fic: building homes from what we've known, part i - glee, brittany/santana, nc-17
Title: Building Homes From What We've Known, Part I (1/3)
Author: zerodetorres
Characters: Brittany/Santana, Matt, Quinn, Puck
Rating: NC-17
Length: 6,035/17,597
Timeline: AU
Summary: Santana Lopez fights for her family.
Notes: Written for gleefsbigbang. Big thank you to bradyyface, losdosmos and dealan311. PLEASE NOTE: This story is incomplete. There are four more parts planned, each approximately the same length as this one. Those parts will actually have, you know, conflict. Also, Santana Lopez is a mixed martial artist in this AU. If that is not your cup of tea, turn back!
"Left, left, right, block. Right, right, left, block."
Santana keeps her chin tucked in as she throws her fists out against the padded gloves Puck has held up in front of his face. Her feet move quickly on the mat as she circles him, ever-attentive. Without warning, Puck whips out his hand, slicing the air at ear-level, and she ducks, narrowly avoiding being hit.
Santana lunges forward, whipping one arm around his neck as the back of the other presses against his chest. She locks her hands together near his shoulder and pushes down as hard as she can, bringing her knee up to strike against his upper abdomen.
Puck groans as she connects, and she releases him, lightly tapping the tops of his gloves before taking a step back.
Puck clutches his chest. "Shit, Lopez," he hisses. "What the fuck was that for?"
"You're losing your touch, Puck," she replies, bouncing in place to keep herself moving. "Last year, you could've blocked that grapple, easy."
"Last year," he counters, straightening up a little, "you weren't a fucking bulldozer jacked up on crystal meth."
Santana swings her leg and hits his thigh, though not at full force. "Don't even joke about that. You used to fight. You should know how many cups I have to pee in."
"Yo, Scout!"
Santana turns to the call and finds Matt across the room, motioning wildly for her to approach. She glances at Puck, who waves the back of his hand dismissively at her.
"Take a breather, Lopez."
Santana grins and tugs at her gloves, the Velcro crunching as she peels the fabric away. "You're the one looking a little winded, Puckerman."
Puck puffs out his chest. "Show a little respect for your elders. Puckzilla taught you everything you know."
Santana laughs as she chucks her gloves at him. "Like you'll ever let me forget that."
"Scout! C'mon!" Matt calls out again. "I ain't getting any younger."
"Rutherford!" Puck fires back. "You slacker. Leave my fighter alone."
Matt flips Puck the bird in response, and Santana bumps her fist roughly against one of Puck's padded gloves before turning to head in Matt's direction, picking up a light jog as she weaves between lines of punching bags and the tireless determination of the people pummeling them.
--
The sun beats down unrelentingly, casting dry heat across the sprawling suburbs of Las Vegas.
Santana finds solace in a hammock under the sparse shade of a pair of sturdy palm trees in Matt's backyard, a popsicle in one hand and an open book in the other. She likes it better here than in her own home, and Matt and his mom have never minded having her around.
(His mom did give him a Serious Talking To about statutory rape the past summer when he turned eighteen and she was barely fourteen. They both still howl with laughter at that one, because gross, you just don't do your brother.)
Santana looks up from her book when Matt walks past, chugging a lawn mower behind him even though there are barely two patches of actual grass in his backyard.
"Hey, Jem."
Matt stops in his tracks. "What'd you just call me?"
"Jem," Santana repeats.
"I'm Matt," he says slowly, then frowns. "Are you tripping? 'Cause I'm about to kick your scrawny little ass if you are."
Santana shakes her head and grins. "No way. Can't put that crap in my body if I'm gonna be a fighter. You taught me that." She holds up the book in her hands, shows him the cover. "But I'm reading this for school, and-"
Matt chuckles. "You're like, the only kid I know who actually does reading assignments. You some kind of nerdy nerd?"
"Fuck off," Santana huffs defensively. "Maybe you got all your brain cells knocked outta you, but I wanna be smart, okay? And anyway, this one's actually pretty good. The main character chick calls her brother 'Jem'."
"Gem," Matt echoes skeptically. "Like, the stuff you find on jewelry."
"No, Jem. With a J."
Matt wrinkles up his nose. "That's the wimpiest nickname I have ever heard, man."
Santana shrugs, biting a chunk off the top of her popsicle. "He reminds me a little of you. I think I'm gonna start calling you that."
"Don't use that around the gym, San," Matt protests. "Guys'll never let me live it down." He pauses thoughtfully. "What's the bro call his sis?"
"Scout."
"That's a lot more badass than Jem." Matt's eyes light up. "Maybe I should start calling you Scout."
Santana makes a face. "Don't do that."
"Oh?" He grins. "And why not, Scout?"
--
Matt is holding out a towel when Santana finally reaches his side.
"Scout, damn, took you long enough."
Santana rolls her eyes. "You've got the patience of a fucking fruit fly," she complains, grabbing the towel from him and draping it across the back of her neck. "What's up?"
Matt glances over his shoulder at the exit, and a sly smile plays at his lips. "Wanna ditch?"
"Puck's gonna kill us," she points out, even as she grins.
Matt shrugs. "He'll get over it, and I happen to know Brittany has Thursday afternoons off."
Santana tugs her towel up to swipe across her forehead. "Q arranged a title match for me in two weeks. I gotta train."
"You do what you want, Scout," Matt replies, his shoulder rising in another shrug, "but I'm just saying. You don't spend nearly enough time with that pretty girl of yours. Not recently, anyway."
Santana glances back toward Puck, who has stricken up a conversation with another one of his fighters. Matt's got a point; she really hasn't seen much of Brittany lately. Too many hours clocked at the gym means not enough spent at home with her girlfriend. Her incredibly sexy dancer girlfriend who loves pancakes and rainbows and loud sex. Suddenly, ditching doesn't seem like a bad idea anymore, and really, pissing off Puck is actually a pretty sweet side deal.
She turns back to Matt and grins. "Let's go."
The two split up to pick up their bags from separate locker rooms. Santana pulls a fresh change of clothes out of her bag and heads toward the showers. Tossing aside her towel, she strips off her shorts and sports bra before stepping into a stall and turning the knob. Santana hisses as the first droplets of freezing water hit her heated skin. Fuck. She keeps forgetting that their main boiler is on the fritz and Artie isn't doing shit all to get it fixed. If he weren't already a goddamn cripple, the unsolicited cold showers would certainly incline Santana to make him one.
Santana steps out of the shower five minutes later, shivering from the cold. She towels herself off quickly and squeezes as much moisture out of her hair as she can. She's pretty sure Matt's going to bitch about her dripping water all over his car, but his car's a piece of shit Chrysler anyway, so who the fuck cares.
She pulls on a pair of shorts and a tank top over her bra and panties, then tosses everything else into her bag and slings it over her shoulder. She slips on some socks and a pair of sneakers and heads out.
Matt is leaning against the opposite wall when she steps out of the locker room.
"The hell took you so long?"
Santana rolls her eyes and brushes past him. "Some of us prefer not smelling like a dump truck."
"Hey, I smell like roses, man," Matt protests as he follows her out.
"'Cause you barely ever break a sweat. Slacker."
"Law of averages," he dismisses as he falls into step next to her. "Wouldn't need to slack off so much if you took it easy once in a while." She ignores him, and he smirks. "You just wanna smell nice for your girlie."
Santana turns briefly to him. "And so? Least I got one to smell nice for."
"Oh-ho!" Matt chortles. "Feeling feisty today."
Santana stops abruptly in front of Artie's office and pokes her head in. Artie is sitting calmly behind his desk, his wheelchair pushed comfortably under the desktop. He's tapping away at a calculator and periodically scribbling into a notebook when Santana knocks against the doorframe. He looks up at the noise.
"Santana. Nice to-"
"Abrams," Santana addresses, cutting him off, "when the hell are you gonna fix the hot water? It's been a week of nothing but cold showers."
Artie adjusts his glasses. "The superintendent is supposed to make a visit today."
"A week, Artie. If I had balls, they'd have shrunk back into my crotch."
