Glee Fic: when we wrote ourselves backwards
I feel so sick right now. But whatever, it's not going to deter me from this AU MEME THING. And honestly, honestly, I have no idea what this is. All I know is that smc_27 requested Will/Rachel and FBI agents and 6,000 words later, this happened. And I don't know. Seriously.
when we wrote ourselves backwards
the good, the bad, and the downright ghastly; we’re all awkwardly indulgent at some point in our lives. he’s the first piece of the puzzle.
glee | will/rachel | AU AU AU AU | 6,010 words, R.
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The truth is she meets Finn first. It's a crappy bar, just after her graduation, and she's already resigned herself into acceptance - DC is not New York.
"Organized crime, huh?"
She looks away from her beer. The music tonight is terrible, an array of Top Forty hits that she's sure shouldn't happen to good people on principle.
"Yes," she says, and she sees Matt smirk at her across the room. She sees the badge and the gun on the guy though and she crosses her legs, turning into him. She figures if it's more than obvious that she's a new kid, she might as well play the new kid.
But Finn smiles warmly and orders a beer from the bartender. He leans against the bar next to her.
"I bet they've already told you're pretty."
She laughs, surprised. "Yes," she says. "In a roundabout way," she says too. "They definitely have."
"It's not a lie," he grins.
Rachel doesn't sleep with him. But she doesn't forget.
How she ends up at Columbia and then Quantico is a bit of a story; what's an even bigger story is how she spends five years, undercover, watching an entire crime family unravel and into pieces. She doesn't remember her professor's name, but the fact that she's sharp on behavior doesn't go unnoticed by her superiors. She also kills a man when she gets back to New York, but that's something she only tells people with her file.
But back in DC, she finds herself sitting in the BSU, watching the other agents move through their day with too much ease. It's a strange feeling, like she's on the other side of things; she can remember a near encounter in New York, where she was in the same club as Jesse, her ex-boyfriend and now a Broadway favorite, and his newest girlfriend. It just feels like she's disconnected from everything.
"Rachel?"
She blinks. Finn stands in front of her, sleeves rolled. There's a badge clipped haphazardly to the pocket of his shirt and he's holding a file.
"Agent Finn Hudson," she says politely. She drags at his name and it makes him laugh. She brushes her fingers against her skirt.
"Heard you're meeting Schue," he says, and it's as if he's a bit oblivious to the area. She can't help but quirk some kind of grin at him though. "He's a great guy," he offers.
"I heard," she says dryly.
The truth is that she's not exactly sure why she's here. She likes the OC, likes that it feeds into her need for solo work. She doesn't play politics either so when her supervisor asked her to consider this meeting, she was curious enough to say yes.
Schuester’s a strange legend in everybody’s circle, the right mix of a golden boy and way too ruthless not to be careful around. At least, this is what she’s been told. If he’s picked you, it’s usually because he’s been watching you for awhile and that, that really is what lingers with her the most.
There is a door that opens along the side wall and Finn doesn’t even bother standing, fixing himself. Instead, it’s another large grin and there’s another man, who she assumes to be Schuester, stepping up to the pseudo-conversation. It’s the same, lazy informalities as Finn too; he wears the sleeves of his button-down rolled at his elbows. He gives Finn a nod, and the other man smiles, passing her with a squeeze on the shoulder.
“Agent Berry,” he greets.
“Sir,” she says and she stands, suddenly very aware of people watching her. He smiles at her, stepping back to offer her entrance into his office.
It’s what she expects too, clean walls and picture frames. He’s shakes hands with person a, person b, person c and the president and if she were eighteen and still in New York, a part of her might have been impressed. She sits at one of the chairs by the desk, crossing her legs and leaning back. She waits for him to start because that’s what you do. He’s the supervisory agent here.
“You can relax,” he teases.
Her mouth twitches. “I’d rather not, sir.” He looks at her curiously and she shrugs. “I’m still getting used to being back.”
It does not go unnoticed that he opens a file, her file, right in front of himself, on the desk next to a picture of him and what she assumes to be as family. There is no wedding ring. She licks her lips and meets his gaze, watching as he studies her.
“I’ll get straight to it then,” he says.
“Please do.”
He chuckles, sliding a hand through his hair. “You’re good,” he says. “You’re a little young for my unit, but you’re good and there’s a spot on my team. It’s yours if you want it - which, I can only assume, you do since you’re here.”
“Naturally,” she says.
Rachel keeps the same straight face too even if he cracks a smile. Right off the bat, it’s pretty obvious that he thinks that he’s charming and he’s not shy about using that. There’s nothing in the way that he talks to her that is comfortable though. He’s waiting for a slip up and she can read that habit pretty well.
Then again, here she is.
The trial run begins when a case from Florida happens. She sits next to Finn at the briefing and holds her coffee carefully. She listens to the vague assertions of a pattern: six bodies, four men and two women, found right down in the Glades. One of the other agents, Chuckie, makes a crack about gators and hot girls and Rachel realizes that she’s the only other woman besides the tech girl, who sits by Schuester and the projector at the front of the room. She likes the tech girl though, Lucy or Quinn or something - she’s sharp too and sort of aloof, but seems to be sort of welcoming anyway.
They all know she has the training for this which, well, should be obvious enough considering that she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t. Being undercover gives her a different kind of advantage too; it’s the very advantage that she knows is part of why they call Schuester a collector and his team all particular and peculiar pieces.
But there are five of them, including Schuester, and she’s the youngest, so that’s riding on her even as they board a plane to head to Florida. She sits alone, towards the back, and flips through a magazine she bought before they boarded. It’s the New York magazine and honestly, once in awhile, she imagines and she indulges because she has so many dirty little secrets that she keeps too close to herself.
She knows that Schuester saw her buy it too.
They set up for four days at a beach hotel. Finn charms the owner and Chuckie throws an arm around her shoulder when he catches her looking at the beach.
“You know there are sharks in there.”
She snorts.
“I’m just saying,” he says, and he grins down at her too, “if you want some company later, I’ll be more than happy to wrestle a few for you.”
Rachel rolls her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching. She says something like i hope you know that doesn’t work and he laughs anyway, pulling his arm away from her shoulders when Schuester glances back. She catches her key before Finn does too and gives him a small smile.
They’re separated into rooms then, and then into partners - she’s joins Schuester, after, to head into town to check the locations. He’s changed into jeans and t-shirt and because he said be a local she’s forced herself and her better judgment into a summer dress, thin and white, over a pair of cowboy boots. She keeps her hair loose too and shoves her gun and badge into her boot holster. It’s about being creative anyway and that’s why she’s assuming she’s stuck with her supervisor anyway.
“Chuckie likes you,” he says as they start to walk. They’re headed to the first bar, which opens into a swamp in the back. She sees an advert for fried everything when they get closer too and knows she looks both touristy and properly lost as it is.
“From what I understand Chuckie likes everything with legs,” she says finally.
