To Khau, you're very welcome. Most of the time I'm at work, jotting down little ideas for this fic as they come to me. I'm stoked that you're vibing it, and thank you for commenting : )

To Blueskkies, lmao! Your review had me rolling like a bowling ball. Though, next time you can leave out the ellipses, and just type the whole swear word ; ) I love me some foul language. Gives life a little flavor :P Thanks for commenting.

To shine90, I LOVE YOU FOR LOVING THIS FIC! *hugs* The pacing's gotta be right, or the story would fall flat on its ass, and I'd lose interest in writing it. I stepped it up just a tiny bit in this chapter though ; ) Thanks for taking the time to comment : )

To Catbast, Hey. Thanks for showing this story such love! I went on ahead and checked out that song you recommended, and it made me giggle to think that a story I'm writing could influence what a person sees and how a person feels when they put on a piece of music. It was a badass song, and just you saying that somewhat tells me that I'm getting the American slang right ; )

Finally, I just want to express my thanks to everyone showing this fic love through reviews, favoriting and alerts. It's very flattering, if not a little daunting. But definitely more flattering.

I had so much fun writing this. I hope you guys enjoy this too ; )

Chapter Seven

She walks in with her head bowed, bag on her shoulder as she weaves quick steps through the tables and chairs.

"You're late!"

Santana halts, lifting her head up in the direction of her manager's bark. She sighs, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, and you're fat and ugly," she shrugs. "What's it gonna be? I can keep this up all night, Barry."

The short, round, man flicks on the neon green light over the bar, everything within its reach suddenly floating in a serene glow. He drags the cloth in his grasp over the bar's counter, and straightens up the box of straws, sighing lengthily at the small Latina with a somewhat stern stare that's coming from under his eyelids. "You gotta stop being late," he says.

Santana stands there, folds her arms. "And you gotta stop bein' fat and ugly." She deadpans, shrugging a shoulder. "How 'bout that, huh?"

"If you're comin' in here like this tonight, you can turn," he swirls his finger in the air, "right back around again, and go home. The customers just wanna have a good time. They don't wanna have to deal with whatever bullshit you've got goin' on in your life at the moment, understand?"

"Jesus!" Santana throws her wrist out, and gives the silver hanging from it a begrudged glance. "I'm ten minutes late, Barry. Get off my dick."

Barry just rolls his eyes, and boredly gestures a thumb over his hill of a shoulder. "Go throw your hair up and put your stuff in the back. We open in fifteen minutes."

"Go throw your hair up, Barry – whoops, you don't have any," she jibes, blowing a taunting kiss as she walks past. "Bald, fat and ugly," she adds as an afterthought.

"Yeah, yeah, you little midget," he somewhat affectionately calls back, "and bring some more glasses out as well, or I'll fire your little ass."

"Suck my dick!" he hears her muffle from the narrow hallway which leads into the wine cellar.

Barry smirks, and flicks on the neon lilac light under the bar, telling himself: "Santana Lopez. Can't do with her, can't do without her."


"Ok...GO!"

In a Mexican wave of sorts, Brittany throws a shot of honey rum down her throat, followed by Kurt, and then Blaine, each empty glass hitting the table again a short succession of seconds later in that exact order.

It takes a moment for the alcohol's kick to register, and when it does that split second later, all three either rapidly drum the soles of their feet against the floor or flail their hands, grimacing as the intense brown liquid sears down their throats and warms their insides.

Blaine's the first to clutch his chest, an unrelenting cough thundering through his torso. "Wow, t-that's s-strong!" He whips his head to the side repeatedly, as if to shake off the discomfort of it all, and blinks away the sparkles of moisture growing in the corners of his eyes.

Through his own struggles, Kurt leans over, and rubs a slow hand up and down his boyfriend's back. "Are you ok?" he coughs.

"I will..." – Blaine suddenly jerks forward into a cough which rattles his tonsils and sees his entire face fluster a blood crimson, before trying that sentence again – "I will..." he swallows, "be."

"Deep breaths honey," Kurt advises through a deeply etched frown, his chest visibly heaving up and down through his thin red shirt. He then slowly turns his head to see whether Brittany's still alive or not.

"Bottoms up," she sing-songs, shaking another two full shot glasses at them, the dark liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim of each glass.

Kurt just gulps.

Blaine just blinks...

In quiet giggle, Brittany eventually lowers the two glasses to the table, and waves her two horrified friends off. "I'm just screwing with you guys." She finally lets a few splutters of her own loose then, and clutches her lower stomach, straightening her back against the chair as she rubs soothing circles into her abs, whilst wearing a slight wince. "Now, that stuff'll get rid of your cold if praying to a unicorn won't."

