A/N: My muse has been dormant for the past few years, so you can imagine my surprise when she popped into my head with this little idea and wouldn't leave me alone until I put it to paper. The Quarterback was a wonderful tribute to the fallen Finn Hudson and I just want to expand Rachel's side without the influence of the next episode. Honestly I'm more of a Puckleberry fan, but this felt right.

Happy reading.

Disclaimer: Ryan Murphy owns everything. And because I am but a poor college graduate, unable to afford much of anything, I have no interest in being sued for copyright infringement.

"endgame"

by marissa-christina

It all started with the package sitting in front of the apartment door.

Before that, all Rachel wanted as she walked home after a particularly brutal shift at the restaurant was to shower, change into her most comfortable sweats, curl up in her bed, and watch YouTube clips of Wicked until her brain shut down and sleep—finally—stole her away. A part of her—that selfish, conceited part that ruled her life during her days at McKinley—demanded that she adhere to this plan and sleep for the recommended nine and half hours in order to retain optimum energy for her next Funny Girl practice. The other part of her just...didn't care.

If she slept, she'd dream.

She'd dream of flower petals and crooked smiles and callused palms and stage lights and fleeting touches and camera flashes.

This new version of her…well, she would rather slip into a slow delirium brought upon by a heavy dose of sleep deprivation and too much coffee than subject herself to a night of that and with a soft sigh she trudged up the rickety stairs leading to the loft. Her bleak thoughts were interrupted by the nondescript box at her door.

Rachel furrowed her brows as she took in the slightly dented corners and the water stain on one of the sides of the cardboard and, readjusting her purse on her shoulder, knelt down to pick it up. Awkwardly fumbling with her keys, she quickly unlocked the door and stepped inside, quickly kicking off her flats and hurrying to put the box down on the counter before she dropped it.

A quick glance around the eerily quiet apartment alerted her that neither Kurt nor Santana were home and for that Rachel was uncharacteristically grateful. As much as she loved her roommates, she was growing tired of the sidelong glances they shot at her when they thought she wasn't paying attention and she just wasn't up to playing the role of the oblivious girl tonight.

She shrugged out of her coat and set her purse aside, taking a quick second to slide the deadbolt in place before turning to the counter again. The box was addressed to her, but there was no return information and, as far as she knew, her fathers weren't due to send a care package for another few weeks. Growing more curious, she pulled a pair of scissors from one of the junk drawers and carefully made a slit down the center of the packing tape before tugging the sides apart.

There was a folded piece of paper resting atop a few packing peanuts. Rachel held it up, noticing her name written on the front. She bit her lip.

She'd recognize that slightly off-center blocked script anywhere.

Trepidation slowly making it's way through her, she unfolded the paper. The message inside was short.

'I think he'd want you to have it.'

There was no signature.

Swallowing hard, she turned back to the box and slipped her hand inside, digging through the packing peanuts. Her fingertips brushed against surprisingly soft canvas material and she felt her breath escape her. Curling her fist, she pulled the familiar red letterman jacket from the confines of the box, disregarding the packing peanuts that now littered the floor.

There was a moment, as she held the jacket in front of her, where she remembered the solid form of the boy that had filled out the broad cut of the shoulders not so long ago. She remembered all the times she, herself, had worn it following quiet nights walking in the park, her hand clutching his, their arms swinging in careless abandon as they enjoyed one another's company.

With a choked little sob, Rachel brought the jacket to her face. His scent, a curious combination of detergent, cologne, and just something that was so undefinably him wafted through her nose, still stubbornly clinging to the collar; it was faint, understandable considering the length of time that had passed since he'd worn it last, but it was there.

Sniffling, she pulled her face away and hugged the jacket to her chest, unwilling to taint whatever essence he'd left behind with her tears.

And, really, unwilling to taint one of the last tangible parts of Finn Hudson with the broken pieces of Rachel Berry.

Hours later, safely tucked in the little corner nook that was her room, Finn's jacket carefully spread out on her bed, Rachel dug around one of the few storage bins she hadn't unpacked since moving to New York. She nudged aside some old picture frames and felt around the bottom, lips set in a determined line. A few seconds passed without success and she began to panic, fearing that she had misplaced it from the last time she had taken it out. True, she had not been very receptive to keeping many mementos of their relationship after the events at the train station, but that was months ago and so much—too much— had changed since then.

After a few more tense moments, she finally managed to locate what she sought and all but ripped it from the bottom of the bin. She thought she heard something break as various knickknacks scattered around in her wake, but she disregarded the mess.

