Fic: Platforms 3/?
Title: Platforms 3/?
Pairing: Santana/Brittany
Rating: PG-13 (For now)
Summary: AU. Set in the 1920s. A trip on the Orient Express
Author's note: Apologies to anyone who was in the least interested in this as I have been monumentally rubbish with writing and updating, or even logging on here. The guilt got to me with not finishing what I started, so this is a very delayed next chapter, god knows when the next one will be, hopefully not too long as I'd enjoy not leaving it very long. But anyway this is beginning to go on for too long. Long. Said that too many times. So sorry for anyone who's been looking at my journal and found nothing new, and apologies to anyone who thinks they've been sent back in time by me posting again.
Chapters:
I
II
The motion of the train becomes no more familiar to Santana so that every night sees her trawling the length of the train, or at least the areas open to passengers. To say that every night was the same would be unjustified, of course Santana always has cold feet and hands, bloodshot eyes and is closely wrapped around by her dressing gown, and indeed, the carriages never change their order, there’s never a sudden appearance of new furnishings, but there’s always something a little different about her after-midnight strolls. That something is to do with the sight she saw four days ago. The girl with the red lips is always a constant, but her…companion (for want of a better word) never is. Peaking through the gap between the blind over the window and the door frame, Santana’s sure she’s glimpsed a different man every time. The first was red waistcoated, the seconded was too but he seemed somewhat shorter, the third was in black, and tonight she’s sure the blue jacket on tall, broad shoulders is Hudson’s. She never stands long enough to know for certain who these men are, she only lingers enough to identity those red lips and see them change shape, parting for gasps of air, or seeing white teeth bite down on them.
Miss Lopez manages to sleep in the early hours, more or less when the two old codgers she keeps getting lumbered with during the evening course, are getting started for the day. She decides to dismiss her breakfast wakeup call altogether and gets Hudson to bring in something to eat at ten every morning. A much more respectable hour. This morning she glances at his outfit and his build, and stares a little longer than is proper into his face, to assess the bags under his eyes. There’s no doubt in her mind that it was him last night. By the time she’s up and dressed and sauntered through to one of the parlour carriages it’s only another hour or two before the train pulls into Zurich where passengers will disembark for a few days, and roam the city. She’s looking forward to the hotel, the stillness of a room, and guarantees herself an excellent night’s sleep tonight. She’s gazing at the snowy scenery when Mr Schuester bounces into sight, teeth gleaming and fingers playing with the rim of his hat in his hands.
‘Morning, Miss Lopez, I saw you weren’t at breakfast again today, I do hope you’re well?’
‘Yes, quite well, thank you. Sleep is troublesome, with the motion, and so I’ve been getting off a little late. I get breakfast sent to the room so you don’t have to worry about me going hungry.’
‘Splendid. Would you care to explore the city with me when we get in later?’
‘How lovely of you to ask, William, but I have already promised myself to the Countess.’
‘Oh, oh. Well maybe I could escort the party?’
‘Again, how lovely, but the Countess is very particular about the company she keeps.’
A butter-wouldn’t-melt smile and fluttering of lashes sees William off, and Santana decides she’d better track down Sylvester before he does. She’d been lying, granted the Countess and her niece are probably the people she wouldn’t mind spending time with, over the passed four days she’s gravitated to them, if only because they’re located as far way from Rachelle Bérry as possible, but she still wouldn’t want to socialise with them outside of the train. She’s more than happy wandering around by herself, and more than capable, not that her father would know. Of course, William will probably tail her anyway, conveniently bump into her, question her on the absence of the Countess and Lady Quinn and attach himself to her immediately. It’s because of this that she decides tagging along with Austrians is the only option available to her.
After an afternoon’s shopping, involving the Countess abusing every assistant in every outlet, and snide comments in Austrian between the two women which left Santana a little ill at ease, although generally Lady Quinn would paraphrase in English whatever scathing insult they’d vocalised about the Swiss people, Santana finds herself in the hotel restaurant, eating alone, thankfully. She narrowly avoided the wheezing gentlemen from the train who husked out regrets that they hadn’t eaten later so as to keep to her company. She’s picking over whatever meat she’s been presented with when her ears prick at a familiar laugh, and sure enough, when her eyes roam the room she finds red lips sipping a cocktail at the bar. The girl must have a sole diet of alcoholic beverages and buttered toast - the only thing Santana has ever seen the blonde eat. She’s surrounded by the usual few girls and is entertaining a handsome fellow with blonde hair. He’s flash with his cash and red lips is generous with her body, crossing and uncrossing her legs so as to give him an eyeful every few minutes. Santana takes the chance to watch her, as does every other patron of the restaurant, there’s something mesmerising and brazen about the group of young girls that captures attention.
