Bravado, a glee fanfic

Warning: Post-Season 3, weird personalities, strange appearances, my sense of humor, Brittany!Brittany, homophobic, Satan!Santana, God Squad, OCs, my song selections, maxiumum!fluff, my cracky crackness

Chapter One: counting the days to you

Day 0

Glee Club—finding the rhythm

Like some famous guy once said, "it started with one"

In fair Lima, we lay our scene. One club daring to be different and leaving the choir door wide open so the whole school could hear us break down during our pre-club, jam session. Blaine is amping up the crowd, going toe to toe with Unique since she still did not accept Artie's choice of the New-Rachael. But let's all face it—no one can out Barbra Streisand, Rachael Berry.

Expect maybe the new girl, Marley.

(I suddenly feel the hate of many raining down on me. Whatever.)

The point is, it was a completely normal day towards the beginning of first semester. I'm a junior, my grades are good, and life is great, life is wonderful, life is—

"Trouble, Trouble maker yeah—that's your middle name,"

A higher pitch joins in the mix and our heads swivel toward the voice to fine none other than Kurt Hummel standing in the archway of the classroom, looking tired, but not yet worse for wear. Fresh off the plane from New York, he dances beside Blaine—hitting an expert note against Unique—and finishing the song, while us mere mortals stare in amusement.

"Oh, I'm back for Mister Shuster's wedding."

—about to get interesting again.

So, here we all are in the Choir room, our infamous teacher backed into a corner and Kurt and Blaine staring lovingly into each other's eyes as Kurt asks over the fit and the color of the tweed jacket he presented to him a few moments ago when they thought they were alone—even though it wasn't my style, it seemed pretty cool, and then when Blaine started fussing about the price Kurt brushed him off saying he made it which was equally as cool.

"You got into design school?" Blaine exclaims.

"Not really, an internship," Kurt says off-handily and Blaine frowns a little at this. "I just found out."

Mister Shue claps his hands.

"Well, as you can see Kurt's back, I wanted to surprise you all but . . . Emma and I decided we wanted the Glee Club, original and next generation to sing at our wedding." —a few gasps and many smiles— "So, I invited all the old Glee Clubbers to come." Mr. Shue gave a slow deliberate smile that sent the people around us into shrieks and giggles. "Now, don't be upset if a few of them can't come, they said they'd all try the best they could to pull away from school, so I want you all to not get your hopes up."

I frown, tapping at the guitar pick in my pocket. Does that mean Quinn's not coming?

I mean—it's logical she wouldn't want to come back at all, ever. All the bad memories, layered in with the good ones, but I can hardly bear the thought of anyone resenting Glee Club after how much it's done for all of us.

Time will tell.

Day One
Hallway—searching for family

"I wonder whose back."

Funny, it's the question on everyone's mind. The last twenty-four hours had been exclusively dedicated to finding out who'd be making their 'guest star' appearance in the all exclusive Shubury wedding. Including the following: blowing up the phones, stalking the Facebook (and Twitter, and Tumblr, and even Instagram) and asking the parents.

But Glee Club one-point-oh had they're locations locked air tight.

"Ugh," Tina's hands clutch tightly onto the imposing high-tech cell phone with much more force than necessary. "Mike's not answering his phone!"

Ah, that's why.

Blaine falls into step with us, texting furiously. "Kurt's not answering either."

"You were just with him." I say.

"I can't find Santana," Brittany says.

"Girl, you were just with her." Unique sashays into our peripheral vision, Marley and Ryder in tow.

"I tend to lose the things I love the most." Brittany says softly. "Lord Tubbington threatened to move out last night."

"Isn't he your cat?" Marley asks.

A collective sigh rolls through the crowd. She'll learn.

"Yeah, neither is Mercedes or—" I never got to finish because music starts blaring from the speakers. Distinctively, it was a dancing song, something hip hop.

Then Mike came dancing down the hallway, spinning and grooving down the way, taking every freshman by surprise and bringing smiles to the faces of the older teens that recognized him. He then stops in front of Tina pulling out a single red rose and presenting it to her with a sly smile. Tina, in turn, squeals in delight and throws her arms around Mike's neck and kisses him.

(Personally, I'm still thrown by how he managed the strobe lights, but hey, in the name of love.)

I—having respect and not wanting to see the two go at it—look away, considering our conversation over grab my guitar and started walking down the opposite direction Mike had come from and hustled my way to Algebra with Marley.

Day 2

Quad outside the School—looking for haters

Being part of the God Squad—though now a small, humble, but still considerably strong group with the power of Jesus!—occupied the remains of my time in and outside of the classroom. The policy of: no haters, just lovers, got some comments so we had to take it up a notch.

No, not by preaching about the good Lord—that's my father's job and this is a public school—but by evicting the hate in the school with the Kurofsky-Lopez approach and then some.

("So you're Hitler's for the greater good?" Sam asks.

"What?"

"You're Nazi's for the greater good, but instead of doing hate crimes, you're stopping them." Sam clarifies.

