Author's note: I was kicking this around for quite a while and, lo and behold, the finale of S3 made it decided less AU (potentially.) Not so very happy these little stories. I want to call them "bittersweet morsels." This one, in particular should bring you up to speed on how this universe has panned out. It reads like Memento (on purpose, I swear) and hasn't been beta'd so I hope it works. Follow-ups to be called Apple Carts and Hornets' Nests and Irish Goodbye.

Disclaimer: The characters within this story are intellectual properties of Fox, Ryan Murphy and various other subsidiaries and creators. The story itself is mine but likely influenced by some of the stories written by some of the people reading this. No profit is sought or received/accepted for this work.

Said and Unsaid

They're having room service for breakfast in her suite at the MGM Grand. She came in from a late show to find him waiting for her and they made love until dawn. He pours her a Bloody Mary and she smiles at him after her first sip because he remembers to heap in the horseradish. He curses when he gets some on his robe and she tells him not to worry about the cost and that she'll only accept that sort of language in the throes of passion. They talk about how his boys are doing in school and how Christopher, his oldest, has grown to be so tall and athletic and just like him. They rarely talk about what it feels like specifically for him to be a parent. Not since a few years ago, when her doctor confirmed that her insides were more like Shelby's than she would have liked. Not since she decided against adopting. They never talk about how Chris' teenage crush on "Auntie Rachel" hasn't gone away and how he has started calling her "Rachel" and sometimes "Rach."

They lie in bed, naked under the tangled sheets of a king sized bed. It's her other apartment, the one she got in her divorce. It was her second marriage: the real one, not the beard for a friend. The light of the moon and the stars and the city itself leaves a faint wash of light in the bedroom that's just enough to make out detail. She's placing kisses down his torso, biting down quickly and gently on his nipple while keeping her eyes locked on his. She's grinning like a cat with the world's biggest canary in her claws until she feels the change in his skin's surface on his left side. She stops to run her fingers across the blotchy stretch of scar tissue that covers the area from his hip halfway up to his armpit. She stops to kiss him there, reverently, and mutters a short blessing before continuing to kiss him lower and lower. She always does this. They have talked about the injury; how it was a poorly made IED, how it was likely the work of a child soldier who was new to the world of guerilla warfare, how it got him sent home in time for Christmas, how he should have been more careful going into such a tight passageway. He has told her about how he lost a rib, his spleen and half of the rest of his liver. She doesn't like to hear about that. She has told him that it looks like a storm cloud because of the jagged lines that protrude from the edges "like lightning bolts." She tells him to call it that: "storm cloud". He does because it makes it less scary to her. He never tells her about the rest of his unit pulling him back out, cutting away his clothes and emptying their canteens flush out the wound. They would do this in case the bomb maker coated the screws and ball bearings of the makeshift mine with rat poison because of its anti-coagulant properties. She never asks if he is still okay to drink with his injury. She never tells him that she wishes he wouldn't just in case.

She tells him to bring the boys by anytime and that she adores them. She admits that she loves the attention they give her, fighting over who can help best around the house or who she likes best. When Christopher received his Holy Confirmation, she imagines that he is reading a haftorah at the Bar Mitzvah she would have instructed him on . . . if he was her son. When she gets teary-eyed in the church, Carole asks if she's alright and she whispers that she's so proud of the boy. Finn catches her eye and knows that it's a half-truth: That there's more to it than that and that he doesn't dare ask.

