Bleh. There are some parts of this I utterly abhor, and some parts I simply adore. But I can't keep editing it so here we goooooo!
And thank you for all the lovely reviews last chapter! Excuse my ignorance, but what is this Pucktana balloon? I know its the collective term for Pucktana shippers on the internet or whatever, but where is it? And what do you guys do? I'm so intrigued!
"How was Mama Lopez?" he asked as he pulled up to the driveway, rolling down the window, leaning over to unlock the door.
"The usual," Santana said as she popped into the passenger's seat of the car. It was only six o' clock in Lima, Ohio, but it was already dark out. The streetlamps illuminated her dewy skin and he could sense a rejuvenated aura orbiting her.
"That bad, huh?" he commented as he let go of the parking brake. He heard her click in her seat belt, and it was his signal to go.
"No, it was good. I mean, I love my mom, you know that. Maybe more than you love your mom. But my dad's still the prick he is, and he wasn't even there," she explained.
The rain was pouring down outside, as if this was Seattle, not Middle America, and to make things worse, the wind was raging as well. They had experienced few storms growing up, but they knew they were in the midst of one. "Be careful," she said in a cautionary tone. Few cars were on the road, for good reason.
"Chill out, babe. I got this," he brushed off her concerns, for they were only driving on an flat arterial at 30 miles an hour, and he continued with their previous conversation,
"Well, you know, some people just can't change. There's only so much a guy can take." He wasn't sure how to console Santana. He wasn't even sure if she needed consolation.
"Are you defending him?"
"What? No! I mean, well, kind of. Santana, he isn't as bad as you think. He loved you, supported you when you came out, dealt with your career."
"Shut up, you don't even know," she bit back, and the little tantrum fizzled, just as she heard another rumble of thunder, "So what did you do for the last three hours?"
But a tree branch swung across their windshield, blocking their vision momentarily.
A trash can lid hit the side of the car, and the car shook with vibrations moments later when it landed on the sidewalk with a loud clunk.
The streetlights flickered, trapping them in a cycle of darkness and illumination.
He blanked.
She screamed.
And he swerved the car.
He slept uninterrupted, dreaming of video games and homemade gingerbread and other luxuries he didn't have here in the middle of the desert. It was a loud boom that awoke him from his slumber, and he felt strong arms shaking him. It was Hal.
"Come on, man! We have work to do!" Hal yelled.
"What's happening?" he struggled to keep up, as he grabbed his gear. Hal was already halfway out the door.
"War is happening, that's what."
He ran out, and saw that there was an orange tint to the horizon. It was if someone had lit the earth ablaze in the distance, and most likely, someone had.
He jumped onto the Humvee, and their troop traveled the three miles into town, which only consisted of an orphanage and a couple of shops. The town was silent, except for a couple more booms in the distance, and although most people would accredit that to the time of night, he knew that it was because of fear. They could be attacked any second.
Like right now.
A giant flash filled his entire peripheral vision, blinding him and knocking him off guard. He was sure his ears blew out, because when he came to, he was sitting on a pile of rubble and his ears were ringing. The town was in smithereens.
It was then that the people started to make noises. Stirs, then groans, then cries. He looked up and he could finally see civilians, lying in various broken positions.
That day, he realized how unethical and selfish it was to have children, when there were so many dying out here.
That day, he noticed how ridiculous this war was, where people were bombing other people so often that most times, he didn't know who the victim was.
That day, he knew could never unsee what he had seen.
When they stopped, they found that they were situated in between two lanes, right in front of a stoplight. The stoplight changed from green to red.
She looked over at her lover. "What. The. Fuck. Was. That?" she demanded. She knew Noah Puckerman like she knew the back of her hand. He was not a bad driver. He was not freaked out easily. The man had been in the military, for God's sake.
He would not respond, and it was then that she noticed his hands were cradled in his lap, shaking. She leaned over and pulled down the parking brake, suspending their movement. Rain continued to cascade outside of the confines of their car. The stoplight changed back from red to green. They did not move.
