Stay A Little Longer
Title: Stay A Little Longer
Chapter: 1/1
Warning: I guess you could say this is speculation for a back 9 (or should I say back 7?) event. This one's not related to the other fictable stories.
Pairing: Puck/Rachel
Summary: Fictable prompt #13 - Death.
Word Count: 3,610
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Sometimes being team captain is not at all what she wants
Times like this one, when she's been elected to come to this house and deal with the thing, the boy, the situation that no one else is brave enough to.
She's not surprised, really, since it always seems to be her picking up all the pieces and putting everyone back together again. It's been her lot in glee since before the news of the baby's paternity broke. It hasn't changed, no matter what's gone on with her. Finn, Jesse, Finn again, all that. None of it matters. If something needs fixing, it's Rachel who does it.
She did it when Jesse left (broke up with her) and she had to restore the New Directions' faith in the group, let them know that they could carry on without him.
She did it when Mr. Schue came down with pneumonia and had to miss two weeks and she had to step in as interim director. No one groaned this time. Artie actually thanked her, and Finn told her what a good job she did bringing everyone together and keeping things on track.
When Mike twisted his wrist breakdancing, Rachel got the ice. When Brittany walked into practice with a cut on her leg from...something...Rachel applied the band-aid.
It's just her job, and she takes it seriously.
But this is bigger than a broken heart or a sore wrist or a little blood.
She selfishly (just for a second) wishes that he and Quinn hadn't broken up, because then maybe Rachel wouldn't have to be the one standing on Noah's doorstep, about to ask him how he's feeling since he found out his father died.
But that's not very fair, and despite what he wants to believe, he's her friend, so she takes a deep breath, straightens out her skirt, and knocks at the door.
He answers the door wearing jeans and a plain white tee shirt and a look on his face that's clearly asking what on earth she's doing there.
"Hi," she says quietly, waving a little, her hand close to her body.
"Uh. Hi."
"May I come in?" she asks, looking into his eyes. They're sad, and she wonders if they've always been like that, at least a little bit.
She's realizing now, maybe for the first time, how hard he's had it. But she knows he won't want her pity, so she'll keep that out of all this completely.
"I guess," he says, and he steps aside for her to walk in.
"Are you alone?" she asks once she notes how quiet the house is, how just his guitar is resting against the sofa and there's no one else in sight. He shrugs his shoulder. She assumes that's a yes. "Oh. Well, I just wanted to stop by and see how you're doing."
"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" he asks, sitting down on the sofa, pulling his guitar onto his lap.
"Noah."
"What?" His voice sounds harsh, but he's not kicking her out, and she thinks that has to stand for something. "Just because my ass of a dad kicked it? I haven't seen the guy since he split and left us eight years ago. I'm fine."
She sits on the sofa next to him and smiles knowingly. He's not looking at her to see it. "Of course. I just thought since you weren't at school today..."
"I got an excuse to take a couple days off. I hate school anyway." He glances over at her and she's toying with the bottom of her skirt. She doesn't really believe anything he's saying. And she doesn't like how defensive he's being. She's almost certain that means he's not as fine as he says he is.
"Some of us were worried."
"Yeah? Who?" he asks bitterly. "Finn? Quinn? You?"
The way he spits that last one makes her jump a little.
And she isn't sure why he's surprised that people are concerned for him.
"Yes," she says seriously. He rolls his eyes and strums a chord, but she reaches over and mutes the strings with her hand. "Noah, it's okay if you want to talk about it."
"I don't."
"That's okay, too," she says. She gets comfortable, and he watches her as she tucks her legs beneath her on the sofa, then pulls the throw cushion onto her legs, smoothing her hands over it for no reason. "What are you working on."
"Rachel, I don't need a fucking babysitter," he says, sounding far too exhausted, given that she assumes he's slept half the day away.
