A.N.- I'm sorry about my extremely sparse updates; school keeps me too busy, and due to my lack of free time and therefore my inability to work long-term on fics, I've removed "Mother Mother" and "Behind Closed Doors", both of which I intend to repost/continue working on once summer finally arrives.
In the meantime, please enjoy this World War II-based fic, which I have been working on meticulously to the point of paranoia.
Thank you to the wonderful Naomi (nomesters), who has been such a helpful beta. :)
Please rate and review. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.
Enjoy!
September 1942
After listening to his mom sob and protest and yell at him for an hour, the only thing he really, really wants is a drink, so he calls up Puckerman, Sam, and Artie; by the time he enters the dance hall, they're already waiting at their usual table on the edge of the floor.
"Got the news yesterday," he says as the four of them mull over glasses of scotch. The frenzied music pouring from the drums and horns and piano on stage falls on sullenly deaf ears.
"Well, shit," Noah finally says after a long silence. "We got two months—better start living!"
Finn shoots his friend a look. He's usually fine with Noah's happy-go-lucky attitude, but tonight he isn't exactly in the mood. Artie and Sam clap Finn and Puck's shoulders one after the other. Puck shrugs and gives Finn and apologetic, sideways grin; Finn looks away, staring at the table top and nursing his drink.
"I mean, look on the bright side," he hears Puck say. "I'm glad you're going, in a way—I thought I was gonna get shipped over there all by myself."
"There is no bright side," Finn snaps, setting his glass back down a little too firmly after taking a long swig. "And you know perfectly well why. You think after what happened to my dad or to Artie"—he gestures to their companion's wheelchair, which he arrived home in three months prior—"that I want to go over and get shot up by a bunch of Nazis?"
No one answers him. There's a low, mellow song playing now, and couples are swaying together, many of them women clinging to men in uniforms identical to the ones worn by the four silent men at the table on the edge of the floor. It makes Finn think of the only picture of his dad that he's seen—the photograph of his parents at their wedding.
His mother already lost one man in her life thanks to war: his father fought in the last three years of the Great War and came home a shell of who he was before he went over. One day, a few weeks after Finn was born, his father went out supposedly to get a drink with his friends and didn't come home. The police found him face-down in the river the next day. They buried him in his uniform.
Finn only knows what he knows by word of mouth—mainly from his relatives, because his mom never wants to talk about it. And she sure as hell didn't want to talk about it when he called her earlier to tell her that he's being deployed in two months.
"Look," Sam says after a long time, "if there's anything you want me to do, just tell me. I can talk to my ma about it; she'd be glad to help Carole around the house—cook, run errands, you name it…"
The music abruptly switches to another frenzied melody with crashing drums and symbols. People—men, mostly—start to eye the floor, stand up, cheer and whistle. Finn follows their eyes, and just like that, everything else fades away.
A woman makes her way to the center of the dance floor (by herself, no less), dancing and spinning any which way her tiny, perfect body feels the need to go. The bright golden color of her dress causes the soft pink and purple skirts to pale in comparison, just like the powdered faces of the other girls on the dance floor compared to the vibrant olive skin of the woman in the middle. Her hips jerk and her feet twist, and every move flows effortlessly, like air, so that Finn almost wonders where the music ends and she begins.
Puck wolf-whistles and slaps Finn's shoulder. "Miss Rachel Berry is looking awfully pretty tonight, wouldn't you say?"
The name registers in Finn's memory. He'd seen her walking home from school by herself most days until they graduated high school, and he remembers the nice way her uniform skirt swayed with her hips; Puck mentioned her a few times after graduation, talking about how his mom wanted him to court her because she was Jewish and lived in their part of town and was "reasonably pretty." Puck was never interested, though, because "the doll's a nun."
But that was when they were eighteen. They're twenty-one now. And Rachel Berry, whoever she was or is, has grown up very well.
He feels himself rise from his chair. Puck hollers, "Where're you going?" but Finn isn't there anymore—he's somewhere else, with the music, with this woman who can't seem to stop moving, like she could dance and spin until the day she dies without growing tired. Her hair has gone askew; she flips the errant curls aside with a flick of her wrist, and he catches her hand in midair. Her eyes, shut tight until now, open widely at the contact and she gazes up at him.
All at once he feels very stupid. He doesn't dance—he'd say he's decent at it, but he's not great. And to make things worse, he hasn't thought of anything to say.
What are you doing, Hudson? What are you doing? What are you doing?
"Hello," she says with a small grin when he hesitates, and somehow that smile miraculously does the trick for him. He feels the corners of his mouth turn up.
"Dance with me?"
Her smile grows tenfold, and the sight practically overwhelms him. "I'd love to—er…"
"Finn Hudson."
"Hello, Finn Hudson."
"Call me Finn."
She smiles a little more brightly. "Well, Finn, I'd love to dance."
And dance they most definitely do. He twirls her, tosses her into the air, kicks and dips with her; when slower music settles over the floor, she doesn't hesitate to fall into the rhythm with him, placing one tiny hand in his giant palm and the other on his shoulder, both of them out of breath but grinning like mad.
They talk for what could easily turn into hours. He gets a strange lurching feeling in his stomach because her eyes never leave his. She surprises him; girls tend to play the bashful card, giggling and giving him vague answers, incomprehensible glances. But Rachel…she looks only at him. Her eyes are a piercing brown, open and unabashed; when she laughs, she radiates joy. Everything she does catches him completely off guard and intrigues him.
"I'm sorry, Finn…" She leans in so he can hear her over the loud, fast music, and something in his chest quivers at the feeling of her lips on his ear. "I should be getting home."
"I'd like to escort you," he hears himself say to her. She retreats and smiles a little at him. "Of course, only if that would suit you." Oh god, now he's rambling. "I don't mean to impose, and if it seems improper then—"
She cuts him off with a peck on the cheek. "I'll only be a minute," she tells him, and goes to retrieve her purse and gloves, leaving him slightly stunned on the floor. He looks over his shoulder at Puck, Sam and Artie; the latter two nod wildly with approval, and Puck makes some discrete, obscene gesture with his hips. Finn shakes his head at him, smirks, and meets Rachel at the door.
Waiting at the crosswalk outside with him, she says softly, "I'd like to thank you, Finn. You've made tonight the best night I've had in a long while."
"Only because of my impeccable dancing, I assume." He rolls his eyes and grins sheepishly.
"Oh, absolutely." She beams up at him, and it takes him a moment to realize that she's not teasing him. "You're a divine dancer." One of her lace-gloved hands slips into the crook of his arm, and his face grows warm. She observes his military jacket. "I see you're in the army."
His emotional joy ride comes to a screeching halt. Clearing his throat, he answers stiffly, "Yes. I, um—I'm leaving in two months." He glances down at her. Her smile has fallen into a subtle frown, her eyes to the sidewalk in front of them.
"Two months," she echoes, and then takes his arm and slowly drapes it around her shoulders. She presses her cheek into his side, and he only now realizes how tiny she is. "That's not very long at all."
They're silent for the remaining few blocks, until her quiet "Well, here we are" brings him out of his trance.
He takes in the yellow boarding house with two large pots of flowers on either side of the front entrance. He doesn't bother to inquire why she doesn't live in her family's house, or about her parents or anything else, because the sight suddenly makes his heart ache: it's a home—a type of one, at least—and before long he's not going to have one.
"It's very nice," he manages to say.
"It's not typical—or practical, really…"
"But it's very nice."
Once she reaches the first, bottom step of the porch—putting her just below eye level with him, even in her heels—she offers him another faint smile.
"Well…goodnight, then, Rachel."
"Goodnight, Finn."
He takes her hand and kisses her fingers once, but she tightens her grip around his a bit as he begins to step away. She hesitates for the first time all night, a nervous smile betraying her.
