Wait 'Til The Morning
Title: Wait 'Til The Morning
Character: Puck/Rachel
Summary: AU. Followup to You In A Song and It's A Little Too Early. She likes the idea of him just wanting to talk to her so badly that the three hour time difference slipped his mind.
Word Count: 5,100
Disclaimer: Don't own.
"Hello?"
"Did I wake you up?"
"It's...It's three in the morning," she mutters sleepily, letting her eyes slip closed again. She loves his voice, but she's too tired to even really register that it's him calling.
"Shit. Sorry. I just got off stage."
"Where are you?"
"San Diego."
She makes a humming sound, and she should probably turn on the light and wake up. This is the first time he's called her in the week he's been gone. Save for a text here or there, she hasn't heard from him at all. She's not mad, because she knows his schedule is insane and he doesn't get a lot of time, and since the tour started on the west coast, the time difference makes it hard for them to talk. Either he forgot about that, or he just stopped caring tonight. She likes the idea of him just wanting to talk to her so badly that the three hour time difference slipped his mind.
"Go back to sleep," he chuckles lowly, and god, that'll get her attention every time.
"No. I'm awake now."
"No, you're not." She stretches in her bed. The longer they talk, the more awake she feels, actually. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay? If I have time."
"No. Talk to me now."
"Are you pouting?"
She laughs a bit and rubs her cheek against the pillow. "Will that make you keep talking to me?"
There's a pause, then, "Shit. Yeah, it will, actually."
They talk for twenty minutes or so, about how the tour is going, and how great the fans are, and how much he hates California. He asks about her auditions, which she thinks is sweet, even if it only makes her feel terribly again over getting passed over for the part she auditioned for.
"Go back to sleep, baby," he says, his voice quiet. She knows he's been on his bus the entire time. She wonders if his bandmates are around. "I'll try to call soon."
"Okay. Goodnight."
She almost wants to say that she misses him, but it would feel very strange to do it, so she just hangs up and sets her phone on the bedside table. She closes her eyes again and tries to fall asleep, though now that she remembers what his voice sounds like saying her name, it's hard to shut her mind off.
... ... ...
During a shift at the restaurant, some jerk decides it's okay to call her sweetheart and verbally harass her about how she looks like a 'good fuck', because of how she acted in that video. Her face burns red. She gets recognized all the time, sometimes by customers, but never like this. Some ask for photos, which is embarrassing, but they're mostly cordial to her.
Some creep leaning back in his chair and gesturing to his crotch, saying something lewd to her and expecting her to be charmed? That doesn't happen every day.
The manager throws him out, but when she's in the back room crying, she's told that if she keeps bringing this kind of attention upon herself, they're going to be in a tough situation. As if it's her fault some asshole sexually harassed her when she was trying to take his order.
"Fuck, I fucking hate men," Santana says as they sit in Rachel's living room with a bottle of wine open. Rachel changed into her pajamas when she got home, and called Santana over so she could vent. "Seriously. They're all a bunch of fucking dicks."
"They aren't all," Rachel laughs.
"Whatever. The way I see it they are."
"You're mostly a lesbian."
Santana shrugs. "I'm also not the one crying over some fucking impotent creep saying I look like a good lay. Which, by the way, I am."
Rachel rolls her eyes, but laughs anyway. "How are you making this about you? And I already know enough about your sexual skill. I really don't need to know more."
God, that sounds more suggestive than it needs to be. She and Santana were roommates for a while and Rachel heard enough to give her a fairly good idea about Santana's prowess. That's all she's saying.
"Why're you so upset about this? Like, there are other restaurants in the city you could work at. Shit. You could tend bar at a club and make a killing, looking the way you do."
"I'm upset because..." Rachel sighs, spins her wine glass in her hand. "I happen to have very fond memories of that video and the time we spent making it."
"Obviously," Santana says, smirking.
"And I'm already feeling...Getting caught up with Noah was stupid anyway, and I really don't need to feel like more of a whore than I already do."
Santana just looks at her. "What the fuck are you talking about? Why do you feel like that?"
"I...That wasn't the right word, but I just...I slept with a coworker, and I've never done that."
"You've also never worked with anyone that hot, so."
"Santana."
Her glass is being refilled, then Santana kicks her feet up again and sets them on the coffee table, because no matter how many times Rachel asks her not to do it, she always will and there's no arguing at this point.
"You're not a whore for sleeping with someone you like. That's pretty much the definition of not a whore."
Rachel laughs, because that's silly, but it really does make her feel better.
... ... ...
"What the fuck is this about some asshole in your restaurant?"
She's surprised, to say the least. She's shopping for jeans because her favourite pair of skinnies has a hole in them, and she wasn't expecting Noah to call anyway, let alone to say that. It's been three days since they spoke last, and even that was just a quick hello between radio interviews for him.
"What?"
"You kicked someone out?"
"No, I didn't. My manager did."
"The guy sold his story, Rachel. Tell me the fucking truth, because I don't believe him."
He's in Denver and he's heard about this, and she thinks she's getting more media attention than she'd like, given that she hasn't done anything. She's not the famous one here, and she really, really hates that her name is always tied to his. That sounds terrible, but she wants to do something on her own to get noticed.
She feels like crying right now, too, right in the middle of The Gap. Noah sounds so angry, and it's possibly because of the negative press she caused.
"He said some awful things and made some crude gestures."
"What did he say?"
