FIC: Free Falling From a Work in Progress - Glee (Brittany/Santana, Rachel/Quinn) - Prologue/7
TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
GENRE: Glee, but borrows from some of the spy mythology from 'Chuck'
PAIRING: Santana/Brittany, Rachel/Quinn
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: ~ 56,000
SUMMARY: Eight years after being recruited into the NSA, Special Agent Santana Lopez, aka Molly Chambers, is given a new assignment: track down the stolen Government Intersect and protect it from harm.
SPOILERS: 3.04 'Duets' and beyond pretty much destroyed my head canon for this, but let's move on and pretend it didn't.
SPECIAL THANKS TO: zep1980 for the amazing beta job. I would have been lost without you!
NOTES: For gleefsbigbang. Based on this prompt from the glee kink meme.
CHAPTERS: Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven |
****
Free falling from a work in progress
Free falling from a life on hold
There has never been a time
When I didn't want you
- 'The Good Witch of the North', Everclear
PROLOGUE
A few months into their senior year, in between rehearsals for a Glee number, Rachel had asked Brittany a question that Brittany privately thought was really, really stupid.
"Don't you get jealous?" Rachel asked, arms crossed and brow furrowed. "Like, at all?"
It had come out of the blue, and Brittany, in the middle of stretching for a featured dance solo, had been taken off-guard. "What do you mean?"
"You and Santana," Rachel clarified. Brittany only stared. A flush started on Rachel's cheek, before the other girl's voice dropped as she came in closer. "You know... "she continued, like she was sharing some major secret. When Brittany arched a confused brow, Rachel's eyes rolled to the back of her head. "Aren't you guys dating? Like officially?"
Her body had begun to feel the warmth of her exertions, and when sweat prickled at the back of her neck, Brittany lifted her blonde hair off her shoulders, trying to cool herself. Across the room, her best friend was in the middle of running her finger along the collarbone of one of Glee's newest members, Jimmy Whatshisname.
Brittany only remembered his first name because the last time she had made out with him, he had been particularly peeved that she hadn't actually bothered to learn it.
Brittany hadn't quite had the heart to tell him it was because he honestly wasn't worth the effort.
Cute guy, but a horrible kisser.
Still, it wasn't surprising to see Santana play at the seduction. An exaggerated laugh that was too loud to be genuine erupted from Santana's pouty lips, and when Brittany arched a brow, Santana seemed to feel it. Brown eyes slid across the room and locked with hers.
The twinkle in them was intimate. 'He's such an idiot', they seemed to say, and Brittany found herself smiling back.
Rachel nudged her, and Brittany blinked, attention drawn back to the shorter girl. Rachel stared at her expectantly.
It took Brittany a moment to remember what the question even was.
"I guess?" she said, and it must have come off as unsure, but honestly it just seemed stupid. Dating was one of those weird abstract terms that meant flowers and sloppy kisses in the back of cars and guys getting upset when they realized just because they could watch her and Santana make out didn't mean they would have a threesome with them.
She sucked in a breath, raising her arms up over her head and exhaling, feeling her muscles stretch as she bent low and pressed her palms on the wooden floor.
"So doesn't it bother you?" Rachel said again, voice shrill even above the rush of blood to Brittany's head. "Her flirting like that with random people?"
"Why should it? Jimmy's cute."
Rachel just stared at her like she was a freak on display at the circus. "So you don't get insecure. At all."
Once again, Brittany found herself battling a sigh of irritation. "Guys are fun," she explained, and at the very least, Rachel should have gotten that, though her on-again, off-again angst fest with Finn seemed anything but.
"But you're together."
Brittany lifted up, twisting her torso as her legs spread, inhaling deeply. "So?"
"So you don't get jealous."
"Of what?"
Rachel's face grew oddly red. "Of that?!" she whispered fiercely, jabbing her hand in Santana's direction.
Brittany hands tangled together above her head, as she leaned over and stretched her side. "Of what?"
"Of that?!"
Again, Brittany looked. Jimmy Whatshisface looked like he was one step away from proposing. Or more likely, asking for a blowjob.
"Rachel, you're not making any sense."
"I'm not making any sense?!"
"And you're kind of blotchy. You should fix that before Finn sees."
When the color drained from Rachel's face, and she swiveled on her Mary Janes and stomped away, Brittany hid a smile and exhaled in relief.
Later, she mentioned the conversation to Santana.
Her best friend, super hot with her hair tumbled over her shoulders and naked except for her bikini briefs, only arched an irritated eyebrow. "Don't worry about it, Britt," she said, voice coated with sleep. "They just don't get it. You should feel sorry for her."
Brittany didn't doubt that. Rachel was a walking Gleek tragedy.
She shifted on the bed, turning into her stomach and pressing the side of her face into the pillow. "I guess."
Tan fingers skimmed along her bare arm, light as a feather, leaving goose bumps in their wake. "She doesn't get it. None of them do. They don't get that all that stupid drama doesn't matter with us."
Brittany's smile curved into the pillow. "Because we're smarter than that."
Santana's grin was smug, damned cocky and sexy as hell. "Exactly. We got past all that. We're gonna be with each other for the rest of our lives, Britt." Santana said this with certainty; it was fact. "Meanwhile Finn and Rachel will be lucky to make it to prom."
Brittany considered that. "That's true," she agreed.
She had known since she was eight that it was always going to be her and Santana, in some form or another. Brittany didn't dream about the perfect husband or houses or picket fences. Her future instead seemed a muddle of uncertainty, except for the constant presence of Santana. Ever since she wrote her name on Santana's forearm with black magic marker, pressed a kiss to the corner of Santana's mouth and bossily told a skinny, short girl with wide round brown eyes that that meant that she belonged to her now. Forever.
Santana's fingers had trailed all the way down the curve of her forearm to her fingers, and Brittany imagined the block letters stained into Santana's arm, wobbly and misspelt, but impossible to misinterpret.
Suddenly engulfed with warm, sweet emotion, Brittany trapped Santana's fingers, tangling them with hers. Pushing up to her elbows, she carefully spread Santana's hand against the pillow and with her finger, began to retrace the letters, re-branding her best friend.
Santana watched with a small, sweet smile on her face.
Brittany grinned as she scratched lightly at Santana's skin. "You know what this means?" she whispered, laughter in her voice. "This means that you belong to me. Forever and ever."
When she glanced up to look at Santana, there was moisture in those deep brown eyes.
It wasn't surprising. Santana did like to cry at the drop of a hat.
Brittany bent forward, until her mouth pressed against the open palm, and placed a loving kiss against the skin.
She kept going, dropping feather-light kisses on the underside of her wrist, up her forearm, into the crook of Santana's neck and breathing in the musty, human scent of her underarm.
Brittany wasn't smart, but she didn't think she was dumb either. There were a lot of things that she was unsure of, and a lot of the world didn't make a whole lot of sense to her. At times, it was frustrating, to feel like she knew so little.
But there were things she knew absolutely. Like how to feel the perfect pop of a beat. How to roll her body in such a way it looked like art in motion.
And she knew, without any sense of doubt, that no matter what the circumstances, it would always be her and Santana, for the rest of their lives.
With that knowledge came the freedom from everything else that seemed to bog down Rachel and Finn and Quinn and Puck and all their classmates.
They didn't have anything like that.
