Part 4

If there was one thing Santana actually liked about William McKinley High School, it was the set up. Any time she had errands to run, her stops were all placed conveniently in a row; she had never once had to go out of her way for anything in all of her (long) four years at the hellhole. It was almost like it had been…rehearsed or something.

She shook off her irrelevant thoughts as she paused at Brittany's locker for her morning kiss (the ones in bed, the shower, at the kitchen table, on the counter, on the couch, at the door, and in the car didn't count), lightly squeezing her girl's hip and informing her she would meet up with her in class. Brittany grinned delightedly before skipping off, leaving Santana with a pleasant view of her backside. Damn.

If there was one thing Santana hated about William McKinley High School (and there was; the number of things she hated about it was actually countless—really, she'd tried to make a list once, but she was talking too fast for Britt to keep up on writing it all down), it was the restrictions on PDA. She so would've been jumping her girl if she hadn't been absolutely positive that just when she got her hand where she wanted it, Coach Sylvester would round the corner. It was like she had radar or some shit. Satan spawn.

The next headshake was one of distaste as she turned her attention to the pack of Cheerios down the hallway. They weren't that hard to spot, of course—the blinding red kind of made it obvious. Santana had never thought about it when she was actually on the Cheerios and used the stupid uniform for protection, but objectively speaking, the pansies just looked like great big Target ads to her now.

Still, it was time to get her negotiation on with the head sheep, so she strolled on over to the herd with a roll to her hips and a smirk on her lips, ready to address the little bigot snickering at something one of her lackeys had said as she grabbed her books out of her locker. Except there was one problem. What the hell was this chick's name again?

Santana shrugged it off. "Hey, Bitch, we need to have a little girl chat."

When the group instantly went silent, her smirk grew with her ego. Yep, she still had it. Even when she wasn't on the squad she could scare the little shits into submission. Bitch was eyeing her with sudden distaste, raising her chin defiantly as she examined Santana with an ineffectively hard gaze. Please, this girl was so green. She could beat her ass blindfolded.

"You know, you may be off the Cheerios now, Lespez, but I would show a little more respect for Coach Sylvester's handpicked head cheerleader if I were you," she barked haughtily, eliciting a few giggles from the girls surrounding her.

Okay. What is it Berry says? Count to ten before you explode? Or wait, is the counting supposed to calm you down? I can't remember…ugh, whatever. Just focus. And not on how hard you're hitting her. Focus on the plan. Santana shifted closer, shoving a couple of girls aside with one shoulder. They gasped, but said nothing.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought that was your name," she purred. There. I still got a barb in without breaking her teeth. Win-win. "Mistaken identities aside, I have a little favor to ask."

The girl scoffed, turning to face her full on as she eyed her up and down. "Look, no offense, I'm sure you're a stud in the dyke world, but I really prefer driving stick."

Gah. So…many…insults…. This is fucking painful.

"And I really prefer girls with breasts, so let's just cut to the icy chase, shall we? Great," she said firmly, baring teeth in a snotty grin. "I need you to slushie Rachel Berry."

The looks of shock on the sheep's faces nearly had Santana releasing a wince of guilt, but she managed to keep it in check. If she could have avoided it, she would have, for sure, because as weirded out about Q's friendship with her as she had been at first, she actually grew to like the little munchkin. She was like a little sis, which meant it was Santana's job to look out for her and her best interests. And since, in the long run, this would be better for her (and there was no other possible way to get Berry into a hot outfit on short notice otherwise), she was going for it. Q would make it up to Berry for Santana later after she learned about lesbian sex anyway.

Bitch was frowning suspiciously. "I thought she was part of your Rainbow Brigade or whatever."

"Please. You think I actually put up with someone that annoying on a daily basis by choice?" Santana scoffed. "Look, Q got into some weird redemption shit last year and started bringing her around and it was all cool until Britts decided she liked her, too. Now I've been putting up with her crazy shit for almost a year and I deserve a treat. 'Sides, she called me a drug addict the other day." She shrugged easily for effect.

