Title: The Charm Is Good
Pairing: Brittany Pierce/Santana Lopez (Glee)
Rating: MA for coarse language and sexual themes
Summary: "She realizes for the first time that she hasn't the faintest clue where this blonde stranger is taking her. Or even what her purpose in rescuing Santana was in the first place, if in fact that was her intention. The woman could be a serial killer for all she knows, and she just handed herself over, like a lamb to the slaughter."
Disclaimer: Glee and all related characters are owned by Fox Networks. No profit has been made through the publishing of this work of fiction; it was created for entertainment purposes only.
A/N: Okay, so here's the thing, friends, Romans, countrymen. This was supposed to be posted (and completed - haha...) in collusion with Swinging Cloud's THE BRITTANA FANDOM'S SPOOKTACULAR TOUCH-A-TOUCH ME DIRTY FICTION DOUBLE FEATURE! over at (Special tag #DUBSPOOK on Tumblr - her fic Mash is super fantastic, guys. Go check it out.) However, life took over and I did not get nearly as far with it as I had hoped. Obviously, considering today is Halloween. But I figured (hoped) that better late than never would serve here, so I'm posting it anyways. So don't any of you little goblins tell Cloud I'm tardy. She'll yell at me again, that's like having a little kid reject you for a hug. Hurtful.
I expect it to be somewhere around 3 or 4 chapters, all told. And I plan to have them all posted within a week's time. Special shout out to crammit, who was kind enough to indulge in my minor nerdgasm when a simple editing session turned into an hour long conversation about the niceties of grammar. Check out her story Shed. It's fluffy and sexy and perfect. As per ushe. Also check out the other submissions under the #DUBSPOOK tag. I haven't read 'em all yet, but I hear good things.
ONE OTHER THING AND THEN I SWEAR I'LL SHUT UP. I actually got inspired to do this story while watching Pretty Woman a few months back, but for reasons unexplained it got put on the back-burner. So if the beginning of the story is suspiciously familiar to you, well...at least I didn't copy the script word for word, okay? Also, the supernatural bits of this story have borrowed HEAVILY from the universe of one of my favorite fantasy fiction novel series, so...again, at least I didn't just copy and paste. You have been warned. Hope you guys like it, despite the blatant plagerism, and Happy Halloween!
Chapter One
"Yo, bitch, where you think you goin'? I told you you ain't workin' tonight! You hear me slut? Don't you be walkin' away. You gon' be the tricks and treats for our party, mamacita. We gon' tear you up!"
Santana shudders and quickens her pace, her eyes fixed on her destination - a pub, not four blocks away. She just needs to get inside, then she'll have no problem losing Romano and his sycophantic gang of crackheads and thugs. She pulls up short when she sees two of his men stroll out of an alley two blocks ahead, cutting off her path. A brisk wind whips her hair across her shoulders as she turns back, hoping to locate some form of escape she might have missed in her haste to get to the pub. She finds none, and notes Romano's rapid approach. He's still ambling along casually to avoid garnering unwanted attention, but his pace is quick enough that he's already gained on her.
Shit.
She is about to step into the street to cross when a car roars to life to her immediate left. A mass of tousled blonde hair pops out of the driver's side window of a sleek periwinkle blue Dodge Viper, lashing about in the breeze, obscuring the driver's face.
"Get in!"
Santana's steps falter just before she steps off the curb. She stares blankly at the stranger, only snapping back to reality at the sound of Romano's wolf-whistle and half-shouted profanities. She makes to stride into the street once more when the driver calls out again.
"Young lady with the red dress! Get in!"
Romano is nearly upon her now, she's hesitated for too long. She makes a snap decision and circles quickly back to the passenger side and jumps in. Almost before she can get the door closed, the driver hits the gas and the car surges forward into traffic with a low snarl.
Silence reigns for the moment as Santana tries subtly to observe her rescuer. She's mildly surprised to find that the mysterious driver is in fact, a woman. And a beautiful one at that. Although, she thinks to herself amusedly, perhaps the baby blue sports car should have been a tip off. Not too many men would be willing to paint a car this color, in my experience. She's startled out of her silent contemplation by the woman's voice.
"So, I take it the gentleman was not a friend of yours?"
Santana snorts derisively. "Hardly."
"Your, ah, what is the word...blimp?"