"You don't have one. Didn't I tell you? Tina dropped me off. Mike will be by to pick me up in an hour and a half." She smiles in accomplishment as he narrows his eyes at her.
"What if I hadn't let you in?"
He's almost smiling. She grins triumphantly.
"I knew you would."
He doesn't deny it. She thinks he really wants to, he just can't.
"Whatever," he mumbles. He gets up, guitar in hand, and makes his way to the stairs. She watches him. When he notices she's not following, he turns and looks at her. "Coming?"
She doesn't really know what to do. It's strange enough she's alone with him in his house. Now she's going to be alone with him in his house and presumably in his bedroom? She doesn't know what to expect of this.
She's being silly. He's not going to try anything. He's just broken up with his girlfriend and he's in a vulnerable emotional state, probably far more confused over the death of his father than he'll ever let on.
So she gets up and sets the pillow down, then follows him up the stairs.
Once they're in his room, she notices he's pulled his tee shirt off, and she coughs (they're always doing that in the movies; it seems fitting) and he turns around, smirking at her. That's more of what she's used to from him.
"Like what you see?" he asks, and admittedly, her eyes have lingered on his shirtless body a little too long.
"What are you doing?" She puts her hands on her hips and stares directly at his face.
"Changing my shirt. 'S'cold in this fucking house." He pulls a long sleeved tee shirt over his head and sits down on his bed, legs stretched out and his back against the headboard. "You gonna sit?"
She knows it's cold. There's a blanket at the end of his bed and she eyes it, thinking that maybe if she sits down, she can casually unfold it in a little while, once it's clear he actually wants her to stay, and pull it over her lap. That's the thing about wearing skirts all the time, sometimes you get really, really cold.
She sits down next to him, and he moves over a little bit, so he's sitting more in the middle of the bed. "Are you sure you don't want to talk?" she asks after a few moments of him looking at her and her looking around his room.
It's cleaner than she thought it would be. Spotless, actually. There are no clothes piled around and none of that typical boy stuff she assumed he'd have. She's been in Finn's room, and it's all band posters and clothes on the floor. Noah's room is neat and tidy. She wonders if that's his doing or his mother's.
"I suppose you want me to."
"Not if you don't want to," she says. He actually laughs a little bit.
"You're actually giving me a choice?" he asks, and he raises his brow as she says it.
"Well, if you don't talk, you'll just be forcing me to," she says, grinning at him as he stares at her. They both know it's true.
"Can we just...can we...fuck. If you tell anyone about this, I'll never talk to you again," he says threateningly.
"We don't talk much to begin with." She thinks she sounds sadder than she should. She thinks he looks more upset at her for saying it than he should.
"I just wanna sit here," he says seriously, maybe a little quieter than he usually speaks. His eyes meet hers and she doesn't say anything. "Okay? Just...are you capable of being quiet for more than like, thirty seconds?"
She smiles and sits back against the headboard, her arm brushing against his. "I won Camp Kadima's vow of silence competition when I was 11. I went two whole days without talking."
He looks at her in surprise. "And you've been talking every fucking second since," he mumbles. She puts on this little scowl and he laughs, and she thinks maybe her job here isn't so difficult. "Alright. Quiet."
"I won't say a word," she promises.
She reaches for the blanket at the end of the bed, and she can feel his eyes on her back. She knows her sweater has ridden up and some of her skin is showing. She also knows he's not moving, not going to reach out and touch it like he did when they dated. (He always touched all the bare skin he could, then grinned innocently when she looked at him.) She pulls the blanket over her legs, notices that he's still watching her, so she holds it up, as if to ask if he wants some too. He doesn't say or do anything, so she drapes it over his legs, then wiggles her bottom a little bit to get comfortable, leans her head back against the headboard and closes her eyes.