"You know, you can kiss me if you want to."
Holy hell.
"I want to," he breathes, and then carefully touches his lips to hers. The kiss is slow and deep, and he breaks away after a moment (because his heart is hammering, and he's fairly certain he'll black out if he doesn't remember to breathe) before she goes in for more, her hands clinging to his lapel and pulling him flush against her. His hands grip her waist tightly. She sighs appreciatively, pushes herself up on her toes, and starts to kiss him with a bit more enthusiasm.
"Let's go inside," she breathes against his lips, and he'll be damned if he isn't desperate to do just that. He's got two months left, and he'd better start living; and he wants to live with her, inside her even, because even though he barely knows her, she makes him feel so alive, more alive than he's ever known, and—and he barely knows her.
He barely knows her.
Damn.
"Not tonight," he manages to say after another moment, winded from her kisses. He drops his head, resting his forehead against hers, and gives her a long, apologetic look. "No, not tonight."
She only smiles, cups his face in her hands and starts to kiss him again. "It's okay if you want to…"
He does want to, more than anything in this world, and—"Not tonight. I'm sorry. Not tonight."
Holding his gaze, her eyes are perplexed yet warm and somehow understanding. He's never been the religious type, but he swears he can feel her peering all the way inside his soul, as if she's looking for something down in there that she lost. After a while, she slowly wraps her arms around his waist and tucks her head into the crook of his neck. It feels very nice to hold her like this, so he drapes his arms across her slender back, kisses her hair, and lays his cheek on the spot where his lips were. They stay that way for a long time.
"Rachel?" he finally murmurs, bringing himself to break the peaceful silence.
"Yes?" Her voice is dreamy, her breath warm on his neck, and he almost wonders if she'd fallen asleep standing up.
"If you don't mind…I'd like to take you out sometime soon." He can't say he's totally proud of himself (although he does get a deal of satisfaction out of saying it), because he's leaving—quite possibly for good—in two months, and the last thing he needs is to get involved, much less to risk hurting anyone else besides his mom, especially someone like the brown-eyed, beautiful riddle he's holding in his arms. But she raises her head and smiles slowly at him, and her smile must be all it takes for him, because his qualms seem to vanish at the sight.
"Meet me tomorrow at the Evans diner," she tells him with a gentle nod. "One o'clock." She kisses his cheek softly, unwinds her arms, and reaches up to wipe away the mark of rouged lips before retreating inside.
When he's made it halfway back to the street, he remembers to whisper, "Goodnight."
"Looking for me, soldier?"
Her voice, sweet and melodic, turns him away from the bustling diner floor. She's already claimed a tiny booth by the front window. She giggles when an eager grin breaks across his face.
"First," she says demurely as he eases into the seat across from her, "I have to ask you to forgive my behavior last night. Out in front of the house, I mean." Her face turns a bright shade of red, and she trains her eyes to the rim of her water glass. He thinks he's never seen something so precious. "I was somewhat under the influence of a large glass of wine—or perhaps three," she admits reluctantly, "and it quite altered my behavior. I'm normally not so…eager to please, at least in that sort of sense," she finishes carefully.
His first response is a small chuckle, followed by, "Nonsense. Don't apologize." She sighs and nods, looking immensely relieved. He smirks kindly. "But if you hadn't had that wine"—she shoots him a playful glare—"would you still have danced with me?"
"Oh, yes. Without a doubt."
"Would you still have kissed me?"
She blinks, and he watches a grin slowly spread across her lovely face as she smiles at him from under her lashes. Her face begins to turn pink again.
"Yes," she answers quietly. "Yes, I believe I would have."
He can feel himself grinning like a fool, but suddenly he can't think of anything to say that could describe how it feels to hear her say that. So, instead, they fall into a comfortable (albeit short-lived) silence.
"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise," Lucy Fabray announces in a high voice, looping her arm tightly through her mother's as the other woman comes up beside her. "Hello, Finn," Lucy adds and smiles blithely, glancing at Rachel and nodding briskly once before turning back to him. Mrs. Fabray eyes Rachel conspicuously.
"Hello, Lucy," he answers with a polite nod. "This is Rachel Berry."
"I'm aware. How do you do?" Lucy extends one slender hand toward Rachel, who grasps it without breaking eye contact with the pretty blond girl.
"I'm very well, thank you. And how are you?"
"I'm well." Lucy turns back to Finn. "You know, Finn, a few people from church are getting together down on the riverfront tonight. You should come. It's been ages since you went; they'd be happy to see you."
God, not that river. He can't. Even after all this time, he can't.
He scans his menu. "I'll consider it." Please leave.
"You could bring your friends—you know, Sam and Artie? I'd say to bring Puckerman along, too, but it's a church gathering, and, well, seeing as he's Jewish—" Lucy fiddles with the crucifix hanging from the gold chain around her neck and lets her eyes wander to Rachel. Finn seizes the moment to cut her off.
"I'll see if they want to." He offers Rachel a discreet, apologetic smile; despite looking vaguely uncomfortable, she wears a mask of indifference well.
"Will I see you tonight?" Lucy asks him a few moments later as their conversation closes.
He glances at Rachel again. She looks away from him and down towards her menu, her curls partly shielding her face.
He nods politely to Lucy. "I'll consider it."
A tight grin tugs at the corners of Lucy's mouth. She glances back and forth between him and Rachel before pulling on her mother's arm, and they exit the diner, the door slamming just slightly behind them and ringing the entrance bell a little louder than normal.
"I got the feeling she doesn't like me much," whispers Rachel. Finn can't help but laugh.
"Don't worry about her." He proceeds to explain how Mrs. Fabray had originally been friends with his mother when he and Lucy were in primary school together, and how once he'd reached high school, Mrs. Fabray had coerced his mother into trying to convince him to court Lucy.
"Did you?"
"Yes. But not anymore; not for a while, actually." He shrugs. "It was…well, it got very tiring, very fast." He remembers the tight line that Lucy's lips would form whenever he did something "wrong" or that she didn't approve of. He remembers the hell of trying to fit into her idea of him. "She just tried to change too much about me."
Rachel frowns. "Well, I don't see what she could want to change," she declares, but then catches herself; her face reddens once again, and this time so does his.
On the way home after lunch, he asks her to go out with him again tomorrow. She links her arm through the one he offers her, leans into him as they walk, and nods, smiling widely. "That would be lovely, Finn."
She pecks his cheek under the afternoon sun when they reach the boarding house, and then shares one, two, three soft and drawn-out kisses with him under the stars the next night.
Three weeks pass. They change, and it's all strangely wonderful. Walking to his car from the front door of the boarding house, enjoying the feeling of her arm linked with his, he ignores the stares from people on the street. He knows what they must be thinking and whispering.
"How does Finn Hudson end up with a girl like Rachel Berry?"
"He's so well mannered and so kind and so clean-cut, and she's bold, reckless, different—she doesn't even live with her parents."
"And for heaven's sake, he's a Christian! He doesn't need to be running around with a Jewish girl."
His mother is technically the Christian one in their household; he can't even remember the last time he went to mass. He's still trying to figure out what exactly he does believe, if anything at all, especially nowadays.
He's not oblivious to the reputation that Miss Rachel Berry has built up, either. He hears the talk about "that young wild thing chasing after some daydream of making it to the Big Apple," as one less-than-friendly lady muttered to her friend in the grocery store when he was running his mother's errands last week. He can't see anything wrong with her going to New York, though. He knows that if he were able just to get out of this tiny town, he'd do it in a heartbeat. (Without being shipped off to a war, that is.)
