Spirit Exchange Fic! A Little Mistletoe, for comeundone
Holiday Wish Fulfilled for: comeundone
Title: A Little Mistletoe
Rating: PG-13
Pairings/Characters: Puck/Rachel
Warnings: N/A
Word count: ~6,200
Disclaimer: This Glee fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.
Summary: It's three years and a half years after graduation and Puck has no idea why he's still hanging out with these people.
A/N: Hope you enjoy!
"Daaaamn you guys, don't look now, but a hell of a hot surprise just walked in the door!"
Puck doesn't bother looking up from the screen where he's busy maneuvering through dense underbrush while under heavy fire; he's on a roll and fucking schooling everyone's ass tonight. Besides, Chang gets enthused over stupid shit all the time, like how the Christmas lights hanging everywhere are blinking in time to the music, or how Brittany mixed frozen vegetables in with the Jello instead of fruit. Pretty clearly this isn't going to be any different, because the only exciting thing that ever happens at at one of these parties is when Q. verbally bitch-slaps someone for not using a coaster.
Shit, they're suddenly even noisier than normal and it's fucking disturbing because he's got a sneaking suspicion that someone is creeping up on his right flank and he really needs to reload. Santana is yelling something about another round of shots and for some reason Kurt is squealing somewhere in the background and fuck if he knows why he's still hanging out with these people more than three years after graduation. Whatever. Take into account all that time spent singing and dancing together and all the drama that went along with it, it's probably understandable (although never, ever to be spoken of) that they've bonded.
Fine. Maybe it's because he only makes it back from L.A. once a year, but he doesn't absolutely hate these holiday get-togethers. Which admittedly, could just be some crazy-ass Stockholm Syndrome thing going on.
He picks off a couple of snipers and is just closing in on a hidden bunker when he hears Artie's voice replying to Mike.
"Word. If you had told me in high school that it was even possible for those skirts to get shorter..."
Huh? Skirts?
"...I would not have believed you."
And that's when he hears the laugh, bright and warm and loud, and now he doesn't even have to look because he may not have heard it in years but he hasn't forgotten it. Rachel Berry is in the house. And that's when his fucking head explodes. No really, bits of him are all over the screen and Mike is cackling because he hasn't died this early in the game since ever.
Well, fuck.
She never comes back to Lima. And hell, if he had taken as much shit as she did from various assholes, some of them in this room, (yeah, including him for a while) he's not sure he'd be back either.
He turns slowly (be cool, Puckerman) just to make sure it's not some kind of auditory hallucination.
He'll take the dryness in his mouth and yes, the stirring in his jeans, as confirmation that she's actually here. Those are her eyes and that's her smile and her silky brown hair, curling along her shoulders and her fucking awesome little tits wrapped up in this festive silvery top thing. And fuck, those are absolutely her gorgeous legs barely covered up by a narrow black skirt and he can't decide whether she's showing too much leg or not enough. Probably both. Not enough because, duh. And too much because Chang is standing beside him looking like a hooked fish.
"Close your mouth, dude," he snaps out, aiming a blind hit in the direction of Mike's arm.
She's standing in the archway between the kitchen and living room chatting with Brit and now that he's over the initial shock, he can see even from across the room that there are a few differences as well. Lips and nails are a tasteful shade of fuck-me red and the Mary-Janes have been replaced with a pair of sexy heels that subtly change the tilt of her hips. She's holding a glass tumbler in her hand and there's a change too, because the Rachel Berry he knows doesn't drink, but then she takes a sip and makes a tiny face, wrinkling her nose.
And fuck all he can think about is the slick, heated glide of her tongue along his and how she'd made the exact same face when she'd tasted the Jack he'd been drinking.
"You ever get with her? You know, beyond that thing sophomore year." Mike asks curiously.
He looks at his friend in surprise. "You know I didn't."
And it's hardly even lying because one night of kissing and a memorable detour to third base the weekend before she left for New York, no matter how hot, doesn't scratch the surface of being with Rachel Berry.
