Pairing: Santana/Brittany, Sam/Quinn
Summary: "The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad night." Friedrich Nietzsche
Spoilers: all to be safe
Warnings: Sexual abuse, rape, suicide, depression, angst, Canada, hippies.
Disclaimer: Don't own it. Based on a prompt from the glee angst meme.
Requiem
Chapter Two
Santana watches enough shitty TV to know what to do. Of course, it isn't as easy as she thinks. Nothing ever is.
(She saw it the other day, on some crime show. The officer ducked down to the little girl's level, the tiny thing so pitiful and woebegone. The woman whispered, "Why didn't you tell an adult?"
Santana scowled as the girl whispered back, "Because no one would believe me.")
It's her free period, and Santana has decided to finally tell someone, all because of that fucking show she never watches. She wants her life to work out like it does on TV. That starts with spilling your guts and tears and all that shit, right?
She hovers outside Mr. Schue's office nervously. She's not prepared for this. Honestly, she wants to talk to a woman, but Ms. Holliday has disappeared again and Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell is useless. ("Would you like some pamphlets, Santana? I have plenty.")
Tell an adult.
I can't, Santana thinks. I can't tell anyone because all the adults I know are useless or sociopaths or have their heads so far up their asses they're choking on their own ridiculous hair.
She's never actually said it out loud, and how can she?
Santana, tell someone.
She stands there in a daze. She hopes the Spanish teacher is here, guiding students except her. Yet, there's this tiny part that wishes he isn't, that the next time she works up the courage Ms. Holliday will be back. For some reason, Santana feels that she's his least favorite student.
What did she ever do to him besides halfheartedly attempt to destroy the glee club?
The Cheerio knocks softly on Mr. Schuester's door. It shatters the stillness of the empty hallways.
"Come in!" he calls, and Santana shakily enters, wiping sweaty palms on her uniform skirt.
What if he doesn't believe her?
"Santana," Mr. Schue greets, surprised. He caps a red pen; he was grading last week's test papers. Santana notes with disgust that Quinn received a 110 and a smiley face. The bitch probably cheated off her test again. "Sit down, sit down."
Santana perches on the edge of the old chair. She glances around the room at the shitty Spanish projects, pointedly avoiding Mr. Schue's gaze. She hasn't worked up the courage to make eye contact.
"So, what's up? Is this about Glee club or something else?" Mr. Schue shifts towers of assignments, obviously looking for something; however, he quickly gives up and returns his attention to Santana. "I can't find my grade book, but I'm positive you have over a hundred in my class."
Santana smirks before remembering why she's here. She's here because even though she's never really said it—
You know what it is.
She swallows nervously, wiping her palms on her skirt again. She wants to say, It's a glee thing. Quit giving Rachel Berry so many solos. Let people audition like a normal choir. Quit being such an asshat.
"It's something else," her traitorous mouth mutters, denying her the out.
He leans forward, taking on the air of a concerned parent, as he tends to do with everyone else. "What's the matter, Santana?"
Santana swallows her anxiety. He'll believe me. He has to. He's helped everyone else. "It's my stepfather," she says to the Mexican flag on his desk.
Mr. Schue reclines with a smile. "Yes, he's a great man and an excellent doctor," he praises, and Santana looks up in shock. "We're good friends; we work out together at the gym fifteen minutes from here. That big one? Do you know it?"
Santana does know it, but that's not the point. "But... how?"
"We just work out." Mr. Schue frowns. "We lift weights, run, etcetera. Why? Do you do something different?"
"No, I mean, how did you meet?" Santana scowls at having to elaborate. Her stepfather doesn't go to the gym. All the doucher does is work and drink.
Mr. Schuester laughs, embarrassed. "He needed a spotter for a set, and then we started talking. I saw him around the gym before, because we always work out at the same time," Mr. Schuester explains.
"Oh." Santana is sure now: she should've stalked Ms. Holliday. Her satanic stepfather and her Spanish teacher are currently engaged in a bromance.
