Disclaimer: Don't own.
Xx
There's a knock at the front door. She's not expecting anyone, and she hopes whoever it is won't keep her away from the stove for too long. She doesn't want all of her pots boiling over.
She smooths her hands over her apron, hoping she looks presentable enough. It's not her most glamorous hour of the day, nor is it that of any housewife's, she'd imagine.
The man standing on her doorstep is both tall and holding a clipboard. Oh but he is quite tall. She's used to having to adjust the position of her neck in order to meet the eyes of the person standing over her - it sounds so belittling, really - but this is quite a stretch, quite literally it is, and she wonders whose husband he is. Every man she meets these days is somebody's husband. Mary Jo Mumford's, or Betty Bettina's, or Quinn Puckerman's (although that marriage is in ruins from what she's heard, although you'd never know it from the outside looking in; at least Quinn can say the roses in her front yard are alive and blooming).
"Good afternoon, ma'am," the man greets her. His lips pucker to one side, not like a kiss, but mostly like a smile that is not a kiss, because surely there isn't any such thing as kissing strangers. "I hope I'm not disturbing you in the middle of anything important."
Connie Shultz's husband? She thinks that could be it, although this man appears perfectly sober.
"No, that's quite alright," she tells him. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Well, I'm collecting signatures on behalf of John Adams High School. You see, the school board is threatening to cut all funding for our arts programs and I'm-"
"Oh that's terrible!" she gasps. "How could they even think of doing such a thing?"
"I don't know," he sighs, shaking his head. "Our principal, Ms. Sylvester, doesn't seem to think the arts have much value. Ever since she's taken over I've had to fight just to keep the glee club alive."
"The glee club?" she asks in surprise.
"Yes, I run the club, actually, and have been doing so for the past two years."
"Really," she says, now knowing for sure he isn't Connie Shultz's husband.
"Yes," he affirms with a smile, her obvious interest in the matter encouraging him to elaborate, something she deduces he's not used to. "It's only a side project, but it's something I really enjoy. I'm also the football coach, so that eats up a good deal of my time."
"Why yes, I would imagine it does." Her eyes drop down to the clipboard he's holding, noticing the firm grasp his long fingers have on it. Her gaze lingers there for barely a blink before she's looking up into his friendly, gold-flecked eyes once again.
"Anyway," he continues, "I was hoping you might want to lend your support for the arts by signing a petition? I've collected nearly a hundred signatures so far, and yours would mean a great deal."
She clears her throat suddenly, not really knowing why. "Of course, I'm more than happy to help," she obliges, taking the clipboard from his hand when he offers it to her. She signs her name on the next available line, right underneath Tina Cohen-Chang's, a quiet woman she remembers meeting once before. "To be honest I'm surprised you've gathered this many signatures, considering the neighborhood you're in," she adds with some bitterness.
"Well the blonde woman next door did refused me," he admits. "She practically slammed the door in my face when I mentioned the glee club."
"Quinn? Well, that's not at all surprising," she says. "Although I think secretly she wishes she could sign her name as well."
"Yes, well regardless I sure appreciate your support, Mrs.-" he pauses, "Weston," he reads her name off the clipboard she's just handed back to him.
"It's my pleasure," she assures him, the words causing her to bite down on her lip for reasons she can't explain. She thinks she faintly knows why, and it's the gold flecks she's come to notice in his eyes. They remind her of something, but at the moment she can't say exactly what.
"Well I do thank you for your time," he says politely. "I hope you and your husband have a lovely evening."
"Th-thank you," she stutters before adding, "I hope you and your wife do the same."
"Oh, I'm not...I mean there isn't any...well thank you again, Mrs. Weston," he nods cordially at her before turning to leave.
Her eyes remain fixed on his large frame as it descends her front steps, and she can't bite back the words before they're calling out to him, "Oh, one more thing, Mr…"
He stops, turns to look at her again. "Hudson. Finn...I mean, you know, the other way around," he says with a bashful grin.
"Mr. Hudson," she continues from the doorway. "You may want to try to the white house on the corner. I'm quite certain the man who lives there would be happy to sign your petition as well. His name is Kurt Hummel."
