A/N: Yes, it was a long hiatus! I hope you're still reading. (I know of at least one person who is.) Please enjoy the next installment, and don't forget to hit favorite, subscribe to author alerts, and leave me a review!
She had already started her workout, by the time he made it to the rehab gym that evening. Artie had missed a few of Quinn's recent sessions – which wasn't a big deal, as Joe still went to lend support when he could. But that was why Artie wasn't completely up to speed on her recent progress in therapy. His jaw nearly hit his lap when he rolled in to see what she was doing. Quinn had her earbuds in, listening to music, so she was unaware of Artie watching from below at first. She startled slightly when she finally noticed him.
"Artie!" she said his name the way he often said hers – that half-excited, half-surprised tone that he knew she found endearing by now (and so he made sure to still greet her this way often). "I didn't think you were still coming."
"I had my own rehab today," Artie explained. His own therapy sessions were very infrequent now, as they were mostly just for checking in and ensuring that he was still doing fine on his own.
"How was it?" Quinn asked, pausing the machine for an moment and reaching for her water bottle. Her walker was nearby; meanwhile, her wheelchair was becoming a distant memory. It was probably in the trunk of her car, or maybe she'd even left it at home.
Artie shrugged. "Same old, same old." And then he arched an eyebrow. "You on the other hand... uh, that's a stair climber you're using." He pressed his lips together tightly, forming an amused smirk. "Guess you don't need ramps anymore."
"So close, yet so far." Quinn sighed, gingerly lowering herself to the middle step and sitting down, mopping her brow with the towel she'd hung on the side of the machine. "I'm still not gonna be ready to dance at Nationals."
He wheeled a little closer to her and surveyed the stair climber machine, gazing up and then back down. He met her eyes, his serious blue ones locked on her distressed hazel ones for a moment before saying anything.
"Quinn," he finally said, incredulously. "That's a stair climber. Eight months ago, you were lying in a hospital bed, completely immobile."
Her hazel eyes filled with tears and her bottom lip trembled, his words probably echoing the thoughts she'd been wrestling with. He knew she wanted to feel accomplished, yes, but she also didn't want to miss out. Without having to hear her say it, he just nodded in full understanding. She dropped her gaze, as the tears spilled over, steaming down her lovely cheeks.
"I thought of a plan," he said, causing her to sniffle and take pause, lifting her eyes to cautiously meet his again. "You want to try to dance, but we need a back-up plan, if you're not quite there by Nationals. So I was thinking, since we already have choreography for a chair, what if–"
"Artie–" Sensing where he was headed with this, she started to cut him off, but he held up his hand to stop her from interrupting him.
"What if you learn my choreography, too? And then if the time comes and you still aren't ready, you can take my place." He had given this some thought earlier, during his own rehab. "That way, you can still try to dance, but if it isn't going to work out, we have a back-up plan. Working in two wheelchairs doesn't work, no, but we already have one. And that way, nothing changes about the routine if we need to do that."
Quinn sniffled. "What about you?"
He shrugged. "I'm fine," he said. "I'm not a senior. I can sit this one out. Next year, I'm confident Blaine, Sam, Tina, and I can carry us to Nationals. I'll get my chance then, it's cool."
"It's cool?" she echoed, shaking her head. "As in, 'It's cool. Whatever takes away our time from rehearsals doesn't serve the team.' No way, I'm not letting you do this again, Artie. And especially not on account of me."
It took him a minute or two to catch onto the fact that she was quoting him, in reference to the situation during his freshman year when the school tried to deny him an accessible bus to Sectionals. True to his usual form, especially back in those early days of high school, Artie had downplayed the effect it had on him.
"This isn't like the bus thing," he told her. "I'm making a choice here. My loss would be your gain. But I'm okay with that, because I'll get another chance to be onstage. No, maybe not Nationals, but certainly Sectionals and Regionals. This is the last chance you're gonna get, Q."
Quinn fell silent, fidgeting by opening and closing the top of her water bottle. Artie remained quiet, too, giving her time to think about his offer.
"It's not right," she finally said. "The way you constantly go out of your way so others aren't inconvenienced. I see it, Artie. More clearly than I ever did before. I can't let you do this for me."
"It does come with the territory," Artie admitted. "You plan ahead. You think through situations, to ensure you're not a burden to others. To avoid a hassle, if at all possible. But that's not what this is. This is me having a means to help you. So, let me."
"I hate it," Quinn complained, bitterly. "And I hate that you feel like a burden, by the way, because you're not. I can't let you do this for me."
"It's a good plan," he insisted, refusing to back down. "And it's not plan A, anyway, it's plan B. Maybe you really can dance on that stage. There's still time."
"Not much," she lamented.
"Quinn Fabray," Artie said, softly. "I believe in you." He paused. "But even if you can't, it's okay. It's okay not to be able to do things. Let me help you there. Okay?"
She was on the verge of falling apart again.
