fic: building homes from what we've known, part ii - glee, brittany/santana, nc-17
Title: Building Homes From What We've Known, Part II (1/3)
Author: zerodetorres
Characters: Brittany/Santana, Mike/Quinn, Matt, Puck
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5,140/15,315
Timeline: AU
Summary: Santana Lopez fights for her family.
Part I
The locker room is silent except for the sound of Puck meticulously wrapping a roll of tape around Santana's hand.
"You ready?" Puck asks, bringing a pair of scissors down to snip away at the bandages.
Santana nods and flexes her fingers. "You ask me this before every fight like the answer's ever going to change."
Puck grins. "That's my girl."
Santana swings her feet idly over the edge of the table atop which she's seated, tapping her left fist rhythmically against Puck's shoulder as Puck works on her right. "St. James is gonna wish she'd never been born when I'm through with her."
"Stay on your feet and you'll be fine," Puck instructs, using his thumbs to fit the tape into place. "Her ground game is strong, so you don't want to give her that upper hand. Be patient. Don't worry about the knockout. Just wear her down. She's not known for-"
"Puck," Santana interrupts, knocking a light punch to his chest. "I got this."
Puck's smile widens, and he pats the padding lining her knuckles. "You got this."
Santana takes a deep breath and glances at the door of the locker room. "Can you, ah-can you get Brittany?"
"'Course," Puck replies, pivoting toward the exit. "Hey," he tosses over his shoulder, "I'm happy for you two. You know that, right?"
Santana bites back a grin. "Yup, sure do."
Puck reaches the locker room door and pulls it open, then makes a motion to someone on the other side. Brittany slips in, and Puck shoots a quick salute in her direction on his way out. Brittany smiles tightly and approaches Santana, carefully sliding between Santana's legs, hands finding her hips and holding on.
"Hi," Santana says softly, hooking her ankles around the backs of Brittany's knees, drawing her closer.
Brittany's hands slide to the small of Santana's back. "Be careful."
It's the same thing she says before every fight, in that quiet, serious voice that breaks Santana's heart a little. But Brittany's words aren't meant to send Santana on a guilt trip; they're spoken out of genuine concern. Santana leans forward until their foreheads are touching, and she inhales. Her wrapped hands rest gently against Brittany's sides, and in that moment, alone with Brittany, Santana feels secure, grounded.
"I will," she promises.
Brittany smiles, pressing a kiss to Santana's cheek. "Get out there and kick some ass."
--
Santana rolls on the balls of her feet as she watches Matt and Puck on the mat with their trainer, taking turns swinging their small but strong fists against padded gloves, ducking and dodging and kicking their way through precise, practiced motions that at times made the two boys appear larger and more imposing than their small frames would suggest.
It's Puck's turn, and Matt stands to the side as Puck's gloved fists rocket against his trainer's padded palms. The strip of dark hair atop his head is drenched through, the sweat dripping down his forehead as he tosses his weight into his punches.
From outside the ring, six-year-old Santana looks down at her own hands, tiny and fragile, and clenches them into tight fists. She releases a couple punches, testing the feeling of slicing her hands through open air. There's a rush she can't explain, and as she watches Matt and Puck exchange places on the mat, she's never wanted more to be one of them.
Matt and Puck had begun taking kickboxing lessons a few months ago, but it's Santana's first time at the gym. She bounces on her feet, eager to play more than the role of spectator.
When the training session comes to an end, Santana races over to the trainer, ignoring Matt's call on the way.
She looks up at the man. "Can you teach me?" she asks hopefully.
The trainer pats her on the head and smiles. "I'm sorry, we don't train girls."
Santana's heart drops. "But-"
"And you're too young, anyway," the trainer continues, nudging her by the shoulder. "Run along now. You shouldn't be in here."
Holding back tears, Santana keeps her head high as she pads across the room to where Matt and Puck are standing. Chin quivering, she doesn't say anything until Matt locks her into a sweaty hug.
"It's not fair!" Santana wails. "I wanna fight too."
"I know," Matt says, smoothing his hand over her hair. "Maybe when you're older, okay?"
Puck tugs his gloves off and eyes the other two. "Suck it up."
Matt glares at him. "Watch your mouth, Puck."
"I'll teach her," Puck says, shrugging his shoulders.
Santana sniffs against Matt's chest and peers at Puck.
"Yeah," Puck continues, grabbing Santana by the hand. "C'mon, we'll get you fitted for some gloves."
Eager to busy her fists, Santana squirms out of Matt's grip and follows Puck to one of the equipment managers, who is nice enough to find her a pair of ratty old gloves that are small enough to wrap around her tiny hands.
Matt watches warily as Puck leads Santana to the center of the mat and instructs her to throw some punches against his own gloved fists. Santana steadies her feet and attempts to mimic what she'd seen earlier. Puck stays still for the first few hits, then abruptly sidesteps out of the way. Santana stumbles forward, nearly face-planting.
As soon as she regains her footing, Santana shoves Puck. "What'd you do that for?"
Puck jabs her lightly with his right glove. "Stay alert. Keep up."
Santana lifts her fists in front of her face with renewed determination.
Matt approaches and hovers protectively over Santana. "Take it easy," he tells Puck.
"I can do this, Matt," Santana insists.
Matt taps her on the shoulder. "I know you can. But if Puck forgets you're a girl and punches you too hard, you're gonna get hurt."
Santana darts her eyes quickly toward Matt before returning her focus to Puck's raised fists. "I want him to forget I'm a girl."
Matt furrows his brows, but Puck appears to understand. He extends an arm to ruffle her hair, but she dodges out of his reach and lands a punch on his chest. Puck stumbles back momentarily, and Santana smirks, feeling a surge of pride. Santana's fist rockets forward again, but her next attempt catches nothing but Puck's glove. Puck punches back, and the impact volleys Santana's tiny body backwards, landing her on the mat.
Immediately, she bounces back up, but Matt steps between them. "Enough. Give me the gloves, Puck." When Puck doesn't budge, Matt rolls his eyes. "You want to teach her, right? Then get behind her and teach. I'll be the punching bag."
Puck seems to consider this for a moment, then tugs off his gloves and chucks them at Matt. Puck slides behind Santana and hovers over her, reaching to readjust her fists in front of her face.
"Like this," he instructs. "Now punch. Aim for Matt's left glove."
Santana musters up a burst of energy and throws her fist. It lands ineffectively against Matt's glove.
"That's it," Puck encourages. "Go left, left, right!"
Santana anchors her feet and raises her fists.
It's fast and tough and knocks the wind right out of her. Santana falls in love.
--
"Ladies and gentlemen, now making her way to the cage, please welcome women's MMA ground expert Jessica 'the Jostler' St. James!"