An eyebrow went up, and Santana noted it wasn't nearly as impressive as it was on Q. "Then why not just do it yourself?"

She huffed in genuine annoyance and glowered at the thickheaded girl. "Because, pollino, little Red Riding Hood will trot on over to Goldilocks and whine about the big, bad Latina who slushied her and then I will be on the outs with Britts, comprende?"

A sadistic smirk crossed over the head cheerleader's face as she leaned back against her locker door, and Santana internally readied herself for battle. God, she'd missed being a plotting bitch.

"So you want me to do your dirty work for you. I hope you know it's going to cost you, especially if you want me personally to do it."

She scoffed. "Like you wouldn't leap at the chance."

"Not with the bodyguard hovering around her," she retorted, an actual waver entering her voice, and Santana smirked. The girl scowled at a sudden realization. "I'm not getting myself beat to a pulp just so you can get some stupid revenge on Fabray's pet, even if it is Rachel Berry."

So very green. Santana rolled her eyes irritably. The little bitch was playing all her cards at once. She knew Santana would eventually get what she wanted, one way or another, and yet she was using a bargaining chip to raise the price before they'd even started haggling. For fuck's sake, what happened to the artistry of being a Class A Bitch?

"Look, I'll make it worth your while."

"We have a game on Friday! I can't be black and blue for that," the girl whined, and Santana flinched at the volume.

"Fine. Do it after lunch; Q, Berry, and I will be walking together. I'll get Q to take care of her 'pet,'" she spat, "and tell her I'm taking care of you. Which, I will be, just not exactly how she'd like." She smirked.

Bitch bit her lower lip in contemplation, glancing at her blank-faced sheep while she internally weighed her options. Santana folded her arms impatiently in turn, hoping the intimidating stance would speed the process a little bit while she glanced at the clock on the wall in the corner of her eye. She still had one more stop to make this morning; she could only hope Berry was still loitering around her locker and hadn't bolted off to class in another sad attempt to avoid Q. She hoped to God she was over that phase in general.

"I want a hundred bucks," the girl suddenly blurted.

Santana arched an eyebrow, but a smirk belied her pleasure with the answer. "How about I don't beat the everliving shit out of you and we'll call it even?"

She paled, but Santana finally found something to respect about the girl when she continued bravely, "Fine, seventy-five."

"You'll get thirty. Pays for the slushie and a large tub of Sue Sylvester's Master Cleanse; you look like you could use a little more."

Her eyes narrowed. "Fifty."

"I said thirty."

"Forty, that's as low as I'm going," she growled insistently, and Santana grinned.

"Forty it is." She stuck out her hand for a firm but brief shake, exchanging a smirk with the girl. "You'll get paid after."

With that, she turned on her heel and marched off toward Berry's locker, a devilish grin on her face. Oh, she most certainly would be getting paid. Damn, she was going to have to start thanking Q for all the stuff she was unintentionally doing for her lately. Maybe a new pen or something; Q liked drawing and shit.

She shook her head of thoughts of how she would repay her friend, stashing them away for later when she saw the two little lovebirds standing close together at Berry's locker—and automatically rolled her eyes. How they didn't realize how freaking gay they were for each other was beyond Santana, what with Berry's blush and Q's wandering fingers that were currently tangling themselves oh-so innocently with her 'best friend's.' It made her want to puke.

So rather than wasting precious time in which she could end up losing the breakfast Britt made specially for her, Santana abruptly snatched Berry's elbow on her way by, announcing, "Time for a chat, Berry."

The midget promptly yelped, but what surprised Santana most was that she actually resisted her pull—and managed it. Jesus, who knew the little freak was so damn strong? She eyed her critically, not betraying her inner musings to the other girls.

"Come on, snap to. I don't have all day," she barked, and Berry put on that defiant scowl of hers—it was really, incredibly adorable. Though she'd rather shoot someone than admit that out loud. Still, she couldn't help a mild smirk.

