Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (12/13)
Title: Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (12/13)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany, side Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R/NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana Lopez hates school, Lima, and those damn Cheerios--for the most part.
A/N: Title swiped from the Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton song of the same name.
“Well,” Quinn says calmly. “That wasn’t exactly what we rehearsed, was it?”
Santana’s only response is to kick the wall as hard as she can. Which, considering the relatively flimsy nature of her sneaker, is possibly not the best option. She winces.
“Hey,” Quinn snaps, “no holes in my parents’ walls. In about two days, I’m going to have to tell them about Rachel, and I need them as well-buttered as possible for the occasion.”
Because Quinn, fuck it all, actually held up her side of the bargain. And now Quinn, fuck it all, has that “I’ve got a girlfriend” look obnoxiously splayed all over her stupidly pretty face.
Right now, Santana would prefer to be kicking Quinn, rather than this wall. She bites her tongue, resisting.
“How did this even happen?” her friend goes on, oblivious to how closely she is edging to new bruises. “How on earth does ‘ask her out’ warp into ‘insult her enough to make her leave’?”
“I have no idea!” Santana growls, though that isn’t entirely true. “I was just…talking.”
She pretends to ignore the arch look Quinn slides down the desk. “You talking,” the blonde comments with a certain amount of serenity, “is rarely a good thing where girls are concerned. Or have you forgotten how every person you’ve ever slept with hates your ever-lovin’ guts?”
“Nope,” Santana grinds out through her teeth. “Haven’t forgotten. Thanks, Q.”
She watches the blonde swivel from side to side in her desk chair. It’s more than a little annoying how even her hair seems blindly cheerful, all swishy and pleased.
“Next time,” Quinn is saying when she tunes back in (that hair is damn distracting; she thinks that might explain how Quinn was so successful with the brunette midget she’s been jonesing for-instead of opening her mouth, she probably flicked the girl in the face a couple of times with that hair and bada bing, insta-girlfriend), “maybe you should try keeping to the script.”
“What script?” Santana asks dully, flopping back on the bed and folding both arms over her face. The leather of her jacket still smells bitterly of Quinn’s closet-repression and alcoholism, just like the rest of the Fabray household-but she thinks that’s better than the Brittany-smell clinging to the rest of her outfit. Brittany-smell is equal parts intoxicating and maddening, since it only serves to remind her of failure.
Quinn already has a pen in hand, scrawling across a pristine sheet of notebook paper. “This one,” she replies mildly, not bothering to glance up. “The one you will carry in your back pocket in preparation for the off chance she ever chooses to speak to you again.”
“Fuck you, Fabray.” The words are automatic, but insincere. God help her, she’s almost curious.
She waits for Quinn to finish, inhaling and exhaling in steady streams to keep calm. Her own personal brand of meditation, almost, and it’s just about working when Quinn plops down beside her and slams the notebook into her chest.
“Here,” the blonde says when Santana coughs and lifts an arm to glare out from under it. “Read. Memorize. Use as needed.”
“Take two and call you in the morning?” Santana mocks, sitting up and pulling the notebook to eye-level. “Who are you, Dr. Fabray: Lesbian Therapist?”
“Just smarter than you,” Quinn snips, wisely migrating back to her chair before Santana can swing the three-ring into her face. “Do yourself a favor, Lopez. Quit with the self-effacing shit. Thwarting your own efforts is one of those things that stopped being cute after the first time you scored on your own soccer goal.”
“I was eight,” Santana reminds her witheringly. One eyebrow performs its typical trick.
“No excuses, Lopez. Talk to the girl tomorrow. Read straight from my impeccable handwriting if you must. Don’t fuck it up again, okay? You being a shithead bums Brittany out, and when Brittany’s bummed out, we all kind of wind up feeling shitty. And when Rachel feels shitty, she gets bossier. Which is fine in the bedroom, but when it’s in Glee, Kurt’s head always looks like it’s going to blow off. And frankly, I’m getting sick of Schuester doing his ‘I’m going to cry soon’ routine.”
“She’s already been bossy in the bedroom?” Santana smirks. “All right, Berry, get down with your kinky-ass self.”
“Don’t tell her I mentioned it,” Quinn warns, her ears going more than a little pink. The Latina swings a pillow smartly through the air, chuckling.
“Secret’s safe with me, Q. Until you piss my shit off.”
