A/N: Wow, okay, hi! First of all, thanks for the AMAZING response! I'm thrilled! Second, I apologize for the time it took me to get this part out. I actually ended up having to write most of it this week, because I didn't like the way I would have had to separate it if I didn't add more. Splitting a one-shot into five parts is kind of annoying like that. This is really just a filler chapter - I really love the one that comes after this, though, so please stick around. And it won't take nearly as long to get that one up, because I don't have to write any of it. ;)
Thank you for reading, and please review if you can!
Rachel always eats lunch in the choir room. It can get lonely, sure, but it's preferable to the alternative of trying to navigate the cafeteria when it's teeming with students who couldn't care less that she's trying to find her way to an empty table while balancing a tray in one hand and a cane in the other. Plus, she's able to get extra work done when it's just her; she sits on the tiled floor with her almond butter and banana sandwich and surrounds herself with class notes that her daddy transcribed for her, or sheet music for songs she'd like to sing in Glee that week, and no one messes with her.
Sometimes Mr. Schuester comes in and they try to carry a conversation, but it usually only lasts for an awkward few minutes before he excuses himself to go make photocopies or rearrange his volumes of English to Spanish dictionaries.
No one else has ever bothered her here in the choir room, so she's momentarily confused when she hears the door swing open one Wednesday afternoon, after Mr. Schue has already come and gone. She listens for some of the cues she's picked up (the sloshing of a Big Gulp cup, or the particular way Finn Hudson lumbers around like he's a giant toddler), but nothing is giving away the identity or intentions of the company she's suddenly sharing, so she turns her attention back to her math textbook and hopes that whoever has entered the room will introduce themselves or leave; something about asking "who's there?" makes her feel like the helpless blind girl that everyone thinks she is, so she makes it a point to never do so.
A chair nearby scrapes against the linoleum, like someone has practically collapsed into it, and then a soft, breathy sigh escapes her guest's lips, and Rachel has suddenly solved the mystery.
"Good afternoon, Quinn," she says with a smile. "How are you today?"
Quinn sputters for a few moments before forming an intelligible sentence. "How did you know it was me?" she demands. Rachel can tell from the way the fabric of her dress rubs against the chair that she is sitting up straight now.
"You sigh a lot," Rachel replies simply.
Quinn gasps. "I do not."
"Well, you sigh enough that I was able to correctly identify your presence without any visual aids. Take that for what you will."
Quinn starts to sigh but then covers it up with a cough. "What are you doing in here?"
"Eating lunch," Rachel says. "What are you doing in here?"
"The cafeteria smells weird."
Rachel tilts her head to the side and gives a small, half-smile. "Fair enough."
–––––
The cafeteria must smell weird on a daily basis now, because Quinn keeps showing up and sitting in the chair next to Rachel, and sometimes they actually speak, and she doesn't seem to hate it.
Rachel doesn't hate it, either.
–––––
"You know what? I am really sick of swaying back here like a glorified back-up singer while Helen Keller gets anothersolo."
Rachel is sitting in the choir room again, but unfortunately, it's no longer just her and Quinn. Glee has been in session for approximately five minutes, and already, then tension in the room is palpable.
When Mr. Schuester approached her about joining the club, she was flattered but dubious. Obviously, she knew why he wanted her; Tina, Mercedes, Kurt, and Artie were talented, but Rachel's vocal abilities were unmatched. There was a lot that she could bring to the group.
She had never really worked well within a team before, and she was unsure of what exactly a show choirwould require of her aside from vocals, but Mr. Schuester assured her that she would be a great fit. Her fathers agreed and urged her to join. They thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for her to make some friends and develop a real sense of community at school, a place where she could feel wanted.
It's been several months since the group's inception, and she's still waiting for that. She certainly feels needed; they would be useless without her, really. But wanted? Never.
Rachel lets out a disgruntled huff in the direction of Santana's voice. "That doesn't even make sense. Helen Keller became blind and deaf when she was a toddler, which is completelydifferent from my…"
"I cannot emphasize enough how much I don't careabout a single word you've just said, Berry," Santana cuts in. "What I'm saying is, she might have a killer set of pipes, but she doesn't move with the music. We're not going to win this ridiculous competition if she just stands in the middle of the stage like a statue."
"We're also not going to win this ridiculous competitionif the most talented vocalist isn't featured as often as possible. This isn't a dance recital," Rachel fires back, her arms crossed over her chest defensively.
