Influence - Chapter 2: "Like Ripples" [Brittany/Santana] [Glee] [fic]
Title: Influence
Pairing: Brittany/Santana, mentions of Puck/Santana
Rating: T for language and themes. M in later chapters for physical intimacy.
Spoilers: General season 1
Description: Brittany is perpetually cast as the dumb blonde, but the reasons behind her demeanor are more complex than that. She looks back on her childhood, her relationship with Santana, and the life-altering effects the decisions of her youth had on her future.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 (part 1) | Chapter 17 (part 2) | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 (part 1) | Chapter 19 (part 2) | Chapter 20 (part 1) | Chapter 20 (part 2) | Chapter 21 (part 1) | Chapter 21 (part 2) |
Most people will claim that they are in a constant state of reinvention, that no one ever stays the same as they were when they were a kid. They'll say how much they've grown since they were in school. That they are stronger and more independent, or maybe that they're more relaxed; more comfortable with who they are. The problem with these statements is that there is no objective way for someone to prove that they've changed. They may have new friends, new clothes, new ideas, but their basic functionalities - their quirks, habits and personality defects - are never really gone.
My first mistake was believing that I ever changed to begin with.
Santana and I were never supposed to be friends. In all honesty, I don't think Santana was meant to be friends with anyone. Even in the beginning, through fourth grade, fifth grade, she was entitled. She expected certain things, and knew exactly how to get them. Resistance was futile, as it were. I learned this quickly, following the incident on the playground. Neither of us had had a real friend before, so we were feeling each other out, learning the way each other worked, and pushing back when we didn't like something. Well, Santana pushed. I bent.
We weren't in the same class at school, so we found each other at recess three times a day, and always in the same spot: by the puddle where she first picked me up. It was unspoken. She went there the next day, after it had happened, and I instinctively found her. So, for fifteen minutes twice a day and half an hour at lunch, we were together.
"Today we're going to play a game." Three weeks later we were sequestered on the top of the jungle gym, sitting with our legs dangling and our backs to one another, watching for any potential usurpers. It was fairly well known that the top of the jungle gym had the best view of the playground, and we were ready to land a swift kick to prevent someone from taking that from us.
"Sure, San. What game?" I didn't really like games, though.
"Truth or Lies. You tell me something, and I'll tell you if I think it's a truth or a lie. Then I'll tell you something, and you tell me."
I didn't really like lying, either. "Okay. Me first?" She nodded. "You're my best friend."
"Too easy," she smirked. "That's true. My turn. My dad's a doctor."
"Truth! Umm..." I remember pausing, wanting to come up with a convincing lie to tell my best friend. But I hated lying. What I hated more was disappointing my friend in her game, so I went with something easy. "My hair is brown."
Santana snorted and rolled her eyes, flipping her tresses over her shoulder, as she was wont to do. "You really suck at this game, Britt. That doesn't count. Tell me something secret. Or make something up that ought to be a secret."
I had no secrets from Santana. Even three weeks into our friendship, I had told her everything there was to tell. My parents were divorced. I lived with my mom, and saw my dad every other weekend. I hated his new girlfriend because she smelled like bleach and flowers, the result of a disorder that made her clean everything more often than it needed. I was good at math, but no one needed to know about that because smart kids got picked on. I liked to sing and dance, but I was too loud so I only sang at home now. Santana taught me how to blend in when I didn't know how. She knew everything.
The kids below us started fighting, with two boys shoving each other hard. I recognized the bigger boy as Noah Puckerman, and I watched him as he wound his curled fist back and landed a swift, decisive blow to the smaller boy's stomach. Kurt, wearing his usual bow tie, doubled over in the sand. Kurt was a nice kid. He'd shared his tea with me once at lunch. Seeing him on the ground, while Noah stood over him cackling, brought something new to mind.
"I dunno, San... I guess... I don't really like boys."
Again, she snorted. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at me, and I turned mine to do the same. She was grinning. Not condescending, like she knew something I didn't, but like she understood. "No one likes boys, B. They're gross. I saw Finn Hudson eating mud the other day, right out of our puddle." The way she said 'our puddle' made my heart flutter unexpectedly, and I nodded.
"Super gross. Your turn, San."
