Because You Left, Chapter 15
Title: Because You Left, Chapter Fifteen: After Shocks
Pairing/Character(s): Carl Howell, Emma Pillsbury, Tina Cohen-Chang, all the Hudmels, Sue Sylvester, Santana Lopez, Brittany S. Pierce, Will Schuester, Holly Holliday. (All other Glee kids are at least mentioned.)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Brief description of the shooting from Emma's perspective, mentions of police and metal detectors in a school setting.
Word Count: About 6000
Spoilers: Potential spoilers (kind of) for all six seasons of LOST, and up to and through Glee 2X08, "Furt."
Standard-Issue Short-Form Disclaimer: I do not hold copyright to Glee or LOST, I make no claims to such, and I am not profiting from this.
Summary: Sometimes, there is no right thing to do, no way to fix it. Sometimes, the best you can do is make sure that no one's left thinking that they're going through this all alone.
Author's Notes: This is a Glee/LOST AU crossover. Fic is a work in progress, but I do have a substantial backlog of chapters to post while I work on the newest ones. I hope to post once a week, on Sundays, barring fire, flood, corset-related disasters, and/or LJ outages. Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost.
As always, if I haven't adequately explained any of the LOST stuff, please feel free to leave a comment here and/or pm me. I will answer.
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Carl asks, for the fifth time that morning, and Emma suppresses a sigh. "You don't have to do this, Emma."
She adjusts the placement of her sandwich in the lunchbox, not because she necessarily feels the need to do so, but because it gives her a reason not to look at him. Which she should feel awful about, really; she should want to look at Carl. She loves Carl. But right now, she doesn't feel the need to impress him, to be what he expects her to be. She doesn't care if he's unhappy with her, any more than she cares about what happens if her apple comes dislodged from its position in her lunchbox and smashes her sandwich. There are more important things now.
Like Brittany, crouched in a corner of the empty math classroom, clinging to Artie's wheelchair to hold herself up. Like Mike Chang's wide, frightened eyes and the way Tina shook as she stood just behind his shoulder, her hand wrapping around his arm so tightly that her knuckles were white. Like the weird, strangled sound Artie made when they heard footsteps pounding towards the room where they were hidden, the sound she's never heard anyone make before and never wants to hear anyone make again. Those are the things that matter now.
Maybe they won't matter forever, but right now, they're all there is.
"Carl," she says, closing her lunchbox and finally letting herself turn around. It's strange, the way she sounds like she's the calm one. She's not used to sounding like the calm one; in fact, some days she feels like she's constantly on the verge of screaming and the only way to keep calm is to find something she can clean, something she can fix. And yet, here she is. "I do have to do this. Kurt Hummel and Santana Lopez were held at gunpoint by one of their classmates yesterday. They saw a boy get shot right in front of them. They're traumatized. Their friends are traumatized. The other kids in the school, the ones who heard the gunshots, heard the shouting, and didn't know what was happening or if they were going to be all right; those kids are traumatized too. They're going to need someone to talk to. Someone who'll listen to them. That's my job, Carl. I mean, literally. That is literally my job."
"But what about you?" Carl asks, folding his arms. There's something unhappy about him; Emma's not sure what it is, and she's not really sure that she likes it. He's supposed to be the one who understands things, or at least the one who accepts them. It doesn't make sense that he's fighting this. "You were in that building, too. Aren't you... I mean, come on, Em. No offense, but you freak out when I get ketchup on the counter. I don't understand how you're being so... so calm, all of a sudden. I mean, unless you're in shock, and if you're in shock, then I just really don't think you should be at that school right now. I know you want to help, but... "
Emma blinks at him, a little taken aback. Because it was different for her than it was for them; that's the whole point. Because she was the one who went to the door when the police started pounding on it, demanding to be let in. She was the one who asked to see their badges, the one who waited until she was sure, the one who took charge of the situation. Because she was the one who knew what to do and how to do it. That's why she was in that room -- not so the children could protect her, but so she could protect them. It was different, for her, because it had to be.
And it still does. And it still is. And she's not sure why that bothers Carl so much, but it obviously does, and she kind of resents him a little for that. For not accepting this side of her the way he's accepted everything else.
"I have to go, Carl," she says, picking up her lunchbox and heading for the door. "Have a good day, okay?"
"Em," Carl says, reaching out for her arm; she shrugs him off as delicately as she can. "Em, come on..."
He follows her out to the door, watches her get into her car and back out of the driveway. When she glances back at him, his eyes are wide and sad, like she's hurt him somehow, just by doing her job.
It stings, a little bit, but she ignores it.
He'll get over it, and even if he doesn't, she has more important things to think about right now.
*
There's a man with a metal detector standing at the entrance to the school, and Kurt feels a tiny twinge of relief when he thinks of all the outfits he could've worn today, but didn't. He's used to being noticed -- he did wear replica Alexander McQueen armadillo shoes to school for a week -- but there's a difference between being noticed for his bold fashion choices and being noticed for setting off the school's brand-new security system. And the denim shirt with the asymmetrical studded collar, the safety-pin pants... there's no way he would make it through the metal detector in those. He's safer in this, the gray cardigan and the loose-fitting jeans, no brooches, no boots, no accessories. Nothing to catch anyone's eye, nothing to call attention to himself.
Not that it really matters, of course. Everyone's already staring.
He hasn't said anything about what happened in the home ec room -- not to Mercedes, not to Finn, not to anyone who isn't carrying a badge and a sidearm and he's pretty sure they're not releasing the details just yet -- and he's almost certain that Santana's keeping the same silence, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that he was there, that Karofsky was coming after him, and everyone at McKinley knows at least that much. He can see it in the way they look at him -- not quick glances, the way they used to when he'd come in wearing a fox fur tail or a black leather harness and everyone wanted to see but no one wanted to get caught looking -- but just... Staring. And staring. And staring, until Kurt can't keep his head up anymore, can't face them; it takes everything he has not to turn and run out of the building again. The only thing that keeps him moving is Finn's hand on his shoulder, Carole's hand wrapped around his, his father looming protectively behind them. His family.
It's weird, after all this time, to suddenly have a family. He's grateful; at least, he thinks he's grateful, or he will be grateful at some point in the very near future. Right now, it's hard to feel anything beyond a certain sort of numbed fear. It's like everything he felt yesterday -- the guilt, the grief, the sheer blind terror of it all, even the stunning relief of being able to press his cheek against Blaine's chest and feel the steady rise and fall of Blaine's breathing and the warm strength of Blaine's arms wrapped around him -- all of it has just wiped out him out and there's nothing left but echoes, a dull awareness of the things he would be feeling right now, if he could feel them. If he was capable of feeling.
But he must be capable of feeling something, because his heartbeat picks up a little bit when he hears Tina call his name. Because, when he lifts his head up and sees her flying towards him, a black-clad blur with her hair flying out behind her, his eyes prickle with tears, and his breath catches when they collide, Tina's arms wrapping around him and her weight knocking him back on his heels. Finn has to steady him to keep him from falling over, and he hears his dad say, "Easy there, kiddo," but Tina doesn't let go for a second. He's not sure she could if she wanted to, given that he's holding her just as tightly as she's holding him.
