Fic: Love Is A Burning Thing [3/3]
Title: Love Is A Burning Thing [3/3]
Rating: Hard R
Summary: Since before she can remember, Santana has always been mesmerized by fire.
Word Count: 22k
Part One | Part Two
--
Brittany starts to ask more questions and it’s like Quinn told Brittany her suspicions, but there’s no sort of knowing behind any of the inquiries so Santana thinks maybe she’s in the clear. Nevertheless, Brittany asks her about things all the time - about who her parents were and where she went to high school and what it was like growing up - but Santana never answers. Deflection is so ingrained in her makeup that she doesn't know how else to react. It frustrates Brittany, she can tell, but there are just some things she doesn't talk about.
She doesn't need Brittany to hear about how she watched her best friend die when she was nine, or how foster care was more like a brutal initiation into gang life, or the time she nearly killed a guy in the back alley near one of her high schools.
"How come you never tell me how you got those scars on your stomach, or the ones over your ribs?" Brittany asks occasionally, half curious, mostly frustrated.
"Because you don't need to know," Santana answers, jaw clenched.
Her past is dark and terrible and the last thing she wants is to pour that all over her sunshine and rainbows girlfriend. Two dead parents and a body covered in scars is enough, Brittany doesn’t need to know the rest.
People leave, they always leave. Once Brittany gets a real taste of Santana’s dark side, she’ll be right out the door. And if she’s not smart enough to go running, all that darkness that walks one step behind Santana will consume them both and destroy Brittany in the end. Whatever good part of Santana still exists just can’t see that happen.
Keeping things separate, keeping Brittany an arm's length away is the only way she knows how to love her.
--
The one flaw in her epic plan to keep Brittany in the dark is that she has nightmares. Not every night but often enough to be concerning and they always send her shooting up in bed gasping for air.
Sucking breath back into her lungs, Santana tries to wipe the memory of the nightmare out of her brain enough to go back to sleep, hating the way the images still linger on the backs of her eyelids.
"You okay?" Brittany mumbles sleepily from the bed, a long arm reaching out to stroke over Santana's back.
"Fine, babe, go back to sleep," she orders.
Brittany sits up, like she does every time, and puts her chin on Santana's shoulder, her arm wrapping around her waist. "You're getting these more often."
"Yeah," Santana agrees. She's getting them more often and the memories are starting to shift in the most absurd ways. It's no longer just an endless stream of past memories - getting beaten behind that warehouse when she was 15, running from the cops when she was 18, or cutting open her side climbing out of a burning building - now Brittany seems to show up in every single dream. Sometimes it's Brittany where Santana should be, others Brittany just watches things happen to Santana.
"You wanna talk about it?" Brittany's fingers trace the long scar on the side of her stomach as if the blonde knows exactly what Santana sees when she closes her eyes.
"It's nothing," Santana replies, shaking her head. "Don't worry about it."
"You should talk about it, San, they're getting bad."
"I said it's nothing," she snaps, turning to glare at Brittany, fear and adrenaline making her punchy.
Brittany huffs but she doesn't say anything, just kisses Santana on the cheek before snuggling back down into the covers.
A warm palm stays on the small of her back and despite the damp chill that’s settling in the rest of her body, Santana can’t help but push back slightly into Brittany’s hand and take a deep, calming breath at the touch.
--
On the days when the nightmares are the worst, or when she feels like she can’t see a fire without seeing something else, she goes to Puck’s place. Mike knows all her horror stories and he’s a better friend that Santana feels like she deserves but Puck was there. He gets her on a level that only the two of them can understand.
When she shows up at his door, jeans and a black hoodie, he takes one look at her and grabs his coat from inside the door, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and walking her out of the building.
They go to this old abandoned warehouse outside of the city. It used to be some lumber factory aside some train tracks but no one has used the place for years. When they were kids, they used to hang out here all the time, playing all kinds of weird games. It was their version of a treehouse, just with broken glass and death traps all over the place.
Puck walks over to old run down truck that’s parked not too far away and pulls a brown paper bag out from under its carriage. It’s a bottle of whiskey they keep there for emergencies. The first pull of that bottle does more to settle Santana’s nerves than anything else in her entire life.
He laughs at her as she tips the bottle back twice and picks up an empty beer bottle from the ground. “You want the first throw or shall I?”
Wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, she holds the whisky out to him and breathes out the harsh taste of liquor on the back of her throat. “Me,” she answers.
He trades her, the full bottle for the empty one and she throws the brown glass bottle up in the air a few times, eying the decaying side of the warehouse. “Right, upper window,” she calls, rearing her arm back before flinging it forward and watching the bottle fly upwards in a long arc. There’s a little tug in her side where a newly healed scar resides but it feels good as she rotates her arm around a little and an ache starts to settle.
