charity fic: the places that alone I'd never find (1/2)
Title: the places that alone I’d never find (1/2)
Author: andbless_mybaby
Pairing: Will/Emma (with some random romantic drama from the kids in the background)
Rating: R
Spoilers: Through “Sectionals” (1.13)
Summary: Emma and Will circle each other in the weeks and months surrounding his divorce. Falling in love should (theoretically) be easier than this.
Word Count: 10,800
Author’s Notes: This was written for yahtzee63, who bought me in the help_haiti auction and had the patience of a saint while I was slowly getting it done. It was intimidating and wonderful writing this for you. I hope that you like it!
My beta reader was becca_radcgg, who knows her part in creating this and what her help means to me. Love you bunches, B2.
Will’s rented a studio downtown, the smallest place he’s ever lived in. But he’s still paying a mortgage at home (which isn’t home anymore), and this is all he could afford. He has a mattress on the floor - the one that had temporarily lost him his position with the glee club - and a tray table and folding chair that have been acting as a combined table and desk since he moved in. Piles of books are stacked neatly on either side, about ten-high so they don’t topple. A fresh waft of lemon Pine-Sol hangs in the air, which he hopes she notices. (He’d cleaned the place meticulously before she’d come over. Even doing it perfectly, scrubbing the floors and baseboards on hands and knees, it didn’t take long.)
“Will?” Emma stands just inside the doorway smiling like she’s trying not to laugh, both hands clutching the handles of her purse. “Your place is very nice. But you maybe might want to buy more furniture.”
_
That’s how they ended up at IKEA on a Saturday morning, which has to be the busiest shopping day of the week there. There’s no way that it could get more crowded, Will thinks - all the parking spots are taken except for the ones really far away, and his car almost gets hit twice by opportunistic lot-circlers waiting to swoop in on someone leaving. A steady stream of humanity is being sucked into the broad front entrance of the store, and half the pull-up lanes for customers loading big purchases are taken up by people scrambling over their vehicles with packing twine trying to secure flat brown boxes.
The West Chester store is the only one in Ohio, and a two hour drive down I-75. Blinking in the morning sunlight as he stretches his legs after the long stint sitting, Will feels like he’s maybe stepped onto an alien planet.
Halfway to the doors, Emma’s shoulder is close enough to his arm that he can feel her tensing up beneath her coat.
“Yikes,” she murmurs under her breath.
“Hey. Hey.” He brushes her elbow with his. “We’ve so got this. We’re just going to storm the place, grab some cheap stuff, and get out. It’ll be great.”
“Great,” she echoes, sounding unconvinced but obliging. “Okay. This will be great.”
He steers her around a puddle by the curb before they step into the crosswalk.
Inside, they take the escalator up to the second floor showroom. At the top, she uncaps the Purell just inside her purse, and rubs her hands together. Will asks her for some, too.
They follow the crowd along the preplanned path through the store, and then downstairs to where all the actual merchandise is located. There’s more stuff than Will has ever seen in one place, and some that he wouldn’t even know how to use if you paid him. ( “Lemon zester,” Emma tells him patiently. “Duvet cover. Do you have a duvet? Well, if you don’t know then you probably don’t.”) He carries a giant yellow shopping bag and a paper slip with a golf pencil that he uses to write row and shelf numbers down to pick up furniture in the warehouse. Emma walks closes to his side, not touching the drapes or bedding, but pointing at things that he might consider. In this way, Will acquires a 20-piece flatware set, a set of blue striped plates, a saucepan, two ice cube trays, and a colander. And that’s just from the kitchen stuff.
“Um, how have you been eating?” Emma asks him.
“Lots of sandwiches and takeout lo mein,” he says gravely, matching her tone. “I have to remember to ask for chopsticks every time.”
It’s like she can’t tell whether she’s supposed to laugh at that or not (the real answer is plastic forks), so Will pokes her gently on the shoulder to let her know that it’s okay. She laughs, and chooses some dish towels from a huge bin in the middle of the aisle. Halfway through the storage solutions, Will has to trade the bag in for an actual shopping cart. By the time they arrive at the register, he’s steering it gingerly around corners so nothing goes sliding off the top. He orders delivery on the dresser, loveseat, étagère, bookcase, and high-top kitchen table that he buys, using the money that he’d withdrawn from his savings account. When he swipes his debit card at the checkout, it’s the most money he’s spent on anything that wasn’t a car or his monthly rent, and it’s a little dizzying.
“You know someone going away to college or something?” The kid at the register is wide-eyed, not any older than Will’s students.
“Nah, man.” Will pulls a smile that he doesn’t entirely feel. “It’s all mine. New life.”
Afterwards, Will parks his overflowing cart by a rail so that they can grab a hot dog and vanilla soft-serve cone apiece (one dollar each) at the café by the exit doors. He pulls out his wallet, waving his hand at Emma.
“My treat,” he insists, smiling at her. “It’s the least I can do for all your help.”
She makes a dismissive, happy gesture. Her tongue is very pink darting delicately around her ice cream to keep it from melting onto her fingers, and he is surprised by how it makes him shift in his chair.
Back at his place - which does actually look pretty sparse, when he considers it from her perspective - Emma sits on the floor with legs folded modestly and sips tea while reading from the instructions to put together the new bed that was the only piece of furniture they actually brought back from the store. It’s not the easiest project in the world. Three trash bags full of plastic wrap and cardboard were just hauled to the dumpster outside. Every new item has been washed or dusted, and put somewhere appropriate. Outside the single window in the room, the sky has dimmed to twilight, and is starting to get dark. The only light is a lamp plugged into an outlet and sitting in the middle of the floor with its shade off.
“You sure that’s not the Swedish side you’re reading?” he asks.
“I see English and I see instrucciones en Español, so I’m thinking it might just be user error,” she cracks.
Will pauses, flat-head screwdriver in his hand.
“I know this can’t be the most exciting Saturday night ever, Em.” He leans over the pile of unattached bed parts to touch her ankle. “I’m glad that you’re here.”
“I think… you overestimate the excitement of my average Saturday night.” She smiles crookedly at him, and gestures impatiently. “Get back to work.”
But it all turns out - there’s not really a fifth bedpost after all, and miraculously there’re just enough screws - and within an hour Emma is helping him fold over the last meticulous corner on the bedspread. It’s past nine, and it’s been a long day.
“’Should try it out,” Will says without thinking. The words leave his mouth, and it’s too late to stuff them back in after he’s realized what that sounded like. Emma blushes over her whole face, and drops her eyelashes. Will shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth around a correction that doesn’t come out. Instead, he flops backwards onto the pillows.
