Never asked to feel your halo (Faberry)

5: If I sang out of tune, would you walk out on me?

Thursday morning Rachel once again felt sleep-deprived but at least it was for a good cause this time. After staying up an hour past her usual bedtime to work on the Glee assignment, she had been wide awake again by five-thirty a.m. so that she could complete her usual routine (elliptical workout, shower, breakfast), her new routine (wash Quinn's towel, have minor panic attack about washing Quinn's towel incorrectly, spend far too long wondering why she was washing Quinn's towel in the first place) and get to school thirty-minutes earlier than normal so that she could stand in the auditorium and envisage their performance on the stage.

It was going to seem very large with only the three of them up there, especially as Mike would only be dancing, but her own commanding stage presence would hopefully be enough to make up for it. She tried to remember the level of Quinn's dancing ability but she really hadn't had much opportunity to assess it yet. Still, she was a cheerleader and you only had to look at her body to see that she was extremely athletic – and obviously she had looked at her body! – and she was about the right height to make the perfect dance partner for Mike. Perhaps, with Quinn's occasional tendency to go sharp, it would be better to have them both dancing around her while she took care of the vocals by herself.

She looked down at the page of notes and diagrams she'd made, trying to decide the best course of action. As interesting as she'd found the idea of being grouped with Quinn for this assignment yesterday, now it was becoming plain that she had drawn, or rather been assigned, the short straw. Obviously it was a wonderful opportunity to showcase her talent of directing under difficult circumstances, but with such a short timeframe she wished it wasn't going to be quite this difficult.

She was still scribbling down notes and amendments to those notes when the bell rang and she realized with some alarm that she was going to be late for American Lit. again.

She ran through the school, down increasingly empty corridors, until she reached the classroom door and then paused for a moment to compose herself before breezing in and calmly (and professionally, she felt) offering her sincere apology.

"I am so sorry I'm . . ."

"Hudson, I saw that. Front of the class!"

Surprised at being shouted over, Rachel indignantly blurted, "What did he do this time?"

Mr. Laxforth eyed her disdainfully. "Late again, Miss Berry."

"As I was saying, I'm very . . ."

"Just take your seat." She took fast steps to the last chair in front, meaning to get there before Finn did. "Not that one. That's Mr. Hudson's seat for the rest of the semester."

"The rest of the semester!" Finn groaned and Rachel mentally echoed him as she dragged her feet to the desk at the back, feeling her still bruised knees throb at

just the thought of taking that seat again.

Perhaps it would be prudent to purchase some form of padded protection if she was going to be forced to sit beside the demon cheerleader all semester.

Quinn didn't look at her as she sat down and, mindful of the rules, Rachel didn't glance at her either. She did want to break the rules though, if only to ask why Finn was once again in trouble, but whispering wasn't a viable option because Mr. Laxforth was reading to them from the The Call of the Wild and he had ears like a bat. And so she sat there, trying to take notes on the chapter like most of the other students, while feeling as tense as a violin string; and like a violin string she seemed to be reverberating inside every time Quinn plucked her . . .

She felt her cheeks get warm at her internal and accidental innuendo.

Mentally plucked her, obviously, and by plucked she meant every time Quinn moved or cleared her throat or breathed or . . . Why was she explaining this to herself? She just had to stop thinking about her altogether!