A/N: Hello, readers! This is a little pet project of mine that I've been working on when my thoughts start to become stale. I'm one of those writers who can't just have one project going, otherwise my focus will be completely diverted, and that would just be terrible. ANYWAY, this fic has a definite pathway: twelve chapters. One for each month of the year, because it takes place over the course of a year. What I have planned for this story: this story will put you though the gamut of emotions. I apologize in advance. However, writing this story has made me fall more in love with both the Faberry pairing (which has become my solid OTP) along with Quinn and Rachel as individuals. I hope that, in reading this piece, all of you will fall in love with them as well, and maybe fall in love with love a little. So, thanks for giving another one of my little brain children a chance, and please: I'd love to hear your thoughts. And, naturally, I don't own any of these characters. I'm just playing with them and taking creative liberties for your enjoyment.
January
I remember it was a Monday morning. The day was the easiest to remember, because it was January second. My year had, quite literally, just begun.
I was on the way to the set of my latest film, with the shooting schedule from Hell, and knew that I had a long, long week ahead of me. My career had grown from stage to screen in what seemed like a matter of minutes, and I was still overwhelmed with how quickly I had transitioned. I knew that I was destined for the spotlight. I had known from the beginning, from the very first cognizant minutes of my life. My fathers knew, and even though most of the people in my tiny hometown of Lima, Ohio probably resented me for it, they knew, too.
Rachel Berry was born to be a star.
It hadn't come without lots of hard work, with blood, sweat, and tears, but I had finally made it. Everywhere I went, I tried to stay humble and remember my roots. I had, after all, started from what most A-List actors deemed "humble beginnings." Although, I had never seen Broadway as small potatoes; for the longest time, it had been my ultimate, fondest dream. I starred in a small production off-Broadway, then ended up taking that production to Broadway, where it was an overnight sensation. Within two years, I was a well-known name amongst the theater world. I was the dream ingenue: a rising, fresh-faced star. Six months later, I was up for a Tony award nomination, and even though I didn't win, it was still a major foot in the door.
I continued with my original production for another year before it closed on Broadway, and went into smaller touring companies who would keep the role I originated, my legacy, alive. I thought that I would continue with Broadway, find another, larger part to make my own. Something well-known, something iconic.
Then the movie offers started, and my phone didn't stop ringing for two days.
My agent was ecstatic.
My parents wept with joy.
My first film was a wildly successful romantic comedy, and I was slowly becoming a household name.
Then, just after my twenty-third birthday, I got the script for a new movie and fell in love.
It was dark, edgy, dramatic: everything I had been encouraged to stay away from since my Broadway days. My agent was hoping to create me as a innocent, charming, sweet girl from a small town who was in the big leagues. They wanted me to play the role of Hollywood sweetheart. But I wanted a challenge.
I always wanted a challenge.
And too many times, in looking for these challenges, I bit off more than I could chew.
My agent had instructed me against doing things like going into coffee shops in the middle of downtown Los Angeles to get my own coffee. I had "people" to do that for me nowadays. But, in wanting to keep with my humility, I donned a pair of dark sunglasses, a sunhat, and wandered in on my own. I was completely untethered, in need of my morning espresso fix.
The coffee shop hadn't been crowded that day, which made me feel slightly more comfortable. Perhaps there was a chance that none of those six people inside would know who I was, but as time passed, it was becoming less and less likely. However, I had decided long ago that if I ever got famous, I would not be one of those stars who was too busy to sign an autograph for an adoring fan.
I walked to the counter and placed my order, lowering my sunglasses to do so, and noted the recognition in my barista's face immediately. She smiled at me, but pursed her lips.
"I, um... you're..." she said, stumbling over her words. I returned with a demure, friendly smile.
"Yes, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't make a huge deal. I'm trying to be incognito. But I'll sign something for you?"
I didn't mind signing autographs for fans, really I didn't, but I was also without my first dose of caffeine, and knew that I was on a bit of a time constraint. Having a group of fans mob me on a Monday morning wasn't close to ideal on any level, even if I was reputably kind to my fans.
