Archive of Our Own

When he opens his eyes, there’s light and he can hear the front door opening downstairs.

At first Finn, still aching and warm, doesn’t think much of it. Doors open all the time, don’t they? Doors are supposed to do that. He stretches a little in bed, the sheets sliding over his damp t-shirt and sweatpants, and his limbs throb in protest. It’s when he’s curling back up, tucking his knees towards his chest in an effort to get comfortable again, that he remembers his mom’s with Burt in D.C. And Kurt’s still in New York, unless he sold plasma again to get on the Delta standby list. No one else has the key. Except—

Rachel? But Rachel’s shacking up with that tanned NYADA dickweed who has pecs the size of Christmas hams. Finn spends a little time wallowing in resentment before he remembers that there’s still someone downstairs in his house, and it isn’t his mom or Burt or Kurt. He should probably be a little freaked out by that, right? What if it’s a robber?

“Hello?” he manages. It’s maybe the first thing he’s said out loud since he’d crawled into bed with a sore throat and headache two nights ago, blaming Blaine for sneezing all over the place during practice. The word sounds weak in his throat, cracked, like he’s going through puberty.

No answer. He can hear a noise, though. Clicking on the hardwood floor. It sounds like his mom when she puts on high heels for her date nights with Burt, only lighter. A woman? Finn didn’t know there were women robbers besides Catwoman and that hot 1930s chick who held up banks in that movie Kurt made him watch once.

The stairs creak.

The robber could have a gun, he realizes, and then thinks: Oh, crap, I don’t want to die before Iron Man 3 comes out.

Sensing he won’t be much good at all against a robber, even a lady robber, but nevertheless positive he can’t just let his house get invaded, Finn pulls back the covers and swings his legs over the side of the mattress, standing up. Immediately he regrets everything. His body screams at him, muscles tight and hot.

“Finn?”

The weirdly familiar voice is just outside his room, and he’s trying to figure out why he knows a robber when Emma Pillsbury sticks her head just past the doorframe. Her eyes get even wider than usual, and Finn, queasy with dizziness, is positive now he must be sicker than he thought because this can’t actually be happening in real life. Why the hell would Emma be in his bedroom?

“Oh, Finn,” she says, taking a few hurried steps towards him. “Goodness, you look terrible. Are you sick? Who’s taking care of you? Can you lie back down?”

“Wow, that’s a lot of questions,” Finn says, standing very still. Moving is a bad idea because moving means more hurting and he needs to get psyched up for that first, like just before a play when a linebacker’s staring you down and you know you’re going to get sacked. “Uh. I think I’m pretty sick? I’m warm and I’m really achy and my head hurts. And I’m sweaty. More than I usually am, I mean. How’d you get in here?”

She sets her purse down on the dresser next to his nightstand. “There was a key under the mat. I was worried—you didn’t show up to school today and I tried calling you, but it kept going right to voicemail. So I came over. I hope that’s all right.”

Her outfit isn’t one he’s ever seen on her before, a dark green skirt and a brown top and an off-white sweater thing with a giant pin. Normally he doesn’t pay much attention to what girls wear, but Finn likes noticing Emma’s clothes. Everything she wears looks like she picked it out a week ahead of time with some kind of computer program, and thinking about that makes him feel good. Kind of safe.

Finn is going to tell her that of course it’s all right she came over, he’d never be mad or upset or bothered by Emma being worried enough to come check on him, but what comes out is a quiet, “You look really pretty.”

“O—well, okay,” she says, shaking her head a little as she stumbles over the word, and then, after clearing her throat, “You need to be in bed. You’ve got the flu, I think. Where’s your mom? Or your—Burt?”

“He flew her out to D.C. for an early Valentine’s thing. She’s not coming back until Tuesday night.”

“But that’s tomorrow!” Emma exclaims. “You can’t be on your own right now. You’re so flushed you look sunburned and you’re definitely dehydrated, I’m positive you haven’t been drinking any water.” She grabs a Kleenex from the nightstand, covers her palm with it, and touches his forehead. “Oh, you’re warm.”

“I learned once you can’t tell if someone really has a fever unless you kiss their forehead,” Finn says, and then, instantly, just as Emma’s expression freezes, “No, that was dumb. I’m sorry. I was thinking out loud. Please don’t listen to me. It’s the—it’s the sick thing. I don’t want you to do that. I was just telling you what I learned.”

Except he does want that. He really wants that. He wants Emma Pillsbury to take his burning head between her two hands and stand on her tiptoes as she puts her lips on his skin. Her mouth would feel so nice and cool, and since she’s in heels he wouldn’t even have to slouch more than a foot.

(Finn’s thought about her once or twice while jacking off. Not in the year since she became Will’s girlfriend and therefore off limits, but it’s happened. He’d imagined slowly unbuttoning Emma’s sweater and her top—not all the way, just enough to see a hint of her bra—and how she’d breathe fast with excitement for him, her round breast rising into the curve of his big careful palm.)

“It’s all right,” Emma tells him, folding up the tissue in fours and placing it on his nightstand. “Sit back down. Don’t worry about a thing. I’m going to get you a nice big glass of cold water, and then I’m going to take your temperature, and we’ll go from there. You’re going to be just fine, Finn.”

Gingerly, he sits back on the bed and lets his head find the pillow again, curling into himself as she pulls the sheets and blankets up over his shoulders. It takes hours.

“You’re going to be just fine,” she repeats.

