I Watched You Sleepin' (Quietly In My Bed)
Title: I Watched You Sleepin' (Quietly In My Bed)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: She sleeps in her sneakers now.
A/N: Title from Rosy Golan's "Hazy."
She falls asleep in her sneakers. It’s a new habit, a California habit, and it makes Brittany wrinkle her nose and smile every time. Back in the old days, in high school, this never would have happened. Santana would never have allowed sneakers on her bed, especially after seeing what Coach used to do to the hallway floors.
Now, though, it’s different. Santana is different. No longer the tightly-wound bitch with the razor-blade ponytail and a ferociously simmering fury, Santana has changed. Her mother says she’s grown up, but Brittany privately thinks that isn’t it. There really isn’t that much to the growing up thing. You are who you’re going to be pretty much from day one; after that, it’s just a matter of finally making everyone else see it.
It just happened to take Santana a little longer than usual, that’s all.
Who Santana is is as amazing as in high school, but better-because, this time, she isn’t hiding behind sarcasm and clutching her cards tight against her chest. Which doesn’t mean she’s all lollipops and sunbeams now (Brittany’s pretty sure she wouldn’t love her as much if she was, because that just isn’t Santana), but she’s…somehow more relaxed. Unwound. Some days, she leaves her glasses on instead of greeting each day with an eye-poking. Every once in a while, she will wear a grungy t-shirt two days in a row, not caring who might see and call her on it. She breathes easier than Brittany ever saw before getting the hell out of Ohio.
And, sometimes, she falls asleep with her sneakers on. Black Converse high-tops, the canvas beaten and holey, smudged with dirt and grass. They don’t suit Santana, who has never been a hipster, or a punk, or even the least bit interested in starting a garage band. They don’t suit her, but she wears them anyway; Brittany thinks it’s because, even if they can’t possibly sum up the constantly vibrating zing that is Santana, they at least remind her of the first place she was ever able to be Santana. For real. The grown-up kind.
They don’t suit Santana, but they totally fit Glee-and even if Santana will never admit it, Brittany knows she misses that raggedy little singing family more than she can explain. Brittany knows, because Brittany misses them, too. (The only difference being, she isn’t too proud to keep in touch with Rachel Berry via Facebook. Santana, on the other hand, took a frightening amount of pleasure in violently striking “delete” twenty minutes after graduation.)
She stands now in the doorway of their three-room apartment, arms crossed over her chest, and watches Santana’s back rise and fall. As usual, she has returned from work to find her girlfriend face down on the bed, fresh off a shift running cash registers at the local Target and snoring lightly into the pillows. Santana does this a lot, usually because she’s trying to stay up long enough for Brittany to join her. She just…never quite makes it.
Her feet hang off the edge of the unmade bed, dangling at the ankles in those beat-up shoes. Both arms are wound protectively around the pillow Brittany tends to claim as her own, and her mouth is wide open. She’s drooling. (Santana never believes she drools, but Brittany thinks it’s cute to bug her about it anyway.)
She tends to think most things that involve her girlfriend are cute, actually.
Santana makes a satisfied little noise and burrows deeper into the pillow, her face pleasant in that million-miles-away dream state Brittany thinks looks so awesome on her. After years spent watching her best friend struggle with boys, parents, and her own self-worth, it’s amazing to see her lips quirk in a sleep smile, her eyebrows abandoning their old-habit tension. Santana is never not beautiful, but when she sleeps, she falls just short of magic.
Moving carefully around the haphazard sprawl of textbooks and clothing on the floor, Brittany reaches the bed without making a sound and gently perches on the mattress edge. Santana’s nose crinkles up at the motion; without opening her eyes, she turns her head off the pillow and presses it against Brittany’s thigh.
It’s amazing how often they can go through this little routine without it growing boring or weighing too heavily. Waking together, sleeping together, sharing meals and showers and TV obsessions; it’s everything Brittany never knew she was allowed to want before turning thirty, and she has it with the girl who has been her everything for as long as she can remember.
