Santana doesn't have date bras. That's what she decides, as she's throwing things out of her closet. If she's not wearing sports bras for surgery, she's in the most boring, nude cotton padded ones. The comfortable kind, that irritate her oft-tender breasts the absolute least. Unfortunately, there's absolutely nothing attractive about those. Come to think of it, she doesn't have date underwear either, or really, even date clothes,for that matter. The few in her adult life where she'd gone on a date that didn't start at a bar and end with her pants around her ankles in the bathroom, she'd worn something dressy from work. But this is different. This isn't some coerced blind date with some girl she knows she'll never see again. This is Brittany. This is a person whom she actually likes. And more importantly, this is a person who inexplicably likes her back.
So Santana goes shopping. She takes an actual lunch break on Monday—possibly the first she's ever taken, and she tortures herself. It's one of the things she hated most in the world. The clothes she owns, the bras she owns, she'd chosen them all carefully, in an intense effort to cover up her small, misshapen breasts. She hasn't bought anything new for herself since she'd started her residency, so entering Nordstrom for her is like stepping food on another planet.
She probably should have taken Kurt, but that, in and of itself, is a form of torture. He'd make her model things for him, he'd make her tell him why she needed something new and nice at all. That, she's just not ready to share yet. Even with her closes friend, she just…doesn't want to. This thing with Brittany, it's new, and it's weird, and it may go absolutely nowhere. If that happens, she doesn't want to have to tell Kurt and Mercedes. She doesn't want them to make it into a thing, where they bring over ice cream and Cold Mountain and try and make her cry, because crying is cathartic. Something like that is even more torturous than clothes shopping.
It takes her an hour and a half to find something. In the bra department first, she'd found something lacy, but still padded. Rather than find a bra to go with a dress, she found a dress to go with the bra. Twelve dresses later and four well-meaning sales girls later, Santana stands in front of the dressing room mirror in black. It feels like the best choice for her. Subtle. Discreet. Concealing. Even in that though, she pulls at the straps of the bra, she pushes and prods at her breasts. Despite Brittany having already seen them, nude and mangled, Santana is still self-conscious.
She buys the dress. It's almost three hundred dollars, and she doesn't bat an eye. She figures people of her means spend more money than that on clothes every month, and since its been fifty-eight months since she's bought anything, she could spend far more, and still be okay with it. She really wants to look good for this date. She really wants this date to go well, and of course, it has her in some absurd tizzy.
On Tuesday, Santana leaves work on time. It's five-pm, and Brittany is picking her up at seven. In her frantic efforts to shower and tame her thick head of curls, she thinks she probably should have said eight. But it's too late for that. She can just do what she can do. It's not like Brittany hasn't seen her sweaty and frazzled after twelve hours of surgery. This feels different though. This isn't Dr. Pierce at the hospital, this is Brittany,Brittany she has a crush on, Brittany, whom, against her best judgement, she wants to date. Brittany.
At seven o'clock on the dot, Ken the doorman rings the phone. She's really not sure the etiquette of this. She'd straightened up her perpetually disorganized apartment, just in case, but she doesn't know if she should go downstairs to meet her, or buzz her up. She doesn't know what Brittany has planned, so she doesn't know if she should open a bottle of wine first. The lack of control is astounding to Santana, and she feels vaguely like she's free-falling from the face of a cliff. Is there a book about dating? Dating for Dummies? The Complete Idiots Guide to Not Embarrassing Yourself In Front Of a Woman Who Has Her Life Way More Together Than You, But Still For Some Reason Is Interested In You? Should she call Barnes and Noble? Is it too late now?
She opts for telling Ken to send Brittany up. If her plans are immediately, they can just go. But if they're not…well, Santana always has nice bottles of wine. Gifts from patients, gifts from herself. At least growing up with a pretentious douchebag of a father has given her good taste in wine. That's about all she can say for the man.
When Brittany knocks on the door, Santana takes a breath. Then another, and another, and another. She flips her curls over her shoulders, and she opens it. All of her breathing of a moment ago is forgotten with one look at Brittany. She's in blue, and her loose hair and red lipstick make her look even sexier than Santana is ever seen her. She smiles, and Santana really hopes she has time for the wine before they go. She's not sure she'll be able to handle being out on a date with someone who looks like this without one. Actually, she's not sure she'll be able to handle it at all.
"Um, hey." Santana attempts to avoid stammering, and Brittany gives one of those airy little laughs she does.
"Hey. You look beautiful."
"I, uh, so do you." The back of Santana's neck heats up at the compliment, and she steps back a little from the door. "Do you want to come in, or, are we in a hurry?"
"The reservations aren't until eight, right around the corner, so we have time for me to come in."
Santana is awkward. It's not an exaggeration in any way shape or form. She's just about tripping over her own two feet as she leads Brittany inside. A tour feels too cliche, like those I guess we won't be making it to dinner moments in the movies, so she skips it. Instead, she manages to mumble a red or white? and opens a bottle of wine. It takes a lot for her not to drink right out of the bottle—as if she hasn't done that time and time again in the past—but she manages.
"It's a really nice place." Brittany looks around, taking the glass Santana holds out for her.
"I thought you'd been in here before."
"The building, I have. But I mean the way you've decorated. I like it."
"Oh. Cool, thanks." Santana takes a long sip, feeling the bitterness hit the back of her tongue. She fidgets, playing with the hem of her dress, and tries to force herself to act like a human. "Where are we going?"
