Props to Naley2006 and Elenar Thorn. It was Quinn, mostly so I could look up pictures of Dianna Agron and Heather Morris and drool. Plus, I had to include Quinn in some form or fashion, right? There will be some other Gleeks in future chapters, too, but only ones that don't annoy me. Anyway, please keep reviewing, I love receiving feedback, and enjoy chapter two!
Disclaimer: Only own the fantasy. Don't sue.
Rum and Roses: Chapter Two
When Santana regains consciousness, she feels the pain. She's alive. The pain means she's alive. For a second she forgets her stupidity of last nights' events, and is merely happy that she's not dead in that alley. She uses her senses. She's not cold, and her surroundings seem soft, not hard like concrete. Someone has moved her. She listened for the tell tale-clinking that would signal that she's in jail, but all she hears is silence.
Finally she wills her eyes open once, twice, and then shuts them at the brightness of the light that greets them. After a moment, she blinks rapidly to clear the cobwebs from her vision, expecting to be in a hospital room, but she's not. As she turns her head and takes in her surroundings, it looks like a sitting room of some sort. She can see a couple of couches, a low table. It looks nice, much nicer than she 's seen in awhile. Her family lived in fairly nice surroundings considering the part of town they lived in, but this was swanky and spacious. Santana cranes her neck enough to see that she's laying on a couch of some sort…a day bed, she thinks it's called, and covered by a sheet and an embroidered blanket. A chandelier hangs in the middle of the room, bathing it in bright, warm light; the carpet is intricate and expensive looking. Even the furniture, table, and wallpaper looked pricey, for God's sake, and Santana knows that she's not in the east side anymore. Christ, there's even has a brand new record player in the corner.
Santana's mouth is dry; she tries to lick her lips and then suppresses a cough, knowing that the jolting will only worsen her already-throbbing shoulder. Then her ears detect footsteps. The green-eyed woman makes her way into the room, and without a flicker of worry on her face, takes a fancy mahogany chair and sits close to Santana.
"You're awake," the woman says neutrally.
"Keen observation," Santana manages to croak. With that, she knows that she'll be okay. This girl…she reminds Santana of someone.
"Your eyes are familiar. You look like someone I know." Santana racks her brain for who this girl looks like…
It hits Santana like a load of bricks. The resemblance is too close for it not to be so.
"Oh my God, you're related to Rosie," Santana groans.
"Rosie Fabray is my cousin."
Despite the pain that tears through her left arm with each movement, Santana finds herself seized by fits of laughter. "I knew I recognized something…"
"And I know you," the woman quips brusquely, "and I know your kind. You attract trouble, so as soon as you are able to walk get the hell out of here."
"What the hell?" Santana retorts. "I was attacked by drunken thugs. I'm a fucking invalid, for Christ's sake. I almost died."
"Yeah," hisses the woman, "it would have been your own damn fault, too. You idiot."
"Quinn?" A voice calls from far off, and Santana turns her head to see a kitchen down the hall, but she can't see anyone.
"Hey, eyes back here, horn dog," Quinn orders sharply, which Santana only obeys because in her state a ten year old could beat her up, much less a person of about equal size and weight. "Brittany and I kept you alive, so repay the favor by keeping your mouth shut, your head down, and getting out of here as fast as you're physically able."
"I guess I should thank you for saving me," Santana shifts herself so that she's sitting up in the bed. She notices that she's shirtless (and by the feeling of the cotton sheet on her legs, pantless as well) but she's never been ashamed of her body so the realization that she's half-naked in a stranger's bed only upsets her because it wasn't for something more amorous.
Quinn exhales sharply, letting out a "humph" of incredulity. "It was Brittany who stitched you up and convinced me not to drop you off on the steps of the Chief of Police, because I would have left you to rot in jail if I'd had my choice."
Santana could see the girl now, Brittany, or at least the back of her, in the kitchen, fussing over something on the stove. She's tall, and has a mane of golden hair, even more golden than Quinn's. Santana leans forward from her position against the pillows and wishes she would turn around and come closer, but Quinn catches her looking at the oblivious girl.
