Fictable No. 2
Summary: They’d known each other a long time, too long really, for any of this to ever become something.
They’d known each other a long time, too long really, for any of this to ever become something.
She’s always looking for something else when she ends up with him.
Between relationships with people she would consider real prospects for her and looking to scratch an itch that he’s particularly adept at scratching.
Or sometimes when she’s home for the weekend and the holidays and they’re the only people around because everyone else has lives and jobs and better things to do and she’ll call him and suggest they go for a drink because she’s bored, and really he’s better than nothing. Only it’s never just one drink, they’ll have several, and then a couple more, and then he’ll end up walking her home because it’s late and he’s not an asshole and he’ll kiss her in her doorway. One kiss will turn into another and the next thing you know it’s morning and he’s making his way home to the greatest hits of her falling apart beneath him playing on repeat in his head.
Or on very rare occasions she’ll come to him when she’s upset. After she and Finn fell apart for the third time during sophomore year of college, or after her dad had the stroke, she showed up on his doorstep looking lost and sad and cold and she’d just stand there and ask for a hug and a glass of water, because she knows she’s sad, but she really just wants to be thirsty.
She always came to him looking for something else, he always gave her the same thing, because it was all he knew how to give her. And it always meant something different to him anyway.
When she came to him for sex, just sex, when she was horny and lonely and needed a warm body in the dark to mould herself to, he would give himself up to her. She was sexy, and he liked sex, and damn, if she wanted it just because, no way was he gonna pass up some no strings attached, unimaginably hot bump ‘n’ grind. He’d take her where she needed to go, anywhere she wanted, and he’d enjoy himself too.
Thing is with her, it was never just sex even when it was just sex. They were friends, sorta, so on those kinds of nights, after he’d flown her to the moon and back, they’d hang out a bit. Order pizza, watch a movie or a hockey game if there was one on (she’d loved the Mighty Ducks movies as a kid and so had been supporting Anaheim since she was about ten, he didn’t have the heart to mock her for such a lame ass reason to pick a team because she was just so excited to be watching a sport like a real person).
It was pretty cool really, how they could be so hot in bed and then so chill after, it was kind of perfect for him. He hates having girls hang around after sex, trying to hug on him and fall asleep and shit, but Rachel just runs a hand across his belly, firm and soothing, and then gets out of bed, locating her clothes, pulls her hair into a ponytail and goes downstairs to make coffee. It’s those times when he thinks she’s entirely awesome.
The times when they were both kind of drunk and wandering home at 2am just enjoying the buzz and the night air and each other’s company, those nights he’d always be the one to start it. It would always go the same way; they’d go to the same bar and sit at a table in the back and talk old times over scotch, because it makes her feel ‘grown up’ and ‘smoky’, whatever the hell that means, and she gets this small smile on her face while she runs her index finger over the rim of her tumbler. He likes that smile, it feels private, like she doesn’t realise she does it, and he likes to see her when she’s not performing. These are the kind of times when he gets to see that.
They’d sit there and drink scotch and smile at each other over memories of people they both used to know; afternoons spent in Glee; summer mornings on the school field having a breakfast picnic (while she was still going out with Finn, she’d come down to watch training and then provide them with refreshments, they’d spend hours just hanging out there after the rest of the team had left.); jamming sessions in Finn/Kurt’s basement on winter evenings with the whole club just sat around singing and playing different instruments. “The good old days” she called it.
He always liked talking to her when she was feeling nostalgic, she talked about them when they were at school as though they were fictional characters in a play in her mind, like they’d never existed except as they were now, and the kids that they were had been created purely for her own amusement. He liked hearing her version of events as they would have happened had she been writing the script.
Sometimes they were far more dramatic, people screaming at each other over the last slice of pizza, young lovers fusing together in passionate first kisses to the claps of their fellow glee members, her memory of when Quinn had her baby is hella awesome, for real, it’s a doozy.
Some of the things though, she remembers perfectly, word for word, moment for moment, look for look. It makes him kinda sad that usually, somewhere in those stories, there’s some instance of someone (mostly him, sometimes Kurt and Mercedes) being particularly cruel to her.
So on those nights, when they were fairly well wasted on scotch and memories and being with someone, and he’s walking her home along the dimly lit streets of their combined childhoods, his mind will always, always end up in the same place. What if they could have had each other for longer? What if they could have each other now for more than just one night at a time? What if this could be something other than it was? Not comfort and nostalgia and whispers in dark rooms, or laughter and heaven up against random walls, what if they could have each other, honestly have each other and keep each other and maybe even love each other.
And he knows it’s stupid and never gonna happen because they’ve just known each other too long and there’s history and resentment and other people and what if?s are never helpful to anyone. But on those nights when she’s just looking for some company and a conversation and he’s the only person she can find for both, those nights he kind of feels like maybe they could have a chance, if they gave each other one. So he’ll kiss her in the doorway of her parents’ house, run a hand through her hair and really kiss her, and he’ll try to tell her everything he’s never said that he’s wanted to with that one kiss, and hope that she’ll understand him and he won’t have to say the words.