"She's kind of right, Mr. Schue," Mercedes says. "Rachel's got a great voice, but this really isn't going to work for every number. Maybe this one should go to Kurt. Or me."
She wishes that she was surprised by her teammates' dissension, but that's hardly the case. A few times a week, someone gets jealous of her talent and suggests that her inability to see makes her a poor choice for lead vocalist. Clearly they've never heard of Stevie Wonder.
Mr. Schuester sighs. "I get what you guys are saying, I really do. But Rachel's voice is best suited for this piece and I don't think it's fair to make her sit it out. She's part of our team, and we're going to do what we can to accommodate her, just like we would with anyone else."
Rachel really hates when people talk about her like she's not in the room, but she appreciates Mr. Schuester's defense, regardless of how condescending it came across. "Thank you, Mr. Schue. I fully trust your judgment, and I hope that my teammates can follow suit."
"That said," Mr. Schuester continues, "It wouldn't hurt for you to loosen up a bit during performances, Rach. Maybe you could practice some modified choreography? Maybe someone could work one-on-one with Rachel? Santana?"
Santana snorts derisively. "As long as I won't be held liable if she falls off the stage."
Rachel is about to voice her concern that a fall off the stage in proximity to Santana Lopez probably wouldn't be an accident, but Mr. Schuester seems to get it.
"O-okay," he says slowly. "Brittany? Mike? Matt?"
"I'm spending all my free time training Lord Tubbington for a decathlon."
Mike sounds unsure. "Uh, well, I mean..."
"I'm going to decline on Mike's behalf," Tina says quickly.
Rachel has never actually heard Matt speak, but he must be shaking his head, because Mr. Schuester lets out another loud sigh.
"Come on, guys! We're a team!"
"I guess I could do it, Mr. Schue?"
Rachel smiles at Finn's offer to help, but it's short lived as light laughter fills the room.
"Rachel, please forgive the idiom, but that would be like the blind leading the blind," Kurt says.
"More like the extremely uncoordinated leading the blind," Artie supplies. "Bad idea."
"I'm sure Finn is a very good dancer," Rachel says with a smile. Mostly, she's just relieved that someone has volunteered. "At the very least, he's probably capable of giving mea few pointers."
"He's really not," Noah replies. "No offense, dude. And before you ask, Mr. Schue, no. I'm physically incapable of being that close to a girl without having sex afterward, and I have a feeling that Berry isn't going to put out."
Rachel's face burns and she slides down in her chair ever so slightly. She generally appreciates Mr. Schuester, because he does give her a lot of solos. She wishes that he could have left this alone, though. She almostwishes that he had given the part to someone else; it would be far preferable to being reminded that even if no one in the choir room slushies her, none of them are really her friends.
She's about to politely excuse herself (okay, storm out), but then a new voice cuts through the chatter and quiets the choir room immediately.
"For the love of God," Quinn grumbles. "I'll do it."
–––––
Quinn says to meet her in the auditorium at four o'clock sharp, because she has a lot of things to do and she can't sit around and wait for her all day. Everyone knows that Rachel is the very picture of punctuality, so she's inclined to think that Quinn really just wants her to know that she still has a social life - Rachel isn't quite buying it.
Last time she checked, it was five minutes past their agreed-upon meeting time, and she's getting kind of nervous. What if Quinn just wanted to see how long she would wait? What if McKinley's vast bully population is congregating outside and organizing an ambush? Quinn has been strangely civil lately, but it could have been a charade to get Rachel to let her guard down.
She sighs heavily and presses the small button on the side of her watch. It's 4:08.
Rachel is about to call her father and tell him to pick her up now instead of at 4:30, but then stage lights are flipped on without warning. The electrical, buzzing sound is unmistakable, and within seconds she can feel warmth on her face.
Light footsteps echo backstage, and she comforts herself in knowing that it's not a jock (the ground practically shakes when those mammoths are near). She knows that it's likely Quinn, but she's not going to relax completely until she hears her voice and confirms that she's actually here to help her with choreography.
The footsteps grow closer, and then they stop.
"Quinn?"
"Obviously."
"You're late."
"By barelyten minutes. I'm here now, so let's just do this."
Rachel takes a deep breath. She's not sure if she wantsto do this. It's really hard to learn a dance when you can't see it, and it's even harder to dance in a group when you can't see the people around you. Couple that with the fact that they are on a stage with a drop-off that she can't see, and she thinks it's quite reasonable that she doesn't move much while performing.
