Steps
Title: Steps
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S2.
Summary: They say in difficult situations, there are always five steps.
Denial
“So, Santana,” Rachel says smoothly, sliding into the seat beside her with a smile, “I hear from a little birdie that there’s something new in your life.”
Santana looks up from the algebra homework she’s pretending to give a shit about and scowls. “Did I say you could sit here, Thing?”
Rachel is, irritatingly enough, unfazed. “I’m simply saying that you seem like you could use a little help. Someone to talk to, perhaps? Someone who is familiar with, say, situations…”
“Speak English or get the hell away from me,” Santana barks. Rachel’s eyes grow large, darting instinctively around the room. It’s as though every inclination in her aggravating little body is aiming towards red alert, waiting for Santana to reach her breaking point and simply punch her in the face.
Not an altogether repugnant notion, but Finn and Puck are sending nervous glances their way from across the room. Santana could totally take them on individually, but it might be difficult to shut all three of them up at once. She sighs.
“Berry, I really don’t have the patience for your yammering today. Or ever. Get to the point?”
To her horror, Rachel does not skitter away like the big-mouthed baby lamb that she is. Instead, she scoots her chair even closer and leans in, voice lowered conspiratorially.
“Santana, I know.”
“Know what?” she demands. Rachel pastes that fake, stupid little smile back on her lips.
“That you’re a lesbian.”
“I’m a what?” Santana barely refrains from roaring, slamming her book shut. Rachel shrinks back in her seat.
“I mean, it’s not a secret, is it?” she babbles. “You and Brittany have been almost painfully obvious for nearly two years now, and no one seems to care-“
“I am not a lesbian,” Santana hisses, leaning closer than she has ever wanted to be to Rachel Berry. “Get that through your thick, Broadway-obsessed head. Not. A. Lesbian.”
Rachel gnaws nervously at her bottom lip, frowning. “But I was fairly certain that-“
“Not.”
Defeated, Rachel inches her chair backwards and places her hands on her knees. “All right. I apologize.”
Santana refuses to glance at her for the rest of the day.
Anger
Things aren’t going well. They haven’t been for a long time, and the last thing Santana needs is to turn a corner and find Kurt Hummel smirking at her.
Queeny isn’t so bad, but right now, she could tear him apart with her bare hands and not even pause to chat.
“What?” she snaps, impatiently shifting her bag from one shoulder to the other. Her skirt feels too loose around her hips, her uniform top uncomfortably tight. She feels like she’s playing a role tailored explicitly for someone else, and it’s making her restless as fuck.
Kurt, damn him, only smiles. “Hello, Santana.”
“Not in the mood,” she tells him, shouldering by and rolling her eyes. “Find somebody else to runway-judge, Tyra.”
“I’m not interested in your outfit,” he replies mildly. “Especially seeing as you wear the same thing every day. I was only curious to see if you would like-“
“Not up for a mani-pedi girl-chat date, either,” she growls. “Beat it, Dollface, I’ve got practice.”
“Seen Brittany lately?” he asks as she storms past him. Against her every interest, her legs immediately forget how to propel her forward. Her throat tightens.
It isn’t his fault that Brittany has been so weird lately, or that it’s been making Santana increasingly anxious. It isn’t his fault that this is such a bad day, that she feels like nothing better than an expendable pawn in some war she never really believed in. He’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She whirls on him, grasping the front of his designer-chick blouse and scowling. “Look, Bambi, I said I’m not up for it. Get the hell out of my grill. I don’t give a shit if you want to flounce around like a pansy, spreading glitter and boy-love wherever you go, but leave me out of it. We clear?”
“You and Brittany are having problems,” he states calmly, knowingly, apparently undeterred by the threat of minor violence. She releases his shirt, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Fuck off, Hummel.”
She stomps away, footsteps clattering off the lockers, teeth gritted as she ignores his call of, “I’m here when you want to talk about it, you know.”
Bargaining
Puck is the easiest person in the world to coax into the bedroom, so when she needs to work through her shit, it’s his number she dials. Used to be someone else she was more interested in seeing, but with Brittany curling up in the lap of Nerds the Legless…
She’ll take this.