Artie turns bright red. "I'm sorry, Santana, really. I-"
"Yo, Abrams," Matt calls out, sauntering into his office. "We're outta here."
Artie glances briefly at his large round wall clock. "You do realize that Puck will, proverbially, flip his shit?"
Santana shrugs. "There's someone more important I wanna go see."
Immediately, Artie lights up. "Say hi to, um, to Tina for me, will you? If you see her."
Matt laughs and reaches across the desk to clap his hand against Artie's shoulder. "You're hopeless, Abrams."
"Wanna come with?" Santana offers, finally stepping inside the cozy office.
Matt shoves Santana playfully. "Scout here only wants you to distract Tina 'cause she don't like those looks Asia keeps tossing her girl."
Santana reddens and shoves him back. "Shut the fuck up, Matt. I'm not jealous of Tina Cohen-fucking-Chang."
Matt laughs. "Tina's not into the snatch, trust me. Artie would know, wouldn't you, Artie?"
Artie flushes. "That was a long time ago," he says, and there's a quiet nostalgia to his words that unexpectedly makes Santana's heart hurt.
"You gotta quit pining for this girl and just go for it," Matt continues with a shrug. "She loved you once, didn't she?"
Artie goes quiet, and Santana kicks out against Matt's shin.
"We'll say hi to her, Artie," Santana assures.
Artie hesitates halfway to a grateful smile and just kind of watches the two fighters, a glimmer of uncertainty suddenly gracing his features. It's kind of endearing, actually, especially considering he'd been a complete menace in the ring. It's no secret how Artie got in that wheelchair: freak training accident two years back left him paralyzed below the waist. Too bad, too, because he'd been a pretty decent fighter in his own right. Bantamweight, so it didn't count for much, but he could still lay the smackdown with the best of them.
Then he got injured and used his life savings and insurance payments to pull their training facility from the brink of bankruptcy so others could keep living his dream. Kinda masochistic, if you ask Santana, but he seems to enjoy managing the place enough, and he's a pretty chill owner most of the time, except when he's refusing to fix that fucking boiler.
Somewhere in all of that, there'd been Tina. Santana doesn't know the whole deal, and the guys around the gym are eager to paint the picture of a superficial bitch who couldn't handle her boyfriend's sudden handicap, but Brittany has always insisted the reasons run deeper, and Santana is inclined to believe that.
Santana grabs Matt's bicep and gives him a tug. "All right, let's go. I wanna catch Britt before her class ends. Boiler better be fixed when I come in tomorrow, Abrams."
"Later, Abrams," Matt calls over his shoulder as he lets Santana lead him out. "And man it up! Hot dancer chick like Tina won't be single forever."
--
"Your hair's dripping water all over my leather seats."
Santana smirks. "Your car's a piece of shit anyway."
"Oh, you take that back, Scout. You take it back."
Santana just laughs.
Matt quirks a quick smile in her direction. "Sometimes, you're still that awkward little ten-year-old with dirt smudges on her cheeks, askin' if me and Puck can show you how to fight."
Santana rolls her eyes. "Getting nostalgic? 'Cause I sure don't miss being ten."
"Well, hey. You made something of yourself, didn't you? Would be lying if I said I wasn't proud of you."
"You know, Matt, you're a fucking sap sometimes," she deflects, turning toward the window to hide her smile.
Matt laughs. "You should see yourself with Brittany, sis. You two overshoot sap by about ten miles and three declarations of eternal love."
"Shut up," is all Santana can really muster, because it's not entirely untrue, but still.
Matt grins. "When you gonna make an honest woman outta that girl anyway? You've been together what, ten years now?"
"Eleven this October. I-" A flush creeps up her neck. "You think she'd marry me?"
Matt chuckles. "You're so fuckin' cute sometimes, you know that?"
"Fuck off," Santana grumbles.
"Yeah," Matt finally answers, laughter brimming from his words, "yeah, I think Brittany'd marry you. She's loopy enough to have stuck with you for so long, isn't she? She might be the only one who will put up with your crazy for the rest of your life, so you best tie her down when you can."
She punches him in the shoulder, and the sudden nervous energy flowing through her makes the hit land a little harder than she'd intended. Matt's hand slips an inch against the steering wheel, and the car sways slightly before he pulls it back under control.
"Shit, Scout. You wanna get us into a wreck?"
"Sorry," she mutters. She watches the cars passing outside the window for a moment before turning back to Matt. "I've been thinking about it, you know. Popping the big Q. I don't know, Matt. I'm no good at shit like that." She frowns, an unfamiliar ache rising in her chest. "Whatever, it's not even legal in this fucking state."
Matt glances briefly at her. "Brittany won't care what it's called so long as she has you and your vow."
"She knows I'm gonna love her forever, all right? She knows. I don't need a piece of paper and a goddamn ring. I can't even wear it during training and bouts or whatever."
"It could mean a lot to her," Matt counters, his shoulders rising in a shrug. "You guys never talked about it?"
"Getting married?"
"Yeah, maybe start a family." He grins. "Give me a couple nieces and nephews to spoil rotten."
Santana rolls her eyes. "You want us to get a white picket fence, too? A dog, two cats, and a fucking minivan?"
Matt laughs. "Hey, all that shit's optional, you know that. What you and Britt have - that's precious, man. But if you've never talked about the future like that, maybe you should start."
"You having a mid-life crisis or something?"
"Fuck you, Scout," he fires back, but he's grinning. "I just turned twenty-nine, or did you forget? I'm just saying. If I had someone love me the way Brittany loves you? I'd have made it official about eight years ago."
Santana looks back out the window and doesn't say anything else for the rest of the ride.
--
All the single ladies, all the single ladies. Now put your hands up. Up in the club, we just broke up, doin' my own little thing…
Eight tiny bodies sashay to the music, most missing the choreography completely, but they're all beaming like they're having the time of their little lives. Brittany stands at the front of the room, a green sleeveless tee and a pair of rolled-up sweatpants clinging to her body as she leads her class of tiny dancers through the song. She's laughing, her eyes lit up and her cheeks flushed pink, a few stray strands of blond hair sticking to her forehead.
Santana doesn't even try fighting the huge grin that spreads across her face. She knows that Brittany loves closing all her classes with this song, and her kids worship the ground she dances on, so they adore it as well.
One of the parents standing nearby leans closer to Santana, startling her. Santana had been way too busy staring at Brittany to even notice the other people lined up against the back wall.
"Which one is yours?" the woman whispers, smiling as she looks back and forth between Santana and Matt.
"Oh, no, we're not-he's my brother. I'm not here to pick up a kid." Santana motions toward the front of the room. "I'm Brittany's girlfriend."
The woman seems taken aback for a moment, then quickly falls back into a smile. "That's lovely. You two make a cute couple."
Santana smiles politely. "Thank you."
The song comes to an end, and Brittany leans down and says something to her kids that makes them all squeal with excitement. She laughs as she gives each of her students a high-five before straightening up again. Finally, she notices Santana and Matt and races over, launching herself into Santana's arms.
"Hey, Britt," Santana greets with a chuckle as she stumbles back a step.
Brittany pulls away, just enough to press a quick kiss to Santana's lips. "Babe, what are you doing here? Thought you were training all day today."
Santana grins. "I wanted to see you."
A mischievous glimmer appears in Brittany's eyes. "Puck's going to kill you."
"I can handle Puck," Santana replies with a shrug, reaching up to brush Brittany's hair away from her face. "Wanted to spend a day with my gorgeous girlfriend," she murmurs affectionately, circling her arms around Brittany's waist.
Brittany smiles. "You trying to get into my pants, Santana?"
Santana spans her fingertips underneath the hem of Brittany's top. "Is it working?"
Brittany laughs. "Yeah, but-I'm all sweaty and gross." She wrinkles up her nose. "I need a shower. Those kids keep me on my feet."
Santana's voice is soft when she speaks again. "Let's go home, get you cleaned up, and then let me take you out to dinner." She smiles a little when Brittany just looks at her. "Is that okay?"
