Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please: Brittany (20/29)
Title: Ladies And Gentlemen, Listen Up Please: Brittany (20/29)
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
Brittany is better at this home thing than people would realize.
It’s kind of funny; after years of being That Girl-the one twirling her blonde ponytail around a finger, the one wearing a permanently blank smile, the one teachers shake their heads at and football players single out with catcalls and broad smirks-this is where she has wound up. After years of doing exactly what they expected, after years of smiling and nodding along, following everyone else’s lead, tripping along to the beat of a steady, hideously-familiar drum…
And now she’s here. And none of it really matters anymore, not like it used to, not like she once thought it always would. She’s here, taking care of herself and of the one other person on earth who counts for anything, and that’s it.
That’s all she needs.
Yeah, sure, sometimes it’s a little harder than she’d like. Sometimes there’s a chill, and sometimes she forgets things-to turn off their small, rusted stove; to clean the sink out after dinner; to pull the curtains back enough to get a little sunlight. Sometimes it isn’t perfect. Sometimes, she still misses her old life-her mother’s smile, her father’s deep laugh, her sister’s hands on her shoulders.
It happens. She can’t always block it out.
But for the most part, this is what really matters. Being seventeen and not trapped in a little box. Being seventeen and not weighted down with the insincerity of others, with the things they think they’ve locked away in their little emotional bank vaults. Being seventeen and not crying herself to sleep each night because the Taylors down the street are worried about bills, because Mr. Edgar three houses over can’t regulate his alcohol intake and his temper at the same time, because Miss Belau from the high school genuinely believes she will die alone and childless.
Being seventeen and only feeling what she feels, only feeling what really matters to her-there’s something amazing about that. Santana would say ‘profound.’ It’s not the kind of word Brittany is overly comfortable using, but she believes Santana. She always has.
Santana Lopez is the one person who doesn’t hurt to be around every day. The one person who says exactly what she means, the one person who doesn’t worry about little arbitrary details like tact or injured pride. She’s the one person who is there when Brittany wakes up, greeting her with a sleepy snuggle and a kiss, and she is the one person who will remain after the sun goes down.
Santana Lopez is the best friend she has ever had, and she is so deeply in love with her that sometimes that hurts. But only a little. And only in the best way possible.
Loving Santana is worth it.
They’ve built something together, something really wonderful, and sometimes Brittany has to rub her eyes and pinch her arm a few times to make sure it’s all still there when she looks again. It’s just so overwhelming, that they could have pulled this off-that they could have joined hands after school one day, a few untidy plastic bags’ worth of stuff in the back of Santana’s car, and just…walked away.
Walk to the nearest Wal-mart. Into the backpack section. Throw a few dollars down, pack the meager clothing and Brittany’s childhood stuffed duck and Santana’s scrap of a baby blanket away. Throw a few more down for a six-pack of Mountain Dew and a bag of Doritos and just…go.
Bus routes, Brittany found that day, can take you anywhere if you want to leave badly enough.
From there, it was easy. Santana’s smart-really smart, plots-and-schemes smart. She knew to ditch their credit cards, to sell their cell phones, to lose anything that could be traced. She knew just what to do, and if she was worried, it was never for herself. She knew better than to bury her concern, or paste on a mask, or lie. She trusted Brittany to handle it, then and now.
And Brittany always has. And, sure, there were parts that sucked for a while. The stealing thing has never really sat well with her, for instance; her dad was-is-in retail, and for him, theft is among the most despicable sins. But it’s the sort of thing you have to get over when you’re living more or less on the street. Santana taught her that.
It took them a few months to generate enough cash for actual use. For a while, they settled for squatting where they could, crashing wherever was convenient. Brittany didn’t exactly love that; New York is cold at night, shifty, prone to attracting all the wrong kinds of people.
“Like us, you mean?” Santana teased the first time she said so, catching Brittany by the belt loops and winding her close for a kiss. “Sweetheart, I got you covered. You know I’d never let anything bad happen.”
She had to smile at that because nothing has ever been truer. And it’s not like Santana couldn’t hold to it, in her unique way. For a few weeks, Brittany got used to sleeping pressed tight to a big black wolf, warm and rumbley and dangerous. No one bothered them. Not even New York junkies were that stupid.
And so it continued. Not all good-no way. She has to admit that Santana’s not the most cautious of girls when it comes to anything but Brittany; more than once, she’s stumbled home with a brand new knife wound or a smashed kneecab courtesy of a wayward taxi.There are accidents, and then there are the not-so-nice people out there-those who hate people like them, those who will stop at nothing to hurt people like them. Brittany hasn’t seen them up close yet, but Santana has. Sometimes, Santana has a real knack for walking into things like that.
The first time it happened, Brittany nearly passed out before she could repair the damage, so great was the shock and empathy recoil. That’s gotten better over time. Not easier-it will never be easy, seeing Santana hurt-but Brittany is good at healing. Better than she’s ever been before. And fast. It makes her feel useful, to lean over her girl and fix whatever’s wrong.
The way Santana always rocks up into her arms, kissing her feverishly and whispering hoarse gratitudes when she’s finished is pretty great too.
It took them some time to finally settle somewhere-to rack up enough dough for anything like rent-and if they’re honest with themselves, Brittany knows the decision ultimately had less to do with warmth and protection and more with lockable doors and the promise of uninterrupted sex.
Because, really, having drunken homeless men wander over in the middle sort of wrecks the mood most nights.
So they did it. They found a little place-dingy, basement-level, every inch peeling paint and unkillable mold spores-and now…
Here they are.
It’s still surprising to her, sometimes, how good they are at this. Or, actually, how good she is. Santana wasn’t a surprise. Santana’s always been strong, independent, even when they were kids. Santana has never needed anyone to lead her by the hand. She was born to survive.
Until they escaped, Brittany was pretty sure she was born to suffer. To ache under the strain of everyone she cared about, to bear the nightmares and nausea. To heal others while silently bleeding herself dry.
But now look at her. She’s free. She’s happy. She can go out and do what she wants when she wants, no questions asked.
And nothing hurts.
If she thought she loved Santana before New York, it can’t possibly compare to the fullness in her heart these days.
It’s awesome.
She sits now, legs stretched out in front of her, humming as she picks through the puzzle pieces on their unstable coffee table. It always used to surprise people, how much she loves puzzles; she supposes that’s got something to do with how awful school always was. She’ll be the first to admit she’s never been one for math problems or 600-page Russian novels. Those sorts of things are hard to learn when your brain is busy stressing out over every anxiety and fear suffered by your peers.
