He always parks his truck in the same place, under this tree that buds in the spring and is leafy in the summer, the leaves falling on top of the truck cap he sticks on there in mid-September because that's where he sticks his shit and curls up with a sleeping bag sometimes if he's drunk or he just doesn't want to go home. He could probably live in the back of his truck if he wanted to, and he might have a cooler in there with an elaborately hidden case of beer for lonely nights. [And you better believe that he's got condoms back there, too.] And it's easy to find in the sea of cars, and people know enough to not park in his fucking spot, and yeah maybe it's a longer walk to the doors but it also means that nobody fucks with his parking spot. He pulls into the lot, he goes right for that spot, and it's always empty. Always. He likes that feeling of certainty. He likes the knowledge that, if anybody needs to find him or his truck, they go to that spot.
He crosses the back of the truck and unlocks her door, first. It's an older truck without power locks and his hands find her hips to boost her up into the seat [and he checks out her skirt as it flies up; he sees panty, hell, yeah] and shut the door after she swings her legs into the truck.
He crosses around the front, unlocking his own door and jumping in, sticking the keys into the ignition and waiting for the truck to run for a few minutes. His baby likes to warm up before he rides drives her. In the silence, he glances at Rachel, who stares out the window and the trees, the buds and new leaves sprouting from them because it's March and new and all of this shit that's supposed to bring good things because winter's supposed to be over and they're supposed to be growing the fuck up and getting the fuck out of Lima. "It's not just school," he says finally, after her words reverberate in his head for thirty seconds. "It's not just school for you, you know? S'your fucking dream. It's, like, all you ever wanted, you know? You were always, like, I'm Rachel fucking Berry and I'm going to get the fuck out of Lima and get on Broadway and be a star because I'm a fucking star. That's always been you, babe. S'not just school. S'more than that."
With a half-shrug, he reaches across the bench seat and tugs playfully on her skirt. "You just gotta figure out another way to get what you want, you know? Like, it's not just school, but... it is just school. Some people need school to teach them shit, and other people just know it. Like, Mozart. Mozart was, like, five when he wrote Twinkle, Twinkle. He was a fucking genius and he could kick the asses of everybody who went to school for writing music on the fucking piano, right? So, just figure out a way to kick ass and take names without school. You're Rachel fucking Berry, right?"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2011-11-10 05:06 pm (UTC)He crosses the back of the truck and unlocks her door, first. It's an older truck without power locks and his hands find her hips to boost her up into the seat [and he checks out her skirt as it flies up; he sees panty, hell, yeah] and shut the door after she swings her legs into the truck.
He crosses around the front, unlocking his own door and jumping in, sticking the keys into the ignition and waiting for the truck to run for a few minutes. His baby likes to warm up before he
ridesdrives her. In the silence, he glances at Rachel, who stares out the window and the trees, the buds and new leaves sprouting from them because it's March and new and all of this shit that's supposed to bring good things because winter's supposed to be over and they're supposed to be growing the fuck up and getting the fuck out of Lima. "It's not just school," he says finally, after her words reverberate in his head for thirty seconds. "It's not just school for you, you know? S'your fucking dream. It's, like, all you ever wanted, you know? You were always, like, I'm Rachel fucking Berry and I'm going to get the fuck out of Lima and get on Broadway and be a star because I'm a fucking star. That's always been you, babe. S'not just school. S'more than that."With a half-shrug, he reaches across the bench seat and tugs playfully on her skirt. "You just gotta figure out another way to get what you want, you know? Like, it's not just school, but... it is just school. Some people need school to teach them shit, and other people just know it. Like, Mozart. Mozart was, like, five when he wrote Twinkle, Twinkle. He was a fucking genius and he could kick the asses of everybody who went to school for writing music on the fucking piano, right? So, just figure out a way to kick ass and take names without school. You're Rachel fucking Berry, right?"