A/N: Hello lovelies!
As some of you know, this is a re-vamp of my older version of this. I'll be going through slowly and re-doing the chapters, and then adding more. It's been two years, but I promised I wouldn't leave this to the wolves, and I won't.
For the newbies, a little info: age-play Quinn, long-established Brittana (engaged, together solidly for nine years, but really for eleven). Marley and Kitty will be mentioned, but we're pretending that they're new to the universe and were never in Lima.
Also, yes, there will be Faberry. Of course there will.
Santana didn't glance up from her paperwork as keys jingled in the lock, the muted sound of the door shutting in the front hall announcing Brittany's arrival. She didn't even move when the tall dancer entered the room a few moments later, pausing to drop her purse on the table before making her way over to her fiancé. Brittany only needed to spare the paper-strewn coffee table a single glance to know that Santana hadn't moved from her spot on the couch since she had left early that morning.
"Hey babe," she greeted cheerfully, swooping down to press a kiss to her fiancé's cheek. Santana mumbled something indistinguishable in response, and felt the dancer's hands rub soothingly against the base of her neck. Brittany chuckled slightly, kneading Santana's shoulders through the material of her hooded Cheerios sweatshirt — the one she had "borrowed" from Brittany seven years ago, and that she only wore when she was particularly tired or stressed. "Tough day?"
Santana hummed, allowing her tensed body to relax into her fiancé's touch, and leaned up for a kiss. She pouted when Brittany pulled away after only a few moments, turning around in her seat to look the blonde in the eye.
"What?" she protested sulkily, her lips pursing in an adorable pout that had Brittany grinning from ear to ear. She couldn't help herself; despite Santana's attempt to retain her reputation for being an emotionless badass, she was still so cute when she sulked. Nevertheless, Brittany could sense something bothering her, and was determined to coax it out before she got too distracted.
"Something's bothering you," she said simply, not bothering to phrase it as a question. There was a reason she could read Santana better than anybody else, and Santana had stopped denying it years ago. Instead, she unconsciously let her features slide back into a slight frown at Brittany's words, eyebrows knitting in an obvious show of anxiety.
"It's this new case," she explained with a sigh, turning back to riffle through the papers now littering the couch cushions and carpet as well as the designated table.
"The teenager?" Santana nodded, shuffling through the various files to her right.
"It's more complicated than we thought. We just figured that we could remove her from the area and place her in foster care, but it turns out that she's actually eighteen," she clarified as Brittany cleared a place to sit beside her.
"But that's good, isn't it? That means the parents can't force her to stay with them, right?" Brittany pressed, leaning over to read the file now spread across Santana's lap.
"Well, yes, but it also means that the state has no legal obligation to help her. The court could decide to provide her services to get her on her feet, or in the worst-case scenario, it could rule in favor of institutionalization, since she doesn't seem capable of supporting herself."
"Institutionalization, like a hospital?"
"Exactly," Santana said, her face grim.
"But that's not fair!" Brittany protested. "They can't just rescue her from those people and then lock her up somewhere just because she can't support herself!" She folded her arms indignantly and leaned back, unwilling to read any more. The more she understood that Santana felt a personal obligation to continue with her job, the less she had patience for its flaws. Social work was supposed to help people, not screw them over.
Santana sighed, turning to face her outraged fiancé, glasses pushed halfway down her nose so that she was forced to peer over the top of the frames at the fury etched into the blonde's face.
"I know, Britt-Britt, it's not fair," she agreed, reaching to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind Brittany's ear. "That's why I'm working so hard at this. I've been on the phone with our lawyers all morning, and I think I've finally convinced them that it isn't the way to go. In any other case, I'd vote for setting her up in community living, but the problem is, even if we can get the government to provide suitable living conditions, she's not mentally capable of taking care of herself," she explained sadly. Brittany's eyes switched from angry to curious in a matter of seconds.
"What does she have?" she queried, sitting up slightly, her back perfectly straight. Santana frowned in thought, attempting to figure out how to phrase her explanation.
"It's not that she has something, exactly," she said finally, the words slow to leave her mouth. "It's . . . it's like a form of escapism. She's eighteen, but she's had such a troubled upbringing that she reverts to acting like a child."
"I act like a child sometimes," Brittany objected.
"Yes, but you're a fully functional adult," Santana elaborated. "You just get excited about things easily. With this girl, it's — it's like she's stuck being the age she was before all the abuse started. She's capable of acting mature when she needs to, but she prefers to act young; it makes her feel safe, because at that age, she was safe. You see?" she asked gently, raising an eyebrow in question. Brittany nodded slowly, biting her lower lip thoughtfully.
