Disclaimer: These characters are neither my possession, nor, sadly, a possession of one of the other brilliant fic writers out there.
Brittany was sitting on the couch in their tiny ("Cozy," Santana would adamantly insist) apartment, running her fingers through Santana's hair—Santana lying on her side curled up in a little ball, head in Brittany's lap—with V for Vendetta playing in the background when a thought struck her.
"Hey, babe?" she began, curious.
Santana's eyes were closed and her breathing was deep, but she hummed quietly in acknowledgment.
"How did you know I was The One?"
Santana opened one eye and stilled. Brittany could feel her retreating, see the defensive walls coming up and offensive claws coming out.
"That sounds incredibly hokey," she snarked. "Did you pull that off some Nicholas Sparks' sappy Last Song tearjerker?"
Brittany stilled her hand, biting her lip and staying silent. Waiting.
Slowly—eventually—she felt the giant ball of tense ooze from Santana's small frame, and she stifled a chuckle when Santana sighed and melted fully into her lap again. She shifted, supine, and opened both eyes to trace Brittany's face.
"Sorry," she mumbled, reaching up to carefully tuck a strand of hair behind Brittany's ear. "I'm sorry, that was mean."
Brittany nodded, still quiet. Still waiting.
"Um," Santana started, exhaled. She looked away at a spot above Brittany's head and laughed nervously. "Well.. I just—I just kind of knew, you know?"
Brittany studied her for a moment, took in the flushing of her cheeks, the feigned nonchalance in her darting, hummingbird glances, and gave a little. "I know."
Santana focused on Brittany again, grasping at the life preserver Brittany had tossed to her.
"I knew from the moment you gave me your cookie in first grade when I asked for it and kicked Puck in the nuts for stealing the cookie from me and calling me 'stupid'."
Santana breathed out, then in quickly, holding her breath as if breathing would break the moment.
(Sometimes, she did that adorably sad thing where she didn't dare believe that something wonderful was happening because too many times that wonderful thing was stolen right out from under her before she had even gotten the chance to appreciate it.)
(Like getting so much support from her parents and the Glee Club—kind of—after being forced to come out. And then losing it all when her Abuela wanted nothing more to do with her.)
(And sometimes, much more often then than now, Brittany understood that feeling more than she would have liked.)
(Like when they had finally been open and ready—happy, brave—for each other, for them. And then graduation—not graduation—tore them apart, tore them into pieces, before they had even set. Even super glue needed time to dry before it could be tested for strength, but they hadn't been bound by super glue, and hadn't had any time to dry.)
Santana cleared her throat a little, swallowed, exhaled. The moment didn't break.
"I gave you my cookie when you asked because you were the only one who smiled at me and offered me a spot at the lunch table." She coughed to cover her blush. "And maybe I didn't know it in words then, but.. you smiled at me, and then my soul saw you and it kind of went, 'Oh, there you are. I've been looking for you.'"
Brittany gasped.
Santana looked at her, eyes ever-so-slightly watery, smile unwavering, hands somehow—always—finding and tangling with Brittany's own. Love so, so sure.
Brittany let their fingers intertwine and their love envelop them in their tiny, cozy apartment.
Then:
"Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You?" she inquired, cocking an eyebrow.
Santana colored, caught, and brought their joined hands to her face to hide from Brittany's amused look.
"Britt..," she whined meekly. "You weren't supposed to get that!"
Brittany shook her head, laughing soundlessly. This idiot.
She squeezed Santana's hands, pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
Her idiot.
"Now who's the sappy one?"