(A/N: This chapter has a little bit more plot and a little bit less Brittana—until the end, at least. I promise you'll get a lot more in the next chapter. Another reminder that the parts that are written in Brittany's POV are by Blackshield, who is currently writing an amazing Brittany the Vampire Slayer fic, which everyone should check out.)
…
"We're auditioning for glee club."
Santana sat, dazed. She saw the glee club perform earlier that day in the auditorium, and it didn't take a Cheerio to know that the club was full of losers—no, worse—the people that losers picked on. She was above that; all three of them were. So, why then, was Quinn Fabray, head Cheerio and sometime friend, practically ordering them to help her join? Quinn's voice cracked with disparity, Santana's scheming mind immediately understood her motive—she wanted to make sure Finn wouldn't stray. He'd be a fool to do that anyways, she thought with an internalized roll of her eyes.
"Nuh uh, hold up," Santana raised a finger with an intimidating shake of her head, ponytail swishing, "I don't take orders from you, Fabray." Maybe if Blondie had asked nicely.
Brittany, although she didn't seem to mind the order, prodded Quinn with her hand as if to check that she was the real deal. She looked expectantly at Santana, "I know it's the real Quinn because she's so soft," she explained, deadpanning. Santana knew Brittany would go along with whatever she chose to do—they were a unit.
Quinn rolled her eyes and swatted Santana away. "I'm not about to let Rachel steal my boyfriend. I'm joining, and you two are going to help me." Her eyes looked like they were capable of brimming with tears if given just a tiny push.
Santana filled in the blanks—the words that were implied but not said. I'm head Cheerio and you need to do what I say. And, beneath that: I thought you were supposed to be my friends.
Santana crossed her arms in stubborn compliance. Sure, she was top dog around here, but she wasn't sure she would stay up there if she suddenly stopped listening to Quinn. Besides, there was something to be said about sticking together, not that she would admit it to anyone.
"Fine. But only because I like being the hottest person in the room." It wasn't a lie.
Brittany nodded in agreement (what was she agreeing with?), and Quinn smiled crookedly, looking pleased that she pulled rank without Santana throwing a violent fit.
"We've so got this."
…
Santana drew her face toward the space where her palms came together, a sharp breath of air readying in her mouth. Her feet lazed on the back of the chair in front of her, an anticipating smile growing on her face as she spat harshly into the straw her hands clung to.
The snoozing colossus spun around, brow furrowed in fury. A wet gob of paper stuck stubbornly to his hair.
"Santana! Would you just stop?"
A haughty response sat on her lips, but before she could further enrage the giant, a voice from the front of the class demanded attention.
"Finn Hudson, stop chatting with Santana and start paying attention. Your test scores could certainly use it." She rapped twice on the board, waking up half the class.
At that, Finn flushed red and gave Santana a glare before facing his desk again. The spitball was still secured in his messy mop of brown hair.
Santana stuck her tongue out at him and snickered, well aware that he wasn't paying attention anymore. English was her only class that she didn't have with Brittany; at first she welcomed the break because of their recent tension, but now that it was a reality she found herself bored beyond belief. Even shooting spitballs at Finn was starting to bore her, and she considered that to be one of the best parts of her day.
She continued kicking his chair as she eyed the clock.
Once she was freed by the ringing bell, Santana was surprised and somewhat dismayed to find Quinn waiting outside of her classroom, arms crossed like she had been there for days.
"Waiting for Finny-boy? His hair could probably use a brush."
Quinn rolled her eyes, apparently expecting the comment. "Actually, I was waiting for you. Coach wanted to see us about something—I think Brittany is already with her. And stop shooting spitballs at Finn; are you like, twelve now?"
Santana wasn't quite sure how to take this. Coach Sylvester only asked to see her Cheerios privately when she was either brutally kicking them off the squad, or blackmailing them. She didn't think Coach would readily part with Quinn, but she and Brittany seemed expendable by comparison. A shudder passed through her.
"Fine, let's go." Her muscles tensed in anxiety, but she followed Quinn down the narrow hallway to Coach Sylvester's foreboding office.
…
She noticed Brittany before she noticed Coach Sylvester. Brittany was huddled onto one of the three chairs in front of the desk, legs trembling like leaves and eyes full of fear. Santana knew how badly she could be intimidated by their Coach—even she herself was, occasionally. Running on instinct, Santana immediately took the middle seat next to Brittany and placed a comforting hand on the dancer's quivering knee. She wasn't sure why they were called in here, but Brittany apparently believed it to be bad as well. Sure, taking the middle seat meant that she would have direct eye contact with her coach, but she knew Quinn wouldn't pay the same gentle attention to Brittany that she did.
Quinn, looking completely unfazed, took the remaining seat and laced her fingers together over her lap. Typical, Santana thought; she knows Sue won't do anything to her head Cheerio.
Sue ignored the three of them for a minute, and focused on a stack of papers in front of her, which she was scribbling on with a red pen. As if she just realized that others were in the room with her, she looked up from her work in mock surprise and gave each of them a glance that said they were wasting her precious time. Brittany jumped up in shock as Sue slapped a hand on the papers and pushed them violently into a corner on her desk.
"Ladies," She finally greeted them, "I bet you're wondering why I've called you here." She paused, and then motioned toward Quinn and Santana, "well, at least you two are."
Santana saw Brittany look down, out of the corner of her eye. Her hand still rested on her knee, and she made sure to give it a reassuring squeeze. You're smart, Brittany. Don't listen to her.