"I'm not telling you," she says quietly, and she has to catch herself before she says his name. "It was completely disgusting and it actually made me feel cheap and degraded, so I'd rather not repeat it."
"Fuck," he breathes. "I'm sorry. You okay?"
"It was days ago."
"That's not what I asked."
She lets herself smile, the way she does any time she's reminded that he might actually care about her.
"I'm okay," she tells him. "I'm shopping for jeans."
"Yeah?"
"Mhmm. You know those skinny ones I had?"
He chuckles, once, and then his voice gets low. "The ones I didn't take off you that time and just pushed down to your knees so I could..."
"Yes," she cuts him off. God, she can't be thinking about that right now. "I need a new pair, but of course they've changed the styles, and I..."
"Yeah, I'm still thinking about the way you taste, and how you looked spread out on my sofa."
She blushes and looks around her to make sure there's absolutely no way anyone could have heard that. "Please tell me you're alone," she whispers.
He just laughs and says, "I'm in a hotel room. Kinda wish you were alone, too."
She grins to herself, and no, she probably shouldn't stay in this store for this conversation, but she doesn't want to go outside right now. "You don't wish I was there with you?"
He moans. Oh. That didn't take much. "Yeah, I do." She's in the middle of a Manhattan store, so if he wants this to continue, he's going to have to do the talking. "Miss me?" That's not what she expected. "Miss my cock?"
That's closer.
"It's actually almost embarrassing how much I do."
"Yeah?" She can hear him smirking, the jerk. "Your pussy, baby. God, if you were here right now..."
"I'm in the middle of The Gap," she hisses. This was a terrible idea. "You should go." She turns towards one of the store's support columns and hides her face so no one will see or hear her. "You should go and think about me, Noah." She says it quietly. No one's around. "Remember how much you love my mouth."
"Shit, Rachel. You're amazing." He's kind of laughing. She assumes it's because she's talking to him like this in public.
"I'm blushing furiously right now and I'm hanging up."
"'Kay."
She ends the call and promptly leaves the store. She can't believe she just did that.
When she tells Santana later, the woman laughs so hard there are tears on her cheeks, and Rachel is absolutely mortified at the sheer number of jokes Santana makes using the word 'gap'.
... ... ...
"How's Louisville?"
"Hot as fuck."
She laughs into the phone. "It's crazy here, too. The humidity is making my clothes stick to my skin."
"Oh yeah?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes because she should have known he'd go there.
"Don't," she giggles. "The show last night was good?"
"It was. The crowd was awesome." She smiles and sits back on her sofa. She's got a fan pointed at her and sweet iced tea sitting on her coffee table, sweating in a glass. "You know how in every concert you've ever been to, there's a lame sing-a-long?"
Rachel laughs again. "Yes."
"It's stupid, but that's kind of always been my dream. Like, when I was a kid and I'd play guitar in my room when I was home alone, I'd stand on my bed and pretend it was a stage and that the crowd was singing the words back to me."
Oh, god, that's precious. She doesn't know what he looked like as a child, but that's an endlessly adorable image.
"Really?" she asks, because she doesn't want to be patronizing or anything.
"It's dumb."
"It's not dumb," she insists. "I wrote a Tony acceptance speech when I was seven. I thanked my dads, and Celine Dion, for being such an inspiration." Noah's laughter in her ear is not a horrible sound. "It's not dumb."
She also wrote a draft of the speech where she thanked her husband, Sean Hayes, but she's not telling him that.
"Okay, well, last night I just...I dunno. The fans were into it and...Okay, like, the worst thing ever would be if you stepped back from the mic and no one fucking sang a word."
Rachel giggles. "That would be embarrassing."
"Right? So I've been fucking terrified to try it, you know? I've never been a fan of getting my ass laughed off the stage." She rolls her eyes at him, but she's smiling. "I have no idea how I knew they'd do it, but I just...Fuck, Rachel. It was kind of amazing."
"They sang your song back to you?"
"Yeah."
"I just got goosebumps," she says, looking at her arm. She's not lying to him. She wouldn't.
"Seriously, Rach. There's nothing better than that."
That really is sexy, and she is not going to wonder why. She hopes there's a video on Youtube so she can see his reaction. Sometimes he'll talk about highlights of the shows and someone will have posted it so she can see what he's talking about. She hasn't told him she does that, because she doesn't know if it's creepy.
Then he says, "Well, maybe sex," and she has to laugh, mostly because she was going to ask that very question.
They talk for a little bit more about his show from the night before, and he tells her that Finn broke a drumstick and it cut his hand and sent blood flying everywhere since he didn't want to stop the show to get a Band-Aid. After the show, they were on the bus and Sam was pulling splinters from Finn's hand with a pair of tweezers, and they all decided that they should just leave the blood spatter on his kit, 'cause it looks 'badass'. She's more concerned with Finn's hand than anyone, apparently, but Noah assures her that Finn is fine.
"What's your favourite memory from being on stage?" he asks. Her drink is gone, and when she checks the time she sees that they've been talking for nearly an hour. She smiles to herself. They never get to talk this long.
"When I was at NYU, we did Rent as our senior production. Everyone pegged me as Maureen, but I auditioned for Mimi."
"I actually know what Rent is. Mimi's the addict stripper, right?"
She laughs, because he never knows what shows she's talking about when she talks musical theater. She desperately wants to change that and watch classics - new and old - with him, but it's not like they have any time to sit on a sofa somewhere and watch DVDs.
