Title: If I Just Saved You (You Could Save Me Too) [1/4]
Characters: Santana Lopez, Brittany Pierce, Puck, Finn, Karofsky and Jesse
Word Count: 11.8k
Summary: It's not much of a life, she knows, but it's the only one she's got and she's living it.
Notes: Another random prompt I came up with. Title from You Me At Six's song No One Does It Better. Only a 3 or 4 parter, and I have most of it done but this has been lingering around in my documents for a while so I wanted to get it out there for all my readers who were disappointed that I put my other fic on hold.
Grantsville is a small town west of Salt Lake City.
It's also been Santana's home since she was eighteen.
She moved here from New York. Yeah, big change, she knows, but if she'd stayed in the city she would've been dragged into the drug dealing business her brother got into after their parents died, and she just wasn't up for that. She didn't want to be her brother and sure, what she does now isn't that big of an improvement, but it's not drug dealing, and as far as she knows, it's not illegal either so it's okay.
She spends every night at the only bar in Grantsville, making a living by kicking the crap out of guys who think they can take her in the metal cage that takes up the majority of the building, and then spends half the winnings on bottle after bottle of scotch, trying to drink away memories and thoughts with the liquor.
It's not much of a life, she knows, but it's the only one she's got and she's living it, which is more than she can say for her parents.
Shit. She's such a bastard.
Just like any other night, she wanders into the place around seven and heads to the bar. Her best friend Puck's cleaning glasses behind it when she gets there, and he's already sliding a glass of scotch over the bar top as her ass hits the stool. He's talking to another customer and she takes a long sip of the amber liquid, pulling it back and staring as it sloshes around the glass, moving in ripples as the liquor settles in her stomach, making her throat buzz.
He comes over a few minutes later, throwing a dirty rag over his shoulder and braces his palms each side of Santana on the bar, leaning forward. It means he's got something to tell her and she lifts her head, an eyebrow going with it as their eyes meet.
"Some tough guy came in for you today," he says, eyes flitting around the area behind her. She would look, but she knows no-one's stupid enough to come up and bother her whilst she's talking to Puck. "Says he can beat anyone. Especially a girl." She shoots him a sharp look and he backs away, raising his hands defensively. "His words, not mine."
Santana's jaw clamps and somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers the doors to the bar swinging open, a cool breeze rushing in and crawling down her spine only a second later. She continues to stare at the man in front of her, wondering whether she's up for a fight tonight, then diverts her sight to the glass of scotch in front of her.
Today she only went into town and helped Mrs. Corcoran, the closest thing she has to an auntie, with a few errands, so it's not like she doesn't have the energy, she doesn't know if she can be bothered. Her face has only just healed up from last week's big man who thought he could kick her ass, but she supposes it's money.
Puck lifts his chin but his eyes drift off to the left, and Santana follows it to find a blonde woman, a stunning one at that, shaking the snow from her shoulders and hair as she slides on to a stool at the opposite end of the bar.
"Five hundred," he tells her, still focused on the woman.
She must be new. No-one apart from regulars ever come in here, and if they do, the moment they see the inhabitants of a bar like this, they're straight out the door. This girl's got guts, she has to admit.
Santana turns her attention back to her friend, snapping her fingers in front of his face. His eyes dart back to her. "His name?"
"Karofsky. You in?"
She lifts her glass, pouring the rest of her scotch down her throat and wincing as it settles in her stomach before nodding. "I'm game. Get him up there."
Puck eyes her but just ends up nodding.
She's already standing in the ring, wrapping a roll of tape around her hands and knuckles when she hears the entrance to the cage squeak, signaling someone coming in.
She flexes her fingers when the roll's finished, cricking her neck from left to right and jumping up and down on the spot to warm up. She's dressed in her standard fighting outfit, black wife beater and scuffed jeans and she's still facing the back of the cage when someone coughs behind her. A smirk comes across her face and she turns slowly, immediately eyeing her opponent whilst stretching her arms over her body.
He's beefy, and he's got muscles on him, sure, but he's not really a challenge. He might have his size as an advantage, but that just means he's slow and Santana has agility and skill on her side. Guys like this always think because they're big they can kick anyone's ass', but in a few short minutes, he's going to proved horribly wrong. And by the looks of things, in front of his mates, too
The bell rings to the side and the guy—Karofsky, she thinks—snarls as he bumbles over to her, arms wide and fists clenched. But Santana's focus is sharp today, her moves on point and she drowns out the noise around her as she zones into her opponent, eyeing the way his left leg seems a little heavier, knee bending further than the right one. It's his weak spot, a past muscle injury possibly, and she takes note of it as she ducks the first cautious thrown at her.
He seems a little startled that she can move that fast and on the next one punch he attempts, she dodges, ducks, darts and delivers a blow to his lower ribs, making him jerk backwards and curl up in pain. He chokes a little, anger clear in his eyes and moves toward her again, swinging his fists here, there and everywhere, catching her in the jaw once and on the arm another time. The pain isn't enough to be a distraction, and she clicks her tongue as he tries to head butt her when she gets a little close. Asshole.
Adrenaline bursts through her and she slides to the left, swinging her leg out quickly and catching the back of his left knee, making him buckle to the floor after letting out a grunt. She smirks because this is definitely his weak spot and she keeps her chin tucked, fists up as he rises to his feet and tries to slice at her head. He misses obviously, and she doesn't even hesitate in cracking him in the jaw, beneath the chin, in the temple and then grabbing his shoulders, twisting him and locking her arms around his head as her knee comes up, striking him hard in the lower abdomen.
There's a few gasps from the crowd watching in, and she knows she's got this. A few more punches, maybe a kick too, and Karofsky will be down. An easy five hundred dollars.
Karofsky stumbles back, clutching at his chest and so out of breath he has to bend over and try to catch it, but she's not up for waiting. She's not up for playing fair, most guys don't in this ring, and so she lunges forward and elbows him hard high on his spine, knocking him flat to the ground where he smacks his forehead and passes out. It may not be a knock out, but it's close enough and the bell rings again, signaling her win.
Her bloodied knuckles throb as she pushes against the swing door on the cage, and she stumbles out of it, heading straight for the bar where three glasses of scotch are lined up, waiting for her. It's standard routine after a fight, and even though Puck eyes her from behind the bar, concerned, worried, scared for her, every single time, she throws them down her throat and lets the low buzzing take over her ears as the alcohol takes effect.