Mike shrugs. "I dunno. You two always had something."
Like it's her cue (she was always good with those), she looks up, meets his eyes and smiles brightly and he can't even make himself smile back because he's too busy watching the sweep of her lashes against her cheek and the way she's nibbling on that plump, red lower lip. Chang's right: something is one way to describe it. Fucking amazing chemistry is another as long as you factor in the world's worst timing to go along with it.
Just to prove that last point, Hudson fills up the archway behind her and wraps her in a hug and she squeaks and flings her arms around his neck. And there's some sick fascination in watching Finn gesture upwards at the sprig of mistletoe hanging above their heads and then plant a smacking kiss on her cheek.
He's not relieved. He's not relieved.
He's totally relieved because the truth is that he's been thinking for a while about trying to find out whether or not their luck has changed. And all of a sudden he's loving the shit out of Quinn's decorating theme. Yeah, it looks like Santa has puked up baby Jesus everywhere, but there's also a healthy assortment of mistletoe all over the place. (Not that he needs it, but you know, it can't hurt to have something to work with.)
-
The first time Noah touches her (well, the first time since the last time anyway) is in the kitchen.
Finn drags her in there where the light is better and they're flipping through the photo-album on his phone, giggling at pictures of New Directions at Nationals in San Francisco senior year. There's Kurt and Mercedes and Santana, arm in arm, Artie and Finn having wheelchair races (where in the world did they get the second wheelchair?) down the hotel corridor and Tina trying to teach Sam how to use chopsticks. There's a beautiful picture of her in the last moments of her solo belting out the last note, arms flung out to the crowd. Finally she sees the twelve of them onstage for the awards ceremony. She's in the center, clutching at the trophy so hard that even now she can feel the bite of the engraved edges on her palms. Everyone is smiling, no beaming, as they stare into the camera, even Noah, who usually tries to look as world-wearied as possible. Only he's not looking at the camera, or even the trophy. He's looking at her.
She almost goes to find her coat and keys there and then. Because she's very literally only been back in Lima for about three hours and it's frankly disconcerting, that pleasurable frisson she gets looking at that picture and at the expression in Noah Puckerman's eyes. (An expression she'd swear she saw the twin of when their eyes met in the living room.) The last fifteen minutes have gone a long way towards reminding her exactly what it was like to have Noah's complete attention focused on her.
Not that it was particularly easy to forget to begin with, but at the time she was so close to New York that she could almost taste it and a part of her had been very determined to leave every memory connected to Lima behind.
Finn is still in the middle of a highly-involved story of how he, Brittany and Mike got lost back stage and almost didn't make the final number (believe her, she remembers), when she senses Noah standing behind her. And 'senses' is exactly the right word because although he's not touching her, she can feel the warmth from his body along her back and the scent of his aftershave is making her head spin a little. (She once came very close to stealing one of the magazines in her dentist's waiting room simply because she recognized his cologne on one of those silly perfume inserts.)
"Hello Noah," she says over her shoulder and disturbingly, her voice comes out in a slightly higher register than she would like. She can also feel the slightest hint of a blush rising along her face and neck. Is it awkwardness that she's feeling? She was worried on the drive over here that it might be awkward seeing all of them after all this time.
Or possibly just him. Especially considering that the last time she saw him, she ended up wearing somewhat less than what she's wearing right now.
"Hey. Long time, no see." He leans into her a bit, looking over her shoulder. "Nationals, huh?"
She nods, and steadies her breathing and starts going through the pictures again and he's laughing and trading stories with Finn. She throws in a couple of abstracted comments herself, but it's hard to concentrate. Friendly, she scolds herself. This is just a friendly evening with a group of old classmates. Maybe she even believes it until Artie calls Finn over to take his turn at that ridiculous first-person shooter game all the boys are playing, and she and Noah are alone in the kitchen.
