A/N: Puck helps piece Santana back together (and pick her apart, too). Also: proof that bisexuality does exist. Eff you, show, for not showing that.

It's never been just 'sleeping together' with the two of them, even if they deny it like two of the classiest motherfuckers on the planet.

But it's never been. It's never been just about 'sleeping together'.

(Even if they never actually sleep and their sleepovers may as well be deemed 'sexovers', of course).

So they're lying on a cot in his backyard, just the two of them, some half-dranken beer, when he flips over on his side, takes a strand of her hair in his hands and asks, "Will it ever be more than just sex?"

He's not supposed to ask that. No, no, no. Hell, he's not supposed to grasp even the tiniest strand of her hair in his hands. That shit is the romantic kind, and she just can't dig that.

Doesn't he know that? If he claims to know her so well, why can't he just drill that in his fucking head? She. Likes. Sex. And. Nothing. Else.

It's always 'just sex' and he's supposed to get it — he's supposed to do anything but question it.

But like the asshole he is, he questions it anyway. "So," he breathes, "when the fuck'll you muster up and admit you've got some feelings?"

She hits him in the arm — hard. He flinches, and that only makes her laugh. She knows he's the biggest dick on the planet, and she knows he says half the shit he does because he likes her best when she's all riled up and tense.

"Y'know I could go elsewhere," he says.

"So why don't you?" she asks viciously, arms swinging at her side as she lifts a single bottle of beer up beside her.

"S'like... I enjoy this shit," he says. "Sure, you're obviously one of the best lays 'round this cowtown, but you're more."

There goes the sappy shit again. Maybe it's a high off of the 'new daddy' hormones or something, but she hates it. She moans, leans back a few, her skirt whisking up as it flows in the breeze. She practically flashes him, but it's not like he minds.

"The fuck am I more?"

"You talk to me 'bout shit," he says. "You get jealous when I talk to chicks."

"You had a baby," she tells him as if he's unaware, his eyes narrowing at her words. "You're... you're still trying to get Fabray, aren't you?"

He shrugs. "S'not like she wants me."

She only sighs, looking up to the swaying branches of the half-fallen oak tree in the corner of his backyard. It's a dingy backyard, and a chill creeps up her spine when she realizes how shitty it looks that the two of them are surrounded by a pile of nothing but Corona beers and a bunch of old cigarette butts.

"She... she doesn't want me," he reiterates. She knows he's doing that because he wants her to disagree with him. He wants her to tell him it'll be so easy for him to win it all back — his reputation, Quinn Fabray.

But if Santana Lopez isn't one thing, it's a liar, so she clears her throat, leans back a bit and clutches her knees to her chest. He glares at her when she does so, gulping.

"You're right," she says. "Quinn doesn't want you. I mean, what girl would wanna be with the guy that knocked her up at sixteen? Sure as hell wouldn't be me."

He opens his mouth to speak, but she definitely can't and won't let him get a last word in.

"And your reputation?" she cackles, almost teasingly so. "Shit is shot. You're last year's news. No one wants a dick who made a baby."

"You do."

She's quiet at that part, but that's only because she can't fucking stand to be wrong.

She sneaks in his window like a professional, just the way he taught her to in the eighth grade. As she climbs up the rim, her skirt flies up. There isn't shit she can do about it, so she waits until she's in his room, notices his smirk and flattens it down, also threatening to flatten his face just for laughing.

"Fuck you, Puckerman," she mumbles, middle finger in the air. "So," she looks down at the way he's sitting wide-legged on his bed, her hands rummaging through her ponytail. It's the last night of summer before junior year and she's just looking for a good lay, so if he's thinking about being a dick about the whole thing, she won't even stand for it. "You're not busy, are you?"

He scrunches his nose, looking down to his lap. "Do I look busy?"

She flips him off, then sits down next to him, chewing at a hangnail rather than looking him in the eye. "So," she breathes heavily, practically panting, "I'm tired."

"Of...?" He doesn't even look up at her when he speaks.

Fiddling with the button on her blazer (which, she's not even sure why she's wearing because it's eighty-three degrees and fucking boiling outside), she tears it open, looking up and then down. "I... I got work done."

He stands up now, eyes wide and hands in his pocket. It's more than obvious he's uncomfortable, but she smirks anyway, blazer open and eyes down at her protruding breasts. Sure, they're not huge, but there's a difference and it's definitely more than apparent she had some... work done.

He rolls his eyes. "I hate 'em."

"You love boobs."

"Not fake ones," he spits.

She steps up, too, hands on his hips, rocking back and forth as she roams the top of his abdomen with just her fingertips. Leaning into his ear and whispering, she asks, "Be honest, do you like 'em?"

"On you...?"

She nods, lips tight.

"I fuckin' hate 'em, San."

She wants to (but doesn't) ask why, simply huffs because fuck him, she can do better.

Or can she?

