if I could tell you 6/?
Title: If I could tell you
Chapter: 6/?
Rating: R this chapter, M eventually
Characters: Puck, Rachel, OC
Word Count: 3400
Summary: Puck and Rachel get another chance when unexpected events bring her to his doorstep years after graduation.
*****
It's three days of incredibly hard work but making the apartment livable, making a home for herself and Connor here in San Francisco is also intensely satisfying. Of course like anything else worth doing, there are a few wrinkles along the way.
*****
Her eyes flash. "Ray. Please put the paintbrush down and move slowly away from the paint."
"That's cool," Ray lifts both hands in friendly surrender. "Only I thought you wanted me to start in the kitchen.
"Yes I do, however...."
"And I covered the appliances, and taped around the windows, and even put a drop-cloth on the floor, just like you asked. I've got the paint, so I think we're good to go."
"Yes, you've done a wonderful job, sans one tiny detail. When you showed me the paint samples, we discussed the color 'April Morning' which is a lovely yellow, much warmer than a lemon, but not as brassy as a tangerine. Cheerful. The kind of color you'd want to see first thing in the morning while you're lingering over a cup of tea. The color you are pouring into the roller pan is avocado. Avocado, Ray. The kind of dull green that you see on appliances from the 1970s or in a telemarketer office cubicle or similarly dreary places."
"Oh right. You know, I did think it looked kind of funny for a kitchen." He smacks the side of his head. "Hey! You know what? I think this is the paint my uncle dropped off for the basement laundry room!"
"God help us," she says under her breath and then seeing his questioning look, pastes a smile back on. "Do you think you still have 'April Morning' tucked away somewhere?"
"Oh for sure." There's a long pause. "Do you want me to get it?"
"Yes please, Ray."
*****
"Connor!" Rachel calls, assuming that since he's been out of her direct line of sight for two minutes, he's probably getting into trouble somewhere. Stepping into the living room, there's no Connor, but a largish box containing towels is suspiciously located in the exact center of the room.
She takes a step forward and..."Boo!" Connor pops out of the box, a half dozen formerly neatly folded towels exploding all over the room with him.
Pressing a dramatic hand to her chest, she gasps, "My goodness, you scared me!" Connor dissolves into giggles, (and a few more towels fall to the floor) and she continues, "I know a new game! Let's play the picking up game! Let's see how long it takes you to bring the towels to Noah."
Turning to the grown man who's choking back laughter from his hiding place behind the door she says sweetly, "As I recall, both you and Finn became quite adept at folding towels during your stint at Sheets 'n Things. And when you're done, I'm sure you can find a home for them in the linen cabinet next to the bathroom sink. Middle shelf."
*****
"Rachel, you can't do this on your own."
She glares at him and lets out an irritable huff of air. "Noah, of course I can do this. I have a college degree, a full set of instructions with pictures no less, and they even gave me this little tool thingy..."
"Allen wrench...," he grins at her and a not inconsiderable part of her longs to wipe the smug expression off his face.
"Don't interrupt. I am a competent and capable human being and if you're suggesting that the presence of a 'Y' chromosome makes me unable to put together a toddler bed, you're sadly mistaken. Actually, I'm surprised at you. I suspect your mother probably did more than her share of home-improvement tasks over the years."
"Ma doesn't know a screwdriver from a claw hammer. Nana Connie, on the other hand, re-plumbed our entire house. What that woman could do with a acetylene-torch was a thing of beauty, Rach."
"My point remains the same. I can do this!"
(That annoying little voice in the back of her head that's asking her why in the world she would pick up and move herself and her child half-way across the country if she can't even put together a stupid bed can stop any time now.)
"I know you can," he says. "But you need someone to lift the other end of the bed up while you tighten the bolts. See, it's right here in the instructions."
"Noah?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up and hold up your end of the bed."
It makes her feel a tiny bit better when he does exactly that.
*****
"Now that Connor is finally napping in his own bed, I've decided that I don't ever want to move again," Rachel groans, stretching out to her full length and then sinking a little deeper into the soft fabric of her new couch.
"You don't have to," Noah plops down next to her, lifting her legs so that her feet lie in his lap. "In fact, you shouldn't, especially not if you're going to make me move this sofa again."
"Mmmm," she says, letting her eyes fall closed. "Sorry about that. I was sure it was going to work better across from the doorway, and then the back wall seemed so empty but I think you're right, under the window works best."
"Interior decorator. That's my next career," he says lazily and she looks at him and laughs. "No, but really," he continues, "It's starting to look pretty good in here.
"It is, isn't it?" she replies, running through the checklist in her head with a definitely sense of accomplishment. The stack of unpacked boxes is starting to shrink, there's a fresh coat of paint in the kitchen, courtesy of Ray, and best of all, she actually has furniture!
