Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters. I do, however, own Maria Arioso.
A/N: Hey guys, it's been a while. I've had a few tough months—lots of music, lots of hectic events, some technical issues, and the death of a friend of the family. But here's your chapter! Thank yous to thetamarine, thenerdwithoutglasses, notoveru, maxibear23, Black-Ink32, FeelingGrey, SoFlaComet, Musicfutbolfan6, lealover, Drika Achele, Shellmar, musicwolf89, sekehowlka, gayarm-agron, seekingoutfriday, YourInnate, Jess-Sel, Gleelover47, DA, LoveSKINS94, JPElles, Nightlancer600, ch3lsk0, McrFreak1991, NeniioN, lochie17, Wildlilflower, ohahahahah, CanadianPianoMan, mythic-lionheart, Sithlord223, snixnbritt, Boss Ninja SupremaH, iu-atticus, Jess, supernena25, Love-Knows-No-Boundaries-101, Lisaand, Athyna DaughterofPosiedon, gleefulness, Cassie Noir, Kali-blue, Pie56, Guest, Anon, Dr-Tan, dd fans, MC-GAR-IL, fridaglee17, fireman12468, D3MI-D3M0N, GleekPotterhead, musicmad10, .blah, docebarbara, xxPLLforeverxxx, and lanzaninalTA for their awesome reviews. Please read and review when you get finished, love to hear what you think. Enjoy.
Chapter 20: Set List
The aged paper shook in her hands, threatening to tear at its fragile creases.
Her heart pounded in her chest as a cocktail of emotions threatened control she'd spent the better part of her life cultivating.
She felt anger—anger at having been left in the dark for so long. For having been left to piece together bits of a puzzle left scattered around her Fathers' divorce. For having been stripped of the right to know the truth.
Frustration… Frustration at having been handed this little slice of what was the truth she so fervently desired. The pieces that she salvaged from the scrap of paper held in her trembling, sweat-soaked fingers provided more questions than answers.
She prayed she would open her eyes and the paper in her hand; a yellowed, crinkled, and tear stained thing, would tell her the lies she wished to see.
A declaration of falling out of love. How each couldn't bear to see the other unhappy, trapped in a marriage that just hadn't worked in years. That Leroy Johnson and Hiram Berry had fallen to pieces and put themselves back together without holding the anger they had fostered in their hearts.
That they'd managed, in a final act of selflessness, to sign the divorce papers without malice left in hearts.
The frightening untruths she'd told herself for so many years suddenly seemed so much less agonizing than the numb reality Papa's scathing letter offered.
Rachel fabricated those lies to protect herself.
To tamp down the rising sense of guilt and thought that, perhaps, she was to blame for her Fathers' divorce.
And that guilt, that painful thought, had gone away the more she repeated the lie.
Time healed all wounds, her therapist in San Diego told her as she sat woodenly in the chair before him, staring blankly at the mahogany surface of his immaculate desk, believing her own lying reflection.
He'd forgotten, Rachel thought, a good proper dose of dishonesty never failed to smooth over the scars. Time might close the wounds, but it left behind ugly, unsightly scars.
It never stopped the hurting.
But dishonesty? Dishonesty soothed them over. Took the edge off the pain. Make them more presentable.
It was addicting. Something more potent than Morphine or Vicodin. The urge to lie, to fabricate covered even the gnarliest of scars. Made the agony invisible.
It took a certain type of person to lie convincingly. The greatest amount of skill to convince others you were perfectly fine despite the fact you might be dying inside.
It took a lot to smile when something inside you felt decayed and destroyed.
Lying to yourself, Rachel knew, was the greatest deception of all. Could only done by the greatest deceivers.
She'd done it for years.
But now, in the face of this letter… in the face of this truth… Everything fell to pieces.
The stories.
She couldn't keep up the act. Couldn't keep smiling, believing in her delusional fabrications of a history she knew couldn't be further away from the absolute truth.
She couldn't deceive herself.
Not anymore.
Rachel pulled the paper from her chest, tracing the sloped edge of her father's writing with a careful eye.
One sentence stood out most. Pulled her from mourning the loss of her fathers' relationship. Stopped her from placing the final, hefty weights of guilt on totally upon Leroy's shoulder. Cleared her mind.
That woman.
"My mother," Rachel whispered.