Brittany didn't believe in soul mates even though she knew Santana did. It just sounded way too convenient. But as her mouth opened against Santana's, and Brittany sighed in contentment, shifting against Santana, settling into the deep kiss, Brittany understood that in this, she was very lucky.
Santana was right about Rachel; Brittany did feel a little sorry for her.
-
The buzzing whir of Coach Sylvester's small protein shake filled hand-held blender was a sound that had always struck fear deep into Santana's heart.
Even as a senior, even as Captain of the Cheerios (a title she damn well deserved after literally bleeding her soul out to wrestle it away from Quinn Fabray), there was nothing quite like that sound to put a deep chill in Santana's bones, like an icy hand clasping around her throat.
And to some random nobody who didn't know better, maybe that seemed a bit dramatic, but four years under the servitude of Sue Sylvester had given Santana the distinct impression that her Cheerios Coach was an authentic bad ass mother fucker who had actually like, killed some people back in her special forces days.
When the Coach eyed her over the expanse of her cluttered desk, wrinkled her nose, and pressed her finger down onto the button on her cup that set the buzz going, Santana had to palm her knees not to wince.
"Here's the part where I'm supposed to tell you that I'm proud of you," Sue Sylvester began suddenly, fingers drumming on her desk top, "Of all the accomplishments that I've helped you achieve. Any other teacher would have told you that as captain of the Cheerios, you've assisted me in taking the squad to brand new heights and that when you begin your full ride to Berkley you'll succeed in ways you've never even imagined." Sue paused, letting the words sink in. "Except I'm not to bother because you and I both know that is a complete crock. There's only one word I can use to describe your term as captain and that would be 'FAILURE'." The cup slammed on the desk, liquid sloshing inside of it.
Santana's legs clamped together, a defense mechanism to keep them from knocking together.
"This year, as captain, you only had one job, the same job you always have and the same job you always fail: destroy that rancid little tumor called Glee Club. Has it been destroyed? Quite the contrary. They nearly took Nationals this year, and meanwhile, my Cheerios Squad has remained mediocre. Instead of focusing on berating the new recruits, breaking them into the Nationally-Ranked Cheerios they were meant to be, you instead turned into a hormonal, crying, sexual predator who got a boob job, took my best dancer to prom and sang a duet with Rachel Berry that helped Glee Club win Regionals." Sue's blue eyes glittered at her. "Pathetic. I should make a call to the director at Berkley right now; take that scholarship away from you on principal alone."
Anyone else: Mr. Schuester, Principal Figgins, anyone, and Santana would have gotten up and walked out the instant they opened their mouth. If it had been Ms. Pillsbury, all she would have had to do was scowl, or lick her finger and wipe it across her desk, and the freakish guidance counselor would have burst into a hysterical germaphobic fit.
But this was Sue Sylvester, who had made the call that had gotten her recruited in the first place, and Santana already had two airline reservations and fought off four potential freshmen for a one bedroom apartment on-campus for her and Brittany.
They were so close to getting out of Lima. After four years of taking Sue Sylvester's shit; of treading the fine line between being popular and trying to actually be happy; of being ruthless and calculating and continually surprised at her own weaknesses (Show Choir. Singing. Brittany.) , freedom was less than a month away.
It would be just like the Coach, to get her the scholarship, give her the captaincy... and then take it all away from her out of sheer spite.
And she couldn't lose her scholarship. Her Daddy had been a Duke alumni, and the decision to go to Berkeley with Brittany had been a point of shame and annoyance by her father, who refused to see 'Duke's cheerleading team sucks' as a valid argument.
Santana dug her nails so hard into her thighs she could feel the tips bend into the flesh. The only time she could remember bringing herself to beg for anything was during sex (and even then, only really awesome sex, and only with Brittany), but pride had no use with Coach Sylvester. She'd get on her knees and lick her shoes if that's what it took.
"Coach Sylvester-" she began.
"Shut up," Coach Sylvester snapped. "You're nothing but a disappointment, Santana. A waste of space. And I take that personally." Sue's nostrils flared; her expression pure disgust. "But there is a way you can make it up to me, and maybe finally live up to that dust speck of potential you might still have."
A green folder suddenly slid across her desk, skidding over the edge and tumbling into her lap.
Terrified to say a word, Santana obediently reached for the file and lifted it. Her eyes narrowed uncertainly at the logo emblazed on the front. "The army?"
"The Special Forces. A very elite, very private training program that is invitation only. I train my Cheerios like soldiers, Santana, and the army takes notice. We've maintained a very cordial relationship since my service. They understand I recruit under the strictest standards, and as it saves them a bit of time, if there's a particular Cheerio with promise, my recruits become their recruits."
"You want me to join the army."
"It wasn't going to be you at first," Sue felt the need to tell her. "I had my sights set on Fabray, but she has proven to be nothing but a disappointment. Went and grew herself a heart, like the tragic demise of what would have been my personal hero, the Grinch. And while you can't keep your legs closed long enough to ride a luge, you at least know the meaning of the word contraceptive." Sue leaned back in her chair, studied her with a calculating intense look that made Santana feel suddenly as if she was on an auction block. "You're ruthless when you have to be, Santana. You take orders, but don't question them. And your loyalty to Brittany, even when she's acting like the lead character in a Sesame Street production, proves you can be trusted. You join the reserves while you're at Berkeley. Special training two weekends a month. The army covers everything this scholarship doesn't. In return, you give them and this country your heart and soul."
To say she was flabbergasted wouldn't even begin to describe her state. Santana felt as if a bomb had gone off in her brain, leaving her without even the capacity to sputter the response that Sue Sylvester was so obviously waiting for.
"You want me to join the army," she found herself repeating helplessly.
Sue Sylvester just lifted a brow. "Understand that this is an honor, Lopez. I don't recommend just anyone. The girls I send are considered to be particularly ruthless; perfect soldiers. I will take it very personally if you are anything but." A finger pressed down on the plastic bottle, and the buzzing resumed. "Now get out."
Weak-kneed and mind reeling, Santana found herself stuffing the green folder into her red and white backpack.
It was the only thing she could think to do with it at the moment.
Just outside, in the hallway, there was a figure of a cheerleader, toned and lean, head lifting and pony tail bobbing as blue eyes glinted in her direction.
Santana's shoulder fell against the closed office door; she felt the cold from the glass seep into her bare skin.
"Wha'd she say?" Brittany asked, all concern and curiosity. Her lower lip snagged between her teeth nervously.
Santana shifted the backpack on her shoulder, and though she couldn't quite manage a reassuring smile, she did find the strength to push off the door and head toward her best friend.
"I'll tell you later," she said, because to even think about trying to explain all this in the middle of a hallway in a way that even remotely made sense was beyond the scope of her imagination. Brittany's brow furrowed, ready to protest, but Santana's hand reached forward, pinkie hooking against Brittany's. "We're late for Glee."
She tugged, and then, after a moment, found herself inhaling unsteadily and twisting her palm against the smooth hand of Brittany's, until their digits tangled completely, palm against palm, in an interlocking intimate hold.
Santana's hand was sweaty and clammy; she gripped Brittany's hard. When they reached the choir room, she didn't let go.
Maybe that was her give-away to Brittany, because when she reached for the door knob, ready to turn it, Brittany kept going. Taller and stronger than Santana, Brittany used the momentum to tug hard, jolting Santana nearly off her feet .
