Supposed to Change

by maejaeni

Season 3 werewolf AU. A night out drowning their sorrows changes everything for Dave and Santana. How are they supposed to get out of Lima when the hits keep on coming? Santofsky friendship, Brittana and pre-Kurtofsky.

Title: Supposed to Change (Am I)
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Santofsky friendship with side Brittana and pre-Kurtfosky. Side Klaine.
Word Count: 17k
Rating: T
Warnings: Internalized misogyny and homophobia with associated language. Minor language. Minor sexual content. Mention of attempted assault.
Summary: Season 3 AU. Senior year and the Bullywhips are back, bigger than ever. A night out on the town changes everything for Santana and David. How are they going to get out of Lima when the hits just keep coming?
Notes: Written for the werewolfbigbang on livejournal. All the love in the world to my beta, casket_faction, and to rumpledlinen for her cheerleading and positivity. Also thanks to my artist, sentbyfools, whose art can be found at her community, o-duibuqi.

Health class was always more exciting just after a new drug hit the streets, even in podunk suburbia like Lima. The teacher was all over himself with dire predictions of waking up dead in a ditch or hung over and possibly grounded. Today, however, not even gruesome images of overdoses could keep Santana focused.

Brittany was sitting toward the front of the class with that four-eyed, two-wheeled loser giggling about something. While Santana's plan to win queen and reclaim Brittany had failed, Artie had managed to get himself forgiven somehow over the summer and they were as nauseatingly affectionate as ever. She snorted. As if Abrams could keep her girl satisfied in the long run.

Still, she had the Bullywhips and a beard, so the status quo was maintained. Even though she was ready to come out, to tell everyone she loved Brittany and wanted to be with her, the girl wouldn't dump Artie. And after Artie had made it clear that under no circumstances did different plumbing make it not cheating, Brittany had sorrowfully made it known that no more sweet lady kisses were going to happen.

Her loyalty only made Santana love her more, but the fact that it was directed at someone that wasn't her, who had called Brittany stupid and hurt her and was such a god-damned loser—

Her phone was in her hand with You. Me. Alcohol. sent to her co-chair even as the final bell rang.

Of course, Dave's day wasn't going much better. While he was no longer personally escorting Kurt Hummel between classes, coordinating with Santana via walkie-talkie, he'd still seen the boy holding hands with his bow-tied boytoy and subsequently given an in-school suspension to the idiot who'd made a limp-wristed gesture at them within Dave's line of sight.

It was exhausting.

While he wasn't out and didn't plan to be, he was proud that their efforts were making it easier for the incoming freshman class. Kurt hadn't followed up on his demands for a PFLAG chapter but the atmosphere at the school was already less charged and he didn't want to rock the boat too hard. Azimio had backed off most of the violence after Santana had smacked him with an ISS and only commented darkly about keeping his girlfriend in line. On the other hand, being apparently pussy-whipped served to reinforce his closet. After all, what straight guy would deny anything to that set of tits?

His phone buzzed and he pulled it out. Santana, requesting booze again. Running the Bullywhips was good for keeping her from putting assholes in the hospital but it was shit for their livers. Having authority made her words powerful enough that she didn't feel the need to back them up with actual razorblades. On the other hand, replacing Kurt Hummel as the front line against all the homophobia and prejudice in William McKinley felt very much like a real war.

He caught another glimpse of Blanderson doing something gay and soppy in front of Kurt's locker and scowled to himself. Here they were, doing all the work, and not reaping any of the benefits. What if he was the one who wanted to parade down the hallway holding Kurt's hand? Why could Santana and Brittany only make out if some disgusting jock was there to supervise?

Turning the corner he punched a Hell yes into his phone. He was going to need it.

It was a weeknight, but the club was still pretty full with the latest top 40's dance hit remixed over the speakers. The crowd at the bar was thick with kids she recognized from McKinley and her trawls through the local community college in a desperate attempt at heterosexuality, but no one made eye contact. She was fine with that. There was only one person she cared about seeing her for more than just a great rack, and she had rejected her.

Shifting her shoulders so that her best feature was on display, she squeezed up to the bar, ten dollar bill in hand. Within moments some overly-tattooed guy had ogled her tits and taken her drink order.

"Come here often?" some jackass who was practically plastered along her left side asked.

Santana didn't look at him, instead telling the bartender to keep the change. Turning to find the table Dave had commandeered, a hand on her wrist stopped her.

She wasn't really paying attention to the guy, just shot him down with another line as she made her getaway. David looked as uncomfortable as ever at a table in the corner. The glass of liquor nearly splashed on the table as she set it down and his eyes widened.

"Geez, Lopez, what the fuck is even in that?"

"As much alcohol as your shitty allowance will pay for, Karofsky. I'm not sure if it's tequila or rum or vodka but what it is is a ticket to some sweet oblivion. Drink up."

He took a tentative sip and grimaced before giving it to her to impatiently swig. It was vile, but if she wanted the good stuff she'd be breaking into Berry's dads' liquor cabinet again. They spent the next few minutes passing the glass between them before she drained the last of it.

"…And done. Let's dance, big boy," she said, grabbing him and pulling him toward the dance floor. Her feet were more unsteady than she was expecting and she stumbled, giggling a little at the expression on his face. "C'mon," she whined, running a finger down the front of his button-up shirt. He really needed a wardrobe intervention, she thought, then startled when she realized he was speaking.

"I don't want—can't we just go back to your house?" She could see the discomfort behind his terminally placid expression but she shook her head.

"No, dance first. Then we can drink all the boxed wine my mom has hidden behind the canned beans and you can whine about how Kurt is perfect and won't give you the time of day—" her voice cracked as her mind flashed to Brittany and Artie, the perfect little couple.

"Okay, that's it," he said, arm going around her shoulders. He was less steady on his feet than his bulk should have allowed, but he was solid and she leaned against him.

It took her a moment to realize where they were going, but by then she didn't feel like fighting. She was just tired. Tired of pretending, tired of going to school everyday and fighting this.

"Fine," she croaked. She didn't want to dance with him, anyway.

Dave got them both out to Santana's car, a sporty little red Corvette that had seen better days. She pulled the key out from somewhere and he shuffled her into the passenger seat. He took a moment before sliding into the driver's side to try to regain his balance. Something was funny with his vision, but it wasn't too bad. It had only been one drink anyway; there was no way that he was over the limit.

The ride back to Santana's place took longer than it should have. Santana was frowning out the windshield and he was fully occupied keeping the car between the lines. By the time he pulled into her empty driveway he was feeling distinctly green around the gills.

"I don't feel so hot," he muttered, letting his forehead rest against the cool steering wheel. By the answering moan, she didn't feel too good either.

Getting out of the car was a hell of a lot worse than getting in, and Santana practically oozed out. The front door was unlocked, even though the house echoed emptily around them. He set his resigned gaze on the staircase in front of him, half propped Santana against his side, and started climbing.

By the time they made it to the top of the stairs, she was completely out of it, muttering something about dolphins and ants and his vision was graying in and out. He didn't even try to get her painful-looking sandals off before collapsing onto the bed beside her. The last thing he saw before passing out was the red clan statuette on her nightstand.

She felt like she'd been run over by a truck. Her joints ached, her ears were ringing, and, she noted distantly, she was naked. In bed. With a guy.

The previous night's activities were little more than a blur as she blinked at the ceiling. The ringing in her ears coalesced into the ringing of her alarm clock as she sat straight up.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, shoving Dave even as she flailed at the clock. Why had she decided they needed to go out drinking on a school night?

Aiming for the bathroom, she wound up tripping over her shoes which were now shredded beyond repair. She didn't remember feeding them to the neighbors' terrier, and a quick search for the night's clothes revealed they had suffered similar fates.

Dave's looked the same. He had recovered from the shove off her bed and wrapped himself in her comforter and was blushing furiously, averting his eyes. She stared at him for a moment before remembering that yes, she was naked, and no, he was probably not used to that. She rolled her eyes before standing and strolling over to her dresser.

"What happened?" he croaked, shuffling over to the bathroom. She shrugged.

"I don't even remember anything past getting to the club, so no idea." Slipping into underwear and a shirt, she scowled into the mirror. Her skin was a mess. "Did you bite me?"

"What?" His scandalized near-shriek was pretty entertaining even as she discarded that shirt for a higher-necked option. Her legs weren't in much better shape so she opted for her hangover jeans and wandered into her parents' bedroom.

A quick rifle through their dresser turned up at least something Dave could wear although he would be advertizing a discoteca she was pretty sure had been closed for twenty years.

She let herself into the bathroom, dropping the jeans and t-shirt on the toilet. Santana rolled her eyes at the expression on his face. "I'm not here to molest you. Just get dressed or we're going to be late."

He shuffled, opening his mouth but then closing it. "Did we—uh—"

She smirked. "No, we did not have sex. Your virtue remains intact for you to give it up to Hummel on a bed of rose petals." It took him a moment to move, so she turned to plug in her flat iron and reach for an eyebrow pencil. "Such a virgin, god."

Their book bags and Bullywhips paraphernalia were still in the back seat, Dave was happy to note as Santana took one of the curves toward the school on two wheels. He felt like shit; his body was covered in mysterious bruises and he wasn't sure he believed Santana when she'd said they hadn't had sex. Why had they woken up naked? He couldn't remember much from the club either but he didn't have any explanations.

They made it through the front door with two minutes to spare, sliding into their sateen jackets and pulling on the berets that were so incredibly gay. One of the freshmen newbies who was also on the hockey team was already escorting Hummel and the Hobbit. The kid was still pretty skinny but Cole had a junior high growth spurt that left him towering over the shorter of the pair, making him look even more diminutive next to Kurt.

Santana jammed an elbow into his side. "Leering," she hissed, shoving him in the opposite direction toward his homeroom. He rolled his eyes at her but went.

