It's That Sinkin' Feeling Of Being Alone
Title: It’s That Sinkin’ Feeling Of Being Alone
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, Santana Lopez/Noah Puckerman bromance, mentioned Noah Puckerman/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S2.
Summary: Sinking in loneliness isn’t working for either of them. Puck figures it's time to learn to swim.
A/N: Title from Admiral Fallow’s “Squealing Pigs.”
The tennis ball rebounds from brick to her open hand with all the steadiness of a drum beat. Santana grimaces and tosses it again, displeased when it ricochets from the far corner of a single brick and bounds the wrong direction.
“Get it,” she calls wanly in Puck’s direction, bemused when he only pushes one leg back against the wall and adjusts the toothpick between his lips.
“You get it, Dame Throws-Like-A-Girl. It’s like nine bajillion fucking degrees out here.”
“You’re the one blowing off work and a perfectly good paycheck to mope with me,” she points out, irritated more by the sweat trickling into her eyes than the conversation. “Be of some use and fetch the fucking ball.”
“Not a dog, babes,” he points out, twirling the ‘pick and winking. “Even if I do appreciate the finer points of doggy-style.”
“Right. My bad. You’re clearly a pig.” She blows out a breath of stagnant air and shuffles her sneakered feet against the concrete. The ball, a beacon of lime-green against browning grass, mocks her from three feet away. “Why are we outside again?”
“Because my mother, in true Jew form, has refused the concept of air conditioning despite the record-breaking heat.” Puck rolls his eyes, but Santana knows what he isn’t saying: the Puckerman family can’t actively afford AC right now, sweltering temperatures or no, and dwelling on this fact bums him out. She can’t blame him.
“Right, so we’re here, instead of crashing Fabray’s pool,” she says instead of observing his dire financial situation. “That makes a fuckload of sense.”
“Quinn’s a little testy about the nearly-naked-around-the-Puckster deal after that whole…um.”
“Baby thing?” Santana fills in. He visibly refrains from wincing.
“Yeah. That. And I’d say we could storm Berry’s house, but last I heard, she’s running dance boot camp in her living room. And I am so skipping that shit.”
“With who?” Santana demands. “No one is stupid enough to sit through the midget barking orders on a day like today.”
“Except for the part where Mike’s nursing a weird rebound crush, and Finn keeps trying to win her back after their latest lover's war, and Kurt will go anywhere Sam goes, probably dragging Aretha and Asian along with him.” Puck shrugs. “Face it, chica, we are the last remaining braintrusts in Glee. Was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“If you’re a braintrust, we’re all fucked,” she tells him with a grin. He lazily flips her the bird before pushing off the wall and tossing the toothpick away.
“We could always pay a visit to Blondie and her sixty-degree garage.”
“Low blow, asswipe,” Santana growls. His shoulders rise up defensively.
“Oh, whatever, Lopez. You can’t dodge her forever, you know.”
“Try me,” she mutters, falling backwards and stretching her arms as far as they’ll go above her head. The concrete positively radiates heat, blasting through her shirt and scorching her skin. A terrible resting place, maybe, but she’s too sluggish to move.
Puck squats down next to her, groaning with the effort. “Fuck this summer shit. I want my snow back. Anyway, you’ve been a crazy bitch to her all fuckin’ year, S. Don’t you think it’s time to knock that terrified-baby-lez shit off?”
“Not a-not terri-you know what? Fuck off.”
“Brilliant comeback, Pinky,” he drawls, slapping her shoulder lightly. She feels the sweat from his palm sinking into her t-shirt and grimaces in disgust.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, fuckwad, but I’m guessing I won’t like it.”
“I’m getting at you being a miserable wretch without her,” he grumbles. “A fucking ball-busting harpy. I can’t deal with your mopey shit anymore, man, it’s been like three months too long of this get-drunk-get-whiny-start-over cycle.”
“And you’re so much better, Mr. ‘I’ve been in love with Quinn Fabray since third grade, but she won’t look at me twice even after she’s pushed out a watermelon with my eyes from her girl-parts.’” Too long. Needs work.
His eyes darken a shade, nostrils flaring with annoyance. “Very classy, Bitchpez.”
“Not my problem,” she insists, flailing a hand in the direction of his face and pushing lightly. “You’ve made a career of being a teenage douchebag, and she’s doing her best to turn that train-wreck she calls a life around. You think pouting and chewing toothpicks is going to change that on a dime?”
“I gave up the dip,” he points out, drawing another toothpick from his soggy shorts pocket and unwrapping it. “And I’m not a douchebag anymore, thanks.”
“You will live and die a douche, Puckerman,” she informs him witheringly. “It’s in your basic DNA. And some of us actually like that about you, but the fact is, she doesn’t. It didn’t charm her when you slipped a snake into her desk at seven, or when you slipped your snake into her ‘desk’ at seventeen. There’s just no winning with a prize-winning teen queen like Fabray, okay? Give it up.”
“Is that what you want to hear from me?” he demands. “That there’s no point in being in love with your best friend, even though you know you got somewhere down that road before you started fucking up royally? You want me to tell you she’s better off without you, that she is better than you, that you don’t deserve her and never will? Because, fuck it, Lopez, I’m not going to be that guy. Not for you. We don’t do that shit to each other.”
“Since when?” she asks tiredly, closing her eyes against the sunlight seeping through aviator lenses. “I bust your chops constantly, Jewhawk, it’s just the way of it.”
“Yeah. Bust my chops, not cut off my balls. Get the difference down, or I’m going back to spending my afternoons kicking Finny D’s ass at Mortal Kombat.”
“Right. Whatever. Sorry, or…something.” She sits up, rubbing her forehead. “So, what do you propose? Whiskey, beer, or that shitty cheap wine again? My brain might explode with the hangover from that crap, but I’m up for giving it a shot.”
He’s staring up at the sky, wearing an expression that looks a little too introspective for her liking. She frowns.
“Puckerman. Don’t even.”
“I think it’s time,” he says calmly. She raises her hands towards heaven, already wagging her head back and forth decisively.
“Nope. Not the time. Never the time. Change your tune, cocksucker, I really don’t have the energy today.”
“It’s now or fuckin’ never, Lopez,” he says determinedly. “Come on. Man up already. Summer’s almost over, and we’ve wasted most of the prime pussy-and-party weather weeping like babies into a drink of choice. That’s fucking pathetic, you know?”
“Pathetic is trying the same shit over and over and expecting a new result, dickface,” she tells him wearily. He grins.