Whatever. She climbs out of his window, her body untouched, fully covered in her dignity. She's got new fake implants to go along with her, too.

(But she's not too sure how she feels about those yet, and she definitely doesn't want his opinion).

Life fucking sucks. Maybe she's over-exaggerating it a bit, but you try getting demoted to the bottom of the pyramid and being ratted out and replaced by the biggest life-size Barbie of 'em all. She wants to say fuck it. She wants to look Quinn Fabray in the eye and say 'fuck you, I'm better', but she doesn't.

She just gets a shove to the shoulder, a head against a locker. Even though it ends with Quinn Fabray in the floor, defeat practically dying to be spray painted onto her forehead, Santana still doesn't feel accomplished.

Mr. Schuester breaks up the fight, Quinn in his arms, a vein of rage protruding from his neck. Santana's alone on the other side, no one holding onto her, no one screaming for her to quit it.

She ends the fight with a shout, and when Mr. Schuester tells them to cut the nonsense because they're all a family, she only yells, "She has a family, she's a mother!"

She feels accomplished then, sure, because Quinn has nothing better to say back then to shout to Santana to tighten her ponytail before going on to class, but that feeling of victory slowly dies out.

"You fought Quinn, huh?" Puck's at her locker after the bell to eighth period has already rung. She could give a fuck less about school and she knows he could too, so it's no surprise they're both where they are.

She rolls her eyes, slams her locker shut and mumbles, "I think I won."

"Did you?"

She thinks about it for a second — a long, long second. "No," she shakes her head. "No, I didn't."

"Why's that?" he asks.

"'Cuz I brought up the whole 'mother' thing," she says. "Y'know, the fact that the only thing she's superior to me in bein' Stretchmarks 101 and all."

She expects him to defend her (after all, Quinn is his baby mama), but he just lets out a laugh. Seconds later, he's stern again, his glare narrowed. "You're jealous of that, aren't you?"

"Of what...?" she snickers, attitude on full blast.

"Quinn," he says quickly. "The fact that she had my baby."

"Don't flatter yourself."

And she walks away.

He doesn't.

It goes like this for awhile: go to school, watch Quinn Fabray soak in all of her 'I'm-the-top-bitch-around-here' glory, go to glee club, get crushed by fat asses at the bottom of her pyramid, get shouted out by Coach Sylvester, watch Quinn Fabray soak in more of her 'I'm-the-top-bitch-around-here' glory.

Things are constant, for the most part, and there isn't anything Santana can do about it, so she just... doesn't.

People talk pretty fast at McKinley, and there's a new kid and word about that new kid within just hours. His name is Sam Evans, she hears, and he's some kid from the south. Why would you move from the south to Ohio? She's got no clue, but she's determined to find out, especially if he's at least mildly attractive or whatever.

But of course, she's beaten to the punch by the one and only Quinn Fabray. The overdetermined blondie snatches him up within a few weeks, and soon Santana hears they've got a thing. She's not so sure how true it is, but only because half of the shit that buzzes through the halls at McKinley isn't, but she overhears a conversation in the choir room one day and can't help but stand around and snicker.

"Talk to him," Rachel, wide-eyed against a chair, puts a hand to Finn's lap, practically pleading. "In order to win, we have to do what's best."

Jesus, she hates Finn and Rachel. Rather, she hates them and their couple-y ways. They're really good at shoving it down people's throats, even when they don't mean to. Whatever. She hates 'em anyway.

"And setting Sam up with Quinn would be best because...?" Finn, ever-so-stupid, questions.

"Because we need to keep him around," Rachel says, her words practically vile as she spits them out to Finn as if he's a three-year-old learning his alphabet.

Santana backs up away from the door, her hands folded. She snickers at that — at the fact that out of all people, this new guy gets Quinn. The fuck is so special about her anyway? Whatever. Santana has Puckerman. Sure, she doesn't necessarily have him, but he's an easy phone call away, and he knows how to get her off without being so... attached. It's doable for the both of them, and it works. It just... does.

But then she remembers he got himself into juvy (fuck that 'juvy' shit, he's an idiot), storms away from the choir room and pulls out her cell phone, typing away.

B, meet me wherever. I needs to get my mack on.

So they do, and then that becomes doable, too.

"I liked that, y'know," Brittany blatantly tells her when they're at the door, Mrs. Pierce's headlights nearly visible from the end of the street.

"Me too, B," Santana says, lips pursed. "Me too."

"So..." Brittany says, even though Santana's practically off of the front steps, her foot to the ground and her hands in her pockets. "So am I like, the girl version of Puck for you?"

"W'do'u mean, B?" Santana asks, eyes narrowed. She has a feeling she knows what Brittany means, but she says stupid things sometimes, and maybe — just maybe — she slipped out something before when they'd been making out, tangled together on Brittany's bed.

"You... you said you were only with me because Puck's in juvy." Brittany lets the words slip from her lips like pudding, and Santana tastes the coldness (and maybe a sting) right on her bottom lips, pressing them together.