"I think so," she said hesitantly. Then a question seemed to occur to her, as she straightened up even more, her eyes bright with wonder. "Can I see a picture?" she asked eagerly, eyes scanning the various case papers in Santana's lap. Santana chuckled at her enthusiasm and searched through the files before handing her a picture, deciding that the rules about privacy could be bended for someone who didn't work with the department. Just once.
For several minutes, Brittany thoroughly examined the black and white printed court photo, curiously scanning the pretty-featured face, softly curled light hair, and wide, innocent eyes. Once she had made a thorough inspection, she looked back up, locking eyes with her brunette fiancé.
"What's her name?" Santana exhaled, contemplating. It was enough that she had shown the picture — she really shouldn't break another rule.
"I really shouldn't . . ." she began, only to be interrupted by Brittany, who had gone into full-scale puppy-eye mode.
"Come on, San," she pleaded, eyes strategically wide and hopeful. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Can't you just whisper it to me? Please?" Santana laughed at the blonde's antics, but gave in at her last plea, unable to resist the beseeching look her fiancé was throwing her.
"Fine," she laughed, reaching over to whack at Brittany's arm playfully. "Her name is Lucy. Lucy Quinn. She likes to be known as Quinn, but the department insists we use her legal first name for 'professional reasons,' as they call them." Santana rolled her eyes at the term, unable to take any of the professional formalities seriously. Brittany giggled as well, but only slightly. Her eyes were fixed on the girl — Quinn — in the photograph. It was only a traditional, unflattering mug shot, but something in the young woman's eyes reached out to her, snagging her attention with an unrelenting tug.
It wasn't getting late; it wasn't even nighttime, but something in Brittany knew that this girl was going to haunt her tonight.
Santana sensed her fiancé's interest in the story behind the case, but swiftly decided that this was enough for one night. Every last particle of her attention had gone to the subject all day, and as a result her energy was almost completely drained. It would be all she could do to take a bath and haul herself down the hall into bed for a long night of exhausted attempts at sleep.
But Brittany had other plans of distraction; so caught up in her stressful train of thought, Santana had barely noticed Brittany moving closer, or the gentle pressure of the dancer's lips creeping along her jawline towards her ear. Her body registered the jolt in her lower abdomen before her mind did, and before she could protest she was leaning into those now wandering soft hands, letting out a low moan as the last bit of tenseness drained from her body. She knew this was another one of Brittany's ways of easing the stress away, and that if she allowed her to continue, tonight would be slow and loving, replacing sleeplessness with a different yet extremely effective form of distraction. She also knew she only had to say the word, and Brittany would stop; they could spend the night cuddled close and reading quietly to each other aloud instead.
But as Brittany's hands and lips moved lower, Santana decided that this form of distraction was going to be completely acceptable.
"San?"
"Mmmm." Santana didn't glance up; she continued to trace delicate patterns across Brittany's skin with her fingertips, the pressure so light that it was barely noticeable. Her eyes travelled the expanse of flawless skin, up the smoothly tightened planes of abs to the fragile structure of a wrist; the soft contours of an inner elbow, pausing briefly for respite at the sturdy collarbone and defining neck before slipping back down to watch her own fingers trace patterns on an inner arm. She was consumed, utterly enveloped, by all things Brittany. Her scent, her voice, the feeling of her skin – Santana was drunk on her very presence.
They had been together for eleven years, and still Santana could not grasp the fact that Brittany had chosen her — sarcastic, irritable, stony her. Somehow Brittany had seen in Santana what so many others had not; she had gripped her with her fingertips and prized her open at the seams, and dug relentlessly at her exterior until she unearthed what she had known for certain lay there. Clawing her way in, she had discovered everything that Santana possessed yet hid away from the world; all of her faults and flaws and graces.
She had turned Santana inside out, and Santana had let her. She had let her see her for what she was; rough around the edges, blurry in parts — her empathy for the lost and abused, the injured and forgotten; her unshakably strong maternal instincts; her secret love for cats; her pity for and need to aid the fragile; her all-consuming terror of the dark. Brittany saw her for what she was, and Santana knew that with her, she didn't have the strength or inclination to fight it.
Brittany was her gravity. She was what grounded her, kept her from flying away with no lifeline. She let Santana run, knowing that every time she would be the one to pull her irresistibly back to earth. She was the single force that had the power to rip her to pieces, and hold her broken fragments together, both at the same time.
Santana was at her complete and utter mercy, and she found that there was no one else to whom she would rather bend.
"Santana."
"Hmm?"
"Santana, look at me." The Latina obeyed, though gradually, pausing to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to a warm shoulder before settling above her, resting her weight on her forearms, framing Brittany's head. Brittany's big eyes held that steady, serious look they always got when she had been considering something very hard for hours, and had just made up her mind. Even still, Santana couldn't resist bending down to kiss her softly before pulling back, dark eyes playful yet attentive.
