Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (11/13)
Title: Crowd Surf Off A Cliff (11/13)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany, side Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R/NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana Lopez hates school, Lima, and those damn Cheerios--for the most part.
A/N: Title swiped from the Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton song of the same name.
Come the next day, Santana intends to take Quinn’s advice-although, really, why she’d do a stupid thing like that is beyond her. Quinn is her best friend in the world and all that crap, but her being a hapless romantic and something of a hypocritical wimp who still hasn’t advanced beyond guitar solos and history books when it comes to Rachel Berry…well, Santana almost thinks she’d be better off going to Puck for input. Except, of course, for the part where his inevitable counsel would come in the form of strap-ons and handcuffs-assuming he was even able to speak around his own raging hormones to begin with.
Santana sometimes thinks she needs to find more useful friends.
The point is, she intends to take Quinn’s advice, as ridiculous as it feels. She wakes with butterflies playing bocce ball in her stomach, anxiety running rampant over her usual cool demeanor. She’s out of it enough to trip down the stairs for the first time in years. She burns her hand on her morning Pop-Tart. She comes real, real damn close to forgetting to tie her shoes.
It’s a weird morning, but when she piles into Quinn’s piece of shit vehicle, she’s still feeling determined. She’s going to get her shit together. She’s going to make this day different.
Except, somehow, Brittany doesn’t seem to be in school.
Not that Santana is actively seeking the girl out, or anything (she has decided stalking takes too much effort to be her thing), but it’s weird not to see her around. It usually seems like Brittany is everywhere, hovering on her periphery with a preternatural talent for making her head spin. Today? Nothing.
It’s a good thing Santana is exceptionally skilled at pretending not to be a champion worrier.
Quinn, predictably, is unsupportive. “Maybe Sylvester’s training program of doom finally took her out.”
Santana groans, burying her head in her arms. “Shut up.”
“What?” Hazel eyes bat innocently down the table. “Shit happens, San.”
“Shut up,” Santana growls a second time, batting Quinn’s hand away when the girl reaches out. “This is your fault, you know. Being all…’act like a normal person, Santana; ask the girl out on a date, Santana’. You’ve thrown off the balance of the universe.”
“Yes,” Quinn drawls sardonically. “As retribution, said universe has clearly shipped Brittany off to Iceland. That is totally how it works.”
“Totally,” Santana mutters mournfully, tucking her chin under her arms so only her eyes and up are visible. Rolling her own eyes, Quinn smacks the top of her head.
“You’re an idiot,” she says, not without a certain amount of affection. “The chick probably caught a stomach bug or something. Maybe from necking with you in the least sanitary corner of this school. Don’t fucking freak out over it.”
It’s another batch of advice Santana truly intends to follow, but she can’t help herself. Something feels off.
She sleepwalks through the remainder of the day, not bothering to rouse even when a couple of the male Cheerios fire catcalls after her. On a normal day, she would beat the living crap out of them for it-or die trying (not entirely figurative, she supposes; the last time she dared lay a hand on a Cheerio, only blind luck prevented Sylvester from gunning her down from the high-rise seat in her bright red Hummer)-but today, she feels drained. It’s as if her entire body spent the night pumping itself up for an emotional triathlon, and now, without the proper outlet, she has more or less shut down.
It is-
“Pathetic,” Quinn observes coolly, pushing hard on the Diet Coke option on the school’s one and only vending machine. “Come on, you fucker.”
“Figgins hasn’t paid to refill it in two weeks,” Santana says monotonously, leaning into the tiny space between the box Quinn is swearing at and the wall. “His hands are tied, don’t you know.”
“Fuck Figgins,” Quinn curses, pounding the machine half-heartedly with the side of her fist. She grimaces, shaking out her hand. “Damn. How do you go around punching people all the time? It’s like bruising yourself for shits and giggles.”
“Tends to bruise other people more.” Santana shrugs. “Takes the edge off. So have you seen her?”
“Seen wh-oh.” The blonde shakes her head almost regretfully. “Santana, sweetheart, you have got to pull it together. When I said you should go for it, I didn’t mean with a single-minded lack of grace reminscent of a fucking Twilight character. You’re kind of starting to creep my shit out.”
