Out of the blue, the hairs on her arms stand on end.
Blue washes across her and intensifies the blue of her eyes. This must be the moment when Santana's decided on Brittany.
Before, she's only experienced the time ride from the inside, but outside, near another traveler's entry, the blue shimmer of separated strands coming together stirs up wild feelings.
Brittany is reeling.
Seven years she's been working toward this moment. Seven. Working and waiting for Fate to comply. High hopes. High hopes in the habit of repression. Working through inspiration and depression, all along she drove (on the rims) toward love, sometimes on the flimsiest shred of optimism.
Anything is possible.
Seven years in Cambridge, seven years in her same little single with the Dark Side of the Moon mural and the tiny sink in the corner. Seven years in the cyclical rime and swelter of her sheltering home. Seven cold, cold winters.
Salt water freezes at minus two degrees Celsius. She's read that Hagga weeps jewels. Colder than two below she'll weep jewels, too, if she isn't careful. It's been a cold winter, a string of cold winters, and the cold keeps creeping inside.
She's kept the crossings to a minimum. It's cold, crossing through time, crossing through space, trying to survive the winter of her heart.
Walking through the cold has been risky. She hates weeping in the open. But she's proven good at finding shortcuts. She's found tunnels—staff only—connecting some of the buildings. She's found time shortcuts, too, but it takes a long time to make them. Avoiding the cold in the tunnels, she hasn't seen sun for days, but in this moment the blue light of strands reuniting swamps her room and dazzles her.
Seven years she's worked toward reuniting with her other half.
She gravitates toward the blue, amped in anticipation, then stops, realizing she's waited seven years, but she has no idea how long it's been for Santana. It could have been seconds. It could have been years. She wonders if their sundering will matter. She should have thought this through. She should have left her watch with Brittany then. As it is they'll have to decide whether to go back to Santana's time—and risk whatever might happen to the two Brittanys in the same time—or whether to move on. (And what about Santana now? - And what about Brittany now?) The last device she made took months to persuade the string into its strands. And time travel takes such a toll. They'll need to rest for a while first. At least they can rest together.
They were always the best together. What if time apart has scarred them irrevocably? What if losing one another changed their fabrics? What if the warp and weft no longer thread?
It's a common dread. Nothing's for certain. That's for sure.
Blue sucks breath from Brittany. Gasping, now heaving, now weeping, the tingle of time radiates throughout her, yanking her emotions. She reaches for Santana's hand, but her own burns. She yanks it away.
All at once, dark hair and dark eyes materialize before her.
The wrong ones!
The punch lays out Rachel Berry before Brittany has even registered who it is. It simply isn't Santana. Nosy Rachel must have been fingering Santana's things.
A flash of the aftermath of Landslide, the first time Rachel pried between them, that made cold burn her insides. Brittany frowns. It's going to be months before she can make another device. Months with Rachel.
"You," she hisses.