“Soft,” he says emphatically in the direction of her pink cheeks. “Good for sleeping.” He pats the coverlet next to him. “Check it out.”
He’s afraid to have freaked her out, but she toes off her shoes, and then lowers herself down carefully next to him. When she props her head on her hand, her red hair falls against his pillow. And a long-buried part of Will’s nature thinks that it’s a sight he wouldn’t mind seeing more often.
“I like it,” she says finally. And he actually has to snap out of it.
“Hmmm? Excuse me?”
“The bed. You’re right, it’s comfortable.” She stretches her toes. “You all right there, space cadet?”
“Long day,” he demurs, scooting closer to her.
“Yes.” Emma’s breath comes a little faster. “Long.”
Will puts a hand on the curve of her hip, and lets her warmth bleed through her skirt to his palm. She shifts, and her sweater rides up on her side. He wets his lips.
Emma says his name, and it comes out a little broken. (God, he’s barely touched her.) Will remembers this feeling of electricity, a tangible current between himself and someone else. It’s been a while, but he thinks - he knows - how to do this. He lets his fingertips brush her skin, just barely, and she jerks against him in a gratifying manner. Her (clothed) knee brushes his (clothed) knee, and he’s tilting her chin towards him to kiss her.
It’s only the second time, but he hasn’t caught her so off guard now. Will slides his tongue against hers eagerly, and his hand claims the space over her ribs under her shirt. She kisses him back, holding his wrist where it touches her face. Gradually he shifts her so she’s lying flat, half-under him, so he can slide his fingers into her hair. They’ve done nothing, really - he thinks fleetingly that his students would call this first base - but he’s hard against her belly.
“Will,” she says quietly.
“Yeah?” He rests his forehead against hers, feeling a little dizzy and trying to remember when kissing a woman was enough to totally blow his mind.
“We should - I mean, I should get home. This is -“
“No, I know. We shouldn’t.” He pulls away, sliding over to his side of the bed in the hopes that he can collect himself in the few moments before she gets up. “You’re right.”
Over his shoulder, he can see her stepping back into her shoes, and pulling carefully at her sweater until it is back where it belongs. She smoothes her hair, and crosses her arms over her chest like there’s something inside her that she’s trying to hold in place.
“The bed’s all messed up,” she says.
“I promise I’ll fix it later,” he tells her gently. He stands up gingerly, thankful for a shirt that doesn’t tuck in. “C’mon, Em. I’ll drive you home.”
_
Valentine’s Day is coming. It crept up on him this year. He found himself at Meijer at the end of January, staring directly at an end-cap display, and it took him several moments to realize that it was festooned with lacy paper hearts and sales tags for Hershey chocolate. It seems like it can’t be possible, and that there was an unnaturally short length of time between the last holiday and this one.
He considers making duets this month’s project for New Directions, but thinks better of it by the night before practice. He’s not blind to the complicated, torrid love quadrangle in the midst of his glee club, nor is he reckless enough to risk getting the kids all riled up by deliberately giving them an assignment that he knows will cause problems. He’s vindicated in the sanity of his decision when Rachel Berry makes a very blatant point of ignoring Finn Hudson during the dance rehearsal, going so far as to break choreography by craning her neck away when she’s supposed to be looking at him. And Rachel has never so much as taken a single wrong dance step in the time that he’s been teaching her. Quinn Fabray, seven months pregnant, looks nauseous in a way that Will suspects has nothing to do with third-trimester morning sickness. And Noah Puckerman is just a little too focused on not paying attention to instructions, his habitual screwing-around coming across as forced. It’s frustrating. With Regionals coming up, the club simply does not have time to be letting melodrama get in the way of their focus. The crap needs to stop.
He tells them so. Verbatim.
Everyone looks abashed but Rachel, who looks mightily offended. He’s not sure whether it’s the fact that she’s been totally called out in front of all her peers, or the implication that her own performance could be anything less than stellar.
“Those kids are going to be the death of me,” he tells Emma at lunch the next day.
“Ooh,” she replies sympathetically, but with real interest. Talking about the kids’ love lives isn’t exactly a new topic. (But it’s absolutely not gossiping if it’s just the two of them, Emma assured him.) “What’s the latest?”
“Finn and Rachel must be on the outs,” he mumbles around his egg salad sandwich.
“Hmm.” Emma purses her lips, smoothing her plastic gloves over her hands. “And they’ve seemed to be doing so well.”
“It makes the routines difficult, keeping up with them,” Will complains. “She refused to hold his hand during ‘Love the One You’re With.’ You can imagine how that looked.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes get a little distant, like she’s doing just that. Emma shakes her head in dismay. “Wow.”
“I’m thinking of asking Figgins to approve an afternoon field trip to scrimmage with Carmel, if their coordinator will allow it. It might be the shake-up they need, you know. Get their heads in the game.”
“Vocal Adrenaline?” She sounds doubtful. “I grew up on a farm, Will. And we didn’t show the chickens the knife we’d be slaughtering them with; I’m just saying.”
“Who’s to say they’ll slaughter us?” Will frowns. “Okay, so they’ve got a few twenty-somethings with fully developed vocal cords and just so happen to have a handful of gymnasts in the club.”
“Don’t forget a costume budget bigger than a prime-time blockbuster,” she chimes in helpfully.
“Anyway,” Will says pointedly. “At the end of the day, it’s about who’s the most talented. And I know that our kids really have it in them to come out on top. If they work hard.”
“So we show them the knife.”
“So we show them the knife,” he agrees. “You in as a chaperone if we go?”
“Of course.”
The teacher’s lounge is peaceful in a strange way without Sue stalking around like a jungle cat after its next meal, and with Ken always eating lunch in the field house. Quiet. Nobody else really pays attention - Will knows that the school gossip mill has already made gristle of his marital woes - so he doesn’t stop himself from leaning across the table to hold Emma’s hand. Emma looks a bit shocked. She squeezes his hand once, her gloved fingers crinkling between his, and then lets go.
“Did I do something wrong?” Will asks quietly.
“No!” she replies hurriedly. “Well, yes. But no. It’s just - can we talk about this somewhere else?”
“Yeah. Yeah, definitely.” He crumbles up his paper napkin, and sorts his trash from the items to stick back in his lunchbag. Emma carefully stacks her myriad little boxes to pack away, and washes down the table area with a Clorox wipe before standing to get rid of the gloves and wash her hands. Will hangs by the door, and checks his watch. There’s still fifteen minutes until fifth period starts.