It becomes something like a game, albeit a highly desperate one. Every move he makes in this bed, she matches with a promise to the universe. Somehow, it makes her feel better, like something is finally within her control.
Puck’s hands move down her body, and she swears that she will let this Brittany thing slide if he manages to touch just the right spot on her right thigh-the way Brittany never fails to.
Puck’s mouth lights against her jaw, and she insists that she will make this whole “shitty friend” thing up to Brittany tomorrow if her skin tingles that way-like Brittany always brings out in her.
Puck’s fingertips brush against the front of her underwear, and she silently claims that she will talk to Brittany about everything, come completely clean about her thoughts and her feelings if he can just get her off like he used to-like only Brittany seems able to these days.
It starts as a game to play with herself, but it doesn’t take long at all to become dangerously serious. Without her consent, the game grows into a sort of frenzied madness, until every move she makes is violent and frantic, laced with the terror of what will happen if any of these things finally do come true. The idea of having to keep any of these promises is staggering.
She’s pretty sure Puck knows; she can’t imagine him not. The way her nails scratch at his skin, the way her eyes stay firmly shut when he rolls her onto her back, the sense of abject lunacy in the way she responds to his every touch-things aren’t like before. They haven’t been like before in a long time.
As she lets him touch her, she swears to herself that she will find a way to make this right-just as long as she gets tonight.
Depression
They’re going around in a circle, everyone picking a solo to belt out in front of the rest of the club, and it’s getting touchy. For her. Everyone else seems to think this is day camp, with the cheering and the smiles and the big group hugs at every song’s close. Glee is in rare form this afternoon, genuinely gleeful in every way, and Santana has never been more aware of her own distance from that.
The other kids are singing jaunty songs-for example, Puck just went through a rousing duet of Foreigner’s “Hot-Blooded” with Sam, obviously in the hopes of making their respective girlfriends swoon (Mercedes just laughed her ass off, which is exactly the kind of reaction that makes Santana not so embarrassed to call her a friend). There is a certain light and energy in the room that makes Santana want to sink down in the middle of it all and wrap the warmth around her shoulders like a blanket. She can see the not-quite-subtle glances Brittany keeps sending her, and it’s beginning to make her feel crazy.
She should sing something bright and excitable like the rest of the group, but it doesn’t add up quite right in her head. Instead, she finds herself leaning against Brad’s piano-less in a sultry fashion, more because it might well be the only thing holding her up-and rasps out the lyrics to Adele’s “I’ll Be Waiting.” She watches the joy slowly filter out of every face in the room, replaced by varying shades of concern and discomfort. Not that it isn’t a great song, and not that she isn’t killing the hell out of it, but she is doing so with full awareness of smashing the mood with a sledgehammer. It apparently takes a little something out of the performance.
I’ll be somebody different. I’ll be better to you. The words vibrate around her own ears as she finishes and slumps, ignoring the way Schue is biting his lip, the way Brad-the-furniture is eyeing her with actual unease, the way Rachel and Kurt and Quinn are all trying to clap, but not quite reaching the mark. She ignores everything and bows her head against the piano lid, tears unleashing themselves without her permission. She’s falling apart, and there is no one here to catch her.
And then, without a breath or a thought, Brittany’s arms are around her waist. Brittany’s body molds against her back, her nose tucking into the hair draped across Santana’s neck. Brittany’s voice whispers in her ear that everything is okay, everything is perfect, just breathe.
Brittany…and then Quinn…and Puck, and Rachel, and Finn…Sam, Mercedes, Tina, Kurt…like tiny metal balls drawn to a magnet, they bounce against her body and stick there, murmuring words of encouragement.
Santana squeezes her eyes shut and sobs.
Acceptance
It’s a bold move-probably bolder than is entirely necessary, but if you’re going to go all out, fuck necessity. She’s got Rachel and Kurt watching the door, Quinn and Sam in the hall under strict orders to keep all adults distracted, Finn and Puck a little further down the line with their eyes on the target. Everything is in place. She just has to push the button.
It is astounding how much effort goes into that one minuscule action.
