fic: maybe once, maybe twice - brittany/santana (1/2)
title: maybe once, maybe twice (1/2)
pairing: Brittany/Santana
rating: R
summary: Santana's stuck.
spoilers: errythang?
disclaimer: I do not own Glee, or any of these characters, no offense intended.
notes: I don't even know what this is, other than I wrote it instead of working. enjoy.
she is dancing away from me now.
she was just a wish.
(gyspy, fleetwood mac)
The truth is, it's not really that complicated. Obstacles and hiccups and challenges are hoisted upon it, like everything - by society, by fear - when really?
It's the simplest thing, loving someone. Santana knows this, now.
But this is later.
One time, at cheer camp? Brittany and Santana fucked.
There were no pillow fights in panties, no feathers falling scattered over silk sheets: only Coronas, limes, Brittany' legs on full display, and the kind of music that invites impropriety. It was fun, harmless, to grind hip against hip, stomachs flush against one another. Then:
Santana tangled a hand in Brittany's hair and pulled. Saw the spark of delight mixed in with surprise. She felt Brittany panting against her neck, felt her pulse reverberating at a million beats per minute, bodies grinding perfectly in sync. And it seemed totally okay that Santana started to get turned on a little.
Okay, turned on a lot.
The room was empty save for the heavy snores of a passed out Freshman in the far corner. So when she kissed her. the wet slide of lips against lips sent the music fading into the background, nothing but the sound of their bated breath and her heart pounding between her ears as the soundtrack.
Bottom lip catching between Brittany's teeth, she opened her eyes to see her looking back, dark and heady with desire.
She groaned.
"B..."
Teeth, lips and tongue. Santana's hands cupped Brittany's ass, lifting her up and against a table, slamming it into the wall, maple scratching at paint. Brittany winced briefly, but recovered, fingers digging into Santana's shoulder blades.
A song was stuck on repeat, catchy beat from a dated playlist. Santana didn't hear any of it. All she heard was Brittany moaning.
Hips locking, she grabbed a hold of her waist and planted the other on the wall. Brittany's breath hitched and Santana lost control of herself, hips bucking wildly against her friend and the shaky breath along her neck, and her nails digging into Brittany's waist and it was almost too much.
Almost. What pushed her over the edge was Brittany and the sounds she was making.
"Oh my god, San - Santana!" Each syllable emphasized with a pull of her hair.
Santana dropped her hand from Brittany's waist between them, sloppily undoing the button and zipper, fingers tripping on denim until they found smooth cotton and heat. She made sure she was looking directly at Brittany, so that when her fingers slipped inside, she could see the look on her face.
(This isn't the best way to begin the story. For the record, things started out pretty innocent between them.
Seriously.)
"So. You new in town?" Santana asked her one day, somewhere in that bottomless pit of awkwardness that is middle school. She asked for lack of anything else to say: she knew the answer, had known Brittany from as way back as second grade recess.
It was the first time she ever spoke to her.
Brittany looked up from tying her shoelaces, squinting against the sun. "I was born here."
“Oh.” Arms crossed. "Aren't you gonna ask me if I'm new in town?"
"We've been in the same class since first grade."
"Really? Not second?"
"Mrs. McClusky, remember? She smelled like my dad's fish tank."
Details fade along with time, but the only thing that matters is that Brittany and Santana have been attached at the hip ever since.
And then -
It occurred to her on a Wednesday at the end of freshman year that Brittany was actually pretty hot.
She'd always been aware of how pretty she was. She’s not blind.
But maybe it was the little bead of sweat that started her off.
Usually, sweat grosses her out, reminding her of lost football games and the way her fingers were left dank after running through Puck's mohawk. But after two hours of hard practicing, when Brittany was stretching her leg across the fence (while the rest of the Cheerios were on their backs panting in the heat), her skin gleamed in the sunlight in a way that would draw the attention of even that fairy Hummel.
Her eyes travelled down the expanse of Brittany's toned thighs like a direct path and it took Ms. Sylvester's blaring voice in the megaphone to tear Santana's attention away.
Santana has never been so dramatic as to proclaim Lima a dead-end town from which there is no escape. There's still an ache there, though.
(And if you tell anyone this, Santana will deny it and then make sure you can't form syllables for weeks.)
She thinks of the future, of possibilities, and the world feels a lot smaller than she's used to seeing it, and there's this loneliness that avalanches over her. She knows that after high school, things are going to change. It's inevitable, and you're one naive duck if you think otherwise.
It's no surprise, then, that Brittany has exactly such a sentiment.
"You shouldn't worry," she says to Santana, empty bottles of hard lemonade around their lounge chairs, the grass looking like snow under the full moon. "We'll always be friends."
She says it not with the kind of certainty Santana expects - the certainty that rings false, overcompensation. Brittany says it like it's simply the truth - because to her, it is.
"Everybody thinks that, Britt. Everybody thinks they're going to be friends forever, that the first person they sleep with is going to be their only. It's a fucking cliché and we're better than that."
"I knew we were going to be best friends when we met," is what Brittany says in response. "And we still are. Is that cliché?"
Santana sighs, finishes the last of her bottle. "No, it isn't."
"Okay." Brittany looks relieved. "I'm glad our friendship isn't a cliché."
Santana smiles despite herself. "Me too."
Some nobody dickwad made Brittany cry during the one class they didn’t have together. Santana found her behind the gym where they tried cigarettes once, legs pulled to her chest, looking tinier than she ever should be allowed to. Santana was eye level with her immediately, paying no mind to the gravel digging into her skin or how the pavement burned from the heat of the day.
The inevitable, infuriated questions: “What happened? What did he say? What’s his name? What does he look like?”
"I know it isn't true, it just..." Brittany wiped away at her cheek, leaving skin raw. "You're not mad at me, are you?"
"Mad at you? Why would I be mad?"
"You told me not to listen to people when they say stuff - most of it isn't true. And I know you're right.” Brittany buried her face in her hands. “But I couldn’t cover my ears hard enough and I heard them and now... now...”
"Hey," Santana pulled her hands away, leaned forward so Brittany was forced to meet her eyes. "Don't. You aren't stupid. Never let anyone tell you that."
Fresh tears fell, even as she nodded in agreement. "Thank you."
"Thank me after I kick his ass."
Brittany grabbed her arm. "Don't go. Please."
"I won't, I promise."
She kissed the tears away from either cheek, manicured nails and cool palm fitting perfectly against the warm curve of her neck. Her other hand mirrored the first and she kissed tearless cheeks again, whispering it's okay, it's gonna be okay strong and sure, Brittany's eyelashes tickling her brow.
"Thank you," Brittany whispered again, lips touching Santana's.
It started out brief and warm but there was a wetness there and maybe Santana licked her lips because of it. Maybe she closed her eyes because the sun was really bright -
Lies.
Everything shifted.
Brittany kissed her again. She was quick, like she was going to kiss and ditch before getting caught and it wouldn’t count and everything would be fine. But when she pulled away, her body stilled and Santana knew this because their thighs touched briefly, and fuck, if the heat of that felt any more amazing, she would’ve croaked over from a heart attack.
This is probably the point of no return, she had thought.
So she kissed her.
It was Brittany who parted her lips first, tongue imploring, cautiously curious, and Santana gripped onto her as tight she ever could.
