Thanks for all the fab reviews, as always. I heard from some new people, and thats always cool! But a few people commented on Santanas abortion, and I just wanted to clarify. When did I say that? Because I didnt mean to reveal ANY details about that. So Santana may or may not have aborted her unborn child. I'll let you guys ponder that, but in the meantime...
She went back to work later that day after lunch…rejuvenated. She'd never really been one for daytime sex. Too much natural light and raw emotion; not enough concealing darkness. But it was only after that day that Santana had realized she'd truly been missing out. It was indeed much better with feelings, much better with eye contact even. Sure it was a bitch coming back to work early after an extended, unauthorized break (Daniel didn't like girls going out for lunch because it meant reapplication of all makeup, again). But it was a nice little day-cation.
She was in the backroom, getting ready to change back into the Invincible bra and panty set she was modeling. The make-up artist was crouched between her legs, yelling at her to stay still because apparently applying cover-up between her legs was more difficult than one would think. Coral, Sasha, and Katie sat across from her, finishing their takeout Bento boxes. Coral and Sasha were snickering, again. But it was only after a few minutes that Santana realized they were snickering at her. She whipped her head around and gave them her signature WTF face. "What?"
"Nothing," Katie said quickly, trying to avoid another blowup between the divas.
"No, what?" Santana asked. If people were going to talk shit about her, fine. She knew what people said about her; she wasn't stupid. At least it proved she was actually somebody worth gossiping about. She just wished people had the balls to say it to her face.
"Santana, honey," Sasha started in her honey smooth voice, drawling out the last syllables. Santana had no idea why Sasha was being such a bitch to her; she hadn't revealed Sasha's news to anyone.
But Coral interrupted her before she could finish. "If you're gonna go home for lunch, make sure you come back with the same pair of panties on." And with that, the two of them burst into a fit of giggles again, high-fiving each other over edamame and coconut water.
She looked down. Shit! She was wearing a simple black pair of bikini-briefs this morning, and now she had on some plaid boy shorts. Right. She would have to remember that one next time. Santana kept her composure, because she was naturally elegant, of course. Like seriously, she was convinced she was a European princess in a past life, if not Audrey Hepburn or Brigitte Bardot.
"Well ladies, I'm glad you're just so very intuitive. And you know what? I'm not going to say anything about it. I'm not even going to rub it in your faces. Because the sex I'm having is so amazing, that it doesn't need any justification. Not a single bit. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a commercial to shoot," she said, her voice dripping in false pleasantness.
They'd finished all of the close-ups at the end of the day, but Daniel was unhappy with the wider shots. He was seriously reconsidering this whole military theme; it wasn't realistic enough. It was almost like little girls playing dress-up, which was when he had an epiphany. He needed back-up studs, soldiers who would just be soldiers in the background as his girls strutted, selling the product. He gathered them around.
"Girls, as you may have noticed, the video is looking very disjointed at this point. We have 28 seconds to sell a bra, and make it look convincing," Daniel started. Santana rolled her eyes at the irony, before remembering that her constant eye-rolling used to annoy the hell out of Quinn Fabray. And at that point, she immediately stopped because she didn't want to be associated with that back-stabbing bitch in any way. But honest to God, people took this way too seriously. It's just a bra, people! Who cares? It's what's underneath that really mattered. She'd spent her high school years in ugly-ass Target push-up bras with stupid little heart patterns on them, and she got by just fine.
"Which is why we need real soldiers by tomorrow," he declared. Coral smiled devilishly, her foxlike face looking more devious than normal. Santana's mouth dropped open.
"Of course, I mean not real soldiers. Just ones that look real, you know?" he sighed.
"Oh, totally. Get the models from Ford; they're the best," Sasha pointed out.
"No, those guys look too model-y. We need some more buff, not so indie looking guys," Coral added.
"Yes! Yes!" Daniel squealed. What a notion. Victoria's Secret Angels working together to develop a concept for the company. He could see the headlines now, what a great PR stunt.
"What about Santana's new boyfriend? He looks like he could be in the military," Coral suggested. Was this girl serious? It was like she always knew exactly what to say to push Santana's buttons.
"You leave him out of this," she growled, surprising herself and her coworkers.
"Oh, okay," Coral said sassily, throwing her hands in the air as if she were surrendering (she wasn't), "Someone's touchy."
"Actually, Coral. In case you didn't know, Noah was actually a real soldier. And not a 'real' one from the talent agency down the block. But a real one, as in he went overseas and saved lives to protect your sorry ass back here. And I don't think he'd want anything to do with this," Santana snuffed.
"Well, it wouldn't hurt to ask," Katie quipped, surprising everyone even more than Santana's outburst. Santana glared at Katie (a first in their friendship), as to ask "How could you?"
"You're the one who's always worrying that he's going to get bored of doing nothing all day. And just because you're in this commercial doesn't mean you have to support the reasoning behind it, I mean look at you. Plus, I'm sure Daniel would pay him big bucks," Katie reasoned. And she hated to admit it, but Santana did see a point there. Katie could be right. It really didn't hurt to ask. What's the worst that could happen? Puck saying no?
