Fic: That Monterat Mystique, for halona
Title: That Monterat Mystique
Author: xsaturated
Recipient: halona
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,542
Warnings: Mild spoilers for 3x09, Character Spoilers for the second half of the third season.
Summary: It’s T-minus 10 days ‘til Santapocalypse and Jesse St. James has a date with the Lima Shopping Mall.
Author's Note: Major thanks to missgoalie75 for betaing and putting up with my crazy; huge apologies to anyone who had to witness my neurosis over this fic over the last few weeks. I would also say that I’m sorry for what you’re about to read but it would be a total lie, so hopefully you enjoy. Written for the prompts: New Directions drama from the perspective of another student/club (sort of) and New Directions performing somewhere other than a competition.
Over the past six months, Jesse’s life has degenerated in a series of interconnected injustices that he’s starting to suspect may actually be cosmic in nature.
Namely (and mostly chronologically) the following: UCLA, Finn Hudson, the unhandsome and woefully jealous Junior Manager at Johnny Rockets, Finn Hudson kissing Rachel onstage at Nationals, the tanking of his inspired and before-it’s-time Show Choir Consultancy Business (which he, consequently, attributes to Finn Hudson kissing Rachel onstage at Nationals), his brother’s release and prompt readmission to and from rehab upon discovering that Jesse is, in fact, back in Ohio, Finn Hudson, unemployment and last, but certainly not least, becoming a teacher (or rather, as close to a teacher as one could be without having any applicable qualifications, teaching any classes, or, really, doing anything other than coaching a floundering show choir powerhouse.)
Also, Finn Hudson.
He thinks that there is a certain kind of irony in the fact that his rock bottom had dragged him back to Ohio, back to Carmel even, where he must watch from backstage as some less-talented, less-driven, less-worthy version of himself attempts to recapture his winning streak.
Truth be told, Jesse hates being a (not-)teacher. He refuses to believe that he is quite so washed-up as to deserve to be Will Schuestered into vicariously living his dreams through the life of his (in his case, at least) less talented students.
Which, speaking of-
“Just because someone doesn’t have anywhere to go for Christmas,” one of the dancers in the second row gripes to her partner from behind gritted teeth.
And sure, maybe Cindy the perpetually-two-counts-behind-everyone-else dancer from the second row is right. Maybe he doesn’t have anywhere or anybody or anything to look forward to over the holidays, but who, exactly, is Cindy to judge him for his nonexistent holiday plans.
Just where does Cindy the insignificant-squeaky-cog-in-the-malfunctioning-machine dancer from the second row get off on judging him. Like she doesn’t have enough to compete with in her mirror.
Since becoming a (not-)teacher, Jesse has decided that he hates teenagers.
There is, however, a certain petty victory in her pained grimace when he announces, “Sloppy, painful, awful. Again, from the top.”
Cindy grunts to herself as they silently count down to their cue and Jesse fights down the urge to sneer about her having all the melodic charm of feeding time at a barnyard.
Jesse likes to think that his time as a (not-)teacher has taught him a certain amount of self-restraint.
--
The problem is that whatsherface from the second row is actually kind of right.
All around Lima the streets are strung up with coloured-lights and glittering decorations, shop fronts are frosted and garishly lit with brilliant colours. There’s tinsel in every doorway and hideous plastic snowmen and Santas perched in front yards and on rooftops, glowing abominations that twinkle merrily in windows.
It’s awful.
He’s had to drown three separate groups of carollers out with his karaoke machine already and every incarnation that returns to his doorstep seems to grow louder and more determined, like all the carollers in Lima have banded together to ensure he listens to at least one full rendition of “Deck the Halls.”
And Jesse knows that he’s probably what a lot of people would consider a Grinch, but, all things considered, there has always been something utterly unbearable about Christmastime in Ohio.
Even as a perpetually unimpressed child, bundled up head to toe in scarf and hat and coat, as he was pushed and prodded into proper posture for seasonal family portraits; Jesse had spent his Christmas holidays dreaming of somewhere better than drab, uninspired Ohio and it’s frozen, grey winters.
When Jesse was somewhere around the age of fourteen, his parents had decided they felt the same way.
Holidays that were once spent with family in New York have given way to increasingly longer, solo stints in Aruba, Jamaica; Bermuda this year, by the subject line of their latest email. Jesse’s starting to wonder when his parents’ lives had begun to resemble a Beach Boys song.
It makes him long for Los Angeles, for New York, for a teeming mass of people abuzz with a distinct lack of holiday cheer. Where no one cared what you were doing or whom you’d be with; what you’d be eating or that your family doesn’t really do holidays.
He yearns for disaffected, scoffing shoppers who stare with feigned disinterest at beautiful window displays, sparkling with glass ornaments and delicate lighting, as they rail against commercialism and the appropriation of religious holidays by capitalist cash-hogs. All whilst they hand over their credit-cards for the on-trend toy of the year and those $500 earrings that had been pointedly circled in the latest brochure.
Jesse’s always wished for something bigger; always chased the insubstantial dream that some thing, somewhere has to be better than here. But it’s the Holiday season and he is, once again, stuck in Ohio and if he’s learnt nothing else in his lifetime, it’s that tinsel-wrapped, Christmas miracles only exist inside Hollywood studios.
--
It’s all kind of a mystery, actually, how he ends up here.
Sure, he could say that there’d been an encounter in a coffee shop; that he’d seen a girl in a reindeer sweater and rather than, how tacky, he’d thought, I wonder how she is.
And even Vocal Adrenaline are legally obligated to release their students to their families for the Holiday season at some point and whatserface, the whining complainer in the second row, had spent their last rehearsal before break blabbing about a necklace her boyfriend had given her, like it wasn’t the ugliest thing Jesse’s ever seen in his life.
So yes, you could say that all of these events had happened and that, together, they may just equal the sum of what exactly had possessed him to venture out of his heavily fortified anti-holiday retreat of an apartment. But he’d still kind of like to revise exactly how someone like him, with a historic predisposition to Grinch-like tendencies during the holidays, was convinced to enter a shopping mall at T-minus 10 days until Santapocalypse.
The problem is that he’s certain he wouldn’t like the answer.
As it is, things couldn’t be going much worse.
Two steps through the doors and he’d been blindsided by the full force of a brass band, lying in wait just inside the mall’s entrance. Almost twenty minutes later he can still hear their deafening rendition of “Ding Dong Merrily On High” ringing in his ears. He’s starting to wonder if he should be looking into whom he should be suing for the price of his perfect pitch.
Then had come a close encounter with an animatronic nativity scene outside the Barnes & Noble. He’d been so concerned with glaring after the children who kept knocking into him that he hadn’t even noticed the bales of straw until he was already surrounded, hemmed in by the blinking and twitching and jerking of deformed farm-animals and heavily robed puppets.
