Of course her first trip out of state would be a complete disaster.
That one phone call Santana had gotten from her aunt a week prior had acted like a damn bad omen. The whole Ring-esque seven days except instead of dying at the end of those seven days, she just felt like shit.
Before she'd even left for New York she'd snapped an expensive heel in a pavement crack, which she really should've realised was her first clue that none of her trip was about to go well because it all seemed to go downhill from there.
She'd lost her rag at some old homeless guy in a pair of gross tighty whities who tried to feel her up on the subway, almost gotten robbed by a mime who just so happened to be next to her purse when she dropped it – what the fuck, dude, you're a mime, you're not supposed to actually pick it up – and now she's lay on the hood of her piece of shit car that decided to break down fifteen minutes away from her home and, an even more devastating thought, her own bed.
Perhaps this is karma for… Well, any discernible event during her entire high school career so far.
She's not about to walk, not in Lima of all places, and definitely not when the sun is about to set. Even if she wanted to, her brief phone call with Hummel Tires & Lube had her basically chained to the car, at the mercy of whichever middle aged oaf decided to rock up and unknowingly make some condescending comments about her being young and a woman followed by a pet name in the same sentence.
Just the thought of it makes her patience wear thin, and she's practically begging for someone to snap that thread.
She doesn't have to wait long, the low rumble of an engine getting louder and bringing her out of the little slumber she's got going on. Santana thinks that trucks always sound like they're on their last mile – which is ironic given where it comes from – but who is she to decide what does and doesn't sound like a functioning vehicle when she's literally sitting on a vehicle that she had no idea couldn't function.
She pushes herself to her feet and straightens out her clothes. If she's going to spend the next half hour playing nice then she's not going to do it looking worse than she feels. A fleeting thought of letting the girls do some work goes as quick as it comes, because in the end that seems like more effort than it's worth for the sake of a few dollars.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. It's either her mom or Quinn, the latter interested in whether her knight in shining overalls ends up being some silver fox, but that gets left for later when she hears the truck door slam shut. As much as she would love to ignore this guy for the foreseeable future, she's not about to get overcharged when they see that she's not paying attention.
"Hi!"
Santana almost chokes, caught off guard by the breath that gets stuck in her throat because that is not the voice she was expecting, nor is it the sight.
There's no sagging jeans barely concealing briefs with a waistband holding on for dear life, or a trucker cap with a snivelling hunchback hidden underneath. Not even close.
Thinking about it, she's not sure where this lack of faith in Burt's hiring practices comes from.
Instead, there's a tall blonde, navy overalls being shrugged onto one shoulder at a time from where they'd been tied around her waist, covering a filthy grey t-shirt. Finn has never looked this good when she's seen him working in the garage in passing, plodding around in his branded onesie like an oversized baby who looks like it's trying to jam that square block into that circle hole.
At least if she turns out to be majorly annoying there's the saving grace of eye candy. Eye candy that looks vaguely familiar, but Santana can't be too sure.
"You're a mechanic?"
That came out more blunt than she expected. Not that Santana even expected it to come out in the first place, but if her week in New York had taught her anything it's that her filter which is already barely there in the first place – some days better than others – ceases to exist when alone with a pretty girl.
A pretty girl who quirks an eyebrow as she nears, gesturing half-heartedly to the truck covered in Burt's ever so creative logo behind her.
"That's what it says on the truck," she confirms, but stops where she is for just a second so she can turn to look back at it, "Huh, I guess it doesn't, but that's what Burt told me to put on my resume."
She holds out her hand and then immediately seems to think better of it, wiping oil stained hands down the front of her overalls. It's a feeble attempt, they don't end up any cleaner than they were, so she gives Santana a friendly smile instead and shockingly enough, Santana finds herself returning it.
"Brittany," she greets, and Santana knows that because it says it right there, embroidered on her chest, but she doesn't even get a word in before Brittany's reaching in through the driver's window to pop the hood and then moving around to the front.
All Santana can do is watch. It takes a second or two of delicate fingers fumbling for the latch and then the hood is propped open. Santana doesn't even know what she's looking at, nevermind for.
"Don't get lost in there," Santana mumbles. She hears her mutter something about sewers but doesn't quite get the rest of it, muffled by the mess of filth she has her head stuck inside of.
The incessant buzzing of her phone against her thigh makes her roll her eyes. She wouldn't be surprised if Quinn starts planning her funeral every time it takes her more than ten minutes to reply.