"Britt-"
Fingers locked, clamped down. "We're ditching."
"Britt-" Santana's voice seeped with irritation, but the resistance grew weaker, mostly because Santana knew that Brittany wasn't exactly easy to dissuade once she put her mind to something.
And it was easy to let Brittany lead her, feel her strength flow from their joined hands in unseen energy, steeling Santana when she felt her very world tipped on its axis.
It was Brittany's secret power; her ability to take anything that came at her, from Coach Sylvester's most punishing workouts to a math test she had no hope of passing, with a steady breath and a crooked smile on her face. She had the strong body, all toned muscle and defined abs, built for performing backflips and splits as easily as walking.
Santana had always been the weaker one. Her form was skinny; her breasts had always been too small. Her attempt to remedy that with an augmentation had crashed and burned hard, and it got her noticed, but for all the wrong reasons. For all the rumors about her temper and her propensity for shoving girls who got in her way, uncontrollable tears had bubbled over more than once, and almost always it was Brittany's hand that enclosed hers, squeezing reassuringly.
She was led to her own car, a cherry red Volkswagen given to her by her father. Brittany fished her keys out of her backpack and pressed the button, shifting the locks open.
They were used to doing this. From the day Santana had gotten the keys from her proud papa on her sixteenth birthday, Brittany had been dragging her into the back seat of her car. Exploratory make out sessions that morphed into heavy petting and then into actual sex, Santana rocking astride Brittany, with shirts shoved up and bras shoved down, tangling limbs and bumping elbows and once, kicking out her back seat's drink holder.
This may have been the first time that Brittany had ever pulled her into her own back seat and didn't immediately plunge her tongue into Santana's mouth.
Instead, Brittany let go of her hand, and wiped her palm hard against her Cheerios skirt, gazing at her with intense scrutiny; the look of a concerned best friend, ready and willing to offer support against the worst that Sue Sylvester had to offer.
"What did she tell you?" Brittany asked, breathless. "Did she cancel your scholarship?"
A muted Santana only shook her head miserably.
Fingers reached for her own, tangled between them, until Santana's arm spread across the seat. The gentle, reassuring contact was enough to cause tears to spring into her eyes, blurring her vision and making them burn.
"Santana," she heard Brittany begin, and it caused an actual physical reaction. Something like word vomit that clenched her stomach and caused the explanation to come bubbling up, tumbling through her lips in a slobbering, blubbering confession.
She told her everything, because she always told Brittany everything, and even as she confessed to all Sue Sylvester had told her in her office, terrifying her with the buzzing of her protein shake and calculating, cold stare, she couldn't help but think it sounded absolutely ridiculous.
It was just all too silly to believe, and when the words ended; when the explanation ran out, Santana, feeling empty and lost, tightened her trip on Brittany's hand, seeking out her anchor.
Brittany's head cocked in a move that reminded Santana dimly of a perplexed golden retriever. The folder, which had been brought out and placed in Brittany's lap, was opened, and the papers had long since spilt out, but Brittany didn't seem to make any more sense of it than she did. "Sue wants you to join the army to be like, this super soldier, because she thinks you'll be awesome at it?"
A dry, morbid laugh erupted. Santana nodded her head weakly. "Yeah."
Brittany's lips pursed. Quietly, she regarded Santana for one long moment, before a smile broke out onto her face and she said brightly, "That's awesome."
Granted, Santana was more than used to Brittany doing exactly the opposite of what was expected of her, but even so, she could only stutter dumbly, "It is?"
"Yeah, of course it is!" Crystal eyes shone brightly; the grin on Brittany's face gleamed with teeth. "Santana," she continued authoritatively, "Being a soldier is like... the most amazing thing you can do."
Once again, Santana's brain felt sluggish, refusing to compute exactly what Brittany was trying to tell her.
"It is?"
"You're protecting America!" Brittany's breathless statement, her crooked, wide smile, and the way her eyes shone at her, told her she completely believed that to be true.
And God, Santana realized, it actually made sense. Brittany had always been unflinchingly patriotic. The time they had done it with 'Team America: World Police' blaring in the background had been some of the best sex they ever had, despite the fact that Brittany humming along to 'America, Fuck Yeah' and tonguing her clit to the rhythm of the bass had been more than a little distracting.
Santana's eyes drifted down to the papers that had spread in Brittany's lap; pages and pages of fine print that probably included signing away her soul.
It suddenly hurt to breathe.
"Britt," she managed, struggling to keep her tone even, patient. "It's not like make believe." Brittany only stared. "What she wants me to do," Santana continued, fingers clenching around Brittany's. "It's dangerous. It's not gonna be like an episode of South Park or a Looney Tunes cartoon."
"I know that," Brittany snapped back, sounding insulted.
Santana shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek to hold herself together. "It's not like I'm going to get some fake package from ACME and then when it explodes just end up with singed hair and soot on my face. I'll be like, dead."
She must have given something away in the way she said that, because the bright expression on Brittany's face faded slightly. Crystal eyes darkened in thought as her gaze flitted from Santana's fingers, tight and white at the knuckles thanks to her death grip, to the tears liquid in her eyes.
"Are you scared?"
As soon as Brittany verbalized it, diagnosed the numb, overpowering emotion that was taking hold of her, Santana suddenly understood it. It blazed over her in a wave of fear that nearly made her nauseous.
"I'm not scared." It wasn't true. Santana had very few safe places in her world. One was right here, with Brittany. The other was with her father, who loved her and spoiled her and turned her into a bitchy Daddy's girl and loved her for it.
What Sue had asked her to do... actually demanded that she do... it could take away all that, and leave Santana on her own.
And she wasn't good enough for that. She wasn't strong enough for that.
Brittany regarded her, and Santana exhaled, losing her false bravado to crumple into herself. "I'm terrified," she admitted, helpless.
Hands suddenly spread across her forearms, tugging her into Brittany's space. "Come here."
"Brittany-" she whispered, head shaking slowly, breath going ragged when Brittany's mouth pressed wetly against her neck, legs opening to let Santana sink down on top of her. "Brit-"
Arms spread tightly over her shoulder blades, keeping her pressed intimately against Brittany. Santana's eyes fluttered as the muscles tightened, then relaxed, instinct overcoming emotion as Brittany's lips caught her left earlobe and bit lightly.
"I just want you to feel something else for a minute," she heard whispered in her ear with a soft puff of breath that caused an immediate prickle of goosebumps. Lips skimmed along her cheekbone in a feather-soft touch before Brittany's mouth settled against hers.
Brittany's kisses were soft; seeking. The tender way her lips fit to hers, opening and closing against her own with a soft, loving sigh, seemed borderline chaste, and the irregularity of it made Santana's insides tremble suddenly, because their kisses usually carried behind them the significance of lust. It was easier that way, to let the overtaking power of want and need dim away everything else.
When Brittany kissed her with a finesse and care that signified love, it broke her. Already emotional and fragile in a way she only ever was with this girl, Santana found herself splintering. She lost herself in a whimper and a velvet tongue, tilting her head and embracing Brittany's tenderness.
It's just making out, her mind told her. You've done this a hundred times.
And she had. With many, many people. So had Brittany.
