when you dip, i dip, we dip
Sam’s not exactly surprised, but Rachel keeps them on a relatively clean schedule. They go to school, and Glee club rehearsal (Tuesdays), and in the afternoons after her dance class (Wednesdays) or vocal lesson (Thursdays) or a responsibility to teach Hebrew to Hannah’s classmates at the local synagogue (Mondays), he picks her up (still decked in his football practice best) in his truck and they head back to her place. Where, innocently enough, they work on homework until it’s finished. He usually stays for dinner, and for an hour or so after that if he doesn’t have other plans - which usually only consist of Finn or Puck wanting to “have bro time” that doesn’t revolve around picking out gifts for their high-maintenance girlfriends.
In that hour or so of unconstrained free time, there’s usually a fair divide between actual quality time with his girlfriend (which consists of… well, you can guess) and her over-achieving brainstorming sessions where she catalogues at least ten new song ideas for Glee club while running an extra few miles on her elliptical. He tries to hate those sessions, but he can’t deny that it’s kind of entertaining to watch her literally run a mile a minute, her mouth spilling out ideas that come out almost too fast for him to write them down. That kind of crazy passion is… well, it’s entertaining. And a little inspiring, not that he ever really thinks about it like that.
But even Rachel can’t be completely innocent, at least not when other people are involved. Senior year Nationals are in Las Vegas, of all places, and she’s quite honestly content to relax in the hotel room she’s been slotted into (one she shares with Quinn, which is much easier this year as opposed to the years before, now that they’ve forged a friendship). But New Directions won’t have that - or at least, Kurt won’t let her marinate in her own premature old-lady tendencies when they’re in the most raunchy city in America.
So Santana dresses her (ignoring her protests) in slim-fitting black jeans and a jewel-toned top, and Quinn runs a straightening iron through her hair so that it hangs long and lean against her face, and they manage to give her a smoky-eye makeover that suits her far better than the sad clown hooker attempt Kurt had pulled back in sophomore year. And then they’re shoving her out of the room, her pleas for a relaxing evening or an extra hour of rehearsal falling on deaf ears as they each take an arm and practically haul her into the van waiting outside.
Maybe it’s the fact that Finn and Puck are talking a mile a minute about the fact that there’s supposedly a nacho cheese fountain at the party they’re headed to - a mix between a teen-friendly nightclub and a get-together for the various Glee clubs coming together - or that the taxi company’s van doesn’t have very good internal lighting, but Sam just gives her a reassuring smile and squeezes her hand when she settles in beside her. It’s not until they’re piling out, walking into the lobby of the convention center, that he actually gives a reaction to the makeover the two Cheerios have bestowed upon his girlfriend.
“What, Sam?” Her voice is a mix between irritation and self-conscious confusion, and he knows he can’t really explain the suddenly tight feeling in his pants or the urge in the back of his mind to thread his fingers through her hair and tug her close, so he just gives her a wide smile (like he knows she likes) and presses a kiss to her lips. It’s a little more insistent than he would normally go for in public, and he cringes on the inside at Puck’s low wolf-whistle, but she’s smiling when he lets her go, and he thinks idly that she looks gorgeous with her cheeks red like that.
The group splits up after a while - Finn wanders off with Kurt to investigate the other teams, and Puck and Quinn… well, Rachel doesn’t need to know, and Brittany and Santana bid them a quick adieu before disappearing onto the dance floor. She looks a little lost for a moment - clubs have never been her forte, even now, and she’d promised Kurt no subterfuge this close to the competition - and Sam doesn’t really want to just stand there, so he gives her another winning smile before cocking his head towards the dance floor. “You wanna?”
She thinks about it for a moment - she’s horrible at the bump-and-grind style of dancing that she’d seen at homecoming, but Sam’s not the best dancer either, so he can’t be embarrassed by her - before nodding shyly. “If you want to.”
They’re awkward for a little while, as she slips them further and further into the center of the floor, where people are closer together and more absorbed in their own world, until a song comes on that she vaguely recognizes and he tugs her in closer to avoid a stumbling couple behind her. Her cheeks flush, but he just breathes against her neck, warm and reassuring, and she feels a familiar burn in the pit of her stomach that makes her never want to leave.
He can feel her confidence rise in the way she straightens against him, in the way her head tilts to the side to accommodate him (like she has so many times, splayed out underneath him on her too-pink comforter), and he grins, wide and with abandon, against her neck. His hand slips down, curving against the line of her hip, and squeezes - Rachel hums in acknowledgement, her stance sliding open a little more to allow him to bend her forward. It’s a silent dance routine, one encouraged by the chorus of the new song that’s filtering through the air. They rock, back and forth, one of her hands resting on top of his while the other reaches back, curving around his neck to pull him in against her. After a moment, she becomes aware of the fact that people are watching, girls and boys alike are drawn to the way he bends her over, the way he pulls her flush against him, the way his mouth opens and closes along her neck like the prelude to a much raunchier sequence of events - and after a long moment, she smiles, low and wicked, because she enjoys it. It’s another performance, another role, and suddenly she doesn’t feel awkward anymore.
