Because You Left, Chapter Twelve
Title: Because You Left, Chapter Twelve: The Incident (Part Two)
Pairing/Character(s): Santana Lopez, Kurt, Blaine, Karofsky, William Schuester, Sue Sylvester, Ben Linus Anderson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: All applicable warnings are also spoilerish; highlight to read. student bringing a gun to school, threats of violence, shots fired in a school setting, descriptions of injury, one character (literally) asks to be killed
Word Count: 4815
Spoilers: Potential spoilers (kind of) for all six seasons of LOST, and up to and through Glee 2X08, "Furt."
Standard-Issue Short-Form Disclaimer: I do not hold copyright to Glee or LOST, I make no claims to such, and I am not profiting from this.
Summary: A frightened dog is the most dangerous kind.
Author's Notes: This is a Glee/LOST AU crossover. Fic is a work in progress, but I do have a substantial backlog of chapters to post while I work on the newest ones. I hope to post once a week, on Sundays, barring fire, flood, corset-related disasters, and/or LJ outages. Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost.
As always, if I haven't adequately explained any of the LOST stuff, please feel free to leave a comment here and/or pm me. I will answer.
This is going up a little early, because of my work schedule and such. Also, can I just say that it was weird as fuck watching the Michael episode with this written? Weird. As. Fuck.
"Santana," she says, her voice quiet and firm and somehow sad, and she almost doesn't sound like Coach Sue at all. And it's stupid, and it's crazy, and it's totally pointless, but all Santana can think right now is that she'd give anything to be called Funbags or Boobs McGee or Cuban-American Barbie right now. Not her name. Anything but her name.
"Santana, I want you to do what Mr. Anderson says. Okay?"
She takes a deep breath in and swallows hard, her sweaty, slippery hands tightening instinctively around the gun.
*
"I know what you're doing," Kurt says, draping more fabric over Santana's shoulder and then frowning at it, at her. She thinks about kicking her legs, catching him in the kneecap, but settles for popping her gum in his face instead. A fleck of spit catches him right below the eye, and he barely even flinches, just wiping it off with one hand as he adjusts the fabric so her Cheerios uniform is more fully covered.
"I'm sitting on a table in the most sexist classroom ever, getting covered in cheap quilting fabric by the second coming of Christian Siriano," Santana reminds him. "That's what I'm doing, Ladyface. And if you didn't know that, I'd be deeply, deeply frightened."
Kurt pulls the fabric off her shoulder again, rewrapping it around the bolt. He grabs another one, unrolls a few feet of fabric, drapes it. Lather, rinse, repeat. "Hold that there for a second," he says.
Santana groans, but she does it, grabbing the fabric by the folded edges and holding it against her shoulder, draped over her like a toga. "I'm pretty sure that this is the same color as the last one," she says.
"And I'm pretty sure you're colorblind," Kurt says, but he says it all soft and thoughtful, taking a few steps back and studying her with his hand under his chin, one finger stretching along his jawbone. "And that's not what I mean, when I said I knew what you were doing. I meant..." He does that little hand-flicky thing of his, like he's waving away a fly. Seriously, he's like Gloria Swanson without the turbans; it's not even right. "The Secret Service routine. Following me around. Making sure I'm not alone in the hallways. Keeping me company in the home ec room. Puck won't even let me go to the bathroom by myself anymore."
"Yeah, that's kind of a fetish of his," Santana says, breezily, and pops her gum again the moment Kurt comes to take the fabric off her. He just ignores her; apparently, he's harder to gross out when he's in Project Rungay mode. Good to know. "Best thing to do is just stay really quiet -- it's the grunting that gets him off."
Kurt shakes his head, rewrapping the fabric. He peers at the end of the bolt for a second, jots down a few notes, then takes the bolt and goes to put it away again. "For what it's worth," he says, "I do appreciate it. I'm not entirely sure that it's necessary, and I'm missing my privacy more than I ever thought I possibly could, but I do appreciate the gesture."
Santana just hops off the table and goes to read over his shoulder. Because she doesn't want Kurt appreciating anything, really. She wants to annoy the crap out of him, or this won't be any fun at all. "Pantene?" she repeats, giving Kurt a look. "Look, Hummel, I get that you think you're like the Queen of Makeovers, or whatever, but I do not need you telling me which products to buy. My hair is awesome. I have awesome hair."
"You have no idea how much it hurts that I can't argue with you on that," Kurt says. "Although it does pain me to think about the damage you girls are doing with those ponytails Sue makes you wear. Anyway, Santana, it's Pantone. It's so I know what color I'm looking for when I go out to find your dresses."
"Okay," Santana says, raising her eyebrow. "First off. Who said you got to choose the dresses, anyway?"
Kurt just blinks up at her, and God, he really should be easier to rattle than this. The day before the wedding, that's when he'll be a wreck. She'll have to find some excuse to come bug him then. "My father did," he says. "When he said I was planning the wedding. Anyway, you haven't gotten to dress yourself since you were a freshman. I doubt you remember how."
"Okay, you dress like Don Knotts on bondage night," Santana says. "Incidentally, what does Dalton make of all the straps and the leather? Does it freak him out, or is he, like, totally secret kinky?" Kurt just stares at her, like he's not sure whether to be horrified or pissed off, and Santana figures she's going to chalk that one up as a win. "Knew it. Repressed private school boys are always the kinky ones."
"Okay, first of all," Kurt says, bundling his papers up like he's hiding something (and he totally is), "he has a name. His name is Blaine. Second, Blaine and I are just friends, and I'd appreciate it if all of you would stop speculating about any potential... entanglements between us."
"Entanglements," Santana repeats, and can't suppress a smirk. "What, like with ropes? Scarves? Blue and red striped neckties?"
