fic: the way that light attaches to a girl (Glee)
Title: the way that light attaches to a girl
Fandom: Glee
Rating: teen (I think there's one swear word)
Pairing(s): Santana/Brittany
Summary: After her abuela kicks her out, Santana runs to Brittany.
Notes: I was feeling sad, so I wrote a sad little story. Not too sad, though. Set during "I Kissed A Girl" (3x07). 730 words.
Santana leaves when her abuela tells her to. She doesn’t remember getting in the car or turning the key in the ignition, though she has a vague memory of slamming the heel of her palm against the steering wheel while waiting for a light to turn green. By the time she reaches Brittany’s house, she’s trembling so hard that she trips getting out of her car, and her hand fumbles when she tries to press the doorbell.
Brittany answers, with Lord Tubbington in her arms. She takes one look at Santana and lets the cat spill from her arms to the floor. Lord Tubbington makes an aggrieved sound, but by then Brittany has her arms around Santana and is leading her down the short front hallway, and then up the stairs to her bedroom.
They don’t talk. Santana slumps onto Brittany’s bed and just lies there, limp and unresponsive, even when Brittany sinks down beside her and begins to remove the bobby pins from her hair. One by one, she lets them drop to the carpet where they’ll probably become toys for Lord Tubbington. As each lock of hair comes free, Brittany slides it gently between her fingers, untwisting it before letting it rest against the lavender bedspread. Santana sucks in a damp, ragged breath, and when she exhales, the tears start. She lets them fall, too enervated to wipe them away or even try to hold them back.
Brittany catches them with her knuckles, her skin soft and cool against Santana’s flushed cheek. “Shh,” Brittany whispers, even though Santana hasn’t said a word. “Shh.” Her long blond hair hangs down like a veil, and Santana wants to grab it and wrap herself up in it, but she can’t move.
She can’t move.
It’s a long night.
At some point, she falls asleep. She dreams on and off about things that slip from her memory when she opens her eyes and finds the sun shining through Brittany’s curtains. Brittany is curled up on the bed beside her, one arm resting limply across her shoulders. Lord Tubbington seems to have claimed Santana’s other side; as she watches, the tips of his brown ears give an occasional twitch, and his whiskers flicker.
Brittany’s hair is like warm honey in the pale sunlight. Very carefully, Santana reaches out and touches it where it falls across her neck. Then she lets her hand drift downward, to stroke the soft underside of Brittany’s bare arm.
Brittany sighs and wriggles a little bit closer. “Mmm, tickles.”
“Don’t wake up,” Santana tells her, still caressing her arm. “This is nice.”
But Brittany’s eyelashes are already fluttering. She murmurs, “If it’s nice, I wanna be awake for it.”
Ignoring Lord Tubbington’s startled whine of protest, Santana rolls onto her side, cupping Brittany’s cheek with her hand and bringing their foreheads together. “Thanks,” she whispers.
Brittany shrugs. From someone else, the gesture would be casual, even dismissive. But this is Brittany, so Santana knows what she really means: It’s okay. It’s what you needed.
Yes, it is.
Closing her eyes, Santana tilts her neck and kisses Brittany’s forehead. When she opens her eyes she sees the imprint of her lipstick, which she didn’t bother to wipe off last night. She didn’t remove any of her makeup last night. It must be caked to her face now. She must look hideous.
But Brittany is still smiling up at her, the sunlight pooling in the curl of her lashes, and Santana thinks, She’s the only one. The only one who really knows me. Now that her abuela doesn’t love her anymore…
Her next breath catches on something in her throat, and she feels the burn of tears behind her eyes again.
She wants to be stronger than this, but every time she tells the world to fuck off she feels little pieces of her break. She can’t keep it all together, so it’s good, so good that Brittany is here and can read her as well as she does.
Brittany just holds her, whispering inanities that probably made sense where they originated, in the strange and beautiful world of her mind. Her fingers stroke slow circles into Santana’s back, giving her a rhythm, a pattern to ease into.
That’s all Brittany has to do and she knows it. It’s what Santana needs when she’s falling apart like this.
