[DCU+HSM] First Impressions Never Stick

[sunrises]

Title: First Impressions Never Stick
Fandom: DC Comics + High School Musical crossover, takes place in Final Fantasy 8's universe. (Features cameos from Greek mythology, DC Comics, Final Fantasy XIII, Yu Yu Hakusho and Wizards of Waverly Place. Also blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameos.)
Relationship: Tom Bronson/Sharpay Evans
Summary: Sharpay hates military school. And Thomas Bronson. Or so she thinks. It takes one very weird school project for her to realize otherwise.
Disclaimer: Clearly I own none of this! If I did, I wouldn't be writing fic. ♥ Everything here belongs to its respective creators.

Everything about military school sucked. From the outright garish uniforms to the "can do" attitude of the students, you thought you'd have a horrible year. Compared to the glitz and glamour of Deling, Balamb Garden didn't have much to offer. Sure, they had a safe haven for off-worlders like you, who arrived suddenly into this strange and foreign world without warning, and they had free room and board in addition to classes offered by the school.

But what kind of school offered classes in para-magic and the fine art of beheading your enemies? Even for military school, Garden didn't sound much like one on Earth. At least, you were sure of it: magic didn't exist back home, and most people wouldn't learn twenty ways to kill strange animals that resembled squirrels.

Yet Ballroom Dancing appealed to you, and some of the other classes resembled the ones you'd taken back home in high school. Or what you remembered of Biology and Physics, anyway. You'd never needed to take a class in "Limit Break Theory" nor "Military Movement," though you somehow managed to pass them with relative ease once you'd gotten a good grasp on the material. Maybe this degree didn't matter for anything, but you'd be darned if you didn't give them your all.

You'd heard the rumors about you in the hall sometimes - how you were some stupid kid who came crawling back when you couldn't pass for a native anymore and how you expected the world to bow at your feet - and as much as you tried to ignore them, the pain didn't stop. How dare they insult you without knowing a single thing! Like just how much you had to work for your talent in the theater...! And how you had to try to look this good every day!

How dare they insinuate that they knew you without really knowing you! Taking your frustration out on your lessons and the poor monsters in the Training Center, you learned very quickly how to Junction spells to yourself. First came Blizzard, then Blizzara... with each one, you reveled in how much stronger the spells made you feel. Was this how some of the other off-worlders felt, when they openly used their powers in public?

Whether you'd realized it or not, life had settled in a routine. You attended classes, ate, attended more classes, attempted to be social in the evenings with random clubs here and there, and fought in the Center at least twice a week once you felt more confident in taking those Grats down. Nothing - and you thought you meant nothing - could shake that routine off its steady track.

Then you walked into World History the next morning and took your seat in your usual place at the front of the room. Normally, Instructor Russo would sit on his desk and lecture from his comfortable perch, but today, he apparently had something different in mind like the overeager teacher he usually was. Holding out a magician's top hat, he motioned for people to go ahead and draw numbers. Eagerly, you took the hat and pulled out your number.

As you did (you received your lucky number, of course), Instructor explained to the whole class, "We're trying something a little different this week. I've randomly divided you into groups of two for your next project. Instead of working on it alone, I want you two to present to me a history of one of this world's cities. Tell me their history from 200 years ago to now, but focus on an aspect that you think's interesting. Like if you're interested in trade, talk about that... or their wildlife. Anything, as long as it's specific to the region."

You groaned - you hated group work in high school, why would you like it now? - and stared again at your number. With much reluctance, you rose from your seat at the same time most other students gathered in their groups. "Does anyone else have a one?"

"I do."

Swerving to face the source of that voice, you raise an eyebrow as you inspect the guy coming over to you. You've seen him a couple of times prior to now; usually, he lounged around the Quad with a cigarette in-between his fingers. What was his name again...? What's-his-face snorts as he approaches you, though he seems to share your sentiments with the randomization of the groups.

"Sharpay, right?" He says, tilting his head to the side and holding out his hand. Ew, even when he tries to cover up the smoke with some weird orange cologne, you can still smell it on his fingers. You don't mean to wrinkle your nose, so you try to cover it up with one of the brightest smiles you can muster. You think of Montez, and how easily she can smile, like nothing in the world ever truly bothers her.

It hurts to admit it, but people always responded to them better. You nod, belatedly admitting, "Yeah. I'm sorry, I didn't---"

"Tom," He laughs, as if he knew the answer was coming before you did. "Tom Bronson. What're you specializing in?"