That’s what nobody every seemed to get: it wasn’t that Brittany didn’t care. It was that she just couldn’t focus. Not at school. Not when they needed her to.
Home should’ve been better. Home should’ve been easier.
If anything, home was worse. Her mother, her father, her sister, her neighbors-everyone seemed so stressed all the time. How could they possibly expect her to read and write and memorize when she was so busy feeling?
The puzzles were Santana’s idea. They didn’t start as much of anything: Santana just liked them. Simple as that. She thought they were fun. Something to do while Brittany watched cartoons or practiced for four different dance classes.
It was only after asking Brittany for help on a particularly complex Aladdin scene that either of them realized-
Puzzles helped.
Specifically, they calmed Brittany down. They centered her mind with bright colors and funny shapes and for long hours, Brittany was only feeling as much as her body was meant to.
It was the first time in years she felt like her own person.
As time went on, the puzzles became less and less necessary. Santana slipped in when she wasn’t looking-Santana became her everything. Her first protector. Her first tutor. Her first kiss. Her first love.
Her only love.
Santana could do what the puzzles did-but better. She could make Brittany forget. She could make Brittany focus. She could convince Brittany that she was more than just the jumble of feelings in her head. Santana’s always been amazing like that.
But the puzzles are still pretty good too.
She’s laying the last of the border pieces, remembering with a smile the first brazen kiss from a dark-haired hellion, when the front door unlatches. Her head lifts, eyes sparkling, just in time to feel it.
A wave of sudden emotion, torrid and oppressive.
Halfway to her feet, she buckles.
“San?”
“Right here, babe,” her girlfriend’s weary voice rings out, a bright bell cracking through the fog. Brittany pulls in a hurried breath and opts to stay seated, trying to relax.
This is weird. She hasn’t felt connection like this since school, since all those people she never learned to disregard. Part of why they chose New York in the first place was the legendary disconnect, the perpetual state of being surrounded and untouched at the same time. At first, she thought that was just a stereotype.
Now, bogged down so suddenly in foreign emotions she’s forgotten how to handle, she realizes just how blissful this year has been.
“Brought some friends,” Santana adds, striding in and flopping down on the couch. She pulls Brittany’s shoulders back until the blonde’s head rests against her thigh.
“Friends?” Brittany repeats weakly, trying to steady herself. Fingernails scratch comfortably along her scalp.
“Or something,” Santana replies with a shrug. “They’re a bunch of wimps, really, but-babe?”
Brittany feels herself sway, eyes heavy. They’ve stepped into view now, eight young people. More than can comfortably fit in their apartment, for sure. And every single one of them is glowing with stress.
She exhales. Santana’s hands come to rest on either side of her face, the dark-haired woman bending to look Brittany in the eye. She looks concerned, and Brittany is relieved because that, at least, is normal. Normal and familiar and so not overwhelming. Not like the rest.
“Babe, stay calm,” Santana presses, caressing Brittany’s cheek tenderly. “Come on, baby, you know the drill. You remember. It’s just like high school, okay, it’s just like Cheerio practice. Deep breaths. Focus on you. Who are you?”
“Brittany,” she mumbles, sinking into Santana’s touch.
“Who are you?”
“Santana’s girl,” she says, clutching hard at the phrase. Santana smiles.
“Who are you?”
The words start coming faster, easier, each one filling her with strength. “A dancer. A healer. In control. Free.”
“That’s my girl,” Santana says warmly, tapping a finger against the end of Brittany’s nose. She blinks her eyes, banishing the last of the crushing frustration, and looks over Santana’s shoulder.
“Where did you find so many new friends?"
Her girlfriend grimaces. “Okay, friend may have been an excessive term…”
“No, it’s not,” the tiny brunette leading the pack chirps. “We can be friends. In fact, I’d prefer it.” Her eyes are as bright as her smile, and though she’s got a little dirt smudged on her cheeks, Brittany has seen far worse in this city. She grins.
“I’m-“
“Brittany,” the brunette fills in sagely, nodding. “A pleasure to meet you. My name is Rachel Berry.”
The introductions are quick and-with the exception of Rachel-fairly informal. None of these people look like they fit together, Brittany notes silently, but all the same they are clearly bonded. A family.
She hasn’t had a family in such a long time. Except, of course, for Santana.Who, right now, looks like she kind of regrets the whole visitor notion.
“Britt, these idiots want us to join their army.”
“It’s not nice to call new people idiots,” Brittany admonishes playfully, reaching up to tangle a hand in Santana’s hair. The Latina smirks, hooking her arms under Brittany and pulling the blonde up into her lap.
“You love that I’m not nice.”
“You’re nice to me,” Brittany counters, pressing her forehead complacently to her girlfriend’s. Santana laughs.
“And that’s all that matters.”
“Ahem.” The boy who introduced himself as Kurt is watching them with a curiously raised eyebrow. “A break from this Sapphic lovefest, perhaps?”
Santana growls, possessively palming Brittany’s back under her shirt. “Back down, Rainbow Brite. My house, my call. I haven’t seen my girl all damn day. You can just fucking wait.”
Brittany bumps her nose against Santana’s reproachfully. “San.”
“What? Baby, these assholes jumped me outside.” Santana pokes an accusatory finger in Mercedes’ direction, scowling. “The Hulk here strangled me and everything.”
Brittany ignores the huffing sigh Mercedes emits, leaning close to inspect Santana’s neck. “You need me to fix it?”
“I didn’t hurt her,” Mercedes protests. “I barely choked her furry ass at all!”
Raising her head, Brittany catches sight of the Latina’s pout and grins. “She’s right. Not a scratch on you, S.”
The pout deepens. “You weren’t there.”
“Perfect skin doesn’t lie, love.” She presses a lingering kiss against the girl’s throat, satisfied when Santana sighs in response.
“Fine.” Dark eyes snap to Mercedes, warning.” “Just don’t pull that shit again.”
The bigger girl spreads her hands, eyes rolling. “I’ll make a note of it.”
“So what’s this army thing?” Brittany asks, nudging under Santana’s chin and peering curiously up at the shifty band of misfits in their living room. “You don’t look like soldiers.”
“Damn right,” Santana mutters. Rachel bristles.
“Are you under the impression-“
“That we could do better?” Santana slices effortlessly through the protest. “Save your asses? Make a difference?”
Brittany smiles. “We could help.”