Emma’s high heels tap on the hallway linoleum, and Will holds the door for her when they step, blinking, into the mid-afternoon sunlight outside the back doors. Ahead of them, the gym sprawls out to the football field. A few seniors taking advantage of off-campus lunch privileges are milling around the gates, but they aren’t paying attention to a pair of teachers. They have privacy, or the closest thing to it on school grounds. It’s a warm day for winter.
“Did I make you uncomfortable?” he asks her anxiously. “Because I don’t ever want to do that.”
“You’re still married, Will.” She suddenly looks very intently at the toe of her shoe, like there’s something captivating on the ground besides trodden, dead grass. “It’s not - you know, that I’m not enthusiastic about the things going on. I’m just saying that we should be careful.”
“Oh, yeah. I agree totally.” Relieved, having imagined something else (horrible and shapeless), he bites his lips and focuses on not taking her hand again. “Appearances being what they are.”
“It’s not just that.” She looks up at him sharply.
“What is it, then?”
“It’s-” Emma’s hair is lustrous under the sun, shining red-gold. Will doesn’t realize that it’s distracting him, at first. “It’s just that I can’t be a rebound. And it’s not that I think you would willfully ever do that to me. But I’ve had these feelings for too long, and I just can’t let my heart get broken.”
Will is aghast. The thought of breaking Emma’s heart - of any more hearts being broken by, in relation to, or in the proximity of him, period - is wretched.
“Em, I would never.”
She leans over gingerly, careful not to let her body get too close to his, and presses a tiny kiss against his left temple.
“I know you wouldn’t,” she says.
_
That night, alone in his bed with the slightly scratchy feeling of new sheets all around, Will is awake.
It takes him a little while to figure out what’s wrong, and when that a-ha! moment happens, he wonders why it wasn’t immediately obvious. There are no pillows on the other side of the bed. His new mattress is only a queen, and smaller than the king-sized he’d shared with his wife. But it’s still vast enough that the lack of a body on the other side is a tangible sensation. Even though the other side is against the wall.
He shifts his pillows more towards the center, punching them back into shape from the wads he’d tossed them into. And then he stares at the ceiling, following the scalloped patterns of stucco until they fade into the shadows. As a last resort, he checks his phone where it’s plugged into the charger on his bedside table. The display reads 1:17 A.M., a whole eleven minutes since the last time he’d checked.
Will closes his eyes, and runs through his options. He could watch TV - but he did that last night. He could pick up the book he’s reading - but the thought of turning a light on is unpleasant, given the hour. Or he could lay with the same thoughts that have been running through his head for weeks, which is what he always ends up doing. Terri. (This is the only time that he allows himself to think of her.) Paperwork. Alimony. Divorce proceedings. No baby, no wife, no home, nobody.
But it’s not the night for that. Not tonight. He’s been sleeping so poorly that it’s starting to affect his daily life. He’d snapped too harshly at Brittany in class today, after asking her a question from the oral exercises in the Spanish I workbook - señorita, are you excited about the party this weekend? - and her answering, proudly, “un taquito.” The whole class had tittered, Brittany stared cluelessly at the board, and Will had just lost his cool. It wasn’t really as big a deal as he was making it out to be. Brittany had frowned a little, and gone back to doodling in the margin of her notebook. But for Will, it was upsetting.
So, nothing upsetting.
Emma, then.
Emma.
They’d had a conversation, after he kissed her the first time. That had been a stupid thing to do, at school of all places. And she was so right about the need for discretion. Lima’s a small enough town that one not-quite-divorced teacher and another one recently jilted on her wedding day could quickly become the focus of ugly gossip if they made too obvious a display of their newly-realized mutual affection. Will feels frustrated with himself for failing to keep his end of their bargain. There are times when the sheer force of his gravity towards her is too compelling, probably because he’d repressed it for so long. Like now, when she’s not even around.
Emma.
It’s late and he’s lonely, so it’s not surprising, really, that his body responds quickly to that one. He stretches beneath the covers, good feelings skimming the length of his back, and lets his hand wander downward. Over the blanket, he palms himself.
Will’s a man, and certainly not above the occasional dirty thought. But there’s something in his mind that rebels at picturing Emma Pillsbury naked. It’s too much. He’s never been with a woman who wasn’t Terri, but it seems that his ideals have shifted from the time when he was his students’ age, and dreaming nonstop of getting under his girlfriend’s cheer uniform. Having reached sexual maturity, he now realizes that there are some things you don’t rush.
So, Fantasy Emma keeps her clothes on. (Mostly.)
His mind calls up the image of the dress she’d worn two Fridays ago when she’d met him for a late dinner at the all-night diner not too far from her condo. Will had gathered the coffee saucers and silverware rolls up so that Emma could spray down the tabletop with the Lysol disinfectant she kept in her purse. He’d stood behind and slightly to the side of her, blocking her from the stares of the waitresses, and Emma efficiently moved on to the vinyl of the booth. When she bent over, the dress’s hem rode ever so slightly up in back. It wasn’t especially short, so it was not at all indecorous. Will hadn’t meant to pay attention, but the subtle shift of fabric caught his eye. He found himself staring at her backside as she industriously cleaned their eating space, deep in a reverie that wasn’t broken until another customer cleared their throat because Will was blocking the aisle.
It wasn’t really in his nature to fetishize women’s clothing, but he’d found himself wetting his lips at the sight of her. Emma picked carefully at her French toast, wrinkling her nose at the powdered sugar dusted all over her plate. Beneath their two-person table, his knees brushed hers and the sheer force of arousal that he felt was overpowering.
Even now, picturing the smooth drape of lilac knit over her thighs, Will is groaning. He closes his eyes, rebuking himself for the loudness, before he remembers that this place is completely his and he can be noisy if he wants to. There’s an old lady across the hall who is probably deaf, and the unit above his is vacant.
There’s nobody to see when he unties his pajama pants, and looses his erection. There’s nobody to care, but Will still makes himself take it slow - because there’s pleasure in self-denial. He makes his hand move lightly, his grip looser and not as quick as he needs to get a good rhythm.
The Emma in his head is no longer in the diner. She’s walking through a doorway, untying the belt of her coat and hanging it neatly up. (She acquired a coat somewhere along the way.) She’s carrying her shoes by the heel quarters, and removing her earrings and bracelet. Then, she sits down.
It’s his chair, in this apartment, he realizes. Will bites his arm to muffle her moaned name, the still images in his mind keeping time with his movement of his wrist. His thumb finds the sensitive spot where it feels the best, and Emma shifts. And the dress shifts, pulling just barely across her hips and the sublime, subtle camber of her breasts.