"We were so scared," she says, her voice shaky and her words coming faster than he's ever heard them, "because we heard it, Kurt, we heard the -- the shooting, but we didn't know, but then Mr. Anderson said he had to find his son and I knew that if he was here, then he was with you, and I was... I was so scared, Kurt. I was so scared."
"I know," Kurt says, pressing his cheek to her hair and rubbing her back, and it feels weird to be comforting someone else after what's happened to him, but it also feels... blessedly normal, in a way. Like he's still himself, like he can still take care of things the way he always has. Like this isn't going to break him. "I know. I was scared, too."
"And I just thought... I was just so scared that you would be..." She buries her face in his shoulder and squeezes him even tighter. "I'm just so glad that you're okay, Kurt. You're okay."
Kurt swallows, because he's not entirely sure that that's true, but then he guesses it's true enough. At least, he could be so much worse right now, and he knows that, and he's grateful for it. "I am," he says, trying to sound steadier than he feels. "I'm okay, Tina. It's okay now."
She whimpers a little at that, and clutches him tighter, and he wishes he could just stay here like this for a little while, with her. But then he hears his dad clearing his throat behind them, and he realizes that he can't. So he pulls back, gently disentangling himself from Tina's arms but leaving his hands on her shoulders. "I'm okay," he says again, and even if it's not totally true, he can't regret saying it. Not when she looks up at him and gives him a tentative, tremulous sort of smile. "I'm okay."
"Look," his dad says, a little awkwardly, and reaches around Kurt to pat Tina on the shoulder. "I hate to do this, but we gotta borrow Kurt for a little longer, okay? Just for a little bit, and we'll bring him right back, and you can... You can talk all you need to. Or whatever. Okay?"
Tina looks up at him, bites her lower lip, nods quickly. "Okay," she says, her voice small and choked.
Kurt's dad sighs, drawing back. "Okay," he says, his voice kind of gruff, the way it usually gets right before he pulls Kurt in for a hug. But he doesn't hug anyone, just adjusts his baseball cap and sighs again. "Finn, how about you stay here with --"
"Tina," Finn says, quietly; there's a beat, and then Finn shakes his head. "Can't I just -- I mean, I know I'm not his brother brother, not yet, but can't I just --"
Carole sighs, tipping her head to the side. "Sorry, honey, but I'm not even sure Principal Sue's going to let me in," she says, reaching out to rub Finn's shoulder. "It's the students and their parents only. No one else."
"But --" Finn protests, and Kurt reaches back to lay a hand on Finn's arm, because maybe they aren't brother brothers, but he gets that Finn is scared right now; he understands that much at least.
"It's okay, Finn," he says. "She probably just wants to talk about..." He waves his hand back in the general direction of the door. "Security, or whatever. So Santana and I feel... Feel safe here again."
His dad makes a quiet, scoffing noise behind his back; Kurt pretends to ignore him.
"It's fine," he says, and pats Finn's arm again, and Finn nods and steps back.
"We'll be right back," Carole says, smiling bravely at Finn and Tina. Then her hand is wrapped around Kurt's, and Kurt's dad puts his hand on his shoulder, and the three of them set off down the hall again, Tina and Finn watching them go.
Of course, everyone is watching them go. Everyone is watching him, watching Kurt.
He always knew that certain sorts of attention were awful, but he'd never realized that it could be this bad before.
But he keeps his head up, and holds tight to Carole's hand, and lets his family block the stares as he walks down the hall.
*
She watches Kurt and Santana walk out of the office (not her office, not anymore), their parents following protectively close behind them, and she thinks that this is what failure tastes like, this sourness at the back of her mouth. Maybe it's not failure -- maybe it's just all those dead skin cells she's inhaling every time she breathes -- but she's pretty sure it is.
She failed. These kids needed her to look out for them, to protect them, and she failed.
"Sometimes," Emma says, still hovering behind Sue's right shoulder, the way she's been since before the Hummels and Lopezes walked into the office, red-eyed children and nervous parents standing guard, "in movies, when something awful happens, one person puts their hand on another person's shoulder. I've always thought that looked like it might be comforting."
It's an offer, and while Sue doesn't usually take offers of comfort from bug-eyed marsupials, she's feeling remarkably short on pride today. Which, considering what her pride has lead her to lately, is probably for the best. "I have my tracksuits specially treated at the drycleaners," she says, quietly. "There's this... It's Swiss; you wouldn't understand. But believe me when I say that absolutely nothing, no bacteria, no viruses, no germs of any kind, can survive on this tracksuit. If that helps you make your mind up at all."
Emma's hand hovers just over Sue's shoulder for a moment, then settles. It's a light pressure, but it really does seem to help.
"I'm not going to tell you that you're doing the right thing," Emma adds, after a few seconds. "Because I honestly have no idea what the right thing is, if there even is one. There may not be. There isn't, always. So... Do what you have to."
Sue swallows hard, and Emma squeezes her shoulder; not much, just a little bit.
The truth is, she knows that it's not really up to her. Even if she'd made her mind up to stay in this office, dead skin cells and all, the school board is probably already howling for blood. She'd be out by the end of the day no matter what. At least this way, she'll be out on her own terms.
But it's not just about that.
"He would have been in the weight room," Sue explains, folding her hands on the desk. "If I hadn't kicked him off the football team, that's where he would have been. In the weight room, with the Beiste keeping an eye on him. But I wanted to change things at this school; I wanted his actions to have consequences. Real consequences." She almost laughs; she would, if it were actually funny. But it's not. Of course it's not. "Careful what you wish for, right?"
Emma doesn't say anything to that. But that's probably because there's nothing to say.
Sue takes a deep breath and straightens in her chair, and as soon as she does, Emma's hand is gone. Sue misses it immediately, but of course, she can't admit that.
"All right," she says, pushing her chair back and standing up. "I'm ready. Let's go."
*
The rest of the Glee kids are crowded around Kurt's locker, whispering and hugging and nodding solemnly and watching each other with wide eyes, and Santana knows damn well that she should be over there with them, letting them try to comfort her the way they're trying (and probably failing) to comfort Kurt. Because that's what they do, the Glee kids -- they stand up in front of the group, week after week, and let themselves bleed all over the place, and let themselves fall apart, and let everyone else come and put them back together. Santana's seen them do it. Hell, she's thought about doing it herself, once or twice. She's thinking about it now.
But she's not ready. She's just... she's not ready.
So she leans against her locker, and watches Mercedes wrap her arm around Kurt's shoulder, watches Finn hovering behind the two of them with this look on his face like he's trying to figure out some kind of really hard math problem (which, for him, is probably 2 + 2 = 4), watches Puck punch one fist relentlessly into the open palm of his other hand like he's pretending it's Karofsky he's hitting, watches him subside when Sam cuffs him in the shoulder. She watches Tina lean more and more into Mike, watches Rachel hover nervously by Finn's side like she wants to do the same but is suddenly afraid to; she watches Quinn, standing a little apart. She watches Artie, who keeps glancing back at her over his shoulder.
And she watches Brittany bend down to whisper something in Artie's ear. She watches her straighten up and move in to hug Kurt, wrapping long arms around him. She watches Brittany let go of Kurt, watches her turn and push her way out of the group.
She drops her eyes as soon as she realizes where Brittany's going.
