Fic: So Much Older Than I Can Take, for mary_greenman
Title: So Much Older Than I Can Take
Author: needsmoregreen
Recipient: mary_greenman
Rating: R for language and concepts.
Word Count: 6406
Warnings: Characters break teacher-student boundaries. Some seriously gratuitous swearing. Will is occasionally ableist. Underage drinking. Implied homophobia and harrassment. Violence. Popcorn wars. The works, really.
Summary: Will wonders what would be more cathartic: deleting every message on that machine, or smashing it to pieces. How Will's twisted Brady Bunch of a glee club save his sorry existence, and maybe save their own in the process.
Author's Note: Wow, this was a fun and exciting challenge to write! I actually fell a little bit in love with this 'verse, and I'm hoping to take it further and write more in it. So, thank you, recipient, for leading me to it! Thank you also to crown-of-weeds and narceus for beta’ing and offering advice, and any poor person who I pestered when trying to write this.
The title of this fic comes from All These Things That I've Done by The Killers. (There will likely be a playlist of songs that results from this fic/'verse.) All American Idol contestants are real season 10 contestants. No popcorn/suitcases/sharks were harmed in the writing of this fic.
To Mary_Greenman: thank you for the interesting and challenging prompt. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and that it lives up to what you were hoping for. I hope you have a wonderful and fic-filled New Year!
Will gets home from the airport at about five in the evening. He drags himself and his luggage up the stairs to the apartment and fumbles for a second while his fingers grasp for keys in his pockets. The lock clicks far too easily, and in less time than he'd like, he's inside. He puts his bags down, and looks around at his silent, still front hallway.
Will Schuester just came back from his dream job, from New York, from fucking Broadway, to save a glee club who didn't even fucking win, and now he's back in the same damn empty apartment he started in, with nothing to show for it, absolutely nothing to show for anything, and significantly fewer vests than he had before he left.
Will Schuester is home, alone.
Again.
Fuck.
He kicks the corner of his suitcase and feels marginally better. Kicking feels good. So he kicks it a few times more, just for good measure.
Then the suitcase falls on his toe and it stops being fun.
"Shit," he mumbles as he seats himself on top of it, feeling it sag under his weight, and then "shit shit shit shit shit."
He scrubs harshly at his eyes.
Honestly, what was he even expecting anyway? It's not like the show was going to be a hit--if he's honest with himself, it was absolute shit. It's not like he thought he'd be whisked away and they'd ask him to do Singin' In The Rain or step into a recording studio, or that he'd ever even stand on that stage again, for all he knew. It's not like he was expecting anything more than... well, this. Ending up back here, on the very same floor, with disappointments instead of regrets. But, Jesus, all he'd seen in that moment on the stage were the lights and the red, red curtains; twenty distorted shadows on the floor behind him and the whole world in the seats in front of him. And all he can see now is polished wood flooring, slightly scuffed, before him, and everything behind him.
Somehow, right now, he'd take the disappointment over this.
He groans, the sound bouncing through the hallway, past the once-a-two-person bedroom, to the hollowed out kitchen and dining room and the craft room he never had the courage to clean out.
He could at least take having New York disintegrate before his eyes if this house, the rest of his existence, weren't so empty.
This time he punches his fist against the side of the suitcase. And again, and a few more times, until it's less like he's drowning in his own anger and he can feel a bruise blooming over his left hand.
He called her as soon as he knew they were coming home early, still riding on the idea that, hey, maybe this could be his dream again--maybe going back home and being "such a good teacher" and a boyfriend or partner or husband and the custodian of the hopes and dreams of McKinley High's most lowly, could really be what he's always wanted.
He arrived at the airport and waited for all the kids to be taken home by their parents or each other, pretending not to hear the discussions of pity party logistics, and he waited for her to come for him. But in the end he caught a cab, and listened again to the voicemail left on his phone about half an hour before they touched down.
"I'm sorry, Will, I need to think about it, I'm just not sure yet."
(Somewhere in here he knows she's right. Somewhere he knows that this isn't fair, that he's pushing this a little too hard. Somewhere in here he knows she won't come, not now, or like this--not if she knows that in some small part she's just filling the chunk that New York took out of him. But he tries. He tries and he tries.)
He checks the answering machine for anything he missed while they were away. All he finds are saved messages from Terri, months old. He used to get them every week, when she'd always call and he'd never answer, until it was only once a month or so. Always the same things, questions and desperation and demands and "I haven't been taking my medication, Will, I miss you, I can be better, just, please". He can't reply to them, but for some reason he'll always save them, just to watch the little LED light number climb up and up.
Emma never left messages. She would always call again and again, at half hour intervals, until he actually picked up the phone or called her back. She said she preferred to speak to him, not a machine (I'm sorry, Will, I need to think about it), she didn't want what she said to get lost or not reach him (I'm just not sure yet).
Terri hasn't left one in two months.
Will wonders what would be more cathartic: deleting every message on that machine, or smashing it to pieces.
There are two six packs of Heineken in the refrigerator.
He'll be careful this time, he's not ever going to pull crap like drunk dialing again, never going to give her a reason to have to 'think about it' again. He'll call Figgins to say he's feeling sick and won't be coming in tomorrow, so there won't be any awkward throwing up in the staff toilets this time either. It's not like there's any danger here.
And he kept his promise: the kids didn't drink before Nationals and neither did he, not a single beer.
But if the kids are all getting drunk tonight, drowning their sorrows or whatever it is that lonely, already-too-old teenagers do--surely he gets the right to do the same? It's only fair. In fact it's more than fair, he's the one who gave up everything he could have had to watch them lose.
This time it's his knee and the side of the couch.
He thinks of their faces, so heartbroken, the fights in the hotel room after and the tearful whispers, "Jesse was right", "I'm not coming back next year, I'm quitting", "I hate this fucking school", and no, okay, no, he does not want to think about them right now, doesn't want to think about himself or Emma or how everything is ruined. What he needs is to get really, really drunk really, really right the fuck now.
He'll be careful. Lock the door, disconnect the phone, turn off his cell, the works. He just needs this, and if he turns a baseball bat on the answering machine in the process then fine, no harm done.
***
The next day he doesn't get up until about midday. Well, at midday he clambers from bed to couch and proceeds to not move for another hour. At about one thirty he finds his laptop and decides to catch up on season 10 of American Idol.
"Fuck you," he says, when Haley has just burst into tears for ending up in the bottom two for the second time running,"you don't even know disappointment, try losing Broadway and a fucking Nationals championship in the same day. Also you suck."
When James get voted out after his terrible, terrible version of Don't Stop Believin', and starts talking about how it's his destiny to go on to be a star, no matter what; after he's sung his final number, Leavin' On A Jet Plane, Will throws popcorn at the screen.
"That was nothing," he scoffs, "you know what you are? You suck, that's what you are. Bet you didn't make it to Broadway." He pauses. "And that is my fucking song!".
Eventually he runs out of popcorn, and trudges back past the collection of empty bottles to the kitchen in search of Kraft mac'n'cheese.
That's it, he thinks, a flash of inspiration as he watches the orange powder congeal and thicken in the bowl. A week long bender. He doesn't have to leave the house, he can just tell Figgins he has shark flu or something and drop off the face of the earth until summer break starts. Maybe until it finishes. Maybe even longer, he's doesn't really care right now.
It's completely perfect, except now he needs to reconnect the phone.
He makes the call, checks the machine--it's still in tact. There are no new messages.
For the rest of the afternoon he slumps on the couch watching the second season of How To Make It In America ("are you kidding me, I totally could've done it all better than that!"), and is just about to take on the second six pack at six thirty, when the phone rings. Apparently he forgot to disconnect it again. He should maybe make a Post-It to remind him to do that next time.