They're going to the lake today. She's never seen it before; her parents never let her stray very far from home when she was younger, and as she's aged and actually gotten a job and moved out on her own (another scandal in its own way, as he's come to find out), she's lost track of time to ever visit the tiny lake beyond the outskirts of town.
She grins as they pass a small, white sign with simple black letters spelling out, "You are now leaving Lima." They've still got a little while to drive, though, and he takes the opportunity to ask her about New York.
"So you've heard." She laughs lightly. "Not a surprise. It seems as soon as people hear all that, they want to tell the world. For pity's sake, it's show business; the way they talk, you would think I'm aspiring to join a brothel."
"What's with you and show business, though?" She feels her heart warm briefly. His voice isn't condescending or judgmental, only curious. It's a refreshing change from most people's responses. She shrugs and gazes at the clouds through her passenger-side window.
"I don't know, really. Music is everything for me. I've been singing and dancing almost as long as I've been talking and walking. And I want to share that with people. Of course, Ms. Corcoran—that's the boarding house owner—she does let me use her piano on weekdays to give music lessons; and I love my students, I really do. But nearly all my pay goes straight to Mrs. Corcoran for rent; even beside that, I want to be on a stage in front of hundreds and sing my heart out, and show them all how hard and how long I've worked. Music was my saving grace when I was in school—when I would stay home and practice almost nonstop while everyone else went on dates and such. I wasn't like the other girls—I didn't sit around just waiting for potential husbands in high school. I sang and danced instead. I want it all to pay off." She pauses, considering. "I just…I want people to see how much I'm worth, you know?"
He nods slowly and reaches out without thinking to link his hand with hers. He wishes he could tell her how much he does understand. Half of the time, he just wants to know whether people even think he's worth anything at all.
Instead of saying all that, though, he squeezes her hand softly. They spend the rest of the car ride that way, in silence, and he mirrors the sweet smile that spreads across her features.
She nearly skips off as soon as she exits the car, barely giving him time to cut the engine once they find a secluded piece of shore by the lake—which, in truth, is more of a large pond than anything. And she still smiles as if she's seeing the New York City skyline for the first time.
They kick their shoes off and stretch out on the grass, fingers intertwined. She soon rolls onto her side, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. He revels in how easily her small frame fits into his as he drapes his arm around her; he hopes he can remember the feel of it once he leaves. Closing his eyes tightly, he tries to memorize the shape of her slender shoulders beneath his fingertips as he strokes her back.
"What are you thinking?" she murmurs when his fingers still momentarily. Lifting her head, she rests one hand on his frowning face.
"I don't know." He takes her hand and kisses her palm. "I just wish I could stay here like this—instead of…" he trails off, and her eyes give him all the understanding he needs.
"I know," she whispers. "I do too."
"I'll miss you so much when I leave."
She runs a hand through his hair and smiles faintly, sadly. "Do me a favor: just don't think about any of that right now. Okay?"
"Okay."
She smiles more brightly now, kisses him once, and then stands and heads for the shore.
"I guess the water's pretty cold this time of year, huh?" she calls over her shoulder, standing with her feet apart and her shoulders squared, hands on her hips, like she's measuring up the lake as competition.
"Well, it's nearly October," he answers, laughing. "I should say it'd be cold. You'd catch your death swimming in there."
She flashes a wicked smile at him then, turning around to face him. "You're scared, Finn Hudson."
"Am not. Just wise, that's all." (Even though he knows he's probably dumb as a rock compared to her.)
"I dare you to jump in."
"No way!"
"If I can do it, so can you."
"You can't make me."
Rachel's smile softens, and she bats her eyes, shifting her weight onto her left leg and popping her hip. "Can't I?"
"Not a chance."
She bends over—slides her stockings down her smooth calves, one after the other—bites her lower lip and grins. "You're sure?"
He swallows.
Slowly, she reaches up and flicks open the top button of her dress, then the next button below it, then the next, until she can slide the fabric off of her shoulders. Her eyes never leave his as the pink and white polka dots pool around her ankles, followed by her creamy satin slip. She steps out from the garments at her feet, turns, and lets her hair swing over her shoulders as she makes her way to the shore. In one swift motion, she arcs through the air and dives in head-first.
Rachel Berry might just kill him before this war gets the chance.
He stands, strips off his shirt, slacks, and socks, and cannon-balls in next to her as she surfaces. Her scream of laughter sounds muted to him beneath the water (which is, in fact, ice cold).
He bobs to the surface and wipes his eyes to see her swimming toward him, hair slicked back and smiling face glowing. The last of her laughter dies away as she reaches him, winds her arms around his neck, and kisses him firmly. Her body, naked save for her lingerie, warms his skin; her full, soft lips easily soothe the chattering of his jaw. She kisses him for what feels like eternity, and the cold water is his only saving grace, because otherwise his "instinct" would have taken over a long, long time ago.
She breaks off eventually and nuzzles his cold nose with hers, giggling bashfully as though timid in light of what they're doing. She wraps her legs around his waist, clasping him as he climbs onto land again. He rummages around in the trunk of his car and finds a scratchy wool blanket. Sitting back down together on the grass beneath a chestnut tree, she lowers herself onto his lap, straddling him and huddling against him for warmth as he drapes the blanket around both of them.
"Maybe someday you could let me hear you sing…before Rachel Berry makes it to Broadway," he says, pushing a stray lock of wet hair away from her eyes.
She laughs and brushes her fingers over his cheek absentmindedly. "Of course."
"Promise?"
Taking his face in her hands, she nods. "I promise."
"She's leaving, you know."
Finn looks at Puck over his shoulder, surprised at the sudden break in silence as he helps his friend pack. Three days left.
"I know," Finn answers. She'll be leaving town the same day that he will. "She's told me all about New York. How she wants to make it big." She's going to, and he knows it.
"You're a funny guy, Hudson," Puck says over his shoulder as he turns to stuff the shirts into his bag.
"I just folded those," Finn tells him and chuckles halfheartedly.
Puck faces him again, hands on his hips. "You grow up in a good Christian home—you have Lucy Fabray, the parents' favorite, practically waiting for you at the church—you never break any of the rules. Then you ditch Lucy, you quit going to mass; and then, you start running around with a Jew you met one night—a girl you've never said two words to before—knowing full well that when she leaves this shithole, she's never looking back."
"Hey, you're a Jew, and I've been friends with you for as long as I can remember," Finn argues. "Religion has never meant a thing to me."
"She's leaving for good. You'll come home from years of shooting and bombs and she'll be nowhere around to see you through whatever happens after."
"I wouldn't want her to have to deal with that. She hates this town enough as it is." The last thing she needs is a bad case of shell shock on her hands. (But he'd be lying if he said it didn't kill him inside to think of her leaving him behind, that is if there's anything left of him for her to leave.)
"So you're standing here telling me that you're fine with that?"
"Why not? At least she'll be happy."
Puck stares at him for a long time.
"You love her," he says quietly. His words are a confirmation rather than a question. Finn nods slowly.
"Yeah." He turns around, pinches the bridge of his nose to stop the stinging in his eyes, and starts folding a pair of Puck's trousers. "Yeah, I do."
After another long moment of silence, he hears Puck moving across his room to pull out a second travel bag. "You're a funny guy, Hudson."
Finn thinks that it shouldn't seem so funny to anyone else. It certainly doesn't to him.
"I want to give you something," she murmurs as they curl up together beneath the chestnut tree by the lake. The only light comes from the moon and the stars, penetrating the dark of the cloudless night. Wasn't it just a matter of weeks ago that he was diving into that lake with her, smiling and laughing in the sun?
She shifts beneath the blanket covering them—soft and smooth fleece, because this time she came prepared for the cold when he picked her up—and reaches into her handbag to retrieve a small photograph. She hands it to him slowly, and he smiles despite the burning in his eyes and the constricting of his throat. Her laughing face and bright, captivating eyes greet him in black and white.
