Thursday, February 14, 2013.
8:06pm.

For Lee.
Create.

3
The Answer

Once upon a time, there was a young woman who found a ring in a ditch. Yes. A ditch.

Rachel Berry had returned to her hometown of Lima, Ohio on a 3am flight that had her infernal internal clock completely "whacked to hell" as one Noah Puckerman would describe. Her fathers had lovingly laid her in bed once she arrived in her childhood home, and she slept for a good twelve hours. When those twelve hours were up, Rachel deemed it a beautiful enough spring afternoon to venture outside and see what had changed about her old stomping grounds. So she leapt onto her trusty bicycle and rode through the neighborhoods, smiling at new and familiar faces. It was a chance glance that had her spotting the bright gleam in the grassy ditch, and it was the childlike curiosity that had her hopping from the bicycle and bending down to pick up the dirty-but-still-sparkling purple trillion amethyst set into a delicate silver band with leaf-shaped diamonds cradling the gemstone. She immediately had it cleaned and appraised before checking almost all available resources to find someone who'd lost their ring. She refused to announce "FOUND RING!" all over town, of course, because any deplorable liar could saunter forward and claim false ownership only to pawn the ring off for drug money or some such.

No one ever claimed to lose any ring or stepped forward to take it from her, so Rachel kept it. However, she could never bring herself to wear it. She never wore it on her finger, never even wanted to try it, if only because… Well, it felt wrong to wear it when she didn't even know who owned it or if there was some sort of torrid history with it or… It just felt wrong. She strung it onto a silver chain and wore it around her neck.

That was when she began to get little flashbacks of significant moments of her past—all revolving around one Noah Puckerman.

He'd built up a company for himself—shocking considering what he'd intended to do with his life at the end of their senior year. But in retrospect, it made sense. He treated guitars and instruments in general with a reverence reserved for fathers and their newborns (not counting that one time he was on the verge of breaking his guitar over Azimio's head after their "Need You Now" duet, but she'd burst her bubble of pacifism at the same time, so she was in no place to talk). He frequently took care of many of the instruments in the choir room because his grandfather, Jericho "Jerry" Puckerman, had passed down his love of music and its mediums down to his grandson. There was also the fact that Noah had started and maintained his own pool cleaning business, so he already had that under his belt.

Both he and Rachel had risen to very great heights in their extremely young age, and while they didn't run in the same circles, they were in the same general stratum. She was sure he'd heard about her if only because of the tabloids, but he was a constant part of her life even if she wasn't always aware of it. She had a Jericho baby grand in her living room, a Jericho acoustic in her room, and other Jericho instruments in almost every theater she worked in. Ever since she picked up that ring, she would frequently have a dangerously vivid vision of some interaction they had in the past whenever she touched one of his products. It started from their very first meeting and ended with the way he smiled, waved, and made a heart with his fingers as she rode off on the train.

She chalked it up to the nostalgia of her hometown, but then she returned to New York City and that excuse was out the window. Next, she blamed it on the fact that he was on her mind because she remembered it was the anniversary of his Nana Connie's death. She'd planned on calling him and sending him her well-wishes, but then he beat her to the punch of out nowhere, thinking she was a hospital. Then he accused her of picking up the phone in the middle of having sex because she sounded so breathless, and that pretty much set the precedent for their subsequent conversations. Okay, that was a lie, it didn't set any precedent, but it certainly raised the bar for how inappropriate he could get.

She hoped that since he was now a constant presence in her life, the flashbacks would stop, and she was right. The flashbacks stopped, but then she began to have even stranger visions of him in the present. He'd be writing songs on his couch, giving lessons, driving his car, or even making dinner.

And then one night, he made a comment about Beauty and the Beast that gave her those niggles again. She had a feeling he was having the same plight as her, but then she shook her head of the idea because there was no way she'd ask him about it anyway. He already thought she was a few lines short of a music sheet; he didn't need to know about this…nonsense. He probably wouldn't sever all contact out of some irrational fear that her brand of crazy was contagious, but he definitely might not be as forthcoming with words as he was these days.

Honestly, she'd never heard him say so much in one sitting. She loved their conversations regardless of how he'd diffuse serious topics by saying something crass. He had his opinions and had no qualms laying them out in front of her and calling her out on her own views. They would argue, they would tease, and they would discuss to levels that had her wishing she could sleep the day away until it was time for their phone calls.

He denied their friendship again—a joke, of course—but she'd honestly believed they were friends until she came to the quick conclusion she verbalized: they were Puckleberry. That sent him into a tailspin about "stupid-ass-name-smashing" and theirs being the pinnacle of all smashed names but still not being good enough to be legit. Listening to Noah Puckerman rant was hysterical. She knew how he would react, and she knew he wouldn't like it. However, Rachel knew the truth in that title. They were an entirely different, indefinable entity. They were Puckleberry.

And when she told him that, he agreed to the first part but went off on another tangent about how people always needed some sort of stupid standard for relationships and how much he really didn't like that name. Which was most likely the reason why Rachel was grinning when she stepped out of her building and into the New York City sunshine. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk, an upbeat staccato rhythm that matched her mood. She'd woken up with such a good feeling. She was excited for rehearsal. They were making such good headway, and the rest of the cast was surprisingly kind and welcoming, helping her and giving her pointers and sharing little inside jokes and making new ones. She'd been excited when she'd started a couple of weeks back, but she was suddenly feeling strangely rejuvenated. 6am had her up and ready to be productive and get things done!

Her relationship with Noah hadn't been explicitly defined, but she was okay with that. For all intents and purposes, Noah was hers. He'd made it obvious he wasn't seeing other girls and neither was he open to seeing other girls—especially with the way he complained about Sam and Mike trying to meddle in his life as if they'd taken up his mother's torch. Rachel had made it clear she wasn't and wouldn't be seeing other men either despite Kurt and Blaine's happy help and suggestions. They weren't official—understandable considering exclusively dating someone she hadn't seen in nearly a decade and had only talked to via phone was kind of an iffy beginning—but they were already there anyway.

