Author's Note: How hot would a band consisting of Finn, Mike, and Puck be, though? Mm. Oh, and let's not forget Ms. Berry. Strap on, it's gonna be a bumpy ride! Psst: when Rachel falls, she falls fast. That's all I'm gonna say!
Oh, and before you ask: this story is a remake of a story I had on one of my previous Fanfiction accounts that I forgot the password to (Fabray) and is most definitely not stolen, just to clear that up!
Bringing Down the House
Rachel Berry definitely can't say being a barista down at Dalton's Coffee Shop is one of her finer moments in life (it hardly makes the top ten), but what other choice does a struggling twenty-four year old right out of college with only two audition slots a week have? That's right: none. So for now, she slaves away (it's not really 'slaving', but groveling her hands around in coffee beans is not something she'll write down in her repertoire) over at Dalton's Coffee Shop, navy-and-red apron and all. She can't say she's happy, but she's pretty content where she is, and unless something were to ever change that, then she's got no other choice, now does she?
It's rare for the chime on the door to sway at only four-thirty am, especially if it's not grouchy old Mr. Ortiz coming over to Dalton's before his morning run for the coffee order he practically barks out—two sugars, half a cup of skim, cardboard cover on the handle, not too steamy.
A man enters on a brisky October morning when it's just her and Quinn Fabray—the always-crabby barista with the 'I'm-too-good-for-this-place' attitude who's only good for brewing a mean cappuccino. Rachel, the only one at the counter, notices the way the man fiddles with his hands in his pockets, lets out a huff when he opens the door.
"Take this one, Rach!" Quinn shouts at the sound of the chimes on the door colliding into one another. Rachel's got no idea where the hell Quinn even is, but she now watches her come out from the back room, her blonde curls tied up in a ponytail, her hands rummaging as she tries to find the knot in the ties on her apron. "Rachel! Rachel!"
"I—I'm right here," Rachel answers, teeth clenched, her hands rubbing together. "After an entire summer and then some of working with you, I've got it: wakeup call to the firefighting boyfriend, working harder to get him out of bed than you do here. I got it."
Quinn throws two thumbs up and vanishes into the back room, her cell phone on her ear the moment before Rachel expects her to mumble some sort of 'thank you'.
"H—hi there," Rachel greets, head titled some. "Can I help you?"
The man takes off his hat and he's hardly a 'man' at all—just a kid, around twenty-something, an oddly-shaped mohawk gracing his otherwise bald head. He looks like one of those guys she sees at those stupid concerts her ex-boyfriend used to drag her to in their first and second years of college, one of those punk rockers (maybe worse.) "Nope," he answers, popping the 'p'. "No coffee for me."
"Well," she chuckles, "this is only a coffee shop, so you're here at four-thirty in the morning with no intention of buying coffee because...?" She raises a brow (the guy is obviously sketchy), then secretly hopes for Quinn's superhero, firefighting boyfriend (whoever he may be, she's never met him) to pop out of some kind of corner and stun the guy or something.
"You got a spare wall?" he asks, scanning the room, his eyes narrow. Rachel then watches him pull a wad of rolled up paper out from the inside pocket of his jacket. He begins to untie a rubber band that's holding them all together, then scrunches his nose and says, "I—I've got a band. It's nothing big yet, just me and a few high school buddies gettin' together, but we wanna get out there, y'know? It's the only reason I'm in your shop, 'cos—"
"It's n—not my shop," she says, her cheeks flushed. "I just work here, unfortunately."
He raises a brow. "Unfortunately, eh?" Then he scans her name tag and asks, "Hey, Rachel, could you do me a favor and unfortunately direct me to an unfortunate wall or some shit? I've unfortunately gotta advertise my unfortunate band."
She chuckles, tongue between teeth, pointing out a wall in the back, just next to the two sofa chairs beside the fireplace. (It's a quaint sort of coffee shop, she approves.) "Right there," she directs him. "But please, make sure they're not nailed in the wall. The last thing I need is for my boss to fire my ass. I'm already struggling to pay for my apartment as it is, and since my boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend—decided to pursue his dreams farther than 'stupid ol' New York' all the way in California, I'm on my own. It's hard, but I—"
"Talk too much," he interrupts, smirking. "Now, I won't damage your precious lil' wall, 'k? I won't even leave a dent."