"Third," Kurt says, his voice starting to pitch higher, and she is so under his skin now, and it's so totally awesome. "Blaine has been nothing but a gentleman since the day we met, and I sincerely doubt he's hiding any kind of ... whatever." His hand flaps again, like he's trying to wave her off, and he's blushing right up to the tips of his ears, and this is honestly the most fun Santana's had in ages.
Santana just shakes her head. "All that tells me is that he's not bothering to hide it," she points out. "And since you like to dress up like a Fetish Bar Ken Doll, that's not really surprising."
"And fourth, I would appreciate it if you would leave the two of us alone when he arrives." He almost squeaks out the last bit, he's so flustered. Honestly, Santana can't even remember why she was so pissed off to have to babysit him anymore. This is like a rare and precious gift from Heaven. "So we can work in peace and quiet, without all the... Without all the commentary."
"Oooh," Santana says, creeping in a little closer. "Baby Gay wants to get his mack on in the home ec room? Me gusta."
Kurt groans and slumps over the table, burying his head in his hands.
"No, seriously," Santana says, pushing his notebooks out of the way so she can hop up on the table, legs swinging. "I'm proud of you, Hummel. I always thought you'd be, like, the only person at this school to lose their virginity after Berry lost hers, and now you're about to get down in the home ec room with some rich prep school boy. This is a really good development for you. Plus, you're like the most uptight person I know, and if anyone has ever truly needed to get laid, it's --"
"Santana," Kurt says, very quietly, so quietly that she can't even think of anything to say back to him. She just looks at him, for a second, at how pale he's gotten and how wide his eyes are, like saucers, and then she turns and looks at the doorway.
There's a boy in a Dalton blazer standing there, staring back at them, and Santana could say a lot of things right now -- about his caterpillar eyebrows and how much they need waxing, about the fact that his hair is glued to his head with shellac, about how short he is, about -- But all she can really pay attention to his how he's just as pale as Kurt, and how his eyes are just as wide, and how small he looks with Karofsky looming over his shoulder.
She slides off the table and turns until she's standing next to Kurt, reaches out and tangles her fingers with his, instinctively.
"I'm sorry," the Dalton kid says, staring at them. His lower lip is trembling, just a little bit. "I'm so, so sorry; I didn't want to get you mixed up in this, I didn't --"
"Shut up," Karofsky says, shoving the kid forward. He stumbles into the room, putting space between himself and Karofsky, and that's when she sees the gun.
*
"I wanna go home," she says, and hates the way she sounds, hates the way her voice breaks and she sounds close to tears. "I just... I wanna go home."
"I know." Mr. Anderson's voice is surprisingly steady, but he can't seem to look at her for very long, his eyes flicking between her and the boy bleeding on the floor. "We'll get you there. But I need you to listen to me right now, okay?"
She can't stop crying and she can't take a hand off the gun to wipe away her tears, and this sucks and she just wants to go home. She wants her abuela. She wants Brittany. She just doesn't want to be here anymore. "Okay," she says, and at least she sounds a little steadier now. "Okay."
"Okay," Mr. Anderson says, and when she glances at him again, his eyes are only on her.
*
Kurt's hand tightens around Santana's, so tight it almost hurts, and part of her wants to swear at him but instead she just holds on. "What's going on?" Kurt asks, his voice sharp, high, and frightened. "What are you doing?"
Karofsky just stares at him, and even though he's got the gun, he looks as scared as anyone else in the room. Maybe more. He's sweating, and his hands are a little shaky, and Santana thinks that should make her feel better but honestly it just makes her feel worse. Makes her think of the neighbor's Doberman, the one that used to bark at her all the time, and her mom said that it was just scared, and her abuela said that a frightened dog is the most dangerous kind. "Move," Karofsky says, pointing the gun at them, and then at the center of the room, and then back at them. "Where I can see you." But Kurt just stands there -- oh God, he's freaking out, and this is going to be bad, this is going to be so -- and Santana can't seem to push him fast enough for Karofsky, because his voice is already getting loud when he snaps out "Come on, come on."
"We're going, Jesus Christ," Santana says, because she can't always seem to make her mouth stop, but this time, when she shoves at Kurt, he moves. He's shaking from head to toe now, like some sort of freaked-out chihuahua, but he's moving, and that's all she really cares about right now.
"You too," Karofsky says, pointing the gun at the Dalton kid, and he hurries over to Santana and Kurt, positioning himself carefully in front of them. It'd almost be reassuring, if he were a little taller. It's almost reassuring anyway, just because.
"David," Dalton says, and his voice is only a little shaky. He's probably the calmest person in the room right now, and Santana's not sure why, but she thinks she hates him for that. "You don't have to do this. Please don't --"
"I said shut up!" Karofsky lifts the gun again, points it right at Dalton, and he falls immediately silent, his whole body going still.
Kurt's not still at all; he's shaking so hard that Santana almost wants to clutch at him, just to keep him from breaking apart. "You said you just wanted to talk," Kurt says, voice high and hysterical and like nails on a blackboard. "You said --"
"Oh, we'll talk," Karofsky says, and it sounds like he's practiced it, like he's been saying it to himself in the mirror over and over again, like some kind of overgrown Travis Bickle. But at the same time he still sounds absolutely terrified. Close to losing control, like he could start shooting any second, and Santana's not too proud to tuck herself a little more behind Dalton's blazer-clad shoulder, hiding. "We'll talk about a lot of things. But you're gonna do something for me first."
Dalton stiffens up, like Karofsky just said something awful. "Don't," he growls, taking one step forward, and for just a moment, there is something downright dangerous about him. Then Kurt lets out a sort of whimper, and Dalton glances back over his shoulder, and the moment passes. Dalton's hands go up, he steps back again, and he says "David, please. Kurt doesn't need to be involved in this. This is nothing to do with him, or his friends, or --"
Karofsky's nostrils flare, and this time it's Santana who hisses out a "Shut up!" She grabs at Dalton's arm with her free hand, digging her nails in. "What is wrong with you, Jesus Christ? Do you really want to get us all killed?"
