Glee Fic: All we know is falling (1/1)
Title: All we know is falling (1/1)
Pairing: Finn/Rachel
Spoilers: 2x11 slightly AU after that
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s a never ending cycle for them. And both of them are falling.
It starts with a text message.
Are you home? I’ll be there in ten. We need to talk. R x
Wednesday 10:17pm
It’s raining when he pulls up to his driveway, his headlights beaming onto the small figure standing out the front of his house. He knows who it is instantly and he barely turns off the ignition as he walks over to her. She is squinting, and the rain is pounding down hard, and he sees her skin turn a bright shade of pink from the force of the raindrops. He reaches out to her.
“What- What the hell are you doing here? Here, take my-“
“Just tell me if it’s true,” she practically shouts, because the rain has picked up and it is now hitting her dress with such force and he can see that she is completely and utterly drenched.
“Is what true?” he asks, but he knows what she is talking about. He wishes she would get out of the rain.
“You and - “ she doesn’t finish before she wipes her cheek and he can’t tell whether she is crying or it’s just the rain.
He stands there with his hands by his sides, and he wants to answer her. He wants to, because she deserves to know. He wants to, but he is so God damn confused right now and he doesn’t even know what the hell he is doing, but he knows that he doesn’t want this.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he replies, and it’s a cop-out; a ploy to drag the conversation out longer and to keep him from having to say what he can’t. He can’t do this. To himself or to her and he wishes for once in his life everything didn’t have to be so complicated. Because it’s after ten on a Wednesday night and she is standing in front of him in the pouring rain and she doesn’t deserve this. There was a time, a few weeks ago maybe, when he really believed that she deserved this. She deserved to be hurt, exactly the way that she hurt him.
But she is watching him, and her gaze feels worse than the sharp pins of rain hitting his bare skin, it feels like blades cutting through him, digging into his stomach and he just wants it to stop.
“I want you to tell me the truth. That’s all I want,” she says, and her arms tighten around herself and he can see that she really is crying because without him having to say it, she knows that it’s true. Her voice breaks with every syllable and it actually hurts him. He wants to reach over and touch her, feel her; he wants to tell her that everything will be okay. But he doesn’t know that because he doesn’t know what he is doing.
He can’t say it. He can’t form the words, so he nods and she looks away, her mouth opening slightly as a soft sound comes out of her mouth that he has never heard before. She turns around and begins to walk across his lawn but he grabs her arm before she reaches the sidewalk, turning her around.
“Where are you going?” He shouts over the rain, his grip slipping from her arm as she tugs it away.
“Home, I’m going home,” she responds sharply, turning and walking in the opposite direction. She starts to run slightly when she reaches the sidewalk, and soon enough she is out of his sight.
He wishes he had followed her.
Saturday 7:45pm.
Santana throws a ‘we quit the Cheerios so let’s get totally plastered party’ the following Saturday night. He isn’t quite sure how it happens, but he ends up picking Quinn up from her place at seven sharp (because Quinn likes to be on time). She kisses him on the cheek and he ignores the sharp pain in his gut, forcing his car jerkily into gear and pulling away from the curb.
It’s been seven days since the football game. Six days since Quinn kissed him. Five days since Quinn and Sam broke up. Four days since Rachel turned up on his doorstep.
It’s been seven days since the chain started and when he steps into Santana’s house and sees her in the corner of the room, sitting on the edge of the couch with a cup of beer in her hand, he freezes. Because Puck is standing next to her and she is laughing and she is drinking and they do a little fist bump and he wants to punch Puck in the guts. He shouldn’t want to, because Quinn is next to him, and fuck are they dating and it takes him a total of thirteen minutes before he grabs Rachel by the wrist when the others aren’t looking and pulls her into the laundry.
“What the hell are you doing?” She hisses at him, yanking her arm away as he shuts the door behind them.
“I don’t know,” he says, and he really does mean it. He doesn’t know what he is doing, all he knows is that everything is complicated and she was staring at him in a way that makes him really want to kiss her.
He does.
He pushes her against the washing machine, one hand going to her waist and the other through her hair and his lips are on hers hard and fast, taking no time at all before he collides his tongue with hers. She whimpers against his lips, but she is kissing him back and she grips the folds of his shirt hard, pulling him against her. He doesn’t know what he is doing but his hands find their way to her thighs and he hoists her up onto the machine, kissing her still as her legs curl around his waist.
When she pushes herself closer, closer to him and he feels himself react, it sends his mind into a tailspin. He breaks off instantly, almost slamming himself into the door. She stares at him and her lips are bruised and her face is flushed and her legs are open slightly … he closes his eyes, mutters ‘I’m sorry’ and leaves the closet quicker than they entered.
