Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (4/13)
Title: Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (4/13)
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.
“So let me get this straight,” Quinn says slowly, tapping her pencil against the underside of her desk. “You have gym class with New Hottie-Brittany. You are in the perfect position to watch her undress every single day. You think she is undeniably sexy. She wants to be your friend. And the very first thing you do is shoot her hot ass down?”
She doesn’t even wait for Santana to reply before her hands are flying everywhere, smacking against the back of the darker girl’s head with brutal abandon. Cringing, Santana shifts into the wall in an effort to escape.
“Ow! Fuck, Fabray, cut it out!”
Ignoring her, Quinn digs her nails into Santana’s scalp and gives an angry yank. The dark-haired girl yelps.
“What the fucking hell is wrong with you, you crazy fucking bitch? You’re a hair-puller now? Jesus Christ, are we seven?”
“Ms. Lopez!” Their wizened Literature teacher has materialized, mouth stretched unattractively in a disapproving scowl. “Watch your language, or I will send you straight to Principal Figgins.”
It’s an empty threat, not because she won’t do it, but because they both know Figgins is too weak-willed to do more than wag a finger in her face and boot her back off to class. All the same, Santana slouches in her seat wordlessly until the woman teeters back to her desk again.
“You fucking idiot,” Quinn hisses the second the teacher sits back down. “You’re decimating the damn pact!”
“It has nothing to do with whatever fucked-up agreement you think we have,” Santana defends, annoyed. “Which, for the thousandth time, I feel inclined to remind you: I never really agreed to in the first place.”
“You need a rock!” Quinn snarls. “She’s got the body of a fucking goddess! What the hell is your problem?”
It’s a question Santana wishes with all her might she could answer, but unfortunately, she’s just as stumped as the seething blonde beside her on that front. Drawing her shoulders up as far as she can force them, she sinks her nose into a battered copy of Hamlet. “Drop it, Fabray.”
“You’re an idiot,” Quinn grouses, slamming her pencil into her notebook so hard, the lead snaps off and ricochets across the room.
Normally, Santana would be all over an insult like that one, shoving Quinn’s head against the desk and holding her there until the blonde begged for mercy. Today, she miserably thinks she agrees with the sentiment.
It’s uncomfortable, feeling like this-like a loser-because Santana Lopez is a motherfucking champ. She takes shit from no one, and though people in this school aren’t particularly fond of her, most of the spineless fools she shares space with would bend over backwards to stay on her good side. Disregarding those freakish pep-zombies of Sylvester’s, she is the fucking boss around here, no matter what Mallory what’s-her-face has to say about it.
But ever since telling Brittany to back the fuck off in the locker room, she’s been unable to tap into her inner badass. She kicked the shit out of Dave Karofsky yesterday just to get a little of it back (the four-day detention is so worth the way he sniveled around the blood pouring from between his fattened lips), and it still took two days just to ‘fess up the whole state of affairs to Quinn. Now that she’s said it out loud, Santana’s not entirely sure she did the right thing.
More worrying, she still can’t explain why she did it to begin with.
Who does she think she is, anyway? Telling some chick what’s best for her, throwing hypocritical character assessments into the girl’s face when very similar judgments have been grating on her own nerves-she can’t imagine why she did it. Worse, she can’t shake the memory of Brittany’s face, the determined look in her haunting blue eyes. It’s like Brittany thinks she knows her, even though no one knows her; even Quinn can’t wrap her obnoxiously-brilliant mind around Santana most the time. She just accepts that she’s friends with a fucking mystery cloaked in a candy-coated enigma and moves on.
Brittany, on the other hand, looked as though she was fully prepared to wait Santana out.
She doesn’t even know what that means, but it scares the living hell out of her.
It’s stupid because this should have been so easy: do a little light flirting, trail her fingertips across some skin, fuck the girl into next week the minute she saw an opening, and race ahead before the blonde even knew what hit her. Instead, it’s been a week, they’ve met twice, and already she’s more afraid of what Brittany might want from her than she’s been in years concerning anything-and that includes tornadoes.
