Hey, guys! Sorry I've been away for so long. I was at a bit of an impasse with my writing. But anyway, this is something I've been working on since Glee ended. It's a rewrite of "New York". Several things you need to remember for this story, though (at least, in my version of things): Jesse was slated to go to Nationals with ND from the beginning, and each ND club member has their own hotel room, instead of having one girls' room and one boys' room the way it was on the show. I apologize if it's somewhat too late to publish this, and that there are probably several one-shots or chapter stories that have the same premise that are already published, but here's my take on things and I hope you all enjoy it!
Thanks for reading!
silver-shores
Their time in New York is beautiful.
If you ask Rachel, that's the only way she can adequately put it into words.
She knows that in the years to come, she'll look back on it with no regrets.
No soured memories or bitter aftertastes.
It's beautiful.
And Rachel loves experiencing it with the Glee club; the group she's become inexplicably bound to over the past couple of years is just as excited as her, but she's more than that. Rachel's scope of emotions runs wider than excited. She scoffs at the word. She's just more, comprised of so many other feelings, and emotions, and thoughts, impossibly different and yet the same, and she can't possibly begin to quantify them all (she thinks she shouldn't have to).
For even breathing New York City's air is something akin to magic – at least to her. It doesn't matter that it's polluted, that the city is much, much dirtier than Lima and decidedly more vulgar, as the rest of them fleetingly complain, because it's perfect. She loves the feel of it and the tangibility of her dreams, which were never all that palpable in Lima. She knows that here, she can make it. It's a knowledge that began to take its roots within her the moment she stepped off the plane from Ohio. It's a knowledge whose origins can be traced back to the first time she heard music and the first time she opened her mouth to begin making it herself.
The only one who really understands her is Kurt. The morning before Nationals, everyone goes out for coffee together, to this little shop on the corner of the block their hotel is situated on. The group is walking quickly, only focused on their destination and not the journey there, but Rachel lags behind and looks upward. Looks at the skyscrapers, the backdrop of vibrancy that surrounds her from every angle.
She can't help but let out an overjoyed laugh (and she might do a quick little twirl, might – what's wrong with that?).
She doesn't even blush when Kurt sees her, and stops to fall in step beside her, easy as breathing.
(Then again, Kurt always manages to make everything look effortless.)
His arm loops through hers, and he smiles at her. He doesn't have to say anything, and she's glad of his choosing not to break the established silence. An exchange of glances and her answering smirk is enough.
One day, they'll both come back.
It's inside of them; it has been for seventeen years and it sure as hell isn't going to go away in the next eighty. It's a feeling that's here to stay. Being in New York has only served to bring it to light.
The rest of the day is filled with sightseeing. They go to the Empire State Building (and Rachel successfully represses the urge to break out into a reprise of Empire State of Mind), Ground Zero, the Statue of Liberty, and the famous restaurant from When Harry Met Sally. It's midday before Rachel and Kurt's incessant pleadings to visit Broadway are granted.
Seeing the theaters she used to read about and research on the Internet in person quite literally takes her breath away. The feeling of having reached a place she's always fought to get to intensifies and she's struck by the thought that this is more of an integral part to her identity than Lima ever was.
When she leaves New York, she won't be going home, she'll be departing from it.
She's grateful for Mr. Schuester's allowing Jesse to come along on the trip. Everything is confused, murky and muddled between them at present, but having him here placates her when she feels her nerves spark and begin to work their way through her body. They do have a competition to take part in, after all.
Her most significant bout of panic and paranoia comes at around 11:00 pm, on the eve of what they've all strived to attain for two straight years. Virtually every single one of her teammates has already gone to bed in anticipation of what the next day will bring.
Rachel has opted to sit in one of the lobby's armchairs; the lighting is dim, since it's late at night, but she can see into the hotel's bar across the length of the lobby, thrumming with New York City's nightlife. She's too young, of course, but she notices everyone beyond those double doors laughing as if they have not a care in the world. And Rachel envies them with everything she has, because she's been thrown into a tunnel of second-guessing and stifling self-doubt, with no foreseeable light to bring her out of her darkness. And they're drinking champagne, the city's elite, mingling and connecting and seeming to unite as they silently mock her and her current state of… what? Despair? Helplessness?
(Perhaps that's unnecessarily dramatic. But if one were to think of two words that most adequately describe Rachel Berry, she's willing to bet her collection of Broadway Playbills on that particular combination being chosen by at least 90% of Lima's limited population.)