"They took this photo of me on a whim when we were getting our family portraits taken about a year ago. My mother says it's the best photograph she's ever seen of me. I guessed you'd want a…more pleasant memory of me." She tries to laugh.
"It's beautiful." He hopes he'll be able to remember the color of her skin and hair and eyes despite the colorless image. He hopes. He touches her face, and she turns her head to kiss his palm. "You're beautiful."
She moves closer to him, pressing her cheek into the crook of his neck. Her voice is thick when she speaks again. "Write to me every day that you can."
"Only if you do the same."
"I promise. I'll get my address to you somehow, and you can—"
"I love you."
She's quiet for a moment, and then sits up, takes him with her as she does, and holds his face in her hands, her eyes shimmering with starlight and unshed tears.
"I love you too," she murmurs, pressing her forehead against his. "I love you so much."
"I wanted to give you something as well." He reaches into his coat pocket. When he opens his palm and Rachel sees the ring, her resolve crumbles, and a soft sob escapes her. "It was my mother's when she and my father were engaged." He'd talked to his mom for a long time yesterday about this, and she'd agreed without hesitation to give him the dainty gold band with the single small diamond resting on top.
"It's beautiful," she tells him softly, and carefully takes the ring from his hand, her fingers shaking from the cold.
"I know…" he has to stop and restart, his emotions getting the best of him. "I know you'll be going to New York in the morning, and I'll be going overseas."
She nods and swallows hard. "I'll marry you right now, if you want," she chokes out.
"No. I don't know what's going to happen and…I'm so scared, Rachel," he whispers, his breathing shaky.
"I'm scared, too, Finn…"
"And I don't want you to give me an answer right now."
"But—"
"I don't want either of us making promises we can't keep." A moment passes before she registers his words and sobs again. He takes a moment to steady his breathing. "But, if I come back home, I want you to know that I will never ask you to come back here again. I don't care if I have to fight a whole other war just to make it to New York. I'll go anywhere with you, if you'll have me."
She nods again, slowly. "I'd have you every day if I could, Finn Hudson."
Smiling, he wipes the tears off of her cheek with his thumb. "You will. I want you to keep that ring with you. Know it always belonged to you—always will. Do you understand?"
She kisses him firmly, and he lays them down together.
"I want you to make love to me," she murmurs against his lips. He pulls back.
"We can't—"
"Please. It's okay." She knows her cycle, almost down to the day, and nothing unplanned can happen now. "I want you to make love to me."
He unbuttons the front of her dress and pushes the fabric off of her shoulders, trailing kisses down her neck and onto her breast. Hooking her leg around his waist, she keens and arches her back. She knows what her parents—hell, what everyone in town—would think and say if they knew what she and Finn Hudson, the good Christian boy, were doing together. But she knows that they don't know—they don't know what she and Finn Hudson feel, what there is between them.
She opens the buttons of his shirt, peels it off of his body, and grips his strong arms while his hand slips beneath her skirt and touches her through the fabric of her underwear, doing dangerous, wonderful things to her. Both of their bodies are humming and buzzing in time with the other, heat building and crackling in the space between the two bodies beneath the blanket. She quickly undoes the button and zipper of his pants, and he gently tugs her panties down her legs. She wraps a shaking hand around his length and he groans into her neck, nipping the soft skin there and eliciting a moan from her that makes his blood surge.
He pushes into her slowly, and he curses himself when she yelps quietly. Fresh tears spring to her eyes, and she lets out a sharp, shallow breath, her face pinched up in pain.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay; just—just give me a moment." She shifts around carefully for a minute or so, and eventually he feels her slowly relax. Finally she takes his face in her hands and murmurs, "I'm ready, Finn."
He pulls out and then very, very gently moves back into her. She sighs, smiles, and her eyes flutter as he kisses her and pushes in again. Her fingers tangle in his hair, and she feels a delicious pressure building inside of her, rising slowly with each thrust until the wave crashes a minute later when he groans loudly and pushes more forcefully into her. She almost surprises herself when she cries out. Her entire body seizes and releases in rhythm with his as he grips her tightly and thrusts one final time into her.
He carefully lowers himself, trying not to crush her, and lays his head on her chest before readjusting the blanket to cover them both completely. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and his snake around her waist, and she traces lazy patterns over the warm skin of his back while he moves his fingertips up her leg, over her hip, and back again. They lay there and watch the stars and don't speak for a long time.
Suddenly he feels her chest swell, and he thinks she might be about to cry again until he hears a voice—her voice—singing.
"I'll be seeing you,
in all the old familiar places
that this heart of mine embraces
all day through."
The tears start to flow, the floodgates breaking open almost before he feels it coming on. Her arms tighten around him.
"In that small café,
the park across the way,
the children's carousel,
the chestnut tree,
the wishing well."
He thinks he'll never hear anything more beautiful than her voice. Her fingers lace into his hair while he bites back sobs, and he starts to grow embarrassed because he can't seem to stop himself from crying like a child.
"I'll be seeing you
through every lovely summer's day,
in everything that's light and gay;
I'll always think of you that way.
I'll find you in the morning sun,
and when the night is new,
I'll be looking at the moon
but I'll be seeing you."
She holds him, his head resting on her chest as he weeps into her skin, while her voice—clear, rich, and resonating through her chest and his face—rises into the night air and swirls among the stars above them, as though it were a prayer.
When Finn drops her back off at the boarding house at dawn, she rushes to her room and finishes packing; throws on her heavy coat, gloves, hat and scarf; and leaves her final rent payment on the table outside Mrs. Corcoran's office, enclosed in a small envelope along with a note:
Shelby,
I am forever indebted to the kindness you have shown me these last few years. Please know that I will miss you dearly, and that I will think about you every day. Give little Beth a giant kiss and a hug goodbye for me. I hope to keep correspondence with you once I am settled in New York. I'll send you my address when I have one.
Wishing you well,
Rachel
She lugs her two suitcases out the door, grasps Finn's ring hanging from the chain on her neck, and walks the five blocks from the house to the train station.
His mom sniffles quietly and adjusts the lapel on his jacket for what must be the tenth time as they wait with the growing collection of uniform-clad men along the tracks leading off into eastern countryside, to Boston, where a ship awaits them on the Atlantic.
"I love you," he says, feeling himself start to choke up again as he hugs his mother upon the approaching sound of a train whistle, the chugging of the engine sounding vaguely like a ticking clock. He holds onto her more tightly.
"I love you too, sweetie." She takes a staggered breath. "Write to me every day."
He squeezes his eyes shut tightly. "I promise."
As he waits in the single-file line of soldiers to board, he looks over his shoulder, searching the sea of women for his mother. Suddenly he catches sight of a red coat and dark hair boarding the adjacent train. His breath catches in his throat—it's Rachel, it has to be. He knows Rachel Berry when he sees her.
But he won't chase her. Trains don't wait for anyone, and he's not about to make her miss hers.
She steps out of the Grand Central Terminal onto 42nd street, her joints smarting from sitting through the lengthy train ride. But she didn't dare move then; and she still has the strange sensation that the slightest misstep will send shards of her suddenly-fragile self in every direction.
Standing there on the pavement, she permits herself to cry her eyes dry, and then dabs away the streaks on her face. She hoists her two suitcases off of the ground and clutches them like lifelines.
She starts to walk.
He hates nighttime the worst. He has to sleep on the ground. The cold seeps up from the earth, surrounds him in the air, and penetrates his flimsy blanket almost as soon as he tries to cover himself with it. He shivers every night while he tries to fall asleep, and he thinks about Lima and his mother and Rachel. He tries to imagine the curve of her waist fitted into the crook of his arm, tries to feel the warmth.
