Rachel takes one for the team 5/8
Title: Rachel takes one for the team 5/8
Chapter: 5/8
Rating: T
Characters: Puck/Rachel, Strong Hummelberry friendship
Word Count: 3500
Kurt pauses and smiles encouragingly at her as he pulls a stack of plates from the cupboard and arranges a selection of drinks on the counter-top. "Everyone will be here in a few minutes so I just need you to remember one thing for me. Whatever you get up to tonight, please note that my bed is absolutely off limits. My sheets are 1000 thread count and as attractive as he undoubtedly is, Puckerman doesn't make the cut for slumber-parties."
Slumber parties? She's not even sure what Kurt thinks is going to happen at this event, but somehow she doubts he's talking about hair-braiding and footie pajamas.
"Kurt! It's certainly not like I'm going to offer myself to him over a slice of pizza," she admonishes, looking at him incredulously over the vegetable platter she'd brought. (They'll probably ignore it, but at least her teammates will know she cares about their health.)
Of course she isn't. Even if part of her wants to find the nearest closet and become reacquainted with his lips (and better acquainted with the rest of him), with only the New Directions kids in attendance, it would be rude (and possibly more conspicuous than she's comfortable with) for the two of them to disappear for an extended period of time. 'Hot though,' Noah's voice whispers inside her head and she blushes while Kurt arches a brow at her.
"Listen Rachel, I know we've had a few setbacks and believe me, I share your frustration..."
Not likely.
"...but we're already well into the second act here. Let's not forget the big picture here: Nationals. The bus leaves on Thursday and our performance is on Saturday. It's time to get to the finale already."
"Right. Nationals," she says in a small voice.
Kurt stops folding napkins and looks at her carefully. "Rachel?"
Here's the question that's been bothering her all day: is all this just another example of her wanting something she can't have or is it once again something she shouldn't have. She's always had difficulty telling the two apart.
"It's just...I'm not sure. I've started to wonder if everything is going wrong for a reason. What if Nationals isn't a good enough reason to use somebody like that?"
"Use somebody? I think you may be over-thinking this: we're talking about sex between two consenting adults here. Many people would consider it a relaxation technique, like a back-rub with benefits. And honestly, do you really think Puck would mind?"
"Puck? Probably not," she admits. The problem is, she doesn't really want to sleep with Puck. She does however want badly to sleep with Noah. And maybe it's just a projection of her own feelings, but she thinks it's just possible that Noah would care.
Kurt reaches for her hand and gives it a quick squeeze. "I know that our relationship started out on rocky footing and from time to time we clash, but I consider you to be one of my very best friends. That said, I really don't want to see you get hurt. Do you have feelings for Puck?" he asks carefully. "I mean it would be understandable. You two do have some kind of strange history together and believe me, I get that. There's no judgment here."
Yes. No. It's beyond too complicated to explain. She makes an effort to smile at him. "I appreciate your concern, but I can truly tell you that I'm not in love with Puck, if that's what you're implying."
Kurt nods, but still looks doubtful.
It's not even a lie. She's hated that nickname ever since she was eleven and he walked into the JCC with a busted lip and an absent father and a new name to match his attitude.
"You have nothing to worry about, Kurt."
And he apparently takes her at her word, because beyond a few searching glances over the course of the night, he doesn't bring it up again. Not that he has much of a chance to because everyone is piling into the house and devouring the pizza and talking a mile a minute. If she's uncharacteristically quiet, there's enough background chatter to mask it.
(Noah's quiet too.)
Before long, Kurt is flashing her his 'I'm brilliant and you know you love me' smile. For a moment she's so busy analyzing it for potential use on producers, directors and co-stars alike that she forgets to wonder exactly why it's on his face. "Movie time," he says brightly, waving a handful of horror DVDs in her face. (She's sure that they came out of Finn's collection since she's never seen Kurt watch anything made after 1957.) "I thought something from this genre might be fun for a change."
Right. Kurt thinks that watching Linda Blair vomit pea soup would be be 'fun.' Usually, the early 1970s costuming alone would be enough to put him off. Of course he's up to something.
