She gasped out of the nightmare to Britt's voice and her cool hand on Santana's face. Santana opened her eyes, the sound of her rapid breaths filling up some of the darkness, relief tracing weakly through her body. Brittany was propped up on one elbow above her, eyes steady on her face, a broken triangle of pale light all over her skin.
Still dizzy from her dream, Santana stared up at Brittany, who was quiet now and simply stroking Santana's face. The backs of her fingers moved gently from Santana's temple, down her hairline, and ended at the pulse point at her throat. Then Britt lifted her fingers and started at the temple again, gliding down.
Santana felt the nightmare swimming away, and she didn't try to stop it from going. She just reached out and put a hand against Brittany's cool, bare collarbone, feeling the way it swept up toward her shoulder like a wing. The pale light—moonlight—gave a strange sheen to her skin against Brittany's. Pretty. She looked at her hand, stroked the notch at the base of Britt's throat with one finger, and tried not to think.
Brittany helped. She kept up the slow, gentle stroking down Santana's face, her fingers curving as the planes of Santana's face did, and didn't say anything when Santana didn't meet her eyes. San felt the light full on one side of her face, and Brittany's hand smoothed through the darkness on the other side.
"Britt?" she finally said, looking up from her hand on Brittany's skin. Once she really saw the other girl's face, it felt like a mistake to look. The moon left no color in Brittany's features. She had the clarity of a black and white photograph, though only her side nearer the window. Too clean, too sharp, and Brittany's eyes were too clear.
"You okay, San?" Brittany's voice was soft. It matched the darkness in the room, not the brightness all over her skin. "You were making sad sounds." Somehow, her voice had gone even softer. She tilted her head to one side as she studied Santana, and one loose ringlet fell forward, pale and distracting.
She didn't want to think about her dream. Or the feelings. She didn't know if Brittany would ask, so she preempted her. Her voice low and strange, she said, "Tell me one of your nightmares."
Something moved over Brittany's expression in brilliant moonlit contrast, and Santana could see it as clearly as she could see rings floating out from her fingertip pressed against the surface of water. Britt's eyes were still on Santana's face, but San caught the sudden flick of her gaze to one side, while a barely perceptible tension pinned Brittany's shoulders still. In an instant Brittany's face smoothed and she looked back at Santana, all innocence, but Santana recognized the trapped blankness. People talked about fight or flight, but there was one more, and it was what Brittany did.
Shit. That hadn't been what she was going for. She smoothed her hand from Brittany's collarbone up to her neck, then down her shoulder gently, trying with a slight press of her fingers to assess how much Britt's muscles had just tightened. Brittany just stayed still, watching her, allowing the caress, but Santana could feel the electricity running under her skin.
She tried to search Brittany's face, which the blankness was making difficult, even for her, and she tried to buy time to learn from Brittany's body what her face wasn't telling her.
"It's okay," Santana said finally, half-afraid that Brittany wouldn't speak at all. "It wasn't real." Brittany dropped her gaze to Santana's lips, and Santana had the feeling that it was only so she could break eye contact with Santana without actually moving. Santana shifted, trying to get Brittany's eyes back. "Was it?"
Britt shook her head slightly, but Santana wasn't sure she meant no. Then Brittany smiled a little, and her eyes met Santana's. "Wouldn't you rather I tell you a good dream?" And her voice was gentle, and Santana could hear the question, wouldn't that be better for you? But she also heard, Santana, don't.
Santana searched her face, trying to decipher which one of them Brittany was protecting. Brittany's face was losing the serenity, something around her eyes tighter. Santana shook her head, deciding. "You always tell me your good dreams. Tell me a bad one." She saw Brittany look away, saw that she was searching for a different dream to tell her, an evasion. "That one, Brittany," she said quietly. Brittany looked back at her, frowning. "What was that?"
Brittany looked away, then dropped her hand from Santana's face and lay back down next to her. With Santana lying between her and the window, Brittany was suddenly completely in the dark, and Santana sensed that was deliberate. When she turned her head briefly towards Brittany's new place, Santana couldn't see her face except for a single bright thread along the edge of her delicate profile. Beyond them was Brittany's room, a garden that Santana sometimes felt lost in, flowers standing still in the dark. Santana resisted looking into Brittany's face. They both lay there for a few moments. Santana felt the warm line of Brittany's body all along her side.
