Title: Some Things Are Meant To Be [Part Nine]
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6.7k
Notes: Thank you for all the reviews! You guys still continue to be awesome despite the lack of Brittana in our lives!
/
Remarkably, she's able to keep her cool for at least sixty seconds before the red flashes before her eyes, which is definitely something she should be awarded for because Jason's now wrapping his arm around one of the strippers and sloppily kissing her on the cheek and fuck, Santana really doesn't know how he could do that to Brittany.
But then something snaps inside of her, like a rubber band pulled too tight and the alcohol sizzles through her veins, causing a bigger reaction than she expected. She completely ignores the voices yelling at her, her blood pounding too hard inside her ears to really notice and within a second she's jolting up from her seat, kicking back the chair and curling her fists against her thighs. Her shoulders square, her feet begin moving without her brain telling her too and she's growling beneath her breath as she zones in on Jason, everything else just blurring away because fucking hell she's going to kill him. She's going to rip his throat out and shove it up his—
A hand yanks her backwards harshly, so much so she stumbles, almost falling on her ass but she barely has time to react before there's a fresh breeze blowing through her hair and she's aware she's outside. The change of scenery is so confusing for a moment she pauses, or rather trips drunkenly over the sidewalk, trying to find her grounding but then she's recovering and whipping her head around. Her eyes narrow even further, almost until they disappear completely and her nostrils flare impossibly so as she looks for the culprit who dragged her out here and fuck, she didn't know she could feel so damn angry.
"Santana," a low voice says in a warning. "Santana, you need to calm down."
Her eyes burst open and she finds Puck staring straight at her, with his hands out, palms up. His eyes are wide, panicked and his mohawk is sticking up all over the place and the sound of breathing is so loud inside her it's almost beating her own. And it's when she registers his state that she realizes, shit, he's actually like... scared of her. Like, he's actually worried for her enough for him to drag her outside, away from someone.
"You can't do anything to make this situation better right now, especially drunk," he tries to tell her. "So you can't go back in there."
There's a million things she could do right now to make the situation better, or rather make the right now situation better, including breaking one of Jason's legs or like, severely maiming him.
"Lopez, you need to go home."
It's like petrol to the flames because she bursts and springs forward, shoving him backward with her hands hard against her chest. The mention of home, the reminder of Brittany being there after the night she's had... She just can't.
"I can't, Puckerman," she hisses and staggers a little when Puck grabs her wrists. She rips them away and spins, but catches her footing and ends up slamming her palm against the brick wall to steady herself a little off, causing a shooting pain to spiral up her wrist. "Fuck," she spits beneath her breath and clutches at her arm, knowing if it weren't for the alcohol it'd probably hurt a lot more. "I can't fucking go home," she feels the tears prick at her eyelids but shakes them away. "Not when she's there."
It all feels like it's too much. Like this night's too much, like Brittany's too much, like her entire life is too much and despite the protest her wrist has to the movement, she curls her fist against the brick wall and falls against it, her forehead digging against it. Tears begin falling without her permission and it just makes her angrier because she can't help it. She can't help feeling so damn shitty and confused when she couldn't have really done anything to prevent it, and especially when the main cause of it is the one thing in her life that actually makes fucking sense. It's just so fucking ironic.
"What happened to you two, man?" Comes from behind her, and seconds later, a warm palm settles against the middle of her back. "What's going on?"
There isn't enough time to explain what's going on between them and a bitter laughter pours from her lips at the thought. There's a part of her, quite a large part actually, that wants to just get it out, to just get Puck's opinion on it because he's more honest than Quinn sometimes and just fucking talk about it. But she knows the last time she involved someone, it all fell to shit. Last time she tried to talk to someone, Brittany got pissed off, thinking Santana was trying to sleep with that person instead, and somehow it turned into a bigger ball of crap then it already was.
So basically, no, she can't—or rather won't—talk to someone about it.
"Nothing," she sighs and drops her head down, her hand going with it before she slowly spins around to face her friend. "I just need to go... to sleep."
