A/N: Another Katana (or Karopez, whatever you wanna deem it) drabble that came to me. God, I love what's happening with them; I really hope they stick together at LEAST until the end of season 2, and if they continue to be friends or fake dated throughout season 3, I will totally be content. C:

Takes place some time after 2x18, but before prom or Nationals. In Dave's POV. Rated T for language.

"Hey, Lopez… What did you mean, back when we first talked at the Lima Bean, that you knew about me and Kurt?" I ask her with a careful tone. I don't want to reveal too much, but I still can't hide the nervous, defensive frown that's taking over my eyebrows. I shift my weight in my seat on her couch, my shoulders rolling back.

She has this habit of forcing affection with me at school, but then actually being affectionate when we're alone. I don't understand it, and it feels weird, but I'm assuming she needs comfort or some shit, and that's the only reason why she's doing it. It's like she's letting her guard down or something, which is fine, since I mostly do the same with her, and I try to be as nice as I can to her so she doesn't decide to leak the precious info I don't want leaked.

"Oh, that biz?" she says nonchalantly as she rests her head on my chest, her hand idly flipping channels on her remote. Her parents seem okay with me, and they say that I'm the nicest guy she's dated (which I guess means the first guy who hasn't only been with her to get in her pants). Which is fine, okay, if we were actually dating. She goes on, "I don't know much, so cool yo tits, Muscles. I was only referring to the fact that you like him. I mean, isn't it obvious? It seemed like it to me, you know, considering who your fav target was and what your sexuality is."

I don't even bother denying it any more. How can I, when she's right? I didn't want her or Kurt to be – that's why I told him I wasn't sure, because, well, I didn't want to face the fact that I like him as much as I do – but they are. They're right. It took me a while to fully figure it out and admit it to myself, and pathetically enough, all it really took was watching the majority of the Glee Club's flamboyant performance of Gaga's "Born This Way." – How could I not realize what I was as soon as I grasped the fact seeing Kurt sing and dance like that got my blood pumping (and so did the other guys a little bit, too, I won't lie), and not what any of the girls were doing?

But knowing that she didn't hear about the kiss is a relief. Still, I wonder if I should tell her. Santana is my "beard," a fake girlfriend who's quickly becoming a real friend (the only one who knows besides Kurt), so I almost feel obligated to let her know.

"About that. See, I thought you meant you knew… something else. Something a little more… personal," I murmur, and Santana leans her cheek off of my chest to turn and look up at me, her chin resting on me now.

"Oh my God, don't tell me you slept with him," she laughs, because as soon as she says it, I feel my face heat up.

"Wh-what? No! No way! Nothing like that! God, Santana, that's – I mean… no. Just no," I finally say, shaking my head. I sigh. "No, what I mean is… before he left for Dalton, I kind of –"

"Stole from him? Yeah, I know that little tidbit. Kurt was complaining all about how he was too scared to stop you from taking the wedding topper. Whatever. That's not so bad, even if it is personal," she shrugs, brushing it off. "You need to learn to lighten up."

I scowl and push her up. "No! That's not what I was gonna say! You don't get it, Lopez; I kissed him."

She blinks, her long lashes fluttering. She frowns. "…Come again?"

"I… I kissed Hummel," I mutter, glancing away, my hands worming their way into my jean pockets. I shrug my shoulders to make myself seem smaller. "I kissed him like… like I would never kiss anyone again. It was desperate and stupid of me and I still regret it more than the bullying because that's how he caught on to my secret, and that's what he told his prep school boyfriend about, and that's what started the whole mess that made me bully him harder until he just… left."

When I finally sigh and feel light enough inside to look at her, she's staring at me in an almost un-Santana way. It's still her, but all traces of her bitchiness is gone. All the teasing, all the laughter, all the cockiness. Gone, like wiping a dry erase board clean.

"This makes more sense, now," she says mostly to herself, turning to sit properly on her couch instead of lean one way or another (or on me). She slowly starts to grin. "I can almost picture it. Ha, I bet the look on Kurt's face was hilarious."

"No, it wasn't," I say softly, my frown etched deeply into my brows at this point. "He looked shocked and horrified, and he pushed me away."

"Well no shit, Sherlock! You bullied him. How'd you like it if a guy you thought hated you suddenly kissed you? I'd be totally freaked and whacked-out if I were that person. But still, I laugh when it's not me. And this isn't me, so in my head, it looks pretty funny." She winks at me. "But don't worry, my little beard, I'm not laughing at you. I know it musta been hard, huh? Guess it was when you first really questioned yourself, right?"

"Yeah, and it made me pissed beyond all hell," I scowl. "I wound up shoulder-checking him even harder the next time I saw him because I realized that I liked kissing Kurt, who's a dude, even though I know I should be, like, repulsed. But I wasn't, and it made me angry. At myself, really, but… I guess I sorta took it out on him." I sigh and roughly rake my nails over my scalp through my hair. "I know it was only to make you look good, but… I'm glad you're 'rehabilitating' me, Santana. I don't feel like as much of a dick anymore. And that makes me like myself a little bit better."

