Author's Note and replies included at the end.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of it's respective characters.
Hot, salty tears stream down my face, and words refuse to form. Santana looks on the verge of emulating my state. "How could I have been so reckless?" I sob. "I'm so stu-"
"Don't you dare say it," Santana snaps. She kneels on the ground in front of me, both hands on my knees. Her eyes are soft but firm. Conflicted. "Don't you dare."
Santana pulls the test from my hand. Her misty eyes reflect the small minus symbol, and she exhales a sigh of relief before wrapping her arms around my slouched frame. "Oh god," she mutters against my hair, laughing the ironic laugh that only Santana can produce. Whispering, she says, "I so wasn't ready to be a parent."
I'm still crying, though. And it doesn't appear to be stopping anytime soon. Tears of guilt. Shame. Fear of Santana's imminent realization. It comes within seconds, when her eyes shift to the object in her hand and a confused look penetrates her features. "But this. You haven't?"
"I thought I was helping," I manage. "You were so angry, and no one at school was making it any better. They would've sent you back if anything happened."
"Brittany," she pleads.
And I proceed to explain every detail. Every dirty night in motel rooms or empty parking lots. Santana's face contorts throughout my confession; her eyes dropping with each account. By the time I'm finished, her eyes are misty and lip quivering. Only when she swallows and sniffles do I say, "I just need to know something. I need to know that I'm not the reason you're so broken. Because fixing you has turned to absolute shit."
Santana lifts my chin to meet her eyes. "You should never worry about fixing me. I'm not broken, B," she assures. And then she's flexing her arms and legs in a robot-dance manner. "See? Fully functional." Only now do we both find the strength to laugh. "I need something, too. I need you to talk to me, Brittany. No more secrets."
Have you ever so badly wanted to believe in something, but can't bring yourself to do it? That's how I'm beginning to feel. My mother's leaving; Santana's estrangement from her own parents; every ounce of anger and heartache she's forced to repressed- all of it comes crashing down on me.
I should be elated at her statement, but much like anything else Santana says, it serves as a mask for something much deeper. Even back when we first hooked up behind closed doors, she denied the events as if someone had a gun to her head. Shielding ourselves from each other and the world has a become a means of survival. Emotionally, at least. Lying and secrecy serve as our only links to the past.
So when Santana asks for no more secrets, I nod my head out of habit. But I'm afraid that if I can realize all of our antics, she undoubtedly can too.
The vomiting refuses to cease, despite my previous emotional taxation. In fact, each morning is worse than the one before. Piercing stomach pains. A harsh burn that resonates in the back of my throat.
It follows me to school, the illness. Santana makes a point to cut out of class and check on me throughout the day, even though her concerns do nothing from a medical standpoint. I'm tempted to tell her to stay in class, but she would refuse. I'm sure of it. So one day after school, it should come as no surprise when Santana piles me into Carey's car. In minutes, we pull in front of a sign that reads: Johnston, Lopez, and Smith. M.D.
I can do nothing to mask my surprise. "He and my mother are out until tomorrow. Don't worry, I checked," Santana affirms. Seeing Dr. Lopez is the least of my worries, however. Visiting a doctor requires certain measures be taken before hand. Like not having a third cup before bed last night.
Santana kills the engine, sealing my fate. "I'm worried about you is all. Besides, I had to cash in a favor to schedule on such short notice." All I can do is nod. While the efforts are a tad eccentric, her heart's in the right place.
After signing in and taking a seat, Santana falls asleep onto my shoulder. She's used to late working hours and early school mornings, but I've realized just how restless Santana has been in bed each night. When the alarm rings, she slaps it with the speed of a person watching the numbers flip, waiting for the moment. A person who isn't sleeping. My name is called in about fifteen minutes, at which point Santana snaps to attention and leads me to a back office.
A nurse comes to run some tests. Things like blood withdrawals and heart rate analysis. Scans from a machine that I have to lie down on. She asks basic questions; I give basic answers. In the time it takes for her to leave and a man in a white lab coat to appear, Santana dozes off once more.
"I apologize for the wait," the doctor says. He's clutching a clipboard. The embroidery on his coat reads: Greg Johnston. "A phone call needed my attention."
Tension sets the mood, and the table I'm perched on gets colder with each painful second that passes. Dr. Johnston meticulously flips through his charts once more before speaking. "I'm going to start by saying that if there was any possibility of a pregnancy, I'm afraid the baby wouldn't have made it."
