Quinn thought she was done being surprised by Brittany.
Although she is definitely more quirky than Santana, Brittany is still, in her own way, the more predictable one. That's something that Quinn considers a comfort, because – when Santana is smiling one moment and raging the next – she can always count on the steady, gentle rhythm of Brittany. Quinn knows that she isn't the most emotionally reliable person, either; she understands that, when looking at the unstable things in Santana, it's sort of like looking at a reflection of herself – and so it makes her appreciate Brittany, and her inherent simplicity.
The first time in a long time that Brittany surprises her is during Santana's seventeenth birthday party. She somehow missed it last year – she thinks Santana probably deliberately avoided telling her about it, as it fell on a day she spent with her mother at church – but this time, Quinn is present for what is, she's sure, to be a bit of culture shock.
"There's a reason why I never invited you to these things, Q," Santana says, sidling up to her. It's late morning, but already sweltering hot; Quinn sits in the back corner of Santana's shaded patio, watching as the crowd in the Lopezes' backyard grows by the minute. The three of them had left the comfort of Santana's bed to be greeted by the sounds of about a dozen of Santana's younger cousins chasing each other around her living room, and Martin wrestling loudly with yet another cousin more his own age, and her mother and what Quinn assumes is Santana's aunt hollering at them from the kitchen. Quinn has never seen so many people who look so alike in one place – it's a veritable flood of tanned skin, dark eyes, and glossy black hair.
Quinn is wearing a white tank top and jean shorts over her bikini, while Santana and Brittany have foregone the outer layers. Instead, Santana wears a black swimsuit, Brittany red, and it makes Quinn feel both overdressed and embarrassed because she can't stop watching them walk around in practically nothing. She prays that none of the multitude of Santana's family members notice her leering.
"It's fine," Quinn says, her voice a little unsure. She doesn't really know if it's fine because she can hardly understand anything that's being said, and she feels like she sticks out rather painfully. Even Brittany – just as blonde and fairskinned as Quinn is – blends in more, because she plays soccer with Santana's cousins and steals hot dogs from the grill, where Santana's dad and uncles are gathered. "And I used to think being at Brittany's house was bad." Quinn admits after a moment.
Santana just laughs. "It is bad," She smiles down at Quinn and tugs on her earlobe. "Her little sisters make at least as much noise as ten of my cousins."
"I doubt that," Quinn says wryly.
"You can still duck out, you know," Santana smirks. "You already gave me my present, after all."
"No." Somehow, Quinn manages a smile. "I'm okay. This is fun."
Santana pauses, pursing her lips, and her eyes sweep Quinn's face. Quinn's smile widens, as if trying to reassure Santana. "Suit yourself, Q." Her grin turns a little wicked at the way Quinn's face falters. "Your funeral."
Quinn swallows at the sight of Santana walking away in such a way that she's absolutely certain is designed to make her stare. Quinn fans herself with the flat of her palm, feeling suddenly very warm, despite the shade.
She spends a while just people watching, and (like she has been all summer) finds herself falling in love with the Lopez family. Dr. Lopez – Steven – retains his quiet and dignified demeanor, even wearing a greasy black apron with Hot Papa embroidered in red over his midsection, though his mustache twitches with suppressed irritation at the way Brittany runs around like a ten-year-old boy. His brothers? cousins? crowd around him and speak with emphatic hand gestures in rapid Spanish, and he nods soberly whenever someone pauses for his input. Quinn doesn't know why, but she finds him charming because he's so reserved when everything around him is a veritable chaos of movement and noise. She finds herself grinning stupidly at the sight of him hunkering down to offer a little girl a piece of cheese from the plate at his elbow. She smiles up at him cheekily, and clutching a stuffed giraffe, runs away when he bops her nose, shoving the cheese slice in her mouth with her open palm.
Martin takes almost no time to dare the older boys to cannonball into the pool, which causes all of the adults to hiss with agitation. The waves rock against the edge while water sprays everywhere, and a moment later Maribel sticks her head out of the sliding glass door to yell at him.
Quinn didn't catch what, precisely, she yells at him since it's mostly Spanish, but it's enough to wipe the smile off of his face. He just nods solemnly at her and she slams the glass door shut. Quinn tries to hide her grin because – well, she feels bad for him – but she loves seeing the tiny Mrs. Lopez get all fired up like that.
"¿Cómo te llamas?"
Quinn is too caught up in watching the drama unfold between Martin and his mother to notice the little girl sneak up on her. She starts, a little surprised at the voice, but then smiles when she sees the same little girl from before standing at her side. The girl scratches her nose and sniffs a little bit, and seems to be patiently waiting.