"I'm not," she says, shaking her head. "I... I love you, B. Just as much as I love Puck. Maybe more."

"Are you in love with Puck?"

Santana only stills, letting out a deep breath. "Nope."

"But you love him?" Brittany, clearly puzzled, asks.

"Pretty much," Santana answers, popping the 'p'.

"What's the difference?" Brittany asks, her head titled.

"I dunno," Santana says quickly, only because she doesn't. She really doesn't. She loves Puck because he makes her crazy, fucks her like a professional and talks her out of doing pretty stupid shit (and vice versa, because the kid is in juvy, so he obviously isn't that intelligent).

She really, truly doesn't know, and she doesn't feel like she owes Brittany too big of answer anyway, so she just leaves and tells Brittany she'll text her later.

"I hope you do," Brittany says.

It's not like she ever worried before, so why's she making sure Santana'll text her now?

Whatever the reason may be, it makes Santana's stomach sink. She hates that feeling. It feels like a bad hangover that she didn't even cause.

She falls asleep that night with a turned-off phone, tucked right under her pillow the moment before she crashes. She contemplates turning it on once or twice, but she shrugs that off pretty quickly and just sleeps, two things on the mind: Brittany and Puck, Brittany and Puck, Brittany and Puck.

Santana: R u out?

Puck: Of where?

Santana: Juvy, where else?

Puck: Funny that u start caring now.

She just throws her phone to the beanbag chair in the corner of her room and cringes at that last text.

She's not sure how to form a reply, but only because she's not sure where she'd begin.

She tells him she doesn't do double dates, but he only tugs her at the wrist, peppers her with kisses to the jaw and tells her to 'fuck herself'.

"Fuck myself...?" she asks, pulling away quickly, her hands planted on his shoulder.

He only nods, then kisses her again, full on to her mouth, his tongue swiveling in and out of her pursed lips. "S'for Artie."

"For Artie?" She practically cackles at that because, well, since when is he friends with that cripple?

"S'my way out of juvy," he says. "Community service. S'like... obligated I hang with that crip. Y'know, so they have it on record."

"You can lie, y'know," she tells him. "You don't have to hang out with him."

"I kind of want to," he says. "It's... it's company."

"I'm company," she says quickly, but only because she is. She's been his fucking company since the beginning of high school, and if it were up to her, she wouldn't go anywhere, either. She doesn't know why she sounds so defensive when she says, 'I'm company', but she does, and she guesses she can't help it.

He takes his hand then, lifts it up to her hair and lets it tread through, taking a piece of her side bang into his fingers. "I fuckin' love your company."

"Stop," she shoots back. "Just... just stop. Fucking stop."

"Stop what...?" he glares, catching the hint a little late and lifting his hand down, putting it right into his pocket.

"This... this romantic shit," she says. Honestly, she's scared out of her fucking mind about all of the romantic shit in general, but especially with Puck. He's not like that, and neither is she, so she'd rather they just... don't. She doesn't want to even think about going there. "I... let's just go. You're dragging me along with fuckin' Artie, so..."

"And Brittany," he says with a gulp, clearly avoiding the whole 'romantic' situation.

She breathes a sigh of relief at that, but then lifts her brow when he says, 'And Brittany', biting the inside of her cheek. "I hardly talk to Brittany anymore," she says. "Let alone have the urge to sit at a table with her."

"You'll sit with me," he says, taking her wrist and tugging at it.

She frankly could give two shits less about where she's sitting, but to make him happy (whatever, even she secretly likes that sometimes), she stands on her toes, slides her fingers up and down the back of his neck and starts to tongue him on the mouth. "Yeah," she breathes, "I'll sit with you."

"I don't care if you don't." He breathes into her kiss, practically moaning as her lips skim his, teasingly running in and out of the opening of his mouth.

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah you do."

He does. The fucker so does.

"Want me to get you off?" He asks her like it's almost nothing, like it's casual to sneak into someone's room at midnight, watch them throw their pajama shirt (his old McKinley High Titans t-shirt from freshman year, whatever) over their head and ask that.

She shrugs, then changes her mind, shout-whispering a small, "No!"

"C'mon, San," he begs. She only laughs at his desperation, taking her thumbnail and letting it grind against her bottom teeth.

"Not a chance," she says, leaning back into the stack of pillows on her bed.

"You look..." he starts but doesn't finish, his hands in his pockets as he makes way to the side of her bed, practically slamming his body (accidentally, of course) into her nightstand. "You look tired."

"You were gonna say something else." She says it a little too confidently, but she doesn't even give a fuck anymore, because who is he that she's got to impress him?

"Yeah," he admits. "I was. But... but I'm not anymore, so drop it."

"I will."


And they do, even though she's dying for him to slip out a 'you look beautiful' the entire time he's inside of her.

He doesn't.

