FIC: The Best Revenge, Santana-centric, Rated PG
Title: The Best Revenge
Author: darkhawkhealer
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Santana(/Brittany), Kurt Hummel
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1112
Summary:Even still, now, when she’s got seven miles behind her; when her heart is racing and she can’t quite catch a solid breath and she’s straining for one more step, Santana wants nothing more than to collapse into Brittany’s arms and cling for all she’s worth.
Note: Spoilers for 2.15, Sexy. This is the first of what is shaping up to be a series of Santana-centric fics, called the Life Well Lived-verse.
With thanks to ariestess and ubervirgin for the betas. ♥
Santana makes it through the rest of the day without breaking down, but it’s a close thing. No amount of concealer in the world is enough to cover the redness in her nose and cheeks, and her eyes remain bloodshot even through the eye drops a sympathetic classmate offers for her ‘allergies’.
She’s cool, she’s good, as long as she doesn’t think too hard about any particular thing. As long as she keeps her thoughts surface-level, aimless, she’s not gonna hurt too badly, but the minute she thinks about any one thing too long, it all goes back to Brittany.
She throws her bag on her bed and beelines for her dresser, pulling out workout gear and grabbing her iPod, determinedly not looking at anything other than what’s right in front of her. She throws her dirty clothes in the hamper and pulls out her running shoes, lacing them tight, rushing through some down and dirty stretches before she takes her first paces away from her house and down the street, music turned up loud and drowning out everything but the blood rushing through her veins.
So what if Brittany doesn’t want her? There are other people out there. Boys, yeah, the boys are always falling over themselves for her attention, but if she wants a girl, she’s not limited to her best friend. And who says an honest to God relationship with her best friend is even a good idea? This is the one person who knows her as well as she knows herself, and that’s not necessarily a good thing. Brittany has seen every ugly side of her, and even though she says she loves her anyway, things change when you’re in a relationship with someone. They change when it matters.
God, Santana wants it to matter.
Even still, now, when she’s got seven miles behind her; when her heart is racing and she can’t quite catch a solid breath and she’s straining for one more step, Santana wants nothing more than to collapse into Brittany’s arms and cling for all she’s worth. She wants to cry and rail, and say hateful things, and push her away even as she pulls her closer and begs Britt to love her anyway.
She is truly pathetic.
Santana pulls the elastic out of her hair and scrubs her hands through her sweaty scalp and down over her tear-stained face, walking around in a circle and taking stock of where she is. It’s official, she watches too much Criminal Minds, because she can think of at least three cases where women were killed in the woods, and it’s time to walk back to the main road before she gets kidnapped and tortured.
Of course, it’s even more freaky to reach the road and find Kurt Hummel leaning against the door to his Navigator, holding a bottle of water and offering it to her silently as she walks up. He runs a critical eye over her as she takes the bottle from him and cracks the seal, downing half of it in one long drag.
“Saw you running like a bat out of hell,” he offers.
She nods and concentrates on her breathing, still too raw to really open her mouth.
He looks her over again and there’s a faint hint of concern in his gaze. “Want to talk about it?”
She huffs a laugh and shakes her head, well aware of their tumultuous relationship. “Not really.”
He nods, like he expected it. “Want a ride home?”
Santana looks to the east, her house is a solid seven and a half miles from where she stands now, and she’s tired. Physically, mentally and emotionally, she is exhausted.
“That’d be nice,” she answers, and he nods again, this time looking satisfied.
“Stretch first,” he orders. “I may not go there any more, but Coach will still kill me for letting you get cold without doing so.”
She smiles, because it’s true, and stretches.
The ride home is silent, but not uncomfortably so. Santana’s too tired to really worry about anything, and he’s too considerate to intrude. She likes that about him.
“The best revenge is a life well-lived,” he says, breaking the silence as they turn onto her block. His voice trembles a little, like he’s hesitant to even mention it. “It’s a common adage mis-attributed to George Herbert. It means the best thing you can do in any given situation is get through it. Suck it up and smile, and remember that you are better and ten times more fabulous than the best of them.” His smile is a little bitter, hints of self-mockery are coming through in his voice as he pulls up to her house. “I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, I know you’ll get through it. Fabulously.”
It makes her choke up, and again - again, damn it - tears well up in her eyes. “Thanks,” she says, as she gets out. What else can she say to something like that?
She makes it through a shower and a change of clothes. Santana fixes herself a salad and stares balefully at her books. She knows she should study, but she can’t be bothered. She shares too many classes with Brittany and she just doesn’t want to be reminded right now.
That’s her excuse, anyway, for the way she grabs her phone and jumps into her car with only a single text message to serve as her warning.
I’m coming over.
Hummel greets her at his front door with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows arched.
She arches an eyebrow right back and lifts a shoulder in a shrug, hands dug firmly into her pockets. “So I might be ready to talk about it.”
And that’s how she spends four hours in Hummel’s bedroom: pacing back and forth while she rails against labels and circumstances and Rachel Freaking Berry to an audience. Accepting the odd, rare comfort of a no-strings-attached hug that turns into a cuddle on the bed (with the accompanying jokes from both of them about how it’s the only time a girl will ever find herself in his bed) in front of episodes of The West Wing, while running commentary with air-popped popcorn and lemon water.
Kurt’s kind of a rock star, and by the time Santana’s ready to leave, he’s got her cracking real, genuine smiles. She might even be able to face the general populace of McKinley tomorrow, with a fabulous fierceness that six hours ago, not even she saw coming.
