Fic: They Say Bad Things Happen For A Reason [Part Four]
Title: They Say Bad Things Happen For A Reason [Part Four]
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4700
Notes in Part One
[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three]
When she wakes up, Brittany is gone and she lets out a deep, heavy breath of relief. There's an uncomfortable dryness in her mouth and her eyes feel the same way as she sits up and shivers against a morning chill. The apartment feels empty and a quick walk around confirms that Brittany isn't anywhere inside. Nemo's gone too, but Brittany's purse is still sitting on the table by the door, so she realizes Brittany's out walking him.
She walks back into the bedroom to get to her closet and does a double take at the messy bed. It's weird to see, the sheets all crumpled up like that, in a way they haven't been in so long. Just the left side of the bed is pulled back, just the left pillows look used and there's a glass of empty glass on the left side table. Brittany's side.
She needs to get out of this apartment. Solve this case. And get Brittany the hell out of here before she has a mental breakdown.
It's fifteen minutes later and she's showered and dressed, gun holstered under her arm and badge clipped to her belt as she stands in the kitchen while the coffee brews. It's taking way too long for Santana's liking and she's seconds away from snapping her fingers at it impatiently when the front door swings open. Nemo comes barreling in, rushing into the kitchen until he bumps straight into Santana's legs, bouncing back a bit, tail wagging the whole time.
"Morning," Brittany says softly, an awkwardness lingering in the air around them.
"Hi," Santana deadpans, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. If the damn coffee would finish she could fucking leave.
"San," Brittany starts and that makes the decision for her. Coffee at the cart down the street is just as good.
"I gotta go to work," she interrupts, brushing past Brittany and grabbing her coat where it's hanging by the door.
She's out the door swiftly and just barely catches the weak "Bye" Brittany calls out.
--
She nearly kisses Puck when she sees him already waiting outside her building, leaning against his car like usual and holding an extra large coffee in his right hand.
"You are a god," she says, grabbing the cup.
"Hey, that's what I've been telling you for years."
Santana rolls her eyes.
Puck eyes her building, gazing upward towards her floor. "So, Britt's up there, huh?"
"Yup," she answers, shoving him aside so she can get into the car.
"Damn," he continues as he gets into the driver's side. "How the hell did that happen?"
"She fucking showed up out of nowhere the other night. Just used her key like she still fucking lives there." Bitterness and anger that she fought feeling earlier all come rushing to the surface.
Puck makes a disgusted sound and she kind of loves him for it. "You okay?"
"I'm fine, I just want to solve this case and get her out of there."
"Are you sure?"
She rolls her head to look at him skeptically. "What do you mean am I sure?"
"I mean. For fuck's sake, she's back dude. Isn't that what you've been fucking pining for all these months?"
"She left once. She's going to leave again," she mumbles, bringing the hot coffee up to her lips and taking a sip. "I'd just rather it'd be sooner rather than later."
Puck doesn't look convinced but he turns the car on and pulls away from the curb. "Okay, babe. Whatever you say."
--
"I was thinking about the Pike case," Santana comments, as they're walking into the station.
"Yeah?"
"Berry said something to me last night," she continues.
"You were hanging out with Rachel?!" Puck gives her an who are you? look as he hangs up his jacket and walks to his desk.
She comes to a stop in front of her chair, shrugging her coat off and rolling her eyes at him. "Quinn came over for dinner. I needed a buffer. Can you focus?"
"Yeah, sorry," he says, laughing as he sits down. "And?"
"She said something and what if," she swallows because she doesn't really want this to be true, her fingers grip the back of her chair and the fabric digs into her palm. "What if he's after me?"
Puck stops shuffling through the messages on his desk and looks up at her. "What if who's after you?"
"Pike."
He sets the papers back down on his desk and studies her. "You think Pike's after you?"
She looks away for a minute. "Well I mean. After Brittany. To get at me."
