Chapter 1 - Idealism

As the image flickered to life on the screen of her laptop Rachel Berry couldn't help the smile that bloomed across her face. Despite the early hour (once upon a time she had been able to bounce out of bed before the crack of dawn) and despite the lack of caffeine (once upon a time she had been able to function in the morning without a shot of her special blend) she felt a surge of that special feeling ripple through her as the blonde's face came to life on the screen. It was a feeling that was laced with a guilty undertone. It was, as it always had been, only Q who had ever sparked that feeling within her.

'Can you hear me?' the doctor's lilting voice stuttered out of her speakers, distorted slightly by the huge distance between them.

'Loud and clear,' Rachel confirmed, her enthusiasm squashing down the familiar heavy ache that settled within her. She had long ago become accustomed to the feeling of her heart breaking, and the hazel eyes did it every time. Quinn's expressions had not changed, Rachel was always pleasantly surprised by that, though the blonde may hide it better, there was an excitement that mirrored her own radiating from her. Pleasant small talk dominated their conversation for the first few minutes, but all Rachel was really interested in was the nuances of the sun-kissed face that she hadn't seen in so long.

'Where are you?' Rachel asked finally, intrigued by the warm glow of the early night that surrounded the blonde. Though night fell at about six in the evening in Cambodia, so it was often dark when they spoke, the surroundings were not familiar.

'Jay's bar,' Quinn replied, reaching to pick up the small netbook she carried with her and carefully twirling it around to give Rachel a semi blurred view of the dimly lit bar and restaurant, bustling with people whose features were undefinable. 'Most of the rest of our party are up at the Foreign Correspondant's Club. But I promised Jay that I would help him practice his English tonight in exchange for some Angkor.'

'I can't believe you drink beer now,' Rachel wrinkled her nose in distaste and Quinn laughed.

'Safer than drinking the water,' she quipped, raising the frosty beer mug, 'and it's hardly alcoholic.'

There was a moment's pause in their conversation and the hazel eyes looked off to the side, to a place unknown to Rachel and she wondered what it would be like to be there beside her, all those many miles away in the clammy heat of a foreign country. To be back in that spot that had once been her spot, the place that she would always rather possessively consider her own, to Quinn's left side.

'He play's you all the time in here,' Quinn's words sounded distant as she looked back towards the screen that lit up Rachel's face, the early morning light glossing over her in her expensive Manhatten apartment, a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice half visible on the table before her. Quinn felt a twang of regret as she thought of what could have been, of what they had missed together. 'Your debut album. Jay says that it puts the western tourists at ease or something… Just that one album on repeat over and over again.'

She didn't say how much it had hurt to hear it the first time that she had sat there, watching the geckos on the walls and hearing Rachel's voice, so distinctive even through the static of the old speakers. Her voice younger and more sincere than it was now. That night she had dreamt again of the brunette, in the clammy heat of the night, with the smell of moon tiger in the air. She had dreamt of Rachel, and of Lima, of the childhood that they had shared. That first love that never leaves you.

'I'm flattered,' Rachel smiled, that wide smile that was both self-mocking at this moment and gracious. 'Maybe I should send him over a copy of all the other albums to give you a break from just the one…'

'It would probably take a few years to reach here from New York,' Quinn replied, not entirely joking. To be honest, if it did get shipped, it probably would never reach the right place anyway. She swatted at a mosquito that landed briefly on her arm and waved the irritating thing away.

'I shall try anyway,' Rachel determined, 'I think that it is…'

In the background behind Rachel, Quinn could hear the call of another voice. Deeper, masculine. Quinn smiled in response as the brunette looked over her shoulder and called back to him. Smiling to cover the ire that always rose within her. It would always get to her, she knew that now.

'Adam?' Quinn asked blithely.

'No,' if anything Rachel seemed a little sheepish in her reply, 'Adam and I broke up a month or so ago. It's Tom. You remember him, he was my co-star in Les Miserables.'

'Of course,' Quinn kept that same soft smile. Of course she couldn't remember. Or maybe she did. It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter anymore who shared Rachel's bed, but of course it always did. They spoke fortnightly, without fail, but the lovers that came and went from the brunette's bed were a mystery to her.

'Tell me about him, Rach,' she urged gently, 'tell me about everything.'