She doesn't open her eyes. She just sits there and listens to him breathing next to her. At one point, he shifts a little, pushing him closer to her, though she's not sure that's his intention. She doesn't mind. He's warm and his sweater is very soft. Cashmere, at least bended with something else. She remembers this sweater. He wore it a couple weeks ago and during glee rehearsal when choreography called for him to touch his arm, she remembers how it felt beneath her hands.
Every once in a while, he'll take a deep breath, or he'll uncross his legs and cross them again the opposite way. She feels his head thump against the headboard when he tips it back and lets out a heavy sigh. She dares to open her eyes and when she looks at the clock, she sees that it's been twenty minutes of just sitting there, breathing in the scent of fabric softener and his deodorant. (He's never worn cologne, he told her when they were dating and she told him she liked the way he smelled.)
"It just...blows," he says, and she turns to look at him. He's still staring at the opposite wall. "You know? Like, fuck. Here's this fucking douchebag who treated us like shit 90 per cent of the time and then bolted when he felt like it, and I'm supposed to like, mourn his death or something?" She doesn't say anything. "Fucker drank himself to death. Did they tell you that? His liver failed and he died because he was a goddamn alcoholic."
Now she just doesn't know what to say. She didn't know that. No one knew the details. She wasn't going to ask. It wasn't her intention to come here and listen to the whole story unless he wanted to tell it.
It's just a lot harder to hear than she assumed.
"So I'm fucking pissed, really, because of course he'd fucking die and give me more emotional baggage than when he was alive," he says. She wants to take his hand. She doesn't. He scoffs at himself. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. You've got two dads."
She chews the inside of her lip and looks to her lap. "I have two dads, but I don't have a mother."
When she looks at him, he's just staring at her like he's not sure if he should apologize or not. "It's not the same," he decides.
"Can I tell you a secret?" she asks. He shrugs, and she thinks that means she can say whatever she wants. "You know how I was conceived, right?"
"Yeah. You told me. And it's kinda gross, Rachel," he says. He's serious, but he smiles when he's done talking and Rachel rolls her eyes a little.
"Well, no one knows that...that my mother, the woman who bore me...she chose not to be a part of my life."
He looks confused. Concerned, actually, if she's reading him properly. "What?"
"Dad and Daddy told her she could be like an aunt or something, and that they'd tell me who she was when I was old enough to understand," she explains. "She went along with it until I was born, then changed her mind and left town and we haven't heard from her since."
"That...sucks."
"Yes," she says quietly, toying with the edge of the blanket on her lap. "So I was rejected from birth, and I know that's not the same as growing up idolizing your father..."
"I didn't. He's a deadbeat."
"But you knew him. And I know my situation isn't the same, but I know what it's like to have someone choose something else over you," she says. He can barely hear her. She looks at him and smiles, hoping he'll understand that what she's about to say is a joke. "Actually, that kind of happens to me all the time." He laughs a little bit. "No one's telling you that you shouldn't still be mad at him."
"Mom is," he mumbles. Rachel looks over at him, shifting a little bit so her knee brushes his thigh. "I mean...fuck. He left her, too, and she's fucking...she cried herself to sleep last night and she drove to Dayton today for the funeral. What the fuck!?"
"She loved him. He's still the father of her children. He gave her more than he gave you," Rachel says candidly. He looks over at her again. "I mean, I just assumed..."
He sighs and nods his head. "You're right," he says. "You're always right. That's really fucking annoying, you know that?" She laughs a little and nods, shrugging one shoulder. "Stupid fucking guy had to die," he mumbles angrily.
Rachel takes a deep breath and contemplates whether or not she should say this next thing she wants to say. She honestly doesn't know. But then again, she's never really been the kind not to speak her mind on just about everything.
"It's okay to miss him, you know." Her voice is soft and she doesn't look at him as she speaks.
"I don't," he barks.
"Or course not. But if you did, even a little bit, I don't think anyone would fault you for that," she says quietly.
He doesn't say anything, just takes a breath and lets it out loudly. She can see him thinking about it, see the wheels turning as he wonders if he really does miss the guy. She honestly couldn't blame him either way, if he did or if he didn't.