My barista scurried behind the counter for a moment, then retrieved a napkin and a pen and slid it discreetly across the counter. I grinned, then picked up the pen in my hand.
"Who do I need to make this out to?" I asked quietly.
"Emily," she replied. "I'm a huge fan."
I smiled again. They always were, especially when they were about to get my autograph. That was one of the first things I learned during my ascent to fame.
"All right, Emily," I said, putting my usual signature along with a neatly scrawled "To Emily" above it. I capped the autograph off with a star, because stars had always been my metaphor, even before I was one. "How much for the coffee?"
"Oh, no, Miss Berry, it's on me," she stammered, fingering the napkin like it was a golden ticket when I slid it back across the counter.
"Well, thank you," I said genuinely. That was another rule of Hollywood fame: never expect to get freebies and handouts, but don't be surprised when you've given them anyway. People want to be hospitable, and will go out of their way to make you feel special, but don't take advantage. That will give you a bad reputation. "You've certainly made my morning much better."
"I... you're... I'll go make your coffee," Emily stammered again, tucking the napkin gingerly into her apron pocket, then moving away from the counter to the espresso machine and starting my drink order. I moved aside, tucking myself into a corner that seemed to be out of the eyesight of most of the other patrons.
I took out my phone, then checked my Tweets to see if there were any updates.
I decided that my fans could use a little bit of an update into my world, and posted a quick, 140 character blurb about my morning coffee. It was banal, at best, but I knew that people would find it entertaining. Being entertaining and making people love me to an obsessive degree was essentially my job.
"Vanilla soy latte," Emily said quietly, sliding my drink across the counter. I put three dollars in her tip jar, raised my cup in a quick salute, then tucked my phone away and put my sunglasses back on. I was ten steps from the door when a figure stepped in my way. I paused, clutching my coffee close so it wouldn't spill, then looked up.
A girl stared back at me, an amused smile on her face, and I was taken back by the vivid, swirling colors of her hazel eyes when I lowered my sunglasses. She was young, younger than me, though perhaps not by much. Her cheeks were pale, which was strange for Californians, especially when coupled with her sun-kissed blonde hair that was maintained in neat, choppy layers which framed her face nicely. She had a willowy, yet still strong figure, and most importantly, she wasn't moving.
I smiled brightly, giving her my best Rachel Berry camera smile and turning up my charm.
Probably another fan.
I waited for her to speak, knowing that sometimes, when fans were in this position, it took them a moment to get over the initial shock of being in the presence of someone famous.
I waited another moment, and although I tried to keep it in place, my smile started to fade, so I took a quick sip of my coffee, hoping that the first jolt of espresso on my taste buds would liven me up.
"You're Rachel Berry," the girl mused.
"I am she."
"I'm a huge fan," she continued.
Surprise, surprise.
"Well, I'm always happy to meet my fans. Especially huge ones," I chirped, staring into her eyes a little deeper, realizing all too late that they were slowly sucking me in. They weren't glazed over, but they weren't alive with excitement. They were enigmatic. Intoxicating. They were... different, somehow. Different in ways that even I, with my extensive vocabulary, couldn't saddle with a proper adjective.
It was odd, and kind of pleasantly surprising how underwhelmed she seemed. Perhaps she was also an actress, trying to downplay her inner joy. I had many theories, and all of them raced through my head at once, causing me to lose myself deep inside my head until she spoke again.
"I don't mean to be a giant road block. I'm sure you have a very busy schedule. You're probably on your way to shoot, right? The new movie? Watchtower, right?"
I smiled and nodded, but needed another sip of my drink to get through. That information had barely been released. I was surprised that she already knew the name of my new project, then felt slightly unnerved. Although my friends and I sometimes joked that it was only a matter of time before I had a stalker or weirdly obsessed fan come to light, I had never wanted or expected it to be this soon.
"Yes, right. Monday morning shoots," I said, trying to be friendly and keep conversation existent, but brief. I didn't want to seem rushed and rude, so I decided that slightly aloof was the best manner of approach. "That's why I have this."
