Title: Four

Author: animatedbrowneyes

Pairings: Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

Disclaimer: Don't own Glee, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

Greetings! Thanks for the comments about my exams...they weren't fantastic but I think I passed. Hopefully. So, enjoy!


"Okay," Mr. Schue announced, as chatter in the room ceased gradually at the sound his voice. He brandished a stack of slips and beamed at the club. "Let's talk Sectionals."

"Here we go," Mike murmured in exasperation, and Rachel sighed quietly.

Mr. Schuester's practices were becoming increasingly frustrating by the day, and very time-consuming. Rachel was juggling schoolwork (which was simple, actually, with her intelligence), glee practice, extensive training, and being a perfect girlfriend, while managing to sneak in moments of 'bro-time' (Mike's words, not hers) with her best friend. Leroy wanted her to spend more time working out while Mike whined about weekend videogame competitions and Quinn questioned about private movie nights with her.

Rachel was letting a little too much pressure enter her schedule but she was determined to find some leeway in the hassle, sooner or later.

The director didn't hear the duo's disgruntlement as he passed out permission forms, eyes dancing with almost manic excitement.

"The competition is in two days. Is anyone nervous? Anxious? Panicky? Rachel, any asthma problems? Should I call Ms. Pillsbury? Or the nurse? Or Figgins? Or your dad?"

"Decaf," Mike proclaimed with a saccharine smirk, utilizing his new catchphrase. The others giggled in amusement as Mr. Schue frowned, looking insulted.

Rachel shifted in her seat, silently mortified that she almost forgotten about her false condition. Maybe Leroy was right—she was slipping.

"You guys, I personally haven't been to a Sectionals competition since my days in high school. I can't be happy for you?"

"Obsessed," Santana grumbled. "Happy doesn't begin to describe how insane, nitpicky, encouraging, and bubbly you've been, Mr. Schue. It's exhausting to look at you."

"We do need a day off," Rachel prompted, ulterior motive in place already, recalling an ad she found in Leroy's daily newspaper. "We haven't been able to relax."

Mr. Schue nodded absentmindedly, brows furrowing in thought. "I guess that's right...you know what? Take today off, and we'll go easy tomorrow, okay?"

The group muttered their appreciation grabbing their bags and Rachel nodded to Mike as he left, and the Loric girl waited for Quinn to finishing speaking with Brittany. Santana grew impatient and yanked Brittany away mid-sentence, and the couple watched Brittany wave cheerily as the door closed, and Quinn rolled her eyes, annoyed.

"She's such an asshat. I was actually having a very stimulating discussion about the merits of ducks and doves with Brittany."

"That must've been enlightening."

"It was. Did you know birds are usually monogamous?"

"I didn't know that, geek."

"Did you know a dove and a pigeon are exactly the same?"

"I did."

Quinn drew breath to speak again, and Rachel pressed her palm against Quinn's mouth, grinning.

"How about we skip this fantastically fascinating conversation about inconsequential, unimportant bird facts and instead get into your car and—"

"What are we doing in the car?" Quinn mumbled mischievously behind Rachel's fingers, wiggling her eyebrows in a suggestive fashion. Rachel giggled.

"Driving."

"What kind of driving? Because you can do a lot of things...in a car. With each other. To each other."

"Normal driving, Quinn. Focus. Let's also skip the homework, too and then you can follow my directions. We're going on a trip."


"Why are we in Akron?" Quinn questioned, peering at Rachel from the corner of her eye. "This 'trip' is getting stranger by the minute."

"It's a surprise."

"A surprise," the blonde mused, pretending to think about it. "You aren't a Mormon, clearly...I'm hoping you won't lead me to my doom with that cute little smile."

"Where did you get that idea?" Rachel joked, flashing her teeth.

"Your secretive nature and zero information on this trip...far, far away from home and safety," Quinn teased. "How am I supposed to not be suspicious?"

Rachel pouted, and pointed to the left, and Quinn pulled into a parking lot, and turned off the engine, sending a sidelong, quizzical glance at her girlfriend, expectant.