"Does it bother you that we're friends?"
Santana rolls her eyes. No shit, Sherlock. "Um, not gonna lie, it's pretty weird."
Mr. Schue nods sagely. "I understand. So, what about your stepfather?"
"My stepfather—" Santana takes a deep, steadying breath before continuing. She's never actually said it out loud. "My stepfather—he is not a good man, Mr. Schuester."
His face, previously warm and inviting, becomes frigid at the grievous insult. "What do you mean, Santana?"
"I mean..." The Latina swallows nervously. "I..."
She's never said it out loud.
But she can trust Mr. Schue with everything. Right? That's what everyone says. That's what he says all the fucking time. So it must be true.
So Santana tells him everything. Her story is quick and told in a low murmur, her eyes fixed on the dirty linoleum. This has never happened to her before. Is it supposed to be this quiet? Are Mr. Schue's eyes supposed to be this judging?
The office is deathly silent for what seems like hours. Santana is unsure. Should she look at him? Should she do something?
What if he doesn't believe her?
"Santana..." Mr. Schuester's voice is both pitying and condescending. "I don't know what to say."
Say you believe me. Please.
"I don't know how to feel, either. I hope you know that this is a serious accusation."
Will pauses to let his words sink in.
"Words can stay with you forever," Mr. Schuester says with a forced calm. "Your words can put your honest stepfather in prison if he is proven guilty, though he is most certainly innocent. And no matter what, he will have those false allegations following him for the rest of his life."
Santana hangs her head in shame.
God, why did she think he would believe her?
"Honestly, I don't believe you," he says in that same callous monotone. "It's your word against his. Santana, you are a liar, a thief, and a slut. You are attention seeking, you terrorize people as a form of entertainment, and you got a boob job during the summer. I know you've had some problems with your stepfather in the past—"
Santana bites her lower lip, attempting to drown it out. She doesn't care anymore.
"—but that's no excuse to put a kind, gentle man in prison. His reputation as a respectable doctor will be tarnished. Look, I know most of the students and faculty hate you," Mr. Schuester continues with false sympathy. "I know Brittany and Artie are dating, and that means she doesn't care about you anymore. Your behavior and bullying are unacceptable, however."
The teacher picks up his bright red pen in dismissal. "You should follow your stepfather and Rachel's example. They are great role models and inspirations to the Lima community. And it's okay. I know you're jealous of her talent and the rest of the glee kids, but that's no reason to belittle them."
Santana doesn't have the strength to argue. His words echo.
Honestly, I don't believe you.
"I think it's time for you to go," Mr. Schuester says, not glancing up from a test. It's her paper, the easy test on past tense verbs. He marks every answer wrong with a violent red slash.
The school bell beeps loudly.
Santana opens her eyes and the nightmare is over.
Her head pulses in time with the obnoxious alarm, and she realizes her demon clock was the odd sounding school bell in her dream. She wearily slaps the off button and checks the glowing red numbers. It's 6:30 am, which is the standard setting for a school day.
Santana doesn't have the privilege of forgetting her nightmares. They linger like shadows, flickering at the edges of her consciousness. Remember, he did this when you told him. Remember, she doesn't care anymore. Remember?
She thinks about the nightmare. She hates those starring Mr. Schue, because the next day she has to look at him and think, "You didn't believe me. You didn't believe me, you hate me, and I don't know why anyone trusts you."
Lately, it's been harder and harder to separate these nightmares from reality, especially those involving Brittany and Mr. Schue. They're always right there; she avoids the two in her classes, the hallways, and glee club.
Santana is so tired of this, and it seems like Brittany does only care about the cripple.
The girl shifts, trying to extend her cramping legs. They're sore and bruised, and she's glad that she always puts her pajama pants on afterwards. Her entire body aches, and she wants a hot shower. Santana needs to burn and purge her being; she needs to shed this dead skin and grow a completely new clean layer. (God, how she envies her neighbor's pet python.)