I raised my coffee cup, and she nodded.
"People are already talking, you know. They're saying that Watchtower is going to be completely different than your other movie," the girl parroted, her eyes finally lighting up with a glimmer of excitement. But only a glimmer; it was brief, almost like she was holding herself back. "It's more like what you did on Broadway. Which was magnificent. I wore out my first copy of the Original Cast soundtrack, had to buy a second one, and I'm afraid that one is about to give up on me any day now."
I laughed, and this time it was genuine. There was something so honest about this girl, so innocent and unassuming that it was oddly attractive on a level that went deeper than her flawless complexion. Granted, her looks were certainly classically attractive, but when you're constantly surrounded by beautiful people, and people who are, arguably, the most beautiful people, you start to look at other things when you're face-to-face with someone.
"Don't tell on me, but sometimes, I really, really miss Broadway," I confessed. I wasn't sure why I was confessing anything to this strange girl, but I was. And I continued. "Although don't get me wrong, I'm so, so blessed to be here, and I love Hollywood."
"It's too much sunshine," the girl responded immediately. "I've always lived in California, but I got to visit New York for the first time when I was seventeen. I kind of fell in love with it, actually. I got to have three days of fog, and rain, and everyone was griping about the weather, but I thought it was marvelous."
"How old are you now?"
"Twenty-one."
"You'll get back to New York someday," I said. "And it's not like California is immune to rainy weather."
"I wish I could have gone to New York while your show was on Broadway," the girl said wistfully. "I bet you're incredible live. I've always loved musical theater. I'm the only one who does in my family. So I've heard a lot of shows, and a lot of singers, and there's something different about you. When you sing, people feel it."
"That's very sweet of you to say."
Eloquent, too. Most fans couldn't string that much of a sentence together with such almost zen-like calm as this girl did. It had me a bit shaky on my feet, that she was able to talk to me in a way that suggested we might have had many conversations before. Like we were old friends, or something.
"It's honest," she said with a shrug of her shoulders. I watched her clutch the denim messenger bag that was across her body, fiddling with the strap and showing the first sign of nerves. "This year, I made a resolution not to do anything that I would regret. No lies, no missed opportunities. Just living. It's important."
"That's a lofty resolution. How do you know you'll be able to keep it?"
"I have to," she said with a sideways smile that sent an odd feeling directly to my stomach. Her eyes reached the floor for a moment, then snapped back up to mine with such a recoil that I felt the intensity of her gaze all over me. I breathed in, then took another placating sip of my coffee, finding that I wouldn't be able to enjoy this cup in solitude like I wanted. This coffee was a crutch. I'd have to get another cup at a different coffee shop later. "I'm determined."
"Best of luck to you," I replied. Suddenly, I felt the urge to leave. I felt like I had to leave before I stayed too long. I had always been one to listen to my gut, and this time, my intuition was fighting a war with my body, with my senses, with every inch of me, and I felt that this girl was something entirely new and different. She was an uncontrollable substance, a phantom, and something that I did not need in my life, even if it was for a moment longer. And also, when I was pulling a desperate attempt not to look into those effortlessly soulful eyes of hers, I caught a glimpse of the clock and was mortified to see that I was running fifteen minutes behind schedule. "I really, really have to get going, though. I don't want to piss off my director so soon into filming."
"I understand," the girl replied in a way that was almost somber. She looked down at the floor again, kicked at it a little with the toe of her shoe, and the way her shoulders slumped every so slightly sent a rush of guilt toward me. I knew that my call time wasn't for another hour, and even in LA traffic, it would only take me twenty minutes to get to the studio. "I don't want to be greedy, I should feel fortunate that I even got to meet you. I've been wishing and hoping for this for a long time. I mean, I always figured that it would be possible, since we're in the same city, but I bet most normal people in this city hope to run into their favorite star. I'm one of the lucky ones. I just wish I had more time to, you know, talk to you."
Most fans just wanted my autograph, or a picture.
