A/N: And I'm back, after a long time away, which I am very sorry for. I needed a break from Glee, though, because I kept getting distracted by other fandoms which was not proving good for writing this story. But now I'm back and ready to continue on with Pieces, also to attempt to read the 21 pages of Santana fanfictions that have built up during my absence (I'm not really sure how I'm going to get through them all). Anyway, this is sort of a two-parter and Brittany does make an appearance as promised. She will also be in the next chapter, though unfortunately she hasn't come back to Lima yet. It's also not my best chapter but i'm going to try and make the next one better. I hope you like it anyway.
Also, thankyou so, so much to all the reviews you guys have made, they mean so much to me. I haven't really replied to any of them like I normally would but I want you to know that I really appreciate them despite my laziness. J
"One's first step in wisdom is to question everything - and one's last is to come to terms with everything."- Georg C. Lichtenberg
...
Quinn frowns down at the tea cup in her hands, willing herself to plough through the sleep induced haze, which has been hanging around since waking up that morning, in order to at least try and raise the cup to her lips and take a sip. No such luck. She's exhausted, completely and utterly, though she thinks she should hardly be surprised by that after only getting an hour and a half's sleep. Thankyou, Santana.
Immediately, the blonde feels guilty for the thought but can hardly bring up enough energy to care. She's too tired right now to restrict her thoughts and be the understanding Mother Theresa that she vowed to herself last night to be. Groaning and closing her eyes, Quinn leans back against the kitchen counter, very nearly falling asleep in the process. She almost wants to.
Maybe she should just stay home from school today.
But then she would have to spend the rest of the day around Santana and, as bad as it sounds, she doesn't think she can take that right now. As much as the blonde wants to keep an eye on her friend, emotionally and even physically she really just doesn't think she's up to it. Any form of communication she would have with the Latina she knows would be exhausting and stressful at best, two things that she certainly already has in the bucket loads and is unable to take any more of.
Plus, she spent a good hour last night trying to comfort Liv, who was anything but understanding to Quinn's baby demanding its mother's nightly dose of rest. Not that she blames the girl, of course, because she doesn't and she's really just glad to have helped in any way, it's just . . .
She's so tired.
Someone lets out a pained grunt and Quinn opens her eyes and glances up to see Puck, having wondered into the kitchen and bumped into the doorway on his way, backing away and rubbing his head with a groan. She tries to smirk, like she normally would, but can't bring herself to make that kind of an effort and instead settles for just plain blinking. It doesn't have nearly the same effect.
"Stupid doorway," he mutters to himself, looking down at the cell phone in his hand again and continuing to read. She imagines that's what he was doing when he made his 'graceful' collision with the doorway in the first place; idiot. Quinn thinks that maybe she should advise him that having both eyes open and trained ahead when walking is usually a good idea in the long run but remembers that she's already said this to him once before and it obviously didn't make any kind of impression; why bother? "Can't believe it has the balls to run into me."
The blonde finds the energy to raise an eyebrow at that remark but otherwise doesn't comment, instead focusing on the cell phone in Puck's hands. It's not his. She can tell this because, for one, it's pink and unless Puck has something he wants to tell her she really doubts he's the proud owner of a pink phone."Is that Santana's?" she asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of her words.
"Yep," he answers simply.
She gapes at him. "You can't just read all her messages without asking." She can tell he's reading her messages because she can see the screen from here and she knows he didn't ask her about it because, for obvious reasons, Santana would never have actually agreed to lend her phone to him. Quinn would never lend her phone to Puck and she doesn't even half the privacy issues that the Latina does.
"Why not?" Puck asks with a shrugs. "She reads mine all the time without asking. Seriously, she steals my fucking phone every time I'm not looking, it's annoying." He pouts slightly at the thought before moving on. "Did you know she's still screwing Matt? Weird, I thought they stopped getting together ages ago."