"I busted my ass for that role. First to get it, then to prove to everyone that I could do it. Opening night I got a standing ovation and two curtain calls, which, in an ensemble cast, is...Well, my costars hated me, but I didn't even care."
"Jesus. That's...What?" It takes her a moment to realize he's not talking to her. "Fine. I said fine. I'll be there."
"You have to go?"
Just a guess.
"Yeah. Sorry."
"It's okay," she says, even though she'd absolutely love to keep talking to him.
"I'll call you soon. Text me a picture, would you? Preferably of you with your clothes sticking to you."
She laughs and shakes her head. "How about one where I've taken my clothes completely off?"
He groans and then says, "Don't tease me, 'cause I fucking know you won't do that."
No, she won't. She giggles and tells him to have another great show.
She hangs up, and wonders why she's so depressed for the rest of the night, before it hits her:
His greatest stage memory happened last night, and hers was two years ago.
She shouldn't be jealous, but she is. She wants more. She wants to call him, excited, and give him some sort of news about her career that isn't just 'went on an audition'. How long will it be until he gets bored or realizes that she's not as talented as he thinks she is?
... ... ...
Rolling Stone interviews him and she reads the piece online, and he talks about how he's having the time of his life on the road. Embedded into the article is his music video for his 'hit song', and she's really proud to be a part of it.
She still thinks, though, about how much she wishes someone else was a footnote to her success, instead of it being her they mention as an afterthought. It's horribly selfish. She should just be happy for him, but it's hard, sometimes.
... ... ...
She's photographed coming out of a Starbucks with an iced coffee in her hand, a summer dress on, and her hair in loose waves around her shoulders. Noah sees the picture before she even knows it exists. She finds it online easily after he texts her from Calgary saying she looks 'gorgeous', and she should feel better about it than she does.
She hasn't been on an audition in two weeks, and she's been working overtime at the restaurant because she needs something to do to keep her occupied and pay her rent. Her evenings and nights are filled with rude, impatient customers who tip hardly anything at all, and then she goes home to bed, exhausted, and feels guilty for hoping her phone won't ring in the middle of the night and wake her.
She wants to talk to him, it's just that she feels like she never has anything to say. The most exciting thing that's happened to her in the last seven days was a night out with Santana and their friend Blaine, who, fresh off a breakup, took them to a gay bar. And she's already talked to Noah and told him about that.
Most of the time she just sits and listens as Noah talks, and asks questions to keep him from finding out that her life is pathetic and she's not getting anywhere with it.
"Holly, I need something. I hate that everyone just knows me for this fucking video."
She swears approximately three times a year. She can't think of a time she ever did it sober.
"I'm trying, babe."
"Try harder," Rachel kind of barks, and she feels bad for being a brat, but she needs work, and 'paying her dues' is getting really old and starting to feel like failure, instead of just the road she has to take.
She ignores Noah's call because she's crying and feeling sorry for herself, and then texts him back hours later and says she hopes they can catch one another soon. They don't talk often as it is, and she'll likely not get to speak to him for another few days, when he can find a spare moment for her.
Frankly, the daily reminders that he's somebody and she's nobody hurt a lot more than she even thought they would.
... ... ...
She hears from Holly that there's a chorus part opening up in American Idiot, and it's just about the last show she'd ever see herself in, but she wants it. She wants it because it's a part and it's on Broadway, and this is what she's supposed to be doing with her talent.
She really, really doesn't want to regret doing the video, but if it's the one thing she's ever known for, she's going to resent it for the rest of her life.
The casting director recognizes her from when she auditioned for a role in Les Miserables that she would have been perfect for, only they cast one of those little Disney brats instead. She remembers him, too, remembers him liking her in the audition.
She nails this one, and as she's leaving, she hears him telling the director of the show that the publicity she'll bring will be wonderful. As if American Idiot needs more publicity.
She doesn't hear back from them for two days, but they ask her to come in again for them, and she says she will. She should be more excited than she is. She fakes it, a little bit, when she and Noah talk for the first time in a week. He's happy for her and she thinks that's very sweet of him.
She's still trying to figure out if it would be inappropriate of her to tell him how jaded she is with the entire process, and how she's sick and tired of auditioning for people who write her off for whatever reason they choose.
He's got everything he wants, practically, and she's sitting on her couch, smelling like the beer that was spilled on her at work, and she chickens out and asks him if he's staying out of trouble in Vegas.
... ... ...
"I've got 12 hours in New York, and for the next seven of them I have fuck all going on. Come over."
"Noah," she laughs, shaking her head. She's just leaving work and it's really late, and this is obviously an unscheduled visit, because she had no idea it was happening until just now. "I'm...I smell like the bar and I haven't...If I'd known you were coming, I would have..."
"Baby, you have no clue what I want to do to you, do you?" he asks, and he sounds serious. "We can fuck in the shower first, if it makes you feel better. I have this like, really fucking vivid picture in my head of me going down on you, and it's making me crazy."
He's often crude and vulgar, and she sometimes pretends not to like it, though she really does love how much he wants her. She hasn't had an orgasm she didn't give herself in a month and a half, and god, the idea of him inside her has her body humming already.
It's not until she's in a cab on the way to his place that she realizes even trying to say no was really stupid and strange of her. He's this kind of amazing guy who misses her - he's said so - and he's in town for one night. She should have jumped at the chance, not been making excuses.