She doesn't really think about where she'll sleep, and it's lucky she says it to Puck and he doesn't let her walk away or some dumb shit because she'd just end up cold, wet and with a shitty nights sleep in an alley somewhere because she doesn't have anywhere to go at this time in the morning. But the second it leaves her mouth, Puck gives up with the questions, probably knowing better and instead shakes his head, grabs her good arm and pulls her toward the side of the road before hailing a taxi.
She falls asleep in the back seat, head tilted against the window and dried tears coating her cheeks.
It's all so fucked up.
/
When she wakes up, she's in Puck's bed, her head is pounding and so is her wrist. Her eyes flicker down to the discoloration along her knuckles and she knows she's probably cracked a bone or broken a knuckle or some shit, but she has no time for that. There's so much more shit in her life that she needs to be worrying about that a broken hand isn't going to reach the top of her list, and so she takes note to put some ice on it and deal with it at another point in her life when shit isn't going down.
By then, it'll probably be healed anyway.
She crawls off the bed like a baby crawling for the first time, and when she gets to the edge of the bed she swings her legs forward and plants her feet on the floor, dropping her head in her hands and cradling it carefully. It feels like someone's stabbing her brain and strangling it at the same time, and she groans to herself before pushing up from the bed and finding her stability, hesitating for a moment as she eyes her clothes on the floor, realizing she's actually in boxers and a t-shirt that she recognizes to be Puck's.
Damn. She doesn't even remember Puck changing her last night.
Staggering out his bedroom, she heads into the bedroom and finds Puck on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table and a plate of eggs in front of him. He's scoffing them down his throat, his eyes trained on the television and she shakes her head before wandering into the kitchen to grab herself a plate of eggs from the pan on the stove, knowing he's an asshole, but he wouldn't leave her hungover, hurting emotionally and physically, without food.
"Before you ask," a voice comes, getting louder by the second until Puck appears behind her with an empty plate. "I didn't change you."
She frowns but continues piling the eggs on to her own plate. "Whatever," she grunts and steps back to sit down, sliding her plate on to the counter before digging in. "Can I crash here for a bit?"
Puck throws her a quizzical look but says nothing for a long moment, instead studies her. "You've gotta go home at some point, Lopez," he informs her, throwing his plate into the sink before turning around to lean against the counter. "You might as well go now."
"I don't have to do shit, Puckerman," she bites back and shovels a forkful of egg into her mouth, not giving a damn how messily she's eating. Maybe if she looks completely gross doing it, he'll leave her alone.
"You don't have to, but you probably should. You're Brittany's best friend and she needs to know what we saw last night otherwise—."
Her head whips around, eyes narrowed into a glare. "Otherwise what, Noah?" She hisses, the use of his name a sure sign of how pissed off she is. "Otherwise she'll stay with him and marry him? Like she's stayed with him all these years despite him being a total asshole?" She lets out a bitter laugh down at her plate. "We don't even know what we saw!"
It's something she was thinking about in her drunken stupor last night. It's something she's been considering because she knows how much last night is going to effect things, not only for Brittany and Brittany's whole life, but for herself. Her own personal life, her professional life and her emotional life. It's going to be the biggest fucking thing that's ever happened to her, to Brittany, and after all of those thoughts, after considering how heartbroken and hurt Brittany's going to be, Santana started rationalizing the situation.
Okay, yeah, she did see Jason at a strip club. Okay, yeah, he shouldn't have been there, and he especially shouldn't have been walking out of the back room with a stripper. Okay, yeah, he most definitely shouldn't haven't been giving a stripper or a kiss or grabbing her ass either, but that's all she saw. She didn't see him fucking the girl or the girl giving him head or whatever, and sure the other things are cheating enough, but it's also a strip club. That's a standard thing (she thinks) for strip clubs and so she can't go jumping to conclusions.
Just because whenever Puck's been in that back room he's been fucked senseless, doesn't mean that it's the same for ever customer in there. For all she knows, he could've just had an innocent lap dance and that's not worth ruining a marriage, ruining Brittany's life, and ruining her own life for. There's just too much at risk for that.