Not that it really matters, because it only takes about ten seconds before Brittany's hand is reaching out for hers
"Come on," Brittany says, reaching up with her free hand to brush back a stray bit of hair that's escaped Santana's (admittedly pretty sloppy) ponytail. "I know where we can go."
There are at least fifty really good comebacks for a sentence like that. Maybe more.
Santana doesn't bother with any of them; she just lets Brittany lead her down the hall.
She does look back once, just once, at the comfort orgy that's still going on without her; she looks back over her shoulder and sees Kurt watching her.
He nods.
She nods back, and then drops her eyes again and lets Brittany lead her.
*
He watches Brittany pull Santana into the choir room, and wonders if he should go in after them. If he should do something, say something --
But he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know if there's anything he can say that will make this easier for them, that will fix this. He thinks, maybe, there's just... nothing.
He's not used to feeling like this around his kids. They've been through so much together -- the slushies, the bullies, the constant in-fighting, all the relationship drama. Sue's schemes, Rachel's egging at the hands of her ex-boyfriend and the rest of Vocal Adrenaline, Quinn's pregnancy and all that came with it; they got through it together, and he helped them, or at least he tried. He never doubted that; no matter what happened, he would be able to do something to help make it right.
And then he stood, frozen in the doorway of the home ec room, with that Dalton boy bleeding on the floor and Kurt bending over him, trying to stop the blood with his own two hands, and David Karofsky slumped against the wall with his nose broken and even more blood streaming down his face, and Santana clutching that gun, absolutely terrified, and there was just...
There was nothing. Absolutely nothing he could do.
"Sucks, doesn't it?" a voice asks from behind him, and he turns to see Holly, dressed down in a black sweater too big for her thin frame, black pants. Like she's in mourning. "Feeling helpless."
"Yeah," Will says, quietly, and turns back to the choir room. Brittany has her arms wrapped around Santana, her cheek pressed to Santana's hair. It's too far away for him to see if they're crying, but he's pretty sure they are, and he just wishes he could do something.
"It was Artie," Holly says, coming to stand next to him, her shoulder brushing his. "For me, I mean. I was standing at the whiteboard, getting ready to teach my first math class since... Well, since the last one ended in me getting punched in the face, and Artie wheeled in and took one look at me and just... wheeled himself right back out again. I mean, he came back -- I think he just needed a minute or whatever, but -- I could just tell, you know? That it was hitting him that this was real, that this was really happening, and there was just nothing I could do to make it easier for him. Nothing at all."
"Tell me about it," Will says, and turns away from the choir room, because he knows he's about to reach that point where despair turns into anger, and he's not sure where he wants to be when that happens, but at least he can stay away from Santana and Brittany, who've already been through enough.
Holly keeps step with him, hands in the pockets of her sweater. "I almost didn't come back, you know," she admits, her shoulder bumping up against his again. "Back here. Which might not sound so bad, except... See, Ben and I kind of hit it off, when you were sick and I took over your classes and whatever, and I guess he actually requested me as his sub. Because he thought... I don't know. That I could handle it. That I could take care of his kids for him, while he was gone. And I just... I knew I that I couldn't. I couldn't make this okay for them. No matter how hard I tried."
Will glances over at Holly -- her hair hanging in her face, shoulders slumped. And it's ridiculous -- he knows it's ridiculous -- but he can't help but feel almost... resentful. Not of her, necessarily, and not of Ben Anderson either, because he saw the look on the man's face as he bent over his injured son and you don't forget something like that, you just don't. But he can't help feeling, somehow, that the two of them know something that he doesn't, that there's some kind of secret they're sharing, and he doesn't like that feeling, not one bit. "So why are you here?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice gentle, to not let the anger out.
"Because," she says. "Because none of us can make this okay, not really. Not you, not Principal Sue -- or Coach Sue, or whatever -- not that adorable little redhead in the guidance counselor's office, not Ben..." She sighs. "What happened happened, and we can't take that back, and we can't wish it away. No matter what we try, we're all just... stuck. Trying to deal with it. And so are they." She gestures vaguely back at the choir room. "Brittany and Santana and Artie... And I guess I just figured that even if I couldn't fix it, I could at least be stuck here with everyone else, and maybe that would be something. I don't know. That sounded a lot less fatalistic and depressing in my head."
He almost laughs at that, almost. "Yeah, well," he says. "That's kind of how responsibility works, most of the time. Fatalistic and depressing."
"Seriously?" He wants to think Holly's joking, but the tone of her voice is one of sincere disbelief. "That's a bummer. I was hoping there'd be some kind of... You know, like it sucks, but then it works out, and the kids are all singing, and there's like... sunlight, or something. So it's worth it."
"Sorry," Will says, with a shrug. The truth is, he knows that he'll be looking for that moment too, in another few days. Waiting for everything to make sense. It seems so hopeless right now, like he'll never understand, like it'll never make sense and he'll never know what to do, but... That fades; he knows that much. He'll forget, and then he'll start believing in sunlight and music again. Just like Holly. So it's really not fair for him to dump on her like this, when they're not really that different. "Sorry," he says again. "But there is expensive beer. If you're still interested in that."
Holly's shoulder brushes against his again, a lot more deliberate this time. "Hmm." She smiles at him, just a little bit. "I don't know, though. I've found that where there's expensive beer, there's usually crazy jealous ex-wives, too. And I'm not sure I'm up for that tonight."
Will smiles back, a little ruefully. "Yeah," he says. "No, I... I mean, I'm pretty sure that part's over and done with, but... part of the problem with crazy ex-wives is that they're usually unpredictable, so... no guarantees."
"I'm not asking for a guarantee, Will," Holly replies, her arm grazing his as she walks a little closer. "They're kind of not my thing, you know?" She glances his way again. "So. You're 'pretty sure' no crazy ex-wives are gonna crash our pity party this time?"
"Pretty sure," Will says again, echoing her. This time, he's the one to bump up against her, his fingers brushing the pocket of her sweater, just feeling the shape of her hand still tucked inside. "Is that good enough for you?"
Holly stops in the middle of the hallway, pulls her hands out of her pockets and folds her arms across her chest; Will gets the weirdest feeling that she's scrutinizing him, looking for something. He has no idea what it could possibly be, and doesn't feel confident enough to ask today. "Seven o'clock," she says finally. "Your place. You provide the beer, I'll bring the pizza. And Stand and Deliver, in case we need a good cry."
"Sounds like a plan," Will says. He thinks about reaching out to touch her shoulder, but decides that's probably not the best idea. Instead, he just... walks away.
Holly doesn't follow him this time, but after a few seconds, he hears her calling out. "Hey, Will?" When he turns, she's watching him, arms still folded. "Thanks."
He just blinks at her, a little confused. Because he's not totally sure what just went down between the two of them, but he's pretty sure she helped him, and not the other way around. "You're welcome," he says. "But, um, I'm not sure what you're thanking me for."
Holly just shrugs. "I guess... Thanks for not knowing what you're doing," she says, finally. "I would have felt pretty stupid if it turned out I really was the only clueless one wandering around, so. Thanks."
Will nods. "You're welcome," he says again, and walks away.
*
Thinking is not always the easiest thing to do.
