It was the calm before the storm, those few days after they had filmed the commercial. And then all hell broke lose. The New Directions just didn't know that it was about to get so much worse. After Mr. Schue had been suspended for sleeping in his office (Dylan didn't know what to think about the entire fake baby ordeal other than the fact that it was bizarre), they figured they would fix that singular problem and head into sectionals with optimism.
It had all started going downhill when Rachel's suspicions started to raise.
An alarm had been going off in Dylan's head constantly. It mirrored more of a pestering buzz for the majority of the day, but then she would glance Puck's way, or Santana would flash her a devilish smirk, or she'd catch sight of Izzy Jenkins in the girls' locker room, and it would become almost deafening.
It was all just very confusing.
She was lingering by Quinn at her locker when Mercedes and Tina walked by, each with a phone to their ear. It was the forced smiles that awoke confusion in her. "What's going on with everyone? Everyone's, like, acting funny, right? It's not just me?"
Quinn shrugged half-heartedly, "I guess so. Maybe Mr. Schue's suspension is playing on peoples minds."
Dylan eyed Quinn, almost wearily. "Right. Yeah. Maybe." She paused for a moment as Quinn shut her locker. It didn't take a genius to realise something was plaguing her mind. "Are you okay?" She asked.
"Yeah, of course," Quinn replied (almost too quickly, if Dylan was being picky). "Why wouldn't I be?"
It was ironic that Dylan was always pegged as the liar of the group.
She was really one of the only few who could rightfully claim to being honest this week. She had been honest (or more so than usual) about a lot of things with a lot of people in the club.
Especially with Quinn.
Too bad none of them had returned the favour.
"Can I ask you something?"
Maybe Quinn was as wicked as the stereotypical head-cheerleader was commonly deemed as. Maybe she only asked the question then because Dylan was tipsy on wine and clearly gloomy.
"Uh, yeah. Anything," Dylan shifted her laying position on Quinn's bed to look up at the blonde, who was sat by her side. One skim of Quinn's face, one of confliction and hesitation, and Dylan figured it wouldn't be an easy query to answer.
The look of hesitation was true. Quinn suddenly decided that saying it quickly was the best approach. She really had been holding back on asking it for weeks, and her curiosities were growing too much. "Why did you flee before the mash-up? A-And why didn't you just tell me when the story posted about me being. . ?" Dylan sat alarmingly still for a period, though Quinn knew she heard her perfectly fine.
"I don't know," she simply said. "It's complicated. I guess I just. . .got scared," she spoke quietly, almost trailing off into a whisper when the admittance that she felt fear came.
"Scared of what?"
"Sometimes I feel. . .funny, when I have to be—I don't know—vulnerable in front of people. I'm not really used to it," she admitted, shrugging her shoulders as if nothing bothered her. She scrunched her nose then, and continued, "and I sorta felt. . .not really part of the group then, so it feels safer to flee than to just. . .stay."
She wondered if that how her father felt when he left.
He never really was good at honesty and vulnerability.
"Why does it scare you?" Quinn asked softly.
Dylan predicted she would feel sick when someone finally asked her that. Surprisingly, she felt fine with it being Quinn laying next to her.
"When I'm honest with people, it's either they don't believe me or they finally realise that I'm, like, I'm just a person, you know? I'm not a monster or a witch or a loser, I'm just like everyone else. I'm furniture." She paused, and breathed through her throat clogged of a mess of words that wished to be spat out. "They forget about me so I just—I don't know, it's just a waste of breath to try and explain why I am the way I am. It takes too much energy and the result is far from good, even if they do listen." A worry, one that had forever lingered in her mind, pleaded to be let free, but Dylan was too feared to speak something too bold. I don't know if I'd prefer to be a spectacle or if I'd prefer to be forgotten.