By now, he’s stroking himself off artlessly, quickly. It’s been too long. The muffled slap of skin on skin is pornographic, and the darkness makes his room seem vast and endlessly empty. He can hear himself starting to breathe shallow. He thrusts into his hand, and kicks the sheets aside.
Fantasy Emma smiles at him from beneath lowered lashes, sensual and coy. Her knees are bent together like a schoolgirl’s, and the toes of her bare feet touch. Her fingertips graze her knee like an accident, rippling the edge of her dress. Slowly, slowly, she drags the fabric up, revealing inches of milk-pale, freckled leg-
He hadn’t realized how close he was, until he slips so easily over the edge. Will comes with a choked cry, spilling messily over his stomach.
(It’s strange, but he sleeps just fine once he’s cleaned up.)
_
He’s slightly hangdog when he sees Emma’s car in the parking lot the next morning at school. He pulls in alongside her Camry, and the proximity of their vehicles seems somewhat licentious, like a sordid confession of some sort. Will is dinging himself mentally for that one as he strolls towards the teacher’s lounge, eating the apple that he grabbed for breakfast and trying not to grimace. But he can’t help feeling brighter when he swings the door open, fully expecting to find her in the seat she usually occupies.
She’s not there.
The fact fills him with concern. It’s seven thirty. She could possibly have a parent conference, but she hadn’t mentioned one. Will begins to irrationally worry behind the smiles he’s giving to his colleagues, imagining all sorts of bizarre things: Emma getting hit by a student’s car, a freak abduction, an overnight development in clairvoyance - wow, that one would be bad. (And what, he thinks, is up with his mind lately?) He stands at the vending machine, staring at two toaster pastries, unable to commit to either blueberry or apple-cinnamon until the annoyed hhhhhhuhhh of Augie Benware from the math department snaps Will out of it.
He walks slowly to his classroom. In his peripheral space, kids are chattering, slamming lockers, and squeaking sneakers against the floor. It’s all a dull hum, a fog he can’t snap out of. He’s turning his key in the lock when the sound of his name makes him looks up.
It’s Rachel. She’s holding a paper plate covered in a swath of Saran Wrap. Underneath, a dozen sugar cookies are neatly arranged. Their pink icing is piped in meticulous, concentric curlicues.
“Rachel,” he says slowly. “You baked cookies. Again.” (He’s just noticed that Finn is looming behind her with a happy smile on his face. He’s holding about seven books, so obviously both his and Rachel’s).
“They are for you, Mr. Schue. I’ve had the opportunity to reflect on the events of our last rehearsal, and-”
It takes Will a moment to even remember what she’s talking about.
“-it was wrong of me to perhaps even marginally reflect my romantic frustrations in my performances that day. Not as wrong as it was of you to verbally reprimand me, because even when distracted by a boyfriend who thinks nothing of forgetting a planned comparative viewing of both the 1963 original and 1995 made-for-TV adaptation of Bye Bye Birdie because he was attending a Halo LAN party with his juvenile delinquent, moronically-coiffed best friend-” (Finn’s expression is noticeably abashed.) “-the integrity of my singing, dancing, and emoting is still far better than any of my peers’. But my heartbreak was obviously showing. So, with all that in mind, I baked you some cookies.”
Will smiles weakly.
“Thank you, Rach.” He takes the plate. “I’d rather you guys just kept the heartbreak out of rehearsal-“
She opens her mouth indignantly.
“-but that was a very humble and nice gesture,” he finished quickly. “Thank you very much.”
Rachel closes her mouth, pauses, and then smiles. It’s like Will can see the moment where she’s “becoming a bigger person” or “having a growth moment,” or whichever other power phrase she’s using to justify her lack of a reply.
“We should be getting to class, babe.” Finn has done nothing but hold the books and gaze longingly at the student athletes catcalling to one another from opposite ends of the hall. He shifts his weight. “I’ve got English first period. And you know Mrs. Hogan wants me to get there early, so I can concentrate on doing my best thinking.”
Will (who was privy to that comment as a participant in Finn’s last parent-teacher conference) bites his lip and pats Rachel on the shoulder.
“I’ll see you guys later,” he says.
“See you later, Mr. S.” Finn’s about to walk away, and then he half-turns and smiles innocently at Will over his shoulder. “Hey! You should totally share your cookies with Ms. Pillsbury. I always share with Rachel.”
Her back is to him, but Will still sees Rachel smack Finn’s chest for that one as they leave.
Will’s too caught up in thinking about that one to pay attention, which is why Emma’s fingertips on his shoulder catch him off guard as he’s swinging the door open.
“Whoa!”
“Oh! Will!” He’s standing just over the threshold to the classroom, nursing the elbow that he’d whacked against the door jamb in his surprise. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live.” Wincing, he drops his bag on the closest desk and closes the door behind her. “You weren’t in your usual spot this morning.”
“Yeah.” Emma fiddles with one lacquered petal of the flower brooch closing her beaded necklace. “I had some stuff to do before, you know, my first appointment this morning."
Will relocates his bag to his desk. He powers up his computer, sits down, and starts unloading his things. He thinks Emma isn’t telling the truth, although he’s never known her to lie. The feeling unnerves him. Using the bookmark in his desk copy of the Spanish II text, he flips to his first period’s oral quiz and begins looking at the questions. He doesn’t realize that he’s not actually reading any of it until she’s standing right in front of him.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, her voice low.
“No,” he sighs. “I just. Eh. I worried, I guess.”
“Worried how, Will? That I’d get lost in the science wing, or something?”
“Not like that…” He trails off, frustrated by the way that he’s allowing himself to feel. “It’s- nothing. Sorry. Weird morning so far.”
Emma leans against a desk in the front row.
“It’s Friday,” she says.
“All day.”
“And tonight is Friday night,” she picks up again. Will raises his eyes, and sees her blushing a little. Caught in the charm of watching her pluck up her courage, he says nothing. “I was thinking, maybe…”
“Yeah?”
“Would you like to come over?” she asks, finally. “We could, mmmm, watch a movie? And get some takeout?”
“That sounds great, Em.” It really does, and Will’s afraid he sounds forced in how he tries to convince her of that. “I’d love to.”
“Okay.” And she hands back a minute, eyes unfocused looking at something on his desk that he cannot place. Then - “You aren’t wearing your wedding ring,” she observes.
“Yeah,” he replies, flexing his hand. “Well. I’m almost officially not married anymore.”
“Almost.” She pulls a smile, and grips her shoulder bag with both hands. “See you tonight?”
He nods and cocks his finger in a lame wave as she leaves.
Get a fucking grip, he tells himself mentally.