She smiles. "W—wait!" she calls out, jerking her head a bit, catching him just as he's dabbing a piece of putty on the back of a slice of paper. "You did say you had a band, right?"
"Yes ma'am," he says, nodding. "I mean, like I said, we—we're not too big yet, but once we get goin' we'll be known, guaranteed. All our members are devoted, completely. It's just... we're slackin' on one."
"And that one would be?" she asks, eyebrows hitched.
He's got this look on his face like he's about to choose her or something, and she relieves that whole 'pick-me-or-else-I'll-stand-here-up-against-the-wall-like-an-idiot' feeling she used to get in gym class. She doesn't know why she gets that feeling, but her stomach sinks when he says, "Lead singer."
"I—I sing," she exclaims, hands folded on top of the countertop. "I mean, I've been singing since I was born, practically—maybe even in the womb, as my mom once claimed—but I haven't been able to cut a break out here. I go on audition after audition, and yes, I'm good enough, but I'm not 'the one'. Perhaps it's my nose or something, I've been told one time too many it's quite 'unique' and all, so—"
"So you can sing?"
She stops in her thoughts for a minute, lifts her chin up, and clears her throat. "Yes," she says, "yes I can."
"And you'd be interested in being in a band consisting of a bunch of dickheads—boys—only?" She tenses up at that, letting out an elongated breath. It isn't so much that she's repulsed by men or anything (she's had one boyfriend her entire life, totally went all Destiny's Child circa 2001 and became 'Independent Woman' after his heartbreaking leave), but she certainly is appalled by the mannerisms they release, and the thought of 'jamming out' with a bunch of assholes makes her cringe, certainly.
"Depends," she offers, "who are these said 'dickheads'?" She practically cracks up at just saying the word. 'Dickheads'.
"I'm the guitarist," he says, pointing to himself. "My bro Mike hits them keys like Alicia does, and not just because it's her last name or because he's an Asian. The kid's got a true talent, been jammin' since high school with him. His garage was like, the spot, and his mom even let us crack open some Smirnoffs and junk."
"I see," she says, gulping. She turns her head then to notice Quinn trailing out of the back room, her coat on and zipped up, her bag slung over her shoulders. "You can't leave me here alone!" Rachel barks. "It's nearly five am and the morning traffic hasn't even begun yet. Is being a personal alarm to your boyfriend more important than helping me out here?"
Quinn just snickers. "Rachel, you'll survive."
"Whoa," Puck exclaims, wide-eyed. "And who do we have here?"
"'Don't Think About It'," Quinn answers, "that's who. I'm happily taken as of a month-and-a-half ago."
"Firefighter boyfriend," Rachel adds. "Quite heroic, as she claims by her never-ending stories. She won't tell me his name, but she'll happily show me a picture of him saving a baby out of a burning building."
"It's nothing serious," Quinn spits. "No need to know his name, especially when I don't plan on becoming serious with him. Actually, you don't need to know anything about me, Rachel. We really aren't that close, right?" Rachel nods, pursed lips. Quinn turns to Puck then. "Anyway, you'll keep Rachel company here, won't you, uh—what's your name?"
"Puck," he says. "S'really Noah Puckerman, but everyone knows if you slip up and call me that, I'll have no problem givin' you a little reminder."
"Gross," Quinn says, speaking through gritted teeth. "Well, good day, Noah, and please, do help yourself to a complimentary Halloween-edition mug in the back. They're ninety-nine cents with the purchase of a gift card, but frankly, I'm getting tired of handing them out anyway, so you can gladly grab a few, distribute them as free swag to all of the show comers you get and whatnot."
Puck nods tersely, then looks to Rachel the second Quinn slams the front door shut. "She's a cold one."
"And you're Noah?" she asks, lips pressed together. "D—did you say you were Noah Puckerman?"
He nods, probably wondering which wave of crazy hit into her or something. He looks like he wants to laugh at her, but instead puts his hand under his chin and says, "Yes ma'am."