Quinn nodded her head in understanding, before offering her an assuring, "you can be honest with me," before they settled into silence again. Dylan sleepily tilted her head, it falling perfectly onto Quinn's shoulder. She felt it seize up momentarily (it was then Dylan thought maybe it'd be best if she removed it) before it relaxed.
"Can I show you something?" Dylan whispered so quietly, Quinn almost missed it.
She nodded, but Dylan didn't see it. She then hummed, muttering, "yeah. Yeah, you can."
Dylan moved slowly, but her movements were nervous, and had a franticness that Quinn considered assuring her that she didn't need to show her whatever it was. But then she supposed Dylan wouldn't have asked had she not wanted her (or someone) to know.
But when Dylan began pulling her t-shirt over her head, Quinn found herself pelted with questions, eyes wide. "What are you—?"
Dylan mumbled, shaking her head as an answer to Quinn's unspoken questions. "I'm not. . .I just need to show you. Or want to—I want to show you," she explained, before sitting at the edge of the bed, her back facing Quinn's, and then she understood.
Dylan took Quinn's silence for what she had feared would come—a disgust of sorts—until she felt Quinn's finger trace along its path. Her breath hitched in her throat, but she didn't dare move, waiting for the blonde behind her to guide the conversation.
"Is this why—? During the mash-up, this is why you left?" Quinn asked softly, crawling across the bed to sit by Dylan's side on the edge of the bed.
Dylan thought back to that moment.
***
Her eyes scanned the yellow fabric held before her, up and down, and then up and down again, grimacing as she pictured how her body would look with it on. She wondered how the others would react to seeing her permanently tainted skin with the short sleeves and skirt of the dress doing little-to-nothing to conceal her secrets, everything she had worked so hard to hide.
What would happen after that?
***
She feigned nonchalance, a skill she had mastered over the years. Quinn would claim she hadn't perfected it, given that she saw directly through her, but she didn't voice it then. "I-It's really not a big deal. It looks worse than—I mean, I just fell when I was a kid. But, you know, people will think. . ." She sighed, a blush rising to her cheeks as she fumbled over her words again. "It's just, you all looked really. . .pretty, in your dresses—like they fit. And I just knew. . .that I wouldn't. I just. . .you know, didn't wanna be a thumb."
Quinn quirked an eyebrow, "you what?"
Dylan's eyebrows furrowed, pursing her lips, kicking her feet so the awkward feeling hugging her body would shake off. "Stick out like a thumb," she clarified. "It's in a pretty prominent place, you know. Guess I was never lucky."
Quinn nodded in understanding. "You know no one would've thought. . ." She started, wracking her brain for the exact words that will cure Dylan of this insecurity. "No one in glee would've thought you. . .weren't pretty, if they seen it."
Dylan's feet stopped kicking and she glanced at Quinn even despite her brain telling her not to. Unsurprisingly, the tingly feeling in her chest was too strong. She was sucked in by Quinn's compliment almost immediately, and her heart was flipping in a way that made her think maybe these feelings weren't going to simply stab her own heart in the end.
Maybe she wasn't just an utter and complete fool for Quinn Fabray.
Maybe she wouldn't have to run from that fear—that she was a fool and would do right to hide from these abominable feelings.
"At least, I wouldn't have. Or, I don't think you're. . .not pretty," Quinn continued quietly. The conversation was rather hushed despite the fact that they were the only two in the room, as if they themselves were hiding from something in the air. The whispered compliments then seemed (to Dylan) like they should've been kept secret, since Quinn spoke it like it were something that should be disregarded, even between the two of them.
She shouldn't speak of such feelings.
And she shouldn't fluster so much at Quinn's words. She was starting to feel like it couldn't be helped, and there was only one thing Dylan Miller did when she was losing control: run and hide.
"I'm, uh, I'm glad we're friends," she said, though that sickly word friends felt sour on her tongue. She would've felt horrid for the lie, but it really wasn't that. They were friends, and that's what tormented her.
