Fic: They Say Bad Things Happen For A Reason [Part Two]
Title: They Sad Bad Things Happen For A Reason [Part Two]
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4900
Notes and things in Part One
--
Matt Rutherford is sitting at his desk when they arrive in the morning, head bent over an open file and pictures spread across his desk.
"Rutherford," Puck greets, cocking his hip against the other man's desk.
"Puckerman!" Matt exclaims, standing up to clasp hands with Puck and a happy smile lighting up his face. "What's up, man?"
"Not much. You met my partner?" He cocks his thumb towards Santana, a questioning eyebrow raised.
"Haven't had the pleasure. I'm Matt," he says, sticking his hand out.
"Lopez," she states, gripping his hand firmly. "Santana Lopez."
"Nice to meet you," he looks between them. "What brings you guys up to my floor?"
"We need a favor," Puck replies.
"Sure, man. What can I do for you?" The other man's eyes are earnest and open and Santana has to fight a wave of dislike at the way it kind of reminds her of Brittany.
Puck looks over at Santana. Which is fair. She's the one that suspiciously needs to steal this case. "The Pike case. You picked it up right?"
He nods at her. "Yeah, robbery at that dance studio. We think he's back with the Cains."
"Right," she says, swallowing. "We were hoping we could take it off of your hands."
"Why?" He's not defensive, just curious, so Santana takes it as a good sign, hope that he'll give the case over and she can put this whole Brittany thing behind her.
But Santana realizes he asked "Why?" and she doesn't really have a legitimate answer for that. Puck's staring expectingly at her too because she didn't give him an answer to that either but she just stares back, silently begging him to come up with some excuse.
"As a favor, dude," Puck joins after a moment.
Matt looks a little confused and he shrugs his shoulders. "Look, normally I'd totally hand it over to you guys, but my partner's kinda sweet on the girl," he explains with a chuckle. "The victim, what's her name?" He lifts his gaze upward as if her name is written on the ceiling. "B-something. I can't remember," he continues after a moment, bringing his eyes back to theirs. "I think he'd be pissed if I handed over his only opportunity with her, you know?"
Puck laughs along with him until he notices the look on Santana's face. Matt, however, remains oblivious to the hardness that flashes over Santana's face.
"What?" She bites out.
"Yeah, I know right?" Matt says, undeterred. "I told him it wasn't exactly classy to pick up a chick on a case, but he's pretty far gone on her."
"A robbery isn't an avenue to get laid, Rutherford," Santana spits out. "Tell your partner to keep it in his fucking pants and give us the case."
"Whoa, San," Puck says, grabbing her hand and tugging her back a step. "Chill the fuck out, dude."
"Am I missing something here?" Matt looks at the two of them, now aware of the way Santana is glaring at him.
Matt's partner takes that moment to walk into the bullpen, observing the scene and walking cautiously up to the group.
"Hey Matt," he greets, clasping his partner on the shoulder. "How's it going?"
"Yo, Finn," Matt answers. "This is Noah Puckerman and Santana Lopez."
"Hi! Finn Hudson," the tall man offers, sticking his hand out.
Puck clasps it but Santana just crosses her arms over her chest. "I have to go," she says, turning around and walking away from them towards the elevator bay.
"Dude, did I say something?" Matt asks, looking at Puck worriedly.
"I don't know, she's been weird about this case since last night. I don't really get it."
"What case?" Finn joins.
Matt turns to him. "Oh yeah, sorry. They were here about the Pike case."
Finn smiles wide and his eyes start to shine. "Ah, the Brittany case. What a babe, jeez."
Puck stills, his eyes widening and a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Sorry, what did you just say?"
"Brittany," Finn exclaims. "The blonde girl that owns the dance studio. Real hottie. Tall, blonde, dancer. I think I have a chance with her too."
"We need that case," Puck states, his tone demanding no argument.
"What?" Finn and Matt say at the same time.
"Shit, listen. Cop to cop. I know you don't know me, but I really need you to fucking trust me. I need that case."