"Sam, we shouldn't call them Nazi's. They were the people that Coach Sylvester's parent's dedicated their lives to finding—all while dragging her around the country mercilessly and forcing her to learn how to wield an AK-47, while maintain a 4.0 grading average. We should call them something better . . . like . . . Daisies."

I stared at Brittany.

"Why?"

"Because it rhythms.")

Anyway, the God Squad—otherwise referred to as the quote unquote 'Daisies'—are today celebrating the LGBT Day of Silence, and have weeks in advance given teacher's notice and passed out cards we could flash to explain our reasons for not speaking on this momentous day of coming together to make a statement. I, however, had an oral French exam earlier today and Tina took my DoS card out of spite, so I'm left asunder among my silent peers.

"Ohmigawd!"

Well, most were silent.

In the quad I spot two girls sitting on a stone bench, cuddling and clinging onto each other while another girl, wearing a cheerleading uniform, snarls at them. Taking a step closer to investigate, I rationalize stepping in just as the girl says: "You are quitting the squad!"

"What's going on here?" I ask casually and the petite brunette turns her wrath on me.

"Back off Teen Jesus!"

"Whoa," I put my hands up in surrender. "I'm just trying to keep the peace here." My eyes flicker to the two girls. "Unless you want me to get Coach Sylvester?"

The idea isn't particularly appealing, but the girl doesn't seem fazed.

"Fine! Go ahead! Then I can explain to her why I don't want these to lezbos, on my team!" she shrieks at a frequency that would put the Black Canary to shame and the two girls flinch.

"C'mon," I try to laugh it off. "Why do you gotta hate?"

The girl growls. Okay, she's a cannibalistic Cheerio, got it. "She's a Cheerio too!" I barely noticed that the blonde was wearing a cheerleading uniform. "I have to change in front of her."

"Well," I say. "If you feel so strongly about it, just don't change in front of her. It's no big deal."

"C'mon," the girl sneers. "You're a Jesus-freak, right? Doesn't your priest or whatever tell you not to let them kiss in public? It only encourages them."

"Oh, hell no you didn't," another voice from the past filled my ears, this one smooth and seductive a Latina curl twisting at her already malice laced words. I turn slowly to find, Satan—er, Santana—standing there in the quad looking dangerous and pissed like an angel of death in her black alligator leather boots and her long, dark blade straight hair. Her eyeliner gave a dramatic hollowing sharpening effect to her eyes and her rouged lips made her look like she'd drunk a pint of blood.

Scary indefinably—and the other girl seemed to think so too.

"Do you have a problem with them just because their gay or because your parents raised you to be an ignorant bitch?"

"Ah!" the girl gasps in a shrilling high fashion, obvious she wasn't use to being spoken to like that. But then, she obvious had never met Satan Santana—though she often swung by from time to time to pick up Brittany and vent about how awful community college was.

(i.e. "I can't believe I'm a fucking townie!")

"Hey!" Then a bubbly pastel-pink Brittany bounced into view, pushing her white-rimmed, bug-eyed sunglasses off her nose and into her hair, carrying one of those cardboard drink containers. "Hey, Santana, I got our drinks. When the boy behind the counter tried to flirt with me I said, 'hey, back off or my girlfriend will kick your ass' and he made this face," Brittany yammers on, demonstration the face and boasting proudly on how she is defending herself against other interested parties.

If there was anything more intriguing than how Brittany has been able to pass every other grade, it was how Satan Santana reacted to the bubbly blonde.

Santana's demeanor instantly softens, warrior princess stance drooping and her features relaxing and a kind smile gracing her features as she turns to face her girlfriend—dismissing us all with her turned back and a casual hair toss with a clawlike hand—and giving Brittany her full, undivided attention.

Santana graciously accepts the coffee and takes a sip, instantly making a face. "Brittany how much sugar did you put in this?"

"Oh! That's mine." Brittany takes it back and snuggly pressing it between the other three drinks.

"Why'd you put in so much sugar?"

"'Cause you said that I was sweet and I wanted to make sure I stayed sweet." Brittany mumbles and looks down at the other coffees and points at the one closes to her. "This one's yours . . . I know because I drew little hearts on it with a Sharpie."

Santana—wait, was that a blush?!—stares at her girlfriend, and then giggles and leans forward to kiss the corner of her mouth. "Brittany, you'll always be sweet."

Even I have to admit the close; cuddliness of the two was a little blinding and I apparently wasn't the only one who thought so, sadly the homophobe hadn't left yet. "Ohmigawd . . ." Her eyes were wide. "They're lesbians too?"

Oh no.

Santana whirls around, untangling herself from her moment with Brittany and snarls at the girl. She was going to do this quickly and painlessly.

Santana starts her advance, like a tiger about to maul. "And you're just an egotistical little bitch that doesn't understand when, and when not to, speak. In case you didn't notice, this is a public school and I could sue you for hate crimes, which believe me, I will win. And if you think you're safe just because you're a Cheerio—I was Captain." She finishes and the girl opens her mouth to speak. "Keep talking and so help me I will end you."