Class was uncomfortable. He was itchy and every little noise got to him. By the time the bell rang and he was off to his Spanish class he was practically twitching. He ran into Hummel again in the English and Languages hallway as the other boy ducked into his French classroom. Kurt was alone, somehow having slipped both his escort and the boyfriend.

Dave frowned as he sat down in Schuester's classroom, wondering what was wrong. Hummel was never alone, with his friends from the glee club or members of the Cheerios, holding court like he truly did rule the school.

"Puta madre," Santana whispered. "Qué pasó a él?" She asked, nodding towards Schue. The man was scowling at the front of the classroom.

David shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't approve of you cussing in his classroom?"

"Oh please, he wouldn't understand me if I gave him a dictionary."

"So nothing happened that you know of?"

She turned away from him, the I'm ignoring you now clear in her body language, but a few seconds later she slid a piece of paper toward him as Mr. Schuester started the lesson. Fucking subjunctive.

Glee isn't until after school. I'll interrogate Yentl at lunch for the scoop.

He crumpled the note and stuck it in his pocket. He didn't actually care what was up with the leader of Nude Erections or any of the rest of them besides his lady-beard and Kurt. Although if Santana asked, he totally cared about Brittany, too.

By lunchtime, though, he felt like he was officially out of his mind. Kurt was next to Blaine, again, although both of their smiles seemed a bit strained. When Blaine took a step toward Kurt and Kurt backed up, right into a locker, the only thing that kept him back was Santana's hand clamping down on his elbow.

"Outside," she hissed, marching them both through the hallways. They wound up underneath the bleachers, Santana making a pit stop by the Skanks for a cigarette.

She stomped around in a tight circle, puffing away. He'd never seen her smoke before, and the smoke wasn't exactly pleasant. The itchy sensation was worse and he kept flashing back to the hallway and wanting to rip off Anderson's arm for touching Kurt.

"What the hell, Lopez?" He growled.

She shook her head, gesturing with the hand not giving her cancer.

"You have crazy eyes," he continued. "Give me something to work with."

Santana spat, dropping the cigarette butt into the dirt and stamping on it. "Think, asshole. I just stopped you from taking Blaine's head off, didn't I? I know you don't like the smarmy little dwarf but homicide is crossing a line, isn't it?"

"What—" he stopped. She was kind of right. He hadn't really been planning on ending the poor bastard's life but he hadn't gotten past removing his hand from Kurt's body either.

"And me?" Santana produced a pack of cigarettes. "Why buy your own when you can bum?" she said in an aside. Once it was lit, she continued.

"I nearly shoved Wheels down a flight of stairs five minutes ago. And I am a lot of things, but I prefer to leave the things that can get me locked up to the people I can trick into doing it for me."

"What's your point?" He asked. This was giving him a very bad feeling.

"You know I'm Clan Vallarta, right?" she asked, running her free hand through her hair. It had gotten loose from the high Cheerios' ponytail and was sticking straight out from the sides of her head. "Great-great-grandparent, though, so I can't even claim it for scholarships or shit or that people even really notice. I remember you having that Clan banner at your house too."

He nodded. "Same as you, though. Great-great-grandparent who was right off the boat. My mom keeps it as a reminder of our heritage or something."

"So I'd just stopped myself from getting nailed for murder in the second degree when it hit me what I'd heard in class yesterday and I though I'd better get you. Which was a great idea because you didn't seem to be thinking too clearly."

"What does being one-thirty-second were have to do with shit?" He was angry with her now instead of Anderson. Always had to show how smart she was, saving his dumb ass.

"Calm your tits," she said, stuffing the cigarette pack into her pocket. "You've heard of traumatic were shift?"

He nodded. "Yeah, life-or-death situations causing people to hulk out even if they don't have enough were blood to trigger the change?"

"Yeah, except it's really caused by chemical reactions in the brain. Which a lovely new drug does as a side effect."

"But we didn't take any drugs. At least, I didn't."

"Not on purpose, idiot," she hissed. He thought she was going to light up another cigarette but she just fussed with the pack some more. "I think we got roofied."

"What?" Dave near-yelled. "How?"

"Neither of us remember shit from last night, do we? Besides going to the bar and not having any money. There were a lot of people around the bar, though, and some creeper came on to me. I blew him off, but…"

"That's the last thing you remember?" All David could remember was sitting at a table waiting for Santana to work her booze-summoning magic.

She nodded. "Peters was freaking out about it yesterday. Not because of that, though, it was just mentioned as a side effect. It's a brand new super-roofie."

"What are the odds of us getting hit by a new cocktail in a bar in freaking Lima?"

"They've found it in Columbus, and it was a college bar. Besides that, I don't know."

"You aren't sure, though."

"No, because I can't do a fucking swab-test with my tampons and the chemistry lab," she snarled. "We'll have to go to a clinic."

He growled back at her, not liking the way she was getting into his space. She didn't back down, though. Finally, he nodded.

"Fine. After school?"

"Fuck that," she said, latching onto his arm once more, hauling him toward the parking lot this time. "We're going now."

Once Santana had disabused the receptionist of the idea that they were there for either a pre-natal checkup or STD screenings, their visit to the clinic had the atmosphere of a death march. The actual procedure was pretty quick, and then Santana made him buy her coffee while they were waiting for their test results.

"I have some cousins who are a quarter were," she commented, not looking at him. "They got the change and it wasn't the end of their world. We can do this." He wondered if she were trying to convince him or herself.

"I haven't even told my parents that I'm gay," he responded. "How am I supposed to tell them about this?"

She shrugged. Her makeup was streaked, even though he hadn't seen her crying. "We're gonna figure this out. My parents won't notice anything even if they're home. I can score us whatever meds we're gonna need to get us through this. I'll take care of it."

He blinked at her. "Santana—"

"I got us into this mess, goddammit," she snarled at him, slamming her cup down and splashing coffee over the side. "I know you don't have any big plans, but I am not going to be stuck in this shit town forever. And I'm going to need someone to move my furniture," she subsided, ineffectually mopping at the spill.

Dave stood up, taking the cup and soggy napkins away from her. "Let's just go back and get our results. Then we'll go on from there."

They were handed two orange forms after being led back into an exam room. Santana cursed, and David wasn't even sure it was all in Spanish. He felt like he was going to be sick, but he got an arm around Santana's shoulders to hold her in place.

"Well?" He asked the doctor.

The doctor nodded. "The gene's been activated. You won't have seen full hormonal changes yet, which surprises me that you came in so early. Usually patients undergoing rapid genetic shift don't come in until they've seriously injured someone. As it is, I can give you both something to level you out until your first change. After that, it becomes a matter of cycle regulation if you want to go that route, or hormonal suppression. I can give you a referral to someone who can give you more information."

Dave thanked him and shoved both registration forms into his back pocket before they went back out into the lobby with their scripts to pay. She forked over a credit card readily enough, and by the time they were back out at her car she had her game face back on.

"I have to go back to the school for Glee," she said as they headed back, twenty minutes before the final bell. "You want to come over to my house later so we can work out a game plan?"

He shrugged. "I should put in an appearance for my folks," he said indecisively. "I told them I was over at Z's yesterday so they'll probably make me eat dinner with them or something."

She wrinkled her nose. "Ugh, parents," she said. He didn't exactly agree with the sentiment, but he knew where Santana was coming from. New money and all the freedom in the world couldn't make up for not giving a damn. His parents actually cared which made everything worse.

She dropped him off where he could surreptitiously slip back in to get on the bus, all while mocking him for being a senior without his own car. He flipped her off and she pulled away to park, laughing her ass off. Bitch.

Glee was a complete disaster. Rachel was harping on her two gays dads and the ACLU, again, all while attempting to death-match with Mercedes over a solo for Sectionals. Brittany was sitting in the four-eyed loser's lap and freaking nuzzling him. He did not deserve Brittany's nuzzles or her sweet lady kisses.

No one else was paying any attention either, even though Mr. Schue was trying to teach a "lesson" like Glee was a fucking class or something. In a desperate attempt to distract herself from dismembering the-subsequently-unnamed-loser-macking-on-Brittany, she decided to focus on Rachel. Like she would ever stoop to listening to Professor Lambchop.

Kurt had joined in by this time, and he seemed to be somewhere in the middle, but she wasn't sure if they were still arguing about solos. Blaine just looked pissed, while Kurt wasn't looking anywhere near his boyfriend.

"I'm just saying that as PFLAG is supposed to be an open, safe space, we should be happy to open our doors to the follicaly-challenged." God, could the girl get any more preachy? It looked like Mercedes and Blaine were having none of it.

"There is a difference between providing a safe space for LGBT students and just letting anyone in!" Blaine argued back. "I for one do not want to have to sit in a meeting with one of them wondering if today was the day when they decided they wanted me for a snack!"

Wait, what? She shook her head. No water in her ears, but surely she couldn't have heard what she thought she had.

"That is ridiculous, Blaine," Kurt shot back angrily. "They are people just like us—"

"Not just like us," he interjected. "That's why we're having this argument."

"—Just like us," Kurt kept on talking over him. "While their struggle isn't the same as the gay community or even the black community," he nodded to Mercedes, who looked unconvinced, "they still deserve the same dignity as everybody else. I don't want to shut people out of this group unless they are a threat."

"Which they are!" Blaine said.

"They are not," Kurt all but shouted back at him. Santana settled in to watch the cat fight that would surely ensue, all the while fighting against the rising nausea in her gut. She had already been going to get so much shit for being a lesbian, now adding being a Were to the list? Now people wouldn't only worry about her converting them to being gay, she was a threat to their bodily security?

Not that the jocks, most of whom had zero Were ancestry at all, had needed any amped-up instincts to chase Kurt out of the school fearing for his life. People were killed in the news by non-Weres every day; it was on the fucking news. Even Lima, which pretended to be a suburban Hamlet, had its share of violence. She'd wanted Roller Boy's head on a pike yesterday, for crying out loud. Having an active Were gene hadn't made that happen or made her do it.

