This is Puckleberry. I'm serious. If you don't like the pairing, I wouldn't suggest reading it.
And please don't try to call me a traitor. Those of you who know me know I ship both Finchel and Puckleberry. I'm not jumping on the bandwagon; I'm trying something new.
.xo.
Taking a deep breath, Rachel Berry finished her monologue. She quelled the urge to pull her bottom lip between her teeth as she waited for the decision to come back from the casting director and the executive producers.
This film could make or break her career.
With nothing more than the meager savings she had from giving vocal and dance lessons at the JCC, Rachel packed her bags and got onto a train to Penn Station in New York City the day after graduation. She signed the lease on an eight story walk-up in Brooklyn three days after she arrived in the City. (She would never admit to sleeping in the Port Authority for those long three nights.)
And then she started pounding the pavement.
She decided to forego college, much to her fathers' chagrin, and go directly for acting and singing. She was talented, no doubt about that, but so were the five million other fresh-faced young ingénues who had left their very own going-nowhere cow towns in the hopes of becoming the next big thing on the Great White Way.
She didn't get a call back for her first or second Off-Broadway audition, so she took a job at the Dean & Deluca in Rockefeller Center. (Hell, if Felicity could do it, so could she.)
She got a call-back for her third but didn't get the part.
She got a call-back for the fourth but when the role called for full frontal nudity, she bowed out. She wasn't quite ready for that yet.
And then she got a call-back for her fifth audition and she was cast as a chorus girl and then an understudy for the role of June in Chicago.
She got to perform once and didn't step on any of her lines either speaking or singing.
And then she was slipped a card by someone named Margot and two days later she had an agent.
And that was three years ago.
She was escorted out of the room to sit with Sandy Miller, the other young woman who was up for the role.
The two women were exact opposites: Rachel was short, loud and brunette; Sandy was tall, soft-spoken and a redhead.
Rachel thought they would make a great duo for a revival of Thoroughly Modern Millie if the option ever arose.
But this wasn't for Broadway or Off-Broadway. This was for a movie. Rob Marshall was doing an original screenplay about a struggling musician in New York City. (Rachel refused to roll her eyes at the unoriginality of it all. A role was a role and she knew she would be perfect for this one.)
As the thirty minute mark passed, Rachel started getting nervous. That meant they were locked in a stalemate in there and usually, when it came down to people arguing for or against her, she lost.
"They're taking a while," Sandy said quietly as her eyes fixed on her slender hands. "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."
"I'm sure they're just trying to figure out the right words to tell the one of us who didn't get it. Or maybe they're considering the one who didn't get it for a different role in the film," Rachel said optimistically. She would take just about anything right now.
When the door opened and Jack Witherspoon called her in and told her she'd gotten the role, she nearly collapsed. She couldn't believe it.
But then he dropped the bombshell: "We need you to learn to play the guitar."
"I don't understand," she replied, her brows furrowed. People faked it all the time in the movies.
"We want it to be as real as possible. We're sending some scouts out to see if there's any good local talent who would be willing to step in and teach you what you need to know. Unless you have someone in mind?"
Rachel shook her head no slowly. She knew someone, back in Lima, that was amazing at playing. But she hadn't spoken to or seen him since she left in the middle of their junior year of high school. "No sir. No one."
"Very well," Angela Barton, co-executive producer, sighed. "We'll contact Margot and have her set up your first rehearsal time as soon as we find your teacher. Preproduction has already started. Principal Photography will be next Tuesday. Any script rewrites will be sent to your apartment. You will have to sign for them. My assistant will have your contract over to Margot within the next twenty four hours. As soon as it is back in my hands we can get all of this started," the older woman concluded before closing her notebook. "Congratulations, Miss Berry. You've just had your big break."
.x.
As the lights came up on the dingy stage in the slightly-better-than-a-dive bar on the back streets of Brooklyn, Noah Puckerman scooted his mic stand closer to the stool he was perched on, a thin smile on his face and his guitar across his lap.
"Hey, everybody. How's it goin' tonight?" he asked with a smile. His smile grew wider when he heard the screams of some of his more … devoted … fans.