(She doesn't know how it'll be in New York, after she's officially moved out of Lima and gotten into school here – that is, if everything works out according to the unofficial plan she'd made for herself back when she first learned of Broadway, of stages and performing for enraptured audiences, night after night, through weeks and years; of theater marquees and show posters and early morning rush tickets, of everything pertaining to the art of putting on the best damn show anyone has ever seen.
She hopes that someday, her name will be known, that her name will be written across the bright lights of various theater marquees around this age-old city. And she hopes that it will be associated with only the best of adjectives and descriptions. She really, really hopes so.)
Though now, hope isn't an option for her.
What if I'm not good enough? Her breath hitches.
What if the judges hate our song selection? She looks down at her hands, feverishly rubs them together.
What if Vocal Adrenaline beats us, again? At this she repeatedly shakes her head.
Back and forth, back and forth. It's rhythmic, soothing… except it isn't.
She sighs.
"You know, you should be getting your rest," a voice, his voice, suddenly startles her.
Rachel would know it anywhere.
She looks up in time to see Jesse striding over to her. He's still in his day clothes, a black button-up shirt and dark wash jeans. The epitome of casual and yet timeless, presented in one seamless form of talent and God knows what else. Jesse has many qualities, and among them there is a silent grace that presents itself in each and every one of his movements.
Rachel notices it now, but tries not to think too much about it. Instead, she looks up at him and smiles weakly.
"I can't."
He nods. "Come with me." He extends a hand to her. She willingly takes it.
Rachel keeps quiet as he helps her up and takes her over to the bank of elevators.
The ride up continues in silence.
That is, until she breaks it.
"Why were you downstairs? You aren't even changed. You weren't sleeping." She winces when it comes out sounding like an accusation.
Jesse replies with a slight raise of the eyebrows. "I went to your room and you weren't there. So I figured you'd be downstairs. I highly doubt you'd go anywhere outside the hotel. New York isn't Lima, after all."
"And thank God for that," Rachel mutters, and the small grin that stretches across Jesse's face for a mere two or three seconds somehow lifts Rachel's spirits.
The elevator dings and stops at their floor. Jesse steps out first, and Rachel follows him uncertainly as he heads down the ensuing hallway and eventually stops at her door.
"Well, this is you," Jesse says quietly, almost as if he's some kind of tour guide or bellboy or employed in some sort of equally informal position, and not someone who's become such an integral part of her life ever since that day where his fingers lightly danced over the piano keys in the (their) music store.
Rachel is surprised when her body turns of its own volition to face him.
She's even more taken aback when Jesse leans into her, slowly and deliberately, and places a kiss against the smooth skin of her forehead. He pulls away and lingers for a brief moment; until some kind of spell seems to be broken and the invisible strings binding him where he stands inevitably break. She notices he shakes his head slightly, almost berating himself silently. However, she doesn't get the opportunity to notice anything else, because then he starts speaking (and whenever Jesse St. James speaks, Rachel Berry always listens – however much she may try to fight it).
"Goodnight, Rachel."
He whispers the words and turns to go back to his own suite in the same breath. He hasn't even made it six feet when Rachel finds herself whispering back to him.
"Wait."
She wants more. What he said to her wasn't enough and now she wants more.
She's always been a little bit greedy. She's always wanted things a little bit too much.
"Rachel," Jesse's voice brings her out of the sort of trance she's sunk into, effectively grounds her back to reality. She watches him struggle for a few moments, and if there ever is a time where Jesse St. James is practically rendered speechless she knows it's this one. "It… It wouldn't be right. I kissed you last week but you don't know how you stand with Finn and… I won't be second best, Rachel. I can't be with a girl who loves someone else. It was like that the first time and I refuse to let it be this way again. I can't ignore that you both have history and I can't pretend it's been resolved. It wouldn't be fair to you, either. Please… try and get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning. Tomorrow is important; you're going to want to be awake for it. You're going to want to do your best. I know you. You'll be amazing no matter what, but you'll do better if you've had more time to…"
He doesn't even bother finishing his sentence.
"Jesse, wait," she implores him as he turns to walk away from her again. "Please, I'm asking you… to stay. With me."
She doesn't know what kind of game she thinks she's playing. She's not altogether sure she's playing one at all. But from the moment they had in the auditorium last week up until now, she hasn't thought of Finn in that sense. She hasn't looked at him like she used to. And she knows it's because something has changed within her, irrevocably shifted and she can't get it back to how it was again. She isn't sure she wants to.
Furthermore, she's convinced the change has occurred because of him. And of this she is fully certain. She's also certain that she regrets nothing of it. It happened, and she's embracing it. Like a piece of her destiny has fallen into place, when she had no idea it was ever missing.
There's a part of her that's come to the realization that it's always been Jesse.