Most fans didn't want to have actual conversations with me. And when they did, it was usually a conversation that considered of a lot of awkward stumbling and voids that I had to carry, essentially leading them through the entire thing. Once, I had a meet-and-greet with a contest winner that was quite literally the longest thirty minutes of my life because the poor girl couldn't stop shaking and squealing long enough to just treat me like a regular person. Deep down, even if famous people don't always act that way, we're just like everyone else. We get tired of our names being screamed and random people acting like they're going to pass out at the mere sight of us.
It's so hard to make friends the regular way, so we stick to our own kind.
One thing I missed more than Broadway, more than New York, was the ability to just sit down and connect with someone completely new. Someone who wanted to get to know me and not obsess over my career, my fame, and my success.
"I could give you an autograph, if you'd like?"
My agent would have murdered me. Stars don't push their autographs on people. We sign only upon request, and even then, it's customary to be too busy to dole out a few on occasion. For the image. Always for the image.
Hollywood is all about "the image."
"No," she said. "You have to go, it's fine. I'm just glad fate decided our paths should cross. You're actually really nice."
Her words hit an odd chord within me. Was she suggesting that I might not actually be really nice?
I always tried to make time for my fans. Always. Even when my agent and PR people told me not to.
"Did you think I wouldn't be? I mean, I know actors commonly get bad reputations, but I love my fans. I really do," I defended. She grinned, then laughed lightly, and looked at me with such gentility in her eyes, I felt like she could literally knock me over with a feather.
"No, please don't take that the wrong way," she said softly. It was so soft that I wondered if her voice wasn't always that way. Gentle, sweet, and so soft that I had to really strain my ears in order to hear it. I found myself wanting to hear it, and wanting to hear every word she said. "I just... it's silly, and you have to go. I don't want to be the reason that Rachel Berry is late for filming."
"I'll wait," I said instantly. "Tell me."
"It's my mom," she said. "You came up in conversation the other day, and we actually discussed this kind of situation, actually. A hypothetical, 'what if I ran into you in some random place' type of situation. You should know that I defended your honor and said that if I ever did meet you, that I had no doubts that you'd be really kind to me. My mom thinks that Hollywood stars are all incredibly fake and that you'd probably be a real... b-word in the, I don't know, real world, I guess."
She kicked the toe of her shoe against the floor again, then chuckled nervously.
"Your mom thought I'd be a bitch?" I asked hotly.
"I was going to say that, but then it kind of became awkward to curse in front of you, so I decided against it."
I crossed my arms, awkwardly realizing at the last minute that I was still holding coffee and fumbled for a second. I managed not to spill it, but only because she reached out with some sort of crazy lightning reflexes and steadied my hand. Our hands touched, and she grinned sheepishly, then pulled her hand back like she had been bitten.
"Um," she said, withdrawing immediately and crossing her own arms. "You almost spilled your... it could have been bad and I... sorry."
"No, it's okay," I said, hoping that she would go back to being how she was and not turn into one of those wordless, stumbling fans who couldn't talk to me. "What's your name?"
"My name?"
"Yes, your name," I pressed gently. I didn't want to spook her. It was almost like she was some sort of beautiful, mystical creature the way she stared at me, wide-eyed and completely glowing. The sunlight hit her face and reflected just so, and for a moment, I wondered why this girl wasn't in movies, because she was stunning.
"Quinn," she replied, stumbling a little, then pausing awkwardly like she had just been reprimanded for forgetting her manners and continued in a ramble. "Fabray, because I have a last name, too, obviously. Gosh. So, I'm Quinn Fabray. I'd ask for yours, but I already know it."
I laughed again, then smiled at her. I couldn't help it. Now, all my smiles were genuine, completely natural, and felt like I had been smiling at this girl all my life. I only smiled this way around my closest friends.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Quinn Fabray," I said, offering her my hand for a handshake after my coffee was secured in the other. She stared at it, then at me for a moment, and tilted her head sideways in a manner that spoke volumes all on its own. If expressions had snapshots, this would be, unquestionably, the "you can't be serious" look.
