Married in Blue, Always be True
Summary: There's a cream colored envelope waiting for Mrs. Hagberg when she goes to check her mail later that week cordially inviting her to the wedding of Brittany Pierce and Santana Lopez. Huh. She's so used to lumping them together that she'd forgotten their real names.
A/N: Apparently I can't stop writing about this old woman and those damn cheerleaders.
Mrs. Hagberg's sitting on the beach sipping a margarita when a gaggle of grey haired beach bums pass by, laughing in a way that reminds her of those snotty teenagers she used to teach. These wannabe surfers aren't speaking any language she recognizes, but they are giving every indication that they're talking about her. Lord, she can't escape high school no matter how far she is from Ohio, just like a clique's a clique, no matter what age.
They wave to her, smiling those smiles she sees right through, so she flips them off. She's had enough of that being civil crap to last a lifetime. This is her retirement, goddammit, and she's going to do as she damn well pleases.
She doesn't even want to know what teachers have to endure these days. Or maybe teaching isn't even a profession anymore. Maybe Nano Pads or Maxi Pods instruct the class while the people that used to be teachers sit at home and eat goat cheese and play the banjo with their toes.
Okay, she'll admit she's kind of lost touch with reality, but who wouldn't after all of the horrors she witnessed in the hallowed halls of McKinley High? Last month her brain tricked her into thinking this was a nude beach and it turned out to be the most fun she'd had in a while until the fuzz showed up with their not-so-fuzzy handcuffs.
Now that she thinks about it, maybe that's why those old farts were whispering about her behind her back. They probably recognized her tramp stamp. Hell, at least nobody she actually knew saw it since she didn't move halfway around the world to stay in touch with folks she knew from Lima.
Except… a small, miniscule part of her wishes she had kept up with a few people; former colleagues, the manager of Breadstix, those damn cheerleaders, her nephew––
Wait, what?
She shakes her head. Either she's been out in the sun too long or her third margarita is starting to get to her. It's been years since those damn cheerleaders barged into her house and paraded about on that damn Hoarders show.
I wonder what they're up to now, she thinks in spite of herself.
As it turns out, she doesn't have to wonder very long. There's a cream colored envelope waiting for her when she goes to check her mail later that week cordially inviting her to the wedding of Brittany Pierce and Santana Lopez.
Huh. She's so used to lumping them together that she'd forgotten their real names.
Brittany.
Santana.
Together forever.
It has a nice ring to it, she supposes. She also supposes that New York is probably a nice place to visit, so she might as well check it out the week of June 15th, but only because it's on her bucket list. As long as she visits the Statue of Liberty, this totally counts. Feeling that her logic is totally justified since she's not just doing it for those damn cheer– make that Brittany and Santana– she RSPVs and books her plane ticket the next day.
When she gets to New York in June, Brittany and Santana are unexpectedly waiting for her at the airport. She's not sure why of all the wedding guests she gets that special treatment, but she gave up trying to figure out those girls a long time ago.
"How was your flight?" Brittany asks her as they watch Santana watch for her luggage.
Mrs. Hagberg sighs. "Long."
"Did you sleep on the plane?"
"Maybe. I think my eyes might've been open though."
Brittany nods in understanding. "Freaky, isn't it?"
Santana lunges for a bag that is most definitely not Mrs. Hagberg's, but it's an amusing sight so she doesn't bother to correct her former student.
"To be honest," the older woman admits a moment later, "I'm not sure why I'm here."
"You're here for our wedding," Brittany replies slowly, enunciating loudly in case Mrs. Hagberg is both partially deaf and suffering from dementia.
Mrs. Hagberg shakes her head. "No, what I mean is… I would've thought you had forgotten about me. I was your teacher in high school."
When Brittany smiles, it's the most genuine one Mrs. Hagberg's seen in a long time. "Exactly."
Santana returns a few moments later lugging the correct suitcase behind her. "I got it," she says proudly.
Mrs. Hagberg takes it from her and gives Brittany a questioning look. "Are you sure this is who you wanna marry?" she asks.
"I've been sure since she threw my Barbies in the dirt and then told me I was prettier than any doll," Brittany grins. "We were nine."
"Don't let her fool you. That was last week," Santana jokes, pressing a kiss to her fiancée's temple.
They take a cab to Mrs. Hagberg's hotel, which suits her just fine since she'd really prefer for Santana Lopez to stay far away from the driver's seat as possible. She didn't come on this trip to die.
She also didn't expect the two brides-to-be to follow her out of the cab. "I may be old, but I know how hotels work. You can scram now," she tells them.
Santana laughs. "Both bridal parties are staying here."