"Well, good," she says firmly, standing up and acting like she doesn't care, but I know that she does. Santana, like me, would never admit to how happy one person might make them feel. And I can tell that, under that mask of nonchalance, Santana's glad that, despite being a bitch, she did something right by someone else. "Now then," she says, "Let's go shopping. I need a prom dress and you need a nice new suit or a tux, and they need to coordinate colors."

I groan as I stand up. "But I hate shopping!" I protest. "I might be – y'know – but I'm not like Kurt Hummel. I know nothing about fashion. I wear fucking polos with jeans and a letterman."

She smirks. "Too bad; you're coming whether you like it or not, Dave. You can't wear a polo, pair of jeans, and a letterman to prom, so you're going to the mall with me. And besides, I need you to help me pick a dress that will make me look so fucking stunning that Britts will have no choice but to come crawling back to me about how wrong she was."

I roll my eyes at her, but obey. She grabs her shoes and keys and a light jacket, and I snatch up my own shoes and letterman. We go out into her car – she says that we're coming back, so I can just leave mine in her driveway – and she lets me drive.

"What is it with us, anyway?" I say as casually as I can while Santana fiddles with her radio, scanning stations until she gets frustrated enough to turn it off when all she hears are talk shows and commercials and country music.

"What d'ya mean, Muscles?" she asks, picking up a lock of her dark, silky hair and twirling it around her fingers.

"I mean… we both like someone else, and yet we keep convincing everybody that we're together. I know what your plans are for prom and all, but… what about afterward?"

"Simple," she says with a shrug, her voice low. Her eyes gaze out the window, and even when I try to lock gazes, she keeps her head tilted away. "If I don't get Brittany at prom by being prom queen and telling her it's a royal decree for her to be with me, then I'll keep trying. I'll keep making her jealous by having you on my arm, and I'll keep and keep it up until we graduate, if I have to. When I set my sights on something – or someone – I don't stop until I get what I want, Karofsky. You of all people should get that by now."

And I do. I get it. Nodding, I make a turn and tell her sincerely, "Well, I don't mind. We work in an odd way, and I finally have the guys off my back for never having a girlfriend. So keep using me, I don't care. Blackmail or not – because you do realize we both have dirt on each other, right? – I don't mind being with you."

She smiles and pats my forearm. "That's 'cause you're one lonely fucker, Dave. But that's okay, because I am, too. And I actually like you. You're a good guy, but not a pussy, which is good, because I need someone on par with me in the jerk department, since I like challenges. I needs them, even."

I chuckle at that, because she has a point. "That's sorta what I meant when I said that we work in a weird way," I reply with a smile.

"It's 'cause we do. And I'm cool with it. I originally picked you since I knew you had popularity and, well, my gaydar be goin' off, but now I'm glad that there's more to it than all of that."

When we reach the mall, Santana doesn't hesitate to lace her fingers with mine and lean into my shoulder a bit with hers while we walk down the parking lot. And this isn't entirely for show, because we've actually done some bonding today. And it's funny, because I never used to try to get close to anyone, and yet here I am with one of the Queen Bees – and by that, I really mean one of the Queen Bitches – and I'm… okay with it. Santana is pretty amazing, in her own way.

Almost makes me wish we really were dating. Almost.

We wander into JC Penny – where the nice, decently-priced dresses are – and Santana makes me wait outside the dressing room near the big triple-angled mirrors. I'm slumped in a seat, bored off my ass, when she comes out in the first dress.

The first one is pretty awesome. It hugs her body like it was made for her. It's a dark navy blue, strapless, and encrusted with fake diamonds or whatever, but not in a stupid, tacky way. It's long, too, and scrunched up in layers as it trails down her legs. She's on her toes under it (substitute heels, I guess) when she lifts it up to walk over to the mirrors and my seat.

She lifts up her hair to examine the back as she twists this way and that in front of the mirror. She peers at me through the mirrors. "What do you think, honey?" she says, her habit for when we're out in public.

I shrug. "'S nice. Looks good on you. The dark color matches your hair."

"Hmm," she frowns. "Not sexy enough." And with that, she struts toward her stall again, where she has about ten other dresses in her size in the changing room.

"What d'ya mean, 'not sexy enough'? Is prom supposed to be sexy, fancy, or what?" I call after her.

From behind the stall's door, she answers in a way that makes me picture her rolling her eyes at my ignorance, "I needs a certain someone to literally be droppin' their jaw when they see me, okay? I wants them to regret not being with the hot piece of ass that's Santana Lopez."

I laugh at that. "Yeah, okay. I get it now. But if you want hot, why not try red or orange? You know, like fire?"

"Way ahead of you, Big Boy," she retorts, stepping out of the room again. Damn, she changes quickly. But wow, she looks really good now. This one is simpler, still strapless, and shorter, but it ripples in red silky satin around her boobs to make them look bigger, and it melts into this fluffy red-and-orange, scarf-like material all clipped up and layered over the skirt part of the dress. It makes her look like a fireball. And with some curly or wavy hair, she'd look perfect. She's facing the mirror when she asks, "How about this one?"

