Fic: Z-Day - Chapter 11: The Beginning of the End
Title: Z-Day (Chapter 11: The Beginning of the End)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: R
Summary: Santana and Brittany face the unthinkable -- and the inevitable -- in post-apocalyptic Zombieland.
Word Count: ~1700
Disclaimer: Still don't own Zombieland or Glee.
“I love this song.”
“You’re such a sap,” Brittany said. She laughed softly and pulled me tighter as we swayed gently next to the lake in front of our house. “It’s totally your favorite movie, too, isn’t it.”
“No.”
“Mhm.”
“Whatever.”
“You have a thing for Idina Menzel.”
“Yeah, well, chick can sing.”
“She looks kind of like Rachel.”
I pressed my face into her neck and inhaled the fresh air and baby powder clinging to her skin. Her throat vibrated as she hummed the chorus. Her skin against my cheek felt sticky.
“Please don’t tell me not to cry,” I whispered.
She tipped my chin up so she could look at me with the sweetest smile, and I saw she was crying, too.
*
“But eggs are, like, baby chickens.”
“No, not these,” I said. “They didn’t have chickens in them. Eat up, baby girl.”
Brittany’s beautiful blues clearly expressed her disbelief, but she took a bite of the omelette anyway.
I flipped my own veggie omelette over in the pan before pouring a glass of apple juice and sliding it across the counter to her.
“Can we make pancakes next time?” she said.
I snorted. “Not if you want to stay on the Cheerios.” To be honest, pancakes and waffles scared the shit out of me. Mostly because Coach scared the shit out of me. So while normal people had cheat days once a week (or in Wheezy’s case, every day of the year), I only got them once a month. And even then, when I put a little bit of cheddar in the eggs because I thought Coach could take her master cleanse and shove it, I got more nervous than the stupid breakfast was even worth.
Brittany pulled my legs into her lap when I sat down next to her and ran her thumbs up and down my shins, watching me carefully. “It’s really good, San.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Says you,” I eyed my plate with growing fear. “You can eat whatever you want and you always look like that anyway. It’s not fair.”
“I don’t eat whatever I want,” she said. “If I did we’d be having pancakes right now.”
I smiled and picked some of the bell peppers out of the omelette.
“Eat it all together,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said weakly. The grease on the vegetables made my stomach flop unpleasantly.
“You must be dying for it. It’s been, like, five weeks. It’s just eggs, San, it’s healthy.”
“Not like this, it’s not.”
“You couldn’t make it any healthier. Come on.”
“Stop it,” I said.
“You made it, aren’t you going to eat it?”
I shoved my plate toward her and pulled my legs out of her grasp. “You love it so much, you eat it.”
She frowned. “Coach isn’t going to find out.”
“Whatever.” I jumped off my stool but she grabbed my wrist.
“Santana.”
I sighed and turned back reluctantly. “It’s just not fair, okay?”
She brushed her thumb over my cheekbone and smiled. “You’re beautiful.”
I scoffed and turned away, grabbing the pan off the stove on my way to the sink. “I know,” I said. “I’m smokin’ hot.”
“Well, yeah,” she said. I felt her behind me, and she put my plate on the counter next to me. “But you’re beautiful, too.”
“What’s the difference?”
She forced me to drop the pan and sponge and turned me to face her. She had a fork in one hand with a bite of the omelette on it.
“Are you going to feed it to me?” I said sarcastically.
She nodded. “Open up.”
“Brittany.”
“Come on, open up.”
I rolled my eyes. “This is stupid.”
She just smiled disarmingly. “Do you want me to airplane it in?”
“God, I’m not a baby. I’ll just do it myself.” I made a grab for the fork, but she pulled it back out of my reach.
“Uh-uh,” she said. “You don’t always get to be in charge.”
