AN: My plan for this story is to do a series of snapshots from the trip to Lesbos and probably eventually Hawaii. It's not going to be a plot-driven story because I don't think that vacation is a plot-driven event. It's more like a series of moments, of exhilaration, exhaustion, (e)dventure and that's what I want to write for these girls. Enjoy!

Over the years, Santana had perfected her ability to understand Brittany's quirks. When Brittany did things that left others baffled like calling her cat on the phone or sorting her fruit loops by circumference, Santana always knew the explanation ("he pees on my pillow if I neglect him" and "the small ones taste better"). However, at the moment she was watching Brittany focus the lens of her giant camera on a plate drizzled with olive oil and feeling a little clueless.

"Hey, Britt?"

The shutter of the camera clicked a few times in succession before Brittany looked up. "Yeah?"

"Um, what are you doing?"

Brittany grinned, picking up the bottle of olive oil that had been set in the middle of their table and looking at it almost reverently.

"This is too amazing not to document." She set the bottle next to the plate and took another series of pictures.

"The olive oil?" Santana clarified. "It looks about the same as what they have in every other restaurant."

"Those are amazing too," Brittany assured her, her face turning serious. "Santana, do you realize that this might have come from a tree that's over a thousand years old? That's like older than Coach Sylvester and I still think she's immoral."

"Immortal," Santana interjected.

One side of Brittany's mouth quirked slightly. "That too." She continued on in the same passionate vein. "And it took over ten pounds of olive to make this bottle. The trees only make olives once per year and all their efforts get squished and squeezed away. We need to appreciate it."

"I didn't think about it that way," Santana admitted, mentally scolding herself for not connecting this photo kick with yesterday's visit to the olive oil production museum.

"You don't realize how much of a process it was to make this bottle of olive oil."

"Hey!" Santana protested. "I went to that museum too."

"And only paid attention once we got to the gift shop."

Santana scoffed. "At least I'm not the one who asked where they sold massage oil that doesn't make you smell like a salad."

"I don't think you'll be complaining when we use it." Brittany's eyes sparkled with possibility and Santana jolted when bare toes suddenly ran up the side of her calf.

Shifting in her seat, she tried to sputter out a response.

Before she could speak, Brittany handed her the bottle of olive oil. In a causal tone that glossed over the heated moment, she asked, "Can you pour this for me? I want a picture of it dripping out."

"Wanky."

But Santana obediently took the bottle, focusing on slowly pouring it out onto the plate as Brittany snapped the photos. Her concentration broke when she realized that the camera was no longer on the bottle.

"Hey!" she protested, automatically bringing a hand up in front of her face.

Brittany giggled and took another picture of her. "You looked so cute."

Santana gave her an exaggerated frown as Brittany put the camera down and thumbed through the settings for a moment before turning it to show Santana the display. There she was, in clear focus, the restaurant a blur behind her, with her forehead slightly crinkled and her lips pursed in concentration like a total dork.

"Ugh, delete that."

"No way." Brittany clutched the camera back to her chest.

Rolling her eyes, Santana was stopped from arguing further by the arrival of their food. She reached across the table for the olive oil.

Brittany's fingers brushed against the back of her hand. "You better appreciate that."

Santana paused for a moment, not breaking the connection of their skin and staring at her beautiful lunch companion.

This trip had a way of making her appreciate every damn second.

Running the straightener through her hair one last time, Santana critically assessed her appearance, deeming it acceptable and unplugged the device. She stepped out of the bathroom, her eyes falling to Brittany who was sprawled on her stomach across the bed with her laptop, the sheet only partially covering her bare back and legs. Her hair was damp but drying silky and smooth, even though she hadn't so much as brushed it after their shower.

Brittany looked up at her as she approached. "Hi! Your hair looks pretty. But I like it curly too."

Santana chuckled. "You couldn't have mentioned that before I spent half an hour straightening it?"

The humid and salty air gave her unmanageable frizz and though she had bought what the man at the airport claimed was the best transformer available, her straightener didn't get as hot here as it did at home no matter how long she let it heat up. But it was worth the effort, they were going to check out a club in a couple hours and Santana wanted to look her best.

She dropped her hotel robe to the floor and crawled across the bed to Brittany, dropping a kiss onto her bare shoulder.

"What are you up to?"

Brittany wiggled with excitement. "I'm updating our travel blog! My followers have been begging for more pictures."

For the second time that day, Santana was completely thrown. "We have a travel blog?"

"Yep!"

Brittany turned the computer so that she could see.

Across the top of the screen were the words …Taking on the World Together: Santana and Brittany's Great Adventure. Santana leaned over Brittany to scroll further down, the page filled with images of their days in Lesbos: the view out their window, a wave rolling onto the sand, beach selfies, their Friday night dinner date, the machinery for olive oil production. Even the mundane had been captured and somehow the photos made the tiny soaps in their hotel bathroom and a pile of pebbles on the street look magical. Though she had seen most of the pictures in the camera display window, it was completely different to see them blown up on the computer screen, selected by Brittany to represent the highlights of their trip.