"Why'd you hate it so much?" She's sprawled across his bed, her hair soaking wet after the shower they just took (no mom or little sis, conserving water, etcetera, etcetera). Her hands are in her lap and she's watching him as he throws off his towel, slipping his boxers on quickly.

"Hate what?" He's rubbing the towel across his neck now, and she's watching the way the water slides down his body. If she were into all of that romantic shit, she'd walk over to him, kiss the back of his neck and ask him to come lay down with her, but she's not, so she just sits up on the bed a little bit, her eyebrows arched.

She sighs, tongue circling the left side of her cheek. "Y'know... juvy. You put on the whole badass act, Puck, but it's just that: an act. You're scared shitless, I can tell."

He walks a little closer, hands at the edge of his boxer, boosting them up on his hips. "And how can you tell, huh?"

"I just... can," she says, almost much too knowingly, and she knows he hates it. He hates when she pretends to know it all, because like he never fails to tell her, she probably doesn't know shit. But she talks and talks and talks because pretending she knows it all is better than admitting she knows nothing whatsoever. So she gulps once more, looks at him when he sits down on the bed beside her and asks, "Juvy was shit, wasn't it?"

He tenses a little, looks down in his lap, then to her. "Yeah," he says.

She nods, then slowly shifts her body so her hand can rest comfortably on his kneecap, making a small circle with her palm right on the bone. "Thought so."

She hates relationships, sure, but she's never hated them as much as she does now before Finn and Rachel. Finn and Rachel. She hates them. As individuals, she just lets them sort of... stay there. They don't say much to her when they're alone. Sure, Rachel's annoying as all fuck and likes to captain the glee club and suggest solos for herself rather than everyone else and yet still calls herself a leader, but Santana deals. Finn is... well... Finn.

It's Burt and Carole's wedding (whatever, she hates weddings) and she only goes because of the glee club's scheduled performance (whatever, she kind of likes the glee club), and even though it's tasteless and kind of tacky, she agrees to go through with it anyway, because she can't just not be the only one who doesn't show. What the fuck does that say about her?

Anyway, she's in the back room of the church with Finn, and she can't help but cackle when she watches him struggle to tie his clip-on tie. A freakin' clip-on. She offers to help him, and then sooner rather than later, she's on her knees below him, arms around his neck, making him an offer he'd be a fucking moron to decline.

But he does, and it stings, even if he's better suited for that dwarf of a girlfriend of his than he'll ever be for Santana. He sticks up for Rachel, and sure, Santana kind of hates her guts, but she feels a little left out regardless (for whatever stupid reason). He starts to say that he loves Rachel, that she's his girlfriend (the idiot practically growls when he says that) and that he won't break up with her because it'd hurt her feelings.

Cue the midget. Finn looks to Santana guiltily, and it takes her a second to realize that a wedding probably isn't the best time to announce her and Finn's sleeping together to his girlfriend. She shakes her head, tiptoes out of the room slowly, watches Finn tell Rachel he 'just really loves her', Rachel say 'I love you too' and then skips the fuck out of there with a snicker.

Really, it stings. The whole fucking wedding stings, because she's got no one and here she is celebrating some union of two people who are supposed to be together forever.

At that point, she can't even be bothered to care if and how that shit'll last, because all she really wants, for once in her life, is to experience it for herself firsthand.

She cries herself to sleep for the first time in forever, because even if it felt good while in the middle of it all, she fucking destroyed a relationship.

She knows Finn didn't have to go break up with the hobbit, but it's her fault he even did. She's the one who slept with him; she's the whore who took the one thing he was probably man enough to actually want to save for his girlfriend. He loved her, and that? It makes Santana feel guiltier than she ever has before.

She whips out her phone and considers texting Puck, because if anything were to cheer her up, it'd be a round or two of good sex, but she shakes her head, throws her phone onto a laundry basket stacked with clothes and reminds herself it's all sex's fault. Always.

"The fuck did you do it for?" Puck asks, even though he probably already knows the answer.

He and Santana are (strangely) the only two left in the choir room, glee rehearsal finishing not ten minutes ago. He's in a chair in the far corner, and she's two seats down, feet up on the back of the chair in front of her.

She doesn't even bother to scoot over. She just whispers, "Don't know."

She thinks that's the motto to like... everything now: don't know.

If she thought she was at the bottom before, she's really at the bottom now. She quits the Cheerios (no thanks to Finn), so the only thing she has now is the glee club. Now is when she starts to believe Mr. Schue's whole 'we're-a-family-no-matter-what' shpeel, even if she can't help but roll her eyes at it sometimes. (She tries to cut down, though).

She still hooks up though, sometimes Brittany, mostly Puck. She may not have the status anymore, sure, but she's still got some power, because the second she sends one of the two of them a text message, they're over in a flash.