Schuster laughs and his hand drops against the small of her back, ushering in. He orders two beers and they pick a table on the deck, shaded by a canopy. He tubs his thumb against her dress and when she sits down first, he ushers her chair into an angle where she looks both comfortable and close to him.
“I hate Florida,” he says.
She smirks. “Oh yeah?”
“More of a New England kind of guy,” he tells her. “Four seasons and less of a chance that there are gators and bugs and -”
“It’s not so bad,” she says.
They sit there and the bartender brings their beers. He takes a sip of his, but she doesn’t. She pulls her fingers around the bottle’s neck and presses it against her throat. She leans back against her chair and studies the way the trees shade the deck.
“When?” she asks finally.
“In the morning,” Schuester says. Next to them, a couple arrives and they’re laughing. “The owner said one of them was tied to the deck, hanging there like a boat.”
“Like a sign.”
He nods. “Like a sign.”
“But that’s not part of the pattern,” she says. She cocks her head to the side and her sunglasses start to slide down her nose as she looks at him. “You’re going backwards,” she guesses, biting her lip.
Someone else next to them is speaking French and she perks up, suddenly and out of habit, listening to the man rant into his phone. He slurs his voice and she bites back a shy laugh when she catches the dirty joke.
“Berry?” she blinks and Schuester touches her arm. He doesn’t ask how she knows the lanaguage. “Anything?”
Her lips curl. “Nothing,” she says.
It’s really simple though. More dirty secrets, you know.
There is a new body by the time she and Schuester scope out the next location at the end of the night. Her hair sticks to her neck, so badly that she steals a rubber band from the bartender to pull it up. The good thing is that they have a conversation that fills in the blanks better: the body found here was more than just a local, he had a band and a boat, all things that make Rachel laugh.
"You were a bartender," Schuester guesses at the table. Finn joins them and Chuckie's taken a lead.
She shrugs. "Pay and tips," she says. "It went to student loans."
"Doesn't matter," he says. "What do you see?" he asks.
Finn watches them both curiously. The bartender past is implied again and she figures that Schuester would be the type to pick things from way back when.
"You think that -" she laughs and shakes her head. "I suppose too you're going to tell me that because I was bullied in high school, my survival skills kick in and keep me alive too."
"It's possible."
Rachel rolls her eyes. "You missed your calling as a teacher."
But she humors him still, since this is a test and the worst is that she gets to see more than her fill of the Glades. Either way, his non-comment pisses her off enough to answer. She keeps her eyes to the groups that are laughing, and then the groups, the pairs, that have more than one drink. Easy targets, she thinks.
"No one in here is curious enough for the suspect," she says. "He keeps to low cues and later nights. So your best bets are the Jack and coke, the whiskey sours, and maybe, if they stay, the two blondes with fake ids."
Finn lets out a low whistle and Schuester grins into his beer. It's not that hard to read people, she wants to say. The degree just helps people take her seriously.
"He doesn't stay too long either," she says too. "It's a game of being noticed and not. And he plays it like a college girl almost -" Finn chokes on his beer. "To see how many people notice he's trouble. He was here and it was an accident. But he took it as a good accident nonetheless."
"So then," and Schuester slides the new file in front of her, "tell me about these."
It's the decomposed that faces her instead of dead mobsters, swamp-licked skin and a nice, clean open throat. The knife is serrated and there's no clear jerk to the hand that gives any sort of revelation to right or left hands.
"Staging," she murmurs.
"He's not lazy either," Finn says.
She looks up at him, reaching for her beer. "And Quinn," she guesses, "already put feelers out for type of knives -"
"A little store up the road," Schuester interrupts. She meets his gaze and he nods. "She did."
"Hunting?" she murmurs.
"Yeah."
“Suspect?”
Schuester and Finn both nod. “Tentative,” one of them says.
It takes her a moment to process the information. She sips at the beer and studies the bar. There's a new customer, short and stocky and grinning with the bartender. It's so easy really to come and get lost and not have anybody care. She gets flashes of New York and maybe a little of Ohio, but looking down at the file, she knows how to check herself again. A quiet breath. Hum along to whatever song. Play it all by ear and then something closer.
Her dad told her once and only once that this was a dangerous job. They don't need to know.
Her morning is early anyway. She runs with Finn because they're waiting for a call and results from Quinn while Schuester and Chuckie take the local cops. Finn is nice, maybe too sweet too, but he's genuine and that's nice as it's hard enough for her to be around people as it is.
But when they get back to the hotel, Chuckie pulls Finn away to look at schematics and she finds Schuester waiting at her door. He's pressed again, in jeans and a button down, formal enough for cops and less so for everyone else here.
She wipes the sweat off her neck. "Hi."
"Hello."
He holds up a file and she pulls her keycard from her shoe. She lets him into the room and he moves to drop at the edge of her bed.
"Is this appropriate?" she asks.
"Do you care?" he says.
She shrugs and he smirks, opening the file. He looks too neat against her mess of sheets and she reaches for her bag to dig out clothes.
"We have a suspect," he says.
"From a random pattern?" she asks. She turns and frowns. "Seven bodies, no ties to location, but to the way he kills. It's a game of chance written by a guy that connects himself by - oh."
Her gaze catches his, and Schuester is smiling, leaning back on her bed with his hands. Her cheeks warm and he studies her, shaking his head.
"I'm good at my job, Berry."
"Noted," she says. She catches the implication easily. “Bad habit,” she says again.
His mouth turns. It’s not an aplogy.
Her fingers curl in her shirt though. If she's embarrassed, she doesn't feel it. But he's looking at her in a way that seems like she's given something away and she doesn't like that. She doesn’t like the feeling at all.
"I should shower then," she says.
"We're tourists again," he says, and she doesn't wonder if he's enjoying her discomfort a little too much.
This is how it comes into play.
Schuester calls her Claire at a little joint near the hunting shop, right next to the guy telling the bartender about the gator whose belly he split open. It’s heavy already and the mosquitoes are picking at the back of her knees.
He bunches his fingers at her neck and she sighs, just loud enough to catch someone's attention. She picks up her beer too, and the strap of her tank starts to slide down her shoulder. She lets it and turns her hips into Schuester; he makes this sound that seems a little like surprise and his mouth turns, his hand sliding into the back pocket of her jean shorts.
Her mouth curls. "You said touristy."
He chuckles. "You should have been an actress," he says.
"I almost was," she murmurs, and he hides his surprise into her shoulder, pressing his lips over her skin.
Claire smiles. Rachel watches carefully.
They're at the bar pretty late and when the suspect walks in, the one that fits into the profile, it all falls into place. It moves fast; this isn’t five years of careful watching and moving and meeting with handlers and Finn has already come in too, and sits at the back, watching them and the game with Chuckie and Quinn on dial. It's been back and forth though, coordinating with the local police because they want the arrest and really, it comes down to playing politics the right way.
