Finchel drabbles- # 10
Asked by: no one; this was a prompt for my writing class that I wanted to fill for Finchel as well.
Prompt: A meeting; and description of scene. (Which just so happens to be a bar) This is an AU finchel drabble.

Rachel's heels clicked irritatingly against the dirty, (sticky with old beer, crumbs of finger sized pretzel sticks and crackling cases of peanut shells) wooden floor of the dingy, hole in the wall bar.

She couldn't believe she was doing this again, especially after she promised herself she wouldn't.

She sighed softly, trying to adjust herself on the barstool—the cool, metal digging into her tailbone. Looking across the bar at the bartender moving around to other patrons, Rachel's eyes caught her scowling reflection in the very large mirror sitting on the back wall of the bar behind the rows of colored bulbs lighting up bottles of expensive wine and vodka.

She twirled a piece of her dark, raven, curled hair between her fingertips; the scents of lavender rolling off the strands. Her face looked oddly pale, even in the darkness of the bar. She had piled blush onto her cheekbones to try and bring some color to her skin before she had left her house; but the powder obviously hadn't stuck to her pores. It was like the pigment had rolled off her face, like fallen rose petals, and settled onto her chest—her defined collar bones and the top of her breasts were alight with a sultry pink. Her fathers had always told her that she hated when she wore dark makeup but she thought the violent, bruised purple outlining her cat-like shaped eyes made them look alluring and appealing. Her lips were a deep red; maroon and slightly swollen, like she had been kissed too many times.

Rachel's foot hooked onto the metal rung of the barstool, the tip of her high heeled shoes grazing against the long, wooden planks of the bar in front of her. Her finger nails dug into the swirls of the inexpensive countertop mindlessly; her mouth watering for a deep, red wine before she gave up on this nonsense and went home.

If she could only get the attention of the damn bartender.

The bar was quiet; it obviously wasn't a popular place for a Friday night. There were a few patrons, including her, but it was just enough that it kept the lone bartender busy. She felt overdressed in her strikingly killer, simple midnight black dress. It hugged her slender curves and dipped into places she knew men thought about often when she walked past them.

She rested her elbows on the bar, glancing down at the ground for a moment; as if it could capture her attention for the next hour. The floorboards looked rotted; dark and deep, almost meticulous, finger-like scratches were engrained with age throughout the wood.

"Should I leave you and the floor alone for a while?"

Her head snapped up and she caught sight of the elusive bartender. He was smiling at her, obviously entertained with her intense concentration on the floor. He rung out a sea-green towel between his fingers and carefully stuck it into a bar glass, drying water droplets in the bottom of the mug.

"Well, if you moved around the bar to address all of your patrons I wouldn't have to try and produce shapes out of mindless scratches on the floor." She straightened her back when she realized she was slouching.

He smirked, the edges of his mouth twitching. "I see." He set the glass down assumingly where it belonged before throwing the towel to hang loosely over his shoulder. "On slow nights I've managed to see Abraham Lincoln's top hat and a shape kinda resembling Bill Clinton."

She narrowed her eyes at him, confused. "What?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "Never mind, what can I get you?"

"A rosé, please." She changed her mind. She wasn't in the mood for the invigorating bitter taste of red wine.

He nodded and bent down to pick out a wine glass. He stood and set the glass on the countertop, turning to search the shelves for the right bottle. She not-so-subtly studied the beautiful symmetry of his face through the reflection in the mirror while he was distracted.

Even though he had dark circles under his chestnut colored eyes, (no doubt from working late nights at a crappy bar with bitchy customers like herself) his face was warm and inviting. She could pick out the hints of freckled skin along his cheekbones when he leaned forward into a stream of yellow light to pluck the bottle he had been looking for on the shelf. There were hints of pink down his cheeks and a flush of red on the back of his neck, right below the nape of his brown, coffee grounds colored hair.

He turned and filled her glass with the shadowed, pink liquid—the wine sloshing against the inside like waves. His eyes were on her the entire time he poured and she suddenly felt self conscious under his gaze.

"I hope you weren't waiting long," He pushed the cork back into the bottle and leaned his palms against the bar. "I saw you come in but as you can tell, this ain't exactly a bar in the Ritz hotel. We're understaffed."

Her fingers touched the bottom of her wineglass, the coolness offsetting the moist pads of her touch. "Yes, well, it's sort of sad you don't have more of a crowd on a Friday night."

"Or any night," He mused. "But then again, how could I spend time getting to know my few and only customers if I was totally swamped?" The smile he gave her created a whirlpool in her stomach and she clenched the edge of bar with her other hand.

Her ocean colored eyes met his before her shaky fingers clasped the wineglass. She cleared her throat and focused on taking a sip of her wine (and not spilling it down the front of her). The acidic and fruity liquor ran over her taste buds in an achingly slow and delicious way; leaving an aftertaste of robust, residual sugar.