Finn wonders if she’d touch his head or maybe his cheek if he weren’t soaking in sweat. He’s positive Emma would never touch a person with damp skin. Maybe if he were dry, she might. He hopes so. Even if she were wearing those plastic gloves that smell funny.

“I’m really sorry,” he says again, as he closes his eyes, only this time he means he’s sorry for kissing her on Friday, too, not just saying something stupid. “It was wrong.”

Maybe he dozes off, because Finn never hears a reply.

There’s a huge glass of water sweating big beads on his bedside table that Emma’s brought him, and it looks awesome, but he can’t drink any of it until she takes his temperature. A cool mouth might result in a false reading.

“You had that with you?” he croaks, as Emma produces a digital thermometer and a couple of small pills from her purse. “Why?”

“I carry a little kit with me at all times,” she informs him, shaking the device. “It’s always best to be prepared in case of emergencies. A little sewing kit, some acetaminophen, a couple of tiny signal flares. Open your mouth.”

He does, obediently, forcing himself up onto his forearms as she perches on the side of the bed, and Emma slides the thermometer under his tongue, holding it there while he takes it in. She smiles at him, a tight smile that comes and goes in just a second or two, and he looks down, unable to hold her gaze.

After the beep, she pulls out the thermometer and examines it. “101.3,” she announces brightly. “That seals it. You’re what my grandmother would call a sick cookie, Finn Hudson. And whether you like it or not, I’m going to take care of you until your mom gets back. You can’t be alone right now.”

“You don’t have to do that, Miss Pillsbury,” Finn protests.

“Nonsense. Of course I’m going to help you. I’m not leaving you by yourself.”

“But the wedding—” He breaks off. Why’d he have to bring up the wedding? The last time they’d talked about the wedding she’d been panicking and he’d made the stupidest decision of an admittedly long series of stupid life decisions. He doesn’t want to upset her again.

“The wedding,” she says, putting the glass of water up to his lips, “will be fine. Drink this. I was overreacting the other day in my office. Everything’s really all right.”

“That’s good.” Finn drinks, four or five long gulps until she pulls the glass away. He’s relieved. Seeing Emma so out of control freaked him out more than he’s willing to admit. A little like the time he was eleven years old and saw his history teacher at Kroger’s buying baloney sandwich slices and a box of tampons. He’d panicked then, too, running out before Mrs. Dugan noticed he was there.

“You know, I spent most of the weekend doing cognitive behavioral therapy exercises that my therapist taught me to calm my anxiety, and I realized that I was just, I was so upset on Friday because I’ve been married once and engaged twice and two out of three of those relationships ended in a horrible disaster. And I thought, what if I actually don’t want to get married? What if I just really like being registered at Pottery Barn? Here, take the acetaminophen, it’ll bring down your fever.”

Finn dutifully accepts the pills from her.

“But then I realized that was all silly. I love Will. I love him. I’ve been in love with him for almost four years. It has nothing to do with Pottery Barn. Even though I have very strong feelings for that Madeleine couch and loveseat set in burned cocoa.”

“That’s really nice,” Finn says, after he swallows the pills. “What you said about Mr. Sch—Will and everything, I mean.” And he’s sincere. He doesn’t want Emma to leave Will, not really, because that would mean ruining Will’s life, and Finn could never do that to him. See that happen to him. “You guys are great together.” He shifts uncomfortably in bed and the ache in his arms and legs pulses a little, like it’s telling him to stop.

Emma notices. “Would you like a cold washcloth on your face?” she asks him. “It’s the best thing for a fever. Besides medicine and water, of course.”

Nothing has ever sounded like a better or a worse idea. He manages to stay casual. “Sure, that’d be okay.”

While she’s out of the room, rummaging through the linen cabinets in the hallway, Finn takes a couple of deep breaths and tries to get it together. You’re an adult, you idiot,, he tells himself, so act like it. You made a stupid mistake. She’s just here helping out a friend. That’s all she’s doing. You should be grateful someone as great as she is cares about you enough to help you out, even after you did something so freaking dumb.

And he is, that’s the thing. He’s really grateful to her. After all, Emma’s one of the few people at that school who takes him seriously in his new role, besides Coach Beiste. She’d accepted him as an equal without hesitating, as if she’d totally believed that Finn could ever take Will’s place, even temporarily. Like Finn wasn’t just getting up every morning and playing dress-up with sweater vests and slacks. He’d always figured that after graduation something would click over in him and he’d start feeling like the man he knows everyone wants him to be. So far that hasn’t happened yet.

“Okay,” Emma announces cheerfully, coming back into the room, washcloth in hand. She’s wearing her funny-smelling thin plastic gloves, he notices. “You just lean back. I’ll do all the work.”

Well, Finn’s already on his back, and he feels weird about not being able to do what she’s telling him, so he closes his eyes instead. He feels the weight of the bed sag a bit as she sits back down next to him, and then—oh, wow—cool, wet weight on his cheek, the rough cloth rubbing just a little as she presses it against his sensitive skin, not enough to hurt. It’s the greatest thing in the world. It feels better than throwing a touchdown pass into the endzone like he did that one time.

For a while, neither of them speaks. Finn’s almost falling asleep in the haze of the warm room and the relief of feeling a little better for the first time in two days when Emma says, suddenly, “You’re a very good teacher, Finn. I’ve been meaning to tell you that. You’re great with the kids.”

He feels a little surge of pride, not just because she thinks he’s good at what he does, but because she’s distinguished him from the others in glee club. The kids, she’d said, meaning he isn’t one. “Thanks.”