"How so?" Santana asks. I cower, sensing that the answer is evident.
I feel Dr. Johnston's eyes bearing into my lowered head. "Ms. Pierce, there are traces of alcohol in your system," he explains. I can't stand to look up and make eye contact with him or Santana, feeling our security of secrecy dwindle away. "Now, I would normally chalk this up to a really bad hangover, but considering my charts," he flips to a back page, "far more serious matters are at hand. I've never seen anything like this."
It's obvious that Santana is becoming agitated with the lack of specific information. She sternly spits, "Greg."
He sighs. "Excessive amounts of intake occurring in such a short amount of time has caused a great deal of damage to your kidneys and livers. Your rapid decline in consumption, however, proves just as detrimental." Dr. Johnston appears thrown by his own response. As if it's the answer to a question that possesses none. "I can prescribe some antibiotics and relaxants for the pain, but it seems that the alcohol is our biggest asset. Continuation in small doses until you're one hundred percent tapered off is our only hope, I fear."
All of this feels like one of Santana's confusing metaphors. Your only savior is the one thing that's slowly killing you, a voice booms in my head. Even more so, a sick feeling comes with the way he says "our". The idea that trusting a total stranger comes easily, yet Santana and I constantly second-guess each other's motives.
I dare to look at my best friend. Her face expresses anger. An internal war that she's losing. The feeling of our "no more secrets" pact disintegrated in less than a week, undoubtedly. Dr. Johnston ends his evaluation with a final, "I made a phone call earlier. There's someone outside that you need to speak with."
Santana and I both peer through the small window that connects office to hallway. A petite woman awaits, manila folder and briefcase in hand. She looks like Dr. Fletcher, only younger and less hairy.
"I could kick your ass right now," Santana scorns at the doctor.
A moment ago, he stood tall. Confident. Now, he seems on edge at her remark. "It's standard protocol for these types of… situations."
"To hell with your protocol, Greg." She takes my arm and gives me a fearful, unsteady look before we enter the hallway.
The woman snaps to and smiles. "Hello. My name's Angela Maynard with the Ohio Department of Family Services, and I'd like to ask you some questions."
Nurses and assistants wander by our trio in the hallway, and many shoot curious glances. Angela observes this, for she speaks in a hushed tone while asking the questions. "How long have you been partaking in alcohol usage? And how frequently?"
Santana has been answering on my behalf for the better part of our conversation. On the questions that warrant well-crafted replies. She's been in my shoes before, so I let her continue. "Only every once in a while. She's not a junkie, lady."
Angela's eyes avert to Santana. "I appreciate your concern, Ms. Lopez, but I need Brittany's input."
"What if she prefers to not answer absurd questions?" Santana quips.
"Santana," I say. Her palms extend to either side as her shoulders raise. "To answer your question, Mrs. Maynard, I don't know. A couple of months?"
She nods and jots notes onto a yellow legal pad. "And your mother- she condoned this?"
"No," I say too quickly. "I'd sneak around. At parties, mostly."
Angela shoots me a suspicious glance before relaxing her eyes and gently placing a hand on my knee. "Brittany, I understand that all of this is very confusing for you. And you probably feel obligated to protect your mother. But I, we, believe her circumstances are too…extreme for a minor. My notes say that you'll be eighteen in just over a month, at which point you'll be free to make your own decisions. Until then, we might consider making other living arrangements for you."
Santana's forearm tenses underneath my right hand. She chimes in, "Susan is away on business most of the year. Brittany lives with me."
It's evident that they're both equally fed up with the other's presence, so Angela flashes a wicked grin. "Great," she says, collecting her belongings and standing. "Then I'll be by sometime within the next two weeks. You know, to make sure it's a suitable environment."
My right hand begins to ache in suppressing Santana. She's offended by the remark, I'm sure. When the social worker finally bids us a good afternoon, I look to Santana. "What am I going to do?" It even sounds desperate to my own ears.
The forehead wrinkle reappears in an instant. "I'll take care of it, B." And she retrieves her cellphone, walking into the quiet solace of Dr. Johnston's office. Though it's unclear as to who Santana's speaking with, neither of them are happy. A yelling match ensues for the better part of twenty minutes. I sit and wait, fidgeting at the thought of being forced away from the apartment, McKinley, and Santana. She eventually returns, shaking her head and sighing. I barely hear her mutter, "How far we all come."
I'm about to ask what the frequently-repeated phrase means when Santana looks up to me with a forced smile and asks, "You in the mood to pay Roz a visit?"
