my favourite place was me and you: chapter 5
Title: my favourite place was me and youAuthor: Kiki
Fandom: Glee
Pairing/Character(s): Puck/Rachel/Santana, Rachel/OMC undertones
Rating: M
Word count: 4000
Spoilers: None, futurefic
Summary: Rachel is forced to leave the spotlight and return home to face the people she sold for her dream.
Disclaimer. None of this is mine.
}{
In my head I replay our conversations
Over and over til they feel like hallucinations
You know me, I love to lose my mind
And every time anybody speaks your name I still feel the same
I ache, I ache, I ache inside.
-Kate Miller-Heidke
}{
The first time she has sex with Puck, she decides they'll never be apart again.
Two weeks after she moves into her tiny studio apartment in New York, Puck turns up with his hands in his pockets and an uncertain look on his face.
She hugs him tightly and ignores the urge to cry. Even though she's been busy every day, at night she gets lonely and every noise takes the form of something sinister. She hates living on her own.
Whenever she spots weird things on the street she can't wait to tell Puck till she remembers he's in another state, and whenever My Super Sweet 16th comes on she has to remind herself that Santana's not here to make fun of it. It's not so funny when you're watching it on your own.
Puck wants a tour of the city, which ends up including everything from the Irish pub down the street to the sports bar three blocks over.
Neither one of them drink very much.
It's just an excuse to stand too close and whisper into one another's ear over the music. All night Rachel can feel her pulse speed at every touch, every look.
He holds her hand as they walk back to the apartment. It sends a little thrill through her and she can't stop looking at their linked fingers.
Rachel fills him in on everything about NYU, the classes she'll take, the clubs she'll join, as if she hadn't already told him a dozen times before she left. Puck grins at her rambling and waits until they're inside before he uses his mouth to stop the flow of words.
He forces her up against the wall, one arm wrapped under her ass, the other braced on the wall. Rachel fists his collar, refusing to let him escape.
Puck's mouth is on her neck, her shoulders, moving everywhere he can reach.
"I've waited so long for this, baby," he bites out, sounding almost pained. He picks her up, letting her legs wrap around his hips and settles his hardness over her centre. He grinds her into the wall, and she uses her legs to grip him even tighter. "Wanted you so bad it fucking hurt."
"Why'd you wait?" she asks breathily, working on taking off both their clothes.
"'Cause I'm a dumb fuck." He can't take his eyes away. He knows he's supposed to be some man-whore extraordinaire, but he's doesn't feel like it; he feels like a dumbass kid, finally getting everything he ever wanted and is scared as fuck of coming in his pants and ruining the whole thing.
"Bed," she orders firmly. Puck just grunts and carries her the four feet.
The wall will be fun at a later date, but their first time is going to be in a bed. She has a plan for them, and she refuses to be led astray from it so early.
Well, sex wasn't in her notes till after two weeks of official dating, but she can't get enough of his naked skin, so she decides some minor changes to the timeline will have to be made.
She loves the firm skin of his back, the muscles in his arms, the strong lines of his chest and abs. She doesn't think she'll ever have enough time to explore his body the way she wants.
He slides into her slow and hard and they both shudder at the feeling.
He bows his face into her hair, body still trembling at the feeling of her wrapped so tight and hot around him. "God," he hisses, "so fucking good. Not gonna' stop ever." He wanted to go slow, wanted to make it last, but the harder he pounds into her, the tighter she gets and the louder she moans. "Gonna' go slow next time, promise."
Rachel can only bury her face in his shoulder to try and smother her moans. She was past the point of caring; she would have let him take her on the sidewalk if she knew it would be like this. She comes first and drags him over the edge as her nails dig into his sweaty shoulder blades, and her body clenches so hard he can't even move as he spills inside her.
They both go limp. He only moves enough to discard the condom.
The only sound in the room is their desperate breaths and pounding hearts.
Puck stands and pulls on his jeans.
For a moment, Rachel can only blink in shock before getting angry at Puck stealing away his body heat before even cuddling. She moves to her knees and curls her fingers into the waist of his jeans. She tugs him back, revealing the surprising strength in her fingers.
Puck can't even laugh as she pushes him onto the bed and straddles his waist, pressing her hands into his chest. It's, legit, the hottest fucking thing on the planet. "Don't you dare even think about it, Noah Puckerman! I waited just as long as you did and if you think I'm even half way through with you, you are sadly mistaken," she growls.
He didn't mean to be an asshole; things were just moving way too fast. He was already half in love with her and he really wanted to escape before she figured that out. Yeah he was a total BAMF and whatever, but letting someone have that much power over you was fucking terrifying.
