moonlight serenade
Pairing: Finn/Rachel
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 2,138
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: " She's barefoot, in only a thin, silk slip and dancing to Glenn Miller. "Dance with me, Finny," she says, and he remembers bright, bright eyes. " AU
I miss you beyond words can say.
"Mr. Hudson, the pleasure is all mine."
White smiles, bright eyes, red lips: they're all here, all beneath him. It's a puzzle waiting to be solved. (She's a puzzle waiting to be solved). Not today, he thinks. Please, not today.
It's a slow song - maybe Duke Ellington? He doesn't know. All he knows is shiny hair that smells like the strawberries he'd eat with his father on the back of their old porch. "Now, son," he said, face soft, eyes sad, "you're the man of this house now. You take care of your mother, you keep her safe, you keep her happy. Do you hear me, Finn? You treat her right."
"What about you? Where are you going papa?" he remembers asking, the bright juice from the strawberries dripping down his chin like blood from a split lip. His father patted him on the back and tossed him a rag one time when he came home, blood dripping off his chin, and repeated that Charlie Daniels got what was comin'.
His father ruffled his hair then, pushed the tin of those damn strawberries closer, and then left Finn to suck the fruit dry.
He left that night. Finn doesn't remember why anymore.
Bright eyes, red lips. Not today, he thinks. Please, not today.
"I'll be famous, just you wait and see Finn," she says. "I'll be singing with Billie Holiday someday, and I'll be on the wire, and - oh, Finn, everyone will absolutely love me."
He already does.
It's a slow song. Duke Ellington, he's sure of it. She whispers his name into his the fabric of his shirt and presses her fingers to the curve of his spine. His palms slides over the silk of her dress, a black number covered in polka dots and a string of pearls around her neck to match. He presses a kiss against her skin and tries to forget strawberries.
Not today, he thinks. Please, not today.
He finds her in the dark; soft, warm, heartbeat so steady and strong. Her blouse is cold and crisp, unlike the skin of her stomach when he slips his hand under her shirt. He traces his thumb over her bellybutton and curls a little closer to her under the rose patterned covers.
"Finn?" she asks groggily. One of her hands comes up to rest against the back of his neck. He melts into the touch. "Finn, honey, what - "
He doesn't let her finish, instead pressing a kiss to the swell of her breast and breathing her name. She mumbles something he doesn't hear and squeezes the muscles of his back as he removes his hand from underneath her blouse to start on the pea-sized buttons holding the fabric together. His finger tremble, the memory of ash strong on his tongue, and flashes of light burst behind his eyes.
Don't think. Don't - don't think.
His tongue traces alone the edge of her bra, the silk of it cold under his tongue, and he can feel her shiver under him. He lays his head on her chest, her heartbeat so, so steady against his ear. Her nails scratch along his scalp then and he thinks he wants to melt right into her. She'll keep him safe, she'll keep him warm. She'll keep him.
Don't think.
"Finn," her voice is commanding, like one of his drill sergeants, "what's wrong."
He breathes through his nose and presses his face to the warm skin of her stomach. "Not today," he says. "Please, darling, don't ask me that today."
She says that he's breaking her heart. He's silent.
I miss you beyond words can say. Don't think.
He slides into her, so warm, so wet, so willing beneath him. She says his name and buries her face in his shoulder. He presses his nose into her hair and tries not think of strawberries.
His father left that night. Finn knows why.
Wild eyes, flying clothes. Today, he thinks. Please, today.
"I've always liked a man in uniform," she says, and slides a hand down the front of his chest. He swallows.
She tastes like mint and peaches and cigarettes. Her skin is soft under his hands, thumb tracing across the curve of her collarbone, and she smells like lemons today. Her breath is warm against his face and her nose keeps bumping into his.
He loves her. God, he loves her.
Please, don't, he thinks, don't ever take me away.
He's nineteen. He's big, stupid, and clumsy. He dumps an entire glass of lemonade all over her green dress.
She likes him anyways.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today - "
She's crying already. He smiles.
Not today. Dear God, please not today.
"Come on, Mr. Hudson," she says, her eyes bright. They're the brightest he's ever seen. "Come do the jive with me."
His palm is sweaty in hers, his face far too red, and he's almost certain he's going to step on her toes. She doesn't care.