The mechanical hiss of limbs, the flickering of their glassy eyes, the pained, stuttered bleating of what might have been meant to be a goat; all of it had carried over even the squall of horrified children and the grinding of their parents teeth.
Jesse is certain he will be hearing those sounds in his nightmares for the rest of his life.
That encounter had driven him to the nearest escalator, hoping that the upper levels would bring with them an ascent into sanity.
His hopes are short-lived.
He steps off of the escalator right into a winding, bickering line for complimentary gift-wrapping, stumbles out of that into the sticky fake snow of a deserted North Pole, a sign propped on Santa’s chair announcing he’s ‘Gone to feed the Reindeer’ while an electronic chorus of “Joy to the World” loops seamlessly through the speakers and right into his head.
Jesse isn’t sure, but it all feels suspiciously like the prelude to a Yuletide massacre and if he wants to make it through this without the blood of hapless consumers staining his favourite scarf, he desperately needs coffee.
-
The line is too long, the baristas are too slow and Jesse really isn’t sure why he doesn’t just keep walking.
It’s one of those desperately trendy little coffee bars, an island of chrome and dark wood adrift in the sea of shoppers and tinsel, and if Jesse wasn’t so close to throttling the next whining child who stumbles into his path he would have kept on walking.
He can already see the abominations scrawled across their menu-boards; Pumpkin-Spice and Gingerbread Lattes, Candy-Cane Mochas and, god help him, they’re even selling (non-alcoholic) Eggnog. And the part of him that balks at encouraging such blatant pandering to these holiday-driven morons, demands that he turn around and find a respectable place to drown himself in caffeine.
It’s the same part of him that freezes, instantly, upon hearing the unmistakable sound of her voice.
“-I mean,” she’s saying loudly, patting at the shoulder of her companion in what is clearly meant to be a placating manner, “I’m not denying that Kurt’s muted palette has a certain elegance to it, but it hardly captures that true Yuletide spirit. You understand where I’m coming from, don’t you Blaine?”
“Absolutely,” her companion replies distractedly, the precise location of his attention confirmed when he adds a delighted, “Look, they have gingerbread reindeer.”
“I packed an entire container of my special-recipe Vegan Christmas Cookies, Blaine,” she reminds him and Jesse can feel the guilt-inducing weight of that look even though it isn’t even directed at him. “Kurt’s been asking me for the recipe, you know.”
Jesse watches her fingers burrow into the sleeve of her companions frankly hideous holiday sweater and tug him forward another step and he barely manages to mimic the action.
There’s something a little too serendipitous about seeing her here, of all places.
“-I mean,” she persists, blatantly ignoring the looks of longing her companion is directing towards the brightly decorated gingerbread creations behind the glass. “I’m sure Mr. Schuester is worrying about why we’re taking so long, but he should know better than anyone how important it is that our vocal chords be in tip-top shape. This is an opportunity to showcase our talent, Blaine, to a-”
“I thought we were-”
“An untapped audience, Blaine, who knows who could pass by and hear my-”
“- Carolling?”
“-rendition of ‘Ave Maria’ and-”
- And there’s a part of Jesse that desperately wants to cut into their conversation; that wants to flatter or cut her down with comparisons to Barbra, to enact some kind of retribution on this guy over the state of his hair and that god-awful sweater.
Jesse wants to do anything other than listen to them talk over each other, but he hesitates too long and by the time he opens his mouth they’ve already placed their order with the unenthusiastic barista and are moving away, Rachel berating her companion loudly over the paper bag he’s clutching between his fingers.
“-Hey look, are you going to order, or?”
Jesse whips his head around to find the barista staring glumly at him from beneath the sad droop of her Santa hat. He narrows his eyes just a little (because after making him wait so long what right does she have to get snippy about a little delay?) and says, “Venti, non-fat, no foam, no water, 6 pump, extra hot, chai tea latte.”
There’s silence for a moment and Jesse can hear the restless shifting of the line behind him before she sighs out, “Would you like cinnamon on that?”
-
Jesse’s almost certain now that the universe really is out to get him.
It’s the only way to explain it.
There has to be some intensely cruel divine justice at work to explain this.
That it’s after all-but running into her on the arm of some guy; After waging war on the world's least enthusiastic barista and the addition of nutmeg or cinnamon or gingerbread or pumpkin spice or whatever the hell else had been dubbed festive this year into his coffee.
That it’s after that, when he's already spilt almost a third of his hard-won and suspiciously cinnamon-tasting coffee (that so totally had foam in it) all over his favourite boots during an encounter with some demon-spawn masquerading as someone's precious child.
That it’s when he's finally been bolstered by the two thirds of a cup of coffee he isn’t already wearing, that’s when he is confronted by them.
If anyone had bothered to ask Jesse how his day could possible have gotten worse, he really would have had only one answer. So it’s fitting, he supposes, that it’s when he’s just trying to find a trash-can (because he absolutely cannot afford the karmic imbalance of littering, if today is anything to go by) that he spots Finn Hudson.
And he isn’t alone.
He should have known when he’d run into her that the others would not be far behind. The New Directions are like ants, in that respect.
Scattered around the suspiciously quiet interior of one of those horrific Santa’s Grottos that seem to spring up in every corner of the mall that Jesse stumbles into is almost the entirety of the New Directions. They are banded together into small groups, bickering amongst each other and Jesse freezes in apparent horror because this just should not be possible.
He is sure there is nothing, nothing, he has done in his life that could have warranted such cruel karmic retribution.
But there they are, decked out in an assortment of ugly sweaters in festive patterns, loitering around like they’ve just been waiting for Jesse to arrive so they can make his life that little bit more miserable.
As he watches Schuester frowns down at his watch and Jesse has to hurriedly step behind the shelter of a Christmas tree to avoid being spotted when he searches the crowds and says, “They should be back by now.”
It’s a little surprising, actually, how easily Jesse can pick their voices out without even seeing them. He hadn’t realized the extent to which they had left their mark on him.
“Maybe if we’re really lucky they got summoned home to join the rest of their kind at the North Pole.” And that biting, faux-sweetness could only come from Santana.
“I’ll text them,” the half-fond, half-exasperated voice that responds, blatantly ignoring Santana’s jibe, is unmistakeably Hummel.
“You should watch out for that boyfriend of yours, you know,” Santana continues, loudly, like Hummel probably isn’t completely ignoring her. “Mall at Christmastime, the place is practically crawling with flabby men in red polyester.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, Santana,” Hummel replies breezily and it’s kind of alarming, how easily Jesse can picture the scene of him tapping away at his phone while Santana smirks over at him.
“I’m just saying there’s plenty of great big men in red and white around, looking for their very own little helper.”