Puck whistles as he watches the flying bottle, handing the whiskey back over and she lets her head drop back sharply on her shoulders when the bottle smashes against the side of the building, missing her mark by a few inches.
“Not drunk enough,” Puck chastises, picking up another bottle and twirling it in his hand. “Center window, bottom row.”
The bottle zings past her as he chucks it in the air and she pushes his shoulder as it smashes into the window and clatters into the old warehouse with a loud crash. She kicks at the ground until she finds another bottle and picks it up, taking a long swig of whisky before announcing to Puck, “Roof.”
“Aim for the stars!” Puck exclaims with a laugh, grabbing the alcohol from her and watching as she holds the bottle like a football before letting it fly.
“So I gotta ask,” Puck says after the bottle smashes against the tin roof.
“Yeah?” Santana swipes the whisky back and arches an eyebrow at him.
“Brittany is your girlfriend, right?” He picks up a rock this time and eyeballs the warehouse, slinging it towards the windows and blowing out a long breath as he watches it fall.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I mean,” Puck says, moving backwards to sit on an abandoned tractor tire behind him. The lot’s full of the most random equipment ever - which is what made it so fun to play in as kids. “You’re all pissy and moody with me, which is fucking fine. But that’s like the best ticket to free pussy ever and you’ve got a waiting and willing body back in your apartment. What the fuck?”
Rolling her eyes she takes another sip of whisky and observes the stars. “Well I’m here. What’s the fucking problem?”
“Nothing,” Puck says, sounding defensive. “I’m just saying, pretty as I may be, if I had Brittany waiting at home I’d probably be crying on her shoulder right now.” He pauses. “And by shoulder I obviously mean boob.”
She sends him an incredulous look.
“Fake crying,” he clarifies. “Because I don’t cry. But I’d do it to get play. And she’s gotta wonder why you come out with me instead of curling up to her. I’m just saying.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and pats his jacket for a lighter. “I know women.”
“She doesn’t know,” Santana mumbles, setting the whisky on the ground and picking up a rock. She turns it around in her hand as she looks at the large side of the warehouse.
“Doesn’t know what?” Puck asks, the sound of his lighter flicking open breaking the nighttime silence.
“Anything,” Santana answers, cocking her arm back and throwing the rock at the farthest door on the bottom left side of the building.
The smell of menthol hits her nostrils and Puck lets out a long stream of smoke above her head. “Why the fuck not?”
Santana purses her lips and picks up another rock. “Do you know what Brittany did for fun as a kid?”
Puck shrugs and takes another drag. “Uh, no.”
“She played with her little sister, dressed up their dolls, went to the playground, fucking played with ducks,” Santana answers. “Her darkest memory as a kid was the one time she broke her mother’s favorite vase and she got a timeout for an hour.”
“So?” Puck stands and grabs the whisky from the ground while Santana chucks another beer bottle at the warehouse.
“So?” She twirls to face him with her arms outstretched at her sides. “So when I broke a fucking plate when I was twelve, Roger held my face over a gas stove!” She shouts.
“Yeah thanks, genius. I was there. What’s your point?”
“My point?!” Santana shouts. “My point?”
“Yeah, that’s what I asked,” Puck replies patiently, handing over the bottle.
“My point is that how am I supposed to talk to this girl who’s fucking perfect; whose life was fucking Leave it to Beaver?”
“Babe,” Puck laughs. “No one is perfect.”
“You don’t understand,” Santana says, deflating and taking a long pull of the whisky.
“I understand just fine,” Puck says, picking up a rock and throwing it. “You need to stop being a pussy about it.”
“Oh fuck you,” Santana snaps, running her forearm across her mouth and glaring at her friend. A cold breeze rustles through her hair and she rolls her head on her shoulders and she paces around the lot, kicking rocks and trash under her feet.
“I think she can handle a couple of bad stories,” Puck says, flicking ash to the side. Santana watches the orange glow of his cigarette with a dull expression.
“Bad stories,” she repeats, putting the whisky on the ground and taking a long breath of cold air. “Bad stories.”
“So what, you’re going to go your whole life with this chick and just never tell her anything about yourself?”
“She just doesn’t need to know this stuff,” Santana explains, gesturing between them. “She doesn’t need to hear about my nightmares.”
“But she wants to,” Puck adds with this knowing tone in his voice that makes her throw her next rock particularly viciously.