A week into school, and Santana is stuck.
To make matters exponentially more aggravating, today happens to be Thursday. Which means, come three-thirty, Santana and her irrationally-anxious state of mind will be huddled in an orange plastic chair at the back of the choir room, watching Rachel Berry prance merrily about on her makeshift stage.
Rachel will belt. Quinn will drool. Santana will impale herself upon a ruler out of sheer desperation.
She should have stayed home today.
When that last bell rings and Quinn drags her things into her arms, Santana sluggishly follows suit. She doesn’t feel much like going through the motions just so Fabray can finally get the girl (or fail spectacularly trying), but she doesn’t have anywhere else to go; home is where her mother’s disappointed eyes follow from every corner, where homework lies mockingly upon a cluttered desk, where Santana feels mostly like sleeping the second she steps through the door. She never gets anything done at home. At least here, held captive in the choir room, she won’t be alone.
“I can’t believe we’re about to pussy out and join Glee,” she mutters anyway, displeased with the notion that Quinn might actually think they’re doing something wise. The blonde shoots her a tense glance.
“It’s just singing,” she says sharply. “How hard can it be?”
Santana wants to explain how it isn’t the singing she’s so worried about as much as that god-awful cherubic expression on Will Schuester’s face, but it wouldn’t do any good. She settles for throwing her belongings unceremoniously into her locker and slinging her satchel over her head.
“We’d better do songs not featured on Broadway,” she grumbles instead. Quinn’s mouth droops, like she hasn’t even thought of that.
“Shit,” she mutters. Santana punches her arm reassuringly (and, yeah, sort of harder than necessary as revenge for the slapping thing earlier).
“Just don’t jump Berry’s bones while I can see it, all right? Paying for therapy out of pocket would end my credit rating before it even got good.”
“I don’t think you really get how that works,” Quinn comments mildly, still looking like she’s going to throw up at any moment as they wind through the doorway into the choir room. Santana shrugs.
She shouldn’t be surprised to find they’re the last to show. The room is sparse, containing a handful of chairs, a drum set (behind which Finn Hudson is reclining in all his giant glory), a piano (the man behind the instrument looks at Santana with plaintive eyes, silently begging to be set free; she wrinkles her nose uneasily), and nine other students. Most of them are what Santana would deem ‘the usual suspects-that wheelchair kid from History, his unironically-goth girlfriend, the gayest kid ever to flame, a sturdy black chick with whom Santana once exchanged blows in the cafeteria over a blueberry muffin (what? PMS really fucks with her head sometimes).
There are also, surprisingly, a few football players (Mike Chang and Matt Rutherford, both of whom look more than a little anxious to see her; she can’t resist waggling a few mocking fingers and watching them squirm) in the mix. Of course, there’s also Puck, arms clenched across his broad chest, booted feet up on the back of Asian Goth’s chair. He fixes her with a murderous look as she leads Quinn over to sit beside him.
“Not fucking impressed,” he hisses from between clenched teeth. She rolls her eyes unapologetically.
Hudson and Berry round them out, making certain they are exactly the most rag-tag, hopeless bunch of geeks ever to indulge in show choir. In this moment, as much as it pains her, Santana agrees with Puck’s evaluation of things.
“Last chance,” she murmurs against Quinn’s ear. “We can make a break for it.”
Except they can’t, because suddenly there’s Schuester, face cracking in half due to his over-excited smile. Defeated, Santana sinks back in her seat and discreetly punches Puck in the thigh just for the adrenaline pick-me-up. He winces.
“Fuck you, Lopez.”
“Guys,” Schuester begins, and Santana gets the sick feeling she’ll be listening to him talk all the time now. “As you can see, we’ve picked up three new members. Say hello to Quinn Fabray, Noah Puckerman, and Santana Lopez! They’ve put us that much closer to the twelve-member required minimum, so please make them feel at home in our little family.”
Gag. Santana briefly imagines lunging off the risers and battering Schuester’s curly head with her satchel until he loses consciousness. Quinn’s hand settles on her knee, a gentle restraint. She closes her eyes.
