Isn't Your Mom Catholic?
Title: Isn't Your Mom Catholic?
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray, Sam Evans
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S3.
Summary: An addition to Bramtana week, in which Santana tromps all over religion, and Brittany makes an announcement.
"I'm just saying," Santana says brazenly, "if some buddy of yours flopped down at the table, held up a loaf of Wonder Bread, and announced, 'Eat up, bitches. This here's my arm,' would you fuckin' partake?"
Quinn makes a noise akin to that sound Lord Tubbington let out last week when she accidentally stomped on his tail.
"Of course you wouldn't. Because it's fucking crazy. You'd conk that asshole over the head with a kitchen chair, load his limp ass up in your Ford, and have him checked into the psych ward by lunch." She sits back, arms folded triumphantly across her chest.
Quinn's eyes have that look they get when she talks sometimes, like they're about five seconds from bugging out and skittering across the table.
"I don't think that was the point of mass," Sam says slowly, nudging his eggs around their plate with his fork. "At, um. All."
"It's insane," Santana retaliates. "Some bro in a dress and sandals starts rambling on about how you should zombie-out on his flesh and suck down a pint of grade-A O-positive, and you guys just run with it? It's nuts."
"Isn't your mom Catholic?" Quinn snaps. "You should know better than to--"
"Be totally grossed out by your super-cannibalistic ways?" She snorts. "I'll be sticking to my breadsticks, thanks very much."
Brittany squeezes her thigh under the table. "Want some muffin?"
"Or muffins," Santana allows, tearing a chunk out of the banana-nut baked good and popping it into her mouth. Quinn's face is still frozen in that I'm pretty sure I want to cut out your spleen and feed it to a Doberman expression. It's almost endearing; she hasn't seen that expression in a good long while, not since going off to college without Captain Frenemy. Strange, the things you come to miss.
But missing things can make you stupid, and when you get stupid, you somehow wind up agreeing to a church-and-brunch outing with two of the most religious morons she knows. Not that she doesn't love them, but there's just something wrong about this whole party.
Granted, there's a reason she chose to put up with them, even though it's a Sunday and she knew that was a horrible choice. But Brittany wanted to tell them, didn't want to put it off, and anyway the fact that Brittany is here--in the flesh, her fingers interlocking with Santana's right on top of her plate--makes this not only acceptable, but actually kind of great. Which is what counts, although there's a sort of sweetness in pushing Quinn's buttons all on its own.
She'd say the same for Evans, but the boy just keeps getting chiller and chiller. Maybe it's the all-access pass to the buffet line.
"Maybe church was a bad idea," Sam allows, tearing off a piece of bacon and cramming it into his mouth. "But it's still really good to see you two."
Quinn nods begrudgingly, still looking somewhat like a cat who has just been swatted. Santana grins around a mouthful of toast.
"You know you're going to Hell," Quinn tells her, only half as bitter as she's expecting. She shrugs.
"Gonna be a rave down there, girlfriend. You should think about joining the cool kids."
Sam snorts and just barely refrains from choking. Brittany sends her a worried look, lip between her teeth. Santana nudges at her cheek gently.
"Not really," she stage whispers. Quinn kicks her ankle beneath the table.
"Anyway," she says, and under those red highlights and plastic-rimmed glasses--which, Santana thinks, she's probably needed for about eight years before giving in to this college hipster crap--her old impatience is as evident as ever. "Apart from dismantling my faith piece by piece, did you call us together for a reason? Not that I'm not happy to see you all. I just have--"
"Books?" Santana suggests brightly. Quinn narrows her eyes.
"A life, Lopez. I have a life."
"Sniffing around after Rachel Berry's screw-ups so does not count as a life," Santana scoffs. This time, Sam really does choke on his eggs, pounding a fist on the table.
Brittany offers an exuberant high five, grinning. Quinn huffs.
"You have forty seconds, or I'm out of here. And you're taking on my bill."
"Fine." Santana glances from Sam to Quinn and back again. "We have an announcement."
Sam's palms slam down on either side of his plate, his face still pink from his little near-death experience. "Oh man, you're having a baby."
"You're what?" Quinn squawks. Santana blanches, head shaking so hard her vision actually goes fuzzy around the edges.
"Dear god, no. Jesus, you Christian lunatics really will believe anything."