"What's that? Oh – my name!" Quinn smiles. "I did take three years of Spanish. I know that one. My name is Quinn. What's your name?"
"You speak Engdish," The little girl says, almost accusingly.
"Yes, that's true," Quinn is a little thrown off by the seriousness of the child's expression. "How old are you?"
"Four!" She holds up her whole hand, palm out, pudgy fingers wiggling. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen." Quinn laughs, and uses her finger to fold down the little girl's thumb. "That's four."
Scrunching up her eyebrows, the girl looks at her hand, and then shakes her head.
"Are you Santana's cousin?" Quinn found conversations with children were easy before Beth – and she discovers, with a bittersweet pang, that it's still true.
The little girl nods, and hugs her giraffe close. "I'm Bonita."
"That's a very pretty name," Quinn says. She has to resist the urge to run her hand down the span of the girl's hair – it runs almost the full length of her back, and is a soft, downy brown. It glints against the midmorning sun. Her eyes are wide and tawny-colored, and Quinn thinks that, with time, she'll grow into her lips (which are wide and full, like Santana's).
"What are you doing, squirt?" Brittany comes up behind Bonita and pokes her in the bicep.
Scowling, she yanks her arm away and squeezes her giraffe, throwing a glare at Brittany. "Brinny!"
"Madelina!" Brittany laughs, and then runs her fingers across the girl's ribs. Despite herself, she squeaks with laughter and wriggles away.
"Madelina?" Amused, Quinn glances between the two of them. "I thought you said your name was Bonita."
"No!" She refuses hotly. "I said I am bonita. Duh."
Brittany chuckles and plops down beside Quinn in one of the patio chairs. "Stop lying, you little rascal."
"No estaba mintiendo, ella es una estupida," Madelina replies, squinting.
"Hey." Brittany frowns and then pokes her, this time with some force. "Stop that. Be nice."
Madelina shrieks and dances away from Brittany. "Mama! Brinny is being mean!"
Laughing, Brittany swats at her until she runs away.
"She's cute," Quinn says, once she's gone.
"No, she's a brat," Brittany uses the palm of her hand to rub at the tension settling at the base of Quinn's neck. Quinn relaxes almost instantly into the touch, glad for the feeling of Brittany's strong fingers kneading against her hot skin.
"She's a baby," Quinn says with a smile.
"Quinn." Brittany looks at her seriously. "I hate to inform you, but babies are a bunch smaller than Madelina and they don't lie about their names. They, like, can't even talk."
Quinn huffs out a laugh and shakes her head. "I think you're right, Britt,"
Brittany nods, her eyes a little wide. "Didn't you have a baby, Quinn? Shouldn't you know all of this?"
Quinn's smile falters, only slightly, but then she nods. "Definitely."
Brittany's face breaks into a wide smile, and it warms Quinn from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her fingers. "It's okay. Sometimes I forget important things, too."
Quinn squeezes Brittany's free hand in her palm.
Their silence is broken by a collective shout that takes up among all of the people gathered in the back yard, and curiously, Quinn angles her head around Brittany, to see someone being ushered in from the front of the house.
"Oh! Santana's grandma is here. You'll love her!" Britany smiles widely and hops up, tugging on their clasped hand as she goes. "C'mon, come meet her!"
"Brittany," Quinn tries to pull away, but Brittany pulls her along, heedless of her mild protest. Within moments she's shoulder-to-shoulder with Brittany and one of Santana's cousins, milling around the aging, withered woman who looks remarkably like Santana's mother. Quinn plasters her bright, polite, meeting-adults smile on her face, all the while taking in the severe features and bright red lipstick that provide a stark contrast against her thin skin and nearly maroo-colored hair.
"Abuelita!" Santana appears out of almost nowhere, and slings an arm around her grandmother's shoulders. Despite this, the woman doesn't smile. Her eyes scan the crowd of people surrounding her, and her lips tighten together.
"Where is she? Where is my luciérnaga pequeña?"
Laughing, Brittany steps away from Quinn and forward, pushing past one of Santana's uncles. "¡Estoy aquí, abuela!"
Quinn watches, a bit mystified, as the old woman's face lights up in a broad grin. She reaches up and uses her bony hands to collect Brittany's face between her palms, pulling her forward until she can kiss Brittany squarely on the forehead. "Te extrañé, mi niña!" Chuckling, she pats Brittany's cheeks. "Don't stay away so long!"
"Yo también te extrañé!" Brittany replies, and wraps the small, frail woman up in a hug.
Quinn's jaw drops. "You know Spanish?"
She's too stunned to realize that she spoke, until Santana's grandmother levels a scowl at her.