And Dalton shuts up, but now he's shaking too; Santana can feel his arm trembling and twitching in her grip. And she should be happy that his calm is finally starting to crack a little but, but she's just not sure she can be the sane one in this situation; she really isn't.
"I want you to go upstairs," Karofsky says, waving the gun in Kurt's general direction, and Santana can feel Dalton's muscles flexing where she's holding on to him, his whole body coiled tight and tense. "I want you to go and find his dad," and the gun is pointed at Dalton again, "and I want you to bring him back down here. And then we're gonna talk. About the Island."
The gun points at Kurt again, lazy, like the spinner on a Ouija board, and Dalton sags a little in Santana's grip, like he's just resigned himself to something.
Kurt shakes his head, lips pressed tight together, and Santana's known him long enough to know that he's just this side of bursting into tears. "No," he whispers, voice barely a whimper.
"Kurt, it's okay," Dalton says, softly. "Just... just do what he says. And he'll let you go. He'll let you both go."
"No," Kurt says again. "No, I can't, I -- you can't --"
"Kurt, please," Dalton says, starting to sound a little rough, a little desperate. "It's not worth it. We're not worth it. Just go and it'll be over; you can go home, you can --"
The first few tears start rolling down Kurt's cheeks; and maybe it's just that he's ugly when he cries; and maybe it's just that Dalton's still way, way too calm; and maybe it's just that Santana is freaked out and pissed off and she shouldn't be here, dammit, she shouldn't have gotten stuck in this stupid, ugly mess in the first place when none of this has anything to do with her. But she snaps. "Lay off, all right?" she hisses. "Don't you get it? He's scared. Just... Just... Just give him a second."
"I know," Dalton whispers back, and he really does sound desperate now, "I know, but we don't really have a lot of time here, and I'm sorry, Kurt, but you have to --"
There's a short, sharp crack, like a firecracker going off, and Santana lets go of Dalton entirely and clutches at Kurt. Her ears are ringing; she can just barely hear Kurt babbling "Oh my god oh my god oh my god," and she wants to say something about atheists and foxholes but she's too distracted by the way Karofsky is staring blankly at the gun in his hand, like he forgot it was a real thing until his finger was on the trigger and it was too late to stop himself.
Then Dalton's rushing forward, leaving Santana and Kurt without the tenuous shelter he provided, and Santana just manages to grab Kurt and drag him down to the floor with her before the gun goes off again, and then again, and something soft and fleshy hits the floor with an audible thump.
*
"Good," Mr. Anderson says, his voice calm and soothing, and Santana hates it. She hates him. "You can put the gun down now, Santana."
She shakes her head, tightening her fingers on the grip. There's sirens now, outside, and footsteps upstairs, and shouting, and she doesn't think she can deal with this, she just doesn't. "He'll take it," she says, and shifts the gun until it's pointed at Karofsky again. He doesn't even seem to notice; he's still staring at Kurt, at that Dalton kid still bleeding all over the floor of the home ec room, and she hates him for that, for ignoring her when she's the one with the gun. "He'll take it back."
She hates everything.
"Let him take it," Mr. Anderson says. "There's no bullets left in it, remember? He can't hurt anyone anymore, not with that. It's okay. It's over."
"It's not," she says, but it comes out as more of a sob than anything else, and she lowers the gun again.
And after a second, she crouches down, careful not to let the hem of her Cheerios skirt touch the floor, and lays the gun gently against the tile.
"Good," Mr. Anderson says, quietly. "Good. Thank you, Santana."
She wants to tell him to go fuck himself, but she can't seem to make her throat work.
*
There's a clatter as the gun hits the tile (Santana pulling Kurt even closer at the sound of it), and then heavy footsteps stumbling across the floor, and now it's Karofsky's turn to say "Oh god, oh god, oh god," over and over again, his voice thicker, distorted like his nose is plugged up or something, and Santana doesn't want to look up, but she does anyway. Karofsky's backed himself into the corner near the door, one hand over his nose, blood already trickling down to his chin, and he's staring at something, still chanting out "Oh god, oh god, oh god," and Santana knows what he's looking at and she knows she doesn't want to see it.
Then she hears a rough sort of gasping noise, and she can't stop herself from turning, can't stop herself from looking. Dalton's on the floor, curled in on himself, both hands pressing at his thigh. And there's blood, there's a lot of it, but he doesn't look dead, at least. He lets out a pathetic sort of a whine, and Kurt immediately struggles free of Santana's hold, all but crawling over to his boyfriend's side.
"Blaine," he says, his voice still high and choky and grating. "Blaine, say something, please say something --"
"Hurts," Blaine whispers, like he doesn't have the strength to get any louder than that. "Didn't think... Didn't think it'd hurt, like this... It..."
"Sssh," Kurt murmurs, kneeling next to him and getting blood all over his jeans, and he'll hate himself for that when this is over, Santana thinks, he really will. "Don't try to talk."
Blaine lets out a weird little sobbing laugh, and it's the most human he's ever sounded. "You... You just told me to say something," he points out.
"And now I'm telling you to stop," Kurt says, and what's weird is that he actually seems to be getting calmer now, like he just didn't know what to do with himself until someone started bleeding. Which is creepy as fuck, but at least he doesn't sound like he's about to start screaming now. Kurt turns, looking back over his shoulder at Santana. "Get me some fabric or something; he's... he's bleeding pretty bad; he needs --"
He raises one arm, waving it in the general direction of the quilting supplies (all those bolts of floral calico for Blaine to bleed on), and as soon as he moves, Santana sees the gun behind him, neglected on the floor. And when she glances back over to the far corner of the room, she realizes that Karofsky's seen it too, his eyes focusing on it, his hand falling away from his bloody, broken nose.
But Santana's smarter than he is, and faster, and there's no way she's letting him get his hands on that thing again.