He doesn’t drive Quinn home that night.
Tuesday 3:15pm.
“We need to stop doing this,” she mutters against his lips, but she doesn’t let go of her grip.
The stands are empty because football season has finished, and he skips sixth period because he just can’t deal with today and he can’t deal with Quinn and he can’t deal with her. But he presses her against the metal frame of the stands and his hands are roaming down her sides, against her thighs and she letting him. She is letting him. Because even though both of them are fucked up, they still can’t keep away from each other. Her breath is short and she makes these soft noises in his ear as he sucks on the soft skin above her collarbone that drives him crazy and he wishes that he could stop. Saturday night was just the beginning.
He was beginning to hate himself.
Saturday 10:18pm.
“I’m not doing this,” she says, and she has that determined look on her face that he both loved and loathed. She is standing on her doorstep and he is drunk and she is wearing those hot pink shorts that he loves and he is finding it incredibly hard to form words.
“But I- y’know Rach-“
“No,” she cuts him off firmly, holding her hand up. “You’re drunk. And I’m not doing this with you. If you want to talk to me, come back sober.”
And with that she walks back into her house and slams the door. It reopens a few moments later, and he has a surge of hope before a bottle of water is tossed to his chest and it takes every motor skill he has to actually catch it. The door slams again.
He drinks the water, sitting on her curb.
An hour later, and he is still sitting on the curb, and he finishes the bottle, tossing it to the side. He feels sober. He hears the door open behind him and he turns his head around. She is still wearing her hot pink shorts and she has on her bright pink jacket. She stares at him for a moment before she walks to him, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him up.
“Come inside,” she says, leading him across the lawn.
“Aren’t your dads-“
“They aren’t home,” she responds, pushing him through the door as she closed it behind them.
He stares at her as she moves around the hallway, placing her keys on the table. She begins up the stairs and he still watches her as she turns around.
“Are you coming?” She doesn’t wait for a response and climbs the stairs further towards her bedroom. He almost fumbles up the stairs and he shakes his head as he follows her through her bedroom door.
He stands awkwardly in the centre of the room as she closes the door, moving around her bedroom quietly. She takes off her jacket, placing it on the chair next to her computer table. Then she turns to face him and he stares at her, waiting for her to speak first. The room is spinning just a little and he wishes he had another glass of liquid courage. Or Puck’s God-awful keg would do.
“So why are you here, again?” She asks him, crossing her arms over her chest and he realises that she isn’t wearing a fucking bra and he feels himself go instantly hard.
“I needed to - s-see you,” he stutters and he almost wants to punch himself in the gut for being such a pussy. He knows, even in his drunken state, that he shouldn’t be here. He is screwing himself and her over. But he doesn’t know what else to do.
He decides in an instant to man the fuck up and he walks towards her, grabbing her waist as he pulls her to him. He crushes his lips on hers, snaking his arm around her tiny waist and splaying his fingers along her bare skin. He expects her to pull away, to tell him that he needs to get the hell out. But she doesn’t. She stands on her tip-toes and curls her hand around the back of his neck, bringing him down to her as she kissed him back. She kissed him back.
“You taste like beer,” she murmurs against his lips, running her tongue along his bottom lip.
He knows they should stop, but something takes over him and he lifts her up, placing her on her bed behind them as he moved, hovering above her. He presses her into her mattress, his kisses becoming more and more urgent and she spreads her legs a little instinctively underneath him. He swears he begins to have trouble breathing.
He breaks away and stares down at her. She bites her lip, her fingers digging into his shoulders and he starts to wonder why the hell this is happening. Why does it have to be so complicated? This, this right here is making things complicated.
So he stops.
“What are you doing?” She asks as he climbs off the bed, grabbing his jacket from the floor. He wasn’t sure how it got there. He honestly doesn’t know how to answer her question so he turns to face her, running his hand through his hair.
“I’m drunk. I have to go,” he says, and he thinks it’s the smartest decision he has made all night, and he leaves the room, walking down the stairs.
She runs out of her room and grabs his arm as he reaches the stairs, yanking him around to face her. Her eyes sting with tears.
“Why are you doing this to me?” She asks, her grip on his arm tightening.
He can feel his heart drop. Because he doesn’t know and he hates himself for what he is doing. He is a hypocritical ass and he hates everything that he has become. But he doesn’t know how to answer her, so he turns around and walks down the stairs, leaving her.
He hears her start to cry as he closes the front door and he swears that this ends right now.
