A/N: I kind of like the idea of Sam with Santana, even if it was short-lived on the show. This can be read with a romantic angle or a friendly one, depending on your mood! I take the opportunity to say that I don't own Glee (duh!) and that I don't condone underage drinking (there will be some in a later chapter).

This takes place during Silly Love Songs, although I messed around with the timeline a bit. POV will shift between Santana's and Sam's. This one is Santana's.

Enjoyed it or not, a review or criticism would be most appreciated!

A long, unflinching stare. Her trademark, but it's not a scared freshman in front of her this time. Rather, just her reflection. Carefully, she details the extent of her hallway meltdown.

Ponytail is still holding on, hair still pulled back tight and sleek. Skin is a mess, all red and blotchy but it's manageable. She takes care of it with some gentle dabs of a wet towel. Eyes are going to be a problem. She delicately wipes off the remnants of her mascara. The brown orbs have a softer appearance once they're free of the black enhancement. Letting the towel drop on the floor, she rests her palms on the smooth and cold porcelain of the sink, gliding them as she leans forward.

"Damn it." she whispers, noticing how bloodshot one of her best features is. No way to correct it on time for next period and there's no point in thinking she can skip that one too, one is trouble enough. Cutting homeroom is one thing, it doesn't matter, it's merely banal. Cutting two periods in a row is another, it invites questions.

Anyway, she can't be seen like this. Nobody but Brittany can witness her being fragile. She sighs loudly and tilts her head back, closing her eyes. Hopefully, a few minutes of shut-eye will help.

The door emits its usual squeaky sound, making Santana jump. "Fuck, not now!" she curses through gritted teeth. Either a random girl chose the worst time to need to pee or Brittany ignored her request and came looking for her, again. The latter is more likely. Who would come here, the least popular bathroom (far end of the basement, cold and damp), when no classroom is nearby? She takes a deep breath, prepping for another speech about how good a friend you are Brit, but I can deal with it alone, etc. Said breath gets caught in her throat when she turns around. A normal reaction to a most abnormal sight.

"Sam? What the hell you doin' here?" she asks in disbelief.

His eyes widen as he takes in her flushed face and trembling form. He opens his ridiculously large mouth but she doesn't let him answer.

"You know what? Don't bother. You're not a girl or Kurt, so you have no right to be here. Get out, now!" she orders, swatting the air emphatically.

"Then throw me out." he states. His calmness takes her by surprise. A few seconds pass, during which they size each other up in silence. Santana reluctantly concedes. You can't move a stump, and that's what she has in front of her. A Californian, naive stump.

"Whatever…" she slams, returning her attention to fixing her make-up. "You do what you want Golden, I don't care." Lightly sliding her index under her puffy lower eyelids, she smoothes the concealer in place. The fair-haired boy watches her intently. Not that she wants to fixate on him but he's kind of hard to miss, arms crossed, stare locked on her, all of this uncomfortably visible to her in the large mirror.

"Don't you have somethin' better to do, I dunno, following Quinn like a panting Labrador or somethin'?" she says, vigorously running her powder brush all over her face.

"Nope." he replies smugly. He untangles his arms and raises his hands in defense. "What do you think, that I came here to happily pass the time? I may be dumb, I know you think I am, but I have a life."

"Well, you're right, you're dumb. Fine, I'll ask again. If you do have a life, then what are you doin' here?" she says, spinning on her heels to face him. Because talking to a reflection is tiresome.

"You looked like you could use a friend. What after all the stuff the girls threw at you." he explains. He takes a step forward, she tries to step back but her ass meets the sink and she feels trapped.

"And you should care why? You and I have no business together. I have Britt and if I decide I don't need her, then I don't need nobody. Particularly a dork like you." Her voice rises in spite of her, blood ruches to her cheek. Calm down, she tells herself. You're taking this way too much at heart.

He smiles, that enormous, infuriating smile. "You don't ever get tired of it?"

"Tired of what?"

"Always being defensive like that. Look, I was, still am actually, trying to be nice. What harm can it do, to just let yourself go for once?" His voice trails off, barely audible by the end.

"You don't know what you're talking about, boy." She steps forward, roughly pushing the young man aside on her way out. A hand gripping her forearm stops her from exiting the bathroom and evading Sam's inquisition. He pulls her back inside without ceremony, eliciting a "Hey!" of protest from the former cheerleader. Her back lands against the tiled walls, enough to shock her, not hard enough to really hurt though.

"Then explain it to me!" he yells. He finally releases her and run his hands through his thick hair nervously. She sends him her most icy glare and a smirk spreads across her lips when she sees the blush it provokes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rough with you." He mutters. He bounces his weight from one foot to the other. She observes the movement while rubbing the shoulder that sustained most of the impact.

"If you're debating whether or not you should stay, don't." she starts, a little softer. "I swear, do I have to ask you in Na'vi to make you leave me alone?"

"You're a real piece of work Santana Lopez, you know that?" he responds swiftly.

"The reason people love me!"

"No, they don't." he shoots back. "Rachel, well, the entire Glee club just told you." His tone grows serious. "Are you on top at this school? Sure. Because of standards and clans, you get to rule over everyone. Doesn't mean they like you."

There's pity in his big doe-like eyes, which lessen the harshness of the words spoken. She can't have any of it.

"First of all, yes, people like me, Brit is like the best BFF and she sticks by me, come whatever. And I couldn't care less what a couple of Glee club losers like Berry think of me. Second, you said you came here as a friend and now you tell me I'm unfriendable? What, are you fucking bipolar?"

"No, I-"

"Fuck you, Evans! You don't get to come in here and insult me to my face, you jerk!"

She shoves him once more; this time so hard the rebound makes her take a few steps back. She keeps retreating until she reaches the end of the bathroom. Crossing her arms over her chest in a protective hug, she slides down the wall in a squatting position.

"For the last time, go." she murmurs, screwing her eyes shut. Go away Go away Go away… she silently wills.

"OK, keep pretending."

Though her eyes remain closed, she can sense him looming over her crouched form. 10 seconds of silence, maybe less. After which she hears the hoped creak of the door. Tentatively, her eyelids flutter open. She half-expects Sam to still be standing near, having played her. But all she can see is an empty cold place, and a folded piece of paper on the floor.

A scribbled number, with a single phrase: "Whenever you're ready."