She can try to fool herself into thinking the opposite all she wants, but in the end the same revelation is going to come back to her.
She reaches out and traces her fingers against his cheek hesitantly. He closes his eyes and bows his head as if he's in pain, but allows her to keep tracing a path with the slow gliding of her fingers against his skin. He looks up at her and opens his eyes when her fingers brush past his ear and curl around his neck.
"Rachel…" It's a warning. Not a threat, but a vaguely implied warning.
Rachel ignores it. She follows the path her fingers had previously braved, only this time with her lips. It's only now that something occurs to her, and she chuckles quietly.
"What?" he murmurs.
"You think you were – no, are – second best?" She says the words with a mocking edge, murmuring against his skin.
He nods.
It's the only thing he trusts himself to do. She knows and understands and doesn't fault him for it. He's apprehensive. This exchange isn't how they've been interacting since he returned from UCLA, and both of them know it. It's loaded with big, bold, glaring movements concealed behind a myriad of fine print and subtext, and before they'd been pretty straightforward with each other. Now they're the Rachel and Jesse of their respective pasts, falling into a pattern both familiar and impossibly mysterious.
Rachel becomes dimly aware of him patiently awaiting an answer.
"Then I guess we're both under some false impressions then, aren't we?" The edges of her mouth curl upwards in a kind of slow, deliberate smile.
It's enough to incite a noticeable reaction within him, something different from the quiet and restrained attitude he's managed to maintain thus far; Rachel gasps slightly as Jesse's hands place themselves on either side of her hips and shift her so that her back is pressed against the wall. Throughout the movement, he never breaks eye contact, and brown eyes meet hazel as she wordlessly searches for an explanation.
Instead, he leans forward and begins closing the distance between their lips. He stops halfway, knows that if they're going to do this, it has to be definitively mutual on both ends. But she's grown accustomed to how he operates by now, and has no problem with finishing what he's started, rising to meet him and bridging the last, indiscernible gap that separates them.
Lips fuse together slowly, softly, and yet with a buzzing energy which shoots through them both. His mouth, hot against her own, feels as it had last week and so many months ago and yet is an entirely foreign concept all the same. They move together, synchronized, until Rachel opens her mouth and invites him in – an invitation he does not hesitate to accept.
Tongues tangle together gracefully in a battle for dominance and she's beginning to feel like this is too much to handle in such a short space of time. But something keeps her here, with him; something causes her to slowly wind her arms around his neck as his thumbs press into the dips of flesh by her hipbones. What it is, she doesn't know. Maybe it's best if she doesn't.
It isn't long until she ceases to think altogether. Surely nothing good can come of it. Every single one of her synapses has begun firing at warp speed, and she'd rather feel.From now on, everything is instinct, her rational thoughts overshadowed by the scorching heat of the kiss they have yet to break apart from; it's intensified, grown more ardent as the last of their resolves fall away. She's not going to throw any caution to the wind anymore, and neither will he.
He separates himself first, in order to take in some much-needed air before reclaiming her lips once more. She closes her eyes and feels nothing but his touch, her touch, mixed together, and the feel of his body pressed against hers. Her fingers have moved up to tangle in his hair, and she runs her hands through his mass of unruly curls as she breathes in and takes in the unique flavor of him, of Jesse (of citrus and the slightest hint of vanilla, of musk and spice and everything he is made of – Jesse's aroma is one of her favorite scents in the world).
It's only when his lips begin trailing a path down the column of her neck that her eyes flutter open and she's reminded of where they are.
"Jesse," she attempts to say, although it comes out sounding more like a muffled moan than anything else.
He ignores her and finds the spot on her neck he knows is the most sensitive. He sucks on the skin there lightly, teasing her, and her fingers, which have stilled in his hair, abruptly clench.
"Jesse," she says again.
"Hmm?"
"We're in a hotel hallway." She says it bluntly, and he looks back at her. He could clearly care less, but she isn't going to continue whatever they've started in a place where anyone can see them.
Jesse sighs and lets her go. Rachel slides her room key through the door and lets them both through. They tumble into the room in an uncoordinated heap, because the minute they step over the threshold they can't resist picking up where they left off.
They end up on her bed.
Normally, Rachel would be terrified at the prospect of having let anything get this far. She'd been like this with Finn, sure, but those times were innocent. She knew nothing was going to happen, and so it didn't. Now, with Jesse, it's a different atmosphere. There's a static charge crackling in the air around them, sharp and prickling and a little painful, and no traces of innocence are to be found.
(She still has hers, but she knows she won't for much longer.)
So normally, Rachel would be trembling with fear and anticipation.
But he's Jesse and she's Rachel and they're not exactly normal apart and they sure as hell aren't normal together so she thinks it's okay.