“A: I love how you think callin’ me a dick could ever be an insult. Like you don’t know how much Number Wah means to me. And B: you just defined crazy, not pathetic. And if there is one thing the Puckster prides himself on, it is being the craziest motherfucker in this town. Crazy gets you places, man-it’s what gets bands started and girls in bed. Crazy is what’s going to save our lousy skins, and you know it.”
“And why exactly should I subscribe to your tales of adventure and lunacy?” she asks, rolling her eyes. That stupid grin broadens.
“Because, babe, you are relentlessly shitfaced with love. You're sinking like a fuckin' stone with it. And because you being alone is just fuckin’ sad. You don’t wear it well.”
“I wear everything well,” she retaliates coldly, but she’s beginning to smile. “You’re an idiot, Puckerman.”
“You love me. Now. You ready to get hopped up on crazy pills and learn to swim to your girl?”
She really doesn’t know how to say no to that.
***
The outfits Puck picks out for their little “adventure” would be unbearable in the dead of winter, but on this-the hottest day Ohio has seen in I shit you not, years-it’s just fucking stupid. Santana plucks at her shirt front and makes a face.
“Why do I ever say yes to you?”
“Because I am a genius,” he says cheerfully. “And because I make you look sexy. Look at you. Total sex-bomb.”
“This isn’t a fucking cotillion, Puckerman,” she growls irritably. “I’m roasting in this shit. Besides, I look sexier in less clothes, not more.”
“Not today.” He reaches up and adjusts the fedora that sits a size too big on her coiled hair. “Today is about class, Lopez. Class and elegance.”
“Is suffocation elegant? Cuz I’m heading that way real fuckin’ fast.”
He has her in a pair of thick black trousers, a button-up white shirt, and a dark red vest. The hat feels like a heat beacon atop her head, and while Converse high-tops are perfectly comfortable during autumn Glee rehearsals, she finds the fact that they are rapidly filling with sweat repulsive. She can’t imagine dropping dead of heatstroke on Brittany’s porch, looking like a misguided extra from a GLBT Prom, is really going to gain her any points.
Puck, dressed identically save for the guitar strapped to his back, seems not to share this notion.
“We are going to die,” she insists dramatically, reaching for the button beneath her throat. “I’m taking this shit off-“
“You are not.” He slaps her hand away, brows drawn. “I’m telling you, this is going to work, S. No chick can resist a sexy bro-broette, in your case-in a suit. Just be glad I didn’t toss you a jacket to go with that ensemble.”
“Ensemble, huh? Hanging out with Kurt again?” she snips. “Has he been giving you pointers on swallowing your own dick when the rest of the school is too smart to go near it?”
“You’re funny,” he points out, smirking. “I’m going to vote you Class Clown when those mock election fuckers come up. Cuz you’re funny.”
“I keep it real, motherfucker.” Batting him away, she pops open the first two buttons and sucks in a blistering breath. “Fuck off, this looks sexier anyway.”
He looks delighted, an expression she hasn’t seen on his face since Zizes dumped him immediately after their epic failure at Nationals. She supposes that-assuming their bodies don’t shut down in the middle of this escapade-giving him this moment will be worth at least a little bit.
“Thank God you’re my bro and not Hudson,” he says as they push out the back door of his house and back into the ungodly fierce sunshine. “The man looks like an overgrown six-year-old in a tux.”
“Also, he probably wouldn’t be cool with helping you nail his twice-ex girl.” She thinks for a second, grinning. “Again.”
“I don’t want to nail her,” he protests. “Yet. I just want her to stop giving me that nasty-ass glare every time I smile her way.”
“My figuring is, until she stops seeing visions of vag-tearing and morning sickness in that smile, you’re not going to get your wish.” She shakes her head at his wounded expression. “Too low?”
“It’s like you’ve completely forgotten how to be gentle with a dude,” he observes, scowling. She shrugs.
“Far as I know, I never picked that one up.”
They’re three houses from Brittany’s before she remembers to ask, “What the fuck is the plan, anyway? It doesn’t involve breaking and entering, does it?”
“If by breaking and entering you mean we stand under her window and sing like gods until she opens up and lets you climb on through-yeah, that’s about what it involves.” He’s looking pleased with himself again. She wants to punch him.
“And you’re planning on singing what, precisely, with our distinct lack of preparation?”
His face contorts, dropping the expression of self-gratification immediately. “Um.”
“Right. Can I just, like, ask her out or some shit?” She has found she’s grown tired of the tricks and dance steps that so often make up Glee relationships. Singing your feelings is great and everything, but if Puck thinks blasting out an Eagles song or “All You Need Is Love” or something is going to win Brittany’s trust any better than going straight up to her and being honest-
Besides, she’s tried that route. It lacks sincerity now, once she’s fucked it up three times over. It’s time to quit beating around the bush and just go for it.
Preferably before she has an embolism.
“Can I still strum?” he asks pitifully, raising the guitar by its neck. “I’m gonna look like a real bag of tools if I’m just leaning against a tree with this fucker.”
“Strum away, McCartney,” she tells him, brushing a layer of sweat from her forehead. “I don’t really give a fuck if you make sweet love to that guitar while I’m up there. Just…if I don’t come down in, like, fifteen, assume she’s lost all patience and let that Tubber cat have me.”
“I dunno if I can rescue you from that fluffy bastard,” he admits, laughing. She grimaces.
“Try.”
There is no car in the Pierce driveway, but Brittany’s bike rests against the garage door. Home and dancing in her room, probably. Or showering. She could most definitely be taking a nice, cold-
“Lopez, the drool thing doesn’t work for you.”
She slugs him in the chest, striding around to the far side of the house. Brittany’s room overlooks the backyard, the treehouse they used to play in, the tire swing on which they shared their first kiss. Santana’s heart seizes as she takes it all in, uncertain now if this is at all wise, or simply a feature of her brain being boiled.
“She’s going to hate me.”
“She loves you,” he reminds her gently. She shakes her head.
“She’s going to push me right back out that window.”
His hand lands between her shoulder blades, steady and reassuring. “Climb, Lopez. Romeo that shit. This could be your last fucking chance.”
He’s right, in that aggravating way Puckerman always tends to be, so she lets him nudge her forcefully towards the rope ladder they installed in the seventh grade. The year Santana tried to climb the Pierce family trellis, only to feel it buckle beneath her weight and plummet several feet into their rose bushes. The year Brittany drew so many little cartoons on her bright green wrist cast that no one else in class got a chance. The year Santana promised herself in the hazy hours before sleep that she was going to be with Brittany forever, one way or another. No matter what.