Brittany won't try to rip her off, at least she hopes not, so she allows herself to answer without so much as a glance at the screen.
"How was your trip?"
"Jesus, Q. I'm not even home yet."
The blonde lifts her head, questioning gaze darting around, and Santana gives her a little wave and tilts her head towards her phone. With a quiet oh, she's back to work.
"Right, God's plan to ruin your life. How's that going?"
"I don't know," she shrugs, "Burt's Bald Brigade only just turned up."
"Oh," Quinn sounds disappointed, to say the least. "No hot grease monkey?"
"Oh, yeah. Complete hunk. Haven't you always thought Finn was sexy?" Santana jokes.
She catches Brittany staring at her, doing some little turning motion with her hand that she can only assume means keys, so she throws them her way while laughing at the scandalised noise that breaks from Quinn's throat.
"I'm fucking with you, Quinn. I think Burt would be afraid of me filing some kind of lawsuit if he sent him out. He was there, remember?"
"How are you feeling about that, by the way?"
"Full of questions today, aren't we? Another phone call like this and I'll start feeling like I owe you money."
"I'm serious, Santana. The timing of this trip was incredibly convenient and I'm pretty sure Coach Sylvester had a hand in Figgins actually letting you have the time off, so I just want to make sure you're okay to come back," Quinn pauses, Santana holds her breath. "There's been talk."
"I take back what I said, this therapy session has been smoking hot garbage. You should be paying me."
If she's honest, she's dreading Monday. She'd been lucky enough to leave a couple of days after the whole outing debacle and while yes, trying on bridesmaid dresses for her aunt's wedding with her loud, loud cousins was almost comparable to torture, it was more preferable than being in the halls of McKinley.
"Santana?"
"What do you want me to say, Quinn?" Santana swallows, shrugging even though she can't see it. "As much as I wish I could change it, I can't. If it was just the school I could probably tell everyone that Finn is delusional and he uses the thought to get off and they'd believe me, but it's not."
"The team has your back, you know. Coach Sylvester is surprisingly passionate when it comes to her little sandbags."
Santana laughs at that, "It's because she knows I'm the best bitch on that squad and that you'd all be nothing without me."
"I think she just wants an Ally of the Year award that she can hang up in her trophy cabinet."
"I can't say she doesn't deserve it," Santana glances up from watching her own boot kick around the gravel and sees Brittany leaning against her car door, twirling the set of keys around her finger. Brows furrow; she didn't think it'd be that quick of a job.
"Look, Quinn, I have to go. I'll call you tonight, okay? And for the love of God, please work on your pep talks before you unintentionally cause some kid to spiral."
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
"You got knocked up at sixteen."
"Hanging up now. Bye, Santana."
Santana lets out an amused huff once she hears the tell-tale beeping and stuffs her phone back into her pocket, making her way over to the car.
"Do you know what's wrong with it?"
Brittany nods, a small grin parting her mouth. She reaches inside and turns the keys, and then she walks back to the hood and gestures for Santana to follow, "Yeah, but I wanted to show you before I did anything."
This takes Santana by surprise, just a little bit. She's used to leaving people to it, to staying out of the way because usually when it comes to stuff like this no one wants someone without any knowledge getting in the way, nor are they willing to teach.
"See this hole?" Brittany plucks a screwdriver from the pocket on her thigh and reaches in, pressing the head against a silver cap. It's small enough that Santana would never have been able to find herself if she didn't point it out. "It's a valve stem, it's got this little core in the middle that you can push in."
The blonde keeps looking at her, making sure she's following her actions and it's making Santana's hands sweat because her voice is low and she just sounds so patient.
"Usually when you push it in some liquid should come out but yours is dry," Wanky. "You've probably got a bad fuel pump."
"Okay," Santana grimaces. "So, what now?"
"Now I hit your car with a hammer and hope it works."
Okay, no.
At Brittany's attempt to move around her, Santana steps in her path, eyebrows raised. Maybe she was wrong about this one not being a cowboy mechanic. "Are you kidding? I'm not paying extra for whatever damage you cause. Can't you just tow it?"
"Trust me," Brittany insists.
"I don't even know you."
"Sure you do. I introduced myself like, ten minutes ago," She manages to skip around her, walking backwards the entire way until she's by the cab of the truck. "If I break something I'll fix it myself, for free. Pinky promise."