“Hell yeah, we could.” The arm around her tightens proudly. Finn’s brow knits, looking for all the world like he’s trying to process an impossibly large algebra problem.
“So you’ll join us?”
Brittany’s whole body shifts with the force of Santana’s shrug. She remembers this, the way Santana has always been with other people. Back in high school, this was common: someone would ask a question and Santana, without a moment’s hesitation, would shrug like she couldn’t give a damn. She was one of the most popular girls in school, both loved and feared across the board, yet she spent more time shrugging people off than engaging in social ventures. Where she went, she took Brittany, and if Brittany didn’t want to go-well, Santana didn’t either. More than a few times, well-meaning people-the school counselor, their cheerleading coach, even Santana’s father-stepped in with words like “unhealthy” and “codependence.” What was funny was that they didn’t get it.
Santana had Brittany. Brittany had Santana. They didn’t need anything else.
They still don’t.
But something about this feels different, somehow. It’s not forceful or obvious; Brittany’s having a hard time just putting her finger on it in the first place. All she knows is, Santana feels…excited. Sitting as still as a stone, absently fingering Brittany’s spine with a completely passive expression, she is shuddering with silent anticipation. And Brittany feels it too.
Something about this feels good.
“What do you think?” Santana asks, nudging Brittany softly. “Want to keep these dopes alive while they act like idiots?”
“We’re not-“ This time, Rachel cuts herself off with a huff. “Are you planning on being thoroughly abusive from this point onward?”
“Depends,” Santana retorts with a smirk. “Are you planning on being midget-like and obnoxious?”
Brittany elbows her. The Latina laughs. Rachel looks considerably more exhausted and insulted than amused.
“She’s joking,” Brittany assures her gently, unwinding herself from Santana’s lap and trotting to the tiny brunette’s side.
“She’s not very good at it,” Rachel mumbles. Brittany nods companionably.
“She gets that a lot.”
“Hello?” Gruff now that she’s lost physical contact, Santana stretches out on the couch and links her fingers carelessly behind her head. “Sitting right here?”
“You sure are,” Brittany agrees teasingly. “Hi.”
The boy with the mohawk-Puck, which is just about the funniest name she has ever heard, hobos included-is staring at her sort of uncomfortably. Brittany meets his eyes curiously, head tilted.
“Are you two together?” he demands without preamble, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. Brittany frowns.
“Yes-“
“Cool,” he breathes, eyebrows jerking towards his unique hairline instantly. “Hey, you think you’d ever want-“
“No,” Santana bites off, eyes closed and ankles crossed. He blinks.
“But how do you know-“
“No,” she repeats. Brittany shrugs apologetically, not totally clear on what he’s even asking. She figures Santana knows-Santana’s usually a little quicker than her when it comes to conversations with new people-and trusts the dark-haired girl with her life. If Santana says no, it’s for a good reason.
“Sorry,” she tells him with another shrug, glancing around at the rest of them. They’re looking at her like they’ve never seen anything like her before, like she’s something completely new and foreign.
It makes her feel weird.
“What?” she asks finally, too defensively. A few feet away, Santana’s eyes snap open.
The slim boy named Kurt runs his eyes up and down her body-not the way Puck or Finn are doing, but in a much deeper way. He looks genuinely interested in something she can’t see.
“Can you really heal?” he questions after a heady moment. It’s a strange thing to ask-she’s never had anyone really wonder that out loud before.
After all, her family realized she was special the day she fell out of her treehouse and, despite landing on her neck with a sick crunch, didn’t wind up remotely paralyzed. Santana realized as much a year later, when a bike accident left her with deep bloody scratches that closed in seconds. Can she heal?
Yeah. She can heal. Even if sometimes she wishes she couldn’t.
She settles for nodding, throat tight, because she can feel his awe and interest-the interest of all of them. She can feel it, and it’s got her feeling the same as ever: like some prize beast on display. Extraordinary. New. Freakish.
Sometimes she thinks her childhood fancies of circus life weren’t so unreasonable after all.
She knows Santana is keyed in, because Santana is always keyed in, where she’s concerned. Even from across the room, the tension in the other girl’s body is evident. Her shoulders are braced against the arm of the couch, ready and willing to spring up and beat down anyone who so much as looks at Brittany the wrong way, and she thinks that’s kind of sweet, after all these years. Sweet, but unnecessary. Violence isn’t the answer to anything; it’s a first-grade motto she’s managed to cling to despite everything.
“Just yourself, or-“ Kurt’s asking these questions like he already knows the answer, which probably should bother her (it would totally drive S crazy), but she can’t tap into that emotion right now. She can only shrug.
“Anyone. Anyone who needs it. It’s hard, though. I’m best at it with Santana.”
“I’ll bet,” Puck mumbles. Mercedes rocks an elbow back into his chest, smug when he proceeds to wheeze out a, “Fuck, Aretha.”
“Keep leering like that, Muscles won’t be your biggest concern,” Santana snips lowly. He scowls.
“Jesus. Women. Can’t take a fucking-“
“Keep talking, boy,” Mercedes warns, priming her elbow again. “Let’s just see how far it gets you.”
Santana eyes her, new appreciation leaking into her expression. “You know, Super-Thing, you might have a purpose after all.”
It’s the closest Santana ever comes to admitting she actually likes someone. Brittany hides her grin.
“Your healing properties,” Rachel breaks in, clearly determined to seal the deal however she can, “will be utterly invaluable to our cause. And Santana, your shape-shifting abilities are just…I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“No fucking kidding,” Santana drawls. Rachel seems to gloss right over the sarcasm.
“It’s truly remarkable,” the tiny brunette chirps. “When did you learn you were able to-“
Santana’s face darkens instantly. “None of your business, short stuff.”
She doesn’t mean that, Brittany wants to blurt. She’s just scared. She’s just remembering. She can’t say so out loud, of course; speaking up would be betrayal, and she’ll die before she betrays her girl. Santana’s pain is her own-her own and Brittany’s-and she knows all too well how her girlfriend feels about sharing.
Still, it bothers her, how Rachel bites her lip like she cares. For real cares, not some fake projection based on what’s expected to feel. Brittany can tell the difference, but she can’t make sense of it. No one’s been that real since…
Well. It’s been a long time.
Santana shakes it off, smashing the awkward mood with a shrug. “So what is it you want from us, anyway? Specifically. I’m not signing up for a mindless death march or some…I dunno, pamphlet distribution bullshit.”
Rachel seems to grow, chest puffed out, head angled high. Brittany nearly giggles at her; it’s just too cute. Like when Santana trots in with an armful of food, bursting with pride at her own cleverness.