“Now, I’ve been thinking about the best way to take on Sectionals,” Schuester continues, drawing a disturbingly thick sheaf of papers from his leather man-bag. “I think it’s best if we combine a healthy variety of genres-a little musical theater, a little rock, maybe a jazz number. I want you all to choose three songs each, three songs that fit together in some unique way, each of a different musical genre. We’ll share them next week, and at the end, we’ll vote on which set will be performed at Sectionals.”
His face shines as though he’s just told them the world is coming to an end, but it’s all going to be okay because he built an ark meant for twelve.
Santana wonders if she could slit an artery with the tape dispenser in her bag if she tries hard enough.
Predictably, Rachel looks like Hanukkah has come early, totally missing the longing gaze Quinn is sending her way. “I think this is a wonderful way to showcase my exquisite range, Mr. Schue. I want you to know I’m very excited about this assignment.”
Assignment. Well, fuck, if Santana had known there would be homework, she would have clubbed Quinn over the head the second the blonde even thought of volunteering them for this little shindig.
“What happens if we don’t do it?” she asks bluntly, voice carrying from the back of the room. Schuester’s blissful smile fades.
“I beg your pardon?”
“If we don’t do the assignment,” she clarifies, rotating her shoulders uncomfortably. “Do we get, like, kicked out?”
Quinn’s glaring at her; Puck seems to be silently naming her his personal god. Rachel has gone dead-pale.
“Why wouldn’t you complete the task?” the tiny diva demands. “It’s homework.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t mean so much to some of us,” Santana sneers back, unperturbed when Quinn’s elbow finds its way between two of her ribs. Leaning against the piano, Schuester’s face is quickly taking on a pretty stellar kicked-puppy frown.
“I can’t kick you out, Santana,” he says slowly. She arches an eyebrow, and he rushes to amend, “I mean, I could. But I won’t. Glee Club needs you in order to compete.”
Well, gee, if that doesn’t make her feel wanted.
Seemingly realizing how that sounded, Schuester shakes his head. “What I mean is, I don’t kick people out of this club. I firmly believe every student-every person-has the right to express him or herself through music, no matter what. You have a right to be here, Santana, and I honestly believe it could be good for you.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” she derides, because even though she doesn’t exactly want to get into her personal issues in public for the second time in as many days, the notion that first Brittany, and now Will fucking Schuester think they can save her is just too much. She’s sick of this ‘reform the delinquent’ act everyone seems so thrilled to be putting on; no one’s targeting Puck or Quinn this way.
Because Schuester basically lacks the corner of his brain meant for observation skills, he completely misses the threat lurking behind her mocking tone. Gently, he says, “I’ve seen your record, Santana. Fights, failing grades, that fire last year in the chem lab.”
That was so not my fault, she wants to growl, but it’s pointless; somehow, the second you take to snapping a Zippo lighter in class out of relentless boredom, everyone brands you an arsonist. She leans back, looking down her nose at the earnest man wordlessly.
“You need something,” he is saying with that same stupidly-tender expression on his handsome face, and God, Santana is getting sick of hearing that from people. “I think Glee could be that thing.”
Glee, friendship, Brittany-why does everyone think it will take nothing more intricate than one tiny life shift to make everything better again? To make the dreams of escape less suffocating, to make the bleak depression shuffle aside until there’s room for sunlight? Does she really look that easy, that lacking in layers?
She shrugs. “Look, I’m going to do the damn assignment. Whatever. I just wanted to know how you’re running this thing. If I’m gonna waste my time here every Thursday, I’d like to know it’s going to get me somewhere.”
She’s lying through her teeth, but the thing about Will Schuester is, he is so willing to see the good in people-good that, oftentimes, isn’t even there-that he will believe anything. He believes his wife every time she lays a fumbling fabrication in his lap, believes Emma Pillsbury each time she vehemently denies her obvious wanting for him, believes Rachel Berry when she says she’s happy. Why wouldn’t he believe this too?
Schuester’s a pretty good guy, but hot damn, is he dense.