Except this time, as she begins to unwrap the tape from her hands, ignoring the dull ache of her knuckles from where she's broken a few in the past, she notices another pair of eyes on her. A lighter pair. A bluer pair.
She just ignores the stare, though.
Guaranteed she'll never see that girl again.
The next week, the same thing happens.
Some douche comes in thinking he can take her down and this time his name's Finn Hudson. According to Puck he's thick as shit, apparently he knew him from high school, and she smirks and downs two glasses of scotch before tapping her fists against the bar and telling him that she's going to start prepping for the fight.
She uses another roll of tape around her knuckles, knowing at some point she's going to break her knuckles so many times she won't be able to use her hand but can't find it in herself to care all that much. That's pretty bad considering she's in her mid twenties, but so what? Not like she's going to live that long anyway. Not at the rate she's going.
The fight starts and she has to admit, Finn's fucking hugein size, but he's got a baby face and sure, looks like he can be a spiteful dick at times but otherwise he doesn't come across dangerous.
And as Santana's left fist connects with his jaw, she realizes he isn't. He pushes at her uselessly and she actually laughs as he tries to tower over her with what must be a menacing glare. To her it looks like he ate some bad sushi last night, but his eyes flare and fists curl against his pants, so she figures it must at least be menacing to him.
He gets in one punch, just one, and it's only enough to make her head tilt, but it's still enough to piss her off so she makes quick work of him. Her right hand jabs at his stomach repeatedly, and her left delivers a sharp blow to his jaw. Blood drips down his chin, and he spits it out on to the floor at the same time she takes a breather, jogs on the spot and punches into the air, taunting him and pissing him off.
Tonight's only worth a hundred dollars but she's feeling a little happier today, so she makes it into a joke as she tips his chin gently after he's fallen to his knees, watches his eyes beg with her the moment before she brings her forehead hard against his until he's lying flat out on his back, a dazed look in his eyes.
Then his eyes shut as he passes out from the pain and she stands up straight, mostly satisfied by the appearance of her opponent. His eye's already swelling, his lip cut and bleeding, his hair is matted with blood too and he's knocked out so yeah, that's pretty good for a hundred dollars.
The bell rings and she makes her way out, unwrapping the tape around her fists and pressing the tips of her fingers to her jaw where Finn caught her. It's gonna swell no doubt, probably a bruise but she heals pretty quickly so it's not big deal.
What is a big deal though, is when she gets to the bar, she notices Puck at the end of the bar...
...talking to the blonde girl from the previous week.
It's not that that pisses her off though, it's the way they both stare at her the moment she slides on to her usual stool, quickly downing two of three glasses of scotch. It's the way both their eyes stay on her as she leans over the bar to grab a few cubes of ice, dumping it into a napkin and pressing it against the curve of her jaw. Because she knows that look. She's seen it a million times. She used to see it in her parents eyes whenever her brother would take her out for a 'joy ride,' and the same one they used to give her when she and her brother would come home after, her brother wielding a wad of cash in his hand from his trade of the night.
It's the same look she gets from Puck every single time she stumbles from that cage, and ugh, she really doesn't fucking need that right now. She doesn't need that concern, or worry, and she especially doesn't need it from some new chick that only first wandered into the bar last week.
So she ignores it, and just keeps drinking.
Four days later and she's sitting at the bar, sipping a beer this time—she's going all out tonight apparently—talking to Puck when the doors to the building are kicked open, slamming against the wooden walls and making the bar vibrate. It's a shitty, cheap bar, so it's not that much of a surprise, but still, no-one ever really uses that much force and she turns, finding a tall guy with curly brown hair and a strong jaw line there, hands down by his side and eyes narrowed, searching the bar.
He's not exactly doing much, nor is he very interesting, so she just rolls her eyes and faces Puck again, beginning the conversation where they left off.
"So, yeah, what about this chick?"
Puck doesn't seem to have the same idea though because he's staring at the door, lips parted and brows scrunched in the middle of his forehead.
"Oi, Puckerman?" She continues, rapping her knuckles against the counter top but the only movement made by the bartender is his eyes.
They trail slowly as if he's following someone and as soon as those eyes lock at the space above Santana's head, she gets curious. She cocks her head and narrows her eyes, but by the time her mouth opens to ask her friend what the hell he's staring at, there's a sharp finger jabbing into her right shoulder-blade.
Like she said before, no-one's usually stupid enough to come up to her and she spins around, lifting an eyebrow with it and already scowling to tell them just that when she comes face to face with the guy who was at the door. He glares down at her, towering slightly and she thinks he's trying to be scary, but that sure isn't working and she just ends up bobbing her head, conveying the 'what the fuck do you want' before her mouth can form the words.
Except he doesn't get the point, and she ends up having to say it anyway.
"Yo, slime ball, back up off my grill," she flicks her fingers toward him. "I'm trying to breathe here and your cologne is making that hard."
He keeps his place though, clenching his jaw repeatedly. "Are you Santana Lopez?"
She lets her eyes flit to Puck but he just shrugs, answering the question that isn't asked.
"You met my friend Dave a few weeks ago."
"I don't know a Dave," she fires back, turning in her her stall. A hand latches on to her shoulder, tugging her back around harshly and she shoots off the stool, lifting her chin and snarling at the guy, whilst a few people in the bar stop talking, stop drinking, and stare. People who fuck Santana Lopez off don't stay conscious for long. "The fuck do you want?"
"I'm Jesse St. James and I'm here for you."
She laughs in his face. "What you gonna do pretty boy?"
He lowers his head, meeting her glare and mirroring it. "I'm gonna kick your ass, bitch. What do you say? A thousand dollars as a wager. Winner takes all."
It's how it usually works, and she almost makes a scathing remark about how duh, obviously the winner takes all, but he's already cracking his knuckles and shrugging out of his jacket, slowly backing away toward the cage. Santana just turns, finishes the rest of her beer and raises both eyebrows at Puck as in a 'see you in five' as she makes her way to the metal ring, cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders.
She could do with a thousand dollars.
Turns out this Jesse kid has had some type of fight training.
This has happened before, so it doesn't shock her too much but it does mean she takes more hits than usual.
The first hit she takes is a knee to the hip. She curls over, clutching at the throbbing area but knows she can't dwell on the pain too much 'cause guys don't give her a break or a breather, and she knows too well how a strike in the position can knock a girl out so she begins darting the kicks and punches thrown. On one particular one, she ducks and comes back up, swinging her left fist and catching a decent punch to the side of Jesse's face, making blood spurt from his mouth as his lip splits. He winces but gets straight back in, raising his fists by his face and bobbing his head from side to side, trying to catch her out.