Nobody hears Artie wheel himself into the lounge just then, what with Slum Village's 'Fall in Love' softly floating out of the stereo's speakers. Everybody just hears: "For the love of God, will you guys keep it down? I have a disastrous headache, and your pre-club session isn't helping!"

Brittany quickly stands, reaches over and twists the stereo's volume knob. The chilled song soars even louder for a moment, before she fumbles to twist the knob the other way, smoothing the hand with the offensive judgment down her thigh. "Sorry Artie. We'll keep it down."

"Yeah, sorry Artie," Blaine offers, casting his eyes down at the couch, if not for anything else but to avoid the awkwardness.

"Yeah…" Kurt says, purely because everybody else has, though the moment Artie spins around and wheels himself back down the small hallway, grumpily batting one of the Christmas decorations out of his way, Kurt can't help the laughter that bubbles in his throat.

Brittany drops back down into the arm chair, folding her leg underneath herself as she bends forward to grab her Budweiser from earlier. She gazes into the bottle's black hole, blinking into it. "Don't laugh, Kurt," she mumbles, "I'm worried about him."

"Oh?" Blaine frowns, unconsciously leaning a little over towards her as if to lend an ear.

"Yeah, he's been upset for a few days now. This morning he told me to stop talking about Santana."

Blaine and Kurt throw each other a knowing look.

"I mean, he's eventually gonna have to get used to her if she's gonna be coming round to spend movie nights here with me. I mean, I could try to keep her in my room, but what if she wants a drink in the middle of the night, and he's still up watching Glee or something?" She glances her concerned sapphire orbs between her two friends, as though this is the most crippling problem in the world to her.

"…You know, Brittany," Kurt cautiously begins – spluttering to a stop when his boyfriend nudges him. "Ow!"

"Right then!" Blaine stands, nods towards the front door. "I think we should head down to the club now guys. What do you say?"

Brittany's forehead twists beneath her golden bangs. "Wait, what were you about to say, Kurt?"

"Who, me?" he points to his chest, glancing around as if Brittany's got the wrong person. "Nothing." He shakes his head and puts up a smile. "I wasn't about to say anything."

"Come on guys!" Blaine gestures for them to stand up, making a shooing motion towards the front door. "Let's go get even drunker than we already are."

Brittany holds a halting finger up at him, and lifts her bottle to her lips, the cartilage inside of her pale throat visibly oscillating with each gulp...

"Well that's a monster of a burp waiting to happen," Kurt notes.


He snatches her bicep and tries to pull her away from the bar, but she resists, ripping her arm back and mouthing hostile profanities at him in what would appear to be a silent movie to all those busting out to the music thumping through the small establishment.

It's the third time tonight that Santana's seen him giving this girl hassle. "Alright, I've seen enough of this fool." She slides another customer their drink, and grabs the bat leaning up behind the bar, shuffling past her two colleagues towards the troublesome couple.

"Hey!" She brings the bat's head down, hard, on the counter, then points it square between this guy's brows, her glare pure steel as she nods her head towards the exit. "Take your ass home, or they're gonna have to take you to the hospital. Your choice."

He immediately refrains from grabbing on the woman, and goes cross-eyed peering up at the cold object pressed to his forehead. A second later he refocuses his inebriated gaze on Santana, who tilts her head to the side and lifts him a challenging brow.

On wobbly feet, he steps back, throwing his arms out to the sides in a plea of innocence. "What did I do?" he shouts, voice attempting to contest the loud song. "I wasn't doing anything!"

"Alright." Santana flexes her neck from side to side, and rolls her shoulders, securing both of her hands around the bat, and just when she winds it back over her shoulder, ready to swing like she's never swung before, she feels a firm tug from behind.

"Give me that," Barry says, taking the weapon. He clicks his thumb and middle finger together in the air, motioning Joe and Andy over towards the guy who's causing a problem.

Santana shoves her manager in the chest, not hard, but just enough for him to know that there's a fire blazing somewhere within her small frame. "Why'd you do that? I was just about to take his head clean off of his shoulders."

"Precisely," Barry says, setting the bat down by the till. "Next time get Joe and Andy over. That's what they're paid for, Santana. Go on, go cool off in the back."

She rolls her eyes and stomps off, bumping one of the other barmaids, hard, on the way without ever turning back to apologize.

"Did you just see that?" Carla asks, throwing incredulous glances after the Latina as she steadies the drinks in her hand. She slowly shakes her head at Barry. "You gotta do somethin' about her."

"She's like family," he shrugs, his thick, unkept, brows knitting apologetically, "I can't fire her."

Carla just rolls her eyes, and makes towards the blur of faces crowding at the other side of the bar...

.

.

Twenty minutes limp on by before Santana decides to re-emerge. Straight away she notices the tightly packed crowd gyrating on the dance floor, some fist-pumping, some cheering, and others with their fingers in their mouths, attempting a whistle, as the rainbow of strobe lights flicker above.