“Even if I wanted to tell her,” Santana bites out. “Which I don’t. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
Puck nods a little like he’s taking it all in as he ashes his cigarette again and picks up the whiskey. “Hey, Lopez,” he says after a long silent moment. “Where did you get that scar on your forearm?”
Her head snaps down to her left arm where she had rolled the sleeve of her sweatshirt up to reveal a thin pink line running down the outside of her arm. “Bobby Masters,” Santana answers, shooting him a look. “You were there, idiot.”
“He cut you?” Puck asks, unperturbed by her confused expression. He tips the bottle against his lips as he watches her.
“Yeah,” she says. “Bastard fucking turned on us. What the hell? You know all this.”
“What happened?”
“Dude,” Santana starts, but Puck shrugs and stubs his cigarette out against the ground as he repeats the question.
“I wrestled the knife away and shoved it in his leg,” Santana deadpans. “Were you hit on the head recently?”
Puck walks forward and hands her the bottle. “You were trying to kill him?”
“I was trying to survive,” she shoots back, whipping the bottle out of his grasp.
“That’s how you tell her,” Puck says, his eyes intent as they stare at hers. “One story at a time.”
Santana swallows her surprise and thinks about what he just said. The idea of telling Brittany the same things she just said to Puck makes her stomach turn over and the back of her throat start to ache but she attempts a deep breath and picks up another empty bottle from the ground, tipping the whisky against her lips.
“Are we done with the sharing and caring portion of the evening?”
Puck laughs and nods as he fishes out his pack of cigarettes again. “Never change, Lopez. Never change.”
The laugh that falls past her lips feels slightly faked but she manages to chuck her bottle high into the air, calling out, “Top row, middle window,” and hit her mark.
--
She doesn’t actually take Puck’s advice. She doesn’t tell anything to Brittany and nothing changes.
Except, it kind of does. It’s like Brittany knows Santana wants to tell her and it’s made her just a tad more pushy, more inquisitive than ever
They’ve fought before, but suddenly it escalates out of nowhere. Santana thinks maybe it has something to do with the accident or the fact that even years later, Brittany’s still asking Santana questions and not getting answers. It probably has something to do with just Santana’s general suckiness as a girlfriend, but whatever the reason, they start fighting more often.
They fight about stupid stuff like Santana drinking the OJ straight out of the carton or Brittany leaving the cap off of the toothpaste but they fight about real stuff too like Santana's job and her inability to open up and the way Brittany pouts when Santana can't say I love you too despite feeling it with every fiber of her being.
The fighting is intense and passionate, exploding all around them and causing chaos and Santana loves every single, painful second of it. It punches into her and she feels her body thrum to life, every part of her anticipating the next argument with relish.
It's hard though, because fighting with Brittany is like kicking a puppy sometimes and Santana knows that that part of her deep down that thrives on fighting, falling and fire will push Brittany away in the end. She knows it but she can't seem to stop it.
--
They break up two years after they first meet. Well, actually, they break up just about every other week, but this one is bigger and feels scarily permanent to Santana; it's been weeks since they've seen each other instead of the 36 hours they usually last. Brittany went back to an apartment she rarely slept at anymore and Santana had taken to spending more time at the station and with Mike than is really necessary. She thinks maybe Mike is getting kind of sick of her, especially since now that Mike is seeing some new girl Tina and gets kind of pissed when Santana insists he go out drinking with her instead of seeing new-girl.
Then, Brittany starts dating some friend of her friend's that Santana thinks maybe she met once at a bar or a party Brittany dragged her to. Santana spots them one night on a drive-by that she does not take by Brittany's building every night. Nope. No way.
Okay, whatever. She's worried about her, okay?
When she sees Brittany kissing some guy goodnight on the front steps of her building, Santana's jaw drops open and she nearly crashes into a parked car.
She shows up for her shift in a rage and heads straight to the hanging bag in the corner, punching it furiously over and over and over and over again.
"Jesus, Lopez," Matt says, walking up next to her and observing the way the bag swings back and forth with her punches. "That little blonde thing finally get over you?"
"Shut the fuck up," she seethes, punching the bag harder.
"Yo, Chang," Matt shouts over his shoulder. "Come put a leash on your girl before she breaks something."
She catches the bag on the next swing and stops it, turning to glare at Matt as Mike comes trotting up behind him.
"What's wrong with you?" Mike asks.
"Britt finally wised up and left this damaged fool," Matt jokes, laughing.
"Kiss my Puerto Rican ass, Rutherford," she seethes, half-lunging at him.
Mike pulls Matt behind him and steps in front of her. "Dude," he says, chuckling. "Find the calm within," he intones, pressing his hands together and bowing slightly.
