Play The Game
Title: Play The Game
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Nothing major.
Summary: [Brittana Week: Day 5-Firsts] When Quinn Fabray propose a game of Firsts with her new friends, she doesn’t expect it to get quite so awkward quite so fast.
When Quinn Fabray propose a game of Firsts with her new friends, she doesn’t expect it to get quite so awkward quite so fast. Granted, the point of the game is to determine the messy, sordid details of various “firsts” in a person’s life, but…
It’s incredibly weird, with Brittany and Santana. And sort of…uncomfortably predictable.
“First best friend,” is pretty simple, once Quinn witheringly informs Brittany that, no, the rabbit she had as a four-year-old doesn’t count. Santana shoots Brittany a little grin, and Brittany shrugs.
“Oh. Santana, then.”
“Same,” Santana adds carelessly, her attention mostly fixed on filing her nails. Quinn makes a face.
“Are you even listening?”
“Better question: why do you care so much about the stuff we did before you rolled your formerly-dorky ass into town, princess?”
Quinn stops pushing after that, sticking to the basic questions.
“First sleepover?”
It’s sort of maddening, they way they shoot each other that smug, knowing little look. Quinn tries not to grind her teeth together and plows on. Surely there has to be someone else in this town to fulfill one of their answers.
“First time you got drunk?”
Santana throws her head back, cackling. “Oh, shit. Britt-Britt, you wanna cover that one?”
Brittany beams. “Well. We were at Santana’s house, and her parents were away for the weekend-”
“I don’t know about this.” Brittany glances over her shoulder. “I mean, it seemed like a good idea, but now-”
“You can’t pussy out on me,” Santana mumbles, vanishing up to her shoulders in the Lopez liquor cabinet. “God, you’d think my dad would be better about locking this fucker up.”
“It’s just-” Brittany sucks her lower lip between her teeth, looking around like she’s waiting for the cops to slam through the front window any minute now. “San, what if we get in trouble?”
Brown eyes capture hers, reassuring. “When have I ever gotten you into trouble?”
Brittany doesn’t even bother with a response beyond an arched eyebrow. Santana laughs.
“Here. Just give it a try. One shot. I want to see if ‘firewater’ is just what wimps call it.”
Firewater is not just what wimps call it, and Brittany has no idea how they manage to swallow even one shot apiece. All she knows is, the world gets a whole lot funnier with her head buzzing like a tin of bees.
And a whole lot grosser when Santana rolls clumsily over and retches into her father’s shredder.
Quinn wrinkles her nose. “Ew.”
“But so fun,” Brittany giggles, high fiving Santana.
“Okay. First detention?”
Santana smirks.
“I can’t believe you got in trouble again,” Brittany grumbles, watching Santana struggle with her locker combination. “How many times have you kicked Puck in the man-bits this year?”
“Six,” Santana replies smoothly, “but the autumn’s still young. I figure if I do it enough times, it’ll spare the whole world his manwhore spawn.”
Brittany shakes her head. “And they gave you detention this time. That sucks.”
“Eh. Better than writing home to my dad.” Santana shrugs. “It’ll be boring as shit, but whatever. Well worth that skittish-ass look in Puckerman’s eyes.”
“But you’ll be so bored,” Brittany points out. “Isn’t detention boring? Or-” Her eyes widen as the thought strikes her, and she grabs for Santana’s arm. “What if they torture you? What if that’s how they teach you the error of your ways?”
Santana smiles, prying the fingers off her arm before bruises can begin to sprout. “They won’t torture me. I promise. It’ll just kind of suck for an hour or two.”
Brittany frowns. Santana’s just being brave, she’s sure. Santana is always brave. But sometimes, someone has to be brave for Santana.
Without even thinking about it, she turns and shoves Rachel Berry into a locker, right in front of their history teacher. It’s the kind of thing she used to feel bad about doing, but she sort of thinks Rachel’s a total pain in the ass anyway, and besides, that teacher is yanking a detention slip from her pocket like she’s been waiting all afternoon for this.
