You Could Do Better

Author: Lilylovett

Disclaimer: "Glee" the TV series © Fox and its related entities. The title and subsequent intros are from the song "Do Anything" by Say Anything. All rights reserved. There is no profit, aside from personal satisfaction here.

Rating: PG-13 for language.

Summary: Rachel Berry gets sick during the summer holiday...and well, you won't believe who takes up the opportunity to care for her.

Life is not a spark in space,
An episode of "Will and Grace";
Controversial, yet mundane.

Rachel Berry, though most would believe was entirely concerned with herself, was an acutely aware person. It was perhaps, why she felt so expressive—in every instance Rachel felt and understood each emotion, tension, and worry within a room. She liked to believe the quality was born of her relentless empathy for people.

When Rachel awoke with a beating headache and in uncomfortable warmth, her first reaction was to throw off the down comforter securing her to the bed. (And strip out of the flannel pants that currently were suffocating her legs, given she was assured her Dads would not check in any time soon.) But immediately, Rachel let herself breathe out of her mouth and still the natural inclinations to remove herself from the furnace-like heat produced by the cocoon of her bed.

Rachel knew she was not alone in the room. If not for the feeling that some person was staring at her, a moment longer of pretending to sleep she could hear their quiet breaths. The steady, rhythmic breathing nearly lulled Rachel back into a hazy slumber, but in her primarily conscious state she determined the person sitting across from her was not the usual visitor.

For one, Rachel knew it was not Finn nor Kurt. The Hudson-Hummel family was currently out on a weekend camping trip-Rachel was nearly invited, mostly to distract Kurt from his aversion to nature-but most unfortunately (or luckily) she had fallen sick to a rampant case of the common cold.

The curious person was not one of her Dads. Both the Berry men tended to her in a passive way during her sicknesses, mostly to cater to any diva-like outbursts, though Rachel had become better at suppressing those, especially during times of illness.

That left very few likely visitors, and as Rachel was about to relay in her head the whereabouts of her fellow glee clubbers for their summer holiday, the mysterious person leaned over her and brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead.

"Berr—Rachel. Ugh, it pains me to say so, but you are kind of tolerable to be around when you're knocked out like this. In fact, you can be kind of," the speaker quieted their voice as if doing so would make the statement less true. "...cute."

Rachel froze, and her limbs tensed. Despite the added pounding of her head and the undeniable feeling of congestion, Rachel Berry vaguely felt fear destroy any rationale. She idly she wondered if she had dreamed the voice, but then a hand was being run through her hair and she could still not shake the feeling of being watched.

As in most situations in life, Rachel chose to be direct, yet attempt for tact. In one movement, Rachel was sitting up and her eyes were wide open. She had intended to spring a classic ramble of her thoughts to the person with eyes equally as wide across from her, but then a sneeze approached and ruined all essence of surprise. Rachel felt even more shaken when said person handed her a tissue and waited, actually patiently waited for her to take care of her nasal concerns.

"Thank you," Was about the most Rachel could seem to produce. Previous to the sneeze, Rachel had had a carefully laid out plan of attack in her mind. She had formulated, as best she could given the time constraints, a way of confronting the person with a grace and lack of judgement, and therefore a sort of forgiveness of their history—in hopes that her healthy dosage of skepticism would not be taken the wrong way.

But Rachel's plan seemed mostly moot, when Santana merely continued to return Rachel's confused, if not horrified, expression with an awkward half-smile. Stranger still was that Santana was not in her regular red and white armor. It was likely an unnecessary asset given the season, but it seemed almost as uncharacteristic to see a Cheerio out of uniform as it was to see Santana within the Berry household.

"Well, Hobbi—" Santana bit her lip. "Rachel. Wondering why I'm here?" And Rachel stored away in her mind the insistence Santana had been at disregarding her usual nicknames. She chose, rather, to focus on Santana's lack of vehemence. It was astounding.

