Fic: Reverseverse Ep 2: 'Nomance' Part 1

[test_kard_girl]

Title: Reverseverse Ep 2, part 1 
Verse: Reverseverse
Author: test_kard_girl
Rating: PG, for the odd unexpected f-bomb.
Characters/Pairings: Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Genre: AU
Warning: Puck and Kurt not being themselves. 
Spoilers: Say through Season 1, although as it's AU, in a very roundabout, squint and you'll miss it kind of way.
Disclaimer:  I don’t own Glee or anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs to mundaneone. I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :).
Author's Notes: A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. The original fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal' before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in. 
Word Count: (This part) 3397
Summary: The "social ladder" is upside down. Puck gets bullied by one ice-queen Kurt Hummel. Doesn't mean he isn't head over heels though.  The Reverseverse, episode 2 part 1: Everything feels different this morning.


It feels different this morning, Puck reflects with a jittery kind of optimism as his fingers fumble over chaining his bike up.

Yeah, the mathletes are still giggling; but they’re only on the periphery of Puck’s awareness and he really doesn’t care what they think (well, he’s trying not to anyway). He forces himself to keep his chin up and walk the long walk down the hall past the cool kids’ lockers to his own without staring at his holey sneakers for most of the trip, and only a few hostile pairs of eyes follow him more than a couple of metres. When he passes the choir-room door he makes a wide berth around Jacob’s skulking figure, but for once the disgruntled brainiac doesn’t try and attack Puck with his voice-recorder, which has got to be a good thing.

At their usual step, Quinn and Santana have been joined by the harmless but unbelievably ditzy Brittany, and Puck lifts his hand in his customary half-salute. Quinn smiles automatically back (she’s been noticeably cooler with him since Finn jumped shipped to hang with the gleeks, as if Puck’s supposed to be like Finn’s carer or something, wtf?) but Santana’s silence is worth a gazillion pleasantries, and when he’s at a safe distance Puck can’t help the relieved, happy grin that pushes across his own mouth and he rubs at the back of his neck, kind of embarrassed by his giddiness.

But whatever the unexpected good feelings, when Puck rounds the corner with a bit of a spring in his step, he isn’t prepared to find Kurt leaning lazily back against Puck’s locker, arms and ankles crossed in the image of Top Model nonchalance, tantalising little smirk on his face.

Puck stops a foot and a half from the other boy, palms going instantly clammy. He opens his mouth, trying valiantly to remember some traditional morning greetings; but (luckily) Kurt beats him to it:

“Well good morning Noah Puckerman.” He drawls, words rolling from his tongue, and Puck feels the blood in his veins heat up by, oh, a coupla thousand degrees.

“Um. Hi.” Puck replies, just about managing not to squeak. Inwardly, he slaps himself across the face.

But today, Kurt doesn’t look embarrassed or disgusted or haughtily disdainful about Puck’s inability to be coherent. Instead, he just stares back at Puck’s slightly-paler-than-normal face for a moment and takes a bit of a breath, before pushing himself gracefully away from the locker and brushing some imaginary lint from the sleeve of his jacket.

A few minutes later the bell goes- but Puck has no idea what he should be doing about that, because he has the cold metal of a locker behind him and the warm body of the hottest diva in school pressed tight against his and really, yeah, everything feels different today, and this is the best, best morning ever.

*

Rachel tosses her hair out of her eyes as she belts out ‘Don’t Stop’s final refrain, fist punching the air:

‘Don’t stop, believin’!

(and step one, two, three)

Hold onto that feeeeeliiiin’…

She smiles to herself. She hasn’t seen New Directions this energised over a new number in months. But now- just a few short days after the vicious slushy attack that brought them nearly to the brink of destruction- the group have a new song and a brand new image -with Rachel Berry at the very centre of it.

Streetlight, people-oh-oh-ohhhhh

Ok, so technically ‘Don’t Stop’ was Finn’s idea. But he could never have fully implemented it without her, and that stellar combination of Hudson and Berry-Hudsonberry, if you will- seems to have been the magical elixir New Directions needed.

Don’t stop, believin’!

Thanks to the quarterback’s surprising moment of musical insight, paired with Rachel’s well-honed determination, she and Finn are the faces of ‘Don’t Stop’; the power-couple; belting out the song that is going to win back Rachel’s legion of starstruck groupies and conquer a whole new demographic, with Finn’s undeveloped vocals and clumsy dance moves ensuring the showchoir stage will once again be all hers.

Hold onto that feeeeeliiiin’…

Oh, of course, she likes Finn well enough. She likes him very well actually, and she can’t deny she’s always had a bit of an ‘uptown girl’ niggle for rough and ready jock-types-But honestly, she could hardly have orchestrated a more perfect professional resurgence if she’d been handed a pair of gold lame hotpants and the rights to Kylie’s back-catalogue.