She's tired of people, honestly. Everyone's so fucking screwed up. Everyone in glee club? They're screwed up. It's a big love pentagon... maybe bigger. Finn's done but not-so-done with Rachel because he's still kind of (weirdly) into Quinn, but Quinn's into both Finn and Sam, and Sam's just... there because he is, because he feels like being Quinn's boy toy. (The bitch always gets everything, yawn). Rachel's an emotional mess because her relationship (or what's left of it, anyway) is in shreds. Brittany's still dating Artie (frigging Artie), which Santana'll probably never be able to understand. Tina cries a lot, but whenever she does, Mike makes out with her and then all is right in the world. Point is, all of their relationships are sucky. Whatever. Santana tries her best to scoot by that mediocre drama, and then she pats herself on the back, because she's said it all along: relationships suck. They're shit, and she's glad she doesn't have to worry about them.

That is... until Puck starts dating the epitome of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Seriously, the girl is like... six feet even, a solid three-hundred pounds, and a total drag.

"She's a total drag." She's sure to have an attitude when she says that, straddling his body still, her hands rummaging over his mohawk (which, she knows secretly and not-so-secretly turns him on).

"Who is?" he says, sitting up a little, groping her behind as he lets his head float onto the two pillows behind him.

"Lauren." She rolls her eyes extra long when she spits her name out, and he looks nothing less but pissed off. But seriously, if he thinks the bitch is hot, he's totally wrong. Or glasses-deprived. Either or. When he says nothing, she leans down to him, moans a little in his ear and then kisses his jawline, her lips hot on his skin.

He won't take it though. He shoots up, gives her a glare and then says, "The fuck is your problem?"

"The fuck is my problem?" she laughs then, because honestly, she knows how to keep it real with him and keep it pretty fucking hilarious all at once. How the hell is he sitting up looking like someone just killed his cat? "You're fucking a great white whale, that's what."

"Nah," he says, shrugging that off, because clearly, he hates talking about Lauren almost as much as she hates looking at the two of them together. "I think somethin' else is going on."

"Something else...?" she boots herself up off of him, flattening out her shorts (which are like, half off anyways), and crosses her arms, glaring at him.

"You're jealous," he says.

"Puh-lease, Puckerman," she snickers, "the least of my worries is finding ways to pry you away from that... that thing. I've got better things to do."

"I'm not sayin' you're jealous of me and Lauren." He rolls his eyes like she's supposed to know what the fuck he's talking about. Fuck him. "I'm saying you're jealous of the whole like... relationship thing in general. You don't love me, bitch."

She snorts at the 'bitch' thing, because he hasn't called her that (in a joking way, at least) since the end of sophomore year, and even though it's supposed to like, hurt or whatever, it feels more like a reminder of the way their relationship used to be. She misses it. It's definitely not the same.

He hasn't even bothered to put his clothes back on, just his boxers, when he gets up, flattens out the sheets like some OCD maniac. It makes her roll her eyes, because he's never been that way before. If that Lauren bitch or whatever plans on changing him, she better think twice.

"Do you love Lauren?" she asks after a moment of pure silence, her hands rummaging through her hair.

He takes a deep breath, and he looks like he plans to say something but changes his answer at the last minute, because he looks down to the ground, then shoots up with a, "Would it matter if I did?"

She has to think about that one for a minute. Would it? She looks down at her ruffled shorts, the shorts his hands were all over just minutes before. She looks at his bed, the way he's smoothing out the sheets and tucking the corners in almost perfectly. She looks around his room, the room she's become more than familiar with over the years. With pressed lips she says, "No." Then she grabs her things, opens his door and ignores it when he tells her to climb out from the window.

She's not going back to that old routine — ever.

She wonders if people are allowed to hate their boyfriends?

Well... whatever. He isn't really even her boyfriend. He's just something she stole from Quinn just because.

"You're dating Sam now?" Puck asks her, full attitude and all, and she can only smirk and mouth a small, 'mhm', because whatever, it's no big deal.

She doesn't know if she'd call it 'dating' (more like 'snatching from Quinn because the bitch deserves to have one thing taken from out under her'), but she tells Puck they're 'official' or whatever, and he laughs.

"Yeah fuckin' right," he says, eyes narrow like he's pissed off or something. (As if). She doesn't know why he's being such a dick about it, because he's got a sumo wrestler for himself, and he's pretty happy and shit. Why can't he let her be happy for once?

Oh, right, because she isn't.

"That'll last," he spits sarcastically, and she doesn't even have the energy to flip him off for it.

He hasn't talked to her in weeks, and sure, it may be all Lauren's fault, but Puck can't help that he's fallen head over ass for the bitch, right?

She's alone one night after Brittany's gone, and she's all peeved off because the two of them start to fight like sisters about stuff sisters really shouldn't be fighting over, and that's not supposed to happen. Best friends aren't supposed to fight. Not Brittany and her anyway, because after they're done fighting, Santana literally has to fight off the urge not to pull Brittany in for a hug, kiss the tip of her nose and tell her it'll all be okay. She's not supposed to feel like that, sure, but it's Brittany, and she's different from everyone else. Santana knows it.