"It's... it's beyond... this is unreal," Quinn said, then finally took my hand, barely squeezed it, and shook it before dropping it and tucking her hands deeply into the pockets of her cargo shorts.
"Well, you be sure to tell your mother that I'm not a bitch," I replied with a cheeky grin.
"Oh, I will," Quinn said excitedly, finally unable to contain herself. It was glorious to watch. "She'll probably never hear the end of this."
I looked at the clock again. Twenty minutes behind schedule, and still...
"Do you happen to have a pen or something?"
I was breaking the rules, again. Especially now, when she had turned down my autograph the first time, even though she had done it politely.
"Um..." Quinn faltered for a moment, then held up a finger, a signal to pause, and rummaged through her bag. She withdrew a black, fine-point Sharpie and handed it to me, her hand slightly shaky when it became closer in proximity to my skin. "What for?"
I slipped the jacket off my coffee cup and awkwardly braced it against the cup, signing the jacket with a secret message, then balanced my cup in one hand. I handed the pen and the jacket to Quinn with my free hand and grinned knowingly as she quietly read the message.
"Oh, she's going to love this."
"You think so?" I asked smugly.
My inscription was simple, but completely effective in my eyes, and apparently in Quinn's as well.
To Quinn's mother: your daughter is absolutely delightful, and we had the best conversation over coffee.
It was punctuated by my signature and a star.
"It's not completely true, though," Quinn said, biting her bottom lip and looking at me with an unreadable expression on her face. I so badly wanted to know what it meant.
"Well, she doesn't have to know that," I replied. "Surely you can carry out the charade."
"I don't want to break my resolution," Quinn continued, the somber tone returning to her voice again for a split second before she brushed it off with a smile. "Not by lying to my mother."
"Well... we did kind of have coffee. You saved my coffee," I replied, grasping at straws to make it okay somehow. Or at least find some halfway bridge of respectable white lie that would make her comfortable. "Semantics."
"We could actually have coffee," Quinn suggested suddenly, catching me off guard.
"What?"
Her hands pressed deeper into her pockets, and she swayed in her spot again, continuing to chew on her bottom lip for another moment's pause before speaking again. When she spoke the second time, it was confident, almost forceful, but not overly brazen. It still held that air of quiet gentility that for me, would always be directly related back to her.
"You live here, so do I. You obviously know this coffee shop exists, and I come here often, so... maybe you could tell me when your schedule isn't insanely busy and stop in a second time. I could be convinced to join you."
"Quinn, I..."
"I fully expect you to say no," Quinn returned, a challenge in her eyes. I caught it immediately, then lost it when she forced it down and started to downplay her emotions again. "I just had to ask, because if I didn't, well, that would be a regret of mine, and it's only the second day of the year."
"I appreciate the offer," I said, not exactly sure the direction I was heading. It seemed like a valid start, and gave me room to roam further. "I really do. You're... different than most people I've met."
"Thank you," Quinn said, returning back to her quiet, dulcet tone and blushing a little, finally adding some color to her porcelain skin. "Thanks for not thinking I'm a complete creep, too. Also for the autograph. I'm sure my mother will treasure it. Although, she could end up selling it on eBay when you're up for an Oscar nod. I can't make any promises."
"If you're feeling left out, I can find another coffee jacket and write you up one of your own," I offered again, for the second time. I really was pushing the limits of decorum. It was almost shameful. Borderline, at least.
"Please don't take this as rude, but I'd rather just have the memories," Quinn replied gently. "This has been... one of my fondest, even if it was shorter than I'd have hoped, in my ideal situation of meeting you. It's still more than most of your adoring fans get, I realize, but... you know."
I nodded and cradled my coffee cup in my hands, content to just look at this girl a moment longer. She inhaled deeply, then nodded her head, as if she was psyching herself up and readying herself for something.
"I've already kept you for too long," Quinn said with that same sideways smile from before. "Just so you know, you've made one of my dreams come true today, Rachel."
