That’s What You Do (On Valentine’s Day)
Title: That’s What You Do (On Valentine’s Day)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.S
Spoilers: None.
Summary: [Brittana Week-Day 4: Valentine's Day] “Why do you care so much about Valentine’s Day, anyway?”
“Why do you care so much about Valentine’s Day, anyway?” Santana asks on February thirteenth, at 11:45 PM. Brittany glances up from the friendship bracelet she’s weaving, tongue clamped between her teeth.
“Who says I care?”
“Facebook,” Santana retorts in her I’m-really-smart voice. Brittany rolls her eyes.
“Do you believe Noah’s status about getting into Rachel Berry’s underwear drawer, too?”
“Hey, don’t get all sarcastic with me,” Santana laughs. “I taught you everything you know. Besides, Puckerman’s an asshat. You’re my best friend. There is a raging difference.”
Brittany shakes her head, grinning. At thirteen, Santana seems to think she knows everything. Even stuff Brittany hasn’t told her.
If she wasn’t so often right, Brittany might call her on it more often.
“Okay,” she admits at last, “I like Valentine’s Day. So what? You like candy.”
“Sure,” Santana allows, “but that’s what Halloween’s for. And Easter. Valentine’s Day is about all that loove crap. You actually believe in that horseshit?”
“It’s not horseshit!” Brittany protests. “People fall in love every day!”
“Have you ever been in love?” Santana demands, thunking a tennis ball against the treehouse wall and barely catching the rebound. Brittany bites her lip.
“I dunno.”
“You’re supposed to know,” Santana informs her witheringly, blowing a rogue strand of hair out of her mouth. “Isn’t love supposed to make you want to write shitty songs, or stand on some girl’s lawn with a boombox above your head?”
Brittany lifts an eyebrow, cocking her head. Santana’s ears go red.
“Not that I’d ever stand on-I mean, it would be a boy’s-you know what, forget it.”
“Boomboxes are heavy,” Brittany says slowly, looping one bit of string around another and pulling. “An iHome, maybe.”
“The point,” Santana snarks, “is that Valentine’s Day is totally stupid. All those dumb cards you were supposed to give out in elementary school-I mean, it’s not like we didn’t throw them all out three days later, right? And those candy heart things taste like chalk. Chalk isn’t tasty.”
“I like them,” Brittany insists. “And I kept the cards. Well. Some of them,” she adds when Santana gives her the world-famous you must be shitting me look. “If they were cute.”
“The cards, or the boys?” Santana snips, her voice going strangely high in a way that lets Brittany know she doesn’t really want an answer. Ducking her head, Brittany pulls another string and bites her lip to keep from admitting that most of the cards she’s kept over the years are actually from Santana herself.
They’re all there, in a shoebox beneath her bed: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in second grade (Santana knows she likes the orange one best), Star Wars (with the pretty princess and her hot jerk of a smuggler) in third, all the way up to the grudgingly homemade You’re My Best Friend So You Get All The Glitter, But Don’t Wave It Around Or Anything Because No One’s Supposed To See Me Doing This Shit heart from when they were eleven. That’s when the cards stopped, replaced by messily scrawled notes between classes, because after sixth grade, nobody leaves Valentine’s cards anymore. They’re for-apparently-babies.
Brittany is a lot of things, but she refuses to be a baby. Especially when Santana’s around.
“Whatever,” Santana says now, leaning back in her beanbag chair and huffing. “It’s still stupid.”
Brittany doesn’t agree with that, but then, Brittany doesn’t agree with a lot of the stuff Santana says. She’s not even sure Santana agrees most of the time; it feels like she just says stuff to say it, more than because it’s really true. Which is why she’s still such good friends with Santana in the first place: she almost never means the not-so-nice stuff that comes out of her mouth. It’s just the way Santana is.
And even if “the way Santana is” means insulting one of the nicest holidays ever, Brittany doesn’t mind. It just means Santana will be spending the whole day with her, instead of chasing after some dumb boy with a bright pink card. Brittany prefers it this way, when it’s just them, with no one else butting in.
The alarm clock on the floor buzzes, letting them know it’s midnight, and therefore time for Santana to bicycle home as fast as she can before her mom calls Brittany’s. Santana pushes herself to her feet, straightening her jacket.
“Anyway, I gotta go. I’ll see you in school tomorrow?”
“Totally,” Brittany says, rushing to pull the last string. “Hey, wait.”
She grabs at Santana’s wrist before she can shimmy down the rope ladder, carefully tying the ends of her bracelet in a tight knot. Santana gazes down at the brightly colored string wonderingly.
“What’s this for?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Brittany announces, grinning from ear to ear. “You may think it’s stupid, but you still get a gift. Cuz I love you, and when you love somebody, that’s what you do on Valentine’s Day.”
Santana makes a sputtering noise when Brittany smacks a cheerful kiss against her cheek, and barely manages to spit out a thank you before turning and bolting for her bike. Brittany doesn’t mind. That’s just the way Santana is.
And when she gets to school the next day to find a meticulously decorated card in the shape of pink duck wedged inside her locker, adorned with the hastily scrawled words, I guess I love you, too, then. Or whatever. -S, she can’t help but think that this Valentine’s Day is the best one yet.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.S
Spoilers: None.