She's worried things have changed between them. They barely knew each other before he left and she's gotten to know him better since, but maybe the allure of their relationship was that it was pretty much exclusively physical and they could sort of make up who the other person was. He thinks she's this wildly talented woman who's on the verge of making it, and she thinks he's this wildly talented man whose star is only going upward. Maybe they're wrong about each other. She doesn't want to find out if that's the case.
He buzzes her up when she gets to his place, and then greets her at the door to his apartment, slants his mouth over hers and says, "You look great," and it doesn't sound like a line just to make her feel better.
"I missed you," she breathes out, unable to stop herself.
"You too," he says against her lips. She doesn't believe him and he must be able to tell. He kisses her a little more gently, tugs the strap of her bag down off her shoulder and lowers it to the floor. "Just your voice isn't enough."
She bites her bottom lip and looks up at him through her lashes, and then slides her hands up and onto his neck, stroking her thumbs against the hinge of his jaw. "You don't have to say that." He tilts his head at her like now she's just fishing, which she is. "You said something about going down on me?"
He chuckles and kisses her, and pulls her hips against his. She wants him hard. She wants him making her come. She wants him inside her.
"I might do it for a while."
Rachel moans at that and, god, why is his bedroom so damn far away from where they are?
"Please don't act surprised when you find out how wet I am," she says, lips grazing his ear as he tugs the zipper of her pants down.
... ... ...
He drags his fingertips up and down her spine as she lies on her stomach and looks at his face. She may have bit his shoulder when she came. And by that she means he was inside her and she couldn't help it and it was either scream, or bite down on something. There's an angry red welt on his skin. You could probably count her teeth from their indentations. He doesn't seem to care. She's never marked a man like that before, and she's finding it incredibly sexy.
She's absolutely exhausted and it's closer to the morning than it is to 'last night'. She won't sleep, though, because she's only got him for a few more hours before his plane leaves for London. He's doing two shows there and then flying back to Texas to resume the American tour.
God, is there a city he hasn't played yet?
"You're gonna be tired," he says, eyes still on his hand and what it's doing.
"Mmm."
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
"Work, I guess," she answers.
He gives her a look, like he's noticing something he never has before. "You okay?"
She forces a smile and nods her head, which likely looks ridiculous, since she's lying down. "I'm fine."
"I don't believe you."
"I didn't ask you to," she says, and she sounds like a bitch without meaning to. "Sorry. Work is just...It's a sore spot right now."
"So quit."
Rachel rolls her eyes and his palm flattens on her back. She doesn't hate the way his hand feels, big and reassuring. "Normal people can't just quit their jobs because they're fed up."
"You're not normal people. Fuck, Rachel, you're so talented, and..."
"Try telling that to a casting director, Noah. Maybe they'll actually listen to you, because they sure as hell don't notice it when I'm singing."
His hand moves off her and he looks either irritated or worried. Maybe it's both, actually.
"What do you want me to do?" he asks, and he sounds serious, which is just confusing.
"What?"
"I can call someone. Fuck, my manager probably knows some Broadway people, right?"
Her first thought is to wonder if he'd really do that for her.
Her second thought is that she doesn't need his help. If she makes it on Broadway, it's going to be because she worked for it. The video was already help enough. At least now people recognize her when she walks into the room.
When she tells him all this, he just sighs and slides his hand over her hip. "You just seem really sad," he says, and then he must realize that he actually sounds sensitive or something. "Unless you're just better when I'm banging you as often as possible."
She laughs because he's ridiculous, but she also thinks he's kind of right, on both counts.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. My life is just really frustrating right now," she tells him, and he leans over to kiss her. His half-hard length brushes against her in the process and she wonders how on earth he's turned on right now, after she just practically yelled at him.
"So the sex does help."
"You help," she says, and it's barely even audible, probably, and she looks at him and watches the little smile tug at his lips.
Rachel lets him kiss over the back of her shoulder as he moves so he's straddling her legs, then his lips are on her back, following the path his fingers were on earlier, and he grips her hips and lifts her up until she's on her hands and knees. She looks at him over her shoulder. His length is pressing against her and she wants it, so bad.
"Touch me," she commands, and she sounds bossy and desperate, but he does what she wants.
... ... ...
"I wish we had more time."
It's him saying it, but she hides her surprise as they head down the service elevator to the car that's waiting by the back entrance of his building. He said he'd have the driver drop her off at her apartment before taking him to the airport to meet up with his bandmates. She sort of wants to know what they know about her and Noah's relationship, but she doesn't care enough to ask.
"I do, too." He kisses her before the doors open, and she grabs his hand before they step outside. "I know I was a brat last night."
"You weren't."
She looks to her shoes. "Yes, I was. I'm sorry. I just...I'm discouraged right now. Thank you, though, for listening to me."
His hand comes up to her hip and he grins down at her. "I like talking to you, remember?" She smiles and hugs him. "Shit, Rach. You can tell me stuff. I give shit advice most of the time, just so you know."
"Thank you," she laughs. "At the risk of sounding like a stupid girl, I don't want you to go."
"After last night, I don't want to, either."
That makes her blush. Two hours ago he was taking her from behind, and that makes her blush. God.
He finally pushes the door open and they step outside, and they're in the car and driving away before the paparazzi even notices them.
"When are you back again?" she asks, letting him pull her against him as he pushes the button so the privacy screen will go up.
"I dunno."
"Which means that your itinerary doesn't show you that far ahead."
It should not make her sad. She doesn't need anything else in her life making her sad.
"I'll figure something out," is what he murmurs against her temple, and maybe she's stupid to believe him, but she does it anyway.
