Fic: They Say Bad Things Happen For A Reason [Part Six]
Title: They Say Bad Things Happen For A Reason [Part Six]
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5k this part
Notes in Part One
[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five]
--
The world is all blurry around the edges and her mouth feels thick but part of Santana is happy about it. It makes everything feel kind of surreal and floaty, like she doesn't have this sharp, in-focus, painful reality to deal with.
In the middle of her haze she hears the sound of a door slam open and shut and hears a voice yell out "Hey, Puck." It sounds kind of like Joe, the bartender, but Santana can't be bothered to put that much effort into figuring it out.
Next to her, Quinn is alternating between propping Santana up on her shoulder and shouting at Joe for refills on their peanuts bowl. Earlier, when Quinn told her Puck was coming by, Santana thought it would be a good idea to put food in her stomach to try and counteract all the scotch she poured in it earlier. Unfortunately peanuts were the best they could do under current circumstances.
Puck, drops into the seat across from them and Santana squints as she tries to make him out, her vision refusing to clear. He shakes his head around and flaps the ends of his leather jacket, water droplets spraying across the table as he does it. "Fucking pouring out there," he comments.
"Hi," she greets, her mouth feeling like it's full of peanut butter.
"Wow," Puck responds, looking at Quinn.
The blonde girl chuckles, shifts her shoulder again as Santana's body threatens to fall over. "I know, right?" Quinn shakes her head bemusedly at Puck as she says it.
"What the fuck happened to you?" Puck asks, leaning against the table towards Santana. "You know it's the middle of the afternoon, right? On a work day. When a fucking psycho ex-mafia member is out for your girl?"
Santana winces at the questions, feeling the words "your girl" slice right through her and a sharp pain cuts through her face. She needs a fucking ice pack. And maybe a sandwich.
"Seriously," Puck continues. "What the fuck?"
"She slept with Brittany," Quinn supplies, pushing a glass of water in Santana's direction as she says it.
Puck's eyes go wide and he stares at Santana incredulously. "No way!" Then, as he processes the implications, the disbelief on his face fades to happiness. "Score!" He exclaims, bringing his fist up in Santana's direction.
Santana just glares at him until he drops his arm back on the table.
"Okay, no score. So we're not happy about this?" Puck eyes the ashtray in the middle of the table, overflowing with cigarette butts. "Not happy, check."
"What did you find out?" Quinn snaps, bringing them all back on topic. "You said you had another envelope from Pike."
"Right?" Puck jumps in his seat as if just remembering why he was there. He pulls a white envelope out of his jacket.
"It's actually good that you're here," he says to Quinn. He slides the envelope across the table and Santana can make out the familiar scrawl of her name on the front of it. She reaches a hand out to grab it but misses by inches, hitting the glass of water in front of her and causing it to slosh across the table.
Quinn shoves her gently aside and picks the envelope up off the table, opening it up and tugging out its contents.
It's a picture, Santana can tell that much, and there's writing on the back just like the last one, but an expression of fury crosses Quinn's face and she has a hard time imagining why.
"It's old," Puck explains and Santana's squinting at him again trying to get her brain to work correctly and figure out what the hell is going on. Why was drinking a good idea again?
"I see that," Quinn bites out, her voice snappy and angered. What the hell is Quinn pissed about?
"He must have had someone watching her for a long fucking time," Puck adds.
Quinn just keeps staring at the photo, her eyes roaming it slowly and Santana gets a little impatient, taps her foot up and down on the floor.
"He's after Britt, Fabray," Puck continues. "We know that for sure."
"No we don't," Quinn snaps at him.
"Yes we do," he argues, firmly and with confidence.
Santana eyes the two of them and tries to sit up. She takes a long drink of water before she attempts speech.
"What is it?" The question comes out slowly as she tries to make sure each word is recognizable.
Quinn flips the picture over and holds it close to Santana's face, her eyes going cross-eyed and even more fuzzy as she tries to focus on the images.