"Santana, has it ever occurred to you that you are not the only person on this planet whose time is valuable? If you hadn't noticed, I was in the midst of a discussion with Quinn," she babbled, frowning furiously.

"Unless you were solving world hunger, I doubt it was really that important," Santana retorted easily. "And even then, I don't really give a shit. We're talking. Now."

Q's eyebrow was practically disappearing in her hair at this point as she glared down Santana. "Considering the last time I let you talk—"

"Excuse me? Let me?" Santana scoffed.

"—to Rachel in private," Q snapped, raising her voice over hers while an arm curled protectively around Berry's (so, so gay), "you smacked her—"

"Only upside the head, and she deserved it."

Berry gasped indignantly.

"—I don't think you're having your oh-so-urgent chat, unless you can have it in front of me," Q finished, setting her jaw in challenge.

How annoying. God, even more annoying. Berry was wearing her big doe-eyed, twitter-pated face now. Santana heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes. Clearly, she wasn't getting the midget alone, and she didn't have time for this shit.

"Fine. I was thinking you should sing the song you were going to perform for Valentine's Day in glee today," she said simply, smirking when Berry instantly turned an interesting shade between red and purple, and Q glanced down at her with a wounded expression.

"You were going to sing a song for someone?" she asked softly, and Berry cleared her throat.

"Not-not for someone in specific, just—"

"For someone," Santana cut in with a grin, loving the way Berry squirmed under Q's scrutiny. This way was so much more fun. Damn, another favor owed to Quinn. "But that's not important. What's important is that you worked really hard on it and it would be a total waste if you didn't sing it just because Uncle Sam made everyone wicked uncomfortable the other day."

Berry eyed her, biting her lip uncomfortably. "Santana, as much as I appreciate the thought, it's not Valentine's Day anymore and—"

"So? It's not like the lyrics have anything to do with the holiday, and you're perfectly peachy with singing every sappy-ass love song in the book every other day of the week, so what's the big deal? Besides, since when do you turn down the opportunity to wow everyone with a solo?"

She smirked happily when all Berry did was fidget, unable to come up with an argument for that. Ha. Santana: 1, Rachel: …more than she cared to admit to at the moment. Quinn was still busy looking hurt because Berry didn't tell her about her wittle wove song, but Santana noted with satisfaction that she'd tightened her grip around the midget's arm, almost possessively so.

"And don't you remember what we talked about yesterday?" she hinted, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.

"With how hard you hit her, I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't," Q hissed, but Berry rubbed her bicep with a casual swipe of her thumb and she was instantly soothed. Whipped, the both of them.

"I…I guess you have a point, Santana. Okay." She smiled widely. "I'll sing it."

"Excellent," Santana purred, grinning at the pout Q was currently struggling with. "Now I'm gonna find Britts. I needs to get my mack on one more time before this hellacious school day starts. See ya, my lesbros."

With that, she turned and strutted off to the class she shared with Brittany, unable to wipe the shit-eating grin off her face for the rest of the period because of those wide-eyed, jaw-dropped faces. Those two were too damn easy.


Thanks to Santana, Rachel spent almost the entirety of her school day outside of class convincing Quinn that (a) when Santana said 'for someone,' she meant a general someone, (b) that she did not have a crush on anyone, (c) that she certainly would have told her best friend if she did, and (d) that the only reason she had told Santana and not Quinn about her song was because she always ended up helping her rehearse and Rachel didn't want to impose on her any longer. The last of which Quinn rolled her eyes repeatedly at.

It wasn't that Quinn was persistently asking her about any of these things, of course. No, she was just wearing…that look. You know, the one that plainly says, 'you have some explaining to do and you know it, I'm just waiting.' The first time Quinn had pulled it on Rachel had also been the first time she felt sympathy toward males who were being given the silent treatment by their significant others for reasons entirely unknown to them. She discovered quickly that she was just as affected by it (where Quinn was concerned, anyway) as those poor men were, and so it was that she spent every spare second between classes when she happened to be in Quinn's company elucidating on those four points repeatedly.