The PA system crackles so violently, she almost can’t hear her own voice, but she sees Quinn give the thumbs-up through Figgins’ office window. Santana drags in a deep breath and pushes it back out again, centering herself.
“Brittany Susan Pierce, if you’re listening to this-and you’d better be, because if you’re feeding a duck under the bleachers during a moment like this, we will definitely be fighting-this is me doing it. This is me being yours, like I always have been, but this time, I’m proudly so. This is me asking you to next year’s Prom, and telling the Glee Club family, and being prepared to slash with my vicious words every single person who might treat me differently. This is me telling you, for real, that I love you. That I have always loved you. I am yours. And when I leave this room and go to your locker, I hope you’ll say you’re mine, too.”
She lets her shaking finger slip from the button and moves clumsily around Figgins’ desk, praying that Brittany heard, that Brittany cared, that it isn’t too late. It has taken so long to get here, an endless stream of pratfalls and face-plants to reach this point in the journey, and if Brittany’s not waiting for her-
She’s half a hall length away from their lockers when strong arms catch her in the tightest bear hug of her life. Brittany’s head bows against her shoulder, her lips attaching to Santana’s neck with every hushed declaration of, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Like never before, Santana thinks giddily, squeezing back until her arms threaten to give out entirely. Brittany raises her eyes, face shining with the most beautiful smile Santana has ever caused. She cups Santana’s cheeks, gaze hopeful and insistent for the first time in so long, and all Santana has to do is lean in and kiss her.
And kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her.
When Brittany laughs into her mouth, fingers lost in the tangle of Santana’s hair, she finds she could not care less about Finn and Puck, whooping from the lockers. Or Sam and Quinn, high-fiving each other. Or Kurt and Rachel, sharing a knowing, smug little moment. She doesn't care that Figgins is glowering at them, or that Will is wiping a tear from his eye, or that Karofsky looks completely lost now that his beard has been shaved away. She doesn't care about judging eyes, or pointing fingers, or cold whispers.
She cares about this. She has always cared about this.
Grinning too hard to rein herself in, she kisses Brittany with sloppy energy again, and again, and again.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S2.
Summary: They say in difficult situations, there are always five steps.
Denial
“So, Santana,” Rachel says smoothly, sliding into the seat beside her with a smile, “I hear from a little birdie that there’s something new in your life.”
Santana looks up from the algebra homework she’s pretending to give a shit about and scowls. “Did I say you could sit here, Thing?”
Rachel is, irritatingly enough, unfazed. “I’m simply saying that you seem like you could use a little help. Someone to talk to, perhaps? Someone who is familiar with, say, situations…”
“Speak English or get the hell away from me,” Santana barks. Rachel’s eyes grow large, darting instinctively around the room. It’s as though every inclination in her aggravating little body is aiming towards red alert, waiting for Santana to reach her breaking point and simply punch her in the face.
Not an altogether repugnant notion, but Finn and Puck are sending nervous glances their way from across the room. Santana could totally take them on individually, but it might be difficult to shut all three of them up at once. She sighs.
“Berry, I really don’t have the patience for your yammering today. Or ever. Get to the point?”
To her horror, Rachel does not skitter away like the big-mouthed baby lamb that she is. Instead, she scoots her chair even closer and leans in, voice lowered conspiratorially.
“Santana, I know.”
“Know what?” she demands. Rachel pastes that fake, stupid little smile back on her lips.
“That you’re a lesbian.”
“I’m a what?” Santana barely refrains from roaring, slamming her book shut. Rachel shrinks back in her seat.
“I mean, it’s not a secret, is it?” she babbles. “You and Brittany have been almost painfully obvious for nearly two years now, and no one seems to care-“
“I am not a lesbian,” Santana hisses, leaning closer than she has ever wanted to be to Rachel Berry. “Get that through your thick, Broadway-obsessed head. Not. A. Lesbian.”
Rachel gnaws nervously at her bottom lip, frowning. “But I was fairly certain that-“
“Not.”
Defeated, Rachel inches her chair backwards and places her hands on her knees. “All right. I apologize.”
Santana refuses to glance at her for the rest of the day.
