A/N : Thank you all for review, favorite and following this story. Here's another chapter and big thanks to Leilamiranda for making this story more readable. You are awesome!
I'd appreciate if you leave some review into this chapter, you know some advice or plot you wanted to see.
Without further ado. Enjoy guys!
Monday, March 25
Blindly, you try to localize where the hell your phone is. You ignore the buzz at first but whoever is calling you seems pretty persistent until you pick up. Sharp light radiates to your eyes making you slam your eyes shut immediately. You try to stay conscious even though your body is screaming bloody mercy from exhaustion. Your body feels numb. You take a deep breath, hoping you'd feel better. But you don't lack oxygen, you lack of sleep so it doesn't really solve your problem.
You take a moment to gain some residual energy. You're certain your glucose level is now way below and far from normal. Your brain, let alone your muscles, probably no longer have enough sustenance in them. You rub your temple tiredly before you decide to look at your shiny, sparkling screen, you swear the light from your phone is a flame. It blinds you.
There are four missed calls from Quinn and seven text messages, pretty much demanding where the hell you were because apparently, she had something important to say. Knowing Quinn for so long, you can tell either she wanted to go shopping with you (you never say yes, she never learns) or she'll ask for your advice on random things. The last text was from Dr. Storkholmes who wanted to see you as soon as you can.
You wash your face quickly right after you saw the reflection of your appearance. Your eyes look like a raccoon's. You could say ghosts may look prettier and less scary than you right now. When you deem yourself presentable enough, you take your lab coat with you as you stabilize your body movements, making your way out of the on-call room.
You knock softly but loud enough at Mr. Storkholmes's door. As you hear him shout "Come in!", you open the door, marching your way to his office. He is sitting on his chair reading… Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban? Is he for real? He's like the busiest person you've ever met—and not to mention, old. You don't know which you should believe more: your eyes or your brain. Both of them seem useless right now.
"Good morning, Dr. Pierce! Ah, I've been waiting for you. Please, have a seat." He might be old, but he's not some snobbish prick. He actually earns respect from people, not make them to. You honestly like the guy.
"What can I do for you, sir?" you ask as you sit on his comfy couch. He gets up from his chair and offers you a drink which you politely decline. He insists. He makes his way towards you, putting a glass of water in front of you before sitting across you, separated by a glass coffee table. He crosses his leg while taking a sip from his cup.
"How was your day?" he asks. He always opens a conversation with a light topic. You think it's probably because he doesn't like people to feel intimidated by him.
"It was okay, sir. How about yours?" you return the question to be polite.
"Well, I was catching up, reading some novels. I'm taking my time unwinding. It's not good being in constant pressure." He chuckles lightly. "How's your training program? Any interesting stories you like to share?" He asks curiously.
"Everything's going very well, sir. They are all excited and receptive. I'm so grateful you entrusted me to do this. I cannot thank you enough. I won't disappoint you, I promise." You say earnestly. You're still young and there are plenty of surgeons to run the program for him, yet he chose you.
He smiles softly at you, "Of course." You can see the pride in it. You knew your hard work would pay-off eventually. "Pierce, you look tired." He frowns a little, a bit concerned, you guess. "You have bags around your eyes."
"I'm fine, sir. Hospital has been busy lately. But I'm fine, really." You try to convince yourself rather than him to make sure he believes you. It's a psychology-thing.
"I think you should take some time off. I know you're barely home this week."
"But sir, I-"
"And I know you haven't seen Dr. Marin since three weeks ago," he cuts you off. You're taken aback by the sudden change of topic. His look at you is stern.
"I've been fine, sir…"
"We shouldn't risk it, should we?" He says like it was a fact.
"I'm doing really well. I don't think I should go see her for no reason," you deadpan. You couldn't believe he would bring this up. You're not stupid to sit around in some useless therapy and waste your time.