She dives for it, skidding across the floor and getting blood on the white sleeves of her bodysuit, blood on her clean white Nikes. But she comes up triumphant, gun in hand, and when she points it at Karofsky, she almost feels good for a second. In control again. Like herself. "Don't," she says, as he sags back against the wall, sliding back down until he's sitting. "Don't even think it, or I'll --"
"So just do it," Karofsky says, closing his eyes, and it takes the momentary thrill of triumph, of finally doing something, right away from her. "It doesn't even matter anymore. Just freaking do it and get it over with."
"David." And it's funny, because it's not like Blaine's got a reason to be scared of Karofsky anymore, but he keeps calling him by his first name, and she doesn't know why. "David, no, don't --"
"Don't, Blaine," Kurt says, and he's just getting calmer by the second, even as things just get weirder, and there has to be something wrong with him, but then, it's not like anything is exactly right right now. "It's all right, Santana's not going to --"
"Oh, you think?" Santana says, tightening her grip on the gun. It's a good thing she's spent so much time on the base of the pyramid, lately; last year she might have been shaking by now, but she's stronger than she was, she can hold up better. "Because I'm thinking maybe Baby Bear here has a point. Maybe he doesn't matter. And maybe I should just --"
"Santana," Blaine says, his voice cracking a little bit. "Please. You don't want to --"
"This is your fault," Karofsky says, turning back to Blaine. He's starting to cry now, and Jesus, he cries uglier than anyone Santana's ever seen, and it's not just the broken nose, either; it's just him. The way his face crumples up and his mouth goes slack, the way he turns all blotchy and red. It's awful. "If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't have come back. If it wasn't for you, he could've just stayed gone. We didn't want him back. We didn't --"
"I'm sorry," Blaine says, his voice raspy with pain, but still awkwardly sincere. "I'm so sorry, David; I --"
Kurt shushes him, his voice low and urgent. "Just lie back," he murmurs. "Lie back. You'll hurt yourself."
Karofsky tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling, blood still running down his face, and part of Santana almost feels sorry for him, but most of her just hates his guts. Honestly, she really would shoot him, except it's obviously what he wants, and fuck that noise. She's not doing a thing for him. Not a damn thing. "I wish he'd never come back," he says. "He ruined it. He ruined everything."
Then there's running footsteps coming down the hall, and Karofsky looks at Santana again, still crying, and he just says "Please," and Santana starts to shake. She takes her finger away from the trigger, because God knows she doesn't want to pull a Karofsky and just start shooting everything, but she doesn't let go of the gun, keeps her hands curled tight around the grip. "Please," Karofsky says again, and when Santana shakes her head, he closes his eyes and sags back against the wall.
The math teacher is the first one to show up, the little bug-eyed guy who asked Brittany to be on the Academic Decathalon (and Santana totally does not understand anything about that at all, but it makes Brittany smile so she's not going to say a word). Then it's Mr. Schuester, and Coach Sue coming up behind him, and Santana figures she should probably let go of the gun now before they think that she --
But she can't, is the thing. Because when Karofsky said please like that, he meant it, and she doesn't totally know what the hell's going on, but she's not gonna let Karofsky shoot himself before she finds out.
"Santana," Mr. Schuester says, sounding a little shocked, and of course he's the first one to assume that she's gone all Rambina, of course he's --
"It's all right," the math teacher says, and he sounds exactly like Blaine did when Karofsky pushed him into the room, like the whole thing's just gone full circle. "Santana, you can put the gun down, now. It's over."
"He shot that kid," Santana says, and doesn't let go of the gun. "He came in with a gun, and he... and then he..."
"I know," the math teacher says, softly. "But the police are on their way, and it's over now, Santana. You don't have to hold on to that anymore."
Santana shakes her head, ponytail flying. "He'll take it," she says. "As soon as I put it down, he'll take it."
The math teacher watches her for a second, then takes a deep breath. "Then we'll unload it," he says.
"I don't know how," Santana points out. "It'll go off."
"I'll talk you through it," he says, in that calm voice that she hates so much. "It'll be fine."
Santana swallows hard, her sweaty hands tightening around the gun.
Coach finally says something, which would almost be a relief if she didn't sound so defeated. "Santana," she says, and Santana wishes it was something else, like Sandbags or Tittywampus or Jiggle Me Elmo, anything but her name in that sad, guilty tone of voice. "Santana, I want you to do what Mr. Anderson says, okay?"
*
Mr. Anderson's hand settles on her shoulder as she straightens up, and she doesn't want him touching her, she hates him, but she lets him steer her towards the door, where Mr. Schue is waiting with one arm outstretched to pull her in. And she doesn't want him to hug her, she doesn't want anyone touching her, she hates everyone on the planet right now, but when Mr. Schue's arm settles on her shoulders, she just goes with it, and hides her face in his shoulder, and hates the way it makes her feel safer.
"Santana," Mr. Schue says, softly, and rests his chin on her hair.
"Dad," Blaine says, and when Santana turns her head and opens her eyes, she sees Mr. Anderson kneeling at Blaine's side, not touching him, just... hovering there. Like he doesn't know what's happening. "Am I..." Blaine lets out a little, pained sound and Mr. Anderson's hand flutters over him, comes to rest in the center of his chest. "Am I in trouble?"
Mr. Anderson lets out a weird sort of half-laugh, and shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, you're not in trouble, Blaine."
"He was firing wild," Blaine mumbles, and ignores Kurt trying to shush him. "Someone was gonna get hurt. Had to... Had to get the gun, had to -- I couldn't wait, Dad."
"I know," Mr. Anderson says, and brushes his fingers along the edge of his son's forehead. "I know. You're not in trouble, Blaine."
"Couldn't wait," Blaine says again. "I'm sorry." He looks past his father for just a second, looks right at Santana. "I'm sorry," he says, and it's directed right at her, and she hates him more than she's ever hated anyone, just for that. For being sorry.