Character: Puck/Rachel
Summary: AU. Followup to You In A Song and It's A Little Too Early. She likes the idea of him just wanting to talk to her so badly that the three hour time difference slipped his mind.
Word Count: 5,100
Disclaimer: Don't own.
"Hello?"
"Did I wake you up?"
"It's...It's three in the morning," she mutters sleepily, letting her eyes slip closed again. She loves his voice, but she's too tired to even really register that it's him calling.
"Shit. Sorry. I just got off stage."
"Where are you?"
"San Diego."
She makes a humming sound, and she should probably turn on the light and wake up. This is the first time he's called her in the week he's been gone. Save for a text here or there, she hasn't heard from him at all. She's not mad, because she knows his schedule is insane and he doesn't get a lot of time, and since the tour started on the west coast, the time difference makes it hard for them to talk. Either he forgot about that, or he just stopped caring tonight. She likes the idea of him just wanting to talk to her so badly that the three hour time difference slipped his mind.
"Go back to sleep," he chuckles lowly, and god, that'll get her attention every time.
"No. I'm awake now."
"No, you're not." She stretches in her bed. The longer they talk, the more awake she feels, actually. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay? If I have time."
"No. Talk to me now."
"Are you pouting?"
She laughs a bit and rubs her cheek against the pillow. "Will that make you keep talking to me?"
There's a pause, then, "Shit. Yeah, it will, actually."
They talk for twenty minutes or so, about how the tour is going, and how great the fans are, and how much he hates California. He asks about her auditions, which she thinks is sweet, even if it only makes her feel terribly again over getting passed over for the part she auditioned for.
"Go back to sleep, baby," he says, his voice quiet. She knows he's been on his bus the entire time. She wonders if his bandmates are around. "I'll try to call soon."
"Okay. Goodnight."
She almost wants to say that she misses him, but it would feel very strange to do it, so she just hangs up and sets her phone on the bedside table. She closes her eyes again and tries to fall asleep, though now that she remembers what his voice sounds like saying her name, it's hard to shut her mind off.
... ... ...
During a shift at the restaurant, some jerk decides it's okay to call her sweetheart and verbally harass her about how she looks like a 'good fuck', because of how she acted in that video. Her face burns red. She gets recognized all the time, sometimes by customers, but never like this. Some ask for photos, which is embarrassing, but they're mostly cordial to her.
Some creep leaning back in his chair and gesturing to his crotch, saying something lewd to her and expecting her to be charmed? That doesn't happen every day.
The manager throws him out, but when she's in the back room crying, she's told that if she keeps bringing this kind of attention upon herself, they're going to be in a tough situation. As if it's her fault some asshole sexually harassed her when she was trying to take his order.
"Fuck, I fucking hate men," Santana says as they sit in Rachel's living room with a bottle of wine open. Rachel changed into her pajamas when she got home, and called Santana over so she could vent. "Seriously. They're all a bunch of fucking dicks."
"They aren't all," Rachel laughs.
"Whatever. The way I see it they are."
"You're mostly a lesbian."
Santana shrugs. "I'm also not the one crying over some fucking impotent creep saying I look like a good lay. Which, by the way, I am."
Rachel rolls her eyes, but laughs anyway. "How are you making this about you? And I already know enough about your sexual skill. I really don't need to know more."
God, that sounds more suggestive than it needs to be. She and Santana were roommates for a while and Rachel heard enough to give her a fairly good idea about Santana's prowess. That's all she's saying.
"Why're you so upset about this? Like, there are other restaurants in the city you could work at. Shit. You could tend bar at a club and make a killing, looking the way you do."
"I'm upset because..." Rachel sighs, spins her wine glass in her hand. "I happen to have very fond memories of that video and the time we spent making it."
"Obviously," Santana says, smirking.
"And I'm already feeling...Getting caught up with Noah was stupid anyway, and I really don't need to feel like more of a whore than I already do."
Santana just looks at her. "What the fuck are you talking about? Why do you feel like that?"
"I...That wasn't the right word, but I just...I slept with a coworker, and I've never done that."
"You've also never worked with anyone that hot, so."
"Santana."
Her glass is being refilled, then Santana kicks her feet up again and sets them on the coffee table, because no matter how many times Rachel asks her not to do it, she always will and there's no arguing at this point.
"You're not a whore for sleeping with someone you like. That's pretty much the definition of not a whore."
Rachel laughs, because that's silly, but it really does make her feel better.
... ... ...
"What the fuck is this about some asshole in your restaurant?"
She's surprised, to say the least. She's shopping for jeans because her favourite pair of skinnies has a hole in them, and she wasn't expecting Noah to call anyway, let alone to say that. It's been three days since they spoke last, and even that was just a quick hello between radio interviews for him.
"What?"
"You kicked someone out?"
"No, I didn't. My manager did."
"The guy sold his story, Rachel. Tell me the fucking truth, because I don't believe him."
He's in Denver and he's heard about this, and she thinks she's getting more media attention than she'd like, given that she hasn't done anything. She's not the famous one here, and she really, really hates that her name is always tied to his. That sounds terrible, but she wants to do something on her own to get noticed.
She feels like crying right now, too, right in the middle of The Gap. Noah sounds so angry, and it's possibly because of the negative press she caused.
"He said some awful things and made some crude gestures."
"What did he say?"
"I'm not telling you," she says quietly, and she has to catch herself before she says his name. "It was completely disgusting and it actually made me feel cheap and degraded, so I'd rather not repeat it."