We make the trek to see Roz, though my mind isn't once in the discussion. I mostly just let her and Santana catch up, while I stare at the ticking clock on the wall. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like the hands of fate bringing me closer to foster care with each passing second. To being torn away from all I've become comfortable with.
Santana allows me to remain lost in thought well into our journey back to Lima. It's random when she finally speaks, but the invitation catches me entirely off guard. "Let's go to dinner. Just me and you. Like old times."
It's a lovely gesture, but we're both well aware of our financial status. "We're broke, Santana," I retort. "Every last penny went into this month's rent."
"I've got an idea. Have some faith, will you?" she laughs, patting at the steering wheel. "And with what we're about to experience, I say we need all of the fun we can get."
I nod, purely because seeing Santana in a mood like this is a rarity. Even if it could be nothing more than a façade. A charade. Even if I'm oblivious to her intentions. This ultimate plan. "Whatever happens later," I begin. "It's going to be that bad, huh?"
Now she laughs the ironic laugh. "Absolute hell."
We finish the ride in silence, pulling up to the community center thirty minutes later. I'm gathering my things and mentally preparing for another night of laborious cleaning, when Santana pokes her head across the seats. "None of this is because of you, okay? Bad things happen to good people every day."
I smile one of understanding. One of unabashed joy. Santana has enough on her plate. Too many commitments to uphold and things to worry about. My happiness shouldn't be one of them.
A solitary job permits me to get all of this out of my system. All unhappy thoughts are expelled into sweeping, mopping, and toilet scrubbing. My name is Brittany Susan Pierce, and I am a happy-go-lucky person.
No amount of positive repetition can shake Santana's words from my memory, though. And into the early hours of morning, I'm forced with the impossible question of answering:
Am I one of the good people, or merely another bad thing that's happening?
Santana is being patient with me. She uses a fake i.d to purchase me a bottle of vodka every week. (It would be problematic, should she get caught. But I don't think she appreciates me asking homeless people for their help.) And with whatever funds remain after tending to our basic necessities, my prescription is filled. Even though I'm terrified of yet another sedative, Santana insists that the doctor isn't wrong.
So I take them. Santana continues catering to my every need, as if I'm some terminal patient on the brink of death. Our work schedules clash, so the only quality time we spend together consists of snoring and drooling. (Though Santana still denies both.) I try to persuade her into buying cigarettes again because of recent stresses. And every single time, she denies it too.
Most nights, Santana sneaks in later and spends more time in the bathroom. Spanish ramblings ensue behind the closed door. When she exits and crawls into bed, I always pretend to be asleep. By the time morning rolls around, Santana acts as if nothing occurred the night before. So I do, too.
After glee practice one day, I pull Mr. Schuester aside. He's McKinley's only Spanish teacher, so his services are at least somewhat employable.
"I was wondering if you could help me," I say. "What exactly does prometa mean?" It's one of the few words I've held onto from Santana's late night sessions.
He places a finger to his butt chin for a moment. "Promise. From the verb prometer, meaning 'to promise'," he finally answers. "Why?"
"No reason. No reason at all," I mutter, rushing to meet Santana in the hallway. I don't bring up our conversation the entire walk home. There are so many questions that I can't ask her, and it kills me.
"Friday. Our old date night," I call to Santana, who's getting ready in the bathroom.
"Not a date," she calls back. Though she sounds firm, I can hear the smile in her voice. "But not everything has to change."
I'm fiddling with a heel strap when I ask, "How'd you get out of work, anyway?"
She walks out of the bathroom, shrugging. "Said it was an emergency." Her sly grin speaks volumes. Santana is obviously pleased with her excuse.
I'm too dumbfounded to respond, however. The Latina is clad in skin-tight black pants and an airy, red blouse. Her hair is curled and she wears massive hoop earrings. It's the most remotely 'Santana' thing I've seen her wear in a very long time. She eventually smirks, giving me the 'Are you going to say anything?' expression. "Wow," I say. "Red has always been your favorite color. I think it's mine now, too." Santana will swear up and down that she doesn't blush, but when I pull her in for a massive hug, heat radiates from her cheek to mine.
I hold her wrist the entire walk to what, from the outside, looks like the Breadstix Selena Gomez might dine at. An uneasy feeling settles into the pit of my stomach. Santana knows how much money we don't have, yet she's insistent that we eat here. Per the hostess, there's a reservation made under 'Lopez'. This means that either a) Santana has a lot of weight to throw around Lima, or b) she made this reservation more than a couple of days ago.
