Another two weeks passed. For Santana, that was another two weeks of torture of a Chinese-water-dripping nature. It seemed like every passing day, the hands wandered just a fraction of an inch further up her forearms, nearly reaching that half-ticklish, half-erogenous inner elbow. The hugs lingered just a moment longer, and the cuddling in bed occurred with even fewer invitations. If Santana bought into religion for a moment, she'd surely be convinced that Brittany was her own personal Jezebel, put in position to test her every boundary of self-restraint and decency. Luckily, though, Santana wasn't Catholic. Maybe that only made Brittany a regular succubus…

For Brittany, it had been two weeks of utter futility and confusion. She loved the feel of Santana's skin beneath the palms and the shocks of electricity that each stroke and grasp evoked. She loved the warmth and solace that Santana let ooze out of her armor when they hugged. And, she especially loved how perfectly her slightly shorter body fit into hers when they laid in bed together.

At first, she thought that if she tried harder, initiated more contact, Santana would eventually get it; she'd realize how nice it felt and finally be able to relax and enjoy it. There was nothing better, in Brittany's mind, than this inexplicable mix of comfort and familiarity and exhilaration when they were alone together—something so surreal and confusing it was surely sublime. But, every time the blond managed to find herself in a contented gaze or hold of Santana, the other girl either looked away or frantically scanned the room as if to ensure the walls weren't about to crumble to the ground. There was no progress, and Brittany was seriously clueless as to why Santana didn't just get it. It felt so good to her, so why not her roommate?

Santana usually apologized and excused herself nervously or tried to force an abrupt change of topic. This would've discouraged Brittany over time if it weren't for the consolation prize she offered. She always noted the deflated, kicked-puppy expression on the blond's face when she pulled away and found herself melting on the inside for causing such disappointment and confusion. So, she'd offer up little things about herself—both to take the edge off her seemingly bristly exterior and to show the blond that she didn't mean to be so cold towards her.

Santana never thought the conversations were particularly important or insightful.

"I stopped working hard at school, but still did well. Sometimes, I wish I could actually bring myself to care, so I might actually be able to do something special."

"When my grandfather died, I couldn't sleep for almost three weeks afterwards. We weren't particularly close, but at his funeral, my grandmother bawled and said now she was going to die alone. I never thought about dying alone being anything more than a saying or movie cliché, but there she was, old and alone. It was real."

"Last year, my English teacher kept complimenting me for how well I was doing on my papers. It was kind of nice at first, but then she went overboard and started calling my parents and pushing me to apply for these summer programs. I ended up turning in a piece of shit I wrote in an hour for my final, just so she'd stop making such a big deal of it."

To Santana, they were little facts of nothing, tiny concessions on her part in order to keep things friendly with her roommate and ward off any awkwardness that might come from her constantly pulling away or wriggling out of hugs. To Brittany, all the little nothings made her not feel so bad about the curbed show of affection, because they started to add up to one big something: Santana trusted her and was letting Brittany know her. She might have thought her ramblings were just random distractions away from the physical contact, but by the way she normally clung to her laptop and MP3 player as shields from human interaction, Brittany knew that not everyone was privy to this information. What was blasé, biographical snippets to Santana was insight into a holed-up, insecure girl who couldn't seem to stop hiding—from no one in particular.

Today's diversion from the linked fingers was, "I really wish I had a talent—like, an artistic one—but I was always too uptight and boring to be creative."

Usually, Brittany was happy to observe quietly and take note of every little clue Santana was willing to give about herself. But at this, she perked up instantly with a smile. "You can be!"

The brunette chuckled, "I wish. I guess if I practiced something really hard, I could get good at it, like an instrument or something. But, that's not a talent. That's just discipline and hard work. It's a skill, not talent. Talent is something more natural."

"Well, you can be a natural. Come here." Brittany hopped off the bed and held her hands out for her roommate to follow.

Santana looked questioningly at the blond before slowly extending her hands. Brittany grabbed them eagerly, pulling the smaller girl's body into a standing position flush against her. Santana's eyes bugged open for a moment from the sudden proximity, but quickly started to ease down. Brittany forced these types of hugs all the time; she just hadn't been expecting it. "What are we doing?" she tried to ask coolly.

"Dancing," the blond responded matter-of-factly. When her roommate's face responded in confusion, she smiled widely and continued to explain. "It's the only art that you don't have to learn to do or be good at. If you tried to do any other art, like music or something, without taking any lessons or learning any rules, the first time would sound like banging on a piano with a hammer…or trying to teach your cat how to roll over when he's standing on the keys."