So she's not at all surprised to find the only open spot in the den is on the couch, wedged between Noah and Tina. And let's face it, she may be confused, but it's not like she's going to complain about feeling Noah's hard thigh pressed alongside hers and when he moves to rest one arm on the back of the sofa, she could swear that he brushes her hair with his fingertips. It's not even a conscious decision, but as the lights dim she can just feel her body relax against his and yes, his hand drifts down and winds around a curl, tugging gently.
She's so aware of him that nothing else seems in focus, not the movie, not the others.
Which is why it's so disconcerting when Tina practically jumps her.
Rachel would be the first one to decry forming judgments about individuals based on appearance. She, for example, may occasionally favor plaid skirts and knee-socks, but that doesn't make her a Catholic school-girl. (And whatever Santana may say, she doesn't know any Japanese businessmen, much less ones with fetishes.) Mr. Schuester's sweater-vests might remind her strongly of her great-uncle Abe, but she thinks the number of hearts he's left strewn throughout northwest Ohio speaks for itself. And she knows for a fact that behind the hair and the scowl and the Letterman jacket, Noah is hiding a person who can and does feel things intensely.
That said, she has to admit that Tina's current position nearly perched on her lap, hands squeezing hers tightly, with her head buried in Rachel's neck, is a huge surprise. Although Tina's goth-inspired attire would suggest something else, apparently, Principal Figgins was even further off about his vampire accusation than anyone in New Directions realized. As it turns out, Tina's mom isn't banning Twilight because she thinks Kristen Stewart looks like a bitch. Instead it's because anything more frightening than Count Chocula breakfast cereal makes Tina grab on to the nearest person and hold on for dear life.
She thinks she hears Noah mumble something, but it's hard to tell through a face full of blue-black hair.
At some point during the movie, he gets up and for a second she thinks about trying to follow, but something happens on-screen with the main character's head and she's too busy trying to unwind Tina's arms from around her neck and re-establish a regular flow of oxygen to worry about it. By the time Kurt calls an intermission to make popcorn, it's clear he's long gone.
There's no way she's going back in there--as much as she loves Tina, she can't risk damage to her vocal cords by another ill-placed hug and besides, over the last week, she's kind of had her fill of horror. (Yes, she's being over-dramatic. Is this a surprise?) Instead, she busies herself putting away the leftovers and filling up the dishwasher and it's all very mechanical and soothing, or at least it is until she opens the back door to get a breath of fresh air. The second she does, the butterflies that have never truly been out of the picture for the last month or so are back full force because from somewhere out in the yard she hears Noah playing his guitar, familiar chords strummed out softly and then fading away.
There's still enough light to see across the grass to Carole's neatly-edged flowerbeds and Kurt's old tree house up against the fence, but he's nowhere in sight, so she slips out and follows the music around the house to find him behind the garage. Seated in a rickety lawn chair with his feet propped up on an old milk-crate, he's angled slightly away from her and her breath is caught up in her throat as watches his hands move surely along the strings. He's improvising, weaving snatches of melodies she recognizes (Need You Now for almost a full minute) with pieces that she thinks must be his own.
"Hey Rach," he says, pausing briefly, but not looking up.
"That was lovely, Noah. Have you been working on it long?"
He shrugs, starts picking out a tune again. "Just messing around." He tilts his head towards the chair next to his. "Sit down if you want. Gotta assume you're done with movies for tonight."
"That's a safe assumption to make," she says, her lips curving into a slight smile. "The last I saw, Santana had taken our spot on the couch. I'm not sure she knows what she's letting herself in for."
"Serves her right," he says sourly, and then meeting her gaze, shrugs again. "Whatever. She's had her bitch face on for weeks now."
Or months, maybe even years, at least as far as Rachel is concerned, but the song is building again, something slow and a little plaintive, and honestly the last thing she wants to talk about is Santana Lopez. She props up her feet next to his and enjoys the music and the warm spring evening and she can feel the tension seeping out of her face and shoulders and her back. This is the most relaxed she's been in ages and as close as they're sitting, she knows her enjoyment must be plain to see, even as night starts to fall in earnest.
"What are you doing out here?" he asks finally, a hand on the strings stilling the final notes.
