Author: Emma CS Me PM
"Power of Madonna" reaction piece/missing scene. It's not often Santana has to deal with a guy she's made physically sick by sleeping with him.Rated: Fiction T - English - Hurt/Comfort - Santana L. & Finn H. - Words: 1,109 - Reviews: 3 - Favs: 11 - Follows: 1 - Published: 09-18-10 - Status: Complete - id: 6335340
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Author's Notes: Written for hc_bingo, the prompt: "nausea."
She sighs as he goes back to staring at his hands for, like, sixth time. "Hudson! Stop zoning out!"
"What?" he jumps at her barking voice. "Oh. Uh, sorry."
They go back to an awkward silence, as he's trying to meet her eyes, but pretty obviously failing. She starts to feel bad – don't ask her why. "Fuck it," she announces loudly.
She groans. "I don't know."
He looks confused, and then they're back to the awkward silence. He's staring absent-mindedly at his hands again, and she thinks back to what he just said, like, ten minutes ago. I don't feel anything. Because it didn't mean anything.
She doesn't really get why that would be such a problem for him, but apparently it is. And now she feels guilty just for fucking him.
And what, exactly, is she meant to do with that?
"Am I ever going to get my burger?" she asks, a little more snappish than she'd like. He's surprised again.
"What? Oh, uh, sorry," his cheeks buff out cartoonishly. "I'm just sort of... I don't know."
She sighs again. "It's cool," she says. "By the way, you look like you're gonna puke."
"I feel like I'm gonna puke," he says, way too quickly. She glares at him. "Uh, that was one of those 'don't say aloud' things, wasn't it?"
"Uh, yeah," she says.
"Sorry. It's not your fault; you're smoking hot, I just... I shouldn't have done this," he says, sighing sadly.
She raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"I don't love you. Corny as it is and all that."
She's not much less confused. "...So? I thought it was meant to be the girl who got all worked up about shit like that."
He shrugs uncomfortably. "Yeah, well... I suck."
She accepts that as an answer. "Alright. This is still about Berry, isn't it?"
"Duh," he says.
"For the record, I'm sorry about what me and Britt pulled there," she says. "Just following orders. Except that makes me sound like a Nazi, so I'll shut the fuck up."
"It wasn't your fault," he says. "I was just... stupid."
"This is news how?"
He glares at her. "You know, if this is your version of being comforting, you suck at it."
"Yeah I know," she says. "Hey, I'm the head bitch in charge around here. Gimme a break, okay?"
He sighs. "Fine," he leans back against the headboard. "I wonder if Rach and St. Douchebag have..."
Santana snorts. "I doubt it," she says. "Have you met Rachel Berry? The girl wound probably have had chastity devices implanted at like, five or something, and has forgotten about them by now. Sex is a distraction or whatever."
Finn glares some more. "You don't know her."
She sighs. "Whatever. I'm a bitch. And I generally don't like being nice about the exes of the guys I fuck when we're still in the bed together; it's just... awkward."
He rolls his eyes. "I'm getting that."
She sighs. "So... what are we going to do now?"
He blinks. "I was gonna go get you that burger."
She shrugs. "I mean, you don't have to. Burger joints aren't that complicated; I could go get it myself if you want to brood some more."
He shakes his head. "No, it's cool. I mean, I'm trying not to be one of those dicks who runs out on a girl right after he's gotten into her pants."
She raises an eyebrow. "Okay, if it makes you feel better, pretty much the only reason I'm not doing that is because I'm hungry and not sure how much cash I have on me, so I want you to pay."
"I'm not a girl," he responds. She rolls her eyes.
"You know what I mean."
He shrugs. "Yeah, but... it's different; you're a girl."
"...I'll go with that," she says. The conversation goes silent again, as he returns to staring at his huge hands – his face is pale and anxious, and shit. "Yeah, you still look like you're going to puke. Which, if you are, one – ew, and two – could you please do it in the toilet like a normal person?"
"Yeah. You suck at being comforting."
"Hey, I was the one who fucked you, it's not fair I should have to be comforting about it. It makes me feel guilty," she says. Then she thinks about it a bit more. "Seriously though, sorry. It's not often I have to deal with a guy I've made physically sick by fucking him; you get the not-sure-what-I'm-doing-ness, right?"
"Yeah," he says. "Sorry about this; I'm being such a fucking girl."
"No, I'm the girl. You're just being a wimp. Because this week is all about that sort of feminist shit, I think I need to point out the difference," she says.
"What is a wimp anyway?"
"I mean, where does the word come from?" he asks. "I mean, a bitch is female dog, and a pussy is, well–" he aims a vague head gesture at her lower half, "–but where does that word come from?"
She blinks. "How would I know? And does it matter?"
He shrugs. "Just curious."
"Got a feeling that's part of what got you here anyway," she says unthinkingly, but she doesn't miss his flinch. "Oh, uh, sorry. That... wow. This was really stupid."
He cocks his head to the side. "You just figured that out?"
Well, no," she snaps back, appropriately indignant, "I just... found the right moment to say it."
He shrugs. "Whatever," he says.
"Sorry if I like, pressured you or something," she says. "Because you're already pretty obviously regretting it and been like, less than an hour, and that makes me worry about how I went about this whole thing."
"No, you were cool," he says. "I was just... stupid, and you were there."
"...Okay," she says.
"Tell me this will feel better soon."
"Yeah," she says. "After a while, it'll sort of fade into the distance. The memory'll get warped, and unless you're a lot more traumatized than you're indicating right now, you'll wind up glossing over the shitty bits. You'll live."
He nods. "Alright," he says.
"So. Food now?"