Quinn frowns, wondering how such a mundane conversation like this could be taking place after last night. It doesn't seem possible for them to be talking about stuff like this, almost acting like what did happen didn't. She wonders whether they have the right to do that and, more importantly, does she even really care. "You can tell from her texts whether she's sleeping with someone?" The blonde tries to imagine what could be written in those texts for such a message to get across and immediately frowns in disgust, wishing she hadn't.
"Santana only texts guys she's sleeping with," he tells her casually, like such a thing is completely normal and she supposes, for them, it is. Not for her, though, even after the disaster that was her first sexual experience, sex still means something to her, and it means a lot actually. She can't imagine ever drifting into a lifestyle where she would grow to think as little of it as some of her closest friends. She doesn't understand how Puck and Santana can get together with so many different people, share that one act that is supposed to mean everything, and treat it like it's nothing.
But, then, she's never really understood Puck and Santana, especially Santana.
She knows that, for some, the meaning of sex can differ depending on who it's with, can even transform into not meaning anything at all, but Quinn could have sex with Kurt and still think that it meant something.
She wonders if that makes her world view incredibly naïve, overly sentimental or just hopeful. She thinks it might be the latter but either way neither of them are very flattering.
"Well, except for maybe this Freshman kid," he adds after a pause, still not looking up from the screen. "Unless she's starting to get them younger now. Wait, I'm pretty sure this is the guy that always glares at me in the hallways." He frowns slightly before shrugging his shoulders and continuing on. Quinn is too bewildered to intercept. "No texts from Brittany, though. Odd – usually, there's like a dozen from one day."
"She's probably just busy," the blonde suggests, not really that concerned. If she was visiting family in Holland, she doubts she would have much time to text either. Though she wishes that wasn't the case with Brittany because, judging by the state Santana's in, she could really use her best friend right now. She looks down for a moment, thinking over her next question and debating whether it's really the right thing to ask right now. Even when she speaks, she's not sure whether she's chosen correctly but she has to ask. "Why do you do it?" Quinn tries not to let the jealousy she feels on the subject seep into her voice, because that's not what this is about, but isn't sure whether she succeeds.
"What?" He asks, suitably confused.
"Use her – after knowing what she's been through," she responds, voice emotionless and simple. She's been thinking about it for some time now, trying to wrap her head around the whole situation, but it's become clear to her that she just can't. Quinn wonders how Puck can even bear the thought of sleeping with Santana only to then tossing her aside just like all the other girls he's with, knowing that this form of treatment isn't too much better than what Garry does. Not as horrific, yes, but still not exactly right. "Why do you use her like that?"
Immediately, Puck looks offended, almost as if Quinn's just accused him of murdering his baby sister and she feels slightly guilty, knowing this isn't really any of her business. She has to know, though, she has to try and understand this, all of it. She needs to be able to look at her friend and not see a complete incomprehensible stranger because she can't understand her at all. Deep down, though, the blonde doubts she'll ever really be able to understand Santana and she's both disappointed and grateful for that fact.
"Use Santana? She's the one who does the using, babe, not me. At best, we use each other." He's definitely offended, she can tell, and the guilt deepens but she keeps it hidden.
She wonders whether this is true, whether she's gotten it all wrong and Santana is actually truly comfortable with the situation. Except, if Quinn had gone through what Santana went through, still goes through – she can't actually bring herself to say the word – she doubts she would ever want to be touched by another human being in that way again. It takes her some time to remember that Santana isn't her, has never been her, and will never be her; she will never think about things the same way Quinn does. And that's something she should be thankful for. "I just . . . don't you think it would be better for her if she stopped being so . . ." A bunch of words race through Quinn's mind, none of them sounding nice or entirely accurate when describing Santana. Eventually she gives up, wishing she had never broached the subject in the first place.
"Slutty?" Puck questions, face blank and carless, though in his eyes she sees the faintness of a reproachful glint. She doesn't blame him.
