.fic.
Title: We Were Merely Friends
Pairing,Character(s): Puck/Sam, Santana friendship.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,199
Spoilers: Post-Sexy
Summary: The image of them standing there, panting and visibly relieved it’s Santana sobbing in the kitchen and not the demon from Paranormal Activity there to screw up their evening, is a bit overwhelming. But she can’t find air enough to breathe, let alone speak at the moment. Un-beta-d.
Santana stumbles in to Puck’s house through the back door, gasping and sobbing and hardly caring if anyone’s home to hear her. It leads her to the kitchen where she grabs hold of the tile island, cluttered with mail and little odds and ends from his sister’s school. The world is spinning and she white knuckles the counter, her hair plastered against her cheeks with tears and sweat. It’s dark. She doesn’t have time to be scared or care that her knee is seeping warm blood in to her jeans, torn from jumping the wall in to Puck’s backyard.
Skittering from some where down the hall is followed by a loud bang and a ‘fucking shit’ before two dark figures crash through the door frame. A light is thrown on and the world finally stills. Puck is standing there in the doorway, Sam halfway behind him. They’re both dressed in wife beaters, Sam still clad in gym shorts from practice and Puck in a familiar washed out pair of jeans. Santana squints against the light, the motion causing the new tears that had flooded her vision to come tumbling down her face. The image of them standing there, panting and visibly relieved it’s Santana sobbing in the kitchen and not the demon from Paranormal Activity there to fuck up their evening, is a bit overwhelming. But she can’t find air enough to breathe, let alone speak at the moment.
“Santana…thank Jesus,” Sam says dramatically. His hand has wandered to his chest to still the hammering of his heart, his eyes still huge as he leans against the doorframe. “Ho-ly shit. We thought it was a burglar or some shit.”
“Yeah. Not like we wouldn’t have been able to kick some serious ass because we would have,” Puck declares, his voice rising considerably in volume, as it does, Santana recognizes, when he’s scared. It’s curious to her that neither of them find her current state more pressing then how happy they are to see that it’s just her.
“You’re both pussies,” she mumbles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, staring down at the mess of mail. A few good seconds of silence pass through the three of them and Santana can practically feel Sam and Puck, still in the doorway, finally trying to digest what’s going on.
“Hey…what’s up?” Puck nods his head at her, his eyebrows furrowed in concern as he takes a few timid steps in to the kitchen, his hands shoved in to the pockets of his jeans. Sam leans his head against the door frame, watching silently.
“Nothing,” Santana snaps automatically, but she won’t look at him and as he creeps closer and closer she can feel her façade crumpling with his proximity. “It’s…nothing.” Her voice is high and has caught in her throat now and when Puck touches the small of her back she collapses in to his chest, hysterical. She cries hard and the tightness in her gut begins to loosen. It feels good. It feels fucking amazing to be able to cry. She smells Sam mixed in with the grassy, near metallic man-scent Puck possesses and the realization is comforting. Puck shushes her in succession, his arms clamped tightly around her as he rests his chin against her head. They’ve always done this so easily, him and her. So damn easily. Puck glances a few times at Sam who continues to stare, although not uncomfortably. Just…confused. Just tired.
The three of them had formed this unspoken bond when, after a fight with Brittany, Santana had jumped the wall in to Puck’s yard and had caught Puck and Sam making out on his porch. She knew the both of them had been pulling away from her but she had attributed it to Quinn in both cases. It was strangely relieving, and fucking hilarious at the time, to find out it was because they had (kind of sort of in a total bro way) fallen for each other. Though they didn’t call it that, no fucking way. We’re just screwing around. Their insistence was lost on Santana and especially Santana. Puck was staring at Sam the same way she was finding herself staring at Brittany.
“But like…you can’t tell anyone, okay?” Sam had asked nervously, his ears burnt red as, even then, his leg knocked nervously in to Puck’s as they addressed her from his porch that night. “I don’t want anybody to know.”
“Cool it, Biebs. I’m not going to tell anyone, alright?” Santana had promised nonchalantly, standing up and wiping at the wet spots Puck’s lawn had imprinted in to the back of her jeans. “It’s kind of shitty you cheated on me though. Just sayin’.”
