A/N: Finchel with a sort of 'friends with benefits'-esque. I saw the movie, loved it, and then got this stuck in my head. It's not a replica or anything, but it is a little long. Yeah. I'd say sorry, but I'm not, so... Op! This is completely and utterly AU, by the way. I know this is unusual, me writing a two-shot, but I figured I'd post both segments at once (I hate waiting for updates as much as the next person) and call it a day. I really do hope you enjoy this, though.

"I've never been good at it," she starts, her brown pupils expanding when she speaks. It's almost too dramatic for his taste, but yet Finn still catches himself licking his lips (twice) when the girl goes on and on about being 'emotionally unavailable in the ever-populated dating world'.

Another person in the room asks, "So your skills are limited, aren't they?"

Finn tries not to laugh when the brunette purses her lips, flattens out her checkered skirt and hums before answering. "No," she says. "That's almost so inaccurate it stings. Being emotionally unavailable has nothing to do with being uninterested or incapable of partaking in sexual intercourse."

Most of the room snorts. Finn just stares. Are people this odd supposed to be this damn intriguing? Whatever. This girl's odd yet strangely hot, and that's what gets him.

"As a matter of fact," she goes on, "my being a single woman of twenty-four with an apartment of my own, the offers pile up by the dozens."

Finn speaks for the first time. "Is that a lie?"

She shoots him one of those awful death glares you'd see in a movie on serial killers. The girl? She's the killer. Finn's her target, and he gets the stink eye for what feels like an hour before she answers with a tight-lipped, "No."

"Just checkin'."

"Well don't," she says, turning her head so their eyes meet completely. "I'm sure you mean well... uh..." She scans the stupid name tag the director of the meeting put on him beforehand, and he watches the way she hitches her brows, letting out a gulp. "Finn? Is that short for anything? Finneas? Finnegan? My great uncle's cousin's middle name was Finneas, but I'm almost like... eighty-one percent sure he used 'Finn'. Yes, he used Finn. Yes, he did.."

Finn raises both of his brows, scrunching his nose slightly. "You sure know how to talk a lot, uh..."

"Rachel Berry," she interrupts.

"Right. Rachel. Um, damn. Yeah, I'm... I'm just... s'just Finn. Finn Hudson."

"Oh," she nods, her lips tight and her hands folded in her lap. "Wonderful."

The meeting ends five minutes later and he's quick to pull out his phone to text his stepbrother (a few curses included) with a very sarcastic 'thanks' for signing him up for these stupid 'singles' meetings.

He feels a hand to his back not two seconds after sending the text, Rachel's large brown eyes meeting his, her lips forming a sympathetic grin. "Perhaps you're emotionally damaged," she says.

He narrows his eyes because, well, the hell is this chick saying? He practically slept through the entire first portion of the meeting and he's got no idea what being 'emotionally damaged' means anyway.

"You spoke not two words at that meeting," she says, lifting her hand off of the small of his back and turning around so she's in front of him. She's short — really short. Like, a Keebler elf kind of short, maybe. She's got on a blue-and-white checkered skirt with a solid black top, tucked in almost too perfectly. She's wearing gold flats even he knows don't match, but she doesn't seem too bothered by them at all. She just puts on her best smile and lets one of her fingers tread through a lock of hair just beside her boob.

"I... I didn't wanna be there."

"The world could've detected that," she tells him. "I mean, your eyes shifted to the floor every second — excluding the few seconds you decided to question me in the middle of my speaking, but..."

"'But' nothing," he says. "My stepbrother decided it'd be a good idea to sign me up for these stupid meetings at the community center twice a week."

"Stupid meetings?" And she goes on even when he notices the leader of the meeting exiting through the back door from the corner of his eye. He shakes that off, hopes the doors stay unlocked and prays she won't go on any longer, because he's totally got a Hell's Kitchen marathon calling his name back at home.

"Yeah, y'know, the kind of stupid meetings you see in all of the movies yet never really knew existed."

She nods as if she gets it, but he can tell by the confused look on her face she just... doesn't.

"Hey, Rachel, y'know..." he trails off, one hand absentmindedly finding its way to her shoulder. "I'll see you around."

"The next meeting is on Tuesday!" she calls out once he's got a grip on the doorknob, his hands in his pockets as he digs around for his keys.

"Y—yeah," he says, top teeth tugging down on his bottom lip. "Dunno about that one."

But he does, and he's never going back to those stupid ass meetings at that stupid ass center with all of those stupid ass singles.

It's all stupid. Except for Rachel. She's kind of... not.

So he goes to the next meeting. And the next. Singles meetings. Who's idea was that anyway?

Whatever. He sits with his elbow propped up on his knee, his chin buried in his hand, his eyes only prying up anytime someone throws out the word 'sex'.

Today, it's Rachel. "Sex is more than just an intimate act to me," she begins. "I mean, I used to believe in the whole 'I'm-waiting-until-marriage-for-this-just-because-it-seems-like-the-right-thing-to-do' approach, but I dropped that soon after senior year began."

"And you had sex with...?" Someone from the corner of the room asks.

Finn notices the way her jaw quivers. (Yes, he's sort of actually paying attention now). "H—his name was Jesse," she says like she doesn't want to, and then she clutches her throat and gulps. "He was my high school sweetheart, one of those guys you'd classify with a 'first love' sort of label, y'know? He was special to me, Jesse, but soon after high school he left for college, and then we lost touch. It sucked because—"

"Because you fell in love with him, lost your virginity to him, planted the whole 'I'm-going-to-marry-this-guy-just-because-I-gave-it-up-to-him' scenario in your head and were discouraged when it didn't work out, right?" Finn doesn't mean to speak, but he does.

She nods coyly. "Yes. Exactly."

He swallows — hard. "S'what happened to me," he says. "Quinn Fabray was her name. She was the whole package — hot, blonde, cheerleader, rich parents, nice house, top of the pyramid sort of girl. She and I both had the idea we'd grow up together, go to the same college, end up working close to home, raise a family together..." he trails off with a sigh.

Rachel's eyes grow sympathetic, and she places a hand on his kneecap without him even realizing for a minute. To be honest, he forgot she was next to him the entire time. (She switched spots with one of the quietest girls in the room early on in the meeting, offering her a twenty dollar bill to scoot on over, probably just to give Finn the impression she was actually interested in being his friend or whatever).

The meeting ends five minutes later, some guy named Billy squeezing in a story about his abusive ex-girlfriend and her crazy cat addiction in right before everyone packs up to head out.

"Looking forward to seeing you all on Friday!" The director calls out, then takes her bag, stacks a few chairs up, pushes them to the corner of the room and leaves.