"Fuck," he breathes. "I'm sorry. You okay?"
"It was days ago."
"That's not what I asked."
She lets herself smile, the way she does any time she's reminded that he might actually care about her.
"I'm okay," she tells him. "I'm shopping for jeans."
"Yeah?"
"Mhmm. You know those skinny ones I had?"
He chuckles, once, and then his voice gets low. "The ones I didn't take off you that time and just pushed down to your knees so I could..."
"Yes," she cuts him off. God, she can't be thinking about that right now. "I need a new pair, but of course they've changed the styles, and I..."
"Yeah, I'm still thinking about the way you taste, and how you looked spread out on my sofa."
She blushes and looks around her to make sure there's absolutely no way anyone could have heard that. "Please tell me you're alone," she whispers.
He just laughs and says, "I'm in a hotel room. Kinda wish you were alone, too."
She grins to herself, and no, she probably shouldn't stay in this store for this conversation, but she doesn't want to go outside right now. "You don't wish I was there with you?"
He moans. Oh. That didn't take much. "Yeah, I do." She's in the middle of a Manhattan store, so if he wants this to continue, he's going to have to do the talking. "Miss me?" That's not what she expected. "Miss my cock?"
That's closer.
"It's actually almost embarrassing how much I do."
"Yeah?" She can hear him smirking, the jerk. "Your pussy, baby. God, if you were here right now..."
"I'm in the middle of The Gap," she hisses. This was a terrible idea. "You should go." She turns towards one of the store's support columns and hides her face so no one will see or hear her. "You should go and think about me, Noah." She says it quietly. No one's around. "Remember how much you love my mouth."
"Shit, Rachel. You're amazing." He's kind of laughing. She assumes it's because she's talking to him like this in public.
"I'm blushing furiously right now and I'm hanging up."
"'Kay."
She ends the call and promptly leaves the store. She can't believe she just did that.
When she tells Santana later, the woman laughs so hard there are tears on her cheeks, and Rachel is absolutely mortified at the sheer number of jokes Santana makes using the word 'gap'.
... ... ...
"How's Louisville?"
"Hot as fuck."
She laughs into the phone. "It's crazy here, too. The humidity is making my clothes stick to my skin."
"Oh yeah?" he asks, and she rolls her eyes because she should have known he'd go there.
"Don't," she giggles. "The show last night was good?"
"It was. The crowd was awesome." She smiles and sits back on her sofa. She's got a fan pointed at her and sweet iced tea sitting on her coffee table, sweating in a glass. "You know how in every concert you've ever been to, there's a lame sing-a-long?"
Rachel laughs again. "Yes."
"It's stupid, but that's kind of always been my dream. Like, when I was a kid and I'd play guitar in my room when I was home alone, I'd stand on my bed and pretend it was a stage and that the crowd was singing the words back to me."
Oh, god, that's precious. She doesn't know what he looked like as a child, but that's an endlessly adorable image.
"Really?" she asks, because she doesn't want to be patronizing or anything.
"It's dumb."
"It's not dumb," she insists. "I wrote a Tony acceptance speech when I was seven. I thanked my dads, and Celine Dion, for being such an inspiration." Noah's laughter in her ear is not a horrible sound. "It's not dumb."
She also wrote a draft of the speech where she thanked her husband, Sean Hayes, but she's not telling him that.
"Okay, well, last night I just...I dunno. The fans were into it and...Okay, like, the worst thing ever would be if you stepped back from the mic and no one fucking sang a word."
Rachel giggles. "That would be embarrassing."
"Right? So I've been fucking terrified to try it, you know? I've never been a fan of getting my ass laughed off the stage." She rolls her eyes at him, but she's smiling. "I have no idea how I knew they'd do it, but I just...Fuck, Rachel. It was kind of amazing."
"They sang your song back to you?"
"Yeah."
"I just got goosebumps," she says, looking at her arm. She's not lying to him. She wouldn't.
"Seriously, Rach. There's nothing better than that."
That really is sexy, and she is not going to wonder why. She hopes there's a video on Youtube so she can see his reaction. Sometimes he'll talk about highlights of the shows and someone will have posted it so she can see what he's talking about. She hasn't told him she does that, because she doesn't know if it's creepy.
Then he says, "Well, maybe sex," and she has to laugh, mostly because she was going to ask that very question.
They talk for a little bit more about his show from the night before, and he tells her that Finn broke a drumstick and it cut his hand and sent blood flying everywhere since he didn't want to stop the show to get a Band-Aid. After the show, they were on the bus and Sam was pulling splinters from Finn's hand with a pair of tweezers, and they all decided that they should just leave the blood spatter on his kit, 'cause it looks 'badass'. She's more concerned with Finn's hand than anyone, apparently, but Noah assures her that Finn is fine.
"What's your favourite memory from being on stage?" he asks. Her drink is gone, and when she checks the time she sees that they've been talking for nearly an hour. She smiles to herself. They never get to talk this long.
"When I was at NYU, we did Rent as our senior production. Everyone pegged me as Maureen, but I auditioned for Mimi."
"I actually know what Rent is. Mimi's the addict stripper, right?"
She laughs, because he never knows what shows she's talking about when she talks musical theater. She desperately wants to change that and watch classics - new and old - with him, but it's not like they have any time to sit on a sofa somewhere and watch DVDs.