Her legs are sticky from—
Santana rolls over.
She'll go to school tomorrow.
"Ugh..." Santana groans, exhausted. It feels like she only napped for an hour, but she really wants a shower. She's sweating under her thick comforter, and her clock says it's 1:03 pm, so she should probably get up.
Wait—she slept for another six and a half hours? Without nightmares? Holy shit, Santana is this close to offering a virgin sacrifice (aka Rachel Berry) in thanks.
Climbing out of bed takes another fifteen minutes of serious contemplation. There's not a lot to do in this house or in this bumfuck town, but soon she's up and standing in front of the light blocking curtains. It's great for sleeping purposes, because the sun rises into her bedroom like a total bitch and the black curtains keep her room dark and cool.
Whenever she wakes, however, she draws the massive curtains and opens the windows, bringing in light and fresh air. The afternoon light pours from her windows and creates an illusion: with light, nothing happened. With freezing air nipping at her skin, the grimy fingerprints are brushed away. The breeze is a necessity, to clear the air of, you know, what happened.
You know what it is.
With the light, all her fears and wishes for death vanish. Daylight becomes Santana's protective blanket against the monsters under the bed; so long as she remains in the light, where she can't see him, she'll be fine. Nighttime is a different matter entirely.
She strips and stares at her bruised body. Somehow, she has a vicious black eye, and bruises resembling fingertips line her ribs and inner thighs. Did he hit her that hard?
She resists the urge to vomit. Her legs are still sticky and she's sweaty and God she wants a shower.
"Do you think they have room service in this place? 'cause I want a burger." Santana leans over to the bedside table, the cheap blankets scratching her legs. Finn continues to stare straight ahead, face blanker than usual.
"I thought I'd feel different after," he mumbles. Apparently, chipped motel room paint is more fascinating than her.
Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well I've noticed that it takes about twenty or so times before the feeling of accomplishment really kicks in." She pauses, thinking of all those times she tried to forget, and of Brittany, the only person who succeeded. Brittany and her blue blue eyes shining with adoration and unconcealed affection.
"Do you really have so little self-worth?" Finn finally looks at her, his dopey brown eyes hardening. "Do you really need to sleep with every guy you meet to feel special?"
Santana's mouth opens and closes wordlessly.
"Yeah. I thought so." Finn scoffs. "This was the biggest mistake of my life. I probably caught something."
Finn climbs out of the bed, mysteriously clad in his jeans and shoes. Santana doesn't bother worrying about it. The boy straightens his t-shirt and callously throws several bills onto the slick comforter.
"There." He sneers. "That should cover the room, your burger, and you. You take cash, right?"
Santana opens her eyes and the nightmare is over.
She checks the clock: 5:32 am glows obnoxiously in the dark. She turns away with a groan. She's been asleep for barely three hours. She crawled into bed at midnight, and considering how much Diet Coke she drank and how late she slept in, it took her forever to fall asleep. The worst is laying there and just watching the numbers slowly change. She was too tired to read, yet too wired to fall asleep; what the fuck kind of paradox is that?
And that dream. She knows it didn't happen that way. She knows Finn took her out to a greasy burger joint and he most certainly did not toss cash on the bed. They talked about video games, movies, everything but sex (and his weird puffy pyramid nipples), and she actually had an okay time.
But, it felt—
But nothing. It didn't happen, so chill the fuck out.
Santana pulls the blankets over her head and squeezes her eyes shut. She can at least be thankful that Esteban collapsed in a drunken stupor and never bothered her.
You know what it is.
Santana is pissed. After failing to sleep and forgetting to turn off the alarm, she decided to go to school. She regrets it as soon as she walks in the bright red doors, proudly clad in her uniform. (She wore it only to piss off Quinn; one of her favorite pastimes is irritating the hell out of the blond.)