Brittany kisses her, gentle and reassuring. "What's the special occasion?"
"I need a reason to take my girlfriend to dinner?"
"No, but-okay." Brittany smiles. "Are you going to bring flowers to my door and sweep me off my feet?"
Santana laughs. "B, we live together."
"Yeah, but it'd be totally romantic."
Beside them, Matt coughs with purpose. "You two done schmooping all over each other?"
Santana rolls her eyes. "Nobody's making you look, Matt."
Matt turns briefly to Brittany, then back to Santana, and he lets out a laugh. "Yeah, I'll go wait in the car," he says, turning to leave. Before he disappears out the door, he calls over his shoulder, "Keep it PG!"
Brittany smiles at Santana as she leans in for another kiss. "So, dinner, huh?" she teases. "You must really want in my pants."
"Mm," Santana hums, "that, or I just really love you." She smirks. "And I know I don't need to take you out to dinner to get into your pants, so…"
Brittany laughs. "Are you implying I'm easy?"
"I'm implying that I'm a total stud," Santana returns with a grin. "And that I really, really love you."
Brittany beams. "I really, really love you too."
--
The gym is Santana's sanctuary. It's where nothing can touch her, nothing can hurt her. She's in control of how much damage she takes, how much she dishes out, because there are rules that are as good as law, and those who break them aren't given second chances. It's about respect, not violence. She'd never go seeking more violence; she's seen enough of it in her thirteen years.
"Hi."
Santana turns to the greeting. A lanky blonde girl around her age is seated next to her on the bench, a tiny pair of gray shorts and a bright orange tank top revealing thin but toned limbs. Her hair is pulled back, away from her face, and her features are sharp. Her eyes are blue blue blue. She's smiling.
"I'm Brittany," the blonde offers.
"Santana," she replies with a short nod.
Brittany smiles. "You come here often?"
"Yeah, only like, every day."
"Oh." Brittany surveys the room. "It's my first time."
"I know," Santana remarks, looking Brittany up and down. "I'd have noticed you otherwise." She flushes and shuffles her bare feet against the floor, a hint of nerves creeping to the pit of her stomach.
Brittany just smiles as she points a thumb over her shoulder. "I dance," she explains brightly. "Across the street. I'm a dancer."
Santana turns back to watching Puck and Matt exchanging light blows. "That's kind of… girly," she comments noncommittally.
"You're a girl," Brittany points out.
"Yeah, but not like, a girly girl. I don't dance. I punch shit." Santana lifts her bandaged fists. "See?"
Brittany studies Santana's hands for a moment. "Sounds fun. Can you show me how?"
"To kickbox?" Santana frowns. "I don't think so. You don't look so tough."
"I'm tough!" Brittany protests. "I'm really strong. Wanna see me do a back flip?"
"No," Santana replies even though she kind of does. Her cheeks grow hot. "Whatever," she dismisses. "I don't punch pretty girls anyway."
Brittany beams.
"N-not that you're pretty," Santana stammers.
"Oh."
"Not that you're not pretty either," she clarifies, a sharp flush creeping up her neck. "You're just like, average."
"Okay." Brittany reaches out and touches Santana's hair. "You're pretty, Santana. Like, really, really pretty."
--
"Took you two long enough," Matt complains from the driver's seat, his arm draped around the passenger's side headrest as he watches Brittany and Santana climb into the backseat.
"Sorry," Brittany apologizes, buckling herself in. "Had to let Mike know I wouldn't be needing a ride home today."
"And relay Artie's message to Tina," Santana adds, reaching for her own seatbelt.
Brittany smiles. "I'm pretty sure Artie didn't want you to tell Tina that he still wants in her pants, San."
Matt laughs and reaches for the ignition. "That's exactly what I would've told her. Abrams is a good guy, but sometimes he just needs a little push." He starts to pull the car out of the parking lot. "How'd Tina take it?"
Santana shrugs. "She just kinda stuttered something and left. Weirdo."
"Babe, you can be kind of intimidating," Brittany tells her. "Tina doesn't know how to act around you sometimes. You could be a bit nicer to her, you know."
"Tina is very… touchy-feely," Santana complains, disapproval evident in her voice. "With you."
Brittany reaches over and brushes the edge of her hand against Santana's cheek, fingertips momentarily hitching in Santana's still-damp hair. "I love you."
Santana leans into Brittany's touch and sighs. "I know, I know, I know," she mumbles, "I'm being stupid. I love you too."
Brittany's hand slides down Santana's jaw line before pulling back. Brittany smiles, then turns away to look out the window, taking stock of the city flying past them.
Santana leans back in her seat and peers out her own window. She's been carpooling with Matt since before she could even legally drive. Their cars have changed, their destinations too, but the two of them haven't. It's a comforting thought. Nowadays, Matt mostly complains about her clocking ridiculous hours and keeping him at the gym until the middle of the night, but neither would exchange their car rides together for anything, so he sucks it up and counts the few times he manages to drag her away before evening as victories.
Santana's phone buzzes against her thigh and she fishes it out of the pocket of her shorts. It's a new text from Puck.
I'm going to KILL YOU. FUCK. And Rutherford. You two are in so much shit.
Santana chuckles and types back: Pretty sure Matt and I can both take you. Separately.
Immediately, her phone vibrates again. This time, it doesn't stop, and Quinn's name and picture appear across the display. Santana puts her on speakerphone and tilts the screen toward Brittany so she can see who it is. Brittany smiles.
"Hey, Q," Santana greets pleasantly.
Quinn is breathing through her nose. "Lopez. I am going to murder you in cold blood."
"You're even less menacing than Puck." Santana looks up and smiles at Brittany. "Pretty sure even Britt could take you."
"Hi, Quinn," Brittany pipes up. "Don't worry; I wouldn't beat you up."
Quinn sighs, suddenly sounding resigned. "Hi, B."
"Yo, Fabray!" Matt calls out from the front seat. "Tell Puckerman to cut his best fighter some slack. Let her get some lovin' from her girl, recharge her batteries. She'll be back tomorrow to kick his ass."
There's some shuffling at the other end of the line, and then Puck's voice blares through. "Rutherford, she has two weeks before the big bout. You want her to get bloodied up? 'Cause I don't, and I don't think Blondie does either."
Brittany's hand wraps tightly around Santana's wrist. "Don't get bloodied up."
"I'll be fine, B," Santana reassures, tugging Brittany's hand up to her lips to brush a kiss against her knuckles. "Quinn and Puck just need to get their panties untied."
"Santana," Quinn's voice reappears across the line, her words gritted angrily, "when you come in tomorrow, your ass is mine."
"Pretty sure her ass is mine, Quinn," Brittany quips, laughter in her eyes, "and I don't want to share."
"All of you are just infuriating," Quinn seethes.
Brittany reaches over and takes the phone from Santana. She flicks it off speakerphone and pulls it to her ear. "Quinn, please don't be mad," she says, as discreetly as she can, which isn't discreet at all. "I can share, okay? If you really want, but I don't think San likes it that much when someone other than me touches her, so you'll have to-"
Santana yanks the phone away from her girlfriend and presses it against her own ear. "Disregard everything Britt just said," she amends over the sound of Quinn's laughter.
Brittany regards her seriously. "Santana, I wouldn't be jealous if you slept with Quinn. I know you only love me like that."
"Babe, I'm not going to sleep with Quinn to prove a point. Besides, she's like Matt to me, and that's just gross."
Matt chuckles from the front seat but otherwise just keeps driving.
"What about me?" Puck booms into her ear. "Does that mean I still have a chance?"
Santana makes a face. "You're like a poster boy for herpes, Puck," she quips, "and there's really only one pair of pants I want into these days."
Brittany leans closer, straining against her seatbelt, and laughs into the phone. "Sorry, Puck. She likes me better."
"I do," Santana murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to Brittany's lips.
Quinn's laugh resounds against Santana's ear. "You two," she says around the last remnants of laughter. "Okay, listen up, Lopez. You the only one who can hear this?"