Those were her lines in the theatre that she had crafted of their relationship. Quinn's lines. She always asked, each time they spoke, asked with that muted intensity and listened carefully to every word. And that same warm feeling rushed through Rachel as she spoke, not necessarily of the musical she was staring in, or of the stage, but of the silly things, the important things, her friends, her family, her feelings… the fears that she had only ever really shared with Quinn, the hopes that they had once nurtured together. And Quinn listened with that small smile and that steady gaze from far, far away, sipping at the icy beer that tasted of dirty water.

'Shut the fucking door!' Rachel shouted over the cacophony of backstage chaos, 'do you live in a fucking barn?'

She didn't really care who had stepped into the room but they had better turn and run away fast if they knew what was good for them. Pre-show was a stressful enough time as it was. Especially when it was Saturday night and the goddamn traffic had made her 20 minutes late arriving and her usual make-up artist, Sarah, had decided to contract viral plague in order to get the night off work and it had all put Rachel in a foul mood.

'Do you speak to everyone this way? Or just your friends?' the cool voice cut through the cloud of furious annoyance that hovered around Rachel and she glanced over her shoulder in surprise. She couldn't help the smile that spread across her features and she launched herself at the Latina with enthusiasm, encompassing her in a hug.

'I'm sorry I yelled,' she apologised sheepishly and Santana smirked. She had long ago accepted that being hugged by Rachel Berry was going to become an inevitable part of her interaction with the diva.

'The Rachel Berry I knew from high school would have berated you incessantly for your use of language, Missy,' she reminded the brunette who rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the mirror.

'How did you ever put up with me?' She asked, sweeping the make-up brush across a perfect brow.

'I think it had something to do with that fierce head cheerleader who protected you like a lion,' Santana quipped.

'Oh yes,' Rachel replied, though keeping up the jovial tone when it came to joking about Quinn was always a little strained, 'I think I remember her.'

Santana's eyes didn't waver as she watched Rachel prepare herself. Ten years down the line from High School and Rachel Berry was on her way to achieving everything that she had ever dreamed of. Her big smile and her big voice were equally famous, first on Broadway and then in LA. And now crowds flocked to her. Even the paps loved her. But Santana could see the fragility of that smile. She had known Rachel Berry for a long time, perhaps reluctantly at first, but now with the brutal loyalty that she reserved for her few true friends.

'I heard the gossip about the Hammerstein Ballroom,' Santana commented carefully, watching her friend closely, but there was nothing but a flicker of hesitation in her movements, 'I imagine your publicist is tearing her hair out.'

'That is her job,' Rachel replied flippantly. And again there was that edge of her tone that was so un-Rachel, an almost bitter humour that didn't suit her. 'They tried to sit me next to Jenna Elfman. Jenna Elfman, Santana! Can you imagine having to sit through the whole runway show making small talk with that woman?'

'I don't even know who she is,' Santana said dryly. Rachel rolled her eyes dramatically.

'Well, I guess that I can't really blame you for that,' she said scathingly, 'she is pretty I suppose, but lacks any form of talent. And she's a Scientologist.'

'So you ripped up her seating card?' Santana surmised with a bemused expression.

'I ripped up mine as well,' the diva responded.

'And according to Entertainment News you ripped up about twenty people's cards before the manager tried to stop you.'

'I urged him to consider a free seating arrangement,' Rachel defended herself.

'The gossip columns call it a diva tantrum,' Santana replied. And she knew Rachel well enough to know that it probably was a form of tantrum. It was the latest in a long line of incidences that were starting to filter into the gossip columns, most of them funny, some of the less so.

'I didn't even know you read that shit, San,' Rachel successfully ignored the point.

'Brittany sends it to me,' the Latina replied lightly. Brittany sends her links to these terrible websites every day with little concerned messages about how closed-off Rachel is becoming, or how ridiculous her behaviour is getting, or how much the pressure must be building up and that they should do something, anything, about it. But Santana doesn't have all the answers when it comes to Rachel, she never did.

They both know who does. But saying it aloud is even more taboo than thinking it.

Brittany and Santana made it.

Quinn and Rachel did not.

'I need to talk to you after the show tonight,' Santana pressed on, an uncomfortable knot twisting within her. Twisting with the same unresolved tension that she has been trying to overcome all day.

