Author's Note: I know that it's been way too damn long since I updated. For those of you who don't follow along with In Treatment, I'll just say that my life's been just a little crazy since the last update. I've also been stuck with this story because, while I know where I want to be, I'm not quite sure how to get there. I'm struggling with the fact that the raging fangirl inside of me wants it to be Puckleberry Pez time right now. Fortunately, the author inside of me has grabbed the reigns and said 'Slow the fuck down.' That said, I'm a little nervous with some parts of this chapter and I sincerely hope that you enjoy.
Just between us, parts of this chapter have made me want to bash my head into the wall and then go cry in a corner.
Sing Me Home
Chapter 4: Too Late to Turn Back Now
If you don't know where you're going, any road will get you there.
Lewis Carroll
It doesn't take long before Santana becomes a permanent fixture in Rachel's life.
Rachel expects take out and beer at Finn's to be a one off. She might be twenty five and a (former) Broadway sensation, but, being back in Lima can sometimes be like living through one continuous PTSD episode where she's fifteen and a loser who spends her Friday nights scrubbing pee off the front door so her dads won't notice when they get back from their date. So, she tacks up the whole thing to Santana Lopez having no concept of personal boundaries and getting personal enjoyment out of making her feel uncomfortable.
Only, Santana doesn't stop coming around after dropping Rachel off at her dads'. She starts coming around in the middle of the day, weighed down by bags full of take out, complaining that the bitches at work are too much to handle. That develops into Thursday nights at the Berry house, curled up on the couch in the den, watching Jesse St. James save lives in between fucking half of the hospital staff and lamenting over his lost love. It isn't until Rachel gets stranded at physical therapy, her daddy in court and her dad catching a baby, and Santana picks her up without any mention of payback that she realizes the Latina isn't going anywhere.
Friends aren't exactly Rachel Berry's forte. She spent the majority of high school alternating between pushing people away and trying too hard to be the best friend ever. In New York she had Kurt, then Kurt and Blaine, then Kurt again, and then finally a few people from Tisch who were into the Arts but had no interest in Broadway. After that, she had Bradley and Jesse and one was her agent and the other was in California. Despite everything her dads ever told her, leaving Lima wasn't exactly the solution to a new and improved social life. Julliard, filled with people just as competitive and cutthroat, wasn't exactly the place to forge livelong connections. So, it's almost Thanksgiving before she realizes that she's more or less stuck with Santana.
The idea doesn't scare her as much as it probably should.
Finn's finally given her the all clear to walk up and down stairs, so long as she's got a spotter, so, they're in Rachel's old room passing the time until Rachel has to get ready for temple. Santana's sprawled out on the bed, digging through a box labeled New York – Guestroom Closet, and Rachel's lying on the floor working her good leg with her resistance band. Every once in a while the woman on the bed will make a derisive comment, looking over her shoulder to make sure Rachel's paying attention, but, for the most part, they pass their time in silence. Then Santana pulls out a thin, black binder and, just like that, quiet time is over.
"What the fuck is this?"
"A binder?" Santana raises an eyebrow as if to say, I will go Lima Heights on your ass, so Rachel props herself up and makes a gimme motion with both her hands. "Bradley had his minions pack the house, San, I honestly couldn't tell you what's in half the boxes." She isn't sure how to feel when she starts flipping through the pages but, if pride and angst had a baby, she'd probably be pretty close to identifying the emotion. The binder is full of Polaroids carefully labeled, tucked in plastic pockets, and put together in pages of 3x3. There's Alexander McQueen – Peep Toe Filigree Skull Pump – AMAs 2017 and Michael Kors – Elena Sandal – Interview, Entertainment Weekly 2018. Rachel tosses the binder back up on the bed and Santana snatches it quickly, her eyes darting between Rachel and the plastic protected pictures.
"I brought my whole life back with me, not all of it fit in my dads' house. We had to put most of it in storage."
Santana starts coughing violently and before Rachel can get up off the floor she's gotten herself together, her face red and her eyes slightly crazy. "What the fuck? You've got Alexander fucking McQueen locked up in Lima Self Storage? I thought we were friends, why the hell aren't they on my feet?"
"Because, unlike my hobbit ancestors, I have small feet?"