She turns to face him, taking an automatic step back, because he's still so close and it occurs to her that the goosebumps chasing all over her skin probably have nothing to do with the shortness of her skirt.
And he's not helping things by smirking at her like he knows it.
"Looking good, Rach. No knee socks which kind of sucks, but I like this," he says, tugging gently on the tie to her wrap top. (The heat in his eyes seems to be saying that his favorite part would be the ease with which it comes off.)
"Thank you, Noah," she says batting his fingers away as they play with the knot. "You look..." (Incredibly hot? Sinfully gorgeous? Downright edible?) "...very nice as well."
And he absolutely does, to all of the above, even if it's the kind of minimal fuss outfit she's seem him in a million times: jeans and a plaid button-down shirt, cuffs rolled up to expose his forearms. His hair is a little longer than the last time she saw him, with just a hint of curl at the tips, but other than that: the hazel eyes, the cheekbones, the curve of his lips that might look soft on a less masculine face, it's all the same. She's staring, outright staring and that should be giving her pause, but his eyes are raking over her in obvious appraisal as well.
His hand moves towards her again, this time settling on her hip and before she can really think of an appropriate way to react (somehow, politely reminding him to respect her personal space is rapidly losing it's appeal), he's pushing her. It's a gentle, but nonetheless unmistakable shove and the surprise of it moves her several steps to the left and she absolutely would be frowning at him, but it's lost in the surprise of the warmth and pressure of his mouth slanting over hers. It's familiar and thrilling all at once and without even thinking, she's stepping a little closer, and his hand on her hip tightens in response.
It's also much, much too short; he's pulling back and the smirk is gone. Instead, is that the slightest hint of surprise in his eyes?
She's interrupted before she can process that thought.
"Rachel! Where are you, girl? You promised me a duet!" Mercedes voice seems to echo through the house.
Hazily, she seems to recall that isn't the first time her name's been called in the last minute.
"Looks like you're being paged. Catch you later," he says and he's already looking past her to the back door, but he doesn't get more than a step away before she surprises them both by grabbing his arm and hauling him back.
"What was that all about?" she asks indignantly (though she's not prepared to say whether her ire is due to the shove, or the kiss, or even the abrupt end of said kiss).
And oh my, the heated look is back, the one that has always turned her legs to jelly. He leans towards her so slowly and her eyes flutter shut, but he doesn't kiss her, instead he nuzzles his nose along her cheek and then brushes her ear with his lips for the briefest of moments before breathing out a single word, "Mistletoe." Then, without waiting for a response, he shoves his hands into his pocket and heads out the back door.
She looks up, eyes wide, at the bundle of greens and berries directly over her head.
Hmmphh.
-
The kiss, short as it is, sets him back on his heels. He should have remembered that she packs a hell of a punch for someone who could practically fit in his pocket.
(He's totally not running away, he's just freezing his balls off on Quinn's deck in order to plan his next move. Apparently, getting this stuff worked out in advance is going to be important because he can't think straight when she's around.)
Knowing her habits really helps. He stands around at the edge of the crowd (shut up, he's not lurking) listening to her sing some jazzed up number with Mercedes, sounding amazing as usual and three years of Glee wasn't nearly long enough to get used to that sound. He slips away with the final notes, because with some shit, Rachel is like clockwork.
She sings, then she hydrates.
Now an amateur might head back to the kitchen, but Rachel doesn't drink chilled water after a performance because of some crap about how it'll shock her vocal cords. No, it's gotta be room temperature, and he just happens to know where a case of room temperature water is sitting (and all right, he knows where it is because he and Chang took it out of the fridge when they were making more room for the beer, but whatever, it worked out, okay?)
So he's in the library or whatever it's called (from the looks of it, it's just the place where Quinn's dad goes to smoke cigars and look at all the dead animals he's shot) and he barely has a chance to sit down on the couch and prop his feet up before she comes sashaying in.