She tried to climb that trellis, which wasn’t even much of a trellis at all so much as a few slats of precarious wood, and she fell. And Brittany was there to give her this instead, a ladder leading straight through her bedroom window. She fell, and Brittany instantly came up with a plan to keep it from happening ever again. Their whole relationship is wound into that thick, sturdy rope, and suddenly, Santana can’t find a good enough reason not to climb.
Hand over hand, feet sliding on the over-used rungs, she hoists herself up the side of the two-story house and catches hold of the window sill. The glass is closed, of course; the Pierces have the AC going full-blast, no doubt, as they are much smarter than the girl in the long-sleeved dress shirt trying to court their daughter. Santana huffs out a breath and hesitates only a second before rapping with two fingers on the windowpane.
Brittany is there in a heartbeat, tank top and short-shorts, hair pulled back into a tangled braid. Santana hasn’t been here in endless weeks, but Brittany’s smile is exactly as she last left it: full, bright, loving. Her heart pounds.
Marry me, she thinks, biting down on the words before they can actually escape. Too soon. Maybe just barely, but still. Start smaller.
“Can I come in?” she mouths through the glass, and Brittany very nearly dislodges her from the ladder in her haste to fling the window open. Santana grins, equal parts relieved and terrified, allowing her best friend-best friend, some fucking best friend you’ve been lately-to drag her through the opening.
“Hi,” she says once her feet, disgusting in her sneakers, squelch onto the carpet. Brittany stares at her, lips parted around her gaping grin.
“Hi.”
“I, um. Wanted to say…hi,” Santana says again, lamely. Her fingers twist behind her back, searching for a butt-pocket that doesn’t exist in these pants. Pants which are Puck’s from the eighth grade, and which are still managing to fall down despite the belt wound through the loops. She feels at once like a complete moron, standing here in over-sized male dress clothes on a hundred-degree day. And Brittany is still grinning.
Which would make it all the worse, except Brittany has never known how to mock her. Her smile has never, in all their years of friendship-and-other-things been anything less than genuine. It relaxes Santana just a little to see it remain steady now.
“So. Uh. How’s your…summer?”
Brittany shakes her head, pushing back a loose lock of hair from her eyes, and surges forward to clasp Santana in her arms. The added body heat makes her head spin, gray dots bounding around her field of vision before dispersing slowly. Santana melts into the embrace, fingers coming up to clutch wildly at Brittany’s back.
“Good, then?”
Another head shake, which she feels this time in a very solid way when Brittany’s head collides with her own. The arms around her body tighten almost painfully, Brittany’s breath skating across a patch of skin and making her shiver. Santana can’t decide if this coming over thing was a good idea or a fucking great one, but either way, she’s going to have to bake Puckerman a cake or something.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against Brittany’s hair, sliding a palm up into the space where Brittany’s back shows through her top. The skin is warm and sticky, comfortable in the most familiar way she’s ever known. Her eyes sting with tears. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re back,” Brittany mumbles in return, rocking them from side to side. “You’re here. And you’re-“ She retreats just far enough to look Santana over again, appraisingly. “Hot. So hot. Why are you so hot?”
“Born this way, baby,” Santana quips. Brittany laughs.
“I mean, it’s like that Star Wars planet out there. With the big fluffy things I want to keep as pets, but you told me they wouldn’t last in Ohio winters? It’s bad. And you’re-“
“Hot,” Santana finishes for her, because even though the air conditioning is on full-blast, she seems to have transformed recently into something of a human solar panel. The heat is actually exuding from her pores, she thinks. If she could just find a way to bottle this shit, she’d make it through winter without a problem.
Although, if this goes well, Brittany’s bed has always been pretty warm…
“It was Puckerman’s idea,” she says when she realizes Brittany is still waiting for a response. “To get all gussied up and come see you. Well, you and Fabray. He’s got this really fucked up idea that us looking sexified will somehow undo all the stupid we’ve accumulated over the-mmph.”
Brittany’s mouth is hungry and insistent, her fingers already flicking buttons open on the vest. Santana’s chest goes all fluttery, her groin heating instantly in reply as Brittany’s strong, soft hands smooth up the front of her shirt. Long fingers bunch around the damp fabric just beneath her collar, pulling her closer as Brittany’s mouth opens over hers, velvet tongue plunging fiercely into Santana’s mouth and tangling with her own.
“Mmph,” Santana says again, reaching up to clasp the back of Brittany’s head and urge her tongue deeper. Her hips jerk desperately forward, bouncing off of Brittany’s and coming back again for more.
The kiss is vicious, mad, even painful; Brittany’s teeth sink into her lip seconds before her tongue sweeps over the stinging place, and it sends burst after rolling burst of want deep into Santana’s gut. She can only groan into it, privately swearing to bake Puckerman a whole arsenal of cakes for this brilliant, fucking genius plan of his as Brittany growls low in her throat and backs her towards the bed.
“Fuck,” Santana gasps, turning her head just enough to gulp air. “Fuck, Britt, if I’d known-“
“It doesn’t-“ Brittany captures her again, suckling her lower lip as her left hand roughly palms Santana’s breast through the shirt. “It doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t-mm…”
Santana has pushed a leg between Brittany’s and is rolling her hips forward, bowing her head to nip along Brittany’s jawline. She grins when she is shoved backwards, her ass landing on the bed seconds before Brittany straddles her and claims her mouth with another long, hasty kiss.
“It doesn’t fix everything,” Brittany pants again, eyes serious behind the dark blue lust. She stays perfectly still for a moment, staring at Santana from an inch away, and although Santana’s hands grip and release against the cotton shorts covering a firm ass, she nods. She knows Brittany’s right, knows she has so much more to make up for than can be solved with a button-up and a round of sweaty, potentially inadvisable sex.
It’s still a start, though, and no better start has ever been made. She leans back as Brittany swiftly undoes the buttons on the shirt, pushing it open and doing away with the front clasp on her bra. Toned legs flex on either side of her hips, pink tongue diving back into her mouth to perform an old, long-perfected dance. Santana moans, breaking free long enough to drag Brittany’s tank top over her head.
Brittany grins, arching her back to highlight her utterly thrilling decision to forgo a bra today, and buries her fingers in Santana’s hair when she darts forward to suck hard on one pert nipple. Her brain has gone fuzzy, her hips working a rhythm of their own as Brittany grinds down, nails digging violently into her scalp. The hat is long gone, lost somewhere in the land of Clothes Best Left Forgotten, and her hair is coming down from its twisted bun. Probably because Brittany is pulling hard enough to send sharp tingles up and down her neck.