That's apparently the wrong answer because Santana starts spluttering again. It's amazing, and slightly disturbing, just how good it makes Rachel feel to elicit that kind of reaction from Santana Lima Heights Adjacent Lopez. Just because they're friends and, apparently, on a level playing field, doesn't mean she can't enjoy getting one over on the other woman.
"Rachel, I would cut off parts of my feet to fit into these shoes. Size has nothing to do with it."
"Fine, but, you'll have to wait until your next day off. Everything's locked up in some sort of maximum security storage facility in Columbus under an assumed name." Santana gives her that look again, waiting to see if she's getting bullshitted, and then just nods and goes back to the binder. And, seriously, there's no way in hell she'd trust Lima Self Storage with any of her things.
Temple isn't as nearly as painful as she thought it was going to be. She expects at lot of talking about Job, Daniel, and Jonah but, with few exceptions, service carries on as if Rachel Berry was never forced back to Lima as a result of a tragic car accident. She sits in the back, follows through with the motions, and keeps her phone turned off and in her purse. Even so, it's a near constant struggle (now that she's angry with God) to not nod off, dish on all the horrible outfits via text with Santana, or storm off in flurry of self indignation.
Tonight, though, she's too busy ignoring Noah Puckerman to pay attention to much else.
Unlike Santana, he's kept his distance. Rachel doesn't know much about their relationship other than the fact that they, quote, fuck a lot and that Santana is, again quote, Pucksexual and otherwise basically a lesbian. The only difference between PuckandSantana in 2009 and PuckandSantana in 2019 is that they're completely honest and don't even pretend to go through the motions of monogamy. All that she knows about the new Noah, she's pieced together from information from Santana, Finn, and Noah's mother. It's just a little heartbreaking.
She was stupid enough to sit at the end of the aisle and he's taken advantage of the situation by pressing his right thigh firmly against her left one. It's not enough to hurt and certainly not enough to squish her against the side of the pew; it's just enough to keep her hyper-aware of his body against her own. Not that she needs to be reminded. So long as Rachel's in the same room, same state, same world, same freaking galaxy she's hyper-aware of Noah Puckerman's body. The LPD has been very good to Noah; he radiates pure sex and raw masculinity out of every pore (even without his trademark Mohawk and wearing a yarmulke).
Noah picks up on her reaction, the fluttery breaths and clenched fists, and drapes his arm over her shoulders for the remainder of service. He doesn't do anything else, just keeps looking forward and nodding along with Rabbi Greenburg, and if they weren't in last row of seating Rachel would accuse him of trying to pull on over on his mother. Only, they are, so all of the attention is apparently for her benefit. It's the closest she's been to Noah since their senior year of high school.
It triggers the memory of her dream, Noah half naked and dripping purple ice, and she's forced to sit through the last fifteen minutes of service with wet panties. To her credit, Rachel keeps from squirming in her seat.
"What's the matter, babe?"
Rachel's out of her seat and clutching a cup of burnt coffee as quickly as her legs will carry her. The only person who notices is Noah, who saunters over with his own equally horrible cup of coffee and blocks her off from her dads (and any other reasonable human being). Along with Santana, he's the only other person who is able to consistently call her on her bullshit. He's been using this secret ability, with varying success, to vacillate between seducing her and talking her down from ridiculous situations. Like a nose job at sixteen.
"You're being unusually obnoxious today. Did the hypocrisy of speaking at McKinley's drug prevention seminar overload your brain and send you spiraling back to your own sixteen year old self who enjoyed tormenting the people around him?"
She's found that the best defense against Noah Puckerman is a wordy, slightly hurtful, offense. An offense that's supposed to make his eyes widen, his jaw twitch, and get his feet to lead him in the opposite direction in the name of righteous indignation. Obviously, Rachel's a little rusty, because he just leans forward and laughs softly in her face. To add insult to injury, his slightly callous fingers brush the escaped pieces of her side swept bangs out of her right eye and back behind her ear. She's told herself a million (a million and one) times since dinner at Finn's that she wasn't getting mixed up in NoahandSantana and realizes she's failing miserably.
Success was never (realistically) an option.
"You know," he leans back just enough so he's not breathing in her face, "I think I figured out why San's been so nice lately. You've apparently been siphoning off her bitchiness. Wanna demonstrate sometime? Just for me?"
