fic: Interventions and Lullabies (2/?)
Title: Interventions and Lullabies (2/?)
Author:
professor_spork
Beta:
beingfacetious
Character/Pairing: Eventual Rachel/Sam, Rachel/Quinn, Sam/Quinn, Rachel/Sam/Quinn... also other people are in this story, I promise.
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13 (subject to change)
Summary: S3 AU. In a world where Shelby never comes back to town, Rachel finds herself boyfriendless and in the habit of taking in strays. Housing Sam to save the glee club is one thing, but she can't help but feel like Quinn is in trouble...
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
She wakes at 6:00 sharp to her iPod blaring, and the first thing she sees-by design-is her motivation board. On it, typed in large, bold font, is:
REPLACE FINN
GET KURT ELECTED
…Oops.
Wincing, Rachel reaches out and turns off her alarm, silencing Matthew Wilder. Her room feels much too large in the quiet. She bites her lip, feeling guilty, then gets up and walks over to her desk. Pulling a piece of paper out of her printer, she takes a teal Sharpie from her drawer and writes a new goal in block letters (SAVE GLEE CLUB), then affixes it to the wall in front of her elliptical.
There. Nice and vague. Hopefully vague enough that she can actually succeed, for once.
It would be a nice change after the month she's had.
She's about a third of the way into the original Broadway cast recording of The King and I (having already sung through the entirety of South Pacific) when she spies a water tower that says FLORENCE, Y'ALL further down the highway.
Oh sweet Rodgers and Hammerstein, she's really in Kentucky.
Her GPS gets her to Boone County High School without difficulty, but once she's there, the flaws in her otherwise flawless plan immediately make themselves known: she has no idea where Sam might be in the building, and there are multiple exits and a great number of other students blocking her gaze.
Should she text him?
She considers it for a moment. She knows he had his phone turned off for a while in Lima, because his family was trying to cut back on unnecessary expenses, but she can't imagine that he's had to change his number since it was reactivated. At worst, contacting him would ruin the fantastically dramatic reunion she'd had planned in her head-how she'd call out to him and he'd turn around looking utterly baffled, and how his eyes would widen in surprise and then soften with joy and gratitude. (She's always been excellent at visualization exercises.) But really, realizing that picturesque scenario isn't worth the risk of losing him in the crowd. And maybe she's had enough drama lately.
Decision made, she locks her car and digs her phone out of her purse. As she walks towards the main courtyard, she shoots off a quick text: Meet me under the flag pole in five minutes, please. - Rachel*
She does her best to take slow, even breaths as she waits for his reply. About a minute and a half later, she gets one.
U 4got 2 take me off ur glee mass txt list
The urge to slap her forehead is unbearably strong. I'm not at McKinley, Sam. I mean YOUR flagpole.
After another two minutes, he emerges from the building and walks over to meet her. The look on his face is impossible to interpret.
"Rachel, what are you doing here?"
Maybe not the warmest of welcomes. She plasters on her winningest smile. "It's wonderful to see you too, Sam."
He glances down. "Look, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be rude, but now's a pretty bad time and I just don't-"
"I want you to come back to Lima," she blurts.
A look of pure, incredulous hope crosses over his face before he stifles it. "What?"
"The glee club needs you, and I want you to come back to McKinley with me to sing with New Directions."
"Rachel, that's… crazy. I know you guys miss me, and I miss you too, but-"
"Much as we miss you, Sam, this isn't just some arbitrary whim. If you don't come back with me, we can't perform. We're under the member limit as I've been temporarily banned from the stage." She doesn't mention that Finn's been kicked out of the group as well, perhaps permanently-Sam's in a rush, and brevity is therefore key.
"What? Why?" he asks in a gasp, before shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. "No, it's-no. I don't have time for this. Rachel, I'm really sorry you came all this way, but I can't talk right now. I have to get to work."
"That's fine. We can walk and talk. Though really, it's something of a long tale, so perhaps I'll just start to explain while you drive over, and we can pick up the discussion after work? However long your shift lasts, I don't mind waiting."
He looks stricken. "That's not a good idea."
"Sam, unless you work at a butcher shop, I don't see why I can't come with you." She searches his face for a sign that he's giving in, and tries to soften her own expression. "Please. I drove all this way."
He runs a hand through his hair; she notes that the tips of his ears have turned red. "My car is on the opposite side of campus, I can't just-I really can't be late."
"My car is just across the courtyard; I'll drive you to yours, and then follow you to your work. We can talk there. Okay?"
"Do you ever give up?" Sam asks, then smiles ruefully. "What am I saying; of course you don't. You're Rachel Berry."
"Since the day I was born," she agrees, leading him back to where she parked.
"So… why are you banned? Is it a handicap to make it more fair for the other teams or something?" he asks as they wind their way through the crowd.
She trips over her own feet, which is uncharacteristic-she's normally quite graceful. "What?"
"Well, it's like… I dunno. I always kinda felt like we were all just the Scoobies to your Slayer. So it would make sense not to send you in for the first round; that's bringing a gun to a knife fight. Or vampire slayers to… um. Show choir. Sorry, I sorta lost that one."
