Going Batty, a glee fanfic

disclaimers on glee & DC universe & everything else. oneshot.

"Hey there, Pablo," says Brittany the instant Santana leaves the classroom. Santana smiles instead of jumping in fright—the shock wore off after the first three times—and accepts the half-full coffee Brittany offers her.

"Which Pablo am I today?" Santana asks fondly as they walk down the hall. Santana's classmates mostly go the other direction, loath to walk out into the snow and cold earlier than necessary. Santana sips the coffee and hands it back to Brittany so she can pull her coat on.

"Neruda, obviously." Brittany rolls her eyes to emphasize how obvious it is. "You're basically done with Painting already, and I'm not gonna call you Dickenson."

Santana buttons up and concedes, "Good point." She takes the coffee back out of Brittany's gloved hands, pivots, and shoves the door open with her butt. She pushes until it hits the brick wall and gestures with her cup: "Milady."

"Milady," Brittany smirks back, adjusting the strap of her gym bag over her shoulder. Santana drains most of the coffee and hands it off so she can check her cell phone. "What'd ya miss during class?" asks Brittany. She switches the coffee around and grips Santana's elbow, steering her gently around a clump of cold oncoming students. She presses, unbothered, "Something more important than me?"

"Never," Santana gasps, scandalized without looking up from her screen. Her brow crinkles.

Brittany tugs Santana's elbow closer and links their arms together. "What is it?"

"You'll never guess who textbombed a serious Sally Field moment to her entire contacts list."

Brittany deadpans, "Actually, I probably will."

Santana snorts. "You're right. We only know one asshat dumb enough to do that."

"That, and she has my phone number."

That earns Brittany a curious eyebrow raise. "You gave Rachel Berry your cell phone number?" Santana sounds confused at the concept, but duly impressed by Brittany's implicit bravery.

Brittany scowls in latent distaste. "No," she mutters. "Kurt did."

The other eyebrow lifts to match. "You gave Kurt your cell phone number?" Santana parrots, a pitch higher.

"Yeah, like, sophomore year, when he sucked at Beyoncé and needed help! How was I supposed to know he'd save it?" Brittany complains.

Santana doesn't reply, instead scrutinizing the text as she scrolls down. "Jesus, you'd think she's the fucking Messiah or something."

Brittany snorts and grins when Santana looks at her. "… Like Handel," Brittany prompts.

"Oh." Santana smirks. "Good one!" She turns back to the text, scrolling on and on and tapping harder against the screen until she turns it off with a huff. "You know, if there's anything New York needs, it's probably not another Broadway superstar to show us the light of the arts."

Brittany hums assent. They cross the street toward the subway.

"It's fucking Batman," Santana continues.

"You don't need Batman, babe," Brittany says impulsively, reading her subway card twice to let them both through the turnstiles. She's still riding her high from fending off a would-be mugger outside their building three nights past. She gives Santana a winning smile and a wink. "You've got me."

Santana pins her with that happy-sad smile—a mix of warning and I love you—and wanders down the platform to wait. "I guess you can be my Batman," she allows petulantly, though she's still sore at Brittany for taking a risk like that.

Brittany blanks her face and says, seriously, "You know that's the only reason I'm even doing these classes."

A smile cracks Santana's face. She glances at Brittany's gym bag and wraps her fingers around the strap, tugging at it and making Brittany sway toward her slightly. "You do it 'cause you like hitting stuff," Santana corrects, squirming her lips to fight down her grin.

Brittany shrugs with a supermodel's forced nonchalance. "I just pretend the target's Fink Spudson's face."

Santana scrunches her nose and squints, unable to fight her natural giddy response. "How are you still mad about that? It's been, like, more than a year now."

"Easy," Brittany says as she grows somber. She touches Santana's cheek. "I just…" The explanation fails her; she shrugs and strokes her thumb over Santana's skin. "It's easy."

Santana's smile grows—tugs Brittany's out with it—and she leans slightly into Brittany's palm. The train comes.

Two days later—a Thursday, when their schedules don't line up—Santana comes home from her poetry class to find Brittany sprawled upside-down over the back of the couch and the cushions. "Hey, you," Santana says happily, high off a solid hour and a half of showing up the bitch who always sits in the front row with her hand in the air. She yanks her snowy boots off, crosses the room, and bends over to give Brittany a kiss.

Brittany's smiling when Santana stands. "What'd you wanna do for dinner?" Santana asks, backtracking to the front door to hang up her coat and scarf.

"Winter looks super hot on you," Brittany comments.

