I can't sing and I don't play the piano, but there's one thing I can do: tell stories. As the 13th day of December begins, I gift this story to Pri-dedicated beta, talented singer, and wonderful person-, to celebrate her birthday. The second and final installment will be published at 23:59 GMT, as the day ends.
The poster for this fic, available on a larger version on my Tumblr, is credited to the kind Ree, the newest addition to my realm of friends.
On with the story.
Take I: The Studio
The studio is empty; slivers of light creep in through the gaps and openings. It's quiet – Brittany likes it this way, when she can start the day on her own rhythm. She throws her backpack on a chair and proceeds to open the windows, humming a song.
She looks at the sky, bright and promising.
A black cat sneaks in.
"Good morning, Ella," Brittany says to her, smiling when Ella purrs and wraps herself around Brittany's legs. "How are you today? Having many adventures?"
She takes Ella in her arms and scratches behind her furry ears; her belly trembles and trembles and she closes her cat eyes, delighted. She rubs her face against Brittany's shoulder, meowing softly.
Brittany's phone beeps and disturbs the silence. Brittany puts Ella down, watching her go towards her bowl of water and drink greedily.
It's Brittany's boss, saying she will be late today. Brittany answers, informing her that she's already there getting started, while she proceeds to check the list she left the day before. Send budgets requested; call actors for the Ford piece; edit the TV Guide ad.
"Time to work," she tells Ella.
Ella appears to nod as she solemnly licks her paws.
Brittany has a little secret: she always googles people before working with them.
She's not a fan of soap operas and she doesn't watch that much TV; that means she's often out of loop of who's doing what with whom. She likes Disney movies, science fiction movies, and action movies – the only reason she knows the newest teenage heartache is because she has a 15 year old sister who never, ever stops talking.
Artists love to know their work has reached the public, that they are not shouting at nowhere; so Brittany googles.
The next name on her sheet is Santana Lopez.
Santana Lopez might be the most gorgeous woman Brittany has ever seen.
She's a 25 year old singer, turned actress, turned America's wet dream. She somehow managed to release her third album, sell millions of copies, get a divorce and be announced as the next Bond girl all in the same month.
"Who does that?" Brittany mouths to the computer in awe.
Santana sang with Adele at the Royal Albert Hall. She's friends with Adele. There is a picture of her and Adele buying tiny little baby hats.
There is also a picture of Santana and her husband at the time, Puck. He's got a piercing on his ear and his head is shaved. Brittany doesn't like him that much. He's too confident with his hand on Santana's waist, his arrogant chin up and Ray-Ban sunglasses blocking his eyes.
Brittany ends up at a link for a video of a cover of "Back to Black" – Santana looks a few years younger and her hair is shorter, a little above her shoulders. It's only her and a vintage microphone stand, the light all on her. She looks to the camera and she stares at the audience; she runs her palms down the stand as if it were a lover.
Her voice is sultry, full of depth and passion. Brittany shivers.
A celebrity gossip blog proudly announces how unbearable Santana can be. Low quality videos of her shoving a photographer away and a picture of her giving the paparazzi, and consequentially the camera, the finger on a beach in Spain seem to be proof enough; another link claims Santana is a horrible, horrible person to work with, according to a few background actors on previous jobs.
She always looks so serious and so dangerous in her pictures. She's never relaxed, never at ease.
Brittany's phone rings; it is only when she looks at the screen she realizes she has spent the last 50 minutes stalking the life of a person she has never even met.
Her google adventures aren't usually this meticulous.
"Hi, I'd like to speak Tina Cohen-Chang. This is Brittany Pierce, on behalf of Glory Sound Studio."
"Hold, please."
"Hi, this is Tina Cohen-Chang."
"Hi, I'm calling to confirm Santana Lopez's recording session this afternoon."
"Glory Studio, 2pm?"
"Perfect."
"She will be there. There are two special requests, I don't know if you were informed."