When they walk into the detention classroom ten minutes later, Santana is still staring her with absolute wonderment.
“What the hell was that?”
Brittany shrugs. “Didn’t want you to be lonely.”
“Oh good grief,” Quinn huffs, sounding a lot like that bald kid on the Peanuts. Brittany offers her a winning smile. “Okay. Whatever. Big guns time. How about your first kiss?”
This one has to stump them. This one has to involve somebody else. Anybody. Even if it’s that Puckerman kid they keep talking about, she’ll take it. Just as long as-
Santana’s cheeks are flaring with more color than Quinn thought a girl of Latin heritage should be capable. Her eyes catch Quinn’s and hold firm, daring her to say a word. Brittany’s pinky finger curls gently around Santana’s, her expression nothing short of adoring.
Quinn’s jaw just about unhinges.
“This is my favorite part,” Brittany hums, her face nestled against Santana’s thigh. They must’ve watched Back to the Future twenty-seven times already, and Brittany always points this out: the moment at the dance, when Marty McFly’s parents kiss at last and save him from disappearing on that stage, is her favorite.
Santana’s fingers slide through untangled blonde hair, her lips quirked. “I know it, B.”
“It’s just so romantic,” Brittany sighs happily. “He stands up for her, and she realizes there’s more to him than she ever thought. He’s not the guy everybody else thinks he is. He’s awesome.”
“Sure is,” Santana agrees, because she knows it will make Brittany happy. Mostly, she likes this movie because MJ Fox was kinda cute back in the day, and besides, it’s got a bitchin’ soundtrack. But the romance part is nice, too.
Unexpectedly, Brittany shifts her shoulders until she’s lying flat on her back, staring up at Santana with a bright smile. “Hey. I just thought of something.”
“Yeah?” Santana punches the volume button a few times, lowering the chatter on the television. Her hand stills in Brittany’s hair.
“I totally see that you’re not the guy everybody thinks you are,” Brittany chirps. Santana’s forehead wrinkles, and she amends, “Well. The girl. But still.”
“Oh yeah?” She’s not sure where Brittany is going with this, but the pulse beneath her chest is racing a little faster, clenching a little tighter. Brittany pushes herself up a bit, craning her neck to look at Santana more closely.
“You’re awesome, San. And you stand up for me all the time, just like George. And you can be romantic.”
Santana has never in her life thought of herself as romantic, much less these nights with Brittany. Her teeth rub together uneasily, the tips of her fingertips suddenly electric.
“Yeah?” she repeats a third time, hoarsely. Brittany scoots out from her lap, turning to face her.
“I think,” she says solemnly, her eyes glittering with her revelation, “being romantic deserves something romantic in return. Right?”
Santana doesn’t answer, because, fuck, she’s twelve years old and she’s never even thought about something like this happening. Not even after those dreams started a couple years back, the ones that left her too uncomfortable to look Brittany in the eye on the way to school the next morning.
She doesn’t answer, but Brittany is leaning in, gaze flicking from Santana’s eyes to her mouth and back again. Like she’s waiting for Santana to stop her.
Santana doesn’t stop her.
It’s a little clumsy, a little rough; at first, she barely feels the pressure of Brittany’s lips at all, and then it’s a little too much. Brittany’s nails bite into her wrist, her nose clunking against Santana’s, and it giddily occurs to her that Brittany has never done this before, either.
There are not enough words in the dictionary to explain the way she feels, knowing that truth.
Quinn gapes at them both, mouth opening and closing like a demented fish. Brittany glances Santana’s way, gauging the situation, noting the tension in Santana’s jaw and the way her free hand is clamped around the knee of her jeans.
“Problem, Blondie?”
It takes a moment for Quinn to come to her senses, her head shaking twitchily back and forth. At last, she manages to squeak out, “No. No problem. Um. Sounds…good.”
Santana gradually relaxes, reaching to pick up her nail file again. “Good. Any more stupid questions?”
Quinn shakes her head again mutely. Brittany beams.
