A/N: I welcome feedback, but keep in mind that this is my first fanfic. This story takes place in an alternate Glee universe. It starts near the end of Santana and Quinn's junior year. I think you'll be able to note some of the differences, but just to start...in this world Quinn never had Beth, and Santana and Quinn went to the same school growing up.
Thank you for reading, and I hope you get some enjoyment out of it!
Locked In and Loving to Hate It
My body ached, and not in the delicious sort of way. The poor excuse for carpet did nothing to provide a barrier between my ass and the concrete floor. It's not that my ass is without cushion, but I was certainly regretting the extra Latin dance class I took on to teach, and the many extra laps over the years that Coach Sylvester made me run when I just couldn't manage to hold back my Santana brand word vomit. Which was quite often.
I shifted my weight uncomfortably in attempt to find a not so cold and not so hard spot for my cheeks, and at the same time find a proper spot on the shelf behind me to support my drooping neck.
The queen herself, Quinn Fabray, appeared to be resting semi-comfortably. If she could manage, why couldn't I? I definitely had a privileged upbringing so far, to say the least, but I still didn't expect to be the high-maintenance one in this situation. The thought only pissed me off more. It's like the whole idea of once you come to the realization that you hate someone, suddenly everything they do is offensive. "Look at the way stupid way she is wearing her ponytail and eating her applesauce as if she thinks she's better than everyone else." Hey, I never claimed to be rational, and it won't get any better from here.
When it comes to her High Holiness my thoughts are often more along the lines of how irritating her perfectly toned body is or how bothersome it is that she can't seem to close her mouth completely after she is done speaking or singing. Usually when people walk around with their mouths open it makes them look like they are running on an IQ deficit. Seriously, try it. She manages to make it sexy, and I hate it.
"Santana, how about you actually try to rest rather than wasting your energy on glares that I can only assume are attempting to compel the explosion of my brain," Quinn snapped lazily, and her eyes fluttered open only briefly to challenge mine.
She had a point. It was after midnight, and we had almost five hours until someone would be here to release us from our current imprisonment. I never imagined that Quinn would land a position at my work a mere two months after I started here, and I certainly never imagined that our strained co-worker relationship would lead to us locked in one of the supply rooms all night.
I loved my job before Quinn spoiled it with her perfume and her work outfits. I worked at this music and arts after school program for at-risk children, and sometimes parents and members of the community scheduled private lessons with me in the evenings and on weekends. It was my escape, and it was my time to breathe away from the expectations and pressures of school, and the perfectly shaped blonde thorn in my side.
"Don't flatter yourself. I would die of boredom if I focused my attention on you for more than a second, and I'm not suicidal. This closet we're in has far more depth and entertainment value than any of your failed attempts to sing songs meant for ethnic divas." I responded without missing a beat. This was second nature for me after all. I'm sure insults have been around since forever. You would think that someone would have come up with a better defense mechanism by now.
"You're such a bitch." Quinn spewed as she crossed her arms over her chest, but there was a certain degree of defeat evident in her voice.
I was used to that. Hell, it was what I deserved. I was a bitch. Especially to Quinn, but she deserved it. Every remark. Once upon a time, we were two inseparable weirdos who would rather eat bugs than give up our seats next to each other in Kindergarten. And we did just that. We lived and breathed our friendship, and I loved her. Around the time when the other little girls began to giggle and whisper to one another when the little boys came around, my best friend was the one who gave me those tiny and insistent butterflies. I didn't think anything of it. I had no reason to think it was strange, and I was not threatened when some fool named Matt gave her a mood ring that she wore the whole summer before fifth grade. We may have been forced to give valentines to every joker in our class, but Quinn and I always stuffed each other's valentines with the most candy. That's what counted.
So when did my fantasy bubble burst? It was eighth grade. Sure, Quinn and I failed to do anything more intimate than spending every weekend stuffing our bras together and falling asleep with our hands tangled in the other's hair, but to an 8th grade closeted lesbian those things meant love, marriage, and a baby carriage.
