Words.
Brittany may not have as many at her disposal as Santana does, but she's far more willing to use them freely and generously in the quest for truth and the avoidance of conflict. She knows words are important, maybe more important than kissing and touching and sex, at least when things are going wrong or when there's a gap that's growing between two people. Santana is stubborn enough to simply deny the existence of such a problem, determined enough to believe that her denial has the kind of power she's come to take for granted, like how when she raises an eyebrow in a certain way, people bend to her will, or when she takes it upon herself to put someone in their place, they stay put—if they're smart.
Brittany thinks it's dumb. Not that Santana is dumb, she's like the smartest person in the whole world. But the idea that ignoring a problem in a relationship will make it go away? That's dumb. "It's better without feelings," San had told her once, and Britt knew well enough what the other girl meant, but what it felt like was rejection, bitter and harsh and stinging. And even though it's been a long time since that day in her bedroom, even though they have a life together now and their love is a source of pride and joy instead of fear and shame … even though all those things, Brittany doesn't ever forget the shock and breathless horror that followed Santana's declaration, the sudden dash of terror when she realized once and for all that this girl had the power to demolish her with nothing more than words.
New York is their home now, and Brittany tries hard to focus on the good parts. There are lots of them. She enjoys teaching dance, likes being around the dreamy-eyed kids and the other dancers who treat her like someone different (better?) than she was ever allowed to be in high school. She enjoys the weekly dinners with their Glee family, the familiar rhythms of banter and barbs and bitchery, teasing and arguing that has lost its razor edge and become simple habit, affection even, a gentle reminder of home and history and roots. She loves waking up next to a still-sleeping Santana, dark hair spread in soft tangles across the pillow, mouth open and full lips parted, thick lashes fluttering lightly against delicate cheekbones. She loves Santana, she loves her more than she ever thought she could love anybody. And yet.
And yet something isn't working. It started with an unsettled feeling almost like an itch at the back of her mind. Brittany did her best to ignore it. Santana was busy. She was working, she was in school. It was to be expected. But her long days and late nights, study groups and closing shifts at the diner, those were becoming more the rule than the exception, and there were days that Brittany didn't even see her, or that a brush of the lips as they passed each other in the kitchen was all the contact they would have.
That unsettled feeling began to grow, and before Brittany knows it, it's something more, bigger and scarier, a bone-deep fear that one day Santana will let the gap between them get too big until not even all the words in their collective vocabulary can bring them back together, and then they'll lose each other for good. It scares her so badly it takes her breath away like that day in her bedroom when Santana showed her just how easily she could break Brittany. She tries to tell Santana this one night, tangled up in her on the couch as they wait for the mind-numbing movie to end so they can have sex, but her words aren't good enough and her girlfriend just takes her hand and kisses her mouth, soft and deep, and shakes her head. "Stop that, baby," she says. "I love you. No looking for trouble."
Brittany doesn't like to rock the boat, so she doesn't.
But sometimes when you don't rock the boat, it capsizes anyway. Then all you can do is hang on, dig your nails in, and hope you don't drown.
"Brittany, what's wrong?"
Kurt's expression was pure concern when he swung the door open and saw their friend standing there, looking equal parts upset—which was rare—and pissed off—which was rarer.
She pushed past him into the loft. "Have you heard from Santana?" she asked.
"No, not since we had a shift together Tuesday night. What's wrong?" he repeated, then called out in a louder voice, "Rachel? Britt's here."
"Just a minute, I'm rinsing!" came a muffled response from the direction of the bathroom, where Rachel was no doubt in the midst of one of her ridiculously involved nighttime skin-care rituals.
Brittany stalked over to the closed door and opened it. Rachel, bent over the sink with her face half covered by some gritty green substance, squealed. "Brittany!" she protested. "There is a thing called privacy!"
"Have you talked to Santana today?"
Rachel paused, thinking. "No. Have you tried her cell?"
"Of course I've tried her cell, Rachel; I'm not an idiot."
Kurt and Rachel exchanged worried glances over Brittany's shoulder. She was generally not a snapper.
"Did … did you guys have a fight?" Kurt ventured carefully, not wanting the blonde to bite his head off too.