"Of course she does!" She says, her tone of voice implying a grievous insult. "And who are you?"
"Uh," Quinn swallows, noticing that her mouth is suddenly dry. Santana grins at her from behind her abuela, and Brittany smiles sunnily, with an arm still resting along the woman's shoulders. "I-I'm Quinn. It's nice to meet you,"
"Hmph," Abuela sniffs, scanning her eyes up and down Quinn. "You're too skinny."
"I…" Quinn glances down at herself, and then tugs futilely at her tanktop. She doesn't know if that's an insult or a compliment, so she decides to answer as safely as possible. "Okay."
"Eat something," She waves a dismissive hand at Quinn, and then turns to Brittany, taking one of Brittany's hands in her bony one. "Now, tell me, bicho, what have you been up to?"
Brittany launches immediately into a story about her cat that Quinn has heard a million times, all the while leading Abuela over to one of the chairs out of the sun. The crowd around her disperses almost immediately, and Quinn stands, rooted in one spot.
"I told you," Santana says with a satisfied smirk. She presses a reassuring palm against the small of Quinn's back, and Quinn turns to her slowly, an expression of disbelief on her face.
"Brittany knows Spanish? How?"
Santana shrugs. "My grandmother taught her."
"Yes." Quinn's eyebrows furrow, wrinkling her forehead. "So she said. But how can I not have known that?"
Santana just smiles, tugging at her bottom lip in amusement. "Sometimes I think she speaks it better than I do."
Quinn folds her arms across her chest, her eyes still glued to the sight of Brittany regaling Santana's abuela.
"Impossible. It's impossible that I didn't know that." Quinn really can't wrap her mind around it. "She almost failed Spanish last semester!"
Santana offers a wide shrug to that. "Brittany says that she can't listen to Mr. Schue teach it because he doesn't do it right."
Quinn tries hard not to gape at Santana, but she feels a little bit like the wind was knocked out of her.
"She's my best friend, and she's bilingual." Quinn still sounds stunned. "I mean, I think I knew she could understand a little bit of it – from spending so much time with you." Quinn frowns, now looking at Santana, who watches her with open amusement. "I know that I've picked up on a lot in the last few months."
"Si," Santana agrees, nodding, and then bites her lip, trying to stifle her grin. "I know you like it when I have my dedos inside you and I whisper to you in Spanish, and tell you to—"
"Santana!" Scandalized, Quinn looks around quickly, her cheeks warming.
Santana just smirks, and wraps a comforting arm around Quinn's waist, pulling them hip-to-hip. "I love it when you say my name like that,"
"Oh, my god," Quinn can't hide her blush. She's pretty sure it would be visible from Mars at this point. "Can you please stop? There are minors present."
"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Fabray," Santana says wryly, and begins walking them towards Brittany and her grandmother. "Now make nice with my abuela."
Quinn does her best, but she doesn't think that she makes much of an impression on the old woman, whose name is either Celia or Camilla. Quinn's too shy to ask, and she's pretty sure she's heard both names thrown around in reference to her. Quinn is left in the awkward position of not having a way to address her – she isn't sure if Ms. Lopez would be appropriate, since she thinks (but isn't sure) that she's Santana's mother's mother. Most of the people gathered just call her "abuela" or "abuelita," and Quinn knows that those would be too familiar to use. Brittany and Santana are no help, since they largely ignore her. Quinn catches herself smiling because she thinks that the two of them have some kind of unspoken competition between them to see who can keep most of the grandmother's attention.
Quinn is most certain that Brittany is winning.
She gets an odd pang, like a fluttering behind her ribcage somewhere beneath her heart, when she realizes how loved and accepted Brittany is by Santana's family. Brittany converses easily with them, slipping in and out of Spanish in a way that still baffles Quinn, and she plays with the younger children while keeping up a conversation with Santana's grandmother. Brittany is halfway through explaining why she, Santana, and Quinn quit the Cheerios when a little boy – around the same age as Madelina – climbs up in her lap and falls asleep, twisting her long hair in his sticky hands. Brittany smiles and talks over his head, her arms circling his small body easily.
Santana kicks back, folding her arms behind her head and resting her heels in Quinn's lap. Quinn is a little startled, but she smiles nonetheless, and runs her thumbs over the ridges of Santana's heels. They're dry and rough from spending too much time barefoot, and Quinn thinks she should convince Santana to get them all pedicures when the party is over.
"And you, Santana?" The grandmother's voice cuts through the general hum of voices, silencing most of the idle chatter. Santana freezes, keenly aware of the attention shift towards her, and she slowly slides her eyes in the direction of her abuela.