She wonders what it says about Rachel, that she doesn’t smile when she states clearly, “We are striking back.”
Santana perks up. “Are we.”
“The attacks upon our people are increasing,” the brunette continues boldly. “There is, of course, not a singular source to trace back to, but we know of one group…one man…who is of particular concern. We’ve been operating with certain questionable intel to-“
“Hey, Karofsky and Azimo are legit dudes,” Puck protests. Kurt rolls his eyes.
“In the Neanderthal community, perhaps.”
“The point is,” Rachel raises her voice, “they are working tireless to transfer information about this man. Valuable, essential information.”
Santana unfurls from her position on the couch, wholly interested now. “Bad dude?”
“The worst,” Rachel confirms gravely. “The things he does…the truly inhumane, ungodly actions he has taken against us…”
Brittany’s skin crawls with the weight of the young woman’s unspoken fear. She swallows.
“What aren’t you saying?”
Brown eyes meet hers, white teeth working over a plump lower lip. “He’s…” Rachel hesitates. Breathes.
“He’s one of us,” Kurt fills in for her, tone flat. Santana pushes both hands into her hair.
“One of us like American, right?” she snips. “Not-“
“Like us,” Rachel emphasizes. “You can imagine how deadly that is.”
“Deadly,” Santana agrees, “and stupid. Why the hell would you want to stick your nose into that?” She narrows her eyes. “Especially when yours is such a mondo target.”
“Because I’ve seen it,” Kurt states. “I’ve seen what will happen it he gets control. You think it’s bad now? With rednecks and hot tempered assholes throwing bottles, toting shotguns? This man has followers. Give him a few years, he’ll have an army. And when that happens…it’s all over.”
Santana shakes her head disbelievingly. “It’s not that easy. It’s never that easy.”
“Yeah?” he challenges. “You ever hear of Hitler? Crazy bastards with silver tongues do well in this world, particularly when there is a well of fear to capitalize on. People don’t like us, Santana. People like us less than they’ve been known to like the Jews, the blacks, the gays. We frighten them. I think you know that.”
“Don’t patronize me, Glitterati,” she warns. Brittany moves close, arms shifting instinctively around the shorter girl’s middle.
“The point is,” Rachel says delicately, “if you think the world is difficult to survive in right now, with the stares and the stones and the sneers-it is nothing compared to what this man will bring. Someone has to stop him. Or a few deaths here and there will become genocide within the decade. And no on will stand up, because, really, who wants to put their neck on the line for a bunch of freaks?”
Brittany blanches against the wave of sudden fear emanating from the lot of them. Santana grips tight to her hands, forehead furrowed deep.
“How do you know all of this?”
Kurt smiles coldly, tiredly. “My power may not be as impressive as your own, but it’s not without its value.”
Santana’s mouth draws tight, her eyes flickering from face to face before landing at last upon Rachel’s. “All right,” she says at last. “Let’s get some shit straight before this goes any further.”
“You’re making demands?” Mercedes asks incredulously. “You serious?”
“Why not?” You come into my city, my home, ask me to join your pitiful little militia against a man you’re relating to Hitler. I think I’ve got the right to lay a couple of ground rules.”
Brittany suspects this logic makes more sense to some of their new friends than to others. She suspects, more importantly, that Santana couldn’t care less. She watches her girlfriend flick up an index finger.
“Number one: I am not dying for you bitches. Got it?”
“Well, we certainly will do our best-,” Rachel attempts, just in time for Santana to throw a second finger up.
“Number two: Brittany is not dying for you bitches. Actually, you know what? Swap those two. Any harm comes to her at all? I’m out. No gray area. No questions.”
“She can heal,” Kurt notes bluntly. Santana fires a brass-tacks glare his way.
“Doesn’t matter. She is priority number one. We clear so far?”
“San,” Brittany murmurs, pressing placating lips just under the young woman’s ear. Santana shakes loose, barely moderated panic evident in smoky eyes.
“I won’t do it if there’s even half a chance of losing you,” she swears softly. “I won’t.”
“San, we can’t sit this one out,” Brittany presses, kissing her again. “It’s for us too, you know. It’s important.”
Santana sags a little in her arms, like she knows Brittany is right, but can’t help hating it anyway. It’s almost adorable enough for Brittany to push the little gang out the door and jump her then and there, forgetting the whole situation.
Except it is important-she knows it intimately, a knowledge that goes far beyond intellect, and there’s no escaping that.
“Last thing,” Santana says, grudgingly moving on at Brittany’s gentle nudge. “This fashion shit you all have going on? It has got to go.”
The expression on Kurt’s face is nothing short of hysterical. “You must be joking.”
“Am I laughing, Sparkles?” Santana snaps. “You keep bumbling around in school jerseys and feather boas, you’re not going to have time to stop this impending genocide thing. You’ll get tracked in a heartbeat by the first available power-fearing bastard with a handgun instead, and then what good will you be? My first two rules will be broken, and, as a bonus loss of fortune, you all will be really, really dead. You want to make a difference, you have got to make some changes.”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re kind of a demanding wench?” Puck asks with no small amount of wonder. Santana grins.
“I’m still alive. Full belly. Plenty of hot flexible dancer sex in my life. I’m pretty damn happy. Think I’m doing something right there. How ‘bout you? When’s the last time you had a shower, monkey boy?”
“You offering to share?” he teases. She quirks an eyebrow.
“You looking to drown?”
As Brittany resists a giggle, the boy in the wheelchair leans up to the girl called Tina and mutters, “Twenty on the girl.”
She hides a proud smile, choosing to turn towards Rachel instead of displaying an impromptu “my girlfriend is cooler than you” dance. The brunette, despite barely coming up to her shoulder, looks like she can take on the world. Like this is her life. Like, if Brittany just trusts her, everything will be all right.
If there’s one thing Brittany is fantastic at, it’s listening to her gut.
She touches Rachel’s hand.
“We’re in,” leaves her lips, quiet and more certain than she’s been of anything since loving Santana. “We’re yours.”
“Fuck, I am not swearing allegiance by elf sword or anything,” Santana adds, smirking. Brittany elbows her gently, and her expression clears. “But she’s right. Although.”
She glances left and right, chewing her lip thoughtfully.
“We are so going to need better digs. This shit does not scream Batcave.”
This time, Brittany can’t hold back from kissing her hard enough to make Rachel blush and look nervously at the ceiling, smiling all the while.