"Please tell me you're fucking kidding me!" He slaps his hands down on to the counter, leaning toward her. "We know what we saw, Lopez! That fucking slime ball walked out the back room, zipping his trousers up after fucking the shit out of one of those girls!" He breathes heavily, eyes wide and dark with anger. "And you're not sure what you saw?" He almost winces, giving her a glare that makes her feel nothing but stupid and pathetic. "You're out of your God damn mind if you think he just got a quick dance, and you fucking need to tell Brittany or else you'll lose her, and she'll hate you for not telling her."
"But what if he didn't, Puckerman?" She argues back, pushing off the stool and ignoring the high-pitched screech it makes against the linoleum flooring. "What if it was nothing, and I tell Brittany and she doesn't leave him?" Her fist curls against the counter and a sharp pain shoots down her wrist, a reminder of an argument very similar to this last night. "What if I tell her and it turns out he didn't, then she's going to fucking hate me anyway and I'll still be left behind as she still marries him!"
Puck shakes his head, a sound of derision coming from his mouth and he stares at her for a good long minute or two, his eyes scanning all over his face like he's trying to find the reason for Santana's decision. Like there's a hidden agenda or reason. He won't come up with anything, Santana's just trying to do the best for everybody, but mostly Brittany.
"If you don't you're a fucking idiot," is all he says, shaking his head, his hand coming up to comb through his tangled mohawk. "If you don't mention anything to her you'll regret it as you watch her walk down the aisle and dedicate the rest of her life to someone who doesn't deserve her."
An image of the wedding day, of blonde hair, blue eyes, a bright white dress snap into her mind and it's like a punch to the heart. She hates thinking of that, of knowing that day is coming and she just ends up wanting nothing more than to get out of here. There's so many things she wants to say to Puck, most of which include several expletives, to explain herself, to explain the rational decision-making behind this but she can't.
There's no way she can tell Brittany when she's not 100% sure what she saw. At the time, she was certain, but it was the heat of the moment, and she can't risk telling Brittany something that could break her heart if it's not definite. She wouldn't do that to Brittany. She couldn't.
So through a clenched jaw, narrowed eyes and flared nostrils, she thrusts her good hand out, pointing out her friend and mutters, "Fuck you, Puckerman," before storming back to the bedroom, quickly changing into her own clothes and disappearing out the front door, leaving it to slam loudly behind her.
Puck just laughs to himself, thinking how much of an idiot she is.
/
As soon as she gets outside, she remembers she doesn't have her phone on her.
Still, she pats around her pockets as she wanders down the street and eventually finds a few dollars instead, thinking how it could get her home instead of having to walk, but a packet of cigarettes seems like a hell of a lot better for her current mood. So she stops by one of the markets on the street, buys a soft pack and ignores the way the guy eyes her like she just came out from a rough's night sleep in the subway station as he slaps it into her palm.
The first drag is like heaven, and she closes her eyes, allowing the dizziness that the first smoke after a long while gives her. It's something she's trying to make last, because this is the first good feeling she's had in a while and God only knows wherever she ends up next isn't going to be as good as this moment. Because at some point, she's got to face Brittany. She's got to go home, got to see the girl that makes her the happiest and saddest she can be, and even though part of her is already missing the girl, there's also a part that likes being out alone, with nothing and no-one being able to reach her.
So deciding to skip going home for a while, she heads to the park. There's a bench next to the pond that always reminds her of Brittany for some reason—probably something to do with the amount of ducks that surround it—and it seems like the best place to be right now. She takes a seat, leans back and stretches her arm out across the back of it, only bringing it forward to take a drag of her cigarette, and watches the people walk by and wondering what they're doing with their lives instead of focusing on what's going on in her own for a few hours.
She'll have to deal with her own crap later. For now, it's alone time with a packet of cigarettes.
/
Okay, so maybe the park wasn't a good idea.
Sure, it gave her alone time for a while, but there was only so much alone time she could have, wondering what other people were doing with their lives before she ended up comparing them to her own. And comparing them to her own made her think about all her problems in her life and basically, to cut a story short, after three hours she wound up realizing she was alone, on a bench, smoking away her life and thinking about Brittany. Which was kind of what she was wanted to get away from.
