All You Really Need (Are A Few Good Friends)
Title: All You Really Need (Are A Few Good Friends)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Quinn Fabray friendship, side (ever-present) Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None, really.
Summary: It's not exactly a little known fact that Santana hates cats.
A/N: Title from The Format's "The First Single."
It’s really hard to be friends with Brittany when you don’t like cats. Which sort of goes without saying, but Santana feels the need to say it anyway. Cats? Not her thing. In fact, domestic animals of any variety sort of get under her skin in a bad way. They’re fluffy. Santana doesn’t do fluffy.
Now, if Brittany chose to keep a komodo dragon in her room? Things might be a little different.
But as it is, Britt is a cat person. And Santana is Britt’s person. Which sort of means Santana has to be a cat person, too-at least within the confines of the Pierce household.
She wishes they’d just hang out at her place. Except for the part where her house is full of rampaging boys and Spanish expletives from her mother each and every time a vase or pot of water falls, and-okay, yeah, the Pierce house is much nicer. Hairballs notwithstanding.
She talks to Quinn about it sometimes, mostly because Quinn is actually allergic to cats and therefore completely gets where she’s coming from. It’s just about the only thing they agree on most of the time-or ever, come to think of it; their friendship seems to be making less and less sense with each passing month.
The saving grace is, Quinn hates cats with a fiery vengeance. Santana appreciates this quality.
“He slept on my face again,” she complains, tossing her books so violently into her locker that they nearly bounce back out again. Quinn wrinkles her nose.
“That thing has to weigh, like, thirty-five pounds.”
“Fifty,” Santana corrects morosely. “And his hair is so fucking long. I don’t know why I can’t convince her to make him sleep outside.”
“Her parents probably don’t want to deal with him, either,” Quinn muses. “It can’t be easy to breathe with all that fuzz in your mouth. Maybe there have been near-death incidents.”
“Yeah, sure-mine.” Santana shakes her head, slamming the door shut and swirling the lock mindlessly. “I swear to God, I’m going to chuck him out the window next time.”
“No, you won’t.” Quinn grins. “Want to know why?”
“Fabray, if you even think about saying it-“
Ignoring her, Quinn makes a whip-cracking noise and lifts an eyebrow. Santana growls.
“If I knew you’d be such a bitch about it, I never would have told you.”
“Told me?” Quinn repeats. “Honey, you couldn’t have kept that hidden if you were facing down a firing squad. You practically radiate the gay.”
“Like you’re much better?” Santana sneers. “You spend so much time staring at Berry, I have to wonder if you’ve got a shrine to her legs built in your fucking closet.”
Nothing is more satisfying than watching Quinn’s cheeks go bright pink. “Shut up. She’s a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah,” Santana mock-croons. “Your pain in the ass. It’s so cute, I might just have to make up a card for you both.”
“Says the girl who made me throw her damn coming out party.” Quinn rolls her eyes, tapping her nails against the locker door. “You know how much of a heart attack that nearly gave my mom?”
“She was just excited,” Santana replies dismissively. Which is probably not even a little bit true, but Santana cares more about the fact that Quinn was open to throwing said party-in the literal sense; it involved a little less booze than she would have preferred, but Tina and Kurt brought cake and Sam gave her a “Welcome to the World Outside the Closet” present, so she was pleased enough-in the first place. If anything, Quinn was the scariest person in the world to think about coming out to, being all Christian and repressed. The fact that she didn’t give even half a shit about who Santana really is was a huge load off.
And kind of touching. If they did that sort of lovey-dovey crap.
“So?” Quinn asks, leading the way towards the parking lot. Santana hurries to keep up, irritated at the idea of being anyone’s follower. “What are you going to do?”
“About you and Berry?”
“About Brittany,” Quinn snarls through clenched teeth. Santana bats her eyelashes.
“Oh, right. Do you think she loves me enough to look the other way when I throw Tubbington into traffic?”
Quinn purses her lips, clearly fighting a smile. “Not even close.”
