fic: thistle & weeds - brittany/santana (1/?)
title: thistle & weeds (1/?)
pairing: Brittany/Santana
rating: PG-13 (possible R)
summary: Santana struggles to keep a grip on her life.
spoilers: Post-2x04
disclaimer: I do not own Glee, or any of these characters, no offense intended.
Santana doesn’t like to talk about things.
Sure: sex, cheerios, glee club, questionable fashion choices, sex - these she will talk about. But things like feelings and the future and her hopes and dreams and mommy and daddy fighting?
Get a grip.
It sticks in her mind how lucky she is that the school colors are red sitting in the waiting room of the principals office. Blood on her hand and on her skirt, she can only feel relief that she won’t have to bother her parents for dry cleaning. One less thing.
It’s in this stark curiosity of blood finding its way into the tiny creases of her knuckle that a pathetic little groan disrupts her. She looks two seats down and sees a bloody nose and the asshole it belongs to.
She smiles.
The parents are gonna sue, of course. Her parents are gonna pay, of course. Like any other time in her life, it’s her parents money to the rescue.
The family lawyer that sits next to her in the meeting, both of her parents at work.
(“Take care of it,” they must’ve said, irritated and too busy, as usual.)
It’s when she thinks this entire thing is behind her that she walks into the practice room to find only Mr. Schuester.
“Where is everybody?” She nearly slaps herself for the stupidity of the question. She already knows what this is.
“Sit down, Santana.”
“No, I think I want - ”
“Sit down, Santana.”
Uh-oh. Mr. Shue has the serious voice. She’d find it kind of hot if wasn’t so annoying. If this entire situation wasn’t a big waste of her time. She sits down anyways.
“What you did was very serious.”
“Really? Because I thought I’d be made valedictorian after that.”
He shakes his head. “Drop the sarcasm, Santana, I’m trying to talk to you about this. You can’t go around punching kids.”
“Seems to go over pretty well for me. I figure I bring in a lot of business to the plastic surgery firm with all the nose jobs, and maybe I’ll go up another size in the spring.”
“The kid is a straight A student. He’s on the debate team... what possessed you to punch him?”
“So because he gets good grades, he’s never allowed to get his ass kicked? Sounds like a load of - ”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It is what you’re saying, Mr. Shue.” She stands up and starts walking towards the door. “Next time I’ll make sure to slam on a kid getting out of detention.”
“If you walk out that door, Santana, you’re out of Glee club.” At this, she stops. Damn, Mr. Shue. “I just want to talk, okay?”
“Cut the after school special crap, Mr. Shue. You have no idea what I’m going through.”
“Tell me, then.”
“Why don’t you just send me to Little Miss OCD? At least there I can ‘accidentally’ drop my moldy ham and cheese on her lap and be done with it like that.”
She snaps her fingers to accentuate her point, startling him.
“I didn’t think he’d take me seriously.” Santana crosses her arms over her chest and leans back into her seat, feet kicking a beat against the leg of Miss Pillsbury’s desk. “You know I threatened to damage your fragile little psyche and he still sent me? What a catch you have there.”
“This meeting is about you, Santana.” A pencil adjusted until its perfectly parallel with the paperwork. “You’ll be spending an hour in here every day until we have some progress.”
“Telling me that I get to miss out on Algebra every day is supposed to make me want progress?” She pulls out a nail file for good measure, lightly grazing her already perfectly manicured nails. “I don’t know, I think these sort of deep, dark issues I have will take a long time to get out in the open.”
“You broke a boys nose. You shouldn’t take this lightly.”
“If I was taking it lightly, I would’ve just given him a dead arm or a black eye.” Santana fixes Emma with a long, hard look, until she’s squirming in her seat. She doesn’t even fight the triumphant smirk that comes after. “I always know what I’m doing.”
This is not Santana’s week.
She walks out of Miss Pillsbury’s office to find Brittany waiting at her locker. “You broke his nose. He’ll never be able to smell again.”
“Yeah, well, I was having a bad day and he was the first guy that pissed me off. Bad luck for him.”
She can feel Brittany’s fingers graze her elbow lightly, before a hand clasps her own. “You don’t hit people, you’re not like that.”
Santana shakes her hand off. “I am like that.”
“Is this about the duets? You didn’t wanna be my partner, so I was Artie’s, and me and Artie really liked each other and - ”
“Shut up, Brittany. Your brain’s leaking again.”
Brow furrowed, confusion in her eyes. “You don’t make any sense.”
The slam of a locker door causes them both to jump. It bubbles over into her frustration, and Santana fixes Brittany with as cold of a face as she can. “No, you just don’t get it.”
“I don’t.” Brittany looks down and away. Fingers clasping onto her uniform, feet turned inward on a shuffle. “I never do.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“Maybe - ” Brittany stops, hesitates, but after a deep breath, regains her confidence. “Maybe it’s both.”
“What now?”