"Hey…Lopez…hey..." Santana unwillingly turns her attention back to the other blonde. "Keep your eyes away from places they don't belong."
Santana merely shrugs her shoulders and leans back against the pillows. "Fine."
Quinn "humphs" again and stands from her perch on the chair. "I've gotta go. Brittany's making you some tea, so you will be polite. And most importantly, you will be gone when I get back tomorrow morning. Got it?"
Santana lays her right hand on the bare skin of her chest in mock sincerity. "Yes, ma'am!"
Quinn merely rolls her eyes, calls out a "goodbye" to the girl in the kitchen, turns on her heel, and stalks out of the apartment.
"Don't worry, she always acts like she's got a broom pole up her ass." Santana whips her eyes in the direction of the voice, and finally sets eyes on Brittany.
Her eyes. If Rosie's eyes were pretty, and Quinn's eyes were beautiful, then her eyes were damn angelic. They smiled at her, just smiled along with the rest of her face, sparkling, icy blue. They emanated kindness and warmth. Santana, for once in her life, is rendered nearly speechless.
The rest of her is just as stunning. Tall, slim, gorgeous, clad in a simple black skirt and a shirt that matches her eyes. Santana feels that she's ordinary in comparison (and she's never felt self conscious in her life), and with a blush adorning her features she pulls the sheet over her half-naked body.
Brittany giggles and makes her way slowly over the chair where Quinn just sat, and offers her a steaming mug of something. Santana takes it, and sips slowly. Hot tea.
"Quinn told me you were bad news," Brittany begins without pretense, and the straightforward nature of the other woman nearly makes Santana spit out the tea that she's drinking. But she keeps her composure. She thinks that she still has a little bit of charm in her.
"I can be trouble, sure," Santana replies coyly, which only causes Brittany to giggle again.
"If I'm such bad news, why didn't you let your friend take me to the police?" Santana asks.
"You looked nice. And you're pretty." Her reply causes Santana to blush again.
"Is that all?" Santana replies.
"Well, you didn't look in any shape to do anything but sleep," Brittany admits. "I kind of felt sorry for you, if you want the truth."
"Oh, I feel real tough now," Santana comments snidely and lays her head back against the wall.
"Did you want to look tough?" Santana watches the girl carefully, trying to detect any jest or any malice in her voice, but her look is purely and innocently inquisitive.
"I guess so. I mean, I gotta keep up with my brothers, being the only girl in my family and all. " Santana doesn't know why she's saying these things to a complete stranger, but Brittany seems harmless.
"Well I don't have any brothers. I have a cousin though, and he can be a real jerk. Can't stand him, most of the time." Brittany leans back into the chair and crosses her long, lovely legs. Santana almost spits her tea out again.
"Well I like my brothers, we've always gotten along. Why am I telling this to a total stranger I don't know."
Brittany sticks out one perfect hand towards Santana and offers a smile. "I'm Brittany."
Santana can only smile back. "Santana. It's nice to meet you." And surprisingly enough, Santana found that she really meant it.
Brittany giggles yet again. "Now we're not strangers."
Santana had slid down the pillow with all this movement, and she winces as she attempts to push herself back up to a sitting position. Brittany sees Santana struggling and leans forward to help her. As she softness of her hands lightly grip the skin of her right arm, Santana's heart begin to speed. Brittany smells like violets. It's intoxicating, and for a second Santana forgets all about her pain. That is, of course, until Brittany leaves and then comes back with a bowl of soapy warm water and a rag.
"We've got to clean it," Brittany explains softly, and puts the bowl on the chair. "Can I?"
Santana nods dumbly and watches Brittany as she leans across her, gently dabbing the cloth against her injured shoulder. The slight twinges of pain are the only sensations that are keeping Santana from creepily staring at the girl that is just inches from her face.
"Do you remember anything from last night?" Brittany asks as she cleans the wound.
"Not really, just bits and pieces," Santana replies, and tries to keep her mind off the fact that Brittany smells really, really good.