So on that beautiful Saturday, she couldn't be torn down from her high. Rehearsal was a success. Edmund, the director, had been doing this for many years and ran a tight but happy ship with the production. Any obstacles were deftly dodged without any excessive flailing and/or wailing—but a few choice obscenities were unavoidable. The only hitch for the day was during the "Belle" number. She was in the middle of a spin when she gasped and looked down to see a huge gash across her palm—as if she'd accidentally sliced her hand open with a box cutter in the middle of the number.

Thankfully it was a shallow cut, but still enough to have some of the backup dancers screaming. Thinking quickly, Rachel said she'd squeezed her hand too tight in her excitement and opened up a previous cut from the night before. The on-set medic shot her a skeptical look as he bandaged her fresh-looking cut, but since he couldn't exactly come up with a believable reason as to why she suddenly had a cut on her hand when she hadn't even been touching anything, he let it go. Rehearsal went on, but the cut remained on her mind for the rest of the day—until their nightly phone call.

Puck had moved out of Chicago and into his new apartment—the location of which he managed to keep from her through a bizarrely ingenious evasive maneuver that she still hadn't managed to counter—and had accidently cut himself with…yes…a box cutter. She didn't say a word about her own hand, only traced the line of the bandage and changed the subject about how Mike and Sam were doing without him.

The following day was an even more beautiful Sunday, but for some strange reason—which Rachel was beginning to suspect wasn't strange at all—she woke up sore. Sore like she'd been…lifting boxes all day yesterday. She tenderly made her way out into her kitchen and had breakfast, and it was all downhill from there. She had just finished off her oatmeal when waves of pure frustration nearly drowned her on the spot. She dropped her head onto the dark brown quartz counter and groaned, hoping the cool stone would somewhat help her headache.

She was tired, irritated, and so beyond confused. Fortunately, she knew which of these were Noah's and which ones were actually hers, but the fact that she had to worry about that sort of thing began to blur the lines. Thank God she didn't have rehearsal.

She cancelled lunch with Kurt and Blaine—because the good Lord knew she didn't need to subject them to her insanity—and sequestered herself in her room with her laptop, a notebook, and her warm, deep purple comforter. The last month had been pure ridiculousness, and she had no excuse for putting this off as long as she did.

Then she paused in front of Google's main screen. How was she even supposed to search for something like…this? What were her keywords? Where was she supposed to start? She'd be better off starting with Web M.D. as her search engine. She rested her hands on her lap and took a deep, steadying breath before she damaged her perfect lavender walls by throwing her laptop at it. Noah's emotions were obscene. After a few more moments to fully ground herself, she began to type.

Her first attempt ("flashback" and "visions") yielded a Wiki Answers page that stated if it wasn't her third eye being activated and helping her see into the other realms, then she was either being contacted by her more evolutionary superior self guiding her to fulfill her superhuman potential or it was simply déjà vu. Unfortunately, none of those answers explained her present-time visions or her new empathic connection with Noah.

So she decided in a more specific approach ("extreme empathy") and after countless Charmed fan fiction and depression research links, she found something quite interesting. "Koev halev" was a Hebrew term with no English equivalent but whose definition was along the lines of nearly literally feeling someone else's pain because of the depth of their connection.

And with that realization came the ten-minute reprieve in order to sit and absorb exactly what kind of shitstorm had descended upon her shoulders.

She looked down and fingered the ring hanging around her neck, studying the mysterious fathoms of the amethyst as if there was something dark and evil hidden in it. Like a Horcrux. That would make a hell of a lot more sense than…this.

An hour's research saw her in a complete mess. She had found things about basherts, and zvugs—Jewish soul mates and life-mates—but aside from sparking memories about the prissy little girls back at JCC mooning about finding their one-true-loves, the information was completely irrelevant to the bizarre flashbacks, real-time visions, and strong empathic connection. The odds of any name being called out forty days before a son's birth having any sort of romantic significance was ludicrous. The only thing that seemed somewhat relevant was the fact that forty days after her very first flashback would be her opening night as Belle, which was in less than six days, but even that was a simple coincidence or evidence her math skills needed work.

So she threw her notebook at the wall and screamed because there was something disturbingly wrong with her. And then she froze, her hands over her mouth in shock because the last time she'd thrown anything was when she chucked her hairbrush at Finn back in their senior year. She didn't like throwing things. Throwing things wasn't good for her. Whatever was being thrown didn't normally hit their targets, which meant the high risk for collateral damage. Which is why she didn't throw things.

It was all Noah's fault.

Something was making him frustrated, and because of their…connection, she was feeling every bit of that frustration. And if the way things were progressing were going to continue, she needed to intervene. Especially before she started throwing some more things around the house. Good Lord.

She pulled out her phone and texted, Noah, are you busy?

Not if u count wantin 2 throw some bitches out the window to b 'busy.'

Take a break if you're feeling frustrated then.

Nah. M good now. What's up, Berry?

She sighed, feeling some of her frustration ebb. Just trying to see if I'm crazy.

Coulda told u that yrs ago. Didn't I tell u that yrs ago?

Keep it up, Puckerman. I'm never going to bake you cookies again.

Did u make a dirty joke?

No. Literal cookies. And just for that, you dirty-minded oaf, you're really not getting any cookies. Ever.

Lies, Berry. 1 day. 1 day, u'r gonna give me cookies.

Rachel rolled her eyes and shook her head, laughing all the same. All right. If this was how she was going to have to go about ensuring she wouldn't be throwing things around, then Noah's lascivious mind would be a small price to pay for her peace. Then she remembered there would never be peace with Noah Puckerman.

And so she resigned herself with that instead.

Monday ticked onto the clock, and she sat in the dimmed auditorium seats as Gaston and LeFou sang with the other patrons of the bar. Usually, she was either going over her script or paying close attention to the scene. This time, she was sitting there with her arms crossed over her chest, feeling…ugh.

She loved Justin and Aaron—Gaston and LeFou, respectively. They teased each other and as soon as she came on, they began to tease her like two younger brothers. It was far too easy to like them and was almost shameful at how quickly one could begin to love them. They were stupendously talented, and they were hitting every note right, every step right. But for some reason, she just could not deal with this performance. Something about it was making her frustrated, exasperated, and disdainful—and she couldn't understand why or what it was.