Finally, Brittany said in a low voice, "I don't know if I should tell you about this."
Santana turned then, quickly, rustling to her side and putting her hand on Brittany's cool, exposed skin at her waist. Her thumb reached a little under Britt's tank, above the top of her pajama shorts to the warmer skin there. Brittany turned her face, and Santana could see her dimly. All the light on Santana's face while she'd been sleeping had kept her eyes from adjusting to the dark. But Britt's eyes were open and watching her, and her lips had closed.
"Britt," she coaxed. Brittany just looked back, not moving. Santana let her voice take on a faint tinge of bossiness. "Well, now that you've said that, you have to." She smiled just a little so Britt would feel the teasing.
Britt turned her face toward the ceiling, her expression stubborn and unhappy, but Santana saw her accept that logic. Santana rubbed her hand over Britt's flat belly soothingly, apologetically.
Brittany's voice was still low and clear. "I had this dream more than once. After you started dating Kurofsky."
Santana felt her face move with something like confusion, and Brittany glanced up at her, feeling it, then looked away again. "When I was awake I knew he didn't know about you, that you were safe." Brittany shuddered, and Santana's hand went still against her.
It blossomed all at once—Santana imagined the horror Brittany would feel at leaving her best friend alone with a homophobe, this hulking guy who had—who'd threatened Kurt, shoved him, grabbed him—and then to think that they would—and Britt's voice was getting more forceful, and San was listening to her helplessly. "But then in my dreams it was Kurt, and him, and the lockers, and then it would change, and it was you and him, and his hands would be everywhere. All over you, Santana, and then it would get worse, and I'd hear you, and I'd be there but I couldn't stop him." Santana felt Brittany's belly beginning to tremble under her hand. "I couldn't, San, I couldn't do anything, and I'd wake up and remember that you were with him,and I'd just—" She looked over at Santana, full in the face. "God, San, you were—"
Santana cut her off sharply, rolling in a single movement to slide over Brittany's body and hide Britt's face against her shoulder. Her arms dug under Britt's back and neck and pressed her close, and she felt Brittany's sharp breathing against her chest. Brittany was shuddering, a low grade, persistent tremor. After a moment Brittany slid her arms tight around Santana's waist, her breath warm and shaky against Santana's skin.
Santana's throat was so tight that she couldn't get out what she wanted to say, so she just pressed her cheek into Britt's hair.
When she finally moved a minute later, readjusting so Brittany could breathe, she looked down and realized that her kneeling over Brittany left Britt completely in the light from the window again. This time, it wasn't hard to look at her. Britt's eyes were wide and fixed on San's face.
Her throat hurting, Santana finally managed the words. "We didn't. I mean, Britt—we never." She gave a little shake of her head, willing Brittany to please know what she meant.
Britt tilted her head, her expression open, and some of her hair fell into her eyes. Santana smoothed it off her face, and shook her head at Britt again.
Britt asked, voice so low San had to read her lips, "He didn't touch you?"
Santana was made still by the look on Brittany's face. Brittany was riveted, utterly tense. San began shaking her head again, and found she couldn't stop. "No. Britt, he didn't. We never."
Britt was shaking harder, and her body language briefly mirrored San's, eyes not leaving San's face, her head shaking as if to confirm, to be sure, and she had that look around her eyes, just her eyes, that simply meant pain. And Santana had one final second to look at her before Brittany had pulled her down to her, hard, and at first it was just a locked-tight embrace, and then Brittany was kissing her neck. Her cheek, her mouth.
Britt's mouth was against Santana's ear suddenly, her lips skimming over her hair, and she was breathing, "God, I was so scared, so scared," her breathing so strange that San groped for Britt's cheek to pass her thumb over her skin. Britt wasn't crying—Britt almost never cried—she was just shaking. She couldn't seem to stop, even as she kept her arms tight around Santana.
It was always impossible to completely prepare for Brittany, how she moved against her, sounded, looked, felt. It was harder when Brittany was like this; intense, unwilling to break contact with San's body, insistent that her mouth always be somewhere on Santana's skin.
Moonlight from lower in the sky, over her shoulder and onto her girl. Brittany lay on her side looking back at her for the second time that night, all pale beautiful curves. Their clothes were gone, and Brittany was a curving plane of half-circular shadows. Her hair fanned out like lace all over her neck and bare shoulders, pale and almost white. Santana could see where some of that lace pressed stickily to her skin.
