Wings

It's dark when I arrive at my new house. Since no one I know lives in Lima, I have to take a cab at night all the way here, where he let me out in front of an unexpectedly large house.

Are you serious? "What a waste of space," I mutter under my breath, looking at the mansion standing in front of me. I don't know why the Network gave me a mansion to live in alone. If they're trying to emphasize solitude, mission accomplished.

"Thank you," I tell the cab driver, handing him tightly folded bills from my wallet. He gets out to pull out my one duffel bag from the trunk. Judy didn't send me off with too many things; she said everything is already there. "It's all taken care of." I'm starting to hate that sentence.

The best thing I see is the new car parked in the driveway. A white car, almost too sporty for this town, but perfect for my SoCal taste. I look back down at my wallet. I even have a new driver's license with a new name. My name is Quinn Fabray. Quinn Fabray, living in Lima, Ohio.

Lima, Ohio. Who would have thought I'd end up here? This is no Los Angeles.

I slide my key into the lock and venture in.

It's nice. I mean, really, really nice. I think the closest I've seen is something from that E! Entertainment show about celebrity homes. As soon as I step in the doorway, I'm in a large circular room, one with a spiraling staircase that leads to a second floor and wraps around a chandelier. Dark cherrywood floors, mahogany railings, red Persian rugs that line the cold hardwood floors. The Network sure weren't stingy about their assignments.

At the top of the stairs, there was a hallway of rooms but I'm sure the last one is mine. I open the door to find a wide room, possibly the span of the whole house. Large windows from the high ceilings to the floor, no desk but one king-sized bed, draped with dark red sheets and comforter.

A small card is perched on the pillow and I recognize Judy's loopy cursive. I drop my bags, grab the card, and stretch across the huge bed. Even so, I only take up maybe a sixth of the space. Probably less.

Quinn,

I thought you'd like this house. You will be starting at William McKinley High School this week. Everything has been transferred over. The directions are already put in the GPS of your new car. Keys on the table.

I checked the roster of students for you. There's only one Santana at the school. Santana Lopez.

I suggest you work on Divinity on your spare time. You don't know when you'll need it.

Judy.

I groan. Divinity is what I think Buddhists call Nirvana, that mental state of pure peace and light. Even though I've practiced for so long, it's still hard to get there without purpose. It's supposed to serve a function against the dark but no one ever quite explained how or what that even means. But I haven't tried since my purpose has been getting stronger so maybe, it won't be so bad.

But then again, Judy said learning to use my wings wouldn't be hard either and that was hard.

Wings, I know. Practically an angel cliché but at least, we know that the churches got that right.

Alone in my house, I let them out, stretching them as far as I can, which is about twice the length of my body. I'm not sure where they go when I tuck them inward because there is no way that my entire wingspan can fit inside my body with all my organs and muscles. There's a dimension of the mind where our wings can fold into, out of place but not out of mind.

My feathers feel soft under my fingers, soft as they were when I first received them at ten years old. It's as much a part of me as my arms and legs. I once plucked a feather and my eyes immediately teared up at the sting. These feathers are part of our design, meant to stay with us; to lose a feather is painful as losing our identity which is as painful as losing an arm.

Judy's wings were white as newly fallen snow but mine are a shade darker. She told me the tone of our wings reflects where we stand in the light, which, in turn, is determined by where we are in the path of our purpose. I can't say that I've always been on the path, which probably explains why my wings, as white as they are, have a hint of grey. I'm sure my reluctance to come to Lima, to leave behind Emma and my life in Los Angeles, probably contributed.

But there are those who have turned away from their purpose altogether. Their wings have changed from the feathery spans to wiry, skeletal wings, black as night. Judy says if you fall towards the dark, your feathers slowly turn black until every feather is dark as night. And then they blow away one by one, until all there is left is the skeleton of your wings as a reminder of who you stand with now, the Fallen.

If it sounds creepy, that's because it is.

"Are you kidding me, Judy," I mutter under my breath. I remember I said the classes were getting too easy but did she really have to sign me up for college-level contemporary literature? I meant that I should be able to bypass high school altogether, not sign up for a heavier load.