"Si, Abuelita?" Santana asks carefully.
"Do you have a boyfriend, mariquita?" The woman's face is narrow and shred, and she eyes Santana with a squinted look, as if she is prepared for Santana to lie.
"Uhh.." Santana's mouth works for a moment, obviously caught off guard. She glances towards Brittany, almost accusingly, and Quinn can see the color rise in Brittany's cheeks. "No."
"And why not!"
"Grandma, I have no time for boys," Santana says with a bit of a sigh.
"Sure you do! What girl does not have time for boys?" The grandmother huffs, clutching her hands in her lap.
"You'd be surprised," Santana replies dryly.
"And this friend of yours?" Suddenly, Quinn feels the grandmother's eyes on her, and her own widen with shock. The older woman's gaze feels like a tangible weight, settling on her heavily. "Does she have a boyfriend?"
"Her name is Quinn, Abuela," Santana says, her voice tight. "And no, she doesn't have a boyfriend either."
"I don't understand you children today," She throws her hands up in the air dramatically. "All you are obsessed with is your iPats and Tweeder but you no care about having boyfriends!"
"Ma, leave them alone," Santana's mother appears behind her grandmother, carrying a large bowl full of potato salad. "It's good they aren't so boy crazy."
"Well, it is a good thing you stopped with that boy, Santana,"
"Oh, here we go," Santana mutters.
"I didn't like him!"
Quinn laughs despite herself. "Who?"
Santana clenches her jaw and shakes her head.
"That matón with the hair!" She turns towards Brittany, as if seeking for help.
"She's talking about Puck," Brittany supplies quietly.
"Oh." Quinn's expression deadens, and she shoots a sidelong glance towards Santana. Santana's face is hard, and she folds her arms over her chest, staring straight ahead.
"You know him, yes?" The grandmother prods.
"Um, hm," Quinn nods, looking down into her lap.
"He's no good! Not for any good Catholic girl,"
Quinn notices that her accent becomes stronger the longer she talks. She picks a thumbnail over her cuticle and pulls at the loose skin, choosing not to comment.
"Abuela," Santana warns, her voice low. She rattles off a string of Spanish so clipped and hot that it makes Brittany's mouth drop, and her grandmother gasps.
"No, Santanita, I don't want to hear that—"
"Madre, por favor," Maribel pleads, tugging on shoulder. "It's her birthday."
"Spoiled child." The grandmother says darkly. She cuts her eyes towards Maribel, and then away. "You ruined her."
Santana doesn't say anything, but she swings her legs away from Quinn's lap angrily and heaves herself up. She pushes through the crowd of children circling them, and in a moment disappears around the side of the house.
"Are you glad?" Maribel demands, a hand resting on her hip. "Are you happy now?"
The grandmother glares at her, and then she begins arguing hotly in Spanish. Quinn meets Brittany's eyes, and both of them have a solemn, uncomfortable expression on their faces.
"Lunch is almost ready," Dr. Lopez announces, edging in slowly on the group. He looks first to his wife's face, and then to his mother-in-law, and finally he sweeps his eyes over Brittany and Quinn, as if trying to gauge the situation.
"Find your daughter," Maribel snaps, and she leans down to grasp the grandmother by her elbow.
"I'll go," Quinn says suddenly. She feels several sets of eyes settle on her, and Dr. Lopez's eyebrows raise when he considers her. Quinn hops up and moves quickly, before anyone can say anything, and she walks in hurried steps around the edge of the house.
She finds Santana sitting on the air conditioning unit, her face lined and bitter. She looks up when she hears Quinn approaching, and the corners of her eyes soften, but only slightly.
"Hey," Quinn says quietly. Santana lifts a shoulder in greeting, and turns her gaze towards the grass.
"Your dad wants you," Quinn bites her lip, and takes Santana's hand in her own. Santana stares at their fingers intertwined for a long moment, and Quinn watches her face.
She startles, only slightly, when she hears grass crunching beneath feet. Brittany appears at her shoulder, looking slightly winded, but she smiles brightly at the pair of them, and then wraps her hand over theirs.
Finally, Santana looks up, and she shares a silent, steady look with Brittany. Quinn doesn't know what is exchanged between them, but the moment passes, and the tension in Santana's face drains. Quinn lets out a breath she didn't even know she was holding. Santana shifts and slides down from the metal box, then takes Quinn's hand in her right one and Brittany's in her left. The three of them make their way back towards the patio, linked together and walking in tandem.
Later, after Santana's father has made her laugh and she's distracted by her cousins, Quinn eases next to Brittany, who sits with her feet dangling in the pool. Brittany smears a hotdog over a blob of ranch dressing on a paper plate balanced in her lap, and she grins at the sight of Quinn settling beside her.