He gets off the elevator at the floor she tells him to and sees her at the end of the hallway. Her hair is so wild and careless that he knows she spent forever on it. Her blouse is loose and her skirt is so short, so much like the ones she used to wear back then. There are differences, though. The knee high stockings are sheer and dark instead of white cotton. The patent leather shoes are heels, stiletto even. The look he feels her giving him from behind dark glasses and red, painted lips is so unlike the reserved schoolgirl he knows is deep behind the sex and glamour she exudes. He follows her and finds her waiting for him in the stairwell, still facing away. She turns her head over her shoulder and tells him how anxious she has been, how wet she is and tells him to check. He reaches under her skirt only to find nothing but warm air and her slick folds. She leans forward to grab the railing and sharply tells him to get started or she'll do it for him. The public venue doesn't matter anymore. Nothing in the world could stop him as he unzips and plunges into her from behind. The high heels and her long legs make up for the difference in their heights. He tells her how hot and wet she is and how she had better not get tired because he was going fuck her all day long. He slides his hand up the front of her shirt to grab her breast and continues up gently grasp her firmly by the throat. She calls him "dirty fucker" and orders him to go harder and faster. Soon her heels are clicking against the linoleum as she starts getting lifted up by each thrust and she tries to find purchase on the stairs. In no time, her breath becomes ragged and she bites down on her lower lip to feel the flood take her. He supports her weight for the few seconds that she goes limp and she can exhale again. She chuckles and asks if he's going to come for her, come for his "hot bitch." He does and she can feel each heartbeat until he finishes, twitching inside her. He's so tall and she's so limber that they can kiss easily in this position and he hungrily sucks her tongue into his mouth. He tells her how much he misses her. She tells him how much she needs him. She steps away from him and reaches down to take a hold of him. She leads him up the stairs to where her room really is and tells him that he has work to do and that it's been nine weeks since she went on tour without coming back to New York. He promises not to make her wait so much in-between again. Neither of them mention the year-and-a-half when they didn't meet like this, didn't meet at all or even speak much to each other at Kurt's parties. They certainly never bring up the argument between them that led to the temporary separation; a fight where she asked about her and Carmen and the Army and about which was his love, which his mistress and which his obligation. He never says whether it was a factor in turning down the position at West Point and leaving the Army to go into the private sector.

He has told her that he never feels guilty about the affair because he loves her and their love is never wrong. He won't tell her that he gets a thrill out of sex when she has boyfriend and that it makes him feels important and desirable to be the other man.

She gets into the Suburban with the tinted windows and leaves the theatre. She's so frenzied that she doesn't notice that Allen isn't the one driving today. He greets her with a "Good evening, Beautiful" and her head snaps up to see him grinning in the mirror. She doesn't ask where they're going when he starts going towards the Midtown Tunnel instead of the East side. They talk about how well Kurt is doing and how happy he's been since he found Stephon. They both laugh about how they mirror her dads, at least superficially. He talks about how Kurt isn't drinking as much now. He mentions, briefly, how bad things got since Burt died after a second stroke. She pokes to find out if Carole is still drinking since she moved in with him, Carmen and their boys. He doesn't say much. She doesn't push. She certainly doesn't say anything about when Carole caught her alone after the wake and cried with her and told her how she had always hoped for the two of them getting back together. Neither of them bring up the notion that Kurt might know . . . probably knows and that it may be why he has been growing increasingly prickly towards them. When they finally get to a beach house on Long Island, they're holding hands and mooning over each other like teenagers. They kiss and undress each other going up the stairs. He tosses his keys on the nightstand and is discreet when he takes off the Springfield .45 that she hates seeing and tucks it under the bed with his shoes. The headboard is brass railing and faces a picture window that looks out onto the beach. Once they're both naked, she looks over at him and casually tells him how she can't wait to wake him up by riding him while watching the sun come up over the water. He says that he'll have the better view and she's embarrassed that she still swoons as a result of his clichéd but earnest lines after all this time. He lifts her chin to kiss her and she jumps into his arms. He lowers her down some and jabs his shaft up into her. She breaks the kiss with a gasp and giggles as he bounces her while standing next to the bed. She asks how long he can keep this up. He smiles at her when he tells her that its their "signature move" and whispers, "Ahhh, push it. Push it real good." She pretends to giggle when she half-sings "Ohhh baby baby." She doesn't tell him how special it makes her feel, that he remembers every little thing about them.

