Santana was pretty sure that she was always going to hate therapy. But she had to admit that for someone who had chosen a job that Santana would have to have and hated to take part in, Kate was pretty good at what she did. She had to be, to put up with Santana's rudeness, sarcasm, and rebellion, week after week, and still somehow manage to remain calm, considerate, and yet not cold. She had to be getting somewhere, because Santana's nightmares had lessened from occurring nightly to a few times a week. That alone was a huge thing for her; it meant more full nights of sleep, which meant better energy, better focus on her schoolwork, and less volatile shifts in her moods.
It would be nice if she could get through a therapy session without crying, but that seemed like it wasn't going to happen anytime soon. But she had at least managed to graduate from spending the whole session sitting in Brittany's lap to sitting beside her holding her hand, and she now managed to speak out loud considerably more often than she had to resort to writing on the dry erase board. Those were both things that shouldn't be a big deal, in Santana's opinion, but Brittany had noticed and expressed her pride in her for both of them, and even though Santana tried to shrug her off, a part of her always felt happy when something she did made Brittany proud.
Yesterday's session, part of the focus had been encouragement from Kate for Santana to actually go through with some of the possibilities of creative and social engagement she had been considering but never actually following through on. There were several- taking one of Brittany's adult classes, writing for the literary journal for the university, starting an online blog or journal, and attending one of Kurt's band rehearsals. Santana had voiced consideration several times of each option to Brittany, even going so far as to plan out possible details, but every time that Brittany gently pushed her to make a commitment and actually set a day and time to start, Santana had backed down. Brittany had brought this to Kate's attention, to Santana's irritation- she didn't actually see how that was enough of a problem to talk about in therapy. What did it matter if she had hobbies or interests or any kind of creative involvement anyway? It wasn't like she was a teenager in Glee club anymore.
But to her surprise and displeasure, Kate had agreed with Brittany that it did matter. Apparently, creative activities, along with "moderate and healthy" physical activity, and having fun and humor in life were important parts of mental and physical health. Tell that to Sue Sylvester; she had spent all four years that Santana had been in Cheerios doing everything she could to destroy both the arts and any sense of humor her students possessed outside of mean-spirited vengeful pranks or cutting remarks. Who knew that Glee was probably better for their health than cheering?
Well, actually that shouldn't be much of a shock, considering. No one in Glee had ever threatened to fire Brittany out of a cannon, encouraged Santana to exist on liquid pepper water for much of her school year, or refused to end practices until at least three girls were crying or unconscious.
The problem was that every time Santana thought about starting something creative again, be it dance, writing outside of her classwork, or music, no matter how detailed a plan she made of how to begin, she froze up. They all felt like huge things to start on her own, without Brittany leading the way in dancing, or without a professor giving her a specific topic and guidelines on what to cover in writing. And music? Santana may have heard music since the day of her attack- it was impossible not to, living with Rachel Berry- but she herself had not sung. Not one song. Not a single note.
Every time she considered, she felt her chest grow tight, and a restless tremor began to spread through her limbs. She might suck. She might be so bad, no matter which option she chose, that people would laugh at her or worse, pity her. In dance or singing, people would be watching her fail, and in writing, people would read it and think she had nothing to say that anyone could ever want to read, nothing that would be relevant or impactful to anyone, even herself. What made her think she could actually create something, or even dance the steps or sing the words that had been created by somebody else?
She had argued and deflected and squirmed in her seat until Kate eventually managed to worm out of her the majority of her feelings about this. Then there had been a lot of talk about how Santana's reluctance could be stemming from not just anxiety but years of insecurity, low self-esteem, a need for perfection when it came to her chosen life roles and actual athletic or creative performances, and her vulnerability to others' judgment. Per Kate, this related back to her childhood and teen years and the various lack of emotional support she had received, especially during the more hurtful incidents of her teen years. Supposedly, wanting to "withdraw" and "develop performance anxiety" was especially common after trauma, and blah blah blah, Santana had basically stopped listening around then.