Santana closes her eyes again, and hides her face in Mr. Schue's shoulder, and lets him lead her out of the room.
Pairing/Character(s): Santana Lopez, Kurt, Blaine, Karofsky, William Schuester, Sue Sylvester, Ben Linus Anderson
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: All applicable warnings are also spoilerish; highlight to read. student bringing a gun to school, threats of violence, shots fired in a school setting, descriptions of injury, one character (literally) asks to be killed
Word Count: 4815
Spoilers: Potential spoilers (kind of) for all six seasons of LOST, and up to and through Glee 2X08, "Furt."
Standard-Issue Short-Form Disclaimer: I do not hold copyright to Glee or LOST, I make no claims to such, and I am not profiting from this.
Summary: A frightened dog is the most dangerous kind.
Author's Notes: This is a Glee/LOST AU crossover. Fic is a work in progress, but I do have a substantial backlog of chapters to post while I work on the newest ones. I hope to post once a week, on Sundays, barring fire, flood, corset-related disasters, and/or LJ outages. Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost.
As always, if I haven't adequately explained any of the LOST stuff, please feel free to leave a comment here and/or pm me. I will answer.
This is going up a little early, because of my work schedule and such. Also, can I just say that it was weird as fuck watching the Michael episode with this written? Weird. As. Fuck.
"Santana," she says, her voice quiet and firm and somehow sad, and she almost doesn't sound like Coach Sue at all. And it's stupid, and it's crazy, and it's totally pointless, but all Santana can think right now is that she'd give anything to be called Funbags or Boobs McGee or Cuban-American Barbie right now. Not her name. Anything but her name.
"Santana, I want you to do what Mr. Anderson says. Okay?"
She takes a deep breath in and swallows hard, her sweaty, slippery hands tightening instinctively around the gun.
*
"I know what you're doing," Kurt says, draping more fabric over Santana's shoulder and then frowning at it, at her. She thinks about kicking her legs, catching him in the kneecap, but settles for popping her gum in his face instead. A fleck of spit catches him right below the eye, and he barely even flinches, just wiping it off with one hand as he adjusts the fabric so her Cheerios uniform is more fully covered.
"I'm sitting on a table in the most sexist classroom ever, getting covered in cheap quilting fabric by the second coming of Christian Siriano," Santana reminds him. "That's what I'm doing, Ladyface. And if you didn't know that, I'd be deeply, deeply frightened."
Kurt pulls the fabric off her shoulder again, rewrapping it around the bolt. He grabs another one, unrolls a few feet of fabric, drapes it. Lather, rinse, repeat. "Hold that there for a second," he says.
Santana groans, but she does it, grabbing the fabric by the folded edges and holding it against her shoulder, draped over her like a toga. "I'm pretty sure that this is the same color as the last one," she says.
"And I'm pretty sure you're colorblind," Kurt says, but he says it all soft and thoughtful, taking a few steps back and studying her with his hand under his chin, one finger stretching along his jawbone. "And that's not what I mean, when I said I knew what you were doing. I meant..." He does that little hand-flicky thing of his, like he's waving away a fly. Seriously, he's like Gloria Swanson without the turbans; it's not even right. "The Secret Service routine. Following me around. Making sure I'm not alone in the hallways. Keeping me company in the home ec room. Puck won't even let me go to the bathroom by myself anymore."
"Yeah, that's kind of a fetish of his," Santana says, breezily, and pops her gum again the moment Kurt comes to take the fabric off her. He just ignores her; apparently, he's harder to gross out when he's in Project Rungay mode. Good to know. "Best thing to do is just stay really quiet -- it's the grunting that gets him off."
Kurt shakes his head, rewrapping the fabric. He peers at the end of the bolt for a second, jots down a few notes, then takes the bolt and goes to put it away again. "For what it's worth," he says, "I do appreciate it. I'm not entirely sure that it's necessary, and I'm missing my privacy more than I ever thought I possibly could, but I do appreciate the gesture."
Santana just hops off the table and goes to read over his shoulder. Because she doesn't want Kurt appreciating anything, really. She wants to annoy the crap out of him, or this won't be any fun at all. "Pantene?" she repeats, giving Kurt a look. "Look, Hummel, I get that you think you're like the Queen of Makeovers, or whatever, but I do not need you telling me which products to buy. My hair is awesome. I have awesome hair."
"You have no idea how much it hurts that I can't argue with you on that," Kurt says. "Although it does pain me to think about the damage you girls are doing with those ponytails Sue makes you wear. Anyway, Santana, it's Pantone. It's so I know what color I'm looking for when I go out to find your dresses."
"Okay," Santana says, raising her eyebrow. "First off. Who said you got to choose the dresses, anyway?"
Kurt just blinks up at her, and God, he really should be easier to rattle than this. The day before the wedding, that's when he'll be a wreck. She'll have to find some excuse to come bug him then. "My father did," he says. "When he said I was planning the wedding. Anyway, you haven't gotten to dress yourself since you were a freshman. I doubt you remember how."
"Okay, you dress like Don Knotts on bondage night," Santana says. "Incidentally, what does Dalton make of all the straps and the leather? Does it freak him out, or is he, like, totally secret kinky?" Kurt just stares at her, like he's not sure whether to be horrified or pissed off, and Santana figures she's going to chalk that one up as a win. "Knew it. Repressed private school boys are always the kinky ones."
"Okay, first of all," Kurt says, bundling his papers up like he's hiding something (and he totally is), "he has a name. His name is Blaine. Second, Blaine and I are just friends, and I'd appreciate it if all of you would stop speculating about any potential... entanglements between us."
"Entanglements," Santana repeats, and can't suppress a smirk. "What, like with ropes? Scarves? Blue and red striped neckties?"
"Third," Kurt says, his voice starting to pitch higher, and she is so under his skin now, and it's so totally awesome. "Blaine has been nothing but a gentleman since the day we met, and I sincerely doubt he's hiding any kind of ... whatever." His hand flaps again, like he's trying to wave her off, and he's blushing right up to the tips of his ears, and this is honestly the most fun Santana's had in ages.