“I think I like this game!”
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Nothing major.
Summary: [Brittana Week: Day 5-Firsts] When Quinn Fabray propose a game of Firsts with her new friends, she doesn’t expect it to get quite so awkward quite so fast.
When Quinn Fabray propose a game of Firsts with her new friends, she doesn’t expect it to get quite so awkward quite so fast. Granted, the point of the game is to determine the messy, sordid details of various “firsts” in a person’s life, but…
It’s incredibly weird, with Brittany and Santana. And sort of…uncomfortably predictable.
“First best friend,” is pretty simple, once Quinn witheringly informs Brittany that, no, the rabbit she had as a four-year-old doesn’t count. Santana shoots Brittany a little grin, and Brittany shrugs.
“Oh. Santana, then.”
“Same,” Santana adds carelessly, her attention mostly fixed on filing her nails. Quinn makes a face.
“Are you even listening?”
“Better question: why do you care so much about the stuff we did before you rolled your formerly-dorky ass into town, princess?”
Quinn stops pushing after that, sticking to the basic questions.
“First sleepover?”
It’s sort of maddening, they way they shoot each other that smug, knowing little look. Quinn tries not to grind her teeth together and plows on. Surely there has to be someone else in this town to fulfill one of their answers.
“First time you got drunk?”
Santana throws her head back, cackling. “Oh, shit. Britt-Britt, you wanna cover that one?”
Brittany beams. “Well. We were at Santana’s house, and her parents were away for the weekend-”
“I don’t know about this.” Brittany glances over her shoulder. “I mean, it seemed like a good idea, but now-”
“You can’t pussy out on me,” Santana mumbles, vanishing up to her shoulders in the Lopez liquor cabinet. “God, you’d think my dad would be better about locking this fucker up.”
“It’s just-” Brittany sucks her lower lip between her teeth, looking around like she’s waiting for the cops to slam through the front window any minute now. “San, what if we get in trouble?”
Brown eyes capture hers, reassuring. “When have I ever gotten you into trouble?”
Brittany doesn’t even bother with a response beyond an arched eyebrow. Santana laughs.
“Here. Just give it a try. One shot. I want to see if ‘firewater’ is just what wimps call it.”
Firewater is not just what wimps call it, and Brittany has no idea how they manage to swallow even one shot apiece. All she knows is, the world gets a whole lot funnier with her head buzzing like a tin of bees.
And a whole lot grosser when Santana rolls clumsily over and retches into her father’s shredder.
Quinn wrinkles her nose. “Ew.”
“But so fun,” Brittany giggles, high fiving Santana.
“Okay. First detention?”
Santana smirks.
“I can’t believe you got in trouble again,” Brittany grumbles, watching Santana struggle with her locker combination. “How many times have you kicked Puck in the man-bits this year?”
“Six,” Santana replies smoothly, “but the autumn’s still young. I figure if I do it enough times, it’ll spare the whole world his manwhore spawn.”
Brittany shakes her head. “And they gave you detention this time. That sucks.”
“Eh. Better than writing home to my dad.” Santana shrugs. “It’ll be boring as shit, but whatever. Well worth that skittish-ass look in Puckerman’s eyes.”
“But you’ll be so bored,” Brittany points out. “Isn’t detention boring? Or-” Her eyes widen as the thought strikes her, and she grabs for Santana’s arm. “What if they torture you? What if that’s how they teach you the error of your ways?”
Santana smiles, prying the fingers off her arm before bruises can begin to sprout. “They won’t torture me. I promise. It’ll just kind of suck for an hour or two.”
Brittany frowns. Santana’s just being brave, she’s sure. Santana is always brave. But sometimes, someone has to be brave for Santana.
Without even thinking about it, she turns and shoves Rachel Berry into a locker, right in front of their history teacher. It’s the kind of thing she used to feel bad about doing, but she sort of thinks Rachel’s a total pain in the ass anyway, and besides, that teacher is yanking a detention slip from her pocket like she’s been waiting all afternoon for this.