And he succeeds. She jabs and he catches her fist, wrapping strong fingers around it and yanking it toward him as he brings his head down and slams it against hers, making her stagger backward, her skull throbbing and hand coming up to cup it. Hot, sticky liquid coats her fingers and she winces, but the adrenaline blocks the pain and she jumps straight back into action, delivering four hard uppercuts beneath his ribs, making him jerk and cough against the pain.
He's skilled, Santana will give him that, but she's faster and used to this style of fighting so she knows how to play unfair. It's part of cage fighting and she lunges forward, feigning a punch with her left fist whilst her right knee comes up, hitting him hard in the groin and making him buckle to the floor. Cheap shot, but so what? He's already got her in the head at least three times and she's pretty sure there's a piece of flesh hanging from her eyebrow so a kick in the balls is nothing.
Jesse groans, falling to his knees, Santana smirks and makes her final move, tipping his chin, flashing her winning smirk and holding the back of his skull as her knee comes up to his face, cracking and breaking his nose and making it pour with blood as he's knocked out, falling back. One of her eyes closes as blood continues to slide down her face, making sure it doesn't get inside, and she waits for the bell to ring, signaling her win before she stumbles toward the exit, falling into it and barging it open.
Puck rushes around the bar, noticing the state she's in and catches her beneath the shoulders as he falls into her. Everything hurts, and she's panting hard and heavy as he drags her back to the bar, propping her up on the stool and against the counter top. Her arms slump down in front of her, and she crinkles her nose against the thousands of stinging and throbbing aches in her face. She really need a fucking ice pack. Maybe a few stitches. A sandwich, too. She hasn't eaten all day.
"Ice pack and cloth," she grunts.
"Here," Puck says from the other side of the bar a minute later, but she can't see from the blood gushing from above her right eye and lifts a hand, blindly swiping but coming up with nothing. But then two hands push at her knees, separating her thighs and a warm body steps between them. She's about to ask what the fuck Puck is doing getting so close to her when she flits her vision to the person and finds someone else. Someone blonde and actually, rather fucking gorgeous. Someone most definitely notPuck.
It's the girl from the other night, and the week before.
What the hell?
"Here," she murmurs over the bar and Santana watches as Puck hands the ice pack toward her. "Do you have a first aid kit as well please, Noah?"
"Sure. I'll get for you."
Santana sits there, watching and wonders just how close these two are when something damp is pressed to her eyebrow. She jerks back, but a hand grabs her bicep and keeps her steady as it begins wiping over the stinging wound, probably to clean it and rid the blood away and she just stays silent, wondering why the hell some chick is helping her. She didn't ask for help and she doesn't fucking need it.
"Stop," she demands, pulling away. "I don't need your help. I'm not a fucking charity case."
"I don't think you're a charity case," the blonde girl retorts, eyes sharp and focused on dark ones, wiping movements stopped. "I think you're bleeding and I'm helping you 'cause you just got the crap kicked out of you."
Santana sniffs. "Did not. I won that, didn't I?"
"Barely. He got some good shots in at you."
"Yeah, and who's on the floor knocked out and who's on the stool conscious right now?"
The blonde clicks her tongue and resumes, but Santana pulls away again, almost toppling off the stool. Shit. She's really fucking light-headed.
"Would you stay still and stop being so difficult?" The blonde girl hisses, and Santana finds it strangely adorable at how anger doesn't seem to suit this girl, but doesn't let it show and instead glowers intensely, snatching her hand out and wrapping her bloodied fingers around a pale wrist as the cloth reaches for her face again.
"I'm only being difficult because I have a stranger touching me," she points out.
Blue eyes roll and the girl shifts again, trying to press the cloth to Santana's forehead again but Santana holds strong, making the blonde say, "God, you're stubborn! Just let me clean you up!"
"I don't need anyone to clean me up, I can do it myself."
"You're just about falling off the stool, so I doubt it," the girl fires back, eyeing Santana's body swaying lightly.
And it's true, the only reason Santana's actually staying up right now is because a pale hand is clutched around her arm, propping her up, so she just clamps her tongue and shuts up. She's just had the crap kicked out of her, she doesn't really need to start an argument. She doubts she even has the damn energy to.
Silence settles between them as the girl finishes wiping the blood, and Puck hands her a bag of ice, where she lifts it and pushes it against the wound, trying to keep the swelling down. A hisses pushes through Santana's lips at the temperature and she jerks, but the hand keeping her steady flexes, almost soothingly.
"Hold this," the girl tells her, and she does it immediately, shocked that she didn't argue. And Santana tries not to stare at the girl as she reaches into the first aid pack Puck slides over to her, but it's kind of hard not to. She's just right there and Santana's got eyes, the girl's fucking attractive, so why shouldn't she have a good old gaze? After all, this chick's actually giving a crap about her and as much as she hates to admit it, it's kind of nice. Warming, almost.
Long, slender fingers pick up a pack of steri strips, and Santana stays silent, taking in creamy skin, light freckles and eyes that are just so blue she could get lost in them if they were staring into her own. Luckily though, they're focused on the job at hand, which just happens to be laying a few of the strips over the wound as a hand nudges the ice pack from her face.
"Why do you do it?"
Santana blinks and meets the girls stare. "Do what?" She says, softer than intended.
Pink lips quirk at the tone, but slowly drop again as she speaks. "Fight. Why do you do it?"
Santana lifts her shoulders in a half shrug, realizing just how much that actually hurts to do and bites down on her lip, realizing that it's swollen when she does so. Shit. Where did that Jesse kid not get her? "It's good money."
"You can make money other ways."
Her jaw clenches. "Not in this deadbeat town."
"Why don't you just move then?" The girl offers, applying the strips with a tender touch. "You could get out of here, get a real job and earn money like that instead of taking punches for cash."
"I'm not a punching bag," Santana spits back, annoyance bubbling inside of her. She doesn't get who this girl is or why she thinks she has the damn right to question Santana's life.
Five minutes ago they didn't even know each other. They hadn't even spoken a word and actually, she still doesn't even know the blonde's name.
Why does this girl think it's okay to start saying shit like this? It's just not cool. So fuck this, she's gonna speak her mind.