Quinn smiled still, "I'm glad too. Now, put your top back on. My mom might come in and get the wrong idea. She'd probably, like, flip the bat, you know, so—"
"—right, yeah, no. Totally."
Dylan had given Quinn ample opportunity to tell her about Puckerman. Why she hadn't? Even Quinn couldn't accurately explain why. Dylan's regular use of 'it's complicated' seemed as fitting as anything. Perhaps, after a while, it became too late. And it became exceedingly difficult after her rather explosive dispute with him in the corridors those weeks ago.
Telling her now would be cruel.
But would she then never find out?
Dylan shrugged, pursing her lips. Yeah, something was going on. "I don't know. Forget I asked," she said, taking steps away as she readied to depart. "See you in Glee."
The corridor smelled of lies, and Dylan, in her typical, selfish manner, immediately jumped to the conclusion that the entire world was playing some cruel joke on her. Either that, or the sudden urge to rip out all of her hair was due to something completely unrelated.
She really wished Rachel would have discussed her suspicions with her. She would have much preferred hearing the preposterous theory from Rachel Berry than being tossed directly into the deep end.
The choir room was usually her haven. How ironic she find out there.
When Mercedes finished up a performance of 'And I'm telling you' (again, an ironic song choice, given Dylan had been told absolutely nothing), the group dispersed for a five minute break before working further on their setlist. Dylan was growing agitated for reasons she didn't know, even as she conversed with Tina, eyeing Quinn suspiciously from across the room (she stopped eyeing her when she accidentally made eye contact with Santana and felt caught out).
A few seconds later was when it all went wrong.
Finn came bursting into the room, and the glint of fury in his eye and his pinkish cheeks were a dead giveaway that he was pissed about something. Dylan never knew Finn to be violent, but immediately she disregarded that when he pounced on Puck.
Dylan had enough experience getting between an angry man and his object of rage. She reacted almost instantly, where it took the rest of the room more than a mere moment to realise what was happening (or really, what had already happened—Finn knew).
Dylan had a bad habit for standing in the eye of a storm.
"Finn, come on, man!" Dylan spewed out phrases she hoped would snap Finn out of his angry daze, yanking at his shoulders and prying him away from Puck, who was sprawled on the floor. Finn, being over six foot and weighing a lot more than Dylan, continued to smack his supposed best friend.
It was when Mr. Schue ran back into the room that Mike and Matt stepped in, holding Finn back as the teacher stood between the two. Dylan heaved a breath, the entire ordeal (which she still found confusing, by the way!) making her grow hot and flustered. She never handled confrontation well (granted, she was usually the one in the confrontation, so maybe she should consider herself lucky this time around but nevertheless. . .).
"Tell the truth!" Finn shouted, struggling in Mike and Matt's hold.
"Punk just walked in and sucker punched me!"
Puck's words only seemed to rile Finn up more. "Don't play dumb! You're too frickin dumb to play dumb!"
Dylan startled when Quinn joined the conversation, asking Finn who it was that 'told him', and she eyes the room wearily, hoping the reactions on the faces of her teammates would mirror hers. Whether they were teary, scared or shocked didn't matter, because none of their faces read of confusion, and Dylan realised that she had been left out of some gossip she hadn't even been aware of.
"Obviously it was Rachel," Kurt accused.
Rachel immediately spewed a weak lie. "What? I didn't do anything."
"Yeah, yeah, it was Rachel," Finn's admittance instantly revealed Rachel's words to be false, but he had his eyes on Quinn. "But I want to hear it from you. I want to hear it from both of you."
Dylan was currently cursing the world for not making her even just a tad smarter, and she expected she would feel such shame for being so stupid when she was finally let in on the big secret, but now, all she could do was ask, "hear what? What the hell's going on?"
Finn scoffed at Puck—which Dylan guessed was significant, though, again, she didn't know why—before narrowing his eyes at Quinn. He glanced at Dylan, motioning a hand to Quinn, "what, she hasn't told you? Your best friend lie to you, too?"
