Fic: Sentimental Moron
Author's Note: I can't help it. There's more to Santana than the writing on this show would have us believe. I tried to make this as plausible as I could, but... Ah well. This is just how I deal with developments I don't like.
“And tighten up your pony before you get to class!” Quinn shrieked, as Santana let Brittany lead her down the hall, barely resisting the urge to flip the other girl the bird as she retreated.
“What was that about?” Brittany asked anxiously, but Santana just readjusted her hair and ducked into her math class. “Santana,” Brittany called from the doorway.
“Forget about it. It’s over with,” Santana said, and she took her seat. Brittany watched her forlornly until she got jostled by some other students and headed on her own way to class.
Everything had just fallen apart. Not only had she had the only thing she’d ever wanted-her status as head Cheerio-ripped away from her, but she had actually thought she might have gotten her friend back that summer. Santana cursed herself for being so naïve. Of course Quinn would do whatever it took to get her position back, now that there was no bastard kid to worry about, even if that meant stepping all over Santana to do it. She should have seen this coming; she should have been prepared for a threat, but all that bonding over glee and then hanging out in the summer while Brittany was on vacation had made her trust Quinn again.
How could she have been so utterly idiotic?
She went through the rest of her classes without saying a word or looking at anyone, and at Cheerios practice, she dutifully-if irritably-took her spot at the bottom of the pyramid. Then finally, her day was over, and she made sure she was the last one to leave the gym, the last one to leave the locker room, but of course Brittany was waiting for her at her car. “Are you ready to talk to me yet?” she asked quietly, but Santana just opened the door for her friend before heading around to the driver’s side. “Well. Can I ask you a question, then?” Brittany asked once Santana was in the car.
“No,” Santana said evenly.
“Santana,” Brittany pleaded.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But it’s me. You can’t keep things from me. Anyway, I know why Coach dropped you to the bottom of the pyramid, but when did you… I mean, I just saw them in the bathroom after third period-”
“I didn’t get a boob job, Britt, Christ,” Santana muttered, and Brittany nodded, murmuring to herself.
“Then why does Coach think you did?” she ventured, and Santana sighed.
“Because Quinn told her I did.”
“I mean, they are bigger, but-”
“Yes, they’re a little bigger, and I got a better bra, and there’s no way Coach would believe me over Quinn anyway, so I couldn’t deny it,” Santana said in a rush. She slumped over the steering wheel and sighed again.
Brittany put a tentative hand on her back. “Well, you could have-or maybe that’s-I mean…”
“Britt, I was not going to strip for Coach Sylvester to prove that my knockers are real,” Santana said, rolling her eyes. “Forget it. Quinn belongs on top anyway. She’s always belonged on top.”
And maybe that was the real reason Santana hadn’t defended herself in Coach Sylvester’s office, why she’d let her think that Santana had done something so foolish. Because Santana had never been able to believe she was really Coach Sylvester’s choice for head Cheerio. After all, Coach had all too readily believed her when she, fumbling for some excuse, blurted, “I wanted people to notice me more.” But never in her entire life had Santana Lopez been invisible. And ever since high school, she’d gotten more attention than she knew what to do with.
But never from Coach Sylvester. To her, Santana was clearly nothing more than a stand-in, someone who definitely would do whatever Coach wanted until, somehow, perfect Quinn Fabray returned to her former glory. No matter how hard Santana tried to get and stay in her good graces-she’d slept with Finn fucking Hudson for god’s sake-Coach was never satisfied with her as the captain.
And then perfect Quinn Fabray had found the perfect way not only to win a spot back on the Cheerios, but to topple Santana and regain her captaincy. She and Coach must have been so pleased with themselves.
“I thought you were a good captain,” Brittany offered, but that just made Santana feel worse.
“Yeah, well, I’m not tall and blonde, so I’m not really head Cheerio material,” she muttered.
“Well. I am tall and blonde, and I’m definitely not head Cheerio material,” Brittany observed, making Santana snort a laugh.
“Thanks, Britt,” she muttered.
“For what?” Brittany asked.
“For…being my friend,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse.
“Of course I’m your friend,” Brittany said, puzzled. “I mean, I knew you’d have to have a good reason to beat Quinn up. I just wanted to know what it was.”
“Do you think she feels bad?” Santana asked suddenly, lifting her head up. “I mean, I thought we were friends.”
Brittany just shrugged. “You know I don’t understand Quinn,” she said.
“I could have done this to her, when we found out she was pregnant. I could have told Coach, and Coach would have gone ballistic, and then I would have been captain.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I’m a sentimental moron!” she yelled, punching the steering wheel, and Brittany jumped in her seat.