Pairing: Rachel Berry/Quinn Fabray, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, minor Artie Abrams/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU
Summary: “Sometimes, people are born a little different.”
Brittany is better at this home thing than people would realize.
It’s kind of funny; after years of being That Girl-the one twirling her blonde ponytail around a finger, the one wearing a permanently blank smile, the one teachers shake their heads at and football players single out with catcalls and broad smirks-this is where she has wound up. After years of doing exactly what they expected, after years of smiling and nodding along, following everyone else’s lead, tripping along to the beat of a steady, hideously-familiar drum…
And now she’s here. And none of it really matters anymore, not like it used to, not like she once thought it always would. She’s here, taking care of herself and of the one other person on earth who counts for anything, and that’s it.
That’s all she needs.
Yeah, sure, sometimes it’s a little harder than she’d like. Sometimes there’s a chill, and sometimes she forgets things-to turn off their small, rusted stove; to clean the sink out after dinner; to pull the curtains back enough to get a little sunlight. Sometimes it isn’t perfect. Sometimes, she still misses her old life-her mother’s smile, her father’s deep laugh, her sister’s hands on her shoulders.
It happens. She can’t always block it out.
But for the most part, this is what really matters. Being seventeen and not trapped in a little box. Being seventeen and not weighted down with the insincerity of others, with the things they think they’ve locked away in their little emotional bank vaults. Being seventeen and not crying herself to sleep each night because the Taylors down the street are worried about bills, because Mr. Edgar three houses over can’t regulate his alcohol intake and his temper at the same time, because Miss Belau from the high school genuinely believes she will die alone and childless.
Being seventeen and only feeling what she feels, only feeling what really matters to her-there’s something amazing about that. Santana would say ‘profound.’ It’s not the kind of word Brittany is overly comfortable using, but she believes Santana. She always has.
Santana Lopez is the one person who doesn’t hurt to be around every day. The one person who says exactly what she means, the one person who doesn’t worry about little arbitrary details like tact or injured pride. She’s the one person who is there when Brittany wakes up, greeting her with a sleepy snuggle and a kiss, and she is the one person who will remain after the sun goes down.
Santana Lopez is the best friend she has ever had, and she is so deeply in love with her that sometimes that hurts. But only a little. And only in the best way possible.
Loving Santana is worth it.
They’ve built something together, something really wonderful, and sometimes Brittany has to rub her eyes and pinch her arm a few times to make sure it’s all still there when she looks again. It’s just so overwhelming, that they could have pulled this off-that they could have joined hands after school one day, a few untidy plastic bags’ worth of stuff in the back of Santana’s car, and just…walked away.
Walk to the nearest Wal-mart. Into the backpack section. Throw a few dollars down, pack the meager clothing and Brittany’s childhood stuffed duck and Santana’s scrap of a baby blanket away. Throw a few more down for a six-pack of Mountain Dew and a bag of Doritos and just…go.
Bus routes, Brittany found that day, can take you anywhere if you want to leave badly enough.
From there, it was easy. Santana’s smart-really smart, plots-and-schemes smart. She knew to ditch their credit cards, to sell their cell phones, to lose anything that could be traced. She knew just what to do, and if she was worried, it was never for herself. She knew better than to bury her concern, or paste on a mask, or lie. She trusted Brittany to handle it, then and now.
And Brittany always has. And, sure, there were parts that sucked for a while. The stealing thing has never really sat well with her, for instance; her dad was-is-in retail, and for him, theft is among the most despicable sins. But it’s the sort of thing you have to get over when you’re living more or less on the street. Santana taught her that.
It took them a few months to generate enough cash for actual use. For a while, they settled for squatting where they could, crashing wherever was convenient. Brittany didn’t exactly love that; New York is cold at night, shifty, prone to attracting all the wrong kinds of people.
“Like us, you mean?” Santana teased the first time she said so, catching Brittany by the belt loops and winding her close for a kiss. “Sweetheart, I got you covered. You know I’d never let anything bad happen.”
She had to smile at that because nothing has ever been truer. And it’s not like Santana couldn’t hold to it, in her unique way. For a few weeks, Brittany got used to sleeping pressed tight to a big black wolf, warm and rumbley and dangerous. No one bothered them. Not even New York junkies were that stupid.
And so it continued. Not all good-no way. She has to admit that Santana’s not the most cautious of girls when it comes to anything but Brittany; more than once, she’s stumbled home with a brand new knife wound or a smashed kneecab courtesy of a wayward taxi.There are accidents, and then there are the not-so-nice people out there-those who hate people like them, those who will stop at nothing to hurt people like them. Brittany hasn’t seen them up close yet, but Santana has. Sometimes, Santana has a real knack for walking into things like that.
The first time it happened, Brittany nearly passed out before she could repair the damage, so great was the shock and empathy recoil. That’s gotten better over time. Not easier-it will never be easy, seeing Santana hurt-but Brittany is good at healing. Better than she’s ever been before. And fast. It makes her feel useful, to lean over her girl and fix whatever’s wrong.
The way Santana always rocks up into her arms, kissing her feverishly and whispering hoarse gratitudes when she’s finished is pretty great too.
It took them some time to finally settle somewhere-to rack up enough dough for anything like rent-and if they’re honest with themselves, Brittany knows the decision ultimately had less to do with warmth and protection and more with lockable doors and the promise of uninterrupted sex.
Because, really, having drunken homeless men wander over in the middle sort of wrecks the mood most nights.
So they did it. They found a little place-dingy, basement-level, every inch peeling paint and unkillable mold spores-and now…
Here they are.
It’s still surprising to her, sometimes, how good they are at this. Or, actually, how good she is. Santana wasn’t a surprise. Santana’s always been strong, independent, even when they were kids. Santana has never needed anyone to lead her by the hand. She was born to survive.
Until they escaped, Brittany was pretty sure she was born to suffer. To ache under the strain of everyone she cared about, to bear the nightmares and nausea. To heal others while silently bleeding herself dry.
But now look at her. She’s free. She’s happy. She can go out and do what she wants when she wants, no questions asked.
And nothing hurts.
If she thought she loved Santana before New York, it can’t possibly compare to the fullness in her heart these days.
It’s awesome.
She sits now, legs stretched out in front of her, humming as she picks through the puzzle pieces on their unstable coffee table. It always used to surprise people, how much she loves puzzles; she supposes that’s got something to do with how awful school always was. She’ll be the first to admit she’s never been one for math problems or 600-page Russian novels. Those sorts of things are hard to learn when your brain is busy stressing out over every anxiety and fear suffered by your peers.
