Santana dumped her stuff in the entryway and pulled off her boots, tossing them aside. One of them bumped the NOT MY PRESIDENT sign she'd been carrying around all weekend. She would pick up her shoes up later. Or more accurately, Brittany would.
She could smell Brittany everywhere, and the edge of her anger was instantly shaved off. On their tiny coffee table was a wilting bouquet of yellow roses Brittany had brought home on election day as a tribute to the suffragettes. As she looked around the still apartment, alone for the first time in a while, the last week played over before her:
The accelerating panic and disbelief as the results of the election came in. Brittany's face as she looked to her over and over again in the bar. Brittany's look of realization that she needed to get Santana home now. The haze of yelling and stomping around their tiny apartment. Calling her idiot cousin who voted for the guy and yelling. And then she went into calculated bitch action. Googling about the electoral college. Making signs, taking Britt into the streets with her. Tweeting, hashtagging, even venturing onto dreaded Facebook to express her anger. Writing scathing letters to James Comey, calling members of the electoral college. She'd even sold a pair of new-ish fancy shoes on eBay and donated the money to the ACLU.
Now apartment was quiet and still, as though all that hadn't done anything. Suddenly she realized she was about to cry. Without the energy of immediate anger, she fell into sadness.
Anxious to avoid it, she called out.
"Britt?"
She poked her head into their tiny bedroom with its comically small closet. There was something almost romantic about their shoebox apartment. Santana sometimes thought of how she'd describe it to their kids one day, as though it was a rite of passage, a typical part of the honeymoon phase to live in such cramped quarters. They had been married for a year and a half, and it still felt new and brilliant.
But Brittany wasn't home yet, so Santana would have to fill up the space and keep herself busy if she wanted to avoid getting upset.
She washed her face and put her hair up in a messy bun. She plugged her phone into the TV speakers so she could play music. She put on Florence +the Machine at full volume and snapped on a pair of gloves, deciding to tackle the dishes. Scrubbing was a good anger-channeling task, right? If she could stay angry, she wouldn't cry.
She couldn't cry.
She couldn't cry.
If she cried, it was over. If she cried, it would mean she was starting to give up hope that what happened could be undone. If she cried, she would never stop crying.
She scrubbed dishes, hurled dirty clothes into the hamper, scoured the shower, put away all the shoes in the entryway. She cleaned everything she could think of. She cleaned and cleaned, and then there was nothing left for her to do.
She went into the kitchen-living-dining-room and grabbed a box of crackers, making a face when she bit into the first one and found it had all the texture and flavor of cardboard. She shoved the box back in the cupboard, not bothering to close the container - they were stale anyway - and pushed aside some cereal to find Brittany's secret stash of Oreos. She grabbed a handful and sat on the couch. Sometimes eating was a good way to stave off sadness. It made her feel like a loser though.
She ate the Oreos as her eyes roamed the room. The song shifted to an especially mournful one, and she bristled. It felt like Florence was betraying her too. She was about to get up to change the song when her eyes fell on the sign Brittany had held while they marched next to each other over the weekend. It said "I'M WITH HER AND HER... AND HER... AND HER... AND HER... AND HER..." The first HER had the Clinton campaign arrow through it. The second HER had an arrow pointing down through a heart to where Santana had marched beside her. The rest of the HERs had little arrows pointing to whatever women happened to be around them as they marched.
When Brittany had shown her the sign, Santana had to steady herself against a little swell of something other than anger. Sometimes she still got overwhelmed by how much Brittany loved her and how proud she was to be with her. Santana put on lipstick and gave Brittany a fire truck red kiss to wear on her cheek as they marched.
The whole election season had been brutal. They'd been a house divided in the primary. It was the first big thing they'd disagreed on as a married couple. It made Santana anxious to not be on the same page as her wife, but they'd weathered it just fine. Still, Santana had been relieved when Brittany shifted her support to Clinton during the convention. Things felt good again. Safe.
But things didn't feel so safe now, and not just in the small way that only inhabited their apartment. Things felt unsafe in the big way.
She got up to get more Oreos, leaving three in the box so Brittany wouldn't be mad if she wanted some later. Santana ate them fast, as though stuffing them down might plug up her throat against tears.
Underneath all the anger was the fear that she would lose everything she'd fought tooth and nail for. Her marriage, her happiness, her pride.
She thought about how much they'd struggled through, all the prejudice and all her self-hatred. She thought about how overjoyed they'd been when their marriage became recognized nation-wide. She'd cried tears of joy for days.