He smiles in gratitude; well, half smiles. "I appreciate it, Mrs. Weston."
She nods, inhales deeply, before shutting the door abruptly; it's as though she'd needed to close it that way, slam the door on herself to keep her from getting out.
She returns to the kitchen to find that all her pots have boiled over.
Xx
"How was your day, dear?" her husband asks without looking up from his newspaper.
"Fine," she answers, taking a sip from the wine glass in front of her.
He glances up at her, his brow raised expectantly. "Well? Did you do anything special?"
"No, not particularly," she tells him. "Although I did go to lunch with Marley."
"Well, yes, it's Tuesday, so I expected that." His eyes are on her as he takes another piece of garlic bread from the basket on the table. "So where did you two meet?" he asks.
She sees him glancing over the underwhelming spaghetti dinner she's laid out for him, realizing it's what's piqued his curiosity in her day's activities. Normally she'd fix something more elaborate on a weeknight; she had tried before everything burned, her pots boiling over while she'd stood conversing with a tall stranger on her doorstep. She's just lucky she was able to throw something together in time for Brody to arrive home.
"Oh, well as a matter of fact I did take the train into the city this afternoon," she explains. "It's not something I planned on, but then Marley suggested we try this charming little Italian place in Manhattan, and well you know how time escapes me once I get to chattering with my girlfriends."
The little fib falls from her lips as though she'd rehearsed it ahead of time. She always was a good liar...well, acting is what she used to call it.
He looks at her across the table. Despite his mild irritation, nothing his face suspects her of being anything other than a clumsy housewife. "Hm," he mutters. "Well that sounds like fun."
"Oh yes, it was lovely darling, would you like another beer?" she asks in one breath, already out of her seat and retrieving one from the fridge before he can answer yes.
She removes the cap from the cold bottle before placing on the table in front of her husband. He's already immersed in his newspaper once again, and her eyes just so happen to skirt across the open page, lingering on an ad for the Winter Garden Theatre. She returns to her seat, a thoughtful look settling into her features. "You know dear, I was thinking," she begins after a pause, "that maybe you and I could both go into the city one of these nights? I wouldn't mind seeing a show...something on Broadway perhaps?"
"Oh, I don't know about that," he replies, turning the page of his newspaper. "I think it's probably best you lay that part of your life to rest."
"Which part?" she asks. It already feels as though she's laid every part of herself to rest; the parts not needed to make a casserole, that is.
He glances up at her. "You know what I mean. I wouldn't want you getting any ideas in that ambitious little head of yours. You have a life here now, there's no time for singing and other shenanigans."
She looks across the table at him; she sees him, not seeing her. "You're right," she agrees with a light chuckle. "Forgive me, darling, I don't know what I was thinking."
He nods, satisfied to have shut the door on the idea altogether.
Doors. She brings her glass of wine to her lips, taking more than a sip this time. She feels her thoughts begin to drift, her gaze drifting as well, through the kitchen and halting at front door...it's as though she were expecting someone to knock at any second.
Someone does knock. Brody barely notices, doesn't look up from the sports page when she rises from her seat. She pulls the door open, smiling when she sees it's exactly who she expected it would be.
The top two buttons on his shirt are already undone; that and the half-smile he's wearing nearly undoes her on the spot.
"Good evening, Mrs. Weston," he greets her. "I hope I'm not disturbing you in the middle of anything."
"You aren't disturbing me at all, Finn Hudson, but we're going to have to be quiet so as not to disturb my husband," she gestures over her shoulder toward the yellow light pouring in from the kitchen.
He nods knowingly, and they share soft, secretive smiles before he pulls her roughly against him, stealing her breath with a heated kiss. She breaks away from him only to lead him inside the house, up the narrow staircase, and into her bedroom. Once inside he backs her up against the dresser, his lips continuing their fevered dance against hers. She moans into his mouth, her fingers tearing at the buttons of his shirt as he lifts her up, allowing her legs to wrap around his waist. His lips move to her neck as his hands roam all over her body, touching her in ways that cause her head to fall back in sheer ecstasy.
"I've been thinking about you all day, Mrs. Weston," he whispers hotly in her ear.
"Call me Rachel," she pleads.