"You were fading in and out," Brittany continues, "I was afraid you had lost too much blood."
The edge of the rag drags across the wound, and Santana hisses in pain and looks down at her shoulder. She sees a neat set of stitches where the open wound once was.
"You did this?" Santana asks, reaching her right hand across to touch the tender skin around the stitches.
"Yeah," Brittany replies, "I have to patch up my dad and his friends all the time. It's just something that I've always done. Here's a robe so you don't get cold."
Santana swings her legs over the edge of the sofa and slips on the robe, a nice silk number, with a little help from Brittany, who ties the sash. Her hands come uncomfortably close to Santana's midsection, who has to remind herself of Quinn's threat as her breath hitches slightly at Brittany's proximity.
"Are you a nurse or something?"
Brittany smiles. "No, I'm not anything."
"Sure you are," Santana offers her best seductive smile, and she swears that she sees a blush on Brittany's face.
"Well," she offers, "I like to dance. I did ballet until a few years ago."
"Oh yeah?"
Brittany nods. "But I broke my ankle when I was 15 and haven't danced since." It's the first time that something akin to sadness creeps into Brittany's voice. For some reason, Santana is overcome with a desire to drive that sadness from her voice, so she changes the subject.
"Is that a Victrola in the corner?"
Brittany's face brightens up again. "Yeah. That was a birthday present from my father, do you want to hear something?"
Santana shrugs her one good shoulder as nonchalantly. "Whaddya got?"
"Stravinsky, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Bach, Robert Johnson, Blind Lemmon Jefferson, Frank Stoke…"
"Wait….hold on one minute…you listen to the Blues?" Santana asks.
"Sure," Brittany replies brightly. "It's good to dance to sometimes, and even better to listen to. Does that surprise you?"
Santana nods. "You just seem so proper. So….white."
Brittany lays a record, and then turns to wag a finger at her. "Blues isn't black or white, it's blue, Santana." Santana can only chuckle.
It's a Frank Stoke record, lively Memphis blues. And then Brittany begins to dance. She bobs her head, sways her hips to the music and moves her feet as if no one is there to watch her, and all Santana can do is stare in amazement. Soon, Brittany notices her staring, and holds out one hand as if inviting her.
"Dance with me," she says, and all Santana can do is stand and obey.
Santana isn't a very good dancer and she knows it, but that doesn't really matter as she twirls the blonde-haired girl with her one good arm and moves along with her to the bass and the guitars. Brittany is absolutely stunning. Graceful and gorgeous, she'd entrance anyone who saw her move like this, Santana was sure.
As they dance, Santana realizes that this doesn't make any sense. She's virtually a stranger, they don't even know each other's last names. They obviously come from different worlds, and yet, they seem to have more in common than first meets the eye. So Santana ignores the questions and just dances, because she's with a pretty girl and hell, she could be dead.
They dance and dance, until the record is done, and they are both gasping for breath.
"Ugh, I need some pain medication," Santana wheezes as she sits back down on the couch.
"I think Quinn has some aspirin in the bathroom, if you want some," says Brittany.
"I'd rather have a nice glass of whiskey," Santana admits. The statement was half-truth and half bait, she was eager to see Brittany's reaction.
But Brittany just shrugs. "I have a bottle here, but it's just rotgut shit. I think we'd have to go somewhere else to find good stuff."
This surprises Santana, but only slightly. Brittany doesn't seem to be fazed by her. Santana usually gets a thrill out of shocking girls, especially beautiful ones, but Brittany hasn't blinked an eye with her cussing or her unladylike speech. Plus, any girl who's willing to break out the juice at what must be noon-ish is pretty cool by her standards.
"Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose."
Brittany returns to the kitchen and comes back with a bottle and two glasses, then settles down on the couch next to Santana. She pours two drinks and offers one to the dark-haired girl. "Medicine, right?"
Santana takes the proffered glass with a grin. "Right." She holds up her glass. "Cheers."
"Cheers," replies Brittany, and they each down their drinks in one gulp.
Santana is starting to think that she really likes this girl.
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