"The lights. The noise," he mumbled. He was speaking in sentence fragments, and Santana did not know what that necessarily meant. But she knew exactly what he was trying to say.
"Oh, Jesus fuck," she said, leaning back and resting her head on the cool headrest of her seat, breathing hard. She knew he had not returned from war invincible, but she had been trying to convince herself for months now that he was fine. Another car rolled up behind them, on the left side lane, the one they were half-blocking.
"I'm fine. Let's go," he said suddenly, regaining his composure. He put his hands back on the steering wheel, only to drop his right hand again, to release the parking brake. She knocked it away.
"You're not fine," she asserted. The car behind them honked. She ignored it. He didn't notice.
"I am," he steadily responded. Why did he feel like they had had this conversation before, but the other way around?
"Well, I am not going anywhere with you in this car, so you either admit it, or I am just going to get out right now and walk," she said quietly, glancing out the window. She could hardly see the houses on the street, for the rain was so heavy. Her voice was thick, as if she had just finished crying or was just about to start.
"Fuck, Santana. Are you…. Are you scared of me? Do you feel safe with me?" He rested his forehead on the steering wheel as his voice shook. The car behind them finally got the message that the two of them were not leaving anytime soon, and switched lanes on the opposite side of the road, driving away. Santana watched the taillights of the car fade into the distance from her passenger seat view.
She did not respond for a moment, but when she did, she said her words with such conviction that he was forced to listen to her. "I always feel safe with you. But you came back from war. And you can't just expect to be back to normal like that. Your wounds…your wounds are invisible." She almost couldn't eke the last sentence out. She discovered that it was much harder to admit someone you love's problems than your own. This was something she did not expect. It was a phenomenon of sorts.
"So what do you want me to do about it, Santana? Since you seem to know every fucking thing for some reason now?" he yelled, raising his voice at her, staring into her eyes. She did not flinch, but continued to look straight. She noticed that the stoplight going spastic now, flickering erratically from red to green. On the other hand, she felt the rain abide slightly, for the pitter patter droplets she heard hitting the roof of the car were less loud.
"Go get help. PTSD is serious. Sleeping pills every other night isn't going to cut it," she said this as if she had the slightest idea what she was talking about. She didn't. But if he knew she was shaking in her boots, he would wimp out too.
"Whose sleeping pills do you think I'm taking?" he retorted.
She swallowed a gulp of empty air. It tasted stale, like the two of them had been recycling this oxygen in this tiny car for too long. It was a fair assertion, a fair judgment. She had her problems and he had his. But they couldn't fix both of them at the same time.
Sometimes loving a person just meant leaving them alone. But Santana would not leave him alone. She would not give up on this. She refused to.
Moments passed as the two sat in solitude. The stoplight finally just blacked out, as the rain halted to a drizzle. He watched droplets on his window scooch over to one another and merge into bigger drops. That was like a war in itself.
Finally, he looked up. He didn't say a word, but he unclicked his seat belt and unlocked his door. He got out of the car. She did the same, and they passed each other in front of the car. She felt the tread on her boots give way a little on the slick asphalt, and she put her palm out on the hood of the car to steady herself. The two of them exchanged positions, so she was now sitting in the driver's seat. He shuffled into the passenger seat.
She adjusted the seat and got ready. She released the parking brake, which had been utilized so many times in this one conversation. When she put her hand on the gear shift, she looked over at him. He returned the gaze. She leaned over and gave him a single kiss, their wet foreheads touched.
"You smell like the rain," he commented softly.
And that was how she knew that she had won this battle, although he would emerge as the winner eventually.
She started the car, and drove the miles to the Puckerman home for the both of them. They soon arrived.
He had warned his mother before coming. Sort of. He had simply told Allison that he was bringing the girl he had been seeing to dinner. Allison knew that her son was staying with a woman in New York, but didn't know who.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck. My tights just got caught on that stupid bush. They're going to run!" she yelled as she hobbled up the porch steps behind him. She was deliberately idling behind him, hoping his body would shield her from the silent wrath of Allison Puckerman.
