Is She Trouble (Like I'm Trouble)
Title: Is She Trouble (Like I’m Trouble)
Pairing: Brittany-centric; Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: Eventual R.
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Nothing major.
Summary: Somehow, Lima never seems to see her coming.
A/N: Title from Green Day’s “She’s A Rebel.” Because I am cheap and unoriginal.
In every school system, in every group of friends, in every place where human beings collide, there are troublemakers, and there are followers. Troublemakers form the plans, hatch the ideas, get the ball rolling; followers dart along behind them, eager to help and learn and bask in the results.
Every troublemaker has their followers, and both categories are usually pretty easy to spot. Teachers figure it out from the first week of school; other kids zero in and make their judgments, surmising who it is they should glom onto depending on which arena they themselves fall into.
The assumption in Lima, Ohio-specifically the McKinley school district-has always been quick and easy:
Brittany Pierce is a follower.
Lima, Ohio-specifically the McKinley school district-has no idea how wrong it is.
2000, Age 6
Finn Hudson likes juice.
It’s a pretty simple philosophy altogether, and nobody would ever question it: after all, clocking in just about a head shorter than the rest of the playground, with outrageously spiky hair and a closetful of jelly-stained baseball t-shirts, Finn is a reasonably simple child. He likes his Gameboy, he likes the teddy bear his dad got him before he died, and he likes juice.
Simple.
The best part of school is how he gets juice every single day-and it’s never the same kind twice. Apple, grape, orange, strawberry-kiwi; Finn isn’t biased. As long as there’s a colored liquid squeezed from some kind of fruit in his cup, he’s a happy boy.
When he gets to school on a Thursday, he expects it to be a perfectly normal day. The teacher makes him color a few pages, which he likes, and write his name about a zillion times, which he doesn’t (he sits next to Santana Lopez, whose left-handedness both confuses and annoys him; she’s always bumping his arm when he’s working on his ‘N’s). He builds a pretty awesome castle, and then spends fifteen minutes running after Noah Puckerman and Artie Abrams when they knock it down. And then, finally, it’s snack-time.
He really loves snack-time.
Except when he eagerly shoves his way to the front of the line (knocking Kurt Hummel into the coat closet in the process; he feels a little bad about it, because it takes Kurt a good thirty seconds to untangle his tiny limbs from the backpacks, and when he finally climbs out again, he’s glaring like Finn just stole his puppy), there is…
No juice.
In fact, there isn’t anything he likes sitting on that clean red tablecloth. No cookies, no brownies, none of those awesome Dunkaroo things. Instead, he’s looking at…
Apples.
And raisins.
And-worst of all-water bottles.
Jaw hanging agape, Finn can only stand there as his classmates push around him, clambering for their share.
Water bottles. They might as well be giving him glue to drink (glue smells pretty great, but as he learned last week, good smells don’t always lead to good taste). What is he supposed to do with this anyway?
He’s tempted for a moment to pull on Mrs. Willis’ skirt and ask who is responsible for this unfunny prank. He figures it can’t be her doing, because Mrs. Willis is the nicest lady ever (after his mom). Maybe she just turned her back at the wrong moment. That happens sometimes, like when Mr. Bill next door turns his head and misses the bunnies eating his garden. Hey-maybe she doesn’t even know this has happened! Maybe if he tells her-
But there she is, passing out apples left and right with her usual sunny smile. Finn’s nose wrinkles uneasily.
“Psst.”
The voice is coming, of all places, out of the coat closet. For a second, Finn forgets he already saw Kurt clamber free; he braces himself for shouting and a few of those weird sequin things bouncing off of his forehead. Kurt’s aim is actually pretty good, even though he looks like he should throw like a girl.
(He hopes Santana Lopez never develops mind-reading powers, because if she ever hears him say something like that, she’ll remind him just how “like a girl” she throws.)
Anyway, the point is, it’s not Kurt’s voice-Kurt is halfway across the room, perched delicately atop the edge of his assigned table as he picks through a box of raisins. And now that he thinks of it, the voice is not nearly squeaky enough to have been Kurt’s. Nor is it, he realizes, familiar in the least.
“Psst,” the voice repeats itself impatiently. “Stripes. C’mere.”
Confused, he looks down. His shirt has stripes on it. And he is the only person near the coat closet. Maybe-
“I don’t know your name,” the muffled tone insists, “but get in here anyway.”
Shrugging, Finn obediently steps into the closet, pushing his way past jackets and lunchboxes until he reaches the back wall. There, seated cross-legged upon the floor, is a girl. He’s never seen her before-or, at least, he’s pretty sure he hasn’t. He doesn’t like girls a whole lot, with their shrieking and the way they always yank on his hair to get his attention, so he tries to pretend they aren’t there most of the time. But he knows most of the girls in the class, he thinks: Santana Lopez, who’s always angry, Tina Cohen-Chang, who doesn’t talk, Rachel Berry, who never shuts up. This girl has blonde hair, big blue eyes, and is wearing a bandana tied ninja -style around her forehead. He thinks he would remember her.
“Who’re you?” he asks, hunkering down when she motions for him to sit. “Why are you hiding in here?”
“Not hiding,” the girl replies mysteriously, gaze darting over his shoulder. “Planning.”
He frowns. “Planning. In the coat closet.”
“Where would you plan?” she asks seriously, nudging the bandana down so it covers her eyebrows. He can’t think of an answer.
“What kind of plan?”
“First,” she says, stretching up onto her knees and reaching out, “give me your hand.”
He draws back, rubbing his cheek uneasily. “What for?”
“I gotta know if I can trust you.” She gestures wildly, wiggling her fingers in his face until he rolls his eyes and lets her clasp him by the wrist. It’s not the weirdest handshake ever (he and Noah sit around sometimes, making up secret handshakes; his favorite involves turning in a circle and spitting over Noah’s shoulder before rounding it all out with a double high-five), but it’s the first time he’s ever shaken hands with a girl. He grimaces a little.
“Trust me for what?”
A slow grin splits across her face. She leans in close, and for one horrible second, Finn’s afraid she’s going to do something really dumb, like try to kiss him. He’s not sure he’ll be able to run out of the jungle of backpacks fast enough to escape; the thought is almost as scary as a day without juice.
But then he hears what she’s whispering, really hears it, and suddenly he’s grinning too. Whoever this girl is, her plan is awesome.
“Let’s do it,” he proclaims giddily, clenching his fingers around her wrist and jerking her whole arm up and down with enthusiasm. “Let’s do it right now!”
Proudly showing off the gap where her left front tooth should be, the girl leaps to her feet and smacks her palms hard against the knees of her flower-patched jeans. “Yeah! But wait!”
He freezes, one foot halfway out of the closet. “What?”
“We have to have a battle cry,” she tells him wisely, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Like the Power Rangers. Or Batman.”
“Batman doesn’t have a battle cry,” he points out.
“Well…” She bites her lip thoughtfully. “He should.”
Batman is way too sneaky for a battle cry, he thinks, but it would be weird for some girl to know that. Besides, everything is more fun with yelling. No point in arguing that.
When they burst out of the closet, screaming, “Cowabunga!” (he doesn’t really get it, but the girl insists it’s the catchphrase for all the best ninjas) at the top of their lungs, it catches the attention of every person in the room. Mrs. Willis looks like she can’t decide whether to laugh or put them in the Thinking Corner.
When they catch hold of the snack table, four small hands gripping clumsily and jerking up, she seems to reach a decision.
By the time she makes it to where they’re standing, she is entirely too late. The table has been flipped to the ground with an uproarious thud, those hated apples and water bottles rolling every which way. The girl high fives Finn excitedly enough to make his palm tingle all the way to the wrist.
“Finn Hudson!” Mrs. Willis snaps, hands on her hips the way his mom always looks when he gets the urge to drum after bedtime. He blinks guiltily up at her.
“Yes?”
“What do you have to say for yourself, young man?” she demands, cheeks pink with frustration. He scuffs one sneaker against the floor with a shrug.
“Wanted juice.”
“You wanted juice,” she repeats dumbly. “So you overturned the entire snack table?”
He’s not sure how to explain that it sounded like a good idea at the time, especially the part about the battle cry. He’s also not sure if explaining the point would count for anything; the girl told him the act was all they would need.
The girl is currently shifting back and forth on her heels, staring up at Mrs. Willis with her creepily-enormous blue eyes. Finn frowns. They are about to get in so much trouble. Not that he gets in trouble a lot, but it happens enough that he knows when it’s coming. Like now. He hopes that the girl doesn’t get recess taken away for too long; it was her idea and everything, but it was a good idea, and no one deserves-
“And what, Finn, prompted you to drag poor Brittany into this scheme?” Mrs. Willis asks sternly. His head snaps up, mouth swinging open. Beside him, the new girl hangs her head.
“Me? I didn’t-“
“I don’t want to hear excuses, Finn,” Mrs. Willis interrupts just the way his mom tells him not to, and suddenly Finn’s wondering if she really is the nicest lady in the world after all.
“But-“
“Next time,” she cuts him off, “if you want something, you ask for it. Do you understand me? We do not tip tables over in this class.”