The second Santana sees that little finger held out towards her despite the distance, it doesn't feel like she has a choice. What is she supposed to do, say no even though this girl clearly knows what she's doing? And then if she does break something, pass up the chance of a free repair? How quickly and easily she changes her mind is honestly a little pathetic.
"Whatever," She throws her hands up in surrender. "I'm holding you to that."
It takes five whole minutes. She watches Brittany lie on her stomach at the back of the car, land a few sharp hits to the fuel tank with a hammer, and with a turn of the keys it's like nothing ever happened. It feels like some kind of sick joke, really. If she'd taken her frustration out on her car like she initially felt like doing – a swift kick with a heavy boot – then maybe there would have been no need to call a mechanic in the first place.
That joke only continues when Brittany tells her that she still has to ride with her and that her car still needs to go to the shop. Something about it being temporary and unsafe and other words that Santana can't bring herself to care about because it's getting kind of late and it's been a long day.
Thank god Santana isn't a gambling person, because her luck is beyond abysmal.
/
She's settled in the truck cab, her car loaded onto the flatbed. Her head rests against the window as she watches Brittany slip her overalls off her shoulders, tying them back around her waist before climbing into the driver's seat.
The silence that settles around them isn't deafening but it's not all that comfortable either. If she was with anyone else Santana would be happy to just sit there with only the drone of the engine until they get to the shop — the less conversation the better — but she's not with some creepy old dude, she's with Brittany.
"Santana," she starts, a quick glance at the blonde from the corner of her eye. "You introduced yourself and I didn't, so…"
"I know."
Okay, now she feels a little awkward. "Right. Burt probably told you everything before you came out."
"No," Brittany shakes her head. Santana shifts in her seat so she has her full attention. "I mean, he did, but that's not how I know."
Santana stares at her expectantly.
"Head Cheerio, right? Every other locker has a photo of your face in it."
"Co-captain," she corrects. "You go to McKinley?"
Brittany laughs. It's quiet and low and not at all the laugh Santana was expecting. "We have like two classes together."
The latina frowns, racking her brain for a single moment where she's seen Brittany in the same classroom. The tiny hint of guilt that hits her when she comes up short is foreign. When their eyes meet, she's finally put out of her misery.
"Spanish," Brittany continues. "English, too."
That guilt is lifted somewhat after finding out that one of those is a class she truly could not pay attention in if she tried.
She rolls her eyes, "Mr Schue's class is a joke."
"Yeah, I can tell. You spend the entire hour looking like you want to test how flammable his hair gel is."
"I'd be doing us all a favor," Santana shrugs. It is true, though. She can't deny that she spends ninety percent of her time in that classroom questioning just how much being one of Coach Sylvester's prized cattle would let her get away with.
Quiet surrounds them after that. Despite Santana completely forgetting about Brittany's existence, their brief conversation seems to have stripped them of any residual awkwardness. There's just the quiet hum of the radio, and Brittany's fingers softly tapping a beat against the steering wheel that's more soothing than irritating.
Santana finds herself sneaking looks at the profile beside her, at the too perfect slope of her nose and a soft jaw. Blonde tresses are pulled back into a braid and she counts how many piercings she has; four in her right ear, and wonders if it's the same on the other side.
When her wandering gaze results in brown meeting blue, she knows she's been caught in the act.
Heat travels up her neck and she quickly averts her eyes, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. She feels like a child who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar and it's just one big fucking cliché because she's Santana Lopez, she doesn't get embarrassed, and now Brittany gets go back to McKinley and tell everyone else that she had a totally weird interaction with the school's poster lesbian. She's sure they'd all eat that up, especially JBI and his stupid fu-
A gentle, barely there nudge to her arm drags her out of her head before it threatens to sweep her away. "What?"
"You haven't been in class lately."
Santana immediately tenses up and narrows her eyes, "Congrats, you have basic observational skills."
"I don't think I've taken that test yet," Brittany deadpans. It's so flat that Santana has to stare for a moment to check that she's not actually messing with her.
"It's none of your business."
Brittany shrugs, completely unaffected, "I didn't make it my business. I was just pointing it out in case you were forgetting to come. I get distracted when I'm walking between classes too sometimes so I totally get it."
Santana sits silently, bewildered. She knows an opportunity when she sees one, an opening to bring any of the past week's events up. She's confused as to why Brittany hasn't taken it. Hell, even Santana would take this chance to poke fun at herself if her situation wasn't so damn tragic.
Quinn's words echo in her head, there's been talk, so there's no way Brittany doesn't know.