Santana looks over her shoulder and waits. "It does?" she prompts, when Brittany doesn't add anything.

Brittany drops her magazine on her belly and looks at Santana off the edge of the cushions. "Yeah. With your hair all snowy and your eyelashes and everything." Her smile turns coy as she speaks, and her eyes drift down Santana's back before they meet Santana's curious stare. "The scarf's nice, too."

Santana smiles into her shoulder. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." Brittany licks her lips, looking down Santana's body again. Santana's thankful for the thick sweater disguising her shivers as she spins and slinks slowly toward the couch. Brittany looks in her eyes, sharp and deep. "Could come in handy, I think."

"It's new."

Brittany offers a mischievous half-smile. "We should probably stretch it out, then."

Santana comes to a stop in front of the couch. Brittany glances pointedly to the crotch of Santana's skintight jeans, mere inches away. Santana hooks her thumbs in her back pockets and plays innocent: "So. What'd you wanna do for dinner?"

They're naked on the couch awaiting freshly-ordered pizza when Brittany says, as unnecessarily as ever, "Santana?"

"Still right here, Britt." Santana squirms between Brittany's body and the back of the couch.

"I think I sorta got a job offer today."

"A job offer?" Santana sits up a little in surprise. "I didn't know you were looking f—"

"I wasn't," Brittany says quickly. "I was talking with this guy in my class—"

"A guy?" Santana smirks, teasing.

Brittany scrunches her nose and sticks out her tongue. "Yes, a guy, there are guys in my class."

Santana snuggles back into her. "One of your students?"

"No, not my class," Brittany corrects haphazardly, "it was the class I'm taking in the morning."

"Crab Rangoon?"

Brittany smirks and kisses Santana's forehead. "Krav maga."

Chuckling, Santana mumbles against Brittany's bare shoulder, "Right, that one. Sorry, baby. Finish your story."

With excess gusto, Brittany resumes midstream: "—talking with this guy in my class about all the wannabes trying to get jobs at the restaurant he's a waiter in. He probably hates them at least as much as you do, which is a lot, obviously, and I stole your crack about how the city needs one Batman way more than it needs five hundred not-quite-rock-stars."

"Nice embellishment."

"Thanks. And he kind of looked at me funny, though, and he dropped the subject, like, super quick. And he kept a way closer eye on me for the rest of the class."

Santana pouts prettily against Brittany's arm. "Wanker creeper peeping Tom jerk."

Brittany grins at Santana's prickly protective instincts. "Not like that, more like… checking my technique. The real punchline is, at the end of class, he writes a weird phone number on the back of his business card and gives it to me, and tells me to call for an interview for what he calls a really unique opportunity."

Uncertainly, Santana mumbles, "Britty, that sounds, like, way sketch."

"I know, I know, but get this." Brittany reaches blindly for their shitty, scarred coffee table; it's clear, but when her hand hits the floor, she finds her magazine and retrieves it. She holds it up and struggles to show Santana the floppy cover. "The front of his business card—he works for a company that—fuck—" Brittany sighs and dumps the magazine back on the floor. "There was an article about them last month. They're, like, completely legit, and they're trying to make more integrated martial arts studios and start a big chain of 'em across the U.S."

"So?"

Brittany shrugs, dampened under Santana's body. "I think I'll give him a call, you know? What if it's a real opportunity? It could just be his cell."

"Or it could be, like, a crazy dangerous trap," Santana says, incredulous and worried.

The buzzer goes off. Santana scrambles over Brittany to retrieve the pizza. Brittany watches her go and enjoys the view.

Santana's home when Brittany gets back from teaching, happy and sweaty. She toes off her wet shoes and dumps her unused coat on the floor with her gym bag.

"Britt?" Santana pokes her head around the kitchen doorway and smiles. It fades into suspicion at the coat on the floor and Brittany's damp forehead. "Did you wear your coat?"

"Yes, Mom," Brittany teases, half-tripping over the boxing glove that tumbled out of her bag. "Whatcha makin'? Something smells good."

Santana disappears and Brittany trots after her. "I was making us quesadillas for dinner," she says—Brittany pumps her fist—"but if you're that psyched about the below-freezing weather outside, maybe you should go pick something up for your damn self," she finishes.

Despite her attempt at scolding, Santana's grinning at the tortilla in the pan. Brittany wraps around her from behind, pressing her clammy face into Santana's neck and blowing a raspberry. "C'mon, you know you can't eat all this all by yourself," Brittany wheedles, hungrily eyeing the prepared plate beside the stovetop, nestled in a pile of opened and discarded mail. "And you know how I love your quesadillas."