But she and Schuester play it up pretty well; he's convincing, drawing his hand over her ass as she shifts to stand between his legs. They both know that someone is watching them; Rachel feels the eyes from another corner of the bar, too close to the jukebox and a couple of local girls flirting their way into more drinks.
"This should be familiar."
Schuester's mouth finds her ear. He bites lightly and she laughs, the sound low and thick. She starts humming and lets her fingers brush against the buttons of his shirt.
"I'm not a first date kind of girl," she says, and he's smiling, biting at his lip. "I like to get to know a guy."
He laughs. "Is that so?" and his fingers thread through the belt loops of her shorts. "Make sense for a pretty girl like you, baby."
It's more of a slip and she knows. She spent a better part of her life being someone else. His tell unravels when he draws her close and keeps her that way. He lets a hand slide over her ass and her fingers are in his hair, tugging his head back.
She doesn't kiss him, but he's daring her to and she finds that all too curious. She lets her fingers brush against his mouth and her mouth curls into amusement when he bites at her fingers. She doesn't have the time to say anything though.
The suspect approaches them for a beer.
In the end, it's about meeting Claire and Mike. Claire keeps her legs on Mike's lap and they share a beer as Mike rubs a hand over Claire's thigh. Claire is soft, Mike is loud, and both are extraordinarily charming in their way.
The suspect is watching her first, the way Schuester's fingers keep slipping against the hem of her shorts. She’s making soft sounds and presses her lips against his neck and throat, murmuring absently into his ear. His other hand is resting against her neck again too, his fingers brushing against the skin and maybe, just maybe, Rachel thinks about kissing him too because Claire would kiss him and these are things that are supposed to stick with her in the moment anyway.
They’re invited for another drink elsewhere and it’s so easy, after a couple beers, to see how someone could fall for it. Hospitality goes along way in most cases. But they’re playing this as they’re too drunk and too close, the man wandering back behind them, watching as Schuester wraps an arm around her waist and presses her against the wall.
She laughs and his hand brushes over her belly, his fingers running against the waist of her shorts. His fingers run over the button and she arches her hips forward just so the suspect can see. It’s that awful kind of rush, but she presses forward, letting his fingers rock over the denim between her legs and her hips rise to meet him. He bites at her neck and Rachel twists her fingers into his hair. Claire and Mike don’t care who is watching them. Claire and Mike are here, on vacation, and it’s about having the best time possible.
It happens too fast.
There is blood on her tank. Schuester has a gun to the man’s temple and Finn and Chuckie are backup, Chuckie wrapping the cuffs around the man’s wrists as he cries and laughs out. Somebody says something like fucking crazy person and it’s Chuckie, it’s got to be Chuckie, because Rachel figures it’s an acceptable thing for him to do and no one is saying otherwise.
The hunting knife is in her hand. A cop comes around, offering her an evidence bag. She drops it in and says a polite thank you. Her ears are ringing and she can’t really hear herself think or speak, but she pulls back just as Finn throws a jacket over her shoulders. It’s too warm, but she slides her arms through it and lets the sleeves drape over her hands and her wrists, leaning back against the wall.
“You saved my life,” Schuester says quietly.
She doesn’t look at him. She can’t remember if the man came at them from the left or their right, but her instinct kicked and there, right there, is the thing about working five years as someone completely different. You have to be quick and creative and completely unapologetic about both things.
“Doing my job, sir,” she says.
“Are you hurt?”
She looks up and then down, at the stretch of fabric that covers her. The blood runs at a straight course, left to right, because she swung her body over Schuester’s to kick him back. It was supposed to give him time to get his gun.
“No, sir,” she says.
“Berry.”
“Rachel,” she murmurs absently. Her fingers flex. She looks back up at him, her gaze wavering. “It’s Rachel.”
He frowns, stepping in front of her. “Rachel,” he says. “Do you need -” she meets his gaze and she shakes her head. “Okay, sweetheart. Okay.”
“I’m not hurt,” she says.
He’s quiet and Finn drags the man past them, Chuckie shooting her a thumbs up as they pass. The man is trying to flail, but Finn is too big and too strong, so it forces him to walk anyway. Someone calls for Schuester too and it’s back to business, flashing lights and cop cars around everywhere. There’s a small crowd from the bar somewhere behind them too, watching in horror and fascination because it’s true what they say - a local’s a local.
“I’ll ride with the others, sir,” she says.
He nods. “Take care of that hand,” he says.
The jacket feels a little heavy. When Rachel gets the car, Finn’s at her side and leading her toward the ambulance saying something about her hand again. His fingers are cool against her neck, resting against the collar of her jacket. Someone helps her to sit on one of the gurneys and the paramedic is shaking his head.
She looks down. The skin of her palm is split wide open.
“Organized crime?”
Rachel chokes on a laugh. Finn joins her at the observation window, watching as Schuester settles with suspect.
“You remembered,” she says quietly.
“Nah,” he says. “You’re just kind of hard to forget, you know? Plus, Schue asked me about you. He doesn’t ask about people without any reason.”
“So I’m told.”
They’re quiet. Rachel watches the expression of the suspect. It’s unwavering. The slight scar across his mouth is neither horrifying nor heavy, but it doesn’t deter the man from looking at Schuester like he’s looking through him.
She’s seen that expression once, twice, maybe more than she’d really like to count. She presses her hand against her face and the bandages catch at her hair. But Schuester keeps talking and at a perfectly time moment, Chuckie walks into the room with a file, his expression trying. This is how it works. This is how it always works.
But Schuester is impressive, all smiles, all heavy smiles as he coaxes and teases the suspect in front of him, Chuckie leaning back against the wall to watch. She catches tells, like all good cops, agents do - the man has a nervous twitch in his hand and it’s the knife, he wants the knife.
Finn presses the button and they listen in.
It takes seven hours to get a confession. Chuckie tells Schuester he’s too charming. Someone laughs too because it’s true.
Finn offers to buy them all beers.
Her hotel room is dark. She is resting on her back, her hands curling over her stomach. Her eyes are open and she stares at the ceiling.
The bandages are cutting into her palm again, the ends peeling lightly against her skin. She runs her fingers against the back of her hand and then sighs, sitting up. Her legs swing over the side of the bed and she tugs her fingers into her hair, pulling lightly at her hair. She feels restless.
It takes her ten minutes to make the decision, and ten more to pull one of her dresses over her head, letting her hair spill messily against her shoulders. The air is too cold in her room and she grabs her keycard, walking out into the hallway and taking the turn into another set of rooms. She counts them in her head, until she reaches one of the rooms midway and presses her hand against the door.
Rachel knocks.
When Schuester opens the door, he’s just in a pair of jeans. His hair is curled, sticking up at some ends and he runs a light hand through it. He doesn’t smile, but he studies her sleepily, stepping back to let her inside.
“Want a drink?” he asks.
“Water,” she says.
The room stays dark as she makes her way to his bed, sitting at the edge. She draws her legs up and curls them underneath her. He hands her a bottle.
