Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (13/13)
Title: Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (13/13)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany, side Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R/NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana Lopez hates school, Lima, and those damn Cheerios--for the most part.
A/N: Title swiped from the Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton song of the same name--and because I'm classy, yes, it is the same song used here. And for the record, I'm so not satisfied with this ending...bah. This whole thing kind of went in a direction I didn't intend for it to. I'm of mixed mind on it, so feel free to critique the hell out of it.
“This isn’t going to work,” Santana mutters as Quinn blows through the door and flops down beside her. “Your taste in music is too fuckin’ shoddy, it’ll never-“
“It will be fine,” Quinn says, like Quinn always seems to be saying these days. Her soothing voice is beginning to sound a little more like nails on a chalkboard than anything else, and Santana is feeling more and more like punching everything when she hears it. It has gone way past being just mildly counterproductive.
“Sure,” Rachel pops up from Quinn’s other side, nestled into the blonde with her chin resting on one slim shoulder. “Totally fine. Quinn’s very romantic, you know. Just the other day, she took me out for a picnic and we-“
“I don’t need to hear about your sordid little flings, Berry,” Santana enunciates carefully, smirking when both faces turn sour. “What you and Fabray do in the bedroom so needs to stay between you.”
Rachel cranes her neck to look up at Quinn, eyes grim. “Was she by chance dropped on her head as a child? I believe her to be emotionally stunted in a very real, very serious fashion.”
Quinn snorts, bowing her head and brushing her lips across Rachel’s. The brunette sighs happily. Santana gags.
“You two are pathetic,” she grumbles. “And this had better fucking work.”
This is, after all, her last idea. Brittany’s standing firm right now on the whole ‘do what I want regardless of people putting me down’ thing, which is pretty admirable-especially in this wastoid school-but Santana knows this place well enough to know mindsets like that don’t necessarily last. There’s too much to fall back on-too many teachers like Sue Sylvester, too much pressure from the likes of Mallory and her drones, too much fear like Santana’s own. Leaving fragile things out in the open for too long is more than minutely dangerous; more often than not, such things are broken beyond repair.
It isn’t that she thinks Brittany is weak. It’s that she knows what love can be like, how easily things can fall apart. She knows how long bruises can last, how deeply scars can run, and she knows that things worth having are the easiest to smash in the first place.
Brittany isn’t weak, but right now, what they have is. It’s real-real enough to make her skin hum, real enough to haunt her in her sleep and disturb every square inch of the perfectly detached life she’s built up until now-but it’s tentative, tenuous. She has to do something about it now.
And since she obviously can’t form words properly to save her life…
An elbow rams into her ribcage hard enough to capture her attention. Her head comes up dizzyingly fast, just in time to see Schuester twirl into the room on his usual cloud of fairy dust and dreams. He gesticulates excitedly in her direction, fully aware that this is a momentous occasion for the both of them.
For him, because nothing pleases Will Schuester more than succeeding with a difficult student.
For her, because if this make-or-break attempt fails, she’s got no other choice but to kiss this idea of being happy for the first time since childhood goodbye.
She thinks her side is more imperative, but it’s not like she’s unbiased.
Doing her best not to hyperventilate, Santana rises. Grasping her chair, she raises the thing over her head and plants it directly in front of the piano. Quinn smiles.
“I, uh,” Santana hears herself say gruffly. She clears her throat, rotates her head uncomfortably along her neck, cracks her back. “I’ve got something. To share.”
She wishes she could tune out the excited way Schuester claps his hands together. It’s making the unpleasant flipping sensation in her stomach feel all the uglier. She swivels her upper body, wanting so badly to glare at him and snap that it’s just a song, not a bid for world peace.
Instead, she makes eye contact with Brad over her shoulder and gives an uneasy nod to let him know she’s ready. Which, really, she isn’t-but she figures it’s best to get this sort of thing over with before she drops dead on the spot from apprehension.
She sinks into the chair as the first notes pour from the piano’s belly, slow and heavy. It’s melancholy, too deep for Santana’s usual tastes, and therefore feels perfect for the occasion; after all, it isn’t as though Brittany has ever been to Santana’s usual tastes.
She begins, shaky and tense, hands pressed to her knees as the initial lines sidle from her lips. She can barely hear herself over the roar of nerves, screaming all the while that this won’t do it, this won’t be enough, that Brittany won’t be able to see past the pictures Santana has already painted for her. That paint is drying so quickly, and with every sad attempt at alteration Santana makes, it seems to get worse. Does she really think one song is going to make a world of difference?