The problem is that there's so much... There's so much stuff, in the world. In the school. In one room, even. Like, she'll be sitting in class trying to think about Spanish, but when she looks up Jacob ben Israel's hair is just sort of... floating there, like it's trying to fly away from his head, and it really is like a cloud, which is cielo in Spanish, which is like Cee-Lo, and how come people use "Fuck you" as an insult when mostly people fuck the people they like, so getting fucked should be a good thing, or at least not awful? Which is why "Forget You" makes way more sense, because Brittany forgets a lot of things sometimes, like her middle name and whether Teddy Roosevelt was a person or a bear, but that's only because those things aren't important enough to be remembered. She never forgets anything that's really important, except for that time she forgot to hide Lord Tubbington's lighter so he couldn't smoke while she was out of the house. And did she hide the lighter today, because she really doesn't want Lord Tubbington to start backsliding again, and also he likes to sleep a lot and everyone knows that if you fall asleep while smoking, you'll burn the house down and die, and she doesn't want him to do that, and his fur makes him highly flammable.
She wonders if Jacob ben Israel's hair is flammable.
She wonders if he smokes, because if his hair is as flammable as it looks, he probably shouldn't.
Didn't Michael Jackson set his hair on fire once?
And then Mr. Schuester asks her a question, but she's still thinking about Michael Jackson, so she says "Pepsi," and he gives her that look again.
And that's the problem with thinking.
So when she has to think about something serious, when she really actually has to think about it, she tries to find someplace quiet to do it, someplace without a lot of stuff. She tried the janitor's closet, but there were too many buckets and gloves and things, and then she found Mr. Kinney's vodka teapot and he got mad. So then she tried the astronomy room, because no one has classes in there anymore and seriously, why do they have astronomy in a Muggle high school; or if they're all witches, why hasn't she gotten to transfigure anything yet? But the astronomy room had all those planets and stars in it, and Brittany likes planets and stars and things, but she can't get over how they're all made of gas, and she's not sure which gas, and is it gas like a car or is it gas like when Puck lights his farts on fire, and could he power a car that way? And so then she had to go under the teacher's desk so she couldn't see the planets or the stars, and then like five different couples came in and made out on top of the desk, and she couldn't leave. And it was kind of fun, listening, because everyone seemed to be having a really good time and she likes it when people are having a good time, but it wasn't exactly easy to think under those sorts of circumstances.
So then she gave up on the astronomy room. And then the girls' bathroom, because way too many people in this school will talk to you while you're pretending to poop. And then the auditorium, because every time she managed to get a really good train of thought going, Rachel would come in and start singing and usually Brittany actually likes hearing Rachel sing (she likes it more than hearing her speak, anyway), but come on.
But the choir room is actually surprisingly good for thinking. Most of the kids at McKinley won't go near it because they think they'll catch gay, and then everyone who doesn't care how much gay they catch would rather go to the auditorium than the choir room, because the choir room doesn't have spotlights. So Brittany can have the whole room to herself, if she wants to. Because she's pretty sure you can't actually catch gay (seriously, that's super dumb, even to her), and even if you could, she probably already has, and as long as it doesn't give her a stuffy nose or a fever, then she's fine with it.
And there's not a lot to get distracted by, in the choir room, except for Brad and the piano and the acoustic tiles and maybe some chairs and Mr. Schue's awful taste in posters, and she's mostly used to those things by now. Sometimes she still thinks about them (mostly when Brad starts moving around), but mostly she doesn't need to. They're just there.
So Brittany can sit, alone and uninterrupted, and just think about things for as long as she needs to, until she's done.
Or she can sit with Santana, with Santana's head in her lap and Santana's ponytail undone, and Santana's hair soft and sliding between her fingers as she rubs Santana's scalp. Which is not necessarily thinking, but sometimes it's just as important.
And the thing about thinking is that sometimes it's totally unnecessary anyways. Sometimes you don't have to think about what you're going to do.
Sometimes you just know.
"You know how, sometimes, I get confused on what day it is?" Brittany asks, keeping her hand moving steadily, petting Santana almost like she's Lord Tubbington, only with longer fur and no lingering smell of smoke.
Santana sighs. "Look, I'm telling you, it's not a big deal. Everyone forgets what day it is sometimes. Hell, I'm pretty sure Mr. Schue is still convinced it's 1997. Seriously, he wore a bolo tie to school the other day. A bolo tie. I thought Hummel was going to strangle him with it."
"Kurt wouldn't strangle anyone," Brittany points out. "He'd think about it, but actually having to do it would make him cry. One of us would have to do it for him."
"Well," Santana says. "That got morbid fast."
Brittany frowns. She's usually pretty good about figuring out words she doesn't know -- she breaks them down into pieces until she finds a piece she knows, and then rebuilds the word from there. And she knows "more," and she knows "bid," but she doesn't understand how either of those things fit into a conversation about Kurt strangling people. "Why are we talking about auctions?" she asks, puzzled.
Another sigh, and Santana resettles herself, so she's more comfortably in Brittany's lap. "That's not what morbid means, Brit," Santana says, reaching up with one hand to pat at Brittany's cheek. "It means... Don't worry about what it means. And don't worry if you don't always remember what day it is. If you have to go to school, I'll call and remind you. I always do. I even did it when we weren't supposed to be talking, remember?"
"I remember," Brittany says, because she does. She remembers every single thing Santana's done for her. She even has them written down in her diary, just in case she forgets. She doesn't want to forget Santana, because Santana is important. But she hasn't, yet, and she doesn't think she will. She doesn't think she could.
"You don't have to call me to tell me what day it is," she adds, because Santana would. She wouldn't do it for just anyone, but she'd do it for Brittany. "Just, if I ask. Don't worry about whether I need to know or whether it's important. Just tell me what day it is. Okay?"
Santana's eyes open; she looks up at Brittany for a long time, and doesn't say anything. "Sure," she says, finally. "Of course." Then she closes her eyes again. "Are you sure Berry's not going to burst in and start singing at us?" she asks. "Because I keep thinking she is, and it's totally harshing my mellow. I'm supposed to be relaxing, not getting all tense."
Santana is about as tense as... as something that isn't tense at all. But Brittany's not going to point it out. "Rachel likes the auditorium," she says. "She likes the homeless guy who lives in the light booth. Apparently he's a good audience. And since he doesn't leave the booth, he's too far away to smell. So she doesn't have to worry about gagging at important points in the song."
"Hmm." And Santana melts back into Brittany's lap, and Brittany keeps stroking Santana's hair, and she doesn't really think about anything.
There's nothing to think about. She already knows just what she's going to do.
(Also, I wanted to let you guys know -- although I started with a nice, healthy amount of chapters written, I've been having some problems with the last few, and it's cut my margin of pre-written chapters considerably. As a matter of fact, it's gotten to the point where I may find myself running out entirely within the next month. If that happens, I will almost certainly have to put the fic on hiatus while I catch up to myself. This is not what I want to to do, and I'm gonna do my damndest to keep that from happening. But if it does, I wanted you guys to know in advance, rather than just springing it on you. I imagine it would probably happen sometime around Chapter 19 -- I think I can get that to a good sort of a "Season Ending" point, so it's not just some sort of awkward cut-off. And then hopefully take a month or so off, get myself comfortably settled in the story's second act, and then resume posting.
(Please remember that this is not a guarantee; I will not absolutely be doing a hiatus. It's just a possibility right now, and I just want you to know in advance that I'm considering it. Okay?)