"No, we weren't, but we'd be happy to accommodate."
"There must be water for Santana to drink, at room temperature. She can't have any cold beverages."
"I can do that."
"Also, no mentioning of her divorce. Or her ex-husband. Ever."
"Got it."
"I don't think there will be paparazzi, but if you see anything close the windows facing outside, okay?"
"Okay."
"I think that's pretty much it."
"Well, thanks."
"You're welcome. Bye!"
Sam goes out to buy a gallon of fresh, room-temperature water. Just in case.
He comes back and he's all muscle and manliness as he lifts the gallon and puts on the nearest table. "Now, if that's not healthy enough, I give up," he says with a toothy grin.
Brittany looks at him from her studio, her door wide open, and shows him her guns. He flexes his amazing biceps before they laugh together.
He walks to her and leans on her doorframe. "Hey, Britt, are you busy?"
Brittany immediately closes her browser; Santana's photo shoot for Vogue Latina disappears without a trace. "No, what's up?"
"So," he says, scratching the back of his head, "I came up with three options of arrangements for the TV Guide ad and I really could use some friendly feedback. Would you mind?"
"Of course not," Brittany tells him, as they head towards the recording room.
It's a disaster from the very start.
Brittany places a lock of hair behind her ear and checks her outfit on the nearest computer screen. Headband, hair falling on her shoulders; white pants, black and white suspenders, neon green coat.
Does she look okay? Will Santana immediately hate her?
Then it happens.
Sam goes to the door and he manages to trip on Ella as he opens the door to no one other than Santana Lopez and, as if falling on Santana Lopez wasn't bad enough, he spills his Coke all over her.
Brittany's jaw drops and she covers her mouth with her hands.
Santana gives him a look filled with so much fury, she might just explode.
"What. Do you think. You are doing?" She positively growls, pushing him away when he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and tries to clean her dripping wet clothes.
He apologizes again and again and again, looking like a terrified puppy.
"It's your fucking fault. You take care of this," Santana says before she takes off her saturated shirt and throws it at him, the shirt making a splash sound when it reaches his chest.
Then Brittany takes her time and looks at Santana.
Her body, it's – it's God's gift to mankind. Small droplets of Coke go from her collarbone to the valley of her breasts – full, luscious, amazing breasts –, under the front clasp of her bright red bra, over her tanned, toned, tight stomach.
Brittany licks her own lips; she can't avoid the gasp when two drops join as one and end on Santana's belly button.
"Where's the bathroom?" Santana asks, commanding. She finally looks at Brittany, scrutinizing her from head to toe.
Brittany licks her own lips again. "This way," she says, gesturing with her hand. "I'll show you."
Well, Brittany thinks to herself, at least every ounce of hate Santana could possibly have is allotted to Sam.
Brittany knocks on the door softly. "Can I come in?" She asks quietly, trying to calm her own nerves.
"Yes."
Brittany opens the door; Santana has her hands on the sink, looking at the mirror. She has clearly thrown water on herself to try to clean the sticky syrup from her body as best as possible.
The entire bathroom smells like Santana and Santana is still very wet.
"There was a – I mean, I had a towel." Brittany shows her yellow towel to Santana. "For gym. For gym later, I mean. I work out at night. It's not like I used it already. It's totally not gross. "
Santana frowns slightly, taking Brittany's babble in, before she reaches for the towel. "Thank you."
She runs the towel on her body carefully, in front of Brittany, as though she got half naked in front of strangers every day.
It's really hard not to stare at her and the tattoo of a cross on her lower back.
Brittany looks at the ground. "I just thought, you know, that it would be better than the small one over there."
"Perfect thinking," Santana says with a small grin.
"I have my workout clothes, too," Brittany says, showing the white tank top in her other hand. "In case you don't want to put your wet shirt back on."
Santana nods. "That'd be great," she says quietly, placing the towel on the sink.
Is this a conversation? Are they having a real conversation? Is Santana being all polite and soft?
