Fic: That's why we, make a good you and me {Glee-- Tina/Artie} Pt. 3/5
Title: That's why we, make a good you and me (Five times Artie realises he might have fallen for his best friend)
Chapter: You know what I'm going to say before my mouth even makes a sound
Fandom: Glee
Characters/Pairings: Artie/Tina
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: One minor curse word, nothing really. If you're up-to-date with Glee, you're golden.
Word Count: 1135, approx.
Summary: It took him a whole forty minutes to remember and accept that Tina didn’t cause the accident and that she isn’t walking about just to spite him. And he’s not entirely sure what that says about him.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual. All song-lyrics mentioned belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Author’s Note: Previous ones are You and me, we couldn't stand being normal and We both laugh at the most random situations, please read them. ^_^ Because you know, I wrote them. haha.
Anyways, this is the third one. And I went a little more angsty. And that was tough because well, we haven't really seen much of these two. BUT I hope you like it. Please review. But be nice, I bruise like a peach.
They haven’t spoken in about forty minutes- and if they were with other people that’d be fine, normal, expected, but the fact that it’s with each other is sort of strange. Her lips may as well be sewn shut she’s holding them together so tightly, and he recognises the concentration on her face as the same one that always happens after their fights (all two (now three) of them) when she wants to talk, just not first.
Forty-one minutes. Yeah, not getting easier.
If she was the kind of person to slam things, her locker would have been pulled off its hinges and then thrown across the hall. He can see her fingers twitching on the handle. Not because she’s really that angry, but because the silence is killing her. There’s a painful knot in her stomach where her lunch should be; her other hand creases the edges of the sheet music, eyes focussed because looking up at him every now and again just made everything worse. And at least he actually knows what they’re arguing about.
Another glance up at her, or up and towards her, he sees her mentally tripping over the lyrics, her throat closing over syllables when she thinks of the faces that’ll be watching her. So he takes in a deep breath and answers a question or rant that went unvoiced, “You’ll be fine.”
(Okay, so maybe he lost this one. Maybe it doesn’t matter.)
She looks up, opens her mouth to ask him what he’s talking about, how she never said anything, some feigned emotion that resembles incredulity; till she realises that it’s Artie, and he knows her, and he’d know this. And she smiles and lets him reach out and pat her wrist gently without flinching back. She nods once, and closes her locker. “C-come on, let’s go practise.”
And you’d think he’d be used to the fact that he can’t walk, but the way he hears her (and everyone else’s) footsteps on the ground still makes him jealous. How he still has the urge to push himself out of the chair and walk with everyone is something that makes his chest feel tight when he really thinks about it. And that tragic little fact, the one that he should have grown accustomed to after years of sympathetic faces and cars with backseats bought especially for him, is the reason why about a minute ago (and for the last forty before that), they weren’t talking. He admits that it’s kind of stupid, and was at the time, that he knew it was before he snapped at her, he was just too stubborn and too pissed off to not fight.
Tina is always the unlucky person who just happens to be there.
She walks around to the back of his wheelchair and he feels her gloved hands (fishnet pattern, fingerless) tap and then come back off of his handles and the way she hesitates now. “I’m- I’m sorry…” he starts, and she looks down at him, “--About… earlier.” He goes up at the end like it’s a question, like there’s any chance she could forget, or not know what he’s talking about. He reaches up and finds her hand, still hovering just above the handles; he pulls it down till it meets the plastic-covered metal, and closes his fingers around hers semi-tightly, till he can feel the warmth of her skin through both sets of gloves.
She smiles and a long-held breath gasps out of her lips, “It’s okay…”, she goes back to her position (not that she really strayed very far) of Artie’s friend and pushes him down the hall into the auditorium. “I’m sorry I told you to go s-s-screw yourself.”
“You did?”
“Yeah,” her forehead creases, “It was kind of quiet.”
