God fucking damn, Rachel Berry.
Santana punches the elevator button with vigor, her knuckles bruising slightly as they rebound off the hard marble of the wall around it, but she can't give less of a flying fuck about her fist right now, unless it's buried in the nose of that little bitch. She swears loudly, her tongue rolling around several choice foul words as the elevator reveals that it's still on floor one. Angry beyond belief, Santana prowls around the lobby, waiting for it to appear, her anger growing by the second at that stupid twat, that pretentious, self-righteous, ungrateful little—
The bell dings, a sharp noise against the thick silence of Santana's rage, and the doors to the elevator slowly open. She hurls herself through, boar-like, head down and fists clenched, not even recognizing where she's going when she hits something.
Something soft and human-like.
Something soft and human-like that has the capacity to make grunts in pain. Her mind registers. A person. She backs away from him into the closing doors of the elevator as it begins to slide downward casually.
"Watch it," she mumbles half-heartedly. Her viciousness has starkly disappeared. The male across from her is he's young, probably her age or a little older, in that awkward stage—like all teenage boys are—between a boy and a man. He's certainly doing his best to appear like a man, however, dressed in a sharp suit with golden trimmed cuffs and a shimmering tie that is loosened just barely, with a small trail of sweat glistening upon his neck, disappearing into the crisp folds of the white polo. Santana let's her eyes take in this image, for a moment. Her mind jumps to handsome. Irrevocably handsome, with angular eyes, lips that make you think about kissing, and hair that's tousled, but only just. He's the kind of surprising beauty you see in cologne ads from magazines.
He watches her like she watches him. Skeptically. Dangerously. Like he's thinking much more than he probably is. He has that kind of gaze, but it doesn't faze her—it's been ages since a sexy glance from a guy has fazed her. Ages. They devour each other with their eyes for another moment when Santana clears her throat awkwardly, standing up straighter than before and putting her hands on her hips. In comparison to him, she looks like she just rolled out of bed. Which she did. But still. No matter how expensive, her Cheerio sweats don't really match up to the haphazard elegance of this young man.
"Well aren't you going to apologize?" she snaps after another moment of their silent contemplation.
A thrilling smile slightly pulls the left side of his mouth into his cheek. "I'm Chuck Bass." His voice is low and dripping with the kind of dangerous niceness good girls run from. But Santana's never really been one of the good girls.
She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. "Still waiting for an apology, look what you did to my hand." She holds up her knuckles, bruised from hitting the wall. The way Chuck looks at them she knows that he's aware he really did nothing of the sort, but all the same, he takes her slender fingers tenderly in his own and kisses them very softly. He never once relinquishes his enthralling eye contact, even as he stoops to give that kiss.
"My apologies, miss—?"
"Lopez," she replies. She's horrified that her voice has collapsed to an uncontrolled whisper, but she regains her composure, keeping her tone low. "Santana Lopez."
"Miss Lopez," Chuck nods politely. "Can I take you for a drink to show the depths of my apology?"
"I'm on an errand," says Santana stiffly. Chuck grips her fingers still but she removes them sharply from his grasp, eyeing them precariously as his own hands bury themselves in his pockets. She wasn't actually on an errand, of course: She just wanted to get out of the room she was forced to share with Rachel. True, Brittany and Quinn were there too, which made it slightly more bearable, but damn Rachel with her damn rules and her damn self, ugh, Santana feels heat rise in her cheeks just thinking about her. She only puts up with her because she knows New Directions can't win without her, and that's what they're here for, any way. To win Nationals.
"What kind of an errand?" asks Chuck. He has a quietness about his voice, but it's a loud quietness, the kind that could command the attention of the entire room even at his meekest of whispers. It's rapturous and delicious to her ears. "Perhaps I can offer my services in exchange for some time with you."
Santana's smirk is founded on a real smile. She lifts her chin up, exposing her neck, just slightly. Cheerio's sweats or not, she seems to have captured his fleeting affection, which is always expected of boys when they're around her, but is no less gratifying each time. She moves a step closer. There's still a safe distance between them, but what that step implies is clearly a whole new world of possibilities to Chuck, whose eyebrows rise curiously.
"Perhaps," she whispers, the end of the word tilting upward, the edge of a cliff hanging in the air.
The bell dings. They've reached the bottom floor at last. She steps backward out of the elevator, waving coyly at him with her fingers, before she laughs, a charming little laugh, and disappears around the corner.
This is just a quick little experiment for a friend of mine. I may add more, but I probably won't. R&R, my lovelies.