Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Fair warning, I tried something new in this update. Doesn't exactly work perfectly yet, but give me some time to get her voice right.

a human vulnerability
(doesn't mean that i am weak)

Every night, Santana spends an hour doing something completely different from work. The thinking process, she had come to learn, was often helped along by some kind of mindless task—Einstein in a post office; Feynman in strip clubs—and she decided she would attempt to recreate those kinds of conditions for true inspiration.

In the early days, when she was still grooming herself for the political arena—top position at the university student council, of course—she experimented extensively to discover what she could fill the hour with.

First, she tried playing video games. She sat in the darkness of her college dorm room for an hour for several days, and learned how to play Call of Duty. But after several weeks—in which she had gotten a lot of gaming done, sometimes even exceeding her one-hour limit—she stopped, recognizing how her chosen mindless task was becoming a distraction.

She then turned to her second option, teaching herself to play a musical instrument. But while her brand new keyboard was state-of-the-art—and while her fingers got a good work out from the lessons—ultimately it was a terrible fit, a second distraction, so she donated her instrument to a local music therapy group on campus.

The third—solving word and number problems—was one of the easiest of the options, which was why she had to give it up. It was simply too mindless for any real planning to happen.

Desperate, she tried more unconventional options: watching porn, for example. Within a week she had blocked all porn sites from her laptop, annoyed by the persistent misogyny in majority of the content.

Then she turned to alcohol. First she tried drinking only beer. After a boring few nights, she switched, and tried drinking only whiskey. Then only scotch. Then only tequila.

Initially the tequila seemed was a jackpot, but the result from an hour of intense alcoholic consumption was never pleasant the following morning.

Then one night, at a second year party, Quinn introduced her to smoking. She knew she had found her match, from the first cigarette. She relished in the burn of the smoke as it filled her lungs, the rush of the taste as she exhaled into the night. For almost a year she nursed her habit, smoking for an hour every evening to think.

She would have loved to continue, but smoking was off the table the moment she met Brittany, because Brittany hated smoking. She hated how it looked, how it smelled, how it tasted on Santana's tongue.

"I really like you, Santana," Brittany said, as she resisted Santana's first attempt to kiss her, "but I don't do smokers."

"Then I won't do smoking," Santana replied. Brittany smiled, pleased, and kissed let herself be kissed. And that was it.

Ridding herself of the habit was more difficult than Santana expected, but not as hard as she was told it would be. For the first few nights whenever she felt the urge to smoke, she would take a long walk around the campus to think, until the urge eventually subsided.

Occasionally, Brittany joined her, and in silence they would stroll alongside each other, hands brushing in the darkness. On those nights, the urge to smoke was miniscule compared to other, more visceral urges Santana felt. They swept through her veins, spreading throughout her entire body, resisting Santana's poor attempts at repression, until she could swear she was losing her mind.

One night, her walk was interrupted by a sudden downpour. She found herself running to Brittany's dorm, closer than hers, leaving puddles of water as she slipped and stumbled to her room.

When Brittany saw her outside her door, drenched like a kitten lost at sea, she laughed and pushed her into the tub, turning the water to a setting that was more hot than warm. Outraged, Santana pulled her along, and they fell into the too-small space together. They pushed against each other, then pulled into each other, and all the urges Santana felt flared hot like the tip of a burning cigarette.

That was the first time they spent naked in a tub of near-scalding water. By the end of the night, after Brittany burned pleasure between her legs, Santana had her head thrown back against ceramic, her mind firing plans faster than the speed of light.

Forget smoking. She needed to have this, every night, for the rest of her life.

.oOo.

"Where did you go after the meeting?" Santana smiles at Brittany's question, and tightens her arms around Brittany's waist. Brittany reacts by trailing her hand up and down Santana's shin. Santana watches the movement, mesmerized by the sight of flexing muscles. Only Brittany's touch could unwind her after such a painfully punishing day. No one else in the world could make her feel relaxed like this.

"I sat in a movie house downtown."

Brittany's hand stops; Santana twitches her leg impatiently to get her to start again. "What did you see?"

Santana shrugs carelessly, leaning forward to meet Brittany's shoulder with her lips. "I think it was a Disney film."

Brittany laughs softly. "Don't they usually kick you out after every show?"

Santana nods. "I bought a ticket for every new one."

"Santana."

"I know." She drops another kiss against Brittany's shoulder, then works her way up, one inch at a time. When she reaches the spot behind Brittany's ear, she murmurs, "It was wasteful. I should have just come home."

"Yes, you should have," Brittany agrees, breathless. "I would have made you feel better, baby."

With one hand, Santana tangles her fingers in Brittany's hair, and turns her head slightly to kiss her. When she pulls back, Brittany settles more comfortably into her, and she resumes her kisses along Brittany's neck.