"Yeah, Q."
"Okay, just-" Quinn sighs, but her tone is more amused than annoyed. "I swear you're going to be the death of me. Look, take your girl out tonight, treat her to a good time, but tomorrow morning, you get in here and you work your ass off, you hear me?"
Santana manages a grin. "Quinn, I got this."
"Yeah, yeah, you're a pain in the ass," Quinn quips. "Don't stay out too late, and eat properly. No burgers, no ice cream, no alcohol."
"Trust me, last time I had a real American meal, Hummel chewed me out for fifteen minutes straight. His face got real red; it was hilarious."
"He's your nutritionist, San," Quinn returns dryly. "Try not pissing someone in your life off for a change."
"Where's the fun in that?"
"I'm hanging up now," Quinn mutters. "Don't let Britt keep you up all night."
From the background, Puck's voice calls out, "Be a bro and set up a live feed from your bedroom, Lopez!"
The sound of Quinn smacking Puck drifts to Santana's ear, and then the line goes dead. Santana chuckles as she pockets her phone.
Brittany is watching her. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," Santana replies. "Quinn wants us to have a good time and Puck wants us to have a good time in bed."
Brittany's eyes light up. "I plan on doing both."
Santana grins. "Which do you wanna do first?"
"Okay, you two," Matt cuts in, "get out of my car before one of you starts mounting the other and I have to put in new seats."
Santana hadn't even noticed that Matt had pulled up to their complex, but sure enough, their building looms over them, and Matt has his head turned and is grinning at them from the driver's seat.
Santana reaches over and pats Matt on the shoulder. "See you later, bro."
Brittany smiles at Matt as she reaches for her door. "Later, Matt."
"Bye, Britt," Matt replies, then reaches out and grabs Santana by the wrist before she has a chance to pull away. He glances briefly at Brittany, halfway out the door. "Scout," he addresses. "Remember what I said."
Santana bows her head momentarily, chest tightening. "Yeah, Matt, I got it."
Matt lets her go. With an affectionate shove in Matt's direction, Santana slides out of the car after Brittany and closes the door behind her. Matt salutes them through the window, then drives off. Brittany slides her hand into Santana's and pulls her toward their building.
--
"Lift your fists," Santana instructs. "And you don't have to bounce around like that. This isn't DDR."
Brittany's gloved hands rise up to obscure half her face, but she keeps jumping in place, her bare feet tapping a syncopated rhythm against the mat. "Like this?"
Santana studies Brittany's form. "Yeah, that's better. Tuck your chin in. Always protect your face. You take a good blow to the head and you might straight-up pass out."
"Can I punch now?" Brittany asks, her voice muffled behind her gloves.
Santana raises her own hands, fitted with padded gloves, in front of her face. "Okay, keep your left close to your body and swing out your right. Aim for my gloves. Go ahead."
Brittany throws a punch, and Santana actually takes a step back, unprepared for the intensity of the impact. Brittany beams. "That was good, right?"
"Yeah, Britt," Santana replies, anchoring her feet against the mat, "but that's your left fist. I said swing with your right."
Brittany pouts. "Oh darn. I have a birthmark on my right hand," she explains, looking down at her fists, "between my thumb and pointer finger. That's the only way I remember, but these gloves are covering the mark, and-"
"Wait," Santana cuts in, eyebrows furrowing. "How do you remember that the mark is on your right hand, not your left?"
"Because my birthmark is right there," Brittany replies, hinting obviousness. "Duh."
"That doesn't make any sense," Santana counters, frowning. "Okay, look, which hand do you write with?"
Brittany lifts her right hand.
"All right." Santana slides her padded glove under Brittany's extended fist. "You write with your right hand. Get it?"
Brittany seems to think about it for a moment, then she lights up. "That's so smart! You're so smart, San."
Santana chuckles, a light flush creeping up her neck. "Yeah, well, of course I am."
Brittany thrusts forward her left fist. "What about this one? How do I remember that?"
Santana gapes at her. "It's just the other one. If you know one, you know both."
Brittany frowns, unsatisfied. "Yeah, but-there's such a fun trick for my right hand. I want one for my left hand or it's going to feel lonely."
Santana immediately thinks it's completely ridiculous and almost tells Brittany so. But Brittany is worrying her bottom lip between her teeth in thought, and Santana recants. She wracks her brain for a solution, wanting so much to please Brittany and not even quite knowing why.
"Okay, are you ready?" Santana finally says. "The left hand is the one that's left over."
It's totally lame, but when Brittany's whole face fills with awe like it's the most brilliant thing she's ever heard and she whispers, "You're like, a genius, Santana," Santana cannot help but smile.
Santana doesn't bother telling Brittany that she's left-handed herself so none of that applies to her. She decides to leave that for another time, another day, another kickboxing lesson.
--
Hot water pounds down against Santana's skin, and damn, it feels good to be taking a warm shower. She smiles at her companion, who smiles back, and even though it'd been a flurry of messy kisses and strewn clothing on their way from the front door to the bathroom, they'd calmed down as soon as the water had hit them, both content to admire the other's naked body without attempts to have sex with the other. It's a nice feeling.
Brittany turns to Santana with serious eyes. "What was Matt talking about earlier?" she asks. When Santana returns nothing but a blank stare, Brittany clarifies, "He said to remember what he told you. What'd he say?"
"Oh, that," Santana mumbles, muscles tensing. "It was nothing."
Brittany nods and reaches for the shampoo. "Okay."
Santana purses her lips. "He just doesn't know how to mind his own business, you know?"
"Okay," Brittany repeats, her tone holding neither accusation nor irritation.
Still, Santana cannot help but feel guilty for avoiding the question. She brushes a hand along Brittany's hip. "I mean, I guess he still feels like it's his job to look after me, but I'm twenty-five. I can handle my own shit."
"Santana," Brittany says softly, leaning forward to press her lips against Santana's shoulder. "You don't have to tell me," she continues, "and I won't be upset, I swear. Hearing you ramble like that is a little worrying though."
"You ever think about the future?" Santana blurts out.
Brittany grins. "Like what I'm going to do to you in bed tonight?"
"No, I mean-more long-term," Santana manages, then smiles a little. "Keep that in mind too though," she adds as an afterthought.
Brittany stills. "Are we really going to have The Talk now?"
"It has a name?" Santana asks, her heart suddenly racing. She shrugs, her nerve endings hyperaware of the water pounding down against both of them. "It's just, we were so young when we started; I don't think either of us really thought that far ahead, but maybe we should? I can't imagine living my life without you, but-what do you want?"
Brittany's reply is immediate: "You."
"You have me, baby," Santana says gently. "What else?"
"I guess-I guess a family, at some point," Brittany answers. "Only if you want one too though," she offers.
But Santana knows the last part is spoken in haste, that Brittany doesn't really want Santana to take her up on that clause. Santana doesn't have to be entrenched in every part of Brittany's life to recognize the way Brittany lights up when she teaches her kids, the adoring way she speaks to them. Santana's never been sure about any of this before, but she's watched Brittany over the years, watched her laugh with so much joy etched across her beautiful features, that when Santana speaks her next words, she means them with every fiber of her being.
"I want a family too, B."
Brittany lights up. "Do you? How many?"
Santana smiles faintly. "However many you want."
"Sixteen?"
Santana laughs. "If you think we can handle that, sure."
"Are you serious about this?" Brittany asks, her eyes growing wide.
"Absolutely," Santana replies, punctuating her certainty with a kiss. "Wait, did you really want sixteen?"
"No," Brittany laughs, "but-you mean this? Like, babies. Living, breathing, pooping babies. With me."
Santana smiles. "Who else would I have them with?"
Brittany lunges forward, trapping Santana's naked body between the cool tile wall and the slick heat of Brittany's own torso as hot water beats down against them.
"I'm so turned on right now," Brittany murmurs, leaning down to nibble at Santana's neck as her hands slide shamelessly to Santana's thighs. "So," Brittany continues, "I'm going to have sex with you."
Santana laughs. Brittany's never had a knack for subtlety, and Santana wouldn't want it any other way.
