Fic: Platforms 4/?
Title: Platforms 4/?
Pairing: Santana/Brittany
Rating: PG-13 (For now)
Summary: AU. Set in the 1920s. A trip on the Orient Express
Chapters:
I
II
III
New passengers boarding at Zurich aren’t particularly interesting to Santana, a few more aged fellows and their grey haired wives, which for the most part can only be a positive as they’re sure to befriend Santana’s two elder admirers and as such take the heat off of her. She was curious to see whether a certain rich blonde man would be boarding the train, but he stayed on the platform waving off a certain red lipped blonde. Looking round at the new travellers Santana wonders if Miss Pierce has her sights set on any of them, but considering they’re all over the age of 50, with the one exception of a poor chap in a wheelchair, war injury no doubt, who, regardless of which, seems to have eyes only for his oriental nurse, she highly doubts there is any prospect for the siren of sorts.
After being introduced to the new silver haired passengers and after almost being cajoled into going for afternoon tea with them, Santana escapes to her compartment and lounges, staring at the ornate roof, on her daytime couch. The motion of the train still offers no comfort and so Miss Lopez takes time thinking about whether Miss Pierce will be going the whole length of the journey and whether she’ll manage to keep finding new beaus for every night time rendezvous. Perhaps she’ll have to move onto the over 50s eventually, Santana nearly hums with the amusement of the thought.
It’s half five when Santana comes to her senses and can only imagine that she’d nodded off thinking, hastening to wash and get her formal evening wear on for the six o’clock meal, she half plots her excuse to avoid staying the whole evening in the dinning cart socialising. When she drifts through it’s to find empty places at William’s table, avec la Bérry; at the now slightly crowded codger’s table; or at the Countess’, who as usual has managed to stave off people by glaring at them. Naturally she opts for the Austrians, and can see the failure in William’s eyes, she still fails to trust him which is not good for his work, plus he’s probably had orders to sit with her whenever possible.
‘Lopez.’
‘Countess Sylvester. Lady Quinn.’
That’s all they say for a good half an hour. It’s not until the main course that half the dance troupe file in nonchalantly and fill an empty spare table and a place or two, some go straight to prop up the bar.
‘I have half a mind to complain about those girls.’
Santana follows the Countess’ beady eyes straight to the slim blonde at the bar, hair bobbing as she chats animatedly.
‘We have our compartment next to that mop and her little friend with the peculiar face, and they are the most insufferable girls I’ve laid eyes on, or overheard conversations through a highly decorative, though still ridiculously thin for high class travel, wall.’
Santana’s interest peaks, something which doesn’t go unnoticed by Quinn who gives her a quizzical, though lazy and uninterested, look.
‘All hours. All hours, they’re talking. Half the time I thank the Heavens that my hearing is not as excellent as it once was, and half the time I wish it were worse. Same goes with you, Bérry.’ At this stage the woman calls out across the diners at the singer who is audibly talking, or rather shouting, about her encore at the Royal Albert last year. Rachelle’s eyes bug out of her sockets before flicking her hair and turning more towards William (who is undoubtedly receptive). ‘That girl may find herself locked in my travelling case.’
Sylvester seems to forget all about her tirade on the dancers and instead spends the rest of dinner glaring at Bérry and taking violent stabs at her food. When dinner is over and the singer stands for her now traditional number, the two Austrians stand up suddenly and proceed to make as much noise as possible leaving. It doesn’t discourage the French girl who weaves her way around the passengers, giving a wink and caress to gentlemen here and there (William looks worried) and belting a tune at full volume, her mouth taking on numerous earth-defying shapes that no mortal could pull. She’s just passing the bar, arms dramatically wide open, mid turn, when she stops singing and starts coughing. Her hands go straight to her throat. William is there in a second. There’s spluttering, heavy pats on the back, until he grabs her round the middle and, what is declared as an olive, is dislodged. There’s confusion amongst the majority of the travellers, Santana even hears mutterings of black magic and Austrian folklore, and though she wouldn’t exactly put it passed Sylvester, it is not the case this time. For she had been watching Miss Pierce for almost the entirety of her evening, and Miss Pierce had spent the entirety of her evening knocking back cocktails and aiming cherries, olives, slices of lime and lemon, at unsuspecting diners with her friend. And now both girls are finding it hard to not to smile as those around them are suggesting that maybe it had been stuck in Bérry’s teeth for some time (having not eaten olives since Wednesday) and the movement of the train, paired with her energetic motions had caused near death. The matriarch of the dancing group seems all too aware of the real reason, but keeps it to herself, shaking her head and giving her star a pointed look, only to earn a wink in reply. The two girls leave as a full scale investigation of Bérry’s mouth and questions of her oral heath are being asked, once they reach the door and it shuts, Santana who is seated in the closest corner to the exit, can hear the peal of hysterical laughter.