"It's fine, Santana," he laughed.
"That's easy for you to say. She's not allowed to hate you; you're her fucking kid," Santana hissed. Puck knocked on the door.
"Just stop swearing, and you'll do good."
"Right. I forgot how bad of a kid you were. Maybe I'll look better next to you."
He chuckled again, and they heard someone coming to open the door. Santana scooched her body behind his.
The door swung open. Allison wasn't really looking forward to this dinner either. She did not want to share her son's last day home with this girl he was bringing. She saw her beaming son, who stood tall. She reached out to hug him but noticed there was a figure hiding behind him.
Then Noah moved over, unobstructing Allison's view.
"Surprise!"
Santana Lopez said these words with a shaky enthusiasm.
"Santana," Allison said, equally as enthusiastic.
"You remembered," Santana commented. Puck looked back at her, as if to say, "See?"
"How could I not?" was the rhetorical question Allison responded with. Allison decided to extend her hand out, to the poor girl who was practically shaking in her boots. From the cold or something else?
Santana was at a loss, because few people in her life had ever been the first to extend kindness, but she settled on shaking Allison's hand, because how could she not?
Allison's pulse jumped in her body. "What cold hands you've got there!"
This time it was Noah who chimed in, "You should feel her feet at night," referring to the way Santana got overheated when she slept under heavy blankets, and always stuck her feet out of the edges of the blanket, because anything else would be too cold. Of course, this just left her with cold feet, but her overall body temperature was perfect for sleeping, or so she claimed.
Santana glared at him, and Allison's smile faltered for a moment. She did not want to be in a position where her son could tell her about such things. Regardless, the three of them walked through the door, and were soon bombarded by a lanky girl, who certainly could not have been his kid sister!
"Noah!" she yelled, wrapping her arms around Puck. Santana scooched out of the way again, and wasn't sure how to react. Allison walked to the kitchen to set the table. When the embrace broke, Sarah turned to Santana.
"Santana!" Sarah yelled again, this time wrapping her arms around the equally surprised Santana.
"Oh, hi there! Oh, gosh!" Santana said, startled by the affection. She glanced over at him, and he was doing that smirk thing. "Wow, Sarah! You're so big now!" she said again, when their hug ended. She was surprised at the lack of animosity Sarah felt towards her. Maybe this was proof that kids didn't remember anything important. Sarah was like eight when she left, right?
"Okay, catch up later, kiddos. It's dinnertime!" Allison yelled as she poked her head out. The three of them obliged, and it was as if they were babies being herded by babysitters on Friday night again. They sat down, and toasted to each other.
And over challah and pasta, the four talked and talked, and Santana found that maybe, this family thing wasn't so bad after all. This was how she had imagined normal people her age lived. Quinn must have done this all the time, sitting at the table with Finn and Kurt and Burt and Carole and all twenty of her kids or whatever.
"So you two are living together then?" Allison said pointedly, in between spearing two meatballs. Santana glanced over at him and raised her eyebrows. Sarah snickered.
"Uh, yeah, Ma. It's working out really well," Puck said, and by that, he meant there was no more need for your place or mine.
Allison said nothing, for her suspicions were confirmed. "Are you keeping my son in line, Santana?" she asked, only half joking.
Santana couldn't escape this time, for the question was only directed at her. "Oh, absolutely Allison."
"She makes me clean up the dirt I track in and all that," he added, hoping to add to Santana's credibility. The truth was, neither of them could ever keep each other "in line."
"I'm glad someone's grown up," Allison smiled, "You must have a nice place then, Santana."
"It's not too bad, there's a doorman and stuff," Santana said, brushing it off. She didn't like bringing attention to herself and her wealth in this way.
"Is there a hot tub?" Sarah quipped, thinking of all the visiting possibilities already.
Santana looked over at Puck and the two smiled. "Yes," they both answered at the same time. They were very well acquainted with this hot tub.