We sit in the room's center. When the waiter comes about, offering their newest wine selection, I wave him away. Santana appears torn. "I hate to say it, but maybe you should have a glass," she says. "Something to last you until later."
I shake my head, tired of wandering around in a haze. Tired of dependence. Tonight is special. Something I want to experience one thousand percent sober. Something to remember. I even order the shrimp, which is ten times the size of Breadstix's. And ten times tastier, actually. We carry on pointless small talk, laughing at whatever dumb joke the other makes. Being myself around Santana is distantly close, if that makes sense. Like a warm memory that you can feel. It's as if someone reached back in time, cut free this exact moment, and plastered it to the present.
After all of the food has disappeared from our plates, Santana summons the waiter and requests our check. Only now do I notice the gears in her head churning. She looks to me with honest eyes and asks, "Do you trust me?" I nod. Of course I trust Santana. Even on the days that I don't. For our hearts and motives hold far more integrity than our mouths ever will. "Then follow my lead," she smirks, grabbing my hand and standing us both up beside the table. In the packed restaurant, no one's attention averts from their respective meals. Which is probably a good thing, considering that I'm wearing heels and if we're about to sprint out of here, every ounce of surprise is ideal.
I'm mentally preparing for the mad dash when Santana gets down on her left knee, not once letting go of my hand. She shoots me a quick wink before others catch on and the once noisy restaurant falls silent. Santana clears her throat and begins.
"In the second grade, I first laid eyes on a girl beneath the playground slide, crying over a wad of matted fur nestled in her arms. A girl who insisted that a frail, dying kitten be nurtured back to health. Who insisted that the animal become our class pet. A girl who insisted he be named Lord Tubbington.
"I first laid eyes on a girl who endured her classmates' taunts and torments when she claimed that this cat was actually a unicorn who merely lost his horn. A girl who insisted that the horn could be reclaimed by way of a tender hand. I've never admitted this to anyone, but I was constantly in awe of that girl. In fact, I still am."
Santana has always been a born-performer, feeding off of an audience's energy and channeling it into the act. But this takes the cake. The glimmer in her eyes; the way her voice occasionally trembles. Even I'm convinced.
She takes a deep breath before continuing. "B, ever since I first laid eyes on you, I knew you were something special. Someone that I did not want to face a single day without. From our first kiss on my parents' roof, and until the last that we share, I still believe it to be true. You see, what made that girl so special was that she had no idea. No idea of how beautiful she was. No idea that she was a unicorn, too.
"We've been through hell and back together. Had curveball after curveball thrown our way. And despite whatever future bumps in the road exist, a few things will always remain certain. Mi promesa. I promise to never forget that little girl sobbing underneath the playground slide. I promise to cherish the tender she extended to my once frail, dying heart. I promise to protect her from the evil second graders of our world."
This elicits a collective chuckle throughout the restaurant. I glance from table to table at beaming faces. Even one lady is wiping her eyes in the corner.
"And most importantly," Santana begins, squeezing my hand. "I promise to love you as I did then. Unconditionally and with every fiber of my being. Brittany Susan Pierce, would you make me the luckiest girl in the world, and-" But I jump the gun. I'm nodding my head profusely, as if this were a real proposal, evoking a genuine response.
Various coos of approval sound throughout the room. People clap, some even whistle. Santana is beaming with pride at her performance when someone shouts from the back, "Kiss her!" Others join in, beckoning us on.
I'm hesitant, but Santana doesn't once drop the act. She grabs my neck, stroking both cheeks with her thumbs, and gently presses her lips to mine. Erupting cheers are drowned out in those few seconds. I know her only intention is a free meal, and none of this is meant to be romantic, but this. This. It's a complete one-eighty from my freak out at Mom's house, where it then was just a girl helping her best friend. When time begins again and the noise of cheering resurfaces, Santana pulls away, wearing the same innocent look of pride.
Behind her, our waiter swoons. He's clutching our bill at his chest, tears welling up in his eyes. "Young love," he whispers. Santana and I are still careful, not wanting to let on too much. Then again, part of me is convinced that a great portion wasn't acting at all. At least, that's what part of me is starting to hope is true. When Santana reaches for the check, our waiter pulls it away, shaking his head. "It's on the house. Our gift to the happy couple."
We both thank him and exit the restaurant arm in arm, handfuls of people calling out their congratulations as we depart.