The first time he hears a gun being shot in his direction, he nearly has a heart attack right then and there. It's in the middle of the night, and he's finally just begun to doze off when the sound of gunfire jolts him awake, rattles his bones. The general starts screaming out orders so quickly that Finn can barely keep track of them all. He throws himself onto the ground, points the barrel of his rifle in the direction of the enemy fire, and pulls the trigger. Reloads. Pulls the trigger some more. Reloads. And then he starts to cry. He wonders if he's actually hit anyone, killed anyone. They didn't mention that in training.
A grenade explodes somewhere far off to his right. He covers his face with his arm and feels bits of shrapnel cut into his skin, straight through the thick sleeve of his winter uniform. He swears into the ground, grits his teeth against the pain, and crawls on his stomach to search for a ditch. He wonders how he hasn't actually been shot yet.
He finally finds a small trench and positions his rifle on the ledge and keeps firing. He doesn't even know what exactly he's supposed to be doing anymore. His heart hits his stomach when he realizes he's run out of ammo, and he's alone in the ditch; but there's no way in hell he's going back out there. So he hunkers down beneath the rim of the trench, and for the first time in a long, long time, he prays. He says two Hail Marys and an Our Father.
After what feels like an eternity of listening to bullets whiz just over his head, a second, panting body rolls into the pit. Finn starts to panic because he's worried at first that the guy's been shot, but the other man simply lays there for a moment, his breathing slowing slightly, before he looks at Finn with tired, haggard eyes.
"Room for one more?" His clipped accent catches Finn off guard, and Finn only nods a bit before answering.
"Yeah. Yeah, sure."
"Ah. American."
"Irish."
"Very good." The guy can't be more than twenty years old. He's a kid—big blue eyes and a round, smooth face (even though it's currently covered in dirt)—and he's scared. Finn can see it in the kid's every move, glance, and gesture, such as when he extends a trembling but hopeful hand and says, "Rory Flanagan. Pleased to meet ya."
Finn grips Rory's hand firmly and shakes it. "Finn Hudson."
"That's Irish, isn't it?"
"Nah, my mom is from Toledo."
Rory smiles suddenly and laughs, and Finn finds himself laughing along with him. It's about as strange a scene as Finn thinks he'll ever see—two men laughing in a trench while bullets fly above their heads and explosions threaten to deafen them. Finn can feel Rory's kind smile worming its way into Finn's heart, and the friendship is a soothing balm inside his hammering chest.
He and Rory stay safe in their trench as the battle rages around them. Finn lies on his back and stares up at the stars through the smoke and the bullets, and holds his hand over his left breast pocket with Rachel's photo inside, and says her name like a mantra, and prays for his life. Rachel. Rachel. Rachel.
Rachel stops in front of a door with slightly-chipped, off-white paint, with a sign reading "Auditions: Please enquire inside" hung over the window. Gazing up at the old brick building, which stretches several stories high and sports narrow windows, she reads the painted sign above the doorway with simple, elegant letters spelling "Schuester's Music Diner." It's not much, but she's been walking for hours, her feet are starting to cramp, and besides, this place looks decent enough. Without another thought she pushes the door open, and steps inside, surprisingly comforted by the squeak of the hinges. The sound reminds her of the door to her old room in Shelby's boarding house.
"Hello?" she calls. After several moments and receiving no response, she makes her way down a narrow hallway and opens a second, less-chipped red door, poking her head a bit inside. She's about to turn around, reconsidering, when a man's voice startles her, and she halts at the threshold.
"Five, six, seven, eight!"
Rachel watches two rows of men and women in glittering costumes dancing perfectly in time with each other. She'll admit she's impressed; their dancing is impeccable even with the simple piano accompaniment. She steals a seat at a table in the back of the empty hall and watches a complex dance number unfold and then end abruptly.
"Okay, everyone, take a break," the man calls out. "We'll choreograph the rest this afternoon."
"Excuse me?" All eyes turn to Rachel, startled at the interjection, but she refuses to let self-consciousness get the better of her. Standing slowly and smoothing her skirt, she continues, "I saw your sign outside and, well, I'd like to audition."
The man steps forward into the light, revealing a mess of brown curls and a kind, older face. He looks eager, and she wonders when the last time was that anyone said those words to him, because he claps his hands at once and nods. "Certainly, miss—um…"
"Rachel Berry." She extends her hand, and he steps forward to take it.
"Do you have a place to live?"
"No, regrettably."
"Let's hear you sing, and your answer may be different after. We may not be outstandingly funded, but there are a few empty bunks upstairs in need of filling."
She nods, clears her throat and hums a few scales as she takes the small stage. "Give me a D sharp, please," she tells the piano man, and absorbs the pitch when he gives it; taking a deep breath, she looks up into the spotlight, and smiles. She can almost see Finn there, grinning right back.
"I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar faces…"
Dropping her suitcases to the floor, she sinks onto the creaky but comfortable mattress, exhausted, hungry, and above all, relieved. Rachel looks around the small apartment once before burying her face in her hands, blocking out the twin bed across the room from hers, the two small armoires, the tiny sink and vanity, and the light streaming through the window and drapes, both yellowed from weather and age. She'd held herself together through the song and while Mr. Schuester hired her, went over regulations, living situations, and closing congratulations, but between her fatigue and the assault of emotions waging war on her, it's been all she could do not to start crying again.
"It may not live up to your expectations, princesa, but there's a roof over your head and food on your plate."A sharp accent breaks through the silence and surprises Rachel. She gasps and starts up from her new bed, trying to discreetly dry her eyes.
"No, it's not that, it's—um." She regains control of her breathing and sniffles once more. "I'm very grateful for all this." She gestures around the room. "I'm just a little…overwhelmed, that's all."
"Well, you can rest your weary head," the Latina practically spits at her, "because you won't have your first rehearsal until Saturday. Ay, you won't even have to perform all week. You're here this week for free without lifting a delicate finger."
Rachel swallows and manages to repeat, "I'm very grateful."
"Oh, really? Are you grateful that it's your first day in the city and you already have a job and a place to live and eat? Are you grateful that you don't have to worry about scraping by until you find work? Are you grateful that you've been spared sleeping on the street?"
Rachel doesn't respond.
"I figured I should warn you." The girl shrugs and purses her lips, crossing her arms tightly and leering at Rachel. "Some people are upset—since most of us were desperate and hungry and homeless for weeks before we made it here."
"…I'm sorry." Rachel looks at the floor now and clutches Finn's ring. "Although, I'd say I'm pretty desperate, too, I suppose." She looks back up and is surprised to see the girl's face softening as she shrugs again.
"Hmm. I suppose it's better you end up here than one of the whorehouses." The expression on Rachel's face must register some surprise. "A pretty girl like you? And with your voice? No sense wasting your time or your talents there." Now it's the girl's turn to lock her eyes on the floor. Rachel swallows, steps forward, and extends her hand.
"My name is Rachel." She smiles gently when the girl raises her eyes to meet Rachel's again. "I'm from Ohio. Pleased to meet you."
The girl examines Rachel from head to toe, stares at her outstretched hand, and finally allows a small smile to escape. She takes Rachel's hand, nodding slowly.
"Santana Lopez. Mexico City. And you're all right, I suppose, for a princesa."
One sunny, bitterly cold January morning, she checks inside the tiny mailbox outside the front of the diner. She sifts the pile of envelopes until she finds one with her name on it, and has to double take when she sees "Finn Hudson" written above the return address in his familiar scrawl. Fingers stiff from the cold and shaking with anticipation, she tears open the envelope and hurries to her and Santana's room. She's relieved Santana is currently nowhere to be found; despite their gradually improving friendship, she wants to be alone for this.