"Rachel," he breathes. "Oh God Rachel…"
"Rachel?...Rachel?"
Brody repeats her name over again, his voice slowly creeping its way inside her faraway thoughts.
"Yes?" she responds dumbly, stirring from her daze to see her husband staring across the table at her, his irritation obvious.
"What's for dessert, dear?" he asks tightly, his patience wearing thin.
"Oh yes, my love, I have a lovely icebox cake chilling in the freezer," she tells him, bouncing up from her seat, nearly knocking her chair over in the process. She's just lucky she'd at least managed to have the cake prepared ahead of time, she thinks silently to herself, her body still hot, buzzing in secret places as she cuts a slice for her husband.
Xx
The following afternoon she sings Wouldn't It Be Loverly? out loud to herself while ironing one of Brody's work shirts. She's like a bird these days; she sings for no one in particular, and because it's in her nature to do so.
But at least the birds outside her window are free. She's a caged bird now, but her voice, that much remains free. The life she leads has yet to steal the music from her heart, although God knows it keeps trying.
There's a knock at the door. She stops singing and ironing and approaches the front foyer, knowing there won't be a tall stranger on her doorstep her this time. She already signed his petition yesterday.
But he is there, greeting her with one whole half of a smile, and she figures he must have more petitions for her to sign, but that's fine, she'll sign anything, on any line.
"Oh hello," she says politely.
"Hello again, Mrs. Weston-"
Call me Rachel
"-I'm so sorry to inconvenience you for the second day in a row, but I was wondering if I could borrow another moment of your time."
"Yes of course, Finn, what can I help you with?"
"Well, Mrs. Weston, I'm afraid I've discovered your little secret," he reveals cryptically.
She swallows thickly, a heat rising in her chest. "M-My...my secret?" she stutters.
"Yes, well actually it was your friend Kurt that gave you away."
"H-How do you mean?" she asks, her insides twisting.
"Well when I told him I was head of the glee club he let it slip that there was a former Broadway star living right here on this very block."
She releases a breath of monumental relief, not sure why she'd held it captive to begin with. She's a silly woman, really she is. This should all be playing out in black-in-white, on television, with people watching, chuckling, amused by her, her situations...they are the comedy of her everyday life. "And I don't suppose he told you it was me?" she asks, intrigued.
"Well, not exactly. But somehow I guessed that he was talking about you." He stops himself, his brow furrowing. "I do apologize if I'm being too forward, Mrs. Weston. I certainly don't mean to-"
"No that's quite alright, Finn," she assures him. "And, well, that was many years ago when I was still living in the city. Nowadays I hardly even-"
"I could hear you singing just now before I knocked on your door...your window was open," he admits with a shy grin.
"You heard me?" she asks, taken aback. No one hears her these days, not even when she's making noise.
"Well it isn't that I was loitering by any means, although I wouldn't fault anyone for doing so," he pauses before adding, "You sounded beautiful, Mrs. Weston."
He's smiling, eyes twinkling with a golden something. Her heart's silently singing while her mouth speaks the words, "Finn, would you like to come inside?"
Xx
And now it's her lemonade puckering his lips to the side for a smile.
"Well I must say, that's quite a duality of interests," she tells him. "Glee club and football?"
"It wasn't easy at first," he admits. "Teenagers are far too consumed with self-image these days...I would know, considering I used to be that way myself."
"What changed?" she asks.
"I had a teacher in high school who helped me realize a different side of myself...a side that loved to sing and, well, dancing was never my strong point but the funny thing is I loved doing it anyway. But as I soon discovered, pursuing those particular interests came with a side-effect of ridicule and a decline in social status. It was something I struggled with for a while, but Mr. Shuester helped me realize I could reconcile the two worlds, and it changed my life from thereon."
Her jaw gapes in shock; she's not used to sharing her own kitchen table with a man who talks, but as her mind hinges on a name she hasn't heard in years, and she thinks surely this must be a trick of some sort. "I'm sorry Finn, but did you say Mr. Shuester?"
"I did," he nods.
"But surely you don't mean Will Shuester?" she asks with a light chuckle. "No, you couldn't possibly."