"Fine, fine." Santana waves her off. "Salsa's in the fridge, hypothermia girl."

"Thanks, babycakes," Brittany sing-songs. She peels away to retrieve the salsa from the fridge and grab drinks. "Beer okay?" she asks as she brings it to the table with everything else.

"Yup." Santana stares studiously at the digital clock. The second the 3 ticks over to a 4, she wedges the spatula under the tortilla and flips it expertly.

Brittany sits heavily in her chair and slices her quesadilla into six sort of equal pieces. "How was class?"

"It was okay." Santana glances from the clock to the burner dial to the clock. "Of course, it's Friday, so I rounded it all out with a fantastic tutoring session. Why did I volunteer for that shit, again?"

"They already had psych tutors. And you wanted an excuse to talk about the poems from the class," Brittany reminds her faithfully as she coaxes a dollop of salsa onto her plate.

"Instead of talking about them with my classmates?"

"Or your professors," Brittany agrees, amused at Santana's petulance. She sits back in her chair to wait.

Santana sighs. "I'm an idiot. Almost as big an idiot as the idiot I'm tutoring." The clock changes and she swiftly transfers her quesadilla to the plate she has waiting. She glances around at the counter, then makes a second sweep with a frown.

"I have the knife over here."

Frown smoothed out, Santana comes back to the table and sits. Brittany grabs the knife and Santana's plate before Santana can; Brittany starts slicing with slow, even measurements. "How was your day?" Santana asks, more bashful now that Brittany's taking care of her.

"Good." The slices come out in even sixths, and Brittany returns the plate to Santana. She shrugs. "I taught three classes, which always makes me kinda nervous, but they went really well. And…"

"Wait, three?" Santana pauses, holding the salsa suspended over her plate.

Brittany nods. "Dominique's daughter got the sniffles again." She makes a sympathetic pout.

Santana resumes her salsa apportionment, eyes a bit wide. "That's, like, the third time this month. That kid's short at least one shot, I'm telling you."

"She likes playing outside," Brittany admits. "Without a coat."

"Aha!" Santana points at her triumphantly.

"Trust me, I'm way sweatier when I leave than that kid gets at recess," Brittany says, daring Santana to say otherwise.

Santana shrugs and dips her first piece carefully in the salsa puddle. "Just a nice way of saying you need a shower super bad."

Brittany smirks. "Shut up. You like me sweaty."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"I like to get you sweaty."

"You don't seem to mind me having a head start."

Santana finally rolls her eyes. "So, you taught three classes today?"

"Right." Brittany nods as she takes a bite. "Maybe I just feel better about it 'cause teaching yoga doesn't make me as nervous."

With a shrug, Santana mildly adds, "I don't get why they don't have you do that one, too. Like, all the time. Probably cheaper for them."

"Dominique's been there longer. And, I mean, she needs the money, you know?"

Santana shrugs. Brittany gulps her next bite and fingers the beer can. "And then, after work, something else happened."

"Yeah?" Santana's mouth is full. It's cute.

Deep breath. "I called that guy."

"What g—Brittany!"

Brittany sighs. "Hear me out!"

Santana works her jaw open and shut as she cranks back her train of thought like a fishing line. She looks upset, but busies herself chowing down on her dinner with a long-suffering glare.

"It's a real job," Brittany reinforces firmly. "But it requires an interview. So I'm going in on my lunch break on Monday."

"What kind of job?" barely escapes the masticated quesadilla in Santana's mouth.

Brittany bites her lips together to contain a smile. "Kind of vague so far, but I'll obviously ask at the interview."

Santana swallows heartily and takes a deep draft of beer to wash it down. With unspoken permission to comment, she says, "I still don't like this, Britt."

"The meeting's in a Starbucks, Santana," Brittany says, simultaneously patient and annoyed.

Cowed, Santana hunches her shoulders and dips the tortilla's crisp edge before taking a slow, ponderous bite. "You better call me right after," Santana grumbles. "Or else I'm sending some of your krav friends after you. And maybe some bloodhounds."

Brittany smiles. "It'll be fine," she promises. She reaches out to boop Santana's nose, just to make her scowl.

It works. Brittany half-stands to kiss her precious frowning face.

Santana gets home early on Monday.

Brittany knows it's early because she's been checking the clock, frequently, and she had a plan that was supposed to commence in about fifteen minutes. The plan involved stripping off the sleek spandex and finding someplace truly, perfectly out of the way to stash it in until she and Santana had a conversation.