Mutely, he nods. She turns her attention to Brittany, who is still shuffling awkwardly back and forth.
“As for you, young lady. I’m surprised at you. You should know better than to go along with whatever your friends ask you to do.”
“Sorry,” Brittany mumbles, pasting on an angelic expression. Finn itches to slug her on the shoulder-except boys aren’t supposed to hit girls, and anyway, she’s taller than he is. It’s rough sometimes, being one of the littlest kids in the class, since it means everyone except Kurt (by which he mostly means Santana, and sometimes Quinn Fabray) can beat him up.
Still, someday, he’ll be big. Someday, he’ll be able to beat them up, and someday-
“You two can go sit in the corner and think about your actions.” Grasping them gently by the shoulders, Mrs. Willis steers them towards the Thinking Corner. Finn turns and glowers at Brittany, who stares straight ahead until they are both seated and Mrs. Willis has walked away again.
“You got me in trouble!” he hisses the second she’s gone.
Instead of responding, Brittany tips the bandana higher on her forehead and fumbles in the pocket of her sweatshirt. After a minute of searching, she withdraws a packet of Skittles, carefully folded over and taped shut so none escape. Without a word, she takes his fist, unfurls each finger, and pours half the bag into his palm.
He frowns. This isn’t playing fair; Skittles are his favorite, after chocolate, because there are so many colors. How could the new girl possibly know this?
“You still got me in trouble,” he mutters, bringing his hand to his mouth and snagging a purple Skittle with his tongue. Brittany shrugs like she doesn’t care one way or the other if he forgives her.
All the same, when she whispers a few minutes later that she wishes for grape juice tomorrow instead of apple, he can’t help but grin.
If he has to pick, grape is his favorite too.
2006, Age 12
Noah Puckerman likes to run.
It’s weird to think of running as a favorite thing, because running usually means gasping for air, chest pains, that gross puke-up-your-guts feeling. None of which he’s really into. But all of his favorite things involve running somehow. Fighting involves running, mostly when you pick the wrong kid to whale on. Sports involve running, especially the fun ones-football, soccer, basketball. Even video games involve running, usually, even though his legs aren’t moving.
Running sucks for most people, but he really, really likes it.
Gym class is his favorite part of the day, partially because he’s getting graded on how hard he can throw a ball or how fast he can climb a rope, partially because the shorts the girls wear have been getting shorter since the weather started to warm up, and partially because, well…it’s not really class.
He kind of hates class.
Almost as much as he likes running.
Gym class is great and all, but there’s something about sticking around the outdoor track after school that’s even better. Not that he likes being at school when everything’s said and done-that would be lame as hell-but his mom works late hours, and Annie’s too little to stay home alone, so she’s off with his nana. There’s really nothing more fun to do at home; he’d just wind up sleeping the afternoon away to put off homework. At least this keeps him in shape.
He doesn’t do it year-round, but it’s spring, when Ohio’s groggily waking from its eternally long, snowy slumber. Standing in a t-shirt and shorts, stretching one calf and then the other, he tilts his head back to welcome the sunlight on his face. It feels good. He feels good. Never mind that he just spent another day dozing through numbers and kinetics and backwards glances at Quinn Fabray, who never seems to notice. Never mind that Finn closed his hand in a door again today (he loves the dude like a bro, but seriously, the klutz is getting out of control), or that Kurt Hummel’s been giving him the weirdest looks lately, or how that ape Dave Karofksy reamed him out about his dad again at lunch.
None of that counts when he’s standing here, touching the toes of his running shoes with his fingertips, a light breeze ruffling his hair against his ears. Nothing can touch him here.
He positions himself at the starting line, waits for the imaginary gun to crack in his head, and takes off at a steady lope. His muscles flair, clenching with every step, oxygen slinking in and out of his lungs. This is good. He’s in shape, awesomely so; another year, and he’ll be able to go out for real high school teams. Football. Basketball. He’s going to be the best, the strongest. The kind of son a father would be proud to have.
The thought sticks in his mind, crushing out everything else. He gives his head an irritated shake, rubbing a bead of sweat out of his eyes. It’s a dumb thing to fixate on. Who cares what kind of son fathers want? He doesn’t have a father. He’s never going to have a father again. It’s pathetic to sit back and wish that if he just pushes himself hard enough, plows through enough obstacles-
Fact of the matter is, his father’s gone. End of story. And sitting around with Finn, talking about what they miss most, that used to be okay. Used to. He’s not a little kid anymore. He’s practically a teenager, and teenagers don’t sit around wishing.
This is getting too heavy. He jerks his shoulders left and right, pausing for a moment to catch his breath and crack his back. He used to do this, when he was little: sit around, get bogged down by the frustration and the loneliness in his head. For a while, he didn’t see anything wrong with it.
But he’ll be in high school soon enough, and that’s where everything has to change. He sees the way the boys around him are growing; Finn’s shooting up like some kind of clumsy-ass redwood, Karofsky’s getting broad-shouldered like the Hulk or something, Mike Chang and Matt Rutherford aren’t so easy to wrestle anymore. They’re not kids anymore; they’re competition.
And if Quinn is ever going to look at him, he needs to be better.
Stronger.
Faster.
A true badass.
He licks the sweat off his upper lip, relishing the salt that says he’s pushing himself to the limit again. He unties the drawstring on his shorts, reties it. Starts again.
He doesn’t see her for a while. When he runs, he doesn’t tend to see much of anything, unless he’s running towards a target. Days like this one, nothing is supposed to matter. It’s just him and the ground beneath his feet.
When he does see her, he jumps a little, because all he sees is a flash of blonde hair and long legs. For a brief, heady second, he’s sure he’s looking at Quinn-which would mean, more importantly, that she’s looking at him. He straightens up, keeping her at the edge of his periphery, and coaxes his legs to move faster. His spine is straight, his shoulders regal; if she’s looking at him, he needs to be sure she’s seeing him. The guy he wants to be. The guy for her.
He comes around the edge of the circle, and only now does he realize that it’s not her. His heart sinks desperately, the trembling in his legs coming to an abrupt halt. He wonders how he could have made the mistake; Brittany Pierce looks nothing like Quinn Fabray. Her hair is lighter and longer, her skin paler, her hips less curvy. She’s pretty, he guesses, but not beautiful the way Quinn is. Still growing into her body, still growing into her everything, he doesn’t notice her much. She’s just a girl.
But she’s a girl who’s leaning up against the fence to watch him run, and he figures this badass thing has got to start somewhere. Badasses get the girls-all the girls. Why not?
He slows as he reaches her, brushing an unruly curl off his damp forehead, and flashes a bright grin. No braces for this Jew, hell no, much to Finn’s annoyance. One of the few things his old man managed to leave him.
“’sup?” he greets her, shaking out his arms. She smiles.
“You run fast.”
It’s not the stuff brilliant conversations are made of, but her eyes sparkle in a way he kind of likes. They’re not hazel, but they’ll do.
“Getting in shape,” he informs her. “Gotta be ready for freshman tryouts.”
“You’re in seventh grade,” she points out, eyebrows furrowing in thought. “Do they let seventh graders try out?”
She’s never been the brightest bulb. “No. But it’s never too early.”
“You’re gonna run for two years?” she asks, sounding more amused than he’d like. His smile drops.
“What’s it to you, anyway?” he mutters, kicking at the fence. She shrugs.
“Running’s no fun. You could be dancing instead. Dancing’s a lot of fun.”
“Boys don’t dance, Britt,” he tells her witheringly. She raises her eyebrows, like she knows something he doesn’t know, and shrugs again.
She kind of looks like she’s just planning on staring at him until his skin crawls. He shakes his head. Brittany’s always been kind of weird.
“Why are you even here? School’s been out for like…an hour.”
She grins, threading her fingers through the metal and shaking the fence gently. “I dunno. Didn’t feel like leavin’ yet. Why are you here? You can run anywhere.”
For being so weird and flakey, she’s got a point-though it’s not really a point he’s up for discussing. He scowls.
“Maybe I like it here.”
“Maybe I like watching,” she counters. He bites his lip, holding back an instinctive “that’s what she said” retort. Finn would get it. Brittany, probably not so much-and even if she did, there’s no telling how hard Santana Lopez might hit him for it.
“Whatever,” he settles for muttering. “Do whatever you want. I’m gonna-“
“You like Quinn, right?” she interrupts, and it’s so out of nowhere that he can’t stop himself from twisting around and gaping.
“Who told you that?”
“Mike Chang,” she says easily. He closes his eyes, silently plotting the skinny Asian boy’s death. “It’s okay,” she adds when he doesn’t reply. “I won’t tell her if you don’t want me to.”
Part of him wants to scream, Tell her-at least then she’d know. The part of his brain that’s actually working, however, forces him to shake his head slowly.
“Okay,” Brittany repeats. “So what are you gonna do about it, if I can’t tell her?”
It’s really the question of the century, the one Mike asks every other week. Sometimes he sort of regrets choosing that particular friend to confide in-he really should have gone to Finn with it from the get-go. But Finn’s got this habit of not listening all that well, and besides, part of their bro-code is not looking like a couple of girly men. Talking boobs and sneaking Playboys is one thing; mooning over girls with perfect smiles that make his knees go a little too wobbly is a whole other ball game. He’s not into it.