Looking back fondly, she recognizes how Santana has filled so many firsts, she can’t even begin to calculate them all: first bike race, first home run, first friendship bracelet, locker buddy, bathroom buddy, camp mate. First dance partner, first baking experience, sleepover, tryout, failure, shoplifting attempt. And the big stuff: first kiss; first admission of lust; first first…first love…
First heartbreak.
First and last best friend.
And now they’re here, in an apartment of their very own, with no one to tell them what to do or how to live their lives. No one is scowling over their shoulder, raining down expectation and social norms; no one is waiting around the corner to scare them (or, really, Santana) shitless with their disapproval. It’s just them: just Brittany, waitressing like a champ, and Santana, cashiering with every social skill she has ever possessed, coming home to one another at the end of every night. It’s Brittany settling on the edge of the bed when she finds Santana snoring in her high-top sneakers, and it’s Santana nudging her nose against Brittany’s skirt as she smiles in her sleep. It’s calm, and it’s familiar, and it is so adult that Brittany can’t help but giggle to think of it.
She runs the tips of her fingers through Santana’s hair, smoothing out the tangles that always mar the glossy sheen after a bike ride home. A warm sigh caresses just under her skirt, breezing along her thigh. Santana murmurs something, a cross between a Spanish lullaby and English waking.
“Mornin’,” Brittany tells her, combing through again. “You got the bedspread dusty again.”
“’m gonna wash it,” Santana replies against her leg, snuggling closer. “Soon as I get some quarters.”
“We’ve had quarters,” Brittany reminds her. “For, like, two weeks now.”
“Oh.” There’s a pause as Santana’s sleep-hazed mind mulls this over. She exhales again, shuddery and soft like a baby warding off its nap. “Soon as I remember what feet are, then.”
“Feet are the things that got you on laundry duty in the first place,” Brittany laughs, bending to kiss the top of her girlfriend’s head. Santana grunts.
“You’re lucky you’re warm, or-“
“Or what?” Brittany teases, nudging Santana over on the mattress and stretching out beside her, pleased with the immediate weight of a head against her chest. Santana presses her face between Brittany’s breasts and makes an unintelligible noise.
“Shush.”
They’re silent for a few steady moments, reveling in the ease of simply curling up together in bed. Nowhere to go, no one to please; it’s-
“This is the life, you know.” Brittany closes her eyes, crossing her feet at the ankles and smiling. “Totally better than anything else, ever.”
“Even Nationals?” Santana wonders drowsily, clearly already off on another nap before she’s woken from the first. Brittany considers it for a moment.
“Cheerios or Glee?”
“The one that ended in mind-blowing sex in the airplane bathroom,” Santana mumbles. Brittany jostles her gently.
“So…Cheerios or Glee?”
When Santana laughs, Brittany kisses her head again and shrugs. “Yeah, this is better. Y’know why?”
“Cuz Fabray isn’t moaning and groaning about how Chang is too good for her to ask out?” Santana guesses. “Or because Smurfette and Puckerman aren’t getting it on under the table while Gigantor mopes in the corner? Or, ooh! No Schue-vest!”
“Because we’re home,” Brittany interrupts, dragging her nails lightly down Santana’s bare arm. Santana smiles.
“Yeah, I guess that’s pretty awesome, huh?”
“The awesomest,” Brittany assures her. Santana scoots up until their foreheads are pressed together, her lips hovering temptingly an inch away. Her eyes are open now, clearer than ever and overwhelmingly full of love.
“You’re gonna marry me someday,” she claims quietly. Brittany arches into a slow, warm kiss, humming happily when they break apart again.
“You’re gonna have to get me a hell of a ring.”
Mock horror slides into Santana’s eyes. “You mean you wouldn’t marry me just for being me? Golddigger.”
“I take your money,” Brittany replies wisely, laughing when Santana reaches up to grab a pillow and thunk her over the head with it. “I’m a triflin’ friend in-hey, no hitting!”
“Make me,” Santana cackles, eyes going wide when Brittany thrusts her whole body upward and knocks her onto her back. “Goddammit. Every time.”
“Don’t test me, then.” Lips brush lips, her body settling comfortably between Santana’s legs like no one else has ever had the luxury of being there. She smiles.