Santana's expression morphed into a grin. Somehow, she could totally see Brittany trying to teach her cat dog tricks. The image of the blond trying to talk sense and discipline into a lazy furball was possibly the most adorable thing in the world.

"You just have to be free. Only pay attention to your own body and your own place in space." Brittany's hands squeezed Santana's reassuringly, and the two shared a smile. "Or, if you have one, your partner's space."

The Latina tried to hide her gulp, as two confident hands wandered from her fingers to her side, then settled on her hips. "Here. Loosen up. Just follow my hands." Brittany's hands guided her roommate's body into a steady rhythm, as their bodies slid fluidly against each other.

Santana was mortified. She imagined this as one of those things that would be cute and fun if she were straight, but since she had a crush on Brittany, it was beyond awkward and potentially rather violating if the other girl knew just what the friction and gyrations were doing to her—both mentally and physically. She just stood there, her body arching and rocking under the command of Brittany's puppeteer hands. She didn't protest, but she was trying her damndest not to indulge.

It didn't take long for Brittany to notice that Santana wasn't getting into it and was starting to have her panicked, flight-or-flight-even-faster reaction. She smiled down at the Latina and took her hands in hers. "Seriously, relax. No one's looking." She gave Santana an assuring squeeze before pulling away to turn on her mp3 player dock.

The brunette couldn't help but arch her eyebrow in intrigue when hip-hop started to play. She wouldn't have expected Brittany, from all her suburbia Pleasantville roots, to be into this music, but the girl was nothing but an anomaly. "You're a regular baller, huh?" she smirked wryly at the blond.

"It has the best beats to dance to," Brittany responded with a matter-of-fact shrug, her obliviousness to the irony causing Santana's smile to widen.

Panic quickly resumed, however, when the blond's arms resumed their position around her, this time turning her in place so that her back was pressed against Brittany's chest. "Okay, this time, just relax. Or, I'll—I'll," Brittany paused to think. Being menacing wasn't in her normal arsenal. "I'll make you relax!" she giggled, fully aware of her hollow threat.

"Oh, no! Please not that relaxing again!" Santana chided between her own laughter.

Obviously, that plan of attack wasn't the right one, so Brittany defaulted into her usual: what Santana could only describe as being utterly adorable. "Try for me then?" the blond pouted.

Santana sighed, even though this battle was one she'd happily concede to. Her roommate was just trying to help her cut loose and have fun and was being super cute about it. She didn't want to poop on her party. So, she shut her eyes and gave Brittany a hopeless smile that she couldn't see from behind. "Fine."

"Yay!" Brittany cheered and placed one hand on Santana's hip, the other snaking around to lay flat on her abdominals. This time, though, instead of moving her roommate's body for her, she simply moved against her from behind.

Santana hesitated at first. It was either grind with her roommate, practically taking advantage of her cluelessness, or come off as prickly and distant, thereby bruising her fun-loving spirit.

"God damnit…" the brunette swore to herself. "Oh, well. What mama don't know don't hurt her, right?" She'd spent half the semester weasling out of her roommate's hugs and compliments. It was only a matter of time before she actually got her feelings hurt or stopped trying with Santana, and Santana wanted neither of those. So, eyes still shut, she gave in, finding herself miraculously natural at how her arms, hips, shoulders dipped and swayed in time with Brittany's.

The blond beamed, as she saw herself finally breaking through. No longer afraid her intensity might scare Santana even further into her shell, Brittany's motions became more fluid and expressive, and she couldn't have been more pleased to notice the brunette reciprocate. Their bodies collided and drew apart in perfect sync with each other, without boundaries or inhibitions or even consciousness.

They continued on for two, maybe three songs before Brittany lowered her arms into a tight hug from behind. "See? Totally natural."

Santana snapped back into reality. She'd let herself go for the past ten minutes and was completely caught up in the tiny 3-foot bubble of her and Brittany moving against each other. She couldn't help but blush and feel a little guilty. Everything she promised weeks ago about not taking advantage, not indulging had just been temporarily scrapped, and she wasn't sure about how she felt about that compromise—even if it meant Brittany would've resumed her abandoned kitten stance if she'd rejected her.

"Heh," she forced out nervously. "We were talking about talent, though. Just because I can move doesn't mean I looked good."