Dylan's throat felt dry when everyone looked to her. "I, uh. . ." She looked to Quinn for some guidance, hoping she would shoot her that soft smile that always made her feel calmer. She only found Quinn teary-eyed and trying to avoid her eye at all costs.
"Finn, just calm down," Mr. Schue said, stern.
Finn pushed away from him, tossing his arms about again. "No, they're both lying to me!" He shouted, before looking at Quinn again. "Is it true? Just tell me, i-is it true?"
The room seemed to be decreasing in oxygen as the question hung in the air. Quinn stepped forward, looking her boyfriend in the eye, and admitting the cruel truth that should've come out months ago.
"Yes, Puck is the father."
Dylan's eyebrows furrowed as the words registered, a disbelieving smile growing on her face. "What the fuck?" She muttered, snorting slightly, before realising no one was making moves to assure her that Quinn was just kidding. "What the fuck?" She repeated, louder and more disbelieving this time.
"Dylan—!"
She shook her head at Mr. Schue's stern, warning tone. "No, like, what the fuck?!" She glared at Puck. "Shocking news, Puckerman's living up to his name of being a total deadbeat, man-whore. I don't even know why I'm surprised," she smiled, but anger seeped through, especially so when she looked at Quinn, the smile falling. "You lied to me," she said, biting her lip so the anger wouldn't turn to sadness. She really couldn't let the vulnerability show with all the spectators. Surely showing a huff that mirrored Finn's would raise some suspicious.
"No, I just—" Quinn tried to muster a viable excuse, shoulders slumping dejectedly. She had nothing, and so the two girls stood face to face with a tension that confused the majority.
Until Finn spoke again, his hurt still seeping from him. (Had Dylan not been so riddled in confusion and betrayal, she may have felt selfish for stealing his spotlight of sorts.) "So all that stuff in the hot tub? You just made that up?" He asked.
"You were stupid enough to buy it!"
Finn grew red in the face again, glaring at Puck. When he took a step forward, purpose in his eyes, Mike and Matt were ready to intervene.
"I am so sorry," Quinn said, pleading with tears springing in her eyes.
Finn, evidently, wasn't having any of it. "Screw this," he muttered. "I'm done with you. I'm done with—I'm done with all of you!" He stormed out of the room, clattering a chair on his way out (Finn Hudson style).
Dylan stood still for a moment, the whack of the chair echoing in her mind, before she too had had enough of the stink of the room. Lies, all of it. Pathetically, just the prospect of her being the only one who didn't know hurt enough. The secret itself, well, that was just the icing on the cake.
"What the fuck?" She whispered under her breath that phrase once more, her mind still reeling as she shoved through glee club members—around Tina and Rachel, before purposefully knocking shoulders with Puck and ignoring Quinn completely—leaving the choir room without another word.
*****
Dylan was trying to be mature about the entire situation. It was show-choir—she expected a drama of sorts after all. She just didn't imagine it was sting so bad.
Since when did she start caring about this club?
Nevertheless, Dylan was considering herself the unluckiest person alive, and her title only solidified with each day that passed. When she had unmistakably slept soundly through her alarm, she had raced to change out of her work-uniform (which she had mistakably fell asleep wearing the night before) into fresher clothes.
There was sign after sign urging her not to go, but, alas, she had arrived to the McKinley parking lot.
The bus was hard to miss, parked haphazardly in the centre of the lot, glee members already packed on board. Dylan had arrived just on time to hear the end of a conversation between Mr. Schue, Miss. Pillsbury and Jacob (who Dylan had then realised must be Finn's replacement, unfortunately).
"I have to tell you, I get terrible public event anxiety."
Miss. Pillsbury, ever the most compassionate (Dylan was itching to just beg Jacob to get lost), turned to the anxious boy. "You know what, Jacob? That's okay, we just need the members, all right? So just sway in the back. You don't even have to sing."