Rachel reached into the backseat, scavenging in her backpack for the brochure she got in the mail, and handed it to Quinn, who looked positively floored with amazement.

"I saw that this gallery was doing a tribute on Ansel Adams, and knowing that you are a connoisseur in his work and that he was a pioneer in photography, so I just—"

She really, really didn't expect Quinn's reaction, though she did not mind in the least, which was nothing short of unbuckling her seatbelt in two short seconds, lunging across the console with the agility of a cheetah, and attacking Rachel's lips with her own, practically pinning Rachel to the door, something she also didn't mind one bit. Rachel's hands ghosted along Quinn's waist as the other girl nearly sat on her lap, and Quinn leaned back slightly, breathing heavily and mouth widening into a beam.

"You didn't!"

"I...did?" Rachel answered, befuddled, trying to regain her breath and wondering at the same time how Quinn had managed to steal it from her lungs. "...right?"

"You're the best girlfriend ever," Quinn squealed delightedly, pecking Rachel's cheek and climbing back to her side of the car, leaving Rachel draped against the door, frozen.

Quinn shot Rachel a look when the brunette didn't move, trying not to laugh. Rachel wasn't even blinking, apparently still recovering from her Quinn-kiss-mauling.

"Come on, slowpoke! I don't want to miss this! Let's go!"

Rachel nodded blankly, fumbling for the car lock, nearly falling on the blacktop as she exited, silently grumbling that Quinn made her weaker than double training sessions.


"That was so perfect," Quinn swore, starry-eyed. "Did you see Branches in Snow and Winter Sunrise? Those are two of my all-time favorites already..."

"Yes," Rachel smiled adoringly, who'd actually spent the entire walk through the gallery looking at Quinn's awed expressions rather than the photographs, but didn't say so.

"I mean, this guy went through a lot," the blonde rambled, gesturing animatedly. "Forced homeschooling, no friends, illness, and he just produced all this...amazingness!"

Rachel's smile only widened, and she simply swung their joined hands in a longer arc, content to listen to her girlfriend's excitedly precious babbling.

She kept an eye on the stores, slyly leading them to a small shop she found online, while Quinn was totally oblivious, now dictating about the cons of street photography.

She planted her feet firmly on the ground, stilling Quinn's movement, and the ex-cheerleader halted in her tracks, tilting her head in confusion at the action.

"What's wrong?"

"Stay right here," Rachel ordered sternly, poking a finger at Quinn's nose, who swatted the brunette's hand away playfully. "I want to get something inside."

"It's an antique store."

"It is."

"So...old knickknacks tickle your fancy into a late-afernoon spending spree? Why am I not aware of this...ism?"

"No, and not exactly," Rachel answered, smiling warmly. "But I do need to get something in there. Would you mind waiting out here for me?"

"Why can't I see it?" Quinn grumbled, petulantly curious as she fixed her beret to its normal position over her ears.

"It's part of the surprise. Your surprise," Rachel insisted, standing a little higher on her toes and pressing a light kiss on Quinn's forehead. "Now, here. Aqui, por favor."

Quinn sulked and but acquiesced grudgingly, as Rachel ventured inside, greeting the shopkeeper with a polite nod. Quinn watched as he handed her a bag and then looked outside, spying Quinn and saying something to Rachel, who nodded again, grinning. The man laughed and Quinn's eyebrows rose as Rachel came back outside, holding the bag out for Quinn to take with a teasing, knowing beam and practically bounced in her sneakers in excitement while Quinn opened the gift, nearly dropping it in her haste.

"No way," Quinn breathed.

Her hands cradled an obsolete, delicately preserved press camera, dated back from the fifties. The metal saucer had been replaced, along with a new lightbulb, all attached to a single lens reflex category of the device. Inspecting the bag further, the blonde identified a few spare lenses, rolls of film, and a case to hold the camera for safekeeping.

Quinn gripped the handle and the opposite side with a look Rachel likened to fervent worship, and her heart swelled with pleasure.

"I've noticed the collection at your house was missing this iconic model," Rachel explained. "I thought you'd feel like a photographer straight out of the ages with this."

