Santana can't stop. She's free falling into some sort of oblivion, and there's nothing to grab onto. It's all Brittany. The thump in her chest, the rushing in her ears, the pinch between her thighs, and the drop in her stomach, it's Brittany. Her hand finds her way into those long blonde locks, and she pulls her closer. The softness of lips, the brush of a nose, the curl of a tongue, it quiets her noisy mind. It makes her hear silence,for the first time.
It's unlike any kiss Santana's ever had, and, particularly, it's unlike any first kiss. It's not an unsure peck. It's not an explicit precursor to anything. It's not over as abruptly as it started. It turns into a second kiss, a third kiss, a fourth, with no end in sight.
But then, then it all ends as quickly as it started. Santana's shirt rides up, exposing her stomach, she feels blunt nails gently scratch the skin there. The sensation sends her crashing back to reality, and she pulls back, tugging down her top, and trying to catch her breath.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" Brittany trails off, pulling her swollen lower lip between her teeth, and rapidly blinking her eyes.
"I…I should go. I can't… I need to go home."
"Santana." Brittany tries, but Santana is already standing up, still smoothing her shirt. The impact of the wine she'd drank hits her again, and the panic in her chest begins to burn.
"Thank you for dinner."
She can't look back at Brittany's face as she leaves. On top of everything else that swirls through her addled mind, she feels terrible for running away. But she can't help herself. She just…can't. She shouldn't have kissed Brittany. She shouldn't even have let it got close to that. This is all her fault, and she can't get a cab home fast enough.
In her apartment, she paces the floors. She considers calling Kurt. Then after she vetoes that idea, she considers calling Mercedes. She vetoes that too. She doesn't want to talk to anyone. She wants to disappear. She kissed Dr. Brittany Pierce. She kissed her, and worse, she enjoyed it. But enjoyment or not, that doesn't matter. She can't do this. She can't feel this. She just…can't.
In her futile effort to disappear, she buries herself beneath her blankets. She doesn't even get undressed. She doesn't even brush her teeth. She just pulls the cool white duvet over her head and stares at the blankness above her. She always thinks that must be what it feels like to disappear. A vague sort of pressure, and whiteness all around. She's done this all her life, hidden beneath the covers. It's always been a safe place for her, away from all of the things she can't handle, from all the things that mess her up inside. So she does it now. She does it now, except this this time, when she closes her eyes, she tastes Brittany on her lips. She tastes mint and red wine, and this time, she just can't seem to disappear.
She doesn't sleep. By the time she gets to the hospital on Thursday night, she feels like absolute shit. Physically, emotionally, everything. Overnights suck for her when she's like this, because she doesn't have surgeries scheduled to distract her. She feels like a horrible human for scoping out the pit, waiting for something to fall into her lap. Then again, she felt like a horrible person before that. Because of Brittany, and because of the thirty-something years that preceded last night.
By the time the night is over, she's done twelve different sets of sutures. She's removed a ruptured appendix. She's assisted on a particularly nasty shattered femur, the result of a car accident on the West Side Highway. Still though, even exhausted, when she leaves at seven-am, her mind can't quiet down. Her mind doesn't let her rest with ease.
She avoids socializing for the next two days. She doesn't even turn her phone on. She just sticks to her pager, sticks to burying herself in work, sticks to pretending she's not running. It sucks. It sucks so much that every moment where she's not running a bowel, or removing a tumor from a tiny heart, or talking to parents about their options for their sick child, she's thinking about what it felt like when Dr. Brittany Pierce's lips were pressed to her own. This isn't her. Her concerns should be with her patients. Her concerns should be with children, who have real problems. They should not be with figuring out how to avoid her friend, who she may or may not have unwanted feelings for.