Nonetheless, she's glad it all slows down a bit when Jesse holds himself up over her, supporting his weight with his arms, and just looks down at her for a few moments, breathing hard. He fixes her with a stare that seems to communicate everything he's never actually been able to say to her out loud. It's this action that causes her to stretch up to reclaim his mouth, and again their kiss seems to stretch onward, for miles and miles.
She can't see an end in sight. And yet she feels safe and secure. He won't hurt her.
Which is why, when he begins sliding the straps of her tank top down over her shoulders to once again begin ravaging the skin across her shoulder blades and down her arms with open-mouthed kisses, she does not tremble. She isn't nervous – the shivers that run their course through her are of an entirely different kind.
The shivers pick up when she pulls away from him slightly, finds the hem of her tank top with surprisingly steady fingers, and tugs it up and over her head. He's watching her with dark eyes as she continues to reach up and remove the hair band from the back of her head; her hair cascades down and around her, a thick waterfall of dark chocolate locks that he wastes no time in gently wrapping around his finger, running his hands through almost reverently. She closes her eyes again when she feels his teeth lightly nip at her collarbone, groans when she feels the tip of his tongue dart out to trace over the marks he's just inflicted.
A familiar warm feeling begins to pool in her belly, quickly turns into a heat unlike any she's ever known. His mouth has moved lower, now, and his arms wrap around her, hands seeking the clasp of the plain cotton bra she's wearing (she hadn't planned on him, or anyone else, for the matter, seeing it, and she feels the tiniest bit of annoyance at herself for not having worn something nicer for him – until she reminds herself that this is Jesse, who will take her in any way, shape, or form and who's always taken her for what she is and shown her every possible measure of acceptance).
He stills for a moment, looking up at her. "If you want to stop –," he starts.
She meets his dark gaze with her own, shakes her head. "No." It comes out almost like a sigh.
She thought it would be uncomfortable, being exposed to him like this. He's never seen her in this way before, and she bites her lip for a moment before she hears his next words, low and deep and inexplicably sincere.
"You're… perfect, Rachel."
Soon enough, his shirt joins hers on the floor. She runs her hands along the defined muscles in Jesse's shoulders, arms, and stomach as more articles of clothing are added to the pile: her shorts, his jeans, her (matching) black cotton underwear and his boxers. He's just as gentle with her as she is with him, just as awestruck at their discovering each other for the first time in a much more intimate and serious way. It all means something, they're both sure of it.
Soon enough, there are no barriers separating their flushed skin. Her body arches under his and he asks her, one more time, if she's sure. They've reached the point of no return, have flung themselves off the edge of a precipice they hadn't even known they'd been standing on and disengaged themselves from the practical and real world. Instead, they've delved into the depths of the unknown, headfirst, limbs having become intertwined on top of a cheap mattress in a New York hotel along the way.
She knows this, and doesn't want it to end. It can't, anyway. She nods.
"Yes."
And now they're soaring, the cliff left far behind them as they bring each other to new heights, to a place he's known but yet hasn't, because it hasn't been like this with anyone but her, and to a place she isn't familiar with – but wouldn't mind if she were.
(No, she wouldn't mind at all.)
Her hips move in tandem with his, matching his every movement flawlessly. She doesn't even have to think about it, it's just here. Everything's here and everything's right and even though it's a little bit painful at first, and her fingernails dig into his shoulders sometimes (they'll leave scratches in the morning), it's something that has bound them together in a way they'll never be able to recover from.
And as she reaches her breaking point and he catches up with her seconds later, as they burrow under the sheets quietly (a stark contrast to their previous declarations of rapture and ecstasy) and he draws her close in the aftermath, as their sweat and breath mingle, as he weaves their hands together, as they look at each other and grin a little guiltily, a little stupidly, she can't shake the feeling that they've finally come to understand each other.
It is with this final thought that she closes her eyes and sleeps soundlessly, dreamlessly, and peacefully.
She's woken by the feel of Jesse's fingers stroking down the side of her arm.
"You're the type to watch people sleep, aren't you?" She mumbles, half-conscious.
His laughter wakes her up more fully. "No, just you," he smiles. "How do you feel?"
Rachel considers this for a moment, and moves her arms and legs outwards in a slow stretch. A few of her muscles voice their protest, but it's nothing she can't handle.
"Great," she admits. He looks at her doubtfully. "Jesse, I'm fine. A lot less sore than I thought I would be, come to think of it. What time is it?"
She answers her own question by looking at the clock on one of the bedside tables. 9:06 a.m.
"Jesse, we were supposed to be up an hour ago!"