She beams at him as she unlocks her door. "I have no idea what any of that meant, but I'm pretty sure it's one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me."
The parking lot of the building he drives to is surprisingly full for a Friday afternoon. She has no idea why he sought employment at a restaurant/bar called "Stallionz," but knows he needs the money, so she doesn't say anything.
"You're really going to follow me in?" he asks when she exits her car and catches up with him. For each of his strides, she needs to take two; he can't help but smile a little.
"It would be inefficient and tedious for me to wait in my car for you all night, don't you think?"
"I guess, it's only that-" He pauses his speech to reach out and hold the door open for her; she smiles at his gallantry and enters the building, squinting so her eyes will adjust to the comparative darkness. "-It's only that we won't really get to talk much, in here."
"Hopefully you'll find time to speak with me," she says, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the mingled scent of cigarette smoke, stale beer and frying beef that assails her nostrils.
"My shift ends at six thirty; are you sure we just can't talk then?"
"Sam, I'm already here," she points out.
He leads her to a booth tucked away in a back corner, and sighs. "Okay. You win."
"You'll come?"
"What? No! Look, just… if you still even want me to come back to Lima after this, then we'll talk. But don't ask me until you know everything."
She frowns at how cryptic he's being. "I can't imagine that anything would change my mind."
"Of course you can't," he says softly, smiling in a broken sort of way. "Well. Chill here, then. I'll come talk to you when I can."
He walks away to do whatever it is he has to do to get ready for his shift, and she finally takes a moment to absorb her surroundings. Most of the patrons appear to be women, which strikes her as slightly odd-she's always associated places like this with testosterone and aggression. There's a small stage adorned with silver streamers at the other end of the bar, and she wonders if this is, in fact, some kind of dinner theater establishment. Normally she'd say it's too seedy for that, but… she's in Kentucky.
"Can I get you anything?"
Rachel jumps at the voice, and turns to see a woman in her mid-thirties standing over her, pad and pen in hand. The name tag on her polo shirt reads Sandra. "Oh, um. Just a water, please? With lemon or lime, if you have it."
"Ice?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Sure thing. Show'll be starting in a minute; guess you want your wits about you," Sandy says, throwing her a wink, then walks away to fill her order.
… What show?
By the time Sandra returns with her beverage, about a dozen more women have come in. They've started clustering around the stage, and Rachel can't contain her curiosity. Just as she's about to take out her cell phone and text Sam, wanting to put an end to the suspense, the lights go down and a voice crackles over the speakers.
"Good afternoon, ladies-are you ready to meet the men of Stallionz?" Most of the women in the bar start cheering, and a frown begins to form on Rachel's face. "Then please welcome to the stage-Cobra!"
A man in a fireman's uniform jumps onto the stage and starts gyrating his hips, and-no. No. This can't be happening.
"Someone get the door, because here comes: Mr. Package!"
Please don't let this be happening.
"And ladies, let's give a warm welcome to… White Chocolate!"
Sam is a stripper.
Sam is a stripper.
She averts her gaze, and spends the next fifteen minutes examining a knot in the wood paneling on the wall and trying to put a name to what it is she's feeling. It's not shame or judgment, or even second-hand embarrassment… or first-hand embarrassment, for that matter. It feels like… like…
She remembers the summer before sixth grade, she got to go to a performing arts camp. At the end of the session, they put on a big musical-that year it was Cats, and Rachel was cast as Bombalurina. It had been her first big part, and she'd been thrilled. She committed to the role whole-heartedly… and she will never forget how it echoed in her ears when she first took the stage and her fathers screamed out her name.
She'd been mortified and livid.
That night she wasn't supposed to be Rachel Berry; she'd been Bombalurina the Jellicle Cat. Her dads had taken that from her, and that's the closest thing she can think of to what she's feeling now. That it's a violation of Sam's trust to watch him when he's trying to be a professional and she doesn't have the capacity to look at him as such. She may know Sam Evans, but she doesn't know White Chocolate, nor would she ever care to seek him out of her own volition. And she has to honor that. He deserves to feel comfortable in his work environment.
Her stomach twists.
How did this happen? He's not even eighteen; she's sure this can't be legal.
Finally, their… routine comes to a close, with the announcer promising they'll be back within the hour. She isn't sure what to do with herself-whether she should look for Sam, or if he'll find her, or if he has to work the bar when he's not dancing and she won't be able to talk to him for several hours. Before she can get too engrossed in the possibilities, her phone vibrates in her pocket.
If u still wanna talk, go thru employees only door by the bthrooms. Ill meet u.
It's followed quickly by, Its ok if u dont.
Her heart breaks a little.
There's nothing quite like being suspended from school to dull the thrill of rule-breaking, and she mostly feels sick with guilt as she ignores the Employees Only sign and heads straight through to the backstage area of the bar. Sam is waiting just on the other side of the door-fully clothed once more-and before she can stop herself, she's up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck and embrace him.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles into his clavicle, squeezing tightly. "I normally warn people before I do this."
