Fic: They Say Bad Things Happen For A Reason [Part Five]
Title: They Say Bad Things Happen For A Reason [Part Five]
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5k this part
Notes in Part One
[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four]
--
Remarkably, Santana's able to keep her hormones under control for a good three hours after that and she should be given a fucking medal for it too because Brittany spends the whole damn time with the same amount of clothes on and constantly within four feet of Santana's presence.
Then Brittany gets a phone call. From Tina.
"Hey, T," Brittany answers and every muscle in Santana's body tenses as she strains to hear the conversation from the kitchen table. Brittany's on the opposite side of the room, sitting on their kitchen counter, legs swaying back and forth in the air as she talks. Her heels thud dully against the cabinet below them.
"Mmm I'm at Santana's, actually," Santana hears her say and she thinks there's something that sounds like guilt packed in the tone. She fingers her lighter in her left hand, flicking it open and closed in a distracted manner as she keeps one ear on Brittany's conversation and her eyes locked on the table in front of her. The back of her throat aches rebelliously for nicotine.
"Oh you are?" She can feel Brittany's eyes lock on her profile for a moment before turning back away. "Well," she pauses, glancing quickly at Santana again. "I can't exactly leave."
Santana can almost imagine the other side of the conversation and her nails bite into the palm of her right hand where her fist rests on her thigh. There's files spread across the table in front of her that a uniform dropped off an hour ago but the images all go fuzzy and she can't really focus on anything. All she can think about is Tina on the phone with Brittany and how Tina gets to care about her and say things to her and ask her to come home and all those things Santana can't do.
"Yeah." Brittany's voice goes soft and she turns her head to face away from Santana. "I miss you too," she lets out in a near-whisper.
It's that that snaps Santana's control and before she has time to think about it she's standing in front of Brittany grabbing the phone out of her fingers and closing it shut.
"Santana!" Brittany exclaims, surprise and confusion bleeding through the name.
She realizes far too late what she just did and that she has absolutely no answer to give Brittany for why. All she knows is she just needed the other girl to stop talking to Tina. To stop talking to her like that. Especially in this damn apartment with Brittany in her underwear and her voice all breathy like that. A decade of being together and six months apart and Santana still doesn't know how to share Brittany. She doesn't think she'll ever learn how.
"What did you do that for?" Brittany asks, snatching back her phone from Santana's grasp. The blonde girl flips it open and starts punching buttons, presumably to call Tina back. Santana's hand reaches out again without thinking.
"Santana!" Brittany repeats.
"You can't talk to anyone, it's not safe," she says, cringing inwardly at how lame the excuse sounds.
"I'm blonde, not stupid," Brittany replies. She reaches out to grab the phone again but Santana tugs it out of her reach. "Give me my phone."
"No."
"Give it back," Brittany tries again, reaching across Santana's body.
She opens her mouth to say "No" again but all at once she becomes aware of how close Brittany is, of how her hand feels hot where it's scrambling up Santana's arm for the phone and how their breath is mingling together between them. Brittany seems to notice it at the same time too because now they're staring at each other, not moving, not speaking.
Then Brittany presses her forehead against Santana's and she can see the intent in the blonde girl's eyes, can see where this is leading and it hits her in the pit of her stomach like punch. She can't do this, it's a terrible idea. If she thought Brittany leaving again would hurt before, letting Brittany lean the few inches forward and press their lips together will probably kill her.
But Brittany must see the fear spread across Santana's face, see the decision to run before Santana can put it into action, because she brings both her hands up to cup Santana's cheeks, holding her there with a shaky breath.
"Don't think about it," she whispers.
"Britt," Santana gulps, the hands on her face heavy and hot.
"Please," Brittany pleads as she slides down from the counter.
It's her downfall really. Because Brittany presses their bodies together and the feeling of it surges through Santana like a spark. She feels tears start to fill up her eyes and it pisses her off. Pisses her off that Brittany thinks this is fucking okay. That she can just walk out of their life, take their dog, show back up unexpected, sit in her damn kitchen half-naked talking to fucking Tina and then plead with Santana to kiss her. How is this okay?