"Really fucking annoying," he mumbles, nudging her with his elbow. "Hey, uh...thanks. You know? For like, listening or whatever."
She knows how difficult it is for him to talk about his emotions. She's not going to bother him about it like other people would. Maybe because she likes that she's the one he always seems to open up to.
"You're welcome, Noah." He lets out a sigh, of relief, she thinks, and pats her leg non-too-gently over the blanket. She swats his hand and pulls her legs away from him as she laughs. In the process, she pulls the blanket off his body.
"Hey! Now I'm cold," he pouts.
As if he needs to put any more emphasis on those lips of his.
(Did she honestly just think that?)
"Here," she says dramatically, lifting the blanket again, positioning it perfectly over his legs. As she's leaning forward, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her against him. It's kind of like a hug, but she's fairly certain he's not going to let go. "Noah."
"Shh." She likes the sound of his heartbeat in her ear, the feel of his arms tight around her, that smell that feels a little too familiar. "You wanna stay for a while?"
His fingertips are swirling in circles on her side, and she's not sure she should say yes. But she doesn't want to say no. "Mike will be here in a little bit."
"I know. Call him. I can drive you home later, just..." He sighs in frustration, with himself, she thinks. "I want you to stay."
She lets herself relax in his arms then, and her hand falls across his stomach. "Okay." She doesn't have to look at him to know that he's definitely got some kind of smug smile on his face. She's never met anyone who loved getting their way more than him. Well, other than herself.
"Good," he says. "I'm feeling all emotional. And vulnerable. And fragile. I might cry."
She gives him a look and he smirks at her. "If you do, I won't make fun of you." He laughs softly and pulls her closer, sinking back against the bed a little more. She gets the feeling that just holding her is making him feel better. She doesn't really mind it either. "Not like you made fun of me when we watched P.S. I Love You."
"Okay, whoa," he says, pulling away a little bit. "Not even fucking close to the same thing. You fucking twisted my arm to watch that shit in the first place and then like, quizzed me to make sure I was paying attention."
"Still. It was sad, and you laughed at me." She's smiling and his hand is still on her, though his arm has gone slack. She misses being pressed against him. She likes, however, that they're talking about their time together fondly. Looking back, it really was kind of nice, being Noah's girlfriend.
"Whatever," he says. "At least you're not one of those chicks who looks ugly when she cries.
"Noah!" she laughs.
"What?" he asks with a smile. "You're a cute crier."
He moves so he's laying down, head against the pillows, and looks at her expectantly until she does the same. He watches her curiously as she reaches beneath the blanket and does something.
"Just...making sure my skirt is..."
"No need," he says as he turns on his side to face her. "I don't mind."
She doesn't really know what's going on. They've gone from a very serious conversation to this little flirtation, and she finds she likes it, though she's sure she should know better.
His legs tangle with hers, and she's very aware that his thigh is between hers, not far from...well, it's a place he never got familiar with, and she almost blushes at the thought and the image that follows. She should not be thinking about this. She's just broken up with Jesse, and he's just broken up with Quinn, and he's going through a rough time. She's just comforting him, that's all.
He texts Mike from his phone because Rachel's is downstairs, and she reads what he's said before he sends it, just to make sure it's nothing inappropriate. She laughs when he asks if she really thinks he'd do something like that. Of course he would.
They just lay there a while, staring at one another. Literally, staring. Eventually, he reaches for her hand and holds it between them, right between their chests, and she's even more confused. They're being completely quiet, not saying anything, just looking at one another.
And when he starts breathing just a little more quickly, and when she sees the shimmer of something in his eyes, watches him try to blink it away, she just moves closer to him, lets him hold her against his chest. She doesn't say a word except an apology when he asks her why she's crying. She buries her face against him again and he runs his hand down her back.