Her surrogate mother, she corrected. The person who'd donated her body and DNA in order to provide Leroy and Hiram Berry with their only daughter.
Her fathers hadn't told Rachel much about her mother. Merely that they'd wanted a child around a year or two after their marriage.
Hiram told her they'd looked to adopt at first. They had love in their hearts—enough to share with a child whose parents discarded him. Enough love to share with a child that truly needed them.
But Ohio didn't care about their love. Ohio lagged behind the other states that were accepting of the partnership and love the Berry men shared for one another.
Their attempts to adopt were left without success. The "system" granted others children first. Ignored their open arms, the love they offered, and the home they would provide for a wanting child.
So they went another route.
Surrogacy.
They'd gone through an agency at first—been told by a family friend that it was the cleanest way to go. Everything would be taken care of and arranged seamlessly. Contracts wouldn't have to be dealt with and Leroy wouldn't need to use his connections to pull an airtight contract.
They searched through the surrogate profiles, carefully combing over each and every little detail. The best candidates were granted interviews with the Berry men. Leroy and Hiram invited them into their home, sat the women across the table, and conversed with them.
They looked for little things. Things they admired in each other in these women. Things they wanted their daughter to possess. Intelligence, beauty, and temperament. The way her eyes sparkled when she spoke, the slightest mannerisms. The Berrys observed every little tic and twitch, eliminating undesirables.
Several months came and went, yet Hiram and Leroy were no closer to having a child than before.
They were disillusioned, discouraged. They'd started the whole affair thinking they'd have their child in their arms in a few short months, yet a year passed swiftly and still there was no child.
They'd searched so long, fought so hard, but they had nothing to show for it.
Was there any point to trying?
Would they ever find the right woman?
…Shouldn't they just give up? Prevent themselves from being disappointed?
And they had been just about ready to give up.
Until around a month later.
Leroy Berry sat in a local coffee shop, mulling over a cup of Sumatra, jacket haphazardly over the arm of his chair.
He'd finished work down at the firm for the day and stopped for a cup.
He needed something. Anything to prevent him from returning home to a nursery that had lain empty for nearly three years and his husband's aching grief.
Anything to forget the aching in his chest and his waning hope for a child that might never exist.
His hand shook around his cup and his jaw clenched. The light in his eyes faded ever so slightly. A little more of him gave up.
Until the rustle of a microphone, the clearing of static, and a gentle tap against the metal facing caught his attention.
A girl, no older than 18, stood before the microphone, chuckling nervously at the audience.
She was pretty—wavy chocolate hair, sun-kissed cheeks, and a unique looking nose set against a chiseled face. Her worn, tan corduroy jacket hung flatteringly against her curves, her neck bundled in a scarf, legs encased in dark, skintight denim tucked into dark leather boots.
Her movements were jittery—nervous as she shifted the microphone before her stool. It was almost endearing, the awkwardness the nameless girl on stage possessed in front of this small audience.
"Hey everyone, welcome," she threw an anxious smile at the mindlessly chattering crowd. She pulled a guitar from a hard shell case, pulling herself onto the stool and setting it on her knee. "I'm gonna do a couple songs for you. I hope you enjoy."
She gave the guitar a gentle strum, smiling as the guitar sounded out a rainbow of notes. Her eyes closed as she started in on the song, leaning forward at the microphone.
"…My name is Luka… I live on the second floor."
The words were sung in a smooth, smoky alto. The girl transfigured into a woman as the song crescendoed in strength.
The music crawled down Leroy's spine, forced itself into his blood, weaseled its way into his head, and echoed throughout the walls of his mind.
His heart filled with a strange sort of warmth. It reached the emptiness in his heart, changed it from a longing to an urging. An urging to step forward and ask the girl sitting on the stage that vital question.
And at the end of the set, he'd done just that. He'd gone and asked, and soon the contract was drawn up, the money arranged, and a nursery redone to prepare for their new baby girl.
After Rachel was born, her mother took the money and left Ohio for New York to make it big on Broadway.
That had been almost 17 years ago.
There had been a time when Rachel wanted to meet her mother. A small, brief sliver of time where she longed for someone to comb back her hair, smile at her, and sing her high and soft lullabies.
But her fathers had taken care of her—given her everything she'd needed until the day they divorced, so she hadn't thought much of her.
Rachel had all the love she needed.
She had a family.
