lennoxave

Title: Hang a Shining Star Upon the Highest Bough
Author: lennoxave
Pairing,Character(s): Blaine, Santana
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1707
Spoilers: Through 3.09, "Extraordinary Merry Christmas"
Summary: Blaine finds Santana in the choir room just before the start of Christmas Break. They have a little heart-to-heart. (At least, as much as you can with Santana.)



It's the last day of school before Christmas break, and Blaine's looking to kill some time while he waits for Kurt. His boyfriend is doing a Chrismukkah gift exchange with Rachel and Mercedes in the auditorium, which is probably going to end with some sort of musical number, so he's got a while to wait.

Blaine figures he might as well get in some practicing, too, so he heads to the choir room. He stops short when he gets to the doorway, though.

Santana's leaning over the piano, some sheet music laying on the cover, and she's humming to herself. Every once in a while, she reaches down and plinks a piano key to check her pitch.

Blaine watches her for a little bit, still unsure how to approach her after all this time. Talking to Santana Lopez is like trying to pet a tiger cub: you're either going to get nuzzled, or you're going to get your face mauled off.

And let's be real, unless you're Brittany, Santana's probably going to do the second thing.

But Blaine is nothing if not a people-pleaser, and Santana looks so sad as she murmurs the melody of “Silent Night” that he takes a deep breath, steels himself against whatever she can throw at him, and walks in the room.

“Hey, Santana,” he says, mostly because he's pretty sure “What's wrong?” will get him kicked in the groin.

She jumps a little at the sound of his voice, but she quickly recovers. “Dapper Dan,” she nods at him.

Blaine's more impressed by the reference than offended by it. He wonders briefly how the glee club would sound singing bluegrass. “What're you doing hanging out in the choir room on the last day of school before Christmas?”

“Brittany,” Santana sighs. “She has a make-up test for chemistry, and I'm waiting for her. You?” she adds after a minute, not because she's interested, but because Blaine clearly isn't going anywhere.

“Kurt,” Blaine answers sheepishly. “I guess we're both a little whipped, huh?”

Santana rolls her eyes. “I'm not the one wearing the Christmas-tree bow tie my boyfriend got me as a gag gift,” she says, and she goes back to looking at her sheet music.

Blaine frowns. “I like this bow tie.” When Santana doesn't reply, he chances taking a few steps closer and peers over her shoulder.

“Stille Nacht,” he observes, calling the song by its German name. He cringes internally as he says it; sometimes he can't help when his Dalton education comes out.

Santana smirks at him. “Well, aren't you just Santa's most pretentious elf?” She pauses. “You get it? Because you're short.”

“I got it, thanks.”

The smirk is still on her face, but it's gone from her eyes as she looks down again. “This is, apparently, 'the only damn gringo song worth listening to,' according to my abuela. This was her favorite. Is her favorite,” Santana quickly corrects herself. “God, I don't know why I keep doing that.” She suddenly looks angry. “Or why I'm telling you this. Don't you have some capris to go buy?”

“Nah, with my new red-striped ones, I'm set until the New Year.” Blaine sits down at the piano. She's not going to chase him out that easily.

“You aren't actually going to wear those, are you?”

“I think Rachel would be very offended if I didn't wear her generous Christmas gift.”

“Thank God you aren't straight. If you and Rachel dated, the world would spiral into the black hole of anti-fashion sense you both have. Honestly, it still might.”

“Is your grandmother not going to be around for Christmas?” Blaine asks. He thinks the key to getting Santana to open up might be the element of surprise, and as she blinks back at him, he's pretty sure he's right.

“No,” she says quietly. “For the first time since I was eight, and she was in the hospital with a broken arm after she fought off the guy who tried to car-jack her on Christmas. He was in the hospital with a concussion and a set of broken ribs in the shape of the shovel she bashed him with.” Santana smiles at the memory.

“So she won?”

“Bitch, please. Of course she won. She's got my DNA. Where do you think I get my realness from?”

Blaine quirks an eyebrow. “And your stubbornness?” He knows he's skating on thin ice when Santana sets her jaw and looks away. Before she can spit out an insult or run out of the room (which is the outcome he's most worried about), he launches into a story of his own.