From behind her entrance, Santana takes a deep breath as she hears the crowd roaring for her opponent. Over the years, she's learned to manage her adrenaline, to use the noises of the stadium to her advantage, to control the cage rather than let it control her, but despite her fearlessness, nerves still reign strong.
"And now joining us to the red corner, her challenger, Muay Thai sensation Santana 'Lights Out' Lopez!"
With one look up at the ceiling, she bounces out through the doors and starts makes her way down to the cage, squinting against the pyrotechnics and bright lights. The crowd erupts into hysterics.
She's stopped in front of the cage entrance and patted down, her gloves examined. The moment she steps into the cage, a cutman with a goofy grin - Finn something, she recalls; Puck's friend - stops her and applies petroleum jelly to her forehead and cheeks. He slips her a discreet thumbs up when he's done.
Puck appears at her side and holds up her mouth guard. She lets him slide it into her mouth. Santana walks over to her corner, focus sharp. The noise around her drones on, but she's tuned only into the rhythmic beat of her heart as she bounces lightly in place and swings her arms. She watches St. James, leaning against the opposite corner as her trainer, a tall brunette with a strong jaw line, feeds her last-minute instructions through the chain-linked fence.
St. James's curly hair is tied back in a small ponytail, her eyes menacing as it scours the cage. She has the look of a villain, of a heartbreaker, and Santana feels her own jaw tightening around her mouth guard.
Everyone else begins clearing out of the cage as the announcer introduces the judges, then each of the fighters, and finally the referee.
"All right, ladies," the referee says to them as he motions for the two of them to get closer, "this is three three-minute rounds. You know the rules. We all expect a good, clean, fair fight. Obey my commands. Protect yourselves at all times. Come out ready to fight. Good luck, and hook 'em up."
Santana waits for the horn to sound, then approaches the center of the ring, where she taps fists with St. James. A burst of adrenaline rushes through her as she studies her opponent, sizing her up. Puck's made her watch the tapes and pointed out St. James's strengths and weaknesses, but there's nothing quite like standing in a closed cage with another person who not only has the ability to knock a bitch the fuck out, but is actively encouraged to do so.
Santana tests the waters with quick swing of her leg, which St. James sidesteps. A few cautious blows are exchanged harmlessly as both fighters attempt to catch the other off guard. After Santana lands a kick to St. James's thigh, St. James rushes forward without warning and grabs Santana's torso in an effort to throw her to the ground.
Stay on your feet, Puck's voice reminds her.
Santana tightens her core and plants her feet. She knows that if this fight came down to sheer strength alone, she'd be a goner. St. James is a damn behemoth. But Santana is confident in her technical skills, her precision and timing. She waits it out, trying to spend as little energy as possible as St. James struggles against her.
Despite taking a knee to the hip, Santana manages to fight her way out of St. James's grip and remain standing. She swings her left fist and lands a decent punch to the side of St. James's face, knocking her back.
St. James retaliates with a fist of her own, which Santana parries. Santana goes in for a flurry of punches and kicks, balancing her offensive with careful positioning. But even in her calculated movements, she takes a couple blows to the head and staggers. The adrenaline pushes her through. She's familiar with discipline and willpower, and she can see the frustration building in her opponent with every moment she refuses to give in. Fights are as much a battle of mental wits as they are a competition of physical strength.
Right before the first round ends, Santana lands a well-timed left hook, which gets the crowd roaring into the intermission.
The horn sounds to signal the end of the first, and the referee separates the two fighters. Santana heads to her corner and bounces once against the fence. Puck appears in front of her with a bottle of water.
"You got this," Puck tells her. "She's worn out, but you know what they say about wounded dogs. Be careful. See an opening, go for the kill."
Santana nods and motions at the water bottle, which Puck then raises to her lips. She drinks up and wipes her mouth on her forearm. Puck holds up his fist, and Santana bumps her knuckles against his.
"Go get 'em."
Santana taps Puck on the shoulder in acknowledgement, and he clears out of the cage as the timer runs down and the second round is set to begin.
From the sound of the horn, St. James comes on strong, arms and legs swinging wildly. Santana tastes the desperation emanating from her opponent, relishes in her helplessness. She remains patient.
St. James grabs her again, a frantic takedown attempt. She kicks the back of Santana's knee and manages to bring her to the ground, but Santana wraps St. James in a headlock and ends up on top, her weight pressing down on St. James's torso as she struggles to maintain control.
Santana pins St. James down, biding her time, letting the other fighter tire herself out with strikes that do little damage from her position of vulnerability. But Santana gets caught in her own arrogance, and in a moment of carelessness, St. James's knee connects with her abdomen, and she manages to break free. Both fighters clamor to their feet.
St. James sways, almost imperceptibly, but Santana detects the first hint of instability and pounces, stepping forward with aggression. She throws a punch with her right and follows quickly with her left, the second catching the side of St. James's head and knocking her flat to the ground. The crowd thunders.
St. James is slow to stand, but she manages. A trickle of blood rolls from a gash on her forehead, directly above her eye. She wipes clumsily at the blood with the back of her glove, but more spills from her wound, dripping into her eye socket and obstructing her vision.
Santana lunges forward, but the ref steps in and calls an injury time out. A ring doctor enters the cage and begins to examine St. James's cut. When an entire minute has passed and he hasn't been able to stop the bleeding, the doctor shakes his head at the referee, who nods in acknowledgment.
The crowd buzzes as the realization settles in: technical knockout due to an injury preventing St. James from finishing the fight.
Despite having imagined a more glamorous end to the fight, pride immediately surges through Santana, and she raises her arms in victory against the backdrop of thousands of cheering fans. She hears her own heart pounding hard in her chest, and time seems to slow down around her. Fighters will say that it's not about the purse or even the belt. It's about the feeling of invincibility, of pride, of knowing that they're tougher, faster, more fearless than their opponent.
Puck rushes in to congratulate Santana on her victory. He hugs her tightly, exactly like a trainer who's witnessed firsthand the hard work that goes into the preparation for every fight would.
"You did it!" he yells over the noisy crowd. "You fucking did it!"
Santana laughs. We, she wants to correct him, but before she gets a chance, the referee is motioning her back.
The first thing she notices is that St. James does not look happy. Her cut has mostly stopped bleeding, but the drying blood around it only makes her look more menacing. Still, it's all the more satisfying when the referee pronounces Santana the winner and raises her hand high above her head, the crowd's relentless excitement serving as the soundtrack to the action movie that has become her life.
--
It's nearly three a.m. by the time Brittany and Santana make it home, and the moment Santana collapses into bed, she sighs appreciatively against the soft covers. Brittany climbs in after her and curls up behind her, carefully draping her arm over Santana's hip.
