Glee Fic: All Of Her (1/2)
Title: All Of Her (1/2)
Pairing: Finn/Rachel
Spoilers: 2x08
Word Count: 1,267
Rating: PG
Summary: She said nothing.
Authors Notes: Song from title and what this fic is based on is Nothing by The Script.
*
I’m still in love but all I heard was nothing.
I wanted words but all I heard was nothing.
Nothing. I’ve got nothing.
Nothing - The Script
He was drunk.
It was a stupid idea, going to the party. Puck had turned up at his house at quarter to nine and pulled him by the shirt out of the house, ignoring his protests. He had almost punched him. But then he was in the front seat of Puck’s Volvo and the next second he was stumbling out of Santana’s house two hours later, the music dim compared to the thoughts running through his head. He isn’t sure why, but he needed to see her.
Because it had been eight days, and they had finished first at Sectionals that day and all he wanted to do was to call her, see her, kiss her. She had barely spoken a word to him since.
It’s rushed and before he realised he was standing in front of her in his old bedroom, watching her reach around slowly and unzip her red dress. She watched him the whole time, her eyes never leaving his and she is doing it so slow it actually physically hurt. Because the way she was staring at him was so intense, and so beautiful, and he fell in love with her all over again.
Which is when he realised he needed to tell her.
His fingers meet hers at the bottom of her zipper and he stilled them, his fingers grasping hers softly. Her expression doesn’t change and the lump that gathers in his throat is more of a shove than he could ever have received.
“I have to tell you something,” he whispered. He didn’t mean for it to come out as a whisper, but he felt like somebody had punched him in the stomach, winding him.
“What is it?” She asked him, in the same tone that she had used earlier when she saw him after Santana. He couldn’t lie to her anymore.
He remembered saying it, he did, but it turned into a blur as she backed away from him, and the expression on her face changed, oh it changed, and he tried taking a step forward, but she pushed him away. He felt his eyes glass over and she was really crying now, like really crying, and he watched her, completely helpless. She picked up her bag at the door and walked away.
He didn’t follow her.
He began walking, and there was a part of him that was sure that this was a good idea. But he was drunk, and he couldn’t think straight because thinking about being without her physically hurt him, like he was being pummelled over and over again. He stumbled as he reaching into his pocket and fumbled around for his cell phone, pulling it out and flipping it open. He had her number on speed dial and pressed the button, holding the earpiece up to his ear.
It rung once. Then twice. On the ninth ring, it cut out. He tried again. And again. Same story. He knew she was at home, Mercedes had told him, but she had been ignoring his calls all week. But at Sectionals he had watched her, and he held her hand at the end, finally feeling her touch. But then she was gone and he just wanted to see her. He needed to see her, he needed it more than he thought was possible.
He didn’t even realise he had walked four blocks when he reached her street. His head was spinning and he walked determined down the street, towards her house. He saw the lights on and he supposed her parents would be home, but he was in a state and he couldn’t find himself caring.
He stood on her lawn, his breathing ragged. He had felt himself sober up slightly in that last 100m walk, but there was no going back now. He pulled out his phone again and rang her. Her parents would never let him in. She didn’t pick up. He sent her a message. She didn’t respond. Without thinking, he grabbed a stone from the pathway and tossed it up to her window, hearing it crack against her window. It was an act of desperation, and he realised the second he did it that it was possibly the worst thing he could have possibly done.
But a moment later the front door opened and Rachel stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She was wearing tights and a large grey sweater, and only then did he realise that it was actually was quite cold outside.
“What the hell are you doing?” She whispered angrily, taking a step towards him, her arms folded around herself.
He had practiced this all week. In the mirror. When he went to bed. When he woke up in the morning and remembered what had happened. He was meant to tell her that he loved her, that he loved her more than anything in this world and they he needed her and that he was sorry. That nothing mattered but her, and he would do anything to fix it.
But he stared dumbly at her for a moment, swaying on the spot. Then he took a step forward and walked directly in front of her. He leant down and rested his forehead against hers. But she took another step back, holding her hand to his chest when he tried to take a step towards her.
“You’ve been drinking,” she said, her eyes meeting his. She still kept him at arms distance.
He began speaking, and he knew that he was talking, but the words sounded jumbled as he spoke them. He was sure he said I love you and let me fix this and I need you, Rachel but when he stopped talking, she just stood in front of him, her eyes watching him with an expression that he didn’t recognise.
It should have been like a fucking movie. Like the type of movie she had made him watch, where the girl fell in love with the boy and something kept them apart. And it always ended with the boy going to the girl’s house and begging her to take him back and it would be all well-lit and he would say something that was sweet and romantic and she would run into his arms and they would kiss like they did in the movies.
But this wasn’t a fucking movie.
She stood in front of him, pulling her sweater tighter around herself. And he watched her, waiting for her to say something, anything. Because he loved her, and he needed her, and everything he did was for her. Why didn’t she realise that? Why was she staring at him, not responding? Why was she saying nothing?
“Go home, Finn,”
And with that she turned around and walked to her porch, pulling open the front door. She looked at him once more before she disappeared, closing the door behind her. And then the porch light switched off.
He vaguely remembered walking home, but when he woke up the next morning he was in his bed, his head pounding with his cell phone curled in his hand. He stared down at it. And at the message already opened.
3:48am: Tomorrow, Finn. I’ll talk tomorrow. Go to sleep.