His mouth pulls up into a smirk that she mirrors back. And he lets her push him through, because earlier when he yelled at her in the form of “Look, I can do it myself.” muttering about how his legs may not work but his arms do and he’s not an old man and he never asked for a carer (or something else that didn’t make sense and wasn’t about her but that she stood and took the brunt of), he wheeled off by himself and left her a confused few feet behind him. Left her looking (not that he really likes thinking about it) kind of heartbroken; lip trembling and he doesn’t think he can watch her eyes glass over again- not when he’s the cause of it.
It took him a whole forty minutes to remember and accept that Tina didn’t cause the accident and that she isn’t walking about just to spite him. And he’s not entirely sure what that says about him.
He imagines the blue stripe coming out from under her hat blowing upwards out of her eyes and towards the ceiling, a frustrated ‘pfft’ behind him that makes him smile every time he hears it. Her voice comes out slow and even, trying really hard not to stammer, “I didn’t mean to make you feel… However I made you f-feel.” and failing. She walks around and sits in the row next to him, old and yellowing foam peeking out from the stitches of the cushion, “I know, I c-can’t know what it’s like to be you.” Her eyes stay fixed on the stage in front of them until he places a tentative hand on her knee, runs a thumb over the curves of her leg and she lets her eyes glance swiftly down to it. “It’s just--” He waits for her to finish, the way he always does, “S-sometimes I don’t know what you w-want me to be.” and when she looks at him this time through damp lashes, he sees himself in her glistening eyes.
She feels his hand flex against her leg and then lift to hover a few millimetres from it. She doesn’t hold onto it like she thought she would. And he doesn’t take it away like he knows he should. They stay stuck for a few seconds that seem to stretch into endlessness until she clears her throat, smiles at him (genuine, warm) and says, “F-From the top?”
He pulls his hand back into his lap and then pushes himself up the ramp and onto the stage, the rumble of his wheels on the slats the only sound in this room and how she’s looking at her hands and chewing on her lip the only thing he sees. She walks steadily up to him now, small hands balled into nervous fists but eyes dark and smiling. He’s not entirely sure what he wants her to be either. But it’s more about what he should be to her, and how he doesn’t think he can be.
Chapter: You know what I'm going to say before my mouth even makes a sound
Fandom: Glee
Characters/Pairings: Artie/Tina
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: One minor curse word, nothing really. If you're up-to-date with Glee, you're golden.
Word Count: 1135, approx.
Summary: It took him a whole forty minutes to remember and accept that Tina didn’t cause the accident and that she isn’t walking about just to spite him. And he’s not entirely sure what that says about him.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libellous, defamatory, or in any way factual. All song-lyrics mentioned belong to their respective owners, not to me.
Author’s Note: Previous ones are You and me, we couldn't stand being normal and We both laugh at the most random situations, please read them. ^_^ Because you know, I wrote them. haha.
Anyways, this is the third one. And I went a little more angsty. And that was tough because well, we haven't really seen much of these two. BUT I hope you like it. Please review. But be nice, I bruise like a peach.
They haven’t spoken in about forty minutes- and if they were with other people that’d be fine, normal, expected, but the fact that it’s with each other is sort of strange. Her lips may as well be sewn shut she’s holding them together so tightly, and he recognises the concentration on her face as the same one that always happens after their fights (all two (now three) of them) when she wants to talk, just not first.
Forty-one minutes. Yeah, not getting easier.
If she was the kind of person to slam things, her locker would have been pulled off its hinges and then thrown across the hall. He can see her fingers twitching on the handle. Not because she’s really that angry, but because the silence is killing her. There’s a painful knot in her stomach where her lunch should be; her other hand creases the edges of the sheet music, eyes focussed because looking up at him every now and again just made everything worse. And at least he actually knows what they’re arguing about.
Another glance up at her, or up and towards her, he sees her mentally tripping over the lyrics, her throat closing over syllables when she thinks of the faces that’ll be watching her. So he takes in a deep breath and answers a question or rant that went unvoiced, “You’ll be fine.”
(Okay, so maybe he lost this one. Maybe it doesn’t matter.)