"Yes, please, don't sing," Dylan couldn't help but add as she walked by the group, skateboard in hand, alerting them of her presence.
Mr. Schue seemed surprised, though he tried to be subtle about it. "Dylan, you're here. Great."
Dylan blinked, looking at the man over her shoulder just before she climbed onto the bus. "Uh, yeah," she answered, confused. It had never crossed her mind that she could just. . . not show up. Granted, Finn didn't, but his excuse made it justifiable.
Her excuse of being secretly infatuated with a former cheer-captain way out of her league didn't seem plausible enough.
Of course there was the entire element of her former best-friend, now enemy, getting said former cheer-captain pregnant, but, still. . .not big enough.
Nevertheless, she was on the bus and heading to sectionals. The next few hours simply needed to pass by issue free, which seemed achievable, until. . .
Until she noticed that everyone had snagged seats next to a friend (or in unlucky Rachel's case a foe in JBI), and only one remained. Begrudgingly and, again, in an attempt to seem mature, she took the remaining seat. Just as she did the entire club held their breath, perhaps expecting homicide.
Dylan simply sat, her eyes boring into the seat before her—the one which Kurt sat in, who was silently regretting choosing to place himself there. (He didn't want any blood spilt during the brawl that was sure to ensue to stain his white beanie hat.) She tried to remain unphased. Really, she had, biting her lip so harshly, she was surprised she didn't bite right through.
But then Pucks knee bumped hers (intentionally or not she didn't know) and so she could no longer refrain from sending him a piercing glare and a loud scoff.
"I kind of expected you to have killed me by now. This whole silent treatment thing isn't really your style," he said, his voice low but his tone laced with sarcasm. She knew Puck, and so she could tell he didn't take the entire situation lightly. In fact, he viewed Quinn in that same light Dylan did (and Finn had), which made for an even bigger recipe for disaster. But another thing they had in common was their habit of masking any vulnerability.
Going the 'funny' route was easier on the heart (and the reputation).
Dylan rolled her eyes. "Well, I considered it, but I'm sort of on the brink of expulsion right now, so I'm almost sure it's not worth it. After all," she spoke quietly, but with the bus being so tense and it's passengers eager to grasp every word, all was heard. She glanced at him with a darkness in her eyes, which he immediately identified as a pain, saying in a whisper, "you're not worth much."
Puck whistled, though there was an uneasiness about him after the comment. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Low blow," he muttered.
Dylan was equally as uncomfortable, muttering back, "I don't know. Seems rather tame in comparison to the things you've said."
There was a beat of silence, both knowing to what Dylan was referring to.
"Give me a break, Dylan. Who are you even trying to impress? Everyone already thinks you're a freak anyway."
Everyone already thinks you're a freak anyway.
Freak. Freak. Freak.
Dylan's heart betrayed her mind as she snuck a glance at the back of Quinn's head. Freak. She bit her lip and redirected her vision, swallowing harshly. She cursed herself when she noticed pucks stare. He caught it all. And, suddenly, she felt small. Embarrassed. Freak-ish.
A sickness bubbled in her stomach.
"Yeah, exactly why I expected a hit," he stated, an insufferable superiority gushing from him now. "You're sure you don't want to? Even just to make up for that pathetic miss a couple of weeks ago. How's your hand? You really gave that locker a good warning—"
"Stop," she warned, her throat dry. She repeated the word again, though clearer this time, "stop. Just, God, shut up!" Her cheeks were pink, she knew for a fact. She felt hot, flustered. He had certainly succeeded in ruling her up. "I'd tell you you're insufferable, but you already know that. It's not a surprise Quinn chose someone else to raise your baby. Absent fathers run in the family after all."
Dylan struck a nerve.
For a moment, she expected a hit.
Kurt's audible gasp was enough to snap Puck from a momentary freeze. "Fuck you," he spat, desperate now his image was on the line. Just like Puck knew what strings of Dylan to pull, she knew his.