He reaches up to brush her cheek. Even though she's trying to use her tiny body to pin him like a pro, he can see the hurt in her eyes. He really hadn't meant to fuck things up this fast. "Sorry, Rach. Force of habit."
She nods, sniffling a little. "Well, it's a terrible habit and you're going to have to do your best to curb it."
Puck pulls her down, letting her forehead rest against his. "Never again, baby," he promises. "Or," he concedes thoughtfully, "maybe just once more so your little ninja ass can hold me down and take advantage of me."
Puck doesn't leave her side until he runs out of shirts two weeks later and has to drive back to Ohio to get the rest of his stuff.
}{
She watches the house for long, quiet minutes before working up the courage to knock on the door.
Secretly she thinks it's because Rachel would appreciate the drama of the moment-the will-she-won't-she scene that is stock for every great story.
Judah opens the door.
"Hey. Is Rachel in?" she asks, knowing she sounds cold and bratty. Rachel's fathers must know. They must realise that their daughter stopped talking about her best friend the same time she stopped talking about her boyfriend. They must think she's the shittiest friend in the world.
Embarrassment always brings out her teenybopper bitch side.
Judah gives her a smile so sweet and sincere she has to give one back.
"She should be back any minute. Why don't you come in and wait and I'll get you a drink?"
Santana just nods gratefully and follows him inside.
Here's a secret that was never really a secret: she has a total crush on Judah Berry.
He's the sort of guy that shouldn't really exist outside of novels or old movies. All that sophistication that the Fabrays try so hard for with their cold, waspy stares?
It ain't got nothing on one of Judah's smiles. Beside the 6'3, gay, half-black Southern Jew they all look like cheap imitations.
He chats to teen hoodlums the same way he talks to the mayor and helps old ladies cross the street. No shit. She'd once seen him lend his car to a neighbour he didn't even know, because hers was out of fuel and her kids needed to be picked up from school. Yeah, other people might do it, but not without a few glances of suspicion. Judah did it, the thought that he might never see his car again never once entering his head.
That's real class-the kind that is ingrained from birth and can only come from truly great parents, and not a bank account.
He fixes her a cup of coffee, looking perfectly at ease with his daughter's ex-friend.
"Tell me what you've been up to, Santana. I've seen you around a bit, but we never seem to get a chance to talk," he complains gently, his words still carrying the remnants of his South Carolinian birth.
That's because she avoids him, ducking behind corners and rushing off in the opposite direction. She knows it's damn childish, but she's always terrified that he might start asking questions on his daughter's behalf.
"Just bartending over at Henry's."
She hates that she says "just", that she has to prepare people for disappointment. She waits for it-that slight flicker of the eyes that lets her know she's a failure. Didn't you go to NYU? Weren't you supposed to be something?
Judah just nods and hands her a coffee. "I hope you don't work the bar alone at night. That place can get rough."
She should have realised he was far too polite to ask questions that might embarrass her.
"It's not so bad. " She shrugs. Sure she hated people getting in her face when she cut them off and when old losers legit thought they had a chance of taking her home, but mostly it was okay. "Where's Rachel anyway?"
"Doctor's appointment. She should be on her way home by now."
"How is her leg?" She asks experimentally, taking a guess. She doesn't know how much Rachel told him, either about how she got the injury, or how very little she deserves to hear about it.
Judah hesitates a second, like he knows she's fishing for information she shouldn't have, but replies, "It's been six weeks since her surgery to fix the ligament. X-rays show it's healed well, so her doctors can't work out why it's still giving her so much pain."
"That sucks."
"It does."
They both hear the door open. Maybe Judah sees her tense, or maybe he knows more than he's letting on, either way he lays a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I have some work I better finish up. I really hope I see you more often, Santana."
She hopes so too.
She doesn't hear what he says to Rachel as he passes her, but it makes Rachel square her shoulders.
Rachel's wearing a tight, expensive looking black dress. It clings to her curves, and makes her look mature. It's not very Berry, and Santana can't say that she likes it.
It doesn't stop her from looking.
"Santana!" Rachel gushes, throwing her arms around the Santana's shoulders.
It's over too quick to be called a hug. It's confusing and unexpected and hurts so fucking good Santana feels shaky.
At least until Judah disappears around the corner with one last smile and Rachel backs away like she was burnt. Her expression doesn't change though. It's still perky and bright.
"Can I help you with something Santana?" She pops her hip up against the table, but doesn't sit down. Bending her leg for too long hurt, and the stillness of sitting down made her feel uncomfortable.
