Oct 19, 2017
His senses are tingling~
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Brazil
seen from Spain
seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
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seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Saudi Arabia
His senses are tingling~
‘Bein’ Green’
I don’t need any more reminders that I’m older than dirt, thank you.
--Santana Lopez
Generally Santana isn’t much for television. Brittany is hooked on a kids show on public broadcasting, though, and the music is actually pretty good. It’s mostly alphabets or counting to ten, but every now and then they sneak in a piece with real lyrics. The giant yellow bird is, well, childlike, but Santana likes Kermit the frog, and that Susan chick knows what’s what.
It isn’t all that surprising then, when Brittany finds Santana singing ‘Bein’ Green’ at the piano. Santana would never admit to being able to play, but she’s actually quite good--as though she had been listening to the best piano player ever for years before she ever attempted to play herself.
“I like that one, too,” Brittany says gently.
“Yeah?”
“Not much experience being green myself, but I feel for the guy,” Brittany shrugs.
“It’s not about being green,” Santana says after a moment, “not really.”
“What’s it about, little mouse?” Santana takes another moment before answering.
“It’s about being you, whoever that is. You’ve never had a problem being you, though, have you?”
“I don’t know how to be anybody else,” Brittany answers, simple and honest.
“I’m glad; being someone else is exhausting.”
“I’m sorry you don’t always feel like you can be you… I really am.”
“I know you are, Sweets, and for the most part that’s all behind me. I’m too old to give a shit anymore,” Santana smirks.
“You’re not old.”
“I am. My joints sound like firecrackers when I get up in the morning,” Santana whines.
“You still tickle them ivories pretty good,” Brittany argues, sneaking up behind Santana.
“Compared to what?”
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
“Oh, you are, are you?”
“Yep. We have to celebrate,” Brittany insists before kissing Santana. “Here’s to forty-seven years of not actually being my wife.”
“You and your romantic soul…” Santana deadpans.
“Shh, I’m kissing you.”
“You are n--” and Brittany is kissing Santana but good.
“Now, about that celebrating…”
“I don’t want to go,” Santana repeats, again.
“Aww, come on, little mouse, it’ll be fun.”
“It will not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Rachel Berry will be there.”
“Yeah, but so will Quinn, and Mercedes, and Sam, and--”
“A bunch of other people older than dirt,” Santana declares.
“Don’t be such a grump. It’s one night.”
“One night; our night. Why do we have to spend it with them? Haven’t we wasted enough time with those idiots?” Santana is whining again and she knows it.
“They’re not idiots, they’re our friends,” Brittany reminds her.
“People who opt out of leaving for America to join the French Resistance are idiots.”
“Fine. Quinn’s an idiot. As you’ve told her, many times. We’ll go, we’ll have a drink, we’ll tell them we’re going home to make mad, passionate love to each other. How many unofficial forty-seventh anniversaries do you think we’re going to have?”
“Hhmph. Fine. But I’m not going to be nice,” Santana grumbles.
“Why start now?” Brittany says with a happy grin.
“Promise we’ll leave early?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“You die on me and I’ll kill you, Sweets,” Santana threatens.
“Yes, little mouse. Go get gussied up.” Santana leaves the piano with a sigh, kissing Brittany’s cheek on her way past. “Nothing to complicated for my arthritic hands, OK?” Brittany calls after her, and Santana chuckles all the way to their bedroom.
***
“You want to stop smirking at me?” Santana grouses.
“No, I don’t,” Kurt tells Santana. “You have an Album coming out in the Spring.” Everyone at the table cheers, to Santana’s annoyance.
“Finally, she’ll be all to keep Brittany in the manner she deserves to become accustomed,” Rachel jokes.
“I didn’t come here to be insulted. And you’ve been spending too much time with Fabray again,” Santana complains.
“You keep me just fine, little mouse.”
“You could keep her even better down South, you know,” Sam chimes in, not for the first time.
