Fic: Take This Sinking Boat and Point it Home [2/2]
Title: Take This Sinking Boat and Point it Home
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Mike/Rachel, side Brittany/Santana (you're shocked, I'm sure. I know, right?)
Rating: R
Word Count: 14k
Summary: There are over two million people in Chicago, so when Mike runs into Rachel one afternoon, purely by chance, to say he’s a little surprised is an understatement.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Notes: So sorry this is late, life kicked me square in the balls for the last month. I also apologize for any and all errors as in my concern for delaying posting even LONGER I am posting this un-betaed.
--
The next morning, Mike is prepared for awkwardness, and he’s on the lookout for anything that indicates Rachel wasn’t as sober as she let on, that the whole night was a mistake. He’s ready for pretty much anything but the easy, comfortable way Rachel kisses him good morning as she hands him a cup of coffee.
He doesn’t know why it shocks him, why he expects the worst. Maybe it’s because life hasn't dealt either of them a perfect hand, and he learned a long time ago that wanting something bad enough isn’t always enough. But for whatever reason, life decides to be nice to him for once.
In fact, the whole morning feels entirely normal. Like something he’s been doing forever, that they’ve been doing forever. When he thinks about it, watching Rachel smile at him as she moves around the kitchen, he thinks maybe it’s just who Rachel is. The actress in her has no problem slipping in and out of the roles presented to her.
There’s something about the site of her wandering around his kitchen in little more than her underwear and a tank top. She’s been here countless times before, but there’s something significantly more domestic about the thing. His hands itch with the urge to touch her, to run his hands up her hips, tugging the tank top up her chest, before throwing them both back down on the nearest horizontal surface.
He doesn’t want her to leave. It hits him as soon as she disappears to the bedroom to put her clothes back on, and he finds himself staring resentfully at her purse, perched on the kitchen table. He knows she should probably go, and that it’s kind of clingy and lame to try and spend the rest of the day together so he swallows against the words that want to come out. It takes some determination, but he helps her find the shirt he threw off her the night before, and recovers a shoe that was hiding under his couch.
At the door, he kisses her because he’s pretty sure he can, and she smiles against his mouth. He may be determined to act nonchalant about just how much he likes her, but he can’t stop the next few words from coming out. “You want to hang out tonight, maybe grab dinner or something?”
Rachel’s face brightens for a second before falling into a frown. “I’d love to,” she says sadly, “But I’m kind of busy tonight.”
“Hot date,” he jokes.
She wrings her hand for a second, clearly debating something before saying. “Actually I got a job singing at a jazz club for the evening.”
“Oh cool. Where? I’ll come see you sometime.”
“No!” Rachel exclaims quickly, putting her hands up. “Don’t.”
“What, why not?”
“I just,” she swallows, and he can see the fear around her eyes. “I’d just rather you didn’t.”
He shrugs, not understanding why she’d be so nervous about it. The Rachel Berry he thought he knew lives to perform. Not for the first time, he wonders what happened to her in the six years since high school. “Okay, no problem.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks. Maybe we can meet up after?”
The look she sends him is hopeful. His heart tightens at the sudden suggestion that maybe she’s not ready to leave either. He smiles. “I’ll count the minutes.”
--
She asks him not to, but he can’t deny his curiosity. He hasn’t heard seen her really truly perform in years, and he kind of wants to know if the experience lives up to memory. So that night, he blows off Santana and Brittany when they call to make plans, and he googles jazz bars for over an hour, checking their guest calenders until he finally sees her name next to the 8 o’clock time slot. The bar’s not too far away, just a few train rides, and a little walk.
The place is a little seedier than he expects it to be, but it’s pretty packed. He orders a beer at the bar, and then finds a quiet space on the back wall where he can see the stage. He’s three beers in by the time he finally sees Rachel step up to the microphone, smiling at the man sitting at the piano.
When she sings Mike feels like he’s being pulled back and pushed forward in time all at once. It’s exactly like he remembered, and totally different at the same time.
He’s not surprised to find out that she’s just as fantastic as he remembers her, if not more so. There’s something more mature about the way she sings, the way she works a crowd with her eyes. He watches the patrons eat it up, hang on her every word.
She finishes to roaring applause, and Mike feels his heart stop at the sight of the smile on her face. If anyone ever had a doubt that this is exactly what Rachel Berry should be doing for the rest of her life...
She steps off the stage, and Mike watches her approach the bar, still beaming, before weaving his way through the crowd to find her.
His hand is on the small of her back before he knows it, and she’s jumping at the contact before turning to look at him with curious and then surprised eyes. “Mike!”
“You were fantastic,” he breathes, smiling in awe of her.
“I told you not to come.” She frowns, and all that pride she emanated seconds ago deflates.
“You were being stupid,” he says bluntly. Maybe it’s the beers, or maybe it’s just that he’s tired of this new Rachel. The one that clearly can’t believe in herself anymore. Anyone that sings like she just did, should never doubt herself like that. “You’re being stupid.”
Indignation takes hold of her expression, and she shoves him a little. “Don’t call me stupid.”
He grabs her hands, and pulls her close to him, pressing a hard kiss to her forehead. “You killed it tonight, and I’m glad I didn’t do what you told me to.”
She still looks a little pissed that he’s there, but he can tell the compliments are winning her over. If there’s one thing that hasn’t changed about her, it’s her addiction to being told how great she is. He thinks it’d probably be unattractive on anyone else, but when a light flush dusts her cheek when he tells her again that she owned the living crap out of that song, warmth pools in his stomach.
“Seriously, Rach. I’ve never seen anyone dominate a stage like you can. You could sing the phone book and I’d pay a hundo a ticket to see you.”
He opens his mouth to continue, but she puts her hand over it, and smiles up at him affectionately. “You made your point.”
He smiles against her hand, and she lowers it, still smiling at him, her nose wrinkled in mirth. He kisses her because he’s wanted to do it for hours.
“Let’s go home,” she sighs, and something about him loves that she uses that word.
--
They’re on the floor of his kitchen, backs up against the cabinets next to the fridge, and a carton of nondairy ice cream is on the floor between them, two spoons jutting out of it. They’re feeding each other ice cream like they’re in some 90s chick flick, but Mike can’t find it in him to care how lame it probably looks. Considering how Rachel practically jumped him as soon as they walked in the apartment, and didn’t let up for what felt like hours...he’s riding the happy train straight to elatedville right now.
Rachel’s naked on his floor, her hair a complete mess from his fingers, and she keeps missing his mouth, dribbling cold ice cream on to his chest, only to coyly lick it away seconds later. Yeah, not so much with the caring.
He makes a mental note that complimenting her endlessly on a performance always breeds excellent results.
She laughs when he spoons out a particularly huge portion and smothers it against her lips, and he starts chuckling too into a sloppy kiss, making sure he gets all of the ice cream off her face.
“So,” he says after the ice cream is gone, and he’s thrown the empty carton in the direction of the trash. “Are we going to talk about it?”
She’s still laughing a little, pecking curious and distracting kisses to his shoulder. “Talk about what? All the things I’m going to do to you in a few minutes? Or all the things I did to you before?”
An unattractive croaking sound leaves his throat, and Mike looks down at her, wondering what happened to the shy, and proper Rachel he thought he knew. With a shake of his head, he manages to stay on task. “About why you’re sneaking off to do amateur night at the local bar. Or how about why there are probably fifty theaters hosting musical productions that would kill to have you, but you haven’t auditioned once since you’ve been here.”
Pulling away from him, her expression shifts into a frown, and Mike almost regrets his subject change, but he knows this is important. “That’s not really any of your business.”
“Rachel,” he chastises. “You’re my,” he pauses, because he realizes he might sound kind of presumptuous, but the memory of her in his kitchen just that morning, looking like she belonged there every morning, spurs him on. “You’re my girlfriend, and that makes it my business.”
She pushes farther away from him. “We slept together, Mike, let’s not make this into a thing.”
“That’s not how it works for me,” he says, “and it’s not how it works for you so you can stop pretending. I’d like to think I know you well enough by now to know that’s true. Now stop avoiding the subject.”
She sighs, but he can see her giving in. “I don’t see why you’re so surprised. I’ve always been a performer.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Exactly, so why are you settling for open mic night, when you’re that good? Chicago has theaters too you know.”