That’s what nobody every seemed to get: it wasn’t that Brittany didn’t care. It was that she just couldn’t focus. Not at school. Not when they needed her to.
Home should’ve been better. Home should’ve been easier.
If anything, home was worse. Her mother, her father, her sister, her neighbors-everyone seemed so stressed all the time. How could they possibly expect her to read and write and memorize when she was so busy feeling?
The puzzles were Santana’s idea. They didn’t start as much of anything: Santana just liked them. Simple as that. She thought they were fun. Something to do while Brittany watched cartoons or practiced for four different dance classes.
It was only after asking Brittany for help on a particularly complex Aladdin scene that either of them realized-
Puzzles helped.
Specifically, they calmed Brittany down. They centered her mind with bright colors and funny shapes and for long hours, Brittany was only feeling as much as her body was meant to.
It was the first time in years she felt like her own person.
As time went on, the puzzles became less and less necessary. Santana slipped in when she wasn’t looking-Santana became her everything. Her first protector. Her first tutor. Her first kiss. Her first love.
Her only love.
Santana could do what the puzzles did-but better. She could make Brittany forget. She could make Brittany focus. She could convince Brittany that she was more than just the jumble of feelings in her head. Santana’s always been amazing like that.
But the puzzles are still pretty good too.
She’s laying the last of the border pieces, remembering with a smile the first brazen kiss from a dark-haired hellion, when the front door unlatches. Her head lifts, eyes sparkling, just in time to feel it.
A wave of sudden emotion, torrid and oppressive.
Halfway to her feet, she buckles.
“San?”
“Right here, babe,” her girlfriend’s weary voice rings out, a bright bell cracking through the fog. Brittany pulls in a hurried breath and opts to stay seated, trying to relax.
This is weird. She hasn’t felt connection like this since school, since all those people she never learned to disregard. Part of why they chose New York in the first place was the legendary disconnect, the perpetual state of being surrounded and untouched at the same time. At first, she thought that was just a stereotype.
Now, bogged down so suddenly in foreign emotions she’s forgotten how to handle, she realizes just how blissful this year has been.
“Brought some friends,” Santana adds, striding in and flopping down on the couch. She pulls Brittany’s shoulders back until the blonde’s head rests against her thigh.
“Friends?” Brittany repeats weakly, trying to steady herself. Fingernails scratch comfortably along her scalp.
“Or something,” Santana replies with a shrug. “They’re a bunch of wimps, really, but-babe?”
Brittany feels herself sway, eyes heavy. They’ve stepped into view now, eight young people. More than can comfortably fit in their apartment, for sure. And every single one of them is glowing with stress.
She exhales. Santana’s hands come to rest on either side of her face, the dark-haired woman bending to look Brittany in the eye. She looks concerned, and Brittany is relieved because that, at least, is normal. Normal and familiar and so not overwhelming. Not like the rest.
“Babe, stay calm,” Santana presses, caressing Brittany’s cheek tenderly. “Come on, baby, you know the drill. You remember. It’s just like high school, okay, it’s just like Cheerio practice. Deep breaths. Focus on you. Who are you?”
“Brittany,” she mumbles, sinking into Santana’s touch.
“Who are you?”
“Santana’s girl,” she says, clutching hard at the phrase. Santana smiles.
“Who are you?”
The words start coming faster, easier, each one filling her with strength. “A dancer. A healer. In control. Free.”
“That’s my girl,” Santana says warmly, tapping a finger against the end of Brittany’s nose. She blinks her eyes, banishing the last of the crushing frustration, and looks over Santana’s shoulder.
“Where did you find so many new friends?"
Her girlfriend grimaces. “Okay, friend may have been an excessive term…”
“No, it’s not,” the tiny brunette leading the pack chirps. “We can be friends. In fact, I’d prefer it.” Her eyes are as bright as her smile, and though she’s got a little dirt smudged on her cheeks, Brittany has seen far worse in this city. She grins.
“I’m-“
“Brittany,” the brunette fills in sagely, nodding. “A pleasure to meet you. My name is Rachel Berry.”
The introductions are quick and-with the exception of Rachel-fairly informal. None of these people look like they fit together, Brittany notes silently, but all the same they are clearly bonded. A family.
She hasn’t had a family in such a long time. Except, of course, for Santana.Who, right now, looks like she kind of regrets the whole visitor notion.
“Britt, these idiots want us to join their army.”
“It’s not nice to call new people idiots,” Brittany admonishes playfully, reaching up to tangle a hand in Santana’s hair. The Latina smirks, hooking her arms under Brittany and pulling the blonde up into her lap.
“You love that I’m not nice.”
“You’re nice to me,” Brittany counters, pressing her forehead complacently to her girlfriend’s. Santana laughs.
“And that’s all that matters.”
“Ahem.” The boy who introduced himself as Kurt is watching them with a curiously raised eyebrow. “A break from this Sapphic lovefest, perhaps?”
Santana growls, possessively palming Brittany’s back under her shirt. “Back down, Rainbow Brite. My house, my call. I haven’t seen my girl all damn day. You can just fucking wait.”
Brittany bumps her nose against Santana’s reproachfully. “San.”
“What? Baby, these assholes jumped me outside.” Santana pokes an accusatory finger in Mercedes’ direction, scowling. “The Hulk here strangled me and everything.”
Brittany ignores the huffing sigh Mercedes emits, leaning close to inspect Santana’s neck. “You need me to fix it?”
“I didn’t hurt her,” Mercedes protests. “I barely choked her furry ass at all!”
Raising her head, Brittany catches sight of the Latina’s pout and grins. “She’s right. Not a scratch on you, S.”
The pout deepens. “You weren’t there.”
“Perfect skin doesn’t lie, love.” She presses a lingering kiss against the girl’s throat, satisfied when Santana sighs in response.
“Fine.” Dark eyes snap to Mercedes, warning.” “Just don’t pull that shit again.”
The bigger girl spreads her hands, eyes rolling. “I’ll make a note of it.”
“So what’s this army thing?” Brittany asks, nudging under Santana’s chin and peering curiously up at the shifty band of misfits in their living room. “You don’t look like soldiers.”
“Damn right,” Santana mutters. Rachel bristles.
“Are you under the impression-“
“That we could do better?” Santana slices effortlessly through the protest. “Save your asses? Make a difference?”
Brittany smiles. “We could help.”