Brittany can't stop talking. "It's not a gazillion dollar shirt, not fancy and cool like yours, but at least it's dry, right?"
Santana smiles for real this time. She has dimples, Brittany notices. And such a pretty smile.
"Yeah," she tells Brittany. "At least it's dry."
Santana looks really, really hot in a tank top.
And the skinny jeans she's wearing.
And her black pumps.
Brittany licks her lips.
She looks even hotter when she's being so fierce, looking at Sam and terrifying the daylights out of the boy.
He's apologizing, again, and offering to go right away to get it cleaned and give it back to her, and please don't be mad, Santana, can I do anything for you?
"Oh no," Santana answers, "you have done enough already by ruining 600 dollars worth of clothing."
Brittany clears her throat, directing Santana's attention back to her. "The studio is ready for you," she says, gesturing for Santana to come her way.
Sam looks at Brittany like it's Christmas and mouths a thank you behind Santana's back.
"I heard that," Santana informs him over her shoulder, as she passes Brittany.
His eyes widen.
"Sam," Brittany asks him, "why don't you go outside and do that thing that needs to be done outside?"
He picks up on the hint immediately. "Heading out now," he says, grabbing his coat, "be back soon, or later, or tomorrow, who knows," and out the door he goes.
Now it's just her and Santana.
Santana stops, still standing near the door, and turns to Brittany. "I'm sorry."
Brittany frowns in confusion. "For what?"
"I didn't get your name," Santana says. "I have your shirt, but I don't have your name."
Oh, God. Santana Lopez wants to know Brittany's name. Santana Lopez has apologized.
Brittany clears her throat. "Brittany. Brittany Pierce."
She's even more gorgeous from up close, her pumps and Brittany's All Stars compensating for the height difference and allowing her to look into Brittany's eyes and bat her long eyelashes.
"Nice to meet you, Brittany Pierce," she says in the most absurdly charming way Brittany could possibly imagine.
Brittany has never wished so hard for someone to be gay – or for her to have the ability to turn someone gay with the sheer force of her mind.
It happens too fast for Brittany's liking. They go over the lines, Santana sings a bit, talks a bit, and it's done.
Stupid radio commercials are too short.
Now Santana is going to leave and they'll never see each other again and when she does something amazing – like being a Bond girl, or get a million Grammys for her newest album, or be nominated Queen of the Universe – Brittany will have a silly story of how she met Santana Lopez once and she borrowed her shirt.
"I'll be in touch," Santana tells her, grabbing her purse. "To give back your shirt."
"Don't worry," Brittany tells her, gesturing as though it's no big deal, "it's not like it was expensive or anything and I have more clothes, and you're busy with your album and interviews and singing and acting," she rambles on.
"Not too busy," Santana answers, giving Brittany a look that makes her warm from head to toe. "See you."
"Oh, fuck me sideways on a public bench," Brittany hears through the door.
She smiles.
Santana enters the studio again, sighing tiredly as she closes the door behind her.
"You know, you didn't have to return the shirt," Brittany can't help herself, "right away."
Santana tries to shoot her a glare, but it's not really effective.
"It's just that – paparazzi," she sighs, leaning against the door, "can be really tiring. The divorce, it's – a little too public."
Brittany can't think of anything smart or funny to say; it's actually quite overwhelming to see Santana so sincere.
"You become famous," Santana continues, very serious and worn out, "and your life doesn't belong to you anymore."
Ella meows in understanding, getting close to Santana and smelling her feet.
"You can stay as long as you want," Brittany tells Santana, taking a few steps closer. "Or we can send Ella to scare them away. If we throw some tuna on them, she will go wild."
Santana looks at Brittany, amused, and she smiles – for the second time! Not that anyone is counting.
She sits down on the floor, and lets Ella get closer, sniffing her hands and curiously pawing her thigh.
Brittany sits down on the floor – she's not going to sit on a chair when Santana Lopez herself sits on the floor, is she – with her back against the desk.