'It's the Saturday night show, Santana, I can't…' Rachel tried to protest. The cast went out afterwards on Saturdays, and she needed to reconnect with Tom. This morning had been a blip. A blemish in what had so far been an enjoyable start to their relationship and she knew that she needed to reconnect with him, push all thoughts of the hazel-eyed blonde from her mind and seduce the man who shared her bed.

'It's important, Rachel,' San re-iterated, 'Brittany's out and… and I need to talk to you alone.'

'What's this about?' Rachel asked, frowning at the seriousness of Santana's tone. But at that point the 10 minute alarm started and Rachel knew it was her cue to go. She gave the Latina a sharp look as she gathered herself together. 'Fine. But it had better be important.'

'Rachel! Rachel! Rachel!' They chanted her name and squealed as she emerged from the backstage doors of the theatre. Security guards held back the lines with stony faces and she felt a weariness seep through her, that bone deep exhaustion, as she tried to plaster that same bright smile across her face. When she had landed her first roles on Broadway this had almost never happened, a small crowd at best of die-hard fans would gather and she would treasure each and every one. That had all changed with the launch of the first album, the one that had secured her stardom and made her a household name. These days it was hard to go anywhere without getting recognised in New York. And to think that she had thought that that was something that she had once wanted!

Santana leaned up against her dark car, watching the diva sign a few autographs, interact rather wearily with the crowd. They pulled and they pulled and they pulled at her, and all San could really think was that Tom should be beside her, a stoic pillar of support to the little diva who looked so fragile and small. But the doofus boyfriend was nowhere to be seen. As the minutes dragged on, Santana lost her limited patience and launched herself forwards into the crowd to pull Rachel out to her car.

'I could have handled that,' the diva huffed as Santana pressed the central locking on the doors before some crazed fan tried to rip a door off the hinges.

'Whatever.'

She was in no mood to argue with the girl. They drove in silence out to the suburbs, the lights of the city fading behind them into darkness.

'I'm tired, Santana,' Rachel stated finally, 'what is this about?'

The dark eyes cut to hers in the darkness as they finally pulled into the driveway. She offered no explanation. It was hard to summarise something of such complexity.

'It's easier to just… show you,' the Latina murmured, leading the way into the beautiful suburban house that she shared with her blonde wife. Rachel followed her reluctantly, her frustration starting to simmer beneath the surface. Santana breezed into the large kitchen, flicking on the lights as she went.

'Did they behave?' Santana asked curtly as the yawning babysitter came into view. She was never very good with people who weren't her close friends or family.

'Carlos was a little monster, but your wife put him to bed before she left…' the babysitter started, and Rachel could care less about the domestic details of her friends' lives. She sauntered to the fridge and found a cooling bottle of white wine. She smirked to herself. Santana only really liked to drink red. Rachel took the bottle deliberately and popped the cork, pouring herself a generous glass.

The old buzz of the show had not hit her tonight. Maybe just for a moment, as the applause reached a crescendo, but now… now it just felt hollow. It felt hollow when surrounded by domestic bliss, with family portraits and the scrambled chaos of a life together, a family together that Brittany and Santana had built.

'Do you remember that month last Spring when Britt and I were barely talking?' Santana's voice was flat as she re-entered the kitchen. Rachel glanced up at her with the cool feeling of dread settling within her belly.

'Of course,' she uttered softly. It had been a dark time for all three of them, and Rachel had never understood the reason why.

'I never told you what it was about… I never told anybody,' Santana admitted. She took a glass down from the shelf and looked at the white wine with distaste before pouring herself a glass.

'You got through it,' Rachel stated with a shrug. 'Together, you worked it out.'

'No we didn't. We didn't work it out,' Santana sighed deeply. 'Sure, we had our heads metaphorically slammed together by a fierce mutual acquaintance of ours who threatened us both with dire consequences if we didn't figure it out. But we never came to an agreement.'

Rachel couldn't help but smirk at that image. Of course, even thousands of miles away, Quinn exerted her influence. It was reassuring, in a way, that though many things had changed, there were some fundamentals that did not.

'I always just assumed that it was about Cambodia,' Rachel said evenly, trying to draw the uncharacteristically hesitant Latina out. It wasn't just Santana who had felt the sting when Brittany had announced her departure to South East Asia the Christmas before, leaving her wife and her children for weeks to go to the country that had already stolen the other blonde so dear to their hearts.

