charity fic: the places that alone I'd never find (2/2)
Title: the places that alone I’d never find (2/2)
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.
Part 1
The movie is fairly pedestrian, one of those romantic comedies where the guy’s best friend is a wiseacre and the girl’s best friend is sharp and not very pretty. There’s also a large dog that keeps breaking things, like a running gag. It seems like it should be funny, but Will’s not laughing.
He’s looking at Emma from the corner of his eye, trying not to get caught doing it and wondering how much of this is a formality. There’s a memory of this in the back of his mind, negotiating the way to getting his arm around the girl without looking like a tool. He doesn’t think Emma would consider him a tool. Probably not. He knows that she likes him. He’s kissed her before. It’s all right.
Emma’s body is a soft curve against his, a perfect fit when he slips an arm around her shoulder. He sighs inaudibly when she relaxes. She’s watching the movie, smiling at the funny parts, and Will reflects that she’s much more comfortable on her own turf. For a moment, he revels in the sensation of being close to her and how good that feels. It should end there, he knows. But the glow from her TV is bluish on her coppery hair, and he can’t help sliding the piece closest to her face between his fingers.
Her face turns to him in the shadows, and he kisses her.
Emma tastes like their dinner: lambrusco and tomato sauce. The corner of his lips catches the little puff of her sigh when she parts hers.
“Will, we shouldn’t.” Her voice is low, hesitant, full of trembling excitement. He feels himself smiling against her mouth, licking delicately at her lip gloss and at the last vestiges of her resistance. It could be the wine, but Will’s feeling reckless. So he kisses her some more, careful and slow, but deliberately.
He traces the neckline of her blouse with one finger, skating down over her collarbone and over the hollow of her throat. Will fingers the top button of the blouse, tracing circles around the tortoiseshell disc. He lets the tip of his pinky slide inside the space between the first button and the second, rubbing at the little patch of skin underneath. He thinks about undoing all the buttons and slipping the blouse off her shoulders. He doesn’t.
Instead he changes directions, and cups her knee in his hand, just barely under her skirt. Emma shifts, and Will feels muscle and bone move under his palm. Above his longest finger, her thigh is hot and soft. Her hands are crossed on her lap, and the tip of her tongue is poking out above her lip like she’s concentrating very hard on sitting still. He likes that. He likes it enough that he watches her face when he spider-walks his fingers higher, knuckles brushing the silky lining of her skirt.
“Will…” she says, warningly.
“We don’t have to do anything-” he assures her, “we shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Just - I wanna. I want to do something.”
“You want to make me what, Will?”
“Hsh,” he shushes her. “C’mon. Let me make you feel good.”
“Oh!” she actually says, like a girl in a story. It’s strangely, overwhelmingly arousing. He doesn’t usually say things like that out loud, and hearing himself do it sends a heated cramp through his belly. He gets down off his seat, and on his knees before her on the floor. Emma looks both excited and nervous, like someone who’s about to do the big slide at the water park for the first time.
His hands on her knees might have been a little rough. He can’t tell. It’s been a while since he’s done this, a while since he’s been wanted in this way by anyone actually in front of him, in any state of undress. It’s all a little overwhelming, honestly. Excitement makes his heart go like a timbrel, shudder-shaking and nerves jangled. There’s a curving vee of white lace where her legs come together, sliding slick under his thumb when he presses down. Hot. Emma’s hips buck like she’s been prodded. He’s grinning when he leans in, and he hides it with a sucking kiss on the inside of her knee. His mouth moves higher almost without his conscious thought, and he’s shoving her skirt up towards her hips.
All of the sudden, it’s as if Emma’s brain has caught up with her body. She screams a little - stop! - and fists his hair.
“Saliva,” she breathes, horrified. “I c-can’t-“
“’S okay,” he murmurs quietly. “I won’t. Just- trust me?”
She doesn’t respond, but the death grip she has on his hair eases, and he soothes her thighs apart again with soft, dry (clean) kisses. Emma’s compulsively smoothing her skirt even as he gets further under it, but not quite stopping him. So Will goes with it, and lets her drape the floaty fabric down over his head. And then he nips at the tender skin right alongside the juncture of her pelvis, and Emma’s hands drop away.
With the folds of her skirt rucked all up around his face, Will can’t see anything. He doesn’t need to. He’s always loved doing this, loved doing it for Terri when she would let him. He knows that he can’t do quite the same thing for Emma, so he’ll improvise. Will’s creative. He can work with what’s in front of him.
Where he is, he can imagine what’s going on above him. He imagines Emma holding her breath, face turning splotchy-pink. He imagines her small, freckled breasts inside her lacy bra, the apricot nipples that would be a shade or two lighter than her lips. In his mind, Emma is gripping the edge of the couch tightly enough to turn her knuckles pale.
He keeps his word and doesn’t use his mouth, though it’s a torment not to. Breathing the fresh, oceanic scent of her body and the lightest dab of perfume between her knees, he lets his hand do the work and contents himself to think.
Emma’s inner thighs flex and tremble near his ears, and her breath sounds like she’s drowning. Will hooks a finger under the cloth.
“Pssst. Em.”
Even muffled, he can hear every moan she’s trying to swallow.
“Y-yes? Will.”
“Does that feel good?” His fingers slide against her, over and over.
“Yes. Yes.”
The yeses and Wills don’t stop, quiet and mumbly-huffed in the back of her throat. All of her is around him, voice and touch and smell and the chaste, agonizing taste of her sweat (and nothing else). He brings his free hand up, and feels around until he finds her wrist. She doesn’t help, which tells him that her eyes are closed. And when he finds her hand, her knuckles are indeed fisting the edge of the seat. He guides her fingers under the skirt to his hair, and they skitter jerkily over his curls before entangling in them like she’s desperate for something to hold onto. Will hears himself groan, and gives her his thumb, fast-fast, until she’s clenching and jerking her hips into his hand.
Emma cries out jaggedly, ripping his name in two parts when she comes. He feels it happening before that, and sinks his fingers deep to feel her arch and spasm around them. Her hand in his hair tightens. She isn’t loud, even at the moment that it happens. Her fast, panting breath strums something in his heart, and his chest burns and tightens. (Her small, ululating oh gods betray what he thinks is probably a fine soprano.) She accidentally kicks off her shoe. Will, harder than he thinks he’s ever been in his life, mashes his face into the lip of couch between her thighs and strokes her until she’s ridden it out.
When he sits back on his heels, his hands between them seem like they must be wired with dynamite, from the way that Emma looks at them. He takes the hint, shamefaced, and gets up. He’d prefer to kiss her, slow and dirty, and find her bed so he could take all her clothes off. He’d prefer to lick her flavor off his own skin while she watched, so he could taste it in his mouth when she was naked. But that’s not how this is going to work, he knows.