The look admittedly might have gone away faster had Rachel actually been telling the truth about…well, any of them. The third might have been true if the crush had been on anyone but her actual best friend, but as things were, Rachel was left to stammer and stumble and stutter her way through her lengthy, almost entirely false explanations she'd thought up on the spot. It was all completely unfair, in her opinion, because she was a horrible liar to begin with (excellent actress that she was, this was a little confusing to her), but then she was trying to lie to Quinn.

Not only did Quinn practically have a radar for these types of things (she was frighteningly perceptive; sometimes Rachel wondered how she hadn't picked up on her massive crush on her a long time ago), but with those hard, penetrating eyes and chilling silences and the fact that it was, well, her…. Suffice it to say Rachel was beyond relieved when her endless diatribes on the matter eventually sated Quinn's questioning and they were back to giggling and talking like nothing happened by lunch.

The best part of all this? Quinn hadn't brought up searching for her mysterious gift-giver since the day before, after their moment outside the flower shop. It was as though the subject had been erased from her mind since the moment she snuggled into Rachel's side.

Now, if only she could be certain Santana wouldn't bring it up at the most inopportune moment possible.

Santana had been suspiciously tame all day, aside from the 'lesbro' comment, which frankly made very little sense, considering they were more 'lesis' than anything. Or…something like that. In any case, it didn't apply to Quinn, at least. Anyway, other than that lapse in behavior, Santana had been sweet as…well, as sweet as Santana ever got. Most of her attention seemed to be trained on Brittany, which, while not unusual, was quite a relief considering Santana's intense focus on the two of them since Valentine's Day.

Of course, this only heightened Rachel's suspicions that she was plotting to scare Quinn away with something bigger, better, and even more embarrassing than the small comments here and there. Not that Santana's intent was to frighten Quinn—Rachel knew her motives were surprisingly pure in this instance—but that didn't alter the result any. Rachel supposed the 'road to hell' anecdote applied here.

Which was why she was keeping a curious eye trained back at Santana as she strode behind Quinn and her on their way to their next class: the only one all three happened to share together. Brittany's next class was unfortunately situated across the building, while theirs was almost directly next to the cafeteria, leaving them with about five minutes to loiter in the halls together—sometimes spent with Rachel attempting to calm down a raging bitch fest between the other two, usually only with success on one side.

Today, however, Santana was being silent as a mouse while Quinn and Rachel played at one of the many games they'd invented over the course of their friendship—shooting names of incredibly silly songs that everyone somehow knew the lyrics to back and forth.

"Uh…the Pokemon theme," Quinn blurted, smiling delightedly at her choice.

"The Fresh Prince of Bel Air," Rachel rejoined.

She giggled. "Peanut Butter Jelly Time."

"Ah, yes, a song with two whole lines with actual variation in them. I don't quite think that counts, Quinn," she teased, bumping playfully into her shoulder.

"Hey! It has at least ten different lines, and I didn't know we were putting restrictions on what counts as a silly song now." She bumped back, and Rachel smiled deviously.

"Oh, I was referring to its status as a song in general," she said innocently, cracking a grin when Quinn belted a laugh.

"Okay, fine, how a—"

Rachel wasn't sure if Quinn had simply stopped talking or if she had failed to hear the rest upon receiving the shock of a sadly familiar frigid blast to the face. When she had stopped blinking away the sting in her eyes as it gave way to unbidden tears instead, the only thing she heard was the distant cackle of the Cheerios who had passed by them with the cup, and she didn't think twice about it when instinct kicked in and she raced for the nearest bathroom, turning on the faucet immediately and reaching to splash her face repeatedly. The 'lucky' thing about this process was that the slushie was already so icy cold that you never had to wait for the water to warm up to start cleaning it off.

Once her face was mostly clean and her eyes weren't blurring with tears that originated from the sting of the corn syrup, she pulled her quickly matting hair from her neck and scraped it into a bundle before ducking her head beneath the faucet and blindly rubbing the water into her scalp. The angle was beyond uncomfortable, and it strained parts of her that hadn't been bent and stretched and twisted this way in almost a year and a half.