"Stop it," she entreats, wanting Brittany to stop but unable to pull away. All the feelings mingle up into her head like a potent cocktail - the pain of losing Brittany, the fear of it happening again, the familiar feeling of warm skin pressed up against hers and the hint of vanilla she can smell wafting up from Brittany's skin.
"I can't," Brittany says, so soft Santana almost doesn't catch it, but she can see the tears start to fall on Brittany's face, mirroring her own.
Their eyes are locked and Santana screams at her body to move away but it doesn't listen and before she knows it Brittany is brushing soft lips against hers, soft, sweet and hesitant. The moment feels electric, like they're both going to explode at any second and all of a sudden Santana is pissed again. Pissed at Brittany, pissed at Roger Pike, pissed at herself. Pissed.
The fingers on Brittany's right hand stroke up and down her cheek softly, running over the still bruised skin there and Santana loses it, presses her lips against Brittany's so hard the other girl gasps into the kiss and a welcome ache shoots through her own lips. Distantly, she hears the thud of Brittany's phone hitting the floor.
Santana backs up into the her, closing what space was left between them and presses Brittany into the counter roughly, pulling a strangled moan out of the blonde girl.
Brittany tastes like tears and broken promises and it makes Santana want to hurt someone, hurt herself, hurt them. Her hands travel down to Brittany's ass, pulling their hips together as her lips break from their kiss and move down to the long slope of Brittany's neck.
She feels herself crying, unable to stop the flow of tears as she scrapes her teeth under Brittany's jaw and feels the other girl's hands grip into her hair. It's familiar and new at the same time and Santana feels something break inside her, an old wound split wide open.
When Brittany's hands undo her shoulder harness with practiced ease and drop her gun on the counter behind her she feels the motion like a brand on her skin.
--
Brittany was waiting for her when she stepped through the door, hands on her hips."Where have you been?"
"Work," Santana answered, tugging at the strap to her holster.
"It's 3AM," Brittany replied, annoyed, but walking over to help Santana with the harness.
"Criminals don't sleep, babe. What do you want me to do?"
--
Santana feels her shoulders start to shake and her knees start to buckle and anger sweeps through her again, pushing away the pain and focusing on Brittany. They're kissing again, hot and open mouthed and Brittany's hands are splayed across her back, the heat from her palms searing through the thin material of Santana's shirt. She bites down on Brittany's lower lip, hard enough to draw blood and feels a thread of bitter satisfaction float through her at the way the other girl whimpers against the pain.
But Brittany retaliates, moves her hands again to pull at Santana's shirt, popping the buttons open in succession as she bites back into their kiss, sharp pain shooting through Santana's face. Santana's heart starts to pound, feeling heavy against her ribcage, as Brittany tugs her shirt off, bringing a hand back up to twist around Santana's neck while the other makes quick work of her bra, snapping it open with nimble fingers.
It's a vulnerable feeling, standing suddenly shirtless in front of Brittany again, but she doesn't have time to dwell on it because Brittany pulls her head away, fingers traveling down to the edge of her own tank top before she pulls it swiftly over her head, blonde hair flowing around her shoulders with the motion.
Then it's skin to skin, bare chest to bare chest, and Santana is all too aware of the way Brittany's hips feel, pressed tight into her's. She kisses Brittany again, like she can't get enough of it, but her fingers dig into the soft skin of Brittany's ass, her nails leaving small indents in the skin. Brittany's hands take a path down Santana's chest, coming to a stop at the buckle of Santana's belt before fumbling between them to pull it open, never breaking their kiss.
"Bed," Brittany mumbles against Santana's lips.
--
"We were supposed to have dinner with my parents tonight."
Santana slapped a hand on her forehead. "Oh shit, I forgot."
"Yeah," Brittany said, obviously unimpressed with that answer.
"I can't exactly plan when people get murdered, Britt," she said with an eye roll.
"You have a phone, don't you?"