Streetlight people-oh-oh-ohhhhhhhhhhh-oh-ohhh

And to think: three weeks ago Kurt had sneered at her.

Don’t stop!!!

Rachel drops her head, whole body thrilling to the adrenaline of a top-notch performance, even as Finn’s garbled howl reaches her ears and there’s the metallic clatter of steel against linoleum somewhere to her left.

“Owow ow…shhh…” Finn barely manages to suppress his curse-word, turning it instead into a heart-felt apology: “…Shhorry Mr Schuester….”

Rachel glances up, just in time to see Finn pick up the chair he’d accidentally kicked into the far wall and set it gingerly back down in its place in the front row.

Mr Schuester has one hand gripped tightly over his eyes.

“You guys suck.” He mutters “Seriously. You SUCK… Ok, two minutes. If you’ve got some performance enhancers, now would be the time. ”

He waves a dismissive hand at them, and Rachel immediately takes the cue to pull her hair over her shoulder and make a beeline for her water.

Finn’s there first and holds the bottle out to her.

“Sorry for messin’ it up.” He murmurs, scuffing his shoe sheepishly against the floor. Rachel takes a swig of water, then glances up at the wonderfully tall baritenor, granting him one of her most brilliant smiles.

“It’s quite alright Finn. Not all of us have been winning Miss Twinkletoes Ohio since the second grade.” She presses a gentle palm to the side of his cheek: “That’s eight years.” She reminds him. “Consecutively.”

Finn smiles back at her, looking starry-eyed if a little uncomprehending: “Right.”

She taps his cheek and goes back to drinking her water. Two minutes is not long enough to rehydrate, but if she’s told Mr Schue this once she’s told him a hundred times.

“Do you think Jock-O-Saur’s gonna be able to nail it before Thursday?” Artie asks, wheeling over with his bright red fender in his lap like he’s overcompensating for something.

“I don’t think I can remember this many dance moves.” Finn admits, running sweaty, frustrated hands through his hair.

Rachel glances at him over her water. “Of course you can sweetie-you don’t have a choice.”

Finn’s eyes widen.

“I suppose at least if Finn messes up horrifically, his Gulliver-like build will shield the rest of us from the inevitable barrage of rotten fruit.” Kurt shrugs, and Puckerman hastily disguises a snort of laughter in an unconvincing cough. Rachel fixes him in a coolly withering stare.

“Well, I’m feeling good about it.” Mercedes interjects, jamming her hands on her hips like a challenge. “The thing’s got soul. Though I there’s no way I should be stuck at the back harmonising with the Twilight twins.”

“Hey, it’s called skincare.” Kurt holds up a finger.

“Whatever Cullen; I saw you glittering in the noonday sun.”

“One minute guys!”

“Mr Schuester?” Rachel passes her water back to Finn, hopping down to floor-level from the riser she had been standing on (Finn really is freakishly tall).

“Yes, Rachel?”

Rachel pulls her hand down, ignoring the weariness in Mr Schue’s voice. He most always sounds like that when she speaks to her.

“So, I know the whole point of Thursday’s pep assembly is to rebuild school morale-”

“-it’s to rebuild the Glee Club Rachel.”

She waves a hand. “Same thing. But my worry is that after we perform ‘Don’t Stop’ the student body are going to be so affected by the calibre and empathetic sentiments of the number that we simply won’t be able to audition everyone who wants to join.”

“We should set up a helpline…” Artie muses.

Rachel nods emphatically: “I mean, we can’t have forty or fifty members- it would be absurd, and really, it would make a mockery of the audition process.”

Mr Schuester smirks, cocking his head a little at the sincerity in Rachel’s voice.

“While I kind of admire your sudden enthusiasm for inclusivity Rachel, I don’t suppose I have to remind you that there’s a network of corridors in this school especially mapped out by one particularly disgruntled shop class as the best routes for getting from one side of the school to the other without running into you guys- and that it’s recommended by the chaplaincy team.”

Rachel pouts: “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Mr Schuester’s smirk widens just a little, and Rachel has the distinct feeling he’s almost impressed by her.

“Well let’s just say I don’t think we’re gonna have a huge problem with oversubscription.” He says, leaning back against the piano (from the corner of her eyes Rachel sees Brad’s stare turn flinty) “But just in case, Mr Puckerman here-”

Noah glances up from where he seems to have been concentrating hard on kneading his gnarly Cro-Magnon knuckles into the back of Kurt’s shoulders.