This time it was Allison who felt like an outsider. Her little boy had found another to subsist with. They stopped talking about Santana, thank God, and they moved on to menial subjects, like Sarah's upcoming college applications (because someone in this family was going to go to college on time, thank you very much), and the new additions to the McKinley High building.
As dinner finished, Santana excused herself to use the restroom. While she was not hyperventilating in a paper bag, she was splashing her face with water, wiping off the rest of her makeup in the process. Oh, whatever.
Meanwhile, he was talking in the kitchen with his mother, helping her clear the table.
"What is this going back to school thing, Noah?"
He shrugged as he picked up Santana's dirty dish, and noticed she ate all of her meal—her gooey, carb-loaded, processed macaroni and cheese.
"Might as well, I mean, what else am I going to do?"
For Allison, this comment solidified the relief she felt, hearing that her son would not return to the military.
"Why? Do you not want me to?" he continued.
"No, Noah," Allison started, "Big dreams are fine. They're great. But as long as they're your dreams, and nobody else's."
He looked up at his mother, "What do you mean? Whose else would they be?"
Allison only looked at her son.
"Santana?" he yelped, nearly dropping the dish.
"Well, Noah, you know she has such a spell over you," Allison said, not a hint of resentment in her voice, although there might have been some in her heart.
"This was totally my idea, Ma! She didn't even know," he explained.
"All right, well I just don't want you thinking that you need to keep up with Santana and her glitzy lifestyle," Allison said, picking up the last of the dishes.
Puck was confused. How did going back to school mean keeping up with Santana's "glitzy lifestyle"? And didn't she know that Santana was moving so fast, nobody—not even her past—could catch up to her? Sometimes that scared him, that maybe he wouldn't be able to keep up with her, and although a college degree would help him, it was certainly not the reason why he was going back to school.
"Nah, Ma, I'm doing this for me," he said, walking over to the sink with her.
"All right, as long as you're paying for it," Allison grumbled. At least her son was doing something, even if he would be the oldest in his class.
It was then that Santana walked back into the kitchen, her face rubbed and raw. Allison realized what a pretty girl Santana was, but how different she looked from all the ads and commercials on television. Santana was the kind of girl whose facial expressions gave everything away. She was not one for delicate features.
"Let me help you with those, Allison," Santana offered. Her abuela had taught her right, "Babe, I think Sarah wanted help with her math homework or something."
"Oh, okay," he said, wiping his hands on his jeans. He supposed that between the two of them, he was the one who actually finished high school, but she definitely could have too. He slipped out of the kitchen, giving her a kiss on the cheek that she surprisingly didn't deny.
Santana walked over the kitchen and took his place, and started to dry the dishes Allison handed her. Both of them looked down at their respective tasks. They were close enough though that Santana could smell the undeniable scent of Jergens lotion on Allison's skin. Likewise, Allison could smell Santana's expensive perfume; she didn't know what it was, but it smelled spicy and woodsy at the same time. She couldn't imagine Santana being a floral or fruity scented girl, and Allison decided it was simply the perfume of money.
Now Santana Lopez was never Allison's first choice for a mate for her son, but it seemed like this thing the two of them had going here was working out. They had managed to stick it out for so long. But as it was with anything the two kids did, it was serious but unstable. And now really, would it be that awful if her son stayed with Santana forever? She would never get grandchildren, this she knew, but her son would be happy, and the two of them would be financially secure with a myriad of opportunities in the city.
It was Allison who broke the silence first, interrupting the uniform sounds of synchronized scrubbing and suds splashing. "I knew, you know."
Santana stopped drying. "Knew what?" she asked, alarmed. There were many things about her that she didn't want Allison, or anyone for that matter, to know about.
"About you. What my son was doing out there in New York," Allison didn't stop her washing, and Santana took this to mean that she shouldn't either. So Allison had known all along.
"Oh. How?" Santana asked, relieved.
"Moms are pretty smart, Santana. When have I ever not known about you? And there's always Google," Allison quipped.