Brittany pulled until Santana was pressed against her, against the faded bricks of the gym, her hands finding either side of her face. The hard surface of the building scratched at their skin, but Santana didn’t care, because each scrape of her knuckles along bricks meant it was Brittany pulling her closer, tighter. And she'd be damned if she was going to stop her.
"Brittany..." She breathed against her, and later she'd regret the vulnerability, the way her voice caught in her throat and...
The bell rings. They ignore it, at first. But then the onslaught of doors opening and a stampede of shuffling shoes and mindless chatter erupts in the distance and they know. They know.
Santana goes over to Brittany’s on a Wednesday for their weekly study session. Said session includes watching movies and doing each others nails (but sadly doesn't involve pillow fights, despite Puck's insistence otherwise).
Santana gets up to scroll through her iPod, and in the lull as she tries to disentangle the chord and find a song, she can feel Brittany's eyes on her the entire time. She turns, only to find the blonde look away quickly, caught.
"What?"
"Can I ask you something?" Brittany looks up, but doesn't meet her eyes. "And you promise not to laugh?"
"Depends."
Brittany bows her head again. "Oh, then never mind."
"Kidding, B."
"Well...what we did...by the gym..." When Brittany finally looks up, her eyes are wet. "Is it bad that I can't stop thinking about it?"
"About what that fucker said to you?"
Santana asks, even with the answer clear in her mind. Her stomach tightens in a way only familiar to that day. That earnestness in Brittany's eyes is suddenly frightening, however, because this is something that she clearly doesn't understand.
This isn't L.A., this is Lima, and even if they were drunk, and even if guys liked to act like two girls (two cheerleaders) together is their ultimate fantasy, there's still the ugly stares and uglier words and the general misery that befalls anything of this sort.
"About kissing you."
There isn't any pretense of trying to be romantic, or trying to get in her pants like it is with most guys who say things like this (Santana can be honest, though: guys don't talk like this with her, not even close) but simply honesty. Even when she says "you're a really good kisser" quiet and sweet, she is still speaking in questions, waiting for the answer that she just can't grasp. She's holding out her hand waiting for Santana to grab it, to help her, like she always does.
"Um..." Now it's Santana's turn to look away, cheeks burning. Her hands fidget with one another. She doesn't have nervous habits, this is new. "I guess it depends."
"On what?"
"You know how I let you cheat off my homework sometimes?" Brittany nods. "It doesn't hurt anybody, but it's still against the rules, you know? So we don't tell anyone."
It's a stupid analogy, and doesn't quite work, but it's enough for Brittany to understand. "So I shouldn't tell anyone?"
"No, neither of us should."
"Does that...does that mean we can do it again?"
At that, Santana finally looks at her, and this time, there's a spark in Brittany's eyes that wasn't there before. She swallows, seems to regain her confidence, and reaches out to touch Santana's cheek.
"I liked kissing you." Her fingers graze along her cheek tenderly, and Santana leans into the touch, kissing her palm.
Brittany opens her mouth to say something, but this sense of dread catches onto Santana quickly and she kisses her before the moment is ruined. They fall back onto the couch, Santana resting on her elbow while her other hand rests flat on Brittany's stomach.
Her bottom lip catches between Brittany's teeth and Santana presses as much of her body against Brittany's as she can. Eventually, her hand moves up Brittany's Cheerios uniform until she's palming her breast.
This is too much, too fast, this is Brittany, I'm gonna scare her...
She pulls her hand away, grabs onto a pillow for dear life. Not a second later, she feels Brittany' fingers wrap around her wrist and pull her arm down, put her hand back where it was. Santana freezes, pulls back to look at Brittany as her eyes flutter open. The dark stare surprises her, but she sees that spark, that tiny curl at the corner of her lips as her hand puts pressure on Santana’s, breathy mouth just audible enough to make Santana's hips buck involuntarily.
Even still, Santana arches upward and then back against the arm of the couch, nearly falling off. "I should go."
"I want you to stay, though." Brittany sits up, and it's sort of inappropriate how the genuine innocence in her voice, in her eyes, doesn't quite fit with the image of her shirt bunched and her cheeks still flushed. She's being fucking hot at the same time as being sweet and Santana looks away, gets off the couch and searches for her shoes. "We can play a game, if you don't want - "
"No, I just...I have plans, I forgot, and..." Santana makes sure to not look at her, snatching her sneakers and not even pausing to put them on before rushing to the door.
She’s gotten good at pretending like she resents glee club for its homicidal effect on her social life, but when they’re sitting, ignored, in the cafeteria, wheelchairs and cupcakes, there’s no facade needed: “How much have we made again?”
"Two dollars."
"Did the lunch lady sneeze all over the cafeteria food, leaving us as their only choice?" Santana sounds bored, but her eyes belie her interest, eyes scanning the room like a predator.
"One word: Brittany."
Yes, Santana will roll her eyes as a knee-jerk response, but even so, she hates the way it sounds coming from Quinn's nasally, fat, pregnant mouth. But, having to deal with the wheelchair and cupcake embarrassment, she really doesn't have the energy to find out how much trouble she'd get into for punching a pregnant girl in the face.
Instead, she focuses her anger into a glare at a passing band geek, sending him skittering away like a frightened mouse.
"Someone needs to explain to her the point of this."
"Screw that, just let her pay for the whole thing." Santana glares at Puck - he shrugs, but only to disguise himself shrinking away from her. "What? Her dad's loaded."
"Why don't you pay it with all your pool cleaning money?" Santana bites out, and he just rolls his eyes for lack of a good comeback. "Until any of us puts cash in that box, we should just shut up and be glad there's anything in there."
Determined to not look like an idiot, she backs up slowly enough to not catch on anything, and then rolls a straight line out of the cafeteria. Brittany leans against her locker, conveniently next to Santana's, and smiles big when she sees her rolling up.
"Hey - "
"Stop buying cupcakes."
"Why?"
"It defeats the purpose."
"I thought we wanted people to buy them?"
"Other people, as in not us."
"Oh." Brittany's smile doesn't dim quite yet. "The cupcakes looked really good, so - "
"Well, they're not - they reek of gleekitude and not even the most desperate freaks at this school would come anywhere near them," Santana snaps, frustration coming through finally, Brittany stuck in its warpath.
This, this sends the corners of Brittany's mouth down, her mouth a thin line, eyes looking away from Santana, down to her sneakers. "Turn around for a second?"
"Huh?"
"I have to grab something."
"And you need me to turn around because...?"
"It's - it's nothing." Brittany glances at Santana's locker, not quick enough to go unnoticed. The bell rings and Brittany's voice nearly drowns in the sudden flurry of noise as everyone heads to class. "Don't be mad, okay?"
She quickly joins the wave of students, disappearing. Santana steps out of her wheelchair and opens her locker to find a cupcake waiting for her.
It's the inconsequential moments that stick to the back of her mind.
There's their eyes meeting first, immediately, after each song sung, out of breath, the contact electrifying.
There's the innocent way Brittany holds her hand, contrasted with her grip: like she's holding something precious, something meant to be handled with care.
(Santana leaves a cupcake in Brittany’s locker.)
Brittany grins a silly little grin at her during class, and -
- a bathroom stall, legs wrapped around her waist. Santana’s hand pinned between them.
Her other hand grips the top of the door, knuckles white, when Brittany finally pants:
“Your turn.”