Tuesday 12:14pm.
It starts with a text message.
Meet me at the stands at 3. R x
He almost doesn’t go. Not because he doesn’t want to skip a period, because it was US History and he doesn’t give a crap, but because he hasn’t spoken to her since Saturday night, and he isn’t sure he can face her after that. The sound of her crying tears his heart in two and he avoids everyone and Glee because the sight of her makes him feel like the giant ass he is.
But he goes.
She is standing there when he arrives, in her really big red coat and her hair frames her face and he feels his heart rate rise just by looking at her. But she has a different expression on her face and he stops still before he reaches her.
“Hi,” he says hesitantly, not sure what else to say. He kicks himself internally for not coming up with a better opening line.
“This,” she points to herself and then him, “is done. We’re done. I’m not doing this anymore.”
He feels his heart stop beating. And he shouldn’t feel like that, because this is what he wanted right? He wanted space, and he wanted them not to be a couple and he … he has Quinn. He doesn’t, because they aren’t ‘official’ yet, and he never wants them to be official, but he doesn’t want this either. He doesn’t want to not have her. He doesn’t want to feel like this.
He opens his mouth to speak but she holds her hand up and smirks. It’s not a nice smirk, not a Rachel Berry smirk, and he can’t describe the feeling that creeps up into his chest when she looks at him.
“Save it,” she says and she walks around him and around the corner out of sight.
He kicks over the table at the entrance to the stands a couple of moments later.
Friday 5:03pm.
He grabs her by the wrist when everyone leaves Glee. He waits until everyone has left the room before he pulls her over to him. She tugs her wrist away almost instantly.
“Don’t,” she says warningly, holding herself out of his grip.
He looks at her pleadingly. “Rachel please-“
“Please? No. I’m not being the girl on the side again Finn. And you are a hypocrite. You’ve got to make a choice. And even then…” she stares at him and he hears her voice break on the last word and he reaches out to her, but she pulls away again.
He closes the gap between them, holding both of her hands still as he rests his forehead against hers. A sob escapes her lips and he can’t stand himself for doing this.
“You’re breaking my heart, Finn,” she says, each word enunciated by the tears that streaked her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he says and he means it with all his heart.
She leaves. And he knows that it isn’t over.
_
It all starts with a text message.
I miss you. F
She doesn’t reply.
-
Pairing: Finn/Rachel
Spoilers: 2x11 slightly AU after that
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s a never ending cycle for them. And both of them are falling.
It starts with a text message.
Are you home? I’ll be there in ten. We need to talk. R x
Wednesday 10:17pm
It’s raining when he pulls up to his driveway, his headlights beaming onto the small figure standing out the front of his house. He knows who it is instantly and he barely turns off the ignition as he walks over to her. She is squinting, and the rain is pounding down hard, and he sees her skin turn a bright shade of pink from the force of the raindrops. He reaches out to her.
“What- What the hell are you doing here? Here, take my-“
“Just tell me if it’s true,” she practically shouts, because the rain has picked up and it is now hitting her dress with such force and he can see that she is completely and utterly drenched.
“Is what true?” he asks, but he knows what she is talking about. He wishes she would get out of the rain.
“You and - “ she doesn’t finish before she wipes her cheek and he can’t tell whether she is crying or it’s just the rain.
He stands there with his hands by his sides, and he wants to answer her. He wants to, because she deserves to know. He wants to, but he is so God damn confused right now and he doesn’t even know what the hell he is doing, but he knows that he doesn’t want this.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he replies, and it’s a cop-out; a ploy to drag the conversation out longer and to keep him from having to say what he can’t. He can’t do this. To himself or to her and he wishes for once in his life everything didn’t have to be so complicated. Because it’s after ten on a Wednesday night and she is standing in front of him in the pouring rain and she doesn’t deserve this. There was a time, a few weeks ago maybe, when he really believed that she deserved this. She deserved to be hurt, exactly the way that she hurt him.
But she is watching him, and her gaze feels worse than the sharp pins of rain hitting his bare skin, it feels like blades cutting through him, digging into his stomach and he just wants it to stop.
“I want you to tell me the truth. That’s all I want,” she says, and her arms tighten around herself and he can see that she really is crying because without him having to say it, she knows that it’s true. Her voice breaks with every syllable and it actually hurts him. He wants to reach over and touch her, feel her; he wants to tell her that everything will be okay. But he doesn’t know that because he doesn’t know what he is doing.