And now her mother was part of the puzzle. Part of the reason everything had fallen apart.
Or… Perhaps she'd been innocent? Perhaps Hiram was at fault?
The letter only served as Papa's point of view. It did not offer anything other than his truths.
If she wanted to figure anything out, she'd need to talk to everyone. Find out everything.
Rachel closed her eyes, drawing in a shaking breath.
She needed to pull herself together. Needed to take a step back and look at everything objectively.
The paper was set back in the desk as she found it; buried among the memories Leroy accrued over his short-lived period as a husband and father. She closed the drawers and set everything back as she found it.
Rachel closed the door to the study with a slow 'click.' She leaned against the chipped wood of the door, her hands reaching up to rub tiredly at her eyes.
So much to absorb. So much to talk about. So much to do. So many questions.
…So much on the tip of her tongue. So many things she needed to talk about.
And as she reached for her phone, Rachel was surprised to find the first person she'd thought to call wasn't her best friend, Maria.
…But Quinn.
Her finger was against the glowing digits of Quinn's number. She'd done it unknowingly. Without thought. Done it without making a conscious decision.
It alarmed her, made her tremble in fright.
Quinn Fabray had crawled further into her heart than she'd thought.
And now that Rachel had given her a pass. Given Quinn the key to opening her deepest thoughts. To awaken things she hadn't wondered in years.
She made herself vulnerable. Willingly made herself vulnerable.
It scared Rachel.
But she would have to trust Quinn. Give her a fraction of the trust she'd shown Rachel.
After all, how could they be friends if they didn't trust one another?
Trust was, after all, paramount in a friendship.
(She tried to think of what sort of other human interaction required trust, though her mind silently cried "a relationship").
No, no, she couldn't fall into this too quickly.
She wouldn't let herself.
Trusting too quickly ruined things. Ruined her. Ruined everything.
Rachel wouldn't risk herself until she was sure she could give over all her trust.
So she let her finger freeze against the button and promised tomorrow.
She would call Quinn tomorrow. Set something up, tall everything out and get her advice.
But right now she would call Maria. Maria would help her.
Maria would always help her. Nothing about that had ever changed over the last five years, and Rachel supposed it never would.
As she ran up the stairs to her room, leaving the letter and the contents of her Father's desk behind, Rachel ignored the dangerous thoughts that ran through her mind.
Things that she couldn't think yet, wouldn't think yet.
She ignored the thought that Quinn would always help her as well.
Perhaps more than Maria.
"You look a little worse for wear this morning."
Rachel's eyes snapped from the contents of her locker to meet clear green. She threw Quinn a tired smile as she pulled the last textbook from her locker, unceremoniously slamming the door shut. "I've felt better."
The gentle curve in Quinn's lips faded ever so slightly. She held her binder closer to her chest, the brightness in her eyes dulling. "I'm guessing what you found in your Dad's drawer didn't answer a lot of questions?"
Rachel chuckled. "Oh no. It answered a lot of questions. It just didn't answer enough…" She shook her head. "And… I… didn't really like what I did find."
She dropped her weight against her locker, banging her head against the metal. "Have you ever hated the way things had gone down in your life so much that you wished you could change everything? Regretted something or—I don't know—just didn't want to believe a truth that's been dangling in front of your face for years?"
Rachel closed her eyes. "Have you ever lied to yourself?"
Something in Quinn seemed to snap. The confident lines of her shoulders drooped, tired from bearing the weight of some unspoken truth.
A melancholy aura seemed to hang about her shoulders. A small, wistful smile took residence on world weary lips. "I think there isn't a person alive who hasn't lied to himself, Rachel."
"I-I know… It's just-." She struggled to find the right words. "I had this fantasy in my head that maybe… just maybe, they'd divorced because they cared so much about each other. That they didn't want to make each other miserable.
"Thinking that way helped me to move forward, just a little bit," she opened her eyes. "It helped patch up the holes a little bit.
"But this whole time it's been nothing but a sick little schoolgirl fantasy," Rachel's voice swelled with anger. "Instead, I have to find out through a scrap of paper that my Dad might not be as innocent and loving as I imagined him to be." She paused. "And that my Mom might've had something to do with it."
Rachel heard Quinn's breathing hitch in surprise.
"…Your mom?" Quinn's voice rose in pitch. "Your mom has something to do with the divorce?"