“We prefer visiting you when the weather is lousy, eating all your food and leaving again,” Santana smiles.
“Don’t I know it. I already got sons to eat me out of house and home; don’t go inviting these two bottomless pits too,” Mercedes says.
“I can’t believe I got dressed up and came here for this,” Santana sighs.
“Yes, being celebrated with all your friends at the Rainbow Room is a fate worse than death. Shut up and drink, Santana,” Quinn orders.
“These drinks are weak.”
“They’re not, you’re just used to my heavy-handed hubby making the drinks,” Mercedes says.
“The amount of money I lost with you behind the bar,” Kurt teases.
“Hey, hey, hey, you hired me because I was pretty,” Sam quasi-defends himself.
“Touché,” Kurt allows.
“Santana’s always concerned people are trying to water down her drinks or whatever ‘cause she’s an old biddy. She has no idea how terrified of her everybody is,” Brittany laughs.
“Not you too,” Santana pouts. “I’ll go home without you--”
“You will not,” Brittany cuts her off.
“Will too.”
“Will not.”
“Will too.”
“Will n--”
“Children please, let’s enjoy the food at least, shall we?” Kurt pleads.
“I ordered the shrimp,” Brittany tells Santana solemnly.
“I suppose, since we are bottomless pits and all,” Santana relents.
***
“What are you humming?” Mercedes asks.
“‘Bein’ Green’,” Santana replies absently.
“Pardon?”
“It’s from that Sesame Street show Brittany watches,” Santana explains.
“You watch Sesame Street?” Mercedes asks, unable to hide her smile at Santana watching the same thing Mercedes watches with her grandchildren. By now the whole table is listening.
“Brittany watches Sesame Street. I sometimes happen to see it.”
“I’ll be damned,” Quinn says.
“Most likely,” Santana agrees.
“Still such a sweetheart, even after all these years,” Quinn coos.
“Quinn, are you hitting on my lady?” Brittany asks, pretending to be affronted.
“Not a chance in hell, Britt,” Quinn laughs.
“You better not be. I would hate for us to fall out after all this time,” Brittany smiles.
“I would never betray my driving instructor. You know that,” Quinn insists.
“Are you coming to Watkins Glen?” Santana asks, though not particularly interested.
“Absolutely,” Quinn affirms.
“Oh, Quinn, I wish you wouldn’t,” Rachel frets.
“Rachel, I have a helmet and racing belts and everything. It’s perfectly safe. It’s not like Formula One or something,” Quinn promises.
“And I’ll be there,” Brittany says. “Nothing will happen to your Quinn, Rachel.”
“Her Quinn? Her Quinn? She doesn’t own me, Brittany. Nobody owns me.”
“Just trying to make her feel included. Didn’t mean to suggest ownership,” Brittany apologizes.
“Else what did Quinn burn all those bras for?” Santana posits to the whole table.
“Too right,” Quinn toasts Santana. “You really should come, though, Rachel. Once you see what really goes on, you won’t worry about it.”
“I doubt that,” Rachel frowns.
“And she would have to leave Manhattan, which might kill her,” Kurt complains.
“Dear God, go visit Kurt out in California, Rachel, so we don’t have to hear about it any more,” Mercedes insists.
“Yeah, what the hell are you all doing in New York anyway?” Santana asks.
“We came for your anniversary, convent girl. Forty-seven years of sinning must be commemorated,” Mercedes answers.
“It’s not a sin,” Brittany frowns.
“We all know that. Til the rest of the world catches up, we’ll keep having obnoxious celebrations to annoy Santana,” Mercedes says sweetly while Santana scowls at her.
“Oh, OK then,” Brittany agrees.
“Brittany!” Santana says sharply.
“What? Is it time to go home and make mad, passionate love?” Santana’s eyes narrow, starring Brittany down for a moment.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Santana stands and walks toward the exit without looking back.