"This is unbelievable, Rachel," Quinn told her, gaze alight with grateful, endless admiration. She laughed a little at her awe, smiling buoyantly. "Where did you come from?"

Rachel blushed, offering a small shrug of nonchalance, avoiding the innocent, unintentionally sensitive query.

"I counted the trip as our first official date," the brunette proposed shyly after a quick beat. "Because we hadn't really gone out for something special like this as a couple."

"It is special," Quinn agreed honestly. "It's perfect. I've never been on one so great before."

"Glad I could share it with you," Rachel returned, as her smile took a teasing slant. "We should give you a fancy pseudonym, Ms. Photographer."

"Hmm," Quinn reflected, amused. "I've always liked the name 'Charlie'."

"Sounds like a real winner."


Rachel's hands turned over her phone in rigid rotations, eyes forever fixed on the small, digitized numbers revealing the current time, and staring as if she could conjure a text from Leroy with her brain. Sadly, she did not possess that Legacy, and was left instead to worry and fret at the lack of communication with her Cêpan, totaling two hours now. Leroy decided, without listening to her indignation, that the day of Sectionals would be the right time to investigate the They Walk Among Us website in Columbus. Taking his phone, a rifle ("for insurance," he insisted), and directions, the older Loric had driven away in their truck, leaving Rachel to wait for a ride from Quinn, free of ignoring the now absent police detail, personally removed by Russell and making Mr. Karofsky fracture his hand because he punched the wall so hard in his anger.

Granted, Leroy's voyage would take at least two hours anyhow, so Rachel's anxiety could be misplaced and just classified as errant uncertainty about her important solo.

Mr. Schue adamantly endorsed the use of Rachel's voice as the lead-in, ignoring Mercedes and Kurt's protests, while Rachel nodded absently the day before, consenting to it.

Unfortunately, Mr. Schue sank into lower approval from the club as Finn was the only available body to fill the twelfth spot, possibly by his own school-wide intimidation campaign. Needless to say, Rachel was a melting pot of heightening distress, subdued anger, and simple nervousness, making her stomach churn with fiery trepidation.

A source of her ire was Finn's grand apology, which included a shrug and an indifferent sorry, hands in his pockets as he looked at Quinn rather than Rachel. Typical.

Quinn was apoplectic, and threatened to quit (Santana, Mike, Brittany, Puck, and Matt at the same time) to Mr. Schue's alarm, but Rachel's murmured request stopped any resignations, quietly asking if everyone could stay so they could win and watch her solo. Unwillingly, with a dark sigh, (Quinn), shaken, enraged fists (Santana), loud swears (Puck), louder swears (Mike), an eye roll (Matt) and a pout (Brittany), Rachel managed to keep the club in one, countable piece and saving Mr. Schue from a panic attack.

A supportive Ms. Pillsbury tagged along with the group, and Rachel watched the redhead whisper with the glee director, both wearing identical smiles and shining eyes.

Rachel let her forehead rest on the aged leather of the bus, listening with adept ears to the almost soothing din of the rattling axles and revolving tires on the bumpy road.

"Feeling alright?"

Quinn's palm pressed flat on Rachel's back, playing a small, thoughtless drumbeat with her fingertips. Rachel sighed.

"Yes. Only nervous," she replied, half-heartedly scolding herself internally about the umpteenth incomplete truth to Quinn. "I have a big responsibility to achieve."

"You'll be amazing," Quinn promised earnestly. "I know it. We've all heard you sing, but the audience and the judges haven't yet. Once you start, we'll have it on the spot."

"I hope you're right," Rachel mumbled, surreptitiously checking her phone. No messages. Leroy never left her out of the loop like this. Where would he be?

Mogadorians must have him. Leroy could wriggle out of anything else. Mogadorians were an entirely different story. Last time she checked, no one lived after meeting them.

"Here we are," Mr. Schue declared as the bus reached Dalton Academy, where the competition would be held between New Directions, Haverbrook, and Jane Addams.