"She's a curious little thing," she tells Santana. "I always tell her curiosity killed the cat, but she never listens."
Santana scratches under Ella's ear; it's her favorite spot and she closes her cat eyes in appreciation, immediately seduced by the gesture.
It takes no time for Ella to be on Santana's lap, rolled like a cheese, purring magnificently.
"You discovered her weak spot." Brittany says. "Nice move."
Santana smiles a bit; they fall into comfortable silence.
"You can go back to work, if you need to," Santana says, not looking at Brittany. "I'll just stay here. Maybe they will go away, or maybe I'll just have to suck it up and face them."
"I want to be here with you," Brittany says, trying not to blush too much. "You don't have to be alone."
"Thank you."
Ella meows, demanding, and Santana goes back to scratching her ears.
It turns out Santana is really easy to talk to, and she gets Brittany's jokes.
Brittany comes back with two cups of Starbucks coffee in to-go cups.
"I don't think they're out there anymore," she tells Santana as she closes the door. "And I don't think the girl playing with a soccer ball is dangerous. She's really small."
Santana takes her cup and sips it, making a satisfied sound. "I haven't had coffee in months."
Brittany sits on the floor and asks why.
"I was having a bit of a health issue," Santana explains, taking another sip, "so I had to be really careful with what I drank. My voice is my job."
They fall silent for a moment.
"Don't tell Tina you gave me coffee, by the way," Santana says. She winks at Brittany. "It'll be our little secret."
Brittany blushes furiously. "I won't," she manages to spit out without stuttering.
Was Santana flirting with her? Had her Gay Fairy Godmother heard her prayers? Was she imagining things? What was going on with the world?
Had she turned Santana gay with the sheer force of her mind?
Santana finishes her coffee and gets up, offering her hand to Brittany. Brittany takes it for balance as she stands up.
Santana's hands are as soft and perfect as Brittany could have imagined; they're smaller than Brittany's but fit perfectly – they linger a second too long.
"I really should go," she says, letting go of Brittany, "or I'll be late."
"See you, I hope," Brittany blurts by accident.
"See you," Santana agrees.
"So, how was it?" Sam peaks into Brittany's studio. "Is she completely mad and will sue four generations of my family for compensation?"
Brittany looks at him. "No, it was okay. She was nice."
He shakes his head. "Santana Lopez doesn't do nice. I heard she has razor blades in her hair."
Brittany smiles and rolls her eyes. "Go away," she tells him, "before I call her to come back and kick your ass."
He gives her a silly grin and leaves.
She googles Santana Lopez gay, but the results are not decisive.
When her boss tells her the client has requested a few changes and asks her to call Santana again, Brittany can't hide the big smile that creeps onto her face.
It's too good to be true.
She calls Tina, who tells her Santana can be there at 7pm.
"That totally works," Brittany answers, while texting Sam to make sure he won't be around, to prevent any further incidents.
He answers that he will disappear better than Mandrake.
The worst thing is that Brittany has been his friend for so long she knows who Mandrake is.
She's doodling something on a piece of paper, trying to pass time. She tries not to think about if her hair looks okay, because Santana is not gay and has just gotten a heterosexual divorce, from a heterosexual man.
She jumps a little when Santana arrives, getting up to greet her.
"Thank you for coming on such short notice," she says politely.
Santana nods and drops her purse on a desk nearby. "Thank you for not spilling some random shit on me, ruining my outfit, and having me undress in front of strangers."
"We're not total strangers," Brittany answers, biting her lower lip. "I totally bought you coffee. It means something, right?"
It's really, really, really hard not to stare at Santana's voluptuous cleavage.
"Every gossip magazine would say we're dating," Santana says, grinning and winking at Brittany – for the second time. Not that anyone is counting.
Not that it means anything.
Brittany's heart is racing. "You deserve better than an assistant producer."
"You shouldn't put yourself down," Santana answers. "It's not like we wouldn't be hot together."