Hefting the binder onto her bed with a soft grunt, she shook her head at the unexpected weight. She was known for being a bit of a scrapbooker, but Rachel knew that this particular project had been more than a mere hobby. Lightly tracing the glittery letters on the cover with the tip of her finger, she smiled faintly at their old nickname—it certainly wasn't as catchy or as "Puckleberry" or "McTina Cohen-Chang-Chang" had been, but it was theirs and she remembered carefully applying the lettering to the cover with a wave of teenage giddiness after first hearing it.

Then, the binder had been an ongoing progression of their relationship, its pages filled with little keepsakes and pieces of their, oftentimes, rocky history. Movie tickets. Dried tulips delicately pressed. Valentine's cards. Birthday cards. Random Jewish holiday cards. All of the stubs from each of their glee club performances. Pictures of the good times, the bad times, and all of the awkward moments in-between.

And now…now that's all it was. Just a binder full of memories and pictures and silly cards and empty pages.

Pages that should be collaged with more pictures of them experiencing college and gold stars just because she loves them.

Pages that should be filled with pictures of her standing on Broadway's stage, spotlight trained on her like she always dreamed it would. Pictures of her holding her first Tony award. Pictures of him standing in an open auditorium, surrounded by another generation of slushie-throwing jocks and socially awkward rejects. Pictures of him holding the coveted first-place trophy when those same jocks and rejects found their voices and their common place in the music because he showed them how.

Pages that should be filled with pictures of their real, honest-to-God wedding, of her being escorted down the aisle by both of her fathers, her eyes bright and sparkling as she approached him. Pictures of him looking excited and nauseous all at the same time as he reached out his hand to her. Pictures of their hands together, matching bands glinting in the artificial light. Pictures of their first dance as husband and wife. Pictures of them on their honeymoon in some exotic place that he picked just for her.

Pages that should be filled with pictures of her, soft and round and glowing. Pictures of him holding her with a look of absolute reverence on his face, his palms caressing her distended stomach while her hands cover them. Pictures of a squalling infant wrapped in the protective circle of his arms.

Pages that should be filled with pictures of all moments that were to come afterwards, when they began living life as a family.

But all of those beautiful memories would never get to grace those remaining pages because all she had left to add would be a cut-out of his obituary, the prayer card she had taken from his wake, and the single rose she had discretely pulled from the bundle atop his casket before they lowered it into the ground.

Still…she wanted to open it.

And steeling herself, Rachel slowly turned the cover.

Santana Lopez, while admittedly the biggest bitch in all the land (a phrase Kurt used multiple times a day), didn't always need to rely on her psychic Mexican third eye—which was a legit thing—to let her know when something was seriously wrong.

The sight of her hobbit roommate's ugly shoes tossed haphazardly beside their front door? Wrong.

She knew Rachel was home, could see her purse on the table and her coat hanging over the back of the couch, which was totally unlike the anal-retentive girl Santana knew and tolerated. She was neat to a fault and her shoes and coat were always put away in an annoyingly proper fashion and what she was seeing here? Yeah. Wrong.

Even more wrong? The silence that greeted her as she stepped inside the threshold of their loft.

She was positive that there was probably a clause in their lease, bolded and underlined a million times, that stated that silence was a forbidden notion when living with Rachel Berry. And yes, while the events of the past few weeks had stomped that notion into the ground, this was really the first time she heard literally nothing. Hell, even the bustling New York traffic seemed dull. So, understandably, she was on edge as she stepped inside the threshold of the loft, quietly closing the door behind her.

"Yentl? You here?" she called out as she set her bag aside. She gave the box on the counter a cursory glance, noting the packing peanuts on the ground. (Another checkmark on the "Wrong" list she was making in her head—Rachel would be all over cleaning that). The sound of her heels clacked loudly in the quiet as she approached the curtain that hid Rachel's room from view, her demeanor surprisingly hesitant. "Rachel?" she uttered softly.

The lack of response urged her forward and she slipped inside the tiny room.

Her roommate was sitting cross-legged on her bed, a huge book open in front of her. From her vantage point, Santana could see sheets of paper the color of some obnoxious shade of pink—was that glitter?—but that wasn't what drew her eyes.

No…it was the sight of her roommate wearing the jacket and she was speaking before she could stop herself.

"You're the one who took the freakin' jacket?" she blurted, stomping over to her.

Rachel, eyes still trained on the book in her lap, said nothing. She didn't even spare Santana a glance as she turned over to another page, looking impossibly tiny in the red and beige material.

Scowling, Santana climbed into the bed and tugged at a sleeve. "You know, I should kick your ass for that. I was tearing through McKinley like a mad woman. Hell, I offered a reward for this thing. How'd you get it?" She was having to seriously hold back the urge to leap across the bed and rip it from Rachel's body because while she knew she had dibs on the jacket, Rachel…well…

Rachel was Rachel.