Rachel chuckled. "That's exactly what Maria sounded like last night… 'Cept I think she said something more like: 'the crazy ass incubator had something to do with it? It wasn't the fucking butler?'"
"Really?" Quinn quirked a brow in amusement. "What other words of wisdom have been handed down from the great Maria Arioso?"
"She recommends I start a thorough background check and 'go after the bitch,'" Rachel stated wryly.
Quinn chuckled. "So have you started 'goin' after the bitch?'"
Rachel bit her lip. "I don't think I can. I don't really know anything about my mother."
Quinn tilted her head to the side, puzzled. "You don't have any contact with her?"
Rachel shook her head. "No. It… Wasn't exactly allowed or encouraged. My Dads had a pretty strict contract with her regarding dos and do nots."
"A contract?"
"My bio mom wasn't to call or try to contact me until I was at least eighteen," Rachel explained. "Papa said it was a standard surrogacy contract drawn up by my Dad. Transferred all her parental rights over to my Dads."
"So you've…" Quinn paused, "so you've never tried to find out who she was?"
"It's never really been that important to me," Rachel shrugged. "There's been some times I've wondered who she is. But I've always had my Dads, and they loved me. I didn't need a mother while I had them. I never had to wonder. It didn't matter." Her eyes darkened, reddening about the pupils. "Well… until now."
They stood in silence for a moment before Quinn spoke. "You know you're not alone in this, right?" She loosened one hand from about her binder and clasped Rachel's hand. "We're all here for you… I'm here for you. You don't have to go about this alone, Rachel."
The corner of Rachel's lips quirked up. "I know." She squeezed Quinn's hand. "I'm… glad that I'm not alone in all this anymore. I'm really thankful to have you as a friend."
Something pained entered Quinn's smile. "Yeah… Friends."
The bell rang somewhere in the distance. Rachel's smile widened to a grin as she pushed off the locker, giving Quinn's hand a little tug.
"Come on, let's stop being deep and philosophical for the morning," she nodded down the hall. "Let's laugh at Schue's terrible Spanish accent and conjugate verbs in the subjunctive form for the fifty millionth time."
"A bit of an exaggeration, no?" Quinn asked, amused. "And I thought you enjoyed Spanish with Mr. Schue. Because you've learned so much this year."
Rachel scowled. "Don't get started with me, Quinn Fabray. I'm not sure I'm liking the sarcasm you've got working. Might have to revoke our friendship status."
"Too late," Quinn grinned. "Keepsies. You're stuck with me, Berry."
Rachel shook her head. "Come on, class, before we're late."
They started down the hall to Spanish together, speaking in low, soft tones.
When Quinn finally released her fingers, Rachel froze. The digits burned as she flexed them, keeping her eyes locked to the worksheet Schue handed out as busy work.
She hadn't been aware they'd held hands the entire way to class.
Rachel swore.
She didn't need this. Not right now.
"You'd think one win would help pull us together," Rachel huffed, fingers busily separating bits of sheet music from one another. "That it'd show them when we work together, we make wonderful things happen. But it's just divided us." She threw up her hands in frustration, burying them in her hair.
She'd been naïve. Thought that a victory would unite them. Would convince them that together, by contributing tiny bits of themselves into the music and the flow of the choreography, they could do wondrous things.
She thought it would be easy to find an anthem. Something to bring them all together and to share their voice.
She couldn't have been more wrong.
She'd sat there, sandwiched between Tina and Quinn, Artie sitting a row in front of them, ready with a new proposal.
A RENT set list.
It would play on their strengths—a strong ensemble with a hard-edged male lead and enough variation in females' voices to cover a majority of the club. A song with enough soul for Mercedes to riff on, a good song for the hard, rock-edge of Puck's voice, then some nice duets and solos in between.
RENT was a story about the underdog. About rising to meet the challenges thrown at them by those that would destroy them. People that looked down upon them simply because they failed to meet the conventional standards of society.
It seemed a perfect fit for Rachel.
Artie had enthusiastically agreed with her choice and started on the arrangements while Brittany and Quinn focused on some prototype choreography.
She planned to make a pitch that the entirety of the Glee club would approve of. A set list they could unite together upon once more and bring out that bit of potential she'd seen in the videos. That little spark of brilliance they'd brought out by working together to bring down the competition at Sectionals.
But they wouldn't unite behind it.