Now, that's all been thrown to shit, because Santana comes in early and humming and looking through the apartment for Brittany. For the first time, Brittany wishes their place wasn't so literally two-person-sized, if only so it would take Santana longer to find her.

As it is, she's standing there in a skintight jumpsuit with a cowl on, halfway done pulling the hidden zipper in the side.

Santana's shellshock freezes Brittany, too; they stare at each other, still as stone, until Santana slowly reels her jaw off the floor and licks her lips slowly.

"Is it dress-up day again already?" she purrs, but Brittany can see the curiosity and suspicion sparking in her eyes as she takes in the suit's perfect cut and expensive quality.

"Sorta," Brittany manages, because she wants Santana in a good mood before they talk about this. That was next on the plan—cook Santana a nice dinner—before it all went to shit three seconds ago.

Santana's gaze finally makes it past Brittany's neck again. "Cute ears," she comments about the cowl, but her eyes drift back to Brittany's lips as if magnetized. "Looks good on you."

"Thanks."

Santana takes her coat off and drops it in the bedroom doorway, taking slow steps toward Brittany. "You don't have to get new outfits to look sexy, though."

"I know," Brittany begins, and she's about to explain—to tell the whole story about the interview—but then Santana kisses her stupid.

Santana tugs the cowl back, sinks her fingers into Brittany's hair, and it's all over.

"I gotta tell you about the interview," Brittany says, once their hearts have mostly slowed down.

"Right. Not a waste of time?"

Brittany shakes her head and takes deep, steadying breaths. "Kind of complicated, though… so you've gotta let me finish before you, like, freak out, okay?"

Santana draws up on one elbow, peering at Brittany with a furrowed brow. "Okay," she says softly, touching Brittany's cheek.

"It wasn't exactly an interview with the company I recognized. It was one of the investors. Or… something like that."

Santana parts her lips; Brittany touches them with her finger and smiles tentatively. Santana shushes obediently, pressing a tentative kiss to Brittany's fingertip.

"Anyway, dude is loaded," Brittany says quietly. "And I guess he kind of had the same idea you did… just, not as a joke. So, he wants to make it—real."

Santana's frown turns confused.

Brittany sucks in a deep breath.

"Batman."

Santana frowns at her… and then at the suit, crumpled on the floor. Her eyes widen in alarm.

"Baby, listen to me," Brittany says immediately, wrapping her arms around Santana as Santana sits up and away from her, shaking her head. "Listen to me. I can do it."

Santana's mouth opens and closes; she struggles to keep her word and stay quiet.

Brittany sits up beside her and kisses her. She tries to leach some of the panic away, and strokes Santana's face. "I can do it," she swears once they pull apart, looking Santana in the eyes. "He picked me because of my training, my skill in the class. He wants me to train with his people… with real masters. Be a real hero."

"You are a real hero," Santana blurts, her voice thin and fearful. She clutches at Brittany's arms. "You're teaching people how to defend themselves. Teach them how to fish, right?" she echoes Brittany's own words, years ago, in desperation.

"I can do both," Brittany explains, breathless again at the possibility. "Santana, I know it sounds completely nuts, but I'm not going in half-cocked, here, I'm—"

"You're going in not cocked," Santana cuts in. Tears glitter at her eyes.

"I'm going to learn more," Brittany reminds her, touching their foreheads together. "I'm going to be better. But—with his money, and my skills, and—Santana, I could really, actually do this."

Santana stares at her helplessly. "You could die," she whispers, afraid of the word itself.

Brittany bites her lip. "Santana, I… I'm not going out on the street, like, tomorrow. This is… this is just training, a way to learn, an opportunity. He swore I could back out whenever."

"Who even is he?" asks Santana as she sniffles. "Britt, you don't know anything about him! His—his—master teachers could be there to fucking kill you! You don't know if—"

"I know," Brittany soothes, "I know, but what would he want with me? Why would he find me just to kill me?"

"Who cares why?" Santana cries. "People are sick! They do fucked up stuff all the time! Maybe he wants a—a good fighter so he can, like, put on some sick show to get his rocks off to! Britt, what if—"

"Santana," Brittany says, kissing her to stop her overflowing thoughts. "Would you—What can I do?" It's not until now Brittany realizes how much she wants to do this. Santana turns her head, rubbing her tears against Brittany's palm, and Brittany tries, "What if you came with? We could—we could videotape it, just in case, and you could meet him."

Santana looks at her, both wary and reluctantly trusting.

"I said I wanted to see the facility first," Brittany says hopefully. "Will you… Would you give it a shot, with me?" She wipes a tear away with her thumb. Santana eyes her. Brittany bites her lip. "Please?"