"Noah!" She does this cute little inhale and then she's trying and failing to project casual. "I didn't expect...Quinn said there was water in here and I was hoping to get a bottle. My vocal cords...one can't be too careful and honestly the air in this house does seem very dry. I wonder if Quinn's ever considered having the humidity levels checked?"
She's babbling. Awesome. Score one for him.
"So, have you seen...? Actually I'll just go ask Quinn..." and she's turning to leave and that's not at all what he's looking for.
"Rach, hold up! Water's right here." Damn right, it's here. On the coffee table next to his feet which means he's got her too flustered to even look around. That's another point for him.
"Oh. Well, thank you." She turns back and takes a few cautious steps towards him and at the last minute he stands up and grabs two bottles. Twisting the cap off one, he hands it to her; he's about an inch too up into her personal space and feeling pretty good about that when she narrows her eyes at him.
"What are you doing in here, anyway?" she asks suspiciously.
Is that a point for her? Time for a little deflection. "Just looking for a little peace and quiet. Awfully noisy out there." A pissy Rachel is a hot Rachel. Truth.
But instead, she just throws her head back and laughs. "That's a terrible excuse, Noah. I saw you and you didn't look all that upset by the noise. In fact...." She takes a step closer and now she's all in his space and that's definitely one for her. "In fact, you looked like you were enjoying yourself." She reaches out for him and he knows his eyes are glazing over, but instead of touching him, she takes his water bottle from his nerveless grasp, snaps it open and hands it back to him, all the while smiling sweetly.
Ladies and gentlemen: game, set and match to Rachel Berry.
They stare at each other for a minute, both grinning, until she finally says, "I should go. Mike and I were in the middle of a conversation."
"Don't go," he says, quickly linking his fingers around her wrist. "I mean, shit. Dude's finally on the verge of beating my high score. You don't want to take that away from him, do you?"
She rolls her eyes, but yields to him when he tugs her down on the couch next to him, "No, I suppose not."
"Course you don't. Talk to me for a while. We can catch up."
"Catch up, Noah?" she asks wryly, "Or catch up like we caught up in the kitchen?"
Damn he likes this girl. "Why not both?"
She shakes her head at him, but he can tell that she's hiding a smile. "How about you tell me about what you've been doing with yourself."
So he does, although there's not a hell of a lot to tell. He ended up in California the same way that everyone else does; because he needed to put a shitload of distance between himself and his problems, so he kept running 'til he hit an ocean. He screwed around for a while (no need to go into too much detail there) with the L.A. music scene, and managed to figure out that while he wasn't really cut out for the rock and roll lifestyle, he did have a hell of an ear. So he took some classes in the state college system, haunted the sound booth of any studio that didn't physically throw his ass out and eventually ended up with production credits on a half dozen EPs and LPs for some local acts.
"Noah, that's wonderful!" she says brightly when he gives her the bare bones, "Not that I'm at all surprised."
He can tell she's being honest there; she's not surprised, which is kind of weird because it sure shocked the shit out of everyone else. But mostly it's awesome.
"What about Los Angeles?" she asks.
He shrugs. "L.A.? Mostly traffic and smog alerts. And the girls are made of plastic." He likes the way she bites her lip at that. "I've actually got a few job interviews coming up next month. I think Ma is about to die of shock or happiness or something." (And it's not solely because he might end up with something that pays a living wage, but never mind that now.) "What about you? All of New York bowing to your talent yet?"
Thing is, he totally knows what she's been doing because his mother updates him every time she talks to him. So he's heard about Julliard and then dropping out of Julliard after a year to star in some crazy thing about German kids having sex (yeah, he's clicked like on the youtube clips more than once) and he's sure as hell heard of her headlining a revival of West Side Story in the spring. Not that he's going to say anything, but he wouldn't be surprised if the reason she's finally back is to rub it in the town's face a little. He sure as hell would be.
He congratulates her sincerely because hell yes, she totally deserves it, all of it. And then, shit, he's kind of dying here so he just flat out asks her: "How about it, Rach. You gonna kiss me or what?"
