Title: Right Thing to Do and the Brittany Way to Do It (Title bastardized from the old school Wilford Brimley commercials for a certain product.)
Author: DropEdge
Rating-T
Notes: A quick drabble about Brittany and religion that came about because of a joke that I and my alpha Rockwynd couldn't believe they didn't use in the episode.
"I don't understand," Brittany murmured again.
Santana sighed. Brittany was her best friend and more—and right now she was more interested in the "more" part. God knew she needed a distraction from this dreary and depressing conversation, but Brittany—Brittany!—had decided to get all philosophical on her. That was mind-blowing enough, but the blonde was busy running her fingers through Santana's glossy hair; it was as though all this God talk had reminded her of the Celibacy Club motto "all about the teasing and none of the pleasing."
"Okay, Brit. One more time." Santana drew in a deep breath to regain her center and distract herself from the sensual and relaxing feeling of Brittany's hands on her hair. "Kurt doesn't believe in God. Or anything, apparently."
The Latina snorted. She might not be a Christ Crusader like Quinn, but she knew there was something out there; how else could you explain something gross like botulism also making something awesome like Botox? (And thank you whoever was out there for that, because that little line she was developing by the corner of her mouth from smirking so much was now completely gone, thanks to manipulating the plastic surgeon into throwing the injection in for free when she got the new boobs.)
"And before you ask again, the answer is still no. God is not an evil dwarf. Or a leprechaun. Or the old black guy in Bruce Almighty."
"Then who does Kurt pray to?" Brittany asked, removing her hands from Santana's hair to tie her shoe.
"Nobody, sweetie. When you don't believe in anything, you don't pray," Santana replied, bending down to help Brittany with the laces. Before Quinn became head cheerleader again, she'd almost convinced Coach Sylvester to switch to Velcro tennis shoes; that was another dream that had died when Little Miss Not-So-Perfect had returned to the squad and dethroned her from her rightful place.
"Yeah, praying's hard. Usually I fall asleep. He should do what I do."
"And what's that?" Santana asked, distracted. She grabbed a pair of cuticle scissors and snipped the string Brittany was pulling from the hem of her cheerleading skirt. If she didn't nip that in the bud, Brittany would be naked at the waist and have her hands tangled in a mass of thread in no time. On second thought, maybe Santana shouldn't have acted so quickly.
"Every morning I pray to the old lady on the oatmeal box at breakfast."
That stopped Santana in her tracks. "Um, what?"
"You know how my family's Dutch? And we make ovens and stuff? That also means we're Quakers. So I pray to the old lady on the oatmeal box. My mom says it keeps me regular, too. But I think I'm pretty regular anyway. I mean, except when I dance. Even Coach Sylvester says I'm exceptional when I dance."
"Brittany, you know that the 'person' on the oatmeal box—" Santana stopped short. There was no use trying to explain this.
"I think it helps to have something to focus on when you pray. If I don't, I just fall asleep. Kurt should find something he believes in and concentrate on that while he prays for his dad." Suddenly the blonde brightened. "You know what we should do? We should take him to that fancy department store at the mall and let him pray to the mannequins. I bet that would help, since he likes clothes and all."
Santana scowled, but then her expression softened. "You know what? If we can drag that little queen away from his dad's bedside long enough for a little retail therapy, maybe we can get him something from one of the fairies who designs that crap he calls fashion." She patted Brittany's leg. "That's a great idea, sweetie. We'll talk to him tomorrow at school."
Brittany beamed. Santana tweaked her nose and then gave Brittany's hand a squeeze. "Now what do you say we re-copy your homework in pencil? Those Punnett Squares on your biology homework look like a Lisa Frank nightmare."