the songbirds are singing like the know the score
Holding grudges has always come easily to Santana; she's a monstrous bitch, it's in the job description. Until now, she was doing really well, too, rolling her eyes at Brittany's ridiculous spelling errors and pretending not to care that it went unnoticed when she finally wore that stupid shirt. Plus, being all but outed on YouTube, mortifying though it was, ultimately did wonders for her anger reserves. She was practically bubbling over with rage, intent on remaining upset with Brittany until the end of time, and then Artie had to go and prove he's an even bigger idiot than Santana has been insisting all along. (Soon, she'll adjust her insults accordingly, but currently there are more pressing matters at hand.) This time, being right doesn't bring her the satisfaction that it should, considering the result is Brittany crying in her arms in front of wheelchair kid himself. (Okay, that part is vaguely satisfying, and she doesn't pass up an opportunity to shoot a death glare his way when he strolls down the hall, but it does nothing to fix the situation.) As fate would have it, it takes surprisingly little for Brittany to work her way back into Santana's good graces. That's love, she supposes: setting herself up to get hurt day after day on the off chance that the blonde will finally come to her senses.
So it is that not three periods into the day, Santana's feelings toward Brittany have made a complete one-eighty, and she now finds herself tasked with cheering the other girl up. Maybe it's because rolling Artie down a flight of stairs strikes her as counter-productive in terms of winning back Britt's affection, or maybe it's because Glee Club has brainwashed her into believing the best way to express herself is through song, but Santana decides to kill two birds with one stone and use this week's Fleetwood Mac assignment to heal her lady's heart. Song choice proves surprisingly easy: from the moment Santana's eyes fall over the chorus, she knows that "Songbird" is her number. God help her for admitting it, even to herself, but sometimes Schuester isn't completely full of crap. The lyrics say so much more than she could, left to her own devices; enough that she won't even mind being indebted to the Spanish teacher if this works out.
During their lunch period, Santana checks to make sure the choir room is unoccupied, then leads Brittany in and has her take a seat. There's something about performing that makes her less nervous, strange as it seems. Even if she's only channeling someone else's words, this is an extremely personal song, and she's already been shot down once before. But if that Christine McVie chick could write and perform it before the whole world, Santana Lopez can sing it before a single girl. Besides, if she closes her eyes just often enough, she can fool herself into thinking there's a much larger audience watching. The problem is, Brittany looks so damn sad and beautiful, she ends up keeping both eyes open just to stare. The piano pulls her in, then, lulling her into the tone of the piece, and before she knows it, her cue is up and the words are pouring out of her as if they were there all along. And in a way they were. Perhaps not those exact words, but something very close, something from the heart.
It only gets easier, from here. Scratch that, it only gets harder. The smallest smile from Britt threatens to make Santana trip over her own voice and forget the words she learned like the back of her hand. She closes her eyes then, just for a moment, and focuses solely on feeling the lyrics, riding the melody. "And the songbirds keep singing like they know the score, and I love you, I love you, I love -" This, she had perfectly planned, to let her eyelids flutter open just as she sang that final I love you so she might stare deep into Brittany's eyes. She knows for a fact that Britt's a sucker that kind of romantic gesture, the cheesier the better. But she doesn't make it through the verse before the music suddenly stops, and within seconds, Santana is whipping around and shouting accusations at What's-His-Face the pianist. "Okay, fine, guy, I'm sorry I called you furniture, but how's about you suck it up and try some professional... ism?" Caught in the heat of her rant, it takes a few seconds longer than it should for Santana to realize that neither piano nor player sits behind her.
Spinning on her heel, she takes in an the inexplicably new and unfamiliar surroundings, finding that she now stands on what appears to be a karaoke stage at the corner of a pathetic little bar. Beyond the flimsy shelter, there are palm trees, and sand between the cracks of the floorboards beneath her. None of the above particularly scream Ohio, and there is most definitely not a head-over-heels enamored blonde seated before her. "Oh, what the hell?"
(Traditional debut, anyone and everyone welcome! Timed to noon Monday and open to new tags until otherwise stated.)
So it is that not three periods into the day, Santana's feelings toward Brittany have made a complete one-eighty, and she now finds herself tasked with cheering the other girl up. Maybe it's because rolling Artie down a flight of stairs strikes her as counter-productive in terms of winning back Britt's affection, or maybe it's because Glee Club has brainwashed her into believing the best way to express herself is through song, but Santana decides to kill two birds with one stone and use this week's Fleetwood Mac assignment to heal her lady's heart. Song choice proves surprisingly easy: from the moment Santana's eyes fall over the chorus, she knows that "Songbird" is her number. God help her for admitting it, even to herself, but sometimes Schuester isn't completely full of crap. The lyrics say so much more than she could, left to her own devices; enough that she won't even mind being indebted to the Spanish teacher if this works out.
During their lunch period, Santana checks to make sure the choir room is unoccupied, then leads Brittany in and has her take a seat. There's something about performing that makes her less nervous, strange as it seems. Even if she's only channeling someone else's words, this is an extremely personal song, and she's already been shot down once before. But if that Christine McVie chick could write and perform it before the whole world, Santana Lopez can sing it before a single girl. Besides, if she closes her eyes just often enough, she can fool herself into thinking there's a much larger audience watching. The problem is, Brittany looks so damn sad and beautiful, she ends up keeping both eyes open just to stare. The piano pulls her in, then, lulling her into the tone of the piece, and before she knows it, her cue is up and the words are pouring out of her as if they were there all along. And in a way they were. Perhaps not those exact words, but something very close, something from the heart.
It only gets easier, from here. Scratch that, it only gets harder. The smallest smile from Britt threatens to make Santana trip over her own voice and forget the words she learned like the back of her hand. She closes her eyes then, just for a moment, and focuses solely on feeling the lyrics, riding the melody. "And the songbirds keep singing like they know the score, and I love you, I love you, I love -" This, she had perfectly planned, to let her eyelids flutter open just as she sang that final I love you so she might stare deep into Brittany's eyes. She knows for a fact that Britt's a sucker that kind of romantic gesture, the cheesier the better. But she doesn't make it through the verse before the music suddenly stops, and within seconds, Santana is whipping around and shouting accusations at What's-His-Face the pianist. "Okay, fine, guy, I'm sorry I called you furniture, but how's about you suck it up and try some professional... ism?" Caught in the heat of her rant, it takes a few seconds longer than it should for Santana to realize that neither piano nor player sits behind her.
Spinning on her heel, she takes in an the inexplicably new and unfamiliar surroundings, finding that she now stands on what appears to be a karaoke stage at the corner of a pathetic little bar. Beyond the flimsy shelter, there are palm trees, and sand between the cracks of the floorboards beneath her. None of the above particularly scream Ohio, and there is most definitely not a head-over-heels enamored blonde seated before her. "Oh, what the hell?"
(Traditional debut, anyone and everyone welcome! Timed to noon Monday and open to new tags until otherwise stated.)