And she thinks they're more alike than either of them ever thought.
Chapter: 1/1
Warning: I guess you could say this is speculation for a back 9 (or should I say back 7?) event. This one's not related to the other fictable stories.
Pairing: Puck/Rachel
Summary: Fictable prompt #13 - Death.
Word Count: 3,610
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Sometimes being team captain is not at all what she wants
Times like this one, when she's been elected to come to this house and deal with the thing, the boy, the situation that no one else is brave enough to.
She's not surprised, really, since it always seems to be her picking up all the pieces and putting everyone back together again. It's been her lot in glee since before the news of the baby's paternity broke. It hasn't changed, no matter what's gone on with her. Finn, Jesse, Finn again, all that. None of it matters. If something needs fixing, it's Rachel who does it.
She did it when Jesse left (broke up with her) and she had to restore the New Directions' faith in the group, let them know that they could carry on without him.
She did it when Mr. Schue came down with pneumonia and had to miss two weeks and she had to step in as interim director. No one groaned this time. Artie actually thanked her, and Finn told her what a good job she did bringing everyone together and keeping things on track.
When Mike twisted his wrist breakdancing, Rachel got the ice. When Brittany walked into practice with a cut on her leg from...something...Rachel applied the band-aid.
It's just her job, and she takes it seriously.
But this is bigger than a broken heart or a sore wrist or a little blood.
She selfishly (just for a second) wishes that he and Quinn hadn't broken up, because then maybe Rachel wouldn't have to be the one standing on Noah's doorstep, about to ask him how he's feeling since he found out his father died.
But that's not very fair, and despite what he wants to believe, he's her friend, so she takes a deep breath, straightens out her skirt, and knocks at the door.
He answers the door wearing jeans and a plain white tee shirt and a look on his face that's clearly asking what on earth she's doing there.
"Hi," she says quietly, waving a little, her hand close to her body.
"Uh. Hi."
"May I come in?" she asks, looking into his eyes. They're sad, and she wonders if they've always been like that, at least a little bit.
She's realizing now, maybe for the first time, how hard he's had it. But she knows he won't want her pity, so she'll keep that out of all this completely.
"I guess," he says, and he steps aside for her to walk in.
"Are you alone?" she asks once she notes how quiet the house is, how just his guitar is resting against the sofa and there's no one else in sight. He shrugs his shoulder. She assumes that's a yes. "Oh. Well, I just wanted to stop by and see how you're doing."
"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" he asks, sitting down on the sofa, pulling his guitar onto his lap.
"Noah."
"What?" His voice sounds harsh, but he's not kicking her out, and she thinks that has to stand for something. "Just because my ass of a dad kicked it? I haven't seen the guy since he split and left us eight years ago. I'm fine."
She sits on the sofa next to him and smiles knowingly. He's not looking at her to see it. "Of course. I just thought since you weren't at school today..."
"I got an excuse to take a couple days off. I hate school anyway." He glances over at her and she's toying with the bottom of her skirt. She doesn't really believe anything he's saying. And she doesn't like how defensive he's being. She's almost certain that means he's not as fine as he says he is.
"Some of us were worried."
"Yeah? Who?" he asks bitterly. "Finn? Quinn? You?"
The way he spits that last one makes her jump a little.
And she isn't sure why he's surprised that people are concerned for him.
"Yes," she says seriously. He rolls his eyes and strums a chord, but she reaches over and mutes the strings with her hand. "Noah, it's okay if you want to talk about it."
"I don't."
"That's okay, too," she says. She gets comfortable, and he watches her as she tucks her legs beneath her on the sofa, then pulls the throw cushion onto her legs, smoothing her hands over it for no reason. "What are you working on."
"Rachel, I don't need a fucking babysitter," he says, sounding far too exhausted, given that she assumes he's slept half the day away.
"You don't have one. Didn't I tell you? Tina dropped me off. Mike will be by to pick me up in an hour and a half." She smiles in accomplishment as he narrows his eyes at her.