Finn clears his throat when he notices Rachel standing all by herself, still leaned over by her chair, the only unstacked chair in the room.

"I know you're looking at me," she calls out loud and proud, using her right hand to push her bangs out of her face, looking to the floor as she lifts her chair up by the legs. "Finn, you can come over here y'know, I don't bite."

He smooths his hands over his jacket and says, "Y—yeah, I know."

She only stills, letting out an elongated breath. "Hey, d'you wanna go out for coffee sometime? I mean, I don't exactly take you as a coffee person or anything, but I figured it was worth a shot, and—"

"Yes," he nods, hands in his pockets. "'Course."

Her eyes light up at that, and then she pulls her phone out from her coat pocket, quickly typing. "I'm free... well... now."

"Yeah, so am I." And he is, so he goes, one hand (strangely) finding it's way to the small of her back as they both exit the door. "By the way, I really hate these meetings. Tell me I'm not the only one."

So she does. "I hate them too," she confesses, head ducked down as if it's wrong. She spots her car then, he thinks, because she pulls her keys out of her purse and says, "It's... that's my car. Should I...?"

He shrugs. "I walk everywhere. I mean, it's New York, so..."

She bites down on her lip for that one, hiding a peering smile he knows is there. "I love New York," she says giddily, followed by a 'sorry', which, yeah, he's totally confused about. The hell is she apologizing for? If she weren't so crazy (yeah, the girl's sort of insane, and he can tell that by just a few weeks at these 'singles' meetings), it'd be kind of cute, even.

"Why are you apologizing?" he asks, head ducked down to the sidewalk as the both of them start to make their way down the street, his mind set on finding one of the nearest coffee shops he remembers being right on the corner. He doesn't get out as often as he'd like to, but he does know his way around, for the most part.

"Because it was hardly relevant to the conversation," she admits, head hung low, cracking her fingers (he thinks it's a nervous thing). "Where are you from, Finn?"

By the time he thinks of whether to tell her the truth or sugarcoat his story so he seems like, less lame, he's opening the door to one of the nearest coffee shops, letting her squeeze on in before he follows. "I'm, uh... I'm from Ohio. Nothin' special."

She looks intrigued, though, and that confuses him, because, well, the hell is so special about Ohio? He's anxious to hear her story, so he jumps in on line, stands beside her and folds his arms at his chest.

"Ohio, huh? That's something. How'd you end up here in New York?"

"Stepbrother," he says with a knowing nod. "He lives out here with his boyfriend, and I figured I'd trail along for the ride, y'know? I mean, I work down at the fire station, so I've done alright for myself, but there's always something better. I'm still looking for that."

She purses her lips. "I'm from New Jersey. The suburban kind of New Jersey, nothing too great. I moved out here for college, to pursue singing and whatnot. So far, it's been nothing but discouraging."

"W'do'u mean 'discouraging'? I'm sure you're like... fantastic." Only, he's not, because... well... it's not like she's ever sang for him or anything. He shrugs that off and just moves up a step in line, his eyes still on Rachel.

"I'm more of the latter," she chuckles. "No, but in all seriousness, do you know how hard finding a good gig is? Like, sure, I've been in my share of off-Broadway shows, taught quite the bunch of vocal lessons... but I've never done what I wanted to do, y'know? Have you ever made a goal and then ultimately set your entire life to revolve around it?"

He shakes his head viciously, lips forming a small 'o'. "Uh... no?"

"Well I have," she says. "Perhaps it's why my love life is in the toilet. I mean, making time for nothing but myself and my career was and has been challenging, but I manage."

"And you'd rather have a career than a boyfriend or a husband?"

"Exactly," she nods fervently. "I'm glad someone understands."

He nods (but coldly, pretty coldly), and spends the next thirty minutes playing with the stirrer in his coffee while she goes on about her fantasy Broadway playlist.

It's not the best of afternoons.

(But it isn't the worst, either).

She gives him her number on a random Tuesday, one of the shortest meetings so far. They meet for thirty minutes, listen to Billy ramble on about his ex-girlfriend (or is she his girlfriend again? Finn can't keep up) and her new bedsheets with the shitload of cat hair on them. "And she can not expect me to sleep there!" he rants. "Like... who does she think she is, Madonna?"

Finn slaps his own forehead, and he chuckles when he watches Rachel roll her eyes from across the room. She mouths the word 'mediocre' (so sue him, he's a good lip reader), and he laughs a little too loud this time.

"Anything you'd like to share, Finn?" The director asks him this like he's in freakin' kindergarten again, and he only shakes his head, pressing his lips together.

"Uh... no. Nope."

Rachel approaches him as soon as the meeting's over and holds out a hand. "Give me your phone," she commands, and he digs around in his pocket as if he's being timed. "I think it's about time we trade numbers, don't cha think?"

He hands her his phone, murming a small, "Y—yeah, sure, 'course," and she hits the keys with her baby pink manicured nail and grins.

"There you go, Hudson." She hands him back the phone, then pivots on her left foot, turning toward the door. "Use it."

"Hm? What?"

"Use the number," she demands, turning back around in her steps, her hands at her hips like some head bitch in charge or something. He smirks at that because, well, it's kind of hot. He shakes that off quickly, nods and tells her he will, and then watches her stomp off.

Finn: Is this 'using it' enough for you?

Rachel: Depends. Show me what you've got.

He's watching football in his apartment, his stepbrother Kurt and his boyfriend Blaine on the couch beside him, their hands in each others' laps, those goo-goo eyes they save for only each other (and the ones that make Finn puke, too).

"Sexting?" Kurt asks, wiggling his eyebrows and stretching his neck in attempt to get a view at the screen of Finn's phone.

"As if," Finn snickers. "S'a friend. Y'know, just a friend from the meetings."

"You mean the 'singles' meetings? The ones I signed you up for in hopes you'd meet someone so you'd get off your ass every once in awhile and venture somewhere aside from my apartment?" The emphasis on 'my' makes Finn want to reach over and kick Kurt right in the groin, but he just shrugs.

"Mm, maybe."

"That's great," Kurt says, then directs his view back to the television and away from Finn and his cellphone.

Rachel: Are you there? You haven't responded.

He chuckles because she's one of those girls, huh? He types quickly.

Finn: Don't tell me you're the clingy type. Can't dig those.

Rachel: As if. 'Distant' just so happens to be my middle name.

Finn: Well that's not good either. You've gotta have a little bit of clinginess sometimes, right?

Rachel: 'Clinginess' is what caused my last relationship to steer itself right down the drain, so no, won't be taking any chances with that one again.

