When Santana fights, she feels this high, hot clarity—like she can see for miles and feel everything all at once. But when Brittany fights, she feels wilty—her word, not Santana's. After Santana fights, though? She feels spent, and usually like an ass. But Brittany? She feels resigned, responsible, even.

(Brittany picks her fights. Santana's fights pick her.)

It's just another one of those things.

So.

Right now, Santana feels spent, as well she should. She can't even remember what she said anymore, just the scorch of the Spanish as it flew from her tongue and the way her pulse went crazy beneath her skin—the way she went crazy. Berry had it coming, of course. And if no one else was going to give it to her? Well, then, Santana was just doing the will of God or the universe or justice or whatever.

(Santana isn't sure that she believes in any of those things anymore.)

(She only believes in one thing, really.)

(Brittany was the one who pulled her away, around the time Santana's voice gave out.)

Brittany's voice calms Santana when nothing else will. And Brittany knows that—or at least knows something like that—as well as Santana does, which is probably why she keeps whispering "Hey, now" and "It's okay, San" into Santana's hair while Santana cries.

Eventually, it works; Santana's breathing smoothes out, her body relaxes, tuned to Brittany. She slumps into the dint in Brittany's shoulder and presses tears into Brittany's skin just above the halter on her pretty, black show dress. Santana's cheeks still feel hot all over, but everything in her listens to Brittany when Brittany tells her, "Come here. Sit still," and steers Santana over to the wall, where they both sink down. Brittany keeps hold of Santana's hand and everything in Santana listens to that, too.

"Shh," Brittany shushes her, not because she wants Santana to be quiet, but because she wants Santana to breathe. "I know," she says, and Santana knows that she does—and not just about how much it sucks that they lost, but about everything. Santana doesn't even have to explain.

Brittany reaches over and plucks at the laces on Santana's oxfords until the knots unravel, then pulls off the shoes—right, left, backwards from how Santana would do it—and Santana feels a surge of adoration over the dull ache; Brittany will make a great mom someday.

Three vending machines and the broken ice maker across from them whir and rattle, drowning out the sounds of Santana's sniffling and the static drone of hotel hallway. "Sorry," Santana says, because she is sorry—sorry for flipping out on Rachel back in the room, sorry for bawling like a baby after Brittany dragged her away from everyone, sorry because, even after everything that happened between them, she and Brittany have somehow managed to finish this year exactly as they started it: holed up in a closet, waiting for Santana to get her shit together.

The irony isn't lost on Santana, even if the closet thing is stretching it.

(It's actually an alcove.)

Brittany scrunches up her nose and says, "Those guys are fuckers," and Santana laughs a little because Brittany almost never swears, but when she does, she acts all cute about it, like she popped a tart jellybean in her mouth instead of a sweet one by mistake. Santana knows that Brittany doesn't really mean it—Brittany likes those glee club kids—even though Brittany acts like she means it for now, just to make Santana feel better, and Santana loves her a little bit more because she's willing to pretend.

(Every time Santana thinks she couldn't possibly love Brittany more, suddenly she does.)

Santana wishes she could explain herself to Brittany, but she can't find the words. Instead, Santana just nods. "Yeah," she says, pressing the last tears out of her eyes and wiping them away with her nail, mad at herself for losing her cool. She slouches over. After a second of consideration, she lowers her head onto Brittany's shoulder. Brittany sighs and Santana does, too; Santana hadn't realized she was holding her breath again.

Suddenly, she's home.

For a long time, they both stay quiet. Santana can't chase the afterimage of the stage lights and hundreds of backlit gray faces in the audience from her mind. She thinks too much about Funny Girl and Fail Hudson with their big, ugly lips smashed together. She thinks too much about the cosmic difference between a high school hallway during passing time and the stage at the Show Choir National Championships and why she's such a coward. But mostly, Santana thinks about Brittany and the way she shined onstage, moving like electric light. Santana chooses to keep that image, to store it away for forever.

Brittany removes her own shoes and they both sit in their black, rolled ankle socks, Brittany picking at the sequins on her skirt, humming something that sounds vaguely like the song Santana wrote for her, while Santana hovers between sleep and waking, spent from nerves and thrills and disappointments and rage and hurt and love.