"Not yet," Brittany said, reaching into her bag for her phone and sending yet another text to Santana.
"Why are you so worried, though?" Rachel asked. "Santana has been keeping crazy hours all semester. Between work and class and …"
"I know her schedule," Brittany said. "She was going to be home early today. It was important."
Kurt had retreated to the kitchen area and now returned with a glass of wine, handing it to Brittany. "Why don't you sit down."
"One of you call her," Brittany ordered. "You, Kurt. Call her and see if she answers for you."
"What, are you saying she might just be avoiding you? That's crazy, Britt, Santana would never…"
"Just do it! Please?" she added, trying to soften her tone. She took a large gulp from her wineglass and watched Kurt take his phone out and do as she'd asked. She was almost relieved when Santana didn't answer, but that feeling was short-lived as the dizzying combination of worry and anger took its place. "Where the hell could she be?" she asked no one in particular—but of course Rachel couldn't let a question hang in the air.
"I'm sure she's fine, Brittany," she said. "She's Santana. My guess? She picked up an extra shift at the diner and forgot to call. Or she's cramming for that trig exam she's been so worried about. Maybe at the library or with that girl from her class—"
She broke off when Brittany's blue eyes pinned her to the spot. "What girl?" she asked, knowing how it sounded but helpless just now to alter her tone.
"I don't know, just some girl in her class." Rachel glanced to Kurt for help.
"She hasn't mentioned anyone to me," Brittany said. "I mean, she's been studying with groups, but she's never mentioned a name. Why wouldn't she tell me?"
"Britt," Kurt began, his tone soothing, like he was addressing a wounded and potentially dangerous animal. "Don't go down that road. This isn't like you."
Brittany retreated to the couch, not wanting to be told what she already knew—that she was acting like an unstable, jealous girlfriend. All she knew was that Santana had promised to be there tonight. To be at her dance studio's showcase, to take her for dinner after, to have a night that was just about them. It was such a simple thing, really, and Brittany maybe shouldn't have been so upset about San forgetting—if that's what had happened. There were other showcases, and how many times had Santana seen her dance? Thousands? Why would it be such a crime for her to miss this one?
Because she'd said she'd be there. She'd promised, and now there was some girl in her trig class that Kurt and Rachel knew about but Brittany didn't. And it wasn't the first time in recent history that San had failed to keep her word, or forgotten plans, or postponed something at the last minute with promises to make it up to Brittany later. It wasn't the first time, but it was the first time she hadn't responded to phone calls, texts, hadn't immediately called her back sputtering apologies and guilt and love and reassurance. It was the first time Brittany felt pushed aside.
She perched on the edge of Rachel and Kurt's couch and drained the wine. "Can I have a refill?" she asked, intentionally disregarding the not-so-subtle glance of concern that passed between her friends. Kurt reached for her glass, but she held it away. "You know, just bring the bottle."
Brittany didn't drink much, so after she'd finished that bottle and convinced Kurt to open another, she was pretty well on her way to wasted. Rachel had finished washing the gunk off her face and settled down next to Brittany on the couch, both of them staring at the TV where some old movie was playing but not really watching it. Every now and then Brittany would take her phone out and stare at the screen as if she might have missed a text or call even though it had not left her person at any moment.
"She's going to worry if she gets to your apartment and you're not there," Rachel said after such a long period of silence that she startled all three of them.
"Hmm," Brittany hummed noncommittally. What she meant, even though it was mean and unlike her, was "Good."
She woke with a start to a loud pounding, and sat up so suddenly she slid off the edge of the couch, landing hard on her ass. Where the hell was she? The darkened room was unfamiliar, her eyes roaming over furniture outlines and darkened curves and corners while her head pounded and her stomach swooped.
Then she heard Rachel and Kurt's sleepy, cranky bickering as they emerged from their rooms and headed for the front door and it came back to her. The movie ending, the talk turning somber and one-sidedly tipsy, Kurt bringing her a pillow and a blanket as Rachel helped her get as comfortable on the couch as it was possible to get on a fundamentally uncomfortable couch. Kurt putting a bucket on the floor by her head, "Just in case."
Now it was God-only-knew what time and Brittany's friends were opening the door to a very angry Santana.
