Title: Can't Get Better Than This
Pairing: Finn/Rachel
Rating: G
Author's Note: Written 12/09, posted to my LJ just before Christmas. Please know that this story is so sweet, it may induce diabetic coma. You've been warned. ;)
(Also, there's an additional author's note at the end, but it's spoilery...hence its location!)
There's a spot in their apartment, just near the sunniest window, that has remained vacant since their arrival in New York - one year, two months, and six days ago. Not that she's counting.
A cheap but comfortable corduroy beanbag chair - a relic of Finn's days in a shared college dorm room – rests in this sun-drenched spot, just right for reading or relaxing (even if it isn't necessarily fashionable in terms of interior décor). But it's simply a placeholder for what's to come, and it will happily find a new home elsewhere when the piano arrives…someday.
Besides her dads and various friends she left in Ohio, Rachel misses her piano. Friends and family are a phone call or a Facebook message away; the feeling of the keys beneath her fingers is irreplaceable.
Moving the piano was never an option, really, though she certainly made a valiant attempt at persuasion last fall as they filled the U-Haul. But who would carry it up three flights of stairs once they made it to New York, and what if it was damaged on the way? In the end, it stayed in Lima, and, alone (because no one else would ever understand), Rachel wept bitter tears over the loss. Now, well into this phase of life, she knows they couldn't possibly afford one; for this reason, it never comes up at the monthly budget meetings she schedules faithfully. She just does without, figuring that sacrifice is part of life.
But the sunny corner stays clear (well, aside from the beanbag), waiting for its intended occupant to arrive. Someday.
It's six days before Christmas and the second-to-last night of Hanukkah. Snowflakes swirl through the air, collecting in the hair that falls across her shoulders and clinging to her eyelashes as she walks home through the streets of their neighborhood. It's beautiful, she thinks, the orange-yellow glow of the streetlamps shining upon the snow-slickened pavement, the nighttime streets hushed by the falling snow. It's a blanket of calm in a world of stress, and it's a time of year that she dearly loves.
Tonight is no exception, but she'd have a smile on her face and a bounce in her step (with caution for the icy patches, of course) even if their neighborhood wasn't shrouded in a blanket of white. Because today she began her first rehearsals in the ensemble of a real, live Broadway musical (okay, it was Off-Broadway, but still…). It wasn't exactly what she'd expected, and she wasn't going to win a Tony (not yet, at least), but it was work and it was the work she'd come here to find. It was a beginning.
And so she makes her way through the snow to their building, hoping Finn had a good day at work and humming under her breath as she wonders if it – life, anything – can get better than this.
When she enters their apartment, the only light she sees comes from behind the bedroom door, a sliver of yellow in the darkness. Leaving her wet boots in the entryway, she tiptoes down the hall, smiling as she pushes the door open gently. She's expecting the familiar - to see him asleep on top of the covers with the television on or sitting up in bed eating something crumbly, the remnants of which will undoubtedly (as they always do) end up stuck to her skin by morning.
But what greets her is definitely not a familiar tableau. She finds him inside, ESPN Magazine open across his lap, his tall frame settled into the corduroy beanbag chair now residing beside the dresser.
"Hey," she says softly.
He looks up, meeting the bewildered look she can't hide (she wishes sometimes that she wasn't so transparent) with a half-smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes.
And immediately, she's worried.
"Finn…?" Concern knits her brow, shines through her eyes.
Unfolding his long legs from beneath him, he extracts himself from the beanbag chair, letting the magazine slide to the floor, forgotten. She moves to hug him (and this is familiar) but pressing her cheek to his chest, she feels his heart beat wildly, an animal caged but untamed. She pulls away, taking his hand in hers and finding it clammy. By now, the worry has truly set in.
"What's going on, Finn? Did something happen today?"
His answer is quick, but his tone doesn't placate her. "No, no, everything's fine. I had a great day, great evening. So glad you're home!" He takes a deep breath and grins down at her. "I can't wait to hear about your rehearsal, but I'm really thirsty. Want to come with me and get a drink?"
She hasn't a solitary clue what's going on, but she thinks for a moment that she'd much rather have crumbs stuck to her back tomorrow morning than this rather manic Finn currently leading her toward the kitchen.
They round the corner and his hand slips from hers. But she knows the way to the kitchen in the darkness, could count the steps to the refrigerator, the table, or the counter. She's halfway there when he switches on the floor lamp and floods the room with light.
Even out of the corner of her eye, it's evident in the way the shadows fall across the space; something is different in this room she knows by heart. And she turns, and she sees it, and suddenly she can barely breathe.
There, in what by day is the sunniest spot in their apartment, stands a piano.
Dark cherry wood gleams in the lamplight, the lines and curves accentuated by shadows; a soft pink cushion practically invites her to sit on the bench and play. It's quite possibly the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.