"Okay!" called Mr. Schuester in a desperate attempt to regain control of the room. Kurt flounced to the other side of the chairs away from Blaine, and Rachel followed him. She looked like she'd be sticking out her tongue if that weren't below her dignity.

"I know that this hasn't been the most productive meeting," the teacher said while everyone else sat down. "But we really need to buckle down and start worrying about Sectionals. Last year we did a great job with original songs—" Before someone fucked that up, thought Santana "—but I think we should focus more on our dancing this time around. We've done it twice, and while it was great for shock value, we need to go back to the show choir basics!"

Santana hadn't been around for when Mr. Schue tried to reenact one of his high school performances, but she had heard about it enough times from Mercedes about the horrible choreography and Kurt about the costumes that smelled. Fortunately, Rachel was always ready to derail with her need to be noticed at least once every thirty seconds.

She started singing something sappy and gross to Manboobs—his moobs were bigger than Rachel's, damn—and Santana tuned out again. She still couldn't get that expression of disgust on Blaine's face out of her mind. And if it was making her feel this bad, she didn't want to have to go tell Dave about it.

By the time Santana got home from the pharmacy with a detour by the mall—shoplifting was stress relief and she'd done the attractive half of the mall cops so she wasn't worried—David was sitting in her living room. The television was on the news, although she could tell by the look in his eyes that he was staring right through it.

She dropped her new designer shades and their prescriptions onto the coffee table and settled in beside him. Curling into him wasn't like with Brittany who was soft and smelled sweet, but he was warm and solid enough.

"Had dinner with your parents?" She asked after a while. He nodded, but followed her as she stood to go into the kitchen. The freezer was looking pretty bare but she managed to scrape a couple of frozen burritos together.

They stood in silence, listening to the hum of the microwave until Santana lost her temper.

"Fucking hell, Karofsky," she yelled. "This sucks, I know it does, but you've got to give me something here. What do you want me to do? I bought our pills; I told you I'd find a way to make this okay—"

His face crumpled but he wasn't crying, just fisting his hands on the counter as she threw his burrito onto a paper plate and shoved it at him. "I know, Lopez. I just— We've known about this for less than a day, okay? And it isn't cute like getting to wear shamrocks every St. Patrick's Day. You know what I was just watching on the news? Freaking protests—"

"I know, asshole," she said, but it came out tired. "I sat in glee today listening to half of them argue about whether or not Weres are in fact homicidal maniacs. You didn't tell me you were going through with that plan to start up a PFLAG, by the way."

Dave blinked. "PFLAG? Wait, what was Kurt saying?"

"Apparently," Santana said, speaking through a mouthful of beans, "Kurt wants to be inclusive. And Blaine's a fucking pussy."

"That isn't news." He finally picked up his food and took a bite, waving at her to keep talking.

"Kurt was talking about letting everybody in who wants to come, and Rachel was backing him up, surprise. I didn't get a read on most of them but Jones wasn't looking too impressed and Blaine wasn't having any of it. So I'm thinking that no one can find out."

He snorted at that. "I'm not going to argue with that. Planning on jumping ship again when your club goes to LA for nationals?"

"That's still a long way off," she laughed. "I fucking should have last year, though. New York was nice, and all the girls wanted a piece of Lopez."

"Yeah, but Lopez only wanted one girl."

She scowled at him. She didn't like that he knew her so well, almost as well as Brittany. It was dangerous, but they had each other by the—metaphorical—balls, so it worked out.

"I'm not leaving you behind," she said firmly. "God knows you'd wind up in Canada living off the land if I weren't around to keep you in check.

"Look," she continued, going back into the living room to pick up the package she'd gotten from the pharmacy. Inside were a fistful of brochures, titled things like Lycanthropy and You and Rapid Genetic Shift Syndrome. "We've got the weekend to figure out a game plan. We can hide this, I know we can, and we've only got nine more months 'til we can get the fuck out of Dodge. You with me?"

He picked up a flyer entitled Living with Lycanthropy and swallowed. "Yeah," he said through a dry throat. "I'm with you."

Rule number one, Santana had laid out for Dave, was play cool at all times. Which, considering how simple it was, was almost insurmountably difficult. It had been her first rule for their ill-fated Prom Queen run too, but his confusion and self-doubt was now aided by an increased set of raging hormones.

Kurt caught him when he was handing out Bullywhips assignments on Monday morning, books clutched to his chest and a determined look on his face. Dave stared.

"You need something, Hummel?" He finally said.

"You promised me we would start a chapter of PFLAG together," Kurt said. It was a statement that desperately wanted to be a question.

"Yes…?"

"So I looked up the requirements for starting a PFLAG, and they're actually a bit higher than I think we can manage right away, but we can still work on something similar. Ms. Pillsbury said she'd be willing to sponsor, especially once I told her she wouldn't have to be in the room with us—apparently there's some sort of influenza epidemic she's panicking about—so we just need the principal to sign off on it."

"Okay…" He didn't know what to say. He remembered Santana telling him about the argument in glee, but he hadn't expected Kurt to actually go through with it. "What do you want me to do?"

Kurt's smile was brilliant as he brandished a folder. "Mostly I want you to coordinate with the Bullywhips for any of the younger students who might need it. I have a pretty good idea about running the meetings and I've drafted Rachel for the organizational aspects of it, but if you could help me with set up and cleanup, that would be great. Hopefully having someone from the football team at the meeting will help."

Dave frowned. "Hudson's not going to be there?" Didn't PFLAG mean family?

Kurt bit his lip. "Maybe later. He's cool now, but…later."

Kurt missed Cole coming up behind him and jumped when the boy asked for his schedule, but David hadn't missed the slow head-to-toe sweep Kurt had gotten. He clenched his fists. Not really the time to get into it with the kid over someone who was taken by neither of them. Besides, hockey practice would supply him with plenty of opportunity.

He showed Cole the day's chart while Kurt excused himself, keeping his eyes firmly on the paper as he walked away. He groaned to himself as they went their separate ways. The worst thing was that playing it cool wasn't even the hardest rule.

Santana had mostly been able to avoid Brittany all day. While they had classes together, she was able to use her Bullywhips jacket as an excuse to be late to class and the first one to leave, all in the name of patrolling the hallways, but ignoring her during Cheerios practice physically hurt.

Every time those sad cat-shaped eyes met hers her stomach lurched. She desperately wanted to go over there and latch onto her girl, but she was pretty sure that once she started she wouldn't be able to stop. She wanted to bury her face in blonde hair, breathe in that soft scent and taste—

Coach Sylvester's megaphone nearly made her jump out of her skin. "This is the most pathetic attempt at cheerleading I have ever seen! You think this is hard? Try watching you all without vomiting, that's hard! I want all of you on the track for the rest of the hour!"

Everyone rolled their eyes as they broke formation—and it was sloppy, Santana noticed. Off by inches, but still. She started to jog with the rest of the Cheerios toward the track when the squeal of the megaphone stopped her.

"Sandbags! A word!"

She couldn't remember doing anything wrong, and she'd actually been in the right place, so she had no idea why Sylvester wanted to speak to her. Maybe it was another ill-fated plot to make Will Schuester cry.

Coach had her arms crossed with her megaphone tucked into the crook of her elbow, glaring. "This wasn't in your file, Boobs McGee."

"What?"

"In fact, it isn't in your DNA results or latest physical. So I want to know how you managed to foil my investigations to have perfect dossiers on all of you."

Santana blinked. Dossiers? She was pretty certain that the woman hadn't actually been CIA, even though she talked a big game.

"Don't play dumb, Lopez. Explain how you got being Were past me for so long."

Oh. She stammered before regaining her footing. Play it cool. "Maybe your investigators aren't all they're cracked up to be. 1-800 RENT-A-P.I. not working out for you?"

"I can throw you off this team, Lopez. I can put you on the bottom of the pyramid under all the unattractive cheerleaders—relatively, Sue accepts no uglies. I can make your life hell."

"You won't do that," Santana shot back. "You need me. This crop of Cheerios has no shot of winning Nationals without me."

"Bottom. Of. The. Pyramid," Sue repeated. "Explain yourself or I take you to Figgins and have you expelled for falsifying your records."

This was not a part of her ten-point plan to get out of Lima. She hadn't really factored the woman in at all, which retrospectively was a mistake. The woman had a nose like a bloodhound and Santana really didn't want to know how she'd figured it out.

Darting a glance over at the sprinting Cheerios, she asked, "Can we move this into your office?"

Coach Sylvester narrowed her eyes. "Fine, McFakeboobs, but no funny business."

Santana rolled her eyes in return. "Fine, Coach."

The severely edited-for-content version wasn't very convincing, but the cheerleading coach was apparently feeling lenient that day. Santana submitted herself to a voluntary cheek swab this time, which went into a black bin marked "TOP SECRET" that she couldn't honestly remember having seen before, but she was dismissed in enough time to meet Dave coming out of hockey practice.

The routines were going to be more difficult, and Coach Sylvester was going to push her harder than she'd been pushed in her life, but if she were really going to be the team's ticket to a Nationals trophy à la Kurt, she would need to be. She could feel her limbs loosening up already; she could handle it.

A cheerleading scholarship would be just the thing to get her out of Lima.

Dave was covered in sweat and kind of gross, even after changing out of his uniform, but she hauled him in anyways for a big heterosexual display. He'd gotten a bit more used to her system now and barely even fought her.

"You could look a bit less disgusted," she hissed as some of the other guys whistled. "You don't exactly smell like a basket of daisies."

He looked penitent, which meant that her browbeating was beginning to take affect. Success.

"So," she said as he got into her car and she pointedly rolled down all the windows. "How was today? Mauled any of the Fair Folk between classes?"

"You really are a bitch, you know that?" He snapped, throwing his backpack into the back and narrowly missing her head. "How about you? Heard Erikson's girl saying that Coach Sylvester called you into her office."

"I've got it under control," she replied through her teeth, nostrils flaring.

"Really? First day back and you've already got a teacher on our asses?"