"D—do you know a Santana Lopez?" she asks.
"Do I ever?" He snickers, rolling his eyes a bit. "She used to sing lead in my band. S'the reason I'm out searching like a madman for a replacement, because she's such a stupid fuck. She breaks up with me, keys my car, ditches the band, moves into someone else's apartment without even telling me."
"Santana Lopez lives down the hall from me," she says. "She and I meet up for lunch sometimes, nothing too formal, just casual coffee and sandwiches, but she mentioned you—more than once. She mentioned being in a band, too, but I never bothered to ask any further."
His eyes widen. "No. Fuckin'. Way." When Rachel nods, he warns her. "D—don't mention my offer to you."
"Offer?"
"Well, the offer I'm about to give you," he says. "Rachel, sing lead in our band. In my band. C'mon."
"You're pleading isn't going to make me consider it any more than I already may have, but—"
"So you'll do it?" he asks. "Disregard my crazy ex-girlfriend and what she'd think of it, 'cos chances are she'll be peeved off and shit. Just do it, Rachel. Do it and don't look back. If you've got the pipes, we've got a spot for you. We're desperate for a few shows by the end of next week, and if I can get you over to my bro Finn's apartment within the next day or two, your spot is practically like, guaranteed."
"I'll consider it," she says, nodding, her hands still folded on top of the counter. "B—but, Puck?"
"Hm?"
"Am I forbidden from bringing my repertoire? I can sing sixteen bars of practically every single song from a previously aired Broadway show, guaranteed."
Puck snorts. "Babe, this isn't some hoity-toity lil' Broadway slammin' band. This is the big leagues, rock 'n roll shit. Sing two verses of Heart's Barracuda accurately and you're in."
She opens her mouth to protest, her foot practically stomping on the tile below her. He chimes in before she can, though.
"Before you criticize the song, know that it was Hud—Finn, who picked it out. He digs 70's music, somethin' like that. Just give it a chance. I'm sure you'll belt it out better than Santana did, s'for sure. The bitch wailed on every single note, probably on purpose just because seeing me pissed off gave her like, orgasms. Anyway, you'll do it?"
She shuts her eyes for a moment, ignoring Puck, who's literally just standing there with this look of desperation in his eyes. She thinks for a moment, thinks about how something like this could make her wanted, make her some actual friends in New York, a place she expected (and failed to) fit in a long time ago. She's not so certain as to how special a silly band can make her feel (three guys, loud instruments, more beers than sheet music laying in their 'playing space'), but she opens her eyes, tugs down on her lip and answers, "Yes."
Puck reaches out his hand—in a fist—and pounds it to hers. He stops then, rolling up the fliers he claimed he'd wanted to spread across an entire wall at Dalton's just minutes before and sticking them back in his coat pocket.
"W—what are you doing with those?"
"Wasn't gonna hang 'em up anyway," he says honestly, tucking them back in. "I knew from the start I wanted you, just didn't know how to ask. The fliers were Finn's idea."
"Finn?"
"Drummer, cool guy," Puck says. "He's been in this coffee shop before, apparently. Don't know why the priss is going here when he's got a stupid coffee maker in his apartment—courtesy of his brother and those gay ass Christmas gifts he likes to give him—but whatever. He spotted you out, told me where to look for you, probably thought you had some sort of 'appeal' or some shit."
"An appeal?" She lifts a brow at that, because who the hell is this guy and why is he just pointing her out to more random people she doesn't know. Of course, her parents have always complimented her unique features, from her legs to her nose, and they told her to do nothing but fully embrace the looks she'd been given ("Broadway-bound, baby! Broadway-bound!"), but she didn't know she was that unique. "Well, when I see this Finn guy at auditions, I'll be sure to ask him just what was so 'unique'."
Puck snickers, then holds out a hand. "Don't bother, he's taken, s'what I hear. He doesn't bring his girl around like, ever, but that's only because he claims she isn't a 'people person' or some shit. B—but you can always take a ride on the Puckasaurus train, y'know? Choo choo."
Rachel playfully flicks his wrist then. "I'd rather not accept any advances from the ex-boyfriend of my seemingly trouble next-door neighbor. Santana scares me enough."