As Brittany begins making that high, keening sound Santana associates with sensitive skin and soaked panties, something inside demands dominance. Santana catches hold of Brittany’s wrists, biting down on the overworked nipple in her mouth, and pulls back. Brittany’s chest is heaving, sweat trickling between her breasts, looking every inch the goddess Santana hasn’t been able to wipe from her dreams in years. Her throat clenches, her heart thudding against her breastbone.
“Love you,” she manages to choke out, seconds before flipping Brittany onto her back and pushing a hand down the front of her shorts. Brittany whimpers, slick skin hot to the touch, and reaches to return the favor with fingers that are already trembling.
“Love you,” Santana repeats, curling two fingers into her best friend and thrusting as far as she can. Brittany makes a strangled sound, twisting and writhing to meet the pace Santana is setting, even as her own hand fumbles with Santana’s belt buckle. Somehow, she manages to break open the clasp and pull the waistband away enough to slip down, brushing against trimmed curl and soaked flesh with what Santana knows is calculated caution. Slow. Steady. Torture. Dark eyes flicker shut, her mouth seeking out Brittany’s pale skin and biting down, sucking hard, marking-
My girl, she thinks, equal parts fond and possessive, introducing a third finger and relishing the way Brittany bucks, missing her own rhythm in the process as her fingertip skirts off of Santana’s clit. Mine. Gonna fuckin’ do this right this time, I swear to God.
Brittany is gasping, high-pitched and desperate, words rolling past her lips and into Santana’s mouth as it closes down. Words Santana can’t even make sense of, and doesn’t need to; they’re all truths, all Brittany’s constant little honesties, and she’s heard them all before. Love, and trust, and hope, and thank you, and everything she’s ever wanted to give this girl all in one go. She slows her pace a fraction, slows the kiss to a heated, languid one, and prays that she can convey her wants and her dreams through this moment. Her last chance moment.
Everything from here will be new, she knows as her tongue sinks and dips and dances, tip flicking against Brittany’s and darting away again to explore a new, familiar corner of that wonderful mouth. Her arm burns, her fingers striking the bundle of nerves that is at once so frustrating and so fascinatingly simple to locate, making Brittany’s eyes roll back as her mouth goes slack-
The slam of the door against the far wall makes them both shriek, Santana’s arm jerking instinctively out of Brittany’s pants. Brittany makes a noise of mixed terror and aggravation, eyes flying open.
Noah Puckerman stands in the doorway, brandishing his guitar like a sword, his expression torn between fuck yeah, threesome and oh shit, walking dead man. He opens and closes his mouth, taking in Brittany’s naked breasts, the open vest and shirt over Santana’s tan skin, the rumpled pants and glistening fingers.
He smiles, weakly. “Hey, ladies.”
“Puckerman,” Santana draws out warningly, fingers flexing into a fist. Brittany’s hand covers it instinctively, damp and smelling of sex.
“Guess you, uh. Didn’t need to be rescued, huh?” he says uneasily, already laughing the way a man does when he is seconds away from losing his junk. “Although, I really do have to point out, you told me. Fifteen minutes, remember? Homicidal kitties? Calvary?”
“Don’t kill him, San,” Brittany tells her gently, expression relaxing into amusement. She sits up, adjusting the drawstring on her shorts unselfconsciously. “Hi, Puck. Wanna toss me my shirt?”
“Killing him sounds good,” Santana growls. “Very good. Exceptional, even.”
“Shirts are overrated, Britt,” Puck says at the same time, guitar arm going slack at his side. Santana moves to leap up, halted only by the long arms that wrap around her from behind, pulling her back against Brittany’s damp chest.
“No killing in my room,” she whispers against Santana’s ear, sucking the lobe into her mouth. “House rules.”
“He-he fucking-we were having sex.” The protests die on her lips when Brittany bites down, fingers creeping around to trail back under her waistband. Puck’s eyebrows lift interestedly.
“That you were, and please, don’t let me spoil the fun. I’ll just, uh. I’ll be over here-“
“Fuck no,” Santana snarls with considerable effort, grasping Brittany’s wandering hand and pulling it up again. “Jesus, Puckerman. You ruin everything.”
“It’s not my fault!” he insists. Brittany giggles, nosing against her neck playfully.
“He did get you here, remember? You said it was all his idea.”
“Yeah, but…but…Jesus.” Rolling her eyes, Santana bends her head back and kisses Brittany quickly. “Fine. No killing. Can I maim him once we’re outside?”
Brittany thinks for a minute, tapping a finger against her chin. “I guess that’s fair.”
Puck frowns. “Hey, now. Someone here has to be nice to Puckzilla.”
“By what ruling?” Santana jeers, standing from the bed and buttoning her shirt back up. Brittany retrieves her own top and shimmies into it, still smiling.
“I love you both, you know.”
Santana scowls. “Me more than him, I hope.”
“Be real about it, Lopez. I am cuddly beyond your wildest dreams.”
She throws a stuffed buffalo at his head. “Keep it up, and I won’t go with you to win Fabray over.”
“Yes, you will,” Brittany says mildly, picking up the fedora from the floor and tilting it upon her own head. “Because you go where I go. And I’m going. Do I look cool enough to help you with Quinn?”
Puck’s smile threatens to split his face wide open. “The coolest, Britt. A bro among bros, for sure.”
Santana can’t help but grin back as Brittany winds an arm around her waist and kisses her again. “I can’t believe we’re doing shit like this today. You know it’s like nine gajillion degrees out?”
“Yeah, well.” Puck flicks the brim of his own hat and reaches over to ruffle her sex-mussed hair. “Loneliness looks shitty on you, Lopez. A real bro doesn’t watch his lady-bro sink in that misery shit. A real bro mans up and helps her get the girl.”
Santana shrugs, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Guess that makes me a real bro, huh? Let’s just hope Judy isn’t home. That bitch hates me like none other. Something about walking in on a Cheerio threesome freshman year.”
“Oh yeah,” Brittany remembers cheerfully. Puck throws his head back, roaring with laughter. Santana punches him hard in the shoulder.
“Bitch, at least I didn’t knock her ass up.”
“Bro code,” he chortles, rubbing his new bruise distractedly, “states that a lady-bro must at some point learn to stop bringing up her bro’s baby troubles.”
She grins. “Guess I’m not a real bro after all. We goin’ or not?”
Brittany throws up a fist and marches for the door. “To Quinn!”
“To Quinn!” Puck echoes. Santana shakes her head.