Santana had never wanted to understand why it felt so different, fucking special, when it was Brittany shifting against her, lips sliding against hers as she pushed her back against her seat. To Brittany, an arm branded with magic marker had always seemed like an invisible tattoo that reassured them both of some hazy future together, where they could be whatever they wanted to be.
Now, the future was here, spelled out for her in a green folder and an invisible tattoo that only they could see just didn't seem good enough.
Instinct alone caused her hand to palm underneath the red polyester of Brittany's uniform top; smooth against lean muscles that flexed against her touch. Even when Brittany moaned, ground down with her hips and slid a hand between them to settle against Santana's breast, Santana found her emotion beating back her lust.
If Brittany was at all surprised by Santana's reluctance to take it any further, she didn't show it. Instead Brittany's kisses slowed, grew languid, and her hand withdrew from her breast to settle against Santana's cheek.
Santana's eyes opened. Brittany was now entirely in her embrace, curves settled heavily against her own. Her eyes were kind and sweet, as her thumb traversed Santana's swollen lips.
"You can say no," Brittany said suddenly, tone soft and affectionate. "You know that, right?"
She looked absolutely breathtaking, and Santana felt suddenly like a lovesick fool.
"You know when you were twelve," she found herself saying, "And you told Mark Peters that you liked him and wanted him to be your boyfriend?"
Blue eyes darkened in confusion, but Brittany nodded regardless. "Yeah."
Santana bit her lip, and finally just shrugged. "I was pissed. I wanted to be your boyfriend."
And there was the truth of it. It was as honest as she had ever been with Brittany. No bullshit vague 'we'll be together forever', no 'dating just means gifts and making them pay for dinner'. Just Santana and her foolish dreaming, hidden deep within her and never, ever vocalized to anyone.
Brittany took it in, tried to understand it. Her mouth creased into a sudden grin. "You're not a boy, silly."
"I know," Santana found herself snapping, embarrassed despite herself, suddenly irritated beyond belief. With Brittany on top of her, holding her face in her fingers, it was impossible to look away, and that it made her vulnerable in a way that was simultaneously terrifying and mortifying. "You know what I mean."
But Brittany, who Santana had NEVER thought to be an idiot, no matter how dim she could seem, just smiled, like she hadn't heard anything at all. "I bet you'd be hot in a uniform."
God, Brittany and her damn ADHD bullshit. Santana squirmed uncomfortably, cheeks flushed with emotion and anger. "God-dammit, Brit-"
Stronger than her, Brittany stayed put, holding her in place when Santana tried to struggle. "Santana, you're stupid."
"What?"
"You know I'm gonna marry you someday, right?"
Santana's body tensed immediately.
But Brittany only shrugged, as if this little bombshell was common knowledge. "I forgot to tell you, didn't I? That we're going to get married?"
"Yeah Brit," she snorted helplessly, "You forgot to tell me."
"Sorry." Brittany pressed a kiss against her lips, lingering and sweet, and then settled against her shoulder. She was heavy and awkward, and her arm dug into Santana's ribcage uncomfortably, making it hard to breathe. "I thought you knew. Like in The Princess Bride. You know, the movie? When Buttercup keeps telling Westley to do things, he always responds with 'As You Wish'. And what he meant was-"
"I love you." For Santana, this revelation, on a day that seemed ripe for completely insane expectations for her future that she suddenly had no say in, struck her mute.
"I should have asked you, right?"
Santana laughed helplessly. "Maybe?" she wheezed.
"Sorry," she heard, before Brittany continued with, "Santana."
"What?"
"I'll totally be your hot army wife, if you want me to be."
Feeling like she was drunk, Santana wildly wondered if she should have been offended that Brittany, who was apparently so assured of Santana that she took it for granted that they would get fucking married when they had never even technically dated, seemed so unafraid of any refusal.
Did Brittany really know her that well?
"So while I'm off saving the world," she found herself musing, "You'll be my trophy piece of tail?"
Brittany's head lifted, and then resettled against the lettered stitching of her uniform to regard her. "Do I still get to dance?"
"You get whatever you want," Santana breathed, because it was true.
Brittany's returning grin was brilliantly sincere. "I already have what I want," she said, and tapped her fingers against Santana's shoulder pointedly. The flash of blinding happiness that surged in Santana nearly choked her. "What do YOU want?" Brittany asked, soft and casual. "Besides being my boyfriend."
Having a best friend like Brittany meant living a life that was almost always just a little bit surreal, and Santana had always been okay with that. While she saw the world with all its flaws and imperfections, ripe for critique and mockery, Brittany's world was colored with bright lights and a future that seemed full of promise and security, no matter what the circumstances.
It was why they were tangled together in the backseat of her car, with Santana's head leaning against a fogged up window and Brittany's flexible body folded on top of her, speaking about getting married and being boyfriends and joining the army like they'd be talking about manicures, or Brittany's cat.
In Brittany's reality, they were getting married, and Santana was a hero, singled out and valued because she was as special as Brittany thought she was.
Fingers drifted against blonde strands, scratching nails lightly against Brittany's nape, as it occurred to Santana that Brittany had accomplished her goal: Santana no longer felt the fear.
What she felt instead was remarkably warmer, and she understood that this feeling was precious and fragile.
"Remember what we learned about in social studies? In Iran? They're like, putting people to death for doing what we do."
Brittany sighed, breath lilting across her throat. "Yeah," she mumbled against the fabric of Santana's shirt, sounding sobered and sad.
Santana didn't identify with queer, but Brittany did. Brittany, with her obsession with breasts and her hobby of making out with everyone, did it without thinking of any sort of consequences.
Even in crusty old Lima, she was safe.
Because it was freaking America, or whatever, and there were people who fought for that right, to keep her safe.
Thoughts that seemed jumbled and incomprehensible two minutes ago suddenly seemed so very clear.
Brittany, the girl she was gonna marry, had always been her safe place.
Maybe it was time to return the favor.
"It is kind of awesome, isn't it?" she asked, tone growing bolder. "In a twisted sort of way. That Sue chose me."
"Totally. But like she would really pick anyone else."
"I could like, make a difference." Her palms smoothed down Brittany's arms, tugging slightly until Brittany took the hint and resettled herself, nose buried into Santana's neck. The position allowed her to embrace Brittany, and she did, tightening her hold until she felt every inch of her. It made her feel absurdly sentimental. "So Master Planner, when are we getting married?
"I dunno." Brittany bit lightly against her jaw, a gesture of affection. She sounded relaxed and sleepy. "Eventually. You can go be an army hero first, if you want."
A lump of emotion suddenly pressed in against the back of her throat. "Thanks," she managed, and as lightly as she could, continued, "I think I will."
Just like that, Santana's future had clicked into place. The life of a soldier; a bad ass soldier with a trophy wife, her own inspiration for saving the American Free World.
Brittany absorbed it. "Awesome."
Santana's fear seemed trivial now, because there was Brittany's assurance that she would be there, every step of the way. For the rest of her life.
God-damn.
Heart seized with emotion, Santana found herself overtaken with giddy triumph and the urge to celebrate the decision the best way she knew how. "Wanna do it?"
Brittany's head lifted to study her, and when Santana smiled lewdly, laughed in delight. "Hell, yeah," she breathed and launched herself forward, bruising Santana's lips with a kiss that cemented a future together that seemed suddenly unshakable and within her grasp.