"You were amazing out there," she murmurs, pressing her lips against Santana's shoulder.
Brittany's hand slips under the hem of Santana's top, and Santana shuts her eyes momentarily as Brittany's fingers gently trace the bruises across her skin. Despite Brittany's soft touches, it's a ritual she doesn't particularly enjoy, if only because Brittany gets too quiet, her body tensing when Santana squirms in discomfort.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, like she always does.
"No," Santana fibs, reaching down to grab Brittany's wrist and gently tugging it away. She shifts, turning to face Brittany. "Babe, I'm fine." She brushes her lips lightly against Brittany's. "I love you," she whispers. "I know my fights aren't your favorite."
"Yeah, but you love what you do. I would never take that away from you."
Santana touches Brittany's cheek. "I would give it up if you asked."
"I know," Brittany replies with a faint smile, "but I wouldn't ask."
Santana pulls Brittany's closer, trying to ignore the way her tender flesh aches upon contact. The adrenaline's worn off, and she's sore everywhere. "Britt, you are my favorite wife."
Brittany scrunches up her nose, stifling her own laughter. "Do you have a cucumber I don't know about?"
"Concubine," Santana corrects gently, threading her fingers through Brittany's hair.
Brittany rests her hand on Santana's hip. "Yeah, that." She smiles. "Are you hiding something from me?"
"Never," Santana replies softly, leaning in to plant a kiss on Brittany's nose. The question feels weightier than it actually is. "Never ever ever. No secrets, ever. Okay?"
Brittany stifles a yawn, her eyelids fluttering. "Okay."
"Hey," Santana whispers, touching Brittany's jaw. "Now that the fight's over… wedding prep."
Brittany beams, immediately awake again. "Wedding prep," she echoes.
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and Santana grins. "We'll drop by Mike and Quinn's this weekend. Q's gonna want to get her managerial paws in there."
Brittany presses a kiss to Santana's mouth. "I'm so proud of you," she murmurs against her lips. "You know that, right?"
Santana takes a deep, shaky breath. "Yeah, I know."
A slow smile spreads across Brittany's lips, her expression shifting to one of seriousness. "I don't like it when you get hurt, but every time I watch you fight, it's like you're transformed."
Santana curls an arm around Brittany's torso. "There's only one thing I love more than fighting," she says, peppering kisses to Brittany's neck and shoulder.
Brittany's eyes light up. "Yeah?"
Smiling against Brittany's skin, Santana lets out a short laugh. "Yeah, sex."
Brittany giggles. "You're such a romantic."
Santana pushes herself up onto her elbow, her hair cascading over her shoulder as she looks down at Brittany. Her heart squeezes at the sight. "The only thing I love more than fighting is you," she clarifies, her eyes meeting Brittany's. "I don't care about the sex."
Brittany pats her lightly on the cheek. "You're gonna regret saying that in the morning."
Santana shakes her head, suddenly adamant that Brittany understands the magnitude of what she's saying. "Brittany…"
"Silly," Brittany cuts in gently, her fingers finding the nape of Santana's neck and rubbing circles. She smiles reassuringly. "I know."
Santana lies back down and winces against the lingering pain. Brittany's limbs carefully curl around her, and they settle into comfortable sleeping positions. With the satisfaction of her win earlier and the comfort of her wife next to her, it doesn't take long for Santana's overexerted body to succumb to dreamless slumber.
--
"You think you're a big shot, don't you? Just 'cause your daddy's pictures are everywhere?"
Santana turns and catches sight of a small group of students that has gathered. Someone she can't see lets out a nasally shriek.
"Let go of me!"
"Why?" a third voice sneers. "You don't get to come in here with your rich girl clothes and rich girl shoes and rich girl attitude. You think you're better than us or something?"
Santana nudges her way through the crowd, trying to get a better look at the commotion. Even at seven, she's strong for her tiny frame, unafraid to toss her body around. She makes it to the center and finds two fourth-graders hovering over a thin blond girl she has never seen.
"Hey," Santana calls out, "what's going on?"
"New girl thinks she's better than us," one of the fourth-graders, a redhead with droopy eyes, explains.
The blonde huffs, one hand reaching down to smooth out her dress while the other readjusts her headband. "I do not!"
"You sure do!" the other, a hefty-looking dark-skinned girl, cries, stepping closer with menace. "Your last name's Fabray, isn't it? I'm sick of seeing your dad's dumb face all over the place. He's ugly as hell, just like you."
Santana marches up and steps in front of the blonde. "You're such dumbasses," she tells the two fourth-graders. "That means her dad's a poli-a politician. They want you to go vote for them and stuff."
Redhead takes a step forward. "What'd you just call us?"
"I said you're dumbasses," Santana repeats unflinchingly. "You don't even know what a politician is? Idiot."
Hefty lunges forward, hands aimed at Santana's neck, and Santana immediately reacts, her own arms flinging out to grab and deflect Hefty's hands. Redhead jumps in, grabbing a fistful of Santana's hair. Santana grunts as her head gets pulled to the side, but she whips out a hand and jabs Redhead in the face. Redhead cries out and recoils in pain, releasing Santana. In the momentary distraction, Hefty lands one against Santana's cheek, and Santana immediately tastes the metallic tang of blood in her mouth.
She manages to duck away from Hefty's next punch, then fires one right back, catching Hefty in the eye. Hefty stumbles back, but Santana isn't done. She kicks out against Hefty's knee as she gives Hefty a rough shove. Hefty falls backwards, landing on her elbows on the pavement. Santana doesn't hesitate to throw herself down and fire a series of well-aimed punches to Hefty's face. Hefty is screaming and crying, and blood is starting to stream from her nose and upper lip, but Santana doesn't stop until a teacher grabs her from behind and drags her off the other girl.
Redhead has a scratch across her cheek and is looking so pale she's nearly transparent. The blonde is frozen in place, her hands clasped tightly over her mouth. The crowd has fallen deathly silent. A second teacher rushes over to Hefty and starts tending to her wounds.
All Santana sees is red as she thrashes against strong arms, blood boiling with the insatiable need to inflict pain. The next thing she knows, she's sitting inside Principal Figgins' office, next to the blonde whose name she still doesn't know.
Figgins glares at them from the other side of his desk. "Girls, which one of you would like to share what happened?"
The blonde stares down at her lap, scuffing her shoes against the floor.
Santana opens her mouth to speak, but a searing pain shoots through the left side of her face and she winces. Fresh blood escapes from the cut on the inside of her cheek.
"Would you like some ice, Santana?" Figgins offers.
Santana lowers her eyes and shakes her head.
The blonde peers over at Santana, then looks back at Figgins. "San-Santana was just trying to stop those, um, those bullies. They were going to hurt me."