Cursed with a love that you can’t express; it’s not for a fuck or a kiss. Rather give the world away than wake up lonely; everywhere in every way, I see you with me…
She hates this-hates singing, hates opening herself up, hates the way Will’s eyes shine and Quinn’s soothe. She hates Glee for giving her this as her only option, hates Kurt and Mercedes for their knowing smiles, hates Puck for his smirk. She hates this song, hates the woman who usually sings it, hates Brad behind her for never missing a single note.
What she doesn’t hate is the way Brittany is arching forward in her chair, eyes roving over Santana as she sings, fingers twisted in her lap. She finds she doesn’t hate that much at all.
She can’t hear herself, and doesn’t care; whether or not her voice is Rachel Berry-powerful or Quinn Fabray-lovely or Noah Puckerman-smooth, she couldn’t care less. The words don’t even matter as much as the fact that she’s doing this in the first place-and from the glaze to Brittany’s sapphire eyes, she can tell the girl understands. Her heart lifts in her chest, floating higher as she continues, nudging against lesser organs as if to call attention to itself.
We’re out here screaming, “The life that you thought through is gone”-can’t want out, the ending outlasting the movie; I wake up lonely…
Behind her, the notes die off, but Santana really isn’t here anymore. Her mouth slides shut, her eyes fixed on Brittany’s, and though she can hear Schuester squealing his approval, she’s not taking it in. Brittany’s smiling, and that’s all she needs. She stands.
“That’s it.”
She shrugs a little, embarrassed, ignoring the applause and Quinn’s wolf-whistle. Leaving her chair behind, she pushes her hands into her pockets and walks straight up the risers, straight to Brittany’s side. The blonde cranes her neck to look up at her, eyes bright.
“Hi,” the girl says. Santana bites her lip.
“That kind of sucked, didn’t it?”
“Well, as grand gestures go, it was a little predictable,” Brittany teases, taking the sting out the instant her hand winds with Santana’s own. She slides their fingers together and squeezes, and Santana’s heart damn near fires up into her throat with glee.
“I’d have picked a less shitty song, but my iTunes has been cracky of late,” she says, trying for levity. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Quinn’s smile dim into an annoyed pout seconds before Rachel giggles and kisses it away.
“It wasn’t exactly the ideal love song,” Brittany agrees, using Santana’s arm to pull herself to stand. She bends her head a little, cups Santana’s cheek with her free hand, smiles blindingly. “Kind of depressing, if you want the truth.”
“Blame Fabray,” Santana breathes, edging into the touch and closing her eyes. “She picked the damn thing.” Quinn makes a more-than-miffed noise; she grins.
“Quinn, you need happier music,” Brittany informs the other blonde. “Maybe something involving cowbell and a little less of the heartfelt midnight piano.”
“I like Emily Haines,” Rachel proclaims loyally, rubbing Quinn’s back in sympathy. “She’s very talented.”
“See?” Quinn mopes. Santana throws her head back and laughs.
“But your voice is very nice,” Brittany adds, applying pressure to Santana’s jaw and fixing her with a scorching smile. “Very sexy. I approve.”
“Do you?” They’re nose to nose, Santana tilting up on her toes in an effort to press closer. The fingertips on her cheek stroke low to cradle her chin.
“You’re still going to be kind of mean and ornery and impossible to deal with, aren’t you?” Brittany asks huskily. Santana shrugs.
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“And you’re going to keep fighting with the Cheerios until one of you draws blood?”
She can’t resist a smirk. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“But you’re going to stop telling me what’s good for me and what isn’t?” the blonde presses, eyes serious. Santana’s gaze drops.
“I’ll try,” she says honestly, because a Lopez doesn’t make promises well, and keeping them is even less simple. Someday, she’ll tell Brittany everything-twisted together in bed, cradling the blonde close, she’ll lay the cards out on the table. Her father, the abuse, the lies, her own personal demons. Someday, she’ll do what it takes to tug free of the shadow that’s been pinning her to Lima since she can remember understanding.
Right now, she leans up and brushes her mouth silently against Brittany’s, sealing the first pact she’s made of her own accord in God knows how long. Brittany makes a soft, delighted sound, kissing back with more fervor than Santana could have thought possible. Behind them, Puck whistles.
“This show keeps getting better and better.”
Santana pulls away, eyes still glued to Brittany’s beaming face. “Hey, Puckerman?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll give you a five-second head start.”
He’s up and scrambling for the door before her next breath. Brittany laughs like the world is perfect. Grinning, Santana rears up and kisses her as hard as she can before turning on her heel and bolting after her prey.