Rachel’s silent for a moment, chewing at her bottom lip. “I don’t want to be in theater.”
“I don’t understand,” Mike says, brow furrowing, shaking his head.
“I’m not,” she stops, looking unsure of herself, before sighing and hanging her head.
“You were great in there,” he says insistently. “Rachel, you are great. The greatest I’ve ever known in my life.”
Rachel shrugs, looking small. “It’s easy in that venue. I’m not worried about being the best in there. I am the best. The competition is a little different when I’m on a bigger stage.”
He’s quiet after that, because he doesn’t quite know what to make of this new Rachel, lacking the nearly overwhelming confidence he remembers from high school. He takes a deep breath, looks at her seriously, and finally asks the question he’s been dying to ask since they first met for drinks, months ago.
“Tell me what happened in New York.”
A heavy silence falls between them, and for a second he thinks Rachel might not answer him.
“It wasn’t New York,” she says quietly. “Not really.”
“Something happened, and I have a hard time believing that,” he says softly.
“Honestly,” she insists, a small, sad smile on her lips. “New York is still...That city will always be my heart and soul. It’s truly the city of dreams and I love it. It’s a part of me.”
“So then why are you here?”
She shrugs, looks off into the distance for a second. “I spent most of my life choosing my dreams over everything else, of prioritizing them above everything, and then when I finally got there, when I was finally in New York, and I was singing, and doing everything I had ever wanted to do...I was alone.”
He nods a little.
“Kurt and I, we,” she pauses a second, “we both wanted it all so badly, and I can still remember that first rejection, getting told I wasn’t pretty enough, or I wasn’t young enough, whatever excuse they used that time. Kurt too. I knew that rejection was a part of it, you know?”
She looks at him, and he nods again, throwing his arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side.
“I knew I wasn’t just going to show up and suddenly be the star I’m destined to be, but every audition I didn’t get was just harder and harder to swallow. I didn’t understand why they didn’t appreciate my obvious talent, my clear dedication to the craft. Years of hard work, and nothing? Kurt would come home, and Blaine would console him, gear him up for the next audition and make him feel optimistic again, but I’d just be alone. Alone with the voices of my own incompetence.”
“Rachel,” he starts, but she interrupts him.
“Coming here to Chicago, it wasn’t about giving up on all that,” she explains, shaking her head. “That girl you used to know, the one that knew nothing could stop her from being on the stage, in the spotlight? That girl is still inside me. She just needed a break. She just needed to feel not so alone for a little bit.”
“So you came to a city where you don’t know anyone?”
She laughs. “Seems strange, right?”
He chuckles, nods.
“There’s something about being alone in a city of strangers. It’s a little easier to swallow than seeing your best friend be so together with someone, and feeling all the more alone.”
He gets that, probably more than she realizes. Watching Santana and Brittany grow closer and closer every year, as if that was possible, is hard sometimes when he’s never had anything close to what they do. “I know what you mean,” he says softly.
“I just needed a break,” she repeats. “I needed to feel like I deserve it again. I have no history of rejection here, no constant reminder that I’m not good enough for this part, or that part. Just a string of small performances in front of crowds that love me. Maybe I can have a little taste of what it’d be like to have a normal life, and a career at the same time before I go back and accept that it’s not for me.”
He thinks for a moment, his fingers tracing light circles on her arms, before taking a deep breath and confessing, “When I first came to Chicago, I wanted to dance.”
She looks up at him. “But you...”
“It obviously didn’t work out,” he says, smiling self deprecating. “But for the first year or two all I did was try out for any job that involved dancing I could find. I know what it’s like to feel like you can’t win. I only have half the talent you have. You can’t just give that up.”
“You did,” she chastises. “Which is another conversation we should really be having.”
“I did,” he agrees. “I gave it up, and honestly, I’m okay with that. But you’re Rachel Berry, and you shouldn’t be settling like you are.”
She sighs. “I’m just taking a breather.”
“Just don’t let your breather last too long until it’s suddenly become your life.”
“Mike,” she says softly, a small chuckle behind her words. “There’s a reason I’m living out of a hotel room. That I haven’t tried that hard to find an apartment. “
He smiles, bringing his hand up to cup her cheek, and kissing her gently. “You’re going to be famous one day,” he says softly. “Don’t lose sight of that.”
“I’ll try not to,” she says softly, and for a second there he thinks she might be crying.
--
He figures out he’s pretty much totally in love with her in the stupidest of ways.
They have their first fight, and it’s about as ridiculous a fight as he’s had with anyone. He can’t even remember what exactly she’s mad about, but it’s enough to make her scream at him in the kitchen. He’s never been one to get mad enough to raise his voice, but even he’s getting a little incensed.
It ends with her storming out, and he’d laugh at how reminiscent it is of her in high school if he wasn’t so pissed.
Their fight lasts nearly the whole rest of the afternoon, and late into the evening until Mike realizes that’s he’s miserable without her around, and if he can’t even figure out what he was so mad about in the first place then maybe neither can she.
Swallowing his pride, he grabs his jacket, and makes the trip across town to her hotel. It’s late, and he probably looks like hell, which is why the doorman gives him a curious look when he shows up, but he makes it up to her room without a problem.
He hesitates for just a moment, because it is late, and she’s probably asleep, but he doesn’t want to waste another minute apart from her. Somewhere in this hotel room she’s lying in a bed without him and that just doesn’t fly.
It takes seven hard knocks for her to get to the door, and when she opens it, squinting into the lit hallway, he can tell she’s been crying.
“Sorry,” he blurts out. He doesn’t know what for, nor does he care, he just wants to fix whatever it is that’s hurting her.
Her face screws up like she’s going to cry again, so he pushes his way inside, shutting the door before wrapping his arms around her to pull her against him. He murmurs incoherent apologies into her hair until she calms down.
“I hate fighting,” she says into his shirt.
“Me too.”
When she pulls back, wiping her eyes, she looks at the clock, and chuckles softly. “Mike, it’s four in the morning.”
He shrugs. “I was miserable without you.”
She makes that face again, the one that looks like she’s going to cry, but there’s a joy in her eyes that makes him think he said the right thing.
That’s about when he notices that she’s only wearing a t-shirt, and that the shirt is in fact one of Mike’s from high school. He probably left it here one night when he stayed over.
He really hopes that their fight is officially over or whatever because his girlfriend is wearing just his shirt, standing next to a queen sized bed, and he hasn’t touched her in nearly eighteen hours.
“Rach, is that my shirt?”
She bites her lips, and fingers the hem, looking up at him. “I missed you,” she says softly.
He kisses her, bunching the grey fabric at her back in his hands, and pushes her down on her bed. He’s never felt this way about any other girl, like he’ll feel physical pain if he doesn’t get to touch her, doesn’t get to be around her. Just the sight of her makes him smile, makes him want to hug her and never let go.
When she’s curled against him later, after the hot make up sex, and more whispered apologies, he presses his mouth against her forehead, and has to swallow hard against the I love you that wants to come out.
--
The last time he told a girl he loved her, he thought it meant forever. He still remembers the way Tina’s smile grew, slow and disbelieving, across her face as she registered the words. Memories of Tina always make him smile sadly, happiness fading with that last image of saying goodbye, of knowing that his forever was ending, of seeing her smile leave her face.
He hasn’t said the words since, hasn’t even really felt them in forever, but here he is, in love with Rachel Berry, and he thinks he might tell her. To say he’s a little nervous is an understatement.
So he does the sensible thing. He practices.
He shoots a text to Santana asking her to come over, but he’s vague on the specifics. She texts him back with a question mark, but he just insists he needs to talk to her, and she finally complies.
It’s only after he cracks open a bottle of wine, and they’re sitting on the floor, backs up against his living room couch, that he finally confesses.
“Okay, so maybe possibly I think I might be in love with Rachel.”
The only reaction Santana gives him is a half-hearted eye roll, and a small shake of her head. She stares straight ahead, sipping her wine for a few seconds before finally saying, “I told you.”
“That’s all you have to say to that?”
She shrugs. “Brittany called it weeks ago. I’ve had adjustment time.”
“Santana,” he breathes.
“Look,” she says, definitively, turning to face him, and setting her glass on the table. Her hands grab him by the shoulders. “Would I have picked Rachel Berry for you? No, probably not,” she says with a shrug. “But I’m happy if you’re happy, Mike. You’re my best friend apart from Britt, and I’m glad you found someone.”