She ducks the hastily lobbed baseball with remarkable agility, she thinks-and there’s a certain poetic justice in Quinn’s horrified expression as she beholds the small puncture in the plaster behind her bedpost.
“Oh, look,” Santana says lightly. “A hole.”
Quinn has never looked so hilariously murderous.
***
All kidding aside, Santana is pretty sure she’s going to throw up when she finds herself at Brittany’s locker the next morning. The hall is emptying quickly, the typical sleepy ruckus dying down as kids make various shuffling bids for the proper classrooms, and Santana wonders blankly how it is she keeps getting away with this skipping thing. She’s good, it’s true, but she’s normally not so good that Figgins doesn’t toss out a detention slip now and again. Not that she goes; that man is damn near the most inept authority figure she has ever come across. The most he ever manages to achieve is a phone call home-and it isn’t as though such things come as any sort of shock to her mother by this point.
All the same, not a single teacher bears down on her as she leans against Brittany’s locker, aiming for casual. She’s almost positive she’s hit the mark, despite continually removing Quinn's notes from her pocket and mulling them over, when she spots a familiar ambling form down the hall.
“Late again?” Puck greets her, protectively settling his books in front of his crotch. She smirks.
“Is it really considered late if you don’t plan on ever showing up?”
He pauses to consider, cupping his chin thoughtfully. “Probably not. You lookin’ for Hot Blonde Chick?”
He’s not the most perceptive creature on the planet, and she knows it. It would be kind to ignore his idiocy and simply respond in the affirmative, but really-she’s standing at Brittany’s locker. Literally; she’s blocking the goddamn thing.
“No,” she snipes nonchalantly. “I’m getting ready to polish her locker for her. Sort of a ‘sorry I’m an ass’ giftie, if you will. Think she’ll like it?”
“I’d have gone with flowers,” Puck says with a shrug, and for a moment, Santana is certain she’s waltzed right into a parellel dimension in which her best guy friend has traded bodies with Finn Hudson. Then he grins. “Smart-ass. Anyway, if you really want to chat her up, I’d try the football field. I saw her out there with Mallory and some of the other sexy bitches who want me strung up.”
“And you mean that in a strictly homicidal, non-sado-masochist fashion, yes?”
Thick eyebrows give their usual lecherous wiggle. “Believe what you will.”
“Creep,” she blows back affectionately, bumping his shoulder as she steps around him. He bumps back, albeit more cautiously.
“Hey, Lopez?”
She turns, pushing swinging hair out of her face. “Yeah, Puckerman?”
His smile has dimmed, his expression transformed in a heartbeat into something disturbingly like gravity. “Might not wanna blow it this time, eh?”
Any other day, she would punch him for suggesting she’s capable of anything less than success. Right now, she feels just as faithless as he looks. She tries a wan smile.
“Don’t worry. Quinn wrote me a script.”
“Ah.” He nods wisely, combing fingers loosely through his mohawk. “The proverbial lady killer. Or…Berry killer.”
“Half a lady,” Santana can’t resist snickering.
“Either way,” he says almost cheerfully, though his eyes still weigh heavier than she likes. “Chick knows her shit about other chicks. You’ll be fine.”
As long as you aren’t you, she hears him finish silently, shifting his books under one arm and lifting the other in a quick wave goodbye. She sighs. Steels herself. Sets off for sunshine.
Brittany is indeed on the field, uniform neatly pressed, bookbag slung over one shoulder. Her forehead is creased under side-slashing bangs, her hands digging into her sides as she faces down three of her Satanic brethren. It looks almost like they’re arguing-something she knows she should stay out of. It isn’t like Brittany wants her help right now.
All the same, Santana takes a breath and steels herself.
“Hey!” she calls while still halfway across the field. It probably isn’t her wisest decision; alerting Brittany to her presence this early gives the taller girl a better chance to hoof it away as fast as strong, gorgeous legs can carry her terribly fit body. However, although Brittany’s head snaps around quick enough to instigate a little whiplash, the rest of her stays put. Santana takes this as an okay sign.
“What do you want?” one of Mallory’s flunkies sneers, all hateful green eyes and flawless skin. Santana’s pretty sure she is one of the girls who ordered the hit out on Quinn’s tires last year and resists an instinctive middle finger salute in greeting.
She settles instead for raising both hands to the level of her ears, as peaceful as she was made to be. “Hi,” she says quietly, looking only at Brittany for fear of slipping up and decking one of the others. The blonde’s lips twitch.