Dear Rachel,
Thank you so much for sending your new address to my mother, who sent it to me upon your request. But I suppose you could have figured that much out yourself, seeing as I'm writing you this.
How is the big city treating you? I bet you're taking the place by storm. If you make it on Broadway before I'm back, be sure to send me a playbill from your opening night. My buddy over here, Rory, doesn't believe me when I tell him everything about you, so it'd be nice to have some proof. (He's also sitting here telling me to tell you that he thinks you're beautiful, based on the photo I have of you. Not that I really need to be reminded of that, of course. You're always beautiful.) I'm glad to have Rory to give me and Noah some good company. He's from Dublin, and he teaches us some of their songs to pass the time. Singing always makes me think of you.
I miss you terribly. It's so cold over here, and at nighttime I look up at the stars and always wish you were lying next to me to keep me warm. I think about how the stars are the same no matter where in the world you look at them from, and how when you look at the stars from New York you're looking at the same ones that I see every night here in Germany. I think of you all the time, really. I miss your voice. I try to imagine I'm hearing it when I'm restless, and it usually helps me catch a wink or two of sleep every night.
I hope you still have the ring I gave you. That is, I hope you still have it because you actually want to keep it; I'm afraid, looking back on the circumstances, that you might have felt obligated to take it from me. Please know that above everything that I feel for you, I want you to be happy. I'd be more miserable if I made you unhappy than I ever would be if I knew you were happier somewhere else or with someone else. Please let me know. No matter what, I will be reassured knowing how you really feel.
I love you and miss you. I'll be seeing you.
Love,
Finn
She swallows hard, her face falling into her hand while the other grasps the ring at her neck, and she cries, because oh, she misses him, too.
"Ay, princesa!" Santana hollers and pounds on the door. "They need you downstairs for fitting!"
Rachel splashes some cold water on her puffy eyes, avoids Santana's questioning stare when she observes her splotchy cheeks, and hurries downstairs. Kurt Hummel, costume designer extraordinaire, waits her, tapping his foot impatiently with needle and thread in hand. He tosses a sequined dress at her. "Put this on."
She emerges a minute later from behind a thick velvet curtain in a sheath of purple, silver, and red glitter and gemstones. Kurt grasps her shoulders and smiles, his eyes taking in her reflection in the full-length mirror.
"Beautiful, dear. Stunning." His eyes fall on her neck. "Oh, and just for future reference, the necklace and ring will have to go during performances."
Her pleased smile vanishes. "Why?"
"You never wear gold and silver together," he sighs and massages his temple wearily, rolling his eyes as if she should know this. "And besides, the chain and ring clash with the dress—a plain ring like that, against all this sparkle and shine? The styles completely disagree. You'll simply have to take it off during performances."
"No."
He blinks and then frowns at her. "Excuse me, but I'm trying to help you."
"Excuse me, but I'm not removing this." She puts a hand over the ring, feels the diamond press familiarly into her skin over her thumping heart. This ring is hers—not just hers, but Finn's, and his mother's, too. She will not take it off.
"It's just a ring, dear. Don't fret. If it gets lifted, we'll replace it somehow."
She inhales sharply, clenches her jaw, and her fists tightening at her sides. "I said," She answers finally in a low voice, "no. I am not removing this."
"Do you want to look your best on stage or not?"
She steps off of the fitting block, holding his gaze. "I do know what I want," she answers, turns, and goes behind the curtain, stripping the dress off and pulling her clothes back on, all the while blinking back tears furiously.
At last she escapes the fitting room, which suddenly feels stifling; she takes the steps two at a time to her and Santana's apartment, scrambles around the room for a pen and paper, and sits to write:
My darling Finn,
I am working in a very quaint little musical diner in the city. The performers all get to keep the apartments located above the diner; our work is our rent payment, and in exchange, Mr. Schuester (that's the owner) supplies us with food and utilities from the profits of the diner. It all works out quite nicely. In the meantime, I am auditioning for every stage show they will let me try out for. So far I've had no roles, but I have managed to get callbacks here and there, though, so there is promise, I believe.
I look out at the stars for a long while every night before I go to bed, and I think about you whenever I see them. I think about our last night together, the events of which I do not and never will regret. I just want you to be here again. I want to hold you and have you standing there in front of me again. I want to sing for you again. I feel more strongly for you than I have ever felt about anyone, and that scares me. Please come home to me, Finn. I miss you and love you so very, very much.
I keep your ring with me always, without fail. My mind is made up.
Write back to me soon. I'll be seeing you.
All my love,
Rachel
P.S.—Please tell you friend Rory that his compliments were flattering and helped bring a smile to my face when I needed it most. Tell him that I am thankful he is being such a good friend to such a good man.
She rubs a dab of her perfume—lavender laced with carnations—along the top of the page, seals it into an envelope and addresses it; tugs on her winter gear and treks to the mailbox two blocks away. She presses a firm kiss onto the back of the envelope before dropping it into the mailbox, shoving her hands deep into her pockets, and walking with a sudden spring in her step that she hasn't felt in some time.
She thinks that maybe, just maybe, they'll both be all right.
December 1944
It's been two years. Two long, long years. He's just so tired. He wants to go home. Is that too much to ask?
"Finn," Noah whispers, his voice uneven as he continues, "if I don't make it out of this…"
"Don't think like that," Finn is quick to tell him as the tiniest bit of sun escapes a break in the clouds over the snowy mountaintop beyond them.
"If I don't make it out of this," Noah ventures on, his breath turning to fog in the icy air, "you have to. You hear me?" Finn holds his friend's eyes, and for what he's certain is the first time ever, he sees fear there. "Get home to your mom and be a good son; get a job; marry Rachel Berry. Don't keep screwing around like I always did."
"Noah…"
"Take this." He hastily takes the Star of David pin from his inner uniform shirt and goes to work fastening it to the inside of Finn's uniform in the same spot.
"I mean it, Noah, don't—"
"You're my best friend, you know that?"
Finn nods slowly, swallows hard, and grips Noah's hand for a few long moments. "You too," he chokes, and then whips around at the sound of the general's sudden orders. He seeks out Rory and takes his position beside him. "How're you feeling, Lucky?"
"Cold. And confused. What's happening?"
"Beats me."
The ground is ice cold, and an overpowering chill seeps from the snow into his boots and up through his body. He tries to remember that day in the sun and the cold water with Rachel, half naked and smiling and kissing until they saw stars. He tries to feel her standing beside him as she did that day at the edge of the lake—feet apart, shoulders squared, hands on her hips, fearless. His beautiful, fiery, fearless girl.
The ground is ice cold.
Rachel. Rachel. Rachel.
He hears the first of gunfire, and it rattles his bones just like always. A man on his left sinks to his knees. A second gunshot is heard. A soldier several yards away lands face-down.
"Germans!"
All hell breaks loose.
"Hello? Hello, Ms. Hudson? Ms. Hudson? It's me—Rachel Berry—this is Rachel."
Carole can hear tears on the girl's voice as the operator connects them. "Rachel, darling, I'm here. This is Carole. I need you to be calm, okay?" (She herself has been crying all day.)
"My parents—they…" The girl has to stop and wait for her breathing to even out before she struggles to say, "I just got off the phone with my parents…they told me about Noah Puckerman, how he…" Rachel's voice tightens and cuts off again, and Carole bites back sobs while the girl lets her own tears fall on the other end of the line. "Ms. Hudson, have you heard anything? Anything? Please, ma'am…"
"Darling, if I knew anything, I would tell you."
"Finn—is he—is Finn okay?"
Carole covers her eyes and forces a few deep breaths into her lungs before echoing, "If I knew anything, I would tell you."