They stare at each other for awhile, the three of them, before Matt turns to his desk and picks up the file, handing it to Puck wordlessly.
--
It's overcast, the rain having stopped an hour ago, but Santana kind of wishes it hadn't. There's something comforting in the melancholy the rain creates, like she's allowed to mope around when it's raining, some sort of bizarre cosmic approval of her feelings.
Puck drives to the address listed in the file silently, steering the car towards the apartment Brittany now occupies. The apartment she left Santana's for. She feels a guilty sense of satisfaction when they pull up to the building and it's an ugly stout thing, the entrance doors old and almost broken and the paint peeling slowly off the walls. She goes from satisfied to intensely worried when she realizes how shit the security must be in these places.
They get all the way to her door, 3C, without saying a word to each other, but Puck breaks the silence when they get there. "How do you want to do this?"
"Knock on the door," she states, lamely.
"Yeah, thanks, genius. I meant do you want me to talk or do you...," he trails off, leaving the rest of the question unasked, do you want to talk to her?
She doesn't respond, just brings up her fist and raps it against the door, her heart starting to pound and her palms starting to sweat. Seeing Brittany for the first time in six months and it's for some stupid case. This was a terrible idea. She almost grabs Puck to leave like a complete loser but the sound of a lock clicking open stops her and the door swings open.
And then there's Brittany, standing in the doorway, looking gorgeous in yoga pants and a tank top, her hair wild around her shoulders. The blonde shoots a surprised look at Puck before her eyes widen even further as they slide to Santana, her mouth dropping open in a silent "Oh."
No one says anything for a long awkward moment, Santana just stares at Brittany, drinking in the sight of her while Brittany seems to do the same. Puck shifts his feet next to her. "Uh, hey, Britt," he says.
Her head whips towards him as if she just remembered he was there and her cheeks go red. "Puck, hi! Good to see you," Brittany exclaims, genuinely, stepping forward to wrap her arms around him.
Santana takes a moment to swallow against the lump in her throat and focus on why she's here. Do the job, Lopez. "We're here about the robbery," she interjects as Brittany steps away from her partner.
The taller girl tilts her head to the side, observing Santana and for a second she's afraid that Brittany can see right through her, just like always. "But those other two cops were already here about that."
"We picked the case up," Puck joins. "So we're re-canvasing. You know how it is." And Brittany did know, she'd been with Santana all through the academy and through her beat cop days and then when she took the detective test and well, Brittany would have had to be completely deaf and blind not to pick up on some stuff all those years.
"Oh, okay," Brittany says, but Santana can tell she's suspicious. "Did you want to come in?" She gestures into her apartment, stepping aside to offer them entrance.
"Thanks." Puck smiles and nods at her as he walks in.
Santana tries to follow but she nearly trips over herself, part of her not wanting to go inside. Not wanting to see the apartment that so solidifies this other life Brittany now has. This other life without Santana. Brittany watches the hesitation play over her face and smiles weakly in what Santana thinks was meant to be an encouraging manner.
When Santana is finally capable of putting one foot in front of the other and passes through the doorway she's hyper aware of her surroundings. Of how she almost touches Brittany as she crosses the threshold and how she catches that hint of vanilla and almond that means the girl was baking earlier. She has to swallow against the scent of the apartment, the same scent that still haunts her in her own apartment but magnified, a thousand times more strong and going straight to Santana's head. It's some kind of weird torture and she can't remember why the hell she thought seeing Brittany was going to help her feel better.
"So when did you realize you had been robbed?" Puck asks as Brittany closes the door.
Right, the robbery. Roger Pike.
"Um, well Mike called me around 9 the morning after, when he opened the studio," Brittany twirls the ends of her hair in her right hand as she says it and Santana recognizes the nervous twitch. "He said the place was pretty torn up and that some of our stuff was missing."
Puck scribbles the answers on his notebook as he asks them, but Santana starts to zone them out as she surveys the apartment, trusting in Puck to do the job better than she's capable of at the moment.
