A/N: Sorry about the wait. Real life things are happening. Busy busy busy.
Disclaimer: I don't own glee and all mistakes are mine.
Chapter 8.
Beep. Beep. Beep Beep. Beep Beep Beep.
Well, this is familiar.
You fumble for your phone, finger sliding across the screen to turn off the incredibly loud sound that is blaring out of it. It's five-fifteen in the evening, and you're groggy as hell after power-napping for an hour. Taking naps during the day has never been good for your attitude. You have a tendency to go from your normally incredibly shitty mood to something that people have nightmares about. At least that's what you like to think. Intimidation had always been your thing. In fact, the only person you've ever met that you have no power over whatsoever is Brittany. Brittany...OH SHIT! you think before scrambling out of bed.
The sudden movements give you a head rush as you stand up so you clutch the bridge of your nose as you try to clear the fogginess in your brain and remember what time you're picking her up. Oh, six forty-five. Big freakout and you've got an hour and a half. Smooth moves, Lopez. These thoughts bring you back to the last thing you'd been considering before passing out unceremoniously on your bed an hour earlier.
Brittany's taking you to Breadsticks. It's going to be just the two of you. She's paying but you're driving (she can't drive with a concussion and you're pretty sure she doesn't know how to anyway). Is this a fucking date or not?
In all honesty you'd like it to be, you really would. You're not about to scream that at the top of your lungs from the rooftops, but you've realized over the past few days that this stupid two-year crush has transformed. You've got...ugh...real feelings for her. And it scares you just a little bit. You'd always had this little mantra in the back of your head "it's better without feelings, nobody gets hurt. It's better without feelings nobod-" and you've repeated it often while hooking up with girls. Brittany's different than anyone you've ever met. To someone that doesn't know her she's a beautiful girl with a sweet smile and an eclectic fashion sense.
But to someone who does know her, to you, she's one a billion. Just the fact that you feel like you really know her after less than a week is proof enough that she matters to you. You've had a lot of friends in your time despite the fact that you're always trying to push everyone away. You've known a lot of people, you're surrounded by them constantly, but Brittany stands out. She can light up a room with just a twirl or a smile, and she can befriend anyone with just a few words. The two of you have this strange thing going on, something that you're having trouble defining due to the one important thing.
You're not used to other girls being the ones to kiss you first, so when she kissed you on Saturday night it was sort of the most amazing thing to happen to you, but also the scariest. You wanted to talk to her about it more today, but you got so distracted at the Diner by everything that was Quinn and that crazy woman April Rhodes. As far as you're concerned, one kiss does not consecrate a relationship, at least not the kind of relationship you want. And realizing that is what's scary because you don't do relationships, you can hardly even handle friends recently.
What you want to have with Brittany is something you're pretty sure you'll never get. It's not like it matters anyway because you'll both be graduating the first week of June, and you've honestly got no idea where she's going to college, and chances are it's not in any of the places you've got lined up as possibilities. Your thoughts are getting more and more bitter as each moment passes, and it's almost a relief when your phone buzzes and pulls you out of your darkness.
It's from Quinn and at first you're confused but then you remember her getting your number on Saturday so that she could text you. You shake your head as you think about how quickly Brittany and everything that comes with her had invaded your life, and then you unlock the message. The contents cause a feeling in your chest that must be similar to cardiac arrest. You have to read it again. And again.
Santana. B is very much so considering this a date. She's been calling it that all day. Don't fuck up.
This is a date. It's an honest to God date. This has officially become a big deal. Well, it was always a big deal but now it's huge. There's something that not a lot of people know about you, besides your parents of course. Puck may have speculated about it in the past, but you've never told anybody. In all of your eighteen years of existence, you've never once been on a real date.
So, of course, now is the moment that you're finally getting around to doing that thing you've not had the chance to do, well, ever. And that would be standing in front of your open closet doors, clothes everywhere, freaking the fuck out. You pull out pants, skirts, dresses. None of them seem to look right or make the statement you want to make to Brittany. Problem is, you're not quite sure what you want that statement to be.