"So, even though we're together, you're still gonna go out with guys?" Brittany asks, voice at normal level and thus audible to most of the passing hallway traffic. She sounds curious, rather than defensive. Despite - or, actually, maybe because of - this, Santana grabs her arm and roughly pulls her into an empty classroom. "Ow. That's my cheering arm."
"We're not together, Brittany. We're friends; friends who happen to...engage in some fun, harmless experimenting." Santana suddenly feels like she's in a B-grade movie of the Skinemax variety, the word experimenting stumbling awkwardly out of her mouth. "That isn't dating."
"Right. Dating is, like, flowers and winning big stuffed bears at fairs, right?" Coming from anyone else, the words would be laden with double-meaning, bitterness wrapped in sarcasm, but with Brittany, each drips with genuine sticky-sweet understanding. "Joe Shannon won me one, and I think we were dating."
But she doesn't understand. She thinks she does, but she doesn't. She's being lied to and she has no idea. And this leaves Santana with the distinct desire to slap her or kiss her or something, anything to put some sense in her.
She kind of wishes she had, because a few days later -
"Sex is not dating." Santana rolls her eyes at the thickness of even thinking such a thing. She expects more from Kurt and -
"If it were, Santana and I would be dating."
She isn't one for naivete, but she always had this idea that in life-altering moments, time slows and it's like a race to prevent it from happening, heart beating painful in her throat...
The entire thing really is bullshit, because the moment comes and goes as quickly as...well, as quickly as Brittany saying something she really shouldn't.
She puts on her best strong face and continues the conversation, pushing past the moment, but really, the rest of the morning is a complete blur.
They're the first to arrive to practice. Brittany walks over like nothing is wrong and Santana deliberately dodges a hug. Brittany's face falls immediately, and Santana knows she's going to have to push through this, too, if she wants to succeed.
"You spilled the beans."
"I'm sorry," Brittany bows her head. "Are you mad?"
"It doesn't matter, it's just...let's keep our distance."
"Okay," she nods, but when Santana starts to walk away, she follows beside her.
Santana stops, pushes at Brittany's arm and shakes her head. She can hear voices approaching down the hall, and drops her own to a hush. "No. Distance. As in apart. As in not together at all."
"Oh." Brittany nods again, slower, sadder, and turns to sit down at the opposite end of the steps, just as Mr. Sue, Finn and Rachel enter.
Santana shoves her tongue down some Jock’s throat against the lockers before lunch. Within minutes, Brittany walks down the hall from Spanish, like expected, but only glances at them briefly before turning, seemingly unfazed by what she just saw.
Santana growls in frustration, only whatshisname takes this as a positive thing and palms her ass. This gets him a swift kick to the shin before Santana stalks down the hallway.
“Mr. Shuester says you and Brittany have been acting distant the past few days.” Emma folds her clean, scrawny little hands over one another on the newly disinfected desk, looking at Santana with what has to be the most pathetic empathetic glint in her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“It’s normal... in high school, you feel like you have to fit into a certain box and never stray out of it.”
The foot tapping commences. “Can you just give me a pamphlet? I’m pretty sure it’ll be less painful than this.”
Emma gets up from her seat, walks around her desk and sits next to her, hands on hands, and the sheer frankness of the gesture startles Santana into shock. “Nothing bad is going to happen if you just talk to me. Okay?”
“We had a fight, okay?” Santana squirms from under her touch, making sure to add an extra dose of You crazy? to her glare. “It happens.”
“In this day and age, having a different sexual orientation doesn’t limit your opportunities - ”
“Really, because I’m pretty sure all anybody knows about Lance Bass or Clay Aiken is that they’re both flaming - ”
“Your life is what you make it, Santana. You’re a strong girl, and you know you are. High school ends eventually, and then you’ll be out in the world and you’ll be able to make a name for yourself. Don’t you want that for yourself? For your friend, too?”
“Yeah, but Brittany’s hot - ” Santana catches herself, but just as warmth rises to her cheeks, she roughly clears her throat, sits up and crosses her arms, pushing past the comment entirely. “That makes me Ellen, then?”
“Is your struggle with this really based on what celebrity couple you most resemble?”
Santana looks up at the ceiling in feigned thought. “Let’s see. I marry myself a fine Latino boy with good money and fashion sense, we’re Mr. and Mrs. Mark Anthony. Only after I get my butt implants.”
She sees Miss Pillsbury’s eyes widen, and can’t help a smirk. “That last part was a joke, Miss P.”
“Right.”
There comes a point where you're so worked up over something that all shame and matter of pride is thrown out the window, and this is that point in time for Santana. Everyone files out of Glee the next day, but Santana stays back, grabs a hold of Brittany's arm and forces her to stay back too. Mr. Shue gives them a passing look as he leaves, but seems to catch on for their need of privacy.
"Hey?" Brittany offers hesitantly. "It's okay if I say hey to you, right?"
"Yeah, of course, why wouldn't you?"
"You told me to stay away from you."
"Just for the day, to let things cool down. I thought you understood."
"I guess I didn't."
"Yeah, well, I walked around with Puck and it didn't seem to bother you one bit." Santana can hear herself, and wants to roll her eyes at how passive aggressive she sounds. "You didn't even notice."
Brittany blinks. "I noticed."
"Really?" At this, her arms unfold, but she alternates her hips jutting out to balance out the toughness.
"I felt...It was sort of like I got tazered in the stomach. I thought it was just my lunch. Ms. Sylvester warned me about the bratwurst." Then, as an afterthought: "That, and Mr. Shue's hair."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Brittany shrugs. "I thought you knew."
"How could I possibly know?"
She looks confused for a minute, responding slowly, like she's afraid she's about to say the wrong answer. "Because he's in charge of glee club?"
The sigh, reserved just for Brittany, comes easily, and Santana realizes how much she's been missing it. "No, Brittany, I meant - "
A smile breaks out onto Brittany's face, followed quickly by a fit of giggles. The sound is so infectious, Santana doesn't even feel prickly at being the butt of a joke.
When the laughter finally settles into a far more comfortable silence than what preceded it, Brittany's hand reaches out and finds Santana's, never looking away. "I'm glad you're not mad at me."
Santana can feel Brittany's soft fingers curl around hers, and she takes the step to squeeze, pull, and she's hugging her so tight she's sure Brittany's back pops. "Sorry..."
"I like when you hug me like that," Brittany smiles into Santana's hair. "It's like you never wanna let me go."
"Am I that transparent?"
"You mean like a bus?”
It starts out like a perfectly normal Tuesday. Then, suddenly, Santana's got blood on her knuckles and some Junior named Connelly’s on the ground clutching both his nose and his crotch and Brittany's pulling her into a classroom amidst the commotion. It's a mess and Brittany's shaking as she pushes a desk in front of the door.
"You can't get in trouble if they can't find you."
They do. She does.
(The one blessing of masculinity is the fear of hurt pride. No charges are made because Connelly insists he didn't get his ass kicked, and because word travels fast and inevitable and it becomes clear to Principal Figgins that Santana was provoked. Still, words like suspension and probation are thrown around, her hand throbbing and the taste of copper on her tongue.
All the while the sound of Brittany's foot tapping nervously echoes just outside the door.)
“I don’t like that you spend so much time with that Brittany girl.” Her father doesn’t look up from the newspaper, interest held by the financial report and chewing on his flank steak. The words hang in the air, and it’s only when he turns to the next page that Santana sees that’s all he could muster to say.