Santana just shakes her head. "All that tells me is that he's not bothering to hide it," she points out. "And since you like to dress up like a Fetish Bar Ken Doll, that's not really surprising."
"And fourth, I would appreciate it if you would leave the two of us alone when he arrives." He almost squeaks out the last bit, he's so flustered. Honestly, Santana can't even remember why she was so pissed off to have to babysit him anymore. This is like a rare and precious gift from Heaven. "So we can work in peace and quiet, without all the... Without all the commentary."
"Oooh," Santana says, creeping in a little closer. "Baby Gay wants to get his mack on in the home ec room? Me gusta."
Kurt groans and slumps over the table, burying his head in his hands.
"No, seriously," Santana says, pushing his notebooks out of the way so she can hop up on the table, legs swinging. "I'm proud of you, Hummel. I always thought you'd be, like, the only person at this school to lose their virginity after Berry lost hers, and now you're about to get down in the home ec room with some rich prep school boy. This is a really good development for you. Plus, you're like the most uptight person I know, and if anyone has ever truly needed to get laid, it's --"
"Santana," Kurt says, very quietly, so quietly that she can't even think of anything to say back to him. She just looks at him, for a second, at how pale he's gotten and how wide his eyes are, like saucers, and then she turns and looks at the doorway.
There's a boy in a Dalton blazer standing there, staring back at them, and Santana could say a lot of things right now -- about his caterpillar eyebrows and how much they need waxing, about the fact that his hair is glued to his head with shellac, about how short he is, about -- But all she can really pay attention to his how he's just as pale as Kurt, and how his eyes are just as wide, and how small he looks with Karofsky looming over his shoulder.
She slides off the table and turns until she's standing next to Kurt, reaches out and tangles her fingers with his, instinctively.
"I'm sorry," the Dalton kid says, staring at them. His lower lip is trembling, just a little bit. "I'm so, so sorry; I didn't want to get you mixed up in this, I didn't --"
"Shut up," Karofsky says, shoving the kid forward. He stumbles into the room, putting space between himself and Karofsky, and that's when she sees the gun.
*
"I wanna go home," she says, and hates the way she sounds, hates the way her voice breaks and she sounds close to tears. "I just... I wanna go home."
"I know." Mr. Anderson's voice is surprisingly steady, but he can't seem to look at her for very long, his eyes flicking between her and the boy bleeding on the floor. "We'll get you there. But I need you to listen to me right now, okay?"
She can't stop crying and she can't take a hand off the gun to wipe away her tears, and this sucks and she just wants to go home. She wants her abuela. She wants Brittany. She just doesn't want to be here anymore. "Okay," she says, and at least she sounds a little steadier now. "Okay."
"Okay," Mr. Anderson says, and when she glances at him again, his eyes are only on her.
*
Kurt's hand tightens around Santana's, so tight it almost hurts, and part of her wants to swear at him but instead she just holds on. "What's going on?" Kurt asks, his voice sharp, high, and frightened. "What are you doing?"
Karofsky just stares at him, and even though he's got the gun, he looks as scared as anyone else in the room. Maybe more. He's sweating, and his hands are a little shaky, and Santana thinks that should make her feel better but honestly it just makes her feel worse. Makes her think of the neighbor's Doberman, the one that used to bark at her all the time, and her mom said that it was just scared, and her abuela said that a frightened dog is the most dangerous kind. "Move," Karofsky says, pointing the gun at them, and then at the center of the room, and then back at them. "Where I can see you." But Kurt just stands there -- oh God, he's freaking out, and this is going to be bad, this is going to be so -- and Santana can't seem to push him fast enough for Karofsky, because his voice is already getting loud when he snaps out "Come on, come on."
"We're going, Jesus Christ," Santana says, because she can't always seem to make her mouth stop, but this time, when she shoves at Kurt, he moves. He's shaking from head to toe now, like some sort of freaked-out chihuahua, but he's moving, and that's all she really cares about right now.
"You too," Karofsky says, pointing the gun at the Dalton kid, and he hurries over to Santana and Kurt, positioning himself carefully in front of them. It'd almost be reassuring, if he were a little taller. It's almost reassuring anyway, just because.
"David," Dalton says, and his voice is only a little shaky. He's probably the calmest person in the room right now, and Santana's not sure why, but she thinks she hates him for that. "You don't have to do this. Please don't --"
"I said shut up!" Karofsky lifts the gun again, points it right at Dalton, and he falls immediately silent, his whole body going still.
Kurt's not still at all; he's shaking so hard that Santana almost wants to clutch at him, just to keep him from breaking apart. "You said you just wanted to talk," Kurt says, voice high and hysterical and like nails on a blackboard. "You said --"
"Oh, we'll talk," Karofsky says, and it sounds like he's practiced it, like he's been saying it to himself in the mirror over and over again, like some kind of overgrown Travis Bickle. But at the same time he still sounds absolutely terrified. Close to losing control, like he could start shooting any second, and Santana's not too proud to tuck herself a little more behind Dalton's blazer-clad shoulder, hiding. "We'll talk about a lot of things. But you're gonna do something for me first."
Dalton stiffens up, like Karofsky just said something awful. "Don't," he growls, taking one step forward, and for just a moment, there is something downright dangerous about him. Then Kurt lets out a sort of whimper, and Dalton glances back over his shoulder, and the moment passes. Dalton's hands go up, he steps back again, and he says "David, please. Kurt doesn't need to be involved in this. This is nothing to do with him, or his friends, or --"
Karofsky's nostrils flare, and this time it's Santana who hisses out a "Shut up!" She grabs at Dalton's arm with her free hand, digging her nails in. "What is wrong with you, Jesus Christ? Do you really want to get us all killed?"