*
Pairing: Finn/Rachel
Spoilers: 2x08
Word Count: 1,267
Rating: PG
Summary: She said nothing.
Authors Notes: Song from title and what this fic is based on is Nothing by The Script.
*
I’m still in love but all I heard was nothing.
I wanted words but all I heard was nothing.
Nothing. I’ve got nothing.
Nothing - The Script
He was drunk.
It was a stupid idea, going to the party. Puck had turned up at his house at quarter to nine and pulled him by the shirt out of the house, ignoring his protests. He had almost punched him. But then he was in the front seat of Puck’s Volvo and the next second he was stumbling out of Santana’s house two hours later, the music dim compared to the thoughts running through his head. He isn’t sure why, but he needed to see her.
Because it had been eight days, and they had finished first at Sectionals that day and all he wanted to do was to call her, see her, kiss her. She had barely spoken a word to him since.
It’s rushed and before he realised he was standing in front of her in his old bedroom, watching her reach around slowly and unzip her red dress. She watched him the whole time, her eyes never leaving his and she is doing it so slow it actually physically hurt. Because the way she was staring at him was so intense, and so beautiful, and he fell in love with her all over again.
Which is when he realised he needed to tell her.
His fingers meet hers at the bottom of her zipper and he stilled them, his fingers grasping hers softly. Her expression doesn’t change and the lump that gathers in his throat is more of a shove than he could ever have received.
“I have to tell you something,” he whispered. He didn’t mean for it to come out as a whisper, but he felt like somebody had punched him in the stomach, winding him.
“What is it?” She asked him, in the same tone that she had used earlier when she saw him after Santana. He couldn’t lie to her anymore.
He remembered saying it, he did, but it turned into a blur as she backed away from him, and the expression on her face changed, oh it changed, and he tried taking a step forward, but she pushed him away. He felt his eyes glass over and she was really crying now, like really crying, and he watched her, completely helpless. She picked up her bag at the door and walked away.
He didn’t follow her.
He began walking, and there was a part of him that was sure that this was a good idea. But he was drunk, and he couldn’t think straight because thinking about being without her physically hurt him, like he was being pummelled over and over again. He stumbled as he reaching into his pocket and fumbled around for his cell phone, pulling it out and flipping it open. He had her number on speed dial and pressed the button, holding the earpiece up to his ear.
It rung once. Then twice. On the ninth ring, it cut out. He tried again. And again. Same story. He knew she was at home, Mercedes had told him, but she had been ignoring his calls all week. But at Sectionals he had watched her, and he held her hand at the end, finally feeling her touch. But then she was gone and he just wanted to see her. He needed to see her, he needed it more than he thought was possible.
He didn’t even realise he had walked four blocks when he reached her street. His head was spinning and he walked determined down the street, towards her house. He saw the lights on and he supposed her parents would be home, but he was in a state and he couldn’t find himself caring.
He stood on her lawn, his breathing ragged. He had felt himself sober up slightly in that last 100m walk, but there was no going back now. He pulled out his phone again and rang her. Her parents would never let him in. She didn’t pick up. He sent her a message. She didn’t respond. Without thinking, he grabbed a stone from the pathway and tossed it up to her window, hearing it crack against her window. It was an act of desperation, and he realised the second he did it that it was possibly the worst thing he could have possibly done.
But a moment later the front door opened and Rachel stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She was wearing tights and a large grey sweater, and only then did he realise that it was actually was quite cold outside.
“What the hell are you doing?” She whispered angrily, taking a step towards him, her arms folded around herself.
He had practiced this all week. In the mirror. When he went to bed. When he woke up in the morning and remembered what had happened. He was meant to tell her that he loved her, that he loved her more than anything in this world and they he needed her and that he was sorry. That nothing mattered but her, and he would do anything to fix it.
But he stared dumbly at her for a moment, swaying on the spot. Then he took a step forward and walked directly in front of her. He leant down and rested his forehead against hers. But she took another step back, holding her hand to his chest when he tried to take a step towards her.
“You’ve been drinking,” she said, her eyes meeting his. She still kept him at arms distance.
He began speaking, and he knew that he was talking, but the words sounded jumbled as he spoke them. He was sure he said I love you and let me fix this and I need you, Rachel but when he stopped talking, she just stood in front of him, her eyes watching him with an expression that he didn’t recognise.
It should have been like a fucking movie. Like the type of movie she had made him watch, where the girl fell in love with the boy and something kept them apart. And it always ended with the boy going to the girl’s house and begging her to take him back and it would be all well-lit and he would say something that was sweet and romantic and she would run into his arms and they would kiss like they did in the movies.
But this wasn’t a fucking movie.
She stood in front of him, pulling her sweater tighter around herself. And he watched her, waiting for her to say something, anything. Because he loved her, and he needed her, and everything he did was for her. Why didn’t she realise that? Why was she staring at him, not responding? Why was she saying nothing?
“Go home, Finn,”
And with that she turned around and walked to her porch, pulling open the front door. She looked at him once more before she disappeared, closing the door behind her. And then the porch light switched off.
He vaguely remembered walking home, but when he woke up the next morning he was in his bed, his head pounding with his cell phone curled in his hand. He stared down at it. And at the message already opened.
3:48am: Tomorrow, Finn. I’ll talk tomorrow. Go to sleep.
*