Santana chews on her lip contemplatively. “It’s just…I want to get this out of the way. You know me; you know how I am with waiting.”
“Shithouse,” Quinn provides helpfully. It’s an assessment Santana can’t exactly argue with.
They set off down the hall, Quinn still muttering about cheapskate authority figures and caffeine withdrawals. It takes all of three minutes for Santana’s frazzled state of mind to be put into words.
“Oh, God, Lopez,” Quinn snaps at last. “You’re seriously worried about this, aren’t you?”
Santana becomes abruptly enamored with her own sneakers. A semi-irritated fist swings into her arm, catching her just above the elbow.
“She’s fine,” Quinn jabs, shaking out her hand again. “She probably forgot to write a paper or something and skivved off to get it done. Also, ouch. Seriously, that hitting people thing? Totally irrational. Leads only to bruising and ice packs.”
“There’s a reason you’ve never been the brawn of our little operation,” Santana taunts wryly, tucking her hands into her pockets and looking back at the floor again. “And, no, I’m not…worried. Exactly. More like…mildly concerned.”
“She’s fine,” Quinn repeats. “She’s fine, and you’re late. Again. Get to class, felon.”
“Fuck off, hypocrite,” Santana returns. Quinn flips her the bird.
“I’m telling her tonight!” she shouts back over her shoulder, words almost lost in the rushing hallway din. Santana widens her eyes in mock surprise.
“I’ll believe it when you’re sucking face with the midget, and not a minute before.”
That finger again. Santana smirks. She might be a mess and a half today, but let it never be said she’s not talented at irking those who need to be irked.
A glance at the nearest clock tells her Quinn was right about the being late thing. Not that she especially cares; it isn’t like she’s ever going to use Biology in the real world. But she figures there’s something to be said for not flunking out midway through her junior year, since she’s managed to come this far and all. And also since it’s taken her this long to meet someone who makes her actually want to stick around.
Or, more accurately, makes her want to grasp the girl around the waist, toss her over Santana’s shoulder, and board the first bus to New York. Whichever.
She’s three doors from the correct classroom (she thinks; she kind of hasn’t been there all week, and she’s found the rooms in this building are exceptionally talented at blurring together after a while) when a hand snaps out from what she believes to be a lab room, grabbing her by the back of her t-shirt and hauling her bodily inside.
The door clicks shut, and for one bizarre instant, Santana has a mental image of McKinley’s entire nerd population, banding together at last and bearing down on her like a singular buzzing vengeance entity.
She turns sharply on her heel, fists raised in preparation, only to be met with an amused cobalt gaze.
“Hi,” Brittany says, like she hasn’t been suspiciously absent all day long-and, also, Santana thinks warily, like this isn’t the first time they’ve been alone together since the locker room.
“Hi,” she replies, not because she thinks that’s a legitimate response under the circumstances, but because twenty-four hours were just enough time to dull the heat that flows through her at the sight of that goddamn uniform. Now that she’s been properly reminded, it’s a wonder she’s still standing so many feet away from the blonde.
“What’s up?” Brittany asks, as cheerful as she’s ever been, and it’s weird how very nonchalant this whole thing is. Like Brittany didn’t just more or less kidnap her into this room.
“I’m never going to pass a class again if you keep getting in the way.” It isn’t what Santana wants to say at all-she’s much more interested in dropping to her knees and panting out a whole poorly-constructed diatribe involving trust issues, asshole fathers, and habitual fight clubs, actually-but it will do in a pinch. She reaches discreetly behind herself, clutching at a desk with white knuckles. Brittany smiles.
“You don’t like class,” she observes in that same mild tone, swinging her clasped hands in front of her body. Against her will, Santana stares, remembering exactly what those hands are capable of.
“Um,” she says, a pillar of intellectualism. Brittany’s grin stretches wider across her face.
“Besides,” the girl says brightly, “you’ve missed me. Don’t deny it.”
She couldn’t even if it weren’t the truth. It’s not that Santana Lopez is an inept liar (please; she’s practically a goddamn gold medalist) so much as that she’s got a sincere weakness for those eyes.
“Where have you been?” she asks, instead of biting off some retort about neither wanting nor needing Brittany around to begin with. As she watches, something visibly melts off the taller girl. She stands a little straighter, skirt swishing a little less frenetically around strong thighs.