Temporarily defeated, you retreat to the bathroom to shower because it will hopefully clear your head. The shower helps a little and the color you see when you close your eyes fades from an angry red to a calming blue. It seems that blue had been playing a significant role in your life as of late, seeing how it totally defines everything that is Brittany. Well, she's more like a happy mixture of blue and yellow, so does that mean her color is green? No, no, definitely blue. That would make your color red, definitely, but you already knew that. Besides, red looks great with blue. And just like that, you know what you're going to wear.
After two minutes of checking yourself out in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, you're satisfied with your sexiness and you return to toweling off. You go back to your closet and pull out the outfit of choice, laying it all out so that you can put it on after you get ready the rest of the way.
Forty-five minutes later you're ready, and you're back in front of the mirror. The reflection staring back at you is definitely satisfactory. Your hair is brushed over to one side of your neck and curled ever-so-slightly giving it the "Hollywood" look you perfected while bored over Christmas break. You've got a long-sleeved white shirt on with horizontal black stripes. It's a little long but you love that because it looks so much better tucked into your fire hydrant-red skinny jeans, a dark brown leather belt looped through the belt loops. You opted for black high heels to class the whole thing up a little bit. A brown leather jacket completes the entire outfit because even though it's mild outside when compared to recent weather, it's still fucking cold.
Seeing yourself looking so good temporarily eases the pre-date (holy shit) jitters. You put on your best "confident" face in the mirror before grabbing your keys and heading downstairs. Even if she's the one paying, you're driving and you still think it chivalrous to arrive early.
With that in mind you're back to freaking out because Santana Lopez is not chivalrous. Santana Lopez is supposed to be a fucking lady-player who can get any girl she wants, do whatever she wants, and then discard them before they can discard her. You actually hate being nice to other girls despite the fact that you're attracted to them exclusively. You'd prefer most of your scandalous encounters to go down without eye-contact if at all possible.
But it's different with Brittany. Hence the chivalry. That's what you tell yourself as you put the car in gear to pick her up, then begin to freak out. Again.
A lap around her block later you finally manage to actually park the car outside of her house and get out. Your nerves have left you five minutes early instead of ten, but that's probably okay because Brittany seems to follow a general trend of taking forever when it comes to this type of thing, whatever "this type of thing" is supposed to be.
When you ring the doorbell you hear footsteps that while light, aren't light enough to be Brittany's. It's crazy how you've come to pick up on this sort of thing, but that's life. Luckily your observations allow for you to remain relatively unfazed when Susan Pierce opens the door, the "relatively" being a necessary addition because she's smiling incredibly brightly and it sort of creeps you out.
"Good evening, Santana." she says, still grinning. You return her greeting politely, remembering to address her by her first name and earning yourself another brilliant smile and a little clap. She seems so damned happy and it reminds you of Brittany this afternoon. They share a lot of similarities and you can't help but wonder if their family is the type where each new generation is a better version of the old model. It's not that Susan is lacking in good traits, her daughter just happens to be perfect. Your mind wanders for a moment as you wonder what Brittany's kids will be like, but that thought sort of weirds you out so you shake it off.
Susan drags you inside and you tense up a little, getting nervous again. Of course that is just before she opens her mouth, shouting up the stairs to where Brittany must be.
"Honey, your hot date is here! Hurry on down!"
She shoots you a wink and you could actually die. Brittany told her mom. Her mom. You weren't even comfortable with her damned cat knowing, let alone Quinn, let alone the woman that feeds and clothes and protects her. And you're positive that the older blonde Pierce wasn't just joking, because she may seem unfazed but her eyes have been carefully judging you throughout the entire ordeal, despite the smiles and the little claps. You hear muffled sounds coming from Brittany upstairs, which you guess is her trying to tell you it'll be just a moment without yelling and giving herself a headache.
You turn your attention from the stairs to Susan, deciding that now is as good a time as ever to get past this whole awkward "I'm going on a date with your daughter" thing.
"Are you sure you're cool with this?" you ask hesitantly, hoping for a positive answer but preparing for the worst. She reaches out and touches your arm and you're careful not to freeze. You really don't like people touching you without permission.