"You're not even with Brittany anymore."
"He doesn't know that," she argues.
"Why the fuck would he go after you?" His hands come up to his hips and an expression of anger waves over his face.
"He said something. The last time he was here," Santana explains as she sits in her chair and pulls it closer to her desk.
"Yeah?"
"He said that he'd go after her, the way I went after his wife."
"Shit," Puck says, dropping into his chair.
"I mean, do you think," she swallows again, her mouth abnormally dry. "Do you think that's what this whole thing is?"
"I don't know dude, it could just be coincidence. Her place is by the studio and the guy just got out of the joint. He needs the money."
Santana shakes her head because she learned a long time ago that coincidences are rarely just that and Puck knows that well enough. She fiddles with the bowl of paper clips on her desk and looks away from him, surveying the massive pile of work in front of her and trying to get her head on straight enough to deal with it.
"Hey," Puck calls across to her. "Do you want to work beat today? We can go give out speeding tickets and misdemeanors all day. Maybe make a few teenagers' lives miserable."
She laughs because it's a strange offer, but she knows she won't get any work done with the way she feels. She told Puck her theory and she can see the gears turning in his head, she trusts him to do the heavy lifting for her. That's what partners are for.
"Captain won't like it."
"Shit, since when do we care how the captain feels?"
"Yeah, okay," she agrees with a chuckle, standing up and pulling her coat back on.
--
It's 7PM when Puck drops her back at her apartment and her eye feels like it's going to explode. What started as a stupid diversion turned into breaking up a bar brawl at some seedy place over on 3rd. Stupid drunks getting into fights in the middle of the afternoon. Who even does that? Santana had jumped in the middle of it when she took an elbow straight to the face. It actually felt good for a second, when the pain burst through her eye and she realized she had a perfect opening to throw that punch she'd been holding back all week. So she let it go, took two more hits to the face but managed, with Puck's help, to get the fight stopped.
But now, an hour later, the pain is still there and she's got no one left to punch out. She touches her lip where she was bleeding earlier and inhales sharply. Her knuckles are bruised and broken but she kind of likes how they feel when she clenches her fist. It's painful and sure, not the most awesome feeling in the world, but with all the conflicting emotions swirling around her head she's happy for the physical distraction, something to focus on that isn't blonde haired, tall and gorgeous.
Which reminds her. Shit. She hasn't had to worry about explaining away bruises for months and now Brittany is waiting on the other side of her door. Maybe the other girl is asleep or gone or something and she can just walk to the bathroom, clean up and then pass out on the couch, preferably with a nice cold beer to relax the tense muscles all over her back.
But God pretty much hates her because when she walks in the door Brittany is like fucking waiting for her or something, sitting on the couch with their dog and watching their TV, the sounds of cartoons blasting through the apartment. So much for passing out on the couch unnoticed.
Brittany turns her head at the door opening. "Hey," she says, standing up as Nemo follows, running to greet Santana.
"Hi," Santana gets out, ducking her head down as she walks straight to the kitchen, heading for their fridge.
"How was your day?"
The moment is sickeningly domestic and even the pain in her face can't suppress the way it makes her feel - like she's falling and falling and it's going to hurt like a bitch when she hits the ground.
"Fine," she snaps.
"Are you okay?" Brittany asks, coming up behind her.
"I'm fine, just thirsty," she replies, twisting the top off a beer and turning around to look at Brittany. Might as well get this over with.
The taller girl gasps as she gets a good look at Santana's face and takes a step forward. "San," she breathes, reaching her hand up towards Santana's face.
Santana knocks the hand away from her. "Don't."
"What happened?"
"Nothing, I'm fine."
Brittany tries to reach for her again, worry etched all over her face.
"Fucking stop it, Britt," she retorts, stepping away from her.
"Santana," she starts again.
Santana slams her beer on the counter, the action making a loud noise as the glass hits the marble. She looks straight at Brittany. "I'm serious. Stop fucking acting like this. Like you give two shits about me. You can stay here as long as you want but just leave me the hell alone," she blurts out, unable to stop the words even at Brittany's hurt expression. She doesn't get to be hurt, that's not how this works. Santana is hurt, not Brittany.
"I do care about you," Brittany states, firmly.
"You walked out. Remember? You fucking walked out on me and our life and you took our fucking dog. So you don't get to stand there and try and act like you care about my black eye and split lip."
Nemo barks from where he's standing between them but Santana ignores it as she goes on.
"You need to stop putting food in my damn kitchen and hugging me and trying to touch me and smiling at me and just STOP IT."
Santana takes a deep breath, staring at Brittany, deflated and not feeling an ounce better than she did a few minutes ago.
"I'll leave," Brittany whispers, turning around walking out of the kitchen.
The words cut right through her, the words she never wanted to hear Brittany say again having heard them all too often in her nightmares, so she reaches out and grabs the other girl's arm, stopping her but not turning her around.
"I said you could stay here," she says, pausing for a second. Having Brittany here is hard but having her out there, god knows where, when she's still paranoid about Roger Pike would be worse. "I want you to stay here I just...," she trails off and Brittany turns around breaking the hold Santana had on her arm.
"I just need you to stop acting like everything's okay," she adds after a moment. "It's not okay. At all."
Brittany looks small and hurt and possibly on the verge of tears and Santana has to cross her arms to prevent herself from grabbing her. "Okay," she says, nodding her head.
"Okay," Santana repeats, taking a deep breath and nodding too.
--
Santana was in pain. There was a fucking bullet in her goddamn chest and blood everywhere. Her head was throbbing from where it hit the pavement and she was starting to lose feeling in her legs. What the fuck? OUCH. Getting shot fucking HURTS.
She couldn't make out much beside the ache in her chest and shoulder but she could kind of see Puck's face, blurry above hers and the sound of sirens. Other than that all she was aware of was pain, a low sound in her ears like rushing water and the fleeting thought that Brittany was gonna be pissed.
The next thing she was aware of was darkness before the soft sound of beeping brought her back awake.
"She's awake. Officer Lopez? Can you hear me? This is Dr. Johnson."
A light shined in her eyes and she squinted against it, trying to turn away but a sharp pain shot from her shoulder straight into her head. There was a groaning sound that sounded kind of like her.
"Dude, she's awake stop fucking torturing her with your little light, asshole." She recognized Puck's voice and tried to make him out in the fog of pain.
The doctor moved away with some offended comment in Puck's direction and then her partner's face was above her's, smiling.
"Hey," she croaked out, her throat dry.
"What's up? Way to get shot."
"Asshole," she responded on a laugh, her voice sounding gravelly and strained.
"You love me."
"Yeah."
Her vision started to clear and she could see more of her hospital room, Puck standing by the side of her bed in the same clothes she remembered he was wearing before. Not that much time could have passed.
"Time?"
"It's about Noon. You've been under for like 12 hours."
Shit. "Brittany?"
"I didn't call her yet, I wanted to wait till you fucking woke up."
"Good call," she said, closing her eyes. "But you better call her now."
"Yeah," Puck said, pulling out his phone and dialing.
--
Half an hour later, her tall, blonde, girlfriend came careening around the corner and into her room, breathing hard, cheeks flushed and eyes red around the edges.
"Oh my gosh," she exclaimed as she saw Santana lying in bed.
"Hey, B," she said, the words sounding scratchy and hoarse.
Brittany's eyes were wide in terror as she just stood there, perfectly still, observing Santana's hospital bed intensely.
"She's fine," Puck explained. It shocked Brittany out of whatever standstill she was in and the blonde girl rounded on the guy.
"You," she accused, her voice low and firm. "You buttface, you're supposed to watch her back."
Santana laughed at Brittany's weak attempt at an insult but winced as the motion shot another spark of pain through her chest.
