Sins of My Youth (2/?)
Title: Sins of My Youth (2/?)
Author: only_because3 or jeytonbrucasnaley
Rating: T for now? Maybe M for implied sexytimes
Length: 3914
Spoilers: Season 2
Pairing: Quinn/Santana, Quinn/Puck, Santana/Brittany
Summary: "God, that's such complete bullshit, especially coming from you." Quinn pulls her hand back sharply as Santana takes in a big gulp of air to continue. "Not winning prom queen is going to make you feel even more insecure about yourself for like, ever, even though that stupid piece of plastic doesn't mean shit. Brittany is my best friend. I've known her since we were eight. She's always going to matter, more so now that she… That I'm… That." She squeezes her eyes shut, still unable to say it out loud because there is no coming back from that. She's not a Fabray, even though she has spent the entire summer thus far in their house. She can't acknowledge something and then pretend it didn't happen.
Author's Note: HUZZAH! I set out today planning on finishing this chapter and actually did. Thanks to Kori for reading this over (and pointing out all my mistakes in the first chapter). Next chapter should hopefully be up by the end of this week. Oh, and I'm not exactly sure when it was that Quinn transferred. I didn't like the Lucy storyline and thus didn't really pay attention. In this story Quinn went to high school somewhere else for freshman year and somehow managed to get a spot on the Cheerios before she actually attended m'kay?
--
Puck’s been coming to the store during her shift, but hasn’t really talked to her. He gave her shit the first time he stopped by (which actually had a purpose. He was buying this cookbook for Mrs. Puckerman that Quinn can vaguely remember the older woman talking about when she still lived there), but has only ever said ‘hey’ and ‘you read this?’ to her since. Mostly he just watches her while he thinks she’s not paying attention and it’s simultaneously creepy and comforting (it’s been a long time since someone’s looked at her and Puck’s somehow always seen her). Today, he walks straight to the counter, leaning on his elbows on the hard wood and effectively scaring the crap out of her when she stands back up with a pile of books in her arms. “Jesus, Puck.” She drops the stack of books on to the counter and pushes her hair behind her ears.
“You guys do buy backs right?” She nods and then he tosses 3 books down: Twilight (she really hopes Jenna doesn’t continue reading the series), Night by Elie Wiesel, and the baby book he gave her when she was four months along. It makes her breath hitch and one of her hands goes to palm her stomach before she even realizes what she’s doing. Even though it’s physically impossible to feel through the fabric of her shirt, she gets the phantom feeling of her stretch marks under her fingertips and she swallows thickly as Puck just stares at her. “Why didn’t you tell me that you saw her?”
It’s the same question he asked her when they were in New York, except he sounded mostly sad then. Now, he just sounds angry. “Is that why you’ve been coming in while I’m working,” she asks, nails curling into her stomach. “It’s none of your business who I see.”
“Of course it’s my business, Quinn. She’s our daughter.”
“Don’t say that!” The store is big but her breathing is getting shallow, her chest getting tight. It feels like everything is shrinking and she squeezes her eyes shut in an effort to block it out. “She’s not our anything, Puck. And maybe if you’d stop thinking of her as such, I would have told you.”
Really, she should be upset with Shelby. She invited both of them to Beth’s first birthday and while Puck was more than eager to go, Quinn refused to attend. No matter how much she wanted to, Quinn couldn’t. She needed to keep herself separate from all of that. She should be in therapy when it comes to everything bouncing around in her head but, for right now, she’s trying to figure it out herself. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone else about how fucked up she is. So long as she can label herself, realize just who she is, she’ll be fine. But thinking of all the double meanings the words mother and daughter have to her now isn’t going to help with that. She needs things to be simple, even if they’re not. Shelby may have thought it was a good idea to tell Puck about those three months Quinn spent off and on at the Corcoran house, but Quinn needs to erase the time she spent there. She’s been trying so hard to just be a teenager and if she starts thinking about last summer, she’ll lose it.
His jaw tightens and when she opens her eyes, breathing still heavy, she notices just how tight he’s gripping the counter. “You can’t keep pretending none of it happened.”
She exhales with her entire body. “If I don’t, I’m going to go insane and end up like my mother.” He relaxes, only slightly, and she finally finds herself in control of her body once more. She puts stickers on the inside of each book (bargain blue for Twilight, non fiction green for Night, and self help purple for the baby book) and then taps a few numbers on the register. “I can give you $25 for all 3.”
He nods and when she goes to give him the money, he closes his hand around hers. He’s gentle but she can still feel the calluses on his palm and fingertips. It’s more comforting than she’s like to admit. “We’re only seventeen,” she whispers sadly.
She ends up sitting next to him in the middle of two fiction aisles during her lunch break. She doesn’t cry because there’s no point, though she does come close when he apologizes for being a dick earlier. The apology isn’t surprising, he’s apologized to her more times than she thinks anyone else has, it’s the fact that when he goes to press a kiss to her forehead, she tilts her head up just enough that his lips land on hers.