There’s a distinct silence punctuated by stifled sniggers before Hummel’s voice explodes, “How many times, Santana, that is not what that song was about! Blaine does not - is not - he doesn’t-”
“That’s enough, Santana,” Schuester cuts in and Jesse immediately recognises the attempt to sound invested or interested in what’s happening when he clearly hasn’t been paying attention at all. It’s a skill that in his limited time as a (not-)educator, Jesse has already mastered.
“I’m just saying what everyone else was thinking,” Santana replies sweetly, clearly determined to get the last word in.
“Oh, like you can talk, Santana. You chose ‘Santa Baby’ for your song.”
There’s a scoff of amusement before, “Oh, whatever Girl-Chang, I know Team Asian has some kind of weird incestuous obligation to ethnic solidarity, but even you have to admit that the Warbler totally wants to get his Ho’s on with the man in-”
There’s an indignant squeal of, “We aren’t related!”
“Oh, please-”
“Guys! Come on, that’s enough already. Kurt, what’s their status?”
“They stopped for coffee.” Hummel sounds part-exasperated, part fondly amused, the annoyance in his voice slipping away like it had never been there.
And Jesse really doesn’t know why he’s still standing there, listening into the inane bickering that is the New Directions’ daily lives, but he feels like he’s rooted to the floor and he can’t bring himself to stop listening.
He thinks that maybe a part of him might have even missed this, a little.
“Great. Like the Keebler Elves need to be caffeinated,” Santana snipes back. “Personally, I vote that we donate them to a Foot Locker for the holidays.”
“I don’t see why we have to wait for Blaine and Berry to get back anyway,” and that is undoubtedly Mercedes, finally cutting into the conversation.
“Come on guys,” Schuester rebukes. “This is supposed to be a fun way to prepare ourselves for Regionals and give back to the community. I’m really disappointed in some of your attitudes today - wait, where’re Sam and Puck?”
“Pinkberry run,” someone Jesse suspects might be the wheelchair kid replies, “Nothing says Christmas spirit quite like sprinkles, yo.”
“Wait - Quinn, Mercedes, where are you - Kurt!”
“Blaine just texted me. The Gap is having a sale, Mr. Schue, I have to save him from himself. I think they still have his photo taped up behind the counter.”
There are a few noises of confusion and the part of Jesse that is inherently interested in anything to do with the guy she had been lugging around with her smirks to himself as Santana yells after Kurt to check Santa’s sleigh first.
He’s forced to retreat back into the heavily laden branches of the tree he’s hiding behind to avoid the Asian kids as they sneak off past him into the crowds, the girl still muttering beneath her breath when they pass.
And the part of him that commiserates at length with the embittered old math teacher in the teacher’s lounge during his lunch hour over teenagers these days, feels a brief pang of what might be sympathy at the bewildered expression on Schuester’s face as he finds himself suddenly deserted in the grotto with only a few plastic collection buckets for company.
Schuester’s belated call of, “Alright, guys, meet back here in half an hour,” trails off into frustrated silence when he realizes that there’s no one left to hear him.
Truth be told, it actually makes Jesse feel a little better about himself.
-
The thing is, Jesse is sure he must be surrounded by now.
He’s spent the past twenty minutes slinking from store to store, unable to focus on just why he’s here because he’s too busy keeping a careful eye on his surroundings. It occurs to him that now that they’ve all split up in different directions, the New Directions could literally be anywhere.
And the knowledge that they’re out there, that for all he knows they’re currently circling his position like sharks in blooded water, keeps him from trying to get to an exit. His only choice here is to lie low until he can find a dignified escape route.
The last thing he needs today is to be confronted with the collective familial dysfunction of the New Directions when facing a perceived threat.
He’s so distracted with scanning the crowds for familiar faces that he almost walks straight into the midst of a string quartet. It’s probably fitting that it’s then, as he tries to extract himself gracefully from the furious glare of the violinist that he ends up knocking straight into the person he’d been doing his absolute best to avoid.
“Jesse, is that you?”
“Rachel?”
She looks good. Happy. And when she pauses, the hand she has tucked into the crook of Hummel’s elbow pulls both him and his companion to a halt as well.
Hummel is too absorbed in his current conversation to look up, holding a finger up to stave off Rachel’s attention as he continues to berate the guy from the coffee line over what sounds like the colour of the tinsel that’s artfully draped around his shoulders and spilling from one of the bags that’s swinging from his fingers.
Coffee-Guy has also, apparently, picked up a Santa hat from somewhere, one that Hummel is seemingly itching to snatch from his head, if the frequent curling of his fingers is any indication.
Pieces of their conversation float past him as Rachel glances from him and back to her friends. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
(“- I thought we agreed, Blaine. Red and green are beyond passé and all of that gold is just unbelievably tacky, what were you thinking? Did you lose the colour charts I made up for you?”
“Oh come on, it’s cute-”)
“Vocal Adrenaline needed someone to whip them into shape,” Jesse finds himself saying, unable to shake how strange it is when she smiles at him like they’re okay with each other, like they’re friends. “Who better than me, right?”
“You’re their new director?”
“-Who’s whose new director?” Hummel asks, whirling around and immediately narrowing his eyes with dislike upon spotting Jesse. “Oh, you again.”
Jesse shrugs under the attention, uncomfortable with the way she can make him feel guilty for choosing a well-paying job over unemployment. Like he’s personally betrayed her, somehow.
“It turns out that Show Choir Consultancy Businesses don’t do so well when your first and only clients place twelfth at Nationals,” he replies, because maybe he’s still a little bitter about the whole thing.
It has the added benefit of making Hummel’s entire face cringe, at least.
“Well, sorry to cut this thrilling reunion short, Jesse, but we have a performance to get to.”
The expression on Hummel’s face makes it clear just how sorry he is not as he tugs at Rachel’s arm and nudges shoulders with Coffee-Guy.
And then they’re walking away, Rachel’s goodbye trailing out behind them with the hesitant look she sends over her shoulder. And Jesse is left to stare after them as Coffee-Guy tries to snag Hummel’s free hand and is laughingly denied with an amused, “Oh no Blaine Anderson, you do not get to touch me when you’re wearing that thing on your head.”
“You love the hat,” the guy insists, beaming ridiculously as he locks their elbows together instead.
Rachel doesn’t look back again. Not even once.
--
He sticks to the back of the crowd in the hopes he won’t be seen.
They’re still trying to get themselves in order, waiting for stragglers to return to home base and bickering while they’re at it. In one corner of the Grotto wheelchair-guy and Mercedes are warming up together, their runs growing increasingly more ridiculous with every turn.
In the other Santana laughs uncontrollably at the sight of the hat perched on Coffee-Guy’s head who has been carting his shopping bag around with him seemingly for the purpose of unloading novelty head-wear on the rest of the group.