Part I (2/3)
Author: zerodetorres
Characters: Brittany/Santana, Matt, Quinn, Puck
Rating: NC-17
Length: 6,035/17,597
Timeline: AU
Summary: Santana Lopez fights for her family.
Notes: Written for gleefsbigbang. Big thank you to bradyyface, losdosmos and dealan311. PLEASE NOTE: This story is incomplete. There are four more parts planned, each approximately the same length as this one. Those parts will actually have, you know, conflict. Also, Santana Lopez is a mixed martial artist in this AU. If that is not your cup of tea, turn back!
"Left, left, right, block. Right, right, left, block."
Santana keeps her chin tucked in as she throws her fists out against the padded gloves Puck has held up in front of his face. Her feet move quickly on the mat as she circles him, ever-attentive. Without warning, Puck whips out his hand, slicing the air at ear-level, and she ducks, narrowly avoiding being hit.
Santana lunges forward, whipping one arm around his neck as the back of the other presses against his chest. She locks her hands together near his shoulder and pushes down as hard as she can, bringing her knee up to strike against his upper abdomen.
Puck groans as she connects, and she releases him, lightly tapping the tops of his gloves before taking a step back.
Puck clutches his chest. "Shit, Lopez," he hisses. "What the fuck was that for?"
"You're losing your touch, Puck," she replies, bouncing in place to keep herself moving. "Last year, you could've blocked that grapple, easy."
"Last year," he counters, straightening up a little, "you weren't a fucking bulldozer jacked up on crystal meth."
Santana swings her leg and hits his thigh, though not at full force. "Don't even joke about that. You used to fight. You should know how many cups I have to pee in."
"Yo, Scout!"
Santana turns to the call and finds Matt across the room, motioning wildly for her to approach. She glances at Puck, who waves the back of his hand dismissively at her.
"Take a breather, Lopez."
Santana grins and tugs at her gloves, the Velcro crunching as she peels the fabric away. "You're the one looking a little winded, Puckerman."
Puck puffs out his chest. "Show a little respect for your elders. Puckzilla taught you everything you know."
Santana laughs as she chucks her gloves at him. "Like you'll ever let me forget that."
"Scout! C'mon!" Matt calls out again. "I ain't getting any younger."
"Rutherford!" Puck fires back. "You slacker. Leave my fighter alone."
Matt flips Puck the bird in response, and Santana bumps her fist roughly against one of Puck's padded gloves before turning to head in Matt's direction, picking up a light jog as she weaves between lines of punching bags and the tireless determination of the people pummeling them.
--
The sun beats down unrelentingly, casting dry heat across the sprawling suburbs of Las Vegas.
Santana finds solace in a hammock under the sparse shade of a pair of sturdy palm trees in Matt's backyard, a popsicle in one hand and an open book in the other. She likes it better here than in her own home, and Matt and his mom have never minded having her around.
(His mom did give him a Serious Talking To about statutory rape the past summer when he turned eighteen and she was barely fourteen. They both still howl with laughter at that one, because gross, you just don't do your brother.)
Santana looks up from her book when Matt walks past, chugging a lawn mower behind him even though there are barely two patches of actual grass in his backyard.
"Hey, Jem."
Matt stops in his tracks. "What'd you just call me?"
"Jem," Santana repeats.
"I'm Matt," he says slowly, then frowns. "Are you tripping? 'Cause I'm about to kick your scrawny little ass if you are."
Santana shakes her head and grins. "No way. Can't put that crap in my body if I'm gonna be a fighter. You taught me that." She holds up the book in her hands, shows him the cover. "But I'm reading this for school, and-"
Matt chuckles. "You're like, the only kid I know who actually does reading assignments. You some kind of nerdy nerd?"
"Fuck off," Santana huffs defensively. "Maybe you got all your brain cells knocked outta you, but I wanna be smart, okay? And anyway, this one's actually pretty good. The main character chick calls her brother 'Jem'."
"Gem," Matt echoes skeptically. "Like, the stuff you find on jewelry."
"No, Jem. With a J."
Matt wrinkles up his nose. "That's the wimpiest nickname I have ever heard, man."
Santana shrugs, biting a chunk off the top of her popsicle. "He reminds me a little of you. I think I'm gonna start calling you that."
"Don't use that around the gym, San," Matt protests. "Guys'll never let me live it down." He pauses thoughtfully. "What's the bro call his sis?"
"Scout."
"That's a lot more badass than Jem." Matt's eyes light up. "Maybe I should start calling you Scout."
Santana makes a face. "Don't do that."
"Oh?" He grins. "And why not, Scout?"
--
Matt is holding out a towel when Santana finally reaches his side.
"Scout, damn, took you long enough."
Santana rolls her eyes. "You've got the patience of a fucking fruit fly," she complains, grabbing the towel from him and draping it across the back of her neck. "What's up?"
Matt glances over his shoulder at the exit, and a sly smile plays at his lips. "Wanna ditch?"
"Puck's gonna kill us," she points out, even as she grins.
Matt shrugs. "He'll get over it, and I happen to know Brittany has Thursday afternoons off."
Santana tugs her towel up to swipe across her forehead. "Q arranged a title match for me in two weeks. I gotta train."
"You do what you want, Scout," Matt replies, his shoulder rising in another shrug, "but I'm just saying. You don't spend nearly enough time with that pretty girl of yours. Not recently, anyway."
Santana glances back toward Puck, who has stricken up a conversation with another one of his fighters. Matt's got a point; she really hasn't seen much of Brittany lately. Too many hours clocked at the gym means not enough spent at home with her girlfriend. Her incredibly sexy dancer girlfriend who loves pancakes and rainbows and loud sex. Suddenly, ditching doesn't seem like a bad idea anymore, and really, pissing off Puck is actually a pretty sweet side deal.
She turns back to Matt and grins. "Let's go."
The two split up to pick up their bags from separate locker rooms. Santana pulls a fresh change of clothes out of her bag and heads toward the showers. Tossing aside her towel, she strips off her shorts and sports bra before stepping into a stall and turning the knob. Santana hisses as the first droplets of freezing water hit her heated skin. Fuck. She keeps forgetting that their main boiler is on the fritz and Artie isn't doing shit all to get it fixed. If he weren't already a goddamn cripple, the unsolicited cold showers would certainly incline Santana to make him one.
Santana steps out of the shower five minutes later, shivering from the cold. She towels herself off quickly and squeezes as much moisture out of her hair as she can. She's pretty sure Matt's going to bitch about her dripping water all over his car, but his car's a piece of shit Chrysler anyway, so who the fuck cares.
She pulls on a pair of shorts and a tank top over her bra and panties, then tosses everything else into her bag and slings it over her shoulder. She slips on some socks and a pair of sneakers and heads out.
Matt is leaning against the opposite wall when she steps out of the locker room.
"The hell took you so long?"
Santana rolls her eyes and brushes past him. "Some of us prefer not smelling like a dump truck."
"Hey, I smell like roses, man," Matt protests as he follows her out.
"'Cause you barely ever break a sweat. Slacker."
"Law of averages," he dismisses as he falls into step next to her. "Wouldn't need to slack off so much if you took it easy once in a while." She ignores him, and he smirks. "You just wanna smell nice for your girlie."
Santana turns briefly to him. "And so? Least I got one to smell nice for."
"Oh-ho!" Matt chortles. "Feeling feisty today."
Santana stops abruptly in front of Artie's office and pokes her head in. Artie is sitting calmly behind his desk, his wheelchair pushed comfortably under the desktop. He's tapping away at a calculator and periodically scribbling into a notebook when Santana knocks against the doorframe. He looks up at the noise.
"Santana. Nice to-"
"Abrams," Santana addresses, cutting him off, "when the hell are you gonna fix the hot water? It's been a week of nothing but cold showers."
Artie adjusts his glasses. "The superintendent is supposed to make a visit today."
"A week, Artie. If I had balls, they'd have shrunk back into my crotch."