After a several-minute stare-off, I sighed heavily through my nose and dropped my jaw. She grinned and carefully brought the fork closer. I felt the heat of the eggs on my lips and my head twitched back. She paused, eyes never straying from mine, while I glanced back and forth between her baby blues and the fork so fast I thought I’d go cross-eyed. Finally, trembling slightly, I held my head still and let her slide the fork between my teeth. I stared at her, unmoving, trying desperately not to taste the salty cheese and the pepper and the sautéed mushrooms and onions. When I finally swallowed, my hands were shaking and I felt the familiar guilt rising like bile. Or maybe it was actual bile. But then she whispered, “I know it’s not easy,” and she looked so proud, that even though I was still shaking, I felt a little less sick so I let her pull me close and instead of breakfast all I could smell was her, all baby powder and bubble gum Lipsmackers and sex and salt, and that’s when I realized she was crying, too.
*
“Come on,” she said.
“Where?”
“Nowhere.”
And as the music swelled, she dragged me into a goofy waltz. I knew it could have been so graceful, and so Hollywood-picture-perfect, and some epic ending to something so beautiful. But she made every step larger than it had to be, acted the exaggerated gentleman, lifted me up for half a turn, and soon we found ourselves laughing. The choked kind, because tears don’t just disappear, but her eyes sparkled with a joke and when my eyebrows shot up as my feet left the ground she giggled, and I couldn’t stop staring.
So close, so close, and still so far.
Tinkering chimes and soft strings played the song into silence.
Brittany stumbled a little and grabbed my shoulder to steady herself.
“Careful babe,” I said, checking the ground to kick the stray rock or branch out of the way, but there was only packed sand beneath our feet. “You okay?”
She smiled as I searched her steel-blue eyes but came up with nothing. My chest contracted painfully, and I brushed my thumb just underneath her lashes.
“Hey,” I said. But it was like staring into a soul-splitting void. “Britt-Britt?” My voice was a hoarse whisper. “Come back to me.”
She blinked twice and pinched her eyebrows together.
I grabbed the back of her neck to pull myself up, resting my forehead against hers, staring as powerfully as I could into her eyes. It was like looking at steel wool. I kissed her desperately, as if passion could transfuse my life into her for just a few more moments. “Please,” I choked out.
“I’m right here,” she said, and then she was, almost as though she’d never left.
“Your eyes,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I love you.”
She kissed me softly. “I love you too. Want to play it again?” She drifted toward the car, but I pulled her back, flush against my body.
“Don’t leave me,” I whispered into her chest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
“Yes you are.”
“Well… so are you, though, right?” she reasoned,
“Not at the same speed,” I said.
“Can we play the song again?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Where are you going?”
I opened the back of the truck. “Nowhere,” I said, unzipping the side pocket of our duffel of guns. I pulled out a tiny jewelry box. “Do you want some apple juice while I’m back here?” I coughed a little to hide the tremor in my voice.
“Yes,” she said, so I pulled a loose blue Solo cup out from underneath the blanket we never took out of the car, even when we moved into the house. With shaking hands, I popped open the box and stared at it. I jumped forward when I felt her arms around my waist, accidentally slamming my knee into the trailer hitch. I hissed out a curse as she pressed her cheek to mine. “What’s that?” she said, reaching for the box.
The empty box.
I swallowed hard and glanced in her cup; the bottom was coated in a thin layer of powder. The rest dusted the floor of the car.
“Nothing,” I said, hastily pouring her juice and turning in her arms to place a soft kiss on her nose and hand her the cup. “Here.”
“Santana?” She turned the little black box in her fingers and tilted her head questioningly.
I smiled sadly and pulled it out of her grasp, dropping it back in the duffel bag. “I would have married you, you know,” I said.
“I know,” she said, as if it were simultaneously the most obvious and the most unexpected thing in the world. And in her voice I heard everything, but in her dulling eyes I saw nothing.
“Drink up, baby girl,” I whispered.
“Share with me,” she said, and I knew she knew.
“I’ve got one too,” I said and held up my own cup.
“It tastes bad.” She wrinkled her nose and scraped her tongue against her teeth.
I sipped and pulled a face to mirror hers. “Yeah,” I said, downing the rest of the sweet apple juice. “I’m sorry.”
