D/C: You know the drill. Glee's not mine. I would pay handsomely to borrow Santana Lopez for an indefinite period of time, though...
A/N: In which I am still procrastinating. Crack!fic. This got out of control quickly, whoops.
"Line dancing?"
Brittany nods enthusiastically, beaming over the hood of Santana's car. She kicks one foot up, wiggling her sneaker.
"Cowboy boots and everything!" she squeals, returning her foot to solid ground and jumping up and down.
"Cowboys shoot other cowboys," Santana remarks, pretending to draw a gun from the waistband of her jeans.
"Cowboys make out with other cowboys," Brittany replies seriously. The spell is broken as she leans over the hood to leer at her best friend. She wiggles her eyebrows and hops up onto the hood.
"Brittany, get off of my car!" Santana shrieks, reaching out and yanking Brittany the rest of the way across the hood by her collar.
"Ay dios mia," Santana snaps, pushing Brittany aside to check for damage. Her palms are still flattened against the slick blue metal when Brittany playfully thrusts her hips against Santana's backside. Santana yelps and stands upright, whirling only to find herself caged between Brittany's thighs and the car.
"Pretty please," Brittany murmurs, her eyes hooded as she dips down to brush her lips against Santana's ear. Caught between groaning in arousal or terror, Santana shivers, pulling away quickly to check for spectators.
"It's really fun," Brittany presses. Santana's voice leaves her in a shrill gasp as Brittany's tongue flicks over her collarbone.
"Alright, I'll go!" she relents, pushing on Brittany's shoulders. "Now get in the car."
"But San..."
"Get in the car," she orders, her voice wobbling. Brittany pouts, but obeys. Her hands linger maddeningly on Santana's hips and they don't make it much farther than Santana's back seat.
So that's how Santana Lopez ends up spending her Wednesday night at Main Street rec center in a nearly empty gym with Brittany, Mike, and a mattering of people aged ten to sixty-five. Brittany wasn't playing games-she sports a periwinkle blue cowboy hat, matching plaid button-up, and a pair of cut-offs so short it should be illegal. Santana catches herself ogling Brittany's lithe limbs more than once, and finally settles on watching the stragglers trickle into the room.
"Are you ready? They're about to start the lessons."
Santana nearly jumps out of her skin when Brittany's voice sounds in her ear. Twining their hands together, Brittany drags Santana into the group gathered around their instructors. She almost holds back the snort when she sees April Rhodes' petite form in the center of the circle. Her teaching partner is vaguely familiar, but Santana can't remember his name.
"Welcome old faces and new," April trills. She instructs them to line up in rows of six, introducing herself and her companion as she moves students around briskly.
Santana snaps her fingers, placing the male instructor. Schuester's old classmate.
Bryan Ryan steps forward and claps his hands.
"We're going to start with a review," he announces. "Last week we learned 'Saddle Up.' We're gonna take it through nice and slow, then try it with the music."
Footwork has never been a problem for Santana Lopez. Her ability to learn routines at lightening speed was the primary reason she made the Cheerio squad freshman year. She picks up the moves on the first run through and misses doing handsprings.
When April takes over to teach the new dance, Santana can feel a smile form on her face. This is a pop song. She didn't know you could line dance to Katy Perry. She swings her head to find Brittany, beaming. Brittany's eyes are focused on April's feet, and her tongue pokes out the side of her mouth. Suppressing the nearly overwhelming urge to pounce on her best friend, Santana turns her attention back to dancing.
The class scatters when Bryan Ryan started fiddling with the cheap boom box in one corner of the room. Brittany drags Santana to the refreshment table and passes her a bottle of water.
"Look at that," Brittany says quietly, nodding over Santana's shoulder. Two older women with graying hair stand arm and arm talking to April. One is about six inches short than the other, a blonde and a brunette.
"It's us," whispers Brittany, giggling. She turns to say something to Mike, but Santana's eyes follow the couple as they head for the dance floor. A slower song fills the room, and Brittany passes Santana her water bottle. She grabs Mike by the wrist and drags him to the dance floor, clapping happily.
Brittany is all smiles and twirls, leaning over to whisper in Mike's ear periodically. A stab of jealousy jolts Santana where she stands.
Turning her attention to the other couples, she notices the elderly women dancing the same steps as the others in the room, but with each other. Santana blushes when she catches the brunette standing on tip-toe to sneak a kiss at the start of the chorus. She looks around quickly, but none of the other dancers seem to notice, they're either absorbed in their own partners or they don't care.
Santana's gaze finally comes to rest on Brittany and Mike again. He's laughing, guiding her through one last spin as the music stops.
"Okay kids, here's the one we just learned!" April cheers as the opening bars for "California Girl" blare from the tiny speakers. Brittany beckons Santana onto the dance floor.
"Told you this was fun," she says breathlessly. "You'll pick it up in no time."
It's the next Monday when Santana finally manages to pry Mike away from Tina for a private word after Glee Club.
"Relax, Corpse Bride," she says in the face of Tina's glare, "I'm not going to eat him. Because, ew...chicken feet salad?"
"I'll meet you in ten minutes at my locker," Mike says in a way that reminds Santana of a soldier bidding farewell to his loved ones.
"I'm really not going to do anything," she says dryly, watching Tina's retreating back. He still watches her warily when she checks the hallway outside of the glee room.
"I need you to teach me how to two-step," she says, shutting the door with a click. Mike simply stares.
"Hello? Jackie Chan, can you hear me?"
Startled, Mike rubs the nape of his neck. "I'm not really a line dancer. Brittany just dragged me along to have someone she knew there and I kind of liked it."
"You know how to two-step," Santana insists. "Teach me how to do it."
She pauses and bites her lip before invading Mike's personal space. He's too surprised to back away, which is good, because the next thing Santana says is barely audible.
"The...um...the guy part."
She rolls her eyes as waves of understanding wash Mike's face. He grins, but not meanly.
"I always thought it would be cool to know a gay girl," he says teasingly, "for the hot make-outs."
"Shut up, Mike," she sighs, covering her face.
"But I never thought one would ask me to teach her how to dance with her girlfriend."
"I said can it, Chang."
"I think it's adorable."
"Forget I said anything," Santana gripes, turning to leave. She feels Mike's hand on her elbow and turns.
"Tomorrow after Glee?" Mike suggests. Santana nods silently, hiking her bag higher on her shoulders.
"Thanks, Chang," she says, "I owe you."
"Be good to my dance partner, and we'll call it even."