The group filed off the bus, meeting Mike, Puck, and Matt, who drove Mike's (father's) truck to Westerville instead, citing themselves to be too cool for a lousy school bus. Mr. Schuester, clad in a suit and nearly skipping with merriment, lead the club inside and instructed them to go to the green room, where they would wait for their turn. Jane Addams was first, and Haverbrook's director had loudly insisted that his group be second, for 'fairness'. Not wanting to earn a lawsuit of some kind, the judges allowed it.

Rachel eyed the filling auditorium with another swing in the gut of unease, and ambled leisurely behind the others, bumping shoulders with a random boy on her way.

"Sorry," she offered absently.

The boy brushed his jacket, annoyed with both her accidental push and her presence, looking straight through her and nodding, and strode after his father without a word.

Opening the door and sidestepping Matt, Rachel found a seat on the couch with Quinn, where the assembly of glee members was silent.

The waiting game begins, Rachel thought, allowing her fingers to intertwine with Quinn's, squeezing back when the blonde did.


The others were relaxing as the performances started, announcing their pleased relief that Santana had caught wind of Sue's plan to make New Directions lose at Sectionals by giving the pair of rivals their setlist. Rachel remembered Santana's smugness upon the reveal, which had launched the club into action instead of turmoil due to the early notice, and they had complied another, secret setlist to debut at the very last minute, too late for Sue, Mr. Rumba, or Ms. Hitchens to change their nefarious, illegal plans.

Mr. Schue was confident enough to say he could bet on their victory and win big, with only a small chance of a pity vote from the judges to shift the wide odds.

They listened to Jane Addams drawl Proud Mary and then Haverbrook croak the same, both teams copying the dance routine, then two more New Directions songs.

Rachel felt her worry begin to lessen infinitesimally at the obviously pathetic mimicry of their talent and effort that would be poorly observed, but on the other hand...

Leroy was MIA. Still. The gap between their last conversation was now nearing three hours, more than enough for Leroy to have typed a quick, cursory text of his arrival.

Rachel's panic was making her limbs antsy and restless, and she sat up to pace, lip caught between her teeth and hands curling and rising to form a wringing, anxious knot.

"Rachel," Mr. Schue addressed suddenly in concern, all eyes flickering to her and her pacing stops, back and forth like a tennis match. "Are you okay?"

"Nervous," she ground out, experiencing a shiver of an unknown, nearly tangible sensation of fear. The feeling made her fingers twitch and her head to pound roughly.

"Is she having an asthma attack?" Kurt wondered skeptically. Finn, silent—Mr. Schue warned him of speaking aloud to anyone—just appraised at her in inquiry.

"I'm fine," Rachel snapped, and Mercedes muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "divatude" before wilting at intensely touchy glares from Quinn and Mike.

Meanwhile, the Loric teenager couldn't differentiate from stage fright to worrying about Leroy or the new, invisible jitters that were making her bones shudder with stress.

On the loudspeaker, the crowd was clapping for Haverbrook, and there would be a ten minute intermission that would precede New Directions.

Rachel exhaled slowly, struggling to force calmness into her system. Scrutinizing her cell phone, she found it devoid of a notification of any kind. Her headache twinged stronger than before at the realization, and felt her heartbeat hammer harder. Her gaze found a reflection of herself in a full-size mirror; she was pale and ghastly looking.

The interim between the intermission and her solo was dwindling at an agonizing stretch, giving time for her headache and pulse to gather immense pressure and speed.

What was wrong with her?

She blinked, feeling Quinn tilt her chin up, making the brunette meet her eyes. Rachel watched Quinn's lips move before she remembered she should be listening to them.

"...okay? Mr. Schue says you look awful, Rach. I don't think you should go on like this either..."

"I'm fine," Rachel interrupted resolutely, shaking her head and suppressing a grimace. "I'm okay. Is it time for me to go yet?"

Quinn's eyes bored into hers and Rachel concentrated on holding them, pouring her best manufactured sincerity and creating a truthful demeanor at the same time.

