Title: Isn't She Lovely?
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray/Mike Chang
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: There are plenty of baby people in this world. Santana just isn't one of them.
A/N: Title obviously belonging to Stevie Wonder's "Isn't She Lovely."
“I don’t like this idea.”
“It’s not an idea, San,” Brittany tells her with a laugh. “It’s a baby.”
“It’s weird,” Santana counters, shuffling uncomfortably in the chair Quinn has positioned her in. “What’s the return policy on this thing? She kept the reciept, right?”
“It doesn’t come from a store,” Brittany admonishes. “And storks don’t like flying back all that way just to pick up what they’ve already left.” At Santana’s blank expression, she grins. “Just kidding. I totally know babies don’t come from storks. …now.”
“Whatever. Let’s take it back, quick, before Fabray notices.”
“Santana. We can’t take the baby back. Stop that.”
“Why not? I’m sure somebody wants the little cretin.” She wrinkles her nose as the tiny beast in her arms snuggles closer and emits a sigh. “Britt, it’s going to drool all over my shirt.”
“We’ll get you a new shirt,” Brittany says cheerfully, poking a finger into the creature’s fist and grinning when fingers much smaller than her own instinctively tighten. “Look! She likes me.”
“It’s not a she, Britt,” Santana grumbles. “Shes are pretty, and smart, and functional. This is a smushy ball of shit and goo. Why did you drag me over here?”
“Because Quinn is your best friend,” Brittany reminds her. “And Mike is my best friend. And together, our best friends made a tiny little best friend.”
“They made a changeling,” Santana argues. “And it’s going to rear up in the middle of the night and murder their social lives.”
“Santana, how hard is it to hold the baby and be nice?” Quinn calls from the kitchen. “God, we’ve only had her for a week, and already you’re plotting to sell her on the black market.”
“Can’t help it, Q. I have the instinctive need to rescue you from your own stupidity.” Her arms feel heavy and tired. She tries to shift sideways to push the infant into Brittany’s arms, disgusted when her girlfriend dodges away.
“Be nice,” she repeats for Quinn, grinning. “Come on, San, she’s so cute!”
“Not cute,” Santana grumbles. “Creepy. Babies are creepy.They’re tiny little sacks of skin that somehow manage to take and take and take until they grow into actual people. It’s weird.”
“You were a baby once,” Brittany points out, draping an arm across the back of the couch. Santana shakes her head vehemently.
“Fuck no, I was not.”
“Santana!” Quinn admonishes, sweeping into the room with an armful of drinks and a package of cookies. “Language!”
“Fucking fuckers who fuck,” Santana continues neatly. “Your gremlin doesn’t have ears yet, Fabray, it’s not like I’m damaging her creepy self.”
“Not creepy,” Quinn growls, “and her ears are very much there. Babies can pick up all sorts of things even from inside the womb, much less in the arms of their godmother-to-be. Honestly, Santana, do you listen to me at all?”
“I sincerely try not to.” Quinn’s phrasing resounds awkwardly in her head, spinning her attention back to what counts. “Sorry, godmother?”
“Who else would do it?” Quinn demands with a smile. “I mean, Kurt’s totally up for the gig, but I was kind of hoping to go the traditional route with my first kid. He can have the next one.”
“Tell that to Beth,” Santana snipes, disheartened when Quinn doesn’t even bat an eye.
“Beth’s quite the fan of Caroline, as a matter of fact, thanks for asking.”
“Well, I—“ Santana sputters for a second, unable to think clearly around the revolting scent of child lodged in her nostrils. “Fabray, I don’t even fucking go to church.”
Quinn rolls her eyes. “You’re my best friend. That’s all the position requires.”
“Not according to certain institutions which will remain—“
“Santana. You’re the damn godmother. Shut up and deal with it.”
Brittany claps her hands, beaming. “This is so exciting. You’re going to be so good at it!”
Lip curled, Santana frowns down at the fuzzy-haired monkey cuddled against her chest. “Can I teach her to throw knives?”
“No,” Quinn replies without looking up from her cookie. Santana’s scowl deepens.
“How about how to ride a motorcycle?”
“You can’t even ride a motorcycle,” Quinn points out.
“Fine,” Santana relents through gritted teeth, “but I can totally take her to the gun range and—“
“No.” Quinn finishes the cookie and brushes her hands free of crumbs, smirking. “You’re ridiculous, Lopez. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Come on, you won’t let me do anything fun with the little hobbit. What the hell is the point of godmothering if I can’t undo all the boring shit you’re going to impose on her?”