“Wow,” he says, feeling a little shocked. Santana let’s him go, smiling, and leaning back against the couch. “Thanks.”
“Plus, this way you’ll stop fantasizing about my girlfriend every time we go dancing together.”
His jaw drops, and he sputters indignantly. A part of him will always love Brittany, but he’s pretty much known how that was going to end since he was a teenager. “I don’t, what are you, no.”
She laughs, shoving him lightly. “I’m kidding.”
Deflating, he allows himself a laugh as well, shaking his head at her.
“Not that I blame you,” she adds, smiling to herself. She takes a breath, slapping her thighs with both palms suddenly. “Anyway, so what are you going to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going to tell her, right?”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
“Okay so this is Rachel Berry. We need a plan.”
“We do?”
“Why what’s your plan right now? Blurt it out randomly?
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Look, Rachel’s the kind of girl that’s not going to believe you if you shout it out in the middle of fucking, or like with your mouthful of pizza or whatever lame boy shit you’ll end up doing.”
He sends her an indignant look, but she ignores him.
“You’re going to have to convince her. She probably won’t believe you, so just....,” she pauses, looking away for a second, and Mike wonders what she’s thinking about that’s putting that look on her face. “Just be sincere and lay it all out for her. Don’t let her doubt it for a second.”
“Why would she doubt it?”
“Oh come on,” Santana says, scoffing. “You’ve seen Rachel since she’s been here right?”
Of course Mike has, but he didn’t think Santana had really been paying that much attention. Sometimes he seriously thinks his CIA theory isn’t that far off the mark. “What’s your point?”
“She’s all angsty, and self-pitying or whatever. Way more than she ever was in high school so clearly her big Broadway dreams of whatever failed on her, and if you’re Rachel Berry that’s pretty much like having your one true love break your heart. Like I said, don’t leave room for doubt.”
“When did you get all wise and shit about romance?”
Santana laughs as she pours more wine in their glasses. “Maybe I just never thought you worthy of my priceless advice.”
He shoves her, and she nearly spills her wine, but soon they’re both laughing, and Mike feels all the nervousness from before leave him.
Three bottles of wine later, Santana scrawls out their master plan, really only two steps, and shoves the piece of paper in his hand. They’re both laughing, and practically incoherent by that point, but Mike manages to stumble towards his bedroom, leaving Santana in the living room with slurred instructions not to try to walk home.
--
When he wakes up the next morning, sprawled sideways on his bed, and still in the clothes from the night before, the list is stuck to his cheek, drool smudging out some of the letters.
There’s a pounding on his apartment door, and it’s making his head throb. It takes him a couple seconds to get moving, wiping off his face, and running fingers through his hair as he stuffs the crumpled list into this pocket.
Santana’s snoring on his couch, but his head hurts too much to laugh at her as he passes. Her phone is flipped open in one hand, arm hanging off the side, and he can barely make out a half typed text message unsent on the screen.
The pounding continues, and Santana shifts a little as he winces. When he swings the door open, Brittany is on the other side holding two huge cups of coffee and a brown paper bag.
He gives her a contrite look immediately, glancing at Santana’s sleeping form before saying, “Sorry.”
Brittany laughs, pushing her way past him, and shaking her head. “It’s okay,” she says brightly, “Santana texted me. I heard all about the plan and I’ve come to help.”
“Is that coffee for me?” He asks hopefully.
A noise suddenly erupts from the couch, and Santana’s shooting upward, blinking awake, and looking around. “Coffee?”
Then, like her body finally catches up to what’s going on, she flops back down into the cushions with a groan. “Oh my God, why is my head trying to eat my brain?”
Brittany laughs, but Mike winces in sympathy and gratefully grabs the coffee Brittany’s holding out towards him. She goes down to sit next to Santana, and Mike follows, slouching into his big leather arm chair, and sipping at the hot liquid in his hand.
“Coffee,” Brittany tells Santana, setting it on the table in front of them. “And a danish.”
Santana lifts her head up a little, and Brittany shifts to let her lie back down on her lap, stroking hair off Santana’s forehead. “I’m in love with you,” Santana says, reaching out for the danish.
Brittany smiles. “Because of the danish?”
Santana nods, her mouth full of pastry. “Yes.”
Mike’s never understood how Santana can be hungover and still want to eat, but each to their own he supposes.
Brittany pulls something out of her pocket, and looks at Mike, holding it up towards him before chucking it across the room in his direction. His head feels like it’s full of cotton, and his hands don’t seem to remember how to move fast enough, so instead of catching whatever it is, it just hits him in the chest and falls down to his lap.
It’s a packet of aspirin, and he smiles gratefully at her before, popping the tablets in his mouth, and swallowing it down with hot coffee, not caring how the liquid burns his throat on the way down.
“So,” Brittany starts, still running her fingers through Santana’s hair. “Did we come up with a plan.”
Santana nods, and mumbles unintelligibly around the food in her mouth, so Mike speaks up.
“From what I remember,” he says, sinking back into the leather as the caffeine and pain killers start to do their job. “We wrote it down somewhere.”
Brittany points towards his hip. “On that paper sticking out of your pocket?”
“Oh right!” He pulls it out, and tries to make out whatever he and Santana scribbled there last night. “Buy her flowers,” he says slowly, squinting at it. “Give them to her. Tell her you love - Santana, this plan blows.”
“Does not,” Santana mumbles, curled into Brittany, and looking at him disdainfully. “It’s simple, and romantic.”
“You sure I shouldn’t like sing her a song, or do something more dramatic?”
“This plan is better, promise.”
Brittany nods sagely. “You’ll stand out,” she says, Santana nodding her head in agreement. “Everyone else has gone with the drama, you can be different.”
“I guess.”
“Dude, trust me,” Santana orders, finally sitting up, and grabbing her coffee. “It’ll work.”
“You hate Rachel,” Mike says, suddenly skeptical of Santana’s intentions. It’s stupid because he was the one that asked her for help in the first place, but whatever.
“Yeah, well, you don’t,” she grumbles, sipping her coffee. “So whatever.”
Brittany beams like Santana just said something a lot more significant than that, and kisses her on the cheek. When Santana looks back at her girlfriend, a look of complete affection on her face, Mike thinks that maybe it’s okay to trust Santana on this one.
--
For the first time since Mike started hanging out with Rachel, Santana asks them to all go out together instead of the other way around. He’s a little nervous at first, but Santana did help him plan his big I love you declaration after all, so it might not be too bad. Plus Brittany will be there, and he does want them all to start hanging out more.
When Mike and Rachel get there, they find Santana and Brittany already seated at a small table in the corner, cocktails in front of them.
Almost immediately, Santana stands and walks towards Rachel, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the chair she just sat in. “Come on,” Santana orders.
“W-w-what?” Rachel sputters out, staring at Santana, confused.
“Mike likes you,” Santana explains, and even though it’s pretty common knowledge to everyone within earshot, he feels his cheeks redden. “He’s decided to keep you or whatever, and since Mike here is my best friend, I’ve decided we’re going to be friends now too.”
Rachel, wide eyed, can’t seem to do anything but stare at Santana, mouth dropping open silently. Mike catches Brittany grinning from across the table.
“So we’re going to go over there.” She points towards the bar. “Throw back a few shots. You’ll try to be less annoying than usual. I’ll try to tone down the bitch, and then we’re going to like each other. Got it?”
Finally seeming to understand what’s happening, Rachel nods with a smile, and takes a step towards Santana. “I’m going to hug you now,” she says.
Santana holds out a hand, halting Rachel’s movement. “Shots first, okay?”
Rachel laughs, accepting that. “Okay.”
They walk off towards the bar, and Rachel looks over her shoulder at Mike briefly, and winks. Brittany laughs next to him, and Mike can’t decide if he’s facing the end of all things, or the beginning.
--
Rachel and Santana stay at the bar nearly the whole night, leaving Mike and Brittany by themselves at the table. He spends the first hour or so throwing worried glances their direction, but Brittany reassures him it’ll be fine, and eventually he loosens up enough to play a few games of darts with Brittany.
By the time he remembers to check up on them again, Rachel’s laugh rings out loud across the dim chatter of the room, and he turns to see her bowled over, leaning heavily into Santana’s side. They’re both practically doubled over in mirth, Santana apparently still trying to finish whatever it is she’s saying.
