So this is my first fan fic. Focusses on Santana and how Brittana began. Please R&R.
ONE: Abuela
Dusk settled over Lima Heights Adjacent, casting the apartment block into deepening shadows. Huddled by her front door, watching the sun set between the gaps in the balcony rails, Santana shivered. Not from the cold – even with the promise of autumn hanging overhead, the summer heat still lingered. No…it wasn't the cold.
A police siren wailed in the distance. Inside the apartment a glass smashed and the heated argument started anew. Santana pulled her hood lower, hiding her face in her knees.
Footsteps approached. Blinking tears away, Santana glanced up. An elderly Latina woman approached carrying two shopping bags, breathing heavily from climbing the stairwell. She put her bags down in front of Santana as she stopped to catch her breath.
Santana glared up at the old woman. "What are you looking at, granny?"
The woman blinked at her in surprise. "What's wrong, niña," she asked. Her furrowed brow highlighted the wrinkles on her forehead, making her look like a dried prune. Inside, something else smashed. The old woman glanced at the door, then back down at Santana. She sighed slightly. "Listen, chika, I need some help with my bags. Why don't you carry them in for me, and I'll fix you something to eat."
"I don't need you charity," Santana snapped.
"Charity? What Charity? I need some help with my bags, that's all. If you really want something else to do I can have you clean out my oven as well."
Santana stared up at the other woman for a moment. Then she slowly stood and grabbed the woman's bags. Nodding slightly, the older woman led the way. Her apartment was only three doors down.
"Can you help with the lock, niña," the old woman asked, fumbling with her keys. Hoisting both bags onto one arm, Santana took the keys.
"Why do you keep calling me Nina," she asked as the lock clicked and the door swung open. "My name's Santana."
"Nice to meet you, Santana," the other woman said as the two stepped over the threshold. "I'm Anita, but call me abuela - grandma. Everyone does. And I was calling you niña, you know, little girl in Spanish." She shook her head in mock horror as the door swung shut behind them. "What kind of self-respecting Latina girl doesn't know Spanish?"
"Well excuse me," Santana muttered as Anita led her into the kitchen and flicked on the lights. Looking around, Santana dumped the shopping bags onto the kitchen counter. It was a quaint little kitchen. Drying spices hung from hooks in the walls, and a crucifix hung above the sink.
"So, how about enchiladas," Anita asked as she started to put the shopping away. Santana looked at her blankly. "Enchiladas. For dinner."
"Uh, that sounds fine," Santana murmured uncertainly.
Anita eagerly rolled up her sleeves. "Okay, good." She tied an apron around her waist, already bustling around the kitchen as she got the necessary ingredients. Santana stood to one side, uncertain of what to do. Suddenly she found herself with an armful of vegetables, being told to chop them, quickly.
You want me to cook," she asked, but Anita had already turned her back and was busying herself with the stove. Reluctantly Santana got out a chopping board and knife, and set to work.
Within fifteen minutes, Santana found herself feeling more at home than she ever did at her actual home. The scent of chilli wafted around the kitchen as Santana and Anita joked with each other. Occasionally, Anita would spout something random in Spanish, or start singing a line from some Spanish song.
An hour later, Santana was sitting down to a delicious meal. She went to dig in, but Anita stopped her. "First we say grace," Anita reminded her. With an exaggerated sigh, Santana clasped her hands together. "Dear Lord, we thank you for the meal we are about to eat, for the company-" she winked at Santana "-we have been blessed with, and for all the graces you give us. Amen."
"Amen," Santana echoed, digging in to the food.
"So, are you starting high-school in September," Anita asked between mouthfuls.
"No." Anita raised one eyebrow, obviously expecting more. Santana rolled her eyes. "No, I'm in my last year of Junior High. I'll be starting high-school next year…if I can manage to pass ninth grade."
"I'm sure you'll be fine, a pretty girl like you. You seem to have your head on your shoulders."
Santana shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. "I guess so." The two ate in silence for a while, absorbed in the meal. Finally, Santana broke the silence. "So, don't you have any family? I mean, surely if you did you'd be cooking enchiladas for them, not some random kid."
"I do," Anita answered. 'But they live a few hours away, in Toledo, so I only see them for special occasions."
"I see." The rest of the meal was eaten in relative silence. Afterwards, Santana helped clear the table and wash the dishes. Before she realised it, night had fallen. The clock over the oven read 9:17, and the darkness seemed to press in from the outside.
"I should go home," Santana said finally. "My family's probably worried."
Anita nodded. 'You probably should. But feel free to come visit me again. I can always use a bit of company…plus some extra helping hands around the house are always welcome."
"Cool beans," Santana accepted. "Okay, well g'night Anita."
"Abuela," Anita reminded her. Santana gave Anita one last wave as she let herself out the front door. The air outside was still warm, and the wind raised little dust eddies around Santana's feet. She paused for a moment outside the door, but it was silent inside. Hesitantly, she let herself in.
Her mother was bustling around the dining room in her nurse's uniform. Rita Lopez usually looked impeccable but tonight looked flustered, with a few loose tendrils of hair escaping her braid. Hearing Santana come in, she glanced up. "Oh, Santana, it's you. Look, I've been called in to work the night shift. Sandra's off sick. So, there's money on the counter if you want to buy some pizza or something."
"Where's dad," Santana asked, draping her hoodie over the back of the dining chair.
"Cleared off," Rita replied, angrily stuffing her cigarettes into her handbag. "We'll, I'm off." With a light kiss against her daughter's cheek, she hurried down the hallway and out the door. The lock clicked shut with dull finality.
Santana stood in the semi-dark room for a long moment. Cleared off? She meant he'd left, didn't she. He was gone.
"Well I didn't see that coming," Santana quipped half-heartedly.