The chair legs screech as she pushes away from the table. She stands up and looks down at her father. “And why is that?”
“Sit down,” her mother hisses. “And don’t talk to your father that way.”
“No, I wanna know why. I’m sure the doctor has a good reason why he doesn’t want me spending time with my best friend.”
“She’s the reason you got into a fight at school, yes?” He still doesn’t look up. “Plus, she’s not bright.”
“I didn’t think I was only allowed to be friends with Mensa members.”
“It isn’t that she’s not smart,” her mother proposes, the only one who can actually look her daughter in the eye, until she’s met with an unrelenting glare and returns to her dinner. “She’s just... not bright.”
Santana can’t help but roll her eyes. “Thanks for clearing that up. I understand now.”
At this, her mother looks right back at her, and the fierce spark in her eyes surprises Santana. “She isn’t going anywhere, you know that. She’s holding you back.”
“From what? Getting out of this town? Getting away from this?” She grabs her still-full plate and walks away. “She’s the only reason I haven’t burned this house down yet, believe me.”
Brittany comes to Santana. Only a small lamp beside her bed is turned on, and she's curled up under her sheets, so that when Brittany walks in, she steps quietly, sure that she's asleep. At first, she remains still, eyes closed, until she can feel the foot of her mattress sink slightly. She turns her head and sees Brittany, her eyes wet.
"I didn't wake you?" she whispers.
"No," Santana says at normal volume, sitting up. It seems that when she does, the light beside her bed shines along her cheek, where her bruise has graduated from banana yellow to a sickly green. Brittany immediately crawls onto the bed and towards her. She reaches out, but stops short. Instead, she kisses the bruise like a warm breeze, gentle but comforting. Her fingers curl around Santana's wrist, thumb stroking, and a sigh catches in her throat. "Are you okay?"
She sounds scared. Santana turns her hand over, palm to palm and nods into her shoulder. "I'm fine."
Lips touch her temple, and this time it's Santana's breath that stops short. "It's my fault."
She wraps her arms around Brittany's waist. "No, it isn't. It's not a...I'm fine."
"Well, even if you weren't totally lying, you still could've gotten hurt really bad. Because of me."
"Stop, okay?" Santana looks her in the eyes, steeling herself. "You're making a big deal out of nothing. He had it coming, anyways. He's such a doucher."
Brittany bows her head, reticent. A minute drifts by and they settle into each other's arms.
"I'm glad - " Santana starts, stops. She pushes it away. "I'm just glad i didn't get suspended. No school for a week, but my parents would’ve..."
There's a mmhmm against her shoulder that quiets her.
(They fall asleep like this.)
Okay, for argument's sake, let's say it's a parallel universe where it's suddenly okay to be a flaming homo and she and Brittany can hold hands and make out against lockers and be just as hormonally annoying to passerby as hetero couples:
Even with this, Santana will still lie to save face. She has a reputation to keep. She's the head bitch in charge and any sign otherwise will damage her standing. It's called self-preservation.
So, for all intents and purposes, she's the top in the relationship. I mean, she's Santana Lopez, so of course she's the stud. The fact that it's Brittany she's with just solidifies this fact.
Except it's not so much a fact as it is a bald-faced lie.
(“Your turn.”)
It all comes to a head, eventually. Santana just never thought it’d happen at Breadstix of all places.
She watches as Brittany chows down the last of her breadstick, laughing when she notices a little sauce at the corner of her mouth. “B.”
On instinct, she brushes at the corner of her mouth, sees the sauce on her hand, and licks it off, finishing with a little smirk Santana’s way. “Thanks.”
“You want some more? I totally want leftovers.”
Brittany glances down at her wrist, her watch: “It’s getting kind of late...but I’ll stay if you want me to.”
To accentuate her point, she rests her hand over Santana’s, nervous biting of the lip and all.
A shiver of warmth runs through her, but she shakes it - and Brittany’s hand - off, as soon as she regains her senses. Brittany just looks at her. “Look, B, it’s just - ”
“Shut up.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper, and Santana’s sure she heard her wrong. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t care about getting in trouble or hitting people or being mean - ” She stumbles on her words, catching at the back of her throat, and fuck, Santana can see tears in her eyes. The sight actually breaks her heart more than she ever thought it would. When Brittany finishes, her voice is barely audible: “But you won’t even hold my hand at dinner.”
But then, just when Santana thinks she’ll be able to catch her breath, to collect herself after what just happened, Brittany grabs her bag and slides out of the booth. “I think it’s about time you had an apostrophe, Santana.”
“An epiphany,” she can barely croak out. She tries to look her in the eyes, challenging, but can’t find the strength to. The blonde leaves without another word.
Artie gives Brittany rides to class. The sheer joyful look she has as they wheel down the hallway stabs deep.
Santana'll never admit to envy easily.
It creeps up anyways.
“Why don’t you run for Prom Queen?”
Santana’s lips curl up in disgust, and she just shakes her head, continuing her search for the car keys, for the exit. But with every second, she can feel her mother’s eyes on her more and more. They’re burning a hole through her.
“The school would rather have you as their Queen than that Fabray girl.” Santana still doesn’t say a word. “I saw her at the market the other day. Pregnancy was not kind to her.”
“She looks good to me,” Santana mutters, but doesn’t know why. Disgust creeps up on her, for defending Quinn, for actually believing what she was saying. She finds her keys under the morning paper on the kitchen island, grabs them and tries to leave without looking her mom in the eyes.
“After I had you, my breasts ballooned, but Quinn - ”
“Well, maybe you should give her the number of our doctor, mami.” She pointedly adjusts the neckline of her shirt, emphasizing the cleavage that was smaller just the summer before.
“What is with you lately?” There’s what Santana can only assume is forced concern in her mother’s eyes. She almost believes it, but then - “Are you having boy troubles?”
Boy troubles. Yes, there is a boy, and he’s causing trouble. And I would do something about it if I knew I wouldn’t get expelled for kicking over a kid in a wheelchair.
She leaves without answering.
Santana finds Brittany in the rehearsal room, curled on top of the piano. There's a headache tugging at the base of her skull, but even still, her hands steady and calm settles in. "I've been looking for you."
Brittany moves, cheek against the surface, and she smiles big. "It's cool up here, you should try it."
Santana sits on the stool instead, fingers touching the keys without pressing down. She's certain of what to say, and to what length, but her voice cracks when Brittany's hand reaches and covers hers, fingers running the length of Santana's and pressing down so they play a little three-note tune.
Brittany never asks why Santana was looking for her, simply smiles against the cool surface of the piano. Eventually, she tilts her head and looks at Santana directly, noticing something. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I just..." Santana almost wants to laugh, but swallows hard as Brittany's fingers curl around her own. There's a warmth there that shouldn't surprise her but does. "I forgot what I was gonna say."
Brittany nods. "That happens to me a lot.”
She’ll look back one day and regret not being honest sooner.
But what’s done is done.
Before -
"Why're you making things so difficult?"
"I don't understand - "
"You never understand.”
The words spill out of her mouth, and with each one she hates herself more and more.
"I understand. I understand why people are mean and think the things they do - I just...I don't understand why you are letting it get to you. I've known you since second grade and you've never done that before."
"First grade," Santana corrects, averting her eyes as everything overwhelms her.
"F..." Slowly, a smile spreads across Brittany's face. "You remembered."
After -
“Of course I love you. I do.”