"Of course I am, sweetie. She got plenty of sleep last night and I didn't feel like cooking anyway. Besides, you've been so good to her, I won't let you pay." It's obvious to you that she's skirting around the subject that you were trying to get at, probably in an attempt to make you more comfortable, these Pierce women are too nice. Unfortunately for her, you're not having any of it.
"I meant, like, this. Not many parents around here are too happy with me just being around their daughters, let alone taking them to dinner." It's true, though. Since you came out your parents and the school have received multiple e-mails stating that they want it made entirely clear that their children are off-limits to you. Since then you've fucked most of those "children", and there were definitely no complaints coming from them.
"Oh honey that's simply ridiculous. I remember the day that Brittany came to me, frustrated as I've ever seen her, crying because she couldn't decide if she'd rather marry Barbie or Ken if they came to life like Tyra Banks in that awful movie. I think whoever makes her happy is best for her. I may have just met you, Santana Lopez, but you make her smile, and you've been so incredibly kind. I couldn't be more satisfied with her choice." She rubs your elbow where her hand has remained throughout the conversation. Being touchy-feely seems to run in their family. Usually you'd be uncomfortable but you feel yourself relax, although that feeling may be coming from her acceptance.
You can't believe she thinks you're "Kind", as that is usually the antonym of words used to describe you. Then again she has only encountered you around Brittany, someone who seems to bring out the best in you. You hear a noise on the stairs and Susan's hand drops as you turn to see Brittany descending, graceful as ever.
She's wearing a pair of dark-wash jeans and a plain tee shirt underneath a sunny yellow cardigan. She's casual and smiling and shining like the sun that is still not quite totally set, as Sunday was the day that you and the rest of the country "sprung forward" (and the rest of the world for all you know, you only care that you lost and hour of sleep).
She continues down the stairs and gives her mother a quick peck on the cheek, exchanging a few short words about curfew and you're forced to promise to get her home soon. You hold open the door for her and watch her as she walks down the concrete and towards your car. You're not leering, just making sure she's okay.
If there's one thing you've learned, it's to never trust anyone with a head injury when they're walking, as the dizziness tends to land them flat on their ass. Then you realize that it's Brittany. Brittany never falls down, never stumbles, never stutters in her step. She may not glide like Quinn (the way that girl moves sort of freaks you out) but she is certainly not lumbering along like some of the absolute trolls that inhabit your school.
You make it to your car in a silence that lasts until after you've both fastened your seatbelts and are a couple blocks away from the Pierce residence when you can feel Brittany's eyes on you. You glance at one of your mirrors to see that she's eyeing you with this sort of guilt-filled grin, like the cat ate the canary or some shit. That phrase always reminded you of innuendo and now your minds in the gutter and you're blushing. She takes this as a cue to speak.
"Sorry for tricking you." she says, in a voice that tells you that she's not really sorry, she most likely thinks that her plan was both genius and hilarious but she's trying to be polite. You don't mind.
"I don't mind." You reply, surprised that it's an honest answer, and another glance in the mirror tells you that she approves of your response. You're trying to keeps your eyes on the road.
The silence envelops you two again, but it isn't awkward this time. It's more of a comfortable thing. It almost reminds you of the silences that grace the time you spend with Puck. They're the sort of quiet spells that can only be shared by people that understand each other so well that there is literally no need for conversation.
You'd like to think that it can become that way with Brittany. Although you also enjoy hearing her voice, the bubbling laugh, the silly little points she adds on to the end of each nonsensical thought she voices. It's a sort of reassurance. When you're having a conversation with your other friends it always seems a bit forced, like your daily interactions with Kurt and Mike or the pleasantries you exchange with Emma each day when you report for "duty".
The silence is so easy that you don't even realize it when you've pulled up outside of Breadsticks. It's probably the years of autopilot and the sort of magnetic pull this place has on you. You hop out, walking quickly around the car to open Brittany's door for her before she can even finish unbuckling her seatbelt.
She smiles and thanks you, and you feel a rush as she takes the hand you extend to her even though she would most-likely make a more graceful exit by herself. When she's out of the car and you've plugged the meter (well, you hand her the coins because she demands to do it, smiling happily as the time continues to rise and rise on the little display) the two of you just sort of stand there on the sidewalk for a moment.