This year, she thinks as she watches Puck’s sneakers slip and send him sprawling halfway down the hall, could most certainly be worse.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany, side Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R/NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana Lopez hates school, Lima, and those damn Cheerios--for the most part.
A/N: Title swiped from the Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton song of the same name--and because I'm classy, yes, it is the same song used here. And for the record, I'm so not satisfied with this ending...bah. This whole thing kind of went in a direction I didn't intend for it to. I'm of mixed mind on it, so feel free to critique the hell out of it.
“This isn’t going to work,” Santana mutters as Quinn blows through the door and flops down beside her. “Your taste in music is too fuckin’ shoddy, it’ll never-“
“It will be fine,” Quinn says, like Quinn always seems to be saying these days. Her soothing voice is beginning to sound a little more like nails on a chalkboard than anything else, and Santana is feeling more and more like punching everything when she hears it. It has gone way past being just mildly counterproductive.
“Sure,” Rachel pops up from Quinn’s other side, nestled into the blonde with her chin resting on one slim shoulder. “Totally fine. Quinn’s very romantic, you know. Just the other day, she took me out for a picnic and we-“
“I don’t need to hear about your sordid little flings, Berry,” Santana enunciates carefully, smirking when both faces turn sour. “What you and Fabray do in the bedroom so needs to stay between you.”
Rachel cranes her neck to look up at Quinn, eyes grim. “Was she by chance dropped on her head as a child? I believe her to be emotionally stunted in a very real, very serious fashion.”
Quinn snorts, bowing her head and brushing her lips across Rachel’s. The brunette sighs happily. Santana gags.
“You two are pathetic,” she grumbles. “And this had better fucking work.”
This is, after all, her last idea. Brittany’s standing firm right now on the whole ‘do what I want regardless of people putting me down’ thing, which is pretty admirable-especially in this wastoid school-but Santana knows this place well enough to know mindsets like that don’t necessarily last. There’s too much to fall back on-too many teachers like Sue Sylvester, too much pressure from the likes of Mallory and her drones, too much fear like Santana’s own. Leaving fragile things out in the open for too long is more than minutely dangerous; more often than not, such things are broken beyond repair.
It isn’t that she thinks Brittany is weak. It’s that she knows what love can be like, how easily things can fall apart. She knows how long bruises can last, how deeply scars can run, and she knows that things worth having are the easiest to smash in the first place.
Brittany isn’t weak, but right now, what they have is. It’s real-real enough to make her skin hum, real enough to haunt her in her sleep and disturb every square inch of the perfectly detached life she’s built up until now-but it’s tentative, tenuous. She has to do something about it now.
And since she obviously can’t form words properly to save her life…
An elbow rams into her ribcage hard enough to capture her attention. Her head comes up dizzyingly fast, just in time to see Schuester twirl into the room on his usual cloud of fairy dust and dreams. He gesticulates excitedly in her direction, fully aware that this is a momentous occasion for the both of them.
For him, because nothing pleases Will Schuester more than succeeding with a difficult student.
For her, because if this make-or-break attempt fails, she’s got no other choice but to kiss this idea of being happy for the first time since childhood goodbye.
She thinks her side is more imperative, but it’s not like she’s unbiased.
Doing her best not to hyperventilate, Santana rises. Grasping her chair, she raises the thing over her head and plants it directly in front of the piano. Quinn smiles.
“I, uh,” Santana hears herself say gruffly. She clears her throat, rotates her head uncomfortably along her neck, cracks her back. “I’ve got something. To share.”
She wishes she could tune out the excited way Schuester claps his hands together. It’s making the unpleasant flipping sensation in her stomach feel all the uglier. She swivels her upper body, wanting so badly to glare at him and snap that it’s just a song, not a bid for world peace.
Instead, she makes eye contact with Brad over her shoulder and gives an uneasy nod to let him know she’s ready. Which, really, she isn’t-but she figures it’s best to get this sort of thing over with before she drops dead on the spot from apprehension.
She sinks into the chair as the first notes pour from the piano’s belly, slow and heavy. It’s melancholy, too deep for Santana’s usual tastes, and therefore feels perfect for the occasion; after all, it isn’t as though Brittany has ever been to Santana’s usual tastes.
She begins, shaky and tense, hands pressed to her knees as the initial lines sidle from her lips. She can barely hear herself over the roar of nerves, screaming all the while that this won’t do it, this won’t be enough, that Brittany won’t be able to see past the pictures Santana has already painted for her. That paint is drying so quickly, and with every sad attempt at alteration Santana makes, it seems to get worse. Does she really think one song is going to make a world of difference?