But.
And now Santana’s stuck.
TBC...
pairing: Brittany/Santana
rating: R
summary: Santana's stuck.
spoilers: errythang?
disclaimer: I do not own Glee, or any of these characters, no offense intended.
notes: I don't even know what this is, other than I wrote it instead of working. enjoy.
she is dancing away from me now.
she was just a wish.
(gyspy, fleetwood mac)
The truth is, it's not really that complicated. Obstacles and hiccups and challenges are hoisted upon it, like everything - by society, by fear - when really?
It's the simplest thing, loving someone. Santana knows this, now.
But this is later.
One time, at cheer camp? Brittany and Santana fucked.
There were no pillow fights in panties, no feathers falling scattered over silk sheets: only Coronas, limes, Brittany' legs on full display, and the kind of music that invites impropriety. It was fun, harmless, to grind hip against hip, stomachs flush against one another. Then:
Santana tangled a hand in Brittany's hair and pulled. Saw the spark of delight mixed in with surprise. She felt Brittany panting against her neck, felt her pulse reverberating at a million beats per minute, bodies grinding perfectly in sync. And it seemed totally okay that Santana started to get turned on a little.
Okay, turned on a lot.
The room was empty save for the heavy snores of a passed out Freshman in the far corner. So when she kissed her. the wet slide of lips against lips sent the music fading into the background, nothing but the sound of their bated breath and her heart pounding between her ears as the soundtrack.
Bottom lip catching between Brittany's teeth, she opened her eyes to see her looking back, dark and heady with desire.
She groaned.
"B..."
Teeth, lips and tongue. Santana's hands cupped Brittany's ass, lifting her up and against a table, slamming it into the wall, maple scratching at paint. Brittany winced briefly, but recovered, fingers digging into Santana's shoulder blades.
A song was stuck on repeat, catchy beat from a dated playlist. Santana didn't hear any of it. All she heard was Brittany moaning.
Hips locking, she grabbed a hold of her waist and planted the other on the wall. Brittany's breath hitched and Santana lost control of herself, hips bucking wildly against her friend and the shaky breath along her neck, and her nails digging into Brittany's waist and it was almost too much.
Almost. What pushed her over the edge was Brittany and the sounds she was making.
"Oh my god, San - Santana!" Each syllable emphasized with a pull of her hair.
Santana dropped her hand from Brittany's waist between them, sloppily undoing the button and zipper, fingers tripping on denim until they found smooth cotton and heat. She made sure she was looking directly at Brittany, so that when her fingers slipped inside, she could see the look on her face.
(This isn't the best way to begin the story. For the record, things started out pretty innocent between them.
Seriously.)
"So. You new in town?" Santana asked her one day, somewhere in that bottomless pit of awkwardness that is middle school. She asked for lack of anything else to say: she knew the answer, had known Brittany from as way back as second grade recess.
It was the first time she ever spoke to her.
Brittany looked up from tying her shoelaces, squinting against the sun. "I was born here."
“Oh.” Arms crossed. "Aren't you gonna ask me if I'm new in town?"
"We've been in the same class since first grade."
"Really? Not second?"
"Mrs. McClusky, remember? She smelled like my dad's fish tank."
Details fade along with time, but the only thing that matters is that Brittany and Santana have been attached at the hip ever since.
And then -
It occurred to her on a Wednesday at the end of freshman year that Brittany was actually pretty hot.
She'd always been aware of how pretty she was. She’s not blind.
But maybe it was the little bead of sweat that started her off.
Usually, sweat grosses her out, reminding her of lost football games and the way her fingers were left dank after running through Puck's mohawk. But after two hours of hard practicing, when Brittany was stretching her leg across the fence (while the rest of the Cheerios were on their backs panting in the heat), her skin gleamed in the sunlight in a way that would draw the attention of even that fairy Hummel.
Her eyes travelled down the expanse of Brittany's toned thighs like a direct path and it took Ms. Sylvester's blaring voice in the megaphone to tear Santana's attention away.
Santana has never been so dramatic as to proclaim Lima a dead-end town from which there is no escape. There's still an ache there, though.
(And if you tell anyone this, Santana will deny it and then make sure you can't form syllables for weeks.)
She thinks of the future, of possibilities, and the world feels a lot smaller than she's used to seeing it, and there's this loneliness that avalanches over her. She knows that after high school, things are going to change. It's inevitable, and you're one naive duck if you think otherwise.
It's no surprise, then, that Brittany has exactly such a sentiment.
"You shouldn't worry," she says to Santana, empty bottles of hard lemonade around their lounge chairs, the grass looking like snow under the full moon. "We'll always be friends."
She says it not with the kind of certainty Santana expects - the certainty that rings false, overcompensation. Brittany says it like it's simply the truth - because to her, it is.
"Everybody thinks that, Britt. Everybody thinks they're going to be friends forever, that the first person they sleep with is going to be their only. It's a fucking cliché and we're better than that."
"I knew we were going to be best friends when we met," is what Brittany says in response. "And we still are. Is that cliché?"
Santana sighs, finishes the last of her bottle. "No, it isn't."
"Okay." Brittany looks relieved. "I'm glad our friendship isn't a cliché."
Santana smiles despite herself. "Me too."
Some nobody dickwad made Brittany cry during the one class they didn’t have together. Santana found her behind the gym where they tried cigarettes once, legs pulled to her chest, looking tinier than she ever should be allowed to. Santana was eye level with her immediately, paying no mind to the gravel digging into her skin or how the pavement burned from the heat of the day.
The inevitable, infuriated questions: “What happened? What did he say? What’s his name? What does he look like?”
"I know it isn't true, it just..." Brittany wiped away at her cheek, leaving skin raw. "You're not mad at me, are you?"
"Mad at you? Why would I be mad?"
"You told me not to listen to people when they say stuff - most of it isn't true. And I know you're right.” Brittany buried her face in her hands. “But I couldn’t cover my ears hard enough and I heard them and now... now...”
"Hey," Santana pulled her hands away, leaned forward so Brittany was forced to meet her eyes. "Don't. You aren't stupid. Never let anyone tell you that."
Fresh tears fell, even as she nodded in agreement. "Thank you."
"Thank me after I kick his ass."
Brittany grabbed her arm. "Don't go. Please."
"I won't, I promise."
She kissed the tears away from either cheek, manicured nails and cool palm fitting perfectly against the warm curve of her neck. Her other hand mirrored the first and she kissed tearless cheeks again, whispering it's okay, it's gonna be okay strong and sure, Brittany's eyelashes tickling her brow.
"Thank you," Brittany whispered again, lips touching Santana's.
It started out brief and warm but there was a wetness there and maybe Santana licked her lips because of it. Maybe she closed her eyes because the sun was really bright -
Lies.
Everything shifted.
Brittany kissed her again. She was quick, like she was going to kiss and ditch before getting caught and it wouldn’t count and everything would be fine. But when she pulled away, her body stilled and Santana knew this because their thighs touched briefly, and fuck, if the heat of that felt any more amazing, she would’ve croaked over from a heart attack.
This is probably the point of no return, she had thought.
So she kissed her.
It was Brittany who parted her lips first, tongue imploring, cautiously curious, and Santana gripped onto her as tight she ever could.
