Always had a soft spot for Soldier!Santana fics, so I decided to try my hand at one.
Santana's told the story too many times to count.
There had been an ambush on her convoy heading north from Baghdad; and in the middle of it there had been a roadside bomb that nobody remembered was supposed to go off. She got a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star out of the whole mess, but: "I'd give up those medals just to have my fucking legs back."
Puck disagrees, prodding the front wheel of her wheelchair with his foot. Santana frowns at it. "Chicks totally dig war heroes, Lopez."
She scoffs. "Right."
"Brittany digs wheelchairs, doesn't she?"
"Not until she started dating Four Eyes." Calling him Wheels doesn't seem appropriate anymore. It's not much comfort to know that, unlike Artie, she got her legs blown to pieces while being a badass in Iraq, instead of in some car accident. At least Artie still has his legs – what was left of hers had to be amputated just above the knees. Still, though– "…yeah, she does. She loves it when I give her rides in the chair."
"That's so hot," Puck says triumphantly, and Santana splutters. She didn't mean it like that.
To be honest, Santana does like how her pectorals and arm muscles look these days – toned and firm from rolling herself along all fucking day.
It doesn't mean that she's fully reconciled to the fact that she won't walk upright ever again, not in the way she used to. But, well. After living in a place where she had to tote a gun around everywhere, where she went days without showering and constantly expected to get shot at or blown up, Santana had gained some perspective on a few things. Like, how fucking dumb it was to be scared of talks and looks for the sake of a reputation that was, in some ways, as fake as a three-dollar bill – a reputation that, in the end, could have cost her the only person she ever truly cared about.
Reputation meant nothing when she was staring down a barrel of a gun, with Brittany's photograph in the breast pocket of her fatigues. And it'll mean nothing to Santana forever, as long as she remembers the day she woke up in the VA hospital in New York and saw Brittany bending over her, her clear blue eyes liquid with relief and love.
As much as Santana would like to deny it, she does understand Artie better, now that she actually is in his metaphorical saddle shoes. She understands why Brittany had stayed with Artie, too. Brittany's life is about movement, and she can't ignore the fact that there are people who wish they could but can't – Santana loves her all the more for it now. Now that she understands the glint of pride that he had in his eyes when he and Brittany were together, because she sees it in her own eyes every day, in every reflective surface she wheels past. She sees it mirrored back to her when Brittany looks at her. Proudly so, she says, when Santana tells her (because every day Brittany deserves to hear it), I love you.
Santana wheels away from Puck, making her way over to where Brittany and Quinn are talking. Quinn nods at Santana and retreats, leaving Brittany and Santana alone.
"Ready to go?" Santana asks.
Brittany smiles and nods. She moves to push Santana's chair, but Santana waves her off.
"C'mere, Britt," she says, patting her lap. "I'll give you a ride."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Yay!" Brittany claps her hands, and Santana grins at her. She waits for Brittany to settle in her lap, legs thrown across the left armrest and arms around Santana's neck, and she wheels them to their car. Brittany throws back her head and sings, "I like the way you move—" and Santana laughs, kissing her cheek, her ear, her neck, anywhere her mouth can reach.