Chapter 3: Bombshell.
xox
Mercedes rushed off to work in a happier mood than usual. The sun was a glaring yellow this morning, a fact that would have usually irritated her, but instead she smiled brightly at passersby, humming a tune in time to the click of her pumps.
She couldn't exactly put a finger on why she felt so refreshed this morning—she'd woken up in her bed, like usual, so she knew she hadn't fallen asleep in her computer chair trying to squeeze out some inspiration. Her period wasn't due for a while, but that wouldn't make her this chipper.
What was it?
Mercedes dismissed the nagging feeling from her mind and turned her thoughts to the loveliness of the day. Crisp air, blue sky, puffy white clouds— She reached down into her leather tote bag for the notepad she always carried so that she could jot down an idea for a scene ("a love rejection in broad daylight hurts worse than if the sky was nasty and grey—it was as if the brightness of the sun was mocking her, mocking them—") when the words written on the yellow lined paged caught her eye.
The next scene she'd been planning to write.
Only… it was written.
She stopped short on the sidewalk, staring at the pad. Several people behind her stumbled and cursed, but she paid them no mind.
When did I write this?
Bits and pieces of memories flashed through her mind. A bar. Writing. Sex scene… Sam?
Sex scene…
Bed…
Mercedes felt her knees turn to jelly in growing horror as the photograph-like memories flashed through her brain.
No wonder she was so damn cheerful this morning.
Mercedes jumped as her phone vibrated on her hip. She fumbled for the clasp, noting the caller ID before answering. Her face flushed a deeper shade of red—the hue of guilt—as she said, "Morning, Quinn. What's up…?"
"Afternoon, Mercedes," Sam said cheerfully, joining her at the tiny café table. "How are you doing this lovely—"
"What the hell did we do last night?"
Undeterred by her sharp words, he grinned. "Would you like me to go into detail?"
"A concise explanation would be sufficient," she said through gritted teeth.
He shrugged. "We both needed it and we were available."
"Available? So it's matter of availability, is it? If I had been, say, Quinn, would you have done what we did?"
"Most likely not."
"Why?"
"She's too innocent. I always feel guilty the morning after."
"Great. So I'm just her experienced stand-in. Good thing I had all that practice with Puck."
"Don't be bitter." He reached across the table for her hand. "It was different."
"Good different or bad different?" she couldn't stop herself from asking.
"Good different, I think," he said. "It was… new. Exciting."
"Yeah, that usually happens with a new partner," she said sarcastically, taking out her anger on Sam. She didn't leap into bed with anybody. She'd lost her virginity to Puck, but only because she'd loved him and thought he returned the feeling.
"That's not what I meant and you know it. We've got…" he hesitated. "Chemistry. Mercedes, I don't understand it any more than you. Why try and muddle our minds even more?"
"Because it's not right."
He obviously hadn't expected this answer. "It isn't?"
"No. If anything, it's a rebound. For both of us. You don't need me to tell you rebounds spell trouble."
"Sometimes they work out. I'm sure there's a statistic somewhere that shows the percentage of rebounds that—"
"Forget it. We won't be in that percentage."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Look at our track record—neither of us has good luck."
Sam shrugged. "The wind always changes direction eventually."
"True; it can take a turn for the worst."
"Quite the pessimist this morning, aren't you?"
"I usually am when I have no recall of the night before until I'm halfway to work."
"Let me buy you coffee—that will make things all better."
She sighed, but relented. "Fine. We'll continue this conversation later."
"Now where have I heard that before?" he asked, smirking.
"From a wise woman who should learn to take her own advice," she muttered.
Mercedes turned the volume up on the portable radio that sat on the window, humming along to the tune as she washed the tomatoes she'd bought just that morning from a fruit and vegetable stand around the corner. Dragging back her vague memories of her year spent in Italy (the youngest representative from her company to go work in a foreign post for a time), she carefully began to make a traditional Italian spaghetti dinner.
For Sam.
We are pleased to present the Certified Fool Award to Miss Mercedes Jones! Congratulations!
Mercedes sighed and did a little dance while grating the mozzarella cheese. The tomato sauce and fettuccini noodles were both cooking on the stove; she estimated they'd be done…well, right around the time Sam was supposed to show up.
Supposed to.
An image of Quinn popped up in the back of her mind, but she pushed it away. Was there anything wrong with two friends having dinner together on a Friday night? (In her apartment and after they'd had lunch together every day for almost two weeks now?)