But after those hours, after sitting and thinking, and thinking again, she realized something: she just can't take it anymore. She doesn't know what the fuck to do.
She's been terrorizing herself, questioning herself and losing herself for hours in that damn park because she doesn't know what to fucking do and she needs to just talk it out and there's always been one person who's listened no matter how petty or pathetic. There's always been one person who's straightened out her shit and helped her out. There's no fucking around when it comes to this person and shit, Santana just really needs to vent and because it's not Brittany, it has to be someone else. Someone else who knows her almost as well as Brittany does and someone that isn't Puckerman who's about as helpful as a white coloring pencil.
When she gets to the bar, she heads straight up to order a drink, ignoring her friend waving her over. The bartender just grunts when she asks for a whiskey sour and gets to work, sliding it along the bar toward her after and muttering something about adding it to the tab. She just nods and accepts it. Free drinks are always a plus.
It helps too because the second she slides into the booth Quinn's seated at, the questions start firing at her rapidly. She barely even gets out her jacket before Quinn's right here, verbally lashing her and Jesus, give her a damn break. She's obviously in some type of state, that's proven enough by her sunken eyes and paled complexion, yet Quinn's barely given her a moment to breathe. Damn.
"Cut the crap and tell me what's up. "
She gives her friend a sharp look and stares down at her drink. "Nothing," she replies with zero interest, lifting her shoulders. "Just wanted a drink."
The blonde leans back casually, folding one arm over the other and Santana can feel the bullshit radar scanning her from head to toe. It's only a matter of time before the girl calls her out on her shit and she knows it, but she still continues to concentrate on swishing the amber liquid in her glass. Maybe meeting up with Quinn wasn't the best idea. Especially when she's in this mood.
"So it's nothing to do with what you and Puck saw at the strip club?"
Shit. She didn't' know she knew that. "What?"
"Jason," Quinn explains and leans forward, elbows on the table top. "You saw him walking out the back room of a strip club, zipping up his trousers and then the same stripper who followed him out draped herself over him, am I correct?" She outlines it all, in lawyer mode and Santana almost curses herself for contacting Quinn. If only that damn payphone ate her quarter or something. "It's pretty damn obvious what you saw, S."
Brown eyes narrow. "We don't know if it was what we thought," she tries to defend, swallowing the lump in her throat. "He could've been... rearranging himself for all we know. And she could've like... I don't know," she waves her hand around. "Maybe she had daddy issues and just needs attention 24/7 or some shit."
"Are you serious? Why are you trying to defend him?"
It's something she's asked herself, and she doesn't really know the answer. It might be to do with ruining Brittany's happiness, or it could be something to do with her finally finding a legitimate example of why Jason is such an asshole. Of how Brittany could so so much better than that dirty, cheating piece of shit.
Whichever it is though, she knows that deep down, she's just trying to keep Brittany happy. She's just trying to make sure she doesn't fuck up Brittany's relationship because that's all she really wants; Brittany to be happy. Even if it means giving up her own happiness or being eternally saddened and broken-hearted.
"Are you going to tell Britt?"
She thinks about it for a long minute. Ponders for many moments, but the answer is still the same. "I don't know what I saw."
Quinn takes in the sunken and guilt ridden state on her best friend. "You saw something though. You wouldn't be acting like this if you weren't."
Anger bubbles within her veins and pulses under her skin. She fucking knows that she saw something. She's almost one hundred percent sure that Jason is as much of a dick as she first thought, and now she's finally got proof, she can show Brittany and possibly change things relationship wise, with both Brittany and Jason, and Brittany and herself. But that doesn't change the fact that if she does that, she'll hurt Brittany, even if it's actually Jason hurting Brittany. Because Santana saw, or possibly saw, and she snitched, and no matter whether that makes her feel better about Jason, the bottom line is Brittany won't be happy.
So she just snaps.