--
Because the Fabray household is hotter than hell and she would rather not go home, she sits at the Lima Bean by Quinn’s work while she waits for the blonde to get off. The AC feels amazing and even though the smells are kind of overwhelming (she doesn’t usually leave the house when she has even a mild hangover, but she’s pretty fucking sure she would have passed out from the heat if she stayed at Quinn’s), being alone here instead of alone at Quinn’s or at home is nice. Or it is nice until she notices someone slump down in the seat across from her. She’s peering across the table at the notebook Santana’s been lazily scribbling on and Santana drops her pen as she tugs one earbud out of her ear. “What’re you doing here?”
Brittany picks up the pen wordlessly and Santana watches as a fat cat appears on the top of her page. “Lord Tubbington misses you,” she says once the outline of the cat is done, going back to make stripes and spots along the large body. Santana glances up at Brittany who looks like she just rolled out of bed and she has the urge to reach across the table and smooth out Brittany’s cowlick. She doesn’t, can’t because touching Brittany isn’t something she can only do in small doses, and instead picks up her coffee and downs what little she has left. “I miss you.”
Santana arches a brow, looking back down at the doodle on her paper, the corner of her lips turning upward when she sees that Brittany added a duck sitting on the cat. “I didn’t go anywhere, Britt.”
The blonde purses her lips, like maybe she doesn’t quite believe that, which is insane because if Santana had it her way, she’d already have her head buried between Brittany’s legs. But then her face relaxes and her pinkie hooks around Santana’s as she starts looking at the words scribbled on the page, a smile gracing her features. “You have really pretty writing.” Santana clears her throat, pulling her hand away from Brittany’s and closing her notebook. Brittany’s smile shrinks but doesn’t disappear and she leans back in her seat to give Santana some space. “Did you get my text?”
Santana nods, pushing her hair behind her shoulder as she turns off her ipod. “Wasn’t me.”
“Oh.” She sounds sad and Santana really wishes that they weren’t doing this right now. “I didn’t really think so.” She’s staring at Santana’s hand as she runs a hand through her hair, finally flattening the part that had been driving Santana crazy. “You don’t leave without waking me up first.” She looks Santana in the eye then and fuck, Santana has lost any resolve she had last night. “I miss you,” she repeats.
Santana glances at the clock on the wall behind Brittany. Quinn still has another hour before she gets off. “I miss you too.” Brittany’s smile is back and this time Santana doesn’t pull her pinkie away from Brittany’s when they stand up.
--
She didn’t realize how much she missed working off hangovers with Brittany.
She glances over at Brittany who just made her way back to the top of the bed, smiling when Brittany licks her lips before running the back of her hand over her mouth. It’s not that she doesn’t like just spending time with Brittany, because she would have been fine if they came back to Brittany’s and just lounged around because she would’ve been with Brittany, but this is just so much better than that. It’s the only time Santana ever feels at peace anymore. “How the fuck have I gone over a month without that?”
Brittany giggles next to her, rolling on to her side and weaving her leg between Santana’s innocently. “You came fast,” she comments, propping her head up on her elbow.
“It’s been a while.” Brittany hums in response, her face going blank and Santana becomes hyper aware of the sheets she’s laying on. She hadn’t even thought about it when they tumbled into the room. All she could think of was Brittany’s pale skin against hers, Brittany’s blonde hair tangled around her fingers, and the taste of green apple Jolly Ranchers. Now she’s consumed by the faded smell of Axe, the light mark above Brittany’s right breast that she didn’t leave, and the sheets that suddenly feel grimy against her skin. Brittany rolls on top of her gently, pushing her into the mattress that she wants to get off of. She pushes back Santana’s knotted hair and kisses her forehead softly.
“I just want all of you,” Brittany whispers and Santana nods. She wants that too but she can’t. Not yet, not in this city.
“I’m sorry.” If she weren’t so god damn love drunk, she’d realize how stupid it is that she’s the one apologizing right now.
--
Quinn flops down on the floor next to her. “Have you been drinking?”
“No, I just have something in my eyes,” she answers dryly, looking over at Quinn when she lets out a bark of laughter. “Who were you sucking face with?” Quinn starts to protest, cheeks turning as red as her lips, but Santana shakes her head. “Just because you won’t call me out on crying sober doesn’t mean I will. Who was it? Puckerman? He get up your skirt too?” Quinn knuckle punches her in her arm, hard, and she holds her arm. “Fuck, Q.”
“Do you remember that one coach we had at cheer camp the summer before sophomore year?”
Santana drums her fingers on her stomach, eyebrows scrunching as she thinks. “You mean the one who was all about bonding? I think Coach Sylvester had her killed after camp was over.”
“I heard that she was the mystery meat sophomore year,” Quinn replies, pulling her bobby pins from her hair. “Anyway, do you remember that stupid game she made us play? Fact or fiction?”
“God, that game was awful. Nobody said anything interesting to a group of strangers. It’s social suicide.” Santana runs her thumb under her eyes, wiping away any mascara that may have run, before rolling on to her side to face Quinn. “Why?” Quinn bites her bottom lip, suddenly becoming fascinated with the bobby pins she removed from her hair. “Ugh. Really, Quinn?”
