Cook's not the most observant fucker to ever walk the Earth, but you can be damn sure he makes note of every fit bird that walks these shores. He may not know their names, but he knows their walks, their faces, their tits, and Cook's never seen any of those three things on this girl.
"I've got a joint if that'll do," he offers, magnanimously and grinning broadly. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his low-slung khaki trousers and his trainers kick up small sprays of sand as he sidles up beside her. "Anything harder's hard to come by 'round here."
When Brittany looks up, she sees a guy who seems weird-hot, and when he talks, she knows it's actually foreign-hot, which is like regular hot but with weirder teeth.
She makes sure to stand with just a little bit of snap in her torso, just for the extra touch. If he's a perv anyway, she might as well figure out what to do now until Santana comes to get her.
"I don't know what you just said, but I don't think I should smoke," she sashays over to him, missing the swish of the Cheerios uniform that always showed just that right amount of leg-ass. "I'm having an acid trip. Are you my magical troll?"
James Cook is most certainly a perv and while he doesn't gawk at her tits like he's never touched a pair in his life, he does watch them bounce with subdued appreciation.
"Are you really now?" he drawls, moving his gaze up to her eyes. "I'm not a troll, darling, I'm your knight in a magical fucking polo. Where'd you get acid?"
He's searching her eyes for a hint of it, but he doubts there's anything drug-induced going on in her brain. Just simple confusion.
A smile plays at the corners of Brittany's lips and she sways her shoulders back and forth slowly as she talks, "I don't know what you said, but it sounds magical." She looks up at the sky for a second, hoping to see something of the choir room peeking through the trip, but she can't, so she looks back at the magical troll.
"That weird ginger that I had sex with once threw an acid slushie on me, but it's okay because I'm, like, totally more popular than him, and when I run for president, and I can try him as a ghost because he doesn't have a soul." She smiles because obviously, he understands.
It was strange to me still to walk these shores, knowing nothing of where we might be in the world. Terre d'Ange seemed further than ever, and yet there were pieces of familiarity now, pieces of home that I cherished and were grateful for.
I knew, from what I had learned, that some version of me was still there, living my life so that none might suspect my absence. I wondered what that other me was doing right now. I wondered, too, about my mother - where she might be hiding, and whether or not she had sent some further sign of her continued influence in my life.
I caught sight of a young woman as I walked along the sand, one who was unfamiliar to me. Mayhap that meant she was new to the isle, but I could not claim as of yet to know the island's population in its entirety. When she sat in the sand, as though she was waiting for something or someone, I changed my course to draw nearer to her. "Are you in need of assistance?" I asked, once I was near enough to speak in a normal tone and be heard.
"I'm sorry, I don't speak Spanish." Oh, it's another Mexican hallucination. It seems like every time Brittany is drugged, she ends up somewhere new. She once had a Arabian hallucination, but she thinks that might just be because she woke up by a dumpster, and she swears all trash smells like that Indian Food stuff her parents sometimes eat.
I tilted my head slightly, confused. I could only conclude the 'Spanish' she had referred to was a language, perhaps even one I spoke, but knew as somewhat else. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, my lady. I am speaking - English," I replied, hesitating for only the briefest of moments before calling the language what those who live here know it as, rather than Cruithne.
"No, you're not, and you're lucky that I know the little bit of Spanish my gardener taught me two summers ago," Brittany says, just a little impatient. She doesn't mean to be insensitive, but maybe people in America should speak American.
Chris is sitting in the sand when she turns up, a spliff between his lips. It's always proper weird when this happens, even though he went through it almost a year ago.
"I think I've got strawberry," he says, looking over at her, though he's not sure he's got any left over from when that older bloke made it for Maxxie's birthday. It's a fuckin' travesty, that.
A look up supplies Brittany with the information she needs: this guy is sorta dorky. Maybe he's got cool habits like doing drugs, but no one has a face like that and is all that cool.
Not that Brittany wouldn't sleep with him. She would. If he was new to the school, too, it meant that she needed to maintain her perfect record. And if Santana got mad, she'd just remind her that it's not cheating because the plumbing's different. And because Santana said they weren't together. But the first reason made her head hurt less.