“Goddamn.” The word always brings a gratifying purplish blush to Quinn’s face. It makes up for the fact that Santana knows she’s right. “Guess I’ll just have to pray to every god I’ve ever heard of that tonight it’s my last night on earth, then. But seriously, if Fatass managed to smother me, Brittany would totally get rid of him, right? She’d kick his tubby butt to the animal shelter curb?”
“Not a chance,” Quinn replies calmly. Santana scowls and kicks out at a rock.
“Fuck. Why is this my life?”
“Because, Santana Lopez,” Quinn laughs, doing a remarkable impression of some scary-ass chick they watched run cons at the bus stop last week, “you fell in love with the biggest cat lover in Ohio. Bad call on your part.”
“Yeah, but she can also fit her legs over her head,” Santana counters, grinning when Quinn ducks her head and pushes her fingers into her ears. “That’s gotta count for something. Flexible girls, I’m telling you, they’re the best.”
“La la la! No, absolutely not, Santana. I am not listening to your sexcapades.”
“Again,” Santana reminds her. Quinn groans.
“Get your ass into your car and go see your girlfriend. And leave me out of it.”
“Never, Sweet-Ass,” Santana chimes sweetly. “You’re always in it. Perk of bein’ my friend.”
“Is that what I am?” She clicks the unlock button on her keychain, shaking her head. “My karma must be off the charts.”
Santana laughs. “Would it make you feel better if I told you we sometimes scream your name for the hell of it-“
“No!” Quinn shudders. “Go home, Lopez. Fight well, stand brave, don’t inhale too much dander. Call me if you die.”
“Can I borrow a sword?” Santana calls after her, amused when Quinn honks twice and speeds off. She shakes her head. Quinn may be a bitch, but she’s at least her bitch when it counts. The day’s always just a little bit brighter when she gets a banter session in.
Especially when she has another mêlée scheduled with the heavyweight champion of the feline district in half an hour.
At least Brittany rewards her pretty damn well for her battle wounds.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Quinn Fabray friendship, side (ever-present) Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None, really.
Summary: It's not exactly a little known fact that Santana hates cats.
A/N: Title from The Format's "The First Single."
It’s really hard to be friends with Brittany when you don’t like cats. Which sort of goes without saying, but Santana feels the need to say it anyway. Cats? Not her thing. In fact, domestic animals of any variety sort of get under her skin in a bad way. They’re fluffy. Santana doesn’t do fluffy.
Now, if Brittany chose to keep a komodo dragon in her room? Things might be a little different.
But as it is, Britt is a cat person. And Santana is Britt’s person. Which sort of means Santana has to be a cat person, too-at least within the confines of the Pierce household.
She wishes they’d just hang out at her place. Except for the part where her house is full of rampaging boys and Spanish expletives from her mother each and every time a vase or pot of water falls, and-okay, yeah, the Pierce house is much nicer. Hairballs notwithstanding.
She talks to Quinn about it sometimes, mostly because Quinn is actually allergic to cats and therefore completely gets where she’s coming from. It’s just about the only thing they agree on most of the time-or ever, come to think of it; their friendship seems to be making less and less sense with each passing month.
The saving grace is, Quinn hates cats with a fiery vengeance. Santana appreciates this quality.
“He slept on my face again,” she complains, tossing her books so violently into her locker that they nearly bounce back out again. Quinn wrinkles her nose.
“That thing has to weigh, like, thirty-five pounds.”
“Fifty,” Santana corrects morosely. “And his hair is so fucking long. I don’t know why I can’t convince her to make him sleep outside.”
“Her parents probably don’t want to deal with him, either,” Quinn muses. “It can’t be easy to breathe with all that fuzz in your mouth. Maybe there have been near-death incidents.”
“Yeah, sure-mine.” Santana shakes her head, slamming the door shut and swirling the lock mindlessly. “I swear to God, I’m going to chuck him out the window next time.”