Believe it or not, I've been on the accelerated academic track with Quinn since we were sexless rugrats. It was in our eighth grade accelerated algebra class where my world came crashing down. Our bozo teacher, with his suspenders always covered in some sort of unfortunate farm animal, would always make us break up into partners the last few minutes of class for problems. Not only did Quinn turn away from me for the first time all year in favor of a prepubescent, smelly, and awkward boy, thus breaking our silent pact to always be partners, but she enjoyed herself with him. Soon he and his twerpy friends were pelting the burgeoning goddess about who she wanted to get with and who she wanted for her Winter Formal date. We always went to those dances together. We led the crowd of bitches-in-training that pointed and laughed at the gangly and spastic.
She wasn't laughing with me then. I watched unhealthily as he grazed her hand with the eraser of his pencil. She didn't recoil or shudder, in fact, she smiled the traffic stopping Quinn Fabray smile with her newly brace free teeth. That smile melted me at age 6, 8, 10, 12…well, it still took great willpower not to react to her smile even at age 16.
It wasn't just the partner ditching or the creepy pencil touching that shattered my tweeny bopper heart into a million tiny pieces that no "Future Cheerio" folder could hope to organize or restore.
Mr. 5 foot nothing proceeded to garble, "only lesbos go to the dances without dates."
Whatever. He was a drooling loser. Most guys didn't approach me at that age because I was meaner, taller, and stronger than most of them. I hated the term "lesbo." It made me feel gross in a way that "dyke" never did.
He was two seconds away from getting a Santana Sandwich of the fist variety, when Quinn gasped, her face soured with disgust, "sick. I would go with every boy in the world to the dance before I would date a girl. I'm not a lesbo."
I honestly don't know if she saw me leave class. The doofy teacher certainly didn't notice. I tore out of that building like it was either on fire or full of puppet waiving guidance counselors determined to make me come clean about my feelings. I barely managed to make it over the hill and onto the cross country field before I lost it.
"Earth to Latin Bimbo Barbie. Does your phone have service yet?" Quinn had left her phone in her locker like a good little employee. I was not so well behaved. All the good it did me, since in this circle of hell I was without any hint of cell reception.
The Barbie reference sent me down a whole different avenue of memory lane. I set up that police barrier and my spike strips ripped through those tires before that avenue could distract me.
"Why? Afraid one of your baby daddies will be worried?" That one was cold. Even by my standards. Quinn had a pregnancy scare only a few short months back. I honestly didn't know if she miscarried or aborted it, but it was sure a hot spot of sensitivity.
Quinn jolted upward, and for a moment I thought she was going to charge right at me. My body tensed as I prepared, but she charged the door instead. She slammed the full force her meager body weight into the door (which would need to be pulled to open from our side), before she started jerking the handle with all of her might. She was losing it. I had cracked Queen Quinn's precious armor. Triumphant smile. Check.
Even when we first realized we were trapped she didn't react with such violent fervor. Earlier, I was carrying a handful of the instruments back to the storage room when I heard the distinctive pad of Quinn's ballet flats approaching the room from behind me. She had never closed with me before, but she was giving her very first private lesson. She had been on cloud nine that some snot nosed kid's parents were going to pay her for her mediocre talents. At least she was floating until I brought her down with one of my witty jabs right before her lesson was supposed to begin.
I could feel the tension in the air when she approached, and I knew she was still bothered by whatever I had said earlier. Good. Knowing that she was aggravated by me made it a little easier to tolerate being around her in her tank tops and athletic boy shorts. As if the Cheerio uniform wasn't enough to tolerate. Her exposed legs never failed to make me a tad light headed. I needed to get over it. It wasn't as if her clothing was that scandalous. We worked with kids after all. My outfit was certainly no better.
I snapped out of my thought cycle, but Quinn continued to make her fruitless assault on the door. I don't know what possessed me to do so, but I smoothly gathered myself to my feet and approached the blonde madwoman. Her fists were flying at the door, and she was beginning to yell for help. Her veins were protruding from her neck by the time my hands reached her shoulders.
It could have been my imagination, but her breath hitched in a peculiar way at my contact. It probably was not my imagination. I had focused on her breath for hours on end. I was well aware of its patterns.
She spun wildly before I could finish my thought and her hand forcibly grabbed one of my wrists before I could safely remove it from her shoulder.