Santana rolls her eyes but can't help laughing at her friend. "I hate you."
He slings an arm around her shoulders and grins at her. "No you don't."
She shoves him a little bit but he just keeps laughing and she'd punch him if he weren't making her laugh right now. He steers them towards the kitchen in the back and plops her in a chair before heading towards the coffee machine and pouring a mug. "So why are we clearly getting our money back on those anger management classes you went to?"
Santana accepts the coffee he hands her and leans back in her chair, the front legs rocking up a bit. "I think Brittany's seeing someone."
Mike plops down into a chair across from her. "No shit?"
"Yeah," Santana breathes.
"Okay," he replies. "Let's go out tonight."
"What?"
"Let's go out and you can "see" someone too," he offers, making air-quotes with his hands. "Tina's got some hot friends I can invite."
The chair falls forward and she stands up. "I don't want to go out and fuck someone, jeez."
"Okay, okay, damn. Fine. Then call Puck."
Her eyebrows come together as she sits back down. "What?"
An expression crosses over Mike's face that clearly says don't be stupid. "You want to get rid of the new dude, right?"
"Yeah," she draws out, still skeptical at what he's saying.
"Call Puck," he orders. "Think about it."
He stands to get back to cleaning the engine and leaves her staring at the far wall as she mulls over his words. When realization dawns on her, she grabs for her phone.
--
"What are you wearing?" Puck's voice is muffled, probably by whatever disgusting meal he's devouring.
"I need you to run a check," Santana says, shifting her shoulder up to keep her phone against her ear. She pours herself another cup of coffee and eyes the rest of the empty room.
"On who?"
"Brittany's dating some dude," she hisses, the words nearly making her see red as she says them.
"The fuck?"
"Yeah," Santana agrees, dropping her shoulder down and grabbing her phone with her free hand. "So can you do it?"
"Didn't you guys like just break up?" The sound of a car door opening and closing resounds through the phone.
"Can you focus?" Santana huffs.
"'Course I can do it, who do you think I am?"
Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah okay, well then do it."
"What do you want me to do?" Puck asks.
"I just told you, moron."
"No," Puck replies. "I mean when I find the guy."
"The usual," Santana answers as she kicks a chair out to sit on. "Just make him gone."
"Awesome, I'll keep in touch."
"Whoa, I didn't even tell you who he is," Santana interrupts, twirling her coffee mug around on the table.
"Dude, are you for real right now? We have met, right?"
"Goodbye."
"You're going to owe me a blow job for this," Puck cajoles.
"Why are we friends?" Santana laughs.
"Because of my nine inch-"
She hangs up before he can finish.
A week later, Puck doesn't give her all of the details, though she hears something about random drug testing and a car repossession, but on the next few drive bys, Brittany walks into her apartment alone and Santana sleeps easier.
--
An alarm rings through the station same as any day but by the time they pull up to their destination and Santana jumps out to grab her gear, it's no ordinary call at all. In fact, looking over her shoulder briefly, she takes notice of the absence of smoke or fire or any of the normal indications that firefighters are actually needed. Shit, she hates calls like these.
"Yo, Lopez," Matt says, coming around the side of the truck and nudging her. "Ain't that your girl?"
Santana jerks back in surprise, but she suddenly understands why Mike kept looking at her weird the entire drive over and her eyes are wide before she even turns to confirm Matt's words. She twirls away from the side of the engine and looks at the tall blonde standing on the sidewalk. Mike walks up to stand next to her. "Brittany?"
"Hey," the blonde girl says. "Hi Mike!"
"Hey, Britt," Mike greets, shifting around in his gear. "You rang?"
Brittany laughs and crosses her arms, shifting back and forth on her feet before jerking her head up over Santana's left shoulder. "My cat's stuck in a tree."
Mike turns to look at where she's indicating but Santana furrows her brow as her jaw drops open. "You don't have a cat."
"Yes I do," Brittany argues. "It's in that tree."
Santana finally decides to look up at the tree Mike is now staring at wide-eyed and rolls her eyes when she sees what he's looking at. "That's a stuffed cat, Brittany."
"It's my cat."
"It's not real," Santana deadpans, turning back to look at her ex-girlfriend. "You called the fire department because your fake cat is in a tree?"
"Pancakes is not fake, Santana!" Brittany exclaims. "He's my cat. And he's stuck in a tree."
"Right," Santana says her brow furrowed.
"That's what the fire department is for, isn't it? You're the only guys with ladders," Brittany argues, raising an eyebrow.
Mike laughs beside her so Santana cuts a glare in his direction. This is ridiculous. She almost doesn't want to ask the next question.