“Around,” Brittany says, almost coolly. Santana arches an eyebrow.
“Around where? Sylvester’s reign of homicidal terror is impressive, but even she requires you to attend classes here and there.”
“Oh, is that why you’ve never joined?” The words are teasing, but something is still off about the way Brittany is holding herself. Santana frowns.
“That, and I value my soul just enough not to sell it to the devil. Seriously, around where?”
“Just…” Brittany blows out a breath, and Santana catches herself thinking the girl is actually trying to hide something from her. It amazes her how strange this seems.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she blurts, before Brittany can weave a reasonable enough lie. She doesn’t want to hear it, actually-doesn’t want to know that Brittany is capable of such things. Lying is a Lopez quality, a Puckerman quality, a Fabray quality. She doesn’t want it to be a Brittany quality too.
She’s not sure what she expects, but when Brittany quirks an eyebrow, her beautiful face splitting into an intrigued smile, it feels about right.
“Have you really?” the blonde asks, leaning back against the teacher’s desk with arms crossed over her uniform front. Santana shrugs.
“Kind of.”
“Kind of, or really?” Brittany presses, lips parting in the halting birth of a giggle. Santana’s more than a little uncomfortable now; people just don’t see her like this. It’s not allowed. She’s pretty sure there’s a law written about it, and if there isn’t, she’ll have one penned and faxed in by seventh period.
At any rate, Brittany doesn’t wait for a response. She pushes off the desk and fairly struts closer, skirt flitting distractingly, grinning all the while like she knows just how dry Santana’s mouth has gone at the sight. “You’ve been looking for me,” she drawls, twisting her thumbs in the belt loops of Santana’s jeans and reeling her slowly in. “All day?”
Santana thinks about denying it, but the whole point behind Quinn’s half-assed little plan is truth-telling. It’s not something she’s innately good at, perhaps, but everyone has to start somewhere.
“All day,” she confirms at last, heart feeling just a little too full when Brittany’s familiar smile bursts across her face. It’s not quite as clear as usual, perhaps; there’s something taut there, residing just below the surface, which is weird. In the large handful of weeks they’ve known each other, Brittany’s smile has not once looked strained in the least. It’s weird, but it’s a smile nonetheless, and in Santana’s world, a smile is perplexing enough on its own.
“Why?” Brittany challenges, fingertips hot through denim. Santana swallows.
“Because,” she says, willing her voice to be still. “Quinn told me I should…”
“Mm?” She wonders how she’s supposed to think with Brittany doing this-smiling, holding on so firmly, her body pressing warm and close and real in a way Santana is just not accustomed to. She wonders how she’s supposed to achieve anything at all with Brittany standing inches away, hips jutting forward to nudge against Santana’s own, looking up through her eyelashes like some perverse attempt at purity.
(She’s seen this girl with her legs arched up, one hand positioned firmly on the back of Santana’s head, groaning like her whole world was coming apart with the force of her orgasm-if there is one thing Santana Lopez now knows, it is how not pure Brittany is.)
“Quinn told me I should tell you,” she forces out at last, trying to ignore the teasing stroke of two fingers against the small of her back. “Tell you that I…uh…”
Spit it out, Lopez. Get your shit together. Man up; don’t be Quinn.
“Ikindofmaybelikeyoualittle,” she closes out, staring Brittany in the eye. The blonde’s forehead creases in confusion.
“What?”
“Just a little,” Santana surges on, hooking her hands into her back pockets and taking a reflexive rocking step back. “I’m not like…in love with you or something. That’s stupid.”
That beautiful brow furrows deeper. “It is?”
“Well. Yeah. I mean…love. Love is stupid. It’s all…coarse and needy and you can’t rely on it for anything.” This is all coming out so wrong, but she can’t seem to shut herself up, can’t seem to find the nozzle for this particular stream. “Once you fall in love, you get all douchebaggy and useless. Weak. And people always wind up hurt. Someone ends up leaving, or-worse-everyone ends up staying, and it’s just a big fucking mess.” She swallows a lungful of air, gulping until it burns to breathe. “So I’m not. In love. With anyone.”