As he watches Santana swats his attempts to place antlers on her head away until he gestures towards Brittany’s matching pair and her expression softens marginally. All it takes is Brittany butting her antlers against Santana’s arm for her to roll her eyes and snatch her own pair from Coffee-Guy’s hands. Jesse has a strange urge to smile as Coffee-Guy and Brittany share a discreet low-five before he turns to move on and Santana flicks at his pom-pom pointedly.
He watches as Puck and Sam try to sneak back into the group, as Quinn shoves at their shoulders and steals a spoon of frozen yoghurt first from Sam’s cup, then from Puck’s.
He watches as Girl-Asian moves over to break up the slightly too competitive bent that the warming up in the corner has taken and her boyfriend wanders over to join Sam and Puck, the bell on the end of his hat jingling with every step.
Jesse doesn’t watch Finn Hudson beam as he jams his own pair of antlers onto his head and offers up a fist for Coffee-Guy to bump. He definitely doesn’t watch Hummel bicker with her over the reasons she shouldn’t be trying to pair a perfectly good vintage dress with such a ghastly holiday sweater.
It’s obnoxious. They’re obnoxious.
There is nothing cohesive about them at all; no reason at all that this team of misfits should work or sound good together. They’re a mess of contradictions and too many opinions and every single one of them seems to believe that they could actually be something. That they are stars in the making.
Jesse knows better than anyone that it takes more than talent and belief in one’s talent to make a star. That sometimes all of the above just isn’t enough if there’s nobody willing to give you your chance.
And a part of him hates them for it, for that unwavering, naive faith that whatever their dreams are that they will actually accomplish them. Hates the utter absurdity of the supposed Holiday Spirit they’ve all bought into. Like they believe that things like miracles and dreams and wishes really do mean something, that they can come true, just because it’s Christmastime.
Like by singing a few happy songs they’ll actually make a difference to someone’s day.
They’re all standing there in their ugly sweaters and novelty hats and earmuffs, gathering around to sing their hearts out to a dozen awful Christmas songs. The collection buckets swathed in copious amounts of green and red and gold tinsel, spaced out around their perimeter and in the hands of Schuester, waiting to circulate through whatever crowd they manage to draw.
It’s too easy to stand and watch as they fall into place, to watch as wheelchair-guy rolls to the front and picks up the melody and they all follow him into it. To watch shoppers pause and hover on the outskirts to listen.
Their smiles are too genuine, too bright and hopeful, and not a single one of them seems to understand the lengths that reality will go to smack them down the second they fly a little too high.
Jesse has no idea what he’s still doing here.
He buries his fingers into the pockets of his jacket, tries to school his face into something more neutral than a frown but he can’t bring himself to walk away. As he listens the wheelchair kid rounds out a flawed but charming rendition of “Little Drummer Boy” and they’re all bickering over whose turn is next before the applause has even died out.
He can hear Hummel has picked up griping at the guy from the coffee line about the colour of the tinsel off to the side again, the words tacky and uninspired floating over the debate taking place amongst the rest of the group. It dies off almost immediately when Mercedes pushes her way to the front of the group and beams out at the shoppers that are still loitering nearby.
It’s precisely why they shouldn’t work at all. They aren’t a team, half the time they barely seem to even like each other and yet, when their voices come together something happens. Like all those separate, different threads meet for just a moment and together they create something raw, something great.
It’s what makes them, for all of their petty differences and in-fighting, a force to be reckoned with even at their very worst. And Jesse supposes that that’s the thing about perpetual underdogs, they don’t know how to stop fighting.
His view is suddenly blocked by the glitter of tinsel far too close to his nose, he looks up, past the extended collection bucket to the tight, worried frown that’s etched into Schuester’s features. He digs into his pockets for change and dumps it into the bucket without looking to see what it is, wanting nothing more than for Schuester to just keep moving and leave him to figure out whatever the hell it is he’s doing in peace.
Naturally, Schuester completely misinterprets his actions for some sort of peace offering. The frown smooths away and he steps back to watch at Jesse’s side as Mercedes belts out a Mariah Carey Christmas song.
“Rumor has it that you’re Vocal Adrenalines new director,” Schuester finally says when the shoppers around them burst into applause and Mercedes beams out at them all.
“The Ohio Show Choir message boards broke that news months ago,” Jesse replies stiffly, his eyes never leaving the group in front of them as Puck shoulders his way to the front of the group, followed by wheelchair kid and Sam Evans and Hudson and a kid that Jesse doesn’t recognise. “If you’re that behind on your competition it’s no wonder you’re having trouble keeping your own team together.”
He hears Schuester suck in a harsh breath next to him that’s followed by a laugh that sounds a little strained as Puck leads the group into one of those awful novelty Christmas songs that seems to be about someone’s grandmother being trampled to death. There’s some enthusiastic clapping of hands amongst the crowd and Jesse is tempted to point out the complete lack of taste that the holiday season seems to inflict on perfectly normal people before he fully registers the snowman on Schuester’s tie. Its eyes light up.
“For the record,” Jesse finds himself saying without even thinking, because he’s trying to distract himself from the way that Rachel is beaming at Finn as he rejoins the group and a part of him utterly resents how easily his life could mirror that of the man beside him (and Jesse loathes novelty ties.) “Polls have the New Directions not even placing at Regionals. Between poaching soloists from other schools and divided loyalties within your own club, people seem to think the New Directions are lucky to have made it through Sectionals.”
“Is that why you’re here, Jesse?” Schuester asks coolly and Jesse can hear the rattle of coins as he twists the collection bucket in his hands. “You trying to psyche us out already? Because you’re certainly getting in early this year, Vocal Adrenaline isn’t even slated for our Regionals competition.”
Jesse tips his chin upwards and shoves his hands a little deeper into his pockets, watching as Quinn and the Girl-Asian step forward. Their voices sound good together, sweet and gentle. The crowd goes quiet to listen and Jesse thinks it might be his favourite song of the night.
“Christmas shopping,” he finally says, not bothering to look away from the performance as he claps along with the rest of the crowd. “I was Christmas shopping for Rachel.”
He can feel the weight of Schuester’s gaze and Jesse isn’t interested in anyone’s pity or censure, so when the hand claps down on his shoulder he grimaces a little and doesn’t look up, not even for the quiet, “Merry Christmas, Jesse.”
Instead he sets his jaw, ignores the way that Schuester slips back into circling the crowds with his collection bucket and watches as Finn Hudson lumbers forwards to the front of the group, and Jesse turns to leave, because he absolutely cannot listen to him while he’s smiling that infuriating dopey smile beneath his slightly crooked antlers, and his voice is as generic as ever as he sings out, “So, this is Christmas.”
It’s the rest of voices rising up behind him in perfect unlikely harmony that makes him hesitate. Rachel’s strong, clear soprano rings out, distinct and yet perfectly connected to the other voices, and Jesse thinks that maybe he has just enough time for one more song.