The only reason Mike’s got even half a clue what goes on in his head is because he fell asleep on the kid’s couch once and, evidently, speaks his dreams out loud. It’s been a pain in his ass ever since.
“Noah?” A hand waves in front of his eyes. He shakes his head.
“Nothin’,” he mutters gruffly. “Nothin’. Not yet.”
Her head tilts, ponytail drooping against her shoulder. “Well…what are you waiting for? She’s not gonna be there forever, you know.”
Sometimes, Brittany is insane beyond reason-but sometimes, she says stuff that’s actually pretty smart. He sighs.
“Is that why you’re runnin’?” she presses when he still doesn’t answer. “For her?”
It really has been one of those days, he realizes, because normally he wouldn’t be doing more than teasing this girl and darting away before her best friend could deck him for it. But all of a sudden, it’s pouring out of him: how he needs to be a badass, make the football team, make people notice. All of a sudden, she knows way, way more than she needs to. His mouth closes at last, his teeth snapping hard around his tongue, and he suddenly feels like an idiot.
And, somehow, Brittany shines like the coolest chick in the world, because all she does is pull herself up a few inches on the fence, digging the toes of her sneakers into the mesh. She bites her lip and looks at him for a moment, feet to head, and then smiles.
“You know what you should do?”
She tells him, and he has to admit he’d never have thought of it on his own, but really?
“That’d be awesome,” he breathes, and the next thing he knows, they’re running to her house.
He’s never been here before; it’s a little surprising how normal everything is. When she drags a chair into the bathroom and pushes him into it, he’s almost too busy being surprised by how not hippie-fantastic the wallpaper is to be worried.
Almost. But it’s not like he can say anything because, hey, he already agreed. And anyway, it really is going to be the coolest thing ever. Assuming she doesn’t screw it up.
He winces a little when she pulls out the clippers. “You ever done this before?”
Tongue between her teeth, eyes narrowed with focus, she nods mildly. “Sure.”
“H-how many times?” Noah Puckerman doesn’t stutter, but this feels like a special case. Because he’s just remembered that this is Brittany-the girl who spends Language Arts class sitting upside down in her chair. And Brittany is…
Pressing the clippers dangerously close to his left ear.
“Hey!” he protests, doing everything in his power not to jump. “Watch it! I need that!”
“Don’t be a baby,” she says with a wink, which does absolutely nothing to reassure him. “It’ll be done really soon, just don’t…don’t move around, okay?”
His eyes screw shut, his fists clenched against his knees. The buzzing makes him think of a whirling saw blade against his scalp, until all he can picture is Brittany pinning him down and running that humming, vibrating instrument of torture down the bridge of his nose-
“Sit still,” she grumbles, grasping his head with her free hand. “You’ll make me mess up.”
He really can’t have that-one wrong slash, and he’ll look like the biggest dumbass in school instead of the toughest. Grimacing, he forces himself to breathe.
Soon-not nearly soon enough, but soon-the buzzing vanishes completely, replaced by a giggle and a clap of Brittany’s hands. His eyes remain closed, his body completely still. Suddenly, he wonders if this was really the best idea in the world.
“All done,” she chirps, flicking him in the middle of his forehead. “You can look now. And, like, move and stuff.”
He doesn’t want to, but if he wusses out, she might tell everyone that Noah Puckerman was too afraid to check out his new haircut. Which would pretty much defeat the whole purpose of this afternoon.
Gingerly, he stands from the chair and braces his hands on the sink, staring into the mirror. It’s a little lopsided in places, he notes, but overall, not bad. Not bad at all. Slowly, he grins.
“Told you,” Brittany’s voice rings out behind him. He can see her in the reflection, arms crossed proudly over her chest, eyes sparkling.
“It looks cool,” he murmurs, running a careful hand over the single thick stripe. It’s fuzzier than he’s used to, and the skin around it prickles with stubble where she didn’t press hard enough, but somehow, that makes it even better.
“Told you,” she says again, grinning. “Quinn’ll notice you for sure.”
“Yeah?” He sounds a little too hopeful, but he’s pretty sure she doesn’t care. Wisely, she nods.
“Totally hot. For sure.”
He doesn’t stay much longer-it’s getting close to dinner time, and he should really be there when Annie gets home-but she doesn’t seem to mind. Brittany’s the kind of chick who doesn’t seem to mind much of anything, even when he gives her a grateful punch to the shoulder.
Three hours later, standing with his chin tilted towards the floor and his eyes guilty, listening to his mother shout about dishonoring the family and hooligan behavior, he finds himself trying not to smile. Sure, he’s getting all the blame, and yeah, it sucks that she’s taking his Playstation away for three whole weeks. But badasses are supposed to get in trouble.
He decides, as he climbs the stairs and flops down on his bed, that the mohawk is exactly the thing he needs. The mohawk, and maybe something more.
At school the next day, everybody stares. He soaks it in, chest puffed out, head held high, his newly bared scalp warmed by the sunshine. The adrenaline is even better than running. And when Brittany catches his eye, shooting him a thumbs up, he can only grin like an idiot back.
It takes Quinn a few weeks of hearing Brittany and Mike do it before she starts calling him Puck. He winks at her, delighted beyond reason when the tips of her ears go instantly crimson.
Yeah. He’s pretty badass.
2009, Age 15
Santana Lopez likes dancing.
She’s not the greatest at it, exactly, and she doesn’t really have to be. Cheerios notwithstanding, it’s the sort of thing she does solely for fun. Put on some music, jam out; doesn’t matter who’s in the house, or which parent is working doom hours, or how much homework is piling up on the desk. Dancing takes it all away.
She’s not the greatest at it-not like her best friend, or Mike Chang, or even Quinn Fabray sometimes-but it’s one of the few practices in her life that is utterly genuine. That’s reason enough to keep it going.
At the moment, it’s Thursday; there is a stack of English worksheets to fill out, a chem lab to finish, and two pages of geometry problems to mull over. It is, in short, bound to be a busy night, but she has spent a whole damn day dealing with Puck pawing at her skirt, Finn gawking at her legs when he thinks Quinn doesn’t notice, and Matt staring at her like he might break his three-year silence streak just to ask her Prom. Half the time, shit like that makes her feel sexy and smokin’. Today?
Today has been one of those days where she doesn’t need ogling and ass-slaps to feel validated. Today, therefore, has been one of those days where the entire Y-chromosome-toting population of McKinley High drives her up the damn wall.
So here she is, standing in the middle of her bedroom, shaking her ass and rolling her hips. Shakira’s her girl; someday, she figures she’ll have abs and an ass like that. Fifteen’s hot and all, but she’s nowhere near her peak.
The minute she hits 21, though-New York’ll be eating from her hand.
And if not New York, L.A. Maybe even San Fran. She’ll take anything outside of this Midwestern hellhole.
She’s so busy arching her back to the music, hands tangling in her just-freed hair, that she doesn’t notice she’s not alone for a good thirty seconds. All she can hear is the pulse of the music, trumpets blaring, drums grasping hold of her waist and twirling her around.
It’s an easy beat to keep, right up until a pair of hands slip around and finger the edge of her t-shirt where it meets pajama pants. She jerks, stifling a scream, eyes flying open.
Brittany presses in close behind her, hair up in a haphazard ponytail, breath a little chilly from the November night as it rushes down the collar of Santana’s shirt. The dark-haired girl clamps a hand to her chest, doing her best to quell the abrupt heart attack.
“Shit, B,” she pants. Smiling faintly, Brittany nuzzles her cool nose against the side of her neck.
“Surprise?”
“Yeah, surprise,” Santana mutters, leaning back and letting Brittany lead the rocking motion of their bodies. “The kind that ends with me in the fuckin’ hospital. You could have texted or something.”
She feels Brittany’s shoulders rise and fall, hands moving across her hips to hold her close. “I did. You didn’t answer. Too busy getting’ your dance on, I guess.”
Tilting her head back against the taller girl’s shoulder, Santana smirks. “Don’t judge me. How many times have I walked in on you shakin’ your groove thang?”
Brittany hums a complacent note against the side of her head, lips curving into a grin, and doesn’t reply. Santana doesn’t mind; they’ve been best friends pretty much since Brittany moved to town, so it’s not like she isn’t used to Brittany’s bizarre quirks. Coming over at random just to slide her hands up Santana’s hips and dance closely with her-it’s not an irregularity And anyway, Brittany’s her best friend. Pretty much the one person on earth Santana’s always stoked to see.
Even if she is sort of cutting into Santana’s personal harmony.
“Did you come just to dance, or what?” The question blows past her lips without a whole lot of care behind it; she’s more intent upon Brittany’s hips rocking against her backside, fingers trailing slow paths up and down her belly. They’re treading the line again-the same one they’ve found themselves on a lot these last few months, the one Santana’s not sure she could or would put a name to if she tried. She’s not sure where it’s going, or what it means, only that Brittany is here an awful lot. She’s here, with her lingering smiles and her wandering hands and her long embraces, and Santana can’t help but-
“I was gonna ask you for help,” Brittany murmurs, “with the homework? The, um, the Spanish. Totally lost again.”
