Fic: Flashbacks 19/?
That was the worst soufflé she’s ever had, not that it tasted off or anything (she has to admit the dude can cook), not that she really tasted it all, it was just that blood was rushing around her system at what felt like 100 miles per hour, echoing in her ears, her feet were tapping restlessly under the table as soon as Camden had bustled in, and her brain had stopped functioning. Well not functioning properly at least, it was telling her to shovel soufflé into her mouth; Camden was looking at her as though she was some ragamuffin with no table manners. Brittany on the other hand had not touched her desert, and was staring her spoon down like it had just insulted her mother. Camden is more dense then Santana thought, commenting on how ‘delightful’ to see her ‘revel’ in his sweet, and how he must have filled up Brittany with the previous two courses for her not to even taste a little soufflé, either that or Santana grossly underestimated how far up his own arse he is. They all sit in very uncomfortable silence, which is probably ‘enchanting’ to Camden and his warped understanding of things, until Santana offers to do the dishes, anything to get out of this room, plus it’s kind of the polite thing to do, she’d be annoyed if someone came and ate all of her food and didn’t even offer.
‘Oh no don’t be silly, you’re guest.’ Camden chirps up, looking at Brittany for back up and getting no response.
‘No, honestly I want to.’
‘No, no, I made the mess I should clean it up!’
‘Seriously, I want to.’ Santana gets up, but Camden is gathering up the plates and cutlery and is headed towards the door.
‘Santana, go and sit down, I’ll do it.’
She knows he didn’t mean it in a commanding way, but she’ll be damned if anyone tells her to ‘go and sit down.’ Her eyes narrow threateningly at Camden and her fists have curled into balls, she breathes in slowly, blinks twice and steps towards Camden, who is swaying in doorway, uncertain about what is happening.
‘I said I’ll do it, pass me the things and you go and sit down.’ Camden hovers, still gripping onto the plates, frozen as Santana fixes him with a glare. ‘Now.’
‘I’ll do it, problem solved.’ Brittany gets up from her chair suddenly and breezes her way to the door, serene smile in place as she swiftly takes the washing up from Camden and slips past Santana, and into the kitchen.
Camden gawps like a fish for a few seconds before shrugging his shoulders and ushering a still fuming Santana into the lounge. He’s chattering on about something Santana isn’t interested in, odd statistics from the stock exchange whack her in the face for a split second before she zones back out. Brittany is taking a while with the dishes; maybe he did make a ton of mess (twat). Santana feeling a little guilty, excuses herself about getting a glass of water, and practically has to rugby tackle Camden to stop him from running off the kitchen to get it for her. Seriously, what is with this guy?! He’s like an over active puppy or something: sit, stay…and in no way is Santana calling him a ‘good boy.’
Brittany is standing at the sink, hands in soapy water, gazing out of the window, with that wistful look of hers. That look that means she could be anywhere right now, the look of a complete dreamer, the look that pacified Santana so many times in the past, there’s an optimism, a certain type of confidence, which Santana never finds in her own reflection. It’s not quite the same as it was before, but she’s jolted into a memory, or an amalgamation of many memories, they’re all the same, her parents had been fighting, her granddad was ill again, Sylvester had revoked her tanning privileges, whatever the tumultuous thing in her life was, she’d dash up the stairs, straight to Brittany’s room, throw open the door to see that look on her face as she daydreamed out the window, and everything would fall away as Santana would sneak up behind her and wrap her arms around the other girl, standing on her tiptoes so that she could rest her chin on Brittany’s shoulder.
Santana’s feet are moving before she’s processing what she’s doing, and she’s close behind Brittany, still unnoticed. She should back away, cough at least to announce her presence, but she doesn’t, she’s not sure whether it’s her brain or her body but something is compelling her. She steps behind Brittany so that their bodies make the lightest of contact, threading her arms through the gaps of Brittany’s so they reach into the washing up too. Brittany’s breath hitches, and she slows her actions of wiping the sponge across the plate. Santana stands on her the tips of her toes, placing her chin on Brittany’s shoulder, who lowers it a little in response, and places her hands over Brittany’s in the sink so that they both carry out the washing up. They stand in silence, doing the last of the plates, when Santana’s suddenly aware of the situation, it shouldn’t feel so normal but at the same time so heavy with other things. She can’t put her finger on it, well she can, it’s because Brittany’s husband is probably undergoing some internal battle about whether he should jump off the chair and come bounding into the kitchen (she’s sticking with the dog metaphor from now on.) They place the last of the washing up onto the draining board and tip the bowl out, Santana lifting her hands off of Brittany’s gingerly.
