So this is about Santana, duh. Basically, it was inspired by someone on Television Tropes and Idioms (tvtropes-dot-org), who pointed out that the unfortunate implications of Santana's behavior could point to her having an abusive parent. Obviously, that wouldn't happen in the canon, because it's a comedy, so I decided to write about this. Sorry for the crappy writing, I'm kind in a creativity drought right now. This takes place sometime in the future; I've seen up to A Merry Glee Christmas, so sometime after that.
I'm such a big fan of Brittana. Even if Brittany/Artie is cute, Brittana is still my favorite ship.
Hope you enjoy?
Edit: Also, I don't own Glee or All The Things She Said by t.a.t.u. Let it be said that if I did own glee, it'd probably be a lot darker, complete with effed up relationships and life ruination.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Cheerios uniform, as usual. Lipstick, eyeliner, mascara. Ponytail hairsprayed into a curl. Perfect makeup, perfect body, perfect face, perfect hair, perfect life.
Heavy concealer for the handprints – his hands around my throat, thumbs digging in – Puck's old letterman jacket for the bruises – my back slams against the wall – arrogant expression for the fear – he screams in my face…
As I look in the mirror, my expression reflects nothing. Not the fear, not the rage. It is as still and silent and uncaring as the expression of the dead. And I think, I am halfway there.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-
"I think my dad is an alien," you blurt out in your usual monotone mumble you reserve just for revelations such as that. Sometimes, they're amusing, and I make it my mission to make sure no one makes too much fun.
Today, I scoff. "Whatever, Brittany," I say, turning away.
Silence for a moment. "Don't." you say softly, your vulnerability showing through. "Don't be a diamond."
"What," I say, exasperated, "are you talking about?" I spin the dial on my locker, only to feel your arms warp around my waist.
"Don't be hard and cold," you say, a whisper in my ear. "I can't be best friends with a diamond."
At your words, I feel something break in me. The defenses I kept up when I felt too cold and empty to move give way when faced with you, because there is only one part of me that is still alive, and that part is your best friend. The only thing I can't be cold and uncaring in the face of is your simple, childish affection.
I clasp your hand, extricating myself from your embrace, and keep my pinky linked through yours. "So, tell me about your alien dad," I say, and you grin, because I always could make you happy. I suppose it's a fair trade – I keep you tethered to reality, and you keep me something like alive.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
We lie together on your bed, half asleep, our breath the only sound. And then you say, "Why did you do a duet with Mercedes instead of me?"
I sit up. I don't want to do this again. I did it because I can't be a dyke. I did it because my dad will kill me. I did it because I don't want to love you. "I told you, I did it because I'm not in love with you and you're getting the wrong idea. Just because we have sex doesn't mean I'm in love with you. I just like sex."
"Oh." You say it so quietly, so simply, that I worry that I've hurt you too much.
"Brittany, I'm not even gay."
You sit up. I think you're going to argue, but instead, you place your hands on my shoulders, over the bruises, before you lean down to kiss the ones on my back. Maybe you think that you really can kiss something and make it all better. Anyone else would probably think that was what you were doing. But you don't ask if the aliens did that when they took me for probing or if the magical bathroom elves were playing a prank. You don't say anything at all.
Sometimes, I think you don't ask because you already know.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"Hey, Santana, how's your solo coming?"
"What do you think? I'm gonna kick all y'all's asses." I lie. I hadn't decided what I was going to do – when I actually remembered that I had an assignment. I am…preoccupied.
He snorts, falling into step beside me on the way to the choir room. "I doubt that. My solo is pretty rockin'."
"Oh really. What are you doing, then?" I ask, eager to get the topic off me.
He smirks. "Aw, now, I'm not gonna ruin the surprise."
"Whatever."
He tugs on my sleeve. "Is that my letter jacket? Is that where I left it?"
"You can't have it back, I'm cold right now."