“You’re always lost, Britt,” Santana observes fondly, grinding her ass with just a hair too much fervor back against the blonde. It does the trick; Brittany’s next words die in her throat, replaced by a soft pant, cheek pressed to the side of Santana’s neck. “I might as well just do the shit for you.”
“But I’m supposed to learn,” Brittany retorts, almost mockingly. Santana chuckles.
“If you wanted to learn, you’d pay attention to Schuester’s step-by-step kindergarten approach. Not draw ducks fencing with unicorns all over your test papers.”
“He took it away too soon,” Brittany comments mildly. “The ducks would have won.”
Santana laughs again, sliding a hand behind her head to catch on the back of Brittany’s neck. iTunes has chosen a much slower song now, one she never listens to and doesn’t even remember the name of. They’ve mellowed out with the tempo, steady and gentle, and Brittany’s fingers are getting more adventurous. One by one, they tease beneath the hem of Santana’s shirt, trailing outwards until the blonde’s palms are snaking up her sides. Fingertips pleasantly chilly against warm skin, Brittany reaches the base of her ribcage and stops, hovering there like she’s only just realized how far she’s worked the shirt up her friend’s body.
For her part, Santana can’t seem to stop. It feels a little weird, she has to admit, to be grinding sensually back into another girl-another girl who is pretty decidedly feeling her up in her bedroom on a Thursday night, no less-but it isn’t bad. It’s just…different.
But it’s dancing. She loves dancing, and even if she’s not the greatest at it, Brittany definitely is. She’s all swirl and flow, reckless and contained, erotic and playful; everything Santana loves about motion, Brittany embodies.
Those hands under her ribs scoot down little by little, the shirt falling back into place, until Brittany’s gripping her by the hips again and gently twisting her back and forth.
“So are you gonna teach me?” she asks, each word punctuated by a swivel of Santana’s body. The Latina grins.
“Depends. Are you gonna listen?”
Brittany gives a single strong twirl until Santana’s facing her, raising an eyebrow. “I always listen to you,” she points out solemnly, holding the expression for all of three seconds before bursting into giggles. Her hands slide back along Santana’s hips, linking together at the small of her back and pulling her close.
It’s more of a slow dance now than anything Shakira would approve of, but Santana thinks that works just fine. She likes the sense of Brittany’s body, likes the way it molds against her own. So many soft curves shouldn’t click so easily, but theirs do, and as she nestles against Brittany’s shoulder, she smiles.
“Do you even know what section we’re on?”
“Sure,” Brittany replies easily. “The one with the Mexicans.”
They crack up again, and as the song changes to something with a hot salsa edge, Brittany leans back and twirls Santana in three sharp circles. When she comes to rest with her back against the taller girl’s chest again, all she can think is how much better this is than homework.
“You’re hopeless, you know that?” she asks playfully, arching her back when Brittany slides a hand left to right across her abdomen. “They should toss you in with the fifth graders.”
“Fifth graders get better snacks,” Brittany muses. “And recess. Wouldn’t be so bad.”
“You would give up high school for some snacks?” Santana laughs. “All of it? Being hot and popular, having everyone drooling at your feet?”
She feels another slow grin spread against her skin, Brittany’s mouth hot against her ear. “Well,” the blonde drawls, sliding her hand a bit lower, and suddenly Santana’s not laughing anymore. “Maybe not all of it.”
The fingers of her right hand have hooked painstakingly into the waistband of Santana’s pants, teasing against the skin just atop her underwear, and Santana’s not sure when her room got so damn hot. She leans back a little further, at once bewildered and excited by this brave new motion. Brittany, for her part, doesn’t press any further; staying put, she pats soft little dots into Santana’s skin with the pads of her fingertips, scratching lightly with blunt nails here and there. The dark-haired girl inhales sharply.
“Britt.”
“I have an idea,” Brittany murmurs, and though she doesn’t say another word, Santana’s pretty sure she knows what sort of idea it is. Her legs slacken at the thought, one hand reaching instinctively around to grip the back of Brittany’s jeans.
“Britt,” she says again, throat dry, all too aware of the dance still thrumming from Brittany’s body into her own. There’s a conduit of sorts between them now, one they’ve been unconsciously working on for months, maybe even years. She doesn’t think she could break it even if she wanted to.
“It’s just an idea,” Brittany says softly against her ear, breath tickling her skin, as her hand slides half a centimeter lower. “You can do that thing, you know, that presidents do? If you don’t like it.”
“Veto,” Santana fills in, hazy all over with the feather-light pressure from that one cautious hand. She feels Brittany nod once.
“Veto, sure. You can, if you want. Do you?”
She wants something all right, but shooting down whatever’s going through Brittany’s mind is not it. “I want…” She stops, licks her lips, leans her head back a little. “No. No veto.”
A hum of acknowledgement against her ear trails along with the baseline pumping from her laptop speakers. Brittany’s body rolls smoothly against her own, grinding too slowly, too calmly. It’s the exact opposite of everything coursing through Santana, whose blood is racing so hard in her ears that she can barely hear the music over it. Long fingers slide down another inch, until they just barely rest flat against the front of her underwear.
“Britt, I-“ Slow, she wants to say, gentle, but Brittany knows her well enough that it’s not necessary. They’ve been sharing everything since the days of Winnie the Pooh sticker books and Finn Hudson’s harebrained table-turning schemes. Brittany knows.
The first stroke is almost too light to feel; the second nearly yanks her out of her skin. It shouldn’t be so overwhelming, she tells herself frantically; Brittany’s not even touching her, not really. It shouldn’t feel like so damn much.
But it does. It really, really does, and with every light press and gentle rub, Brittany seems to be building confidence. Santana stifles a low groan, turning her head against the blonde’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.
“God,” she whimpers as Brittany, apparently emboldened, brushes her free hand just under the Latina’s breasts and holds steady. She runs two fingers quickly down along the seam of Santana’s underwear, sucking in a breath when the smaller girl’s hips cant into her hand.
“More?” she asks, mouth hot against Santana’s hair, and all the darker girl can do is nod. There’s a second of agonizing loss as Brittany withdraws, followed by the heady rush of skin on skin, and thank God for music, because her mouth is making all kinds of sounds she’s never heard from herself before. She feels everything-Brittany’s pelvis thrusting methodically against her ass, soft lips trailing across the shell of her ear, and above all else, the caressing motions right there.
Something very small murmurs that this is weird; they’re standing in the middle of her room on a school night, the door is very much unlocked, and her best friend has her hand down the front of her pants. Her hair’s probably a mess, she’s wearing a shirt with the Pepsi logo scrawled across the front, she’s making all of these breathy little sounds-it’s a wonder she’s holding herself together at all, really.
It’s weird, but it’s so fucking good. She gasps when Brittany finds that place again, sensation building rapidly in her stomach, coiling and rushing. She wonders what it would feel like to have those fingers inside of her instead of just providing this perfect, ridiculous friction-she wonders if Brittany would even be interested in that. She wonders what it would feel like to be touching Brittany right back, instead of just feeling her body rocking rhythmically against Santana’s like this, each thrust just a little bit less controlled than the last.
She turns her head to see Brittany’s eyes fixed low, gaze locked on the motion of her own hand inside Santana’s pants. There’s a sort of awe written all over the blonde’s face, coupled with something Santana is pretty sure defines arousal; she closes her eyes again and gives herself over to the sensations, to each experimental stroke, to the lunatic thrusts of Brittany’s groin against her backside, to the tiny moans brushing against her own ears.
Brittany holds her up when her knees give out, her whole body shuddering with pleasure, and for the first time, the dance is broken. She leans back in the arms of her best friend, panting, turning until her face is against Brittany’s neck.
“We-my parents could have-“
“Yeah,” Brittany agrees distractedly, like her brain is a million miles away. Santana knows the feeling.
“We would have been in so much trouble,” she gasps, not because it’s the thing that really matters right now, but rather because thinking about the consequences of what they’ve just done is entirely too much. “We-they would’ve-“
“I would’ve taken the blame,” Brittany murmurs. Santana raises her head, meeting hopeful blue eyes. The blonde nods decisively. “I would have. It was my idea anyway.”
Santana stares for a minute and then-insanely-laughs. Not because it’s funny, and not because she disbelieves, but because this is Brittany.
“They would never have believed it,” she gasps through a guffaw, burying her face in Brittany’s neck again as her shoulders shake. Brittany giggles into the top of her head.
“Probably not.” She pauses, a thoughtful smile twitching at the corners of her lips. “Wonder why that is?”
Just like that, there is no awkwardness left. They fall giggling onto Santana’s bed, the dance complete, and lay there grinning at nothing. Maybe it was Brittany’s idea, sure-but Santana can’t help but think it’s just another of those things they’ve been bound to share from the very beginning. She feels Brittany’s pinky loop through her own, holding tight like a promise, and all she can do is think that maybe this dance is a little different. Maybe this is the one she’s going to be the greatest at. She turns, nudging Brittany’s shoulder, and sticks out her tongue teasingly.