All she has to do is drop that line about wanting this all to matter, and he’s grinning his face off again. To her right, Puck cocks an eyebrow as if to ask what the fuck that was all about. Santana smirks, shakes her head, the picture of jeering control.
A row below them, Rachel bites her lip pensively.
The rest of the meeting goes slowly, with Santana checking out, eyes on the words her nails are tracing into her jeans. This club is kind of stupid, honestly: it mostly consists of Schuester lecturing like he’s pulling every word off a pre-written notecard, Rachel flinging out advice no one is interested in, and then some kumbyaing at the end. Santana can’t figure out how this system works. Why is it Kurt and Mercedes can blather on in the corner for minutes at a time and never get told to shut up? How does Tina manage to get up on stage and sing her lungs into oblivion when she can’t give a two-minute speech without stuttering unintelligibly? What the hell is Artie doing in a club that revolves half around dancing if it’s true that his paralysis is so absolute he will never do so much as wiggle a toe again?
And for God’s sake, why is Schuester so twitchy about this twelve-member minimum bullshit? He’s got an entire six-piece band over there in the corner; what, they aren’t musically talented enough to qualify for this kareoke parade?
It’s stupid, and she doesn’t see it lasting for more than a year, not when they’re relying on Finn’s classic-rock voice to carry them through complex notes. Not when they’re expecting Rachel’s ego to miraculously shrink three sizes and allow other girls to sing once in a while. Not when they’re so fucking pathetic.
If there’s one thing Santana hates more than Cheerios, it’s losing, and she gets the nasty feeling that will be rather unavoidable.
By the time Schuester lets them go with another shining hippie smile and a wave, Santana has come to the conclusion that she will have to murder Quinn for dragging her into this whole mess. It can only end in Fiddler on the Roof medleys and an ultimately crushing defeat at the hands of just about any other school. It’s miserable.
“I hate you,” she grumbles, dragging her feet as they slump down the hall. Puck nods his assent.
“That was seriously fucking painful, Q. What the hell, man?”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Quinn argues dimly, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I’ll admit, I don’t understand why Schue had to go for the whole rapping thing, but…”
“But nothing,” Santana interrupts. “That club is a goddamn train wreck. I can’t be seen with them. It’ll tank my-our-entire reputation.”
“We’re already in,” Quinn says, her voice firm and unyielding. "We're staying." Santana narrows her eyes.
“And who exactly appointed you master of our little universe, Fabray? Last I checked, you being on a hormonal power trip is not a legit enough excuse to run my life.”
The blonde stops in the middle of the hall, nonplussed when Hummel accidentally runs into her and darts off again, muttering apologies. She takes Santana by the shoulders and looks her in the eye, more serious than Santana has ever seen her.
“I’m not the boss of you,” she says slowly, gripping until the skin beneath Santana’s frayed t-shirt begins to burn. “But Schue has a point. You need to get a grip. This could help.”
“Like you’re doing this for me,” Santana sneers, not trying very hard to pull free. Quinn bows her head.
“I’m not. You know I’m not. I’ve got my reasons, and I’ve made them perfectly clear from the beginning. But I’m serious when I say you are in serious need of a grounding, and if you’re going to expend so much energy pushing away the hottest girl who has ever looked your way, we’ll move on to something else. To this. You think I don't know you broke Karofsky's nose the other day? You think no one heard about that? You need to figure your shit out, Lopez, and you need to do it fast. Before you punch the wrong kid or deface the wrong building and find yourself in the middle of a friggin' lawsuit.”
It’s almost too much for Santana to take. “So, what? This is a fucking intervention?”
Quinn smiles, predatory and oh-so classic Fabray. “Something like that. Stick with it, San.”
Behind them, Puck rubs his head. “Are you two, like, gonna make out or something now? Or are we gonna bail? I’ve got practice in a half hour.”
Kicking him in the balls has never felt so satisfying. When he hits his knees, a high-pitched whine leaking from his lips, and Quinn dutifully high fives her, Santana smiles.
“Fuck it. Whatever. We’ll do this shit. But I am not dancing with Hudson. That’s a goddamn promise.”