She smiled at me one more time, then tucked the coffee jacket into her messenger bag and spun on her heel, heading for the door. I watched her walk away, and felt frozen. This was just a random person. A random fan, another resident of a city of millions. People constantly met others in the daily shuffle that was life, but this seemed like more than just a random meeting in a coffee shop.
I had never really believed in fate until I almost let Quinn Fabray walk out of that door, and subsequently, out of my life forever.
I almost let her walk away.
Truthfully, I didn't even let her get as far as touching her hand to the door handle.
"Hey, Quinn?" I called, much too loudly for someone trying to remain invisible and out of the public eye. She turned, blonde hair tossing as she moved, and her eyes met mine again. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"Yeah?"
I took three steps, three very large steps toward her and smiled, tilting my head up to look more directly into those mesmerizing eyes.
There really was something different about her.
I couldn't put my finger on it. I wanted to try. I wanted the chance to try.
Maybe it was the way that she treated me like a normal person, not the Rachel Berry.
Maybe it was just the way she called me Rachel, not Rachel Berry or Miss Berry or any of the other names that people used to address me.
Maybe it was her smile: gentle, kind, and possessing the uncanny ability to strip my defenses that I had needed to create in order to survive in the rough and tumble world of show business.
Or maybe it was the way her eyes seemed to look right through me, like we had done this before, in another life.
I had never believed in that sort of thing, either. I tried to stay away from things that made me feel as though my life was too far out of my control. I was so used to everything being just so and just right, so I didn't need some sort of otherworldly, outside figure changing the game. I rather liked the progression of my game, especially where most recent events were concerned.
And yet...
"I'm pretty much booked for shooting this entire week and I have an interview with a magazine on Saturday, but I always try to keep my Sundays open. So, if you're able, I'll probably be needing coffee from this particular shop this Sunday at say, ten o' clock?"
"I'll be here," Quinn breathed out.
"Great," I said with a smile. "You can bring your mother, too, if you'd like."
"No," Quinn replied. "She's not cool enough to have coffee with Rachel Berry. Not after she called you a... b-word."
"Swearing in front of me is still uncomfortable?"
"You're a celebrity," Quinn said softly. "It's awkward, but give it time, maybe I'll drop a curse in your presence on Sunday."
"Yeah," I breathed out, not sure exactly how long I had been holding that particular breath. I rounded out the conversation, which had drifted into a lull that was surprisingly easy, like we were just content to stand there with one another, looking into each others' eyes. I smiled at her, using my near-patented Rachel Berry red carpet smile, but knew that it was different. To an outsider, someone who didn't know me, it would look exactly the same, but I felt the slightest difference in the way my lips trembled, the way my eyes got a little brighter, and my face felt warmer. Kurt would spot the difference, definitely. And something in Quinn's eyes made me think that perhaps, even though she wasn't privy to my "normal" smile, she caught the difference as well. "Well, I'll be looking forward to that."
Platitudes. When things got dicey, I always linked back to platitudes. Quinn nodded, then moved for the door, but this time, I let her.
I waited another two minutes before exiting the coffee shop, and got into my car, doing a quick sweep for paparazzi and drove toward the set. As I was driving, I didn't even bother to turn on my music, which normally acted as a constant soundtrack to just about anything I did. I was too lost in my thoughts, too busy thinking about the fact that this girl could easily turn into one of those horror stories about how famous people get involved in friendships or even worse, in relationships with fans or "normal" people and end up getting private factoids leaked to the press for a small fee, stalked, or worse.
I swallowed hard, unsure of whether I'd really follow through with that Sunday coffee meeting.
If I bailed, it wasn't like she could hold it against me. I'd likely never see her again if I didn't put my plan into motion. It wasn't like lightning struck twice, at least, not often enough for it to be a valid concern.
I pulled into the Paramount lot, which would become my new, unspoken home away from home and sat in my car, letting the California sunshine wash onto my skin through my windshield for a moment. I felt my body heating up, felt the sweat trickle from my pores, and usually, this was relaxing to me. Usually, this helped me feel alive, but this time, I found myself waiting for something different.
For the first time in a very, very long time, I found myself longing for the rain.