Pairing/Character(s): Carl Howell, Emma Pillsbury, Tina Cohen-Chang, all the Hudmels, Sue Sylvester, Santana Lopez, Brittany S. Pierce, Will Schuester, Holly Holliday. (All other Glee kids are at least mentioned.)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Brief description of the shooting from Emma's perspective, mentions of police and metal detectors in a school setting.
Word Count: About 6000
Spoilers: Potential spoilers (kind of) for all six seasons of LOST, and up to and through Glee 2X08, "Furt."
Standard-Issue Short-Form Disclaimer: I do not hold copyright to Glee or LOST, I make no claims to such, and I am not profiting from this.
Summary: Sometimes, there is no right thing to do, no way to fix it. Sometimes, the best you can do is make sure that no one's left thinking that they're going through this all alone.
Author's Notes: This is a Glee/LOST AU crossover. Fic is a work in progress, but I do have a substantial backlog of chapters to post while I work on the newest ones. I hope to post once a week, on Sundays, barring fire, flood, corset-related disasters, and/or LJ outages. Previous chapters and supplemental materials can be found on the masterpost.
As always, if I haven't adequately explained any of the LOST stuff, please feel free to leave a comment here and/or pm me. I will answer.
"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Carl asks, for the fifth time that morning, and Emma suppresses a sigh. "You don't have to do this, Emma."
She adjusts the placement of her sandwich in the lunchbox, not because she necessarily feels the need to do so, but because it gives her a reason not to look at him. Which she should feel awful about, really; she should want to look at Carl. She loves Carl. But right now, she doesn't feel the need to impress him, to be what he expects her to be. She doesn't care if he's unhappy with her, any more than she cares about what happens if her apple comes dislodged from its position in her lunchbox and smashes her sandwich. There are more important things now.
Like Brittany, crouched in a corner of the empty math classroom, clinging to Artie's wheelchair to hold herself up. Like Mike Chang's wide, frightened eyes and the way Tina shook as she stood just behind his shoulder, her hand wrapping around his arm so tightly that her knuckles were white. Like the weird, strangled sound Artie made when they heard footsteps pounding towards the room where they were hidden, the sound she's never heard anyone make before and never wants to hear anyone make again. Those are the things that matter now.
Maybe they won't matter forever, but right now, they're all there is.
"Carl," she says, closing her lunchbox and finally letting herself turn around. It's strange, the way she sounds like she's the calm one. She's not used to sounding like the calm one; in fact, some days she feels like she's constantly on the verge of screaming and the only way to keep calm is to find something she can clean, something she can fix. And yet, here she is. "I do have to do this. Kurt Hummel and Santana Lopez were held at gunpoint by one of their classmates yesterday. They saw a boy get shot right in front of them. They're traumatized. Their friends are traumatized. The other kids in the school, the ones who heard the gunshots, heard the shouting, and didn't know what was happening or if they were going to be all right; those kids are traumatized too. They're going to need someone to talk to. Someone who'll listen to them. That's my job, Carl. I mean, literally. That is literally my job."
"But what about you?" Carl asks, folding his arms. There's something unhappy about him; Emma's not sure what it is, and she's not really sure that she likes it. He's supposed to be the one who understands things, or at least the one who accepts them. It doesn't make sense that he's fighting this. "You were in that building, too. Aren't you... I mean, come on, Em. No offense, but you freak out when I get ketchup on the counter. I don't understand how you're being so... so calm, all of a sudden. I mean, unless you're in shock, and if you're in shock, then I just really don't think you should be at that school right now. I know you want to help, but... "
Emma blinks at him, a little taken aback. Because it was different for her than it was for them; that's the whole point. Because she was the one who went to the door when the police started pounding on it, demanding to be let in. She was the one who asked to see their badges, the one who waited until she was sure, the one who took charge of the situation. Because she was the one who knew what to do and how to do it. That's why she was in that room -- not so the children could protect her, but so she could protect them. It was different, for her, because it had to be.
And it still does. And it still is. And she's not sure why that bothers Carl so much, but it obviously does, and she kind of resents him a little for that. For not accepting this side of her the way he's accepted everything else.
"I have to go, Carl," she says, picking up her lunchbox and heading for the door. "Have a good day, okay?"
"Em," Carl says, reaching out for her arm; she shrugs him off as delicately as she can. "Em, come on..."
He follows her out to the door, watches her get into her car and back out of the driveway. When she glances back at him, his eyes are wide and sad, like she's hurt him somehow, just by doing her job.
It stings, a little bit, but she ignores it.
He'll get over it, and even if he doesn't, she has more important things to think about right now.
*
There's a man with a metal detector standing at the entrance to the school, and Kurt feels a tiny twinge of relief when he thinks of all the outfits he could've worn today, but didn't. He's used to being noticed -- he did wear replica Alexander McQueen armadillo shoes to school for a week -- but there's a difference between being noticed for his bold fashion choices and being noticed for setting off the school's brand-new security system. And the denim shirt with the asymmetrical studded collar, the safety-pin pants... there's no way he would make it through the metal detector in those. He's safer in this, the gray cardigan and the loose-fitting jeans, no brooches, no boots, no accessories. Nothing to catch anyone's eye, nothing to call attention to himself.
Not that it really matters, of course. Everyone's already staring.
He hasn't said anything about what happened in the home ec room -- not to Mercedes, not to Finn, not to anyone who isn't carrying a badge and a sidearm and he's pretty sure they're not releasing the details just yet -- and he's almost certain that Santana's keeping the same silence, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that he was there, that Karofsky was coming after him, and everyone at McKinley knows at least that much. He can see it in the way they look at him -- not quick glances, the way they used to when he'd come in wearing a fox fur tail or a black leather harness and everyone wanted to see but no one wanted to get caught looking -- but just... Staring. And staring. And staring, until Kurt can't keep his head up anymore, can't face them; it takes everything he has not to turn and run out of the building again. The only thing that keeps him moving is Finn's hand on his shoulder, Carole's hand wrapped around his, his father looming protectively behind them. His family.
It's weird, after all this time, to suddenly have a family. He's grateful; at least, he thinks he's grateful, or he will be grateful at some point in the very near future. Right now, it's hard to feel anything beyond a certain sort of numbed fear. It's like everything he felt yesterday -- the guilt, the grief, the sheer blind terror of it all, even the stunning relief of being able to press his cheek against Blaine's chest and feel the steady rise and fall of Blaine's breathing and the warm strength of Blaine's arms wrapped around him -- all of it has just wiped out him out and there's nothing left but echoes, a dull awareness of the things he would be feeling right now, if he could feel them. If he was capable of feeling.
But he must be capable of feeling something, because his heartbeat picks up a little bit when he hears Tina call his name. Because, when he lifts his head up and sees her flying towards him, a black-clad blur with her hair flying out behind her, his eyes prickle with tears, and his breath catches when they collide, Tina's arms wrapping around him and her weight knocking him back on his heels. Finn has to steady him to keep him from falling over, and he hears his dad say, "Easy there, kiddo," but Tina doesn't let go for a second. He's not sure she could if she wanted to, given that he's holding her just as tightly as she's holding him.