Brittany cocks an eyebrow, looking much less seductive and much more legitimately confounded by the whole word vomit fiasco. “So you were looking for me all day to tell me…you’re not in love with me?”
“Yes,” Santana replies, then winces. “No. Ish.”
“Ish.” Something hard is casting its way over Brittany’s delicate features-something Santana decides immediately (as immediately as she crashed down on her head for this girl to begin with, in point of fact) not to like. She hurries to explain, to untangle this mess before it freezes in a sterling knot of threads twisted too finely together.
“Quinn keeps telling me that I’m being stupid with this whole…protecting you vibe. She wanted me to get off my high horse, stop being a coward. Which, when you think about the way she’s been drooling over Berry for fuckin’ forever, is kind of a huge joke. But anyway, the thing is, she’s right. She’s right, I’ve been a wuss, and there’s no excuse. So I’m asking you out. I owe it to…one of us.” She’s a little confused herself, to be honest. “I’m not entirely sure which one.”
“This is you asking me out?” Brittany asks disbelievingly, dropping her hands from Santana’s sides. The dark-haired girl misses the warm, comforting weight instantly.
“Yes,” she replies dumbly. “Kind of. Ish.”
Blue eyes flash almost dangerously. “Say ‘ish’ again,” Brittany says, too calmly. “That’ll help.”
“Look,” Santana says, sort of desperate and sort of angry at the same time, “this isn’t my decision, okay? I shouldn’t be doing this at all, I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Okay? You’re a goddamn Cheerio. Your kind hasn’t done me any favors in three years at this god-forsaken school, and I’m not expecting anything especially wonderful to start now. Especially given, y’know, who I am. I’m not expecting anything, but my ass is getting ridden so hard over this. I hate it, okay, I hate that you’re a fucking cheerleader, and I hate that I can’t stop thinking about you, and this whole thing is so fucking stupid, but I needed you to know. Okay? I needed to tell you before it ate its way out of me.”
It takes less than two seconds to realize how not the right thing to say that all was. If she thought Brittany seemed cold before, the girl has now gone downright glacial. Santana fidgets uncomfortably.
“Say something,” she snaps, annoyed with how nervous she feels. It doesn’t help that Brittany’s response is to retreat two steps.
“You know what I’m sick of?” the girl says in a distressingly detached, eerily conversational, tone of voice. “You know what’s really getting old? This…Santana Lopez versus the Cheerios bullshit. That’s getting so very tired. I have been at this school for almost three months now. I’ve been a Cheerio for almost four. I’ve been watching you since that first damn day, and do you know what I’ve seen? Nothing. Not one hint of a two-sided war between you and my ‘people’, as you call them so casually. I’ve seen you being angry, and snippy, and kind of a bitch, and I’ve seen people like Mallory giving you as good as you send out, but that is it. I’m tired of you telling me you can’t be my friend, or my girlfriend, or whatever it is this week, all because I chose to do something with my high school career other than paint curse words on walls and beat up anyone who looks at me sideways. I’m tired of the fucking excuse you keep falling back on. It’s boring, Santana. I am bored. Find a new damn song to sing.”
Santana’s mouth drops open, her eyes narrowing on instinct. “You don’t know the first thing about me, or about why I do what I do-,” she begins sharply. Brittany throws both hands into the air, bowing her head with an aggressive little toss of her ponytail.
“I don’t,” she agrees. “And right now, God help me, I don’t even know why I want to. You’re crazy, Santana. It’s a very attractive kind of crazy, and God knows I’m interested, but you can’t tell me you’re not. I don’t know what your problem is, and right now, I don’t care. I want you. You want me. Whenever you’re ready to get your head out of your pretty little ass and stop this pathetic fucking vendetta, whenever you're ready to see past this stupid uniform and look at me? You feel free to give me a call.”
She’s halfway to the door before she pauses and flicks over her shoulder, “Oh, and today? I skipped class to look for the perfect place to try one more time to ask you out. I thought after the other day, if I could find the exact right place to do it, you might be ready to grow the fuck up and be happy. Guess that was a mistake, huh?”
Before Santana can so much as swallow against the tightening stone in her throat, she’s gone. She purses her lips, fingers clenching around the edge of a desk.
“Fuck me,” she hisses. “Fuck me.”