"It's fucking Sue Sylvester!" She yelled. "She is the fucking wiliest woman in this school She told me that she has fucking dossiers on all the Cheerios. And you know what? Yes, I told her. What should I have done? She told me she was going to have me expelled!"

"I don't know!"He yelled back. "Now we'll probably still be expelled but now she'll talk about it on her goddamned TV show!"

She was leaving little dents in her steering wheel, she noticed distantly as she fought the world narrowing down to her and her anger. She jerked the wheel, turning them into the parking lot of an abandoned office complex.

Her belt was off before he had the chance to inhale to ask her what was going on, knocking the wind out of him as she went over him, dragging him with her out the passenger door. They hit the asphalt, hard, before he managed to break free, sprinting for the trees surrounding the lot.

She was still in her Cheerios uniform, jacket and white tennis shoes on, but her eyes were wild as she followed him, easily giving chase. Despite her anger, this was going to be fun. She hadn't had the chance to stretch her legs all day.

By the time they'd worn themselves out, and then freaked out that they'd been rolling around on the ground like dogs in the woods, then trekked back to her car—which was fortunately still there—it was late.

Dave slumped tiredly into the passenger seat, but he looked calm in a way he hadn't even after coming out of hockey practice. "I meant to tell you," he started as she handed him a wet wipe to get the dirt off his face, at least. "Kurt came up to me today to ask me about starting that club."

"What did you say?" She was still picking twigs out of her hair, bemoaning the state of her fingernails.

He shrugged. "Just wanted to know what he wanted me to do. Which wasn't much: apparently all I'm good for is the heavy lifting."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh please. I can pay people to move my shit. I just consider that a bonus."

"Whatever. He didn't say anything about Bland helping him out though, just Berry."

"Rachel? Ugh," she said, giving up on her hair and twisting it up into a messy knot. "But we're working security, right?"

"If by security, you mean the Bullywhips, yeah. We are not Hell's Angels."

She scoffed. "I've been doing my research, though," she said proudly though with an air of self-deprecation. "Apparently lesbians and motorcycles are a thing."

"Like in the car magazines?" He wrinkled his nose at that. "How is that?"

"You give me eye strain," she grumbled, rolling her eyes again. "Not like that. Maybe we can coerce Kurt into giving you a rundown of gay culture."

"He already told me," said Dave. "Musicals and fucking fashion designers. Why the fuck would I care about that?"

She shrugged. "I used to think that it was all about wearing my hair short and ugly tattoos," she volunteered. "Apparently there are multiple ways to be gay. And good thing, too," she said, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. "Because you suck at the other one."

"I checked the calendar," Santana said as Dave slipped into the car the next morning. "Full moon's in two days."

He winced. "You got a plan?"

"Az still willing to cover for you?"

"I don't think they're buying it anymore," he said. "At least I really am with you."

"Great," she said tiredly, reaching for her Lima Bean hookup in the console. "Meet the parents. I am not ready for this."

"We need to be in the woods, I guess," he said slowly. There weren't a whole lot of resources available for them outside of Clan groups. There was a hotline they could call, but the point was that no one could find out while they were still in Lima. Which meant they had no one to go to for information besides the internet, which was as full of bullshit as it was of facts.

Santana nodded. "We did a number on my bedroom. I don't want to have to explain that kind of mess to my parents. There's that abandoned neighborhood construction a couple of miles from my house; we could walk over to that."

"How do we know if it's, you know, being used?" It took her a moment to figure out what he was asking.

"I don't even know if there is a Clan out here," she answered. "But I'm sure they're hanging out in nicer digs than half-finished family homes."

The rest of the ride to school was quiet, Santana humming along with the radio while he stared out of the window. This was not what he had expected. He should be making plans to sneak off with a girl to get drunk and have sex, not to keep from destroying her house during the Change. Life kept throwing him curveballs and he didn't even play baseball.

Kurt caught up to him at lunch. He was still noticeably sans Blaine and an escort, although Dave was pretty sure he'd been assigned one that morning. Maybe he should be training them to be more like the CIA instead of human shields like the Secret Service. If Cole kept sniffing around Kurt's 'assignment' though, Dave wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself.

He was carrying another bright binder, stuffed full of what appeared to be pamphlets.

"So!" He said cheerfully, inserting himself next to Dave at his table. He had been sitting alone, because Az was off chasing tail while Santana was on the Cheerios practice field chasing her own tail. "Rachel and I have pretty much everything planned for this Friday! I don't know how much I actually want to advertize us, because I think it would be like the yearbook, only worse—" Dave had flashbacks to drawing breasts on Kurt's picture and had to agree "—so I think we'll just meet up and discuss options then."

Dave blinked. He seemed to be doing that a lot around Kurt. He wasn't tongue-tied, exactly, he just didn't know what to say, and he felt that anything he said would make Kurt go away and stop sitting there smelling so heavenly.

"Dave?"

He shook his head. Kurt's head was cocked, mouth pursed in what appeared to be amusement. "Yeah, that sounds great. Friday."

Friday. The day after the full moon, when he'd have to 'fess up to something, and that something would be Santana. Having a beard didn't help his feelings much, but she made a hell of an excuse.

He coughed. "Uh. Your boyfriend gonna be there?"

The hint of a smile died immediately, and Dave cursed himself for asking. "We have a…difference of opinion on how the club should be run. As this is my project, we decided it would be best for me to run it myself."

"So he was mad you didn't agree with him and bailed?"

Kurt's eyes flashed. "Blaine has been nothing but supportive. I'm sure he'll be with us next time."

"Whatever, Fancy." The nickname slipped out of his mouth, but Kurt was already leaving. Dave wished he was still sitting there, though he could still smell the faintest hint of him in the backdraft of his exit.

The next two days were hard. Coach Sylvester was pushing Santana to her limit in practice, the glee club had once again dissolved into chaos now that two of the golden couples were on the outs, and Dave was ready to put the beatdown on one Jackson Cole. They made it through by sheer force of will and careful avoidance, with Dave interfering any time Santana headed toward Artie with intent in her eyes.

"Your parents are going to hate me," Santana said as they left the school.

"They already hate you, and they haven't even met you yet," he shot back.

"Before I was just a loose woman. Now, I've defiled their only son."

"At least it'll put the kibosh on any worries about me not being straight," he said, more for his own comfort than hers.

"Umm, no," she said, flipping her visor down as she peeled out of the parking lot. "I could just be the one supplying you with the coke you need to get it on with your boy-toy."

He stared. "You're insane, you know that? Who would look at me and think cocaine habit, anyway?"

"Or maybe they think you're in a gang!" She continued, getting into it. "One of the enforcers, which is why you spend way too much of your free time lifting weights. Maybe they don't think of me at all!"

"You could be the Don's daughter, seducing me with whispers of taking her father's place," he supplied with more enthusiasm.

She laughed. "Lima's way too lame for the Mafia, Karofsky. Just come up with a good enough story and I'll back you up. Being the brains of this operation is exhausting."

They made a pit stop by a gas station for chips and soft drinks. He caught her looking longingly at a cigarette poster but she sighed.

"They're too strong for me now. I'll have to get my nicotine fix a different way."

"You could always take up chewing tobacco," he said, propelling her toward the exit. "Pretty sure everyone would stop hanging out with you because of the humiliation, though."

She wrinkled her nose. "Maybe Nicorette patches…"

He shook his head and turned the radio on, leaving her to her controlled-substance daydreams while she drove them to her house. `

They hung out in front of the TV for a while until the tension had them nearly vibrating in their seats. The anticipation was the worst, and Santana was wearing a circuit in the carpet from pacing.

The construction site was pretty close to her house, but they didn't want to cut it any closer than they had to, so they set out while the sun was still high in the sky. Santana had finally changed out of her Cheerios uniform into dark jeans and a McKinley hoodie, although her hair was still slicked back into the high ponytail. Her face was tight with nervous energy but Dave found that her companionship was helping even if they were both scared shitless.

That was why he'd tolerated her hanging out with him even after the Prom fiasco, even pretending that he could have prevented it. She got what he was going through and was perfectly fine with kicking his ass when she decided he needed it. Kurt's 'help' would have been little more than pity wrapped up in sympathy with a side dish of being someone else's boyfriend.

Santana got that, too.

The half-constructed neighborhood was fenced off very roughly but it was easy enough to skirt around a wooded area into it. Most of the houses looked like skeletons but a few had damaged drywall and insulation around the frames. Santana obviously knew where she was going so he followed her to one of the more finished ones. Its door was hanging by one hinge and she pushed it open with an elbow, nodding him ahead of her.

He stepped into the shadowed interior. It was surprisingly clean with only a few beer bottles and cigarette butts. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"You've never been here? Really?" Her voice was half derision and half disbelief. She shook her head. "You have less game than Evans. And he has a weird blue-people fetish."

Dave frowned. "You mean Avatar?"

Her shrug was eloquent as she used her bag to knock the beer bottles out of a corner of the room. "I don't watch your lame-ass movies. You should be thankful that I'm willing to show up and make out with you during them."

"But we don't make out. And you wouldn't even go with me to see Captain America."

Santana blinked. Her eyes were strangely large and glittery in the darkness. "True." She sounded genuinely surprised to realize that she hadn't ever actually kissed him outside of performed heterosexuality. Of course, from the locker room stories, she and Brittany made out with guys just like saying hello.

The thought of having to make out with a girl, even with Santana, and pretend he liked it, made him nauseous. He didn't even want to think about he'd heard about her record where sex was concerned. Just because she was less likely than him to get the shit beaten out of her when she came out didn't make her experience any better.

She snapped her fingers in front of his nose. "Anyone in there?" She asked. When he blinked at her, she waved a hand at the cleared-off area. "Take a load off. Eat a candy bar. We still have another hour or so before we need to get naked."

He blushed but did as he was told, settling onto the concrete and helping himself to a bag of chips. The silence was more companionable in the dim lighting while they munched on whatever junk food Santana had thrown into her backpack. After a while, her phone beeped, causing them both to jump out of their skins.