The last time Mrs. Hagberg remembers seeing her this happy were those ten days she spent in the back row of the driver's ed room, giggling about nothing with Brittany. "I know your style, Santana," Mrs. Hagberg begins, "and if this is your weird way of telling me that I'm a bridesmaid–"
"No!" Santana interjects. "God, no!"
Mrs. Hagberg looks at them sternly. "Good."
"Well, we did kind of have this other idea…" Brittany trails off, signaling for Santana to continue her thought.
"Brittany, no," Santana whispers. "She wouldn't want to do it anyway."
That catches Mrs. Hagberg's attention. "Do what?"
"It's nothing," Santana assures her, but Brittany keeps insisting and Santana keeps refusing until their little back and forth finally bugs the hell out of Mrs. Hagberg.
"I was a teacher for forty years. Nothing surprises me anymore. Now out with it," she demands.
Santana eyes the ground sheepishly. "It's just that we have the ceremony perfectly timed and everything."
Mrs. Hagberg frowns. "I don't follow."
"We have the ceremony perfectly timed, okay?" Santana says, frustrated with herself for not knowing how to explain it clearer. "We – there's a song that plays when our parents and grandparents walk down the aisle, right? And it's timed so that there's no lag between that and whatever's next. I just don't want people scratching their asses wondering why the song isn't over yet!"
"What's that got to do with me?" Mrs. Hagberg asks, more confused than ever.
"I–" Santana pauses. "I timed it to include my abuela and she's not coming."
Mrs. Hagberg blinks. "Because you pushed her down the stairs and now she's in the hospital?"
"No, it's because she hates me," Santana says sadly. "Or hates that I'm a lesbian, at least."
"Who gives a flying flip about that anymore?" Mrs. Hagberg says angrily. "She should be less concerned with who you're marrying and more concerned about the future when you have a child that is somehow more of a brat than you!"
"Right on…" Brittany chimes in, "I think."
This seems to cheer Santana up a little bit. "Since she won't be a part of my wedding, maybe you could take her place?" she blurts out.
Mrs. Hagberg nods. "I'll do it."
"It's too late to change the programs now, but I can have the dude make an announcement beforehand or something–"
"I said I'll do it, kid. Now quit your bellyaching."
"Okay," Santana says. "Thanks."
Mrs. Hagberg clears her throat. "Just don't call me Grandma."
The downside to being included in the wedding, she soon finds out, is that now she's obligated to meet the rest of Santana and Brittany's families at the rehearsal dinner. Most of the time she despises chit-chat, but she finds out that the families of the brides are not nearly as terrible as the brides themselves.
Brittany's sister, for example, spends the whole dinner reading in the corner, her glasses taking up most of her face. She doesn't say a word and Mrs. Hagberg likes that about her.
Santana's mom mostly cries, especially when Santana's name comes up in conversation, but it's kind of endearing the way she cares so much, although Mrs. Hagberg would never actually say that out loud.
Both Brittany and Santana's fathers sip their beers together and scratch their heads as they talk about how much this is going to cost them and while she's sure they're happy for their daughters, she knows firsthand how quickly wedding stuff adds up.
She's too busy reminiscing to notice the handsome young man who walks up and taps her on the shoulder. "Mrs. Hagberg?" he asks once he's finally got her attention.
"Yes?" she replies.
"You probably don't remember me," he says. "My name's Sam. Sam Evans."
She snorts. "When you get to be my age, there isn't much you do remember."
"Well, um, as Santana's Best Man, I just wanted to thank you for coming. She talks about you all the time, you know."
"She never could keep her trap shut."
To her surprise, Sam laughs. "Honestly, I didn't really understand why she wouldn't shut up about you, but I do now. You two are a lot alike."
She'd be insulted if she weren't so flattered. ""At least I can parallel park," she responds.
"She also told me about the favor you're doing for her."
"She wouldn't stop whining," Mrs. Hagberg says gruffly. "Like I said before, I suspect it's because she can't keep her trap shut."
"I can see why they love you, Mrs. H," he says, and then gives her a wink before going to schmooze one of the bridesmaids.
Santana comes up to her a moment later. "What were you and Sam talking about?"
Mrs. Hagberg tries to make a disgusted face, but all of her expressions already look like frowns as it is. "You."
"Damn straight, this is my wedding," says Santana.
"I reckon he's not so bad."
"Yeah, my friends could be worse. That Brittany chick's a terrible influence."
"Ha," Mrs. Hagberg says. "You're all a pain in my ass."
Santana narrows her eyes. "Thanks," she remarks.
"By the way," Mrs. Hagberg adds sincerely, "Your grandmother's really missing out." She ignores the way Santana's face scrunches up like she's about to cry. "Stubbornness must run in the family," she jokes to lighten the mood because seriously, if Santana keeps making that face– well, at least she has a handkerchief in her purse.
