A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed that last chapter! I'm so glad you enjoyed it! I hope you like this one :D
Chapter Two
Between school, work and rehearsals, Rachel felt as if she were a headless chicken, running around New York with a constant supply of honey, tea and throat lozenges. Pulling double duty with both school and Funny Girl, she'd been acutely aware of the need to preserve her voice. She couldn't let her schoolwork affect her Funny Girl rehearsals, or vice versa. She prided herself on being the consummate professional in both settings, and refused to be anything different. Still, even as she gargled salt water, avoided sick people like the plague they were, and adamantly got eight hours of sleep each night, she was no match for the ubiquitous head cold when it gripped her with its slimy germ-infested hands.
"Who finished the coffee?" Rachel said unhappily, turning toward the bowl of fruit to pick out a banana for her commute to school and sneezing violently. Santana, who was seated at the kitchen table with a suspiciously large mug of coffee, stared at Rachel and murmured, "Well, now I'm not eating any of that fruit."
"That's good considering you didn't buy any of it. I need my coffee," Rachel said, wiping her nose with the back of her wrist. "I slept terribly last night. I could hardly breathe, and then when I did breathe it just made me cough."
"Yeah, I heard that," Santana said, taking a sip of coffee. "As annoying as it was, still not as bad as what I usually hear from the other wall."
"Don't be mean just because you aren't getting any," Kurt said, walking into the kitchen. He glanced at the empty coffee pot and said, "Seriously, Santana, did you drink all the coffee?"
"No, St. James took most of it before he left for wherever the hell he goes at seven o'clock in the morning. If you ask me, an early departure like that is a little suspect."
"He had an audition," Rachel said, yawning wide. "And I'm making more coffee, Kurt, so if you wait a few minutes I can pour you a cup."
"Word of wise, Kurt, if you don't want to catch the plague that Berry has, I'd recommend you making the coffee."
"Good point," Kurt said, skirting past Rachel and taking the pot from her hand. He shooed Rachel away with his free hand. "You go sit on the couch where your germs can't reach us."
"I'm not even that bad," Rachel complained, although she dutifully went over to the couch and sat down. "Can you at least throw me a banana?"
Kurt reached in the basket and threw her one of the under ripe ones. She was going to ask for a different one, but then figured that it was fine since she really couldn't taste anything, anyway. She unpeeled it and took a bite. After swallowing the tasteless mush, she looked morosely at the rest of the banana she had to force down.
Blaine walked out of his and Kurt's bedroom and offered a casual wave to Rachel as he said, "Fresh coffee! Definitely pour me a cup."
"Get in line, mister," Rachel said, coughing loudly. "I'm up first."
"Aren't you a ray of sunshine this morning," Blaine returned cheerfully. "You know, if you're sick you really should be drinking tea, not coffee."
"I'm not sick!" Rachel held vehemently. "It's just allergies."
"It's the middle of winter," Santana said, raising her coffee cup for what Rachel viewed as a largely unnecessary gesture toward the window. "What the hell are you allergic to?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe your poor attitude?" Rachel shot back, voice hoarse.
"Maybe you're allergic to Jesse," Kurt added sensibly. He received looks from all three roommates and he quickly added, "I don't mean him as a person. Maybe it's his cologne or whatever he washed his clothes in. Stuff like that happens."
"I'm not allergic to Jesse," Rachel said. "I think the apartment just needs a good cleaning. It's dusty."
"I refuse to clean," Santana piped in. "It plays too much into the Latina stereotype."
Kurt rolled his eyes. "Seriously, Santana?"
"Hey Kurt," Rachel interrupted loudly. "How's that coffee coming? Is it ready? Because I really need it to be ready!"
Kurt filled Rachel's to-go thermos with coffee and then brought it over, taking care to cover his mouth with his hand as he approached. Rachel scowled and took it from him as she muttered, "Seriously, you guys are overreacting. I'm fine."
She glanced at her phone and saw that she had only a few minutes before her usual bus stopped outside of the apartment. Quickly she gathered her things, the entire time feeling remarkably out of breath. Meanwhile the other three roommates sat comfortably in the kitchen, watching her rush. She glanced at them as she pulled on her coat and irritably said, "Don't you guys have anywhere to be?"
"I'm not meeting with my academic advisor until later," Blaine said.
Kurt piped in with, "Anderson cancelled dance practice" while Santana added, "I yelled at Murphy at work and he gave me the morning off."
"I hate all of you," Rachel murmured before leaving the apartment.
By the time her classes were finished, even Rachel had to admit that something was not right. The cough had turned thick and hacking, and her mild headache from the morning – which she originally attributed to lack of coffee – developed into an incessant pounding behind her eyes. She barely made it to rehearsal, and then was promptly sent home when the directors saw what terrible shape she was in.
Her director paid for a cab, saying that he didn't want his Fanny Brice to risk catching any other ailment on public transportation, and then she was schlepping up the steps, just the weight of her backpack making her slouch. It took her twice as long as usual to get up to the apartment, but she made it. There was at least that as she turned her key in the lock and staggered inside. Relief filled her as she felt the comfort of home surround her. And then Jesse walked out of the bathroom.
"Hey, you're back early," he said in greeting. He took stock of her bright pink nose and watery eyes. "And you look like hell."
"Gee thanks," she said unhappily. The relief from finally getting home seeped away quickly as she imagined rehearsal going on without her. "That's what every girl wants to hear when they walk into their home."
"Sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's just…"
He trailed off and watched her drop her bag unceremoniously on the ground before plopping onto the couch like a sack of potatoes. She positioned herself somewhat on the couch lengthwise and then began to ineffectively try to kick off her shoes. He followed the movement of her feet for a minute and then stepped forward to the edge of the couch. As he crouched down he said, "Try not to kick me now, okay?"
"Stupid shoes," she mumbled, watching with hazy eyes as he untied each shoe and slipped it off.
"Hey, it's not their fault you didn't untie them first," he said with a slight grin.
"I'm missing rehearsal," she said morosely, flopping her arm over her eyes. He almost laughed at the dramatics, but as his head was in the direct firing line of her foot still, he abstained. "I've never missed rehearsal. Do you know my cab got in an accident on the way to the first rehearsal?" She paused for a hearty cough. "That didn't stop me. I paid the cabbie and hopped right out. I ran three blocks so that I wouldn't be late."
"You're clearly sick, Rachel. You belong at home resting. I'm sure your directors agree."
"They sent me home," Rachel said.
"See, that's what I mean! They want you to be healthy."
Rachel shook her head stubbornly. "This is how it starts, Jesse. They let you miss rehearsals. They give you a day off because they want you to rest your voice. Next thing you know your understudy is taking over your dressing room and gets top billing. They're going to replace me!"
"They're not going to replace you," Jesse told her. "You are Fanny Brice, Rachel. You always have been."
"They think I'm weak."
"No," he said slowly. "They think you have a really bad head cold and can't sing. They also probably don't want to get everyone else sick. They can work other scenes with you gone. But if you get the entire cast and crew sick, they're pretty much screwed."
Rachel sighed, turning on her side and wedging her hands under her cheek. What Jesse said made sense. Even in her feverish haze she saw the reason in what he said.
"No one will replace you, Rachel. No one can. You're irreplaceable."
"Thank you," she said in a small voice.
Content that he had at least stalled her hysterics for the time being, he rose to his feet and walked into the kitchen. From there he told her that he was making her a drink for her throat.
"It's a St. James specialty," he called out from the kitchen. "I had this all the time when I was sick growing up. It really helps with the sore throat."
She heard the microwave going and the soft clanks of metal against ceramic. He began rifling through cabinets and she propped herself up to see what he was looking for. She noticed that he was rummaging through their sparsely stocked liquor cabinet, and he pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He poured a healthy shot into what she assumed was a steaming mug of tea.
"You had this a lot growing up?" she asked dubiously.
He saw her gaze lingering on the liquor bottle and said, "Don't underestimate the healing properties of well-used whiskey."
"I'm concerned about your childhood."
He laughed, finishing the drink off with a glug of honey. He brought it over and handed it to her with a warning of, "Be careful, it's hot."
She took a dainty sip, and true to his word, the liquid was hot and burned as it slid down her throat. It tasted good, though. The tea was perfectly brewed and while she could taste the whiskey, it was tempered by the sweetness of the honey. She took another sip, this time taking a bit more, and felt the drink coat her throat.
"So, what do you think?" he asked. "It's pretty good, right?"
She nodded. "It's good. Thank you."
"Now, you should try to finish the whole thing and then get some sleep," he instructed. "And, not to be a germ-o-phobe, but you should probably do it in your own bed."
"You're right," she sighed. The couch really wasn't just a couch anymore. It was Jesse's makeshift bed, and she probably shouldn't sneeze and cough all over it. She handed him the mug wordlessly and sat up slowly, giving her head time to acclimatize to the new position before standing up. She went to take the mug but he nodded toward her bedroom and said, "I'll follow you."
She nodded a bit, some part of her turning all squirrely at the thought of Jesse St. James in her bedroom. But then he joked, "I don't want you tripping and spilling my masterpiece all over the floor."
She went to say that the odds of her tripping during the ten second trip to her bedroom was unlikely, but then she did, in fact, trip and he murmured, "See, that could have been disastrous."
"Oh shut up," she said weakly.
He placed the drink on her nightstand and then pulled back the covers as she climbed into bed. She pulled them up to her chin and turned on her side, burrowing her head in her pillow.
"Don't forget to drink that now," he said, gesturing toward the steaming mug. "You'll feel better."
"Okay, I will," she said hoarsely, eyelids already growing heavy. "Thanks again. You're…" she coughed, phlegm rattling in her throat, "… a trooper."
Jesse chuckled. "Yeah, get some rest now."
Rachel woke up a few hours later, the throbbing in her head subsiding at least a bit. She murmured something to herself, though, and realized with horror that she had completely lost her voice. She reached for Jesse's so-called miracle drink in a panic and downed the entire thing. While her throat definitely felt less scratchy, she still couldn't utter a peep.
She got out of bed and staggered out into the living room. Kurt and Blaine were on the couch, watching the latest episode of Greys Anatomy. They both looked at her and said hi, asking if she was better. Tears welled in her eyes and she shook her head, pointing at her throat.
"You can't talk?" Santana asked from the kitchen. "Well, dreams do come true."
"Ignore her," Kurt said flatly, but his tone became warmer as he added, "We brought you some lentil soup from Uncle Sal's. It's on the counter. It should still be warm."
She walked into the kitchen, shooting Santana a dirty look as she passed, and pulled the soup from its paper bag. She grabbed a spoon that was drying with a pile of silverware beside the sink and sat down at the kitchen table. She pried off the lid of the container and dug her spoon in, not wanting to eat but knowing that realistically she had no choice. The soup tasted just like she remembered, but she derived no pleasure from it.
The front door opened and Jesse walked in, his hair windblown and cheeks ruddy. He offered a general hello and then sat opposite Rachel at the table. He took one look at her and said, "You didn't finish the drink, did you?"
She glared at him and he said, "I told you to finish the drink."
She grabbed the pen at the side of the table and messily wrote on the paper bag:
I'm going to have Santana crazy murder you.
She pushed it toward Jesse and his eyes danced with mirth as he said, "Well, that's not very nice."
She sighed soundlessly, slouching in her seat. A few unexciting spoonfuls of soup later she grabbed the paper bag again and scrawled a quick message on it.
How was your audition?
She pushed it toward Jesse and he read it quickly before saying, "Good, I think. I saw the guy before me, and he was a train wreck. So, I'm feeling pretty good about it."
What did you sing?
He grinned a bit and said, "Bohemian Rhapsody."
She rolled her eyes, rightfully so, and he said, "I know, I know, but it's a good song! And it shows off my range."
"And brings memories of your douche-tastic past," Santana added from the living room.
Rachel quickly scrawled a message on the bag again.
She has a point.
Jesse laughed. "Fine, then what should I audition with?"
Rachel considered that for a moment and then wrote down three potential songs.
Moon River
Moving Too Fast
You Don't Know My Name
Jesse didn't recognize the last song for a moment and then said, "Wait, You Don't Know My Name? The Alicia Keys song?"
Rachel nodded heartily as the Kurt and Blaine weighed in from the couch.
"Oh, great song," Blaine said. "A lot of soul."
"So much soul," Kurt agreed. "That would be a killer audition song."
Rachel gave him a "told you" look and he relented, "I'll admit it's a good song. But I don't really know if it's my style."
"I have to agree, soulless automaton," Santana chirped.
Rachel shook her head and quickly went to writing on the paper bag.
It's the perfect audition song. Big range. Great story. Fantastic beat.
Next audition – you HAVE to sing it.
She pushed the bag toward him and watched him expectantly as he read it. He chuckled and said, "Alright, I'll consider it. Now, eat more of your soup."
She grinned a bit and then stuffed a heaping spoonful of the soup into her mouth.
The next day Rachel woke feeling a bit better. Her headache was all but gone and while her voice wasn't strong, she was able to speak softly without it hurting or sending her into a coughing fit. She took the day off from school and work, and when she called her director he immediately told her to take another day to get her voice back. While the other roommates were off at school and work, Jesse stayed back to help take care of her. She told him that she felt bad for making him hang back with her, but she secretly liked it. There was something calming about his presence, and he made surprisingly tasty sick food.
Throughout the day she had three mugs of the famous St. James drink, and she could feel her strength returning. Over the next few days she steadily improved, and by the end of the week she felt like her old self. Her voice was nearly perfect and her cough could be kept at bay with just a few lozenges throughout the day. She went to school and easily sang through an entire rehearsal.
She returned home after rehearsal and stopped short when she heard loud hacking coming from the bathroom. She stepped around the couch and saw tissues strewn all over it. Jesse padded out of the bathroom, eyes puffy and nose inflamed. She winced a bit, knowing full well the root of his sickness.
"Well, you weren't exaggerating before," Jesse said hoarsely. "I feel like death."
"I know just what to do," she told him, taking off her coat and draping it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. "One St. James specialty drink coming right up."
A/N: I'd love your thoughts on this!