Him and Puck we’re having this totally awesome sex-capade marathon and, that was cool and all, but Sam felt really, really bad for Santana. She loved Brittany. It was so painfully obvious. He wanted more for her. She had been so great about him and Puck…he wanted her to be having totally awesome sex-capade marathon’s with Brittany and he was confused as to why she wasn’t. Then…this afternoon had happened, although Sam still wasn’t entirely sure it had really happened. Santana and Brittany had sat down on either side of Holly Holiday and Santana had finally done it. Awesome.
Except…here she was. Sobbing in Puck’s kitchen. A cricket chirping loudly from the back door, still open to the night air, spurred Sam to move a few inches closer to his friends.
“Brittany,” he breathed slowly. Santana pulled away from Puck, a warm patch of her still imprinted against him. She wiped the corner of her mouth and nodded, trying to sniffle away the last bit of tears, afraid that if she wasn’t successful she’d have a repeat performance against Sam and she wasn’t sure she had enough energy left. Sam pat Santana awkwardly on the shoulder and she didn’t try too hard not to smile.
“Dude…I’m so fucking terrible at this. You know this, Lopez,” Puck said, running a hand through his Mohawk before walking over and closing the backdoor, doing a habitual check through the blinds before sliding the lock in to place. “Do you like…want to tell us about it or something? I mean, or not. Shit, I don’t know.”
Sam smirked at Puck’s fumbling.
“We should probably go upstairs,” Sam offered gently. “And maybe just pass the hell out.” Santana wasn’t sure she had ever felt so much gratitude in her entire life and, if gestures like that would have come more naturally to her she would have grabbed Sam’s hand.
“Who’s sleeping on the floor is the question,” Santana smiled, walking passed Sam and Puck to the other side of the kitchen. A fleeting moment of panic, then realization, passed between them before Sam let out a strange, rebel yell and shoved Puck in to the refrigerator.
“LAST ONE UPSTAIRS SLEEPS ON THE FLOOR.”
Santana made sure to turn the light off after Puck nearly ran her over in attempt to beat Sam up the stairs. Considering the fact that they were only vying for one spot anyway.
They’d never make her sleep on the floor.
Pairing,Character(s): Puck/Sam, Santana friendship.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,199
Spoilers: Post-Sexy
Summary: The image of them standing there, panting and visibly relieved it’s Santana sobbing in the kitchen and not the demon from Paranormal Activity there to screw up their evening, is a bit overwhelming. But she can’t find air enough to breathe, let alone speak at the moment. Un-beta-d.
Santana stumbles in to Puck’s house through the back door, gasping and sobbing and hardly caring if anyone’s home to hear her. It leads her to the kitchen where she grabs hold of the tile island, cluttered with mail and little odds and ends from his sister’s school. The world is spinning and she white knuckles the counter, her hair plastered against her cheeks with tears and sweat. It’s dark. She doesn’t have time to be scared or care that her knee is seeping warm blood in to her jeans, torn from jumping the wall in to Puck’s backyard.
Skittering from some where down the hall is followed by a loud bang and a ‘fucking shit’ before two dark figures crash through the door frame. A light is thrown on and the world finally stills. Puck is standing there in the doorway, Sam halfway behind him. They’re both dressed in wife beaters, Sam still clad in gym shorts from practice and Puck in a familiar washed out pair of jeans. Santana squints against the light, the motion causing the new tears that had flooded her vision to come tumbling down her face. The image of them standing there, panting and visibly relieved it’s Santana sobbing in the kitchen and not the demon from Paranormal Activity there to fuck up their evening, is a bit overwhelming. But she can’t find air enough to breathe, let alone speak at the moment.
“Santana…thank Jesus,” Sam says dramatically. His hand has wandered to his chest to still the hammering of his heart, his eyes still huge as he leans against the doorframe. “Ho-ly shit. We thought it was a burglar or some shit.”
“Yeah. Not like we wouldn’t have been able to kick some serious ass because we would have,” Puck declares, his voice rising considerably in volume, as it does, Santana recognizes, when he’s scared. It’s curious to her that neither of them find her current state more pressing then how happy they are to see that it’s just her.
