nothing's gonna change (not for me and you)
Title: nothing's gonna change (not for me and you)
Chapter: 1/1
Warning: Language.
Character: Puck/Rachel
Prompt: "Why are we pretending this is nothing?" left by sarcastic_fina at the puckrachel drabble meme.
Word Count: 7,200
Disclaimer: Don't own.
They haven't spoken in days, which is kind of a fucking miracle, since they live in the same apartment. He's been sleeping on the couch and has to get up earlier than she does, and she's been coming home late, going straight to the bedroom when she walks through the door. The one time she's even made eye contact with him was when she came out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. He happened to be there and she needed a glass of water, and she actually looked him in the eye. Surprisingly, it made him feel awesome and like complete and total shit at exactly the same time.
He's honestly surprised to see her tonight, but it makes sense, he guesses. They had all planned to get together for drinks, and it's been planned for like, a week. He remembers her talking to Kurt and asking Puck if he wanted to go, and no, he doesn't want to spend the night with Kurt and Blaine and whoever else (especially not now) but Rachel next to him in their bed and wearing practically nothing and smiling at him like she wanted him to say yes. So here he is.
And yeah, he could have bailed on the whole thing, but he doesn't go back on promises, ever, so he's here with a beer in his hand, talking to Blaine about the Mets' chances against the Phillies when Rachel walks through the door with Santana.
He sees her every day, but he doesn't see her, not like this. She's fucking gorgeous in her jeans and tight purple top. He wants to pull that zipper all the way down (like he did last time she wore it) and press her against the nearest flat surface.
But he can't, really, because they broke up.
She pushes her hair behind her ear like she always does when she's nervous, and comes to sit next to him, leans in to kiss him, and his heart fucking races and she licks her lips and feels so fucking good all pressed against his side.
He notices she's wearing a touch more makeup than usual and that her eyes are a little red, and he knows she's been crying a lot lately, because he can hear her from the couch at night, and he knows the bedroom door's locked, or he'd just go in there and make her stop any way she'd let him.
"Hi," she says.
First thing she's said to him since, "We're done, Noah. I can't."
And look, he knows they've been fucked lately. They've been fighting more than doing anything else, and he hates it, but it's a phase or whatever, okay? It's just because she's stressed with her show and he's trying really fucking hard to claw his way up from the bottom of the ladder at work. He just got his on air position at the radio station, and while reading the stupid 'Music Facts' portion on the morning show is a foot in the door, he wants more. And better hours. Fuck, getting up at 4:30 to get to the station on time is a bitch.
So yeah, when he sees (well, saw; before they broke up) Rachel, it's during weird hours and they end up fighting over stupid fucking shit that doesn't even matter.
But she just kissed him, so he's kind of fucking confused.
"Hey."
She smiles (fake) and turns her attention to Kurt when the guy says her name, and then she's laughing (genuine) and her hair's tickling Puck's arm, and he's gonna need her to fill him in on what the hell is going on here.
Fuck, he could use some air. She must be able to read his mind (that's creepy as shit, by the way, because this kind of thing happens all the time) and suggests they go outside. "I haven't seen you all day," she says, eyes on his. She's an actress and she's putting on a show for their friends, and he's suddenly pissed about it.
Once they're outside, she pushes her hands into her pockets as he stares at her. She's not talking and he's fucking sick of that. "What the fuck, Rachel?"
"They don't know yet," she tells him. "I haven't..."
"Yeah, me neither, but...You're just fucking pretending?"
"I don't want to tell them tonight!" she practically yells. He rolls his eyes. "Don't patronize me."
And see, this is the kind of shit that starts their actual fights. She accuses him of doing shit like patronizing her, or ridiculing her, or treating her like something other than his girlfriend, and he gets defensive because she's fucking crazy and wrong.
"I'm not patronizing you. Jesus Christ." He sighs and really, really needs something stronger than beer when they get inside. "I think it's fucking bullshit, but if it's what you want, I'll do it."
Story of his fucking life, right there.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"Are you crying?"
"No," she says. She looks up at him, and the tears are right there, brimming at the corners of her eyes. "Not really."
He steps closer to her, because fuck, those tears are his goddamn kryptonite. "Don't," he commands quietly. She just nods and blinks all fast. "Okay?"
She laughs a little and shakes her head. "Not really."
He gives her a tiny smile, blows out his breath. "Me neither."