"Um, that's okay," he says, hesitantly reaching up with one hand to rub her back a little. "Hugs are cool." Blushing, she gets off of him.
"Do you have time to talk?"
"Yeah; I'm not on again for an hour. They don't like us being out in the bar much; it ruins the, like. Mystery or something. Hey, Connor," he greets casually as the gentleman Rachel knows only as Mr. Package walks past them, presumably to get to the bathroom. "C'mon-we'll have a little bit more privacy in back."
He leads her down two hallways to what appears to be a back office-cum-locker room. "Onion ring?" he offers, taking the fresh plate from the desk and holding it out to her.
"Have they been fried in the same oil as animal products?"
"Uh, probably." He collapses into a rolling desk chair.
"Then no thank you."
"Sorry."
"It's okay," she says, not wanting him to feel bad. "So… who do you want to go first?"
He rubs his arm, just above his elbow. "Is it cool if you talk for a bit? I feel kind of…"
"No, sure. Of course."
She doesn't know where to start, so she tells him everything. About Santana; about Finn. About Kurt and NYADA and how intimidated she is by girls like Harmony, and how they won't even be able to compete against her in Sectionals, let alone win, if she can't find two more performers.
When she finally stops rambling, he stares at her. "And you want me to… come back to McKinley, learn all of Finn's parts in a week, and then…?"
"You can stay with us," Rachel says simply. "Our guest room is very comfortable, and my fathers already like to pick on me about being outnumbered by Y chromosomes. You'd fit right in, really."
He frowns and slowly runs his hands through his hair, massaging his scalp. "Rachel, I can't. My parents need me here."
"Here?" she repeats, trying not to sound judgmental. "Working as an exotic dancer in an establishment called Stallionz?"
He flinches. "They think I work at Dairy Queen. Look, it would be awesome if I could just, like, run back to Ohio with you and forget all my problems and be a kid again. But I can't. I have to be responsible."
"How is this responsible? How is this even legal?"
"It's… not. I used a fake ID to get hired. But, like-look. I just danced for fifteen minutes, and I made sixty bucks. I have two more appearances before my shift ends, and the tips are only gonna get better. Working for minimum wage at the DQ could never make me that kind of cash, and… "
"And?" she prompts softly, when it becomes clear that he's not going to finish that thought on his own.
"I've gotta help take care of Stacey and Stevie."
"You're a kid, too," she reminds him, keeping her voice gentle.
"I can't afford to be. Not anymore."
"Then come back with me to somewhere where you can. Sam, I understand why you feel responsible, but you're not obligated to sign away your childhood. There's precious little of it left; don't wish it away because it would make other people's lives easier. Even if those other people are the ones you love most in the world."
He's finally starting to look like he's taking her seriously, but his expression isn't promising. "I can't, Rachel," he croaks after a long pause.
"You can," she corrects. "You just feel like you're not allowed to."
"Well, I shouldn't be. What kind of a guy would do that? Leave his family in the lurch?"
"You'd be leaving them with one less mouth to feed. And you could still get a job in Lima and wire the money home, if you wanted to."
"…You really don't think it'd be selfish?"
"I really don't," she says honestly. Frowning, she then amends, "But then, I've been known to have a very different barometer for what's selfish and what isn't than other people."
"I don't think you're selfish," he tells her.
"And I don't think you are, either. Especially if you swoop in and rescue an underdog glee club from peril." She gives him an encouraging smile.
He stares into space for a long moment, and then his eyes snap back up to hers. "We'll talk to my parents. Okay? But if they say no, it's no."
"That's perfectly reasonable." She bites at her lip. "Are you… still going to finish your shift?"
"I kind of have to. I'm sorry to make you wait, but if I'm gonna do this, tonight's tips might be the last chance I have to make money for a while. You have a GPS?"
"Yes."
He writes his address on a napkin and hands it to her. "Meet me there at seven, okay?"
"I don't mind staying here…" she offers, but he shakes his head.
"Please go, Rachel. You shouldn't… I'm not proud of this. I don't want you to watch."
"Seven, then," she says, reaching out to clasp him on the shoulder. She gives him a reassuring squeeze and then makes her way back out to the parking lot.
… How is she supposed to entertain herself in Kentucky for three hours?
Sam's parents are surprisingly receptive to her case.
Of course, she came well-prepared. She brought all of the transfer papers with her, having picked them up in Principal Figgins' office just for the occasion (granted, the only reason she was in Principal Figgins' office is because she was getting suspended, but what Mr. and Mrs. Evans don't know won't hurt them), and it only took about a half an hour of spirited debate to get them to come around.
"So… you guys are really letting me do this?" Sam asks, aghast.
"Oh, honey," his mom says, ruffling his hair a little, "we just want you to be happy. And with your college fund in the state it's in, you deserve the chance to enjoy school however you can." She turns to Rachel. "Rachel, it's too far to drive tonight. Why don't you stay over, and you can leave in the morning?"