In that hour or so of unconstrained free time, there’s usually a fair divide between actual quality time with his girlfriend (which consists of… well, you can guess) and her over-achieving brainstorming sessions where she catalogues at least ten new song ideas for Glee club while running an extra few miles on her elliptical. He tries to hate those sessions, but he can’t deny that it’s kind of entertaining to watch her literally run a mile a minute, her mouth spilling out ideas that come out almost too fast for him to write them down. That kind of crazy passion is… well, it’s entertaining. And a little inspiring, not that he ever really thinks about it like that.
But even Rachel can’t be completely innocent, at least not when other people are involved. Senior year Nationals are in Las Vegas, of all places, and she’s quite honestly content to relax in the hotel room she’s been slotted into (one she shares with Quinn, which is much easier this year as opposed to the years before, now that they’ve forged a friendship). But New Directions won’t have that - or at least, Kurt won’t let her marinate in her own premature old-lady tendencies when they’re in the most raunchy city in America.
So Santana dresses her (ignoring her protests) in slim-fitting black jeans and a jewel-toned top, and Quinn runs a straightening iron through her hair so that it hangs long and lean against her face, and they manage to give her a smoky-eye makeover that suits her far better than the sad clown hooker attempt Kurt had pulled back in sophomore year. And then they’re shoving her out of the room, her pleas for a relaxing evening or an extra hour of rehearsal falling on deaf ears as they each take an arm and practically haul her into the van waiting outside.
Maybe it’s the fact that Finn and Puck are talking a mile a minute about the fact that there’s supposedly a nacho cheese fountain at the party they’re headed to - a mix between a teen-friendly nightclub and a get-together for the various Glee clubs coming together - or that the taxi company’s van doesn’t have very good internal lighting, but Sam just gives her a reassuring smile and squeezes her hand when she settles in beside her. It’s not until they’re piling out, walking into the lobby of the convention center, that he actually gives a reaction to the makeover the two Cheerios have bestowed upon his girlfriend.
“What, Sam?” Her voice is a mix between irritation and self-conscious confusion, and he knows he can’t really explain the suddenly tight feeling in his pants or the urge in the back of his mind to thread his fingers through her hair and tug her close, so he just gives her a wide smile (like he knows she likes) and presses a kiss to her lips. It’s a little more insistent than he would normally go for in public, and he cringes on the inside at Puck’s low wolf-whistle, but she’s smiling when he lets her go, and he thinks idly that she looks gorgeous with her cheeks red like that.
The group splits up after a while - Finn wanders off with Kurt to investigate the other teams, and Puck and Quinn… well, Rachel doesn’t need to know, and Brittany and Santana bid them a quick adieu before disappearing onto the dance floor. She looks a little lost for a moment - clubs have never been her forte, even now, and she’d promised Kurt no subterfuge this close to the competition - and Sam doesn’t really want to just stand there, so he gives her another winning smile before cocking his head towards the dance floor. “You wanna?”
She thinks about it for a moment - she’s horrible at the bump-and-grind style of dancing that she’d seen at homecoming, but Sam’s not the best dancer either, so he can’t be embarrassed by her - before nodding shyly. “If you want to.”
They’re awkward for a little while, as she slips them further and further into the center of the floor, where people are closer together and more absorbed in their own world, until a song comes on that she vaguely recognizes and he tugs her in closer to avoid a stumbling couple behind her. Her cheeks flush, but he just breathes against her neck, warm and reassuring, and she feels a familiar burn in the pit of her stomach that makes her never want to leave.
He can feel her confidence rise in the way she straightens against him, in the way her head tilts to the side to accommodate him (like she has so many times, splayed out underneath him on her too-pink comforter), and he grins, wide and with abandon, against her neck. His hand slips down, curving against the line of her hip, and squeezes - Rachel hums in acknowledgement, her stance sliding open a little more to allow him to bend her forward. It’s a silent dance routine, one encouraged by the chorus of the new song that’s filtering through the air. They rock, back and forth, one of her hands resting on top of his while the other reaches back, curving around his neck to pull him in against her. After a moment, she becomes aware of the fact that people are watching, girls and boys alike are drawn to the way he bends her over, the way he pulls her flush against him, the way his mouth opens and closes along her neck like the prelude to a much raunchier sequence of events - and after a long moment, she smiles, low and wicked, because she enjoys it. It’s another performance, another role, and suddenly she doesn’t feel awkward anymore.