Where the Angels Walk with the Lonely Ones
Santana Lopez whisks her hair out of her face and glares at the last of the dirty dishes from the dinnertime rush. She bites her lip and gouges at the surface of a shot glass with her thumbnail.
"Damn spots," she mutters under her breath, shoving the glass to the side with a soft huff of frustration.
"Slow night?" A red-haired man in his late twenties slides onto a barstool across from her. His black bouncer's polo exposes his well-muscled arms as he leans lazily against the counter.
Santana sighs. "You have no idea, Robert." She wads up her dishtowel and throws it down. "I've literally had ten customers in the past four hours." Santana glances at her watch: ten past midnight. Less than two hours left in her shift.
Robert grins and taps the counter. "Everyone's too busy drooling over tonight's show to drink." He jerks his head, and Santana follows his gaze. The dimly-lit bar ends in a wide archway that many customers call the "gates to paradise." On the other side of the arch, a massive circular stage dominates the room, surrounded by shallow stadium-style seating. Dozens of tables are crammed in haphazard rings, battling for a good view of the stage.
Santana can see the lithe female shapes from here, illuminated by dramatic stage lighting as they twine around poles and scale thick-barred cages. "Are there new dancers, then?" She asks Robert only semi-curiously, absently folding and re-folding her crumpled dishcloth.
"Hell yeah." Robert's grin widens. "But they're not just dancers, they're..." he gestures wildly, his words failing him.
Santana quirks a small smile. "Gotten any numbers yet?"
Robert's smile falls a little, and he shrugs. "Nope. They're too good for someone of my likes. Or so they said," he adds.
Santana goes back to drying and stacking shot glasses, only halfway listening as Robert continues to rhapsodize. Lost in the rhythmic clink of glass, it takes her a moment to realize he's talking to her.
"Hmm?" She casts her gaze over her shoulder. Robert remains nonplussed by her lack of interest.
"Come with me!" He stretches his hand palm-up onto the bar. "Maybe you'll see someone who strikes your fancy." He winks at her infuriatingly.
"Just because I'm single doesn't mean I need to date someone," Santana grumbles, but she takes Robert's hand anyway. The burly bouncer grins at her and tugs her out from behind the bar.
The two of them lean against the back wall of the club, just inside the archway: their favorite spot to lurk. Santana flicks a gaze at Robert, then back to the bar. "If I get fired for leaving my post..." He ignores her.
"See the brunette on the end, with the handcuffs?" He nudges Santana. "Her name is Lillian. She has a girlfriend." He waggles his eyebrows at her. "The red-head behind her - wait for it - on top of her is Chanel, and the black chick is Ebony."
Santana follows the new strippers with her eyes, tracing their paths around the stage. "They're not all that different," she says. "I mean, I've never seen that bit with the handcuffs before, but strippers are strippers." She shrugs.
Robert looks affronted. "They're dancers," he corrects her. "Much more classy."
Santana rolls her eyes. "I'm going back to the bar."
"Wait." Robert's hand catches her shoulder. "Just...wait." He's watching the stage intently.
"I really - "
"Santana. Way-ee-tuh," he drawls out the word with a meaningful glance, and Santana crosses her arms, growling discontentedly.
"I've seen them, Rob," she hisses under the music. It's changing - light, techno beats melt into heavy bass, and the lights take on a blue cast. Fog hisses across the stage, covering the floor and the first few rows of the audience. Santana is about to call them out on their sickening cheesiness when the dancers split to reveal a new figure. She's tall, she's blonde, and she moves like liquid sex. Santana feels her heart racing, and she licks her suddenly dry lips. To her left, Robert lets out a soft moan.
"They call her Duckie, but I heard Ebony call her Brittany." He too is dry-mouthed and flushed. His hand is creeping obscenely down towards his waistband; Santana, for once, is too enraptured to call him out.
Duckie - or Brittany - is a goddess on the stage. She flows through the synthetic fog like sunlight, and the other girls fall easily into the background. The blonde is wearing green strapless lingerie studded with silver bits that catch the light and send it bouncing off in all directions. Santana feels another shiver go down her spine as she realizes Brittany is barefoot.