"There's a little sushi bar that I really love. You eat sushi, right?" Brittany wrinkles her nose. "I probably should have asked."
"Yeah, totally. I eat raw fish, and cooked fish, and shellfish…" She stops herself from rambling, then takes another breath.
"Are you okay, Santana? You seem a little…off."
"Yeah. I'm fine. Totally." Her voice is probably an octave higher than it normally is, and she gulps down more of the wine. Once there's enough of that in her system, she'll behave far better.
Or not. Even after she pours them both a second glass, and they finish before they leave, she still feels manic and jittery. As they walk outside, Santana's palms are so sweaty, that when Brittany goes to take it, she fumbles in her purse for something instead. She can feel herself messing this up, and the more she convinces herself of that, the more awkward she becomes.
When they share sashimi, Santana accidental stabs Brittany's hand with the chopstick. It's so minor, and Brittany giggles it off, but Santana is just mortified. She's even more mortified when her grip on the lychee martini she's drinking slips, and she breaks the glass all over the table, soaking the tablecloth, soaking Brittany's dress. She wants to quit her job and the hospital, and change her name so Brittany can never find her. She wants to crawl under the table and die.
Frustrated with herself, her seemingly poor table manners, and her inability to make normal sentences, Santana becomes sullen. She tries not to show it, but she knows its apparent. She's absolutely positive that in all her efforts not to fuck this up, she's done so in such a royally bad way that Brittany is never going to want to see her again. It hurts, and she hates it. Despite her own ineptitude, everything about Brittany on this date, from the way she speaks to the waiter, to the way she holds shumai to Santana's lips, makes her want this more. It makes her want Brittany more. It makes her want to be a person, and not some robotic surgical tool who's incapable of human contact.
Brittany pays the check. Santana tries to do it, but Brittany is insistent upon it. Once it's paid, she walks Santana home. Santana has absolutely no idea why the woman would want to after so many disasters in the restaurant, and the company of a slug all night long, but she does.
"I had a good time tonight." Brittany murmurs, wringing her hands in front of her, when they stop in front of Santana's building. Eyes widening in disbelief, Santana lets out a bitter laugh.
"You don't have to lie."
"I'm not."
"Seriously, Brittany? It was terrible. I was terrible."
"Close your eyes."
"What?" Santana furrows her brow. "Why?"
"Just close them." When she does, Brittany takes hold of her left hand, and Santana startles. "Now stop thinking."
"I can't, I'm always thinking."
"Just try."
Though she feels entirely vulnerable, with her eyes closed, the weight of Brittany's hand serves as some sort of reassurance. It's strange, and it's the first time she's touched Brittany all night, but it feels good. Forcing herself, she concentrates on nothing else, just that soft weight, just the way Brittany's thumb makes the slightest circles on the inside of her wrist. She lets the rest of her thoughts go. She stops focusing on the bad date, or on the seven trillion other things that run through her mind every moment. She just focuses on now.
"Now open them." At Brittany's command, Santana lets her lashes flutter open, and she's met with the sight of soft blue eyes, and the curve of a smile. "Kiss me."
For the first time, Santana doesn't hesitate. She leans in, and she brushes Brittany's nose with her own. To her own surprise, she manages to catch Brittany's lips at just the right angle, and she sucks in a breath. It's a good kiss, the best kind of kiss, and with Brittany's arms snaking around her neck, she deepens in, letting her tongue caress Brittany's, and her hand press into the small of her back.
When they pull apart, Santana doesn't notice the string of saliva, or her slight loss of footing. She's stopped obsessing about all the things she's done wrong tonight, and instead, turns her attention to the freckles on the bridge of Brittany's nose, to the way she licks her bottom lip, to how she looks at Santana like nobody has ever looked at her before.
"Now I had an even better time time tonight." Brittany whispers, then pecks Santana's lips another time. "I asked you out, because I wanted to have dinner with you. I don't care about having vodka all over my dress."
"Or getting stabbed with a chopstick?"
"Or sweaty palms, or any of it. I don't know if you were trying to impress me, or…"
"Yeah…I was. I am." Santana takes a moment to gather her thoughts, and she goes for truth. "I'm out of my league here, Brittany. You've obviously been in serious relationships, you've been engaged. You're…so together. And me…I'm in my thirties, and this is new to me. My most meaningful relationship is with my vibrator." She pauses, and gasps at the fact that she said that. "Oh my fucking God. Do you see this? I'm a disaster."
"I think you're cute." Brittany threads her fingers with Santana's. "And you don't have to try and impress me—"
"But you're just so—"
"Let me finish." She chastises, gentle with her words. "You don't have to try and impress me, because you already have. I have feelings for you, and I don't see them going anywhere. So if you'll let me, I'd like to have a do-over date. One where we wear jeans, and go to the Shake Shack. One where you don't have to feel like you're messing up, when you're not."
"Why are you—"
"I know, why am I like this?" Brittany laughs, which, in turn, makes Santana laugh. "Maybe I was trying to impress you at the fancy sushi bar. I'd much prefer jeans and cheese fries."
"I guess it's clear that neither of us is a cardiologist." With the big grin that spreads across her face, Santana's dimple deepens, and Brittany presses her thumb into it.
"So is that a yes?"
"Only if you let me pay."
"I guess." Brittany purses her lips, as if she's seriously considering saying no. "I hate to have to go right now."
"But the babysitter…"
"But the babysitter." She nods, then leans in, giving Santana one last, lingering kiss. "Goodnight, Santana."
"Goodnight, Brittany."