“-and whatever other pointlessly athletic friends he has should get their names on the audition list ASAP.”

Rachel watches amusedly as Puckerman tries and fails to assemble an enthusiastic grin. He looks terrified by the entire prospect.

“It’s Friday, right?” She hears the line-backer whisper to Kurt, who tilts his ear far closer to Puckerman’s mouth than is strictly necessary. “The audition?”

“Yes, Friday.” Kurt replies shortly. Then he turns his head and murmurs something in Puckerman’s ear that has the footballer’s hands instantly returning to the exposed skin at the nape of Kurt’s slash-neck sweater.

Rachel wrinkles her nose. She doesn’t know when her fellow diva-in-crime decided to retract his ban on PDA with the mohawked deviant, but she rather misses it.

“I don’t have to audition, do I Mr Schuester?” Finn asks, glancing nervously at the wall with the Glist pinned to it, his name second from the top: “I mean, I’ve already learned a bunch of numbers…”

“No Finn.” Mr Schue assures him, gesturing at Brad to flip back to the start of his sheet music. “I don’t think any of us want to endure that embarrassment, do we?”

“I guess not.” Finn replies quietly, and Rachel gives him a patient smile in return, spinning around and slipping her arms around his waist, enjoying how his whole body goes stiff at even her most innocent touches. It’s adorable.

“So.” she purrs, changing the subject and gazing up at him “It’s been almost two days since Jacob’s posted anything scandalous about us on his infamous ‘FroShow Youtube channel. How about we arrange a passionate rendezvous for Wednesday evening?” she moves a little closer, and doesn’t miss how Finn’s eyes automatically flick down to check that yes; those are her perfectly formed breasts pressing against his abs.

“Uh…” With some monumental effort, he drags his gaze back up to meet hers: “Um, Wednesday?” he seems to be having trouble forming sentences “I mean… Can we do another day that isn’t Wednesday? I kind of have… other stuff.”

Excuse me?

Rachel takes a very definite step backwards, and Finn looks instantly bereft.

“’Other stuff’?” she repeats, raising newly waxed eyebrows. She resists the urge to lean around his body and check if Kurt is listening in. Instead, she just lowers her voice: “More important than me?”

“No!” Finn gasps, colour draining from his face. “No, just…Wednesday nights are Celibacy Club-”

“-Celibacy Club??”

And of course Mercedes had her gossip-radar out.

“Damn-” she glances round at the assembled gleeks in wicked amusement “We thought that was just a legend!”

“I think it’s sweet.” Artie interjects, voice dripping sugary sarcasm: “It’s nice that you can get together and discuss your loneliness and probable frigidity.”

Finn’s face is turning steadily puce- one of the many colours Kurt has specified New Directions are never permitted to wear onstage.

“I know it’s… It’s really dumb,” he flails, pushing his hands further into his pockets, like he’s trying to fold in on himself “and Quinn’s kind of crazy and all--”

The name sends an unexpected prickle of annoyance across Rachel’s skin, and she narrows her eyes at her awkwardly shuffling boyfriend:

“Quinn? As in Fabray?”

Finn looks helpless: “Well yeah; there’s not that many ‘Quinn’s’ around…”

But Rachel cuts him off with an exasperated huff that she hopes covers how genuinely disbelieving she is. Honestly: it’s as if Finn wants social castration.

“No Finn. I don’t want you socialising with her.” She says, very aware of the smirks beginning on the faces of the other gleeks around her. “She’s a bad influence… And I’m fairly sure she’s planted cameras in your bedroom.”

“She’s not that bad.” Finn protests; but it sounds weak. “I mean, she’s a bit… off the wall… But we used to spend a lot of time together, and I don’t want her to think I’ve just forgotten her…”

“But you have, haven’t you?” Rachel prompts, feeling the frustration pooling in her stomach and crossing her arms tight across her body. Can’t he ever just say the right thing in public?

With some effort, she schools her features into a softer expression and asks: “Why would you want a friend like her when you’ve got me?”

It’s a question that is never going to have an answer, of course. What could Finn Hudson, the luckiest quarterback in the world, answer to that?

Nevertheless, he fumbles for a minute, before Rachel reaches out and places a hand gently against his chest.

“You’re right.” Finn says, almost at once; as if she’d pressed a button.

Rachel gazes at him for a just a second more; then steps closer again, resuming their chest-to-chest contact :

“I know sweetie.” She smiles briefly. “You just need to learn to believe me.”

She leans up to peck him on the lips, a little reward for his obedience.

Poor Finn. Poor misguided Finn.

If he wasn’t the key to regaining her crown as Queen of the school, Rachel might have stormed out by now.

*

“So Schuester.”