[Part 5]
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.
“So let me get this straight,” Quinn says slowly, tapping her pencil against the underside of her desk. “You have gym class with New Hottie-Brittany. You are in the perfect position to watch her undress every single day. You think she is undeniably sexy. She wants to be your friend. And the very first thing you do is shoot her hot ass down?”
She doesn’t even wait for Santana to reply before her hands are flying everywhere, smacking against the back of the darker girl’s head with brutal abandon. Cringing, Santana shifts into the wall in an effort to escape.
“Ow! Fuck, Fabray, cut it out!”
Ignoring her, Quinn digs her nails into Santana’s scalp and gives an angry yank. The dark-haired girl yelps.
“What the fucking hell is wrong with you, you crazy fucking bitch? You’re a hair-puller now? Jesus Christ, are we seven?”
“Ms. Lopez!” Their wizened Literature teacher has materialized, mouth stretched unattractively in a disapproving scowl. “Watch your language, or I will send you straight to Principal Figgins.”
It’s an empty threat, not because she won’t do it, but because they both know Figgins is too weak-willed to do more than wag a finger in her face and boot her back off to class. All the same, Santana slouches in her seat wordlessly until the woman teeters back to her desk again.
“You fucking idiot,” Quinn hisses the second the teacher sits back down. “You’re decimating the damn pact!”
“It has nothing to do with whatever fucked-up agreement you think we have,” Santana defends, annoyed. “Which, for the thousandth time, I feel inclined to remind you: I never really agreed to in the first place.”
“You need a rock!” Quinn snarls. “She’s got the body of a fucking goddess! What the hell is your problem?”
It’s a question Santana wishes with all her might she could answer, but unfortunately, she’s just as stumped as the seething blonde beside her on that front. Drawing her shoulders up as far as she can force them, she sinks her nose into a battered copy of Hamlet. “Drop it, Fabray.”
“You’re an idiot,” Quinn grouses, slamming her pencil into her notebook so hard, the lead snaps off and ricochets across the room.
Normally, Santana would be all over an insult like that one, shoving Quinn’s head against the desk and holding her there until the blonde begged for mercy. Today, she miserably thinks she agrees with the sentiment.
It’s uncomfortable, feeling like this-like a loser-because Santana Lopez is a motherfucking champ. She takes shit from no one, and though people in this school aren’t particularly fond of her, most of the spineless fools she shares space with would bend over backwards to stay on her good side. Disregarding those freakish pep-zombies of Sylvester’s, she is the fucking boss around here, no matter what Mallory what’s-her-face has to say about it.
But ever since telling Brittany to back the fuck off in the locker room, she’s been unable to tap into her inner badass. She kicked the shit out of Dave Karofsky yesterday just to get a little of it back (the four-day detention is so worth the way he sniveled around the blood pouring from between his fattened lips), and it still took two days just to ‘fess up the whole state of affairs to Quinn. Now that she’s said it out loud, Santana’s not entirely sure she did the right thing.
More worrying, she still can’t explain why she did it to begin with.
Who does she think she is, anyway? Telling some chick what’s best for her, throwing hypocritical character assessments into the girl’s face when very similar judgments have been grating on her own nerves-she can’t imagine why she did it. Worse, she can’t shake the memory of Brittany’s face, the determined look in her haunting blue eyes. It’s like Brittany thinks she knows her, even though no one knows her; even Quinn can’t wrap her obnoxiously-brilliant mind around Santana most the time. She just accepts that she’s friends with a fucking mystery cloaked in a candy-coated enigma and moves on.
Brittany, on the other hand, looked as though she was fully prepared to wait Santana out.
She doesn’t even know what that means, but it scares the living hell out of her.
It’s stupid because this should have been so easy: do a little light flirting, trail her fingertips across some skin, fuck the girl into next week the minute she saw an opening, and race ahead before the blonde even knew what hit her. Instead, it’s been a week, they’ve met twice, and already she’s more afraid of what Brittany might want from her than she’s been in years concerning anything-and that includes tornadoes.
A week into school, and Santana is stuck.
