AN #2 (3/12/11): So Ive revised the flashback part. It was too descriptive and too narrative before, not raw and emotional. How'd I do?
What amazing reviews, you guys. You're fabulous. Especially the ones with the great, insightful answers. And who knew I had readers in Uruguay? Crazy, right? One review made me realize I'd been kind of neglecting the promiscuous sides of Santana and Puck, and I want to assure you its still there. Just understand that because they've grown up a little bit, its not as barging and obvious. But I'm trying to work on it, I guess I was working too hard on trying to maintain Santana's bitchiness and I just forgot that. So thanks, and bear with me, guys.
Her cell phone blared loudly from the living room, where she had thrown it haphazardly the night before, after a fun night on the town with Puck. It was way too early for anyone to be calling, and she cursed herself for making her ringtone a siren (She'd heard enough of those in Lima Heights Adjacent, anyways). She had a splitting headache, probably from all the random flashing lights on the dance floor last night. Thank god she didn't get so drunk that she slept with someone. Wait, did she? She quickly did a scan of what she was wearing and was relieved to see a pair of boxers (her own, thank God) and a Victoria's Secret T-shirt on her. Not exactly sexy, but whatever.
She muffled her face deeper into Puck's back, trying to block out the annoying wails. That's right; it was their tenth day using this "sleeping arrangement." So far, so good. They enjoyed each other's company, and there was no harm in it. For two lonely people in denial, it was perfect. There was no sharing of emotions, but rather body heat. She wondered what her shrink would say, if she still had one. Probably something about this being completely unhealthy with a person you have so much history with….Whatever, there's a reason Santana fired that batshit lady, especially after she was accused of "running away from her problems." It's better without the feelings; it's always been.
The incessant rings hadn't stopped. He groaned loudly, and she blinked in surprise. She didn't think he would have noticed.
"Get your damn phone," he grunted, rolling over to face her. He appreciated her and everything, but they were good enough friends now for him to be rude.
"Nooo," she whined, "It's too far away." She grabbed onto his midsection and held on tight, as he tried to shake her off the bed. It almost looked like they were wrestling or something.
"Come on Santana, do you really think you can hang on that long?"
"Try me." Of course she would say that. He was on his knees now with the lithe girl wrapped onto his body in weird contortions, holding on for dear life. It was kind of hot…He couldn't differentiate what limb was what, seeing as they were coming from all different angles. He picked himself up and got off the bed, his feet touching the cold hardwood floors. He really didn't want to shake her off anymore, he was afraid she might injure herself. Especially with her job, her body was all she had. (And he hated to admit it, but she was burning him out. Plus, he was sure he looked like an idiot, shaking like one of those apes on Animal Planet that had just come out of the watering hole submerged in water) So instead, he gave one last shimmy, before she fell onto her bed.
"Ow." She landed with a thud, but the smirk on her face revealed that she was amused. "Told you, you couldn't last. Where'd all your stamina go, Puckerman?" He felt strangely turned on by her insults. He'd always been a masochist of sorts.
"I'll just get your phone myself, and then I'll come back to bed." She smiled at the sound of his words. "Bed." It made them sound like those lazy sweatpant couples who never did anything but lounge at home. You just didn't find people like that in her walk of life anymore. He walked out, and found her phone nestled between the couch cushions. The screen claimed that it was "Daniel." Who the fuck was Daniel? He was pretty sure Santana didn't have a boyfriend, because he was pretty sure that if he was dating a supermodel of Santana's caliber, he certainly wouldn't have let her have her ex-boyfriend move in. Then again, a girl like Santana couldn't have been without a boytoy for long.
"Hello?" he answered.
"Santana?" the voice on the other end barked.
"No, Puck," he said slowly, clearly enunciating the syllables. Really, did he sound like Santana?
"Who the fuck are you?" Daniel yelled. Jesus, this guy had serious issues.
"Uh, who are you?" he responded.
"Daniel, her boss, damn it. Who desperately needs to talk to his star. Now please tell me who you are, so when I do get her on the line, I can tell her to fire you. Stupid, incompetent assistants…" Daniel muttered.