--
Her pants are around her ankles by the time she throws Brittany on their bed and settles on top of her, so she kicks them off with her feet. For a moment she's overwhelmed with the feeling of being back here, of lying in this bed with Brittany under her in way she never thought she would again. Then, quick like summer rain, she's mad again, hurt slicing through her when she thinks about how fleeting this encounter is, crashing together like this when she knows in the depth of her soul Brittany will walk out again.
Nothing's changed. All those reasons, that fight, the one that made Brittany walk out the door. It's all the same. It all leads to the same conclusion. Brittany will leave.
Unaware of the emotional turmoil in Santana's head, Brittany rolls them over and pushes her way between Santana's thighs, kissing a path down her chest. Santana stares up at the ceiling and fights the sob caught in her throat, desperately trying to push the pain and the fear down, knowing she needs to cling to this moment if it's all she's going to get.
--
"My job is important, Brittany," she explained for the seventh time that night.
Same fight, different night.
"So are my parents, Santana."
"I know they are, but I have a responsibility to this city."
"You have a responsibility to me too, are you saying your job is more important than that?"
And because she was sick and tired of this stupid argument she couldn't stop herself.
"Yes."
--
It takes a good minute of Brittany's tongue tracing aimless patterns on her stomach for her to get a grip on her emotions, but she does it. She feels a calm wash over her and her brain invests itself in the moment, in the feel of Brittany's body against hers and the smell of Brittany on the sheets around her. Santana tugs her up so they're face to face and rolls them back over so she's on top again, letting a small sad smile cross her lips before she kisses the other girl.
Her fingers travel softly over Brittany's hip bones, tracing the top of Brittany's underwear before dipping slowly beneath them. When the blonde lets out a small gasp into Santana's mouth a need floods through her, half aroused and half territorial.
Their kiss grows heated again, teeth biting and breathing becoming rapid and harsh as Santana tugs the material off of Brittany's legs, trusting the other girl to kick them the rest of the way off. She presses a firm thigh in between Brittany's legs and a rush goes through her at the moan the blonde lets out.
--
"You knew this was how it was going to be," Santana jabbed a finger in Brittany's direction. "You knew."
"That doesn't mean I have to like it," she said.
Santana took a deep angry breath and turned away from Brittany. "You liked it just fine before."
"Well maybe I'm done liking it now."
--
As her hand finds its way between Brittany's legs, sliding through wet heat, Santana feels dizzy like she's spinning out of control. Her chest is light and empty and her stomach turns over, equal parts arousal and pain. Brittany's mouth is dropped open, her eyes shut tight and Santana can make out the tracks of tears down the other girl's cheeks. She runs her thumb over Brittany's bottom lip and winces. She's still so stupid in love with this girl. She hates it.
Brittany inhales sharply, eyes opening as Santana enters her and she catches herself mesmerized by the other girl's expression, sinking into it until all she's aware of is blonde hair, blue eyes and the slickness beneath her fingers.
She presses her forehead tightly against Brittany's shoulder, ignoring the pain that shoots through the bruises on her face and closes her eyes, listens to Brittany's breathing increase in her ear, the sound ragged and off-pace. She focuses on this one thing, this one thing she can give Brittany right now, the one thing she can hold onto when it's all over.
The other girl arches upward, her hips moving with Santana's rhythm and her body tensing. Santana pushes back, brings her thumb up to circle Brittany's clit and presses her lips against Brittany's neck, biting the skin there until it's red and Brittany's crying out under her.
When she feels Brittany's lips brush across her ear and a soft, lazy sigh comes out she smiles brokenly into a silent sob.
--
"So what, now you're just done? Done with us?"
"I'm not saying that!" Brittany cried. "I just can't keep going on like this, don't you get it?"
"No," Santana answered. "You know what, Brittany? I don't fucking get it. It's my goddamn job, get over it."
"Why are you being like this?"
Santana threw her hands up in the air. "You want to leave? Fucking leave."
--
Before she can recover, before she can scramble off of Brittany and run out of the room, the other girl flips them over with a strength Santana always forgets Brittany has and starts kissing down Santana's neck, her hands running down Santana's sides to grip the edges of her underwear and tug it off. Part of her wants to stop her, part of her wants to pull Brittany up by her hair and shrug her off. She's not ready for this, not ready for the kissing, or the crying or any of it.
