I Know You Haven't Made Your Mind Up Yet (That I Would Never Do You Wrong)
Title: I Know You Haven't Made Your Mind Up Yet (That I Would Never Do You Wrong)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S2.
Summary: Hallway comfort from "Rumors."
A/N: Title from "Make You Feel My Love" (by any number of artists, including, but not limited to Bob Dylan, Garth Brooks, and Adele).
She’s got this under control. It’s taken a while to get to this point, but regardless, life is in the palm of her hand. She has the beard. She has Kurt back in New Directions. She is on the right track. She just needs to keep punching through, day to day, and in the end, she will win the whole thing. The crown, the girl, the life she can’t shake from behind desperate eyelids. She’s got this.
It’s only when she sees Brittany, leaning near the drinking fountain with her head bowed, that “got this” doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
A thousand scenarios explode in her mind at once-Charity’s dead; Mr. Tubbington ate another pencil; her sister’s back in the hospital again; she flunked Spanish-but the one place she doesn’t allow herself to go is-
“Artie,” Brittany mumbles, fingers twirling her slushie straw. “Artie called me-“
He called you what? Her teeth slam down, scraping unpleasantly. She’s going to kill him. She’s going to grab him by his stubby, useless legs, and she’s going to drag him down the stairs so his pathetic, empty head bangs against every solitary step-
Brittany’s head rises a fraction of an inch, her eyes settling on Santana’s chin. “Am I stupid?” she asks, her voice dull and cheerless.
Santana resists the instinct to turn on her heel and locate her so-called “boyfriend.” Now would be a great time to let Dave loose on a dweeb.
But that’s not what Brittany wants; violence never is. What Brittany wants is reassurance, and love, and comfort.
Brittany wants chocolate and a song.
A hug.
Something real, something to make her feel whole again now that someone she trusted tore a brand new gash in her heart.
It’s not the kind of thing Santana’s usually great at, being all comforting and shit, but right now, for Brittany, she’ll do it. Because Brittany needs it. Because Artie had the nerve to call her stupid, when Artie, of all people, should know better.
She really is going to kill him.
“You’re not stupid,” she murmurs, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind Brittany’s ear. “You know you’re not.”
“Then why does everyone say it?” Brittany wonders glumly, pinching the straw hard and frowning. “Everyone. Even Mr. Schue.”
“Mr. Schue is a borderline-pedophile with a hair gel addiction,” Santana fires back. “We’ve talked about this.”
“He thinks I’m stupid,” Brittany says again. “They all think I’m stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.” Santana cups the back of Brittany’s head and holds her steady, dark eyes seeking out blue. “Say it.”
“I am,” Brittany mumbles. “I have to be. Rachel gets straight As, Quinn’s on the honor roll, Puck knows things. They wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”
“Puckerman’s saying shit?” Santana asks, enraged all over again. Brittany shoots her a baleful look. She calms. “I mean, look. Rachel and Quinn are fighting over Nipples McHudson. Puck wound up in juvie for trying to steal an ATM. Tina thinks she can pull off blue contacts, Mercedes can’t go ten minutes without a diva episode, Sam is…Sam. These are not top contenders for the Nobel Prize, Britt.”
Eyes staring blankly over Santana’s shoulder, Brittany kicks one foot against the tile and says nothing. Santana sighs.
“Baby, don’t listen to them. Okay? They don’t know a damn thing about you.”
“You called me baby,” Brittany observes dumbly, like it’s the strangest thing in the world. “In public.”
“Yeah, well.” She can’t think of anything to say to that. She can’t think of anything helpful to say at all, in fact, since every phrase that wants to leap from her tongue includes the words “Artie”, “maim”, and “volcano.” She settles for shrugging her shoulders and pressing the tip of her index finger into Brittany’s nose, which wrinkles curiously on impact.
“What are you doing?”
“Making you feel better,” Santana murmurs, wishing for all the world that she could lean in and kiss Brittany here and now. That always makes them both feel better. It leaves Brittany all fuzzy and bouncy, and it detracts from the homicidal urges in Santana, and really-it would just be awesome to say fuck it and do what she feels, for once.
But she can’t. Because she has finally gotten this under control. It's for the best, and she can’t give it all up now.
She also can’t walk away.
She settles for slinging an arm around Brittany’s shoulders and holding her close, guiding her gently in the direction of the broken vending machine that-thanks to a shoving match last year between Finn and Puck-always dispenses free Milky Ways. It’s not much, and it is nowhere near what Brittany deserves, but it’s the best she can do for now.
And later, when she has strung Artie up by his ears from a ceiling fan, that will be even better.
Right now, she nuzzles her head against the side of Brittany’s, patiently ignoring the sniffle she gets in return. “Say it,” she insists, sliding her fingers up and down a pale arm. “Britt.”
Another sniffle, a pause, and then: “I’m not stupid.”
“Damn right,” Santana replies proudly. “And how do you know that?”
“Because you’re the smartest person I know,” Brittany answers, tucking her head against Santana’s shoulder and sighing. “You wouldn’t lie to me.”
“Exactly,” Santana agrees, eyes darting left and right. The hall is just empty enough for her to risk pressing a quick kiss to the side of Brittany’s head, pleasure welling up when the broken girl nestles closer.