"Yes, that's who I mean," he confirms, puzzled by her reaction before it quickly dawns on him, "Oh well of course you would've heard of him. He's a director on Broadway now, and quite a successful one. In fact, last time I spoke with him he told me he was casting for a brand new show...I forget the name of it, but it's some musical about a New York Jewish girl with a great sense of humor."
She takes a deep breath in, all her bells ringing as memories of a life so foreign to her now continue catching her in their lovely grips. "Yes, Will Shuester is a fine director," she says wistfully. "He was my director once, as a matter of fact...but oh, that was a very long time ago."
A warm smile spreads across his face when he learns they have an old friend in common. "Wow Mrs. Weston, I had no idea," he says. "Small world, eh?"
"Indeed," she agrees with a nod. She allows the gold flecks in his eyes to charm her for a moment far too long, almost forgetting herself before the sight of his empty glass on the table makes her remember who she is...who she is now, anyway. "Oh how rude of me!" she exclaims, rising from her seat as though a duty had just called her. She retrieves the cold pitcher from the fridge, hurriedly refilling Finn's glass as though he'd been complaining of dire thirst.
"Thank you," he smiles graciously, although perplexed by the franticness of her movements.
"You're very welcome, Finn, can I get you anything else? Something to eat perhaps? I have an icebox cake in the fridge, it's leftover from last night but I-"
"No Mrs. Weston, I'm perfectly fine," he assures her.
She relaxes, his smile so sincere, so undemanding of her that it gradually slows the hurried rhythm she's just needlessly synched herself in time with. Embarrassment reddens her cheeks nonetheless, but she gathers herself quickly, asking, "Finn would you like to see something?"
He nods, yes, of course. She goes to retrieve a cookbook from the shelf nearby, flipping through its well-worn pages until she finds an old Playbill filed in between a recipe for tuna casserole and spaghetti surprise. She pulls it out, places it on the table in front of him before sinking slowly back into her seat.
He studies the brightly colored booklet for a moment, lips pursing into a crooked smile when his gaze lifts to look her in the eyes once again. "It's you," he says, recognizing the younger, more vibrant version of herself. It's a version she hardly recognizes anymore, although the nose is always dead giveaway. That's the only part of her that hasn't changed since her days of playing Marian in The Music Man. Everything else is different now, even her name.
"Rachel Berry," he reads off the cast list.
"Yes, that was my maiden name," she tells him. "My stage name as well."
"It's nice," he tells her. "What made you change it?"
She clears her throat awkwardly. "Well, I got married."
His eyes widen in embarrassment. "Oh of course!" he quickly exclaims. "Of course you did, Mrs. Weston, I'm so sorry. Forgive me."
"That's quite alright, Finn," she assures, smiling weakly, then hesitates before adding, "And please, do call me Rachel."
He nods slowly while his eyes shine. "Okay. Rachel," there's a star by her name when it falls from his lips.
She looks away from him; has to. She thinks the kitchen's on fire, but it isn't. It can't be, because nothing's burning in the oven or boiling on the stove. The oven isn't on, but she is; she's on, she's burning and bubbling over.
"Rachel? Are you alright?" he repeats her name, this time in concern.
This can't go on. Someone's bound to walk in at any moment and telephone immediately for the police.
"Finn I'm sorry, but I think you need to go," she tells him, her voice small and breaking.
"Oh...alright then," he says, disappointment settling into his features. "But a-are you sure nothing's wrong? Forgive me, but your face looks a bit-"
"Oh yes, I'm wonderfully alright, Finn," she assures him, a forced chirpiness in her tone now that she's composed herself decently. "I was just filing through some recipe ideas in my head."
"Recipes?" he asks, confused.
"Yes, it's Wednesday and my husband will be home early to watch the fights. I don't mean to be rude, and this has been ever so lovely, but I really must get dinner started if I'm going to have it on the table by the time he walks through the door."
The words fire rapidly off her tongue as she stumbles around clumsily, pulling random ingredients from the cupboard that are going to make for one odd tasting dish when she cooks them all together.
She looks at him, smiles her apologies. She's only pulling faces, though, he knows it. Her little charade might make him laugh if he weren't sitting there, seeing right through it. She knows her situation's not a comedy, it's a tragedy at best, and there's only sadness in his eyes as he watches it. He resigns, though, nods understandingly before rising from his seat. "Of course, Rachel," he says formally. "I'll show myself out."