- END PROLOGUE
Part One
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
GENRE: Glee, but borrows from some of the spy mythology from 'Chuck'
PAIRING: Santana/Brittany, Rachel/Quinn
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: ~ 56,000
SUMMARY: Eight years after being recruited into the NSA, Special Agent Santana Lopez, aka Molly Chambers, is given a new assignment: track down the stolen Government Intersect and protect it from harm.
SPOILERS: 3.04 'Duets' and beyond pretty much destroyed my head canon for this, but let's move on and pretend it didn't.
SPECIAL THANKS TO: zep1980 for the amazing beta job. I would have been lost without you!
NOTES: For gleefsbigbang. Based on this prompt from the glee kink meme.
CHAPTERS: Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven |
****
Free falling from a work in progress
Free falling from a life on hold
There has never been a time
When I didn't want you
- 'The Good Witch of the North', Everclear
PROLOGUE
A few months into their senior year, in between rehearsals for a Glee number, Rachel had asked Brittany a question that Brittany privately thought was really, really stupid.
"Don't you get jealous?" Rachel asked, arms crossed and brow furrowed. "Like, at all?"
It had come out of the blue, and Brittany, in the middle of stretching for a featured dance solo, had been taken off-guard. "What do you mean?"
"You and Santana," Rachel clarified. Brittany only stared. A flush started on Rachel's cheek, before the other girl's voice dropped as she came in closer. "You know... "she continued, like she was sharing some major secret. When Brittany arched a confused brow, Rachel's eyes rolled to the back of her head. "Aren't you guys dating? Like officially?"
Her body had begun to feel the warmth of her exertions, and when sweat prickled at the back of her neck, Brittany lifted her blonde hair off her shoulders, trying to cool herself. Across the room, her best friend was in the middle of running her finger along the collarbone of one of Glee's newest members, Jimmy Whatshisname.
Brittany only remembered his first name because the last time she had made out with him, he had been particularly peeved that she hadn't actually bothered to learn it.
Brittany hadn't quite had the heart to tell him it was because he honestly wasn't worth the effort.
Cute guy, but a horrible kisser.
Still, it wasn't surprising to see Santana play at the seduction. An exaggerated laugh that was too loud to be genuine erupted from Santana's pouty lips, and when Brittany arched a brow, Santana seemed to feel it. Brown eyes slid across the room and locked with hers.
The twinkle in them was intimate. 'He's such an idiot', they seemed to say, and Brittany found herself smiling back.
Rachel nudged her, and Brittany blinked, attention drawn back to the shorter girl. Rachel stared at her expectantly.
It took Brittany a moment to remember what the question even was.
"I guess?" she said, and it must have come off as unsure, but honestly it just seemed stupid. Dating was one of those weird abstract terms that meant flowers and sloppy kisses in the back of cars and guys getting upset when they realized just because they could watch her and Santana make out didn't mean they would have a threesome with them.
She sucked in a breath, raising her arms up over her head and exhaling, feeling her muscles stretch as she bent low and pressed her palms on the wooden floor.
"So doesn't it bother you?" Rachel said again, voice shrill even above the rush of blood to Brittany's head. "Her flirting like that with random people?"
"Why should it? Jimmy's cute."
Rachel just stared at her like she was a freak on display at the circus. "So you don't get insecure. At all."
Once again, Brittany found herself battling a sigh of irritation. "Guys are fun," she explained, and at the very least, Rachel should have gotten that, though her on-again, off-again angst fest with Finn seemed anything but.
"But you're together."
Brittany lifted up, twisting her torso as her legs spread, inhaling deeply. "So?"
"So you don't get jealous."
"Of what?"
Rachel's face grew oddly red. "Of that?!" she whispered fiercely, jabbing her hand in Santana's direction.
Brittany hands tangled together above her head, as she leaned over and stretched her side. "Of what?"
"Of that?!"
Again, Brittany looked. Jimmy Whatshisface looked like he was one step away from proposing. Or more likely, asking for a blowjob.
"Rachel, you're not making any sense."
"I'm not making any sense?!"
"And you're kind of blotchy. You should fix that before Finn sees."
When the color drained from Rachel's face, and she swiveled on her Mary Janes and stomped away, Brittany hid a smile and exhaled in relief.
Later, she mentioned the conversation to Santana.
Her best friend, super hot with her hair tumbled over her shoulders and naked except for her bikini briefs, only arched an irritated eyebrow. "Don't worry about it, Britt," she said, voice coated with sleep. "They just don't get it. You should feel sorry for her."
Brittany didn't doubt that. Rachel was a walking Gleek tragedy.
She shifted on the bed, turning into her stomach and pressing the side of her face into the pillow. "I guess."
Tan fingers skimmed along her bare arm, light as a feather, leaving goose bumps in their wake. "She doesn't get it. None of them do. They don't get that all that stupid drama doesn't matter with us."
Brittany's smile curved into the pillow. "Because we're smarter than that."
Santana's grin was smug, damned cocky and sexy as hell. "Exactly. We got past all that. We're gonna be with each other for the rest of our lives, Britt." Santana said this with certainty; it was fact. "Meanwhile Finn and Rachel will be lucky to make it to prom."
Brittany considered that. "That's true," she agreed.
She had known since she was eight that it was always going to be her and Santana, in some form or another. Brittany didn't dream about the perfect husband or houses or picket fences. Her future instead seemed a muddle of uncertainty, except for the constant presence of Santana. Ever since she wrote her name on Santana's forearm with black magic marker, pressed a kiss to the corner of Santana's mouth and bossily told a skinny, short girl with wide round brown eyes that that meant that she belonged to her now. Forever.
Santana's fingers had trailed all the way down the curve of her forearm to her fingers, and Brittany imagined the block letters stained into Santana's arm, wobbly and misspelt, but impossible to misinterpret.
Suddenly engulfed with warm, sweet emotion, Brittany trapped Santana's fingers, tangling them with hers. Pushing up to her elbows, she carefully spread Santana's hand against the pillow and with her finger, began to retrace the letters, re-branding her best friend.
Santana watched with a small, sweet smile on her face.
Brittany grinned as she scratched lightly at Santana's skin. "You know what this means?" she whispered, laughter in her voice. "This means that you belong to me. Forever and ever."
When she glanced up to look at Santana, there was moisture in those deep brown eyes.
It wasn't surprising. Santana did like to cry at the drop of a hat.
Brittany bent forward, until her mouth pressed against the open palm, and placed a loving kiss against the skin.
She kept going, dropping feather-light kisses on the underside of her wrist, up her forearm, into the crook of Santana's neck and breathing in the musty, human scent of her underarm.
Brittany wasn't smart, but she didn't think she was dumb either. There were a lot of things that she was unsure of, and a lot of the world didn't make a whole lot of sense to her. At times, it was frustrating, to feel like she knew so little.
But there were things she knew absolutely. Like how to feel the perfect pop of a beat. How to roll her body in such a way it looked like art in motion.
And she knew, without any sense of doubt, that no matter what the circumstances, it would always be her and Santana, for the rest of their lives.
With that knowledge came the freedom from everything else that seemed to bog down Rachel and Finn and Quinn and Puck and all their classmates.
They didn't have anything like that.