It's black and white, like the other one, and Santana can just barely make out what's on the photograph. It's Brittany, which she expected, walking down the street and there's a shorter girl next to her, arms linked with Brittany's and laughing at something. Santana sees darker hair next to Brittany's blonde locks but for some reason her brain can't put it all together, the face is familiar and she's pretty sure she shouldn't be having this hard a time figuring it out but she can't get her eyes to focus enough. Then she takes a look at Quinn's face and is finally able to figure it all out despite her hazy vision.
The other girl is Rachel.
--
Quinn checks her phone for the eighteenth time as they're standing outside Rick's, waiting for Puck to bring his car around.
"Stop fucking worrying," Santana mumbles, propping her body up against the brick wall and watching the rain drip off the overhang above them.
"She's on his radar, this is my problem now too," Quinn argues, flipping her phone around in her hand. "If he so much as touches her," Quinn says under her breath.
"She's only in the picture because Brittany was dumb enough to want to hang out with her," Santana says.
"Shut the hell up, Lopez. This isn't a damn joke," Quinn half-yells at her, shifting to stand in front of Santana. A clap of thunder resounds in the distance.
"He's not going to go after Rachel fucking Berry," Santana says, sagging deeper into the wall. She knows better than to get into it with Quinn when the attorney is worked up but she can't help herself. She's pissed and hurt and drunk and she just wants this all to be a memory. "Who would want to kidnap her anyway, she'd annoy the shit out of him," she pauses to chuckle bitterly. "Hell, he'd be doing you a favor if-"
She doesn't get to finish because Quinn's palm comes swift and hard against her cheek, snapping her head to the side and sending searing pain through the bruises on her face.
"Christ! I already have a damn black eye, Fabray," she yells.
"I get that this is hard for you, that you slept with Brittany and she's in your apartment and that's hard. I get it." Quinn shifts closer, a finger jabbed in Santana's direction and her cheeks flushed in anger. "I get that you're drunk and depressed but let me tell you something. Get over it. Fuck her, kill her, marry her finally. I don't care. Figure it out," Quinn continues.
She grabs the lapels of Santana's coat and pulls her up, their faces so close together that Santana nearly head butts the other girl. Quinn's voice is low and fevered as she talks. "So you slept together. So fucking what. It's probably because that girl is still just as in love with you as you are with her but you're being too much of a dumbass to do anything about it." Santana tries to fight Quinn's grasp but the girl just grips her tighter and continues her tirade. "Figure it out, Santana. And stop taking it out on everyone else. Or I'm going to stop cleaning up the pieces and then you'll really be shit out of luck."
The words hang between them as they stare at each other, both of them breathing harshly and refusing to break first. Quinn out of anger, Santana out of pride.
"Are you guys going to makeout? Because if so, I'd like to grab my camera," Puck interrupts, stepping up next to them and eying their position.
Santana drunkenly shoves Quinn's hands off her and glares, taking a deep breath but not saying anything.
She shoulders Quinn out of the way and grabs Puck by the arm. "Let's go," she demands, gripping onto him tightly as she tries to make her way to the car.
Quinn turns in the other direction and walks into the rain.
--
"I can't believe you're married," Santana observed, plopping down on Quinn's couch and putting her feet up.
Quinn laughed as she came around to sit next to her friend, the sound making Santana grin. "I thought you didn't consider it a real marriage."
"Well it's not," Santana agreed with a smile. "But Brittany insists I refer to you guys as married so..."
"And what Brittany wants," Quinn started.
"Brittany gets," Santana finished, with a nod and a laugh. "Yup."
"So when are you guys going to tie the knot?" Quinn asked, crossing her legs and bringing her right arm up to rest on the back of the couch.
Santana made a disgusted expression. "Try never."
"Come on, S," Quinn said with mirth, but Santana's face didn't change. Quinn stared at her with surprise. "You're serious."
"Like a heart attack. Marriage is for losers that need a stupid ring to convince themselves they won't break up. I don't need Britt to marry me."
"It's the idea behind it, San. Eternal commitment, love, all that." Santana watched as Quinn fingered the ring on her hand absently.
"Yeah, I think I'll leave that to you and that midget freakshow you shack up with, thank you very much."
Quinn smacked Santana on the back of her head with the hand on the couch. "That's my wife you're talking about, asshole."
"That was your poor decision making, not mine."
Quinn rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to say something else when they heard the front door open and close.
