Spirit Exchange Fic! Make the Yuletide Gay, for gleefics
Holiday Wish Fulfilled for: gleefics
Title: Make the Yuletide Gay
Rating: PG
Pairings/Characters: Brittany/Santana; (established relationship) Quinn/Rachel (friendship; hints of romance)
Warnings: N/A
Word count: 3,346
Disclaimer: This Glee fanfiction is based upon the television show of the same name. All characters and situations other than my own are sole property of Ryan Murphy Productions and 20th Century Fox Television.
Summary: Brittany/Santana/Rachel/Quinn go Christmas caroling together.
A/N: My first foray into this fandom. Thanks to my awesome beta, Dhaniom! You rock!!
Head Cheerio or not, Quinn Fabray has her share of insecurities. Like this particular moment, for instance. She is standing in the doorway of the McKinley High Library, staring at Santana Lopez - who, for her part, is flipping through the pages of her Physics textbook feverishly and looking even less approachable than usual.
Quinn fights down the flutter of anxiety in her stomach. She wants this more than she cares to admit - just this little slice of normalcy. She squares her shoulders and marches up to Santana’s table.
“So…” she begins, careful to keep her voice quiet for the librarian’s sake. “I thought maybe we could go Christmas caroling this Saturday night. Are you and Brittany free?”
Quinn’s already regretting having asked. God, this had been a dumb idea.
It’s just - it’s a tradition. She and Santana and Brittany have been friends since they were children. And once a year (every year since the fourth grade), they have gone out caroling together. They would sing their hearts out and then have a sleepover complete with cheesy movies and popcorn and hot chocolate and…
…and even last year, when Quinn’s life had taken a definite turn for the worse, they had gone. She is certain that Brittany had guilted Santana into it - but still. It had been a perfect night. Santana had treated Quinn as though nothing had changed (although she’d gone right back to being a snarky bitch the very next day), and Brittany - well, Brittany had never treated her any differently, anyway.
But this year, she’s even less sure of where she stands with Santana. There’s the fairly recent memory of Quinn having stolen the position of Head Cheerio from the Latina - but then, there is the knowledge that Santana would gladly return the favor (with interest) as soon as the opportunity presented itself. If you look at it that way, they kind of deserve each other.
After what seems like forever, Santana deigns to look up at her. She raises her dark eyelashes and sets her mouth in such a hard line that Quinn is sure she’s going to be shot down.
But Santana surprises her by tossing her ponytail dramatically and shrugging her shoulders. “Yeah, I guess. Sure. Whatever.”
Quinn tries her best not to smile or seem relieved, but she can feel her happiness spreading through her, like the soothing heat of a warm beverage. “Good,” she replies primly, pursing her lips. “I’ll go ask Mr. Schu for some sheet music. We can rock some killer harmonies this year.”
Santana jerks her head downward toward her book; Quinn thinks it might have been an aborted attempt at a nod.
“Stop hovering,” snaps Santana. “I have work to finish. Who the hell assigns a test the last freaking day before winter break, anyway?” she grumbles to herself, flipping through her textbook again.
Quinn shrugs sympathetically. “My house, at 5:00? Is that okay?” she asks, smoothing down the pleats of her skirt.
Santana gives her a sarcastic smile and a mock salute. “Aye, aye, Captain,” she spits out, making the title seem like the harshest of possible epithets.
Quinn stands her ground. “Don’t forget it,” she tells the other girl coolly, spinning around on her heel and flouncing out of the library.
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Her meeting with Mr. Schuester does NOT go as planned.
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll lend you the sheet music. But,” he continues, raising his eyebrows, “you have to do something for me.”
Quinn’s mind instantly goes to the dirtiest of places. She fights the reaction down. Mr. Schu is the only teacher in the entire school who actually gives a damn. It’s hardly his fault that most of the men she knows are total scum.
Quinn swallows, trying to relax. “Okay. What?” she asks.
“I want you to invite Rachel.”
Her eyes almost bug out of her head. Dear God! Now she half-wishes he had asked for a sexual favor of some kind.
“Rachel? Rachel Berry?” she asks, for clarification’s sake because, well, surely she had just misunderstood.
Mr. Schuester sighs. “The break-up with Finn has been very hard on her. I know she’s been feeling depressed and lonely. I see her eating lunch by herself in the cafeteria. She hardly says a word during Glee, which I think speaks for itself. It would mean a lot to me if you would ask her. And I know it would mean a lot to her. To be honest, I thought if anyone could understand the isolation she’s feeling, it would be you.”
Quinn blinks in surprise.