"How did it get up there exactly?"
Brittany bites her lip and cocks her hip out a little bit before jutting her chin forward slightly. "I put him there."
"You…put him…there?" Santana's eyes are wide and really she knows Brittany is crazy but this, this is a whole different realm of insane.
"Yes," Brittany says, more confident as she nods. Mike continues to laugh next to Santana.
"So let me get this straight," Santana says, pointing at the stuffed animal. "You climbed this tree with your fake cat. You put the fake cat in the tree. You climbed down. And then you called 911."
"Yes."
Mike claps her on the back and moves away. "I'll go get it," he says, grinning at the two of them. "You deal with this."
Santana gives him her best you're a dumbass expression before turning back to Brittany and crossing her arms over her chest. They stare at each other silently and it's then that Santana notices the sweatshirt Brittany is wearing. There's a patch on the arm and the right breast and on the left side the name S. Lopez is embroidered there. It's weird, but there's just something about the way Brittany constantly stole her clothes, sweatshirts more often than not, and wore them around all the time. The sight of it never failed to surge affection and arousal straight through Santana.
"That's my sweatshirt," she accuses like a child, trying not to reveal how much she loves the way it settles over Brittany's shoulders.
"So?" Brittany pouts.
"So that's my sweatshirt and you have it."
"Yup," Brittany agrees.
Santana takes a step towards the blonde and lowers her voice. "Britt, why did you call the fire department?"
She expects evasion and lies but this is Brittany and why Santana expected any of that she has no idea. "I miss you."
Eyes wide, her heart suddenly beating hard against her chest, Santana has no idea what to say to that. "Um, okay."
"Did you tell Puck to arrest Jason?"
The question comes out of nowhere and Santana doesn't have to fake surprise. "Who's Jason?"
"Santana," Brittany reprimands.
She holds her arms out. "What?"
"You're such an idiot."
Santana rolls her eyes. "I'm not the one that stuck their fake cat in a tree," she points out.
“Jason’s just a friend,” Brittany explains.
“A friend you make out with,” Santana counters.
“Well, yeah,” Brittany says like this is something she does with her friends all the time.
“Whatever,” Santana says, shaking her head. “I really don’t care.”
Brittany catches the lie right away. "If you want to be with me, you should just say so."
Throwing her hands up in the air, Santana gives Brittany her best incredulous expression. "I fucking did say so, you're the one that walked away, you're always the one walking away."
"Saying something and meaning it are two different things," Brittany argues.
"You're ridiculous. What does that even mean?"
Brittany steps closer and Santana watches Mike grab the stuffed cat out from its perch from the corner of her eye, Matt directing the ladder towards the tree.
"Why did you have Puck arrest Jason instead of just coming to talk to me?"
"Britt, I told you," Santana says, gulping as the smell of Brittany's perfume hits her nose. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Santana," Brittany draws out, stepping even closer and her eyes travel over her favorite sweatshirt as she tries not to get distracted by imagining the toned body just underneath it.
"You're the one with the phony 911 call, that's a crime you know," she mutters.
"It wasn't phony," Brittany says, reaching out to tug on the flashlight clipped to Santana's bunker jacket.
Santana grabs her hand and holds it. It’s instinct more than anything.
When Brittany smiles at her, Santana can't hold it in anymore. She pulls Brittany's arm and tugs her even closer until she's pressing their lips together. Brittany responds with a low groan, pushing back harder and bringing her hands to Santana's cheeks.
But then she's pulling away abruptly and frowning. "We broke up."
"It'll be different this time," Santana blurts out, not really knowing what she's saying. "Promise." It’s actually what she says every time they break up and for a second she’s afraid Brittany will throw that right back in her face.
It's not clear what exactly will be different and to be honest, Santana can barely remember what it was that broke them up in the first place, but she's spitting lines out in a desperation for Brittany to take her back. She glances to her side to make sure Mike and Matt and the rest of the crew can't hear the conversation.
Brittany's eyes go wide and bright with hope and Santana kind of hates how she knows that despite her words, she will fuck up again, but she smiles at the expression and readjusts her grip on Brittany's hand.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, babe," Santana reassures her. "Promise."
Brittany surges forward and wraps her arms around Santana's neck, pressing against her bunker gear in a way that can't be comfortable but Santana settles her hands on the girl's hips and lets herself breathe in a scent that's all Brittany.
"I love you," Brittany whispers into her ear and Santana feels elation and pain at the same time. The right thing to do would be to let Brittany go, to let her get over Santana and find someone better. A good person would stop pulling Brittany back in when she's only going to push her away sooner or later. A good person wouldn't be smiling into Brittany's shoulder but Santana's never been very skilled at being a good person.