"Hey, baby," Quinn greeted as Rachel stepped into the room.
"Hi," Rachel replied, leaning over the couch to press a kiss to Quinn's lips. "Santana," she greeted as she disengaged from the kiss.
"Manhands," Santana said with a nod.
Rachel smirked at her but instead of retaliating just leaned back to Quinn and kissed the blonde girl again, ignoring Santana for long, awkward moments.
"Still in the room," Santana announced, after torturous minutes of watching her two friends make out.
Quinn reached her arms up and grabbed Rachel by the waist, a loud shriek bursting out of the smaller girl as Quinn pulled her over the back of the couch and into her lap. They laughed and kept kissing until Rachel turned to look at her.
"We're newlyweds, Santana. Leave," she demanded, giggling as Quinn kissed down her neck.
Santana shifted her feet off the coffee table and stood up, rolling her eyes at the couple on the couch before turning out of the room to leave. She had her hand on the doorknob when she heard Quinn's voice float out from the living room.
"Marry that girl, Santana. You'll regret it."
--
Puck manhandles her through the door, her feet working correctly but her will to actually walk, depleted. She glares when the uniform guarding her door chuckles under his breath.
"Come on, Lopez, just get in the damn apartment," he grunts. "I'm not going to fucking carry you."
She shoves him off of her as they step inside and is about to make some scathing remark about his workout routine when she hears laughter from her kitchen. Light, gorgeous laughter she knows belongs to Brittany followed by a more masculine sound she can't identify. She's suspicious immediately and the alcohol in her system pushes her forward into the other room, stumbling slightly but making it all the way without falling.
"What the fuck?"
It's Brittany, of course, standing in the kitchen in the same outfit as earlier that day. God, didn't Brittany bring any other clothing besides underwear and tanktops? She's standing by the counter, arms crossed over her chest, hair pulled back messily and sexy in a way Santana used to love, a constant reminder of exactly what they spent the afternoon doing. If she wasn't so broken up about it and still buzzed from all the scotch in her stomach, she'd be kind of turned on. Actually, on second thought, she is turned on.
But she can't really appreciate it at the moment because standing in front of the blonde girl is one gigantic Finn Hudson and to their right is his partner, Matt Rutherford. Finn's laughing like a fucking idiot at whatever Brittany must have said before Santana entered and seriously, Santana's never wanted to punch someone so much in her life. First, Brittany is whispering on the phone with Tina and now she's fucking giggling with Finn Hudson.
"Santana!" Brittany exclaims, shock and relief in her expression. Finn turns towards her too.
"Detective Lopez. Good to see you again," he greets politely. It makes Santana hate him more.
"Get out of my apartment," she snaps out, hoping the words are understandable. Finn looks taken aback. Good, he understood her.
"Santana," Brittany chastises, glancing guiltily at Finn and Matt. "They're here about the case."
"I don't care," she says. "Get out." Puck takes a step towards her.
"Dude," Puck whispers from her right shoulder. "Chill out. I called them."
"Why the fuck did you call them?" She says, voice raised as she whirls around to look at Puck. She loses her footing a little bit, but grabs the counter in what she hopes is a subtle, graceful manner. From the way Puck's looking at her she's not so sure she succeeded.
He grabs her by the elbow and pulls her closer to him. "You're a fucking mess, San. Pull it together," he commands, swallowing. "We need them on this case with us," he pauses, staring straight into her eyes and dropping his voice even softer. "We talked about this. Earlier. Think about Britt."
So she does exactly that. She thinks about Brittany. She thinks about how the other girl is standing behind her in her underwear next to a guy who not days before told Santana "I think I have a chance with her." She thinks about all these things but forces her face to remain impassive, pours calm serenity into every muscle in her body and gives Puck a nod that says yeah, totally, I understand.
It works. Puck lets go of her arm and steps back and Santana's shocked into inaction for a moment because they've known each other for years. Years. And really, Puck should know her better than to buy that little act she just performed. She's not calm, she's not serene, there's five glasses of scotch and a pack of cigarettes in her system and a guy trying to get into Brittany's pants in her kitchen. She's furious.