Her face is flushed, mouth open wide in a smile and a smudge of bright red lipstick across her teeth. Her dress flares around her knees when she twirls and her giggle floats above the sounds of the trumpets.
He thinks he finally believes in love at first sight.
Red eyes, sniffling smiles. Not today, he thinks. Please, not today.
The band is playing a slow song when he first sees her. The music is swelling to the climax of the piece, the singer is taking in a large gulp of air for her next long note, and he thinks it's practically a scene out of the movies. Boy sees girl. Girl sees boy. Everything else is history from there.
It's the back of her head that he sees first, hair slick, shiny, and pulled back into curls. It's really not much, staring at the back of her head, but then she turns her head to glance at the band and he sees her face for the first time - and, god, is she stunning.
Bright red lips part, flashing blinding white teeth, and she smiles towards the blonde singer, making her nose scrunch a little and pulling her eyebrows together. His eyes flicker to the singer, watching as the blonde smiles back and curls her fingers to wave at the brunette. The singer is certainly pretty enough, but his gaze returns steadfast to her. He thinks she's much prettier.
She's sitting at the bar, chatting excitedly with the black-haired bartender, and she's wearing the prettiest dress Finn thinks he's ever seen. She looks like a star, like someone who decided to step off the big silver screen and have a drink or two. Every move is graceful, head thrown back in laughter, tongue peeking out to wet her lips, mouth around the rim of her drink.
She's a star. She's a star. She's a star.
Pop. Pop. Blood. Screaming.
Please God, today.
I miss you beyond words can say.
Her face is beaming. After all this time, all those miles, she's still beaming up at him.
"Don't die, sweetheart. Don't die."
He runs a thumb across her face and smells the latest perfumed letter she's sent. There's a shot, then a shout, and he has to tear his eyes away from her grainy smile. New orders, new threats.
He folds her up and tucks her back into his pocket, back into his heart, where he knows she'll be waiting with a beaming smile and the smell of strawberries.
"You're the man of this house now."
A seed stuck between his teeth and a splinter in his thumb. "What about you?"
Why daddy? Why?
The next time he sees her, she's the one singing.
She's barefoot, in only a thin, silk slip and dancing to Glenn Miller. "Dance with me, Finny," she says, and he remembers bright, bright eyes.
He smiles into his eggs and continues to watch her. She dances over to him and curls a hand under his arm, trying to tug him to his feet. He grins again and instead pulls her back so that she falls into his lap.
Shaking his head, he says, "You know how bad I am at dancing."
"I don't care," she says, and laughs in that breathless way he loves. She wiggles in his lap a little, head bobbing in time with the music, and he can't help but laugh now. "Don't laugh at me. Dance with me!"
He agrees because he learned long ago that he never can really deny her of anything. She smiles the widest he thinks he's seen in weeks and leans in to kiss him. Her hands flutter across his skin, across the ugly puckered scar he has, and after she's finished kissing him she leans to press her lips against it. She doesn't say anything, only smiles in that wide, wide grin he loves, and pulls him up to sounds of trombones.
He steps on her toes twice, but she only laughs when he does.
Not today, he doesn't think. Please, not today.
I miss you beyond words can say.
He's got bright juice dripping off his chin. "Where are you going papa?"
More strawberries, kid. Take some more strawberries.
He salutes, the crisp sleeve of his fabric crunches when it bends at the elbow. It reminds him of her. It reminds him of the way she ironed his uniform, dressed in only one of his spare shirts, tears dripping onto the fabric. It happened only a few hours ago, but he finds that hard to believe.
Let it be over. Please, let it be over.
There's blood on his sleeve, and under his fingernails, and soaking his collar. Some of it is his, most of it isn't. He's streaked with dirt and mud too, but the blood is worse. He's always hated blood.
He wants to be clean. He wants cigarettes that don't taste years old. He wants to sleep until he's old and gray. He wants to forget how to kill a man and he wants to pretend it's all some horrible far off nightmare. But most of all, he wants nothing more than to be home, curled under those ridiculous flower patterned sheets, losing himself to wide smiles and soft skin.
He wants a lot of things, but he usually doesn't get them.