"I'd consider it, but there seems to be a lack of mistletoe," she says jokingly, trying to keep it light, but he can see her tongue sweep out to wet her lips and she's definitely staring at his mouth.
He turns to face her fully and lays a gentle hand on her waist, one finger finding the gap where her blouse doesn't quite meet her skirt. He dips inside, touching bare skin and scrapes lightly with his nail. "You're just not looking hard enough. Check out Bullwinkle, there." And he nods to the opposite wall where a moose-head is hanging, a bunch of ribbon-wrapped leaves and berries dangling from one of its antlers.
"Bullwinkle?" Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight. "Oh. Well, that hardly counts," she counters weakly, "it's halfway across the room."
She's still staring at the moose. He wants her to be staring at him.
He cups her cheek, drawing one thumb along her jawline, bringing her focus back to where it should be, right back to him and her and the eighteen inches of too much space in between them. "Course it counts babe, we're well within the zone."
"By that argument, Quinn's entire house, and possibly much of the surrounding neighborhood would be within the zone," she argues, but at the same time, she's drifting closer, tilting her head, parting her lips a fraction of an inch.
"I'm up for that," he breathes, closing the gap and kissing her gently, then nipping at her bottom lip, as her tongue slides and then (fuck) thrusts alongside his. Her arms come to wind up around his neck, and she's tugging at the scant inch of hair at the nape of his neck, so he returns the favor, combing his hand through all that soft, shiny hair and pulling her closer, so he can feel her pressed up to his chest. And she's totally into it; hot against him, biting back the little sounds he's trying to make her let go of.
Right up until she isn't.
She doesn't pull back, doesn't stop kissing him, but he can read the growing reluctance in the tension of her body and when his eyes fly open, hers are open too.
Shit.
"What?" he asks, burying his head into her shoulder.
"Noah, I don't think I can do this. Not with him here." She pulls away and stares apologetically at him.
Fuckfuckfuck. Who? Not Hudson. Did she bring some sort of asswipe boyfriend who's been hiding the entire time?
"I didn't notice him at first, but then you pointed him out...." And she looks embarrassed and uncomfortable and all he wants to do is tell her that everything is all right, but how the hell can he do that when she's sliding away back on to her own sofa cushion? Nothing about that qualifies as all right.
Seriously. Who the hell is she talking about?
"...and I thought that maybe I could ignore him, but ugh, those glassy eyes...." Is she standing up? Why is she standing up?
No. Not possible. Not even Rachel...
"Noah, I think he's watching me." Her eyes drift over to the opposite wall and she gives a quick shudder.
Possible. Totally, horribly possible.
"So. Um," she pauses like she's waiting for him to say something, but he's literally dumbstruck. "I guess I'll see you later then?"
She slips out the library door before he can pick his jaw up from the floor.
Fuck. Cock-blocked by a moose.
-
Shit. She rarely uses profanity, but she thinks the situation calls for it here. And damn Bambi for being one of the seminal films of her childhood. (Moose, deer, whatever. A woodland creature is a woodland creature.)
Half an hour (and one cranberry vodka tonic) later she faces facts. Putting personal embarrassment aside, her course is clear. Standards of common decency demand it. It's quite possible that she's hurt his pride or even his feelings and that was certainly never her intention; as a result, it's the only polite thing to do.
She needs to find Noah Puckerman and make out with him immediately.
(Just far, far away from any more examples of the taxidermic arts.)
It's not as easy as she thought it would be. Really, she never properly appreciated all the work that goes into a well-planned seduction. There are just so many variables to consider: location, timing, and opportunity, just for starters. And as she discretely watches from across a crowded living room while Noah conducts a conversation with Artie and Finn, she has to admit that all of those things are well-nigh impossible to come by at the moment.
Also impossible? Evidently her ability to conduct covert surveillance in the presence of one of Sue Sylvester's chief minions.