"She's not that scary," he says, laughing. "You're scarier than her."
"Pardon?"
"Part of me is like, so scared you'll bail on us at auditions. Part of me is scared you're probably too good for our stupid ass band." She watches the torn look in his eyes, like this is something similar to a last chance or something for all of them. She gulps at that, bringing one hand to her throat.
"Noah, please, I—"
"Just, don't bail on us, Rachel. We need a lead singer, someone with confidence, someone with connections. Y—you can get us places. I mean, you work at Dalton's, they've got shows on Sunday nights."
"Fridays," she corrects. "And I won't. Promise."
He walks out the door, and on the way, he throws the fliers right into the trash beside it.
Her stomach sinks.
"Don't do it!"
She probably shouldn't have opened her mouth. But, then again, she is Rachel Berry: Certified Big Mouth of the Century. She feels kind of guilty about opening her mouth, but she just. can't. help. it. What she also can't help is how many times she cringes at the way Santana clenches her teeth, shakes her head like she's vetoing the crappiest of the crappiest ideas.
"Santana, he made the offer and—"
"Puckerman's a skeez," she barks, hands twirling with the stirring stick in her coffee. Rachel texted her around noon and told her to come on over to Dalton's, but only because business sucks on Tuesday afternoons. "And Finn? I know Finn. Like, he points you out like some stupid motherfucker and says you've got 'appeal'? Let's see him, let's see his appeal."
"You shouldn't judge someone before you get to know them, at least on my part," Rachel offers. "I mean, Noah says Finn spotted me out at Dalton's, told him to find me, ask me about singing. It beats me how he knows I'm a singer, because the only person I've told at Dalton's about anything personal is Quinn, but that's only because the rest of the employees are awful—and Quinn's pretty 'awful' herself."
"He's a stalker," Santana says, hands thrown up in the air. "Dude's a stalker tryin' to make moves on my girl. Puck says he has a girlfriend, right?"
"I thought you'd know more than myself. You know Finn." Rachel swears Santana claims to know him. Wasn't she in a band with him? Her head stings at all of the confusion, practically.
"I'm not even sure Puck knows who she is. Finn's all secretive and crap when it comes to dating, less drama that way I think. Guy's a pretty lay-low kind of dude."
"Didn't you and Puck ever talk about any of that stuff? You know, relationships and stuff?" Rachel asks.
Santana snickers, her gaze back on her coffee cup, leaning her body further into the counter in the vacant shop. "Girl, when the two of us weren't busy laying each other, we were online googling new sex positions to make our lays less boring."
"If you're in love with him and worried about my possible positioning in the band being a threat to your relationship—or, what's left of your relationship anyway—don't worry, I'm not interested, probably never will be."
"No," Santana warns, eyes narrow. "Baby, I'm doin' this to protect your lil' argyled ass. Oh, psst, that argyle's gotta go. But anyway, don't do it. Don't go to Finn's place, or Puck's place. Whatever. They'll find themselves another lead singer."
"But they want me, Santana," Rachel says.
"And they could've had you, but you're choosin' not to." Before Rachel can open her mouth to protest, Santana catches onto that, shooting a finger up. "I know you're all like, 'my-heart-is-broken-please-pity-me' right now, and yeah, I get that, Jesse meant a lot to you and shit. But, seriously, Rachel, don't throw yourself out there yet. Find a hobby that isn't singing. 'Cos singing is the thing that reminded you of Jesse St. Douchelord the most, and really, who wants to be reminded of their ex?"
"Once I get into the band," Rachel starts, "I'll send you free tickets to each show, easy admission. I'll even let you take a trip or two backstage."
"The fuck are you hinting at, Berry?" Santana cocks a brow. "Y—you stubborn little shit!"
"When you're in love with your ex, you do want to be reminded of them," Rachel responds. "Santana, believe it or not, getting over someone isn't that easy. You left the band, and no, I'm not replacing you. As the lead singer, maybe, but as Puck's girlfriend? Never."
Santana gulps then, twirling her stirrer around in her cup, looking down at it for a long while before shooting her head up. "Good luck at auditions. Kill it out there for me, 'k?"
