Early update because I'm feelin' it. Thanks for reading and especially reviewing - feedback is the best, ever.
"Ladays," drawled Puck with a grin, bending at the waist to drape his arms heavily across two sets of shoulders. Quinn rolled her eyes over pinked cheeks while Santana raised an eyebrow expectantly. Unimpressed.
Puck leered at her, gaze dropping all the way down to her lap, before he glanced at Brittany and Quinn. "Start-of-year party, at Rutherford's," he announced undeterred, even when Quinn knocked his arm away with a smack and a shrug. Santana followed suit, and he knocked his hip against the back of her waist as he added, "Don't worry, the Puckster's on booze patrol, so you know it's gonna be off the hook."
"So long as the booze doesn't have your grandpa's fishing platitudes attached," snapped Santana with an elbow in the soft place under Puck's ribs. His oof and instinctive wince were overshadowed by her warning: "Don't just bring wine coolers this time."
Though the serious cut of her face and her hard metal eyes meant business, Puck ran his fingers through his crafted hair and chuckled easily. "Easy there, Santana," he teased, her name in three syllables like the bouncing ball on Disney sing-along tapes, "you know I got your number." When her expression barely changed—just that eyebrow, the one that meant danger, creeping back up toward her hairline—he clarified, "Tequila. Lots of it."
That seemed to pacify her, though Quinn scoffed loudly. As Puck and Santana glanced at her, him with strange amusement and her with clear impatience, Brittany asked, "Is there gonna be whiskey, too?"
All three of them turned to her with surprise—though Santana less so. Earlier in the week, on patrol one night, Brittany had accepted a swig from her battered flask. Even then, she'd hardly been shocked. "Hell yeah," Puck said firmly, once he got his jaw into working order. He bobbed his head like a pigeon, like he was cranking up his excitement with the grin spreading across his face. "Whatever you want, Blondie." His eyes crawled up and down Brittany's top half; the only half visible across the lunch table.
Santana threw another elbow to the gut. "Jesus, Lopez," he grunted, a scowl creeping into his features. She rolled her eyes, then drew them slowly—super slowly—up and down his body. It was enough. When she quirked her brow again, he grinned in response. Glancing at Quinn again, then at Brittany, he pointed at each of them in turn and affirmed, "Saturday. Be there."
Brittany pushed Santana toward the library doors. Whirlwind was pouting. "It won't take long," Brittany insisted. "But I don't wanna fail English my first week of school."
"Fine," said Santana, backing down the empty hall and pointing at Brittany, "but you swore we'd play Hangman, so you better get your ass over here before the period ends."
With a smile, warm as the last leg of summer weather outside, Brittany promised, "I will." When Santana finally turned and pushed past the library doors with a glance over her shoulder, Brittany twirled and half-skipped back down the hallway.
Instead of heading to the English offices, she turned toward the history office in the adjacent corridor. Peeking in, she spotted a straight blond part hovering in the back, beyond four empty desks and a haphazard cubicle divider.
"Hi," Brittany greeted from a foot behind Holly.
Holly spun so quickly she bumped the desk chair at her side. Her surprise melted into a bright smile as easy as melting ice cream in the microwave. "Hey there, sweetie. What can I do ya for?"
Ignoring the obvious joke, Brittany asked, "Well, I wanted to know if you got anywhere with the coin thingy yet."
Holly blinked. "Not yet, sugarplum," she admitted, shoulders and mouth dragging down at the edges. Her fingers grazed the papers on her desktop. "I have looked a little more into the football problem, though."
She turned toward the desk, brushing the papers aside to uncover an unmarked notebook, and Brittany frowned. "You don't think they're connected?"
"Well," Holly said with an easy shrug as she flipped the notebook open, "the boy problem could just be a spell and I figured, hey, might as well look up something I might find."
The pages of the notebook were filled with scrawled notes and occasional sketches. Demons. Symbols. An address on the upper corner of one page. A square torn off the top of another. She stopped where the writing ended three-quarters of the way down the left page, opposite a page of blank lines. The end of her notes.
"You found it?" asked Brittany, looking back up at Holly's face.
She hedged. "Not exactly," she admitted, rushing to add, "but I've been looking at enchantments and spells. Ones that might fit what you're seeing." When Brittany didn't answer, Holly tilted her head slightly, her anxious eyes relaxing. "What exactly is it you're seeing?"
Brittany thought. Shrugged. "I mean, I don't know what they're usually like," she pointed out. "So you should maybe ask Santana about it." Something passed over Holly's face—something shadowy and quick—but Brittany couldn't catch it. So, she went on. "They're kind of just being really pushy."