She came home that night to the sound of Puck's smoky singing voice. She followed it, peering down the hallways before realizing it was coming from her shower. She felt the urge to just strip down and jump into the shower with him, but she didn't want to ruin the melodious harmony of his words. Instead, she silently leaned her head against the cold of the shower door, and listened. Puck was so absorbed that he didn't notice her presence on the other side of the foggy glass.
"Just a small town girl/Living in a lonely world/She took the midnight train going anywhere"
It took all that she had to resist singing along. Instead she rubbed her bare foot up and down her calf, trying to hold back the song in her.
"Just a city boy/Born and raised in south Detroit/He took the midnight train going anywhere"
It was coming up. Their part, that is. The one they had spent hours practicing, making sure that she wouldn't fuck it up for their first ever "real" competition. Because they both knew he was the natural born performer between the two of them. She was just the straggling groupie who pretended she didn't give a shit about Glee Club. Well, the fact that she was a model and not a Lima Loser anymore proved that maybe, she didn't.
Santana really didn't like interruptions, especially when she was in the middle of something really important. And getting off with Puck was considered important. It was all about the priorities. It was the most action she was getting in a week, and any time with him as of right now was sacrosanct. An opportunity not to be wasted. She swung open the front door in a quiet rage, the wind from the outdoors whipping the sweat-licked hairs off her face.
"What do you want?" she snapped. No need for salutations, she sure as hell wasn't going to invite the visitor in. Didn't her Martha Stewart-idolizing mother ever teach her not to drop by unannounced?
"I need to talk to Puck," the other girl announced, in her high and mighty, perfect diction.
"He's not here," Santana said quickly, getting ready to shut the door. Quinn Fabray could go fuck herself, at least she couldn't get pregnant that way. But Quinn stuck her foot in the doorway.
"Yes. He. Is," Quinn said, slowly enunciating the syllables, as if Santana were a child or a non-English speaking McDonald's worker.
"Says who?"
Quinn only raised an eyebrow at Santana's attire. Santana's three-sizes-too-small schoolgirl outfit was a dead giveaway that Puck was here. Quinn knew they weren't practicing for Regionals. How many times did you have to sing four lines before you got it right?
"Look, it's important," Quinn said, stoking her swollen belly. Bitch. She always had to rub it in.
"Santana? What's taking so long?" Puck yelled from the other room. Quinn blinked sweetly and held her expectant gaze. She waited for Puck to come out looking for Santana, and in a minute of two, he did, fully dressed. Fuck, Santana thought. He was gone.
"Quinn? What are you doing here?" Puck asked. His tone made him sound like a kid caught stealing in a candy store. Santana was irate, because he sure as hell wasn't complaining five minutes ago. Hell to the no, Santana wasn't some guilty pleasure. She was the real deal.
"I'm going to a doctor's appointment. I was wondering if you wanted to come with, but it looks like you're busy," Quinn said, twirling a blonde tendril. Bitch. Quinn knew she had Puck right where she wanted, she knew he would go with her. He would do anything for that bastard child, but now she was just dragging it out for show.
"No, no. I'm good. Let me grab my coat," he said quickly, running into the other room. He rushed out a minute later, ready to go.
"Later, Santana," he mumbled before running out the door. He didn't so much as look at her. But Quinn gave her a good, long stare. She waved goodbye, her French-tipped fingers fluttering. And then they were gone, and Santana was the one who looked ridiculous standing alone in the doorway in her skanky costume, not the pregnant teenage Christian girl or the mohawked juvenile delinquent.
Santana was the smart one; she took her birth control pills everyday so she wouldn't end up being a statistic. Quinn was the stupid one who didn't and ended up pregnant. So how was it that Quinn got everything? As long as Quinn had his freaking kid in there (and maybe even afterwards), Santana couldn't even compete.
Maybe Quinn wasn't as stupid as she thought.
"A singer in a smoky room"
She couldn't hold back anymore. She ripped off her clothes in record time, and started to sing.
"The smell of wine and cheap perfume" Her voice was shaky at first, because she never really sung anymore, but it was there. It hadn't died out, like the rest of her old self. She was surprised she could even reach those notes, and he was surprised at the voice coming from outside the steamy shower. She swung open the door, and walked into the wide shower, pressing herself up against him.
He smiled at her, not because she was glistening wet, naked, and maybe horny, but because he recognized the musicality coming from her. Further proof that Santana Lopez was still inside.
"Hey," he said, "Welcome home." He dropped a kiss on her neck.
"You're missing your cue," she pointed out. Right.
"For a smile, they can share the night/It goes on and on and on and on," they continued. It was cute and stupid, but so what? A little mini-concert for the myriad of beauty products resting on the ledge. At the end of the song, she collapsed in a fit of giggles and slammed her soapy body into his, sending a cloud of bubbles flying everywhere.