‘Well I say, Mr Evans, aren’t you the least bit curious? I bet nothing would happen if we did go through with it, this is a bore of a place, and the officers seem like good fellows, not too uptight, I don’t think they’d mind a jot. Sugar? Sugar, now do you think the people of Zurich would mind if we decided to try their national dress on?’
‘No.’
‘See, Mr Evans, if anything it’s part of the experience of being here. I say there’s nothing like an evening costume party. Get a few more of these in though, it’s a little cold out there and I need as much courage as I can get in this frock.’
‘Miss Peirce, I see no objection to going tomorrow and asking the curates about it, but it’s closed now-’
‘Oh, Mr Evans, you disappoint me. You’re a fellow American. Where’s your spirit gone? Slipping into a museum at nine is small fry to what the boys back home will be doing now. Or not now. Time zones confuse me. It is still 1925?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent.’
Santana snatches the conversation momentarily as she passes the bar on the way out. Sounds exactly like the antics that socialites get up to in London, at one party Santana ended up over the gates at the palace trying on a busby with several other reckless things. It was printed in the paper next morning, along side the usual trollop about the morality of the country diminishing thanks to the younger generation, her name was omitted, naturally.
It’s 4.30 in the morning when Santana is startled awake by an uproar in the room next to her. Banging, shouting, laughing, music (someone must have requested a gramophone), what sounds like the smashing of glass and the constant compressing and releasing of bed springs which can only indicate several people jumping up and down on the double bed. She groans. Her hope at a full night’s rest is thwarted, and she’s got nowhere to stroll to, or at least nothing to see. Deciding to head to down for a hot chocolate rather than lay with her ears identifying every noise, getting frustrated, in bed, Santana slips on her overcoat and steps outside her room. Room 302 has it’s door ajar, the music is more audible, the humming of numerous conversations is more drone like, she glances in on her way passed and her suspicious are confirmed when she sees a few of the gang from the bar.
The same thing happens the following two nights. Santana’s able to pick out the voice and laugh of red lips, Miss Pierce, as she overhead the other night. It seems it’s her room. At about 6.30 the crowd wears thin and the voices are easier to distinguish, the music stops, and what’s left is the voice of the girl and a man’s voice. At around 7 Santana decides it’s time for a shower as she’d rather not hear the noises from next door. The restful days spent in Zurich become a routine of early mornings, cold trudgings round the sights with people she’d rather not spend time with, and snatches of sleep before the party girl intrudes on Santana’s only haven. In a way, she’s looking forward to sleeping on the train again, it may have been jerky but at least it wasn’t loud.
Dear Father,
I’m just about to reboard the Orient after a few days in Zurich, as you’re no doubt aware. It’s a pretty place. I’ve included a postcard; I hope you appreciate my message on the back of it.
William has been around the town with me. It’s not exactly raving although I did manage to procure some strange cigars from a shady looking gentleman which may not have been solely made of tobacco. It is with regret that I write that Mr Schuester was arrested by the Swiss force for possession of them, and so will not be on the train any longer. I intend to take full advantage of his absence and run stark naked through the train at dinner proclaiming my penchant for mime artists and administering cough medicine to all who require it, or whatever else you imagine I will do if not under your supervision.
I imagine by now you’ve seen your other post and surmised that the cigars was pure fiction. Unluckily William is sitting across the table from me.
I trust you are well, and lacking a sense of humour as always.
Love to mother.
Santana.
Refusing to give William the satisfaction of posting the letter, as he offered, Santana drops it off at reception for the hotel to take care of. There’s a bit a furore going on as the girls from the dance troupe are checking out. Something about damages and fines, the group’s head does not look amused but neither does she look particularly shocked. Red lips is talking to the blonde man from the other night, fondling his lapel, and moments later Mr Evans is forking over a hefty sum of money and the girls are dispersing. Santana looks back over her shoulder to see Miss Pierce wink at her instructor and can’t help smirking at the feat the girl’s just pulled off. That girl is something else.