"Thank you," he chuckled, his voice low ad smoky. "I'm feelin' a tribute to the Boss for tonight. Anyone got any objections?" He grinned again when his question was met with a loud chorus of hell nos. "Okay. We'll start off with a little Working on a Dream," he told them.
He closed his eyes and started to play, almost wishing he had a band to back him up. But he could rock The Boss acoustic and he knew it.
That was why Springsteen was one of the most prolific singers in his stable.
"Out here the nights are long the days are lonely / I think of you and I'm working on a dream
I'm working on a dream / The cards I've drawn's a rough hand darlin' / I straighten my back and I'm working on a dream / I'm working on a dream," he sang, his eyes closed, the vision of a young girl he hadn't seen in years running to the back of his eyelids without his permission.
He really needed to get her face out of his mind. For good this time.
"I'm working on a dream / Though sometimes it feels so far away / I'm working on a dream /
And how it will be mine someday / Rain pourin' down I swing my hammer / My hands are rough from working on a dream / I'm working on a dream."
He knew it had been a mistake when he agreed to go to her house. Her fathers hadn't even thought twice about it. In that house, he was trusted.
He could never figure out why. He opened his eyes to scan the crowd.
"I'm working on a dream / Though trouble can feel like it's here to stay / I'm working on a dream / Our love will chase the trouble away / I'm working on a dream / Though it can feel so far away / I'm working on a dream / And our love will make it real someday / Sunrise come I climb the ladder / The new day breaks and I'm working on a dream / I'm working on a dream / I'm working on a dream / I'm working on a dream."
His eyes were shut again, her face smiling in his mind's eye. He wondered what she would think of him now. Playing in this bar. Showing off his talent.
She was always on his case for not being willing to sing solos or perform in anything other than glee club.
He couldn't stop wondering if she would be proud of him.
"I'm working on a dream / Though it can feel so far away / I'm working on a dream / And our love will make it real someday / I'm working on a dream / Though it can feel so far away / I'm working on a dream / And our love will make it real someday."
His eyes opened as the last notes lingered in the air. He smiled at the crowd, gave them a little wink and a wave, and then moved straight into Born to Run.
Thirty minutes later he was on a break and sitting at the bar, a bottle of Miller in his hand and a slight grin on his face as he spoke with Bart the Overfriendly Bartender.
"So who is she?" a soft voice asked from his left.
His head whipped around so fast he thought he could have given himself whiplash. The voice sounded so much like …
… a blonde who was definitely not her.
"Sorry?" he asked with a smile.
"The girl," she replied. "The one you sang Working on a Dream for. Who is she?"
"No one," he replied gruffly as he gripped his bottle tighter. He brought the rim to his lips and took a long pull before putting back on the bar top slightly harder than he should have. "She's no one."
"Doesn't sound like that to me," she said with a grin. She chewed on her bottom lip (not as sexy when it's not her, he thought) and gently ran the tip of her finger over his bare forearm. "But I'm sure I can make you forget all about her," the blonde continued with a husky lilt to her voice and a sexy grin on her face.
Puck stared at her for a moment wondering when exactly the moment came when he stopped hooking up with random hot women.
Oh yeah.
The day the pain got to be too much for Rachel and she left McKinley High and he didn't see her every day anymore.
The day the only girl he ever really cared about (and yes, he could see that now) walked out of his life and never bothered to look back.
He ginned (more like a grimace) at her and politely declined. "I gotta get back up there," he said and nodded to Bart.
"Excuse me," a male voice called from behind him as he tried to make his way back to the stage.
"Yeah?" he asked in an annoyed tone as he turned to see … a dude in a suit. "Am I under srrest for something?"
"No," the older man chuckled. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. "Name's Jack Witherspoon. I have a proposition for you."
"Sorry, man," Puck smirked. "I don't bat for the home team."
"As amusing as this may seem, Mr. Puckerman, I can assure you this is not a sexual proposition. But it is a proposition, nonetheless." Jack straightened his tie and gave Puck a smile. "Call me when your set it done. I'd like to speak with you about a possible business opportunity," he told him before turning around and heading towards the door.
"What kind?" Puck shouted behind him.