A soft landing.
12/6/2011
Fandom: Glee
Rating: teen (I think there's one swear word)
Pairing(s): Santana/Brittany
Summary: After her abuela kicks her out, Santana runs to Brittany.
Notes: I was feeling sad, so I wrote a sad little story. Not too sad, though. Set during "I Kissed A Girl" (3x07). 730 words.
Santana leaves when her abuela tells her to. She doesn’t remember getting in the car or turning the key in the ignition, though she has a vague memory of slamming the heel of her palm against the steering wheel while waiting for a light to turn green. By the time she reaches Brittany’s house, she’s trembling so hard that she trips getting out of her car, and her hand fumbles when she tries to press the doorbell.
Brittany answers, with Lord Tubbington in her arms. She takes one look at Santana and lets the cat spill from her arms to the floor. Lord Tubbington makes an aggrieved sound, but by then Brittany has her arms around Santana and is leading her down the short front hallway, and then up the stairs to her bedroom.
They don’t talk. Santana slumps onto Brittany’s bed and just lies there, limp and unresponsive, even when Brittany sinks down beside her and begins to remove the bobby pins from her hair. One by one, she lets them drop to the carpet where they’ll probably become toys for Lord Tubbington. As each lock of hair comes free, Brittany slides it gently between her fingers, untwisting it before letting it rest against the lavender bedspread. Santana sucks in a damp, ragged breath, and when she exhales, the tears start. She lets them fall, too enervated to wipe them away or even try to hold them back.
Brittany catches them with her knuckles, her skin soft and cool against Santana’s flushed cheek. “Shh,” Brittany whispers, even though Santana hasn’t said a word. “Shh.” Her long blond hair hangs down like a veil, and Santana wants to grab it and wrap herself up in it, but she can’t move.
She can’t move.
It’s a long night.
At some point, she falls asleep. She dreams on and off about things that slip from her memory when she opens her eyes and finds the sun shining through Brittany’s curtains. Brittany is curled up on the bed beside her, one arm resting limply across her shoulders. Lord Tubbington seems to have claimed Santana’s other side; as she watches, the tips of his brown ears give an occasional twitch, and his whiskers flicker.
Brittany’s hair is like warm honey in the pale sunlight. Very carefully, Santana reaches out and touches it where it falls across her neck. Then she lets her hand drift downward, to stroke the soft underside of Brittany’s bare arm.
Brittany sighs and wriggles a little bit closer. “Mmm, tickles.”
“Don’t wake up,” Santana tells her, still caressing her arm. “This is nice.”
But Brittany’s eyelashes are already fluttering. She murmurs, “If it’s nice, I wanna be awake for it.”
Ignoring Lord Tubbington’s startled whine of protest, Santana rolls onto her side, cupping Brittany’s cheek with her hand and bringing their foreheads together. “Thanks,” she whispers.
Brittany shrugs. From someone else, the gesture would be casual, even dismissive. But this is Brittany, so Santana knows what she really means: It’s okay. It’s what you needed.
Yes, it is.
Closing her eyes, Santana tilts her neck and kisses Brittany’s forehead. When she opens her eyes she sees the imprint of her lipstick, which she didn’t bother to wipe off last night. She didn’t remove any of her makeup last night. It must be caked to her face now. She must look hideous.
But Brittany is still smiling up at her, the sunlight pooling in the curl of her lashes, and Santana thinks, She’s the only one. The only one who really knows me. Now that her abuela doesn’t love her anymore…
Her next breath catches on something in her throat, and she feels the burn of tears behind her eyes again.
She wants to be stronger than this, but every time she tells the world to fuck off she feels little pieces of her break. She can’t keep it all together, so it’s good, so good that Brittany is here and can read her as well as she does.
Brittany just holds her, whispering inanities that probably made sense where they originated, in the strange and beautiful world of her mind. Her fingers stroke slow circles into Santana’s back, giving her a rhythm, a pattern to ease into.
That’s all Brittany has to do and she knows it. It’s what Santana needs when she’s falling apart like this.
A soft landing.
12/6/2011