But her body has different ideas and it's been six months since the last time someone touched her, six months since Brittany touched her. A flush scorches through her skin and she feels herself start to sweat with anticipation, every part of her responding to Brittany in a way that makes her gasp for air, bring a shaky hand to her forehead to try and calm herself.
Brittany's lips make their way down her chest until she gets to a small star-shaped scar by her shoulder. The blonde girl presses a hard kiss there, almost reverent and Santana can feel the way Brittany's face scrunches up against her skin as if holding back tears.
It's still for a moment and Santana can almost hear the sound of her watch where her hand is still pressed to her forehead, ticking away mockingly at her as the seconds with Brittany pass by. It's not the first time it's happened, months after she'd been shot Brittany would do the same thing, pause to kiss the red skin, clinging to Santana as if she were going to disappear in the next few seconds.
She almost chuckles at the thought. She should have been the one worried, not Brittany.
--
"Where are you going?" Santana screamed, watching Brittany stuff clothing into a duffel bag.
"Leaving," Brittany replied through tears. "Like you said."
"Fucking great, Britt. Where exactly do you think you're going to go at this time of night?"
"Stop yelling at me," Brittany begged.
"I'm not yelling," Santana yelled, her hands in the air.
Brittany raised an eyebrow at her.
--
She stops thinking altogether when Brittany presses a wet kiss between her legs and strokes her tongue through the folds there. She's embarrassingly turned on, the room feeling hotter by the second and her lungs seeming incapable of being satisfied with the amount of oxygen she's putting in them.
A pressure is building at the base of her spine and she's so close to coming she can feel it in the backs of her eyes. It's all happening too hot and too fast, a low groan bursting out of her as Brittany slides two fingers deep within her. Her eyes snap shut at the sensations and she fights to make it last longer, pissed that she only gets this one moment and her body isn't going to let it last longer than minutes.
Then Brittany curls her fingers expertly, bites down softly and Santana's eyes roll back into her head painfully. Her orgasm punches out of her and she has to bite her finger to keep from screaming out, her other hand gripping in Brittany's hair in instinct.
--
Santana woke up, groggy and disoriented.
"Morning, sleepyhead," said Quinn, appearing next to her.
"What the fuck?"
"Yeah, that's what I thought," the blonde girl replied with a chuckle, handing Santana a glass of water and two aspirin.
"What am I doing here?"
"You showed up last night, drunk and depressed."
She popped the pills into her mouth and took a long gulp of water. "Attractive," she commented.
"Yeah," Quinn agreed. "Bad fight with Britt or something? You wouldn't say last night."
And then it all came back to her.
--
It takes her long minutes to catch her breath and get her body to stop shaking and by the time she finally thinks she has a grip on herself Brittany has already curled up next to her, small hands gripping Santana's bicep and eyes closed in post-coital exhaustion. Brittany was always like that, nodding off so quickly after sex and Santana always found it both amusing and adorable.
She strokes a hand over a lock of hair that had fallen across Brittany's face and lets her eyes roam over the other girl trying to process what just happened. Gently, she disengages Brittany's hands from her bicep and sits up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and resting her elbows on her knees, dropping her head into her hands. Shit.
She checks her watch. 1PM. Still five hours until Puck gets here. She looks over her shoulder, swallowing thickly at the sight of Brittany naked, tangled in the sheets. It hits her like a bucket of water over her head. She just fucking slept with Brittany. Of all the stupid things she's done in her life, this has to be top ten at least.
Her legs are weak as she stands up but she's able to find her pants where she kicked them and tugs them on, walking out of the bedroom without waking the blonde girl in her bed. Brittany was always a pretty deep sleeper anyway. She finds her phone on the kitchen table and flips it open, dialing a number by memory while she shrugs her shirt back on.
"Meet me at Rick's," she says when the other person picks up the phone.
--
Santana rushed into their apartment, desperate to get to Brittany after the memories of last night came back to her.
"Britt?" She called out as she walked through the rooms but there was no sign of her. No sign of their dog either.