About the time Brittany starts drawing patterns on the palm of Santana's open hand, lulling her into a deeper calm, a guy in flip-flops, sopping swim trunks, and an open bathrobe shows up in the alcove. For once, Santana doesn't flinch. He barely even glances at the two girls in pretty dresses huddled together on the floor. Santana and Brittany wait for him to buy a bag of cheesy pretzels and leave before they finally speak again.

"You're okay," Brittany says, and it isn't a question. She presses a light, quick kiss into Santana's hair and Santana all but melts. If Santana wasn't okay before, she definitely is now. Everything in her seems to reach for Brittany. She waits. After a few more minutes of silence, Brittany says, "San? Can we go back to the room? I really want to take my bra off now. The underwire's oppressing my boobs."

Santana laughs. "Well, we can't have that," she says, suddenly feeling much lighter, even though her voice still sounds wet and pathetic in her own ears. "Help me up?"

Brittany looks at her, her expression stuck between mischievous and inquisitive, not because of what Santana asked, but because of something invisible, beyond what Santana can see. She stands and extends an open hand to Santana.

"Up, up," she says.

"Up, up," Santana parrots.

Somehow, they manage to make it through the rest of the night without talking much to anybody. Santana feels mopey and embarrassed of herself. She hides under the dim light of the bedside lamps, halfway obscured by brown shadows, while the other girls brush their teeth and put in their retainers and make phone calls to their parents to tell them sad goodnight, see-you-soons.

Brittany sends Santana these pitying little looks from across the room that feel somehow like hugs and sympathetic kisses on her cheeks. Santana refuses to meet anyone's eyes except hers. When the girls go to sleep for the night, Santana sighs deep, from the bottom of her lungs.

It takes a long time before she starts to dream.

The first time Santana stirs in the morning, she isn't sure if she's awake or dreaming, maybe because yesterday feels like a wash, maybe because Brittany leans over her, the fuzzy tassels on her hat tickling Santana's neck, her nose pressed into Santana's ear. Santana's initial reaction is to soften into the incredible rightness of this moment; waking up next to Brittany is one of her favorite things. But then, once she remembers where they are and who they're with, a brief panic floods her system. Santana doesn't even have to voice it.

"We're alone," Brittany says, quieting the fear before it can fully form. "Go back to sleep. We'll be in the other room. I just didn't want you to think we'd left without you." Brittany's voice sounds like warm honey, better than whatever Santana had been dreaming about. The panic flees and the home-feeling returns, strong and warm.

"Left for Lima?" Santana asks, still stupid with sleep, her voice higher and dopier than usual. Brittany smiles, but doesn't answer; she peels away, fuzzy, colorful hat slightly askew. Her weight lifts from Santana. After a minute, Santana can't see Brittany anymore, but she hears her humming, something light and tuneless. The humming heads towards the door. Santana listens to the click as Brittany disappears, the lock sliding into place behind her.

Santana thanks Jesus or whoever that Brittany drew the curtains before she left. She doesn't bother checking the clock before she sinks into the gray light of the shut room and sleeps again, her jaw tight with exhaustion, her whole self listless, like someone stole her wind.

The second time Santana stirs, she forces herself to sit up and start moving. She thinks about the plane ride ahead of her today and how she's glad she has the room to herself for now and that she wishes she could take yesterday back—almost all of it. As she brushes her teeth, the same shame from last night returns in full force. Santana spits her toothpaste in the sink and reaches for her makeup bag.

If she has to face those fuckers, she's going to look damn hot doing it.

Santana always feels small the day after she loses her temper; the trick is to make everyone else feel smaller by comparison—to make them feel stupid because she was an idiot.

(They're all idiots, except Brittany.)

Santana decides to act slightly bitchier than usual but otherwise like nothing happened as she makes her way to the other room, five doors down the hall. She doesn't have to knock when she reaches the suite because someone propped an oversized loafer in the doorframe as a makeshift jamb, but she stops anyway just before she turns the handle because she hears her name.

"—sick of waiting for Santana to get her lazy ass out of bed! I'm hungry! Let's just go without her. You can bring her a bagel or something after. It'll be fine! She won't care if she misses out on our lameass pity party anyway." It's Puck, whining like a little bitch. Santana isn't surprised. She's about to smirk and announce her presence, but she doesn't get the chance before another voice stops her short.