"And so what Quinn? What the fuck am I supposed to tell her?" She throws her free hand in the air and slams it down on the table. "That I saw her future husband walk out a fucking back room with his trousers undone in a strip club and that I think he might have fucked some stripper in the back room?" Her face burns, blood boils and voice raises. "I'm supposed to tell her that he may have cheated, but could've just wanted to look like a big man to his friends and put on a show instead?" Her breath labors and eyes widen as she thrusts her hand to her chest, ignoring the pain that shoots through it. Shit. She should probably get that checked out."I'm just going to look like a total fucking jackass, Fabray, and I'll run the risk of ruining the friendship with the best fucking thing that's ever happened to me, when I could be wrong."
There's barely a beat before the blonde lets out a scoff and squints at Santana. "You're still calling it a friendship? Santana, you'd have to be blind, deaf, dumb and buried six feet in the ground to think that whatever the hell is going on between you is just friendship," she shakes her head, almost like she's disappointed and lets out another scoff. "You're a dumbass."
Somewhere she guess she's knows that. Somewhere she knows that she and Brittany aren't just friends because it's something she can just feel when she's next to the blonde. It's something she can feel deep in her soul when she's looking at her, something she felt last night when she kissed her, but it's so fucking confusing because she knows if it were meant to be, it would be. Brittany wouldn't be engaged to that cheating jackass and Santana wouldn't be sitting in a bar, finding reasons why they're not supposed to be together. They would just be.
"Still," she says, defeated and looking down into her glass. "It doesn't matter. I don't know what I saw," she shrugs. "And I could ruin things if you could say anything."
"Or you could hurt her if you don't," Quinn points out, disbelief dripping from her tone.
"Why does it even matter, Quinn?" Santana snaps and damn, it hurts to say that but it's true. Nothing she can do at this point will change anything. Nothing that she could've done would've altered this, so she just shrugs and sucks back the shaky breath that rises in her chest, lets the gripping in her chest tighten as she accepts the truth. "She loves him," her voice cracks and she finds herself looking away, fighting the heat prickling at her eyelids. She won't cry. "And she'll be with him, she'll marry him. We'll never know if Jason cheated or not, so what's the point in ruining something that could make her happy?"
She expects to have Quinn bite her head off, for Quinn to shout something about how she needs to strap on a pair and fight for something if she wants it, but when she glances back, she finds something she wasn't quite expecting. She finds disappointment in hazel eyes, she finds sympathy in hazel eyes, and the thing that surprises her the most, is that she finds sadness.
"Because you love her," the blonde whispers, her voice soft in a way that Santana's not privy to.
And yeah, there's no point in denying it, she does love Brittany. She loves her more than anything she's loved before. She can't help but love her because she's pretty sure she never had a choice in the matter. She's pretty sure that from the moment in the club, all those years ago, when she looked up and found the bluest eyes she's ever seen staring back at her, that she was well and truly screwed.
That doesn't matter though. None of that matters because Brittany's made her choice, and that's something she's just got to deal with.
Which is why she can't help but be honest.
"I do," she admits, smiling sadly down at the table. "But I want her to be happy."
Quinn leans forward, forearms pressing against the wood of the table and head tilting to the side. "And you could make her happy, Santana."
The image of Brittany grinning widely at her as she walks down the aisle toward her flashes into her mind, but it hurts, it stings, and she clenches her jaw, reaches for her scotch and takes a sip. No point in imagining the impossible. No matter how much she wants it.
"She's happy now," she tries and lowers her glass. "She's with Jason and so the pieces don't really fit anymore."
"You just said you loved her."
She laughs a little to herself because yeah, she did, and whereas that's a point in Quinn's favor of why Santana should fight for Brittany, it's also a point in her favor because if you love someone, you let them go. That's something her mom taught her when she was little, back when she watched her dad walk out the door and never saw him again.
"And I do," she agrees, taking in a deep breath and leaning back against the booth. "I love her. I love her more than I can stand, but she doesn't love me back." Eyes closing, she tries not to focus on her own words. She knows if she does, she could pass out from the heart ache pulsating through her chest. "She loves Jason, and she's marrying him, and there's no point in telling her something that might not be true because I can't handle the fact that she doesn't feel the same way I do."