The most recent entry showed a tiny blub of factoids on olive oil and the pictures Brittany had taken at lunch that day, a macro view of olive oil pouring out of the bottle, progressing to one showing Santana's arm, and finally the one that included her face. Somehow when the photo was grouped with the set, the expression on her face bothered Santana less and she didn't mind that it had been put out there for anyone to see.

"When did you do all this?" Santana asked in awe. They hadn't ever been more than a few steps apart since leaving Ohio.

Brittany shrugged. "You sleep a lot."

"Hey!" Santana swatted her shoulder affectionately, scrolling through the entries once again. "This is incredible, Brittany."

Her cheeks pinked adorably and she shrugged again. "It's just some pictures."

Santana brushed blonde hair aside to press her lips against the hot, red tip of Brittany's ear. In a low tone, she whispered, "It's more than that. You're really talented, babe."

Brittany's blush deepened.

Santana studied a picture of herself that she hadn't realized Brittany had taken. She was standing on the edge the beach, her back to the camera, the wind whipping the cotton of her dress tight against her thighs, her hair a messy dark cloud. It was perfectly framed and a glance was enough for Santana to remember the damp, salty air on her cheeks and the whip of the wind against her ears.

"You could do this professionally," she had to point out.

"Maybe," Brittany said, her tone hedging towards agreement. "But it feels more like a hobby. If anything, I'd rather take Fondue for Two to the next level. A few celebrity interviews when we get back to New York should get it national attention."

"Where will you find celebrities?" Santana asked, encouraging the idea.

Brittany gave her an incredulous look. "I won't have to find them, Santana. I already know someone with a record deal, a Broadway train wreck, and a super famous actor."

"Which actor?"

Brittany smirked. "She's naked in bed with me right now."

Santana shoved her again, her own cheeks taking their turn to heat up. "I'm not an actor."

"You so are," Brittany protested. "I saw that commercial. Pure awesome. I hope they play the clip when you win your first Oscar."

"Oh god." Santana buried her face against Brittany shoulder. "You saw that?"

Brittany's body vibrated with her giggle. "Yep. The first time it was on TV I threw spaghetti sauce all over the kitchen because I thought you were in my apartment. Hopefully the landlord doesn't see the stains on the ceiling and think I murdered someone."

That got Santana to laugh. But still, "I did it for the money, Britt. And it squashed any future acting career because now I'm the girl with a chronic yeast infection."

"It did not. Have you seen the youtube comments? Everyone thinks you're really talented. And super hot," Brittany assured her. "Please come on Fondue for Two and be my celebrity guest star." Her last sentence came out in a stumbling rush of words.

Santana smiled fondly, remembering the last time Brittany had urged her to come onto the show. So much had changed. Now it was easy for her to say, "Of course I will."

"Awesome." Brittany closed her laptop and set it on the floor, the motion dragging the sheet further off of her body. "Did you get free stuff from that commercial?"

Distractedly, Santana answered, "Yeah," even as she reached out to help the sheet fall from the curve of Brittany's ass, her hand brushing across the exposed skin.

"So if I feel any itching or burning I should come to you?"

"Britt! Gross!" Santana exclaimed, not wanting to think about yeast infections when she was ready to get it on with her girl. "But, yeah, never pay for that again. We's set fo' life."

"It happens to a lot of honeymooners, you know. All the sex, plus beaches and pools and wet swimsuits. It's just mean to vaginas," Brittany pointed out, always ready with her random facts.

"Do you really think you have one?!"

Santana didn't relax until Brittany shook her head. And then she focused on the other part of what Brittany had said.

"Honeymooners?" She raised an eyebrow.

Brittany bit her lip. "Not technically. But, you know, similar elements."

"It has been romantic," Santana agreed. "It's going to take a lot for our real one to top this trip."

"Don't worry! I have the best idea: Antarctic Cruise!"

It was hard to shut down such genuine enthusiasm, but there was no fucking way she would agree to that. "Brittany, my honeymoon requirements are you in a bikini and a stationary bed."

Brittany pouted. "But penguins."

Santana kissed her, sucking on her bottom lip, and distracting her from the thought of penguins. Their tongues met and Brittany's hands tangled into her hair.

"Don't mess up my hair," Santana mumbled, pulling her hands to her boobs instead.

Brittany's fingers easily pulled her nipples into stiff points and Santana groaned, pressing her chest forward. Brittany's palms rubbed against her nipples, and then slid down her sides to her hips, gripping tight and flipping Santana flat onto her back. The back of her head pressed into the sheets and Santana knew that it would a mussed mess of static before long. But when Brittany kissed her hard and a hand slipped between her legs, Santana lost all capacity to worry about her damn hair.