She pulls out her phone and scrolls right past all of the other names in his address book, almost out of memory. She whips by all of the names — Artie, Brittany, then Finn, Kurt, Mercedes, Quinn. Sure, they're all in her contacts, but does it mean she'd ever whip out her phone to call them whenever she feels like it? Never.

Santana: Talk 2 me.

Santana: If I say sorry, will u answer?

Santana: I'm sorry.

Santana: C'mon Puck, I said I was sorry.

Santana: I'm six days late.

Her phone rings like, three seconds later, and then her stomach sinks, maybe from chuckling too much. She lets it go to her voicemail the first time, but only because she feels like being a bitch. The second time, she picks up on the third ring with a light, "Hello?"

"Six?" His breath is heavy, and he sounds like he's been napping or something even though it's only around six-thirty. "The fuck, San? You... you gotta take a test. Lemme... lemme come with you. The pharmacy's open until like, nine. Just... just hold on."

She laughs at his panic, and sure, it's bitchy, but it's the only way he'd pry himself away from that thing he's seeing, so she really had no other option. "I'm not late," she says. "I mean, even if I were, my birth control pill is one God created himself, because for the amount of times I've fucked around, I may as well be bathin' in four leaf clovers."

He grunts. "Not funny, bitch. You had me all worried and shit."

With her lips pursed, she just has to ask, "If it happened again... y'know, the whole 'baby' thing... what would you do?"

He just sighs, and she knows he really doesn't wanna answer. Whatever. "I'd give you money for an abortion," he says. "That a good enough answer for you?"

She shrugs, tugging down on her lip and laughing. "Better than packing and leaving me, yeah."

"There is no 'leavin' you'," he tells her. "'Cuz there's no 'us'."

"There could've been." She swallows hard after that, and then she starts to wish there were a way she could take back her words.

"Yeah," he says, "there could've been, but there's not, so..."

"G'night, Puck." She doesn't know where else to go from here. She never got to say what she originally needed to, and there's no way she's about to start. Whether it happens in person or over the phone or through a damn postcard, she doesn't have the courage to say it now.

She calls herself a pussy for it, but she says it to herself in Puck's voice, because he'd totally call her the same.

They win regionals because of Rachel Berry and her sudden burst of genius in the songwriting field.

Santana's happy or whatever, because, yeah, show choir competitions are like, the only things she has right now, aside from a major headache. But she's more focused on the way Finn's like, head over heels in awe of Rachel, watching the way she holds up the trophy with pride, the room praising her.

That jealous feeling hits again, and then the temptation, but she doesn't have the energy to even try for him (or anyone, really), because he already belongs to someone else.

Then she wonders if everyone belongs to someone else, and if they do, then who's her someone else?

He gives her a ride home after glee rehearsal one day, and she thanks him by bleeding all over the passenger seat, his new seat covers completely stained.

"At least we know I'm not pregnant." She tries to laugh because he doesn't, but then she catches him smile from the rearview mirror the second he leans over and takes a wipe at the stained seat, so she smiles too.

"At least," he says.

She's quiet for the rest of the car ride home, sitting on a towel he fetched out from the trunk, probably one he's used during his whole 'pool cleaning' ordeal back in the summer before tenth grade.

"Hey," he whispers when she's not even paying attention, "if it was mine, I probably would've made you keep it."

She's stunned, really, but she shakes off the whole 'wide-eyed' look and just asks, "Why?"

"'Cuz I wouldn't wanna mess up again." He puts his hand to her knee now, and she doesn't even notice he leaves it there the entire car ride.

Brittany: Hey San, love u.

She locks that message in her phone, because it's one more ounce of proof (for when she's brave enough to admit it, of course), that she isn't crazy.

She's a total coward, and if she weren't so scared to admit it and Puck weren't so distant from her (fucking Lauren), she'd make him scream it at her again and again until she finally got the courage to shout it from like, a mountaintop or something.

She makes a deal with Dave Karofsky, only the world's biggest douchebag, and they start calling each other 'beards'. They hold hands, kiss on the cheek before class (but only when there's lots of nosey people around), and even make plans for prom. Prom.

"Vote Santofsky!" She finds herself shouting that more so than not, and yeah, sure, couple names are totally tacky ('Finchel', anyone?), but she finds herself rooting for them — for the team made up of something they're both not. Fuck.

"I sang some tacky ass song today," she admits, feet dangling behind her, pulling up one of Puck's favorite pillows to prop her elbows up on.

He opens a beer, offers her some, laughs when she declines and sits down beside her. "Don't tell me you're takin' the Finchel route and gettin' all into ballads and crap."

She shakes her head, lips pursed. "'Songbird'," she says. "Fleetwood Mac... y'know."

"Seriously?" he asks, eyes narrow. She's not so sure what his reaction really means, but she nods fervently, then catches herself and fiddles with her fingers, looking down. "S'cool, I guess. I bet it sounded nice."

