A/N: Apparently I'm a bit of a Finn/Rachel girl at heart. I was watching the pilot ep and thinking how far we've come and this just popped into my head. I'm also not quite sure what's up with the fluff lately. This bright spot is a real first for me.

Milestones [1/1]

When you're little, there is always 'someday'. They're always telling you what to expect. Soon, you'll be old enough for piano lessons; old enough to ride a bike that only has two wheels. Someday, you'll have the solo if you practice hard enough now. In my case, it was that I would be a star. I started dance lessons when I was three and there was kind of a subgroup of milestones—flat-footed turns and plies to barre time; finally, you go up to dancing in soft-soled shoes on the balls of your feet, and then one day when you're really ready –en pointe.

I worked so hard to get to that first class with wooden blocks in the toes of my ballet shoes. I thought the long satin ribbons that tied the shoes on were so elegant and beautiful and I felt like a princess for the forty-sixth time in my life.

That was about the time my dads re-routed me from the public school to the performing arts school. It was only an extra ten minutes out of town. That was another time the milestones changed, and now it was a little harder to reach them. Things like progressing to a character without a pound sign in the name in the musical, scheduling a one-on-one dance class, and memorizing my first monologue became the token milestones. By the time I was entering seventh grade, I had surpassed their expectations and they stopped telling me what milestones to expect. I was left to figure it out for myself.

I began to want other things. I wanted friends who didn't end their sentences with '…when the circus comes back to town.' Friends whose idea of creative outlet wasn't Dungeons and Dragons all weekend. I started filming little audition videos and emailing them around, hoping for new milestones: musicals I hadn't participated in, invitations to exclusive summer camps for drama students, even parts out of the state for shows that needed younger kids. Anything to get out of this crappy little town and away from my sheltered life, even for a while. The milestone I wanted to reach most, even then? A Tony award. A role written with me in mind…on Broadway. A certified double-Platinum debut album.

I wanted to be a star…. To be famous. To see my name in lights or have an IMDb profile.

When they mentioned those milestones, and when they showed pictures in elaborate scrapbooks of the ones that have come before—the walking, the talking, the puking, the pooping and the drooling—they never mentioned the other ones. The first time you feel "cool" or accepted for who you are. The first time a boy asks you out…or kisses you… or more. The first time someone offers you drugs or a drink or asks you violate your personal moral code in any way.

The first time you're the butt of the joke. The first time you're made fun of. The first time you're stood up. The first time you swear to God you can hear and feel your own heart breaking in your chest. First love, first loss—the negative milestones, the ones you don't plan on and can't prepare for—the milestones no one ever wants to experience.

I look down at the letter in my hands. The handwritten letter. The one, sent straight from the director, which says I'm not good enough, he doesn't like me, and please stop auditioning for him. From his own hand. Written with a dream-crushing, overly harsh Bic fucking pen.

The first time you have to look at one of a handful of people in the world who think you can do it and tell them that maybe…actually…you can't.

There are the pride-swallowing milestones, too. The first time you fall down when you trip over misplaced AV cords. The first time you go flat and don't realize it until you listen to the playbacks—after you've told the vocal coach to shove it because you were fine. The first time (and last time because, really, who bounces back from this?) you take down the MySpace page where you've uploaded daily videos because your boyfriend tenderly tells you there's a fine line between self-promotion and self-flagellation. The last time you walk out of the choir room because you're a graduating senior and you failed to lead your team, your club, to a national championship; but you hand off the reigns to the next group after you've done your best to lead them because you've learned that being a leader and being a star aren't always the same and they aren't always separate. Retaking the last class you need for your vocal performance degree at a different school (after painstakingly researching what schools will transfer the credit) just because the faculty advisor hates you so bad he doesn't want you to have a degree.

Then there are the milestones that you share with someone else. I've had a lot of those…for better or for worse. I'm not married, but I've had hellos and goodbyes and all that stuff in between with a few different boys. The major events in a friendship kind of shadow the ones of a relationship somewhat, and I've had more of those. When I wanted to leave the performing arts school for a 'normal' school, I ended up with more than I bargained for. There were acceptances, slushie-facials, laughter, tears, hugs, and then the milestones that made those friendships more: long hugs, hair-over-the-shoulder brushes, overnight conversations, confidences made, confidences held… confidences broken, tears cried, hearts broken, hearts healed. Hot hookups, make outs, and even making love.