Figgins is staring at Santana. "Is that true, Santana?"
Santana shrugs and keeps her mouth shut.
Figgins sighs. "Quinn, you can go back to class. Miss Lopez, I'm afraid I'm going to have to call your parents."
The blonde, apparently named Quinn, doesn't move. "Principal Figgins," she says, sounding a lot more sure than before, "Santana didn't do anything wrong."
"Didn't do anything wrong? She broke Tammy Brown's nose!"
"She had it coming," Santana mumbles, teeth scraping painfully against her swollen cheek.
"That's enough, Santana," Figgins scolds with as much authority as he can muster.
"But Tammy and her friend," Quinn starts, "they grabbed me, and-" She holds out her arms, revealing purple bruises against her pale skin. "My dad's not gonna be happy about this," she continues, her tiny voice taking on a threatening edge, "especially if you punish the only girl who stood up for me."
Figgins seems to consider this angle. "Miss Fabray, your father is a very powerful figure in this community, and I would hate to-"
"Let Santana go," Quinn insists, "and I won't tell my dad about this."
"But I'm sure Santana's parents will want answers about her cheek…"
"They don't care," Santana interrupts, and despite her age, she knows as much as Figgins does that what she says is true. She's been in enough fights, has sat in this office enough times for both of them to understand this point.
Figgins looks back and forth between the two girls. Finally, he seems to relent. "Very well," he agrees, sounding resigned to his fate. "Both of you may go. But Santana, please make a visit to the nurse before returning to class."
Santana rises from her seat and leaves the office, sensing Quinn following a few steps behind her.
"Thanks," Quinn says when they're out of the office.
"Yeah," Santana mutters, trying not to wince even though her mouth hurts. "What's a girl like you doing in a school like this anyway?"
Quinn shrugs. "My dad says it looks good for him. I dunno."
Santana studies her for a moment. "Why didn't you hit them back?"
Quinn shrugs again, her slender shoulders rising and falling with grace. "My mom says girls shouldn't fight."
"That's dumb," Santana dismisses. "My brother, he fights. He teaches me how sometimes. Not too much though. He doesn't want me getting into trouble."
Quinn giggles. "That didn't work too well."
Santana smiles through her pain. "I saved your butt, Quinn."
Quinn smiles back. "I know, and I got you out of trouble."
"Wouldn't be in trouble in the first place if I didn't have to save your butt," Santana argues.
Quinn looks at Santana, her expression turning serious. "You punched that girl really, really hard, Santana," she says somberly.
Santana shrugs and looks down. "She deserved it."
--
The sound of Quinn Fabray's doorbell is crisp, and Santana jabs her finger impatiently against it a few more times than necessary. Beside her, Brittany squeezes her hand, but before Brittany has a chance to reprimand her, the door swings open. Mike Chang is standing on the other side, and Brittany immediately launches herself against him, her arms wrapping around his neck.
Mike laughs. "Hey, Britt. Santana."
"Hey," Santana greets, "is Quinn around?"
"Yeah, come on in."
Mike steps aside and waits for both women to enter before shutting the door behind them. He leads them to the living room, where Quinn is kneeling on the floor, hovering over an array of papers strewn across the coffee table. As soon as she catches sight of the others, she rises to her feet.
"Lopez! So how's it feel to be a world champ?"
"How's it feel to collect a fat paycheck for being my personal assistant?" Santana fires back with a grin.
Quinn rolls her eyes. "Manager," she's quick to amend, "and you're a bitch."
Santana mockingly gasps. "Stop the presses! Quinn Fabray's got some serious scoop."
"Almost wish St. James had knocked you out last night," Quinn tells her, though her words hold little menace.
Santana nudges Quinn's shoulder. "You totally don't mean that."
Quinn pulls her lips into a straight line. "Mostly I just wish that you didn't open your mouth as often as you do now."
Santana smirks. "Just keepin' it real."
"All right, anyway," Quinn says, awkwardly detouring the conversation, "I'll help you plan your wedding, but - and I know you believe otherwise - I'm not your bitch."
Santana snorts. "As if you could give up an opportunity to run my life."
Quinn flushes. "Oh god, Lopez, I'm not that big a control freak. I'm not like, addicted to managing your life; you just can't seem to do it yourself."
"That's offensive."
Quinn opens her mouth to retort but quickly shuts it again, smiling a little to herself.
Santana laughs. "You were going to say 'your face is offensive' just now, weren't you?"
Quinn's smile cracks. "Was not," she denies halfheartedly.
"You totally fucking were!" Santana whoops. "That's real mature, Fabray."
Clearing her throat, Quinn waves her hand dismissively. "Can we move on? I have something for you." She glances at Brittany. "For both of you, actually. Consider it an early wedding gift. Or late, since you ran off and got hitched already."
Quinn moves toward her fireplace and lifts a photo frame off her mantle. Pinned underneath is an envelope, which she picks up and hands to Santana.
Santana flips it over in her hand, catching the letters 'B&S' in Quinn's loopy handwriting on the front. "Q, what is this?"
Quinn smiles and shrugs. "Open it."
Santana holds the envelope out to Brittany, who lifts the flap and pulls out a card. It's a simple congratulatory card, but tucked inside, they find two roundtrip tickets to Fiji, along with a week-long itinerary covering everything from tourist attractions to a different restaurant every night. The personal handiwork of someone who excels at organization.
"My dad left me a cottage in Fiji," Quinn explains. "It's right near the water, really gorgeous view, and it's yours for that week. Everything on there has been paid for, but of course, you're free to deviate."
Brittany leaps toward Quinn, enveloping her in a tight embrace, but Santana stays rooted to her feet, unsure what to do with the sudden burst of affection she feels for her best friend.
"Quinn… these are-" Santana hesitates. "This is expensive."
Quinn quirks a smile. "Do you know how much money you made me by winning that fight last night?"
"You bought these tickets before that," Santana argues, shaking her head. "You couldn't have known that I'd kick St. James's ass."
Quinn chuckles. "I was kidding. This isn't about the fight. It's for both of you. Take some time off. Consider it a honeymoon."
Santana skims over the tickets again. "These are dated next Friday."
"I'm your manager, Santana. You've got nothing going on." Quinn turns to Brittany, whose arms are still wrapped around her torso. "And Britt's her own boss. I'm sure she can get someone to cover her classes for a couple days."
Brittany beams. "Totally. Tina loves my kids."
Santana bites her lip. "I can pay for my own honeymoon."
"I know you can."
Brittany laughs. "Santana."
"Fine, fine." Santana approaches the two women and holds back a smile. "Thanks, Q."
Brittany pulls her into a three-way hug, and a moment later, Mike, who'd remained silent until then, joins in. Brittany's laughter, lively and genuine, sounds like a melody to Santana's ears.
Part II (2/3)
Author: zerodetorres
Characters: Brittany/Santana, Mike/Quinn, Matt, Puck
Rating: NC-17
Length: 5,140/15,315
Timeline: AU
Summary: Santana Lopez fights for her family.
Part I
The locker room is silent except for the sound of Puck meticulously wrapping a roll of tape around Santana's hand.
"You ready?" Puck asks, bringing a pair of scissors down to snip away at the bandages.
Santana nods and flexes her fingers. "You ask me this before every fight like the answer's ever going to change."
Puck grins. "That's my girl."
Santana swings her feet idly over the edge of the table atop which she's seated, tapping her left fist rhythmically against Puck's shoulder as Puck works on her right. "St. James is gonna wish she'd never been born when I'm through with her."
"Stay on your feet and you'll be fine," Puck instructs, using his thumbs to fit the tape into place. "Her ground game is strong, so you don't want to give her that upper hand. Be patient. Don't worry about the knockout. Just wear her down. She's not known for-"
"Puck," Santana interrupts, knocking a light punch to his chest. "I got this."
Puck's smile widens, and he pats the padding lining her knuckles. "You got this."
Santana takes a deep breath and glances at the door of the locker room. "Can you, ah-can you get Brittany?"
"'Course," Puck replies, pivoting toward the exit. "Hey," he tosses over his shoulder, "I'm happy for you two. You know that, right?"
Santana bites back a grin. "Yup, sure do."
Puck reaches the locker room door and pulls it open, then makes a motion to someone on the other side. Brittany slips in, and Puck shoots a quick salute in her direction on his way out. Brittany smiles tightly and approaches Santana, carefully sliding between Santana's legs, hands finding her hips and holding on.
"Hi," Santana says softly, hooking her ankles around the backs of Brittany's knees, drawing her closer.
Brittany's hands slide to the small of Santana's back. "Be careful."
It's the same thing she says before every fight, in that quiet, serious voice that breaks Santana's heart a little. But Brittany's words aren't meant to send Santana on a guilt trip; they're spoken out of genuine concern. Santana leans forward until their foreheads are touching, and she inhales. Her wrapped hands rest gently against Brittany's sides, and in that moment, alone with Brittany, Santana feels secure, grounded.
"I will," she promises.
Brittany smiles, pressing a kiss to Santana's cheek. "Get out there and kick some ass."
--
Santana rolls on the balls of her feet as she watches Matt and Puck on the mat with their trainer, taking turns swinging their small but strong fists against padded gloves, ducking and dodging and kicking their way through precise, practiced motions that at times made the two boys appear larger and more imposing than their small frames would suggest.
It's Puck's turn, and Matt stands to the side as Puck's gloved fists rocket against his trainer's padded palms. The strip of dark hair atop his head is drenched through, the sweat dripping down his forehead as he tosses his weight into his punches.
From outside the ring, six-year-old Santana looks down at her own hands, tiny and fragile, and clenches them into tight fists. She releases a couple punches, testing the feeling of slicing her hands through open air. There's a rush she can't explain, and as she watches Matt and Puck exchange places on the mat, she's never wanted more to be one of them.
Matt and Puck had begun taking kickboxing lessons a few months ago, but it's Santana's first time at the gym. She bounces on her feet, eager to play more than the role of spectator.
When the training session comes to an end, Santana races over to the trainer, ignoring Matt's call on the way.
She looks up at the man. "Can you teach me?" she asks hopefully.
The trainer pats her on the head and smiles. "I'm sorry, we don't train girls."
Santana's heart drops. "But-"
"And you're too young, anyway," the trainer continues, nudging her by the shoulder. "Run along now. You shouldn't be in here."
Holding back tears, Santana keeps her head high as she pads across the room to where Matt and Puck are standing. Chin quivering, she doesn't say anything until Matt locks her into a sweaty hug.
"It's not fair!" Santana wails. "I wanna fight too."
"I know," Matt says, smoothing his hand over her hair. "Maybe when you're older, okay?"
Puck tugs his gloves off and eyes the other two. "Suck it up."
Matt glares at him. "Watch your mouth, Puck."
"I'll teach her," Puck says, shrugging his shoulders.
Santana sniffs against Matt's chest and peers at Puck.
"Yeah," Puck continues, grabbing Santana by the hand. "C'mon, we'll get you fitted for some gloves."
Eager to busy her fists, Santana squirms out of Matt's grip and follows Puck to one of the equipment managers, who is nice enough to find her a pair of ratty old gloves that are small enough to wrap around her tiny hands.
Matt watches warily as Puck leads Santana to the center of the mat and instructs her to throw some punches against his own gloved fists. Santana steadies her feet and attempts to mimic what she'd seen earlier. Puck stays still for the first few hits, then abruptly sidesteps out of the way. Santana stumbles forward, nearly face-planting.
As soon as she regains her footing, Santana shoves Puck. "What'd you do that for?"
Puck jabs her lightly with his right glove. "Stay alert. Keep up."
Santana lifts her fists in front of her face with renewed determination.
Matt approaches and hovers protectively over Santana. "Take it easy," he tells Puck.
"I can do this, Matt," Santana insists.
Matt taps her on the shoulder. "I know you can. But if Puck forgets you're a girl and punches you too hard, you're gonna get hurt."
Santana darts her eyes quickly toward Matt before returning her focus to Puck's raised fists. "I want him to forget I'm a girl."
Matt furrows his brows, but Puck appears to understand. He extends an arm to ruffle her hair, but she dodges out of his reach and lands a punch on his chest. Puck stumbles back momentarily, and Santana smirks, feeling a surge of pride. Santana's fist rockets forward again, but her next attempt catches nothing but Puck's glove. Puck punches back, and the impact volleys Santana's tiny body backwards, landing her on the mat.
Immediately, she bounces back up, but Matt steps between them. "Enough. Give me the gloves, Puck." When Puck doesn't budge, Matt rolls his eyes. "You want to teach her, right? Then get behind her and teach. I'll be the punching bag."
Puck seems to consider this for a moment, then tugs off his gloves and chucks them at Matt. Puck slides behind Santana and hovers over her, reaching to readjust her fists in front of her face.
"Like this," he instructs. "Now punch. Aim for Matt's left glove."
Santana musters up a burst of energy and throws her fist. It lands ineffectively against Matt's glove.
"That's it," Puck encourages. "Go left, left, right!"
Santana anchors her feet and raises her fists.
It's fast and tough and knocks the wind right out of her. Santana falls in love.
--
"Ladies and gentlemen, now making her way to the cage, please welcome women's MMA ground expert Jessica 'the Jostler' St. James!"
From behind her entrance, Santana takes a deep breath as she hears the crowd roaring for her opponent. Over the years, she's learned to manage her adrenaline, to use the noises of the stadium to her advantage, to control the cage rather than let it control her, but despite her fearlessness, nerves still reign strong.
"And now joining us to the red corner, her challenger, Muay Thai sensation Santana 'Lights Out' Lopez!"
With one look up at the ceiling, she bounces out through the doors and starts makes her way down to the cage, squinting against the pyrotechnics and bright lights. The crowd erupts into hysterics.
She's stopped in front of the cage entrance and patted down, her gloves examined. The moment she steps into the cage, a cutman with a goofy grin - Finn something, she recalls; Puck's friend - stops her and applies petroleum jelly to her forehead and cheeks. He slips her a discreet thumbs up when he's done.
Puck appears at her side and holds up her mouth guard. She lets him slide it into her mouth. Santana walks over to her corner, focus sharp. The noise around her drones on, but she's tuned only into the rhythmic beat of her heart as she bounces lightly in place and swings her arms. She watches St. James, leaning against the opposite corner as her trainer, a tall brunette with a strong jaw line, feeds her last-minute instructions through the chain-linked fence.
St. James's curly hair is tied back in a small ponytail, her eyes menacing as it scours the cage. She has the look of a villain, of a heartbreaker, and Santana feels her own jaw tightening around her mouth guard.
Everyone else begins clearing out of the cage as the announcer introduces the judges, then each of the fighters, and finally the referee.
"All right, ladies," the referee says to them as he motions for the two of them to get closer, "this is three three-minute rounds. You know the rules. We all expect a good, clean, fair fight. Obey my commands. Protect yourselves at all times. Come out ready to fight. Good luck, and hook 'em up."
Santana waits for the horn to sound, then approaches the center of the ring, where she taps fists with St. James. A burst of adrenaline rushes through her as she studies her opponent, sizing her up. Puck's made her watch the tapes and pointed out St. James's strengths and weaknesses, but there's nothing quite like standing in a closed cage with another person who not only has the ability to knock a bitch the fuck out, but is actively encouraged to do so.
Santana tests the waters with quick swing of her leg, which St. James sidesteps. A few cautious blows are exchanged harmlessly as both fighters attempt to catch the other off guard. After Santana lands a kick to St. James's thigh, St. James rushes forward without warning and grabs Santana's torso in an effort to throw her to the ground.
Stay on your feet, Puck's voice reminds her.
Santana tightens her core and plants her feet. She knows that if this fight came down to sheer strength alone, she'd be a goner. St. James is a damn behemoth. But Santana is confident in her technical skills, her precision and timing. She waits it out, trying to spend as little energy as possible as St. James struggles against her.
Despite taking a knee to the hip, Santana manages to fight her way out of St. James's grip and remain standing. She swings her left fist and lands a decent punch to the side of St. James's face, knocking her back.
St. James retaliates with a fist of her own, which Santana parries. Santana goes in for a flurry of punches and kicks, balancing her offensive with careful positioning. But even in her calculated movements, she takes a couple blows to the head and staggers. The adrenaline pushes her through. She's familiar with discipline and willpower, and she can see the frustration building in her opponent with every moment she refuses to give in. Fights are as much a battle of mental wits as they are a competition of physical strength.
Right before the first round ends, Santana lands a well-timed left hook, which gets the crowd roaring into the intermission.
The horn sounds to signal the end of the first, and the referee separates the two fighters. Santana heads to her corner and bounces once against the fence. Puck appears in front of her with a bottle of water.
"You got this," Puck tells her. "She's worn out, but you know what they say about wounded dogs. Be careful. See an opening, go for the kill."
Santana nods and motions at the water bottle, which Puck then raises to her lips. She drinks up and wipes her mouth on her forearm. Puck holds up his fist, and Santana bumps her knuckles against his.
"Go get 'em."
Santana taps Puck on the shoulder in acknowledgement, and he clears out of the cage as the timer runs down and the second round is set to begin.
From the sound of the horn, St. James comes on strong, arms and legs swinging wildly. Santana tastes the desperation emanating from her opponent, relishes in her helplessness. She remains patient.
St. James grabs her again, a frantic takedown attempt. She kicks the back of Santana's knee and manages to bring her to the ground, but Santana wraps St. James in a headlock and ends up on top, her weight pressing down on St. James's torso as she struggles to maintain control.
Santana pins St. James down, biding her time, letting the other fighter tire herself out with strikes that do little damage from her position of vulnerability. But Santana gets caught in her own arrogance, and in a moment of carelessness, St. James's knee connects with her abdomen, and she manages to break free. Both fighters clamor to their feet.
St. James sways, almost imperceptibly, but Santana detects the first hint of instability and pounces, stepping forward with aggression. She throws a punch with her right and follows quickly with her left, the second catching the side of St. James's head and knocking her flat to the ground. The crowd thunders.
St. James is slow to stand, but she manages. A trickle of blood rolls from a gash on her forehead, directly above her eye. She wipes clumsily at the blood with the back of her glove, but more spills from her wound, dripping into her eye socket and obstructing her vision.
Santana lunges forward, but the ref steps in and calls an injury time out. A ring doctor enters the cage and begins to examine St. James's cut. When an entire minute has passed and he hasn't been able to stop the bleeding, the doctor shakes his head at the referee, who nods in acknowledgment.
The crowd buzzes as the realization settles in: technical knockout due to an injury preventing St. James from finishing the fight.
Despite having imagined a more glamorous end to the fight, pride immediately surges through Santana, and she raises her arms in victory against the backdrop of thousands of cheering fans. She hears her own heart pounding hard in her chest, and time seems to slow down around her. Fighters will say that it's not about the purse or even the belt. It's about the feeling of invincibility, of pride, of knowing that they're tougher, faster, more fearless than their opponent.
Puck rushes in to congratulate Santana on her victory. He hugs her tightly, exactly like a trainer who's witnessed firsthand the hard work that goes into the preparation for every fight would.
"You did it!" he yells over the noisy crowd. "You fucking did it!"
Santana laughs. We, she wants to correct him, but before she gets a chance, the referee is motioning her back.
The first thing she notices is that St. James does not look happy. Her cut has mostly stopped bleeding, but the drying blood around it only makes her look more menacing. Still, it's all the more satisfying when the referee pronounces Santana the winner and raises her hand high above her head, the crowd's relentless excitement serving as the soundtrack to the action movie that has become her life.
--
It's nearly three a.m. by the time Brittany and Santana make it home, and the moment Santana collapses into bed, she sighs appreciatively against the soft covers. Brittany climbs in after her and curls up behind her, carefully draping her arm over Santana's hip.
"You were amazing out there," she murmurs, pressing her lips against Santana's shoulder.