[Part 12]
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany, side Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray
Rating: R/NC-17ish
Spoilers: AU
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Santana Lopez hates school, Lima, and those damn Cheerios--for the most part.
A/N: Title swiped from the Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton song of the same name.
Come the next day, Santana intends to take Quinn’s advice-although, really, why she’d do a stupid thing like that is beyond her. Quinn is her best friend in the world and all that crap, but her being a hapless romantic and something of a hypocritical wimp who still hasn’t advanced beyond guitar solos and history books when it comes to Rachel Berry…well, Santana almost thinks she’d be better off going to Puck for input. Except, of course, for the part where his inevitable counsel would come in the form of strap-ons and handcuffs-assuming he was even able to speak around his own raging hormones to begin with.
Santana sometimes thinks she needs to find more useful friends.
The point is, she intends to take Quinn’s advice, as ridiculous as it feels. She wakes with butterflies playing bocce ball in her stomach, anxiety running rampant over her usual cool demeanor. She’s out of it enough to trip down the stairs for the first time in years. She burns her hand on her morning Pop-Tart. She comes real, real damn close to forgetting to tie her shoes.
It’s a weird morning, but when she piles into Quinn’s piece of shit vehicle, she’s still feeling determined. She’s going to get her shit together. She’s going to make this day different.
Except, somehow, Brittany doesn’t seem to be in school.
Not that Santana is actively seeking the girl out, or anything (she has decided stalking takes too much effort to be her thing), but it’s weird not to see her around. It usually seems like Brittany is everywhere, hovering on her periphery with a preternatural talent for making her head spin. Today? Nothing.
It’s a good thing Santana is exceptionally skilled at pretending not to be a champion worrier.
Quinn, predictably, is unsupportive. “Maybe Sylvester’s training program of doom finally took her out.”
Santana groans, burying her head in her arms. “Shut up.”
“What?” Hazel eyes bat innocently down the table. “Shit happens, San.”
“Shut up,” Santana growls a second time, batting Quinn’s hand away when the girl reaches out. “This is your fault, you know. Being all…’act like a normal person, Santana; ask the girl out on a date, Santana’. You’ve thrown off the balance of the universe.”
“Yes,” Quinn drawls sardonically. “As retribution, said universe has clearly shipped Brittany off to Iceland. That is totally how it works.”
“Totally,” Santana mutters mournfully, tucking her chin under her arms so only her eyes and up are visible. Rolling her own eyes, Quinn smacks the top of her head.
“You’re an idiot,” she says, not without a certain amount of affection. “The chick probably caught a stomach bug or something. Maybe from necking with you in the least sanitary corner of this school. Don’t fucking freak out over it.”
It’s another batch of advice Santana truly intends to follow, but she can’t help herself. Something feels off.
She sleepwalks through the remainder of the day, not bothering to rouse even when a couple of the male Cheerios fire catcalls after her. On a normal day, she would beat the living crap out of them for it-or die trying (not entirely figurative, she supposes; the last time she dared lay a hand on a Cheerio, only blind luck prevented Sylvester from gunning her down from the high-rise seat in her bright red Hummer)-but today, she feels drained. It’s as if her entire body spent the night pumping itself up for an emotional triathlon, and now, without the proper outlet, she has more or less shut down.
It is-
“Pathetic,” Quinn observes coolly, pushing hard on the Diet Coke option on the school’s one and only vending machine. “Come on, you fucker.”
“Figgins hasn’t paid to refill it in two weeks,” Santana says monotonously, leaning into the tiny space between the box Quinn is swearing at and the wall. “His hands are tied, don’t you know.”
“Fuck Figgins,” Quinn curses, pounding the machine half-heartedly with the side of her fist. She grimaces, shaking out her hand. “Damn. How do you go around punching people all the time? It’s like bruising yourself for shits and giggles.”
“Tends to bruise other people more.” Santana shrugs. “Takes the edge off. So have you seen her?”
“Seen wh-oh.” The blonde shakes her head almost regretfully. “Santana, sweetheart, you have got to pull it together. When I said you should go for it, I didn’t mean with a single-minded lack of grace reminscent of a fucking Twilight character. You’re kind of starting to creep my shit out.”