--
They're back together a week before it all goes to Hell again.
It had been a terrible day, a bad fire across town and Santana had watched as a young woman took a nose dive out of her tenth-story apartment to splat on the pavement. The scene keeps replaying in her head over and over again and though she knows she couldn't have stopped it, guilt’s swimming in her head.
Brittany had already been already there when she got home and Santana doesn't even know how it all escalated. One minute they're just talking in Santana's kitchen, going over what had happened in their respective days and sure, Santana’s being evasive about everything but Santana is always evasive so she doesn't think anything of it.
She can’t stop seeing her day replay and she knows exactly what she’s going to dream about tonight, who she’s going to see jumping out of a building instead of the woman from earlier. The idea of it is putting her on edge, making her punchy and irritable. Brittany picks up on it fast, like she always does, but Santana does nothing to answer her questions. It’s not like she really wants to say I’m pissed that I’m going to dream about you committing suicide all night.
So instead she falls back on her old favorites: “It’s nothing,” she repeats. “Just drop it.”
The next thing she knows Brittany is throwing her arms up in the air and walking out the front door. It takes her two seconds, two moments where Santana seriously considers doing the right thing and letting her go before she’s running after her.
"What the hell is your problem?" Santana shouts after her, taking the steps out of her building two at a time. Brittany stops and twirls to face her on the sidewalk.
"What are we doing?" Brittany asks. All the telltale signs that Brittany's about to cry are spread across her face and Santana wants to punch whatever caused it. Her fists clench and she imagines hitting herself in the teeth.
"I have no idea, you're the one freaking out right now!"
"Why do you even want to be with me?" Brittany puts her hands on her hips and looks at Santana expectantly.
"What kind of question is that?" Santana counters even though she knows exactly what Brittany's searching for. "You know why!"
"Why don't you ever tell me anything about your life? Why don't you ever tell me anything? Why is it so hard for you to open up to me?" The questions come out one after the other sounding more like accusations than anything else.
"What are you talking about? I tell you shit," Santana replies, glaring at her.
Brittany shakes her head. "You don’t, you're not open to me, you're not open to anything. You're closed up in your little room of pain and torture and you won't let anyone else get close enough to help you. Well I'm done trying. For good.”
Blonde hair nearly smacks Santana in the face as Brittany twirls on her heel and starts to walk away. "Goodbye," she throws over her shoulder.
Fear, like a bucket of cold water, douses the anger within her and her eyes start to sting as she watches Brittany walk away from her down the sidewalk. Before she can think to do otherwise, her feet are running after her girlfriend, sprinting until her hand is darting out and wrapping around Brittany's wrist, spinning Brittany around to face her.
There are tears in Brittany's eyes and her face is shrouded in pain and Santana feels every scar on her body burn into her skin until it’s like a slow simmer all over her. She lifts Brittany's hand up and presses it to her stomach right above the waistband of her pants and over the small circular marks that sit there.
"Cigarette burns," she whispers, staring into Brittany's eyes.
A gasp breaks through Brittany's mouth and she jerks back a little but Santana presses Brittany's fingers harder into her stomach, taking a step closer.
"I was 18," she continues, swallowing hard and forcing herself to stay in the present. “Behind the garbage cans at my high school.”
Brittany exhales and takes a step closer. Swallowing, her eyes dart over Santana's face. "Did it hurt?"
A short, loud laugh bursts out of her. "Yeah," she admits. "It hurt."
"Okay," Brittany says with a smile and a small nod. "Okay."
It's over like that and Santana knows that Brittany really means it when she says okay but for whatever reason she's so sick of this game they play, sick of the push and the pull and the unpredictability of it all and she's saying the words before she can think to say anything else. She just needs it to be different.
"I love you."
Brittany's whole face shifts and changes and Santana feels a warmth spread from Brittany's fingers at her stomach all the way over her chest. She feels it spread through her like a slow-burning fire and all of a sudden she senses her world changing and shifting.
Swallowing hard, Santana continues. "This is who we are," she says. "We fight all the time, but I love you and you love me and we need to stop walking out on each other. You need to accept that it's the way it's supposed to be." What she means is you can't keep leaving me and you're the only person who's ever loved me and I love you so much I can't lose you, but she thinks maybe Brittany understands that.
It doesn't even sound like her voice when the words come out and she kind of can't believe she's saying them but she knows that she needs Brittany to stay, she knows that she'll fuck up again and she needs Brittany not to leave. "I can tell you stuff about myself. I can do it if that's what you want."
Brittany shakes her head. "It's okay, it's okay."