He leans against the headboard of the bed, arms folded behind his head. His eyes track her movements across the room as she gathers her clothing, puts away the things she'd worn last night and changes into a new outfit. When she's finished tugging her shirt over her head and adjusting her skirt, she walks back over to him. He snags her by the waist, pulls her against him. She tries not to notice how well she fits there.
"Are you sorry it happened?"
The unexpected question causes her to freeze. Barely a second passes before she's shaking her head at him.
"Not at all." He doesn't look convinced, so she continues. "Jesse, really, I'm not. I think…" And here she pauses, because for some reason she needs this to come out right, "I think… If it had to be anyone, it would have been you. Every time."
He doesn't say anything at first. Rachel goes to turn back around, but she's stopped by his fingers gently closing around her wrist and his whisper of, "Me too."
It isn't as in context for him as it is for her, but Rachel understands anyway.
A silence hangs, thick in the air, for a minute or two before Jesse breaks it.
"Come on, we're already late. We should go. You have a national competition to win!"
It's a little forced. They'll need to talk later, figure out where they stand. It was glorious before and remains as such, but now sharp, spiky tendrils of reality steadily begin to weave their way into this little universe they've created for themselves. Their web of fragility is at more of a risk for collapse, and the atmosphere around them abruptly shifts from relaxed to stifling.
They leave without further ado, swiftly departing from the room which now holds so many of their secrets.
It is literally a split second before she's to step out from the wings of the stage and take her position for New Directions' Nationals performance, and Rachel feels a hand lay itself on the small of her back.
Her briefly bewildered expression meets Jesse's enigmatic gaze.
He doesn't wish her luck, doesn't tell her to break a leg or that she'll bring the house down.
It's just as well; everything is in the look he gives her.
She takes a deep, steadying breath, and heads out to do what she's been doing all her life, what she'll never tire of.
Behind her, Jesse's eyes sparkle with something analogous to pride.
Rachel doesn't turn back to look at him one more time. She already knows how he's staring at her, and his eyes on her retreating form are what give her the courage to take her place behind the closed curtain.
Finn talks to her before they go on. He mentions her and him and what they used to have and what she's "always wanted" (to be a star, not to be in a relationship with him; she mentally corrects him but doesn't have the heart to say it aloud), but Rachel isn't having any of it.
It's a competition. She needs to focus. She needs to slip into her signature state of mind where she doesn't do anything except exist as part of a melody, a harmony, an expansion of the music filling every part of her being. She can't be bothered with ex-boyfriends and past feelings of hurt and rejection.
So she avoids and deflects and begins to ground herself, center herself. They will win this.
Nothing can take away from the fact that it's New Directions' time to shine.
Rachel and Finn open up the club's performance with a duet. They sing Pretending, an original song courtesy of the lead soloist himself. Rachel doesn't have the slightest idea of how Finn managed it, but he apparently pulled it together in time to produce a halfway-decent song.
She ignores that the lyrics allude to her and him, that it's a song written about their past relationship and his current feelings. Instead, Rachel throws herself into the song with reckless abandon, as she is apt to do in any song, any show. Altogether, it goes well, until the last note fades away in the feel of Finn's mouth pressing itself against hers.
She's powerless to stop it. Pulling away will cause more of a scene, and she isn't sure she can handle the dramatics this time. Everyone's fallen deathly silent, and she refuses to return the kiss until he eventually stops. She doesn't meet his eyes as they return to take their places for Light Up the World. Rachel sees his wounded face within her peripheral vision, and can't bring herself to care. How this will affect their score, she doesn't know.
She wishes it wouldn't. She wishes for it to be overlooked, erased, and forgotten.
But this is New York and these are professional judges, so of course it will.
They end up losing Nationals.
The product of two years' worth of work is gone. Their petty disagreements and uproarious fights, their connections and unified expression through song, their attempts at striving for something that so many people kept repeatedly telling them they'd never be able to reach, their wishes to prove themselves in a stagnant town wasting away at the seams… it's all fallen into a twelfth place slot. And to Rachel, it's the equivalent to having disappeared. They won't move on. New Directions has failed.
Nobody else on the team is speaking to her or Finn with the exception of Kurt, who gave her a squeeze on the arm and a whispered "It's not your fault" after they left the theatre and who continues on in his silent support even as she tries to make sense of her muddled mind.
She feels a brief flash of gratitude that she's gained a (best) friend who is this understanding.
She can't think of anything right now, she can only feel. Crushing disappointment almost leaves her breathless, and a faint annoyance at Finn's audacity creeps up behind it.