-
Author: xsaturated
Recipient: halona
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,542
Warnings: Mild spoilers for 3x09, Character Spoilers for the second half of the third season.
Summary: It’s T-minus 10 days ‘til Santapocalypse and Jesse St. James has a date with the Lima Shopping Mall.
Author's Note: Major thanks to missgoalie75 for betaing and putting up with my crazy; huge apologies to anyone who had to witness my neurosis over this fic over the last few weeks. I would also say that I’m sorry for what you’re about to read but it would be a total lie, so hopefully you enjoy. Written for the prompts: New Directions drama from the perspective of another student/club (sort of) and New Directions performing somewhere other than a competition.
Over the past six months, Jesse’s life has degenerated in a series of interconnected injustices that he’s starting to suspect may actually be cosmic in nature.
Namely (and mostly chronologically) the following: UCLA, Finn Hudson, the unhandsome and woefully jealous Junior Manager at Johnny Rockets, Finn Hudson kissing Rachel onstage at Nationals, the tanking of his inspired and before-it’s-time Show Choir Consultancy Business (which he, consequently, attributes to Finn Hudson kissing Rachel onstage at Nationals), his brother’s release and prompt readmission to and from rehab upon discovering that Jesse is, in fact, back in Ohio, Finn Hudson, unemployment and last, but certainly not least, becoming a teacher (or rather, as close to a teacher as one could be without having any applicable qualifications, teaching any classes, or, really, doing anything other than coaching a floundering show choir powerhouse.)
Also, Finn Hudson.
He thinks that there is a certain kind of irony in the fact that his rock bottom had dragged him back to Ohio, back to Carmel even, where he must watch from backstage as some less-talented, less-driven, less-worthy version of himself attempts to recapture his winning streak.
Truth be told, Jesse hates being a (not-)teacher. He refuses to believe that he is quite so washed-up as to deserve to be Will Schuestered into vicariously living his dreams through the life of his (in his case, at least) less talented students.
Which, speaking of-
“Just because someone doesn’t have anywhere to go for Christmas,” one of the dancers in the second row gripes to her partner from behind gritted teeth.
And sure, maybe Cindy the perpetually-two-counts-behind-everyone-else dancer from the second row is right. Maybe he doesn’t have anywhere or anybody or anything to look forward to over the holidays, but who, exactly, is Cindy to judge him for his nonexistent holiday plans.
Just where does Cindy the insignificant-squeaky-cog-in-the-malfunctioning-machine dancer from the second row get off on judging him. Like she doesn’t have enough to compete with in her mirror.
Since becoming a (not-)teacher, Jesse has decided that he hates teenagers.
There is, however, a certain petty victory in her pained grimace when he announces, “Sloppy, painful, awful. Again, from the top.”
Cindy grunts to herself as they silently count down to their cue and Jesse fights down the urge to sneer about her having all the melodic charm of feeding time at a barnyard.
Jesse likes to think that his time as a (not-)teacher has taught him a certain amount of self-restraint.
--
The problem is that whatsherface from the second row is actually kind of right.
All around Lima the streets are strung up with coloured-lights and glittering decorations, shop fronts are frosted and garishly lit with brilliant colours. There’s tinsel in every doorway and hideous plastic snowmen and Santas perched in front yards and on rooftops, glowing abominations that twinkle merrily in windows.
It’s awful.
He’s had to drown three separate groups of carollers out with his karaoke machine already and every incarnation that returns to his doorstep seems to grow louder and more determined, like all the carollers in Lima have banded together to ensure he listens to at least one full rendition of “Deck the Halls.”
And Jesse knows that he’s probably what a lot of people would consider a Grinch, but, all things considered, there has always been something utterly unbearable about Christmastime in Ohio.
Even as a perpetually unimpressed child, bundled up head to toe in scarf and hat and coat, as he was pushed and prodded into proper posture for seasonal family portraits; Jesse had spent his Christmas holidays dreaming of somewhere better than drab, uninspired Ohio and it’s frozen, grey winters.
When Jesse was somewhere around the age of fourteen, his parents had decided they felt the same way.
Holidays that were once spent with family in New York have given way to increasingly longer, solo stints in Aruba, Jamaica; Bermuda this year, by the subject line of their latest email. Jesse’s starting to wonder when his parents’ lives had begun to resemble a Beach Boys song.
It makes him long for Los Angeles, for New York, for a teeming mass of people abuzz with a distinct lack of holiday cheer. Where no one cared what you were doing or whom you’d be with; what you’d be eating or that your family doesn’t really do holidays.
He yearns for disaffected, scoffing shoppers who stare with feigned disinterest at beautiful window displays, sparkling with glass ornaments and delicate lighting, as they rail against commercialism and the appropriation of religious holidays by capitalist cash-hogs. All whilst they hand over their credit-cards for the on-trend toy of the year and those $500 earrings that had been pointedly circled in the latest brochure.
Jesse’s always wished for something bigger; always chased the insubstantial dream that some thing, somewhere has to be better than here. But it’s the Holiday season and he is, once again, stuck in Ohio and if he’s learnt nothing else in his lifetime, it’s that tinsel-wrapped, Christmas miracles only exist inside Hollywood studios.
--
It’s all kind of a mystery, actually, how he ends up here.
Sure, he could say that there’d been an encounter in a coffee shop; that he’d seen a girl in a reindeer sweater and rather than, how tacky, he’d thought, I wonder how she is.
And even Vocal Adrenaline are legally obligated to release their students to their families for the Holiday season at some point and whatserface, the whining complainer in the second row, had spent their last rehearsal before break blabbing about a necklace her boyfriend had given her, like it wasn’t the ugliest thing Jesse’s ever seen in his life.
So yes, you could say that all of these events had happened and that, together, they may just equal the sum of what exactly had possessed him to venture out of his heavily fortified anti-holiday retreat of an apartment. But he’d still kind of like to revise exactly how someone like him, with a historic predisposition to Grinch-like tendencies during the holidays, was convinced to enter a shopping mall at T-minus 10 days until Santapocalypse.
The problem is that he’s certain he wouldn’t like the answer.
As it is, things couldn’t be going much worse.
Two steps through the doors and he’d been blindsided by the full force of a brass band, lying in wait just inside the mall’s entrance. Almost twenty minutes later he can still hear their deafening rendition of “Ding Dong Merrily On High” ringing in his ears. He’s starting to wonder if he should be looking into whom he should be suing for the price of his perfect pitch.
Then had come a close encounter with an animatronic nativity scene outside the Barnes & Noble. He’d been so concerned with glaring after the children who kept knocking into him that he hadn’t even noticed the bales of straw until he was already surrounded, hemmed in by the blinking and twitching and jerking of deformed farm-animals and heavily robed puppets.