The apartment is small and cluttered and so Brittany that Santana feels a smile coming on that she can't stop. The living room is practically the kitchen and there's coffee cups just about everywhere, some empty and some half empty, a small TV against the wall and magazines over every horizontal surface in the room. There's pictures too, on the walls and the tables and Santana exhales softly when she recognizes one of them. It's small, sitting next to the television and Santana has to wonder how she never noticed it was missing from her own apartment.
It's Brittany's favorite picture of the two of them, or so she claimed once upon a time, and it's a completely ridiculous photo. Brittany's smiling wide on one side of the photo but Santana's face is blurry and far too close to the camera, turned to face Brittany and laughing. She remembers the way the blonde had stretched out her arm, holding the camera in front of her and begged Santana, who had always been reluctant to be photographed, to pose with her, claiming there weren't nearly enough pictures of the two of them. Santana had protested for long minutes before finally acquiescing. But then, at the last minute, changed her mind, moved her head to the side and all too close to the camera, laughingly determined to ruin the picture.
To Santana's eyes, she succeeded, the photo was blurry and disproportionate and she had knocked Brittany's arm over as the blonde girl clicked the shutter so the picture was at an odd angle. But Brittany loved the damn thing, had it framed and it sat in their living room for years. Santana used to shake her head every time she passed it but Brittany would argue that it was the perfect picture, that it was them and it would never fail to make the taller girl laugh loudly whenever she saw it. So Santana started to love the picture too and now it was sitting in Brittany's new living room, staring up at her mockingly.
"It's my favorite picture," comes a soft voice from behind her and she nearly jumps forward in surprise before whipping around to face Brittany.
Her eyes search the apartment for Puck but her partner is nowhere to be seen. "Where's Puck?"
"He had to go outside to make a phone call," Brittany answers. Damn, how long was she zoned out?
"Oh," Santana replies, searching for an excuse to go out there too.
"How have you been?" Brittany asks, taking a step towards her.
She takes a step backwards on instinct, nearly running into Brittany's TV. "Fine."
"That's good." But the way Brittany says it, it sounds more like you look like crap.
Santana keeps her eyes away from Brittany, knowing that staring at her will make her do something stupid like cry or yell or vomit up declarations of love and beg the girl to come home. Her eyes roam the rest of the room before they notice the dog leashes hanging by the doorway and she realizes what's missing from the apartment. Where the hell is their dog?
"Where's Nemo?"
Brittany twirls her hair again and bites her lip, looking down. All things she used to do when she thought Santana wouldn't like what she had to say. Shit, did their dog fucking die? But, when Brittany finally answers, Santana's pretty sure that the real answer is worse than that.
"Tina's out taking him for a walk."
"Tina?"
Brittany nods. "She's been staying with me since the robbery."
"Tina?" Santana repeats. Tina. Another teacher at Brittany's dance studio who Santana was convinced always had eyes for the tall blonde. A wave of hot jealously pours through her that she can't get a grip on. Fucking Tina. Walking their fucking dog. In Brittany's stupid fucking small apartment. She has to close her eyes at the irrational urge to punch something.
"San," Brittany says softly, in a voice that doesn't do anything to quell Santana's anger. Brittany can't talk like that to her anymore, it's not fair. "San," Brittany tries again. "She's just a friend."
She wants to yell. Yell that, no, Tina is not just a friend because Santana fucking knows how the other girl looks at Brittany and the blonde girl was always too fucking oblivious to notice it. But she doesn't say anything because there's another voice in her head telling her that it's not her business anymore and that she lost the right to get jealous or yell or punch Tina in the teeth. She lost that right and if Brittany wants to shack up with whoever, it's none of her business. She thinks it's that voice that makes her want to punch something the most.
So she settles for a biting, "Whatever."
"Santana," Brittany continues, in that same stupid voice that always made Santana feel like she was being handled. It's half soothing, half amused and Santana has never been more grateful to see her partner walk back into a room as she is in that moment.