“Hi,” she replies, and shifts under the weight of her bag. Santana’s fingers itch to remove it from slim shoulders, to cast it carelessly over her own back.
“Listen, about yesterday-,” she begins, flinching internally when Brittany’s eyes harden.
“She has nothing to say to you, Juvie Hall,” Mallory jeers, stepping protectively in front of the taller girl. “She knows better.”
Santana fires a helpless look over her head, searching for Brittany’s gaze. “Brittany. Listen. I was an ass.”
“You’re always an ass,” the third Cheerio pipes up, a little sweeter than the other two, but just as inherently evil. The Latina's teeth clamp down jarringly upon her tongue.
“I was a bigger ass than usual,” she presses on. “But I’m sorry. I wanted you to know that I just…kind of panicked. I don’t think well when you’re around.”
“You don’t think ever, Fisticuffs,” Mallory bites off, giggling. The sound is uncannily hyena-like, enough to set Santana’s nerves on their very furthest edge. Brittany’s eyes raise, something sharp and uneasy sliding across her features.
“Anyway,” the green-eyed bitch adds, stepping so she is shoulder to shoulder with Mallory, “you should run along now. We were having a little members only chat with Brittany here about certain…decisions she’s made of late. Straightening some things out, you know how it is.”
“See,” the third girl chimes in, “when you’ve got friends, sometimes interventions need to be made. To prevent…undesirable consequences.”
Undesirable consequences. It's hard to ignore the fact that this is what she is-not just to scumbags like these three, but to the whole school. Against her will, Santana’s head droops, shoulders cuffing up around her ears. Brittany’s expression remains unreadable.
“Fine,” she says shortly, though the urge to knock skulls together and draw screams from bruised throats has grown nearly deafening, racing like boiling blood through her head. “Forget it.”
“Wait,” Brittany starts, making as if to move past her bodyguards. Mallory swivels, one hand pressed decisively to the blonde’s shoulder.
“That’s another thing we should be talking about,” she smarms, eyes dangerous and edgy. “First Glee, which honestly is pathetic enough without any additions, and now this…thing. Whatever it is. It’s like you’re trying to get yourself axed.”
Santana lifts her head, feeling even more murderous through her not-inconsiderable shock. Glee is their first priority? Glee is more scandalous than Santana Lopez?
Well, fuck that.
To her credit, Brittany is standing taller than ever, shoulders thrown back, chin pointed down. “I’m not trying to do anything, Mallory, except enjoy high school. God, the way you all talk, you’d think that was a crime or something.”
“Practically a felony,” Mallory shoots back, digging her nails into the soft material of Brittany’s uniform. “The way you’re going about it, anyway. You’ve got everything right now. Why are you so inclined to throw it all away? And for a few cheesy heart-warmers and this piece of trash, no less.”
She jerks her head towards Santana, who is feeling decidedly miffed about her role as an afterthought in this whole situation.
“That’s what’s worth it to you? Singing and prancing around like an idiot with some bitch who’d sooner knock you out in the heat of the moment than keep a civil tongue? That’s what’s worth losing popularity and power and status?”
Santana feels her whole self go livid. Brittany’s eyes drop. “I’m just trying to-“
“You’re just trying to wreck everything,” Mallory snarls. “We have taken Nationals every year since I joined up. We will do it again, provided you pull your head out of your ass, quit this sneaky gay behavior, and drop that pathetic excuse for a club.”
She turns, flicking her ponytail with royal arrogance. “Sue’s orders,” she adds over her shoulder. “You’re a Cheerio. Start acting like one.”
Santana’s fists ball, and before she knows it, her feet are propelling the rest of her after the retreating uniforms. Or, at least, that’s the unconscious aim-before a strong hand snaps out and latches onto the back of her hoodie.
“Don’t,” Brittany says almost sadly. “You were doing so well at keeping it together this time.”
Santana’s shoulders sag. Without turning, she mutters, “They’re bitches.”
“Is this the part where you say you told me so?” Brittany asks, sounding the vaguest bit amused. Her hand is warm on Santana’s back, still pinching fabric to restrain the smaller girl. Mechanically, Santana leans back into the touch.
“No,” she says, voice trembling with the effort of her calm. “This is the part where I say again that I’m sorry. Me telling you what to do, me telling you how evil those girls are…it’s really no better than them telling you how trashy I am, or how useless Glee is. You’re a big girl. You make your own choices. Regardless of their…undesirable consequences.”