The question is frank and, as far as Santana can tell, free of judgement, but even despite the silly mistake, it still puts her hackles up. She does her best not to bristle at stranger - it's a valid question, considering her rather obvious occupation, but it still stings that that's the first assumption the woman makes. Despite her attempt to reign in her admittedly short-fused temper, her reply is clipped and curtly delivered.
"The word is 'pimp'," she grinds out, "and no, he is not. He runs my roommate, however, and seems to have decided that by the transitive property, now I'm his too. Cabrón."
The blonde chuckles lightly, but makes no other response.
The sound grates across Santana's already wounded ego. "Something amusing?"
"No, I suppose not. I apologize, I meant no offense. You just...You surprise me, that is all."
The brunette's brow furrows in confusion and irritation. Confusion wins. "I surprise you," she repeats. It's not phrased as a question, but the woman seems to take it as such, and continues.
"You do. Tis my own fault, really. I allowed myself to become prejudiced by your society's preconceptions. I merely find it...intriguing that a lady of your profession is so, hmmm," she pauses as if searching for the appropriate adjective. Santana does her best not to cringe in anticipation. "Articulate. You are surprisingly articulate. I find it refreshing, actually."
The slightly patronizing tone to the woman's voice sets Santana's teeth on end, but she holds her tongue. Anyone as well spoken as this stranger, and as well dressed, is likely to be worth quite a fair bit of change. Santana eyes the perfectly tailored suit, noting its fine make and somewhat androgynous cut.
Hmm. Perhaps I can salvage some portion of tonight after all.
Schooling her voice into a low purr, she replies with a simple, "Indeed." She has to bite the inside of her lip to hide the smirk that threatens when the stranger shifts slightly in her bucket seat.
"So," the driver says breezily after a long moment, "if it is not too personal a question, what kind of figures might a creature of your occupation make in a given night?"
Santana chuckles cynically at the suggestion that any question could be 'too personal' for a hooker. Glancing at her erstwhile knight in shining hot rods, she considers her answer. If there's a chance she can do business with this woman, she can probably get away with charging much more than a normal trick might cost. She sends a silent prayer of thanks into the great unknown that she chose one of her least tatty outfits before going out this evening- a slinky little red lace number that hugs her slim waist and hips like a second skin, showing off her more ample charms perfectly, and black 'fuck me' pumps. Had she been wearing anything else, she doubts she would be able to convince the woman of even her regular fee, much less a higher figure. She settles on a figure at least double her normal take.
"Four hundred."
The blonde lets out a low whistle of appreciation. "A pretty penny, that would be."
"Well worth it, I assure you. I've far more experience and creativity than an amateur, I get monthly check ups at the free clinics, so I'm probably cleaner too. And I'm always safe."
"It pleases me to hear so."
Santana doesn't quite know what to make of that particular response, so she meets it only with silence. Coming from anyone else, she would take it at face value as a simple go ahead, but nothing about this woman is simple, and in unfamiliar territory, Santana prefers too little over too much.
She glances out the window and realizes for the first time that she hasn't the faintest clue where this blonde stranger is taking her. Or even what her purpose in rescuing Santana was in the first place, if in fact that was her intention. The sky overhead is quickly becoming obscured behind a heavy layer of dark cloud cover, further enforcing the sense of foreboding that fills the brunette's mind. Her stomach twists in fear and she silently berates herself for her carelessness. The woman could be a serial killer for all she knows, and she just handed herself over, like a lamb to the slaughter.
Almost as if picking up on her unvoiced anxieties, the driver speaks again. "We are approximately seventeen miles from my house. I would be happy to call for a cab to take you anywhere you wish to go, once we arrive."
Barely checking a sigh of mingled relief and disappointment, Santana murmurs a quiet "thank you."
So much for salvaging the night. Dammit.
A thick silence coats the interior of the car, and the brunette is content to let it settle. She watches passively as the view outside her window becomes increasingly less urbanized, until finally she can see nothing but the vague outline of trees in the dim of the evening. Apparently this strange woman's house is somewhat...remote. Briefly, Santana wonders what her business could have possibly been in such a seedy part of town. Clearly she doesn't want for money, she thinks, absently stroking the cream-colored leather of her seat.
Her mental ruminations are cut short when the heavy foliage around them suddenly breaks to reveal their destination. Or at least the entrance to it. A huge, intricately decorated iron-wrought fence looms before them, bracketed on either side by massive stone columns. The columns are topped by, of all things, unicorns. Though the carvings are majestic and a little intimidating in their own right, Santana can't help but snicker silently at their existence. I mean, come on. Unicorns? Seriously?