She was crying again now. But these were tears of anti-joy. She felt like everything in her life was in peril.
She curled into herself on the couch, shaking. She felt like millions of people around the country had banded together to vote against her. Against her body, her skin, her marriage. Millions of ballots punched through as though to purposefully injure her, to puncture her hard-won self-worth, to make her feel small and ugly. She wrapped her arms around her knees, pressing her face into them, and sobbed.
She cried until her throat was hoarse and everything was blurry and she was shaking. She didn't think it was possible for there to be this much hate in the world. And yet there was, slung at her like a million poison arrows.
She heard Brittany's key in the door and tensed, trying to stop the worst of her crying. She didn't look up, but she heard Brittany put her keys on the hook, followed the familiar yet still jarring SLAM of their unusually heavy door.
There were a few rushed steps before couch next to her dipped and she was wrapped in a stern hug meant to reel her back up from the pit she'd fallen into.
"Hey," Brittany said quietly as her mouth traveled past Santana's ear to land on her cheek. "Hey, hey, hey…"
Santana was slammed by a wave of fresh sobs. Brittany's firmness and complete lack of fear in the face of her most enormous ugly feelings made her feel so protected and safe, but also vulnerable and weak.
"Babe…" Brittany said. It was a question, a wanting to know if something had happened, or if this was the fall they'd both known was coming.
Santana gasped for breath, lifting her head just enough to drag her hands down her face and take some of the puffy heat out of it. Her palms were instantly slick with tears.
After a few moments Santana managed to squeak out, "Why do people hate women so much?"
Brittany took a long, slow breath and let it out. "Because we can do anything."
"Clearly not be president," Santana spat out, gesturing angrily at the TV, as though it was in some way responsible for the outcome of the election.
"Well… not yet," Brittany said. Her voice was measured and soft. "But it'll happen. And we'll get to see it together."
Santana fell limp against Brittany.
"I'm so mad."
"Yeah… I'm mad too."
Santana looked up at Brittany's calm, concerned face.
"But mostly I'm sad," Brittany added. "And scared."
Somehow, hearing her wife say she was sad and scared made the bottom drop out and the sadness inside her lose all the built up pressure. It was a welcome relief. Being sad together was better than being sad alone.
"Looks like you've been busy," Brittany said, nodding around at the unusually clean apartment.
"I was trying to not… you know…" Santana trailed off and gave her wife a withering, pitiful look.
Brittany reached for her hand and squeezed. "It looks great."
"Did you have a good day?" Santana asked, realizing she hadn't asked after her wife.
"Yeah," Brittany said. "I'm hungry though. Want me to make some food?"
"Ok," Santana said, swallowing to calm her throat.
.
Brittany gave her another kiss on the cheek. "I hope you left me a few Oreos."
Santana gave her a pitiful smile as she wiped her mouth, feeling crusty Oreo crumbs being brushed off.
Brittany stood and Santana scrolled through her email as Brittany made a noise with a few pans. Santana felt the air change as the humidity from pasta and steamed vegetables filled the apartment. Brittany placed two plates of spaghetti and sauce with a little sprinkle of cheese, plus some broccoli and carrots on the side.
Brittany took a fork and rolled up a bite of pasta, sliding it toward Santana. Santana opened her mouth to receive it, chewing and swallowing. They ate quickly and quietly.
Once they finished, Santana felt herself getting agitated. After the dishes were done, there'd be nothing left to do, and she might sink back into despair again. She could feel the tears start to bubble up. She had to fight them. She had to fight something.
"What do we do tonight, babe?" she asked. "Is there a protest somewhere?"
Brittany scooted toward Santana, taking her hand and moving her phone to the coffee table. With her other hand she tucked Santana's hair behind her ear.
"We stay in and watch a movie."
"Britt, I can't just sit here… I'll lose it again. I need to do something."
"It's okay to be sad, Santana."
Santana was mildly annoyed that Brittany felt the need to remind her of something so obvious. "Yeah, I know, but what if people just stop protesting? What if they get complacent in all this shit-"
"They won't. I promise. And neither will we. But we need to take a night off."
Brittany was so certain and steady, Santana felt like she had no platform to argue against.
"I don't really wanna watch a movie, Britt," she said quietly.
Brittany gave her a little pout, and Santana felt guilty.
"I'm sorry," Santana said. "I think I need a media detox."
"But I have a special one I want you to see. It'll make you feel better."
Santana heard the weedling in Brittany's voice that meant she needed attention. She was torn; she didn't want to sit still, but she didn't want to ignore her wife.