"It's just a scratch, babe," she interjected when she saw Brittany lift her hand up in an attempt to punch Puck. "Leave him alone."
Puck looked kind of frightened as he put his back to the wall and slide towards the door. "I'll be outside," he said as he exited.
"Hi," Brittany whispered, walking up to the bed and stroking a hand over Santana's forehead.
"Hey," she replied. "I got shot." They had given her some pain medication and while they weren't totally effective, her head was a little loopy and she had trouble filtering the words that came out of her mouth.
"I see that," Brittany said, amused. That's when Santana saw the tears forming.
"Don't cry," she demanded. "I'm fine."
"You're hurt."
"Yeah, but I'm going to be fine."
"Don't leave me," Brittany plead, hunching over the bed so their faces were closer together. "You can't leave me. You can't."
"Have you been watching Twilight again?"
"S, this isn't a joke."
"I'm not going anywhere," she said reassuringly, trying to fight the urge to fall asleep. Stupid pain meds.
"You can't."
"I won't."
She felt her eyelids drooping and the image of Brittany started to go hazy as her body gave into the medication. "You neither," she whispered as her eyes closed and she sank deeper into the bed.
"Never," Brittany promised, her lips close to Santana's ear.
It was the last thing she remembered hearing before she fell asleep.
--
The dream leaves a bitter taste in Santana's mouth and she gets up off the couch, now wide awake and pissed. Her head still hurts and a quick look in the hallway mirror shows her the swelling hasn't really gone down yet on her face. She looks like shit. Her fingers scratch absently against the side of her chest where a scar still resides, the part where a bullet shot right through her and put her on desk duty for months.
She walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge, observing the bottles of beer stored there with a wary eye. She wants to drink. Like a lot. But she's been doing so much of that lately, trying to shove the pain down with alcohol. Thankfully, she's got a responsible bone in her body that's telling her it's a bad idea. Too many cops get taken down by liquor, she really doesn't want to be one of them. She already lost one major thing in her life. She's not going to lose her job too.
The door makes a quiet whoosh as she pushes it shut and turns her back towards it, staring at the darkness of her condo. Brittany's back there, in their bed, and just the thought of it makes her want to walk back into that room, sink into that bed and into Brittany. Into a body she knows will be warm and soft.
She wants it so bad that she's halfway down the hall when she realizes what she's doing. The door to their bedroom is open and she can hear that adorable little snore Brittany has when she's really asleep. She stands there for a moment, staring into the dark room where she can just barely make out blonde hair on the pillow until she realizes that watching her ex-girlfriend sleep is kind of creepy.
So she leaves.
--
It's raining. Again. But Santana barely notices, just makes her way quickly down the block, tugging her trench coat tighter around her and trying to decide if she should smoke her last cigarette.
She still hasn't decided by the time she's standing in front of Quinn and Rachel's door. It's 3AM but she doesn't care all that much as her hand pounds on the door, a loud knocking sound resounding in the empty hallway. Quinn's usually up still anyway, workaholic that she is.
"Fabray! Open the damn door," she yells, still knocking loudly.
A minute later the door swings open to reveal her friend, hair in disarray and bitchface set firmly in place. "Morning," Santana greets with fake cheerfulness.
"Do you have any concept of time?"
"Yes," Santana looks at her watch. "It's three in the morning. Is this a test?"
Rachel's voice comes from behind Quinn, scratchy and full of sleep. "Who is it?"
"It's just Santana. Go back to bed, Rach," Quinn calls over her shoulder.
"Santana?" Rachel shuffles towards the door, leaning heavily against Quinn's side and squinting at Santana. "What's wrong?"
"Streisand died. I came over as soon as I heard," she says, her voice monotone.
Rachel gasps in horror and stands straight up, all sleepiness shooting out of her. "What?"
