A/N: This idea has been floating around in my head for a while. It didn't go where I expected it to, but that's how it is. My interpretation of what happens after Santana gets slushied. Mostly angst. I left it sort of open-ended. Any thoughts on where you'd like to see this go are welcome! Enjoy :)

Let's Make a Deal

It had been three weeks, and not a word had passed between them since the slushie incident. The whole ordeal had been mortifying enough, thought Santana; being creamed right in the face with the drink (something she was sure she would never have to worry about at McKinley). But what had happened after that was an entirely different—and just as embarrassing—matter.

Still standing slack-jawed and shocked from the red ice sliding at a painfully slow pace down her face, Santana suddenly felt Brittany grab her wrist and lead her into the nearest restroom. Flashbacks to the month before started, when the blonde had done the same thing, only that time it had been to clean the dirt from their smudged faces after Sue declared war on them via their lockers.

Now, however, Santana was the sole victim, and Brittany had witnessed every moment of it. It was horrifying for her; enough to keep her eyes from ever darting up to meet the blue pair watching her closely as she pulled her up to one of the sinks, leaning Santana against it, carefully pressing her back to the porcelain. Santana was grateful not to be facing the mirror. She didn't want to see herself like this. It was awful enough that Brittany could.

She stared hard at her feet, not caring that the goopy gunk fell onto her new boots. So many thoughts coursed through her mind and seemed to fill her up as the faucet turned on behind her. How did everything come to this? She had had a boyfriend. She had been a cheerleader. She had been on top of the school, even over Quinn. She had had it all. Well—almost.

Brittany grabbed a fistful of paper towels and ran them under the water. Then, she gently pressed two fingers from her free hand under Santana's chin, lifting her head up and forcing them to lock eyes.

"Is this ok?" she asked.

Santana felt tears swell up instantly. Why did she have to be so freakin' sweet all the time?

Not wanting to cry in front of her—not after everything—Santana whipped around to face the glass. Her reflection stared back. Dark eyes sat above remnants of red ice stuck to her cheeks slowly making their way down her face, leaving stains as they went. Glancing down again, she shook her head.

"No," she murmured.

Brittany stepped closer. "Santana," she said, barely above a whisper, reaching out towards her.

"No," Santana said again, raising her voice. She spun around. "Britt, just…don't." Her voice broke and she winced at the sound of it. All she wanted to do was run. Run away so Brittany couldn't see her like this.

But the blonde inched closer after a small hesitation. "I can help you," she said. "Please, Santana. I want to."

Inhaling a deep, shaky breath, Santana lifted her eyes to the ceiling, bringing her tears up and over their brim and quickly down her face. She felt them mingle with the cool ice that was now only a speckling of droplets; the rest of it lay scattered on her boots and the floor around them. Then, before she could protest again, Brittany reached up and wiped the slushie away and into her other hand. She pressed carefully to Santana's cheek, as if too much pressure might send a crack racing up through the skin and allow whatever Santana was keeping inside herself to pour out. And even though Brittany knew she would be able to handle that, she wasn't sure if Santana could.

A second later, as if on cue, Santana shook her head again, then pushed off the sink and past Brittany.

"I can't…" she breathed, a sob catching in her throat.

Brittany watched her go in the mirror as Santana, her face stained red, ran from the bathroom.

Now, almost a month later, Santana stood at her locker, losing herself in memories of the life she had had only six months before. Everything seemed so far away. Her social status. Cheerios. Brittany.

Brittany, most of all. Santana had thought that avoiding her like the plague after being slushied would have done the trick, but that had been in vain. And there were no boys now to lose herself to. Finn was a twit who only drooled over Rachel or Quinn, depending on the time of day. Puck had Lauren (which she still couldn't believe). And Sam had taken off after reading the rest of "Trouty Mouth."

So, she had opted to turn herself invisible. She came to school, went to class, was barely present for Glee, and then ran home as fast as she could.

Thus, when a rather large shadow suddenly appeared on the left side of her in the hallway between classes, she didn't even notice. It wasn't until a cascade of cologne invaded her nostrils that she realized some one was even there.

"Hey, sexy," a deep and vaguely familiar voice droned while a letterman jacket appeared. Santana raised an annoyed, albeit curious, eyebrow.

"Puck, I thought you'd—Oh. What do you want meathead?"

Karofsky was staring down at her, a grin on his freshly-shaven face. "I just came by to say hi," he said casually. "And to ask you why we have never really talked before. We were in the same league at one time, you know."

The pangs of not being a Cheerio hit her only for a moment before she regained her composure. Shutting her locker, she leaned against it, folding her arms over her chest.

"Funny. Aren't you supposed to be in jail, or something?"

"My suspensions over, remember?" he glared. "Guess my slushie didn't send as big a message as I hoped it would."

Swallowing hard at the memory, she narrowed her eyes to not let on how much that had, in fact, affected her. "Do you have a real reason for talking to me?" she sneered. "Because this is seriously turning into a waste of my time."

As she spoke, she suddenly spotted Artie round the corner down the hall. Brittany followed closely behind. He was talking about something and Santana could see that the blonde wore a half-interested expression on her face. She knew the Brittany's mind was elsewhere. Maybe, she hoped, it was thinking of her.

"I think we should talk," Karofsky said, pulling her attention back to him and away from the other end of the hallway. "We could make a deal."

Santana's eyes swept back to his. They were dark, she noticed, and had something starting up in them.

"A deal?" she asked. But her gaze wavered, and she once again looked over at Brittany. Artie was almost even with them now, still talking. Brittany had fallen a few steps behind, her binder clasped to her chest carefully.

Santana watched her. Then, Brittany glanced up and met Santana's eyes, locking themselves on the brunette's. Santana's breath caught sharply and she could feel Karofsky shift to look over his shoulder. Brittany, who had pulled even with them, smiled at her. Santana smiled back, feeling her cheeks flush.

When Brittany passed them a moment later, Santana cleared her throat and narrowed he eyes once more at Karofsky. He, however, continued to watch Brittany go until she had turned a corner and was out of sight. Then, grinning a bit wider, he looked back down at Santana.

"Yeah," he said, "a deal. You and I have something in common. And I know what could help put us both back at the top."

Santana tried to process what he was saying. What the hell did he mean, they had something in common? Sure, she had picked on Kurt a bit; but this thug in front of her was ten times worse than her in every category possible.

"I'm not sure if I follow you," she finally said, the lingering of Brittany's perfume making it difficult for her to concentrate.

"Here," he said, pulling out a torn piece of notebook paper. He handed it to her. She glanced down at it and found a phone number. "It's mine. I'll text you later."

Then he stalked off. Santana looked down again at the paper. She was overwhelmed. What had Karofsky been talking about? And what could he possibly have to make a deal with her? The slushie incident had been a random act, right? He couldn't know…

Then there was Brittany, she thought, shoving the paper into the backpack and slinging it over her shoulder. That was the closest they had come to each other in three weeks, and it had nearly taken Santana to the ground. God, she wondered, how was she going to make it the rest of the year?

Forcing herself to shake the weak feeling in her knees, Santana situated her backpack and started down the hall to her next class, not really sure what might happen next, especially with Karofsky. But even if she didn't know what was ahead for her, there was one thing she was certain of: Brittany had smiled at her. Nothing, she decided, could be better than that.