Brittany pulled until Santana was pressed against her, against the faded bricks of the gym, her hands finding either side of her face. The hard surface of the building scratched at their skin, but Santana didn’t care, because each scrape of her knuckles along bricks meant it was Brittany pulling her closer, tighter. And she'd be damned if she was going to stop her.
"Brittany..." She breathed against her, and later she'd regret the vulnerability, the way her voice caught in her throat and...
The bell rings. They ignore it, at first. But then the onslaught of doors opening and a stampede of shuffling shoes and mindless chatter erupts in the distance and they know. They know.
Santana goes over to Brittany’s on a Wednesday for their weekly study session. Said session includes watching movies and doing each others nails (but sadly doesn't involve pillow fights, despite Puck's insistence otherwise).
Santana gets up to scroll through her iPod, and in the lull as she tries to disentangle the chord and find a song, she can feel Brittany's eyes on her the entire time. She turns, only to find the blonde look away quickly, caught.
"What?"
"Can I ask you something?" Brittany looks up, but doesn't meet her eyes. "And you promise not to laugh?"
"Depends."
Brittany bows her head again. "Oh, then never mind."
"Kidding, B."
"Well...what we did...by the gym..." When Brittany finally looks up, her eyes are wet. "Is it bad that I can't stop thinking about it?"
"About what that fucker said to you?"
Santana asks, even with the answer clear in her mind. Her stomach tightens in a way only familiar to that day. That earnestness in Brittany's eyes is suddenly frightening, however, because this is something that she clearly doesn't understand.
This isn't L.A., this is Lima, and even if they were drunk, and even if guys liked to act like two girls (two cheerleaders) together is their ultimate fantasy, there's still the ugly stares and uglier words and the general misery that befalls anything of this sort.
"About kissing you."
There isn't any pretense of trying to be romantic, or trying to get in her pants like it is with most guys who say things like this (Santana can be honest, though: guys don't talk like this with her, not even close) but simply honesty. Even when she says "you're a really good kisser" quiet and sweet, she is still speaking in questions, waiting for the answer that she just can't grasp. She's holding out her hand waiting for Santana to grab it, to help her, like she always does.
"Um..." Now it's Santana's turn to look away, cheeks burning. Her hands fidget with one another. She doesn't have nervous habits, this is new. "I guess it depends."
"On what?"
"You know how I let you cheat off my homework sometimes?" Brittany nods. "It doesn't hurt anybody, but it's still against the rules, you know? So we don't tell anyone."
It's a stupid analogy, and doesn't quite work, but it's enough for Brittany to understand. "So I shouldn't tell anyone?"
"No, neither of us should."
"Does that...does that mean we can do it again?"
At that, Santana finally looks at her, and this time, there's a spark in Brittany's eyes that wasn't there before. She swallows, seems to regain her confidence, and reaches out to touch Santana's cheek.
"I liked kissing you." Her fingers graze along her cheek tenderly, and Santana leans into the touch, kissing her palm.
Brittany opens her mouth to say something, but this sense of dread catches onto Santana quickly and she kisses her before the moment is ruined. They fall back onto the couch, Santana resting on her elbow while her other hand rests flat on Brittany's stomach.
Her bottom lip catches between Brittany's teeth and Santana presses as much of her body against Brittany's as she can. Eventually, her hand moves up Brittany's Cheerios uniform until she's palming her breast.
This is too much, too fast, this is Brittany, I'm gonna scare her...
She pulls her hand away, grabs onto a pillow for dear life. Not a second later, she feels Brittany' fingers wrap around her wrist and pull her arm down, put her hand back where it was. Santana freezes, pulls back to look at Brittany as her eyes flutter open. The dark stare surprises her, but she sees that spark, that tiny curl at the corner of her lips as her hand puts pressure on Santana’s, breathy mouth just audible enough to make Santana's hips buck involuntarily.
Even still, Santana arches upward and then back against the arm of the couch, nearly falling off. "I should go."
"I want you to stay, though." Brittany sits up, and it's sort of inappropriate how the genuine innocence in her voice, in her eyes, doesn't quite fit with the image of her shirt bunched and her cheeks still flushed. She's being fucking hot at the same time as being sweet and Santana looks away, gets off the couch and searches for her shoes. "We can play a game, if you don't want - "
"No, I just...I have plans, I forgot, and..." Santana makes sure to not look at her, snatching her sneakers and not even pausing to put them on before rushing to the door.
She’s gotten good at pretending like she resents glee club for its homicidal effect on her social life, but when they’re sitting, ignored, in the cafeteria, wheelchairs and cupcakes, there’s no facade needed: “How much have we made again?”
"Two dollars."
"Did the lunch lady sneeze all over the cafeteria food, leaving us as their only choice?" Santana sounds bored, but her eyes belie her interest, eyes scanning the room like a predator.
"One word: Brittany."
Yes, Santana will roll her eyes as a knee-jerk response, but even so, she hates the way it sounds coming from Quinn's nasally, fat, pregnant mouth. But, having to deal with the wheelchair and cupcake embarrassment, she really doesn't have the energy to find out how much trouble she'd get into for punching a pregnant girl in the face.
Instead, she focuses her anger into a glare at a passing band geek, sending him skittering away like a frightened mouse.
"Someone needs to explain to her the point of this."
"Screw that, just let her pay for the whole thing." Santana glares at Puck - he shrugs, but only to disguise himself shrinking away from her. "What? Her dad's loaded."
"Why don't you pay it with all your pool cleaning money?" Santana bites out, and he just rolls his eyes for lack of a good comeback. "Until any of us puts cash in that box, we should just shut up and be glad there's anything in there."
Determined to not look like an idiot, she backs up slowly enough to not catch on anything, and then rolls a straight line out of the cafeteria. Brittany leans against her locker, conveniently next to Santana's, and smiles big when she sees her rolling up.
"Hey - "
"Stop buying cupcakes."
"Why?"
"It defeats the purpose."
"I thought we wanted people to buy them?"
"Other people, as in not us."
"Oh." Brittany's smile doesn't dim quite yet. "The cupcakes looked really good, so - "
"Well, they're not - they reek of gleekitude and not even the most desperate freaks at this school would come anywhere near them," Santana snaps, frustration coming through finally, Brittany stuck in its warpath.
This, this sends the corners of Brittany's mouth down, her mouth a thin line, eyes looking away from Santana, down to her sneakers. "Turn around for a second?"
"Huh?"
"I have to grab something."
"And you need me to turn around because...?"
"It's - it's nothing." Brittany glances at Santana's locker, not quick enough to go unnoticed. The bell rings and Brittany's voice nearly drowns in the sudden flurry of noise as everyone heads to class. "Don't be mad, okay?"
She quickly joins the wave of students, disappearing. Santana steps out of her wheelchair and opens her locker to find a cupcake waiting for her.
It's the inconsequential moments that stick to the back of her mind.
There's their eyes meeting first, immediately, after each song sung, out of breath, the contact electrifying.
There's the innocent way Brittany holds her hand, contrasted with her grip: like she's holding something precious, something meant to be handled with care.
(Santana leaves a cupcake in Brittany’s locker.)
Brittany grins a silly little grin at her during class, and -
- a bathroom stall, legs wrapped around her waist. Santana’s hand pinned between them.
Her other hand grips the top of the door, knuckles white, when Brittany finally pants:
“Your turn.”