Fabray would have to be a serious grade-A asshole to skip out on this crazy train.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, Santana Lopez/Noah Puckerman bromance, mentioned Noah Puckerman/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S2.
Summary: Sinking in loneliness isn’t working for either of them. Puck figures it's time to learn to swim.
A/N: Title from Admiral Fallow’s “Squealing Pigs.”
The tennis ball rebounds from brick to her open hand with all the steadiness of a drum beat. Santana grimaces and tosses it again, displeased when it ricochets from the far corner of a single brick and bounds the wrong direction.
“Get it,” she calls wanly in Puck’s direction, bemused when he only pushes one leg back against the wall and adjusts the toothpick between his lips.
“You get it, Dame Throws-Like-A-Girl. It’s like nine bajillion fucking degrees out here.”
“You’re the one blowing off work and a perfectly good paycheck to mope with me,” she points out, irritated more by the sweat trickling into her eyes than the conversation. “Be of some use and fetch the fucking ball.”
“Not a dog, babes,” he points out, twirling the ‘pick and winking. “Even if I do appreciate the finer points of doggy-style.”
“Right. My bad. You’re clearly a pig.” She blows out a breath of stagnant air and shuffles her sneakered feet against the concrete. The ball, a beacon of lime-green against browning grass, mocks her from three feet away. “Why are we outside again?”
“Because my mother, in true Jew form, has refused the concept of air conditioning despite the record-breaking heat.” Puck rolls his eyes, but Santana knows what he isn’t saying: the Puckerman family can’t actively afford AC right now, sweltering temperatures or no, and dwelling on this fact bums him out. She can’t blame him.
“Right, so we’re here, instead of crashing Fabray’s pool,” she says instead of observing his dire financial situation. “That makes a fuckload of sense.”
“Quinn’s a little testy about the nearly-naked-around-the-Puckster deal after that whole…um.”
“Baby thing?” Santana fills in. He visibly refrains from wincing.
“Yeah. That. And I’d say we could storm Berry’s house, but last I heard, she’s running dance boot camp in her living room. And I am so skipping that shit.”
“With who?” Santana demands. “No one is stupid enough to sit through the midget barking orders on a day like today.”
“Except for the part where Mike’s nursing a weird rebound crush, and Finn keeps trying to win her back after their latest lover's war, and Kurt will go anywhere Sam goes, probably dragging Aretha and Asian along with him.” Puck shrugs. “Face it, chica, we are the last remaining braintrusts in Glee. Was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“If you’re a braintrust, we’re all fucked,” she tells him with a grin. He lazily flips her the bird before pushing off the wall and tossing the toothpick away.
“We could always pay a visit to Blondie and her sixty-degree garage.”
“Low blow, asswipe,” Santana growls. His shoulders rise up defensively.
“Oh, whatever, Lopez. You can’t dodge her forever, you know.”
“Try me,” she mutters, falling backwards and stretching her arms as far as they’ll go above her head. The concrete positively radiates heat, blasting through her shirt and scorching her skin. A terrible resting place, maybe, but she’s too sluggish to move.
Puck squats down next to her, groaning with the effort. “Fuck this summer shit. I want my snow back. Anyway, you’ve been a crazy bitch to her all fuckin’ year, S. Don’t you think it’s time to knock that terrified-baby-lez shit off?”
“Not a-not terri-you know what? Fuck off.”
“Brilliant comeback, Pinky,” he drawls, slapping her shoulder lightly. She feels the sweat from his palm sinking into her t-shirt and grimaces in disgust.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, fuckwad, but I’m guessing I won’t like it.”
“I’m getting at you being a miserable wretch without her,” he grumbles. “A fucking ball-busting harpy. I can’t deal with your mopey shit anymore, man, it’s been like three months too long of this get-drunk-get-whiny-start-over cycle.”
“And you’re so much better, Mr. ‘I’ve been in love with Quinn Fabray since third grade, but she won’t look at me twice even after she’s pushed out a watermelon with my eyes from her girl-parts.’” Too long. Needs work.
His eyes darken a shade, nostrils flaring with annoyance. “Very classy, Bitchpez.”
“Not my problem,” she insists, flailing a hand in the direction of his face and pushing lightly. “You’ve made a career of being a teenage douchebag, and she’s doing her best to turn that train-wreck she calls a life around. You think pouting and chewing toothpicks is going to change that on a dime?”
“I gave up the dip,” he points out, drawing another toothpick from his soggy shorts pocket and unwrapping it. “And I’m not a douchebag anymore, thanks.”
“You will live and die a douche, Puckerman,” she informs him witheringly. “It’s in your basic DNA. And some of us actually like that about you, but the fact is, she doesn’t. It didn’t charm her when you slipped a snake into her desk at seven, or when you slipped your snake into her ‘desk’ at seventeen. There’s just no winning with a prize-winning teen queen like Fabray, okay? Give it up.”
“Is that what you want to hear from me?” he demands. “That there’s no point in being in love with your best friend, even though you know you got somewhere down that road before you started fucking up royally? You want me to tell you she’s better off without you, that she is better than you, that you don’t deserve her and never will? Because, fuck it, Lopez, I’m not going to be that guy. Not for you. We don’t do that shit to each other.”
“Since when?” she asks tiredly, closing her eyes against the sunlight seeping through aviator lenses. “I bust your chops constantly, Jewhawk, it’s just the way of it.”
“Yeah. Bust my chops, not cut off my balls. Get the difference down, or I’m going back to spending my afternoons kicking Finny D’s ass at Mortal Kombat.”
“Right. Whatever. Sorry, or…something.” She sits up, rubbing her forehead. “So, what do you propose? Whiskey, beer, or that shitty cheap wine again? My brain might explode with the hangover from that crap, but I’m up for giving it a shot.”
He’s staring up at the sky, wearing an expression that looks a little too introspective for her liking. She frowns.
“Puckerman. Don’t even.”
“I think it’s time,” he says calmly. She raises her hands towards heaven, already wagging her head back and forth decisively.
“Nope. Not the time. Never the time. Change your tune, cocksucker, I really don’t have the energy today.”
“It’s now or fuckin’ never, Lopez,” he says determinedly. “Come on. Man up already. Summer’s almost over, and we’ve wasted most of the prime pussy-and-party weather weeping like babies into a drink of choice. That’s fucking pathetic, you know?”
“Pathetic is trying the same shit over and over and expecting a new result, dickface,” she tells him wearily. He grins.