The fact that she gives him a brighter smile than she has in fucking ages because of that is really, really fucked up, and he hates it.
So he follows her back inside and pretends to be her boyfriend, which is made both really fucking hard and completely effortless by the fact that he's fucking in love with her.
... ... ...
"Noah?"
He checks the time and yeah, he's fucking disoriented. He got called in last night to fill in for the midnight guy and got home at like, 7:00 a.m. and pretty much passed out. It's now just after 2:00 and he only answered the phone because it startled him awake.
Also, she does this shit; she says your name even when she's called your cell phone and there's no way anyone other than you answered. It's kind of fucking adorable.
"Hey."
"Were you sleeping?"
"Hmm." He stretches out and rolls onto his back. Fuck, he really needs to not sleep on the couch. He doesn't know what the fuck they're doing, though, and he doesn't want to move. He's pretty sure she doesn't, either. (So maybe they should just forget about this stupid breakup.) "What's up?"
"Can you come get me?" she asks, in this tiny little voice he loves and hates in equal measure. "They gave me painkillers and won't release me unless there's someone to watch over me. Everyone else is working."
Good to know he's her last resort. Thanks, Rach.
And he'd dwell more on that if he wasn't freaking the hell out over where she is and what happened.
"Where are you?" he asks.
"Roosevelt Hospital," she explains, adding quickly; "I'm fine, I promise. We were just rehearsing and my dance partner didn't let go of my hand when he should have. It's just a sprained wrist."
"Rachel."
"Noah, I'm okay," she says. It's in a softer voice, and he believes her, but fuck, she's at the hospital. "Will you come?"
"Yeah," he answers. He stands up and reaches for his pants. "Yeah. Give me like, a half hour."
"I'm sorry I woke you up."
Crazy woman. She honestly thinks he cares about that?
"Don't worry about it, baby," he says, pulling his shirt on over his shoulders. He'll button it in the elevator. She doesn't say anything about him calling her that, and he hangs up the phone and grabs his wallet and his keys.
He considers taking a cab, but as soon as he's on the street he can see that traffic is a clusterfuck, so he heads for the subway and he's actually glad there are no seats available, because he honestly doesn't think he'd be able to sit still if he had to. He knows she's fine - it's just a sprained wrist and a hospital visit was probably complete overkill - but he still worries about her all the time. More than before, actually, because now they don't even talk. Unless, apparently, it's to lead their friends into believing they're still together, or when there's a goddamn emergency. And would she really have called someone else if it wasn't the middle of the day on a Tuesday? Because he's thinking that's really shitty. He'd still call her if the roles were reversed.
That just opens up a whole can of crap he really doesn't want to think about. (Like, maybe he still loves her and she doesn't love him.)
The chick at the desk at the ER is actually helpful and tells him exactly where Rachel is, and that there might be a slight wait before the doctor can get in and actually sign the release forms. Puck hates hospitals, but he does appreciate the policies here. He knows Rachel. She'd be back at her rehearsal if they hadn't kept her, and she definitely needs to take it easy. Apparently her partner's a fucking moron, and she can't afford any more injuries.
She's flipping through a copy of TIME when he walks in. The magazine is resting on her forearm, the one that's got a Tensor bandage wrapped around it.
"Oh, thank god," she groans, closing her magazine and dropping it onto her lap. "I'm going crazy." He laughs a bit and steps further into the room, sits down on the chair next to the bed. She gives him a look that'd scare him if he didn't know her so well. "Why aren't we leaving?"
"'S'gonna be a few minutes," he says. "Hurt?"
"No," she answers. Then she looks to her wrist and leans her head back against the pillow. "Yes." He laughs a bit. She would try to lie about it. Funny, since when she gets a cold, she acts like she's dying. "They're going to try and make me take time off, you know. I'm not doing it."
He chuckles and just watches her. She looks tired, lids drooping. He wonders what they gave her. He grabs the chart tucked into the pocket at the side of the bed. Acetaminophen with codeine. That'll do it.
"Sleepy?" he asks.
"No. Yes." She pins him with a glare when he smiles. "Stop asking me things." She sighs and closes her eyes. "I didn't want to call you."
"Yeah. Figured."
"I knew you were sleeping," she explains.
He tilts his head at her. "That's not why you didn't want to call me."
