"He -- he doesn't seem that evil," Scott says hesitantly, lowering his sword to his side. The guy flashes a smile. It's a smile that belongs on a movie poster, but not, like, in a Lucas Lee way. In a charisma way. "He seems kind of nice."
Ramona is holding steady (and grim. Scott knew she could get kind of broody, but he hadn't realized she had this intense of a capacity for grimness) by his side. "Trust me. He sucks."
Sitting on the steps behind them, Wallace says, "He looks like he sucks." He doesn't sound like he thinks this is necessarily a bad thing. Scott doesn't think he is using the word 'sucks' the same way that Ramona is using it.
"Hey, Ramona," says Evil Ex # ... well, Scott isn't actually sure what number this is. (He kind of lost track somewhere along the way.) "Long time no see." Ex #Whatever gives that same broad, movie-star-but-friendly smile.
"Wallace!" Scott hollers over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off the man standing in the street. "What number is this guy?!"
"Scott," says Wallace. He sounds calm. How does he sound so calm?! "There is a giant number on his T-shirt. I'd guess that."
Ramona, meanwhile, is ignoring both of them. "Oh, can it, Schuester," she snaps.
"Ramona," says 'Schuester,' a little reproachful but mostly sad. He has kind eyes. Scott wants to hug him. "I guess you never worked on your stuff that broke us up, huh?"
She makes this noise that Scott has never ever heard out of her before. It's a little hot. Is he allowed to be distracted by hotness?
"But you know what? That's okay," continues Schuester. "I forgive you. But -- here; I've got this great therapist's card," he's digging in his back pocket, "and I just know he would be able to help you help yourself."
Scott's eyebrows start to lower.
"And then," Schuester finishes, "we can finally be together."
"Hey!" Scott objects, and Schuester really looks at him for the first time. Scott almost falters -- kind! eyes! -- but then he spots the diminishing residue of the sparkles and his resolve hardens. "You can't do that!"
Schuester laughs. It sounds friendly, but Scott is starting to think he's a a little douchey. "Why not?"
Scott strikes a heroic pose with his sword. " 'Cause she's with me."
When Ramona steps on his foot as she turns around, Scott thinks it probably isn't an accident. "Oh, just fight already," she says, and she stomps back to her front steps to sit down beside Wallace. He offers her the bag of chips he's idly snacking on.
Scott is still hopping in pain when Schuester dances into position. It's so smooth and so effortless; Scott watches him, mesmerized -- and then Schuester hits him in the face.
"I understand you better than you think," Schuester calls to Ramona, over Scott's fallen body. "I've been called a slut for two days of my life; I've felt," he thuds against his own chest with a theatrical open hand, "what it's like when prejudiced people discriminate against you."
"Dude," say Ramona and Wallace simultaneously. She sounds unbelievably pissed off; he sounds really, really amused.
Scott wobbles his way to his feet. "Who is this guy?" he demands of Ramona.
She sighs sharply from behind him. "Look," she says. "I'm not originally from New York. He may not be much, but he's pretty much the hottest thing that town has got, and there was a certain illicit thrill in sneaking around with my former Spanish teacher."
"May not be much?!" yells Schuester.
"SPANISH TEACHER?!" yells Scott.
Schuester spins into a kick; Scott blocks it and frantically ducks backward under a flurry of moves that actually look really nice but would probably kill him if they caught him.
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Ramona is holding steady (and grim. Scott knew she could get kind of broody, but he hadn't realized she had this intense of a capacity for grimness) by his side. "Trust me. He sucks."
Sitting on the steps behind them, Wallace says, "He looks like he sucks." He doesn't sound like he thinks this is necessarily a bad thing. Scott doesn't think he is using the word 'sucks' the same way that Ramona is using it.
"Hey, Ramona," says Evil Ex # ... well, Scott isn't actually sure what number this is. (He kind of lost track somewhere along the way.) "Long time no see." Ex #Whatever gives that same broad, movie-star-but-friendly smile.
"Wallace!" Scott hollers over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off the man standing in the street. "What number is this guy?!"
"Scott," says Wallace. He sounds calm. How does he sound so calm?! "There is a giant number on his T-shirt. I'd guess that."
Ramona, meanwhile, is ignoring both of them. "Oh, can it, Schuester," she snaps.
"Ramona," says 'Schuester,' a little reproachful but mostly sad. He has kind eyes. Scott wants to hug him. "I guess you never worked on your stuff that broke us up, huh?"
She makes this noise that Scott has never ever heard out of her before. It's a little hot. Is he allowed to be distracted by hotness?
"But you know what? That's okay," continues Schuester. "I forgive you. But -- here; I've got this great therapist's card," he's digging in his back pocket, "and I just know he would be able to help you help yourself."
Scott's eyebrows start to lower.
"And then," Schuester finishes, "we can finally be together."
"Hey!" Scott objects, and Schuester really looks at him for the first time. Scott almost falters -- kind! eyes! -- but then he spots the diminishing residue of the sparkles and his resolve hardens. "You can't do that!"
Schuester laughs. It sounds friendly, but Scott is starting to think he's a a little douchey. "Why not?"
Scott strikes a heroic pose with his sword. " 'Cause she's with me."
When Ramona steps on his foot as she turns around, Scott thinks it probably isn't an accident. "Oh, just fight already," she says, and she stomps back to her front steps to sit down beside Wallace. He offers her the bag of chips he's idly snacking on.
Scott is still hopping in pain when Schuester dances into position. It's so smooth and so effortless; Scott watches him, mesmerized -- and then Schuester hits him in the face.
"I understand you better than you think," Schuester calls to Ramona, over Scott's fallen body. "I've been called a slut for two days of my life; I've felt," he thuds against his own chest with a theatrical open hand, "what it's like when prejudiced people discriminate against you."
"Dude," say Ramona and Wallace simultaneously. She sounds unbelievably pissed off; he sounds really, really amused.
Scott wobbles his way to his feet. "Who is this guy?" he demands of Ramona.
She sighs sharply from behind him. "Look," she says. "I'm not originally from New York. He may not be much, but he's pretty much the hottest thing that town has got, and there was a certain illicit thrill in sneaking around with my former Spanish teacher."
"May not be much?!" yells Schuester.
"SPANISH TEACHER?!" yells Scott.
Schuester spins into a kick; Scott blocks it and frantically ducks backward under a flurry of moves that actually look really nice but would probably kill him if they caught him.
"Former Spanish teacher!" Ramona hollers.
(Wallace says, "Nice."
Ramona says, "I was 19. Shut up.")
"RAMONA WHY IS HE RAPPING!!"