"She wants you to see her for at least six months. Look Brittany…" He only uses first name basis for serious heart-to-heart kinds of conversations. "I'm not an expert in cases like this. But I trust she knows what you need. She knows what she's doing. You know I don't pick favourites but if I must, I would never hesitate to choose you. I don't want Tom getting in your way anymore so just do what the board wants. You are a great addition to this hospital and our community. And I'm not going to take risks in losing you. I saw you hanging around in this place and that is not healthy. You need to go home," he finishes his mini-lecture.
He looks worriedly at you. He's a caring man, you know it. But this second, it just kind of irritates you.
You don't think he's prying on your miserable personal life, he couldn't be. You have no one to come home to. You have no one waiting for you at your house. This hospital is your home. Where else would you rather be?
"With all due respect sir, I don't want to see her anymore. I'm recovering. I have no issue in these past weeks. I'm okay," you say confidently.
He gets up from the couch and walks to his chair. He puts his glasses on as he opens his book again. You sit dumbfounded. Is he going to ignore you or what? What are you supposed to do now? Do you get up and leave? Or wait until he kicks you out?
"Go home, Dr. Pierce. I don't want to see you anymore today. You'll get suspended if you dare show your nose to my face. Go home." The playful smirk on his lips contradicted the tone of what he just said. He's not angry with you. But he wants you away from the hospital for whatever reason. You know him well enough to understand his intentions.
XXX
You're done showering about ten minutes ago in the attending bathroom. But you still feel gross. You couldn't wait to scrub out the remaining grease and grime till you get home—get to your house. You wear the very same clothes from yesterday minus your leather jacket replaced by Santana's blue hoodie.
Santana.
She smells really good, you say to yourself.
You probably look like a crazy creeper smelling her clothes like now. You couldn't care less. Nobody's here anyway. You can do what you like.
"I texted you like a hundred times and not a single reply!" Quinn scolds at you with her hands on her hips. You immediately stop your recent creep endeavour as you look disapprovingly at her for disturbing your bubble.
"I was with Storkholmes. What do you want?" you ask nonchalantly. You didn't mean to snap at her like that. You just couldn't help it.
"I need your advice. Urgent," she says quickly. She leads you to the couch as she starts her rambling. "I have a date tonight and I don't know what to wear or what to do. I asked her out a week ago, but I totally forgot. Then she texted me asking if we're still on and I have nothing prepared and now I'm panicking. You gotta help me out!" Her voice gets higher than usual. She walks back and forth anxiously.
"Me, of all people, you wanted to ask for dating advice?" You frown as you point at your chest. "Are you trying to mock me or what?" You never felt so offended.
Her eyes are impossibly wide with her mouth hanging open. She shakes her head unbelievingly at your reaction. "Are you seriously acting out on me right now? How could you possibly accuse me of mocking your love life? You're my best friend, Brittany! I need your help but this is what you're giving me? Stop being so insensitive! Not everything is about you, missy! I'd appreciate it if you think about me too, once in a while." Quinn spills out like she was harbouring this for a long time.
You put on Santana's hoodie. It's so comfy and fits you perfectly. You look good in it. You don't give Quinn another glance when you walk towards the door. "'Alone' people don't like hearing about the 'together' people even if it's their choice to be alone." You speak quietly, not caring if she heard it or not. Then you're out of the room.
Quinn, technically, is not dating anyone. She's alone too but unlike you, she's willing to try. You acted selfishly, you realize but you're too stubborn to do anything about it. She has always been there when you needed her the most. Why can't you do the same for her?
You're a jerk, that's why.
XXX
You were planning on taking a cab in order to get home sooner, until you remember a certain coffee shop with a beautiful Latina who owns the clothes you are wearing. The taxi is already in front of you as you pay him five dollars for nothing. You feel bad, the least you can do is give him some money for his trouble.
Your footsteps move lightly. You're nervous though, you can't put your finger on what your nerves was about. You just are. You met her less than twenty-four hours ago but you're still excited to see her again so soon.
When did you become this weirdo? Who did this to you? As much as you want to deny it, you know what the answer is. Last night and her.