When the wedding rolls around, Mrs. Hagberg is not entirely prepared. First of all, those damn cheerleaders insisted on taking her sightseeing the day before and her feet are killing her. She tried to convince them to rent her one of those Segway gadgets, but they insisted on walking, claiming it was healthy and that she should try and do it more often. What garbage.
She gets to the ceremony about ten minutes late– although she doesn't miss her entrance, thank God– and is seated on Santana's side. Maribel Lopez soon joins her, already crying, and how the hell is she supposed to comfort this wretched woman? Anyway, everything must be in sync with however that whack job Santana timed it because she doesn't throw a conniption fit walking down the aisle.
Mrs. Hagberg breathes a sigh of relief once she's made it to the altar. It's only then that the old broad notices something odd about Brittany and Santana's wedding dresses. They're both wearing blue.
"You're fucking kidding me," she whispers, earning her a strange look from Maribel. She leans over. "Why blue?"
Maribel stops bawling long enough to answer. "When have they ever done anything how it's supposed to be done?"
Mrs. Hagberg crosses her arms. "You got a point."
When the deejay at the reception announces the new couple for the first time, she's surprised to learn that their new last name is some gaudy hyphen thing that's apparently all the rage with hippies and lesbians and Rachel Berry-Hudson, who may also fall under those first two categories, she's not really sure.
A perk of being part of the wedding now is that she got a serious table upgrade. The downside is that she's still seated next to Maribel, the human waterworks factory.
"They're just so beautiful," Maribel comments, and Mrs. Hagberg resists the urge to tell her to shut up.
The toasts are hilarious, especially when they talk about how terrible Brittany and Santana were at hiding their relationship.
"She called me Brittany every time we made out," Sam recalls, much to Mrs. Hagberg's amusement. "Every. Single. Time."
Even Brittany's sister joins in on the fun. "One time, Santana totally got jealous of my friend Wes Brody. He was seven."
Mrs. Hagberg doesn't really expect the microphone to get shoved into her hands, but if they want material, she's got plenty. "You two were not paddled enough as children," she begins. "Should you ever have a child of your own, wait 'til I'm dead. When I am dead, you bet your asses that I will haunt you from my grave because God only knows I have unfinished business with you two."
Eventually she runs out of things to say, mostly because she loses her train of thought after stressing the importance of installing a passenger brake in every vehicle Brittany and Santana ever drive, so she passes the mic off to Quinn Fabray, who is apparently livid that she's not a bridesmaid.
Go figure.
Later, a song comes on that she vaguely recognizes, so she decides to ask Brittany's cousin Randy what it is. He stares at her. "The Macarena," he replies dumbly after a few seconds.
He's been smoking that reefer, but for once she doesn't mind that someone is high.
In fact, probably everyone at this wedding's high, except for her and Maribel, whose eyes are only red from so much crying.
Brittany glides by a second later. "Randy, did you know that Mrs. Hagberg taught me how to make Macarena in Home Economics?" she asks.
"Dude, really?" he says.
She nods. "She also taught me how to drive. Then I taught you everything I know about it! Isn't that crazy?"
He gives Mrs. Hagberg a high five before eyeing the dessert table. "S'cuse me, fair maidens, I gotta get cake... 'cause I'm baked. Later, bro."
"He's–" Mrs. Hagberg pauses as she tries to find a word to describe Randy. "Definitely related to you."
"You should meet Uncle Jackknife," Brittany says. "He was a stunt double on Crocodile Dundee."
Mrs. Hagberg is surprised. "For Paul Hogan?"
"No, for one of the crocodiles," says Brittany, and like always, Mrs. Hagberg can't tell if she's being serious.
"Go dance with your wife, Brittany," she commands.
Brittany shrugs happily. "Don't have to tell me twice."
Mrs. Hagberg does meet Uncle Jackknife later that night and as she soon finds out, he was actually the stunt double for the female lead.
Huh.
She didn't see that one coming.
The rest of the night is mostly a blur since it's open bar and Brittany's signature drink, named the Santanarita, oddly enough, just so happens to be the most delicious thing Mrs. Hagberg has ever tasted.
Soon, the brides in their hideous blue dresses that are supposedly fashionable, begin to set out for their honeymoon and the only reason she cries is because everyone else won't stop fucking crying, especially Maribel, who can produce more tears than every Olympic athlete combined.
Mrs. Hagberg maybe also cries a little harder when she slips them a check for their honeymoon and they each give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
"Be good," she tells them, to which they reply, "We won't."
She makes it back to her hotel room in one piece, tuckered out from the best wedding she's ever been to, and before she falls into a deep sleep, she says a little prayer for those two damn cheerleaders that for some ungodly reason she can't help but love.