And Dalton shuts up, but now he's shaking too; Santana can feel his arm trembling and twitching in her grip. And she should be happy that his calm is finally starting to crack a little but, but she's just not sure she can be the sane one in this situation; she really isn't.
"I want you to go upstairs," Karofsky says, waving the gun in Kurt's general direction, and Santana can feel Dalton's muscles flexing where she's holding on to him, his whole body coiled tight and tense. "I want you to go and find his dad," and the gun is pointed at Dalton again, "and I want you to bring him back down here. And then we're gonna talk. About the Island."
The gun points at Kurt again, lazy, like the spinner on a Ouija board, and Dalton sags a little in Santana's grip, like he's just resigned himself to something.
Kurt shakes his head, lips pressed tight together, and Santana's known him long enough to know that he's just this side of bursting into tears. "No," he whispers, voice barely a whimper.
"Kurt, it's okay," Dalton says, softly. "Just... just do what he says. And he'll let you go. He'll let you both go."
"No," Kurt says again. "No, I can't, I -- you can't --"
"Kurt, please," Dalton says, starting to sound a little rough, a little desperate. "It's not worth it. We're not worth it. Just go and it'll be over; you can go home, you can --"
The first few tears start rolling down Kurt's cheeks; and maybe it's just that he's ugly when he cries; and maybe it's just that Dalton's still way, way too calm; and maybe it's just that Santana is freaked out and pissed off and she shouldn't be here, dammit, she shouldn't have gotten stuck in this stupid, ugly mess in the first place when none of this has anything to do with her. But she snaps. "Lay off, all right?" she hisses. "Don't you get it? He's scared. Just... Just... Just give him a second."
"I know," Dalton whispers back, and he really does sound desperate now, "I know, but we don't really have a lot of time here, and I'm sorry, Kurt, but you have to --"
There's a short, sharp crack, like a firecracker going off, and Santana lets go of Dalton entirely and clutches at Kurt. Her ears are ringing; she can just barely hear Kurt babbling "Oh my god oh my god oh my god," and she wants to say something about atheists and foxholes but she's too distracted by the way Karofsky is staring blankly at the gun in his hand, like he forgot it was a real thing until his finger was on the trigger and it was too late to stop himself.
Then Dalton's rushing forward, leaving Santana and Kurt without the tenuous shelter he provided, and Santana just manages to grab Kurt and drag him down to the floor with her before the gun goes off again, and then again, and something soft and fleshy hits the floor with an audible thump.
*
"Good," Mr. Anderson says, his voice calm and soothing, and Santana hates it. She hates him. "You can put the gun down now, Santana."
She shakes her head, tightening her fingers on the grip. There's sirens now, outside, and footsteps upstairs, and shouting, and she doesn't think she can deal with this, she just doesn't. "He'll take it," she says, and shifts the gun until it's pointed at Karofsky again. He doesn't even seem to notice; he's still staring at Kurt, at that Dalton kid still bleeding all over the floor of the home ec room, and she hates him for that, for ignoring her when she's the one with the gun. "He'll take it back."
She hates everything.
"Let him take it," Mr. Anderson says. "There's no bullets left in it, remember? He can't hurt anyone anymore, not with that. It's okay. It's over."
"It's not," she says, but it comes out as more of a sob than anything else, and she lowers the gun again.
And after a second, she crouches down, careful not to let the hem of her Cheerios skirt touch the floor, and lays the gun gently against the tile.
"Good," Mr. Anderson says, quietly. "Good. Thank you, Santana."
She wants to tell him to go fuck himself, but she can't seem to make her throat work.
*
There's a clatter as the gun hits the tile (Santana pulling Kurt even closer at the sound of it), and then heavy footsteps stumbling across the floor, and now it's Karofsky's turn to say "Oh god, oh god, oh god," over and over again, his voice thicker, distorted like his nose is plugged up or something, and Santana doesn't want to look up, but she does anyway. Karofsky's backed himself into the corner near the door, one hand over his nose, blood already trickling down to his chin, and he's staring at something, still chanting out "Oh god, oh god, oh god," and Santana knows what he's looking at and she knows she doesn't want to see it.
Then she hears a rough sort of gasping noise, and she can't stop herself from turning, can't stop herself from looking. Dalton's on the floor, curled in on himself, both hands pressing at his thigh. And there's blood, there's a lot of it, but he doesn't look dead, at least. He lets out a pathetic sort of a whine, and Kurt immediately struggles free of Santana's hold, all but crawling over to his boyfriend's side.
"Blaine," he says, his voice still high and choky and grating. "Blaine, say something, please say something --"
"Hurts," Blaine whispers, like he doesn't have the strength to get any louder than that. "Didn't think... Didn't think it'd hurt, like this... It..."
"Sssh," Kurt murmurs, kneeling next to him and getting blood all over his jeans, and he'll hate himself for that when this is over, Santana thinks, he really will. "Don't try to talk."
Blaine lets out a weird little sobbing laugh, and it's the most human he's ever sounded. "You... You just told me to say something," he points out.
"And now I'm telling you to stop," Kurt says, and what's weird is that he actually seems to be getting calmer now, like he just didn't know what to do with himself until someone started bleeding. Which is creepy as fuck, but at least he doesn't sound like he's about to start screaming now. Kurt turns, looking back over his shoulder at Santana. "Get me some fabric or something; he's... he's bleeding pretty bad; he needs --"
He raises one arm, waving it in the general direction of the quilting supplies (all those bolts of floral calico for Blaine to bleed on), and as soon as he moves, Santana sees the gun behind him, neglected on the floor. And when she glances back over to the far corner of the room, she realizes that Karofsky's seen it too, his eyes focusing on it, his hand falling away from his bloody, broken nose.
But Santana's smarter than he is, and faster, and there's no way she's letting him get his hands on that thing again.
