T w o B i r d s O n e S t o n e
Summary: 'He can see her from the very end of the street – at least, he assumes it's her, because there aren't many people in Lima, Ohio who wear knee high socks and argyle.' Finn Hudson is killing two birds with one stone.
Pairing: Finn/Rachel
Era: Post-Hell-O (Spoilers)
Rating: K+ (for one use of bad language)
Song choice: Last Request by Paolo Nutini
He comes up with the plan at two am on a Saturday morning, when he's got two things he needs to do and no way of doing either.
The first is kind of his fault. The second is not.
(The first being him telling Mr Schue that he could read sheet music when really he can't and now he has to learn a new song all by himself. And the second being that Rachel Berry stamped on his heart in football studs and now he has to win her back).
But the plan. The plan is brilliant.
And it comes to him at exactly three minutes past two when he hears the sound of his mom making a smoothie downstairs.
(The plan has nothing to do with his mom making the smoothie downstairs, other than the fact that the two events happened to coincide).
Finn Hudson is killing two birds with stone.
"Hi, Rach."
A sigh. He kind of expected it. "Oh, hello, Finn."
He hates how pissed she sounds, just at the sound of his voice.
"I didn't recognize your number," she says.
He feigns nonchalance, pretending that he hasn't spent the last half an hour googling how to disguise your caller ID on a cell phone. "Yeah, I'm... on my mom's phone."
"Well, you wouldn't want you wasting her credit," she says reasonably, though they both know her motives aren't quite so rational. "Please make it quick, Finn, I have a very busy schedule. My myspace videos, as you know, won't upload themselves." Another sigh. He's guessing sighs aren't a good sign.
"Yeah, I was just calling to ask a favour."
"A favour?"
"Yeah." He crosses his fingers.
She sounds wary. "What kind of favour?"
"Um, like a musical favour?"
A pause. "And the nature of this musical favour?"
"Well, I got this song... off Mr Schuester. And he wants me to learn it for regionals, but I kind of can't read the music. And I thought – you know what I really need to do? Learn to read music! Because, y'know, everyone else in Glee can, apart from Brittany, but she's...y'know. Brittany. So I kind of need you to teach me how to read music." A thought. "Please." Nice.
"Finn..."
"...Rach..."
The third sigh. "You want me to teach you to read music today?"
"Only if you're not...like, busy or whatever." He winces. "Because I know you don't have your ballet class this afternoon because your teacher broke her ankle, and that opera you were going to see tonight is cancelled because that singer's gastric band burst again, so I know you're free."
He sounds like a freaking stalker.
"Well, that is true..." He's liking the hesitance in her voice. He's liking it a lot. "I..." She's looking for excuses now, he knows it, but she's not thinking fast enough. "I'm not..."
He leaps at the opportunity. "Great! So if I pick you up in an hour –"
"Wait! Finn – I can't. My – uh, books." He does not like this hesitation. "They're at school. My music books, I mean. So it'll have to wait until another day. I'm sorry about that, Finn, but there's really nothing I can –"
"But that's okay. School's open on a Saturday anyway. You know, ever since they worked out that the ninth grade were way below national average and couldn't, like, read, he's been running some Saturday classes."
Thank god for the freshmen's illiteracy.
"So we're good? I'll pick you up in an hour, okay?"
It's reluctant, dubious, even pained. But she says it anyway. "Okay."
He grins to himself. "Awesome! So I'll see you then."
"I suppose." She's gone from annoyance to resignation. "Goodbye, Finn."
She hangs up.
He's there bang on twelve-fifteen, and she's waiting at the end of her driveway. He can see her from the very end of the street – at least, he assumes it's her, because there aren't many people in Lima, Ohio who wear knee high socks and argyle.
Today's colour scheme is a red and blue concoction. He likes it, he decides.
He gets out of the car to greet her. "Hi!"
She nods in greeting. She glances down at his shirt, a flicker of recognition in her gaze. He ignores it, hoping she's not noticed that he's wearing the lucky shirt he wore to an infamous indoor picnic and an ill-fated bowling excursion and that he's planned it specially.