"We were so scared," she says, her voice shaky and her words coming faster than he's ever heard them, "because we heard it, Kurt, we heard the -- the shooting, but we didn't know, but then Mr. Anderson said he had to find his son and I knew that if he was here, then he was with you, and I was... I was so scared, Kurt. I was so scared."
"I know," Kurt says, pressing his cheek to her hair and rubbing her back, and it feels weird to be comforting someone else after what's happened to him, but it also feels... blessedly normal, in a way. Like he's still himself, like he can still take care of things the way he always has. Like this isn't going to break him. "I know. I was scared, too."
"And I just thought... I was just so scared that you would be..." She buries her face in his shoulder and squeezes him even tighter. "I'm just so glad that you're okay, Kurt. You're okay."
Kurt swallows, because he's not entirely sure that that's true, but then he guesses it's true enough. At least, he could be so much worse right now, and he knows that, and he's grateful for it. "I am," he says, trying to sound steadier than he feels. "I'm okay, Tina. It's okay now."
She whimpers a little at that, and clutches him tighter, and he wishes he could just stay here like this for a little while, with her. But then he hears his dad clearing his throat behind them, and he realizes that he can't. So he pulls back, gently disentangling himself from Tina's arms but leaving his hands on her shoulders. "I'm okay," he says again, and even if it's not totally true, he can't regret saying it. Not when she looks up at him and gives him a tentative, tremulous sort of smile. "I'm okay."
"Look," his dad says, a little awkwardly, and reaches around Kurt to pat Tina on the shoulder. "I hate to do this, but we gotta borrow Kurt for a little longer, okay? Just for a little bit, and we'll bring him right back, and you can... You can talk all you need to. Or whatever. Okay?"
Tina looks up at him, bites her lower lip, nods quickly. "Okay," she says, her voice small and choked.
Kurt's dad sighs, drawing back. "Okay," he says, his voice kind of gruff, the way it usually gets right before he pulls Kurt in for a hug. But he doesn't hug anyone, just adjusts his baseball cap and sighs again. "Finn, how about you stay here with --"
"Tina," Finn says, quietly; there's a beat, and then Finn shakes his head. "Can't I just -- I mean, I know I'm not his brother brother, not yet, but can't I just --"
Carole sighs, tipping her head to the side. "Sorry, honey, but I'm not even sure Principal Sue's going to let me in," she says, reaching out to rub Finn's shoulder. "It's the students and their parents only. No one else."
"But --" Finn protests, and Kurt reaches back to lay a hand on Finn's arm, because maybe they aren't brother brothers, but he gets that Finn is scared right now; he understands that much at least.
"It's okay, Finn," he says. "She probably just wants to talk about..." He waves his hand back in the general direction of the door. "Security, or whatever. So Santana and I feel... Feel safe here again."
His dad makes a quiet, scoffing noise behind his back; Kurt pretends to ignore him.
"It's fine," he says, and pats Finn's arm again, and Finn nods and steps back.
"We'll be right back," Carole says, smiling bravely at Finn and Tina. Then her hand is wrapped around Kurt's, and Kurt's dad puts his hand on his shoulder, and the three of them set off down the hall again, Tina and Finn watching them go.
Of course, everyone is watching them go. Everyone is watching him, watching Kurt.
He always knew that certain sorts of attention were awful, but he'd never realized that it could be this bad before.
But he keeps his head up, and holds tight to Carole's hand, and lets his family block the stares as he walks down the hall.
*
She watches Kurt and Santana walk out of the office (not her office, not anymore), their parents following protectively close behind them, and she thinks that this is what failure tastes like, this sourness at the back of her mouth. Maybe it's not failure -- maybe it's just all those dead skin cells she's inhaling every time she breathes -- but she's pretty sure it is.
She failed. These kids needed her to look out for them, to protect them, and she failed.
"Sometimes," Emma says, still hovering behind Sue's right shoulder, the way she's been since before the Hummels and Lopezes walked into the office, red-eyed children and nervous parents standing guard, "in movies, when something awful happens, one person puts their hand on another person's shoulder. I've always thought that looked like it might be comforting."
It's an offer, and while Sue doesn't usually take offers of comfort from bug-eyed marsupials, she's feeling remarkably short on pride today. Which, considering what her pride has lead her to lately, is probably for the best. "I have my tracksuits specially treated at the drycleaners," she says, quietly. "There's this... It's Swiss; you wouldn't understand. But believe me when I say that absolutely nothing, no bacteria, no viruses, no germs of any kind, can survive on this tracksuit. If that helps you make your mind up at all."
Emma's hand hovers just over Sue's shoulder for a moment, then settles. It's a light pressure, but it really does seem to help.
"I'm not going to tell you that you're doing the right thing," Emma adds, after a few seconds. "Because I honestly have no idea what the right thing is, if there even is one. There may not be. There isn't, always. So... Do what you have to."
Sue swallows hard, and Emma squeezes her shoulder; not much, just a little bit.
The truth is, she knows that it's not really up to her. Even if she'd made her mind up to stay in this office, dead skin cells and all, the school board is probably already howling for blood. She'd be out by the end of the day no matter what. At least this way, she'll be out on her own terms.
But it's not just about that.
"He would have been in the weight room," Sue explains, folding her hands on the desk. "If I hadn't kicked him off the football team, that's where he would have been. In the weight room, with the Beiste keeping an eye on him. But I wanted to change things at this school; I wanted his actions to have consequences. Real consequences." She almost laughs; she would, if it were actually funny. But it's not. Of course it's not. "Careful what you wish for, right?"
Emma doesn't say anything to that. But that's probably because there's nothing to say.
Sue takes a deep breath and straightens in her chair, and as soon as she does, Emma's hand is gone. Sue misses it immediately, but of course, she can't admit that.
"All right," she says, pushing her chair back and standing up. "I'm ready. Let's go."
*
The rest of the Glee kids are crowded around Kurt's locker, whispering and hugging and nodding solemnly and watching each other with wide eyes, and Santana knows damn well that she should be over there with them, letting them try to comfort her the way they're trying (and probably failing) to comfort Kurt. Because that's what they do, the Glee kids -- they stand up in front of the group, week after week, and let themselves bleed all over the place, and let themselves fall apart, and let everyone else come and put them back together. Santana's seen them do it. Hell, she's thought about doing it herself, once or twice. She's thinking about it now.
But she's not ready. She's just... she's not ready.
So she leans against her locker, and watches Mercedes wrap her arm around Kurt's shoulder, watches Finn hovering behind the two of them with this look on his face like he's trying to figure out some kind of really hard math problem (which, for him, is probably 2 + 2 = 4), watches Puck punch one fist relentlessly into the open palm of his other hand like he's pretending it's Karofsky he's hitting, watches him subside when Sam cuffs him in the shoulder. She watches Tina lean more and more into Mike, watches Rachel hover nervously by Finn's side like she wants to do the same but is suddenly afraid to; she watches Quinn, standing a little apart. She watches Artie, who keeps glancing back at her over his shoulder.
And she watches Brittany bend down to whisper something in Artie's ear. She watches her straighten up and move in to hug Kurt, wrapping long arms around him. She watches Brittany let go of Kurt, watches her turn and push her way out of the group.
She drops her eyes as soon as she realizes where Brittany's going.