The elevator just keeps going down.

Santana clenches Brittany's hand tighter and jabs the button for the 22nd floor, but the elevator keeps dropping. They're well below the first floor, now.

"Did he really take the Batcave shit seriously?" Santana's gone pale and shrill.

"It's gotta be secret," Brittany reminds her, trying to hide her own discomfort.

Finally, the elevator slows to an oil-slick stop. The doors open on a hallway with a turn at the end.

Brittany and Santana glance at each other; their fingers spasm together. "Trust me," Brittany whispers, aimed partially at herself.

Santana sucks in a deep breath and nods. They walk the hallway together.

Around its corner, Brittany deflates a little upon seeing a black door with a sleek silver handle, instead of the Batcave Santana flippantly predicted.

Just as Brittany reaches tentatively for the handle—squeezing Santana's hand once more, for luck—it opens before them. A portly man wearing a tuxedo and a carefully waxed mustache greets them enthusiastically. "You must be Miss Pierce," he says to Brittany, taking in her tall frame with appreciation. He looks at Santana with uncertain politeness. "And you are…"

"Santana Lopez," Brittany supplies, at the same time Santana says, "Her bodyguard."

They look at each other—Brittany puzzled and pleased, Santana hard and firm—and Santana side-eyes their host. "I'm licensed to concealed-carry and everything."

The man tuts dismissively. "No such license in New York," he says, spinning on his heel with surprising grace and beckoning them behind him. "Follow me!"

They follow him into the dark space until they can barely make him out. Santana's grip gets tighter as they walk. When they get too far from the lit hallway—so far the light barely hits the man's crisp white collar and spats, which they quickly realize are their only spatial cues—the door behind slams shut.

Santana's free hand claps to Brittany's arm instantly, placing her and locking them together. Before she can shout in fear or surprise or Brittany can ask what's happened, other lights begin to flicker, far above them.

The room most closely resembles the gymnasium where Brittany took classes as a child: tall, wide, and open, littered with equipment.

"This isn't where I was on Monday," Brittany observes mildly. The man is farther ahead of them; after they share another wary glance, they scurry to catch up.

"Brittany Pierce!"

They whirl toward the voice, booming on their left. Hidden behind a freestanding wall, a second man—taller and broader than the first, with a build that speaks to former strength—is beaming at her. This is the man she met in the Starbucks.

"Mr. Gray," Brittany says, a bit relieved to recognize someone. She steps forward to shake his hand; Santana stays behind, tethered by their linked free hands, and watches them warily.

"I see you've brought a friend," he observes, not unkindly. He smiles at Santana and offers his hand to her. "I'm Mr. Gray."

After a few seconds' deliberation, Santana looses her sweaty hand from Brittany's and shakes Mr. Gray's. "Santana Lopez," she admits begrudgingly.

Gray glances at Brittany. "A partner?" He seems excited at the notion.

"Girlfriend, actually," Brittany corrects; married partner or working partner, he's wrong either way. As if in response, Santana steps closer, so their arms touch down the sides.

"Brilliant." Gray rubs his hands together. He looks over their shoulder and gestures at his shorter sidekick. "Jerry, we'll need a second costume, I think. No—wait—"

Gray narrows his eyes, running them more carefully over Santana's face and hair and body. Santana shrinks into Brittany under his hard stare. "Maybe two bats is too many for one belfry," he jokes with a wry smile.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asks Santana.

Gray flashes a grin, more boyish than sinister. "You look more like a Catwoman to me."

In the elevator, Santana stares into the drawstring bag at her suit, her hand shoved inside to pet the fabric. "So," Brittany says, once she works her courage up after what feels like a dozen floors. "What do you think?"

Santana keeps staring into the bag. Her eyes are focused, or Brittany would think she hadn't heard. Brittany worries the seam along her coat pocket and waits.

Slowly, Santana wets her lips in her mouth and drags her fingers out of the bag. "It… could be worth it," she concedes. Brittany's breath catches like a thin ribbon in her throat. "And if you really want to do it," Santana says like a warning, finally looking at Brittany, "I'm not letting you do it alone."

Brittany bites her lip; happy tears prick her eyes; she ducks her chin and regards Santana seriously. "Trust me," she says, a question and a promise, reaching out to retrieve Santana's hand from the bag strings. She presses a soft kiss to Santana's mouth and says it again, right to Santana's worried loving deep dark eyes: "Trust me."

A small shiver. Santana smiles tentatively. "I do."

Minutes later, when the spell finally breaks, Brittany taps the bag with her free hand. "And you look super sexy in that outfit."