On top of those milestones, whether expected or unexpected, you have moments of absolute triumph, those times when you feel like you're on top of the world. New Directions recorded an album our senior year. We sold thirty-three copies—to parents, teachers and a few others around town. I landed the lead in the musical ("Crazy for You") my senior year of high school. Finn led the football team to regionals that same year. Glee took Sectionals by landslide, Regionals by a narrower margin…and Finn took my virginity in Las Vegas that year—that was a really, really good year like your senior year should be.

I blow out a deep breath. This might not have been an expected or a particularly welcome milestone. But it's here; I have to accept it. And I have to figure out what to do with it so I can just move on…bounce back…use it to make me better and remind me of my goal.

I've decided I don't want to be a triple threat—you know: singing, dancing and acting. I surpassed quadruple threat in college, too, thanks to Finn, Artie, and Puck. I sing, I dance, I act, and I can play three instruments. But now I think I want to add a fifth thing. I've always been accused of being difficult, demanding and self-centered, so what's adding one more thing if you've always wanted it all? It's not like I've ever lied or misrepresented myself.

I want to be happy.

I look down at the letter again and the words blur. I sniffle a little right about the time I hear the front door of the apartment close. I blink hard, just once, and swallow back the threatening tears. It isn't worth crying over anyway, right? What's done is done. Once upon a time, before a lot of those other milestones had passed (especially the humbling section if you were paying attention), I would've called the director and demanded a meeting where I outlined exactly how over-qualified I was for his production. Now…. well, now milestones have been reached and lessons have been learned. There have been some that kicked me down a few notches. Now I'll just stop auditioning for the supercilious blowhole of a bastard and proceed to tell my friends, who are in varying degrees of success, how much of an overrated amateur he is so they won't audition.

I can hear him whistling his way through the kitchen. I think I heard the jingle as he gave his keys an extra toss. He's in a good mood. I won't kill it or bring him down. He works hard and if he's in unusually high spirits there has to be a good reason. I won't rain on his parade. Maybe it's another milestone, and maybe it's one I'd get made fun of for. I'm sure now in our carefully cultivated friendships I would be forced to endure some good-natured ribbing. I'm also sure I would flip them off, ignore their well-faked and over-exaggerated shock, and continue with my plan.

I fold the letter up and tuck it back in the envelope, then tuck the envelope in the tiny desk drawer. I check my cheeks to make sure they're dry and my eyes to make sure they aren't red. My eyes flip over to the digital alarm clock on my side and note the time with surprise. I'm not entirely sure I've ever sat still for that long in my entire life. I'm not proud that I reached that milestone while I was moping.

I blow out one last breath, stand up and brush the wrinkles out of my pants (yes—I said pants.) I smile at the mirror. The show must go on, right?

I walk down the short hallway into the kitchen. There are two plastic bags with Chinese food in takeout containers. He's pulling a few plates down from the cupboard over the sink and still whistling a song I haven't heard before.

"Hi," I say simply, softly, as I tug nervously on my fingers.

"Hey," he says. He turns around with a bright smile on his face and his cheeks flushed pink from the cold outside. "What's wrong?" He asks automatically, his smile faltering.

One milestone that I forgot about until now? The moment we realized we knew each other so thoroughly we could read each other without saying actual words.

I try to refresh my smile. "Nothing. What do you have here?"

He takes two steps toward me. They would be giant steps for me, but for him they're just normal, and when he reaches me, he reaches out. His hand is warm on my arm as he drags it from my shoulder to my elbow. "You're a terrible liar."

I scoff, but there is no bite in it. "That's not comforting considering I'm hoping to build a substantial acting career."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "Well, you still can't fool me. So out with it." He kisses my forehead and squeezes my elbow before he releases me and crosses the kitchen back to continue preparing for what I gather will be a celebratory dinner of some kind. There's only one kosher and vegan Chinese restaurant in New York City and it's clear on the other side of town, so it's a special occasion kind of dinner.

"You first."

"Nope," he says, looking over his shoulder with a smirk.

I sigh. We could engage in some sort of a tickle-foreplay war, eat cold Chinese food later on straight out of the carton, and eventually I would fold like a house of cards for him. I know this is all true. We've done it before; I'm sure we'll do it again. Not tonight.

I purse my lips and put my hands on my hips. "You honestly think I'm that easy?"

He snorts indelicately before he spins around. "We both know there is no way I can answer that."

I shake my head. I'm smiling against my will. "I heard from Michael Stubach today."

He raises an eyebrow. This was the last audition I had been waiting to hear from for this round. He knows what it means—more auditions at lower levels and hoping something will stick when I previously thought I had a couple of really good opportunities to be more than off-Broadway like I have been consistently for the past couple of years. "I'm sorry."