Not that it really matters, because it only takes about ten seconds before Brittany's hand is reaching out for hers
"Come on," Brittany says, reaching up with her free hand to brush back a stray bit of hair that's escaped Santana's (admittedly pretty sloppy) ponytail. "I know where we can go."
There are at least fifty really good comebacks for a sentence like that. Maybe more.
Santana doesn't bother with any of them; she just lets Brittany lead her down the hall.
She does look back once, just once, at the comfort orgy that's still going on without her; she looks back over her shoulder and sees Kurt watching her.
He nods.
She nods back, and then drops her eyes again and lets Brittany lead her.
*
He watches Brittany pull Santana into the choir room, and wonders if he should go in after them. If he should do something, say something --
But he doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know if there's anything he can say that will make this easier for them, that will fix this. He thinks, maybe, there's just... nothing.
He's not used to feeling like this around his kids. They've been through so much together -- the slushies, the bullies, the constant in-fighting, all the relationship drama. Sue's schemes, Rachel's egging at the hands of her ex-boyfriend and the rest of Vocal Adrenaline, Quinn's pregnancy and all that came with it; they got through it together, and he helped them, or at least he tried. He never doubted that; no matter what happened, he would be able to do something to help make it right.
And then he stood, frozen in the doorway of the home ec room, with that Dalton boy bleeding on the floor and Kurt bending over him, trying to stop the blood with his own two hands, and David Karofsky slumped against the wall with his nose broken and even more blood streaming down his face, and Santana clutching that gun, absolutely terrified, and there was just...
There was nothing. Absolutely nothing he could do.
"Sucks, doesn't it?" a voice asks from behind him, and he turns to see Holly, dressed down in a black sweater too big for her thin frame, black pants. Like she's in mourning. "Feeling helpless."
"Yeah," Will says, quietly, and turns back to the choir room. Brittany has her arms wrapped around Santana, her cheek pressed to Santana's hair. It's too far away for him to see if they're crying, but he's pretty sure they are, and he just wishes he could do something.
"It was Artie," Holly says, coming to stand next to him, her shoulder brushing his. "For me, I mean. I was standing at the whiteboard, getting ready to teach my first math class since... Well, since the last one ended in me getting punched in the face, and Artie wheeled in and took one look at me and just... wheeled himself right back out again. I mean, he came back -- I think he just needed a minute or whatever, but -- I could just tell, you know? That it was hitting him that this was real, that this was really happening, and there was just nothing I could do to make it easier for him. Nothing at all."
"Tell me about it," Will says, and turns away from the choir room, because he knows he's about to reach that point where despair turns into anger, and he's not sure where he wants to be when that happens, but at least he can stay away from Santana and Brittany, who've already been through enough.
Holly keeps step with him, hands in the pockets of her sweater. "I almost didn't come back, you know," she admits, her shoulder bumping up against his again. "Back here. Which might not sound so bad, except... See, Ben and I kind of hit it off, when you were sick and I took over your classes and whatever, and I guess he actually requested me as his sub. Because he thought... I don't know. That I could handle it. That I could take care of his kids for him, while he was gone. And I just... I knew I that I couldn't. I couldn't make this okay for them. No matter how hard I tried."
Will glances over at Holly -- her hair hanging in her face, shoulders slumped. And it's ridiculous -- he knows it's ridiculous -- but he can't help but feel almost... resentful. Not of her, necessarily, and not of Ben Anderson either, because he saw the look on the man's face as he bent over his injured son and you don't forget something like that, you just don't. But he can't help feeling, somehow, that the two of them know something that he doesn't, that there's some kind of secret they're sharing, and he doesn't like that feeling, not one bit. "So why are you here?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice gentle, to not let the anger out.
"Because," she says. "Because none of us can make this okay, not really. Not you, not Principal Sue -- or Coach Sue, or whatever -- not that adorable little redhead in the guidance counselor's office, not Ben..." She sighs. "What happened happened, and we can't take that back, and we can't wish it away. No matter what we try, we're all just... stuck. Trying to deal with it. And so are they." She gestures vaguely back at the choir room. "Brittany and Santana and Artie... And I guess I just figured that even if I couldn't fix it, I could at least be stuck here with everyone else, and maybe that would be something. I don't know. That sounded a lot less fatalistic and depressing in my head."
He almost laughs at that, almost. "Yeah, well," he says. "That's kind of how responsibility works, most of the time. Fatalistic and depressing."
"Seriously?" He wants to think Holly's joking, but the tone of her voice is one of sincere disbelief. "That's a bummer. I was hoping there'd be some kind of... You know, like it sucks, but then it works out, and the kids are all singing, and there's like... sunlight, or something. So it's worth it."
"Sorry," Will says, with a shrug. The truth is, he knows that he'll be looking for that moment too, in another few days. Waiting for everything to make sense. It seems so hopeless right now, like he'll never understand, like it'll never make sense and he'll never know what to do, but... That fades; he knows that much. He'll forget, and then he'll start believing in sunlight and music again. Just like Holly. So it's really not fair for him to dump on her like this, when they're not really that different. "Sorry," he says again. "But there is expensive beer. If you're still interested in that."
Holly's shoulder brushes against his again, a lot more deliberate this time. "Hmm." She smiles at him, just a little bit. "I don't know, though. I've found that where there's expensive beer, there's usually crazy jealous ex-wives, too. And I'm not sure I'm up for that tonight."
Will smiles back, a little ruefully. "Yeah," he says. "No, I... I mean, I'm pretty sure that part's over and done with, but... part of the problem with crazy ex-wives is that they're usually unpredictable, so... no guarantees."
"I'm not asking for a guarantee, Will," Holly replies, her arm grazing his as she walks a little closer. "They're kind of not my thing, you know?" She glances his way again. "So. You're 'pretty sure' no crazy ex-wives are gonna crash our pity party this time?"
"Pretty sure," Will says again, echoing her. This time, he's the one to bump up against her, his fingers brushing the pocket of her sweater, just feeling the shape of her hand still tucked inside. "Is that good enough for you?"
Holly stops in the middle of the hallway, pulls her hands out of her pockets and folds her arms across her chest; Will gets the weirdest feeling that she's scrutinizing him, looking for something. He has no idea what it could possibly be, and doesn't feel confident enough to ask today. "Seven o'clock," she says finally. "Your place. You provide the beer, I'll bring the pizza. And Stand and Deliver, in case we need a good cry."
"Sounds like a plan," Will says. He thinks about reaching out to touch her shoulder, but decides that's probably not the best idea. Instead, he just... walks away.
Holly doesn't follow him this time, but after a few seconds, he hears her calling out. "Hey, Will?" When he turns, she's watching him, arms still folded. "Thanks."
He just blinks at her, a little confused. Because he's not totally sure what just went down between the two of them, but he's pretty sure she helped him, and not the other way around. "You're welcome," he says. "But, um, I'm not sure what you're thanking me for."
Holly just shrugs. "I guess... Thanks for not knowing what you're doing," she says, finally. "I would have felt pretty stupid if it turned out I really was the only clueless one wandering around, so. Thanks."
Will nods. "You're welcome," he says again, and walks away.
*
Thinking is not always the easiest thing to do.