Santana flashes a cocky grin. "Damn right I do."

"It was all I could do not to jump you while they were fitting it."

"You should've. Would've been hilarious."

"Also hot."

"Hotter if you were wearing your costume, too."

Brittany grins devilishly. "Now there's an idea."

Training is good.

Better than good.

Santana trains with the focused intensity of her Cheerio days, repeating motions and flips and punches and pivots until they match the coach's perfectly. The coach is tall, with brown hair and sharp eyes, named Sylvia. Brittany jokes that she must be related to Coach Sylvester; Santana snorts and refuses to call her anything but Missy Pantone, in reference to her attitude and gymnastic prowess.

For Brittany, the training is familiar: an evening extension of her long days. Though Sylvia praises Santana as a quick learner, Brittany is leagues ahead of her in experience alone.

During the first weeks, when Santana's eyes stay first with Sylvia and then with Brittany once they're alone, Brittany begins to worry Santana is jealous of her head start: that she'll harbor some resentment until it bubbles over, the way she has since they were kids.

It's not until a month later, when Sylvia sends her regrets and suggests they drill each other on their own in the enormous empty gym, that Brittany suddenly figures out what's really going on—courtesy of Santana's fevered kicks and, suddenly, fevered kiss.

When Brittany gasps into Santana's hair, squirming against the floor and still fully clothed, her breaths turn quickly into giggles.

"Something funny?" growls Santana in her ear, squeezing pointedly between Brittany's legs and raising an eyebrow.

"I thought you were mad," Brittany whispers through her grin, amused at her own mistake.

Santana frowns, caught off guard. "Mad?"

"That I was ahead. Should've known you were just horny."

Santana gapes, affronted, and pushes Brittany harder with her fingers. Brittany yelps happily and Santana husks, "Shut up."

"Horned toad, you are."

Annoyance and excitement breed impatience; Santana relents and grabs Brittany's wrist instead, bringing it up to the zipper down the front of her suit. "Not my fault it's taken us this long to break the costumes in," Santana comments.

Brittany grins wide, drags the zipper open, and eagerly wriggles her hand inside. "Better make up for lost time."

The costumes look just as good in their apartment, especially when combined with mild roleplay inspired by Sam Evans's comic book recommendations. Santana creeps through the apartment to steal something and Brittany swoops down on her. It becomes their ritual on Fridays, a follow-up to the date night they instituted to deal with a week's worth of stress.

One night, once their costumes are tangled together on the floor and they're tangled together in bed, Santana trails her fingers down Brittany's arm and says, "We should wear our costumes for Halloween. We'll be the hottest thing on the planet."

"They're not costumes," Brittany corrects mildly. "They're, you know, uniforms. Suits."

"Not on Halloween," Santana teases, pressing her lips to Brittany's shoulder.

Brittany sighs. "That's probably not a good idea. I mean—eventually, we're gonna actually wear them to… you know… fight crime and stuff. We can't have hero-grade costumes at a Halloween party, or all our friends will put two and two together."

Santana goes still. She slowly sits upright and crawls over to push the shade aside and crack the window open. Night air seeps in; the cool breath of spring. Brittany's skin shivers into goosebumps.

"You still think you will?" asks Santana, quiet and low.

Brittany swallows and wonders if she should feel nervous. "Will what?"

"Actually do it. Play Batman. Fight crime."

"Why not?"

Santana turns, eyes wide in the dim. "It's dangerous, Britt. It—criminals are dangerous."

Brittany props up on her elbows. "I know that."

"You could get hurt." Santana's expression is cast in shadow from the shade. Brittany can see the lines of her leg where she crouches.

"That's why we've been training, Santana. It's not impossible. We can—"

"You could get really hurt," Santana insists, voice strained.

Brittany stares and tries to tease the fear from the words. "Even Sylvia can't take me in training, anymore. And you'll be with me," she reminds her gently.

"Sylvia can take me in three seconds flat."

"For now. You're getting better, Santana."

"That's not the point," Santana bites, rolling back on her rear and holding her knees to her chest.

Brittany squints. "But I—"

"You could die."

"… I could."

"And you're okay with that?" Santana sounds more tearful than exasperated. Her eyes glitter.

"Santana… somebody should do this, you know? And I can. I stopped that mugger, remember?"

"Is that what this is about?" Santana shifts on the bed. "A power trip?"

Brittany surges upright. "I can do this, and so can you, and other people can't."

"What happened to teaching people to defend themselves?" asks Santana hopelessly.

"I can do both. If you help me."