Then she scowled and rubbed her forehead, remembering their bond.

Of course. The only other explanation was Puckerman.

It wasn't surprising—of course not. She knew he was a human being who had emotions. She just made the mistake of forgetting how tumultuous those emotions could be. For someone who didn't show much of it, he had ones that packed quite a punch. Still waters ran deep indeed. He needed to calm down, and it was with a very smug smile that she remembered how to do it.

Rachel discreetly pulled out her phone and opened up another text message. It wasn't un-heard of for non-performing cast members to text or make calls when they weren't onstage, but her own policies called for reverence inside the theater.

She supposed that was always what Noah was for—someone to break the rules for and have them mean something.

How are you today?

Ok.

Use your words, Noah.

Dn't we usually wait til pm 2 talk?

We talk on the phone at night. This is only text messaging. Is this a bad time?

No. Just sortin thru sum shit.

What's wrong? Do you want to talk about it? Is it about your grandmother?

Wat?! M LITERALLY sortin thru shit! I got comic books in my hands.

What are you talking about? Why are you sorting comic books?

Cuz Sam is being Sam.

I don't know what that means. I thought Sam was still in Chicago.

Not anymore.

Elaborate, please. I know you're allotted more characters per text than that.

He decided he didn't wanna b left bhind & bout the store rite bside mine. We're neighbors again.

Does that bother you?

No. He's my boy.

So what's bothering you?

How do u know smthn's botherin me?

Oops. The tone of your texts give off that exasperated vibe. Yes, good save.

It's cuz he's makin me help set up the store and sum of these things are ridiculous. U know what yaoi is?

Is that a style of poetry?

Nvrmnd. U'r better off not knowin.

They're just comic books, right? Are they really that tiresome to organize?

85% of these r skinny! N Evans sorts by fandom relation & crossovers r fuckin me up the ass!

Rachel clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles and looked around guiltily. No one heard, noticed, or was even paying attention to her, so she turned back to her phone. He'd sent her another text.

How do I do Marvel/DC crossover wen they're on OPPOSITE SIDES OF THE STORE?!

Noah, please calm down. Just ask Sam, and I'm sure he'll direct you accordingly.

She shook her head, still chortling quietly. His frustration was abating if only because he had someone to rant to and therefore alleviate his exasperations so he was no longer at risk of shredding the comics that were so infuriatingly trying his patience. The anger was melting off and revealing exactly how fond Noah was of Sam. Rachel was fairly sure that the two nimrods would've missed each other something terrible, and so she figured it was in both their best interests that Sam followed him (in a move that shamed all other bromances) to wherever it was that Noah was now. She couldn't speak for Sam, but she knew Noah…felt better.

And in some strange way, she was beginning to feel the same. Not that she was simultaneously happy and frustrated with Sam and his comics, but rather she was happy and frustrated with Noah. She was certainly more than simply fond of him, but the entire situation she had inadvertently found herself caused her the same grief Sam's comic books were causing Puck. On a grander scale, of course.

She didn't know where he was or what he was doing. She didn't know what kind of implications his move would have. They hadn't even talked about visiting each other even though it was practically an unspoken agreement that they were together. All she knew was that this man was…love all bundled up in frustration.

The following day, she was fairly sure Kurt and Blaine were beginning to feel the same way about her as they sat in a small table in the corner of Starbucks with AJ. All three of them had taken to calling the baby by Puck's nickname—a sign of the formerly-Mohawked man's ridiculously powerful influence. Another sign was the vacant expression on Rachel's face as she smiled down at her tea. Kurt sighed and rolled his eyes while Blaine only smiled and bounced AJ on his knees.

"So Ryan Gosling, Blaine, and I had the most wonderful threesome last night," Kurt said, taking a delicate sip of his coffee. "And then Lady Gaga joined the fray, followed by Britney Spears, Emma Stone, Hugh Jackman, and Jennifer Lawrence. We had the Orgy of Legends, you know."

She could hear him well enough, thank you very much. Ever since they moved in together in her freshman year of NYADA, Kurt had been developing the most creative ways to snap her out of her reveries, and ever since Blaine's reentry into their lives, that creativity began to deviate into a form that followed, if not paralleled, one Noah Puckerman's sense of humor. It wasn't always dirty, but it definitely was ridiculous enough to slap her back into reality.

However, she wasn't zoning out this time. She was very much aware of the tea cradled between her hands, the smooth, varnished wood of the table they'd commandeered, the pleasant hum of business as usual. No, no, she was solidly situated in reality, but that didn't mean she was paying much attention to her friends. Mostly because their conversation was already something she'd long since considered and overanalyzed their topic until it left a strange taste in her mouth. Their topic being Noah.

"Give it up," Blaine said. "Look at her. She's probably reliving whatever phone sex they had last night."

Kurt tsk'ed. "I doubt it. Phone sex with Puckerman would bring a smile of ecstasy on her face, not this…grimace of constipation. Oh, wait." He gasped, a hand over his heart. "Don't tell me there're already domestic problems! See, this is why you can't have pretty things, Rachel. You don't know how to get a handle on him."

"And when we say 'handle,' we mean on his di—"

"Okay!" Rachel snapped, waving her arms as if to bat away his words. "Stop right there. Please. Just—enough."

"I'm fairly sure he's got a good handle on his own," Kurt said, drumming his fingers on the table contemplatively.

"Right? It's spring, the season of chino shorts and miniskirts," Blaine said. "And no hetero or anything, but Rachel's got legs that could floor every straight man in here. No matter what pants you could ever advise her to wear, the paparazzi will always manage to get a perfect shot of her ass."

She didn't know whether to feel affronted or flattered. Could both be possible?

"And it's not like Puck's in any shortage of risqué shots of her—those photo shoots would make our old high school tormentors want to bash their own brains in with garlic crushers," Kurt said, ignoring her outburst.

"I prefer they use guitars," Blaine said. "Nothing sounds better than discordant chords on their empty skulls.