“Come ‘round tomorrow if you like,” Brittany tells everyone as she stands. “Not too early. And don’t let Rachel go first; she always manages to see things she’d rather she didn’t. Goodnight!” Brittany calls taking off after Santana.
Rachel shudders.
“Don’t worry, Britt warned me this might happen and gave me some cash to cover dinner,” Quinn laughs, and orders another bottle of champagne.
‘Anyone For Tennis?’
“The Brits are absolutely mad for it; I’ll stick with baseball myself.”
--Brittany S. Pierce, when I, Brad Ellis, found Santana Lopez listening to Cream
Brittany can tell that Santana is strangely detached from their surroundings. Her head bobs back and forth with the rest of the crowd, but Santana isn’t watching the match. It’s probably because the one player is German. Ever since that Hitler man got to power, Santana sneaks back into her shell around people. Brittany would remind Santana every so often that not all Germans wear brown shirts, and Santana would remind her that some French do.
Brittany knows, of course. Quinn doesn’t speak to Georges anymore because ‘his silence condones his neighbors behavior’. Quinn is the one who got them the tickets for the final. She seems to know every Brit in the crowd, too. Brittany feels bad there aren’t more people to cheer for the von Cramm fellow; he has a nice face.
“Don’t feel sorry for him because all the British people in the crowd are cheering their heads off for Perry,” Santana says softly between sets, “feel sorry for him having to go back to Germany.”
“What’s worrying you, little mouse?” Brittany whispers.
“Ask me again later, Sweets.”
Perry wins the match, and they follow Quinn to a lavish celebration of British people drinking French champagne.
***
“I haven’t forgotten, little mouse,” Brittany says as she watches Santana ready herself for bed.
“Haven’t forgotten what, Sweets?” Santana asks absently, working lotion into her hands.
“To ask you what’s worrying you.”
Santana simply nods and rises from her dressing table. They’re both settled under the covers before Santana speaks.
“Did you know they have a Department of Racial Hygiene?”
“The Germans, you mean?”
“The Nazis. Not that Germans have a choice about being Nazis anymore.”
“Santana, what’s wrong?” Brittany asks plainly.
“We need to start helping Quinn and Rachel quietly sneak people out of Europe more, and I’m scared to death.”
“I’ve explained quite clearly to Quinn that we’re not doing anything that could put you in the least little bit of danger,” Brittany says, holding Santana closer. “Nothing is going to happen to you, little mouse.”
“You can’t protect me from them, Sweets. We can’t protect anyone from them… we have to get them out.”
“I will protect you,” Brittany states, defiant.
“From a vast army of Joshua Colemans with even bigger guns? No, Sweets, sooner rather than later my courage will fail and I will flee back to America. You and Quinn will stay and do the hard work, and that’s what worries me.”
“You’re worried I’ll send you to the farm, then?” Brittany jokes, hoping to lighten Santana’s mood even a tiny bit.
“God, can you imagine? And be serious, Brittany. Some brute of a German is going to stomp into France and decide to make you his little house Frau,” Santana huffs into Brittany’s collarbone.
“Nobody is going to let Germany stomp all over the continent.” Santana snorts her disagreement. “If things do get hot, you’ll have to decide whether it would be better for you to go to New Orleans and Mercedes or New York and Rachel--”
“See! You’re not even hedging around your not coming with me!”
“You’ll probably be travelling with a group of ‘musicians’ who can’t get gigs in Germany, little mouse. It’ll take a lot of coordination from both sides of the Atlantic, and you know we can’t leave Quinn here without somebody we trust.”
“Why the hell did Sam have to go and knock up his wife?” Santana bemoans for roughly the ten thousandth time. “Why move to New Orleans of all places? Without even asking if it will inconvenience me?”
“We can move there too, someday. Tell everybody I have a wife in France and you’re my mistress--”
“Absolutely not. You know where you are if you leave the city? Louisiana,” Santana spits out.