The mechanical hiss of limbs, the flickering of their glassy eyes, the pained, stuttered bleating of what might have been meant to be a goat; all of it had carried over even the squall of horrified children and the grinding of their parents teeth.
Jesse is certain he will be hearing those sounds in his nightmares for the rest of his life.
That encounter had driven him to the nearest escalator, hoping that the upper levels would bring with them an ascent into sanity.
His hopes are short-lived.
He steps off of the escalator right into a winding, bickering line for complimentary gift-wrapping, stumbles out of that into the sticky fake snow of a deserted North Pole, a sign propped on Santa’s chair announcing he’s ‘Gone to feed the Reindeer’ while an electronic chorus of “Joy to the World” loops seamlessly through the speakers and right into his head.
Jesse isn’t sure, but it all feels suspiciously like the prelude to a Yuletide massacre and if he wants to make it through this without the blood of hapless consumers staining his favourite scarf, he desperately needs coffee.
-
The line is too long, the baristas are too slow and Jesse really isn’t sure why he doesn’t just keep walking.
It’s one of those desperately trendy little coffee bars, an island of chrome and dark wood adrift in the sea of shoppers and tinsel, and if Jesse wasn’t so close to throttling the next whining child who stumbles into his path he would have kept on walking.
He can already see the abominations scrawled across their menu-boards; Pumpkin-Spice and Gingerbread Lattes, Candy-Cane Mochas and, god help him, they’re even selling (non-alcoholic) Eggnog. And the part of him that balks at encouraging such blatant pandering to these holiday-driven morons, demands that he turn around and find a respectable place to drown himself in caffeine.
It’s the same part of him that freezes, instantly, upon hearing the unmistakable sound of her voice.
“-I mean,” she’s saying loudly, patting at the shoulder of her companion in what is clearly meant to be a placating manner, “I’m not denying that Kurt’s muted palette has a certain elegance to it, but it hardly captures that true Yuletide spirit. You understand where I’m coming from, don’t you Blaine?”
“Absolutely,” her companion replies distractedly, the precise location of his attention confirmed when he adds a delighted, “Look, they have gingerbread reindeer.”
“I packed an entire container of my special-recipe Vegan Christmas Cookies, Blaine,” she reminds him and Jesse can feel the guilt-inducing weight of that look even though it isn’t even directed at him. “Kurt’s been asking me for the recipe, you know.”
Jesse watches her fingers burrow into the sleeve of her companions frankly hideous holiday sweater and tug him forward another step and he barely manages to mimic the action.
There’s something a little too serendipitous about seeing her here, of all places.
“-I mean,” she persists, blatantly ignoring the looks of longing her companion is directing towards the brightly decorated gingerbread creations behind the glass. “I’m sure Mr. Schuester is worrying about why we’re taking so long, but he should know better than anyone how important it is that our vocal chords be in tip-top shape. This is an opportunity to showcase our talent, Blaine, to a-”
“I thought we were-”
“An untapped audience, Blaine, who knows who could pass by and hear my-”
“- Carolling?”
“-rendition of ‘Ave Maria’ and-”
- And there’s a part of Jesse that desperately wants to cut into their conversation; that wants to flatter or cut her down with comparisons to Barbra, to enact some kind of retribution on this guy over the state of his hair and that god-awful sweater.
Jesse wants to do anything other than listen to them talk over each other, but he hesitates too long and by the time he opens his mouth they’ve already placed their order with the unenthusiastic barista and are moving away, Rachel berating her companion loudly over the paper bag he’s clutching between his fingers.
“-Hey look, are you going to order, or?”
Jesse whips his head around to find the barista staring glumly at him from beneath the sad droop of her Santa hat. He narrows his eyes just a little (because after making him wait so long what right does she have to get snippy about a little delay?) and says, “Venti, non-fat, no foam, no water, 6 pump, extra hot, chai tea latte.”
There’s silence for a moment and Jesse can hear the restless shifting of the line behind him before she sighs out, “Would you like cinnamon on that?”
-
Jesse’s almost certain now that the universe really is out to get him.
It’s the only way to explain it.
There has to be some intensely cruel divine justice at work to explain this.
That it’s after all-but running into her on the arm of some guy; After waging war on the world's least enthusiastic barista and the addition of nutmeg or cinnamon or gingerbread or pumpkin spice or whatever the hell else had been dubbed festive this year into his coffee.
That it’s after that, when he's already spilt almost a third of his hard-won and suspiciously cinnamon-tasting coffee (that so totally had foam in it) all over his favourite boots during an encounter with some demon-spawn masquerading as someone's precious child.
That it’s when he's finally been bolstered by the two thirds of a cup of coffee he isn’t already wearing, that’s when he is confronted by them.
If anyone had bothered to ask Jesse how his day could possible have gotten worse, he really would have had only one answer. So it’s fitting, he supposes, that it’s when he’s just trying to find a trash-can (because he absolutely cannot afford the karmic imbalance of littering, if today is anything to go by) that he spots Finn Hudson.
And he isn’t alone.
He should have known when he’d run into her that the others would not be far behind. The New Directions are like ants, in that respect.
Scattered around the suspiciously quiet interior of one of those horrific Santa’s Grottos that seem to spring up in every corner of the mall that Jesse stumbles into is almost the entirety of the New Directions. They are banded together into small groups, bickering amongst each other and Jesse freezes in apparent horror because this just should not be possible.
He is sure there is nothing, nothing, he has done in his life that could have warranted such cruel karmic retribution.
But there they are, decked out in an assortment of ugly sweaters in festive patterns, loitering around like they’ve just been waiting for Jesse to arrive so they can make his life that little bit more miserable.
As he watches Schuester frowns down at his watch and Jesse has to hurriedly step behind the shelter of a Christmas tree to avoid being spotted when he searches the crowds and says, “They should be back by now.”
It’s a little surprising, actually, how easily Jesse can pick their voices out without even seeing them. He hadn’t realized the extent to which they had left their mark on him.
“Maybe if we’re really lucky they got summoned home to join the rest of their kind at the North Pole.” And that biting, faux-sweetness could only come from Santana.
“I’ll text them,” the half-fond, half-exasperated voice that responds, blatantly ignoring Santana’s jibe, is unmistakeably Hummel.
“You should watch out for that boyfriend of yours, you know,” Santana continues, loudly, like Hummel probably isn’t completely ignoring her. “Mall at Christmastime, the place is practically crawling with flabby men in red polyester.”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, Santana,” Hummel replies breezily and it’s kind of alarming, how easily Jesse can picture the scene of him tapping away at his phone while Santana smirks over at him.
“I’m just saying there’s plenty of great big men in red and white around, looking for their very own little helper.”