Her thoughts are once again cut off when they finally round the bend of what appears to be the world's longest winding driveway and approach the house situated at the top of a gently cresting hill.
'House,' Santana muses in shock, seems a bit of an understatement. The establishment before them sprawls elegantly, filling the entire windshield with its bulk. Santana thinks she can count two -no three separate wings from their position a few hundred yards away. As the car approaches, slowly devouring the white stone gravel beneath it, the mansion - she can't think of it as a house, she just can't - only seems to multiply in size and magnificence.
The slate grey edifice is saved from mind numbing intimidation by the absurdly bright window shutters and trim that surround the dozens upon dozens of windows it boasts. No two sets of shutters are the same color, and every single one seems to have been painted with the decorating choices of a five year old. It's difficult to tell in the night air, but Santana would bet her best boots that those are polka-dots on some of the window trimmings.
Dios mio, I've been rescued by a kindergartner in a woman's body.
She doesn't notice the car's lack of motion until the passenger door swings open on its own and a pale hand reaches down to her. She blinks and follows it up until she reaches the eyes of its owner - the driver. Her gaze shifts back down to the hand in confusion. Does she want money for saving me? God, wouldn't that be just like me, to be rescued by the one woman in the world who wants to take money from a hooker instead of give it. She's shaken out of her cynicism by the woman's voice.
"Your hand? Tis a bit tricky exiting the vehicle, especially in such constricting apparel..."
Santana glances up again to find the woman is solemn, but her eyes sparkle with a strange mixture of laughter and...sadness? "I...Oh...Oh. Uhm, Th-thank you," she stutters. She hadn't noticed before, since they had both been facing the same direction during the car ride, but her mysterious rescuer really has the most amazing eyes Santana thinks she's ever seen. Even in the dark of night they seem to glow as if lit from within by an unquenchable azure flame. The odd cat-like slant to them only serves to make them more exotic and alluring.
Shaking herself from her reverie, the brunette flushes with embarrassment at her own awkward staring and places a hand tentatively in the one held out to her. A jolt runs through her the instant skin touches skin and she jerks her hand back, as if burned. She looks up at the woman questioningly, but the blonde seems unfazed by whatever just passed between them. Shaking her head again at her own foolishness, Santana reaches for the offered hand again, only to squeak in surprise when it all but pulls her from the car with a single fluid motion.
Already unsure of herself in this strange place and with this strange woman, Santana's natural grace and sure-footedness momentarily abandons her and she stumbles. Her eyes clench shut and she braces herself for her inevitable impact against the gravel below her.
It never comes.
"Are you quite alright?"
Her eyes pop open and shoot down to find a strong arm braced against her torso just under her breasts, and a hand firmly gripping her right shoulder. Springing away from the woman, Santana struggles to regain her equilibrium as much as she can in such an uncertain situation. Her hands flutter nervously down her dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles and nerves alike.
"I'm fine, thank you," she snaps defensively. Immediately she regrets her sharp tone and turns to apologize. Dark brown eyes reach sparkling blue just in time to catch them snapping up from somewhere in the vicinity her backside just inhabited. Realizing that the blonde had been checking her out normally would have made her smirk in satisfaction, but now she just shifts uncomfortably. This night just keeps getting better and better.
"Come, I suspect this evening's events have been rather trying on your nerves. Allow me to offer you some refreshment before you take your leave?"
"Are you European or something?" The words slip out of Santana's mouth before she can stop them and even the hand she claps over her mouth can't bring them back. The woman, for her part, merely lifts a fine, blonde eyebrow at her and smiles. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…" Santana falters under the steady blue gaze. Squaring her shoulders, she does her best to pluck up her unusually wavering confidence and presses on. "I only wondered because your language is kind of formal and, um...archaic, frankly."
"Americans do not speak formally?" she questions lightly, with none of the affront or irritation Santana would have expected lacing her tone.
"Uh, no. No, not really. I mean, not unless they're from old money, which," she pauses as her eyes drift unconsciously towards the huge structure before them, "I guess you must be. You know what? Forget I said anything."
"I had rather not, given the choice. I find you to be unexpectedly intriguing, and I try to make a habit of recalling things that catch my interest."
Santana stares blankly for a moment, completely at a loss as to how she should respond to such a startling statement. "Um. 'Kay. That's…H-how about we get inside so I can call that cab and get out of your hair, huh?"
The blonde lifts a hand to comb through her silken locks, confusion written plainly across her exotic features.
