A/N: Do I have a new favorite episode tied with the Superbowl episode? Yes. Yes I do. And its name is Born This Way. ;D

This is just a little something I typed up. C:

It's on one of their "dates" - a meeting of the minds, really, because they aren't friends by any means, they are beards and he is somewhat being blackmailed and that's all that it is - when Santana changes the game.

She holds up a shirt. White, balled up so he can't see the front, and made of cotton. It smells freshly of Downy, the same "Spring Fresh" scent that Dave's own mother uses.

"What's this?" Dave asks, gesturing to the shirt, feeling instantly wary of it. Especially when he can see a peek of white under Santana's clothes; she's wearing a white shirt, too, and it's been about three or so days since she dragged him into the auditorium to watch a performance of all of the things he knew he couldn't have, but wanted, and didn't know he wanted until he saw it. (Dancing. Singing. Kurt…) And in that performance, everyone was wearing white t-shirts.

"I made a 'Born This Way' shirt for you," Santana shrugs, like it's the most obvious, simplistic concept in the world. Like it's normal.

Dave's eyes pan to the shirt in her outstretched arm, then back again at her face. "…Why would you do that? I'm not even in Glee Club. And why -" he's frowning, almost angry or offended, but not quite. He's too scared of what the shirt says. What if it says 'LIKES BOYS' like Kurt's had? What if it says 'CLOSET CASE' or 'BEARD?' Anything related to what he knows he needs to keep denying to keep the truth at bay, because he can't be sure of anything yet or else that will mean -

"Duh," Santana says with a roll of her dark eyes, but she refuses to look him in the face. "Because if I'm going to have a prom king, I need him to accept himself, or else no one else will accept for vote for him. Which means you, sweetie." She tacks on the nickname sarcastically, poking fun at their fake dating arrangement. But according to kids she's eavesdropped on, they're the hottest couple in McKinley right now, just as hot as Finn and Quinn, and this does well for Santana's little plan.

But the game has changed, it really has. Because without meaning to, she's started to care about the jock in front of her. She can tell because of how judgmental she is that Dave Karofsky is an insecure, scared little boy who wanted to make things right for a while now, but didn't have a solid reason, a scapegoat, for changing his ways. And now he has one: her and her blackmail on him. And it works, because she's seen him outside of school and during school, and he is two different people, and the one who isn't around peers all the time is actually… decent. Likeable. Charming.

So the real reason she made him a shirt is because she cares. But with Santana Lopez being Santana Lopez, she will never tell him that.

"Wh-what's it say?" he snaps, panicking a bit, and it's so obvious. He's very obvious when he feels uncomfortable; he shoves his hands into his jean or letterman pockets, he hunches his shoulders, he breaks eye contact, he inhales sharply, he ducks his head, he deflects with angry words. Or he stutters.

"Ruh-lax, Muscles. It's not a gay joke or anything, I promise. Look," she says, bringing the shirt to her chest and unfurling it. The white fabric drops away to reveal tall, bolded black lettering in all capital letters. She holds it up to herself, and it's much too big compared to her tiny, perfect figure, but the message is clear.

The words clearly read 'DAVID ISAAC KAROFSKY' going down the front.

Dave stares, his eyes tracing the letters, reading the words thrice times over. He clicks his dry lips, swallows to wet his dry throat, and asks weakly (but while gaining strength), "What… what's that supposed to mean? It's just my name. And how did you know my middle name, anyway?"

"I did my research before asking you out, naturally. I gots to have my men all figured out if I wanna use 'em, just like I did with Guppy Lips. But that's beside the point. The point is: it reads your name because you were born as Dave Karofsky, and yet he's the one person I know you're most ashamed of, the one person you fear the most, because you don't love all of him like you're supposed to. And come on, Davey, you and I both know that we ain't getting half the votes I need unless you start liking yourself and showing more than just fake confidence in yourself," she says, huffing a little at the end as she carelessly tosses the shirt in his face.

Yanking the fabric off and clutching it tightly in his hand, Dave stares down at it. He doesn't want to cry, but he feels like he might. She's right, in every possible way. And having his dad say the things he did in that office that second time around… they're resounding in Dave's head right now, and he can't help but feel he's let both of his parents down as well as himself, and he can't help but smile sadly again.

"You're not expecting me to sing Gaga now, are you?" Dave says with a smirk, locking eyes with Santana.

Santana smiles a genuine smile at him. "Nah, that's optional. I just want you to wear that at least once. Not to school; you'd look stupid walking around with your name on your shirt like you can't remember what your name is. No, I just think it'd do you some good to wear it by yourself once and just… look in a mirror or something. And tell yourself that you're okay with who you are, and hey, if that means say out loud what you really don't want to say –" she leaves it unspoken, but he knows that she's referring to his sexuality, and God, is just everyone a broken record about that with him? "– then by all means, say it. Do what you have to. I just want a decent king to my queenliness."

Dave nods slowly. "Yeah, okay. Um… thanks, Santana. This is – I mean, it's oddly thoughtful of you. What, are you actually falling for me, now?" he teases, and he doesn't mean it, and she knows it.

She laughs. "Oh, totally. But, you know, I might require a sex change from you."

He grimaces. "God, don't even joke. I like being a guy, thanks."

"Hey," she says, throwing up her hands and shrugging, "It would only be doing you a favor. If you were a chick, you'd be straight then, and I wouldn't need a beard, 'cause then I might actually be attracted to you. – Not that you aren't cute, Muscles. You are. But you ain't my type."

Dave smiles oddly, and Santana makes a face at that weird smile. "Funny, that's what he said, too. That I wasn't his type."

Santana doesn't like that the conversation turned sappy and sad. She frowns, clicks her tongue, and reaches forward to shove his Born This Way shirt over his head, onto his current polo, and then kisses his forehead. "Don't be a doggie-downer, 'kay? I was trying to be nice, here."

"Yeah, I know," he murmurs, tugging his shirt into place and glancing down at the words. His name. "…Thanks, Santana. Really."

She smiles again. "Don't mention it. But you know, I didn't go all-out on your shirt; that thing's only ninety-eight percent cotton. The other two percent is nylon. I'm a cheap-ass, I know," she jokes. And with that, she pats his hand and moves away, moving on to other business.