It’s like a weight lifts off his shoulders that he didn’t know was there before, and he lets out a heavy breath. Brittany slides up next to him, and grabs his hand companionably. “Come on,” she whispers. “Before they remember that they don’t like each other.”
They’re throwing another shot back when Brittany and Mike finally reach them, and Rachel coughs a little after she swallows until Santana smacks her in the arm a few times with an amused, “Buck up, Berry.”
They both start laughing hysterically again. Brittany and Mike exchange bewildered looks.
Letting go of his hand, Brittany slides up next to Santana and eyes Rachel. “How’s it going over here?”
“Babe!” Santana exclaims loudly. She wraps an arm around Brittany’s waist and tugs her into her side, grinning up at her with a glazed expression. “Rachel is like...hilarious.” She turns to look at Mike. “You didn’t tell me she’s hilarious now.”
Rachel smiles proudly, practically preening, as she looks at Mike. “I’m hilarious,” she proclaims.
He laughs. “That’s the word on the street.”
Draping his arm over her shoulder, he presses a kiss into her hair, and looks to where Brittany’s trying to convince Santana that they don’t need more shots. “How it’d go over here?”
Leaning in close to him, Rachel’s face goes serious. “I think she likes me,” she says conspiratorially.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” Rachel says, more certain. “It seems that with the help of spirits, Santana Lopez has finally warmed up to one Rachel Berry.”
The bartender walks up, sliding four shot glasses towards them, and Mike sends a look towards Brittany who can’t do anything but shrug.
“To reunions,” Santana says loudly, raising her shot glass. She gestures towards Rachel. “And to new friendships.”
He’s never seen Rachel look so happy before, and he’s suddenly overcome with love for his best friend for putting that look on her face.
They clink glasses, and Mike throws the alcohol back, surprised at the taste. “Chick shots, Santana?”
“Fuck you,” she laughs.
“Language,” Rachel admonishes, smacking Santana on the arm.
It’s like they all suck in a collective breath, and by they all he really only means he and Brittany, but he waits for Santana to react, only letting it out when all she does is laugh loudly.
“I will make you cuss by the time I’m through with you, bitch.”
Rachel stares at her defiantly, but there’s a smile on her face, and Mike feels like his life is suddenly moving in a direction he’s totally okay with. It’s the first time in a long time he’s felt that way.
Later, after they stumble out of the club, and he says goodbye to Brittany, he hugs Santana tightly, and presses his lips into her hair. “You’re the best,” he whispers.
“It’s what you deserve,” she mumbles into the cotton of his shirt.
When they detach, she smiles at him, grabbing Brittany’s hand, and waving a little as they start to stagger backwards down the street. Rachel loops her arm through his, but before they turn to leave, Santana’s voice rings out down the street.
“Don’t forget the plan.”
His eyes go wide, but he ignores her, tugging Rachel with him towards his apartment. “What is she talking about?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
His phone vibrates in his pocket. The text from Santana reads, don’t be a chickenshit. you can do it.
He laughs because who would have thought Santana Lopez would be the best friend he ever had.
--
He buy flowers, pink roses because he thinks she’ll like them, and shows up at her hotel room.
“I love you,” he says quickly, right as she opens the door. He gets it out as fast as he can, not sure he’d be able to say it if he waited. “I’m in love with you,” he repeats just to make sure it’s clear.
He expects joy. Shock, maybe, because he kind of says it out of nowhere, but mostly joy. He’s seen enough romantic comedies to know what kind of meaning I love you is supposed to have for girls.
Even though Santana sort of warned him it might happen, he doesn’t really expect, “No you don’t.”
“What?”
“You can’t love me,” she says, shaking her head rapidly. He sees the signs of panic written all over her face, and when she backs away into her hotel room, he follows and shuts the door.
“Except I do.”
She just keeps shaking her head. “No, no, no.”
He tries not to freak out about the fact that he’s holding a bouquet of flowers awkwardly in the middle of a hotel suite as he listens to his girlfriend panic because he told her loves her. With a deep breath, he remembers what Santana told him about leaving no room for doubt.
Setting the flowers down on a table, he laughs, and approaches her slowly. “Rach, calm down.”
Her eyes are wide, and she hasn’t stopped shaking her head back and forth. He puts his hands on her cheeks to stop the motion, looking down into her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
She’s probably about to cry, and he hates that. He strokes his thumbs up and down to try and reassure her.
“You can’t love me, not this me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not this me,” she repeats. “Not the me that couldn’t cut it in New York, and came back here with her tail between her legs.”
Something twists inside him, because he thought they were past this, and he aches for that part of her heart that New York broke.
“Rachel,” he whispers, stroking a strand of brown hair off her forehead. He sighs a little, but smiles. “Even if you never made it on Broadway, even if you never became famous, and people never appreciated your talent, you’d still be the best thing that ever happened to me. You’d still be a star in my book.”
She looks like she’s going to argue, so he kisses her firmly.
“I love you,” he whispers against her lips. “But you’re going to make it, you’re going to get all those things because you’re Rachel Berry, and you’re a star. If you have a hard time remembering who you are, you just ask me, okay? I’ll remind you.”
A cautious smile starts to spread across her face.
“I can love this you,” he says, “because she’s no different than the one I’m going to be asking to sign playbills for me in a few years. She’s no different from that one I’m going to spend hundreds of dollars to see perform on a big Broadway stage, okay?”
“You really believe in me that much.”
He smiles. “I know you, Rach. This is just one chapter of a much longer book.”
She looks up at him for a moment, like she can’t decide if she wants to give in or not, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he finally sees the right decision flicker across her face.
She kisses him softly. “Why are you so great?”
“Asian magic,” he jokes.
“I wouldn’t make you pay to see me perform,” she says coyly.
He grins. “I knew there were some benefits to dating you.”
She smacks him playfully, laughing. Then, like she’s just realizing something, her face falls. “If I go back to New York...”
He loves her, so the next words aren’t hard. “I’m right behind you, Rach.”
“Mike,” she starts, shaking her head.
“You can have both,” he says. “You can have me and your big Broadway dreams. I don’t know who convinced you otherwise, but if it takes the rest of my life to convince you that I’m in this for the long haul, I’m okay with that.”
She stares at him, her eyes roaming his face like she’s looking for something. “You’d follow me to New York City? Leave all this? Santana? Brittany?”
He shrugs. Does he want to leave Chicago? No. Would he? For this girl? Absolutely. “They call this the second city anyway,” he says with a chuckle.
“I don’t know,” she says, stepping forward and running a hand through his hair to grip at his neck. “Chicago’s kind of growing on me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she repeats. “I don’t think this chapter is ready to end just yet. Chicago does have some pretty prestigious theaters after all.”
He smiles down at her, kissing her and wrapping his arms around her waist to lift her off the ground. She squeals into the kiss, and he laughs. “This city won’t know what hit them.”
She’s grinning, arms linked behind his neck, and feet still off the ground when she says, “Hey, Mike?”
“Yeah, Rach?”
“I love you too.”
It’s better than anything he’s ever heard anyone say to to him ever. “Awesome,” he breathes out, an awed smile on his face.
They make love slowly, to the sounds of afternoon in the city just outside the window. Rachel whispers I love you as she falls apart, and Mike smiles into the soft skin of her shoulder. It feels more like forever than anything ever has before.
After they’ve exhausted themselves, and Rachel is tracing the lines of his abdomen, he stares at the discarded flowers next to the mini bar, and his eyes wander around the small room.
It’s probably the orgasm making his brain fuzzy, but his mouth starts talking without his brain paying attention. “Move in with me,” he practically demands.
Rachel stills her tracing, shifting on his chest to look at him. “What?”
He swallows, and manages not to chicken it out. Maybe it’s not the smartest thing to dump two big revelations on a girl in the span of a few hours, but his heart’s kind of running the show right now.
“You’re living out of a hotel, Rach. I think it’s about time you move in with me. You might not feel like you’re in Chicago permanently, but you’re in my life that way, so...”
Slowly, a grin spreads across her face until she’s beaming at him, free and happy. “Michael Chang,” she says softly, but seriously. “I thought you’d never ask.”
--
It ends with, of all things, an e-mail to Santana Lopez.
Thanks, is all it says, but when she replies a few minutes later with If you two are stupid enough to get married I better be your best man, he knows she gets it.