The voice that meets him when he tugs the handset clumsily from its cradle is not one he was expecting to hear.
"Um, hey, Mr Schue..."
"Puck?"
"Yeah," he says, and Will can hear him breathing heavily on the other end.
"Is there... something you want?" he prompts.
There's a pause, a sound like the clacking of teeth, a small gulp. "Remember how you gave us your number to use if we needed you?"
Things go very cold, very quickly after that.
This is all your fault, he thinks. If you hadn't left them alone in that state to go get smashed, if you hadn't been so distracted by all that Broadway crap, then then none of this would have happened. If someone's died then it's completely your fucking fault. Seconds after Puck has spoken, his mind has cycled jerkily through nearly a hundred possibilities; from the vomit on the stage in the gym to the violent glares he's caught Dave Karofsky giving some of the kids; from the fury in Santana's eyes when they got off the plane, the deadness in Quinn's, to the stupidly triumphant look on Kurt's face when the Dalton kid met him at the airport this afternoon and oh god they didn't, they couldn't, something can't have happened because they are literally everything he has right now and, oh, okay, he can't speak and he really needs to be saying something right now.
He clears his throat, tries to keep his voice steady.
"Puck, has something happened?" His voice shakes anyway. He's already up and reaching for his keys, not even dressed and he's halfway to the door. "Is someone hurt, do you need me to come pick you-?"
"No, no it's not like that, we were all way safe last night, I'm the only one who can even get booze and I blew all my cash on the trip--"
"Puck."
"No one's hurt, Mr Schue, they're all home or whatever."
He releases a breath, his head swimming dangerously. "What is it then, Noah?" Oh, now he's snappy.
"I..." he sounds unsure, hesitant, and it just registers with him as he waits for Puck to speak. "I need a place to stay, just for, like, a day or two."
That surprises him, because it's the first time he thinks he's ever heard Puck ask for help. Certainly it's the first time Puck has ever come to him about something.
His irritation evaporates almost instantly. "I... sure," he says, not even thinking to ask why at this stage.
He considers for a moment the barriers this would break, the ones he's supposed to keep between himself and his students. Having one move in with him would almost certainly be against some rule or other. But, he reasons, it is McKinley, and Figgins really did buy the shark flu excuse.
Emma's not going to come. She won't and she probably shouldn't, and he'll fight for it all the same because that's what he has to do.
"Cool, Mr Schue, thanks. You're a pretty awesome teacher."
"Thanks, Noah," he smiles. "Um, do you need me to come and get you?"
"Nah, it's cool, I remember where it is anyway, I'll just walk."
And with that, Puck's already hung up.
***
Will is still watching TV, still mildly agitated by the whole phone call thing, when he hears the front door click open. He jumps, spilling the fresh bowl of popcorn across his lap. Turning around, he sees Puck wander in slowly, inspecting the walls and ceiling curiously, almost concernedly.
"Puck, what the-" he grits his teeth, dredging up from somewhere deep within him the voice he recognises as Teacher Voice. "How did you get in here?"
Puck shrugs. "Through the front door, duh. Your lock's really easy to force, Mr Schue, you should probably think about getting something stronger--I know a guy who does--"
"Noah, you can't just break into people's houses like that," he starts. "You've been in juvie once, you can't just be that inconsiderate and go--"
Puck shifts, and his arms pull tight to his chest like a barrier. "Yeah, well, I was trying to help, wasn't I?" He pauses. "And you're not just 'people'," he spits out.
Will doesn't know how to respond to that. The ensuing silence stretches a bit, and Will joins Puck in his meandering inspection.
Surprisingly, Puck is the first to break the silence.
"No offence, Mr Schue, but your place kinda looks like crap."
"Noah, I-". He sighs. "I know. I've had, ah, a rough few days."
Puck snorts. "Yeah, I'll say."
"What do you mean?"
Puck looks up at him. "Well, you were all bummed out about not doing April Rhodes' thing, but you kept saying you'd rather be back with us, and we knew that wasn't true. Partly because you always get that 'I'm trying not to cry because I'm a Manly Teacher Dude' look when any of us succeed at anything or sing or whatever, and partly because, come on, we are the shittiest glee club New York's ever seen."
This may or may not be the first time Will has legitimately wanted to punch a student.
"Puck, you shouldn't talk like that."
"No, it's true," Puck replies, not angry or bitter, just like he's stating the obvious fact. Will feels a stab of jealousy. "We sucked balls this year, and I don't just mean Kurt and his little Warbler dude--but, holy crap, that's such a good joke, I have to tell him next time I see him--"
"Puck." Will sighs. "Why do you need to stay here?"
"Sorry, distracted. All my teachers say I have that ADD thing--that's where you can't think good or something, right?--but it's not my problem, I'm not stupid, I just have more important stuff to think about, y'know? I have to keep thinking of new jokes for Hummel, it's part of my plan to make sure he gets some from Anderson. I've been off my game lately, though--but do you know how many jokes you can get just out of the word 'suck', Mr Schue--?"
"Puck, focus."
Puck is silent, and stares at his shoes.
"Why are you here?" Will repeats.
Almost immediately, Puck's defensive again. "I just need a place to stay, that's all. Is there a problem with me staying now?"
"No, Puck, you can stay here... I'd just like to know what's going on. Why you need to stay here."
"I don't need to tell you, okay?" Puck turns to walk away, before Will reaches out for his wrist, grasping it as tightly as he can. Puck's strong, and he tries to squirm out of Will's grip, but Will stops him.
"Well, since I'm your teacher, and I own this house, I think you do!"
When Puck finally meets his eyes, Wills sees fear. He drops Puck's wrist.
"Fine!" Puck backs away, arms wrapped around his chest again, face to the ground. "My mom told me I couldn't stay with her any more if I was gonna keep getting into trouble."
Will breathes. "Puck, I thought you weren't doing that any more."
"Yeah, well... I wasn't, I swear," he says, eyes wide and honest. "I was good and everything. And I haven't bullied anyone since when I got out of juvie and all that." He pauses. "Well, except that little shit Jacob-sorry, fine. That kid, Jacob.
"But after prom, I guess there were more parties and stuff, and I just pulled stupid shit, like normal. But mom put her foot down and said 'no' this time."
"So what happened?" Will asks softly. "Why did she kick you out then?"
Puck shakes his head. "She asked me to stop, and I didn't, I guess. There was gonna be a party tonight, and I used her car to get there. She found out, she got really mad, and here I am." He sits back on the dining table.
"That pitiful enough for you?"
"Puck, I'm so sorry," Will says, reaching out to put a tentative hand on Puck's shoulder. "And get off my table."
Puck laughs, seems to take that for the olive branch that it is.. "Sure thing, Mr Schue."
Looking at Puck now, Will thinks he looks tired, older. He shouldn't.
He's thought it before: his kids have lived through much more than he ever did, at least at their age. They spend every single day fighting, fighting bullies and parents and each other and themselves. Will doesn't understand it: how, at the end of the day, they always end up back in the choir room, together, like some kind of warped Brady Bunch. He doesn't know how to fight like that, never has. He doesn't have that tenacity, their sheer determination to survive it all.
But he can't really commend that, because it's exactly that kind of shit that also cost him his dreams.
"Thanks for letting me stay, man. I mean, um, sir."
Will laughs. "You're sleeping in my home, Puck, I think we've passed the point of requiring formalities."
"Does that mean I can call you 'Will' now?" Puck asks, his face lighting up.
"Um, maybe not just yet. You can call me 'Schue', if that helps."
Puck grins. "Cool. Maybe you'll be lucky and I'll give you a really gangsta nickname."
"We'll see."