Santana shakes her head, biting the inside of her lip to hide her smile. "God, you're kind of literal, aren't you? It's an expression - means I don't want to be an inconvenience that's all-"
A huge crackling peal of thunder tears through the sky, and seconds later both Santana and her mysterious host are well on their way to being drenched. Without another word, the woman grabs Santana's elbow in a firm grip and all but drags her up the steps and across the front terrace to the shelter of the great arch housing the front door.
Or rather, front doors, which span the height of two stories and could easily accommodate the average Asian elephant, should one require entry. The doors themselves are made of huge, dark cherry wood panels and are more ornately decorated than anything Santana has ever seen in her life. Each panel boasts a series of dizzyingly intricate patterns of knotwork carved directly into the wood's surface. They remind Santana of a ring one of her regulars always sports and swears was handcrafted in Ireland. The design of his ring is about as complicated as a child's drawing in comparison to the behemoths before the two women however, and while the legitimacy of her john's ring is questionable at best, there is no doubt in Santana's mind that these doors actually are handcrafted. And likely a couple hundred years old to boot, despite their fine polish and appearance. There's something vaguely familiar about them that she can't place, but the thought escapes her grasp almost as quickly as it had appeared.
Another tug at her elbow, much lighter this time, pulls her attention to the stranger once more, who has somehow managed to open one of the massive doors without Santana's even noticing. With an elegant wave, she gestures Santana inside. Out of the corner of her eye she notes that the door seems to swing closed on its own, without so much as a creak from its hinges. Because that's not creepy at all. I swear to God, if I'm walking into some kind of real life horror story, I'll cut a bitch.
The entryway - because that is absolutely what the brunette finds herself in, a freaking entryway - is dark and cold, the dark hardwood floors and wood paneling doing little to relieve the lack of light. Dimly, she can make out the woman divesting herself of her suit jacket, the crisp white of her shirt standing out against the shadow surrounding them.
"Ah," the voice is gentle, but Santana still jumps at the unexpected noise, "forgive me. A little light, I think." A sharp crack, like fingers snapping, and suddenly the entry fills with a warm yellow glow flickering from the several mounted candelabras that line both walls. In the light, it becomes apparent that the entryway is less that and more a hallway, stretching back far enough so that the end is only just visible - even with illumination.
"Whoa."
The storm seems to pick up in intensity, but the sounds are barely noticeable from within the mansion, so Santana's quiet exclamation turns out to be...not so inaudible. She flushes hotly and casts about for something to comment on that won't sound completely inane to her obviously refined host. Carved knotwork, similar to that engraved in the front doors, catches the light where it lines the tops of the wood paneling where it ends at about shoulder height and reflects it softly, and it's enough to hold Santana's attention. Again she feels a strange prickle of deja vu, as if she's seen these carvings somewhere before.
"Are these Irish?" Her hand lifts as if to follow the smooth lines of the engravings, but she curls her fingers and forces her arm back to her side before she can make contact. Turning, she startles to find slanted blue eyes fixing her in place with a piercing stare. Santana immediately shrinks in on herself at the scrutiny, wondering what exactly about her innocent - if unexpected - question could warrant such a look.
"The design?" she clarifies tremulously. "O-on the walls? And the doors?" Still nothing. "It's just - I saw a piece of jewelry once that had the same - well, a kind of similar look and I just wondered…" She trails off, anxious under the woman's unmoving eyes. Finally, as if breaking from a trance, the blonde's expression softens into a gentle smile.
"In fact they are, you have a good eye." She lifts her hand to stroke one of the carvings, fingers grazing gently over the red-gold wood. "My father crafted them, and the doors, for me as a parting gift when I left home."
"Your father?" Santana cringes slightly at the obvious skepticism in her voice. "Sorry, it's just...this whole house seems really old to have had that kind of work done by your father. I mean, you aren't exactly gonna be signing up for AARP anytime soon so...you know."
A blank stare meets her words, nothing more. In yet another fit of nerves, Santana rushes to fill the silence.
"That and the fact that these carvings look like they're kind of a repeating motif around the house, so I'm guessing they took awhile to do if they were all done by hand…"
After an uncomfortably long moment of silence, the blonde responds with an enigmatic murmur, "Appearances can be deceiving." Without another word, she turns and starts walking down the hall, only stopping to turn and beckon Santana when it becomes clear that she isn't following.
In the stranger's silent wake, Santana can't help but wonder just which appearances she was referring to.
