Casablanca - Brittany/Santana [Oneshot]
Title: Casablanca
Author: Lily M Richards
Summary: Set after High School, I don't think there's any spoilers, really. A Brittana oneshot that wouldn't leave me alone.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Glee and its characters belong to Ryan Murphy and FOX
Warnings: Slight swearing
Despite an acute reluctance to admitting it, Santana Lopez has always dreamt of her own big-screen happy ending. But the people at McKinley aren’t aware that she spends her Friday nights curled up in front of a fuzzy computer screen, watching Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr’s fused silhouettes dissolve into a black screen behind a deep crack in the screen that seems to sever the division between life and fiction.
That’s just another well-hidden secret Santana hides behind thick layers of water-proof mascara and knee-high leather boots.
“I told you I was yours. You may have told me you love me and I didn’t say it back, but I told you I was yours and you told me to go away.”
She is out of her depth. The shaky breaths that escape her lungs fade away in puffs of air, weighed down by the fierce wind. Artificial wind. Wind created solely by those damned turbines that cause a stirring, a disturbance in the quiet air, lift and suck it in.
“Miss Pierce-” the cabin crew member appears behind them, lays a hand on Brittany’s arm to attempt to steer her toward the steps.
“Shut up!” Santana shouts, shoving him away, grabbing a hold on Brittany’s hand for a fleeting moment before the other girl pulls back, frowns in her trials to decide on her next actions. “Go away!”
He seems perturbed by the dark-haired girl’s presence, considers calling for security, considers asking Miss Pierce if she is bothered by her ‘friend’, but no. He can see the blonde biting her lip, can see the way her eyes’ colour becomes dense, diluted to the extent of resembling the summer sky on a clear-blue day.
“San… please.” She whispers. Their eyes lock and Santana’s brown gaze becomes fixed those sleet blue eyes. It tells stories, relates memories.
It speaks of rainy days and hot chocolate. Blankets wrapped around their slumped figures as they huddle closer, impossibly close with no ulterior motive other than comfort and love. Because somehow, Brittany makes her a different person. Changes the cold-hearted, conceited bitch people conceive her as. Brittany will never understand why people fear her, hate her. She only sees the vulnerable girl underneath, the girl that yearns for love, for acceptance, for happiness. So she tries to give Santana what she can, tries to at least give her a little of the happiness she deserves, even if it is in secret, because Santana doesn’t care. As long as Brittany is there for even a minute, fishing marshmallows out of the hot drink with a spoon, offering Santana to share, as long as she is there for the moment, Santana will forget about the future, stop worrying about the looks and the whispers behind her back.
It speaks of warm summer nights spent in Santana’s room, watching old movies, Brittany asking her every now and then if she left the tapes out in the rain and they washed away the colours of the movie, asking Santana to explain over and over again why the movie credits roll even though Rick just said “this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship”, because wasn’t the beginning one and a half hours ago?, and Santana simply smiling and telling Brittany to go to sleep, which she does, leaning against Santana’s shoulder, breath evening out into a syncopated rhythm that calms Santana until her eyelids drop, her last glimpses of blonde hair and the scent of roses.
It speaks of days spent in school. The way their pinkies used to link when they walked down the corridor, the way they shared silent looks and had conversations behind people’s backs, superior in their red and white uniform. The way Brittany would still share most of her secrets with Santana, not with Artie. The way it made Santana’s heart flutter when she saw wet, slick tears roll down Brittany’s cheek, guilty hope that maybe she had dumped wheelchair boy; guilty pleasure in taking the girl into her arms and comforting her, telling her everything would be okay, because she just saw a rainbow glisten through the rain outside and that was always a good omen. And Brittany’s watery smile, the small creases at the corners of her eyes as her lips upturned into a weary, hopeful smile, because if Santana said rainbows meant only good things could happen, then it must be true, even though she thought the word ‘omen’ was the name of the boy in the movie she watched with Santana a few weeks ago.
It speaks of long-forgotten holidays and days spent at beaches in California. The taste of bittersweet alcohol that lingers on their tongues. The clinking of glasses as they meet and are raised in a salute before the strawberry-red liquid is drowned by hungry mouths. The feel of heated skin, warmth spreading through it from the bright, scalding sun, as they lather each other up with sunscreen. The cold splashes of water, droplets that roll down their arms and back as they run into the crashing waves, hands entwined in each other. A lasting friendship they are both so sure will prevail through all the high school years and beyond.