Somebody suddenly nudges her out of her reverie. She looks to her side to see her fellow bartender, Daniel, grinning and pointing his finger at the crowd over on the dance floor. "Check out this chick's moves. She's sik!"

As if by design, the crowd suddenly seems to part, revealing a tall blonde; her skilled limbs popping and locking at the fading song's every turn.

Santana's face instantly drops, and then she slowly glares up at the ceiling. "Seriously, what the fuck did I do to deserve this? Answer me, ass-wipe!"

She doesn't hear God whisper back, "What you've done is deny who you are."

Nobody does.

Through a squinted glare, Santana maneuvers her eyes up and down Brittany's tall and slender frame, watching her wind her hips slow and provocatively under the twitching lights, like nothing else matters, like nobody's watching...

"See somethin' you like?" Daniel playfully nudges her with a wink. "I sure as hell do!"

She transfers her demonic glare to him, folds her arms. "You know what?" she sighs, "go get fucked, Daniel. Seriously."

He slings the bar cloth over his shoulder and throws his hands up. "Hey, I'm just kidding, San."

"Firstly, don't call me San like we're tight. Secondly, don't kid around with me, like we're tight. You'll end up losing a ball, and nobody's gonna be laughin' when you can't have kids in ten years time, 'cept me. We clear?"

He merely gulps, and squeaks, "Crystal."

"Good."

She senses a customer's presence then, and turns around to take the order, momentarily freezing when her eyes meet a certain sapphire blue.

Brittany merrily drums her fingertips on the bar's counter, still breathing somewhat heavily. She ruffles the darkened bangs sticking to her pale forehead and drags the back of her hand across the damp skin beneath the golden strands. "Hey Santana," she chirps, giving a small wave and a flustered-faced grin.

She's never seen Santana like this before; deep red lipstick adorning her full lips, hair pulled back off of her beautiful face in a neat bun, with but a few stray strands lingering from her v-shaped hairline. Brittany watches how the extravagant silver earrings hooped through the Latina's ears jingle a little as she breathes, and there's nothing left of the blonde's vocabulary in that moment, except an awe-glazed: "Wow, you look so, so beautiful."

"Alright, that's it!" Santana nudges Daniel out of the way, and looks from one end of the bar to the other, brow furrowed. "Where the fuck did I put that God damn bat?"

Brittany rises up off of the bar stool, glancing around for this bat that Santana seems to covet so much. She gives up after a while and resumes her seat in slight pout. "I'm sorry; I can't see it anywhere – wait, what are you gonna do with a bat? Are you gonna swing my way, Santana?" she smirks, goofily.

The Latina ceases her search, nods her head back slightly, and frowns all the way down to her soul, because working out whether Brittany's throwing sexual innuendo, or whether she's just tipsy and talking her usual nonsense is damn near impossible. She eventually shakes her head, giving up on that exhausting puzzle, before she rests both hands flat to the bar-top, and leans towards the blonde like she means business. "I'm sick and tired of you. I'm sick of seeing your face, sick of hearing your voice, and I'm tired of hearing the stupid shit that comes outta your mouth."

"I'm not stup–"

"Be quiet!" Santana holds up a stern silencing finger. "Now I don't know how you found out that I work here, but we're gonna," she nods, like it's final, "come to some sort of agreement to where you keep the fuck away from me, and I keep the fuck away from you, otherwise we're going to war. War means I'm coming for you; it means I'm comin' for your family, your friends – hell, even your damn pets. You really don't wanna go to war with me. Am I making myself clear, Brittany?"

Shrugging a sluggish shoulder, Brittany begins to twirl the umbrella belonging to one of the abandoned cocktail glasses resting on the counter. "But, I'm not afraid of you, Santana," she mumbles, voice soft but still decipherable.

"Yeah?" Santana throws her head back in sinister chuckle, exposing her smooth caramel neck for a second, before deliberately deadpanning. "You should be."

"I've tried," Brittany continues, lips protruding in the beginning of a pout, "and you're just..." she shrugs, almost helplessly, "too cute." Her eyes flicker up from the cocktail glass, and they hold Santana's in a boundless moment that seems to exist just outside of space and time...

Just then, Kurt slings a floppy arm around Brittany's shoulder. "Whew!" He grins, wiping the sheen of moisture from his forehead. "Those toilets were surprisingly clean, and they smell fierce darling – not that they will when Blaine gets done in there," he giggles, squeezing the blonde affectionately.

Santana gives this man, or boy rather – she hasn't quite worked it out yet – the once over, and leans back into her own space, slipping her lopsided mask back into place. "More fags!" she spits. "Just what this place needs."