"And risk getting pregnant? Pfft, easy pass," she shot back. The anxious knot in her stomach only tightened when Santana's snort in amusement ripples through the bus. She really must stop, but she was just so angry.
"Probably for the best," Puck continued, his tone laced with the same venom as hers. "I mean, everyone knows something worse runs in your family. What is it? Narcissist dads and addict moms or—?"
A slap echoed through the bus.
And then a silence strangled them all.
Dylan flexed her fingers, staring at her hand as of it had a mind of its own. As if it weren't her that had raised it and inflicted violence. Pucks face screamed of shock and confliction. She cleared her throat, that being the first sound to break the stillness.
"That's not true," Dylan mumbled. "You know that's not true. You shouldn't have said that." The words sounded unsure, but it would be ludicrous for anyone to point a finger at her and call her a liar.
It would be quite hypocritical after all.
Miss Pillsbury took responsibility for clearing the air.
"Uh, maybe some music would lighten the mood, right? Um, driver—?!"
For once, it would take more than music to fix things.
*****
Talk about an unlucky week.
After pulling the short straw (in Dylan's eyes) of performing last, the team sat and observed as the two other teams sang the songs from their setlist. Dylan could only think one thing: Sue. They had gathered in the green room, staring blankly in seething anger.
"Will, these kids need a leader right now," Miss Pillsbury had claimed, speaking to Mr. Schuester on her phone, panicked and out of her league.
It had sparked an idea in Dylan.
She stood from her seat, only slightly secluded from the rest of the group, and poked a dejected Rachel on the back. "Can I use your phone?" She asked shyly, motioning to the device in Rachel's cardigan pocket. When Rachel lazily handed it over, albeit confused, Dylan searched for a contact.
She held it to her ear and let it ring, but no answer.
So she rang again. Nada.
After a moment filled with Dylan grumbling in thought, it beeped, startling her before she glanced at the screen.
I don't want to talk to anyone right now.
Dylan rolled her eyes. The dramatics of showchoir were certainly rubbing off on him. She typed clumsily: its dylan you dork answer your damn phone
There was really no time to scrutinise over punctuation and grammar (not that she would).
Seconds later, the phone was buzzing in her hand.
"Hello. Finn?"
Rachel glanced at Dylan with surprised wide eyes.
There was a low sigh heard through the line. "What?" Finn finally said, his tone indicating he was still very much annoyed (and tired).
Dylan winced when no words came to mind. "Uh, how ya keepin'?" She cringed. Rachel narrowed her eyes at her, causing her to shrug as her defence. She waved a hand at Rachel, before distancing herself from the group.
Awkward conversations seemed to run slightly smoother if they were private.
"Are you—Are you being serious?" Dylan could feel the eye roll through the phone.
She cleared her throat. "Uh, no. Of course not. Sorry. I, um. . .It's going pretty bad here, to be honest. I mean, i-if you're even interested. If you are, I'd say it's shit. Things are going shit. Like horridly bad and—"
"Dylan?"
"Yeah?"
"You're rambling."
She pursed her lips and chuckled awkwardly. "Right, sorry," she excused herself, scratching the back of her neck. "Look, I know you don't want to be here, but—"
"I don't not want to be here, I just. . .I can't be there. Not in the same room as her. I can't even think about him without wanting to punch his face off," Finn said, going off on a heated ramble of his own. Dylan was unsure which steps to take. She was never really someone's ear to confide in.
"I, uh, I sorta got a hit in earlier, if that makes you feel any better," Dylan admitted, unsure if the news would cure Finn of any sadness.
There was a moments pause before Finn finally spoke again, "really?"
Dylan clarified, "I didn't, you know, punch his face off, but. . .well, I slapped him. Anyway, I, uh, I think, if you do want to be here. . .I think I know which songs we should sing. We, as in the group, including you."
Finn sighed through the phone. "God, I'm sick of having to be the bigger man."