And speaking of Rachel, the girl had finally looked up and Santana's eyebrows shot up when she got a good view of her face. She was always on the ridiculously thin side, but her cheekbones were more pronounced than Santana had ever seen them and her eyes…had they been that hollow earlier? Or that red?

Sighing, because she figured she was in for some type of emotional Berry emotionfest tonight, Santana leaned back on the bed, reclining against her forearms. "What is that?" she asked, nodding towards the book.

Rachel was quiet for a moment. "It's us," she whispered. Santana's expression became confused. She reached out and lifted the front of the book, taking in the letters—seriously, glitter?—and scoffing quietly.

"You legit have a photo album named Finchel?" she asked, shaking her head. Rachel's lips quirked a bit and and she shrugged.

"It fit." She paused, brows furrowing. "You know..it's strange. Using the past tense to describe what we had. I don't think it's sunk in yet." Her voice was soft and breathy and almost bewildered sounding.

Now Santana was uncomfortable. She had been there when Kurt had first received the news; had watched the events snowball from there when Rachel had been informed shortly thereafter. That was…not something she wanted to relive, especially since Kurt wouldn't be home for another few hours.

"Yeah," was her reply. Rachel didn't seem to notice. Shifting awkwardly, Santana pulled at the jacket again. "You didn't answer my question, Berry. Where've you been hiding the jacket?"

Rachel hugged the material closer to her body. "I didn't take it. I found it in a package addressed to me when I got home today. It was at the door."

"Then who the hell took it? And why would they mail it here?" Santana griped, crossing her arms. "And why to you?"

Rachel sighed and shook her head, "There was a note, but it wasn't signed. So I don't know." She ducked her head and turned back to the book in front of her, carefully flipping over to the next page. Her breath hitched a little at what was taped to the paper.

Curious, Santana leaned forward. Spotting the pregnancy test she had pulled from the trash bin all those months ago, she shot Rachel an incredulous look. "You seriously went dumpster diving for that?"

But Rachel wasn't listening, her eyes focused solely on the stick. God…she had forgotten about when she had added that. She knew it was supposed to serve as a reminder of the "maybe one day but definitely not now" part of her plan and remind her of the first—and only—time she'd have to resort to peeing on a stick before reaching Broadway.

Now it only served to remind her that it would be the first and last time she'd be peeing on a stick before reaching Broadway, wondering if she was pregnant with Finn's baby.

"You know...I was so...so...relieved when I found out I wasn't pregnant," she whispered, staring at the page, eyes tracing the fading lines on the test that had, for a brief, terrifying moment, shattered her world the only way a teenage pregnancy scare could. Santana was silent, but Rachel suddenly felt the barest hint of pressure on her hand. She sniffled. "When the doctor told me it was a false alarm, it was like this huge weight was lifted off of my shoulders and I could breathe again and sing again and dream again because my plan was still the plan: Broadway, Tony award, having a family, eternal stardom. It was all still in the cards for me. I mean, I'm eighteen years old...I have so much to do before I even think about bringing a child into the picture and with what was going on with us at the time..." she stopped and blinked, trying to keep the tears at bay. "I figured we would get our chance someday, when the timing was right, when our careers were set and we were financially stable and ready to move forward. I had it all figured out." She let out a bitter laugh that turned into a sob and she held the back of her hand against her mouth as the tears sprang free.

She finally glanced up and looked at her friend. Santana's jaw tightened and her lower lip trembled the slightest bit, but she held Rachel's helpless stare with resolute purpose.

Emboldened, Rachel took a shaky breath, not bothering with wiping her cheeks. "And now? Now I'd give anything to be pregnant with his baby. I'd give anything to see the plus sign on the stick and have it be real and knowing that I had a combination of the two of us growing inside of me and that he or she would be perfect and beautiful and so talented and ours." She whimpered and tugged her hand free from Santana's grasp, wrapping her arms around her abdomen in a wholly protective gesture. "I'd give anything for that right now because it'd mean that he didn't just end...I'd have a living, breathing piece of him with me so I wouldn't be entirely without him and his legacy would live on and he wouldn't just stop being." Rachel's breath was coming in harsh little pants as she slowly rocked herself, lost in her grief, clutching at the barren reminder of what she'd been denied. "I'll never have his children; never live that life I had planned for us. I'll never have a little boy who looks like him but sings like me or a little girl with my nose and his penchant for sports instead of ballet and, God, I want it!" she sobbed then, her voice cracking.

