I was in the airport for two hours with the most interesting couple seated in front of me. This is the result of my stalking, fear of heights, writer's block, and Puck muse. Hilariously AU with a side of insanity. Enjoy.
The first time he sees her, they're just children, circling the world with no bend, no break. He sits on the swing, bored with indifference, and he's not paying attention to anything at all and suddenly he is. Suddenly, he's paying so much attention he thinks its a mirage: a golden haze outlining each phrase of her petite frame as the sunshine wavers on her back. She rocks back and forth on her shiny Mary Janes, her cream dress and honey hair dancing in the wind and an absent smile loitering her face.
He doesn't really care about God and that sort of thing, but holy shit, he thinks he's looking at an angel.
And when she notices him, her green eyes pulsing through his exterior, he's not sure how safe he is, just blatantly looking at her like that. Maybe she's like the sun, he wonders, if he stares at her for too long, he could be scarred forever.
But he goes home, and he can't get the image of her out of his mind. He's less of a fan of God now that he's let one of his angels escape, but he's also more of a fan because maybe now he can steal her away.
The first time he makes her cry, he thinks he's going to hell.
He doesn't he even remember what he did, but her lip puckers up and she's trying so hard to swallow down her tears. His heart is in his throat as he looks at her guiltily, but he sucks so bad with words that he doesn't say anything. They both stand there for a minute, the world dizzying around them, and she leaves along with the things unsaid.
He looks up at the clouds and waits for the rain.
When nothing comes, he kicks himself and pushes some kid into the trash can.
The first time he holds her, he can't be more aware of his restless teenage self. His hands are awkward with no grace, fumbling around her waist like this is all so new. But it's not that fact that he's touching a girl – he still has a vague feeling she's a little more than that, and if God knew he was clumsy with one of his angels, he doesn't like the thought of a lightening bolt striking down on him from the sky.
So they sway to the music, some R&B song he'll never know, as her eyes dart from couple to couple on the dance floor. They're not really dancing because she's not looking at him, her mind fleeting away from the warmth she's bleeding into his hands.
And when the song ends, he releases his grip and she walks away.
But she's already got his heart on her sleeve, and she's extending her hand over a cliff.
The first time he kisses her, it starts with not a bang, but a whimper. It's slow, fragile, unexpected.
"Don't let go of me," she whispers. Sometimes it feels like his life is just a distraction, a tedious lull, between hearing those five words. He promises to himself that he won't, but he knows very well this is not what she wants – she has vibrant, astonishingly grand ideas of love. She pictures sunsets, fireflies, and lavender, but they're sitting in the parking lot of a burger joint and his hand is already halfway up her skit.
He knows very well she doesn't want this, but there's agony in between her moans and he understands what this is. He's not picking up the pieces; he's breaking the puzzle.
The first time he asks her out, she says no.
It happens over and over until it becomes a dance between both of them. He moves forward and she moves backwards. He extends his hand and she retreats hers. It's slow, quick, so slow, so quick. It becomes so rehearsed, so practiced that they both expect it – every Friday – a little skit they perform only for themselves.
"Hey Fabray, you busy tonight?"
"Yes."
"Liar."
"When are you going to give this up?"
"Never."
"Liar." But she's smiling.
The first time he yells at her, they are surrounded by crowds and crowds of people, and her cheeks are pink for many different reasons, but he won't stop. "You're such a fucking tease," he waves her off.
"What is wrong with you?" she hisses through her teeth.
It's the stupidest thing he's every done, and waiting for her reaction is like the tick, tick before the boom. He thinks she's going to slap him, but she turns around and storms away instead. He sinks in his feet because Quinn Fabray does not back down from a fight and now he knows he's ruined her.
The first time he tells her he loves her, he feels hysterical, like a butterfly trapped in a net. He can't remember the last time when he isn't the one being stared at, the pit of his stomach unsettled and fiery. She glances up at him under long lashes, fluttering like drowsy butterflies, and it's Pavlovian, the way his eyes are drawn by the sound of her voice.
"I'm leaving."
And that's that. She's filtering through New York City by the same time next week. You knew she had wings.
She comes and goes and comes and goes and she is slipping through his hands like sunshine through the window.
The first time he visits her, it's like hearing the first line of his favorite song on the radio. He wants to grab her and pull her close until there's no more space in between them, and the rat-tat-tat of his heart is aching mine, mine, mine.