"Santana, be serious, I want to talk to you about something." Brittany's tone was reproving, though still gentle in its timbres.
"I'm ready to listen," Santana said solemnly, though her eyes still showed a subtle hint of impishness. Brittany resisted the urge to roll her eyes — she knew that her fiancé would never purposefully disregard her, but Santana's voice was like liquid sex, and she knew that it wouldn't be at all surprising if she didn't hear a single word Brittany said. She decided to speak anyways, and administer a gentle slap if the girl's hands started to wander.
"I've been thinking . . ." she trailed off, unsure how to phrase her jumbled, fragmented thoughts. She needed to present this in the proper light; otherwise, Santana would be sure to freak.
The brunette brought her fingertips beneath her chin, and gently raised her head slightly to look her dead in the eye.
"Britt, whatever it is, you can say it to me," she assured her, stroking a strand of blonde hair before dragging her hand down to caress a soft cheek. "Talk to me, baby." Brittany took a deep breath, gathering her courage to say what she needed to get off her mind.
"What do you think about adoption?" she let out in a rush. Santana froze, her thumb going still where it had been rubbing dainty circles across her hipbone. Closing her eyes, Brittany froze, feeling the warm body above her go tense. She bit her lip, hoping that she hadn't said the wrong thing, counting the seconds that ticked by, the countdown to when Santana would flip out or run. She was sure the Latina would fly away; it almost always happened when she came under pressure or encountered something completely foreign, so it came as a surprise to Brittany when the thumb on her hip began to move once more. Though Santana remained tense, Brittany could feel her let out a slow breath, and opened her eyes anxiously to see her fiancé's features completely expressionless, though displaying no apparent signs of panic.
"What brought this about?" she asked at last, fighting to keep her voice calm. Brittany bit her lower lip nervously, unsure of how to proceed. She decided to ask, first, just to be sure . . .
"Are you . . .?"
"I'm not going to run, Britt," Santana interrupted her, her voice edgy, but not panicked. Brittany narrowed her eyes at her, attempting to decipher if she was telling the truth or not. She hadn't seen Santana this stony in a long time.
Santana forced a weak, lips tight and thin, but she made an effort.
"Relax, Britt. I'm just surprised, okay? Explain where this is coming from, please," she said softly, rubbing a thumb across Brittany's cheekbone. The blonde hesitated, hating the blankness she saw in those dark eyes, but continued carefully, choosing her words with greater caution than she had in many years.
"I was thinking about Lucy. Quinn. You know, your case," she began slowly, watching the Latina's face for any sign of change. She stopped, searching for any suddenly revealed emotions, but Santana merely nodded.
"Go on." Her voice was still flat, and Brittany could tell that she was struggling to retain her composure.
"I . . . Santana if this is bothering you, we can just forget I ever said it," she finally blurted out wildly, her words a scrambled mess for their haste and descending fear. "Just tell me what you're thinking, please?" She realized that she was begging, and that she sounded whiny and pitiful, but she couldn't form proper thoughts when Santana was so tense as she was.
At her words, Santana's body relaxed, and she rolled off of Brittany, causing the dancer to panic for a moment before she realized that the brunette was only moving to lie beside her, facing her. Twining her own fingers around thinner, pale ones, Santana brought their joined hands up between their bodies to press against Brittany's shoulder. She smiled, and this time it was genuine, despite the fact that a hint of uncertainty lay behind her gaze. Brittany felt the radiating warmth that always came with Santana's smiles, and calmed slightly with the realization that Santana hadn't gone into a full-blown panic.
"Baby, calm down," she spoke soothingly, untangling one of her hands to wrap around Brittany's waist, pulling her closer. "I told you, I'm fine. Just tell me what's going on." Her voice was soothing now, no longer leveled; Brittany could hear the familiar cadences return; the nasal quality to "a" sounds; the rounded, easy way she spoke her vowels, and the low purr that caught in her throat at the ends of her sentences. She smiled back, the movement of her lips tentative, and reassured by the feel of the warmth pressing into her from Santana's body, tried again.
"I was wondering what your thoughts were on adoption." She was back at square one, ignoring her previous, garbled statement about Quinn and the court case — after all, Santana had seemed to take it as a reason for the thought process instead of a possibility. Santana's eyes went soft and slightly sad, a tiny smile flitting across her face.
"Baby," she murmured, drawing Brittany closer to nestle her warmly in her arms. "Why are you worrying about that now? We've got years to think about this. I know we're twenty-seven, and that feels old to us, but we're settled, we're engaged, we know we'll get married eventually — why are you thinking about this?" Her dark eyes were concerned, sincere, as they searched the blonde carefully. Brittany's heart warmed at how alert her fiancé was being, but she struggled to speak.
