Rachel stood beside Finn, her shadow swamped by his gigantic figure. She scratched at her arm, trying to find something of purchase to stabilise her feelings. He was confident, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his jeans. She stared out over the abyss, her heart in her mouth.
"Are you sure about this?" she asked in a small voice. Finn laughed and turned to face her, his hands cupping her face.
"Of course I'm sure. It's fun. Besides, you're harnessed in, and trust me, those things can hold a hell of a lot of weight, and you're tiny," he assured, stroking a cheek with his thumb. Rachel stopped herself from leaning into the touch, so familiar, the same reassuring touch she'd loved when they were in high school. Instead, she took a deep breath to dispel the fluttering in her stomach, and looked over the abyss again, and the cable she was currently strapped to. She shook her head, the helmet she wore uncomfortably heavy. This was ridiculous. The flying fox descended into the gap, stretching from one side of the valley to the other, a single length of cable; the thought of sliding down it with nothing else holding her in the air terrified her.
"I can't possibly jump off the edge," she said to Finn, stepping even further away from the wooden platform she was meant to take off from.
"Hey," Finn murmured, taking her hand, "you know that feeling you get after you've done something terrifying? Isn't that all worth these few seconds of fear? You just have to take that first leap of faith," he softly encouraged, his voice more gentle than she was used to hearing from him. It seemed time had altered him in more ways than she imagined. The old Finn would have been getting frustrated with her by now. "And besides," he added, "you're Rachel Berry. You're fearless!"
"That's a lie," she argued, but laughed. It was nice to see someone have faith in her; it reminded her of old times, when everyone she knew believed she would achieve exactly what she wanted to achieve. It wasn't something she got a lot of anymore; adulthood was certainly dull. "Ok," she whispered, made bolder by Finn's words, and she stepped up to the edge. She crept closer; slow and steady, she told herself. A shiver wracked her entire body, anticipation and fear, and the beginning of a thrill. Her toes stuck out over the wooden platform. Her entire body seemed to enter a different state of being, every fibre gripped by paradoxical urges to jump and to flee. She stood there for a long second, taking it in, clenching her fists at her sides, holding her breath.
"You can do it Rachel," she heard from behind her. Finn, giving her courage, even from the sidelines.
"You don't have to jump," the attendant a few metres away told her, "you could just sit down in your harness, if that helps. It takes away that scary second of freefall before the cable catches your weight."
"No, I'm going to jump," she smiled, and bending her knees, took the leap.
As soon as her feet left solid ground, she realised she left her stomach and innards behind. Zipping down the cable at exhilarating speed, she laughed, loud and free and in love with the feeling of having no ground beneath her, her terror from a second before gone, fled in the face of this thrill. An elated cry ripped itself from her lungs, filling the valley with the sound of her joy. She threw her hands up in the air, triumph and excitement adding strength to the gesture. For those too few seconds, she felt like she was flying, and understood, for the first time in her life, why mankind had been compelled to take to the air.
When she landed softly on the platform at the other end of the valley, spine tingling adrenaline making every cell in her body a livewire, her only thought was to race back up to the top and jump again. The grin on her face would not leave, plastered to her face like a permanent fixture. This is what she imagined being on drugs felt like. She didn't want to upset the high, clinging to it, basking in it, revelling.
Moments later, she was joined by Finn, who stepped as easily onto the platform as if he'd done it a thousand times before. And perhaps he had; he'd been in the military, Rachel recalled, in the intervened years between high school and the present. He'd told her that he'd skipped college in favour of an army life. That's what had changed him. Rachel was glad; she had no doubt that if he'd gone to college, he would still be that unconfident, goofy boy she'd known, unable to see himself doing something worthwhile in his life. Now, with the attendant unscrewing the clip which held him to the cable, he was full of a quiet grace and ease with the world, like he knew he'd carved a place for himself in it that he liked.
"You did it! You jumped! I'm so proud of you, Rach!" he exclaimed, his eyes shining from his own taste of adrenaline, and embraced her.
"You're right, it was totally worth those few seconds of terror. I can't believe I've never done anything like this before! I have to admit, I was doubting this day out when you told me where we were going, but I'm so glad it turned out, because that was amazing!" she squealed into his chest. Extracting herself from his grip, she bounced from foot to foot. "I feel like I can do anything now. I almost want to take off running, just because I can."
"Well then," Finn grinned, "first one back to the adventure centre is a rotten apple."