"Santana, I..." Rachel Berry, a woman that prided herself in her eloquence and mild loquacious nature had never felt so at a loss for proper words. The empathy that so greatly defined Rachel Berry had over won her skeptical side, and so she settled for: "It does suffice to say, that I am a bit shocked as to your unusual demeanor."

The singer offered a sheepish grin, hoping that Santana would not take offense to her choice of words

"It's opposite day," Santana chuckled. Then with a satisfied smirk, "Opposite week, actually."

Given the silence which followed, Santana must have assumed this explanation was indeed satisfactory, and Rachel knew to gain further information she would have to inquire. And while it is quite obvious that under most circumstances Rachel Berry is eager to seek insight, this was clearly not most circumstances.

As Rachel's internal debate raged, Santana sunk back into her chair and cross her legs, effectively placing them over the length of the bed, and therefore across Rachel's lap. Albeit, her lap was covered by a mass of blankets, but to some degree, it was an invasion of personal space. Rachel found a strange comfort in the action, though, because at least Santana was finally acting in character.

"So on the premise of this so-called..." And Rachel would have used air quotes to emphasize the term if she still did such elementary things. Instead, she settled on knitting her brows together. "Opposite week, my Dads let you into our home to care for me in my extremely weakened and vulnerable state? Wait, you didn't break in did you, Santana?"

Rachel finished with a bit of a worried glance around the room, seeking signs of broken windows or really any general misplacement of furniture in her room.

Santana responded with a loud laugh. But it wasn't a mean laugh, rather an amused chortle that made Rachel feel oddly lighter. It reminded Rachel of Santana's amusement over Brittnay, but the singer knew not to interpret it that way.

"Here," Santana was finally able to speak again. She handed Rachel a combination of vitamin supplements and a glass of water before continuing. "You're hardly going to die because of the freaking flu. And why would I break in la casa de Berry to not steal?"

Rachel was a little amazed at the ease with which Santana defended herself, but even more impressed at her composure which made their current situation seem like it was the most natural in the world. The singer chose not to dwell to long on these facts, instead settled for gratitude at recognizing her usual supplements plus those extra herbal tablets she took when sick. She believed they kept her immune system well, but it was pertinent to stay on schedule. She assumed her Dads must have informed Santana of said schedule, and swallowed them easily.

"Okay, then I guess I can play, too." Rachel gave Santana an earnest look, and then visibly settled back down into her bed.

"Since I normally talk a lot," Rachel closed her eyes. "Why don't you tell me a story?"

Santana scoffed, likely in disbelief that Rachel would so easily give up on her interrogations.

"Alright then, but you should probably take off your top."

"SANTANA!" Rachel immediately shot up, eyes glaring. The thought caused an immediate spike in her temperature, and suddenly Rachel remembered to feel the uncomfortable restriction of being bedridden and congested.

"Calm your tits, I just meant you look like you're sweating."

"Oh," And Rachel coincided that it was rather stuffy. Shedding her pajama button down, Rachel settled for the black tank top beneath.

Additionally, Santana removed the top quilt and blankets covering Rachel. She folded both and placed them at the end of the bed without a word. It was too weird being attended to by the Cheerio, so Rachel quickly laid back down. It had the desired affect when Santana began the conversation this time.

"Okay, well if we're all comfy here, then I'll begin my damn story." Santana deadpanned.

Admittedly Rachel remained hot underneath the comforter, but she had the sneaking suspicion it had less to do with her illness and more to do with Santana's limbs yet again draped over her. Santana had taken the liberty of drumming her fingers against Rachel's abdomen. Though it was probably meant to be annoying, Rachel was soothed by the repetition and it occurred to her that Santana was actually an incredibly physically needy person, but such desires were hardly ever fulfilled by anyone but Brittany.

"I do this every year, the week before the Fourth. It started as a quirk, and now it's a tradition." Santana hesitated and seemed as if she was going to expand on the final sentiment, but didn't. "And part of the deal is that I appear all aloof and vaguely kind rather than being—"

"Abrasive?" Rachel offered.