That's a complicated question, but sometimes the simplest answers are the best. "I heard you playing, so I came to find you."
"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
And she watches dreamily as he leans his guitar against his chair and closes the space between them, kneeling next to her and wrapping one arm carefully around her waist to tug her forward in her seat. The other winds into her hair, urging her towards him and she yields and bends her face to his. He brushes his lips along her cheekbone and she nuzzles his nose with her own and when their lips finally come together, it feels like they have all the time in the world to do this exact thing. There's nothing at all frantic or hurried about it, the way the two of them are slowly trading kisses back and forth, tongues twining, but the sensation builds in intensity until there's a steady heat burning just beneath her skin.
He groans into her mouth when she reaches around and lightly scrapes her nails along the nape of his neck and she finds herself trying to elicit that sound again, wanting to explore him in a systematic way, and her breath catches in her throat when she realizes that she wants to know his body as well as she knows his voice. So she uses hands and lips to touch him wherever she can reach and it's satisfying in a way she doesn't expect, the shiver he gives when she strokes his bicep with her fingertips or how he almost growls when she licks a delicate line along his ear.
She presses closer to him, coming out of her seat and then it's her turn to moan as her upper body slides along his; she can feel something coil between her legs, spiraling and tightening as a frisson of excitement rushes through her body. He maneuvers them both back into the grass and hovers above her, his eyes dark, one knee between her thighs and one hand sliding under her blouse, skating along her ribcage, thumb brushing the along the underside of her breast.
"Touch me," someone whispers and it takes Rachel a moment to realize that it's her, just like it's her pulling him down and parting her legs to encourage him to settle between them. He starts working the buttons of her blouse, and she helps him, fingers trembling when they brush against his. At last his mouth closes on her breast, licking and sucking through the lace of her bra before he pulls the cup aside and swirls his tongue, drawing her nipple to a tight peak. Her skirt has ridden up to god knows where, but she doesn't care, not even with the roughness of his jeans abrading the smooth skin of her inner thighs because she can feel him, and she arches up with a hiss as her center comes into contact with his erection.
"Goddamn, I want to. Wanna touch you everywhere. I want to see your face when you come," he rasps and oh god that voice; she rocks against him, needing to either build on the ache or relieve it altogether, she's not sure which.
"Noah," she gasps, and then clamps down on her bottom lip before she can beg him to keep saying things to her.
He dips his head and kisses her softly, his tongue soothing the marks her teeth left.
"Say it again," he begs. "Say my name."
"Noah...."
Noah. Noah who serenaded her and kissed her and quit football for her. Noah who stood up for her at Sectionals junior year and who grabbed her helmet and asked if she was ready (and then patted her ass in the huddle later on.) Most of all, Noah who backed her in every crazy song and scheme she threw his way and somehow managed to persuade her into a few of his own.
They can't do this.
Actually, given that he's making her crazy with the teasing circles his hand is tracing as it drifts up her leg and further, that his mouth seems to be intent on making breathing impossible for the time being, it seems very clear that they absolutely can. She just needs to be honest, to tell him the whole silly story and they can get right back to doing what they were doing.
And she will be honest with him. Just as soon as she gathers up the necessary will-power to ask him to remove his hand from her panties.
Noah who's been dumped by every girl-friend he's ever had (including her). Noah who been used for convenience and popularity and his ability to deliver orgasms on demand (ohgodohgod, what is he doing with that finger?) and to make other boys jealous.
"Wait. Just...we need to stop. Please, Noah."
He freezes, stiffening in her arms. His breath is coming hard against her neck and his hand slides to grip her hip almost painfully.
"Stop like slow down, or stop like stop?" he asks.
"Stop like stop," she admits, because if she's going to get this out she needs a little distance. Now that she knows exactly how soft that scant inch of skin on his lower back just above the waistband of his jeans is, she has the almost overwhelming urge to touch it all the time.
"Right." He rolls off her, and lies flat on his back, arm flung up to cover his eyes.
She stands up, straightening clothing and combing her fingers through her hair.
"I need to explain...," she trails off, unable to figure out the best way to make this entire mess coherent, much less palatable.