Santana makes a choked noise as she falters. Her hand falls onto the city-lit bedspread, instinctively reaching for Brittany's. Brittany sets her palms on her thighs and wets her lips. "I want to do this with you, Santana. We wanted to have adventures, remember?"

"Yeah, but I also want to have a shitty apartment and cheap pasta dinners and all-nighters doing projects and an awesome, long life with you," Santana gushes, curling toward Brittany with her whole body.

Brittany's lips part. She reaches across and covers Santana's hand, slow to keep from spooking her. Santana looks down at the bed.

"Baby… I…"

Santana flinches, her loose hair catching a glint of light. Brittany grasps Santana's hand more tightly and entreats, "I feel like this is what I've really been waiting for, you know? Yeah, it started as just a job and whatever, while you were in undergrad and maybe I'd get promoted, but I—I really love it, and I love teaching people what I know, but…"

"But what?" Santana's voice is wet.

"I can't teach everybody, Santana," Brittany pleads. "And just because they learn doesn't mean they'll use it. I… This feels like where I'm supposed to go. What I'm supposed to do."

Santana turns again. Brittany meets her shiny eyes. She swallows hard and asks, as steadily as she can, "Do it with me?"

Santana stares, suspended in space. Eventually, as Brittany's heart begins to sink, Santana laughs once and says, "Wanky."

Brittany smiles, halfhearted and nervous. "I mean, you already did it once today," she jokes hesitantly. She strokes the back of Santana's hand. "One more leap of faith? One more, for me?"

Santana doesn't move for another long, thick moment.

Finally, she whispers: "Okay."

There's nervous, excited silence in the apartment as they dress.

"So…" Santana begins as Brittany pulls her boots on. "What, do we just walk down the street, looking for baddies?"

Without looking up from the laces, Brittany hums, "You remember, they talked us through it. We should go with the rooftops until we spot something, so nobody spots us first."

Santana laughs nervously, fighting to thread her hair through her hood. "Sorry. I'm just nervous. I can't believe we're actually doing this."

Brittany straps the cover over the laces, takes her gauntlets off the bed, and turns to Santana as she pulls them on. "Me neither."

"This is crazy, right?"

Brittany smiles at her. "Right."

Santana finishes her hair and fiddles with the cat-eye goggles. "Maybe we should stay in," she jokes. "Order Thai. No violence necessary."

"Depends on the delivery guy," Brittany reminds her with a wink. The gauntlets are snug. Brittany touches each pocket on her utility belt, checking the now-familiar weaponry.

Santana seems to remember her own belt in a rush, and she checks it and double-checks it hurriedly.

"Easy," Brittany soothes. "Put the jitters in your muscles. We can do this."

Santana looks at her and takes several deep, long breaths. "We can do this."

Brittany walks over to her and tugs the goggles into place, smiling fondly. She kisses Santana and reminds her, "I love you."

"I love you too." Santana tilts her head for another kiss. Brittany obliges.

"Got everything?"

Santana breathes deep again. "Think so."

Brittany offers a cocky grin. "Then let's go."

At first, it feels like a game: like the dares at high school sleepovers, to sneak into the public pool at midnight or steal street signs with suggestive names. Their neighborhood's buildings are all packed close together, so even the long leaps between them are comfortably within their long jump records.

"This is pretty fun," Santana confides breathlessly. The words are laced with adrenalin.

Brittany agrees with a smile. "Let's—" she begins, but cuts off at the sound of a grunt, echoing up from the alley.

They share a stunned glance as their game livens.

Brittany jerks her head toward the sound and sprints to the roof's ledge, with Santana close behind. In the darkness, they can make out a hooded figure sinking its fists into the soft belly of a guy in a blazer.

In a flash—just like training—Brittany rips her repel line from her belt and shoots it into the brick of the ledge. Santana jerks, too slowly to stop Brittany from leaping silently over the edge.

Her boots bounce soundlessly off the brick as she lowers herself in graceful swoops. The buildings' shadows cloak her descent; the man's gasps of pain and a new wheezing cough cover what little sound her cord makes as it detaches.

The attacker doesn't know what hits him, even as Brittany checks him with her whole body. They flatten against the ground, muffling the hooded man's yelp, and Brittany yanks his wrists quickly behind his back.

She's tying his hands together with a zip tie when she realizes the victim is stammering nonsense at her. "I-yi-yi," he warbles uncertainly, torn between hugging her in relief and fleeing the scene.

"It's okay," comes Santana's voice from behind him. Brittany can hear her shakiness—her nerves—but no one else would hear it, subtle under a low, natural rasp.