“A: I love how you think callin’ me a dick could ever be an insult. Like you don’t know how much Number Wah means to me. And B: you just defined crazy, not pathetic. And if there is one thing the Puckster prides himself on, it is being the craziest motherfucker in this town. Crazy gets you places, man-it’s what gets bands started and girls in bed. Crazy is what’s going to save our lousy skins, and you know it.”
“And why exactly should I subscribe to your tales of adventure and lunacy?” she asks, rolling her eyes. That stupid grin broadens.
“Because, babe, you are relentlessly shitfaced with love. You're sinking like a fuckin' stone with it. And because you being alone is just fuckin’ sad. You don’t wear it well.”
“I wear everything well,” she retaliates coldly, but she’s beginning to smile. “You’re an idiot, Puckerman.”
“You love me. Now. You ready to get hopped up on crazy pills and learn to swim to your girl?”
She really doesn’t know how to say no to that.
***
The outfits Puck picks out for their little “adventure” would be unbearable in the dead of winter, but on this-the hottest day Ohio has seen in I shit you not, years-it’s just fucking stupid. Santana plucks at her shirt front and makes a face.
“Why do I ever say yes to you?”
“Because I am a genius,” he says cheerfully. “And because I make you look sexy. Look at you. Total sex-bomb.”
“This isn’t a fucking cotillion, Puckerman,” she growls irritably. “I’m roasting in this shit. Besides, I look sexier in less clothes, not more.”
“Not today.” He reaches up and adjusts the fedora that sits a size too big on her coiled hair. “Today is about class, Lopez. Class and elegance.”
“Is suffocation elegant? Cuz I’m heading that way real fuckin’ fast.”
He has her in a pair of thick black trousers, a button-up white shirt, and a dark red vest. The hat feels like a heat beacon atop her head, and while Converse high-tops are perfectly comfortable during autumn Glee rehearsals, she finds the fact that they are rapidly filling with sweat repulsive. She can’t imagine dropping dead of heatstroke on Brittany’s porch, looking like a misguided extra from a GLBT Prom, is really going to gain her any points.
Puck, dressed identically save for the guitar strapped to his back, seems not to share this notion.
“We are going to die,” she insists dramatically, reaching for the button beneath her throat. “I’m taking this shit off-“
“You are not.” He slaps her hand away, brows drawn. “I’m telling you, this is going to work, S. No chick can resist a sexy bro-broette, in your case-in a suit. Just be glad I didn’t toss you a jacket to go with that ensemble.”
“Ensemble, huh? Hanging out with Kurt again?” she snips. “Has he been giving you pointers on swallowing your own dick when the rest of the school is too smart to go near it?”
“You’re funny,” he points out, smirking. “I’m going to vote you Class Clown when those mock election fuckers come up. Cuz you’re funny.”
“I keep it real, motherfucker.” Batting him away, she pops open the first two buttons and sucks in a blistering breath. “Fuck off, this looks sexier anyway.”
He looks delighted, an expression she hasn’t seen on his face since Zizes dumped him immediately after their epic failure at Nationals. She supposes that-assuming their bodies don’t shut down in the middle of this escapade-giving him this moment will be worth at least a little bit.
“Thank God you’re my bro and not Hudson,” he says as they push out the back door of his house and back into the ungodly fierce sunshine. “The man looks like an overgrown six-year-old in a tux.”
“Also, he probably wouldn’t be cool with helping you nail his twice-ex girl.” She thinks for a second, grinning. “Again.”
“I don’t want to nail her,” he protests. “Yet. I just want her to stop giving me that nasty-ass glare every time I smile her way.”
“My figuring is, until she stops seeing visions of vag-tearing and morning sickness in that smile, you’re not going to get your wish.” She shakes her head at his wounded expression. “Too low?”
“It’s like you’ve completely forgotten how to be gentle with a dude,” he observes, scowling. She shrugs.
“Far as I know, I never picked that one up.”
They’re three houses from Brittany’s before she remembers to ask, “What the fuck is the plan, anyway? It doesn’t involve breaking and entering, does it?”
“If by breaking and entering you mean we stand under her window and sing like gods until she opens up and lets you climb on through-yeah, that’s about what it involves.” He’s looking pleased with himself again. She wants to punch him.
“And you’re planning on singing what, precisely, with our distinct lack of preparation?”
His face contorts, dropping the expression of self-gratification immediately. “Um.”
“Right. Can I just, like, ask her out or some shit?” She has found she’s grown tired of the tricks and dance steps that so often make up Glee relationships. Singing your feelings is great and everything, but if Puck thinks blasting out an Eagles song or “All You Need Is Love” or something is going to win Brittany’s trust any better than going straight up to her and being honest-
Besides, she’s tried that route. It lacks sincerity now, once she’s fucked it up three times over. It’s time to quit beating around the bush and just go for it.
Preferably before she has an embolism.
“Can I still strum?” he asks pitifully, raising the guitar by its neck. “I’m gonna look like a real bag of tools if I’m just leaning against a tree with this fucker.”
“Strum away, McCartney,” she tells him, brushing a layer of sweat from her forehead. “I don’t really give a fuck if you make sweet love to that guitar while I’m up there. Just…if I don’t come down in, like, fifteen, assume she’s lost all patience and let that Tubber cat have me.”
“I dunno if I can rescue you from that fluffy bastard,” he admits, laughing. She grimaces.
“Try.”
There is no car in the Pierce driveway, but Brittany’s bike rests against the garage door. Home and dancing in her room, probably. Or showering. She could most definitely be taking a nice, cold-
“Lopez, the drool thing doesn’t work for you.”
She slugs him in the chest, striding around to the far side of the house. Brittany’s room overlooks the backyard, the treehouse they used to play in, the tire swing on which they shared their first kiss. Santana’s heart seizes as she takes it all in, uncertain now if this is at all wise, or simply a feature of her brain being boiled.
“She’s going to hate me.”
“She loves you,” he reminds her gently. She shakes her head.
“She’s going to push me right back out that window.”
His hand lands between her shoulder blades, steady and reassuring. “Climb, Lopez. Romeo that shit. This could be your last fucking chance.”
He’s right, in that aggravating way Puckerman always tends to be, so she lets him nudge her forcefully towards the rope ladder they installed in the seventh grade. The year Santana tried to climb the Pierce family trellis, only to feel it buckle beneath her weight and plummet several feet into their rose bushes. The year Brittany drew so many little cartoons on her bright green wrist cast that no one else in class got a chance. The year Santana promised herself in the hazy hours before sleep that she was going to be with Brittany forever, one way or another. No matter what.