"You okay?" he asks, gesturing for her to ride shotgun. She does so obligingly.
"I think so."
He closes the door behind her, before taking his seat at the wheel once more. Her lips are slightly pursed.
"Thanks for doing this," he says hurriedly, firing up the engine. "I know you didn't have to..."
"No, it's...fine." She nods, and it's more like she's reassuring herself than anything else. She's distant, very distant. "I... Can we take the back way to school?"
"Yeah, sure." He doesn't question the strange request. She's looking out of the window, looking anxious.
"I kind of have to warn you," he says, a little sheepish. "I'm kind of a blank slate when it comes to music reading. It's all little dots and lines to me."
"Mmm."
He's kind of expecting more of a response and, feeling slightly suppressed, he falls silent.
All is quiet. Too quiet, for a car journey with Rachel Berry.
He hits the button and the radio starts up.
"Channel?" he asks. She blinks, shaken from her thoughts, and it takes her a second or two to work out what he's talking about.
"Oh... I don't mind," she says absently. He raises an eyebrow.
"You're Rachel Berry," he reminds her, laughing slightly. "Of course you mind."
The corner of her mouth quirks and she adjusts the dial to something that sounds like Celine Dion, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes.
He has to go to the bathroom when they arrive at McKinley (his mom was right – should've gone before he left. Damn it, he thinks) and she says she needs to get the stuff from her locker, so they part ways and he meets her in the corridor. She's rifling through her stuff, and he can see her talking on her phone.
"Rach?"
She jumps. She mutters quicky into the cell. "No, it's no-one..." she says, and she looks worried. He doesn't like this. He frowns. "Okay. I'll speak with you tonight. Bye."
She hangs up, tucking her cell in her pocket and heaving out a large quantity of sheet music from the depths of the locker.
"Was that your dads?" he says conversationally. He's checked out the glee club practice room – it's locked, conveniently, but the auditorium's open and there's a piano in there, so he figures it's the best option. "Y'know, I still haven't met them."
"Oh. Yeah, it was my dads." She blinks a couple of times, and then she puts on this matter-of-fact face that he recognises from when she's explained to him the dangers of a high-carb diet. "I forgot to tell them where I was going, so I thought it would probably be best to let them know. After all, they are annually nearly two hundred cases of abduction in the mid-west alone, and even though I've prepared myself with the necessary precautions – for example, I now carry a rape whistle – I still feel I should ensure my fathers know where I am at all times should they ever need to assist a police force in locating me."
She's rambling. And he knows something's always up whenever she's rambling.
"Anyway, we should probably get started," she says. He lets her go ahead down the steps, and she's prattling away, talking about basic scale formations and manuscript paper. She sits centre-stage (he half-smiles at that), her legs tucked away to the side as she lays out several pieces of paper in front of him. He sits opposite, his back facing the piano.
"Just to establish what level of music theory you're currently at..." She takes out a pen, writing a fancy title and bringing out a gold-star-adorned rule to mark it. "What do you already know about music?"
"Like...you have a melody. And...harmonies, sometimes."
"Okay..." She scribbles something down. "Can you read sheet music at all?"
"Um...no."
"But in Glee, when Mr Schue hands out the music, you read and sing along with everyone else."
"Not really." He blushes in confession. "I...I kind of mime the first time we sing through and then sing along when I've got the tune off someone else. I can't... I can't pick it up as fast as you can. You're really good," he adds, for good measure.
The compliment doesn't get far. "You're a drummer, do you know any theory in that field?"
"Not really," he admits, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position. "I just kind of...taught myself."
After a short interrogation (the product of which is the conclusion that Finn knows...nothing), they move to the different notes. She draws them all out in order for him – semibreve, minim, crochet, quaver, semi-quaver – and gets him to copy her illustrations. At first they're wobbly, but he improves quickly, listening intently as she explains.
She seems to forget that's she's pissed off with him as they get stuck in. He blushes a lot when he thinks he's asking a particularly dumb question, but she's encouraging, empathetic – she doesn't mock him when he messes up, which he appreciates (he's been doing a lot of that this morning). She goes slow, taking him through step by step at the pace he needs. She's even smiling a bit after a while, and when she does his heart seems to throb like it does when he watches Notting Hill and Julia Roberts comes back into the book shop in flip-flops.