After a silence punctuated only by Santana's lips on her skin, Brittany speaks again. "If not you, then who?"

Santana rolls her eyes, even if she knows Brittany won't see it. "Samuel Evans."

Brittany tenses against her. "That's insulting."

Santana hums in agreement. "Everyone knows he can't handle Secretary of State, but he does make a good poster boy." She scoffs. "I can't wait to see him screw up."

When Brittany stops her hand, and responds only with silence, Santana frowns.

"What?"

Brittany waits another moment, before finally sighing, "So you plan on waiting for him to screw up?"

Santana closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. "No, of course not. With the right advisors, it could take him years before he does some real damage." She leans her head against the cool marble behind her. "We can't wait that long. I've got to speed things up and push him along."

Brittany nods, and starts stroking her shin again. "Do you know what you have to do?"

Santana opens her eyes and stares at Brittany's arm again, admiring the muscles as they ripple underneath the surface of her skin. As she watches, a droplet of water begins to slide down Brittany's arm sinuously, collecting other beads as it makes its descent.

Santana smiles, an idea taking shape in her mind. "Yes, I do. I'll have to run it by Quinn tomorrow morning."

Brittany shifts in Santana's arms, turning to face her. "Good."

They look at each other for beat. Santana feels her chest tighten, then her throat, and she begins, "I'm really sorr—"

Brittany shakes her head, and silences her with a kiss.

.oOo.

When Santana walks into her office the next morning—House Majority Whip, engraved on the marble—her secretary switches the lobby television off instantly. Santana doesn't need to ask what for—she knows Sam Evans's face is plastered all over the news screens, gloating about his Security of State nomination. She appreciates the sentiment, but finds it unnecessary. Pretty soon the only picture of Evans will be of his blubbering face.

"Good morning, Rachel. You don't need to turn that off, I don't mind."

"It's alright, Mrs. Lopez, he wasn't saying anything worth listening to anyway." Rachel responds instantly. "Ms. Fabray is waiting inside."

Santana nods, heading deeper into her real office. "Cancel everything I have today, and don't let anyone come through this door."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Santana smiles to herself as she pushes the door open. There's something relieving about reaffirming her people's loyalty to her.

"Mrs. Lopez." Her Chief of Staff greets her, as she sits by Santana's table, flipping through screens on her iPad. As always, Quinn shrouds her fatigue with timeless grace.

"I take it you've heard?" Santana asks, dropping her case on the table.

"Of course." Quinn looks up at her, eyes sharp. "I've had reporters calling me all morning, asking for a statement."

Santana nods. That was expected. "What have you been telling them?"

Quinn's lips twitch. "That we are, as always, completely supportive of our leadership's decisions."

Santana nods again, beginning to pace. "Very good. We need to keep up appearances."

"I thought so, too." Quinn stands, and leans against the table. "But I have to admit, I was under the impression that this was a done deal."

"So was I. But Schuster, Hummel—they were playing us all along."

"Deception from Schuster, and Hummel? That takes a lot of idiocy. Both owe you their position. Their reputation."

"Brittany said the same thing."

"How is she taking all this?"

Santana takes a deep breath. "Better than she should have to." She pauses her pacing. "Kitty Wilde paid her a visit yesterday, so that's another moving piece we need to control, fast."

Quinn frowns. "That's a complication, but nothing we can't handle." She hesitates, then asks, "What do you have in mind now? Revenge?"

Santana shakes her head. "Too juvenile. Mindlessly knocking off pieces one by one from the board isn't going to guarantee a win. We've got to look at the big picture here."

Santana turns to Quinn, waiting for her to comprehend. It takes a moment, but Quinn begins to nod slowly. "I think I understand. Evans first?" Santana smiles in confirmation. "Who do you have in mind to replace him?"

Santana unbuttons her blazer. "Get me a list of names. It's going to be a long morning."

.oOo.

Halfway through the afternoon, Santana finds herself sitting in a senator's office. She and Quinn had been poring over names all morning—"Motta?" "Qualified but uninterested." "Israel?" "Pervert." "Gilbert?" "Maybe, but the LGBT is his true passion. Let's keep him there to fight the good fight for us."

It was only when Quinn had rattled off "Blaine Anderson?" that Santana had sat straight, eyes bright.

"He's perfect."

"Are you sure? He's been vocally against Schuster's campaign."

Santana had laughed. "All the more. I know something about him that might prove to be very useful."

And now here she was, sitting in an office twice the size of her own, waiting for Senator Blaine Anderson to finish pouring her coffee.

"Not that I'm not honoured to have you, Mrs. Lopez—"

Santana waves her hand in a carefully calculated show of carelessness. "Santana, please."

"Santana," Anderson corrects—when he smiles, Santana knows her charm is working—"but I'm not sure to what I owe the pleasure."