She's about to reply when the doctor whose ass Puck now wants to kick walks through the door. Puck tunes out of most of what the dude says to Rachel, but he says she can go, signs her release and she hops off the bed and stares at Puck until he gets up.
He knows for a fact that the Subway is not a good place for her right now. If someone bumps her wrist, she'll be in pain, and if she has to stand, she won't really be able to hold herself up. Well, she could probably do it, but Puck's not taking chances, so he gets them a cab and tells her that fuck no they cannot walk back to their place. Girl wants to fucking walk everywhere, and he's not game for it. Not today.
She tells him about the entire 'incident' in the cab on the way home, and he knows her costar didn't do it on purpose. Rachel knows that, too, but she's still not happy about it. He can't blame her. And she's all tired and her words are running together, and she's kind of cute.
When they get home, she makes a beeline for the couch. He doesn't think she's sat on the thing in two weeks, since it's become his bed. She's spent absolutely no time in the living room. But she sees the blanket there, the one he was laying under when she called, and she curls her legs up onto the couch and reaches for the remote.
Now that she's in his 'bedroom', he really has nowhere to go, so he sits down next to her.
She falls asleep with her head on his thigh, her hurt wrist laying across her stomach. He idly combs his fingers through her hair as he channel surfs.
It's crazy how you can live with someone and still fucking miss them so bad.
... ... ...
Her director makes her take two days off, which she doesn't appreciate in the slightest. She slams shit around in the kitchen the entire first day, and bitches about how hard it is to bake vegan double chocolate cupcakes with 'one freaking hand!'. Girl doesn't know how to enjoy some time off.
The cupcakes are good, though.
She calls him into the bedroom after she's had a shower, and she's standing there in her pajamas (ridiculous little shorts with ice cream cones on them, and a pink tank top). Her hair's all wet and hasn't been combed, and god, so many times they ended up in bed when he saw her like this. She's fucking gorgeous.
"What?" he grunts, because he's gotta keep a safe distance or he'll tell her how bad he wants to fuck her. She probably already knows. In a way, he hopes she does know.
"Will you put it on me?" It takes him a minute to realize she's talking about her Tensor. "I like it really tight."
Fuck.
He doesn't say anything, but he grabs the bandage from her and starts wrapping her wrist. She's watching him do it. He looks at her face once, tries not to think about how long it's been since he stood this close in front of her. Not long, in the grand scheme, but fuck the grand scheme, because he misses seeing her from this angle. She thanks him when he's done, then moves over to the bed and tucks her leg beneath her.
"We should talk about..." He crosses his arms. About what? "This living situation."
She's totally going to try and kick him out.
She does. She says that since the apartment is closer to her work than it is to his, it makes sense for her to stay here. Also, her name is on the lease and her parents cosigned, even though they moved into the place together after searching for fucking ever for it. His mom didn't want them living in sin, or whatever the fuck, so she wouldn't cosign. He thinks that's stupid. He also thinks it was just some kind of fucked up ploy to get him to propose to Rachel. He's torn between wishing he had and being thankful he didn't.
He knows she expects him to argue, and really, he could. He's just so fucking tired of fighting with her, that he just says, "Fine," and stares at her for a few seconds before leaving her room and closing the door behind him.
... ... ...
She still thinks it's 'not an appropriate time' to tell their friends they broke up, because Kurt and Blaine just got engaged and Santana is already 'too cynical' about love. He doesn't know why the fuck she's making excuses, but he's pretty sure it's not for the good reasons. She doesn't still want to be with him. She's not just prolonging him moving out. She's practically packing his shit for him, actually, which is fucking bull, but whatever.
"Ow!"
They're getting ready to go out to this stupid bar he hates, because Santana got them on the VIP list. She's always getting them into places and hooking them up with shit. She works in PR, which sounds pretty fucking bogus if you ask him, but whatever. She never has. And he wasn't complaining when she got him the next gen iPad a week before its release. He gets free shit from the radio station, too, but it's not like there's such a thing as too much free stuff. (Not true. He watches Extreme Couponing. Totally fucked.)
Anyway, he's pulling on a white button down and Rachel's in her room with the door half-closed, and he hears that, and he wants to go in there, but he's not about to do it without her asking, because he might think this breakup is fucking garbage, but he figures he can at least respect her space and shit.
"Noah."