It was twenty minutes of angry, awkward silence. They had met for the second time since high school prom, since he came to New York, and they had been forced into a cross-town car ride. It wasn't deliberate on Kurt's part. It was a legitimate emergency that held him up and forced them to be alone for the first time in years. It was their own arrogance that made them think it could be a nice catch-up session between mature adults. When she finally broke the silence and asked about his change of station, he exploded. He responded to all the silent recriminations he had imagined to be in her head. He admitted that he fucked up. He didn't expect her to wait for him and he never planned on his own shotgun wedding. He joined the army because he knew he was "Lima good" but Rachel was "New York good, world good" and he needed to be something besides her lover. He needed to be a man. A man whose mother makes his bed and lists video game scores and high school touchdowns as accomplishments isn't "Rachel Berry good." He had hoped that she would have lived her life and fallen in love over and over again each day and that maybe he would have his shot after she had seen who else was out there. He had hoped that they would be each other's last stop and that she wouldn't be lured away by some better-looking, richer, smarter guy. But the army was hard and it was so much time away from Kurt and their parents and Lima and New York and her. And man cannot live on just bread or whatever. And shit happens when you least expect. And he wasn't going let a kid grow up without a father the way he had. She watched silently and open-mouthed as he slowly broke down into the naïve boy who spoke without thinking and kicked furniture when frustrated. By the time they had pulled into her building garage, he had apologized a dozen times. He told her that he had gotten the bad end of the deal because even though he had a family and a career and medals and shit, he didn't have her and that he had proven to the world that he was never going to be "Rachel Berry good." And she kissed him. She kissed him on his temple and then a tear-streaked cheek. Then she turned him to face her and he took her cue to kiss her the way he had wanted to for years. They walked up to her apartment and talked about everything until Kurt called to be buzzed into the building. When Kurt left, so did he. In ten minutes he was back at her door. They talked again. And they kissed again. And they made love until it all made sense.

What little they talk is distant. Cold. Clinical. He gives her the same curt cues and responses that he gives the security he hand-picked for her one week, limited engagement. She isn't a polarizing figure. She has never been political like Barbara. She supports causes dear to her; gay rights, animal rights, arts programs in schools. She doesn't tell him but she thinks its overkill. There are violent incidents all the time but an American singer, Jewish or not, isn't the biggest target in Israel. She could argue with him. Since he left the army, Hudson Five-Star is rapidly growing in reputation as one of the best corporate/personal security firm that doesn't involve itself in straight up mercenary work but the man himself isn't infallible. She knows this better than anyone. She relents and tells him that she understands her notoriety is a factor. She doesn't get into it because she's still angry, still hurt. She would have to talk to him for more than a few seconds and that would lead to a conversation. A conversation they started a year-and-a-half ago that left them mutually incomplete since then. So she limits what sites she visits and who she is seen with. There are no threats. There are no attempts. She gives her final performance in Jerusalem and smiles for schmoozing and photo ops with dignitaries and artists while Finn and his team watch every shadow, corner and catwalk. His jaw is set during the whole tour and he doesn't sleep even half of the four hours a day he allots for himself. When they finally land at JFK, he unclenches and gets fidgety. He personally drives her to Brooklyn and walks her into her home on Ocean Parkway. She is about to tell him that she is exhausted and just wants to forget the whole ordeal when he grabs her by the waist and the back of her head, crushing his mouth against hers. She wants to scream, to spit venom into his mouth . . . but only for a second. They melt together until he breaks the kiss and begins to ramble. He apologizes for how he acted, for scaring her about the danger, for putting limits on the experience. But he won't let anyone else get hurt by the sand. No one else he loves will be killed in that part of the world. Not by bombs or bullets or men with machetes and God on their side. They could have the oil and the money and the cities and the sheep that they fuck and anything else they want but not her. She would not be brought home in a box because of sand or hatred or searing heat. And he half sobs into her shoulder and begs or her to say something back, something that meant he was forgiven. She leads him to the bedroom and tells him to be quiet as they curl up together. She tells him that she'll never have to forgive him because she can never be angry at just him alone. She tells him that they are done being angry at themselves and each other. She tells him to love her and he does.