"I busted my ass for that role. First to get it, then to prove to everyone that I could do it. Opening night I got a standing ovation and two curtain calls, which, in an ensemble cast, is...Well, my costars hated me, but I didn't even care."
"Jesus. That's...What?" It takes her a moment to realize he's not talking to her. "Fine. I said fine. I'll be there."
"You have to go?"
Just a guess.
"Yeah. Sorry."
"It's okay," she says, even though she'd absolutely love to keep talking to him.
"I'll call you soon. Text me a picture, would you? Preferably of you with your clothes sticking to you."
She laughs and shakes her head. "How about one where I've taken my clothes completely off?"
He groans and then says, "Don't tease me, 'cause I fucking know you won't do that."
No, she won't. She giggles and tells him to have another great show.
She hangs up, and wonders why she's so depressed for the rest of the night, before it hits her:
His greatest stage memory happened last night, and hers was two years ago.
She shouldn't be jealous, but she is. She wants more. She wants to call him, excited, and give him some sort of news about her career that isn't just 'went on an audition'. How long will it be until he gets bored or realizes that she's not as talented as he thinks she is?
... ... ...
Rolling Stone interviews him and she reads the piece online, and he talks about how he's having the time of his life on the road. Embedded into the article is his music video for his 'hit song', and she's really proud to be a part of it.
She still thinks, though, about how much she wishes someone else was a footnote to her success, instead of it being her they mention as an afterthought. It's horribly selfish. She should just be happy for him, but it's hard, sometimes.
... ... ...
She's photographed coming out of a Starbucks with an iced coffee in her hand, a summer dress on, and her hair in loose waves around her shoulders. Noah sees the picture before she even knows it exists. She finds it online easily after he texts her from Calgary saying she looks 'gorgeous', and she should feel better about it than she does.
She hasn't been on an audition in two weeks, and she's been working overtime at the restaurant because she needs something to do to keep her occupied and pay her rent. Her evenings and nights are filled with rude, impatient customers who tip hardly anything at all, and then she goes home to bed, exhausted, and feels guilty for hoping her phone won't ring in the middle of the night and wake her.
She wants to talk to him, it's just that she feels like she never has anything to say. The most exciting thing that's happened to her in the last seven days was a night out with Santana and their friend Blaine, who, fresh off a breakup, took them to a gay bar. And she's already talked to Noah and told him about that.
Most of the time she just sits and listens as Noah talks, and asks questions to keep him from finding out that her life is pathetic and she's not getting anywhere with it.
"Holly, I need something. I hate that everyone just knows me for this fucking video."
She swears approximately three times a year. She can't think of a time she ever did it sober.
"I'm trying, babe."
"Try harder," Rachel kind of barks, and she feels bad for being a brat, but she needs work, and 'paying her dues' is getting really old and starting to feel like failure, instead of just the road she has to take.
She ignores Noah's call because she's crying and feeling sorry for herself, and then texts him back hours later and says she hopes they can catch one another soon. They don't talk often as it is, and she'll likely not get to speak to him for another few days, when he can find a spare moment for her.
Frankly, the daily reminders that he's somebody and she's nobody hurt a lot more than she even thought they would.
... ... ...
She hears from Holly that there's a chorus part opening up in American Idiot, and it's just about the last show she'd ever see herself in, but she wants it. She wants it because it's a part and it's on Broadway, and this is what she's supposed to be doing with her talent.
She really, really doesn't want to regret doing the video, but if it's the one thing she's ever known for, she's going to resent it for the rest of her life.
The casting director recognizes her from when she auditioned for a role in Les Miserables that she would have been perfect for, only they cast one of those little Disney brats instead. She remembers him, too, remembers him liking her in the audition.
She nails this one, and as she's leaving, she hears him telling the director of the show that the publicity she'll bring will be wonderful. As if American Idiot needs more publicity.
She doesn't hear back from them for two days, but they ask her to come in again for them, and she says she will. She should be more excited than she is. She fakes it, a little bit, when she and Noah talk for the first time in a week. He's happy for her and she thinks that's very sweet of him.
She's still trying to figure out if it would be inappropriate of her to tell him how jaded she is with the entire process, and how she's sick and tired of auditioning for people who write her off for whatever reason they choose.
He's got everything he wants, practically, and she's sitting on her couch, smelling like the beer that was spilled on her at work, and she chickens out and asks him if he's staying out of trouble in Vegas.
... ... ...
"I've got 12 hours in New York, and for the next seven of them I have fuck all going on. Come over."
"Noah," she laughs, shaking her head. She's just leaving work and it's really late, and this is obviously an unscheduled visit, because she had no idea it was happening until just now. "I'm...I smell like the bar and I haven't...If I'd known you were coming, I would have..."
"Baby, you have no clue what I want to do to you, do you?" he asks, and he sounds serious. "We can fuck in the shower first, if it makes you feel better. I have this like, really fucking vivid picture in my head of me going down on you, and it's making me crazy."
He's often crude and vulgar, and she sometimes pretends not to like it, though she really does love how much he wants her. She hasn't had an orgasm she didn't give herself in a month and a half, and god, the idea of him inside her has her body humming already.
It's not until she's in a cab on the way to his place that she realizes even trying to say no was really stupid and strange of her. He's this kind of amazing guy who misses her - he's said so - and he's in town for one night. She should have jumped at the chance, not been making excuses.
She's worried things have changed between them. They barely knew each other before he left and she's gotten to know him better since, but maybe the allure of their relationship was that it was pretty much exclusively physical and they could sort of make up who the other person was. He thinks she's this wildly talented woman who's on the verge of making it, and she thinks he's this wildly talented man whose star is only going upward. Maybe they're wrong about each other. She doesn't want to find out if that's the case.