Santana chews on her lip contemplatively. “It’s just…I want to get this out of the way. You know me; you know how I am with waiting.”
“Shithouse,” Quinn provides helpfully. It’s an assessment Santana can’t exactly argue with.
They set off down the hall, Quinn still muttering about cheapskate authority figures and caffeine withdrawals. It takes all of three minutes for Santana’s frazzled state of mind to be put into words.
“Oh, God, Lopez,” Quinn snaps at last. “You’re seriously worried about this, aren’t you?”
Santana becomes abruptly enamored with her own sneakers. A semi-irritated fist swings into her arm, catching her just above the elbow.
“She’s fine,” Quinn jabs, shaking out her hand again. “She probably forgot to write a paper or something and skivved off to get it done. Also, ouch. Seriously, that hitting people thing? Totally irrational. Leads only to bruising and ice packs.”
“There’s a reason you’ve never been the brawn of our little operation,” Santana taunts wryly, tucking her hands into her pockets and looking back at the floor again. “And, no, I’m not…worried. Exactly. More like…mildly concerned.”
“She’s fine,” Quinn repeats. “She’s fine, and you’re late. Again. Get to class, felon.”
“Fuck off, hypocrite,” Santana returns. Quinn flips her the bird.
“I’m telling her tonight!” she shouts back over her shoulder, words almost lost in the rushing hallway din. Santana widens her eyes in mock surprise.
“I’ll believe it when you’re sucking face with the midget, and not a minute before.”
That finger again. Santana smirks. She might be a mess and a half today, but let it never be said she’s not talented at irking those who need to be irked.
A glance at the nearest clock tells her Quinn was right about the being late thing. Not that she especially cares; it isn’t like she’s ever going to use Biology in the real world. But she figures there’s something to be said for not flunking out midway through her junior year, since she’s managed to come this far and all. And also since it’s taken her this long to meet someone who makes her actually want to stick around.
Or, more accurately, makes her want to grasp the girl around the waist, toss her over Santana’s shoulder, and board the first bus to New York. Whichever.
She’s three doors from the correct classroom (she thinks; she kind of hasn’t been there all week, and she’s found the rooms in this building are exceptionally talented at blurring together after a while) when a hand snaps out from what she believes to be a lab room, grabbing her by the back of her t-shirt and hauling her bodily inside.
The door clicks shut, and for one bizarre instant, Santana has a mental image of McKinley’s entire nerd population, banding together at last and bearing down on her like a singular buzzing vengeance entity.
She turns sharply on her heel, fists raised in preparation, only to be met with an amused cobalt gaze.
“Hi,” Brittany says, like she hasn’t been suspiciously absent all day long-and, also, Santana thinks warily, like this isn’t the first time they’ve been alone together since the locker room.
“Hi,” she replies, not because she thinks that’s a legitimate response under the circumstances, but because twenty-four hours were just enough time to dull the heat that flows through her at the sight of that goddamn uniform. Now that she’s been properly reminded, it’s a wonder she’s still standing so many feet away from the blonde.
“What’s up?” Brittany asks, as cheerful as she’s ever been, and it’s weird how very nonchalant this whole thing is. Like Brittany didn’t just more or less kidnap her into this room.
“I’m never going to pass a class again if you keep getting in the way.” It isn’t what Santana wants to say at all-she’s much more interested in dropping to her knees and panting out a whole poorly-constructed diatribe involving trust issues, asshole fathers, and habitual fight clubs, actually-but it will do in a pinch. She reaches discreetly behind herself, clutching at a desk with white knuckles. Brittany smiles.
“You don’t like class,” she observes in that same mild tone, swinging her clasped hands in front of her body. Against her will, Santana stares, remembering exactly what those hands are capable of.
“Um,” she says, a pillar of intellectualism. Brittany’s grin stretches wider across her face.
“Besides,” the girl says brightly, “you’ve missed me. Don’t deny it.”
She couldn’t even if it weren’t the truth. It’s not that Santana Lopez is an inept liar (please; she’s practically a goddamn gold medalist) so much as that she’s got a sincere weakness for those eyes.
“Where have you been?” she asks, instead of biting off some retort about neither wanting nor needing Brittany around to begin with. As she watches, something visibly melts off the taller girl. She stands a little straighter, skirt swishing a little less frenetically around strong thighs.