“Get some sleep, little mouse,” Brittany suggests, kissing her temple, “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
“Just so long as we don’t have to go watch other people play tennis again…”
***
Santana has never been the legitimate member of any musical group she’s ever been a part of until now. Most of the group are actual musicians, just Classical instead of Jazz. Some clearly aren’t though, their musical knowledge as fake as their travel papers; Scholars of literature or philosophy, putting their trust, their lives, into Santana’s hands. Rachel will meet them in New York, Santana reminds herself, and tries not to think about having left Brittany in France.
Santana can’t imagine why Quinn booked them on the SS Normandie. It’s new and Déco and Streamline Moderne and impressive for a giant tub, Santana supposes, but clearly intended for very rich people. They’re barely a few hours into the voyage when the piano player meets somebody who’s heard Santana before in Paris. That very night Santana is very politely forced to perform at the café grille by some ridiculously wealthy man with delusions of in flagrante delicto.
Santana’s entourage of not entirely musical musicians are very protective of her, however. No amount of wealth or influence can penetrate their ranks, and Santana finds herself agreeing to perform again in perfect confidence. The entourage gets a kick out of her vast Cole Porter repertoire, at least.
The telegram Brittany sends Santana is glorious, though perhaps only Santana would think so. She laughs aloud when she reads it.
LITTLE MOUSE= QUINN STILL HATES ITALIAN GUY= THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW= BRITTANY S. PIERCE=
“What Italian?” a member of the entourage asks, seeing the telegram.
“Mussolini,” Santana replies with a wide smile.
***
Brittany watches Brad watch Santana sing along with Jake’s rock records, awestruck. Brittany isn’t sure, but she thinks Brad may recognize Jake. Jake’s father is, after all, one of the most famous Classical piano players in New York.
“You two helped get his father out of Europe, didn’t you?” Brad whispers to Brittany as she offers him a cookie.
“We were there,” Brittany shrugs, “I don’t know how helpful we were.”
“That’s not the way dad tells it,” Jake interrupts. “Of course he usually gets sidetracked talking about accompanying the most talented vocalist in the world across the Atlantic.”
“Your dad’s full of it, kid,” Santana dismisses, stopping the record. “Brad, do you know the latest pain in my ass?”
“Jake Puckerman, the greatest pain in her ass,” Jake introduces himself proudly.
“Second greatest,” Brittany corrects immediately.
“I swear, I’m running away and joining the circus,” Santana grumbles on her way to the kitchen.
“I’m going to Mars!” Jake calls after her.
“I’m going to win the Indianapolis 500!” Brittany says, turning to Brad to wait for his answer.
“Uh, I’m going to… paint the town red with Goldie Hawn?” Brad tries.
“Not with that attitude you’re not,” Brittany scolds. “Little mouse, what are you doing?” Brittany calls.
“Calculus! What do you think I’m doing?” Santana shouts back, making Brittany giggle. Santana emerges moments later with a tray of drinks for everyone. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your general interest in blondes, Brad Ellis.”
“Aww, he only said that ‘cause he knew if he said Raquel Welch I’d’ve popped him one,” Brittany assures Santana.
“You’re beautiful when you’re jealous, auntie Snix,” Jake teases, passing out the drinks.
“Call me that again, kid, see if I don’t beat you to death with your box of obnoxious records,” Santana threatens.
Brittany can’t stop herself, and immediately asks, “Anyone For Tennis?”
Do Jazzverse Brittana ever get married?
Marry me, little mouse?
—Brittany S. Pierce
It’s pouring rain in the streets of Paris, but Santana and Brittany are safe and warm snuggled together on the sofa.
“I mean it, Santana,” Brittany whispers, “right here, right now. Swear before our pretty, pretty apartment to be my wife.”
“Sweets, I—”
“I don’t need a preacher man, or a church, or a big party with bubbly after. I just need you—your promise to be with me forever,” Brittany whispers in Santana’s ear. “What do you say, Ms. Lopez?”