"Nothing to explain," he says, pushing himself to his feet.
"There is. Noah, I want you to know that I do care about you, but...." Unfortunately 'Kurt', 'Nationals', and 'but please ignore all that, appearances to the contrary, I actually really like you, so can we do this some more' is a lot harder to get out than she'd anticipated.
"But what? You know Rach, this is starting to feel like last month all over again, and that kinda sucks."
"Will you just listen?" she demands, frustrated, but he's clearly upset about something and he speaks right over her.
"And shit, I'm sorry Santana was such a bitch and I'm sorry we almost got caught, but when I saw how freaked out you looked, I did my best to throw her off. Even if...damn it Rachel, would it really have been that fucking bad to let people know that you were with me?"
Wait. What? She had definitely come around to the idea that Noah didn't mean his 'nobody.' It was just something thoughtless he said because as much as she likes him, sometime he just says stupid things. The understanding that he'd said it with the intention of helping her is new. As is his seriously skewed interpretation of events.
"You know what? Don't answer that. You made things pretty damn clear when you left. And that's fine, I get it. Not that much of a change from the last three years is it? But fuck, every time I turn around lately, there you are and shit, I know you want this," he gestures sharply between the two of them. "I can tell, all right?"
Her mind is still in a whirl, trying to process all of this new information, but at that last comment she blushes hotly, thinking of exactly how he can tell.
"So I gotta wonder," he continues resentfully, "who do I have to be to get you to stay around for a while?"
Get her to stay around for a while? Really?
"You've got to be kidding me," she says with honest shock. It's not well-received.
"It's not all that funny, Rachel. I'm fucking tired of waiting for you to change your mind." His mouth tightens and he throws his hand up in the air. "In fact, I'm just tired. I'm out of here. See you around."
She knows that somewhere there is exactly the right combination of words to use. Rationalizations that will prevent him from grabbing his guitar and turning away from her and disappearing around the other side of the house. Reassurances that will make him stop short, pull his hand away from his truck door and not peel away from the curb with tires squealing. She's all about words and they never let her down.
So why the hell is she coming up blank now?
Chapter: 5/8
Rating: T
Characters: Puck/Rachel, Strong Hummelberry friendship
Word Count: 3500
Kurt pauses and smiles encouragingly at her as he pulls a stack of plates from the cupboard and arranges a selection of drinks on the counter-top. "Everyone will be here in a few minutes so I just need you to remember one thing for me. Whatever you get up to tonight, please note that my bed is absolutely off limits. My sheets are 1000 thread count and as attractive as he undoubtedly is, Puckerman doesn't make the cut for slumber-parties."
Slumber parties? She's not even sure what Kurt thinks is going to happen at this event, but somehow she doubts he's talking about hair-braiding and footie pajamas.
"Kurt! It's certainly not like I'm going to offer myself to him over a slice of pizza," she admonishes, looking at him incredulously over the vegetable platter she'd brought. (They'll probably ignore it, but at least her teammates will know she cares about their health.)
Of course she isn't. Even if part of her wants to find the nearest closet and become reacquainted with his lips (and better acquainted with the rest of him), with only the New Directions kids in attendance, it would be rude (and possibly more conspicuous than she's comfortable with) for the two of them to disappear for an extended period of time. 'Hot though,' Noah's voice whispers inside her head and she blushes while Kurt arches a brow at her.
"Listen Rachel, I know we've had a few setbacks and believe me, I share your frustration..."
Not likely.
"...but we're already well into the second act here. Let's not forget the big picture here: Nationals. The bus leaves on Thursday and our performance is on Saturday. It's time to get to the finale already."
"Right. Nationals," she says in a small voice.
Kurt stops folding napkins and looks at her carefully. "Rachel?"
Here's the question that's been bothering her all day: is all this just another example of her wanting something she can't have or is it once again something she shouldn't have. She's always had difficulty telling the two apart.
"It's just...I'm not sure. I've started to wonder if everything is going wrong for a reason. What if Nationals isn't a good enough reason to use somebody like that?"