The sun is setting now, and it reflects in the colors that the two of you are wearing. Brittany stands less than a foot away from you and stares into the distance where the sun is slowly sinking lower, a ball of fire dropping below the tree line. A cool breeze blows through, rustling the still-bare branches and making Brittany shiver.
You take this as an excuse to wrap your arm around her waist, walking closer to her than you ever have as you enter the restaurant side by side.
The waitress shoots the two of you a disapproving look, but you just fire back with you equally (if not more) impressive stinkeye. She's an old bag of a woman but she's worked there for ages and the two of you have never gotten along. It doesn't help that once she realized why you were always taking girls there she started to mix up your order and put weird things in your food. She better not try that shit tonight.
You manage to nab a table for two in the back, but you've still got a clear view of the window so you can watch the sun set. You've always had a thing for sunsets because you and Puck used to drive out to the golf course on summer evenings with a six-pack of beer and a couple of clubs and hit ball after ball into the orange and red sky. Tonight the colors are deeper, with burgundy and purple making appearances, as if someone had spilled wine across the pale grey-blue canvas that had been present earlier.
"Beautiful." You hear her whisper, and you nod in agreement and turn to her, only she's not looking out the window, but at you. You quirk an eyebrow simply out of habit, confused.
She just sighs and continues her thought. "Whenever I used to see you, you always used to look kinda pale even though you have dark skin. At the bus stop and at the party, you were terrified, and at my game and in the training room, you looked exhausted and stressed-out. But now the sun's hitting your cheeks just right and they look red and dark and gorgeous, like a cinnamon roll combined with an apple, super-sweet."
And now she's got you blushing, and your people don't even blush (or that's what you've been telling everyone for years). You bow your head, suddenly feeling humbled by her eloquent words. Brittany seems to have a sort of quirk about her, one where she may say silly things all the time to lighten the mood, but she had these emotional, intelligent insights that are nothing short of genius. Brittany just seems to know people, know them in a way you're sure you never could. You don't like people enough.
She takes your hands quickly and sneakily, the same way she always does everything, and asks if it's okay. You say it's fine of course because in your opinion it's more than ok, it's the best feeling ever.
You're not sure if this is the right thing to say or the right moment or if it will make things incredibly awkward forever and ever, but you feel like it's only right to tell her.
"This is my first date with a girl that I've been genuinely interested in, like, ever." You let out sheepishly, looking down at the table and at your interlaced fingers, mentally going over the bones and joints and muscles. It's how you distract yourself from the horribly lame admission you just made.
"It's mine too, you know, with a girl." She says, instantly making you feel better even though that was sort of obvious for a town like this.
You find yourselves staring at each other, just smiling in the happiness of the moment until you're interrupted by a plate of steaming pasta. She insisted on ordering even though she's paying, something that would normally be considered insensitive but you let it go because a twinkle in her bright blue eyes told you that she has some sort of plan.
You're a little disappointed when you discover that the plan isn't as devious as you'd hoped, but it makes your day anyway.
The two of you spend the meal making light, easy, drama-free conversation. You joke about Rachel and Quinn and whatever the hell they have in common that allows them to be friends. You smile as she tells you stories of epic soccer battles and you relish her horrified looks as you recount some interesting experiences you've had at wrestling meets.
You don't even realize that there's one meatball left on the plate until you both reach for it at the same time. You're frozen because the twinkle in her eye is back again and you vaguely remember her mentioning something about the classic Disney scene and you have your fingers crossed that she wasn't serious (because the two of you have already drawn enough attention, what with your outrageous girl-on-girl handholding).
Unfortunately (or fortunately?) she was deadly serious because suddenly she's got her head bowed and is literally pushing the last meatball across the bed of pasta, using only the tip of her nose. It explains why she mysteriously tied her hair up a minute ago in anticipation and although it is a little embarrassing (and socially traumatizing) she looks ecstatic and you've got the last meatball.