“I love you so damn much,” Santana exhales. Brittany smiles, sliding off the sofa onto hers knees before Santana can pull her in for a kiss. Santana pouts until Brittany pulls a square cut sapphire set in platinum out of her pocket.
“You can only have it if you say yes,” Brittany warns.
“Brittany, marriage is a serious thing. It’s a sacrament; a covenant with God as well as your spouse. It’s not something I can just pretend about—”
“This isn’t pretend, Santana. Not for me. Not for us. This is us promising ourselves and our maker that we’re going to be together forever. I want to be your wife, Santana, even if you, me, and Jesus are the only ones who ever know. If you’re not ready we can wait, or if you don’t want to just say so and I’ll never mention it again, but don’t doubt I’m taking it seriously. I want to marry you, Santana Lopez. I know I never got the chance to ask Mr. Mueller’s permission, but I really think he would approve, little mouse.”
“May I finish speaking now?”
“Yes, sorry, yes,” Brittany says to Santana’s knees.
“My answer is yes.”
“It is?” Brittany squeaks as her head snaps up. “You’re saying yes?”
“Of course yes, you silly sap!” Santana says, pulling Brittany in for a kiss successfully this time.
“Now, now, none of that til after the ceremony,” Brittany scolds, pulling away. “Do you, Santana, take me, Brittany, to be your unlawfully wedded wife? To love, honor and something else? To have and to hold, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, so long as we both shall live?”
“I do.”
“I Brittany, take you, Santana, to be my unlawfully wedded wife. To love, honor, and the other one. To have and to hold, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, so long as we both shall live. I offer this nifty ring as pledge of my trough,”
“Troth.”
“Lay off, I’m being romantic. With this ring I thee wed. By the power vested in me by you, and in the sight of God and Jesus and all your grandmother’s saints, I now pronounce us wife and wife. I may now kiss the bride.”
***
By the time Brittany gets around to asking Santana how she likes her new manacle, it’s ten o’clock the next morning and the ring is the only thing either of them are wearing.
“It’s beautiful, Sweets,” Santana beams, staring at the ring on her finger against the backdrop of Brittany’s pale skin. “You’re beautiful.”
“We should go celebrate,” Brittany decides.
“And just what have we been doing for the past twelve hours, Sweets?” Santana asks with a laugh.
“I know, but I want to show you off,” Brittany insists.
“Brittany, you know you can’t go around introducing me as your wife—”
“I know, I know… killjoy. But we can go out to a cafe and be the best looking Janes there without saying anything, can’t we?”
“Absolutely,” Santana agrees.
“I won’t mention you’re my beautiful wife while we’re out,” Brittany promises.
Brittany then hums the Wedding March while they dress just to annoy Santana.
“Brittany S. Pierce, if you hum the Bridal Chorus from Lohengrin any more we are getting divorced. There will be no Wagner associated with the happiest moment of my life, do you hear me?”
“Really?” Brittany asks, suddenly shy.
“No, we aren’t getting divorced, you bunny,” Santana assures her, turning away from the mirror to find Brittany’s eyes.
“Not that… It’s really the happiest moment of your life?”
“It really is. Let’s go, Sweets, Paris awaits.”
Ok, now I can't stop thinking of Helen Mirren as Jazzverse older Brittany and Diahann Carroll as Jazzverse older Santana. I know all the ethnical and nationality stuff is not completely accurate, but I can't unsee this in my head.
'Ain't Misbehavin''
“She stands before the mirror, frowning at everything she sees. Then, she turns to me and asks what I think? She knows she is beautiful, but if I say this I am disagreeing with her. It is a devilish trap women make to torture men.”
Santana is funny about mirrors. Brittany has noticed before, of course, but never thought to ask her about it til now. It’s like Santana is always torn between worrying about being vain and worrying about being unpresentable. Santana Lopez has never looks unpresentable in her life, and if she were vain she wouldn’t still love Brittany when she’s covered in motor oil. The mirror always seems to catch her off guard, though. Brittany resolves to ask sometime when they’re not near a mirror.
