A/N: It's still Friday for 10 more minutes here, so I didn't lie. Here's the next chapter and hopefully I will get the next one up sometime before the weekend is over. Again thanks for all the favs and alerts and reviews, I'm really happy everyone seems to be enjoying the story. Please continue to R&R!

Santana still wasn't speaking to me the next day and even chose to sit beside another Cheerio in math class. I didn't take it too hard, I was more focused on seeing Rachel and smoothing things over with her. I wasn't too worried about Santana. We'd been through our share of fights in the past, but they never lasted too long and I never had any doubt that we were still friends. This time felt no different.

But Rachel was new and I didn't know if what happened last night meant the end of whatever kind of friendship we had going on. I'd known her for a couple years, but we'd never really hung out outside of Glee, and although I knew she could be overly dramatic, I really didn't know what to make of her reaction. I had this strange feeling that I had pushed her into something, even though I knew that whatever happened really wasn't intentional and I definitely hadn't done any pushing.

I couldn't get her out of my head. I spent the entire night, wide awake, replaying our dance over and over and over again in my mind, and then breaking down into tears remembering how our evening ended. I wasn't usually one to get very emotional over anything. I could probably count on my fingers the number of times I had cried since I started high school, but Rachel's words echoed through my head in a continuous loop that broke me down until I was curled up, hugging my knees and bawling like a little child. Maybe her words wouldn't have been quite as powerful if I hadn't already heard them before.

Rachel was absent from math class, to my dismay, and so the seat beside me remained empty.

I walked to the bathroom during my spare, planning on spending some time to myself, but as soon as the door closed behind me, I heard a sniffle and the unmistakable sound of a girl crying. I was going to turn around and leave, but the sound was so familiar it only took a second for me to realize who was behind it.

"Rachel," I said softly, leaning against the closed stall door.

"Brittany," she questioned, obviously not expecting me to be the one who found her.

"Open the door," I replied, insistently.

She hesitated a moment before stuttering, "I- I'm using the facilities."

I bent down enough so that I could see her feet, which were angled towards the toilet, and rolled my eyes, "Not unless you grew an extra part overnight. Come on, open the door."

There was another moment of hesitation before she opened the door enough for me to slip inside, locking the door behind me.

"There's no one else in here," I said, leaning back against the closed door and trying to leave a sliver of space between us in the tiny stall.

"I know, but I'm not ready to come out," she sniffled again.

It was obvious she had been the victim of another slushie attack, as she was stained with red syrup this time. It had appeared as though she had made a pitiful attempt at cleaning herself off, before retreating into the stall. She still had a few streaks of red down her cheeks and neck, dipping down into her shirt, which was thoroughly soaked, and her hair was in sticky mats. There were breaks in the lines on her cheeks where it was clear her tears had passed through.

"Who did this to you," I demanded, feeling the rage begin to boil inside of me. This was twice in a week now that she had been slushied and maybe the first time I managed to shrug it off, but I couldn't find it in me to let it slide again.

Rachel hesitated before answering, shifting her eyes away from me as she shrugged, "I'm not sure, I didn't really see them. I think it was a couple of the football players."

"Karofsky," I said, making it sound more like a statement than a question.

She just shrugged again and suddenly she was burying her face in her hands and sobbing again.

"What, what's wrong," I prodded, gripping her shoulders tightly.

"I still haven't replaced my spare clothing," she cried, her voice muffled by her hands.

I thought for a moment before realizing that I was wearing a camisole underneath my shirt and said, "Here."

She looked up from her hands and watched me pull my shirt over my head and handed it to her.

"It might be a little big," I added as she took it from me.

"Thank you," she said blandly, stunned, I supposed, by my generosity.

"You need it more than I do," I smiled, gripping the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head without a second thought.

My breath hitched as I realized that I had just taken off Rachel's shirt and she was standing there in just a simple black bra. Her skin was gorgeous and flawless and the few tiny freckles on her chest and stomach were begging me to lick them. The other thing that I wanted to lick, the strawberry flavoured streaks of melted slushie that also lined that area.

When my eyes finally returned to her face, she was looking away, obviously embarrassed, and began to move to cover herself with my shirt.

"Wait," I said, before she could put it over her head, and I quickly slipped out of the stall and grabbed a few paper towels. I wet a couple of them with warm water and left another one dry, before returning to the stall and locking the door behind me. "We should clean you up before you put on the shirt."

She nodded in agreement, her eyes on mine as I took one of the wet paper towels and began to gently wipe her cheeks. I kept my eyes on her cheek as I wiped the sticky syrup off her, but I could feel her eyes unwavering from mine.

"We should talk about last night," I said softly, glancing at her eyes for a moment before switching to her other cheek and wiping that one.

She was silent for awhile and I let her have that as I brushed the paper towel over her lips to her chin and along her jaw. I didn't want to push her and have a repeat of the previous night, with her running away.