She thought for a minute, watching the kids below us playing a raucous game of tag. No one really knew who was 'it', but they ran in circles hitting each other screaming "It!" anyway.
"You're my only-"
The playground monitor rang the bell by the door and a phalanx of children ran screaming for the school. I rotated, waiting expectantly for her to finish, but her eyes had clouded over, calm and sad, and she remained silent. "Nevermind," she muttered. "This is a stupid game. We're gonna be late."
She slipped over the outside of the jungle gym with a grace I didn't expect from someone so small, and bolted toward her classmates while I sat atop the structure and watched her. She slid deftly between Quinn Fabray and Tina Cohen-Chang, with whom she struck up an immediate and easy conversation. She looked up at me over Tina's head, and even from a distance I could tell she was angry. I made a mental note: Santana doesn't like telling truths about herself.
I never really stopped to wonder why, and instead crawled down the bars of the jungle gym, banging my knobby knees along the way. The last one in the building, the playground monitor gave me a look over the top of her glasses and followed me inside with a gruff 'harrumph'. I passed Santana's classroom on the way to my own, and stopped outside the door to look through the small, wire-mesh window. She had her notebook open and pen to paper, but was staring off out the window into the courtyard, with the playground just behind it. If I followed her line of sight, she seemed to be staring at the puddle at the back of the grounds. She wasn't angry anymore; just wistful. Quinn reached over the table and tossed a balled up piece of paper at her, and Santana snapped back to reality. She didn't see me at the door or catch my eye, so I moved on, walking late into my own classroom, alone.
"Nice to see you, Brittany." My teacher chided me from the front of the class, chalk in hand. "Maybe you can solve this problem on the board for everyone, since you like taking extra time at recess."
I didn't want to, but there wasn't much choice. The other kids were staring me down like an inmate on death row as I marched solemnly, head down, up to the board. Looking at the problem, I knew what the answer was. The teacher handed me the chalk and I looked down at it, dusty in my fingers, and thought of Santana. No one likes a show off.
I put the chalk to the board and waited, thinking.
Smart kids get picked on.
I filled in the first number, then stopped.
Look at Kurt. He's smart AND he sings.
I filled in a second number - the wrong one - and handed the teacher back her chalk.
Chapter 3
Pairing: Brittany/Santana, mentions of Puck/Santana
Rating: T for language and themes. M in later chapters for physical intimacy.
Spoilers: General season 1
Description: Brittany is perpetually cast as the dumb blonde, but the reasons behind her demeanor are more complex than that. She looks back on her childhood, her relationship with Santana, and the life-altering effects the decisions of her youth had on her future.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 (part 1) | Chapter 17 (part 2) | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 (part 1) | Chapter 19 (part 2) | Chapter 20 (part 1) | Chapter 20 (part 2) | Chapter 21 (part 1) | Chapter 21 (part 2) |
Most people will claim that they are in a constant state of reinvention, that no one ever stays the same as they were when they were a kid. They'll say how much they've grown since they were in school. That they are stronger and more independent, or maybe that they're more relaxed; more comfortable with who they are. The problem with these statements is that there is no objective way for someone to prove that they've changed. They may have new friends, new clothes, new ideas, but their basic functionalities - their quirks, habits and personality defects - are never really gone.
My first mistake was believing that I ever changed to begin with.
Santana and I were never supposed to be friends. In all honesty, I don't think Santana was meant to be friends with anyone. Even in the beginning, through fourth grade, fifth grade, she was entitled. She expected certain things, and knew exactly how to get them. Resistance was futile, as it were. I learned this quickly, following the incident on the playground. Neither of us had had a real friend before, so we were feeling each other out, learning the way each other worked, and pushing back when we didn't like something. Well, Santana pushed. I bent.
We weren't in the same class at school, so we found each other at recess three times a day, and always in the same spot: by the puddle where she first picked me up. It was unspoken. She went there the next day, after it had happened, and I instinctively found her. So, for fifteen minutes twice a day and half an hour at lunch, we were together.
"Today we're going to play a game." Three weeks later we were sequestered on the top of the jungle gym, sitting with our legs dangling and our backs to one another, watching for any potential usurpers. It was fairly well known that the top of the jungle gym had the best view of the playground, and we were ready to land a swift kick to prevent someone from taking that from us.
"Sure, San. What game?" I didn't really like games, though.