“I’ve enjoyed having you around school. It’s nice to have someone to talk to. I mean, there’s always Shannon, but I can’t eat lunch with her unless I close my eyes and plug my ears. She kind of does this loud open-mouthed chewing thing? And Sue isn’t exactly someone you have conversations with. It’s pretty one-sided.” She moves the washcloth to his forehead. “I’ve been a little lonely since Will’s been gone. Since before he left, really."

At that, Finn opens his eyes, staring directly into Emma’s wrist, positioned over his face as she presses the washcloth against his skin. “Miss Pillsbury,” he says. “I’m not good at this whole girl language thing, so I don't really get what you're trying to say, but I’m—look, I feel horrible that I did this to Will. He’s always been there for me, he’s like this sort of weird combination of my dad and my best friend and you’re his fiancée—”

“I’m not using ‘girl language,’” she says sharply, folding one end of the washcloth over the other and leaving it on his forehead, taking her hand back. “I’m talking out loud while I try to figure out what I need to say to you without being mean. You—you kissed me, Finn. I’m not trying to justify it, I’m explaining why I think I didn’t push you away, or—or yell, or immediately leave to go home and take a forty-five minute shower in very hot water without leaving any of the bathroom windows open so I could breathe in all the steam. And by the way, for future reference? It’s usually not a good idea to kiss a person who’s having a panic attack. A person, by the way, whom you still can’t bring yourself to call by her first name.”

Now the washcloth feels too heavy on Finn’s head. “No, I get it,” he interrupts. “I messed up really badly and I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll tell him, if you want me to. I don’t care if he beats me up. I deserve it.”

“You’re not telling Will anything,” she says firmly. “That isn’t up to you. And you’re right. You never should’ve kissed me. But,” she continues, “I think I’ve let myself get too close to you, and maybe that was wrong too. I don’t know why I’ve been telling you all these personal things. I keep forgetting that you’re only eighteen years old. You’ve got your own problems to worry about, you don’t need to hear about some old lady’s.”

“I’m nineteen.” Finn’s stomach turns over, feeling kicked. Just a few minutes earlier he’d thought she saw him as an equal. “And you’re, what, thirty-two or three, right? That’s not old. Lots of people are in their thirties now. It’s cool to be in your thirties.”

“All right, you’re nineteen. My point is that I’ve been relying on you too much and I need to just rely on myself and stop worrying about whether or not everything’s going to be perfect. My job, my wedding, my marriage. Dr. Shane always says that perfect is perfectly impossible.”

“He sounds like a smart dude,” Finn says, “but I don’t—”

“Dr. Shane’s a she.” Emma puts her gloved palm over his forehead again, pressing firmly against the washcloth. “Finn, I know you must think I’m falling apart, I know I look like a crazy lady, but I’m not. Even though it’s been a little hard lately for me I’m very, very happy about getting married. I cry lots of happy tears all the time, late at night or in the shower. We’re going to have a long and wonderful life together watching Project Runway marathons, and going to faculty lunches, and raising our curly-haired ginger baby that we had carried by a surrogate. Because Will is the person I’m supposed to be with.”

“Okay, but—”

Emma abruptly yanks the washcloth off his head and balls it up in her hand.

“Goodness, Finn, these sheets of yours are filthy,” she says, too brightly. “You aren’t getting any better by rolling around in all those germs. Let me get some fresh ones for you out of that linen closet, and then I’ll make you some soup. Maybe I’ll disinfect your nightstand later. Wouldn’t that be nice? I think that’d be nice.”

How many different things can that little purse of hers hold? “You really don’t have to—”

“I am getting married next week to the man that I love,” Emma tells him, “and you are getting fresh sheets and soup. Everybody’s very happy. Don’t argue with me.”

He doesn’t.

Watching her change the sheets on his bed is a little weird because he’s never seen anyone who’s that good at it before. It’s like she’s a professional bed maker, if that’s a job. Finn says, adjusting uncomfortably in the desk chair, “I didn’t know you were supposed to turn down the top part of the sheet.”

“It’s not a rule,” she explains, fluffing a pillow until it looks like a big blue marshmallow, “but it looks nicer like this, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he says, meaning it. “It looks great. It looks like those fancy display beds at Sheets ‘N Things. I never knew my bed could look that awesome. I think I’m feeling better just looking at it.” And the funny thing is, Finn’s telling the truth. Maybe it isn’t even the sheets, maybe it’s the medicine starting to work or the water or just knowing that someone’s here to take care of him, but he feels a little less achy, a little cooler.

Emma puts the last pillow down on the bed and claps her hands together in obvious pleasure, just two small claps, before she catches herself and lets her hands drop to her sides. Finn can’t help but grin at her, happy to make her happy. The awkwardness between them is pretty much gone now, and he's grateful for the lack of tension. Maybe now they can actually put what happened in her office behind them.

“I knew fresh sheets would help,” she says. “They always do. Now if you get back into bed, I’ll give you some soup. You need to have something in your stomach.”

There’s a tray on his bedside table with a big bowl of chicken noodle soup and some crackers, those salty square ones you get at restaurants. Next to the soup, she’s placed a small flower in a little vase on the tray. He recognizes it from the kitchen downstairs, one of his mom’s. It’s red and cheerful. Finn looks at the steam rising from the bowl and feels the first faint pangs of hunger he’s felt since Saturday afternoon.

Getting into bed is easier than getting out of it. The new sheets feel amazing under his hands, soft and dry. They smell great, too, like laundry detergent, and he wonders, a little embarrassed, how much the old ones must’ve stunk with his sweat. He crawls into a seated position, resting his back against the pillows she’s propped up for him, and draws up the blankets over his legs.