"Hey, buddy," he says. The baby blinks once, twice, and Finn can feel his heart being squeezed by this little persons fingers.
Thank you, he thinks. Dear God, thank you.
"Finn. Finn Hudson."
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Hudson. I'm Rachel Berry."
Oh God. Oh God. It hurts. He doesn't - he isn't -
It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.
She has the prettiest smile he thinks he's ever seen. All teeth, a flash of tongue, that little dimple on her cheek, bright brown eyes. Her smile is really one of a kind, and he thinks he doesn't want to ever go another day without seeing it.
He's a lovesick fool, he realizes that. His heart only knows irregular patterns and odd jumps around her, and his stomach is a constant mess of butterflies. His palms sweat, his face gets flushed, and he stammers like he's a silly schoolboy again. He breathes her in (Rachel, Rachel, Rachel), he breathes her out (Rachel, Rachel, Rachel).
She's got him wrapped around her pretty little finger but he really doesn't mind.
"You treat her right."
He's trying. He's trying.
"Please, Finn, let me help you."
No. No. No.
"Let me - let me - "
Nononono.
Pop. Pop. Blood. Screaming.
Please God, today.
"Finn."
Don't think. I miss you beyond words can say.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today - "
She's crying. He smiling.
Thank you. Thank you.
"I've always liked a man in uniform," she says, and slides a hand down the front of his chest. He swallows. His eyes burn.
"Rachel, I don't - " He swallows again, finding it difficult to speak through the lump in his throat. "I - "
She smiles that little small smile that makes her look so, so sad. "I know."
He doesn't say anything more. His hands tighten around her waist and he pulls her as close as possible, the feeling of her warm breath across his neck calms him a bit. Her hands curl around his back, fingers gently tracing the seam of his shirt down his spine, and she whispers his name into his chest. He presses a kiss to her skin and thinks her hair smells like strawberries.
He thinks of that old porch, those old eyes, and that old box they lowered into the ground.
"What about you? Where are you going papa?"
It's a slow song, Duke Ellington. He doesn't step on her toes this time.
She's the most beautiful gal he's ever seen.
My dear Finn,
I miss you beyond words can say.
Spoilers: None.
Word Count: 2,138
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: " She's barefoot, in only a thin, silk slip and dancing to Glenn Miller. "Dance with me, Finny," she says, and he remembers bright, bright eyes. " AU
I miss you beyond words can say.
"Mr. Hudson, the pleasure is all mine."
White smiles, bright eyes, red lips: they're all here, all beneath him. It's a puzzle waiting to be solved. (She's a puzzle waiting to be solved). Not today, he thinks. Please, not today.
It's a slow song - maybe Duke Ellington? He doesn't know. All he knows is shiny hair that smells like the strawberries he'd eat with his father on the back of their old porch. "Now, son," he said, face soft, eyes sad, "you're the man of this house now. You take care of your mother, you keep her safe, you keep her happy. Do you hear me, Finn? You treat her right."
"What about you? Where are you going papa?" he remembers asking, the bright juice from the strawberries dripping down his chin like blood from a split lip. His father patted him on the back and tossed him a rag one time when he came home, blood dripping off his chin, and repeated that Charlie Daniels got what was comin'.
His father ruffled his hair then, pushed the tin of those damn strawberries closer, and then left Finn to suck the fruit dry.
He left that night. Finn doesn't remember why anymore.
Bright eyes, red lips. Not today, he thinks. Please, not today.
"I'll be famous, just you wait and see Finn," she says. "I'll be singing with Billie Holiday someday, and I'll be on the wire, and - oh, Finn, everyone will absolutely love me."
He already does.
It's a slow song. Duke Ellington, he's sure of it. She whispers his name into his the fabric of his shirt and presses her fingers to the curve of his spine. His palms slides over the silk of her dress, a black number covered in polka dots and a string of pearls around her neck to match. He presses a kiss against her skin and tries to forget strawberries.
Not today, he thinks. Please, not today.
He finds her in the dark; soft, warm, heartbeat so steady and strong. Her blouse is cold and crisp, unlike the skin of her stomach when he slips his hand under her shirt. He traces his thumb over her bellybutton and curls a little closer to her under the rose patterned covers.