Anger
Things aren’t going well. They haven’t been for a long time, and the last thing Santana needs is to turn a corner and find Kurt Hummel smirking at her.
Queeny isn’t so bad, but right now, she could tear him apart with her bare hands and not even pause to chat.
“What?” she snaps, impatiently shifting her bag from one shoulder to the other. Her skirt feels too loose around her hips, her uniform top uncomfortably tight. She feels like she’s playing a role tailored explicitly for someone else, and it’s making her restless as fuck.
Kurt, damn him, only smiles. “Hello, Santana.”
“Not in the mood,” she tells him, shouldering by and rolling her eyes. “Find somebody else to runway-judge, Tyra.”
“I’m not interested in your outfit,” he replies mildly. “Especially seeing as you wear the same thing every day. I was only curious to see if you would like-“
“Not up for a mani-pedi girl-chat date, either,” she growls. “Beat it, Dollface, I’ve got practice.”
“Seen Brittany lately?” he asks as she storms past him. Against her every interest, her legs immediately forget how to propel her forward. Her throat tightens.
It isn’t his fault that Brittany has been so weird lately, or that it’s been making Santana increasingly anxious. It isn’t his fault that this is such a bad day, that she feels like nothing better than an expendable pawn in some war she never really believed in. He’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She whirls on him, grasping the front of his designer-chick blouse and scowling. “Look, Bambi, I said I’m not up for it. Get the hell out of my grill. I don’t give a shit if you want to flounce around like a pansy, spreading glitter and boy-love wherever you go, but leave me out of it. We clear?”
“You and Brittany are having problems,” he states calmly, knowingly, apparently undeterred by the threat of minor violence. She releases his shirt, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Fuck off, Hummel.”
She stomps away, footsteps clattering off the lockers, teeth gritted as she ignores his call of, “I’m here when you want to talk about it, you know.”
Bargaining
Puck is the easiest person in the world to coax into the bedroom, so when she needs to work through her shit, it’s his number she dials. Used to be someone else she was more interested in seeing, but with Brittany curling up in the lap of Nerds the Legless…
She’ll take this.
It becomes something like a game, albeit a highly desperate one. Every move he makes in this bed, she matches with a promise to the universe. Somehow, it makes her feel better, like something is finally within her control.
Puck’s hands move down her body, and she swears that she will let this Brittany thing slide if he manages to touch just the right spot on her right thigh-the way Brittany never fails to.
Puck’s mouth lights against her jaw, and she insists that she will make this whole “shitty friend” thing up to Brittany tomorrow if her skin tingles that way-like Brittany always brings out in her.
Puck’s fingertips brush against the front of her underwear, and she silently claims that she will talk to Brittany about everything, come completely clean about her thoughts and her feelings if he can just get her off like he used to-like only Brittany seems able to these days.
It starts as a game to play with herself, but it doesn’t take long at all to become dangerously serious. Without her consent, the game grows into a sort of frenzied madness, until every move she makes is violent and frantic, laced with the terror of what will happen if any of these things finally do come true. The idea of having to keep any of these promises is staggering.
She’s pretty sure Puck knows; she can’t imagine him not. The way her nails scratch at his skin, the way her eyes stay firmly shut when he rolls her onto her back, the sense of abject lunacy in the way she responds to his every touch-things aren’t like before. They haven’t been like before in a long time.
As she lets him touch her, she swears to herself that she will find a way to make this right-just as long as she gets tonight.
Depression
They’re going around in a circle, everyone picking a solo to belt out in front of the rest of the club, and it’s getting touchy. For her. Everyone else seems to think this is day camp, with the cheering and the smiles and the big group hugs at every song’s close. Glee is in rare form this afternoon, genuinely gleeful in every way, and Santana has never been more aware of her own distance from that.
The other kids are singing jaunty songs-for example, Puck just went through a rousing duet of Foreigner’s “Hot-Blooded” with Sam, obviously in the hopes of making their respective girlfriends swoon (Mercedes just laughed her ass off, which is exactly the kind of reaction that makes Santana not so embarrassed to call her a friend). There is a certain light and energy in the room that makes Santana want to sink down in the middle of it all and wrap the warmth around her shoulders like a blanket. She can see the not-quite-subtle glances Brittany keeps sending her, and it’s beginning to make her feel crazy.
