Tell All the Truth (But Tell It Slant)
May. 28th, 2011 11:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
osprey_archerTitle: Tell All the Truth (But Tell It Slant)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
osprey_archer
Pairing: Santana/Brittany
Rating: PG
Spoilers: mild for both seasons
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Summary: Santana sometimes wakes up in cold sweat, terrified that Brittany’s right, and Santa Claus is real and dreams really do come true. In another and a better world she and Brittany were prom co-queens.
A/N: Thank you, Lauren, for letting me write this sideways sequel to your awesome fic The Politics of Pleasure. It's amazing and you should all go read it.
If the Cheerios ever got twelfth place, Coach would make them dig their own graves with their pompoms. But Mr. Schue was born to be a loser, and he keeps nattering about “Twelfth place, great job guys!”, until Santana wants to club him like a baby seal.
Unfortunately, actually bludgeoning Schue is a little too badass for even Santana, so she contents herself with shredding copies of The Grapes of Wrath and cutting English class to take on the slushie machine. She wants to smash it. (Maybe it would impress Brittany.) Would Figgins believe it was a mission for the Bully Whips?
If he didn’t, she could tell him vampires did it. Figgins is kind of like Brittany that way: he has a fucked-up sense of the possible.
The slushie machine won’t budge.
Brittany doesn’t believe in vampires, anyway. She thinks the unicorns defeated them all.
Santana paces. Brittany’s completely out to lunch on everything, from math to lunch to tying her shoes. (“But I don’t get it. Why are there bunny ears living in my shoelaces? Don’t the bunnies need them?”) Santana’s got a permanent Brittany buzz in the back of her head, commenting on life, and she can’t get rid of it or forget Brit and it’s so stupid.
Santana strikes her heel on the floor, leaving a black streak. Brit’s not stupid. Everything thinks Brittany’s an idiot, but Brittany only gets confused about unimportant things. She just…sees the world at a slant.
And because the world is crooked, looking at it slant puts the important things right side up.
Santana sometimes wakes up in cold sweat, terrified that Brittany’s right, and Santa Claus is real and dreams really do come true. In another and a better world she and Brittany were prom co-queens. They danced a tango in front of the whole school, Santana in her red dress and Brittany in top hat and tails, and –
– if that ever happened, they’d both get slushied in the face twice a day for the rest of high school.
That’s why Santana hangs out next to the slushie machine: because it’s the sound of the future if she gives in to the Brittany-eye view of the world. In real life, vampires eat unicorns, and there is no Santa Claus. There’s just Santana, and she’s going to take care of Brittany.
And then Santana turns, and Brittany’s standing there. Her gray eyes shine in the fluorescent glare. “Hey.”
Santana, rattled, retreats to the opposite wall, and leans against it with her arms clenched over her stomach.. “You’re supposed to be in class,” she snaps.
“I told Mrs. Baker the kittens were calling,” says Brittany. She slides down the wall to sit and stretches her long skinny legs, peering at her polka dot knee socks. She clicks the toes of her shoes together. Her forehead crinkles in a frown. “It should take me back to Oz.”
Santana’s lips twitch. Brittany loves that movie. She and Santana once rigged a water bucket over Coach Sylvester’s door.
“To see the wizard,” says Brittany.
Santana boils. “You don’t need – ”
“No, for you.”
Santana’s pulse thumps in her ears. “I don’t want a heart,” she says.
Brittany shakes her head. Santana lifts her chin, blinking till the dots in the ceiling stop blurring. Brittany wants to bring her some courage. Santana’s supposed to be the strong one. “Why do you have to be so pushy?” she asks. Brittany’s so accepting of everything else; why does she have to fixate on, on this?
Brittany’s head droops, eyelashes dark on her cheeks. “Because you’re miserable.”
“You’re making me miserable,” Santana mutters. She blinks hard. It’s not enough. She presses her knuckles against her eyes. “If you’d just shut up, everything would be fine.”
Brittany scoots across the hall. Santana pushes Brittany away, harder than she intended, and Brittany throws up a hand to balance herself. There’s a word on her palm, and she only sees it for a flash, but she knows it and her throat closes again. “What’s on your hand?”
Brittany holds out her palm. Google bisexuality, it says, in fat black half-faded letters. “Kurt wrote it for me,” Brittany says. She turns her palm back to herself to read it.
Santana chokes. “We’ve got to go wash it off,” she says, grabbing Brittany’s hand and dragging her to her feet.
Brittany follows, like a puppy dragged on a leash. Her head’s still cocked as she reads her hand. “It’s magic marker,” she says. “It won’t wash off.”
“What is wrong with Kurt?” Santana hisses. Her shoes clomp on the floor. The nearest bathroom is past the science rooms. “Anyone could read that!” How do you get magic marker off someone’s hand really quick?
Brittany skips beside her. “Don’t you want to hear what I found about bisexuality?” she asks.