***
It's like that for a few days.
Puck isn't content to let Will 'cut class' for the next three days until school finishes, and makes a deal that he won't tell anyone about living with Will, if Will at least makes an effort to come and teach (his miraculous recovery from shark flu is met with much celebration, and put down to the amazing power of Figgins' pastor). He suspects Puck has told at least some of the glee club, though, because it's Puck, and they don't seem to keep secrets from each other much any more. No one's said anything, or tried to stop it, though, so for now it's alright and the two of them are safe.
The second day, after school, he makes Puck go back home to try and talk to his mother, and even offers to come in and talk to her himself. Puck refuses all but the ride there, though, and is dangerously silent on the way back five minutes later.
Will decides to drop it, for now. At the end, it turns out to be a good decision.
When they're in the apartment, they mostly mind their own business. The rooms are still quiet and echo-y, but everything feels a little more full and a little less eerie. It vaguely alarms Will just how quickly he's set at ease by another living thing in the house--by something to cling onto.
The second night, Puck finds his X-Box, hidden in the DVD cabinet, and the collection of first person shooter games that he will never admit to anyone to actually owning. Puck approves, however, and by the end of that night they're playing Call of Duty 4, and neither of them are admitting how good it feel to kill things.
The third night, he makes Puck stand at the front door when he calls her.
"Emma," he breathes out, when she finally answers, and, oh dear god, he's done a pretty good job of convincing himself he doesn't need this these past few days, but hearing her voice, hearing her say his name... he really, really needs it.
"Will? Will, what is it?"
His throat sticks. He suddenly remembers he was supposed to say something. (He was supposed to say a lot of things, and he was meant to say them a long, long time ago. But there's no helping that now.)
He was supposed to say something about understanding her reluctance and telling her it's okay if she wants to take her time, he's fine waiting for her if it means this will work. But he can hear her voice, and suddenly his voice isn't going with the plan at all.
"I..." he closes his eyes. "Hi."
"Hi, Will. Hi. Um, I guess you're calling about..." The pause is too long. "... about me moving in?"
"Yeah, yeah. I am. I wanted to know if you'd thought about it some more?"
He can hear her sigh. "I have Will, I've thought about it a lot."
"And?"
"I... I just don't think I can, Will. I'm not sure if either of us are ready to be living together again, after C-... my marriage, and you with Holly. Maybe we really do both need to be alone, at least for a while."
He's not going to cry. His voice will be steady this time.
"But Emma," his voice cracks anyway. "Emma, you said you still have feelings for me, and I know I still have feelings for you, and you can't tell me that some part of you doesn't want this."
He hates his voice. "I need you, Emma, I need you here."
"I-wow, Will. Hey, no, hey, it's okay. Shhh, it's okay." He can hear someone's breaths, quick and fast and gasping for air, and suddenly he realises that that someone is him.
She waits, giving him a few tactful moments to collect himself.
"Will, listen to me, please. Give me another few days to work this out, okay? I understand, believe me, I do. But... I'm just so tired, Will, and I want to make sure that living with you isn't just looking for a place to sleep. Do you... can you understand that for me? Please?"
"I... alright."
And then she's gone, and Puck is asking if he can come out from the hallway, and wordlessly handing him a beer from the refrigerator before walking quietly off to the spare bedroom.
For three days, things are quiet. Things are calm, and the gaping hole in Will's chest feels a little less ragged, a little more full.
For three whole days, it's okay.
***
Then it all starts happening at once:
On the final night of the school year, Puck invites Artie over to play Halo on the flat screen, because he couldn't help telling Artie about 'Mr Schue's awesome gaming system'. Upon questioning, Artie swears he hasn't told anyone else, but Will feels a little uneasy about it all. He lets them hang out for a while, though, and the apartment suddenly seems more full again, more alive.
The two of them are just getting more popcorn at about seven, when the phone rings. Will jumps up to answer it--he's been agitated about any phone calls since he got back.
"Mr Schue?"
"Um... Brittany?"
Will's really surprised by this one. He didn't think Brittany knew how to use a phone.
He can't hear what Brittany's saying over the noise in the background, and it clicks that she must be at a party. He doesn't go into panic mode this time, thankfully.
"Britt--Brittany, speak up, what's the problem?"
"It's Santana. I think... I think someone needs to take her home."
"Okay, alright, where are you? Brittany, can you tell me where you are? Hold on, are any of the other glee kids there, hand one of them over and they can tell me--"
"I know where we are," she snaps back.
She gives him the address and he tells her to take Santana outside, not to let her run off.
"I think I can keep her here for long enough, I'll try."
When he finds them, Brittany--who is seemingly sober, but Will can't tell with her anyway--has managed to get Santana with her head between her knees, and is making soft cooing noises. Santana's not resisting, which is a good sign.
"Does anyone know what happened?" he asks.
"I know what happened," Brittany says. She's still annoyed at him. "I never left her side the whole night. Of course I know what happened."
"I... sorry, Brittany," he frowns. "So what did--"
"We were just dancing, and Santana was kinda drunk... And then some guy saw us dancing together, and he called us... a name, a really bad name. I didn't hear what else he said, though. And Santana got really mad and upset and we had to take her outside because she started trying to hit people again."
Will can't even start to take apart what Brittany's just told him, so he thanks her, takes Santana to his car, his head buzzing with what he's just heard. He leaves Brittany behind to get picked up by her parents.
It's when he starts driving away that Santana starts to resist.
"What--what the fuck is this?" She sits up in the back seat and blinks at him. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
He starts to tell her not to speak like that, but he's really not getting into that right now. He just needs to get her out of his car before she throws up on anything.
Thankfully the house was close enough to his apartment that he's made it there and back in fifteen minutes. Puck meets him in the foyer and helps drag her upstairs, humming as he goes. Santana stops squirming and muttering things like 'you should've heard the shit he was coming out with, Puckerman, you would have, too', and finally lets herself be carried.
"You have to know the tricks to calming her down," he explains. "Britt worked out that if you hum Don't Stop Believin'' with her, she stops trying to kill you. Works every time!"
When they get upstairs, Puck calmly deposits Santana on the couch, and goes back to playing with Artie.
"What," says Will incredulously, "you're not worried about her?"
"Nah, not really," Puck replies.
"It's not a rare occurence, Mr Schuester," pipes up Artie. "We're used to it. We learned Spanish lullabies and everything. It works."
Will doesn't like, doesn't understand the matter-of-fact tone they use when they talk about this stuff. He doesn't understand how they can have grown up needing to know this stuff. He doesn't want to understand, so he doesn't ask.
Santana seems to have fallen asleep, which, to Will's knowledge, isn't actually a good idea, so he decides he should wake her up and try to get her home.
"Santana..." he nudges her gently. "Santana? Wake up, Santana, we have to get you home."
Santana's sitting in a matter of seconds.
"You're not sending me home."
Will speaks softly to her. "It's alright, you won't get into trouble, but we need to get you somewhere safe--"
"Then you're not fucking sending me home."
"Santana-"
"Don't fucking condescend me, either, you dick, you don't even understand--"
She's yelling now, and he has to back away from her because she's striking out at him so hard.
"Mr Schuester, what did you do?"
He throws his hands up. "I was just trying to get her home!"
Puck groans. "Yeah, and you don't do that. You never try to send her home when she's like this. She gets all hulk-rage-y and scary."
"And how was I supposed to know that?"
Santana's shouts start turning into Spanish (which is easier to take because now Will doesn't have to hear the awful, terrifying things she's actually saying), and Will turns around to find Puck and Artie throwing popcorn at each other.
"What--what are you guys doing?!" He yells over Santana.
