this, obviously, is au
"I just—I don't understand why you like him. He's—"
"Married," she finishes, "and I know you think that, but you have no proof."
"No proof? What more proof do I need than that he came by the station to thank some of the guys for saving his wife—yes, his wife—from that fire a few weeks ago?"
She shakes her head and bites her lip. "Look, Finn," she begins, fingers settling atop his clenched fist, "I get this, this whole territorial feeling, because you're my best friend. And you think things are going to change now that I'm in love. But I promise that you will not lose me!"
He sighs, and she smiles, and squeezes his forearm. "You can do way better than Jesse St. James."
That angers her, dark eyes flashing, "Oh, yeah? Like who? Look, Finn, I accepted that you were dating Quinn, that you want to marry her even if she is all wrong for you."
"Exactly! I'm saving you the heartbreak that Quinn caused me when she broke off the engagement! How humiliated do you think I feel, knowing all my friends and family and loved ones all knew she was wrong for me and never decided to tell me?"
"She broke off the engagement?" At his nod, tenderness infiltrates her eyes and she rests her hand on his bicep. "I'm so sorry, Finn."
"Yeah, well," he says bitterly, "better now than two kids and a mortgage down the line, huh?"
"Regardless, Finn, I know myself. And I know Jesse. He would never do this to me. You must've heard him wrong." Her voice is sugary sweet, and she wraps her arms around him once, squeezes 'round his waist, and flounces off towards her flight's gate.
It's always been Finn and Rachel. Then, it was Finn and Rachel and sometimes-Quinn. And now that it's just Finn and Rachel again, he isn't too keen on letting that go. She's his best friend, after all. All he wants is to spend time with her.
When they were thirteen, they kissed in her room, clandestinely, hands on awkward knees and fingertips brushing her protruding collarbone. He's never felt that way since, and he wonders if it's simply because they've been friends for so long, or something else.
From the way his stomach is swimming, he supposes the latter. He longs for the feeling of her fingers between his, mouth against his, wonders how he'd feel seeing her in his bed every morning. He's spent the past three years imagining Quinn walking towards him, blonde hair all done up, pale arm twined with her father's. He thought that made him happier than anything ever.
Instead, he pictures Rachel, her warm smile, dark hair hanging halfway down her back, honey arms with her dads'. He imagines marrying her, dancing at the reception to one of their songs, scrap booking pictures months after in commemoration. He doesn't want anything but the sound of her voice echoing off the shower walls, singing him into forever.
In some ways, he's only ever thought of Rachel this way, as his girl. But he's never imagined her as his girl. She's always belonged to someone else, heart given to some other boy, string still knotted around his heart as she passed it around and broke it and broke it and shattered it and put herself together.
He's always loved her.
It doesn't surprise him when she joins him on his fire escape, her shoulder knocking into his in greeting. The apples of her cheeks are wet with old tears, rosy red as her breath puffs in front of her in the cold.
"Sad?" Her mitten clad hand inches towards his, soft fabric against his cold bare hand, and she nods slightly.
He knows how she feels, hell, he still feels like his heart has been pulled from his chest and squeezed till it bruised, but he takes the knowledge that he loves her (and she him) to help him heal.
"We'll be okay," he murmurs, hooking his elbow behind hers.
It happens randomly. They're watching a movie at his place, beside one another on the couch, when her leg presses against his, and before he knows it, his mouth is on hers. His fingers slip beneath her sweater, just resting on the skin of her stomach as his tongue slips into her mouth.
He picks her up off the couch, her legs winding around his waist as he carries them into the bedroom, kisses all the feelings he's had bottled up inside since he was old enough to understand them into her skin, fingers tracing over her collarbone, lips following suit. Her back arches into him as he holds her close, forehead sweating as it comes to rest against hers. She falls and he falls and he holds her close, bare skin warm as they come down. He intertwines their fingers as she hooks her arm over his hip, cart wheeling into a restful sleep.
Her fingers brush over a long scar on the underside of his forearm, tickling him, and rousing him from a light sleep. The tether binding their hearts hums and sings and stretches and vibrates when she leans over and presses good morning into his neck. She's warm and sunshine and bright eyes and morning light, tucked into his side, white sheets tangled in their limbs.
He tells her quietly, lips barely moving, that he loves her, he's always loved her, and she presses yes into his fingers.
Weeks down the road, he asks her to marry him in the same fashion, lips humming against hers, and her answer is a kiss on the corner of his lips, yes whispered into his mouth.