To make matters exponentially more aggravating, today happens to be Thursday. Which means, come three-thirty, Santana and her irrationally-anxious state of mind will be huddled in an orange plastic chair at the back of the choir room, watching Rachel Berry prance merrily about on her makeshift stage.
Rachel will belt. Quinn will drool. Santana will impale herself upon a ruler out of sheer desperation.
She should have stayed home today.
When that last bell rings and Quinn drags her things into her arms, Santana sluggishly follows suit. She doesn’t feel much like going through the motions just so Fabray can finally get the girl (or fail spectacularly trying), but she doesn’t have anywhere else to go; home is where her mother’s disappointed eyes follow from every corner, where homework lies mockingly upon a cluttered desk, where Santana feels mostly like sleeping the second she steps through the door. She never gets anything done at home. At least here, held captive in the choir room, she won’t be alone.
“I can’t believe we’re about to pussy out and join Glee,” she mutters anyway, displeased with the notion that Quinn might actually think they’re doing something wise. The blonde shoots her a tense glance.
“It’s just singing,” she says sharply. “How hard can it be?”
Santana wants to explain how it isn’t the singing she’s so worried about as much as that god-awful cherubic expression on Will Schuester’s face, but it wouldn’t do any good. She settles for throwing her belongings unceremoniously into her locker and slinging her satchel over her head.
“We’d better do songs not featured on Broadway,” she grumbles instead. Quinn’s mouth droops, like she hasn’t even thought of that.
“Shit,” she mutters. Santana punches her arm reassuringly (and, yeah, sort of harder than necessary as revenge for the slapping thing earlier).
“Just don’t jump Berry’s bones while I can see it, all right? Paying for therapy out of pocket would end my credit rating before it even got good.”
“I don’t think you really get how that works,” Quinn comments mildly, still looking like she’s going to throw up at any moment as they wind through the doorway into the choir room. Santana shrugs.
She shouldn’t be surprised to find they’re the last to show. The room is sparse, containing a handful of chairs, a drum set (behind which Finn Hudson is reclining in all his giant glory), a piano (the man behind the instrument looks at Santana with plaintive eyes, silently begging to be set free; she wrinkles her nose uneasily), and nine other students. Most of them are what Santana would deem ‘the usual suspects-that wheelchair kid from History, his unironically-goth girlfriend, the gayest kid ever to flame, a sturdy black chick with whom Santana once exchanged blows in the cafeteria over a blueberry muffin (what? PMS really fucks with her head sometimes).
There are also, surprisingly, a few football players (Mike Chang and Matt Rutherford, both of whom look more than a little anxious to see her; she can’t resist waggling a few mocking fingers and watching them squirm) in the mix. Of course, there’s also Puck, arms clenched across his broad chest, booted feet up on the back of Asian Goth’s chair. He fixes her with a murderous look as she leads Quinn over to sit beside him.
“Not fucking impressed,” he hisses from between clenched teeth. She rolls her eyes unapologetically.
Hudson and Berry round them out, making certain they are exactly the most rag-tag, hopeless bunch of geeks ever to indulge in show choir. In this moment, as much as it pains her, Santana agrees with Puck’s evaluation of things.
“Last chance,” she murmurs against Quinn’s ear. “We can make a break for it.”
Except they can’t, because suddenly there’s Schuester, face cracking in half due to his over-excited smile. Defeated, Santana sinks back in her seat and discreetly punches Puck in the thigh just for the adrenaline pick-me-up. He winces.
“Fuck you, Lopez.”
“Guys,” Schuester begins, and Santana gets the sick feeling she’ll be listening to him talk all the time now. “As you can see, we’ve picked up three new members. Say hello to Quinn Fabray, Noah Puckerman, and Santana Lopez! They’ve put us that much closer to the twelve-member required minimum, so please make them feel at home in our little family.”
Gag. Santana briefly imagines lunging off the risers and battering Schuester’s curly head with her satchel until he loses consciousness. Quinn’s hand settles on her knee, a gentle restraint. She closes her eyes.