It takes all of her training in the dramatic arts to keep from spewing coffee all over his face.
"I don't know what tabloids you've been pretending to read but I don't play like that."
Rachel slips around him, passing off her coffee like it's been carefully rehearsed, and follows after her dads who seem to be headed to the parking lot. Even with all her training, Noah still manages to stop her dead in her tracks for three (very telling) seconds.
"Oh, Rach, I know all about how you like to play."
"Your boyfriend is a complete and utter asshole."
Rachel's been in a shitty mood for days and it's not even all Noah's fault. Finn's bitching (again) that she's doing too much and not resting enough, even though she's (reluctantly) following his instructions to a tee. Her daddy wants her to either start looking for a job or start researching majors and her dad keeps bringing up Will Shuester in every second sentence. The cherry on top is that she's sweating her ass off inside of her storage unit, watching Santana try on shoes that she isn't able to wear.
"Bitch, please," San struts a couple of feet in a pair of winter white Manolo Blahniks and rolls her eyes, "I don't have a boyfriend. I've got Puck and some ladies that I finger bang on the side. Santana Lopez doesn't do boyfriends."
She bites back the 'Whatever' that's dangling on the tip of her tongue and focuses all of her attention on Santana carefully wrapping the heels in tissue paper and placing them reverently back in their box.
"Fine, your Noah is being a complete and utter asshole."
"I thought he was supposed to be ignoring you." The words come out in a tangled mumble as Santana leans over to switch out the box in her hand with one that contains a pair of Stella McCartney wedges. It's Rachel's turn to roll her eyes as she switches out that box with a pair of Alexander McQueen booties. The Latina's smirk morphs into a genuine smile once she's gotten through the tissue paper. "Seriously," she says a little louder, "he promised he'd be on his best behavior. Jew's honor."
Suddenly, Rachel has a headache coming on that has nothing to do with Noah's behavior and everything to do with the fact that Noah and Santana are apparently discussing her in private.
"Besides, it doesn't matter, you're a total lesbian now, anyway."
Now, it's Rachel's turn to roll her eyes. "I'm not a total lesbian, San."
"Right and that hot red head you drug around NYC for two years was just your attempt to be a part of every single minority? Denial isn't really a good look for someone with two gay dads."
This, right here, is why Rachel's avoided any mention of sex and sexuality since she stepped into the limelight. It is one thing to say, 'This is my partner, Catherine,' and a whole other thing to go into a rant about labels and sexuality and what, just exactly, pushes her buttons. She feels like that, for the most part, it's perfectly acceptable to be gay or straight. It's when you get caught somewhere in the middle that things start to unravel (regardless of which community you're addressing).
"Honestly, Santana, if we're going to toss around labels like party favors, I prefer the term queer."
"Oh God, Rachel, I know I'm all preaching sexual fluidity and Pucksexuality and shit but, seriously, when push comes to shove, I'm at peace with the L-word." As far as reactions go, it's pure Santana and about ten times better than Catherine screaming at her for coping out and straddling some invisible fence. Or maybe it was line in the sand. Either way, it ended in a couple of broken plates and a lot of tears.
"They're just words," it is freshmen year and that first eventful GSA meeting all over again. "Look, call me old fashioned, but I fall in love with people, not sex organs. I'm not exclusively attracted to women, so, I'm not a lesbian and I don't particularly care to use bisexual or pansexual or any term for that matter that seems to push the focus on sex. It isn't just about sex, okay?"
For a moment, Rachel's afraid that Santana's going to leave her stranded in Columbus and minus on pair of very expensive high heeled shoes. Her chest is tight and it feels like all the air's been sucked out of the room and she hate, hate, hates herself for her inability to keep her mouth shut or, even better, deflect like a normal person.
"Fine, you're queer and these booties look fantastic on me. Anyway, you should give Puckerman a break. He's always acts a little weird whenever he has to go to McKinley."
And, just like that, Rachel can breathe again.
Everything goes back to normal after the episode in Columbus. Santana keeps hanging around and Noah keeps keeping his distance. Temple continues to grate on Rachel's nerves and she keeps on going. Her dads keep bitching and Finn keeps bitching and, for the most part, she ignores them with varying degrees of success. Then, a week and a half before Thanksgiving, her dads decide to go see her dad's sister, Rhoda, and Rachel decides she'd rather throw herself down a flight of stairs then sit in the car for the ten plus hours it would take to get to Dallas.