"What if I hadn't let you in?"
He's almost smiling. She grins triumphantly.
"I knew you would."
He doesn't deny it. She thinks he really wants to, he just can't.
"Whatever," he mumbles. He gets up, guitar in hand, and makes his way to the stairs. She watches him. When he notices she's not following, he turns and looks at her. "Coming?"
She doesn't really know what to do. It's strange enough she's alone with him in his house. Now she's going to be alone with him in his house and presumably in his bedroom? She doesn't know what to expect of this.
She's being silly. He's not going to try anything. He's just broken up with his girlfriend and he's in a vulnerable emotional state, probably far more confused over the death of his father than he'll ever let on.
So she gets up and sets the pillow down, then follows him up the stairs.
Once they're in his room, she notices he's pulled his tee shirt off, and she coughs (they're always doing that in the movies; it seems fitting) and he turns around, smirking at her. That's more of what she's used to from him.
"Like what you see?" he asks, and admittedly, her eyes have lingered on his shirtless body a little too long.
"What are you doing?" She puts her hands on her hips and stares directly at his face.
"Changing my shirt. 'S'cold in this fucking house." He pulls a long sleeved tee shirt over his head and sits down on his bed, legs stretched out and his back against the headboard. "You gonna sit?"
She knows it's cold. There's a blanket at the end of his bed and she eyes it, thinking that maybe if she sits down, she can casually unfold it in a little while, once it's clear he actually wants her to stay, and pull it over her lap. That's the thing about wearing skirts all the time, sometimes you get really, really cold.
She sits down next to him, and he moves over a little bit, so he's sitting more in the middle of the bed. "Are you sure you don't want to talk?" she asks after a few moments of him looking at her and her looking around his room.
It's cleaner than she thought it would be. Spotless, actually. There are no clothes piled around and none of that typical boy stuff she assumed he'd have. She's been in Finn's room, and it's all band posters and clothes on the floor. Noah's room is neat and tidy. She wonders if that's his doing or his mother's.
"I suppose you want me to."
"Not if you don't want to," she says. He actually laughs a little bit.
"You're actually giving me a choice?" he asks, and he raises his brow as she says it.
"Well, if you don't talk, you'll just be forcing me to," she says, grinning at him as he stares at her. They both know it's true.
"Can we just...can we...fuck. If you tell anyone about this, I'll never talk to you again," he says threateningly.
"We don't talk much to begin with." She thinks she sounds sadder than she should. She thinks he looks more upset at her for saying it than he should.
"I just wanna sit here," he says seriously, maybe a little quieter than he usually speaks. His eyes meet hers and she doesn't say anything. "Okay? Just...are you capable of being quiet for more than like, thirty seconds?"
She smiles and sits back against the headboard, her arm brushing against his. "I won Camp Kadima's vow of silence competition when I was 11. I went two whole days without talking."
He looks at her in surprise. "And you've been talking every fucking second since," he mumbles. She puts on this little scowl and he laughs, and she thinks maybe her job here isn't so difficult. "Alright. Quiet."
"I won't say a word," she promises.
She reaches for the blanket at the end of the bed, and she can feel his eyes on her back. She knows her sweater has ridden up and some of her skin is showing. She also knows he's not moving, not going to reach out and touch it like he did when they dated. (He always touched all the bare skin he could, then grinned innocently when she looked at him.) She pulls the blanket over her legs, notices that he's still watching her, so she holds it up, as if to ask if he wants some too. He doesn't say or do anything, so she drapes it over his legs, then wiggles her bottom a little bit to get comfortable, leans her head back against the headboard and closes her eyes.
She doesn't open her eyes. She just sits there and listens to him breathing next to her. At one point, he shifts a little, pushing him closer to her, though she's not sure that's his intention. She doesn't mind. He's warm and his sweater is very soft. Cashmere, at least bended with something else. She remembers this sweater. He wore it a couple weeks ago and during glee rehearsal when choreography called for him to touch his arm, she remembers how it felt beneath her hands.