"I...should probably go back," she breathes after a moment, snapping out of her trance and looking back at the bar. Mercifully, several men are drifting back in from the stage to quench their less carnal thirsts. Santana takes one last glance at Brittany grinding against a pole and high-tails it back to her post, mentally calling up images of dead kittens and other non-sexual things. This was going to be a long night.
It's almost four days later when Santana finally gets the courage to talk to Brittany.
She's been watching the blonde both on- and off-stage, even volunteering for later shifts so she can watch the dancers as they check out for the night and head out for drinks. So far, she has learned a series of very important facts.
One: Brittany prefers the green lingerie, but she also has stunning sets of royal blue, pearly gray, and electric yellow.
Two: She likes to braid feathers into her hair, and had liked to long before the hipster population of LA took up the trend.
Three: She has a total of six piercings - two on each earlobe, one cartilage, and one on her left tragus. Santana suspects she has a belly button ring as well, but she has yet to see proof.
It takes Santana a total of four days to realize that her strategy of careful sleuthing isn't getting her any closer to Brittany. It takes Robert less than two hours.
"You're being an idiot, Lopez," he tells her during another slow night as he knocks back a glass of gin and tonic. Santana just wants to know if he's going to pay for it.
It's certainly not like her to take her time about something like this. Santana goes out and she gets what she wants. Even the other staff members are starting to take notice.
"What on earth are you waiting for, an excuse to give her mouth-to-mouth or something?"
"Go lay your lips on her, girlfriend. Show her that Lopez spirit."
The younger waiters are particularly aggressive about the situation. Kurt has stunning blue-grey eyes and chiseled features that his dark-eyed-dark-haired boyfriend Blaine cannot seem to keep his eyes off of. Santana settles for blowing them both off whenever they come hanging around the bar, but she can't ignore the fact that Kurt's making a lot more sense than she is.
When she finally forces herself into conversation with Brittany, it's not exactly a monumental occasion. She's wiping up a puddle of vodka when a well-manicured hand taps her on the shoulder. She spins around and nearly falls over when she finds herself staring into a large pair of bright blue eyes.
"Hi," Brittany greets her a little shyly, twining her fingers together on the counter. Her pearly lingerie is attracting the gazes of more than a few men at the bar. "Can I get a tray of margaritas for backstage, please? Extra salt, extra booze."
Santana thinks she stammers over a 'sure,' but she's not entirely sure. All she remembers is Brittany smiling warmly at her as she accepts the drinks, then winking at her as she glides away.
That night as the bar is closing, Brittany comes by Santana's post again with the empty tray. "Thanks for the drinks," she says, but this time she hangs around.
"No problem. You girls looked great up there tonight," Santana adds, then mentally kicks herself. Really, Lopez? Really?
But Brittany just smiles at her. "Really? That's awesome to hear. It was a tough crowd." She makes a face, then bursts into a smile again. Good god, her smile is totally infectious.
"I'm Brittany, by the way," she offers, placing her hand palm-up on the bar.
"Santana." Santana touches her fingers to Brittany's, and in a flash of daring, pulls them to her lips for a gentle kiss. Brittany just giggles.
"You're cute," she purrs, low and sexy, and then slips away.
A/N; Not gonna lie, there isn't much hotter in my mind than stripper!Brittany. So, naturally, I had to bring Santana into the picture somehow! Can't you just see her pouring drinks in a bar somewhere, flirting with patrons and trying not to remember her life in Ohio?
Anyway, like you guys, I've been frustrated with the lack of onscreen Brittana this season, so I'm taking out my creative feelings by writing. I have a good proportion of this fic outlined, so hopefully it'll get farther than a lot of my WIPs have.
I love hearing from my readers! You can find me on tumblr at amerrybritt-mas, or on livejournal as findyourstars. And sometimes when I'm procrastinating I take requests :3
Cheers!
[title is from 'Fader' by the Temper Trap]