Quinn shrugs. “Would it really be that bad to share under the pretense of a game?” Santana sighs heavily and falls on to her back again. “C’mon. We both know that we can’t just say things to each other and I don’t think I can take another afternoon talking to you about Jersey.”
“Look, I know it’s trashy but it’s good television.”
Quinn rolls her eyes. “You think it’s good tv because you’re trashy.”
Now Quinn is the one clutching her arm. “Fact: You’re a bitch.”
“That’s not how you play! I’m supposed to ask fact or fiction,” Quinn complains, looking down at her reddening arm. “You’re not trashy anymore.”
“Whatever. I pick fact, Quinnie.”
Quinn wrinkles her nose at the use of her mother’s nickname for her. “I have a problem kissing other people’s boyfriends,” she says quietly. She looks over at Santana who thankfully does her the courtesy of staring up at her ceiling. Santana’s face doesn’t change, probably because she’s not surprised, but saying it out loud make Quinn’s stomach churn uncomfortably. “Fiction.”
“I didn’t sleep with Brittany today,” Santana breathes out, eyes closing as Quinn’s widen.
“What changed between last night and today?”
“Just because I agreed to play this game with you, doesn’t mean we’re going to have some fucking sappy sharing time,” she snaps. “It was a mistake anyway.”
“Fair enough.” She wouldn’t share more details about Puck if Santana asked, so why should she expect more just because this is about Brittany? Quinn runs a hand through her hair, twirling a chunk of her hair in her fingers once she reaches the tips.
It’s not like she can’t guess what’s going on between them. Brittany cornered her at the party last weekend. It’s not unsettling to be left alone with Brittany (though she’s pretty sure she could count on one hand all the times that’s happened), just overwhelming because Quinn just can’t deal with that most days. Plus drunk Brittany is even harder to be around, not only because she’s more in-your-face, she’s naked in-your-face. Some days it feels like she’s seen Brittany’s boobs more than her own. She reeked of vodka and sweat and practically talked into Quinn’s mouth. “Where is Santana? I miss my sweet lady kisses.” Quinn nodded and tried to discreetly lean Brittany on to Mike but she just wrapped her arm tighter around her waist. “I think I’m mad at her though. I can’t remember sometimes.”
What Quinn had taken for drunken nonsense clicked now that Santana’s reacting like this after sleeping with Brittany and she’d be lying if she didn’t hate Brittany a little for it.
“Why are you on the floor,” she asks after a bit, once her head starts to hurt and fill with ideas of Brittany and Santana not working out because of Brittany instead of Santana.
“God, what is with all these fucking questions?” Santana pushes herself up, looking down at Quinn who remains unfazed by her little shit fit. “Can we still go to Puck’s party tonight? Or did you rip him a new one after you made out with him?”
“I’m sorry, did I look like the raging bitch when I walked in?” Quinn gets up too, going a step further and standing up. She pulls off her shirt and walks over to her closet. “We better be going to Puck’s. I can’t deal with you when you’re like this sober anymore.”
--
“Brittany’s a cunt,” Quinn slurs, trying once again to avoid the cracks on their walk home. She’s not sure when they agreed that one of them would remain sober at parties (they haven’t gotten drunk together since the first party of the summer), but here she is, almost completely sober, holding Quinn up when she takes too big a step and as a result, twists her ankle.
“Don’t call her that,” Santana says softly, pushing Quinn’s hand down when the blonde tries to untangle herself from her.
“Why not? You may be stupid but you don’t deserve her… Her…” Quinn frowns, looking down at the crack she stepped on. “Oh no.”
Santana watches Quinn, equally confused and curious by her friend (she’s still not sure if that’s the appropriate word to describe them) who has stopped walking and is now resting most of her weight against Santana. “You’re so fucking weird.”
Quinn looks back up quickly, eyes wide and head tilted to the side in a way that reminds her of Brittany. “I forgot you were here.”
“How much did you have to drink?” Quinn shrugs and starts walking, shakily, once more.
“Cuntiness,” Quinn breathes out, head nodding confidently. “I think that accurately sums up how Brittany is treating you.”
“I didn’t know you were actually capable of saying the word cunt,” Santana muses, turning them up the walk way to Quinn’s house. “It’s weird hearing you say it. If you remember this tomorrow, are you going to wake me up with ‘Hail Mary’s?”
Quinn snorts, actually snorts, before cackling as they walk into the house. “I haven’t prayed in like,” she looks down at her hand, fingers dipping towards her palm and lips releasing soft sounds as she counts to herself. “One year and eight days.”
“How do you know that?” Quinn shrugs again as Santana leans her against the staircase while she goes to lock the door. “You should probably eat something. If you throw up, I will not help you.”
“S’okay. No one helped me when I was pregnant and my vomit was spontaneous instead of controlled.” Santana pauses at the door, hand gripping the top lock. Quinn doesn’t talk about last year. She hasn’t heard Quinn mention anything about being pregnant since she was pregnant, save for the time that she asked that mall Santa for something to help with stretch marks. Hell, for the bulk of this past year, Quinn pretended Puck didn’t exist. And, yeah, Santana’s been a bitch about it. She’s brought up the baby in numerous shitty ways and as a result, face planted in the middle of JFK.