“I think we’re kind of saps now, San.”
“Never,” Santana vows, trying to capture another kiss and whimpering when Brittany teasingly presses down with her hips. “Hey…”
“Hey,” Brittany replies softly, brushing the hair out of dark eyes and grinning. “You like being a sap with me. Admit it.”
“Babe, I’m Lima’s head bitch,” Santana drawls. “I couldn’t pull off sap if my life-“
“You sang ‘Songbird’ for me,” Brittany reminds her. “And ‘Landslide.’ And that Adele song that one time.”
Eyes rolling, Santana grasps a handful of Brittany’s t-shirt and pulls her down to kiss-level. “Fine. I’m your sap. But if this goes into your weekly Hummel-Berry newsletter, I swear, I’ll-“
“You’ll what?” Brittany kisses her hard, tongue sweeping past familiar lips. When she pulls free again, Santana’s eyes are glazed.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever.”
Brittany giggles. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda whipped?”
“You’re the one who lets me sleep on the bed in my shoes,” Santana points out, eyebrow raised. “Who’s the real whip here?”
“Whips are sexy,” Brittany observes, sliding a hand under Santana’s shirt and toying with the edge of her bra. “And we’re super-sexy. Can we both be whips?”
Santana’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, her whole face rapidly taking on that I’m about to get laid look she wears so well. “Baby, we can be whatever you want.”
“Like forever?” Brittany asks, fingers pausing. Santana’s smile softens, the fingers of one hand curling lightly against Brittany’s cheek.
“Whatever you want, Britt. Promise.”
"Good." Nodding decisively, Brittany taps a finger against Santana's nose and sits up. "I want you to do the laundry."
Santana's eyebrows draw together, plainly annoyed. "Hey, listen, I was being all cute and romantic and shit, and you-“
"I want you to do the laundry," Brittany repeats, "and then come make the sheets all dirty again with me. Without the shoes."
She's pretty sure the slow smile that spreads across Santana's lips as she bounds from the bed and reaches for their laundry basket is worth all the dirty blankets in the world.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: She sleeps in her sneakers now.
A/N: Title from Rosy Golan's "Hazy."
She falls asleep in her sneakers. It’s a new habit, a California habit, and it makes Brittany wrinkle her nose and smile every time. Back in the old days, in high school, this never would have happened. Santana would never have allowed sneakers on her bed, especially after seeing what Coach used to do to the hallway floors.
Now, though, it’s different. Santana is different. No longer the tightly-wound bitch with the razor-blade ponytail and a ferociously simmering fury, Santana has changed. Her mother says she’s grown up, but Brittany privately thinks that isn’t it. There really isn’t that much to the growing up thing. You are who you’re going to be pretty much from day one; after that, it’s just a matter of finally making everyone else see it.
It just happened to take Santana a little longer than usual, that’s all.
Who Santana is is as amazing as in high school, but better-because, this time, she isn’t hiding behind sarcasm and clutching her cards tight against her chest. Which doesn’t mean she’s all lollipops and sunbeams now (Brittany’s pretty sure she wouldn’t love her as much if she was, because that just isn’t Santana), but she’s…somehow more relaxed. Unwound. Some days, she leaves her glasses on instead of greeting each day with an eye-poking. Every once in a while, she will wear a grungy t-shirt two days in a row, not caring who might see and call her on it. She breathes easier than Brittany ever saw before getting the hell out of Ohio.
And, sometimes, she falls asleep with her sneakers on. Black Converse high-tops, the canvas beaten and holey, smudged with dirt and grass. They don’t suit Santana, who has never been a hipster, or a punk, or even the least bit interested in starting a garage band. They don’t suit her, but she wears them anyway; Brittany thinks it’s because, even if they can’t possibly sum up the constantly vibrating zing that is Santana, they at least remind her of the first place she was ever able to be Santana. For real. The grown-up kind.