"Does that line always work?" I ask when we're down the sidewalk, well out of hearing distance. "Evil second graders? Really?"
"Oh, shut up," Santana laughs. "Let's just say that I'm in at least four committed engagements, and none of them received that kind of applause. So, yes. Evil second graders." And then we're both giggling. I'm not so worried about who the others were, because none of them are here, strolling through the night on Santana's arm.
Bright lights jut out from a small building just ahead. In the window, I see an advertisement for half-priced milkshakes. My stomach grumbles for frozen dairy goodness. "What's dinner without dessert?" I ask, detouring toward the diner's front door.
Santana seems to tense and argues, "We've got ice cream at the apartment."
"No blender, though," I retort. "Pleeeease?"
She still looks apprehensive. I'm about to cut my losses and accept the failure of extending this dream any longer, when Santana's body language suggests a surrender. I jump up and hug her again. At the counter, we both order the menu's largest milkshake. I- chocolate with gummy bears. She- plain vanilla. Leave it to Santana to get the most boring dessert ever in the history of boring desserts.
The more we converse, the easier it becomes to see that Santana is fighting like hell to reassemble her guard. To hoist the bastard wall up again. But doing so is hard while sporting a milkshake-mustache. It's amusing for the both of us. When ending times comes yet again, I yawn, worn out from such an eventful evening. I'm about to pay at the register when Santana catches my arm. "Maybe we should do it again. You know," she shrugs, "because free stuff never killed anybody."
"It's eight bucks," I say. "Surely it fits into the budget."
"It's also two boxes of Lucky Charms. Labor for cereal removal not included," she responds.
I look around, surveying the crowd. After all, they were our major accomplices at the other restaurant. And if there's one thing that performing with glee has taught me, it is that an engaged audience can make or break a performance. Santana does the same, chiming in with, "It's kind of a dead period. The drunks won't roll in until about two." Then she catches herself and dismisses, "I would assume."
There is a decent-enough group, though. So we run through the proposal exactly as earlier. The spiel. The emotion. And even though all of four people clap and no one shouts from the back, Santana kisses me anyway. Tastes of cool vanilla melt away the previous week's worries.
I sneak off to the restroom shortly thereafter. In returning, I spy Santana at the register. She's handing money to the cashier. "So dates constitute emergencies these days?" he jokes. "I'll remember that the next time I call in."
Santana laughs and shrugs. "It was important." She pats the counter before saying, "I'll see you Monday."
A pit stop by the apartment later and we're walking along the main road. Santana refuses to let me carry my own bags, let alone help with hers. Wherever we're going is still a surprise, but I wrap my hand around her wrist anyway. It's more one-sided than holding pinkies. Santana never refuses, though. So maybe it's not as selfish an act as I believe.
We make a turn when I say, "I had a great time tonight."
"As did I," she responds, staring blankly into the distance.
Nearing our final destination, I realize why Santana's mood has taken such a hit. We could only ride the high of tonight for so long before reality came crashing down. "Are you sure about this, Santana?"
She lets out a tired laugh. "Am I ever?" And then we climb the steps, me never letting go of her wrist. In fact, sheer nervousness has transformed it into a vice grip. Before knocking, Santana takes a deep breath and looks to me. "But who knows? Maybe they'll let us sleep on the roof."
crazybeautifulandshitty: Well I certainly appreciate that. I'll do my best to provide as much drama as possible. And I hope your hopes of no Karofsky have been suppressed after this chapter, lol.
Adrimarie97: Thank you so very much! I do my best to update as frequently as possible without compromising the work.
StephaniieC: I assure you, the idea of a pregnant Brittany upsets me just as much as it does you. Lol.
4evamuzic: Any need for mental preparation is a compliment in my book. Thanks for the review, lol.
bodybroke: Firstly, thank you for taking the time to provide such lengthy, detailed insight. It means the world. I agree as far as the innocence aspect is considered. Subtlety is fine in that sense, but to blatantly perpetuate it is different. (I'm hoping to develop and play off of it throughout this piece.)
Truthfully, I could never handle a rape situation. With any character, let alone someone as childishly fragile as Brittany. Her mother's alcoholism and mental abuse/abandonment will probably be the best I can provide in that sense.
I did what I could with the throwing up without being too obvious, so thanks for that. Hopefully, after this chapter, your fears have disappeared.
A/N: A major thanks to everyone who takes the time to provide feedback. I didn't realize it would mean this much to me, but it does. So I appreciate it.