There are pink hearts everywhere, couples this close to fucking each other against the lockers, and what the hell? Is that a kissing booth? She grinds a poorly constructed pink heart under her heel. Obviously she's the one keeping this ridiculous school in line.
Santana read over her calendar this morning (she's actually a good student, okay?), and noticed that she missed four tests, two essays, three quizzes, and two group projects. Both the group projects were assigned by Schuester, of course.
She rubs her temples, swearing in two languages. Speaking of Schuester, he's going to want to talk to her in his patented, "I'm the father you never had except I do have a father you asshole so shut the hell up" method. Blurgh.
And there's their ginger guidance counselor with her new last name.
Then the glee club and oh sweet Jesus—
Santana pales, hands dropping to her sides. She has to talk to Coach. "Oh Dios mío, mátame ahora."
Santana inhales deeply, bracing herself. She can do this. She is Santana fucking Lopez.
Santana rubs her stomach. When the surprisingly strong Becky manhandled her into Sue Sylvester's office fifteen minutes ago, her attacker elbowed her already bruised ribcage.
Santana scowls. She is currently a POW at Sue Sylvester's mercy. She seriously hates her fucked up life.
"So, Dora the Explorer," Sue begins, finally acknowledging Santana's presence. "How was Canada?"
Santana pauses in contemplation. "Cold."
Sue hums in agreement. "While I was invading Canada, I also found it to be a most desolate and useless nation. I immediately stopped my campaign after meeting the locals and discovering their reputation as homeland of the gays. And hippies."
Fucking hippies.
Santana's eyes narrow in disgust. "I hate hippies."
Sue raises an eyebrow.
"I hate the way they always talk about protecting the earth and then drive around in those vans that get poor gas mileage, and they wear those stupid hemp bracelets. If I sees a hippie, I will kick him in the nuts."
Sue ignores Santana's frequent monologue against hippies. "The only motivation for my ill-advised invasion was their exquisitely exotic maple syrup. However, their status as a class-five threat to patriotism outweighed the potential profit of their magically delicious liquid."
Santana snickers. "Wanky."
Sue frowns sternly at Santana. "But never mind my conquests. Let's play a game of 'Where in Canada is Sandbags Sandiego'?"
"Uh..."
"Well? Out with it."
"I know I went to Quebec."
"Is that all you can say about your explorations? I bet you didn't even document the weaknesses of Toronto's defensive fortifications like a proper Cheerio."
Santana shrugs.
"And what happened to your eye?" Sue leans forward, obviously displeased. "You look like you got your ass kicked by Paul Bunyan himself."
Santana scowls and self-consciously covers the yellowing bruise. She wants to ask why Sue thinks Paul Bunyan of all people kicked her ass; but, as with all of Sue's outlandish statements, she decides it's better not to ask.
"I got in a bar fight. In Quebec," Santana says defensively. "With hippies."
Sue reclines in her chair regally. "You're lying. But not about the hippie part. Your pure hatred for that despicable breed is admirable."
The damn woman is like a human lie detector.
"But it doesn't matter. I'll have Becky schedule an interrogation at a later date. You're a disgrace to your uniform and the unfortunate circumstances must be reported, even if it means torture. Lopez, that bruise is hideous and needs a slab of raw meat on it stat," she adds.
Santana gags. Interrogation? Torture? Raw meat?
"Now, onto more important problems. Lopez, your little road trip pales in comparison to the issue at hand," Sue says, but furious blue eyes tell Santana that she is not off the hook. "Two of my top Cheerios have quit the squad due to a minor misunderstanding, and I will not stand for it."
"Didn't you try to shoot Brittany out of a cannon?"
"Like I said: minor misunderstanding." The Cheerios coach takes on a slightly manic air. "I am pleased to see you in uniform."
"I wanted to annoy Quinn because she sent me a text about cannons and quitting the Cheerios," Santana answers, poking her eye experimentally.