"I like strawberry," Brittany says, snapping effortlessly to her feet without taking her hands off of her binder. She glides toward him, that schoolgirl shimmy in her hips as she approaches. "I think it tastes like a peach that got embarrassed."
"Or like... one with zits," Chris replies, because it's the first thing he thinks of and because this isn't exactly his first spliff of the day. Today's been fuckin' boring, come to think of it, and while it's mental every time this happens, someone showing up out of thin air, at least there's something going on now.
"So I guess I've gotta be the one to give you the whole 'welcome to the island' talk then, yeah?"
So, yeah, confirmed total dork. Good. He also smells like how Puckerman always smells after fifth period.
"Yeah, I don't know what you said, but if you could just take me to the nurse's, I'd really appreciate it." She smiled again, hands clasped behind her.
It was kind of weird, but it just seemed right, finding her there on the beach with her binder. He could tell that she had no frickin' clue where she was, but it wasn't like that had never happened. She wasn't freaking out or crying or demanding an explanation. She was just waiting, floating along the way Brittany Pierce always did, and there was something really, really comforting in that.
At this rate, the whole Glee club would be on the island pretty soon, which would be seriously awesome, in Puck's book.
Walking up behind her, he nudged her hip with his foot and said, "'Sup, Brit?"
Winking up against the sun, she sees the outline of a familiar Mohawk and stands. "Hi, Puck." It's almost like a fourth grader whose ride home has just arrived as she stands and calmly approaches until she's at his side. "I don't wanna freak you out or anything, but I don't think this is just an acid trip."
"Yeah, well, I don't want to freak you out or anything, but I've kind of known that for the last six months," Puck said, and he was a little relieved, knowing that it didn't really matter that he really sucked at this whole explanation thing. This was Brittany, and she'd eventually decide to believe whatever she wanted to about the island. And for all they knew, considering how clueless everyone was, she'd be more right about the place than the rest of them.
Which was kind of cool, when you thought about it.
"We're kind of on a magic island, Britt. I'm not even screwing with you."
Brit steps out from beside Puck and stands in front of him. "Well, I know you're not screwing with me because you're not making that weird face you make when you're doing the dirty," Brittany assesses, taking a moment to look around her.
It isn't unusual to come across people lounging in the sun. Some lay themselves out and stretch over the shores, others sit and huddle in the tiniest patches of shade from which they can watch the steady crash of waves in the distance. The point is that it happens frequently enough that Kurt usually doesn't stop to look for familiar faces, all heads of gently waving blonde curls relatively similar under the sun. In fact, before his eyes settle on a face, it's the binder in the girl's arms that draws his attention- such as small thing, as supplies go, but unusual and rare enough on the island that it's worth a second glance.
That's when it becomes clear who it is seated right in front of him.
"Britt?" he asks, hesitantly, because while the binder seems to be to her tastes, and while her face is one that he'd recognize everywhere, well... when two other girls on the island look pretty much exactly like Ginny Weasley, it leaves one to wonder.
"Hi, Kurt," Brittany intones, her eyes not coming up from the sand she's hallucinating. She digs the toe of her sneakers into the sand and kicks it up slightly. It feels so real. She thought that acid was supposed to be, like, something you could come back from, and now she's a little sad because she just wants to go home.
She doesn't even spare him a brief glance, and somehow- just somehow- that's exactly what Kurt expects. And it comforts him, knowing that even in a place like Tabula Rasa, some things will always remain the same, and that even here, the New Directions seem fully intent on reuniting whenever possible. With a small quirk of his lips, he decides to sit right down next to her. It'll probably ruin a perfectly good pair of pants, but the way Kurt figures, some things in life are worth more than that. A lot more.
He's never been that close to Brittany, but there's something about her, the way she doesn't really close anyone out, the way she accepts people for what they are. Even before she joined the Glee club, she was never one of the ones who cared to slushie the lessers.
And, for all that Santana's been a bitch, Kurt's still pretty glad to have Brittany here for her. Everyone deserves that anchor.
"It's real, you know," he says lightly, pursing his lips. "Not in your head."