"Oh, I-"
"It will give Sam more time to pack. And time for us to go over any paperwork we need to sign," his dad adds.
"I wouldn't want to intrude-"
"Rachel," Mrs. Evans interjects, amused, "You're about to take in my son for the next seven or so months. I think we can take you for a night."
She gives her most gracious smile. "Let me just call my dads to let them know."
"Actually, could we talk to them? You can go hang out with Sam and we'll hash out the details."
She plugs her number into their cordless phone, and then Sam pulls her into the living room. It's an episode and a half of Man vs. Food before Sam's parents come in and join them.
"We're all set," Mr. Evans says, and Sam leaps up from the couch to hug him.
"Thank you for understanding," he says gruffly, and his dad nods.
"Sam, could you take Rachel upstairs and get her some towels?" his mom suggests. "Then get Stevie and Stacey and we'll have a family meeting about this."
"Sure," he says, offering Rachel a hand to help her up off the couch. "Follow me."
"I hope that wasn't their subtle way of telling me I smell," she says teasingly as they climb the stairs.
Sam chuckles. "Nah, I just think they wanted you to feel like you have something to do while we have a family meeting; they can run kinda long." He opens a door, leading her into the bathroom. "Towels are in that cupboard in the corner. There's plenty of hot water, so don't worry about that. My room's the one right across the hall, so just wait for me there when you're done, I guess."
Rachel finishes her shower in record time, not wanting to impose any more than she already is. Sam's room is empty when she enters, so she creeps towards the top of the stairs to check to progress of the Evans Family Meeting.
"This isn't fair," she can hear Stevie protest, his voice carrying in the cozy house. "You said the only reason we moved to Kentucky was to stay together!"
… She wishes she'd minded her own business.
Upon re-entering Sam's room, her eyes are immediately drawn the dress she'd laid out on his desk chair. She sat in traffic for four hours and entered a strip club in that dress today; the idea of putting it on her freshly clean body is immensely distasteful. She wishes she'd had the foresight to pack an overnight bag, but she hadn't anticipated this at all. Clutching the towel tighter to her chest, she goes to sit on the edge of his bed.
Stevie's words won't stop echoing in her head.
Wanting to distract herself, she takes the opportunity to look around his room. It's small-smaller than hers by about half-but not uncomfortably so. Posters for comic books and movies she's never heard of adorn his dark blue walls, and she notes with pleasure that there are several pictures of the glee club scattered around among the other family portraits. It's nice. It's settled, and it feels like him, and a stab of guilt runs through her as she realizes she's taking him away from this.
"Rachel? Are you-oh, my God!"
"I promise I'm not trying to seduce you," she squeaks, automatically moving to cover herself up despite the fact that Sam's slapped his right hand over his eyes, his left still on the doorknob. "It's just that I don't have anything to wear."
His face grows red under his fingers. "Um, sorry. Hold on, I'll get you something," he says, facing the wall and moving to his dresser. He tosses a t-shirt and a pair of exercise shorts over his shoulder; Rachel doesn't even attempt to catch them, knowing that too much twisting of her torso could have disastrous results.
"I'll go to the bathroom to change," she says, picking the pajamas up off the floor. Sam still hasn't moved; he's started pulling more clothes from the drawers, his back to her. "Sam?"
"Might as well start packing, right?" he asks. She can't identify the emotion that's choking his voice.
"I guess. Do you… need any help?" she asks, hovering near his doorway.
He stops long enough to shrug. "Not really. I've gotten pretty good at packing, lately."
"Rachel? What are you doing down here?"
She turns to the sound of Sam's voice, finding him at the bottom of the stairs with his arms full of bedding.
"Oh, thank you. I was just… getting ready for bed…"
He looks at her like she's an amusing cartoon of some kind. "You thought I was going to make you sleep on the couch?"
"I'm your guest. It's only natural that-"
"You're a girl," he clarifies, shuffling forward to dump the comforter and pillow on the cushion next to her. "A gentleman doesn't make a lady sleep on the couch. It's bad form."
"Sam, that's-"
"My parents would yell at me," he clarifies, winking at her.
"Oh. Well, in that case…" She smiles and gets up from the couch, allowing him to make his bed for the evening.
"Wanna watch some TV with me before you head to bed?"
"Thank you, but no. It's been a long day."
"'Kay. Goodnight, Rachel."
She can't help the way her gaze lingers on him before she turns to climb the stairs. "Goodnight, Sam."
It's 11:30, and he still can't sleep.
Rachel went up to bed hours ago, and no matter how hard he tries, he just can't get his brain to shut up long enough to close his eyes. Part of him feels like he's been dreaming this whole time, anyway; how can it be real that he's moving back to Ohio tomorrow? Back to glee club, and to his friends, and to…
And to Mercedes.
Reaching out, he picks up his phone from the coffee table. What wd u say if I said im gonna be mckinly on Monday?
It's probably stupid, and he knows that, but just… he has to ask.
He waits.
I'd say your crazy. And that I have a boyfriend.
He rolls over and grins into his pillow, finally excited about this. Yeah she does.