“And, uh,” he continues, “not that I go out of my way to involve myself in my student’s personal lives, but - it didn’t escape my notice that both she and you committed similar… offenses. The, uh, Finn and Puck situation, I mean.”
She frowns. “Somehow I think she’s dealing with slightly less fall-out than I did. But,” she says, surprising herself, “I’ll ask her. Because you’re asking me to. And because you usually have our best interests at heart. And because” - she shrugs - “it’s Christmas.”
Mr. Schu smiles warmly at her and gives her the sheet music. And as she glances at the song on top (“Hark! The Herald Angels Sing”), something clicks into place in her brain.
“Wait - isn’t Rachel Jewish?”
Mr. Schu looks at Quinn thoughtfully. “Just ask her,” he says. “If she says no, she says no.”
Quinn lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Okay, okay. I’ll ask her. I swear.”
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To be honest, she almost doesn’t ask, despite her promise. Quinn’s pretty sure that it will be hard enough getting Santana to treat her nicely - never mind Rachel, whom Santana openly loathes.
But when she sees Rachel at lunch - sitting alone at the far end of a nearly-empty lunch table, picking at her salad and staring morosely in Finn’s direction - she feels an involuntary twinge of empathy for the girl. She takes a deep breath and walks over to Rachel’s table, sliding into the seat across from her. She clears her throat to get the brunette’s attention.
“So, uh - hi,” begins Quinn.
Rachel’s eyes snap open in surprise and - was that fear? Why would she - ? Oh. Right. Quinn remembers suddenly that the last time she’d said anything directly to Rachel, she had sort of threatened to punch her in the face. Well, she’d been PMS-ing at the time. Whatever.
“Are - are you here to yell at me, too?” asks Rachel, her lower lip trembling slightly.
“No,” says Quinn, with a slight shake of her head. “I, uh - I know this is sort of sudden, and I know that you don’t even celebrate Christmas. But” - Quinn chews her bottom lip nervously. “I was - well, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come caroling on Saturday with me, Brittany, and Santana?”
Rachel is silent for a few seconds. Finally, she tips her chin up, a little defensively. “I assume that Mr. Schu or Ms. Pillsbury-Howell made you ask me?”
Quinn thinks fast. Should she lie? Should she be honest? She finally settles on the gentlest version of the truth she can think of.
“No. He didn’t make me ask you. He asked me to ask you. And I said yes, because, you know - I remember how I felt this time last year. And because we could really use your voice.”
Rachel lights up at this. “It would be wonderful to sing some seminal Christmas classics. My dads don’t really encourage that in our home.” She gives Quinn a quick nod. “Okay. Yes. I’ll come.”
Oh. Well, damn. Quinn had sort of been hoping she’d say no. But if she’s being totally honest, she doesn’t mind as much as she thought she would.
And to her surprise, Santana accepts the news with reasonably good grace (i.e. she doesn’t bite Quinn’s head off). And Brittany loves everybody, so there’s no problem there.
Quinn’s feeling pretty good about this actually. And as she slides into the seat next to Sam - after leaning in for a hey-I’ve-missed-you kiss - she turns toward Rachel’s table and is glad to see that she’s actually eating some of her salad. And is staring somewhat less morosely at Finn. Hey - it’s progress. Right?
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On Saturday, the girls meet at Quinn’s house as planned. They bundle up in thick coats, hats, gloves, and scarves and go traipsing through the Fabray’s neighborhood. They sing their way through Mr. Schuester’s sheet music, switching up the religious and the secular: “Silent Night,” “Jingle Bells,” “Deck the Halls,” “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem.”
Quinn’s neighbors seem delighted when they open their doors. They drink in the sight and sound of the beautiful girls and their equally lovely voices. And here’s the thing: Rachel’s voice doesn’t “add to” the experience. Rachel’s voice gives Quinn freaking chills. Goosebumps, even.
Her voice is so clear. Strong. Beautiful. Pure. Quinn can’t get enough of Rachel’s voice singing the words to songs Quinn has loved since she was a small child. And as much as she hates to admit it, it’s true: Rachel makes the three of them strive to be better. Or maybe she just outright makes them better. They sound wonderful - maybe the best they’ve ever sounded. And it feels so good to just sing. Quinn has a mad fantasy of becoming a singing quartet; she feels like she could travel the world and sing with these girls forever.
After about an hour of singing their voices raw, Quinn suggests that they take a walk in the snow that has now begun to fall softly.
And they do. They walk down High Street, past the post office and the fire station and their old stomping grounds - Bloomfield Middle School.