When they walk into the detention classroom ten minutes later, Santana is still staring her with absolute wonderment.
“What the hell was that?”
Brittany shrugs. “Didn’t want you to be lonely.”
“Oh good grief,” Quinn huffs, sounding a lot like that bald kid on the Peanuts. Brittany offers her a winning smile. “Okay. Whatever. Big guns time. How about your first kiss?”
This one has to stump them. This one has to involve somebody else. Anybody. Even if it’s that Puckerman kid they keep talking about, she’ll take it. Just as long as-
Santana’s cheeks are flaring with more color than Quinn thought a girl of Latin heritage should be capable. Her eyes catch Quinn’s and hold firm, daring her to say a word. Brittany’s pinky finger curls gently around Santana’s, her expression nothing short of adoring.
Quinn’s jaw just about unhinges.
“This is my favorite part,” Brittany hums, her face nestled against Santana’s thigh. They must’ve watched Back to the Future twenty-seven times already, and Brittany always points this out: the moment at the dance, when Marty McFly’s parents kiss at last and save him from disappearing on that stage, is her favorite.
Santana’s fingers slide through untangled blonde hair, her lips quirked. “I know it, B.”
“It’s just so romantic,” Brittany sighs happily. “He stands up for her, and she realizes there’s more to him than she ever thought. He’s not the guy everybody else thinks he is. He’s awesome.”
“Sure is,” Santana agrees, because she knows it will make Brittany happy. Mostly, she likes this movie because MJ Fox was kinda cute back in the day, and besides, it’s got a bitchin’ soundtrack. But the romance part is nice, too.
Unexpectedly, Brittany shifts her shoulders until she’s lying flat on her back, staring up at Santana with a bright smile. “Hey. I just thought of something.”
“Yeah?” Santana punches the volume button a few times, lowering the chatter on the television. Her hand stills in Brittany’s hair.
“I totally see that you’re not the guy everybody thinks you are,” Brittany chirps. Santana’s forehead wrinkles, and she amends, “Well. The girl. But still.”
“Oh yeah?” She’s not sure where Brittany is going with this, but the pulse beneath her chest is racing a little faster, clenching a little tighter. Brittany pushes herself up a bit, craning her neck to look at Santana more closely.
“You’re awesome, San. And you stand up for me all the time, just like George. And you can be romantic.”
Santana has never in her life thought of herself as romantic, much less these nights with Brittany. Her teeth rub together uneasily, the tips of her fingertips suddenly electric.
“Yeah?” she repeats a third time, hoarsely. Brittany scoots out from her lap, turning to face her.
“I think,” she says solemnly, her eyes glittering with her revelation, “being romantic deserves something romantic in return. Right?”
Santana doesn’t answer, because, fuck, she’s twelve years old and she’s never even thought about something like this happening. Not even after those dreams started a couple years back, the ones that left her too uncomfortable to look Brittany in the eye on the way to school the next morning.
She doesn’t answer, but Brittany is leaning in, gaze flicking from Santana’s eyes to her mouth and back again. Like she’s waiting for Santana to stop her.
Santana doesn’t stop her.
It’s a little clumsy, a little rough; at first, she barely feels the pressure of Brittany’s lips at all, and then it’s a little too much. Brittany’s nails bite into her wrist, her nose clunking against Santana’s, and it giddily occurs to her that Brittany has never done this before, either.
There are not enough words in the dictionary to explain the way she feels, knowing that truth.
Quinn gapes at them both, mouth opening and closing like a demented fish. Brittany glances Santana’s way, gauging the situation, noting the tension in Santana’s jaw and the way her free hand is clamped around the knee of her jeans.
“Problem, Blondie?”
It takes a moment for Quinn to come to her senses, her head shaking twitchily back and forth. At last, she manages to squeak out, “No. No problem. Um. Sounds…good.”
Santana gradually relaxes, reaching to pick up her nail file again. “Good. Any more stupid questions?”
Quinn shakes her head again mutely. Brittany beams.
“I think I like this game!”