Author:
professor_spork
Beta:
beingfacetious
Character/Pairing: Eventual Rachel/Sam, Rachel/Quinn, Sam/Quinn, Rachel/Sam/Quinn... also other people are in this story, I promise.
Fandom: Glee
Rating: PG-13 (subject to change)
Summary: S3 AU. In a world where Shelby never comes back to town, Rachel finds herself boyfriendless and in the habit of taking in strays. Housing Sam to save the glee club is one thing, but she can't help but feel like Quinn is in trouble...
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
She wakes at 6:00 sharp to her iPod blaring, and the first thing she sees-by design-is her motivation board. On it, typed in large, bold font, is:
REPLACE FINN
GET KURT ELECTED
…Oops.
Wincing, Rachel reaches out and turns off her alarm, silencing Matthew Wilder. Her room feels much too large in the quiet. She bites her lip, feeling guilty, then gets up and walks over to her desk. Pulling a piece of paper out of her printer, she takes a teal Sharpie from her drawer and writes a new goal in block letters (SAVE GLEE CLUB), then affixes it to the wall in front of her elliptical.
There. Nice and vague. Hopefully vague enough that she can actually succeed, for once.
It would be a nice change after the month she's had.
She's about a third of the way into the original Broadway cast recording of The King and I (having already sung through the entirety of South Pacific) when she spies a water tower that says FLORENCE, Y'ALL further down the highway.
Oh sweet Rodgers and Hammerstein, she's really in Kentucky.
Her GPS gets her to Boone County High School without difficulty, but once she's there, the flaws in her otherwise flawless plan immediately make themselves known: she has no idea where Sam might be in the building, and there are multiple exits and a great number of other students blocking her gaze.
Should she text him?
She considers it for a moment. She knows he had his phone turned off for a while in Lima, because his family was trying to cut back on unnecessary expenses, but she can't imagine that he's had to change his number since it was reactivated. At worst, contacting him would ruin the fantastically dramatic reunion she'd had planned in her head-how she'd call out to him and he'd turn around looking utterly baffled, and how his eyes would widen in surprise and then soften with joy and gratitude. (She's always been excellent at visualization exercises.) But really, realizing that picturesque scenario isn't worth the risk of losing him in the crowd. And maybe she's had enough drama lately.
Decision made, she locks her car and digs her phone out of her purse. As she walks towards the main courtyard, she shoots off a quick text: Meet me under the flag pole in five minutes, please. - Rachel*
She does her best to take slow, even breaths as she waits for his reply. About a minute and a half later, she gets one.
U 4got 2 take me off ur glee mass txt list
The urge to slap her forehead is unbearably strong. I'm not at McKinley, Sam. I mean YOUR flagpole.
After another two minutes, he emerges from the building and walks over to meet her. The look on his face is impossible to interpret.
"Rachel, what are you doing here?"
Maybe not the warmest of welcomes. She plasters on her winningest smile. "It's wonderful to see you too, Sam."
He glances down. "Look, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be rude, but now's a pretty bad time and I just don't-"
"I want you to come back to Lima," she blurts.
A look of pure, incredulous hope crosses over his face before he stifles it. "What?"
"The glee club needs you, and I want you to come back to McKinley with me to sing with New Directions."
"Rachel, that's… crazy. I know you guys miss me, and I miss you too, but-"
"Much as we miss you, Sam, this isn't just some arbitrary whim. If you don't come back with me, we can't perform. We're under the member limit as I've been temporarily banned from the stage." She doesn't mention that Finn's been kicked out of the group as well, perhaps permanently-Sam's in a rush, and brevity is therefore key.
"What? Why?" he asks in a gasp, before shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts. "No, it's-no. I don't have time for this. Rachel, I'm really sorry you came all this way, but I can't talk right now. I have to get to work."
"That's fine. We can walk and talk. Though really, it's something of a long tale, so perhaps I'll just start to explain while you drive over, and we can pick up the discussion after work? However long your shift lasts, I don't mind waiting."
He looks stricken. "That's not a good idea."
"Sam, unless you work at a butcher shop, I don't see why I can't come with you." She searches his face for a sign that he's giving in, and tries to soften her own expression. "Please. I drove all this way."
He runs a hand through his hair; she notes that the tips of his ears have turned red. "My car is on the opposite side of campus, I can't just-I really can't be late."
"My car is just across the courtyard; I'll drive you to yours, and then follow you to your work. We can talk there. Okay?"
"Do you ever give up?" Sam asks, then smiles ruefully. "What am I saying; of course you don't. You're Rachel Berry."
"Since the day I was born," she agrees, leading him back to where she parked.
"So… why are you banned? Is it a handicap to make it more fair for the other teams or something?" he asks as they wind their way through the crowd.
She trips over her own feet, which is uncharacteristic-she's normally quite graceful. "What?"
"Well, it's like… I dunno. I always kinda felt like we were all just the Scoobies to your Slayer. So it would make sense not to send you in for the first round; that's bringing a gun to a knife fight. Or vampire slayers to… um. Show choir. Sorry, I sorta lost that one."