William McKinley isn't huge or anything but it's definitely set-up differently from my old high school. I can't seem to even find my first class of the day.

Just as I squint to look at the small printed number besides a locker, trying to find mine, a burly boy in a red letterman jacket barrels straight into me. He guffaws with laughter, punching his friends as they walked down, not even taking a second look at me. I, on the other hand, have dropped six books, a binder, and papers.

Point: jocks.

"Do you need help?" A hand reaches down to grab some of my books.

"Thanks," I mutter, gathering the pile of dropped materials into a messy pile. When I glance up, I find a wide-eyed, smiling blonde. Brittany. As I take the books from her hands, I say, "Thanks, Brittany."

Crap. She looks confused, the sweetness leaving only bewilderment on her face. Like this, she looks like a lost doe.

"How do you know my name?"

"Uh…." Angel or not, I blank. You would think I get some Divine answers once in awhile to compensate for my random spurts of blanks but nope, that's not included in the plan. "Someone pointed you out earlier to me?" Even though the statement comes out more like a question than an answer, Brittany seems appeased by this answer and reaches out for the paper in my hand.

"Here," she smiles sweetly, scanning the paper. "I'll take you to your locker and point you in the direction of the classroom, at least."

"Um, thanks," I accept hesitatingly. Maybe being friendly is normal in Lima, Ohio but in Los Angeles, this is suspicious. They're either crazy or trying to rob you. Or both. Still, the way she bounces when she walks and the fact that we're surrounded by people, coupled with my desperation, persuades me that she will neither be publicly psychotic or try to rob me. I mean, who is publicly going to rob someone? Still, I can't help ask, "Why are you being nice to me?" Subtext: what do you want…?

She shrugs nonchalantly, "My best friend was the first person to talk to me and she was nice to me. It's rough being new." Brittany glances down to double-check the number and smiles brightly. "You have the locker next to Tana," she squeals, delighted with this new fact. "We'll see each other a lot then!"

As we approach the locker, she gabs happily about the cheerleader squad she's on, how her best friend is so good at everything and I should really join "Cheerios," too, because they kicked out a girl named Riley recently so they need another girl. I think she's talking about cereal until she points to her own letterman jacket with "Cheerios" printed on the back and I realize it's the cheerleading squad she's on. I don't know how to tell her that I'm sure cheerleading is the opposite of what I want to do, which is find the drama club and choir.

"Here's your locker!" She bubbles happily. "Your classroom is that way," Brittany points to a direction behind me. "Up the stairs, third door to your left."

"Thanks, Brittany," I sigh, relieved that some kind soul reached out to me.

"Heyyyyy," a boy's voice drawls from behind Brittany. "Bringing in fresh meat for me, I see, Britts." A boy in a similar letterman jacket, sporting a mohawk, winks at me. I try my best not to hurl. "Name's Puckerman, though the ladies call me Puck."

He winks, knowing he's good-looking. And I'll admit it, he has some bad-ass look to him that may be attractive to some. But I still taste mango lip balm and when I close my eyes, I see Emma. So it just makes me furious that this boy thinks he can get anything from me, let alone be meat to him.

"Well, Puck, why don't you scamper off to comb your nineties, wanna-be mohawk?" I scowl at him, razors in my voice. He scowls right back, but with a flirtatious undertone which only pisses me off. "And upgrade your pick-up lines." Okay, not my finest moment as an angel but it was satisfying as scratching an itch.

His ego is bruised, I can feel it at the edge of my consciousness. I normally don't try to be empathetic; we're sensitive to emotions but it seems I have a hyper-sensitivity to it. It's not mind-reading but I'll feel what other people feel, not as strongly if I try to block it off, which is what I try to do most of the time. Imagine walking down Sunset Blvd with a hundred petty emotions coursing through your mind, none of which actually apply to you. That's me, all the time, if I don't try stemming it. But in this case, I made an exception to feel the sting my insults.

And that's when I hear it.

A laugh. My heart beats like it's trying to get out of my chest. She's here.