Just as he’s about to reach for the soup, Emma says, sitting back down on the bed, “Here, let me,” and takes the tray for him, balancing it carefully on his lap. Finn takes the soup spoon and lifts it out of the bowl, watching a too-long noodle slip over the side and back into the bowl. He feels tired, suddenly, even though all he’s done is lift a stupid spoon, and places it back down.

“Too much?” Emma asks him.

Embarrassed, he says, “No, I’m good. Just give me a second. I can do it.” And he can. He just needs to psych himself up first. It’s soup. That's all it is.

Softly, Emma says, “It’s all right if you need some help, Finn. That’s why I’m still here.”

She reaches out and takes the spoon, filling it for him. The noodle stays put this time, and there’s even a little piece of chicken in the spoon, too. Emma’s good at a lot of things, he knows, and apparently getting things to stay in soup spoons is one of them.

“Can I?” she asks, gesturing a little towards him with the spoon.

“Uh,” he says. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Before he’s really even thought about it, she’s lifting the spoon to his mouth and he opens for her obligingly. The saltiness is almost too much for him, shocking his mouth and tongue, but he swallows carefully, trying not to give anything away because Emma’s watching.

“Good,” she says, with so much warmth in her voice that he blushes a little. “That’s very good. I need you to eat a little more for me, okay?”

Finn nods.

While he’s on his third bite, getting increasingly nervous that he’ll never think of anything to fill the silence, Emma says briskly, “I was a little worried at the beginning of the year that glee club wouldn’t be able to keep going without Rachel and the others, but I think you’ve really got some good voices in there. That Unique person—I mean, wow! She’s amazing. Didn’t she sing for Vocal Adrenaline last year?”

Relieved they’re talking about something normal, Finn relaxes a little. “Yeah, she did. We’re really lucky to have her. The new guys are great, too. I know you haven’t heard him sing yet, but Puck’s little brother, Jake—he’s got something special. That Ryder kid’s great, too. It’s kind of funny how many good singers go to McKinley. Like, probably way more than the national average.”

“Oh, definitely,” she says, smiling, and serves another spoonful into his open, waiting mouth. “I wanted to ask you—have you thought any more about what you’re going to do once Will’s back? There’s a track at the local community college that’s designed to prepare you for a teaching degree at a four-year university. You could get your degree and teach music. I think you’d be so good at it, and you know, I’d be more than happy to help you study—”

He swallows quickly so he can answer her before she runs any farther with her idea. “Thanks, Miss—thanks, Emma, but, uh, I’ve thought about it and I don’t know if I want to do that yet? I like helping out with glee club and all, but most of these guys are my friends. I don’t know if I’d be any good at it if I taught strangers.” The idea of stepping into a classroom with a bunch of kids he doesn’t know freaks him out. They’d probably take one look at his tie and teacher briefcase and laugh at him, like he’d done with that new math teacher sophomore year. That skinny geeky guy with zits, Mr. Weber. He’d quit after two weeks because Puck wouldn’t stop booby-trapping his desk.

“It isn’t as hard as you think,” Emma says after a moment. She sets the spoon back down in the bowl, and picks up the folded napkin, gently rubbing it at the corner of his mouth where some soup’s escaped.

Finn freezes. The tip of her middle finger brushes against his cheek just once through the soft, thin glove. Emma doesn’t seem to notice.

“Well, that’s not exactly true,” she continues. “It is hard. I won’t lie to you. It took me two years before I could ask a student to come into my office without feeling terrified.”

“Two years?”

“All right, four. But it’s a very rewarding job sometimes,” she continues, and pulls her hand back, setting the napkin down on the tray. “Especially when someone needs your advice and you have a pamphlet for that person, and then they take it home and read it and it helps them and they come back and tell you all about how their life's better. I've had that happen six times. It’s made all the hard parts worth it. Promise me you’ll think seriously about teaching?”

He nods. His cheek’s still tingling a little bit from where her finger grazed it.

“All right, three more bites, and then you can have a nap. No arguing.”

After Finn’s managed the third swallow, his throat slick for the first time in two days, he asks, “Do you love doing it? Teaching. Or being a counselor. I guess it isn’t the same thing.”

Emma looks startled, like no one’s asked her that question before. “Yes,” she says thoughtfully, placing the dirty spoon onto the napkin. He notices before she puts it down how she’s holding it now: pinched, like she’s trying to touch it as little as possible. “I do. I think I thought it would be a little different, though. I thought it might be like—well, like it is for Will. You know, all those adoring students.” She smiles. “Of course you know. You were one.”

The past tense still sounds funny to Finn, who keeps expecting to wake up one morning and start another year of high school, like adulthood’s been a sort of extended spring break.

“I don’t know,” she continues. “It’s silly, I guess. I never had many friends when I was growing up or at college, I don’t know why I thought the students would like me any better. It’s just easier for Will, I think. He’s so handsome and easy-going. Everyone likes him. Teacher of the Year and all. I’m so incredibly proud of him, but, well. Sometimes I’m a little jealous.”

“Hey, we all like you too,” Finn tells her, shifting a little. The bowl slides on the tray, still balanced precariously on his legs. “All the kids. If there was a Counselor of the Year award you’d definitely get it.”

The corner of her mouth lifts in a brief attempt at a smile. “That’s nice of you, Finn.”