"You do?"

"Yeah," he mumbles. "You're a good singer."

"Thanks, I guess."

He leans over, puts a hand on her unsteady elbow and kisses her forehead. Sure, it's something someone like a mom would do before tucking their seven-year-old into bed, but she soaks it in today, because it's the realest thing she haves.

For the rest of the night, he spends his time downing another beer and convincing her to sing a verse from 'Songbird' to him.

She declines, burying her head in her sleeve out of embarrassment. "No way."

"You're still cute." And he kisses her forehead again.

She's not used to it, and she's not so sure what it means, but she kind of likes it.

Fuck everyone. Fuck 'em all. They could've voted for her and shit, just to be nice, really, but they didn't even put in the effort. Her 'man' snatches up the title of Prom King like a pro, and yet there she is, tear-soaked eyes and a shitload of mascara slowly painting her face, locked in the protection of the choir room while everyone else gets their prom on.

Brittany convinces her to enjoy herself; that she can buy one of those stupid ass crowns at Party City anyways. If anyone else were to tell her that, she would probably pout some more, reach out her hand and punch them in the face, but because it's Brittany, she only smiles like the weakest person in the world and drags herself out to the prom again, even if facing all of those assholes is the last thing she wants to do.

She looks for Puck in the crowd, doesn't see him anywhere, and pulls out her phone the moment she steps down from the stage, handing over the microphone to one of the guys in the front row, quickly making her way down and out of there.

Santana: R u around? Meet me somewhere quiet.

Puck: That sounds 2 much like a date. Besides, ur taken by a life-sized troll doll.

Santana: Touché.

He doesn't even answer, probably because no one can diss that thing he's seeing. Whatever.

Santana: Fuck it, then.

And she curses him under her breath, stomps back in the gymnasium and 'enjoys' her damn prom without the company of anyone.

You know who Santana thinks is a piece of shit? Quinn Fabray, that's who. Well... no. She isn't really a piece of shit, but she's a bitch who compensates for all of her acclaimed 'pain' by whining, and Santana's always left wondering 'why' after a conversation with her.

It's not like they've conversed in months. Not since the whole 'let-me-rat-Santana-and-her-tits-out-to-coach-so-I-can-guarantee-my-baby-making-ass-a-spot-in-the-in-crowd' fiasco back in September. A few 'hi's and 'bye's (mostly 'bye's, because she hates to greet that bitch) here and there, but nothing major.

Now? Now they're in a hotel in the middle of New York City, just hours away from a national show choir competition, and here's little miss complainer doing what she does best: complaining. Quinn locks herself in the bathroom, and it takes a few (more like ten, they lose count) pounds onto the bathroom door by Brittany and Santana before she even opens up. When she comes out, she's in a rage. She screams about basically not giving a fuck whether they win or lose, about how she's a popular girl, how they're all the popular girls.

Does she think Santana doesn't know that? Does she think Santana doesn't feel the same? She does, of course, but you don't see her bitching about it like a whiney seven-year-old. She just goes on, because that's all she knows how to do.

It's all headache-inducing, sure, and Santana can already see Brittany covering her ears in a wide-eyed glance, but it's not until Quinn claims she 'just wants somebody to love her' when Santana realizes it.

She feels like shouting, 'Bitch, everyone loves you! You had Finn, he loved you! You had Puck, he loved you, too! You had Sam, he proposed to you! He fucking proposed to you!' All she can do is lean her head on Quinn's shoulder, tell her she knows how to fix this all, and then suggest some tacky haircut (hey, it'll make her look a little more adult or whatever).

Quinn says, "Thanks, Santana, but I'm not really that into that."

That's when her stomach drops.

Quinn knows. But for how long? She's not so sure she'd like to find out.

The whole 'relationship web' (because really, it's that tangled and fucked up), miraculously settles down by the time Nationals is over and done with. Finn and Rachel are restored, and yeah, sure, they rightfully claim the position of the 'power couple', but Santana can't even be annoyed by it, because when they enter the choir room on the last day of glee club hand-in-hand, it just looks right. It looks like they belong to something; like they belong to each other. Mike and Tina are still together, fighting less and no more crying, either. Santana looks over to them and the way their hands are always mingled, Tina's in his lap or vice versa. Mercedes and Sam flirt a lot, and whatever the fuck that is, she's happy for the kid. Quinn was no good for him, she was no good for him. She's glad he's got someone who is, maybe. And even the head Barbie ends the year on a happy note, her haircut giving her a little more confidence (and a lot more positiveness) as Santana watches her guide Finn and Rachel into the choir room, her hands playfully meeting in a clap.

She looks over to Artie and Brittany, and then waits until Brittany waves her over (she always does). She greets the two of them with a grin, then watches the way Artie sits Brittany in his lap, her arms around his neck. Whatever it is, they're both happy, and Santana's kind of thankful someone's taking care of Britt until she's able to take care of her on her own.