When I turn, I see Santana, her lips closing from the laughter that slipped out of her mouth. She's more striking in person, you know, without all the haze of a flash. Her dark hair is pulled tightly into a ponytail, her dark eyes in a steady glare. Under the tight red Cheerio uniform, I can see almost every rivet of her body, the curves and dips. Stop objectifying your purpose, I scream at myself. She's smirking in the direction of Puck sulking away, his ego bruised. Even her smirk looks beautiful in a way that only things that look effortless can be.

Okay, good, a laugh. "I'm Quinn," I reach out a hand. She looks at the hand and then back at me, carefully watching me as she opens her locker and slowly pulls out a book. Her eyes narrow into a suspicious glare just before she walks away. Or not…

Brittany waggles her fingers before bouncing towards Santana. "Bye, Quinn!"

So… I guess my purpose isn't a friendly one.

TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET.

The PE teacher blows her whistle. "Fabray! Get over here! Come on, sprint!"

Seriously, lady? You just made me run three miles and you want me to sprint!? She must be a sadist.

I pant as I get to her, even though it wasn't so strenuous of a run, but I hear that's what humans feel like after three miles. So I pant like I just ran three miles as a human.

"You ever do sports?"

"Um, not really," I answer, thinking about how dancing in the school play was about the closest I got to sports. Running with Emma was a private pleasure, not a public sports match. "I was more of a drama club, choir girl."

The teacher flashes me a grin, like he's laughing at me. "Okay, I think you should go for Cheerios. They just opened up a spot and Sue Sylvester has been hounding me for a girl to take that spots." I must have looked confused because he explained, "They need an even number for their nationals competition. Trust me, you want to be on it."

Cheerios. The thing that Santana is on. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing to be closer to my purpose.

"Erm, okay," I don't really know how to reply. "What do I do?"

"You don't. I just have to tell her. You be there at Cheerio practice tomorrow morning. Upper soccer field, 6am."

What. I swallow down my disbelief. "Um, okay."

So it comes with the territory of angeldom. We do as we are beckoned, even if it means I have to get up at an ungodly hour to do flips and jumps for jocks. We have free will, thank God, and such but our greatest fulfillment comes from serving our purpose so most of us choose to do that. Of course, if we don't, it begins a ripple effect, starting with the feathers of our wings.

But I see Santana's glare in my mind and I don't really know how I'm supposed to help her.

"How was it?" Judy wanted to hear about my first day of school. Specifically of Santana Lopez.

"I met her," I spoke into the phone while flipping through a take-out menu. "She's not…as sweet as I imagined."

"Well, our purposes may be resistant but you need to stay strong," she tells me. "You never know how you may end up helping her, Quinn."

My new name feels uncomfortable in her voice, enough to make me squirm. "I don't know, I heard a lot about her from the kids who don't treat me like a leper. She doesn't have the best reputation, you know. It's like she's some human repellant. But scary. Think repellant that can kill you. That's the impression of Santana Lopez, I'm getting."

Judy laughs. "Sounds like you have an adventure in your hands."

More like a nuisance. I grunt something in reply.

"So are you doing okay there? They set you up okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine," I mumble into the phone. Sometimes, Judy is more mother than mentor. "Anyway, I should go. I'm going to make some salad. There's just no restaurant in this town worth order from."

"Okay, make sure you're wary and cautious, Q," she says clearly into the phone, leaving me with more vague and cryptic messages than ever. "I mean it."

The phone beeps with another line. I glance down and see the freckle-face of my best friend. Emma.

"I will, Judy," I reply distractedly. "Bye."

Beep. Beep.

I haven't talked to Emma since I left, since the last thing we shared was a coffee-tinted kiss, unexpected for both of us, I presume. My finger hovers over the answer button and in a moment of courage, I press it.

"Hello?"

"Are you sleeping already? I didn't wake you, did I? I'm never going to get this time difference thing down," her voice rushes through the phone, a flood of words without the pause to let me answer. I feel her nervousness hit me through her voice. In these moments, I can be grateful for my empathy. At least, we know it's a mutual nervousness.

I laugh. "Emma, it's only nine here."

I hear her breath a sigh of relief and smile into the phone. "I don't know, maybe you changed into a grandma since I last saw you and started sleeping at nine. Who knows what living in Ohio will do to you?"

