won't ever get enough, who smiles at her when she plays her latest song like she's fucking Mozart, who wears her ring proudly on her finger and tells any interviewer that will listen that Santana Lopez is the best thing that's ever happened to her. That's what the music's earned her.

And this music? This duet?

This is her home.

FIN