"Use somebody? I think you may be over-thinking this: we're talking about sex between two consenting adults here. Many people would consider it a relaxation technique, like a back-rub with benefits. And honestly, do you really think Puck would mind?"
"Puck? Probably not," she admits. The problem is, she doesn't really want to sleep with Puck. She does however want badly to sleep with Noah. And maybe it's just a projection of her own feelings, but she thinks it's just possible that Noah would care.
Kurt reaches for her hand and gives it a quick squeeze. "I know that our relationship started out on rocky footing and from time to time we clash, but I consider you to be one of my very best friends. That said, I really don't want to see you get hurt. Do you have feelings for Puck?" he asks carefully. "I mean it would be understandable. You two do have some kind of strange history together and believe me, I get that. There's no judgment here."
Yes. No. It's beyond too complicated to explain. She makes an effort to smile at him. "I appreciate your concern, but I can truly tell you that I'm not in love with Puck, if that's what you're implying."
Kurt nods, but still looks doubtful.
It's not even a lie. She's hated that nickname ever since she was eleven and he walked into the JCC with a busted lip and an absent father and a new name to match his attitude.
"You have nothing to worry about, Kurt."
And he apparently takes her at her word, because beyond a few searching glances over the course of the night, he doesn't bring it up again. Not that he has much of a chance to because everyone is piling into the house and devouring the pizza and talking a mile a minute. If she's uncharacteristically quiet, there's enough background chatter to mask it.
(Noah's quiet too.)
Before long, Kurt is flashing her his 'I'm brilliant and you know you love me' smile. For a moment she's so busy analyzing it for potential use on producers, directors and co-stars alike that she forgets to wonder exactly why it's on his face. "Movie time," he says brightly, waving a handful of horror DVDs in her face. (She's sure that they came out of Finn's collection since she's never seen Kurt watch anything made after 1957.) "I thought something from this genre might be fun for a change."
Right. Kurt thinks that watching Linda Blair vomit pea soup would be be 'fun.' Usually, the early 1970s costuming alone would be enough to put him off. Of course he's up to something.
So she's not at all surprised to find the only open spot in the den is on the couch, wedged between Noah and Tina. And let's face it, she may be confused, but it's not like she's going to complain about feeling Noah's hard thigh pressed alongside hers and when he moves to rest one arm on the back of the sofa, she could swear that he brushes her hair with his fingertips. It's not even a conscious decision, but as the lights dim she can just feel her body relax against his and yes, his hand drifts down and winds around a curl, tugging gently.
She's so aware of him that nothing else seems in focus, not the movie, not the others.
Which is why it's so disconcerting when Tina practically jumps her.
Rachel would be the first one to decry forming judgments about individuals based on appearance. She, for example, may occasionally favor plaid skirts and knee-socks, but that doesn't make her a Catholic school-girl. (And whatever Santana may say, she doesn't know any Japanese businessmen, much less ones with fetishes.) Mr. Schuester's sweater-vests might remind her strongly of her great-uncle Abe, but she thinks the number of hearts he's left strewn throughout northwest Ohio speaks for itself. And she knows for a fact that behind the hair and the scowl and the Letterman jacket, Noah is hiding a person who can and does feel things intensely.
That said, she has to admit that Tina's current position nearly perched on her lap, hands squeezing hers tightly, with her head buried in Rachel's neck, is a huge surprise. Although Tina's goth-inspired attire would suggest something else, apparently, Principal Figgins was even further off about his vampire accusation than anyone in New Directions realized. As it turns out, Tina's mom isn't banning Twilight because she thinks Kristen Stewart looks like a bitch. Instead it's because anything more frightening than Count Chocula breakfast cereal makes Tina grab on to the nearest person and hold on for dear life.
She thinks she hears Noah mumble something, but it's hard to tell through a face full of blue-black hair.
At some point during the movie, he gets up and for a second she thinks about trying to follow, but something happens on-screen with the main character's head and she's too busy trying to unwind Tina's arms from around her neck and re-establish a regular flow of oxygen to worry about it. By the time Kurt calls an intermission to make popcorn, it's clear he's long gone.