He rolls his eyes. Fuck. She's so fucking needy sometimes, and god, he doesn't want to help her, since she's playing soccer with his fucking heart these days, but she actually sounds like she's in pain. And hell, maybe she'll be all 'Let's blow off the bar and just stay home' like she used to do sometimes when she was tired. That always, always ended up in lazy sex on the couch. Which, for the record, makes it really fucking difficult to sleep there every night now.
Not for long, if she gets her way. He's been looking for a place. Apparently they're really over this time. She's never asked him to move out before, not that they've ever really broken up before. They've had fights and he's slept on the couch, but neither of them has ever called it 'over', not like this time.
He walks into the bedroom and she's standing there in a high-waisted skirt that's completely fucking unzipped. She's got a tank top tucked into it, but he can still see the plum purple lace thong he distinctly remembers pulling down her legs the last time they had sex. Fuck, he doesn't need to think about that right now, or ever.
"What?"
"It hurts my wrist to reach around," she pouts, looking over her shoulder. He can't even make the obvious joke. "I need you to do my zipper."
She's not wearing her Tensor, which is probably really fucking stupid of her, but he's not about to call her on it, because she wants to think it's not his place.
And if she's asking him for favours, he's sure as fuck going to make sure he gets something out of it, too. He walks over and sets his hand on her hip. Low on her hip. She sighs like she's annoyed, but whatever. She should have expected it. And she managed to get the zipper up an inch or two, and because he wants her naked pretty much all the time (and that goes way back, too), he pulls the zipper back down.
"Up, Noah," she snaps, glaring at him. He just smirks, because even if they weren't broken up, she'd have said the same thing in the same tone. He tugs the zipper up, and she steps away from him before he can put both hands on her body, like she had to know he was going to try. "Thank you."
She doesn't even fucking look at him, so he figures he's dismissed.
They get to the place and he watches her get out of the cab, even if he knows better than to try and help her. Then he remembers that she'll want to play pretend again when she slips her arm through his as they walk to the door. She's fucking with like, every part of him, and he hates her for that. They join their friends and she slides into the booth, and Blaine reaches for her wrist and chastises her for taking her bandage off. She says it 'didn't go' with her outfit and he still calls her stupid, and Puck grins smugly as he orders a whiskey for him and a mojito for her.
If they're playing this game, he's going to remind her that he fucking knows her.
He drapes his arm around her as they sit there, and lets his fingers slide over her skin along the edge of the strap of her tank top. She's always told him that innocent touches sometimes turn her on more than sexual ones, which he doesn't fucking even understand, but whatever. She can't expect him not to use all the shit she's said to him. Two drinks into the evening, she lets her hand fall to his thigh and doesn't move it, and then he's had three whiskey and he thinks it's an amazing idea - when Kurt and Blaine are talking about the gym they just joined and how it has a rooftop pool - to remind her of that time last summer when they went home to housesit for her dads and he fucked her on the stairs of her dads' pool.
"Noah," she breathes, turning her face towards his. Hey, if she wants him to sell that they're still a couple, she's gotta let him say dirty shit into her ear and make her cheeks go pink. It was always basically his favourite game. "Behave."
He scoffs, mostly a laugh, really, and turns his head so their friends can't read his lips. She curls her fingers into his shirt at his sleeve. "Admit you like this game." He knows she's not going to ask what he's talking about. "You fucking get off on them believing you still love me."
It hurts him more than he wants to admit to say those words. That's what it comes down to, right? She doesn't love him anymore and that's why he's going Monday to see a few places in a neighbourhood near the station after he gets off work. That's why he's been sleeping on the fucking couch and why they've barely said two fucking words to one another. If she hadn't hurt her wrist, he wouldn't have even gotten to touch her all week.
"That's not..." She pushes at him slightly, then meets his eyes and shakes her head a bit, and they're both too buzzed for this conversation, and it's going to kill their evening. "You don't actually believe that."
He shrugs his shoulder and reaches for his drink, thankful it's been replaced (someone ordered him a new one; he doesn't know who) and takes a sip. "Why wouldn't I?"
Rachel pushes her hand through his hair and smiles at him all sad and stuff before putting her hand on his shoulder. She's just opening her mouth to say something when Santana nudges her (sending her closer to Puck) and says, "Can you please start foreplay with your boyfriend later? I didn't invite you here so I could watch you two eye fuck all night."
Maybe Puck's eyes are on Santana's as he kisses a line across Rachel's shoulder, but fucking whatever, because sometimes he hates her timing, and this is one of them.