Pairing: Santana/Brittany
Rating: PG-13 (For now)
Summary: AU. Set in the 1920s. A trip on the Orient Express
Author's note: Apologies to anyone who was in the least interested in this as I have been monumentally rubbish with writing and updating, or even logging on here. The guilt got to me with not finishing what I started, so this is a very delayed next chapter, god knows when the next one will be, hopefully not too long as I'd enjoy not leaving it very long. But anyway this is beginning to go on for too long. Long. Said that too many times. So sorry for anyone who's been looking at my journal and found nothing new, and apologies to anyone who thinks they've been sent back in time by me posting again.
Chapters:
I
II
The motion of the train becomes no more familiar to Santana so that every night sees her trawling the length of the train, or at least the areas open to passengers. To say that every night was the same would be unjustified, of course Santana always has cold feet and hands, bloodshot eyes and is closely wrapped around by her dressing gown, and indeed, the carriages never change their order, there’s never a sudden appearance of new furnishings, but there’s always something a little different about her after-midnight strolls. That something is to do with the sight she saw four days ago. The girl with the red lips is always a constant, but her…companion (for want of a better word) never is. Peaking through the gap between the blind over the window and the door frame, Santana’s sure she’s glimpsed a different man every time. The first was red waistcoated, the seconded was too but he seemed somewhat shorter, the third was in black, and tonight she’s sure the blue jacket on tall, broad shoulders is Hudson’s. She never stands long enough to know for certain who these men are, she only lingers enough to identity those red lips and see them change shape, parting for gasps of air, or seeing white teeth bite down on them.
Miss Lopez manages to sleep in the early hours, more or less when the two old codgers she keeps getting lumbered with during the evening course, are getting started for the day. She decides to dismiss her breakfast wakeup call altogether and gets Hudson to bring in something to eat at ten every morning. A much more respectable hour. This morning she glances at his outfit and his build, and stares a little longer than is proper into his face, to assess the bags under his eyes. There’s no doubt in her mind that it was him last night. By the time she’s up and dressed and sauntered through to one of the parlour carriages it’s only another hour or two before the train pulls into Zurich where passengers will disembark for a few days, and roam the city. She’s looking forward to the hotel, the stillness of a room, and guarantees herself an excellent night’s sleep tonight. She’s gazing at the snowy scenery when Mr Schuester bounces into sight, teeth gleaming and fingers playing with the rim of his hat in his hands.
‘Morning, Miss Lopez, I saw you weren’t at breakfast again today, I do hope you’re well?’
‘Yes, quite well, thank you. Sleep is troublesome, with the motion, and so I’ve been getting off a little late. I get breakfast sent to the room so you don’t have to worry about me going hungry.’
‘Splendid. Would you care to explore the city with me when we get in later?’
‘How lovely of you to ask, William, but I have already promised myself to the Countess.’
‘Oh, oh. Well maybe I could escort the party?’
‘Again, how lovely, but the Countess is very particular about the company she keeps.’
A butter-wouldn’t-melt smile and fluttering of lashes sees William off, and Santana decides she’d better track down Sylvester before he does. She’d been lying, granted the Countess and her niece are probably the people she wouldn’t mind spending time with, over the passed four days she’s gravitated to them, if only because they’re located as far way from Rachelle Bérry as possible, but she still wouldn’t want to socialise with them outside of the train. She’s more than happy wandering around by herself, and more than capable, not that her father would know. Of course, William will probably tail her anyway, conveniently bump into her, question her on the absence of the Countess and Lady Quinn and attach himself to her immediately. It’s because of this that she decides tagging along with Austrians is the only option available to her.
After an afternoon’s shopping, involving the Countess abusing every assistant in every outlet, and snide comments in Austrian between the two women which left Santana a little ill at ease, although generally Lady Quinn would paraphrase in English whatever scathing insult they’d vocalised about the Swiss people, Santana finds herself in the hotel restaurant, eating alone, thankfully. She narrowly avoided the wheezing gentlemen from the train who husked out regrets that they hadn’t eaten later so as to keep to her company. She’s picking over whatever meat she’s been presented with when her ears prick at a familiar laugh, and sure enough, when her eyes roam the room she finds red lips sipping a cocktail at the bar. The girl must have a sole diet of alcoholic beverages and buttered toast - the only thing Santana has ever seen the blonde eat. She’s surrounded by the usual few girls and is entertaining a handsome fellow with blonde hair. He’s flash with his cash and red lips is generous with her body, crossing and uncrossing her legs so as to give him an eyeful every few minutes. Santana takes the chance to watch her, as does every other patron of the restaurant, there’s something mesmerising and brazen about the group of young girls that captures attention.