"Okay, it's settled then. We're definitely staying on this couch forever," Noah says, leaning back and closing his eyes. "Except maybe to go back to my place. The pizza place around the corner from me will do vegan and they deliver."
"We have to go back to your place," she replies. "We still have a bunch of stuff there, including all of Connor's pajamas. But Ray is finishing the painting the bedrooms tonight, so I think tomorrow is the official move-in day."
"I figured," he says, one warm hand brushing her ankle lightly.
It's doing funny things to her breathing and she probably should move, but she's sooo comfortable right now. Instead she stares at the opposite wall where Noah spent the better part of half an hour carefully arranging and hanging a half-dozen framed photographs.
He follows her gaze. "I was looking for something to do when you and Connor were at the sandwich place getting lunch, so I figured I'd put them up for you. I can take them down or put them somewhere else if you want."
"No, they're perfect," she assures him, staring at the pictures: Connor as a grave, unfocused newborn, Dad and Daddy puttering in the garden, both of them in the ridiculously floppy hats she'd bought them for Father's Day that year, herself as a child dressed in a tutu, curtseying to the camera. "Just like I wanted."
He points to the central photo of the group. "That one's my favorite." She and Connor are seated at the piano. He's intent, striking the keys and obviously fascinated with the noise he's producing and she has one arm lovingly curled around him, her hand guiding his small fingers.
"It's one of mine too," she smiles. "He loves music. He'll be starting in the preschool program of the private school I'm teaching at and he'll get music enrichment three times a week. And there's art classes and swimming and a Spanish immersion program. And their college acceptance rate is...well, I'm getting a little ahead of myself there but it's an amazing opportunity for both of us."
He tilts his head to one side. "You sound like you're trying to convince someone of that," he says and when she startles he continues quickly, "Shit, I'm sorry. I'm just trying to say that you don't have to sell me."
She throws her head back and looks at the ceiling. "Maybe I am still trying to convince people that this isn't a crazy move on my part, that I actually can do this on my own. Daddy, Burt and Carole, even Emma and Will, they all supported my decision, but they don't really understand what I'm doing here."
"Why are you here?" he asks quietly and she flicks an unsure glance at him, trying to read his profile and his tone. The mood in the room has shifted and she's not sure what to make of it. He's still staring at the pictures on the far wall, but one finger is tracing a soothing pattern on her ankle.
She tries for a little levity. "A long time ago a friend told me that California is where it's at."
He shakes his head. "You still remember that? We were just kids."
"Of course I remember," she says, mock-indignantly. "I had just moved to Lima and Hannah Birnbaum's parents forced her to invite me to her Bat Mitzvah and I was miserable because I didn't know anybody until you came and sat next to in her backyard. You told me to ignore Hannah and her friends..."
"I told you they were jealous bitches," he says with a reminiscent smile.
"...and that you were going to move to California and spend your life making music."
"And then?" he prompts, raising one eyebrow.
She can feel her color rise a little but she keeps her voice light. "And then you kissed me and when I ran away you ignored me completely for the next several years." (It was her first kiss and she still remembers running home in her party dress and staring at herself in the mirror, running a fingertip along the reddened bottom lip that he'd delicately nipped. If she's being honest, kissing Noah was always an overwhelming experience.)
"Not quite completely," he says evenly and he's probably thinking about slushies and egging her mailbox and a dozen other things.
Or maybe he's thinking about something else entirely. Thinking about all the times when that something between them acted like a magnet drawing them together, all the the kisses and near-kisses. Or even graduation night, about everything he'd blurted out to her while standing on her front porch, his fingers gripping her wrist so hard he'd left a red mark. Thinking about his mouth, hard and desperate on hers, and the way she'd clung to him until the noise of a passing car made them spring apart, both breathing hard. Maybe he's thinking about that.
She is.
It's crazy, just one of those mysteries of chemistry, but there is, there's always been, an attraction between the two of them and it would be stupid to lie to herself about the fact that she enjoys it. (And god, she's tired of being stupid.) There's this certain way he has of looking at her sometimes, like she's someone he finds beautiful, desirable, even hot. If she's being really honest, he looks at her like she's a woman he wants to sleep with and the thought of it makes her stomach twist and a heavy warmth wind through her. She's touched herself before, thinking about it.
All very normal, especially given the fact that it's been over a year since she's been intimate with someone. And longer than that since she felt truly sexy. And no, the fact that it's incredibly inappropriate to be thinking that way about someone else's boyfriend hasn't escaped her. It's neither here nor there because she's certainly not planning on pursuing any of this and neither is he.
She needs a friend and he's not in the market for anything else.
(Beside, even if there was no Jen, her track record with relationships is pretty suspect.)
She sits up and curls up at edge of the couch, tucking her feet under her. "That's ancient history," she says and she's not sure which part of their history she's talking about. The two of them as an entity have never been easy to categorize.
