Title: The Shell Collector.
Pairing(s): Quinn Fabray/Rachel Berry, Santana Lopez/Ms. J
Rating: No holds barred. M/NC-17 ratings.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, Ryan Murphy's characters, Disney (other than a few DVDs- full disclosure), The Academy Awards, the British monarchy, the Tony Awards, the Imaginary Muccino's Italian Cuccino (but I will be Trademarking), or New York, Julie Andrews, Patty LuPone, Skype, US News and World Report, the Nobel committee, or motherhood in general. I own very little, actually. This is strictly for fun, is non-profit, so no litigation required.
Summary: Hitting a brutal reality check while walking the red carpet on Oscar night, Rachel wonders how she found herself here, and how to find herself again. This is the story of how she does just that.
A/N:
CHAPTER NEXT: Santana's Soliloquy
The front door of the Fabray-Berry household slammed open.
Storming through the door was the next Judge Elect of the New York Supreme Court, the Hon. Santana Lopez, following behind her, close in tow, her mini-me, Beatrice Lopez.
"Where is he?" Hollered Santana.
Rachel walked downstairs. "Santana, can you lower your voice? Freddie's trying to sleep!"
Her comment was met by a string of Spanish curse words as the Latina pushed past the smaller woman.
"Mama, you shouldn't shove people!" Bea announced.
"Hey! Beatrice! Talk to that nice lady on the stairwell who sings while I find Freddie." She gestured towards Rachel as she stormed up the stairs.
Arriving upstairs, she pushed open his bedroom door, her face went white as a sheet. His face bandaged, Quinn was patiently laboring over him, emptying his JP drains from the tubing running from his face. Bloody gauze was everywhere.
"Hi, Auntie San!" He said, muffled through the bandages.
"Freddie, don't talk! I told you!" Quinn admonished. Casting a dirty look toward her second, she said, "And hello, Santana. What part of "Freddie's resting' did you not get on your voicemail?"
"I'm glad she's here!"The muffled voice said
"I said, be quiet, Freddie!"
"Good luck with that, Auntie Q." The mini-me chirped, entering through the door. Freddie said "ow!" as he smiled, seeing Bea, and then he raised his hand towards here, and he and Bea did their weird "hand jive" they developed over the course of time, in salutation.
Santana yanked Bea upright. "Don't jar him! The stitches!" Quinn shook her head, watching Santana's brand of crazy, and continued to drain her son's wounds.
"Q! Are you sure you know what you're doing? Shouldn't we get a nurse to do that? Or at least, Beth? I mean, she's at least, medical!" Santana said, with pressured speech.
Freddie could tell his Mom was counting to ten.
"San, honey, we appreciate your concern. However, unbridled panic won't help. He's over the hump. He had surgery. He's fine. I am perfectly capable of emptying the JP drains...the nurse taught me, and frankly, this is no different than the post-op I had for my nose job."
"You had a nose job?" Bea and Freddie said in unison.
"Stop talking, Freddie. They'll have a spaz." Bea said, motioning towards the adults. "Don't worry, I'll talk for you."
Rachel said, laughing as she entered the room. "And so it begins…" Freddie gave her the pinkie-his one act of rebellion since giving her the finger would result in no Wii for the month-and she laughed again. However, she sobered up to add, "Santana, why don't the three adults retire…to the study. To chat."
"I don't need to chat."
"It wasn't a request." Rachel said, firmly.
"Uh-oh. Better go, Mama. I'll wait here, with the Fredster." Bea said, looking at Freddie.
With one last concerned look back at the boy, Santana headed to the study across the hall. After the door clicked, Freddie motioned hand signals to Bea, to open the air vent. They had mastered the fine art of spying on their parents together, after all.
"Okay, be quiet once you open it, Bea."
"Stop talking, Fredrick!"
She opened the vent to listen. Bea winced at the flurry of Spanish expletives showering out of her Mama's mouth. She shrugged and crawling over to Freddie, whispered, "No real content, yet."
She went back to her post. After a few moments of eavesdropping, a strange look came over Bea's face. She came over to Freddie. "Mama's saying you got beat up…by some boys at your school."
The painful look on his eyes registered the truth.