He runs to catch up to her on their way home. The theatre is only a couple of blocks away from their hotel, so Mr. Schue decided walking would save them cab fare. Rachel doesn't even mind walking two city blocks in high heels (better get used to it; even when she's in an awful mood, part of her remains able to hold on to New York).
"Hey, Rach," he greets, and moves to put an arm around her shoulder. She squirms away only marginally, but he catches her movement and puts his arm down where it can hang by his side.
"Finn…" She doesn't really know how to start this, doesn't know what she's starting or what she's going to say to him. It's a long-overdue conversation, but right now all Rachel wants is some sleep. There's a feeling of fatigue pooling behind her eyelids. Or maybe those are tears.
"Listen, about what happened back there," Finn says cautiously, "I thought our duet was amazing. And… and… the way you looked, I had to kiss you. It was the music and it was you and I had to."
"What are you saying, Finn?" Rachel responds wearily. She doesn't know how much more of this she can handle, and is it too much to ask for someone to get straight to the point for once? Save the prelude, the theatrics?
She may be a self-professed diva, but sometimes, she wants it up front, plain and simple as much as the next person.
"I was thinking… maybe we could try again?" She feels a sharp stab of regret when she notices the hope he's allowing to overtake his features.
Doesn't he have good timing, she thinks before she can stop herself. No, it won't go this way. She isn't going to be spiteful or rude here. Rachel knows a little bit about beginnings and endings, and to her, this feels like an ending and she has to end it right.
Because the truth is, she doesn't have any interest in getting back together with Finn. She'd told him about how she didn't want to focus on boys while on the trip (look how well that went) and he blatantly disregarded her wishes. He took her to Sardi's, and while she met Patti LuPone, there was a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that was confirmed when he attempted to kiss her while walking her home. And then he kissed her at Nationals and she felt nothing. Two years of her life were wasted pining for him, and now that she finally has him she can't see why she wanted him in the first place.
He hurt her so many times. More recently, he ruined her prom and only chased after her when he was with Quinn (or when she'd been with Jesse). He decided he was more important than her dreams on impulse and cost them a major competition. What about that screams chivalry in any way? It doesn't, and Rachel's done.
"Look, Finn," she stares at her hands, darts her eyes back up to him, "I can't."
Plain and simple, right?
Finn's face falls. Rachel sees the hope drain away and feels bad, but not guilty. She's needed to do this for so long. If they were to give it another try, they wouldn't have worked out anyway. She's headed back here, he isn't. He's always been content to settle for mediocrity, and she needs to shine as brightly as possible in any given situation.
"Why?" It's a one-syllable question with a many-syllable answer. "Is this because of Jesse?"
The name causes her to cease walking. She fixes Finn with what she hopes is an honest and sincere face with no traces of condescension.
"No. It's because of me." His eyebrows raise, and she elaborates. "Listen, you've hurt me and strung me along and… I can't. Not anymore. What we had was a… high school crush. Silly infatuation. You have to understand that. I don't… love you anymore. I don't know if I ever did." She chokes out. It's the truth, but that doesn't mean she enjoys seeing the words make their mark on him.
"You don't?" Finn reiterates her words almost disbelievingly, and she shakes her head.
"I'm sorry. And don't get me wrong; I want you to move on from this, too. I deserve better, and so do you. We're both meant for different things, Finn. It's taken me this long to realize it, but we are."
He nods. A minute or two of uncomfortable silence passes before they continue walking. They've been standing here, still and quiet, and the rest of the group is at least twenty feet ahead of them now.
His hand cups her jaw, tilts her head up. "I'll always hang on to the times we had, Rachel."
"You can't," her voice breaks. "You have to let go. Let me go."
It's another minute of silence before Finn walks away from her completely. She likes to think he understands, but Rachel can never be sure. She feels a strange sense of relief, though, standing on these streets alone and independent. Her worry melts away and she trails behind everyone else, seeing New York with a sharper eye and a lighter heart.
It's only until they reach the hotel that Rachel realizes Jesse is nowhere to be seen.
"I don't know where he is, Rachel," Mr. Schuester says for the fifth time.
It isn't a good enough answer for her.
"I have to go out and find him." Rachel is fully aware that she's falling back into the argument they've just had for the second time. She's aware of her teacher's frustration, but the accumulating urgency she feels is consuming her every thought. Jesse's out there somewhere, and she needs to talk to him.
"We already went over this," Mr. Schue's voice takes on a gentle tone, as if he's talking to a child and not a seventeen year old, "New York isn't Lima. It's getting dark, and you could easily get lost or worse. I have a responsibility to protect you and keep you safe, and I'm sorry, but this is violating the trust the school board has placed in me."
"Please." It's a broken whisper this time; she's losing everything, including her will to fight.
