Author's note: So this is just something that came to mind when I saw that picture of Naya dressed like Rachel. If you haven't seen it, look it up. It's scary (but still super adorable because it's Naya). This little tale is based on a conversation I had with Laura. So this one's for her. ONE FOR YOU, LAURA COCO. YOU GO, LAURA COCO.
Somehow, I really doubt Santana would actually dress like Rachel when not in uniform… BUT you never know, I guess. Besides, Santana insulting Rachel is my favorite thing ever (next to her being with Brittany forever).
It all started at Cheerios practice, as horror stories often do. These practices were already the bane of Santana's existence since her demotion to bottom of the pyramid. She was sick of knees digging into her back, sick of being on the bottom of the pile when everyone collapsed. What was the point of buying a new chest if you weren't at the top to flaunt them? The only one getting an eyeful now was the fucking floor. What a waste. It didn't help that she'd been fighting off a cold the past few days, which was the cherry on top of a perfect fucking semester. Note sarcasm, please.
"San, maybe you should skip practice today," Brittany murmured as they headed toward the locker room. "You look so tired." Santana scowled, shooting a dark look at her best friend as she adjusted her backpack (it felt shockingly heavy today). Already the blonde had refused to link pinkies with her in fear of getting sick herself, and now she was basically telling her she looked like hell. What a great best friend. Well yeah, okay, she was a good friend- she just had a penchant for being painfully honest. "I'm just saying that maybe you should feel better before you do anything else, that's all." Evidently the meaning behind her look had been understood. Still got it, girl, she thought.
"Don't even worry about it, Britt," she returned with a roll of her dark eyes, shoving the locker room door open. She could feel herself dragging and it only contributed to the annoyance she felt for the whole stupid day. "Since when does a case of the sniffles bring down Santana Fucking Lopez?" The Latina hadn't missed school for a cold since she was eight- and no way would Coach Sylvester tolerate her missing. Bad enough she'd gone through with her summer surgery. Skipping practice would be like begging the older woman to kick her off the squad- which was, needless to say, completely unacceptable. It took a minute, but Brittany seemed to realize all of this and she nodded slowly, a small sigh escaping her.
"Just take it easy, okay? Maybe only give a half hundred percent instead of a hundred." The blonde looked at her again, concern still evident in her usually vague blue eyes.
"Sure, whatever." Santana shrugged, dropping her bag to the ground because the extra weight was really hard for her to hold on to right now. Weird, as she didn't notice the backpack usually. Must have grabbed someone else's books with her own or something, because it felt about ten pounds heavier. The brunette folded her arms across her chest and scowled down at it as if blaming it for her problems. Without another word, Brittany scooped it up and shoved it into Santana's usual locker before dropping her own off. The two then wandered into the gym and waited with the other Cheerios for their slave driver – er, coach – to join them.
Usually Santana loved running through the routines, working her slim, trim, and just plain hot body through the intensity of it all while looking completely badass doing it. Today she didn't feel more than mediocre, however, and despite her best intentions, she was giving that fifty percent Brittany had suggested. She just wasn't up to anything big, it seemed. Maybe I should have skipped after all…
"Ladies, this is absolutely atrocious!" Coach Sylvester bellowed into her megaphone, and the group bumped up the intensity almost as one in an attempt to please their master – er, coach. "You think this is hard? Try living on an island with only a coconut for company! Now that's hard!" Santana's spin had her facing away from Coach Sylvester and she took the opportunity to roll her eyes, a quiet scoff escaping her- lost in her shockingly heavy breathing, which was not usually a problem for the feisty Latina. She didn't tire easily, and the fact she did today only pissed her off further. At least the end of the routine was coming up. The thought led her into the flips that would get her into position for the pyramid, and with some resentment she got down on hands and knees to help form the base. The other girls joined in quickly, and she cursed quietly in Spanish as Miranda Heeley's knee settled on her back. She swore the bitch deliberately dug it in to get back at her for mocking her unibrow in seventh grade.
It was a typical formation, and as per usual, their overlord - er, coach – made them hold it for longer than was strictly necessary. Santana didn't have to view the formation to know that they all had that over-bright cheerleader smile in place, and that they were all breathing carefully so as not to overbalance anyone. The Latina herself was breathing faster than normal, and there was sweat dampening her skin, which was highly unusual. She could feel a tremor in her arms, and this time she cursed inside her head. She couldn't hold it much longer. Nope, scratch that. She couldn't hold it any longer at all. Her arms folded beneath her, and with a gasp, she slid to the ground. Her fellow Cheerios toppled like a house of cards after that and Miranda Heeley's fat ass hit her strangely angled leg moments before the rest of the girls piled on top of her.
Santana couldn't even manage a scream as the white-hot pain shot from her leg through every nerve of her body. She could only gape at the other girls as they groaned and sighed, and slowly shuffled from the heap. The Latina began to hyperventilate as the one shot of pain turned to throbbing numbness (a sensation no one could know exists until they break a bone), and curses began to fly from her lips in a mix of Spanish and English. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! Get off! Get off me fucking now!" She screeched the words, causing Cheerios to scramble in blurs of red and white from the girl's shaking form. "Heeley, if you don't move your fucking fat ass, I'm going to kill you!" she snarled, but the tears now pouring down her face encouraged the bottle-blonde to hurry her pace rather than snap back. The group stood gaping at her as she clutched her leg, still cursing colorfully.
Coach Sylvester marched through the group until she reached Santana's side, her unreadable eyes peering down at her as she pursed her lips and assessed the situation. "Looks like you need to sue your summer doctor, Lopez," she said after a moment. "Your air bags didn't deploy." And with a grunt of annoyance for her interrupted practice, she spun on her heel to go fetch a nurse.