"Well, I think that's it," he says, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of them. "We can get out of your hair now. Thanks, Britt."
He's looking at Santana as he says it as if he's trying to judge what he just walked into and if he needs to do something to diffuse the situation like grab Santana by the waist and drag her out of the apartment.
"Good, let's go," she says, her voice sharp as she makes her way to the door.
"Hey," Brittany interjects, taking a step towards her and stopping Santana from leaving. "You want to go out for a drink sometime?"
It almost sounds like a bad pickup line and it makes Santana want to laugh but Brittany's invitation is serious and Puck is looking at her like she needs to answer sometime soon.
"Uh, I'm pretty busy."
A low, throaty, chuckle comes out of Brittany, but there's a sadness that's laced with it and Santana clenches her fist at the way the sound settles in her gut. "I remember."
And that, that makes the pain of seeing Brittany again after months go straight to her head. It was one of the many reasons Brittany gave for walking out. Santana was always busy. Too busy for dinner, too busy for parties, too busy for sex, too busy to fix that leaky faucet in their kitchen, always too busy.
"We'll be in touch," Santana says, reaching for the door and stepping out into the hallway.
"Sure," Brittany responds, in a way that says I don't believe you at all. The blonde steps out into her doorway as they leave.
She can feel Brittany's eyes on her the whole way down the hallway and into the stairwell. She hates the way the gaze burns into the back of her head.
"She looks good," Puck comments as they step back outside and walk to the car.
She punches him in the arm, hard, and feels a satisfaction at the look of pain that crosses his face, but she agrees in a soft voice, "Yeah, she does."
--
"S, you never take a picture with me," Brittany whined, camera in one hand, and a pout on her face.
"We have plenty of pictures together, Britt."
"No we don't," Brittany disagreed.
Santana was lying on their couch, feet propped in Brittany's lap and the newspaper, folded to reveal the crossword, in front of her. It was a rare day, both of them off of work, and Santana was content just to laze around together, something they rarely had time for anymore.
"Yes we do," Santana argued, absently as she filled in the one of the answers.
"Santana," Brittany stated, pulling the newspaper down so she could stare at her.
"What?"
"Take a picture with me," she demanded.
Santana sighed but put her newspaper on the floor with her pen knowing that Brittany wouldn't let up until she got her way and it'd just be easier to agree and get it over with.
"Fine," she said, sitting up and swinging her legs on the floor so she was next to her girlfriend.
"Yay!" Brittany squealed as she changed some settings on her camera before holding it out with one arm in front of them, a finger on the shutter button. "Say bologna."
She blinked. "Say what?"
"Bologna," Brittany repeated.
"Cheese."
"No, what?"
Santana chuckled. "The expression is 'say cheese', Brittany."
"Cheese is not a funny word, bologna is a funny word."
"You're such a goofball," she said, with affection, staring at Brittany and smiling.
"I know," Brittany replied, her nose scrunching up as she smiled back. "Now shut up and take the picture."
But rebellion was ingrained in Santana's bones so when Brittany's finger went to push the shutter, Santana turned her body and brought her face up to the lens, knocking the camera to the side and laughing at the click sound signalling that the camera had taken the picture.
Brittany laughed in response. "Santana," she whined between chuckles.
Santana grabbed the camera from her girlfriend and flicked to the view menu to see the picture, her laughter increasing as it came on the screen. Brittany snatched it back to observe the picture as well, not able to contain her mirth at the ridiculous display either, but a pout started to form on her face.
"We look ridiculous," Brittany said.
"We are ridiculous," Santana argued.
Brittany turned at that, her expression changing until it lit up with happiness. "You're right. Awesome."
Santana wasn't really sure what that meant, but Brittany kissed her before she could ask, pulling her into her body and making Santana forget all about pictures and bologna and crosswords. She set Brittany's camera on the floor before lifting her girlfriend's legs onto the couch so they were both laying down, pressed into each other tightly.