She chances a glance over her shoulder. Brittany’s hand slips from her back, resting instead behind the blonde girl’s own neck. Chewing her lip, she looks genuinely contemplative in a way Santana has never seen before.
“I won’t do it,” she says slowly. “Quit Glee, I mean. I don’t want to. I like it too much-I like what it is, how it makes me feel. I like dancing with Mike and talking to Kurt and watching Rachel pretend not to be in love with Quinn.”
“Won’t be much more of that last part,” Santana murmurs. Brittany’s eyes brighten.
“Good,” she says simply. “Anyway, I’m staying. They can’t make me quit.”
“Sue can kick you off the squad,” Santana points out, body still angled away from Brittany’s. “She can crush you.”
Brittany snorts. “Crush me how? By taking away the uniform? By giving me back my old diet and the chance to sleep in on weekends? I’m sure it would be really hurtful.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, they need me. I’m the best dancer they’ve got-better than Mallory and those other girls put together. I’m their best shot at Nationals.”
At a loss for what to say to that, Santana nods. Her gaze remains trained on the grass, her shoulders tense. From the corner of her eye, she sees Brittany hug herself.
“Was there something else?” the blonde asks eventually, sounding about as uncertain as Santana feels. The dark-haired girl shrugs.
“I’ve got a whole list of things I’m supposed to say,” she admits. “But honestly, I think sorry about covers it.”
A slow nod; she knows Brittany wants more, expects more, but Santana can feel the rush of hatred flowing through her veins, can hear the blood pounding away in her ears. It's too much to finagle around right now, especially working in tandem with her overwhelming anxiety.
The girl waits a second more, then merely says, “Okay.”
She can feel Brittany starting to walk away, can feel the girl slipping through her fingers for what feels like the thousandth time, and still, she cannot say what she feels. Screwing her eyes shut, she presses the back of one hand against her mouth.
“Santana?”
She turns, frustrated. “Yeah?”
Blue eyes sparkle. “It’s a start. I’ll see you in Glee.”
Brittany is fifteen feet away when Santana realizes what she has to do. She sets her jaw, smiles tightly, and strides off in the opposite direction.
Though she hopes it will be the last time this will be the case--she needs Quinn.
[Part 13]
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany, side Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R/NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana Lopez hates school, Lima, and those damn Cheerios--for the most part.
A/N: Title swiped from the Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton song of the same name.
“Well,” Quinn says calmly. “That wasn’t exactly what we rehearsed, was it?”
Santana’s only response is to kick the wall as hard as she can. Which, considering the relatively flimsy nature of her sneaker, is possibly not the best option. She winces.
“Hey,” Quinn snaps, “no holes in my parents’ walls. In about two days, I’m going to have to tell them about Rachel, and I need them as well-buttered as possible for the occasion.”
Because Quinn, fuck it all, actually held up her side of the bargain. And now Quinn, fuck it all, has that “I’ve got a girlfriend” look obnoxiously splayed all over her stupidly pretty face.
Right now, Santana would prefer to be kicking Quinn, rather than this wall. She bites her tongue, resisting.
“How did this even happen?” her friend goes on, oblivious to how closely she is edging to new bruises. “How on earth does ‘ask her out’ warp into ‘insult her enough to make her leave’?”
“I have no idea!” Santana growls, though that isn’t entirely true. “I was just…talking.”
She pretends to ignore the arch look Quinn slides down the desk. “You talking,” the blonde comments with a certain amount of serenity, “is rarely a good thing where girls are concerned. Or have you forgotten how every person you’ve ever slept with hates your ever-lovin’ guts?”
“Nope,” Santana grinds out through her teeth. “Haven’t forgotten. Thanks, Q.”
She watches the blonde swivel from side to side in her desk chair. It’s more than a little annoying how even her hair seems blindly cheerful, all swishy and pleased.
“Next time,” Quinn is saying when she tunes back in (that hair is damn distracting; she thinks that might explain how Quinn was so successful with the brunette midget she’s been jonesing for-instead of opening her mouth, she probably flicked the girl in the face a couple of times with that hair and bada bing, insta-girlfriend), “maybe you should try keeping to the script.”
“What script?” Santana asks dully, flopping back on the bed and folding both arms over her face. The leather of her jacket still smells bitterly of Quinn’s closet-repression and alcoholism, just like the rest of the Fabray household-but she thinks that’s better than the Brittany-smell clinging to the rest of her outfit. Brittany-smell is equal parts intoxicating and maddening, since it only serves to remind her of failure.