It seemed though that Kate had grown to know Santana well enough by then to be able to see that from her closed off expression, because she had shifted focus.
"You probably think I'm going to ask you to choose one of those activities that you enjoy but are reluctant to resume, Santana, and go through with it by the end of next week. But actually, we're going to take things a bit more slowly," Kate told her. "All I want you to do is make a playlist of songs that have strong emotional resonance to you."
That had seemed far too easy to Santana. Hell, that was something she used to do all the time out of pure boredom when she was younger. How was that a therapeutic challenge?
"Do I have to share them with you?" she asked suspiciously, narrowing her eyes at the other woman. "Or talk about the reasons why they're on the list?"
"No," Kate said calmly, not reacting to Santana's guarded posture and expression. "Not if you don't want to. You don't even have to explain them to Brittany, if you don't want to. But I do want you to at least show me that you made the list, and I do want you to put some thought behind it. And if anything comes up for you while you're doing this, and you want to talk about it next week, we can discuss it then."
Santana wasn't sure she liked that answer. It almost sounded like a dare for her NOT to talk about the playlists, which for Santana, typically was a good way to get her to do something. Damn, that woman was possibly too smart for Santana to work around, which sucked, given the role she played in her life.
She had gone home to Brittany with their usual low-key routine of prolonged cuddling on the couch after the appointment, which was always muchly needed by Santana after the emotional exhaustion of therapy. As it was Friday, they had spent the next day at the studio for Brittany's morning and early afternoon classes, as Santana herself obviously had no classes on the weekend. Santana had completed her work due for the next week and had enough time simply to watch Brittany, but although she didn't write or type anything, her mind was busy, thinking and ordering possible songs for possible different types of playlists. Damn that Kate, what kind of therapist gave homework that would make someone actually want to do it on a weekend?
During the last two classes of the day that Brittany was to teach, Santana had found herself unable to resist much longer and had dragged out both her phone and her laptop, pulling up her Itunes app to start sorting through her songs. She already had playlists on there, of course, but they were organized mainly by time periods of release or by specific artists rather than "emotional resonance" or whatever the hell Kate had said. Putting in earbuds and plugging them into her phone, Santana started scrolling through her music, typing into a blank Word document on her laptop the ones that stood out to her as meaningful to her. She then began to group the songs into lists on the laptop, realizing quickly as she thought that they didn't seem to "go" together into one playlist that she would be satisfied with, even if they were all songs that were "emotionally resonant." She couldn't in good consciousness put "Don't Stop Believing" on the same playlist as a song that was only associated with Brittany, or a song that made her think of her parents on the same playlist as a song that made her feel like dancing on top of a table.
Far faster than she expected, Santana's grouping of songs had spiraled a bit out of control. She had made seven different categories for playlists including dozens of songs; she had to stop simply because it would be too time consuming to actually continue. Then she had to start axing some of the lists simply because they would either be too long or too short; "songs that are fun to dance to" was too broad of a category and too strongly associated with a crossover of Brittany songs to be a separate list on its own. Then, partly because she hated the idea of the list, and partly because the songs she included were a crossover with another, she axed the playlist that was meant to be songs that made her think about her family. She then combined two playlists together to include a total of four playlists: Songs that made her think of Brittany, songs strongly associated with Glee and Glee family, songs that made her feel hope or encouraged, and songs she could identify with that reflected her pain.
The first three playlists had been easy and even fun to make, and Santana found herself smiling, occasionally pausing to listen to a song or two as she worked on creating those lists in her music. She had become so involved in her efforts that she actually managed to tune out her surroundings. Even the faint noise of the music Brittany was using in her instructions was not audible to her as she zoned in on her own musical choices, and she tunnel-visioned on her phone, fingers busily typing and swiping as she built her lists.