"Just call me, kid. I promise it'll be worth it."
Puck shook his head and moved back to the stage.
Fucking New York.
.x.
Rachel was on cloud nine. She had inked her first ever movie deal – movie deal – and was now, finally, able to call her friend.
"Pick up, pick up, pick up," she muttered as she shuffled down the stifling streets of Manhattan in the summer.
She was running about fifteen minutes late to meet Mike in Central Park for their weekly jog.
"Rachel!" he shouted when he answered. "Where the heck are you?"
"ETA three minutes, Mike. I had a meeting that ran late," she told him, a grin already splitting her face.
"Didn't know you had a meeting today. What was it for? Was is with Margie?"
"Margot," Rachel responded with a laugh. "But you know that. And, yes. I had a very important meeting with Margot that I simply cannot wait to tell you all about."
"So don't wait!" her friend laughed.
"This is something I just cannot tell you over the phone," she informed him.
"Good or bad news?"
"Best I've gotten in a long time," she shot back quickly.
"You've finally decided to give up on trying to date the men of New York and wanna give a real man a try?"
"No," she laughed. "I see you," she added before shutting her phone and walking up to him. Unable to contain herself, she flew into his arms and wrapped her body around his.
"So, it was really a yes on that last one then?" he chuckled as he patted her back and set her on the ground. "Really, kid. What's the good word?"
"I got the part," she told him, her body literally vibrating with glee.
"The part? As in the part? The Gary Marshall part?" he asked, eyes wide, his hands gripping her forearms.
"Uh huh!" he nodded tightly, her enthusiasm bubbling up. "You're looking at the new Ellie Sullivan!" she shrieked loudly, not even caring about the attention she was drawing to herself.
"I am so proud of you!" he cried out as he wrapped his arms around her. "You're going to be a movie star!"
She giggled girlishly as he spun her then requested to be put down. "There's one small glitch though," she told him seriously. "They want me to learn to play the guitar."
"So?"
"Have you ever known me to be patient enough to learn a musical instrument?" she demanded. "Seriously, I can play piano but I was born with a natural affinity for that. But they want me to learn to play guitar." She paused and looked up at him hopefully. "I don't suppose you've somehow managed to learn how to play without me knowing."
"Sorry, Ray," he said with a grin. "I'm a dancer, not a musician."
"Pfft," she remarked. "What good are you to me then?"
"Well, I'll make excellent arm candy for your premiere," he told her as he slapped her on the behind. "Now stretch out. We need to get moving. I have a class tonight at seven."
"Fine, fine," she grumbled. "Slavedriver."
.x.
"It's crazy, Ma," Puck said with a grin as he spoke with her on his cell phone from the conference room in Gary Marshall's rented office building in Midtown. "This guy just came up to me after my first set, handed me his card and said he had a business proposition for me. And it turns out he's this talent scout, well, executive producer, and thinks I play awesome. So then he asks me if I've ever given lessons," he continued. "So, of course, I tell him I've taught some folks here and there …"
"Noah," Ruth sighed from the other end of the phone, "teaching children at the Jewish Community Center hardly qualifies …"
"Doesn't matter, Ma. I got the gig," he said triumpantly. "They brought me in and had me play about ten different songs and then hired me on the spot. So now I'm waitin' to meet my new student. I think it's gonna be like that kid from that movie with that Irish dude who played the horny king on Showtime."
Ruth sighed again. "I'm proud of you, Noah. I'm glad you've found something you're passionate about. I haven't heard you this worked up since …"
"Gotta go, Ma. Someone's knocking," he told her abruptly. He knew exactly where she was going with that and he couldn't deal with thinking about her and that situation when he was about to land his first real gig as someone in the business.
He quickly hung up the phone and stood, turning to face the door. He wiped his hands on his black trousers (yeah, they may be pretty laid back but he was going to make a killer first impression on the upper management) and raised his eyes to see …
… Rachel Berry frozen in the doorway.
"Noah?" she asked quietly, eyes wide.
"Uhh …" he replied intelligently.
Suddenly it didn't matter that he had wiped his hands on his pants.
They were sweaty again already.