"You went behind our backs and created a set list?" Mercedes had been the first to speak. Her arms lay crossed against her chest as she narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Rachel.
"A set list that I think would benefit us most," Rachel replied. She stepped forward. "We worked together last time. We worked together, buckled down, and did what needed to be done. We ended up sweeping the competition."
"But it's not a set list we decided on together," Mercedes countered. She pointed at the rest of the kids in New Directions. "We won Sectionals. Us. Not you or your set list. It was us working together that won it."
"And would you really have worked together if we hadn't made the decision?" Rachel questioned. She shook her head. "And I wasn't the only one who worked on that set list. Artie helped write the music, Brittany helped with the choreography, and Quinn helped with the voicing.
"I'm not the only one that worked to put everything together," Rachel said. She gestured to the first row. "The heart of this club worked hard to get us where we needed to go. You can't point fingers at a single person here and say that they're wholly responsible for what we did at Sectionals, because a piece of every person was in that set."
"I don't think we all had a say in it."
All eyes in the room turned to where Finn sat, locking determined gazes with Rachel.
"I didn't get to decide a thing about that set list," Finn argued. "You didn't listen to a single thing I said about the songs or about the choreography.
"And Kurt didn't get a say, or Sam, or Mercedes," he continued. "No one really agreed. You just decided what we were going to do and forced us to go along with it!
"And I don't think it's fair that everyone didn't get a say in it," Finn shook his head. "I think that the set list should be something that we all agree on. I think if we'd done something we all agreed on, we could've done better."
The self assured, smug, knowledgeable way Finn stated his opinion made Rachel want to slug him across the cheek.
The crimson played against Rachel's irises as her irritation rose. She flexed her fingers, chewing her tongue as an annoying smirk spread across Finn's lips.
God, could she hit him?
"I think you're an idiot, Finnocent."
Rachel's eyes widened in surprise.
Santana scowled down at Finn from her place behind him, arms crossed.
"If you think we would've won without that set list," Santana spat, "without the goddamned Irish tyrant, without Britt's choreography, and without Berry, then you've got an even lower IQ than I initially thought ya had.
"If we'd gone out there doing—wait, what did we want to do originally?" Santana scratched her chin in mock thought. "That's right, we didn't have a set list before Rachel gave us hers!"
"We would've had one eventually," Finn pouted. "We just needed more time."
"You wanted more time?!" Santana laughed. "Ay dios! We had two weeks left and we still hadn't come to an agreement! You think we were suddenly going to agree on a set list?! The only thing you've got going for yourself must be those puffy pastry nipples you've got hangin' from your chest! I can't think of anything else interesting about you, since you don't got a brain!"
"At least I'm not a whore."
"At least I can get a girl."
"Slut!"
"That's really the best you can do, Finncompetant? You really are all about them moobs!"
"Everyone!" Schue shouted, clapping his hands over the crescendo of the argument.
As the sound died down, Schue turned back to the group. "I think that Rachel's set list is a great idea."
"I knew he'd see reason-."
"—But if we can't all agree on it," Schue continued, "then I don't see how we can perform it successfully. I think we need to search for an anthem we can all appreciate."
Santana's jaw dropped. "You have to be shitting me."
"Mr. Schue, this is something we've really worked hard on," Tina piped up from the back row. "You can't just zone us out like that."
"I think that the majority rules," Artie nodded. "We should perform our set list, despite what anyone else says. This is our anthem!"
"Exactly, it's your anthem, Artie," Schue nodded. "It's your anthem, and that's great. But we need something to represent us as a whole and monopolizing the set list isn't the best way to represent our vision."
"This is bullshit!" Santana hissed.
"That's your opinion, Santana," Schue had said. "I want each and every one of you to bring a song to perform that you think best represents your vision for the club. We'll make a set list out of that. It'll be a united opinion."
That had been Schue's steadfast decision.
And so, after school, Rachel made the rather angry drive down to the local sheet music store to find a new set list that would hopefully appease every single monster in the Glee Club.
She'd been forced to throw away a set list she believed in—that they'd all believed in and felt best represented their group as a whole.
It tore her up inside.
"I don't think they understand cause and effect yet, Rachel," Quinn chuckled. "They don't understand working together equals a victory. I think they think that a win means they're qualified to make the decisions you made for the set."
"And they are," Rachel sighed. "In a group."