In her bathroom, he soaps his hands to the wrist and patiently washes them for thirty seconds under the hottest water he can handle while willing his dick to behave itself. The room is undeniably feminine, with a delicate lavender toile pattern on the wallpaper and a small basket of potpourri on the étagère. He dries his hands with a folded paper towel - fewer germs than cloth, Emma had explained passionately - and fingers the embossed dots of a brooch laying, forgotten, on the counter. When he opens the door again, he’s feeling much better, and more in control.
Will knows he’s got a slightly dumb smile on his face, confident in his plan to be so gentle and slow with her. He’s adjusted himself in his jeans, and the hem of his t-shirt covers everything.
Emma’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, face crimson, lips slightly parted like she’s trying hard not to scream.
The feeling of awkward, boorish inconsiderateness hits him like a falling building.
“Oh. You probably want to - yeah. Clean up,” he says lamely.
“I should - I-” she falters. “You’ll have to excuse me.”
The last syllable sounds a little like a shriek.
She gusts into the bathroom, and closes the door. He can hear the faucet squeal in protest when she turns the hot water on as high as it will go, and the opening and shutting of her medicine cabinet and the cabinet under the sink. He hears her open the connecting door to her bedroom, and the slide of her closet on its hinges. Will sinks dejectedly back onto the couch with sore knees, and listens to the frenzied spraying of what he imagines is OxyClean. (He knows all of Emma’s favorite brands, having spent half an hour in that aisle of the supermarket on more than one occasion.)
He passes the time berating himself internally, even though he’s not quite sure what he did wrong. A million scenarios crowd his brain, fighting one another for dominance. This can still work, he tries to tell himself, knowing she’s upset. It was too fast. Every time he thinks he’s going slowly enough for her she gets skittish on him and he re-paces himself. It’s happened before. He’ll just talk her down, abandoning the thought of doing anything tonight or even soon. They'll rewind the movie to where they left off, and catch the inevitable happy ending. He thinks that this could be okay.
But the sounds stop, and then he doesn’t hear anything for minutes.
Emma finally comes out of the bathroom, back stiff and wearing a different dress and her rubber gloves up to her wrists like armor. Her face is screwed up and blotchy-pale, her eyes wet and cold. There’s a spray bottle of upholstery cleaner in her hand, and, inexplicably, her favorite duster.
“You have to,” she stutters, “go. Now.” She doesn’t look at him.
“Em!” Will restrains himself from rising, trying not to rattle her further. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Please. We can talk?”
“Please get up,” she mutters tensely. “I need to, uh, take up that slipcover. Probably need to burn it.”
He acquiesces, and crosses her living room in five long strides.
“Are you okay?” he asks, anxiously. “Did I hurt you?
“It’s not that, Will.” Agitation begins to crack her voice and break through her porcelain-fragile veneer of composure. “I’m asking you to please go.”
“Emma. Come on.” She ignores him, and methodically starts dusting the wooden top of her credenza with tight, precise flicks of her hand. He lays his palm over her glove. “Please.”
She waves him off, jaw set in a line.
“Please. Now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me to stop?” he presses fretfully. “Oh God, Em…”
“Go.”
Humiliated and sick with worry, he does.
_
By the time three o’clock rolls around on Tuesday and the kids start filing into the choral room, Will is feeling about as dismal as any time he can remember. The weekend had been painful, dragging more slowly than any two days he can recall. Monday was an in-service day, six hours of training on the new computer grading software and minute changes to the district’s mission statement held in the cafeteria with hard plastic chairs and the smells of watered-down disinfectant and old broccoli. Emma made herself conspicuously absent that morning, although he caught a glimpse of at her desk when he passed by to unnecessarily check his mailbox for the fifth time. Her head was bent over her planner, tapping her fingers idly without actually making contact on the desk. The pang that gave him lasted until sixth period.
Part of why Will loves teaching is because he can (vividly) remember being sixteen. He’s young enough to empathize with his students’ struggles and celebrate their triumphs. It’s what gives him so much connection with his young singers in New Directions, where the struggle/triumph thing is so much starker. Smiling big at Artie Abrams when he glides by, Will thinks about the trivial nature of his own life in their grand schemes. And that’s another thing about being sixteen. The self-absorption: thinking that your personal dramas are center-stage, and everything else is subplot. He tries now to remember if he ever spared a thought for his teachers’ personal lives in high school, and the answer makes him feel bleak.
“All right, guys.” He claps his hands to rouse them. “Let’s take this from the top!”
Twenty minutes into the dance rehearsal - which is going much better, given that the two leads are actually looking at one another - Puck breaks off from the back corner of the guys’ group and slumps down next to Will. In his basketball jersey and hoodie, he much wider than Will. Yet his posture is distinctively childish, his characteristic sneer nowhere to be found. Will tracks Puck’s gaze as he watches Rachel sing to Finn and giggle when he picks her up to spin her around. He should scold Puck and send him back to the lineup, for sure. He’s one of those kids that needs a lot of structure, and what Will’s own teachers called “a firm hand,” back in the day. Definitely not encouragement to slack off. But Will can’t help the irresistible pang of sympathy he feels. So he leans over, and mutters just slightly above the music:
“Girl trouble, Puck?”
“Shiiit, don’t you know it.” Puck drawls. Will frowns at him. “Uh, sorry.”
“You may be barking up the wrong tree on that one.” He raises his eyes at Rachel. “If you want my advice, that is.”
“Little miss crazy?” Barking a laugh, Puck sprawls indolently. “Nuh-uh. Nope. I got ninety-nine problems, but that ain’t one I’m barking up, down, or sideways.”
It’s fairly obvious that Puck protests too much, Will thinks. But he lets the matter drop, and allows himself fall into the lull of counting beats in his head. But Puck doesn’t rejoin the group, and poor Brittany is comically trying to simulate her dance steps without a partner, including a modified swing-out that almost sends her flying into the piano.
“I think you should go back,” Will says, under his breath.
“Check this out.” Puck hikes his basketball shorts up over his knee. A purplish-green bruise bigger than Will’s whole hand covers the side of Puck’s calf.
“Ouch. Accidently get hit by a ball?”
“Nah. One’a the d-bags on the team we played last week threw it at me after I told him that he must have gotten his big mouth from his mom. It totally hurts.” Puck’s smirking from ear to ear when he says it, but Will can’t quite figure that one out. “Hey. Yo. Mr. Schue. Speaking of, you know. Chicks. You doing okay in that department?”
Will can feel his mouth gaping.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ms. P,” Puck says nonchalantly, poking at his bruise. “You. I know you gotta be hitting that, right? I mean, she’s always hanging around practices and shi… stuff. And we all kind of know about you and Mrs. Schuester, no offense.”
“That’s not really an appropriate topic for conversation, Noah.”
“I figured.” Puck’s smirking into his hands, pretending to be cool as he leans forward and stares at Rachel a little bit longer. He shakes his head. “It’s tough out there for a playa, Mr. S.”
“I feel you, man.” Will nods, in what he hopes is a sage and unaffected manner. “I feel you.”