"An aria to rival all others," Kurt sighed. Then he zeroed back on Rachel. "So are you done mooning over Puckerman? We didn't set up this lunch so we can watch you stare off into your happily ever after, you know."

Rachel scowled. "I wasn't mooning. I was—"

"Smiling faintly at your cup of tea like it had winked and smirked at you before it gave you a compliment wrapped in a dirty joke?" Kurt grinned deviously. "Oh, no, you were most definitely not mooning."

Her cheeks burned, but she wasn't about to cede. "Okay, I mooned for less than a minute, but you two just kept going on and on, okay? And besides, we're not here to talk about Noah."

"Really? 'Cause that's pretty much why we called you to have lunch," Blaine said.

Well, at least he didn't lie or beat around the bush.

Rachel rubbed her neck, trying to ease the ache in her chest that had manifested sometime around last night. When she fell asleep. With his deep, even breathing in her ear. And the painful wish that the warmth she felt wasn't her phone's but his.

She sighed and cupped her tea again between her hands again. "You're going to warn me off pursui—"

Kurt scoffed. "No. As if that could make much of a difference with you and Puckerman in the equation—as if we disapproved," he added with a wink. "Besides, if we leave you alone, you'll wind up warning yourself off him anyway."

"Can you blame me?!" Rachel blurted out, earning a few cursory glances in their direction. AJ squealed and slapped the table, snapping Rachel out of her haze of panic to clear her throat and lower her voice as best she could. But the frantic twinge kept building anyway. "I mean, honestly. W-We may not have the same problems or misgivings as we would've had if we were still in high school, but a lot of the issues from the past lingers, you know? A-A-And there's also the fact that we're nearly a thousand miles apart and haven't seen each other in nine years. Can you see how much problems this has? And what about all the drama that we haven't even touched on but will be there underneath it all, festering like a forgotten onion in the back of a food pantry? The insecurities, the little quirks that we're never going to be able to cope with, the fact that we're still young enough to have a big capacity f-f-for stupidity. This will all come crashing down, and I just—I can't deal with that because look at me!" She threw her arms out, eyes wide, ready and burning on her tangent. "It's only been a month and I'm—I'm…acting like it's been forever." She dropped her arms on the table in defeat, and AJ giggled and mimicked her.

Kurt and Blaine exchanged a glance.

"Didn't I say you'd warn yourself off?" Kurt sighed, patting her hand.

"Rachel, we're not trying to make you wary of your potential suitors or anything like that," Blaine said.

"We're not even trying to do anything at all," Kurt said.

She wanted to drop her head on the table, but that was unbecoming of anyone, let alone a Broadway star who was set to portray Belle in three days. "Then what are you trying to do?" she asked.

"Well, for one thing, we wanted to keep you from going off on the tangent you had a couple of seconds ago," Kurt said. "Which would've probably won you a few awards if you were on a stage, by the way."

Blaine lifted AJ off his lap and handed him to Kurt before the curly-haired actor leaned forward and gathered Rachel's hands in both his own.

"I'm pretty sure that whatever we say to you about this will fly right over your head," Blaine said.

"And then you'll go back to your apartment or some restroom and pat yourself with wet paper towels to calm down—maybe cry a little too," Kurt added.

"But look at us, honey," Blaine said, redirecting Rachel's attention again. "Trust us when we say that you're going to be absolutely fine. You know why?"

Her trembling lip was his only response.

"Because we know Puck," Kurt said. "And in spite of the fact that he's only a few DNA's short of full Homo sapien sometimes, we know that he has changed since high school—into someone better."

"We talk to Mike and Sam occasionally too," Blaine said, "so we know what he's like even if we're not there to see it. And the fact that those two are his best friends says enough anyway. He's a good guy, Rachel. He's gonna make mistakes, but he won't run away anymore."

"No more ATM-filching or tire slashing," Kurt said. "Okay, he might slash someone's tires if he's pushed far enough—which still isn't very far these days, but the point still stands. He's a good man, Rachel—always was even if he tried to hide it behind his badass, rebellious teenage tendencies. You know what he's done. I'm sure you remember it all even after nine years."

She swallowed and squeezed Blaine's hands, biting the inside of her lip and glancing back and forth between her two best friends.

"We know he'll have some magnificent screw-ups and he'll piss you off 'til you're ready to scream so loud his brain will melt, but Blaine and I know that he's good for you. You're good for each other. You'll make his skin less metallic, and he'll make your big Broadway smiles actually have some emotion behind them."

"And honestly," Blaine said, "I saw this ever since high school. I mean, I know you two dated for, like, a week back in your sophomore year, but there were these weird moments between you two that I thought had some sort of meaning, but Finn was always there to sort of push that way back behind the sidelines. I sailed that ship like Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Oh, my God, I thought we talked about this," Kurt hissed.

Blaine ignored him, but the corner of his mouth turned up in a small smile. "It's been two years since your last steady boyfriend, Rach, and this isn't some new guy who doesn't know all your dirty secrets."

"It's Puckerman," Kurt said. "You two have known each other since elementary school."

Rachel smiled a little. They weren't quite tabula rasa. They still had the same slate—one that hadn't been cleaned very well, but still sturdy and quality enough to last. They could correct a few things, change some preexisting letters and numbers, take some out, add some in. She figured that was a good thing. Clean slates were overrated.

"And besides," Blaine added with a wink. "You're the good girl, and he's the bad boy. You're the most cliché thing in the world, but it works, you know? That's why it's a cliché."

Kurt grinned evilly. "You're Puckleberry, damnit."

Rachel finally cracked a full smile and laughed. "I told him that, and he threw a fit. Don't let him hear you say the name."

"Then I will make damn sure to say it whenever he's within hearing distance," Kurt said.

And then her melancholy mood was back. "Whenever that will be."

Kurt and Blaine exchanged another glance. Rachel didn't catch it, though, because her phone suddenly buzzed. Blaine released her hands and she dug her phone out of her pocket to see one new text message.

U ok, bby?

And then she really began to think Noah was experiencing the same things as her. Of course.

Liar.

Yes, he was most definitely experiencing the same thing as her. How would you know anyway?