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Mike/Rachel, side Brittany/Santana (you're shocked, I'm sure. I know, right?)
Rating: R
Word Count: 14k
Summary: There are over two million people in Chicago, so when Mike runs into Rachel one afternoon, purely by chance, to say he’s a little surprised is an understatement.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Notes: So sorry this is late, life kicked me square in the balls for the last month. I also apologize for any and all errors as in my concern for delaying posting even LONGER I am posting this un-betaed.
--
The next morning, Mike is prepared for awkwardness, and he’s on the lookout for anything that indicates Rachel wasn’t as sober as she let on, that the whole night was a mistake. He’s ready for pretty much anything but the easy, comfortable way Rachel kisses him good morning as she hands him a cup of coffee.
He doesn’t know why it shocks him, why he expects the worst. Maybe it’s because life hasn't dealt either of them a perfect hand, and he learned a long time ago that wanting something bad enough isn’t always enough. But for whatever reason, life decides to be nice to him for once.
In fact, the whole morning feels entirely normal. Like something he’s been doing forever, that they’ve been doing forever. When he thinks about it, watching Rachel smile at him as she moves around the kitchen, he thinks maybe it’s just who Rachel is. The actress in her has no problem slipping in and out of the roles presented to her.
There’s something about the site of her wandering around his kitchen in little more than her underwear and a tank top. She’s been here countless times before, but there’s something significantly more domestic about the thing. His hands itch with the urge to touch her, to run his hands up her hips, tugging the tank top up her chest, before throwing them both back down on the nearest horizontal surface.
He doesn’t want her to leave. It hits him as soon as she disappears to the bedroom to put her clothes back on, and he finds himself staring resentfully at her purse, perched on the kitchen table. He knows she should probably go, and that it’s kind of clingy and lame to try and spend the rest of the day together so he swallows against the words that want to come out. It takes some determination, but he helps her find the shirt he threw off her the night before, and recovers a shoe that was hiding under his couch.
At the door, he kisses her because he’s pretty sure he can, and she smiles against his mouth. He may be determined to act nonchalant about just how much he likes her, but he can’t stop the next few words from coming out. “You want to hang out tonight, maybe grab dinner or something?”
Rachel’s face brightens for a second before falling into a frown. “I’d love to,” she says sadly, “But I’m kind of busy tonight.”
“Hot date,” he jokes.
She wrings her hand for a second, clearly debating something before saying. “Actually I got a job singing at a jazz club for the evening.”
“Oh cool. Where? I’ll come see you sometime.”
“No!” Rachel exclaims quickly, putting her hands up. “Don’t.”
“What, why not?”
“I just,” she swallows, and he can see the fear around her eyes. “I’d just rather you didn’t.”
He shrugs, not understanding why she’d be so nervous about it. The Rachel Berry he thought he knew lives to perform. Not for the first time, he wonders what happened to her in the six years since high school. “Okay, no problem.”
She breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks. Maybe we can meet up after?”
The look she sends him is hopeful. His heart tightens at the sudden suggestion that maybe she’s not ready to leave either. He smiles. “I’ll count the minutes.”
--
She asks him not to, but he can’t deny his curiosity. He hasn’t heard seen her really truly perform in years, and he kind of wants to know if the experience lives up to memory. So that night, he blows off Santana and Brittany when they call to make plans, and he googles jazz bars for over an hour, checking their guest calenders until he finally sees her name next to the 8 o’clock time slot. The bar’s not too far away, just a few train rides, and a little walk.
The place is a little seedier than he expects it to be, but it’s pretty packed. He orders a beer at the bar, and then finds a quiet space on the back wall where he can see the stage. He’s three beers in by the time he finally sees Rachel step up to the microphone, smiling at the man sitting at the piano.
When she sings Mike feels like he’s being pulled back and pushed forward in time all at once. It’s exactly like he remembered, and totally different at the same time.
He’s not surprised to find out that she’s just as fantastic as he remembers her, if not more so. There’s something more mature about the way she sings, the way she works a crowd with her eyes. He watches the patrons eat it up, hang on her every word.
She finishes to roaring applause, and Mike feels his heart stop at the sight of the smile on her face. If anyone ever had a doubt that this is exactly what Rachel Berry should be doing for the rest of her life...
She steps off the stage, and Mike watches her approach the bar, still beaming, before weaving his way through the crowd to find her.
His hand is on the small of her back before he knows it, and she’s jumping at the contact before turning to look at him with curious and then surprised eyes. “Mike!”
“You were fantastic,” he breathes, smiling in awe of her.
“I told you not to come.” She frowns, and all that pride she emanated seconds ago deflates.
“You were being stupid,” he says bluntly. Maybe it’s the beers, or maybe it’s just that he’s tired of this new Rachel. The one that clearly can’t believe in herself anymore. Anyone that sings like she just did, should never doubt herself like that. “You’re being stupid.”
Indignation takes hold of her expression, and she shoves him a little. “Don’t call me stupid.”
He grabs her hands, and pulls her close to him, pressing a hard kiss to her forehead. “You killed it tonight, and I’m glad I didn’t do what you told me to.”
She still looks a little pissed that he’s there, but he can tell the compliments are winning her over. If there’s one thing that hasn’t changed about her, it’s her addiction to being told how great she is. He thinks it’d probably be unattractive on anyone else, but when a light flush dusts her cheek when he tells her again that she owned the living crap out of that song, warmth pools in his stomach.
“Seriously, Rach. I’ve never seen anyone dominate a stage like you can. You could sing the phone book and I’d pay a hundo a ticket to see you.”
He opens his mouth to continue, but she puts her hand over it, and smiles up at him affectionately. “You made your point.”
He smiles against her hand, and she lowers it, still smiling at him, her nose wrinkled in mirth. He kisses her because he’s wanted to do it for hours.
“Let’s go home,” she sighs, and something about him loves that she uses that word.
--
They’re on the floor of his kitchen, backs up against the cabinets next to the fridge, and a carton of nondairy ice cream is on the floor between them, two spoons jutting out of it. They’re feeding each other ice cream like they’re in some 90s chick flick, but Mike can’t find it in him to care how lame it probably looks. Considering how Rachel practically jumped him as soon as they walked in the apartment, and didn’t let up for what felt like hours...he’s riding the happy train straight to elatedville right now.
Rachel’s naked on his floor, her hair a complete mess from his fingers, and she keeps missing his mouth, dribbling cold ice cream on to his chest, only to coyly lick it away seconds later. Yeah, not so much with the caring.
He makes a mental note that complimenting her endlessly on a performance always breeds excellent results.
She laughs when he spoons out a particularly huge portion and smothers it against her lips, and he starts chuckling too into a sloppy kiss, making sure he gets all of the ice cream off her face.
“So,” he says after the ice cream is gone, and he’s thrown the empty carton in the direction of the trash. “Are we going to talk about it?”
She’s still laughing a little, pecking curious and distracting kisses to his shoulder. “Talk about what? All the things I’m going to do to you in a few minutes? Or all the things I did to you before?”
An unattractive croaking sound leaves his throat, and Mike looks down at her, wondering what happened to the shy, and proper Rachel he thought he knew. With a shake of his head, he manages to stay on task. “About why you’re sneaking off to do amateur night at the local bar. Or how about why there are probably fifty theaters hosting musical productions that would kill to have you, but you haven’t auditioned once since you’ve been here.”
Pulling away from him, her expression shifts into a frown, and Mike almost regrets his subject change, but he knows this is important. “That’s not really any of your business.”
“Rachel,” he chastises. “You’re my,” he pauses, because he realizes he might sound kind of presumptuous, but the memory of her in his kitchen just that morning, looking like she belonged there every morning, spurs him on. “You’re my girlfriend, and that makes it my business.”
She pushes farther away from him. “We slept together, Mike, let’s not make this into a thing.”
“That’s not how it works for me,” he says, “and it’s not how it works for you so you can stop pretending. I’d like to think I know you well enough by now to know that’s true. Now stop avoiding the subject.”
She sighs, but he can see her giving in. “I don’t see why you’re so surprised. I’ve always been a performer.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Exactly, so why are you settling for open mic night, when you’re that good? Chicago has theaters too you know.”
Rachel’s silent for a moment, chewing at her bottom lip. “I don’t want to be in theater.”