"Watch it," Quinn warns.
"I'm just saying. Exactly how would a pair of lesbians just up and get pregnant? I mean, I know the Hulking Hudson was a total numbnuts on the subject of baby-making, but I had more faith in you than that."
Sam has the good grace to look sheepish. "Good point."
"Oh," Quinn groans, "please don't tell me you're eloping."
"When it's two girls, they call it U-hauling," Sam says wisely. Santana resists the urge to thwack her head against the tabletop.
"Why the hell am I friends with you two idiots, again?"
"Our announcement," Brittany cuts in smoothly, beaming with all the pride in her beautiful little heart, "is my announcement. I just let Santana share because that's what you do when you love each other."
She pauses for--Santana knows--dramatic effect. It's exactly how they practiced last weekend over webcam, Brittany puffing out her chest and raising up on her tiptoes in gleeful excitement.
"I'm graduating!" she blurts at last, once Sam's face has grown appropriately speculative and Quinn's lips have thinned out as far as they will go. "Santana helped me--and Artie, and Tina--and they're letting me take my JPG!"
"GED," Quinn corrects automatically, but her eyes are sparkling. Santana grins.
"My girl's escaping this Lima bullshit for good."
Sam frowns. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demands. "I'm your best friend!"
"Hey." Santana points, eyebrows narrowed. "Wanna try that again?"
"Your best dude friend," he amends. "And you don't even count anymore, you're her girlfriend."
"But the important thing," Quinn interrupts, half-impatient, half-delighted, "is Brittany is free."
"And she's coming with me," Santana says proudly, smacking a kiss against the side of Brittany's head. Quinn wrinkles her nose.
"Ew, to Kentucky?"
"Don't knock it, Preggers McPunk-Rock." Santana scowls over her plate. Brittany laughs.
"Anyway, we're going to New York," she explains. "Because Kentucky doesn't actually smell like fried chicken, and it sucks. And because Kurt invited us to stay with him until we find a place."
New York apparently qualifies as some sort of magic phrase, because the second Brittany says it, Quinn lights up like a damn disco ball. They fall into an easy stream of give-and-take--Quinn asking questions, Brittany fielding them with her usual laid-back smile--and Santana finds herself tuning out. It's great to soak up Brittany's excitement and her pride, but there's one tiny detail dragging down the post-crazy-people-gathering meal.
"Chill" Sammy-boy looks like he's just run over his own puppy with a four-wheeler.
She tries to go out of her way to avoid being all nice and shit, since it sort of dampens the head-bitch image she's worked so hard to convey, but Sam is different. Not that she can be obvious about it--the idiot does believe flavorless wafers will somehow save him from eternal damnation, after all--but he's done a lot for her. Let her cry into his gaping mouth when she thought Brittany would never choose her; accepted her faults without question; took care of her girl while she was away. Sam Evans is a good, if stunningly dense, man, and she--gross, never speak of it aloud--kind of loves him.
So, when he abruptly stands from the table, his face ashen and his eyes floorbound, she doesn't really have much of a choice but to follow.
"Um," he says uneasily, hand on the bathroom door. "This is the men's room."
She fixes him with her best talk, minion glare. His mouth droops, eyes nervous.
"You're...not allowed in..."
"What's your problem?" she demands, grandly ignoring his idiocy. He glances from the door to her face.
"I have to...pee?"
"Britt just gave you the best news she's gotten since I strutted into her life, and you look like you've just heard a Republican was voted Master of Earth. What gives, Rapunzel?"
He reflexively tugs on his hair, setting his jaw. "It's nothing."
"It's not," she argues, impatient. "Spill."
For a second, she's sure he's going to just bolt into the bathroom. She arches an eyebrow.
"If you go without speaking, I'm coming in after you. And I'll perform an impromptu ditty about the time I saw you leering at Kurt's ass during that Beyonce-off."
His hand falls from the door, shoulders slumping. "She's leaving," he says softly, and for one horrible minute, she wonders if she's going to have to throw down in the doorway of a Breadstix bathroom for her girl's honor. Then he says, "She's my best friend, and she's going, and--"
"Well, Christ, Evans, she isn't going to Mars," Santana blurts, smacking his arm. He winces, leaning away.