She says nothing though, taking it and twisting the cap off. It cracks when it opens, her hand running lightly over the mouth of the bottle before she lifts it and steals a sip. When he sits next to her, the bed sinks under his weight and his knee, presses lazily along her thigh, just as he stretches back to rest on his hands.
“Water,” she says again. “It’s what calms me down.”
“Why?’
“Does it matter?” when she asks, he laughs, and her lips turn into a lazy smile. “It says nothing about why you want me here.”
“I’m sure you heard,” he says.
“Not from you.”
Rachel is serious when she says it, and his hand reaches forward, his fingers brushing against her neck as he tucks her hair behind her ear. She leans into his touch and meets his gaze, cocking her head to the side if only to face him.
It’s too dark in the room, but she knows he’s handsome, too handsome, and it’s the sort of thing that she’s privy to because it’s just a room, a very small hotel room, and she hasn’t said yes to any one thing yet. It takes her back too, seventeen and trying to decide whether or not she goes and makes herself happy with Juilliard or does the practical, the wise thing and goes straight to Columbia.
“You’re good,” he says, and his hands drop to his lap. She watches his palms turn open over his knees. “You’re really good, Rachel. And I know that coming back from being undercover, young and for that long - it doesn’t make you any friends or fans. You could go back, I have no doubt. I know you don’t. But I think it’s a waste.”
Her lips purse tightly. She swallows and then: “Let me guess,” she murmurs. “You’re my only fan or something to that degree.”
He laughs. “And you might just be mine.”
“Do you even know what that means?”
She can’t help the question because she feels it. She feels that underlying impossibility that he’s trying to stage. It’s all politics. It’s always going to be this way and that part, that part should never surprise her. But it continues to anyway.
But he takes the bottle of water from her hand. His fingers linger against the back of her hand, drawing along the crook between her thumb and index finger. It takes her a little longer to swallow because her hand is turning into his, and when his fingers brush over her bandages, she lets out a little sigh.
“Yes,” he says. “More than you’ll ever understand.”
She stays quiet.
His room is different in the dark. Her legs are underneath the covers. He rests on the top, his hands pressed over his stomach. She keeps biting her lip, drifting in and out of some kind of sleep. He doesn’t tell her to go.
It’s then that she turns onto her side and catches him smiling, almost lazily in the dark. She sits up, but not all the way, propping her head up with one of her hands. She draws her fingers into her hair and pulls through the strands lightly.
“You have the talent,” he says.
Her lips purse and he turns his head to meet her gaze. In the dark, his eyes seem heavy. She licks her lips too.
“You have the talent and the drive. But not the right teacher - you need someone who’s not just going to drop you in the middle of a scenario and force you to learn. You need someone with patience and someone with friends.”
“And you have friends,” she murmurs.
Schuester laughs. “I have friends,” he agrees.
She could say something else. It feels like he’s expecting her to. But her mouth opens and closes and he’s still looking at her like that, that way with heavy eyes and amusement, as if it’s just going to have to be accepted as some kind of private joke.
It’s then that she remembers them, back at the little bar. She remembers his hand and his fingers and how lazy they felt against over her shorts. Her hips moved easily too, maybe too easily, and this is what she worries about, getting too caught up in it all again. This isn’t music and this most certainly isn’t New York.
“You should’ve have met the younger me,” she says, and then laughs softly, rolling back onto her back. Her hair fans out around her and he’s rolling onto his side to watch her; she doesn’t pay too much attention to how easy that seems too.
“What would she say?” he asks.
“I want to go back to New York.”
She looks up at him and her lips curl. She shakes her head and he brushes his hand against her shoulder. His fingers brush against the strap of her dress.
“That all of this,” she says too. “It’s inappropriate.”
The answer’s in there somewhere too, prompted by that desire to find something where she’s not going to have to pretend to lose herself in another person’s life. He gives her an out. She can taste it. But it’s the catch, it’s always the catch that seems to haunt her and she knows, knows full well that there’s got to be one with him.
When he leans over her, the meets him halfway and lets her mouth graze his. Her lips are softer and he tastes a little like the beer Finn bought them all. They have an early flight back to DC and she has a decision to make. She has too many decisions to make.
Rachel still lets herself taste him, her teeth skimming over his lip. He rolls his tongue into her mouth and she flicks at his teeth lightly. His hand cups her throat, his fingers dragging down over her skin as she turns back at him and then rolls over him to be on top. She presses her hips forward.
”Do you care?” he asks, against her mouth.
She laughs and sighs. “No.”
They don’t sleep with each other. His hand gets as far as the strap of her dress, and he palms it down her shoulder, his teeth scrapping lightly over her breast. He touches her and his intentions are dares, as if he were bating her to react; his fingers pull at her hair, her waist and then it’s his thigh between her legs. She makes a soft sound and then kisses him quickly, before drawing back and reaching for her key card on the table next to his.
He doesn’t laugh, but he’s smiling and part of her knows that she’s just started something, something that could be the worst decision she’s ever made. But she’s a professional and she’s Rachel, she’s Rachel and this is how she survives.
“Your office is shit.”
Santana brings her coffee after giving Chuckie the finger. She stands, watching her as she unpacks the rest of her things, completely aware of the other members of the team watching their conversation too. Quinn bought her a plant with Finn, or something like that, and she just says thank you for the orchid and keeps it close to her window.
But Santana is an old friend, and lives and breathes the Attorney General’s office with just as sharp of an eye as Rachel has for most of her career. The two women trust each other and it’s all about different philosophies, same set of survival skills.
Rachel looks up from a book. “I’ve never really had an office,” she says.
“You look thrilled,” Santana says dryly.
Rachel smirks and shrugs, sitting down and tossing her books back into a box. They’re going to go on the shelves behind her and she has no pictures of family that she wants to bring into here. They’re going to find it odd, but she still keeps herself to certain necessities.
She still runs a hand through her hair and Santana sits in front of her desk, crossing her legs and picking at the button of her cuff. They’re quiet as the noise level settles into a steady hum outside her open door. She knows that the others are still probably watching and somewhere, Schuester’s probably waiting. Like she said to them, she picks up fast.
“Is this what you want?”
Rachel looks up. Santana leans forward. “You know as well as I do that this is a fucking trap and that you should walk back into OC and do what you do best. What we all know you do. Serial killers and all that crazy bullshit? Fucking really?”
“San,” she says tiredly.
“I’m not saying I don’t trust you. And shit,” she murmurs, rubbing her face. “Rachel, you were - it doesn’t matter. Selfishly, I’m fucking glad you’re around again.”
It’s all about dirty secrets, in the end. It’s the little ones, the big ones; she still doesn’t know what Schuester has on her. It’s not important now and it might be later; there’s a couple of reasons she can put together though. Her fingers brush her lips and she tries not to sigh - Santana will pick up on it all without blinking.
“I just want to be Rachel for awhile,” she says finally. Her voice is soft and sure. She looks back to the open door and Quinn passes, throwing her small smile. Maybe this is how he’s got her, Rachel thinks. “I don’t think I remember who she is anyway.”