And she’ll look up at him then, the light from the inside hallway spilling across her face, making her eyes just a little more difficult to read, and he thinks for a minute she gets it, because she smiles that smile that he likes, her private smile, and tugs on his wrist to bring him inside. In the morning they’ll wake up together and smile and acknowledge that they’d had a good night and that’s probably all it should be, considering everything, and then she’ll make him pancakes and shove him out the door with a laugh and a peck on the cheek, and he’ll walk home smiling, because it was a nice idea, but it probably wouldn’t have worked anyways.
She’s always looking for something else when she ends up with him, but those are the nights that are his favourites, because on those nights, if only for a little while, it feels a lot like she’s found it.
The times when she’d show up crying at his door, those were the worst. What he wants to do when that happens is pull her into his arms and wrap her up tight and just keep her there, in his lap, while she cries and he kisses her hair and whispers that everything’s going to be ok, that she’s going to be ok.
But he can’t do that, because that’s not why she’s there, that’s not why she chooses him to go to when she’s like this. She chooses him because he knows how to keep his distance and fetch her some water and tell her jokes so that she can stop crying and just feel relief for a moment. She comes to him because he won’t bullshit her and tell her that everything will work out fine, no matter how much he wants to, because that’s the one thing she simply can’t stand when she’s upset, because she knows that, for a little while at least, everything’s just going to be awful.
So those times, instead of doing what it is that he wants to do, he’d get her a drink and pull her down onto the sofa with him, a lazy arm around her shoulders, fingers brushing over her bicep and just keeps watching whatever it is he was watching before she showed up, occasionally making a crack about whatever it is that’s on, and squeezing her just a little tighter when she laughs.
They’d sit there for a few hours and watch whatever came on the tv, mostly just staring into space and not talking about the reason she’s here. And then, after her tears have stopped and her eyes are no longer puffy, she’d turn to him and kiss him. A tentative hand along the side of his jaw, a light tug on his lower lip, she’d kiss him and he’d kiss her back until he’d feel the cold salt of her tears run along his cheeks between them and then he’d kiss her harder, hold her tighter, because it was all she would let him do.
She’d cry while he kissed her, and while he picked her up and carried her to his bedroom. She’d cry while he made love to her, and afterwards when they lay side by side, hot and breathless, she’d whisper him a thank you and then leave him alone.
Those times are the worst, because he thinks that there’s a reason that she comes to him in those moments, why she chooses him, and that there’s also probably a reason why she thinks she shouldn’t have.
She’s always looking for someone else when she ends up with him. He’s always just waiting for her to be looking for him.
They’d known each other a long time, too long really, for any of this to ever become something.
She’s always looking for something else when she ends up with him.
Between relationships with people she would consider real prospects for her and looking to scratch an itch that he’s particularly adept at scratching.
Or sometimes when she’s home for the weekend and the holidays and they’re the only people around because everyone else has lives and jobs and better things to do and she’ll call him and suggest they go for a drink because she’s bored, and really he’s better than nothing. Only it’s never just one drink, they’ll have several, and then a couple more, and then he’ll end up walking her home because it’s late and he’s not an asshole and he’ll kiss her in her doorway. One kiss will turn into another and the next thing you know it’s morning and he’s making his way home to the greatest hits of her falling apart beneath him playing on repeat in his head.
Or on very rare occasions she’ll come to him when she’s upset. After she and Finn fell apart for the third time during sophomore year of college, or after her dad had the stroke, she showed up on his doorstep looking lost and sad and cold and she’d just stand there and ask for a hug and a glass of water, because she knows she’s sad, but she really just wants to be thirsty.
She always came to him looking for something else, he always gave her the same thing, because it was all he knew how to give her. And it always meant something different to him anyway.
When she came to him for sex, just sex, when she was horny and lonely and needed a warm body in the dark to mould herself to, he would give himself up to her. She was sexy, and he liked sex, and damn, if she wanted it just because, no way was he gonna pass up some no strings attached, unimaginably hot bump ‘n’ grind. He’d take her where she needed to go, anywhere she wanted, and he’d enjoy himself too.
Thing is with her, it was never just sex even when it was just sex. They were friends, sorta, so on those kinds of nights, after he’d flown her to the moon and back, they’d hang out a bit. Order pizza, watch a movie or a hockey game if there was one on (she’d loved the Mighty Ducks movies as a kid and so had been supporting Anaheim since she was about ten, he didn’t have the heart to mock her for such a lame ass reason to pick a team because she was just so excited to be watching a sport like a real person).
It was pretty cool really, how they could be so hot in bed and then so chill after, it was kind of perfect for him. He hates having girls hang around after sex, trying to hug on him and fall asleep and shit, but Rachel just runs a hand across his belly, firm and soothing, and then gets out of bed, locating her clothes, pulls her hair into a ponytail and goes downstairs to make coffee. It’s those times when he thinks she’s entirely awesome.