_
Will’s furniture has been sitting in pieces on the floor for two weeks. The delivery guys offered to take all the cardboard and plastic packaging with them when they left, leaving Will with unassembled hunks of loveseat and table strewn across the floor. Up-ended and huge, they form an obstacle course that he has to navigate in the mornings when he is balancing a thermos of coffee and his bag, trying to get out the door on his way to school. His living space, which had once seemed so barren, now seems more like the twelve-by-sixteen pocket square it really is.
When he notices that the pieces are starting to gather dust, he steels his resolve and decides to just put it all together. It’s not like he has anything better to do over the weekend, so he sets up camp in the widest available space with his 20-piece tool kit and a pile of instruction leaflets and gets to work. Gradually, the hunks of plastic, wood, and leather start to become recognizable objects. It feels good to put something together. It feels like something he hasn’t done enough of, lately.
He thinks, unconsciously, of the day he’d signed the lease on this place and taken the keys. That first night, sitting on the floor with his bare mattress, a suitcase, and his three cardboard boxes of stuff, was the first ever that he’d spend completely alone. Having gone from his parents’ house to a college dorm to a frat house and then his first apartment with Terri, he’d never actually lived by himself. Everything he did was by himself that first week, laundry and eating and sleeping restlessly on top of a blanket. Emma had swept him like a bright, meticulous ray of sunshine and straightened his life out, filling in the corners and empty spaces. And the reality of his failed marriage was still sad, but bearable. He knows the way the story progressed, but he can’t seem to get past that first night. The memory lingers until he tightens the last screw in the coffee table.
Afterwards, cleaning up all the Styrofoam dust, he reaches for his floor sweeper and feels something inside his chest twist and ache like there’s a long and sharp thing sewn up inside. He pushes it back and forth uselessly for a few moments, lost deep in the belief that one wrong move will kill him. All the despair that he’d felt in those first few weeks after finding out about Terri and the baby that wasn’t really a baby all of the sudden feels very new again. Not thinking straight, he’d picked the wrong tool for the job. All he’s doing is pushing the crap around. Will plugs in the vacuum, and its roar seems almost too loud to tolerate.
By the time he’s done, it’s getting dark. He clicks his lamp on, unable to help a moment’s admiration for the fact that it finally has a proper spot on the end table. Its warm glow lights the small room from corner to corner, falling on his furniture, his closet, and his bed. The room smells like newness, and feels even emptier than before.
_
Another week goes by while Will floats in a daze.
His Spanish II class has to memorize and recite a poem, and Will has to explain to explain patiently to Finn that “La Macarena” doesn’t count. (Finn wants to know if he can get half credit, for the parts that weren’t English. Or for a good performance?)
He gets a letter from his lawyer attached to a petition for the dissolution of his marriage to Terri, with her signature already on it. In the interest of time and avoiding a mess, they’d opted for a no-fault termination. His lawyer and hers worked out the separation agreement, through which Terri would sell the house and its contents and split the proceeds with Will. His eyes scan the pages, but he’s not really reading the words.
Distantly, he imagines money. Investments, a bigger place, and not having to pinch pennies on food so that he can make his car payment. He’s never been one to be daunted by finances, but it all seems to big and vague and overwhelming to deal with at present.
He signs the papers quickly and efficiently, the final “r” of his name on the last page so emphatic that it darts off the margin and onto the table, and Will later has to patiently coax the ink stain out with a Magic Eraser.
_
Vocal Adrenaline files on stage, and stands in formation.
They wear matching t-shirts for rehearsal, which boggles Will’s mind. There’s not so much as a single giggle or fidget before the music starts. It’s the Friday before Valentine’s Day. He may or may not have heard someone backstage casually discussing Dakota Stanley getting a Tony nod on the basis of his choreography for Carmel’s Regionals opener.
A tiny girl who can’t possibly be older than a freshman steps forward, and unleashes the biggest voice that Will’s heard in a while. Around her, the club slides into a vampy version of Alicia Keys’ “Fallin’.”
Sometimes I love ya, the chorus swells.
Sometimes you make me blue, the soloist replies melodically.
The other school’s glee advisor stops the group twice to make some corrections, and Will finds himself anxious each time to see the number all the way through. Their talent is ridiculous, and this particular song isn’t even one that they’ll be using for competition. (A crucial provision of the scrimmage had been that neither club disclosed their actual set list. Or costumes, or dance moves, or hairstyles, or pyrotechnics, the last of which made Will blanch when it was discussed.)
The only thing possibly harder to deal with than Carmel’s likelihood of slaughtering his kids at Regionals is Emma down at the far end of the row in which they’re sitting, flanked by Quinn on one side and Artie in the aisle. Except for a few moments where she has to resort to chaperone-ly discipline - Puck’s feet on the seatback, and Tina Cohen-Chang’s spilled Junior Mints clattering all over the floor - Emma keeps her eyes respectfully forward and doesn’t acknowledge him at all. On the bus ride over, she’d made sure to park her huge satchel on the seat beside her like a clear message: don’t even think about it.
After about an hour, the group takes a break and New Directions heads out into the hallway to stretch. They are strangely subdued (Rachel looks like she’s teetering on the verge of hysterical tears), and Will can’t help thinking that the mission of this trip has been accomplished.
Puck’s complaining about marathon rehearsals, like what the fuck - is this the Olympics or some shit? But Will can’t be bothered with correcting his student’s language or poor work ethic. He watches Emma duck into the restroom, fishing out a pair of latex gloves and her travel bottle of Clorox spray bleach. And he gravitates towards the bulletin board posted up by the ladies’ room door, acting like he’s deeply interested in the advertisement for an upcoming book fair.
His timing is good. His students drift back into the auditorium as the sounds of singing begins to drift back out, and the hallway is clear. Will is alone, trying not to bounce on the balls of his feet with impatience, when Emma backs out of the restroom with her thoroughly-washed hands hanging in the air. She looks at him, and then starts to walk away.
Knowing that he’s taking a risk, and that one of the kids - worse, one of Carmel’s kids - could see them, he takes a step towards her.
“Please listen to me,” he says, all in a rush so that she can’t stop him. He figures that, if she’s going to walk away, she’ll still hear it. “Emma. I’m so sorry for whatever hurt you, or scared you. I want to talk to you. Please.”
Her back stiffens visibly under her cardigan.
“Please,” he repeats. “I’m sorry about your slipcover.”
Emma turns slowly, a hand on the strap of her bag.
“It’s not the slipcover, Will.” She licks her lips. “You really don’t need to be sorry for anything. Excuse me-”
She goes to push by him. Will, recognizing the imminent escape of an opportunity, blocks her before he can think better of it.
“But I am sorry,” he insists. “Whatever happened that night obviously bothered you. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. And you aren’t talking to me, so I guess that you are thinking about it, too.”
“We shouldn’t be, um, doing this now.” Her eyes dart around the empty hall, the rows of silent lockers, and the doors to darkened classrooms. “The children need… supervision. They might be getting up to trouble. Noah was talking about pulling a fire alarm and beating up the lead singer-”
“They’re fine. Wait…” He looks uneasily towards the theater. “Is there an alarm pull in there? Like, close to the seats?”