Cuz.

Noah, that's not a good enough reason.

Says who?

Says any sane lawyer.

Good thing we're neither of those.

That was most legitimate sentence you've ever texted me, did you know that?

Stfu bby u no u lyk dese bttr.

And then she finally grinned, ignoring Kurt and Blaine's scowls or knowing chuckles.

"And we've lost her again," Blaine teased.

"And to Puck," Kurt said, resigning himself to this madness for only a few more days.

"Puh! Puh!" AJ smacked, flailing his little arms.

Kurt looked horrified. He lifted AJ so the baby was at eye-level. "No, sweetie—say 'dah!' Damn it to hell if my child's first words will be that bonehead's name. I'll never live it down."

Rachel leaned back in her chair, grinning at the lightness of her chest. Hopefully it would stay this way for a little while longer.

But of course, she already had her hopes and dreams of Broadway, so it was only cosmically fair for that faint little hope of peace to fade. The next three days were nothing but a blur of nervousness, anticipation, and serious anxiety—and Rachel could not tell which of those feelings were hers even if her life depended on it. She and Noah had taken to calling and texting each other throughout the day, feeling only some semblance of calm when they were in contact, but otherwise, a majority of her hours were spent having what felt like life-threatening palpitations combined with giddiness or slap-happiness.

It was comparable to chugging espresso that had been sweetened with chocolate syrup, milk, sugar, flavored creamer and then chased down with full tumbler of coffee before being let loose in a moon bounce.

She felt like death on crack.

It was the strangest feeling, really—something certainly interesting but hopefully never to be felt again. She was smug and pleased that the rehearsals were going fantastically, anxious about how she'd be received as the new Belle, and anticipatory about actually being onstage in front of a real audience. She wanted to see the faces of the awed children, the nostalgic parents, the fond seniors—she loved watching their expressions. It was what made her keep going; it was her fuel.

But every single one of these feelings were layered—like there was something underneath each one, some different reason that she couldn't quite grasp or even know where to reach for. Noah was feeling very similarly, but she couldn't put a finger on why.

She tried to subtly wheedle it out of him, but he was a stone wall about his emotions—just grumbled about "crazy-ass, motherfucking plans that sounded better in my fucking idiotic head" and how he was going to "may as well shove a knife in an outlet 'cause what in the hell am I thinking." Whatever that meant.

The anxiety progressively worsened the closer they came to Friday's opening night. She practically felt like a wrongly-accused prisoner about to be sentenced to death with only a few more hours to find proof of her innocence. Her fingers were always shaking, and she always had to rub her hands together for warm. Her teeth chattered when it got particularly worse, and her toes vacillated between chilly and frozen. It was only through sheer determination and because of a personal space heater that had her going through rehearsals with the perfection she always aimed to bring. Some of her cast mates were beginning to worry that she was getting the flu.

But Rachel knew better.

No amount of tea, soup, sweaters, and booze could warm her at certain times. She was constantly asking Noah if he felt okay and hoped he wasn't getting sick so she wouldn't feel the effects.

It was really beginning to scare her.

It all came to a head a few minutes before curtain. She stood in the wings, trying to take deep, even breaths and focusing on the feel of her costume, the cakey-ness of makeup, her stiff curls hanging over her shoulder, and the warmth of the phone by her ear.

"Rachel, baby, listen to me, you're gonna be perfect," he said quietly, warmly, in a voice that had her eyes falling shut and thawing her out. "You're gonna stand up there and wow everyone's thongs off the way you did in Sectionals oh-nine. Gonna give everyone goosebumps and tears, and then you're gonna stand there and thank God you're alive and blessed and then bask in your fucking awesomeness 'cause I know that's what you do, sweetheart. You're gonna get out there and break some cold hearts, and they're gonna give you a ten-minute standing ovation, and you're gonna stand there and cry your eyes out at the end 'cause you're on your motherfucking way. You're perfect, so this is gonna be perfect, and it's all perfect. You know that. I know that. The whole world and even Martians know that. This is your night, baby. Make it your night."

Her lip trembled through her grin, knees week, hands shaking, chest bursting. "Noah?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"I love you."

He didn't miss a beat. "I love you too. Kick this play's ass."

"I will."

She handed her phone to Kurt, who looked like he didn't know whether to cry, laugh, or roll his eyes. Then she took one more deep breath and stepped out onto the stage.

Noah was right, of course. She cried—big, baby, weepy tears—as she and the cast walked out to bow, hand in hand. The applause thundered through the theater, whoops and cheers that made her chest rattle along with her choked sobs. Throughout the entire play, every thought of fear, nervousness, and insecurity were banished from her mind as a blaze of hot pride burned inside her, and she knew without any doubt that it was Noah. Even if he couldn't be there to see her, he was proud of her.

The words had just slipped out of her mouth, and while it may have seemed like a heat of the moment declaration, the relief she felt after finally admitting it made it ring true. She loved the idiot, the screw-up, the musician, the badass, the letch, the man. They may have only reconnected a month and a week ago, but it didn't matter. The candle had always been there, ready to light. And while there had always been a fear of an unreciprocated declaration of love, at that moment, she knew he loved her even before he'd said it. She'd felt it; she just knew.

And she'd never had such a happier night.

Artie had arrived in New York City first—an early flight from London—followed by Quinn, who'd flown in from Paris. Sugar and Rory flew in from Dublin with Tina, who'd come from Melbourne. Burt and Carole flew in from DC. Will, Emma, Coaches Bieste and Sylvester, and Noah's ma rode the train in from Lima along with Hiram and Leroy Berry. Bekah, Puck's little sister, even took a flight from Orlando. Dave Karofsky made a surprise appearance from San Francisco since he had a business meeting on this side of the country. Brittany, Santana, and Mercedes were the last to arrive from Los Angeles. The amount of sound made backstage as they all bum-rushed each other was ridiculous. Finn would be flying in from Vancouver, followed by Matt from Texas and Beth and Shelby from Sacramento the following night—they sent their early congratulations to Rachel and promised to see her at the end of her next show.