"I wasn't thinking about that part of it," she countered hesitantly. "I was thinking about — about Quinn." Santana nodded, stroking her hair gently.
"What about Quinn?" she asked. Her voice was low and careful.
"I want to help her." Santana blinked, her only visible sign of surprise. After a moment, she brought up the courage to ask.
"How do you mean?" she asked evenly, meaning to be casual, but her tone came out as somewhat nervous. Brittany cleared her throat and spoke to Santana's chest.
"I was thinking about . . . adopting her," she said finally. There was silence. When she gathered the nerve to look up into her fiancé's face, she saw a weary grimness in Santana's face that gave her heart a twang to think that she had caused it.
"I . . . Brittany . . . that would be too complicated," Santana got out awkwardly. She was now avoiding her fiancé's gaze. Neither girl liked the silence that hung over them like a settled weight, but neither quite knew how to break it. Santana was focused on a point somewhere behind and above Brittany's head; Brittany was watching in worry and slight frustration.
"Why?" she finally asked. Santana's eyes snapped back down to her, before she abruptly rolled to the side of the bed, scrambled to her feet, and began to fumblingly search for her clothes. Brittany struggled to sit up, not bothering to keep the sheet wrapped around her naked upper body. They had kept privacy to a maximum in their first years as a couple, but such formalities seemed unnecessary now — even laughable, considering all they had seen together.
"Santana, why is it too complicated?" she pushed, fighting to untangle her legs from the twisted mess of sheets. Santana didn't look up as she answered, yanking a shirt over her head with so much force that she nearly ripped it down the seams.
"It's just too complicated." Brittany got up to kneel in the center of the bed, free from the confining material.
"What's so complicated about wanting to provide for someone who needs it? That's always been your forte, Santana, so tell me why this is so difficult!" she demanded, her voice growing louder in an attempt to be heard. Santana flinched slightly at the volume, but otherwise showed no response as she continued to fling clothing on every which way. In the back of her mind, Brittany was baffled as to how any of it was actually ending up on the correct parts of her body.
"Santana!" Even she winced at the sharpness of her voice. It had been a long time since either of them had actually yelled at each other, and she understood why — they were both possessors of such strong opinions that raised voices were overwhelming. Nevertheless, she was determined that this conversation wasn't going to be ignored. "Santana, listen to me!" At last, the brunette halted in her wild escape attempt, hands on her hips in a manner that hadn't made a reappearance in years.
"What, Britt?" she asked harshly. "What do you want me to do? I told you, it's too complicated. Now let it be." But Brittany wasn't going to let it go. She needed to have this out, now.
"Santana, you know perfectly well that no one will be able to provide properly for that girl! Whatever legal mess there is, you're more than qualified to take care of it!" she exclaimed loudly, extracting herself from the bed to stand facing her fiancé on the other side. Casting her glance around for an article of clothing, she caught up Santana's oversized tee shirt that she wore to bed on cold nights and tugged it over her head. She felt ridiculous standing with her bare legs completely showing and her chest covered up to her neck.
"Think about it, Santana!" she insisted, her words growing in volume until Santana was squinting uncomfortably. "Are you really just going to trust any random people with this girl? She's special!"
"I know she's special, Britt!" Santana finally broke in, even going so far as to stamp her foot on the cream-carpeted floor. Brittany had no idea how she managed to find both her boots. "She needs extra care, beyond what anybody can handle. Do you think I'm going to trust her to just anybody? I've been working on this case for weeks! I've combed this entire fucking city for somebody who can take care of her properly. That's not to mention how difficult it is to find someone who would go through all the red tape it takes to adopt an adult. Don't talk to me like I don't know what this involves, Brittany; it's my job to do this." She jerked the bedroom door open, somehow miraculously dressed from head to toe in sensible, fashionable clothing, and flung herself down the hallway.
Brittany scrambled after her, tripping and sliding down the narrow hallway in her bare feet, clutching her arms to her chest. She reached the living room in time to see Santana heading for the entry hall, and followed her, darting past the coffee table so swiftly that the scattered paperwork fluttered to the floor. Ignoring it completely, she beat Santana to the door and grabbed the back of her coat, stopping her.
"Santana, give me one reason, give me one good reason why this can't work. I know she's difficult, Santana, but I want kids. A kid. Any kid. I want to be a mom; we've talked about this. And I want to save Quinn. We don't lead hectic lives, we're financially stable, we're patient, we're good with kids, and we have like ten extra rooms in this damn apartment. So unless you're really so against the thought of raising a child together, you turn around right now and tell me why we can't." Brittany could hardly believe that the voice, so low and dangerous, was actually coming from her. This wasn't the way she wanted to be handling this — this conversation was supposed to be exciting and lighthearted.