Brittany's hand slips under the hem of Santana's top, and Santana shuts her eyes momentarily as Brittany's fingers gently trace the bruises across her skin. Despite Brittany's soft touches, it's a ritual she doesn't particularly enjoy, if only because Brittany gets too quiet, her body tensing when Santana squirms in discomfort.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, like she always does.
"No," Santana fibs, reaching down to grab Brittany's wrist and gently tugging it away. She shifts, turning to face Brittany. "Babe, I'm fine." She brushes her lips lightly against Brittany's. "I love you," she whispers. "I know my fights aren't your favorite."
"Yeah, but you love what you do. I would never take that away from you."
Santana touches Brittany's cheek. "I would give it up if you asked."
"I know," Brittany replies with a faint smile, "but I wouldn't ask."
Santana pulls Brittany's closer, trying to ignore the way her tender flesh aches upon contact. The adrenaline's worn off, and she's sore everywhere. "Britt, you are my favorite wife."
Brittany scrunches up her nose, stifling her own laughter. "Do you have a cucumber I don't know about?"
"Concubine," Santana corrects gently, threading her fingers through Brittany's hair.
Brittany rests her hand on Santana's hip. "Yeah, that." She smiles. "Are you hiding something from me?"
"Never," Santana replies softly, leaning in to plant a kiss on Brittany's nose. The question feels weightier than it actually is. "Never ever ever. No secrets, ever. Okay?"
Brittany stifles a yawn, her eyelids fluttering. "Okay."
"Hey," Santana whispers, touching Brittany's jaw. "Now that the fight's over… wedding prep."
Brittany beams, immediately awake again. "Wedding prep," she echoes.
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and Santana grins. "We'll drop by Mike and Quinn's this weekend. Q's gonna want to get her managerial paws in there."
Brittany presses a kiss to Santana's mouth. "I'm so proud of you," she murmurs against her lips. "You know that, right?"
Santana takes a deep, shaky breath. "Yeah, I know."
A slow smile spreads across Brittany's lips, her expression shifting to one of seriousness. "I don't like it when you get hurt, but every time I watch you fight, it's like you're transformed."
Santana curls an arm around Brittany's torso. "There's only one thing I love more than fighting," she says, peppering kisses to Brittany's neck and shoulder.
Brittany's eyes light up. "Yeah?"
Smiling against Brittany's skin, Santana lets out a short laugh. "Yeah, sex."
Brittany giggles. "You're such a romantic."
Santana pushes herself up onto her elbow, her hair cascading over her shoulder as she looks down at Brittany. Her heart squeezes at the sight. "The only thing I love more than fighting is you," she clarifies, her eyes meeting Brittany's. "I don't care about the sex."
Brittany pats her lightly on the cheek. "You're gonna regret saying that in the morning."
Santana shakes her head, suddenly adamant that Brittany understands the magnitude of what she's saying. "Brittany…"
"Silly," Brittany cuts in gently, her fingers finding the nape of Santana's neck and rubbing circles. She smiles reassuringly. "I know."
Santana lies back down and winces against the lingering pain. Brittany's limbs carefully curl around her, and they settle into comfortable sleeping positions. With the satisfaction of her win earlier and the comfort of her wife next to her, it doesn't take long for Santana's overexerted body to succumb to dreamless slumber.
--
"You think you're a big shot, don't you? Just 'cause your daddy's pictures are everywhere?"
Santana turns and catches sight of a small group of students that has gathered. Someone she can't see lets out a nasally shriek.
"Let go of me!"
"Why?" a third voice sneers. "You don't get to come in here with your rich girl clothes and rich girl shoes and rich girl attitude. You think you're better than us or something?"
Santana nudges her way through the crowd, trying to get a better look at the commotion. Even at seven, she's strong for her tiny frame, unafraid to toss her body around. She makes it to the center and finds two fourth-graders hovering over a thin blond girl she has never seen.
"Hey," Santana calls out, "what's going on?"
"New girl thinks she's better than us," one of the fourth-graders, a redhead with droopy eyes, explains.
The blonde huffs, one hand reaching down to smooth out her dress while the other readjusts her headband. "I do not!"
"You sure do!" the other, a hefty-looking dark-skinned girl, cries, stepping closer with menace. "Your last name's Fabray, isn't it? I'm sick of seeing your dad's dumb face all over the place. He's ugly as hell, just like you."
Santana marches up and steps in front of the blonde. "You're such dumbasses," she tells the two fourth-graders. "That means her dad's a poli-a politician. They want you to go vote for them and stuff."
Redhead takes a step forward. "What'd you just call us?"
"I said you're dumbasses," Santana repeats unflinchingly. "You don't even know what a politician is? Idiot."
Hefty lunges forward, hands aimed at Santana's neck, and Santana immediately reacts, her own arms flinging out to grab and deflect Hefty's hands. Redhead jumps in, grabbing a fistful of Santana's hair. Santana grunts as her head gets pulled to the side, but she whips out a hand and jabs Redhead in the face. Redhead cries out and recoils in pain, releasing Santana. In the momentary distraction, Hefty lands one against Santana's cheek, and Santana immediately tastes the metallic tang of blood in her mouth.
She manages to duck away from Hefty's next punch, then fires one right back, catching Hefty in the eye. Hefty stumbles back, but Santana isn't done. She kicks out against Hefty's knee as she gives Hefty a rough shove. Hefty falls backwards, landing on her elbows on the pavement. Santana doesn't hesitate to throw herself down and fire a series of well-aimed punches to Hefty's face. Hefty is screaming and crying, and blood is starting to stream from her nose and upper lip, but Santana doesn't stop until a teacher grabs her from behind and drags her off the other girl.
Redhead has a scratch across her cheek and is looking so pale she's nearly transparent. The blonde is frozen in place, her hands clasped tightly over her mouth. The crowd has fallen deathly silent. A second teacher rushes over to Hefty and starts tending to her wounds.
All Santana sees is red as she thrashes against strong arms, blood boiling with the insatiable need to inflict pain. The next thing she knows, she's sitting inside Principal Figgins' office, next to the blonde whose name she still doesn't know.
Figgins glares at them from the other side of his desk. "Girls, which one of you would like to share what happened?"
The blonde stares down at her lap, scuffing her shoes against the floor.
Santana opens her mouth to speak, but a searing pain shoots through the left side of her face and she winces. Fresh blood escapes from the cut on the inside of her cheek.
"Would you like some ice, Santana?" Figgins offers.
Santana lowers her eyes and shakes her head.
The blonde peers over at Santana, then looks back at Figgins. "San-Santana was just trying to stop those, um, those bullies. They were going to hurt me."
Figgins is staring at Santana. "Is that true, Santana?"
