Story: Landslide (Should Have Seen It Coming)
Fandom: Glee
Author: ibshafer
Rating: PG-13
Character: Santana, Dave (hints of one-sided Kurtofsky)
Disclaimer: I don't own these people, they own themselves and are just nice enough to let me spin them around the page now and then.
Summary: Santana finds an ally where didn't expect it…
Warning: Up to 2x15
A/N: Apologies – I do NOT have Santana's voice down at ALL, but this was just something I really wanted to write, after reading that wonderful article today (3/10) that drew some lovely connections between Santana and Dave Karofsky. Thanks to DGLR for posting it! dlgr_khdigest
Landslide (Should Have Seen It Coming)
- ibshafer
At the end of the day, she would remember thinking that she should have seen it coming.
If she'd been paying closer attention.
Which she hadn't been.
Which wasn't like her at all.
There she was, cornered, not an ally in sight, four asshats with nary a brain cell between them, armed with wet, frozen missiles, and the lamest insults on the face of the earth.
They didn't back down when she went all ghetto on them, they didn't back down when she buried her boot in one of their guts, they just seemed to like it, to get more…well, she couldn't call it creative, but maybe, they just got more into the bullshit they were slinging then, like this is what they'd wanted to see all along.
"Yeah! Yeah! Fighting lesbo…"
She was thinking about Kurt and wondering how he'd dealt with it, and when she remembered he'd dealt with it by leaving school, something in her broke for a second.
It was just a second, but it was all they needed.
Like sharks after that one drop of blood in the water, that's when they struck, laughing – to pull in another animal metaphor – like hyenas as they dumped those monster cups on her head.
One, two, three…
Freezing cold fake grape, cherry, raspberry...and fuck, she'd worn white again today…
Three cups of that sicky-sweet crap tie-dying her peasant top, sliding into her jeans, filling up her sandals, soaking her through and through.
A three-cup love letter from the football team, guys, she might add, she had all fucked.
So much for the loyalty of the lay…
Not that she remembered them, per se, because, really, who would want to remember Azimio Adams' ugly speckled dick, or Taylor's, for that matter. Or Strando. Or Karofsky.
Karofsky.
Wait a sec…
They'd lumbered off, pleased as fuck with themselves, and she'd stood there in the mess for a minute, a little too Slushie-blind to be able to see just yet, but now that she looked, she started to count.
There were four of them.
They'd had a real stroke of creativity today, opting for a 4-color…statement over the usual, mono-flavored drowning they usually pulled. She looked down at her blouse and saw the grape and the cherry were pretty well blended, as though Az and Taylor had been holding hands or something when they'd tossed their cups, and the raspberry's electric blue was splashed down her skirt and…shit, in her hair. (She must have had her head bent in defense when the cups flew and that had masked the blue from hitting her blouse.)
That made three. Three cups. Grape, cherry, raspberry.
And the lime?
She could see it, but it wasn't actually on her anywhere. It was pooled at her feet, sitting in a spreading puddle a couple feet away her.
Did someone's hand slip during their throw?
Oh, fuck – who cares?
She started to fish through her soaked book bag for something dry enough to at least clear her face off, when someone tapped her arm and handed her a towel.
She grabbed it with a quick muttered 'thanks,' wiping at her face first before turning to look at whoever it was.
All she saw was a quickly retreating back in a red letterman jacket, broad shoulders and lumbering walk very familiar.
What the…
"Wait!" she called after him and he kept walking for a couple steps before stopping.
It was a full beat before he turned back to look at her, and she was struck by the depth of the pained expression his flushed face wore, his eyes filled with an incongruous mix of empathy and desperation.
They stood gazing at each other for the briefest moment and then, he dipped his head once, pressed his lips together in frustration, and was gone.
Huh.
Karofsky.
Why would he… Why would he?
Something pinged in her head and she paged back a bit in her mental black book, her running Fil-o-fax of sexual conquests, and tried to recall just what he'd been like, that night after homecoming last year, when she'd cornered him on the field and dragged him, literally, under the bleachers.
He'd been reluctant, but it had been understandable because…clearly…he was virgin, and okay, she was fierceand some boys were intimidated by that, especially the virgins. She'd just chalked everything else up to his lack of pussy experience, but now that she thought about it, she really had almost had to force him, which, well, that never happened, because they were usually all, 'yeah, baby! I was wondering when you were gonna get around to me!'.
But not Karofsky…
It had taken him a while, she'd really had to work at him, so long her hand started to cramp and she got bored and she was thinking about giving up on him, when he had looked off to the field where some of the Cheerios had started up a song-and-dance-along, lead by Mercedes and Kurt, and suddenly, he was…there and away they went. Now that she thought about it, he kept looking out onto the field. The whole time. She should have been insulted, but at the time, she just wanted to get her freak on and get out of there.
But now?
Wow…
How had she not seen that coming?
She should have been paying closer attention, especially now, when she sometimes needed a little extra help. Watching her back.
She was still fierce, but sometimes…
Huh…
She wasn't sure if she was seeing what she thought she was, and if she was, if she was right, if this revelation would change much about her new, loser status at McKinley, but maybe…
Maybe it was just good to know that someone else might actually, sort of, have her back.
Maybe.
"'Well, maybe…'"
Fini…
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