She tried to climb that trellis, which wasn’t even much of a trellis at all so much as a few slats of precarious wood, and she fell. And Brittany was there to give her this instead, a ladder leading straight through her bedroom window. She fell, and Brittany instantly came up with a plan to keep it from happening ever again. Their whole relationship is wound into that thick, sturdy rope, and suddenly, Santana can’t find a good enough reason not to climb.
Hand over hand, feet sliding on the over-used rungs, she hoists herself up the side of the two-story house and catches hold of the window sill. The glass is closed, of course; the Pierces have the AC going full-blast, no doubt, as they are much smarter than the girl in the long-sleeved dress shirt trying to court their daughter. Santana huffs out a breath and hesitates only a second before rapping with two fingers on the windowpane.
Brittany is there in a heartbeat, tank top and short-shorts, hair pulled back into a tangled braid. Santana hasn’t been here in endless weeks, but Brittany’s smile is exactly as she last left it: full, bright, loving. Her heart pounds.
Marry me, she thinks, biting down on the words before they can actually escape. Too soon. Maybe just barely, but still. Start smaller.
“Can I come in?” she mouths through the glass, and Brittany very nearly dislodges her from the ladder in her haste to fling the window open. Santana grins, equal parts relieved and terrified, allowing her best friend-best friend, some fucking best friend you’ve been lately-to drag her through the opening.
“Hi,” she says once her feet, disgusting in her sneakers, squelch onto the carpet. Brittany stares at her, lips parted around her gaping grin.
“Hi.”
“I, um. Wanted to say…hi,” Santana says again, lamely. Her fingers twist behind her back, searching for a butt-pocket that doesn’t exist in these pants. Pants which are Puck’s from the eighth grade, and which are still managing to fall down despite the belt wound through the loops. She feels at once like a complete moron, standing here in over-sized male dress clothes on a hundred-degree day. And Brittany is still grinning.
Which would make it all the worse, except Brittany has never known how to mock her. Her smile has never, in all their years of friendship-and-other-things been anything less than genuine. It relaxes Santana just a little to see it remain steady now.
“So. Uh. How’s your…summer?”
Brittany shakes her head, pushing back a loose lock of hair from her eyes, and surges forward to clasp Santana in her arms. The added body heat makes her head spin, gray dots bounding around her field of vision before dispersing slowly. Santana melts into the embrace, fingers coming up to clutch wildly at Brittany’s back.
“Good, then?”
Another head shake, which she feels this time in a very solid way when Brittany’s head collides with her own. The arms around her body tighten almost painfully, Brittany’s breath skating across a patch of skin and making her shiver. Santana can’t decide if this coming over thing was a good idea or a fucking great one, but either way, she’s going to have to bake Puckerman a cake or something.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against Brittany’s hair, sliding a palm up into the space where Brittany’s back shows through her top. The skin is warm and sticky, comfortable in the most familiar way she’s ever known. Her eyes sting with tears. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re back,” Brittany mumbles in return, rocking them from side to side. “You’re here. And you’re-“ She retreats just far enough to look Santana over again, appraisingly. “Hot. So hot. Why are you so hot?”
“Born this way, baby,” Santana quips. Brittany laughs.
“I mean, it’s like that Star Wars planet out there. With the big fluffy things I want to keep as pets, but you told me they wouldn’t last in Ohio winters? It’s bad. And you’re-“
“Hot,” Santana finishes for her, because even though the air conditioning is on full-blast, she seems to have transformed recently into something of a human solar panel. The heat is actually exuding from her pores, she thinks. If she could just find a way to bottle this shit, she’d make it through winter without a problem.
Although, if this goes well, Brittany’s bed has always been pretty warm…
“It was Puckerman’s idea,” she says when she realizes Brittany is still waiting for a response. “To get all gussied up and come see you. Well, you and Fabray. He’s got this really fucked up idea that us looking sexified will somehow undo all the stupid we’ve accumulated over the-mmph.”
Brittany’s mouth is hungry and insistent, her fingers already flicking buttons open on the vest. Santana’s chest goes all fluttery, her groin heating instantly in reply as Brittany’s strong, soft hands smooth up the front of her shirt. Long fingers bunch around the damp fabric just beneath her collar, pulling her closer as Brittany’s mouth opens over hers, velvet tongue plunging fiercely into Santana’s mouth and tangling with her own.
“Mmph,” Santana says again, reaching up to clasp the back of Brittany’s head and urge her tongue deeper. Her hips jerk desperately forward, bouncing off of Brittany’s and coming back again for more.
The kiss is vicious, mad, even painful; Brittany’s teeth sink into her lip seconds before her tongue sweeps over the stinging place, and it sends burst after rolling burst of want deep into Santana’s gut. She can only groan into it, privately swearing to bake Puckerman a whole arsenal of cakes for this brilliant, fucking genius plan of his as Brittany growls low in her throat and backs her towards the bed.
“Fuck,” Santana gasps, turning her head just enough to gulp air. “Fuck, Britt, if I’d known-“
“It doesn’t-“ Brittany captures her again, suckling her lower lip as her left hand roughly palms Santana’s breast through the shirt. “It doesn’t fix everything. It doesn’t-mm…”
Santana has pushed a leg between Brittany’s and is rolling her hips forward, bowing her head to nip along Brittany’s jawline. She grins when she is shoved backwards, her ass landing on the bed seconds before Brittany straddles her and claims her mouth with another long, hasty kiss.
“It doesn’t fix everything,” Brittany pants again, eyes serious behind the dark blue lust. She stays perfectly still for a moment, staring at Santana from an inch away, and although Santana’s hands grip and release against the cotton shorts covering a firm ass, she nods. She knows Brittany’s right, knows she has so much more to make up for than can be solved with a button-up and a round of sweaty, potentially inadvisable sex.
It’s still a start, though, and no better start has ever been made. She leans back as Brittany swiftly undoes the buttons on the shirt, pushing it open and doing away with the front clasp on her bra. Toned legs flex on either side of her hips, pink tongue diving back into her mouth to perform an old, long-perfected dance. Santana moans, breaking free long enough to drag Brittany’s tank top over her head.
Brittany grins, arching her back to highlight her utterly thrilling decision to forgo a bra today, and buries her fingers in Santana’s hair when she darts forward to suck hard on one pert nipple. Her brain has gone fuzzy, her hips working a rhythm of their own as Brittany grinds down, nails digging violently into her scalp. The hat is long gone, lost somewhere in the land of Clothes Best Left Forgotten, and her hair is coming down from its twisted bun. Probably because Brittany is pulling hard enough to send sharp tingles up and down her neck.