Santana didn't turn, and when she spoke, Brittany was startled by the sound of her voice; she could hear the unshed tears that filled her lover's eyes.
"I can't do this right now, Brittany."
"Santana Maria Lopez, don't you walk away from me!"
The front door shut with a bang. Inside, Brittany stared at the smooth wood in defeat and disbelief, unable to comprehend that a conversation that had been going so calmly had so quickly gone awry.
Outside, the tears began to overflow.
It was nearly three in the morning when the quiet, almost inaudible knock sounded. Brittany jumped where she sat with her back against the door, phone in hand as she contemplated whether or not to call the police. She scrambled to her feet and fumbled with the knob before wrenching the door open, to reveal Santana standing motionless on the landing as if she had never raised a hand to knock. The cold winter air flowed in with startling force, causing Brittany to shiver and clamp her legs shut against the freezing cold. Santana didn't raise her head; when she spoke, the sound of her words was swept away by the snowy wind.
"I'm ready to come back in." Brittany stared at her, contemplating how to answer.
"What if I say you can't?" She didn't know where the words had come from; they had escaped her mouth without her knowledge. However, once they were out, she couldn't help but agree with herself. She had been left alone for nearly the entire night with absolutely no hint as to where her fiancé was, or why she had left. She was absolutely furious.
Santana raised an eyebrow — the only part of her face that Brittany could see from this angle.
"It's my house." Damn it.
With a sigh, Brittany opened the door wider, gesturing to the Latina to enter.
"Fine. But quickly; you're letting the cold air in." Part of her couldn't understand why she was being so unforgiving — she was Brittany — but she was also cold, angry, and emotionally exhausted; she had no room for patience.
Santana stepped in silently, and walked past Brittany in the direction of the living room. She stopped in the center of the room, in front of the TV, and faced the wall away from Brittany with no indication that she was going to turn. Brittany shut the door and brushed the snow into a corner to melt before straightening up and moving to stand behind the woman. For a long time, there was only silence, as Santana examined the wall, and Brittany watched snowflakes melt in ebony hair.
At last Santana spoke, and even her words couldn't echo in the spacious room.
"I should probably go." Startled, Brittany shifted her weight somewhat, but resisted the urge to move closer.
"What?"
"It's my fault you can't have what you want; you'd probably be better off without me around." Brittany stood aghast, her mouth gaping open and her eyes wide. This was not what she had been expecting at all; rather an apology, or even complete silence. But this . . . she thought they had gotten over this bump in the road years ago.
"Santana, what the hell are you talking about?" she decided to speak bluntly and get it over with; they had already argued, so there was no point in using formalities to avoid the elephant in the room.
"I can't give you what you want, what you deserve, Brittany. You deserve someone who can give you that."
"Santana, we've established that you think you can't give me something, now would you mind telling me just what in the hell that is?" Brittany demanded, growing impatient the more bewildered she became.
Santana spun on the spot and looked Brittany in the face for the first time. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and caked with mascara, her eyes drooping and bloodshot, pained with an anguish beyond tears.
"I can't give you children, Britt, and since you want them so much, you should be with somebody who can give them to you," she choked out, a fresh flood of tears cascading down her cheeks.
Brittany gasped, complete and utter shock crashing through her in waves, and without hesitation she reached out and pulled Santana into her chest.
So that's what this was about. She thought they had gotten past this ages ago.
"Oh god, Santana, baby, don't you ever blame yourself for that," she whispered, cradling Santana as close as was physically possible, gripping the sides of her jacket tightly as the Latina sobbed into her shirt. "My sweet, precious baby girl . . . I'm so sorry love, I didn't mean to make you think that. I will never blame you for that."
"It doesn't matter who you blame; I'm still broken," the Latina sobbed, clutching at her fiancé with anguished desperation. Brittany was no longer frozen in shock; she couldn't believe that Santana had thought this was her fault. She had gone from furious to stunned in a matter of seconds at Santana's words, and now the only thing on her mind was how to comfort the crying woman in her arms. She was moving on automatic, her mind still appalled as she took in the situation.
"Santana you are not broken," she said firmly, attempting to raise the woman's head. "Look at me, darling. Look at me," she demanded, and the brunette finally lifted her head, but left her eyes cast downwards until she felt the fingertips tenderly brushing away her tears. Then she raised her eyes slowly, unwilling to meet Brittany's gaze yet unable to avoid it. The pure love and compassion in her fiancé's eyes caused new tears to well up, and those, too, were lovingly wiped away.