Summary: [Brittana Week-Day 4: Valentine's Day] “Why do you care so much about Valentine’s Day, anyway?”
“Why do you care so much about Valentine’s Day, anyway?” Santana asks on February thirteenth, at 11:45 PM. Brittany glances up from the friendship bracelet she’s weaving, tongue clamped between her teeth.
“Who says I care?”
“Facebook,” Santana retorts in her I’m-really-smart voice. Brittany rolls her eyes.
“Do you believe Noah’s status about getting into Rachel Berry’s underwear drawer, too?”
“Hey, don’t get all sarcastic with me,” Santana laughs. “I taught you everything you know. Besides, Puckerman’s an asshat. You’re my best friend. There is a raging difference.”
Brittany shakes her head, grinning. At thirteen, Santana seems to think she knows everything. Even stuff Brittany hasn’t told her.
If she wasn’t so often right, Brittany might call her on it more often.
“Okay,” she admits at last, “I like Valentine’s Day. So what? You like candy.”
“Sure,” Santana allows, “but that’s what Halloween’s for. And Easter. Valentine’s Day is about all that loove crap. You actually believe in that horseshit?”
“It’s not horseshit!” Brittany protests. “People fall in love every day!”
“Have you ever been in love?” Santana demands, thunking a tennis ball against the treehouse wall and barely catching the rebound. Brittany bites her lip.
“I dunno.”
“You’re supposed to know,” Santana informs her witheringly, blowing a rogue strand of hair out of her mouth. “Isn’t love supposed to make you want to write shitty songs, or stand on some girl’s lawn with a boombox above your head?”
Brittany lifts an eyebrow, cocking her head. Santana’s ears go red.
“Not that I’d ever stand on-I mean, it would be a boy’s-you know what, forget it.”
“Boomboxes are heavy,” Brittany says slowly, looping one bit of string around another and pulling. “An iHome, maybe.”
“The point,” Santana snarks, “is that Valentine’s Day is totally stupid. All those dumb cards you were supposed to give out in elementary school-I mean, it’s not like we didn’t throw them all out three days later, right? And those candy heart things taste like chalk. Chalk isn’t tasty.”
“I like them,” Brittany insists. “And I kept the cards. Well. Some of them,” she adds when Santana gives her the world-famous you must be shitting me look. “If they were cute.”
“The cards, or the boys?” Santana snips, her voice going strangely high in a way that lets Brittany know she doesn’t really want an answer. Ducking her head, Brittany pulls another string and bites her lip to keep from admitting that most of the cards she’s kept over the years are actually from Santana herself.
They’re all there, in a shoebox beneath her bed: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in second grade (Santana knows she likes the orange one best), Star Wars (with the pretty princess and her hot jerk of a smuggler) in third, all the way up to the grudgingly homemade You’re My Best Friend So You Get All The Glitter, But Don’t Wave It Around Or Anything Because No One’s Supposed To See Me Doing This Shit heart from when they were eleven. That’s when the cards stopped, replaced by messily scrawled notes between classes, because after sixth grade, nobody leaves Valentine’s cards anymore. They’re for-apparently-babies.
Brittany is a lot of things, but she refuses to be a baby. Especially when Santana’s around.
“Whatever,” Santana says now, leaning back in her beanbag chair and huffing. “It’s still stupid.”
Brittany doesn’t agree with that, but then, Brittany doesn’t agree with a lot of the stuff Santana says. She’s not even sure Santana agrees most of the time; it feels like she just says stuff to say it, more than because it’s really true. Which is why she’s still such good friends with Santana in the first place: she almost never means the not-so-nice stuff that comes out of her mouth. It’s just the way Santana is.
And even if “the way Santana is” means insulting one of the nicest holidays ever, Brittany doesn’t mind. It just means Santana will be spending the whole day with her, instead of chasing after some dumb boy with a bright pink card. Brittany prefers it this way, when it’s just them, with no one else butting in.
The alarm clock on the floor buzzes, letting them know it’s midnight, and therefore time for Santana to bicycle home as fast as she can before her mom calls Brittany’s. Santana pushes herself to her feet, straightening her jacket.
“Anyway, I gotta go. I’ll see you in school tomorrow?”
“Totally,” Brittany says, rushing to pull the last string. “Hey, wait.”
She grabs at Santana’s wrist before she can shimmy down the rope ladder, carefully tying the ends of her bracelet in a tight knot. Santana gazes down at the brightly colored string wonderingly.
“What’s this for?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Brittany announces, grinning from ear to ear. “You may think it’s stupid, but you still get a gift. Cuz I love you, and when you love somebody, that’s what you do on Valentine’s Day.”
Santana makes a sputtering noise when Brittany smacks a cheerful kiss against her cheek, and barely manages to spit out a thank you before turning and bolting for her bike. Brittany doesn’t mind. That’s just the way Santana is.
And when she gets to school the next day to find a meticulously decorated card in the shape of pink duck wedged inside her locker, adorned with the hastily scrawled words, I guess I love you, too, then. Or whatever. -S, she can’t help but think that this Valentine’s Day is the best one yet.