"Truth or Lies. You tell me something, and I'll tell you if I think it's a truth or a lie. Then I'll tell you something, and you tell me."
I didn't really like lying, either. "Okay. Me first?" She nodded. "You're my best friend."
"Too easy," she smirked. "That's true. My turn. My dad's a doctor."
"Truth! Umm..." I remember pausing, wanting to come up with a convincing lie to tell my best friend. But I hated lying. What I hated more was disappointing my friend in her game, so I went with something easy. "My hair is brown."
Santana snorted and rolled her eyes, flipping her tresses over her shoulder, as she was wont to do. "You really suck at this game, Britt. That doesn't count. Tell me something secret. Or make something up that ought to be a secret."
I had no secrets from Santana. Even three weeks into our friendship, I had told her everything there was to tell. My parents were divorced. I lived with my mom, and saw my dad every other weekend. I hated his new girlfriend because she smelled like bleach and flowers, the result of a disorder that made her clean everything more often than it needed. I was good at math, but no one needed to know about that because smart kids got picked on. I liked to sing and dance, but I was too loud so I only sang at home now. Santana taught me how to blend in when I didn't know how. She knew everything.
The kids below us started fighting, with two boys shoving each other hard. I recognized the bigger boy as Noah Puckerman, and I watched him as he wound his curled fist back and landed a swift, decisive blow to the smaller boy's stomach. Kurt, wearing his usual bow tie, doubled over in the sand. Kurt was a nice kid. He'd shared his tea with me once at lunch. Seeing him on the ground, while Noah stood over him cackling, brought something new to mind.
"I dunno, San... I guess... I don't really like boys."
Again, she snorted. She turned her head to look over her shoulder at me, and I turned mine to do the same. She was grinning. Not condescending, like she knew something I didn't, but like she understood. "No one likes boys, B. They're gross. I saw Finn Hudson eating mud the other day, right out of our puddle." The way she said 'our puddle' made my heart flutter unexpectedly, and I nodded.
"Super gross. Your turn, San."
She thought for a minute, watching the kids below us playing a raucous game of tag. No one really knew who was 'it', but they ran in circles hitting each other screaming "It!" anyway.
"You're my only-"
The playground monitor rang the bell by the door and a phalanx of children ran screaming for the school. I rotated, waiting expectantly for her to finish, but her eyes had clouded over, calm and sad, and she remained silent. "Nevermind," she muttered. "This is a stupid game. We're gonna be late."
She slipped over the outside of the jungle gym with a grace I didn't expect from someone so small, and bolted toward her classmates while I sat atop the structure and watched her. She slid deftly between Quinn Fabray and Tina Cohen-Chang, with whom she struck up an immediate and easy conversation. She looked up at me over Tina's head, and even from a distance I could tell she was angry. I made a mental note: Santana doesn't like telling truths about herself.
I never really stopped to wonder why, and instead crawled down the bars of the jungle gym, banging my knobby knees along the way. The last one in the building, the playground monitor gave me a look over the top of her glasses and followed me inside with a gruff 'harrumph'. I passed Santana's classroom on the way to my own, and stopped outside the door to look through the small, wire-mesh window. She had her notebook open and pen to paper, but was staring off out the window into the courtyard, with the playground just behind it. If I followed her line of sight, she seemed to be staring at the puddle at the back of the grounds. She wasn't angry anymore; just wistful. Quinn reached over the table and tossed a balled up piece of paper at her, and Santana snapped back to reality. She didn't see me at the door or catch my eye, so I moved on, walking late into my own classroom, alone.
"Nice to see you, Brittany." My teacher chided me from the front of the class, chalk in hand. "Maybe you can solve this problem on the board for everyone, since you like taking extra time at recess."
I didn't want to, but there wasn't much choice. The other kids were staring me down like an inmate on death row as I marched solemnly, head down, up to the board. Looking at the problem, I knew what the answer was. The teacher handed me the chalk and I looked down at it, dusty in my fingers, and thought of Santana. No one likes a show off.
I put the chalk to the board and waited, thinking.
Smart kids get picked on.
I filled in the first number, then stopped.
Look at Kurt. He's smart AND he sings.
I filled in a second number - the wrong one - and handed the teacher back her chalk.
Chapter 3