"Don't touch it," Sue snaps. "And since those two quit, you should?"
"I don't know," Santana says honestly. "It was really confusing. Brittany mentioned zombies and nuclear weapons and double rainbows. Wait, a Suclear weapon. But I'm still confused."
Sue steeples her fingertips together in contemplation, studying the girl in front of her. Santana fidgets under the attention.
"S, due to my crippling kindness, I will let you remain on the Cheerios in spite your idiocy. In fact, I am so forgiving, I won't move you to the bottom of the pyramid like I had originally planned."
Santana blinks. She didn't catch any of that. Her brain froze at 'crippling kindness'. "What?"
"If you can dig the silicon out of your brain for a few seconds, Christy Columbus the Canadian Explorer, you would realize that I'm offering you an opportunity to redeem yourself."
Her ex-Coach leans forward conspiratorially, and Santana wonders if she has to sell her soul again or sign another contract in blood. "Lopez, stay on the Cheerios."
"I'm not sure." Santana is hesitant, and it's not because of Sylvester's crazy. The truth is, she is tired. She's tired of Cheerios, glee club, and this entire fucking school. She's tired of Brittany dating that complete fucktard. She's tired of Esteban, and, you know.
You know what it is.
She's tired of everything.
Sue's brows furrow. "What is there to be unsure about? This is the Cheerios."
"It's..." Santana sighs. "I'm tired, Coach. I'm really, really tired."
Sue stares at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Santana feels as if someone finally sees her, and she remembers why she has no nightmares about Coach Sylvester. Sure, the woman is a bitch and a diagnosable psychopath, but she actually sees Santana; she doesn't look through her, like every other person she knows.
"Does this have anything to do with your black eye?" Sue asks, blue eyes now flickering with concern.
"Psh, no. I got it fighting hippies in Toronto," Santana boasts weakly.
"Quebec," Sue corrects quietly, searching her face.
"Right," Santana says wearily. "Right."
"Santana, you can talk to me anytime." Coach's face is intense. "I have power. I can take care of anything. I can make anyone I want disappear."
Santana swallows back tears. "Okay."
Sue nods and picks up her glasses, surprisingly calm. "Dismissed. I won't forget this or your abandonment of the Cheerios."
"Okay." Santana stands and grabs her bag, spinning around to keep Coach from witnessing her tears, her overwhelming weakness. "Okay."
"Now get the hell out of my office."
It's been an hour since Santana Lopez left her office, distraught and in tears. During that hour Sue Sylvester paced to and fro, hands clasped loosely behind her back, wondering what she could possibly do to help a student as intelligent, secretive, violent, and stupidly stubborn as Santana.
Then, the answer hits her. Sue calls her assistant Becky Jackson into her office.
Becky sits in a chair, waiting until her coach is ready. The woman appears tense and mildly anxious, emotions this titan has never displayed before.
"Becky, I have a mission for you," she says, eyes unseeing and determined.
"Yes, Coach." Becky takes out her omnipresent clipboard and a pen, poised to record every word.
"This is a top secret mission." She faces her first in command, the girl she regards as her surrogate daughter. Sue's jaw is set. No matter what anyone says, this girl is a genius.
"I need you to gather notes on a subject. You need to be careful, Becky. The subject is clever. No one must know that we are vaguely interested. You need to take notes, notes that are to be seen only by us. If needed, you may, of course, hire someone to tail the subject or further the investigation.
"I have absolute faith in you, Becky," Sue continues, meeting the tiny girl's eyes. The blonde recalls another pair, that brown eye almost swollen shut, and she silently seethes. Something is amiss, and it does not involve hippies of the Canuck variety.
Becky's eyes gleam with excitement. "Who is it? I'm ready, Coach."
"I need you to gather information on Santana Lopez."