“So. About that homework.”
Pairing: Brittany-centric; Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: Eventual R.
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Nothing major.
Summary: Somehow, Lima never seems to see her coming.
A/N: Title from Green Day’s “She’s A Rebel.” Because I am cheap and unoriginal.
In every school system, in every group of friends, in every place where human beings collide, there are troublemakers, and there are followers. Troublemakers form the plans, hatch the ideas, get the ball rolling; followers dart along behind them, eager to help and learn and bask in the results.
Every troublemaker has their followers, and both categories are usually pretty easy to spot. Teachers figure it out from the first week of school; other kids zero in and make their judgments, surmising who it is they should glom onto depending on which arena they themselves fall into.
The assumption in Lima, Ohio-specifically the McKinley school district-has always been quick and easy:
Brittany Pierce is a follower.
Lima, Ohio-specifically the McKinley school district-has no idea how wrong it is.
2000, Age 6
Finn Hudson likes juice.
It’s a pretty simple philosophy altogether, and nobody would ever question it: after all, clocking in just about a head shorter than the rest of the playground, with outrageously spiky hair and a closetful of jelly-stained baseball t-shirts, Finn is a reasonably simple child. He likes his Gameboy, he likes the teddy bear his dad got him before he died, and he likes juice.
Simple.
The best part of school is how he gets juice every single day-and it’s never the same kind twice. Apple, grape, orange, strawberry-kiwi; Finn isn’t biased. As long as there’s a colored liquid squeezed from some kind of fruit in his cup, he’s a happy boy.
When he gets to school on a Thursday, he expects it to be a perfectly normal day. The teacher makes him color a few pages, which he likes, and write his name about a zillion times, which he doesn’t (he sits next to Santana Lopez, whose left-handedness both confuses and annoys him; she’s always bumping his arm when he’s working on his ‘N’s). He builds a pretty awesome castle, and then spends fifteen minutes running after Noah Puckerman and Artie Abrams when they knock it down. And then, finally, it’s snack-time.
He really loves snack-time.
Except when he eagerly shoves his way to the front of the line (knocking Kurt Hummel into the coat closet in the process; he feels a little bad about it, because it takes Kurt a good thirty seconds to untangle his tiny limbs from the backpacks, and when he finally climbs out again, he’s glaring like Finn just stole his puppy), there is…
No juice.
In fact, there isn’t anything he likes sitting on that clean red tablecloth. No cookies, no brownies, none of those awesome Dunkaroo things. Instead, he’s looking at…
Apples.
And raisins.
And-worst of all-water bottles.
Jaw hanging agape, Finn can only stand there as his classmates push around him, clambering for their share.
Water bottles. They might as well be giving him glue to drink (glue smells pretty great, but as he learned last week, good smells don’t always lead to good taste). What is he supposed to do with this anyway?
He’s tempted for a moment to pull on Mrs. Willis’ skirt and ask who is responsible for this unfunny prank. He figures it can’t be her doing, because Mrs. Willis is the nicest lady ever (after his mom). Maybe she just turned her back at the wrong moment. That happens sometimes, like when Mr. Bill next door turns his head and misses the bunnies eating his garden. Hey-maybe she doesn’t even know this has happened! Maybe if he tells her-
But there she is, passing out apples left and right with her usual sunny smile. Finn’s nose wrinkles uneasily.
“Psst.”
The voice is coming, of all places, out of the coat closet. For a second, Finn forgets he already saw Kurt clamber free; he braces himself for shouting and a few of those weird sequin things bouncing off of his forehead. Kurt’s aim is actually pretty good, even though he looks like he should throw like a girl.
(He hopes Santana Lopez never develops mind-reading powers, because if she ever hears him say something like that, she’ll remind him just how “like a girl” she throws.)
Anyway, the point is, it’s not Kurt’s voice-Kurt is halfway across the room, perched delicately atop the edge of his assigned table as he picks through a box of raisins. And now that he thinks of it, the voice is not nearly squeaky enough to have been Kurt’s. Nor is it, he realizes, familiar in the least.
“Psst,” the voice repeats itself impatiently. “Stripes. C’mere.”
Confused, he looks down. His shirt has stripes on it. And he is the only person near the coat closet. Maybe-
“I don’t know your name,” the muffled tone insists, “but get in here anyway.”
Shrugging, Finn obediently steps into the closet, pushing his way past jackets and lunchboxes until he reaches the back wall. There, seated cross-legged upon the floor, is a girl. He’s never seen her before-or, at least, he’s pretty sure he hasn’t. He doesn’t like girls a whole lot, with their shrieking and the way they always yank on his hair to get his attention, so he tries to pretend they aren’t there most of the time. But he knows most of the girls in the class, he thinks: Santana Lopez, who’s always angry, Tina Cohen-Chang, who doesn’t talk, Rachel Berry, who never shuts up. This girl has blonde hair, big blue eyes, and is wearing a bandana tied ninja -style around her forehead. He thinks he would remember her.
“Who’re you?” he asks, hunkering down when she motions for him to sit. “Why are you hiding in here?”
“Not hiding,” the girl replies mysteriously, gaze darting over his shoulder. “Planning.”
He frowns. “Planning. In the coat closet.”
“Where would you plan?” she asks seriously, nudging the bandana down so it covers her eyebrows. He can’t think of an answer.
“What kind of plan?”
“First,” she says, stretching up onto her knees and reaching out, “give me your hand.”
He draws back, rubbing his cheek uneasily. “What for?”
“I gotta know if I can trust you.” She gestures wildly, wiggling her fingers in his face until he rolls his eyes and lets her clasp him by the wrist. It’s not the weirdest handshake ever (he and Noah sit around sometimes, making up secret handshakes; his favorite involves turning in a circle and spitting over Noah’s shoulder before rounding it all out with a double high-five), but it’s the first time he’s ever shaken hands with a girl. He grimaces a little.
“Trust me for what?”
A slow grin splits across her face. She leans in close, and for one horrible second, Finn’s afraid she’s going to do something really dumb, like try to kiss him. He’s not sure he’ll be able to run out of the jungle of backpacks fast enough to escape; the thought is almost as scary as a day without juice.
But then he hears what she’s whispering, really hears it, and suddenly he’s grinning too. Whoever this girl is, her plan is awesome.
“Let’s do it,” he proclaims giddily, clenching his fingers around her wrist and jerking her whole arm up and down with enthusiasm. “Let’s do it right now!”
Proudly showing off the gap where her left front tooth should be, the girl leaps to her feet and smacks her palms hard against the knees of her flower-patched jeans. “Yeah! But wait!”
He freezes, one foot halfway out of the closet. “What?”
“We have to have a battle cry,” she tells him wisely, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Like the Power Rangers. Or Batman.”
“Batman doesn’t have a battle cry,” he points out.
“Well…” She bites her lip thoughtfully. “He should.”
Batman is way too sneaky for a battle cry, he thinks, but it would be weird for some girl to know that. Besides, everything is more fun with yelling. No point in arguing that.
When they burst out of the closet, screaming, “Cowabunga!” (he doesn’t really get it, but the girl insists it’s the catchphrase for all the best ninjas) at the top of their lungs, it catches the attention of every person in the room. Mrs. Willis looks like she can’t decide whether to laugh or put them in the Thinking Corner.
When they catch hold of the snack table, four small hands gripping clumsily and jerking up, she seems to reach a decision.
By the time she makes it to where they’re standing, she is entirely too late. The table has been flipped to the ground with an uproarious thud, those hated apples and water bottles rolling every which way. The girl high fives Finn excitedly enough to make his palm tingle all the way to the wrist.
“Finn Hudson!” Mrs. Willis snaps, hands on her hips the way his mom always looks when he gets the urge to drum after bedtime. He blinks guiltily up at her.
“Yes?”
“What do you have to say for yourself, young man?” she demands, cheeks pink with frustration. He scuffs one sneaker against the floor with a shrug.
“Wanted juice.”
“You wanted juice,” she repeats dumbly. “So you overturned the entire snack table?”
He’s not sure how to explain that it sounded like a good idea at the time, especially the part about the battle cry. He’s also not sure if explaining the point would count for anything; the girl told him the act was all they would need.
The girl is currently shifting back and forth on her heels, staring up at Mrs. Willis with her creepily-enormous blue eyes. Finn frowns. They are about to get in so much trouble. Not that he gets in trouble a lot, but it happens enough that he knows when it’s coming. Like now. He hopes that the girl doesn’t get recess taken away for too long; it was her idea and everything, but it was a good idea, and no one deserves-
“And what, Finn, prompted you to drag poor Brittany into this scheme?” Mrs. Willis asks sternly. His head snaps up, mouth swinging open. Beside him, the new girl hangs her head.
“Me? I didn’t-“
“I don’t want to hear excuses, Finn,” Mrs. Willis interrupts just the way his mom tells him not to, and suddenly Finn’s wondering if she really is the nicest lady in the world after all.
“But-“
“Next time,” she cuts him off, “if you want something, you ask for it. Do you understand me? We do not tip tables over in this class.”
Mutely, he nods. She turns her attention to Brittany, who is still shuffling awkwardly back and forth.