"It's up to you now, dude," Puck yells back. "There's nothing Artie and I can do." He smirks. "You've totally got into under control."
"Yup," adds Artie, dodging a particular large kernel. "Just keep... doing what you're doing. Hey, hey, not fair, Puck, I can't reach the bowl when you hold it there..."
They're laughing at him, and he can't even start to care because Santana's lurching for the door again and holy shit the girl is strong. He manages to keep her to the couch, wincing as her nails scratch up his arm.
And it's at that moment that a very shocked Emma, carrying an overnight bag that has far more than just one night worth of clothes in it, walks in the still open front door.
Will can't fucking believe it.
What the actual fuck.
He's standing here holding a screaming drunk teenager on his couch, while two other teenagers are throwing popcorn at each other by the TV. And she's standing there, in the door way. Watching it all. Not saying a word.
Everything goes very, very quiet in Will's head.
"Emma," he says hoarsely. "Um. Hi."
Emma closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. "Puck, Artie, could you stop flinging corn at each other and hold Santana for the next five minutes? Will, a word?"
The apartment goes (mostly) quiet.
"Thank you," she says, turns on her heel, and walks briskly into the bedroom.
He follows her meekly, shutting the door behind him. She has a hand over her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, and hasn't opened her eyes yet. Will can hear Puck and Artie arguing over who's going to sing the girl part in Don't Stop Believin' this time.
"Okay, for the next few minutes I'm going to ignore the three teenagers, one of whom is drunk and screaming what I assume are horrible profanities in Spanish, in your house right now. I'm going to ignore that, and I'm going to focus on--" she stops, gulping in the tiniest breath "--Will, your house is... dirty." She looks around again, "Your house is never dirty, why is it--"
"If I'd had notice that you were coming I'd have cleaned up, okay, look, that's not important."
"Um, no, see, I think it's very important that--"
"Emma, just listen to me--"
"Will you stop interrupting me, Will."
Shocked, his mouth snaps closed. "I... sorry."
"Thank you," Emma replies, and Will thinks maybe she's a little pleased now, that she could do that.
"Now," she begins again, "obviously if I'm going to move in with you we'll--I mean I'll--have to do something about the mess and the filth and oh my god, what kind of life have you been living here." She takes another deep breath, eyes closed tight, before she begins again. "But that's not really as important as the three teenagers that are in your house, Will."
She waits for him to say something. He waits. He keeps waiting for something to come out but it won't because did she just say she's moving in with me?
Apparently he did say that, though, because all of a sudden Emma's jumping backwards like he's slapped her and saying "oh my goodness, you don't still want me to come live with you, oh no, oh dear god, I can't believe I just did that to you I am so sorry, I'm just going to go, oh my god--"
He grabs her shoulders. "Emma, Emma, stop." She shrugs out of his grip, but stays still. He can hear snatches of Puck and Artie harmonising in Spanish now.
"I still want you to move in, I do, believe me. I... I want it more than anything." He chuckles. "I'm just... surprised, is all."
He looks at her properly now. She seems so powerful, it's almost as if she towers over him in the red heels she's wearing. It's all so different, so amazingly different, that he can't help what he says next.
"Emma, what happened to you?"
"I happened to me Will. I am the best thing that has ever happened to me. Don't laugh, it's what my therapist tells me I should say."
"I-what?"
Emma bristles. "I'm in control of my life, Will. Or, I'm trying to be."
Will smiles. "That's amazing, Em."
She glares at him. "Will. Three teenagers. Explain."
He takes a deep breath. What's the worst that could happen?
The worst that can happen is she... leaves again and doesn't come back, or she makes the kids leave. The worst that can happen is he loses everything yet again.
He takes another deep breath.
"Puck came to me, ah, a couple days after Nationals. He needed a place to stay for a few days, so I let him."
Emma frowns. "Wait, why did he need to stay with you?"
Will sends a silent apology to Puck and replies, "um, his mom kicked him out."
"Oh my god, that's terrible, we have to go talk to someone, we can go talk to her--"
"I did, I tried, and didn't do a thing!" he sighs. "I figured it was best to drop it."
"And let him live with you?"
"I... well... it's not like that. Really he's just here. He won't drive to school with me, he just walks, and he's quiet and he'll just do his own thing when we're here together. It's fine. No boundaries broken."
"Except for all of them," Emma mutters, shaking her head and tugging her skirt straight before she turns back to him.
"And Artie?"
"He's fine. Puck invited him over to play Halo."
Emma stares. "You let him have a friend over. To play Halo."
"Well I didn't exactly let... Yeah."
"On your Xbox."
"... Yeah."
"Will, do you understand what would happen if people found out about--"
"Yeah, yeah, I know!" He throws his hands up. "I know I'm risking everything, and that I could lose my job and, and my reputation, and end up with nothing, I know.
"But I didn't have Broadway, I didn't have you. I didn't have anything, and the house was so empty and quiet and--and these kids need me, Emma. And I need them, and what's wrong with me using that?"
There's a few moments of quiet, Emma looking at the ground and Will tracing weary circles on it with his feet.
"What about Santana?"
He sighs again. "Brittany called me and asked if I could pick her up. She was drunk and some guy upset her. She exploded when I tried to send her home."
He turns back to her. "I can't just send them back. I can't. You understand, right?"
Emma is silent, frowning, for a moment. He waits for her to say something, and she seems to finally make a decision, drawing herself up to full height and smoothing herself over again.
"Well, I guess we'll have to make do. I was hoping to start this... whatever, out, by sleeping in the spare room, but seeing as Puck and Santana are going to be staying in there--and so help me God if I ever catch them doing... 'stuff', I will throw them out of here faster than you can say 'I am still the celibacy club teacher'--you'll just have to sleep on the couch."
Will gapes.
"You shouldn't gape like that, Will, it's not a good look on you."
"So... wait, wait. You're staying?"
She sighs, takes a step towards him, and smiles. Her real smile, the one that doesn't look half-frightened or frozen or sad. Will can probably count the occasions he's seen it on two hands, and each and every time it floors him.
"I'm not going anywhere, Will. It's going to take some work, but I've made my decision, and I want to do this. With you."
"Not just a place to sleep, then?" He grins.
"Not just a place to sleep."
He takes another step forward, and presses their foreheads together.
"Thank you. Thank you so much."
He leans forward to kiss her, but she steps back.
"I... I can't just yet," she whispers. "I need to feel like I can control this, that I can control how fast my life goes. Is that okay?"
He smiles. It's more than okay. It's not everything, but, for now, it's perfect.
"Of course."
They leave the room together, rounding the corner to see Artie and Puck singing out the final notes of a surprisingly slow and sweet rendition of When You Sleep by My Bloody Valentine. Santana is sleeping, finally still, head nestled snugly in Puck's where he sits with her on the couch. Puck pets her hair lightly, his other hand engaged in a silent fist bump with Artie. Artie picks up the throw rug from where it's fallen off the couch, and drapes it over Santana.
All three of them are smiling, and Will still can't understand how...
Puck looks up and sees them standing there, watching. The hand on Santana's head twitches back quickly, and he folds his arms instead.
"So. Um, can we still stay? I mean, not Artie, but us...?"
Will smiles. "It's fine, Puck, you can stay." He laughs, and since when does he feel like laughing? "Everyone can stay."
Puck's eyes widen. "You really mean 'everyone'? Because--"
"No, he doesn't mean 'everyone', do you, Will?" Emma smiles sweetly at him, and this is going to be his life now, and he can't find anything wrong with it. He just smiles back.
"We'll see."
It's definitely not everything. There is popcorn on the floor and there are empty bottles next to the trashcan. Broadway is still gone and his dreams are still lying, shattered, in his front hallway. There are no lights, no curtains, and he only has one shadow.
