A/N: What can I say? I'm a terrible, terrible person. If anyone's still reading, sorry times a bajillion for my meanness :)

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She met Puck at a bar halfway between her place and Mike's. Cloud Lounge was too pretentious for words, catering for the few yupsters who had survived past the 90s. Abstract water features hung from the walls, while Asian-looking lanterns had somehow escaped the attention of the fire marshal.

She'd let Puck order for her, so she got stuck drinking a Vesper Martini and trying not to gag with every vicious sip. Puck though he had a chance with the pretty redhead who served them.

"You know these cocktail waitresses probably get hit on ten times a day by lame-ass James Bond wannabes, right?"

He scowled at her briefly before once again checking out the waitress so blatantly it made her skin crawl. "But they ain't ever been hit on by me."

"Lucky them," she mumbled behind her glass.

He drained his drink, turning away from his prey with a forlorn look. "What's Satan's problem today, anyway?"

"Work sucks. Life blows. Can't get laid." She shrugged. "And that's the good stuff."

Puck looked at her disbelievingly. "At least you're not stuck living with Vanessa. Seriously, Mike's girl has got to go. If you bundled your bitchiness, with Berry's neurosis and Quinn's psychosis, you still wouldn't even have a drop on that chick."

Santana rolled her eyes. She really didn't want another bitch session about how Vanessa made him cradle decoration cushions to the floor before sitting, so they wouldn't get mussed. "Look, whatever, one problem at a time. First we get rid of Rachel's other half and if there's time we'll get back to Mike's bitch infestation."

"What did St. Jerkrag do now?"

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. She didn't know what to say. She didn't have proof. All she had was a burning need to see Jesse in pain. "I went to see Rachel this morning. She has a concussion."

The lightness in Puck's eyes died down to a distant glimmer, an unusual seriousness lacing his tone. "And you think he did it?"

"Don't you?"

He thought over his words carefully. "I don't know, Santana. That's serious stuff. You know I can't stand the guy, but Rachel's never even hinted that…"

Her glass slipped from her fingers, the tender base clinking on the table in distress. "And what's the other explanation? Rachel sustains two serious, yet completely unrelated injuries in a month? She's on Broadway not a fucking hockey rink."

"But you didn't see anything?"

"No." she replied sullenly, but her mind was pulling her back. Back to that perfectly ordered apartment. Every door was shut, except for one. The office maybe? Blood on the pillow, but not enough considering the cut was still weeping when she'd dressed it. It had to have been cleaned before Rachel got into bed. Her pretty face was sallow from multiple injuries. Her tanned skin had looked perfect in the dim bedroom…but not in the brightly lit bathroom.

"She had bruises on her arm!" she cried almost triumphantly. "Just here." She gestured below her own shoulder for reference. "Could be consistent with finger marks."

She'd probably scanned over Rachel's body out of habit, but like any good doctor, she'd focused on the serious injury and ignored everything else.

Puck looked away. "That doesn't prove anything."

"Fuck you it doesn't! I thought Rachel was 'your Jew' or whatever and now that she needs your help, you just make up pathetic excuses."

His jaw clenched so tightly she wondered how he didn't break anything. "And how exactly am I meant to help?" he demanded. He ran an agitated hand through his hair. "Shit! I wish you hadn't of told me this."

Inexplicably she felt tears burn behind her eyes. She'd fallen into this mess so hard and so fast, she had yet to catch her breath. She didn't know how to help, but she'd been so certain that Puck would. Rachel had been part of his life before the small brunette had swallowed hers whole.

"Whatever else you were, I never thought you were a coward."

Puck glared at her. "What, you think I'm scared of Jesse?" he scoffed.

"Maybe you just don't want to get involved. Maybe you just don't want to get your lily-white life all dirtied up with someone else's mess."

"Fuck you, San," he told her disgustedly. "I'd do anything for Rach. You want to ride in like a white fucking knight, because five seconds ago you decided you wanted to get into her pants? Too bad. It doesn't work like that."

Now not only were her eyes watering, she had the uncontrollable urge to sniff as well. "You think that's the only reason? I'm not a complete fucking monster, okay. Maybe I just don't want to have to imagine tiny, defenceless girls getting their skulls bashed in."

She would not cry. Not over this. But that didn't mean she couldn't hurt.