"No," the blonde stresses, knowing it to be the truth. She wonders what exactly it is she is trying to get at and it takes her a few moments to recollect her thoughts. This was definitely a bad conversation to start when running on only an hour and half's sleep; what was she thinking? "Just . . . I can't help but think that . . . what she's doing may only be making things worse for herself instead of better. I mean, don't you think she needs some actual stability in her life? Not just random hook-ups."
"Hey," Puck shrugs his shoulders, apparently unbothered but she knows that's just a ruse. "I have random hook-ups and I'm just fine."
'It's not the same!' she wants to scream but knows it won't accomplish anything. She can't think of any way of explaining herself that will actually make sense and not sound in the least stereotypical. She wonders whether even she understands what she's saying and debates over whether or not to just give up.
Her stupid mouth makes the decision for her moments later, before she has a chance to stop it. "I think you should stop sleeping with Santana," she lets out in a rush, cringing slightly in the process; even to her own ears the words sound like something a jealous girlfriend would spew and she's not so sure anyone would believe her if she denied that was indeed the case.
"What?" Puck's face falls and he looks like someone's just taken away his favourite puppy; Santana can't really be that good in bed, can she? Quinn makes a face at the thought, not wanting to go there. God, this is so definitely happening only because she is sleep deprived. "Is this about you and me?" he asks after a pause and Quinn slams her cup down onto the kitchen bench, the liquid within sloshes about and some over flows onto the tabletop. Just like the situation, the result is uncontrollable, harsh black-brown liquid seeping into one of Ms. Puckerman's only good tea towels and instilling a dark, unavoidable stain.
Do people really think she's that selfish? That she would even consider making a play on Puck at a time like this? "No! This has nothing to do with that, there isn't even a 'that'! It doesn't even have anything to do with you, this is about Santana." She pauses and takes a breath, if only to try and keep herself from punching the boy in the face. "She's turning sex into something that it's not . It isn't healthy. The longer she keeps treating sex like it's nothing, the longer she'll think of what happens to her . . ." She closes her eyes, shying away from that mental picture before continuing, "because of Him as nothing as well. And it's not nothing," Quinn sighs in defeat, her rage disappearing as soon as it came. Tiredly, she presses her fingers to her forehead, massaging her temple in a fruitless attempt to ward off the oncoming headache. "I just want to fix this – her. And . . . and I don't know how." So I'm just grasping at straws.
Puck glances down at his feet for a moment, avoiding her gaze. "I know. Me, too. But I don't think this is something that can be fixed. And Santana treating the whole thing like it's nothing? I think she kinda needs to . . . like, to survive and stuff." He looks at her with such an imploring gaze that she has to wonder once again where the boy she slept with earlier that year has gone. He'll be exactly like him for ages, acting carless and blunt, but then he'll say or he'll do something . . . and she has to wonder whether he was ever that boy in the first place. The thought makes her somehow sad but she's too exhausted to cry anymore. "I don't know, tell me if I'm wrong, but I think it would be kind of cruel to make her realize that it's not. Nothing, I mean. That it's not nothing."
Quinn sighs and leans back against the counter, once again wondering what possessed her to bring this up. It's not like she's changed anything, or accomplished something. Puck's right, she knows he is, but she can't help but worry, about everything now. She's worried about the way Santana lives her life, how she can so easily lie to them without their knowledge, how the Puck she knew is slowly fading and how the Quinn she used to be has also started to disappear. She's worried about the baby in her tummy and whether or not she's making the right choices in regards to her and about how she's going to keep all this a secret when all she really wants to do is run to Mr Shu and blurt out the whole nasty true, every iota of it. She's about how she's going to take care of all of them when she doesn't really even know how to take care of herself . . .
The list is endless.
She's just so damn worried.
. . .
