Sweetie Pie's Bakery

Ultimatum

Santana spent the morning sat alone on the sofa, her legs bouncing up and down nervously. She flitted between attempting to clean the apartment, paying no attention to obscure documentaries and playing the introduction of various songs, swiftly giving up with a frustrated groan after a few bars, and glaring at the clock.

By the time she began sluggishly re-arranging both the girl's closets, it was after noon and the anxiety in her chest was beginning to form a dull ache. It was three days since the announcement of Aunt Clara's death, and they had stayed up until almost one discussing today's funeral, until Santana insisted that Quinn got some sleep in preparation for the day. After a little deliberation, they had both agreed that Santana would stay at home instead of accompanying Quinn to her aunt's funeral.

Although it was killing the brunette to not be able to support her girlfriend, Sam had been punctual to pick up his sister to drive her to the church, and had reassured Santana that he would look after her. She was counting the hours until Quinn was due home. Her phone had buzzed a few times through the morning, and it was a slight comfort to find that Rachel was feeling equally troubled. The small brunette had been unable to attend due to a morning and matinee performance, and her texts were infrequent and brief. Santana had attempted to call Brittany for some comfort, but the girl was nowhere to be found.

-ooOoo-

As much as Quinn was yearning for Santana to hold her hand as she stood outside the church, she knew that the presence of her girlfriend would only make the atmosphere within her family even more tense and difficult. Her father had not spoken to her, he merely glared from the other side of the church path, his jaw tense. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes as he clasped hands with the various attendees to the funeral, forcing herself to stop staring at the man she knew and hated so well. Sam gently squeezed at her shoulders, and she blinked back the tears that were blurring her vision.

Her mother had attempted to talk to them on arrival, sheepishly scurrying over to them when her father was pre-occupied with greeting various extended family. She tried not to resent Sam for being as warm and loving towards his mother as always, reminding herself that this was not his battle and he did not have to take a side. Which was fortunate, as he certainly wasn't taking her side. Judy Fabray had beamed at her daughter, attempting to make light-hearted small talk. Usually Quinn would shuffle awkwardly, bowing her head in shame and stuttering to please her mother. Today, however, she simply did not have the energy.

When her mother greeted them warmly, pulling Sam into a hug, Quinn had given her a curt nod and a tight smile. She had answered her mother's increasingly probing questions with mono-syllabic answers, if it all. As soon as her father had turned, frowning, to locate his wife, Judy scurried back to him like an obedient pet in fear of punishment. Sam had waved to his father, who gestured to tell him they would talk later, before his eyes scanned straight over the blonde girl. She sighed, and an odd feeling of content had spread over her as she had turned to enter the church and find a place.

It had been an odd relief to find that her father intended to ignore her all day. She had almost wanted to giggle with the revelation that she was not going to have to sit through his lectures about what she was doing with her life, his rants about foreigners and immigrants and gays. As she took up her place at a pew near the front and Sam slid in beside her, she looked up at the stained glass windows with a deep breath. Her eyes surveyed the painted glass, the light casting dappled pools of colour across the coffin, stood proudly on a pedestal in front of the altar.

Her breath caught in her throat as she finally acknowledged the large, weighty box in front of the growing congregation. It seemed wrong that her ever-present aunt should be lying there in that box. Just lying there. She sighed heavily, looking away to the font in the corner. She didn't really want to think about the box. The font was covered in ornate carvings, and she thought of all the babies that must have been christened here. Her father would be furious that the funeral was being held here, she guessed. He would want it to be held in the church back home, where the family had been getting married, and babies had been christened and loved ones had been buried for generations. It would be tearing him up to break tradition like this, but Quinn, for one, was glad that Clara had chosen her local church in New York. This way, she didn't have to travel home and stay over. She could turn up, avoid her parents as much as possible, pay her respects, and then get back to Santana as quickly as possible.