"Right. But somehow history keeps coming up, doesn't it?" he says, standing up without looking directly at her. "Look, if the three of us are still doing dinner tonight, I should get some stuff done first. I really ought to check in with Josh down at the studio and the laundry situation's getting pretty dire."
Oh.
She thought...well she wasn't thinking, not about how busy Noah must be or oh god, is this about her fantasies? Can he tell? Is she making him uncomfortable? Does this count as sexual harassment?
Of course it's also possible that he needs to talk to Josh and get some laundry done. Not everything is about her.
She really needs to work on that.
"Of course. I understand completely," she says quickly, hopping up and moving to the door ahead of him, fiddling with the safety chain so she doesn't have to make eye contact. (For some reason she's not entirely sure she can produce a convincing smile right at this second.) "Again, thank you so much for everything. I...I guess we'll see you later."
His hand is on the door-frame directly in front of her line of vision and he's standing close, but his voice is low enough that she had to strain to hear it. "Yeah, definitely. I'll give you a call."
Wait, isn't that what men say to women they don't intend to call back?
"Goodbye, Noah," she replies softly. She opens the door for him and turns, stretching up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek (really it lands much closer to the corner of his mouth). His hand settles on her waist for just a second, warm and solid through the thin material of her shirt and she does not want to go back in for another, slightly more centered kiss.
Friendly. This should not be this hard.
"Bye, Rachel," he mutters.
When the door closes behind him, she swallows hard and it's several minutes before she can force herself to go back to her unpacking.
*****
He's not entirely sure why he's out the door so damn fast and it doesn't hit him until he's halfway back to his place. God, he's so fucking stupid.
He's not under any illusion that whatever connecting thread that exists between the two of them is what brought her to San Francisco. He's even wondered once or twice, mostly late at night when he can't sleep, how long it would have taken for her to get in touch with him if the apartment hadn't been a disaster. (He refuses to believe he wouldn't have looked him up at all.) No, she's here because good teaching jobs are hard to come by, or because her dad loved it here, or hell, because this is as far away from Lima as you can get without drowning.
It's got shit-all to do with him personally.
Thing is, if he's not really careful, he's going to start wanting it to be about him and he's been there before with Rachel Berry. Multiple times. In his experience, it doesn't end well.
And hell, it's even more complicated by the fact that he wants to kiss her. Wants to do more than that actually, wants to carry her to her bedroom and press her back into the pillows and peel off her tee-shirt and those tiny shorts (thank god some things never change) and touch and lick and caress every inch of her. Suck hard on the delicate skin just above her hip-bone and leave a mark. Nibble a damp trail to her center and tease the hell out of her until she's arching up into him. Feel those long, tanned legs tighten around his hips and sink into her...no...even better, have her ride him. All that dark hair falling into her face and his hands palming her pretty little tits, plucking at her nipples....
Behind him a car horn blares repeatedly and blows his fantasy out of the water. Green light and the traffic's moving and the asshole behind him won't lay off his horn. Fucking cab drivers are the same everywhere.
Shit, he's got to stop thinking about this and also calm the fuck down before he gets arrested or something. Right. Concentrate on driving.
He finds a parking spot and throws his truck into park and he's already thinking about it (her) again. As if past experience isn't enough, there just a whole lot of new shit to consider. There's his mom and her totally inexplicable concern, even if he's not sure what her deal is. There's Connor and maybe it's only been a few days but there's no way he's going to call him buddy and spend hours playing football in the park with him one day and then totally disappear the next. (Yeah, he's been there.) There's Rachel who's just barely out of a relationship that she's been in her entire adult life.
And damn it, there's him. He's finally settled into a nice groove. He's got a place he likes and a job he loves and Jen's making noises about introducing him to her parents and the way she's saying it, well just try to tell him that isn't about getting a little more serious, maybe even moving in together and he's not necessarily opposed to the idea. But Rachel, nine years and she doesn't even do anything but smile at him and all of a sudden everything's fucked up.
All right, not exactly.
He likes having her and Connor at his place. And you know what? Fuck his job, he hasn't taken a legit vacation day in six months and he brings home work on weekends more often than not. They owe him. As for Jen? Two weeks ago he would have said that they were solid. Now all he's sure of is that it fucking sucks being an also-ran.
He grabs his phone, flicks through his contact list and hits send. The call goes straight through to voice mail and he's not sure if he's relieved or not. "Jen, it's me. Hope your trip is going well and you're getting all those contracts signed. Give me a call when you get back." He pauses for a second. They don't usually say shit like this, because obviously they care, but neither of them feel the need to be all demonstrative about it. "Miss you."
What he should be doing is taking a step back and get his fucking head clear.
It's just....
His fingers hover over her name.
"Hey Rach. Six o'clock okay for dinner?...Yeah, I really do want you both to come over."
Chapter Seven