"Why Miss Berry," Quinn mock gasped. "Are you saying that we are not qualified to make decisions you can make alone?"
"I didn't say that about everyone," Rachel said slowly, flashing Quinn a shifty grin. "I'm sure Finn could make a mature decision for the entirety of the group."
Quinn scowled. "You did not just say what I thought you said."
Rachel smirked. "That Finn Hudson was a rational, mature, role model that all individuals in New Directions should aspire to follow?" She shook her head, returning her gaze back down to the sheet music. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I did say that."
"Sarcasm isn't appreciated," Quinn shook a finger in Rachel's direction.
"Well," Rachel lifted a stack of sheet music, sorting through the pages. "Now you know how I feel, hmm?"
"Be nice."
"It's hard to be nice when your set list is thrown down the tubes," Rachel groaned. "I don't understand what we're going to do now. RENT made sense as a set—it flowed and it carried the universal message of the underdog winning.
"Now," she leaned against the stack, resting her chin on her arms. "Now I don't know what song would flow into another. Or well… I don't know enough songs they would all okay enough to go into the set list. I feel like we're at a stopping point, Quinn. Like we were progressing, and now all of a sudden we have to stop and stagnate."
Rachel sighed. "I hate it."
She jumped slightly as she felt Quinn's hand rest on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.
"We'll just have to keep looking until we find those songs then," Quinn's voice was soft, reassuring. "They're out there, somewhere. We just have to keep on moving."
"And remember," Quinn's hand traveled down Rachel's shoulder to rest at her back, squeezing Rachel against her chest. "You're not in this alone. We're all going to help you find the right set."
"What if you didn't need to find the songs?"
Their heads snapped up. Rachel's eyes narrowed.
Jesse St. James smiled pleasantly from his spot across the music stacks, hands jammed comfortably into his pockets.
Dark blue eyes sparkled in amusement as Rachel straightened, browns hardening to a steely burnt sienna.
"What do you want?" Her voice was hard-edged, her muscles stiff and statuesque beneath Quinn's fingers.
"To help," he replied smoothly. He began a slow saunter around the stack. "You and I didn't exactly get off on the right foot last time. I was a bit condescending and I admit, I thought you might be just like any other girl."
A smile played across the edges of his lips. "But you're not, Rachel Berry. You're different from anyone I've ever met. You're interesting."
"I'm glad to amuse you," Rachel replied. "But I'm not in the mood to deal with you right now. So if you'd please just-."
"I'm trying to be friendly," Jesse interjected. "I'm trying not only to extend a hand in friendship, but to offer a critique as your opponent."
Silence followed, the two of them staring each other down.
Jesse moved forward, turning toward a stack, lifting title after title. "Lady Gaga's songs are an anthem to those that are different. Still, others like Taylor Swift write about wrongs and juvenile love. Each song is, in and of itself, an anthem, wouldn't you say?
"The difference between you performing these songs and the writer performing these songs?" Jesse dropped the sheets down. "These songs are an anthem for the writers that wrote them. They mean something personal and intimate. A performer merely borrows those experiences. There isn't enough of a connection between the song and the performance done by a second rate wannabe."
"So what do you suggest we do?" Quinn spoke out. Her arm curled protectively about Rachel's shoulders. "You want us to write songs?"
Jesse laughed. "I'm not suggesting all of you write songs. There needs to be something special in you to do something like create music… But I know some of you have it. That spark."
His eyes flashed toward Rachel. "I know she has it."
Rachel studied him curiously. "And what do you get out of this? Why give us advice?"
"Why?" Jesse shrugged. "Because I'd actually like to have a challenge this year at Regionals. Because I want to see what you can do." His voice lowered. "And because I'd actually love to get to know you a little, Rachel Berry."
Warnings sounded off in every direction. Everything in her mind told her not to listen to Jesse. Told her to just ignore his advice and any offer of anything he might want.
But her eyes studied him, searched for that clever glint in his eye, the smarminess she detected the first time she'd met him. She wanted to find something false in the curve of his brow or the earnestness of his smile.
But there was nothing. Nothing false in the brightness of his eyes. Nothing except some sort of genuine curiosity and… awe?
She swallowed, lowering her shoulders and grounding herself before she spoke. "Perhaps we'll take your advice. And what is it that you want in return?"