And after that, he watches Rachel go from buzzed to drunk. She's not in wasted territory yet. He usually knows when she crosses over to that place, because she generally reaches for his cock under the table and tells him to take her home. If she gets there, there's no fucking way he's saying no, FYI, which he'd actually feel really fucking terrible about, because he's above banging drunk girls, even when he is in love with them and they're over him or whatever. Fuck. He's drunk, too.
She reaches over and toys with his earlobe, which, god, totally gets him going, no matter where they are or what they're doing.
"Come here," she says. He leans in closer and she licks her lips. "Wanna know a secret?"
Answering, "Yeah," probably makes him sound like a dumbass, but he does not care when she's looking at him from there, like that.
"Your little hand has been making me crazy," she says. He slides his fingers across her back as he smirks at her. "I think we should go home now."
Fuck. He's not a strong enough guy to say no, but shit, he'll fucking hand her off to Santana to save her from doing shit she'll regret in the morning if need be. He will not be her drunken mistake.
"Do you know what you're saying right now?" he asks, looking her right in the eye.
"Noah." She giggles a little and slides her foot up his calf, for fuck's sake. "You may know how to touch me, but I know how to talk to you."
Fuck, yeah. She does.
She leans back against their apartment door as he unlocks it, and doesn't even stumble as he pushes it open and forces her inside. And whatever, it's not like she's not willing. Pretty clear he's got a green light to do whatever the fuck he wants to her.
But it's still all fucked up because they're not really together and they've been drinking and everything, and he doesn't want her to wake up tomorrow morning and be even more pissed at him for taking advantage of her.
She's kicking off her heels and grabbing his hand with hers and walking quietly - calmly, even - to the bedroom.
"Rachel," he says once they're inside. She basically ignores him. "Rachel, wait."
She turns around and pulls her hair off her back and over one shoulder. "Unzip my skirt, please."
"Fuck, baby," he groans, dropping his hands to her hips. "Yeah, I want to, but..." She looks up at him over her shoulder. "You gotta tell me you want this."
"I do."
"No, tell me," he commands. She spins around and sets her arm - swollen wrist and all - over his shoulder. "It's not just because you're drinking."
"It's not," she promises. She starts playing with the collar of his shirt. "It's because you think I don't love you and you broke my heart when you said that."
He narrows his eyes and wants to take a step back, but he can't seem to make himself. "So it's a pity fuck."
"Stop trying to talk me out of it." She runs her hand over the front of his pants. "I know what I'm doing. No pity." He groans and she kisses a line up his jaw. "I want you. This. I'll always want this."
That's good enough for him, to be honest.
... ... ...
Her injured wrist is laying across his stomach, and he's sliding the tips of his fingers gently up and down over her forearm as she sleeps. He's got his eyes closed and it's easily like, 10:30, and she'll probably be pissed when she wakes up and realizes that not only is it this late, but he's there.
He slept like a baby. First time in like, way too close to three weeks that he slept in a bed and not on the couch. And there were days when she was at work and he thought of catching a nap in their bed, but she was claiming it as hers and he doesn't know the rules for that kind of thing.
The alarm on her phone goes. He knows it's the one reminding her to take her birth control pill. She doesn't need the reminder most days (when she's awake) because she's got a memory like an elephant or whatever.
She makes a little noise and rubs her face against his chest, which feels incredible and so fucking familiar.
"Baby, wake up," he murmurs, lips against her hair.
"No."
He chuckles softly, tugs his fingers through the ends of her hair. "Pill."
"Is it that late?" she asks. He looks down in time to see her open her eyes and roll over. He wants to grab her wrist to keep her from leaving the bed, but it'd hurt her and he's not down for that. "Oh!" she squeaks when she realizes she's still naked.
She holds the sheet to her chest (which pulls it off him, but whatever; he's not shy, even if she suddenly is) and sits up, reaches to the end of the bed for the spare blanket she keeps there. She stands up, reaches for her purse and pops a tiny little pill out of the package there, and swallows it, dry.
He turns on his side and looks at her. She's wrapped up in a pink and purple afghan (which he fucking hates, but her nana made it for them as a housewarming gift, and he really can't tell Rachel to put it in a fucking closet instead of on the bed). Her hair's a disaster, and she definitely hasn't noticed the little (really, it's small and it'll be gone by the end of the day) red mark he left on her collarbone at some point last night. She uses the tip of her middle finger to wipe the sleep from her eyes, and when she turns around and looks at him, she smiles a little, but looks like she doesn't want to.