In second period Santana is supposed to meet with Mrs. Pillsbury-Howell. Instead, she makes a detour to Ms. Castle's abandoned classroom (she is suspended again for misuse of school supplies). The ginger would only offer some useless advice, give her a few pamphlets, and send her on her merry way. Santana got better advice from Lord Tubbington that one time (speaking of, she misses that fat bastard).
The room smells god awful, but it's good for a bit of shut eye. This way, Santana doesn't have to think about how Sue Sylvester was actually worried; she doesn't have to think about the un-Sue-like promises to listen, and her Sue-like promises to kill someone, Godfather style.
It would not surprise Santana if Coach Sylvester were the head of a Lima mafia.
Santana closes her eyes. She'll sleep for a little bit. She slept three hours last night. She deserves a nap.
Santana is woken up by the ring of the final bell, signaling the end of the school day. She gently rubs the sleep out of her eyes, feeling almost as tired as she did before she went to sleep. She yawns loudly. Easily the best thing about her day was missing Spanish with Will Schuester. It was unintentional, but she is so glad she didn't have to talk to his awful hair.
Santana, you are a liar, a thief, and a slut.
Now, all she has to do is survive glee club.
When Santana first walks in glee, Mr. Schue heads straight for her, pulling her into that tiny ass office. He tries asking her questions like, "Why didn't you go to Spanish?" "Why did you miss the appointment with Mrs. Pillsbury-whatever?" "Why am I such a loser?" "What's the deal with Canada?"
Santana quickly fields them with insults, yes/no responses, and, her personal favorite, "Mr. Schuester, I can't talk about that right now. I'm sorry, it's too painful—" (And then an exaggerated sniff for good measure and hell, she deserves a motherfucking Emmy.)
Now the rest of them are seated, and Mr. Schuester stands helplessly by the whiteboard. (The week's theme is LOVE. Gross, seriously?) Santana leans casually against the piano, basking in the tense silence. She glances at Brad, amused. He shrugs in response.
At Brad's shrug, the questions start with Mercedes of all people.
"Where were you?"
"Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" Berry stands up, trying to appear stern. Santana thinks she looks like a demented toddler.
Puck leans forward, zeroing in on her yellowing black eye. "Dude, what happened to your eye? That looks nasty—ow, Lauren! That hurt!"
"Shut it, Puckerman."
Santana has never been more slightly thankful for Lauren Zizes.
"You could have been killed, or, or worse." Santana rolls her eyes at Berry's escalating hissy fit.
"What's worse than dying?"
Mercedes ignores everyone and texts, her thumbs flying over the screen.
Manhands turns her attention to Girl Chang, thank God. "As a matter of fact, Tina, many things."
Santana searches for baby blues; baby blues that are so miserable and staring at the floor, refusing to glance at Santana. Wheels tries to lay a hand on her Brittany's skinny jean clad knee (Jesus, the girl looks so cute with that cat shirt on), but Britt jerks away. Once she does, the dickwad attempts to glare at Santana; however, Santana has received fiercer looks from Britt's demon cat Charity, so the Latina sneers right back. The loser's cheeks turn pink under his ugly ass glasses.
Santana is beyond thankful that Britt didn't let those grimy gloved hands touch her, but it reminds her of one thing. Brittany is no longer hers.
A fierce glower to the side of her head alerts her to someone else's presence: Quinn Fabray. She meets those beautiful hazel eyes and gulps.
If looks could kill, Santana would be a smoldering pile of ash on the choir room floor. You know, if she were anyone aside from Santana fucking Lopez, she might be a tiny bit afraid, especially when the blonde growls menacingly from the front, "Why are you wearing your uniform?"
Santana mutters back, "Because I wanted to, bitch."
Quinn's eyes burn with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.
"Did you bring back any maple syrup?" Mike's loud question drags her away from Quinn's psycho eyes.
"Or drugs?" Zizes adds casually.
"Yes to both," Santana says smugly. "That's how I got the black eye. I went all Lima Heights on some hippies because they didn't deliver the goods."