She delayed creating the songs reflecting pain until she had completed her happier lists first, and she noticed herself working more slowly, her hands occasionally trembling when she selected songs that hit her specifically hard. When the list was finished, Santana had managed to fall so fully into her own inner world that she was blind and deaf to anything else around her; she would have been unable in those moments to remember the day, time, or even her location, and it felt to her like she was the only person in her vicinity in spite of Brittany and her final group of students moving in the very same room. She pressed her back against the side wall of the studio, drawing her knees in to her chest and hugging them tightly as she let the final list begin to play.
Of course, Brittany had noticed Santana's sudden intensity and business between her phone and computer and had noted that her demeanor seemed different than when she was simply focused on getting her schoolwork done. When one class ended and Santana didn't seem to register this, let alone stand up and engage with Brittany like she normally would during the break between classes, Brittany watched her, debating whether to interrupt her. But Santana was smiling slightly, seeming to be enjoying herself with whatever it was that she was doing, and so Brittany decided to let her go on with it. If Santana wanted to talk about it, she would tell her after the next and final class what had kept her so preoccupied.
But Santana's mood had very noticeably shifted somewhere in the middle of the final class, around the time that the students had finished their barre work and were doing exercises and movements on the floor. Brittany's attention kept shifting back to her even as she taught, concerned by the way Santana drew herself up into a ball, the way that her body had tensed and her features had shut down nearly all emotion. Her eyes were directed down at the phone in her hand, her attention clearly focused on what she was watching or listening to on its screen, and as she seemed to pull herself inward, smaller and smaller in the space she took up, it was all Brittany could do not to dismiss the class early and head to her immediately.
When her final class had ended and all the students had departed, Santana had still shown no indication of recognizing this; Brittany would guess from her glassy expression as she continued to stare down at her phone that she wasn't even aware anymore of where she was. But what really concerned her was that Santana's shoulders were quivering, and although her head was lowered so far towards her knees that it was hard for Brittany to see her face, she was almost sure that her girlfriend was crying.
"Santana?" Brittany spoke her name softly, from several feet away, not wanting to scare her by too suddenly drawing her out of the state she was in. "Santana?"
The other woman didn't seem to hear, and her head didn't come up. Brittany approached her slowly, making sure to give ample time for Brittany to see her coming closer, and when she was standing right in front of Santana and still her dark head did not draw up, Brittany slowly knelt in front of her, reaching out a hand and lightly placing her fingers under Santana's chin. She gently drew Santana's head up until the other girl had little option but to look at least in the direction of her eyes.
"Santana. Honey, it's me. Just me and you, all the kids are gone for the day. It's just you and me."
Santana's eyes were cloudy, her expression dazed as she seemed to be processing Brittany's touch and presence, but she didn't startle or pull away from her hand. Her lips trembled, and two more tears overflowed, dampening Brittany's fingers as she continued to hold Santana's chin. Brittany's chest hurt as she took in Santana's pain; she didn't need to know its cause to feel for her throughout her body, deep into her soul. She wanted to do something, anything to take it from Santana, but she knew Santana enough to be patient and wait for her to show Brittany what she needed from her. Santana almost always did when given time.
Santana didn't say anything, nor did she remove the earbuds from her ears. She just leaned towards Brittany, turning her face so her cheek rested fully in her hand, and that was enough for Brittany to understand what she needed. Sitting down cross-legged beside Santana, keeping her movements slow and careful still, Brittany rested her own back against the wall, then drew Santana into her lap, wrapping one arm around her chest and the other around her waist, anchoring her against her in a gentle embrace. Santana let herself be maneuvered without protest, her stiff limbs going limp almost immediately at Brittany's touch, and her head dropped forward again until her forehead touched Brittany's arm. Brittany could feel Santana's heart beating just a little too quickly against her arm, the way that her breathing was ragged and tearful against its bare skin, and she kissed the top of her bowed head, just holding her in silence as Santana cried nearly silent tears.