"And no offense, lady, but you don't know my life," she continues, lowly. A little pissed off, too. "You don't know who I am and as of two weeks ago, I'd never seen you before, and Grantsville ain't that big which means you're new and don't know that once you're here, you're stuck. You don't get out."
Blue eyes burn a hole into her head until she's forced to meet them. The blonde girl's jaw is clenched, her eyes narrowed and eyebrows low, but she doesn't look pissed off. She looks like she feels sorry for Santana and fuck, she hates that. Sympathy is the stupidest fucking emotion and it makes her want to punch something when people show it towards her. Although she really doesn't want to punch this girl. Not at all. Maybe just scowl at her instead.
Finally, the girl exhales and shakes her head, stepping back to admire the steri strip but deciding it's not quite right and stepping between Santana's legs again, fingers peeling them off and reapplying them. "You know, my grandad had a place up here," the blonde whispers. "He died a few weeks back and left me the house."
"So? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you or something?"
Brittany stops her movement, stares down at her. "A decent person would."
"Well, sorry to upset you, Blondie, but that ain't me."
"It could be you. If you wanted to be. You just need someone—"
She doesn't need to hear the rest of the sentence to know she doesn't want to know what it is. So she backs away from the girls hand, sliding off the stool and steadying herself with her palm on the bar top. Puck eyes her from behind it, but Santana ignores him, instead keeping her voice low and serious as she glares hard and heavy at the girl.
"I don't need anyone," she starts, anger grinding within. "I don't need anyone new in my life, especially you, some random ass chick that likes to play Samaritan, and I don't need you trying to perform some bullshit act and try to save me or whatever. I'm okay with the way I live. I fight for a living, I get drunk and pass out on my sofa. I've done it since I was 18 years old and I've done it ever since." She takes a breather and pushes her tongue against her teeth at the way blue eyes bore into her own ones. "Okay? I don't need to be saved, and I don't need you to try and even attempt it. I'm fine. I'm cool. Got it?"
It's harsh, but she needs the girl to know. She doesn't get emotional attached, hell, she doesn't have freaking emotions as far as she's concerned.
And it seems the girl sees a lost cause when she sees one because she lowers her eyes, sucks in her bottom lip and nods slowly, placing the packaging of the steri strips on to the bar top and just walks away.
Just like that.
The thing is—
She does need someone.
But letting someone in... Giving herself to them and trusting them with all her fears, and showing them the reason behind why she's so damn guarded—
She just can't.
She just can't even begin to imagine it.
Sure, it's a lonely life.
But it's just the one she leads.
And it's the only one she's got.
Hours later, she's stumbling through a thin layer of snow, holding her jacket tight to her chest to fight the chill in the air, drunk out her mind.
Everything's blurry around the edges. Everything seems to be moving faster than she is but she's enjoying that low buzzing in her ears. Her mouth is thick, and throat too, but she's sort of enjoying that as well.
It's weird, because she never gets this drunk, but after the meeting and conversation with that blonde... She just needed to forget.
Forget what? Even she's not entirely sure.
But here she is, tripping up the step to her door and squinting as she pokes her key at the lock. It's moving though, darting from left to right and despite the intense focus and growing frustration, the damn thing just doesn't seem to be going in. After a few more tries, she just gives up and turns around back hitting the door and legs giving out so she slides down it. The air is cold, really fucking cold and she knows if she doesn't get inside she'll just pass out here.
But she can't even move, she just doesn't have the energy. The fight took it all out of her and she won't lie, she's hurting a lot more than she expected.
Then everything goes black.
The next morning she wakes up to bright streams of sunlight filtering in from the cracks in the blind and an unfamiliar scent wafting up into her nostrils. She winces against the light, groggily propping herself up on to one elbow and lifting the opposite hand to block the brightness from her eyes. It fucking hurts and she wonders why in hindsight she didn't shut the damn thing.
But then it all comes rushing back to her, and she remembers that she never even made it into her house. She was just too drunk and the damn key wouldn't go in the lock so she passed out on the porch.
And as her squinting eyes roam around the room around her, she realizes she has absolutely no idea where the fuck she is now.
Not to mention she has a banging headache, half what she supposes is the hangover and half what she will never admit out loud, is probably due to the fight she had yesterday. Pretty sure she was concussed and now her temple is rippling with pain and mixed with the hangover... This is just pure shit.
Throwing the sheet aside, she reluctantly swings her legs out of bed, immediately glancing down and finding that she's wearing her clothes from yesterday. They're stained with dry blood and her head snaps around to the bed—a movement she quickly regrets as it sends a throb of pain pulsing through her brain—but doesn't find any transferred stains on the crisp, white sheets. Thank fuck for that. Explaining it to whoever's house this is would be pretty awkward.
As she runs her hands through her hair and makes her way to the bedroom door, she spots a pile of clothes on the dresser beside it. There's a little note too, and she tilts her head to the side at the writing. She doesn't know whose it is.
Seriously, where the fuck is she?
Still, she takes a step toward it and picks the piece of paper up between her thumb and forefinger, eyes roaming over it.
Just some clean clothes if you want them - B
Santana flicks her vision toward the clothes, seeing the Fleetwood Mac t-shirt folded on top of grey sweatpants and decides it'd probably be best to put them on. Whoever 'B' is is clearly nice enough to let her stay the night and take her time to put them out so yeah, she'll put them on.
After slipping into them, she warily makes her way out the bedroom, stopping at the doorway and looking each way down the hall since she has absolutely no idea where she's going. She decides to turn left after lifting her nose and sniffing to find a strong smell of coffee coming from that way and wanders down there, only coming up to find a small kitchen, void of anyone else.
Shit. This is so going to turn out to be one of those weird ass horror movies isn't it.
Just as the thought passes her mind, she hears the clicks of a lock and spins around, watching as the front door swings open to reveal—
The blonde girl from the bar saunters in, a brown grocery bag hitched at her hip as she kicks the door shut, basically ignoring Santana as she skips through the living room and joins her in the kitchen. Santana just watches, eyes narrowing and confusion building as she watches the other girl unpack her groceries, otherwise doing nothing to acknowledge that Santana's even standing there in the room with her.
Maybe she should speak first. After all, she was kind of rude to this girl last night.
The apology is on the tip of her tongue, and she steps further into the kitchen, thumbs running along the hem of her top to say it... But when she speaks, it's not exactly what comes out.
"What am I doing here?"