"Okay."
A couple more weeks went by, and finally it was time for the team to pile onto the accessible bus and head to Chicago. By now, Artie was the only one who needed that.
As for Quinn, she did bring the walker along on the trip, just in case. But she wasn't even really using that anymore. It now lived in the trunk of her car most days, and her wheelchair was probably stowed away in her closet. She'd even moved back into her old bedroom upstairs back home.
They had practiced the routines both ways. They'd done it without Quinn dancing, or at least not in the traditional sense, and she'd taken Artie's place in the chair. Artie sat off to the side, in the wings, belting the last number as loudly as he could, ensuring he still got to contribute to the song in the best way he knew how. Mike had taught Quinn to do Artie's choreography. The other senior was initially resistant to the idea of leaving out a team member, just as Quinn had been, but Artie had convinced him, too.
On Friday morning, an hour before school started, the team gathered in the chilly parking lot, hoodies and jackets haphazardly thrown on with sweatpants and the t-shirts Mr. Schue had gotten them – black with 'New Directions Rise,' their theme for Nationals, emblazoned on the front in red and white letters. Brittany had hers on backwards. Their suitcases and duffel bags were thrown in a big pile on the pavement. The team stood in a circle while they waited on the bus. The excitement of taking a free day off of school to drive to Chicago was contagious and, despite the ungodly hour, they were all giddy. At one point, to pass the time waiting for the bus, someone suggested a voice rehearsal right there, since the acoustics would be on point.
Finn sang his solo in 'Paradise,' this time with Sam and Artie loudly chiming in. "I remember every little thing, as if it happened only yesterday. Parking by the lake, and there was not another car in sight. And I ever had another girl, looking any better than you did..."
Mike did a little spin with Tina in the middle of the parking lot while Finn tried to dance Rachel in a circle without stepping on her feet.
"I've got this," Santana said, after they finished the number. And she launched right into Rachel's solo, belting it across the parking lot. "There were nights when the wind was so cold!" And she pulled her jacket around her, for emphasis, with a laugh.
She sang a few more lines with the others, including Rachel, joining in with dramatic bravado. Even Quinn, who had been sort of solemn and still as she stood with the others, had a smile on her face and sang along. And then their singing changed to loud cheers and whoops as the bus finally pulled into the parking lot.
Artie noticed before anyone else did. Instead of the rented bus with the lift for his chair, the driver had brought around the regular school bus with 'Lima Public Schools' plastered across the side. He caught Mr. Schuester's eye as their teacher noticed shorty after Artie.
"Sit tight," Mr. Schue said, as if Artie had any other option. "I'll handle this." He held up a hand to the others, who had moved towards the luggage pile. "Hold up, guys, we've got the wrong bus. We need the one with the lift."
As they all watched their teacher head over to confront the bus driver about the mistake, Artie avoided eye contact with the others. Not again. He hated it whenever a situation arose, on account of him and his chair. Logically, he knew he wasn't at fault, but he felt all eyes on him anyway as everyone quietly discussed what had happened amongst themselves.
"This happened before," Artie overheard Brittany explaining to one of their honorary Cheerio glee club members. "Three years ago, we couldn't get the short bus at Sectionals."
"Brit, don't call it the short bus," Quinn quickly admonished her.
"What?" Brittany blinked her wide eyes. "It's shorter than a regular bus."
With a subtle shift of his wheels, Artie angled his body away, still aware of the number of eyes on him as he expertly ignored them all. As he had done on numerous other occasions, he thought up his back-up plan while he watched Mr. Schuester talk with the bus driver, occasionally gesturing in Artie's direction. The driver produced a clipboard, wildly gesturing to it in response. Clearly, it was too early for anyone to deal with this kind of headache.
Mr. Schue was shaking his head as he returned from his conversation with the driver. "I told him I put the request for the bus rental on the paperwork over a month ago," he explained. "He says he has nothing to do with that part, he just picks up a bus, and nothing was on his paperwork. He says it might have been rented and might be in the bus barn. He's gonna go back now and check."
"And if it's not there?" Artie trailed off, waiting to see what his teacher would say. A hand touched his shoulder then. Quinn's. She was standing behind him now, intent on hearing Mr. Schue's response.
Mr. Schue blew his cheeks out. "Then I don't know what we'll do," he said. "Artie, I'm so sorry, it shouldn't be that hard for me to request an accessible bus and for the school to then provide an accessible bus..." He was pacing now and running his fingers through his thick curls. "I should have followed up, this is my fault..."
Artie didn't want his hard-working, thoughtful teacher to feel bad. Besides, he'd already thought up plan B. "It's cool," he began, feeling Quinn's fingers grip his shoulder ever so slightly. "At least now I'm old enough to drive myself."
But Mr. Schue was already shaking his head. "I can't let you do that, Artie," he said. "This is a school sponsored trip, which means the school provides transportation for all students. All students. I'll make sure we'll get that bus and go tomorrow morning if we have to..."