"What happened earlier?" Quinn asks, her voice low. Brittany looks at her curiously, and Quinn's eyebrows rise. "With her grandmother."
"Oh," Brittany chews, swallows. "That."
A moment passes, and Quinn nods. "Yeah?"
Brittany glances around, as if trying to spot Santana. "They argued about Puck."
"Yeah," Quinn smiles, a little confused. "I saw that. What else?"
Brittany scratches the back of her wrist uncomfortably, and avoids Quinn's gaze. "Her grandma wants her to get married. To a boy."
"Really?" Quinn can't help the way surprise colors her voice. "But she's so young."
Brittany nods, and then tugs her bottom lip into her mouth anxiously. "Everyone in her family marries young, though. Her cousin Carla married Dennis just last year, and she only turned eighteen this April."
"Ah." Quinn says it as if she understands, but the truth is, she doesn't. She watches Santana playing with a pair of boys with spiky hair and bronze skin, and she sees the way the other adults watch her. To Quinn, Santana is – well, perfect. Quinn couldn't imagine her any differently, even if she occasionally drives Quinn insane. But she can see, now, that Santana's grandmother views her very differently. It makes Quinn's heart sore. It's an old, familiar pain, like a bruise that never healed; it echoes like the hurt her own parents' expectations left on her, everywhere, even in secret, surprising places that she wouldn't dream of finding them.
Brittany runs a palm down the span of Quinn's back, and her hand is soft against the thin fabric of Quinn's tank top. Quinn shifts until their thighs are touching, and she curls an arm around Brittany's waist, pulling them close. Quinn rests her head against the sun-warmed skin of Brittany's bare shoulder, overcome, for the moment, by the ghosts of old sadness. They're exacerbated by the knowledge that Santana deals with her very own version of these ghosts. She knows that she is beyond reprisals and judgment, now, at least from that quarter, but she also knows that Santana isn't so lucky.
She gets the impression that Santana has done this before, too, when her own heart felt sore. She can imagine them – Santana tucked into Brittany, her head snugged beneath Brittany's chin, while Brittany draws patterns with her fingers along Santana's back. Quinn wishes she could go back in time and be there for those moments, if only to offer her own comfort to Santana, and to take it from them when she most needed it. She thinks about the times that she and Santana were cruel to one another without reason, and something inside of her squeezes sharply.
"It's not so bad," Brittany murmurs quietly, turning her face into Quinn's hair. "You should have seen the way they fought over Santana's quinceañera."
"Oh?" Despite herself, Quinn's curiosity is piqued, and she adjusts her head, trying to see Brittany's face.
Brittany is wearing a pleased grin, and it makes Quinn's own cheeks swell.
"Yes," Brittany whispers conspiratorially. "Santana wanted to bring a girl as her date, instead of her cousin Tomas."
Quinn swallows her laugh, pressing her face against the warm skin of Brittany's shoulder. "I bet that went over well."
"Her mother thought it was a great idea," Brittany nods, and smiles into her lap. "But Abuela said it was abominación." She frowns briefly. "I never asked Santana what that word meant. I don't think I want to know."
Quinn studies Brittany's face, and wonders how much of Santana's pain has rubbed off on her over the years. "What did Santana do?"
Immediately, Brittany's face brightens with a look of proud joy. "She just kept arguing. She threw dishes and broke half of her little crystal champagne glasses. Her dad kept trying to get her to stop, but Abuela wouldn't quit yelling and so Santana went a little crazy."
Quinn can't help but grin at the thought of Santana having a full-blown tantrum in the midst of getting ready for a party. "The most funniest part, though," Brittany says, squeezing Quinn tight, "is that her abuela went and brought a priest right into their house to try to convince Santana to change her mind."
"No way." Quinn isn't sure if she's still amused by the revelation, or slightly disturbed. "That sounds awful."
"It was," Brittany admits, but she's still grinning. "Santana was furious. I – well, I didn't hear everything she said. It was really fast, and I only hear Spanish when it's slow," Brittany scratches her nails softly over the skin beneath Quinn's shirt. "But I did catch her calling him some not-nice names. And she never went back to church with her abuela after that."
"Hmm." Quinn's eyes narrow, and she looks back towards Santana speculatively. She had no idea that Santana was ever religious – even if the quinceañera happened the summer after they met. While Brittany might find the memory amusing, Quinn knows how hard it can be to be rejected by one's own religion over something – well, something you can't change.
"Did she end up bringing a girl to her party?" Quinn asks.