She dives for it, skidding across the floor and getting blood on the white sleeves of her bodysuit, blood on her clean white Nikes. But she comes up triumphant, gun in hand, and when she points it at Karofsky, she almost feels good for a second. In control again. Like herself. "Don't," she says, as he sags back against the wall, sliding back down until he's sitting. "Don't even think it, or I'll --"
"So just do it," Karofsky says, closing his eyes, and it takes the momentary thrill of triumph, of finally doing something, right away from her. "It doesn't even matter anymore. Just freaking do it and get it over with."
"David." And it's funny, because it's not like Blaine's got a reason to be scared of Karofsky anymore, but he keeps calling him by his first name, and she doesn't know why. "David, no, don't --"
"Don't, Blaine," Kurt says, and he's just getting calmer by the second, even as things just get weirder, and there has to be something wrong with him, but then, it's not like anything is exactly right right now. "It's all right, Santana's not going to --"
"Oh, you think?" Santana says, tightening her grip on the gun. It's a good thing she's spent so much time on the base of the pyramid, lately; last year she might have been shaking by now, but she's stronger than she was, she can hold up better. "Because I'm thinking maybe Baby Bear here has a point. Maybe he doesn't matter. And maybe I should just --"
"Santana," Blaine says, his voice cracking a little bit. "Please. You don't want to --"
"This is your fault," Karofsky says, turning back to Blaine. He's starting to cry now, and Jesus, he cries uglier than anyone Santana's ever seen, and it's not just the broken nose, either; it's just him. The way his face crumples up and his mouth goes slack, the way he turns all blotchy and red. It's awful. "If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't have come back. If it wasn't for you, he could've just stayed gone. We didn't want him back. We didn't --"
"I'm sorry," Blaine says, his voice raspy with pain, but still awkwardly sincere. "I'm so sorry, David; I --"
Kurt shushes him, his voice low and urgent. "Just lie back," he murmurs. "Lie back. You'll hurt yourself."
Karofsky tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling, blood still running down his face, and part of Santana almost feels sorry for him, but most of her just hates his guts. Honestly, she really would shoot him, except it's obviously what he wants, and fuck that noise. She's not doing a thing for him. Not a damn thing. "I wish he'd never come back," he says. "He ruined it. He ruined everything."
Then there's running footsteps coming down the hall, and Karofsky looks at Santana again, still crying, and he just says "Please," and Santana starts to shake. She takes her finger away from the trigger, because God knows she doesn't want to pull a Karofsky and just start shooting everything, but she doesn't let go of the gun, keeps her hands curled tight around the grip. "Please," Karofsky says again, and when Santana shakes her head, he closes his eyes and sags back against the wall.
The math teacher is the first one to show up, the little bug-eyed guy who asked Brittany to be on the Academic Decathalon (and Santana totally does not understand anything about that at all, but it makes Brittany smile so she's not going to say a word). Then it's Mr. Schuester, and Coach Sue coming up behind him, and Santana figures she should probably let go of the gun now before they think that she --
But she can't, is the thing. Because when Karofsky said please like that, he meant it, and she doesn't totally know what the hell's going on, but she's not gonna let Karofsky shoot himself before she finds out.
"Santana," Mr. Schuester says, sounding a little shocked, and of course he's the first one to assume that she's gone all Rambina, of course he's --
"It's all right," the math teacher says, and he sounds exactly like Blaine did when Karofsky pushed him into the room, like the whole thing's just gone full circle. "Santana, you can put the gun down, now. It's over."
"He shot that kid," Santana says, and doesn't let go of the gun. "He came in with a gun, and he... and then he..."
"I know," the math teacher says, softly. "But the police are on their way, and it's over now, Santana. You don't have to hold on to that anymore."
Santana shakes her head, ponytail flying. "He'll take it," she says. "As soon as I put it down, he'll take it."
The math teacher watches her for a second, then takes a deep breath. "Then we'll unload it," he says.
"I don't know how," Santana points out. "It'll go off."
"I'll talk you through it," he says, in that calm voice that she hates so much. "It'll be fine."
Santana swallows hard, her sweaty hands tightening around the gun.
Coach finally says something, which would almost be a relief if she didn't sound so defeated. "Santana," she says, and Santana wishes it was something else, like Sandbags or Tittywampus or Jiggle Me Elmo, anything but her name in that sad, guilty tone of voice. "Santana, I want you to do what Mr. Anderson says, okay?"
*
Mr. Anderson's hand settles on her shoulder as she straightens up, and she doesn't want him touching her, she hates him, but she lets him steer her towards the door, where Mr. Schue is waiting with one arm outstretched to pull her in. And she doesn't want him to hug her, she doesn't want anyone touching her, she hates everyone on the planet right now, but when Mr. Schue's arm settles on her shoulders, she just goes with it, and hides her face in his shoulder, and hates the way it makes her feel safer.
"Santana," Mr. Schue says, softly, and rests his chin on her hair.
"Dad," Blaine says, and when Santana turns her head and opens her eyes, she sees Mr. Anderson kneeling at Blaine's side, not touching him, just... hovering there. Like he doesn't know what's happening. "Am I..." Blaine lets out a little, pained sound and Mr. Anderson's hand flutters over him, comes to rest in the center of his chest. "Am I in trouble?"
Mr. Anderson lets out a weird sort of half-laugh, and shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, you're not in trouble, Blaine."
"He was firing wild," Blaine mumbles, and ignores Kurt trying to shush him. "Someone was gonna get hurt. Had to... Had to get the gun, had to -- I couldn't wait, Dad."
"I know," Mr. Anderson says, and brushes his fingers along the edge of his son's forehead. "I know. You're not in trouble, Blaine."
"Couldn't wait," Blaine says again. "I'm sorry." He looks past his father for just a second, looks right at Santana. "I'm sorry," he says, and it's directed right at her, and she hates him more than she's ever hated anyone, just for that. For being sorry.
Santana closes her eyes again, and hides her face in Mr. Schue's shoulder, and lets him lead her out of the room.