“I don’t understand,” Mike says, brow furrowing, shaking his head.
“I’m not,” she stops, looking unsure of herself, before sighing and hanging her head.
“You were great in there,” he says insistently. “Rachel, you are great. The greatest I’ve ever known in my life.”
Rachel shrugs, looking small. “It’s easy in that venue. I’m not worried about being the best in there. I am the best. The competition is a little different when I’m on a bigger stage.”
He’s quiet after that, because he doesn’t quite know what to make of this new Rachel, lacking the nearly overwhelming confidence he remembers from high school. He takes a deep breath, looks at her seriously, and finally asks the question he’s been dying to ask since they first met for drinks, months ago.
“Tell me what happened in New York.”
A heavy silence falls between them, and for a second he thinks Rachel might not answer him.
“It wasn’t New York,” she says quietly. “Not really.”
“Something happened, and I have a hard time believing that,” he says softly.
“Honestly,” she insists, a small, sad smile on her lips. “New York is still...That city will always be my heart and soul. It’s truly the city of dreams and I love it. It’s a part of me.”
“So then why are you here?”
She shrugs, looks off into the distance for a second. “I spent most of my life choosing my dreams over everything else, of prioritizing them above everything, and then when I finally got there, when I was finally in New York, and I was singing, and doing everything I had ever wanted to do...I was alone.”
He nods a little.
“Kurt and I, we,” she pauses a second, “we both wanted it all so badly, and I can still remember that first rejection, getting told I wasn’t pretty enough, or I wasn’t young enough, whatever excuse they used that time. Kurt too. I knew that rejection was a part of it, you know?”
She looks at him, and he nods again, throwing his arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side.
“I knew I wasn’t just going to show up and suddenly be the star I’m destined to be, but every audition I didn’t get was just harder and harder to swallow. I didn’t understand why they didn’t appreciate my obvious talent, my clear dedication to the craft. Years of hard work, and nothing? Kurt would come home, and Blaine would console him, gear him up for the next audition and make him feel optimistic again, but I’d just be alone. Alone with the voices of my own incompetence.”
“Rachel,” he starts, but she interrupts him.
“Coming here to Chicago, it wasn’t about giving up on all that,” she explains, shaking her head. “That girl you used to know, the one that knew nothing could stop her from being on the stage, in the spotlight? That girl is still inside me. She just needed a break. She just needed to feel not so alone for a little bit.”
“So you came to a city where you don’t know anyone?”
She laughs. “Seems strange, right?”
He chuckles, nods.
“There’s something about being alone in a city of strangers. It’s a little easier to swallow than seeing your best friend be so together with someone, and feeling all the more alone.”
He gets that, probably more than she realizes. Watching Santana and Brittany grow closer and closer every year, as if that was possible, is hard sometimes when he’s never had anything close to what they do. “I know what you mean,” he says softly.
“I just needed a break,” she repeats. “I needed to feel like I deserve it again. I have no history of rejection here, no constant reminder that I’m not good enough for this part, or that part. Just a string of small performances in front of crowds that love me. Maybe I can have a little taste of what it’d be like to have a normal life, and a career at the same time before I go back and accept that it’s not for me.”
He thinks for a moment, his fingers tracing light circles on her arms, before taking a deep breath and confessing, “When I first came to Chicago, I wanted to dance.”
She looks up at him. “But you...”
“It obviously didn’t work out,” he says, smiling self deprecating. “But for the first year or two all I did was try out for any job that involved dancing I could find. I know what it’s like to feel like you can’t win. I only have half the talent you have. You can’t just give that up.”
“You did,” she chastises. “Which is another conversation we should really be having.”
“I did,” he agrees. “I gave it up, and honestly, I’m okay with that. But you’re Rachel Berry, and you shouldn’t be settling like you are.”
She sighs. “I’m just taking a breather.”
“Just don’t let your breather last too long until it’s suddenly become your life.”
“Mike,” she says softly, a small chuckle behind her words. “There’s a reason I’m living out of a hotel room. That I haven’t tried that hard to find an apartment. “
He smiles, bringing his hand up to cup her cheek, and kissing her gently. “You’re going to be famous one day,” he says softly. “Don’t lose sight of that.”
“I’ll try not to,” she says softly, and for a second there he thinks she might be crying.
--
He figures out he’s pretty much totally in love with her in the stupidest of ways.
They have their first fight, and it’s about as ridiculous a fight as he’s had with anyone. He can’t even remember what exactly she’s mad about, but it’s enough to make her scream at him in the kitchen. He’s never been one to get mad enough to raise his voice, but even he’s getting a little incensed.
It ends with her storming out, and he’d laugh at how reminiscent it is of her in high school if he wasn’t so pissed.
Their fight lasts nearly the whole rest of the afternoon, and late into the evening until Mike realizes that’s he’s miserable without her around, and if he can’t even figure out what he was so mad about in the first place then maybe neither can she.
Swallowing his pride, he grabs his jacket, and makes the trip across town to her hotel. It’s late, and he probably looks like hell, which is why the doorman gives him a curious look when he shows up, but he makes it up to her room without a problem.
He hesitates for just a moment, because it is late, and she’s probably asleep, but he doesn’t want to waste another minute apart from her. Somewhere in this hotel room she’s lying in a bed without him and that just doesn’t fly.
It takes seven hard knocks for her to get to the door, and when she opens it, squinting into the lit hallway, he can tell she’s been crying.
“Sorry,” he blurts out. He doesn’t know what for, nor does he care, he just wants to fix whatever it is that’s hurting her.
Her face screws up like she’s going to cry again, so he pushes his way inside, shutting the door before wrapping his arms around her to pull her against him. He murmurs incoherent apologies into her hair until she calms down.
“I hate fighting,” she says into his shirt.
“Me too.”
When she pulls back, wiping her eyes, she looks at the clock, and chuckles softly. “Mike, it’s four in the morning.”
He shrugs. “I was miserable without you.”
She makes that face again, the one that looks like she’s going to cry, but there’s a joy in her eyes that makes him think he said the right thing.
That’s about when he notices that she’s only wearing a t-shirt, and that the shirt is in fact one of Mike’s from high school. He probably left it here one night when he stayed over.
He really hopes that their fight is officially over or whatever because his girlfriend is wearing just his shirt, standing next to a queen sized bed, and he hasn’t touched her in nearly eighteen hours.
“Rach, is that my shirt?”
She bites her lips, and fingers the hem, looking up at him. “I missed you,” she says softly.
He kisses her, bunching the grey fabric at her back in his hands, and pushes her down on her bed. He’s never felt this way about any other girl, like he’ll feel physical pain if he doesn’t get to touch her, doesn’t get to be around her. Just the sight of her makes him smile, makes him want to hug her and never let go.
When she’s curled against him later, after the hot make up sex, and more whispered apologies, he presses his mouth against her forehead, and has to swallow hard against the I love you that wants to come out.
--
The last time he told a girl he loved her, he thought it meant forever. He still remembers the way Tina’s smile grew, slow and disbelieving, across her face as she registered the words. Memories of Tina always make him smile sadly, happiness fading with that last image of saying goodbye, of knowing that his forever was ending, of seeing her smile leave her face.
He hasn’t said the words since, hasn’t even really felt them in forever, but here he is, in love with Rachel Berry, and he thinks he might tell her. To say he’s a little nervous is an understatement.
So he does the sensible thing. He practices.
He shoots a text to Santana asking her to come over, but he’s vague on the specifics. She texts him back with a question mark, but he just insists he needs to talk to her, and she finally complies.
It’s only after he cracks open a bottle of wine, and they’re sitting on the floor, backs up against his living room couch, that he finally confesses.
“Okay, so maybe possibly I think I might be in love with Rachel.”
The only reaction Santana gives him is a half-hearted eye roll, and a small shake of her head. She stares straight ahead, sipping her wine for a few seconds before finally saying, “I told you.”
“That’s all you have to say to that?”
She shrugs. “Brittany called it weeks ago. I’ve had adjustment time.”
“Santana,” he breathes.
“Look,” she says, definitively, turning to face him, and setting her glass on the table. Her hands grab him by the shoulders. “Would I have picked Rachel Berry for you? No, probably not,” she says with a shrug. “But I’m happy if you’re happy, Mike. You’re my best friend apart from Britt, and I’m glad you found someone.”