(She said something about the baby on the plane. She honestly doesn’t remember why she said it or what exactly she said, but Quinn had traded seats after that with some random passenger in the back of the plane. When they landed and Quinn reluctantly joined their group on the way to baggage claim, the bitch actually tripped her. Puck helped her up as Quinn continued walking with that evil smile that reminds Santana a lot of the stepmother in Cinderella, and asked her to back the fuck off when it came to the baby. “She turned one last week,” he whispered harshly in her ear. “Quinn doesn’t give you shit about your fucked up decisions when it comes to Brittany so lay off.” It was one of the least threatening things Puck has ever said to her, but, of course, was enough to make her pull her head out of her ass.)
Ever since then, Santana really has tried to avoid the subject because she really can’t stop her mouth once it starts going. It’s easy and hard at the same time because Santana knows she can bring up that Quinn lived with Puck and Mercedes, can even bring up that Quinn’s water totally broke all over Judy’s shoes (because that’s still one of the few things that Quinn can genuinely laugh at), but she can’t mention the assortment of summer dresses hidden in the back of Quinn’s closet or the breastfeeding bras shoved in her underwear drawer (Santana doesn’t actually understand why Quinn owns those because it wasn’t like she breastfed, but she chalks it up to just not knowing shit when it comes to pregnancy). The closest she’s come to talking about it out loud since Nationals was when she asked Quinn if she let Puck bone her again in between her second and third drink tonight. So this, hearing Quinn bring up the portion of sophomore year that didn’t happen, is kind of fucking crazy, even if she is drunk.
“Did you know I went through my entire morning sickness phase here? And neither of my parents said shit?” Quinn never curses so it kind of makes Santana want to smirk but the blonde’s getting angry fast and Santana isn’t looking to be slapped (though she’s pretty sure Quinn would fall over if she tried). “You know I can’t throw up quietly but they still looked the other way. Not that I expected them to notice. I’ve been sticking my finger down my throat ever since cheer camp sophomore year.”
Santana did not have enough drinks for this. “Your parents sucks. This isn’t new, Quinn.”
Quinn looks at Santana, a lot like she did after she stepped on the crack outside, as the brunette throws her arm around her shoulders. “Brittany sucks too.” Santana rolls her eyes. “What? You said I shouldn’t call her a cunt. Saying she sucks is more appropriate.”
“She doesn’t suck,” Santana says quietly as she gets them into the kitchen without much fanfare.
“I’m drunk and don’t care, S. You can tell me that she sucks and I probably won’t even remember later.” Santana sets her down at the table (she briefly considers putting her in a seat at the counter but she’s seen Quinn fall off those stools sober) before going over to the massive fridge that Judy always keeps stocked. “You love her and you, McKinley’s biggest whore, hasn’t slept with anyone else since like… Well, I at least know you haven’t since Sam but I’d put money on it being longer than that.” She pulls out two plates of leftovers (Santana’s is actually marked with her name because Judy knows that she prefers her mashed potatoes with cheese while Quinn prefers hers plain), ignoring the whore comment (because well, it was true once upon a time) and refusing to look at the blonde who is staring at her expectantly.
“I get why she’s doing this. Yeah, for me it does suck, but I can’t blame her.” She pulls the saran wrap off of Quinn’s plate and slides it in front of the blonde, grabbing a fork from the dishwasher and handing it to her.
“You love her too much,” Quinn says right before she shovels half of her mashed potatoes into her mouth.
“That’s clearly not true. If it were, I’d be fucking Brittany right now.”
Quinn shakes her head as she tears off a small piece of grilled chicken. The entire meal tastes gross cold, but she knows that she’ll throw up if she eats it hot. “I think you should at least have the balls to be gay and what not in Glee. The school though? Or, you know, public, isn’t okay. Your parents would totally find out, especially since your mom is usually home now, and they’ll kick you out.” Quinn takes another bite. “You would do anything else for her. That should be enough.”
Santana picks at her plate, ignoring the fact that her phone vibrates in her pocket. “It’s not fair to her.”
“It’s not fair that you want a roof over your head? That you want to pretend that mommy and daddy really love you for another year?” Quinn laughs and Santana is quickly learning she hates drunk Quinn. “It was one thing when she was dating Artie but now she’s fucking someone at every party she goes to. That isn’t fair to you.”
Santana shakes her head. “She shouldn’t have to wait for me to figure my shit out.”
Quinn rolls her eyes. “You’re almost as stupid as Finn.”
“You know what’s stupid? Letting Puck feel you up on your break today.” Quinn knuckle punches her hard in her arm again and even though Santana wants to clutch the throbbing portion of her arm, she just smirks. “You drunk enough to talk about that?”
“Nope,” she answers tightly, taking another bite of her mashed potatoes. “And that wasn’t stupid.”
“Really? You think that fucking around with Puck again is a smart and you called me stupid?”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Santana.”
“Because you know I’m right.”
Quinn finishes her potatoes and licks her fork clean. “Just like you know I’m right about Brittany.”