She twirls back around and observes the scene for a second. Everyone is still in their places, Brittany by the counter, Finn in front of her and Matt to the side. All three of them not moving or talking, just waiting. For a second, literally a second, she considers walking out before she does something stupid. But then she takes a good look at Finn. Or rather she takes a good look at where Finn's eyes are looking. Brittany's staring straight at her, worry all over her face, but Finn? Finn is looking at Brittany and he's about seconds away from needing a napkin to wipe up his drool. She loses it, springs forward before anyone can stop her and shoves Finn in the chest, hard.
"Get out," she spits, enjoying Finn's shocked expression and the way he rubs at his chest in pain. Her fist clenches as the desire to strike out doesn't fade.
Brittany catches the motion just as it coils back up into Santana's arms and grabs her around the waist before she can shove Finn again. She's breathing hard, trying to ignore the way her body reacts to Brittany's arm, wrapped tight around her waist and the hot breath in her ear when the blonde girl whispers, "Calm down."
"What the hell, Lopez?" Matt sputters, stepping in front of his partner. His fist clenches at his side and Santana thinks he might throw a punch at her. Part of her wants him to.
Gently, she wraps her fingers around Brittany's wrist and tries to pull it from her waist, slackening her body in a way she hopes Brittany reads as meaning she's done shoving people, but Brittany knows her pretty much better than anyone. Better than Quinn. Better than Puck. Brittany knows her well enough to feel a trick coming when Santana plays one so the blonde girl just tightens her grip around Santana and repeats herself. The words are hushed and warm against Santana's cheek. "You need to calm down."
Puck recovers at that point and puts his body in front of Santana's, standing close to Matt. "Sorry, dude," he says. "Why don't we step outside, go over a few things?"
Matt takes a look over Puck's shoulder at Santana, restrained by Brittany but shooting daggers at Finn. He nods and says, "Yeah, okay." He grabs Finn by the sleeve and tugs him out of the kitchen, Puck following.
"We'll be back in a few hours," Puck calls as he walks out the door.
It's quiet then, except for the sound of Santana breathing, ragged and forced as it beats out of her mouth, and the answering sounds of Brittany's breath in her ear, calmer and steady. Their bodies are tight together and Santana's head goes fuzzy again, half the liquor and half Brittany. She shoves out of Brittany's embrace and stumbles across the kitchen floor, leaning heavily against the sink when she gets there.
Her stomach turns over and she sends a quick prayer that she doesn't vomit. At least she made it to the sink.
"Where did you go? You were gone when I woke up."
"Out," Santana grumbles.
"You're drunk," Brittany comments.
"Yeah."
"You've been doing a lot of that lately."
"Yeah." Santana keeps her back to Brittany, just stares down into the sink and lets her vision go in and out of focus on the drain there.
"Are we going to talk about this?"
"Talk about what?"
"We had sex," Brittany stage whispers as if it's a big secret.
"We did," Santana agrees. "So what?"
"What do you mean so what?!"
At that, Santana turns around, leans back against the counter and crosses her arms. "It was a mistake."
"A mistake."
"Couples have breakup sex all the time, it was bound to happen," she argues, pleased with herself for being able to hold this conversation despite alcohol and adrenaline mingling in her brain.
"Then why did you just shove Finn?"
Santana rolls her eyes. Leave it to Brittany to understand exactly what was going on there. "He's ugly," she lies. "He was stinking up my kitchen."
Brittany shakes her head and turns her gaze to the floor. Santana can tell she's starting to cry. "It wasn't a mistake to me. I'm still in love with you," Brittany admits, her foot tracing circles on the kitchen floor.
The words are quiet and hesitant and they punch Santana in the chest. It's too much to deal with and it feels too much like some stupid dream that she's going to wake up from, hungover, pissed and probably on Quinn's couch.
"I'm drunk," she says, unwilling to trust any other words. She doesn't want to do this now. This conversation with Brittany. She's not sober enough to believe any of it.
Brittany snaps her head up and looks at Santana, studies her for a quiet moment before walking up and grabbing her hand, tugging her around the corner out of the kitchen. They walk into the bedroom where Santana notices that the sheets are still a complete and total mess from earlier. Brittany pushes her on the bed and bends down to take Santana's shoes off.