She trailed kisses down Brittany's neck, her hand tracing an opposite path up Brittany's side and under her shirt, tracing her ribs before sliding up further to her breast. The low moan that came of Brittany made her clench her thighs together. She doesn't think she'll ever stop wanting this girl.
Brittany's hand tangled itself in Santana's hair, clenching softly as Santana's teeth grazed her neck and the hand that was on her chest trailed back down, fingers playing with the waistband of Brittany's shorts. She brought her legs to straddle Brittany's leg, her own thigh pressing between her girlfriend's legs and the feel of heat coming through Brittany's shorts going to straight to Santana's groin.
"God," Santana whispered into Brittany's neck, her leg pressing down intermittently. "I want you."
"You have me," Brittany replied, turning her head so she spoke straight into Santana's ear.
The words made her more desperate, an affirmation of something Santana never felt like she deserved. "I love you," she intoned, as she pushed Brittany's shorts down and her fingers traveled through slick heat.
She thought she heard Brittany respond, but the feel of her girlfriend, so ready for her, created a low buzzing in her ears where she was only aware of Brittany under her fingertips and the pounding in her heart where her chest was pressed up against the other girl.
Her fingers circled Brittany's clit, enjoying the way her girlfriend's hips twitched upwards and the way Brittany's hand clenched that much tighter in her hair. She slid her hand down further, picking herself up onto her elbow so she could look at Brittany's face, her free hand, rested at the top of Brittany's head where it played with the hair there.
There was really nothing better than this in Santana's opinion, the look on Brittany's face. Eyes closed, head tipped back, mouth opened, and a sexy flush in her cheeks. She bit her lip as she slid two fingers inside her girlfriend and watched the way Brittany's brow furrowed for a second at the intrusion, the way her mouth dropped open more and a heavy exhale flew out of her. Her vision wavered with arousal.
"You're so fucking hot, Britt," she said, pressing her lips to the other girl's as she started to thrust in and out of her.
Brittany made a low sound of approval as her hips started to move with Santana's rhythm. Santana pushed harder onto Brittany's thigh at the sight, trying to relieve the pressure between her own legs. It was always like this when they were together and Santana often wondered how, after years of doing exactly this, she was still so hot so fast around Brittany.
She pressed their foreheads together, her eyes drifting down to where her hand disappeared between Brittany's legs and enjoyed the way her breath mingled with Brittany's as she pumped her fingers.
"Come on, baby," she whispered against her lips. Her thumb traveled up to circle Brittany's clit and her girlfriend's hips jerked hard at the motion, the hand in Santana's hair clenching even tighter. "Come for me," she demanded.
And with a small cry, Brittany's back arched and her eyes snapped open and Santana watched in awe as release washed all over her girlfriend and she collapsed back into the couch, arms curling around Santana to bring her down with her.
They laid there for a few minutes, Santana knowing that Brittany always needed recovery time after a good orgasm. Brittany nuzzled her face into Santana's neck, incoherent sounds coming out of her as they snuggled together and Brittany's leg curled over Santana's, pressing their bodies even closer.
Santana blinked and lifted her head up a little, unable to ignore the throbbing between her legs much longer.
"Britt," she said, softly and her girlfriend didn't need her to say anything else.
Brittany smiled and lifted her hands to grab Santana's face, bringing her in for a hot, lazy kiss before pushing her body up to turn Santana over, settling on top of the other girl and giving her a feral smile.
Santana felt her own expression respond in kind and opened her mouth to crack a joke about Brittany being a top but the words catch in her mouth as her girlfriend's hand cups her between the legs without any preamble.
--
Santana's body shoots upward, startled out of sleep by a loud beeping she recognizes as her phone. She blinks into the sunlight streaming through a window and she tries to figure out where she is. She's on a couch, but it's not her's and she's pretty sure she can hear singing coming from another room.
She's at Quinn's.
Her phone is still beeping so she flips it open and then closed just to make it shut up, still fighting the uncomfortable feeling of arousal that's settled in the pit of her stomach, put there by that stupid dream. She hates when she dreams. These days all her dreams are memories. Memories of Brittany.