She beams at him as she unlocks her door. "I have no idea what any of that meant, but I'm pretty sure it's one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me."
The parking lot of the building he drives to is surprisingly full for a Friday afternoon. She has no idea why he sought employment at a restaurant/bar called "Stallionz," but knows he needs the money, so she doesn't say anything.
"You're really going to follow me in?" he asks when she exits her car and catches up with him. For each of his strides, she needs to take two; he can't help but smile a little.
"It would be inefficient and tedious for me to wait in my car for you all night, don't you think?"
"I guess, it's only that-" He pauses his speech to reach out and hold the door open for her; she smiles at his gallantry and enters the building, squinting so her eyes will adjust to the comparative darkness. "-It's only that we won't really get to talk much, in here."
"Hopefully you'll find time to speak with me," she says, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the mingled scent of cigarette smoke, stale beer and frying beef that assails her nostrils.
"My shift ends at six thirty; are you sure we just can't talk then?"
"Sam, I'm already here," she points out.
He leads her to a booth tucked away in a back corner, and sighs. "Okay. You win."
"You'll come?"
"What? No! Look, just… if you still even want me to come back to Lima after this, then we'll talk. But don't ask me until you know everything."
She frowns at how cryptic he's being. "I can't imagine that anything would change my mind."
"Of course you can't," he says softly, smiling in a broken sort of way. "Well. Chill here, then. I'll come talk to you when I can."
He walks away to do whatever it is he has to do to get ready for his shift, and she finally takes a moment to absorb her surroundings. Most of the patrons appear to be women, which strikes her as slightly odd-she's always associated places like this with testosterone and aggression. There's a small stage adorned with silver streamers at the other end of the bar, and she wonders if this is, in fact, some kind of dinner theater establishment. Normally she'd say it's too seedy for that, but… she's in Kentucky.
"Can I get you anything?"
Rachel jumps at the voice, and turns to see a woman in her mid-thirties standing over her, pad and pen in hand. The name tag on her polo shirt reads Sandra. "Oh, um. Just a water, please? With lemon or lime, if you have it."
"Ice?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Sure thing. Show'll be starting in a minute; guess you want your wits about you," Sandy says, throwing her a wink, then walks away to fill her order.
… What show?
By the time Sandra returns with her beverage, about a dozen more women have come in. They've started clustering around the stage, and Rachel can't contain her curiosity. Just as she's about to take out her cell phone and text Sam, wanting to put an end to the suspense, the lights go down and a voice crackles over the speakers.
"Good afternoon, ladies-are you ready to meet the men of Stallionz?" Most of the women in the bar start cheering, and a frown begins to form on Rachel's face. "Then please welcome to the stage-Cobra!"
A man in a fireman's uniform jumps onto the stage and starts gyrating his hips, and-no. No. This can't be happening.
"Someone get the door, because here comes: Mr. Package!"
Please don't let this be happening.
"And ladies, let's give a warm welcome to… White Chocolate!"
Sam is a stripper.
Sam is a stripper.
She averts her gaze, and spends the next fifteen minutes examining a knot in the wood paneling on the wall and trying to put a name to what it is she's feeling. It's not shame or judgment, or even second-hand embarrassment… or first-hand embarrassment, for that matter. It feels like… like…
She remembers the summer before sixth grade, she got to go to a performing arts camp. At the end of the session, they put on a big musical-that year it was Cats, and Rachel was cast as Bombalurina. It had been her first big part, and she'd been thrilled. She committed to the role whole-heartedly… and she will never forget how it echoed in her ears when she first took the stage and her fathers screamed out her name.
She'd been mortified and livid.
That night she wasn't supposed to be Rachel Berry; she'd been Bombalurina the Jellicle Cat. Her dads had taken that from her, and that's the closest thing she can think of to what she's feeling now. That it's a violation of Sam's trust to watch him when he's trying to be a professional and she doesn't have the capacity to look at him as such. She may know Sam Evans, but she doesn't know White Chocolate, nor would she ever care to seek him out of her own volition. And she has to honor that. He deserves to feel comfortable in his work environment.
Her stomach twists.
How did this happen? He's not even eighteen; she's sure this can't be legal.
Finally, their… routine comes to a close, with the announcer promising they'll be back within the hour. She isn't sure what to do with herself-whether she should look for Sam, or if he'll find her, or if he has to work the bar when he's not dancing and she won't be able to talk to him for several hours. Before she can get too engrossed in the possibilities, her phone vibrates in her pocket.
If u still wanna talk, go thru employees only door by the bthrooms. Ill meet u.
It's followed quickly by, Its ok if u dont.
Her heart breaks a little.
There's nothing quite like being suspended from school to dull the thrill of rule-breaking, and she mostly feels sick with guilt as she ignores the Employees Only sign and heads straight through to the backstage area of the bar. Sam is waiting just on the other side of the door-fully clothed once more-and before she can stop herself, she's up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck and embrace him.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles into his clavicle, squeezing tightly. "I normally warn people before I do this."