"You're looking awfully proud of yourself," she notes. He wants to laugh. Honestly, he is a little proud that he ever managed to land her in the first place. She walks over and sits down, plays with the sheet where it's bunched around his hips. "Last night..." He watches her face. He can feel the smile slipping from his. "Was probably pretty reckless."
Honestly, better than he was expecting.
"I..."
"It shouldn't have happened."
There it is.
"Really, Rachel?" he asks, and yeah, he's fucking pissed. She closes her eyes tight. He pushes her hand away from his hip. "I fucking...You said you wanted it. You said..."
"I know what I said," she snaps. "And I wasn't lying just to get you to sleep with me."
He rolls his eyes. She's fucking stupid, and this isn't the point at all, but, "You don't have to try with me, okay? You just have to fucking snap your fingers or whatever."
"Noah." She practically whines it, which just pisses him off. Sure, this whole conversation has to be about what she wants. That's fair. "I'm not saying that I didn't - or that I don't - want you. I'm saying it was," she better pick her words really fucking carefully, "ill-advised."
"It wasn't a mistake."
"I didn't say that!" Her eyes are all wide and fucking pathetic, and he doesn't want to look at her, but he can't not.
"You said it shouldn't have happened. Pretty much the same fucking thing."
"You can't..." She looks down at her lap like she's trying not to cry. He knows all the fucking signs. "You can't just treat me like you treated me last night and expect me to resist."
If he looks smug, it's because he is. "I was doing what you asked me to do."
She tilts her head. "Mentioning my father's pool?"
"Hey, if I was still your boyfriend, you know I woulda brought it up."
"Noah," she half-laughs. It's kind of pathetic. "I didn't ask that of you as some ploy to get you to win me back."
"Too bad." He realizes he's still just laying there, like an idiot or something, so he pushes himself up and wants to laugh when she tugs the sheets up so he's still covered. "Why are we pretending this is nothing?" he asks seriously. And he's not talking about the fact that they slept together last night or that she still wants him to act like they're together. "We fucking broke up, baby, and we haven't even talked about it."
"There's nothing to talk about." He might believe her if she'd fucking look at him. "We've stopped working together, Noah. You can't ignore that."
"That's bullshit and you know it."
"It is not!" she yells. She lets her arm fall to her lap, which hurts her wrist and makes her whimper. Fuck, he hates to see her in pain. He reaches for her arm, but she shakes her head. "I'm fine."
"Yeah," he scoffs. "Fucking perfect." She looks away again. He doesn't know where this is coming from, this girl who can't look him in the eye. She's hiding something and he wants to know what it is. "I always thought I'd be the one to fuck it up."
There's venom behind his words, and she flinches. He realizes he's probably never spoken like this to her before. Other people, maybe, and maybe when she was around to hear it, but never was this voice directed at her.
He could care less right now about how it makes her feel.
"That's not very nice."
"Neither is being broken up with you!" he yells. Tears fall down her cheeks and he cannot fucking lay here anymore and have this conversation. He needs to pace or fucking do something. He gets up and grabs his boxers, pulls them on and jerks his tee shirt over his head. "Is there someone else? Just fucking tell me."
She looks like he's just slapped her or something, which is fucking insane, but he thinks it answers his question.
"I can't believe you'd even ask me that." She shakes her head and uses the side of her thumb to wipe her eye. "That's really hurtful, Noah." He rolls his eyes right before she actually looks at him. "You know there's not anyone else."
He puts his hands on his hips and seriously considers just leaving the room and maybe the apartment all together. But she's watching him and crying and he can't fucking walk away from her. "What are you not telling me?"
"There are so many things I want," she says in this tiny little voice. It's the one she uses when she really wants you to listen to her.
"And I'm not one of them."
"Don't put words in my mouth." It's kind of dangerous, the way she says it, because it could either be a warning (and those start fights, 'cause he's not good at heeding warnings) or it could make him a complete sucker for her. "You're all of them."
His heart kind of fucking stops, because shit, that's all he wants to hear. Whatever problems she's having with them, they can work on. He's a stubborn idiot, but he's not a dumb stubborn idiot. He learned a long fucking time ago that being with her sure beats the hell out of being without her.