The coffee shop isn't that crowded. You open the door as it chimes a bell when a high-pitch, screeching voice welcomes you in. You cringe at the sound. Apparently, a brunette girl with all-shiny teeth displaying on her face owns that… noise. You can't back out now, you have no choice but to order something because she is already squawking, asking what you will be having.
You sigh. When you think things couldn't get any worse, it does.
"Um, I'll have a vanilla latte and uh, a sandwich," you say.
"Right away!" She cheerfully goes about the shop, making your coffee and taking a sandwich from the display then serving them to you. You wonder if she's always this… agile. You pay for your food and make your way to find a table.
When the small brunette is busy with the other patrons, you are able to sneak-a-peek into the kitchen to see if Santana is working there instead.
She isn't.
You want to ask the midget on the counter but you reconsider. You don't want to act like a stalker—or at least, let other people in on your stalkerish behaviour you seem to acquire overnight. For all you know, Santana might be out, considering its lunchtime. So you sit alone, facing the window, training your eyes on the streets, wishfully thinking she would show up anytime soon.
You take a big bite off your sandwich and sip your coffee. Their product is pretty tasty or you're just that hungry, you don't really care either way.
You're about to take another sip from your cup when a hand grasps your wrist, effectively stopping you. Your first instinct is to deliver a mighty blow to the skull to whoever laid a hand on you. Then the person who is the very reason you came here in the first place sits across you. No, you don't want to blow up her pretty skull so instead you just sit, grinning like an idiot.
"You shouldn't drink coffee. Drink this." She puts a bottle of mineral water on the table in front of you. "You already look like a zombie," she mocks you.
You frown thinking how you missed seeing her earlier when your eyes seem pretty set on finding her.
"I haven't had one today," you shrug. "How did you know I'm here?"
"I saw you from upstairs," she says. "You can't see me but I can definitely see you." she informs you, triumphantly, almost haughtily. Your heart drops to the ground. Does that mean she saw the odd way you were acting earlier? From the grin tugging up her full lips, she surely caught you. You lower your head, trying to hide your embarrassment. She's like this magnet that sucks up all your confidence. You're a goddamn, respectable doctor, for godsake, not a scrawny teenager.
She laughs out loud, causing you to look up.
Her head is tipped back, her shoulders rising and falling, a hint of colour on her cheeks from the exertion as she continues to laugh. She looks so cute.
Wait, what? No, you did not just think that.
You clear your throat, composing yourself together. "What's so funny?" You frown. Actually, you're imagining all things that had pissed you off (like how Flanagan never once saved his patient, though he tried but never succeeded) to suppress the urge to laugh with her.
"You." She replies simply, still laughing her heart out.
"What?"
"You're funny," she says. Her hands are on her stomach. You don't actually get it. How could she say you were funny when you didn't do anything funny at all?
"Is that sarcasm?" The only person who ever told you you're funny is Quinn. But she never meant it in a Ha-ha-that's-silly way but more in the rolling-my-eyes-looking-at-you way.
"Nope. Okay, okay. I'll stop." She wipes a few tears from her laughing sprint as she presses her lips tightly to control her laugh. "Aww, stop pouting, Britt-Britt. I was just messing around." You're tensing all of a sudden from the nickname she gives you. Being professional and serious your whole life, you never did nicknames, or pet names or whatever name that is not Brittany or Pierce. Except with Quinn and Puck, but they don't count. Also, she said you were pouting.
You do not pout.
You erase whatever expression is on your face and opt for no expression at all. Fail. You crack a smile. You find more and more that you could never resist her.
As time goes by (not that long, much to your displeasure), you get to know her a little better. It's hard for you to recall when was the last time you smiled that big that it reached your eyes and when you smiled that much, your untrained jaws hurt too much from the not so usual action. You can't deny your heart and body feel warmer even though the weather outside is cloudy and a little bit windy, and that the feeling has nothing to do with the clothes you're wearing.