"Boo Boo?" Liv whispers weakly into the cell phone, resting over her ear. She stole it out of Quinn's purse, which was sitting near the fire place, while Quinn and Noah were fighting in the kitchen. She doesn't really know what the fighting was about, and she doesn't really want to, but she caught the naughty word S – E – X and hastily backed away from the doorway upon hearing it. It's so gross that she can't understand why grown-ups do it or why they even want to talk about it, it definitely supports her best friend's theory that all people over the age of fifteen are insane. Don't they have better things to talk about? Like coloured pencils. Her best friend also walked in on her parents . . . well, you know . . . last year and she said it was really freaky and kind of scary. Liv seriously thinks it might be a form of child abuse because now, whenever the word's even mentioned, her friend starts shaking really badly; poor thing. She hopes her parents feel really bad about themselves.
"Hi, Quinn," replies the chirpy voice of one Brittany S. Pierce on the other end and Liv can't help but smile. It's a relief to finally hear someone sounding happy after last night and she wishes the blonde was here because then maybe her bubbly energy would make everyone else smile as well.
The smile fades though when she remembers why she's calling and her bottom lip trembles as she glances back fearfully towards the kitchen. Everyone's kind of angry now and she really doesn't want to get in to trouble for stealing Quinn's phone but she had too – the home phone doesn't have Brittany's number on speed dial.
"It's not Quinn. It's me, Liv." She pouts and curls up on the couch, purple fairy pyjamas crinkling as she crosses her legs.
"Oh, hey, Liv." She still sounds happy and the little girl wonders whether she wants to mess up that happiness. She doesn't really think it would be fair. "What's going on?"
"Things are really scary here, Boo Boo," Liv tells her in a small voice. It's a nickname that developed when she was five and Brittany dressed up as a ghost for Halloween. Her costume was relatively simple, though, only consisting of a white sheet and the word 'BOO!" written across it in big black letters. Liv then decided that Boo was a lot easier to say than Brittany, and then Puck had said that Boo Boo sounded cuter, so the name had stuck.
She has a nickname for everyone; well, except for Quinn but she's working on it. Santana said once that 'Skank' had a nice ring to it but then her mum said that was a bad word and wouldn't stop glaring at the brunette for the rest of the night.
"What do you mean?" the blonde asks in confusion. "Did Puck make you watch Scream 4 again because if he did you should tell Santana – she would, like, totally beat him up for you."
Liv looks down at her feet hanging over the edge of the couch and kicks them out at an invisible foe, imagining the faces of her father, her brother and the person that makes Santana purple. All she hits is air and it doesn't change anything. "No. Everyone keeps shouting and No-No's being mean and Santa-"
"Liv, who are you talking to?" a cautious voice asks from the direction of the kitchen and the eight-year-old glances over to see a tired looking Quinn stepping towards her. She must have finally given up on fighting with her brother.
She swallows and looks down, away from the blonde's piercing blue eyes. "No-one."
Quinn's eyes narrow, clearly not believing her, and they zero in on the phone in her hand. "Is that my phone?"
" . . .No."
. . .
"There is no greater pain than to remember a happy time when one is in misery." - Dante Alighieri
. . .
Quinn sighs at Liv's response, knowing that she doesn't have the time nor the patience to deal with this. She thinks that maybe she should be a little more understanding because the girl's obviously had a traumatic night, almost as traumatic as the rest of them, but then her own eyes start to droop a little and she gives up on trying to be empathetic.
"Hand it over," she says in a tone that she deems to be reasonable enough and holds out a hand. Liv bites her lip undecidedly, and glances hesitantly between her and the phone. Reluctantly she hands it over before scampering off towards the bathroom, probably to avoid getting into trouble for being a thief.
Quinn sighs, unable to bother going after her, and raises the cell phone to her ear. "Who's this?"
"Quinn?"
The blonde nearly drops her phone at the sound of Brittany's voice and for a moment all she can do is gape, wondering what ever could have possessed Liv to make an international phone call when Quinn's struggling as it is to buy maternity wear and, more pressingly, what she's going to say to Brittany that doesn't qualify as the truth. Even if she does still think that Puck's kind of wrong about keeping this a secret and honesty, she's learned this year, is usually the best policy.