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: R
Summary: Santana and Brittany face the unthinkable -- and the inevitable -- in post-apocalyptic Zombieland.
Word Count: ~1700
Disclaimer: Still don't own Zombieland or Glee.
“I love this song.”
“You’re such a sap,” Brittany said. She laughed softly and pulled me tighter as we swayed gently next to the lake in front of our house. “It’s totally your favorite movie, too, isn’t it.”
“No.”
“Mhm.”
“Whatever.”
“You have a thing for Idina Menzel.”
“Yeah, well, chick can sing.”
“She looks kind of like Rachel.”
I pressed my face into her neck and inhaled the fresh air and baby powder clinging to her skin. Her throat vibrated as she hummed the chorus. Her skin against my cheek felt sticky.
“Please don’t tell me not to cry,” I whispered.
She tipped my chin up so she could look at me with the sweetest smile, and I saw she was crying, too.
*
“But eggs are, like, baby chickens.”
“No, not these,” I said. “They didn’t have chickens in them. Eat up, baby girl.”
Brittany’s beautiful blues clearly expressed her disbelief, but she took a bite of the omelette anyway.
I flipped my own veggie omelette over in the pan before pouring a glass of apple juice and sliding it across the counter to her.
“Can we make pancakes next time?” she said.
I snorted. “Not if you want to stay on the Cheerios.” To be honest, pancakes and waffles scared the shit out of me. Mostly because Coach scared the shit out of me. So while normal people had cheat days once a week (or in Wheezy’s case, every day of the year), I only got them once a month. And even then, when I put a little bit of cheddar in the eggs because I thought Coach could take her master cleanse and shove it, I got more nervous than the stupid breakfast was even worth.
Brittany pulled my legs into her lap when I sat down next to her and ran her thumbs up and down my shins, watching me carefully. “It’s really good, San.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Says you,” I eyed my plate with growing fear. “You can eat whatever you want and you always look like that anyway. It’s not fair.”
“I don’t eat whatever I want,” she said. “If I did we’d be having pancakes right now.”
I smiled and picked some of the bell peppers out of the omelette.
“Eat it all together,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said weakly. The grease on the vegetables made my stomach flop unpleasantly.
“You must be dying for it. It’s been, like, five weeks. It’s just eggs, San, it’s healthy.”
“Not like this, it’s not.”
“You couldn’t make it any healthier. Come on.”
“Stop it,” I said.
“You made it, aren’t you going to eat it?”
I shoved my plate toward her and pulled my legs out of her grasp. “You love it so much, you eat it.”
She frowned. “Coach isn’t going to find out.”
“Whatever.” I jumped off my stool but she grabbed my wrist.
“Santana.”
I sighed and turned back reluctantly. “It’s just not fair, okay?”
She brushed her thumb over my cheekbone and smiled. “You’re beautiful.”
I scoffed and turned away, grabbing the pan off the stove on my way to the sink. “I know,” I said. “I’m smokin’ hot.”
“Well, yeah,” she said. I felt her behind me, and she put my plate on the counter next to me. “But you’re beautiful, too.”
“What’s the difference?”
She forced me to drop the pan and sponge and turned me to face her. She had a fork in one hand with a bite of the omelette on it.
“Are you going to feed it to me?” I said sarcastically.
She nodded. “Open up.”
“Brittany.”
“Come on, open up.”
I rolled my eyes. “This is stupid.”
She just smiled disarmingly. “Do you want me to airplane it in?”
“God, I’m not a baby. I’ll just do it myself.” I made a grab for the fork, but she pulled it back out of my reach.
“Uh-uh,” she said. “You don’t always get to be in charge.”