"That was fun," she said, still coming down from her music high.
"Yeah," he said. She sounded good, really good.
"Hm, I miss singing more than I thought I would," she pondered, as the nozzle above her soaked her hair.
"How come you don't sing anymore?" That wasn't a completely accurate statement. He'd walked in on her occasionally humming and sometimes even softly harmonizing a couple of times. But she'd never belted anything out, that was for certain. And when she had finally noticed his presence, she had automatically stopped and went back to stirring pasta sauce on the stove or flipping through Cosmo or whatever.
She shrugged. "No one to sing for."
"You don't need an audience to sing."
"I do."
"Anything exciting happen today?" he asked, changing the subject before turning her around to dump some of her expensive shampoo in her hair.
"Nah. Oh, wait. You'll love this, it's ridiculous. They're doing an army-inspired commercial cause the bra is invincible or whatever. And we have to wear these gaudy helmets and pretend to be soldiers as we're pelted with bullets. And now Daniel wants to cast some male soldiers to stand in the background, and he wanted me to ask you. Isn't that hilarious?" she casually added, massaging her scalp with her sudsy fingers.
"Well, you told him hell no for me, right?" Santana was right; it was ridiculous on every level. But it wasn't hilarious, not a single bit.
"I said I'd ask," she replied, moving out of the direct stream of the nozzle to let Puck have some hot water.
"Why would you even think that I would consider it for a second?" he asked, slightly angry.
"Jeez, it's not like anyone is forcing you to do it. Just say no," she said, a pissy tone in her voice as some of the shampoo dripped into her eyes.
"You knew I would say no in a heartbeat, but you didn't say anything. I thought we were going somewhere with this, Santana," Puck said, putting down the bar of soap in his hands.
"We are. I just thought since you just sit around all day doing absolutely nothing, you might want something to do for the next few days," she said. Why was he annoyed with her? She didn't do anything wrong; she was doing him a favor. She wrung the water out of her hair, twisting it into a knot.
"Well, golly. Thanks for the concern, Santana. Thanks for remembering the little people," he said sarcastically, opening the shower door to get out. At this point, he was no longer annoyed at Santana for not saying no for him, but once he started, he couldn't stop. He was pissed, at her, and for more than the commercial. Now was a good enough time as ever to bring up all the little things that had bothered him in the recent weeks that he had chose to keep to himself for fear of ruining their so-far-so-good relationship.
"Oh my god, will you stop for one second?" she lamented, following him out, even though her body was still covered in soap, "What is your problem?"
He turned around, wrapping a towel around himself. "My problem is that I'm going through a quarter-life crisis or something, and you can't even be bothered to notice," he accused.
"Whoa, hold up. What the fuck did I do?" You know, besides giving him a place to live and sex and everything…
"You're so busy with your trivial life that you haven't noticed that I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing with mine. I am 28 years old. I don't have a college degree, career skills, or a steady income. What am I going to do the rest of my life, while you rush off every morning to your seven-figure salary job?" he yelled. She was leaving him behind, again.
"That's not fair. You know how important my work is to me!" she yelled back.
"I know, I know. Santana Madison, supermodel extraordinaire, can't even stop working for five seconds to spend time with a lowlife like me. Work always comes first, you never let me forget it."
"Well, excuse me for trying not fuck up the one thing in my life I have going for me. You have no idea how hard I worked to get to where I am, to have this job," she slammed.
"Yeah? How many people did you have to fuck to get it?" he accused. He knew he had crossed the line, but there was nothing left to do other than wait it out.
Only the whizzing of the shower and the angry pants between them prevented an awkward silence. She didn't respond, and her staid face didn't give away any emotion except for her tiger eyes. The two of them stood in the middle of the bathroom, squared off. He sheepishly waited for her reaction, and prepared himself for the worst. When she finally spoke, her voice revealed anger laced with hurt.
"Get out," she spitted out. She grabbed a robe from the rack, and hastily threw it over her body. She wanted more than anything to just hate him.
"I'm so sorry, San." He almost wanted to say that he didn't mean it, but in a weird way, he did. He knew she was gorgeous, but that wasn't always enough. He had doubts about how she made it this far, but they were casual enough that a simple answer from her would have brushed them away.
"Get the fuck out of my house right now." She never wanted to see his face again. But that was a lie. She couldn't deal with him right now, not when he just questioned her integrity. Her champion, the one person who thought she had talent from Day 1, basically just admitted he didn't believe in her at all. If he had lied about that, what else was fake?
He hung his head, as she sauntered out the door, her wet hair swinging behind her like a flag waving goodbye.
Their first fight! Ooh! But, they sung a song. Happy? :) I tried to make it not so cliche.
Question to think about, just one this time. Answer if you'd like, cause I'd love it:
1) Good stories rarely mention their titles, but the title is ALWAYS significant. What does "Calling All Angels" have to do with this story? That is, who are the angel(s) and who needs to be saved (and from what?)?