Puck read her as easily as he always had. "Ah shit," he grumbled, sliding next to her in their booth. "That's not what I meant. It makes me sick thinking about Rachel hurting like that. But Rachel's not 'defenceless', San. Not even close and you know it. If I thought it would help, I'd break every bone in Jesse's body, but hurting him—it would only push her away." He hooked his arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently. "And then you'd never get laid."

She half-smiled. "So what do we do?"

There was a long pause. He hated the answer just as much as she would. "Nothing," he said tiredly. "We can nudge Rachel in the right direction when we can, and let Jesse know we're watching…But, at the end of the day, it's all up to Rachel and there's not a thing in the world we can do to force her. Nobody can make her leave Jesse. Nobody can even make her want to leave him. All we can do is be there."

"That's some sucky wisdom, right there."

He hugged her a little tighter. "Yep."

"I hate when you're right."

"I know."

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The lobby was filled with familiar faces: the theatrephiles and culture whores who had never missed an opening night, the small collection of devoted fans who just knew they'd found the next Nathan Lane, and families with their starry-eyed children—just another generation of vicious rivals she'd have to compete with in a few years.

A pretty blonde in her forties clutched her hand and exclaimed what a shame it was that she wasn't performing tonight. It stroked her ego in all the right places, even as she demurely praised Rebecca, her stand-in.

"You and Jesse St. James are just magical on stage. I can't wait to see you together again."

Rachel was relieved when Puck waltzed through the door.

She waved brightly and he grinned as he spotted her.

He gave her a small hug, which couldn't have been more brotherly if he'd pounded her on the back, but for some reason it left her feeling queasy with guilt. She had to remind herself that they weren't doing anything wrong three times before her smile stopped wavering.

She'd never done anything wrong with Puck.

Jesse's insecurities were beyond uncalled for.

So why did she feel like she was in the wrong just for standing beside him?

"Looking good, Jew-Berry." He gave his trademark smirk.

She tugged on the lapel of his jacket. "I almost can't believe you're the same boy who tried to steal an ATM."

He grinned sheepishly. "You're never gonna let that one go are you?"

She giggled but didn't answer. "Where's your date anyway? You know I had to trade down just to get three seats together. Honestly Noah, you really should have informed me of the full party numbers much earlier. Now we're in the back, left orchestra, so we may as well just stand in the middle of 47th and hope for the best. The acoustics would probably be just as good."

A voice chimed in behind her. "Has anyone ever told you you're prone to dramatics?"

Rachel turned slowly.

Santana was dressed in a black, spaghetti-strapped cocktail dress, a layer of sparkling tulle giving some volume to the skirt. Her inky-dark hair was pulled into a tight French twist.

If she'd felt guilty seeing Puck, it was nothing compared to how she felt with Santana.

"I didn't know you would be here tonight."

Santana raised a brow, a flicker in her eyes let Rachel know she'd heard the unease in her voice. "Should I not be here?"

Rachel shook her head mutely. Her face felt hot enough to leave her dizzy and she had to clutch her dress to ease the dampness on her palms.

She couldn't speak until she'd shaken the feeling of Jesse's eyes, harsh and knowing on her back.

Santana simply watched her, a mild challenge in her gaze.

Her words came out soft but earnest. "You look beautiful, Santana."

"We better get inside," Puck suggested. He was far more amused than he should have been.

Santana slid in beside her as they walked through the bustling halls. "We should probably talk."

Rachel nodded but quickened her pace till they were in their seats.

Whatever she was feeling seemed to dissolve along with the theatre's lights.

Her whole body felt aglow when Jesse walked onto the stage. She had to hold her hands together so she didn't applaud recklessly as Jesse's character sang and danced his way from his murderous past into a new life.

The steps were simple, yet clever when put together. She could picture Mike on the front of the stage, easing them all through rehearsals.

But that voice…It was glorious. The gravelly lows and shimmering highs—they were almost too perfect.

Every time Jesse walked on stage, she couldn't help falling a little bit in love.

After getting to New York, she'd quickly realised that there were a hundred girls with voices that rivalled hers, and looks that left her feeling like a frumpy fifteen-year-old, but she'd yet to meet a single person that could make her feel the way Jesse did when he was on stage.