“Hell yeah, we could.” The arm around her tightens proudly. Finn’s brow knits, looking for all the world like he’s trying to process an impossibly large algebra problem.
“So you’ll join us?”
Brittany’s whole body shifts with the force of Santana’s shrug. She remembers this, the way Santana has always been with other people. Back in high school, this was common: someone would ask a question and Santana, without a moment’s hesitation, would shrug like she couldn’t give a damn. She was one of the most popular girls in school, both loved and feared across the board, yet she spent more time shrugging people off than engaging in social ventures. Where she went, she took Brittany, and if Brittany didn’t want to go-well, Santana didn’t either. More than a few times, well-meaning people-the school counselor, their cheerleading coach, even Santana’s father-stepped in with words like “unhealthy” and “codependence.” What was funny was that they didn’t get it.
Santana had Brittany. Brittany had Santana. They didn’t need anything else.
They still don’t.
But something about this feels different, somehow. It’s not forceful or obvious; Brittany’s having a hard time just putting her finger on it in the first place. All she knows is, Santana feels…excited. Sitting as still as a stone, absently fingering Brittany’s spine with a completely passive expression, she is shuddering with silent anticipation. And Brittany feels it too.
Something about this feels good.
“What do you think?” Santana asks, nudging Brittany softly. “Want to keep these dopes alive while they act like idiots?”
“We’re not-“ This time, Rachel cuts herself off with a huff. “Are you planning on being thoroughly abusive from this point onward?”
“Depends,” Santana retorts with a smirk. “Are you planning on being midget-like and obnoxious?”
Brittany elbows her. The Latina laughs. Rachel looks considerably more exhausted and insulted than amused.
“She’s joking,” Brittany assures her gently, unwinding herself from Santana’s lap and trotting to the tiny brunette’s side.
“She’s not very good at it,” Rachel mumbles. Brittany nods companionably.
“She gets that a lot.”
“Hello?” Gruff now that she’s lost physical contact, Santana stretches out on the couch and links her fingers carelessly behind her head. “Sitting right here?”
“You sure are,” Brittany agrees teasingly. “Hi.”
The boy with the mohawk-Puck, which is just about the funniest name she has ever heard, hobos included-is staring at her sort of uncomfortably. Brittany meets his eyes curiously, head tilted.
“Are you two together?” he demands without preamble, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. Brittany frowns.
“Yes-“
“Cool,” he breathes, eyebrows jerking towards his unique hairline instantly. “Hey, you think you’d ever want-“
“No,” Santana bites off, eyes closed and ankles crossed. He blinks.
“But how do you know-“
“No,” she repeats. Brittany shrugs apologetically, not totally clear on what he’s even asking. She figures Santana knows-Santana’s usually a little quicker than her when it comes to conversations with new people-and trusts the dark-haired girl with her life. If Santana says no, it’s for a good reason.
“Sorry,” she tells him with another shrug, glancing around at the rest of them. They’re looking at her like they’ve never seen anything like her before, like she’s something completely new and foreign.
It makes her feel weird.
“What?” she asks finally, too defensively. A few feet away, Santana’s eyes snap open.
The slim boy named Kurt runs his eyes up and down her body-not the way Puck or Finn are doing, but in a much deeper way. He looks genuinely interested in something she can’t see.
“Can you really heal?” he questions after a heady moment. It’s a strange thing to ask-she’s never had anyone really wonder that out loud before.
After all, her family realized she was special the day she fell out of her treehouse and, despite landing on her neck with a sick crunch, didn’t wind up remotely paralyzed. Santana realized as much a year later, when a bike accident left her with deep bloody scratches that closed in seconds. Can she heal?
Yeah. She can heal. Even if sometimes she wishes she couldn’t.
She settles for nodding, throat tight, because she can feel his awe and interest-the interest of all of them. She can feel it, and it’s got her feeling the same as ever: like some prize beast on display. Extraordinary. New. Freakish.
Sometimes she thinks her childhood fancies of circus life weren’t so unreasonable after all.
She knows Santana is keyed in, because Santana is always keyed in, where she’s concerned. Even from across the room, the tension in the other girl’s body is evident. Her shoulders are braced against the arm of the couch, ready and willing to spring up and beat down anyone who so much as looks at Brittany the wrong way, and she thinks that’s kind of sweet, after all these years. Sweet, but unnecessary. Violence isn’t the answer to anything; it’s a first-grade motto she’s managed to cling to despite everything.
“Just yourself, or-“ Kurt’s asking these questions like he already knows the answer, which probably should bother her (it would totally drive S crazy), but she can’t tap into that emotion right now. She can only shrug.
“Anyone. Anyone who needs it. It’s hard, though. I’m best at it with Santana.”
“I’ll bet,” Puck mumbles. Mercedes rocks an elbow back into his chest, smug when he proceeds to wheeze out a, “Fuck, Aretha.”
“Keep leering like that, Muscles won’t be your biggest concern,” Santana snips lowly. He scowls.
“Jesus. Women. Can’t take a fucking-“
“Keep talking, boy,” Mercedes warns, priming her elbow again. “Let’s just see how far it gets you.”
Santana eyes her, new appreciation leaking into her expression. “You know, Super-Thing, you might have a purpose after all.”
It’s the closest Santana ever comes to admitting she actually likes someone. Brittany hides her grin.
“Your healing properties,” Rachel breaks in, clearly determined to seal the deal however she can, “will be utterly invaluable to our cause. And Santana, your shape-shifting abilities are just…I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“No fucking kidding,” Santana drawls. Rachel seems to gloss right over the sarcasm.
“It’s truly remarkable,” the tiny brunette chirps. “When did you learn you were able to-“
Santana’s face darkens instantly. “None of your business, short stuff.”
She doesn’t mean that, Brittany wants to blurt. She’s just scared. She’s just remembering. She can’t say so out loud, of course; speaking up would be betrayal, and she’ll die before she betrays her girl. Santana’s pain is her own-her own and Brittany’s-and she knows all too well how her girlfriend feels about sharing.
Still, it bothers her, how Rachel bites her lip like she cares. For real cares, not some fake projection based on what’s expected to feel. Brittany can tell the difference, but she can’t make sense of it. No one’s been that real since…
Well. It’s been a long time.
Santana shakes it off, smashing the awkward mood with a shrug. “So what is it you want from us, anyway? Specifically. I’m not signing up for a mindless death march or some…I dunno, pamphlet distribution bullshit.”
Rachel seems to grow, chest puffed out, head angled high. Brittany nearly giggles at her; it’s just too cute. Like when Santana trots in with an armful of food, bursting with pride at her own cleverness.