There is a long silence before Carole hears another quiet sob. After another moment or two, the girl's voice returns, and Carole hears all of her emotion even through the crackling of the phone line.
"I love your son, ma'am. I love him so much."
Carole finds herself smiling despite everything. "I know, Rachel, darling. He loves you, too—very much. I saw it in his eyes the first time he told me about you." She hears a tiny, bashful laugh attached to another soft sob. "Rachel?"
"Yes?"
"Call me Carole."
"Okay."
"And stay on the phone with me for a while," she adds as her own voice wavers and her throat constricts again. "Please."
"…I will, Carole."
Five months of no letters, no calls from Carole. Rachel can't count the number of nights that Santana has stayed awake with her—the two of them curled up on the floor by the heater, with Santana's arms around Rachel's shaking shoulders.
"I need him, Santana. I need him to come home. I just need him. I hate this, Santana, I hate it."
"I know, princesa," Santana will murmur each time and kiss Rachel's hair soothingly. "I know."
Occasionally Santana will slip into the kitchen after the cooks have gone home and sneak a bottle of brandy back up to the apartment, desperate for something to ease Rachel into at least a half-sleep.
Rachel tries to tell herself he's alive. Maybe he's too busy now to write; since the Germans assailed the Allies in the Ardennes, the action in Europe has been so rapid that it's difficult to keep track of it all when she listens to the news on the radio in the dining hall every evening. Santana sits with her, along with Santana's best friend Brittany, both of whom are surprisingly good company for Rachel while she sits there with bated breath and a handkerchief clutched in her white-knuckled hand.
On this bright, May morning, Rachel's eyes wobble open and her head throbs; Santana must have slipped her more brandy than ever last night. As the months have passed, the growing doses are not uncommon for her. Her anxiety is starting to break her. Shouldn't Carole have heard something by now? But no, every time she calls to check in, Carole gives the same answer, followed by, "Rachel, at this point, no news is good news." That never helps. However, talking with Carole for a good while does relieve her some. Rachel practically calls the woman her second mother by now.
A continuous clamor in the streets is what finally wrestles her out of her alcohol-induced slumber. The pounding in her head is augmented by the sound of people shouting and screaming and whistling in the streets, along with…are those church bells? Why does it sound like every bell in the city is ringing right inside her room? She squeezes her eyes shut and curls her pillow around the back of her head to stuff it against her ear in an attempt to deaden the head-splitting noise.
The door to the apartment bursts open, and it startles her so much that she nearly falls off the bed as she rolls over to see Santana scampering across the floor, wide-eyed and panting from apparently running up the stairs to the flat.
"Ay, princesa! Outside! Come outside! Venga!" She pulls a bleary Rachel to her feet, and stamps impatiently as the smaller girl puts her shoes on. She finally drags Rachel down the stairs and nearly shoves her out of the diner door.
Rachel stumbles at the sight of men and women rushing around in the streets, crowds making it impossible for any traffic to move and strangers embracing in the middle of the roads, most of them crying and laughing. She dares not think what she wants so desperately to think as she stares, dazed, at the hundreds of hats and handkerchiefs being launched skyward. Santana snatches a newspaper off of the ground just before a group of racing feet trample it, and thrusts the pages into Rachel's arms. She yells something at Rachel, but her words are lost in the frenzy around them. Rachel blinks as her wooziness slowly subsides and she focuses on the large, bold letters spelling the New York Times headline.
THE WAR IN EUROPE IS ENDED! SURRENDER IS UNCONDITIONAL; V-E WILL BE PROCLAIMED TODAY; OUR TROOPS IN OKINAWA GAIN.
She reads, re-reads, and then re-reads again. The newspaper slips from her hands, and she realizes that she's crying as she turns and throws her arms around Santana. Just as quickly, Rachel staggers backward and runs to the diner with one word on her lips.
"Carole."
Inside, she darts between tables and people preparing for today's opening in the afternoon; Santana follows closely behind, keeping a firm hand in Rachel's even as Rachel stands, trembling, at the phone and waits for the operator to connect her call.
"Hello?"
"Carole?"
"Rachel, darling?"
"Carole, is he—"
"He's all right. He's coming home, darling."
Rachel feels as though she's erupting; she has to lean against the wall for support when she starts to sob and laugh in tandem. She feels like she may never, ever be able to stop.
He has to keep himself from leaning too far, too eagerly over the rail of the ship deck as he strains to see the Statue of Liberty materializing on the horizon. Gripping Rachel's latest letter tightly in his hand against the gusting ocean breeze that threatens to knock him over, he stands immobile and watches the shape grow and take form; it means America, it means safe, it means home. It means his mother is waiting for him just as anxiously in the harbor. He feels himself start to cry. He misses his mother. He can't wait to see her, and he's sure he'll be crying twice as hard when he finally does.
And there is another woman waiting for him, somewhere in the city, and he has been waiting for her, too, for so long. He memorized the address on her letters. He's going to find her and hold her and never let her go.
He brushes his fingers over the Irish coin from Rory, stowed safely in the pocket of his jacket; he touches the Star of David pinned to his left breast pocket, and feels the outline of Rachel's picture still secured beneath the fabric.
He could leap from the deck and land on the statue now. He can hear the crowds in the harbor; can see the hats and handkerchiefs floating into the late spring air, warmed by the first stirrings of summer.
He is coming home.
She struck a deal with Schuester a few weeks back; to make up for all the time she's taking away from helping with morning setup in order to make her auditions, she'll put in extra time doing the nitpicky chores whenever she's not already occupied. So here she sits, alone, rolling silverware in the kitchen. She's found that she actually likes the quiet, though. It gives her time to think, and to sing to herself if she feels like it.
It's also a downside, though—having time to think. She thinks about when, or if, she'll hear back from any director. And when is Finn going to write her? Or call her? Or just come see her? Or let her know when he's coming?
Her hands still as she secures the cloth napkin, and she reaches up to touch the ring at her neck. Nowadays she's been more and more preoccupied with the accidents that could happen to it; the chain could break and send it down a drain, or into a trash bin, or onto the floor without her noticing until it's too late and the ring—invaluable to her, Finn, and his mother—would be long gone.
But more than that, she worries about him. The accidents that could happen to him are far worse.
It's been long enough since the war ended. So why isn't he here?
All at once, the silence is broken by the faint sound of the piano from out in the dining area. She frowns. Brad, their accompanist, never shows up before ten on weekday mornings. It's barely past nine now. That's when she notices that it's no expert playing the piano; this person is just plunking haphazardly on the keys. It's probably Brittany and Santana goofing off now that their work for the morning is done.
But then she realizes, all at once, the tune. As many wrong notes as whoever it is may be plunking out, they keep on plunking until they find the right note and then begin again. That melody…unmistakable, for her at least. She feels her chest constrict, and sings under her breath, perfectly on pitch from months and months of hearing the song in her head by day and in her dreams by night.
"I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar faces…"
She trails off and blinks, slowly rising from her chair. Surely not. But she chances it anyway, stealing to the kitchen door.
After hesitating, taking in the chipping, off-white pain on the front door, and staring up at the sign reading "Schuester's Music Diner," he ventures inside.
"Hello?" he calls out softly after passing through a second, red door and stepping into an empty dining hall. The place seems deserted—no noise coming from the dining floor, or upstairs, or even from the lit kitchen beyond the swinging black door.
Feeling deflated (he'd at least hoped to find someone here, if not Rachel, to let him know that if she's out she'll be back soon), he considers going back to his hotel, collapsing into the bed waiting for him, and sleeping for a thousand years, which he knows he probably could use. Still his want, no, need for her nudges him further through the doorway. He shrugs to himself and crosses to the old piano in the corner of the room nearest him. He's here; he might as well wait it out. He got used to doing that over in Europe, and he wasn't even waiting for anything pleasant over there, so surely he can stand to wait here.
