Fic: Z-Day - Chapter 4: Follow You Down
Title: Z-Day (Chapter 4: Follow You Down)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: R
Summary: Santana and Brittany face the unthinkable -- and the inevitable -- in post-apocalyptic Zombieland.
Word Count: ~850
Disclaimer: Still don't own Zombieland or Glee.
“You know that song?”
“I don’t know, do I?” She frowned.
“You do… The one… it’s at the end of that Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey movie.”
“The treasure hunting one with the bunnies? That was hot.”
“No, the other one.”
“Oh yeah - I love that song.” She smiled, and for a second we forgot everything. But then she frowned again. “I don’t get it, though.”
*
I swerved the G-wagon to avoid a charred fender. I glanced at Brittany, who was staring at two dead bodies in some grass between the sidewalk and road.
“Hey,” I said, drawing her attention back in the car. She squeezed my hand.
“Maybe we can go to Mexico,” she said. “Or Canada.”
“I think there are zombies everywhere,” I said.
“Oh.” She turned back to the window. “What about Hawaii?”
I played with her blond tresses, glancing between her and the road. “We’re gonna be okay,” I said. “Promise.”
“Don’t do that,” she said.
I pulled my hand back. “Sorry.”
“No-I mean don’t promise that. I know you hate breaking promises.” She intertwined our fingers.
“We are gonna be okay, though,” I said. “We’ll find a place, just like you want. I read that zombies don’t do well in the cold, maybe we can find someone’s cabin in the mountains somewhere.”
She smiled. “You read about zombies?”
“Well… yeah.”
“When?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Her grin widened. “It was before they were real, wasn’t it.”
“No.”
“I can tell ‘cause you’re all embarrassed.”
“I’m not.”
She hummed triumphantly and looked back out the window. “I’m hungry,” she said.
“Wheat Thins in the back.”
“I want an apple,” she said sadly.
“Apple juice?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Juice doesn’t crunch.”
I sighed. “Wheat Thins do.”
She rolled her eyes in an unspoken San, you’re being kind of annoying.
I pressed my lips together and laid my foot on the gas. “Next grocery store we’ll get you some dried apple chips or something.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know it’s not the same, Britt! I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to do, okay? Apples went bad weeks ago. Do you want a brown apple with maggots in it? Great. Fine. It’s yours. We’ll get some of those at the next store, too.”
She folded her arms and leaned her head against the window.
“There are sick freaks out there slobbering over our brains, and you’re pouting because you can’t have a fucking apple. Jesus Christ.” I glared at the road and gripped the steering wheel so tightly my fingers ached.
“You don’t have to be so mean.”
Shit. I breathed shakily and counted to thirty. In high school when someone pissed me off, my therapist (aka my dad) had told me to count to ten. But I’d realized it wasn’t nearly long enough - how are you supposed to calm your shit in ten seconds? At least with thirty I could start to breathe evenly again, even if I wasn’t actually calm. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m still mad at you.”
Don’t be mad at me, I wanted to say. We don’t have time for that. But hearing her say that felt so normal. Like we were driving to the movies in Lima during the summer and I’d just ranted about wanting to shove Wheels into a shark tank. I leaned back against the headrest and looked at her with a sudden foolish grin. A normal grin.
“Why are you smiling?”
I bit my lip. “I love you,” I said.
“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy,” she said, but I could see she wanted to smile, too.
*
I raised my eyes, waiting for her to get it.
Slowly, her frown deepened, then her eyebrows shot up and she shook her head, taking a step back. “Nuh-uh. No way.”
“Anywhere you go,” I sang.
“No,” she said. “I’m not going to let you.”
“B,” I pleaded quietly.
“You know why? Because I know you don’t want to be a zombie, and I don’t want to be a zombie, either. I don’t want to eat people and have messy hair all the time. Plus, zombies are stupid.”
“I’m not going to shoot you.”
“San,” she grabbed my forearms. I hated her desperation. I hated her tears. “You promised me. And if you can’t, I’ll do it myself.”
