Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jesse St. James watches the small crowd mill about the classroom, easily identifying the new faces and frowning slightly at the lack of returning ones. He can only assume their absence represents a lack of faith in his leadership abilities. He expertly flicks his perfectly coiffed hair out of his eyes. Jesse St. James thrives under a challenge. Jesse feels out the energy of the room, waiting for the perfect moment in which his entrance is anticipated but not yet expected.

Ah. There it is.

Showtime.

Week One

Rachel Berry has a plan. She's been working towards this plan since age 12, when Tina Cohen-Chang brought Rachel to her very first live poetry reading.

Rachel has spent the last four years perfecting her transcript and extracurriculars in order to gain admittance to this specific university. And now she's here, at the first meeting of the New Directions Slam Poetry Team, formerly the home of New Directions alum Matt Rutherford, nationally ranked slam poet and Rachel's personal idol.

Rachel sits up even straighter at the sight of Kurt Hummel occupying the back of the room, lounging against the wall in what is possibly the tightest pair of pants known to man. She moves toward him to introduce herself and to congratulate him on both his impeccable performance of his bitingly ironic piece on homophobia in the inherently homoerotic environment of the boys' locker room and his equally impeccable taste in men (Matt Rutherford is a legend). Tina, who joined the team last year as a freshman and summarily became internet famous for the video recording of her poem "No, That Is Not My Clitoris," stops Rachel with a hand on her wrist and a shake of her head.

"It takes him a while to warm up to new people," Tina explains, and instead guides Rachel towards Mercedes Jones and Artie Abrams, a senior and a junior respectively, who are currently conversing with the meeting's only other freshman recruit.

"Hi, I'm Tina," she says to the other girl, who looks them both up and down in a way that makes Rachel blush and bristle. The girl bares her teeth in what Rachel assumes is a smile.

"I’m Santana. Your sex poems are the shit." Tina grins.

Rachel puts on her best meeting-new-people smile and turns to introduce herself to Mercedes and Artie.

And then, with a single perfectly arched eyebrow and a ringing, mellifluous voice, Jesse St. James begins to speak.

“Welcome, and welcome back, to the New Directions. For those of you who don’t know, my name is Jesse St. James and I’m the captain of this team.” Rachel tries to keep her facial expressions neutral yet positive. Making a good impression on Jesse St. James is a hugely important part of her plan. “I know that, with Matt gone, we’ve lost a great poet and a great friend.” Jesse pauses to glance at Kurt Hummel, who is still sitting in the back and looking supremely unimpressed. “And I know that, as a mere junior, it’s highly unusual for me to be in such an important leadership position.” Rachel catches Kurt and Mercedes making faces at each other to her left and pulls her interested-and-enthusiastically-listening smile up another notch. “But I’m more than confident that we can produce the same quality of real art that we have in years past.” Rachel slips her hands beneath her thighs so she doesn’t accidentally applaud. Jesse St. James is just magnificent.

“Alright.” Jesse graces the room with a brilliant smile. “Let’s get to work.”

Week Two

Rachel finishes her reading with a flourish, voice ringing dramatically through the room. She basks in the adulation of the group, Tina’s broad smile and Artie’s raised palm. She risks a glance towards Kurt, who looks as aloof as always, and Jesse. Who is smiling. At her. Rachel refuses to swoon. Mostly.

“That was wonderful, Rachel. Your honesty is stunning.” Rachel forces herself to say something appropriately humble. To Tina’s left, Santana mutters something.

“Did you have something to add, Santana?” Mercedes hadn’t seemed quite as impressed as the others. Rachel makes a mental note to put extra effort into wooing her favor.

“I’m sorry, I’m just a little… overwhelmed with that level of sincerity. It was like a cross between a Lifetime Movie and my kindergarten teacher. Completely lacking in subtlety.” Rachel’s stomach knots up and she can feel her face burn with anger. She opens her mouth to retort and is cut off by a soft, sardonic voice.

“Why don’t you show us what you’ve got, then?” Kurt looks interested for the first time since Rachel’s met him. Santana stands up and Rachel sits back down, regretfully. Tina gives her hand a quick, gentle squeeze.

Santana tosses her hair over one shoulder, smirks right at Rachel, and begins.

Week Three

Rachel shifts in her seat, wishing she were anywhere but next to Santana. In Rachel’s usual spot is Sam, Tina’s boyfriend, whom she dragged to practice to hear her newest poem.

Rachel ignores the way Mercedes, Artie and Santana talk comfortably about musicians she doesn’t recognize, ignores the way Kurt ignores her existence, focuses on the bright smile Jesse gave her on the way in (focuses on the way that smile dimmed for Santana, whom he called “unnecessary hostile” just last week).

And then Tina clears her throat, once, and begins, “As of today, I have received 14 different and distinct sex injuries.”

Tina works her magic, and Rachel forgets everything else.

Week Four

Kurt is absent. Mercedes doesn’t say more than two words at a time for the entire meeting.

Rachel throws herself into the void, making as many constructive criticisms as she can muster. Santana scowls deeper and deeper and Artie stops making eye contact, but Jesse St. James stops her on the way out and says, “I’m very impressed, Rachel.”

It’s enough. It has to be enough.

Competition

Kurt is still absent. Artie wins, easily.

It doesn’t matter, because Santana beats Rachel and she looks at her with that insufferable smirk.

Rachel goes home and revises for hours.

Week Five

Kurt’s back, impeccably dressed and impossibly detached, and it restores an equilibrium to the room Rachel didn’t realize was missing.

Kurt stands, abruptly, and after a moment of uncomfortable silence begins reciting from memory.

By the third line, Rachel’s forgotten all about her plans to show Santana up.

By the last, half the room is in tears.

Week Six

Rachel clenches her fist, nails digging into her palm. She glances at Tina, and at Jesse’s encouraging smile.

She imagines her fathers’ encouraging smiles.

She sees blonde hair and an impossibly beautiful face and sharp lash of every single insult.

She begins. Jesse looks concerned. Santana looks up from her nails, once.

It’s not perfect, but it’s almost close enough.

Week Seven

Rachel watches Santana curl her lips around each word with carefully controlled fury and fights the urge to roll her eyes. An angsty break-up is such a cliché.

It’s not until the end, when Santana forgets herself on the second to last line, that Rachel sees anything else.

Santana in pain is such a foreign concept. Kurt goes to her after they’re dismissed, words too soft to be heard across the room.

It’s frustrating. Rachel can’t quite figure out what she wants to say.

On Sunday, Rachel receives an unexpected phone call.

Week Eight

Rachel’s mind is buzzing, roaring one second and echoing the next, and all she can do is try to write faster than she can feel.

It’s not her week to workshop but she stands up anyway, Shelby’s face hazy in her eyes and Shelby’s voice sharp and recent in her ears.

Rachel opens her mouth and wrenches her beating heart out of her chest.

When she finishes, breath too loud in the sudden silence, it’s not Jesse’s face she turns to first.

Competition

Rachel wins. Santana looks at her afterwards, smirk firmly in place.

“Dinner?” Rachel asks.

Santana smiles, just enough.