But it is. It's perfect.
Author: needsmoregreen
Recipient: mary_greenman
Rating: R for language and concepts.
Word Count: 6406
Warnings: Characters break teacher-student boundaries. Some seriously gratuitous swearing. Will is occasionally ableist. Underage drinking. Implied homophobia and harrassment. Violence. Popcorn wars. The works, really.
Summary: Will wonders what would be more cathartic: deleting every message on that machine, or smashing it to pieces. How Will's twisted Brady Bunch of a glee club save his sorry existence, and maybe save their own in the process.
Author's Note: Wow, this was a fun and exciting challenge to write! I actually fell a little bit in love with this 'verse, and I'm hoping to take it further and write more in it. So, thank you, recipient, for leading me to it! Thank you also to crown-of-weeds and narceus for beta’ing and offering advice, and any poor person who I pestered when trying to write this.
The title of this fic comes from All These Things That I've Done by The Killers. (There will likely be a playlist of songs that results from this fic/'verse.) All American Idol contestants are real season 10 contestants. No popcorn/suitcases/sharks were harmed in the writing of this fic.
To Mary_Greenman: thank you for the interesting and challenging prompt. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it, and that it lives up to what you were hoping for. I hope you have a wonderful and fic-filled New Year!
Will gets home from the airport at about five in the evening. He drags himself and his luggage up the stairs to the apartment and fumbles for a second while his fingers grasp for keys in his pockets. The lock clicks far too easily, and in less time than he'd like, he's inside. He puts his bags down, and looks around at his silent, still front hallway.
Will Schuester just came back from his dream job, from New York, from fucking Broadway, to save a glee club who didn't even fucking win, and now he's back in the same damn empty apartment he started in, with nothing to show for it, absolutely nothing to show for anything, and significantly fewer vests than he had before he left.
Will Schuester is home, alone.
Again.
Fuck.
He kicks the corner of his suitcase and feels marginally better. Kicking feels good. So he kicks it a few times more, just for good measure.
Then the suitcase falls on his toe and it stops being fun.
"Shit," he mumbles as he seats himself on top of it, feeling it sag under his weight, and then "shit shit shit shit shit."
He scrubs harshly at his eyes.
Honestly, what was he even expecting anyway? It's not like the show was going to be a hit--if he's honest with himself, it was absolute shit. It's not like he thought he'd be whisked away and they'd ask him to do Singin' In The Rain or step into a recording studio, or that he'd ever even stand on that stage again, for all he knew. It's not like he was expecting anything more than... well, this. Ending up back here, on the very same floor, with disappointments instead of regrets. But, Jesus, all he'd seen in that moment on the stage were the lights and the red, red curtains; twenty distorted shadows on the floor behind him and the whole world in the seats in front of him. And all he can see now is polished wood flooring, slightly scuffed, before him, and everything behind him.
Somehow, right now, he'd take the disappointment over this.
He groans, the sound bouncing through the hallway, past the once-a-two-person bedroom, to the hollowed out kitchen and dining room and the craft room he never had the courage to clean out.
He could at least take having New York disintegrate before his eyes if this house, the rest of his existence, weren't so empty.
This time he punches his fist against the side of the suitcase. And again, and a few more times, until it's less like he's drowning in his own anger and he can feel a bruise blooming over his left hand.
He called her as soon as he knew they were coming home early, still riding on the idea that, hey, maybe this could be his dream again--maybe going back home and being "such a good teacher" and a boyfriend or partner or husband and the custodian of the hopes and dreams of McKinley High's most lowly, could really be what he's always wanted.
He arrived at the airport and waited for all the kids to be taken home by their parents or each other, pretending not to hear the discussions of pity party logistics, and he waited for her to come for him. But in the end he caught a cab, and listened again to the voicemail left on his phone about half an hour before they touched down.
"I'm sorry, Will, I need to think about it, I'm just not sure yet."
(Somewhere in here he knows she's right. Somewhere he knows that this isn't fair, that he's pushing this a little too hard. Somewhere in here he knows she won't come, not now, or like this--not if she knows that in some small part she's just filling the chunk that New York took out of him. But he tries. He tries and he tries.)
He checks the answering machine for anything he missed while they were away. All he finds are saved messages from Terri, months old. He used to get them every week, when she'd always call and he'd never answer, until it was only once a month or so. Always the same things, questions and desperation and demands and "I haven't been taking my medication, Will, I miss you, I can be better, just, please". He can't reply to them, but for some reason he'll always save them, just to watch the little LED light number climb up and up.
Emma never left messages. She would always call again and again, at half hour intervals, until he actually picked up the phone or called her back. She said she preferred to speak to him, not a machine (I'm sorry, Will, I need to think about it), she didn't want what she said to get lost or not reach him (I'm just not sure yet).
Terri hasn't left one in two months.
Will wonders what would be more cathartic: deleting every message on that machine, or smashing it to pieces.
There are two six packs of Heineken in the refrigerator.
He'll be careful this time, he's not ever going to pull crap like drunk dialing again, never going to give her a reason to have to 'think about it' again. He'll call Figgins to say he's feeling sick and won't be coming in tomorrow, so there won't be any awkward throwing up in the staff toilets this time either. It's not like there's any danger here.
And he kept his promise: the kids didn't drink before Nationals and neither did he, not a single beer.
But if the kids are all getting drunk tonight, drowning their sorrows or whatever it is that lonely, already-too-old teenagers do--surely he gets the right to do the same? It's only fair. In fact it's more than fair, he's the one who gave up everything he could have had to watch them lose.
This time it's his knee and the side of the couch.
He thinks of their faces, so heartbroken, the fights in the hotel room after and the tearful whispers, "Jesse was right", "I'm not coming back next year, I'm quitting", "I hate this fucking school", and no, okay, no, he does not want to think about them right now, doesn't want to think about himself or Emma or how everything is ruined. What he needs is to get really, really drunk really, really right the fuck now.
He'll be careful. Lock the door, disconnect the phone, turn off his cell, the works. He just needs this, and if he turns a baseball bat on the answering machine in the process then fine, no harm done.
***
The next day he doesn't get up until about midday. Well, at midday he clambers from bed to couch and proceeds to not move for another hour. At about one thirty he finds his laptop and decides to catch up on season 10 of American Idol.
"Fuck you," he says, when Haley has just burst into tears for ending up in the bottom two for the second time running,"you don't even know disappointment, try losing Broadway and a fucking Nationals championship in the same day. Also you suck."
When James get voted out after his terrible, terrible version of Don't Stop Believin', and starts talking about how it's his destiny to go on to be a star, no matter what; after he's sung his final number, Leavin' On A Jet Plane, Will throws popcorn at the screen.
"That was nothing," he scoffs, "you know what you are? You suck, that's what you are. Bet you didn't make it to Broadway." He pauses. "And that is my fucking song!".
Eventually he runs out of popcorn, and trudges back past the collection of empty bottles to the kitchen in search of Kraft mac'n'cheese.
That's it, he thinks, a flash of inspiration as he watches the orange powder congeal and thicken in the bowl. A week long bender. He doesn't have to leave the house, he can just tell Figgins he has shark flu or something and drop off the face of the earth until summer break starts. Maybe until it finishes. Maybe even longer, he's doesn't really care right now.
It's completely perfect, except now he needs to reconnect the phone.
He makes the call, checks the machine--it's still in tact. There are no new messages.
For the rest of the afternoon he slumps on the couch watching the second season of How To Make It In America ("are you kidding me, I totally could've done it all better than that!"), and is just about to take on the second six pack at six thirty, when the phone rings. Apparently he forgot to disconnect it again. He should maybe make a Post-It to remind him to do that next time.