He sighs, throws his phone onto the recliner opposite the couch and says, "Anyone up for some hot dogs or somethin'?", because avoiding a conversation like that with Rachel would be easier than having one.

It's not like she's really his friend anyway, so he doesn't owe that to her or anything, right?

He skips the next meeting and sleeps in, the sound of his constantly buzzing phone right under his pillow waking him up at a quarter to noon.

Rachel: It's my fault isn't it?

Rachel: If they were that important to you and I ruined them, I won't go anymore. Besides, like I said, my career is more of my focal point anyway.

Rachel: An answer would be nicer than none.

Rachel: Just a 'bye', even.

He falters for a second, then squeezes his phone in the palm of his right hand, wiping the heel of his left hand on his tired eyelids.

"H—hello?" He's tired and frankly, his day in should've started at like, three thirty instead of at a quarter to twelve, but whatever. He shakes that off, rub his eyes just a bit more and attempts (and fails) to clear his throat in hopes of sounding like he hadn't been napping for like, a century.

"I was worried," she admits.

"So much for 'distant' being your middle name," he chuckles, even though he doesn't mean to.

"I'm sorry!" she shouts, and that's the minute he holds the phone far away from his now-throbbing ear. "It's just... you hadn't responded to any of my text messages, which, yeah, is totally understandable, because again, I'm not clingy, but then you don't show up to the meeting, and, well... it worried me."

"S'not your fault," he says. "I just need some sleep, that's all."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Just... 'oh'," she says, voice low.

He blinks rapidly, presses the phone closer to his ear and says, "Can I go now?"

"Yes," she says, "but you have to promise to call me."

"To call you? What is this... a deal?"

She giggles. "No, silly, it's not a deal. It's just... my roommates are more busy with their own lives and work and relationships and whatnot, and I'm just... here. I've got no friends, no family out here. It's really lonely, in all honesty. I'm just asking as a friend."

"A friend?"

"We're friends, aren't we?"

He thinks about it for a minute, and yeah, sure, he's got Kurt and even Blaine (even though the both of them are more than peeved off about Finn living with them), and he's got some buddies down at the station, but he hasn't got a real friend. Not one of those 'let-me-call-him-slash-her-about-my-day-and-tell-them-useless-stuff-only-a-friend-would-find-funny' kind of friends, at least.

So he says, "Yeah, we're friends", and she squeals and tells him 'thought so', and then he laughs, because that's what a friend'd do, right?

He calls her the moment one of the guys down from the station — Chuck, it is — tells some lame ass story about going too long without sex and its consequences.

"So it's not like, true, right?" he asks only because he's intrigued.

Rachel chuckles, then asks him, "Are you mentally challenged? Only a personal with mental incapabilities would believe a penis could actually fall off."

He lowly says, "Sorry", and then tries to hang up.

"Wait!" she calls out. "D—don't hang up."

"Why not?" he asks.

"Well, because... I don't know. I enjoy your company."

"Was that rehearsed?"

"W'do'u mean?"

"Like... you're only being nice to me because you feel you have to?" Yeah, sure, it's a stupid question, but the chick's like a rock. She's pretty big on the whole 'cruel humor' thing, at least around him.

"No," she says, spitting out a laugh. "Trust me, I can be awfully mean given the chance."

"Then why aren't you mean to me?" Another stupid question.

"Because... I don't know. We're... friends?"

She says it as if it's more of a question than an actual answer. Are they friends or are they not? Whatever. "Yeah, we're friends,Rachel. Like... best friends."

"Don't push it."

But he does anyway. He buys her a stupid 'Best of Broadway' CD, brings it to her during a coffee 'date' (only, they're never real dates because that'd just be weird, according to Rachel), and tells her it's 'just because'.

She slaps him, then kisses him on both cheeks and says, "That's really nice. You shouldn't have."

"Oh, but I did."

Then she makes him listen to it for forty minutes in New York traffic on the way back to her apartment.

"Now I shouldn't have," he jokes, and she slaps him on the arm. "Hey, there's no rule that says I'm not allowed to be the mean one in this friendship."

"Oh, but there is," she says, hands tight on the steering wheel. "This is how we work: we go on coffee dates — but they're never really dates because that'd just exceed 'weird' — and we listen to each other rant about our horrible jobs. I mean, who knew working at a fire station could result in so many stories about awful sex? Are your co-workers really all that complicated? And vocal lessons? The stories I have from that... oh lord. I told you about Jenny and her tendency to bring me sheet music to rap songs consisting of nothing but alcohol and drug ridden lyrics, yes? Anyway... so, basically, we entertain one another by sharing stories of our boring but not-so-boring lives. And apparently, we buy each other things, is that right? I mean, you bought me a CD, so you have to let me give you something."

He shakes his head, smiling at the rest of her previous words, his top teeth digging into his bottom lip harshly. "N—no, I can't let you spend your money on me."

"But I wouldn't be spending my money," she says. "I've got a bunch of old Journey records lying around, and last week you briefly told me about your Journey phase, so—"

"I was eleven," he interrupts.

"And twelve and thirteen and fourteen and fifteen and—"

"Okay, okay, I'll take 'em."

"I thought you'd never say yes!" she squeals, squeezes his kneecap with her free hand, and then suddenly forgets to lift it off of his leg for the remainder of the car ride.

He doesn't think anything of it. It's just what friends do, probably.

Finn: Pcik em up please.

Rachel: You're drunk, aren't you?

And he knows she's racing over in her car the moment he (drunkenly) texts her a 'yes' and the address of the stupid bar he's forced to be at for Kurt's promotion celebration. He went overboard on the beer, and yeah, that's bad, but Rachel totally solves that the moment she rushes through the doors with two bottles of water, a tug at the collar of his polo shirt and her car keys dangling in front of his eyes.

"You're coming with me," she says. "I'll drop you off at your house and I'll sit vigil by your beside until the moment you wake up with one of those regretful hangovers."

He hugs her before they walk out of the door, and she gets close enough to flick him, tell him not to touch her and pull him by the wrist into her car.

"I meant it," she says.

"The vigil thing?" he asks, his head waning from one side to another, his eyelids closing tightly as he fiddles with his seatbelt.

"That too, but the whole 'don't touch me' thing," she says. "Don't touch me. I don't like hugging. It's intimate, and we're... not."

"Mm'k," he says, pressing his lips together. "Can I kiss you?"

"Not a chance. Ever."

She's crying when she calls him one day, then hangs up the phone.

He gets a text ten minutes later, an address to one of the apartment buildings down the street from the little coffee shop they sat down in that one time.