Brittany chokes on her own saliva and coughs so hard she can't breathe.
She can't look at Santana.
Santana Lopez, chosen the Hottest Woman of 2011 by FHM and the Most Beautiful Woman of 2012 by People magazine, said they would be hot together.
She had thought about them together, even if for only a second.
They would. Be. So hot. Together.
Brittany Pierce and Santana Lopez. Hot.
Together.
And Brittany had managed to make a fool of herself, and cough, and not be sexy at all.
She skillfully manages to do her job without looking at Santana, not even once.
Santana sighs. "I'm sorry."
Brittany blinks, caught up in her distraction. "Excuse me?"
"You're clearly uncomfortable," Santana says, running a hand through her hair, "and it's my fault. I insinuated things and I wasn't professional at all. You're clearly not into girls, or my jokes, and I shouldn't have said anything."
"It's not—" she tries to say, but Santana keeps talking.
"I'll just go, now that we're done," she says, standing up, "I'm sorry."
Oh God, Santana Lopez thinks she ruined things and she's going to leave and Brittany will never see her again –
Brittany interrupts Santana, holding her wrist and standing up as well. "I'm very much into girls," she says and blushes like there's no tomorrow, "and boys. I'm bilingual."
"Bisexual, you mean?"
"That too." She bites her lip, still holding Santana Lopez's wrist like it's no big deal. "You just broke my brain a little when you said we would be hot together."
A grin starts to form. "Did I?"
Brittany nods.
Ella looks at them from the door and meows with approval.
"She likes you," Brittany says, taking a step closer.
Santana takes another step closer. "Just don't tell the press anyone likes me, or you'll break their brains."
"You have a reputation," Brittany says, leaning in.
"I have a reputation," Santana answers, her body meeting Brittany's.
A car honks.
Santana sighs. "I also have to go," she breathes out, their faces close but not enough, "I can't be late this time."
Brittany sighs in frustration; they were so close. "You still owe me a shirt."
Santana smiles. "I'll have to see you again, then."
"No way," Sam says, his mouth half full with his sandwich.
Brittany smiles. "Way."
"So Santana Lopez says you'd be hot together. And then she apologizes, you tell her she broke your brain," he goes over the story making exaggerated gestures, "you two press against each other like lesbian lovers and your face is in her face but you don't kiss because she has to go?" He takes another bite. "That's Catwoman levels of sneaky… And hot."
Brittany nods and sips her milkshake. "She still has my shirt, so we'll have to see each other again."
"What are you going to do when you see her again?"
That's a very good question. "Try not to blush to death, maybe? I don't know," she says, "I guess I'll just go with the flow."
She tries Santana Lopez lesbian affair, but her findings are not conclusive.
It takes two days, and it's raining like it's the end of the world.
The windows shake a bit with the strength of the wind, rattling every once in a while. Ella has her face on Brittany's stomach, not pleased at all with the horrible weather. Brittany holds her, running her palm on her soft black fur, and listens to some music.
It's a slow day.
Their boss had sent them a message saying she would work from home, so she wouldn't have to risk going out on the streets in such horrendous weather.
Sam is taking a break after composing for hours; he has his feet on his desk as he reads his comic, Batman: The Killing Joke Special Edition.
Santana enters without knocking and looks at him. His eyes widen in fear.
He puts his comic under his arm, gets up and says loud enough so Brittany can hear him, "I'm going to take a walk to refresh my ideas," and he disappears into the pouring rain.
The door closes after him with a thud – Santana looks at Brittany, Brittany looks at Santana – and they both laugh at Sam's immediate panicked reaction.
"Sam is silly," Brittany says, gesturing for Santana to enter her studio.
Santana is gorgeous. She's wet – of course she's wet, the sky is falling out there and she still came to see Brittany, to give back that stupid excuse of a shirt – and she takes off her leather jacket. Drops of rainwater run along her collarbone, and she pulls up her own shirt to dry her face, exposing her stomach.