“My dad didn't speak to me the whole first month I came out of the closet,” he says. “Well, that's not strictly true. He spent the whole first day afterward telling me I was too young to know for sure, and the whole second day telling me that I should keep it to myself so the club wouldn't find out.” Blaine laughs a little, but it comes out more bitterly than he means it to. “But after that, yeah, no talking. The entire month of December. Through the most awkward Christmas of my entire life, where he spent the whole meal reading the paper while my mom glared at him. Finally, he sat down next to me after Christmas dinner and asked me, 'You still like football?' And I told him, yeah, I still liked football. So he turned on the game, and we watched it. And that was how we started to get better.”

“Started?”

“It takes time,” Blaine says. “He spent a lot of time trying to get me interested in more 'manly' stuff. It was years before I could mention something like gay marriage in front of him without him visibly wincing.”

“If you're trying to be comforting, you're doing a terrible job,” Santana says.

“I'm not.” He pauses. “Well, I am, but I don't want you to think it's going to be easier than it is. But people come around. My dad's met Kurt. They talk about New York architecture and classic cars and I don't really know how it happened, but my dad likes him.”

Santana shakes her head. “That's not Abuela. That will never be Abuela.”

“It could be,” Blaine insists. He runs his hands across the piano keyboard. “If you don't want to have hope, just--you don't have to have despair, either. There is a chance, however small, that she'll change. If your relationship with her is as important to her as it is to you, there's maybe even a better chance than that.”

Santana tries to subtly wipe her eyes, but fails. “Your optimism is annoying,” she sniffs.

“I do my best.” Blaine plunks a chord out on the piano. “Sing with me?”

Santana laughs through her tears. “Oh, hell no. We are not doing some sort of Rockettes -and-sympathy thing. I've watched you vamp around like Ginger Rogers enough for one holiday season.”

“I deal with stuff by singing about it, Santana, and I know you do, too.” Blaine adjusts the cuff of his sweater. “We all do. That's why we're in glee. So . . . sing with me?”

Santana sighs and props herself up so she's sitting on the piano. “Fine.”

Blaine smiles at her and starts to play.

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas,” he sings. “Let your heart be light.” He looks pointedly at Santana, and while she does make a face at him, she takes up the melody.

“Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.”

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Make the Yuletide gay.” Blaine makes sure to waggle his eyebrows on the word “gay.” Seemingly in spite of herself, Santana lets out a little giggle before she sings.

“Next year all our troubles will be miles away.”

They harmonize on the next part.

“Here we are as in olden days,
happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us
gather near to us, once more.”

Blaine nods at Santana, and she continues singing into verse.

“Someday soon we all will be together, if the Fates allow.”

Blaine cuts in before she can get to the next line. He locks eyes with Santana as he sings.

“Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow.”

It's clear from the look on her face that those aren't the words she's expecting, and Blaine sees the tears start to well up again in her eyes. She keeps it together, though, and they finish the song.

“So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”

The final chord hangs in the room. Santana seems grateful for the time it buys her.

“I've never heard those lyrics before,” she finally says.

“It's the original. Judy Garland's version.”

“Oh, of course it is.” Santana bites her lower lip for a moment before adding, “I like it, though.”

“Me, too,” Blaine says. He pulls the cover down over the piano keyboard and stands up. “I should probably go find Kurt. I'm a little afraid that Rachel might have bought him clothes for Christmas, and he's strangled her with some sort of moose-sweater.”

“I'm shocked it's taken him this long to do it,” Santana snarks.

They smile at each other, and Blaine thinks about waiting for her to say something else, but it's Santana. He turns to leave, and he's almost to the door when she calls out to him.

“Blaine?”

“Yes?” He looks over his shoulder. Santana's swinging her legs off the edge of the piano, and in her winter cheerleader outfit, the one with the turtleneck, she looks a lot younger than she is. She hesitates a little bit before she speaks.

“Merry Christmas,” she says.

He thinks he gets it. “Merry Christmas, Santana.”