"Huh." Holly's smile reappeared. "Well, thanks, honey. I'll keep looking. Don't you worry."
Watching Holly's face carefully, Brittany said, "I know, I just thought I'd check in."
Holly nodded. "Sure thing. I got your number from Shannon, so I'll just shoot you a text when I find something."
"Right," Brittany said, instead of asking why she couldn't just text Santana like she used to. "Thanks."
Without looking up from the mustache she was drawing on the hanged stick figure, Brittany said, "We should get ready for the party together."
She felt Santana shift beside her, peering over her arm at the overly detailed Hangman victim. "Yeah."
Brittany pursed her lips, squinting at the thin line she'd drawn, and began to add long, curled ends to the mustache. It matched the cowboy hat better that way. "I think Matt lives kind of close to me," she continued, "so maybe you can just come over and we can go together."
Santana paused; though Brittany kept her eyes glued to the paper, she felt Santana move again before she agreed. "Okay. Yeah."
"Plus," Brittany added, pulling her pen away and turning to Santana with a bright grin, "then you can just sleep over after, so you don't have to drive home immolated."
The smile on tornado's face was soft and almost fond. "Okay," she said again, like she couldn't help herself. She dragged her gaze down to Brittany's Hangman and let out a chuckle. "Britt, I think it's time for me to throw in the towel."
"You don't have a towel, silly," Brittany admonished, offering the pen.
Santana didn't take it. She scanned the careful block letters again, skeptical and amused. _ILATE_ CAR_I_M_PATH_. "I'm serious," she pushed, still smiling as she folded her arms on the edge of the table. "I got no idea."
Nudging their shoulders together, Brittany added another sweep of shading to the feather in the cowboy hat before filling in the letters. DILATED CARDIOMYOPATHY.
Santana snorted. "The fuck is that?" She looked at Brittany, curious but not doubting.
Brittany breathed in deeper than she expected. Felt her lungs and heart press warmly against her ribs. With a self-conscious shrug, she explained, "Lord Tubbington has it. It's when your heart's too big."
And as Santana stared at her, lips parted, eyes deep and searching, face smooth and soft as that night on the mausoleum, Brittany thought she knew just how Lord Tubbington felt.
Three shots into Matt's party, Brittany couldn't stop looking at Santana's mouth.
They were clustered near the kitchen counter with Puck and a boy named Mike. Mike was mixing drinks, ignoring Santana's verbal abuse, and Puck was trying to see how far he could slide his hands up Santana's shirt before she dragged his arm out or stomped on his foot. The tequila was letting him get a lot farther than he had when they'd showed up at midnight.
Santana was snapping at Mike, telling him to give her a stiff one or she'd sterilize him for free, and the words spilled out so rough and warm, warm like the alcohol at the back of Brittany's throat and belly, and Santana's lips looked so dark and smooth. Like the mausoleum. Like dancing at the Bronze.
The idea seeped through the tequila—Puck had forgotten the Jack Daniels he'd promised, and swore with a leer that he'd make it up to Brittany later—and Brittany pushed off the counter. Her shoes scuffed against the tile to keep her balanced as she reeled.
"Easy, Britt," Santana soothed with an absent laugh, leaning away from Puck to steady Brittany at her elbow. The animosity she'd aimed at Mike dropped, like it was heavy and she'd been holding it for a while.
Brittany giggled and let her dizziness press her body into Santana's. "Easy peasy, lemon squeezy," she sing-songed, her mouth close to Santana's ear by the end. Santana righted her gently and grinned. Brittany thought she could see Puck staring at them, smacking Mike's turned shoulder, but it all seemed fuzzy and faraway compared to whirlwind and her long dark lashes and close wet mouth. "Let's dance," Brittany suggested eagerly, clutching clumsily at Santana's hands and tugging her back toward the living room.
Soothed, no doubt, by the alcohol and the late night and the prospect of a night without patrol, it took Santana seconds to settle with Brittany into their notch in the crowd. She snapped her fingers twice to the beat, but Brittany was staring at Santana's mouth again. With a coy smile, like floss coiled around a finger, or maybe a puppet string, Santana pressed in and rolled her body, a breath from Brittany's front. Brittany wet her lips and grasped lightly at Santana's loose shirt. It rippled with her movements.
They were so close. The bass throbbed—or maybe that was Brittany's heartbeat—and it felt like her dirt bike was revving up inside her, vibrating along her legs and her bones and her blood. When she glanced away from those lips to Santana's eyes, she found them staring up at her. Deep and thick. Knowing. They slid down Brittany's face—past her face—past her shoulders—and Brittany's fingers knotted the material by Santana's hip, pulling her close while their bodies kept moving.