Without missing a single beat, you take a seat and motion for him to follow suit. "Co-Ops," you smile brightly, this time making your smile genuine. "What about you?"

He sheepishly shrugs, "Probably Martial Arts. It looks the easiest."

"Really?" You raise an eyebrow, trying not to let your judgment color your words---even though it totally does, "Easy? What kind of world did you come from?"

Curling his fingers into fists, Tom - Tommy? - smiles back at you, though it feels forced. "One not exactly like this. If anything, I'd say it's worse."

You open your mouth to disagree, because what kind of world could be worse than this, but Instructor Russo has returned to the front of the room. He coughs to get everyone's attention, even the random couple that decided to play finger football, before climbing onto his desk again.

"Alright," He says, gazing at his students. "Where's group one?"

You and Tom raise your hands. He smiles, glancing down at the list in his hands, "Okay, so what city do you want---"

"Deling, if you'd please!" You didn't even wait for him to finish. Tom gives you a wry look, as if he completely expected you to respond in that manner, but Instructor Russo's eyes widen. He sighs, rubbing his temples, before moving onto the next group on his list. If you cared about the rest of the names and cities, you'd pay attention, but as it is, this whole situation sucks. You mentally brainstorm how you can easily - and quickly - finish this project without ever seeing this guy (and his cigarette smoke) again. Garden's a decent-sized school, so it'd be easy to avoid him if you planned carefully.

"Hey," Tom says, nudging you carefully. "When do you want to get together to work on this?"

Right. Until this stupid project was done, you couldn't afford to avoid him. You think about it for a moment before responding, "We've got two weeks, right? So we've got some time."

"Not that much," He snorts, casually leaning back in his seat. "I know I'm a last-minute kind of person, but we should probably figure out just what the crap we're doing."

Tempted to make a cutting remark about the use of his language, you try your best to hold your tongue. People at East High just didn't talk like that, and if they did, either you or Troy usually got to them first. "Fine," You relent, opening your notebook as if you're going to take notes. "Tomorrow night, then? Seven in the library?"

"Sounds good to me," Tom nods, looking over at your notebook before he pulls out a pen and writes it down on his wrist. (Doesn't the guy carry paper with him?) "I'll see you then."

By sheer luck, Instructor Russo decides to end class early, so everone immediately rushes out the minute he says "Class Dimissed." You decide to wait until you leave, mainly because it's a madhouse and you'd rather not ruin your new high-heels trying to escape that crowd. The minute you head down to your next class, you can't help thinking about your appointment - you refuse to think of it as anything more - with Tom.

If you can survive that meeting, you're sure you can survive whatever Garden has to throw at you for the next year.








Tomorrow evening crept up on you. After dinner, you glanced down at your planner and realized belatedly that you should have been at the library ten minutes ago. Perhaps you should've run there instead of casually walking, but by the time you arrived, Tom had been waiting at a table near the window.

He rose to his feet and waved at you. Walking past the counter, you waved back before you stopped by his table and took a seat across from him.

"Hey," You whispered, trying not to attract the attention of the librarian. "Sorry I'm late."

"It's fine," He whispered back, setting down a couple of books before you. "I went ahead and ask the librarian for the books on Deling."

"Aww," You cooed, more out of habit than any malicious intent to put him down, "That's sweet, but I think I know more than these do since I was just there."

He raised an eyebrow before going ahead and leafing through the first one he'd picked out, "Oh? How long were you there?"

"A year," You declared proudly, already rifling through your purse for an extra programme to show him. Showing the latest, you pointed down to your autograph, "See? I was one of the leads and everything."

"And you decided to give up the stage for school...?" He asked, scratching his cheek. "I'm sorry, Shar, but I don't see where this is---"

"Not like I had a choice," You rolled your eyes. "I can't pass for a native if I don't know where Esthar is in relation to Deling or well, where anything is in relation to Deling."

"Sounds about right," One cadet - apparently having overheard your entire conversation - retorts as he passes through. Leaning in, he casually ruffles Tom's hair before commenting, "Hey, that the girl you mentioned?"

Tom lightly swatted at his friend's hands, "Jason!" He whined, making a face at the other Cadet, "Come on, can't you let us finish our study thing on time? I promise, I'll help you with your Math project afterwards..."

Jason nods, playfully saluting at you before heading towards the exit. You watch for a moment longer before leaning forward and resting your hands underneath your chin. "That a friend of yours?"

"Yeah," Tom grins, looking happier than at any point you'd seen him before, "We usually hang out every weekend."