The need to just chug an entire bottle of scotch claws at her brain, and she thinks that maybe she should. Maybe she should just forget all about this conversation, about Brittany tonight, and just drink away all the pain, the urges and the memories. Maybe she should just forget about it all completely, just for one night. Maybe that'll help in the long run.
"But, San—
The second she hears her friend's voice, she cuts her off by letting out a dry chuckle. She can feel herself fighting for something that just isn't there anymore and she's knows it's pointless. She knows Quinn wants to try to help. She knows Quinn wants her and Brittany to get their happy ending, but she also knows the facts. And her and Brittany getting together aren't, and won't be one of them.
"But nothing, Q," she cuts in, letting her head fall back against the booth briefly before she picks it up and glances back at her friend, fingering the edge of her glass. "You don't know what it's like," she points out. "The person you're in love with loves you back, and that's great," she tries a weak smile, but it fails almost as quickly as it starts. "But you don't know how it feels to be me, so you can't say there must be a way, or that you understand because you can't and you don't." Her shoulders lift in a half-shrug. She just can't be bothered to fight anymore. "And that's not me being a bitch," she scoffs lightly. Oh how she wishes it was her being a bitch. It might make her feel better. "That's just me being honest."
And that's something Quinn can't fight. That's something that she just has to just accept because it's true. Puck loves her. She loves Puck. They got their happy ending and even though they had a little shit to start with, it worked out for them. They've been together for almost three years, and as far as Santana can tell, there's only more happy years to come.
Santana and Brittany though? It wasn't like that. They may have met due to fate or destiny or maybe just by sheer luck, but ending up together just wasn't on the cards for them. Some people are made to be in each others lives, and a long time ago Santana believed that maybe Brittany was meant to be there because she was her soul mate. But it just turns out that maybe Brittany was just meant to be in her life as her friend. Maybe they were just supposed to be platonic.
And maybe, just maybe, that's something Santana needs to accept.
"What—" Quinn stops herself and bites her lip, looking up at her slowly. "What does it feel like?" She asks. "What's it like when you're with her?"
Santana looks away, trying to find the words to explain it. She's never been great with explaining herself. With witty comebacks and insults, she's always right there, the words on the tip of her tongue, but when it comes to explaining her feelings, talking about love and all that crap, she almost falters. It's almost like she never learned to express herself in any other way than anger and she guesses that there's probably a psychological reason for that — perhaps watching her dad walk out, or some other childhood bullshit, but whatever it is, she knows she just doesn't have the words.
Or so she thinks.
"It's like the biggest head fuck," she starts and Quinn's brows furrow. Not off to a great start. "On one hand, it's like the most amazing feeling because I never knew I could feel this way about someone," she purses her lips and blows out a stream of air, almost like she's trying to calm herself. "But at the same time it's like overwhelming despair because I'll never know what it feels like to wake up with her in my arms."
Images of Brittany lying in her bed, blonde hair scattered across the pillow flashes through her mind and for a moment, for one peaceful moment she smiles softly, her eyes closing and a tiny portion of euphoria flowing through her. But it's only for a moment, and then it's gone.
"I'll never know what it's like to kiss her good morning, or what it's like to be able to tell her just how much I love her, just because I can," she wets her lips and sucks in the top one, staring at her best friend, trying to convey just how much she feels and why she just can't ruin things for Brittany. "She's in my head," she takes in a deep, quivering breath. "She's in my veins. She's under my skin," her free hand runs over her other forearm, stroking gently, feeling the memory of Brittany touching her. "She's just all around me all the time, Quinn, and it feels like... like I'm drowning, but I'm just... not dying." Throat thick with sadness, she swallows and ignores the way her soul cries for it to be different. For her words to not be true, or for Brittany to want her back. "That's the only way I can explain it."