Rachel almost sobbed with the realization, but she dug her teeth hard into her lip to quell the impulse. She had to clean up first; she could cry later. She could wonder when her association with Quinn had started to fail her later. She could worry that Quinn was going to get the same treatment—later.

She sucked in a sharp breath, jumping when she felt gentle hands on her own, easing them down to brace the sink instead of clutching at her hair, and a soft voice soothed, "Here, let me."

She felt herself relax almost instantly, though she was distantly aware that the voice didn't belong to the person she'd been hoping would follow her, and the hands stroking through her hair weren't familiar in their touch. When they had finally finished combing through her wealth of hair, getting out the last ice chunks, the hands receded and the voice said, "Done."

Rachel mumbled a thank you as she eased herself into a standing position, her back cracking uncomfortably, but her attention was caught by something else. The sight of something she hadn't seen in almost a year and a half—her ruined, stained clothing. And that was it: she started sobbing right there, bringing up a hand to muffle it even as someone else's hand hesitantly clamped on her shoulder. She glanced over at the person, her suspicions confirmed when she saw the solemn face of one Santana Lopez. She tried not to be disappointed that it wasn't who she wanted it to be.

"My shirt is ruined," she wailed helplessly, and then squirmed when she felt the way her undergarments were sticking to her skin. "Everything is. It's been so long—I don't even have any clothes to—"

"Hey, hey. Chill, all right? I went to grab you some from my locker," Santana cut in, voice quieter than usual. She bent to grab a stack of black clothing sitting on the floor and held it out for the gob smacked diva. "That's what took me so long," she added a little sheepishly, and shrugged, thrusting the clothes closer to her.

Before she could stop herself, Rachel had done one of the most dangerous things a human being could do. She launched herself into Santana's arms, trapping her in a tight embrace as she sobbed helplessly into her shoulder in a mixture of gratitude, sorrow, and comfort-seeking. But to her surprise, she wasn't shoved off. Santana only uttered a soft 'whoa' upon impact, and then her free hand was awkwardly patting at Rachel's upper back while the clothes rested, motionless, a little lower. Rachel couldn't help but smile a little at the tough Latina's efforts.

She quieted gradually, the ache becoming less, her shoulders calming their movements, but she didn't relent her hold on Santana's waist, too greedy to let go of this moment of peaceful companionship between them.

A few more moments passed before she felt more than heard Santana mumble, "Sorry, Midget" against her wet hair, and Rachel's smile grew, because Santana only used 'midget' now when she was feeling particularly affectionate with her.

She pulled back slowly, smiling lightly up at a frowning Santana. "It's not your fault."

She studiously avoided her gaze for a moment, grumbling, "Yeah, well. You're just lucky Britts and I were going out right after glee tonight."

Rachel smiled fondly and shook her head, recognizing Santana's way of ending the uncomfortably tender moment; she made a point of backing out of their embrace enough to take the clothes and shot her another grateful smile before she went to change. Except she didn't get far, because the door burst open almost the moment she started to turn, and a fiercely flushed, panting, dark-eyed Quinn Fabray made her hasty entrance and bypassed Santana without a glance.

Rachel felt her shoulders being clutched and her hair being gently stroked out of her face before she clearly registered Quinn's movements visually, but her muscles nonetheless released every bit of tension they'd gained from Quinn's surprising entry at the soothing touch. A small, reassuring smile made its way onto her lips as she took in the frenzied look on Quinn's face, her expression riddled with worry as her hazel eyes flicked up and down, taking in every bit of her to make sure there wasn't even one tiny mark.

It was incredibly endearing, particularly considering that slushies weren't exactly made of knives or anything. The only thing wounded was her dignity, really. Well, and her shirt.