“Now, I’ve been thinking about the best way to take on Sectionals,” Schuester continues, drawing a disturbingly thick sheaf of papers from his leather man-bag. “I think it’s best if we combine a healthy variety of genres-a little musical theater, a little rock, maybe a jazz number. I want you all to choose three songs each, three songs that fit together in some unique way, each of a different musical genre. We’ll share them next week, and at the end, we’ll vote on which set will be performed at Sectionals.”
His face shines as though he’s just told them the world is coming to an end, but it’s all going to be okay because he built an ark meant for twelve.
Santana wonders if she could slit an artery with the tape dispenser in her bag if she tries hard enough.
Predictably, Rachel looks like Hanukkah has come early, totally missing the longing gaze Quinn is sending her way. “I think this is a wonderful way to showcase my exquisite range, Mr. Schue. I want you to know I’m very excited about this assignment.”
Assignment. Well, fuck, if Santana had known there would be homework, she would have clubbed Quinn over the head the second the blonde even thought of volunteering them for this little shindig.
“What happens if we don’t do it?” she asks bluntly, voice carrying from the back of the room. Schuester’s blissful smile fades.
“I beg your pardon?”
“If we don’t do the assignment,” she clarifies, rotating her shoulders uncomfortably. “Do we get, like, kicked out?”
Quinn’s glaring at her; Puck seems to be silently naming her his personal god. Rachel has gone dead-pale.
“Why wouldn’t you complete the task?” the tiny diva demands. “It’s homework.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t mean so much to some of us,” Santana sneers back, unperturbed when Quinn’s elbow finds its way between two of her ribs. Leaning against the piano, Schuester’s face is quickly taking on a pretty stellar kicked-puppy frown.
“I can’t kick you out, Santana,” he says slowly. She arches an eyebrow, and he rushes to amend, “I mean, I could. But I won’t. Glee Club needs you in order to compete.”
Well, gee, if that doesn’t make her feel wanted.
Seemingly realizing how that sounded, Schuester shakes his head. “What I mean is, I don’t kick people out of this club. I firmly believe every student-every person-has the right to express him or herself through music, no matter what. You have a right to be here, Santana, and I honestly believe it could be good for you.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” she derides, because even though she doesn’t exactly want to get into her personal issues in public for the second time in as many days, the notion that first Brittany, and now Will fucking Schuester think they can save her is just too much. She’s sick of this ‘reform the delinquent’ act everyone seems so thrilled to be putting on; no one’s targeting Puck or Quinn this way.
Because Schuester basically lacks the corner of his brain meant for observation skills, he completely misses the threat lurking behind her mocking tone. Gently, he says, “I’ve seen your record, Santana. Fights, failing grades, that fire last year in the chem lab.”
That was so not my fault, she wants to growl, but it’s pointless; somehow, the second you take to snapping a Zippo lighter in class out of relentless boredom, everyone brands you an arsonist. She leans back, looking down her nose at the earnest man wordlessly.
“You need something,” he is saying with that same stupidly-tender expression on his handsome face, and God, Santana is getting sick of hearing that from people. “I think Glee could be that thing.”
Glee, friendship, Brittany-why does everyone think it will take nothing more intricate than one tiny life shift to make everything better again? To make the dreams of escape less suffocating, to make the bleak depression shuffle aside until there’s room for sunlight? Does she really look that easy, that lacking in layers?
She shrugs. “Look, I’m going to do the damn assignment. Whatever. I just wanted to know how you’re running this thing. If I’m gonna waste my time here every Thursday, I’d like to know it’s going to get me somewhere.”
She’s lying through her teeth, but the thing about Will Schuester is, he is so willing to see the good in people-good that, oftentimes, isn’t even there-that he will believe anything. He believes his wife every time she lays a fumbling fabrication in his lap, believes Emma Pillsbury each time she vehemently denies her obvious wanting for him, believes Rachel Berry when she says she’s happy. Why wouldn’t he believe this too?
Schuester’s a pretty good guy, but hot damn, is he dense.