"I think it would be best for our professional relationship if we chose to ignore the events of last night and instead moved forward as if it never occurred," she answered, lifting her head in an attempt to appear as though she had forgotten about it already.

"Professional relationship," I questioned, unintentionally showing my disappointment. "I thought we were friends."

"Who are we kidding, Brittany," she sighed and I wiped the fresh tears that had begun to roll down her cheeks, this time with my thumb instead of the paper towel. "We can't be friends."

"Why not," I asked, watching her shiver as I began to wipe the syrup off her neck.

"You were right. We're on complete opposite ends of the social structure. I can't expect the unwritten laws of high school to bend for us, just because we somehow managed to overcome the odds and become friends," she said, taking the paper towel from my hand and beginning to wipe off her chest herself.

"What are you even talking about," I said, watching with dark eyes as the paper dipped into her bra, hoping to see a hint of more skin, but Rachel was careful.

"You're a Cheerio, Brittany, and I'm just a glee loser," she rationalized, tossing the red paper towel into the toilet and taking the other one from me.

"I'm a glee loser too," I said, I felt like she was slipping away from me and my heart was beginning to beat out of my chest.

"You're in glee, you're not a glee loser," she corrected, looking over herself to see if she had missed any slushie spots. I noticed a spot on her stomach, just below her bra and took the paper towel from her as I wiped it off.

"That's the same thing, Rachel," I said, dabbing at her wet skin with the dry paper towel and watching the muscles in her stomach contract as my fingers brushed over her. I was having unbelievable trouble trying to concentrate on the battle we were having and not give in to my urge of pushing her up against the stall wall. Her skin looked like it should be kissed and licked and bitten and god I would not be able to last much longer.

Suddenly, she threw the shirt over her head and the clothing covered her body, effectively bringing all my attention to our conversation.

"Do you not want to be friends," I asked, my voice sounding so small as I feared the answer she would give.

Her head tilted to the side and she gave me a lopsided smile, "Of course I do, I just think-"

"Stop thinking," I blurted out. "We're not doing anything wrong."

"Okay," she nodded, finally giving in, "Friends."

"So I'm still giving you dance lessons after school," I asked, hopefully.

"Yes," she smiled and with that response I slid my arms around her waist and pulled her in to a hug. Her arms immediately wrapped around my neck and she stood on her toes as she rested her chin on my shoulder. She was so warm, so soft, so perfect against my body. I never wanted to let go.

"Shit," I said suddenly, pulling away to smack myself in the forehead.

"What," she questioned, startled by the sudden break in contact.

"I've got motocross practice after school today," I sighed.

"Oh," she replied and the disappointment in her voice could not be missed.

"You could come and watch," I offered, the idea exciting me. "Then you could drive me back to my place afterwards."

"Okay," she nodded, her smile returning.

"It's at the mud hills, just outside of town," I explained, taking a pen from my backpack and ripping a page out of my scribbler, as I scratched down the directions. I handed her the paper and she took a moment to look it over before slipping it into her own backpack.

"You ready to come out now," I asked, putting my hand on the lock of the door, but not turning it until I got a nod from Rachel.

As soon as we had stepped out of the stall, the bathroom door swung open and Santana walked in.

"There you are, Britt," she said, folding her arms across her chest when she noticed Rachel, "You got a staring problem, Dwarf?"

Rachel's face fell as she looked away and I opened my mouth to say something to Santana, but she started speaking again before I could.

"Are you wearing Britt's shirt," Santana demanded, her voice vicious as she spat out the words and then turned towards me without missing a beat, "Is she wearing your shirt?"

I shrugged as calmly as I could, "She got slushied and needed a clean shirt."

"Yeah, I know," she growled, but there was a smirk at the corners of her mouth, "I was the one that slushied her."

"But you said it was the football players," I said shocked, my attention turning entirely towards Rachel.

"I said I didn't see," Rachel mumbled, her eyes refusing to meet mine.

"What, are you trying to protect me or something? I know you saw me," Santana chuckled.

"No, I just...," Rachel started, but it looked like she couldn't find the words to finish the sentence and she began to chew on her cheek.

I understood, though. She wasn't protecting Santana. She had been protecting me. Maybe she knew me better than I thought she did, because somehow she knew that if she had told me it was Santana who had attacked her, I would've fallen out of character, sought her out and confronted her. I would have. I know this for a fact because it was taking everything inside me to grit my teeth and swallow my rage, calming myself down before returning to my monotone voice, "I'm so bored with torturing Rachel, can't we pick on the new foreign exchange student? I don't like the way he looks at me."

Santana raised an eyebrow at me, "Britt, he's blind."

"That's no excuse," I said, as she rolled her eyes at me and then locked her pinky in mine.

"Let's go, Britt," she said as she began to drag me away.

I turned towards Rachel and winked at her and she smiled back shyly. It was a silent promise to her that I would somehow make everything right.