Bradley calls while she's sprawled out on the couch, half watching Cheaters and half listening to Santana interject witty commentary during the episode. She hasn't heard from Bradley for months and it surprises her just how much it hurts her heart to listen to his voice.
"Rachel, sweetness, I have ah-mazing news!"
She doesn't even have to fake the smile that breaks across her face or the excitement in her voice. It might hurt to listen to his voice but the joy of talking to him, after all this time (when they rarely went a day without speaking), more than makes up for it.
"What? Did you kill Regina and need help hiding her body?"
"Puh-lease, like I would tell you that. I've told you time and time again, we sophisticated types don't dirty our hands with something as menial as labor. That's what New Jersey is for. So, guess again!"
She tries to flash through all the realistic possibilities while she moves to the kitchen, aware that Santana is trying to discreetly ease drop. Apparently, she takes too long because in the time it takes her to sit down at the kitchen table, Evan is on the other line, screaming in her ear. Rachel loves Bradley's husband, but, he's more flamboyant than three Kurt Hummels and it takes a little to get used to when you don't have the benefit of near daily interaction.
"We're bringing Thanksgiving to Lima, darlin'! Isn't that exciting?"
For the last couple of years, Thanksgiving with Bradley and Evan has meant a catered dinner at their Manhattan townhouse. It's one of the (many) traditions that blurred the lines between their agent/client relationship and real friendship. It started because Thanksgiving, for her dads, meant seeing Aunt Rhoda in Texas and, for Catherine, meant visiting cousins in Boston. So, instead of leaving her to her own devices, Bradley and Evan plied her with fake turkey, too much wine, and lots of Christmas carols. The fact that they still want to continue the tradition, even when she's no longer bankrolling their European vacations, brings tears to her eyes.
"Not that I'm not grateful," she manages to stutter it out between sucking back the lump in her throat, "but why in God's name would you want to come here?"
"Oh honey."
Then its Evan that's crying, loud hysterical sobs that remind Rachel of breaking down the first time, and Bradley's repeating over and over, 'Evan, baby, just hold it together for ten more minutes,' and she knows that, no matter what, she's stuck with these two for life. Just the knowing leaves her with an extremely warm feeling somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach.
"Hey, hey, so long as it's a professional in the kitchen and not you two I'm perfectly okay with you making a trip to see me. If you're lucky, I might ditch the sweatpants and stolen NYU t-shirts and actually wear something age appropriate."
Evan sucks back a shocked, ragged breath and she can't help grinning. "Oh honey, if you're not wearing grown up clothes, I'll force you to sit at the children's table and make you retell the story of the first Thanksgiving."
"Complete with construction paper turkeys?"
"You better not sass him, sweetness, his biological clock is ticking again and he'd love to put all his theory into practice."
By the time they've worked out all the details and said their (multiples goodbyes), Santana's patience has run out and she perched up on the kitchen counter, munching on an apple.
"Who was that, Hummel and his latest boy toy?"
Honestly, she's surprised it took Santana so long to tear herself away from Cheaters and comment on her phone call. "No, it was Bradley and his husband, Evan. They found a caterer in Fort Wayne who doesn't mind coming out here and doing Thanksgiving dinner, so, they've decided to keep me company while my dads are out." It's the first time they've really discussed holiday plans. Santana's off handedly mentioned a four day weekend from her job and Noah getting stuck with the bitch shift, but, beyond that they've both been rather cagey.
They're friends but, so far, any real serious conversations have been limited. Rachel knows Santana's parents are still together and still in Lima but that's because their dads work together at the hospital. She knows where Santana lives but only because the Latina had to make a quick stop by her apartment complex when she forgot some dresses she needed to take to the cleaners. And, she knows where Santana works because there's only one optometrist's office in Lima. All in all, excepting the tiny blow up at the storage unit, there aren't a whole lot of details to go on.
"Your former agent and his husband want to travel to BFE and cater Thanksgiving dinner in your dads' house?"