He examines the exposed piano keys thoughtfully. His mother used to play for him all the time when he was younger. It surely can't be that hard…he thinks of the first song that comes to mind, Rachel's song, and starts to (very messily) attempt to play the tune by ear. He actually gets a good grip on the first few bars, and he begins to sing to himself. Before he knows it, he's managed to figure out the whole melody, and he sings the final bars a little louder, proudly. "I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you."
In the silence that follows, he sits there and feels the ache in his chest double. He rubs his eyes wearily. He can just hear her voice, clear and full like their last night together, singing the song with him.
And that voice breaks the silence next, stopping his heart and restarting it, too.
"Looking for me, soldier?"
He's on his feet and turning around without thinking, without seeing anything but her. Her, standing at the kitchen door, arms extended just slightly as though she could take flight, and she's there, real and whole and almost blinding,. (God, she's so beautiful.) He maneuvers between tables, she runs to meet him halfway, and he scoops her off of the ground and buries his face in her hair. She winds her legs around his waist, locks her arms around his neck, and they stay that way, weeping and laughing while she kisses every inch, every scrape and cut and bruise of his face that she can reach.
"I love you" is the first thing he manages to say, his voice wobbly and breathless. She coughs up a sob and wipes the tears off of his face with her thumb. "I love you, I love you," he echoes, each statement punctuated with a kiss on her nose or her forehead or cheek.
Eventually she releases his waist from her legs, sliding back down to the floor. He pulls out the nearest chair and sits, and she eases herself onto his lap, laying her head on his chest. He drapes his arms around her, and they stay completely still aside from an occasional kiss placed on her forehead and the brush of her fingers along his neck.
"I've missed you," she finally whispers slowly, sitting up and taking his face in her hands with a look of consternation. "What took you so long?"
"I tried to find a job first," he admits. Her eyes start to well up again. "I needed to get a hotel, too. I only just got back the day before yesterday, and I thought I would have found a job by now, but I haven't…"
"Finn."
"I know it's not much to go on, and I was hoping I'd have more already accomplished—that I'd have a life waiting for us by the time I showed up here…"
"Finn."
"…But I interviewed with a few more businesses and I've got a few leads, so I think we should be all right before long…"
"Finn." She gives his face a small shake in her hands, bringing his attention solely to her. "Right now, all I need is you." She guides his hand and places his palm over the left side of her chest, above the rapid thudding of her heart. "Do you feel this?" He nods and smiles. "You have to know that it always belonged to you. Always will. Do you understand me?" He kisses her firmly in reply. "Good."
With that, she reaches behind her neck and undoes the clasp of the dainty gold chain. She experiences a certain bittersweet sensation in feeling the slight weight lifted from her chest as she pulls the chain away and lets the ring slide into her palm.
"You really kept it," Finn murmurs in amazement, which elicits a sweet laugh from her.
"I told you I did." She nuzzles his cheek. "Now, I think it's time we put this"—she holds the ring up to him—"to better use. Wouldn't you agree?"
Between his shaking hands and his pounding heart (why is he even nervous? He's already done this once), he remembers to get down on one knee.
"Rachel Barbra Berry, I loved you from that first time we danced together. I still love you, now more than ever. And if you'll have me, I want to be here with you every step of the way, proving it to you. I want to watch you give your opening performance on Broadway. I want to watch our kids grow up. I even want to be old and gray with you, too. So, what do you say? Will you marry me?"
She's laughing through her tears, placing a warm, steady hand on his scraped face and quivering jaw. Kissing him. Whispering to him, "I'll marry you right now, if you want."
But of course, he won't let her marry him right then and there. He wants to do it properly—with her parents and his mother and a small group of their friends and family from Ohio there to see it happen in a small synagogue in the city. Rachel is a vision in lace and satin, and his yarmulke is an unfamiliar but pleasant weight on his head (Rachel's parents wouldn't agree without him consenting to a traditional Jewish wedding, but really, did they think he would have actually demanded a Christian ceremony instead?)
But before even any of that, they start planning. They find an apartment. He gets a job—assistant manager of the diner, alongside Mr. Schuester. Rachel gets a callback from a director she's already auditioned in front of twice before, one who's apparently told her she has promise and told her he wants her to audition for this new show. She lands a smaller lead—but a lead nonetheless. They scrape together some furniture and the flat turns into a home. A real home—not a boarding house, not a house where he still sleeps in his childhood bed. A real, genuine home. And it suits them both just fine.
Mr. Schuester closes down his diner for the day so they can have the reception there, and Rachel introduces him to her costars at the diner, including a rather intimidating but endearing Latina who Rachel introduces as her new, closest friend (after him, of course).
"You take care of her," Santana says with a soft jab of her finger into his chest to prove she means business. "You treat her like the princesa she is. Do you hear me?"
"Loud and clear," he answers and nods soberly, squeezing Rachel against his side and kissing her hair.
Rory manages to join the festivities as well, his ship from Ireland landing a day earlier than expected. Rachel giggles while Rory kisses her finger tips once, sweetly and sincerely.
"Lucky man, you are," he says and nudges Finn while Rachel blushes graciously.
"I think that's got something to do with you, Rory," Finn answers.
"Nah, I've got nothin' to do with it." He smiles softly at Rachel. "You're such a good friend for such a good man." In response, Rachel can only hug Rory tightly, starting to cry for the nth time of the day.
"Thank you for staying with him," she whispers. "Thank you."
After multiple kisses from Carole and Rachel's parents, Finn picks Rachel up effortlessly and lowers her into the passenger seat of his car, and they pull away from the curb with everyone waving goodbye. They're headed for a tiny cottage on the shore somewhere in Jersey, rented out for them for two weeks after Rachel's parents and Carole scraped together enough to treat Finn and Rachel to it. Exhausted from the day and the long drive, they collapse together on the single bed in the bedroom and fall right to sleep.
It's the best sleep that either of them has had in two years.
When he next wakes, it's dark. Finn feels the empty space next to him on the mattress, and after first searching the entirety of the tiny but quaint house, he looks outside and finds her silhouette as she ambles through the sand toward the shore. As he follows her she comes to a stop and places her hands on her hips, and all at once it is not nighttime and there is no massive ocean ahead of him; there is only her, on the shore of their tiny lake that seems centuries gone, with her hands on her hips and her shoulders squared beneath the warm mid-autumn sun—breathtaking, fearless.
He stops and buries his feet in the sand just beside her.
"Are you happy?" he asks, holding out his hand, in which she immediately places her own.
"Over the moon." She drapes his arm around her shoulders, turning her eyes outward again. "It's awfully big," she murmurs. "The ocean. It just goes and goes. So far that you can't see the other side." She looks up at him again. "I always thought it was terrifying—not knowing what's in front of you—don't you think?"
He nods slowly and swallows hard. "Yeah, it is." He squeezes her shoulders. "But here I am. I crossed it twice. If I can do it, so can you—and with far greater ease, I think."
She gazes up at him, and in her eyes he can see the moon and the stars reflecting forever. "You really believe in me that much?" she whispers.
"More," he breathes. He leans down and kisses her, long and slow and deep.
She wraps her arms tightly around his waist and lets her head rest on his chest, while their eyes watch the moonlight play tricks on the waves at the horizon.
She feels his chest swell against her face, and she worries for a moment, until she hears his voice. His singing voice. She's never heard it until now, and it causes fresh tears to prick at her eyes. His voice is deep and full and steady, and warms her straight down to her soul. She tightens her hold around him and closes her eyes, and he holds her just as tightly while they carry each other away, over the sea, and up into the sky, floating among the stars.
"I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you."
THE END.