She should sing something bright and excitable like the rest of the group, but it doesn’t add up quite right in her head. Instead, she finds herself leaning against Brad’s piano-less in a sultry fashion, more because it might well be the only thing holding her up-and rasps out the lyrics to Adele’s “I’ll Be Waiting.” She watches the joy slowly filter out of every face in the room, replaced by varying shades of concern and discomfort. Not that it isn’t a great song, and not that she isn’t killing the hell out of it, but she is doing so with full awareness of smashing the mood with a sledgehammer. It apparently takes a little something out of the performance.
I’ll be somebody different. I’ll be better to you. The words vibrate around her own ears as she finishes and slumps, ignoring the way Schue is biting his lip, the way Brad-the-furniture is eyeing her with actual unease, the way Rachel and Kurt and Quinn are all trying to clap, but not quite reaching the mark. She ignores everything and bows her head against the piano lid, tears unleashing themselves without her permission. She’s falling apart, and there is no one here to catch her.
And then, without a breath or a thought, Brittany’s arms are around her waist. Brittany’s body molds against her back, her nose tucking into the hair draped across Santana’s neck. Brittany’s voice whispers in her ear that everything is okay, everything is perfect, just breathe.
Brittany…and then Quinn…and Puck, and Rachel, and Finn…Sam, Mercedes, Tina, Kurt…like tiny metal balls drawn to a magnet, they bounce against her body and stick there, murmuring words of encouragement.
Santana squeezes her eyes shut and sobs.
Acceptance
It’s a bold move-probably bolder than is entirely necessary, but if you’re going to go all out, fuck necessity. She’s got Rachel and Kurt watching the door, Quinn and Sam in the hall under strict orders to keep all adults distracted, Finn and Puck a little further down the line with their eyes on the target. Everything is in place. She just has to push the button.
It is astounding how much effort goes into that one minuscule action.
The PA system crackles so violently, she almost can’t hear her own voice, but she sees Quinn give the thumbs-up through Figgins’ office window. Santana drags in a deep breath and pushes it back out again, centering herself.
“Brittany Susan Pierce, if you’re listening to this-and you’d better be, because if you’re feeding a duck under the bleachers during a moment like this, we will definitely be fighting-this is me doing it. This is me being yours, like I always have been, but this time, I’m proudly so. This is me asking you to next year’s Prom, and telling the Glee Club family, and being prepared to slash with my vicious words every single person who might treat me differently. This is me telling you, for real, that I love you. That I have always loved you. I am yours. And when I leave this room and go to your locker, I hope you’ll say you’re mine, too.”
She lets her shaking finger slip from the button and moves clumsily around Figgins’ desk, praying that Brittany heard, that Brittany cared, that it isn’t too late. It has taken so long to get here, an endless stream of pratfalls and face-plants to reach this point in the journey, and if Brittany’s not waiting for her-
She’s half a hall length away from their lockers when strong arms catch her in the tightest bear hug of her life. Brittany’s head bows against her shoulder, her lips attaching to Santana’s neck with every hushed declaration of, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Like never before, Santana thinks giddily, squeezing back until her arms threaten to give out entirely. Brittany raises her eyes, face shining with the most beautiful smile Santana has ever caused. She cups Santana’s cheeks, gaze hopeful and insistent for the first time in so long, and all Santana has to do is lean in and kiss her.
And kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her.
When Brittany laughs into her mouth, fingers lost in the tangle of Santana’s hair, she finds she could not care less about Finn and Puck, whooping from the lockers. Or Sam and Quinn, high-fiving each other. Or Kurt and Rachel, sharing a knowing, smug little moment. She doesn't care that Figgins is glowering at them, or that Will is wiping a tear from his eye, or that Karofsky looks completely lost now that his beard has been shaved away. She doesn't care about judging eyes, or pointing fingers, or cold whispers.
She cares about this. She has always cared about this.
Grinning too hard to rein herself in, she kisses Brittany with sloppy energy again, and again, and again.