Her head hits the pillow as she shifts further onto the bed and she feels like she's floating in jello, seconds from falling asleep. The bed dips and Brittany settles next to her, her hand traveling down Santana's arm to tangle their fingers together.
It feels good and terrible at the same time, salvation intertwined with destruction and her throat hurts as she says the next words, turning her head to look at the girl next to her, "You left me."
Brittany shifts her head closer to Santana's and they're staring at each other. "You didn't chase me."
Santana struggles to stay awake, something telling her this is a critical moment, but her brain loses it's grip on reality and her head presses hard into her pillow.
"Tired," she mumbles.
"I know. Go to sleep," Brittany gently commands.
So she does.
--
"I believe this belongs to you," Puck said wryly, propping Santana up again in the door jamb.
She sends a smile to Brittany that she hopes is charming. Okay so maybe after-work drinks with Quinn wasn't a good idea. At least Puck was like the most awesome reliable designated driver ever. Her girlfriend looked both annoyed and amused so Santana thought maybe her smile was working.
"Thanks, Puck," Brittany replied, moving to grab Santana's arm and pull her across the threshold. She stumbled the steps in, colliding with Brittany and grateful for the strong arm the other girl wrapped around her.
"Anytime, Britt," he said with a wink, turning to leave and shutting the door.
Santana leaned heavily against her girlfriend, enjoying the stillness for a minute as they stood in the entryway.
"Come on, drunky, let's go," Brittany said, shifting to the side and hauling Santana down the hall to their bedroom.
"Tired," she said.
"Yeah, I know," Brittany answered. "That's why you shouldn't get drunk in public," the other girl continued, chuckling. "It always makes you fall asleep."
"Missed you," Santana whispered as she dropped onto their bed.
"Then you should have come home," Brittany chided.
"Yeah," Santana agreed, kicking her shoes off and flopping her head onto her pillow. "Quinn was sad," she explained.
Brittany nodded. "Rachel's out of town."
"Yeah, pathetic," Santana said, starting to laugh and then unable to control herself, the laughter increasing in both volume and frequency.
"What's so funny?" Brittany asked, crawling across Santana to lay next to her.
"I don't know," Santana whispered between giggles.
"You're a good friend," Brittany observed, bringing her fingers up to stroke hair off Santana's forehead as the giggling trailed off and quiet resumed.
"Huh?" Sleep was pulling her under and she struggled to focus on Brittany's words.
"Going out with Quinn because she's missing Rachel."
Santana licked her lips against the taste of cheap beer and shut her eyes, hoping Brittany wouldn't be pissed when she dropped off. "She'd do the same for me," she responded, glad she got the sentence out before her body gave in to sleep.
"Mmm, you need to get drunk when you're missing me?"
She turned her head on the pillow and opened her eyes. "Yeah," she said.
"Well then I'll have to make sure you don't miss me that much," Brittany answered, grinning.
"Thanks, babe," she said, smiling widely before it all went dark and sleep claimed her.
--
It's sunlight filtering into her eyes that wakes her up, so foreign she almost thinks she's still asleep. It hasn't been sunny in this city for months, cloudy and rainy is the perpetual forecast and frankly, Santana likes it that way. Sun in her eyes with the way her head feels? Not awesome.
But there's a curious warmth in her hand and when she turns her head she gets a mouthful of blonde hair. Brittany.
Her previous actions come back to her and she almost slaps herself in the forehead. She doesn't though, because her face has taken enough of a beating thank you very much, so she settles for rolling her eyes at herself. Except that kind of hurts too. She still needs that damn ice pack. Also a glass of water. Her mouth feels like she ate cotton for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
She reminds herself to both smack and apologize to Quinn when she sees her next but for now she needs to cure her hangover and do some damage control with Hudson and Rutherford. Leave it to her to go into a drunken jealous rage in the middle of her kitchen. Idiot.
Then the rest of it comes back to her, the way Brittany looked, small and hesitant and the way she said "I'm still in love with you," the memory spreading something like hope fluttering up through her stomach. The fingers intertwined with hers are soft and tight and she feels herself gripping on to them as if the small action could make Brittany stay and never leave again.