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: R
Summary: Santana and Brittany face the unthinkable -- and the inevitable -- in post-apocalyptic Zombieland.
Word Count: ~850
Disclaimer: Still don't own Zombieland or Glee.
“You know that song?”
“I don’t know, do I?” She frowned.
“You do… The one… it’s at the end of that Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey movie.”
“The treasure hunting one with the bunnies? That was hot.”
“No, the other one.”
“Oh yeah - I love that song.” She smiled, and for a second we forgot everything. But then she frowned again. “I don’t get it, though.”
*
I swerved the G-wagon to avoid a charred fender. I glanced at Brittany, who was staring at two dead bodies in some grass between the sidewalk and road.
“Hey,” I said, drawing her attention back in the car. She squeezed my hand.
“Maybe we can go to Mexico,” she said. “Or Canada.”
“I think there are zombies everywhere,” I said.
“Oh.” She turned back to the window. “What about Hawaii?”
I played with her blond tresses, glancing between her and the road. “We’re gonna be okay,” I said. “Promise.”
“Don’t do that,” she said.
I pulled my hand back. “Sorry.”
“No-I mean don’t promise that. I know you hate breaking promises.” She intertwined our fingers.
“We are gonna be okay, though,” I said. “We’ll find a place, just like you want. I read that zombies don’t do well in the cold, maybe we can find someone’s cabin in the mountains somewhere.”
She smiled. “You read about zombies?”
“Well… yeah.”
“When?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Her grin widened. “It was before they were real, wasn’t it.”
“No.”
“I can tell ‘cause you’re all embarrassed.”
“I’m not.”
She hummed triumphantly and looked back out the window. “I’m hungry,” she said.
“Wheat Thins in the back.”
“I want an apple,” she said sadly.
“Apple juice?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Juice doesn’t crunch.”
I sighed. “Wheat Thins do.”
She rolled her eyes in an unspoken San, you’re being kind of annoying.
I pressed my lips together and laid my foot on the gas. “Next grocery store we’ll get you some dried apple chips or something.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I know it’s not the same, Britt! I’m sorry. I don’t know what you want me to do, okay? Apples went bad weeks ago. Do you want a brown apple with maggots in it? Great. Fine. It’s yours. We’ll get some of those at the next store, too.”
She folded her arms and leaned her head against the window.
“There are sick freaks out there slobbering over our brains, and you’re pouting because you can’t have a fucking apple. Jesus Christ.” I glared at the road and gripped the steering wheel so tightly my fingers ached.
“You don’t have to be so mean.”
Shit. I breathed shakily and counted to thirty. In high school when someone pissed me off, my therapist (aka my dad) had told me to count to ten. But I’d realized it wasn’t nearly long enough - how are you supposed to calm your shit in ten seconds? At least with thirty I could start to breathe evenly again, even if I wasn’t actually calm. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m still mad at you.”
Don’t be mad at me, I wanted to say. We don’t have time for that. But hearing her say that felt so normal. Like we were driving to the movies in Lima during the summer and I’d just ranted about wanting to shove Wheels into a shark tank. I leaned back against the headrest and looked at her with a sudden foolish grin. A normal grin.
“Why are you smiling?”
I bit my lip. “I love you,” I said.
“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy,” she said, but I could see she wanted to smile, too.
*
I raised my eyes, waiting for her to get it.
Slowly, her frown deepened, then her eyebrows shot up and she shook her head, taking a step back. “Nuh-uh. No way.”
“Anywhere you go,” I sang.
“No,” she said. “I’m not going to let you.”
“B,” I pleaded quietly.
“You know why? Because I know you don’t want to be a zombie, and I don’t want to be a zombie, either. I don’t want to eat people and have messy hair all the time. Plus, zombies are stupid.”
“I’m not going to shoot you.”
“San,” she grabbed my forearms. I hated her desperation. I hated her tears. “You promised me. And if you can’t, I’ll do it myself.”