Santana knows they're not on the best terms, but she doesn't think she deserves to be treated like she has stranger danger imprinted on her forehead. "I can't find Puck," she says. It's a blatant accusation.
Rachel's smile widens, even as her eyes dim. "You don't suppose I'm hiding him, do you?" she kids wryly.
"Did he talk to you?" Whatever is happening, she's obviously three plays behind everyone else and she can't stand that shit. Once again, she's been demoted to outsider.
Rachel doesn't answer, just stares somewhere over Santana's shoulder before snapping back to reality. "What do you really want? God knows it can't be Puck, because this is the last place he'd be."
She takes a deep breath, and searches for the words. This so is not her thing. She doesn't know how to talk about her feeling, or hot to make things right. Screwing up is more her specialty.
"I don't know." She looks away. The necessary intimacy of the moment is making her skin crawl. She can't do this: she can't lay herself bare; she can't make herself vulnerable; and she can't make things better, because she doesn't know how they got so fucked up in the first place. "I really don't know what the fuck I'm doing here."
Rachel pauses before laughing darkly. "Then maybe you should just leave then. That is what you're good at."
She tilts her chin, eyes narrowing. She must have grown up a bit, because once she would have hit someone for throwing her mistakes back in her face so vindictively.
"I'm sorry."
Rachel does a double take. "What?" Her mask slips just enough that Santana can see the weariness below.
She grits her teeth. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ignored your texts. I'm sorry I didn't call. And I'm sorry I left you alone in New York." She sorry about so much more, but that's the best she can do. She holds her head high and doesn't even think about crying.
Rachel blinks at her dazedly, rubbing her hands over her arms as if to warm herself. There's so much longing in her eyes that Santana can feel her heart tearing.
Rachel had once worn that look perpetually, in high school when she looked at Finn, in that summer after high school when Jesse had come back, and in those first few weeks of college where Rachel had tiptoed around her.
It's the look of someone who would do absolutely anything just to have someone care about them.
Santana thought she'd broken Rachel of that desperate loneliness.
She'd never thought she'd be the one to bring it back.
But Rachel's grown up to; she'd learnt her lessons the hard way. That bright mask of apathy is brought back from her endless repertoire. "I'm glad," she says softly, "but that still doesn't explain what you're doing here."
She gives Rachel a hard glance, searching her eyes for something readable. "I'm doing exactly what I want. I'm drinking coffee at your kitchen table, just talking. Here. With you."
Rachel's already shaking her head. "No. You do not get to walk back into my life and expect things back the way they were. You do not get to just apologize and think that makes us friends. It doesn't and we're not," she hisses, using that low, throaty voice people use when they'd rather be screaming.
Santana can feel her own mad coming on, but there's only room enough for one drama queen in this scenario and that role is clearly taken. And by the rightful party, because Rachel should be angry. She knows this, knows she deserves to be yelled out. But being wrong fucking sucks.
"I know, Rachel, alright? I fucking know that I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I miss you and I'm greedy and want it anyway."
Rachel pulls out a chair, sitting clumsily and throwing her foot up on another. She glares at her ballet flats. She really misses her heels. "This isn't me forgiving you," she informs Santana haughtily. "This is me tired." She doesn't even have words to explain how deep her exhaustion runs.
"Close enough." She feels like she can breathe again. She studies Rachel, soaking in her presence like she hasn't allowed herself to do for a very long time. Rachel wears a lot of make-up, but it's cleverly done and few people would notice. Her hair is in perfect loose curls that look artless, but take forever to do. It's a good look, but Puck was right. She doesn't know this Rachel.
"So, you and Puck finally get that screaming match you guys been holding out for?"
"No, and I'm not in the sharing mood, so let's not do this." A tremor runs through her right hand, and she sits on it before Santana can see. Maybe she's even more tired that she thinks.
"Yeah, well, I am-so deal." Somewhere along the line, Puck became her responsibility and finding this stuff out became a necessity. "What did he say?"
"Why aren't you in school?" Rachel shoots back, not expecting an answer, just an excuse not to talk.
Santana knows this angle. "Because without you and Puck New York fucking sucked. I couldn't do it on my own and I didn't want to try." She knows exactly how pathetic she sounds, but it's a necessary evil.
Rachel wants to break into a long, emphatic speech about how important finishing law school is and how Santana was perfectly capable, but that's not her place anymore. And Santana hadn't hesitated to leave her on her own in New York.
"He was only here for a minute." Her mouth goes dry and her other hand starts trembling too. She rests her forehead against it. She thought she was over this. She thought she'd cried her last tears for Puck and moved on.
Santana reaches out, touching her hair. Rachel jerks away. "Do you remember when I called you? After he left?" she asks, knowing her voice sounds high and not all that sane.