But still, she's on edge. She catches him watching her a little too carefully once or twice, and she hears him catch his breath when her arm gently brushes against his. He's uncomfortable, too, but for completely different reasons – for example, he's no idea how he's supposed to concentrate on the C major scale when Rachel Berry is knelt in knee socks and a mini skirt that's half way up her thighs, or when she gently holds his wrist to teach him how to form the perfect treble clef.
And every time, she holds his gaze for a second or two, like she's holding herself back from something, and then coughs once, moving on quickly to something else.
She looks so sad.
They stop for a quick snack around half-past one.
"So what's the song Mr Schuester's asked you to look at?" she asks, taking a small bite from her sandwich. He's sat at the piano, adding sticky-labels to the keys, and she's sat on the stage floor.
"Last Request, by Paolo –"
"Nutini." She nods. "I know it."
"You do?" He brushes the crumbs off his jeans from his bagel. "Because if you could help me with it, that'd be great. I'm kind of struggling."
"Why?"
He thinks for a moment. "I guess.... I guess it's because it's really heart-felt, y'know? And it's slow and quiet and stuff. And I guess I've only been singing rock songs lately."
"The prices you pay for finding your inner rock-star," she says.
He thinks it's meant as a throwaway remark, but their eyes meet anyway. There's a weird feeling in his chest that might or might not be regret, but it lingers on.
They finish lunch hastily, speaking only when necessary.
And slowly, she's starting to relax. It's a slow process, but it's working – every time, she smiles a little wider, or edges a little closer. She hasn't even checked her cell phone since the conversation in the corridor, and there's an old ease that's come from months of Glee rehearsals and dance routines with her legs wrapped around his waist.
And let's face it, once you've sang Push It together in front of two hundred people with your legs around the other person's waist, there's bound to be a bit of affection.
They've been working on rhythms for a while, and when he can't get the hang of a certain time signature she throws her hands up in desperation. "On your feet," she announces. He blinks, and does what he's told.
"Now, I'll do the beat. And you clap once with your hands and then do a stamp of both feet. So you clap on one and four, and stamp one foot on two and five, and the other on three and six."
He looks at her dubiously, but she nods insistently and begins to clap a pulse, chanting along with the high paced claps.
"Onetwothreefourfivesix –" She bites her lip to stop herself smiling at him as he begins to lumber about, hopping and banging his hands together. "- onetwothreefourfivesix –"
He's clapping and stamping and jerking around with all the co-ordination of a concussed rhinoceros, trying to get the right beat and failing miserably.
"Onetwothreefourfivesix! Finn, listen - onetwothree–" She presses her hand to her mouth, and he can see the laughter in her eyes even if he can't hear it.
"Hey, you're laughing at me!" he protests, stopping abruptly as she begins to laugh. She can't help it; she's shaking her head, trying to stop. He's not really annoyed, but it's more fun to pretend that way. "If you're going to laugh at me," he says, mock-sulkily, and he heads to the piano, making to sit back down at the stool, "then I might as well just not bother even –"
"Oh – Finn, I'm sorry... Come on, I said I'm sorry!" she says, but she's still laughing as she speaks. She marches over to him in a most Rachel-Berry-ish manner, and tries to pull at his arm to make him come and start once more. "If you want to learn music, then you have to sacrifice some dignity once in a while!" She tries to push him by the shoulders, and he laughs – being much smaller and skinnier than he, her efforts to move him from the stool to the stage are futile. She heaves with all her might ("Finn Hudson, I will ensure you never step foot in show business again if you don't move!"), but she soon collapses against his collar bone, her arms resting either side of his neck in defeat.
She rests her forehead in the crook of his collarbone. "Finn..."
It takes him a moment to reply. He's very conscious of her eyelashes carefully fluttering against his bare skin at this precise moment in time. "Y – yeah?"