After a several-minute stare-off, I sighed heavily through my nose and dropped my jaw. She grinned and carefully brought the fork closer. I felt the heat of the eggs on my lips and my head twitched back. She paused, eyes never straying from mine, while I glanced back and forth between her baby blues and the fork so fast I thought I’d go cross-eyed. Finally, trembling slightly, I held my head still and let her slide the fork between my teeth. I stared at her, unmoving, trying desperately not to taste the salty cheese and the pepper and the sautéed mushrooms and onions. When I finally swallowed, my hands were shaking and I felt the familiar guilt rising like bile. Or maybe it was actual bile. But then she whispered, “I know it’s not easy,” and she looked so proud, that even though I was still shaking, I felt a little less sick so I let her pull me close and instead of breakfast all I could smell was her, all baby powder and bubble gum Lipsmackers and sex and salt, and that’s when I realized she was crying, too.
*
“Come on,” she said.
“Where?”
“Nowhere.”
And as the music swelled, she dragged me into a goofy waltz. I knew it could have been so graceful, and so Hollywood-picture-perfect, and some epic ending to something so beautiful. But she made every step larger than it had to be, acted the exaggerated gentleman, lifted me up for half a turn, and soon we found ourselves laughing. The choked kind, because tears don’t just disappear, but her eyes sparkled with a joke and when my eyebrows shot up as my feet left the ground she giggled, and I couldn’t stop staring.
So close, so close, and still so far.
Tinkering chimes and soft strings played the song into silence.
Brittany stumbled a little and grabbed my shoulder to steady herself.
“Careful babe,” I said, checking the ground to kick the stray rock or branch out of the way, but there was only packed sand beneath our feet. “You okay?”
She smiled as I searched her steel-blue eyes but came up with nothing. My chest contracted painfully, and I brushed my thumb just underneath her lashes.
“Hey,” I said. But it was like staring into a soul-splitting void. “Britt-Britt?” My voice was a hoarse whisper. “Come back to me.”
She blinked twice and pinched her eyebrows together.
I grabbed the back of her neck to pull myself up, resting my forehead against hers, staring as powerfully as I could into her eyes. It was like looking at steel wool. I kissed her desperately, as if passion could transfuse my life into her for just a few more moments. “Please,” I choked out.
“I’m right here,” she said, and then she was, almost as though she’d never left.
“Your eyes,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I love you.”
She kissed me softly. “I love you too. Want to play it again?” She drifted toward the car, but I pulled her back, flush against my body.
“Don’t leave me,” I whispered into her chest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said.
“Yes you are.”
“Well… so are you, though, right?” she reasoned,
“Not at the same speed,” I said.
“Can we play the song again?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Where are you going?”
I opened the back of the truck. “Nowhere,” I said, unzipping the side pocket of our duffel of guns. I pulled out a tiny jewelry box. “Do you want some apple juice while I’m back here?” I coughed a little to hide the tremor in my voice.
“Yes,” she said, so I pulled a loose blue Solo cup out from underneath the blanket we never took out of the car, even when we moved into the house. With shaking hands, I popped open the box and stared at it. I jumped forward when I felt her arms around my waist, accidentally slamming my knee into the trailer hitch. I hissed out a curse as she pressed her cheek to mine. “What’s that?” she said, reaching for the box.
The empty box.
I swallowed hard and glanced in her cup; the bottom was coated in a thin layer of powder. The rest dusted the floor of the car.
“Nothing,” I said, hastily pouring her juice and turning in her arms to place a soft kiss on her nose and hand her the cup. “Here.”
“Santana?” She turned the little black box in her fingers and tilted her head questioningly.
I smiled sadly and pulled it out of her grasp, dropping it back in the duffel bag. “I would have married you, you know,” I said.
“I know,” she said, as if it were simultaneously the most obvious and the most unexpected thing in the world. And in her voice I heard everything, but in her dulling eyes I saw nothing.
“Drink up, baby girl,” I whispered.
“Share with me,” she said, and I knew she knew.
“I’ve got one too,” I said and held up my own cup.
“It tastes bad.” She wrinkled her nose and scraped her tongue against her teeth.
I sipped and pulled a face to mirror hers. “Yeah,” I said, downing the rest of the sweet apple juice. “I’m sorry.”