"Hey, don't get me wrong but I think you should go home. Get some sleep," she smiles at you tenderly, reminding you in all your forgetfulness. It's just that you never felt so at peace with anyone's presence. Occasionally, you had let your heavy eyes close for a while, her voice, a lullaby you can't stop yourself from getting carried away with.
You do need to sleep before your body decides to take over your consciousness.
As you reach your apartment, you change into your pyjamas. You can't sleep naked, you can't sleep with a tank top or pants. Pyjamas are a must. You pull your blankets up over your head as you dive into your slumber, a lingering smile on your face.
Tuesday, April 2
You walk with heavy steps heading to the same department you never wanted to go in the first place. You've been there quite often but still, you didn't like it. You feel more anxious whenever you're in her room. It's not the room that was the problem. The place is neat with soft colours and some pretty accessories and furniture. It's designed specifically so that people would feel comfortable.
It's just you. You are the problem.
You didn't like the idea of a stranger bombarding your personal life. They didn't need to know how you feel or how things are affecting you. You can cope with your own issue. They're yours. People need to learn to mind their own business, really.
Except Santana.
You've had lunch with her these past seven days. And it makes you feel like you have something to look forward to. She talked about everything and nothing yet you still listened, amused. She's like Quinn minus the annoying part. You're pretty much a listener. But slowly you did start opening up to her. At first, it was hard for you when she asked about your day. You weren't use to that kind of question without the answer being "it's fine." But the way she told you about hers in detail made you want to do the same.
Her shining eyes radiate her interest and curiosity whenever you start your story. She would ask or comment on random things that makes you snicker with her wit. She suddenly makes it easier for you to go through the day with more spirit, as you remember the details of every encounter you had, wanting to collect as many stories you can so you could to tell them to her later.
You start to notice little things around you, like how the snack machine had to be punched at least three times before it produces your order because it was way too old to serve, it needs to retire. Or how Mrs. Swan sways her almost fractured hips with her headphones over her ears when she's mopping the floors. She brings out your humorous side. It's fun, and makes you a little less uptight.
She told you about Rachel, The Noisy Freaking Cockblocker Dwarf who's apparently the daughter of 'The Berry Coffee Shop" owners. According to Santana, Rachel is kind enough to help her considering she's an Off Broadway actress who has a very busy schedule. It doesn't look like it though to you when she constantly shows up at the shop every damn afternoon.
And now, Santana makes your meeting with Dr. Marin sucks even more. You can't do lunch with her because of it. It means you're not going to see her today.
You sigh deeply as you're standing in front of her office. You consider walking out even before you walk in but Mr. Storkholmes's words echo through your mind. They're keeping an eye on you, just do it, sit still, say nothing, only forty-five minutes then it's over. You whisper it to motivate yourself.
You barely knock, hoping she's not standing at the back of this door. It could be your reason to not meet her today. Your hope vanishes as soon as you hear 'come in'.
As you enter the room, Dr. Marin wears a surprised expression as she takes off her glasses to take a better look at you. You guess her glasses are just pure accessory, or they're probably reading glasses like Dr. Storkholmes'. You didn't make any appointment with her, previously. She made your schedule long ago and today is one of those days.
You sit on her couch without being told. You cross your leg with your arms folded across your chest, nonchalance written on your face, the same posture you give her in every session. Once, you read on a book, it's a defensive gesture to build up your wall, blocking the other person from entering your space.
"I haven't seen you lately." She gets up from her worktable as she approaches you. "How are you?" She sits straight across from you and tilts her head to the side, curiosity evident in her face.
"Good," you answer shortly. You don't want to hear her questions, you don't want her to speak, you don't want her to prod you like you're sick. You want her to shut up or even better, let you go.
"How's work? A little birdie told me you guys have a rare case? It must be exciting!" You roll your eyes subtly. If she's trying to smooth-talk you into opening up to her, she's miserably failing.