_
Part 2
Author: andbless_mybaby
Pairing: Will/Emma (with some random romantic drama from the kids in the background)
Rating: R
Spoilers: Through “Sectionals” (1.13)
Summary: Emma and Will circle each other in the weeks and months surrounding his divorce. Falling in love should (theoretically) be easier than this.
Word Count: 10,800
Author’s Notes: This was written for yahtzee63, who bought me in the help_haiti auction and had the patience of a saint while I was slowly getting it done. It was intimidating and wonderful writing this for you. I hope that you like it!
My beta reader was becca_radcgg, who knows her part in creating this and what her help means to me. Love you bunches, B2.
Will’s rented a studio downtown, the smallest place he’s ever lived in. But he’s still paying a mortgage at home (which isn’t home anymore), and this is all he could afford. He has a mattress on the floor - the one that had temporarily lost him his position with the glee club - and a tray table and folding chair that have been acting as a combined table and desk since he moved in. Piles of books are stacked neatly on either side, about ten-high so they don’t topple. A fresh waft of lemon Pine-Sol hangs in the air, which he hopes she notices. (He’d cleaned the place meticulously before she’d come over. Even doing it perfectly, scrubbing the floors and baseboards on hands and knees, it didn’t take long.)
“Will?” Emma stands just inside the doorway smiling like she’s trying not to laugh, both hands clutching the handles of her purse. “Your place is very nice. But you maybe might want to buy more furniture.”
_
That’s how they ended up at IKEA on a Saturday morning, which has to be the busiest shopping day of the week there. There’s no way that it could get more crowded, Will thinks - all the parking spots are taken except for the ones really far away, and his car almost gets hit twice by opportunistic lot-circlers waiting to swoop in on someone leaving. A steady stream of humanity is being sucked into the broad front entrance of the store, and half the pull-up lanes for customers loading big purchases are taken up by people scrambling over their vehicles with packing twine trying to secure flat brown boxes.
The West Chester store is the only one in Ohio, and a two hour drive down I-75. Blinking in the morning sunlight as he stretches his legs after the long stint sitting, Will feels like he’s maybe stepped onto an alien planet.
Halfway to the doors, Emma’s shoulder is close enough to his arm that he can feel her tensing up beneath her coat.
“Yikes,” she murmurs under her breath.
“Hey. Hey.” He brushes her elbow with his. “We’ve so got this. We’re just going to storm the place, grab some cheap stuff, and get out. It’ll be great.”
“Great,” she echoes, sounding unconvinced but obliging. “Okay. This will be great.”
He steers her around a puddle by the curb before they step into the crosswalk.
Inside, they take the escalator up to the second floor showroom. At the top, she uncaps the Purell just inside her purse, and rubs her hands together. Will asks her for some, too.
They follow the crowd along the preplanned path through the store, and then downstairs to where all the actual merchandise is located. There’s more stuff than Will has ever seen in one place, and some that he wouldn’t even know how to use if you paid him. ( “Lemon zester,” Emma tells him patiently. “Duvet cover. Do you have a duvet? Well, if you don’t know then you probably don’t.”) He carries a giant yellow shopping bag and a paper slip with a golf pencil that he uses to write row and shelf numbers down to pick up furniture in the warehouse. Emma walks closes to his side, not touching the drapes or bedding, but pointing at things that he might consider. In this way, Will acquires a 20-piece flatware set, a set of blue striped plates, a saucepan, two ice cube trays, and a colander. And that’s just from the kitchen stuff.
“Um, how have you been eating?” Emma asks him.
“Lots of sandwiches and takeout lo mein,” he says gravely, matching her tone. “I have to remember to ask for chopsticks every time.”
It’s like she can’t tell whether she’s supposed to laugh at that or not (the real answer is plastic forks), so Will pokes her gently on the shoulder to let her know that it’s okay. She laughs, and chooses some dish towels from a huge bin in the middle of the aisle. Halfway through the storage solutions, Will has to trade the bag in for an actual shopping cart. By the time they arrive at the register, he’s steering it gingerly around corners so nothing goes sliding off the top. He orders delivery on the dresser, loveseat, étagère, bookcase, and high-top kitchen table that he buys, using the money that he’d withdrawn from his savings account. When he swipes his debit card at the checkout, it’s the most money he’s spent on anything that wasn’t a car or his monthly rent, and it’s a little dizzying.
“You know someone going away to college or something?” The kid at the register is wide-eyed, not any older than Will’s students.
“Nah, man.” Will pulls a smile that he doesn’t entirely feel. “It’s all mine. New life.”
Afterwards, Will parks his overflowing cart by a rail so that they can grab a hot dog and vanilla soft-serve cone apiece (one dollar each) at the café by the exit doors. He pulls out his wallet, waving his hand at Emma.
“My treat,” he insists, smiling at her. “It’s the least I can do for all your help.”
She makes a dismissive, happy gesture. Her tongue is very pink darting delicately around her ice cream to keep it from melting onto her fingers, and he is surprised by how it makes him shift in his chair.
Back at his place - which does actually look pretty sparse, when he considers it from her perspective - Emma sits on the floor with legs folded modestly and sips tea while reading from the instructions to put together the new bed that was the only piece of furniture they actually brought back from the store. It’s not the easiest project in the world. Three trash bags full of plastic wrap and cardboard were just hauled to the dumpster outside. Every new item has been washed or dusted, and put somewhere appropriate. Outside the single window in the room, the sky has dimmed to twilight, and is starting to get dark. The only light is a lamp plugged into an outlet and sitting in the middle of the floor with its shade off.
“You sure that’s not the Swedish side you’re reading?” he asks.
“I see English and I see instrucciones en Español, so I’m thinking it might just be user error,” she cracks.
Will pauses, flat-head screwdriver in his hand.
“I know this can’t be the most exciting Saturday night ever, Em.” He leans over the pile of unattached bed parts to touch her ankle. “I’m glad that you’re here.”
“I think… you overestimate the excitement of my average Saturday night.” She smiles crookedly at him, and gestures impatiently. “Get back to work.”
But it all turns out - there’s not really a fifth bedpost after all, and miraculously there’re just enough screws - and within an hour Emma is helping him fold over the last meticulous corner on the bedspread. It’s past nine, and it’s been a long day.
“’Should try it out,” Will says without thinking. The words leave his mouth, and it’s too late to stuff them back in after he’s realized what that sounded like. Emma blushes over her whole face, and drops her eyelashes. Will shakes his head, opening and closing his mouth around a correction that doesn’t come out. Instead, he flops backwards onto the pillows.