"It's time," she said, and immediately been shucking her clothing.

He stared at her, dumbfounded, until she stopped. "What?" she said, waving a hand at him. "Do you want to walk home naked or something? Take your clothes off."

He blushed and turned his back, but began undressing even as she laughed at him.

"You're such a virgin," she said. "It's adorable."

She took his jeans and sweatshirt out of his hands and rolled them up into her bag with her things. "You ready?" she asked. He shrugged.

"Let's do this thing."

He could feel the moment the day ended and the night began, the light switching from the sun to the moon's reflection. The change came on fast and it was agony, his bones breaking and reforming.

He was a pretty large guy but the wolf was massive. It felt like his body was turning itself inside out, coming out of himself, larger on the inside than the outside. Fur rippled down his arms and torso to cover him entirely. He was terrifyingly blind for a moment before his vision switched back on, different.

The door was open, his sister was beside him, and they ran.

The morning after was worse than the first time.

Fortunately they'd made their way back to the house during the night and wouldn't have to add public indecency to the things they could potentially be arrested for, and for him to chalk up as why Santana was the worst influence ever and another reason why his parents were going to hate her.

Sometime since their co-freakout about meeting his parents Santana had taken on a Zen-like attitude toward the whole thing. He thought that she'd finally found an outlet for the energy she used to burn off by fucking everything that showed an interest , but he wasn't sure that essentially running through the forest naked was any better.

On reflection, he felt a lot more relaxed too.

The changes that had begun after their ill-fated night out had quadrupled, but his fuck-or-fight instincts seemed to have leveled out. Even Santana browbeating him into buying her a McMuffin on the way home couldn't harsh his buzz.

Until he walked into McKinley and remembered that today was PFLAG or whatever that gay club was. Santana was exceptionally shrill when she lambasted him for shredding his beret.

He was craving a slushie. He might even throw it in his own face.

He managed to avoid Kurt all day, and was feeling pretty good about the whole thing except for the inevitable Santana-related parental meltdown, when the devil herself cornered him.

"We have another problem," she said as she kidnapped him before last period.

"Again?"He asked. "I thought those brochure said that for us it'd only be one night a month and that the Change would be it."

"Exactly. The Change makes the last genetic magic happen! Which is how I wound up pinning Brittany to her locker with my mouth in the Cheerios' private locker room!"

"What?" He was having flashbacks to his own locker-room tryst and it wasn't a good picture.

"I just—I could smell Artie on her, and I hated it, but she smelled so good, and I wanted all of it, all over me and—"

Hysterics were rapidly breaking through her furious façade and he reached out to steady her but she swatted his hand away. It hurt, and he realized that they really were stronger now.

"What are we going to do? You said we had to stick it out through the end of the year—" He didn't want to think about what he might do if he walked into the classroom to see Hummel and the Hobbit going at it.

"We'll just—Hold onto my hand, the entire time. Kurt will just think you're trying to look straight and everyone else will just think you're uncomfortable. Maybe that way we won't forget where the fuck we are." She wiped at her eyes, wrists taught in a way he recognized was to keep her hands from shaking.

"Is Brittany going to say anything? Did anyone see?" He realized she might need some damage control too.

"She just looked sad and reminded me that she was still with Artie. No one else was there."

She pulled one of those electronic cigarettes out of her pocket and started puffing away. For someone who seemed to actually enjoy singing, she smoked a lot. He could still smell the nicotine in the air mixed in with the water vapor, but without the smoke it just smelled sour and not suffocating. They stood in silence, both blankly watching a crop of juniors running around the field while Coach Bieste directed them with her whistle.

It wasn't exactly crowded in the classroom that Kurt and Rachel reserved for their first PFLAG meeting. There was Kurt and Rachel, and Santana holding onto Dave's hand like she could actually restrain him if he decided for a repeat of the Locker Room Incident. There were a couple of freshmen who stared in awe at Kurt. Dave was honestly surprised when they didn't automatically stand on the furthest side of the room from him, then he remembered that this was the year of the Bullywhips and none of them remembered that last year he had systematically made Kurt's like a living hell.

Kurt rolled his eyes when Santana sat down close enough to Dave to be in his lap. "Does he know?" Dave asked her quietly while Kurt greeted the other students.

Santana shrugged. "I don't think anyone really does. Glee is like family, but everyone is too self-involved to notice shit that doesn't directly affect them. When I sang Britt that song last year the only one who said anything was Rachel and I don't think that anyone else knows what the word 'sapphic' means."

Dave laughed. Hudson had tried to get him to join once, but a week was long enough to see what a huge trainwreck that group was. He didn't care enough about song and dance to make the drama worth it, no matter what Schuester said about his skill.

"Hello Dave, Satan," Kurt said. He'd finished with the star struck freshmen and was now in front of them.

"Hummel," Santana greeted. "You're looking particularly fabulous today."

He sniffed, but Dave was too busy trying not to breathe to answer him. That smell that he'd sensed just a few days ago was back, but this time it was so much stronger, filling his mouth and nostrils. He wanted to bury his face in Kurt's neck and just inhale.

Santana pinched him, the bitch.

"Hummel," he echoed. "What's the plan for today?"

Kurt was still eyeing the lack of space between them distastefully. "Well, I thought we'd talk about how important honesty and courage is for everyone in the community—"

Dave could literally see Santana's hair stand on end.

"Dave, sweetie," she cooed, sliding to her feet and adjusting her skirt. "Would you excuse me and Kurt for a moment, please?" Her hand landed on Kurt's elbow and it took every once of his willpower not to remove it with his teeth.

"Sure, babe," he said as smoothly as he could manage. Once they were out the door he was able to focus on something besides Kurt's scent and tearing out Santana's throat, and although he was still twitchy he felt mostly calm again.

Until he saw Berry headed his way with a determined expression, anyway.

Santana was hopping mad by the time she'd found a secluded enough spot to rip Kurt Hummel a new one.

"What the fuck is your problem?"She demanded, backing him against a wall by the power of her voice alone. "You were fine with him yesterday, and you know better than to even try to out someone in this godforsaken shithole of a town!"

He looked shell-shocked, and she mentally winced. It was easier to not let on that she knew that he knew because that would bring up all sorts of uncomfortable questions, but right now she was worried about Dave and how he'd roll over and show his belly at the first sign from Kurt.

"You—" he coughed, then tried again. "You know? About Dave?"

"The fact that he has no interest in tapping this was a pretty big clue, idiot," she snapped. "Now pull your head out of your ass before I twist you like a pretzel."

He sighed then scrubbed at his face. She realized that he looked tired.

"I'm sorry, Santana," he said. "It's just Blaine. He doesn't like how open I want the group to be, and he's really not happy about Dave being there, plus he's been meeting up with this guy he knows from Dalton…"

Santana blinked at him. "Fascinating as this is, Ladyface," she drawled, turning away and heading back to the classroom. "I don't actually care what your problem is. Just that you don't fuck with Dave because your boyfriend isn't fucking with you. Capiche?"

She left him there gaping. It felt kind of good, actually.

After Santana came back in and rescued him from a terrifying pamphlet-wielder alternately known as Rachel Berry, the meeting went pretty smoothly. Kurt did talk for a few minutes about coming out, but he was subdued about it, and focused on what Dave had always considered the important aspects, like being safe and not getting kicked out of your own fucking home.

Rachel talked about support options, like the Trevor Project, and how to deal with bigotry on a day-to-day basis. Dave hadn't ever really thought about the kind of stuff she must have heard, being as vocal about her two dads as she was, but she had never been his preferred target. When one of the freshman, a kid named Sandy with hair as fake blond as that Evans dude, praised Dave for stepping up, it took them all a moment to stop gaping at him. He looked kind of embarrassed until Rachel smiled and said, "Exactly that. What about you, Katie?"

The other freshman, Katie, squeaked and shook her head. Dave poked Santana before she could say anything unfortunate about how the two of them had exactly the same hair, and she gave him an offended look. He frowned at her. The Who, me? look wasn't fooling anybody.

After Berry packed the Wonder Twins off with backpacks overflowing with pamphlets, she let herself out, leaving Kurt, Santana, and Dave alone and staring at one another.

Kurt coughed. "Dave," he began, "I was being unfair to you earlier. I'm sorry that I seem to be pressuring you—"

The hobbit had really shitty timing. Santana obviously wasn't a fan of it, either, and Dave was pretty sure they were wearing matching snarls as Kurt turned to him with a brilliant smile.

Kurt didn't get the chance to say anything, though, as instinct took over at the first whiff of cloying cologne and Santana decided to go Crouching Lycan, Hidden Razors on the asshole.

Dave had him stuck to the door with an elbow across his windpipe as Santana prowled in a tight half circle around them.

"So," she said conversationally as Bland squeaked, eyes amusingly wide. "You were out with someone. Kurtsie here told me all about it earlier, and it seems his suspicions are correct. Of course, I had suspicions long before I bothered to think about where you're sticking your unfortunately sized prick.

"Let him breathe a little bit," she told Dave, who subsequently gave him a little more air to answer with.

"This is what's going to go down. You're going to fess up like the little shit you are, and then Dave and I will hold you still long enough for Kurt to decide if he wants to castrate you. ¿Comprende?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he protested. Santana leaned in a little closer and sniffed.

"Really, puta?"

"What the hell?" Kurt finally said, still frozen where he'd been standing when Blaine had come through the door.

"Just confirming your suspicions that Blaine-dearest has been running around on you," Santana said, then took a longer sniff of Blaine's sleeve. "What did you say his name was? I'm getting Acqua Di Giò and espresso."

"I didn't," Kurt said faintly. "Can you two let him go?"

It took all of Dave's rapidly decreasing self control to pull back, and the expression in Santana's eyes suggested she wanted to impale the boy onto the door using only pencils in his extremities. Blaine had shrunk in on himself, but he was still trying to puff his chest out.

Santana rolled her eyes. "Boy, that didn't work at the benefit and it's certainly not going to work today when you're up against the baddest bitch in this school."