"It's interesting here," I retort. It must have sounded just as unconvincing to her as it did to my own ears because she laughs like she knows I'm lying.

"How are the people?"

"Mmmm," I hum as I reconsider the people I met today. "They seem… kind of normal. I met a few people today. I'm joining the cheerleading squad, I think."

"Really?" Emma sounds puzzled. "You never were into that stuff before. You always said that jock-cheerleader stuff was for insecure people who'd never accomplish anything out of high school."

"What are you, taking notes on what I say somewhere?" It's crazy and slightly inconvenient how closely Emma listens to what I say sometimes. How do I explain this change in behavior? I can't quite tell her, oh yeah, the girl I moved here for is a cheerleader so I thought I'd stalk her a little bit. Nope, that wouldn't go over well. "Bt I figure it's worth looking into since it's kind of what everyone here is all about."

Emma doesn't want to make me uncomfortable, I can tell. "Erm, okay, let me know how it goes."

I hear a soft flutter of wings near one of the windows. With the phone pressed to my ear, I peer outside, only to find a white butterfly, perched on the windowsill. A sign.

"Hey, Emma?"

"Hmm?"

"I have to go but I'll talk to you tomorrow?" I'm distracted but not distracted enough to make the small request that she calls me back. It hurts to have to say goodbye. The ache alone is enough to make me want to fly back to Los Angeles, with my own wings if I have to.

"I'll call you," she promises. In three words, I felt all the resentment that goes against the design of my nature direct towards that dark-haired cheerleader who glares at me, who made me start a whole new life. It's not like I even wanted to move here. I move towards the window as I hear Emma hang up.

The window makes no noise as I lift it to let the butterfly in. It flits onto my finger and lets me bring it in. Saint Augustine once wrote that angels are spirits. That's not to say that spirits are angels; we are spirits who become angels when we are sent with a purpose. It is the title of our office, not our nature. Our nature is spirit. Our purpose is Angelic.

So it makes sense that butterflies are our kindred spirits. They know what is to be a spirit more than any other; butterflies have a spirit to be able to shed one body and form another. Most animals grow but in the end, they look sort of the same, just bigger. Butterflies, however, become a completely different creature when they are called to transform. We share this quality with them; we become completely different, maybe not physically, when we receive our purpose, our calling. You can practically find another of our kind by observing the direction of butterflies. They naturally gravitate to us like lonely creatures who find us to be their friends, which, I guess, in a way, we are.

But more often than not, they are a sign. Judy told me to take notes of when a butterfly appears to me because it is a message, a divine form of communication. They tell us, You are well. You are good. It is meant to be and it will be taken care of.

Any uncertainty I felt about being in Lima, any resentment for Santana, all those doubts and fears vanishes. I'm supposed to be here for Santana, I know it.

I summon my own wings, a sudden flash of feathers drawn out; it's a sign of respect. I'm responding to the universe, to God: I'm here and I'm ready.

"You're early, I like that." Coach Sylvester slowly surveys me through her narrowed eyes, like she's trying to determine if I'm worth a cheerleader uniform.

"Well, early is on time," I reply smartly, a hint of sass in my voice. I'm daring her to not take me.

She purses her lips before making a decisive lip-smacking choice: "Uniform is in the locker room. Practice is until your first period and again after school. The boys practice football on the same field but don't get any ideas about being distracted; we are champions. You do not eat carbs past afternoon. I will not have my Cheerios blemished because some California girl decides to change it."

Wow, this would never fly in California. A health specialist would kick any eating-disorder-supporting teacher out before you can say "vomit".

"I eat what I want," I retort, practically asking to get kicked off the team. But apparently, this is a good response because she gives an approving nod and jerks her head towards the locker room. I'm dismissed to try on my new uniform, resulting in me leaving with the thought that people here are weird.

As I start peeling off my own jeans and shirt, I sense someone coming in, their consciousness suddenly in the vicinity of my own. Without a shirt and pants, I see Brittany coming in, bouncing lightly in her happy way. When she catches sight of me and the uniform I'm holding in my hands, she squeals and tumbles into me in a hug. I smile, reminded of Emma and how she hugged me.