'She always promised that she would come back,' Santana stated.

'So did Quinn,' Rachel replied sharply. Santana's eyes hardened for a moment. She wasn't sure when it had happened, if it had been when the weeks turned into months or when the months turned into a year, into more than a year, that she had started thinking of Quinn living there rather than working there. She had held a bitterness about it for a long time, a fury that smouldered at her best friend, it felt akin to betrayal. But then when Brittany had returned, with so much footage, so many images of that beautiful and broken country and the sound of Quinn's voice speaking in that soft way that only occurred when she was sharing her fears in the darkness, Santana had started to understand.

'Quinn had nothing to come back to,' she said pointedly and Rachel glared at her.

'And whose fault was that?' she snapped. No ones. Or maybe it was because of both of them. It was years since high school, and still the wound festered. She had assumed, as they all had assumed, that teenage romance could not last in the face of growing up. That innocent first love would be overcome by bigger and bolder loves, by experiences, and successes. Quinn had always loved Rachel too much. And Rachel was too stubborn to ever let the idea of Quinn go.

'I didn't want to talk about this,' Santana attempted to get them back on track.

'So, what did you want to talk about?' Rachel asked in that waspish tone that made Santana want to slap her. It was lucky they had the kitchen island separating them.

'Brittany.'

Santana took a long swig of her wine before continuing. Placing her hands flat on the cool kitchen surface. It was certainly not the most comfortable place to be having this conversation, but then it was an uncomfortable conversation to have.

'When she pitched the idea for the Cambodia documentary to the studio, it wasn't very well received… They told her that no one in the US cares about little South East Asian countries that are struggling to survive. We are the epitome of capitalism – if we cared about the underdog, we wouldn't be American…'

Rachel had to shrug her agreement at that. Most New Yorkers she knew didn't give a shit about anyone outside of New York, let alone outside of the US. But Brittany had always had an optimism about the better nature of people. And at times it had worked out. Her documentary about the dying dolphins had garnered unforeseen popularity. The one about peanut butter, less so. There was something about seeing the world through Brittany's eyes which was fascinating.

'But she went anyway,' Santana continued, 'with that crappy little handheld video camera and a shitload of determination.'

'I didn't think that anything ever came out of it,' Rachel replied. Brittany had returned, tanned and frustrated six weeks later, with lots of footage of a broken country and no documentary. And then Santana and she had had their biggest breakdown in years.

'Brittany didn't want you to think anything ever came out of it,' Santana countered. 'The truth is she has been working on it ever since. She changed the concept whilst she was out there, and the studio did a one-eighty when they saw the prelims. This isn't just a television documentary, like the others, they want this on the big screen, the whole big deal… they think it has so much appeal that it will actually make them money.'

'Well that's fantastic,' Rachel exclaimed, a beaming smile blooming across her face at her friend's success. 'I don't see what the problem is, Santana…'

'The problem is,' San spelt out quietly, 'that it is not a documentary about a broken country. It is a documentary about a broken person in a broken country. It's a documentary about Quinn.'

Santana heard the sniffle from the other side of the couch and closed her eyes against it. The bottle of wine was empty on the coffee table now, and she was nursing another tumbler of bourbon. Brittany had spent months holed up in this room, editing and re-editing the clips she had brought back. There were a number of flat screens that she would sit in front of, watching and re-watching the footage she had gathered, cutting and reorganising it, playing with the sound. Santana had never understood really what it was that got Brittany to work her magic. At times she would be holed up here for weeks on end, only coming out for meals and bedtime stories, and the occasional protest or rally that she wanted to attend. Brittany was big on attending rallys. Carlos was allowed to play in here, behind the couch if he didn't disturb her too much. And he was always so happy to be spending time around his blonde mommy that he tended to behave himself.

Apart from the work station there was also a big flat screen in the room, in front of the small couch. Far enough away to make it a reasonable distance to view. This was where Rachel and Santana had been sitting for the last hour, watching the final cut of the documentary that had almost torn Santana's marriage apart.