Everyone was screaming and congratulating and smothering her with hugs and snarky-but-sweet comments that had her right back in the choir room. Sue complained about everything under the moon and sun, but she managed a very proud, backhanded compliment that made Rachel hug her regardless.

The ecstatic lead actress finally managed to extricate herself from the plethora of hugs being thrown about backstage to make it to her dressing room. She pushed the door open and stumbled back a step with a squeak, nearly tripping over her wide yellow skirt.

Every available surface was laden with bouquets and vases of the same four flowers in varying shades of pink and white: amaryllis, myrtle, bouvardia, and gladiolus. And she nearly had a heart attack because she had never told anyone this.

Rachel Berry had been very big on flowers. She loved getting them, of course—roses, carnations, tulips, peonies—and she wasn't picky about which ones she wanted to receive. But there was a time when she was between shows, when she was bored enough to go online and research flowers and their various meanings, that she ended with her four favorite blossoms—the very same blossoms that sat in her dressing room. The very same blossoms that she had never bothered to tell anyone about. She loved them more for how they looked rather than their meanings, but when she saw that each bouquet was tied with a wide, purple ribbon, the story of the four flowers snapped to her mind.

Amaryllis for pride, myrtle for Hebrew marriage, bouvardia for enthusiasm, and gladiolus for remembrance and strength of character.

"KURT!" she screeched, and he immediately rushed up behind her and gasped, mouth wide open in shock.

"What in the he—"

"My phone, Kurt—phone! Where's my phone?! I have to call…" She snatched it out of his hand as soon as it appeared from his pocket and stabbed the screen to call Noah. "Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up!"

He didn't pick up.

Still breathing as if she'd run five marathons, she lowered her phone and surveyed the small room, tears blurring her vision because that freaking idiot.

"You're both so ridiculous," Kurt breathed, finally rolling his eyes and shaking his head in spite of the sentimental tears on his cheeks. "So ridiculous."

Rachel laughed thickly and dialed another number, hoping to have better luck.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mike," she said, sniffling.

"Rachel! Hey! How was the show?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Great—it was… It was great."

"So why do you sound like everyone walked out after the first number?" Mike asked, his tone immediately going from happy to worried.

"Um, Mike, is Noah with you?" she asked, sniffling again.

"Not right now, Rach. Sorry. He's busy setting something up—a gig tonight," Mike said. "He'll call you back as soon as he can though."

"Can you just… Can you tell him 'thank you' for the flowers?"

Mike snickered. "You can tell him that yourself later, okay, Berry? Listen, I gotta go—I'm up on keyboard tonight. We'll talk again soon, okay?"

"Promise, Michael Chang?"

"I promise, Rachel Berry."

She grinned, said goodbye, hung up, and then turned to face Kurt.

"If you bring these to your apartment, you're going to have allergies until kingdom come," he said flatly.

"Then can you be a good friend and buy me two boxes of Claritin?" she asked sweetly.

Sure enough, she arrived at her apartment with fifty bouquets, two boxes of Claritin, and a weariness that soaked all the way into her bones. She figured it was the crash after that sugar/caffeine-rush feeling she'd had for the past couple of days. Their little glee club reunion would resume celebrations the following night when the others arrived, so they let Rachel go home easily enough. Kurt, Blaine, Brody, Justin, and Aaron had helped her carry everything up and arrange her flowers before quickly exiting.

She frowned at their sudden departure for a few seconds, and then shrugged it off. She could ponder their bizarre behavior after she'd taken a quick shower and changed into something infinitely more comfortable—preferably one blue-and-white button-up shirt, some yoga shorts, and a pair of pink knee-high socks with monkeys faces all over them.

She'd give him Puckerman half hour before barraging his cell phone with texts and voicemails demanding he call her back immediately. One more half hour 'til she could fully relax.

However as soon as she stepped into the shower, a feeling of acute nervousness and anxiety began to fester again, making her fingers cold, her heartbeat quicken, and her stomach bottom out. She tried to let the hot water wash it away, but no matter what she tried, she couldn't get rid of the feeling. Yoga breathing, a slap to the face, scales—she nearly tried masturbation, but she barely even thought through half the word before immediately deciding against it.

At first, she thought it was worry that something had happened to Noah that caused him to not be able to pick up his phone, but then she shook her head, remembering that Mike said he was busy setting up for some "gig." And so she concluded that it was Noah who was feeling nervous and anxious. But he wouldn't pick up the damn phone so she could alleviate some of his issues, so all she could do was grumble and growl her way around the bathroom, wishing this koev halev-nonsense would end soon.

She finally decided a cup of tea and some fresh air out on her balcony wouldn't hurt, but when she opened the doors, rested her mug on the twisted iron railing, and looked down at the atrium below, she nearly dropped her tea because holy fucking shit, what in the hell was happening?

He was…crazy. That was the only explanation.

That was the reason why he wasn't Finn's biggest fan in their later high school years. Finn had gone absolutely batshit over some high school romance. What right-minded dude wanted to hang around another dude whose biggest problem was a high school marriage? Priorities, man. Finn was crazy.

And now, so was Puck, but the biggest difference was that he made crazy look damn good.

His deep red formal button-up was rolled at the sleeves, skinny black tie slightly loosened at his collar. Shiny shoes, pressed pants, and cleanly-shaven hair—he'd had girls and ladies winking and smiling at him all night. Sam, Mike, Callum, Jake, and Marley looked decent too, but they were negligible.

They had to dress up, though. You don't go to a Broadway show without cleaning up. And this kind of stunt had to be handled with a certain amount of finesse.

So there he was, holding his electric guitar, Mike on the keyboard, Sam on acoustic, Callum on bass, and Jake on drums. Callum was Puck's employee, so he had to do this, Jake was his little bro to whom Puck gave a job while he was searching for his big break, and Marley was there because of Jake, so she just sat at one of the patio tables with a tambourine. Mike and Sam naturally wanted a part, so they were there—if only to make sure Puck didn't fuck up too much in front of…everyone, apparently.