Her earlier sleep, which must have done her good, is being regretted by Santana who, at nearing 12, is still wide awake. Curiosity, boredom, and a sense of tradition, force her out of bed and into her dressing down, and out of her door. She walks leisurely through the carriages but it’s not long before she’s reached the staff side. Her stomach lurches with expectation and flips with the confirmation of the sight she’s become familiar with. Miss Pierce is pressed up against the wall again, it’s a red coat, bar staff, she wonders if it’s the same man as before, and edging to the side a little more she tries to get a better view. It’s to no avail, and in moving to the right she obscures her vision of the blonde dancer. Shuffling back to her left, the red lips are instantly in sight again, thrown open, no grotesque match for Bérry’s of course, merely parted, but parted in a way that transfixes Santana, who keeps her own tightly pressed together for fear of breathing too loudly or letting sound escape them. She only stands for a few seconds longer, she never lingers long as it doesn’t seem right to, she’s about to turn heel and start the dawdle back to her bed, when Miss Pierce seems to have spotted her through the gap. Santana pauses momentarily with the shock, rooted in place, but then the blonde moves her eyes away from the door, arms clutched around red jacketed shoulders still. Perhaps she didn’t see after all, it is a minuscule gap between the blind and the door frame, and it wasn’t as though Santana had been pressed against the glass. She’s sure that even if Miss Pierce had spotted someone, she wouldn’t be able to identify that someone as Miss Lopez. None the less, Santana walks back quicker than usual to her compartment, and the hammering of her heart keeps her awake much longer than she would have been, had she foregone her midnight stroll.
Pairing: Santana/Brittany
Rating: PG-13 (For now)
Summary: AU. Set in the 1920s. A trip on the Orient Express
Chapters:
I
II
III
New passengers boarding at Zurich aren’t particularly interesting to Santana, a few more aged fellows and their grey haired wives, which for the most part can only be a positive as they’re sure to befriend Santana’s two elder admirers and as such take the heat off of her. She was curious to see whether a certain rich blonde man would be boarding the train, but he stayed on the platform waving off a certain red lipped blonde. Looking round at the new travellers Santana wonders if Miss Pierce has her sights set on any of them, but considering they’re all over the age of 50, with the one exception of a poor chap in a wheelchair, war injury no doubt, who, regardless of which, seems to have eyes only for his oriental nurse, she highly doubts there is any prospect for the siren of sorts.
After being introduced to the new silver haired passengers and after almost being cajoled into going for afternoon tea with them, Santana escapes to her compartment and lounges, staring at the ornate roof, on her daytime couch. The motion of the train still offers no comfort and so Miss Lopez takes time thinking about whether Miss Pierce will be going the whole length of the journey and whether she’ll manage to keep finding new beaus for every night time rendezvous. Perhaps she’ll have to move onto the over 50s eventually, Santana nearly hums with the amusement of the thought.
It’s half five when Santana comes to her senses and can only imagine that she’d nodded off thinking, hastening to wash and get her formal evening wear on for the six o’clock meal, she half plots her excuse to avoid staying the whole evening in the dinning cart socialising. When she drifts through it’s to find empty places at William’s table, avec la Bérry; at the now slightly crowded codger’s table; or at the Countess’, who as usual has managed to stave off people by glaring at them. Naturally she opts for the Austrians, and can see the failure in William’s eyes, she still fails to trust him which is not good for his work, plus he’s probably had orders to sit with her whenever possible.
‘Lopez.’
‘Countess Sylvester. Lady Quinn.’
That’s all they say for a good half an hour. It’s not until the main course that half the dance troupe file in nonchalantly and fill an empty spare table and a place or two, some go straight to prop up the bar.