And this is the truth and maybe too much of it. This is how it all starts.
when we wrote ourselves backwards
the good, the bad, and the downright ghastly; we’re all awkwardly indulgent at some point in our lives. he’s the first piece of the puzzle.
glee | will/rachel | AU AU AU AU | 6,010 words, R.
-
The truth is she meets Finn first. It's a crappy bar, just after her graduation, and she's already resigned herself into acceptance - DC is not New York.
"Organized crime, huh?"
She looks away from her beer. The music tonight is terrible, an array of Top Forty hits that she's sure shouldn't happen to good people on principle.
"Yes," she says, and she sees Matt smirk at her across the room. She sees the badge and the gun on the guy though and she crosses her legs, turning into him. She figures if it's more than obvious that she's a new kid, she might as well play the new kid.
But Finn smiles warmly and orders a beer from the bartender. He leans against the bar next to her.
"I bet they've already told you're pretty."
She laughs, surprised. "Yes," she says. "In a roundabout way," she says too. "They definitely have."
"It's not a lie," he grins.
Rachel doesn't sleep with him. But she doesn't forget.
How she ends up at Columbia and then Quantico is a bit of a story; what's an even bigger story is how she spends five years, undercover, watching an entire crime family unravel and into pieces. She doesn't remember her professor's name, but the fact that she's sharp on behavior doesn't go unnoticed by her superiors. She also kills a man when she gets back to New York, but that's something she only tells people with her file.
But back in DC, she finds herself sitting in the BSU, watching the other agents move through their day with too much ease. It's a strange feeling, like she's on the other side of things; she can remember a near encounter in New York, where she was in the same club as Jesse, her ex-boyfriend and now a Broadway favorite, and his newest girlfriend. It just feels like she's disconnected from everything.
"Rachel?"
She blinks. Finn stands in front of her, sleeves rolled. There's a badge clipped haphazardly to the pocket of his shirt and he's holding a file.
"Agent Finn Hudson," she says politely. She drags at his name and it makes him laugh. She brushes her fingers against her skirt.
"Heard you're meeting Schue," he says, and it's as if he's a bit oblivious to the area. She can't help but quirk some kind of grin at him though. "He's a great guy," he offers.
"I heard," she says dryly.
The truth is that she's not exactly sure why she's here. She likes the OC, likes that it feeds into her need for solo work. She doesn't play politics either so when her supervisor asked her to consider this meeting, she was curious enough to say yes.
Schuester’s a strange legend in everybody’s circle, the right mix of a golden boy and way too ruthless not to be careful around. At least, this is what she’s been told. If he’s picked you, it’s usually because he’s been watching you for awhile and that, that really is what lingers with her the most.
There is a door that opens along the side wall and Finn doesn’t even bother standing, fixing himself. Instead, it’s another large grin and there’s another man, who she assumes to be Schuester, stepping up to the pseudo-conversation. It’s the same, lazy informalities as Finn too; he wears the sleeves of his button-down rolled at his elbows. He gives Finn a nod, and the other man smiles, passing her with a squeeze on the shoulder.
“Agent Berry,” he greets.
“Sir,” she says and she stands, suddenly very aware of people watching her. He smiles at her, stepping back to offer her entrance into his office.
It’s what she expects too, clean walls and picture frames. He’s shakes hands with person a, person b, person c and the president and if she were eighteen and still in New York, a part of her might have been impressed. She sits at one of the chairs by the desk, crossing her legs and leaning back. She waits for him to start because that’s what you do. He’s the supervisory agent here.
“You can relax,” he teases.
Her mouth twitches. “I’d rather not, sir.” He looks at her curiously and she shrugs. “I’m still getting used to being back.”
It does not go unnoticed that he opens a file, her file, right in front of himself, on the desk next to a picture of him and what she assumes to be as family. There is no wedding ring. She licks her lips and meets his gaze, watching as he studies her.
“I’ll get straight to it then,” he says.
“Please do.”
He chuckles, sliding a hand through his hair. “You’re good,” he says. “You’re a little young for my unit, but you’re good and there’s a spot on my team. It’s yours if you want it - which, I can only assume, you do since you’re here.”
“Naturally,” she says.
Rachel keeps the same straight face too even if he cracks a smile. Right off the bat, it’s pretty obvious that he thinks that he’s charming and he’s not shy about using that. There’s nothing in the way that he talks to her that is comfortable though. He’s waiting for a slip up and she can read that habit pretty well.
Then again, here she is.
The trial run begins when a case from Florida happens. She sits next to Finn at the briefing and holds her coffee carefully. She listens to the vague assertions of a pattern: six bodies, four men and two women, found right down in the Glades. One of the other agents, Chuckie, makes a crack about gators and hot girls and Rachel realizes that she’s the only other woman besides the tech girl, who sits by Schuester and the projector at the front of the room. She likes the tech girl though, Lucy or Quinn or something - she’s sharp too and sort of aloof, but seems to be sort of welcoming anyway.
They all know she has the training for this which, well, should be obvious enough considering that she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t. Being undercover gives her a different kind of advantage too; it’s the very advantage that she knows is part of why they call Schuester a collector and his team all particular and peculiar pieces.
But there are five of them, including Schuester, and she’s the youngest, so that’s riding on her even as they board a plane to head to Florida. She sits alone, towards the back, and flips through a magazine she bought before they boarded. It’s the New York magazine and honestly, once in awhile, she imagines and she indulges because she has so many dirty little secrets that she keeps too close to herself.
She knows that Schuester saw her buy it too.
They set up for four days at a beach hotel. Finn charms the owner and Chuckie throws an arm around her shoulder when he catches her looking at the beach.
“You know there are sharks in there.”
She snorts.
“I’m just saying,” he says, and he grins down at her too, “if you want some company later, I’ll be more than happy to wrestle a few for you.”
Rachel rolls her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching. She says something like i hope you know that doesn’t work and he laughs anyway, pulling his arm away from her shoulders when Schuester glances back. She catches her key before Finn does too and gives him a small smile.
They’re separated into rooms then, and then into partners - she’s joins Schuester, after, to head into town to check the locations. He’s changed into jeans and t-shirt and because he said be a local she’s forced herself and her better judgment into a summer dress, thin and white, over a pair of cowboy boots. She keeps her hair loose too and shoves her gun and badge into her boot holster. It’s about being creative anyway and that’s why she’s assuming she’s stuck with her supervisor anyway.
“Chuckie likes you,” he says as they start to walk. They’re headed to the first bar, which opens into a swamp in the back. She sees an advert for fried everything when they get closer too and knows she looks both touristy and properly lost as it is.
“From what I understand Chuckie likes everything with legs,” she says finally.
Schuster laughs and his hand drops against the small of her back, ushering in. He orders two beers and they pick a table on the deck, shaded by a canopy. He tubs his thumb against her dress and when she sits down first, he ushers her chair into an angle where she looks both comfortable and close to him.