Sit still, say nothing, you repeat it over and over like a mantra. You only nod, shake your head, a little shrug here and there. You're impressed how people like her have enormous patience. If you were her, you'll be repelled with someone like you since long. It's not that you're a short-tempered kind of person. You can stand three hours straight during surgeries at the very least (it needs a lot of endurance)—given you do your work on unconscious patients and they can't complain. You can handle pressure and your patient's or their family's behaviour (well, you do raise your voice a little if they're out of line. You mean, you're trying to help them but sometimes they can be too stubborn to deal with).
Forty-five minutes feel like a whole torturous day, but there's still twelve minutes left. You narrow your eyes, staring at the clock willing it to move faster. Too bad you couldn't threaten it. You shift your gaze to the wide glass that has a nice view of the city below. The Psychiatry Department is in another side of the hospital building. It has the most beautiful view of the city compared to other departments. It's cloudy outside, briefly you can see your reflection, your high ponytail seems somewhat tangled.
"You do not frown as much as you used to." Your lips tug up, forming your winning smile. "You look happy," she continues. "Is there any particular reason?"
Yes.
"No. But then again, that's none of your business."
"Are you still taking your medicine?"
Ding. Your session is over. You stand up, straighten up your scrubs as you make your way out.
No. You don't need them anymore.
XXX
You hang your key and take off your sneakers. You didn't bother turning the lights on as you march to your bedroom. Your apartment isn't that big, you had memorized the outline of your apartment the second you placed the very first furniture there. You know by sheer habit where your couch is, or your bathroom or kitchen, you can even tell where your bookcase is. You never rearranged anything in the first place since you moved in, anyway. You sit at the edge of your bed when your phone beeps. It shows you a new email. You have no interest in opening it. You put your phone inside your drawer as you throw your body in your bed, staring at the ceiling.
You always feel safer in the darkness. You can hide without trying. You can be yourself without anybody judging you. You can be vulnerable without anyone pitying over you. You can just be you.
Physically, you are tired. Mentally, you are restless. Your brain won't stop working. It's impossible to sleep it out. You don't even know what the hell is happening inside your head.
You run some water, wishfully thinking it would wash your thought away. You chuckle at your own silliness, if only it was that easy. Not long after, you're already in your pyjamas. You lay on your back, closing your eyes, expecting sleep to kick in. You hold Santana's hoodie close. Yes, you haven't returned it to her, yet. You always reasoned you forgot when in fact, you need it to make your sleep more comfortable, more bearable. Your bed doesn't seem too big because of it. You're… a little less lonely.
Tonight it doesn't help. You're fretting, restless. You need to do something else.
You open your laptop, a dim light casting a shadow across your room. An email pops in; your payment information. You sign in on your bank account as you wait for it to proceed. You gaze at the number on your screen blankly. It's too much, you don't know what to do with this amount of money. You close the tab quickly, you don't know what you're afraid of; it's not like numbers can eat you.
You're confused. You do not have any problems sleeping lately. You simply fall asleep immediately after your body touches the mattress.
You take off your pyjamas and replace it with a shirt and jeans then you take your coat as you put your shoes on. After all's set, you make your way out. You make large steps as quick as you can in the direction of a certain shop, hoping it isn't too late.
You sigh in relief when you see the open sign.
"Santana?" You shout. You look around; she hasn't cleaned up yet. You grab the rag as you start wiping the tables. Then you lift the chairs, neatly arranging them on the table.
"San?!" You call a little louder. She has not responded to your first call, and you're already half-way to cleaning the shop. You grab a broom and start sweeping the floor, not a lot of garbage, just a bit of sand and some dusts.
You hear a door crack open. "Britt? What are you doing here?" You snap up to look at her. You smile so big it hurts your cheeks.
"Um, doing your work, what else you think?" You chuckle. "Where were you?" You ask, still sweeping.
"I was, uh, cooking. You don't have to, let me do it." She tries to take the broom from your hand but you slap her arm playfully.
"You're not allowed to work in half. Let me finish it." You tell her. "What were you cooking?"