Her silence tells him that she’s really not that concerned. Will catches himself. He sticks his hands in his pockets, like he’s afraid of what he might do with them.
“Just give me a minute.” He might be begging a little, but he’s past pride. “Not long. Just a minute to explain something.”
“It really has been bothering me,” she admits at last. “Not talking to you.” She keeps glancing sidelong at the doors, obviously torn between their conversation and her duty to supervise the dozen teenagers in the auditorium.
“Will you talk to me? Not here. But - soon?”
“I might be able to do that.” She bites her lip. “We should talk. That would be a good idea.”
“Better than avoiding me?”
Her eyes meet his.
“Maybe,” she says frankly. “I haven’t, uh, decided that yet.”
“Ah,” he says, because that wasn’t really the answer that he was expecting.
“I’ve just been confused.” She folds her arms across her chest. Her voice is quiet.
“So, let me help you work through it.” He cranes his neck, trying to catch her gaze again. “Together. Don’t shut me out, here.”
“I don’t want to shut you out,” she murmurs.
“Then let’s talk.” He knows he’s being repetitive, but he needs to lock this down.
“Well, you know where I am. I mean, where I live, and we work together, and, uh, you have my number. So just… let me know when it’s convenient for you.”
“I will,” he promises, knowing that he’s going to call her the minute he gets home tonight. And feeling lighter than he has in recent memory.
It’s only then that he catches a flash by the half-open door to the theater, and doesn’t quite miss Rachel yanking Finn back into the shadows where the entire club is undoubtedly lurking.
“I think the kids are rooting for us,” he says, palming his chin in abashment.
“Oh!” She looks around quickly. Her cheeks blush pink. “That’s not good.”
“It’ll be all right,” he tells her reassuringly. And somehow, he believes it.
_
At Will’s apartment, Emma moves around the room and appreciatively touches everything that’s new. Her hand lingers on the wall that Will’s landlord had approved painting a deep, sandy beige. She traces a fault line in the plaster, lips pursed as she contemplates the trim and the placement of a vibrant Rothko multiform framed print. Afternoon sunlight spills through the horizontal blinds and casts bands of brightness on her holiday-appropriate pink dress.
“You’re all settled in,” she says at last.
“Yup.” He folds his arms. “Home, sweet shoebox. But it’s looking good, I think.”
“It’s looking great,” she replies. “It’s also very clean. And you know, that’s…”
“Em,” he says softly, just as she finishes. “…very important.”
Will figures that this is it, and that he may as well lay all his cards on the table.
“Emma,” he repeats.
“I really like what you did with the area rug,” she pipes up nervously.
“I’m so glad you came over,” he says. It’s purposefully abrupt, so she can’t stop him. “I’ve missed you. So much.”
“I’ve missed you too.” She murmurs it towards the floor boards, towards the fringe of the same rug that she’d complimented a moment before. “This has been hard, you know.”
“Well, I can relate to that.” He can’t help a brief laugh on that one. “Emphatically.”
“Emphatically,” she echoes, almost to herself. “Yeah.”
There’s another moment of quiet between them. He almost stops himself from reaching out for her, until he remembers that they aren’t in school. But he’s no longer sure of the rules for this situation. So he shuffles a bit before grabbing her hand. It’s cold in his, free of her mitten. Just touching her like that fills him with a heavy, round familiarity that displaces the internal composure he’d affected so carefully before her arrival. He warms her fingers between his palms as the words in his head shove in line, crowding his throat.
“I haven’t been honest with you,” he blurts. “About what I want. From you.”
“What you want. From me.” She reiterates his words slowly.
“I don’t want just something physical from you.” Her chin’s tilting down; she doesn’t understand. He curls the fingers of his free hand under it. “I want. God. Em, I want everything.”
He feels her swallow. Her hand comes up, and curves against his. Silence edges one moment to the next, and she rubs her thumb against his wrist.
“Everything is a lot to ask.” Her gaze flickers against his, then drops like she can’t manage to hold it. “I mean, for me. Right now. And I want everything from you. But it’s so soon, and…”
“I know,” he affirms when words fail her. “We were supposed to be taking it slow,” he says. “Not doing anything, and not saying anything too important. I know you’re worried about that. I think we’ve been failing on one and not the other, because it’s easier to hold off on saying things than it is to stop doing them when I’m around you.” He feels his lips quirking in a smile. “It’s just that I want you, Emma. I do. I can’t help it.”
“I want you too, Will.” Her face is very red, but she’s smiling as well. “You have to know that.”
“Well, it still feels good to hear it.”
And she laughs. It’s the best sound he’s heard in months, sweeter than the high note in a perfect solo.
“My divorce will be final in about two weeks,” he tells her. “I got my hearing date in the mail yesterday.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says, coloring like she’s ashamed to have just been laughing.
“Don’t be.” He hopes that he sounds every bit as confident as he feels. “It’s time. For more than one reason.”
“Oh?”
“I’m ready to move on.” Will thumbs a lock of hair that’s fallen over her forehead, and tries not to lose himself in the astounding amber of her eyes. He’s rehearsed this speech like an important number, verse and chorus over and over until it was completely and perfectly right. “It’s time to start something new. I want to date you, Emma.”
“You mean… publicly?” Her voice rises a little at the end.
“Yes. Pubicly.” He takes the step closer that he’s been holding back on, so that the curves and warmth of her body bleed into his. “I don’t want the fact that I’m with you to be a secret anymore. And I think that we should wait these last few days, to make it official. That way we don’t feel guilty, and we know that we’re starting with a clean slate.”
“I like clean slates,” she breathes.
“I’m going to take you out,” he continues, “on our first date. But you’d better start thinking about that, because there’s a catch.”
“What kind of catch?”
“You’re going to pretend like you don’t know me already, and we’re going to do this from scratch.”
“So, it’ll be a blind date, then.” Emma colors attractively. “Oh. Well. I hope it goes better than the last time I tried one of those.”
“I think it will go great,” he says. “Dinner, maybe a movie. Nothing too crazy, of course. Keep in mind, I haven’t technically met you yet.”
“That should make things interesting at school.” She raises an eyebrow. “The kids are going to think that we’ve gone completely bonkers.”
“Well, we’ll fudge it when we’re at work.”
Her face is very close to his.
“If it’s a blind date…”
“…yeah?”
“…you shouldn’t kiss me then,” she murmurs.
“No,” he agrees. “Definitely… definitely not.”
“Okay.” And she’s smiling, the sides of her mouth curling up against his face when he leans in and kisses her anyway. And he’s smiling, and Will can’t help wondering if it’s something in the air due to the date, or if this - in this exact moment - is something else that he remembers feeling once, a long time ago when he was the kids’ age.
(No, he corrects himself. This is much better.)
“Em?” He says. “Just one thing.”
“Yes?”
“Would you wear that purple dress? For me?”
_
and if I have to crawl upon the floor, come crashing through your door,
baby, I can’t fight this feeling anymore.
end.