“If Mike and I die, you get her by default,” Quinn informs her brightly. Santana feels her cheeks go painfully warm.
“Then you sure as fuck better plan on finding the fountain of youth, asshat, because there is no fucking way I’m introducing this thing to my apartment.”
“It would be awesome,” Brittany counters. She catches Quinn’s eye and smiles a little sheepishly. “Um, except for the you being dead part. That would suck, and stuff."
“And stuff,” Quinn agrees wryly. “Santana, it’s not that bad, I promise. Godmothers are cool.”
“Your godmother spent the first eight years of your life pushing diets and Bible passages,” Santana points out, grimacing when the child in her arms opens its mouth in a squeaky yawn. “Gross, it’s trying to consume my soul.”
“You’ll be better,” Quinn retaliates. “You’re going to be the cool aunt, and you know it. Once you get past this whole ‘babies are the spawn of hellfire’ phase you’re going through. Which is—I find myself saying for the umpteenth time—ridiculous.”
Santana attempts to lean forward, cowed immediately by the baby’s urge to cuddle into her breasts. Groaning, she falls back against the cushion again. “Think about it,” she demands, glaring. “Remember how you used to be all cool and shit? Okay, not as cool as me or whatever, but you know—you tried. And that was admirable.”
“The point, Santana,” Quinn grumbles.
“The point is, whatever cool factor you once had: the cheerleading, the bamfin’ it up onstage, the lying your way through about eight different guys in a row—that’s all gone now. Up in smoke. And all because you weren’t satisfied with struggling through the world with your own life. You just had to go and make another. I mean, Jesus, Fabray, what did you think you were getting out of that?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Quinn makes a show of tapping a finger against her chin, still wearing that infuriating smirk. “A child? A legacy? A family?”
“Boring,” Santana corrects triumphantly. “Not to mention disgusting. You have any idea how much crap comes out of these things?”
“I’m sorry, when was the last time you changed a diaper?” Quinn queries, eyebrow inching toward her hairline. Santana rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, that’ll happen. Like I’d ever pollute my sex appeal with baby deposits.”
Quinn throws her hands in the air, aggravated at last. “Look, Lopez, you really have to get over this shit. She’s my kid, and you’re going to love her whether your emotionally-stunted self is prepared to or not. You don’t get a say in this.”
“Saint Fabray,” Santana sneers, muscles clenching instinctively. “Always telling me what’s best.”
She feels Brittany’s hand on her shoulder, easing her back again, and realizes her body was attempting a sort of fight-or-flight response to escape the chair. She heaves a sigh.
“You’re really keeping it?”
“Her,” Quinn corrects witheringly. “Yes. We are.”
“Gross,” she says again, wearily this time. Brittany’s fingers flex. Snuggled tight against her shirt front, the baby makes a soft cooing sound. Her eyes, brilliantly green, pop open for just a second, inspecting Santana’s displeased expression before flickering shut again. Brittany giggles.
“You have to admit she’s cute.”
“I don't have to do anything,” Santana responds, squinting when Quinn stands with her now-empty glass. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Refill,” Quinn answers smartly. “Don’t you dare try to hurl her out the window while I’m gone.”
“I’ll watch her,” Brittany promises with a smile that suggests she half-believes Santana is capable of it. Santana shakes her head.
“She had a damn baby,” she mutters when Quinn is out of earshot. “After the first one! I mean, how dense does a bitch have to be to push two life forms out of her vag?”
Brittany shrugs, leaning in and laying her head against Santana’s shoulder. Together, they stare down at Caroline’s sleeping face. “Maybe it’s worth it, San. You don’t know. You’ve never done it.”
“Never going to do it,” Santana reflexively insists, wincing. “Things tear, Britt. I don’t need shit tearing down there, I like the décor as is.”
“Well,” Brittany muses, “maybe…maybe I’ll give it a try. Not now,” she adds when Santana’s eyes go wide. “You’re good, baby, but even you aren’t that good.”
“If anybody would be…,” Santana mutters. Caroline mewls and tucks her head against Santana’s breast, her mouth closing around the fabric of her shirt and sucking gently. She frowns. “You really want one of these?”
“I dunno.” Brittany’s eyes are bright, her smile almost nostalgic. “Someday, I think so. I’d like a little Santana.”
“Oh, hell no, you would not. You remember what I was like as a kid. Jesus, we’d have to put the thing on a tether.”