She looks up, opens her mouth to ask him what he’s talking about, how she never said anything, some feigned emotion that resembles incredulity; till she realises that it’s Artie, and he knows her, and he’d know this. And she smiles and lets him reach out and pat her wrist gently without flinching back. She nods once, and closes her locker. “C-come on, let’s go practise.”
And you’d think he’d be used to the fact that he can’t walk, but the way he hears her (and everyone else’s) footsteps on the ground still makes him jealous. How he still has the urge to push himself out of the chair and walk with everyone is something that makes his chest feel tight when he really thinks about it. And that tragic little fact, the one that he should have grown accustomed to after years of sympathetic faces and cars with backseats bought especially for him, is the reason why about a minute ago (and for the last forty before that), they weren’t talking. He admits that it’s kind of stupid, and was at the time, that he knew it was before he snapped at her, he was just too stubborn and too pissed off to not fight.
Tina is always the unlucky person who just happens to be there.
She walks around to the back of his wheelchair and he feels her gloved hands (fishnet pattern, fingerless) tap and then come back off of his handles and the way she hesitates now. “I’m- I’m sorry…” he starts, and she looks down at him, “--About… earlier.” He goes up at the end like it’s a question, like there’s any chance she could forget, or not know what he’s talking about. He reaches up and finds her hand, still hovering just above the handles; he pulls it down till it meets the plastic-covered metal, and closes his fingers around hers semi-tightly, till he can feel the warmth of her skin through both sets of gloves.
She smiles and a long-held breath gasps out of her lips, “It’s okay…”, she goes back to her position (not that she really strayed very far) of Artie’s friend and pushes him down the hall into the auditorium. “I’m sorry I told you to go s-s-screw yourself.”
“You did?”
“Yeah,” her forehead creases, “It was kind of quiet.”
His mouth pulls up into a smirk that she mirrors back. And he lets her push him through, because earlier when he yelled at her in the form of “Look, I can do it myself.” muttering about how his legs may not work but his arms do and he’s not an old man and he never asked for a carer (or something else that didn’t make sense and wasn’t about her but that she stood and took the brunt of), he wheeled off by himself and left her a confused few feet behind him. Left her looking (not that he really likes thinking about it) kind of heartbroken; lip trembling and he doesn’t think he can watch her eyes glass over again- not when he’s the cause of it.
It took him a whole forty minutes to remember and accept that Tina didn’t cause the accident and that she isn’t walking about just to spite him. And he’s not entirely sure what that says about him.
He imagines the blue stripe coming out from under her hat blowing upwards out of her eyes and towards the ceiling, a frustrated ‘pfft’ behind him that makes him smile every time he hears it. Her voice comes out slow and even, trying really hard not to stammer, “I didn’t mean to make you feel… However I made you f-feel.” and failing. She walks around and sits in the row next to him, old and yellowing foam peeking out from the stitches of the cushion, “I know, I c-can’t know what it’s like to be you.” Her eyes stay fixed on the stage in front of them until he places a tentative hand on her knee, runs a thumb over the curves of her leg and she lets her eyes glance swiftly down to it. “It’s just--” He waits for her to finish, the way he always does, “S-sometimes I don’t know what you w-want me to be.” and when she looks at him this time through damp lashes, he sees himself in her glistening eyes.
She feels his hand flex against her leg and then lift to hover a few millimetres from it. She doesn’t hold onto it like she thought she would. And he doesn’t take it away like he knows he should. They stay stuck for a few seconds that seem to stretch into endlessness until she clears her throat, smiles at him (genuine, warm) and says, “F-From the top?”
He pulls his hand back into his lap and then pushes himself up the ramp and onto the stage, the rumble of his wheels on the slats the only sound in this room and how she’s looking at her hands and chewing on her lip the only thing he sees. She walks steadily up to him now, small hands balled into nervous fists but eyes dark and smiling. He’s not entirely sure what he wants her to be either. But it’s more about what he should be to her, and how he doesn’t think he can be.