"S! Don't say shit like that," Quinn chastises before turning to Rachel. "She's kidding, baby. Barbra is fine."
"That's not funny, Santana," Rachel says.
"But it is," she argues, smiling.
Rachel rolls her eyes before standing on her toes to press a kiss to Quinn's lips. "I'm going back to bed," she says into the kiss.
Quinn presses back, smiles against the other girl's lips. "I'll be in in a second."
"Kay," Rachel replies, before shooting a glare at Santana and retreating back through the apartment.
"What's wrong?" Quinn asks as she turns back to her friend.
"I just can't be in my apartment right now," Santana answers, feeling lame but needing her friend to understand.
Quinn steps aside and gestures past the door. Santana lets out a breath as she walks in. "Thanks," she says softly.
"You want a drink?"
"No, I just," she looks around and swallows. "I just couldn't be there anymore."
"Okay, well. You wanna talk about it or something?"
"No, no. It's not like," Santana doesn't finish, unable to really put a voice to her feelings.
Quinn, however, seems to understand. "You know where everything is. Just yell if you need something."
"Thanks, Q."
"Anytime, girl," she answers, wrapping her arms around Santana and squeezing her tight. "It's gonna be okay."
The affection is sudden and uncharacteristic for the two of them but Santana can't resist it. She buries her face in Quinn's neck and wraps her arms around the other girl, letting herself feel warm and calm for the first time that night. "Thanks," she croaks out again, her throat closing against the urge to cry.
Quinn smiles as they pull apart and squeezes Santana's shoulder before turning around and following the path Rachel took earlier to the bedroom.
--
Her phone wakes her up hours later and she groans as she turns over on the couch to pick it up.
"Lopez," she answers, squinting at her watch to check the time.
"Dude, where the hell are you?" Puck asks, his voice booming through the phone.
"At Quinn's," she answers, trying to figure out why Puck was calling her at 7 in the morning. They weren't supposed to meet for at least another hour. "Why?"
"You were right."
"About what, how much of a manwhore you are?"
"About Pike," Puck responds, humorlessly.
She sits up, her back ramrod straight at the words. "What about Pike?"
"It's about you," he says. "Well it's about Brittany. And by relation, you."
Her words come out slow and forced as fear shudders down her spine. "How do you know?"
"Just fucking get to the station, I'll show you."
She stands up and shrugs her shirt and jacket on as she hangs the phone up. On her way out the door she scribbles a quick note to Quinn before bolting down the street for the nearest subway station.
--
"Show me," she demands as she walks up to Puck's desk.
He hands her a white envelope with the words Detective Lopez scrawled across the front. "It was on your desk when I got in."
She raises an eyebrow. "And you opened it?"
He shrugs, for a moment amused. "I'm a curious guy."
She shakes her head but turns back to the envelope, opening it up and pulling its contents out. Inside there's just a small picture, black and white and red writing on the back.
A loud exhale shoots out of her as she takes in the subject of the picture. It's Brittany. On the street outside Santana's building, walking Nemo and in the outfit she remembers from two days ago. She turns the picture over and feels her stomach turn over at the words written there. The score will even soon, Lopez.
He was fucking watching her building. He was watching Brittany. He was watching her and Santana fucking left last night. Left her all alone and unprotected. She drops the picture back on the desk and looks at Puck.
"We need to find this bastard and find him now," she forces out in a calm, controlled voice.
"Yeah, I'm right there with you."
"Get a squad car outside my building."
Puck nods. "Already done. You want a guy at your door too?"
"No, just watch the street. I'm going to stay inside. If I leave I'll call you."
"Okay."
"We'll do all the work from my place from now on."
"Sure, whatever you think, but maybe we should pull Rutherford and Hudson back on this. You're a little close to this, San," he says, hesitancy in his tone.
She waves her hand distractedly at him, glancing down to stare at the picture again.
"Whatever, just get that car at my building. Stop by later and we'll go over everything."