Santana shrugs and keeps her mouth shut.
Figgins sighs. "Quinn, you can go back to class. Miss Lopez, I'm afraid I'm going to have to call your parents."
The blonde, apparently named Quinn, doesn't move. "Principal Figgins," she says, sounding a lot more sure than before, "Santana didn't do anything wrong."
"Didn't do anything wrong? She broke Tammy Brown's nose!"
"She had it coming," Santana mumbles, teeth scraping painfully against her swollen cheek.
"That's enough, Santana," Figgins scolds with as much authority as he can muster.
"But Tammy and her friend," Quinn starts, "they grabbed me, and-" She holds out her arms, revealing purple bruises against her pale skin. "My dad's not gonna be happy about this," she continues, her tiny voice taking on a threatening edge, "especially if you punish the only girl who stood up for me."
Figgins seems to consider this angle. "Miss Fabray, your father is a very powerful figure in this community, and I would hate to-"
"Let Santana go," Quinn insists, "and I won't tell my dad about this."
"But I'm sure Santana's parents will want answers about her cheek…"
"They don't care," Santana interrupts, and despite her age, she knows as much as Figgins does that what she says is true. She's been in enough fights, has sat in this office enough times for both of them to understand this point.
Figgins looks back and forth between the two girls. Finally, he seems to relent. "Very well," he agrees, sounding resigned to his fate. "Both of you may go. But Santana, please make a visit to the nurse before returning to class."
Santana rises from her seat and leaves the office, sensing Quinn following a few steps behind her.
"Thanks," Quinn says when they're out of the office.
"Yeah," Santana mutters, trying not to wince even though her mouth hurts. "What's a girl like you doing in a school like this anyway?"
Quinn shrugs. "My dad says it looks good for him. I dunno."
Santana studies her for a moment. "Why didn't you hit them back?"
Quinn shrugs again, her slender shoulders rising and falling with grace. "My mom says girls shouldn't fight."
"That's dumb," Santana dismisses. "My brother, he fights. He teaches me how sometimes. Not too much though. He doesn't want me getting into trouble."
Quinn giggles. "That didn't work too well."
Santana smiles through her pain. "I saved your butt, Quinn."
Quinn smiles back. "I know, and I got you out of trouble."
"Wouldn't be in trouble in the first place if I didn't have to save your butt," Santana argues.
Quinn looks at Santana, her expression turning serious. "You punched that girl really, really hard, Santana," she says somberly.
Santana shrugs and looks down. "She deserved it."
--
The sound of Quinn Fabray's doorbell is crisp, and Santana jabs her finger impatiently against it a few more times than necessary. Beside her, Brittany squeezes her hand, but before Brittany has a chance to reprimand her, the door swings open. Mike Chang is standing on the other side, and Brittany immediately launches herself against him, her arms wrapping around his neck.
Mike laughs. "Hey, Britt. Santana."
"Hey," Santana greets, "is Quinn around?"
"Yeah, come on in."
Mike steps aside and waits for both women to enter before shutting the door behind them. He leads them to the living room, where Quinn is kneeling on the floor, hovering over an array of papers strewn across the coffee table. As soon as she catches sight of the others, she rises to her feet.
"Lopez! So how's it feel to be a world champ?"
"How's it feel to collect a fat paycheck for being my personal assistant?" Santana fires back with a grin.
Quinn rolls her eyes. "Manager," she's quick to amend, "and you're a bitch."
Santana mockingly gasps. "Stop the presses! Quinn Fabray's got some serious scoop."
"Almost wish St. James had knocked you out last night," Quinn tells her, though her words hold little menace.
Santana nudges Quinn's shoulder. "You totally don't mean that."
Quinn pulls her lips into a straight line. "Mostly I just wish that you didn't open your mouth as often as you do now."
Santana smirks. "Just keepin' it real."
"All right, anyway," Quinn says, awkwardly detouring the conversation, "I'll help you plan your wedding, but - and I know you believe otherwise - I'm not your bitch."
Santana snorts. "As if you could give up an opportunity to run my life."
Quinn flushes. "Oh god, Lopez, I'm not that big a control freak. I'm not like, addicted to managing your life; you just can't seem to do it yourself."
"That's offensive."
Quinn opens her mouth to retort but quickly shuts it again, smiling a little to herself.
Santana laughs. "You were going to say 'your face is offensive' just now, weren't you?"
Quinn's smile cracks. "Was not," she denies halfheartedly.
"You totally fucking were!" Santana whoops. "That's real mature, Fabray."
Clearing her throat, Quinn waves her hand dismissively. "Can we move on? I have something for you." She glances at Brittany. "For both of you, actually. Consider it an early wedding gift. Or late, since you ran off and got hitched already."
Quinn moves toward her fireplace and lifts a photo frame off her mantle. Pinned underneath is an envelope, which she picks up and hands to Santana.
Santana flips it over in her hand, catching the letters 'B&S' in Quinn's loopy handwriting on the front. "Q, what is this?"
Quinn smiles and shrugs. "Open it."
Santana holds the envelope out to Brittany, who lifts the flap and pulls out a card. It's a simple congratulatory card, but tucked inside, they find two roundtrip tickets to Fiji, along with a week-long itinerary covering everything from tourist attractions to a different restaurant every night. The personal handiwork of someone who excels at organization.
"My dad left me a cottage in Fiji," Quinn explains. "It's right near the water, really gorgeous view, and it's yours for that week. Everything on there has been paid for, but of course, you're free to deviate."
Brittany leaps toward Quinn, enveloping her in a tight embrace, but Santana stays rooted to her feet, unsure what to do with the sudden burst of affection she feels for her best friend.
"Quinn… these are-" Santana hesitates. "This is expensive."
Quinn quirks a smile. "Do you know how much money you made me by winning that fight last night?"
"You bought these tickets before that," Santana argues, shaking her head. "You couldn't have known that I'd kick St. James's ass."
Quinn chuckles. "I was kidding. This isn't about the fight. It's for both of you. Take some time off. Consider it a honeymoon."
Santana skims over the tickets again. "These are dated next Friday."
"I'm your manager, Santana. You've got nothing going on." Quinn turns to Brittany, whose arms are still wrapped around her torso. "And Britt's her own boss. I'm sure she can get someone to cover her classes for a couple days."
Brittany beams. "Totally. Tina loves my kids."
Santana bites her lip. "I can pay for my own honeymoon."
"I know you can."
Brittany laughs. "Santana."
"Fine, fine." Santana approaches the two women and holds back a smile. "Thanks, Q."
Brittany pulls her into a three-way hug, and a moment later, Mike, who'd remained silent until then, joins in. Brittany's laughter, lively and genuine, sounds like a melody to Santana's ears.
Part II (2/3)