"I knew you'd be here! I knew it! I thought that you would when I saw you yesterday and I just knew you were one of us," Brittany grinned happily. "We're Cheerios together!"

I smile back, just slightly uncomfortable by the fact that I was letting Brittany hug me while I has still half-naked. Brittany turns away to walk to her own gym locker, letting me slip into my uniform. It's stiff and tight, uncomfortable in a way that only high school can make it. Sounds much like the high school experience, in general. The skirt is short, showing way too much of my legs than I'm comfortable with, and the black spanks underneath might as well be underwear. This is going to take some getting used to.

I walk over to the mirror, smoothing out the skirt in the reflection. I look up at the reflection of the door behind me when I hear the swoosh of a swinging door and see Santana stepping through. She looks straight at me with a forceful gaze when…

I'm looking straight at Santana, who is cowering from something behind me. For the first time, I see how vulnerable she is, despite her impression at school. And we're definitely not at school anymore. In fact, I'm not even sure where we are.

Something swings at Santana and misses. She takes advantage of the moment and shoots out from under and runs. I can't see any of our surroundings but I'm running next to her. "Go," I urge, even though I know she can't hear me. I feel her fear, absolutely paralyzing.

Someone's arm shoots out and grabs her, yanking her back.

A hand is waving over my face. Everything slowly starts coming into focus and I realize I'm looking at… the ceiling?

"Are you okay," Brittany's face pops over mine, her question in her eyes. She's waving her hand over my face like she's fanning it.

"Um, yeah, must be dehydrated or something," I lie unconvincingly for the second time in two days. I sit back up and lean against the locker. When I look over at Santana, I can't quite read the expression on her face. What are you thinking? Okay, for the record, it goes against all my morals to peer into someone's mind but I had to. I lowered the boundaries of my consciousness and let myself feel what she felt.

Torn. She feels torn.

She wanted to reach out to me. Her natural instinct was to catch me. And that unnerved her because she never really cared about anyone besides Brittany, who was like her sister. I saw what I looked like through her eyes: someone she wanted to care about. I have no idea why and apparently, neither did she.

But she also had a reputation, one she worked hard to build and it was the bad-ass, heartless bitch of Lima Heights. She wasn't going to let some stupid girl melt the ice castle she called her heart. I don't think she realized it already melted.

So she froze on the spot, unsure of how to respond.

I realized I had been staring at her, struggling to stem the flood of emotions barreling through the small connection. At the same time, I'm trying to piece together what I just saw.

She must have realized it, too, because she blinked and snapped, "What, sunshine?" I cringe at the malice she managed to load into a seemingly innocent word, sunshine.

I could almost see her smack herself mentally for not coming up with a better insult. Really, Sunshine for a girl from California? Not too insulting but I don't snap back with anything.

"Nothing," I responded quietly. "I just thought we're going to be late for practice."

She nodded curtly before spinning on her heel and leaving.

I wanted to reach out to her, ask her why someone is going to hit her. Are you okay, I settle for silently asking in my mind. With every heartbeat, I ached for her, wanting to draw her into the comfort and safety of my wings and protect her. I suppose this instinct is only going to get stronger as the time draws near.

"Are… you…. kidding me…" Santana pants as she flops onto the grassy field, having just finished up her fifth mile. She doesn't even seem to mind that I'm the one listening.

I grin, "It's not so bad, Santana."

She glares at me in response. But it's not an unfriendly glare. It's teasing, almost like she's making fun of me but in a friend-ish way.

Maybe it's just wishful thinking. I sit up, looking over to the football players as I lean back against my propped arms.

God, they must lose an IQ point every other day, I think as I watch the boys crash into each other, helmet against helmet, shoulder against shoulder. I feel bad, wishing that they had more to offer than just the physical barreling of their huge bodies. Unpleasant crunching noises echo loudly, the soundtrack to the Cheerios who are still running. Which are all the Cheerios except me and Santana. It's impressive how close of a second place Santana came running in.

Santana sneers, "This is why the football players are failing school. Dumb as the day they were born." Woah. Okay, I know I said the same thing essentially but I'm pretty sure my thoughts didn't quite accomplish that tone of disgust.