"Might as well be," he mutters. "Both of you. You're going to New York, why would you ever look back after that?"
"You did," Santana points out. "You got out of Bum Fuck Ohio, and you came back."
"I was stripping in Kentucky," he drawls, almost smirking. "You know Kentucky. Wasn't too big a stretch, getting the hell out of there."
"And you think you're going to be stuck here forever?" She rolls her eyes. "You idiot. We're going to New York to stay with Elton friggin' Poppins. As soon as you graduate, you know there's gonna be a place for you on the couch." She pauses thoughtfully. "Or in the glittery waterbed I'm sure Hummel gets his beauty sleep in, if that's what's blowing up your skirt those days."
He grinds his jaw like he's trying not to smile. She takes that as a sign that she's winning this battle. Or maybe that his bladder is straining to the breaking point and he just wants her to shut up, but whatever; that counts.
"Point is," she adds with a heavy air of finality, "Brittany couldn't be happier, which means I couldn't be happier. And even Fabray seems to have forgotten the part where I crapped all over her precious religion, which means you need to get your head out of your self-pity parade and join the party. Your best friend is graduating. Bitch, you should be baking her something involving red velvet and sprinkles."
And then she hugs him, because it's Sam, and because he is being sort of abandoned in Loserville, USA for the next few months. Not that he couldn't man up and download Skype like the rest of them, but whatever. It's Sunday. She's being charitable.
"I really do have to pee," he mumbles into her shoulder. She squeezes tighter, silently mulling over the pros and cons of belting him in the belly. "Like, really," he adds after a second. "Gonna have to just whip it out here if you don't--"
She releases, huffing. "See if I ever try to be nice to you again, piss-pants."
He grins after her, face still a little pale, but eyes bright again. "Thanks, Santana."
"Whatever," she sniffs. "Just don't lose our address. I have a feeling three-against-one is gonna be crucial when it comes to Hummel keeping all his boy-parts intact."
And, she adds silently as he pushes through the bathroom door, having Sam around in a couple of months might just be the thing that takes perfect to the ultimate level.
Not that she'd ever say that shit out loud.
Cuz, y'know--the kid believes in a bearded dude who might as well be a damn zombie. What do you even do with that?
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray, Sam Evans
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S3.
Summary: An addition to Bramtana week, in which Santana tromps all over religion, and Brittany makes an announcement.
"I'm just saying," Santana says brazenly, "if some buddy of yours flopped down at the table, held up a loaf of Wonder Bread, and announced, 'Eat up, bitches. This here's my arm,' would you fuckin' partake?"
Quinn makes a noise akin to that sound Lord Tubbington let out last week when she accidentally stomped on his tail.
"Of course you wouldn't. Because it's fucking crazy. You'd conk that asshole over the head with a kitchen chair, load his limp ass up in your Ford, and have him checked into the psych ward by lunch." She sits back, arms folded triumphantly across her chest.
Quinn's eyes have that look they get when she talks sometimes, like they're about five seconds from bugging out and skittering across the table.
"I don't think that was the point of mass," Sam says slowly, nudging his eggs around their plate with his fork. "At, um. All."
"It's insane," Santana retaliates. "Some bro in a dress and sandals starts rambling on about how you should zombie-out on his flesh and suck down a pint of grade-A O-positive, and you guys just run with it? It's nuts."
"Isn't your mom Catholic?" Quinn snaps. "You should know better than to--"
"Be totally grossed out by your super-cannibalistic ways?" She snorts. "I'll be sticking to my breadsticks, thanks very much."
Brittany squeezes her thigh under the table. "Want some muffin?"
"Or muffins," Santana allows, tearing a chunk out of the banana-nut baked good and popping it into her mouth. Quinn's face is still frozen in that I'm pretty sure I want to cut out your spleen and feed it to a Doberman expression. It's almost endearing; she hasn't seen that expression in a good long while, not since going off to college without Captain Frenemy. Strange, the things you come to miss.
But missing things can make you stupid, and when you get stupid, you somehow wind up agreeing to a church-and-brunch outing with two of the most religious morons she knows. Not that she doesn't love them, but there's just something wrong about this whole party.