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.
Part 1
The movie is fairly pedestrian, one of those romantic comedies where the guy’s best friend is a wiseacre and the girl’s best friend is sharp and not very pretty. There’s also a large dog that keeps breaking things, like a running gag. It seems like it should be funny, but Will’s not laughing.
He’s looking at Emma from the corner of his eye, trying not to get caught doing it and wondering how much of this is a formality. There’s a memory of this in the back of his mind, negotiating the way to getting his arm around the girl without looking like a tool. He doesn’t think Emma would consider him a tool. Probably not. He knows that she likes him. He’s kissed her before. It’s all right.
Emma’s body is a soft curve against his, a perfect fit when he slips an arm around her shoulder. He sighs inaudibly when she relaxes. She’s watching the movie, smiling at the funny parts, and Will reflects that she’s much more comfortable on her own turf. For a moment, he revels in the sensation of being close to her and how good that feels. It should end there, he knows. But the glow from her TV is bluish on her coppery hair, and he can’t help sliding the piece closest to her face between his fingers.
Her face turns to him in the shadows, and he kisses her.
Emma tastes like their dinner: lambrusco and tomato sauce. The corner of his lips catches the little puff of her sigh when she parts hers.
“Will, we shouldn’t.” Her voice is low, hesitant, full of trembling excitement. He feels himself smiling against her mouth, licking delicately at her lip gloss and at the last vestiges of her resistance. It could be the wine, but Will’s feeling reckless. So he kisses her some more, careful and slow, but deliberately.
He traces the neckline of her blouse with one finger, skating down over her collarbone and over the hollow of her throat. Will fingers the top button of the blouse, tracing circles around the tortoiseshell disc. He lets the tip of his pinky slide inside the space between the first button and the second, rubbing at the little patch of skin underneath. He thinks about undoing all the buttons and slipping the blouse off her shoulders. He doesn’t.
Instead he changes directions, and cups her knee in his hand, just barely under her skirt. Emma shifts, and Will feels muscle and bone move under his palm. Above his longest finger, her thigh is hot and soft. Her hands are crossed on her lap, and the tip of her tongue is poking out above her lip like she’s concentrating very hard on sitting still. He likes that. He likes it enough that he watches her face when he spider-walks his fingers higher, knuckles brushing the silky lining of her skirt.
“Will…” she says, warningly.
“We don’t have to do anything-” he assures her, “we shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Just - I wanna. I want to do something.”
“You want to make me what, Will?”
“Hsh,” he shushes her. “C’mon. Let me make you feel good.”
“Oh!” she actually says, like a girl in a story. It’s strangely, overwhelmingly arousing. He doesn’t usually say things like that out loud, and hearing himself do it sends a heated cramp through his belly. He gets down off his seat, and on his knees before her on the floor. Emma looks both excited and nervous, like someone who’s about to do the big slide at the water park for the first time.
His hands on her knees might have been a little rough. He can’t tell. It’s been a while since he’s done this, a while since he’s been wanted in this way by anyone actually in front of him, in any state of undress. It’s all a little overwhelming, honestly. Excitement makes his heart go like a timbrel, shudder-shaking and nerves jangled. There’s a curving vee of white lace where her legs come together, sliding slick under his thumb when he presses down. Hot. Emma’s hips buck like she’s been prodded. He’s grinning when he leans in, and he hides it with a sucking kiss on the inside of her knee. His mouth moves higher almost without his conscious thought, and he’s shoving her skirt up towards her hips.
All of the sudden, it’s as if Emma’s brain has caught up with her body. She screams a little - stop! - and fists his hair.
“Saliva,” she breathes, horrified. “I c-can’t-“
“’S okay,” he murmurs quietly. “I won’t. Just- trust me?”
She doesn’t respond, but the death grip she has on his hair eases, and he soothes her thighs apart again with soft, dry (clean) kisses. Emma’s compulsively smoothing her skirt even as he gets further under it, but not quite stopping him. So Will goes with it, and lets her drape the floaty fabric down over his head. And then he nips at the tender skin right alongside the juncture of her pelvis, and Emma’s hands drop away.
With the folds of her skirt rucked all up around his face, Will can’t see anything. He doesn’t need to. He’s always loved doing this, loved doing it for Terri when she would let him. He knows that he can’t do quite the same thing for Emma, so he’ll improvise. Will’s creative. He can work with what’s in front of him.
Where he is, he can imagine what’s going on above him. He imagines Emma holding her breath, face turning splotchy-pink. He imagines her small, freckled breasts inside her lacy bra, the apricot nipples that would be a shade or two lighter than her lips. In his mind, Emma is gripping the edge of the couch tightly enough to turn her knuckles pale.
He keeps his word and doesn’t use his mouth, though it’s a torment not to. Breathing the fresh, oceanic scent of her body and the lightest dab of perfume between her knees, he lets his hand do the work and contents himself to think.
Emma’s inner thighs flex and tremble near his ears, and her breath sounds like she’s drowning. Will hooks a finger under the cloth.
“Pssst. Em.”
Even muffled, he can hear every moan she’s trying to swallow.
“Y-yes? Will.”
“Does that feel good?” His fingers slide against her, over and over.
“Yes. Yes.”
The yeses and Wills don’t stop, quiet and mumbly-huffed in the back of her throat. All of her is around him, voice and touch and smell and the chaste, agonizing taste of her sweat (and nothing else). He brings his free hand up, and feels around until he finds her wrist. She doesn’t help, which tells him that her eyes are closed. And when he finds her hand, her knuckles are indeed fisting the edge of the seat. He guides her fingers under the skirt to his hair, and they skitter jerkily over his curls before entangling in them like she’s desperate for something to hold onto. Will hears himself groan, and gives her his thumb, fast-fast, until she’s clenching and jerking her hips into his hand.
Emma cries out jaggedly, ripping his name in two parts when she comes. He feels it happening before that, and sinks his fingers deep to feel her arch and spasm around them. Her hand in his hair tightens. She isn’t loud, even at the moment that it happens. Her fast, panting breath strums something in his heart, and his chest burns and tightens. (Her small, ululating oh gods betray what he thinks is probably a fine soprano.) She accidentally kicks off her shoe. Will, harder than he thinks he’s ever been in his life, mashes his face into the lip of couch between her thighs and strokes her until she’s ridden it out.
When he sits back on his heels, his hands between them seem like they must be wired with dynamite, from the way that Emma looks at them. He takes the hint, shamefaced, and gets up. He’d prefer to kiss her, slow and dirty, and find her bed so he could take all her clothes off. He’d prefer to lick her flavor off his own skin while she watched, so he could taste it in his mouth when she was naked. But that’s not how this is going to work, he knows.
In her bathroom, he soaps his hands to the wrist and patiently washes them for thirty seconds under the hottest water he can handle while willing his dick to behave itself. The room is undeniably feminine, with a delicate lavender toile pattern on the wallpaper and a small basket of potpourri on the étagère. He dries his hands with a folded paper towel - fewer germs than cloth, Emma had explained passionately - and fingers the embossed dots of a brooch laying, forgotten, on the counter. When he opens the door again, he’s feeling much better, and more in control.
