Title: Mean What You Say
Author: Headcannon
Pairing: Quinntana
Prompt: Free day
Notes:
1. Nothing here but the beginnings of fluff, folks. Also? AU.
2. I'm toying with the idea of (read as: definitely) continuing this one - much later. After everything else has been cleared from the "to do" list. 3. This is not the story I originally intended to tell. That one, as it turns out, is not a one-shot. It will require multiple chapters (and more time/thought/energy than I can put into it right now). It is definitely a story I want to tell, though. I just want to give it the attention it requires and do it right.
4. This is my last Quinntana Week 2013 prompt (So very late). Thank you all for letting me play with you for the week(s). It's been great writing for you.

Quinn looked over her desk and nodded to herself. Two piles of papers, one graded and the other not, were stacked tidily and her If You Can Read This, Thank a Teacher mug held extra pencils and her grading pens like a flower arrangement. She pressed her hands flat against her stomach to calm her nerves as she looked around the classroom making sure everything was as it should be.

She'd never had a parent-teacher conference that wasn't part of Back to School week or that she hadn't initiated. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the note written in the receptionist's slanted hand: Micah Lopez's mother called. Wants a conference. Return call or give Judy best time to set it up. After giving the receptionist a few times to offer to Micah's mother, Quinn went back to her classroom to come up with a game plan.

It was no mystery why she was being asked for a meeting. Quinn had a feeling she'd be hearing from parents after the lesson she presented just a few days before. She hadn't planned it; but, after what she'd heard on the playground, she just couldn't not do it. Quinn had learned to let go of some of her pet peeves: the use of huh? instead of excuse me?, the drumming of pencil erasers on desks, and the constant use of the misnomer Mrs. Fabray. But this one - she couldn't let slide.

When her students filed into class from recess, they took their seats and looked up in confusion at the chalk board. Their teacher had written That's so gay in large letters across the board. Before recess, she'd said that they were going to have a vocabulary review - this wasn't exactly what Quinn had in mind for the lesson.

"So, what does this mean?" she asked her class.

"It means something is lame!" a little boy with shaggy brown hair shouted as he put his hand in the air. Quinn quirked her eyebrow at him and he argued, "What? I raised my hand!"

"Wait to be called on next time, Tyler," she reminded him. Turning to the board, Quinn wrote lame next to the phrase. "Anything else?"

Hands went up and one by one, Quinn wrote their explanations on the board: stupid, retarded, dumb. When she'd heard enough, she put her chalk down. Placing her hands on her hips, she let her eyes take in the children in front of her. It was something she did whenever she was considering how to share important information with such young minds.

"What do you think about these words?" Quinn finally asked, pointing behind her to the list they provided. "Are they words you'd want someone call you?"

The entire class shook their heads. This was the tricky part, she knew. This was the part where she had to connect the connotations to the "g" word. "And what about this word," she asked, turning to underline the word gay.

Quinn was met with silence.

Quinn wasn't the type of teacher who would let silence prompt her to speak. She gave her students a few moments to contemplate, to work up the nerve to attempt to give an answer or to come up with a clarifying questions. She was that teacher who let them twist until one of them finally broke and offered something to the conversation.

A few of the kids wrinkled their noses in confusion. One boy tugged nervously on his sweatshirt sleeve, his eyes darting around to his classmates. Discomfort was not what Quinn was going for, so, breaking from her usual model, she let them off the hook.

"Gay," she began calmly, "isn't a bad word. It doesn't mean stupid or lame." Quinn raised her brows, "And this word," she pointed tothe word retarded, "will not be tolerated in this classroom. Is that clear?"

After a short chorus of Yes, Ms. Fabray (and few Mrs. Fabrays), Quinn said. "When you are in my classroom, I expect to you to say what you mean. If something is bad, then say that it's bad. If something is funny, then say that it's funny. Saying that something bad is gay makes about as much sense as saying that something bad is a sock."

The little boy who had been pulling at his shirt slowly raised his hand.

"Yes, Micah?"

"Socks aren't good or bad," he offered.

Quinn smiled at the curly-haired boy. She'd always made sure to keep an eye on him because he was a little smaller than his classmates; but, the boy didn't need it. She had yet to witness anyone try to bully Micah. If anything, he was one of the more popular kids in the class.