‘Well I say, Mr Evans, aren’t you the least bit curious? I bet nothing would happen if we did go through with it, this is a bore of a place, and the officers seem like good fellows, not too uptight, I don’t think they’d mind a jot. Sugar? Sugar, now do you think the people of Zurich would mind if we decided to try their national dress on?’
‘No.’
‘See, Mr Evans, if anything it’s part of the experience of being here. I say there’s nothing like an evening costume party. Get a few more of these in though, it’s a little cold out there and I need as much courage as I can get in this frock.’
‘Miss Peirce, I see no objection to going tomorrow and asking the curates about it, but it’s closed now-’
‘Oh, Mr Evans, you disappoint me. You’re a fellow American. Where’s your spirit gone? Slipping into a museum at nine is small fry to what the boys back home will be doing now. Or not now. Time zones confuse me. It is still 1925?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent.’
Santana snatches the conversation momentarily as she passes the bar on the way out. Sounds exactly like the antics that socialites get up to in London, at one party Santana ended up over the gates at the palace trying on a busby with several other reckless things. It was printed in the paper next morning, along side the usual trollop about the morality of the country diminishing thanks to the younger generation, her name was omitted, naturally.
It’s 4.30 in the morning when Santana is startled awake by an uproar in the room next to her. Banging, shouting, laughing, music (someone must have requested a gramophone), what sounds like the smashing of glass and the constant compressing and releasing of bed springs which can only indicate several people jumping up and down on the double bed. She groans. Her hope at a full night’s rest is thwarted, and she’s got nowhere to stroll to, or at least nothing to see. Deciding to head to down for a hot chocolate rather than lay with her ears identifying every noise, getting frustrated, in bed, Santana slips on her overcoat and steps outside her room. Room 302 has it’s door ajar, the music is more audible, the humming of numerous conversations is more drone like, she glances in on her way passed and her suspicious are confirmed when she sees a few of the gang from the bar.
The same thing happens the following two nights. Santana’s able to pick out the voice and laugh of red lips, Miss Pierce, as she overhead the other night. It seems it’s her room. At about 6.30 the crowd wears thin and the voices are easier to distinguish, the music stops, and what’s left is the voice of the girl and a man’s voice. At around 7 Santana decides it’s time for a shower as she’d rather not hear the noises from next door. The restful days spent in Zurich become a routine of early mornings, cold trudgings round the sights with people she’d rather not spend time with, and snatches of sleep before the party girl intrudes on Santana’s only haven. In a way, she’s looking forward to sleeping on the train again, it may have been jerky but at least it wasn’t loud.
Dear Father,
I’m just about to reboard the Orient after a few days in Zurich, as you’re no doubt aware. It’s a pretty place. I’ve included a postcard; I hope you appreciate my message on the back of it.
William has been around the town with me. It’s not exactly raving although I did manage to procure some strange cigars from a shady looking gentleman which may not have been solely made of tobacco. It is with regret that I write that Mr Schuester was arrested by the Swiss force for possession of them, and so will not be on the train any longer. I intend to take full advantage of his absence and run stark naked through the train at dinner proclaiming my penchant for mime artists and administering cough medicine to all who require it, or whatever else you imagine I will do if not under your supervision.
I imagine by now you’ve seen your other post and surmised that the cigars was pure fiction. Unluckily William is sitting across the table from me.
I trust you are well, and lacking a sense of humour as always.
Love to mother.
Santana.
Refusing to give William the satisfaction of posting the letter, as he offered, Santana drops it off at reception for the hotel to take care of. There’s a bit a furore going on as the girls from the dance troupe are checking out. Something about damages and fines, the group’s head does not look amused but neither does she look particularly shocked. Red lips is talking to the blonde man from the other night, fondling his lapel, and moments later Mr Evans is forking over a hefty sum of money and the girls are dispersing. Santana looks back over her shoulder to see Miss Pierce wink at her instructor and can’t help smirking at the feat the girl’s just pulled off. That girl is something else.