All she has to do is drop that line about wanting this all to matter, and he’s grinning his face off again. To her right, Puck cocks an eyebrow as if to ask what the fuck that was all about. Santana smirks, shakes her head, the picture of jeering control.
A row below them, Rachel bites her lip pensively.
The rest of the meeting goes slowly, with Santana checking out, eyes on the words her nails are tracing into her jeans. This club is kind of stupid, honestly: it mostly consists of Schuester lecturing like he’s pulling every word off a pre-written notecard, Rachel flinging out advice no one is interested in, and then some kumbyaing at the end. Santana can’t figure out how this system works. Why is it Kurt and Mercedes can blather on in the corner for minutes at a time and never get told to shut up? How does Tina manage to get up on stage and sing her lungs into oblivion when she can’t give a two-minute speech without stuttering unintelligibly? What the hell is Artie doing in a club that revolves half around dancing if it’s true that his paralysis is so absolute he will never do so much as wiggle a toe again?
And for God’s sake, why is Schuester so twitchy about this twelve-member minimum bullshit? He’s got an entire six-piece band over there in the corner; what, they aren’t musically talented enough to qualify for this kareoke parade?
It’s stupid, and she doesn’t see it lasting for more than a year, not when they’re relying on Finn’s classic-rock voice to carry them through complex notes. Not when they’re expecting Rachel’s ego to miraculously shrink three sizes and allow other girls to sing once in a while. Not when they’re so fucking pathetic.
If there’s one thing Santana hates more than Cheerios, it’s losing, and she gets the nasty feeling that will be rather unavoidable.
By the time Schuester lets them go with another shining hippie smile and a wave, Santana has come to the conclusion that she will have to murder Quinn for dragging her into this whole mess. It can only end in Fiddler on the Roof medleys and an ultimately crushing defeat at the hands of just about any other school. It’s miserable.
“I hate you,” she grumbles, dragging her feet as they slump down the hall. Puck nods his assent.
“That was seriously fucking painful, Q. What the hell, man?”
“It wasn’t so bad,” Quinn argues dimly, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I’ll admit, I don’t understand why Schue had to go for the whole rapping thing, but…”
“But nothing,” Santana interrupts. “That club is a goddamn train wreck. I can’t be seen with them. It’ll tank my-our-entire reputation.”
“We’re already in,” Quinn says, her voice firm and unyielding. "We're staying." Santana narrows her eyes.
“And who exactly appointed you master of our little universe, Fabray? Last I checked, you being on a hormonal power trip is not a legit enough excuse to run my life.”
The blonde stops in the middle of the hall, nonplussed when Hummel accidentally runs into her and darts off again, muttering apologies. She takes Santana by the shoulders and looks her in the eye, more serious than Santana has ever seen her.
“I’m not the boss of you,” she says slowly, gripping until the skin beneath Santana’s frayed t-shirt begins to burn. “But Schue has a point. You need to get a grip. This could help.”
“Like you’re doing this for me,” Santana sneers, not trying very hard to pull free. Quinn bows her head.
“I’m not. You know I’m not. I’ve got my reasons, and I’ve made them perfectly clear from the beginning. But I’m serious when I say you are in serious need of a grounding, and if you’re going to expend so much energy pushing away the hottest girl who has ever looked your way, we’ll move on to something else. To this. You think I don't know you broke Karofsky's nose the other day? You think no one heard about that? You need to figure your shit out, Lopez, and you need to do it fast. Before you punch the wrong kid or deface the wrong building and find yourself in the middle of a friggin' lawsuit.”
It’s almost too much for Santana to take. “So, what? This is a fucking intervention?”
Quinn smiles, predatory and oh-so classic Fabray. “Something like that. Stick with it, San.”
Behind them, Puck rubs his head. “Are you two, like, gonna make out or something now? Or are we gonna bail? I’ve got practice in a half hour.”
Kicking him in the balls has never felt so satisfying. When he hits his knees, a high-pitched whine leaking from his lips, and Quinn dutifully high fives her, Santana smiles.
“Fuck it. Whatever. We’ll do this shit. But I am not dancing with Hudson. That’s a goddamn promise.”
[Part 5]