"How long?"
"An hour."
Santana winced and Brittany wrapped her arms around her tighter. She smushed her lips against Santana's temple and cheek a few times.
Santana let out a sigh, knowing this was a losing battle. "What's it called?"
"Black Mirror." Brittany wrapped herself around her tighter and kissed her ear. "Please?"
Feeling her own exhaustion start to win out, Santana sighed, body sagging against Brittany. Her voice turned soppy and mumbly. "Okay."
Brittany smiled in victory, pulling Santana to her feet and toward their bedroom. She grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it over her head, then opened a drawer and handed Santana some fleece pajama pants. If Santana hadn't been so tired, she might have thought Brittany was buttering her up for something. But this was their ritual on nights when they didn't have work or plans; stay in, eat, watch TV, and snuggle until one of them - usually Santana - fell asleep.
Once they were settled, Brittany picked up the remote and pressed play with an air of victory.
Santana leaned against Brittany, prepared to fall asleep if the show didn't interest her. It wasn't such a bad way to spend the evening. In all her anger, she hadn't felt especially close to Brittany. She'd been all bristles and barbs. Maybe she was a little scared to be close to Brittany in case the election changed something.
The little pops of Brittany clicking through Netflix were the only sounds in the apartment now.
"Want a happy thought before we start?" Brittany offered as she toggled through Netflix.
"Please."
"Our kids will never know the Trump presidency."
Santana gave Brittany a withering smile. It was a personal relief, sure, she felt sad-anger start to bubble up again.
"What about all the lesbian couples who already have kids? What's the happy thought for them?"
Brittany looked at Santana like a part of her was wilting inside, but then she gave a sad smile.
"This is why I married you."
Santana's eyes darted around, resistant to the intimacy when she felt so vulnerable.
"You care so damn much."
Santana took a resentful breath. She wished she could care less. Brittany smoothed the thought away with a hand brushing over her hair.
"I hope you're ready for some jams," Brittany said, nodding toward the TV.
Santana snuggled closer to Brittany and pulled a blanket over them as the title sequence played.
"Britt, is this one of your weird sci-fi shows?"
Brittany tipped her head, looking conflicted. She knew Santana didn't like sci-fi. "Yeah… But there are no scary aliens, I promise. Just give it five minutes."
Santana huffed and leaned closer against Brittany as the movie played.
"Who is this dork?"
"She's me if I had no coordination, sense of humor, or sex appeal."
"So in other words she's not like you at all."
"Pretty much."
They watched as the awkward, fawn-like girl wandered into a bar and struck up a conversation with a girl in a sparkly green jacket.
"She's hot," Santana commented.
"Almost as hot as you."
"Psh, not really."
Santana felt the pulse of Brittany's laugh against her head and they settled back into quiet for a few minutes. When Santana saw the girl in the sparkly jacket put her hand on the awkward girl's leg, she perked up.
"Wait, are they…?"
"Yeah."
Santana adjusted herself, sitting up straighter but not losing any contact with her wife. As the story got more and more dramatic, Santana felt herself leaning forward, as though she wanted to get closer to what was happening. She settled for resting her head in Brittany's lap, letting Brittany stroke her hair, combing all the worry and anger out of it. Even when Santana was confused by what was happening, she just lay there, resting for the first time in days, trusting that Brittany would comfort her. They wound and rewound the blanket around them, rearranging limbs for maximum contact and comfort.
By the time Santana had figured out what was happening - it had been confusing at first - Brittany had slid down onto her side and they lay spooning, arms and legs laced together. As the credits rolled and Belinda Carlisle's Heaven Is A Place On Earth was blasting through the apartment, Santana squeezed her arms around Brittany's, hoping they would never have to extract themselves from the tangle they'd woven as they watched.
Santana couldn't believe what she'd just watched. A happy ending, despite all odds, despite time and space, despite death.
Brittany lifted her head long enough to place a kiss on Santana's temple.
Santana knew what Brittany was trying to say; to remember the thousand little happy moments they had together, moments that no one could take away without their permission. She was telling her to think the million more moments they would share as they aged and built their lives and their family. Brittany was reminding her of the longevity of the promise they'd made: forever. No election could take that away.
It was just a little kiss to her temple. Nothing sexual or demanding or concrete. But Santana knew what Brittany was saying.
No matter what happened in the outside world, no matter how ugly it got, no matter how many people hated them and their friends and family, they would always love each other. Politics couldn't change that. Love was all they needed to make heaven on earth.