I shrug. "He wrote me a letter, handwritten and in ink, and asked me to stop auditioning for him." As much as I had tried to find courage and bury tears just a moment ago, the look on his face pulls it all back to the top. I try to swallow but it's in vain.

By reflex, without a word, he reaches for a glass in the open cupboard behind him. He goes to the fridge, plucks a bottle of water out, and fills the glass before bringing it over to me.

I look down at the clear glass, take a second to study the way it distorts my hand and then look up at where he's now hovering over me. Another milestone I remember is trusting him enough to tell him something deeply personal: whenever I'm sad I get unbearably thirsty and my dad will always bring me a glass of water. It's to the point now that I associate a cold glass of water with the highest comfort possible.

I look up at him and smile. "I love you."

His smile is quick, just a brief flash and half of a smile. "I love you, too." He kisses me quickly, gently. It such a quick brush that if I hadn't seen the thought flash through his eyes, I would've missed it entirely.

"Your turn," I say simply. My eyes are moving frantically back and forth over his face, trying to take him in like I don't have every centimeter of his body memorized by now.

"Oh, well mine's easy."

"Okay," I agree.

"My passport came through and I was the last one. The band is going to London."

I know what this means for him and how much it means to him. He's been working side jobs, day jobs and night jobs—teacher, bartender, etcetera—for a long time hoping this would all work out. His band got a record deal for a small indie label about a year ago and they've been trying to get a tour put together to up their sales so maybe a bigger label would buy them out. This is a big deal—it means his drumming career might go somewhere and it's the only thing he's really wanted to do.

I'm based in New York. It means we'll be apart for however long the tour is. It isn't quite so good of news for me.

"I'm so happy for you, Finn." I choke out. I pull the glass of water to my lips and drink the entire thing down in four gulps.

"I know we talked about all this already and… but…" he shakes his head. He turns to grab another water bottle and fills my glass again, leaving me standing in the entryway to the kitchen while he toys nervously with the lid, twisting it tight and loose, tight and loose.

"But what?"

"I want you to come," he bursts out. "All right? I really, really want you to come."

"I can't. You kn—"

He cuts me off with a kiss, which isn't something he normally gets away with, however his next words leave me totally speechless. "Marry me, please."

I'm breathing so hard and fast I'm not sure how I even squeak out the word. "What?"

"Will you marry me? And come to London with me?"

"Is there anything professionally in London for me?" I ask. He knew it was coming. It isn't like I will put my career first, not anymore, but I really can't stay away that long. Not while I'm looking for balance and wanting to have it all and everything.

"A new play. Steven Sondheim. I already checked into it. If you reach in my back pocket, you'll find the information you need."

I raise an eyebrow and snake the hand not holding the glass around his scratchy blue sweater and come up with drumsticks after reaching deep in the square, baggy pocket.

He smiles. "I'm sorry, did I say my back pocket? I meant my front pocket."

"Humorous," I say dryly. The first thing I pull out of his front pocket (with some extra groping around, by the way—I'm not letting him off without some sort of teasing) is a solitaire diamond ring. I look up at him.

"I said you'd find what you needed," he says. "Keep going."

The next thing in there is a name, web address, email address, and phone number written in his hasty, chicken scratch scrawl on a small slip of paper that's been folded about four times.

I guess we've reached another milestone, and it opens up the door to a lot more. Today has been significant. And here when I woke up this morning, I just thought it was Thursday, January twenty-sixth.

I hold the paper up between my index and middle finger. "Thank you," I say.

Okay, now we can commence with the giggling, the tickling and the sexually charged coercion. I turn and head down the hall back to the bedroom to see how far into pulling out my laptop I can get before he stops me.

It isn't far. I've just set the full glass of water on my nightstand when he enters the room. He knocks me down on the bed where I'm bent over retrieving the laptop from its spot on the light colored argyle print comforter. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

I smile and look up at him innocently. "No, I think I got everything I needed." The laugh that escapes totally betrays me. He plants his lips on mine and rests his body carefully on top of me. As his hands wander, he realizes that the ring that was in his pocket is already on my finger.

"Is that a yes, then?" He asks sternly, pulling away from our lip lock.

"It's a yes, then." I agree.

We're entering a new dimension of milestones, ones no one has really discussed with me. Marriage, children, family, career, aging, slowing down… it's all in there. And I know I'll figure it out. I can't wait for each and every one. Only he could make me feel like the fifth milestone was more of a cornerstone, with the rest and the best still waiting for me to discover.