"You're quieter than I thought."
"Maybe you should stop thinking about me," Santana retorts.
"Whenever you're in school it's like you can't get an insult out fast enough."
"Do you want me to insult you?"
"Would it make you feel better?" Brittany asks.
Santana hesitates, because it's like Brittany dissected her entire being with one question. God, what is it with people and their attempts at being amateur therapists today?
"You clearly have stuff on your mind," Brittany continues, "So if it makes you feel better I can take it."
"You're ridiculous," Santana remarks, but there's not as much bite behind it as she would like.
Eventually she deflates, with her arms loosely crossed over her chest and a frown settling on her face. Brittany hit a nerve, no matter how well intentioned.
Those Glee club losers have said it before, played on the fact that she's insecure and acts the way she does because of it, but they say it with such a sense of superiority, like they've never done a bad thing in their lives when she could fill one whole Sam Evans mouth with shit that they've pulled. They meet up after they've all screwed each other (in all senses of the word) and then they act like they know her.
Funnily enough, it's different coming from someone who doesn't know her, when it isn't said during a fight or with anything but kindness behind it.
Once the garage comes into sight, she thanks whatever higher power did her this one favour because she can only ignore the looks that Brittany has been giving her by replying to her texts for so long, and the last thing she needs is an existential crisis next to a stranger on these nasty leather seats.
When they're parked, she can't get out of the truck fast enough.
"I need to do a little paperwork. I'll get someone to take care of your car," Brittany slips past her, head ducked and her voice soft, as if she's afraid Santana will spook if she's too loud, "I can give you a ride home if you're okay with sticking around for a little while."
Santana takes a quick peek at her phone. It's late, her mom stopped replying to her earlier, satisfied that she was back in Lima and technically safe under Burt's care, and her dad's probably on shift at the hospital by now. Plus, this way she gets to avoid rehashing her trip to her mother for at least another ten hours.
She feels kind of bad; Brittany has been nothing but good and all she's been is short with her. Her reputation isn't going to be spoiled by one night of acting like a normal human being, so she gives Brittany a small smile and nods.
"If that's cool with you," Santana adds on. Her hands are fidgeting again and it's incredibly annoying because she has no idea where that habit has come from.
The corner of Brittany's lip curls ever so slightly, "I wouldn't offer if it wasn't. You can come upstairs or you can stay out here, your choice. It'll only be for a couple of minutes."
Out of the corner of her eye, Santana sees Burt send her a wave from the far end of the shop. She's surprised to see him working; she knows he still works some shifts, but she figured that with his up-and-coming political career he'd be off doing better things rather than drudging away in this grease heap so late.
Regardless, she gives him a little almost-shy-mostly-embarrassed wave of her own while she weighs up her options.
She's sure she could find something to do out here. Whether that's another impromptu shrink session with Burt, or finding out if Finn is working and hoping to catch a show of him dropping something heavy on his foot, or bashing her own head against the wall outside.
There's a part of her that wants to make up for earlier though, so she nods towards the stairs and follows behind the blonde.
There's been a lot of that tonight — following. Santana's not sure if she likes it.
Brittany putters about the office quietly, retrieving a couple of sheets from one of the drawers and then falling into the desk chair with a sigh, and Santana takes the opportunity to look at the belongings placed around the room.
There's plenty of pictures of Kurt as a child, flanked by a less bald but still trucker capped Burt and a woman she can only presume is his mother. It's not surprising to find out Lady Hummel has always been an absolute flamer, but she moves on quickly from those because it sort of feels like she's intruding.
She's in the middle of judging a framed John Mellencamp vinyl when Brittany grabs her attention.
"Can you fill your details in?" She asks quietly, sliding the paper across the desk.
"Sure," Santana plants herself in yet another ratty seat and takes the pen Brittany offers her. It's basic stuff; name, phone number, insurance information which she'll have to ring back about because who knows that stuff?
"You're left handed."
Santana looks up briefly. Brittany's watching her, eyes focused on her hand. "Didn't you say we share classes?"
Brittany ignores her, "Doesn't that mean you're possessed by the devil or something?"
"What?"
Brittany nods, "Yeah, because the devil is also left handed or whatever. Which I don't understand because I thought he had hooves. Is he not a goat? How does he hold a pen?"
Santana waits until she's finished writing to stare at her incredulously, a laugh bubbling in her chest, "With a name that means holy, I think I'm good, even if half of McKinley would agree with you. It probably cancels the whole possession thing out."
