"Well, shit," Santana muttered, clutching her ankle, "I think it's broken."
Brittany had been the first person at her side after her fall; the tall blonde had clutched Santana's hand without saying a word. In the panic of the moment, as Coach Sylvester hollered into her megaphone and one of the other Cheerios called 911, Brittany had pulled Santana up, into her chest, and wrapped her arms around her, rocking gently back and forth, murmuring under her breath. Santana cried into Brittany's uniform, swearing and moaning in pain, for once in her life not caring what anyone thought about her.
In the ambulance, Brittany sat stubborn and silent beside Santana's prone form. The paramedics tried to convince her to leave, but Brittany simply stroked Santana's hair and didn't budge. The same thing happened at the hospital, and Santana clung to the blonde as the doctors set her ankle and shot her up with pain meds.
"It should heal just fine," one doctor said in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring tone of voice. "You'll be back to cheering in no time." Santana shot him her patented laser glare, and he backed out of the room quickly.
"Want some company?" Brittany asked quietly, her first words since the accident. Santana nodded, and the tall blonde laid carefully down on the hospital bed. One arm wrapped around Santana's waist, the other tucked under her neck, Brittany nuzzled into Santana's shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay," she whispered. Santana floated off to sleep on the wave of pain medicine, barely even noticing when the doctors peeped in and looked shocked.