"Santana Lopez," Brittany whispered, cupping Santana's face in her palms. She had opened her mouth to console, to admonish, even, but at the sight of the woman's face, her words of wisdom stuck somewhere between her brain and her mouth. Instead, she found herself scrutinizing the face and eyes that somehow, even streaked with makeup and reddened with tears, were indescribably beautiful to her. When she had collected her thoughts and readied her words, they were not what she had set out to say, but she found them to be even truer than her intended pep talk.
"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," she whispered quietly, and the statement was so unquestionably genuine that Santana's breath caught. She began to protest, but Brittany quickly hushed her. She stroked the cold, wet cheeks gently with the pads of her thumbs.
"Santana, I love you to the end of everything I am," she said simply, and her voice was still a whisper. Santana didn't speak, held captive by the absolute sincerity of her words. Brittany stared deep into her eyes to be sure that she was listening, and when she saw conformation there, she continued. Santana was hanging on to her every word. "You are my person, my soulmate, the only one I ever want to call my own. You are the love of my life, and my love for you will continue no matter what gets in our way. You are the most important thing in this world to me, and I will never stop loving you for everything you are and are not."
"Britt," Santana whispered, but Brittany shook her head.
"I'm not done," she said, cutting across Santana's words, and steadied herself, looking directly into those dark eyes. "You are perfect to me in all your imperfections; you are the one thing that matters most to me in this world. You mean everything to me, and I'm yours, body, mind, heart, and soul. It doesn't matter to me that you can't have children, because any child we welcome to our family will be ours, and you're going to be such a wonderful mother, Santana," she added seriously. Santana caught her breath, and her tears began again in earnest. Brittany patiently wiped them away again, and cradled her girl gently in her arms.
"Santana," she whispered. "I love you, so don't you dare say I should be with somebody I deserve. I don't deserve you — loving, sweet, gentle, loud, obnoxious, irritable, stubborn, beautiful you. I love you more than I can say. I choose you, Santana." And before Santana could speak, she leaned down and stole her words with a gentle kiss.
Santana let out a tiny murmur at the contact, and allowed Brittany to lead her, content to simply be held. She was surprised when the kiss didn't last long, as slow and loving as it was, but her curiosity was swiftly assuaged when Brittany pressed her lips to her forehead, cheeks, nose, hairline; lips gently brushing her fluttering eyelids . . . butterfly kisses . . . that was so like her . . .
And then, before she could even fully register what was happening, Brittany had bent down and hefted her into her arms. She carried Santana bridal style down the hall and into their room, shutting the door behind them with her foot. Santana only clutched the blonde hair more tightly, noting as she did so how Brittany had made sure to tuck her face comfortably into her neck. She nuzzled closer, eyes flickering closed with a sigh as Brittany laid her down gently in the center of the bed.
She knew she didn't have to worry about Brittany taking it too far; this was all about comfort, tonight. She could feel that her fiancé was concentrating hard on something, but for once, she didn't let it bother her. She was too upset, too cold, and mostly too wrapped up in the blonde to care.
Even still, she couldn't help remembering.
They had decided to go after Rachel's pregnancy scare, just to find out the probability — after all, there had been that guy when Santana was drunk several months before; she hadn't realized what was happening, and he had been charged with assault . . . but that didn't matter anymore. They were just curious; she couldn't remember that night, and she was sure she would have felt something by now . . . some sign . . .
And now they were sitting there together, side by side, listening to the doctor as he described to Brittany the likelihood; how long it would take, the time of month, and so on. Santana's hands were clammy in Brittany's as he rattled on and on; he didn't seem to want to look at her, he hadn't the entire time since he had reentered the room, and she wanted to know why. She wasn't far from unleashing Snixx and threatening him with dismemberment as he continued to spew unimportant details at Brittany, details they hadn't even asked for . . .
He was leaving, and she found herself clenching Brittany's hand even tighter in her own; both hands now instead of one. She had meant to yell, but when she spoke, her voice came out as a hoarse, grating sound that was almost a cough.
"What about me?" she whispered, and it took her a moment of hearing herself to realize that she was pleading. He was keeping something from her; he still hadn't looked her way, and she could tell that he didn't want to answer her question. Usually she didn't mind people keeping bad news to themselves, but now she just wanted to know. She was desperate to hear what he had to say, anything he had to say, just as long as he spoke . . .
He cleared his throat.
"I'm very sorry Ms . . . ah . . ."
"Lopez," Santana supplied quickly, not wanting him to lose his train of thought. She ignored the sinking of her heart and waited frantically, her heart thumping out of rhythm. Beside her, Brittany silently squeezed her hand.
" . . . Lopez," the doctor filled in. "I'm not entirely certain what your results were . . . I'll need to check with the RN . . . I'll be back as soon as possible." He hurried out of the room. They waited in silence, neither of them willing to break it with either truthful guesses or false hope.
