A/N: This is my first attempt at a Glee story. The characters are a bit OOC, and that makes me cringe, but other than that, I'm actually pretty satisfied with this story. Also, I own nothing.
Tears slip down her cheeks as she stands in the hallway by her locker. Despite the crowd, no one acts like they notice her or her tears, but you do. You wheel your way up to her, maneuvering around the people that can't be bothered to move for you. She slams her locker shut, and as she turns in your direction you see the anger blazing in her eyes. She looks frightening in her rage.
She spots you and you smile at her. She wipes away the rest of her tears.
"Hello, Artie," she says, her voice forcibly calm.
"Hey, Quinn." You watch her as you try to choose what to say next. Direct approach? Implications? You want to know what's wrong, but you aren't all that close to her and all the approaches sound so awkward in your head.
She brushes hair, now wet from crying, away from her face and lets out a harsh laugh. "I'm a mess."
"Well, you have an excuse." She looks at you like you're the one crazy from hormones. "Being pregnant is a good excuse for being a mess."
This time she laughs genuinely. "I can't wait until I have this baby. I am so over looking like a whale and not being able to get from class to class. I've had swollen ankles from cheer injuries, but this is just ridiculous. I can hardly walk to the car in the morning."
Her eyes widen as if she said something wrong – more pregnancy hormones? You wait for her to say more, clarify or something, but she just avoids your gaze until you ask, "What?"
"I'm sorry, it's just… I forgot. I shouldn't complain about not being able to walk when, well, you know…"
Realization dawns and you can't help but feel a little irritated. You hate it when people react to that. They have just as much right to complain about it as you; you used to complain about not being able to walk all the time, but it's become so natural to be in a wheel chair that you don't mind so much anymore.
"There's no need to be sorry," you say. "Like I've said before, I'm not bothered much by not being able to walk anymore."
"Still…"
"Is that why you were crying? Because you can't walk to class?"
She nods. "It's stupid, but that's why it's so frustrating. I miss being able to do all the things I used to be able to do, you know?"
And you do know. "Well, there's an easy solution to your problem."
"Really? What?"
You smile and say, "I could give you a ride."
She laughs, but more so with you than at you. You laugh, too, until she stops and her expression turns eager. "That's actually not a bad idea. If you don't mind, I mean. Isn't your next class just down the hall from mine?"
You contemplate it for a minute. "I guess I could."
She smiles, and, mess or no mess, she looks positively radiant. (Pregnancy hormones strike again.) She picks her bag up off of the ground. Slowly, she positions herself on your lap to where you can still see and she can be comfortable. People stare conspicuously as you wheel the two of you down the hall. It must look odd to everyone else, the pregnant girl riding away with the crippled kid. Heck, it looks odd from the inside, the ex-cheerleader and the nerdy boy acting like friend friends and not just acquaintances.
"Thanks, Artie," she says quietly as you stop in front of her class. She carefully stand up and slings her bag over her shoulder, flashing you another quick smile.
"No problem."