“As for you, young lady. I’m surprised at you. You should know better than to go along with whatever your friends ask you to do.”
“Sorry,” Brittany mumbles, pasting on an angelic expression. Finn itches to slug her on the shoulder-except boys aren’t supposed to hit girls, and anyway, she’s taller than he is. It’s rough sometimes, being one of the littlest kids in the class, since it means everyone except Kurt (by which he mostly means Santana, and sometimes Quinn Fabray) can beat him up.
Still, someday, he’ll be big. Someday, he’ll be able to beat them up, and someday-
“You two can go sit in the corner and think about your actions.” Grasping them gently by the shoulders, Mrs. Willis steers them towards the Thinking Corner. Finn turns and glowers at Brittany, who stares straight ahead until they are both seated and Mrs. Willis has walked away again.
“You got me in trouble!” he hisses the second she’s gone.
Instead of responding, Brittany tips the bandana higher on her forehead and fumbles in the pocket of her sweatshirt. After a minute of searching, she withdraws a packet of Skittles, carefully folded over and taped shut so none escape. Without a word, she takes his fist, unfurls each finger, and pours half the bag into his palm.
He frowns. This isn’t playing fair; Skittles are his favorite, after chocolate, because there are so many colors. How could the new girl possibly know this?
“You still got me in trouble,” he mutters, bringing his hand to his mouth and snagging a purple Skittle with his tongue. Brittany shrugs like she doesn’t care one way or the other if he forgives her.
All the same, when she whispers a few minutes later that she wishes for grape juice tomorrow instead of apple, he can’t help but grin.
If he has to pick, grape is his favorite too.
2006, Age 12
Noah Puckerman likes to run.
It’s weird to think of running as a favorite thing, because running usually means gasping for air, chest pains, that gross puke-up-your-guts feeling. None of which he’s really into. But all of his favorite things involve running somehow. Fighting involves running, mostly when you pick the wrong kid to whale on. Sports involve running, especially the fun ones-football, soccer, basketball. Even video games involve running, usually, even though his legs aren’t moving.
Running sucks for most people, but he really, really likes it.
Gym class is his favorite part of the day, partially because he’s getting graded on how hard he can throw a ball or how fast he can climb a rope, partially because the shorts the girls wear have been getting shorter since the weather started to warm up, and partially because, well…it’s not really class.
He kind of hates class.
Almost as much as he likes running.
Gym class is great and all, but there’s something about sticking around the outdoor track after school that’s even better. Not that he likes being at school when everything’s said and done-that would be lame as hell-but his mom works late hours, and Annie’s too little to stay home alone, so she’s off with his nana. There’s really nothing more fun to do at home; he’d just wind up sleeping the afternoon away to put off homework. At least this keeps him in shape.
He doesn’t do it year-round, but it’s spring, when Ohio’s groggily waking from its eternally long, snowy slumber. Standing in a t-shirt and shorts, stretching one calf and then the other, he tilts his head back to welcome the sunlight on his face. It feels good. He feels good. Never mind that he just spent another day dozing through numbers and kinetics and backwards glances at Quinn Fabray, who never seems to notice. Never mind that Finn closed his hand in a door again today (he loves the dude like a bro, but seriously, the klutz is getting out of control), or that Kurt Hummel’s been giving him the weirdest looks lately, or how that ape Dave Karofksy reamed him out about his dad again at lunch.
None of that counts when he’s standing here, touching the toes of his running shoes with his fingertips, a light breeze ruffling his hair against his ears. Nothing can touch him here.
He positions himself at the starting line, waits for the imaginary gun to crack in his head, and takes off at a steady lope. His muscles flair, clenching with every step, oxygen slinking in and out of his lungs. This is good. He’s in shape, awesomely so; another year, and he’ll be able to go out for real high school teams. Football. Basketball. He’s going to be the best, the strongest. The kind of son a father would be proud to have.
The thought sticks in his mind, crushing out everything else. He gives his head an irritated shake, rubbing a bead of sweat out of his eyes. It’s a dumb thing to fixate on. Who cares what kind of son fathers want? He doesn’t have a father. He’s never going to have a father again. It’s pathetic to sit back and wish that if he just pushes himself hard enough, plows through enough obstacles-
Fact of the matter is, his father’s gone. End of story. And sitting around with Finn, talking about what they miss most, that used to be okay. Used to. He’s not a little kid anymore. He’s practically a teenager, and teenagers don’t sit around wishing.
This is getting too heavy. He jerks his shoulders left and right, pausing for a moment to catch his breath and crack his back. He used to do this, when he was little: sit around, get bogged down by the frustration and the loneliness in his head. For a while, he didn’t see anything wrong with it.
But he’ll be in high school soon enough, and that’s where everything has to change. He sees the way the boys around him are growing; Finn’s shooting up like some kind of clumsy-ass redwood, Karofsky’s getting broad-shouldered like the Hulk or something, Mike Chang and Matt Rutherford aren’t so easy to wrestle anymore. They’re not kids anymore; they’re competition.
And if Quinn is ever going to look at him, he needs to be better.
Stronger.
Faster.
A true badass.
He licks the sweat off his upper lip, relishing the salt that says he’s pushing himself to the limit again. He unties the drawstring on his shorts, reties it. Starts again.
He doesn’t see her for a while. When he runs, he doesn’t tend to see much of anything, unless he’s running towards a target. Days like this one, nothing is supposed to matter. It’s just him and the ground beneath his feet.
When he does see her, he jumps a little, because all he sees is a flash of blonde hair and long legs. For a brief, heady second, he’s sure he’s looking at Quinn-which would mean, more importantly, that she’s looking at him. He straightens up, keeping her at the edge of his periphery, and coaxes his legs to move faster. His spine is straight, his shoulders regal; if she’s looking at him, he needs to be sure she’s seeing him. The guy he wants to be. The guy for her.
He comes around the edge of the circle, and only now does he realize that it’s not her. His heart sinks desperately, the trembling in his legs coming to an abrupt halt. He wonders how he could have made the mistake; Brittany Pierce looks nothing like Quinn Fabray. Her hair is lighter and longer, her skin paler, her hips less curvy. She’s pretty, he guesses, but not beautiful the way Quinn is. Still growing into her body, still growing into her everything, he doesn’t notice her much. She’s just a girl.
But she’s a girl who’s leaning up against the fence to watch him run, and he figures this badass thing has got to start somewhere. Badasses get the girls-all the girls. Why not?
He slows as he reaches her, brushing an unruly curl off his damp forehead, and flashes a bright grin. No braces for this Jew, hell no, much to Finn’s annoyance. One of the few things his old man managed to leave him.
“’sup?” he greets her, shaking out his arms. She smiles.
“You run fast.”
It’s not the stuff brilliant conversations are made of, but her eyes sparkle in a way he kind of likes. They’re not hazel, but they’ll do.
“Getting in shape,” he informs her. “Gotta be ready for freshman tryouts.”
“You’re in seventh grade,” she points out, eyebrows furrowing in thought. “Do they let seventh graders try out?”
She’s never been the brightest bulb. “No. But it’s never too early.”
“You’re gonna run for two years?” she asks, sounding more amused than he’d like. His smile drops.
“What’s it to you, anyway?” he mutters, kicking at the fence. She shrugs.
“Running’s no fun. You could be dancing instead. Dancing’s a lot of fun.”
“Boys don’t dance, Britt,” he tells her witheringly. She raises her eyebrows, like she knows something he doesn’t know, and shrugs again.
She kind of looks like she’s just planning on staring at him until his skin crawls. He shakes his head. Brittany’s always been kind of weird.
“Why are you even here? School’s been out for like…an hour.”
She grins, threading her fingers through the metal and shaking the fence gently. “I dunno. Didn’t feel like leavin’ yet. Why are you here? You can run anywhere.”
For being so weird and flakey, she’s got a point-though it’s not really a point he’s up for discussing. He scowls.
“Maybe I like it here.”
“Maybe I like watching,” she counters. He bites his lip, holding back an instinctive “that’s what she said” retort. Finn would get it. Brittany, probably not so much-and even if she did, there’s no telling how hard Santana Lopez might hit him for it.
“Whatever,” he settles for muttering. “Do whatever you want. I’m gonna-“
“You like Quinn, right?” she interrupts, and it’s so out of nowhere that he can’t stop himself from twisting around and gaping.
“Who told you that?”
“Mike Chang,” she says easily. He closes his eyes, silently plotting the skinny Asian boy’s death. “It’s okay,” she adds when he doesn’t reply. “I won’t tell her if you don’t want me to.”
Part of him wants to scream, Tell her-at least then she’d know. The part of his brain that’s actually working, however, forces him to shake his head slowly.
“Okay,” Brittany repeats. “So what are you gonna do about it, if I can’t tell her?”
It’s really the question of the century, the one Mike asks every other week. Sometimes he sort of regrets choosing that particular friend to confide in-he really should have gone to Finn with it from the get-go. But Finn’s got this habit of not listening all that well, and besides, part of their bro-code is not looking like a couple of girly men. Talking boobs and sneaking Playboys is one thing; mooning over girls with perfect smiles that make his knees go a little too wobbly is a whole other ball game. He’s not into it.