"Yes," Quinn answered finally, stepping aside to let Rachel pass, and Mike patted what of Rachel's arm that he could reach as she walked past, looking uncertain as she left.

"Good luck!" Mr. Schue called encouragingly, but Rachel disappeared without acknowledging it, leaning the door ajar.

Quinn sighed, concern modifying her face into doubt as the first jumps of the trumpets and violins drifted through the speakers, followed by a melodious, familiar voice.

She couldn't suppress the proud grin, nor could Mike stop his smile, and the rest of the club couldn't remove the satisfied looks from their features as they filed outside.

"Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter. Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter..."


She was in control again. Enough control, at least.

Rachel, somehow, perhaps with a stroke of luck, or an extreme perseverance to feel better about something today, but she had managed to nudge her nervous energy into a conducive, workable vehemence that reflected into her voice. She had ripped open the curtains with an impassioned vivacity that hid the hodgepodge of emotions she was feeling and instead produced a vibrant, fierce figure, belting a song she admired as she strutted down the aisle, drawing reverent stares and a hushed, astonished audience.

She built up air in her lungs, transforming majestically in her task as she smiled at her spectators, interacting with them and pirouetting occasionally with a twirl of her arms. She paused by Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury, seated with proud, dazzled expressions as they gazed at her, and she moved on with an effortless grace. Rachel's path went backwards a few strides before she whirled around, smile becoming a determined set of her lips as her voice continued to rise with the lifting crescendo of the tune.

"...ooh, life is juicy, juicy, and I've gotta have my bite, sir!"

She reached the stage as her words grew in pitch and intensity, with the band picked up speed along with her, and her heart jumped into a quicker pace as her fellow singers appeared, Finn and Brittany in the lead, spotlights illuminating their beams and matching black outfits with flares of red. They assembled behind her in silence.

Her breaths became shorter and shorter as Rachel drew in power to belt the final verse, arms raising higher in tandem with her voice, and suddenly, her fears came alive.

The ascending of her hands into the heavens as she intoned her solo unexpectedly pressured her brain into an uncomfortably, restored headache, which prompted the difficultly suppressed shivers of fear, also reawakening the tangibly substantial anxiety, making it surround her body like a corporeal cage of disjointed, muted pain.

Her hands shook with a strange power as she forced out the last words with a furious shout. In the distance, her ears heard the groaning of pipes, as if being ripped apart.

Overhead, the stage supports trembled and creaked, and as her fingers moved slightly, the noises grew in volume. The lights flickered a bit, but no one noticed.

"My heart's a drummer. Nobody, no, nobody is gonna rain on my parade!"

She hitched a tight smile on her face to the roaring applause, and sensing Quinn's pride, flung her hand back and forcibly grinned: "Ladies and gentleman, New Directions!"

As they organized themselves to sing their next number, Rachel knew in an instant what Legacythe nervousness and terror and eddy of subtle painshe had received.

Telekinesis, the one all Loric children in the Garde gained when they were matured and ready, and Leroy was not there to help her.


"That was unreal," Puck yelled, when they escaped the auditorium, Artie holding the first-place trophy on his lap, as the others were giddy with an excited, frenzied fever.

"I'm so proud of all of you," Mr. Schue announced, hugging Ms. Pillsbury and then a nearby Mercedes and Brittany in his eagerness.

"Glad I could make it," Finn murmured, almost surprised, to himself, although only Rachel to hear it.

Rachel's attention was on her phone, and her dismay and fear mounted to cataclysmic proportions when she saw she had no messages nor missed calls from her Cêpan.

Mr. Schue steered them into a pizza place to celebrate, and Rachel excused herself to the bathroom, locking the door behind her after checking she was completely alone.

Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, Rachel extended her hand forward, and concentrated on the spiraling, almost uncontrollable unease fogging up her brain.

The handsoap on the counter shuddered in its place, and Rachel's lips pursed into a hard line. The container rose, hovering placidly in the air as if hung by invisible string.

Manipulating the flux of unstable emotions she was struggling to freeze, she rotated her hand, making the handsoap turned counterclockwise, spinning in a lazy circle.