Still, she knows that she could stand to relax a bit, and she really doesn't want to give up her solos. She nods, signaling for Quinn to begin.
Rachel jumps slightly when small hands settle on her waist and pull her forward. She tries to relax and stop herself from fighting against Quinn's lead, but her instincts tell her to pull away, and she ends up stumbling forward as a result.
"Sorry," Quinn mumbles. "Are you okay?"
She nods quickly. "I'm fine. Just…tell me what to do."
Quinn's hands drop from Rachel's waist and she takes a few steps back. "Start singing, and we'll go from there."
Rachel tilts her head skeptically. "There's no music."
"Do you needmusic? I thought you had perfect pitch."
Quinn's tone is teasing, but Rachel's surprised by the lack of venom in her voice; it's almost...friendly. They're not friends, though, so she doesn't let herself read too much into it. Instead, she starts humming the opening notes of the song she stands to lose if she can't relax.
Quinn casually throws out instructions as Rachel sings at a slow pace, and it's obvious that she's truly trying to adapt the routine. Part of her was afraid that she wouldn't make any effort to actually help (mostly because the Quinn Fabray she knows would loveto see Rachel fail), but the moves are much simpler than the commands Mr. Schuester gives when the rest of the group is learning a number.
Still, just because it's simpler doesn't mean it's something she can do. She's nota dancer, and if this wasn't clear before they began practicing, it certainly is now.
"Rachel, when I tell you to step forward, you have to actuallytake a step forward. You're barely moving," Quinn says, her tone conveying obvious irritation.
"You try doing this with your eyes closed," Rachel snaps. "I'm afraid I'm going to bump into the piano or fall of the stage or something."
"Do you think I would let that happen? Really?"
"I can't think of any reason to believe that you wouldn't."
Quinn scoffs. "Because I'm not evil? And also because if you fell off the stage and died, I'd probably get indicted for murder."
"Oh, that'snice," Rachel mutters. "Glad to know your intentions are pure."
"No one else seemed at all interested in doing this for you, so I don't really think you're in the position to question my intentions, Rachel," Quinn bites out. "Do you want help or not?"
"No, honestly, I don't. I don't want to do this. I can'tdo this. I'm done."
Quinn sighs, and Rachel can practically hear her roll her eyes. "Fine."
"Fine."
She immediately makes a move to grab her bag and cane from the top of the piano, but after a few steps, it occurs to her that she's not exactly sure where the piano is in relationship to where she's standing. Between the turns necessitated by the routine and Quinn's manhandling, she's actually quite disoriented.
Anxiety immediately settles in the pit of her stomach, and her breathing speeds up against her will. She tries to stop the chain reaction of panic, briefly, but it's useless - this is something she has never been able to handle. She's certainly capable of navigating an unfamiliar space, but not without something to warn her of upcoming obstacles. She's going to fall into the orchestra pit or run into a wall or tumble down the stairs and crack her head open, she just knows it.
That's what would happen if she moved, that is. So instead, she's just going to stand right where she is. For the rest of her life. Yes, that will work.
She barely registers movements to her left, and then the same small hands that pulled her forward with an uncomfortable amount of force are gently guiding her across the stage. When they come to a stop, Rachel hesitantly reaches out, and the smooth edge of the piano against her fingertips is the best thing she's ever felt in her entire life.
Quinn is gone before Rachel can thank her.
–––––
The next day, Rachel is prepared to surrender her solo. She spent her lunch period practicing a speech (because she's not going to let it go without some flourish), and as soon as Mr. Schuester calls the meeting to order, she sticks her hand high in the air and clears her throat.
"Mr. Schuester, I believe we need to have a discussion regarding my solo in -"
"Quinn and I have already discussed it, Rachel," Mr. Schuester replies cheerfully.
Rachel feels her face flush in anger. Of course they've already discussed it. Quinn probably took great delight in reporting back to Mr. Schuester about her unwillingness to learn the routine. She should have just gone along with it and then discussed it with Mr. Schuester privately. What was she thinking?
"Mr. Schue, I can assure you, she completely misunderstood what I was trying to s-"
"I hadn't considered how uncomfortable it might make you," Mr. Schuester cuts in. "This club is about having fun first, and competition second, and we're not going to force anyone into doing something they don't want to. The solo is yours. We'll figure something out."
"Oh."
Rachel thanks him quietly, and hopes Quinn realizes that it's really for her.