Every once in a while, he'll take a deep breath, or he'll uncross his legs and cross them again the opposite way. She feels his head thump against the headboard when he tips it back and lets out a heavy sigh. She dares to open her eyes and when she looks at the clock, she sees that it's been twenty minutes of just sitting there, breathing in the scent of fabric softener and his deodorant. (He's never worn cologne, he told her when they were dating and she told him she liked the way he smelled.)
"It just...blows," he says, and she turns to look at him. He's still staring at the opposite wall. "You know? Like, fuck. Here's this fucking douchebag who treated us like shit 90 per cent of the time and then bolted when he felt like it, and I'm supposed to like, mourn his death or something?" She doesn't say anything. "Fucker drank himself to death. Did they tell you that? His liver failed and he died because he was a goddamn alcoholic."
Now she just doesn't know what to say. She didn't know that. No one knew the details. She wasn't going to ask. It wasn't her intention to come here and listen to the whole story unless he wanted to tell it.
It's just a lot harder to hear than she assumed.
"So I'm fucking pissed, really, because of course he'd fucking die and give me more emotional baggage than when he was alive," he says. She wants to take his hand. She doesn't. He scoffs at himself. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. You've got two dads."
She chews the inside of her lip and looks to her lap. "I have two dads, but I don't have a mother."
When she looks at him, he's just staring at her like he's not sure if he should apologize or not. "It's not the same," he decides.
"Can I tell you a secret?" she asks. He shrugs, and she thinks that means she can say whatever she wants. "You know how I was conceived, right?"
"Yeah. You told me. And it's kinda gross, Rachel," he says. He's serious, but he smiles when he's done talking and Rachel rolls her eyes a little.
"Well, no one knows that...that my mother, the woman who bore me...she chose not to be a part of my life."
He looks confused. Concerned, actually, if she's reading him properly. "What?"
"Dad and Daddy told her she could be like an aunt or something, and that they'd tell me who she was when I was old enough to understand," she explains. "She went along with it until I was born, then changed her mind and left town and we haven't heard from her since."
"That...sucks."
"Yes," she says quietly, toying with the edge of the blanket on her lap. "So I was rejected from birth, and I know that's not the same as growing up idolizing your father..."
"I didn't. He's a deadbeat."
"But you knew him. And I know my situation isn't the same, but I know what it's like to have someone choose something else over you," she says. He can barely hear her. She looks at him and smiles, hoping he'll understand that what she's about to say is a joke. "Actually, that kind of happens to me all the time." He laughs a little bit. "No one's telling you that you shouldn't still be mad at him."
"Mom is," he mumbles. Rachel looks over at him, shifting a little bit so her knee brushes his thigh. "I mean...fuck. He left her, too, and she's fucking...she cried herself to sleep last night and she drove to Dayton today for the funeral. What the fuck!?"
"She loved him. He's still the father of her children. He gave her more than he gave you," Rachel says candidly. He looks over at her again. "I mean, I just assumed..."
He sighs and nods his head. "You're right," he says. "You're always right. That's really fucking annoying, you know that?" She laughs a little and nods, shrugging one shoulder. "Stupid fucking guy had to die," he mumbles angrily.
Rachel takes a deep breath and contemplates whether or not she should say this next thing she wants to say. She honestly doesn't know. But then again, she's never really been the kind not to speak her mind on just about everything.
"It's okay to miss him, you know." Her voice is soft and she doesn't look at him as she speaks.
"I don't," he barks.
"Or course not. But if you did, even a little bit, I don't think anyone would fault you for that," she says quietly.
He doesn't say anything, just takes a breath and lets it out loudly. She can see him thinking about it, see the wheels turning as he wonders if he really does miss the guy. She honestly couldn't blame him either way, if he did or if he didn't.