This was something Brittany had unfortunately grown very used to, holding Santana while she cried, providing her own body as a safe, accepting, and loving base for her to calm herself against. She waited, rubbing her hand against Santana's side, occasionally kissing her shoulder or head, but Santana's tears, although not growing louder or more intense, also showed no sign of stopping. It felt almost worse to Brittany, somehow, to see her in pain that seemed so muted and restrained, so unlike the audible, stormy tears that she was used to when Santana was hurting or afraid. This was different, somehow, and although it was clear Santana wasn't going to be able to talk about it now, Brittany felt a need to know what had triggered this different showing of pain.
Santana was still clutching her phone in one hand, although she no longer was looking at it, most likely still listening to whatever played across its screen. Brittany didn't remove her earbuds, but she did gently cover Santana's hand on the phone with hers, one arm still securely crossed over Santana's chest, encouraging her to tilt the phone up so Brittany too could see its screen. Santana didn't resist, and so Brittany took it from her, bringing it up close enough so she could read the lyrics that were scrolling across the screen.
Santana was in her Itunes app, and the top of the screen informed Brittany that she had created a playlist entitled "Pain." Brittany swallowed, feeling her heart wrench with a flicker of understanding as she scrolled through the song that was playing, taking in some of its lyrics with rising sorrow.
"Bound to your side, I'm trapped in silence/just a possession/is this sex or only violence/that feeds your obsession/you send me to a broken state/where I can take the pain just long enough/that I am numb, then I just disappear…"
The music didn't seem to be turned up to an overly loud volume; when Brittany moved her lips close to Santana's right ear, pressing them first against the curve of its shell, then close enough to the earbud that it almost brushed its plastic covering.
"Sweetheart," she said quietly, but raising her voice just enough loud enough for her to likely hear her over the song. "Oh, sweetheart. I love you, Santana. I'm here, and I love you."
She continued to hold Santana, shifting her on her lap so Santana was cradled more comfortably against her, and rocked her lightly, occasionally stroking Santana's arm or leg or rubbing the ends of Santana's hair through her fingertips while she waited for Santana to speak or slow in her crying, to make some sort of gesture to indicate that she was responding to Brittany's presence. But although Santana's hand crept down to grasp Brittany's, she didn't say anything, and her tears continued. Brittany occasionally looked down at her phone screen as she waited, registering two more songs playing out their length, and took in enough of their lyrics to understand that they too were about rape or assault of some kind. When a fourth song began and Santana showed no signs of wanting to move from her lap or stop listening, Brittany realized that she might not be able to shift out of her current emotional state on her own. She clearly needed to release some of her feelings, to let her hurt seep out and express its cracks and breaks in her being, but she seemed to be getting stuck in it rather than truly letting go.
Then the idea came to Brittany, and she kissed Santana's ear again, before gently drawing out one of her earbuds. Santana's hand twitched, as though she wanted to put it back but just didn't have the energy to try. Brittany murmured into her ear, now free of the obstruction.
"Sing, baby," she whispered, holding the phone up to Santana's face, so she could not miss seeing the lyrics on the screen. "Sing it. I think you need to."
Santana shook her head mutely, another breathless sob breaking out, but Brittany was persistent, holding the phone up, even when Santana partly turned her face away from it.
"You can do it, sweetie. Come on. Sing it."
"I can't," Santana managed, the words cracking and barely audible, even with Brittany's head so close to hers. "I can't. I can't."
"You can," Brittany countered, her words firm and certain, her mouth still close against Santana's ear. "You can, baby. It's just me and you here. You're safe. Sing for me, Santana. Show me what you're feeling. Sing."
Santana hadn't been exaggerating or deflecting when she told Brittany she didn't think she could do it. She hadn't so much as hummed since the night of her rape, let alone sang aloud. She wouldn't have thought she could let the vibrations even begin to feel her chest and throat, that it would physically hurt to try. She would have thought she could spend the rest of her life without ever hearing music again, without even feeling the desire to produce it herself.
But as Brittany held her, urging her, encouraging her, her eyes squeezed shut. She didn't need to look at the lyrics to remember the song. She already had memorized its works.