It's then she walks over to the back of the choir room, taking a seat beside Lauren and two down from Puck, just mumbling a small, "Hi." She can't say she doesn't glare when she notices the way Puck rests his hand on her thigh, but it's then she knows she's not so jealous. Annoyed, maybe, but not jealous.

Why? Because she wanted that chance and she missed it.

While the rest of the glee club cheers in celebration of their twelfth place trophy, Santana curses herself in her head, letting the thirteen other smiles in the room shine in absence of hers.

It's never been just 'sleeping together' with the two of them, even if they deny it like two of the classiest motherfuckers on the planet.

But it's never been. It's never been just about 'sleeping together'.

(Even if they never actually sleep and their sleepovers may as well be deemed 'sexovers', of course).

So they're lying on a cot in his backyard, just the two of them, some unopened wine coolers, when he flips over on his side, takes a strand of her hair in his hands and says, "Talk to me."

She bites her lip, and normally, this'd be way too romantic or whatever for her, but today it isn't. Today she breathes in a little, fetches her phone from her bra (it's a pretty convenient hiding spot), and says, "Is it normal to love a girl?"

He starts to stutter for a moment, but then he sits up, his arm draped over her protruded kneecap. "Yeah. I... I guess so. You're... you're talking about you, right?"

She nods, then starts to panic, her shoulders tense and her lips quivering. "I... I can't be a girl who loves another girl. I can't be that girl."

"Then... then what's this?" he asks, practically hissing. She knows he's pointing to himself — to them. She's just as confused as he is. "Is this just like... a joke?"

"You have a girlfriend," she spits. "Y'know, the humpback whale. Her."

"You have a boyfriend," he mocks back, rolling his eyes. "I mean, who knew Dave Karofsky was good at getting anything with two legs off, but..."

"He's not," she mumbles, head ducked.

"He's not?"

"Nope," she says, popping the 'p'. She moans then, leaning back on the cot, her hands tangled in her own hair. "I like this, Puck. And by 'this', I mean us. The sex, y'know. I always have."

"Oh... okay."

"I'm in love with a girl, Puck," she admits. "I don't even like boys anymore, minus you, but you're slowly not starting to count because again, like I said, you're dating... y'know... don't make me call her Moby Dick again, Puck."


Her head's spinning now, and she thinks his is too, because he's literally silent as ever (which is definitely a rarity for him). He's kind of stunned at it all, she's sure. She leans over, rummages her fingertips over his hand and whispers, "I'm... I'm sorry."

"Is it all girls or... or is it just one?"

She shrugs, then says, "Just... just one."

"Well, if it's only Brittany, then maybe you're... y'know..."

She stops him, her heart thumping in her chest. It feels like fucking heartburn, really, but she can't just leave him hanging after all of that. "That's the thing!" she shouts. "I don't know, Puck! I don't know if it's just Brittany, or like, ten other girls, or a whole like... stampede full. I'm... I'm a wreck. Maybe I should just join a convent or some shit. I... I don't need to fuck up anyone else's life, just my own."

"Hey, whoa, slow down." He grabs onto her wrist, practically chuckling to death. She silently deems him an asshole for that one, but by the time she catches his eye, hers are too tear-filled to even see straight. "Listen, San," he says, "you're a beautiful girl. I never knew why you stooped so low. I... I never even understood why you wanted me. Or... or if you still want me. Do you still want me?"

She feels like slapping him for even asking, but if she doesn't answer, he'd see what a coward she was. She swallows hard and shuts her eyelids, the feel of her mascara clumps stinging as they meet. "I still want you," she says. "Wait... no. I'd like to know if it could've been, y'know? I... I might've wanted you then."

"And I might want you now," he says, "but you love a girl."

"I... I do." It almost stings to admit it out loud.

"But," he says, "there's definitely such a thing as bisexuality. And that, my friend, is what you are."

"How do you know?" she asks, her eyes narrowed.

"Because there's no way you don't wanna get it on on this cot right now." He playfully smirks, grabbing her hand in his, leaning down and sucking the skin on her neck.

She doesn't even push him off because he's right. She does want him, all of him, right now. Maybe she always has, maybe she always will.

She thinks you can love and love and love, but you never fall out of it, because if you did, she wouldn't keep holding onto Puck, something that makes her feel this comfortable.

And that's what they've always been, she figures out: comfortable.

It's how she hopes they'll always stay.

A/N: I honestly support both Brittany/Santana and Puck/Santana, but if I had to pick one happy ending for her, I'd choose her and Puck. Maybe. Don't ask me why, either, because my only answer is through fic. I can't really explain it. I'm just pretty aggravated at the show's creator and his method of 'let's burn a hole in the dictionary right where the word bisexuality lies'. Hmph. Anyway... your thoughts would be much appreciated. Oh, and the title comes from Florence + The Machine's 'Hardest of Hearts'. Mm.