A deafening silence seemed to stretch between them; communication only happening with their bodies. Molecules, skin cells, heartbeats, stifling breaths and electricity seemed to buzz from him to her and back again, creating a cylindrical message of attraction that was obvious to the both of them.

"Blind date?" He said after a moment; the sound of two drunken men hustling each other at a pool table a few inches away nearly drowning him out.

"A bad one." Her right shoulder gave half a shrug.

"Is there any other kind?" He asked.

She smiled against the edge of her glass; her lipstick imprinting the rim as she pulled it back. "What gave me away?"

"Well, for one; I didn't think you'd dress up in that just to sit at a shitty bar, excuse my French," His mouth turned up when she gave an unexpected giggle, "in the middle of the night on a Friday. Not to mention the scowl that was marring your face for the first twenty solid minutes you were in here." He continued, waving at a couple down the bar that he'd be with them in a moment.

There was a brief moment where Rachel realized that this mysterious barman was hitting on her; and that he had noticed her the very moment she had walked into the bar. A pleasing chill ran all the way down her spine, making her toes tingle.

She was about to slide in a sarcastic remark about how, if he had noticed her, why she had waited so long to just order a damn drink but he was called away to the insistent couple down a few barstools away from her. Rachel thought they looked more interested in smacking their lips against each other's rather than ordering a few drinks.

Time ticked on sluggishly and she was on her third glass of wine before she decided she was just going to leave. No one was worth this torturously long wait in bar that kept gaining greasy, fat, old men that were drunk upon walking in, mindlessly wandering over to the bar like a dehydrated person searching for water in the desert. If one more walked up to her and offered her money for the night she was going to sucker punch someone.

"'Ey mish—" The 's' sound in 'miss' was completely nonexistent and she didn't even want to turn around to see who was trying to speak to her.

Her hand tightened into a fist, fingernails digging into the palm of her hand. She grabbed her purse that was sitting on a barstool next to her and stood up; blood rushing to her legs, giving her pins and needles.

"She's not interested, Randell."

Rachel turned to the end of the bar, where the bartender was coming out and around with a bottle of water. Her eyes lazily traveled down the rest of his body; which had been previously hidden from her because of the height of the bar. He was in perfect shape; his clothes embraced his muscular tones and shadowed dips—her mind only wandered to the images of his skin under the fabric. Smooth, curled, lines into dark crevices and beauty marks on highlighted patches of flesh.

"Here, water on the house and I called you a cab…which I'm sure is here by now." The bartender (she really had to ask his name) told Randell, who hadn't taken his eyes off her.

"I jus got 'ere." Randell slurred, swiping at the water.

He chuckled, letting him have it. "I know, and you're already plastered. Come on, let's get you home."

Rachel watched the bartender carefully lead Randell outside and come back into the bar a few moments later, avoiding a bachelorette party to his right who were keen on gaining his attention.

"You leaving already?" He asked her, fixing the waiter apron he had around his slender waist. He tied the string tighter and shoved down some bills that were sticking out of the one pocket. "If you buy another glass of wine you get a complimentary drunken cheesecake."

She laughed. "Do I even want to know what that is?"

He grinned. "It's basically a normal slice of New York cheesecake with drunken cherries; we soak them in bourbon."

Rachel bit her lower lip, probably dragging a bit of her lipstick off with her teeth. "I should…I should really get home. I've been stood up and I really don't want to stay here and end up like Randell, who didn't know his ass from his elbow."

He smirked softly. "And hit on beautiful girls with tight, black dresses on?" He shrugged softly. "I don't see what's so wrong with that." He teased. She felt blush redden her cheeks.

"Besides," He added, quickly, like he thought the fact that he'd embarrassed her would cause her to leave for sure. "Out of all the drunks to end up like, Randell's pretty harmless."

"That why you rescued me just then?" She asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Oh, it wasn't you I was worried about," He insisted, heading back behind the bar. She slowly settled back down at her barstool, perching herself on the edge. "You looked like you were about to punch him."

"I thought he was trying to hit on me." She groaned, running a frustrated hand through her hair. "He was the sixth drunken man to approach me basically slobbering over my dress."

He offered her another refill of wine, pouring it even though she tried to protest.

"No, really, thank you. I should just go home."

"I'll bring you a cheesecake slice on the house." He tempted, his tongue sliding out of his mouth to wet his lips.

Rachel sighed, not being able to resist the temptation. "Fine." Her tone sounded like she had just sold her soul with one year to live, but the bartender merely smiled and went to the back to fetch the piece of cheesecake he promised her.

If he knew what was good for him, he wouldn't be skimpy with those bourbon cherries.

"So let me get this straight," The bartender sipped from his water glass, setting it down below the bar as he wiped down the countertop. "This is your sixth blind date?"

"Well, I don't know if you can count this one…he never showed."

He shrugged. "His loss, right?"