You're about to pick up your fork when your eyes are drawn back to her nose where something far more delicious is stealing your attention. Using two fingers, you reach across the space in between the two of you and swipe the little bit of sauce that ended up on her nose, licking it off your fingers and enjoying the squeal that you actions elicit from her.
"Sannn! That's gross!" she giggles, wiping at her face with a napkin.
"Says the girl that just used her nose to serve me food." You counter, and she puts up her hands in a way that says "you got me".
"For the record," you add, leaning across the table, "I love being served by your nose." And you squeeze your eyes shut as you press a quick peck to the tip of her nose.
You feel a ridiculous little rush go through you as you plop back into your seat across from her at the comically small table, brushing your bangs aside with a shake of your head and smiling at her.
She smiles back, showing some teeth and never breaking eye contact with you, ever bold in her expressions of happiness. The meal continues like that, until you're too stuffed from the 'sticks and the pasta and you have to reuse her offer to split some cheesecake. When the horrible waitress-woman brings the check, you have to resist the urge to snatch it away from Brittany's hands and pay for the meal. Something about her just makes you want to treat her well. It's not like she needs to be taken care of (even though everyone calls her childish, you know that she's very capable), you just like being nice to her.
And that's a strange thought, that actually enjoying being kind. Sure, you get around thirty hours of "community service" a week due to your volunteer position, and you're technically doing something nice for someone every time you tape them up or make them a bag of ice, but outside of the training room there's nothing stopping you from being totally impartial towards Brittany.
So it's fascinating that after years of ignoring advances (yes, most of them were from guys and you're just not interested, although perhaps a little flattered) you've finally decided to be nice to someone, and she just happens to be your favorite person you've met, well, ever, and that is something coming from you because your second favorite person is a mohawked manwhore who has a strange aversion to wearing pants.
Once Brittany happily pays for the meal, thanking bitch-server and returning the napkin you hadn't realized she'd unfolded (see, she's mature) to the table, the two of you take your leave. Back in the day (a year ago, maybe) Puck was always trying to get you to dine and dash with him. You actually did it a couple of times but you love the food here too much to risk being banned. The only place you're willing to dine and dash now is at IHOP, and those are everywhere these days. Speaking of the "House of Pancakes", you decide you're going to have to take Brittany there pretty soon because you get a feeling she'd have a field day with all the sugary treats.
The sun has now set and it's eerily quiet on the streets of Lima. Of course, it is nearly nine PM on a Monday night and the town isn't exactly a metropolis, but the silence is a little foreboding. You're glad when Brittany turns the radio on, singing softly and grabbing your right hand, squeezing it in perfect time to the beat. It's one of those moments that you're glad you were born a leftie and can therefore drive confidently while holding her hand.
When you start to near her house, she stops squeezing, opting to instead trace circles around you knuckles and hum softly. It's nice that she's realized that you're an easily distracted driver. It's probably due to the fact that your mind tends to wander so often when you get behind the wheel that it's hard to think, hold a conversation, and drive all at the same time.
When you reach her block, the hand tightens again, silently signaling that she doesn't want to go as much as you don't want to leave her. But you'll be damned if you break Susan Pierce's rules straight from the getgo (even if breaking rules is fun), so you pull the car up slowly and turn towards her.
"Doorstep kisses are cliché." She says plainly, before taking you completely by surprise and leaning in, pressing her lips to yours for a few blissful moments, searching for a way to say "goodbye" at the same time as expressing so much more. Without a word, she backs away (smiling, of course) and hops out of your car, bounding towards her front door.
She turns for just a moment while unlocking to house, and you suddenly find the ability to speak has once again become a part of your repertoire.
"Front seat kisses are too!" you call, and she lets out a laugh before ducking into the house, leaving you to wonder how you fell so fast for Brittany S. Pierce.
So that chapter took forever to write. It was written, I hated it with a passion, I scratched it and rewrote it, and now I hate it slightly less. The "F" key on my computer is broken for those of you that didn't already know, so that's a problem that had been pissing me off. Not much else to say except that next chapter is a fun surprise (can you guess it?) and I'm thankful to those of you who've stuck it out with me through my nonsense of an updating schedule. Spring break approaches. Yes.
PLEASE REVIEW (and favorite?)
