A/N: I don't own Glee, nor the characters within. This is a collaboration with Foxchaos. Originally meant to be a simple "take a break from the emotional heaviness of Effing Perfect" fic, we have been working on this for the past eleven months. Because of that, we already have a lot written; however, the uploading of chapters will be staggered, and not posted at once. Doing so will give us more time to work on the currently 17 page long 23rd chapter and beyond. *grins*

A/N2: The title is a reference to a song with the same name by Jordin Sparks. We don't own that either.

A/N3: Shout out to whydontyouscreamalittle-louder on tumblr for being willing to look over this for us so I could finally go ahead and post it.

Without further ado, on with the show~

Rachel noticed her well before she'd crossed the threshold leading into the normally deserted band room. Smaller, abandoned after the glee club absorbed the jazz band into its own, Rachel had only stepped foot into the classroom once - when she had watched Mr. Ryerson start down the dark path of fondling high school boys. The reason she was once again stepping into the room this time was, in her mind, almost more distasteful.

She had detention.

Detention she'd been serving for the past two days already. Detention that, even though she'd had those two days to gather up the strength needed to prepare herself, caused her to still feel surprised to see Santana whenever she turned the corner in the hall. Santana just didn't… fit in the sparseness of the room.

Just like, Rachel had to stamp her foot down in her own head, not wanting Santana to catch her doing it again, she didn't belong in that room either.

Santana was leaning back in a random back row chair, legs crossed with her head falling off the back to stare aimlessly up at the ceiling. There was a Lima Bean coffee cup on the desk attached to her chair, sunglasses set down next to them, and what looked like some kind of designer bag slung on the chair peeked out from behind her legs. As always, the girl was wearing obscenely tight jeans and uggs, the weather just barely turning cold enough to cover her legs, but this time, instead of a shirt and warm vest of some kind, Santana was wearing a long-sleeved buttoned up almost plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up close to her elbows.

It wasn't anything fancy (if fancier than Rachel's outfit), but at least it was better than the Cheerio outfit Rachel had expected to see once she'd gotten over the outrage of knowing Santana was joining her. She'd even asked about it.

"Yeah, like," Santana had rolled her eyes, glaring at Rachel like she was stupid, "Coach Sue would just love someone advertising that her cheerleaders aren't perfect angels. Me caught dead in detention in uniform? She'd be the one who'd murdered me."

Rachel rolled her eyes, crossing her arms and reminding herself that huffing would just get her taunted more. "So what did you do this time?" she asked, idly looking around and trying to remember what they were even supposed to be doing- some sort of cleaning, she was sure. Which was stupid because the room wasn't used enough anymore to need anything beyond a quick dusting.

The Cheerio slowly rolled her neck so that she was looking at Rachel, her perfectly shaped (fake, Rachel thought) eyebrow arching in that same way that never ceased to irritate the singer.

"Maybe the words 'not your business' really don't mean anything to you considering it's the… third time you've asked since Figgins decided to try and win authority points by putting me in the same room as you and expecting me not to bathe in your virginal blood and tears, but I'll repeat it, since I hear hobbits are sorta slow on the uptake; Not. Your. Business."

Annoyed, and now somewhat terrified at the idea of Santana actually goring her enough to bathe in her blood, Rachel took a small step back. Before she could reply, though, Santana spoke again, "I, however, know exactly why you're here."

"You don't," insisted Rachel, once again trying not to stomp her foot.

The slow, almost predatory smirk on Santana's lips made the singer's heart jump- no, twist. It wasn't jumping. It was a painful, terrified twist. Jumping was for pleasant things, and nothing Santana made her feel was ever pleasant.

"Berrylicious got caught in Shue's office. Wanky. I mean, I knew you had a thing for him sophomore year, but going through his personal belongings? Stalker much?"

This time, Rachel couldn't help it, she stomped her foot as she bristled. "For your information I was- Mr. Schuester was, is, making a terrible mistake by not allowing me a certain level of power over the setlist for Sectionals and I had to at least make sure there wasn't any Journey or, heavens forbid, disco, this time!"

"Not a fan of the decade of white suits and hairy pornstars, hmm?" Sitting up, Santana lay her right arm onto the desk, resting her chin on her palm.

"Since I have no standing to deride the Seventies as a decade as a whole, as I've had no personal experience to come up with an unbiased opinion, I am purely talking about the quality of the music." Rachel wanted to squeeze the bridge of her nose, but refrained because she knew a nose crack would quickly be lobbed her way; she dropped her backpack onto the desk two away from Santana instead, letting the noise accompany her words. "Quality, which aside from specific singer-songwriters and admittedly classic melodies, is sorely lacking and only a detriment to our hopes of winning a show we need to not grow complacent about!"

The ticking of the clock was an insulting accompaniment to the expression on Santana's face as Rachel glared at her. While Rachel was breathing heavily with intensity, Santana merely stared back at her.

"Wow." Straightening, Santana shook her head, then leaned back again so she could look at Rachel from underneath her eyelashes, "...You are so boring it's painful.

"And using all those words when you could just not look like a total midget nerd, it's like you're allergic to coolness." She threw up her hand, waving it in the air; laughing offensively before standing up from the chair, turning away to pull her bag up onto the seat, the cheerleader sounded like she was muttering to herself as she unzipped it and started digging inside. "Ahah! Here." Santana swung on her heel, "If I throw this pack of gum at you, would you take it and shut up?"

"I am not so easily bribed, and I am insulted that you believe that sugary excuse for dental hygiene would 'shut me up'. Frankly, Santana, I think you could learn a lot by listening to me. I have a wealth of musical and theatrical history. And maybe if you and the others took three seconds to listen to my highly trained and exquisite advice you wouldn't continue flattening your Cs."

And just like that Santana was away from the desk and in Rachel's face, glaring down the three inches she had on the girl. "You did not just say my singing was flat," the Cheerio growled, eyes narrowed. "You wanna go, Berry? You wanna take this to the floor? Because I'mma go all Lima Heights on your tiny Pinocchio ass!" Santana lunged and Rachel shrieked, ducking out of the way and around a row of desks.

"I will report this, Santana Lopez! Eep- And if you get suspended for violence, Sylvester will definitely cut you down on the pyramid!"

That stopped the Latina, though she only looked angrier, and Rachel let out a small, relieved sigh. It was short lived, though, because suddenly Rachel found herself being grabbed by the front of her cardigan, dragged to the nearest wall, and pressed up against it. And, to her horror, the first thing she felt was not unholy terror. What she felt was Santana's chest against her own, hips keeping hers in place, and the taller girl's hot breath on her neck as she spoke directly against her ear, tone low and menacing,

"Lucky for you, Berrybite, I like these boots, and don't want rancid Hobbit blood stains on them. You bitch about my voice again, though, and slushies will be the most pleasant stain you've ever had on your toddler clothes to date."

Rachel swallowed audibly, intending on just nodding her head, only to be betrayed by her tongue. "There's nothing wrong with constructive criticism- NOT THE NOSE NOT THE NOSE!"

Just as Santana's fist raised, the door opened, and with a harsh, relieved groan, Santana backed off and went to her things. Stuffing them into her arms, she glared at Rachel as she strode past her, barely acknowledging the science teacher who popped in and out to tell them they were free to go, early as it was.

Alone again, it took Rachel much longer than she was comfortable with to stop shivering, warmth slowly trickling out from where it had been centered in her chest.