Work Text:
You watch her sometimes.
You don't have much to do on your days off; sometimes you climb up the small hill at the end of the farm, right before the preservation area, and watch life unraveling in front of you.
You see her talking to Mr. Pierce as they inspect a few tractors, to your far left. You can't see their faces, but it's easy to notice the weight on her shoulders.
She's just returned; she hasn't approached you since the picnic and you won't be the one to do it.
For now, you'll stick to what you know, the constraints of life drafted before you.
You hate to draw attention to yourself.
--
Your grandfather loved to fix things, to take them apart and find out how they worked.
He's passed it on to you, you realize, as you grab a clean cloth. The radio you found a few weeks ago rests on top of an old, wobbly, wooden table abandoned in the back of the quarters, disassembled with care.
You could buy another one, but you're not high on money and you have the entire morning to yourself; you might as well try to fix that thing.
You don't see her coming.
When she sits by your side you jump a little, startled, and earn a smile in return.
"Sorry I scared you," she says.
You huff something, your heart beating fast as you screen your surroundings to make sure you're alone. She smiles broader.
"How was the trip?" You ask, resuming your cleaning.
You try not to think of the things you did to her the last time you were together.
She watches your hands at work for a few moments. "Frustrating. My project wasn’t sponsored."
"Why not?" You ask so she can keep talking; you like the sound of her voice.
"Apparently it's not financially sustainable yet." She passes you the soldering iron, triggering a curious look and the hint of a grin on your face. She's paying attention.
You almost, almost offer to help her with it. You know you’re able to.
"It's my birthday this Saturday," she continues. "You're invited."
You're just a lowly operator; she shouldn't. "I don't think it's a good idea."
"Everyone will be invited. Please?" She says, touching your elbow; she's very convincing. "Dad wants a big party to celebrate my return, or whatever. Friday night. Fireworks by midnight."
You can hide in the crowd, you suppose. "Okay."
Her phone rings and she has to leave.
You stare at the radio pieces, trying to figure out what kind of presents a girl like that should get.
--
You're by the river with the boys.
The last colors of the sunset slip away as you drink beers and share snacks.
You doze off, trying to imagine the party on Friday: the dancing, the cheerful singing, and maybe, if you're lucky, stealing her away for a minute or five.
“I heard she didn’t get the grant,” one of them says, drawing your attention back to the conversation. “Miss Master of Science isn’t doing so well back in this hellhole.”
Your stomach stirs and turns, unhappy with this. You focus on breathing and not saying a word, not drawing attention to yourself, not saying a word.
“Who cares?” Mark interrupts, grabbing a handful of Doritos. “Everything’s doing well.” He shoves them in his mouth, loud crunching as he chews. “And we’ll get a free party out of her.”
You don’t like the malice in his eyes, the desire you can easily see.
He’s the farm manager, which means he’s technically also your boss. You take a big sip of your beer, clenching your jaw. You have no reason to be defending her, right?
You don’t get in fights. You don’t draw attention.
You take off your top and jump in the river.
--
It’s Friday.
You’re standing in front of an old barn.
You chose your best pair of jeans and you even shone your boots. You feel inadequate, because she’s beautiful like spring and she always smells so good.
The latest country hit is blasting loudly, and you can see people dancing and talking. The whole town must be here.
Your flannel shirt is a little worn, but you haven’t bought new clothes in over a year. You can’t really complain.
You haven’t gone to a party for some time now.
The sound of a car parking snaps you out of your daze and you enter the party.
--
She doesn’t notice you right away.
You gravitate towards the bar, where four shirtless men make drinks for everyone, and get yourself a beer.
You can barely think when it’s this crowded, so you decide to take a few moments to sit on a stool and collect yourself.
You’re not going to get drunk tonight, you decide.
You’re too impulsive after the first few drinks kick in.
--
You flinch when someone’s hand palms your lower back.
You turn over, ready to flee, and it’s Brittany.
“You came,” she whispers, standing close to you; you understand it, even with the music thumping in your ears.
“You wanted me to,” you answer. She smiles, leaning into your side a little.
You want to put your arms around her waist and nuzzle her neck, enjoying the feeling of your bodies together.
The thought of her father possibly seeing it stops you dead in your tracks.
“I got you a gift,” you say, and you place it in the palm of her hand.
She looks at you so very tenderly; your cheeks burn. “You didn’t have to,” she says, her touch lingering on your forearm.
“I wanted to,” you say, your eyes still locked with hers.
She opens the box and sees the wrist watch – it’s a beautiful piece, you know that much: dark leather bracelet, elegant golden hands, and most importantly, a vintage map of the country on the dial.
“It reminded me of 4th of July,” you say, even if it doesn’t make a lot of sense.
“Thank you,” she answers, giving you the kind of layered look that usually culminates in kissing.
She squeezes your thigh instead, and you rise your bottle before taking a sip.
--
It’s not that bad.
You hang out with the other operators for some time, happy to be relaxing in the back while the party develops inside.
You come in from time to time, when it’s your turn to get everyone a drink.
Your eyes scan the room for her out of habit, every time.
--
You decide to look for her when you can’t find her.
She’s leaning against a wall, posture uncomfortable as Mark hovers close.
You don’t like it. Not one bit.
Working your way through the crowd, it becomes crystal clear how much she doesn’t want it to be happening and how intoxicated Mark is.
Your first true instinct is to launch yourself and grab him by the collar until he comes to his senses.
He’s twice your size and you’re not that drunk, so you take a deep breath and put a hand on his shoulder instead.
“Hey there,” you say, firm and strong.
He turns to you and his pupils are wide and glossy, but he’s frowning at the interruption.
“Mr. Pierce is calling for you, Brittany.” He isn’t. “Something about your uncle and the cake.” There’s no uncle.
“Thanks,” Brittany says, maneuvering out of Mark’s grasp. “I’ll be right back.”
She shoots you a thankful look. It’s more than enough.
--
You take the drink from Mark’s hand.
“You need to stop right now,” you say, and you can be commanding and scary when you want to. “What if Mr. Pierce had showed up here? You think he’d be happy to see you drooling all over his only daughter?”
He seems to consider the possibility for the first time, his eyes growing wide.
“You gotta be smart here,” you say flatly, throwing his red cup aside.
“Fuck, Santana.” He rubs his eyes. “Thank you.”
You hesitate, unsure, before you realize what he’s implying.
“I could lose my job. Fuck.” He’s slurring his words. “You’re a good friend.”
You’re not his friend, but you’re not telling him that.
The air is fresh and warm when you take him outside to his car and let him take a nap until he’s feeling better.
You make sure you’ve got his keys.
--
Brittany is outside when you return.
She grabs your hand and takes you to a secluded spot behind a nearby tree.
You like this.
“Thank you,” she mutters before pressing you against the tree and joining your lips hungrily. She grabs your hair and licks the roof of your mouth, the back of your teeth; rubs your tongues together in circles until you’re getting dizzy; then breaks the kiss.
You like this even more, so you pull her right back in, placing wet kisses on her jawline.
“I’ve got your back,” you say quietly.
She looks at you like she understands; she kisses you, this time slow and certain.