You decided not to ask what they did on the weekends. From Tom's scent alone, you could already decipher that it was nothing you wanted to partake in, let alone witness. Whatever they did was absolutely, positively none of your concern... so you politely nodded. "Sounds nice," You remarked, sounding more wistful than you'd wished to let on.

Sure, you had friends. Most of them knew about your time in Deling and how you adored the theater, but you didn't have many close friends yet. Without your daddy's money and reputation, you had absolutely nothing to back up your claims---and as you quickly realized, people tended to treat you differently when you had everything to lose. Friendship seemed to come much, much easier to everyone else around you, Tom not being the exception to the rule.

He tilted his head at you, "I guess so."

His attention was honestly more on the book than you. You coughed, forcing him to look up before you amended, "So anyways, I'm here only until I know enough to keep acting on the stage. So don't count on me doing those ridiculous SeeD missions or whatever."

He snorted - his laughter was getting annoying, "I don't exactly want to do them either. Really, most of us don't... but what choice do we have?" Pointing his finger on a page, he held it out in front of her. "Anyways. Why don't we do something about Galbadia's political situation in Deling? You like drama, and this seems to be nothing but one big glorified soap opera."

How'd he manage to guess? You smile, taking the book into your hands. "Sounds reasonable. So we would write a report on how Deling became the capital of Galbadia and how it influenced the rest of the nation?"

"Yeah," He nodded. "That'd be easier than focusing on like, the trade or the wildlife or something equally obscure."

"Ew," you wrinkle your nose. "Why would someone ever do their project on the wildlife?"

"There's a lot of money to be made in hunting," Tom wryly remarked, still sounding more amused than he should. "I don't know what kind of world you're from, but on Earth..."

You gave him a completely unamused look, "You mean you're from Earth? With the United States and Canada and everything?"

"Y-yeah, actually...." He blinked, staring back at you bewilderedly. "You mean you're from Earth too?"

"Well, yeah," You smirked, folding your arms. "New Mexico, actually."

"New York," He confessed, pulling the book up over his eyes so that he couldn't look back at her. "I don't think this means we're from the same world, though... considering mine still had magic. And vampires." He paused for a moment before adding, "and werepanthers."

Why would he add that, of all things...? You tried to hide your confusion, but you weren't too sure if you succeeded, "Probably not. But it's weird that you're from Earth too."

He wasn't exactly the first Earthling you'd met since you'd arrived, but he certainly was the first who was also from the same country. Most of your friends had come from other parts of the globe, like Japan or Canada, so it was hard to pinpoint if their worlds were the same. For the sake of simplicity, you'd assumed so, but Tom? His world had all these supernatural elements that you couldn't blatantly deny or accept.

"Guess so," He agreed, placing the book back on the table. "But getting back to the project... this book's got a pretty good summary of Galbadia for the past twenty years. Check if your book has anything further? Instructor Russo says he wants the past two hundred years, so we've gotta be thorough."

It's weird calling Instructor Russo Instructor, especially since he's about your age, but you don't question Tom's politeness concerning your teacher. After all, Instructor Russo had an even weirder name for you the first time he saw you---all week, he kept calling you Maddie Fitzpatrick. Who the heck was she? Instructor Russo said she was some friend of his that looked like you, but there was no way you had a doppelganger like her. She sounded too weird to be true.

"Probably," You nod, now finally paying attention to your book. "I'll let you know if it does in a few minutes."

You don't remember the last time you actually sat down and read a reference book cover to cover. When your teachers lamented how research papers weren't like they used to be, with the students using Google and Wikipedia for everything, you had laughed and thought that they exaggerated it all. But now, sitting across the table from some guy who hadn't learned how to properly use cologne, you realized they were painfully correct.

The itch to find a computer and search the internet never disappeared. You know very well that Garden's computers are ancient technology, compared to your iPod and Mac Book, so they don't even have a fourth of its capabilities. Most Instructors looked at you funny when you whined about the lack of good fashion blogs, so you'd learned to keep your mouth shut.

Could Tom understand your pain? Every now and then, you look up to see Bronson jotting down notes from the stack of books he'd picked out. He's not a very fast writer by any stretch of the imagination - and you don't imagine his writing to be very neat either - but he's certainly made more progress than you have. You're tempted to make him do the brunt of the work, but you'd also just bragged about living in Deling for a whole year.

Now you have to do your share of the work, rather than leaving some smokaholic with the lion's share. Not that you'd think he'd actually do the lion's share, what with his tendency to hang out with Cadets like that Jason fellow every weekend.

You tapped his book to attract his attention again, "This section's got the past hundred years. I think between the two of us, we've got enough for the presentation."