"If you're trying to pull the 'sometimes being talented sucks' card, I'm done feeling sorry for you," Dylan said, to the point, though she let a smile crack (thankful that Finn couldn't see it). "Look, I know you're probably wishing this week hadn't happened, but. . .you can't always get what you want." Dylan then cringed at her pun. "God, that was so cheesy. The Rolling Stones. I think we should do The Rolling Stones."
A silence fell between them again, though Dylan was feeling hopeful.
"So, are you in?" She asked, before adding, in hopes to push him over the edge, "you and Rachel'd kill it, I'm sure—"
"No."
Dylan rolled her eyes, sighing into the phone, "Finn, come on, man! Just sing your feelings away or something—"
"No. I mean, not me and Rachel," Finn interjected, correcting her. "Me and you. I think even Rachel would agree. Rock's more your style. Besides. . .I think we both need a win this week, right?"
Dylan nodded slowly as his words registered. "So. . .you're in?"
*****
Dylan hated mirrors.
She couldn't remember a time where she didn't.
Time after time, she would stare at her reflection and tug at her clothes and her shoulders would slump. Because none of it was right. She wasn't right. And then the thought would strike her—that she was not and will not ever be a pretty girl—and she would feel stupid for even trying to fix something unfixable.
Only pretty girls should care about their appearance. There was no fixing hers.
She stared at the mirror in the green room and tugged at the hem of her skirt. She wondered if her hair covered her back. Surely not. Surely it was too short. Suddenly, she felt naked.
"You can't see it," a voice said from behind her. Dylan made eye contact with Quinn through the mirror, but even despite her soft voice, she couldn't help but fill with hurt. She wished she were angry then. "The back and your hair, they cover it."
Dylan shook her head, rolling her eyes for the umpteenth time that day. But this time with little malice in it. It was simply a tired eye roll. "It," she repeated with a humourless chuckle.
"You know I didn't mean—" Quinn stopped trying to make yet another excuse. She tugged at the ends of her hair nervously. "Can we talk? I'm sorry. I should've said something—"
"I really don't care. Like, at all, so. . ." Lie. Dylan's tongue tasted bitter after those words shot out without a thought. When Quinn fell quiet for just a second too long, and Dylan was sure she was going to walk away, more words stumbled out. "I was honest with you. More than I've been with anyone else."
"I know," Quinn replied, ashamed and seeping in regret.
Dylan all of a sudden felt wrong in her own skin. Sick and welled up with emotions. "You know I can't do that anymore with you. You made me look stupid. I didn't like that." The words came out flat and unfeeling, but Dylan's twitchy hands and her shuffling feet were enough proof that she felt a lot. Expressing it was a different challenge.
Hearing her words, Quinn suddenly began apologising again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't want to hurt you. I know you don't want to hear it but. . .I really love being your friend and I still want to be friends. Please, just—"
Friend. Friend. Friend.
The word coming from Quinn mouth tugged at that knot in her stomach again.
Freak. Freak. Freak.
"Look, it's not going to happen, all right?!" Dylan snapped, before inhaling a deep breath again when the burst caught up to her. Quinn fell silent again, and Dylan felt queasy when she thought she had scared her. Dylan didn't want to be perceived as scary, by anyone. "Look, can you just. . .not? Like, right now, I don't want to hear about any of it."
"Okay," Quinn nodded in understanding, taking small steps back in retreat. Before she departed all together, she left a small message, "good luck out there. You'll kill it. I know you will."
She left and Dylan continued staring at her reflection, noticing her purplish eyes and pale skin.
"You're not feeling. . .'slappy' anymore, right?" Dylan rolled her eyes at Santana's words. She was irked enough already—on the brink of explosion, to be truthful—she certainly didn't need anymore fuel added to the fire. And Santana added fuel. "Because I'll help you with your makeup if you promise not to leave a handprint on my face. I've got a few secrets up my sleeve that'll fix what you've got going on. A momentary fix, but. . .I mean, I'm not a magician."