Brittany and Santana are walking ahead of Quinn, with their hands tightly clasped together. Quinn suspects that they would be linking pinkies if they could, but Brittany is wearing mittens.
Rachel falls into step with Quinn, and Quinn can’t even bring herself to mind at all. In fact, Rachel has been nothing but a delight this evening. And she seems to be enjoying herself as far as Quinn can tell.
They walk two blocks past the middle school, stopping in front of Immaculate Conception Church - the Fabray family’s parish.
Quinn feels a sick swoop in her stomach as she stares at the building, which is beautifully decorated for Christmas. The stained-glass windows are lit up, lights and wreaths adorn the door, and there is a softly-illuminated crèche by the front gate. The parking lot is filled with cars - Saturday evening mass should be getting out any minute.
Quinn feels her eyes water. At one point, the church had been like her second home. She had sung in the church choir, had served on the board of her parish youth group. But she hasn’t been back since - well, since - yeah. And not one of her fellow youth group or choir members has inquired about her or asked her to come back; which she supposes is rather telling.
The doors of the church open suddenly. The parishioners flow out of them in a steady stream, laughing and talking and hugging good-bye.
Quinn can now see into the church itself - and the sight of it, decorated with red bows and candles and evergreens - is breath-taking.
“Oh, Santana!” breathes Brittany rapturously. “It’s so beautiful. God, it’s almost as beautiful as you.”
Quinn is startled. She knows about the nature of their relationship, of course, but she’s seldom confronted with the evidence of it. She glances curiously at Santana - and almost wishes that she hadn’t.
Because Santana-Bad-Ass-Lopez is gazing at Brittany with such naked love - such affection - that it takes Quinn’s breath away.
She watches in stunned silence as Santana leans into Brittany, twining her arms around the blonde’s neck, and capturing her mouth in a deep, lingering kiss.
It’s a beautiful sight - the two girls lost in each other, the snow falling around them softly, a light breeze whipping their hair, illuminated by the lights of the church. Quinn can’t take her eyes away, and Rachel seems to be similarly absorbed in the tableau before them.
But then -
“Excuse me!” hisses an angry voice. Brittany and Santana break apart suddenly, gazing up at the intruder with wide eyes. Quinn and Rachel turn as well, and find a woman in her forties glaring at Brittany and Santana. She had obviously just emerged from the church. “We don’t want these kinds of vulgar displays here. There are children here, for goodness’ sake. It seems to me that you should have thought of that, before exposing them to your… deviant lifestyle.”
Brittany’s eyes are slowly welling up with tears. “S-sorry,” she stammers.
Santana begins to speak, but the woman cuts her off.
“Yes, I’m afraid you will be. When you meet the Lord at the pearly gates and he turns both of you away - I imagine you’ll be very sorry.”
Quinn is possessed with a fury so strong it overwhelms her. “Very Christian of you,” says Quinn coolly to the woman. “I’m sure that’s just what Jesus would say. He really valued those qualities, you know: Intolerance. Ignorance. Bigotry. He certainly never would have approved of” - she gestures toward Brittany and Santana -“love.”
The woman looks aghast at Quinn’s outburst.
“Besides which,” pipes up Rachel suddenly, “my friends to whom you spoke so rudely are on the sidewalk, which is considered public property. They have every right to kiss while standing on it. I have two gay dads - and they keep two gay lawyers on retainer - so unless you want the full wrath of the Ohio ACLU brought down on the shoulders of your place of worship, I suggest you let us alone. And we will gladly return the favor.”
Having said her piece, Rachel nods to Brittany and Santana and hooks her arm through Quinn’s. She marches Quinn down the sidewalk, away from the woman, and Brittany and Santana walk hand-in-hand behind them.
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The walk back to the Fabray house is quiet.
When they arrive and begin stripping out of their heavy winter gear, Santana surprises Quinn by giving first her and then Rachel a quick hug.
“Thanks, you guys. That was - really awesome of you. Wasn’t it, Brit?” she asks softly, glancing in the blonde’s direction.
They all turn to look at Brittany, whose face is white and anxious. A muffled sob escapes from her throat.
Santana is instantly at Brittany’s side, smoothing her hair and making soft, cooing noises. “What is it, baby? Are you sad because of what that woman said?”
Brittany’s lower lip trembles pitifully. She nods and sniffs. She locks eyes with Quinn and says, half-hysterically: “Quinn, am I - am I - are me and Santana going to hell?”
Quinn could not be more stunned. First, she is shocked that Brittany would ask such a question. Secondly, she is shocked that this question is directed at her.
“Brittany… what?”