"Whoa there, dude. I'm not her assistant. I'm her uh, her uh…" Puck trailed off, searching his mind for the nonexistent word that could define their relationship, before giving up and deciding on "Roommate. I'm her roommate." Safe enough.
"Say no more, darling. I know exactly who are you!" was Daniel's response. In a matter of 90 seconds, the guy had changed his tone entirely. Now he was happy and giddy?
"You do?" Puck was confused. Was she talking about him? Santana actually talking about people who knew her? Gasp!
"Absolutely. I work with celebrities. I know how they are. I, for one, am completely glad you're here, because that means Santana's getting laid. And you know how sexually frustrated girls don't photograph well…" Daniel ranted. What was up with everyone in New York assuming he knew everything about modeling and glamour? But before he could protest, Santana came out of the room.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"Your boss," he said, holding the phone out at arm's length. He could hear Daniel's tirade from a distance. Santana's face fell as she picked up the phone.
"What?" she snapped.
"Jeez baby, not even a hello for your favorite boss?" Daniel said.
"Well usually when you call before noon on my day off, it's bad news. So no, you don't get a hello," she said. She was really looking forward to today. She deserved it. She'd had to put up with Coral and Sasha's bickering (again) the entire week as they finished up the Invincible print ads. When did her job become so stressful?
"Right, about that…" Daniel stalled.
"Just say it," she said, rubbing her closed eyes.
"An assistant lost all the photos we took of you and Sasha last week. We'll need both of you to come in and shoot them again," he said diplomatically.
"Really? Oh my fucking god, Daniel. Really? You let an incompetent assistant take my photos and lose them? Now I have to come in and spend ten hours posing half-naked and smiling for you, again?"
Daniel remained silent, waiting out the storm.
"Whatever. Just so you know, you're paying me extra for this. Also, I look like shit, so get your makeup team ready. And, I get the good makeup lady, not Sasha!" Santana demanded. She was on a roll. Puck looked a little scared.
"Okay, absolutely. See you in a bit!" Daniel sing-songed before hanging up. The conversation had been relatively painless, a lot easier than he had expected. Maybe it was because he had to listen to Sasha yell and cry for ten minutes before making her come in.
"So I guess Tacky Tourist Day is off?" Puck asked, looking a little crestfallen. They'd planned a day to explore the city a month ago, but had never found the time to actually go. Even though Santana had lived here for more than a couple of years, she had still never been the Statue of Liberty, the Central Park Zoo, or the Empire State Building. She just never had the time, or interest. They were going to be tacky tourists, embark on an adventure together.
"Yeah, sorry. Rain check? Work first," she declared. She felt a little bad leaving him like this, but honestly, she couldn't rely on Puck. They might be civil now, but who knows? Maybe tomorrow, he would hate her, he had every reason to anyways. Her job? She had that for another couple of months, and she was sure her contract was going to be renewed. It made total sense to pick the one semi-stable thing in her life. Puck would get over it.
"Yup," he said, before going back into the bedroom, even though he knew that Tacky Tourist Day would be postponed again, and again, each time a work commitment came up.
"Look, I'm sorry. I can't help it," she said again, her tone a little exasperated and a little annoyed (at him? Or at her life in general?). So to make it better, she decided to just give him a kiss. Hopefully that would shut him up. She reached up, and went for it. He wasn't surprised. Santana did that stuff all the time. Just a kiss. Still, he was getting a little sick of cuddling. A guy had needs, especially a guy that had just been away from real life for so long. The stupid little spark died out when they parted, and was quickly replaced by the ever-present, average sexual tension that followed the two of them everything. They'd gotten used to always wanting to rip each other's clothes off so much that they were almost immune to the random sexual impulses.
"See you tonight," he said, walking away again. She grabbed her purse and went out the door to work.
"Santana!" Daniel greeted at the door, his arms open wide. She walked past him, ignoring his obligatorily cordial hug. "You too? I don't need another emotional girl today…."