"What?" he asks, because yeah, that totally sounds smart.
"You have no idea how much it kills me to not be able to talk to you, do you?" She loves her words, so yeah, he can imagine. "I came home from my first rehearsal for the show and you weren't here. And I know you were working and I can't really be mad at you for that, but god." She wipes her eyes again. Fuck, she's trying to destroy him. "I want to share everything with you, and it's just so hard now."
"So you dumped me?" he asks incredulously. Because yeah, maybe in her crazy brain all that makes sense, but it fucking doesn't to him. If she wants him, she can have him. He's been making that pretty fucking clear since forever.
"I just started thinking so much, about everything, about the future." He doesn't so much care about that as he does about right now, where she's still naked and wrapped in a blanket and crying over them. "And I can't even picture how we could keep up a relationship when we barely even saw one another. I don't even remember the last time we made love before last night."
"Santana's birthday," he says without skipping a beat. He remembers because they blew off the party when Rachel stepped out of the bedroom in that fucking gorgeous green dress. They didn't even leave the bedroom and he called in sick to work the next day. Santana's still waiting to cash in on the IOU she has for them not showing.
"Oh." She blushes and bites her bottom lip, looks at him from under her lashes. "That's right."
And he's a moron, so he just blurts out, "I love you," just to see how it lands.
She smiles. "I know you do."
"And you love me."
"Of course." He walks over and pushes her back onto the mattress, because he's not fucking leaving this room until they're back together, and he's pretty sure she knows that. "It just..." She slides her hands up over his shoulders, then grits her teeth and takes her hurt wrist off him, lays it up by her head on the bed. "It got to the point where...Noah, If I can't have you the way I want you, it doesn't feel right to have you at all."
He presses his lips to her neck. "You realize that's fucking insane, right?" She turns her face away from his, so he pulls away and looks down at her. "How do you want me?"
"Noah, don't turn it into a joke."
"I'm not," he says, and he means it, even if he's laughing. "I mean it."
"Stupid little things." She shrugs one shoulder, which looks kind of dumb, since she's laying down, but definitely sexy because she's really only not naked because of the stupid blanket. "Like waking up with you." He hums. Yeah. He misses that. This morning was amazing. "Or actually eating meals together."
"Yeah."
He's going to start gunning for a better time slot at the station. Starting tomorrow. And maybe looking for something else, too. There are tons of radio stations in New York City, right?
"I just want all of you, all the time." She giggles and makes him laugh, and her hand is in his hair. "Too much?"
"Nah." He pushes her stupid long bangs off her face. (He loves her with bangs or without. This in between business bugs him; he likes to watch her eyes.) "I'll give it to you."
"Noah," she groans.
"C'mon." He laughs with her, which feels, you know, awesome, since she's underneath him and he's between her legs, and he can feel that her legs are totally bare and she's kind of just laying on the blanket now. "Get your mind out of the gutter."
"You made me this way." She's trying to pout, but he can tell she's pretty fucking happy and it misses the mark. "I think this..." She pauses and considers her words when he rubs his thumb gently back and forth over her injured wrist. "Experiment - " He scoffs and gives her a withering look. " - Just tells me that we simply don't work very well when we're not together."
"We don't," he agrees, leaning down to kiss her once. Okay, twice. "Coulda told you that, baby."
"Will you remind me if I forget again?"
She's fucking serious with this shit. He loves that about her. Girl can't have a conversation like a normal person or like, just tell him not to let her dump him again.
So he kisses her, nods, and mumbles, "Yeah," against her lips, and when she's freshly showered and he's walking around in his boxers because he can and he doesn't have to worry about offending her, she lays on her bed and critiques the way he's folding his shit as he puts it back into the drawers of their dresser.
He tackles her onto the bed when she says, "Are you really not organizing your socks by style, then colour?" and she laughs and squeals, "My wrist! My wrist!" but he's not focused what so fucking ever on her upper half, if you get what he's saying, and then she grabs his face and tells him to promise they'll spend more time together this way.
"Whatever you want, Rachel," he says, and it sounds like a promise, so he figures it can be one if she wants it to be.
She pushes him away, but she's fucking beaming up at him. "Really? Whatever I want?"
He's not totally sure what she means, but he nods anyway, and then she says something into his ear while her thumb rubs over the other one, and all he can say in response is, "Yeah, baby. I can do that."