He can’t say it. He can’t form the words, so he nods and she looks away, her mouth opening slightly as a soft sound comes out of her mouth that he has never heard before. She turns around and begins to walk across his lawn but he grabs her arm before she reaches the sidewalk, turning her around.
“Where are you going?” He shouts over the rain, his grip slipping from her arm as she tugs it away.
“Home, I’m going home,” she responds sharply, turning and walking in the opposite direction. She starts to run slightly when she reaches the sidewalk, and soon enough she is out of his sight.
He wishes he had followed her.
Saturday 7:45pm.
Santana throws a ‘we quit the Cheerios so let’s get totally plastered party’ the following Saturday night. He isn’t quite sure how it happens, but he ends up picking Quinn up from her place at seven sharp (because Quinn likes to be on time). She kisses him on the cheek and he ignores the sharp pain in his gut, forcing his car jerkily into gear and pulling away from the curb.
It’s been seven days since the football game. Six days since Quinn kissed him. Five days since Quinn and Sam broke up. Four days since Rachel turned up on his doorstep.
It’s been seven days since the chain started and when he steps into Santana’s house and sees her in the corner of the room, sitting on the edge of the couch with a cup of beer in her hand, he freezes. Because Puck is standing next to her and she is laughing and she is drinking and they do a little fist bump and he wants to punch Puck in the guts. He shouldn’t want to, because Quinn is next to him, and fuck are they dating and it takes him a total of thirteen minutes before he grabs Rachel by the wrist when the others aren’t looking and pulls her into the laundry.
“What the hell are you doing?” She hisses at him, yanking her arm away as he shuts the door behind them.
“I don’t know,” he says, and he really does mean it. He doesn’t know what he is doing, all he knows is that everything is complicated and she was staring at him in a way that makes him really want to kiss her.
He does.
He pushes her against the washing machine, one hand going to her waist and the other through her hair and his lips are on hers hard and fast, taking no time at all before he collides his tongue with hers. She whimpers against his lips, but she is kissing him back and she grips the folds of his shirt hard, pulling him against her. He doesn’t know what he is doing but his hands find their way to her thighs and he hoists her up onto the machine, kissing her still as her legs curl around his waist.
When she pushes herself closer, closer to him and he feels himself react, it sends his mind into a tailspin. He breaks off instantly, almost slamming himself into the door. She stares at him and her lips are bruised and her face is flushed and her legs are open slightly … he closes his eyes, mutters ‘I’m sorry’ and leaves the closet quicker than they entered.
He doesn’t drive Quinn home that night.
Tuesday 3:15pm.
“We need to stop doing this,” she mutters against his lips, but she doesn’t let go of her grip.
The stands are empty because football season has finished, and he skips sixth period because he just can’t deal with today and he can’t deal with Quinn and he can’t deal with her. But he presses her against the metal frame of the stands and his hands are roaming down her sides, against her thighs and she letting him. She is letting him. Because even though both of them are fucked up, they still can’t keep away from each other. Her breath is short and she makes these soft noises in his ear as he sucks on the soft skin above her collarbone that drives him crazy and he wishes that he could stop. Saturday night was just the beginning.
He was beginning to hate himself.
Saturday 10:18pm.
“I’m not doing this,” she says, and she has that determined look on her face that he both loved and loathed. She is standing on her doorstep and he is drunk and she is wearing those hot pink shorts that he loves and he is finding it incredibly hard to form words.
“But I- y’know Rach-“
“No,” she cuts him off firmly, holding her hand up. “You’re drunk. And I’m not doing this with you. If you want to talk to me, come back sober.”
And with that she walks back into her house and slams the door. It reopens a few moments later, and he has a surge of hope before a bottle of water is tossed to his chest and it takes every motor skill he has to actually catch it. The door slams again.
He drinks the water, sitting on her curb.
An hour later, and he is still sitting on the curb, and he finishes the bottle, tossing it to the side. He feels sober. He hears the door open behind him and he turns his head around. She is still wearing her hot pink shorts and she has on her bright pink jacket. She stares at him for a moment before she walks to him, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him up.
“Come inside,” she says, leading him across the lawn.
“Aren’t your dads-“
“They aren’t home,” she responds, pushing him through the door as she closed it behind them.
He stares at her as she moves around the hallway, placing her keys on the table. She begins up the stairs and he still watches her as she turns around.
“Are you coming?” She doesn’t wait for a response and climbs the stairs further towards her bedroom. He almost fumbles up the stairs and he shakes his head as he follows her through her bedroom door.
He stands awkwardly in the centre of the room as she closes the door, moving around her bedroom quietly. She takes off her jacket, placing it on the chair next to her computer table. Then she turns to face him and he stares at her, waiting for her to speak first. The room is spinning just a little and he wishes he had another glass of liquid courage. Or Puck’s God-awful keg would do.