"Santana," Brittany says quietly, as if knowing the meaning makes it a completely different word. "That's pretty. It suits you."
"Oh, uh— Thanks," Her cheeks are warm for the second time tonight and the fact that Brittany doesn't shy away from eye contact doesn't help matters at all. Santana clears her throat, pushing the pen and paper back over to the other side, "You spelled the address wrong, by the way."
Eyes widen, and Brittany quickly fixes her mistake once she's fingered through the pile of paperwork to her left. When that's all done, they're ready to leave.
"Besides," Santana starts, turning to look back over her shoulder while Brittany locks the door, "Haven't you heard the news? I haven't had a guy inside of me in months. The devil has no chance."
The goofy grin that erupts on the blonde's face makes that too soon joke completely worth it.
/
"Is it some small town rite of passage to have a beat up truck?"
"How are you talking smack about my truck when I just had to pick up your car?"
"Touché," Santana grins.
Brittany did what she'd said, had gotten one of the other guys to unload her car while she went into the back to change. Sitting next to her now, still in an oil covered t-shirt but with loose red sweatpants, she seems comfortable, calmer and also super fucking tired.
"Are you sure you're okay to give me a ride?" Santana asks, "You look exhausted and I'm not sure I want to become a statistic tonight."
Brittany gives her an amused look, "I'm good. It's been a long day."
"Burt got you working overtime?"
"No," Brittany laughs, "Burt's cool. He's a good boss."
Santana turns, like she'd done earlier. She props her elbow on the back of the bench and her chin on her hand. She's curious, "How'd you start working there?"
Brittany shrugs. Her eyes never stray from the road. "I took my bike into the shop and told him I knew what was wrong with it. I didn't need him to fix it, I just needed the tools, and he let me do it myself as long as I stayed on the property." There's a quick blink and you'll miss it roll of her eyes, "The guys who work there barely know their way around a bike so he offered me a job."
Color Santana impressed. "You do cars too, though," she points out.
"Burt's a good teacher," Brittany nods.
"Clearly, if he trusts Finn to work there," Santana mutters, and they share a glance that has Brittany looking away with a smirk.
The lull in conversation has Santana fumbling for something to say. Talking to Brittany is nice and she's interesting and now that she's actually putting the effort in and not dismissing everything she says, it's easy.
Nothing has felt easy lately, not even with Quinn, so it's a welcome change.
Brittany, truly taking on her given role of knight in shining overalls, pipes up and it's as if she can read her mind, "Quinn's looked a little lost without you."
"Excuse me?"
"Yeah," Brittany confirms, "She's like, a Labrador and you're a German Shepherd, you know?" Santana doesn't. "She has the bark and the bite but she looks soft so people aren't really scared of her. She's blonde and super cute and looks a little confused someti–"
"Brittany."
"Right. But you're this beautiful, regal dog that looks a little mean and has an extra vicious bark and when you're with her you kinda make her look tougher because when people actually compare you, they see that the labrador is the dog breed most likely to bite the postman."
To Santana, this feels like a very convoluted way to say that she does wonders for her co-captain's reputation. That doesn't mean that she isn't going to use this against Quinn in the future, though.
"On her own she's just this family dog," Brittany continues, "She's not all that threatening on her own and I think she knows that, so she looks lost without you because she's so used to having you by her side to back up her bark."
Usually she'd be annoyed about some girl who's just picked her up off the street thinking they know so much about her and Quinn, but Brittany is… something. She has a way with words that has Santana intrigued about how her brain works, how she sees the world, because it's clearly different to how everyone else sees things. No one else would have the guts to say any of this to her.
"And how do you know all this?" Santana asks simply.
"I don't, I could've made all of that up," Brittany replies. The blonde looks at her for just a second – Santana sees what can only be described as a twinkle, however fucking lame that sounds – and then repeats Santana's own words back to her, "I don't even know you."
Santana has to laugh, short but genuine, before she retaliates with her own, "You're ridiculous."
This time, it's with a lingering smile.
/
The house is mostly dark when they arrive, with only the hallway light shining behind the door. Her dad's car is out front, which is just a little more than surprising, so Brittany pulls into the driveway.
Santana's busy unbuckling herself when Brittany's finger taps the bench behind her, "Do you have a ride for tomorrow?"
Right, tomorrow is Monday. They'll be lucky if she even manages to drag herself out from the cocoon of sheets she's about to bury herself under by midday.