“Wow,” he says, feeling a little shocked. Santana let’s him go, smiling, and leaning back against the couch. “Thanks.”
“Plus, this way you’ll stop fantasizing about my girlfriend every time we go dancing together.”
His jaw drops, and he sputters indignantly. A part of him will always love Brittany, but he’s pretty much known how that was going to end since he was a teenager. “I don’t, what are you, no.”
She laughs, shoving him lightly. “I’m kidding.”
Deflating, he allows himself a laugh as well, shaking his head at her.
“Not that I blame you,” she adds, smiling to herself. She takes a breath, slapping her thighs with both palms suddenly. “Anyway, so what are you going to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going to tell her, right?”
“Well, yeah, I guess.”
“Okay so this is Rachel Berry. We need a plan.”
“We do?”
“Why what’s your plan right now? Blurt it out randomly?
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Look, Rachel’s the kind of girl that’s not going to believe you if you shout it out in the middle of fucking, or like with your mouthful of pizza or whatever lame boy shit you’ll end up doing.”
He sends her an indignant look, but she ignores him.
“You’re going to have to convince her. She probably won’t believe you, so just....,” she pauses, looking away for a second, and Mike wonders what she’s thinking about that’s putting that look on her face. “Just be sincere and lay it all out for her. Don’t let her doubt it for a second.”
“Why would she doubt it?”
“Oh come on,” Santana says, scoffing. “You’ve seen Rachel since she’s been here right?”
Of course Mike has, but he didn’t think Santana had really been paying that much attention. Sometimes he seriously thinks his CIA theory isn’t that far off the mark. “What’s your point?”
“She’s all angsty, and self-pitying or whatever. Way more than she ever was in high school so clearly her big Broadway dreams of whatever failed on her, and if you’re Rachel Berry that’s pretty much like having your one true love break your heart. Like I said, don’t leave room for doubt.”
“When did you get all wise and shit about romance?”
Santana laughs as she pours more wine in their glasses. “Maybe I just never thought you worthy of my priceless advice.”
He shoves her, and she nearly spills her wine, but soon they’re both laughing, and Mike feels all the nervousness from before leave him.
Three bottles of wine later, Santana scrawls out their master plan, really only two steps, and shoves the piece of paper in his hand. They’re both laughing, and practically incoherent by that point, but Mike manages to stumble towards his bedroom, leaving Santana in the living room with slurred instructions not to try to walk home.
--
When he wakes up the next morning, sprawled sideways on his bed, and still in the clothes from the night before, the list is stuck to his cheek, drool smudging out some of the letters.
There’s a pounding on his apartment door, and it’s making his head throb. It takes him a couple seconds to get moving, wiping off his face, and running fingers through his hair as he stuffs the crumpled list into this pocket.
Santana’s snoring on his couch, but his head hurts too much to laugh at her as he passes. Her phone is flipped open in one hand, arm hanging off the side, and he can barely make out a half typed text message unsent on the screen.
The pounding continues, and Santana shifts a little as he winces. When he swings the door open, Brittany is on the other side holding two huge cups of coffee and a brown paper bag.
He gives her a contrite look immediately, glancing at Santana’s sleeping form before saying, “Sorry.”
Brittany laughs, pushing her way past him, and shaking her head. “It’s okay,” she says brightly, “Santana texted me. I heard all about the plan and I’ve come to help.”
“Is that coffee for me?” He asks hopefully.
A noise suddenly erupts from the couch, and Santana’s shooting upward, blinking awake, and looking around. “Coffee?”
Then, like her body finally catches up to what’s going on, she flops back down into the cushions with a groan. “Oh my God, why is my head trying to eat my brain?”
Brittany laughs, but Mike winces in sympathy and gratefully grabs the coffee Brittany’s holding out towards him. She goes down to sit next to Santana, and Mike follows, slouching into his big leather arm chair, and sipping at the hot liquid in his hand.
“Coffee,” Brittany tells Santana, setting it on the table in front of them. “And a danish.”
Santana lifts her head up a little, and Brittany shifts to let her lie back down on her lap, stroking hair off Santana’s forehead. “I’m in love with you,” Santana says, reaching out for the danish.
Brittany smiles. “Because of the danish?”
Santana nods, her mouth full of pastry. “Yes.”
Mike’s never understood how Santana can be hungover and still want to eat, but each to their own he supposes.
Brittany pulls something out of her pocket, and looks at Mike, holding it up towards him before chucking it across the room in his direction. His head feels like it’s full of cotton, and his hands don’t seem to remember how to move fast enough, so instead of catching whatever it is, it just hits him in the chest and falls down to his lap.
It’s a packet of aspirin, and he smiles gratefully at her before, popping the tablets in his mouth, and swallowing it down with hot coffee, not caring how the liquid burns his throat on the way down.
“So,” Brittany starts, still running her fingers through Santana’s hair. “Did we come up with a plan.”
Santana nods, and mumbles unintelligibly around the food in her mouth, so Mike speaks up.
“From what I remember,” he says, sinking back into the leather as the caffeine and pain killers start to do their job. “We wrote it down somewhere.”
Brittany points towards his hip. “On that paper sticking out of your pocket?”
“Oh right!” He pulls it out, and tries to make out whatever he and Santana scribbled there last night. “Buy her flowers,” he says slowly, squinting at it. “Give them to her. Tell her you love - Santana, this plan blows.”
“Does not,” Santana mumbles, curled into Brittany, and looking at him disdainfully. “It’s simple, and romantic.”
“You sure I shouldn’t like sing her a song, or do something more dramatic?”
“This plan is better, promise.”
Brittany nods sagely. “You’ll stand out,” she says, Santana nodding her head in agreement. “Everyone else has gone with the drama, you can be different.”
“I guess.”
“Dude, trust me,” Santana orders, finally sitting up, and grabbing her coffee. “It’ll work.”
“You hate Rachel,” Mike says, suddenly skeptical of Santana’s intentions. It’s stupid because he was the one that asked her for help in the first place, but whatever.
“Yeah, well, you don’t,” she grumbles, sipping her coffee. “So whatever.”
Brittany beams like Santana just said something a lot more significant than that, and kisses her on the cheek. When Santana looks back at her girlfriend, a look of complete affection on her face, Mike thinks that maybe it’s okay to trust Santana on this one.
--
For the first time since Mike started hanging out with Rachel, Santana asks them to all go out together instead of the other way around. He’s a little nervous at first, but Santana did help him plan his big I love you declaration after all, so it might not be too bad. Plus Brittany will be there, and he does want them all to start hanging out more.
When Mike and Rachel get there, they find Santana and Brittany already seated at a small table in the corner, cocktails in front of them.
Almost immediately, Santana stands and walks towards Rachel, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the chair she just sat in. “Come on,” Santana orders.
“W-w-what?” Rachel sputters out, staring at Santana, confused.
“Mike likes you,” Santana explains, and even though it’s pretty common knowledge to everyone within earshot, he feels his cheeks redden. “He’s decided to keep you or whatever, and since Mike here is my best friend, I’ve decided we’re going to be friends now too.”
Rachel, wide eyed, can’t seem to do anything but stare at Santana, mouth dropping open silently. Mike catches Brittany grinning from across the table.
“So we’re going to go over there.” She points towards the bar. “Throw back a few shots. You’ll try to be less annoying than usual. I’ll try to tone down the bitch, and then we’re going to like each other. Got it?”
Finally seeming to understand what’s happening, Rachel nods with a smile, and takes a step towards Santana. “I’m going to hug you now,” she says.
Santana holds out a hand, halting Rachel’s movement. “Shots first, okay?”
Rachel laughs, accepting that. “Okay.”
They walk off towards the bar, and Rachel looks over her shoulder at Mike briefly, and winks. Brittany laughs next to him, and Mike can’t decide if he’s facing the end of all things, or the beginning.
--
Rachel and Santana stay at the bar nearly the whole night, leaving Mike and Brittany by themselves at the table. He spends the first hour or so throwing worried glances their direction, but Brittany reassures him it’ll be fine, and eventually he loosens up enough to play a few games of darts with Brittany.
By the time he remembers to check up on them again, Rachel’s laugh rings out loud across the dim chatter of the room, and he turns to see her bowled over, leaning heavily into Santana’s side. They’re both practically doubled over in mirth, Santana apparently still trying to finish whatever it is she’s saying.