Brittany laughed softly and pulled the embrace tighter. "Oh, you don't have to worry." She craned her neck over Santana's shoulder and placed a quick peck on her cheek. "You looked great."

Santana froze, utterly paralyzed. Every time she felt ashamed for fleecing her unknowing victim, for letting the touch linger a second too long, for daydreaming wistfully that the hugs and affection meant more than friendship, Brittany turned the tables on her. She pushed it one step further and further from linking pinkies to holding hands to cuddling in bed to grind and, just now, a kiss. It was like the harder she fought to maintain discipline and decency, the harder Brittany tempted her, gave her just the slightest glimpses of what she craved.

She smirked at the irony of her situation and how damn pathetic she seemed to be, caught up in it all. Delilah, Bathsheba, Jezebel, all those great temptresses from the Bible didn't have anything on Brittany. At least their prey knew that they were wanted. Santana, on the other hand, was left more and more confused each time on whether Brittany was the clueless model of sweetness and innocence or, if in a reality outside of her hopeful mind, Brittany really did want something more.

Shrugging her way out of yet another hug, Santana knew she wouldn't be the one to pry further. She just had to accept the statistical and logical reality that Brittany wasn't like that, and she'd have to start drawing some lines before she'd already crossed them.. So, she sighed and went rustling for her laptop or mp3 player or anything of distraction. "Succubus indeed…"

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The week proceeded without another confusing, overly affectionate—but secretly cherished to Santana—incident. Suddenly, the hugs and same-bed sleepovers lost their power to wrack her nerves; anything was easier to handle that something as ambiguous as a kiss. She groaned every time she thought about it, mostly towards herself, though. It was just a peck on the cheek. Friends do it all the time. Hell, complete strangers do it sometimes when greeting each other. She was just being her pathetic self again, grasping at straws of hope that don't exist and making a big deal out of an innocuous, friendly gesture.

She knew this. She knew there was nothing to obsess about, but yet she couldn't help it. It'd been clawing at her mind for days now, so much so that she was actually excited about this freshman class soccer tournament today. She wasn't one to look forward to these types of things normally, what with it being a forced interaction with a hundred-twenty people she didn't particularly like, as opposed to the more palatable sums of twenty she had to deal with in classes. But, maybe burning off some physical energy would keep her mind occupied.

It came as no surprise, then, that the two captains for her building were Quinn and one of her pawns. But, it did surprise her when she wasn't picked last for a team—or anywhere near the end. She knew she wasn't of Rachel Berry infamy, but still, it was a new feeling, not being a pariah. The pawn probably only chose her for some stupid reason like she looked fierce (she did) or she was freakishly competitive (she was) or maybe even that Latino people were supposed to be good at soccer (they were, bitch), but regardless, it was almost nice.

When Quinn heard Santana's name called by the opposing team, she grinned widely and called, "Britt."

Santana rolled her eyes. Quinn was obviously making no act of girl-war subtle, but whatever. She'd come out to burn energy and kick ass. She could do that without a friendly soul in sight.

Once teams had been arranged, the girls parted ways to face their respective brackets. The games ended at half an hour, or when the first team to scored twice. Santana left the gate running, nailing goals in both of her teams' first two games to help them along to the final game.

Fate must have laid a hand to arrange a clash of the titans, because, naturally, the other team in the last round was Quinn and Brittany's. Now, Santana adored her roommate and knew she was everything sweet and good in the world, but Quinn was going down. She knew Brittany wouldn't mind. After all, in order to make an omelet…

Nothing could have ignited the competitive drive in the Latina more than to realize that she and Quinn were playing mirrored positions on the field: center forward. Even though the first minutes of the game were relatively uneventful, with the sweepers playing some impenetrable defense, but Santana couldn't help but grin all the way through.

That is, until somehow, Quinn managed to weave past the midfielders and nestle herself into a potentially prime scoring position. Adrenaline and aggression coursed through Santana, as she bounded to the opposite side of the field to join the defenders in a role she had no place in playing. It didn't matter. Quinn had to be stopped. She closed the longer distance faster than any of her teammates could and managed to intercept Quinn about twenty-five feet from the goal, but she found herself being tugged in a different direction.

Santana scowled. She saw red. She'd been close enough to Quinn and her teammates for the referees not to notice that another girl—a crony, of course—had actually held her back by her shirt to give Quinn a clearer path. By the team she could recover, the blond had launched a beautifully placed strike into the back of the net.