"Whatever it is-," he begins.
She cuts him off before he can continue.
"No! It can't wait," Rachel gasps. They're all short, sputtering, hopeless sounds. She's pathetic. "It might already be too late, please, Mr. Schue!"
Her teacher remains adamant and Rachel waits until she's safely inside the elevator before finally allowing herself to cry.
"We had sex."
If anyone ever knew how to make an entrance, it's always been and always will be Rachel. She couldn't find it in herself to go back to her own empty hotel room and be reminded of everything that had transpired there the night before, so went to Kurt's room instead. Rachel was glad to see he was alone, and she entered with those three words and watched in mild surprise as he proceeded to topple off the edge of his bed.
"What?" Kurt hisses, scrambling back up and seizing one of her hands in two of his. He drags her to his bed and sits across from her, spluttering. "You and Finn?"
"Oh no, God no," Rachel looks down at her lap, and then back up. Kurt's eyes widen.
"Jesse?"
Her nod of confirmation has Kurt taking a couple of breaths to calm himself. A minute or two passes of them staring at each other, and then Kurt grins. It's a lazy grin, a sneaky grin. Rachel is unsettled by it.
"What? Why are you smiling?"
"Oh, I knew it was going to happen sooner or later." Kurt waves his hand and now it's her turn to be shocked. "When did it happen?"
She recovers herself long enough to answer. "Last night."
"Mm," Kurt says noncommittally. "Are you okay?"
"Funny, he asked me the same thing," Rachel admits. "And… I think I am. This morning I definitely was, and it's not like I wish it hadn't happened or anything. It was… something else. I'll never deny that it happened because I'm sort of glad it did. I don't regret it. But everything's just confused right now."
"How so?"
"We didn't talk about it," She sighs. "We had Nationals, and then after I couldn't find him…"
"He's hurt," Kurt supplies. Rachel sighs again.
"I know."
"So go find him," Kurt links their fingers together and squeezes. "C'mon, Rach. You can't give up without at least talking things through."
"Do you think I haven't tried? Mr. Schue isn't letting me go anywhere." Rachel's eyes resume their burning and she swipes frantically at them with her free hand. She can't cry.
Kurt's smile is gentle this time. He recognizes her struggle. "Rachel, you're talking to the boy who broke into the Gershwin with you. I think we can arrange something."
"No." Rachel's direct refusal has him confused, so she continues. "Let him come back on his own, okay? If he's here in the morning, I'll talk to him. I don't want him coming back because I forced him to. I don't even know how he feels right now. Just… let it go. Jesse will come back."
She doesn't truly believe her words, but it has to be enough for now. Kurt watches her carefully before switching to a different topic of conversation.
"And Finn?"
She knew he'd ask about his stepbrother. "We're through. Over. For good this time."
"Finally," Kurt's voice carries a definite tone of approval, and he laughs. "You'd be crazy not to notice that there's still something there."
Kurt's voice falters and trails off, and Rachel begins to feel the events of the past few days (but specifically over the past twenty-four hours) steadily creep up on her; there's a slight pressure in her chest that wasn't there a few seconds ago, and an unexpected weariness slowly seeps into her bones. Remaining upright now feels like the most difficult thing in the world. She stretches out across the length of Kurt's bed and stares down at the cream-colored bed sheets. There's really nothing else to look at, and she's just so tired.
Kurt's hand intertwines itself with hers and he squeezes briefly, mutters a quiet "you can stay here tonight" before they lapse back into silence. There's nothing else to say, and Rachel is glad Kurt knows her well enough to recognize that.
The next morning passes in a flurry of activity: everyone is packing for the trip home, and things are thrown around, lost, misplaced, or confused with other items. Petty disagreements ensue, as well as the relentless weaving in and out of each other's rooms.
Rachel is the only one who isn't feeling the same frenetic energy as everyone else: she took her time and meticulously packed in the morning, before anyone else was up and after she'd made her exit from Kurt's room. Now, she's waiting. (Although she has been waiting for many things for a while now, Jesse being one of them. It's almost noon and he has yet to make an appearance, and Rachel continues to choke down the worry that periodically threatens to completely consume her.)
It's almost eleven when a series of rapid fire knocks pound against her door. Rachel rushes to open it, knowing that the most likely person on the other side will be Kurt.
She's wrong.
A few seconds pass in which she is aware of nothing; it hasn't registered yet, and then…
"What the hell is wrong with you?" The urge to confront is insuppressible. "I've been waiting for you to come back, you just left after the competition, and I had no way of knowing where you were, and…"
"Yes, Rachel, that's usually what happens when a person leaves and tells nobody else where they've decided to go," Jesse's smirk matches his form, which is leaning against her doorframe with his signature air of nonchalance that is, in equal parts, both infuriating and intriguing (it probably must have taken him years to perfect). "Of course, I trust that you'd have figured that out by now… a logical girl like you."