"Yeah, I'll be by around 6."
"Keep me updated. I have to go," she says, turning back out of the room and striding out.
"Of course," she hears Puck say as she's leaving.
--
She calls Brittany on the way back to the building. The other girl picks up on the fourth ring.
"Hello," she says, sounding out of breath.
"Where are you?" Santana asks.
"Santana?"
"Yes," she answers, wondering briefly if Brittany took her out of her phone book. Her heart drops at the possibility but she shakes it off, not having time for useless thoughts like that. "Where are you?"
"At home, why?"
Santana stumbles over her feet when she hears that and tries to decide if Brittany means home like at her own apartment or home like the apartment they used to share.
"You're still at my place?"
"Yeah, was I supposed to leave?"
Santana shakes her head even though she knows Brittany can't see her. "No, no. Just don't leave the apartment, okay?"
"Um, okay. What's wrong?"
"Just trust me, I'll tell you when I get there."
"Okay," Brittany says.
Santana hangs up and breaks into a run towards her building.
--
She bursts in the front door and feels relief flood through her at the sight of Brittany on their couch, watching TV just like she was the night before. The door closes behind her and she bends over, pressing her hands to her knees and trying to catch her breath.
"San?" Brittany says, standing up and walking over. "What happened?"
"Nothing, I just need you to stay in the apartment for a few days and not leave."
"What?"
"Something came up and it would just be safer for you to stay inside."
Brittany puts a hand on her hip and annoyance crosses her features. "I have to leave, I teach a class tomorrow."
"Cancel it," Santana says, forcefully.
"No," Brittany argues, pouting and crossing her arms. "Not unless you tell me what the heck is going on."
"Pike is after me," she says and then waves her hand at Brittany's look of horror. "Well he's after you. To get to me."
"He doesn't know we broke up?"
"It doesn't matter," Santana admits, walking into the kitchen with Brittany behind her. "He's fixated on you and nothing is going to stop him."
"Just tell him that we broke up," Brittany repeats and Santana feels frustration sweep through her.
"I don't know where he fucking is, Brittany or else he'd be in a goddamn jail cell by now."
"I'm just saying," Brittany starts.
"Just shut up. It doesn't matter that we broke up," she says, leaning against the counter in the kitchen and trying to calm her nerves. She eyes Brittany up and down and a vision of Roger Pike laughing flashes in her brain. "I just need you to stay in the fucking apartment," she takes a deep breath as it all rushes out of her. "Please," she adds.
Brittany nods, "Okay."
"Thanks," Santana replies.
Her heart is still beating wildly but her breathing has calmed down as she stands there, avoiding looking at Brittany but not really sure what to do with herself. She got the other girl to agree to stay in the apartment which is a plus, that was the objective. But now she's stuck there, with her, in a small space and not much to do.
Santana looks at her watch to catch the time. Jesus, only 8:12. She had hours before Puck would show up and she could do something constructive.
Brittany shifts next to her and when Santana glances over the other girl is biting her lip. It's then that she notices what Brittany's wearing. Or rather, what she's not wearing. Her long legs are bare and there's something both amusing and sexy about the duck covered underwear the other girl has on. But there's nothing amusing about the tank top she's wearing, which clings tightly to flat abs, showing off more skin than covering it. The taller girl was never one for a lot of clothing, preferring to walk around their apartment half naked most of the time, so her current state of undress shouldn't be that surprising to Santana. But she hasn't seen this much of Brittany in six months and she can feel her breath start to go out of control again as she reacquaints herself with the sight.
"So," the blonde girl says. "What do you want to do?"
Santana feels her body grow hot at the question and she swallows hard. The question is innocent but there's something in the way it hangs between them that seems suggestive. She quickly becomes aware of how long it's been since she had sex. The last thing Santana needs is for Brittany to look like that and for her body to feel like this with ten hours to kill in an empty apartment.
Shit.
Part Five