Bea went back. She returned after a bit. "Auntie Quinn says you're going to have to learn how to fight your own battles, yada yada yada, and Mama says how can he when you pussyfy him, whatever that is; Aunt R says, it builds character."
Bea went back, then returned. "Mama's….crying, Freddie. She said, um, bullying isn't like it used to be – its not just Slushies any more. She says theyre guns, and knives, and cyberbullying, and depressed skull fractures and stuff, and she's just crying a lot right now. She wants Aunt Q and R to get you out of that school."
He gave a silent thumbs up to that.
She went back to listen, but almost immediately returned back to Freddie. She had tears in her eyes. "I don't want to listen anymore, 'kay, Fred?"
She leaned down and rested her head on her friend's chest, and hugged him. Freddie put his hand on Bea's head, patting her. She lifted her head up to look at him. On the brink of tears herself, she looked up to the bandaged boy above her, and said, "Mama said, 'Bea and Freddy are the only two things I have in this world that matter. If I lose them, I've lost everything.' Mama's ...she...she's really, really sad, F."
He nodded, and pushed her off his chest, gently. Freddie swung his legs over the bed, and stood up. Bea went to support him, as he threw his arm around her shoulders. "Um, are you supposed to be doing this, Freddie?" Bea said, nervously. He shrugged his shoulders and motioned toward the door. Ambling through, they headed towards the study. Bea pushed open the door for him.
Quinn's head swiveled around and she went sheet white.
"Fredrick Alexander Fabray! What on EARTH do you think you're doing?" Quinn said, standing, in disbelief.
Rachel was speechless.
Freddie, nodding acknowledgement towards his mom that he knew he was in deep shit later, walked over and plopped down to sit by his Aunt San. She looked worse than him! San looked utterly devistated... her eyes were red rimmed, and glassy. Her nose was running.
So Freddie did the first thing that came to his mind. From the pocket of his bathrobe, he pulled out…a deck of cards.
UNO.
Slowly, with great care to not disrupt his bandages or drains, he dealt seven cards to Santana and himself.
"You figured out how to eavesdrop, didn't you, kid?" Santana whispered lowly, so only Freddie could hear.
Freddie nodded.
Louder, for the benefit of the room, Santana said, "Don't think you're going to get off because you can't SAY the word UNO, punk," as she laid down a Red +2 on the pile. Whispering so only he could hear, she continued, "Freddie, I love you. You're my only son…sort of son, I mean. I can't lose you. I worry. Its what I do."
He nodded, as he placed his next card down.
With each turn, Santana visibly calmed. "UNO!" She squealed. She even did a extensive victory dance when she won. Rachel and Santana then moved him back to his bed - Quinn was too livid to lay her hands on her child - and they left Santana and Bea to visit with him privately for a while.
As they walked down their spiral staircase towards the kitchen, Rachel and Quinn exchanged a look. Rachel nodded at Quinn.
"It's time, Quinn."
Quinn sighed. "It would appear so."
XOXOXOXO
Santana stumbled through the front door of the Muccino's home, exhausted.
Yes, Santana had her own place, a penthouse...but... after Rachel had fed Santana-literally fed her- the night of Rachel's request to help Quinn ditch her contract, she relayed her concern to Mr. Muccino, who was equally horrified. Amid protests, they moved Santana in with the Muccinos, where she stayed until she cracked the cartel like a cheap nut. When her wife and child returned, the three of them sort of remained there...and had essentially moved in with Mr. and Mrs. Muccinos. Truthfully, it kind of made Santana feel like she was home. Big house, loud people, good food, extended family...and it was good, and inviting, and overflowing with love...and she wanted Bea to have that experience.
And then, it became just the two of them.
Moving out, after that, seemed unthinkable after the passing of J; Santana didn't have the oomph to consider something as gargantuian as a move.
It would mean she was moving on.
But, she still kept the penthouse downtown, because...fuck, it was a penthouse downtown, a'rite? Additionally, the Muccino's were incredible enablers. To say they doted on Bea was an understatement. Having no children or grandchildren of their own, a real travesty in an Italian family, they took on Santana and Bea as their own. ("Sometimes they squint and pretend we're Italian," Santana would joke). Truth be known, it was a totally symbiotic situation. Eventually Bea called them Noni and Papa, and after all, they were actually the only grandparent figures she had in her life. Most people assumed that she was their grandchild - she looked like them and she certainly acted Italian. It was remarkable how well they all fit together. Throw in Freddie, who Santana essentially claimed as her own, coupled with his parents Rachel and Quinn, and you had your New American Family.