"You look good in red," Brittany said through the cotton in her throat. She felt a smile sneak onto her face. The warmth of the tequila was nothing like the warmth of Santana, hair flicking her face and body so close. Brittany could smell her sweat.
Santana just grinned at her, cocky and loose, and touched the arm Brittany'd anchored against her hip. She traced Brittany's bicep and left the hairs on end. Brittany swallowed as Santana moved toward her, bracing her free hand against Brittany's shoulder and slipping her lips toward Brittany's ear. "Thanks," she whispered over the sound of the song and the hum of Brittany's body.
Brittany listened and breathed and danced.
"Finally had enough?" asked Quinn over her curling lip.
Brittany offered her a happy, sloppy grin and tugged Santana's hand to draw her into the conversation and away from where Puck brandished a half-empty bottle near the liquor cabinet. "Guess so," answered Brittany brightly.
Quinn's tight face slackened a little, even when Santana bumped against Brittany's shoulder and gave Quinn a proud sneer. "Havin' fun, Quan't-drink-one-beer-without-puking?"
The jibe was so bad it made Brittany giggle. Quinn rolled her eyes and, with a long-suffering sigh, asked Brittany, "You're not driving, are you?"
"No, we're walking," said Brittany, giggling again. She turned to grin at Santana conspiratorially. "These boots are made for walkin'," she sang through her giggles, "and that's just what they'll do…"
Santana's expression was hard to read, especially when Brittany kicked her foot up for emphasis—though she wasn't wearing boots—and gripped Santana's arm to keep her balance. After a tense second, Brittany started laughing again. She looked back toward Quinn in time to see her roll her eyes, again, and sigh, again, in exasperation. Finn lumbered around from behind and offered Quinn a cup of what had to be water.
"Finn!" yelped Brittany, grinning and pulling Santana's arm. She looked seriously at Santana. "It's Finn," she whispered.
"Hi, Brittany," he said with a wave and that dopey smile. He looked more hesitant—and a little fearful—when he glanced aside and said, "Santana."
"Yeah, Totem Pole," grumbled Santana, and Brittany remembered why they were on their way to the door.
She reached out to grab at Quinn, misjudging the distance and almost knocking the cup out of Quinn's hands. "Are you going home soon?"
As she recovered from the near-fumble, Quinn sighed haughtily and flipped her hair back, glancing up at Finn. "I'm not sure."
"'Cause we're gonna have a sleepover," Brittany continued, shaking Santana's arm, "and you could come if you wanted."
Immediately—or maybe it just felt immediate, because time was pretty swimmy by then—Quinn shook her head. "Thanks, Brittany," she said, looking a little apologetic, "but I've got church in the morning."
"Okaaay," Brittany drawled while Santana tugged the arm Brittany clung to. "Then we're gonna go."
Santana gave Quinn a reluctant smile. "Have fun at the guilt factory." To Finn, she added with a mock salute, "Seeya, Stretch."
And then they were out the door.
Out in the street, Brittany walked the curb like a balance beam, long arms stretched out like a tightrope walker. "Lookit, San," she insisted excitedly, "I'm doing it."
"Yeah, you are," croaked Santana. She'd drunk a bit more and it'd turned her voice rough and dry.
Brittany glanced at her over one shoulder and giggled. She hopped onto the street and said, "You sound all froggy."
Santana smiled, but it faded into a befuddled frown when they reached a corner. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk; Brittany backtracked, stepping off the empty street and onto the concrete. She looked around while Santana got lost in thought.
Hesitantly, Brittany leaned in close. Her head—still spinning a little, from the shots and from jumping around outside—tilted closer than she meant, but it gave her a whiff of that Santana smell again, and she stayed there. Hovering by her ear. "What is it?" she asked, and she marveled at the way her breath shifted strands of Santana's black hair.
Santana drew back, looking at Brittany strangely, and turned away, toward the side street. Brittany saw her elbow sneak out on the left when Santana crossed her arms. "Isn't your house this way?"
She actually sounded unsure. Brittany giggled again. "Oh, right," she said, touching the small of Santana's back as she skipped past. "This way!"
In Brittany's room, she watched Santana scramble through the window and had to bite her lip to keep from grinning. Santana cursed in Spanish in a harsh, steaming hiss while Brittany scooted open the middle drawer of her dresser. She stopped halfway, lifted the drawer, and tugged hard to skip the part where the wood scraped loudly.