Twenty minutes later he was back, and his face was grave.
"Ms Lopez, I'm sorry . . . we don't know why this happens . . . sometimes a glitch in hormonal balances or an inactive gene . . . either way . . . I'm very sorry, but the likelihood . . . is slim . . . very slim, in fact we might as well say nonexistent . . . again, we don't know the exact reason for it . . ."
"Just give it to her straight!" Brittany blurted out, interrupting him, seeing how pale and unsteady Santana had gone. In any other situation, the Latina would have made a joke about her choice of words, but right now it was all she could do to remember to breathe. The doctor nodded quickly, suddenly seeming to want to get this over with.
"Ms Lopez, I'm very, very sorry," he said gently, his eye contact direct. "But chances are that in all likelihood you will probably never be able to conceive a child . . . and even if you can, it's close to a one-hundred-percent chance that your body would be unable to withstand the pregnancy. So . . . I think it's only reasonable to say that you will probably never be able to bear children."
She was falling, knees giving out as she slid to the floor, hands coming up to cover her face as she sank to her knees, letting out a muffled sob. Brittany was beside her in an instant, pulling her backwards into her arms, whispering nonsense words in a voice filled with anguish for the woman in her grasp. She turned, gripping her jacket tighter than she had ever held onto anything before, sobbing uncontrollably into Brittany's chest; body heaving and shuddering, choking on her own breath.
She had never felt so helpless before; she was supposed to be the one to comfort people, the one to help mend them when they were broken, and now she was the one being held, whispered to in soothing voices as she cried. Her eyes hurt from clenching so tightly shut. Her entire body seemed to be sticky with tears. Brittany was crying too as she held her, but she wouldn't let go; she was holding onto her like nobody else ever had. She was mumbling incoherent things into the cold down jacket, things like "what did I do wrong," and "just let me fix it," and "please god, why." There was a pain somewhere high up in her chest, and also low in her abdomen, as though feeling the empty place where her child should have been.
The perfectly impervious Santana Lopez, broken.
Santana let out a quiet gasp when Brittany carefully raised the bottom of her shirt by several inches and brushed her lips against her lower stomach, directly above her jeans. It jolted her straight out of her painful thoughts, and the memories were gone on the instant. Her eyes remained closed as she allowed Brittany to stay where she was; she felt no inclination to stop her ministrations. But she wasn't expecting the blonde to speak, so the act came as a surprise.
"Baby, look at me . . ." slowly, slightly unwillingly, Santana opened her eyes to see her fiancé hovering over her, a solemn expression resting on her face. Their eyes locked before Brittany continued.
"Santana, you will have children of your own," she said seriously. Santana stammered, attempting to sit up in vain.
"Britt, the doctors said — "
"I don't care what the doctors said," Brittany cut her off smoothly. Santana quieted immediately, waiting to see what she had to say. "They couldn't give us an explanation, Santana, and they said that your case wasn't like any other they had seen. My dad's a doctor, San, and trust me, 'we don't know why' is code for 'we're giving you a false answer because there isn't another one.' They said 'will probably never,' San, not 'will never,' and I'm determined that we can change it to a probability," she said softly, lightly tracing the brunette's hairline with a fingertip.
"Britt, how the hell do you expect to change that?" Santana whispered. Her insides felt all frozen and tangled, as they did every time this subject was brought up, but she was curious. Brittany had the wildest ideas — and somehow, the wildest always seemed to work. But she couldn't let herself hope; she had spent too many years crying about something she could probably never change.
"With love." She said it so simply that it brought tears to Santana's eyes. "Santana . . ." Brittany appeared to be struggling for words as she fought with herself, the conflict showing in her eyes. "Santana, you said it's your fault because you can't give me everything I want, but the opposite is actually true. It's my fault, because I can't give you what you want most — probably can't. But Santana I'm going to change that if it takes everything I've got; I will give you children, Santana, your children. I'll figure out a way."
Brittany's sparkling blue eyes were so solemnly and determined that Santana couldn't find it in her to respond; she could only tilt her head up, and kiss Brittany back as the blonde melted her body with soft caresses, and continued to whisper loving words as she proved her devotion in simple, tender gestures.
She knew they would have to talk, eventually, about what had sparked this entire argument in the first place, but right now she was content to simply lie back and let the other woman take control in the sweetest way that she knew how.
Gently, Brittany's fingers encircled her wrists, guiding them above her head. The blonde pulled away briefly to peel away her fiancé's jacket, tossing it on the floor, and then returned to ease Santana's shirt gently from her body. The thin fabric clung to tan skin, damp with tears and melted snow. Her jeans followed, leaving the dark haired girl in her bra and panties.
