Someone asked: Something for their cheerleading days?
Notes: I literally have no clue where exactly this request was from it's been So Long? Lmao I'm sorry if it was your request, I just forgot to copy down the source when I put it in my docs and I can't find it anywhere. I think it might have been an ao3 comment? But who knows lmao
I was going to post this Friday but my school's/residence's Internet has been down for like three days and I've been screaming constantly but anyways
(Also chapter title is Stereotypical but I'm lazy today lol)
Since Coach Sylvester is probably going to murder the freshmen, Santana doesn't have to worry about crawling out from the bleachers to kill the girl herself. It's not that she can't, because she definitely can beat up anyone (more or less), but standing kind of hurts and turning her torso kind of hurts and, actually now that she's thinking about it, breathing kind of really hurts too.
She hisses and tries to adjust the ice pack, but her back spasms every time she twists slightly, so she can't even get the ice pack to sit in the proper spot. Squads are clustered along the gym doing last minute practices, the schools competing today already warming up, and most of the Cheerios are spread throughout the bleachers watching the other squads since Coach Sylvester is off doing who knows what, and therefore not forcing the entirety of the Cheerios to sit together ramrod straight on the uncomfortable bleachers. Chants echo around the gym, interrupted by coaches yelling and the screech of rubber soles along the floor and laughter, a wall of indistinguishable noise. She groans in frustration and tries to get comfortable, her head on her sport bag, sprawled on her stomach in the foot well of the last row of bleachers where no one dares bother her; she may barely be able to move, but her glare is just as effective as ever.
It's been so long since she's been dropped that she almost forgot just how much the impact knocks the air out of you, and just how much the mat doesn't really do anything to soften your fall. She's pretty sure she's never seen Coach Sylvester turn so many shades of red, and if she hadn't been in so much pain, wheezing for breath on the mat, she might have actually felt a little bad for the freshman who dropped her. Santana's not altogether convinced that the girl will actually make it back to Lima; knowing Coach, and considering it's a competition weekend, the girl will probably never be seen at McKinley ever again.
The only good thing is that McKinley isn't competing until tomorrow, so she at least has tonight to ice her back and, hopefully, she'll be at least able to breathe properly by tomorrow. She wonders if Brittany brought that muscle ointment she always uses; it smells sharp and minty and Santana's not really sure if she dislikes the smell or not, but Brittany swears by it, and she supposes she should trust her considering how many times she's pulled muscles between the Cheerios and dance.
As if just the thought of her girlfriend summoned her, Brittany blocks out the off-green florescent lights high above them, a pout on her lips that makes Santana's chest ache a little. She holds a bag of Subway in one hand and a couple of water bottles in the other. "How are you feeling?" she asks softly, perching on the bleachers by Santana's hips.
"Like I got dropped from the top of the pyramid," Santana says with a grunt. Brittany makes a small noise of sympathy and sets their supper down by her feet. "Can you—?" Santana struggles to articulate what she needs, but Brittany's already reaching for the ice pack and Santana kind of loves her for knowing what she needs before Santana can even ask for it (and, sometimes, before she even realizes what she needs).
Brittany grabs the ice pack from where it's slipped out of place again and lifts the bottom of Santana's Cheerios hoodie. Her fingers are cold from the winter air, and Santana sighs at how soothing Brittany's touch is as she trails her fingers along the small of Santana's back, her fingertips counting each of her vertebrae. "It looks like it's starting to bruise," Brittany murmurs.
"Yeah landing on Little Miss Botox's foot will do that," Santana says petulantly, feeling as if she's earned a little bit whining considering breathing is more than a little difficult. Brittany's fingers trace swirls along her skin, skirting the edges of the emerging bruise, before she finally withdraws her fingers and replaces her soft touch with the ice pack, tucking it under the waistband of Santana's sweats to hold it in place.
Santana instantly misses the feeling of Brittany's fingers on her skin—despite how soothing the ice pack is—and pouts a little into the crook of her elbow, her head pillowed on her arms on top of her sports bag. "Do you wanna eat right now?" Brittany asks, shifting on the seat and sliding just a little bit closer. Santana shrugs a little and instantly regrets it, gritting her teeth as her back spasms again. "Aww, honey," Brittany pouts as Santana struggles to bite back the whimper threatening her.
Brittany's fingers in her hair distracts her from the pain, blunt fingernails scratching tenderly at her scalp and carefully untangling knots of dark hair. Santana focuses on the clever fingers in her hair instead of the muscles screaming in her back and sighs. Brittany shifts again until she's leaning over Santana, stretching one leg out on the blue bleacher seat until McKinley red is blocking her view of the gym. Brittany's humming something but she sounds far away and muffled as the fingers on her scalp relax her towards sleep. She shifts and curls further into her arms, and a hand at her back adjusts the ice pack to keep if from slipping, and then fingers are in her hair again. Brittany's shadow is comforting and she continues to hum something softly, something from glee that Santana is too sleepy to recognize; it's soft and sweet and sounds like home, and before she knows it she's already lost to sleep.