“You’re both pussies,” she mumbles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, staring down at the mess of mail. A few good seconds of silence pass through the three of them and Santana can practically feel Sam and Puck, still in the doorway, finally trying to digest what’s going on.
“Hey…what’s up?” Puck nods his head at her, his eyebrows furrowed in concern as he takes a few timid steps in to the kitchen, his hands shoved in to the pockets of his jeans. Sam leans his head against the door frame, watching silently.
“Nothing,” Santana snaps automatically, but she won’t look at him and as he creeps closer and closer she can feel her façade crumpling with his proximity. “It’s…nothing.” Her voice is high and has caught in her throat now and when Puck touches the small of her back she collapses in to his chest, hysterical. She cries hard and the tightness in her gut begins to loosen. It feels good. It feels fucking amazing to be able to cry. She smells Sam mixed in with the grassy, near metallic man-scent Puck possesses and the realization is comforting. Puck shushes her in succession, his arms clamped tightly around her as he rests his chin against her head. They’ve always done this so easily, him and her. So damn easily. Puck glances a few times at Sam who continues to stare, although not uncomfortably. Just…confused. Just tired.
The three of them had formed this unspoken bond when, after a fight with Brittany, Santana had jumped the wall in to Puck’s yard and had caught Puck and Sam making out on his porch. She knew the both of them had been pulling away from her but she had attributed it to Quinn in both cases. It was strangely relieving, and fucking hilarious at the time, to find out it was because they had (kind of sort of in a total bro way) fallen for each other. Though they didn’t call it that, no fucking way. We’re just screwing around. Their insistence was lost on Santana and especially Santana. Puck was staring at Sam the same way she was finding herself staring at Brittany.
“But like…you can’t tell anyone, okay?” Sam had asked nervously, his ears burnt red as, even then, his leg knocked nervously in to Puck’s as they addressed her from his porch that night. “I don’t want anybody to know.”
“Cool it, Biebs. I’m not going to tell anyone, alright?” Santana had promised nonchalantly, standing up and wiping at the wet spots Puck’s lawn had imprinted in to the back of her jeans. “It’s kind of shitty you cheated on me though. Just sayin’.”
Him and Puck we’re having this totally awesome sex-capade marathon and, that was cool and all, but Sam felt really, really bad for Santana. She loved Brittany. It was so painfully obvious. He wanted more for her. She had been so great about him and Puck…he wanted her to be having totally awesome sex-capade marathon’s with Brittany and he was confused as to why she wasn’t. Then…this afternoon had happened, although Sam still wasn’t entirely sure it had really happened. Santana and Brittany had sat down on either side of Holly Holiday and Santana had finally done it. Awesome.
Except…here she was. Sobbing in Puck’s kitchen. A cricket chirping loudly from the back door, still open to the night air, spurred Sam to move a few inches closer to his friends.
“Brittany,” he breathed slowly. Santana pulled away from Puck, a warm patch of her still imprinted against him. She wiped the corner of her mouth and nodded, trying to sniffle away the last bit of tears, afraid that if she wasn’t successful she’d have a repeat performance against Sam and she wasn’t sure she had enough energy left. Sam pat Santana awkwardly on the shoulder and she didn’t try too hard not to smile.
“Dude…I’m so fucking terrible at this. You know this, Lopez,” Puck said, running a hand through his Mohawk before walking over and closing the backdoor, doing a habitual check through the blinds before sliding the lock in to place. “Do you like…want to tell us about it or something? I mean, or not. Shit, I don’t know.”
Sam smirked at Puck’s fumbling.
“We should probably go upstairs,” Sam offered gently. “And maybe just pass the hell out.” Santana wasn’t sure she had ever felt so much gratitude in her entire life and, if gestures like that would have come more naturally to her she would have grabbed Sam’s hand.
“Who’s sleeping on the floor is the question,” Santana smiled, walking passed Sam and Puck to the other side of the kitchen. A fleeting moment of panic, then realization, passed between them before Sam let out a strange, rebel yell and shoved Puck in to the refrigerator.
“LAST ONE UPSTAIRS SLEEPS ON THE FLOOR.”
Santana made sure to turn the light off after Puck nearly ran her over in attempt to beat Sam up the stairs. Considering the fact that they were only vying for one spot anyway.
They’d never make her sleep on the floor.