"Britt?" She tried again.
Suspicion flowed through her and she felt a fear grip her chest as she walked into their bedroom. She stared at the closet intently as if just looking at it would make last night go away, but after a few seconds her hand reached out and turned the knob, opening the door and confirming her worst fears.
All of Brittany's clothes were gone.
--
She steps out of the apartment and into the rain making her way to the squad car parked down the block and rapping her knuckles on the window. The uniform inside rolls it down.
"Detective," he greets.
"Put a guy at my door," she demands without preamble.
"Yes, ma'am," he says, looking at her face and not asking questions.
"Now," Santana says, firmly.
"Yeah, yeah," he repeats rapidly, nudging his partner out of the door as he makes a call on his radio.
"Thanks," she says, walking away.
The rain is almost torrential and she hears a distant crack of thunder as she makes her way down the block. It soaks through her shirt and her hair but she welcomes it, hoping it will wash away the tears still left on her cheeks and the feel of Brittany's fingers all around her and inside her.
She lets her coat flap open and stops in the first market she passes, buying a soft pack and ignoring the way the cashier looks at her, like she's a crazy person. She can imagine how she looks right now, soaked through to the bone, eyes red, bruises all over her face and a hardness to her expression she perfected years ago when she had to intimidate all those that didn't respect her badge.
The first cigarette is done in nearly three drags and she's not even halfway to the bar yet. She pulls the next one out and lights it, sheltering it against a street lamp. The rain makes it harder but she's determined and four flicks of her thumb get it lit.
Half the pack is gone by the time she walks into Rick's.
--
"Answer your goddamn phone, Brittany. Where are you?"
It was the fifteenth message she'd left that day, some of them angry, some of them desperate, all of them scared.
She felt pathetic as she hung up and her head still hurt from the liquor store she drank last night, but more than that, adrenaline was coursing through her body, unable to accept the fact that Brittany had left her. That she actually left and Santana had been the one to push her out the door. She was out there, somewhere and Santana didn't know where, couldn't find her to apologize, to convince her to come back, to protect her. Paranoia and fear made her head swim.
Her fingers dialed a familiar number for the sixteenth time.
--
Santana rolls her forehead back and forth on the dirty table, a cigarette burning in her right hand and a stout glass of scotch next to her left. The booth makes a squeaking noise as a body slides in beside her and picks the glass up, bringing it to their lips.
"Glenrothes? Springing for the good stuff now, S?"
"Fuck you, Q," she says, angrily, the words muffled into the wood of the table. The need to lash out at anyone, at anything, is clawing at her brain.
"Whoa," Quinn says, holding her hands up defensively. "What the hell happened?"
"Nothing," Santana groaned, picking her head up and leaning back against the booth. "I just need a drink and drinking alone makes me look like an alcoholic."
Quinn points down to Santana's drink as she eyes the bartender before holding up two fingers in the air and nodding. Then she eyes the cigarette, burning to ash in Santana's hand.
"You sure you're okay? Because you look like shit," Quinn intones, taking in the bruises on Santana's face. "Who beat the shit out of you?"
"Puck and I broke up a bar fight. Kid got a couple money shots to the face."
Quinn humms an affirmative sound and then just kind of observes Santana.
"Holy shit," Quinn says, her eyes growing wide in realization as she looks back at Santana's right hand.
Santana follows her gaze and looks at the cigarette as if she just remembered it was there. She takes a long drag. "What?"
"You didn't sleep with her or anything stupid like that, did you?"
Santana chokes at the question, hunches over the table and tries to get her lungs to work properly. "No," she denies, but Quinn doesn't buy it.
"Santana," she chides. "What the hell did you do that for? Are you back together?"
She looks away, her hand spinning her glass of scotch on the table, her eyes tracing the lines in the wood. "No," she answers.
"Then why did you fuck her, you moron," Quinn hisses, keeping her voice low as their server drops two more tumblers of scotch at the table.
"Listen," Santana retorts, throwing back what's left of her drink before turning to face Quinn. "What I need right now is to get drunk. So either you start drinking and catch up or get the hell out of here. But either way, the fucking questions stop. Right now."