"Get out of here," Brittany suggests, surprised at how deep her own voice sounds. The man nods helplessly and scurries away from them, throwing confused glances over his shoulder as he goes.

The hooded man struggles under Brittany's thighs. She tugs his hood off with casual ease, less worried now that she has him bound and weighted against the cracked asphalt. He has a tarantula tattooed on the back of his neck and wild eyes; he wrenches his neck as far as he can, pinning her with a look that might be intimidating if he could better hide his fear.

"No worries," Brittany soothes him with exaggeration. She twists where she sits to string a longer tie around his ankles; he spits and curses in Spanish. "You won't be alone long," Brittany adds, pretending not to understand him.

The man turns back to Santana's feet and looks as high as he can. Brittany guesses his gaze maybe reaches her belt. "Huh?" he manages.

"We'll call the cops to come hang out with you," Brittany explains. She pats his shoulder heavily before she reaches around to dig in his pockets.

He squirms. "Hey! Ay! Watch the goods!"

"I'd rather not," Brittany drones, winking at Santana cheekily. She pulls his cell phone out and calls 911. "Hello," she says in a ridiculous faux-bass, "I tried to rob somebody, but they stopped me and tied me up. Can you come pick me up?"

When the operator asks the location in a bored voice, Brittany gives it and hangs up immediately. She tucks the phone in his hood, stands, and rolls him over with her foot. He glares in fury and bewilderment. Brittany frees a third zip tie from her belt and ties his wrists to the base of the dumpster behind him.

"Well," Santana says after a beat. "I think that went rather well."

"Are you two serious right now?" the guy demands, testing his strength against the huge metal peopleweight.

Brittany shrugs. She glances Santana's way. "You look seriously hot, by the way. Catwoman." She winks.

Santana rolls her eyes and starts walking out of the alley. Brittany jogs to catch up and Santana sends her a delighted grin, hidden from the thug squirming on the ground. She grabs the cowl's ears and tugs; Brittany's head follows the molded silicon. "Hey!"

"Sorry, cutie." Santana grins wider, her nose and eyes crinkling. "Can't contain myself."

Brittany shakes Santana's hand off and shoots a quick glance over her shoulder. Sirens go off in the distance, right as they turn the corner.

As soon as they're out of sight, Brittany presses Santana flush against the building and kisses her soundly.

Brittany pulls away slowly; reluctantly. Santana watches her, eyes fiery and smile shy, short breaths escaping her lips. "So," she teases, "I'm Catwoman, huh? What's that make you?"

"Whatever you want me to be, baby," Brittany teases back, rubbing their noses together.

The sirens come louder, bouncing off the walls. "At the moment, I really want you to be safe on the roof with me," Santana points out. She surges forward for a last hot kiss and then spins, free-climbing to the third story window before she pulls the grappling rope from her belt.

Brittany waits a moment to enjoy the view before she follows. When Santana vaults the ledge and looks down at her, Brittany gives her a cheeky grin and grunts, "Dat ass."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Get up here, Batgirl."

Brittany climbs up beside her and pouts. "Not even Batwoman? Doomed to adolescence forever?"

"I think saying 'dat ass' already proves you're stuck in teenage-boyhood," Santana snarks as she retracts the line and puts the tool back in her belt.

"I think your ass is stuck in teenage-sex-bomb-hood," Brittany says with a casual shrug. She follows suit with her grappling hook while Santana smirks at her.

When the hook's back in her belt, Brittany smiles slyly at Santana. "I was serious about your suit," she says unnecessarily.

"Like spandex would ever not look hot on me."

"What do you think of mine?" Brittany asks, playing innocent and plucking the cape dangling down her back.

Santana looks her up and down, slow as dripping chocolate sauce and about as hot, and licks her lips. "I think you look better out of it."

Brittany tries to pout, but one side of her mouth keeps quirking up. She can hear the sirens stop and car doors slam open and shut. "Not even the ears?"

Santana rolls her eyes again, but she reaches up to tug one again, like she can't help herself. Brittany grins and lets her head tilt toward the side until Santana cups the back of her skull and pulls her in for another kiss.

Below, cops' voices drift up from the alley, too vague to make out. Santana pulls away, leaving Brittany a little buzzed in her wake, and peers cautiously down toward the alley.

Brittany joins her, and together they watch the cops walk the thug back to the car, offering each other bemused shrugs while the guy babbles and switches between fury and befuddlement.

"You know," Santana finally says, touching the back of her neck sheepishly, "this could actually be… kind of fun."

Brittany can't help but grin. "Yeah, kit-kat. I think it could."