"Finn?" she asks groggily. One of her hands comes up to rest against the back of his neck. He melts into the touch. "Finn, honey, what - "
He doesn't let her finish, instead pressing a kiss to the swell of her breast and breathing her name. She mumbles something he doesn't hear and squeezes the muscles of his back as he removes his hand from underneath her blouse to start on the pea-sized buttons holding the fabric together. His finger tremble, the memory of ash strong on his tongue, and flashes of light burst behind his eyes.
Don't think. Don't - don't think.
His tongue traces alone the edge of her bra, the silk of it cold under his tongue, and he can feel her shiver under him. He lays his head on her chest, her heartbeat so, so steady against his ear. Her nails scratch along his scalp then and he thinks he wants to melt right into her. She'll keep him safe, she'll keep him warm. She'll keep him.
Don't think.
"Finn," her voice is commanding, like one of his drill sergeants, "what's wrong."
He breathes through his nose and presses his face to the warm skin of her stomach. "Not today," he says. "Please, darling, don't ask me that today."
She says that he's breaking her heart. He's silent.
I miss you beyond words can say. Don't think.
He slides into her, so warm, so wet, so willing beneath him. She says his name and buries her face in his shoulder. He presses his nose into her hair and tries not think of strawberries.
His father left that night. Finn knows why.
Wild eyes, flying clothes. Today, he thinks. Please, today.
"I've always liked a man in uniform," she says, and slides a hand down the front of his chest. He swallows.
She tastes like mint and peaches and cigarettes. Her skin is soft under his hands, thumb tracing across the curve of her collarbone, and she smells like lemons today. Her breath is warm against his face and her nose keeps bumping into his.
He loves her. God, he loves her.
Please, don't, he thinks, don't ever take me away.
He's nineteen. He's big, stupid, and clumsy. He dumps an entire glass of lemonade all over her green dress.
She likes him anyways.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today - "
She's crying already. He smiles.
Not today. Dear God, please not today.
"Come on, Mr. Hudson," she says, her eyes bright. They're the brightest he's ever seen. "Come do the jive with me."
His palm is sweaty in hers, his face far too red, and he's almost certain he's going to step on her toes. She doesn't care.
Her face is flushed, mouth open wide in a smile and a smudge of bright red lipstick across her teeth. Her dress flares around her knees when she twirls and her giggle floats above the sounds of the trumpets.
He thinks he finally believes in love at first sight.
Red eyes, sniffling smiles. Not today, he thinks. Please, not today.
The band is playing a slow song when he first sees her. The music is swelling to the climax of the piece, the singer is taking in a large gulp of air for her next long note, and he thinks it's practically a scene out of the movies. Boy sees girl. Girl sees boy. Everything else is history from there.
It's the back of her head that he sees first, hair slick, shiny, and pulled back into curls. It's really not much, staring at the back of her head, but then she turns her head to glance at the band and he sees her face for the first time - and, god, is she stunning.
Bright red lips part, flashing blinding white teeth, and she smiles towards the blonde singer, making her nose scrunch a little and pulling her eyebrows together. His eyes flicker to the singer, watching as the blonde smiles back and curls her fingers to wave at the brunette. The singer is certainly pretty enough, but his gaze returns steadfast to her. He thinks she's much prettier.
She's sitting at the bar, chatting excitedly with the black-haired bartender, and she's wearing the prettiest dress Finn thinks he's ever seen. She looks like a star, like someone who decided to step off the big silver screen and have a drink or two. Every move is graceful, head thrown back in laughter, tongue peeking out to wet her lips, mouth around the rim of her drink.
She's a star. She's a star. She's a star.
Pop. Pop. Blood. Screaming.
Please God, today.
I miss you beyond words can say.
Her face is beaming. After all this time, all those miles, she's still beaming up at him.
"Don't die, sweetheart. Don't die."
He runs a thumb across her face and smells the latest perfumed letter she's sent. There's a shot, then a shout, and he has to tear his eyes away from her grainy smile. New orders, new threats.
He folds her up and tucks her back into his pocket, back into his heart, where he knows she'll be waiting with a beaming smile and the smell of strawberries.
"You're the man of this house now."
A seed stuck between his teeth and a splinter in his thumb. "What about you?"