"B!" she greets a little too shrilly to be comfortable and Puck pokes his head out of the kitchen to look at her in confusion. Quinn shoos him away with a distracted hand and tries to get her voice to back down to its normal level. "How are you?" A lot better than me, I bet.
"Totally awesome. We went to the zoo yesterday and I got to pet a seal." She pauses and Quinn waits patiently for her to finish, knowing that it's probably going to be about something that no-one but Brittany – or Santana on occasion – could even hope to understand. "Except he smelt really gross and icky, kind of like Jacob's breath that time we kissed, only not as bad. Do you think that Jacob's a seal, or maybe a mermaid? Do mermaids have bad breaths?"
Quinn's eyes widen in horror, wondering what part of that sentence she should attend to first. The idea of Jewfro making out with anyone, let alone Brittany, is not only gross but incredibly disturbing and the knowledge that he has fish-breath only makes it more so. Sometimes, she just can't understand Brittany, at all. She supposes the other girl and Santana have that in common.
Luckily for her, the blonde continues before she has a chance to speak.
"I don't think they do. I mean, Eric kissed Ariel and he seemed totally fine with it. Unless he was just pretending, Rachael says she used to do that sometimes when Finn kissed her after eating anchovies. What are anchovies? They sound like a type of spice."
"Um . . ." Quinn's completely lost and she glances nervously down the hallway, wondering whether Santana's woken up yet. She wonders how the brunette puts up with this on a daily basis, not that she doesn't find Brittany's speeches kind of cute, because they are . . . they're also really confusing to a sleep addled mind. She thinks her head might actually be spinning at the moment and makes a furtive glance at her reflection in the T.V. screen to check.
Nope, head still firmly in place. Well, that's something anyway.
"They're a type of fish . . ." she murmurs distantly, closing her eyes and leaning back against the wall. No-one would really mind if she fell asleep right here, would they?
"Really? Ew. I don't really like to eat fish, S does but I don't. I tried once but then I just felt like I was eating Flounder and I don't think he would appreciate that very much."
Quinn's gaze falls on a picture resting on the table that the T.V. is sitting on. The frame's old and kind of cracked, probably the result of being dropped a couple of times, but the photo inside is untarnished. She reaches out towards it and lifts it from its designated spot, wondering why she's never bothered to look at it properly before, after all her months of living here.
It's from three years ago and she, Santana, Puck, Brittany and Finn are outside in the Puckerman's backyard. She remembers when it was taken and how Santana and Brittany had, in a combined effort, pushed Puck and Finn onto the ground before jumping on top of them pancake style. Quinn was left in the background to laugh at the equally put out looks on the boys' faces before Brittany reached out a hand and pulled her on top of all four of them. It was an extremely precarious position to be in and Puck and Finn had grunted at the weight, but the three girls could hardly care less.
Santana was just in the middle of tickling Puck's neck when Mrs. Puckerman came out, rolled her eyes, and snapped a picture. Just in time, too, for a moment later, after Santana had finally found a sensitive spot in her tickling attack, the whole pyramid came tumbling down.
That had been during their last year of Middle School, before Santana's step-father showed up, before Brittany and Santana's relationship progressed into something far beyond friendship, before she and Finn broke up and their tight-knit gang fell apart, before Quinn got pregnant, before everything went wrong.
Trailing a delicate finger across Santana's smiling face, she finds she wants it back.
"B, I need your help." She hates the way her voice trembles and ignores the drop of water that slides down the front of the photo. The roof's been leaking for the last three weeks, that's all it is.
. . .
"With school work?" Brittany asks curiously, watching herself in the wall length mirror as she does a little twirl to check out the new dress she'd gotten from one of the shops down the street from her grandparent's house. It's short, blue and made of velvety thin material that's really nice to touch, actually that's kind of the only reason the blonde begged her dad to buy it. She likes things that feel nice, like Santana who is really soft and fun to play with.