It was preparing for their weekly Sunday meal with Quinn, Rachel, Fred, and Rachel's dad who was in town, that Mr. Muccino, much to his complete and utter delight, discovered that among Bea's many talents, one of her greatest was her chutzpah in the kitchen. The little girl could cook. Papa Muccino loved his little princess...and the fact she had a knack in the kitchen endeared her even more. For her elementary science project one year, she developed a cold water filtration system with charcoal resins and other bits of filters to perfect the water...because, she explained, that was the key to making Italian dough. And she was right. When she won first place that year, with the Muccinos emptying an entire memory card on the day, cheering loudest over every set of parents, Santana said to Rachel, "fuck. We're never moving out, are we?" Rachel concurred, expressing her sentiment that the the likelihood ranged from slim to notachanceinhell.
San was grateful for the bonus set of grandparents, actually. As a result, after dinner, homework, yatzee, and then bedtime, she would turn around, and head back into work for some God awful period, and come home and die until she got up four to five hours later and went right back in. The Muccinos would take turns waiting up for her, primarily to make sure she ate. Plus they loved to pounce on her...
"She is so smart, Santana..."Noni Muccino would say, to the exhausted attorney.
"I'm aware of that. Too smart for her own good."
"Where did she get those smarts, San?"
"I'd like to think from her mother. I'm not exactly a dummy."
"No, you're smart, no doubt...but she's really smart...way beyond that, even."
Santana narrowed her eyes. "If this is a thinly veiled attempt to try to get the paternity out of me, yet again, the answer is NO. No one will know before Bea, and that's final. And for the billionth time, no, he's not Italian."
"Are you sure?"
"Argh!" Santana would throw her arms up, exasperated. Noni would hug her, drag her into the kitchen, and force food down her exhausted body.
Their other routine would be Papa Muccino yelling at her to take better care of herself, and to not work so much.
One night, he admonished, "Italians work to live, Santana, they do not live to work."
"Again, I am not Italian."
"Yes, you are, dear."
"No! I'm not! Lopez. LOPEZ."
"Meh. You're killing yourself. I don't like it."
"Criminals aren't going to suddenly start turning themselves in, and everyone else is a pussy besides me.
"How are you going to find the next Mrs. Lopez, then?"
"There won't be a next Mrs. Lopez. Or if they're is, likely she'll be a criminal."
"Mengle! Let's not argue about this, okay?" He offered her dinner, which she snapped up.
"I heard Bea speaking Italian yesterday, by the way." Santana said, with a breadstick hanging from her mouth.
He beamed. "That girl...she is so smart. Really smart. She just picks it up."
"So I've heard."
He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Santana...I think she might be the first woman president, someday."
"God, I hope not!"
"Me, too." He exhaled.
"You, too? Hmmm. Me, I don't want her to, because I no longer trust the government after being a part of it for so long. But, you...you're Mr. Coming To America himself, Mr. Red White and Blue! So...why? Why don't you want her to be the first woman president?" Santana cocked her head.
"Because... I want to give her the restaurant someday."
XOXOXOXOXO
It started as a night similar to any others. Santana was loaded with work, but Mr. Muccino called her and told her to come home immediately. So, she did. She walked into the dark kitchen straight away, finding a bottle of red wine. Frankly, she was glad to leave early - she hated nights like this, where she once again, proved the hallowed traditions she respected, were tainted; she had discovered a probate judge was taking bribes from a plaintiff. Its bullshit to not have term limits, she thought, as she sunk into a chair in the kitchen nook, uncorking the wine.
"Santana." Papa Muccino said, grimly.
"Yes?" She said, tiredly. She took a swig directly from the bottle.
"I know its getting late. Santana, um. You are always welcome here, but..."
Santana's spidey senses were tingling. "But, what?"
"Santana, you have your own house to go home to."
"What?" She said incredulously. "You're kicking me out? Kicking...us...out?"