“I hate Florida,” he says.
She smirks. “Oh yeah?”
“More of a New England kind of guy,” he tells her. “Four seasons and less of a chance that there are gators and bugs and -”
“It’s not so bad,” she says.
They sit there and the bartender brings their beers. He takes a sip of his, but she doesn’t. She pulls her fingers around the bottle’s neck and presses it against her throat. She leans back against her chair and studies the way the trees shade the deck.
“When?” she asks finally.
“In the morning,” Schuester says. Next to them, a couple arrives and they’re laughing. “The owner said one of them was tied to the deck, hanging there like a boat.”
“Like a sign.”
He nods. “Like a sign.”
“But that’s not part of the pattern,” she says. She cocks her head to the side and her sunglasses start to slide down her nose as she looks at him. “You’re going backwards,” she guesses, biting her lip.
Someone else next to them is speaking French and she perks up, suddenly and out of habit, listening to the man rant into his phone. He slurs his voice and she bites back a shy laugh when she catches the dirty joke.
“Berry?” she blinks and Schuester touches her arm. He doesn’t ask how she knows the lanaguage. “Anything?”
Her lips curl. “Nothing,” she says.
It’s really simple though. More dirty secrets, you know.
There is a new body by the time she and Schuester scope out the next location at the end of the night. Her hair sticks to her neck, so badly that she steals a rubber band from the bartender to pull it up. The good thing is that they have a conversation that fills in the blanks better: the body found here was more than just a local, he had a band and a boat, all things that make Rachel laugh.
"You were a bartender," Schuester guesses at the table. Finn joins them and Chuckie's taken a lead.
She shrugs. "Pay and tips," she says. "It went to student loans."
"Doesn't matter," he says. "What do you see?" he asks.
Finn watches them both curiously. The bartender past is implied again and she figures that Schuester would be the type to pick things from way back when.
"You think that -" she laughs and shakes her head. "I suppose too you're going to tell me that because I was bullied in high school, my survival skills kick in and keep me alive too."
"It's possible."
Rachel rolls her eyes. "You missed your calling as a teacher."
But she humors him still, since this is a test and the worst is that she gets to see more than her fill of the Glades. Either way, his non-comment pisses her off enough to answer. She keeps her eyes to the groups that are laughing, and then the groups, the pairs, that have more than one drink. Easy targets, she thinks.
"No one in here is curious enough for the suspect," she says. "He keeps to low cues and later nights. So your best bets are the Jack and coke, the whiskey sours, and maybe, if they stay, the two blondes with fake ids."
Finn lets out a low whistle and Schuester grins into his beer. It's not that hard to read people, she wants to say. The degree just helps people take her seriously.
"He doesn't stay too long either," she says too. "It's a game of being noticed and not. And he plays it like a college girl almost -" Finn chokes on his beer. "To see how many people notice he's trouble. He was here and it was an accident. But he took it as a good accident nonetheless."
"So then," and Schuester slides the new file in front of her, "tell me about these."
It's the decomposed that faces her instead of dead mobsters, swamp-licked skin and a nice, clean open throat. The knife is serrated and there's no clear jerk to the hand that gives any sort of revelation to right or left hands.
"Staging," she murmurs.
"He's not lazy either," Finn says.
She looks up at him, reaching for her beer. "And Quinn," she guesses, "already put feelers out for type of knives -"
"A little store up the road," Schuester interrupts. She meets his gaze and he nods. "She did."
"Hunting?" she murmurs.
"Yeah."
“Suspect?”
Schuester and Finn both nod. “Tentative,” one of them says.
It takes her a moment to process the information. She sips at the beer and studies the bar. There's a new customer, short and stocky and grinning with the bartender. It's so easy really to come and get lost and not have anybody care. She gets flashes of New York and maybe a little of Ohio, but looking down at the file, she knows how to check herself again. A quiet breath. Hum along to whatever song. Play it all by ear and then something closer.
Her dad told her once and only once that this was a dangerous job. They don't need to know.
Her morning is early anyway. She runs with Finn because they're waiting for a call and results from Quinn while Schuester and Chuckie take the local cops. Finn is nice, maybe too sweet too, but he's genuine and that's nice as it's hard enough for her to be around people as it is.
But when they get back to the hotel, Chuckie pulls Finn away to look at schematics and she finds Schuester waiting at her door. He's pressed again, in jeans and a button down, formal enough for cops and less so for everyone else here.
She wipes the sweat off her neck. "Hi."
"Hello."
He holds up a file and she pulls her keycard from her shoe. She lets him into the room and he moves to drop at the edge of her bed.
"Is this appropriate?" she asks.
"Do you care?" he says.
She shrugs and he smirks, opening the file. He looks too neat against her mess of sheets and she reaches for her bag to dig out clothes.
"We have a suspect," he says.
"From a random pattern?" she asks. She turns and frowns. "Seven bodies, no ties to location, but to the way he kills. It's a game of chance written by a guy that connects himself by - oh."
Her gaze catches his, and Schuester is smiling, leaning back on her bed with his hands. Her cheeks warm and he studies her, shaking his head.
"I'm good at my job, Berry."
"Noted," she says. She catches the implication easily. “Bad habit,” she says again.
His mouth turns. It’s not an aplogy.
Her fingers curl in her shirt though. If she's embarrassed, she doesn't feel it. But he's looking at her in a way that seems like she's given something away and she doesn't like that. She doesn’t like the feeling at all.
"I should shower then," she says.
"We're tourists again," he says, and she doesn't wonder if he's enjoying her discomfort a little too much.
This is how it comes into play.
Schuester calls her Claire at a little joint near the hunting shop, right next to the guy telling the bartender about the gator whose belly he split open. It’s heavy already and the mosquitoes are picking at the back of her knees.
He bunches his fingers at her neck and she sighs, just loud enough to catch someone's attention. She picks up her beer too, and the strap of her tank starts to slide down her shoulder. She lets it and turns her hips into Schuester; he makes this sound that seems a little like surprise and his mouth turns, his hand sliding into the back pocket of her jean shorts.
Her mouth curls. "You said touristy."
He chuckles. "You should have been an actress," he says.
"I almost was," she murmurs, and he hides his surprise into her shoulder, pressing his lips over her skin.
Claire smiles. Rachel watches carefully.
They're at the bar pretty late and when the suspect walks in, the one that fits into the profile, it all falls into place. It moves fast; this isn’t five years of careful watching and moving and meeting with handlers and Finn has already come in too, and sits at the back, watching them and the game with Chuckie and Quinn on dial. It's been back and forth though, coordinating with the local police because they want the arrest and really, it comes down to playing politics the right way.
But she and Schuester play it up pretty well; he's convincing, drawing his hand over her ass as she shifts to stand between his legs. They both know that someone is watching them; Rachel feels the eyes from another corner of the bar, too close to the jukebox and a couple of local girls flirting their way into more drinks.