"Are you okay? Did you get it out of your hair all right? I swear to God, I could kill that little bitch," Quinn growled, her voice going almost comically lighter when she continued, "But you're okay, right? You need to borrow a sweater, or maybe—"

"Quinn, Quinn!" Rachel said loudly, trying not to laugh. She bit her lip to contain a grin when Quinn instantly focused on her and went quiet when Rachel leaned in closer, locking their gazes as she said firmly, "I'm fine. Santana helped me clean up and she's lent me these clothes—" she lifted them up, watching Quinn's gaze flicker down to them as her rigid body gradually began to relax "—and I'm fine. I'm just going to change and we can head to class, okay?"

It took a moment for the pink girl to murmur a soft, "Okay," but when Rachel heard it, her smile split into a grin and she reached to squeeze one of the hands on her shoulder, only to release her hold quickly when Quinn hissed and shook it. Her brow knit with instant concern and she grasped at Quinn's arm to hold it still.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine, I'm good," she muttered, trying to pull away.

"No, let me see." She couldn't help but hiss herself when she saw how swollen Quinn's knuckles were, and she gaped at Quinn, reaching with her free hand to stroke through her hair. "What happened?"

Quinn's eyes fluttered for a moment, leaning into her touch as her pink cheeks flushed crimson. "I…I may have…punched the girl who threw the slushie and dragged her by her ponytail to Coach Sylvester's office."

A harsh, full-belly laugh broke the stillness of the bathroom, and both girls jumped when they were reminded of Santana's presence. Quinn's flush deepened and she gave a half-hearted attempt at a glare at Santana, who was, of course, paying little attention. Rachel, in the meantime, was trying her best not to grin, biting her lip hard in the process, because…well, Quinn had played her white knight, and the notion spread warmth all through her chest and over her cheeks.

However, she did not condone violence for any reason, and Quinn should know better.

Quinn looked like she knew exactly what Rachel was about to say, her expression filled with apprehension even before Rachel gathered the breath to say sternly, "Quinn—"

"Oh, my God, that is priceless," Santana interjected, a hand on her stomach as she attempted to control her breathing.

Rachel couldn't help but share a brief grin with Quinn at their friend's behavior, and Quinn hastily took advantage.

"Look, I know you don't like solving problems with physical violence, but she deserved it," she explained hurriedly, grasping at the hand Rachel wasn't using to cradle Quinn's own injured appendage. "Besides, I gave her a chance. I told her to apologize, but she just laughed, so I…made her see the error of her ways." She nodded proudly.

"You hit her," Rachel corrected flatly, just as Santana said, "Good on you."

Rachel peered past Quinn's shoulder in order to glare at Santana properly. She grinned cheekily, but retreated to the paper towel dispenser to give them a moment nonetheless. Rachel shook her head ruefully and trained her frown up at Quinn instead. Her reaction was much more pleasing—she smiled weakly and ran her thumb up and down the back of Rachel's hand, trying to placate her. It was working, but Rachel chose not to let her know this for the moment.

"You hit the poor girl, who likely hasn't learned any lesson whatsoever, only grown a palatable thirst for revenge against you, not only for physically injuring her, but for causing her pain and punishment at the hands of Coach Sylvester. And now that she fears you—" A grin teased at Quinn's lips, though she tried to wrestle it down, and Rachel narrowed her eyes. "That's not something to be proud of, by the way. Now that she fears you, she will probably only become sneakier in her tactics to harm you, in order to avoid a physical confrontation in the future."

She shrugged easily. "I don't care. As long as she leaves you alone, I—"

"I don't want to see you getting hurt, either," she cut in sharply, locking eyes with her intently.

After a moment, Quinn grumbled quietly and rubbed the back of her hand again, finally acquiescing with, "Fine. Violence isn't the answer."

Rachel smiled, pleased. "Thank you."

Santana coughed something that sounded suspiciously like 'whipped,' but Quinn only shot her a brief glare before meeting Rachel's gaze again and muttering petulantly, "She's still a bitch."

A chuckle bubbled up from Rachel's throat before she could stop it, and Quinn's eyes glittered at the sound.

"I won't argue that with you," she said softly, then lifted Quinn's injured hand slightly. "Now you need to get to the nurse's office."