"Yup." He said, matter of factly.
Santana's face cycled through a million shades of betrayal. He chuckled. "Lighten up, my little gnocchi," He said with a twinkle. Raising his hand to hers, he dropped a set of keys in her hand. "It's a good thing your house is just next door, since you don't look so good."
Still speechless, he picked up the wine bottle, and took her hand. He walked the stunned woman, literally, to the house next door.
"Try the keys." He said, gently.
Hands shaking, she fumbled with the lock, but eventually turned the key. "It appears to work."
"It does, indeed."
Santana pushed open the door.
"SURPRISE!" A million voices called out. All of the knights of the round table were in Santana's new festive living room, and corks were popping. As if on cue, Puck started the sound system, with the deeply poetic musings of Mr. Tone Loc performing "Funky Cold Medina" to Quinn AND Noni Muccino's disgust. He grinned and turned it up, and it blared through the house.
"What-?" The startled Latina gargled, looking around, shell shocked.
Bea and Freddie left the other kids, when they saw her finally walk in, and they sprinted over to the speechless woman.
"Mama! Isn't it great? This is our house, now!"
"Don't you love it, Auntie San?"
Santana looked around in wonderment. Rachel and Quinn walked over to their friend, hand in hand, smiling. "But how...?"
Quinn said, "You aren't the only persuasive one around here, Lopez."
"But...but...this house wasn't even for sale!" She said, stunned.
Rachel looked at Papa Muccino knowingly and smiled. Taking Santana's arm in hers, she said, "Counselor, let's just say...we made them an offer they couldn't refuse." She smiled broadly at her stunned friend. Arm in arm, she tugged her friend, gently, urging her forward. "Come with me, San."
Santana was speechless.
Quinn and Rachel agreed it should be Rachel to do the tour. Santana was never overly defensive around her, like she still was occasionally with Quinn. Plus, Rachel had been the driving force behind this, anyway. Touring her around the magnificent, yet homey, surroundings, Rachel recounted all of the features of the residence with such a detailed authority, Santana thought Rachel might have actually missed her true calling as a New York broker. "Do you like it, San?"
Dumbfounded, Santana nodded.
Rachel gave her million dollar smile. "Wow! It's not every day I make the formidable Santana Lopez, Esquire, from Lima Heights Adjacent, speechless!" She giggled. As they arrived upstairs to the closed doors that led into what Santana mused was the master bedroom, Rachel continued speaking. "That's impressive, considering I haven't even told you the best feature, yet, of this residence!"
Looking meaningfully at Santana, with a devilish glint in her eye, she opened the French doors, and ushered the two of them into the room. It was huge! It was gorgeous, and very tastefully done. It felt right, sort of. But...the hairs on Santana's neck were sticking up, and her spidey senses were still pinging...
"The best part, Mamí, is that this residence comes complete... with your very own, live-in, blonde!"
On cue, the door to the connecting master bath opened. Peeking her head out, Brittany said with a broad smile, "Hi, Sanny! I ran us a bath. Come on in, while its still hot!"
Santana turned to look at Rachel, tears welling in her eyes. Not knowing what to do with all of these feelings of actual happiness spilling out of her at long last, she floundered about, finally grabbing Rachel suddenly, squeezing her for all she was worth. Rachel made some small gurgling noises, but tried to smile gamely anyway. Finally, Santana relented. She kissed her on the cheek, and whispered while she gripped her tightly, "You're the best little munchkin in all of Munchkinville, Rachel Barbara Berry, and I love you!"
Finally releasing the asphyxiating diva from her near-choke hold, she winked and turned around. Calling over her left shoulder, she said, "Now if you'll excuse me, Berry, I gots to get my bath on." Santana sauntered towards the master bath, stripping her clothes off, with a grin.
And that is how Santana Lopez got her swagger back, Rachel thought to herself, as she headed downstairs to rejoin the party. God Help New York; God Help Us All...
All it took was a little money, a few calls to friends, some covert city permit magic with P&S signings, peppered with true friends, one Unicorn, a bit of neighborly intimidation, a moving van, a final heaping of luck and timing, naps, snacks, and a whole lot of Rachel Berry.
TBC.