It’s like a weight lifts off his shoulders that he didn’t know was there before, and he lets out a heavy breath. Brittany slides up next to him, and grabs his hand companionably. “Come on,” she whispers. “Before they remember that they don’t like each other.”
They’re throwing another shot back when Brittany and Mike finally reach them, and Rachel coughs a little after she swallows until Santana smacks her in the arm a few times with an amused, “Buck up, Berry.”
They both start laughing hysterically again. Brittany and Mike exchange bewildered looks.
Letting go of his hand, Brittany slides up next to Santana and eyes Rachel. “How’s it going over here?”
“Babe!” Santana exclaims loudly. She wraps an arm around Brittany’s waist and tugs her into her side, grinning up at her with a glazed expression. “Rachel is like...hilarious.” She turns to look at Mike. “You didn’t tell me she’s hilarious now.”
Rachel smiles proudly, practically preening, as she looks at Mike. “I’m hilarious,” she proclaims.
He laughs. “That’s the word on the street.”
Draping his arm over her shoulder, he presses a kiss into her hair, and looks to where Brittany’s trying to convince Santana that they don’t need more shots. “How it’d go over here?”
Leaning in close to him, Rachel’s face goes serious. “I think she likes me,” she says conspiratorially.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” Rachel says, more certain. “It seems that with the help of spirits, Santana Lopez has finally warmed up to one Rachel Berry.”
The bartender walks up, sliding four shot glasses towards them, and Mike sends a look towards Brittany who can’t do anything but shrug.
“To reunions,” Santana says loudly, raising her shot glass. She gestures towards Rachel. “And to new friendships.”
He’s never seen Rachel look so happy before, and he’s suddenly overcome with love for his best friend for putting that look on her face.
They clink glasses, and Mike throws the alcohol back, surprised at the taste. “Chick shots, Santana?”
“Fuck you,” she laughs.
“Language,” Rachel admonishes, smacking Santana on the arm.
It’s like they all suck in a collective breath, and by they all he really only means he and Brittany, but he waits for Santana to react, only letting it out when all she does is laugh loudly.
“I will make you cuss by the time I’m through with you, bitch.”
Rachel stares at her defiantly, but there’s a smile on her face, and Mike feels like his life is suddenly moving in a direction he’s totally okay with. It’s the first time in a long time he’s felt that way.
Later, after they stumble out of the club, and he says goodbye to Brittany, he hugs Santana tightly, and presses his lips into her hair. “You’re the best,” he whispers.
“It’s what you deserve,” she mumbles into the cotton of his shirt.
When they detach, she smiles at him, grabbing Brittany’s hand, and waving a little as they start to stagger backwards down the street. Rachel loops her arm through his, but before they turn to leave, Santana’s voice rings out down the street.
“Don’t forget the plan.”
His eyes go wide, but he ignores her, tugging Rachel with him towards his apartment. “What is she talking about?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
His phone vibrates in his pocket. The text from Santana reads, don’t be a chickenshit. you can do it.
He laughs because who would have thought Santana Lopez would be the best friend he ever had.
--
He buy flowers, pink roses because he thinks she’ll like them, and shows up at her hotel room.
“I love you,” he says quickly, right as she opens the door. He gets it out as fast as he can, not sure he’d be able to say it if he waited. “I’m in love with you,” he repeats just to make sure it’s clear.
He expects joy. Shock, maybe, because he kind of says it out of nowhere, but mostly joy. He’s seen enough romantic comedies to know what kind of meaning I love you is supposed to have for girls.
Even though Santana sort of warned him it might happen, he doesn’t really expect, “No you don’t.”
“What?”
“You can’t love me,” she says, shaking her head rapidly. He sees the signs of panic written all over her face, and when she backs away into her hotel room, he follows and shuts the door.
“Except I do.”
She just keeps shaking her head. “No, no, no.”
He tries not to freak out about the fact that he’s holding a bouquet of flowers awkwardly in the middle of a hotel suite as he listens to his girlfriend panic because he told her loves her. With a deep breath, he remembers what Santana told him about leaving no room for doubt.
Setting the flowers down on a table, he laughs, and approaches her slowly. “Rach, calm down.”
Her eyes are wide, and she hasn’t stopped shaking her head back and forth. He puts his hands on her cheeks to stop the motion, looking down into her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
She’s probably about to cry, and he hates that. He strokes his thumbs up and down to try and reassure her.
“You can’t love me, not this me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Not this me,” she repeats. “Not the me that couldn’t cut it in New York, and came back here with her tail between her legs.”
Something twists inside him, because he thought they were past this, and he aches for that part of her heart that New York broke.
“Rachel,” he whispers, stroking a strand of brown hair off her forehead. He sighs a little, but smiles. “Even if you never made it on Broadway, even if you never became famous, and people never appreciated your talent, you’d still be the best thing that ever happened to me. You’d still be a star in my book.”
She looks like she’s going to argue, so he kisses her firmly.
“I love you,” he whispers against her lips. “But you’re going to make it, you’re going to get all those things because you’re Rachel Berry, and you’re a star. If you have a hard time remembering who you are, you just ask me, okay? I’ll remind you.”
A cautious smile starts to spread across her face.
“I can love this you,” he says, “because she’s no different than the one I’m going to be asking to sign playbills for me in a few years. She’s no different from that one I’m going to spend hundreds of dollars to see perform on a big Broadway stage, okay?”
“You really believe in me that much.”
He smiles. “I know you, Rach. This is just one chapter of a much longer book.”
She looks up at him for a moment, like she can’t decide if she wants to give in or not, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he finally sees the right decision flicker across her face.
She kisses him softly. “Why are you so great?”
“Asian magic,” he jokes.
“I wouldn’t make you pay to see me perform,” she says coyly.
He grins. “I knew there were some benefits to dating you.”
She smacks him playfully, laughing. Then, like she’s just realizing something, her face falls. “If I go back to New York...”
He loves her, so the next words aren’t hard. “I’m right behind you, Rach.”
“Mike,” she starts, shaking her head.
“You can have both,” he says. “You can have me and your big Broadway dreams. I don’t know who convinced you otherwise, but if it takes the rest of my life to convince you that I’m in this for the long haul, I’m okay with that.”
She stares at him, her eyes roaming his face like she’s looking for something. “You’d follow me to New York City? Leave all this? Santana? Brittany?”
He shrugs. Does he want to leave Chicago? No. Would he? For this girl? Absolutely. “They call this the second city anyway,” he says with a chuckle.
“I don’t know,” she says, stepping forward and running a hand through his hair to grip at his neck. “Chicago’s kind of growing on me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she repeats. “I don’t think this chapter is ready to end just yet. Chicago does have some pretty prestigious theaters after all.”
He smiles down at her, kissing her and wrapping his arms around her waist to lift her off the ground. She squeals into the kiss, and he laughs. “This city won’t know what hit them.”
She’s grinning, arms linked behind his neck, and feet still off the ground when she says, “Hey, Mike?”
“Yeah, Rach?”
“I love you too.”
It’s better than anything he’s ever heard anyone say to to him ever. “Awesome,” he breathes out, an awed smile on his face.
They make love slowly, to the sounds of afternoon in the city just outside the window. Rachel whispers I love you as she falls apart, and Mike smiles into the soft skin of her shoulder. It feels more like forever than anything ever has before.
After they’ve exhausted themselves, and Rachel is tracing the lines of his abdomen, he stares at the discarded flowers next to the mini bar, and his eyes wander around the small room.
It’s probably the orgasm making his brain fuzzy, but his mouth starts talking without his brain paying attention. “Move in with me,” he practically demands.
Rachel stills her tracing, shifting on his chest to look at him. “What?”
He swallows, and manages not to chicken it out. Maybe it’s not the smartest thing to dump two big revelations on a girl in the span of a few hours, but his heart’s kind of running the show right now.
“You’re living out of a hotel, Rach. I think it’s about time you move in with me. You might not feel like you’re in Chicago permanently, but you’re in my life that way, so...”
Slowly, a grin spreads across her face until she’s beaming at him, free and happy. “Michael Chang,” she says softly, but seriously. “I thought you’d never ask.”
--
It ends with, of all things, an e-mail to Santana Lopez.
Thanks, is all it says, but when she replies a few minutes later with If you two are stupid enough to get married I better be your best man, he knows she gets it.