Kurt rolled his eyes when Blaine tried to respond, and pulled the shorter boy away from the door.

"This is all very chivalrous of you guys," he said, opening the door and gesturing to the empty doorway. "But I think I can handle this. I'll see you on Monday, Dave. Santana, don't think Brittany won't be hearing about this, too."

"Puta," she repeated, but strutted out of the classroom with her head held high. She stopped and snapped her fingers at Dave, and he realized he was growling, low in his throat. "Here, puppy," she sing-songed, and he bared his teeth at her.

"Perra," he shot back, but she just laughed at him as the door swung shut behind them both.

The "Meet the Parents" thing went about as well as he expected it too, which was not well at all. Santana was pretty well behaved for a real-life Loba, which she'd been blaring as she pulled into the driveway before his parents got home. Still, her semi-modest dress and demure makeup didn't do much to change the fact that he'd been out all hours of the night with her.

Still, her butter-wouldn't-melt expression and skillful positioning of a crucifix over her high neckline saved the day. Of course, now he had an actual curfew, but once Santana cracked open his window and considered the distance between it and the nearest tree branch, he figured it wouldn't change much.

"You're telling me you've never snuck out?" She asked, incredulous.

"I've never had a reason too," he shot back. "I had permission to go over to Z's, and I didn't have any other complete psychopaths demanding my time."

She sniffed the kicked off her high heels. Her dress was a lot less modest when she had one leg sticking out the window, but he blinked and she was crouching on the branch with a smug smile on her face. He shut the window.

After a moment, he reopened it, tossed her shoes out, and then shut it again.

Santana was not expecting a call from Kurt Hummel Sunday afternoon. Brittany had called and been disappointed at her, but Santana felt like she'd won somehow, because Brittany was calling her. Even if it was because she'd been mean to a member of an endangered fantastical species.

"Hummel," she drawled, putting her feet up on her desk even though he couldn't see her. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her nail polish needed a touchup, she decided, tucking the phone into her shoulder. Kurt still didn't say anything. "Hello?"

"How did you know?" Kurt asked suddenly, voice sounding slightly strangled.

"How did I know what?" If she wanted to listen to silence, she'd just call Britt and have her put Lord Tubbington on the line. It would gain her mad props with the blonde for 'providing an ear for poor lonely Lord Tubbington'.

"That Blaine was out with Sebastian."

"Oh, is that Mr. Designer Cologne's name? I could smell the stuff all over him, like he'd bathed in it. Your boy-toy hasn't graduated from Drakkar Noir."

"How could you smell it? Didn't you notice? His hair was wet; he'd just come from showering in the locker rooms."

She blinked. "Um." He had smelled a little damp, she remembered, but she'd been a bit distracted by Dave and the smell of an interloper. Much as Karofsky might want Kurt for himself, he wouldn't stand for anyone hurting him, either.

"I just did?" She tried. "I have a great sense of smell. Brittany sometimes uses me to find where Coach Sylvester has hidden our lunches from us."

"He denied it," Kurt said. His intonation was even. It wasn't a protest or a dispute, just a flat statement.

Santana barked out a laugh. "He might not have slept with the guy, but he was all over him. You said you were worried about it, so what gives? Suspicion confirmed. Dump the guy. Move on."

"Move on, just like that?" His incredulity was bordering on offensive. "How the hell am I supposed to do that? It's not like they're falling at my feet, and I just have your word versus his that he's been fooling around."

She made a protesting noise, but he just kept talking over her. "And maybe it's my fault, you know? We went out to this bar, but he said I was too uptight and why couldn't we just be spontaneous. I thought if I just went ahead and had sex with him he wouldn't, but—"

She froze, not even breathing. She could practically feel the Change coming on but she fought it, trying to keep the anger down. A few more beats of her rapidly thumping heart and she was finally able to exhale enough to hear that Kurt was still talking.

"Santana?" he said. "Are you still there?"

"Kurt, honey," she said through a mouth that felt far too full of teeth. "I'm going to call you back, okay? My mom just got home. But I will call you later. Just…I'll talk to you tonight, okay?"

He made a confused noise but she disconnected anyway.

The house was silent around her, but she didn't move. She didn't know what to do. Her feelings toward Kurt were nothing like the possessive longing she felt for Brittany but she considered him family. No one fucked with her family.

Still, she couldn't be sure she wouldn't wind up breaking the asshole's neck if she had to look at him one more time. Brittany might not remember the counselor who got sent to the hospital the second day of cheer camp, but Santana had been the one to put him there. She'd always had skills and now she had more than the necessary strength to back them up.

Still trying to breathe evenly, she fumbled for her phone and punched in a number she hadn't bothered to dial since the previous fall.

"Yo," said Puck.

"I'm calling in that favor," she said, resettling her feet on her desk. "You know, if you think you're badass enough to handle it."

"Baby, I'm always badass enough," he said. "What can Puckzilla do for—wait, what favor?"

"The one of many favors all you assholes owe me for bringing Kurt back to McKinley. I figure it's about time I started collecting on those, since none of you voted for me for prom queen."

"Which you did by dating Dave Karofsky. I don't know if I should be impressed or terrified. Why do you need a favor?"

"I need you to handle a little poodle-haired problem for me," she said, putting him on speaker so she could rifle through her contacts. "I'm going to hook you up with a pair of yellow contacts so you can go rough him up enough that he feels unsafe at McKinley and goes back to the Blazered Buffoons."

"Why do you want me to fuck with Blaine? I know nobody likes him except Kurt and my girl Rachel, but he is pretty talented." Puck sounded reluctant, which must have meant that he was on another one of his responsible kicks. So tiring.

"He messed with Kurt," she said abruptly. "Kurt may not think he deserves better than that shithead but Auntie Tana knows best and that is that Blaine Warbler needs a kick on the ass."

"Yellow contacts?" Puck asked. "What for?"

"Turns out our man Blaine has a fear of werewolves," she said cheerfully, finding the costume shop in her phone that had helped them out with the zombie stuff. "I think that might be enough to scare him off."

"It freaks me out when you do the evil laugh, you know that, right?"

She hung up on him, but texted him the phone number. Asshole could pay for the contacts himself.

Knowing revenge was in the works was enough to keep Santana from chewing Blaine's face off in school the next day. Kurt didn't normally act like he knew she existed outside of glee, and the slightly vulnerable side he had shown by calling her was nowhere in sight. She wasn't bothered. She didn't make a habit of crying into her pillow over people not respecting her greatness.

Dave was pretty resigned to her plan by that point, although she had every intention of making him pay for Friday night. She handed him a newly-commissioned Bullywhips beret on his way into school, slightly late because she hadn't bothered picking him up that morning, along with a list of things he was absolutely not allowed to do today. Number one: no breathing anywhere near one Blaine Anderson. A close second was no stalking Kurt Hummel, but she knew a lost cause when she saw it.

"I mean it, Karofsky," she hissed, poking him in the chest with a finely manicured nail. "None of my plans for getting out of this town involve bailing you out of jail."

He looked at her incredulously and she shrugged. "Antie Tana's got it all under control."

She sent him packing only to find herself cornered by Brittany.

It took her a few moments to even notice Brittany was speaking, transfixed as she was by the sweet smell and golden glow that seemed to surround her. Brittany still looked a bit disappointed, and then Santana noticed her mouth was moving.

"I don't like it when you're mean to people," Britt was saying. "Sometimes they do mean stuff back."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, incredulously. "I freaking rule this school."

"Artie says I shouldn't hang out with you anymore. He says you're a bad influence and you're only ever with Karofsky any more. I told you that was gross."

Santana rolled her eyes. "Britt…"

"Artie can't make me stop hanging out with you," Brittany said firmly. "But if you aren't nicer, I might stop anyways."

Brittany could make a dramatic exit to put Rachel Berry to shame, Santana thought as her girl strutted away just like she had last year during Rachel's plastic surgery freak out.

Then she very deliberately did not trip a freshman on the way to her next class.

Puck sent a text that night that said simply, Mission accomplished. It was accompanied by a picture of what looked like Blaine running away very fast. Puck didn't bother asking any further about her motives, he knew she wouldn't tell him and she knew he considered the gay kid his boy. For not being Were, he was awfully protective of his pack, she thought.

She made Dave skip first period after having considerately picked him up for school the next morning, which turned out to be a good thing, as Kurt and Blaine had a blazing row in the choir room before classes started. No one seemed to know what had happened, although Tina was running around whispering frantically to Mercedes who wasn't saying anything. Puck looked smug, and Santana knew a similar smirk graced her own features.

"Are you being mean?" Brittany asked her at lunch. Santana wasn't sure why the blonde was sitting with her, and Artie was giving them the stink eye, but she wasn't going to question it.

"No, Britt," Santana replied, smiling. "I think I'm actually being nice for once."

Coach Sylvester was extra tyrannical that afternoon. Santana wasn't too bothered and just pushed her body harder, hitting jumps that she knew were superhuman.

She could still feel the ghost of Brittany's warmth along her side when she went to collect Dave from hockey practice.

The week passed slowly. Glee was interminable, and the group was in turmoil once again when Blaine flounced in and announced he was headed back to Dalton. Santana fantasized about hitting him with the door on his way out, but kept her hands to herself. As little competition as Artie was, really, she wanted to be on her best behavior.

No one was sucker enough to sign up for Nude Erections, and apparently Puck was on the outs again with Lauren, something about her rep. Finn wasn't about to let Rachel donate fake-used undies to Jacob ben Israel again.

Then Santana was struck with a brilliant idea.

"You should join glee," she said to Dave as he was trapped in her car that afternoon. They were still idling in the school parking lot, so she hit the childproof locks when he reached for the handle.

"Uh, no," he said, frowning at her. "That's a terrible idea. Why the fuck would I ever join Homo Explosion?"

"So you can get your own Homo Explosion on, dumbass," she shot back. "We need a new member. Doesn't even matter if you can sing or not. You'll save the club when we go to Sectionals in a couple of weeks and look like a hero to Ladyface."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to go near him."