It speaks of dates in threes, promises of “Britt and I’ll make out in front of you if you pay for the food”, because that’s the only way Santana can convince herself that the only reason she is trying to find a scenario requiring her to press her lips to Brittany’s, is because she’s broke since the last shopping trip and asking her parents for money is about as effective as testing a car’s sturdiness by driving it into a brick wall. The way whatever boy is with them - frankly she couldn’t care less - instantly agrees and lets them order as much food as they want as long as he gets a good show out of it. At times, Santana doesn’t even know who she’s asking out. It doesn’t matter. Any boy will do, any boy to convince her that there’s nothing wrong, because she can’t possibly be anything but as straight as they get if she sleeps with that many guys. Her track record has a reason behind it, no matter how many slurs are thrown her way, how many accusations and assumptions she hears made.
It speaks of No Brittany, this isn’t cheating. You can only cheat if emotions are involved and this is nothing. Just fun, okay? No emotions or sappy feelings. The only reason it’s happening is because the guys are being prudes. Until she finally realises just what she lost with those words.
“I have to go.”
“Why?” Santana breathes. Her voice is uneven, shaking. Under the strong, sure gaze of the blonde, sha falters, her figure shrinking and her legs stiffening in an attempt to keep her upright. “Why do you have to go away from me?”
“Remember back in Junior year? When the entire glee club talked about how we’d get out of here, go have a good life somewhere out of this hellhole? I’m getting that life. And if I remember correctly, you wanted out more than anyone else. But you’re still here. Of the entire glee club, you got stuck behind, San.”
I’m scared Santana wants to say. Where can I go? What can I do with my life?
Because even if yes, the world is getting more acceptance, even if rights are being fought for, even with all the promises of it getting better by the second, even though the world might be ready for this. Santana isn’t sure she is ready for the world.
“What’s keeping you here?” Brittany questions. “High school is over. We’re done here. There is nothing keeping us here, so why can’t you let go? Why did you tell me you couldn’t, again, when I told you to come with me?”
“Britt…”
“You quote old movies to me, always the lines that promise we’ll be together, always the lines when the main characters go away at the end of the movie. What changed?”
Us. We changed. You found Artie and I found you. It was too late for us.
“It’s not though!” and Santana realises she said her answer out loud, flinching at Brittany’s vehemence. Her mascara is beginning to trickle down her cheek and she knows she should have invested in a better quality ‘waterproof’ one. Her fists clench, nails dig into her palms, strong enough to draw blood, if she would apply a bit more pressure, just for one more second -
“Santana.” The way the voice seems to coo her name, the way soft fingers reach out tentatively, pry open Santana’s clenched fist, separates the vicious keratin blades from the thin cloth of skin. “There is nothing left for us here. And even I see that, so it must be true.”
It elicits a watery chuckle from the other girl. She long stopped taking Brittany’s unsystematic thought process for granted. In a way, her thought patterns over powered even those of the renowned top of the class students. Despite her lack of knowledge of Pure Trigonometry or the reasoning for Shakespeare’s stories, she had the kind of common sense that Santana knew would help her. She wasn’t simple minded, it was simply as if Brittany’s thoughts ran on different wavelengths to her own.
“Come with me, San. Let go. We can start somewhere where no one will take us for granted or make the same stupid assumptions about us that they did here. We can build new lives. Away from here, away from all this.” She makes an elaborate gesture sweeping across the landing place to signify, what Santana assumes, the rest of Ohio.
It’s never been easy for her to say no to Brittany. The feel of her hand, soft on her own, tugging carefully, impatiently, hopefully. And then remembered voices seem to lift her feet, transport her forward.
Because with every ‘easy’ and ‘reputation’, it’s easier to walk away.
Santana has never been one to let anything drive her away. She’s fierce, fearless. But this isn’t running away, this isn’t cowardice. She doesn’t let herself think of it as that.
It’s simply a walk to freedom, to greater things that will show the close-minded population better than stubborn Santana, throwing insults at them from behind a counter at Bed, Bath and Beyond.
She doubts her choice until Brittany turns to her and whispers that she is convinced the reason Casablanca ended where it did was because showing Humphrey Bogart after Ingrid Bergman left would have made a miserable film, because he would have been much happier never letting Ilsa go.