The times when they were both kind of drunk and wandering home at 2am just enjoying the buzz and the night air and each other’s company, those nights he’d always be the one to start it. It would always go the same way; they’d go to the same bar and sit at a table in the back and talk old times over scotch, because it makes her feel ‘grown up’ and ‘smoky’, whatever the hell that means, and she gets this small smile on her face while she runs her index finger over the rim of her tumbler. He likes that smile, it feels private, like she doesn’t realise she does it, and he likes to see her when she’s not performing. These are the kind of times when he gets to see that.
They’d sit there and drink scotch and smile at each other over memories of people they both used to know; afternoons spent in Glee; summer mornings on the school field having a breakfast picnic (while she was still going out with Finn, she’d come down to watch training and then provide them with refreshments, they’d spend hours just hanging out there after the rest of the team had left.); jamming sessions in Finn/Kurt’s basement on winter evenings with the whole club just sat around singing and playing different instruments. “The good old days” she called it.
He always liked talking to her when she was feeling nostalgic, she talked about them when they were at school as though they were fictional characters in a play in her mind, like they’d never existed except as they were now, and the kids that they were had been created purely for her own amusement. He liked hearing her version of events as they would have happened had she been writing the script.
Sometimes they were far more dramatic, people screaming at each other over the last slice of pizza, young lovers fusing together in passionate first kisses to the claps of their fellow glee members, her memory of when Quinn had her baby is hella awesome, for real, it’s a doozy.
Some of the things though, she remembers perfectly, word for word, moment for moment, look for look. It makes him kinda sad that usually, somewhere in those stories, there’s some instance of someone (mostly him, sometimes Kurt and Mercedes) being particularly cruel to her.
So on those nights, when they were fairly well wasted on scotch and memories and being with someone, and he’s walking her home along the dimly lit streets of their combined childhoods, his mind will always, always end up in the same place. What if they could have had each other for longer? What if they could have each other now for more than just one night at a time? What if this could be something other than it was? Not comfort and nostalgia and whispers in dark rooms, or laughter and heaven up against random walls, what if they could have each other, honestly have each other and keep each other and maybe even love each other.
And he knows it’s stupid and never gonna happen because they’ve just known each other too long and there’s history and resentment and other people and what if?s are never helpful to anyone. But on those nights when she’s just looking for some company and a conversation and he’s the only person she can find for both, those nights he kind of feels like maybe they could have a chance, if they gave each other one. So he’ll kiss her in the doorway of her parents’ house, run a hand through her hair and really kiss her, and he’ll try to tell her everything he’s never said that he’s wanted to with that one kiss, and hope that she’ll understand him and he won’t have to say the words.
And she’ll look up at him then, the light from the inside hallway spilling across her face, making her eyes just a little more difficult to read, and he thinks for a minute she gets it, because she smiles that smile that he likes, her private smile, and tugs on his wrist to bring him inside. In the morning they’ll wake up together and smile and acknowledge that they’d had a good night and that’s probably all it should be, considering everything, and then she’ll make him pancakes and shove him out the door with a laugh and a peck on the cheek, and he’ll walk home smiling, because it was a nice idea, but it probably wouldn’t have worked anyways.
She’s always looking for something else when she ends up with him, but those are the nights that are his favourites, because on those nights, if only for a little while, it feels a lot like she’s found it.
The times when she’d show up crying at his door, those were the worst. What he wants to do when that happens is pull her into his arms and wrap her up tight and just keep her there, in his lap, while she cries and he kisses her hair and whispers that everything’s going to be ok, that she’s going to be ok.
But he can’t do that, because that’s not why she’s there, that’s not why she chooses him to go to when she’s like this. She chooses him because he knows how to keep his distance and fetch her some water and tell her jokes so that she can stop crying and just feel relief for a moment. She comes to him because he won’t bullshit her and tell her that everything will work out fine, no matter how much he wants to, because that’s the one thing she simply can’t stand when she’s upset, because she knows that, for a little while at least, everything’s just going to be awful.
So those times, instead of doing what it is that he wants to do, he’d get her a drink and pull her down onto the sofa with him, a lazy arm around her shoulders, fingers brushing over her bicep and just keeps watching whatever it is he was watching before she showed up, occasionally making a crack about whatever it is that’s on, and squeezing her just a little tighter when she laughs.
They’d sit there for a few hours and watch whatever came on the tv, mostly just staring into space and not talking about the reason she’s here. And then, after her tears have stopped and her eyes are no longer puffy, she’d turn to him and kiss him. A tentative hand along the side of his jaw, a light tug on his lower lip, she’d kiss him and he’d kiss her back until he’d feel the cold salt of her tears run along his cheeks between them and then he’d kiss her harder, hold her tighter, because it was all she would let him do.
She’d cry while he kissed her, and while he picked her up and carried her to his bedroom. She’d cry while he made love to her, and afterwards when they lay side by side, hot and breathless, she’d whisper him a thank you and then leave him alone.
Those times are the worst, because he thinks that there’s a reason that she comes to him in those moments, why she chooses him, and that there’s also probably a reason why she thinks she shouldn’t have.
She’s always looking for someone else when she ends up with him. He’s always just waiting for her to be looking for him.