Title: Crisp
Fandom: Glee
Word Count: ~1000
Rating: all ages
Content Notes: no major archive warnings apply
Pairing/characters: Quinn Fabray/Brittany Pierce/Santana Lopez
Spoilers: none
Summary: The one where they go apple-picking.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use.
Prompt: Triangles
Author’s Notes: Thanks to kestrel_hawk for the once-over!


The thermometer has been flirting with ‘cool’ all week, and today it finally feels like fall. But it’s the smell, more than anything, that signals the change of the seasons. Someone was burning leaves on her block last night and the smell still permeates the street, sharp and spicy, hitting her more than the cool air when she steps outside. She ducks back inside to grab her letterman jacket out of the closet, shrugging into it and burying her hands deep into the pockets briefly before leaving and locking up.

Santana makes plans for the weekend as she drives to pick up Quinn and Brittany. It feels like fall, that means it’s time to make their trip to pick apples. They’ve gone every year since middle school; no matter what kinds of fights they’ve been in, they’ve always gone apple-picking the first weekend it finally felt crisp.

“Did you text Brittany to remind her to grab her letter jacket?” Quinn asks as she follows her bag to the backseat, leaving the front for Brittany as usual.
“No, I forgot,” Santana says, mentally cursing herself.
Quinn huffs and digs out her phone. “Do you know where it is so I can tell her where to get it?”
“Not her closet or the hall closet,” Santana muses aloud. “Tell her to look in the closet in the basement.”
Quinn shoots a questioning look at Santana in the rearview mirror, shakes her head, and texts Brittany. Santana rolls her eyes and doesn’t bother to tell Quinn how she knows where it is.

Brittany tosses her bag on the backseat next to Quinn’s and practically flings herself into the front seat. She’s vibrating with excitement, bouncing and wiggling in her seat.
“Good morning,” Santana says, smiling at Brittany.
“We’re going this weekend, right?” Brittany demands, turning to face her.
“Going where?” Santana asks innocently, meeting Quinn’s eyes in the rearview again.
Quinn snorts from the back seat. “Like you don’t want to drag us out apple-picking like the massive nerd you are.”
Santana laughs, bright and clear, as she pulls into the school lot. “Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes with irritation they all know to be false. “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning?”
“No, we should have a sleepover!” Brittany suggests, and then there’s nothing left but to agree; neither Quinn nor Santana have ever been able to say no to Brittany and make it stick.

Santana slips out of bed early Saturday morning, tiptoeing out of the room to let the other two sleep a bit longer. She pads down to the kitchen without bothering to turn on any lights and quickly sets the coffee maker to work. She stands at the back door, hand against the cold glass, marveling at the hint of frost on the glass and dusting across the yard as the world wakes up.

Santana startles out of her musings as Quinn touches her shoulder, then her hand, pulling it slowly off the door. Quinn smiles, that soft, sweet smile almost no one sees anymore, and tugs Santana back into the kitchen. She pushes Santana into a chair at the table and pulls out mugs for coffee, doctoring them perfectly for herself and Santana. Quinn slides Santana’s mug in front of her and sits down at the table.
“She’s in the shower.” Quinn answers the unspoken question quietly, sipping her coffee and staring out the bay windows. Santana nods silently, wrapping her hands around her coffee to chase the last of the cold away.

Santana’s father walks through the kitchen quickly, pouring himself a travel mug of coffee and nodding at the girls on his way to work. Santana’s mother mentions a few functions and a late dinner as she breezes out a careful ten minutes later.
“Still?” Quinn asks quietly after they’ve gone.
Santana sighs and nods. Her mother’s having another affair and her father works as much as humanly possible; it’s been that way for as long as Santana can remember.

Brittany sings in the car; it’s part of the tradition. She starts a song and Quinn and Santana have to join; it doesn’t matter if they know all the words or are on pitch as long as they have sufficient enthusiasm for Brittany.

Finally, they arrive; they park and pay and get their bucket and dash, laughing, through the orchard. Brittany and Quinn swing the bucket between them as they run.

Brittany forgoes the ladder and swings herself up into the tree to toss apples down to Quinn and Santana. Her hat, pink with pom poms today, stands out brightly against the leaves as she tries to lob the apples so Quinn can catch them. Quinn is laughing too hard to really try and she keeps fumbling the ones that manage to hit her hands; Santana keeps repeating the most awful limericks and dirty jokes she can think of just to keep that smile there.

Bucket mostly full, Brittany swings down from the tree and catches Quinn around the waist. “You’re terrible at this,” she declares, laughing. “You weren’t this bad last year.”
Quinn leans against her, still laughing. “It’s Santana’s fault!”
“Uh huh,” Brittany says, rolling her eyes and holding Quinn upright.
Santana just laughs at them, shifting the apples in the bucket so they won’t fall out.

The hayride takes about an hour. They cuddle together on the hay bales after Brittany squeezes between Quinn and Santana and wraps her arms around Quinn’s middle to hold her in place. Santana tosses one end of the worn blanket over Quinn’s lap and tucks herself and Brittany under quickly. The late afternoon light hits Brittany’s profile perfectly; Santana can’t stop herself from pressing a quick kiss to Brittany’s cheek. She flashes Santana a smile and leans over to pass it on to Quinn, who blushes at the kiss but doesn’t even try to shift out of Brittany’s arms. The only other people on the hay bales are an older couple who smile indulgently at the girls.

Santana again wakes up first Sunday morning; warm and loose with Brittany’s arm slung around her hips and Quinn as wrapped around her as she can get. It’s perfect. She has them both; no matter what happens tomorrow or next month or next year, in this moment, Santana has perfection.