The only reason Mike’s got even half a clue what goes on in his head is because he fell asleep on the kid’s couch once and, evidently, speaks his dreams out loud. It’s been a pain in his ass ever since.
“Noah?” A hand waves in front of his eyes. He shakes his head.
“Nothin’,” he mutters gruffly. “Nothin’. Not yet.”
Her head tilts, ponytail drooping against her shoulder. “Well…what are you waiting for? She’s not gonna be there forever, you know.”
Sometimes, Brittany is insane beyond reason-but sometimes, she says stuff that’s actually pretty smart. He sighs.
“Is that why you’re runnin’?” she presses when he still doesn’t answer. “For her?”
It really has been one of those days, he realizes, because normally he wouldn’t be doing more than teasing this girl and darting away before her best friend could deck him for it. But all of a sudden, it’s pouring out of him: how he needs to be a badass, make the football team, make people notice. All of a sudden, she knows way, way more than she needs to. His mouth closes at last, his teeth snapping hard around his tongue, and he suddenly feels like an idiot.
And, somehow, Brittany shines like the coolest chick in the world, because all she does is pull herself up a few inches on the fence, digging the toes of her sneakers into the mesh. She bites her lip and looks at him for a moment, feet to head, and then smiles.
“You know what you should do?”
She tells him, and he has to admit he’d never have thought of it on his own, but really?
“That’d be awesome,” he breathes, and the next thing he knows, they’re running to her house.
He’s never been here before; it’s a little surprising how normal everything is. When she drags a chair into the bathroom and pushes him into it, he’s almost too busy being surprised by how not hippie-fantastic the wallpaper is to be worried.
Almost. But it’s not like he can say anything because, hey, he already agreed. And anyway, it really is going to be the coolest thing ever. Assuming she doesn’t screw it up.
He winces a little when she pulls out the clippers. “You ever done this before?”
Tongue between her teeth, eyes narrowed with focus, she nods mildly. “Sure.”
“H-how many times?” Noah Puckerman doesn’t stutter, but this feels like a special case. Because he’s just remembered that this is Brittany-the girl who spends Language Arts class sitting upside down in her chair. And Brittany is…
Pressing the clippers dangerously close to his left ear.
“Hey!” he protests, doing everything in his power not to jump. “Watch it! I need that!”
“Don’t be a baby,” she says with a wink, which does absolutely nothing to reassure him. “It’ll be done really soon, just don’t…don’t move around, okay?”
His eyes screw shut, his fists clenched against his knees. The buzzing makes him think of a whirling saw blade against his scalp, until all he can picture is Brittany pinning him down and running that humming, vibrating instrument of torture down the bridge of his nose-
“Sit still,” she grumbles, grasping his head with her free hand. “You’ll make me mess up.”
He really can’t have that-one wrong slash, and he’ll look like the biggest dumbass in school instead of the toughest. Grimacing, he forces himself to breathe.
Soon-not nearly soon enough, but soon-the buzzing vanishes completely, replaced by a giggle and a clap of Brittany’s hands. His eyes remain closed, his body completely still. Suddenly, he wonders if this was really the best idea in the world.
“All done,” she chirps, flicking him in the middle of his forehead. “You can look now. And, like, move and stuff.”
He doesn’t want to, but if he wusses out, she might tell everyone that Noah Puckerman was too afraid to check out his new haircut. Which would pretty much defeat the whole purpose of this afternoon.
Gingerly, he stands from the chair and braces his hands on the sink, staring into the mirror. It’s a little lopsided in places, he notes, but overall, not bad. Not bad at all. Slowly, he grins.
“Told you,” Brittany’s voice rings out behind him. He can see her in the reflection, arms crossed proudly over her chest, eyes sparkling.
“It looks cool,” he murmurs, running a careful hand over the single thick stripe. It’s fuzzier than he’s used to, and the skin around it prickles with stubble where she didn’t press hard enough, but somehow, that makes it even better.
“Told you,” she says again, grinning. “Quinn’ll notice you for sure.”
“Yeah?” He sounds a little too hopeful, but he’s pretty sure she doesn’t care. Wisely, she nods.
“Totally hot. For sure.”
He doesn’t stay much longer-it’s getting close to dinner time, and he should really be there when Annie gets home-but she doesn’t seem to mind. Brittany’s the kind of chick who doesn’t seem to mind much of anything, even when he gives her a grateful punch to the shoulder.
Three hours later, standing with his chin tilted towards the floor and his eyes guilty, listening to his mother shout about dishonoring the family and hooligan behavior, he finds himself trying not to smile. Sure, he’s getting all the blame, and yeah, it sucks that she’s taking his Playstation away for three whole weeks. But badasses are supposed to get in trouble.
He decides, as he climbs the stairs and flops down on his bed, that the mohawk is exactly the thing he needs. The mohawk, and maybe something more.
At school the next day, everybody stares. He soaks it in, chest puffed out, head held high, his newly bared scalp warmed by the sunshine. The adrenaline is even better than running. And when Brittany catches his eye, shooting him a thumbs up, he can only grin like an idiot back.
It takes Quinn a few weeks of hearing Brittany and Mike do it before she starts calling him Puck. He winks at her, delighted beyond reason when the tips of her ears go instantly crimson.
Yeah. He’s pretty badass.
2009, Age 15
Santana Lopez likes dancing.
She’s not the greatest at it, exactly, and she doesn’t really have to be. Cheerios notwithstanding, it’s the sort of thing she does solely for fun. Put on some music, jam out; doesn’t matter who’s in the house, or which parent is working doom hours, or how much homework is piling up on the desk. Dancing takes it all away.
She’s not the greatest at it-not like her best friend, or Mike Chang, or even Quinn Fabray sometimes-but it’s one of the few practices in her life that is utterly genuine. That’s reason enough to keep it going.
At the moment, it’s Thursday; there is a stack of English worksheets to fill out, a chem lab to finish, and two pages of geometry problems to mull over. It is, in short, bound to be a busy night, but she has spent a whole damn day dealing with Puck pawing at her skirt, Finn gawking at her legs when he thinks Quinn doesn’t notice, and Matt staring at her like he might break his three-year silence streak just to ask her Prom. Half the time, shit like that makes her feel sexy and smokin’. Today?
Today has been one of those days where she doesn’t need ogling and ass-slaps to feel validated. Today, therefore, has been one of those days where the entire Y-chromosome-toting population of McKinley High drives her up the damn wall.
So here she is, standing in the middle of her bedroom, shaking her ass and rolling her hips. Shakira’s her girl; someday, she figures she’ll have abs and an ass like that. Fifteen’s hot and all, but she’s nowhere near her peak.
The minute she hits 21, though-New York’ll be eating from her hand.
And if not New York, L.A. Maybe even San Fran. She’ll take anything outside of this Midwestern hellhole.
She’s so busy arching her back to the music, hands tangling in her just-freed hair, that she doesn’t notice she’s not alone for a good thirty seconds. All she can hear is the pulse of the music, trumpets blaring, drums grasping hold of her waist and twirling her around.
It’s an easy beat to keep, right up until a pair of hands slip around and finger the edge of her t-shirt where it meets pajama pants. She jerks, stifling a scream, eyes flying open.
Brittany presses in close behind her, hair up in a haphazard ponytail, breath a little chilly from the November night as it rushes down the collar of Santana’s shirt. The dark-haired girl clamps a hand to her chest, doing her best to quell the abrupt heart attack.
“Shit, B,” she pants. Smiling faintly, Brittany nuzzles her cool nose against the side of her neck.
“Surprise?”
“Yeah, surprise,” Santana mutters, leaning back and letting Brittany lead the rocking motion of their bodies. “The kind that ends with me in the fuckin’ hospital. You could have texted or something.”
She feels Brittany’s shoulders rise and fall, hands moving across her hips to hold her close. “I did. You didn’t answer. Too busy getting’ your dance on, I guess.”
Tilting her head back against the taller girl’s shoulder, Santana smirks. “Don’t judge me. How many times have I walked in on you shakin’ your groove thang?”
Brittany hums a complacent note against the side of her head, lips curving into a grin, and doesn’t reply. Santana doesn’t mind; they’ve been best friends pretty much since Brittany moved to town, so it’s not like she isn’t used to Brittany’s bizarre quirks. Coming over at random just to slide her hands up Santana’s hips and dance closely with her-it’s not an irregularity And anyway, Brittany’s her best friend. Pretty much the one person on earth Santana’s always stoked to see.
Even if she is sort of cutting into Santana’s personal harmony.
“Did you come just to dance, or what?” The question blows past her lips without a whole lot of care behind it; she’s more intent upon Brittany’s hips rocking against her backside, fingers trailing slow paths up and down her belly. They’re treading the line again-the same one they’ve found themselves on a lot these last few months, the one Santana’s not sure she could or would put a name to if she tried. She’s not sure where it’s going, or what it means, only that Brittany is here an awful lot. She’s here, with her lingering smiles and her wandering hands and her long embraces, and Santana can’t help but-
“I was gonna ask you for help,” Brittany murmurs, “with the homework? The, um, the Spanish. Totally lost again.”