Brittany sighs, and shakes her head. "I was invited to it, of course, but I wasn't her date. Neither was Tomas. She went stag."
Quinn smiles, because now she senses a pattern with Santana – if she can't bring the date of her choice, she brings no one. Just like that winter formal, which seems like eons ago.
"We danced together, though," Brittany almost whispers it.
"I bet it was beautiful," Quinn smiles, and then turns her face again, pressing her lips to Brittany's shoulder. "I wish I could have seen."
"Me too," Brittany's eyes are crinkled at the corners when they meet with Quinn's.
"Don't you think it's kind of funny that Santana has such a severe case of gay panic, but she has open arguments with her grandmother about taking a girl as a date?"
Brittany's face drops so suddenly that it almost startles Quinn.
"Don't call her gay," Brittany murmurs. "She hates that."
"Uh, I know." Quinn sits up straight and turns to face Brittany. "But why?"
Brittany sighs again, and Quinn is surprised at the level of sadness that creeps over her face. "I wish I knew."
"Look at her,"
"Is she really asleep?"
"She never falls asleep," Brittany turns her head upward, staring into the sky as if to read the time there. "Not in the middle of the day."
"Is she sick?" Santana seems curious, and she lays the back of her hand across Quinn's forehead.
Quinn hums and turns her head, and Santana takes a moment to study her face before she breaks out in a grin. She slides one leg over the plastic pool chair that Quinn naps in, straddling her waist, and uses her palms to rub lightly up and down Quinn's forearms.
"Q, wake up," Santana says, still smiling.
Brittany rubs the back of her fingers over the curve of Quinn's cheekbone. "You're getting a sunburn."
Quinn groans, scrunching her face, and then her hands fly up to push at Santana's midsection. "Get off me."
"Wow, grumpy much?" Santana says with a little sneer.
"What's wrong?" Brittany murmurs, crouching down, and using her fingertips to push the wisps of Quinn's hair away from her forehead.
"I have cramps," Quinn says, and shoves a bit harder at Santana. "Get off me."
"Oh, great," Santana says, rolling her eyes. She swings herself off of Quinn and straightens her clothes. "You need a vacation back to Casa a la Judy for a week, Q,"
"Santana," Brittany warns, scowling. Santana makes a face at her over Quinn's prone form, and Brittany just cocks her head. She softens her gaze when her eyes sweep over Quinn again, who has yet to open her eyes. Instead, her face is screwed up in irritation, and she rubs over her abdomen. Without warning, Brittany scoops Quinn up in her arms, and Quinn's eyes fly open with a muffled yelp.
"I got you, Quinn," Brittany says, and smiles at her. Quinn immediately wraps an arm around Brittany's neck and then rests her head on Brittany's shoulder.
"Oh, you guys are disgusting," Santana says, resting a fist on her hip. "The only way this could get any worse is if you started yours, too," She points an accusing finger in Brittany's direction.
"You're a grouch," Brittany says, frowning.
"Shut up, Santana," Quinn mutters.
Santana rolls her eyes again, and huffs noisily when Brittany carries Quinn inside. She watches as Brittany takes them both up the stairs, and only follows reluctantly when Brittany calls for her.
"What?" Santana snaps, poking her head inside her bedroom.
"I need the aloe vera," Brittany says, her eyes trained on Quinn.
"I'm going to be a lobster," Quinn groans.
"Serves you right for falling asleep in the sun," Santana says, but her tone is only mildly snarky. She disappears into the bathroom across the hall and comes back holding a big plastic bottle with sticky green goo inside of it.
"I hate you," Quinn mutters, glaring at Santana.
Santana grins at her, and plops down on the bed. Quinn is curled on her side, her back towards Brittany, who immediately begins rubbing the gel over her shoulders and along her arms.
"You love me," Santana insists.
"Not right now."
"Stop fighting," Brittany says with a sigh.
"You're awful touchy today, Britt," Santana runs her eyes over Brittany's face, and she gets an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Please tell me you aren't—"
"I don't know." Brittany says, her tone slightly whiny. "But I think so."
"Oh, my god," Santana says, her eyes growing wide. "No, no, no,"
"What?" Quinn twists her head, peaking over to Brittany.
"I think I'm going to start soon, too."
Quinn's face goes a little grim.
"Santana?"
Santana fidgets beneath the sudden weight of their eyes on her. "I'm not sure when—I actually think I'm a little late."
"Ugh," Quinn groans again. "I hate my life."
"Just don't talk about it and it won't happen." Santana says, her tone resolute.
She's wrong.