Right. But that would mean Allison had been Googling her, not Puck, because Santana had kept him away from the media, and was going to continue to do so for as long as she could manage.
"Why? Is there something else I should know?" Allison queried.
"No, no. Everything's fine. It's great."
They finished the last couple of dishes in silence. When they were done, Santana started to head out, to find Puck and Sarah.
"Wait," Allison interrupted, "I have something for you." When Allison returned, she was carrying a small envelope. Santana did not recognize the envelope, but she had a feeling what could be inside.
"A few weeks ago, a reporter came by," Allison began. Santana was immediately alarmed, and her mind started going crazy in the way that it did whenever she felt threatened. "I didn't tell him anything, of course, but I can't imagine that everybody else in this town did the same." Of course.
"Anyways, Santana. I found these in Noah's old room, and you may think it's none of my business, but it is. I'm here on this Earth to protect my son. And you brought him home to me, so I'm here to protect you too. I think you better get rid of these, before you find yourself in an unfavorable situation with the press," Allison finished, handing over the envelope. Santana quickly took a peek inside and didn't know whether her face was turning pink from the shame or white from the fear. She quickly slipped the photos back into the envelope and shut her eyes tightly.
She was at a loss.
She knew she had to go the New York. But at what cost?
Her parents (namely her father) would disown her, no doubt. And her abuela already had, so no biggie. The Glee Club would probably never let her live this one down and probably give her some mushy talk about being a family, but that never meant anything to her, really.
Puck.
If she went to New York, they were done. She knew this. He would deny it, and maybe she would for a couple of weeks, but when she returned home, she knew he would be a different person, with a different girl on his arm. It was in his nature and hers too. Out of sight, out of mind. None of that absence makes the heart grow fonder shit.
It would be worth it though, a fair trade. Stardom and glory for a lost high school flame.
It was settled. She'd be gone, but not without a fight.
What kind of "girlfriend" would she be if she just left him alone with nothing to remember her by? So she called up best girlfriend and asked a favor.
When Brittany arrived, Santana had already changed into a satin slip. She changed the lighting in her room a little bit, adjusted the décor. Santana thrust a camera at Brittany.
"What am I taking pictures for?"
"Not what. Who," Santana replied, sitting on the edge of her bed, shaking her wild mane of hair out.
"Oh, are they a present?"
"Yes. Yes, they are."
And with that, Santana pulled the slip over her head and the clicks began.
The things she would do for the camera that day were not that far from what she would make a living doing a couple years down the road. The difference was in the naivete of the poses, the amateur intimacy of the shots, the fuzzy quality of the photos that indicated a rushed immaturity to the moment. Regardless, she felt no regret about it at the moment, because she knew this was exactly what she wanted.
When she finally opened her eyes, she quietly thanked Allison. Then she went and hugged the older woman, catching her off guard. Allison nonetheless returned the hug.
"I'll take good care of him, Allison. Don't you worry," Santana said, wiping away the few tears that had escaped, tucking the pictures into her dress pocket. The kindness that Allison Puckerman showed her, a girl who had done nothing but ruin her son's life, was unknown to Santana. "And if you ever need any help, with Sarah, and bills, and college, and all that, just call. He doesn't have to know. Just call."
She tried to make it sound less like she was buying Allison—because she wasn't trying to—but she wasn't sure if the message was coming across.
"I understand, Santana. Thank you," Allison said, squeezing the girl's cold hand, knowing that there was a warm heart in there somewhere.
Question:
1) I haven't really been very explicit about it in my writing, but there's tidbits of satire in my work, and one big overarching satire for the whole story. Perhaps the most obvious is in chapter 19. Anyone spot any satire?
Sorry guys, but I can't for the life of me remember what else I was going to ask. But I didnt get any responses for the last chapters questions, so you literary analysis buffs can go back and answer those? I'd love to hear what you have to say.
I'm thinking the last chapter will be the next chapter. If anyone has any super objections, I would love to hear, because I'm not sure how resolved I want the plot to be by the end. And Julia, message me darling, I need some literary advice.