The blonde doesn't jump by the voice, just reaches into the cabinet above her to grab a glass, then fill it up with water from the tap in the sink beside her. She then rustles into the grocery bag again, fishing out a packet and turns, sliding them across the kitchen island toward Santana who eyes them suspiciously before finding out it's just a packet of aspirin.
"You were passed out on your door step last night," the girl explains as Santana edges to the island, reaching out carefully to take the glass of water and two aspirin out the packet. She pops the pills in her mouth and takes a large sip from the water, swallowing them before paying attention to the blonde again.
"So why am I here?"
A fair eyebrow lifts in her direction. "You could be a bit more grateful, you know," the girl says, crossing her arms and looking entirely unimpressed by Santana's attitude. But she doesn't care. She didn't ask for help.
"I didn't ask you to pick me up or help me."
"You would've diedif I hadn't," the blonde continues, bobbing her head in a disbelieving manner.
Santana shrugs purposely, eyes focusing on the glass of water she's spinning in her palm. "I would've been fine," she murmurs, almost to herself. But the girl hears and jerks her head forward and down, expression incredulous.
"Are you serious?You had a concussion, and it was like, minus five degrees out," she points out, almost like she can't quite believe Santana's saying this.
Santana can't either, really, but she's stubborn as hell and will never admit that she was actually hurt, and did actually need someone to pick her up off the floor and to care for her. She knows last night this girl did something for her that no-one else would, and honestly, it sort of scared her that she got so drunk and so hurt in one of the fights that she passed out on the stoop in minus five degree weather, which could've lead to her damn death.
But that'll just be another thing she'll never say out loud. Santana Lopez doesn't get scared by anything, not even a near death experience.
(Except she does.)
"I didn't have a concussion," she grumbles, and then she falls silent, the only sound being the glass she's holding scraping across the counter top as she spins it.
A hand snaps over her fingers, stilling the movement and her eyes flit up, meeting bright blue that makes the breath she's taking hitch in her throat. She just hopes to God that wasn't as noticeable as she thinks it is.
Judging by the slight smirk pulling at the other girl's soft expression though, she doesn't think it worked.
"You don't have to be so strong all the time, you know," the blonde tells her through a whisper, and Santana's so caught up in the way the fingers clasped around hers feel and how blue eyes are gazing into hers so intensely that she almost doesn't register what the girl said, but she does eventually, and it makes annoyance and anger sizzle through her veins. She yanks her hand back, curling her upper lip and lifting her chin defensively.
"You don't know me so don't pretend like you do," she spits, venom dripping from her words and arms crossing over her chest.
Something in Brittany's face changes though, and even though it's slightly sympathetic—which makes the annoyance ten fold within her—but there's something more and it makes Santana falter. The stubbornness drains and she finds herself rolling her eyes at herself as the defensive, bitchy front lowers. The least she can do is say thank you.
"Sorry," she mumbles and the girls head whips up, eyes wide with shock. "Thank you, is what I mean, I guess." Santana retains the urge to shrug. "For looking after me, thank you."
The apology must seem genuine—not like it isn't, but still—and even though she really kind of fucking hates that, she looks down and doesn't take note of the way Brittany smiles at her softly and leans back against the counter, picking up a cup of coffee that seems to have come out of nowhere and sips on it.
"No problem," the blonde whispers. "Do you want some breakfast?"
Santana's about to say no, she really is, but then her stomach growls and a wide grin spreads across the girls face as she stares at her, and well, Santana can't really tell her that she's not. So she just sucks in her lips to hide the smile threatening to push through and looks down to the counter as a mug of coffee slides over to her, the same time she slides on to one of the stools surrounding it.
She's so shocked that she actually said pleasethat she has to grasp the edge of the counter to make sure she doesn't fall off, but the girl just giggles as she flicks on the stove and pauses, throwing a look over her shoulder until Santana meets it.
"Brittany, by the way," she says with a grin, and Santana fires a crooked one back, hers a little dopier and dazed, though 'cause if she's honest, Brittany grinning is kind of dazzling.
She coughs, clears her throat. "Santana," she responds, feeling blood rush to her face. "The name's Santana."
"I know, Lopez," Brittany throws in a wink. "Puck told me."
For the first time in years, the smile on Santana's face is genuine.
That night she goes to the bar again, but much to Puck's surprise, she's not alone. Brittany's by her side and instead of doing what she always does first and bust through the doors, scowl as she drags her legs over to the stool and slouch on to one, she waits patiently and tucks her hands into her pockets, shoulders squaring to her ears as she and Brittany both walk over to the bar.
She even goes as far to stop and pull Brittany's stool out for her before taking one for herself, sliding on to it and patiently glancing around the room instead of rapping her knuckles like she usually does on the bar top to grab Puck's attention.
Apparently he's out the back in the alley, and he slips back in, reeking of smoke and blowing the last of it from his mouth in a smooth stream before his eyes land on Santana and Brittany and he stops, eyes widening as he looks between the two. His hand slips as he closes the door, and he stumbles in, staring at Santana like she just grew another head.
Then again, she supposes that would probably be less shocking than her coming into the bar with another person.
"Lopez..." Puck drawls, stopping at the space in front of them, but behind the bar. "And Brittany... What are you..." His eyes narrow, flicking between them. "...Doing together?"
It's a good question, and honestly, Santana would like to be able to answer it but she doesn't know. All that she knows is that they spent the day together, weirdly enough it was really fucking nice, and that she's laughed and smiled more today than she has in the past seven years. That's not even an exaggeration, either.
She turns to Brittany and realizes she's being stared at like she needs to say something in the next few seconds but all she can do is shrug and plead with her new-found friend to answer it for her.
Out of Puck's view, Brittany's hand sneaks out and squeezes Santana's thigh, just above the knee, gently.
"We're just coming for a drink together."
Santana forces herself not to jerk or shudder at the other girls touch and gulps, nodding as Puck slides over a glass of scotch. "Yeah. Just a drink."
Puck pours a shot of vodka into a glass then uses the soda gun to pour in some coke. He slides it across the counter to Brittany and Santana feels a strange twinge in her stomach. Sure, he knows her order like the back of his hand but she always has scotch. As far as she knows Brittany's only been here three times and yet Puck knows hers, too.
Shit. Is something going on there?
She shifts her eyes between them, but then lets it drop to the hand still resting on her thigh and the twinge goes away.
"But Lopez..." His eyes dart back and forth again. "You never go out for 'a drink' with... anyone."