"Exactly. Socks aren't anything but socks. Not good, not bad. It's the person wearing them who holds those qualities, right? Just like the word gay." She took a deep breath, fully aware of the line she was walking. "Gay isn't good or bad. It just is and it's up to the person who is gay to decide whether they want to be a good person or a bad person, just like anyone else."

The next fifteen minutes of their vocabulary lesson was spent on coming up with good ways to express what they thought about various happenings, ideas and items in the classroom. Before the lesson was over, Quinn erased the board and wrote Say what you mean. Mean what you say.

Those words, still printed on the board, greeted Santana when she walked into her son's classroom.

"Dr. Seuss?" she asked, breaking Quinn out of her distracted thoughts.

Bringing her hand to her chest, the other woman turned quickly to look at her guest with wide eyes. Maybe anticipating a confrontation built up her expectations, but the woman standing in front of her wasn't at all what Quinn was picturing.

Not that Quinn had any idea what a religious zealot looked like. Without a picket sign, it would be a hard read on just about anyone. Even so, this woman looked like she stepped out of a magazine - all of her flaws (Quinn wasn't so sure she had any) airbrushed away, her blazer jacket sleeves rolled perfectly and jeans that, paired with calve-hugging boots didn't even dress down her look.

"Sorry, I thought you were expecting me, Mrs. Fabray," Santana said as she stepped into the classroom, her hand held out. "Santana Lopez. Micah's mom."

"Miss," Quinn gently corrected and shook the offered hand. "Sorry, I was," she began, "thinking and - " She shook her head and smiled nervously. "It's nice to meet you. Micah's one of my best students."

The other woman nodded as she looked around the classroom. "He better be." She squinted and pointed to the far wall. "He have any stuff up there?"

"Yes. Right now we've got our class myths and legends up." Quinn led her over to the display wall. "This one is his," she said, pointing to a page with a line of tornadoes twisting across the top. "Very creative explanation of how the Grand Canyon was formed."

Santana smiled softly and touched the page. "He spent more time drawing the tornadoes than he did writing the story," she confessed. Side-eyeing her son's teacher she said, "If you ask me, I think he was trying to impress you."

Everything she knew about her son's teacher was imparted on her by her son. He told her that Ms. Fabray doesn't show a lot of videos in class but that, sometimes during reading time, she'll get an extra copy of their book and read a few pages out loud to them. He seemed very impressed by her reading ability. Micah also mentioned that she expects everyone to say something during class every day and that sometimes he doesn't say anything all day on purpose just to see if she'll notice. And she does. Without fail.

The only thing he said about his teacher's appearance was that he thought she might be as old as his mother. That, of course, got him a lecture about how to phrase age comments when speaking to a lady.

It didn't surprise her, looking at Quinn, that her son was so enamored of the woman. Her blond hair was closely cropped and styled in a very un-styled way. It was free and young - and fun. She looked feminine in her sundress but the cardigan over it reminded her of her old elementary school librarian who never permitted drinks or talking in the library.

Quinn blinked a few times. "Is that so?" She shook her head gently and chuckled. There were a few playground conversations she overheard in which the kids voted on the top teachers. Quinn was usually at the top of the list because, even though she expected her students to learn a lot, she also tried to make learning fun. And the fact that she was "really pretty for being so old" probably didn't hurt.

She tried not to take it personally. Twenty-six, she reminded herself, was pretty old to ten-year-old kids.

"Yeah," Santana answered as she tore her eyes from her son's assignment. "He talks about you a lot. In fact," she began, her brows raising, "I got an earful the other day about one lesson that he found particularly engaging."

Quinn inhaled and pressed her lips together, her hands clasping over her stomach. "About that …" she started, not really sure what she was going to say. She wasn't going to apologize - that much she knew. But she hadn't really figured out a way to soften it, either.

"Thank you for going out on a limb like that," the other woman said at the same time, effectively stopping Quinn's train of thought. "Not a lot of teachers would do that, you know? Take a whole class to task over something like that."

Quinn blinked owlishly at Santana.

"I'm serious," the other woman said. "You've got a room full of fourth graders and they call each other names all day and they push each other around and you have to pick your battles. That's what I've been told, at least. Ever since Micah was in preschool, I've been told that his teachers have to pick their battles." Santana's lips quirked at the corners and she added, "I guess I just wanted to thank you for choosing this one."

"So, you're not mad …" Quinn slowly said, double-checking.