"This should be familiar."
Schuester's mouth finds her ear. He bites lightly and she laughs, the sound low and thick. She starts humming and lets her fingers brush against the buttons of his shirt.
"I'm not a first date kind of girl," she says, and he's smiling, biting at his lip. "I like to get to know a guy."
He laughs. "Is that so?" and his fingers thread through the belt loops of her shorts. "Make sense for a pretty girl like you, baby."
It's more of a slip and she knows. She spent a better part of her life being someone else. His tell unravels when he draws her close and keeps her that way. He lets a hand slide over her ass and her fingers are in his hair, tugging his head back.
She doesn't kiss him, but he's daring her to and she finds that all too curious. She lets her fingers brush against his mouth and her mouth curls into amusement when he bites at her fingers. She doesn't have the time to say anything though.
The suspect approaches them for a beer.
In the end, it's about meeting Claire and Mike. Claire keeps her legs on Mike's lap and they share a beer as Mike rubs a hand over Claire's thigh. Claire is soft, Mike is loud, and both are extraordinarily charming in their way.
The suspect is watching her first, the way Schuester's fingers keep slipping against the hem of her shorts. She’s making soft sounds and presses her lips against his neck and throat, murmuring absently into his ear. His other hand is resting against her neck again too, his fingers brushing against the skin and maybe, just maybe, Rachel thinks about kissing him too because Claire would kiss him and these are things that are supposed to stick with her in the moment anyway.
They’re invited for another drink elsewhere and it’s so easy, after a couple beers, to see how someone could fall for it. Hospitality goes along way in most cases. But they’re playing this as they’re too drunk and too close, the man wandering back behind them, watching as Schuester wraps an arm around her waist and presses her against the wall.
She laughs and his hand brushes over her belly, his fingers running against the waist of her shorts. His fingers run over the button and she arches her hips forward just so the suspect can see. It’s that awful kind of rush, but she presses forward, letting his fingers rock over the denim between her legs and her hips rise to meet him. He bites at her neck and Rachel twists her fingers into his hair. Claire and Mike don’t care who is watching them. Claire and Mike are here, on vacation, and it’s about having the best time possible.
It happens too fast.
There is blood on her tank. Schuester has a gun to the man’s temple and Finn and Chuckie are backup, Chuckie wrapping the cuffs around the man’s wrists as he cries and laughs out. Somebody says something like fucking crazy person and it’s Chuckie, it’s got to be Chuckie, because Rachel figures it’s an acceptable thing for him to do and no one is saying otherwise.
The hunting knife is in her hand. A cop comes around, offering her an evidence bag. She drops it in and says a polite thank you. Her ears are ringing and she can’t really hear herself think or speak, but she pulls back just as Finn throws a jacket over her shoulders. It’s too warm, but she slides her arms through it and lets the sleeves drape over her hands and her wrists, leaning back against the wall.
“You saved my life,” Schuester says quietly.
She doesn’t look at him. She can’t remember if the man came at them from the left or their right, but her instinct kicked and there, right there, is the thing about working five years as someone completely different. You have to be quick and creative and completely unapologetic about both things.
“Doing my job, sir,” she says.
“Are you hurt?”
She looks up and then down, at the stretch of fabric that covers her. The blood runs at a straight course, left to right, because she swung her body over Schuester’s to kick him back. It was supposed to give him time to get his gun.
“No, sir,” she says.
“Berry.”
“Rachel,” she murmurs absently. Her fingers flex. She looks back up at him, her gaze wavering. “It’s Rachel.”
He frowns, stepping in front of her. “Rachel,” he says. “Do you need -” she meets his gaze and she shakes her head. “Okay, sweetheart. Okay.”
“I’m not hurt,” she says.
He’s quiet and Finn drags the man past them, Chuckie shooting her a thumbs up as they pass. The man is trying to flail, but Finn is too big and too strong, so it forces him to walk anyway. Someone calls for Schuester too and it’s back to business, flashing lights and cop cars around everywhere. There’s a small crowd from the bar somewhere behind them too, watching in horror and fascination because it’s true what they say - a local’s a local.
“I’ll ride with the others, sir,” she says.
He nods. “Take care of that hand,” he says.
The jacket feels a little heavy. When Rachel gets the car, Finn’s at her side and leading her toward the ambulance saying something about her hand again. His fingers are cool against her neck, resting against the collar of her jacket. Someone helps her to sit on one of the gurneys and the paramedic is shaking his head.
She looks down. The skin of her palm is split wide open.
“Organized crime?”
Rachel chokes on a laugh. Finn joins her at the observation window, watching as Schuester settles with suspect.
“You remembered,” she says quietly.
“Nah,” he says. “You’re just kind of hard to forget, you know? Plus, Schue asked me about you. He doesn’t ask about people without any reason.”
“So I’m told.”
They’re quiet. Rachel watches the expression of the suspect. It’s unwavering. The slight scar across his mouth is neither horrifying nor heavy, but it doesn’t deter the man from looking at Schuester like he’s looking through him.
She’s seen that expression once, twice, maybe more than she’d really like to count. She presses her hand against her face and the bandages catch at her hair. But Schuester keeps talking and at a perfectly time moment, Chuckie walks into the room with a file, his expression trying. This is how it works. This is how it always works.
But Schuester is impressive, all smiles, all heavy smiles as he coaxes and teases the suspect in front of him, Chuckie leaning back against the wall to watch. She catches tells, like all good cops, agents do - the man has a nervous twitch in his hand and it’s the knife, he wants the knife.
Finn presses the button and they listen in.
It takes seven hours to get a confession. Chuckie tells Schuester he’s too charming. Someone laughs too because it’s true.
Finn offers to buy them all beers.
Her hotel room is dark. She is resting on her back, her hands curling over her stomach. Her eyes are open and she stares at the ceiling.
The bandages are cutting into her palm again, the ends peeling lightly against her skin. She runs her fingers against the back of her hand and then sighs, sitting up. Her legs swing over the side of the bed and she tugs her fingers into her hair, pulling lightly at her hair. She feels restless.
It takes her ten minutes to make the decision, and ten more to pull one of her dresses over her head, letting her hair spill messily against her shoulders. The air is too cold in her room and she grabs her keycard, walking out into the hallway and taking the turn into another set of rooms. She counts them in her head, until she reaches one of the rooms midway and presses her hand against the door.
Rachel knocks.
When Schuester opens the door, he’s just in a pair of jeans. His hair is curled, sticking up at some ends and he runs a light hand through it. He doesn’t smile, but he studies her sleepily, stepping back to let her inside.
“Want a drink?” he asks.
“Water,” she says.
The room stays dark as she makes her way to his bed, sitting at the edge. She draws her legs up and curls them underneath her. He hands her a bottle.
She says nothing though, taking it and twisting the cap off. It cracks when it opens, her hand running lightly over the mouth of the bottle before she lifts it and steals a sip. When he sits next to her, the bed sinks under his weight and his knee, presses lazily along her thigh, just as he stretches back to rest on his hands.
“Water,” she says again. “It’s what calms me down.”
“Why?’
“Does it matter?” when she asks, he laughs, and her lips turn into a lazy smile. “It says nothing about why you want me here.”
“I’m sure you heard,” he says.
“Not from you.”
Rachel is serious when she says it, and his hand reaches forward, his fingers brushing against her neck as he tucks her hair behind her ear. She leans into his touch and meets his gaze, cocking her head to the side if only to face him.
It’s too dark in the room, but she knows he’s handsome, too handsome, and it’s the sort of thing that she’s privy to because it’s just a room, a very small hotel room, and she hasn’t said yes to any one thing yet. It takes her back too, seventeen and trying to decide whether or not she goes and makes herself happy with Juilliard or does the practical, the wise thing and goes straight to Columbia.
“You’re good,” he says, and his hands drop to his lap. She watches his palms turn open over his knees. “You’re really good, Rachel. And I know that coming back from being undercover, young and for that long - it doesn’t make you any friends or fans. You could go back, I have no doubt. I know you don’t. But I think it’s a waste.”
Her lips purse tightly. She swallows and then: “Let me guess,” she murmurs. “You’re my only fan or something to that degree.”
He laughs. “And you might just be mine.”
“Do you even know what that means?”
She can’t help the question because she feels it. She feels that underlying impossibility that he’s trying to stage. It’s all politics. It’s always going to be this way and that part, that part should never surprise her. But it continues to anyway.
But he takes the bottle of water from her hand. His fingers linger against the back of her hand, drawing along the crook between her thumb and index finger. It takes her a little longer to swallow because her hand is turning into his, and when his fingers brush over her bandages, she lets out a little sigh.
“Yes,” he says. “More than you’ll ever understand.”
She stays quiet.
His room is different in the dark. Her legs are underneath the covers. He rests on the top, his hands pressed over his stomach. She keeps biting her lip, drifting in and out of some kind of sleep. He doesn’t tell her to go.
It’s then that she turns onto her side and catches him smiling, almost lazily in the dark. She sits up, but not all the way, propping her head up with one of her hands. She draws her fingers into her hair and pulls through the strands lightly.
“You have the talent,” he says.
Her lips purse and he turns his head to meet her gaze. In the dark, his eyes seem heavy. She licks her lips too.
“You have the talent and the drive. But not the right teacher - you need someone who’s not just going to drop you in the middle of a scenario and force you to learn. You need someone with patience and someone with friends.”
“And you have friends,” she murmurs.
Schuester laughs. “I have friends,” he agrees.
She could say something else. It feels like he’s expecting her to. But her mouth opens and closes and he’s still looking at her like that, that way with heavy eyes and amusement, as if it’s just going to have to be accepted as some kind of private joke.
It’s then that she remembers them, back at the little bar. She remembers his hand and his fingers and how lazy they felt against over her shorts. Her hips moved easily too, maybe too easily, and this is what she worries about, getting too caught up in it all again. This isn’t music and this most certainly isn’t New York.
“You should’ve have met the younger me,” she says, and then laughs softly, rolling back onto her back. Her hair fans out around her and he’s rolling onto his side to watch her; she doesn’t pay too much attention to how easy that seems too.
“What would she say?” he asks.
“I want to go back to New York.”
She looks up at him and her lips curl. She shakes her head and he brushes his hand against her shoulder. His fingers brush against the strap of her dress.
“That all of this,” she says too. “It’s inappropriate.”
The answer’s in there somewhere too, prompted by that desire to find something where she’s not going to have to pretend to lose herself in another person’s life. He gives her an out. She can taste it. But it’s the catch, it’s always the catch that seems to haunt her and she knows, knows full well that there’s got to be one with him.
When he leans over her, the meets him halfway and lets her mouth graze his. Her lips are softer and he tastes a little like the beer Finn bought them all. They have an early flight back to DC and she has a decision to make. She has too many decisions to make.
Rachel still lets herself taste him, her teeth skimming over his lip. He rolls his tongue into her mouth and she flicks at his teeth lightly. His hand cups her throat, his fingers dragging down over her skin as she turns back at him and then rolls over him to be on top. She presses her hips forward.
”Do you care?” he asks, against her mouth.
She laughs and sighs. “No.”
They don’t sleep with each other. His hand gets as far as the strap of her dress, and he palms it down her shoulder, his teeth scrapping lightly over her breast. He touches her and his intentions are dares, as if he were bating her to react; his fingers pull at her hair, her waist and then it’s his thigh between her legs. She makes a soft sound and then kisses him quickly, before drawing back and reaching for her key card on the table next to his.
He doesn’t laugh, but he’s smiling and part of her knows that she’s just started something, something that could be the worst decision she’s ever made. But she’s a professional and she’s Rachel, she’s Rachel and this is how she survives.
“Your office is shit.”
Santana brings her coffee after giving Chuckie the finger. She stands, watching her as she unpacks the rest of her things, completely aware of the other members of the team watching their conversation too. Quinn bought her a plant with Finn, or something like that, and she just says thank you for the orchid and keeps it close to her window.
But Santana is an old friend, and lives and breathes the Attorney General’s office with just as sharp of an eye as Rachel has for most of her career. The two women trust each other and it’s all about different philosophies, same set of survival skills.
Rachel looks up from a book. “I’ve never really had an office,” she says.
“You look thrilled,” Santana says dryly.
Rachel smirks and shrugs, sitting down and tossing her books back into a box. They’re going to go on the shelves behind her and she has no pictures of family that she wants to bring into here. They’re going to find it odd, but she still keeps herself to certain necessities.
She still runs a hand through her hair and Santana sits in front of her desk, crossing her legs and picking at the button of her cuff. They’re quiet as the noise level settles into a steady hum outside her open door. She knows that the others are still probably watching and somewhere, Schuester’s probably waiting. Like she said to them, she picks up fast.
“Is this what you want?”
Rachel looks up. Santana leans forward. “You know as well as I do that this is a fucking trap and that you should walk back into OC and do what you do best. What we all know you do. Serial killers and all that crazy bullshit? Fucking really?”
“San,” she says tiredly.
“I’m not saying I don’t trust you. And shit,” she murmurs, rubbing her face. “Rachel, you were - it doesn’t matter. Selfishly, I’m fucking glad you’re around again.”
It’s all about dirty secrets, in the end. It’s the little ones, the big ones; she still doesn’t know what Schuester has on her. It’s not important now and it might be later; there’s a couple of reasons she can put together though. Her fingers brush her lips and she tries not to sigh - Santana will pick up on it all without blinking.
“I just want to be Rachel for awhile,” she says finally. Her voice is soft and sure. She looks back to the open door and Quinn passes, throwing her small smile. Maybe this is how he’s got her, Rachel thinks. “I don’t think I remember who she is anyway.”
And this is the truth and maybe too much of it. This is how it all starts.