She shrugs again, but fucks up the whole 'playing-it-cool' plan by glancing back toward her glass guiltily. Brittany just smiles next to her.
"Maybe I've started to," she grumbles, chin ducked against her chest. "I don't have to run everything I do past you."
Puck lifts his hands defensively. "Whoa, okay. Chill, man, I wasn't saying anything bad."
Brittany giggles and Santana twists to look at her, expression softening and a smile coming to her face and she knows Puck's looking but so fucking what. She's allowed to have a new friend.
Even if that friend is kind of perfect and everything Santana needs in her life.
It's weird having someone around her house. Someone that actually wants to be there instead of someone that hasto be there. Like a plumber, or the guy that fixed her radiator last week; but it's also kind of nice to have someone around like that.
For example, like right now, Santana's sitting on her sofa, legs stretched along the width as she flicks through the TV channels, trying to find something decent to watch whilst Brittany's doing something in the kitchen. She's not sure what, but she's heard pots and pans clanging and is kind of hoping that Brittany hasn't decided to destroy her kitchen. It wouldn't be intentional if her kitchen spontaneously combusted into flames, but that doesn't mean she wouldn't be a little bummed out about it.
Anyway, she's sitting here, and she's not allowed to get up to check if her house is in tact because half an hour ago, Brittany stood over her after pushing her back to the sofa and demanded with a stern face and a pointed finger that she should stay there, watch television and not come into the kitchen and disturb her. Santana grumbled beneath her breath at first, but then Brittany arched an eyebrow and tried to look serious and it was actually pretty fucking adorable, and Santana just knew the second she saw that look that it'd bring problems between them. Problems being Santana is an angry person, likes being angry, and that eyebrow thing of Brittany's is quite possibly one of the most adorable things she's ever seen and therefore it has the power to break her anger.
But that's totally not the point anyway.
Although, actually, it kind of is.
So she's sitting here, and thirty-one minutes after Brittany told her to sit down with a (not so stern) stern expression, Santana hears it. It's a little shriek, and she's up from the sofa and sprinting into the kitchen faster than you can say that damn sentence, finding a rather pissed off Brittany. She's standing there, stomping her foot like a little kid as she stares at a plate full of burnt brownies sitting atop of the stove, the oven door still open beneath it. Her face is a little red, her eyebrows scrunched together and fists curled against her cotton shorts, and Santana just stands at the door, unable to do anything but burst into a fit of laughter at the sight.
Because fuck, Brittany is most definitely the cutest thing alive. Way cuter than freaking puppies and kittens, and like, unicorns or some mythical shit.
"It's not funny!"
Santana manages to open her eyes as she clutches at her stomach. It feels like she hasn't laughed in years. Actually, she might not have laughed in years. Certainly not like this anyway. "You—" she chokes on her words, bursting out in laughter again. "You burnt the br—brownies!"
The laughter keeps going but Brittany's less than amused, throwing down the dish cloth on to the counter and crossing her arms over her chest, letting out a heavy huff. "I forgot to time it," she mumbles beneath her breath and Santana only laughs more, earning another foot stomp from the blonde. "Santana! It's not funny."
Unable to stop herself, Santana walks toward her, dipping her head slightly and biting back the desperate urge to laugh. Her fingertips hover over Brittany's forearms, the nerves inside her body not allowing her to do what she really wants and reach out to touch her and she pouts a little, not yet realizing how strangely she's acting.
"I'm sorry," she says and can't think of the last time she ever said that and genuinely meant it. This might actually be the first time.
Brittany's face is still a little scrunched, twisted away and eyes flicking between Santana and to a random spot in the kitchen like she's debating whether to give in and Santana keeps her gaze steady, the pout stilling on her lips as she silently begs with the girl for forgiveness. It doesn't quite strike her that her behavior is incredibly odd; especially considering the way she usually interacts with people is with scotch, cursing, fists or grumbling, or even a mix of a few of them but it seems that Brittany does notice because quickly sparks up, grinning widely and before Santana can even take the look of her face, arms are winding around her neck, a body pressing flush against hers and her head's filling with the smell of Brittany and damn... That shit is good.
"You're so cute when you pout," is whispered into her ear and the head on her shoulder pulls back until her face is lingering barely an inch away from Brittany's. "And you should laugh more," she continues, stroking back a piece of Santana's hair. "Your laugh is..." Her eyes trace over the movement of her fingers as she pauses, breath steadying and blanketing over the other girls face. Her eyes dart back, meeting dark ones as she says, "It's kind of beautiful."
The hands now resting on Brittany's hips twitch visibly as the words flow through Santana's body, and she feels her entire body buzz and fill with warmth as Brittany just gazes into her eyes. And really, she can't deny that she's really starting to like this girl, only as friends though, because she can't seem to break it off either; and actually, it only does break because warm lips dust over the skin of her cheek, skimming down, almost to her jaw and she blinks out of it, fighting the urge to blush as she realizes that Brittany just kissed her.
(On the cheek, yeah, but Brittany doing pretty much anything gets her all hot under the collar nowadays.)
"Wha—What was that for?" She stutters, her mouth dropping a little as Brittany flashes a soft smile and twirls away, grabbing the now cool tray and spinning back.
"For being you," the blonde replies, her eyes sparkling at her words before they dart down to the almost black brownies in her hands. "Now we're going to eat these and pretend they're good whilst we watch Sweet Valley High because it'll make me happy," she adds. "Okay?"
Santana can't really do anything but nod because really, that's pretty much the best suggestion she's ever heard.
So after Brittany disappears with a "come in when you're ready" and a wink, Santana forces nonchalance into her veins and stumbles over her own feet as she follows the other girl.
Brittany has to go to her grandad's house and sort out some things today, which means Santana's on her own.
It shouldn't bother her that much because she's been on her own for seven years, and two entire days and nights spent with Brittany shouldn't change a thing. They've barely slept, only because they've been sat in Brittany's kitchen drinking coffee after coffee and just talking throughout the entire night about their lives and sure, it's been a weird kind of nice, but it shouldn't make Santana feel too light. Like she's missing something that should be there now that Brittany's not beside her.
It's ridiculous. No-one can like someone that much in two days. Especially not Santana Lopez, and so she's not going to dwell on the feeling and instead go to the bar. Big surprise there.
Puck's just opening up as she walks in, and it's not shocking considering it's one in the afternoon but he still manages to jerk his head back at her arrival. "What you doing here so early, Lopez?"