Brittany sniffs. “She said - she said we were going to hell, right? You’re, like, the most religious person I know. Does God hate me because I kiss Santana? Or because I love Santana? I can’t stop loving Santana, Quinn. I wouldn’t even know how.” A tear slides down her cheek, and Santana kisses it gently off Brittany’s face. “Quinn? Are we going to hell?”
Quinn feels close to crying herself. “Oh, Brittany. Sweetie, listen to me: I can’t claim to know more about God than anyone else, but I know - I know, Brittany - that you will never go to hell. Never. It will never happen. Not for anything; and certainly not for being in love with Santana.”
“Do you - do you really believe that? You wouldn’t lie to me?” chokes out Brittany, crying into Santana’s shoulder.
And then Rachel’s hand is on Quinn’s shoulder; Quinn looks at down at the shorter girl - her eyes are bright and misty and beautiful. Rachel steps onto her toes and whispers in Quinn’s ear: “Can I kiss you?”
Quinn jerks back in surprise. “What?” she asks, more loudly than she meant to.
Rachel doesn’t look remotely embarrassed. She looks sincere; serene, even. “I just thought - you know - to prove to Brittany”-
Quinn’s mind floods with understanding. “Oh. I…” She swallows once. Her thoughts are moving at warp-speed. Her mind is desperately trying to weigh the potential pros and cons of this idea; but the thought that burns most brightly is a disturbing one - that, honestly, she kind of wants to kiss Rachel. Just because.
“Y-yes,” she manages to stammer.
Rachel turns to Brittany and Santana. “Watch us, Brittany. Okay? This is how sure we are that you’re not going to hell.”
And before Quinn can say another word, Rachel brings her hands up to Quinn’s hair - a surprisingly intimate gesture - and stands on her toes, tipping her face up to the taller girl’s.
Quinn can feel Rachel’s breath on her lips for a fraction of a second before she feels the brunette’s lips moving softly and tentatively against her own.
And it feels - oh, God, it feels good - Rachel is taking the lead; kissing her softly but insistently, and Quinn finds herself swept up in it. Quinn brings her hands up to tangle themselves in Rachel’s undeniably gorgeous hair and at just the point when she is starting to feel Rachel stop kissing her - God, she doesn’t want her to -
- she hears Santana let out a low purr.
“My God, Brittany, this is so freaking hot, isn’t it?”
“Super hot,” agrees Brittany, who sounds awestruck.
And Rachel shifts suddenly underneath her and before Quinn can draw breath, Rachel’s tongue sweeps into Quinn’s mouth. Quinn lets out a quiet gasp but eagerly responds and - oh - Rachel feels and tastes better than Quinn could ever have imagined. This is just so beyond anything she has ever - she actually feels dizzy. And just as suddenly, Rachel pulls back from Quinn. She tips her mouth up to Quinn’s ear, planting a quick kiss on it, and whispers into it: “At the very least, we’ll both burn together, right?”
Quinn laughs quietly at Rachel’s joke, and turns to face Brittany and Santana - hoping that her breathing will shortly return to normal.
“Convinced?” she asks Brittany.
Brittany beams at her. “Totally.”
The rest of the night is like a beautiful dream. The girls drink sparkling cider and gossip and laugh until their sides hurt. In one of their happy silences, Rachel begins singing:
“Have yourself a merry little Christmas…”
“Make the yuletide gay...”
(It must be said that Brittany and Santana giggle furiously at this line, and Quinn finds it hard not to blush). Rachel ignores them and continues.
“From now on our troubles will be miles away…”
Rachel’s voice is tender and poignant and wistful and happy, and one by one the girls join in; and somehow, it’s the most beautiful song they have sung all night, because it is just for them.
And afterward there is yet more laughter. And there is popcorn - and of course hot chocolate. Santana sticks Titanic in the DVD player, which - so cheesy - but whatever. Quinn tries very hard not to think about how Sam resembles a younger Leonardo DiCaprio (Spirited. Boyish. Eager.)
Rachel props herself up on her elbow and stares pointedly at Quinn. “Are you going to tell him?”
Quinn shares a small smile with Rachel and gestures toward the movie, where Leo and Kate are currently mackin’ it on the stern of the ship.
“You know, I’ve really always felt that a woman’s heart is an ocean of secrets.”
Rachel groans and smacks her with a pillow.
And Brittany and Santana are alternating between giggling and kissing each other. And Rachel tries to convince them all to start planning and practicing their repertoire for next season’s caroling.
And unlike this time last year - Quinn finds herself looking happily to the future; wondering what challenges and adventures the New Year will bring.
FIN