"I'm sorry," she mumbles. "I know that I'm messed up and stuff and -" Brittany cuts her off with a finger on her lips.
"Say it again," she whispers.
"Say what again?" Santana mutters around the finger.
"You know what," Brittany replies her eyes wide with wonder as she brings her finger down.
It hits her and she gulps but the words don't get lost as she tries to get them out. "I love you," she says with confidence. "I've loved you for a long time."
"That's all I need you to tell me," Brittany replies. "The rest is just details."
The blonde practically leaps forward into Santana's arms, their mouths crashing together as Santana repeats the words against Brittany's lips over and over again, the more she says them the easier it becomes until she feels like it's the only truth she's ever known.
--
About three months after Santana says I love you, she takes Brittany to that soccer field again.
“You and this field,” Brittany jokes, sprawling out on the grass and smiling up at Santana.
She shoves both her hands into her pockets and shifts around as she looks down at Brittany. “I used to come here as a kid,” she says, kicking out at the grass a little.
Brittany lifts up and props her elbows into the ground behind her. “Yeah, baby,” she laughs. “I know.”
A chill wind blows through the trees and she turns to watch them sway around the sides of the field before opening her mouth again. “No one knows about it,” she says.
Brittany tilts her head, still smiling. “Well I do,” she argues.
“Yeah,” Santana laughs. “You and me, that’s it.”
“Come down here,” Brittany orders, cocking her head to the grass.
Santana squints out across the field and stares at the rusted goal posts for a second, trying to get the unpleasant feeling of nervousness out of her stomach. “That scar on my back,” she starts, looking back at Brittany. “The one that goes down my shoulder blade?”
Brittany’s face sobers with realization and she sits up a little. Santana swallows and rocks back and forth on her heels. “One of my foster fathers threw a broken plate at me,” she says. “It uh, it got stuck in my back. Obviously.”
She laughs but Brittany’s face stays serious, eyes wide and jaw dropped a little bit.
“Anyway, I used to come here when bad stuff would happen, you know? Just to get away. I never told Puck or Mike or anyone about it.”
“Santana,” Brittany says, soft and sweet. She sits up all the way and wraps her hand around Santana’s shin, stroking against the denim there and looking up at her.
“That’s probably the nicest childhood memory I have,” Santana jokes. “That’s why I never told you.”
Brittany's expression is sad and Santana hates it, but her girlfriend just tugs at her leg and orders her to sit on the ground again. She obeys, taking her hands out of her pockets and maneuvering her body next to Brittany’s.
“I can handle the bad stuff,” Brittany whispers. “You can trust me.”
Santana bites down on her lip and leans her side into Brittany’s before turning to face her and laughing a little. “I know that,” she says, smiling. “That’s why I’m telling you.”
“I’m sorry,” Brittany says, her hand covering Santana’s where it’s flat against the grass. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Don’t be,” Santana replies, turning her hand over to intertwine their fingers. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Brittany’s head jerks back a bit and her brows come together.
“It all brought me here,” Santana explains, her voice soft. She looks up over the field and the trees. “I don’t want to be anywhere but here.”
Warm lips press against the skin under her ear and she smiles as she leans into it. “I love you,” Brittany mumbles into Santana’s neck.
“Yeah,” she says, smiling at the way the words send heat through her limbs and into her chest. “Me too.”
--
Santana was born of fire, she was raised in fire, she lives in fire and she’s fairly certain she’ll die in a fire - just like her parents. She’s never been afraid of it. There were times in her life, some recently, when she would have welcomed death with open arms. She’s going to die, she’s as certain of it as she is of time passing. For that matter, most people would argue that she should have died years ago. Death isn’t scary, it’s an inevitability.
So when she wakes up from her afternoon nap to the smell of something burning flaring up her nostrils, her first thought isn’t fear or surprise. Her first thought is well, this is it.
It’s a fleeting, quick thought that disappears when realization bursts through. Because she’s not alone in her apartment and despite the fact that she’s completely and totally resigned to her own mortality the idea that Brittany is in danger pumps white hot adrenaline straight through her.
The kitchen is already filling with smoke when she gets there. She rounds the corner and the first thing she sees are half the contents of her kitchen strewn across all the counters and the floor and the table. The second thing she sees is Brittany, a hand over her mouth as she waves at a quickly building fire near the stove and reaches for the thick table cloth on the kitchen table. It’s literally straight out of every nightmare Santana has at night - all the terrible dreams she doesn’t tell Brittany, all the dark thoughts that keep her up at night. Her own personal damnation right in front of her about to consume the one bright spot in her universe.
