Title: Except This Time, We'll Get It Right (1/?)
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Rating: R, this chapter for bad language.
Warning/Spoilers: No real specific spoilers, but this fic is AU from "Funeral" onwards. This fic is un'beta'd so there is probably a lot of mistakes.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or anything associated with Glee.
Word Count: 1,970 for this part.
Summary: Mostly AU, college!future fic. Santana and Quinn reconnect in college and try to right all their high school wrongs, especially the ones against each other.
There are about six trillion reasons why Santana doesn't want to be here right now. The obnoxiously bubbly pop song that has been grating on her nerves for the past minute or so pushes that count to six trillion and one.
If she had known that Allie's tumble from the top of the pyramid which had resulted in a broken arm would also result in impromptu solo cheer tryouts, she would have probably broken the other arm in retaliation, but hindsight's a bitch, as is karma, which is probably why she's here now—Sociology paper due tomorrow be damned— feeling like she's in the middle of a Bring it On movie which is about to become Bring it On 509: The Motherfucking Wrath of Santana Lopez if she's forced to endure this torment for much longer.
The song—that motherfucking annoying ass song—loops into its overly repetitive chorus for what seems like the millionth time and Santana just barely resists the urge to bang her head against the table before her.
She knows that being here is supposed to be an honor of sorts. She's here because she's earned it, because even though she's only a sophomore, she has solidified herself as one of two of the squad's co-captains and their Coach has entrusted her, along with the other co-captain, the captain and the dance coordinator, with the daunting task of overseeing these tryouts and choosing a suitable replacement for a scarily talented flyer while she is away on coach-like "business" otherwise known as luring freshmeat to the school with incentives that are hardly seeming worth it right now, not to Santana at least, not after watching 14 hastily prepared individual routines all ranking from bad to downright disturbing.
At the rate this is going, Allie's arm will heal before they find a replacement for her and by then Santana may just have to revert back to plan A and break the other arm just to make herself feel better. Better yet, she'll break the other arm and then convince Coach to have Allie pick her own replacement. That seems like suitable punishment for a less than suitable extension, except Coach would never go for that; Coach Reyes is not Coach Sylvester and unlike Coach Sylvester, Coach Reyes thinks that taking a tumble from the top of the pyramid is something akin to a catastrophe not something caused by inadequacy or something warranting punishment; not that she'd ever really consider this punishment despite how many horrendous routines they have to sit through.
Just the thought of how many more dreadful routines she'll have to witness in the next hour is enough to make her revisit that banging her head against the table idea but her head is already kind of pounding because of some very questionable music selections and she has this sneaky feeling that a cracked skull won't exclude her from the tryouts they'd have to host to find a suitable replacement for her.
She sighs, trying her best to let go of her frustration on an exhale but only managing to attract the attention of the guy to her right.
The squad's other co-captain, Julian, a senior from Long Island, New York with the accent to prove it, flashes her a little lopsided grin and she can't help but roll her eyes at him when he nudges her with a broad shoulder.
"Look lively, Lopez," He murmurs teasingly, his green eyes sparkling with mirth as his lips curl into a positively insidious smirk.
She rolls her eyes at him again, nudging him back even though her shoulder merely collides with the stiff muscle of his triceps.
"Tell that to her," she mutters in reply, nodding towards the girl before them who, thank God, looks like she is finishing up a rather stiff and boring routine. "Is it too much to ask for just one person not to suck?"
"Apparently," he says, all laughter and not enough sympathy for Santana's tastes. She glares at him and he shrugs sheepishly. "Here," he slides a sheet of paper and a pen towards her. "Occupy yourself," he grins, the force of it lighting up his whole face and Santana realizes why when she glances down at the paper and realizes that he has handed over the task of note-taking to her.
"You're fucking lucky I'm bored, Julian," she growls, picking up the pen. At least now she gets to let out all the snide remarks she's been repressing about some of these routines.
And let them out, she does.
She's so engrossed in her description of how this one girl danced like she was being impaled on a spear that she doesn't even glance up when their last girl for the day walks in and steps confidently onto the center tumbling mat.
"Name?" she hears Sydney, their squad captain—a senior with enough "spark to ignite their whole squad with fervor" or in other words, enough spark to get on Santana's nerves on most days—ask.
"Quinn," Santana's pen thuds against the table just as her heart thuds against her chest, because no, it's not—it's can't be— "Fabray. My name is Quinn Fabray,"
Quinn Fabray, indeed.
Well, fuck. There are about six trillion and two reasons why Santana doesn't want to be here right now. Perfectly windswept blonde hair and an icy hazel gaze nudges itself to reason number one.
Santana hasn't seen Quinn since… well, since the catastrophe that was glee club Nationals in New York. It was supposed to be perfect. Santana was going to come out— she did that—and leave New York with a glee club Nationals win under her belt and Brittany under her arm finally as hers and nobody else's. She got one of those things, but it wasn't enough; she quit glee the moment she got back to Ohio and spent the rest of her time in high school avoiding glee—avoiding her—so much so that she didn't even get the news about Quinn renting an apartment in New York and convincing her mother and Figgins to sign her transfer form, effective immediately, until a week or so after Quinn had already left.