When he'd called up the old glee phone tree, he genuinely didn't think they still cared enough to drop everything and shag ass to New York City. Hiram and Leroy, yeah, of course—they were already planning on coming anyway. But everyone else was just… Jesus. Okay, yeah, Matt, Finn, Shelby, and Beth were gonna be late to the party, but still. Even Jackass St. Douchebag found out and was planning to fly in from Carmel for tomorrow night's showing. The fact that they all were coming was crazy.

Which brought him back to the fact that he was, indeed, cray-cray.

He was standing in the grass, next to a goddamn fountain, surrounded by flowerbeds and feeble little trees, with a wooden archway decorated with fairly lights, some wrought-iron and wooden benches, and a few patio tables—ready to serenade a girl.

He was about to have a heart attack, a panic attack, and an aneurism all at the same time.

And then her balcony doors opened, and she came out with her little cup of what could only be tea since she hardly ever drank anything else. She was dressed in the same blue-and-white shirt she'd never given back, black shorts, and a pair of fuckin' adorable knee socks, and he felt literally all of his blood just stop because it was like it forgot where to go.

Oh, shit, he thought.

Then she looked down and had the same biologically impossible triple-reaction that almost had her mug falling out of her hands. In that same split second that their eyes locked, Sam strummed the first chord.

And then Puck began to sing.

"I remember what you wore on the first day. You came into my life, and I thought, 'Hey, you know, this could be something.'"

Jake hit a steady bass and sang with Mike, their voices melding into a deep baritenor. "This time, this place, misused, mistakes. Too long, too late, who was I to make you wait?"

Sam came in, his song weaving with Puck and Mike and Jake's in a slow, even melody. "Time stands still."

"'Cause everything you do and words you say, you know that it all takes my breath away."

"Beauty, you know she is."

"And now I'm left with nothing."

"Just one chance, just one breath—"

"I will be brave."

"—just in case there's just one left."

"So maybe it's true that I can't live without you."

"I will not let anything take away…"

"And maybe two is better than one."

"…what's standing in front of me.

"'Cause you know, you know, you know—"

"But there's so much time to figure out the rest of my life, and you've already got me coming undone."

"Every breath…"

"And I'm thinking two is better than one."

"…every hour has come to this."

"I wanted, I wanted you to stay—"

"One step closer."

"I remember every look upon your face, the way you roll your eyes, the way you taste. You make it hard for breathing."

"—'cause I needed, I need to hear you say—"

"I have died every day waiting for you."

"'Cause when I close my eyes and drift away, I think of you and everything's okay."

"Darling, don't be afraid."

"I'm finally now believing."

"—that I love you—"

"I have loved you for a thousand years."

"—I have loved you all along, and I forgive you—"

"That maybe it's true that I can't live without you."

"I'll love you for a thousand more."

"And maybe two is better than one."

"—for being away for far too long. So keep breathing—"

"And all along I believed…"

"—'cause I'm not leaving you anymore."

"…I would find you."

"Believe it."

"But there's so much time to figure out the rest of my life, and you've already got me coming undone."

"Hold on to me and never let me go."

"Time has brought your heart to me."

"Keep breathing 'cause I'm not leaving you anymore."

"I have loved you…"

"And I'm thinking two is better than one. And I'm thinking, ooh, I can't live with you 'cause, baby, two is better than one."

"…for a thousand years."

"Believe it, hold on to me and never let me go."

"There's so much time to figure out the rest of my life, but I've figured out when all is said and done."

"I'll love you for a thousand more."

"Two is better than one."

Rachel's neighbors had come out onto their own balconies or stood at their back doors, swaying and smiling at the most crazy-ass mash-up ever attempted. The former gleeks, their parents, their teachers, coaches, guidance counselor, classmates, children, and siblings stood under the garden entrance and had tears in their eyes the song tapered off.

But Puck and Rachel had zeroed in on each other and weren't in any rush to change that. Rachel had slowly transitioned out of her completely dumbstruck shock to make her way down the adjacent fire escape until she stood in front of Puck and his little makeshift band, tears still streaking down her face. Puck watched her—every move, every expression, every breath—like his life depended on it. And when she'd come to a stop in front of him—in her sleepwear and fluffy slippers—he was surprised he still had enough breath to keep singing.

He wasn't singing anymore, though. But she was still crying through the gigantic smile that made every part of his body thrum with energy.

"Christina Perri, Noah?" she asked as audibly as she could through her disbelief and tears. "Mashed up with Nickelback and a Boys Like Girls-Taylor Swift collaboration? Really?"

He shrugged, pulled off his guitar to hand it to Sam, and then shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from grabbing her face and kissing her. He figured this whole talking thing should come before the kissing so they wouldn't have to get derailed later. "You hummed those all the time senior year—when you were busy doing stuff at your locker or organizing our sheet music in the choir room."

She let out a shocked breath, still grinning like a maniac. "How could you possibly have noticed that?"

He grinned and reached out to push a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Same way I knew your favorite slushie flavor was grape, baby."

"Oh, God," she breathed, reaching up to hold his hand and lean into his touch. "Why didn't you tell me you were in New York?"

He stepped closer and cupped her face in his hands, brushing away the streaks of tears with his thumbs. She felt unreal. He was dreaming. "'Cause I wanted to surprise you," he said. "Duh."

"I thought you were moving further away from me," she said quietly, squeezing his hand. "I genuinely thought you'd moved to Los Angeles o-o-or Las Vegas or someplace. I can't believe you're here."

He grinned and leaned down so their foreheads were pressed together. "I told you I love you. If I'm not in the immediate vicinity and have plans to move somewhere, I'd sure as death and taxes do damn near anything to move closer. You should've known that, dummy."

She choked out a laugh, and he smelled the minty twinge of peppermint tea. She shook her head and released his hand to wrap her arms around his waist, pulling them closer together. "You're really here?"

He sighed at the contact—she was so fucking warm and small and soft and gorgeous and there, and he never acutely felt her absence than when she was pressed right up against him. Never know what you're missing 'til you've got it.

"Yeah. And I really just sang you a mash-up of three dumbass songs," he said. "One of which I had to borrow from Jake and Marley since they already called dibs on it before."