Author: Lily M Richards
Summary: Set after High School, I don't think there's any spoilers, really. A Brittana oneshot that wouldn't leave me alone.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Glee and its characters belong to Ryan Murphy and FOX
Warnings: Slight swearing
Despite an acute reluctance to admitting it, Santana Lopez has always dreamt of her own big-screen happy ending. But the people at McKinley aren’t aware that she spends her Friday nights curled up in front of a fuzzy computer screen, watching Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr’s fused silhouettes dissolve into a black screen behind a deep crack in the screen that seems to sever the division between life and fiction.
That’s just another well-hidden secret Santana hides behind thick layers of water-proof mascara and knee-high leather boots.
“I told you I was yours. You may have told me you love me and I didn’t say it back, but I told you I was yours and you told me to go away.”
She is out of her depth. The shaky breaths that escape her lungs fade away in puffs of air, weighed down by the fierce wind. Artificial wind. Wind created solely by those damned turbines that cause a stirring, a disturbance in the quiet air, lift and suck it in.
“Miss Pierce-” the cabin crew member appears behind them, lays a hand on Brittany’s arm to attempt to steer her toward the steps.
“Shut up!” Santana shouts, shoving him away, grabbing a hold on Brittany’s hand for a fleeting moment before the other girl pulls back, frowns in her trials to decide on her next actions. “Go away!”
He seems perturbed by the dark-haired girl’s presence, considers calling for security, considers asking Miss Pierce if she is bothered by her ‘friend’, but no. He can see the blonde biting her lip, can see the way her eyes’ colour becomes dense, diluted to the extent of resembling the summer sky on a clear-blue day.
“San… please.” She whispers. Their eyes lock and Santana’s brown gaze becomes fixed those sleet blue eyes. It tells stories, relates memories.
It speaks of rainy days and hot chocolate. Blankets wrapped around their slumped figures as they huddle closer, impossibly close with no ulterior motive other than comfort and love. Because somehow, Brittany makes her a different person. Changes the cold-hearted, conceited bitch people conceive her as. Brittany will never understand why people fear her, hate her. She only sees the vulnerable girl underneath, the girl that yearns for love, for acceptance, for happiness. So she tries to give Santana what she can, tries to at least give her a little of the happiness she deserves, even if it is in secret, because Santana doesn’t care. As long as Brittany is there for even a minute, fishing marshmallows out of the hot drink with a spoon, offering Santana to share, as long as she is there for the moment, Santana will forget about the future, stop worrying about the looks and the whispers behind her back.
It speaks of warm summer nights spent in Santana’s room, watching old movies, Brittany asking her every now and then if she left the tapes out in the rain and they washed away the colours of the movie, asking Santana to explain over and over again why the movie credits roll even though Rick just said “this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship”, because wasn’t the beginning one and a half hours ago?, and Santana simply smiling and telling Brittany to go to sleep, which she does, leaning against Santana’s shoulder, breath evening out into a syncopated rhythm that calms Santana until her eyelids drop, her last glimpses of blonde hair and the scent of roses.
It speaks of days spent in school. The way their pinkies used to link when they walked down the corridor, the way they shared silent looks and had conversations behind people’s backs, superior in their red and white uniform. The way Brittany would still share most of her secrets with Santana, not with Artie. The way it made Santana’s heart flutter when she saw wet, slick tears roll down Brittany’s cheek, guilty hope that maybe she had dumped wheelchair boy; guilty pleasure in taking the girl into her arms and comforting her, telling her everything would be okay, because she just saw a rainbow glisten through the rain outside and that was always a good omen. And Brittany’s watery smile, the small creases at the corners of her eyes as her lips upturned into a weary, hopeful smile, because if Santana said rainbows meant only good things could happen, then it must be true, even though she thought the word ‘omen’ was the name of the boy in the movie she watched with Santana a few weeks ago.
It speaks of long-forgotten holidays and days spent at beaches in California. The taste of bittersweet alcohol that lingers on their tongues. The clinking of glasses as they meet and are raised in a salute before the strawberry-red liquid is drowned by hungry mouths. The feel of heated skin, warmth spreading through it from the bright, scalding sun, as they lather each other up with sunscreen. The cold splashes of water, droplets that roll down their arms and back as they run into the crashing waves, hands entwined in each other. A lasting friendship they are both so sure will prevail through all the high school years and beyond.