"Til…til it happens to you…you don't know….how I feel," she whispered, speaking more than singing at first, her voice wavering and not matching the tune. "T-til it happens to you…you don't know, it won't be real…"
Brittany squeezed her tighter, giving silent encouragement and praise, and as the song built up towards its climax and its highest note, Santana's voice strengthened, until she was singing with pure, raw emotion, tears streaming. She didn't notice or care how her voice sounded, if it was technically correct in notes. It didn't matter- that wasn't the point.
When the song ended, she slowly slid the second earbud from her ear, an occasional tear still trickling down her cheek, but her breathing had slowed, and she had stopped shaking, her body looser against Brittany's chest. Brittany's own eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she stroked back Santana's hair, aware that her voice was not quite its best as she sang back to her softly.
"I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before…."
And she did. Every time she got to witness Santana take one more tiny step forward, every time she demonstrated just how much strength she carried in her tiny frame and cracking heart, she loved her that much more. Today was no exception.
Full playlist of Santana:
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Brittany wasn't sure how long she stayed on the studio floor with Santana, cradling her, waiting until she could feel the other girl's body more fully relaxed against her own. Brittany continued to stroke Santana's hair, smoothing her fingers through its silky strands, paying careful attention to Santana's breathing. When it seemed that Santana had finally finished crying fully and was just resting back against her, she slowly slipped the second ear bud out of her ear, checking to make sure Santana didn't protest this. She didn't, and so Brittany took the phone and turned off her music app, then slid her arms back around Santana fully to give her another gentle squeeze.
"Come on, babe," she murmured, thumbing the remnants of tears out from under her cheeks and then kissing first one eyelid, then the other. She smiled when Santana scrunched her nose at her but allowed the affection, giving a kiss to her forehead before lightly patting the sides of Santana's legs to encourage her to stand.
"Come on, babe. Let's get you cleaned up a little."
Santana mumbled in the not discernible, grouchy sort of way she generally tended to protest when overly sleepy or overwhelmed, lolling back further against Brittany's chest. Brittany smiled, shaking her head, and then lifted her off of herself under Santana's armpits, setting her down on the floor while she herself stood and stretched. Reaching down to help Santana up to her feet, she slipped Santana's phone into her jacket pocket and took her hand, leading her to the bathroom of the studio to help her wash her face and get herself in a state that would be ready to make the walk back home.
The studio bathroom was a large one, with only three stalls and a large floor area with an almost equally large mirror filling up most of one wall. It was designed that way with the intention of giving extra space for girls to get changed for classes and do their hair or makeup if need be with plenty of room for more than one or two to do so. There was no avoiding the mirror without making serious effort to do so, and as Brittany lead Santana to the sink to help her wash her face, she nevertheless noticed that Santana kept her eyes averted as they walked past it, making sure she never saw her reflection.
This was hardly the first time Brittany had noticed Santana avoiding looking at herself in a mirror. From the first night she had come back to New York City and accompanied her in Rachel and Kurt's bathroom to each morning and evening that she got ready with her in their shared bathroom now, Brittany had not failed to observe that Santana would not look at herself directly. Even when brushing her teeth or fixing her hair, she relied on the "feeling" of the movements and occasional feedback from Brittany rather than actually checking for herself how she appeared. Brittany had never said anything about it, hoping that as Santana worked on herself in therapy and slowly grew more comfortable with her changing body size, the behavior would change on its own, but so far, it hadn't.
Taking a paper towel and wetting it, Brittany deliberately turned Santana around so her body was facing the mirror, unable to avoid it without effort. She was careful with her touch as she washed Santana's face, holding her chin in one hand and trying to tilt it up towards her, but Santana resisted, trying to keep her head tilted down- and away from her reflection.
"Santana, babe, hold still," she said softly, and when she pushed Santana's face up again, she didn't miss Santana swallowing and shutting her eyes- again keeping herself from having to look at her own reflection.