“Okay, a little half-Santana,” Brittany allows. “And half-Brittany. And maybe a bit of whoever the guy is, ‘cuz you know we can’t just do that by ourselves.”
“Gross.” It’s horrible, but she finds herself almost smiling at the idea. “You want to carry my kid?”
“Our kid,” Brittany corrects. “I get to share. Part ownership.”
She hates herself for it, but the notion is setting off a stream of images: Brittany walking around with a round, protruding stomach, Brittany nestled in a hospital bed with a baby curled in protective arms, Brittany with a tiny hand clamped in her own. The idea is…not thoroughly damaging.
“Has to be a boy,” she says gruffly, trying not to smile when Brittany noses into her neck. “A cool boy. I refuse to raise a wuss.”
“What if he’s gay?” Brittany teases. Santana grunts.
“We’ll give him to Kurt.”
Brittany swats her shoulder. “Mean.”
“What? Like father, like tiny flamer.”
“Kurt’s having a kid?” Quinn asks as she sweeps back into the room. Santana snorts.
“Fuck, no. You think you wouldn’t have heard by now if he was? By way of, like, a message written in glitter on the side of the house?”
“Good point.” She pauses, hovering over Santana’s chair with a faint smile on her lips. “She’s hungry, you know.”
Santana glances down, her arms tightening slightly. Caroline sighs. “Who says?”
“That’s sort of what it means when they try to get at your tits like that.” Quinn bends, pressing a kiss to the side of her daughter’s head. “Auntie ‘Tana doesn’t have anything you want in there, baby girl, even if her jugs are the size of Jupiter.”
“Shut up,” Santana snips, pushing the child into Quinn’s arms. “Jesus, Fabray, and you got all uppity about my language.”
“I’m just teaching her basic anatomy,” Quinn replies, swaying back to the couch. “And miracles of science. Isn’t that right, Caroline?”
Santana slumps back in her chair, pleased when Brittany almost immediately clambers onto her empty lap. “I hate you, Fabray.”
“Love you too, godmother,” Quinn says absently, drawing a yellow star-patterned blanket up over her shoulder and slipping the baby underneath to nurse. Santana growls.
“You don’t have to cover up,” Brittany offers, beaming. “We’ve seen your boobs before, they’re awesome.”
Quinn goes slightly pink. “When exactly have you seen my boobs, Brittany?”
“You really should know better by now than to ask those questions,” Santana drawls, arms possessive around her girlfriend’s waist. Brittany falls back with a playful shrug.
“Besides, Santana and I just decided we’re going to have a baby. It’ll be good for her to see how everything works.”
“I know how everything works!” Santana squawks just as Quinn blurts, “Lopez, you’re spawning?”
“Yep,” Brittany laughs. Santana shakes her head.
“Hey, I never agreed to—“
“You want a baby,” Brittany interrupts. “You want a baby boy with my eyes and your smile, and you want to teach him to play baseball and beat up the other kids, and rock him to sleep at night when he has a bad dream.”
“Do not,” Santana argues weakly. “Babies are evil.”
“You totally do.” Brittany winks. “That’s why you have to be Caroline’s godmom. It’s good practice.”
Quinn grins, adjusting Caroline under the blanket. “Santana Lopez, you’ve just found yourself backed into a corner by a beautiful lady with both mind and ovaries made up. What do you plan to do now?”
Santana sighs. “Christ’s sake. This is all your fault, you know. You and your dumb need to spawn miniature Asians.”
Quinn flashes her a cheeky thumbs-up that makes her wish she wasn’t holding an infant. “You’re welcome.”
“Hate you,” Santana mutters again, barely deterred when Brittany kisses her warmly. Under the blanket, Caroline makes a gurgling sound that very well might be a laugh. She sinks down and scowls. “All of you. Terrible damn people.”
“Yeah, well, you’re supposed to hate family,” Quinn tells her. “That’s how you know you’re doing it right. Godmother.”
She gently chucks a coaster, careful to aim away from the nursing infant. “Shut up.”
Quinn’s thumbs-up makes the transition to the flip of the classic middle finger. Santana hunkers down, face pressed against Brittany’s shoulder, and closes her eyes. She doesn’t care what anybody says: babies are evil. Pure and simple. Evil, creepy little non-people whose powers of seduction are too much even for the hardest of hearts. They’ve got Quinn, and Mike, and now even Brittany under their creepy little baby spell.
Babies are fucking terrible.