There’s a distinct silence punctuated by stifled sniggers before Hummel’s voice explodes, “How many times, Santana, that is not what that song was about! Blaine does not - is not - he doesn’t-”
“That’s enough, Santana,” Schuester cuts in and Jesse immediately recognises the attempt to sound invested or interested in what’s happening when he clearly hasn’t been paying attention at all. It’s a skill that in his limited time as a (not-)educator, Jesse has already mastered.
“I’m just saying what everyone else was thinking,” Santana replies sweetly, clearly determined to get the last word in.
“Oh, like you can talk, Santana. You chose ‘Santa Baby’ for your song.”
There’s a scoff of amusement before, “Oh, whatever Girl-Chang, I know Team Asian has some kind of weird incestuous obligation to ethnic solidarity, but even you have to admit that the Warbler totally wants to get his Ho’s on with the man in-”
There’s an indignant squeal of, “We aren’t related!”
“Oh, please-”
“Guys! Come on, that’s enough already. Kurt, what’s their status?”
“They stopped for coffee.” Hummel sounds part-exasperated, part fondly amused, the annoyance in his voice slipping away like it had never been there.
And Jesse really doesn’t know why he’s still standing there, listening into the inane bickering that is the New Directions’ daily lives, but he feels like he’s rooted to the floor and he can’t bring himself to stop listening.
He thinks that maybe a part of him might have even missed this, a little.
“Great. Like the Keebler Elves need to be caffeinated,” Santana snipes back. “Personally, I vote that we donate them to a Foot Locker for the holidays.”
“I don’t see why we have to wait for Blaine and Berry to get back anyway,” and that is undoubtedly Mercedes, finally cutting into the conversation.
“Come on guys,” Schuester rebukes. “This is supposed to be a fun way to prepare ourselves for Regionals and give back to the community. I’m really disappointed in some of your attitudes today - wait, where’re Sam and Puck?”
“Pinkberry run,” someone Jesse suspects might be the wheelchair kid replies, “Nothing says Christmas spirit quite like sprinkles, yo.”
“Wait - Quinn, Mercedes, where are you - Kurt!”
“Blaine just texted me. The Gap is having a sale, Mr. Schue, I have to save him from himself. I think they still have his photo taped up behind the counter.”
There are a few noises of confusion and the part of Jesse that is inherently interested in anything to do with the guy she had been lugging around with her smirks to himself as Santana yells after Kurt to check Santa’s sleigh first.
He’s forced to retreat back into the heavily laden branches of the tree he’s hiding behind to avoid the Asian kids as they sneak off past him into the crowds, the girl still muttering beneath her breath when they pass.
And the part of him that commiserates at length with the embittered old math teacher in the teacher’s lounge during his lunch hour over teenagers these days, feels a brief pang of what might be sympathy at the bewildered expression on Schuester’s face as he finds himself suddenly deserted in the grotto with only a few plastic collection buckets for company.
Schuester’s belated call of, “Alright, guys, meet back here in half an hour,” trails off into frustrated silence when he realizes that there’s no one left to hear him.
Truth be told, it actually makes Jesse feel a little better about himself.
-
The thing is, Jesse is sure he must be surrounded by now.
He’s spent the past twenty minutes slinking from store to store, unable to focus on just why he’s here because he’s too busy keeping a careful eye on his surroundings. It occurs to him that now that they’ve all split up in different directions, the New Directions could literally be anywhere.
And the knowledge that they’re out there, that for all he knows they’re currently circling his position like sharks in blooded water, keeps him from trying to get to an exit. His only choice here is to lie low until he can find a dignified escape route.
The last thing he needs today is to be confronted with the collective familial dysfunction of the New Directions when facing a perceived threat.
He’s so distracted with scanning the crowds for familiar faces that he almost walks straight into the midst of a string quartet. It’s probably fitting that it’s then, as he tries to extract himself gracefully from the furious glare of the violinist that he ends up knocking straight into the person he’d been doing his absolute best to avoid.
“Jesse, is that you?”
“Rachel?”
She looks good. Happy. And when she pauses, the hand she has tucked into the crook of Hummel’s elbow pulls both him and his companion to a halt as well.
Hummel is too absorbed in his current conversation to look up, holding a finger up to stave off Rachel’s attention as he continues to berate the guy from the coffee line over what sounds like the colour of the tinsel that’s artfully draped around his shoulders and spilling from one of the bags that’s swinging from his fingers.
Coffee-Guy has also, apparently, picked up a Santa hat from somewhere, one that Hummel is seemingly itching to snatch from his head, if the frequent curling of his fingers is any indication.
Pieces of their conversation float past him as Rachel glances from him and back to her friends. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
(“- I thought we agreed, Blaine. Red and green are beyond passé and all of that gold is just unbelievably tacky, what were you thinking? Did you lose the colour charts I made up for you?”
“Oh come on, it’s cute-”)
“Vocal Adrenaline needed someone to whip them into shape,” Jesse finds himself saying, unable to shake how strange it is when she smiles at him like they’re okay with each other, like they’re friends. “Who better than me, right?”
“You’re their new director?”
“-Who’s whose new director?” Hummel asks, whirling around and immediately narrowing his eyes with dislike upon spotting Jesse. “Oh, you again.”
Jesse shrugs under the attention, uncomfortable with the way she can make him feel guilty for choosing a well-paying job over unemployment. Like he’s personally betrayed her, somehow.
“It turns out that Show Choir Consultancy Businesses don’t do so well when your first and only clients place twelfth at Nationals,” he replies, because maybe he’s still a little bitter about the whole thing.
It has the added benefit of making Hummel’s entire face cringe, at least.
“Well, sorry to cut this thrilling reunion short, Jesse, but we have a performance to get to.”
The expression on Hummel’s face makes it clear just how sorry he is not as he tugs at Rachel’s arm and nudges shoulders with Coffee-Guy.
And then they’re walking away, Rachel’s goodbye trailing out behind them with the hesitant look she sends over her shoulder. And Jesse is left to stare after them as Coffee-Guy tries to snag Hummel’s free hand and is laughingly denied with an amused, “Oh no Blaine Anderson, you do not get to touch me when you’re wearing that thing on your head.”
“You love the hat,” the guy insists, beaming ridiculously as he locks their elbows together instead.
Rachel doesn’t look back again. Not even once.
--
He sticks to the back of the crowd in the hopes he won’t be seen.
They’re still trying to get themselves in order, waiting for stragglers to return to home base and bickering while they’re at it. In one corner of the Grotto wheelchair-guy and Mercedes are warming up together, their runs growing increasingly more ridiculous with every turn.
In the other Santana laughs uncontrollably at the sight of the hat perched on Coffee-Guy’s head who has been carting his shopping bag around with him seemingly for the purpose of unloading novelty head-wear on the rest of the group.