"Yes. Really, San, it's not as weird as you're making it sound. You're more than welcome, if you want to come," her brain begs her to bite her tongue but she barrels forward anyway, "and you can bring whoever you want."
The look of pure 'WTF? Rachel' is briefly replaced with a look of 'I want to drown you' before Santana gracefully hops off the counter, tosses her apple core away, and heads back into the living room. That's the last time they talk about Thanksgiving.
Bradley and Evan arrive on her (dads') door step the day before Thanksgiving. By the time they show up, pink cheeks and bright eyes and arguing over who gets to drive their BMW rental back to the airport, Rachel's bit her thumbnails to the quick worrying about Santana. They haven't seen or spoken to each other in three days and were it not for the appearance of New York the door, Rachel would have been tempted to head down to the police station and interrogate Noah over the whereabouts of his not girlfriend.
She thinks it's slightly ridiculous that, out of all the things they've talked about since San confronted her at the Chinese restaurant, it's a Thanksgiving invite that sends her so-called friend running for the hills. In her frustration, she's spent every waking moment cleaning the house until it sparkles. Her thumbs hurts, her head hurts, and her leg hurts. Not to mention there's a sick, pulsing wad of hurt emanating from the region somewhere near her heart.
Rachel has absolutely no desire to touch on that. So, she tosses back a couple of Advil with a glass of her favorite Pinot Grigio, and sinks into the recliner while Evan regales her with the tale of their epic journey from the heart of civilization to the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere.
By noon, Thanksgiving Day, she's on her third glass of wine and ignoring the mess in her (dads') kitchen by replaying the Tivo'ed Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Bradley's been on the phone since five o'clock in the morning (she could hear him from her bedroom) and Evan's been a mass of nerves ever since the caterer showed up with her crew at ten o'clock. Every time she sneaks into the kitchen for a glass of wine, they (all) shoo her out as if she really is five years old and they're afraid she's going to get underfoot and cause a mess. The smell of real turkey is making her mouth water even though she's never had an issue with the tofu version and by one o'clock, Rachel's pretty sure that the parade floats are trying to send her subliminal messages.
And then the doorbell rings.
She's so busy praying that it's Santana that it takes a couple of minutes to realize that it's Finn (and Melody and Melody's kid, Tyler). In her mind, her jaw is hitting the floor and all her good intentioned words are rolling out of her gaping maw like a molasses-coated snowball. In reality, Rachel takes a moment to swallow (and thank God she didn't bring her wine to the door) and then invites the trio in while trying to remember when she invited them in the first place.
The answer is she didn't, Bradley did. She decides to kill him after the tofurkey.
So, Rachel's on her fourth glass of wine (at least now she's sharing with Melody) while Finn runs around with Tyler. The Cowboys' game is playing in the background and Bradley keeps popping out of the kitchen, promising that 'Dinner'll be ready in five more minutes.' Because she's used to carrying on meaningless conversation with people she doesn't know, Rachel has no problem striking up a conversation with Melody. They talk about the weather (decent for November), Tyler (doing well in pre-school), Melody's job (she's pulling a couple of hours a week in the nursery), and Rachel's recovery (coming along nicely); before they can roll into the danger zone (ie: talking about people they both know), Evan pops out of the kitchen and announces dinner is served.
And then the doorbell rings, again.
Bradley breezes by her, whispering in her ear that she should probably 'Sit down and eat something before you break your fucking leg again,' and answers the door before she can pull herself out of the recliner. At that moment, Rachel is so damn thankful for the four glasses of wine because it steadies her enough to walk into the kitchen without crying.
It can't be a good sign that the image of Santana and Noah, standing together in her (dads') doorway, makes her want to burst into tears. Then she just wishes that Jesse hadn't chosen to go skiing in Montreal , because, if he were here he'd just tell her to make it through grace without throwing up on the dining room table and then beg off with a migraine. There's no one in the damn house who is going to be that freaking sympathetic.
She doesn't know what Bradley and Evan have been planning since they started hijacking her life a week and a half before, but, she realizes (a little too damn late) that she probably should have clued in before now. She ends up sandwiched between Evan and Melody. Tyler is in a booster seat, fenced in by his mom and (his future step-dad) Finn. Noah's sitting beside Finn and Santana's sitting on the other side of Noah and Bradley's sitting beside Santana, looking proud as can be with Evan on his other side.
