So, um, for those of you who read Exquisite, (which I assume will be a lot of you if you're into this story) will probably think, 'hey, why are you starting this now? Finish up that one!'. And I will.

But here's the thing.

1. I had a good portion of this saved away in my files—I mostly just tweaked and revamped it.

2. I have been working on Exquisite. I currently have 2,000ish words for chapter 6 (it's going to be a fun chapter) but I need to figure some things out. It's not quite there yet. But I haven't forgotten about it.

So...um, please don't kill me! haha

Anyway, this one was really inspired by the film Waitress—especially the setting and the jobs they each do (and the pie inventions. In fact, I don't bake so most of those will be lifted from the film). I'm also pretty much going to have the owner from Joe's Pie Shop be the owner in this fic too. But the storyline will be different (and hopefully less depressing).

Disclaimer: I don't own Waitress or the Teen Titans.

Hope you all enjoy!

First Day on the Job

She pulled at the loose strands of her bun, willing them to stay in place—for just a few more moments— so that she could make a good first impression. Still, no matter how much she fiddled with her hair pins, a few stray hairs managed to fall out. She sighed, clearly she was not going to win. And she was probably only making it look worse. Slamming the sun visor—and more importantly, the mirror on it—up and out of sight, she grabbed her purse and, getting out of her car, slammed the door closed a bit too violently. Taking a calming breath, she went and knocked on the locked, wooden door.

"You must be the new girl!" the waitress called as she opened up the door.

"Yep, that's me."

"My name is Karen," she said, extending her hand.

She nodded, extending her hand to meet Karen's in a handshake. It wasn't until an awkward moment later—with Karen's deep brown eyes looking at her expectantly—that she realised Karen was waiting on her to give her name.

"My name is Rachael," she said hesitantly, hoping it would take people as long to remember her name as it would for her to remember theirs. After all, she was trying to get used to other people's names and her own simultaneously, a fact she hoped wouldn't show.

She, in an effort to dispel the sudden nervousness that washed over her—after all, she was no spy—looked over the woman before her. Karen wore a light blue vintage waitress dress that actually went well with her chocolate skin, making her look like she'd stepped out of an iconic fifties diner. To her dismay, she noted the woman wore white sneakers—attire that she wished she'd known was acceptable— that matched the ruffles protruding from the ends of her powder-blue dress.

(She frowned at the prospect that she might have to wear that...ensemble.)

Despite her frown, the girl's smile didn't falter, "Come on, I'll show you around."

Thankfully, she didn't comment on her own ensemble—she was quickly realising that she was way too overdressed. And she thought that black suit pants and a button up lavender blouse without a suit jacket was dressing down. (Guess not around here.)

She tried not to feel awkward as she was introduced to the other employees—who also were a step away from wearing casuals. The tall redhead was wearing slacks and a powder blue polo top (untucked, she noted with dismay). The guy next to him, with ebony hair that hung like curtains around his face—framing his dark blue gaze perfectly, much like someone else she knew but with colder eyes—also wore the same polo, indicating that it was part of the male uniform. She tried to focus on the names and the introductions, however, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was very, very out of place.

(Their—gawking—stares really didn't help.)

What did I get myself into? she wondered for the millionth time.

She looked down, picking at invisible lint from her blouse as she tried to look inconspicuous. Finally, the introductions were over and—Karen?—led her to the ovens where she would mostly be. She allowed herself a small smile—the work station brought back fond memories of her own journey. She recalled vividly the day that Victor finally announced that he'd had it with her and Kori's concoctions. Especially since he moved in with them during their fourth year of university. He spent the year teaching them how to cook and bake.

Unfortunately, she never did get the hang of cooking, however, baking was another matter. She fell in love with how easy it was to mix a few ingredients and, half an hour later, have a pastry that tasted heavenly. It wasn't long before she realised that she could also twist the recipes, making them hers. She could make pies that reflected her mood or her memories. It was like edible art—despite the fact that her creations never lasted long, they still had the same effort, love and care poured into them as any other traditional art. Plus, she kind of enjoyed the fact that they weren't permanent.

She wouldn't have to look back and cringe at something embarrassing or be worried about revealing too much of herself. Most people saw food as...well, food. They would not think of her moods and thoughts when eating their pastries. Not to mention, she liked the idea that people would enjoy it more than traditional art because it didn't last long. Because it wasn't permanent—like the Mona Lisa—people knew they had to enjoy it that much more.

Lost in her reverie, she barely heard—Karen? She really needed to learn names, especially the name of the woman helping her—say, "Well, I think that's all. You can start today or tomorrow, it's up to you."

"I'll start today," she offered, eager to be doing something. Running was no good if you didn't keep busy too.

"Wonderful. Also, sweetie, if those shoes get too uncomfortable, feel free to take them off, okay?" she offered, gesturing to her short black pumps, "Also, I'll get you your uniform."

She couldn't help but groan after her companion left. Sure enough, the woman returned with a blue dress that was almost identical to her own.

"Here you go. This is the smallest size we've got, but I think it'll fit."

She took the items and blurted, "Do I really have to wear this?"