"No, I'm fine." The hard, stern stare she received had Quinn adding insistently, "Really. I'm sure the swelling will go down with—"

"With ice and proper care," she retorted firmly. "I have to change, because my clothes are starting to stick to my skin and it's a less than pleasant sensation, but I will meet you both in class. And Santana, would you please make sure that Quinn goes to the nurse's office and actually sees the nurse?"

Santana typically wasn't amenable to taking orders from anyone, let alone Rachel, but she hoped in that moment that the opportunity to not only skip more of class than they already had, but to annoy an already disgruntled Quinn would be too golden for her to pass up. She wasn't disappointed. Santana grinned and saluted her, placing one hand firmly on the door handle to make sure Quinn couldn't make a run for it.

"Aye, aye, Midget," she said with a grin.

Quinn growled low in her throat, but nodded reluctantly, wrapping Rachel in a brief, warm embrace. A blush spread up from Rachel's toes when she felt a kiss planted gently on the side of her head, and it refused to go away, even when Quinn backed out of the hug and smiled lightly before she turned to join Santana at the door.

She really was going to be the death of Rachel one of these days, she swore. One of these times, it really would turn into a heart attack, and then Quinn would be sorry for being so incredibly adorable and perfect and lovable.

Rachel shook it off and hurried into a stall to change, catching only the beginning of what she was sure would be a fascinating conversation with her superb hearing.

"Hey, Q. You like drawing and shit, right?"


This may have been the best day ever. Not one of Santana's carefully thought-out plots had gone wrong, including the mid-afternoon hook-up with Britts in the janitor's closet. Thanks to Q, Sylvester was too busy berating her 'hand-picked head cheerleader' for her depraved behavior to catch wind of any pheromones or whatever.

From what the rumor mill was saying, Bitch had not only been demoted, but she'd been suspended for three days and couldn't participate in the cheering on Friday. It was lucky the track-suited devil still had a modicum of respect for Q. Well, and that she now knew firsthand what it felt like to receive a slushie and no longer appreciated the cruelty of it. Which Santana had nothing to do with. She was at Brittany's house getting her mack on. Anyone who says otherwise is a lying douchebag who obviously needs a taste of her mad skill with razor blades.

Anyway, her own little slushie plan went off without a hitch—other than the whole crippling guilt thing; damn her conscience. Bitch had followed through and, as expected, Q looked like she was going to explode with rage the instant it happened. It only took a nudge from Santana to go take care of business and an assurance that she would watch out for Berry until she could get there for the good old Head Bitch in Charge to come out and march down the hall in a bloodthirsty rampage. The trip to the nurse's office was a blast, too, if only because she got to work Q up until she was red as a beet and fuming like a steam engine. It. Was. Hysterical.

But the absolute best part had to have been the very moment Berry walked in late to class in skintight jeans, a flattering tank top with plenty of cleavage, and the leather bomber jacket Santana had snuck in there—all in black. It would have been better, of course, if Berry had been working the boost of hotness the outfit gave her instead of holding the jacket around her like it was a lifesaver or something, but, well, Santana was pretty sure nothing could beat the expression on Q's face on seeing it. She actually literally dropped her ice pack.

Santana had never almost cried from holding in laughter before that.

It was just a bonus that Berry was clearly uncomfortable, but remained far too polite and grateful to say anything about it, only giving Santana a sheepish apology and sinking into her seat, folding her arms tight across her chest, completely oblivious to the fact that Quinn was choking on air. It even took Q ten minutes to recover enough to start hissing angrily at Santana, asking what she was thinking giving Rachel clothes 'like that.' All it took was a smirk and the comment, "If you want to take them off, I'm sure she won't mind." And Q was back to sputtering.

And now for what would hopefully be the most epic part of her plan, the one that would take the most sneaking, the one that would make Q the most uncomfortable, and the one that would—she seriously prayed to God—make the two of them wake the fuck up!

And if it didn't succeed in all this, well, a little Adam Lambert never hurt anybody.