Great. Telekinesis...moderately in the bag. That's one thing she didn't really have to worry about. Damn it, Leroy was right again. She was a worrier.

She set it down, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes stared into her own reflection, forcing herself to think. Westerville was only about a half hour drive to Columbus. She could theoretically go there, find Leroy, but...how to explain that? Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury wouldn't let a minor walk around in a foreign place without a parent. How could she leave without—Mike! Mike had a truck! He could drive her. Rachel's hands gripped the counter in frustration. She'd have to explain the reason for the trip. Why waste gas on a short trip to see her father, who had his own truck? Besides Mike being her best friend, she couldn't just leave him in the dark about something like this.

She needed help. Mike was her only nearby, logical assistance, and to save Leroy, she'd have to break one of the cardinal rules—tell him the truth.

The real truth: her secret, the Mogadorians, her Legacies, the clues about his father's disappearance...the list was endless, and extremely dangerous to even consider.

Honesty was never her strong suit. She was accustomed to lying—it was second nature. She'd have to really sell it to Mike; he'd never believe her if she couldn't be serious.

Splashing water on her face to regain her composure, Rachel drew in a giant breath and walked outside, where Mike was in line with the others to buy sodas.

"Mike," she muttered, grabbing his elbow and pulling him from the chattering group. "I need your help."

"Sure, Superstar," he grinned, still in an energized buzz about the New Directions victory. "What's up?"

"We need to use your car," Rachel told him, and Mike's smile faded a little, brow creasing in subdued concern. "You and I need to leave."

"What's up?" He repeated, his tone void of humor and filling with uncertainty. "We just got here, Rach..."

"It's my dad," she whispered. "I think he's in trouble."

Mike's expression was a mix—disbelief, unease, vexed, hesitant, curious—before he settled on vacantly impassive. "What do you mean?"

Rachel bit her lip, glancing down at her flats before looking up at him with a pleading, unhappy gaze as she barely breathed: "I can explain it outside."

Mike let the words sink in, torn between trusting her implicitly and questioning if this was an intricate prank, but he simply sighed and nodded in defeat.

"Hey, Mr. Schue?" Mike called, turning halfway from her and to the group finding a table. "Rachel and I are gonna get some air on the curb. It's a little hot in here."

"It's December," Kurt offered suspiciously. "Of course it's hot in here."

Quinn rose to help, but Santana clamped a hand on her wrist and hissed something about being too clingy and the blonde settled, looking perturbed. Rachel felt guilty.

"Don't go too far," Mr. Schue replied obliviously. "Come back in a few, okay?"

Mike nodded and followed the Loric girl outside, they traipsed to a dimly lit alley beside the pizza shop, shivering a little in the cold. Rachel looked up at Mike, almost sadly.

"I can't allow you to overreact. Please, promise me, Mike. You're the only one I can trust right now and I need you to be calm for this."

"I won't," Mike vowed automatically, confused. "Overreact about what, by the way? What the hell is going on? You aren't making sense."

Rachel's eyes were imploring now as she exhaled shakily before extending her palms in his direction, watching the vibrantly indigo gleam begin to illuminate the night.

She'd never shown a human her power before. The sight of a pair of hands with a luminous, sapphire tinge would certainly be a rare occurrence indeed.

Mike sputtered in alarm, stumbling backwards into the brick wall, gaze stricken and mouth gaping soundlessly in open terror and extreme bafflement.

He'll be trying to find a solution, Rachel mused. Something to explain what his eyes see and his brain refuses to acknowledge.

Rachel extinguished the glow and stared at him beseechingly, close to hopeless tears—how was this a good idea, she wondered—and stepped closer, only for Mike to flinch.

"Just...just, just," Mike stammered wildly. "S-st-stay over there. I...I'm...I need to...process this," he added hoarsely, gawking at her. "Rachel, what...how is this possible?"

Shit, shit, shit.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Concurrently to their conversation, Rachel ran a colorful monologue of angry swears in her head, trying to collect herself. Mike's reactions were making her too anxious.