Santana winces, glancing around: no one else playing hooky in the halls to hear. But they’re coming up on the science rooms, and Mr. Watson always keeps his doors open in case something explodes, and if they go any farther someone might hear.
Santana’s stops, breathing hard. “Fine,” she says.
“Bisexuality is like mocha,” Brittany says. “Liking both coffee and chocolate.”
Santana’s face contorts. “So what am I?” she asks. (Coffee. Bitter.)
Brittany squeezes Santana’s hand. Santana suddenly realizes that she’s still holding Brittany’s hand, and then Brittany takes her other hand too: they’re standing palm to palm. She moves so close, she almost steps on Santana’s toes. Santana’s eyes rise to Brittany’s face.
“You’re a dark chocolate mocha with two shots of espresso,” Brittany says, and smiles dreamily.“And I want everyone to be able to see that. Like you’re one of those clear plastic Starbucks cups.” She leans in. Her breath tastes like her bubblegum. “But only I get to taste.” And Brittany kisses her.
Santana collapses into Brittany, and they’re in the hallway, in the open hallway at McKinley and anyone could see and oh God oh Brittany oh fuck this is so – fucking good, and the bell screams.
It’s Brittany who pulls back. Santana overbalances and slams back against the lockers lining the wall. They clang. Kids pour out of the science rooms. Some dumbass hockey player in his red letter jacket shoves between them. Brittany rocks from the impact but stands firm.
“Thanks,” Santana says. She lifts a hand to her lips. They feel swollen. She thinks they must have changed colors; as if everyone can see.
Brittany’s lips are smudged with Santana’s lipstick. She grins, and licks her lips. Time seems to stop.
The halls are clear again: it’s lunch time. Brittany hooks her thumbs in the pockets of her baggy pants. “We’re going to win Nationals next year,” she says.
Santana falls in step beside her. “Sure. If I make a Rachel Berry voodoo doll.”
Brittany shakes her head. “We just have to be more like unicorns.”
“Brittany, dwarfs with sticks could defeat unicorns,” says Santana. “We need to get our fire-breathing dragon on.”
“No, we just have to be even unicornier,” Brittany says.
Santana wants to laugh, but her throat clenches and she can barely breathe. Brittany starts down the stairs, then turns when she realizes Santana isn’t coming. Santana swallows and swallows again. “If any dwarfs come after you,” she says, “I’ll run them through with my unicorn horn.”
Brittany beams. “If you stab someone with a unicorn horn, it heals them.”
Santana’s hand curls around the stair rail. “I guess I don’t know much about unicorns,” she says.
She starts down the stairs after Brittany.
Author:
osprey_archerPairing: Santana/Brittany
Rating: PG
Spoilers: mild for both seasons
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Summary: Santana sometimes wakes up in cold sweat, terrified that Brittany’s right, and Santa Claus is real and dreams really do come true. In another and a better world she and Brittany were prom co-queens.
A/N: Thank you, Lauren, for letting me write this sideways sequel to your awesome fic The Politics of Pleasure. It's amazing and you should all go read it.
If the Cheerios ever got twelfth place, Coach would make them dig their own graves with their pompoms. But Mr. Schue was born to be a loser, and he keeps nattering about “Twelfth place, great job guys!”, until Santana wants to club him like a baby seal.
Unfortunately, actually bludgeoning Schue is a little too badass for even Santana, so she contents herself with shredding copies of The Grapes of Wrath and cutting English class to take on the slushie machine. She wants to smash it. (Maybe it would impress Brittany.) Would Figgins believe it was a mission for the Bully Whips?
If he didn’t, she could tell him vampires did it. Figgins is kind of like Brittany that way: he has a fucked-up sense of the possible.
The slushie machine won’t budge.
Brittany doesn’t believe in vampires, anyway. She thinks the unicorns defeated them all.
Santana paces. Brittany’s completely out to lunch on everything, from math to lunch to tying her shoes. (“But I don’t get it. Why are there bunny ears living in my shoelaces? Don’t the bunnies need them?”) Santana’s got a permanent Brittany buzz in the back of her head, commenting on life, and she can’t get rid of it or forget Brit and it’s so stupid.
Santana strikes her heel on the floor, leaving a black streak. Brit’s not stupid. Everything thinks Brittany’s an idiot, but Brittany only gets confused about unimportant things. She just…sees the world at a slant.
And because the world is crooked, looking at it slant puts the important things right side up.
Santana sometimes wakes up in cold sweat, terrified that Brittany’s right, and Santa Claus is real and dreams really do come true. In another and a better world she and Brittany were prom co-queens. They danced a tango in front of the whole school, Santana in her red dress and Brittany in top hat and tails, and –
– if that ever happened, they’d both get slushied in the face twice a day for the rest of high school.
That’s why Santana hangs out next to the slushie machine: because it’s the sound of the future if she gives in to the Brittany-eye view of the world. In real life, vampires eat unicorns, and there is no Santa Claus. There’s just Santana, and she’s going to take care of Brittany.