Santana nods. There's an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She wasn't trying to upset Rachel. That was the last thing she wanted.
"It was the worst phone call I've ever made. I didn't know where he was. And I was scared. And I was alone. I thought-God, I don't even know! I was so worried that I couldn't even think. And then you answered. And I could hear him, telling you to hang up-telling you that he didn't want to talk to me." Her eyes flicker wildly. Her throat is thick with tears, and her eyes are just beginning to spill over. "I thought I was going to die, Santana. I lay in my bed, sobbing all day and all night and it just hurt so much that I didn't think I'd ever stop. I thought the pain would kill me." She hugs herself tightly, looking up. "I think the only reason it didn't is because I was waiting for you. I kept thinking you'd come for me and you'd explain what happened and make it better."
Santana can feel her own eyes burning.
Rachel can see it too. "You want to know the really pathetic thing?" Santana's answer would be an emphatic no, but Rachel doesn't wait. "I don't think I ever stopped waiting. I got used to you not being there. But I never stopped expecting you to come back."
"I'm sorry," Santana says before she can stop herself. Sometimes those words are so useless; saying them only makes it more obvious.
Rachel is sick of apologies. She just opens her eyes wide and tilts her head back till she's drowning in her own tears, but almost certain they won't fall from her eyes anymore.
When she speaks again it's small and sad--a child's question.
"Why did he leave me, San?"
She almost doesn't answer. She looks into those chocolate brown eyes and wants to lie, because she's sick of seeing them in pain. But she's never been one for comforting lies.
"He didn't tell me." She can't meet Rachel's cynical gaze. "Not for a long while. I don't think he would have. But one night he got drunk-a lot of nights actually and he'd let things slip. I just put the pieces together." She hesitates. "He followed you to Chicago, Rach. He knew you cheated on him."
Rachel goes eerily still, her eyes wide and empty.
She drinks her cold coffee and tells herself she was trying to be a good friend.
}{
The first (and last) time she cheats on Puck, she decides they'll never be apart again.
It's her first lead in a decent production. It might not be on Broadway, but it's in Chicago with a well-respected director, and a young but promising cast.
She hates to leave New York, but she couldn't stay.
Not when she wakes up at three in the morning to the sound of Puck throwing up in the bathroom, not when he falls asleep on the lounge because he can't stand sleeping beside her, not when she has to wake him up for work when he still reeks of beer and bourbon.
She hates him a little more every day.
After a wildly successful first fortnight, their director, Julian, throws a lavish party at their hotel.
Julian introduces her to Rhys Donovan as his most beautiful muse.
She giggles high and wild, slapping his arm with her clutch. "Stick to directing, Julian; acting is not your forte," she teases. Too much champagne has made her flirty and just a touch obnoxious. Even she can recognise this.
Julian tells her she couldn't handle the competition and goes in search for a producer just waiting to fork over some cash for his next project.
Rhys is a successful writer, famous for translating scripts into screenplays.
He tells her she'd look good on the big screen.
Rachel's never been able to turn away from a compliment.
In the end, she can't say why she follows him to his hotel room. She only knows that he wants her and Puck doesn't.
He kisses her rough and fast, forcing her skirt up around her waist. Before she can even breathe he's pushing her panties aside and shoving three fingers inside her. It hurts because he doesn't take the time to learn her body, stretching her in all the wrong places. She shuts her eyes and tries to feel something past the wrongness of everything.
When she feels the heat building between her legs, she feels ill.
She doesn't know his face or his body, or the small smile he gives when her body flutters under his touch. She hates his blond hair, and his smooth fingers. She hates everything about him because he's not her Noah, and her body isn't his to touch.
He pulls away to undo his fly.
She mumbles something inane and escapes into the hall with Rhys's surprised curses following her.
She sobs under the scalding water of her shower like some broken cliché.
Curled up in her hotel bed, she can still feel his fingers. She wants Puck and Santana like she's never wanted anything in her life. She wants Santana to laugh at her for being a little idiot, she wants Santana's arms around her and she wants Puck to kiss her on the brow and tell her everything would be all right.
She books a flight the next morning and Julian asks if she's lost her mind.
She knows something's wrong the second the she opens her apartment door. It's too quiet, too empty. She rushes to her bedroom and throws open her wardrobe door. There's nothing but her dresses and blouses, fluttering lonely amongst all the gaps where Puck's clothes used to hang.
She searches the whole apartment for a note, or any explanation at all.
There's nothing but a white envelope by the bed, filled with next month's rent.
Surprisingly, it's the first time she's ever felt like a whore.
}{