Still, Santana nods, "If Quinn's missing me as much as you imply then she won't take much convincing."
"You'll have your car back soon," Brittany assures, "It's an easy enough fix, Burt will have it done in no time."
Right now, Santana couldn't care less about her car. Her priorities lie more in a good night's sleep and how she's going to survive her first day back without acting on the urge to kick some kid down a flight of stairs.
She's not about to find herself in the middle of a Sue Sylvester style tantrum in front of that vulture JBI. No, she hasn't fallen that far. Not yet.
"Thanks," Santana grip tightens slightly on the door handle but she's facing the other girl, a slight crinkle between her brows and her head tilted, "For today. All of it."
"I was just doing my job," Brittany smiles, small and soft as she shrugs it off like it's nothing.
She's giving her an out, Santana knows. She's been doing it this entire time. Every time she didn't pry further, when she phrased questions as statements. A helping hand; except Brittany doesn't offer it to grab, doesn't roll her eyes at her pride when she doesn't let her help. It's just hovering close by in case Santana feels the need to take it.
"Well, maybe Burt should give you a raise," Santana muses, hopping out of the truck. Once the door is shut, she turns back, "I mean it, Brittany."
"I know," Brittany says quietly, "You better get inside before your neighbours start thinking this beat up truck is yours."
"As if," Santana scoffs, even if she does start walking. It's almost embarrassing how charming she finds this girl. She stops when she's a few steps away from her door, looking over her shoulder. "I'll see you around?"
Brittany gives her a two finger salute which – gay – and nods. Her eyes are soft and Santana can feel them watching her as she searches for her keys. Just as she's about to shove them into the lock, the door swings open.
"Santana Lopez, what time do you call this?"
She's eye level with a worn t-shirt, coupled with flannel pants and slippers that really should be in the trash by now. This is a sight for sore eyes; she can't remember the last time she saw her father ready for bed.
Santana rolls her eyes before catching those that are so similar to her own, smirking up at him, "The time geriatrics go to bed. Go inside, you should be humiliated."
A large hand squeezes her shoulder, a gesture that's always been weirdly comforting, and it's like he takes half of the stress of the day off of her just like that. He leans out of the doorway, replacing that stress with half of his weight bearing down on her and Santana knows that he's doing it just to be annoying.
He's lucky she doesn't drop her shoulder and send him falling to the ground.
"Good evening, Brittany."
Wait.
Santana squints as she follows his body with her own so she can see around him, brown eyes darting between her father and the girl in the truck.
"Hi, Dr. Lopez," Brittany waves.
"It's nice to see you outside of the hospital for once."
He has his parent voice on and it's incredibly weird to hear it directed at someone who isn't her. Reprimanding almost, but with a laugh behind it like when she used to run her mouth about her cousins and he found it too amusing to punish her seriously.
Brittany grins, "Just this once."
Santana feels her father's arm wrap around her shoulder as he speaks, "Thank you for getting her home safe. You're too kind."
"It was a pleasure, sir," The blonde says, and it sounds genuine. Brittany's looking at her now and it's taking everything Santana has not to break that eye contact because of the blush that she knows is spreading up her neck.
"Like I said, too kind," Her father jokes. Santana gives his chest a weak shove.
They each say their goodbyes, conscious of the fact that Brittany still has to get home. They're quick, friendly, and Santana's pushing her father through the door straight after them.
Even with the promise of seeing Brittany tomorrow – they have two classes together, after all – Santana finds herself mourning whatever that was between them.
"Would you like to explain?" She stares up at the man, hands settling on her hips. She's aware of how completely ridiculous she probably looks but she needs him to help her understand what the hell just happened.
"She's a clumsy girl," He shrugs. Brittany doesn't seem the type, but his poker face is good and Santana doesn't know enough about her to dispute it.
His hand rubs across her shoulder blades before he pulls her into a one-armed embrace, firm but gentle and everything a fatherly hug should be. She sighs into it, the soft material of his shirt against her cheek.
"Go to bed, mija. We can talk tomorrow."
Santana doesn't need to be told twice. She kicks her boots off in the hallway and trudges up the stairs, listening to her own heavy footsteps and the quiet click of the front door being locked.
She's barely undressed when she falls into bed, silk cold against her skin and just conscious enough to remember to set her alarm for tomorrow. It's been a long week, nevermind a long day, and she needs to forget about all of that so she can put up with the shit McKinley's bound to throw at her.
She doesn't call Quinn.