Brittany's stomach felt sad and hollow for her as she continued to cleanse Santana carefully, using her thumbs to brush off any excess wetness from the paper towel. Throwing it away, she wrapped her arms around Santana's waist, still holding her deliberately in place in front of the mirror, and looked at their reflection, observing with continued sadness that Santana's eyes stayed closed.
"You won't look in the mirror," she said quietly, keeping her tone nonjudgmental. Nevertheless, Santana stiffened slightly against her chest.
"I don't want to see a puffy swollen balloon face."
"You do not have a puffy swollen balloon face- not even a bouncy ball face," Brittany said lightly, but she pressed her a little more. "Not just now, though, Santana. You never look at yourself. Even at home."
When Santana shrugged, but didn't respond, Brittany let it drop- for then. She knew Santana had just put herself in a vulnerable state only minutes ago, and they were not in a place of full safety for her. She wouldn't push her further, at least not until later.
Instead she just gave Santana another little hug without words, took her hand, and held onto it as she went through the steps needed to shut down the lights and secure the studio for the weekend. As they stepped outside to walk home, she slid her arm around Santana's waist, keeping her that much more securely against her as they made their way together without speaking. Brittany kept the pace slow but purposeful, not veering from their familiar route and routine, although it was still light outside. Again, she could tell that Santana was in a mental space still that she wasn't quite ready to emerge from fully.
Their walk was quiet, with Santana responding only minimally when addressed and with as few words as possible. She seemed preoccupied, not fully present in her mind and body, and Brittany realized that she was releasing a breath of relief as they came within view of their apartment. Maybe Santana would be able to relax there, where she knew she was safe and was comfortable. Maybe she would come back to herself a little more, actually seem like Santana rather than a strange, strained copy of her.
As Brittany unlocked the door, pulling Santana through, she flicked on the lights and turned towards her, watching for any change in expression. But Santana showed little if any difference in her demeanor, even with the door shut and locked behind her in the security of her own home. Brittany tucked on her hand, trying to elicit a smile.
"Want to come watch a movie? How about Encanto?"
That was a newer favorite of Santana's. She was marginally relieved when Santana nodded slightly and followed her to the couch, even more so when Santana sat in her lap without encouragement. Brittany adjusted herself so her arms were around her and turned on the tv, beginning to play with Santana's hair as the movie began.
As the familiar movie played, Brittany continued to twirl her fingers around Santana's hair, braiding and then unbraiding it, rubbing her hands over her arms and shoulders in light massage. Still, she could tell that Santana was still somewhat caught in her own thoughts, not as responsive as usual, when she didn't giggle at any of the lines or repeat those she had memorized. Brittany knew it had been a rough day for her, that she had probably let out more emotion than she wanted to exert again, so she stayed quiet, simply continuing to give comforting, affectionate touch in hopes that Santana would finally just mold her body more naturally and fully with hers in her lap.
When Santana finally tugged on her arm, muttering something about needing the bathroom, Brittany let her up, somewhat surprised when Santana pulled at her hand for her to follow her. She didn't always need or insist on Brittany going into every room with her anymore, but she followed her then without question, leaning against the sink as Santana peed. After she had finished, Santana said in the same mumbling tone that she wanted to take a shower, and although she already had that morning, Brittany again didn't comment. Instead she set out a towel for her and sat on the closed toilet seat, figuring that if Santana wanted her to either join her in the shower or leave the room, she would tell her so. Santana did neither, so she waited, her chest tight with growing concern for Santana's quiet, withdrawn mood.
When Santana pushed the shower curtain aside, the mirror was steamed up from the water's heat, and Brittany handed her the towel, asking if she wanted her to go fetch her pajamas to change into. It was still early evening, but Santana nodded, so Brittany did so without comment, bringing a pair of her own into the bathroom as well. She noticed when she re-entered the bathroom that although Santana was drying herself off, she was again avoiding looking into the mirror to do so.