I hear the football coach blow her whistle, letting them off the hook. Santana flops back down, her tight ponytail making her head fall to one side, where she ended up watching me. I could feel her eyes on me, making me nervous. Your purpose isn't supposed to make you nervous… are they?

So I watch the boys. I'm slowly starting to know their names. Um, Finn Hudson, quarterback. Karofsky, inconsiderate jerk. Noah Puckerman...who seems to be slowly moving away from the crowd. I watch Noah Puckerman wander away from the crowd to the sideline. No one else paid attention to him as they jostle each other, yelling and throwing water. He crouched down. What is he doing?

He reached out a hand and waited patiently for… a butterfly.

You.

Must.

Be.

Kidding.

Me.

Just as I'm basically drowning in my disbelief, I feel something prod at my mind. Another presence.

You know it's rude to stare, even if it's hard to tear away your eyes from this gorgeousness called Puckerman, Puck's consciousness echoes through my own.

You can't… Are you… what … seriously?! I stutter incomplete sentences back at him.

Puck turns and winks at me. Admit it, it feels better not to be alone.

Don't say a word or I will let all the boys know how much you love butterflies. His jaw drops just the slightest at the notion. I see enough of his mind to know that he actually cares about his reputation, probably a little too much.

We'll talk eventually. Catch you later, his voice echoes as he draws away my mind.

Santana is staring at me pretty blatantly. Does she not know she's being pretty obvious? Her eyes survey me like she doesn't know what to make of me. Which makes sense. I must look like I'm in a trance and in a moment of reckless courage, I hear myself ask, "Hey, do you mind showing me around Lima sometime? I'm new but haven't left the house since I got here."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously and opens her mouth to answer, though no sound comes out. Before she can say anything, Brittany quickly bounces over, out of breath but still, somehow, bubbly and the window of opportunity passes.

"They're following you, you know," Puck leans against my car door as I look for my keys and flashes a lopsided grin.

I look around me. The school is empty except for the few Cheerios waiting for a ride.

"Who?"

"Them." He looks pointedly at two butterflies hovering nearby.

I grab his hand and drag him into the gym. I am not about to have this conversation in public.

"Woah, woah, Quinn, if you wanted me, all you had to do was ask," he laughs as he holds his hands up.

I roll my eyes, "Don't flatter yourself. You're not my type."

"Ouch," he clutches his chest. "I should figure. I've seen you look at her." I freeze and he grins at the sight. "Don't worry, I won't tell about your little crush, although really, I liked Santana for a long time, too, and I'd say she hasn't warmed up to me as quickly as she did with you."

"She hasn't warmed up, in my opinion," I comment dryly, thinking of the glare she seems to have permanently adopted.

"She hasn't sliced you with her vicious, vicious words, which means she's warming up, trust me," he shrugs nonchalantly. "Although, I personally prefer her feisty attitude. It's hot."

With that particular remark, I invade deeply into his mind and summon with the loudest, rumbling command in Divinity: Wings. Under the power of that one word, his wings shoot out, dismissing any doubt I had.

"Seriously? Rude," he remarks, unfazed, folding his wingspan. His wingspan is maybe half foot longer than my own. What throws me off is the particular shade of grey; it's only a shade darker than my own but a beautiful soft grey. I reached out but drew my hand back before I actually touched the feathers.

"I was just checking," I smirk.

"Well, now that we both know," he replied as he tucked away his wings, pushing them into another dimension and away from sight. "Let's try this again. I'm Noah Puckerman, Messenger." He sticks out a purpose is extremely personal and private; I'm surprised by his faith in me. And it must show because he smiles reassuringly and genuinely at me without a trace of sleaziness or insincerity.

We could be friends.

I would never admit it but… it feels good to have someone who might understand. I've rarely encountered another angel.

And at least, I'm not alone in Lima, Ohio. With the same trust he's given me, I take his hand,"I'm Quinn, Lucy Quinn Fabray, Guardian."

A/N: I already know how I want to this end, I think I'm going to write a few chapters and see how that goes. Thanks for reading & hope you guys enjoy!

Also, for anyone who is following this from If I Can Fly Fanfic, I swear I'm writing that. Just need a little change of pace for inspiration.

Leave some love/feedback & reviews.