He's sure she's supposed to be replying right now, but instead there's silence from behind him and all he feels is Rachel Berry pressed to his shoulders. He raises his right hand to meet her left, and she doesn't move away when he encloses her palm in his.
It's simple and good and familiar, and it's right.
And then she seems to realise what she's doing and she's jumps away, the gentle pressure released from his neck.
He moves to face her. "Rach –"
She's turned away, her back to him.
"Rach, I –"
There's a pause, and she turns back towards him. Her expression is hard to read – it's hard and soft all at once, even though he knows they're opposites and therefore a really stupid thing to say.
"It's getting late," she says. "If you want to work on the song, we're best doing it now. D'you have the music?"
He nods. Words have failed him.
They hack into the music system and slip in the CD. She sits on the front row of the audience. He stands centre-stage, feeling nervous.
"Have you practiced the song yet?"
"A bit." By that, he means once, the day he got it, and he only found the song again when he was clearing out his cupboard looking for old football stickers that might be worth something on eBay.
"Well, shall we just go from the top?"
He nods. There's a microphone in front of him, propped up on the stand, and he approaches it with wary caution.
"Finn, if there's one thing I've learnt from my years on the stage, it's to not be scared of the microphone," she says scoldingly. "Are you ready?"
"I think so."
The music echoes from the back of the auditorium. She's watching him, dark eyes studying him carefully, and he's so caught up in watching her he almost forgets to start singing.
Needless to say, he's not been singing very long when she stops the CD and stands up.
"Finn Hudson."
He looks up, bashful. "Yeah?"
"Are you really just going to stand there are sing this song without any form of choreography and physical stage presence?" she demands.
"Um...no?"
Her hands on her hips as she comes up the steps, meeting him under the glare of the stage lights with her trademark expression etched across her face. She walks around him in a neat circle, and he has the fleeting impression of being in the army, a strict sergeant marching uniformly around him. He stands a little straighter.
"What is this song about?"
He has to think about that one. "A last request?"
"Well, yes. But you're being far too explicit." She walks around the front of the stage. "A good performer implicitly puts across the message of the song – not only through the lyrics, but with body language, facial expressions, eye contact!" She's speaking in earnest, her face sincere. "Not only will these give depth to your performance, they'll bring to life the story you're trying to put across. So, I'll ask again. What is this song about? What do the lyrics tell you?"
Should've googled this.
"Well... the guy..." He's struggling for words, but if she's noticed she hasn't let on. "The guy's got this girl..."
"Finn. How many songs do you know when 'a guy's got a girl'?"
"A lot."
"Exactly. But what's specific to this song?"
"Well, the guy and the girl... They're in love." He clears his throat. "But they can't...be together. And this is like they're last moment together, even though it's – wrong, and stuff. And they're like, making the most of it." He looks at her, looking for verification. "Is that right?"
She smiles a knowing smile. "Every song means something different to someone else. To perform, to you have to deep deeper. Make up scenarios that fit in the particular instance that the song is illustrating!"
"You want me to draw something?"
She's come to a stand-still. "Is she someone else's girlfriend? Is it she leaving to live far away? Is she married? Is he a soldier who has to go fight and she has to stay behind?" She's stood in front of him now, gesturing wildly with her hands. On her face, a faraway look of thought. "Why can't the girl and the guy be together?"
She meets his eye, waiting for answer.
He doesn't have one.
"I don't know," he says, and he's telling the truth.
She furrows her brow.
And then she runs from the stage.
"Rachel?"
She hurries up the stairs, up to the sound box at the top of the auditorium. "I've had an idea!"
She disappears to darkness momentarily, and reappears at the top of the rows of seats. Her silhouette is set against the light of the window-paned door. "Can you see me?" she calls down.
"Yeah, I can see you."
"I want you to imagine that I'm her." Years of vocal projection lessons mean her voice carries right down to the stage. "That you're this guy in the song, and I'm the girl. In the song, the guy is singing to the girl – he's asking her these questions, telling her to lie down. You've got to sing it all to me."
He's hesitant. "Uh..."
"Just trust me, okay?"
All he can do is nod.
For the second time, the introduction fills the room. He blinks, focusing solely on the tiny figure stood gazing down at him front high above.