It seems like Emma’s about to remember she’s talking to Finn Hudson the recent high school graduate instead of Finn Hudson, colleague and friend, and so he says quickly, “I know what that’s like, to feel jealous of the person you’re with. Rachel, she’s so amazing and talented and she’s always known exactly what she’s going to do with her life. It made me feel scared. Like we were racing into being adults or something, except everyone, including me and her, knew she would run right past me and I’d fall down at the starting line.”

Oh, man, he hadn’t meant to remind Emma again how much younger he is than her, but it's the way Emma's looking at him, like she actually cares what he’s got to say, that makes the words just kind of pour out of his mouth all by themselves.

Emma places her hand on top of his. It’s warm even through the glove. He’s too startled to do anything but hold still.

“Knowing exactly what you want to do with your life isn’t always the key to being happy,” she says. “Please trust me on that.”

He’d trust her on pretty much anything. He nods, and just when he’s wondering if maybe he could turn his hand around, palm up to meet hers, Emma pulls away.

“You need your sleep,” she informs him, and grabs the tray from his lap, standing up. “At least two hours of good, solid sleep. I’ll be back to check on you at five o’clock, and maybe if you’re feeling up to it then I’ll draw you a bath.”

The look on his face must match the panic Finn’s feeling, because Emma adds quickly, “I’m not—of course I wouldn’t be in there with you, I just thought it might feel nice, a nice cool bath. If you’re feeling up to it.”

“Yeah,” he says, tongue thick in his mouth. “Sure.”

She nods, a quick jerk of her head, says, “Good,” and abruptly leaves his room with the disordered tray, her heels making sharp, short clicks on the hardwood floor as she walks out. Finn tries not to watch her leave.

Sleep takes him over fast, his tense and tired body grateful for it.

“Finn.”

A light touch on his arm. His eyes open slowly, bringing Emma’s face into focus, and there’s a second of astonishment before he remembers.

“Yeah,” he gets out, still groggy from his nap.

“I’m running you a bath. With bubbles. I don’t take baths very often because they’re not an efficient way to get clean, but sometimes I take them with bubbles and then shower afterwards. It’s like throwing a fun germ-free party for yourself. Anyways, I found some bubble bath in the cabinet and I made the water temperature lukewarm so it won’t be too hot for you.”

“Uh.” He’s still stuck on the part where she takes bubble baths and then showers, an image that’s definitely not going to lead him anywhere good. “Yes. I mean, thanks.”

“I’ll be right outside if you get dizzy or anything. With the door closed. I’ll get a chair and I have a knitting project I’ve been working on, so I’ll just—it’ll be a good chance for me to keep working on my knitting.”

“Okay,” he says, wishing like crazy he had a better vocabulary so Emma won't wonder why she's spending her free afternoon and evening with a sick, sweaty guy who can’t string two freaking words together.

The room smells sharp, like disinfectant, and Finn realizes how Emma’s kept busy while he’s been asleep: wiping down literally every surface with her sterilizing cloths. He sits up slowly, and then looks up to see her still-gloved hand extended towards him.

"Uh," he says, not sure what she wants him to do.

“I’ll help you up,” she tells him.

Finn coughs a little to cover up the laugh he can’t help. “Mi—Emma, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the offer, but you’re like half my size. I don’t think—”

“I’m tougher than I look,” she says, and sure enough, she’s planted one heeled foot behind the other, bracing herself. “Come on, give me your hand. Grab my wrist.”

He does, grasping it just where the glove and her skin meet, and his fist swallows the small circle of flesh and bone immediately.

“One,” she counts, “two, and three—“

On three, he starts to stand on his own power but she yanks him towards her with a surprising strength he hadn’t expected. Finn stumbles towards Emma, and for a brief moment before he catches himself he thinks he’s going to fall on top of her, knocking her over. Thankfully he doesn’t.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says, as he lets go, not wanting her to feel how sweaty his hand is. “How’d you get that strong?”

“Well, believe it or not, the horrors of a cleaning compulsion come with one or two perks, including increased muscle mass in one’s biceps, triceps, and forearms. Not a lot, but enough to surprise people who think they know better.” She winks at Finn, clearly pleased with his reaction. “That’ll teach you to underestimate me.”

“I won’t,” he tells her, completely sincere. “You're incredible.”

It comes out more seriously than he’d intended. Emma seems taken aback by the tone in his voice. “Well, all right,” she says finally. “Let’s get y—you should take that bath now.”

Once he’s safely behind the bathroom door, away from her face and her smile and that perfume she wears that makes him feel like he’s rolling down a green field on a warm day, Finn presses his face into his hands and exhales, thinking now I have to get naked two feet away from Emma Pillsbury.

“Finn?” she calls, almost immediately. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes!” he shouts back, too loud, and there's a warning throb in his head that tells him not to yell again. “Totally fine, I’m just—I’m getting in, everything’s okay.”

His sweatpants almost peel off him, stuck to his skin in places, and the t-shirt feels like a wet rag in his hand once he’s pulled it over his head. Looking down at his naked body, Finn takes in the slightly padded plane of his stomach, less defined now that he’s not playing sports anymore. It’s not the kind of stomach girls go for. He’d seen Will’s once over the summer, in the locker room after a pickup game, and he’d made a point not to stare. Talk about jealousy. The dude looked like a museum statue.

Emma’s filled the bathtub with enough bubbles for him to hide most of himself, and he’s grateful for that. Still a little unsteady on his feet, lightheaded from being upright for so long, Finn steps into the water, and lets it rush up his leg as he plants first one foot on the bottom of the tub and then the next. It’s good. Not too hot, not too cold. She found exactly the right temperature for him.