She wonders what it says about Rachel, that she doesn’t smile when she states clearly, “We are striking back.”
Santana perks up. “Are we.”
“The attacks upon our people are increasing,” the brunette continues boldly. “There is, of course, not a singular source to trace back to, but we know of one group…one man…who is of particular concern. We’ve been operating with certain questionable intel to-“
“Hey, Karofsky and Azimo are legit dudes,” Puck protests. Kurt rolls his eyes.
“In the Neanderthal community, perhaps.”
“The point is,” Rachel raises her voice, “they are working tireless to transfer information about this man. Valuable, essential information.”
Santana unfurls from her position on the couch, wholly interested now. “Bad dude?”
“The worst,” Rachel confirms gravely. “The things he does…the truly inhumane, ungodly actions he has taken against us…”
Brittany’s skin crawls with the weight of the young woman’s unspoken fear. She swallows.
“What aren’t you saying?”
Brown eyes meet hers, white teeth working over a plump lower lip. “He’s…” Rachel hesitates. Breathes.
“He’s one of us,” Kurt fills in for her, tone flat. Santana pushes both hands into her hair.
“One of us like American, right?” she snips. “Not-“
“Like us,” Rachel emphasizes. “You can imagine how deadly that is.”
“Deadly,” Santana agrees, “and stupid. Why the hell would you want to stick your nose into that?” She narrows her eyes. “Especially when yours is such a mondo target.”
“Because I’ve seen it,” Kurt states. “I’ve seen what will happen it he gets control. You think it’s bad now? With rednecks and hot tempered assholes throwing bottles, toting shotguns? This man has followers. Give him a few years, he’ll have an army. And when that happens…it’s all over.”
Santana shakes her head disbelievingly. “It’s not that easy. It’s never that easy.”
“Yeah?” he challenges. “You ever hear of Hitler? Crazy bastards with silver tongues do well in this world, particularly when there is a well of fear to capitalize on. People don’t like us, Santana. People like us less than they’ve been known to like the Jews, the blacks, the gays. We frighten them. I think you know that.”
“Don’t patronize me, Glitterati,” she warns. Brittany moves close, arms shifting instinctively around the shorter girl’s middle.
“The point is,” Rachel says delicately, “if you think the world is difficult to survive in right now, with the stares and the stones and the sneers-it is nothing compared to what this man will bring. Someone has to stop him. Or a few deaths here and there will become genocide within the decade. And no on will stand up, because, really, who wants to put their neck on the line for a bunch of freaks?”
Brittany blanches against the wave of sudden fear emanating from the lot of them. Santana grips tight to her hands, forehead furrowed deep.
“How do you know all of this?”
Kurt smiles coldly, tiredly. “My power may not be as impressive as your own, but it’s not without its value.”
Santana’s mouth draws tight, her eyes flickering from face to face before landing at last upon Rachel’s. “All right,” she says at last. “Let’s get some shit straight before this goes any further.”
“You’re making demands?” Mercedes asks incredulously. “You serious?”
“Why not?” You come into my city, my home, ask me to join your pitiful little militia against a man you’re relating to Hitler. I think I’ve got the right to lay a couple of ground rules.”
Brittany suspects this logic makes more sense to some of their new friends than to others. She suspects, more importantly, that Santana couldn’t care less. She watches her girlfriend flick up an index finger.
“Number one: I am not dying for you bitches. Got it?”
“Well, we certainly will do our best-,” Rachel attempts, just in time for Santana to throw a second finger up.
“Number two: Brittany is not dying for you bitches. Actually, you know what? Swap those two. Any harm comes to her at all? I’m out. No gray area. No questions.”
“She can heal,” Kurt notes bluntly. Santana fires a brass-tacks glare his way.
“Doesn’t matter. She is priority number one. We clear so far?”
“San,” Brittany murmurs, pressing placating lips just under the young woman’s ear. Santana shakes loose, barely moderated panic evident in smoky eyes.
“I won’t do it if there’s even half a chance of losing you,” she swears softly. “I won’t.”
“San, we can’t sit this one out,” Brittany presses, kissing her again. “It’s for us too, you know. It’s important.”
Santana sags a little in her arms, like she knows Brittany is right, but can’t help hating it anyway. It’s almost adorable enough for Brittany to push the little gang out the door and jump her then and there, forgetting the whole situation.
Except it is important-she knows it intimately, a knowledge that goes far beyond intellect, and there’s no escaping that.
“Last thing,” Santana says, grudgingly moving on at Brittany’s gentle nudge. “This fashion shit you all have going on? It has got to go.”
The expression on Kurt’s face is nothing short of hysterical. “You must be joking.”
“Am I laughing, Sparkles?” Santana snaps. “You keep bumbling around in school jerseys and feather boas, you’re not going to have time to stop this impending genocide thing. You’ll get tracked in a heartbeat by the first available power-fearing bastard with a handgun instead, and then what good will you be? My first two rules will be broken, and, as a bonus loss of fortune, you all will be really, really dead. You want to make a difference, you have got to make some changes.”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re kind of a demanding wench?” Puck asks with no small amount of wonder. Santana grins.
“I’m still alive. Full belly. Plenty of hot flexible dancer sex in my life. I’m pretty damn happy. Think I’m doing something right there. How ‘bout you? When’s the last time you had a shower, monkey boy?”
“You offering to share?” he teases. She quirks an eyebrow.
“You looking to drown?”
As Brittany resists a giggle, the boy in the wheelchair leans up to the girl called Tina and mutters, “Twenty on the girl.”
She hides a proud smile, choosing to turn towards Rachel instead of displaying an impromptu “my girlfriend is cooler than you” dance. The brunette, despite barely coming up to her shoulder, looks like she can take on the world. Like this is her life. Like, if Brittany just trusts her, everything will be all right.
If there’s one thing Brittany is fantastic at, it’s listening to her gut.
She touches Rachel’s hand.
“We’re in,” leaves her lips, quiet and more certain than she’s been of anything since loving Santana. “We’re yours.”
“Fuck, I am not swearing allegiance by elf sword or anything,” Santana adds, smirking. Brittany elbows her gently, and her expression clears. “But she’s right. Although.”
She glances left and right, chewing her lip thoughtfully.
“We are so going to need better digs. This shit does not scream Batcave.”
This time, Brittany can’t hold back from kissing her hard enough to make Rachel blush and look nervously at the ceiling, smiling all the while.