Rachel turned and bolted, leaving Finn in her wake. He caught up with her in a matter of seconds and gently bumped her shoulder with his. Slowing so they were side by side, they giggled, breathless and tingling from their jump. They emerged from the forest, at the foot of the mountain, and began their mad dash across the carefully manicured grass to the visitor centre. Rachel pushed herself further, gaining a little on Finn. Competitiveness took over and she focused her attention on making it first to that building, looming larger and nearer with every step that she took. For a moment, she even forgot about Finn, somewhere behind her. At least until she was knocked off her feet, cradled in the arms of the large man, still running. Jumping in her surprise at her loss of contact with the ground, she startled Finn, who stumbled, falling forward, Rachel still in his arms. The lurched, landing on the grass in a giggling mass of tangled limbs.
"You!" Rachel shrieked in mock anger, punching Finn lightly on the shoulder as his body shook with laughter. Disentangling herself, she lay on the grass beside him, and stared at the blue sky, at the perfect picturesque white clouds. Next to her, she could feel Finn roll onto his side and prop himself up on an elbow. She let her eyes find his, still filled to the brim with laughter. Unable to help herself, she grinned back. She felt young again, not plagued by worry, and choreography and stage directions so drilled into her she could have performed them in her sleep. She felt like a teenager again, when Broadway was still on the horizon, when the world still felt like an optimistic place, cheerful and light.
Finn reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. Gently, he removed a piece of grass which had become lodged in it. Rachel shivered, surprising herself; she hadn't shivered at the touch of someone for a long time. Not since - she struggled to think - not since Quinn, she admitted to herself. It made a nice change, to feel something caused by someone else. That's why when Finn lowered his head, and his lips found hers, she didn't resist.
His lips were soft against hers, soft and warm and familiar. And yet, at the same time, unfamiliar. She was no longer the one in control; Finn was the initiator, the aggressor; not that he was very aggressive, but it was a difference from the last kisses they'd shared. It was terrible, she knew, to compare every small thing between Finn now and the Finn she knew then, but it was reflexive, and the differences were vast. She felt something twinge inside her core, something long dormant, something which was suddenly as hungry as a bear emerging from hibernation. She fought it, not ready for that. Not yet. It was too soon after being reunited. But it was nice to know she could still be turned on by someone; after such a long absence of it, she'd been slightly afraid that she'd lost sexual interest in people.
"Oh," she gasped, pulling away, remembering, "was it you who left a map of New York in a box outside my apartment two nights ago?"
"A map of New York? No. Why would I do something like that? Sorry, it wasn't me. What was it for?" he asked, leaving a light trail of kisses along her jaw, making it hard for her to remember what it was she was talking about.
"Um, nothing. Don't worry about it. Probably some kid playing a prank," she lied, the untruth spilling out of her as easily as the air she breathed. Somehow it felt wrong to tell Finn the truth. But if it hadn't been him, who had it been? Someone who had thought the gesture was romantic. Some vague thought niggled at the back of her mind, indistinct and intangible. It melted into mist when she tried to grab at it. As Finn's mouth found hers again, she forgot all about it.
"No. Wait. We have to go. We can't do this," she said, coming to her senses and pushing against Finn's chest, telling him to get off her. He relented, looking disappointed, but not surprised.
"Too fast? It's too fast. God, Rachel, I'm so sorry. Sometimes I forget how long it's been," he apologised, sitting up, and grabbing her hand to help her too.
"Yes, it's too fast. I'm sorry, Finn, but you're right, we haven't seen each other for a long time, it wouldn't be prudent if we threw ourselves into this again, not after years of not seeing or talking to one another. We need to become reacquainted."
"You're right. So, Saturday still stands?"
"Of course. I look forward to it," Rachel smiled, "but for now, let's take it slow."
Finn nodded. Standing up, he helped Rachel up. He grinned.
"Ready to do the flying fox again?"
Rachel almost jumped into his arms.
In all, the day passed in a haze of adrenaline and extreme sports, and when Finn pulled his car up outside Rachel's apartment building in the late afternoon, they were both contently exhausted. They sat in his car for a few moments, watching the yellow taxis zoom past, winding their way through the city to some unknown destination, the worker ants of the huge colony. Finn's hand slid into Rachel's, and he leaned forward to place a kiss on her forehead. Rachel gave him a smile in return.
"I should go," she sighed, not eager to leave the comfort of the car. Finn nodded.
"But I'll see you on Saturday. That's only three days away," he grinned, then kissed Rachel's hand, "I'm looking forward to it."