When he walks up the stairs, he gets another text telling him to go to the top floor. He shrugs, slips his phone into his pocket and stupidly asks a sanitation worker roaming the bottom floor how the hell to reach the top floor. He laughs in his face.

But he makes it. He finds this staircase behind some door and he finds the top floor. Well, the roof. Rachel Berry wants him to meet her on a roof. He looks around for a bit when he walks up, his eyes roaming the tiny rooftop, then meeting the girl who's laying on the solid concrete, her eyelids shut tight.

"Hi Finn," she says lowly, not bothering to sit up.

"The hell is all of this?"

"My hiding spot," she says, sitting up now, her hands folded in her lap, despite her wearing a dress and all.

"You're all dressed up because...?"

"Because I had an audition," she tells him. "I auditioned for a show, got rejected, got a bagel, got sick to my stomach and threw said bagel up just on the corner of those two streets down there, then came up here."

"And you have access to a rooftop in a building in New York City how...?"

"My dad knows some people," she says. "He's a publisher for one of the major book companies around here. Not sure which one, never bothered to ask, quite frankly. Here, sit." She pats the empty space next to her, and he sits (hesitantly, of course, because, well, he's on a freakin' rooftop). "Like I said, it's my hiding spot. Whenever I'm in a bad mood or... or I need to just think, I come up here. I've never ever showed it to anyone before, though."

"You're twenty-four years old and you've got a hiding spot?" he chuckles, laying down in the same position she'd been in before. "S'kind of cool, don't get me wrong, but... why?"

"Because everyone gets lonely sometimes," she says, eyes squeezing shut. "The world gets kind of harsh and sometimes, I feel like exploding. Today is one of those days."

"Sorry for all of the questions, but, um, why show me? N—not that I've got a problem with it or anything, but..."

"I don't know," she says, shrugging. "Guess I just trust you a lot."

"Really?" he asks, sort of shocked. Why him? Whatever. He takes in the city air, his eyes shutting just as hers had, his head laying flat on the concrete roof of the building. "Thanks."

"No," she breathes, "thank you."

A few weeks pass and Finn decides to ditch the whole 'singles meetings' thing in all, because after the rant Rachel spurs on him over coffee one day, he just... can't go back.

"For me, those meetings are more of a ridiculous, money-sucking way of reminding me just why I'm not capable of finding a true relationship, a partner to love me," she says. "I mean, each and every time, I walk out more alone than the time before. The leader likes to sugarcoat love, putting it up on some damn pedestal and trying to show us that if we change, we'll become wanted; someone'll want us. But that isn't the case, is it? I mean, some silly meeting can't make me really want to change myself, can it?"

"Dunno," he says, eyes on the stirrer he's twirling around in his untouched coffee cup.

Her breath becomes hitched, her eyes narrow. "You know what I need?"

"What's that?"

"Sex," she says so openly it almost makes him choke on something that's not even there.

He widens his eyes at just a word simple as that... 'sex'. It's not that he expects her to be some prude, really, but here? Out of all of the times in the world, why now?

"I miss it," she admits. And yeah, he's had a few one-night stands with women down at the fire station more times than he'd like to admit, but it's been awhile, and okay, he could use sex too, but he'd never admit it out loud.

"Y—yeah," he says. "I miss it. S'been awhile and stuff."

"Yeah," she says, lips pressed together. "I have an idea."

"An idea? Mm... okay... shoot."

"W'do'u say to us — meaning me and you, of course — having sex? And before you say no, hear me out. I'm not asking you on a date, and I'm certainly not asking you for some sort of commitment of any sorts. Just... sex."

He lifts a brow and lets go of the stirrer he's playing with, his stomach sinking (for whatever reason). "Just sex?"

"Yes," she nods. "Just sex. None of that romance sort of stuff, no dates, no need for a phone call after. Like I said: just sex."

"And it'd be the two of us?"

"No, Finn," she spits sarcastically. "W'do'u say to asking your gay stepbrother and his boyfriend to join along? Kurt and Blaine, is it? I mean, it's not too late, but..."

He stands up, reaches across the table, and flicks her on the forearm.

"What was that for?" she asks, tugging the sleeve of her jacket down.

"Just felt like it," he says. "So when does it... y'know... start?"

She wiggles her eyebrows, whispering, "Whenever you'd like."

They leave the coffee shop in her car, kiss all the way upstairs to her apartment, and end up on the couch in her living room with their clothes tossed aside. And yeah, sure, it's totally awkward kissing someone he considers like, his best friend, but the moment his hands tangle through locks of her hair, her hot lips on his neck, he forgets. She just becomes someone he's having sex with, and really, it's kind of... hot. He forgets Rachel Berry, the best friend, and meets Rachel Berry, the sex partner.

Please, what are 'singles meetings' anyway?

They're on her bed, Rachel's breasts brushing up against his bare chest as she plunges down onto him, her lips grazing his neck. "Mm, don't move," she commands, letting her hands slide down to his middle, gripping forcefully. "Mm, that okay?"

He nods, because, hell yes, it's 'okay'. After a moment, she sits up so she's straddling him, and then he jolts his head up too, asking, "Why'd you stop?"

"I'm tired," she admits, wiping at her worn eyes, the bags underneath them a little more defiant than he'd ever seen them. "I mean, really, you're wonderful and much more understanding than I first had imagined, but I'm literally drained. I'm forcing myself to go down on you because honestly, I'm afraid of disappointing you."

"You're afraid of disappointing me?" He narrows his eyes and brings his hand sympathetically to the small of her back. "Rach, c'mon, stop. You're a beautiful girl who's letting me have sex with her in her bed without all of like, the romance and crap. What more could I ask for?"

She rolls off of him so she's on the bed, her legs folded underneath her. She reaches over to her nightstand, pressing 'play' on her iPod dock and throwing her hands up the second a Journey song comes on. "Your favorite," she says. "'Open Arms'. Your mom played this for you on the anniversary of your dad's death every year."

He sits up a bit on the bed, his hands falling onto his lap. "You pay way too much attention to everything I say," he teases. "Y'know, half of the stuff I say during sex is random."

"But it isn't," she laughs, grabbing her shirt from off of her dresser and slipping it on, no bra underneath.

"Yeah, but it's stupid," he says, shaking his head and scrunching his nose. "You're much more interesting of a person than I am."

"Fine, we're both equally interesting," she says like she doesn't want to, jaw tight, her hands fiddling with the end of her shirt. "You're my best friend; of course I find you interesting."

He's not sure why she looks down on that one, but he hopes to God she means it, because it'd totally suck if she didn't. He says, "Y—yeah, you're my best friend too", and doesn't even flinch when she walks over and kisses him on the nose.