There's no way she's going back in there--as much as she loves Tina, she can't risk damage to her vocal cords by another ill-placed hug and besides, over the last week, she's kind of had her fill of horror. (Yes, she's being over-dramatic. Is this a surprise?) Instead, she busies herself putting away the leftovers and filling up the dishwasher and it's all very mechanical and soothing, or at least it is until she opens the back door to get a breath of fresh air. The second she does, the butterflies that have never truly been out of the picture for the last month or so are back full force because from somewhere out in the yard she hears Noah playing his guitar, familiar chords strummed out softly and then fading away.
There's still enough light to see across the grass to Carole's neatly-edged flowerbeds and Kurt's old tree house up against the fence, but he's nowhere in sight, so she slips out and follows the music around the house to find him behind the garage. Seated in a rickety lawn chair with his feet propped up on an old milk-crate, he's angled slightly away from her and her breath is caught up in her throat as watches his hands move surely along the strings. He's improvising, weaving snatches of melodies she recognizes (Need You Now for almost a full minute) with pieces that she thinks must be his own.
"Hey Rach," he says, pausing briefly, but not looking up.
"That was lovely, Noah. Have you been working on it long?"
He shrugs, starts picking out a tune again. "Just messing around." He tilts his head towards the chair next to his. "Sit down if you want. Gotta assume you're done with movies for tonight."
"That's a safe assumption to make," she says, her lips curving into a slight smile. "The last I saw, Santana had taken our spot on the couch. I'm not sure she knows what she's letting herself in for."
"Serves her right," he says sourly, and then meeting her gaze, shrugs again. "Whatever. She's had her bitch face on for weeks now."
Or months, maybe even years, at least as far as Rachel is concerned, but the song is building again, something slow and a little plaintive, and honestly the last thing she wants to talk about is Santana Lopez. She props up her feet next to his and enjoys the music and the warm spring evening and she can feel the tension seeping out of her face and shoulders and her back. This is the most relaxed she's been in ages and as close as they're sitting, she knows her enjoyment must be plain to see, even as night starts to fall in earnest.
"What are you doing out here?" he asks finally, a hand on the strings stilling the final notes.
That's a complicated question, but sometimes the simplest answers are the best. "I heard you playing, so I came to find you."
"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay."
And she watches dreamily as he leans his guitar against his chair and closes the space between them, kneeling next to her and wrapping one arm carefully around her waist to tug her forward in her seat. The other winds into her hair, urging her towards him and she yields and bends her face to his. He brushes his lips along her cheekbone and she nuzzles his nose with her own and when their lips finally come together, it feels like they have all the time in the world to do this exact thing. There's nothing at all frantic or hurried about it, the way the two of them are slowly trading kisses back and forth, tongues twining, but the sensation builds in intensity until there's a steady heat burning just beneath her skin.
He groans into her mouth when she reaches around and lightly scrapes her nails along the nape of his neck and she finds herself trying to elicit that sound again, wanting to explore him in a systematic way, and her breath catches in her throat when she realizes that she wants to know his body as well as she knows his voice. So she uses hands and lips to touch him wherever she can reach and it's satisfying in a way she doesn't expect, the shiver he gives when she strokes his bicep with her fingertips or how he almost growls when she licks a delicate line along his ear.
She presses closer to him, coming out of her seat and then it's her turn to moan as her upper body slides along his; she can feel something coil between her legs, spiraling and tightening as a frisson of excitement rushes through her body. He maneuvers them both back into the grass and hovers above her, his eyes dark, one knee between her thighs and one hand sliding under her blouse, skating along her ribcage, thumb brushing the along the underside of her breast.
"Touch me," someone whispers and it takes Rachel a moment to realize that it's her, just like it's her pulling him down and parting her legs to encourage him to settle between them. He starts working the buttons of her blouse, and she helps him, fingers trembling when they brush against his. At last his mouth closes on her breast, licking and sucking through the lace of her bra before he pulls the cup aside and swirls his tongue, drawing her nipple to a tight peak. Her skirt has ridden up to god knows where, but she doesn't care, not even with the roughness of his jeans abrading the smooth skin of her inner thighs because she can feel him, and she arches up with a hiss as her center comes into contact with his erection.