She freezes. For the first time ever in her entire life, she looks at a fire and just...stops. The flames are wavering in the air and as Santana’s eyes watch as it burns the dishtowels they keep near and the duck shaped oven mitts Brittany uses before it licks higher to darken the cabinets.
There’s an extinguisher under the sink and even if there wasn’t, Santana’s spent her entire life putting out fires - she’s trained to do this. But against all her training, when her body finally unlocks and she springs to action, she doesn’t go for the fire extinguisher or for anything else to put it out, she goes straight for Brittany, grabbing her around the waist and nearly three years after the first time she did this, she carries Brittany away from the fire.
Brittany looks completely shocked as Santana sets her back down in the hallway outside her apartment and looks at her seriously. “Don’t move,” she orders. “Just, don’t move.”
Her girlfriend nods and Santana gulps as she takes a deep breath and turns back into the apartment. She gets back to the kitchen again and it’s the weirdest sensation. Here she is, standing in front of something she’s had such a close relationship with her entire life and all she wants to do is run back towards Brittany, grab her, and take them both as far away as possible.
She doesn’t know how to deal with the way her heart starts beating too fast and her hands are shaking and she can feel herself break out into a sweat for reasons unrelated to the orange flames flickering against her face.
Thankfully, her training kicks in and despite a nearly crippling need to run away, her body shifts into gear, grabs the extinguisher from her kitchen and sprays the entire area. She keeps spreading the foam all over her kitchen even long after the flames disperse. The slamming of a door open and closed makes her stop and she turns to see Brittany walking back in, observing her with a cautious expression.
“I told you to stay outside,” Santana says in a low, scratchy voice.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m a fucking firefighter, Brittany, of course I’m okay, Christ,” she intones, throwing the red canister against the floor with a loud crash. Brittany jumps back in surprise. “Fuck.”
It all feels out of control, her emotions, her life, everything and she’s helpless to contain it all. In that one, insignificant moment, when she froze, when she worried about Brittany being in danger, Santana felt like she didn’t know who she was anymore.
“How did that even happen?!” Anger is replacing fear and she can’t stop the rise in her voice and the way her jaw clenches almost painfully as she twirls to face at her girlfriend.
“I was cooking,” Brittany offers in a small voice, wringing her hands together.
“The fuck, Brittany, you could have fucking died,” she shouts.
“It was a small fire,” Brittany argues, confusion wrinkling the space between her eyebrows.
“It’s fire,” Santana counters, pointing at the now blackened area that was once consumed by flame.
“Are you okay?” Brittany walks forward and puts a hand on Santana’s cheek, her eyes darting around Santana’s face as if she’s looking for something.
“I’m fine,” Santana snaps. “I’d just like for you to be fucking careful.”
“You don’t look fine,” Brittany replies.
“I said I’m fucking fine,” Santana retorts before stepping backwards and pinching the bridge of her nose as a sudden headache pierces through her forehead. “Fuck.” The adrenaline leaving her is making her shaky and unstable and she’s having a hard time focusing on the here and now.
Until Brittany steps forward and tugs Santana’s wrist, pulling their bodies together and wrapping long arms around Santana’s back. Her face gets shoved into Brittany’s collarbone and even though she can still smell burning cloth and smoke and gas she breathes in deeply against Brittany’s skin and suddenly feels steady again.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” Brittany mutters into her hair.
“I wasn’t afraid,” she lies, shaking her head, but bringing her hands up to grip Brittany’s shirt.
“Yeah you were,” Brittany says. “It’s okay. The fire was really just my secret evil plan to get you to buy a new place with me by burning down yours.”
A laugh bubbles up and pours out of her and her chest lightens as Brittany starts laughing too, hot breath beating against the side of Santana’s head. She pulls back and looks at her girlfriend, bringing her hand up to wipe away a smudge of soot on Brittany’s cheek.
“Good plan,” she utters, blowing out a long breath.
Brittany bounces up a little bit on her toes and smiles. “I thought so.”
Santana sobers again and she stares at Brittany, her legs still a little shaky but the warm body against her own rejuvenating slowly but surely. “I love you,” she says.
“Yeah,” Brittany says, swiping a hand over Santana’s brow. “I can tell.”
She pulls their hips in together and pouts at her girlfriend. “Hey,” she whines, feeling the now-unfamiliar void of absent affection.
The laugh is low and deep and Santana feels it vibrate up through Brittany’s body. The blonde presses their lips together and grips her fingers in Santana’s hair before pulling back slightly.
“I love you too,” Brittany whispers, their breath mingling between them.
This is how it ends. In a ruined kitchen full of promise.