The more the knucklehead at the bar goes on and on to his friend about beautiful women purposefully torturing men the more annoyed Brittany becomes. Brittany enjoys getting a drink with Claude every now and again, and talking cars with his friends, but sometimes some Frenchman gets it in his head to be all, well, French. On nights like this one, Brittany heads home early. Claude never minds.
Brittany thinks of Santana looking in mirrors on the walk home. Santana has never purposefully tortured anyone of any gender in her life. When she’s performing she’s steadfastly unimpressed with everyone in the joint, including Brittany. When she’s at home, it never even occurs to her that people might be aiming their peepers her way because she’s such a doll. Brittany concludes that the knucklehead is just making up excuses for always getting the icy mitt from dames. Women don’t go out of their way to torture him; he goes out of his way to misunderstand them.
Brittany putters around the apartment, makes herself a bite to eat, and debates heading over to the club. By the time she gets over there Santana’s set will have already finished, and Santana will be talking circles around the self-proclaimed philosophers in the back room. Just as Brittany decides to stay home Quinn gets her on the blower and demands she come to the club.
“Why?”
“Santana’s taking everybody’s money! You need to come distract her!”
“Are you zozzled?” Brittany asks, not unkindly.
“Yes, but that’s not the point! Get down here before Georges loses his shirt!” Quinn hangs up before Brittany can protest. Brittany sighs and puts on a clean shirt.
***
Brittany finds them in the backroom, of course, playing five card draw. Georges looks intent. Quinn looks appalled. Sam looks amused. Jacques looks frightened to death.
Santana looks beautiful.
Brittany stares at her through Georges cigar smoke as she reraises. The soft light from the electric bulb above the table makes the soft green of Santana’s dress even softer, her eyes and lips darker, and her skin glow. Santana is wearing her ‘convent expression’ but Brittany can tell the exact moment Santana realizes she’s there. Her somber face doesn’t change, but her eyes do, just for a half a moment. Sam sees a flicker of something in her eyes too, and turns to confirm that Brittany is here.
“Brittany! I hope you brought me some extra trousers; Santana’s about to win mine,” Sam jokes happily. Quinn fixes Brittany with a ‘you’re too late, I told you to get down here’ stare as Brittany makes her way across the room to sit with Mercedes a safe distance from the table.
“That fool of a farm boy decided to play cards with Santana again; can you believe it?” Mercedes complains before Brittany can even sit down.
“He’s just keeping an eye on things. You know how jumpy Jacques can be,” Brittany reassures her.
“I held my tongue when Quinn left the photographer for his uncle. I held my tongue when she brought Uncle Georges here. If Quinn thinks I’m holding my tongue when Santana wins you his fancy Italian machine in a backroom poker game, she’s missed the trolley,” Mercedes declares. Brittany looks back at the table, but sees no indication of anyone putting any automobiles in the pot.
“Baloney.”
“Somewhere mixed in with the currency is ownership papers; it’s on the level. Frenchman done bet his car,” Mercedes says, finishing her drink.
“What on earth did Santana put up against a Bugatti?” Brittany asks, fascinated.
“Cash. She’s been on a streak for hours. Jacques is convinced somebody’s gonna accuse her of cheating,” Mercedes chuckles. “Hell, Santana could cheat, get caught, and still make out like a bandit with that poker face of hers; girl is waterproof.”
“She is that, but she would never cheat. Not at cards,” Brittany amends with a sly smile. Mercedes has a sassy comment on the tip of her tongue, but talk from the table distracts her.
“What are you whining about, Jacques? You folded twenty minutes ago,” Sam says happily, having himself folded not long after.
“I fold too,” Quinn sighs, eyeing Santana’s reraise. “I’m not hard-boiled enough for this.” Georges smiles at her sweetly, knowing she only plays to humor him. Santana says nothing.