Then, before she can recover, Bradley starts off 'Things that we're thankful for' and Rachel wants nothing more than to stab him with the knife that carved the (real) turkey.
He's, of course, thankful for Evan, Broadway, and caterers. Evan's thankful for Bradley, the French Riviera, and the woman who is (one day) going to carry their child. Rachel's thankful for wine. Melody, after a rather long winded speech, is thankful for Finn, Tyler, and a bunch of other things that Rachel tunes out. Tyler's thankful for his mom and…that's about the time she starts staring at her green beans and stops listening to everyone else. The fact that she held out so long is a testament to strength of character. Finn says something that has Evan cringing, Noah says something that makes everyone but Melody (and Rachel) chuckle, and Santana finishes her thanks by topping Rachel's glass of wine.
It's the first time since her accident that she's hated her life for something not accident-related. Hell is, apparently, what progress feels like.
Only by the grace of God does she make it through the meal and, even then, it's by the skin of her teeth. While the caterer's crew comes by to start clearing the table, Evan herds everyone into the living room to watch highlights on SportsCenter until it's time for the next football game to start. It isn't long before Melody's out the door with a very sleepy child, leaving Finn to talk playoff possibilities with Noah. Rachel just wants to curl up on the couch and sleep until Christmas. Except, her bladder chooses that moment to threaten to explode and it feels like a very long walk to the bathroom with (at least) two sets of eyes on her.
"Based on my memories of junior year, you used to be a hellva better hostess." Santana corners her in the hall, coming out of the bathroom, and Rachel just gives up and prays that God will take pity on her. "Hell, Puck's worried that you're mixing oxy-something with your wine but I think that you're just a lush."
"It's not my party; I don't have to be a good hostess." The part of her that isn't pissed off at Santana for ignoring her for the better part of four days cringes at the thought of shirking at hostess duties. "If I want to go upstairs and fall asleep until you all go home, I'm allowed."
Santana snorts, loud and unladylike, and Finn's head peaks around the corner (probably to make sure they aren't trying to kill each other). "I leave you alone for three freaking days…"
"Honestly, Santana, it's more like three and a half, almost four."
"…and you fall the fuck to pieces. This is kind of ridiculous, Rachel."
She starts to cry without meaning to (certainly without wanting to) and hears Noah's 'Fucking Santana, what did you do now?' and Bradley's 'Sweetness, I think we've got some Pinot left in the fridge' and it just makes her cry that much harder. There was a time in her life, before a bad leg and a fear of cars and a resentment of New York, when she never cried. She could take criticism more graciously than praise, could watch ASPCA commercials without her hand drifting towards the phone, and dealt with the breakdown of her relationship with Catherine by taking a joyful road trip across the country. This crying mess of a girl is not someone she's familiar with.
Noah's arms wrap around her from behind, while Santana's thumbs come up to wipe away the mascara running underneath her eyes, and Rachel wonders why nothing in her life is simple while these two people are around. Finn slips out while Santana apologizes for being a bitch and Noah apologizes for being an asshole and Rachel apologizes for being an emotional drunk. By the time Bradley and Evan say their goodbyes, a day later, they haven't figured out much except for the fact that Santana should use her words, Noah should stop being a stranger, and that Rachel should get her shit together.
They don't realize it yet, but, they are all completely and totally screwed. In the absolutely best way possible, of course.
Author's Note: Okay, so, first things first, I'll say that I'm a little nervous with the middle bit where Rachel and Santana talk labels. It's a scene that has been stuck in my head for a long time and I hope that I carried it off realistically and respectably. Needless to say, I've got my own head cannon regarding these two (in this story) and labels; I know everyone has their own opinions and, in this case, the characters are expressing their own.
In other news, we're finally making some forward progress. As I said before, as much as I'd loved to immediately jump into a happy OT3 scenario; that just isn't going to happen. We're going to get there and there's going to be plenty of OT3 goodness, but, we're not there yet. All three of these characters have baggage to bring to the table, not just Rachel, and before they can be together, that baggage needs to be addressed. I promise I'm going to come through for my babies, even if I die trying.
Again, thank you all so, so much for sticking around. I promise not to make you wait so long for the next chapter.