"Is she here?" she heard San ask, high heels clicking on the floor as she shoved her way between them into the apartment. "Britt?"
"She's here, and you're going to make our neighbors call the police. It's two in the morning, Santana."
"Brittany? Oh, thank God!" Santana's anger was swallowed—at least momentarily—by a sort of sweeping relief that overtook her features as she crossed the room in big strides and knelt next to Brittany, who was still sitting where she'd fallen.
"Baby, I've been worried sick!"
Brittany had to laugh at that; apparently the wine was still kicking hard in her system. "That's supposed to be my line."
Santana frowned. "What?"
"I called you like a billionty times. I texted you; I called the diner, you weren't anywhere. So I came here. They hadn't heard from you either, and I was pretty sure you wouldn't go and DIE on me, San, that would just be rude. So I went to sleep."
"Brittany, that's—OK, so I left my phone at the library after study group, but by the time I realized it was gone the library was closed. I borrowed someone's phone and called you. You never answered."
"I turned my phone off."
"Why would you do that?" Santana asked, clearly annoyed.
"Because. By then I'd given up on you ever returning my calls and I wanted you to have a taste of your own medicine. Whose phone?"
"What?"
"Whose phone did you borrow?"
Santana's brow furrowed and she seemed to be exercising supreme effort not to unleash on Brittany. "Why does that—are you drunk?" Her head whipped around so she could stab Kurt and Rachel with a glare. "Did you guys get her drunk?"
Kurt's eyes widened, and he took that as his cue. He backed up a couple of steps, then snagged Rachel by the collar of her nightgown and pulled her back down the dark hallway toward their rooms, and relative safety.
"I got myself drunk," Britt corrected. "Kurt just supplied the wine. Whose phone, Santana?"
"A friend from school," she said. "But listen, Brittany, this is..."
"The girl from trig class?" Brittany smiled, but there was no humor in her eyes.
"Huh? Brittany, this is so far off the point, I can't even. I just spent two hours thinking you'd been abducted or some shit, and you want to talk about whose phone I borrowed to try to find you?" She was scolding now, working her way back into righteous anger. Brittany decided to save her the effort.
"I'm not the one who was missing," Brittany countered softly. "So you have no right to be mad. Besides. Why were you at the library instead of at my showcase? You promised."
There was a pause, and the anger drained instantly from Santana's face, replaced by a dawning horror. "Oh. Oh my God. Britt."
"No, s'okay, San. No big deal, right?"
"No, baby, it's not okay! I'm not, I didn't, I."
"Yeah. I get it."
"Stop that, B, please! I would never have bailed on you, you know that. This day just got away from me, and I left before you were up this morning so…"
"So it's my fault because I didn't remind you."
"No! It's not that. I just. Please, please forgive me, Britt. Please. I am so sorry."
Brittany allowed Santana to take her hands in her own, but Britt's remained slack. "I knew you would be," she said in a soft, sad voice. "Just forget it. I'm going to stay here for tonight, okay? I'm sleepy and they made the couch all nice for me. Go home."
"Brittany."
"Go, San!" Brittany saw her command hit its mark; Santana winced as if she'd been slapped. But regardless of the circumstances, it hurt Brittany to hurt her. So Brittany made her tone softer. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Baby, look at me. Please?"
Blue eyes met brown in the dimness.
"I will fix this."
"Okay."
"Get some sleep. I'm going to skip my morning class and come over here to get you in the morning. We'll go to breakfast. Okay?"
Brittany nodded, and let Santana lean forward and press her lips to hers, gentle but firm. "I love you," she said. "Don't scare me like that again."
It was almost laughable, that she could say that when it was Brittany who had spent most of the evening and night worried sick about Santana. But that was San's way, and so she nodded.
"I love you," Santana repeated, a hint of desperation tinging her tone.
She wished it could go without saying, like it used to, like it should. Unquestionable, unwavering truth.
"Me too," she whispered, not meeting Santana's eyes.
Please review if you want more. I'm in an angsty place, but I am also a firm Brittana-Is-End-Game believer, so I can almost guarantee a happy ending. After I put them through the wringer a little bit, of course.