"Rachel?" Quinn uttered in surprise. Hazel eyes flashed gold for a split second before Rachel threw a smile over her shoulder, quieting them to a solid green.
"I just want to be able to talk to you," Jesse responded. "I promise I won't pull anything shifty. Just a solid friendship and some healthy competition. That's all I want."
Rachel ground her jaw, eyes flickering down before coming up again to connect with dark blue.
"We'll give it a try, then," she said, nodding. "But if I think you're lying… if I think that you're being-."
"Shady?" he questioned with a smile. "Then you won't hear of me again. I'll disappear like the good little choir boy I am."
He opened his palm, holding out his phone. "Since we're friends and all… shall we exchange numbers?"
She knotted her jaw, looking up at him sharply before pulling her own phone from her pocket, handing it to him. She programmed the number in quickly, throwing it back to him and receiving her own back.
"As lovely as this meeting has been," Rachel said with a clenched jaw. "I think I'm going to head home now. You coming, Quinn?"
"In a second, why don't you open the car?" she tossed the keys to Rachel.
"Alright," Rachel looked between Jesse and Quinn for a moment before striding out the door of the shop.
As soon as the last tingles of the bell echoed away, Quinn turned on Jesse, amber flaring in her irises as she watched the smile spread across his lips.
"You're Quinn Fabray," an amused sparkle grew in his eyes. "Captain from last year? Charmed."
"Listen, St. James, I don't know what it is you want with Rachel," Quinn she stepped forward, shoving her finger into his chest. "But I know you want something. I know people like you."
"People like me?" he drawled. "What do 'people like me' want, Miss Fabray?"
"You don't do things like this," she gestured around the shop. "You don't talk to those you think are beneath you unless you think there's something in it for yourself. You don't give a crap what you have to do to get it, just as long as you get something out of it."
"That's a bit of a reach, isn't it?" he asked, pushing his hands back into his pockets. "Why would I go through all this trouble? What is in it for me?"
Quinn searched him, searched every feature. "I don't know what it is you want and I couldn't care less. But so help me, if you hurt Rachel a single bit-."
"You'll do what?" Jesse asked, tilting his head to the side questioningly. "Throw a pom pom in my face? Snap your fingers at me? I know who you are, Miss Fabray. You don't scare me.
"Though it is rather interesting," he smirked. "You seem awfully… protective of Rachel. For someone you've only been around for a few months, you're awfully smitten with her."
He leaned forward. "I wonder if there isn't something that you might want from Rachel."
Quinn flinched, façade broken as Jesse leaned back with that smarmy smirk on still on his lips.
"It's been rather nice chatting with you," he nodded. "But I have to get going now. Lots of practice for my solo at Regionals. I wish you all the luck in the world, Miss Fabray."
He walked around her, sauntering from the shop in a few short moments, leaving Quinn behind.
Quinn lifted a trembling hand to her forehead, closing her eyes and sighing.
He'd seen right through her. Seen right into what she wanted, seen right past every little barrier she'd thrown up in defense of her emotions.
And Quinn… she couldn't read him. She couldn't see what it was that he wanted from them. His ulterior motives.
She shuddered. God, she felt unclean. As though he'd seen every single two by four holding her together with its cheap little craft glue.
His eyes destroyed her.
…She hated Jesse St. James.
She clenched her jaw, shaking herself out of her stupor.
Quinn needed to focus. Pull herself back together. Put the façade back in place.
She wouldn't let Rachel see her shocked. Let her see inside.
It was still too early for that… too early to peel off the mask and to talk about the past.
But it was getting there.
She could see a little bit of Rachel come back day by day. A little more of a smile, a little more of a genuine fire in her eyes.
Quinn clenched her fists.
She would protect that. Protect that fire until it grew strong enough to defend itself from attack.
She wouldn't let Jesse have Rachel.
"I think I've gotten an in. Gave her a little bit of advice… she seems to trust me a bit more."
'That's great. I knew you could do it, Jesse. You just needed to give it some time.'
"Where do we go from here?"
'We get her curious. We make her want to come to me.'
"How do we do that?"
'You'll see. It'll come in good time."
A/N: That's it for this chapter. If you'd like, I reblog a weird mix of video games, tv shows, writing, and random little journal entries on my tumblr, link on my profile page. You can ask me questions or just chat. :) Please review and tell me what you think, I'd love to hear whatever you've got to say.