Will knows he’s got a slightly dumb smile on his face, confident in his plan to be so gentle and slow with her. He’s adjusted himself in his jeans, and the hem of his t-shirt covers everything.
Emma’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, face crimson, lips slightly parted like she’s trying hard not to scream.
The feeling of awkward, boorish inconsiderateness hits him like a falling building.
“Oh. You probably want to - yeah. Clean up,” he says lamely.
“I should - I-” she falters. “You’ll have to excuse me.”
The last syllable sounds a little like a shriek.
She gusts into the bathroom, and closes the door. He can hear the faucet squeal in protest when she turns the hot water on as high as it will go, and the opening and shutting of her medicine cabinet and the cabinet under the sink. He hears her open the connecting door to her bedroom, and the slide of her closet on its hinges. Will sinks dejectedly back onto the couch with sore knees, and listens to the frenzied spraying of what he imagines is OxyClean. (He knows all of Emma’s favorite brands, having spent half an hour in that aisle of the supermarket on more than one occasion.)
He passes the time berating himself internally, even though he’s not quite sure what he did wrong. A million scenarios crowd his brain, fighting one another for dominance. This can still work, he tries to tell himself, knowing she’s upset. It was too fast. Every time he thinks he’s going slowly enough for her she gets skittish on him and he re-paces himself. It’s happened before. He’ll just talk her down, abandoning the thought of doing anything tonight or even soon. They'll rewind the movie to where they left off, and catch the inevitable happy ending. He thinks that this could be okay.
But the sounds stop, and then he doesn’t hear anything for minutes.
Emma finally comes out of the bathroom, back stiff and wearing a different dress and her rubber gloves up to her wrists like armor. Her face is screwed up and blotchy-pale, her eyes wet and cold. There’s a spray bottle of upholstery cleaner in her hand, and, inexplicably, her favorite duster.
“You have to,” she stutters, “go. Now.” She doesn’t look at him.
“Em!” Will restrains himself from rising, trying not to rattle her further. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Please. We can talk?”
“Please get up,” she mutters tensely. “I need to, uh, take up that slipcover. Probably need to burn it.”
He acquiesces, and crosses her living room in five long strides.
“Are you okay?” he asks, anxiously. “Did I hurt you?
“It’s not that, Will.” Agitation begins to crack her voice and break through her porcelain-fragile veneer of composure. “I’m asking you to please go.”
“Emma. Come on.” She ignores him, and methodically starts dusting the wooden top of her credenza with tight, precise flicks of her hand. He lays his palm over her glove. “Please.”
She waves him off, jaw set in a line.
“Please. Now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me to stop?” he presses fretfully. “Oh God, Em…”
“Go.”
Humiliated and sick with worry, he does.
_
By the time three o’clock rolls around on Tuesday and the kids start filing into the choral room, Will is feeling about as dismal as any time he can remember. The weekend had been painful, dragging more slowly than any two days he can recall. Monday was an in-service day, six hours of training on the new computer grading software and minute changes to the district’s mission statement held in the cafeteria with hard plastic chairs and the smells of watered-down disinfectant and old broccoli. Emma made herself conspicuously absent that morning, although he caught a glimpse of at her desk when he passed by to unnecessarily check his mailbox for the fifth time. Her head was bent over her planner, tapping her fingers idly without actually making contact on the desk. The pang that gave him lasted until sixth period.
Part of why Will loves teaching is because he can (vividly) remember being sixteen. He’s young enough to empathize with his students’ struggles and celebrate their triumphs. It’s what gives him so much connection with his young singers in New Directions, where the struggle/triumph thing is so much starker. Smiling big at Artie Abrams when he glides by, Will thinks about the trivial nature of his own life in their grand schemes. And that’s another thing about being sixteen. The self-absorption: thinking that your personal dramas are center-stage, and everything else is subplot. He tries now to remember if he ever spared a thought for his teachers’ personal lives in high school, and the answer makes him feel bleak.
“All right, guys.” He claps his hands to rouse them. “Let’s take this from the top!”
Twenty minutes into the dance rehearsal - which is going much better, given that the two leads are actually looking at one another - Puck breaks off from the back corner of the guys’ group and slumps down next to Will. In his basketball jersey and hoodie, he much wider than Will. Yet his posture is distinctively childish, his characteristic sneer nowhere to be found. Will tracks Puck’s gaze as he watches Rachel sing to Finn and giggle when he picks her up to spin her around. He should scold Puck and send him back to the lineup, for sure. He’s one of those kids that needs a lot of structure, and what Will’s own teachers called “a firm hand,” back in the day. Definitely not encouragement to slack off. But Will can’t help the irresistible pang of sympathy he feels. So he leans over, and mutters just slightly above the music:
“Girl trouble, Puck?”
“Shiiit, don’t you know it.” Puck drawls. Will frowns at him. “Uh, sorry.”
“You may be barking up the wrong tree on that one.” He raises his eyes at Rachel. “If you want my advice, that is.”
“Little miss crazy?” Barking a laugh, Puck sprawls indolently. “Nuh-uh. Nope. I got ninety-nine problems, but that ain’t one I’m barking up, down, or sideways.”
It’s fairly obvious that Puck protests too much, Will thinks. But he lets the matter drop, and allows himself fall into the lull of counting beats in his head. But Puck doesn’t rejoin the group, and poor Brittany is comically trying to simulate her dance steps without a partner, including a modified swing-out that almost sends her flying into the piano.
“I think you should go back,” Will says, under his breath.
“Check this out.” Puck hikes his basketball shorts up over his knee. A purplish-green bruise bigger than Will’s whole hand covers the side of Puck’s calf.
“Ouch. Accidently get hit by a ball?”
“Nah. One’a the d-bags on the team we played last week threw it at me after I told him that he must have gotten his big mouth from his mom. It totally hurts.” Puck’s smirking from ear to ear when he says it, but Will can’t quite figure that one out. “Hey. Yo. Mr. Schue. Speaking of, you know. Chicks. You doing okay in that department?”
Will can feel his mouth gaping.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ms. P,” Puck says nonchalantly, poking at his bruise. “You. I know you gotta be hitting that, right? I mean, she’s always hanging around practices and shi… stuff. And we all kind of know about you and Mrs. Schuester, no offense.”
“That’s not really an appropriate topic for conversation, Noah.”
“I figured.” Puck’s smirking into his hands, pretending to be cool as he leans forward and stares at Rachel a little bit longer. He shakes his head. “It’s tough out there for a playa, Mr. S.”
“I feel you, man.” Will nods, in what he hopes is a sage and unaffected manner. “I feel you.”