"Really? You're not usually cold…" he says, eyeing my cheerios skirt that is not something a cold person wears. "But if you want, I could warm you up later…" he winks.
I consider it. Puck's pretty good in the sack, and not going home, forgetting, feels good. But then we walk in the choir room. You look at me, and I can see the hurt in your eyes. The last time you looked at me like that, you started dating Artie and I lost you. I have you back – and I don't want to lose you again.
"Nah. I'm kinda bored with you," I say, because whenever I open my mouth, I hurt someone. Luckily, Puck's used to it.
I go and sit next to you, and you smile in that eager way that makes something dead in me stir a little. And I think I might love you after all.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-xx-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Once again, we sit on your bed, making out. And then you pull away.
"I don't wanna do this anymore," you say, avoiding my eyes.
"Why?" I ask, taken by surprise. "It's not like it means anything."
"I know," you mumble. "I just…want it to."
I sigh in exasperation. "What is it with you, Britt? Why do you want this so fucking much? You sleep with other guys. So do I. Why does this all of a sudden mean so much to you?"
"I…I don't know."
"Fine. Whatever. I wants to do less talking and more sexing up. I'm going to Puck's."
"I…I think I love you?"
I stop. I'm so tired of talking about this. I can't do this. My dad, my reputation…my whole life goes down the drain if I start dating another chick. But I want you so much…
I lean my head in my hands, the fact that I'm not walking out of the room enough of an admission to my feelings.
You lean your head on my shoulder, and I lean against you. "We wouldn't have to tell you dad," you say, and I fail even to be surprised. Because I've always felt like you knew, even if I never said a word. Sometimes, you come off as crazy or stupid, but sometimes, you see things no one else can.
You see me.
"Okay," I say. And as I say it, I know what I'm going to do for a solo.
If Kurt can come out to the school I damn well can too. And I'm gonna do it in song, because no one in this glee club is gonna top me.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-xx-x-x-x-x-xx-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-xx-x-x-x-x-xx-x-
"And I'm all mixed up, feeling cornered and rushed, they say it's my fault, but I want her so much," the stereo wails, some weird chick band. But the song works, and given that I have two days to do a week's worth of practice, that's what I care about.
My father comes pounding up the stairs just as the song reaches the chorus. I don't bother to turn it off. He'll either come in or he won't; I just can't bring myself to care.
He comes in.
"What the fuck is this crap?" He shouts over the music. Wow. In a week he's paid attention to me twice. That's gotta be a record.
"Song for glee club, dad. Nothing to worry about." I tell him.
He frowns, listening to the lyrics, and too late I remember. The song the song is about lesbians oh god he's hearing it he'll know.
"Santana… this sounds like singing a love song. To a girl."
I just keep watching him.
"You fucking dyke." He says it without any emotion; that will come soon. I can't bring myself to regret it, though, because you and your sky-blue eyes and sun blonde hair, you and your dancing and your weird quips, they're worth anything he can dish out.
He grabs my hair, dragging me out of my room and into the hall. He throws me against the wall, wrapping his hands around my throat. "You fucking dyke!"
And I just sit there and take it.
Mother, looking at me, tell me, what do you see?
My head slams against the wall, once, twice, three times. I wonder if I'm bleeding. I wonder how long he'll go.
Daddy, looking at me, will I ever be free?
It's when he stops bashing in my head and I still can't see that I know I'm in trouble. I stagger, stumbling and falling, and I can see a streak of red on the wall.
And he kicks me. Again and again.
And again.
And again.
And I wonder if he'll ever stop.
And I wonder if I should be regretting you now.
But you're so beautiful…blue eyes…blonde hair…love your smile…
When he stops, I stand up, staggering before I crumple, catching myself on the railing. I turn my head, watching him. Not sure it's over.
He draws his fist back, it springs forward, it catches my jaw.
And I lean too far, and my limp body slides over the railing, and I begin to fall.
I'm still thinking of you when I hit the floor.