Santana rejoined the Cheerios a week after that, convinced Coach Sylvester to start coaching the squad again and led the squad, as their undisputed captain, to a definite win at Nationals. Coach Sylvester had received praise for championing the squad from their slump and Santana had received a cheer scholarship and a one-way ticket to Miami, none of which she hesitated taking.
It's not like there was anything keeping her in Ohio; Brittany had long since stopped trying to get her attention or apologize or explain herself or whatever it was she was trying to do, and her parents were extremely pleased that they wouldn't have to be paying any of her college tuition.
So, here she is now, and apparently, so is Quinn.
"What's your major, Quinn?" Sydney asks, and something registers in Santana's mind that she's supposed to be writing this down, but she's not; she's not doing anything but staring straight at the embodiment of everything Santana has tried so hard to forget.
"Public Relations,"
Julian makes an excited little clap next to her, but suddenly, there are connections being made that are not supposed to be connected because instead of seeing Julian's excitement over sharing a major with Quinn, she's seeing Kurt, cheeks reddened with glee after hearing that he's being allowed to perform a solo from some grand Broadway musical Santana has never heard of.
"Are you a freshman, Quinn?" Sydney questions.
"No. I'm a sophomore. I spent my freshman year studying oversees,"
"That's exciting," Sydney says, but no, it's really not. It's so fucking Quinn Fabray-esque that it could very well make Santana sick. "Where are you from, Quinn?"
Quinn looks at Santana, really looks at her, for what seems like the first time since she entered the room. Her lips curl into a smile that Santana really can't place and Santana really has to wonder what the fuck it is she's getting at.
"Ohio,"
"Oh!" It's Evelyn, the squad's dance coordinator, that speaks this time, her voice an excited shrill.
Santana doesn't dislike anyone on the squad… Ok, actually, that's a lie. She's dislikes quite a few people on the squad but she doesn't show any of them anything past her usual disdain and even then most of the squad have disregarded it and chalked it up to nothing more than a personality quirk. Then there's Evelyn. It's not that there's anything wrong with Evelyn except the fact she's all legs and rhythm and a bit too much quirk and it's so easy to substitute a face, to throw out what-ifs and what-should-have-beens; it's too easy and too painful, so Santana mainly just ignores her, like she ignored her, but it's hard to ignore someone she has to see every day, so she throws out insults, lets them roll off of her tongue like she means them and Evelyn disregards them too, just like she would.
She ignores the insults just like she's ignoring the glare Santana shoots at her.
"Santana's from Ohio!" She exclaims. "Aren't you, San?"
"Yea," Santana manages to croak out even though her throat feels heavy, like she's ingested lead, or even worse, like she's swallowed back thousands of shrouded memories.
"Right," Sydney thankfully interrupts before any more can be said. "Good luck, Quinn,"
Not that she needs it. Quinn's routine is all levels of Coach Sylvester type perfect and Santana's not the only one who notices.
"So, it's a yes on Quinn?" Sydney asks as soon as the room clears out for the "deliberation" process to begin.
"No!" Santana says before her brain can even process the hostility behind her word. This is not high school, she knows this. This squad is not under the iron fist of one Sue Sylvester, so she knows Coach Reyes would never usurp her; she fits in here; she's subtly out, just how she wants it, people respect her, hell, they even like her, and most of all, they know nothing of her past except she's a girl from Ohio and she's one hell of a tumbler. She has worked so hard to keep it that way and she intends to keep it that way so fuck Quinn Fabray and all those suppressed memories she's threatening to carry with her; fuck it all.
"No!" she says again more forcefully.
"Santana," Evelyn starts but Santana just shakes her head forcefully.
"No!"
"Santana, I hate to use majority rules on you here, but…"
Santana grips her cell phone so tightly that she's almost positive that it has shrunk in her palm. The phone rings once, twice before she hears the static of the phone line.
"Hello?"
Santana sighs.
"Quinn Fabray, welcome to the Blue Dragons Cheer Squad—"
"Santana?"
Santana ignores the interruption.
"You are welcome to join us at practice tomorrow evening at seven PM sharp but you are not required to come to practice until next week Monday. You are, however, required to come to a fitting tomorrow morning at eight so we can order your gear. Gym workouts are every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday at five AM. Your partner will be Julian Connors. He is a—"
"Santana?" Quinn repeats. "I—"
"You what, Quinn?" Santana asks, unable to keep the aggression out of her voice.
"I'm not here to—I didn't know—"
"Spit it out, Fabray!"
"Can we maybe talk?" Quinn asks, "In person?" she adds before Santana can shoot down the idea.
Santana wants to say no; every instinct she has is screaming for her to say no, but she finds herself sighing.
"Can you meet me in the campus commons in fifteen?"
"I'm already here, actually,"
TBC… Maybe? I don't know. Tell me if you guys thinks I should continue.