Cursed with a love that you can’t express; it’s not for a fuck or a kiss. Rather give the world away than wake up lonely; everywhere in every way, I see you with me…
She hates this-hates singing, hates opening herself up, hates the way Will’s eyes shine and Quinn’s soothe. She hates Glee for giving her this as her only option, hates Kurt and Mercedes for their knowing smiles, hates Puck for his smirk. She hates this song, hates the woman who usually sings it, hates Brad behind her for never missing a single note.
What she doesn’t hate is the way Brittany is arching forward in her chair, eyes roving over Santana as she sings, fingers twisted in her lap. She finds she doesn’t hate that much at all.
She can’t hear herself, and doesn’t care; whether or not her voice is Rachel Berry-powerful or Quinn Fabray-lovely or Noah Puckerman-smooth, she couldn’t care less. The words don’t even matter as much as the fact that she’s doing this in the first place-and from the glaze to Brittany’s sapphire eyes, she can tell the girl understands. Her heart lifts in her chest, floating higher as she continues, nudging against lesser organs as if to call attention to itself.
We’re out here screaming, “The life that you thought through is gone”-can’t want out, the ending outlasting the movie; I wake up lonely…
Behind her, the notes die off, but Santana really isn’t here anymore. Her mouth slides shut, her eyes fixed on Brittany’s, and though she can hear Schuester squealing his approval, she’s not taking it in. Brittany’s smiling, and that’s all she needs. She stands.
“That’s it.”
She shrugs a little, embarrassed, ignoring the applause and Quinn’s wolf-whistle. Leaving her chair behind, she pushes her hands into her pockets and walks straight up the risers, straight to Brittany’s side. The blonde cranes her neck to look up at her, eyes bright.
“Hi,” the girl says. Santana bites her lip.
“That kind of sucked, didn’t it?”
“Well, as grand gestures go, it was a little predictable,” Brittany teases, taking the sting out the instant her hand winds with Santana’s own. She slides their fingers together and squeezes, and Santana’s heart damn near fires up into her throat with glee.
“I’d have picked a less shitty song, but my iTunes has been cracky of late,” she says, trying for levity. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Quinn’s smile dim into an annoyed pout seconds before Rachel giggles and kisses it away.
“It wasn’t exactly the ideal love song,” Brittany agrees, using Santana’s arm to pull herself to stand. She bends her head a little, cups Santana’s cheek with her free hand, smiles blindingly. “Kind of depressing, if you want the truth.”
“Blame Fabray,” Santana breathes, edging into the touch and closing her eyes. “She picked the damn thing.” Quinn makes a more-than-miffed noise; she grins.
“Quinn, you need happier music,” Brittany informs the other blonde. “Maybe something involving cowbell and a little less of the heartfelt midnight piano.”
“I like Emily Haines,” Rachel proclaims loyally, rubbing Quinn’s back in sympathy. “She’s very talented.”
“See?” Quinn mopes. Santana throws her head back and laughs.
“But your voice is very nice,” Brittany adds, applying pressure to Santana’s jaw and fixing her with a scorching smile. “Very sexy. I approve.”
“Do you?” They’re nose to nose, Santana tilting up on her toes in an effort to press closer. The fingertips on her cheek stroke low to cradle her chin.
“You’re still going to be kind of mean and ornery and impossible to deal with, aren’t you?” Brittany asks huskily. Santana shrugs.
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“And you’re going to keep fighting with the Cheerios until one of you draws blood?”
She can’t resist a smirk. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“But you’re going to stop telling me what’s good for me and what isn’t?” the blonde presses, eyes serious. Santana’s gaze drops.
“I’ll try,” she says honestly, because a Lopez doesn’t make promises well, and keeping them is even less simple. Someday, she’ll tell Brittany everything-twisted together in bed, cradling the blonde close, she’ll lay the cards out on the table. Her father, the abuse, the lies, her own personal demons. Someday, she’ll do what it takes to tug free of the shadow that’s been pinning her to Lima since she can remember understanding.
Right now, she leans up and brushes her mouth silently against Brittany’s, sealing the first pact she’s made of her own accord in God knows how long. Brittany makes a soft, delighted sound, kissing back with more fervor than Santana could have thought possible. Behind them, Puck whistles.
“This show keeps getting better and better.”
Santana pulls away, eyes still glued to Brittany’s beaming face. “Hey, Puckerman?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll give you a five-second head start.”
He’s up and scrambling for the door before her next breath. Brittany laughs like the world is perfect. Grinning, Santana rears up and kisses her as hard as she can before turning on her heel and bolting after her prey.
This year, she thinks as she watches Puck’s sneakers slip and send him sprawling halfway down the hall, could most certainly be worse.