Brittany shifts next to her and earlier words float across Santana's consciousness. "You didn't chase after me."
What the hell did she mean by that? That, what, Brittany would have come back if Santana went after her? She fucking left. Took their dog and walked out. That was Brittany's decision. If she wanted to come back, why the hell didn't she?
"Hey," Brittany says, lifting her head and looking at Santana with sleep-filled eyes. "How do you feel?"
"Did I really shove Finn?"
Brittany laughs and Santana grins. "Yeah, you did. That was mean."
"Yeah," Santana agrees, unapologetically.
Silence falls around them before Santana clears her throat again. "Did you mean what you said, in the kitchen?"
"Which part?" Brittany asks, looking confused.
Santana doesn't want to spell it out for her, unable to actually say the words, but thankfully Brittany comes to the realization.
"That I'm still in love with you?"
Santana nods.
Brittany chuckles and looks away. "Yeah, of course." She gives Santana a curious look. "Did you think I just stopped?"
"You left," Santana explains, feeling lame.
Brittany purses her lips. "And you let me."
It's the same argument from before and it kind of pisses Santana off, makes her head throb even harder. She sits up in bed and untangles her hand from Brittany's, her palm feeling ice cold instantly.
"What the hell does that even mean, I let you?"
"Why didn't you come after me?" Brittany asks, sounding small and timid, like Santana's the one that left. It's all so screwed up.
Santana stands up and strides across the room, leaning her back against the far wall and rubbing her eyes. Fuck, her head hurts. "I called you twenty-six times that night, Brittany."
"You did?"
"Yeah, of course I did!" Santana yelled. "You left me! What the hell else would I do?"
Brittany tugs the sheets off her legs and stands up, moving in front of Santana. "I lost my phone."
"What?" It comes out on a long exhale, filled with disbelief.
"That night, when I left," Brittany explains. "I dropped my phone down a sewer grate because it was raining and well I was holding a lot of stuff and crying and it just flew out of my hand and down the street."
"You lost your phone," Santana repeats, not believing what she's hearing. There's no way she spent six months being miserable over a goddamn misunderstanding and a lost cell phone.
"Yeah, and then I didn't get a new one for a few weeks because I didn't have time," she says.
Santana swallows. "So, what are you saying? If I had found you and shown up at your apartment, told you to come home, you would have?"
Brittany nods. "It's what I was waiting for," she says, clear and succinct. "Six months is a long time to keep a girl waiting, Santana Lopez."
"Why didn't you just come back?" Santana asks, still suspicious.
"I thought," Brittany gulps and looks away, crosses her arms over her chest and taps her foot up and down. "I thought the reason you didn't come after me was because you were glad I left."
"Glad?!" Santana stammers out. "Glad?! Why the hell would I be glad?!"
"You didn't come after me," Brittany repeats again as if that was the ultimate answer to all their problems. Santana thinks it probably is. "You told me to leave."
She pinches the bridge of her nose and takes a deep breath, trying to sort out all her feelings and all of Brittany's feelings and figure out what the hell this means. Then it hits her, blindsides her and takes all the air out of her lungs. Brittany's still in love with her. Brittany's in love with her and she wants to come home.
A huge grin spreads across her face despite her hangover and the ache in her cheek and the fear she has that this is all a terrible dream.
She looks Brittany straight in the eye. "Britt," she starts.
"Yeah?" The other girl bites her lips nervously and furrows her brow at Santana's expression.
"I'm still in love with you too." Her throat closes and she almost doesn't get the words out, but she manages it, lets it out like a breath she's been holding in for too long. Tears threaten to fall from her eyes and she curses herself. She needs to stop fucking crying. It's getting embarrassing.
Brittany smiles, scrunches her nose up adorably. "Yeah, S. I can tell."
Santana pushes off the wall and takes a step towards the blonde girl, wraps her arms around her and pulls her into a hug. She feels Brittany's lips graze her neck as she burrows into her shoulder and Santana takes a long inhale against Brittany's hair.
"I missed you," she hears, muffled into the skin of her collabone.
"Yeah, me too," Santana replies.
The doorbell rings before they can say anything else.
Part Seven