"That," she says, "wasn't romantic. It doesn't count. That was just a friendship gesture."

He shrugs and then watches her skip back over to her dresser drawers, digging through for a pair of pants like nothing ever happened, an innocent hum to her voice.

"Hey, Rach?"

"Hm?" she answers, not even looking up.

"Thank you."

"Anytime, Finn."

He calls her after they have sex for the fourth time. He's right outside of her apartment, his hands in his pockets as he lets out an elongated huff into the midnight air. Please pick up, he thinks to himself (even though he's go no idea why — she specified he didn't have to call).

And she does. "Finn, you don't have to call."

"I know, but I just wanted to say uh... good job."

"'Good job'?"

"Y—yeah, y'know, on the sex."

"I knew what you were referring to, yes, but why?"

"Because you did good."

"I did good?"

Yeah, so, he awards himself for the biggest asshole when it comes to forming a sentence, but, hey, what can he do? He walks all the way down to the end of the block, unable to say anything, his phone still on his ear. Then he asks, "C—can you just... can you come down?"

"Come downstairs?"

"Yes. Yes, come downstairs."

She grunts, but he hears the sound of her keys dangling and knows she's probably walking over to her counter right now (no, he's not a stalker, he's just like, attentive and stuff).

"You're coming outside, aren't you?"

"Maybe." She speaks lowly and sounds like she's more annoyed than anything, but two minutes later she's outside of her apartment building, on the steps in just a tied robe with her hair in a messy bun, two mismatched slippers on her feet.

He walks up to her slowly, hands in his pockets, his breath hitched. He brings one hand to her forearm, then waits until she shrugs it off and pushes him away to let go. "Can we talk?"

"I assume that's why you called me down here at midnight, so, yes."

He closes his eyes for a minute, inhales a bit and asks her, "Do you like this? Y'know, the whole 'casual sex' thing?"

"It was my idea," she says, "so yes, I do." Then she closes her eyes too, and asks (more like assumes, but whatever, what does he know?), "You don't like it, do you? Like... the casualty of it all."

He shakes his head with pressed lips. "It's not that I don't. I just... I never took you to be one of those girls, y'know? I pictured you more of like, one of those girls with those fantasies of like, falling in love and finding a prince charming and crap. Not a 'bang it and go' kind of girl."

She chuckles, then punches him in the forearm. "'Bang it and go'?"

"Just tryin' to be funny," he says. "And... and failing. Sorry."

"No worries," she says. "Hey, you know, next time we should try this at your apartment. It's been my apartment for four nights now, and, well, I feel a little bad, to be honest."

He nods, then asks, "But why?" It's only because he's afraid of her saying that she's like, way too high-class to have some asshole come around her apartment just for sex or something. He gulps at that thought, then shoves his hands even further back into his pockets than before, shuffling the heel of his foot back and forth on the ground.

"Because I've got two roommates with boyfriends — well, one of 'em has a fianceé, but still — and they're around sometimes, and, well... I'd rather not introduce you to them. It's sort of embarrassing knowing how perfect their loves life are and then throwing mine onto the table. I mean, mine? It's non-existant, really. You hardly count, and—"

"Hey, hey, hey, but we're friends," he says. And yeah, they're totally friends. "We promised we wouldn't let this sex shit come between us, remember?"

She closes her eyes, then says, "Um, no. No I don't."

"Before we had sex the first time. Well, after we had sex the first time. Y'know, when we were putting on our pants and stuff."

She blushes (just enough for him to see outside at midnight, at least). "Yeah, I remember now," she giggles, tongue between her teeth. She lifts the heel of her hand up to her eyes then, wiping at them for a minute before letting out a yawn. "Hey, y'know, I'm tired."

"S'my fault, right?" he asks.

"Yeah, well, y'know..." she trails off, folding her arms underneath her chest. "Anyway, again, I'm really tired, you're probably tired... I'm gonna head in now. Get home safe, okay?"

He nods. "Yeah, sure, okay."

She turns on her heel, starts to walk, then turns back, tugging down on her lip with a look a little too intimate for either of their likings.

He debates letting her like, kiss him at all. He sighs, his chest rising, and then digs around in his pocket a bit, bringing his phone into his view for a moment, pretending to look at it to wipe away most of the awkwardness that's surfing from the minute Rachel turned back around to him.

"Were you just gonna stand there all night?" she asks, eyebrows risen.

"Just makin' sure you got inside safely."

"I don't need a babysitter," she says jokingly, nudging him in the side. "I was just gonna say 'see you tomorrow' or something. I dunno. Just... goodbye. I hate not saying goodbye or anything, it's so... informal."

"So is this," he tells her, arms spread open wide. She shakes her head at that, and yeah, sure, he may be an annoyance or whatever, but she can't forever call him wrong or anything, right? "This sex thing, it's so... informal. It's like: we screw around for a bit, you offer me dinner, I always object, you suck on my neck when I slip on my clothes and my shoes, then I practically trip out of the door, and then I go. We don't call each other after, we don't speak of it the next day when we're all like, 'buddy buddy'. It's just... sex."

"That was the deal, remember?"

And she trails off. Not a 'see you tomorrow' or a 'goodbye' or anything.

That stings, and yeah, part of the deal was that it really wasn't supposed to, but call him a rule breaker or whatever, because it does.

She goes down on him the moment they enter his apartment, her tongue prying around his middle as she manages to let out a couple of elongated moans.

"T—there," he says, breath cut short as he tangles his hands through strands of her hair. "Mm, I love this."

Even fiercer than before, she brings herself up, whisks her tongue around his lips as she looks for entry and then says, "Yeah, me too."

The sex is hot that night. Almost too hot, maybe. They go fast and they're done before they really even begin, but Rachel says it's supposed to be that way. It's meaningless sex between two friends who agreed it'd be meaningless. She's standing up slipping her jeans back on, a little smirk gracing her lips.

He's still on the couch, his pants now on, his shirt dangling off his shoulders. He waves her over. "C'mere," he says, one hand in the air.

She obeys, trailing over to the couch and standing in between his legs. "I'm tired," she tells him.

"I'm sure," he says, swallowing hard. "Just... c'mere."

"I'm here," she laughs, resting both of her hands flat on his knees. She leans into him before he even has a chance to explain himself (it's good on his part, he's really horrible with words and stuff), her lips grazing his. They lock lips once, but then she presses her mouth back to his once more, letting her tongue find entry between his pushed-together lips. "Mm, Finn, let's stop. S'not supposed to be romantic, remember?"