Finn has never known a speechless Rachel, but here she stands. Frozen in place, her eyes are wide and her hand covers her mouth as she shakes her head.
"It's amazing, Finn. Truly amazing, but -" she looks up at him, still shaking her head, "we can't…how did you get this?" She steps forward, running her fingers over the closed keyboard cover gently.
At this, he grins and shrugs his shoulders, hands in his pockets. "Actually, it was free. I hoped you wouldn't ask so I didn't have to tell you that, but…I don't want you to worry, either." He takes in her expression, shocked and confused and just a little bit hopeful.
"Yeah, this –" he gestures toward the piano, "was totally free. Just had to pick it up and, uh…"
His arm comes around her shoulders, pulling her in close to his chest. It's easier to say this if he doesn't have to look her in the eyes.
"Well, the thing is…it cost a lot to move it. So I could only get you one other little gift for the holidays."
She turns in his arms, wraps her own arms tightly around his waist. "I can't imagine what else I would ever want. This is…it's too much. And just perfect. And I don't even know how to say it. I can't think of anything better, really. Thank you."
Her hand slides around his neck, and she pulls him toward her.
His lips are soft and warm, and she tries her best to show him just how much this gift means to her, but she can't ignore the fact that his heart hasn't calmed down. And is he even breathing correctly? She caresses his cheek with her palm and speaks softly.
"Why are you so nervous? I love it! Did you honestly think I wouldn't?"
She smiles up at him, hoping to make him feel better about his present. It's truly incredible, this beautiful instrument in their living room; she can barely believe it's real, that it belongs to them, that he somehow set all this up to surprise her. Gazing at the velvety pink cushion, she can hardly wait to sit and play. She imagines playing duets together, teaching their children to play… And her breath hitches in her throat.
From somewhere outside her imagination, she hears him say, voice trembling, "Why don't you try it out? I had the tuner come after the mover guys brought it up."
Grinning, she tucks her skirt beneath her and slides between the piano and the bench, taking a moment to situate herself before looking up at him with joy in her eyes.
He, however, looks more like he's about to be sick. His skin is ghost-white and the smile on his face belies the sheer terror pounding in his heart. He gestures with one shaking hand to the cover hiding the keyboard.
"Try it out, Rach. I can't wait to hear you play."
Now her hand trembles as she carefully pushes back the cover. Shining white and black gleam back at her, and –
She feels a sob rise in her throat and turns to find the face she's loved for years wearing a mixture of fear and hope.
Because perched across C sharp and E flat, just above middle C, is a tiny blue velvet box, and Rachel is fairly sure she knows what's inside.
He slides in beside her on the piano bench, plucking the tiny box from atop the keys and opening it toward her. The box shakes in his large hand, and she hastily wipes her eyes before placing her fingers across his wrist to still the motion. She still doesn't speak, and he's half-amazed that for the second time in the space of ten minutes, he's rendered Rachel Berry speechless.
Nerves nearly silence him, but he soldiers on. "You know I love you, of course. And I'm happy here. We're happy here, even before you, you know…even when you were only working at the dinner theatre. I loved seeing you there, and I'm so proud of you. I've always been proud of you."
She's staring at him, and he feels almost – almost – like he did back in high school when she did that all the time and it was super awkward, but he knows now what's behind those brown eyes, and why she looks at him as though he's the only person who matters to her. Because right now, he is. And he loves her for it, and for a million and a half other reasons, and he's got to get this out before he chokes.
"I think I always knew it was you. You were just going to be the one for me, and that's…awesome. And I love that, and I love you." He nods toward her and a small smile lights her features. The eyes looking into his are warm and tender and the rush of emotion he feels rising within him pushes the words from his throat. "So…I don't see any reason, really, why we shouldn't get married…"
The tenderness turns to confusion.
"That didn't come out right. What I mean is, I love you, and I want to be with you. You know, forever."
At this, she smiles just a bit mischievously and glances down at the box in his hand. "Are you going to ask me?"
He laughs. "Guess I need to do that, huh?"
So he asks. And he doesn't use her full name, because he remembers that she said once how cheesebucket that was (and somehow, he'd loved her even more, because she'd used his silly expression), and somehow she loves him even more for thinking of that in this moment.
It's only natural to respond with music; her smile widens as she plunks out a few bars of Wagner's Wedding March with one hand. His nerves are replaced with a gleeful grin, because he knows now what her answer is (though he's not sure why he ever wondered). As she finishes, he leans toward her, and their smiles blend into a kiss.
When they break apart, he rests his forehead against hers and says quietly, "So that's a yes?"
She kisses him again before she answers. "Finn, it was always yes."
Author's Note: Piano adoption really exists! Free piano if you pick it up...who knew? Also, the "I don't see any reason why we shouldn't get married" proposal line is from my own dad...that's what he said to my mom (on the phone, no less!) back in '78. Hell of a proposal, eh? She still kids him about it to this day...I think it's cute. :)