It happens on Sunday. Unlike so many of their encounters, it's not an accident. Santana is nearing the end of her shift, and she's laying in an on-call room. She swears, she hasn't slept since Tuesday. Before. She lays there, anyway. She pretends like she's not thinking about Brittany's soft hair between her fingers, about the rush of blood in every pore of her body, about any of it. But of course she is. It was the best kiss—or series of kisses—in her life, and she hates that even more. She hates that she wants her. She hates that she'll never be good enough for her.
She hears the door open, then click closed, and she can't help but groan audibly. She hates when she's not alone in there. She hates the vulnerability that comes with the thought that someone might be watching her sleep—or, not sleep, as it may be. For the thousandth time since she got her own office, she thinks again how she should get a pullout couch, or a rollaway bed. Maybe she could just hide an on-call bed in her closet. Do something that assures her of privacy.
"Santana?" The soft whisper makes her heart pound so hard, that she's sure it's going to come right through her ribs. Her body jerks upwards, and she scrubs her face with her hands. "Sorry, Dr. Rose told me you were in here, and also that you never sleep."
"Hope you like charts, Rose." Santana mutters, making a futile effort to pull her tangled curls into some semblance of neatness. "Why were you looking for me?"
"I was concerned." Her fingers fiddle with the hospital ID clipped to the jacket of her white coat. "And I wanted to apologize."
"Apologize for what?"
"Honestly?" Brittany sighs, with a slight shake of her head. "I don't really know. Kissing you back, I guess. Making you feel uncomfortable? Whatever it is I did that made you pull away from me and run out the door."
"Why do you have to be like this?"
"Be like what?" She's taken a back, and Santana resumes scrubbing her face with her hands. "I'm not doing anything."
"You are! You're always doing this thing." Santana waves her hands frantically in the air. "Where you're like…nice?"
"I'm always doing this thing where I'm nice?"
"Don't make it sound so ridiculous." Santana crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm being serious about it."
"Why wouldn't I be nice to you? We're friends, and, I'd say judging by the other night, you know that I have more than just friendly feelings for you."
"I don't deserve the kindness. How many times have I been a jerk to you? And now I kissed you, and you're the one apologizing like you did something wrong. I'm sorry that I did it, when I know it can't go anywhere. I can't do this."
"Can't do what? That's what I'm just so confused about. If you don't have feelings back for me, that's fine, we can still be friends. I like being around you."
"I—" Santana tries to lie. Santana tries to tell Brittany that she doesn't have feelings for her. A lie would make it easy. A lie would keep her safe. But she can't. She just can't make herself do it. She sinks back down onto the bed, and she puts her head in her hands. "It's not that. Not at all."
"So then do I get to ask what it is?" Brittany takes down her hair, then puts it back up, clearly trying to find something to do with her hands. "Why you can't?"
"Because I just can't, alright?" Defensiveness rises in Santana's chest, and she feels herself getting increasingly frustrated with her emotions, with her complete inability to function normally. "I don't deserve you, with your kindness, and your neat little life. You've got a kid, and you're all but together, and no matter what kind of feelings I have for you, all I'm going to add to that is a mess."
"Santana, I really doub—"
"Don't." She shakes her head, and raises up her hand. "You don't know."
"So tell me. Tell me what I don't know. Let me decide if I want you in my life or not. I like you, Santana. I like you a lot,and I'm not asking you to marry me or anything. I'm just asking to get to know you more. I don't let just anyone in my life, or Liam's, but there's something special about you. I can't put my finger on it, but I'm drawn to you."
"Fucking magnets." Santana kicks her heel against the leg of the bed, and winces in pain.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I'm just fine." She stands up again. She pulls on her hair again. She wipes her hands on her scrub pants. She wants to do this, but she doesn't know how. She wants to do this, but she doesn't deserve it. She wants to do it, but she can't.
"I won't corner you again. But I really hope you think about what I said. If you want to talk, you know where to find me." Brittany leans forward, just a little, as if she's going to kiss Santana. Santana's heart rate quickens, but she doesn't do it. She steps back, and before Santana can attempt another word, Brittany walks out the door.