Brittany stops petting Ella because staring at Santana's perfect abdomen takes up too much of her attention.
She barely manages to look away in time. She gets up and gestures for Santana to sit on her executive leather chair, taking a simpler, less comfortable one for herself.
"He's right," Santana says, accepting the offer and sitting facing the window. "He better be afraid."
"Stop being so mean," Brittany tells her, going back to petting Ella after the cat complains and rubs her head against Brittany's arm.
"But it's so much fun," Santana answers, winking at Brittany – oh, there it is, Brittany's cheeks warm and redden and Brittany looks away. "Do you mind –" Santana hesitates for a moment, "if I stay here a little, just until the weather gets better?"
"Of course not," Brittany answers. "I like you."
Santana smiles softly at her, and they both fall silent staring at the rain.
Santana reaches out to Ella, scratching under her cat ears, as Brittany pets her back. Ella looks like she's in cat heaven – Brittany bites her lip when she thinks of how close their hands are, if she wanted to touch Santana…
She has to ask. Curiosity is eating her alive. "Are you really friends with Adele?"
Santana gives her a funny look. "Yeah, she's an amazing person," she answers, the side of her hand touching Brittany's for a second. "Why?"
"I don't know", Brittany admits. "I just saw pictures of the two of you doing baby shopping and then of you two singing together with an orchestra."
"That was a good show," Santana says. "One of the best nights of my life." Her hand touching Brittany's has to be intentional, because it's been going on for so long –
"I wonder if her baby will have that much hair. It would totally break her baby neck," Brittany says, and Santana laughs.
"Yeah, it would," Santana says before she sneaks her hand under Brittany's, still running the tip of her fingers on Ella's belly.
Brittany intertwines their fingers, wondering if she's having a heart attack from the sheer adrenaline.
Santana doesn't let go of Brittany's hand. She shifts closer, in silence.
Neither of them say anything for a long time, until—
Santana frowns slightly, still staring at the window. "You haven't asked me about my divorce."
Oh. Brittany clears her throat, "Tina told me not to," she says, running her thumb on Santana's hand.
"I thought you'd eventually ask," Santana says, thoughtful, "or you'd tell me how big of a mistake I made. It's generally what people want me to know."
Brittany looks at Santana. "Why?"
"You know, we've been friends since high school, he was my producer, and we were so good together," Santana lists emotionlessly, "that kind of thing. No one ever asks about how I felt when he would cheat."
"You don't look that good together," Brittany answers, tightening her hold on Santana's hand. "He thinks he's the last bottle of Diet Coke in the Hunger Games."
Santana looks at her in the fraction of a second – and she laughs a full belly laugh, her body shaking, her beautiful voice filling the room. Brittany smiles brightly before laughing as well.
"That is the best description anyone has ever made," Santana tells her, "in the history of words."
Brittany gives her a smug smile. "I'm pretty cool."
The sun peaks out – they are running out of time.
Ella grows tired of the attention and runs off to return to her cat business; it's just the two of them now.
Santana bites her lip and looks at her phone. "I think I should get going," she says slowly, not really looking at Brittany, "I've already taken up enough of your time."
Brittany just stares, unsure of what to do.
Santana gets up and takes Brittany's neatly folded shirt from her purse. She places it on Brittany's desk. "Thank you for the shirt. It was really nice of you."
Time's running out – Santana's going to leave and she'll have no excuse to come back if Brittany doesn't move from her seat—
She awakes from her daze. "Wait," she says, grabbing Santana's arm, "let me just—" she pulls Santana; Santana falls flat onto her lap, "do something first."
Santana seems to be expecting it, because her eyes fall to Brittany's mouth and she parts her lips a bit, taking a sharp breath.
Brittany doesn't give her time to answer; she puts a hand on Santana's neck, her fingers on the back of her neck and her thumb on her jaw, and she pulls Santana in for a kiss.
It's even better than she expected.