But another guy has his arm around her waist, and suddenly, he feels like a sinking ship with the weight of too much cargo pulling him down.
"I'm not here for you," he lies and sees her smile falter for just a second.
"I'm still glad you're here," she manages.
They sit and chat about nothing in particular, and the whole time he's drowning, but neither of them say anything. That night, she goes home to her boyfriend, and he doesn't even know the name of the girl in his bed.
She has a small frame, blonde hair, and green eyes.
But she's no an angel.
The first time he proposes to her, he's drunk. She's back in town for Rachel and Finn's wedding, but he calls shotgun and says they should be next. She shakes her head sadly and holds him up with the brunt of her elbow. He slurs miserably and stares at her – green to green – and something hitches in his breath. "Don't let go of me," he taunts, half-serious, half-joking.
She calls for Finn's help, but he throws a clumsy hand over her mouth. "Marry me," he mumbles again.
"I can't."
"Liar."
She sighs finally. "I'm engaged." He sees the shiny band around her left finger and thinks it belongs over her head, just like a halo.
The first time he fights for her, he thinks for a fleeting second – this isn't right – but God doesn't just give away angels that easily. So he stands outside her door on the eve of her wedding, a bouquet of cheap daisies in his hand and his heart in the other. It's a joke for anyone looking in, but no one is, so she sinks to the ground and starts crying and begs "why do you do this to me?"
He shrugs, a little too smug for his own good, before he wraps his arms around her small body and sings her to sleep, his restless angel.
The first time he fucks her, she's already married.
But she's married to him.
They elope when no one was looking, and perhaps they've fallen in love when no one was looking too. Everyone gazes at them with stunned surprise, but they offer support – hesitated support.
It's enough, he reasons. They have nothing but their hearts, and maybe it's enough.
But not to her.
They are foolish and young, and it's not enough. He knows it's only a matter of time before it ends because he always says the wrong things and takes too long to say the right things; he waits for the explosion like a ticking bomb because there's no way she will let this go on. It's become something of a give and take, with more take then give, and he realizes he's just the bump on her road. Angels don't love the fallen, but it's just like her, giving sympathy to the devil. And he's so greedy he takes what he can get, and he thinks I finally have her, but he knows that will never be enough. And it's not.
Every day, they bleed a little further over the line they've drawn for themselves. So they draw another and another until it feels like they're trying to hold onto a whole river with just their fingers.
The first time he leaves her, it starts to rain.
He waits for the lightening bolt.
The first time he comes back, she's waiting for him. Then she says something, and his eyes are drawn to her voice again, and suddenly, he's on his knees with his arms wrapped around her waist and he's frantically slurring, "Don't let go of me." He stands up and leaves a trail of whiskey kisses on her face, and she closes her eyes sadly. Her hands reach the top of his head, and he kisses the cove of her neck.
That's how it starts.
The first time he dances with her, actually dances with her, she has divorce papers in her hands.
It's not awkward and rushed like when they were teenagers.
It's not broken and pathetic like their wedding day.
It's wholesome and relieving and aesthetic and flowing. He holds her and she lets him, dragging on the last bit of something that never even happened.
After they stop, she stands under the clouds. She rocks back and forth on her shiny black heels, her cream dress and honey hair dancing in wind and an absent smile loitering her face. "It's quiet," she notes. "I wish Lima wasn't so cliché sometimes."
"Will you go back to New York?"
She doesn't answer, her eyes gazing out at the open blue. He muses feebly if she's finally going back home. "The sky is falling," she murmurs; the whole thing was just a secret to begin with.
"What are we going to do?" he mutters back.
"Catch it, if we can," she shrugs. He finally signs the papers and meaningful looks are exchanged before she walks towards the sunlight, her figure disappearing into the sky.
She'll look at the papers later that day and find that instead of his name he writes "Liar."
The first time he sees her again, he knows he was right all along.
Golden locks cascade down the nape of her neck. Green eyes flicker passionately with laughter. Fair skin glows under the heat and her petite body stands as delicately as ever. A peony dress shimmers at her knees, and the sun highlights every inch of her figure.
She's an angel, whether he'll ever tell her.
He doesn't think he will, but she probably already knows it. He pulls her in close, and she doesn't move away.
The sky falls around them, but he has her in his arms, and they wait for the world to end.
He doesn't let go of her, just like he promised. It started, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Slow. Fragile. Unexpected.
A rambling of complete nonsense, that I am guilty of. Please review if you have the time!