“Both of us. We’re just... I don’t get it, I never do, you’re right. But that’s... that’s me, isn’t it? It’s who I am, and you know that. You know that right?”
Santana can’t find anything to say.
“You should. I don’t... I don’t think like you do, San, and I’m... it’s really starting to bug me that you don’t get that. You keep trying to change me and I’m just - it isn’t going to happen, okay?” The bell rings for class, so Brittany leans forward and kisses her on the cheek, before backpedaling towards the gym. “I still love you, though, don’t worry.”
It should probably mean something that she leaves her window open. It probably does, but like Santana is really going to ponder on that while she tries (and fails) to sleep.
Still, when she hears the familiar noise of Brittany struggling through it, it’s not surprise she’s choking back, but that despicable feeling of getting exactly what she was waiting for. She hears the lamp on her desk knocked onto the floor, along with all of her (untouched) homework assignments.
“I’m really bad at that.” No lights are turned on, only the slight sink of her mattress, and the warmth of a body against hers. Brittany’s hand laid flat along Santana’s stomach, her chest against her back. It’s as simple as this. “Why don’t I use the front door again?”
“It isn’t like using a credit card on your door, Britt. We have an alarm.”
“Right.” She feels her smile against the back of her neck. “I don’t have a credit card.”
Santana waits an exact, calculated minute before turning over. “You’re not mad at me anymore, I see.”
“I wasn’t mad. I thought you were mad at me.”
“I was.”
“Guessed right this time.” Her voice is soft, but there’s a demureness to it that catches Santana off guard. She would annihilate anyone who made Brittany act like this. She just never expected she’d be one of them. “But you’re not anymore?”
Santana just shakes her head.
“Why’d you punch him?”
“He deserved it.”
“Dicks and stones.”
“Sticks and stones, B. And that wasn’t - ”
“We had a quiz in Spanish today, so I had a lot of time to think about it. I have a lot of guesses.”
A smile before she can stop it. “You can be pretty determined, you know.”
“I learned from the best.” After a moment. “So why’d you punch him?”
“He - ” Before she can continue, the sound of a door slamming down the hall stops her short. Neither of them jump in surprise at the noise, nor do either of them move a single inch when Santana’s dad starts to yell and her mom throws something (a picture frame is her weapon of choice) against the wall, shattered glass echoing down.
Brittany’s hand over hers, a squeeze, and dammit if this is when Santana can feel the burn of tears in her eyes. As kids, it was exactly like this -same big house, same fight. Only then Brittany would whisper to her everything is going to be fine like she believed it, because she did.
But now, even Brittany knows.
to be continued...
pairing: Brittany/Santana
rating: PG-13 (possible R)
summary: Santana struggles to keep a grip on her life.
spoilers: Post-2x04
disclaimer: I do not own Glee, or any of these characters, no offense intended.
Santana doesn’t like to talk about things.
Sure: sex, cheerios, glee club, questionable fashion choices, sex - these she will talk about. But things like feelings and the future and her hopes and dreams and mommy and daddy fighting?
Get a grip.
It sticks in her mind how lucky she is that the school colors are red sitting in the waiting room of the principals office. Blood on her hand and on her skirt, she can only feel relief that she won’t have to bother her parents for dry cleaning. One less thing.
It’s in this stark curiosity of blood finding its way into the tiny creases of her knuckle that a pathetic little groan disrupts her. She looks two seats down and sees a bloody nose and the asshole it belongs to.
She smiles.
The parents are gonna sue, of course. Her parents are gonna pay, of course. Like any other time in her life, it’s her parents money to the rescue.
The family lawyer that sits next to her in the meeting, both of her parents at work.
(“Take care of it,” they must’ve said, irritated and too busy, as usual.)
It’s when she thinks this entire thing is behind her that she walks into the practice room to find only Mr. Schuester.
“Where is everybody?” She nearly slaps herself for the stupidity of the question. She already knows what this is.
“Sit down, Santana.”
“No, I think I want - ”
“Sit down, Santana.”
Uh-oh. Mr. Shue has the serious voice. She’d find it kind of hot if wasn’t so annoying. If this entire situation wasn’t a big waste of her time. She sits down anyways.
“What you did was very serious.”
“Really? Because I thought I’d be made valedictorian after that.”
He shakes his head. “Drop the sarcasm, Santana, I’m trying to talk to you about this. You can’t go around punching kids.”
“Seems to go over pretty well for me. I figure I bring in a lot of business to the plastic surgery firm with all the nose jobs, and maybe I’ll go up another size in the spring.”
“The kid is a straight A student. He’s on the debate team... what possessed you to punch him?”
“So because he gets good grades, he’s never allowed to get his ass kicked? Sounds like a load of - ”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It is what you’re saying, Mr. Shue.” She stands up and starts walking towards the door. “Next time I’ll make sure to slam on a kid getting out of detention.”
“If you walk out that door, Santana, you’re out of Glee club.” At this, she stops. Damn, Mr. Shue. “I just want to talk, okay?”