He shakes his head, then tilts her chin up and kisses her softly. It's more romantic than it should be, yeah, but whatever, he knows she won't take it that way. She tastes like the Chinese food they just ran out and got before, like broccoli and fried rice and sesame seeded chicken. Most of all, though, she tastes like Rachel. She's got this taste to her, and every time his lips get stuck to hers, he just... knows. He's not so sure if that's allowed, all of those feelings, but he feels too stupid asking her, so he doesn't. He just kisses her a few more times, his lips almost sore by the time their tongues swerve around each other for like, the hundredth time.

She's in his lap now, his hand taking a squeeze at her bottom, a little yelp being let out every single time he nips at her lip.

"Finn!" Only it's not Rachel. It's his stepbrother and his stepbrother's boyfriend hand-in-hand in the doorway, a little yelp coming from their mouths. Finn quickly pushes Rachel off of his lap, lifting his hand from off of her ass and folding it with the other, placing them both in his lap.

"She... she was leaving," he says, cheeks burning red. He's not so sure how much they saw or anything, but he's practically shitting himself when they both throw him the 'who-is-she-and-how-many-times-did-you-fuck-her?' look.

"I was," she nods. "Finn and I were just finishing up. Now, I'm sure you two would have rather not have witnessed anything, but... well... what can you do? Oh well! Goodnight, you two! By the way, you really do make a very lovely couple. Finn was right when he said he'd want gay marriage to be legal just for the both of your sakes. Anyway... goodnight! I... I should go."

No 'goodnight' or a 'see you tomorrow' or anything, but Rachel does send him a text two minutes later.

Rachel: Let him tell you how much he saw. Then lie and say you were practicing for lifeguard training. You know, CPR and things. Goodnight! xo

'Xo'? He disregards that, but only because he thinks that's like, the 'friend' side of her or whatever, not the sexy side. He sighs, falls back into the couch and asks both Blaine and Kurt, "W—what would you two say if I told you I'd been studying to be a lifeguard in my spare time?"

Finn: Up for round two? We've gotta continue last night sometime, don't we?

Rachel: Not in the mood, on my period.

He shows up at her apartment door two hours later, and a Latina, probably around five-and-a-half-feet with one of those permanent snarky looks (definitely not his taste, if he had a taste of course) opens it up, her eyes widening at the sight of the bouquet of flowers he's holding. "Well, Britt's engaged and Noah and I have taken our acts of frequent sexual intercourse and've started to use the terms 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend' in reference to each other, so you're definitely not here for— wait... Rachel!"

Rachel comes to the door, her hair tied back, two loose pieces in the front, an oversized t-shirt dwarfing her body. "I've got it Santana," she says, pushing past the girl and waving for Finn to come in, being more than certain to include her legendary grunt in as he steps foot through the doorway and onto the mat behind it. "Flowers? Really?"

He shrugs, his nose scrunched. "Um... yeah. S'why I'm holding 'em."

She takes them quickly (even though, yeah, she totally acts like he's handing her a bomb or something), and plops herself down on the couch. "Sit," she says quietly, tapping the empty spot next to her.

He does, biting down on his cheek and folding his hands in his lap, ever-so-often looking to the way she sets the flowers down in her lap, holding onto them with one hand no matter which way she shifts her body.

"Um... thank you," she says after a moment of pure silence. "For the flowers, I mean."

"Oh!" he says, head jolting up. "Yeah, no problem. D—do you like roses, or...?

"I don't," she says, cheeks red, tongue between her teeth as she stops herself from chuckling. "Lilies are my favorite, but I appreciate the effort."

When he says nothing, she leans into his side, letting out a sigh. He doesn't stop her, but he doesn't touch her either. He keeps his hands folded in his lap, because that'd be the right thing to do. It's not intimate, it's not romantic, and they don't want any of that stuff, right? Perfect.

"Hey, Finn?"

"Hm?" he says, lips together, not tearing his gaze away from the little mole on the bend of her thumb that happens to distract him from everything else in the moment.

"Y—you know, you can stay if you want to."

He nods. "I want to."

And he does. She makes him carry her into her bedroom (it's the period cramps, they make people lazy, she says), and he throws her onto her bed, sits in the armchair beside it and lets her blast the entire Wicked soundtrack from her iPod dock without a single complaint.

She leans back into her headboard, her legs folded, a sigh when her back hits the pillowcase she's rested up on. "You know, you don't have to stay."

He stands up from the armchair, gulps a bit, and then makes his way over to her bed, sitting down at the foot of it. "I said 'I want to', which, in my book means... well... I want to. Rach, really, I wanna stay. You're not feeling well, and the least I could do is hang around for a lil' bit, y'know?"

"You're not my boyfriend," she says almost too harshly for his taste, her arms crossed underneath her chest. "Wait, no, that was mean." And then she stretches her body over until she's got a hand on his knee, rubs it up and down for a few minutes and then blushes.

"Rachel..." He doesn't want her to feel sorry for him. Yeah, they're not dating, of course, but she shouldn't have to feel sorry for acknowledging it. He should've said no to begin with; no to staying with her for the night or anything 'couple-like'.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes, leaning into him even more, her side grazing his thigh. Her body is like, warm. Yeah, that sounds weird and all, but it feels good, having someone next to him. The last time he had a steady girlfriend was in high school, and this? This is realer. Yeah, like the both of them acknowledge more than they should, they're definitely not boyfriend and girlfriend or anything, but they are best friends, and last time he checked, there was no rule that said best friends couldn't make each other feel this way. He turns around so he can wrap his arms around her, taking her by surprise with a hug.

She lifts a brow, still in his arms. "What was that for?" she chuckles, eyes closed with her head leaned back.

"Dunno," he admits, letting go of her and smoothing out the fabric on his jeans as he sits still on the end of her bed. "Anyway, you look tired. Are you... are you tired?"

She nods, an overdramatic yawn coming from her mouth shortly after. "Is that yawn believable enough?" she asks. "I'm tired. Really tired. I should sleep, and you should go."

"I'll go," he says. "Once you fall asleep."

She bats her lashes twice, probably too tired to object, because she falls flat onto her pillow, letting her head sink down. Only a small 'mmm' escapes her lips, and then she shuts her eyes and she's like, out.

He sits beside her, fiddling with his thumbs out of boredom as he tries to get comfortable in the tiny spot on the bed she's not sleeping on. "Hey, Rach..." he starts to whisper, but then trails off once he remembers the time she told him what a heavy sleeper she'd always been. "Never mind." And he smooths out the covers on her bed just because, then lifts a hand to her abdomen, his eyes shutting as he feels her exhaling on his hand — in and out, in and out.