_
Will’s furniture has been sitting in pieces on the floor for two weeks. The delivery guys offered to take all the cardboard and plastic packaging with them when they left, leaving Will with unassembled hunks of loveseat and table strewn across the floor. Up-ended and huge, they form an obstacle course that he has to navigate in the mornings when he is balancing a thermos of coffee and his bag, trying to get out the door on his way to school. His living space, which had once seemed so barren, now seems more like the twelve-by-sixteen pocket square it really is.
When he notices that the pieces are starting to gather dust, he steels his resolve and decides to just put it all together. It’s not like he has anything better to do over the weekend, so he sets up camp in the widest available space with his 20-piece tool kit and a pile of instruction leaflets and gets to work. Gradually, the hunks of plastic, wood, and leather start to become recognizable objects. It feels good to put something together. It feels like something he hasn’t done enough of, lately.
He thinks, unconsciously, of the day he’d signed the lease on this place and taken the keys. That first night, sitting on the floor with his bare mattress, a suitcase, and his three cardboard boxes of stuff, was the first ever that he’d spend completely alone. Having gone from his parents’ house to a college dorm to a frat house and then his first apartment with Terri, he’d never actually lived by himself. Everything he did was by himself that first week, laundry and eating and sleeping restlessly on top of a blanket. Emma had swept him like a bright, meticulous ray of sunshine and straightened his life out, filling in the corners and empty spaces. And the reality of his failed marriage was still sad, but bearable. He knows the way the story progressed, but he can’t seem to get past that first night. The memory lingers until he tightens the last screw in the coffee table.
Afterwards, cleaning up all the Styrofoam dust, he reaches for his floor sweeper and feels something inside his chest twist and ache like there’s a long and sharp thing sewn up inside. He pushes it back and forth uselessly for a few moments, lost deep in the belief that one wrong move will kill him. All the despair that he’d felt in those first few weeks after finding out about Terri and the baby that wasn’t really a baby all of the sudden feels very new again. Not thinking straight, he’d picked the wrong tool for the job. All he’s doing is pushing the crap around. Will plugs in the vacuum, and its roar seems almost too loud to tolerate.
By the time he’s done, it’s getting dark. He clicks his lamp on, unable to help a moment’s admiration for the fact that it finally has a proper spot on the end table. Its warm glow lights the small room from corner to corner, falling on his furniture, his closet, and his bed. The room smells like newness, and feels even emptier than before.
_
Another week goes by while Will floats in a daze.
His Spanish II class has to memorize and recite a poem, and Will has to explain to explain patiently to Finn that “La Macarena” doesn’t count. (Finn wants to know if he can get half credit, for the parts that weren’t English. Or for a good performance?)
He gets a letter from his lawyer attached to a petition for the dissolution of his marriage to Terri, with her signature already on it. In the interest of time and avoiding a mess, they’d opted for a no-fault termination. His lawyer and hers worked out the separation agreement, through which Terri would sell the house and its contents and split the proceeds with Will. His eyes scan the pages, but he’s not really reading the words.
Distantly, he imagines money. Investments, a bigger place, and not having to pinch pennies on food so that he can make his car payment. He’s never been one to be daunted by finances, but it all seems to big and vague and overwhelming to deal with at present.
He signs the papers quickly and efficiently, the final “r” of his name on the last page so emphatic that it darts off the margin and onto the table, and Will later has to patiently coax the ink stain out with a Magic Eraser.
_
Vocal Adrenaline files on stage, and stands in formation.
They wear matching t-shirts for rehearsal, which boggles Will’s mind. There’s not so much as a single giggle or fidget before the music starts. It’s the Friday before Valentine’s Day. He may or may not have heard someone backstage casually discussing Dakota Stanley getting a Tony nod on the basis of his choreography for Carmel’s Regionals opener.
A tiny girl who can’t possibly be older than a freshman steps forward, and unleashes the biggest voice that Will’s heard in a while. Around her, the club slides into a vampy version of Alicia Keys’ “Fallin’.”
Sometimes I love ya, the chorus swells.
Sometimes you make me blue, the soloist replies melodically.
The other school’s glee advisor stops the group twice to make some corrections, and Will finds himself anxious each time to see the number all the way through. Their talent is ridiculous, and this particular song isn’t even one that they’ll be using for competition. (A crucial provision of the scrimmage had been that neither club disclosed their actual set list. Or costumes, or dance moves, or hairstyles, or pyrotechnics, the last of which made Will blanch when it was discussed.)
The only thing possibly harder to deal with than Carmel’s likelihood of slaughtering his kids at Regionals is Emma down at the far end of the row in which they’re sitting, flanked by Quinn on one side and Artie in the aisle. Except for a few moments where she has to resort to chaperone-ly discipline - Puck’s feet on the seatback, and Tina Cohen-Chang’s spilled Junior Mints clattering all over the floor - Emma keeps her eyes respectfully forward and doesn’t acknowledge him at all. On the bus ride over, she’d made sure to park her huge satchel on the seat beside her like a clear message: don’t even think about it.
After about an hour, the group takes a break and New Directions heads out into the hallway to stretch. They are strangely subdued (Rachel looks like she’s teetering on the verge of hysterical tears), and Will can’t help thinking that the mission of this trip has been accomplished.
Puck’s complaining about marathon rehearsals, like what the fuck - is this the Olympics or some shit? But Will can’t be bothered with correcting his student’s language or poor work ethic. He watches Emma duck into the restroom, fishing out a pair of latex gloves and her travel bottle of Clorox spray bleach. And he gravitates towards the bulletin board posted up by the ladies’ room door, acting like he’s deeply interested in the advertisement for an upcoming book fair.
His timing is good. His students drift back into the auditorium as the sounds of singing begins to drift back out, and the hallway is clear. Will is alone, trying not to bounce on the balls of his feet with impatience, when Emma backs out of the restroom with her thoroughly-washed hands hanging in the air. She looks at him, and then starts to walk away.
Knowing that he’s taking a risk, and that one of the kids - worse, one of Carmel’s kids - could see them, he takes a step towards her.
“Please listen to me,” he says, all in a rush so that she can’t stop him. He figures that, if she’s going to walk away, she’ll still hear it. “Emma. I’m so sorry for whatever hurt you, or scared you. I want to talk to you. Please.”
Her back stiffens visibly under her cardigan.
“Please,” he repeats. “I’m sorry about your slipcover.”
Emma turns slowly, a hand on the strap of her bag.
“It’s not the slipcover, Will.” She licks her lips. “You really don’t need to be sorry for anything. Excuse me-”
She goes to push by him. Will, recognizing the imminent escape of an opportunity, blocks her before he can think better of it.
“But I am sorry,” he insists. “Whatever happened that night obviously bothered you. And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. And you aren’t talking to me, so I guess that you are thinking about it, too.”
“We shouldn’t be, um, doing this now.” Her eyes dart around the empty hall, the rows of silent lockers, and the doors to darkened classrooms. “The children need… supervision. They might be getting up to trouble. Noah was talking about pulling a fire alarm and beating up the lead singer-”
“They’re fine. Wait…” He looks uneasily towards the theater. “Is there an alarm pull in there? Like, close to the seats?”