It's ridiculous, it's pathetic, and she knows it. But she also knows that there's no point in fighting for something she's never going to get. She's been trying for years, trying not to think of blue eyes and strong thighs when she's above another woman. She's tried not to think about how no-one can kiss quite like Brittany, or how no-one can look at her the way Brittany does, no matter who it is or what circumstance she's in, but it's just never worked.
And to be honest, it's about time she just switches her mind off and tries to get Brittany out her head, once and for all. Because some things just aren't meant to be.
"And you're telling me that after that whole speech, after you feel all of this, you're still not going to do anything about it?"
Quinn's voice is soft, and Santana knows her friend only means well but after a while it's just irritating. It's too damn hard to listen to someone else who's routing for her and the person she wants to be with when it's just not going to happen, and so instead of turning this into an argument, instead of coming back at Quinn, she just laughs to herself mirthlessly and reaches for her jacket beside her, preparing herself to leave.
"Yeah," she tells her and pulls sticks her hand through one of the armholes. "I won't do it because it's risking Brittany's happiness and I won't do that."
"Then you're a fucking idiot."
Santana chuckles bitterly again, slides out the booth and grabs her glass, gulping the remains of her scotch and enjoying the way it burns as it slides down her throat and warms her stomach as it settles. It's not the first time she's heard that today and it certainly won't be the last; but still, it doesn't get any easier hearing it. Not when she knows she's just doing the right thing.
"I was an idiot for falling for her in the first place," she comments and Quinn just stares up at her in disbelief, eyes wide and mouth parted, almost like she can't believe what she's hearing.
She sets her glass back down and flips the lapels on her jacket, already halfway out the door. "See ya, Quinn."
There's no response.
/
Six days.
Six fucking days until Brittany gets married and she doesn't know what the fuck to do. Like right now, she's standing outside her apartment building, staring up at it like something's going to happen, wondering whether she should go up there. The bathroom light is on, she can see that from here, which means Brittany's probably home and it doesn't make the decision any easier.
It's not like she has anywhere else to go though. She's already walked out on Puck and Quinn, and she doesn't really have anyone else.
So with a deep breath, she steels herself and walks inside the building, crossing the lobby to the elevator. It arrives a few seconds later and she heads inside, leaning against the back wall after pressing the fifth floor button to rest her head back and wonder what reaction Brittany's going to have to her coming back. In the best scenario, Brittany won't really acknowledge her or the fight they had or the kiss they shared and instead let it all be swept under the rug as she happily marries her fiancée in less than a week.
(Okay, maybe that's not the best situation, but it's the best for Brittany and it'll avoid all conversations and doubts before the big day.)
However in the worst scenario, Brittany will be waiting on the sofa for her, staring at Santana's phone on the coffee table with complete disappointment and concern etched into her features, and the second Santana comes inside, the girl will start yelling and making her feel bad in classic Brittany way, and somehow they'll argue and Santana will end up storming out again and going somewhere to get blitzed out her brain. In the worst case scenario, somehow the situation will fuck up even further and Santana won't be going to the wedding or some other crap.
Jesus. She really doesn't know how it got here.
The elevator doors ping open moments later and Santana inhales deeply before stepping out, wishing the second the doors close behind her that she'd just hopped back in and disappeared somewhere for the night. But now the cart's gone and she's walking toward her apartment, ready to face whatever the hell's about to come.
And honestly, she doesn't know what that is. She's gone through the best and worst scenario's possible and there's not any certainty locked on to a specific one. She literally doesn't know what's going to happen when she goes inside, whether Brittany's going to be mad, or upset, or if Santana's going to just turn around and go out again if Jason's there because she'll probably end up tearing him a new one.
But there's no point in delaying it, no point in wondering what's going to go down when it's quite literally right in front of her, and so she takes her keys out her pocket and slides them into the door, pausing for a second to calm herself one last time before she pushes it open and readies herself to face the music.
/
I've just read over this chapter briefly and I'm not going to lie, I don't really like it. It feels a bit like a filler, and there's another cliffhanger at the end which wasn't intentional but felt like a good place to stop. So whatever, if you like it please drop a comment as it'll be much appreciate, but if not, then fair enough – thanks for reading anyway!