As he watches Santana swats his attempts to place antlers on her head away until he gestures towards Brittany’s matching pair and her expression softens marginally. All it takes is Brittany butting her antlers against Santana’s arm for her to roll her eyes and snatch her own pair from Coffee-Guy’s hands. Jesse has a strange urge to smile as Coffee-Guy and Brittany share a discreet low-five before he turns to move on and Santana flicks at his pom-pom pointedly.
He watches as Puck and Sam try to sneak back into the group, as Quinn shoves at their shoulders and steals a spoon of frozen yoghurt first from Sam’s cup, then from Puck’s.
He watches as Girl-Asian moves over to break up the slightly too competitive bent that the warming up in the corner has taken and her boyfriend wanders over to join Sam and Puck, the bell on the end of his hat jingling with every step.
Jesse doesn’t watch Finn Hudson beam as he jams his own pair of antlers onto his head and offers up a fist for Coffee-Guy to bump. He definitely doesn’t watch Hummel bicker with her over the reasons she shouldn’t be trying to pair a perfectly good vintage dress with such a ghastly holiday sweater.
It’s obnoxious. They’re obnoxious.
There is nothing cohesive about them at all; no reason at all that this team of misfits should work or sound good together. They’re a mess of contradictions and too many opinions and every single one of them seems to believe that they could actually be something. That they are stars in the making.
Jesse knows better than anyone that it takes more than talent and belief in one’s talent to make a star. That sometimes all of the above just isn’t enough if there’s nobody willing to give you your chance.
And a part of him hates them for it, for that unwavering, naive faith that whatever their dreams are that they will actually accomplish them. Hates the utter absurdity of the supposed Holiday Spirit they’ve all bought into. Like they believe that things like miracles and dreams and wishes really do mean something, that they can come true, just because it’s Christmastime.
Like by singing a few happy songs they’ll actually make a difference to someone’s day.
They’re all standing there in their ugly sweaters and novelty hats and earmuffs, gathering around to sing their hearts out to a dozen awful Christmas songs. The collection buckets swathed in copious amounts of green and red and gold tinsel, spaced out around their perimeter and in the hands of Schuester, waiting to circulate through whatever crowd they manage to draw.
It’s too easy to stand and watch as they fall into place, to watch as wheelchair-guy rolls to the front and picks up the melody and they all follow him into it. To watch shoppers pause and hover on the outskirts to listen.
Their smiles are too genuine, too bright and hopeful, and not a single one of them seems to understand the lengths that reality will go to smack them down the second they fly a little too high.
Jesse has no idea what he’s still doing here.
He buries his fingers into the pockets of his jacket, tries to school his face into something more neutral than a frown but he can’t bring himself to walk away. As he listens the wheelchair kid rounds out a flawed but charming rendition of “Little Drummer Boy” and they’re all bickering over whose turn is next before the applause has even died out.
He can hear Hummel has picked up griping at the guy from the coffee line about the colour of the tinsel off to the side again, the words tacky and uninspired floating over the debate taking place amongst the rest of the group. It dies off almost immediately when Mercedes pushes her way to the front of the group and beams out at the shoppers that are still loitering nearby.
It’s precisely why they shouldn’t work at all. They aren’t a team, half the time they barely seem to even like each other and yet, when their voices come together something happens. Like all those separate, different threads meet for just a moment and together they create something raw, something great.
It’s what makes them, for all of their petty differences and in-fighting, a force to be reckoned with even at their very worst. And Jesse supposes that that’s the thing about perpetual underdogs, they don’t know how to stop fighting.
His view is suddenly blocked by the glitter of tinsel far too close to his nose, he looks up, past the extended collection bucket to the tight, worried frown that’s etched into Schuester’s features. He digs into his pockets for change and dumps it into the bucket without looking to see what it is, wanting nothing more than for Schuester to just keep moving and leave him to figure out whatever the hell it is he’s doing in peace.
Naturally, Schuester completely misinterprets his actions for some sort of peace offering. The frown smooths away and he steps back to watch at Jesse’s side as Mercedes belts out a Mariah Carey Christmas song.
“Rumor has it that you’re Vocal Adrenalines new director,” Schuester finally says when the shoppers around them burst into applause and Mercedes beams out at them all.
“The Ohio Show Choir message boards broke that news months ago,” Jesse replies stiffly, his eyes never leaving the group in front of them as Puck shoulders his way to the front of the group, followed by wheelchair kid and Sam Evans and Hudson and a kid that Jesse doesn’t recognise. “If you’re that behind on your competition it’s no wonder you’re having trouble keeping your own team together.”
He hears Schuester suck in a harsh breath next to him that’s followed by a laugh that sounds a little strained as Puck leads the group into one of those awful novelty Christmas songs that seems to be about someone’s grandmother being trampled to death. There’s some enthusiastic clapping of hands amongst the crowd and Jesse is tempted to point out the complete lack of taste that the holiday season seems to inflict on perfectly normal people before he fully registers the snowman on Schuester’s tie. Its eyes light up.
“For the record,” Jesse finds himself saying without even thinking, because he’s trying to distract himself from the way that Rachel is beaming at Finn as he rejoins the group and a part of him utterly resents how easily his life could mirror that of the man beside him (and Jesse loathes novelty ties.) “Polls have the New Directions not even placing at Regionals. Between poaching soloists from other schools and divided loyalties within your own club, people seem to think the New Directions are lucky to have made it through Sectionals.”
“Is that why you’re here, Jesse?” Schuester asks coolly and Jesse can hear the rattle of coins as he twists the collection bucket in his hands. “You trying to psyche us out already? Because you’re certainly getting in early this year, Vocal Adrenaline isn’t even slated for our Regionals competition.”
Jesse tips his chin upwards and shoves his hands a little deeper into his pockets, watching as Quinn and the Girl-Asian step forward. Their voices sound good together, sweet and gentle. The crowd goes quiet to listen and Jesse thinks it might be his favourite song of the night.
“Christmas shopping,” he finally says, not bothering to look away from the performance as he claps along with the rest of the crowd. “I was Christmas shopping for Rachel.”
He can feel the weight of Schuester’s gaze and Jesse isn’t interested in anyone’s pity or censure, so when the hand claps down on his shoulder he grimaces a little and doesn’t look up, not even for the quiet, “Merry Christmas, Jesse.”
Instead he sets his jaw, ignores the way that Schuester slips back into circling the crowds with his collection bucket and watches as Finn Hudson lumbers forwards to the front of the group, and Jesse turns to leave, because he absolutely cannot listen to him while he’s smiling that infuriating dopey smile beneath his slightly crooked antlers, and his voice is as generic as ever as he sings out, “So, this is Christmas.”
It’s the rest of voices rising up behind him in perfect unlikely harmony that makes him hesitate. Rachel’s strong, clear soprano rings out, distinct and yet perfectly connected to the other voices, and Jesse thinks that maybe he has just enough time for one more song.
-