Her silence tells him that she’s really not that concerned. Will catches himself. He sticks his hands in his pockets, like he’s afraid of what he might do with them.
“Just give me a minute.” He might be begging a little, but he’s past pride. “Not long. Just a minute to explain something.”
“It really has been bothering me,” she admits at last. “Not talking to you.” She keeps glancing sidelong at the doors, obviously torn between their conversation and her duty to supervise the dozen teenagers in the auditorium.
“Will you talk to me? Not here. But - soon?”
“I might be able to do that.” She bites her lip. “We should talk. That would be a good idea.”
“Better than avoiding me?”
Her eyes meet his.
“Maybe,” she says frankly. “I haven’t, uh, decided that yet.”
“Ah,” he says, because that wasn’t really the answer that he was expecting.
“I’ve just been confused.” She folds her arms across her chest. Her voice is quiet.
“So, let me help you work through it.” He cranes his neck, trying to catch her gaze again. “Together. Don’t shut me out, here.”
“I don’t want to shut you out,” she murmurs.
“Then let’s talk.” He knows he’s being repetitive, but he needs to lock this down.
“Well, you know where I am. I mean, where I live, and we work together, and, uh, you have my number. So just… let me know when it’s convenient for you.”
“I will,” he promises, knowing that he’s going to call her the minute he gets home tonight. And feeling lighter than he has in recent memory.
It’s only then that he catches a flash by the half-open door to the theater, and doesn’t quite miss Rachel yanking Finn back into the shadows where the entire club is undoubtedly lurking.
“I think the kids are rooting for us,” he says, palming his chin in abashment.
“Oh!” She looks around quickly. Her cheeks blush pink. “That’s not good.”
“It’ll be all right,” he tells her reassuringly. And somehow, he believes it.
_
At Will’s apartment, Emma moves around the room and appreciatively touches everything that’s new. Her hand lingers on the wall that Will’s landlord had approved painting a deep, sandy beige. She traces a fault line in the plaster, lips pursed as she contemplates the trim and the placement of a vibrant Rothko multiform framed print. Afternoon sunlight spills through the horizontal blinds and casts bands of brightness on her holiday-appropriate pink dress.
“You’re all settled in,” she says at last.
“Yup.” He folds his arms. “Home, sweet shoebox. But it’s looking good, I think.”
“It’s looking great,” she replies. “It’s also very clean. And you know, that’s…”
“Em,” he says softly, just as she finishes. “…very important.”
Will figures that this is it, and that he may as well lay all his cards on the table.
“Emma,” he repeats.
“I really like what you did with the area rug,” she pipes up nervously.
“I’m so glad you came over,” he says. It’s purposefully abrupt, so she can’t stop him. “I’ve missed you. So much.”
“I’ve missed you too.” She murmurs it towards the floor boards, towards the fringe of the same rug that she’d complimented a moment before. “This has been hard, you know.”
“Well, I can relate to that.” He can’t help a brief laugh on that one. “Emphatically.”
“Emphatically,” she echoes, almost to herself. “Yeah.”
There’s another moment of quiet between them. He almost stops himself from reaching out for her, until he remembers that they aren’t in school. But he’s no longer sure of the rules for this situation. So he shuffles a bit before grabbing her hand. It’s cold in his, free of her mitten. Just touching her like that fills him with a heavy, round familiarity that displaces the internal composure he’d affected so carefully before her arrival. He warms her fingers between his palms as the words in his head shove in line, crowding his throat.
“I haven’t been honest with you,” he blurts. “About what I want. From you.”
“What you want. From me.” She reiterates his words slowly.
“I don’t want just something physical from you.” Her chin’s tilting down; she doesn’t understand. He curls the fingers of his free hand under it. “I want. God. Em, I want everything.”
He feels her swallow. Her hand comes up, and curves against his. Silence edges one moment to the next, and she rubs her thumb against his wrist.
“Everything is a lot to ask.” Her gaze flickers against his, then drops like she can’t manage to hold it. “I mean, for me. Right now. And I want everything from you. But it’s so soon, and…”
“I know,” he affirms when words fail her. “We were supposed to be taking it slow,” he says. “Not doing anything, and not saying anything too important. I know you’re worried about that. I think we’ve been failing on one and not the other, because it’s easier to hold off on saying things than it is to stop doing them when I’m around you.” He feels his lips quirking in a smile. “It’s just that I want you, Emma. I do. I can’t help it.”
“I want you too, Will.” Her face is very red, but she’s smiling as well. “You have to know that.”
“Well, it still feels good to hear it.”
And she laughs. It’s the best sound he’s heard in months, sweeter than the high note in a perfect solo.
“My divorce will be final in about two weeks,” he tells her. “I got my hearing date in the mail yesterday.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says, coloring like she’s ashamed to have just been laughing.
“Don’t be.” He hopes that he sounds every bit as confident as he feels. “It’s time. For more than one reason.”
“Oh?”
“I’m ready to move on.” Will thumbs a lock of hair that’s fallen over her forehead, and tries not to lose himself in the astounding amber of her eyes. He’s rehearsed this speech like an important number, verse and chorus over and over until it was completely and perfectly right. “It’s time to start something new. I want to date you, Emma.”
“You mean… publicly?” Her voice rises a little at the end.
“Yes. Pubicly.” He takes the step closer that he’s been holding back on, so that the curves and warmth of her body bleed into his. “I don’t want the fact that I’m with you to be a secret anymore. And I think that we should wait these last few days, to make it official. That way we don’t feel guilty, and we know that we’re starting with a clean slate.”
“I like clean slates,” she breathes.
“I’m going to take you out,” he continues, “on our first date. But you’d better start thinking about that, because there’s a catch.”
“What kind of catch?”
“You’re going to pretend like you don’t know me already, and we’re going to do this from scratch.”
“So, it’ll be a blind date, then.” Emma colors attractively. “Oh. Well. I hope it goes better than the last time I tried one of those.”
“I think it will go great,” he says. “Dinner, maybe a movie. Nothing too crazy, of course. Keep in mind, I haven’t technically met you yet.”
“That should make things interesting at school.” She raises an eyebrow. “The kids are going to think that we’ve gone completely bonkers.”
“Well, we’ll fudge it when we’re at work.”
Her face is very close to his.
“If it’s a blind date…”
“…yeah?”
“…you shouldn’t kiss me then,” she murmurs.
“No,” he agrees. “Definitely… definitely not.”
“Okay.” And she’s smiling, the sides of her mouth curling up against his face when he leans in and kisses her anyway. And he’s smiling, and Will can’t help wondering if it’s something in the air due to the date, or if this - in this exact moment - is something else that he remembers feeling once, a long time ago when he was the kids’ age.
(No, he corrects himself. This is much better.)
“Em?” He says. “Just one thing.”
“Yes?”
“Would you wear that purple dress? For me?”
_
and if I have to crawl upon the floor, come crashing through your door,
baby, I can’t fight this feeling anymore.
end.