Disclaimer: I don't own anything. It's just me and my computer.
A/N: I'm not sure what's happening on the show, and I don't honestly care because canon is ridiculous.
The show keeps ruining our perfect ship, because that's the thing they do best. (PS. Glee is a big, fucking joke. I'm not laughing.)
Anyway, please enjoy this little piece of fluff. Read and tell me what you think! :)
Truth be told, you were really scared to leave Hawaii; you thought that it would be like waking up from a dream once you leave the island paradise, and Santana wouldn't be with you anymore.
You learn that it's not really a dream at all when she insists on coming with you to talk to your parents about your move to New York. Sometimes, you still can't believe it; the thought is so new to you yet so longed for, that your mind has to do a double take that, yes. You and Santana will be living in New York together.
You arrive at your house in Lima, Santana's hand grasping yours tightly. Both of you know that you're really just going to bid a proper goodbye to your parents, and to pack your things—your old life—into suitcases and boxes.
It's easy to confuse a dream from what's not, times like this, when Santana heedlessly drops your clothes that she's been folding, and slowly rises from her place on the foot of your bed to close the now-seemingly painful gap between the two of you. She wraps her arms around your waist, and you more than willingly turn in her arms.
"We're really doing this," she whispers against your cheek. It's not a question. There's no hint of doubt in her voice, just the sound of years and years of wait that's finally over, and your heart soars.
You say nothing in reply, because, really, what can you say to that? So you just kiss her. You kiss her, and kiss her. Your bodies entangled, you lay her atop neatly piled clothes on the bed, and continue to kiss her everywhere.
Packing is easy, anyway.
You decide that there's really no better move than get a place of your own, because, duh, it's starting to become a classroom in Santana's old place. It doesn't take long for the two of you to find a new apartment. It's not bad, just not great. The place is literally the size of a sand box, all that's lacking is the sand—that may be a bit exaggerated—but it's the only thing you could afford, and it's near Rachel and Kurt's (soon, it'll be every Glee club member's) place, so you can't really complain. And, really, it's something that you can call yours: only yours and Santana's. It's not bad at all.
You're seated on the couch that Kurt and Rachel gave as a house-warming gift. If you're being honest, you think Santana might have had some part in this. She has her ways. You're not really going to say anything, though, because it's better than the couch you have at home; and not to mention, you and Santana enjoyed this couch last night very much. You're watching television, your feet propped up on the coffee table, when you hear Santana coming through the door.
She's home early.
"Babe?" you call out.
You hear footsteps approaching the small living space, and you find that she's not wearing her work clothes as she wordlessly takes her place beside you on the couch.
"You're home early," you begin when she still doesn't say anything.
She nods, not looking at you. "Yeah," she says weakly.
"Missed you." You already know something's happened the moment she's walked through the door, but you'll just wait for her. "Honey-I'm-home kiss?"
You see the corners of her mouth tug up the tiniest bit. "Sorry," she says before pressing her lips against yours lightly. "Missed you, too, Britt."
You run your fingers up and down her arm in what you hope is a comforting gesture. She hasn't been closed-off ever since you got back together, and you're dreading the day that she starts to be again. Especially after Lesbos and Hawaii, where she's shown you the most beautiful and complex parts of her you know you only get to see.
"Got laid off work," she tells you after a few minutes of silence.
She's trying to hide that she's upset, and doesn't seem to want to make a big deal out of it. And as per usual, and forever will, you try to be most careful with her feelings. "Why?" you ask simply, devoid of any blame or resentment.
She looks at you then, the smallest hint of a smile on her eyes. "Well, to start off, I've been gone for much, much longer than was allowed," she says, giving you a wink.
You chuckle. "Yeah, good times."
"Good times," she echoes. "I told another customer off today and, turns out, that was the last straw since I've gotten a million and five customer complaints."
You twist your lips in an effort to hide your smile, but you fail drastically.
"What?" she asks, not angry, just curious. "'so funny?"
You let out the laugh you've been holding, then a few more, and Santana starts laughing, too, which makes it even funnier. And the funny thing is, it's not even funny. There are tears in your eyes by the time you manage to stop, and Santana pokes you on your sides, coaxing you to continue. "Nothing, San. I just…" you pause, shrugging. "I love you a lot."
She looks away sheepishly for a moment. You know that probably doesn't explain why you found it funny, but you think that best summarizes it—it being, 'I'm so happy to be the one hearing all this, because I love who you are', and 'I love you for being who you are'. And as though she could hear you think, she looks back at you. "Love you more," you then hear her say.
"A million and five complaints? Really?" you tease.
"What? Most of them are really bratty and whiny," she reasons. "And, don't give me that 'customers are always right' crap. They can go be 'right' someplace else."
You laugh again. "I don't think you should work places like that, where it involves… you serving people," you say honestly, and know that she'll understand what you're getting at. "Especially in the morning."
"Yeah," she smiles. "Most especially in the morning."
Even without her saying it, you can tell that she doesn't really want to go back there. You know she was just initially upset because she hates being turned down for anything.
You're not really the jealous type. But, for the most selfish reasons, you're sort of relieved because you've heard that there's a blonde who sings and plays guitar working at that place. You don't talk about that, because there's really nothing to talk about. Santana belongs with you, and you belong with her. That's that. And, besides, you know for a fact that Santana likes dancers way better.
She proves you right yet again on that couch.