"It's not a joke," Rachel countered instead, feebly. "It's real. I can do this on command, Mike. I'm not like you."

"Not like me?" He repeated, finding his footing and standing close to the wall, still reflexively skittish of her. "What does that mean?"

"I will tell you," she hedged. "But what I can promise you is that I am not making fun of you. This isn't a prank. It's me. I'm different. I'm not from Lima...or anywhere."

"Anywhere?" Mike inquired, playing nervously with his red tie, dragging his fingernails through his scalp in quelled agitation. "Please...Rachel. Explain yourself."

"Do you remember...when you told me all of those conspiracy theories?" Rachel asked. "And about your father? Do you remember the hayride?"

"Conspiracy theories?" Mike echoed. "Yeah, of..." His brow wrinkled in realization, jaw setting and Rachel could hear his chest tighten. "...course. The alien theories."

"Yes."

Mike didn't answer, but his eyes flashed with increasing rage, cheeks flushing with blood at the emotion. "Rachel...why would you say that?"

"This isn't a prank," Rachel insisted firmly. "Mike, would you like me to say it?"

"Say what?" Mike sneered, a nasty laugh escaping his mouth. "An alien? That's hilarious, Rachel. I thought we were cool. I didn't know you were an asshole."

His movements indicated his indignantly furious desire to go, and when he moved, Rachel rushed forward, fingers gripping his shirt collar and lifting him two feet in the air.

"What..." Mike gasped, hands wrapping futilely, desperately, around her wrist as she held him upright, a feat that looked impossible in terms of their weight and strengths.

"If I can't say it," Rachel hissed, watching Mike's pupils dilate in unholy fright, "than I can prove it. Do you want me to break your arm? Or your fingers? I can, you know."

"Like you broke Karofsky's jaw?" Mike squeaked, shoes wiggling helplessly in the air below his legs.

Girl and boy, the alien keeping the human aloft against the wall, was certainly an odd sight. Rachel chuckled darkly.

"Exactly," she replied, expression morphing into a terrible glower. "You don't want me angry, Mike. That wasn't even my full strength. And this? No sweat at all."

"Cool," Mike squawked, voice quavering with fear. "I believe you. I swear."

"I'll let you down in a second," the Loric teenager vowed as her eyes softened into expressive pools of sorrow and hurt. "I thought you were different, Mike. I thought you would be one of the few I would tell that wouldn't react like this," Rachel admitted, sounding as if she was suppressing heavy tears. "I didn't think you were the asshole."

"Rachel," Mike mumbled sheepishly, remorseful. "I didn't—"

"I understand," Rachel acquiesced, releasing her grip gently, allowing him to land safely on his feet. "I just wished I could count on you...but, please, just don't tell anyone."

"I'll help you," Mike pledged, disagreeing with her. "I will, and just look at that stupid moment as a dick move, okay? It was kinda necessary. I was freaking out on you."

Rachel stared at the dancer in utter confusion, head tilting to the side as she examined his face in silence.

"Didn't you hear me? I'll help you," Mike insisted sternly. "I'm cool now. It's...weird. You gotta know that. I've just...you're an alien. This shit doesn't happen in real life."

He dragged a hand across his face, as if pulling himself from a dream and into reality, only to realize it was undeniable; she wasn't human and telling the truth about it.

"It is real life," Rachel smiled humorlessly. "This is my life. You and Quinn and the others are just caught in it...on my mistake."

Mike scrutinized her closely before clearing his throat.

"What's the plan?" He asked, jumping right to issue at hand. "You needed my truck, right? What's going with your dad? Is he in trouble or something?"

"I believe he's been kidnapped," Rachel answered softly, and sucked in a breath of courage before adding regretfully, "by the same people who kidnapped your father."


I'm still reeling from Glee. Anyone else? And honestly, how the (excuse my language) fuck are we supposed to ship Finchel?

I cannot and will not get over it. Any other ship in the fandom is okay, except this one. I refuse to like it. Rachel needs better.

Sorry for the babble. Hope this chapter was enjoyed. :)