Author: darkhawkhealer
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Santana(/Brittany), Kurt Hummel
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1112
Summary:Even still, now, when she’s got seven miles behind her; when her heart is racing and she can’t quite catch a solid breath and she’s straining for one more step, Santana wants nothing more than to collapse into Brittany’s arms and cling for all she’s worth.
Note: Spoilers for 2.15, Sexy. This is the first of what is shaping up to be a series of Santana-centric fics, called the Life Well Lived-verse.
With thanks to ariestess and ubervirgin for the betas. ♥
Santana makes it through the rest of the day without breaking down, but it’s a close thing. No amount of concealer in the world is enough to cover the redness in her nose and cheeks, and her eyes remain bloodshot even through the eye drops a sympathetic classmate offers for her ‘allergies’.
She’s cool, she’s good, as long as she doesn’t think too hard about any particular thing. As long as she keeps her thoughts surface-level, aimless, she’s not gonna hurt too badly, but the minute she thinks about any one thing too long, it all goes back to Brittany.
She throws her bag on her bed and beelines for her dresser, pulling out workout gear and grabbing her iPod, determinedly not looking at anything other than what’s right in front of her. She throws her dirty clothes in the hamper and pulls out her running shoes, lacing them tight, rushing through some down and dirty stretches before she takes her first paces away from her house and down the street, music turned up loud and drowning out everything but the blood rushing through her veins.
So what if Brittany doesn’t want her? There are other people out there. Boys, yeah, the boys are always falling over themselves for her attention, but if she wants a girl, she’s not limited to her best friend. And who says an honest to God relationship with her best friend is even a good idea? This is the one person who knows her as well as she knows herself, and that’s not necessarily a good thing. Brittany has seen every ugly side of her, and even though she says she loves her anyway, things change when you’re in a relationship with someone. They change when it matters.
God, Santana wants it to matter.
Even still, now, when she’s got seven miles behind her; when her heart is racing and she can’t quite catch a solid breath and she’s straining for one more step, Santana wants nothing more than to collapse into Brittany’s arms and cling for all she’s worth. She wants to cry and rail, and say hateful things, and push her away even as she pulls her closer and begs Britt to love her anyway.
She is truly pathetic.
Santana pulls the elastic out of her hair and scrubs her hands through her sweaty scalp and down over her tear-stained face, walking around in a circle and taking stock of where she is. It’s official, she watches too much Criminal Minds, because she can think of at least three cases where women were killed in the woods, and it’s time to walk back to the main road before she gets kidnapped and tortured.
Of course, it’s even more freaky to reach the road and find Kurt Hummel leaning against the door to his Navigator, holding a bottle of water and offering it to her silently as she walks up. He runs a critical eye over her as she takes the bottle from him and cracks the seal, downing half of it in one long drag.
“Saw you running like a bat out of hell,” he offers.
She nods and concentrates on her breathing, still too raw to really open her mouth.
He looks her over again and there’s a faint hint of concern in his gaze. “Want to talk about it?”
She huffs a laugh and shakes her head, well aware of their tumultuous relationship. “Not really.”
He nods, like he expected it. “Want a ride home?”
Santana looks to the east, her house is a solid seven and a half miles from where she stands now, and she’s tired. Physically, mentally and emotionally, she is exhausted.
“That’d be nice,” she answers, and he nods again, this time looking satisfied.
“Stretch first,” he orders. “I may not go there any more, but Coach will still kill me for letting you get cold without doing so.”
She smiles, because it’s true, and stretches.
The ride home is silent, but not uncomfortably so. Santana’s too tired to really worry about anything, and he’s too considerate to intrude. She likes that about him.
“The best revenge is a life well-lived,” he says, breaking the silence as they turn onto her block. His voice trembles a little, like he’s hesitant to even mention it. “It’s a common adage mis-attributed to George Herbert. It means the best thing you can do in any given situation is get through it. Suck it up and smile, and remember that you are better and ten times more fabulous than the best of them.” His smile is a little bitter, hints of self-mockery are coming through in his voice as he pulls up to her house. “I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, I know you’ll get through it. Fabulously.”
It makes her choke up, and again - again, damn it - tears well up in her eyes. “Thanks,” she says, as she gets out. What else can she say to something like that?
She makes it through a shower and a change of clothes. Santana fixes herself a salad and stares balefully at her books. She knows she should study, but she can’t be bothered. She shares too many classes with Brittany and she just doesn’t want to be reminded right now.
That’s her excuse, anyway, for the way she grabs her phone and jumps into her car with only a single text message to serve as her warning.
I’m coming over.
Hummel greets her at his front door with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows arched.
She arches an eyebrow right back and lifts a shoulder in a shrug, hands dug firmly into her pockets. “So I might be ready to talk about it.”
And that’s how she spends four hours in Hummel’s bedroom: pacing back and forth while she rails against labels and circumstances and Rachel Freaking Berry to an audience. Accepting the odd, rare comfort of a no-strings-attached hug that turns into a cuddle on the bed (with the accompanying jokes from both of them about how it’s the only time a girl will ever find herself in his bed) in front of episodes of The West Wing, while running commentary with air-popped popcorn and lemon water.
Kurt’s kind of a rock star, and by the time Santana’s ready to leave, he’s got her cracking real, genuine smiles. She might even be able to face the general populace of McKinley tomorrow, with a fabulous fierceness that six hours ago, not even she saw coming.