"Um, that's okay," he says, hesitantly reaching up with one hand to rub her back a little. "Hugs are cool." Blushing, she gets off of him.
"Do you have time to talk?"
"Yeah; I'm not on again for an hour. They don't like us being out in the bar much; it ruins the, like. Mystery or something. Hey, Connor," he greets casually as the gentleman Rachel knows only as Mr. Package walks past them, presumably to get to the bathroom. "C'mon-we'll have a little bit more privacy in back."
He leads her down two hallways to what appears to be a back office-cum-locker room. "Onion ring?" he offers, taking the fresh plate from the desk and holding it out to her.
"Have they been fried in the same oil as animal products?"
"Uh, probably." He collapses into a rolling desk chair.
"Then no thank you."
"Sorry."
"It's okay," she says, not wanting him to feel bad. "So… who do you want to go first?"
He rubs his arm, just above his elbow. "Is it cool if you talk for a bit? I feel kind of…"
"No, sure. Of course."
She doesn't know where to start, so she tells him everything. About Santana; about Finn. About Kurt and NYADA and how intimidated she is by girls like Harmony, and how they won't even be able to compete against her in Sectionals, let alone win, if she can't find two more performers.
When she finally stops rambling, he stares at her. "And you want me to… come back to McKinley, learn all of Finn's parts in a week, and then…?"
"You can stay with us," Rachel says simply. "Our guest room is very comfortable, and my fathers already like to pick on me about being outnumbered by Y chromosomes. You'd fit right in, really."
He frowns and slowly runs his hands through his hair, massaging his scalp. "Rachel, I can't. My parents need me here."
"Here?" she repeats, trying not to sound judgmental. "Working as an exotic dancer in an establishment called Stallionz?"
He flinches. "They think I work at Dairy Queen. Look, it would be awesome if I could just, like, run back to Ohio with you and forget all my problems and be a kid again. But I can't. I have to be responsible."
"How is this responsible? How is this even legal?"
"It's… not. I used a fake ID to get hired. But, like-look. I just danced for fifteen minutes, and I made sixty bucks. I have two more appearances before my shift ends, and the tips are only gonna get better. Working for minimum wage at the DQ could never make me that kind of cash, and… "
"And?" she prompts softly, when it becomes clear that he's not going to finish that thought on his own.
"I've gotta help take care of Stacey and Stevie."
"You're a kid, too," she reminds him, keeping her voice gentle.
"I can't afford to be. Not anymore."
"Then come back with me to somewhere where you can. Sam, I understand why you feel responsible, but you're not obligated to sign away your childhood. There's precious little of it left; don't wish it away because it would make other people's lives easier. Even if those other people are the ones you love most in the world."
He's finally starting to look like he's taking her seriously, but his expression isn't promising. "I can't, Rachel," he croaks after a long pause.
"You can," she corrects. "You just feel like you're not allowed to."
"Well, I shouldn't be. What kind of a guy would do that? Leave his family in the lurch?"
"You'd be leaving them with one less mouth to feed. And you could still get a job in Lima and wire the money home, if you wanted to."
"…You really don't think it'd be selfish?"
"I really don't," she says honestly. Frowning, she then amends, "But then, I've been known to have a very different barometer for what's selfish and what isn't than other people."
"I don't think you're selfish," he tells her.
"And I don't think you are, either. Especially if you swoop in and rescue an underdog glee club from peril." She gives him an encouraging smile.
He stares into space for a long moment, and then his eyes snap back up to hers. "We'll talk to my parents. Okay? But if they say no, it's no."
"That's perfectly reasonable." She bites at her lip. "Are you… still going to finish your shift?"
"I kind of have to. I'm sorry to make you wait, but if I'm gonna do this, tonight's tips might be the last chance I have to make money for a while. You have a GPS?"
"Yes."
He writes his address on a napkin and hands it to her. "Meet me there at seven, okay?"
"I don't mind staying here…" she offers, but he shakes his head.
"Please go, Rachel. You shouldn't… I'm not proud of this. I don't want you to watch."
"Seven, then," she says, reaching out to clasp him on the shoulder. She gives him a reassuring squeeze and then makes her way back out to the parking lot.
… How is she supposed to entertain herself in Kentucky for three hours?
Sam's parents are surprisingly receptive to her case.
Of course, she came well-prepared. She brought all of the transfer papers with her, having picked them up in Principal Figgins' office just for the occasion (granted, the only reason she was in Principal Figgins' office is because she was getting suspended, but what Mr. and Mrs. Evans don't know won't hurt them), and it only took about a half an hour of spirited debate to get them to come around.
"So… you guys are really letting me do this?" Sam asks, aghast.
"Oh, honey," his mom says, ruffling his hair a little, "we just want you to be happy. And with your college fund in the state it's in, you deserve the chance to enjoy school however you can." She turns to Rachel. "Rachel, it's too far to drive tonight. Why don't you stay over, and you can leave in the morning?"