She tilts her head as she smirks at you. "You had dinner yet?" You shake your head, you weren't hungry. "Well, will you have dinner with me?" The way she lowers her head bashfully and bit her lip and the way her cheeks tint a nice shade pink (if you look really close you could notice despite her tan skintone) make your heart warm. She's so adorable.
"You're not going to poison me, are you?" You ask with a serious tone.
"What? Of course not!" She puts her hand to her chest, gesturing hurt.
"Well then, I guess request accepted." You grin slyly at her.
After you finish your (her supposed) work, you lock the entrance and turn off the light. She tells you to wait upstairs in her room while she prepares the food. You tense, realizing this is the first time you're going in her room. Alone. No Rachel. No one. Just the two of you.
You stand awkwardly, waiting for her on her doorstep.
You hear clattering on the stairs as Santana brings a hot pot with gloves. You offer to take the pot, but she shakes her head. "It'll burn your hands," she says. She asks you to open the door of her room and you two are finally enclosed in the small room. You're sweating.
What is wrong with you?
You look around you. Santana's room is much smaller than your room, but more alive. She's got a lot of photos on the wall. There's a little Santana picture showing her wearing a chef's hat with her father and mother. She looks very much like her father. There are also photos of her in adolescence, she looks young and free. Then Santana in her early twenties, more mature, more womanly, more beautiful. You touch the picture of her smiling when you hear someone—the one and only, Santana, clear her throat. You turn your head as a flash passes your eyes. You blink at it.
"What are you doing?" You ask.
"Taking your picture, obviously." She giggles while she takes out the paper from her Polaris camera. Santana waves it as you see your image slowly emerge. It shows your cat blue eyes shine bright and warm even though you weren't smiling, your fingertips still on her smiling picture. She smiles softly at your photograph.
"You look pretty." She utters tenderly. You feel your blood rush to your face and ear. You look anywhere but her. You press your lips together tightly, preventing it from forming some stupid grin. "Thanks," you mumble.
She grimaces playfully at you as she pin the photo paper on the Styrofoam board. Your heart flutters at her action but don't make any question. "Let's go, eat," she says.
Santana arranges the pot on the carpet along with the bowls and soupspoons. You frown. What did she make?, you wonder. She opens the lid, producing a scrumptious aroma and you instantly feel your stomach grumble.
You quickly sit on the floor as Santana scoops some of it (you don't know what it is) on your bowl. "Be careful, it's hot," she warns when you eagerly dive in to shove a spoonful in your mouth.
It tastes awesome.
You grin goofily at her as she winks at you. You're lucky you're not standing otherwise you'd trip down to your knees at the action.
"What is it?"
"Sundubu Jigae," she says as she swallows her soup.
"What?"
"Sundubu Jigae, it's a Korean cuisine, kind of a thick soup. The dish is made with boiled fish, beef, pepper, tofu, and eggs," she explains. "It's raining outside so I thought I'd make something hot."
"This is really good! May I have some more?" You don't wait for her to reply, you take more anyway. She looks funnily at you. "You could open a restaurant," you say sincerely.
"That's the dream."
"You want to be a chef?"
"Yes." She shrugs.
"Why didn't you?" you speak before you could stop your mouth. She doesn't answer your question instead she offers you drink. You don't push her. If she trusts you, she'd tell you.
You help her with the dishes despite her protests. When everything's all cleaned up, you look at your watch, 11.43 p.m. It's late and you have to excuse yourself. You apologize for causing her to stay up late.
"Don't be silly, Britt. I'm glad you're here. I couldn't consume all this by myself. You have a big appetite," she teases you. Again, you embarrassed.
She walks you to the store's threshold. After she whispered "careful on your way," you make your way home. There are not much people out this late on a cold night. You can't stop smiling, occasionally laughing for no reason. You're just too damn happy you can't contain it inside yourself. Or maybe you're just going mad.
You're fast asleep as soon as you lay on your back with Santana's hoodie draping your body.