The curses quieted; Santana crept up beside her. "Here," whispered Brittany, "you can wear this." She pushed a t-shirt and shorts into Santana's hands and held another set to her chest. She noticed the nervousness glimmering in Santana's eyes, growing gradually as they skipped from Santana's hands to Brittany's and up to her face. "You wanna brush your teeth?" she asked, and led Santana into the bathroom to show her where she kept her collection of free toothbrushes from the dentist.
Santana finished first and slinked back into Brittany's room. When Brittany got back, after spending an extra few seconds trying to scrape the souring alcohol taste from her tongue, Santana had already changed into Brittany's clothes. Brittany had picked a motocross shirt that looked better on Santana than it usually did on her. Brittany smiled, dumped her own dirty shirt into her hamper, and changed into the sleep clothes she'd left perched on the open dresser drawer.
Tornado still hovered between the dresser and the bed. Over the buzz in her head—dimmed somewhat by the fresh air and the climb up the side of the house and the minty toothpaste—Brittany could sense Santana's anxious energy. The way her fingers twitched, forever waiting to hold a weapon.
"Get in bed, silly," whispered Brittany as she carefully worked the drawer closed. She glanced at Santana with a crooked grin.
Santana looked startled. And sheepish. "I wasn't…" she began, but she seemed to lose her place, and Brittany touched her waist to guide her.
Santana gestured toward the floor, helplessly, even as she let Brittany push her toward the bed. "It's cold on the floor," Brittany whispered, like it wasn't as warm indoors as it was outside this time of year.
Even so. Santana didn't protest. Brittany climbed over the bedspread and shoved her feet under the sheets. She threw the blanket toward the end of the bed, where it fell in a crumpled pile. With a little smile, visible in the moonlight, Santana pushed the blankets further down, mashing them against the footboard before she climbed in gingerly beside Brittany.
Brittany snuggled into her pillow and watched Santana settle into the sheets. She looked so hesitant and nervous and uncomfortable. It was cute.
"You're cute," said Brittany with a giggle and a little yawn.
Santana froze, still braced on her elbows awkwardly, and Brittany could see those dark eyes skitter across her face in the darkness. "C'mon," Brittany whispered before Santana could reply. She touched whirlwind's shoulder and pulled gently. "Sleepy."
With a sigh of—something, Santana flopped onto her back and shimmied, carving the sheet's wrinkles into a Santana-shaped nest. They were quiet a moment—Santana staring at the ceiling, Brittany staring at Santana—before Santana swallowed and said, throaty and deep, "Thanks, Brittany."
"For what?" Brittany asked, and she wanted to giggle but she held her breath instead.
Santana's head dropped heavy on the pillow to let their eyes meet. Santana wet her lips and worked them into a little smile. Shrugged. "For—whatever. Letting me stay over."
Again, Brittany started to giggle, but this time it came out a yawn. "Mkay," she hummed instead, having mostly forgotten what she was supposed to be replying to. She nestled her head into the pillow and peered through her hair at those deep dark eyes. "G'night, San."
She stared back. She looked awake, still. Not sleepy. And conflicted. Almost sad.
"Yeah. Night, Britt."
Brittany awoke to the deep darkness of 3AM with her arm slung too casually over Santana's side. She was facing Santana's back. She could taste her stale breath. See it shift Santana's hair, in the hazy shadows. Her body two strangely precise inches away. Close enough to smell the detergent in her sleep shirt and the dried sweat on the back of her neck.
Santana's ribs rose and fell too quickly beneath Brittany's elbow. She was awake, too. The realization twitched Brittany's arm; her fingertips brushed soft cotton and her thumb bumped lightly against a right angle. The curve of Santana's breast.
Brittany froze. Throat thick. Arm tensing, lifting a hair's width from Santana's body. Nerves frozen and electric.
A shallow breath shook Santana's ribs, but just as Brittany readied herself to draw away, she felt a feather-light touch along her forearm. Santana's fingers traced halfway down her arm and back up to her elbow, cautious and soft.
Down and up. Down and up.
Gradually, Brittany let her arm grow heavy again; it sank against Santana's side like their bodies against the bed. That strip of skin, quickly over-traveled and burning attentively, grew used to the gentle strokes.
Brittany counted Santana's shaky breaths until she slipped back into sleep.
Sunlight lit the edge of Brittany's eyelid in bright red. The rest of her face was pressed hard into the wrinkled pillowcase.
She felt Santana's diaphragm rising against the palm of her right hand. Warm. Too fast, again, for sleep. Brittany squeezed her eyes closed harder against the crease of the pillow.
Santana's gaze was warm against Brittany's face and ear. She could feel it without looking. She smiled into the pillow. "Morning," she said, tasting the cotton pillowcase against her mouth. She smacked her lips and turned her head, cracking one bleary eye to meet Santana's.