“Soft,” he says emphatically in the direction of her pink cheeks. “Good for sleeping.” He pats the coverlet next to him. “Check it out.”
He’s afraid to have freaked her out, but she toes off her shoes, and then lowers herself down carefully next to him. When she props her head on her hand, her red hair falls against his pillow. And a long-buried part of Will’s nature thinks that it’s a sight he wouldn’t mind seeing more often.
“I like it,” she says finally. And he actually has to snap out of it.
“Hmmm? Excuse me?”
“The bed. You’re right, it’s comfortable.” She stretches her toes. “You all right there, space cadet?”
“Long day,” he demurs, scooting closer to her.
“Yes.” Emma’s breath comes a little faster. “Long.”
Will puts a hand on the curve of her hip, and lets her warmth bleed through her skirt to his palm. She shifts, and her sweater rides up on her side. He wets his lips.
Emma says his name, and it comes out a little broken. (God, he’s barely touched her.) Will remembers this feeling of electricity, a tangible current between himself and someone else. It’s been a while, but he thinks - he knows - how to do this. He lets his fingertips brush her skin, just barely, and she jerks against him in a gratifying manner. Her (clothed) knee brushes his (clothed) knee, and he’s tilting her chin towards him to kiss her.
It’s only the second time, but he hasn’t caught her so off guard now. Will slides his tongue against hers eagerly, and his hand claims the space over her ribs under her shirt. She kisses him back, holding his wrist where it touches her face. Gradually he shifts her so she’s lying flat, half-under him, so he can slide his fingers into her hair. They’ve done nothing, really - he thinks fleetingly that his students would call this first base - but he’s hard against her belly.
“Will,” she says quietly.
“Yeah?” He rests his forehead against hers, feeling a little dizzy and trying to remember when kissing a woman was enough to totally blow his mind.
“We should - I mean, I should get home. This is -“
“No, I know. We shouldn’t.” He pulls away, sliding over to his side of the bed in the hopes that he can collect himself in the few moments before she gets up. “You’re right.”
Over his shoulder, he can see her stepping back into her shoes, and pulling carefully at her sweater until it is back where it belongs. She smoothes her hair, and crosses her arms over her chest like there’s something inside her that she’s trying to hold in place.
“The bed’s all messed up,” she says.
“I promise I’ll fix it later,” he tells her gently. He stands up gingerly, thankful for a shirt that doesn’t tuck in. “C’mon, Em. I’ll drive you home.”
_
Valentine’s Day is coming. It crept up on him this year. He found himself at Meijer at the end of January, staring directly at an end-cap display, and it took him several moments to realize that it was festooned with lacy paper hearts and sales tags for Hershey chocolate. It seems like it can’t be possible, and that there was an unnaturally short length of time between the last holiday and this one.
He considers making duets this month’s project for New Directions, but thinks better of it by the night before practice. He’s not blind to the complicated, torrid love quadrangle in the midst of his glee club, nor is he reckless enough to risk getting the kids all riled up by deliberately giving them an assignment that he knows will cause problems. He’s vindicated in the sanity of his decision when Rachel Berry makes a very blatant point of ignoring Finn Hudson during the dance rehearsal, going so far as to break choreography by craning her neck away when she’s supposed to be looking at him. And Rachel has never so much as taken a single wrong dance step in the time that he’s been teaching her. Quinn Fabray, seven months pregnant, looks nauseous in a way that Will suspects has nothing to do with third-trimester morning sickness. And Noah Puckerman is just a little too focused on not paying attention to instructions, his habitual screwing-around coming across as forced. It’s frustrating. With Regionals coming up, the club simply does not have time to be letting melodrama get in the way of their focus. The crap needs to stop.
He tells them so. Verbatim.
Everyone looks abashed but Rachel, who looks mightily offended. He’s not sure whether it’s the fact that she’s been totally called out in front of all her peers, or the implication that her own performance could be anything less than stellar.
“Those kids are going to be the death of me,” he tells Emma at lunch the next day.
“Ooh,” she replies sympathetically, but with real interest. Talking about the kids’ love lives isn’t exactly a new topic. (But it’s absolutely not gossiping if it’s just the two of them, Emma assured him.) “What’s the latest?”
“Finn and Rachel must be on the outs,” he mumbles around his egg salad sandwich.
“Hmm.” Emma purses her lips, smoothing her plastic gloves over her hands. “And they’ve seemed to be doing so well.”
“It makes the routines difficult, keeping up with them,” Will complains. “She refused to hold his hand during ‘Love the One You’re With.’ You can imagine how that looked.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes get a little distant, like she’s doing just that. Emma shakes her head in dismay. “Wow.”
“I’m thinking of asking Figgins to approve an afternoon field trip to scrimmage with Carmel, if their coordinator will allow it. It might be the shake-up they need, you know. Get their heads in the game.”
“Vocal Adrenaline?” She sounds doubtful. “I grew up on a farm, Will. And we didn’t show the chickens the knife we’d be slaughtering them with; I’m just saying.”
“Who’s to say they’ll slaughter us?” Will frowns. “Okay, so they’ve got a few twenty-somethings with fully developed vocal cords and just so happen to have a handful of gymnasts in the club.”
“Don’t forget a costume budget bigger than a prime-time blockbuster,” she chimes in helpfully.
“Anyway,” Will says pointedly. “At the end of the day, it’s about who’s the most talented. And I know that our kids really have it in them to come out on top. If they work hard.”
“So we show them the knife.”
“So we show them the knife,” he agrees. “You in as a chaperone if we go?”
“Of course.”
The teacher’s lounge is peaceful in a strange way without Sue stalking around like a jungle cat after its next meal, and with Ken always eating lunch in the field house. Quiet. Nobody else really pays attention - Will knows that the school gossip mill has already made gristle of his marital woes - so he doesn’t stop himself from leaning across the table to hold Emma’s hand. Emma looks a bit shocked. She squeezes his hand once, her gloved fingers crinkling between his, and then lets go.
“Did I do something wrong?” Will asks quietly.
“No!” she replies hurriedly. “Well, yes. But no. It’s just - can we talk about this somewhere else?”
“Yeah. Yeah, definitely.” He crumbles up his paper napkin, and sorts his trash from the items to stick back in his lunchbag. Emma carefully stacks her myriad little boxes to pack away, and washes down the table area with a Clorox wipe before standing to get rid of the gloves and wash her hands. Will hangs by the door, and checks his watch. There’s still fifteen minutes until fifth period starts.