Granted, there's a reason she chose to put up with them, even though it's a Sunday and she knew that was a horrible choice. But Brittany wanted to tell them, didn't want to put it off, and anyway the fact that Brittany is here--in the flesh, her fingers interlocking with Santana's right on top of her plate--makes this not only acceptable, but actually kind of great. Which is what counts, although there's a sort of sweetness in pushing Quinn's buttons all on its own.
She'd say the same for Evans, but the boy just keeps getting chiller and chiller. Maybe it's the all-access pass to the buffet line.
"Maybe church was a bad idea," Sam allows, tearing off a piece of bacon and cramming it into his mouth. "But it's still really good to see you two."
Quinn nods begrudgingly, still looking somewhat like a cat who has just been swatted. Santana grins around a mouthful of toast.
"You know you're going to Hell," Quinn tells her, only half as bitter as she's expecting. She shrugs.
"Gonna be a rave down there, girlfriend. You should think about joining the cool kids."
Sam snorts and just barely refrains from choking. Brittany sends her a worried look, lip between her teeth. Santana nudges at her cheek gently.
"Not really," she stage whispers. Quinn kicks her ankle beneath the table.
"Anyway," she says, and under those red highlights and plastic-rimmed glasses--which, Santana thinks, she's probably needed for about eight years before giving in to this college hipster crap--her old impatience is as evident as ever. "Apart from dismantling my faith piece by piece, did you call us together for a reason? Not that I'm not happy to see you all. I just have--"
"Books?" Santana suggests brightly. Quinn narrows her eyes.
"A life, Lopez. I have a life."
"Sniffing around after Rachel Berry's screw-ups so does not count as a life," Santana scoffs. This time, Sam really does choke on his eggs, pounding a fist on the table.
Brittany offers an exuberant high five, grinning. Quinn huffs.
"You have forty seconds, or I'm out of here. And you're taking on my bill."
"Fine." Santana glances from Sam to Quinn and back again. "We have an announcement."
Sam's palms slam down on either side of his plate, his face still pink from his little near-death experience. "Oh man, you're having a baby."
"You're what?" Quinn squawks. Santana blanches, head shaking so hard her vision actually goes fuzzy around the edges.
"Dear god, no. Jesus, you Christian lunatics really will believe anything."
"Watch it," Quinn warns.
"I'm just saying. Exactly how would a pair of lesbians just up and get pregnant? I mean, I know the Hulking Hudson was a total numbnuts on the subject of baby-making, but I had more faith in you than that."
Sam has the good grace to look sheepish. "Good point."
"Oh," Quinn groans, "please don't tell me you're eloping."
"When it's two girls, they call it U-hauling," Sam says wisely. Santana resists the urge to thwack her head against the tabletop.
"Why the hell am I friends with you two idiots, again?"
"Our announcement," Brittany cuts in smoothly, beaming with all the pride in her beautiful little heart, "is my announcement. I just let Santana share because that's what you do when you love each other."
She pauses for--Santana knows--dramatic effect. It's exactly how they practiced last weekend over webcam, Brittany puffing out her chest and raising up on her tiptoes in gleeful excitement.
"I'm graduating!" she blurts at last, once Sam's face has grown appropriately speculative and Quinn's lips have thinned out as far as they will go. "Santana helped me--and Artie, and Tina--and they're letting me take my JPG!"
"GED," Quinn corrects automatically, but her eyes are sparkling. Santana grins.
"My girl's escaping this Lima bullshit for good."
Sam frowns. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demands. "I'm your best friend!"
"Hey." Santana points, eyebrows narrowed. "Wanna try that again?"
"Your best dude friend," he amends. "And you don't even count anymore, you're her girlfriend."
"But the important thing," Quinn interrupts, half-impatient, half-delighted, "is Brittany is free."
"And she's coming with me," Santana says proudly, smacking a kiss against the side of Brittany's head. Quinn wrinkles her nose.
"Ew, to Kentucky?"
"Don't knock it, Preggers McPunk-Rock." Santana scowls over her plate. Brittany laughs.
"Anyway, we're going to New York," she explains. "Because Kentucky doesn't actually smell like fried chicken, and it sucks. And because Kurt invited us to stay with him until we find a place."
New York apparently qualifies as some sort of magic phrase, because the second Brittany says it, Quinn lights up like a damn disco ball. They fall into an easy stream of give-and-take--Quinn asking questions, Brittany fielding them with her usual laid-back smile--and Santana finds herself tuning out. It's great to soak up Brittany's excitement and her pride, but there's one tiny detail dragging down the post-crazy-people-gathering meal.