And then Santana turns, and Brittany’s standing there. Her gray eyes shine in the fluorescent glare. “Hey.”
Santana, rattled, retreats to the opposite wall, and leans against it with her arms clenched over her stomach.. “You’re supposed to be in class,” she snaps.
“I told Mrs. Baker the kittens were calling,” says Brittany. She slides down the wall to sit and stretches her long skinny legs, peering at her polka dot knee socks. She clicks the toes of her shoes together. Her forehead crinkles in a frown. “It should take me back to Oz.”
Santana’s lips twitch. Brittany loves that movie. She and Santana once rigged a water bucket over Coach Sylvester’s door.
“To see the wizard,” says Brittany.
Santana boils. “You don’t need – ”
“No, for you.”
Santana’s pulse thumps in her ears. “I don’t want a heart,” she says.
Brittany shakes her head. Santana lifts her chin, blinking till the dots in the ceiling stop blurring. Brittany wants to bring her some courage. Santana’s supposed to be the strong one. “Why do you have to be so pushy?” she asks. Brittany’s so accepting of everything else; why does she have to fixate on, on this?
Brittany’s head droops, eyelashes dark on her cheeks. “Because you’re miserable.”
“You’re making me miserable,” Santana mutters. She blinks hard. It’s not enough. She presses her knuckles against her eyes. “If you’d just shut up, everything would be fine.”
Brittany scoots across the hall. Santana pushes Brittany away, harder than she intended, and Brittany throws up a hand to balance herself. There’s a word on her palm, and she only sees it for a flash, but she knows it and her throat closes again. “What’s on your hand?”
Brittany holds out her palm. Google bisexuality, it says, in fat black half-faded letters. “Kurt wrote it for me,” Brittany says. She turns her palm back to herself to read it.
Santana chokes. “We’ve got to go wash it off,” she says, grabbing Brittany’s hand and dragging her to her feet.
Brittany follows, like a puppy dragged on a leash. Her head’s still cocked as she reads her hand. “It’s magic marker,” she says. “It won’t wash off.”
“What is wrong with Kurt?” Santana hisses. Her shoes clomp on the floor. The nearest bathroom is past the science rooms. “Anyone could read that!” How do you get magic marker off someone’s hand really quick?
Brittany skips beside her. “Don’t you want to hear what I found about bisexuality?” she asks.
Santana winces, glancing around: no one else playing hooky in the halls to hear. But they’re coming up on the science rooms, and Mr. Watson always keeps his doors open in case something explodes, and if they go any farther someone might hear.
Santana’s stops, breathing hard. “Fine,” she says.
“Bisexuality is like mocha,” Brittany says. “Liking both coffee and chocolate.”
Santana’s face contorts. “So what am I?” she asks. (Coffee. Bitter.)
Brittany squeezes Santana’s hand. Santana suddenly realizes that she’s still holding Brittany’s hand, and then Brittany takes her other hand too: they’re standing palm to palm. She moves so close, she almost steps on Santana’s toes. Santana’s eyes rise to Brittany’s face.
“You’re a dark chocolate mocha with two shots of espresso,” Brittany says, and smiles dreamily.“And I want everyone to be able to see that. Like you’re one of those clear plastic Starbucks cups.” She leans in. Her breath tastes like her bubblegum. “But only I get to taste.” And Brittany kisses her.
Santana collapses into Brittany, and they’re in the hallway, in the open hallway at McKinley and anyone could see and oh God oh Brittany oh fuck this is so – fucking good, and the bell screams.
It’s Brittany who pulls back. Santana overbalances and slams back against the lockers lining the wall. They clang. Kids pour out of the science rooms. Some dumbass hockey player in his red letter jacket shoves between them. Brittany rocks from the impact but stands firm.
“Thanks,” Santana says. She lifts a hand to her lips. They feel swollen. She thinks they must have changed colors; as if everyone can see.
Brittany’s lips are smudged with Santana’s lipstick. She grins, and licks her lips. Time seems to stop.
The halls are clear again: it’s lunch time. Brittany hooks her thumbs in the pockets of her baggy pants. “We’re going to win Nationals next year,” she says.
Santana falls in step beside her. “Sure. If I make a Rachel Berry voodoo doll.”
Brittany shakes her head. “We just have to be more like unicorns.”
“Brittany, dwarfs with sticks could defeat unicorns,” says Santana. “We need to get our fire-breathing dragon on.”
“No, we just have to be even unicornier,” Brittany says.
Santana wants to laugh, but her throat clenches and she can barely breathe. Brittany starts down the stairs, then turns when she realizes Santana isn’t coming. Santana swallows and swallows again. “If any dwarfs come after you,” she says, “I’ll run them through with my unicorn horn.”
Brittany beams. “If you stab someone with a unicorn horn, it heals them.”
Santana’s hand curls around the stair rail. “I guess I don’t know much about unicorns,” she says.
She starts down the stairs after Brittany.