Emma’s high heels tap on the hallway linoleum, and Will holds the door for her when they step, blinking, into the mid-afternoon sunlight outside the back doors. Ahead of them, the gym sprawls out to the football field. A few seniors taking advantage of off-campus lunch privileges are milling around the gates, but they aren’t paying attention to a pair of teachers. They have privacy, or the closest thing to it on school grounds. It’s a warm day for winter.
“Did I make you uncomfortable?” he asks her anxiously. “Because I don’t ever want to do that.”
“You’re still married, Will.” She suddenly looks very intently at the toe of her shoe, like there’s something captivating on the ground besides trodden, dead grass. “It’s not - you know, that I’m not enthusiastic about the things going on. I’m just saying that we should be careful.”
“Oh, yeah. I agree totally.” Relieved, having imagined something else (horrible and shapeless), he bites his lips and focuses on not taking her hand again. “Appearances being what they are.”
“It’s not just that.” She looks up at him sharply.
“What is it, then?”
“It’s-” Emma’s hair is lustrous under the sun, shining red-gold. Will doesn’t realize that it’s distracting him, at first. “It’s just that I can’t be a rebound. And it’s not that I think you would willfully ever do that to me. But I’ve had these feelings for too long, and I just can’t let my heart get broken.”
Will is aghast. The thought of breaking Emma’s heart - of any more hearts being broken by, in relation to, or in the proximity of him, period - is wretched.
“Em, I would never.”
She leans over gingerly, careful not to let her body get too close to his, and presses a tiny kiss against his left temple.
“I know you wouldn’t,” she says.
_
That night, alone in his bed with the slightly scratchy feeling of new sheets all around, Will is awake.
It takes him a little while to figure out what’s wrong, and when that a-ha! moment happens, he wonders why it wasn’t immediately obvious. There are no pillows on the other side of the bed. His new mattress is only a queen, and smaller than the king-sized he’d shared with his wife. But it’s still vast enough that the lack of a body on the other side is a tangible sensation. Even though the other side is against the wall.
He shifts his pillows more towards the center, punching them back into shape from the wads he’d tossed them into. And then he stares at the ceiling, following the scalloped patterns of stucco until they fade into the shadows. As a last resort, he checks his phone where it’s plugged into the charger on his bedside table. The display reads 1:17 A.M., a whole eleven minutes since the last time he’d checked.
Will closes his eyes, and runs through his options. He could watch TV - but he did that last night. He could pick up the book he’s reading - but the thought of turning a light on is unpleasant, given the hour. Or he could lay with the same thoughts that have been running through his head for weeks, which is what he always ends up doing. Terri. (This is the only time that he allows himself to think of her.) Paperwork. Alimony. Divorce proceedings. No baby, no wife, no home, nobody.
But it’s not the night for that. Not tonight. He’s been sleeping so poorly that it’s starting to affect his daily life. He’d snapped too harshly at Brittany in class today, after asking her a question from the oral exercises in the Spanish I workbook - señorita, are you excited about the party this weekend? - and her answering, proudly, “un taquito.” The whole class had tittered, Brittany stared cluelessly at the board, and Will had just lost his cool. It wasn’t really as big a deal as he was making it out to be. Brittany had frowned a little, and gone back to doodling in the margin of her notebook. But for Will, it was upsetting.
So, nothing upsetting.
Emma, then.
Emma.
They’d had a conversation, after he kissed her the first time. That had been a stupid thing to do, at school of all places. And she was so right about the need for discretion. Lima’s a small enough town that one not-quite-divorced teacher and another one recently jilted on her wedding day could quickly become the focus of ugly gossip if they made too obvious a display of their newly-realized mutual affection. Will feels frustrated with himself for failing to keep his end of their bargain. There are times when the sheer force of his gravity towards her is too compelling, probably because he’d repressed it for so long. Like now, when she’s not even around.
Emma.
It’s late and he’s lonely, so it’s not surprising, really, that his body responds quickly to that one. He stretches beneath the covers, good feelings skimming the length of his back, and lets his hand wander downward. Over the blanket, he palms himself.
Will’s a man, and certainly not above the occasional dirty thought. But there’s something in his mind that rebels at picturing Emma Pillsbury naked. It’s too much. He’s never been with a woman who wasn’t Terri, but it seems that his ideals have shifted from the time when he was his students’ age, and dreaming nonstop of getting under his girlfriend’s cheer uniform. Having reached sexual maturity, he now realizes that there are some things you don’t rush.
So, Fantasy Emma keeps her clothes on. (Mostly.)
His mind calls up the image of the dress she’d worn two Fridays ago when she’d met him for a late dinner at the all-night diner not too far from her condo. Will had gathered the coffee saucers and silverware rolls up so that Emma could spray down the tabletop with the Lysol disinfectant she kept in her purse. He’d stood behind and slightly to the side of her, blocking her from the stares of the waitresses, and Emma efficiently moved on to the vinyl of the booth. When she bent over, the dress’s hem rode ever so slightly up in back. It wasn’t especially short, so it was not at all indecorous. Will hadn’t meant to pay attention, but the subtle shift of fabric caught his eye. He found himself staring at her backside as she industriously cleaned their eating space, deep in a reverie that wasn’t broken until another customer cleared their throat because Will was blocking the aisle.
It wasn’t really in his nature to fetishize women’s clothing, but he’d found himself wetting his lips at the sight of her. Emma picked carefully at her French toast, wrinkling her nose at the powdered sugar dusted all over her plate. Beneath their two-person table, his knees brushed hers and the sheer force of arousal that he felt was overpowering.
Even now, picturing the smooth drape of lilac knit over her thighs, Will is groaning. He closes his eyes, rebuking himself for the loudness, before he remembers that this place is completely his and he can be noisy if he wants to. There’s an old lady across the hall who is probably deaf, and the unit above his is vacant.
There’s nobody to see when he unties his pajama pants, and looses his erection. There’s nobody to care, but Will still makes himself take it slow - because there’s pleasure in self-denial. He makes his hand move lightly, his grip looser and not as quick as he needs to get a good rhythm.
The Emma in his head is no longer in the diner. She’s walking through a doorway, untying the belt of her coat and hanging it neatly up. (She acquired a coat somewhere along the way.) She’s carrying her shoes by the heel quarters, and removing her earrings and bracelet. Then, she sits down.
It’s his chair, in this apartment, he realizes. Will bites his arm to muffle her moaned name, the still images in his mind keeping time with his movement of his wrist. His thumb finds the sensitive spot where it feels the best, and Emma shifts. And the dress shifts, pulling just barely across her hips and the sublime, subtle camber of her breasts.