"Chill" Sammy-boy looks like he's just run over his own puppy with a four-wheeler.
She tries to go out of her way to avoid being all nice and shit, since it sort of dampens the head-bitch image she's worked so hard to convey, but Sam is different. Not that she can be obvious about it--the idiot does believe flavorless wafers will somehow save him from eternal damnation, after all--but he's done a lot for her. Let her cry into his gaping mouth when she thought Brittany would never choose her; accepted her faults without question; took care of her girl while she was away. Sam Evans is a good, if stunningly dense, man, and she--gross, never speak of it aloud--kind of loves him.
So, when he abruptly stands from the table, his face ashen and his eyes floorbound, she doesn't really have much of a choice but to follow.
"Um," he says uneasily, hand on the bathroom door. "This is the men's room."
She fixes him with her best talk, minion glare. His mouth droops, eyes nervous.
"You're...not allowed in..."
"What's your problem?" she demands, grandly ignoring his idiocy. He glances from the door to her face.
"I have to...pee?"
"Britt just gave you the best news she's gotten since I strutted into her life, and you look like you've just heard a Republican was voted Master of Earth. What gives, Rapunzel?"
He reflexively tugs on his hair, setting his jaw. "It's nothing."
"It's not," she argues, impatient. "Spill."
For a second, she's sure he's going to just bolt into the bathroom. She arches an eyebrow.
"If you go without speaking, I'm coming in after you. And I'll perform an impromptu ditty about the time I saw you leering at Kurt's ass during that Beyonce-off."
His hand falls from the door, shoulders slumping. "She's leaving," he says softly, and for one horrible minute, she wonders if she's going to have to throw down in the doorway of a Breadstix bathroom for her girl's honor. Then he says, "She's my best friend, and she's going, and--"
"Well, Christ, Evans, she isn't going to Mars," Santana blurts, smacking his arm. He winces, leaning away.
"Might as well be," he mutters. "Both of you. You're going to New York, why would you ever look back after that?"
"You did," Santana points out. "You got out of Bum Fuck Ohio, and you came back."
"I was stripping in Kentucky," he drawls, almost smirking. "You know Kentucky. Wasn't too big a stretch, getting the hell out of there."
"And you think you're going to be stuck here forever?" She rolls her eyes. "You idiot. We're going to New York to stay with Elton friggin' Poppins. As soon as you graduate, you know there's gonna be a place for you on the couch." She pauses thoughtfully. "Or in the glittery waterbed I'm sure Hummel gets his beauty sleep in, if that's what's blowing up your skirt those days."
He grinds his jaw like he's trying not to smile. She takes that as a sign that she's winning this battle. Or maybe that his bladder is straining to the breaking point and he just wants her to shut up, but whatever; that counts.
"Point is," she adds with a heavy air of finality, "Brittany couldn't be happier, which means I couldn't be happier. And even Fabray seems to have forgotten the part where I crapped all over her precious religion, which means you need to get your head out of your self-pity parade and join the party. Your best friend is graduating. Bitch, you should be baking her something involving red velvet and sprinkles."
And then she hugs him, because it's Sam, and because he is being sort of abandoned in Loserville, USA for the next few months. Not that he couldn't man up and download Skype like the rest of them, but whatever. It's Sunday. She's being charitable.
"I really do have to pee," he mumbles into her shoulder. She squeezes tighter, silently mulling over the pros and cons of belting him in the belly. "Like, really," he adds after a second. "Gonna have to just whip it out here if you don't--"
She releases, huffing. "See if I ever try to be nice to you again, piss-pants."
He grins after her, face still a little pale, but eyes bright again. "Thanks, Santana."
"Whatever," she sniffs. "Just don't lose our address. I have a feeling three-against-one is gonna be crucial when it comes to Hummel keeping all his boy-parts intact."
And, she adds silently as he pushes through the bathroom door, having Sam around in a couple of months might just be the thing that takes perfect to the ultimate level.
Not that she'd ever say that shit out loud.
Cuz, y'know--the kid believes in a bearded dude who might as well be a damn zombie. What do you even do with that?