Quinn already has a pen in hand, scrawling across a pristine sheet of notebook paper. “This one,” she replies mildly, not bothering to glance up. “The one you will carry in your back pocket in preparation for the off chance she ever chooses to speak to you again.”
“Fuck you, Fabray.” The words are automatic, but insincere. God help her, she’s almost curious.
She waits for Quinn to finish, inhaling and exhaling in steady streams to keep calm. Her own personal brand of meditation, almost, and it’s just about working when Quinn plops down beside her and slams the notebook into her chest.
“Here,” the blonde says when Santana coughs and lifts an arm to glare out from under it. “Read. Memorize. Use as needed.”
“Take two and call you in the morning?” Santana mocks, sitting up and pulling the notebook to eye-level. “Who are you, Dr. Fabray: Lesbian Therapist?”
“Just smarter than you,” Quinn snips, wisely migrating back to her chair before Santana can swing the three-ring into her face. “Do yourself a favor, Lopez. Quit with the self-effacing shit. Thwarting your own efforts is one of those things that stopped being cute after the first time you scored on your own soccer goal.”
“I was eight,” Santana reminds her witheringly. One eyebrow performs its typical trick.
“No excuses, Lopez. Talk to the girl tomorrow. Read straight from my impeccable handwriting if you must. Don’t fuck it up again, okay? You being a shithead bums Brittany out, and when Brittany’s bummed out, we all kind of wind up feeling shitty. And when Rachel feels shitty, she gets bossier. Which is fine in the bedroom, but when it’s in Glee, Kurt’s head always looks like it’s going to blow off. And frankly, I’m getting sick of Schuester doing his ‘I’m going to cry soon’ routine.”
“She’s already been bossy in the bedroom?” Santana smirks. “All right, Berry, get down with your kinky-ass self.”
“Don’t tell her I mentioned it,” Quinn warns, her ears going more than a little pink. The Latina swings a pillow smartly through the air, chuckling.
“Secret’s safe with me, Q. Until you piss my shit off.”
She ducks the hastily lobbed baseball with remarkable agility, she thinks-and there’s a certain poetic justice in Quinn’s horrified expression as she beholds the small puncture in the plaster behind her bedpost.
“Oh, look,” Santana says lightly. “A hole.”
Quinn has never looked so hilariously murderous.
***
All kidding aside, Santana is pretty sure she’s going to throw up when she finds herself at Brittany’s locker the next morning. The hall is emptying quickly, the typical sleepy ruckus dying down as kids make various shuffling bids for the proper classrooms, and Santana wonders blankly how it is she keeps getting away with this skipping thing. She’s good, it’s true, but she’s normally not so good that Figgins doesn’t toss out a detention slip now and again. Not that she goes; that man is damn near the most inept authority figure she has ever come across. The most he ever manages to achieve is a phone call home-and it isn’t as though such things come as any sort of shock to her mother by this point.
All the same, not a single teacher bears down on her as she leans against Brittany’s locker, aiming for casual. She’s almost positive she’s hit the mark, despite continually removing Quinn's notes from her pocket and mulling them over, when she spots a familiar ambling form down the hall.
“Late again?” Puck greets her, protectively settling his books in front of his crotch. She smirks.
“Is it really considered late if you don’t plan on ever showing up?”
He pauses to consider, cupping his chin thoughtfully. “Probably not. You lookin’ for Hot Blonde Chick?”
He’s not the most perceptive creature on the planet, and she knows it. It would be kind to ignore his idiocy and simply respond in the affirmative, but really-she’s standing at Brittany’s locker. Literally; she’s blocking the goddamn thing.
“No,” she snipes nonchalantly. “I’m getting ready to polish her locker for her. Sort of a ‘sorry I’m an ass’ giftie, if you will. Think she’ll like it?”
“I’d have gone with flowers,” Puck says with a shrug, and for a moment, Santana is certain she’s waltzed right into a parellel dimension in which her best guy friend has traded bodies with Finn Hudson. Then he grins. “Smart-ass. Anyway, if you really want to chat her up, I’d try the football field. I saw her out there with Mallory and some of the other sexy bitches who want me strung up.”
“And you mean that in a strictly homicidal, non-sado-masochist fashion, yes?”
Thick eyebrows give their usual lecherous wiggle. “Believe what you will.”
“Creep,” she blows back affectionately, bumping his shoulder as she steps around him. He bumps back, albeit more cautiously.
“Hey, Lopez?”
She turns, pushing swinging hair out of her face. “Yeah, Puckerman?”
His smile has dimmed, his expression transformed in a heartbeat into something disturbingly like gravity. “Might not wanna blow it this time, eh?”
Any other day, she would punch him for suggesting she’s capable of anything less than success. Right now, she feels just as faithless as he looks. She tries a wan smile.
“Don’t worry. Quinn wrote me a script.”
“Ah.” He nods wisely, combing fingers loosely through his mohawk. “The proverbial lady killer. Or…Berry killer.”
“Half a lady,” Santana can’t resist snickering.
“Either way,” he says almost cheerfully, though his eyes still weigh heavier than she likes. “Chick knows her shit about other chicks. You’ll be fine.”
As long as you aren’t you, she hears him finish silently, shifting his books under one arm and lifting the other in a quick wave goodbye. She sighs. Steels herself. Sets off for sunshine.
Brittany is indeed on the field, uniform neatly pressed, bookbag slung over one shoulder. Her forehead is creased under side-slashing bangs, her hands digging into her sides as she faces down three of her Satanic brethren. It looks almost like they’re arguing-something she knows she should stay out of. It isn’t like Brittany wants her help right now.
All the same, Santana takes a breath and steels herself.
“Hey!” she calls while still halfway across the field. It probably isn’t her wisest decision; alerting Brittany to her presence this early gives the taller girl a better chance to hoof it away as fast as strong, gorgeous legs can carry her terribly fit body. However, although Brittany’s head snaps around quick enough to instigate a little whiplash, the rest of her stays put. Santana takes this as an okay sign.
“What do you want?” one of Mallory’s flunkies sneers, all hateful green eyes and flawless skin. Santana’s pretty sure she is one of the girls who ordered the hit out on Quinn’s tires last year and resists an instinctive middle finger salute in greeting.
She settles instead for raising both hands to the level of her ears, as peaceful as she was made to be. “Hi,” she says quietly, looking only at Brittany for fear of slipping up and decking one of the others. The blonde’s lips twitch.
“Hi,” she replies, and shifts under the weight of her bag. Santana’s fingers itch to remove it from slim shoulders, to cast it carelessly over her own back.
“Listen, about yesterday-,” she begins, flinching internally when Brittany’s eyes harden.
“She has nothing to say to you, Juvie Hall,” Mallory jeers, stepping protectively in front of the taller girl. “She knows better.”
Santana fires a helpless look over her head, searching for Brittany’s gaze. “Brittany. Listen. I was an ass.”
“You’re always an ass,” the third Cheerio pipes up, a little sweeter than the other two, but just as inherently evil. The Latina's teeth clamp down jarringly upon her tongue.
“I was a bigger ass than usual,” she presses on. “But I’m sorry. I wanted you to know that I just…kind of panicked. I don’t think well when you’re around.”
“You don’t think ever, Fisticuffs,” Mallory bites off, giggling. The sound is uncannily hyena-like, enough to set Santana’s nerves on their very furthest edge. Brittany’s eyes raise, something sharp and uneasy sliding across her features.
“Anyway,” the green-eyed bitch adds, stepping so she is shoulder to shoulder with Mallory, “you should run along now. We were having a little members only chat with Brittany here about certain…decisions she’s made of late. Straightening some things out, you know how it is.”
“See,” the third girl chimes in, “when you’ve got friends, sometimes interventions need to be made. To prevent…undesirable consequences.”
Undesirable consequences. It's hard to ignore the fact that this is what she is-not just to scumbags like these three, but to the whole school. Against her will, Santana’s head droops, shoulders cuffing up around her ears. Brittany’s expression remains unreadable.
“Fine,” she says shortly, though the urge to knock skulls together and draw screams from bruised throats has grown nearly deafening, racing like boiling blood through her head. “Forget it.”
“Wait,” Brittany starts, making as if to move past her bodyguards. Mallory swivels, one hand pressed decisively to the blonde’s shoulder.
“That’s another thing we should be talking about,” she smarms, eyes dangerous and edgy. “First Glee, which honestly is pathetic enough without any additions, and now this…thing. Whatever it is. It’s like you’re trying to get yourself axed.”
Santana lifts her head, feeling even more murderous through her not-inconsiderable shock. Glee is their first priority? Glee is more scandalous than Santana Lopez?
Well, fuck that.
To her credit, Brittany is standing taller than ever, shoulders thrown back, chin pointed down. “I’m not trying to do anything, Mallory, except enjoy high school. God, the way you all talk, you’d think that was a crime or something.”
“Practically a felony,” Mallory shoots back, digging her nails into the soft material of Brittany’s uniform. “The way you’re going about it, anyway. You’ve got everything right now. Why are you so inclined to throw it all away? And for a few cheesy heart-warmers and this piece of trash, no less.”
She jerks her head towards Santana, who is feeling decidedly miffed about her role as an afterthought in this whole situation.
“That’s what’s worth it to you? Singing and prancing around like an idiot with some bitch who’d sooner knock you out in the heat of the moment than keep a civil tongue? That’s what’s worth losing popularity and power and status?”
Santana feels her whole self go livid. Brittany’s eyes drop. “I’m just trying to-“
“You’re just trying to wreck everything,” Mallory snarls. “We have taken Nationals every year since I joined up. We will do it again, provided you pull your head out of your ass, quit this sneaky gay behavior, and drop that pathetic excuse for a club.”
She turns, flicking her ponytail with royal arrogance. “Sue’s orders,” she adds over her shoulder. “You’re a Cheerio. Start acting like one.”
Santana’s fists ball, and before she knows it, her feet are propelling the rest of her after the retreating uniforms. Or, at least, that’s the unconscious aim-before a strong hand snaps out and latches onto the back of her hoodie.
“Don’t,” Brittany says almost sadly. “You were doing so well at keeping it together this time.”
Santana’s shoulders sag. Without turning, she mutters, “They’re bitches.”
“Is this the part where you say you told me so?” Brittany asks, sounding the vaguest bit amused. Her hand is warm on Santana’s back, still pinching fabric to restrain the smaller girl. Mechanically, Santana leans back into the touch.
“No,” she says, voice trembling with the effort of her calm. “This is the part where I say again that I’m sorry. Me telling you what to do, me telling you how evil those girls are…it’s really no better than them telling you how trashy I am, or how useless Glee is. You’re a big girl. You make your own choices. Regardless of their…undesirable consequences.”
She chances a glance over her shoulder. Brittany’s hand slips from her back, resting instead behind the blonde girl’s own neck. Chewing her lip, she looks genuinely contemplative in a way Santana has never seen before.
“I won’t do it,” she says slowly. “Quit Glee, I mean. I don’t want to. I like it too much-I like what it is, how it makes me feel. I like dancing with Mike and talking to Kurt and watching Rachel pretend not to be in love with Quinn.”
“Won’t be much more of that last part,” Santana murmurs. Brittany’s eyes brighten.
“Good,” she says simply. “Anyway, I’m staying. They can’t make me quit.”
“Sue can kick you off the squad,” Santana points out, body still angled away from Brittany’s. “She can crush you.”
Brittany snorts. “Crush me how? By taking away the uniform? By giving me back my old diet and the chance to sleep in on weekends? I’m sure it would be really hurtful.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, they need me. I’m the best dancer they’ve got-better than Mallory and those other girls put together. I’m their best shot at Nationals.”
At a loss for what to say to that, Santana nods. Her gaze remains trained on the grass, her shoulders tense. From the corner of her eye, she sees Brittany hug herself.
“Was there something else?” the blonde asks eventually, sounding about as uncertain as Santana feels. The dark-haired girl shrugs.
“I’ve got a whole list of things I’m supposed to say,” she admits. “But honestly, I think sorry about covers it.”
A slow nod; she knows Brittany wants more, expects more, but Santana can feel the rush of hatred flowing through her veins, can hear the blood pounding away in her ears. It's too much to finagle around right now, especially working in tandem with her overwhelming anxiety.
The girl waits a second more, then merely says, “Okay.”
She can feel Brittany starting to walk away, can feel the girl slipping through her fingers for what feels like the thousandth time, and still, she cannot say what she feels. Screwing her eyes shut, she presses the back of one hand against her mouth.
“Santana?”
She turns, frustrated. “Yeah?”
Blue eyes sparkle. “It’s a start. I’ll see you in Glee.”
Brittany is fifteen feet away when Santana realizes what she has to do. She sets her jaw, smiles tightly, and strides off in the opposite direction.
Though she hopes it will be the last time this will be the case--she needs Quinn.
[Part 13]