Brittany didn't believe in soul mates even though she knew Santana did. It just sounded way too convenient. But as her mouth opened against Santana's, and Brittany sighed in contentment, shifting against Santana, settling into the deep kiss, Brittany understood that in this, she was very lucky.
Santana was right about Rachel; Brittany did feel a little sorry for her.
-
The buzzing whir of Coach Sylvester's small protein shake filled hand-held blender was a sound that had always struck fear deep into Santana's heart.
Even as a senior, even as Captain of the Cheerios (a title she damn well deserved after literally bleeding her soul out to wrestle it away from Quinn Fabray), there was nothing quite like that sound to put a deep chill in Santana's bones, like an icy hand clasping around her throat.
And to some random nobody who didn't know better, maybe that seemed a bit dramatic, but four years under the servitude of Sue Sylvester had given Santana the distinct impression that her Cheerios Coach was an authentic bad ass mother fucker who had actually like, killed some people back in her special forces days.
When the Coach eyed her over the expanse of her cluttered desk, wrinkled her nose, and pressed her finger down onto the button on her cup that set the buzz going, Santana had to palm her knees not to wince.
"Here's the part where I'm supposed to tell you that I'm proud of you," Sue Sylvester began suddenly, fingers drumming on her desk top, "Of all the accomplishments that I've helped you achieve. Any other teacher would have told you that as captain of the Cheerios, you've assisted me in taking the squad to brand new heights and that when you begin your full ride to Berkley you'll succeed in ways you've never even imagined." Sue paused, letting the words sink in. "Except I'm not to bother because you and I both know that is a complete crock. There's only one word I can use to describe your term as captain and that would be 'FAILURE'." The cup slammed on the desk, liquid sloshing inside of it.
Santana's legs clamped together, a defense mechanism to keep them from knocking together.
"This year, as captain, you only had one job, the same job you always have and the same job you always fail: destroy that rancid little tumor called Glee Club. Has it been destroyed? Quite the contrary. They nearly took Nationals this year, and meanwhile, my Cheerios Squad has remained mediocre. Instead of focusing on berating the new recruits, breaking them into the Nationally-Ranked Cheerios they were meant to be, you instead turned into a hormonal, crying, sexual predator who got a boob job, took my best dancer to prom and sang a duet with Rachel Berry that helped Glee Club win Regionals." Sue's blue eyes glittered at her. "Pathetic. I should make a call to the director at Berkley right now; take that scholarship away from you on principal alone."
Anyone else: Mr. Schuester, Principal Figgins, anyone, and Santana would have gotten up and walked out the instant they opened their mouth. If it had been Ms. Pillsbury, all she would have had to do was scowl, or lick her finger and wipe it across her desk, and the freakish guidance counselor would have burst into a hysterical germaphobic fit.
But this was Sue Sylvester, who had made the call that had gotten her recruited in the first place, and Santana already had two airline reservations and fought off four potential freshmen for a one bedroom apartment on-campus for her and Brittany.
They were so close to getting out of Lima. After four years of taking Sue Sylvester's shit; of treading the fine line between being popular and trying to actually be happy; of being ruthless and calculating and continually surprised at her own weaknesses (Show Choir. Singing. Brittany.) , freedom was less than a month away.
It would be just like the Coach, to get her the scholarship, give her the captaincy... and then take it all away from her out of sheer spite.
And she couldn't lose her scholarship. Her Daddy had been a Duke alumni, and the decision to go to Berkeley with Brittany had been a point of shame and annoyance by her father, who refused to see 'Duke's cheerleading team sucks' as a valid argument.
Santana dug her nails so hard into her thighs she could feel the tips bend into the flesh. The only time she could remember bringing herself to beg for anything was during sex (and even then, only really awesome sex, and only with Brittany), but pride had no use with Coach Sylvester. She'd get on her knees and lick her shoes if that's what it took.
"Coach Sylvester-" she began.
"Shut up," Coach Sylvester snapped. "You're nothing but a disappointment, Santana. A waste of space. And I take that personally." Sue's nostrils flared; her expression pure disgust. "But there is a way you can make it up to me, and maybe finally live up to that dust speck of potential you might still have."
A green folder suddenly slid across her desk, skidding over the edge and tumbling into her lap.
Terrified to say a word, Santana obediently reached for the file and lifted it. Her eyes narrowed uncertainly at the logo emblazed on the front. "The army?"
"The Special Forces. A very elite, very private training program that is invitation only. I train my Cheerios like soldiers, Santana, and the army takes notice. We've maintained a very cordial relationship since my service. They understand I recruit under the strictest standards, and as it saves them a bit of time, if there's a particular Cheerio with promise, my recruits become their recruits."
"You want me to join the army."
"It wasn't going to be you at first," Sue felt the need to tell her. "I had my sights set on Fabray, but she has proven to be nothing but a disappointment. Went and grew herself a heart, like the tragic demise of what would have been my personal hero, the Grinch. And while you can't keep your legs closed long enough to ride a luge, you at least know the meaning of the word contraceptive." Sue leaned back in her chair, studied her with a calculating intense look that made Santana feel suddenly as if she was on an auction block. "You're ruthless when you have to be, Santana. You take orders, but don't question them. And your loyalty to Brittany, even when she's acting like the lead character in a Sesame Street production, proves you can be trusted. You join the reserves while you're at Berkeley. Special training two weekends a month. The army covers everything this scholarship doesn't. In return, you give them and this country your heart and soul."
To say she was flabbergasted wouldn't even begin to describe her state. Santana felt as if a bomb had gone off in her brain, leaving her without even the capacity to sputter the response that Sue Sylvester was so obviously waiting for.
"You want me to join the army," she found herself repeating helplessly.
Sue Sylvester just lifted a brow. "Understand that this is an honor, Lopez. I don't recommend just anyone. The girls I send are considered to be particularly ruthless; perfect soldiers. I will take it very personally if you are anything but." A finger pressed down on the plastic bottle, and the buzzing resumed. "Now get out."
Weak-kneed and mind reeling, Santana found herself stuffing the green folder into her red and white backpack.
It was the only thing she could think to do with it at the moment.
Just outside, in the hallway, there was a figure of a cheerleader, toned and lean, head lifting and pony tail bobbing as blue eyes glinted in her direction.
Santana's shoulder fell against the closed office door; she felt the cold from the glass seep into her bare skin.
"Wha'd she say?" Brittany asked, all concern and curiosity. Her lower lip snagged between her teeth nervously.
Santana shifted the backpack on her shoulder, and though she couldn't quite manage a reassuring smile, she did find the strength to push off the door and head toward her best friend.
"I'll tell you later," she said, because to even think about trying to explain all this in the middle of a hallway in a way that even remotely made sense was beyond the scope of her imagination. Brittany's brow furrowed, ready to protest, but Santana's hand reached forward, pinkie hooking against Brittany's. "We're late for Glee."
She tugged, and then, after a moment, found herself inhaling unsteadily and twisting her palm against the smooth hand of Brittany's, until their digits tangled completely, palm against palm, in an interlocking intimate hold.
Santana's hand was sweaty and clammy; she gripped Brittany's hard. When they reached the choir room, she didn't let go.
Maybe that was her give-away to Brittany, because when she reached for the door knob, ready to turn it, Brittany kept going. Taller and stronger than Santana, Brittany used the momentum to tug hard, jolting Santana nearly off her feet .