This time, he's right on cue.
'Slow down.
Lie down.
Remember it's just you and me.'
Her silhouette stands, picturesque against the dull yellow of the flickering electric light.
'Don't sell out.
Bow out.
Remember this is how it's s'posed to be.'
The words come easily. He's looking past the lights of the auditorium – there's something in him that's stirring and it's carrying him away; something he hasn't felt in a long time. There's a smile playing on his lips and he breathes deep, the music pressing to his temples, to the crook of his shoulder, to the small of his back.
Holy shit. This is... kinda good.
The chorus comes and he lets rip – he lets his body relax, and the song's filling up every last bit of him.
Her silhouette has vanished from the top of the auditorium, and he falters for a moment, letting his eyes roam until he finds her once more. She's stood on the steps, her eyes fixed upon him with a warm sincerity, and the song seems to bring her even closer.
'Grant my last request and just let me hold you,
Don't shrug your shoulders,
Lay down beside me.'
Sure, I can't accept that we're going nowhere,
But one last time let's go there,
Lay down beside me.'
And she's on the stage, her hands at his forearms – raising them up to grip the microphone as the lonely line of the bridge echoes in his ears.
Baby, baby, baby...
Tell me how can –
How can this be wrong?
The final chorus is sung as little more than a whisper, and the music draws to close.
His draws a deep breath, and he's not thinking straight when he turns to her and envelopes her in his arms.
"That was awesome!" he says in reverence, and she laughs, clear and bright, against his shoulder. "That was like... I don't know, like something I've never done before. Like something..." He's not even talking properly, so instead he just hugs her tightly. "Rach, that was – that was really – just -"
"You did wonderfully," she says, pulling away slightly – though her arms are still around him (he notices). He thinks he hears pride in her voice, thought he's not sure. "You should... You have to show Mr Schue. You have to sing that Regionals, Finn, you'd... you'd bring the house down."
The compliment takes him by surprise. "You think so?"
She nods.
He hasn't realised quite how close they are until he feels his hands at her waist and his nose gently graze hers.
She realises a second later than he does.
He brushes his lips once against her own. Her eyes are wide. When she doesn't flinch away, he does it again – only this time, he feels her kiss him back (he thinks).
The moment that follows seems to last a lifetime.
Broken by the sound of a cell phone.
He flinches, his hold on her waist slackening as she releases him hastily, her lips slightly parted. He's breathless, his finger's trembling.
Whoa, Finn.
She moves quickly across to the piano, picking up the cell phone, her eyes darting across the screen. Her look of shock, of surprise, turns to anguish. "Jesse..." she murmurs, and her fingertips fumble at her lips.
"Jesse?" he asks, feeling dumb. "That guy from Vocal Adrenaline? What does he want?"
Her eyes are still fixed to the screen. He watches her uneasily.
"Rachel?"
Her eyes meet his, and he doesn't know what they're saying, but he knows it isn't what he wants to hear.
"Is he - ?"
She just keeps looking at him.
"I should – I should really –" She's mumbling incoherently, gathering up her belongings hastily, shoving them in her satchel. "I need to – shouldn't have – I don't –"
She hurries down the stairs to the stage, her hair swinging loose to hide her face. He watches, feeling faint, lost.
"Wait."
She stops in the aisle, and she looks at him.
What can be said?
"I'm sorry."
And she's gone.
It's an unspoken agreement. Saturday never happened.
They bring out a new song, one Finn's never heard of, and he mimes the first time through. He doesn't try to read the notes.
Mr Schue looks at him expectantly. "Finn, do you have something prepared?" he asks. "The song I asked you to look at?"
He clears his throat. "Sorry, Mr Schue, I... I didn't have chance to look at it."
He sees the disappointment in his teacher's eyes, but he doesn't meet them. Her gaze flickers in his direction, but he can't look at her, either.
She breaks the news to him about Jesse the next day.
"I'm still seeing him," she breathes. "I'm sorry."
He looks at her. "I'm not."
And he means it.
A/N. A review would make me so happy I could wet myself. Well, maybe not, but it would make me jolly happy.