“No, you won’t.” Quinn grins. “Want to know why?”
“Fabray, if you even think about saying it-“
Ignoring her, Quinn makes a whip-cracking noise and lifts an eyebrow. Santana growls.
“If I knew you’d be such a bitch about it, I never would have told you.”
“Told me?” Quinn repeats. “Honey, you couldn’t have kept that hidden if you were facing down a firing squad. You practically radiate the gay.”
“Like you’re much better?” Santana sneers. “You spend so much time staring at Berry, I have to wonder if you’ve got a shrine to her legs built in your fucking closet.”
Nothing is more satisfying than watching Quinn’s cheeks go bright pink. “Shut up. She’s a pain in the ass.”
“Yeah,” Santana mock-croons. “Your pain in the ass. It’s so cute, I might just have to make up a card for you both.”
“Says the girl who made me throw her damn coming out party.” Quinn rolls her eyes, tapping her nails against the locker door. “You know how much of a heart attack that nearly gave my mom?”
“She was just excited,” Santana replies dismissively. Which is probably not even a little bit true, but Santana cares more about the fact that Quinn was open to throwing said party-in the literal sense; it involved a little less booze than she would have preferred, but Tina and Kurt brought cake and Sam gave her a “Welcome to the World Outside the Closet” present, so she was pleased enough-in the first place. If anything, Quinn was the scariest person in the world to think about coming out to, being all Christian and repressed. The fact that she didn’t give even half a shit about who Santana really is was a huge load off.
And kind of touching. If they did that sort of lovey-dovey crap.
“So?” Quinn asks, leading the way towards the parking lot. Santana hurries to keep up, irritated at the idea of being anyone’s follower. “What are you going to do?”
“About you and Berry?”
“About Brittany,” Quinn snarls through clenched teeth. Santana bats her eyelashes.
“Oh, right. Do you think she loves me enough to look the other way when I throw Tubbington into traffic?”
Quinn purses her lips, clearly fighting a smile. “Not even close.”
“Goddamn.” The word always brings a gratifying purplish blush to Quinn’s face. It makes up for the fact that Santana knows she’s right. “Guess I’ll just have to pray to every god I’ve ever heard of that tonight it’s my last night on earth, then. But seriously, if Fatass managed to smother me, Brittany would totally get rid of him, right? She’d kick his tubby butt to the animal shelter curb?”
“Not a chance,” Quinn replies calmly. Santana scowls and kicks out at a rock.
“Fuck. Why is this my life?”
“Because, Santana Lopez,” Quinn laughs, doing a remarkable impression of some scary-ass chick they watched run cons at the bus stop last week, “you fell in love with the biggest cat lover in Ohio. Bad call on your part.”
“Yeah, but she can also fit her legs over her head,” Santana counters, grinning when Quinn ducks her head and pushes her fingers into her ears. “That’s gotta count for something. Flexible girls, I’m telling you, they’re the best.”
“La la la! No, absolutely not, Santana. I am not listening to your sexcapades.”
“Again,” Santana reminds her. Quinn groans.
“Get your ass into your car and go see your girlfriend. And leave me out of it.”
“Never, Sweet-Ass,” Santana chimes sweetly. “You’re always in it. Perk of bein’ my friend.”
“Is that what I am?” She clicks the unlock button on her keychain, shaking her head. “My karma must be off the charts.”
Santana laughs. “Would it make you feel better if I told you we sometimes scream your name for the hell of it-“
“No!” Quinn shudders. “Go home, Lopez. Fight well, stand brave, don’t inhale too much dander. Call me if you die.”
“Can I borrow a sword?” Santana calls after her, amused when Quinn honks twice and speeds off. She shakes her head. Quinn may be a bitch, but she’s at least her bitch when it counts. The day’s always just a little bit brighter when she gets a banter session in.
Especially when she has another mêlée scheduled with the heavyweight champion of the feline district in half an hour.
At least Brittany rewards her pretty damn well for her battle wounds.