"Oh don't be silly, Finn, I'll walk you to the door."
She walks him out; she keeps herself in. He's thanking her for her hospitality, and her neighbors are looking through their windows, watching, she'll give them something to talk about, they're probably already talking. But what does it matter, though, really? None of them see her when they look. None of them know what they're talking about when they talk about her. If the word gets back to her husband, she'll make up a story; that's all she really has anyway, her stories.
He must go, though, really he must, but wait there's one more thing-
"Before I go, there's something I'd like to ask you," he begins timidly, "It's the reason I knocked on your door this afternoon, actually."
She nods, "Yes but make it quick, Finn, I have to go pre-heat the oven."
He clears his throat first, then begins, "Well I suppose it's a long shot but I was wondering if perhaps you'd like to co-teach the glee club with me when school begins next month. I can't say it would pay much, if anything at all, but I know the kids would love to meet you, and I'd-"
"Oh, well I'd very much like to, Finn, but I'm afraid my duties are needed here at home. Thank you, though, and if you never need a petition signed, please do come knocking."
She only wishes her last glimpse of his face had had a smile on it. His eyes, at least, are shining as she closes the door. She'll keep the memory of it, store it in the sugar bowl perhaps.
By the time she returns to the kitchen she's already cried enough tears to wash the dishes with after dinner tonight.
Xx
She's got three pots on the stove, all of them bubbling at a dull simmer as she stands over them, stirring lazily with a wooden spoon. Her thoughts are far away, her actions mechanical and mindless, but it's alright, she doesn't need a mind to fix a lasagna.
"Rachel, I'm home," his voice speaks behind her.
A smile pulls at her lips as she turns away from the stove, her pots still simmering. He got in the door without knocking this time, but she'd been expecting him all the same. And yet, you'd think if she'd been expecting company she would've at least put on a pot of coffee or baked a cake, like a good hostess, but she had to know he wouldn't want any of that anyway, that he'd only want her.
"Oh good evening Finn, it's very kind of you to visit, but it's nearly six o'clock and I haven't got much-"
His lips are on hers before she completes her nonsensical sentence, and suddenly a fire reignites her from head to foot, and she's pulling at his clothes and his hair while his own hands reach around her waist to loosen the strings on her apron. "Take it off, Finn, please," she moans desperately.
He does, tearing the strings loose and disrobing her of the material, leaving it's floral-printed frilliness discarded on the floor. She feels herself being lifted up as though she were weightless, and she is, at least she is in his arms.
He lays her on the kitchen table, right where the peas and carrots would be, but his hot mouth is far too hungry for her to be concerned with what's for dinner. She reaches for his belt as his hips grind their arousal against hers, and her mouth falls open as though there was a song in her heart, and there is, there's so many.
He's inside of her, deep inside, and she's filled to brim until she's boiling over, much like her pots on the stove, but she can't be bothered with dinner right now.
"Sing for me, Rachel Berry," he whispers in her ear.
But her sighs and moans of pleasure are the only lyrics she can recall. He lifts his head to look deep inside of her while their bodies are joined. She knows now what the gold flecks in his eyes remind her of...they're gold stars, like the ones she used to be. The stars are in his eyes, and they're in her too, and suddenly she's on a stage and there's a crowd applauding thunderously, throwing roses at her feet. He's there, he's in the front row cheering her on, wearing that half smile that makes her feel whole.
"Rachel?...Rachel?"
She looks up from the slightly undercooked lasagna she's been pushing around on her plate. Her husband stares impatiently at her across the table. "Yes dear?" she asks, forcing a smile.
"Can you pass the peas and carrots?"
"Of course," she obliges, passing the warm dish over.
His eyes are already buried in the newspaper when she asks, "How was your day, dear?"
"The usual. Busy, but fine," he answers distractedly. "How was yours?"
It's not a question. Questions want answers; they care. She smiles to herself, though, because she's a New York Jewish girl with a damn good sense of humor. "Well I'm going to call Will Shuester in the morning, darling, but what's it to you?
Xx
The End
Thanks for reading!