It speaks of dates in threes, promises of “Britt and I’ll make out in front of you if you pay for the food”, because that’s the only way Santana can convince herself that the only reason she is trying to find a scenario requiring her to press her lips to Brittany’s, is because she’s broke since the last shopping trip and asking her parents for money is about as effective as testing a car’s sturdiness by driving it into a brick wall. The way whatever boy is with them - frankly she couldn’t care less - instantly agrees and lets them order as much food as they want as long as he gets a good show out of it. At times, Santana doesn’t even know who she’s asking out. It doesn’t matter. Any boy will do, any boy to convince her that there’s nothing wrong, because she can’t possibly be anything but as straight as they get if she sleeps with that many guys. Her track record has a reason behind it, no matter how many slurs are thrown her way, how many accusations and assumptions she hears made.
It speaks of No Brittany, this isn’t cheating. You can only cheat if emotions are involved and this is nothing. Just fun, okay? No emotions or sappy feelings. The only reason it’s happening is because the guys are being prudes. Until she finally realises just what she lost with those words.
“I have to go.”
“Why?” Santana breathes. Her voice is uneven, shaking. Under the strong, sure gaze of the blonde, sha falters, her figure shrinking and her legs stiffening in an attempt to keep her upright. “Why do you have to go away from me?”
“Remember back in Junior year? When the entire glee club talked about how we’d get out of here, go have a good life somewhere out of this hellhole? I’m getting that life. And if I remember correctly, you wanted out more than anyone else. But you’re still here. Of the entire glee club, you got stuck behind, San.”
I’m scared Santana wants to say. Where can I go? What can I do with my life?
Because even if yes, the world is getting more acceptance, even if rights are being fought for, even with all the promises of it getting better by the second, even though the world might be ready for this. Santana isn’t sure she is ready for the world.
“What’s keeping you here?” Brittany questions. “High school is over. We’re done here. There is nothing keeping us here, so why can’t you let go? Why did you tell me you couldn’t, again, when I told you to come with me?”
“Britt…”
“You quote old movies to me, always the lines that promise we’ll be together, always the lines when the main characters go away at the end of the movie. What changed?”
Us. We changed. You found Artie and I found you. It was too late for us.
“It’s not though!” and Santana realises she said her answer out loud, flinching at Brittany’s vehemence. Her mascara is beginning to trickle down her cheek and she knows she should have invested in a better quality ‘waterproof’ one. Her fists clench, nails dig into her palms, strong enough to draw blood, if she would apply a bit more pressure, just for one more second -
“Santana.” The way the voice seems to coo her name, the way soft fingers reach out tentatively, pry open Santana’s clenched fist, separates the vicious keratin blades from the thin cloth of skin. “There is nothing left for us here. And even I see that, so it must be true.”
It elicits a watery chuckle from the other girl. She long stopped taking Brittany’s unsystematic thought process for granted. In a way, her thought patterns over powered even those of the renowned top of the class students. Despite her lack of knowledge of Pure Trigonometry or the reasoning for Shakespeare’s stories, she had the kind of common sense that Santana knew would help her. She wasn’t simple minded, it was simply as if Brittany’s thoughts ran on different wavelengths to her own.
“Come with me, San. Let go. We can start somewhere where no one will take us for granted or make the same stupid assumptions about us that they did here. We can build new lives. Away from here, away from all this.” She makes an elaborate gesture sweeping across the landing place to signify, what Santana assumes, the rest of Ohio.
It’s never been easy for her to say no to Brittany. The feel of her hand, soft on her own, tugging carefully, impatiently, hopefully. And then remembered voices seem to lift her feet, transport her forward.
Because with every ‘easy’ and ‘reputation’, it’s easier to walk away.
Santana has never been one to let anything drive her away. She’s fierce, fearless. But this isn’t running away, this isn’t cowardice. She doesn’t let herself think of it as that.
It’s simply a walk to freedom, to greater things that will show the close-minded population better than stubborn Santana, throwing insults at them from behind a counter at Bed, Bath and Beyond.
She doubts her choice until Brittany turns to her and whispers that she is convinced the reason Casablanca ended where it did was because showing Humphrey Bogart after Ingrid Bergman left would have made a miserable film, because he would have been much happier never letting Ilsa go.