CPR
(shout out to Roch (gleerant on tumblr) for use of her Sugar!verse, and to JJ themostrandomfandom on tumblr) too - this is early 2050s, concurrent with Al Ellis going back to 2010 to become Al Motta)
('nother shout out to Ruth (doctoruth on tumblr), because.)
CPR
Brittany awoke when Santana sat down on the bed. When she remained facing away, Brittany knew she had unpleasant news. For that, she could wait. She checked the time: it was late, or early. Which meant it was about the time machine.
And she hadn't started out of sleep this time.
Why hadn't she? Why not?
Finally, Santana turned to face her. Brittany loved that she'd let herself age naturally, mostly. The lines around her eyes had turned into a fold or two, and she had started showing a little jowl, but she'd kept her hair dark, except for a little white here and there. (It had gone completely white within the summer two years ago, after they'd caught Charles using the machine.) She'd found the best colorist in town. Her eyebrows remained perfect. Brittany waited still.
That machine. So awesome, and yet so awful. She'd found Santana putting a padlock on it once and begged her not to. Eight years later, Santana had caught her putting a lock on it and held her back, saying: Leave the door open. You never know.
And if their daughter were to come back through that door, what then?
Charles thought they were on a dead-end timestream. That once his rescue was successful, all this would simply disappear. All this emptiness would collapse on itself and cease to exist. They would resume their lives ten years ago. They might or might not remember that any of this had ever happened. Might not. Probably not. And who wouldn't want to let go of this: facing day after endless day without their daughter, knowing her own creation was what had swallowed her, what had injured their son, what had driven so much distance between herself and her anchor to the world, her rock, her wife. Would never drive them apart, but in the last years there had been distance. Every locker scene took its toll (even the triumphant ones). So she waited for the punchline. Or the punch.
She tried to imagine what their daughter looked like now. Grown, with her own career. Maybe with her own family. Too many tethers ever to want to return. It really just wasn't going to happen. It really wasn't.
Magic is for children. And none of them are children any more.
Santana reached toward her but hesitated. Brittany took her hand: You need to tell me. Santana's eyes shone. What was that look? What was it? Regret? Hope?
What if? What if Charles was right? What if they'd doubted him all this time and they'd been wrong? What if Fate really had laid a hand? What if it wouldn't relent, what if Charles wouldn't relent, until this- virus- had run its course?
Santana laid herself on Brittany's chest, not letting go of her hand. She listened to her heartbeat for a few seconds. She sobbed, once.
Brittany held her, listening. For a few moments, she sent herself back in time, back forty years, to Valentines Day, and here, now, kissed her hair like she'd kissed her lips then. She sent herself back thirty years, to their wedding, and here and now, kissed her hair like she'd kissed her lips then. She sent herself back twenty-seven years to the birth of their first child, and kissed her hair like she'd kissed her lips then. She went back seventeen years to Charlie's birth, then ten years, before the device had splintered their lives, and she kissed her hair like she used to kiss her lips.
She rolled Santana across herself, still holding her hand, until they were on their sides facing each other. She gently pushed her far enough away to be able to focus on her face: I need you to tell me.
She knew (oh god) she knew before Santana even opened her mouth.
How long would they have? Ten minutes? Ten hours?
Or Charles's faith in magic was mistaken, and they would continue on and on and on, without. She'd had plenty of without, thanks very much.
What would it take? What could nudge Fate to bump them out of this timestream? All of them. Together. Yeah: Say a little prayer.
Santana pulled Brittany's hand to her own heart. She touched Brittany's nose with her other hand. Not of her own will, Brittany's eyes met Santana's. Hope. And regret.
Santana laid her thumb across Brittany's palm, pressed, then began tracing the lines. Hey. Hi. Hey.
Tears flowed freely, silently now, from Santana's eyes, even still filled with hope. (And regret). She brought Brittany's fingers to her lips, kissing them, one by one. She tripped back forty-one years: I want to be with you. I want to be with you. And she gripped Brittany and pulled her to herself the way she couldn't let Brittany then, performing some kind of time-travel CPR, not with air and compression, but with breath and compassion. Come back, Baby, come back.
Santana placed her ear again on Brittany's heart. The beat was strong, but her response was still weak. Santana crossed her hands behind Brittany's heart and rooted her lips in between the buttons on her flannel pajamas, the ones she'd bought to keep comfortable during night sweats. She pressed through from in front and behind. Somehow, she'd have to jumpstart the heart of Brittany. It would be difficult. Brittany blamed her.
Brittany blamed herself. It was hard to climb out of that mudpit, once it had been dug and soaked for this long. It was deep, filled with pits, footing uneven, slippery. But what if someone threw her a rope? Wouldn't she take it? Would she? Because what if Charles did have it wrong, and they were going to carry on? How could she carry on? Who had been through everything imaginable with her (and many things unimaginable)? Who? Here. Now.
Brittany slipped her hand free, slid both hands under Santana's armpits, and pulled her up, so their faces were level. She was starting to sweat again. Her eyes couldn't focus. But she knew, she reminded herself, what Santana looked like. She knew what she looked like now, and she knew what she'd looked like for every then they'd had together. And that was a lot of then. She laid her cheek along Santana's and breathed in her scent.
(Pick a moment. Pick a moment. You pick.)
That awkward moment at family camp when the baby was three. Well, what are you? That woman owed them some babysitting after that.
Because it was hot actually and she'd been sweating then, too, and there was absolutely no privacy, and they've never exactly been quiet, even since the children.
And there's certainly privacy now.
(Say it. Say I love you back.)
The next line in the script is that she touches her lips to Santana's. Do something different. Do it the same. Just do something. She's here, now, and her heart is breaking.
Santana may not remove spiders and dead animals, but she knows how to take the lead. She starts slowly, just barely breathing into her ear, kissing her temple, her cheek. At the smallest increase in pressure on her back, she moves toward Brittany's throat.
Sweet lady kisses to the throat just might always could yes good swamp the ice in this heart. Earlobe, teeth.
What will tip these sweet lady kisses into passion? What makes a prayer into a psalm? Santana opens Brittany's pajama top. One button, one kiss. Santana loves the way Brittany is aging naturally, mostly. She sends Brittany on a little time trip back to body shots. On a little time trip back to the steam room. The rec room. The choir room, under the bleachers, the janitor's closet.
But she hesitates at her lips. Why? Why is that?
How? How can I be of service? What is it that you may want, or need? And is it okay for me to take you there? Can I now, after all this time, just grasp the string and pull? Would it rip your heart out? Or would it drag you out of the mud? Do it the same. Do something different. Just. Do. Something.
She lets her leg drag between Brittany's as she pulls herself up, so their faces are level. It is better with eye contact. But it's harder when you can't focus so close. So she brackets Brittany's mouth with her thumbs and carefully brings their lips together.
The way Brittany had, the first time she'd kissed her.
Brittany. Heart of hearts. Heart of my life. Come back to me. No matter where we go, no matter when we are, you will always be my heart.
When the ice cracks on a river in spring it sounds like thunder. When the ice cracks in Brittany's heart, it sounds like a sharp intake of breath. It feels like being gripped by a vise. The answer is yes. Pull the rope. Pull the rope please. Please. Pull it. Pull. Pull. Pull harder. Yes you can. Pull it. Pull me out. Pull me out of this deepening pit. Pull! Pull! Pull! Yes. You. Can.
(Thunder.)
For a moment, all the Santanas and all the Brittanys line up, and the fuzz sharpens, and they both see each other as clearly as they ever did.