By now, he’s stroking himself off artlessly, quickly. It’s been too long. The muffled slap of skin on skin is pornographic, and the darkness makes his room seem vast and endlessly empty. He can hear himself starting to breathe shallow. He thrusts into his hand, and kicks the sheets aside.
Fantasy Emma smiles at him from beneath lowered lashes, sensual and coy. Her knees are bent together like a schoolgirl’s, and the toes of her bare feet touch. Her fingertips graze her knee like an accident, rippling the edge of her dress. Slowly, slowly, she drags the fabric up, revealing inches of milk-pale, freckled leg-
He hadn’t realized how close he was, until he slips so easily over the edge. Will comes with a choked cry, spilling messily over his stomach.
(It’s strange, but he sleeps just fine once he’s cleaned up.)
_
He’s slightly hangdog when he sees Emma’s car in the parking lot the next morning at school. He pulls in alongside her Camry, and the proximity of their vehicles seems somewhat licentious, like a sordid confession of some sort. Will is dinging himself mentally for that one as he strolls towards the teacher’s lounge, eating the apple that he grabbed for breakfast and trying not to grimace. But he can’t help feeling brighter when he swings the door open, fully expecting to find her in the seat she usually occupies.
She’s not there.
The fact fills him with concern. It’s seven thirty. She could possibly have a parent conference, but she hadn’t mentioned one. Will begins to irrationally worry behind the smiles he’s giving to his colleagues, imagining all sorts of bizarre things: Emma getting hit by a student’s car, a freak abduction, an overnight development in clairvoyance - wow, that one would be bad. (And what, he thinks, is up with his mind lately?) He stands at the vending machine, staring at two toaster pastries, unable to commit to either blueberry or apple-cinnamon until the annoyed hhhhhhuhhh of Augie Benware from the math department snaps Will out of it.
He walks slowly to his classroom. In his peripheral space, kids are chattering, slamming lockers, and squeaking sneakers against the floor. It’s all a dull hum, a fog he can’t snap out of. He’s turning his key in the lock when the sound of his name makes him looks up.
It’s Rachel. She’s holding a paper plate covered in a swath of Saran Wrap. Underneath, a dozen sugar cookies are neatly arranged. Their pink icing is piped in meticulous, concentric curlicues.
“Rachel,” he says slowly. “You baked cookies. Again.” (He’s just noticed that Finn is looming behind her with a happy smile on his face. He’s holding about seven books, so obviously both his and Rachel’s).
“They are for you, Mr. Schue. I’ve had the opportunity to reflect on the events of our last rehearsal, and-”
It takes Will a moment to even remember what she’s talking about.
“-it was wrong of me to perhaps even marginally reflect my romantic frustrations in my performances that day. Not as wrong as it was of you to verbally reprimand me, because even when distracted by a boyfriend who thinks nothing of forgetting a planned comparative viewing of both the 1963 original and 1995 made-for-TV adaptation of Bye Bye Birdie because he was attending a Halo LAN party with his juvenile delinquent, moronically-coiffed best friend-” (Finn’s expression is noticeably abashed.) “-the integrity of my singing, dancing, and emoting is still far better than any of my peers’. But my heartbreak was obviously showing. So, with all that in mind, I baked you some cookies.”
Will smiles weakly.
“Thank you, Rach.” He takes the plate. “I’d rather you guys just kept the heartbreak out of rehearsal-“
She opens her mouth indignantly.
“-but that was a very humble and nice gesture,” he finished quickly. “Thank you very much.”
Rachel closes her mouth, pauses, and then smiles. It’s like Will can see the moment where she’s “becoming a bigger person” or “having a growth moment,” or whichever other power phrase she’s using to justify her lack of a reply.
“We should be getting to class, babe.” Finn has done nothing but hold the books and gaze longingly at the student athletes catcalling to one another from opposite ends of the hall. He shifts his weight. “I’ve got English first period. And you know Mrs. Hogan wants me to get there early, so I can concentrate on doing my best thinking.”
Will (who was privy to that comment as a participant in Finn’s last parent-teacher conference) bites his lip and pats Rachel on the shoulder.
“I’ll see you guys later,” he says.
“See you later, Mr. S.” Finn’s about to walk away, and then he half-turns and smiles innocently at Will over his shoulder. “Hey! You should totally share your cookies with Ms. Pillsbury. I always share with Rachel.”
Her back is to him, but Will still sees Rachel smack Finn’s chest for that one as they leave.
Will’s too caught up in thinking about that one to pay attention, which is why Emma’s fingertips on his shoulder catch him off guard as he’s swinging the door open.
“Whoa!”
“Oh! Will!” He’s standing just over the threshold to the classroom, nursing the elbow that he’d whacked against the door jamb in his surprise. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live.” Wincing, he drops his bag on the closest desk and closes the door behind her. “You weren’t in your usual spot this morning.”
“Yeah.” Emma fiddles with one lacquered petal of the flower brooch closing her beaded necklace. “I had some stuff to do before, you know, my first appointment this morning."
Will relocates his bag to his desk. He powers up his computer, sits down, and starts unloading his things. He thinks Emma isn’t telling the truth, although he’s never known her to lie. The feeling unnerves him. Using the bookmark in his desk copy of the Spanish II text, he flips to his first period’s oral quiz and begins looking at the questions. He doesn’t realize that he’s not actually reading any of it until she’s standing right in front of him.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, her voice low.
“No,” he sighs. “I just. Eh. I worried, I guess.”
“Worried how, Will? That I’d get lost in the science wing, or something?”
“Not like that…” He trails off, frustrated by the way that he’s allowing himself to feel. “It’s- nothing. Sorry. Weird morning so far.”
Emma leans against a desk in the front row.
“It’s Friday,” she says.
“All day.”
“And tonight is Friday night,” she picks up again. Will raises his eyes, and sees her blushing a little. Caught in the charm of watching her pluck up her courage, he says nothing. “I was thinking, maybe…”
“Yeah?”
“Would you like to come over?” she asks, finally. “We could, mmmm, watch a movie? And get some takeout?”
“That sounds great, Em.” It really does, and Will’s afraid he sounds forced in how he tries to convince her of that. “I’d love to.”
“Okay.” And she hands back a minute, eyes unfocused looking at something on his desk that he cannot place. Then - “You aren’t wearing your wedding ring,” she observes.
“Yeah,” he replies, flexing his hand. “Well. I’m almost officially not married anymore.”
“Almost.” She pulls a smile, and grips her shoulder bag with both hands. “See you tonight?”
He nods and cocks his finger in a lame wave as she leaves.
Get a fucking grip, he tells himself mentally.
_
Part 2