"Goddamn, I want to. Wanna touch you everywhere. I want to see your face when you come," he rasps and oh god that voice; she rocks against him, needing to either build on the ache or relieve it altogether, she's not sure which.
"Noah," she gasps, and then clamps down on her bottom lip before she can beg him to keep saying things to her.
He dips his head and kisses her softly, his tongue soothing the marks her teeth left.
"Say it again," he begs. "Say my name."
"Noah...."
Noah. Noah who serenaded her and kissed her and quit football for her. Noah who stood up for her at Sectionals junior year and who grabbed her helmet and asked if she was ready (and then patted her ass in the huddle later on.) Most of all, Noah who backed her in every crazy song and scheme she threw his way and somehow managed to persuade her into a few of his own.
They can't do this.
Actually, given that he's making her crazy with the teasing circles his hand is tracing as it drifts up her leg and further, that his mouth seems to be intent on making breathing impossible for the time being, it seems very clear that they absolutely can. She just needs to be honest, to tell him the whole silly story and they can get right back to doing what they were doing.
And she will be honest with him. Just as soon as she gathers up the necessary will-power to ask him to remove his hand from her panties.
Noah who's been dumped by every girl-friend he's ever had (including her). Noah who been used for convenience and popularity and his ability to deliver orgasms on demand (ohgodohgod, what is he doing with that finger?) and to make other boys jealous.
"Wait. Just...we need to stop. Please, Noah."
He freezes, stiffening in her arms. His breath is coming hard against her neck and his hand slides to grip her hip almost painfully.
"Stop like slow down, or stop like stop?" he asks.
"Stop like stop," she admits, because if she's going to get this out she needs a little distance. Now that she knows exactly how soft that scant inch of skin on his lower back just above the waistband of his jeans is, she has the almost overwhelming urge to touch it all the time.
"Right." He rolls off her, and lies flat on his back, arm flung up to cover his eyes.
She stands up, straightening clothing and combing her fingers through her hair.
"I need to explain...," she trails off, unable to figure out the best way to make this entire mess coherent, much less palatable.
"Nothing to explain," he says, pushing himself to his feet.
"There is. Noah, I want you to know that I do care about you, but...." Unfortunately 'Kurt', 'Nationals', and 'but please ignore all that, appearances to the contrary, I actually really like you, so can we do this some more' is a lot harder to get out than she'd anticipated.
"But what? You know Rach, this is starting to feel like last month all over again, and that kinda sucks."
"Will you just listen?" she demands, frustrated, but he's clearly upset about something and he speaks right over her.
"And shit, I'm sorry Santana was such a bitch and I'm sorry we almost got caught, but when I saw how freaked out you looked, I did my best to throw her off. Even if...damn it Rachel, would it really have been that fucking bad to let people know that you were with me?"
Wait. What? She had definitely come around to the idea that Noah didn't mean his 'nobody.' It was just something thoughtless he said because as much as she likes him, sometime he just says stupid things. The understanding that he'd said it with the intention of helping her is new. As is his seriously skewed interpretation of events.
"You know what? Don't answer that. You made things pretty damn clear when you left. And that's fine, I get it. Not that much of a change from the last three years is it? But fuck, every time I turn around lately, there you are and shit, I know you want this," he gestures sharply between the two of them. "I can tell, all right?"
Her mind is still in a whirl, trying to process all of this new information, but at that last comment she blushes hotly, thinking of exactly how he can tell.
"So I gotta wonder," he continues resentfully, "who do I have to be to get you to stay around for a while?"
Get her to stay around for a while? Really?
"You've got to be kidding me," she says with honest shock. It's not well-received.
"It's not all that funny, Rachel. I'm fucking tired of waiting for you to change your mind." His mouth tightens and he throws his hand up in the air. "In fact, I'm just tired. I'm out of here. See you around."
She knows that somewhere there is exactly the right combination of words to use. Rationalizations that will prevent him from grabbing his guitar and turning away from her and disappearing around the other side of the house. Reassurances that will make him stop short, pull his hand away from his truck door and not peel away from the curb with tires squealing. She's all about words and they never let her down.
So why the hell is she coming up blank now?