She scowls and rounds the bar, picking up a spare cloth and helping him dust down the bottles. So what? She's feeling helpful today. "Britt's at her grandad's today so thought I could come hang with you."
Puck stills, cloth wrapped around the neck of the bottle he's grasping. "You never hangwith anyone," he draws out, staring at her through narrowed eyes. "Seriously... Why you being so nice?"
"I'm not," she shrugs but second guesses herself considering she's voluntarily helping Puck open up the bar and freaking clean. "Shut up," she shakes her head quickly. "I'm just bored and Shelby's visiting relatives in Ohio for a week so I haven't got anything to do."
"Shelby?" Puck's voice peaks at the sound of her name. "As in your hot auntie?"
Santana's eyes flash to him in a glare. "Back off, Puckerman. She ain't fodder for your spank bank."
His eyebrows waggle lecherously as he switches to the bar top and begins rubbing the cloth over it in circular motions. "Babe, you can't tell me what goes in there."
"No, but I can kick the shit out of you until you're forced not to think about it."
"True," he replies, jabbing her lightly in the shoulder. "So what's going on with you and Legs, anyway?"
Hearing Puck call Brittany 'Legs' makes her spin around and step toward him abruptly, glaring up at him with flared nostrils, a clenched jaw and a fiery anger burning within in her veins. His eyes widen and the cloth he's grasping drops as he backs up against the bar top, chuckling nervously at her expression.
"If you even think about checking her out again, I will personallymake sure that you'll never be able to get an erection again. Got it, Puckerman?"
It must be terrifying enough because Puck just offers and short, curt nod and begins cleaning again. Santana smiles, a sweet thread of satisfaction buzzing through her as she settles down back to her feet, letting her face relax again.
"So anyway, what is going on with you and Britt?"
"Chuck me a cloth," she says and he blinks at her, shocked for three seconds before reaching beneath the bar and coming up with a rag. She catches it, nodding at him and begins cleaning over the bar with me. "And I don't know. We're just... We're just chilling I guess."
Puck eyes her from the other side of the bar. "You guys fucked yet?"
"Pig," she spits, whipping the rag at him. "But no."
He gapes at her. "Have you even seen her naked?"
Blood rushes to her cheeks as she pointedly looks away from him. "No," she grunts. "It's not like that."
"It's alwayslike that with you," he fires back and cocks a brow. "Seriously, what's going on between you two?"
"Like I said, we're just chilling," she shrugs like it's not a big deal, even though now she's having this conversation she has this burning urge to know what they are. Maybe if she called Brittany and asked her, she'd say.
Wait... She can't do that. They're just chilling. They're just being friends, with like, spontaneous kisses on the cheek, lingering hugs, holding hands with threaded fingers and weird ass butterflies form in her stomach whenever Brittany's around.
See? They're just friends. Just chilling.
"Bullshit," Puck chimes in. "You told her you like her, yet?"
Santana can only laugh at the soft expression on his face as she wipes over the bar top again. "We're not in fucking school, Puckerman. I don't need to tell the girl I like her."
"So you dolike her," he retorts and shit, she didn't mean to reveal that.
"Fuck off. I like her as a friend."
"A friend you'd like to fuck."
Her hand stills, cloth beneath it and she slowly tips her head up, narrowing her eyes into a glare at him. "I said it wasn't like that," she growls at him and he raises his eyebrows, amused.
"So you don't wanna fuck her and you don't like her?"
"I never said—" she stops short, looking up at him and pressing her tongue against her teeth. He's smirking at her with that knowing expression. In classic Santana fashion, she rolls her eyes and throws the cloth at him. "Do your own fucking work and stop sticking your Jewish nose into my business."
He laughs at her but continues cleaning. "You wanna drink?"
She slides on to a stool, arms crossing and resting on the now clean bar top. Good thing she cleaned it actually, usually it's sticky as fuck and now she can actually move her elbow without having her skin stick to the damn bar. "Why, you paying?"
"It's my bar, I don't have to pay," he shoots back, throwing the cloth over his shoulder and pressing both palms down. "What you want?"
His eyes widen comically. "The fuck?" He almost yelps. "Orange juice?"
"It's not even noon, yet," she answers, leaving out the part where Brittany decided to ban her from drinking alcohol before the evening.
He lifts his palms by his ears, surrendering to her. She smirks as he reaches down to the fridge, grabbing a carton of orange juice. "Sure it's nothing to do with something blonde and gorgeous?"
"It's not," she spits back but something in her expression must give it away because Puck stares at her for a little while.
"Holy shit!" He says, taken aback with wide eyes. "She's got you good!" He manages to get out, throwing his head back as he bursts out in laughter. He curls against the counter, hand slamming down on the bar top to accompany the barks of laughter. "You're fucking whipped!"
She bites back the urge to lean over the bar and crack him one in the jaw, instead settling down, crossing her arms and looking away, thoroughly pissed off. "Shut up," she grumbles, getting annoyed.
"Shit," he breathes out, calming himself down and straightening up. "You really like her?"
It's more of a statement than a question, but she just rolls her eyes again and gets up off the stool. There's a store a street or two away and even though it's not free, it's worth spending two dollars on it because then she won't get this crap from Puckerman.
"Fuck this, I'm gonna go to the store and get some orange juice." She manages to get to the door before she hears her name being called and turns around, already scowling at Puck even though he's staring back at her, softly. "What?" She growls.
Puck stays silent as he rounds the bar and walks toward her, rubbing his palms down the front of his scruffy jeans. When they're in front of each other, he lifts a hand and settles it on her shoulder, avoiding the glare she gives him as her eyes dart down to the limb she does not want on her. He takes in a deep breath and she resists the urge to roll her eyes again, giving him her best hurry the fuck uplook. He smiles at her but there's something deeper there and she can see the way he's looking over her like he's feeling sympathetic. Puck's never been described as sensitive, in fact, that'd probably be the last thing he'd ever be described as, and it makes her fists curl against her jeans. She hates sympathy.
"Are you gonna spit it out or just stand there like a spare douche at a wedding?" She hisses when he doesn't say anything.
This time he rolls his eyes and drops his hand. "Look, I'm not gonna give you an emotional speech or whatever," he tells her and she runs her tongue along her teeth. "But if that girl's willing to put up with your shit, with your mood swings and with whatever the fucks going on in there," he points to her head. "Then don't be a dick and pretend like you don't like her. Fucking tell her because shit like that doesn't happen to people like us, often." She looks at him. "And you'd be a fucking fool if you let this opportunity go."
