"Tell me, you never think about that night?"
She can't grant her request - demand, really - and she knows it, hell, she knows it. That night. That damned night when Obadiah Stane had brought Santana's world crumbling down around her. That damned night when they had been unable to overcome the awkwardness of whatever was between them and kiss. When she had looked so beautiful and elegant in that dress, when her voice had buzzed down her spine in sharp streaks of something that felt so wrong but so good, and when she had smelt like perfume and sweat and metal and sex. She hadn't been a dangerous boundary, a tawdry affair in satin sheets, never to be spoken of again but instead, something more sincere and real.
"What night?" innocence overtakes the arousal that threatens to darken her eyes and stain her cheeks crimson.
"You know."
Brown. So much brown. Sparkling and dancing and darkening with arousal and awareness. She feels like she could lose herself in the kaleidoscope of brown with flecks of gold, hypnotic in a way that dazes her. It takes her a moment to regain her composure but she does so with ease and poses her next question with an inquisitive glint in her blue eyes.
"Are you talking about the night that we danced and went up on the roof," breathed Brittany, "And then, you went to get me a drink and then you left me there by myself?" Santana's eyes widen subtly, clearly defeated by her question. She's right where she wants her. With a note of unfaltering innocence in her voice, Brittany finishes her off. "Is that the night you're talking about?"
"Hmm, hmm." She manages, slightly strangled and lacking her normal sharp composure.
"Santana," Brittany speaks softly this time, aware of Agent Hudson watching them from the doorway. She gently smoothes a stray hair from her face; it's still slightly damp from her shower but she still marvels at the softness of it. "Let's not get into this right now."
"You're not just my assistant, anymore." Santana whispers through gritted teeth. "You and I both know that."
No. Just no. She cannot do this right now. Not while she looks so damn good. Not when the spicy scent of something purely Santana clings to her and her perfectly tailored dress ages her slightly, making her look the part of experienced but gorgeous CEO. Not when she's about to give a press conference on the death of her business partner. Although, she suspects more than what is written will be coming out of her mouth before the end of the conference. She just can't.
"Santana - "
"Brittany, just listen to me. Please?" Santana begs, gently grabbing her biceps in between her soft hands. "Please?"
"What, Santana?" she relents, albeit hesitantly.
"You're not my assistant, Brittany. Haven't been for a long time." Santana's voice is tender, reverent even. There is no arrogance, just a simple, matter-of-factness. "You're my best friend. Quinn's a good friend but she hasn't seen me at my worst. You have Britt and I still don't know why, but you haven't run away screaming."
"San - "
"Not done." Santana interrupts her; her hands moving up to gently cradle Brittany's face. "You got me through some of the roughest times and I can't thank you enough. I didn't quite plan on it happening like this but given what's happened, there's no time like the present." Her lips curl into a breath-taking smile and she leans slightly, just enough to draw her closer without kissing her. Yet. "I love you, Britt."
When asked about it later, she'll deny it vehemently but there are tears and laughter as she gives her waist a sharp tug and catches her in a soft kiss. It doesn't last very long, in fact she's sure she pulls away before she has a chance to offer any sort of response. Instead, her lips ghost over Santana's ear and she catches the soft whisper that sounds something like, "I love you too." She pulls away and wipes away the remnants of her lipstick before tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear and offering her a soft smile.
The ninety seconds Hudson had given them was up; their admission of love far surpassing the minute and a half of peace before what was sure to be a chaotic press conference. Santana could only hope a profession of love would pass as a reasonable excuse for her tardiness.
"You've got a press conference." Brittany murmurs professionally, squeezing Santana's hand.
A silent promise passes between them. When this is all over, when the chaos finally stops and the dust settles, they'll pick up where they left off, but for now, what they've shared in this room will have to be enough. Santana squeezes her hand one more time and leaves the room, Hudson following behind her, a bit like a puppy following its master. But, unspoken promises are broken and everything between them is brought to a violent, screeching halt upon her utterance of four words.
"I am Iron Man."