"Really fucking annoying," he mumbles, nudging her with his elbow. "Hey, uh...thanks. You know? For like, listening or whatever."
She knows how difficult it is for him to talk about his emotions. She's not going to bother him about it like other people would. Maybe because she likes that she's the one he always seems to open up to.
"You're welcome, Noah." He lets out a sigh, of relief, she thinks, and pats her leg non-too-gently over the blanket. She swats his hand and pulls her legs away from him as she laughs. In the process, she pulls the blanket off his body.
"Hey! Now I'm cold," he pouts.
As if he needs to put any more emphasis on those lips of his.
(Did she honestly just think that?)
"Here," she says dramatically, lifting the blanket again, positioning it perfectly over his legs. As she's leaning forward, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her against him. It's kind of like a hug, but she's fairly certain he's not going to let go. "Noah."
"Shh." She likes the sound of his heartbeat in her ear, the feel of his arms tight around her, that smell that feels a little too familiar. "You wanna stay for a while?"
His fingertips are swirling in circles on her side, and she's not sure she should say yes. But she doesn't want to say no. "Mike will be here in a little bit."
"I know. Call him. I can drive you home later, just..." He sighs in frustration, with himself, she thinks. "I want you to stay."
She lets herself relax in his arms then, and her hand falls across his stomach. "Okay." She doesn't have to look at him to know that he's definitely got some kind of smug smile on his face. She's never met anyone who loved getting their way more than him. Well, other than herself.
"Good," he says. "I'm feeling all emotional. And vulnerable. And fragile. I might cry."
She gives him a look and he smirks at her. "If you do, I won't make fun of you." He laughs softly and pulls her closer, sinking back against the bed a little more. She gets the feeling that just holding her is making him feel better. She doesn't really mind it either. "Not like you made fun of me when we watched P.S. I Love You."
"Okay, whoa," he says, pulling away a little bit. "Not even fucking close to the same thing. You fucking twisted my arm to watch that shit in the first place and then like, quizzed me to make sure I was paying attention."
"Still. It was sad, and you laughed at me." She's smiling and his hand is still on her, though his arm has gone slack. She misses being pressed against him. She likes, however, that they're talking about their time together fondly. Looking back, it really was kind of nice, being Noah's girlfriend.
"Whatever," he says. "At least you're not one of those chicks who looks ugly when she cries.
"Noah!" she laughs.
"What?" he asks with a smile. "You're a cute crier."
He moves so he's laying down, head against the pillows, and looks at her expectantly until she does the same. He watches her curiously as she reaches beneath the blanket and does something.
"Just...making sure my skirt is..."
"No need," he says as he turns on his side to face her. "I don't mind."
She doesn't really know what's going on. They've gone from a very serious conversation to this little flirtation, and she finds she likes it, though she's sure she should know better.
His legs tangle with hers, and she's very aware that his thigh is between hers, not far from...well, it's a place he never got familiar with, and she almost blushes at the thought and the image that follows. She should not be thinking about this. She's just broken up with Jesse, and he's just broken up with Quinn, and he's going through a rough time. She's just comforting him, that's all.
He texts Mike from his phone because Rachel's is downstairs, and she reads what he's said before he sends it, just to make sure it's nothing inappropriate. She laughs when he asks if she really thinks he'd do something like that. Of course he would.
They just lay there a while, staring at one another. Literally, staring. Eventually, he reaches for her hand and holds it between them, right between their chests, and she's even more confused. They're being completely quiet, not saying anything, just looking at one another.
And when he starts breathing just a little more quickly, and when she sees the shimmer of something in his eyes, watches him try to blink it away, she just moves closer to him, lets him hold her against his chest. She doesn't say a word except an apology when he asks her why she's crying. She buries her face against him again and he runs his hand down her back.
And she thinks they're more alike than either of them ever thought.