"Britt-"
Fingers locked, clamped down. "We're ditching."
"Britt-" Santana's voice seeped with irritation, but the resistance grew weaker, mostly because Santana knew that Brittany wasn't exactly easy to dissuade once she put her mind to something.
And it was easy to let Brittany lead her, feel her strength flow from their joined hands in unseen energy, steeling Santana when she felt her very world tipped on its axis.
It was Brittany's secret power; her ability to take anything that came at her, from Coach Sylvester's most punishing workouts to a math test she had no hope of passing, with a steady breath and a crooked smile on her face. She had the strong body, all toned muscle and defined abs, built for performing backflips and splits as easily as walking.
Santana had always been the weaker one. Her form was skinny; her breasts had always been too small. Her attempt to remedy that with an augmentation had crashed and burned hard, and it got her noticed, but for all the wrong reasons. For all the rumors about her temper and her propensity for shoving girls who got in her way, uncontrollable tears had bubbled over more than once, and almost always it was Brittany's hand that enclosed hers, squeezing reassuringly.
She was led to her own car, a cherry red Volkswagen given to her by her father. Brittany fished her keys out of her backpack and pressed the button, shifting the locks open.
They were used to doing this. From the day Santana had gotten the keys from her proud papa on her sixteenth birthday, Brittany had been dragging her into the back seat of her car. Exploratory make out sessions that morphed into heavy petting and then into actual sex, Santana rocking astride Brittany, with shirts shoved up and bras shoved down, tangling limbs and bumping elbows and once, kicking out her back seat's drink holder.
This may have been the first time that Brittany had ever pulled her into her own back seat and didn't immediately plunge her tongue into Santana's mouth.
Instead, Brittany let go of her hand, and wiped her palm hard against her Cheerios skirt, gazing at her with intense scrutiny; the look of a concerned best friend, ready and willing to offer support against the worst that Sue Sylvester had to offer.
"What did she tell you?" Brittany asked, breathless. "Did she cancel your scholarship?"
A muted Santana only shook her head miserably.
Fingers reached for her own, tangled between them, until Santana's arm spread across the seat. The gentle, reassuring contact was enough to cause tears to spring into her eyes, blurring her vision and making them burn.
"Santana," she heard Brittany begin, and it caused an actual physical reaction. Something like word vomit that clenched her stomach and caused the explanation to come bubbling up, tumbling through her lips in a slobbering, blubbering confession.
She told her everything, because she always told Brittany everything, and even as she confessed to all Sue Sylvester had told her in her office, terrifying her with the buzzing of her protein shake and calculating, cold stare, she couldn't help but think it sounded absolutely ridiculous.
It was just all too silly to believe, and when the words ended; when the explanation ran out, Santana, feeling empty and lost, tightened her trip on Brittany's hand, seeking out her anchor.
Brittany's head cocked in a move that reminded Santana dimly of a perplexed golden retriever. The folder, which had been brought out and placed in Brittany's lap, was opened, and the papers had long since spilt out, but Brittany didn't seem to make any more sense of it than she did. "Sue wants you to join the army to be like, this super soldier, because she thinks you'll be awesome at it?"
A dry, morbid laugh erupted. Santana nodded her head weakly. "Yeah."
Brittany's lips pursed. Quietly, she regarded Santana for one long moment, before a smile broke out onto her face and she said brightly, "That's awesome."
Granted, Santana was more than used to Brittany doing exactly the opposite of what was expected of her, but even so, she could only stutter dumbly, "It is?"
"Yeah, of course it is!" Crystal eyes shone brightly; the grin on Brittany's face gleamed with teeth. "Santana," she continued authoritatively, "Being a soldier is like... the most amazing thing you can do."
Once again, Santana's brain felt sluggish, refusing to compute exactly what Brittany was trying to tell her.
"It is?"
"You're protecting America!" Brittany's breathless statement, her crooked, wide smile, and the way her eyes shone at her, told her she completely believed that to be true.
And God, Santana realized, it actually made sense. Brittany had always been unflinchingly patriotic. The time they had done it with 'Team America: World Police' blaring in the background had been some of the best sex they ever had, despite the fact that Brittany humming along to 'America, Fuck Yeah' and tonguing her clit to the rhythm of the bass had been more than a little distracting.
Santana's eyes drifted down to the papers that had spread in Brittany's lap; pages and pages of fine print that probably included signing away her soul.
It suddenly hurt to breathe.
"Britt," she managed, struggling to keep her tone even, patient. "It's not like make believe." Brittany only stared. "What she wants me to do," Santana continued, fingers clenching around Brittany's. "It's dangerous. It's not gonna be like an episode of South Park or a Looney Tunes cartoon."
"I know that," Brittany snapped back, sounding insulted.
Santana shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek to hold herself together. "It's not like I'm going to get some fake package from ACME and then when it explodes just end up with singed hair and soot on my face. I'll be like, dead."
She must have given something away in the way she said that, because the bright expression on Brittany's face faded slightly. Crystal eyes darkened in thought as her gaze flitted from Santana's fingers, tight and white at the knuckles thanks to her death grip, to the tears liquid in her eyes.
"Are you scared?"
As soon as Brittany verbalized it, diagnosed the numb, overpowering emotion that was taking hold of her, Santana suddenly understood it. It blazed over her in a wave of fear that nearly made her nauseous.
"I'm not scared." It wasn't true. Santana had very few safe places in her world. One was right here, with Brittany. The other was with her father, who loved her and spoiled her and turned her into a bitchy Daddy's girl and loved her for it.
What Sue had asked her to do... actually demanded that she do... it could take away all that, and leave Santana on her own.
And she wasn't good enough for that. She wasn't strong enough for that.
Brittany regarded her, and Santana exhaled, losing her false bravado to crumple into herself. "I'm terrified," she admitted, helpless.
Hands suddenly spread across her forearms, tugging her into Brittany's space. "Come here."
"Brittany-" she whispered, head shaking slowly, breath going ragged when Brittany's mouth pressed wetly against her neck, legs opening to let Santana sink down on top of her. "Brit-"
Arms spread tightly over her shoulder blades, keeping her pressed intimately against Brittany. Santana's eyes fluttered as the muscles tightened, then relaxed, instinct overcoming emotion as Brittany's lips caught her left earlobe and bit lightly.
"I just want you to feel something else for a minute," she heard whispered in her ear with a soft puff of breath that caused an immediate prickle of goosebumps. Lips skimmed along her cheekbone in a feather-soft touch before Brittany's mouth settled against hers.
Brittany's kisses were soft; seeking. The tender way her lips fit to hers, opening and closing against her own with a soft, loving sigh, seemed borderline chaste, and the irregularity of it made Santana's insides tremble suddenly, because their kisses usually carried behind them the significance of lust. It was easier that way, to let the overtaking power of want and need dim away everything else.
When Brittany kissed her with a finesse and care that signified love, it broke her. Already emotional and fragile in a way she only ever was with this girl, Santana found herself splintering. She lost herself in a whimper and a velvet tongue, tilting her head and embracing Brittany's tenderness.
It's just making out, her mind told her. You've done this a hundred times.
And she had. With many, many people. So had Brittany.