The problem is that there's so much... There's so much stuff, in the world. In the school. In one room, even. Like, she'll be sitting in class trying to think about Spanish, but when she looks up Jacob ben Israel's hair is just sort of... floating there, like it's trying to fly away from his head, and it really is like a cloud, which is cielo in Spanish, which is like Cee-Lo, and how come people use "Fuck you" as an insult when mostly people fuck the people they like, so getting fucked should be a good thing, or at least not awful? Which is why "Forget You" makes way more sense, because Brittany forgets a lot of things sometimes, like her middle name and whether Teddy Roosevelt was a person or a bear, but that's only because those things aren't important enough to be remembered. She never forgets anything that's really important, except for that time she forgot to hide Lord Tubbington's lighter so he couldn't smoke while she was out of the house. And did she hide the lighter today, because she really doesn't want Lord Tubbington to start backsliding again, and also he likes to sleep a lot and everyone knows that if you fall asleep while smoking, you'll burn the house down and die, and she doesn't want him to do that, and his fur makes him highly flammable.
She wonders if Jacob ben Israel's hair is flammable.
She wonders if he smokes, because if his hair is as flammable as it looks, he probably shouldn't.
Didn't Michael Jackson set his hair on fire once?
And then Mr. Schuester asks her a question, but she's still thinking about Michael Jackson, so she says "Pepsi," and he gives her that look again.
And that's the problem with thinking.
So when she has to think about something serious, when she really actually has to think about it, she tries to find someplace quiet to do it, someplace without a lot of stuff. She tried the janitor's closet, but there were too many buckets and gloves and things, and then she found Mr. Kinney's vodka teapot and he got mad. So then she tried the astronomy room, because no one has classes in there anymore and seriously, why do they have astronomy in a Muggle high school; or if they're all witches, why hasn't she gotten to transfigure anything yet? But the astronomy room had all those planets and stars in it, and Brittany likes planets and stars and things, but she can't get over how they're all made of gas, and she's not sure which gas, and is it gas like a car or is it gas like when Puck lights his farts on fire, and could he power a car that way? And so then she had to go under the teacher's desk so she couldn't see the planets or the stars, and then like five different couples came in and made out on top of the desk, and she couldn't leave. And it was kind of fun, listening, because everyone seemed to be having a really good time and she likes it when people are having a good time, but it wasn't exactly easy to think under those sorts of circumstances.
So then she gave up on the astronomy room. And then the girls' bathroom, because way too many people in this school will talk to you while you're pretending to poop. And then the auditorium, because every time she managed to get a really good train of thought going, Rachel would come in and start singing and usually Brittany actually likes hearing Rachel sing (she likes it more than hearing her speak, anyway), but come on.
But the choir room is actually surprisingly good for thinking. Most of the kids at McKinley won't go near it because they think they'll catch gay, and then everyone who doesn't care how much gay they catch would rather go to the auditorium than the choir room, because the choir room doesn't have spotlights. So Brittany can have the whole room to herself, if she wants to. Because she's pretty sure you can't actually catch gay (seriously, that's super dumb, even to her), and even if you could, she probably already has, and as long as it doesn't give her a stuffy nose or a fever, then she's fine with it.
And there's not a lot to get distracted by, in the choir room, except for Brad and the piano and the acoustic tiles and maybe some chairs and Mr. Schue's awful taste in posters, and she's mostly used to those things by now. Sometimes she still thinks about them (mostly when Brad starts moving around), but mostly she doesn't need to. They're just there.
So Brittany can sit, alone and uninterrupted, and just think about things for as long as she needs to, until she's done.
Or she can sit with Santana, with Santana's head in her lap and Santana's ponytail undone, and Santana's hair soft and sliding between her fingers as she rubs Santana's scalp. Which is not necessarily thinking, but sometimes it's just as important.
And the thing about thinking is that sometimes it's totally unnecessary anyways. Sometimes you don't have to think about what you're going to do.
Sometimes you just know.
"You know how, sometimes, I get confused on what day it is?" Brittany asks, keeping her hand moving steadily, petting Santana almost like she's Lord Tubbington, only with longer fur and no lingering smell of smoke.
Santana sighs. "Look, I'm telling you, it's not a big deal. Everyone forgets what day it is sometimes. Hell, I'm pretty sure Mr. Schue is still convinced it's 1997. Seriously, he wore a bolo tie to school the other day. A bolo tie. I thought Hummel was going to strangle him with it."
"Kurt wouldn't strangle anyone," Brittany points out. "He'd think about it, but actually having to do it would make him cry. One of us would have to do it for him."
"Well," Santana says. "That got morbid fast."
Brittany frowns. She's usually pretty good about figuring out words she doesn't know -- she breaks them down into pieces until she finds a piece she knows, and then rebuilds the word from there. And she knows "more," and she knows "bid," but she doesn't understand how either of those things fit into a conversation about Kurt strangling people. "Why are we talking about auctions?" she asks, puzzled.
Another sigh, and Santana resettles herself, so she's more comfortably in Brittany's lap. "That's not what morbid means, Brit," Santana says, reaching up with one hand to pat at Brittany's cheek. "It means... Don't worry about what it means. And don't worry if you don't always remember what day it is. If you have to go to school, I'll call and remind you. I always do. I even did it when we weren't supposed to be talking, remember?"
"I remember," Brittany says, because she does. She remembers every single thing Santana's done for her. She even has them written down in her diary, just in case she forgets. She doesn't want to forget Santana, because Santana is important. But she hasn't, yet, and she doesn't think she will. She doesn't think she could.
"You don't have to call me to tell me what day it is," she adds, because Santana would. She wouldn't do it for just anyone, but she'd do it for Brittany. "Just, if I ask. Don't worry about whether I need to know or whether it's important. Just tell me what day it is. Okay?"
Santana's eyes open; she looks up at Brittany for a long time, and doesn't say anything. "Sure," she says, finally. "Of course." Then she closes her eyes again. "Are you sure Berry's not going to burst in and start singing at us?" she asks. "Because I keep thinking she is, and it's totally harshing my mellow. I'm supposed to be relaxing, not getting all tense."
Santana is about as tense as... as something that isn't tense at all. But Brittany's not going to point it out. "Rachel likes the auditorium," she says. "She likes the homeless guy who lives in the light booth. Apparently he's a good audience. And since he doesn't leave the booth, he's too far away to smell. So she doesn't have to worry about gagging at important points in the song."
"Hmm." And Santana melts back into Brittany's lap, and Brittany keeps stroking Santana's hair, and she doesn't really think about anything.
There's nothing to think about. She already knows just what she's going to do.
(Also, I wanted to let you guys know -- although I started with a nice, healthy amount of chapters written, I've been having some problems with the last few, and it's cut my margin of pre-written chapters considerably. As a matter of fact, it's gotten to the point where I may find myself running out entirely within the next month. If that happens, I will almost certainly have to put the fic on hiatus while I catch up to myself. This is not what I want to to do, and I'm gonna do my damndest to keep that from happening. But if it does, I wanted you guys to know in advance, rather than just springing it on you. I imagine it would probably happen sometime around Chapter 19 -- I think I can get that to a good sort of a "Season Ending" point, so it's not just some sort of awkward cut-off. And then hopefully take a month or so off, get myself comfortably settled in the story's second act, and then resume posting.
(Please remember that this is not a guarantee; I will not absolutely be doing a hiatus. It's just a possibility right now, and I just want you to know in advance that I'm considering it. Okay?)