“So why are you here, again?” She asks him, crossing her arms over her chest and he realises that she isn’t wearing a fucking bra and he feels himself go instantly hard.
“I needed to - s-see you,” he stutters and he almost wants to punch himself in the gut for being such a pussy. He knows, even in his drunken state, that he shouldn’t be here. He is screwing himself and her over. But he doesn’t know what else to do.
He decides in an instant to man the fuck up and he walks towards her, grabbing her waist as he pulls her to him. He crushes his lips on hers, snaking his arm around her tiny waist and splaying his fingers along her bare skin. He expects her to pull away, to tell him that he needs to get the hell out. But she doesn’t. She stands on her tip-toes and curls her hand around the back of his neck, bringing him down to her as she kissed him back. She kissed him back.
“You taste like beer,” she murmurs against his lips, running her tongue along his bottom lip.
He knows they should stop, but something takes over him and he lifts her up, placing her on her bed behind them as he moved, hovering above her. He presses her into her mattress, his kisses becoming more and more urgent and she spreads her legs a little instinctively underneath him. He swears he begins to have trouble breathing.
He breaks away and stares down at her. She bites her lip, her fingers digging into his shoulders and he starts to wonder why the hell this is happening. Why does it have to be so complicated? This, this right here is making things complicated.
So he stops.
“What are you doing?” She asks as he climbs off the bed, grabbing his jacket from the floor. He wasn’t sure how it got there. He honestly doesn’t know how to answer her question so he turns to face her, running his hand through his hair.
“I’m drunk. I have to go,” he says, and he thinks it’s the smartest decision he has made all night, and he leaves the room, walking down the stairs.
She runs out of her room and grabs his arm as he reaches the stairs, yanking him around to face her. Her eyes sting with tears.
“Why are you doing this to me?” She asks, her grip on his arm tightening.
He can feel his heart drop. Because he doesn’t know and he hates himself for what he is doing. He is a hypocritical ass and he hates everything that he has become. But he doesn’t know how to answer her, so he turns around and walks down the stairs, leaving her.
He hears her start to cry as he closes the front door and he swears that this ends right now.
Tuesday 12:14pm.
It starts with a text message.
Meet me at the stands at 3. R x
He almost doesn’t go. Not because he doesn’t want to skip a period, because it was US History and he doesn’t give a crap, but because he hasn’t spoken to her since Saturday night, and he isn’t sure he can face her after that. The sound of her crying tears his heart in two and he avoids everyone and Glee because the sight of her makes him feel like the giant ass he is.
But he goes.
She is standing there when he arrives, in her really big red coat and her hair frames her face and he feels his heart rate rise just by looking at her. But she has a different expression on her face and he stops still before he reaches her.
“Hi,” he says hesitantly, not sure what else to say. He kicks himself internally for not coming up with a better opening line.
“This,” she points to herself and then him, “is done. We’re done. I’m not doing this anymore.”
He feels his heart stop beating. And he shouldn’t feel like that, because this is what he wanted right? He wanted space, and he wanted them not to be a couple and he … he has Quinn. He doesn’t, because they aren’t ‘official’ yet, and he never wants them to be official, but he doesn’t want this either. He doesn’t want to not have her. He doesn’t want to feel like this.
He opens his mouth to speak but she holds her hand up and smirks. It’s not a nice smirk, not a Rachel Berry smirk, and he can’t describe the feeling that creeps up into his chest when she looks at him.
“Save it,” she says and she walks around him and around the corner out of sight.
He kicks over the table at the entrance to the stands a couple of moments later.
Friday 5:03pm.
He grabs her by the wrist when everyone leaves Glee. He waits until everyone has left the room before he pulls her over to him. She tugs her wrist away almost instantly.
“Don’t,” she says warningly, holding herself out of his grip.
He looks at her pleadingly. “Rachel please-“
“Please? No. I’m not being the girl on the side again Finn. And you are a hypocrite. You’ve got to make a choice. And even then…” she stares at him and he hears her voice break on the last word and he reaches out to her, but she pulls away again.
He closes the gap between them, holding both of her hands still as he rests his forehead against hers. A sob escapes her lips and he can’t stand himself for doing this.
“You’re breaking my heart, Finn,” she says, each word enunciated by the tears that streaked her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he says and he means it with all his heart.
She leaves. And he knows that it isn’t over.
_
It all starts with a text message.
I miss you. F
She doesn’t reply.
-