He can’t help but groan a little from how nice it feels as he slides down, sinking everything but his head under the water. The release of breath puts a dent into the bubbles right below his neck, and he thinks he can smell them, orange or lemon or something like a fruit.

“Still okay?”

“It’s great,” he says loudly.

Her knitting needles click and he imagines her sitting right outside the door, back straight, making those neat little stitches or whatever that girls know how to make. Waiting just in case he needs her. He could say one word, Finn knows, and she’d be inside the bathroom in a second to help him.

For some reason, the thought sends a rush of heat through his belly and below, and he’s half-hard before he realizes what’s happening. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. It’s a bad time to get turned on. It’s the worst possible time and it's because of the worst possible person, who doesn’t want him anyway, who’s off limits and who’s sitting right outside just a few feet away—

This isn’t a disaster yet. He can make it go down, right? Finn’s done it before a couple of times, usually in class when he knows the bell’s going to ring in five minutes and he has to stand up. There’s his old standby, the mailman, but he’s also got some other images that work pretty well, usually sad things like dogs who don’t have homes or those thirty-seven times he got sacked in his own endzone.

It’s starting to work, and then Emma says, from the other side of the door, “I’ve started working on a new series of pamphlets that addresses the lesser-known risks associated with being a teenager. Did you know that every year, two dozen people between the ages of thirteen and twenty die from being bit by monkeys?”

“I, uh, didn’t know that,” he manages, trying not to let the sound of her voice distract him. Monkeys, though, that’s pretty good. There’s nothing sexy about being bit by monkeys.

Even so, his hands still find his thighs underwater, and he presses down on them, forcing himself not to touch where he’s starting to ache so badly.

“Usually on the arm or leg,” she continues, “but sometimes on the stomach. Which is why you should always be covered up when you’re at the zoo, just in case.”

Oh, man, why’d she have to start talking about body parts? Now he’s thinking about her arms and legs and her stomach and other parts of her too. It’s a slippery slope that leads him right away to the soft curve of her breasts visible in a lacy bra, the image of her small hand teasing over the flesh below her belly button, revealing to Finn what he hasn’t let himself imagine in more than a year.

“What’s the matter?”

Too late, Finn realizes he’s made a sound he shouldn’t.

“It’s—” He casts around frantically for a reason. “Nothing—I just sat up too fast and got dizzy. It’s all right, I’m—”

“I can’t hear you,” she says, talking over his last words, “I’m going to come in—”

Before he can make his mouth form the word don’t, she’s opening the door, taking a step inside with her hand over her eyes. “I can’t see anything,” Emma informs him. “I’m blind right now. Your modesty is guaranteed. Do you need my help?”

Desperate to feel less exposed, Finn collects as many bubbles as he can and centers them over his genitals and stomach, making a thick protective barrier.

“I’m fine,” he says, as calmly as he can. “Just got a little dizzy for a second, but I’m good now.”

“Are you decent? There should be enough bubbles—”

“It’s cool, you can look.” It isn’t cool, it’s so incredibly far from cool, but Finn needs more than anything for Emma to believe that he’s mature enough to be naked in a bathtub and have her right there at the same time. Never mind that every time she says anything or breathes or exists the need to touch himself gets worse. He’s a grown man. He can deal with this.

She scissors open two of her fingers and peeks. “Oh, okay,” she says, sounding relieved. “How’s the tub? Are you getting nice and clean?”

No, Finn wouldn’t use those words to describe exactly what he’s getting. “I’ll be out pretty soon. You can go do your knitting thing, I’m all right.”

“Well, that’s good.” Emma lets her hands drop to the front of her skirt, resting briefly on top of her thighs, and for a second, she seems a little at a loss for words. “I guess I’ll just go, then.”

He swallows hard as she starts to step outside the bathroom, close the door behind her, and something terrible and stupid and demanding in him makes Finn call out, suddenly, “Wait, don’t go. I want you to stay.”

For the ten or so seconds after the bathroom door closes, he figures either she hasn’t heard or she’s ignoring him. Either one’s just fine. Real gratitude spreads through Finn. It’s almost as strong as his arousal and way more relieving. Even if he can’t control his body’s reactions, at least he can count on Emma to keep him at a distance. That way he won’t be able to embarrass himself too much or give Emma a chance to figure out what he’s trying desperately to make go away.

Then, incredibly, the door begins to open again, revealing Emma’s face in the widening gap, white and apprehensive. She doesn’t move, hovering in the doorway, until Finn realizes she’s waiting for him.

(Waiting for him to do what?)

His heart’s in his throat. He says, mouth dry, “Come in.”

Later, he won’t be able to remember how they got there in the first place, Emma kneeling by the side of the tub in bare feet and bare hands and holding a fresh washcloth, foaming and slick with new soap. If it was his idea or her idea or maybe they’d gotten there together, taking small steps towards it until there was nowhere else to go.

Finn leans forward, waiting for Emma, until he feels her hand through the washcloth rubbing his back in small circles. She goes slowly, focusing on the part near his left shoulder first, and then the other side, and finally sliding down to the middle of his back. Finn holds his breath, wondering if she’ll move lower, beneath the water, but just as he’s starting to think she might, Emma stops.

“Where else do you need me to wash?” she asks him, quietly, and he bites his lip on everywhere.

“My chest,” he gets out. “It’s, I didn’t wash there yet.”

There’s a brief pause, and then she lowers the washcloth into the tub, soaking it again before rubbing the bar of soap against the material. Finn leans back, praying that the bubbles at the other end of the tub hold. If Emma sees just how hard he is for her he’ll never be able to face her again.