Artie turns bright red. "I'm sorry, Santana, really. I-"
"Yo, Abrams," Matt calls out, sauntering into his office. "We're outta here."
Artie glances briefly at his large round wall clock. "You do realize that Puck will, proverbially, flip his shit?"
Santana shrugs. "There's someone more important I wanna go see."
Immediately, Artie lights up. "Say hi to, um, to Tina for me, will you? If you see her."
Matt laughs and reaches across the desk to clap his hand against Artie's shoulder. "You're hopeless, Abrams."
"Wanna come with?" Santana offers, finally stepping inside the cozy office.
Matt shoves Santana playfully. "Scout here only wants you to distract Tina 'cause she don't like those looks Asia keeps tossing her girl."
Santana reddens and shoves him back. "Shut the fuck up, Matt. I'm not jealous of Tina Cohen-fucking-Chang."
Matt laughs. "Tina's not into the snatch, trust me. Artie would know, wouldn't you, Artie?"
Artie flushes. "That was a long time ago," he says, and there's a quiet nostalgia to his words that unexpectedly makes Santana's heart hurt.
"You gotta quit pining for this girl and just go for it," Matt continues with a shrug. "She loved you once, didn't she?"
Artie goes quiet, and Santana kicks out against Matt's shin.
"We'll say hi to her, Artie," Santana assures.
Artie hesitates halfway to a grateful smile and just kind of watches the two fighters, a glimmer of uncertainty suddenly gracing his features. It's kind of endearing, actually, especially considering he'd been a complete menace in the ring. It's no secret how Artie got in that wheelchair: freak training accident two years back left him paralyzed below the waist. Too bad, too, because he'd been a pretty decent fighter in his own right. Bantamweight, so it didn't count for much, but he could still lay the smackdown with the best of them.
Then he got injured and used his life savings and insurance payments to pull their training facility from the brink of bankruptcy so others could keep living his dream. Kinda masochistic, if you ask Santana, but he seems to enjoy managing the place enough, and he's a pretty chill owner most of the time, except when he's refusing to fix that fucking boiler.
Somewhere in all of that, there'd been Tina. Santana doesn't know the whole deal, and the guys around the gym are eager to paint the picture of a superficial bitch who couldn't handle her boyfriend's sudden handicap, but Brittany has always insisted the reasons run deeper, and Santana is inclined to believe that.
Santana grabs Matt's bicep and gives him a tug. "All right, let's go. I wanna catch Britt before her class ends. Boiler better be fixed when I come in tomorrow, Abrams."
"Later, Abrams," Matt calls over his shoulder as he lets Santana lead him out. "And man it up! Hot dancer chick like Tina won't be single forever."
--
"Your hair's dripping water all over my leather seats."
Santana smirks. "Your car's a piece of shit anyway."
"Oh, you take that back, Scout. You take it back."
Santana just laughs.
Matt quirks a quick smile in her direction. "Sometimes, you're still that awkward little ten-year-old with dirt smudges on her cheeks, askin' if me and Puck can show you how to fight."
Santana rolls her eyes. "Getting nostalgic? 'Cause I sure don't miss being ten."
"Well, hey. You made something of yourself, didn't you? Would be lying if I said I wasn't proud of you."
"You know, Matt, you're a fucking sap sometimes," she deflects, turning toward the window to hide her smile.
Matt laughs. "You should see yourself with Brittany, sis. You two overshoot sap by about ten miles and three declarations of eternal love."
"Shut up," is all Santana can really muster, because it's not entirely untrue, but still.
Matt grins. "When you gonna make an honest woman outta that girl anyway? You've been together what, ten years now?"
"Eleven this October. I-" A flush creeps up her neck. "You think she'd marry me?"
Matt chuckles. "You're so fuckin' cute sometimes, you know that?"
"Fuck off," Santana grumbles.
"Yeah," Matt finally answers, laughter brimming from his words, "yeah, I think Brittany'd marry you. She's loopy enough to have stuck with you for so long, isn't she? She might be the only one who will put up with your crazy for the rest of your life, so you best tie her down when you can."
She punches him in the shoulder, and the sudden nervous energy flowing through her makes the hit land a little harder than she'd intended. Matt's hand slips an inch against the steering wheel, and the car sways slightly before he pulls it back under control.
"Shit, Scout. You wanna get us into a wreck?"
"Sorry," she mutters. She watches the cars passing outside the window for a moment before turning back to Matt. "I've been thinking about it, you know. Popping the big Q. I don't know, Matt. I'm no good at shit like that." She frowns, an unfamiliar ache rising in her chest. "Whatever, it's not even legal in this fucking state."
Matt glances briefly at her. "Brittany won't care what it's called so long as she has you and your vow."
"She knows I'm gonna love her forever, all right? She knows. I don't need a piece of paper and a goddamn ring. I can't even wear it during training and bouts or whatever."
"It could mean a lot to her," Matt counters, his shoulders rising in a shrug. "You guys never talked about it?"
"Getting married?"
"Yeah, maybe start a family." He grins. "Give me a couple nieces and nephews to spoil rotten."
Santana rolls her eyes. "You want us to get a white picket fence, too? A dog, two cats, and a fucking minivan?"
Matt laughs. "Hey, all that shit's optional, you know that. What you and Britt have - that's precious, man. But if you've never talked about the future like that, maybe you should start."
"You having a mid-life crisis or something?"
"Fuck you, Scout," he fires back, but he's grinning. "I just turned twenty-nine, or did you forget? I'm just saying. If I had someone love me the way Brittany loves you? I'd have made it official about eight years ago."
Santana looks back out the window and doesn't say anything else for the rest of the ride.
--
All the single ladies, all the single ladies. Now put your hands up. Up in the club, we just broke up, doin' my own little thing…
Eight tiny bodies sashay to the music, most missing the choreography completely, but they're all beaming like they're having the time of their little lives. Brittany stands at the front of the room, a green sleeveless tee and a pair of rolled-up sweatpants clinging to her body as she leads her class of tiny dancers through the song. She's laughing, her eyes lit up and her cheeks flushed pink, a few stray strands of blond hair sticking to her forehead.
Santana doesn't even try fighting the huge grin that spreads across her face. She knows that Brittany loves closing all her classes with this song, and her kids worship the ground she dances on, so they adore it as well.
One of the parents standing nearby leans closer to Santana, startling her. Santana had been way too busy staring at Brittany to even notice the other people lined up against the back wall.
"Which one is yours?" the woman whispers, smiling as she looks back and forth between Santana and Matt.
"Oh, no, we're not-he's my brother. I'm not here to pick up a kid." Santana motions toward the front of the room. "I'm Brittany's girlfriend."
The woman seems taken aback for a moment, then quickly falls back into a smile. "That's lovely. You two make a cute couple."
Santana smiles politely. "Thank you."
The song comes to an end, and Brittany leans down and says something to her kids that makes them all squeal with excitement. She laughs as she gives each of her students a high-five before straightening up again. Finally, she notices Santana and Matt and races over, launching herself into Santana's arms.
"Hey, Britt," Santana greets with a chuckle as she stumbles back a step.
Brittany pulls away, just enough to press a quick kiss to Santana's lips. "Babe, what are you doing here? Thought you were training all day today."
Santana grins. "I wanted to see you."
A mischievous glimmer appears in Brittany's eyes. "Puck's going to kill you."
"I can handle Puck," Santana replies with a shrug, reaching up to brush Brittany's hair away from her face. "Wanted to spend a day with my gorgeous girlfriend," she murmurs affectionately, circling her arms around Brittany's waist.
Brittany smiles. "You trying to get into my pants, Santana?"
Santana spans her fingertips underneath the hem of Brittany's top. "Is it working?"
Brittany laughs. "Yeah, but-I'm all sweaty and gross." She wrinkles up her nose. "I need a shower. Those kids keep me on my feet."
Santana's voice is soft when she speaks again. "Let's go home, get you cleaned up, and then let me take you out to dinner." She smiles a little when Brittany just looks at her. "Is that okay?"
Brittany kisses her, gentle and reassuring. "What's the special occasion?"