"Hi," said Santana, and she smiled despite the nervousness shaking across her face. Her eyes darted between Brittany's and she twisted, dragged her arm up, propped her head against a bent wrist. Brittany's hand slipped down, pinned at the corner between the mattress and Santana's stomach.
Santana looked over Brittany's face. Brittany couldn't read her expression. "How'd you sleep, Britts?"
Her voice was still soft and sleep-rough. And probably tequila-rough. Brittany gulped against the taste suddenly rearing in the back of her throat. "Mkay," she answered drowsily, hugging the pillow with her left arm, "but my head hurts."
"Aw." Santana looked at her gently and brushed Brittany's tangled hair away back behind her ear. "Poor Britt-Britt."
Brittany squinted, smiling a little, and pinched Santana's t-shirt. She rubbed the fabric between her thumb and pointer finger and asked, "What 'bout you? Drank more'n I did."
With a crooked, almost curious smile, Santana replied, "I'm okay. Drank some water." Her eyes skipped away and back again. "But, um, maybe we could shut the curtains?" she asked, wincing a little.
Brittany giggled and tugged the shirt lightly. "If you're offering."
Santana flopped onto her back, groaning with great exaggeration, and made a show of pulling herself upright. "If you insist," she drew out dramatically, using the mattress to help her stand. When Brittany laughed again, hugging the pillow tighter, Santana tossed a pleased smile over her shoulder and pulled Brittany's heavier curtains over the sheer white ones.
Shadow draped over Brittany on the bed and half the room. Santana stepped around the dresser to pull the curtains shut over the second window, casting the whole room in soft dim light. "There," she said, crawling back across the bed. Brittany held the sheets aside and Santana slipped under them without hesitation. She dropped heavily onto her back again; after a punctuated pause, she turned her head to grin at Brittany. "Much better."
Brittany snuggled the pillow, letting her eyes drift closed for an extra second, and smiled at Santana. Swathed in shadow. Her face open.
"Wanna sleep," Brittany mumbled into the pillow, to keep Santana from noticing the silence. She added, "Did you know hangovers are 'cause you dreamed about drinkin'?"
Santana grinned, that soft smile, and shook her head against her pillow. Her hair drifted across her face and she reached up to brush it back. "Really?"
Brittany nodded seriously. "So you gotta go back to sleep, so you can dream about something else."
"And here I just make coffee," said Santana, chuckling easily.
"Sometimes that works." Brittany shrugged. Dragged her eyes along Santana's body, curving beneath the sheets. She wondered if she could get her hand back against Santana's belly, warm under the shirt.
When she looked back up, Santana's eyes were dark and they darted to the mattress between them as soon as Brittany saw. Brittany bit her lips between her teeth, trying to think of something to say, when Santana beat her to it. "What're you doing today?"
She sounded almost shy. Curious, Brittany watched Santana's face as she said, "You know. Hangin' out."
Santana smiled and glanced at her. "'Hangin' out,' huh?"
Brittany nodded somberly. "It's serious business," she deadpanned. Her hand snuck across the space between them—without her really realizing it—and touched the loose shirt where it sagged away from Santana's ribs. "Gotta do it right."
Santana was staring at Brittany's hand—hard—but she asked, so casually, "What's it entail?"
"Ew, Santana," scolded Brittany with a wrinkled nose. She poked below Santana's ribs with her pointer finger. "Don't talk about guts and stuff when it's, like, morning."
"Not entrails," began Santana, rolling her eyes with a little smile. "I mean, what's hanging out mean for you today?"
Brittany looked thoughtfully at her hand. Pinching the fabric again. "Well. I was gonna try to make my head stop hurting, first." Santana nodded; Brittany didn't look, but she could feel those eyes on her face. It made her cheeks feel hot. "And I was gonna maybe go riding today."
"Riding like—horses?" Brittany glanced up at Santana's face just in time to see confusion wash into understanding. "Oh, motocross."
Brittany grinned, feeling strangely proud. "Bing-bing-bing," she said like a game show bell, walking her fingers up Santana's side with each note. "We have a winner!" She traced a circle around the dip of Santana's belly button and dropped her hand flat.
When Santana was quiet for a long moment, Brittany looked back up at her face tentatively. Ready to pull her hand away. But Santana was looking away, at the stickers Katie'd pressed into Brittany's ceiling. Finally, as Brittany wet her lips to speak, Santana turned toward her again and asked, "Mind if I, like, tag along?"
She looked so vulnerable and uncertain. Brittany felt her brows tilt upward even as she grinned. She poked Santana's stomach again, twice. "Duh."