On the other side of her, she saw Quinn locking on to Coach Sylvester like a laser, ready for orders. Santana's hand drifted away from Brittany as she tried to imitate her. All it would take for Quinn to lose her spot on top is one screw up; one screw up, and Santana would be right there to replace her. She wanted Sue to know this. She should have been picked in the first place; it wasn't fair that Quinn effortlessly achieved everything she wanted.
Sue began rolling out her monologue, satisfied that the three of them looked ready to obey her every whim.
"I heard about your little stint at glee club." Her voice shook with something that seemed equal parts rage and pride.
Fear shone in Quinn's eyes; Santana smirked at the sight. Maybe they wouldn't have to join after all.
"You're going to be my inside ears." She paused, as if contemplating something important.
"Girls, do you know why I send my tracksuits to Europe to be dry-cleaned? Not only because the people who work at American dry-cleaners have unintelligible Asian accents that grate on my ears like drowning cats-in fact, I have my suspicions that their barking stresses the material-but more importantly, it's because the soft, sweet tumble of European low-energy washing equipment does something divine to the polyester while safeguarding a beautifully tailored fit. Cheerios, I am not about to stand back and watch as glee club takes away what is rightfully mine."
Santana didn't understand the relevance of this ramble, but she knew how to choose her battles.
Sue leaned over her table, somehow looking menacingly at all three of them in the eyes at once.
"I want you to bring glee club down." Her voice was a growl, she commanded with her teeth bared.
…
Brittany ran strands of Santana's hair through her fingers. She moved as slowly as possible. Santana had been acting strange all day, so even though this is a normal ritual for them, she was careful.
Santana was watching something on television—one of the reality shows, with women all makeup and big hair and men all bravado and white, white teeth—and she talked, asking why they would say one thing and do another; why they would lie when there's a camera on them.
Brittany didn't need to listen; Santana was just talking. Her voice relaxed and low, tightening up when she got angry at the strangers on the screen. Brittany lifted her hand and began at Santana's scalp, following her dark hair from roots to tips. Her touch seemed to soothe Santana, whose easy ranting quieted as Brittany pet.
After a few minutes of quiet—just the sharp words from the television, still on low volume, lashing out when someone yells—Santana shifted under Brittany's fingers. She pulled them back, reluctantly, and Santana twisted to pull her backpack over. "I guess we should do some work," she said.
Brittany folded her legs underneath her and watched Santana survey the books in her bag. She realized Santana stayed still longer than she used to—like it took an extra minute for her to decide they should stop.
Before Brittany could tease any meaning from it, Santana was looking up at her with those deep, dark eyes and saying something.
"Huh?" Brittany hummed, raising her eyebrows slightly to show she had just begun to listen.
Santana smiled. Brittany never needed to explain or apologize; Santana just repeated herself. "Have you done the history?"
Brittany shook her head with a small smile. When would she have done it? They had history together, near the end of the day. And why would she do it without Santana?
Santana lifted herself from the floor and lied down next to Brittany on the bed, belly long and lean against the mattress, spine curving gently beneath her uniform. She opened her notebook, braced the worksheet against it, and freed a pen from the spiral of the notebook. Brittany leaned away, reluctantly, to retrieve her own copy from her bag on the floor.
She righted herself and glanced at Santana and fought to keep from freezing.
Santana was looking at her hip and her leg and the muscle she turned to get her books.
It was hard to convince herself, in that first instant, but when Santana's eyes pulled to hers, she knew. Santana's eyelids flickered and the skin near her hairline, a lighter patch, tinted dark.
Brittany was still reeling, but Santana had buried her blush and her eyes in the history worksheet.
Brittany let her breath out through her nose. "Are you excited for Glee Club?" She couldn't bring herself to talk about their homework—not when Santana just blushed.
Santana looked up at her, brows pushed together, lips pursed. "Why would I be?" Her words weren't harsh—not like they would be, if they were directed at someone else—but there was an edge in them, something sharp. The sound of Santana hiding something.
Brittany shrugged. Gentle. "I dunno, it seems like it could be fun," she said.
"Fun?" Santana looked at her like that would never have occurred to her. Like it couldn't possibly matter. "Even if it doesn't drag us down to Losertown instantly, we probably won't have to stay long," Santana said. She was struggling to see it from Brittany's angle, but she couldn't quite.
"But you like to sing," Brittany pointed out. "And dance. We just sang in the car like half an hour ago."
Santana gave her the affectionate smile she used when she might've rolled her eyes at somebody else. "That's not what it's about," she said, and Brittany couldn't figure out why not. Before she could ask, Santana was turning back to the worksheet, saying, "And, anyway, how long can it really take for Quinn to get Finnocence back from Hairy-Berry?"
Brittany looked at the worksheet, feeling disappointed somehow. Why won't you give it a chance? She wanted to ask. "I hope we get to sing something good, first," she said instead.
Santana turned her head to offer another smile, genuine and a little embarrassed. "You just want to dance," she said like she was teasing. Brittany knew she was apologizing.
She smiled back and poked Santana's shoulder. "You want to sing. And you should," she added, firm, when Santana's lips parted to reply. "You have a great voice."
She could have sworn Santana's eyes flicked to her lips, but they were back up to her eyes before she could be sure.
She could see thanks on Santana's tongue, but aloud, all Santana said was, "We should really get started."