“Around,” Brittany says, almost coolly. Santana arches an eyebrow.
“Around where? Sylvester’s reign of homicidal terror is impressive, but even she requires you to attend classes here and there.”
“Oh, is that why you’ve never joined?” The words are teasing, but something is still off about the way Brittany is holding herself. Santana frowns.
“That, and I value my soul just enough not to sell it to the devil. Seriously, around where?”
“Just…” Brittany blows out a breath, and Santana catches herself thinking the girl is actually trying to hide something from her. It amazes her how strange this seems.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she blurts, before Brittany can weave a reasonable enough lie. She doesn’t want to hear it, actually-doesn’t want to know that Brittany is capable of such things. Lying is a Lopez quality, a Puckerman quality, a Fabray quality. She doesn’t want it to be a Brittany quality too.
She’s not sure what she expects, but when Brittany quirks an eyebrow, her beautiful face splitting into an intrigued smile, it feels about right.
“Have you really?” the blonde asks, leaning back against the teacher’s desk with arms crossed over her uniform front. Santana shrugs.
“Kind of.”
“Kind of, or really?” Brittany presses, lips parting in the halting birth of a giggle. Santana’s more than a little uncomfortable now; people just don’t see her like this. It’s not allowed. She’s pretty sure there’s a law written about it, and if there isn’t, she’ll have one penned and faxed in by seventh period.
At any rate, Brittany doesn’t wait for a response. She pushes off the desk and fairly struts closer, skirt flitting distractingly, grinning all the while like she knows just how dry Santana’s mouth has gone at the sight. “You’ve been looking for me,” she drawls, twisting her thumbs in the belt loops of Santana’s jeans and reeling her slowly in. “All day?”
Santana thinks about denying it, but the whole point behind Quinn’s half-assed little plan is truth-telling. It’s not something she’s innately good at, perhaps, but everyone has to start somewhere.
“All day,” she confirms at last, heart feeling just a little too full when Brittany’s familiar smile bursts across her face. It’s not quite as clear as usual, perhaps; there’s something taut there, residing just below the surface, which is weird. In the large handful of weeks they’ve known each other, Brittany’s smile has not once looked strained in the least. It’s weird, but it’s a smile nonetheless, and in Santana’s world, a smile is perplexing enough on its own.
“Why?” Brittany challenges, fingertips hot through denim. Santana swallows.
“Because,” she says, willing her voice to be still. “Quinn told me I should…”
“Mm?” She wonders how she’s supposed to think with Brittany doing this-smiling, holding on so firmly, her body pressing warm and close and real in a way Santana is just not accustomed to. She wonders how she’s supposed to achieve anything at all with Brittany standing inches away, hips jutting forward to nudge against Santana’s own, looking up through her eyelashes like some perverse attempt at purity.
(She’s seen this girl with her legs arched up, one hand positioned firmly on the back of Santana’s head, groaning like her whole world was coming apart with the force of her orgasm-if there is one thing Santana Lopez now knows, it is how not pure Brittany is.)
“Quinn told me I should tell you,” she forces out at last, trying to ignore the teasing stroke of two fingers against the small of her back. “Tell you that I…uh…”
Spit it out, Lopez. Get your shit together. Man up; don’t be Quinn.
“Ikindofmaybelikeyoualittle,” she closes out, staring Brittany in the eye. The blonde’s forehead creases in confusion.
“What?”
“Just a little,” Santana surges on, hooking her hands into her back pockets and taking a reflexive rocking step back. “I’m not like…in love with you or something. That’s stupid.”
That beautiful brow furrows deeper. “It is?”
“Well. Yeah. I mean…love. Love is stupid. It’s all…coarse and needy and you can’t rely on it for anything.” This is all coming out so wrong, but she can’t seem to shut herself up, can’t seem to find the nozzle for this particular stream. “Once you fall in love, you get all douchebaggy and useless. Weak. And people always wind up hurt. Someone ends up leaving, or-worse-everyone ends up staying, and it’s just a big fucking mess.” She swallows a lungful of air, gulping until it burns to breathe. “So I’m not. In love. With anyone.”