When the curtains closed for intermission, Santana dragged Rachel's still dreamy form into an empty alcove.

Both girls leant against opposing columns.

Rachel twirled the star on her finger nervously while Santana stared her down.

"So do you come to the theatre much?"

"Seriously?' Santana choked. "No, Rachel. I find the way they're covered in more red velvet than a French brother, with stupid reliefs carved into every spare inch of stone a little much for my taste."

Rachel's lips parted twice without response. Santana grinned evilly.

"Well," she huffed, "if anything is entitled to a little theatrics, it must be the theatre."

It's was funny how everything that came out of Rachel's mouth seemed far more charming than it should have.

Santana took four large steps to stand within touching distance of Rachel.

"You haven't called." Santana hadn't really expected anything different. "I suppose that says enough."

"I didn't know what to say."

Santana reached out to touch the single sleeve of Rachel's blush-coloured dress. "I like this, by the way."

Her fingers dipped below the strap, tracing down Rachel's arm. She circled the faint green skin that she was certain few others had spotted. Her expression turned melancholy so quickly it almost frightened Rachel.

"What?" Her eyes followed the path of Santana's fingers. "Oh. I bumped into a cupboard."

"I know," Santana agreed ironically. Her lips quirked sadly. For a good actress, Rachel had some less than mediocre lies.

Rachel felt so perfect. Her body was only millimetres away, her skin warm and smooth in her palm.

She brushed her lips against Rachel's once, twice, and swallowed the shuddering breath she let out. Kissing Rachel was far too natural.

"Please don't," Rachel asked painfully.

Santana stilled, their noses still touching gently. "Why?"

If Rachel felt even half of what Santana did, her skin had to be unhealthily hot, and her stomach whirring painfully with pure need. If she had that same aching hollow inside her, she would not be asking to stop for anything.

Rachel tilted her head back, drawing in oxygen fast enough for her rocketing pulse. "Because—because I'm not that girl. I saw Rebecca about to buy an ice-cream from a vendor that was clearly ill and I told her not to."

"Um?"

Rachel fixed her eyes on Santana, begging her to understand. "I could have let her eat it. I could have prayed that she caught whatever disgusting illness was being traded around in the dessert. And I would have been happy when she was too sick to perform. But I didn't. I can't be that selfish diva who takes what she wants without caring about the consequences."

She'd worked really hard to not be that person. In high school she's pushed for everything so hard she'd broken every one of her friendships more than once.

"I wish you were," Santana told her honestly.

Rachel clutched at her starry-diamond so hard there'd be tooth marks in her fingers. "If Jesse ever knew about this," fear ate at her pallor, "he'd never recover."

Santana barely held back a spiteful cheer.

"Why do you stay with him? Because it's easy? Because he can sing?" she demanded, bewildered. She could sing. Maybe not quite as good as him, but she was still way cuter than Jesse St. James would ever be.

"Because I love him."

Ouch.

Santana fought to keep her tone light. "Couldn't you love me?"

All the air in the room seemed to disappear.

Rachel couldn't even swallow away the dryness in her throat.

Santana continued as if her heart wasn't about to explode in distress. "I think I could love—"

"Don't."

Santana looked away. She backed up, crossing her arms over her chest.

"If you say that, someone's going to end up hurt. I really don't want that person to be me, but I really, really don't want it to be you."

"Then stop looking at me like you want me! And saying things like you care! And stop kissing me like that! What do want from me?"

Rachel slid back onto the column, letting it take the weight from her trembling legs.

"Just you, I guess,"

Santana relaxed slightly. "See that's the kind of shit you gotta stop saying."

"I know. It's just, I don't have all that many friends. I have Mike, who likes me despite of everything that I am. And I have Noah, who is never here and when he is, I can't be the kind of friend I want, because I'm too worried about…Well, most days all I really have is Jesse." She tilted her head regarding Santana carefully. "And then there's you."

"Me."

"Yeah."

Santana didn't know whether to cry or laugh. She didn't want to be friends. She never wanted that, but she could already feel herself agreeing. The way Rachel looked at her—like she was something outrageously special—it shouldn't even be legal. That look was practically duress.

"Intermission is over."

"I didn't notice."

Santana went with laughter.

Rachel could tell herself whatever lies she liked about Jesse.

He didn't stand a chance against Santana Lopez.

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