They don’t suit Santana, but they totally fit Glee-and even if Santana will never admit it, Brittany knows she misses that raggedy little singing family more than she can explain. Brittany knows, because Brittany misses them, too. (The only difference being, she isn’t too proud to keep in touch with Rachel Berry via Facebook. Santana, on the other hand, took a frightening amount of pleasure in violently striking “delete” twenty minutes after graduation.)
She stands now in the doorway of their three-room apartment, arms crossed over her chest, and watches Santana’s back rise and fall. As usual, she has returned from work to find her girlfriend face down on the bed, fresh off a shift running cash registers at the local Target and snoring lightly into the pillows. Santana does this a lot, usually because she’s trying to stay up long enough for Brittany to join her. She just…never quite makes it.
Her feet hang off the edge of the unmade bed, dangling at the ankles in those beat-up shoes. Both arms are wound protectively around the pillow Brittany tends to claim as her own, and her mouth is wide open. She’s drooling. (Santana never believes she drools, but Brittany thinks it’s cute to bug her about it anyway.)
She tends to think most things that involve her girlfriend are cute, actually.
Santana makes a satisfied little noise and burrows deeper into the pillow, her face pleasant in that million-miles-away dream state Brittany thinks looks so awesome on her. After years spent watching her best friend struggle with boys, parents, and her own self-worth, it’s amazing to see her lips quirk in a sleep smile, her eyebrows abandoning their old-habit tension. Santana is never not beautiful, but when she sleeps, she falls just short of magic.
Moving carefully around the haphazard sprawl of textbooks and clothing on the floor, Brittany reaches the bed without making a sound and gently perches on the mattress edge. Santana’s nose crinkles up at the motion; without opening her eyes, she turns her head off the pillow and presses it against Brittany’s thigh.
It’s amazing how often they can go through this little routine without it growing boring or weighing too heavily. Waking together, sleeping together, sharing meals and showers and TV obsessions; it’s everything Brittany never knew she was allowed to want before turning thirty, and she has it with the girl who has been her everything for as long as she can remember.
Looking back fondly, she recognizes how Santana has filled so many firsts, she can’t even begin to calculate them all: first bike race, first home run, first friendship bracelet, locker buddy, bathroom buddy, camp mate. First dance partner, first baking experience, sleepover, tryout, failure, shoplifting attempt. And the big stuff: first kiss; first admission of lust; first first…first love…
First heartbreak.
First and last best friend.
And now they’re here, in an apartment of their very own, with no one to tell them what to do or how to live their lives. No one is scowling over their shoulder, raining down expectation and social norms; no one is waiting around the corner to scare them (or, really, Santana) shitless with their disapproval. It’s just them: just Brittany, waitressing like a champ, and Santana, cashiering with every social skill she has ever possessed, coming home to one another at the end of every night. It’s Brittany settling on the edge of the bed when she finds Santana snoring in her high-top sneakers, and it’s Santana nudging her nose against Brittany’s skirt as she smiles in her sleep. It’s calm, and it’s familiar, and it is so adult that Brittany can’t help but giggle to think of it.
She runs the tips of her fingers through Santana’s hair, smoothing out the tangles that always mar the glossy sheen after a bike ride home. A warm sigh caresses just under her skirt, breezing along her thigh. Santana murmurs something, a cross between a Spanish lullaby and English waking.
“Mornin’,” Brittany tells her, combing through again. “You got the bedspread dusty again.”
“’m gonna wash it,” Santana replies against her leg, snuggling closer. “Soon as I get some quarters.”
“We’ve had quarters,” Brittany reminds her. “For, like, two weeks now.”
“Oh.” There’s a pause as Santana’s sleep-hazed mind mulls this over. She exhales again, shuddery and soft like a baby warding off its nap. “Soon as I remember what feet are, then.”
“Feet are the things that got you on laundry duty in the first place,” Brittany laughs, bending to kiss the top of her girlfriend’s head. Santana grunts.
“You’re lucky you’re warm, or-“
“Or what?” Brittany teases, nudging Santana over on the mattress and stretching out beside her, pleased with the immediate weight of a head against her chest. Santana presses her face between Brittany’s breasts and makes an unintelligible noise.
“Shush.”