The voice that meets him when he tugs the handset clumsily from its cradle is not one he was expecting to hear.
"Um, hey, Mr Schue..."
"Puck?"
"Yeah," he says, and Will can hear him breathing heavily on the other end.
"Is there... something you want?" he prompts.
There's a pause, a sound like the clacking of teeth, a small gulp. "Remember how you gave us your number to use if we needed you?"
Things go very cold, very quickly after that.
This is all your fault, he thinks. If you hadn't left them alone in that state to go get smashed, if you hadn't been so distracted by all that Broadway crap, then then none of this would have happened. If someone's died then it's completely your fucking fault. Seconds after Puck has spoken, his mind has cycled jerkily through nearly a hundred possibilities; from the vomit on the stage in the gym to the violent glares he's caught Dave Karofsky giving some of the kids; from the fury in Santana's eyes when they got off the plane, the deadness in Quinn's, to the stupidly triumphant look on Kurt's face when the Dalton kid met him at the airport this afternoon and oh god they didn't, they couldn't, something can't have happened because they are literally everything he has right now and, oh, okay, he can't speak and he really needs to be saying something right now.
He clears his throat, tries to keep his voice steady.
"Puck, has something happened?" His voice shakes anyway. He's already up and reaching for his keys, not even dressed and he's halfway to the door. "Is someone hurt, do you need me to come pick you-?"
"No, no it's not like that, we were all way safe last night, I'm the only one who can even get booze and I blew all my cash on the trip--"
"Puck."
"No one's hurt, Mr Schue, they're all home or whatever."
He releases a breath, his head swimming dangerously. "What is it then, Noah?" Oh, now he's snappy.
"I..." he sounds unsure, hesitant, and it just registers with him as he waits for Puck to speak. "I need a place to stay, just for, like, a day or two."
That surprises him, because it's the first time he thinks he's ever heard Puck ask for help. Certainly it's the first time Puck has ever come to him about something.
His irritation evaporates almost instantly. "I... sure," he says, not even thinking to ask why at this stage.
He considers for a moment the barriers this would break, the ones he's supposed to keep between himself and his students. Having one move in with him would almost certainly be against some rule or other. But, he reasons, it is McKinley, and Figgins really did buy the shark flu excuse.
Emma's not going to come. She won't and she probably shouldn't, and he'll fight for it all the same because that's what he has to do.
"Cool, Mr Schue, thanks. You're a pretty awesome teacher."
"Thanks, Noah," he smiles. "Um, do you need me to come and get you?"
"Nah, it's cool, I remember where it is anyway, I'll just walk."
And with that, Puck's already hung up.
***
Will is still watching TV, still mildly agitated by the whole phone call thing, when he hears the front door click open. He jumps, spilling the fresh bowl of popcorn across his lap. Turning around, he sees Puck wander in slowly, inspecting the walls and ceiling curiously, almost concernedly.
"Puck, what the-" he grits his teeth, dredging up from somewhere deep within him the voice he recognises as Teacher Voice. "How did you get in here?"
Puck shrugs. "Through the front door, duh. Your lock's really easy to force, Mr Schue, you should probably think about getting something stronger--I know a guy who does--"
"Noah, you can't just break into people's houses like that," he starts. "You've been in juvie once, you can't just be that inconsiderate and go--"
Puck shifts, and his arms pull tight to his chest like a barrier. "Yeah, well, I was trying to help, wasn't I?" He pauses. "And you're not just 'people'," he spits out.
Will doesn't know how to respond to that. The ensuing silence stretches a bit, and Will joins Puck in his meandering inspection.
Surprisingly, Puck is the first to break the silence.
"No offence, Mr Schue, but your place kinda looks like crap."
"Noah, I-". He sighs. "I know. I've had, ah, a rough few days."
Puck snorts. "Yeah, I'll say."
"What do you mean?"
Puck looks up at him. "Well, you were all bummed out about not doing April Rhodes' thing, but you kept saying you'd rather be back with us, and we knew that wasn't true. Partly because you always get that 'I'm trying not to cry because I'm a Manly Teacher Dude' look when any of us succeed at anything or sing or whatever, and partly because, come on, we are the shittiest glee club New York's ever seen."
This may or may not be the first time Will has legitimately wanted to punch a student.
"Puck, you shouldn't talk like that."
"No, it's true," Puck replies, not angry or bitter, just like he's stating the obvious fact. Will feels a stab of jealousy. "We sucked balls this year, and I don't just mean Kurt and his little Warbler dude--but, holy crap, that's such a good joke, I have to tell him next time I see him--"
"Puck." Will sighs. "Why do you need to stay here?"
"Sorry, distracted. All my teachers say I have that ADD thing--that's where you can't think good or something, right?--but it's not my problem, I'm not stupid, I just have more important stuff to think about, y'know? I have to keep thinking of new jokes for Hummel, it's part of my plan to make sure he gets some from Anderson. I've been off my game lately, though--but do you know how many jokes you can get just out of the word 'suck', Mr Schue--?"
"Puck, focus."
Puck is silent, and stares at his shoes.
"Why are you here?" Will repeats.
Almost immediately, Puck's defensive again. "I just need a place to stay, that's all. Is there a problem with me staying now?"
"No, Puck, you can stay here... I'd just like to know what's going on. Why you need to stay here."
"I don't need to tell you, okay?" Puck turns to walk away, before Will reaches out for his wrist, grasping it as tightly as he can. Puck's strong, and he tries to squirm out of Will's grip, but Will stops him.
"Well, since I'm your teacher, and I own this house, I think you do!"
When Puck finally meets his eyes, Wills sees fear. He drops Puck's wrist.
"Fine!" Puck backs away, arms wrapped around his chest again, face to the ground. "My mom told me I couldn't stay with her any more if I was gonna keep getting into trouble."
Will breathes. "Puck, I thought you weren't doing that any more."
"Yeah, well... I wasn't, I swear," he says, eyes wide and honest. "I was good and everything. And I haven't bullied anyone since when I got out of juvie and all that." He pauses. "Well, except that little shit Jacob-sorry, fine. That kid, Jacob.
"But after prom, I guess there were more parties and stuff, and I just pulled stupid shit, like normal. But mom put her foot down and said 'no' this time."
"So what happened?" Will asks softly. "Why did she kick you out then?"
Puck shakes his head. "She asked me to stop, and I didn't, I guess. There was gonna be a party tonight, and I used her car to get there. She found out, she got really mad, and here I am." He sits back on the dining table.
"That pitiful enough for you?"
"Puck, I'm so sorry," Will says, reaching out to put a tentative hand on Puck's shoulder. "And get off my table."
Puck laughs, seems to take that for the olive branch that it is.. "Sure thing, Mr Schue."
Looking at Puck now, Will thinks he looks tired, older. He shouldn't.
He's thought it before: his kids have lived through much more than he ever did, at least at their age. They spend every single day fighting, fighting bullies and parents and each other and themselves. Will doesn't understand it: how, at the end of the day, they always end up back in the choir room, together, like some kind of warped Brady Bunch. He doesn't know how to fight like that, never has. He doesn't have that tenacity, their sheer determination to survive it all.
But he can't really commend that, because it's exactly that kind of shit that also cost him his dreams.
"Thanks for letting me stay, man. I mean, um, sir."
Will laughs. "You're sleeping in my home, Puck, I think we've passed the point of requiring formalities."
"Does that mean I can call you 'Will' now?" Puck asks, his face lighting up.
"Um, maybe not just yet. You can call me 'Schue', if that helps."
Puck grins. "Cool. Maybe you'll be lucky and I'll give you a really gangsta nickname."
"We'll see."
***
It's like that for a few days.