She turned around, and looked her boss straight in the eye. She was sick of catering to his every beck and call. She knew she was good enough now to stand up to him; she didn't need the approval of Victoria's Secret. She wasn't Gisele yet, but she made a couple million a year. She could be the spokesperson for any given company; they were all dying to have her. "Daniel, this needs to stop. I had plans today, and the next time you call me up on a day off, I'll have plans too. I can't work all the time. I have a life." Couldn't a girl just have fun anymore?
"Honey, you work for me. You don't have a life," was his only response. The way he looked at her made her feel disgusted. It was like she was a work mule. As long as she kept cranking out the photos, kept selling the product, Daniel would back her. If she didn't, she'd be cut. His feelings clearly showed in his bipolar attitude towards her.
"Says who," she muttered, before going into hair and makeup. By the time she emerged, her face glowing from the bronzer and her butt caked in ten layers of makeup, she was just sick of everything, again.
"Okay, I've been here two hours and not a single picture has been taken. What the fuck are we waiting for? You're wasting my time here, people." She knew she sounded like a brat, but since she'd put up with this lifestyle devotedly for the last couple of years, she figured she deserved a couple of prima donna antics.
"It's Sasha, Santana. She keeps barfing. She's been in the bathroom the whole time. I sure hope we can edit out the green in her complexion," replied the assistant gluing the bra strap to her shoulder. Santana marched into the bathroom, where she found Sasha hurled over the toilet. She sent a couple of death glares to the assistants who were hovering over Sasha, and they scurried out. She went over to Sasha, and kneeled down in a very unladylike position, even more so in her "uniform."
"Jesus, Sasha. What the hell is up?" Santana had always considered Sasha her first "friend" in the business. But by the time Coral rolled around, Sasha had changed her allegiances.
"Oh my god, Santana. God, I'm so fucked," Sasha cried.
"What? What is it? Please don't tell me you're taking those laxatives again…" It was probably just another attention-whore antic. Sasha only shook her head and looked down towards her abdomen.
"Oh, Sasha. Please tell me you're bulimic." But Santana knew the truth already. "What are you doing to do? What did he say? You've told him, right?" Santana didn't know why she assumed Sasha had already told her babydaddy, especially considering her own…experiences.
"You wanna know what he said? He said it wasn't his," Sasha wailed. So maybe Sasha did genuinely care for Lawrence Storm, instead of just using him for his casting connections.
"Oh, Sasha," Santana said, rubbing Sasha's back.
"I can't do this. I can't give up my career, not when I've just started. If I have this baby, I'm never going to be a movie star. I need to make it in Hollywood. I can't do this forever. What am I going to do in three years when we get too old to model?" Sasha bawled. Santana honestly felt for Sasha; she knew what it was like to hold on to a dream for so long, to want something so bad.
"You can be a mother," Santana gently suggested. That was a terrible idea actually, but she didn't know what else to say.
"Are you serious? I'd be the shittiest mother ever," declared Sasha, her tears drying. She looked Santana straight in the eye, and the dead-on, torn look in her eye was enough to make Santana feel sick too.
The taps of her stiletto boots echoed through the enormous building, and she felt even more like an intruder than before. The vaulted ceiling, stained glass windows, and the dim light luminescing from the dozens of candles that surrounded the pews instantly lightened her spirit, all the while heightening her fear.
"Santana. We haven't seen you here in a while. We miss you," Father Joseph said, walking towards her. That was a lie. Were priests supposed to lie? He must have been glad that a sinful harlot like her didn't go to Mass anymore, that she wasn't shaming their town in the name of God anymore.
"I know, and I'm sorry. I've been busy," she said, staring at her feet.
"So what can I do for you, Santana? Do you need to confess your sins, maybe?" he ventured. Of course.
"I need you to bless me, Father," she said, her voice cracking a little bit. She hadn't expected to be so emotional, but she was asking for something here, begging even. And Santana never asked for anything. Still, she needed his guidance, because she wasn't sure if she could go through with it without his blessing. Without his strength, she wouldn't have the reassurance that she wouldn't feel guilty about making this decision later on.
"Oh? Why is that?" he asked.
She didn't know how to tell him. He would be so disappointed. How do you tell someone you've known since you were five something like this, much less a priest? How do you tell someone you're pregnant and don't want to be?