Will’s first instinct is to start at that sweet, satin-smooth purr; but he composes himself and spends five long extra seconds reading the essay paper in front of him before he lifts his eyes to meet the perfectly coordinated figure of Emma Pillsbury standing silhouetted in his office doorway.

Man; he has never seen such an appealing looking Ginger.

Cooly, Will tucks his pen behind his ear:

“Emma.” He smiles broadly and winningly “To what do I owe the pleas-?”

“- I hear you want to be a guidance counsellor?”

Ok; didn’t expect that. Will feels his smile skid off the edge of his mouth.

“Uh…” he flattens his palms against his desk. “No.” he shakes his head “God no. That’d be…” he remembers who he’s talking to “…something I’m certainly not qualified for…”

“Well, I gotta agree Will, but that’s strange because clearly, you think that your opinions are far more valid than mine.”

Pointedly, Emma unrolls a sheet of paper in her long, slim fingers, and holds it out for Will to look at: it’s his Glee Club audition list, one drawing pin still hanging listlessly from the top left corner.

Will’s mouth makes a nervous little ‘o’ shape.

Emma joins him in frowning at the list, taking a few lazy steps closer. “You see, I have this crazy memory of you coming to me all in a tizz yesterday afternoon, curls corkscrewing all over the place, humidifying my workspace, freaking out ‘cos Figgins was forcing your precious Glee Club to sell-out and start making new recruits out of single-celled amoeba, turning your whole extracurricular teaching career into a laughing stock.”

Will gulps as nonchalantly as he can, unable to look away from the frostiness in Emma’s Autumn-brown irises.

“Yeah, I… That definitely happened-”

“-You came to me for guidance, Will. And I gave you guidance. And then this morning, I come in and find three cheerleaders outside my office suffering from acute shock, and this pinned to my noticeboard.”

Emma opens her hand and the offending list floats incongruously down to land on top of the pile of Spanish papers Will had been working through.

“Is there any particular reason you think my Master of Psychology degree is invalid, Schuester?”

Will snatches the audition list and pulls it close to himself ‘cos, yeah: this needs to go back on the wall at some point.

“Em, come on, you know I value your advice over anyone else’s-”

“-Oh you’ve made it quite clear how much you value my advice.”

Emma crosses her arms tightly over her chest, and Will tries very hard not to stare.

“Look.” He says eventually, throwing up his hands. “Emma, I’m really sorry I didn’t do what you said, but, y’know-it wasn’t personal.” He explains.

Emma narrows her eyes at him.

“It’s just… I really feel like I can make this club something special.” Will enthuses. “I feel like New Directions are gonna be my legacy at this school.”

“How sad for you.” Emma deadpans; but Will holds her gaze, remaining strong:

“…And this thing about open auditions…” He shrugs. “Y’know, who said it’s gonna be all football players and puckheads? There’re kids all over drama club who can sing, and at least the jazz band know how to harmonise... It’s like: instead of destroying the club, Figgins has just hand-delivered me all this raw, untapped potential. All I need to do now is mould them into shape.” He makes grabby hands. “Like little jock-shaped blobs of play-doh.”

“You know Sandy Ryerson got fired for that.” Emma points out.

“Look, just… I’d really like you to be involved.” Will reiterates, and decides to chance his luck. He leans back across his desk, fixing Emma in what he hopes is a sincere gaze.

“Come along to auditions this Friday. I could use a right hand girl. Someone with class-”

Emma’s face breaks into a smile, as she glances at the ceiling in disbelief:

“…Oh that’s adorable Will…” she patronises. “…But you realise I have, like, no musical experience; and even less interest…”

“Trust me Em;” Will tries his best charming grin again “you don’t want to miss this. It’s gonna be really special.”

For a long minute, Emma just frowns at him, as if he’s a particularly puzzling reptile. Then, slowly, she reaches down and swipes a finger through the fine layer of dust at the edge of Will’s desk. When she looks back at him, her look is one of utter disgust.

“What’s really special, Will.” She murmurs, gazing at him over her grimy finger. “Is your idea that anyone else in this school gives two owl-hoots about the ‘life-changing power’ of musical theatre. Your kids are limelight-sluts; that’s all. Destined for fifteen minutes of fame and the long drop to rehab. And you’re the worst one of all. And if you pester me again about joining your little singing chipmunk parade, you can watch your sham of a teaching career be brought to an abrupt and spectacular end thanks to a speedily diagnosed sex addiction.”

Then, she smiles very brightly-teeth very white- wipes her finger neatly down the front of Will’s shirt, and struts from the room.

Will swallows.

God.

He needs to stop finding Emma Pillsbury’s control issues so hot.