A few minutes pass and she sits up, her eyes still shut. She murmurs a half-awake, "Finny", and then pulls her arm around him.

He tries to leave once she falls asleep again, but he looks to her arm and then realizes it: he just can't.

"We were spooning!" She's yelling, and he's quick to blame it on all of the period hormones or whatever, but she tries to hit him when he tells her so, her body lunging forward as she attempts to pull her by the wrist. "Spooning, Finn! We were in clothes. Fully clothed!"

He presses his palm into his forehead, sighing, his head leaning back into her headboard. Why does she have to make things so complicated? Why does she let her insanity take the best of her and turn everything into this? "You know," he starts, "maybe you were right." He notices her eyes narrow, her breath hitch, but he continues on. "Maybe you were right about everything you said. Y'know, about being 'emotionally unavailable'. Rachel, you're definitely emotionally unavailable. Beyond it, even. But the only person making yourself emotionally unavailable is you. You cause it every time. I see it, Rachel! You... you push people away."

She reaches out to try and give him a slap again, but he tugs onto her wrist and pulls her down onto the bed. She falls in his lap, and yeah, she's like, fuming over that, but whatever. She calms down once she realizes she's in his lap and there's no way he's letting her get out without a word. She shuts her eyes, gets less and less tense and mumbles, "Yeah, maybe you're right."

"So what if we were spooning?" he goes on. "Rachel, you can't give me the title of your 'best friend' and just swipe it away because you're mad we fell asleep clothed. C'mon."

"I'm... I'm not," she says defensively. "And for the record, you are my best friend, Finn."

He nods, then stares down at her. Her hair is still as messy (maybe messier, he doesn't really know nor care) as the night before, her shirt shrugging off her shoulders to show one of the straps of her baby blue bra. She's a wreck, but she knows he doesn't give a damn, or else she wouldn't have asked him to say. He curses himself for being so bad with words, or else he'd totally try and tell her. Instead he says, "Then as your best friend, listen to me, Rachel. What I told you before, it wasn't intended to be like... mean."

"I know," she nods.

"But it's the truth. Y—you push people away, Rach."

"I know," she nods again. "And I don't want you to have to feel that way any longer. Which is why I'm calling it off."

"Calling what off?" he asks, eyebrow raised.

She averts her gaze to her own lap, twitching with her thumbs. "The sex," she says, almost like she doesn't want to. "I mean, you and I shouldn't do this anymore. I knew it'd happen, too, dammit!"

"Who are you yelling at?"

She shakes her head, her eyes filled with fury, her top lip sagging over the bottom in a pout. It looks as if she's about to like, burst into tears and have one of those infamous bitch fits she told him she used to throw every once in awhile back in high school to get attention when she lacked it the most. He doesn't know why or how he remembers all of these little tidbits of stories she tells him, but he does. Anyway, that's not really the point (even though it's kind of odd, but... whatever, they're friends), so he lets his hand run up the small of her back and rests it there for a minute.

"Finn, we're friends. Best friends. The two of us, we've got something special; something I don't want — no, can't afford to lose." She averts her gaze to him for only a moment, and he can tell she's trying hard not to be sympathetic and stuff, her index finger wiping underneath her dry eyelid. "Besides," she goes on, "maybe it's time we date."

"Date?"

"You know, stop fooling around like... like children," she replies, and the room goes quiet. "Finn, if I'd like to keep you as a best friend — and trust me, I do — I'd rather stop this while I can. Before, y'know, things get more serious than they should. We agreed there'd be a zero percent romantic aspect to all of this, and, well, I think your spending the night kind of proved that it can go there. It won't, but it certainly can. I... I don't want it to go there."

"Yeah, neither do I," he lies.

Then he gulps, leaves her room and feels his stomach drop when he realizes he'll probably never get any of that back. Sure, he kept a best friend, but he let the chance of having anything more slip away.

(And yeah, he totally broke the rules there, whatever).

He calls her on a random Saturday morning, right after he's done at the gym, a soaked towel draped across his shoulder. He's still in the locker room, slipping out of his mesh shorts and into his jeans, throwing his polo shirt on quickly.

"Hey, Rach." She picks up on the first ring, and yeah, that's unlikely of her (she goes on a shpeel about how she never likes to answer on the first ring to give the impression she just waits by her phone aimlessly all day long more often than not), but he goes with it. "You busy?"

"Um... no," she says, mouthful, probably grabbing breakfast or something. "Brittany — one of the girls that lives with me, y'know, the blonde one — has me running around looking for a bridesmaid dress for her wedding to her fianceé Artie, so I woke up at six, turned on the news, worked out on my elliptical to the entire Wicked soundtrack twice and now I'm eating a bagel. That isn't too 'busy', is it?"

He snickers. "For you, probably not. For me? Definitely. H—hey, you wanna go out today?"

"Finn."

"N—not on a date!" he proclaims. "Y'know, a 'best friend' sort of outing."

"You know, you don't always have to call 'em that," she says. "We're best friends, we hang out. I got that much. Now, w'do'u wanna do? Last time I checked, you had work at around... three thirty, didn't you?"

"You memorize my schedule?" he asks, and kind of blushes. It's kind of cool that he's got a friend who knows him like, that much. Yeah, sure, he's the one who tells her everything, but it's her who does all of the remembering. Whatever, it's kind of impressive (and it makes him feel good, too).

"I—I can't," she mutters, quickly changing the subject. "Go out with you, I mean. I'm busy. Like I said, Quinn's got me down for a fitting until five, and then—"

"And then you can go out? At five?" Maybe he sounds just a little too hopeful. Whatever.

"I have a date." The words hurt to hear, but they shouldn't. Like Rachel never fails to remind him: He. Isn't. Her. Boyfriend. So he gulps, holds the phone closer to his ear and listens to her say, "His name is none of your business, but since you weren't too nosy about it, his name is Jimmy, he works down at the dance studio. You know, the same studio I taught vocal lessons at before I started teaching them at home. He's twenty-five, has his own apartment, is close with his mother — family is very important to me, you know that — and he's got a sick love for the arts. Any questions?"

"No ma'am," he says.

"Good. I'll be going now."

"Good luck on you date with Mr. Prissy Pants. Throw the Wicked soundtrack at him for me."

"Defensive best friend?"

"Always."

Finn: How's Mr. Broadway treating you?

Rachel: Good. More than good, really. We saw 'In The Heights', then he bought me a t-shirt, then a pretzel, and then we took a stroll through Central Park.

Finn: Gag.

Rachel: You're just jealous.

He can't form a proper response, so he just... doesn't.

Rachel: I was kidding. I know you're not jealous.