She couldn't even muster up the courage to tell Puck. She wasn't going to bother him and fuck up their chance together again. She was just going to take care it. He would never have to know.
"Father, I…I…" she started, and the tears that were threatening to burst trickled slowly down her cheek. She couldn't put into words her fears, because if she said them out loud, that would mean they were true. Instead, she grabbed his hand and placed it on her abdomen. "I can't…I can't be a mother. Not now, maybe not ever. So I need your blessing to do what's best for me and this child," she sobbed. The little gasp the Father made let her know that he understood exactly what she was talking about, and he quickly retracted his hand. But he couldn't understand her reasoning. How could he?
"Santana. I'm afraid I can't bless you," he said finally. Oh god, oh god, oh god. She was really pregnant. There was really a child inside her. Her child. His child. Their child.
"Okay," she accepted, swallowing her disappointment. She turned around and felt the burden of her responsibilities fall onto her. Father Joseph grabbed her wrist.
"Santana. If your heart is in the right place, then you already have His blessing," he said calmly. His words settled her frantic heart a little bit, but did nothing for the difficult choices that were whizzing through her mind.
She walked out of the church the same way she came in, and took one last look before getting into the car. What the fuck was she going to do now?
Pray, that's what.
Santana shook her head, partly to reassure Sasha, but mainly to wipe away the memory. There, done. She could go back to her daily activities now, with her conscious clean. She grabbed the bottom of Evian on the sink counter, and pulled herself up.
"Come on, Sasha. Let's get back to work." And they did, because they were professionals.
Even after eight hours of shooting, she wasn't tired. But she was tired of her job. Maybe, she even truly hated it for the first time. Resented it. It had taken away everything. What she really needed was to let the built-up tension out. She was stressed and aggravated about everything: work, the sixteen different whiny fan letters she'd gotten that day…and Puck. She knew exactly what she needed, what she wanted, whether she would admit it.
She marched through the door and found him on the couch, channel surfing through some cheaply produced porn channels on her satellite television.
"Ew, that's my pay-per-view you're using," she said.
"Does it look like I have anything better to do?" he justified in a monotone voice, without looking up.
"I have an idea," she asserted, walking in front of him, blocking his view with her silhouette.
"Yeah?" his eyes just averted to the side to catch a glimpse of the third "Busty Cop." She rolled her eyes; it was typical of him. But she was getting antsy. She had a little noise with her throat, finally getting his attention. When he looked up she had already taken off her dress (She was very good at taking off her clothes in record time), revealing the new lacy Invincible bra and panty set she swiped from work on the way out. His reaction was priceless. Yup, that got his attention.
"I think I look better than those bimbos, no?" she asked, wide-eyed. Was she serious? She was an underwear model, for God's sake. Whenever people thought of Santana, they automatically thought sexy right away. It was like how you never word "profusely" without "sweating" before it. She looked good, really good. Yes, he'd seen it all before (a long time before nonetheless), but there was a newness, a freshness, to her. Just looking at her got him more excited than two hours of porn-surfing.
"Are you fucking with me? Because if you are, Santana, you better stop, so help me God." Jesus, would he stop talking and just have her already?
"Does it look like I am?" She sashayed a little closer to him, and nudged the off-button on her TV with her toe on the way over. She welcomed herself onto his lap (because she'd always been a proactive doer herself), and tugged on his shirt. "Come on, take me to bed, Puck."
How could he argue with that?
She should have felt guilty using him, and he should have felt cheap for allowing her to. But neither did, because for the two of them, their pleasure felt so natural, so inherent, and more importantly, so inevitable.
So they've done the deed! It's about time, no? Looks like the story is finally starting to pick up, aho!
So questions, answer if you'd like. I love hearing your interpretations and Im always pleasantly shocked at how varied they are.
1) Consider this statement: She walked out of the church the same way she came in. What is the more significant connotation of this?
2) Santana sure likes to skip over important parts of a relationship (like maybe talking about a pregnancy, why she left, or unresolved feelings) and just keep things to herself in order to prevent conflict and keep the relationship "going." True, it might make the relationship last longer, but based on what foundation? How do you think this will come back and bite her in the ass? Ha, sorry that wasnt eloquent at all.