She cringed. Well that was insensitive. Thankfully, she just smiled, "Unfortunately, you do. Company policy since you'll be acting as a waitress too and you'll be out front."

"Out front?"

"With the customers. 'Where image is important', or some nonsense like that."

"Ah," she replied, glad for this incident. She must've missed the fact that she would also be waiting on people during the introduction. It was all like a whirlwind of new information.

"Hey, if you need anything, just ask, okay?"

She nodded.

"Oh, and your name-tag will come in later this week. We put them on at the beginning of our shifts and leave them overnight with the uniforms," she explained, "You can take home your uniform to wash it, however, I recommend leaving your name-tag here. It gets lost so easily and if the owner is in, he won't be too happy."

"Great, thanks," she replied, watching the girl put her name-tag on. The black font read Karen.

Well at least one thing was going right.

"Oh, wait!"

"What's up?"

"Where are the restrooms? Sorry, it's a lot to take in," she offered, realising that she ought to know where they were from the tour.

"No problem. Just make a left when you leave the kitchen."

She nodded, making her way to the restroom to change into her uniform. And although she hated it—the colour, the fit, the way the cheap fabric scratched against her skin—she was grateful that she looked less like an outsider. Though her pumps still gave her away. Traitors.

Running her clothes to the trunk of her silver car, she returned to the kitchen area. She could already tell that she would like her workspace. Because she was the baker, she had the ovens to herself. Near them was a stainless steel workbench with all of the ingredients stacked neatly on its shelves. She marvelled at the space, and, with one last wistful glance at the cleanness, she kicked her shoes off to a corner and contemplated what to make.

Perhaps she could channel her nerves into a pastry? She frowned, 'Nervous Pie' didn't sound like something anyone in their right minds would eat.

"What're you thinking about so hard over there, Pastry Chef?"

Startled, her head snapped up to the door where the red-head was leaning casually against the frame, smiling at her. Almost condescendingly.

(She wanted to slap that smirk off his face. She struggled not to jerk back at the violence of her thoughts. She rarely felt this put off by someone.)

It would not do to make enemies on her first day she had to remind herself.

"Thinking about what to make," she confessed, looking back into the counter's shiny surface—and away from his infuriating, belittling smile.

He shrugged, "Don't you have a cookbook? Just randomly open a page and make that."

Clearly this one didn't share her views on baking.

She sighed in exasperation, "I haven't used a cookbook for three years. I'm not about to break that streak now."

He looked surprised at her admission, "You don't use a cookbook? How—?"

She shrugged, hoping her next statement wouldn't sound too prideful, "I've developed a sense for what goes well together through trial and error. So I mix and match what I want. Sometimes it's just the number of possibilities that's daunting."

Who was she kidding? Her swelling pride had definitely burst through somewhere early on in that statement. But, she had every right to be. She worked hard...

...to be a pastry chef in the middle of nowhere.

(She huffed at the direction of her thoughts. So she was taking a small detour, no harm in that, right? She tried to ignore the thoughts sprouting up that told her that she didn't even study to be a chef. Or want this job.)

"So how do you decide what you want to go together, then?" he asked, the curiosity in his voice at odds with his nonchalant, relaxed stance.

She sighed, she wasn't ready to explain to anyone—let alone this jerk—her ideas on baking. That she used her emotions to help her decide how she wanted the food to taste. How each of her creations were designed to evoke a certain feeling.

"I eventually just do," she stated firmly, letting him know that, even if he did realise this was a lie, that he was not welcome to pursue the subject further.

He shrugged, "Good luck with that, New Girl."

She almost yelled at him 'My name is Raven' but caught herself in time. Thankfully, his back was to her and he didn't notice her mouth open to say something before snapping firmly shut. She really needed to remember why she was here. No amount of hair dye and name changes could help her if she couldn't remember to keep up her persona.

She frowned, finally settling on her pastry for the day. A bittersweet past.

She would combine blackberries, blueberries, and raspberries into a bowl, mashing them together. She would add some sugar to the mix, perhaps a splash of citrus, before folding 70% dark chocolate over them. She would roll the dough of the pie tops in sugar, adding a little bit more sweetness to balance out the bitter chocolate taste.

She smiled, gathering her ingredients and getting to work—making several individual pie tins. For variety, she also made pain au chocolat, a pastry she'd learned from one of Kori's French cookbooks.

"Damn girl, that smells...unf," came Karen's voice as she waltzed in to check up on her newest employee.

She chuckled.

"Mind if I have one of these?" Karen asked, greedily looking at the small pies—the test batch—that were coming out of the oven.

"Sure, these are the testers, anyway. You can offer the others some too," she offered, plucking one from the tray for herself.

"You and I are gonna get along so well," she exclaimed, taking the tray to offer the other boys a sample.

"I hope so," she mumbled to herself after Karen had left as she wistfully took a bite from the pie. Bittersweet, like she wanted it to be.

Bittersweet, like her past.

But her future?

Well, that had yet to be seen.

Hopefully the ending wasn't too corny. Thoughts?

Please drop me a review!~