She’s still going to kill Artie Abrams. Violently and painfully, in fact. But before she does, she just might thank him for giving her girl back.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S2.
Summary: Hallway comfort from "Rumors."
A/N: Title from "Make You Feel My Love" (by any number of artists, including, but not limited to Bob Dylan, Garth Brooks, and Adele).
She’s got this under control. It’s taken a while to get to this point, but regardless, life is in the palm of her hand. She has the beard. She has Kurt back in New Directions. She is on the right track. She just needs to keep punching through, day to day, and in the end, she will win the whole thing. The crown, the girl, the life she can’t shake from behind desperate eyelids. She’s got this.
It’s only when she sees Brittany, leaning near the drinking fountain with her head bowed, that “got this” doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
A thousand scenarios explode in her mind at once-Charity’s dead; Mr. Tubbington ate another pencil; her sister’s back in the hospital again; she flunked Spanish-but the one place she doesn’t allow herself to go is-
“Artie,” Brittany mumbles, fingers twirling her slushie straw. “Artie called me-“
He called you what? Her teeth slam down, scraping unpleasantly. She’s going to kill him. She’s going to grab him by his stubby, useless legs, and she’s going to drag him down the stairs so his pathetic, empty head bangs against every solitary step-
Brittany’s head rises a fraction of an inch, her eyes settling on Santana’s chin. “Am I stupid?” she asks, her voice dull and cheerless.
Santana resists the instinct to turn on her heel and locate her so-called “boyfriend.” Now would be a great time to let Dave loose on a dweeb.
But that’s not what Brittany wants; violence never is. What Brittany wants is reassurance, and love, and comfort.
Brittany wants chocolate and a song.
A hug.
Something real, something to make her feel whole again now that someone she trusted tore a brand new gash in her heart.
It’s not the kind of thing Santana’s usually great at, being all comforting and shit, but right now, for Brittany, she’ll do it. Because Brittany needs it. Because Artie had the nerve to call her stupid, when Artie, of all people, should know better.
She really is going to kill him.
“You’re not stupid,” she murmurs, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind Brittany’s ear. “You know you’re not.”
“Then why does everyone say it?” Brittany wonders glumly, pinching the straw hard and frowning. “Everyone. Even Mr. Schue.”
“Mr. Schue is a borderline-pedophile with a hair gel addiction,” Santana fires back. “We’ve talked about this.”
“He thinks I’m stupid,” Brittany says again. “They all think I’m stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.” Santana cups the back of Brittany’s head and holds her steady, dark eyes seeking out blue. “Say it.”
“I am,” Brittany mumbles. “I have to be. Rachel gets straight As, Quinn’s on the honor roll, Puck knows things. They wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.”
“Puckerman’s saying shit?” Santana asks, enraged all over again. Brittany shoots her a baleful look. She calms. “I mean, look. Rachel and Quinn are fighting over Nipples McHudson. Puck wound up in juvie for trying to steal an ATM. Tina thinks she can pull off blue contacts, Mercedes can’t go ten minutes without a diva episode, Sam is…Sam. These are not top contenders for the Nobel Prize, Britt.”
Eyes staring blankly over Santana’s shoulder, Brittany kicks one foot against the tile and says nothing. Santana sighs.
“Baby, don’t listen to them. Okay? They don’t know a damn thing about you.”
“You called me baby,” Brittany observes dumbly, like it’s the strangest thing in the world. “In public.”
“Yeah, well.” She can’t think of anything to say to that. She can’t think of anything helpful to say at all, in fact, since every phrase that wants to leap from her tongue includes the words “Artie”, “maim”, and “volcano.” She settles for shrugging her shoulders and pressing the tip of her index finger into Brittany’s nose, which wrinkles curiously on impact.
“What are you doing?”
“Making you feel better,” Santana murmurs, wishing for all the world that she could lean in and kiss Brittany here and now. That always makes them both feel better. It leaves Brittany all fuzzy and bouncy, and it detracts from the homicidal urges in Santana, and really-it would just be awesome to say fuck it and do what she feels, for once.
But she can’t. Because she has finally gotten this under control. It's for the best, and she can’t give it all up now.
She also can’t walk away.
She settles for slinging an arm around Brittany’s shoulders and holding her close, guiding her gently in the direction of the broken vending machine that-thanks to a shoving match last year between Finn and Puck-always dispenses free Milky Ways. It’s not much, and it is nowhere near what Brittany deserves, but it’s the best she can do for now.
And later, when she has strung Artie up by his ears from a ceiling fan, that will be even better.
Right now, she nuzzles her head against the side of Brittany’s, patiently ignoring the sniffle she gets in return. “Say it,” she insists, sliding her fingers up and down a pale arm. “Britt.”
Another sniffle, a pause, and then: “I’m not stupid.”
“Damn right,” Santana replies proudly. “And how do you know that?”
“Because you’re the smartest person I know,” Brittany answers, tucking her head against Santana’s shoulder and sighing. “You wouldn’t lie to me.”
“Exactly,” Santana agrees, eyes darting left and right. The hall is just empty enough for her to risk pressing a quick kiss to the side of Brittany’s head, pleasure welling up when the broken girl nestles closer.
She’s still going to kill Artie Abrams. Violently and painfully, in fact. But before she does, she just might thank him for giving her girl back.