It’s kind of creepy how a like they are sometimes.
Author: only_because3 or jeytonbrucasnaley
Rating: T for now? Maybe M for implied sexytimes
Length: 3914
Spoilers: Season 2
Pairing: Quinn/Santana, Quinn/Puck, Santana/Brittany
Summary: "God, that's such complete bullshit, especially coming from you." Quinn pulls her hand back sharply as Santana takes in a big gulp of air to continue. "Not winning prom queen is going to make you feel even more insecure about yourself for like, ever, even though that stupid piece of plastic doesn't mean shit. Brittany is my best friend. I've known her since we were eight. She's always going to matter, more so now that she… That I'm… That." She squeezes her eyes shut, still unable to say it out loud because there is no coming back from that. She's not a Fabray, even though she has spent the entire summer thus far in their house. She can't acknowledge something and then pretend it didn't happen.
Author's Note: HUZZAH! I set out today planning on finishing this chapter and actually did. Thanks to Kori for reading this over (and pointing out all my mistakes in the first chapter). Next chapter should hopefully be up by the end of this week. Oh, and I'm not exactly sure when it was that Quinn transferred. I didn't like the Lucy storyline and thus didn't really pay attention. In this story Quinn went to high school somewhere else for freshman year and somehow managed to get a spot on the Cheerios before she actually attended m'kay?
--
Puck’s been coming to the store during her shift, but hasn’t really talked to her. He gave her shit the first time he stopped by (which actually had a purpose. He was buying this cookbook for Mrs. Puckerman that Quinn can vaguely remember the older woman talking about when she still lived there), but has only ever said ‘hey’ and ‘you read this?’ to her since. Mostly he just watches her while he thinks she’s not paying attention and it’s simultaneously creepy and comforting (it’s been a long time since someone’s looked at her and Puck’s somehow always seen her). Today, he walks straight to the counter, leaning on his elbows on the hard wood and effectively scaring the crap out of her when she stands back up with a pile of books in her arms. “Jesus, Puck.” She drops the stack of books on to the counter and pushes her hair behind her ears.
“You guys do buy backs right?” She nods and then he tosses 3 books down: Twilight (she really hopes Jenna doesn’t continue reading the series), Night by Elie Wiesel, and the baby book he gave her when she was four months along. It makes her breath hitch and one of her hands goes to palm her stomach before she even realizes what she’s doing. Even though it’s physically impossible to feel through the fabric of her shirt, she gets the phantom feeling of her stretch marks under her fingertips and she swallows thickly as Puck just stares at her. “Why didn’t you tell me that you saw her?”
It’s the same question he asked her when they were in New York, except he sounded mostly sad then. Now, he just sounds angry. “Is that why you’ve been coming in while I’m working,” she asks, nails curling into her stomach. “It’s none of your business who I see.”
“Of course it’s my business, Quinn. She’s our daughter.”
“Don’t say that!” The store is big but her breathing is getting shallow, her chest getting tight. It feels like everything is shrinking and she squeezes her eyes shut in an effort to block it out. “She’s not our anything, Puck. And maybe if you’d stop thinking of her as such, I would have told you.”
Really, she should be upset with Shelby. She invited both of them to Beth’s first birthday and while Puck was more than eager to go, Quinn refused to attend. No matter how much she wanted to, Quinn couldn’t. She needed to keep herself separate from all of that. She should be in therapy when it comes to everything bouncing around in her head but, for right now, she’s trying to figure it out herself. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone else about how fucked up she is. So long as she can label herself, realize just who she is, she’ll be fine. But thinking of all the double meanings the words mother and daughter have to her now isn’t going to help with that. She needs things to be simple, even if they’re not. Shelby may have thought it was a good idea to tell Puck about those three months Quinn spent off and on at the Corcoran house, but Quinn needs to erase the time she spent there. She’s been trying so hard to just be a teenager and if she starts thinking about last summer, she’ll lose it.
His jaw tightens and when she opens her eyes, breathing still heavy, she notices just how tight he’s gripping the counter. “You can’t keep pretending none of it happened.”
She exhales with her entire body. “If I don’t, I’m going to go insane and end up like my mother.” He relaxes, only slightly, and she finally finds herself in control of her body once more. She puts stickers on the inside of each book (bargain blue for Twilight, non fiction green for Night, and self help purple for the baby book) and then taps a few numbers on the register. “I can give you $25 for all 3.”
He nods and when she goes to give him the money, he closes his hand around hers. He’s gentle but she can still feel the calluses on his palm and fingertips. It’s more comforting than she’s like to admit. “We’re only seventeen,” she whispers sadly.
She ends up sitting next to him in the middle of two fiction aisles during her lunch break. She doesn’t cry because there’s no point, though she does come close when he apologizes for being a dick earlier. The apology isn’t surprising, he’s apologized to her more times than she thinks anyone else has, it’s the fact that when he goes to press a kiss to her forehead, she tilts her head up just enough that his lips land on hers.