When Santana glanced over at her, likely expecting Brittany to hand her the pajamas she had retrieved for her, Brittany held onto them, regarding her. Santana was standing naked, not self-conscious about Brittany looking at her as she dried her hair with the towel. Still, although she was looking at Brittany, and appeared okay with Brittany looking at her, she was not looking at herself, and Brittany decided in the moment to give Santana a final push of the day.
She set the clothes down on the edge of the sink and came forward to Santana, taking the towel from her and beginning to very gently take over for her in drying Santana's hair. She positioned herself behind Santana, so Santana was still angled towards the mirror, making it very difficult for her to avoid seeing herself, and yet Santana's eyes remained down. Brittany finished drying her hair, then rested her hands on Santana's waist, lightly rubbing her fingertips in a soothing gesture over her side before she spoke.
"You won't look at yourself, Santana. In the mirror."
Santana shrugged, obviously wanting to deflect it, and made a movement as though to reach for her clothes, but Brittany stopped her hand with her own, giving it a squeeze before addressing her again.
"Not just now. Ever. I've noticed. You won't look at your body, or your face. You won't look yourself in the eyes."
Santana shrugged again, barely a twitch this time, irritability and frustration both crossing her expression as Brittany watched it in the mirror's reflection- what she could see of it. She continued to stroke her fingers over Santana's side, soothing her, reassuring her, as she spoke to her again.
"I want you to look at yourself, Santana. In the mirror, at your reflection. I want you to look yourself in the eyes."
Santana's body stiffened against Brittany's, almost physically recoiling, her spin curling back into Brittany's chest and stomach. Brittany rubbed her hands over Santana's arms, trying to press into her the love and strength she felt for her, the love and strength she wanted Santana to feel for her own self.
"Please, Santana," she said softly. "Please. I want you to look at yourself. I want you to look at the beautiful, amazing woman that you are, standing tall and proud."
"Brittany," Santana whispered, her voice thick. She swallowed audibly, shaking her head, as Brittany continued to stroke her, keeping her touch light but firm, avoiding any sexual undertones.
"There is no reason for you to be afraid or ashamed to look at yourself," she told her quietly but with conviction, rubbing Santana's back between her shoulder blades. "I'm here with you. I'm here, I have you, and I love you with all that I have. Look at yourself, Santana. Raise your eyes and see yourself."
"I can't," Santana managed, the words emerging tiny, cracked, and shaky with unshed tears. She was beginning to tremble, whether from the build up of emotion or her own inner struggle between obeying Brittany's request, as she normally would without thought, and her instinct to fight its actual meaning. "I can't, Brittany. You don't understand, I can't."
"You can," Brittany affirmed. She pressed a kiss to Santana's cheek, to her jaw, then to the hollow of her neck and shoulder, her hands continuing to slowly stroke over her exposed skin. "You've done a lot of things you never thought you could, Santana, and you can do this too. You can. I'm here, and I love you. All of you, each and every part of you. All of it."
She paused, giving Santana a moment to process, and then continued softly. "If you won't start with looking yourself in the eyes, you can start with looking at your body. Look at your hips, Santana. Come on, honey. You can do this. I've got you, I'm right here. Look at your hips."
She touched Santana's chin gently, not forcing her to move it, just giving it a small chuck beneath as encouragement- and her chest flooded with pride when Santana lifted her eyes just slightly, enough to follow her instruction to see her hips in the mirror. Brittany gave her waist a squeeze of appreciation and encouragement, then continued to direct her softly.
"Good, babe. Now a little more. Look at your waist. Your chest…your shoulders," she said, giving Santana time to adjust and respond to looking at each part of herself for the first time directly in months. "Okay, babe, now look at your chin."
Brittany could feel Santana trembling more and made sure to anchor herself more firmly behind her, a secure base if Santana reached out or faltered. She kept one hand on her waist, the other still caressing love into her skin as Santana slowly worked on taking in the image of her own body.