Brittany's hands go up in mild-mannered frustration, her eyes roll, "I started to think that, like, an hour ago," she says. "I was gonna go and try to find someone, but everyone looked like TV people, and I think I saw House, so I sat back down and waited for something to happen. Or, like, stop happening. But it didn't. I feel so stupid." She sets her cheek on her knee for a moment, facing Kurt. "Now you're here and I don't know anything, anymore." She takes a breath and raises her head to look at him. "And the worst part is, I didn't ask Dr. House to help me because I know he's the only one who can."
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"I've got a joint if that'll do," he offers, magnanimously and grinning broadly. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his low-slung khaki trousers and his trainers kick up small sprays of sand as he sidles up beside her. "Anything harder's hard to come by 'round here."
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She makes sure to stand with just a little bit of snap in her torso, just for the extra touch. If he's a perv anyway, she might as well figure out what to do now until Santana comes to get her.
"I don't know what you just said, but I don't think I should smoke," she sashays over to him, missing the swish of the Cheerios uniform that always showed just that right amount of leg-ass. "I'm having an acid trip. Are you my magical troll?"
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"Are you really now?" he drawls, moving his gaze up to her eyes. "I'm not a troll, darling, I'm your knight in a magical fucking polo. Where'd you get acid?"
He's searching her eyes for a hint of it, but he doubts there's anything drug-induced going on in her brain. Just simple confusion.
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"That weird ginger that I had sex with once threw an acid slushie on me, but it's okay because I'm, like, totally more popular than him, and when I run for president, and I can try him as a ghost because he doesn't have a soul." She smiles because obviously, he understands.
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I knew, from what I had learned, that some version of me was still there, living my life so that none might suspect my absence. I wondered what that other me was doing right now. I wondered, too, about my mother - where she might be hiding, and whether or not she had sent some further sign of her continued influence in my life.
I caught sight of a young woman as I walked along the sand, one who was unfamiliar to me. Mayhap that meant she was new to the isle, but I could not claim as of yet to know the island's population in its entirety. When she sat in the sand, as though she was waiting for something or someone, I changed my course to draw nearer to her. "Are you in need of assistance?" I asked, once I was near enough to speak in a normal tone and be heard.
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"I think I've got strawberry," he says, looking over at her, though he's not sure he's got any left over from when that older bloke made it for Maxxie's birthday. It's a fuckin' travesty, that.
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Not that Brittany wouldn't sleep with him. She would. If he was new to the school, too, it meant that she needed to maintain her perfect record. And if Santana got mad, she'd just remind her that it's not cheating because the plumbing's different. And because Santana said they weren't together. But the first reason made her head hurt less.
"I like strawberry," Brittany says, snapping effortlessly to her feet without taking her hands off of her binder. She glides toward him, that schoolgirl shimmy in her hips as she approaches. "I think it tastes like a peach that got embarrassed."
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"So I guess I've gotta be the one to give you the whole 'welcome to the island' talk then, yeah?"
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"Yeah, I don't know what you said, but if you could just take me to the nurse's, I'd really appreciate it." She smiled again, hands clasped behind her.
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At this rate, the whole Glee club would be on the island pretty soon, which would be seriously awesome, in Puck's book.
Walking up behind her, he nudged her hip with his foot and said, "'Sup, Brit?"
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Which was kind of cool, when you thought about it.
"We're kind of on a magic island, Britt. I'm not even screwing with you."
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"So these things are all real?"
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That's when it becomes clear who it is seated right in front of him.
"Britt?" he asks, hesitantly, because while the binder seems to be to her tastes, and while her face is one that he'd recognize everywhere, well... when two other girls on the island look pretty much exactly like Ginny Weasley, it leaves one to wonder.
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He's never been that close to Brittany, but there's something about her, the way she doesn't really close anyone out, the way she accepts people for what they are. Even before she joined the Glee club, she was never one of the ones who cared to slushie the lessers.
And, for all that Santana's been a bitch, Kurt's still pretty glad to have Brittany here for her. Everyone deserves that anchor.
"It's real, you know," he says lightly, pursing his lips. "Not in your head."
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