Quinn raises an eyebrow and they stare at each other for a little bit, locked in a battle of wills. For a moment she's disappointed that Quinn's going to lecture her more, but the eye brow drops and her friend shakes her head back and forth disapprovingly, pursing her lips. Then she thinks maybe Quinn is just going to up and leave but the blonde girl stares at her drink for a few seconds before making a decision. Quinn grabs the glass in front of her, throwing the scotch back in one gulp, wincing as she swallows and pulling the second glass towards her. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and holds out her other one in Santana's direction. "Give me a cigarette."
Santana smiles and lets out a grateful breath.
--
"So what, she just left?"
"It's all gone, her clothes, the dog," Santana took a long pull of her beer, leaning her elbows on the bar and staring straight ahead. "She won't answer her phone or anything."
"Shit," Quinn said, taking a drink of her own beer.
"Yeah."
"What are you going to do?" Quinn asked after a minute.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, aren't you going to try and find her?" Quinn's brow furrowed as she turned on her stool and observed Santana, realizing the answer before her friend could say anything. "Santana," she chastised.
"She fucking left, Fabray," Santana fought to get the words out, convinced she had shed all the tears she could in the last few days but not trusting herself enough not to cry in public. "She fucking left," she repeated.
--
Quinn stubs her cigarette in the ash tray on the table and breathes out the smoke in a long stream over Santana's head.
"So, how long are we going to sit here?"
"Until I forget about it," Santana answers, her voice holding a comfortable slur.
"How long do you think that's going to take?"
Santana shrugs.
"Right, well I need to call Rach and tell her I'm going to be getting trashed with you in the middle of the day."
"Tell her I said hello," she mumbles, the scotch finally going to her head.
Quinn looks at her sideways as she slides out of the booth.
"Yeah, I'll do that," she responds.
The blonde attorney steps away from the booth and towards the bathrooms, ducking into a small alcove there before bringing her phone out. Santana watches silently as Quinn talks, gesturing with her hands and smiling ever so often.
It hits her then that calling Quinn was probably a bad idea. Because Quinn has Rachel and they're like the fucking perfect couple, always smiling and laughing and making out in the kitchen. They're the couple she and Brittany used to be and the constant reminder isn't going to help Santana forget what just happened any quicker. She scratches the scar on her shoulder and swallows, trying to get the now-recent memory of Brittany's lips off her skin. Quinn's laugh carries over to the booth and Santana narrows her eyes at her friend, cursing her lack of foresight. She should have called Puck.
Then again, Puck is working and only slightly more responsible these days than Santana so he probably wouldn't approve of her current activities. Plus, she needs him on the damn case since she's doing a piss poor job of it herself. Sleeping with Brittany. What the fuck was she thinking?
The image of Brittany in her bed flashes across her brain again and she winces against it, grabs her scotch and takes a sip.
Quinn slides back into the booth next to her, pocketing her phone right as the bartender comes by their table and eyes Santana suspiciously.
"Another one, Joe," Santana says, happy with how sober her voice sounds.
Joe looks like he's going to protest, but Quinn glares at him and makes a gesture towards the bar. He sighs but turns back and goes to pour another drink.
Santana lets her head press against the back of the booth and blinks lazily, enjoying the buzz settling in between her ears. She can feel Quinn shift to look at her and takes a deep breath, wondering what lecture she's about to get now.
Then Santana's phone lets out a low buzz from where it's sitting on the table. She makes a grab for it but misses, knocks over a bowl of peanuts on the way, so Quinn plucks it up and flips it open, looking at Santana wryly as she answers it.
"Santana Lopez's phone," Quinn says, ignoring Santana's glare. "Oh hey, Puck. What?"
The attorney's body goes still and she looks away from Santana. "We're at Rick's, but I don't think she's in any shape to move."
Santana makes a grab for the phone, but Quinn evades her easily. "Just come by here first," the blonde girl demands before hanging up.
"Puck's on his way," she says to Santana, uselessly. "You got another envelope."
For the first time since Brittany left six months ago, Santana wishes she were sober.
Part Six