"Shut up." It's out before she can stop herself. Juvenile and immature though it may be, she thinks she's allowed a free pass for once. "Jesse… We need to talk. Please."
Jesse steps into the room without technical invitation, softly closes the door behind him.
"Look, I'm just going to ask," he begins, "I'm just going to ask and I trust you to give me an honest answer. I need to know, before we talk about anything else."
"Okay," Rachel agrees. It's really the only thing she can do.
"Are you with Hudson?"
The question stops her up short; although she should have known that would be the first thing he'd ask of her, she's caught off guard nonetheless.
Luckily for Rachel, she's always been one to recover quickly.
"No!" She cringes when it comes out sounding too shrill, just a tad too high for normal conversation. Jesse, meanwhile, doesn't take his eyes off her, and she can't help but laugh a bit at the complicated situation they have once again managed to find themselves in. His eyebrows raise, and Rachel is aware it's an entirely inappropriate reaction.
She pulls herself together in time to give him a better answer.
"Jesse, no. I'm not. I ended… whatever we had. It's over, and I'm sure we won't ever be making that same mistake again. The competition, how everything turned out… I can't do it anymore… with him. We talked things through, and I was the one who ended it. We'd only be kidding ourselves if we got together for senior year. God, I've said that a lot lately, it feels like. But I can't do that anymore, I can't go down that road again, and…" She trails off; she can't help it.
Jesse's face softens almost imperceptibly, but she catches the exact moment when his demeanor shifts. "Then I guess you're not ready to commit to anything now, either."
She's stopped up short yet again. This time, though, Rachel takes time to really think things through.
She's been chasing after Finn for so long that it feels like she doesn't know how to be herself anymore. Pieces of her have chipped away, and remain as debris of the mistake she had to make. She had to make the mistake of attempting to win the heart of a boy who would never be right for her, in order to keep that particular knowledge and specific feeling with her in the event that she meet a boy who would be right for her in every way. Whether or not that boy is Jesse… well, that is yet to be seen, but Rachel can't get involved when she's been by herself again for less than twenty-four hours. Maybe being alone for a while isn't that bad of an idea.
Maybe it's what she needs.
Maybe it's what he needs too.
"You're right." It comes out as a whisper, and she chances a quick glance at him. He's already focused on her, but the look in his eyes is patient and understanding. He isn't angry.
"Rachel, what happened between us was… Indicative of what we could have, well, in a while but… not yet." He's giving her a serious answer, right off the bat. She appreciates this more than she can ever put into words. He thinks for a moment, pausing in contemplative silence, before continuing. "We could have a relationship, we could if you want to because I sure as hell do. And if you so choose to, then we will. But you're going back to Lima, and I'm…" He trails off.
"You're what?" Rachel cuts him off breathlessly.
"Staying in New York." Before she can interrupt him, he continues. "I think I'm going to get a head start on my acting career right away. I was kicked out of UCLA, but I think there's a lot of opportunity for me here. I can get a job somewhere, and I already have enough money for an apartment if I can manage to talk my parents into it."
"And us?"
"Finish your senior year. I know you're coming to New York next year… we'll meet again then."
"Okay," she agrees.
"Okay?" Surprise colors his tone (he must have thought she'd refuse), and she smiles slowly.
"Okay."
The distance between them gradually closes: Jesse's arms wind their way around her waist and she entwines hers around his neck. She rests her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes.
They stay there, in the same position, for longer than Rachel can keep track of. It isn't a beginning or an ending, and she isn't sure she can find words to define what they are. They've always been indefinite, and applying terms to their current situation is about the worst thing she could do. He's waiting for her, and while she's waiting for him as well, she's also catching up to him. It's a marathon and the finish line is where they can truly start.
Strangely, it doesn't bother her.
Not one bit.
Jesse hangs around the front entrance of the hotel when they depart for JFK. Rachel dreads the thought of having to go back to Lima almost as much as she dreads the thought of leaving him – the world has become too big in the past few days for it to shrink back down to its previous size again. She's inevitably going back to everything that has attempted to hold her back for most of her life.
Goodbye New York, hello small-town hell.
(She can't wait to come back here again.)
Once everyone's bags are loaded into the taxis that will take them to the airport, and once the taxis have begun pulling away from the hotel, then and only then does Rachel look back at Jesse.
She doesn't miss the word he mouths to her as he steadily disappears from sight.
Soon.