Santana scooted forward and forcibly pulled her into her arms and Rachel resisted for a moment before collapsing against her friend's chest, clutching at the soft material of her sweater. "I was relieved, Santana! I was relieved and now I'm not and I want him to come back but he can't and I don't know what to do!" she wailed, unable to stop her babbling. Santana stroked her hair, murmured words of nonsense meant to soothe, but Rachel was beyond being soothed.

The floodgates were open and she was tired.

And angry.

She was so angry.

"I hate him for leaving me! I hate that he made me love him so much that I'm ruined for the rest of my life because I won't have it anymore and I'll never find it with anyone else! I hate him for dying on me!" She hiccuped and pulled away from Santana's shoulder, her eyes wide and horrified. She'd said the words in passing, had thought them in an odd, abstract way, but the actual weight of them, of what they truly meant, suddenly dawned on her like a closefisted punch in the stomach. "Finn died, Santana," she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand. "God, he…he...he actually died. He's dead. Finn is dead. He's not coming back to tell me he's sorry and that he loves me and that everything will be okay because it won't. He's dead and that's forever and we were supposed to be forever and now forever is me living without him and he said we were endgame…and…" she cut herself off before lurching forward, and Santana let out a muffled curse as she scrambled to catch her before she fell off the bed. "Oh, it hurts so bad," Rachel whimpered, feeling herself hyperventilating, and then Santana was grasping her biceps, holding her at arms length.

"Breathe, Rach," she commanded, her tone harsh. She gave Rachel a little shake. "You have to breathe."

Rachel tried, she really did, but it wasn't happening and she tried to convey that to her friend as she brought her hands up to claw at her throat. She needed air. She needed to breathe.

And Finn didn't because he was dead and the dead don't need air because the dead don't breathe because the dead are dead and Finn was dead.

Dead.

Dead.

FINN is dead.

Finn IS dead.

Finn is DEAD.

Her vision began to tunnel and her heart was pounding so hard that she was convinced it would rip through her chest and splatter all over Santana's expensive cream-colored sweater—cashmere, she thought detachedly—and through her rapidly darkening perspective, she watched as Santana's expression shifted to something that Rachel had never seen before but she couldn't ponder it because everything was slipping away from her.

She was just so tired…

When she woke up moments later, head pounding and eyesight blurred, she saw the hazy outline that she knew was Santana pacing the short span of her room, cellphone clutched to her ear as she ran a frazzled hand through her hair. "I don't know, Kurt! She just passed out; I think it was a panic attack or something, but I don't know if I should call her dads or—no, no, no! I am not calling an ambulance and dealing with that mess. She'll be fine. She cried it out, like really cried it out, and I think it was just emotional overload or somethin—yes, I know we're talking about Rachel, but everyone's got a limit, Hummel, and I think Berry finally found hers." She huffed out a breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Just get back here, okay? I'll keep an eye on her for a while. Yeah, yeah. Bye."

Noticing Rachel staring at her, Santana let out a loud sigh of relief. "Jesus, Yentl. You scared the crap out of me."

Swallowing hard, Rachel glanced around her room, noticing that her scrapbook was turned upside down on her floor and Finn's jacket was half-off her shoulder. She quickly reached down—she ignored the sense of vertigo and sudden rush of nausea—and snatched the binder upright, whimpering as a few photos and flower petals slipped free. Santana bent to retrieve them, but Rachel squeaked a quick, "don't!" and pointed to her curtain. "Santana, please, I just…I need…" Her voice was thick with another wave of tears as she quickly snatched up the keepsakes.

Luckily, her roommate seemed to understand and held up her phone. "I'm going to call Lady Hummel back and tell him you're not de—that you're fine. Yell if you need anything. Or, y'know, don't." She shuffled awkwardly towards the curtain, pausing just for a moment to look back at Rachel, her dark eyes clouded. She opened her mouth to say something else, but thought better of it. Instead, she pushed aside the curtain and slipped out without another word.

Rachel waited until her footsteps faded away, waited for the telltale sound of the door closing before she resumed looking at her scrapbook. The pictures that had fallen out were some of her favorites of the two of them and the flower petals…well, they were from that final night.

"She loves me. She loves me not."

Tears falling freely now, Rachel bowed her head and turned away from the binder, the pictures and petals falling from her lax fingers. She slipped her arms into the sleeves of the jacket and banded them around body before curling up on her side, trying desperately to remember the way his arms felt, trying to pretend that, just for a second, he was the one wrapped around her, whispering softly in her ear all the things they had promised one another.

"We are endgame. I know that and you know that."

She would mourn the fact that he was wrong for the rest of her days.

And, closing her eyes, she finally gave into her exhaustion.

That night she dreamt of flower petals and crooked smiles and callused palms and stage lights and fleeting touches and camera flashes.

Because, really, that was all she had left.