Four hours later, Brittany is nestled in the bed beside Quinn. Santana glares at them, even though they can't see her – because she had to pull the curtains closed, and Brittany has a washcloth over her eyes. She feels like she's suffocating with the amount of pent up estrogen in the room, and she wants to leave, but she's also afraid to make any sudden movements because when she does—
"Santana," Quinn drawls, whining. "Please. I need a heating pad. And midol."
"Quinn," Santana sighs, aggravated. "I don't have a heating pad."
"Find one!" Brittany snaps.
Santana winces, recoiling against the force of Brittany's words. Brittany is never snappy with Santana, so she figures she ought to let it slide. Because – well, Brittany is kind of like Medusa on steroids when her period is bad, and Santana just.. doesn't want to upset her.
"I think I heard if you put pinto beans or rice in a sock and heat it up in the microwave that it works good." Quinn says dully. "I feel like my uterus is trying to rip itself out of me."
"I'll try that," Santana swallows, and walks on her tip-toes past the bed. She eyes Quinn and Brittany warily as she passes, and then slips quietly out the door.
Quinn is right, and Santana is able to make two makeshift heating pads out of dried beans and rice. She smirks, knowing that there's some kind of joke hidden about her ethnicity in there somewhere, but she can't seem to find it at the moment. Actually, she realizes she has a kind of tightness building behind her eyes, and just as the microwave beeps she realizes there's a low ache in her pelvis.
She groans, placing a palm over the area that she approximates holds her ovaries. "Please, not today. Just.. hold off for a little while," She whispers.
"What are you doing?"
Santana whips her head around, the look on her face guilty. Martin stands in the entrance to the kitchen, holding a basketball. "And where are your friends? Did you finally decide to kill them and wear their skin?"
"Ew, Martin," Santana wrinkles her nose.
"Wouldn't surprise me, the way you're obsessed with them."
"Shut up, you little freak," Santana snaps.
"You're the freak! Standing here talking to yourself."
Santana just glares at him, and then Martin's face twists up with horror.
"Santanita, are you pregnant?" His eyes dip towards her stomach. "Is that why you were talking like that?"
"What?" Alarmed, Santana snatches her hand away from her waist. "No! Just mind your own business!"
"I'm telling Mom!"
"Martin!"
She doesn't have a chance to do anything, because he dodges out of the kitchen right as she takes a step. Aggravated, Santana punches the button that swings the microwave door open, and grabs both of the rolled up socks in one fist. She yowls at the sudden release of steam, which scalds her palm, and then she tosses them between both of her hands while she trots up the stairs.
"Here," Santana grumbles. She barely resists throwing them – but one slanted glare from Brittany has her restraining herself. Quinn sighs in relief when she presses the sock against her belly, and Brittany squeezes hers tightly between her fingers before she shoves hers beneath her pajama pants.
"My period is going to start," Santana says, resigned to it. She sits on the edge of the bed – on Quinn's side, since that's safer – and she grips at her comforter, worrying the slick black material between her fingers.
"You sure?" Quinn asks. She seems more relaxed, now, though her eyes are heavily lidded. She circles her fingers loosely around Santana's wrist, and rubs the pad of her thumb against the soft creases there.
"Yeah." Santana turns her hand so that their palms are clasped together. "Martin thinks I'm pregnant."
"What?" Brittany asks, a bit sharply. Santana cranes her neck and sees that Brittany is looking at her with creased eyebrows. "Why would he think that?"
"Jeeze, Britt, paranoid much?" Santana rolls her shoulders, turning away from Brittany. "How could I even-? How could you even think-?" She shakes her head and rubs her free hand over the back of her neck. "He's just being crazy."
"He is." Quinn murmurs softly. She uses the hand not clutching at Santana to smooth down the length of Brittany's arm. Brittany looks at her, and after a moment, she relaxes, settling back into the pillows.
"I think we should have been prepared for this at some point." Santana sighs. "It's biology, right?"
"I thought that was an old wives' tale," Quinn says. She keeps rubbing Brittany's arm, and her fingers twine through Santana's.
"Guess not." Santana stares at the carpet. "I don't know why me and Britt never synced up before, though."
"You're the missing link, Quinn," Brittany murmurs, and most of the bite has dissolved out of her voice. Quinn gazes at her, and Brittany is smiling softly.
"I don't like how you play favorites when you're PMSing," Santana grumbles.
"Deal with it," Brittany's voice is clipped.
Santana just sighs, throwing up her hands in defeat. She struggles a moment to kick off her socks, and then she climbs into bed, settling beside Quinn. "My head hurts." She lets herself whine just a little bit.