"You want him, don't you?"
She pastes her best show-face on, turns to the girl behind her and says with as much disinterest as she can muster, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yeah, I'm totally calling bullshit on that," Santana smirks. "Jesus, why didn't the two of you just fuck in high school and get it over with?"
Some tiny part of Rachel has to acknowledge that it's not an absurd question.
Is it as simple as that? Through years of boyfriends and girlfriends and drama and cool words and heated glances, is that link that always connected them as uncomplicated as an itch that never got scratched? If she had had sex with him back then, would that have answered the questions that have always been there, in the back of her head? Would it change how she feels right now?
She's here in Lima to get some closure on things. Literally: her fathers are fulfilling a life-long dream to run a bed and breakfast in Vermont. The house is about to go on the market and the remnants of her childhood are stored in cardboard boxes, waiting for her to decide what goes back with her to her tiny New York City apartment and what just goes. Is it wrong to want a little bit of closure on this thing with Noah too?
Now may not be the time to get into all of that. Not with the former Cheerio staring at her with frank amusement written all over her face.
Rachel stares back pointedly. "We only dated for a week. Most people like to take the time to get to know someone before they have sex."
Santana roars with laughter. "Were you always this much of a bitch? We should have been better friends." Then she wraps an arm around Rachel's waist, leans close and whispers into her ear, "Lie if you want to, but he's watching you right now. You're both all grown up now. Nothing wrong with just pulling him into the nearest closet and enjoying yourself."
She slips away as Rachel turns, and just as Santana promised, his eyes are on her, even as he continues his conversation and she feels hot all over, only she's not blushing, instead the heat is deep under her skin.
(While it may not be wrong to want closure, quite possibly it's unrealistic.)
Twenty minutes later she has to admit that Santana exhibits definite flashes of genius. And Rachel will be sure to thank her for it, (in an appropriately round-a-bout way, of course) just as soon as she can.
There's no real hurry to do that though.
Not when his eyes darken the moment she looks at him over her shoulder and drifts out into the foyer. Not when he follows a few minutes later, his easy grace making her catch her breath as he walks straight to her as if she is the only thing he sees.
By this point, she's not even surprised with herself when she grabs him by the collar under the mistletoe just inside the doorway and kisses him like she's been wanting to for ages, with all the intensity that she brings to everything she goes after. (And thankfully, he's never been frightened by her intensity.)
From a distance, she realizes that someone is calling her name again; she doesn't know who, nor does she care, but foggily she does realize that this wretched someone is likely to come looking for her and she can't help grumbling.
"Not again," Noah groans against the corner of her mouth.
"Closet," she breathes out and before she knows it, he's backed her into it, closing the door firmly behind them, and it's so much more intense in the dark, the sensation of Noah's lips covering hers hungrily, before moving to her neck, then nipping and licking a line along her collarbone. All that heat burning under her skin seems to be coalescing into an ache concentrated between her thighs and wherever his calloused fingertips are touching. One large hand firmly anchors itself to the small of her back, crushing her to him, while the other roams over her ass, and then lower, sliding up and under the hem of her skirt to trace the soft skin of her upper thigh. She's kissing him back just as desperately, touching him wherever she can reach, tracing the lines his well-muscled back, her head swimming.
It's rather disconcerting (not to mention intensely frustrating) when they're interrupted.
"Hey Puck, how's it going? "
Rachel freezes but Puck is already twitching her skirt straight and smoothly moving to grip her hips and while the situation isn't funny at all, she still almost giggles at hearing Noah's quiet but fervent curse.
"Fuck. Fucking terrific, Evans. You?"
Standing on tip-toes to peer over his shoulder, she sees Sam's smiling face.
"Rachel! I saw you around earlier, but I haven't really had a chance to say 'hi'. Jeez, it's been a while."
"Hello Sam. It has been a while," Rachel says, mostly managing to keep a straight face.