She smiles at her reflection and remembers the matching dress, only in the colour pink, that she got for Santana as well. Her friend never says anything, but she knows that she likes it when they wear coordinating clothes. The brunette's really sneaky about it but Brittany always catches a little smile on her face when the taller girl makes sure to put on a pair of jeans and a shirt that are close to perfectly matching Santana's own choice of wear.
She's going to make Santana smile when she gets back home.
"What? No, I-" Quinn cuts of abruptly and takes a breath, obviously trying to calm herself. Santana does that too sometimes when they talk, or when she's trying not to punch Quinn because apparently it's not a good idea to hit a person when they've swallowed a fishy. "Look, something bad has happened, Brittany . . . "
She does another spin and this time strikes a pose, trying to keep her face controlled in a mask like the models wear but failing when she breaks out into a grin. Santana's a lot better at this than she is. She's really good at wearing masks, and keeping them in place.
". . . to Santana," the blonde finishes after a pause and Brittany stops mid spin, heart accelerating in her chest and hands flopping down by her sides. The words feel like a slap to the face, not that she's ever experienced that before but it looked painful the one time Santana did it to Puck, and her hands tremble slightly as she imagines all the terrible things that could have happened to her best friend. She hopes she hasn't been eaten by a T-Rex.
"What?" the word catches in her throat and she waits for Quinn to tell her that she's only joking, that's she's not really serious. Santana's invincible, like superman, nothing bad could ever happen to her. "What happened?"
The blonde on the other end lets out a breath. "Nothing you need to worry about. It's just now she's . . . upset and stuff, and I need your help to make her . . . not upset," Quinn finishes lamely and Brittany can almost hear her wince.
She nods quickly and begins searching around for her jacket because it's cold outside. "OK, I'll be right there." She finds it hanging off the ceiling fan, frowns slightly as she tries to remember how it got up there, before shrugging her shoulders and slipping it on. The blonde wonders whether she should take the time to brush her hair but decides against it – Santana needs her more than her hair, even if it is really nice hair.
"B . . . you're in Holland," Quinn stresses and Brittany frowns, already knowing this.
"Yeah. Did you forget?"
"You're in another country, Brittany. You can't just walk over to Puck's house like you usually do," the other blonde points out and Brittany's frown deepens.
She wonders what Santana is doing over at Puck's house but brushes the thought away for another time and instead heads towards the door of her bedroom. "Well, yeah, I figure it's going to take a little longer than usual but that's why I'm going to borrow Dad's car. I think he's finally starting to forgive me for that last time I crashed it."
"Brittany," Quinn's sounding very exasperated now, "you're on the other side of an ocean. You can't drive."
She shakes her head, though, knowing this isn't a problem for her. "I'm a very good swimmer. I'll be there in about half an hour," she promises before hanging up the phone. She might have liked to talk to Quinn longer but she doesn't want to waste any more time before getting to Santana. Quinn's a great person and she has really pretty eyes but she's definitely not properly equipped to deal with an unhappy Santana. Brittany doubts she even knows how to snuggle.
. . .
Quinn gapes in disbelief at the phone in her hand, trying to come up with something that will explain the conversation she's just had. All she can think of is one word that seems to accurately describe it: Brittany. She sighs and places the picture frame back on the bench, wondering whether she should call up Brittany's parents just to make sure the blonde doesn't actually try to swim across the ocean. She wouldn't really, would she?
She would. For Santana, she would.
Despite herself, a small smile works its way across her mouth and her heart lifts slightly at the determination she had heard in her friend's voice. She wonders whether Brittany or Santana know just how much the blonde is in love with her best friend and that she would do probably anything for her. It's somewhat comforting to know that, even with all this that's going on, there is actually someone who loves Santana more than anything else, even if it's not the person who should, like her mother.