"So, even though we're together, you're still gonna go out with guys?" Brittany asks, voice at normal level and thus audible to most of the passing hallway traffic. She sounds curious, rather than defensive. Despite - or, actually, maybe because of - this, Santana grabs her arm and roughly pulls her into an empty classroom. "Ow. That's my cheering arm."
"We're not together, Brittany. We're friends; friends who happen to...engage in some fun, harmless experimenting." Santana suddenly feels like she's in a B-grade movie of the Skinemax variety, the word experimenting stumbling awkwardly out of her mouth. "That isn't dating."
"Right. Dating is, like, flowers and winning big stuffed bears at fairs, right?" Coming from anyone else, the words would be laden with double-meaning, bitterness wrapped in sarcasm, but with Brittany, each drips with genuine sticky-sweet understanding. "Joe Shannon won me one, and I think we were dating."
But she doesn't understand. She thinks she does, but she doesn't. She's being lied to and she has no idea. And this leaves Santana with the distinct desire to slap her or kiss her or something, anything to put some sense in her.
She kind of wishes she had, because a few days later -
"Sex is not dating." Santana rolls her eyes at the thickness of even thinking such a thing. She expects more from Kurt and -
"If it were, Santana and I would be dating."
She isn't one for naivete, but she always had this idea that in life-altering moments, time slows and it's like a race to prevent it from happening, heart beating painful in her throat...
The entire thing really is bullshit, because the moment comes and goes as quickly as...well, as quickly as Brittany saying something she really shouldn't.
She puts on her best strong face and continues the conversation, pushing past the moment, but really, the rest of the morning is a complete blur.
They're the first to arrive to practice. Brittany walks over like nothing is wrong and Santana deliberately dodges a hug. Brittany's face falls immediately, and Santana knows she's going to have to push through this, too, if she wants to succeed.
"You spilled the beans."
"I'm sorry," Brittany bows her head. "Are you mad?"
"It doesn't matter, it's just...let's keep our distance."
"Okay," she nods, but when Santana starts to walk away, she follows beside her.
Santana stops, pushes at Brittany's arm and shakes her head. She can hear voices approaching down the hall, and drops her own to a hush. "No. Distance. As in apart. As in not together at all."
"Oh." Brittany nods again, slower, sadder, and turns to sit down at the opposite end of the steps, just as Mr. Sue, Finn and Rachel enter.
Santana shoves her tongue down some Jock’s throat against the lockers before lunch. Within minutes, Brittany walks down the hall from Spanish, like expected, but only glances at them briefly before turning, seemingly unfazed by what she just saw.
Santana growls in frustration, only whatshisname takes this as a positive thing and palms her ass. This gets him a swift kick to the shin before Santana stalks down the hallway.
“Mr. Shuester says you and Brittany have been acting distant the past few days.” Emma folds her clean, scrawny little hands over one another on the newly disinfected desk, looking at Santana with what has to be the most pathetic empathetic glint in her eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“It’s normal... in high school, you feel like you have to fit into a certain box and never stray out of it.”
The foot tapping commences. “Can you just give me a pamphlet? I’m pretty sure it’ll be less painful than this.”
Emma gets up from her seat, walks around her desk and sits next to her, hands on hands, and the sheer frankness of the gesture startles Santana into shock. “Nothing bad is going to happen if you just talk to me. Okay?”
“We had a fight, okay?” Santana squirms from under her touch, making sure to add an extra dose of You crazy? to her glare. “It happens.”
“In this day and age, having a different sexual orientation doesn’t limit your opportunities - ”
“Really, because I’m pretty sure all anybody knows about Lance Bass or Clay Aiken is that they’re both flaming - ”
“Your life is what you make it, Santana. You’re a strong girl, and you know you are. High school ends eventually, and then you’ll be out in the world and you’ll be able to make a name for yourself. Don’t you want that for yourself? For your friend, too?”
“Yeah, but Brittany’s hot - ” Santana catches herself, but just as warmth rises to her cheeks, she roughly clears her throat, sits up and crosses her arms, pushing past the comment entirely. “That makes me Ellen, then?”
“Is your struggle with this really based on what celebrity couple you most resemble?”
Santana looks up at the ceiling in feigned thought. “Let’s see. I marry myself a fine Latino boy with good money and fashion sense, we’re Mr. and Mrs. Mark Anthony. Only after I get my butt implants.”
She sees Miss Pillsbury’s eyes widen, and can’t help a smirk. “That last part was a joke, Miss P.”
“Right.”
There comes a point where you're so worked up over something that all shame and matter of pride is thrown out the window, and this is that point in time for Santana. Everyone files out of Glee the next day, but Santana stays back, grabs a hold of Brittany's arm and forces her to stay back too. Mr. Shue gives them a passing look as he leaves, but seems to catch on for their need of privacy.
"Hey?" Brittany offers hesitantly. "It's okay if I say hey to you, right?"
"Yeah, of course, why wouldn't you?"
"You told me to stay away from you."
"Just for the day, to let things cool down. I thought you understood."
"I guess I didn't."
"Yeah, well, I walked around with Puck and it didn't seem to bother you one bit." Santana can hear herself, and wants to roll her eyes at how passive aggressive she sounds. "You didn't even notice."
Brittany blinks. "I noticed."
"Really?" At this, her arms unfold, but she alternates her hips jutting out to balance out the toughness.
"I felt...It was sort of like I got tazered in the stomach. I thought it was just my lunch. Ms. Sylvester warned me about the bratwurst." Then, as an afterthought: "That, and Mr. Shue's hair."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
Brittany shrugs. "I thought you knew."
"How could I possibly know?"
She looks confused for a minute, responding slowly, like she's afraid she's about to say the wrong answer. "Because he's in charge of glee club?"
The sigh, reserved just for Brittany, comes easily, and Santana realizes how much she's been missing it. "No, Brittany, I meant - "
A smile breaks out onto Brittany's face, followed quickly by a fit of giggles. The sound is so infectious, Santana doesn't even feel prickly at being the butt of a joke.
When the laughter finally settles into a far more comfortable silence than what preceded it, Brittany's hand reaches out and finds Santana's, never looking away. "I'm glad you're not mad at me."
Santana can feel Brittany's soft fingers curl around hers, and she takes the step to squeeze, pull, and she's hugging her so tight she's sure Brittany's back pops. "Sorry..."
"I like when you hug me like that," Brittany smiles into Santana's hair. "It's like you never wanna let me go."
"Am I that transparent?"
"You mean like a bus?”
It starts out like a perfectly normal Tuesday. Then, suddenly, Santana's got blood on her knuckles and some Junior named Connelly’s on the ground clutching both his nose and his crotch and Brittany's pulling her into a classroom amidst the commotion. It's a mess and Brittany's shaking as she pushes a desk in front of the door.
"You can't get in trouble if they can't find you."
They do. She does.
(The one blessing of masculinity is the fear of hurt pride. No charges are made because Connelly insists he didn't get his ass kicked, and because word travels fast and inevitable and it becomes clear to Principal Figgins that Santana was provoked. Still, words like suspension and probation are thrown around, her hand throbbing and the taste of copper on her tongue.
All the while the sound of Brittany's foot tapping nervously echoes just outside the door.)
“I don’t like that you spend so much time with that Brittany girl.” Her father doesn’t look up from the newspaper, interest held by the financial report and chewing on his flank steak. The words hang in the air, and it’s only when he turns to the next page that Santana sees that’s all he could muster to say.
The chair legs screech as she pushes away from the table. She stands up and looks down at her father. “And why is that?”