Santana had never wanted to understand why it felt so different, fucking special, when it was Brittany shifting against her, lips sliding against hers as she pushed her back against her seat. To Brittany, an arm branded with magic marker had always seemed like an invisible tattoo that reassured them both of some hazy future together, where they could be whatever they wanted to be.
Now, the future was here, spelled out for her in a green folder and an invisible tattoo that only they could see just didn't seem good enough.
Instinct alone caused her hand to palm underneath the red polyester of Brittany's uniform top; smooth against lean muscles that flexed against her touch. Even when Brittany moaned, ground down with her hips and slid a hand between them to settle against Santana's breast, Santana found her emotion beating back her lust.
If Brittany was at all surprised by Santana's reluctance to take it any further, she didn't show it. Instead Brittany's kisses slowed, grew languid, and her hand withdrew from her breast to settle against Santana's cheek.
Santana's eyes opened. Brittany was now entirely in her embrace, curves settled heavily against her own. Her eyes were kind and sweet, as her thumb traversed Santana's swollen lips.
"You can say no," Brittany said suddenly, tone soft and affectionate. "You know that, right?"
She looked absolutely breathtaking, and Santana felt suddenly like a lovesick fool.
"You know when you were twelve," she found herself saying, "And you told Mark Peters that you liked him and wanted him to be your boyfriend?"
Blue eyes darkened in confusion, but Brittany nodded regardless. "Yeah."
Santana bit her lip, and finally just shrugged. "I was pissed. I wanted to be your boyfriend."
And there was the truth of it. It was as honest as she had ever been with Brittany. No bullshit vague 'we'll be together forever', no 'dating just means gifts and making them pay for dinner'. Just Santana and her foolish dreaming, hidden deep within her and never, ever vocalized to anyone.
Brittany took it in, tried to understand it. Her mouth creased into a sudden grin. "You're not a boy, silly."
"I know," Santana found herself snapping, embarrassed despite herself, suddenly irritated beyond belief. With Brittany on top of her, holding her face in her fingers, it was impossible to look away, and that it made her vulnerable in a way that was simultaneously terrifying and mortifying. "You know what I mean."
But Brittany, who Santana had NEVER thought to be an idiot, no matter how dim she could seem, just smiled, like she hadn't heard anything at all. "I bet you'd be hot in a uniform."
God, Brittany and her damn ADHD bullshit. Santana squirmed uncomfortably, cheeks flushed with emotion and anger. "God-dammit, Brit-"
Stronger than her, Brittany stayed put, holding her in place when Santana tried to struggle. "Santana, you're stupid."
"What?"
"You know I'm gonna marry you someday, right?"
Santana's body tensed immediately.
But Brittany only shrugged, as if this little bombshell was common knowledge. "I forgot to tell you, didn't I? That we're going to get married?"
"Yeah Brit," she snorted helplessly, "You forgot to tell me."
"Sorry." Brittany pressed a kiss against her lips, lingering and sweet, and then settled against her shoulder. She was heavy and awkward, and her arm dug into Santana's ribcage uncomfortably, making it hard to breathe. "I thought you knew. Like in The Princess Bride. You know, the movie? When Buttercup keeps telling Westley to do things, he always responds with 'As You Wish'. And what he meant was-"
"I love you." For Santana, this revelation, on a day that seemed ripe for completely insane expectations for her future that she suddenly had no say in, struck her mute.
"I should have asked you, right?"
Santana laughed helplessly. "Maybe?" she wheezed.
"Sorry," she heard, before Brittany continued with, "Santana."
"What?"
"I'll totally be your hot army wife, if you want me to be."
Feeling like she was drunk, Santana wildly wondered if she should have been offended that Brittany, who was apparently so assured of Santana that she took it for granted that they would get fucking married when they had never even technically dated, seemed so unafraid of any refusal.
Did Brittany really know her that well?
"So while I'm off saving the world," she found herself musing, "You'll be my trophy piece of tail?"
Brittany's head lifted, and then resettled against the lettered stitching of her uniform to regard her. "Do I still get to dance?"
"You get whatever you want," Santana breathed, because it was true.
Brittany's returning grin was brilliantly sincere. "I already have what I want," she said, and tapped her fingers against Santana's shoulder pointedly. The flash of blinding happiness that surged in Santana nearly choked her. "What do YOU want?" Brittany asked, soft and casual. "Besides being my boyfriend."
Having a best friend like Brittany meant living a life that was almost always just a little bit surreal, and Santana had always been okay with that. While she saw the world with all its flaws and imperfections, ripe for critique and mockery, Brittany's world was colored with bright lights and a future that seemed full of promise and security, no matter what the circumstances.
It was why they were tangled together in the backseat of her car, with Santana's head leaning against a fogged up window and Brittany's flexible body folded on top of her, speaking about getting married and being boyfriends and joining the army like they'd be talking about manicures, or Brittany's cat.
In Brittany's reality, they were getting married, and Santana was a hero, singled out and valued because she was as special as Brittany thought she was.
Fingers drifted against blonde strands, scratching nails lightly against Brittany's nape, as it occurred to Santana that Brittany had accomplished her goal: Santana no longer felt the fear.
What she felt instead was remarkably warmer, and she understood that this feeling was precious and fragile.
"Remember what we learned about in social studies? In Iran? They're like, putting people to death for doing what we do."
Brittany sighed, breath lilting across her throat. "Yeah," she mumbled against the fabric of Santana's shirt, sounding sobered and sad.
Santana didn't identify with queer, but Brittany did. Brittany, with her obsession with breasts and her hobby of making out with everyone, did it without thinking of any sort of consequences.
Even in crusty old Lima, she was safe.
Because it was freaking America, or whatever, and there were people who fought for that right, to keep her safe.
Thoughts that seemed jumbled and incomprehensible two minutes ago suddenly seemed so very clear.
Brittany, the girl she was gonna marry, had always been her safe place.
Maybe it was time to return the favor.
"It is kind of awesome, isn't it?" she asked, tone growing bolder. "In a twisted sort of way. That Sue chose me."
"Totally. But like she would really pick anyone else."
"I could like, make a difference." Her palms smoothed down Brittany's arms, tugging slightly until Brittany took the hint and resettled herself, nose buried into Santana's neck. The position allowed her to embrace Brittany, and she did, tightening her hold until she felt every inch of her. It made her feel absurdly sentimental. "So Master Planner, when are we getting married?
"I dunno." Brittany bit lightly against her jaw, a gesture of affection. She sounded relaxed and sleepy. "Eventually. You can go be an army hero first, if you want."
A lump of emotion suddenly pressed in against the back of her throat. "Thanks," she managed, and as lightly as she could, continued, "I think I will."
Just like that, Santana's future had clicked into place. The life of a soldier; a bad ass soldier with a trophy wife, her own inspiration for saving the American Free World.
Brittany absorbed it. "Awesome."
Santana's fear seemed trivial now, because there was Brittany's assurance that she would be there, every step of the way. For the rest of her life.
God-damn.
Heart seized with emotion, Santana found herself overtaken with giddy triumph and the urge to celebrate the decision the best way she knew how. "Wanna do it?"
Brittany's head lifted to study her, and when Santana smiled lewdly, laughed in delight. "Hell, yeah," she breathed and launched herself forward, bruising Santana's lips with a kiss that cemented a future together that seemed suddenly unshakable and within her grasp.
- END PROLOGUE
Part One