Why daddy? Why?
The next time he sees her, she's the one singing.
She's barefoot, in only a thin, silk slip and dancing to Glenn Miller. "Dance with me, Finny," she says, and he remembers bright, bright eyes.
He smiles into his eggs and continues to watch her. She dances over to him and curls a hand under his arm, trying to tug him to his feet. He grins again and instead pulls her back so that she falls into his lap.
Shaking his head, he says, "You know how bad I am at dancing."
"I don't care," she says, and laughs in that breathless way he loves. She wiggles in his lap a little, head bobbing in time with the music, and he can't help but laugh now. "Don't laugh at me. Dance with me!"
He agrees because he learned long ago that he never can really deny her of anything. She smiles the widest he thinks he's seen in weeks and leans in to kiss him. Her hands flutter across his skin, across the ugly puckered scar he has, and after she's finished kissing him she leans to press her lips against it. She doesn't say anything, only smiles in that wide, wide grin he loves, and pulls him up to sounds of trombones.
He steps on her toes twice, but she only laughs when he does.
Not today, he doesn't think. Please, not today.
I miss you beyond words can say.
He's got bright juice dripping off his chin. "Where are you going papa?"
More strawberries, kid. Take some more strawberries.
He salutes, the crisp sleeve of his fabric crunches when it bends at the elbow. It reminds him of her. It reminds him of the way she ironed his uniform, dressed in only one of his spare shirts, tears dripping onto the fabric. It happened only a few hours ago, but he finds that hard to believe.
Let it be over. Please, let it be over.
There's blood on his sleeve, and under his fingernails, and soaking his collar. Some of it is his, most of it isn't. He's streaked with dirt and mud too, but the blood is worse. He's always hated blood.
He wants to be clean. He wants cigarettes that don't taste years old. He wants to sleep until he's old and gray. He wants to forget how to kill a man and he wants to pretend it's all some horrible far off nightmare. But most of all, he wants nothing more than to be home, curled under those ridiculous flower patterned sheets, losing himself to wide smiles and soft skin.
He wants a lot of things, but he usually doesn't get them.
"Hey, buddy," he says. The baby blinks once, twice, and Finn can feel his heart being squeezed by this little persons fingers.
Thank you, he thinks. Dear God, thank you.
"Finn. Finn Hudson."
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Hudson. I'm Rachel Berry."
Oh God. Oh God. It hurts. He doesn't - he isn't -
It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.
She has the prettiest smile he thinks he's ever seen. All teeth, a flash of tongue, that little dimple on her cheek, bright brown eyes. Her smile is really one of a kind, and he thinks he doesn't want to ever go another day without seeing it.
He's a lovesick fool, he realizes that. His heart only knows irregular patterns and odd jumps around her, and his stomach is a constant mess of butterflies. His palms sweat, his face gets flushed, and he stammers like he's a silly schoolboy again. He breathes her in (Rachel, Rachel, Rachel), he breathes her out (Rachel, Rachel, Rachel).
She's got him wrapped around her pretty little finger but he really doesn't mind.
"You treat her right."
He's trying. He's trying.
"Please, Finn, let me help you."
No. No. No.
"Let me - let me - "
Nononono.
Pop. Pop. Blood. Screaming.
Please God, today.
"Finn."
Don't think. I miss you beyond words can say.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today - "
She's crying. He smiling.
Thank you. Thank you.
"I've always liked a man in uniform," she says, and slides a hand down the front of his chest. He swallows. His eyes burn.
"Rachel, I don't - " He swallows again, finding it difficult to speak through the lump in his throat. "I - "
She smiles that little small smile that makes her look so, so sad. "I know."
He doesn't say anything more. His hands tighten around her waist and he pulls her as close as possible, the feeling of her warm breath across his neck calms him a bit. Her hands curl around his back, fingers gently tracing the seam of his shirt down his spine, and she whispers his name into his chest. He presses a kiss to her skin and thinks her hair smells like strawberries.
He thinks of that old porch, those old eyes, and that old box they lowered into the ground.
"What about you? Where are you going papa?"
It's a slow song, Duke Ellington. He doesn't step on her toes this time.
She's the most beautiful gal he's ever seen.
My dear Finn,
I miss you beyond words can say.