"I need a reason to take my girlfriend to dinner?"
"No, but-okay." Brittany smiles. "Are you going to bring flowers to my door and sweep me off my feet?"
Santana laughs. "B, we live together."
"Yeah, but it'd be totally romantic."
Beside them, Matt coughs with purpose. "You two done schmooping all over each other?"
Santana rolls her eyes. "Nobody's making you look, Matt."
Matt turns briefly to Brittany, then back to Santana, and he lets out a laugh. "Yeah, I'll go wait in the car," he says, turning to leave. Before he disappears out the door, he calls over his shoulder, "Keep it PG!"
Brittany smiles at Santana as she leans in for another kiss. "So, dinner, huh?" she teases. "You must really want in my pants."
"Mm," Santana hums, "that, or I just really love you." She smirks. "And I know I don't need to take you out to dinner to get into your pants, so…"
Brittany laughs. "Are you implying I'm easy?"
"I'm implying that I'm a total stud," Santana returns with a grin. "And that I really, really love you."
Brittany beams. "I really, really love you too."
--
The gym is Santana's sanctuary. It's where nothing can touch her, nothing can hurt her. She's in control of how much damage she takes, how much she dishes out, because there are rules that are as good as law, and those who break them aren't given second chances. It's about respect, not violence. She'd never go seeking more violence; she's seen enough of it in her thirteen years.
"Hi."
Santana turns to the greeting. A lanky blonde girl around her age is seated next to her on the bench, a tiny pair of gray shorts and a bright orange tank top revealing thin but toned limbs. Her hair is pulled back, away from her face, and her features are sharp. Her eyes are blue blue blue. She's smiling.
"I'm Brittany," the blonde offers.
"Santana," she replies with a short nod.
Brittany smiles. "You come here often?"
"Yeah, only like, every day."
"Oh." Brittany surveys the room. "It's my first time."
"I know," Santana remarks, looking Brittany up and down. "I'd have noticed you otherwise." She flushes and shuffles her bare feet against the floor, a hint of nerves creeping to the pit of her stomach.
Brittany just smiles as she points a thumb over her shoulder. "I dance," she explains brightly. "Across the street. I'm a dancer."
Santana turns back to watching Puck and Matt exchanging light blows. "That's kind of… girly," she comments noncommittally.
"You're a girl," Brittany points out.
"Yeah, but not like, a girly girl. I don't dance. I punch shit." Santana lifts her bandaged fists. "See?"
Brittany studies Santana's hands for a moment. "Sounds fun. Can you show me how?"
"To kickbox?" Santana frowns. "I don't think so. You don't look so tough."
"I'm tough!" Brittany protests. "I'm really strong. Wanna see me do a back flip?"
"No," Santana replies even though she kind of does. Her cheeks grow hot. "Whatever," she dismisses. "I don't punch pretty girls anyway."
Brittany beams.
"N-not that you're pretty," Santana stammers.
"Oh."
"Not that you're not pretty either," she clarifies, a sharp flush creeping up her neck. "You're just like, average."
"Okay." Brittany reaches out and touches Santana's hair. "You're pretty, Santana. Like, really, really pretty."
--
"Took you two long enough," Matt complains from the driver's seat, his arm draped around the passenger's side headrest as he watches Brittany and Santana climb into the backseat.
"Sorry," Brittany apologizes, buckling herself in. "Had to let Mike know I wouldn't be needing a ride home today."
"And relay Artie's message to Tina," Santana adds, reaching for her own seatbelt.
Brittany smiles. "I'm pretty sure Artie didn't want you to tell Tina that he still wants in her pants, San."
Matt laughs and reaches for the ignition. "That's exactly what I would've told her. Abrams is a good guy, but sometimes he just needs a little push." He starts to pull the car out of the parking lot. "How'd Tina take it?"
Santana shrugs. "She just kinda stuttered something and left. Weirdo."
"Babe, you can be kind of intimidating," Brittany tells her. "Tina doesn't know how to act around you sometimes. You could be a bit nicer to her, you know."
"Tina is very… touchy-feely," Santana complains, disapproval evident in her voice. "With you."
Brittany reaches over and brushes the edge of her hand against Santana's cheek, fingertips momentarily hitching in Santana's still-damp hair. "I love you."
Santana leans into Brittany's touch and sighs. "I know, I know, I know," she mumbles, "I'm being stupid. I love you too."
Brittany's hand slides down Santana's jaw line before pulling back. Brittany smiles, then turns away to look out the window, taking stock of the city flying past them.
Santana leans back in her seat and peers out her own window. She's been carpooling with Matt since before she could even legally drive. Their cars have changed, their destinations too, but the two of them haven't. It's a comforting thought. Nowadays, Matt mostly complains about her clocking ridiculous hours and keeping him at the gym until the middle of the night, but neither would exchange their car rides together for anything, so he sucks it up and counts the few times he manages to drag her away before evening as victories.
Santana's phone buzzes against her thigh and she fishes it out of the pocket of her shorts. It's a new text from Puck.
I'm going to KILL YOU. FUCK. And Rutherford. You two are in so much shit.
Santana chuckles and types back: Pretty sure Matt and I can both take you. Separately.
Immediately, her phone vibrates again. This time, it doesn't stop, and Quinn's name and picture appear across the display. Santana puts her on speakerphone and tilts the screen toward Brittany so she can see who it is. Brittany smiles.
"Hey, Q," Santana greets pleasantly.
Quinn is breathing through her nose. "Lopez. I am going to murder you in cold blood."
"You're even less menacing than Puck." Santana looks up and smiles at Brittany. "Pretty sure even Britt could take you."
"Hi, Quinn," Brittany pipes up. "Don't worry; I wouldn't beat you up."
Quinn sighs, suddenly sounding resigned. "Hi, B."
"Yo, Fabray!" Matt calls out from the front seat. "Tell Puckerman to cut his best fighter some slack. Let her get some lovin' from her girl, recharge her batteries. She'll be back tomorrow to kick his ass."
There's some shuffling at the other end of the line, and then Puck's voice blares through. "Rutherford, she has two weeks before the big bout. You want her to get bloodied up? 'Cause I don't, and I don't think Blondie does either."
Brittany's hand wraps tightly around Santana's wrist. "Don't get bloodied up."
"I'll be fine, B," Santana reassures, tugging Brittany's hand up to her lips to brush a kiss against her knuckles. "Quinn and Puck just need to get their panties untied."
"Santana," Quinn's voice reappears across the line, her words gritted angrily, "when you come in tomorrow, your ass is mine."
"Pretty sure her ass is mine, Quinn," Brittany quips, laughter in her eyes, "and I don't want to share."
"All of you are just infuriating," Quinn seethes.
Brittany reaches over and takes the phone from Santana. She flicks it off speakerphone and pulls it to her ear. "Quinn, please don't be mad," she says, as discreetly as she can, which isn't discreet at all. "I can share, okay? If you really want, but I don't think San likes it that much when someone other than me touches her, so you'll have to-"
Santana yanks the phone away from her girlfriend and presses it against her own ear. "Disregard everything Britt just said," she amends over the sound of Quinn's laughter.
Brittany regards her seriously. "Santana, I wouldn't be jealous if you slept with Quinn. I know you only love me like that."
"Babe, I'm not going to sleep with Quinn to prove a point. Besides, she's like Matt to me, and that's just gross."
Matt chuckles from the front seat but otherwise just keeps driving.
"What about me?" Puck booms into her ear. "Does that mean I still have a chance?"
Santana makes a face. "You're like a poster boy for herpes, Puck," she quips, "and there's really only one pair of pants I want into these days."
Brittany leans closer, straining against her seatbelt, and laughs into the phone. "Sorry, Puck. She likes me better."
"I do," Santana murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to Brittany's lips.
Quinn's laugh resounds against Santana's ear. "You two," she says around the last remnants of laughter. "Okay, listen up, Lopez. You the only one who can hear this?"
"Yeah, Q."