On the big screen in Brittany's editing room Quinn glanced up at them, hazel eyes hard and empty. Santana knew that look, and it cut through her every time. The wailing and screaming of the chaos around the blonde just highlighted her stillness. It was part of the footage that Brittany had shot of the water festival tragedy, when thousands of the dead and injured, carried on motos and tuk-tuks had swarmed to the small hospital that Quinn had helped to build. The young doctor, pale in her dusty blue scrubs, was already smattered with blood that was not her own as she stood outside the hospital, triaging the injured as they arrived, a dead man at her feet.

'Turn it off, Britt,' Quinn's English words somehow cut through the carnage and with a painful slowness the camera arc descended. It cut to the footage of the aftermath, of the hospital littered with the bodies of the injured, the floors entirely covered with people, children looking up wide-eyed at the camera. Brittany's voice came over the speakers.

'Why do you do it?' She asked. The camera still cutting through ward after ward of the Cambodian patients.

'When I first came here,' Quinn's voice replied thoughtfully, with that honest rawness she reserved only for her closest friends, 'I was passionate and idealistic. I wanted to make a difference to these people's lives. I wanted to be worth something… As doctors we are very privileged, we have a lot to give. You give of your skills, you give of your time, and when there is nothing left you can do, you give of your person. It will never be enough… but at least it's something.'

The film paused on the screen and Santana blinked up at it, wondering why it had stopped.

Both she and Rachel jumped as another figure cleared their throat behind them. Santana swung around to see Brittany hovering in the doorway of her haven, leaning against the frame, her jacket still on. Blue eyes flicked accusingly to her wife and Santana tightened her jaw.

'I went to Cambodia to try to get her to come home,' Brittany spoke softly, her eyes on Rachel who still had tear tracks down her cheeks, 'but all I found were reasons for her to stay there.'

'You can't publish this,' Rachel stated shakily, gesturing to the screen. 'It is beautiful and it is heart-wrenching, but you cannot broadcast it to the world, Brittany. She will never forgive you.'

That accusing blue gaze shot back to Santana again.

'You thought that you would bring Rachel here to argue your corner, San? Very mature.'

'Just because she agrees with me doesn't mean I brought her here to argue my side,' Santana replied.

'This will publicise the plight over there. The public latches on to individual stories, to inspirational figures. This documentary is groundbreaking…'

'She won't care if it is groundbreaking,' Rachel stated vehemently, 'she will hate you for it. You can't do this to her. You just can't, Brittany.'

'It's the most beautiful thing that I have ever made,' Brittany replied stoically. 'They say it is award-worthy…'

'It's her life. Her life.'

'She let me film it, for godsakes,' Brittany objected.

'Whilst thinking that it was for your personal collection,' Santana replied, 'You have been filming everything since senior year. We almost forgot what your face looked like because you had that stupid camera stuck to your eye the whole time!'

'When will you ever learn not to call me stupid?' Brittany seethed, throwing her bag onto the floor.

'I'm not calling you stupid,' Santana returned, 'but I think that you are making a big mistake, Britt. She is my closest friend and even I feel like I am violating her privacy by watching this. She is so… honest. And vulnerable. Quinn would rather die than let anyone see this side of her.'

The blonde dancer pursed her lips, and for a moment, Rachel thought that she was going to agree with them, give in, see reason. Instead she shrugged her shoulders once.

'Well, it's too late,' Brittany replied bluntly. 'I've already signed it away.'

'Then you goddamn get it back!' Rachel shouted, suddenly launching herself to her feet. 'You can't do this to her. You can't.'

Her rant was making less impression on Brittany than a tantrum from Carlos did.

'If you do this, I will never speak to you again, Brittany,' Rachel threatened, the wine and the emotional punch of the footage making her voice raw, broken, 'I will never speak to you again.'

The tall blonde just shook her head, walking back out into the corridor of their home, heading towards the bedroom.

'Little drama queen,' Santana murmured to herself, being uncharacteristically receptive as Rachel crumpled back down into her arms and started to sob. Some may say that being a mother had softened Santana Lopez, but then most people had not met Carlos, who was, in Santana's opinion, the devil-incarnate. She stroked the brunette's hair as her tears slowed and wondered whether it was the arguement with Brittany or the hour long pain of watching Quinn that had the girl knotted up.

'She can't do this...' Rachel murmured earnestly. The Latina closed her eyes. She had almost lost her marriage arguing this point.

'All I can hope is that Quinn never finds out.' Santana sighs, 'it would kill her.'

Thanks for reading ;-)