"Definitely the definition of 'fire,'" I tease with a smile. "But I dunno, Santana; is that really your style? I expected something… longer, smoother, and with a laced-up or really low-revealing back."

She turns around to face me, an expression of epiphany on her face. "You're a genius! See, I knew you had it in you." And with that, she turns sharply, grinning, and marches back toward the changing room.

I blink at her retreating back. I snap at the air in her general direction, "…What's that supposed to mean?" I'm no fashion consultant! Who does she think I am, Kurt? One of her gal pals? God, I feel so… so demeaned.

Santana returns, this time in a sleek green dress the same emerald shade as lime Jell-O (it's the closest thing I can relate the hue to). It's like a corset in back, all zig-zag string and revealing almost her entire spine, stopping in a V-shape at the very top of the curve of her ass. The front is a halter-top (I only know the term because of my mom's awkward 'to look younger' phase when she dressed in nothing but halter-tops… including her bathing suit. Ew, Mom), and the dress is cut in front to show from the knee and down on one side.

I whistle. "Better. Much. That green somehow works on you, babe."

She winks. "Thank you, David." She turns and faces the mirror. She makes a face. "I would have to wear my hair up, though, to show off my back, but my hair always looks sexier down." She twists to see the dress from every angle she can. Wistfully, she adds, "I love green. Have I ever said how much I love green?"

I think for a moment, partially wondering if she's being rhetoric and partially searching for a time when she might have said just that. I decide to answer her even if it's rhetoric, and I come up with a memory: "Only once, when you told me that you were jealous of my eyes, and I had to remind you that my eyes are hazel, not perfectly green." I shrug. "But I bet that 'certain someone' would like to see you in that green, babe."

She nods nearly imperceptibly. Then, Santana does something weird: she falls to the floor in her dress, her knees on the ground, and she drops her face into her hands.

I don't realize that I'm scrambling off my seat and rushing to her side until I'm already there, my hands on her shoulders as I turn her toward me.

"Santana, what's wrong? …Santana?" I murmur, and I'm listening for a breath or a sniffle or anything remotely resembling crying.

But instead, she lifts her face from her hands and she has an odd smile on her face, and her eyes are glossy. "What am I doing, Dave?" she says, genuinely asking, and looking like she wants to smack herself. I get that feeling way too often to even mention. She rambles on as she uses me to help her stand again, "Going for prom queen, dating you, trying to go out of my way to get the person I love –" she frowns at this, her bitch-face firmly settling into place. She whips a hand out, "It's ridonculous! I ain't no prince charming courting his true love, I'm just some high schooler who probably says the cold-hearted truth too much to people and uses and hurts and manipulates them to the point where I have no real friends! I mean, what's that all about?"

My mouth falls open, meant to say something, but then my tongue shrivels and dries up, and I close it again. Swallowing, I try again: "I'm not much better, Santana. I just push everyone away. You're at least honest; I lie and I'm fucking cruel. – Or, at least, I was. You've… helped me, in your own twisted, messed-up, Santana-way. And you know, I think you've gotten better. You might be using me a little, but like I said, I don't mind. And hey, just look: your plans so far are working. Kurt came back. People really respect you for fixing the bullying problem. And you really do look amazing in that dress, if it isn't bias for me to say so."

She smiles, blinking away her tears and leaning forward to hug me. Only me and Brittany get to see the softer sides of Santana.

"Thanks, Muscles," she whispers in my ear, arms overlapped behind my head. And when she pulls away more, her eyes are trembling, most likely searching my face for something. She raises herself up on her toes, her hands on my face.

And then she kisses me.

Slow, platonic, light. I barely kiss back, but not because I don't want to. I just know that she's looking for comfort again, and like me, she's impulsive, so she just does what she thinks without second-guessing it unless it's vitally important. And, like me, she says things that spring to her mind no matter how harsh they might be.

We are so alike that it hurts. Makes me wonder why we hadn't found each other sooner. Been beards first, before Santana slept with half the football team, or I kissed Kurt, or anything else we regret happened.

"I'll buy this one," she murmurs, turning away from me at last. Her voice is soft in volume, but back to its usual tone. She walks back, changes into her normal clothes, and all within five-or-so minutes while I'm left standing, hands in my pockets, out by the mirrors.

When Santana returns, she hangs the other dresses out on a rack for discarded choices and wordlessly loops her arm into mine, holding on with both hands, the innermost one on my bicep and the other hand resting casually on my forearm. She has the green dress draped over her arm, and her purse dangling from the crook of her elbow.

"Let's blow this Popsicle stand. We can get your tux another day. I'm bored of this place."

I nod, not sure what to say, and head to the front of the store. She buys the dress – it's close to prom, so she gets a sale price on it – and in the car, she turns on the radio and starts making fun of every dumb song she finds, and then sings along with every song she likes or knows.

And it's like it never happened, and Santana is back to herself again. And you know, I think that's one of the things I like best about her: with me, I deflect and deny, but with her, she bounces right back. It's something I can learn from, and something I kind of respect a great deal.