"I thought you weren't going to talk? And yeah, I was gonna say blunt. Or maybe bitchy." Santana added thoughtfully.

"But anyways. This is where the plot actually starts. The second year I played in opposite week was eighth grade. And it got me my cherry popped." Santana frowned, as if the memory wasn't all that pleasant. "I mean, after that happened I also got my first mack on, which is the good part."

Rachel was confused as to how sexual intercourse could come before kissing, but she chose to stay true to her word and let the Cheerio continue with her grade school escapades.

"So, anyways, this totally hot kid, John Carr, is the sexiest dude around. He was a total badass, and not a wimp like Puckerman with a squirrel on his head an affinity for his fellow Jews. 'Cause John didn't have a religion," Santana sighed at the memory, and her eyes seemed to convey a lamentation which Rachel did not miss.

"He smoked cigarettes and cut class. Obviously the man of my dreams, if I had men in my dreams. So I had a thing for him then, but I couldn't think of any way to grab his attention but to be my self. It intimidated the bastard, though. John would see me knocking around the sixth graders or vandalizing classrooms, and he'd call me out on it."

"Lopez! What are you doing messing around on my turf?" Santana mocked in a deep voice that Rachel could only assume was her attempt at oozing with machismo and the bashfulness of a preteen boy. It struck Rachel as absolutely hilarious, and so she was laughing as Santana continued.

"And I think he was probably gay." Santana quickly switched to her typical deadpanned, which caused Rachel to laugh all the more.

"Anyways, for whatever damn reason I still liked the kid. I never thought to change my mating call, until the Fourth rolled around. Opposite week meant being all submissive and shit. It was pretty easy to show up at his house and act eager to hangout or whatever, since during summer usually we ran in the same circles. I did dumb stuff; brought him cigs, baked him cookies, and went along with him to help paper a few houses. John liked that, duh. We ended up doing it in the back of his brother's car that he sort of stole for the night."

Rachel kept her face mostly neutral, but it was hard for her to imagine. Santana acting totally out of character on a yearly (for seven days) basis? Including eighth grade in which she acted as a subdued version of a housewife in order to win the affections of some punk kid? Though most people do mellow out during the summer sessions due to less stress and less societal pressures, it still did not seem explanation enough. Santana was always filling the role of HBIC, when Quinn wasn't somewhere near by, and even then...

"Yo, did you actually fall asleep?" Santana poked Rachel in the side. The singer was jerked from her thoughts.

"Well, that certainly was some tale, Santana," Rachel gave the Cheerio a sad, almost sympathetic look. Appropriately, Santana gagged.

"Hey, I didn't ask for your sympathy. I simply tolds ya a story as per your damn request."

"Based on your facial expression and tone, that was a memory you are obviously not entirely fond of—regret is very familiar with me, given my past relationship experiences."

"Berr—Rachel."

"Or lack thereof. So, Santana, I suppose it is necessary for you to inform me of how said relations with John Carr led to your first kiss, which I am sure is a happier topic."

"Rachel."

"Unless, of course, this kiss was with John, in which case I will proceed to be more confused than I already am."

"Rach—"

"How does that work exactly?"

"RACHEL! What happened to playing the fucking game? I'd say cerrá la puta boca, but I'm being friendly and shit today. You're close to damn ruining it."

"Can you at least tell me why, out of all the places within the, albeit, small confines of Lima, Ohio it is here you chose to grace your self-induced hospitality upon? Not that it is unappreciated." Rachel requested in a voice that was quiet, one that she often used when she did not expect an answer at all.

"I thought you were smart," Santana all but growled.

A/N: Okay, this is just getting out my recent appreciation for Pezberry. I really do believe Brittana is endgame and Faberry is fucking on. But at the same time, I think Rachel and Santana could become awesome friends (and even sexier lovers) if given the chance. Cue culture clash.