"Oh, I-"
"It will give Sam more time to pack. And time for us to go over any paperwork we need to sign," his dad adds.
"I wouldn't want to intrude-"
"Rachel," Mrs. Evans interjects, amused, "You're about to take in my son for the next seven or so months. I think we can take you for a night."
She gives her most gracious smile. "Let me just call my dads to let them know."
"Actually, could we talk to them? You can go hang out with Sam and we'll hash out the details."
She plugs her number into their cordless phone, and then Sam pulls her into the living room. It's an episode and a half of Man vs. Food before Sam's parents come in and join them.
"We're all set," Mr. Evans says, and Sam leaps up from the couch to hug him.
"Thank you for understanding," he says gruffly, and his dad nods.
"Sam, could you take Rachel upstairs and get her some towels?" his mom suggests. "Then get Stevie and Stacey and we'll have a family meeting about this."
"Sure," he says, offering Rachel a hand to help her up off the couch. "Follow me."
"I hope that wasn't their subtle way of telling me I smell," she says teasingly as they climb the stairs.
Sam chuckles. "Nah, I just think they wanted you to feel like you have something to do while we have a family meeting; they can run kinda long." He opens a door, leading her into the bathroom. "Towels are in that cupboard in the corner. There's plenty of hot water, so don't worry about that. My room's the one right across the hall, so just wait for me there when you're done, I guess."
Rachel finishes her shower in record time, not wanting to impose any more than she already is. Sam's room is empty when she enters, so she creeps towards the top of the stairs to check to progress of the Evans Family Meeting.
"This isn't fair," she can hear Stevie protest, his voice carrying in the cozy house. "You said the only reason we moved to Kentucky was to stay together!"
… She wishes she'd minded her own business.
Upon re-entering Sam's room, her eyes are immediately drawn the dress she'd laid out on his desk chair. She sat in traffic for four hours and entered a strip club in that dress today; the idea of putting it on her freshly clean body is immensely distasteful. She wishes she'd had the foresight to pack an overnight bag, but she hadn't anticipated this at all. Clutching the towel tighter to her chest, she goes to sit on the edge of his bed.
Stevie's words won't stop echoing in her head.
Wanting to distract herself, she takes the opportunity to look around his room. It's small-smaller than hers by about half-but not uncomfortably so. Posters for comic books and movies she's never heard of adorn his dark blue walls, and she notes with pleasure that there are several pictures of the glee club scattered around among the other family portraits. It's nice. It's settled, and it feels like him, and a stab of guilt runs through her as she realizes she's taking him away from this.
"Rachel? Are you-oh, my God!"
"I promise I'm not trying to seduce you," she squeaks, automatically moving to cover herself up despite the fact that Sam's slapped his right hand over his eyes, his left still on the doorknob. "It's just that I don't have anything to wear."
His face grows red under his fingers. "Um, sorry. Hold on, I'll get you something," he says, facing the wall and moving to his dresser. He tosses a t-shirt and a pair of exercise shorts over his shoulder; Rachel doesn't even attempt to catch them, knowing that too much twisting of her torso could have disastrous results.
"I'll go to the bathroom to change," she says, picking the pajamas up off the floor. Sam still hasn't moved; he's started pulling more clothes from the drawers, his back to her. "Sam?"
"Might as well start packing, right?" he asks. She can't identify the emotion that's choking his voice.
"I guess. Do you… need any help?" she asks, hovering near his doorway.
He stops long enough to shrug. "Not really. I've gotten pretty good at packing, lately."
"Rachel? What are you doing down here?"
She turns to the sound of Sam's voice, finding him at the bottom of the stairs with his arms full of bedding.
"Oh, thank you. I was just… getting ready for bed…"
He looks at her like she's an amusing cartoon of some kind. "You thought I was going to make you sleep on the couch?"
"I'm your guest. It's only natural that-"
"You're a girl," he clarifies, shuffling forward to dump the comforter and pillow on the cushion next to her. "A gentleman doesn't make a lady sleep on the couch. It's bad form."
"Sam, that's-"
"My parents would yell at me," he clarifies, winking at her.
"Oh. Well, in that case…" She smiles and gets up from the couch, allowing him to make his bed for the evening.
"Wanna watch some TV with me before you head to bed?"
"Thank you, but no. It's been a long day."
"'Kay. Goodnight, Rachel."
She can't help the way her gaze lingers on him before she turns to climb the stairs. "Goodnight, Sam."
It's 11:30, and he still can't sleep.
Rachel went up to bed hours ago, and no matter how hard he tries, he just can't get his brain to shut up long enough to close his eyes. Part of him feels like he's been dreaming this whole time, anyway; how can it be real that he's moving back to Ohio tomorrow? Back to glee club, and to his friends, and to…
And to Mercedes.
Reaching out, he picks up his phone from the coffee table. What wd u say if I said im gonna be mckinly on Monday?
It's probably stupid, and he knows that, but just… he has to ask.
He waits.
I'd say your crazy. And that I have a boyfriend.
He rolls over and grins into his pillow, finally excited about this. Yeah she does.