Santana rolled her shoulder toward Brittany's body over the taut cotton sheet, and saw how large Brittany's pupils were.
"Your eyes are so dark right now," Santana said, voice barely there in the darkness.
Brittany's eyes took in each of Santana's movements. They flickered downward when Santana took a sharp breath.
Santana put her hand on the other girl's neck, against the soft warm hair. She felt the smooth skin beneath. Laid her arm along the bed between them, so Brittany's arm was still free above her. She almost couldn't believe that she was allowed to touch her again. That she allowed herself to touch Brittany again.
"You were trying to help me in my dream." Santana hesitated over the words, but she meant them. She looked up into Britt's face and could remember that much, a feeling that she didn't shake when Britt chased the rest away. It had probably been Brittany's hand stroking her face in her sleep, but it could also simply have been her nearness.
All that pale shining hair, the gently curved eyes, the gentleness of Brittany's face that so often undid Santana. Overwhelmed her. Brittany kept very still, and Santana held still with her. Her hand rested on Brittany's neck, and Brittany's hand reached up and mirrored hers.
She saw Brittany's eyes flicker down to her lips, and she felt her chest rise with the breath she suddenly had to take. And a smile ghosted over Britt's face, and her eyes caught Santana's, almost shyly, and she leaned into Santana yet again, tilted her face up before it could be a kiss, and brushed her cheek against Santana's. She carefully held the rest of her body apart from San's. Very, very lightly Brittany pulled back, cheek soft all along Santana's skin as she moved. Her lips didn't touch Santana's face, but her breath was warm in her hair, against her neck.
Santana's breathing was heavier now, but she still didn't move. Then Brittany dragged her lips just past hers without touching them. And she hovered with her lips within breathing distance of Santana's, her eyes large and light as she looked into Santana's eyes. Santana parted her lips, then shuddered when she felt Brittany's warm breath inside her mouth. All the nerve endings, just under her skin and inside her entire body, were singing. Oh God please. Just touch your lips to my mouth. Just come closer. She lifted her lips a fraction and Brittany drew back, enough that they weren't touching. Santana let out a sharp breath, then slowly followed Brittany again. Brittany kept drawing back, and then she was on her back and Santana had followed her down and was kissing her. So soft. God, how was she ever supposed to not do this. She tangled her hands in Brittany's shimmering hair, her filed fingernails just barely brushing along Brittany's scalp, and she smiled when Brittany made a soft sound, voice but no words. On top again finally, Santana kept changing the shape of the kiss, a warm damp mingling now in Brittany's mouth, now in hers, now running along the roof of Britt's mouth, now grazing inside Santana's front lip, against her teeth, now Brittany's plump lower lip between Santana's lips, where she pulled at the lip's warm, damp lining and let go again.
Whenever Santana opened her eyes, Brittany seemed to be made of light. Light and shadow, the side of her nearer the window pale, the curves of her face shadowed and the shadows moving whenever she tilted her face this way or that on the pillow, or when Santana's hair fell between Brittany and the moon. Brittany's eyelashes seemed painted over the bridge of her nose, and Santana thought of sitting in a dark room with a light shining on Brittany so she could draw a silhouette of her face.
Brittany lifted one slender arm and draped it around Santana's neck, trapping her hair, and Santana tipped her face to Britt's damp neck. Explored the notch in Britt's collarbone with the tip of her tongue and felt Brittany's body rise sharply against hers. She tasted—a little salt, but mostly Britt's sweet skin, nowhere near as sweet as Brittany's mouth, but sweeter than any other skin. Much sweeter than her own, sweeter than any guy's she'd kissed. She had no idea if somehow Brittany's body just matched her personality, or if sweets could make a difference, or if it was just simple chemistry or biology. But she tasted sweet.
"San," came her voice. Soft and clear. "San, please." The girl underneath her began petting her hair in short, gentle, urgent strokes. Santana lifted her head to look at her. Brittany had left her other arm above her on the pillow, on her pale hair. Santana saw Brittany's pulse flare briefly in her wrist, a vein that would be blue in other light.
"Coming, BrittBritt," she said quietly. She felt Brittany's chest and belly shudder as she began to drag her lips down from her throat.