‘I thought you could use a hand. Plus I did say I wanted to do it.’
‘Thanks. You always get what you want.’
‘Usually, not always.’
‘It wasn’t a question.’
Brittany spins around so that they are face to face, Santana’s arms are pinning her to the counter. Santana’s not sure if that was a cue for her to move because Brittany wanted to turn and leave or whether this is the position Brittany wants to be in. Santana chances a look up to see if she can read Brittany’s thoughts: she can’t. Brittany’s expression is blank, there’s something in her eyes which Santana can’t work out, it’s frustrating. Brittany moves her hands so that they hover just above Santana’s outstretched arms, small flecks of water hit her skin softly as Brittany’s hand are still wet from the washing up water. Brittany straightens herself, moving closer towards Santana, their hips are brushing lightly against each other, the rise and fall of Santana’s chest goes into overdrive as she’s sure she catches the corners of Brittany’s mouth twitch upwards into a small smile at the contact. Santana pushes herself closer into Brittany but before she can process the sensation, cold wet hands have pushed her away forcefully.
‘Ah ha, you girls having a gossip? Thought you seemed to be taking a while.’
Brittany dries her hands on a tea towel and laughs.
‘Sorry, we got caught up!’ She casts a playful look at Santana, who stands shell shocked in the corner by the sink. Is she flirting with her? Or was that just a friendly look? Does she have some sort of supersonic hearing? How the hell she knew Camden was about to walk in is beyond Santana. She’s pretty sure that’s the reason she has wet hand prints on her arms, why Brittany pushed her away, not because she desperately wanted to dry her hands, because that would be a little odd.
‘Well chuck me the towel, and I’ll dry, you two go and put your feet up in the lounge.’ Camden smiles, before looking at Santana pointedly, ‘if you want to?’
Santana smiles and nods as Brittany throws the cloth at Camden, who catches it and uses it to whip Brittany on the bum jokingly as she leaves the room, he motions to do the same to Santana but stops himself on receiving her death glare.
Brittany sits in the middle of the sofa, and Santana stills as she wonders where she should sit, next to Brittany on one side or in one of the arm chairs. She opts for an arm chair and swears Brittany’s smile falters a little.
‘Thanks for helping wash up.’
‘It was my pleasure.’
‘You’re really good at it.’ Santana laughs to herself, they’re not talking about washing up any more, it was like old times. They’d have completely nonsensical conversations about really dull things or so it appeared, in reality they were covering up whatever prank they pulled or liaison they just had (‘you really know how to rake leaves,’ ‘I think we should paint our nails again soon, don’t you?’, ‘I never did get to see you balance that maths book on your head, B, show me later?’) No one ever bothered to listen or if they did it was hardly worth it, and no one ever noticed the sudden glint they’d both get in their eyes, apart from Quinn, that bitch knew everything, still does.
‘Thanks, I usually work better in a team though. You were good too.’
‘Thank you, but I think I could be better, may be we should practice washing up sometime so that when we do wash up it’ll be really good.’
‘You think we’ll get to wash up again?’
‘If you come round for food again, we can.’
‘Would you ever want to wash up at my place?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m not sure if I should be washing up with you at all.’
‘No, you probably shouldn’t. But do you want to?’
‘Argh the football started 10 minutes ago!! Control! Control! Control! Where’s the control?!’
‘It’s in the flower pot.’
‘Naturally, you’re an odd one Britt, but I love you.’ Camden taps her on nose as he settles himself beside her and switches the T.V. on.
Brittany looks at Santana and nods her head a little, Santana is taking that to mean yes to washing up, not an agreement of what Camden just said.