“You’re always lost, Britt,” Santana observes fondly, grinding her ass with just a hair too much fervor back against the blonde. It does the trick; Brittany’s next words die in her throat, replaced by a soft pant, cheek pressed to the side of Santana’s neck. “I might as well just do the shit for you.”
“But I’m supposed to learn,” Brittany retorts, almost mockingly. Santana chuckles.
“If you wanted to learn, you’d pay attention to Schuester’s step-by-step kindergarten approach. Not draw ducks fencing with unicorns all over your test papers.”
“He took it away too soon,” Brittany comments mildly. “The ducks would have won.”
Santana laughs again, sliding a hand behind her head to catch on the back of Brittany’s neck. iTunes has chosen a much slower song now, one she never listens to and doesn’t even remember the name of. They’ve mellowed out with the tempo, steady and gentle, and Brittany’s fingers are getting more adventurous. One by one, they tease beneath the hem of Santana’s shirt, trailing outwards until the blonde’s palms are snaking up her sides. Fingertips pleasantly chilly against warm skin, Brittany reaches the base of her ribcage and stops, hovering there like she’s only just realized how far she’s worked the shirt up her friend’s body.
For her part, Santana can’t seem to stop. It feels a little weird, she has to admit, to be grinding sensually back into another girl-another girl who is pretty decidedly feeling her up in her bedroom on a Thursday night, no less-but it isn’t bad. It’s just…different.
But it’s dancing. She loves dancing, and even if she’s not the greatest at it, Brittany definitely is. She’s all swirl and flow, reckless and contained, erotic and playful; everything Santana loves about motion, Brittany embodies.
Those hands under her ribs scoot down little by little, the shirt falling back into place, until Brittany’s gripping her by the hips again and gently twisting her back and forth.
“So are you gonna teach me?” she asks, each word punctuated by a swivel of Santana’s body. The Latina grins.
“Depends. Are you gonna listen?”
Brittany gives a single strong twirl until Santana’s facing her, raising an eyebrow. “I always listen to you,” she points out solemnly, holding the expression for all of three seconds before bursting into giggles. Her hands slide back along Santana’s hips, linking together at the small of her back and pulling her close.
It’s more of a slow dance now than anything Shakira would approve of, but Santana thinks that works just fine. She likes the sense of Brittany’s body, likes the way it molds against her own. So many soft curves shouldn’t click so easily, but theirs do, and as she nestles against Brittany’s shoulder, she smiles.
“Do you even know what section we’re on?”
“Sure,” Brittany replies easily. “The one with the Mexicans.”
They crack up again, and as the song changes to something with a hot salsa edge, Brittany leans back and twirls Santana in three sharp circles. When she comes to rest with her back against the taller girl’s chest again, all she can think is how much better this is than homework.
“You’re hopeless, you know that?” she asks playfully, arching her back when Brittany slides a hand left to right across her abdomen. “They should toss you in with the fifth graders.”
“Fifth graders get better snacks,” Brittany muses. “And recess. Wouldn’t be so bad.”
“You would give up high school for some snacks?” Santana laughs. “All of it? Being hot and popular, having everyone drooling at your feet?”
She feels another slow grin spread against her skin, Brittany’s mouth hot against her ear. “Well,” the blonde drawls, sliding her hand a bit lower, and suddenly Santana’s not laughing anymore. “Maybe not all of it.”
The fingers of her right hand have hooked painstakingly into the waistband of Santana’s pants, teasing against the skin just atop her underwear, and Santana’s not sure when her room got so damn hot. She leans back a little further, at once bewildered and excited by this brave new motion. Brittany, for her part, doesn’t press any further; staying put, she pats soft little dots into Santana’s skin with the pads of her fingertips, scratching lightly with blunt nails here and there. The dark-haired girl inhales sharply.
“Britt.”
“I have an idea,” Brittany murmurs, and though she doesn’t say another word, Santana’s pretty sure she knows what sort of idea it is. Her legs slacken at the thought, one hand reaching instinctively around to grip the back of Brittany’s jeans.
“Britt,” she says again, throat dry, all too aware of the dance still thrumming from Brittany’s body into her own. There’s a conduit of sorts between them now, one they’ve been unconsciously working on for months, maybe even years. She doesn’t think she could break it even if she wanted to.
“It’s just an idea,” Brittany says softly against her ear, breath tickling her skin, as her hand slides half a centimeter lower. “You can do that thing, you know, that presidents do? If you don’t like it.”
“Veto,” Santana fills in, hazy all over with the feather-light pressure from that one cautious hand. She feels Brittany nod once.
“Veto, sure. You can, if you want. Do you?”
She wants something all right, but shooting down whatever’s going through Brittany’s mind is not it. “I want…” She stops, licks her lips, leans her head back a little. “No. No veto.”
A hum of acknowledgement against her ear trails along with the baseline pumping from her laptop speakers. Brittany’s body rolls smoothly against her own, grinding too slowly, too calmly. It’s the exact opposite of everything coursing through Santana, whose blood is racing so hard in her ears that she can barely hear the music over it. Long fingers slide down another inch, until they just barely rest flat against the front of her underwear.
“Britt, I-“ Slow, she wants to say, gentle, but Brittany knows her well enough that it’s not necessary. They’ve been sharing everything since the days of Winnie the Pooh sticker books and Finn Hudson’s harebrained table-turning schemes. Brittany knows.
The first stroke is almost too light to feel; the second nearly yanks her out of her skin. It shouldn’t be so overwhelming, she tells herself frantically; Brittany’s not even touching her, not really. It shouldn’t feel like so damn much.
But it does. It really, really does, and with every light press and gentle rub, Brittany seems to be building confidence. Santana stifles a low groan, turning her head against the blonde’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.
“God,” she whimpers as Brittany, apparently emboldened, brushes her free hand just under the Latina’s breasts and holds steady. She runs two fingers quickly down along the seam of Santana’s underwear, sucking in a breath when the smaller girl’s hips cant into her hand.
“More?” she asks, mouth hot against Santana’s hair, and all the darker girl can do is nod. There’s a second of agonizing loss as Brittany withdraws, followed by the heady rush of skin on skin, and thank God for music, because her mouth is making all kinds of sounds she’s never heard from herself before. She feels everything-Brittany’s pelvis thrusting methodically against her ass, soft lips trailing across the shell of her ear, and above all else, the caressing motions right there.
Something very small murmurs that this is weird; they’re standing in the middle of her room on a school night, the door is very much unlocked, and her best friend has her hand down the front of her pants. Her hair’s probably a mess, she’s wearing a shirt with the Pepsi logo scrawled across the front, she’s making all of these breathy little sounds-it’s a wonder she’s holding herself together at all, really.
It’s weird, but it’s so fucking good. She gasps when Brittany finds that place again, sensation building rapidly in her stomach, coiling and rushing. She wonders what it would feel like to have those fingers inside of her instead of just providing this perfect, ridiculous friction-she wonders if Brittany would even be interested in that. She wonders what it would feel like to be touching Brittany right back, instead of just feeling her body rocking rhythmically against Santana’s like this, each thrust just a little bit less controlled than the last.
She turns her head to see Brittany’s eyes fixed low, gaze locked on the motion of her own hand inside Santana’s pants. There’s a sort of awe written all over the blonde’s face, coupled with something Santana is pretty sure defines arousal; she closes her eyes again and gives herself over to the sensations, to each experimental stroke, to the lunatic thrusts of Brittany’s groin against her backside, to the tiny moans brushing against her own ears.
Brittany holds her up when her knees give out, her whole body shuddering with pleasure, and for the first time, the dance is broken. She leans back in the arms of her best friend, panting, turning until her face is against Brittany’s neck.
“We-my parents could have-“
“Yeah,” Brittany agrees distractedly, like her brain is a million miles away. Santana knows the feeling.
“We would have been in so much trouble,” she gasps, not because it’s the thing that really matters right now, but rather because thinking about the consequences of what they’ve just done is entirely too much. “We-they would’ve-“
“I would’ve taken the blame,” Brittany murmurs. Santana raises her head, meeting hopeful blue eyes. The blonde nods decisively. “I would have. It was my idea anyway.”
Santana stares for a minute and then-insanely-laughs. Not because it’s funny, and not because she disbelieves, but because this is Brittany.
“They would never have believed it,” she gasps through a guffaw, burying her face in Brittany’s neck again as her shoulders shake. Brittany giggles into the top of her head.
“Probably not.” She pauses, a thoughtful smile twitching at the corners of her lips. “Wonder why that is?”
Just like that, there is no awkwardness left. They fall giggling onto Santana’s bed, the dance complete, and lay there grinning at nothing. Maybe it was Brittany’s idea, sure-but Santana can’t help but think it’s just another of those things they’ve been bound to share from the very beginning. She feels Brittany’s pinky loop through her own, holding tight like a promise, and all she can do is think that maybe this dance is a little different. Maybe this is the one she’s going to be the greatest at. She turns, nudging Brittany’s shoulder, and sticks out her tongue teasingly.
“So. About that homework.”