"I'm not doing anything wrong," she said aloud.
"Conscience worrying you, Mercedes?"
She jumped nearly a foot in the air and spun around, grated mozzarella cheese flying everywhere. "P-Puck!"
He grinned in that sexy way that used to make her melt—hell, that still did make her melt—and leaned against the doorpost. "Hi."
"How did you get in here?"
He dangled a key from his fingers. "My Christmas present last year, remember?"
She did. "What are you doing here?"
"Are you really that displeased to see me?" His tone and smile belied his words' connotation. "Whatcha cooking?"
"Spaghetti." She was still frozen in place, her knuckles turning white from gripping the cheese grater so tightly.
"I didn't know you cooked Italian."
She shrugged. She had to get him out of here before Sam showed up…
"Mind if I stay to sample it?"
No! "No… I don't think so…sorry." She gave him a small smile. "I'm really tired tonight, Puck."
He arched a brow. "Apparently not tired enough to make yourself a fantastic dinner."
"This is hardly a five-star meal," she retorted, although she felt her cheeks redden. She hated lying—and she hated getting caught lying. "I wanted to reward myself for working so hard today."
"Plausible," conceded Puck, sampling the tomato sauce with his finger. Mercedes squawked and smacked him with her wooden spoon. "Haven't you ever heard of a thing called germs?"
"When every one of your professors mentions Louis Pasteur at least three times a day, you try to forget about them."
"So if I mention sex at least three times a minute, you'll try and forget about it?"
He reached around and pinched her bottom. "Nice try."
Mercedes punched him in the shoulder—hard. "Do that again and you're dead."
"I'm wounded, Mercedes," he proclaimed, putting on a hurt face. "There was a time when you used to giggle and kiss me for such an action."
"There was also a time when I entertained notions of marrying you," she said. "Oh, I'm sorry—that was harsh wasn't it?" Good.
Puck sighed. "It's hard seeing you this bitter," he said, being completely candid for once. He even looked—regretful?
"Yeah well," she said, stirring the sauce a bit, "that tends to happen when your dreams are ripped out beneath your feet by a person you trusted."
"Look: I'm sorry. Okay? I'm. Sorry. I didn't meant to hurt you this badly, I didn't think you'd take it so hard—"
"Sorry, I'm not used to walking into our apartment and seeing my boyfriend and a coworker getting it on."
"Mercedes—"
"You're sorry. I know. And I forgive you. And why the hell are we talking about this?"
"Got me," he said wearily. "This subject always seems to surface, doesn't it? No matter what we do."
"Guess these things take time to get over."
He blew out hard. "Yeah…"
They stood in silence for a few minutes, she stirring, he staring off into space.
"Well," he finally said, "inane as this will sound, I'm glad we're still friends."
If that's what you want to call it. "Yeah. Me too," she said dully.
Ding-dong.
Mercedes froze but quickly resumed stirring. "Now who could that be?"
"Good question," said Puck cheerfully. "I'll go get it!"
Mercedes nearly choked. What! No—!
But Puck had already reached her front door in less than five strides. He threw open the door… and blinked. "Sam?"
Shit shit shit shit— Mercedes hurried out of the kitchen.
"Uh, Mercedes? Quinn's boyfriend's here to see you."
"Ex-boyfriend," corrected Sam innocently.
"Oh?" Puck said, shooting Mercedes a look. She winced. Sam smirked. "Oh…" Puck said again, a little cooler this time. "I see…"
"Puck—" she started.
"Never mind," he said, forcing a laugh. "It's only right that you should move on."
"Puck. Have you not heard of 'friends'?"
He looked at Sam and Mercedes once again and laughed softly. "Friends… right." He shook his head wryly and brushed past Sam. "Enjoy your dinner," he called over his shoulder.
Sam shut the door. "What's up with him."
Mercedes sank down into her couch. "You're so oblivious, Sam."
"Me? What about Puck? At least I'm not the one still pining after my ex-girlfriend after I cheated on her."
"Point there." Like she was going to disagree.
"He needs to relax." Sam flopped down on the couch next to Mercedes and poked her in the stomach. "So what about this authentic Italian dinner you're making me?"
Mercedes' eyes opened wide. "Shi—" She dashed into the kitchen, the sound of Sam's laughter ringing behind her.
"You sure this is legal?"
"Perfectly."