“Cut the after school special crap, Mr. Shue. You have no idea what I’m going through.”
“Tell me, then.”
“Why don’t you just send me to Little Miss OCD? At least there I can ‘accidentally’ drop my moldy ham and cheese on her lap and be done with it like that.”
She snaps her fingers to accentuate her point, startling him.
“I didn’t think he’d take me seriously.” Santana crosses her arms over her chest and leans back into her seat, feet kicking a beat against the leg of Miss Pillsbury’s desk. “You know I threatened to damage your fragile little psyche and he still sent me? What a catch you have there.”
“This meeting is about you, Santana.” A pencil adjusted until its perfectly parallel with the paperwork. “You’ll be spending an hour in here every day until we have some progress.”
“Telling me that I get to miss out on Algebra every day is supposed to make me want progress?” She pulls out a nail file for good measure, lightly grazing her already perfectly manicured nails. “I don’t know, I think these sort of deep, dark issues I have will take a long time to get out in the open.”
“You broke a boys nose. You shouldn’t take this lightly.”
“If I was taking it lightly, I would’ve just given him a dead arm or a black eye.” Santana fixes Emma with a long, hard look, until she’s squirming in her seat. She doesn’t even fight the triumphant smirk that comes after. “I always know what I’m doing.”
This is not Santana’s week.
She walks out of Miss Pillsbury’s office to find Brittany waiting at her locker. “You broke his nose. He’ll never be able to smell again.”
“Yeah, well, I was having a bad day and he was the first guy that pissed me off. Bad luck for him.”
She can feel Brittany’s fingers graze her elbow lightly, before a hand clasps her own. “You don’t hit people, you’re not like that.”
Santana shakes her hand off. “I am like that.”
“Is this about the duets? You didn’t wanna be my partner, so I was Artie’s, and me and Artie really liked each other and - ”
“Shut up, Brittany. Your brain’s leaking again.”
Brow furrowed, confusion in her eyes. “You don’t make any sense.”
The slam of a locker door causes them both to jump. It bubbles over into her frustration, and Santana fixes Brittany with as cold of a face as she can. “No, you just don’t get it.”
“I don’t.” Brittany looks down and away. Fingers clasping onto her uniform, feet turned inward on a shuffle. “I never do.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“Maybe - ” Brittany stops, hesitates, but after a deep breath, regains her confidence. “Maybe it’s both.”
“What now?”
“Both of us. We’re just... I don’t get it, I never do, you’re right. But that’s... that’s me, isn’t it? It’s who I am, and you know that. You know that right?”
Santana can’t find anything to say.
“You should. I don’t... I don’t think like you do, San, and I’m... it’s really starting to bug me that you don’t get that. You keep trying to change me and I’m just - it isn’t going to happen, okay?” The bell rings for class, so Brittany leans forward and kisses her on the cheek, before backpedaling towards the gym. “I still love you, though, don’t worry.”
It should probably mean something that she leaves her window open. It probably does, but like Santana is really going to ponder on that while she tries (and fails) to sleep.
Still, when she hears the familiar noise of Brittany struggling through it, it’s not surprise she’s choking back, but that despicable feeling of getting exactly what she was waiting for. She hears the lamp on her desk knocked onto the floor, along with all of her (untouched) homework assignments.
“I’m really bad at that.” No lights are turned on, only the slight sink of her mattress, and the warmth of a body against hers. Brittany’s hand laid flat along Santana’s stomach, her chest against her back. It’s as simple as this. “Why don’t I use the front door again?”
“It isn’t like using a credit card on your door, Britt. We have an alarm.”
“Right.” She feels her smile against the back of her neck. “I don’t have a credit card.”
Santana waits an exact, calculated minute before turning over. “You’re not mad at me anymore, I see.”
“I wasn’t mad. I thought you were mad at me.”
“I was.”
“Guessed right this time.” Her voice is soft, but there’s a demureness to it that catches Santana off guard. She would annihilate anyone who made Brittany act like this. She just never expected she’d be one of them. “But you’re not anymore?”
Santana just shakes her head.
“Why’d you punch him?”
“He deserved it.”
“Dicks and stones.”
“Sticks and stones, B. And that wasn’t - ”
“We had a quiz in Spanish today, so I had a lot of time to think about it. I have a lot of guesses.”
A smile before she can stop it. “You can be pretty determined, you know.”
“I learned from the best.” After a moment. “So why’d you punch him?”
“He - ” Before she can continue, the sound of a door slamming down the hall stops her short. Neither of them jump in surprise at the noise, nor do either of them move a single inch when Santana’s dad starts to yell and her mom throws something (a picture frame is her weapon of choice) against the wall, shattered glass echoing down.
Brittany’s hand over hers, a squeeze, and dammit if this is when Santana can feel the burn of tears in her eyes. As kids, it was exactly like this -same big house, same fight. Only then Brittany would whisper to her everything is going to be fine like she believed it, because she did.
But now, even Brittany knows.
to be continued...