Santana waved a hand dismissively. "That was when Blaine was still here. Now, I'm feeling the love and want to spread it around."

"Brittany isn't with you."

"No, but it's only a matter of time. He's asking her to chose and I've been a model citizen this week. I am the obvious choice."

"Are you?" She started to reply angrily, but he held up a hand. "You told me she said she loves you. But, San—she can be with a guy. She can play it straight. Maybe she doesn't want to tough it out with you."

She shook her head, hard. "No, she wanted me to come out, go on that stupid cheese show—"

"When she was broken up! Why the fuck would she want to be with you, you—"

This time, when she tried to take him out via the passenger door, she was foiled by her own cleverness. The handle refused to budge and she wound up half on top of him, snarling. He was snarling back, teeth bared. He dared challenge her claim to Brittany?

A piercing blast of a horn cut through the red-tinted rage just before she went after him with her teeth. A wild glance around and she saw Kurt freaking Hummel staring at them from the front seat of his Lincoln, face white and eyes wide.

"Dammit," she spat, clambering off Dave and back into the driver's seat, pulling her dress back down. Dave looked dumbstruck, still snarling a little but his overall expression said Oh shit.

She tore out of the parking lot without bothering to put on her seatbelt, fingers dug into the by now permanent indentations on her steering wheel. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she was chanting, half-blind with terror. There was no way that he could have missed the way Santana and Dave were fighting, with teeth instead of fists. And even though she had threatened him with razorblades, she was realistic about her abilities pre-Were. Dave outweighed her by more than a hundred pounds of pure muscle. No way would an un-enhanced Santana Lopez go after him without hesitation.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, Santana's obscenity-filled monologue notwithstanding. Dave got out of the car in front of his house without saying a word. He took his Bullywhips jacket with him.

She drove in circles for a while after, not quite willing to go home. Her parents were in town for a few days between conferences or whatever they left to go do, and she didn't want to have to deal with their fake interest. She dialed Brittany's number and didn't respond when the girl picked up, just listening as Brittany got distracted after a couple Hello?'s and started lecturing Lord Tubbington about whatever sin he'd committed that day.

She didn't go home till her cell phone battery ran out.

Santana didn't see Dave on her way in to school the next morning, and she carefully avoided all the places he would probably be. Britt was as beautiful as ever, chattering about her viewer counts and how Youtube was probably going to offer her a syndication deal while they sat in the lunchroom. Artie's death glares were like the buzzing of a tiny, impotent fly in the face of Brittany's smile. And smell. She was leaning closer to sneak a deeper sniff when the Bitch Queen himself interrupted.

"Hi Brittany," he said, smiling, as if he didn't have enough on Santana to ruin her. "Can I borrow Santana from you?"

Brittany giggled at that, saying something about as long as he was going to give her back, but Santana was already on her feet and headed toward the door. She wanted to direct where this conversation took place, somewhere she was in control.

The choir room was inevitable, if not optimal. At least the door was unlocked and she could shove the piano in front of it to keep everyone else out.

When she turned back around, Kurt was seated primly on one of the chair on the riser, satchel leaning against one lean calf. She didn't know what to say.

"Well?" she asked, crossing her arms. "You wanted to talk, so talk."

He was silent for a long moment before saying, "So you and Dave—?"

"Me and Dave what?" She shot back. Maybe he hadn't seen, exactly. Maybe he thought they had just been fighting, or having kinky straight sex or something.

"You're Were," he responded, voice certain if a little incredulous. "That's why you went off on Blaine, that's why he called me the other night screaming about being terrorized by a word I won't repeat, and that's why Dave keeps sniffing at me then trying really hard to act like he just has allergies."

"Well," she said, neither confirming nor denying. "You certainly seem to have it all figured out. What are you going to do about it?"

He shot her a look that plainly said he wasn't buying the innocent act. "Nothing," he said instead. "I just—this is recent, right? How did this happen?"

"Traumatic Were Shift," she explained, words rushing to tell someone, even though it was a terrible idea. "Luck of the genetic draw and us doing something stupid."

He blinked then nodded. "Have you spoken to any of the Clans?"

Santana snorted. "Like who? This is Lima, Kurt. There are no Clans around here, and the closest ones would rather hunt us for food than welcome us into the pack. We have pamphlets from the clinic and fake names on our registration cards. Where else are we supposed to get our information?"

The expression on his face was pained. "So you have nothing? What did you do for the full moon? And god, you're teenagers, there's no one around to stop you from going nuts and humping someone in the hallways!"

She glared at him. "No, that's what I said. We have a place. And fuck you, we haven't done anything, no matter how fucking difficult that is!"

"What about your parents? Miss Pillsbury?"

"I see my parents once a month, max," she spat. "Miss Pillsbury's fucking useless. When I went to her last year she just gave me a pamphlet about how I should wait until marriage! Assuming that's ever legal in Ohio! She'd probably suggest I invest in a muzzle!"

"Alas," he said sarcastically. "You've always needed a muzzle."

"So," she continued over him, "what are you going to do? What do you want from me? Dave and I are getting out of this town, and if you do anything that gets in our way—"

"Stop, Santana," he said, holding a hand up. "I just wanted to know."

"And you're not going to do anything about it?" She eyed him suspiciously.

"Don't plan on it," he said, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Of course, that would be a lot easier to do if you two keep up with not being assholes."

She glared at him. "What the fuck, Hummel? Dave practically licks your boots when you ask him to do shit. I haven't kicked a freshmen's ass in a week! We should be put up for canonization!"

He laughed, a short, humorless sound. "Let's see if your sainthood lasts a month. Then we'll talk about how much better people you are."

"Don't fuck with Dave," she said harshly, even as she moved the piano back out of the way. "I can take whatever shit you dish out, Twinkletoes, but leave him alone."

He gave her a pitying look as he sauntered off down the hallway as the bell rang. Fuck, and she hadn't eaten lunch.

Dave was, despite his protests, at glee that afternoon. Rachel only offered mild reservations, apparently tempered by their meeting for PFLAG, and Mr. Schue overrode everyone else's objections. Santana just looked smug.

He spent a good five minutes of the Rachel Berry Variety Hour imagining ways to wipe that smirk off her face.

There was a lot of arguing, then Puckerman got up with his guitar to sing something, mentioning how it was by a Jew, apparently, but Dave didn't recognize the song. He was pleasantly surprised by it though, winding up tapping his foot toward the end of the song once Hudson and the other guys had joined in as backup.

There was some more freaking out about an upcoming competition that didn't seem to resolve into any actual preparation, then Dave noticed the silence. Everyone was looking at him.

"Um," he said.

Santana rolled her eyes. "Obviously he isn't prepared today. I'll whip him into shape by next time so you can be blown away by his awesome baritone. Are we done here?"

"What?" he asked as she dragged him from the room. She really needed to cut down on her manhandling if she didn't want anyone to notice her ability to maneuver him effortlessly.

"Your audition, idiot," she said, finally letting go of his arm. "Formality only, because no one has never gotten in. That's not our problem. Our problem is Kurt."

"Why is Hummel our problem?"

"Uh, he knows, remember? That has gotten through your thick, Cro-Magnon skull, right?"

He growled at her. She didn't look sorry, but she moved on.

"He cornered me today to tell me he knows."

"And?"

"We're supposed to be on our best behavior. I'm still trying to figure out what the fuck that means, but I'm guessing no more slushies or using underclassmen as stress balls. I'm already reformed, because Britt says she'll cut me off otherwise—"

"Thought she'd already cut you off," he interjected sarcastically.

"—but obviously you need some work. So. Pantsed any freshies lately?"

He stared at her. "What was that about an audition?"

Santana found Kurt in front of his locker the next day. He was staring at some totally gay collage thing that was either being put up or taken down, very slowly.

"You think you know a person," he said randomly, still not looking at her.

"Uh, okay," she drawled, not really interested in his identity crisis or whatever. "Look, me and Karofsky are going to be at my house tonight for our weekly bearding alibi. Why don't you come over and give us a crash course in what it's going to take to keep you off our case this year?"

He raised an eyebrow at her and banged his locker door shut. Whatever he'd been messing with was crumpled in a fist in his hand.

"And give you opportunity to kill me and stash the body? No thanks."

"Hey! That's racist!" Hadn't he been the one defending Weres to Blaine just a couple of weeks ago?

He gave her a look that said he questioned her intelligence. "No," he said slowly, "that's 'I've known you and your Lady Macbethian ways for two years now and you scared me before you grew fangs'."

"Oh." She blew out a breath. "You coming or not?"

He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and shrugged. "Yeah, I'll see you guys this afternoon."

Mission accomplished, she walked away without acknowledging his acquiescence. She had a jock to harass.

Another weekday afternoon, another two hours spent sitting on Santana's couch wishing he had actual friends. He'd seen them in movies, guys who hung out or played video games. He'd had Scouts, and then he'd hit puberty and things had gotten weird, and that had somehow telegraphed into not spending time with any of the guys from the team outside of the whole group.

Santana was sitting in the middle of a huge pile of CDs, as if she didn't have a laptop or iPod, and was throwing them around while muttering in Spanish. When she'd waved a Ricky Martin album at him he hadn't even dignified it with a response.

The doorbell rang and she jumped up, nailing him in the forehead with a CD case and sending the little plastic objects scattering in all directions. He scowled at her retreating back and rubbed what was surely a red mark on his forehead while he looked down at the album cover. Aaliyah stared back at him.

Santana made a noise Dave wasn't sure he'd ever heard from the Latina before. Levering himself to his feet, he heard her speaking almost excitedly, even though her words were just as bitchy as ever. Huh. Brittany was at the door.

Despite Santana's epic moaning about how she was going to slowly skin Artie Abrams alive using metal shards from his own wheelchair, she had been pretty close mouthed about Brittany. The blonde hadn't been over to her house once when Dave had been there, and he'd been spending most afternoons there even before the Incident.