Before Santana could notice her absence, Brittany had fumbled through a drawer beside the bed and returned to help her into a pair of soft pajama pants that she recognized immediately as her fiancé's — the purple ones with the faded yellow ducks. They were large on her, a little long and baggy, but they were comfortable, and they were Brittany's, and for that she loved them better than her own. And then she was untangling her hair from its messy ponytail, allowing it to fan out over the pillows in dark, scattered waves. Brittany touched her face gently, the back of her hand ghosting down her cheek, a silent request for the Latina to open her eyes.
"I love you so much," Brittany whispered. A faint smile quirked at the corners of Santana's lips. The blonde smiled back, causing something warm and fluttery to erupt in Santana's stomach. She pressed one quick, affirming kiss to the girl's lips, and then began to slowly move down.
Unhurriedly, she made her way across the planes of Santana's body, brushing her lips lovingly whenever she felt the urge; behind her ear, along her shoulder; in the hollow at the base of her throat. Hands tracing every curve of the body beneath her, she moved downwards until she reached her tight, toned, flat abdomen that was still somehow incredibly soft. Gentle kisses were sprinkled all across the warm skin; she brought her arms up to rest her palms flat on Santana's stomach.
"San," she whispered softly. Santana craned her neck to look down at her fiancé, seeing her blonde hair spread all across her thighs.
"What is it Britt?" Brittany simply smiled, rubbing soothing circles with her thumbs.
"Nothing," she murmured. "I was just thinking of how lucky I am." Santana blushed, a faint color rising in her cheeks. Inside, Brittany smirked — she was the only one who ever got to see Santana show how affected she was by flattery. "I'm serious," she said softly. "You're so beautiful Santana." The words came so easily and sincerely that it was hard not to believe. Nevertheless, Santana shook her head quickly, attempting to sit up only to be gently guided back down into the pillows.
"No I'm not," she contradicted. Brittany was wrong; she wasn't a good person. "I'm a bitch, Brittany. I'm sarcastic and nasty and I belittle everybody. And I'm tiny. I'm not pretty like you." Brittany's fingertips squeezed her hips gently.
"No Santana," the blonde corrected seriously. "You're beautiful. You're the sweetest person I know, you take care of me, and you never call me stupid, even though I sometimes am. Your eyes are beautiful, your body is gorgeous, and I love that you're smaller than I am. You fit under me like I'm meant to hold you like this. I think I am. I can protect you that way, when you let me. You let me a lot more now than you used to. I love that you trust me; it always surprises me when I'm reminded that you love me enough to let go with me like that. I love when you let me take care of you, Santana; it reminds me of how much you've changed. And then I realize that I get to watch you grow and change and become even more beautiful for the rest of forever. I think it's the best feeling in the world." The pure sincerity of the dancer's words had Santana smiling, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. They swelled even further at the feeling of warmth when Brittany moved completely on top of her, covering her entire body with her own.
As much as Santana liked to pretend she was the more dominant one in their relationship, she had to admit that she loved this. Being beneath Brittany, feeling her warmth and the light pressure of her weight pressed against every curve of her body, she felt safer than anywhere else in the world. Brittany had a way of making her feel protected; sheltered and cherished and like she was the only other person on the planet. Part of her knew that it was Brittany's intention, and she was all the more grateful for that. No one else had ever tried to take care of her needs first; no one else had ever made her feel special like Brittany did, and Santana had long ago begun to doubt that anybody else could. She knew that Brittany treasured her; she could feel it in every caring motion.
Brittany swept the dark hair from Santana's forehead and leaned down to tenderly caress the Latina's lips with her own. Santana let out a quiet sigh of contentment at the sensation, and the blonde took the opportunity to nudge her tongue into her fiancé's mouth. For a long time, they kissed slowly, passionately, listening to the soft sounds of pleasure in the backs of each other's throats, and feeling one another shiver. Then Brittany pulled away, allowing Santana to catch her breath, and simply held her, gently caressing soft curves.
Starting at the Latina's shoulder, she slowly slid her hand along a tanned arm, allowing her fingers to dance across the smooth expanse of skin, earning a tiny giggle. Smiling at the sound, she paused momentarily when she reached her wrist, brushing the sensitive skin with the pad of her thumb, before finally slipping her hand into Santana's, crawling her fingertips across her ticklish palm and threading their fingers together so slowly that both of them could feel every deliberate movement. Slowly, purposefully, she rested her head on Santana's chest, directly above her heart.
Santana said nothing; she only moved her hands to rest lightly on Brittany's head, threading her fingers softly through blonde hair, and listened to Brittany hum quiet lullabies, feeling the gentle vibrations of her vocal chords ripple through her like a soothing murmur until she finally drifted into sleep.