--
Because the Fabray household is hotter than hell and she would rather not go home, she sits at the Lima Bean by Quinn’s work while she waits for the blonde to get off. The AC feels amazing and even though the smells are kind of overwhelming (she doesn’t usually leave the house when she has even a mild hangover, but she’s pretty fucking sure she would have passed out from the heat if she stayed at Quinn’s), being alone here instead of alone at Quinn’s or at home is nice. Or it is nice until she notices someone slump down in the seat across from her. She’s peering across the table at the notebook Santana’s been lazily scribbling on and Santana drops her pen as she tugs one earbud out of her ear. “What’re you doing here?”
Brittany picks up the pen wordlessly and Santana watches as a fat cat appears on the top of her page. “Lord Tubbington misses you,” she says once the outline of the cat is done, going back to make stripes and spots along the large body. Santana glances up at Brittany who looks like she just rolled out of bed and she has the urge to reach across the table and smooth out Brittany’s cowlick. She doesn’t, can’t because touching Brittany isn’t something she can only do in small doses, and instead picks up her coffee and downs what little she has left. “I miss you.”
Santana arches a brow, looking back down at the doodle on her paper, the corner of her lips turning upward when she sees that Brittany added a duck sitting on the cat. “I didn’t go anywhere, Britt.”
The blonde purses her lips, like maybe she doesn’t quite believe that, which is insane because if Santana had it her way, she’d already have her head buried between Brittany’s legs. But then her face relaxes and her pinkie hooks around Santana’s as she starts looking at the words scribbled on the page, a smile gracing her features. “You have really pretty writing.” Santana clears her throat, pulling her hand away from Brittany’s and closing her notebook. Brittany’s smile shrinks but doesn’t disappear and she leans back in her seat to give Santana some space. “Did you get my text?”
Santana nods, pushing her hair behind her shoulder as she turns off her ipod. “Wasn’t me.”
“Oh.” She sounds sad and Santana really wishes that they weren’t doing this right now. “I didn’t really think so.” She’s staring at Santana’s hand as she runs a hand through her hair, finally flattening the part that had been driving Santana crazy. “You don’t leave without waking me up first.” She looks Santana in the eye then and fuck, Santana has lost any resolve she had last night. “I miss you,” she repeats.
Santana glances at the clock on the wall behind Brittany. Quinn still has another hour before she gets off. “I miss you too.” Brittany’s smile is back and this time Santana doesn’t pull her pinkie away from Brittany’s when they stand up.
--
She didn’t realize how much she missed working off hangovers with Brittany.
She glances over at Brittany who just made her way back to the top of the bed, smiling when Brittany licks her lips before running the back of her hand over her mouth. It’s not that she doesn’t like just spending time with Brittany, because she would have been fine if they came back to Brittany’s and just lounged around because she would’ve been with Brittany, but this is just so much better than that. It’s the only time Santana ever feels at peace anymore. “How the fuck have I gone over a month without that?”
Brittany giggles next to her, rolling on to her side and weaving her leg between Santana’s innocently. “You came fast,” she comments, propping her head up on her elbow.
“It’s been a while.” Brittany hums in response, her face going blank and Santana becomes hyper aware of the sheets she’s laying on. She hadn’t even thought about it when they tumbled into the room. All she could think of was Brittany’s pale skin against hers, Brittany’s blonde hair tangled around her fingers, and the taste of green apple Jolly Ranchers. Now she’s consumed by the faded smell of Axe, the light mark above Brittany’s right breast that she didn’t leave, and the sheets that suddenly feel grimy against her skin. Brittany rolls on top of her gently, pushing her into the mattress that she wants to get off of. She pushes back Santana’s knotted hair and kisses her forehead softly.
“I just want all of you,” Brittany whispers and Santana nods. She wants that too but she can’t. Not yet, not in this city.
“I’m sorry.” If she weren’t so god damn love drunk, she’d realize how stupid it is that she’s the one apologizing right now.
--
Quinn flops down on the floor next to her. “Have you been drinking?”
“No, I just have something in my eyes,” she answers dryly, looking over at Quinn when she lets out a bark of laughter. “Who were you sucking face with?” Quinn starts to protest, cheeks turning as red as her lips, but Santana shakes her head. “Just because you won’t call me out on crying sober doesn’t mean I will. Who was it? Puckerman? He get up your skirt too?” Quinn knuckle punches her in her arm, hard, and she holds her arm. “Fuck, Q.”
“Do you remember that one coach we had at cheer camp the summer before sophomore year?”
Santana drums her fingers on her stomach, eyebrows scrunching as she thinks. “You mean the one who was all about bonding? I think Coach Sylvester had her killed after camp was over.”
“I heard that she was the mystery meat sophomore year,” Quinn replies, pulling her bobby pins from her hair. “Anyway, do you remember that stupid game she made us play? Fact or fiction?”
“God, that game was awful. Nobody said anything interesting to a group of strangers. It’s social suicide.” Santana runs her thumb under her eyes, wiping away any mascara that may have run, before rolling on to her side to face Quinn. “Why?” Quinn bites her bottom lip, suddenly becoming fascinated with the bobby pins she removed from her hair. “Ugh. Really, Quinn?”