The singing is still coming from a room she can now identify as the kitchen and she realizes it's Rachel. Does that girl ever fucking stop singing? Her head throbs painfully and her back protests the movement as she tries to sit up straighter.
She rubs her eyes and looks down, seeing that she's still in the clothes from yesterday, her dress pants and a white tank, her shirt discarded over the back of the couch, but the memories of the previous night are a little hazy. It had been days since she she saw Brittany and the case was moving along slowly, but there were other cases to investigate, other criminals to catch. Which, she remembers, led her and Puck to a nightclub where a dancer had been murdered, shot in the back alley. Santana had seen hundreds of dead bodies over the years so it's not like it really fazes her anymore but that shock of blonde hair across the black pavement put a sickening feeling in her stomach regardless. She couldn't stop replacing Brittany's image with the dead girl's.
She remembers leaving the crime scene with some piss poor excuse thrown in Puck's direction. Then she remembers Quinn's top shelf tequila bottle and little else.
Santana stands up, grabbing her shirt and shrugging it on before making her way to the kitchen, knowing that if Berry is up then Quinn is up and if Quinn is up there's a good chance coffee has been made. The singing trails off to giggling before she makes it to the kitchen and when her brain registers the sounds she's almost afraid of what she's going to find there. But she needs coffee and her headache is making her pissy and she could really give a shit if she interrupts some gross love fest between her two friends.
Which is exactly what she does. "Ugh, don't you two like ever stop? I'm going to have to bleach my brain."
Quinn has Rachel pressed into the counter, both of them dressed in whatever they wore to bed last night - shorts and a tank top for Quinn and even less clothing for Rachel. Quinn's hands are grasping Rachel's ass, pulling their hips together and they're laughing into a kiss, looking so fucking happy that Santana thinks she might vomit.
"Shut up, Lopez. You're just pissed because you haven't been laid in months," Quinn's still staring at Rachel as she says it so she doesn't catch the death glare Santana sends her way.
"Whatever, Fabray. Just tell your midget to put a goddamn shirt on, will you?"
"Santana," Quinn growls, stepping out of Rachel's embrace, but the shorter girl puts a restraining hand on her arm and Santana can just make out the whispered words, "It's okay, baby."
Rachel presses a long kiss to Quinn's lips before walking out of the room, hopefully, Santana thinks, to get some damn clothes on.
It's just the two of them in the kitchen then, Quinn and Santana, but the blonde just stands and stares at her as Santana gets coffee, one hand cocked on her hip and an eyebrow raised.
"What?"
"When are you going to stop this?"
"Stop what? Harassing your wife? Because if that's what you're waiting for, don't hold your breath."
Quinn actually chuckles at that and says, "No, I know you too well Santana. I'm talking about coming over here and getting blitzed because you're still depressed about Britt leaving. It's been six months. You need to stop."
"Ugh, I don't need to hear this," she says, walking back into the living room with her coffee. She needs to find her gun and her badge and get the hell out of here. When she sees the lockbox in the corner she's relieved that she had the foresight to be responsible last night.
Quinn follows her into the room. "Yeah, you do need to hear it. Look, I know it's hard-"
"No," Santana interjects, popping open the box and grabbing her stuff. "You don't know. You'll never know. So just shut the fuck up about it, okay?"
"Santana," Quinn tries again.
"If Berry left? Tomorrow," Santana says, standing up and turning to her friend. "If she walked out tomorrow and never came back. Would you be over it in six fucking months?"
Quinn's face contorts with pain at the thought and Santana feels a little satisfied that she could make someone feel even an ounce of what she's feeling. Maybe then Quinn will leave her the fuck alone.
Rachel picks that moment to come back into the room, strolling to Quinn's side, now with a long shirt covering her body. "Whatcha talking about?"
"Nothing," Quinn answers, but she wraps an arm around Rachel's waist, pulling her tightly to her side and kissing the top of her head.
Santana nods. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
Part Three