Brittany cocks an eyebrow, looking much less seductive and much more legitimately confounded by the whole word vomit fiasco. “So you were looking for me all day to tell me…you’re not in love with me?”
“Yes,” Santana replies, then winces. “No. Ish.”
“Ish.” Something hard is casting its way over Brittany’s delicate features-something Santana decides immediately (as immediately as she crashed down on her head for this girl to begin with, in point of fact) not to like. She hurries to explain, to untangle this mess before it freezes in a sterling knot of threads twisted too finely together.
“Quinn keeps telling me that I’m being stupid with this whole…protecting you vibe. She wanted me to get off my high horse, stop being a coward. Which, when you think about the way she’s been drooling over Berry for fuckin’ forever, is kind of a huge joke. But anyway, the thing is, she’s right. She’s right, I’ve been a wuss, and there’s no excuse. So I’m asking you out. I owe it to…one of us.” She’s a little confused herself, to be honest. “I’m not entirely sure which one.”
“This is you asking me out?” Brittany asks disbelievingly, dropping her hands from Santana’s sides. The dark-haired girl misses the warm, comforting weight instantly.
“Yes,” she replies dumbly. “Kind of. Ish.”
Blue eyes flash almost dangerously. “Say ‘ish’ again,” Brittany says, too calmly. “That’ll help.”
“Look,” Santana says, sort of desperate and sort of angry at the same time, “this isn’t my decision, okay? I shouldn’t be doing this at all, I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Okay? You’re a goddamn Cheerio. Your kind hasn’t done me any favors in three years at this god-forsaken school, and I’m not expecting anything especially wonderful to start now. Especially given, y’know, who I am. I’m not expecting anything, but my ass is getting ridden so hard over this. I hate it, okay, I hate that you’re a fucking cheerleader, and I hate that I can’t stop thinking about you, and this whole thing is so fucking stupid, but I needed you to know. Okay? I needed to tell you before it ate its way out of me.”
It takes less than two seconds to realize how not the right thing to say that all was. If she thought Brittany seemed cold before, the girl has now gone downright glacial. Santana fidgets uncomfortably.
“Say something,” she snaps, annoyed with how nervous she feels. It doesn’t help that Brittany’s response is to retreat two steps.
“You know what I’m sick of?” the girl says in a distressingly detached, eerily conversational, tone of voice. “You know what’s really getting old? This…Santana Lopez versus the Cheerios bullshit. That’s getting so very tired. I have been at this school for almost three months now. I’ve been a Cheerio for almost four. I’ve been watching you since that first damn day, and do you know what I’ve seen? Nothing. Not one hint of a two-sided war between you and my ‘people’, as you call them so casually. I’ve seen you being angry, and snippy, and kind of a bitch, and I’ve seen people like Mallory giving you as good as you send out, but that is it. I’m tired of you telling me you can’t be my friend, or my girlfriend, or whatever it is this week, all because I chose to do something with my high school career other than paint curse words on walls and beat up anyone who looks at me sideways. I’m tired of the fucking excuse you keep falling back on. It’s boring, Santana. I am bored. Find a new damn song to sing.”
Santana’s mouth drops open, her eyes narrowing on instinct. “You don’t know the first thing about me, or about why I do what I do-,” she begins sharply. Brittany throws both hands into the air, bowing her head with an aggressive little toss of her ponytail.
“I don’t,” she agrees. “And right now, God help me, I don’t even know why I want to. You’re crazy, Santana. It’s a very attractive kind of crazy, and God knows I’m interested, but you can’t tell me you’re not. I don’t know what your problem is, and right now, I don’t care. I want you. You want me. Whenever you’re ready to get your head out of your pretty little ass and stop this pathetic fucking vendetta, whenever you're ready to see past this stupid uniform and look at me? You feel free to give me a call.”
She’s halfway to the door before she pauses and flicks over her shoulder, “Oh, and today? I skipped class to look for the perfect place to try one more time to ask you out. I thought after the other day, if I could find the exact right place to do it, you might be ready to grow the fuck up and be happy. Guess that was a mistake, huh?”
Before Santana can so much as swallow against the tightening stone in her throat, she’s gone. She purses her lips, fingers clenching around the edge of a desk.
“Fuck me,” she hisses. “Fuck me.”
[Part 12]