Quinn shrugs. “Would it really be that bad to share under the pretense of a game?” Santana sighs heavily and falls on to her back again. “C’mon. We both know that we can’t just say things to each other and I don’t think I can take another afternoon talking to you about Jersey.”
“Look, I know it’s trashy but it’s good television.”
Quinn rolls her eyes. “You think it’s good tv because you’re trashy.”
Now Quinn is the one clutching her arm. “Fact: You’re a bitch.”
“That’s not how you play! I’m supposed to ask fact or fiction,” Quinn complains, looking down at her reddening arm. “You’re not trashy anymore.”
“Whatever. I pick fact, Quinnie.”
Quinn wrinkles her nose at the use of her mother’s nickname for her. “I have a problem kissing other people’s boyfriends,” she says quietly. She looks over at Santana who thankfully does her the courtesy of staring up at her ceiling. Santana’s face doesn’t change, probably because she’s not surprised, but saying it out loud make Quinn’s stomach churn uncomfortably. “Fiction.”
“I didn’t sleep with Brittany today,” Santana breathes out, eyes closing as Quinn’s widen.
“What changed between last night and today?”
“Just because I agreed to play this game with you, doesn’t mean we’re going to have some fucking sappy sharing time,” she snaps. “It was a mistake anyway.”
“Fair enough.” She wouldn’t share more details about Puck if Santana asked, so why should she expect more just because this is about Brittany? Quinn runs a hand through her hair, twirling a chunk of her hair in her fingers once she reaches the tips.
It’s not like she can’t guess what’s going on between them. Brittany cornered her at the party last weekend. It’s not unsettling to be left alone with Brittany (though she’s pretty sure she could count on one hand all the times that’s happened), just overwhelming because Quinn just can’t deal with that most days. Plus drunk Brittany is even harder to be around, not only because she’s more in-your-face, she’s naked in-your-face. Some days it feels like she’s seen Brittany’s boobs more than her own. She reeked of vodka and sweat and practically talked into Quinn’s mouth. “Where is Santana? I miss my sweet lady kisses.” Quinn nodded and tried to discreetly lean Brittany on to Mike but she just wrapped her arm tighter around her waist. “I think I’m mad at her though. I can’t remember sometimes.”
What Quinn had taken for drunken nonsense clicked now that Santana’s reacting like this after sleeping with Brittany and she’d be lying if she didn’t hate Brittany a little for it.
“Why are you on the floor,” she asks after a bit, once her head starts to hurt and fill with ideas of Brittany and Santana not working out because of Brittany instead of Santana.
“God, what is with all these fucking questions?” Santana pushes herself up, looking down at Quinn who remains unfazed by her little shit fit. “Can we still go to Puck’s party tonight? Or did you rip him a new one after you made out with him?”
“I’m sorry, did I look like the raging bitch when I walked in?” Quinn gets up too, going a step further and standing up. She pulls off her shirt and walks over to her closet. “We better be going to Puck’s. I can’t deal with you when you’re like this sober anymore.”
--
“Brittany’s a cunt,” Quinn slurs, trying once again to avoid the cracks on their walk home. She’s not sure when they agreed that one of them would remain sober at parties (they haven’t gotten drunk together since the first party of the summer), but here she is, almost completely sober, holding Quinn up when she takes too big a step and as a result, twists her ankle.
“Don’t call her that,” Santana says softly, pushing Quinn’s hand down when the blonde tries to untangle herself from her.
“Why not? You may be stupid but you don’t deserve her… Her…” Quinn frowns, looking down at the crack she stepped on. “Oh no.”
Santana watches Quinn, equally confused and curious by her friend (she’s still not sure if that’s the appropriate word to describe them) who has stopped walking and is now resting most of her weight against Santana. “You’re so fucking weird.”
Quinn looks back up quickly, eyes wide and head tilted to the side in a way that reminds her of Brittany. “I forgot you were here.”
“How much did you have to drink?” Quinn shrugs and starts walking, shakily, once more.
“Cuntiness,” Quinn breathes out, head nodding confidently. “I think that accurately sums up how Brittany is treating you.”
“I didn’t know you were actually capable of saying the word cunt,” Santana muses, turning them up the walk way to Quinn’s house. “It’s weird hearing you say it. If you remember this tomorrow, are you going to wake me up with ‘Hail Mary’s?”
Quinn snorts, actually snorts, before cackling as they walk into the house. “I haven’t prayed in like,” she looks down at her hand, fingers dipping towards her palm and lips releasing soft sounds as she counts to herself. “One year and eight days.”
“How do you know that?” Quinn shrugs again as Santana leans her against the staircase while she goes to lock the door. “You should probably eat something. If you throw up, I will not help you.”
“S’okay. No one helped me when I was pregnant and my vomit was spontaneous instead of controlled.” Santana pauses at the door, hand gripping the top lock. Quinn doesn’t talk about last year. She hasn’t heard Quinn mention anything about being pregnant since she was pregnant, save for the time that she asked that mall Santa for something to help with stretch marks. Hell, for the bulk of this past year, Quinn pretended Puck didn’t exist. And, yeah, Santana’s been a bitch about it. She’s brought up the baby in numerous shitty ways and as a result, face planted in the middle of JFK.