"Okay, just-" Quinn sighs, but her tone is more amused than annoyed. "I swear you're going to be the death of me. Look, take your girl out tonight, treat her to a good time, but tomorrow morning, you get in here and you work your ass off, you hear me?"
Santana manages a grin. "Quinn, I got this."
"Yeah, yeah, you're a pain in the ass," Quinn quips. "Don't stay out too late, and eat properly. No burgers, no ice cream, no alcohol."
"Trust me, last time I had a real American meal, Hummel chewed me out for fifteen minutes straight. His face got real red; it was hilarious."
"He's your nutritionist, San," Quinn returns dryly. "Try not pissing someone in your life off for a change."
"Where's the fun in that?"
"I'm hanging up now," Quinn mutters. "Don't let Britt keep you up all night."
From the background, Puck's voice calls out, "Be a bro and set up a live feed from your bedroom, Lopez!"
The sound of Quinn smacking Puck drifts to Santana's ear, and then the line goes dead. Santana chuckles as she pockets her phone.
Brittany is watching her. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah," Santana replies. "Quinn wants us to have a good time and Puck wants us to have a good time in bed."
Brittany's eyes light up. "I plan on doing both."
Santana grins. "Which do you wanna do first?"
"Okay, you two," Matt cuts in, "get out of my car before one of you starts mounting the other and I have to put in new seats."
Santana hadn't even noticed that Matt had pulled up to their complex, but sure enough, their building looms over them, and Matt has his head turned and is grinning at them from the driver's seat.
Santana reaches over and pats Matt on the shoulder. "See you later, bro."
Brittany smiles at Matt as she reaches for her door. "Later, Matt."
"Bye, Britt," Matt replies, then reaches out and grabs Santana by the wrist before she has a chance to pull away. He glances briefly at Brittany, halfway out the door. "Scout," he addresses. "Remember what I said."
Santana bows her head momentarily, chest tightening. "Yeah, Matt, I got it."
Matt lets her go. With an affectionate shove in Matt's direction, Santana slides out of the car after Brittany and closes the door behind her. Matt salutes them through the window, then drives off. Brittany slides her hand into Santana's and pulls her toward their building.
--
"Lift your fists," Santana instructs. "And you don't have to bounce around like that. This isn't DDR."
Brittany's gloved hands rise up to obscure half her face, but she keeps jumping in place, her bare feet tapping a syncopated rhythm against the mat. "Like this?"
Santana studies Brittany's form. "Yeah, that's better. Tuck your chin in. Always protect your face. You take a good blow to the head and you might straight-up pass out."
"Can I punch now?" Brittany asks, her voice muffled behind her gloves.
Santana raises her own hands, fitted with padded gloves, in front of her face. "Okay, keep your left close to your body and swing out your right. Aim for my gloves. Go ahead."
Brittany throws a punch, and Santana actually takes a step back, unprepared for the intensity of the impact. Brittany beams. "That was good, right?"
"Yeah, Britt," Santana replies, anchoring her feet against the mat, "but that's your left fist. I said swing with your right."
Brittany pouts. "Oh darn. I have a birthmark on my right hand," she explains, looking down at her fists, "between my thumb and pointer finger. That's the only way I remember, but these gloves are covering the mark, and-"
"Wait," Santana cuts in, eyebrows furrowing. "How do you remember that the mark is on your right hand, not your left?"
"Because my birthmark is right there," Brittany replies, hinting obviousness. "Duh."
"That doesn't make any sense," Santana counters, frowning. "Okay, look, which hand do you write with?"
Brittany lifts her right hand.
"All right." Santana slides her padded glove under Brittany's extended fist. "You write with your right hand. Get it?"
Brittany seems to think about it for a moment, then she lights up. "That's so smart! You're so smart, San."
Santana chuckles, a light flush creeping up her neck. "Yeah, well, of course I am."
Brittany thrusts forward her left fist. "What about this one? How do I remember that?"
Santana gapes at her. "It's just the other one. If you know one, you know both."
Brittany frowns, unsatisfied. "Yeah, but-there's such a fun trick for my right hand. I want one for my left hand or it's going to feel lonely."
Santana immediately thinks it's completely ridiculous and almost tells Brittany so. But Brittany is worrying her bottom lip between her teeth in thought, and Santana recants. She wracks her brain for a solution, wanting so much to please Brittany and not even quite knowing why.
"Okay, are you ready?" Santana finally says. "The left hand is the one that's left over."
It's totally lame, but when Brittany's whole face fills with awe like it's the most brilliant thing she's ever heard and she whispers, "You're like, a genius, Santana," Santana cannot help but smile.
Santana doesn't bother telling Brittany that she's left-handed herself so none of that applies to her. She decides to leave that for another time, another day, another kickboxing lesson.
--
Hot water pounds down against Santana's skin, and damn, it feels good to be taking a warm shower. She smiles at her companion, who smiles back, and even though it'd been a flurry of messy kisses and strewn clothing on their way from the front door to the bathroom, they'd calmed down as soon as the water had hit them, both content to admire the other's naked body without attempts to have sex with the other. It's a nice feeling.
Brittany turns to Santana with serious eyes. "What was Matt talking about earlier?" she asks. When Santana returns nothing but a blank stare, Brittany clarifies, "He said to remember what he told you. What'd he say?"
"Oh, that," Santana mumbles, muscles tensing. "It was nothing."
Brittany nods and reaches for the shampoo. "Okay."
Santana purses her lips. "He just doesn't know how to mind his own business, you know?"
"Okay," Brittany repeats, her tone holding neither accusation nor irritation.
Still, Santana cannot help but feel guilty for avoiding the question. She brushes a hand along Brittany's hip. "I mean, I guess he still feels like it's his job to look after me, but I'm twenty-five. I can handle my own shit."
"Santana," Brittany says softly, leaning forward to press her lips against Santana's shoulder. "You don't have to tell me," she continues, "and I won't be upset, I swear. Hearing you ramble like that is a little worrying though."
"You ever think about the future?" Santana blurts out.
Brittany grins. "Like what I'm going to do to you in bed tonight?"
"No, I mean-more long-term," Santana manages, then smiles a little. "Keep that in mind too though," she adds as an afterthought.
Brittany stills. "Are we really going to have The Talk now?"
"It has a name?" Santana asks, her heart suddenly racing. She shrugs, her nerve endings hyperaware of the water pounding down against both of them. "It's just, we were so young when we started; I don't think either of us really thought that far ahead, but maybe we should? I can't imagine living my life without you, but-what do you want?"
Brittany's reply is immediate: "You."
"You have me, baby," Santana says gently. "What else?"
"I guess-I guess a family, at some point," Brittany answers. "Only if you want one too though," she offers.
But Santana knows the last part is spoken in haste, that Brittany doesn't really want Santana to take her up on that clause. Santana doesn't have to be entrenched in every part of Brittany's life to recognize the way Brittany lights up when she teaches her kids, the adoring way she speaks to them. Santana's never been sure about any of this before, but she's watched Brittany over the years, watched her laugh with so much joy etched across her beautiful features, that when Santana speaks her next words, she means them with every fiber of her being.
"I want a family too, B."
Brittany lights up. "Do you? How many?"
Santana smiles faintly. "However many you want."
"Sixteen?"
Santana laughs. "If you think we can handle that, sure."
"Are you serious about this?" Brittany asks, her eyes growing wide.
"Absolutely," Santana replies, punctuating her certainty with a kiss. "Wait, did you really want sixteen?"
"No," Brittany laughs, "but-you mean this? Like, babies. Living, breathing, pooping babies. With me."
Santana smiles. "Who else would I have them with?"
Brittany lunges forward, trapping Santana's naked body between the cool tile wall and the slick heat of Brittany's own torso as hot water beats down against them.
"I'm so turned on right now," Brittany murmurs, leaning down to nibble at Santana's neck as her hands slide shamelessly to Santana's thighs. "So," Brittany continues, "I'm going to have sex with you."
Santana laughs. Brittany's never had a knack for subtlety, and Santana wouldn't want it any other way.
Part I (2/3)