Rachel: Finn?

He rolls over on his pillow, then turns his phone off for a little while, breathing a sign of relief as soon as the screen goes black.

He reminds himself to delete all of those texts in the morning.

"Have you had sex?" he asks her out of random, turning around and chuckling at the way she stands on her tiptoes to reach the microwave in her own kitchen.

She looks down to the floor, scans it a bit, and then walks over to the table, placing her heated mug down and flicking him on the wrist. "Finn! It's not my fault I'm five-foot-two and Britt and Santana decided to anchor the microwave all the way up to Narnia."

"Narnia's like... a closet, not a shelf."

"Not my point!" she screeches, sitting down at the table, her legs crossed.

"Not mine either," he says, tapping his fingers onto the tabletop a few times, letting his eyes scan the mug she's drinking out of, noticing it's got a name of one of those musicals she told him about awhile back. "New mug?"

"Do you like it?" She lifts it down, turning it around and running her index over the printed font on the front. "Jimmy took me to see 'How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying', and I loved it so much that he just had to buy me this mug. Isn't it cute?"

He nods as if he's being forced, then speaks through gritted teeth, saying, "Y—yeah, it's cute. Anyway, can you answer my question now?"

She pauses like she's forgotten, lifts her hands up and cracks her knuckles and then says, "No, we haven't had sex, and no, when the time comes where I feel I'm ready to have sex with Jimmy — and only with Jimmy — you won't even know."

"But c'mon," he pleas, "I'm your best friend."

She flicks him in the arm, giggling, her tongue pressed against her cheek. "So just... be happy for me, Finn. Be happy that I'm happy."

He tries, but that wears off like, two minutes later.

"F—Finn, c—can we t—talk?" Before he says anything, he knows she's in hysterics, and yeah, sure, he's probably good at calming her down (he's great with Kurt throughout those drastic 'let's-make-the-world-cry-because-of-all-of-the-African-orphans' Oprah episodes), but he's not so sure he wants to.

"Can't you call Jimmy about this?"

"T—there is no Jimmy, not anymore, anyway." She sighs deeply, and it kind of stings like a bitch just to hear her so upset and stuff. "Finn, do you ever regret making a move so much? Like, do you ever wish you would've never tried something out because it was bound to fail and even you knew it was bound to fail but... but you did it anyway?"

"Rach," he breathes, "you had no idea about Jimmy."

"But I should have."

"But you didn't," he replies earnestly. And it's true, she didn't. (Even though, yeah, Finn kind of sort of hated him from the start). "Rachel, don't let this douchebag bring you down. I mean, you're bound to find someone else, right? Someone like... not Jimmy?"

She laughs for a moment at that, but then goes back to being all pouty and stuff, telling Finn, "No, no I won't. Jimmy was... he was perfect. Or, at least, I thought he was. He took me out to dinner, discussed every single Broadway show in history with me for hours on end..." she trails off and he sighs, because, well, how the hell is that 'perfect'?

"Was he your friend?" He bets five bucks the thought of her and this asshole being friends never crossed her mind once.

"N—no," she admits more lightly than he'd first imagined. "We weren't friends at all. I hardly called him my boyfriend. W—we were just dating, that's all."

"Yeah, well, not so sure why the asshole dumped you," he says. "H—hey, did you... y'know... have—"

"Yes," she says, her voice cracking. "We had sex last night. I woke up this morning with a single text and an empty bed. It was over before it really began, and now I feel like absolute shit and... and my heart hurts. It literally hurts just thinking about it."

He only says 'mhm', because, really, he can think of like, tons of things that hurt more.

And he guesses she can too. "But y'know what hurts more?"

"Hm?"

"You," she says. "I... I let you slip away."

"I'm still your friend, Rach," he says, his own heart like, sinking in his chest. He doesn't know why it feels like that, but it does. It freakin' stings.

"Hey, Finn?" She's clearly looking to get off topic again, and yeah, he can imagine she'd be kind of embarrassed by her own confession or whatever, but he's just Finn. He doesn't bite or anything. "You know how I said I wasn't into it all — passion, romance, relationships? Well, I am. Too much, maybe."

"Thought so." He smirks, then tugs down on his lip at that, because, yeah, he totally knew.

"I'm into it so much that I judge everything. Nothing's good enough for me. And then? Then I start to believe that I'm not good enough for anyone else." She sighs, and then he sighs, because he knows this. He's tried to tell her this before. "Finn, I'm not worthy of ever being loved. I'm crazy, insanely so. I've got some idea that someday I'll get this epitome of fairytale love; someone who'd be with me regardless of... well... me. I'm different, Finn. I—I'd rather sit at home on a Friday night and read a book than go out to a club and party. My favorite Disney movies are the kinds where the princesses fall in love with the princes and ride off into the sunset on a horse in carriage because they're finally getting their happy ending. My last name is the same name as fruit. People hate fruit. I wish I could take a hint when I watch my roommates Brittany and Santana with their men, planning weddings and mentioning things about babies. But I can't. Instead, I attend these stupid 'singles meetings' down at the rec center in hopes of finding someone who'll put up with my crazy. But do I ever? Not a chance. I mean, come on, the rec center? Am I insane? Well, yeah, I'm kind of insane, but... What was I thinking? Everyone at those meetings has got the same problems. They're... they're damaged. They're incapable of maintaining relationships without freaking out about silly little things. I mean, I don't even know how you put up with me. Calling me your best friend must be a struggle, I can see why—"

"I think you forgot to mention 'dramatic'," he interrupts with a chuckle. "You called yourself crazy and insane, but not dramatic. You're being too harsh on yourself, Rach. And by the way, calling you my best friend is like, the easiest thing ever."

She pauses, then says, "Y—you think so?"

"I know so."

He can practically like, feel her smile on the other end of the phone. He likes that, knowing he makes her smile or whatever.

"Hey, Rach? Do I have your permission to throw all of the Wicked CD's in the world at that douchebag?"

"Go for it."

Rachel: Could we ever fall in love?

Finn: Are you drunk?

Rachel: Never. Alcohol is an emotionally draining substance. Just answer the question.

Finn: No.

Rachel: 'No' that we could never fall in love or 'no' that you won't answer the question?

Finn: Both.

He promises himself he'll stamp the word 'denial' on his forehead in the morning, but like, this is way too complicated to elaborate through text messaging. When (and if, if is the key word) he does it, it has to be done right.

(But, it probably won't be done, because frankly, he's too 'emotionally damaged' to do anything about it).

A/N: This is way too long to be just a simple one-shot. My apologizes. Read on, if you will. If you don't, well... I'm glad you made it this far!