“Santana…”
“Ugh, whatever. Just. Whatever. Let’s go home,” she sighed, and Brittany nodded.
“And tighten up your pony before you get to class!” Quinn shrieked, as Santana let Brittany lead her down the hall, barely resisting the urge to flip the other girl the bird as she retreated.
“What was that about?” Brittany asked anxiously, but Santana just readjusted her hair and ducked into her math class. “Santana,” Brittany called from the doorway.
“Forget about it. It’s over with,” Santana said, and she took her seat. Brittany watched her forlornly until she got jostled by some other students and headed on her own way to class.
Everything had just fallen apart. Not only had she had the only thing she’d ever wanted-her status as head Cheerio-ripped away from her, but she had actually thought she might have gotten her friend back that summer. Santana cursed herself for being so naïve. Of course Quinn would do whatever it took to get her position back, now that there was no bastard kid to worry about, even if that meant stepping all over Santana to do it. She should have seen this coming; she should have been prepared for a threat, but all that bonding over glee and then hanging out in the summer while Brittany was on vacation had made her trust Quinn again.
How could she have been so utterly idiotic?
She went through the rest of her classes without saying a word or looking at anyone, and at Cheerios practice, she dutifully-if irritably-took her spot at the bottom of the pyramid. Then finally, her day was over, and she made sure she was the last one to leave the gym, the last one to leave the locker room, but of course Brittany was waiting for her at her car. “Are you ready to talk to me yet?” she asked quietly, but Santana just opened the door for her friend before heading around to the driver’s side. “Well. Can I ask you a question, then?” Brittany asked once Santana was in the car.
“No,” Santana said evenly.
“Santana,” Brittany pleaded.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But it’s me. You can’t keep things from me. Anyway, I know why Coach dropped you to the bottom of the pyramid, but when did you… I mean, I just saw them in the bathroom after third period-”
“I didn’t get a boob job, Britt, Christ,” Santana muttered, and Brittany nodded, murmuring to herself.
“Then why does Coach think you did?” she ventured, and Santana sighed.
“Because Quinn told her I did.”
“I mean, they are bigger, but-”
“Yes, they’re a little bigger, and I got a better bra, and there’s no way Coach would believe me over Quinn anyway, so I couldn’t deny it,” Santana said in a rush. She slumped over the steering wheel and sighed again.
Brittany put a tentative hand on her back. “Well, you could have-or maybe that’s-I mean…”
“Britt, I was not going to strip for Coach Sylvester to prove that my knockers are real,” Santana said, rolling her eyes. “Forget it. Quinn belongs on top anyway. She’s always belonged on top.”
And maybe that was the real reason Santana hadn’t defended herself in Coach Sylvester’s office, why she’d let her think that Santana had done something so foolish. Because Santana had never been able to believe she was really Coach Sylvester’s choice for head Cheerio. After all, Coach had all too readily believed her when she, fumbling for some excuse, blurted, “I wanted people to notice me more.” But never in her entire life had Santana Lopez been invisible. And ever since high school, she’d gotten more attention than she knew what to do with.
But never from Coach Sylvester. To her, Santana was clearly nothing more than a stand-in, someone who definitely would do whatever Coach wanted until, somehow, perfect Quinn Fabray returned to her former glory. No matter how hard Santana tried to get and stay in her good graces-she’d slept with Finn fucking Hudson for god’s sake-Coach was never satisfied with her as the captain.
And then perfect Quinn Fabray had found the perfect way not only to win a spot back on the Cheerios, but to topple Santana and regain her captaincy. She and Coach must have been so pleased with themselves.
“I thought you were a good captain,” Brittany offered, but that just made Santana feel worse.
“Yeah, well, I’m not tall and blonde, so I’m not really head Cheerio material,” she muttered.
“Well. I am tall and blonde, and I’m definitely not head Cheerio material,” Brittany observed, making Santana snort a laugh.
“Thanks, Britt,” she muttered.
“For what?” Brittany asked.
“For…being my friend,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse.
“Of course I’m your friend,” Brittany said, puzzled. “I mean, I knew you’d have to have a good reason to beat Quinn up. I just wanted to know what it was.”
“Do you think she feels bad?” Santana asked suddenly, lifting her head up. “I mean, I thought we were friends.”
Brittany just shrugged. “You know I don’t understand Quinn,” she said.
“I could have done this to her, when we found out she was pregnant. I could have told Coach, and Coach would have gone ballistic, and then I would have been captain.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I’m a sentimental moron!” she yelled, punching the steering wheel, and Brittany jumped in her seat.
“Santana…”
“Ugh, whatever. Just. Whatever. Let’s go home,” she sighed, and Brittany nodded.