He buzzes her up when she gets to his place, and then greets her at the door to his apartment, slants his mouth over hers and says, "You look great," and it doesn't sound like a line just to make her feel better.
"I missed you," she breathes out, unable to stop herself.
"You too," he says against her lips. She doesn't believe him and he must be able to tell. He kisses her a little more gently, tugs the strap of her bag down off her shoulder and lowers it to the floor. "Just your voice isn't enough."
She bites her bottom lip and looks up at him through her lashes, and then slides her hands up and onto his neck, stroking her thumbs against the hinge of his jaw. "You don't have to say that." He tilts his head at her like now she's just fishing, which she is. "You said something about going down on me?"
He chuckles and kisses her, and pulls her hips against his. She wants him hard. She wants him making her come. She wants him inside her.
"I might do it for a while."
Rachel moans at that and, god, why is his bedroom so damn far away from where they are?
"Please don't act surprised when you find out how wet I am," she says, lips grazing his ear as he tugs the zipper of her pants down.
... ... ...
He drags his fingertips up and down her spine as she lies on her stomach and looks at his face. She may have bit his shoulder when she came. And by that she means he was inside her and she couldn't help it and it was either scream, or bite down on something. There's an angry red welt on his skin. You could probably count her teeth from their indentations. He doesn't seem to care. She's never marked a man like that before, and she's finding it incredibly sexy.
She's absolutely exhausted and it's closer to the morning than it is to 'last night'. She won't sleep, though, because she's only got him for a few more hours before his plane leaves for London. He's doing two shows there and then flying back to Texas to resume the American tour.
God, is there a city he hasn't played yet?
"You're gonna be tired," he says, eyes still on his hand and what it's doing.
"Mmm."
"What are you doing tomorrow?"
"Work, I guess," she answers.
He gives her a look, like he's noticing something he never has before. "You okay?"
She forces a smile and nods her head, which likely looks ridiculous, since she's lying down. "I'm fine."
"I don't believe you."
"I didn't ask you to," she says, and she sounds like a bitch without meaning to. "Sorry. Work is just...It's a sore spot right now."
"So quit."
Rachel rolls her eyes and his palm flattens on her back. She doesn't hate the way his hand feels, big and reassuring. "Normal people can't just quit their jobs because they're fed up."
"You're not normal people. Fuck, Rachel, you're so talented, and..."
"Try telling that to a casting director, Noah. Maybe they'll actually listen to you, because they sure as hell don't notice it when I'm singing."
His hand moves off her and he looks either irritated or worried. Maybe it's both, actually.
"What do you want me to do?" he asks, and he sounds serious, which is just confusing.
"What?"
"I can call someone. Fuck, my manager probably knows some Broadway people, right?"
Her first thought is to wonder if he'd really do that for her.
Her second thought is that she doesn't need his help. If she makes it on Broadway, it's going to be because she worked for it. The video was already help enough. At least now people recognize her when she walks into the room.
When she tells him all this, he just sighs and slides his hand over her hip. "You just seem really sad," he says, and then he must realize that he actually sounds sensitive or something. "Unless you're just better when I'm banging you as often as possible."
She laughs because he's ridiculous, but she also thinks he's kind of right, on both counts.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. My life is just really frustrating right now," she tells him, and he leans over to kiss her. His half-hard length brushes against her in the process and she wonders how on earth he's turned on right now, after she just practically yelled at him.
"So the sex does help."
"You help," she says, and it's barely even audible, probably, and she looks at him and watches the little smile tug at his lips.
Rachel lets him kiss over the back of her shoulder as he moves so he's straddling her legs, then his lips are on her back, following the path his fingers were on earlier, and he grips her hips and lifts her up until she's on her hands and knees. She looks at him over her shoulder. His length is pressing against her and she wants it, so bad.
"Touch me," she commands, and she sounds bossy and desperate, but he does what she wants.
... ... ...
"I wish we had more time."
It's him saying it, but she hides her surprise as they head down the service elevator to the car that's waiting by the back entrance of his building. He said he'd have the driver drop her off at her apartment before taking him to the airport to meet up with his bandmates. She sort of wants to know what they know about her and Noah's relationship, but she doesn't care enough to ask.
"I do, too." He kisses her before the doors open, and she grabs his hand before they step outside. "I know I was a brat last night."
"You weren't."
She looks to her shoes. "Yes, I was. I'm sorry. I just...I'm discouraged right now. Thank you, though, for listening to me."
His hand comes up to her hip and he grins down at her. "I like talking to you, remember?" She smiles and hugs him. "Shit, Rach. You can tell me stuff. I give shit advice most of the time, just so you know."
"Thank you," she laughs. "At the risk of sounding like a stupid girl, I don't want you to go."
"After last night, I don't want to, either."
That makes her blush. Two hours ago he was taking her from behind, and that makes her blush. God.
He finally pushes the door open and they step outside, and they're in the car and driving away before the paparazzi even notices them.
"When are you back again?" she asks, letting him pull her against him as he pushes the button so the privacy screen will go up.
"I dunno."
"Which means that your itinerary doesn't show you that far ahead."
It should not make her sad. She doesn't need anything else in her life making her sad.
"I'll figure something out," is what he murmurs against her temple, and maybe she's stupid to believe him, but she does it anyway.