She came back into the living room, tugging Brittany by the hand over to the couch, making Dave abandon it for the recliner. He looked at Brittany curiously, wondering what had made her come over this afternoon.

"I broke up with Artie," she said without preamble. Santana looked like all her birthdays had come at once. Dave wished he were invested in this little melodrama beyond sex making Santana less cranky, and single Brittany was step one of making that happen.

"Why?" He asked though. Santana glared.

"Did he call you stupid again?" she asked, a note of anger creeping into her voice.

Brittany shook her head. "He never said that again, but Lord Tubbington could tell he thought so. I don't like people thinking I'm stupid," she added.

"Is that why?" Santana asked, frowning.

"Because," Brittany said, holding up her wrist, underside toward Santana. She didn't continue, as if that was answer enough.

Both Dave and Santana were staring at her in confusion. "Britt, what?" Santana asked, before Brittany nearly hit her in the nose with her arm.

Santana reflexively inhaled, and wasn't quite able to suppress the shiver at the scent. Brittany just nodded.

"I was hurt that you didn't tell me, but then I talked to Kurt after his argument with Blaine, and he said that sometimes Weres are very private because people get scared of them. But you know I'm not scared of you, right, Santana?"

Dave was scared of Santana, and had been since before she'd had his balls in a metaphorical vise. Brittany didn't look afraid at all, and the adoring gaze Santana had fixed on the girl was kind of gross, all things considered. She almost looked like a puppy about to go belly-up for petsies.

Then the doorbell rang again, causing them all to jump. Santana stalked off, undoubtedly pissed at the moment-ruiner, while Brittany just smiled at him.

The dreamy-eyed girl made him almost as antsy as Santana, he considered, shifting under her gaze. Maybe he was just wary of lesbians.

"You're late," he heard Santana hiss from the doorway. He didn't remember her mentioning anyone coming over, but an unmistakable voice answered her.

"Coach Sylvester cornered me," Kurt Hummel replied, breezing through the entryway into the living room. "Something about updating her DNA records. Hello Brittany, David," he said, nodding at them both. He settled onto the couch next to Brittany. Santana looked put out at his seat of choice but resettled herself amidst the strewn CD cases.

Dave stared at him. Why had Santana invited him over without telling him? Even from a few feet away, his scent was tantalizing. Still, he waved the CD case at Santana incredulously.

"Aaliyah? You have to be joking."

"It has come to my attention that I should expand my selection of artists beyond the oeuvre of Amy Winehouse," she said.

Kurt blinked at her. "I'm sorry, am I hallucinating Rachel Berry?"

She glared at him, then relented. "Okay, she might have said something about incorporating other styles if I wanted a shot at a solo, but it was in the middle of a rant about how Mr. Schue always makes us sing Journey. I think mixing it up a little will be good, anyway."

Dave gestured with the album again. "Whatever, but why Aaliyah for my audition?"

She jumped up and took the CD from him, putting it into the stereo system. "You're never going to get a solo," she said bluntly, "no matter how good your voice is. I think a duet for your audition will take some of the pressure off. Besides, I had the best idea."

A low R&B beat filled the living room as they all fell silent. Timbaland's intro opened the song, Aaliyah following. The song played through once, then Santana queued it back and pulled Brittany to her feet, starting to work out some choreography. Dave just stared.

"I can't rap," he said, protesting, but Santana shushed him.

I'll call you tomorrow, the song concluded, Santana shaking her shoulders as Brittany spun around her. Kurt had one knee crossed over the opposite leg, eyes considering.

"It could work," he said, fingers tapping out the beat on the arm of the couch. "But I think the song choice has more to do with why you told me to come over here, isn't it, Santana?"

She shrugged. "It seemed fitting."

"I've been doing some research," he said, causing Dave to blink at the seeming non sequitur.

"And you were calling me Rachel Berry," Santana interjected. Kurt scowled.

"Don't push me, Santana," Kurt shot back. "You might not have the research skills that I do, but don't you think it's funny that it's Brittany who you've been panting after for the last couple of weeks? Ever wondered why that is?"

She glared. "Because she smells good," Santana said. "Why?"

Kurt pointed. "Exactly. Why?"

Dave rubbed his forehead. The red spot only hurt a little bit, now, but it was fast being overtaken by a gleek-induced migraine. "If you know the answer, Hummel, just spit it out."

Kurt sat back, looking a little put out at his dramatics being shut down. He also looked a little nervous. "No?" He tried to deny it, but it came out as enough of a question to be suspicious.

Santana's gaze darted between the two of them, then over to Brittany. Brittany was still dancing around the coffee table.

"It means mates," she supplied helpfully. "Weres know their mates by scent."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Dave nearly shouted, pushing himself out of the chair. Santana looked stunned, close to denial but it just made too much sense. "Fucking perfect," he continued.

Kurt didn't say anything, hands wringing together in his lap.

"Britt," Santana said carefully, "what do you mean?"

"You love me, and your wolf loves me too," Brittany said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "It wants to be my mate."

"But that doesn't mean—"

"Brittany," Kurt said, voice sounding strangled. "What if we don't want to be mates back?"

Brittany shrugged. "They get sick and maybe die, if they can't find anyone else."

His mouth dropped open, face going white, but Dave couldn't take it anymore. He was out the front door, racing down the street before he could listen to rejection once again.

Santana eventually chased him down the next morning and dragged him off for a last minute run-through of the song with Brad, the seemingly mute piano player. Santana told him what she wanted, browbeat the jazz band in true Sylvester style, and dressed Dave in a black button up she had liberated from his closet. She was dressed in her signature red, with a black fedora tilted at a rakish angle over her forehead.

Once the rest of the glee kids had filed into the auditorium, she jumped up onto the stage, glaring meaningfully at Dave until he followed her up.

"Santana," Mr. Schuester said, "auditions are traditionally done solo—"

"Oh please," Santana replied, rolling her eyes. "Like any guy besides Manboobs is going to get a solo for a competition. This way you know he can sound good in chorus, singing backup for Glinda the Mediocre Witch."

Mr. Schuester didn't seem to know how to respond to that, so he just sat down. Santana nodded to Brad, who hit the first chords of the song.

She had completely reworked the arrangement of the song, from the old-school style R&B synth beat to a slower, more classical-sounding piano. He took a deep breath and waited to begin.

I'm tired of arguing, boy, she sang, continuing on into the first verse. What's your problem? Let's resolve it.

We can solve it, what's the causes? He asked, his voice in a low croon.

It's official, Santana harmonized over him as he continued, You've got issues.

Am I supposed to change? Are you supposed to change? They sang in tandem. The song had a melodic, almost hypnotic, circular chemistry that was reflected in the round lines of Santana's dance. Dave just kept the beat with his body as she continued into the vamp.

You give me bits and pieces, she sang, spinning and kicking one leg out, running her hand along the brim of her cap.

He shrugged, I think it's just the season, maybe the month, maybe the building.

What's it gonna be, freaky freaky me and you? The sang in unison, side by side along the front of the stage, shoulders twisting with each beat as he sang the next line. I'm tired of these things, tired of these scars—

I think I'm gonna get me a drink, I'll call you tomorrow, Santana finished, as they separated to opposite wings of the stage.

Once he got the nerve to look out at the assembled gleeks, he was surprised at their impressed looks. Santana had on her best sneer, and Brittany just looked happy.

He took a deep breath and looked at Kurt. He was smiling, still a little tight around his eyes, but at least he wasn't running screaming.

No, you did that, Dave thought to himself.

"Okay!" Mr. Schuester said, leaping to his feet. "That was great, you two! I think we can say, welcome to glee club, Dave!"

Dave ran his hand through his hair self-consciously as he made his way to his seat by Santana. Santana scooted in next to Brittany, and he rolled his eyes. Consensus in the locker room was that it was hot, though, so he figured he'd save the accusation for later.

Next up were Berry and that girl he'd only heard referred to as Aretha. Her name was Mercedes, he quickly learned when Mr. Schuester announced they were having a 'Diva-Off' for the Sectional's solo. Santana just shook her head when he sent her an inquiring look.

He shrugged and settled back to listen to the music. He was stuck here for the rest of the hour, anyway, might as well enjoy it.

Kurt was the last person he expected to see outside his door the next afternoon. Dave was currently being ignored for "lady-kisses time", which he was thankful for, but it did leave him at loose ends. He didn't expect anyone to show up to his house, let alone the guy he had a freaky Were crush on.

"Can I come in?" Kurt asked after Dave had stared at him for several long seconds.

"Sure, yeah," Dave said, nearly tripping over himself to get the door open. Kurt came in and Dave led him into the living room. "Can I get you something to drink, or anything?"

Kurt smiled and shook his head. "No, thanks." He still seemed nervous, but he was back to his put-together old self.

Dave sank slowly into a cushioned chair opposite where Kurt had seated himself. "So, um, why…"

"Why am I here?" Kurt smiled humorlessly. "I think we need to talk, somewhere you don't have to be afraid of people overhearing, and where Santana isn't pissed at me for 'pussy-blocking' her, or whatever."

Dave choked out a laugh. Of course Santana would be more annoyed at the interruption of her make-out session with Brittany than she was at his anxiety. Suck it up was practically her mantra.

"I don't like, expect anything from you, or whatever," he was quick to point out. "We don't even know if what Brittany said was right. I know I'm not your type, and this is really weird—"

Kurt held up a hand, silencing Dave. "I'm not saying I want to date you, Dave," he said gently. "I don't know you very well, and this werewolf-mate thing is freaking me out, frankly. But I'd like to get to know you, and if maybe…"

The sudden disappointment was overtaken with a welling of hope, deep in his chest. "You—really?" He asked, not sure he'd understood correctly.

Kurt offered him a crooked smile, one dimple weakly showing. "I'm saying maybe. One day. If you stay on your best behavior."

Dave was grinning, open mouthed. "Sure, yeah, of course," he said, feeling like his heart was going to trip out of his chest.

He could do that.