Quinn won't even try to understand the odd relationship – if it can even be called that – going on between the pair, because it's nothing close to normal, but she doesn't think anyone could deny that it's something special. And she's happy for them.
Only, sometimes she gets this feeling in her stomach, like the ceiling's going to eventually fall on their heads and everything, that 'special', will be ruined. Deep down, she doesn't think it can last and she hates herself for not having more faith in them, especially when faith was something she used to carry around with her everywhere she went. She thinks it might be hiding somewhere, hidden beneath a cushion in some stranger's house, and the blonde doesn't know where to begin to look for it.
It's just a few minutes later when Quinn's phone rings and she picks up to hear a rather depressed sounding Brittany on the other end.
"I told my dad why I wanted his car and now he won't let me have it. He says I can't swim to Lima from Holland and he locked the front door after a tried to get out anyway. What do I do now?"
Quinn sighs and shakes her head with a small smile. "All I need right now, is some advice. Can you do that?"
"I can do anything for Santana," comes Brittany's sure sounding voice and, for a moment, the former cheerleader thinks she might even believe her.
. . .
Earlier that Year . . .
"I can't believe she gets to be Head Cheerleader," Santana mutters angrily, stabbing at a piece of lettuce on her plate as she and Brittany eat their lunch in the cafeteria. The brunette hasn't actually eaten anything yet, from what Brittany can tell, but her lettuce is definitely starting to look really sad what with all the fork holes and all; poor lettuce.
Do lettuces have feelings? She hopes not because if they do that is sure to be one sad lettuce.
"Who?" the blonde questions, wondering why people always seem to assume that when they start up a random conversation she will automatically know what they're talking about.
"Quinn," Santana hisses as if it's obvious. "She's fucking pregnant and no-one knows it. She's still Head Cheerio." Another stab of the fork and the blonde winces sympathetically. "Fuck. I work my but off but it's never good enough, never. She gets everything." The stab of the fork is a lot more forceful this time around and the paper plate actually gets a split down the centre. Brittany flinches back in surprise but her friend doesn't notice.
"You're sad," she notes with a sigh, taking in the brunette's hair which is slightly messier than usual and, when she reaches out a hand to touch the girl's own one, she takes in the faint purple mark on the edges of her wrist; Santana bruises easily.
Santana shakes her head but won't look at her. "I'm not . . . sad. I'm pissed. Why does she get everything?" For as long as Brittany has known her, the brunette has always had a strange kind of jealousy of Quinn, one that's only seemed to intensify over the years. At first, she thought it was because Quinn always had pretty dresses, and then she thought , when they were older, that maybe her best friend wanted Finn but now she's not too sure.
She doesn't see anything of Quinn's worth having but Santana obviously doesn't view things the same way she does. Brittany wishes she would because, if she did, Santana would see that she's a million times more perfect than Quinn Fabray could ever be. And that's a lot, Brittany knows, because she tried to count to a million once but she never even got past 98 (and that was after having to restart 30 times).
"I wish I could make it better for you," Brittany murmurs quietly, running a finger over the brunette's hand. She really means it, too. She would give anything to make sure that Santana was never sad or pissed or jealous and that she always smiled. Brittany would even stop watching Disney movies if it meant that could happen.
Santana glances at her momentarily, face torn before looking down at their joined hands. Her own one twitches slightly like it wants to reach out and grasp a hold of Brittany but stills shortly after. Santana has this strange thing about not taking what she wants and only taking what she thinks she wants. It's never made sense to Brittany, she doesn't think it ever will. "Well, you can't," she sighs and, before the blonde can stop her, her hand is gone and she's out of her seat. She's disappeared out the door before the taller girl can even think of chasing her.
Face falling, Brittany glances around the lunch room, lost. Her eyes spot Jacob Ben Israel in the corner and, like the snake in the garden of Eden, an idea starts to tempt her. "Maybe I can."
. . .