"Yes, she will. She'll care a lot."

Brittany.

"But Santana doesn't even like us right now. She kinda bitched us out last night."

Finn.

He lowers his voice in an attempt to sound gentle, "I don't think she'll care."

Berry and a few others make noises of agreement.

It's Rachel and Finn that Santana hears loudest, though.

Santana feels something prick in her and suddenly she's angry again. She reaches again for the door handle, the Queen Bitch ready to storm into her court. It isn't so much what Finn said as the fact that Finn is the one who said it and Rachel is the one who agreed with him, or at least the one who agreed with him the loudest. Yeah, Santana did bitch everyone out, but she wouldn't have done it if Dumb-as-a-Rock Hudson hadn't tried to suck Rachel's face off on stage at the show. Fuckers have got something else coming if they think they have any place to feel sorry for themselves after—

"She does care and maybe she'd like you all better if you actually gave her a reason to like you."

Brittany.

Usually, she speaks in staccato, almost like a telegraph, every few words punctuated with a halt. But now she speaks in one long stream. She doesn't sound harsh—Brittany couldn't if she tried—but her tone is hot and blunt as hell. Santana hears a collective gasp and she gasps a little, too. Someone mutters "Jesus" and someone else says "Damn."

Brittany goes on, adamant. "Everyone tells her she's just a bitch, so why shouldn't she be? You only notice when she's mean to you, even when she's nice. I know she can be kinda a bitch sometimes and she says mean things during practice, but she does care. God, just give her a reason! One reason."

The last part sounds like a plea.

A second later, the door opens in Santana's face and Brittany is right in front of her, cheeks flushed, lips pouty, her fuzzy hat crumpled in her hands instead of jaunty on her head. Santana feels a pang when she sees how exhausted Brittany looks—like she just finished one of Coach Sylvester's monster Cheerios workouts. Brittany panics when she sees Santana, her eyes bright with worry that Santana may have overheard something. Santana can almost see the excuses forming on her tongue.

Brittany shouldn't have to make excuses for her, though; after everything that happened this year, one of the only things Santana knows for sure is that.

And just like that, it's one of those "Oh shit" moments.

Santana wants to say something about how she doesn't—or at least shouldn't—care about what those guys in there think about her anyway. Fuckers, right?

She wants to say something about how yeah, it sucks or whatever, but.

She wants to say thank you, because nobody has ever stood up for her like that. But maybe she doesn't want to put it that way, because, no, that would be a lie; Brittany has stood up for her, Santana just never… or maybe she always.

She wants to tell Brittany she's so sorry for everything this year, that she realizes now how hard Brittany has fought for this. She wants to say that she's trying; from now on, she'll fight just as hard as Brittany.

She wants to say God, Britt.

She wants to explain something about this surge of hopeful adoration in her chest and how, for once, she thinks she can do this.

She wants to say I love you, you're my favorite, will you marry me?

Right then, Santana makes a choice.

Instead of anything else, Santana says, "Where you going, BrittBritt?" and she sounds genuinely happy. Relief blooms behind Brittany's eyes, and suddenly, Santana feels genuinely happy, too. Santana doesn't wait for Brittany to answer. Instead, she says, "Wanna go get breakfast?"

Brittany nods. Her face loosens. "Sure," she says, stepping further out into the hall.

Santana pauses.

"What?" Brittany asks, nervous again.

"Well, shouldn't we wait for everybody else?"

And just like that, Santana wouldn't take back yesterday anymore—none of it—because all of that shit led her here, to this moment, where Brittany smiles at her, all electric light again. Brittany looks relieved and pleased and reverent and thrilled and like Santana just told her the best secret in the world. Brittany wets her lips and leans. For a second, Santana thinks that they just might kiss.

But then there are voices at the door.

"Speak of the devil!" says Kurt. "Is that Santana?"

And Lauren Zizes. "About time! Quit gabbing and let's go already!"

Then there's movement and their teammates pouring into the hall, filling up the aseptic space between the hotel carpet and the walls with babbling and footsteps and all sorts of noise. Santana only hears one thing, though: Brittany's voice beneath the din.

"Sleep good, San?"

"Mhm. Perfect."

Brittany's voice calms Santana down when nothing else will.