"Poor baby," Quinn smiles, and uses her hand to stroke Santana's hair. Santana shifts until her head is resting on Quinn's shoulder, and she tentatively reaches for Brittany's hand across the span of Quinn's waist. Brittany closes her palm against Santana's, and then resettles so that she, too, is snuggled up to Quinn, with her cheek on Quinn's arm.
The rest of the week passes in fits and starts, the days seeming to drag out impossibly slow. The three of them spend their time huddled on Santana's bed, or splayed out in the Lopez family room. They snap and snarl so fiercely at Martin that he doesn't hesitate to abandon his spot in front of his X-Box when they wander down the stairs in the mornings. Brittany prefers to sit with her head in Quinn's lap and her feet resting against the arm of the sofa, while Santana sits on the ground between Quinn's legs. Quinn uses her hands to massage their scalps, and they fight over what to watch on television ("Santana – I'm not watching Jersey Shore!" "I want to watch Beauty and the Beast. Please." "No more Disney movies, Britt! For the love of God!") until Maribel comes home in the early evening.
Santana notices the effect that it has on each of them, even though she wishes she could ignore it. She wishes that she didn't care. Quinn turns whiny and pleading, and she even pouts, which is something Santana wishes she had the heart to tease her for – and Brittany becomes snappish and moody, even mean. Santana has spent enough time with Brittany to know how she behaves, though it seems like this time she's particularly grumpy.
And Santana? Well, she's slightly sentimental – she can't help it. Her eyes water at the most inconvenient times, and sometimes Brittany's brusque remarks make her throat swell up. Damn hormones. She knows it's just passing, but it sucks. She wishes she could do like Coach Sylvester boasts of doing and have her tear ducts removed. She hates being such a damn girl all the time.
After bathing, they each rub lotion on one another's skin, slowly. It gives them time to unwind, and Santana sighs beneath the strong, steady fingers of Brittany kneading into her back. She slides her own palms down the ridges of Quinn's spine, and then up over her shoulders, beneath her tawny curls. Quinn's damp hair tickles the back of her wrists, and she rubs her thumbs into the tiny knots beneath Quinn's skin.
Santana leans over and plucks a hairbrush from her table, and then slowly runs it through Quinn's hair. Santana smiles to herself when Brittany's fingers massage her hips, and at the way Quinn cants her head into the rhythmic tugging. Finally, when Quinn's hair is slick and straight, Santana parts it into three sections and starts weaving it together.
"Your hair is getting so long," Santana murmurs.
"Almost as long as Brittany's."
Brittany makes a noncommittal noise, and then slides until she's directly in front of Quinn. Quinn starts working lotion into her skin, and the subtle, shifting movements means that her braid is loose and sloppy. But Santana anticipates the way that Quinn's hair will be impossibly wavy when they wake up tomorrow and she takes her hair down, and Santana can't help but grin. "I love it."
Santana can't see Quinn's smile, but she can sense it. It makes everything inside of her flood with warmth, despite the low pressure in her pelvis and the constant discomfort between her legs.
They don't bother with pajamas that night. Instead, they crawl beneath Santana's comforter and fall asleep, skin still damp and fragrant from the lotion. They all smell the same – Santana smells her own shampoo in Brittany's hair, her body wash on Quinn's neck. It's comforting and peaceful, and Santana lets herself dwell on it – for once. It doesn't cause the same kind of stir that it used to, in the brief moments she would give herself to actually think about it before. Something heavy and leaden does descend in her gut, sometimes, when her mind wanders too far, and the implications become too serious or too real; but it isn't the same white, blinding panic that it used to be. It's unnerving and uncomfortable, but not.. not intolerable. She doesn't know what to call it – there isn't any kind of a name for it. It turns into an amalgam of Brittany and Quinn in her mind, a montage of blonde hair in different shades, pink lips, bright smiles, and eyes that stare back at her with the same emotion reflected in them. Occasionally – well, frequently – it's too much for her, and she has to push it aside. But that takes a tremendous amount of effort, a combination of nonchalance and denial and everything that feels like just ignoring it. Santana never realized how much energy it took, before, just to push things aside and keep them stifled, buried.
Curled up between Quinn and Brittany, listening to their faint breaths and feeling their hearts beat beneath their skin, Santana realizes that she's growing tired. Much too tired.
She lets it go, for now. She understands innately that something – something is happening. Something she can't control; it feels like something slowly unraveling, and every time a thread loosens, it sounds just like chains clanging to the ground.
She falls asleep. She doesn't remember her dreams, but when she wakes, she knows that they leave her mouth with a sweet taste and a smile on her lips.
A/N: I hope you'll let me know what you think! You can ask me questions about this or any of my other stories on tumblr.