He nodded, looking up at the clock. "Okay. I'll type up what notes I have - and you should too - and we can figure out how to present this to the class. I'd say we could use Powerpoints, but there's no telling just what these old computers are capable of."

So he did know how to use a proper computer...! You couldn't help that smile tugging at your face. "Yeah. It's getting kind of late, and I've got other work to finish."

That was a blatant lie and you knew it: you never did work at this hour, instead cramming most of it in-between the rest of them when you got a chance. Tom probably knew it too, from the way he got up and returned the books to the special shelves Instructor Russo had borrowed for the project. "Sure. We've got a couple of days, so why don't we meet again and figure the rest out then?"

You want to point out that the computers have a BBS system, but even you're not sure if Tom reads every post. Plus, there's also the worry that everyone - including Instructor Russo - will see their planning for the project, and you'd rather not incite his wrath over something so trivial.

"Sure," You said, only realizing moments after you'd walked out the door that you agreed to yet another study session with Mr. Thomas Bronson. Was whatever he was smoking contagious? You thought you wanted to avoid him, not spend extra time with him over some stupid project...!





As it turns out, Tom left a note on your dorm door the next morning to apologize. He couldn't make it for their session, so is it okay if he emails her the rest of the notes and they figure out a not-boring way to present their findings? Your roommate coyly brought the note to you when you woke up and even giggled as she watches you read the whole thing.

"Your study partner's pretty thoughtful," she mused, trying hard to not look as amused as she really is. "Not that I expected any less from Tommy."

You quizically glanced over at her. "You know him?"

"Why wouldn't I?" She pouted, twirling her blue hair in her hands as she floated over towards you. "He was in my First-Aid class. And he needed some help, so I taught him... and now he's helping me with Boxing and Math."

Again with him offering Math help... you wondered for half a second if maybe you should consider asking him to tutor you too. Still, the coincidence's a little much for you to handle at the moment. You sighed, taking the note and folding it into your purse. "Then could you tell him that I really just want to get this stupid project over with?"

Your roommate smiled back at you, "I'll let him know that you're absolutely, positively delighted to work with him, if that's what you mean."

Oh, your roommate was completely evil when she wanted to be. Maybe you'd been rubbing off on her more than you thought you were. You rolled your eyes as you grabbed your bag and opened the door. "Whatever. The sooner this project's over, the better." Or so you kept telling yourself. It was like a mantra---the more you said it, the more you'd buy into it, right? You hoped so. If Bronson was growing on you, it wasn't because you wanted him to be more likeable.





For someone you'd barely noticed for most of the Quarter, you kept seeing him over and over again now that you were trying your best to avoid him. He was walking with Cid, another one of your friends, in the hallways this morning after breakfast... and then you caught him casually chilling with a cigarette and some guy you recognized from your Music class...

At dinner, you saw him at the end of the room with a large group of guys, the kind you wouldn't be caught dead with in a million years. Ignoring him to the best of your ability, you headed back towards the computer room and pulled up your files for another class. You and Tom mostly communicated via email these days, as you'd left him under the impression that you were just too busy for anything more. The truth was, you didn't know what you felt about him.

You wanted to hate him, because he smoked and drank and acted like a general hooligan on the weekends, but then he surprised you and did sweet things like add smiley faces to the ends of every email and even occasionally wave to you in the hallways whenever he saw you.

So, giving in to all temptation, you finally emailed him and said that you wanted to finish your presentation together, in-person, in one of the empty classrooms on the second floor. You were in Professor Fey's good graces, and as long as you didn't disturb her plant, you had free reign.

Tom met you there the following evening, with a slightly less-than-thick stack of freshly-printed paper and a red pen for marking. Sitting on a desk similarly to Instructor Russo, he smiled at you when you walked in. "Hey."

You smiled back at him. "Hey yourself."

Most of the project was done, between each of you editing the words to make it just right, but neither of you quite knew how you wanted to present this paper. Tom once suggested the boring way - aka reading the entire thing - but you balked with the largest font size you could find. Did he want a F?

"So what do you think about a skit?" You suggested.

At the thought, Tom shook his head, "I can't act. Trust me, you really don't want me in charge of something like that."

"Oh, it'll be easy," you reassured him, smiling with all the energy you could muster. "I'll take charge. You don't even have to memorize your lines - though it'd look better if you did - and it shouldn't be more than five minutes." (But if you wanted to, you knew you could make it last the whole hour.)