This lead to several incoherent attempts of comebacks and a fleeing Cheerio twenty seconds later—new record.

"T—thanks," The victimized, strawberry blonde whispers to Santana nearly afraid to speak, all the while still clutching tightly to the Cheerio-girl like a safety blanket that she would not—under any circumstances—be letting go of.

"Don't mention it," Brittany smiles back but Santana quirks a brow at the Cheerio-girl.

"Are you a Cheerio or not?"

"I am," she stutters.

"Then act like it! I use to rule this school, this was my kingdom."

"It was too," Brittany agrees. "She beat up anyone who said anything bad about her. She was like the school bully, only nicer . . . but there was that time you batch slapped Finn."

"Confidence," Santana says curtly, ignoring her girlfriend's comment. "It's the key to everything. Walk down these halls like you own them everyone else better get out of your way."

The two girls nod, thanking them again and wave good-bye before sprinting back inside.

"Hey, Josephine, I didn't see you there." Brittany murmurs in her airy voice and smiles lazily in my direction.

Josephine. The nickname Brittany had 'cleverly' come up with for me. Since she still assumes that I was, in fact, a female she and Unique decided saying my 'woman name' would help me embrace my femininity to some extent. Everyone else was having fun going along with it.

"Why do you have four coffees?" I ask and Brittany smiles.

"Oh, I don't know . . ." She traces the lid of the sugar-enhanced sand she's about to drink and offers Santana the correct one—which is covered in tiny red hearts, stars and their names on either side of a plus sign and a heart on the outside—and smiles when she nods approvingly at the decafe, to keep her sedated—I mean, tranquil. "There was a sale . . . four for the price of three."

I stare.

"What is this now, CSI? Later Teen Jesus." Santana curls her hand around Brittany's free one and struts off through the quad with her regained badass Latina status reinstated people making a wide path for them as they headed off campus.

Day 3

Track Field—waiting for dance lessons.

Glorious Saturday! It's early o' clock and the entirety of the Glee Club—and grudgingly Jake, Puck's brother—is sprawled across the track field beside the bleachers, taking in the dewy morning and the growling stomachs.

"Marley," Kitty says with raised brows. "Did you eat?"

"Uh," the brunette shuffles her Converses into the grass. "Mister Shue promised he'd bring donuts?" She notably shuffles away from Tina, Artie and Blaine who sip at their Lima Bean coffee and pastries and talk about how much they hate chain restaurants.

"I can't believe I'm here." Jake groans.

"Hey, it's for Mister Shuster's wedding." Marley says lightly.

"Just learn the dance and take it like a man." Kitty snaps.

"Still don't see why we have to do this outside."

"Because it's a beautiful day?"

Ryder and Jake are bickering to themselves and Sam is staring at the bleachers as if they were challenging him. I walk up beside him, dropping my guitar case into the cool grass beside me. I pull my dreads back with a manly bandana-ribbon Brittany had gifted to me.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm wondering."

"What?"

"If the school knows we'll be walking up and down these things—why do they space them so funny?"

I follow his gaze towards the metal plated steps. "You know, I think I have an idea why."

"You do?"

"Yeah," I say, putting my elbow on Sam's shoulder. "I think you're supposed to run up them like this."

On 'this' I shove Sam out of my way and take off up the bleachers—two at a time—and Sam gives chase. Tina and Blaine jump up, grabbing at their breakfast and Tina's coffee spills to the ground. She gives me an insidious look before lunging onto the staircase after us. Dodging Tina's wrath, Sam snuck up behind me to snag my bandana/ribbon from my hair.

"Capture the flag!" he shouts.

"No! Keep away!" Ryder bellows and climbs the stairs to join us.

Soon everyone's joining in the keep away game, tugging at my dreads and calling names and (some) light hearted insults like we always do.

After a while, more people are coming on to the field and Kitty crows excitedly, forcing my attention. My eyes lock on a familiar blonde standing beside Mr. Shue. Her hair is longer, but the same pale shade of blonde and her face is fair as I remembered, like she spent all her time inside big libraries at Ivy League Colleges. Because she probably does.

It's Quinn.

Her eyes are following the noise on my bleachers, noting the new-comers and the returning seniors and finally settling on me. She smiles and I lose my balance, feet sliding out from underneath me, my arms are pin wheeling backward and I'm tumbling downward on the bleacher steps—trying desperately to stay aloft—I run out of steps and I wind up flat on my back staring up at the cloudy sunlight that makes a golden halo around Quinn's blonde head.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Your OLD now! N

ot to you, the girl who inspired and I dedicate this story to you Felldownarabbithole for making me watch Glee and keeping me updated on the weekly happenings my my father deletes my DVR'd shows. Yeah. Sorry It was half finsihed when I opened the file an hour ago but I wanted to post it ON your birthday.

I will fix any and all mistakes later!

Alles Gute zum Geburtstag! (Happy Birthday!)