“It is just us now, hmm, Sainte-Anne-d’Auray?” Georges smiles and Santana nods politely.
“Who’s Saint Anne Dary?” Sam asks behind his drink.
“Where’s Sainte-Anne-d’Auray,” Quinn corrects. “In Brittany,” Quinn says as suggestively as possible leaning over the table and raising an eyebrow. Sam laughs heartily and asks Quinn if she thinks Georges will ‘call’. “I hope not; he’s supposed to take me home in that jalopy.”
“Alas, my dear, I am,” Georges says piling an ungodly amount of clams in the center of the table. Jacques looks ready to faint. “Calm yourself, old boy. You’d think owning this establishment would toughen you up a bit,” Georges tries to joke with him. Jacques nods and swallows loudly. Betting complete, Mercedes stands and walks to Sam’s side to see the damage. Brittany follows; Santana has never come home ever having lost money.
Quinn stares at Georges, all frowns. Sam stares at Mercedes, all smiles. Jacques prays to the Saintes and Brittany stares at Santana staring at the table. Georges and Santana lay down their cards. Georges reveals three nines and two fours; a full house. Quinn looks almost relieved until she sees four queens and a seven in front of Santana; four of a kind wins.
“Hot damn! I thought you were bluffing!” Sam exclaims. Santana turns and smiles at Brittany, the first time she’s taken her eyes off the table all night.
“You look so pretty in your green dress,” Brittany blurts out. Santana’s smile widens, revealing perfect teeth, and she thanks Brittany for the compliment softly.
“This is true,” Georges agrees. “Much better to lose to a beautiful woman than to lose to Jacques, hmm?” Georges asks the table and begins to laugh. “I will miss the auto, but I know your Brittany will take good care of it, no? Thank you for the game; I enjoyed myself immensely. Quinn, we had best go while I still have enough for a cab, don’t you think?”
“I do. Goodnight everyone,” Quinn says shaking her head and leading Georges out.
“He’s what Blaine would call ‘a funny old bird’, huh?” Sam says, peering down at the mountain of wealth he’s left behind with no qualms.
“He’s something. Brittany, take your girl and her ill-gotten gains home, would you?”
“He lost fair and square,” Santana shrugs.
“Don’t you know gambling is the devil’s work, convent girl?” Mercedes accuses with a smile.
“The Roman soldiers played dice, not poker,” Santana smiles back, handing Brittany the ownership papers to the Bugatti. “I ain’t misbehavin’, I’m savin’ my love for you.”
Brittany ignores the papers, throwing them back on the table, in favor of threading her hands in Santana’s soft curls and kissing her but good.
“Oh, Lord, here they go again, necking like teenagers,” Mercedes complains. Well, she tries, until Sam pulls her into his lap and follows Brittany’s example. Jacques leaves the room, swearing all the way as he goes.
“Take me home in your new Bugatti?” Santana whispers.
“Little mouse, I’m taking you everywhere in it,” Brittany whispers back, kissing her again.
Is jazzverse completed?
No; just on hiatus.
Felicitous Festivus!
Thanks to my brilliant tumblr sis/tech support/the generally awesome being that is chantgirl, I am able to present to you, in time for whichever Winter holiday you may celebrate, the long awaited Jazzverse playlist! It's the bee's knees, but don't take my word for it...
"Nothing says the first night of Chanukah quite like Louis Armstrong." -No one ever
"Happy naked pagan dances are always better with Sarah Vaughan." -Happy naked pagan
"I was just talking to Jelly Roll Morton the other day..." -Voodoo Priestess
"I had such a crush on that Ida Cox; I listen to her year round." -Santa Claus
"The Rev who? How did you get this number?" -Hanukkah Harry
"What does this have to do with OUAT's Sleeping Warrior?" -The Rev's most recent followers
"The Library of Congress archives!" -Judith
Love and Brittana,
The Rev