Tom visibly tensed. Gripping onto the edge of the desk, he made a face at her. "I told you I don't want to... come on, please? I'm really not good at acting."

"Do you get stage fright?"

Tom blinked. Clearly, the thought hadn't occurred to him until now. "I... well, not exactly? I just don't like pretending to be someone I'm not."

Now that was a line of logic that made absolutely no sense to you. Why wouldn't someone want to escape, if only for a moment, and pretend to be someone else? Wear someone else's skin, feel someone else's emotions, and enjoy someone else's life? It was positively thrilling! Before poor Tommy could balk any more, you smile, "Ohh, I see. Well, I think we can come up with something reasonable. Here's, let's start the script..."

You took the seat next to his desk and immediately started to translate the paper into some form of a cohesive skit. With your kind of experience, it isn't a hard task - just a weird one - and you finish it within minutes. Tom had distracted himself by playing with his gunblade necklace (presumably a gift from god-knows-who), but when you tap him on the shoulder, he's able to skim the skit over without problems.

"Looks fine," He nodded, though his face betrayed his calm tone. "I think I can manage that."

For the sake of your grade, you sure hoped he can pull it off. If he didn't, well.... you could kiss your decent grade in World History good-bye.




Wednesday couldn't come soon enough. Between pestering Tom with rehearsal times that he conveniently couldn't make for one reason or another (usually involving lessons or tutoring of some kind - did EVERYONE in Garden use him as a Math tutor?) and practicing your own lines over and over again, your project became less like a school assignment and more like something you might have performed before a school group in Deling.

When you walked through the door, you couldn't help feeling nervous as you turned in your paper and your script for your skit. Taking your usual seat, you smiled at Tom before glancing up at Instructor Russo. The order of presentations went backwards, starting with the last number and saving them for last. You hadn't quite requested for them to present backwards, but it did work in your favor.

The other groups also had unique presentations: Group Nine showcased the cuisine of Balamb by creating samples of each main dish; Group Six showed off different para-magic spells for Esthar; and Group Three decided to have dramatic readings! Then Instructor Russo finally called, "Bronson and Evans, it's your turn."

You nodded at each other before taking center stage. Tom's visibly more nervous, but for your sake, he managed a smile before he cleared his throat and started, "Two hundred years ago, Deling was the young capital of Galbadia...."

Quite honestly, the rest of the project was a complete and total blur. You wished you could remember the rest - because honestly, you worked really hard on that script! - but what you do remember is how well Tom managed to fake his guitar skills for those entire five minutes. You sang the rest of the skit, turning the entire political history into a catchy song not unlike something Billy Joel might've penned, but Tom handled the melody (or lack of it, to be polite).

Even Instructor Russo hummed along to the chorus. When you finished trimphantly, the entire class stood up and applaused. In that moment, you remembered just why you were here at this ridiculous military school that prized fighting more than anything else in the world. Because they prized fighting and saving the world, you could continue your dream of being the world's best performer.... even if you don't quite know the rules of your new home.

The bell rang too quickly for your liking. Most kids lingered, mainly to congratulate each other's fine performances (and Group Nine's excellent cooking skills). You decided to walk over to Tom, just as he was putting his guitar back in its case, and give him a high-five.

"Nice job," You congratulated him, this time sounding as sincere as you can. "I didn't know you could play the guitar like that."

"Neither did I," He confessed, wryly smiling. "I learned like, four chords as a kid... this isn't even my guitar. I borrowed it from Apollo just for today."

You grinned, "Then should I thank Apollo for our grade whenever we get it back?"

Tom laughed, not a ridiculous 'ohmigod are you delusional' laugh but a genuine laugh, "Sure, go for it. He'd probably be flattered."

Admist the crowd, you could hear them talking about you. Instead of the old delusional comments, you actually heard someone praising your singing---and then one even commented on how you and Bronson could even work out as more than just study partners. (You had to wonder if they were the delusional ones.) Still, you'd managed to make a difference, even if you hadn't quite expected it to work out in that fashion.

As people piled out, you remained to talk to Tom. "So um... thanks," You confessed nervously. "I couldn't have done it without you."

Tom glanced at you, as if he couldn't believe what you just told him, but he smiled back as he swung Apollo's guitar case over his shoulder. "Likewise, Evans. I guess I'll see you around?"

He playfully saluted you, as you'd seen him give to Jason and Instructor Russo, before walking through the door and towards his next class. You remained there for a moment longer, letting his scent of smoky oranges wrap you up, before gathering your books and following him out. Okay, so maybe... just maybe... military school didn't suck as much as you claim it did.