As Brittany begins making that high, keening sound Santana associates with sensitive skin and soaked panties, something inside demands dominance. Santana catches hold of Brittany’s wrists, biting down on the overworked nipple in her mouth, and pulls back. Brittany’s chest is heaving, sweat trickling between her breasts, looking every inch the goddess Santana hasn’t been able to wipe from her dreams in years. Her throat clenches, her heart thudding against her breastbone.
“Love you,” she manages to choke out, seconds before flipping Brittany onto her back and pushing a hand down the front of her shorts. Brittany whimpers, slick skin hot to the touch, and reaches to return the favor with fingers that are already trembling.
“Love you,” Santana repeats, curling two fingers into her best friend and thrusting as far as she can. Brittany makes a strangled sound, twisting and writhing to meet the pace Santana is setting, even as her own hand fumbles with Santana’s belt buckle. Somehow, she manages to break open the clasp and pull the waistband away enough to slip down, brushing against trimmed curl and soaked flesh with what Santana knows is calculated caution. Slow. Steady. Torture. Dark eyes flicker shut, her mouth seeking out Brittany’s pale skin and biting down, sucking hard, marking-
My girl, she thinks, equal parts fond and possessive, introducing a third finger and relishing the way Brittany bucks, missing her own rhythm in the process as her fingertip skirts off of Santana’s clit. Mine. Gonna fuckin’ do this right this time, I swear to God.
Brittany is gasping, high-pitched and desperate, words rolling past her lips and into Santana’s mouth as it closes down. Words Santana can’t even make sense of, and doesn’t need to; they’re all truths, all Brittany’s constant little honesties, and she’s heard them all before. Love, and trust, and hope, and thank you, and everything she’s ever wanted to give this girl all in one go. She slows her pace a fraction, slows the kiss to a heated, languid one, and prays that she can convey her wants and her dreams through this moment. Her last chance moment.
Everything from here will be new, she knows as her tongue sinks and dips and dances, tip flicking against Brittany’s and darting away again to explore a new, familiar corner of that wonderful mouth. Her arm burns, her fingers striking the bundle of nerves that is at once so frustrating and so fascinatingly simple to locate, making Brittany’s eyes roll back as her mouth goes slack-
The slam of the door against the far wall makes them both shriek, Santana’s arm jerking instinctively out of Brittany’s pants. Brittany makes a noise of mixed terror and aggravation, eyes flying open.
Noah Puckerman stands in the doorway, brandishing his guitar like a sword, his expression torn between fuck yeah, threesome and oh shit, walking dead man. He opens and closes his mouth, taking in Brittany’s naked breasts, the open vest and shirt over Santana’s tan skin, the rumpled pants and glistening fingers.
He smiles, weakly. “Hey, ladies.”
“Puckerman,” Santana draws out warningly, fingers flexing into a fist. Brittany’s hand covers it instinctively, damp and smelling of sex.
“Guess you, uh. Didn’t need to be rescued, huh?” he says uneasily, already laughing the way a man does when he is seconds away from losing his junk. “Although, I really do have to point out, you told me. Fifteen minutes, remember? Homicidal kitties? Calvary?”
“Don’t kill him, San,” Brittany tells her gently, expression relaxing into amusement. She sits up, adjusting the drawstring on her shorts unselfconsciously. “Hi, Puck. Wanna toss me my shirt?”
“Killing him sounds good,” Santana growls. “Very good. Exceptional, even.”
“Shirts are overrated, Britt,” Puck says at the same time, guitar arm going slack at his side. Santana moves to leap up, halted only by the long arms that wrap around her from behind, pulling her back against Brittany’s damp chest.
“No killing in my room,” she whispers against Santana’s ear, sucking the lobe into her mouth. “House rules.”
“He-he fucking-we were having sex.” The protests die on her lips when Brittany bites down, fingers creeping around to trail back under her waistband. Puck’s eyebrows lift interestedly.
“That you were, and please, don’t let me spoil the fun. I’ll just, uh. I’ll be over here-“
“Fuck no,” Santana snarls with considerable effort, grasping Brittany’s wandering hand and pulling it up again. “Jesus, Puckerman. You ruin everything.”
“It’s not my fault!” he insists. Brittany giggles, nosing against her neck playfully.
“He did get you here, remember? You said it was all his idea.”
“Yeah, but…but…Jesus.” Rolling her eyes, Santana bends her head back and kisses Brittany quickly. “Fine. No killing. Can I maim him once we’re outside?”
Brittany thinks for a minute, tapping a finger against her chin. “I guess that’s fair.”
Puck frowns. “Hey, now. Someone here has to be nice to Puckzilla.”
“By what ruling?” Santana jeers, standing from the bed and buttoning her shirt back up. Brittany retrieves her own top and shimmies into it, still smiling.
“I love you both, you know.”
Santana scowls. “Me more than him, I hope.”
“Be real about it, Lopez. I am cuddly beyond your wildest dreams.”
She throws a stuffed buffalo at his head. “Keep it up, and I won’t go with you to win Fabray over.”
“Yes, you will,” Brittany says mildly, picking up the fedora from the floor and tilting it upon her own head. “Because you go where I go. And I’m going. Do I look cool enough to help you with Quinn?”
Puck’s smile threatens to split his face wide open. “The coolest, Britt. A bro among bros, for sure.”
Santana can’t help but grin back as Brittany winds an arm around her waist and kisses her again. “I can’t believe we’re doing shit like this today. You know it’s like nine gajillion degrees out?”
“Yeah, well.” Puck flicks the brim of his own hat and reaches over to ruffle her sex-mussed hair. “Loneliness looks shitty on you, Lopez. A real bro doesn’t watch his lady-bro sink in that misery shit. A real bro mans up and helps her get the girl.”
Santana shrugs, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Guess that makes me a real bro, huh? Let’s just hope Judy isn’t home. That bitch hates me like none other. Something about walking in on a Cheerio threesome freshman year.”
“Oh yeah,” Brittany remembers cheerfully. Puck throws his head back, roaring with laughter. Santana punches him hard in the shoulder.
“Bitch, at least I didn’t knock her ass up.”
“Bro code,” he chortles, rubbing his new bruise distractedly, “states that a lady-bro must at some point learn to stop bringing up her bro’s baby troubles.”
She grins. “Guess I’m not a real bro after all. We goin’ or not?”
Brittany throws up a fist and marches for the door. “To Quinn!”
“To Quinn!” Puck echoes. Santana shakes her head.
Fabray would have to be a serious grade-A asshole to skip out on this crazy train.