Santana settles fully against her, her weight pressing down on Brittany, and they are touching everywhere. Her lips are soft and gentle, reciprocating the kiss carefully, tentatively, until she tilts her head, grabs Brittany's shirt, and lets Brittany deepen the kiss—
Oh God, had she just moaned in Brittany's mouth?
Her breath is sweet as it mingles with Brittany's, and her tongue massaging Brittany's is slick and wet and perfect; Brittany wraps her free arm around her, pulling her closer.
"I really shouldn't," Santana breathes out, but it's her who's leaning for the second kiss hungrily, coaxing Brittany's tongue inside her mouth and sucking on it, "I just got a divorce, you kn—"
"I don't mind," Brittany interrupts, because this might be the most glorious kiss she has ever had and she's not giving up on it. She uses her hand on Santana's neck to pull her in again, lips sliding together. Santana's hands are on her collarbone, palming her cleavage, trying to get to as much skin as possible.
Santana takes over the kiss, exploring Brittany's mouth relentlessly, rubbing her tongue against Brittany's, until she pulls back and changes positions – and in the smartest move in American history, she straddles Brittany, their bodies touching flush, front to front, breasts against each other – before pulling Brittany's hair and kissing her again, arching into Brittany with clear intention and desire.
It's glorious ten times over. It's Brittany who moans into Santana's mouth this time as she runs her hands down Santana's back, palming the muscles, feeling her respond to her touch. "I'd be in so much trouble," Santana says, proceeding to nudge Brittany's jaw line, marking each word with a small bite, "if this got out."
Santana presses her hips down, and Brittany moans, feeling herself throbbing already. "So much trouble," Santana repeats, sucking on the same spot, hard and long, and Brittany has to hold back, attempting to not buck her hips into Santana. "So out of hand," Santana says and bites, her hand sneaking under Brittany's shirt over her breast.
Brittany grabs Santana's ass. "Like anyone would believe," she answers, hissing when Santana runs her teeth over the same spot, "that you would even look at me."
"Like I could take my eyes off you," Santana's lips graze Brittany's ear. "Like I wasn't turned on just by how you were looking at me."
Brittany whimpers.
The front door opens. "Britt, I'm back," Sam's voice enters Brittany's studio.
Santana swears against Brittany's neck before she gets up. Brittany closes her eyes and tries very hard not to curse Sam until his fourth generation.
"I'm soaked, but I don't think I've got pneumonia yet," he says, distracted, entering his own studio.
Santana runs a hand through her hair, trying to catch her breath.
Her lips are swollen and she looks like a goddess.
Brittany has enough bravery in her to give Santana her card. "Call me."
Santana looks at her like she's about to kiss her senseless – again.
"Britt, are you—" Sam stops at her door, petrified, when he spots Santana.
"You stay. I'm leaving." Santana tells him with a cold stare, grabbing her purse. She turns to Brittany and whispers on her ear a see you very soon.
Brittany gets the shivers all over.
The door has barely shut close when Sam breaks the silence. "You totally had a lesbian make out session with the Hottest Woman of 2012. You should put that on a shirt."
"Well, you should put on yours I wet my pants in fear."
"I did not!" He looks slightly offended. "I'm just trying to take care of my well-being, okay?"
"Hi, I'd like to speak with Brittany Pierce."
"This is she."
"It's Tina Cohen-Chang."
"Hey! Is everything okay?"
"Yes, don't worry. Santana asked me to personally call you with a proposition."
"What proposition?"
"Santana said she was very impressed by your work and would like you to take the assistant producer spot that just opened up in her team. It would be for the official soundtrack of the next Batman movie. Schedules are flexible and I can e-mail you further details and our proposal, if you're interested. The only thing is that you'd have to answer as soon as possible – we're a bit short on time and this weekend the entire crew is gathering at her place. It would be really great if we had an answer before that. Are you still there?"
"Yes. And yes. Yes. Send me the details. I'm in."