"But wouldn't it technically be trespassing—"
"Not if we're on my roof."
"Actually…" Mercedes shifted, looking down. "I think I'm on your neighbor's roof."
He shrugged. "Then I hope you have a good lawyer."
She kicked his leg. "Why don't we switch places, hm?"
"I don't have money for a lawyer. Surely you can take a few thousand out of your royalties."
"Why did I agree to this again?"
"Because you love star-gazing as much as I do?"
"Probably." She shivered and scooted closer to him. They were laying on the roof of Sam's—and his neighbor's—apartment. (Sam's place was pretty small.) "Though I was surprised when you first told me."
"Why?"
"Because usually only romantic guys like to stargaze."
He sat up indignantly. "Are you saying I'm not—"
"Romantic? No, Sam, you are not. You are crude and ignorant and untactful—but there's this certain charm and appeal to you that make women fall head over heels regardless."
"Uh… thanks… I think…" His eyes had glazed over.
She pulled him back down. "You're welcome."
They stared up at the sky in silence for a good amount of time.
"Look," said Mercedes, pointing, "it's a ballerina."
Sam gave her a look. "Isn't that cloud-watching where you find shapes?"
"Picky picky. Don't be so discriminatory. I can look for objects in the stars if I want to."
He sighed. "You're so complicated."
"And this is a surprise to you?"
"Not really. But it's fun to say." He nudged her shoe with his.
She kicked him back.
A kick-of-war ensued, in which Mercedes nearly tumbled off the roof. "Bully," she said, hanging onto his waist for dear life.
Sam hauled her farther up the roof, in a safer spot. "But you love me anyway."
"Who said anything about the 'L' word?" teased Mercedes.
"I did," said Sam in complete sincerity. He lowered his head and barely brushed her lips with his. He made no move to deepen the kiss; Mercedes followed suit. There was something special, something sacred about not letting themselves go further, to just relish the simplicity of the kiss…
Of course, five minutes later, they were exchanging saliva.
"Mercedes," Sam asked, between kisses, "why you? Why couldn't it be Quinn? Why couldn't it be Santana?"
"Don't… know…" She pulled him closer. "Just don't leave—please—"
"I won't. I won't."
That's what Puck said. (But this is different. This is Sam.)
She didn't want to let him go. They'd been talking every day on the phone for nearly three months, and eating a meal together at least three times a week.
She didn't want to let him go.
She wasn't able to let him go.
"Don't leave me—"
He disengaged his lips from hers long enough to look her straight in the eye and say: "Mercedes, I promise you, I will do everything in my power not to leave you."
She responded by pulling him back down for another searing kiss.
Could it… be possible that Fate actually had done something right? That things could possibly work out for them?
She pushed the thought out of her mind, unwilling to let herself hope.
Sam kissed Mercedes' forehead as he tucked her into bed. Much as he would like to spend the night with her, he had work early the next morning. Their star-gazing dates had increased frequency (one week they'd gone every night), the bags under his eyes testimony to this. Sam made sure that they always stargazed on his roof, so he could walk her home at night, thus being the last one to get home (and get the least amount of sleep).
Mercedes hadn't quite caught on to his subtle act of chivalry yet. He was hoping to keep it that way.
Sam was in a cheery mood as he walked home tonight, just looking at the skies and thinking. He'd found her. He'd actually found a woman to love and—marry?
Easy boy. Take it slow.
He whistled merrily as he bounded up the stairs to his apartment. The elevator had been broken for years and was currently being used as a storage closet for the "custodians" (who did little more than dust the remote corners of the building and spent the rest of the time playing tic-tac-toe on the walls).
Sam kicked open the door, slightly alarmed to find it open before he remembered that he hadn't locked it. Reassured, he shut it and locked it, flipping on the light switch.
Then he froze.
"Q…Quinn?" What the hell are you doing here?
Her face was pale as she rose from her place on his couch. "Sam."
"Um… it's nice to see you again?" He hoped she wouldn't notice his mussed hair. Or that hickey on his neck...
"I'm sorry for coming uninvited," she continued, "but I just kind of… panicked. I needed to see you."
"Okay," he said slowly. Was she in trouble of some sort? Maybe she needed him to beat someone up. Please, please, let that be it. "What's up?"
She wet her lips, her hazel eyes wide and unseeing. "Sam…" She swallowed and tried again, wringing her hands nervously. "I'm pregnant."
Bam.
Bam indeed. Review time. (: