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This is horrible. I'm really bad at it. I'm going to sleep. I'll see you tomorrow, on Valentine's Day proper, beautiful - where you are, and where I am.
14 Reasons I Love You
3. Love is about seeing imperfect people perfectly. And I...I know your flaws. But you're still perfect...because you're not an image, because you're real and you're dirty. Metaphorically and literally, at times.
'Anyone who was anyone or anything came to Starbuck's.' You heard that in show business a lot. Rachel had to wonder, as she spun the froth around, whether the people behind Casablanca had ever been able to predict the future. Or, maybe, it'd been just as true in their time? Show people lived on coffee. Gallons of it, well-made or deliberately bad-tasting, would go into shows on one end, and then amazing productions would come out the other side.
She also had to wonder, how many of those amazing people on the award-winning stages knew how to make a proper cup of coffee. Probably quite a lot.
But she wasn't at a Starbucks. Too many positions there were filled with people much more experienced than she - instead, she came to work at a little cafe south by west of the main thoroughfare, known more for its pastries than its coffee.
Of course, now that Rachel had gotten here...
If there was one thing her childhood and adolescent boasting had never gotten wrong, it was her pancake making skills. But she'd been wrong about so much else. It made her cringe, to think of some of the things she's claimed and done - like sabotaging far better talents than hers. Or, talking nineteen times to a dozen; all of that wasn't necessary, and in fact would hurt her chances. Over the piles of rejections that had come from her blib-blabbering through an interview, Rachel had learned how to 'not be annoying', as some of her high school friends would have put it.
Rachel sighed, resting her elbow on the kitchentop.
"Rachel!" Amelia called from outside. "Two pancakes, large! To go," she added.
"Alright!" she called back, cheerfully, and poured the batter into the pan.
When she was done, Rachel wrapped the two pancakes up in a small brown paper bag, and placed it on the counter. Amelia was hastily pouring coffee into two mugs for two regulars (big-black woman and little-gay-boy, as Rachel remembered them), and so Rachel mustered up a smile and passed the pancakes to the customer.
The blonde woman blinked at her. "You look familiar," she said.
"I do?" Rachel said.
"Yes...were you in a performance of Windows Darkly, by any chance?"
"Yes..." Rachel said, remembering the show that brought her to Chicago, then left her high and dry without any other offers. "I was. Berkeley. I mean, I played Berkeley."
The woman smiled. "I thought you were! You see, I went back to Windows Darkly four times in its run, and I found it so different every single time. It was lovely."
"Thanks," Rachel said. "I'm Rachel, by the way. Rachel Berry."
"Quinn," the blonde said. "Quinn Fabray. I guess you're waiting around for the results of your other auditions to come through?"
"Yes," Rachel said.
"Sounds like everyone else in this city," Quinn laughed, then looked down at her steaming pancakes. "These look good. Per'aps I'll come back tomorrow."
"Alright," Rachel said. "Have a nice day."
"Excuse me," their regular interrupted. "Can I get a refill on my coffee? Along with a slice of the chocolate cake?"
"Oh, of course," Rachel said, smiling at her. It wasn't even fake, or disappointed in her lot of life, for once.
Over the next few months, Quinn's visits became more frequent. It got to the point where Amelia would recognise her coming in the door and make sure Rachel was free so that they could talk for a bit.
"Hey, Rachel," Quinn said, as Rachel brought her her regular order. "Do you want to hang out sometime, after you get off-shift?"
"Sure," Rachel said. "You know what time I get off."
"I'll see you again at five, then," Quinn said, and walked away.
It was good to have friends again, in Chicago, who didn't know of her somewhat checkered past. Quinn was a godsend - helping her find auditions, helping her prepare, helping her cope when the inevitable rejection came. Rachel did her best to be there for Quinn when her own audition-hunting failed, and grew fonder of Quinn, day by day.
"You know," Quinn slurred to her one night while they were at a bar, "I was pregnant at one time."
"What?" Rachel said, not too drunk to ignore it.
"I had a kid...I gave her up for adoption."
"Oh," Rachel said, and looked down. "I..."
Quinn blinked at her, frozen in lifting up her bottle. "C'mon," she said, "I know you well enough that you're hiding somethin'. Out wif it."
"You're slur-slurring," Rachel said. She hiccupped.
"And you're stuuuuttering," Quinn said. "We're bofe drunk. Keep talkin'."
"I was adopted," Rachel said, looking down. "I really was. I," she took a deep breath, then regretted it, as the bitter tang of secondhand smoke semi-suffocated her, "I always wanted to know who my biological parents were."
"Oh," Quinn said. "Well, I don't remember who the father was, but I visit Beth every so often. She thinks I'm an 'aunt', a friend of her mom's." She took another draught of her beer. "Mm, I'm numb," she muttered under her breath.
"How old izzz Beth?" Rachel said.
"Sheee's about six now."
"Six!" Rachel said, rather more loudly than she'd intended to. "And you're, whaaat, twenny-two?"
"Yeah," Quinn said, and swayed, "I'm twenny-two."
"I'm twenny-two too!" Rachel said, and giggled.
Quinn hiccupped. "Yay!"
"We were talkin' about something, right?" Hiccup.
"Ah, it doesn't matter anymore." Hiccup. Hiccup.
"We should go home."
"Your place please."
"Why can' we go to yours?"
"My roommate's a, a, a, dick," Rachel said. "He'd take advan...advante...advantage of you."
"What about you?"
"He thinks I'm 'one of the guys'."
"He's an idiot," Quinn said softly.
Rachel smiled, warm all over.
"You're bright red," Quinn pointed out, and hiccupped. "My friend Tina used to be like that when she was drunk all the time."
"She was drunk all the time?"
"Yesh...no...yesh...I dunno, what was I saying?"
"You were making some bet?"
"That was yesterday."
"I din't hear all of it."
"Uhhmmm...If you get a part in one of the Broadway shows, I'm gonna kiss you."
"I'm supposed t' be," Hiccup, "Okay wi' that?"
"You were noddin' and smilin'. Weren't you?"
"I dunno."
"...How do we get to your house?"
"Hey, Rach," Quinn said, her gloves tucked into her pockets in the chill winter air, walking through the park. "You know, you've been to my house so often and for so long that half your stuff is over at my place. Do you want to move in? We could share half the rent."
Rachel sneezed, then shrugged. "Okay."
Months later:
"Rachel! Did you get the part?"
"Did you get the milk?"
"Of course I did. I want your pancakes for tomorrow morning. I wouldn't forget something that important."
"...Really."
"That one time with the toilet paper notwithstanding. And honestly,"
"-You used it to t.p. my ex-flatmate's car. Very mature of you, yada yada yada."
"Come on, Rachel, he had it coming."
Rachel smirked. "That's true."
"Tell me. Did you get the Broadway part? Do I get to kiss you now?"
...
"You taste like pancakes."
"Expected. I was trying out a competitor's."
"No one could beat your pancake-making skills, Rachel Berry."
"You've tasted my failures, too."
"And they were yummy."
"Honestly, Quinn..."
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