Santana is beginning to grow mildly fond of the idiots at her school.
"Damn girl! That's serious!" Mercedes calls from the back, texting away (most likely sharing the news of Satan's joyous return and drugcapades with Porcelain).
Mr. Schuester reprimands them hopelessly, "Language, please. And drugs are bad. We learned this in elementary school."
Zizes snorts condescendingly.
Berry clears her throat, and Santana imagines a midget Dolores Umbridge instead of Berry. The two do have the same horrible fashion sense. "Now, I'm not one to listen to idle gossip—"
"Yes you are, now shut the hell up, Gargamel." Puck snickers at Santana's creative nickname; Berry's face flushes a bright red.
"Did you see any aliens, or are Canadians the same thing?" Sam muses.
Santana takes back what she said before. She's thankful her school is populated by idiots.
"Sam!"
"I think they're the same thing, though it might be rude to say that to their face," Brittany says thoughtfully, staring at a point above Santana's head.
"Thanks, Brittany," Sam says, ignoring Quinn's redirected fury.
Berry raises her finger in the air, as if that will garner attention. "Santana, I hate to ask, but—"
"Gremlin, no to every damn question you're going to ask." Santana crosses her arms over her chest. She should've fucking stayed in Canada.
RuPaul pouts.
"Santana, language, please." Mr. Schuester's eyes are desperate.
Santana shrugs. "Sorry, Mr. Schue. Canadians curse all the time. I guess I got used to it."
"Canadians are such a mysterious people," Brittany says, her head quirked to the side curiously.
"Don't they live in tents?" Finn earnestly asks Puck, who raises an eyebrow in response.
"Oh dear Lord." Santana resists the urge to slap her forehead. Beside her, Brad shakes his head incredulously.
"Guys, calm down! Let's get back to work!"
"I agree wholeheartedly, Mr. Schuester. But I must first ask Santana one last question."
Santana groans. "Manhands, please reword that."
"In fifty words or less, please describe your out of country experience."
"That's not a question," Brittany argues loudly.
"Or describe your otherworldly experience, Santana," Sam says over Brittany's one-sided argument with the hobbit.
"Shut up, Sam," Quinn hisses.
Santana waits until the chaos dies down. Silence is necessary for maximum effect. "It was..."
The Gleeks—well, mainly Berry—wait with bated breath. "Cold. Yeah," Santana decides with a smirk, "it was cold."
"Santana!" Berry cries in outrage, clutching her heart in shock. "Is that all you can say?"
"What? You said 'or less.' And honest to god, it was in the fucking negatives the entire time!" she protests. "I thought my tits were gonna freeze off!"
"Okay, that's it. Practice canceled until you all stop swearing! We'll pick up with Artie and Mike's song tomorrow!"
Mr. Schuester looks so sad that Santana almost feels sorry for him. Almost.
Mostly she's proud of a job well done, especially since it saved her the misery of listening to the cripple sing to Britt.
"I know Brittany and Artie are dating, and that means she doesn't care about you anymore. It's okay, Santana."
Santana follows the rest of the kids out the door, effectively not answering any of their questions with more insults and yes/no responses. Their irritation is building, but she doesn't give a shit. It's like Mr. Schuester said.
"I know most of the students and faculty hate you. It's not a secret."
It's not a secret to her either.
Her eyes begin to droop when the doorknob squeaks open. He's quiet. His movements are measured and calm.
It's late, she's wide-awake, and Esteban isn't drunk.
Santana has never been more terrified in her life.
Santana vs Hippies was inspired by the amazing Brittana fic, "She's a Runner, Rebel, and a Stunner" by gilligankane. You should read everything this person writes, it is amazing.
Also, I love Cartman's hippie rant, which is verbatim Santana's. You can find it around 30 secs in ( www. /clips/151795/trial-tv), though you should watch every single episode ever.
(I have seen every episode. And I'm better for it like lol)
Google spanish: "Oh god, please kill me now."