"Me too," Rachel assured, before climbing out of the car and trudging into her building, her feet struggling to step up the stairs. She looked over her shoulder before she pushed the front door of her building open, and waved one last goodbye to Finn. He was still there when the door swung shut behind her.
Her body faintly buzzed as she stood in the elevator, waiting for it to bring her to her floor. She leant against the side of the lift, struggling to hold up her own weight in her exhaustion. She closed her eyes, losing herself to the sensation of rising. When the door pinged to tell her that it was her floor, she could barely open her eyes again. She dragged her feet, shuffling along the carpeted corridor until she reached her door, one of two on this floor of the building. And stopped, three feet away from it.
Stuck to her door, with a small piece of masking tape, was a note on crumpled and dirty paper. Even from a metre away, she could recognise the handwriting, though she hadn't seen it in years. A shiver raced down her spine, and her entire body, from the tips of her fingers to the top of her head tingled. Alertness washed over her the way tiredness had just a moment before. She shot glances down either side of the corridor, hoping to catch a glimpse of pink or black. Nothing. She returned her attention to the note, aware that the poster had long since disappeared. With a trembling hand, she tugged it off the door.
Once we walked a timid life,
Like on a tightrope,
Or the edge of a knife.
The mind oft forgets,
But the heart, it does not,
Keeping close our deep regrets,
So we may visit them forever.
Ask if I miss you,
And I will say never.
Ask not if I love you,
For I will be forced to lie,
Hoping you feel the same as I do.
Do not fret; my heart is all yours.
This is why I'm reduced to poems on doors.
Rachel gritted her teeth and pushed her front door open with so much force that it hit the wall and bounced back. She slammed it shut with such force that the floor rattled. She fought the urge to scream, biting it back even as it rose in her throat. Throwing herself onto her couch, she drew her knees to her chin and growled in frustration. But she didn't let go of the poem. It trembled in her hand.
Why? Why did this happen to her now? When she had some semblance of happiness, and a chance at a romance, why did this have to come along and tear open the old wounds and let out all the old feelings which had crawled away like vampires in the light? She wanted it gone, she wanted life to be normal, easy, she wanted to fall in love and not have to doubt the validity of her feelings because there was another lurking on the fringes of memory and lust. She threw her arm out, punching the backrest of the couch with the side of her fist. The force sent a tremor through her arm, and she clenched her muscles, prepared to do it again, to release all the pent up frustration that suddenly blossomed in her chest.
Realising it wouldn't be enough, she stood, dropping the poetic note and not noticing where it fluttered to a rest. Rummaging through a cupboard, she pulled out two red boxing gloves, not often used, and pulled them onto her fists. Eyeing the punching bag hanging in one corner of the apartment, like a long dead man with a new historic relevance, and striding up to it with fierce determination, she drew her arm back and pounded her fist into it. The bag swung away from the force, and on its backswing, Rachel met it with the other fist. Head ducked low, fists held high, anger flooding her entire being, she punched and punched, striking out at the red fabric, feeling it dimple beneath her blow, emptying herself of frustration one tidbit at a time.
By the time she collapsed onto her couch later, an exhausted mess of ebbing anger and growing despair, she was glad she had taken Blaine up on his suggestion of a punching bag as a method of anger management. She felt better about getting the anger out, but now that there was nothing to combat it, to drown it or to hide it, her helplessness was taking over, extending its suctioned tentacles and attaching them to the inside of her chest, making it hard to breathe. She sunk lower into the embrace of her couch, the familiarity of it holding her close, comforting her. She thought of David and the conversations they'd had sitting on, of Kurt and Blaine, of the times they'd had drinking tea and coffee sitting there, she thought of Finn, and perhaps one day lying down on it with him. And instinctively, she thought of Quinn, of pulling her down on top of her, on top of that couch. A shiver spread from between her shoulder blades to the tips of her fingers, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Using her hands, she tried to rub them away, and though they faded, the thought, the memory of the thought, and the lust it entailed did not.
She lay on her side, curling up into a foetal shape, no longer Rachel Berry, Broadway star, but Rachel Berry, insecure, unsure, still a child. Wrapping one arm over her head to somehow block the scene from playing out in her mind, she blotted out the New York lights, swimming across the walls as the light of cars was reflected back and forth from the street, up the buildings, like an ever moving vine of neon colours. With the sound of that traffic, as constant as the sound of waves washing against the shore, Rachel slept, deeply and dreamlessly, too tired and worn to let the plague of fears haunt her dreams as well as her waking hours.