Kurt looks up, pressing a horrified hand to his chest as he watches the small tan woman skulk off to the other end of the bar to serve a hailing customer. "Oh my God, what a complete bitch!"

"Hey," Brittany frowns, slurring, "please don't call her that."

He lets his arm fall away from her shoulders. "So she's allowed to call me a fag and get off Scott-free, but when I call her a bitch, you're frowning?" He folds his arms, awaiting an answer.

"She's just afraid, Kurt. She doesn't," she shakes her head, "she doesn't mean it."

Kurt glances down to the far end of the bar, and clocks Santana giving him the most hostile glare. "Oh, I'm pretty sure that demon means it, Britt. I think you need to stay away from this one."

"But…" She continues to stir the small umbrella, blinking down into the empty glass, "I really like her."

"What!" – he slings an obvious hand at the Latina – "is to like about that? You're thinking with your lady parts, and it's going to get you into all kinds of trouble."

Brittany says nothing, just continues to stir the umbrella…

"Hey," Kurt slowly rubs his palm down her back. "I just don't wanna see you get hurt, Britt."

"She's not gonna hurt me. She really likes me too."

Kurt scoffs, not that Brittany hears it with the new song that's starting up. "How can you tell?" he asks. "You could have anybody you want, honey. She's an emotional danger zone."

He knows Brittany well, knows that when they were in high school and Algebra was frying her brain cells, she didn't give up – wouldn't! She's the strongest woman he knows. Gentle but strong. The combination makes for unshakable will. Kurt knows this, and so he eventually throws his hands up in surrender. "Alright, well I know you won't give up. So, just be cautious, Ok?"

"Don't you mean careful?"

"They both mean the same thing, Britt."

"Oh."

"Now, let's get ourselves another drink." He drums both of his hand's knuckles to the bar-top. "Something strong."

.

.

.

Come the end of her shift, Santana waves Andy and Joe goodbye, and pulls her coat around her body, stepping out into the cold night. She immediately sees Brittany sat on the curb, watching traffic whizz back and forth, and tries to sneak off, but the pesky clickity-clack of her heels alerts the blonde.

"I really didn't like the way you spoke to my friend tonight," Brittany says, hot on the Latina's trail.

Santana quickens her step and rolls her eyes, hiking her purse higher up on her shoulder. "Like I give a shit."

"That's what you want me to think – that you don't care! You don't fool me, Santana. Everybody thinks I'm stupid, but I'm not!"

Santana halts her step as Brittany's slightly heated bark registers. She spins around, a spiteful smirk etched into the corner of her mouth as she presses her palm to the blonde's shoulder and shoves her back. "Well someone's brave now that they've gotten a few more drinks into their system. Go on, Britt-Britt," she whispers, slowly walking up on the slightly wobbly woman. "Raise your voice at me again. I dare you."

Brittany just rolls her eyes. "Grow some lady balls, and kiss me again. I dare you," she counters, and just like that Santana feels the upper-hand slipping from her grasp, because of all things she wasn't expecting that.

She blinks a few times, gathering herself. "If I kiss you, I'm gonna pull away with your bottom lip between my teeth, and you're gonna be headed for the hospital. How 'bout that?"

With a sigh, and a disappointed shake of the head, Brittany just steps past the shorter woman. "Bye Santana."

Santana spends the next few moments blinking to herself in deep frown. "No!" she suddenly spits, spinning around and throwing an aggressive hand around Brittany's porcelain wrist. She yanks her back so that they're nose to nose. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" Her body trembles; she's heated for reasons even she doesn't understand now.

"I'm Brittany S Pierce," the blonde responds, face blank. "Who are you, besides this unbelievably awesome woman, who keeps banging her head up against society's judgments?"

They stare at one another in a tense, precarious, moment…

It's sudden, so sudden, how Santana then clutches the back of Brittany's head and catches the taller woman's lips sideways, slowly twisting her tan neck into the kiss, before gently pulling away, their lips separating with a small popping noise. Her forehead crumples as she flickers her dark coffee hues from the blonde's crystal-blue eyes to her flushed rose-pink lips. She then leans in for the second time, but Brittany presses a preventative hand to her chest, gently pushing her away.

"No. I'm so mad at you right now. You have no idea what Kurt's had to deal with, just for being himself, yet you called him that awful name," she scolds, voice thin and worn as if that fact pains her down to her very soul. "So," Brittany sighs and looks to the pavement, quietly murmuring, "take care of yourself, Santana."

When Brittany walks away this time, Santana lets her…


If you're into Neo-Soul, old school, type hip hop, you should probably check out the song which was playing in the scene with Britt, Kurt, Blaine, and Artie. It's called 'Fall in Love' by Slum Village. Beautiful masterpiece of a tune it is. RIP J-Dilla.

As always, thoughts? And thanks for reading.