They’re silent for a few steady moments, reveling in the ease of simply curling up together in bed. Nowhere to go, no one to please; it’s-
“This is the life, you know.” Brittany closes her eyes, crossing her feet at the ankles and smiling. “Totally better than anything else, ever.”
“Even Nationals?” Santana wonders drowsily, clearly already off on another nap before she’s woken from the first. Brittany considers it for a moment.
“Cheerios or Glee?”
“The one that ended in mind-blowing sex in the airplane bathroom,” Santana mumbles. Brittany jostles her gently.
“So…Cheerios or Glee?”
When Santana laughs, Brittany kisses her head again and shrugs. “Yeah, this is better. Y’know why?”
“Cuz Fabray isn’t moaning and groaning about how Chang is too good for her to ask out?” Santana guesses. “Or because Smurfette and Puckerman aren’t getting it on under the table while Gigantor mopes in the corner? Or, ooh! No Schue-vest!”
“Because we’re home,” Brittany interrupts, dragging her nails lightly down Santana’s bare arm. Santana smiles.
“Yeah, I guess that’s pretty awesome, huh?”
“The awesomest,” Brittany assures her. Santana scoots up until their foreheads are pressed together, her lips hovering temptingly an inch away. Her eyes are open now, clearer than ever and overwhelmingly full of love.
“You’re gonna marry me someday,” she claims quietly. Brittany arches into a slow, warm kiss, humming happily when they break apart again.
“You’re gonna have to get me a hell of a ring.”
Mock horror slides into Santana’s eyes. “You mean you wouldn’t marry me just for being me? Golddigger.”
“I take your money,” Brittany replies wisely, laughing when Santana reaches up to grab a pillow and thunk her over the head with it. “I’m a triflin’ friend in-hey, no hitting!”
“Make me,” Santana cackles, eyes going wide when Brittany thrusts her whole body upward and knocks her onto her back. “Goddammit. Every time.”
“Don’t test me, then.” Lips brush lips, her body settling comfortably between Santana’s legs like no one else has ever had the luxury of being there. She smiles.
“I think we’re kind of saps now, San.”
“Never,” Santana vows, trying to capture another kiss and whimpering when Brittany teasingly presses down with her hips. “Hey…”
“Hey,” Brittany replies softly, brushing the hair out of dark eyes and grinning. “You like being a sap with me. Admit it.”
“Babe, I’m Lima’s head bitch,” Santana drawls. “I couldn’t pull off sap if my life-“
“You sang ‘Songbird’ for me,” Brittany reminds her. “And ‘Landslide.’ And that Adele song that one time.”
Eyes rolling, Santana grasps a handful of Brittany’s t-shirt and pulls her down to kiss-level. “Fine. I’m your sap. But if this goes into your weekly Hummel-Berry newsletter, I swear, I’ll-“
“You’ll what?” Brittany kisses her hard, tongue sweeping past familiar lips. When she pulls free again, Santana’s eyes are glazed.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever.”
Brittany giggles. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kinda whipped?”
“You’re the one who lets me sleep on the bed in my shoes,” Santana points out, eyebrow raised. “Who’s the real whip here?”
“Whips are sexy,” Brittany observes, sliding a hand under Santana’s shirt and toying with the edge of her bra. “And we’re super-sexy. Can we both be whips?”
Santana’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, her whole face rapidly taking on that I’m about to get laid look she wears so well. “Baby, we can be whatever you want.”
“Like forever?” Brittany asks, fingers pausing. Santana’s smile softens, the fingers of one hand curling lightly against Brittany’s cheek.
“Whatever you want, Britt. Promise.”
"Good." Nodding decisively, Brittany taps a finger against Santana's nose and sits up. "I want you to do the laundry."
Santana's eyebrows draw together, plainly annoyed. "Hey, listen, I was being all cute and romantic and shit, and you-“
"I want you to do the laundry," Brittany repeats, "and then come make the sheets all dirty again with me. Without the shoes."
She's pretty sure the slow smile that spreads across Santana's lips as she bounds from the bed and reaches for their laundry basket is worth all the dirty blankets in the world.