Santana laughed and shook her head. "I'm not mad. Why would I be?" She pointed to a chair near the teacher's desk, the only one not made for tiny bodies other than the teacher's chair, and asked, "May I?"

"Yes! Oh, sorry, yes, please sit down." Quinn kept a firm grasp on her hand in an effort not to extend it in front of herself like a maitre d.

Once she was seated, Santana raised her brows in expectation and was met with another wide-eyed blink. "Oh, waitaminnit," she said with a chuckle, "Did you think I was coming here to bitch you out for using the word gay in front of my son?"

"Honestly?" Quinn asked, wrinkling her nose cutely.

Santana narrowed her eyes and studied her in a way that made Quinn nervous.

"It's just - I don't think I've ever had a parent call me to thank me before. So, you setting up an appointment," she paused in her explanation and winced, "I was preparing myself for bible verses and maybe even a threat or two. I don't know, maybe you wanted to go the principal or the school board or - I don't know."

Santana pressed her lips together and tilted her head. "You know what? I've got a bible verse for you," she said. "Love each other as I have loved you. John fifteen-twelve."

Watching the other woman lean against the desk and rest her hands on the wooden top instead of clamping together in front of her, Santana explained, "You expecting me to come here to cause trouble is exactly why I had to make the appointment. Someone's gotta reinforce that what you're doing is right. If I didn't and someone else came in, like you expected, all it would do is turn away a much-needed ally."

"It's hard enough to know who our allies are without finding out after someone else comes along to shut them up, you know?" Santana asked. "So, it's partially selfish of me. I've got a kid in your class and I sure as hell don't want him hearing anyone saying that his family isn't good or acceptable or whatever it is the kids were saying."

Quinn blew out a breath and looked down at her hands. "That's why Micah looked nervous." She looked up, her blond hair hanging down to partially cover her eyes. "I never would have put him on the spot, Mrs. Lopez. I hope you know that. I didn't even know - "

"Miss," the other woman corrected with a smirk. "But, please. Santana, okay? Miss sounds," she paused, grimacing, "formal or something."

The other woman's mouth twisted as she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. "I don't know if it's appropriate for me to call my students' parents by their first names."

"Tom did last year," Santana informed her. "Granted, he also hit on me, so …" she teased, "maybe not the best example of appropriateness, huh?"

"Maybe not." A tiny giggle broke from Quinn's throat and the other woman told herself that it wasn't cute. Or, that it would be cute if the woman wasn't her kid's teacher. But, as the woman was her kid's teacher, it was - decidedly un-cute and not at all endearing.

Forcing herself to get back to the matter at hand, Santana cleared her throat and said, "Look, you were an ally for me and my kid, even if you didn't know it. So, if anyone complains or anything, I hope you know that I'll back you up. It's a two-way street, you know?"

"I'm not -" Quinn shook her head. "I don't want to give you the wrong idea, Miss Lopez."

"Santana," the woman reminded her. "And, what? You're teaching kids that it's not okay to call something gay but you aren't an ally?"

"I don't want to disappoint you, but I can't be an ally," Quinn admitted. "I'm just someone who learned to stand up for myself, that's all. I just didn't think it would be appropriate to share that much information with a bunch of fourth graders."

Disappointed wasn't the word that came to Santana's mind. Unfair, maybe. A good looking, seemingly smart, gay woman - and her career was centered around kids. Santana's kid included. She was pretty sure there was some rule against parent and teacher fraternization.

Santana shrugged and said, "You still went out on a limb. So, I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything, Miss Lo-" The other woman's raised brow prompted a quick revision. "Um, Santana. But I do appreciate knowing that I'm not alone in believing it was the right thing to do. It does mean a lot to me to know that there's support for me, should I need it."

Santana grabbed one of the pens from the mug on Quinn's desk and quickly scribbled on a pad of post-it notes. "If anyone calls you into question over your lesson, this is my number. Or, if you ever just wanna talk about any of this stuff - or, whatever." After replacing the pen and sticking the post it on the desk next to where the other woman was leaning, she got up and put her hand out again. "It was nice meeting you."

"You too," Quinn said, shaking her hand. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me."

"Any time."

She watched Santana walk to the door and, when the other woman turned around, a smirk on her face at catching Quinn looking at her so intently, Santana repeated, "Any time. And you really should use that number some time."