(She said something about the baby on the plane. She honestly doesn’t remember why she said it or what exactly she said, but Quinn had traded seats after that with some random passenger in the back of the plane. When they landed and Quinn reluctantly joined their group on the way to baggage claim, the bitch actually tripped her. Puck helped her up as Quinn continued walking with that evil smile that reminds Santana a lot of the stepmother in Cinderella, and asked her to back the fuck off when it came to the baby. “She turned one last week,” he whispered harshly in her ear. “Quinn doesn’t give you shit about your fucked up decisions when it comes to Brittany so lay off.” It was one of the least threatening things Puck has ever said to her, but, of course, was enough to make her pull her head out of her ass.)
Ever since then, Santana really has tried to avoid the subject because she really can’t stop her mouth once it starts going. It’s easy and hard at the same time because Santana knows she can bring up that Quinn lived with Puck and Mercedes, can even bring up that Quinn’s water totally broke all over Judy’s shoes (because that’s still one of the few things that Quinn can genuinely laugh at), but she can’t mention the assortment of summer dresses hidden in the back of Quinn’s closet or the breastfeeding bras shoved in her underwear drawer (Santana doesn’t actually understand why Quinn owns those because it wasn’t like she breastfed, but she chalks it up to just not knowing shit when it comes to pregnancy). The closest she’s come to talking about it out loud since Nationals was when she asked Quinn if she let Puck bone her again in between her second and third drink tonight. So this, hearing Quinn bring up the portion of sophomore year that didn’t happen, is kind of fucking crazy, even if she is drunk.
“Did you know I went through my entire morning sickness phase here? And neither of my parents said shit?” Quinn never curses so it kind of makes Santana want to smirk but the blonde’s getting angry fast and Santana isn’t looking to be slapped (though she’s pretty sure Quinn would fall over if she tried). “You know I can’t throw up quietly but they still looked the other way. Not that I expected them to notice. I’ve been sticking my finger down my throat ever since cheer camp sophomore year.”
Santana did not have enough drinks for this. “Your parents sucks. This isn’t new, Quinn.”
Quinn looks at Santana, a lot like she did after she stepped on the crack outside, as the brunette throws her arm around her shoulders. “Brittany sucks too.” Santana rolls her eyes. “What? You said I shouldn’t call her a cunt. Saying she sucks is more appropriate.”
“She doesn’t suck,” Santana says quietly as she gets them into the kitchen without much fanfare.
“I’m drunk and don’t care, S. You can tell me that she sucks and I probably won’t even remember later.” Santana sets her down at the table (she briefly considers putting her in a seat at the counter but she’s seen Quinn fall off those stools sober) before going over to the massive fridge that Judy always keeps stocked. “You love her and you, McKinley’s biggest whore, hasn’t slept with anyone else since like… Well, I at least know you haven’t since Sam but I’d put money on it being longer than that.” She pulls out two plates of leftovers (Santana’s is actually marked with her name because Judy knows that she prefers her mashed potatoes with cheese while Quinn prefers hers plain), ignoring the whore comment (because well, it was true once upon a time) and refusing to look at the blonde who is staring at her expectantly.
“I get why she’s doing this. Yeah, for me it does suck, but I can’t blame her.” She pulls the saran wrap off of Quinn’s plate and slides it in front of the blonde, grabbing a fork from the dishwasher and handing it to her.
“You love her too much,” Quinn says right before she shovels half of her mashed potatoes into her mouth.
“That’s clearly not true. If it were, I’d be fucking Brittany right now.”
Quinn shakes her head as she tears off a small piece of grilled chicken. The entire meal tastes gross cold, but she knows that she’ll throw up if she eats it hot. “I think you should at least have the balls to be gay and what not in Glee. The school though? Or, you know, public, isn’t okay. Your parents would totally find out, especially since your mom is usually home now, and they’ll kick you out.” Quinn takes another bite. “You would do anything else for her. That should be enough.”
Santana picks at her plate, ignoring the fact that her phone vibrates in her pocket. “It’s not fair to her.”
“It’s not fair that you want a roof over your head? That you want to pretend that mommy and daddy really love you for another year?” Quinn laughs and Santana is quickly learning she hates drunk Quinn. “It was one thing when she was dating Artie but now she’s fucking someone at every party she goes to. That isn’t fair to you.”
Santana shakes her head. “She shouldn’t have to wait for me to figure my shit out.”
Quinn rolls her eyes. “You’re almost as stupid as Finn.”
“You know what’s stupid? Letting Puck feel you up on your break today.” Quinn knuckle punches her hard in her arm again and even though Santana wants to clutch the throbbing portion of her arm, she just smirks. “You drunk enough to talk about that?”
“Nope,” she answers tightly, taking another bite of her mashed potatoes. “And that wasn’t stupid.”
“Really? You think that fucking around with Puck again is a smart and you called me stupid?”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Santana.”
“Because you know I’m right.”
Quinn finishes her potatoes and licks her fork clean. “Just like you know I’m right about Brittany.”
It’s kind of creepy how a like they are sometimes.