"Secrets, wow," Dylan exaggerated. "You lot seem to have a lot of those."
Santana rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. She let her eyes wander over Dylan slowly with pursed lips. "You know, petty isn't a good look on you," she said.
Dylan shrugged her shoulders weakly, "yeah well, burned pants aren't a good look either, but all of you seem quite keen on them."
"What the hell are you babbling about?"
Dylan felt hot. "Your pants are on fire, because you're all liars." She felt stupid now that she had to explain it. How was it she was the one coming out of these confrontations feeling humiliated and ashamed? She hadn't done anything wrong (for once)!
"Oh, wow," Santana said with raised eyebrows, "that was so incredibly corny. Who knew Dylan Miller was such a dork?"
Dylan glanced down at her feet, wishing she could be left alone again before they had to perform. "Whatever, Santana," she muttered, before glancing over her shoulder and speaking through her irritation. "You know, you should be thanking me, actually. I got Finn to come back. I'm the one who fixed Brittanys screw up of telling Sue the setlist. I was the one who refused to wallow in self pity the entire time like the rest of you."
Santana rolled her eyes, "yeah, and you still feel like crap because your girlfriend lied to you."
"What? That's not—"
"It's not true? What, you think I'm blind? You think I'm stupid? Because whilst you've been lusting over her, I've been watching. And let me just tell you, you're pathetic. See, this is why you should never cross me. I know everything." Santana let her words hang in the air for a moment as she studied Dylan's pale face. She was at a loss for words. The spiteful cheerio shrugged carelessly and turned around, "do your own makeup for all I care."
The day had been saved.
Even despite its rocky and chaotic start, the group had pulled it all together, with a performance of 'Don't Rain On My Parade' performed almost flawlessly by Rachel, followed by 'You Can't Always Get What You Want', which Dylan did kill (or at least she hoped), earning The New Directions first place at sectionals.
But even amongst the celebrations and sighs of relief, Dylan still felt like a thumb. She sat on the sofa in the green room, having changed lightning quick out of the dress and back into her hoody and jeans, surrounded by excited chatter and carefree laughter.
She eyed Santana quietly.
She didn't feel like she had a lot to be carefree about.
"You want a ride back?"
Dylan glanced up at Finn hoping her surprise didn't show. She thought of the idea of another bus ride back, and that slap echoed through her mind. "Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks," she answered, standing from the sofa and unintentionally making eye contact with Puck from across the room. She quickly diverted her gaze to Finn, who only smiled a crooked smile.
"Don't worry. I owe you," he replied, nudging her with his elbow as they walked side-by-side out of the green room. "I mean, you saved the day, right?"
She smiled falsely, thinking of Santana, and Puck, and Quinn. "Right."
*****
Our girl Dylan going through the ringer, that's for sure.
Quite a heavy chapter with a lot going on. Let me know what you think. How did y'all feel about the slap? Controversial take but I do like pucks character and I do plan to do a lot revolving around him and Dylan's relationship but nevertheless. . . THAT SLAP WAS DESERVED! Though our girl does not like violence and so obviously she's not feeling great about it.
Also Dylan and Quinn, y'all were so cute for a short second there 😭 the angst is necessary. Expect a lot of it!!!! This is far from a fast-burn, okay? I'll warn you of that.
Also Santana being a sneaky little b*tch.
And Dylan and Finn on good-ish terms? A new brotp? Or will this one combust like just about every other friendship Dylan had had? Time will tell.
Also so unrelated but I can't wait until Dylan meets Sam and Blaine and COACH BEISTE!
Let me know your thoughts and predictions!!! All interactions are very much appreciated.
Anyhoo, memes!!
Dylan on the phone with Finn:
Dylan this entire chapter (and life tbf)
What Finn and Dylan be giving
Again, Dylan in general:
Dylan and Puck (sorrynotsorry!