Quinn Fabray – 1. Santana Lopez – 0. "Oh, hells no."

To really light her fire, the opposing team gathered around Quinn to high-five and cheer her on, including Brittany. Did her roommate not see the fuckery that had just taken place? Oh, it was so on.

The instant the ball was launched back in bounds after the goal, Santana leapt to butt it in her goal's direction and began charging down the field after it. Anything Quinn Fabray could do, she could do better. That was her mindset right now, and everyone else had to be okay with it, because, to them, it was the nature of competitive sports. It was a glorious guise. She quickly dusted past the opposing defenders and, taking a rather cavalier shot from forty feet away, fired a bullet past their goalkeeper. It was a reckless and probably extremely lucky shot that just caught their goalie off-guard, but all she could think was, "Beat that, bitch."

Her teammates squealed and bumped her in congratulations, but she was in no mood for pleasantries. It was tied. Now was the time to go for the jugular.

The other forwards and mid-fielders scrapped for another few minutes while Santana kept a patient, watchful eye for Quinn. She knew it wouldn't be long before the queen bee tried to reassert her dominance and close the game, and she'd be right there to sweep down on her.

The ball rolled languidly to Santana's goalie, who picked it up and punted it safely into the other team's territory. She perked up and started to sprint. Now was the time to kill.

With an impressive athleticism, she swept the ball from a defender's path right as she aimed to punt it back across the midfield line and deadheaded for the goal. Somehow, Quinn managed to appear from nowhere and nip right on her heels as she dribbled in zigzags to find the perfect angle to shoot. At this moment, she was one-thousand percent convinced that this girl existed only to be the perfect and ceaseless thorn in her side. And in light of that, she had to beat her.

But as with her social authority, Quinn hadn't been chosen captain for no reason. For a forward, she was turning out to be quite the defensive pain in her ass, reaching in for steals, occasionally outpacing her to cut her off her current trajectory. If Santana didn't have a history with her, she might almost have respected the other girl's aggressive edge. Unfortunately, there was history, and she just wanted to bring her down.

She finally got to just the right position. There was no one between her and the goal except Quinn, and their goalkeeper was stupidly angled to be out of range of any shot she could make. The only problem was Quinn. That is, the only problem in the real world or the girl world was Quinn. But, this wasn't either of those; this was the sports world, the physically competitive world, and it was perfectly acceptable to what she was about to do in this world.

With Quinn about five feet from her, Santana stood with one foot resting on the ball, as if contemplating which way to go around her defender. Quinn smirked and began to shuffle from left to right. Santana smirked even wider. She wasn't going left or right. She was going through.

She released the ball from its stop and began to run directly towards Quinn who, admittedly admirable, stood her ground. If Santana full-out tackled her, she'd be yellow carded for sure. But, right at the last moment, the Latina took a single step aside and fell back to a skid, sending the ball flying into the goal with her body sliding across the ground beneath one of the blond's legs. There was no full-body contact, no penalty, just feet tangling with legs as tends to happen during soccer. There was, however, the sweetest symphony of thuds and crumpling as Quinn had her support swept from under her, and she toppled over her, head first.

Santana Lopez – 2. Quinn Fabray – 1.

Her teammates threw up their arms and cheered, and a few of them ran up and shoulder-bumped her or slapped her rear. It was, after all, technically fair, especially more so than shirt grabbing. Whether it was part of the "collegiality" of St. Anne's was another issue.

Santana proudly wore a grin during the immediate rush before she felt herself being lifted off the ground and twirled around. "Great shot, San! That was awesome!"

Her grin eased into a smile as her roommate and "opponent" bear hugged her from behind. "Ooof!" she chuckled. "Thanks, but back off, Britt. I'm all disgusting and sweaty right now."

Brittany giggled in return. "So am I. Are you trying to say you're scared of my sweaty germs?"

"Oh, no, of course not. I'm sure they're the sweetest smelling, cleanest germs around, and roses really smell like poopoo."

The blond let go of her roommate and gave her a playful push. Santana hadn't seemed to get over how funny it was she liked some rap. "Thanks, I'll be sure to share more with you."

To prove Santana's prior theory that Quinn only existed at inopportune times for inopportune purposes, she jogged up to the pair, fully recovered from her tumble. "Nice play style, Santana," she smirked, thinly veiling her sarcasm and bitterness.