If she knew Anderson any better, she would just come out and ask him what she needs. But this is still new territory, and she needs to tread lightly. "I realized this morning that when I was endorsing Kurt Hummel that I never asked you for your opinion." She accepts the cup from him graciously. "I know it's too late now, but I'd still like to know what you think."

Anderson takes a sip of his coffee, watching her over the steam. "Why would think I would have anything to say about Kurt Hummel?"

Santana smiles lightly. "Weren't you and Hummel a thing, back in the day?"

Anderson chuckles, just as lightly. "How did you know that? Never mind, don't tell me." He puts his cup back into its saucer. "It's no wonder you make such a good majority whip, knowing what you know."

"I try."

He chuckles again. "We almost got married at some point. Can you imagine that?"

Santana doesn't miss for one second how he glazes over her question. Still, she shakes her head politely, even if she can imagine that. It would have been such a fabulous wedding. "What happened?"

Anderson tilts his head, eyes turning to the side briefly. "We both wanted very different things." Partly true, Santana supposes—they both cheated on each other with other people.

"And yet here you both are, in Washington." Santana smiles again. "Have you considered rekindling the relationship?"

He almost chokes with laughter. "No, not at all. Not in the slightest." He shakes his head. "We're different people now. I could never endorse Schuster the way Kurt does." He quiets, suddenly looking serious. "And I was right. Look at the way he dropped you for Secretary of State."

Santana maintains eye contact, ignoring the reminder and dropping the act. Now, for the real meeting. "Shouldn't you be happy? Isn't Evans something like a friend to you?"

Anderson snorts, leaning forward. "No." He says it with such finality, Santana doesn't find any room to doubt him. "I burned that bridge long ago." His eyebrow rises. "But why do you ask?"

Santana smirks. "We might be able to help each other, then. You wouldn't mind doing something unorthodox, would you?"

"Well, that depends." He matches her smile easily. "How unorthodox are we talking?"

.oOo.

As soon as Santana leaves the office, her multiple goals are replaced by a single one: telling Brittany everything. The plans have been set back in place, and all she needs is a few more parts before they can be put in motion. She knows it will only please Brittany to hear that they are back on track.

But when she arrives home and finds complete darkness, she knows telling Brittany will have to wait.

"Brittany?"

She closes the door behind her and turns on the light of the hallway. She pulls her shoes off and listens.

The house is too silent to be truly empty.

"Britt?"

She walks up the staircase, the sound of her footsteps dulled by the carpet. She walks into their bedroom, and switches the light on. She almost draws back, until she sees the two-piece suit Brittany has laid out. She approaches it slowly, staring at the shoes Brittany has set out at the foot of their bed.

Frowning, she leaves the room and heads for their master bathroom. "Baby?"

The bathroom is dark, but Santana can make out the faint shape of Brittany, reclined in the tub. She walks over quietly and sits on the tiled ground, reaching out to touch her wife.

Brittany jerks awake when Santana lays her hand on her arm. "Baby." Santana reproaches softly. Brittany blinks, disoriented, shocked at the darkness of the room and the coldness of the water. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to sleep in the tub anymore. Especially if I wasn't around to keep an eye on you."

Brittany nods, mumbling an apology. Santana reaches up to turn on the drain, and the outline of Brittany's pruned, shivering body becomes clearer as the tub empties.

When all the water has drained, Santana grabs blindly for a towel and climbs into the tub. She wraps it around Brittany, and pulls her towards her body heat. She knows she's comforting herself just as much as she is comforting her wife. Something is wrong, she can tell—Brittany only spends hours soaking in the tub without her if something is amiss—but she isn't going to push.

She rubs her hands up and down Brittany's back, until she finally hears, in a muted whisper, "Too many reminders of the past. First, Kitty's comment yesterday, then…" She trails off. After taking a breath, she continues, "Mike called me this morning. After you left for work."

Santana hands clenches, and her nose flares. Michael Chang. Just hearing his name was enough to make her feel like punching a hole through something. When was he going to stop ghosting into their lives like this?

"His troupe is on tour. He wants me to see them."

"Tonight?"

Brittany nods against her collarbone. "In about an hour."

Santana inhales deeply, fighting the urge to flare up. Brittany doesn't deserve to receive the brunt of her sudden anger. It will only tire them both faster, and they've already had such a long day apart. All she wants to do is rest, but still, she asks, "Do you want to go?"

Santana feels Brittany's head move, until a chin is against her chest. "Do you?"

"Of course not," Santana whispers, matching Brittany's tone. "I hate him so much, Brittany, I don't know what I'll do if I see him." She feels Brittany's body sag against her in disappointment. Sighing, she amends, "But you know that I'll come with you if you want me to, baby."

Brittany head shifts again, and Santana feels her press her ear to her chest. Brittany listens to the deep beating of Santana's heart for a long moment, before she sighs, calmed. "Thank you."

Terri-fic? Horri-fic?