‘I have half a mind to complain about those girls.’
Santana follows the Countess’ beady eyes straight to the slim blonde at the bar, hair bobbing as she chats animatedly.
‘We have our compartment next to that mop and her little friend with the peculiar face, and they are the most insufferable girls I’ve laid eyes on, or overheard conversations through a highly decorative, though still ridiculously thin for high class travel, wall.’
Santana’s interest peaks, something which doesn’t go unnoticed by Quinn who gives her a quizzical, though lazy and uninterested, look.
‘All hours. All hours, they’re talking. Half the time I thank the Heavens that my hearing is not as excellent as it once was, and half the time I wish it were worse. Same goes with you, Bérry.’ At this stage the woman calls out across the diners at the singer who is audibly talking, or rather shouting, about her encore at the Royal Albert last year. Rachelle’s eyes bug out of her sockets before flicking her hair and turning more towards William (who is undoubtedly receptive). ‘That girl may find herself locked in my travelling case.’
Sylvester seems to forget all about her tirade on the dancers and instead spends the rest of dinner glaring at Bérry and taking violent stabs at her food. When dinner is over and the singer stands for her now traditional number, the two Austrians stand up suddenly and proceed to make as much noise as possible leaving. It doesn’t discourage the French girl who weaves her way around the passengers, giving a wink and caress to gentlemen here and there (William looks worried) and belting a tune at full volume, her mouth taking on numerous earth-defying shapes that no mortal could pull. She’s just passing the bar, arms dramatically wide open, mid turn, when she stops singing and starts coughing. Her hands go straight to her throat. William is there in a second. There’s spluttering, heavy pats on the back, until he grabs her round the middle and, what is declared as an olive, is dislodged. There’s confusion amongst the majority of the travellers, Santana even hears mutterings of black magic and Austrian folklore, and though she wouldn’t exactly put it passed Sylvester, it is not the case this time. For she had been watching Miss Pierce for almost the entirety of her evening, and Miss Pierce had spent the entirety of her evening knocking back cocktails and aiming cherries, olives, slices of lime and lemon, at unsuspecting diners with her friend. And now both girls are finding it hard to not to smile as those around them are suggesting that maybe it had been stuck in Bérry’s teeth for some time (having not eaten olives since Wednesday) and the movement of the train, paired with her energetic motions had caused near death. The matriarch of the dancing group seems all too aware of the real reason, but keeps it to herself, shaking her head and giving her star a pointed look, only to earn a wink in reply. The two girls leave as a full scale investigation of Bérry’s mouth and questions of her oral heath are being asked, once they reach the door and it shuts, Santana who is seated in the closest corner to the exit, can hear the peal of hysterical laughter.
Her earlier sleep, which must have done her good, is being regretted by Santana who, at nearing 12, is still wide awake. Curiosity, boredom, and a sense of tradition, force her out of bed and into her dressing down, and out of her door. She walks leisurely through the carriages but it’s not long before she’s reached the staff side. Her stomach lurches with expectation and flips with the confirmation of the sight she’s become familiar with. Miss Pierce is pressed up against the wall again, it’s a red coat, bar staff, she wonders if it’s the same man as before, and edging to the side a little more she tries to get a better view. It’s to no avail, and in moving to the right she obscures her vision of the blonde dancer. Shuffling back to her left, the red lips are instantly in sight again, thrown open, no grotesque match for Bérry’s of course, merely parted, but parted in a way that transfixes Santana, who keeps her own tightly pressed together for fear of breathing too loudly or letting sound escape them. She only stands for a few seconds longer, she never lingers long as it doesn’t seem right to, she’s about to turn heel and start the dawdle back to her bed, when Miss Pierce seems to have spotted her through the gap. Santana pauses momentarily with the shock, rooted in place, but then the blonde moves her eyes away from the door, arms clutched around red jacketed shoulders still. Perhaps she didn’t see after all, it is a minuscule gap between the blind and the door frame, and it wasn’t as though Santana had been pressed against the glass. She’s sure that even if Miss Pierce had spotted someone, she wouldn’t be able to identify that someone as Miss Lopez. None the less, Santana walks back quicker than usual to her compartment, and the hammering of her heart keeps her awake much longer than she would have been, had she foregone her midnight stroll.