"San?" Brittany choked in a panicked voice, falling to her knees beside her best friend. One of Santana's hands flailed out, gripping the blonde's for dear life. Terrified blue eyes stared at the Latina's soaked face, fingers tightening when her face pinched with pain. It was rare to see Santana cry, and never, ever in public. Brittany wasn't sure what to do. "Are you okay?"
The brunette laughed shortly, though the sound lacked humor. And for the first time ever she replied with, "Britt, that's a really stupid question."
Having a broken leg sucked. Naturally, her cold was practically gone by the next day, but her leg was now set in a red and white cast (already signed By Brittany, who'd drawn a sunshine beside her Y to keep Santana's day bright) and she'd been taken off the Cheerios until it healed. Oh, and until the muscles in her left leg were restored-Coach Sylvester didn't want her pale, deformed limb displayed beneath Cheerio insignia after the cast was removed. Naturally, being off the squad meant she was not allowed to wear her uniform- something that panicked Santana, who had not worn anything but that uniform and costumes for Glee performances since middle school.
And her middle school wardrobe sucked, to say the least.
"Oh, God, I look like Berry," she moaned, staring at herself in the mirror. The sweater had been a gift from her grandmother in eighth grade- red with a white carousel horse on the front. It didn't help that it had been paired with a white collared shirt and a plaid skirt, because skirts were easier than wearing jeans over the bulky cast. This was all that remained of her middle school wardrobe. Not to mention it fit a little more snugly on her, since she'd developed in the years since receiving it. Her hair was also down from its usual Cheerios mandatory ponytail, leaving it flat and very Berry-like. "Fuck this shit." But no amount of begging could convince her father to let her stay home for the day so she could go shopping. Ass.
"You look like a classy young lady, mija," he told her with a faint smile, brushing a hand down her hair. "This is a good look for you. Much better than that short skirt. Now go wait in the car and I'll drive you to school."
It was a God awful feeling, going from Head Bitch in Charge to Berry Lookalike. The level of respect had dropped immensely, and the sympathy she would have otherwise garnered for the broken leg was overshadowed by the horrendous outfit. I'm going shopping for an entirely new wardrobe after school, she thought to herself as she crutched her way through the crowded hallway before class. Only her signature glare kept a number of slushies from being dumped on her head on the way, especially when paired with comments like "Karofsky, if you dump that on me, I'm going to stick my crutch so far up your ass that you'll taste it."
Still, it seemed to take a lot of willpower to get to her locker unscathed, and she was already tired of the whole broken leg thing by the time she got there. "Hey, Britt."
The blonde turned, staring at her blankly for a full minute before saying, "San?"
"Um, duh?"
"Did I miss something?" she asked, baffled. "Is it dress like a dwarf day? Because I don't think I could find a Japanese school girl outfit before first period." She skimmed doubtful eyes over her best friend's wardrobe, closing her locker without actually taking out any books. When the Latina shook her head in a negative motion, a sigh of relief escaped. "Good, because I'm pretty sure a dwarf skirt wouldn't cover my-"
The bell rang, and the mad scramble to avoid being late began. Santana pressed her back to her locker, carefully resting the toe of her cast against the floor. Every muscle ached from crutching around. Her arms from supporting her weight, her right leg from taking the brunt of her walking. Good thing she was in good shape. If someone else – say, Berry – had to do this, she'd be whining for a chair to rival Wheels' in no time. The thought had her smirking.
Still, she didn't protest when Brittany offered to carry her backpack for her. She hated to admit it, but she needed the help.
It wasn't until her study hall forth period that anyone who wasn't Brittany dared to say something. Needless to say, she'd have preferred Karofsky to who actually dared to talk to her.
"Excuse me, Santana."
"Fuck off, man hands," she said with a roll of her eyes, glaring across the table as the shorter brunette pulled out a chair opposite her own. The diva ignored her order and the obvious distaste in her gaze, and Santana grudgingly admitted the girl was smart. Smart enough to realize, at least, that Santana couldn't exactly kill her with her mobility limited as it was. God, she missed the power of intimidation her uniform lent her. For the first time, she appreciated what Quinn must have gone through the year before.
"Santana, it has come to my attention that you've drastically altered your wardrobe," the performer began, her expression a mixture of smug and offended. Even as she spoke, her gaze skimmed over the carousel horse on the front of Santana's sweater. The Latina folded her arms across her chest in response, the intensity of her glare increasing.
"I know you've got, like, a big lesbian crush on me, Berry, but you don't have a chance in hell." The other girl's eyes went wide and she tried to stutter out a response. Glad to see she hadn't lost her touch, the Latina decided to give Rachel a chance to express whatever it was she was trying to get at. "You've got about thirty seconds to get to the point, strawBerry shortcake, and then you're going to get out of my face."
"W-well my observation of your wardrobe certainly has nothing to do with any abundance of affection for you. I just wanted to point out that I wore that same exact sweater last week and you said that I, and I quote, have the fashion sense of a blind Lolita. End quote." Her expression was smug again, something she wouldn't dare articulate around the Latina if the other girl was capable of running after her. "Therefore it can be concluded, Santana, that your fashion sense is just as much in question."
Santana lifted a brow, unimpressed by the diva's logic. "Okay. First of all, hobbit, your heinous sweater was blue. Mine is red. And second of all, I can pull this look off. It just makes you look like a thrift shop threw up on a garden gnome." Her smirk was effortless as the singer's smug expression fell. Broken leg or not, Santana Lopez was still a champ.
Badass, 1. RuPaul, zip.
AN: Okay, so yeah, weird place to end. I didn't know where to go after that. If you really need to know what happens after:
Santana's leg heals and she works like a bitch to regain lost muscle mass. She gets back on the Cheerios, regains her HBIC status, burns that sweater, and lives happily ever after with Brittany S. Pierce.