“Sit down,” her mother hisses. “And don’t talk to your father that way.”
“No, I wanna know why. I’m sure the doctor has a good reason why he doesn’t want me spending time with my best friend.”
“She’s the reason you got into a fight at school, yes?” He still doesn’t look up. “Plus, she’s not bright.”
“I didn’t think I was only allowed to be friends with Mensa members.”
“It isn’t that she’s not smart,” her mother proposes, the only one who can actually look her daughter in the eye, until she’s met with an unrelenting glare and returns to her dinner. “She’s just... not bright.”
Santana can’t help but roll her eyes. “Thanks for clearing that up. I understand now.”
At this, her mother looks right back at her, and the fierce spark in her eyes surprises Santana. “She isn’t going anywhere, you know that. She’s holding you back.”
“From what? Getting out of this town? Getting away from this?” She grabs her still-full plate and walks away. “She’s the only reason I haven’t burned this house down yet, believe me.”
Brittany comes to Santana. Only a small lamp beside her bed is turned on, and she's curled up under her sheets, so that when Brittany walks in, she steps quietly, sure that she's asleep. At first, she remains still, eyes closed, until she can feel the foot of her mattress sink slightly. She turns her head and sees Brittany, her eyes wet.
"I didn't wake you?" she whispers.
"No," Santana says at normal volume, sitting up. It seems that when she does, the light beside her bed shines along her cheek, where her bruise has graduated from banana yellow to a sickly green. Brittany immediately crawls onto the bed and towards her. She reaches out, but stops short. Instead, she kisses the bruise like a warm breeze, gentle but comforting. Her fingers curl around Santana's wrist, thumb stroking, and a sigh catches in her throat. "Are you okay?"
She sounds scared. Santana turns her hand over, palm to palm and nods into her shoulder. "I'm fine."
Lips touch her temple, and this time it's Santana's breath that stops short. "It's my fault."
She wraps her arms around Brittany's waist. "No, it isn't. It's not a...I'm fine."
"Well, even if you weren't totally lying, you still could've gotten hurt really bad. Because of me."
"Stop, okay?" Santana looks her in the eyes, steeling herself. "You're making a big deal out of nothing. He had it coming, anyways. He's such a doucher."
Brittany bows her head, reticent. A minute drifts by and they settle into each other's arms.
"I'm glad - " Santana starts, stops. She pushes it away. "I'm just glad i didn't get suspended. No school for a week, but my parents would’ve..."
There's a mmhmm against her shoulder that quiets her.
(They fall asleep like this.)
Okay, for argument's sake, let's say it's a parallel universe where it's suddenly okay to be a flaming homo and she and Brittany can hold hands and make out against lockers and be just as hormonally annoying to passerby as hetero couples:
Even with this, Santana will still lie to save face. She has a reputation to keep. She's the head bitch in charge and any sign otherwise will damage her standing. It's called self-preservation.
So, for all intents and purposes, she's the top in the relationship. I mean, she's Santana Lopez, so of course she's the stud. The fact that it's Brittany she's with just solidifies this fact.
Except it's not so much a fact as it is a bald-faced lie.
(“Your turn.”)
It all comes to a head, eventually. Santana just never thought it’d happen at Breadstix of all places.
She watches as Brittany chows down the last of her breadstick, laughing when she notices a little sauce at the corner of her mouth. “B.”
On instinct, she brushes at the corner of her mouth, sees the sauce on her hand, and licks it off, finishing with a little smirk Santana’s way. “Thanks.”
“You want some more? I totally want leftovers.”
Brittany glances down at her wrist, her watch: “It’s getting kind of late...but I’ll stay if you want me to.”
To accentuate her point, she rests her hand over Santana’s, nervous biting of the lip and all.
A shiver of warmth runs through her, but she shakes it - and Brittany’s hand - off, as soon as she regains her senses. Brittany just looks at her. “Look, B, it’s just - ”
“Shut up.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper, and Santana’s sure she heard her wrong. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t care about getting in trouble or hitting people or being mean - ” She stumbles on her words, catching at the back of her throat, and fuck, Santana can see tears in her eyes. The sight actually breaks her heart more than she ever thought it would. When Brittany finishes, her voice is barely audible: “But you won’t even hold my hand at dinner.”
But then, just when Santana thinks she’ll be able to catch her breath, to collect herself after what just happened, Brittany grabs her bag and slides out of the booth. “I think it’s about time you had an apostrophe, Santana.”
“An epiphany,” she can barely croak out. She tries to look her in the eyes, challenging, but can’t find the strength to. The blonde leaves without another word.
Artie gives Brittany rides to class. The sheer joyful look she has as they wheel down the hallway stabs deep.
Santana'll never admit to envy easily.
It creeps up anyways.
“Why don’t you run for Prom Queen?”
Santana’s lips curl up in disgust, and she just shakes her head, continuing her search for the car keys, for the exit. But with every second, she can feel her mother’s eyes on her more and more. They’re burning a hole through her.
“The school would rather have you as their Queen than that Fabray girl.” Santana still doesn’t say a word. “I saw her at the market the other day. Pregnancy was not kind to her.”
“She looks good to me,” Santana mutters, but doesn’t know why. Disgust creeps up on her, for defending Quinn, for actually believing what she was saying. She finds her keys under the morning paper on the kitchen island, grabs them and tries to leave without looking her mom in the eyes.
“After I had you, my breasts ballooned, but Quinn - ”
“Well, maybe you should give her the number of our doctor, mami.” She pointedly adjusts the neckline of her shirt, emphasizing the cleavage that was smaller just the summer before.
“What is with you lately?” There’s what Santana can only assume is forced concern in her mother’s eyes. She almost believes it, but then - “Are you having boy troubles?”
Boy troubles. Yes, there is a boy, and he’s causing trouble. And I would do something about it if I knew I wouldn’t get expelled for kicking over a kid in a wheelchair.
She leaves without answering.
Santana finds Brittany in the rehearsal room, curled on top of the piano. There's a headache tugging at the base of her skull, but even still, her hands steady and calm settles in. "I've been looking for you."
Brittany moves, cheek against the surface, and she smiles big. "It's cool up here, you should try it."
Santana sits on the stool instead, fingers touching the keys without pressing down. She's certain of what to say, and to what length, but her voice cracks when Brittany's hand reaches and covers hers, fingers running the length of Santana's and pressing down so they play a little three-note tune.
Brittany never asks why Santana was looking for her, simply smiles against the cool surface of the piano. Eventually, she tilts her head and looks at Santana directly, noticing something. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I just..." Santana almost wants to laugh, but swallows hard as Brittany's fingers curl around her own. There's a warmth there that shouldn't surprise her but does. "I forgot what I was gonna say."
Brittany nods. "That happens to me a lot.”
She’ll look back one day and regret not being honest sooner.
But what’s done is done.
Before -
"Why're you making things so difficult?"
"I don't understand - "
"You never understand.”
The words spill out of her mouth, and with each one she hates herself more and more.
"I understand. I understand why people are mean and think the things they do - I just...I don't understand why you are letting it get to you. I've known you since second grade and you've never done that before."
"First grade," Santana corrects, averting her eyes as everything overwhelms her.
"F..." Slowly, a smile spreads across Brittany's face. "You remembered."
After -
“Of course I love you. I do.”
But.
And now Santana’s stuck.
TBC...