"Have you two seen my jacket? Quinn wants to move the party to Bowl-a-Rama. Apparently Saturday night is now Disco Night."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Noah says with some irritation.
"I know! It used to be on Thursday night, which made a lot more sense, because that's the night they have the two-for-one drinks specials for senior citizens. I don't know about your Nana, but my Grandma really digs on a little Gloria Gaynor...."
At this point, Rachel suspects that he's starting to take in Noah's increasingly stormy face, and that does prove to be the case because he says contritely, "Ohhh, you mean about my jacket. Dude, you know you're making out with her in the coat closet, right? So anyway, bowling. Rachel, I totally call you for my team." Turning to Noah, "This girl is an amazing bowler. Quinn and I used to double-date with her and Finn at Bowl-a-Rama all the time. You know, you wouldn't think it to look at her because she's so tiny and hot, but Rachel is super-competitive."
"Yeah, I've noticed, Evans," Noah snaps, glaring back and forth between Sam and herself (she's laughing outright at this point). He yanks a coat off a hook and throws it to Sam.
"Thanks man. Only, that's not mine."
"Never mind. It belongs to someone. Why don't you go try and round them all up. You know it always takes forever to get them moving in the same direction."
"Good point," Sam smiles. "Catch you two later."
He's no sooner gone than Noah starts rifling through the contents of the closet. "Which one is yours?"
Rachel snags her coat from his grasp. "This one. Are we really going bowling?"
"Fuck no. Which is why we need to get the hell out of here now. It's been three years for you; you don't even remember how these people can suck you in. I've got a way better idea. We can get a slice of pie at that all-night diner on highway 10."
He starts stuffing her into her coat and rapidly doing up her buttons. It's interesting (and also counter-intuitive) that he's as good as he is at putting clothes on but that line of thought only leads to other thoughts about him taking her clothes off and oh lordy, she should stop right there. Pulling away she manages to croak out, "That sounds lovely, but my handbag is still in the kitchen and..."
"Leave it for now. I'm buying. I need to ask you a favor anyway.
"Noah, I need my keys...wait. What kind of favor?"
He tugs urgently at her arm, "There's no time. I'll drive you home tonight and you can give me a call tomorrow. I'll bring you over to pick your purse and your car up then." He pauses and a wicked grin spreads over his features. "Or if you want baby, you can just nudge me in the morning and I'll give you a ride. Totally up to you."
She blushes, which is ridiculous, but something about him still has the power to make her feel like a fifteen year old again. "I'm sure you would," she mutters.
And maybe he will; if she's being strictly honest with herself, he's probably in.
(But even if that's the case, he shouldn't think he's going to get it all his own way.)
"Hold on, Noah. We've got at least three minutes. I can still hear Kurt and Tina arguing over whether vintage 70's costuming is a 'do' or a 'don't' for Disco Night at Bowl-a-Rama. What exactly is this favor all about?"
She watches in fascination as his gaze drops and his voice is low enough so she has to strain to hear over the noise from the next room. "Those job interviews I was telling you about? The ones next month? I was hoping I could crash at your place for a couple of days." His eyes dart up and she could swear that the expression in them is some strange combination of hopeful and wary. "You know, since they're all in New York."
Her mouth goes dry and her heart beats a little faster. "That could probably be arranged."
"Cool," he says casually, but he slips his hand in hers, squeezes it tightly and doesn't let go.
They're just about to step out the front door when she makes a request. He smiles and kisses her before reaching up above their heads and snapping the bundle of leaves and berries off its string and tucking it carefully into her coat pocket.
You just never know when a little mistletoe is going to come in handy.
-
1. Puck/Rachel: Participating in Christmas activities/events... even though their jewish. (Rachel has some crazy reason why they should.)
2. Puck/Rachel: Rachel wants to take pictures of EVERYTHING to capture their first holiday together.
3. Puck/Rachel: Quinn's christmas party, Puck keeps getting her under the mistletoe.
Things you DON'T want in your story: Nothing too smutty, no character death.