She smiled softly, looking down at her plate. She swirled the last bit of cherry in its own deep, red juices before popping the fruit into her mouth. It exploded against her tongue, the casing sticking to the inside of her cheek for a brief moment before she swallowed it down with a sip of wine. Her entire body felt like it was buzzing at its own frequency—she knew she was to the point where she should have asked for some water, to clear the alcoholic fuzz clouding her brain; but she kind of enjoyed the warm, hazy feeling.

"Right," She answered his question, a few moments of silence between them. "My friend, Blaine, thinks he's doing me a favor with setting me up on all these dates but…they're really just making me feel miserable." And all the more lonely, she thought after a moment.

"'Rachel, you need to get yourself out there'." She repeated the sentence he always ended up saying to her when he saw her, trying to lower her voice to gain effect. She rolled her eyes. "If Blaine was a doll and you pulled his string, that's what he would say."

He leaned his elbows onto the bar, his face rather close to hers. "Blind dates are always so tricky." His breath fanned out over his face; it smelled like peppermint. "No one is who they seem to be. Who were you supposed to be meeting tonight?"

She cleared her throat and tried to stop thinking about his mouth; his teeth were perfectly aligned—straight and glistening white. He had probably been in some goddamn Crest Whitening Strip commercial at some point in his life.

"His name was Finn, according to Blaine. He's a friend of a friend of Blaine's cousin…or something." Rachel's eyebrows scrunched together. "Or maybe one less 'friend' is in there."

He chuckled. "Sounds complicated."

She sighed. "It really shouldn't be."

"Well," He said conversationally. "The best things don't always come easy."

Rachel crossed her one leg over the other, pushing her empty wine glass towards him. He just smiled, took the glass from her and started to wash it. She glanced around the bar, noticing more and more patrons started to gather up their things to leave. She checked her watch, running a hand over her face; not caring if she screwed up her makeup.

"Wow, is it really almost three? I've been here blabbing to you since one."

He smiled, running a hand through his short cropped hair. "Time flies, and all that." He waved at a few regulars leaving.

Rachel stood up, nearly tripping on her heels as she took the bartender's hand and shook it, probably a bit rougher than she intended. "Thanks for wasting your night talking to me."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating pleasantly in her ears. "It wasn't a waste. Can I get you a cab?"

"Please." She nodded. "You have really nice hands." Great, she was in over-share mode.

His smile had become even more attractive, if that was possible. "Thank you. Let me grab you a water too."

She had officially turned into Randell. Except, instead of hitting on girls she was trying to pick up a very tall and gorgeous bartender who she didn't even know the name of. And it was then she realized she didn't care what his name was because the alcohol roaring through her veins merely wanted to take him to her home, names be damned.

She sighed heavily as he wrote something down on a slip of paper and grabbed a bottle of water from a refrigerator below the bar; moving to meet her to help her outside.

His strong arm wrapped around her waist as she stumbled out of the bar and down the one step to the sidewalk; he waved down a cab for her, helping her inside.

"Oh, wait, what do I even owe you for…all the drinks and the cheesecake?"

His hand rested over hers as she struggled to open her purse to fish for her wallet. "On the house." He smiled, making her feel dizzy. He handed her the water; his fingers grazing over hers for what felt like minutes.

He made sure she gave the correct address before paying the cab driver and shutting the cab door, the sound echoing in her head like the sound of granite falling. She groaned softly and managed to open the bottle of water, a tiny slip of paper falling from her hands onto her skirt as she got the lid off. She took a sloppy sip before screwing the lid back on; half assed of course, and adjusted her skirt so that her thighs were rightly hidden from the cab driver.

She looked at the ceiling of the cab; like the sheet of paper had tumbled out of thin air or something before steadying her fingers to open the delicate folds.

A messy scrawl stared back at her when she finally opened it; and turned it right side up.

Try to read this again when you're sober.

She rolled her eyes; the barkeep. She continued down the lines anyways.

This is going to sound incredibly awkward; but I wanted to tell you in hopes that you'll come back one of these nights. Your blind date didn't show up because he was there all along. My name is Finn.

She dropped the bottle of water all over her; the liquid spilling out over the sides of the half-on lid. She swore and picked it up, shoving it between her knees to keep it still. Some of the ink had blurred due to her spaz attack.

You have to understand, I thought our date was scheduled for tomorrow night; otherwise I wouldn't have been working when you showed up. I didn't realize who you were until you started talking about Blaine…and then I was too afraid to admit I was the date that had apparently 'stood you up'.

She was impressed he had managed to write this much in such a short amount of time…but then again…maybe he had been writing bit by bit as the night had gone on and she just hadn't noticed.

Your scowls are surprisingly scary, you know?

She rolled her eyes.

If it's any consolation; that was the best non-blind-date…date, that I've ever had.
Finn.

Rachel scoffed softly, leaning back to rest against the headrest; her head lolling to the side every so often as the taxi drove through the silent, slumbered filled streets of New York.

Tipsy or not; she couldn't help or believe that she found herself agreeing.

Perhaps it wouldn't hurt too bad to visit that dingy, hole in wall bar tomorrow night as well.