Puck isn't content to let Will 'cut class' for the next three days until school finishes, and makes a deal that he won't tell anyone about living with Will, if Will at least makes an effort to come and teach (his miraculous recovery from shark flu is met with much celebration, and put down to the amazing power of Figgins' pastor). He suspects Puck has told at least some of the glee club, though, because it's Puck, and they don't seem to keep secrets from each other much any more. No one's said anything, or tried to stop it, though, so for now it's alright and the two of them are safe.
The second day, after school, he makes Puck go back home to try and talk to his mother, and even offers to come in and talk to her himself. Puck refuses all but the ride there, though, and is dangerously silent on the way back five minutes later.
Will decides to drop it, for now. At the end, it turns out to be a good decision.
When they're in the apartment, they mostly mind their own business. The rooms are still quiet and echo-y, but everything feels a little more full and a little less eerie. It vaguely alarms Will just how quickly he's set at ease by another living thing in the house--by something to cling onto.
The second night, Puck finds his X-Box, hidden in the DVD cabinet, and the collection of first person shooter games that he will never admit to anyone to actually owning. Puck approves, however, and by the end of that night they're playing Call of Duty 4, and neither of them are admitting how good it feel to kill things.
The third night, he makes Puck stand at the front door when he calls her.
"Emma," he breathes out, when she finally answers, and, oh dear god, he's done a pretty good job of convincing himself he doesn't need this these past few days, but hearing her voice, hearing her say his name... he really, really needs it.
"Will? Will, what is it?"
His throat sticks. He suddenly remembers he was supposed to say something. (He was supposed to say a lot of things, and he was meant to say them a long, long time ago. But there's no helping that now.)
He was supposed to say something about understanding her reluctance and telling her it's okay if she wants to take her time, he's fine waiting for her if it means this will work. But he can hear her voice, and suddenly his voice isn't going with the plan at all.
"I..." he closes his eyes. "Hi."
"Hi, Will. Hi. Um, I guess you're calling about..." The pause is too long. "... about me moving in?"
"Yeah, yeah. I am. I wanted to know if you'd thought about it some more?"
He can hear her sigh. "I have Will, I've thought about it a lot."
"And?"
"I... I just don't think I can, Will. I'm not sure if either of us are ready to be living together again, after C-... my marriage, and you with Holly. Maybe we really do both need to be alone, at least for a while."
He's not going to cry. His voice will be steady this time.
"But Emma," his voice cracks anyway. "Emma, you said you still have feelings for me, and I know I still have feelings for you, and you can't tell me that some part of you doesn't want this."
He hates his voice. "I need you, Emma, I need you here."
"I-wow, Will. Hey, no, hey, it's okay. Shhh, it's okay." He can hear someone's breaths, quick and fast and gasping for air, and suddenly he realises that that someone is him.
She waits, giving him a few tactful moments to collect himself.
"Will, listen to me, please. Give me another few days to work this out, okay? I understand, believe me, I do. But... I'm just so tired, Will, and I want to make sure that living with you isn't just looking for a place to sleep. Do you... can you understand that for me? Please?"
"I... alright."
And then she's gone, and Puck is asking if he can come out from the hallway, and wordlessly handing him a beer from the refrigerator before walking quietly off to the spare bedroom.
For three days, things are quiet. Things are calm, and the gaping hole in Will's chest feels a little less ragged, a little more full.
For three whole days, it's okay.
***
Then it all starts happening at once:
On the final night of the school year, Puck invites Artie over to play Halo on the flat screen, because he couldn't help telling Artie about 'Mr Schue's awesome gaming system'. Upon questioning, Artie swears he hasn't told anyone else, but Will feels a little uneasy about it all. He lets them hang out for a while, though, and the apartment suddenly seems more full again, more alive.
The two of them are just getting more popcorn at about seven, when the phone rings. Will jumps up to answer it--he's been agitated about any phone calls since he got back.
"Mr Schue?"
"Um... Brittany?"
Will's really surprised by this one. He didn't think Brittany knew how to use a phone.
He can't hear what Brittany's saying over the noise in the background, and it clicks that she must be at a party. He doesn't go into panic mode this time, thankfully.
"Britt--Brittany, speak up, what's the problem?"
"It's Santana. I think... I think someone needs to take her home."
"Okay, alright, where are you? Brittany, can you tell me where you are? Hold on, are any of the other glee kids there, hand one of them over and they can tell me--"
"I know where we are," she snaps back.
She gives him the address and he tells her to take Santana outside, not to let her run off.
"I think I can keep her here for long enough, I'll try."
When he finds them, Brittany--who is seemingly sober, but Will can't tell with her anyway--has managed to get Santana with her head between her knees, and is making soft cooing noises. Santana's not resisting, which is a good sign.
"Does anyone know what happened?" he asks.
"I know what happened," Brittany says. She's still annoyed at him. "I never left her side the whole night. Of course I know what happened."
"I... sorry, Brittany," he frowns. "So what did--"
"We were just dancing, and Santana was kinda drunk... And then some guy saw us dancing together, and he called us... a name, a really bad name. I didn't hear what else he said, though. And Santana got really mad and upset and we had to take her outside because she started trying to hit people again."
Will can't even start to take apart what Brittany's just told him, so he thanks her, takes Santana to his car, his head buzzing with what he's just heard. He leaves Brittany behind to get picked up by her parents.
It's when he starts driving away that Santana starts to resist.
"What--what the fuck is this?" She sits up in the back seat and blinks at him. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
He starts to tell her not to speak like that, but he's really not getting into that right now. He just needs to get her out of his car before she throws up on anything.
Thankfully the house was close enough to his apartment that he's made it there and back in fifteen minutes. Puck meets him in the foyer and helps drag her upstairs, humming as he goes. Santana stops squirming and muttering things like 'you should've heard the shit he was coming out with, Puckerman, you would have, too', and finally lets herself be carried.
"You have to know the tricks to calming her down," he explains. "Britt worked out that if you hum Don't Stop Believin'' with her, she stops trying to kill you. Works every time!"
When they get upstairs, Puck calmly deposits Santana on the couch, and goes back to playing with Artie.
"What," says Will incredulously, "you're not worried about her?"
"Nah, not really," Puck replies.
"It's not a rare occurence, Mr Schuester," pipes up Artie. "We're used to it. We learned Spanish lullabies and everything. It works."
Will doesn't like, doesn't understand the matter-of-fact tone they use when they talk about this stuff. He doesn't understand how they can have grown up needing to know this stuff. He doesn't want to understand, so he doesn't ask.
Santana seems to have fallen asleep, which, to Will's knowledge, isn't actually a good idea, so he decides he should wake her up and try to get her home.
"Santana..." he nudges her gently. "Santana? Wake up, Santana, we have to get you home."
Santana's sitting in a matter of seconds.
"You're not sending me home."
Will speaks softly to her. "It's alright, you won't get into trouble, but we need to get you somewhere safe--"
"Then you're not fucking sending me home."
"Santana-"
"Don't fucking condescend me, either, you dick, you don't even understand--"
She's yelling now, and he has to back away from her because she's striking out at him so hard.
"Mr Schuester, what did you do?"
He throws his hands up. "I was just trying to get her home!"
Puck groans. "Yeah, and you don't do that. You never try to send her home when she's like this. She gets all hulk-rage-y and scary."
"And how was I supposed to know that?"
Santana's shouts start turning into Spanish (which is easier to take because now Will doesn't have to hear the awful, terrifying things she's actually saying), and Will turns around to find Puck and Artie throwing popcorn at each other.
"What--what are you guys doing?!" He yells over Santana.
"It's up to you now, dude," Puck yells back. "There's nothing Artie and I can do." He smirks. "You've totally got into under control."