"Yeah, good game, Quinn. Can't win them all, right?" Santana responded with just as much syrupy fakeness.

"It seems that way…" the shorter blond trailed off before snapping attention back to Brittany. "Team trip to the snack bar? I want a smoothie."

"Oh, yeah!" the dancer nodded enthusiastically. "See you soon, San!" She bounced up one last time and wrap Santana in a sweaty, mushy, yet somehow pleasant hug before turning away.

Santana almost felt the glory of victory sucked out of her as she watched the two blonds head off together with the rest of their team when Rachel came jogging up to her. "Hello, Santana!" she greeted cheerily.

She was dressed in her usual tights, pleated skirt, and button down and had clearly not participated in the tournament. "Hey. You didn't play?"

"Oh, no. I've found that intensive stress on my lung capacity in athletics really weakens my voice in the short-term."

"Oh…uh huh," Santana muttered. She'd been spending time with Rachel sporadically throughout the past few weeks, but she still didn't know how to respond to her sometimes. With other people, her instinctive reaction would be to be snarky and insulting, but she tried to temper herself around the tiny brunette, since she was apparently some sort of confidant and boon to her. So, sometimes she said nothing, which was the best she could do.

"I was watching you, however. I thoroughly enjoyed the Lopez-Fabray showdown and your questionable sportsmanship," Rachel chirped, attempting to revive the conversation.

"Hey, that was totally legal, and she could've moved."

The smaller girl threw up her hands in peace. "I don't know anything about soccer, but I'll take your word as the more honorable of the two."

"Thanks," Santana intoned smugly. Maybe it was a little unsportsmanlike, but she deserved it, and it was merely one of the many battles Quinn had arranged between the two of them. The other, well…not as much clear-cut success.

Rachel remained silent, watching her friend's expression flow from smug to thoughtful to almost deflated. She turned her neck to see that the object of the Latina's gaze, and she held her smile. She was so damn obvious.

"You know, you're super cute with her."

"Ugh. Don't. Sarcasm doesn't suit you. Quinn and I are basically mortal enemies."

The singer couldn't help but burst into laughter, even though it earned her a measured scowl from Santana. She didn't want to be rude, but the other girl was either clueless or as good at covering her tracks as the tyrannosaurus rexes were. "Not Quinn. You and Brittany."

"What?" Santana asked sharply.

"The two of you, you're cute," Rachel responded, unfazed by the ostensible hostility.

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean she's all over you, and I never see you smile or laugh like that with anyone except her."

"That's just how Britt is. She could make friends with anyone and is one of those touchy-feely girly girls."

"Uh huh. I try not to swear, but this situation requires it. I call bullshit!"

Santana let out an exasperated groan. "What's bullshit?"

"That she's like that with everyone. I see Brittany with Quinn and the rest of the housewifey, cheerleading camp, and she never gets as physically affectionate with them as she does you. And then, she smiles at you like you've just saved the world, even though all you did was take Quinn Fabray down—not that those two are highly unrelated. She's just—"

"What?" the Latina interrupted with an annoyed and smug look in her eyes. "She's what?"

"She's so into you! There! I said it."

Santana scoffed, "Ha. Unlikely, Berry. She just lives in a world that's all innocence and happiness and has no mysterious intentions behind her hugs. To her, she's just being friendly and sweet."

"I don't—"

"Uh uh. Trust me. I live with this girl."

Rachel shook her head and smiled in defeat. Santana was a stubborn girl, and prodding at her sore spots was only going to get her to shut down harder. She'd drop it, for now.

But, she couldn't help but grin with the same certainty that Santana had, since the Latina did nothing to deny how she felt about Brittany. Even if she wanted to, she was as subtle as a jackhammer to the head about that anyways. Brittany, as well, wasn't far behind, what with the pinkies and neck nestling and arm-linking. She felt the same way, and it was only a matter of time. Rachel was sure. Santana might see herself as some immovable object, but Brittany was her unstoppable force. Even a singer knew enough physics to know they both can't exist. The girls would eventually get together. If they kept up this wretchedly slow pace, she'd even see to it herself.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Thank you all for hanging in there and being patient with MY wretchedly slow pace in updating. It's been a hard past month for me personally, but I'm back (hopefully) to get this show on the road again.

Also, I feel like I dated myself so badly with that roses/poopoo reference. That song was a big deal when I was a freshman or sophomore schoolgirl myself, so if any of the younger readers out there catch it, hooray for you :D