She laughed louder this time, sparing a glance at her boyfriend's younger brother and his fiancée. "Did you say thank you?"

Puck snorted and rolled his eyes, one hand trailing down to cup her neck "Of course. There is a song code, Berry. We gotta stick to the co—" His pinkie finger brushed the silver chain around her neck, and he slowly pulled out the necklace.

And nearly had another fucking heart attack.

"Noah?" Rachel asked, her eyes flitting from his face and then down to the ring between his fingers. "Are you okay?"

"B-Berry, this…is my nana's engagement ring," he rasped, staring at the bright amethyst between the two diamonds. "We… When she died, we couldn't find it. Thought it fell in the sink pipe or got lost in the move or some shit—how did you find it?" He looked up and saw her clear expression of understanding.

"I found it on the side of the road when I visited Dad and Daddy last month. I tried to find reports of lost or stolen rings, but nothing matched its description. So I kept it," she said. Then she scrunched up her face seriously. "Noah, has anything…strange happened to you around the middle of last month?"

Holy shit.

"Did you…see things?" he asked.

She nodded and tapped the ring. "I think it's because of this."

And he had to agree.

Nana Connie. Shipping and meddling even from the grave.

"For God's sake, kiss already!" Santana shrieked.

"Shut up, Satan!" Puck called back.

Rachel threw her head back and laughed, and Puck grinned, watching her. They could talk about the technicalities of their supernatural experience some other time. 'Cause right now? God, Satan, and his Nana Connie were sending him some very clear messages.

He let the ring drop back down against her neck—she could keep it. He was meant to have it for his own fiancée, so he'd steal it in a couple months to propose properly. But for the time being, it was in its rightful place anyway. Then he stroked her hair back from her face.

"I love you," he—his heart, his brain, his stomach, his fucking fingernails—said, his lips brushing hers gently.

"I love you too," she replied.

And then she kissed him.

It wasn't a beginning or an ending, really. They all went back up to Rachel's apartment and teased her about how all of them knew about Puck's plan. Then Artie pointed at the four different cameras he'd positioned to preserve the performance and their kiss, promising to edit and refine it for their inevitable wedding reception. Aviva cried all night, and Bekah did her best to try and keep her from smothering her big brother and/or his girlfriend. Brittany announced that she'd known it all along, and Santana supported her as best she could—even through the cat premonitions and the talking daisies.

Puck eventually proposed onstage at curtain call one night, after stealing back his nana's ring, donning the Beast's costume, scaring the bejesus out of Rachel, having her pull off the fake head, and then dropping down on one knee amidst screams and squeals of the audience. She married him beside the lake in Lima, Ohio and held the reception in a nearby field, out in the open where they danced their first dance under the stars and to Mike's rendition of "Have I Told You Lately," the crickets chirping with the music.

They had three kids—Jonathan, Isaiah, and Caroline—who drove them up the wall, across the ceiling, through the window, and out into the vast open spaces of insanity. But that was what love was, right? Insanity. They argued and drove each other bonkers, had screaming matches until they were hoarse, but through it all, they never stopped being so insanely in love with each other. The way he'd cook for her, the way she'd shave his hair; the way he held her hand, the way she kissed his temple; the way they always walked together, her arm linked through his; the way they made love.

Though what nudged them together wasn't natural, their relationship was. No one dictated what they should talk about, made them do the things they did, or pushed them to say the things they said. There wasn't any standard either of them were trying to live up to, no perfect fairy tale to achieve. They brought only themselves to the table, ready and willing for whatever shenanigans life would chuck in their faces. And together, they kicked whatever obstacles they encountered in the ass because that's what they did. They'd bring it and kick ass because they were Puck and Rachel, Berry and Puckerman, Crazy Berry and the Puckasaurus, Puckleberry.

So, in actuality, they did live happily ever after. And their good times had never seemed so good.

The End

There are people that come into your life and leave an indelible mark. Just because they're fictional doesn't make them any less important. I came into the bubble because, like many others, I saw the chemistry. I stayed in the bubble because, like many others, I fell in love. I fell in love with the characters, with the fantastic, passionate, and genuinely kind-hearted people in the bubble, and the way these two characters played off each other so well in the show, in fanfiction, in the damned Photoshop graphics. Ryan Murphy, Ian Brennan, and Brad Falchuk unintentionally wrote one of the most epic could-have-been love stories.

But the fact of the matter is that it hurts. It hurts when you want something so much that everywhere you look, you're reminded of them. Puckleberry didn't change my life because it gripped me tight and threw me into perdition (aka Glee). It's because while there are ships that you look at and see two people who have fantastic chemistry, there are also ships that you look at and find a part of yourself.

Because Puckleberry is not just about two hot Jews.
It's not about a good girl and a bad boy.

It's about redemption. It's about realizing you're so much better than you thought you could be. It's about being the best you can be, about working your hardest, about reaching for your dreams. It's about wanting something so much it hurts. It's about shared pain, shared hopes, shared disappointment, shared dreams, shared fears. It's about understanding. It's about realizing that beauty is found in pure, untainted nature. It's unexpected, it's uncontrollable, it's painful, it's perfect.

Puckleberry is about love.
Love in grape slushies and "Sweet Caroline"—the kind of love that we should strive for. Love so deep that (to borrow from Castle a bit) all the songs make sense. A love that isn't forced or based on fantasy but rather on what's here and now. What's right in front of you, what's real. Puckleberry showed me that love is a balm, not a crutch. It's a slow burn, not a blaze of heat—it's not superficial, it soaks in all the way to your bones. It's about a taut guitar string in the calm, not a riff of chords in a crowded auditorium. It's about loving yourself before focusing all your attention on someone else.

It's love at its core.
It's natural.

Only then can it be earthquakes, riptides, and waves; wind, thunder, and lightning; comets and supernovas.

So this is my declaration of love, my pledge of allegiance, my promise of my heart, my thank you to the bubble and to this ship. Thank you for helping me grow as a writer, a reader, and a person. Thank you for the comfort at a quarter after one, for the good times that never seemed so good.

I love all of you from the very depths of my soul.

Ashley