He gives her a smile and she just rolls her eyes as she walks out the bar without another word.
Although, he may have a point.
She wandered around town for a bit, just kicking at random lumps of snow and scaring off little children with her scowl and the bruises on her face whilst she processed her thoughts, but all she could come up with is that she feels somethingfor Brittany, but she doesn't know what it is. Hell, she doesn't even know if Brittany's into girls like that, and to admit something to someone without knowing their response is just a risk Santana's not willing to take.
(Even if the entire time she was thinking about it, it felt like her heart was flying.)
Anyway, she gets back to the house and sees the kitchen light on, a smile crossing her face the moment she notices it. It may have only been two days, but she's enjoying being around Brittany as much as she can. Shit. She's getting in way too deep.
"Britt?" She calls out, throwing her keys on to the side table Brittany bought over. Apparently it's a necessity for a home and as much as she doesn't want to admit, Santana thinks it's kind of handy. The rest of the house is dark, the living room and hallway both with the lights off and she frowns, eyes shifting around. "Britt, you there?"
She's ready to move to the kitchen when two arms wind around her waist, and she damn near jumps out her skin. She spins around, ready to kick some ass if she needs to but sees Brittany grinning at her with a dust of flour on her nose. All the fear inside of her seeps out and she begins smiling, shaking her head at the girl because damn, could Brittany be any cuter?
"What the hell you doing, Britt?" She asks, stepping forward again and trying not to melt when hands settle on her waist again.
Brittany scrunches up her nose. "Hello to you, too, and I got hungry."
"So you're making a cake?"
Blue eyes cross as Brittany tries to look at her nose as Santana points to it. She just ends up having to shake her head out of it. "That hurt," she pouts and shrugs. "But yeah, I like cake."
Santana raises a brow because she's not buying that. "You had a craving for cake so you made some?"
Brittany nods rapidly, a grin stretching across her face. "Yep," she replies, grabbing at Santana's hands and pulling her backward to the kitchen. "And..."
The second they reach the kitchen, Santana freezes. The kitchen's decorated head to foot in party favors, some silly string here and there, banners with 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY' stretched from cupboard to cupboard and party poppers lined out around everywhere. In the corner, Puck's standing there with a beer and a paper party hat tipped off his side and Brittany skips into the room, leaving Santana in the doorway staring, the confusion growing as she looks around.
"It's your birthday!" Brittany sings, picking up the cake from the kitchen table and heading back toward Santana. "So happy birthday!"
Santana's eyes shift to Puck. "You in on this?"
He smirks, raises his beer bottles and tips it toward her. "Sure am, Lopez," he chimes, winking. "But your girl here only wanted to invite me, hence the lack of people," he gestures around the room.
"Because she said you don't like anyone but us even though you pretend not to like me most of the time," he grins back and she rolls her eyes.
Brittany stops in front of her, grinning like a little kid as she holds up the cake to Santana. There are a few candles stuck in it, all lit and she looks up to excited blue eyes and realizes this is the part where she needs to blow the candles out, and even though with anyone else, she'd be saying how lame this is, she can't help but soften at the expression on Brittany's face. She just looks so excited and honestly, Santana's a little touched that someone actually wanted to celebrate her birthday with her.
So she rolls her eyes in the only way she knows how, breathes in deeply and blows out the candles, grinning when Brittany bounces in spot.
"Yay!" The blonde half-shouts and Santana shakes her head, laughing. This girl really is something else. Brittany puts the cake on the counter and turns back to Santana at the same time Puck's phone rings.
"Mind if I pick this up?" He asks Brittany, and Santana's shocked that he asked. He's never been polite and shit, what the hell is Brittany doing to them?
"No, go ahead," Brittany chirps and he slides out the back door, leaving his beer bottle on the counter.
It leaves Santana and Brittany alone and Santana eyes the girl, raising a brow. "So what's this about?"
"It's your birthday."
"Yeah," she says, dipping her tone. "But how did you know and why did you wanna do it?"
Brittany shifts closer, hands toying with the hem of Santana's shirt. "Puck told me and you were born today twenty-five years ago," she shrugs, eyes flicking up from her hands to Santana's face. "That's definitely something to celebrate."
The underlying meaning doesn't go a miss and Santana just coughs as blood rushes to her face. Shit. She can't blush. She's Santana fucking Lopez and she does notblush for anyone or anything.
"Thanks, Britt," she whispers. "It's... It's nice."
Brittany grins. "Really?"
"Yeah," Santana nods, smiling softly. "I like it." Her eyes flick around. "I really like it."
Brittany's grin somehow gets wider and Santana just stares at her as she stares back. She's about to say something, a joke about why Brittany's staring at her when Brittany shifts impossibly close, keeping the eye contact but breathing harder and heavier now. It rips the words straight from her mouth and she just stares, her right eyebrow slowly arching as blue eyes roam over her face, down to her lips and then back to her eyes like she's asking for something, and all Santana can do is watch because she has no idea whatBrittany's asking.
But then there's a flutter of movement, and hands are cupping her cheeks and pulling her forward until warm lips cover her own. She jumps a little, shocked, but her body catches up way before her mind does and her hands are already on Brittany's hips, sliding around to her lower back and pressing until their bodies are flush against each other. Their lips move together perfectly, just brushing simply, and Santana can feel Brittany grin against her mouth when Brittany kisses her harder, arms winding around her neck and pulling them even closer.
The kiss is soft and long, and it's everything she never knew she loved about kissing. It feels like they're kissing because they can, and not because it's leading anywhere and she didn't realize up until now, up until Brittany, that actually, this is her favorite. Brittany is her favorite and fuck, Puck was right; she's kind of crazy about this girl.
It may be their first kiss, but it sure as hell doesn't feel like it and Brittany doesn't seem to treat it like it either because as it slows, she begins pecking Santana's lips several times until they break away properly and Brittany's gazes with bright, impossibly blue eyes.
"Happy birthday," she whispers, warm breath hitting moist lips.
"Thanks," Santana croaks out and Brittany kisses her one last time softly before moving away to the kitchen to cut up the cake.
Puck slides in a moment later and eyes them suspiciously, but says nothing as they go back to the celebrating.
This is only a short fic, or a four shot or whatever you want to call it, but I hope you've enjoyed and please leave a comment if you can :)