She presses the flat washcloth to the middle of his chest, her ungloved fingers splayed on him like a starfish, and Finn shudders involuntarily.

“Too much?”

Yes, he thinks, looking helplessly at her. “No.”

Emma’s scooting a little closer to the tub to give her arm more room. The top button on her sweater’s undone, he notices for the first time—when did that happen? Finn swears it was closed earlier—and it gives him a better view of her collarbones, fine and smooth below the column of her neck, like tiny branches. There’s a small liquid bead resting a little below the curve where Emma’s neck meets her shoulder, just big enough for Finn to notice. He can’t tell if it’s from the bathtub or if she’s starting to sweat a little from effort.

The washcloth passes rhythmically back and forth over the plane of his chest, sliding underwater as she slips down a bit lower, coming out again as she moves back up.

Finn watches the drop of sweat and the undone button, glancing back and forth from one to the other. Emma doesn’t seem to notice. She’s staring at his chest, fixated on the job she’s doing, and maybe he should feel self-conscious because his soft upper stomach is right there just above the surface but he’s too busy imagining that drop of sweat sliding down Emma’s skin, finding its way down to the valley between her breasts.

Without warning, her hand stops moving on him mid-scrub.

Finn swivels his head towards the tub again to see why she’s stopped, and he’s instantly seized with panic. The bubbles are separating in the other half of the tub, drawing apart as they start to collapse a little, and there are lots of holes now. Holes big enough to reveal exactly what he’s been hiding.

It’s the most miserable, humiliating moment of his life. He steels himself, trying to prepare himself for her horror, her disgust—

Her hand starts moving again.

Shocked, Finn looks back at Emma, and somehow she’s giving every indication she hasn’t seen anything. Her face is blank. If anything, she’s scrubbing a little harder now. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, quick, like it’s a reflex, and pushes a strand of loose hair out of her eyes with the back of her free hand.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she says quietly.

He shakes his head, and then nods, and then shakes his head again, brain and body flooding with contradictions. Did she really not see? “I don’t know,” he says miserably, shutting his eyes. “No—I want you to keep going.”

Without warning, the ruthless fantasy comes to him: Emma standing up without a word, stepping into the tub on either side of his legs, shoving her tight skirt up over her hips and crouching down, kneeling in the water as she straddles his thighs. And then—deliberately, slowly—she’d start to rut herself on Finn, back and forth. He’d feel the thin fabric of her lacy underwear rubbing against his hard dick, the only barrier preventing Emma from sinking down on him, fucking him into the hot tight clench of her—

The image is too much. Unable to control himself, Finn groans and jerks his hips once through the water, breaking the surface, his body trying without permission to make her ghost solid.

“You have to go,” he manages, eyes still squeezed shut, unable to face the real Emma. If she hadn’t figured it out before, she’s got to know exactly what’s happening by now. “I’m really sorry, I can’t—I can’t make this go away right now with you here, okay? I’m trying but I can’t.”

At first she doesn’t say anything. With his eyes shut he’s sure she’s staring at him, at the way he’s swollen and flushed and twitching below the surface of the water, already close without being touched, and then he hears her take a deep breath.

“Emma, you don’t understand, I have to—” he whispers, but before he can explain what’s happening to him he feels her bare hand slip between his legs and find him underwater, grasping him, starting a slow stroke from base to tip.

The shock of it makes his eyes fly open to make sure he’s not still in the bright alarm of his fantasy. No, it’s happening. It’s really happening. “Oh, my god, Emma—”

“It’s okay,” she tells him, her voice stronger and more in control than he’s ever heard it. Her grip is tight and strong, stroking him like she’s in no hurry. “I do understand. Let me touch you like this, just for a little while. Please.”

He’d do anything in the world she asked, but he’d say yes to this specific request a thousand times over if it killed him. He nods, not trusting himself to form a coherent answer, and focuses all his attention on not coming. Mailman. The mailman. The mailman. His mother’s terrified screams. Mr. Kidney in a bikini. The mailman.

Next to him, Emma shifts a little on her knees, moving in even closer so that her thighs are pressing against the side of the bathtub. Finn thrusts into her steady fist and turns his head towards her, taking in her face; the pink in her cheeks and her wide eyes. Is it his imagination, or is she breathing harder than she usually does?

Oh, he wants to make her feel good, even if he has no idea how to do that. Finn wants more than anything to know he’s the kind of man who could make Emma Pillsbury feel good.

Emma’s grip on him speeds up just a little, making small splashes in the water as her forearm slices through the surface again and again. Her free hand finds her stomach, palm flat and fingers spread wide as she presses down through the layers of sweater and blouse. The simple gesture consumes him immediately. What if she starts unbuttoning her sweater? What if—

The hand on her middle slides up to her left breast, cupping it gently. He stares at Emma, fascinated, as she pinches the peak of it through her top and inhales in response, a small ah. It’s a shaking breath that sounds more astonished than anything else.

Finn answers her with a groan, arching his back as his hips lift up so he can push harder into her smooth hand. She’s touching herself for him, she’s got a hand on herself and a hand on him and Finn can see the wet pink slick of her tongue when her lips part and he’s—oh, fuck—he’s so close—

“I have to come,” he manages. “Please. I don’t think I can wait.”

She stares down at Finn, clearly surprised out of her reverie. “Really? Already?”

Too far gone to be embarrassed, he shakes his head up and down. “Please,” he says again, a faint whine. “Can I—? Is that okay?”