"Yup," adds Artie, dodging a particular large kernel. "Just keep... doing what you're doing. Hey, hey, not fair, Puck, I can't reach the bowl when you hold it there..."
They're laughing at him, and he can't even start to care because Santana's lurching for the door again and holy shit the girl is strong. He manages to keep her to the couch, wincing as her nails scratch up his arm.
And it's at that moment that a very shocked Emma, carrying an overnight bag that has far more than just one night worth of clothes in it, walks in the still open front door.
Will can't fucking believe it.
What the actual fuck.
He's standing here holding a screaming drunk teenager on his couch, while two other teenagers are throwing popcorn at each other by the TV. And she's standing there, in the door way. Watching it all. Not saying a word.
Everything goes very, very quiet in Will's head.
"Emma," he says hoarsely. "Um. Hi."
Emma closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. "Puck, Artie, could you stop flinging corn at each other and hold Santana for the next five minutes? Will, a word?"
The apartment goes (mostly) quiet.
"Thank you," she says, turns on her heel, and walks briskly into the bedroom.
He follows her meekly, shutting the door behind him. She has a hand over her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, and hasn't opened her eyes yet. Will can hear Puck and Artie arguing over who's going to sing the girl part in Don't Stop Believin' this time.
"Okay, for the next few minutes I'm going to ignore the three teenagers, one of whom is drunk and screaming what I assume are horrible profanities in Spanish, in your house right now. I'm going to ignore that, and I'm going to focus on--" she stops, gulping in the tiniest breath "--Will, your house is... dirty." She looks around again, "Your house is never dirty, why is it--"
"If I'd had notice that you were coming I'd have cleaned up, okay, look, that's not important."
"Um, no, see, I think it's very important that--"
"Emma, just listen to me--"
"Will you stop interrupting me, Will."
Shocked, his mouth snaps closed. "I... sorry."
"Thank you," Emma replies, and Will thinks maybe she's a little pleased now, that she could do that.
"Now," she begins again, "obviously if I'm going to move in with you we'll--I mean I'll--have to do something about the mess and the filth and oh my god, what kind of life have you been living here." She takes another deep breath, eyes closed tight, before she begins again. "But that's not really as important as the three teenagers that are in your house, Will."
She waits for him to say something. He waits. He keeps waiting for something to come out but it won't because did she just say she's moving in with me?
Apparently he did say that, though, because all of a sudden Emma's jumping backwards like he's slapped her and saying "oh my goodness, you don't still want me to come live with you, oh no, oh dear god, I can't believe I just did that to you I am so sorry, I'm just going to go, oh my god--"
He grabs her shoulders. "Emma, Emma, stop." She shrugs out of his grip, but stays still. He can hear snatches of Puck and Artie harmonising in Spanish now.
"I still want you to move in, I do, believe me. I... I want it more than anything." He chuckles. "I'm just... surprised, is all."
He looks at her properly now. She seems so powerful, it's almost as if she towers over him in the red heels she's wearing. It's all so different, so amazingly different, that he can't help what he says next.
"Emma, what happened to you?"
"I happened to me Will. I am the best thing that has ever happened to me. Don't laugh, it's what my therapist tells me I should say."
"I-what?"
Emma bristles. "I'm in control of my life, Will. Or, I'm trying to be."
Will smiles. "That's amazing, Em."
She glares at him. "Will. Three teenagers. Explain."
He takes a deep breath. What's the worst that could happen?
The worst that can happen is she... leaves again and doesn't come back, or she makes the kids leave. The worst that can happen is he loses everything yet again.
He takes another deep breath.
"Puck came to me, ah, a couple days after Nationals. He needed a place to stay for a few days, so I let him."
Emma frowns. "Wait, why did he need to stay with you?"
Will sends a silent apology to Puck and replies, "um, his mom kicked him out."
"Oh my god, that's terrible, we have to go talk to someone, we can go talk to her--"
"I did, I tried, and didn't do a thing!" he sighs. "I figured it was best to drop it."
"And let him live with you?"
"I... well... it's not like that. Really he's just here. He won't drive to school with me, he just walks, and he's quiet and he'll just do his own thing when we're here together. It's fine. No boundaries broken."
"Except for all of them," Emma mutters, shaking her head and tugging her skirt straight before she turns back to him.
"And Artie?"
"He's fine. Puck invited him over to play Halo."
Emma stares. "You let him have a friend over. To play Halo."
"Well I didn't exactly let... Yeah."
"On your Xbox."
"... Yeah."
"Will, do you understand what would happen if people found out about--"
"Yeah, yeah, I know!" He throws his hands up. "I know I'm risking everything, and that I could lose my job and, and my reputation, and end up with nothing, I know.
"But I didn't have Broadway, I didn't have you. I didn't have anything, and the house was so empty and quiet and--and these kids need me, Emma. And I need them, and what's wrong with me using that?"
There's a few moments of quiet, Emma looking at the ground and Will tracing weary circles on it with his feet.
"What about Santana?"
He sighs again. "Brittany called me and asked if I could pick her up. She was drunk and some guy upset her. She exploded when I tried to send her home."
He turns back to her. "I can't just send them back. I can't. You understand, right?"
Emma is silent, frowning, for a moment. He waits for her to say something, and she seems to finally make a decision, drawing herself up to full height and smoothing herself over again.
"Well, I guess we'll have to make do. I was hoping to start this... whatever, out, by sleeping in the spare room, but seeing as Puck and Santana are going to be staying in there--and so help me God if I ever catch them doing... 'stuff', I will throw them out of here faster than you can say 'I am still the celibacy club teacher'--you'll just have to sleep on the couch."
Will gapes.
"You shouldn't gape like that, Will, it's not a good look on you."
"So... wait, wait. You're staying?"
She sighs, takes a step towards him, and smiles. Her real smile, the one that doesn't look half-frightened or frozen or sad. Will can probably count the occasions he's seen it on two hands, and each and every time it floors him.
"I'm not going anywhere, Will. It's going to take some work, but I've made my decision, and I want to do this. With you."
"Not just a place to sleep, then?" He grins.
"Not just a place to sleep."
He takes another step forward, and presses their foreheads together.
"Thank you. Thank you so much."
He leans forward to kiss her, but she steps back.
"I... I can't just yet," she whispers. "I need to feel like I can control this, that I can control how fast my life goes. Is that okay?"
He smiles. It's more than okay. It's not everything, but, for now, it's perfect.
"Of course."
They leave the room together, rounding the corner to see Artie and Puck singing out the final notes of a surprisingly slow and sweet rendition of When You Sleep by My Bloody Valentine. Santana is sleeping, finally still, head nestled snugly in Puck's where he sits with her on the couch. Puck pets her hair lightly, his other hand engaged in a silent fist bump with Artie. Artie picks up the throw rug from where it's fallen off the couch, and drapes it over Santana.
All three of them are smiling, and Will still can't understand how...
Puck looks up and sees them standing there, watching. The hand on Santana's head twitches back quickly, and he folds his arms instead.
"So. Um, can we still stay? I mean, not Artie, but us...?"
Will smiles. "It's fine, Puck, you can stay." He laughs, and since when does he feel like laughing? "Everyone can stay."
Puck's eyes widen. "You really mean 'everyone'? Because--"
"No, he doesn't mean 'everyone', do you, Will?" Emma smiles sweetly at him, and this is going to be his life now, and he can't find anything wrong with it. He just smiles back.
"We'll see."
It's definitely not everything. There is popcorn on the floor and there are empty bottles next to the trashcan. Broadway is still gone and his dreams are still lying, shattered, in his front hallway. There are no lights, no curtains, and he only has one shadow.
But it is. It's perfect.