Disregarding the amplifier that's currently being used as a rest for beer, the way the pianist, Mike, texts throughout the entire first verse of I Love Rock 'n Roll (drummer's choice, not hers'), and the way Puck shoots two thumbs up and whispers, "Move that ass, move that ass!", she actually has fun.
By the end of the performance, she's shaking out the microphone she insisted on holding (disregarding it being plugged in), tapping her foot onto the ground, and whisking her hair around. "How'd I do?" she asks, still out of her breath, her hands running through the hair on the top of her head.
Puck stands up, clapping his hand onto the edge of his beer bottle. "A little iffy," he says.
Rachel glares at him, because it was certainly not iffy. "You're k–kidding, right?"
The drummer—Finn, it is—stands up and claps, too. Rachel takes notice to the way he glances at her from the corner of his eye, each time fiddling with the drumstick he's holding a little bit more. "I thought you were fantastic," he compliments. "Like, band-worthy. How do you feel about singing in our band?"
"She wouldn't be here if she didn't feel like singing in our band, asshole," Puck hisses. "Rachel, I can't believe I'm saying this, but... you're in the band, munchkin."
She giddily runs over to him then, waving for Finn and Mike to (cluelessly) join her and Puck, grabbing all of them. "Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! It's about time my talent doesn't go unnoticed. Oh, Noah—"
"Puck," he interrupts, correcting her. "And there's no need to thank us, lil' lady. You've got some pipes."
"Totally," Finn agrees, strangely winking (at least, she thinks it's a wink, and it makes her blush unnecessarily for like, no reason) at her. "I knew trackin' you down at Dalton's was a good thing."
She tenses then. Tracking her down? Her stomach sinks, and she wonders if it's supposed to feel that weird to feel nervous (unnecessarily nervous, of course.) "H—how'd you know I sang?" She directs this just to Finn now.
"Quinn Fabray," he says. "Been datin' her for about a month now. We're not too serious, but we talk, and the band came up and y'know, she just mentioned you sing. Co-worker, right?"
Rachel nods tersely, lips smudging up against each other. "I—I didn't know," she says. "That's wonderful. She's never told me your name or anything, but she has mentioned—"
"She's never mentioned my name?"
Rachel's eyes widen then, her pupils enlarging. How on earth could Quinn find a desire in hiding her own boyfriend's name? Rachel is definitely the kind of girl who'd pull out a picture of her boyfriend in her wallet and show it to random strangers in elevators, not cover up his name. She quickly finds an excuse, her eyes scanning Finn's apartment quickly before bringing them back up to meet his. "She has," she lies. "I just—I guess I forgot. We talk about a lot, Quinn and I. Your name was briefly mentioned."
"Oh. Cool."
Easy. "So, I guess I could check with the manager to see when I should book the next show, shouldn't I? I mean, now that I'm in the band, I really have no problem booking a few shows for us. Of course, it'll have to be after a few rounds of rehearsal, since I have zero knowledge when it comes to the proper way to sing a rock song."
"Y—you killed it with I Love Rock 'n Roll," Finn says.
Ignoring all other remarks, Puck just says, "No need. Finn's girlfriend works th—wait. That was the hottie you were talkin' to the other day? That Quinn chick? Damn." He high-fives Finn, and Rachel knows he's actually going out of his way to avoid her uncertain glance.
"I—I can still try and book a few shows," she offers.
"No need," Mike says, seated back at the piano.
"Yeah, it's 'k, Rachel," Finn says, his hand oddly sliding to the small of her back before she oddly shifts away from him, crossing her arms beneath her chest. "Quinn'll handle all the bookings, she's tight with the manager."
Rachel wants to hit something. She wants to stomp. It isn't that she's jealous of Quinn Fabray or anything (she hardly knows how to make a mean cappuccino anyway, Rachel just says that out of kindness), but she is jealous of the attention. Evidently, Quinn Fabray gets it all.
"I guess I'll leave it all to Quinn," she says, smile forced.
"Guess so."
Her heart practically like, pangs when she notices Finn's the one who says 'guess so'.
(It's only because he's the one who picked her in the first place. Can his beloved Quinn not carry a tune?)