“You want me to tell you to do—that? You want my permission?” She says it like she’s astonished, like the idea’s never occurred to her, but then, in a small voice, with her fingers moving lightly again on her breast, “Oh. Oh.”

He’s going to come soon no matter what Emma tells him, it’s a miracle he hasn’t yet, but he can’t stand the thought of disappointing her. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want me to do—please—”

Emma exhales and her hand drops from her breast. She leans down towards Finn, over the tub, easily close enough to kiss him, splashing as she strokes him faster, the friction so much more intense underwater than he’s ever felt it in a bed or a car. Dimly, Finn can hear the sounds he’s making, senseless whimpering noises that sound desperate to his own ears.

She says in a low voice a few inches from his ear, almost wondering, “I think I’d like it if you put your mouth on me down there.”

Finn gasps at the unexpected filth of it and comes almost instantly, chasing the overwhelming promise of Emma willing and spread for him. The brutal orgasm speeds too fast through his body and he shudders violently, spending in a series of stuttered jerks over her hand and into the water.

“I—I want that too,” he says, breathless, as soon as he can manage to get the words out. It’s probably the most unnecessary thing he’s ever said.

Emma lets go of him then—an act that makes him feel weirdly empty in a way coming didn’t—and leans back on her haunches, curling her wet, slick fingers while she examines them. He tries to sit straight, distancing himself from what he’s let go into the bathtub, worried that he’ll see disgust on her face when she looks up.

But she doesn’t glance in the tub. She’s standing up awkwardly instead, her posture unsteady as she tries to find her footing without touching anything. Finn, feeling increasingly ridiculous still sharing a bathtub with flattening bubbles and his come, watches as she turns on the sink faucet opposite the tub with her elbow. He should probably get out, but he feels stuck, like he can’t move until he knows what Emma’s thinking about him.

Coating her hands with seven or eight pumps of soap, Emma glances up at the mirror at her reflection, Finn visible in the background. He sees her gaze drop as she notices the splashes of bath water that stained her sweater and shirt while he thrashed.

“You’ve gotten me wet,” she observes, and immediately realizes what she’s unintentionally said, her scrubbing hands freezing for just a second. Her face pales. “Oh, I didn’t—”

“No, it’s okay,” Finn tells her immediately, not wanting Emma to feel embarrassed. He knows exactly what it’s like to say things you don’t intend and feel like you’ve been found out. “I get what you meant to say.”

She laughs, then, a startling near-hiccup that makes his heart stutter a little in his chest, and rubs her hands together harder.

“Well, it’s true,” she says quietly. “I didn’t mean to say it, but it’s true.”

Once he figures out what she’s implying, Finn’s jaw drops. If this were happening even five minutes from now, he’d be half hard just from her words. He’d thought she was probably turned on, but hearing the proof of it is something else.

“Really?” he gets out.

Emma nods. She’s blushing now, the color staining all the way down her neck. “Yup.”

Her hands are slowing under the flow of hot water from the faucet, probably clean now, but she’s leaving them there just the same. He can see the steam rising up from the sink even in his position.

“Um,” he says, trying to sit cross-legged but realizing quickly that isn’t going to happen in a tub this narrow. “That doesn’t seem fair. That you were—I mean, you did all the work just now and I never got—I didn’t make you feel good or anything.”

Not that he knows the first thing about how to make a woman like Emma Pillsbury feel good, but Finn can’t stop thinking about what she’d said to him about going down on her. He wants more than anything to kneel by the bed while Emma pulls his head between her legs, fingers clutching in his hair as he tastes her, eagerness trying to make up for his lack of knowledge. Maybe she’d tell him how she wanted him to do it. He’d practice as much as she’d let him.

Emma smiles at him in the mirror without turning around, and Finn can see reflected back at him what she must see: some big dumb naked guy in a yellow tub with dirty water.

“No, that’s not true,” she says. “That isn’t true at all.”

Her smile is so kind and for some reason a small lump forms in his throat.

(Finn’s never let himself think about a future where they’d sit next to each other at the faculty table, holding hands and grinning at each other over their Captain America and Peggy Carter lunchboxes. That’s the kind of thing a kid would imagine, and he isn’t a kid anymore. This is grown-up stuff.)

“You’re supposed to be getting married next week,” he blurts out, like either of them needs reminding, but his conscience won’t let him shut up. It hurts a lot, saying it out loud, which is probably why he’s doing it. Like a punishment. “You’re marrying Will. You picked out that really pretty centerpiece with the white flowers.”

Emma turns off the water and reaches for a small pink towel on the nearest rack. She can’t see him in the mirror anymore and now he can’t see her face either, so he can’t tell what she’s thinking or feeling at all. Her hands rub against it, disappearing into the cloth. They’re pinked, too, from the heat of the water.

He expects her to tell him again how much she loves her fiancé and the life they’re going to have. Finn wants her to set everything upright for him again, make his life familiar, stop him before he lets himself want something he can’t have. He needs her to marry his best friend like she’s supposed to do, and he wants to close his eyes while her ungloved fingers brush against his cheek.

Emma says softly, still drying her hands, “Yes. It’s a beautiful centerpiece.”

She waits while he stands up in the draining tub to shower off the residue, averting her eyes away from his nudity. Her hands are clasped primly together in front of her skirt.

“I’m right here if you get dizzy,” Emma informs him, still looking away while he pulls the shower curtain closed. “I won’t go anywhere.”

The warm spray hits his searching face and it scares Finn, how much he hopes she’s telling the truth.