Rachel wasn't far away either, always ready to butt in. "But we'll miss our tech rehearsal Friday night!" she needlessly pointed out, for they were all aware of that. "We'll be the only team there that's totally unprepared."
"Better than the time we went without our songs written," Santana said, joining the conversation with a smirk. Rachel sneered at her.
"Mr. Schuester, I don't think we have to do that," Artie interjected, before Rachel and Santana could continue to carry on with their banter. "I'm a student, yeah, but I'm already eighteen. As an adult, I can drive myself."
"We can't just carry him onto the bus?" asked a voice with a thick, Irish accent. Artie knew Rory wasn't being obnoxious, that he really wanted to know why carrying Artie like a sack of potatoes wasn't an option.
"No, we can't," Artie told him, without bothering to provide the detailed explanation, hoping a simple 'no' would suffice. "Mr. Schue, please, I don't mind..."
"'Anything that takes time away from rehearsal doesn't serve the team,' right?" Quinn spoke up, as Artie angled his chair to face her now, narrowing his eyes as she quoted his words back to him again.
"You don't get it, Quinn," Artie shot back, not wanting to fight with her. He knew she meant well. "Look, I appreciate that you care so much, I do, but I'll pick my own battles, okay? Mr. Schue really tried. What is he supposed to do about it? The school screwed up, not him."
Puck tucked his hands smugly under his arms and scoffed at that. "By show of hands, who here is surprised that the school screwed up?"
"Oh, no, Artie..." Tina had now stopped paying attention to Mike long enough to notice there was a problem involving Artie and the bus. Her first instinct was to sympathize and coddle him, which probably was the very reason he'd once been so drawn to her. But now it just embarrassed him more.
"Artie, you can't drive yourself there," Mr. Schue said, still pacing. "We do appreciate the offer, but I just can't allow you to do that."
"And I can't make the team miss our only tech rehearsal because of me," Artie countered, daring to look at the rest of them, who were now all staring back. "You guys go ahead and leave without me. I'll catch a ride with my dad tomorrow."
His latest suggestion was met with silence. Mr. Schue was the one who needed to respond. But, seeing as he was currently without a better alternative, it looked like the only option was to agree with Artie's new back-up plan.
"Hold on, what?" Now Tina looked distraught. "Mr. Schue, you're not seriously going to let him–" Her brown eyes filled with tears then, her tender heart feeling every ounce of her best friend's pain. Even if she was dramatic, at times, you had to appreciate her empathetic nature.
"Okay, really not trying to be rude here, I'm just genuinely not understanding," Rory butted in, his hand timidly going up in the air. "Why is carrying you onto the bus out of the question?"
"Because," Artie heard himself snap, losing his patience now. "You saw how you and Joe had to help me balance on that stupid dinosaur at prom, and that was just a few minutes! I mean..." Artie averted his gaze to Brittany. "Not that the dinosaur was stupid. It was really funny... and-and clever and creative."
"I know what you mean," Brittany said, softly, a smile playing on her lips.
"My point was that I can't balance well enough to sit on a regular bus seat for four hours," he explained, despite not really wanting to explain it. Rory just ducked his head, slightly embarrassed for having asked, and nodded.
"I could strap him to the roof." Leave it to Puck to find a way to keep the jokes and one-liners coming. Artie cracked a smile, slightly grateful for the humor coming from his most unlikely friend in the group.
"I really don't mind–" Artie started to say, but it was Quinn who cut him off.
"Yes, you do," she said, giving him a sharp look. "You do mind. And why shouldn't you? All of us should mind, too. Because anything that takes you away from us doesn't serve the team."
Artie didn't know if it was just the fact that it was so very early in the morning and he that hadn't had time to make his coffee before leaving, but whatever the case, a lump formed in his throat. His vision blurred slightly as he choked out: "Thanks, Q."
And then, like a golden chariot from heaven's gates, their bus — the correct one, the "short bus," as Brittany had so accurately described it – arrived in a blaze of glory. Mr. Schuester, spared from choosing between giving up their tech rehearsal or ditching their disabled member, let out a loud cheer as the rest followed his lead.
Artie was loaded onto the bus last, along with all of their luggage, and the entire team let out another cheer as the lift brought him from the ground to the bus. And Artie, who normally preferred a more subtle entry, just grinned from ear to ear as he settled himself into his spot and allowed Ms. Pillsbury to secure the many straps and buckles that held his chair in place.
Coach Beiste, who had the necessary license to drive the bus to Chicago for them, walked on with her coffee, as she'd come straight from an early morning session in the weight room, thereby missing all the drama of finding the correct bus. She looked fairly mystified by all the cheering.
"I'm liking the energy in here," she said, with a swig of her black coffee. "Sounds like a winning team, not a steer with six teats and no oink." (Silence followed.) "Look out Chicago, 'cause here we come!"