"Now here it comes," Brittany said gently, leaning her mouth closer now, against the shell of Santana's ear as she let her head rest against hers slightly, arm wrapping tighter around Santana's bare waist. "Look into your eyes, Santana. Look at those big, beautiful brown eyes, full of love and light and more wit than anyone I know, except, obviously, me."
And Santana did it. Santana raised her eyes, bright with tears, lips trembling, and looked herself in the face. Brittany wanted to break into a smile, but she kept herself still and soft, not wanting to break the moment as she murmured continued encouragement in Santana's ear.
"There you are, babe. You're doing so good, Santana, so good. There you are, looking into those beautiful eyes I get to look at every day. Keep looking….now, say to yourself who you are, Santana. Say to yourself what's right and true. Out loud, into your own eyes."
Santana's lips pressed together briefly before she stammered, "What…what am I supposed to say?"
"The truth," Brittany said patiently. "What I tell you, and what deep down, you know is true yourself. That you're strong, and you're beautiful. That you're brave, and you're loved. I want you to say all those things. Out loud, to the mirror. To yourself."
Santana's eyes glistened still more brightly, and she blinked hard, forcing back the tears that nevertheless remained in her voice and showed in her expression. She shook her head, even as she continued, to Brittany's pride, to look at her reflection.
"I can't. Brittany, I can't."
"You can," Brittany countered again, giving her another encouraging squeeze. "You can, Santana. You can do so much more than you tell yourself. You already have done so much more than you let yourself acknowledge or see. And you can do this. You need to do this."
She held her tightly, chin resting on Santana's shoulder, and held her gaze in the mirror's reflection, steady and yet resolute.
"Say it, Santana. You are strong. You are beautiful. You are brave. And you are loved."
Santana's body shuddered against Brittany's chest, and she momentarily pressed further into her, but then she took a shaky breath in, let it out, and spoke, very quietly and without conviction at first.
"I…I am strong."
"You are," Brittany encouraged, kissing her shoulder. "Say it again. Louder this time. Look at yourself and know it's true. You are strong."
"I…am strong," Santana repeated, more audibly this time. Tears overflowed, but she looked back at her blurred reflection, and she didn't let her chin drop.
"You are beautiful," Brittany prompted, and Santana repeated this, choked, but with less of a pause than before.
"I am beautiful."
"You are brave," Brittany whispered, holding Santana fast against her. "You are loved."
"I am brave," Santana managed through trickling tears, sniffing, but still she kept her eyes on her face in the mirror. "I am loved."
Her voice broke on the final word, and Brittany turned her then, letting her fall into her and hide her face in her neck. She hugged her hard, stroking her hair and rubbing her back, fierce pride in her voice as she responded.
"Yes, Santana. Yes. You are. Yes."
Santana cried quietly, her fists loose and trapped between their chests, and after several minutes, Brittany helped her dress in loose fitting clothes, then lifted her easily, supporting her with an arm under her butt and around her back so Santana was almost being carried on her hip like a child. She took them to the couch and arranged Santana on her lap, unsurprised when Santana turned to straddle her to hide her face in her neck once more. She let her sit with her, giving her steady, tactile comfort in her touch and presence, and she let the quiet fall between them, not uncomfortable for either to maintain. She sat, Santana in her lap, for the length of two tv shows, unconcerned when two times Santana began to cry again, seemingly unrelated to what was on the screen. She simply held her a little more tightly and pressed kisses to her head until Santana would wind down and relax back against her.
Eventually, Brittany coaxed Santana to come with her into the kitchen, to eat a little of the fruit salad she cut up for her and some of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she used cookie cutters to cut into butterfly shapes. And when eventually Santana fell asleep in her lap on the couch, her head heavy and lolled back against her, Brittany carried her into bed, noticing that Santana was so exhausted she didn't stir even to reach out for her in the brief periods of their bodies separating in order for Brittany to turn out the lights. As Brittany drew her back against her, rubbing her back and closing her own eyes, she let her mind go blank, feeling only the vague hope that whatever came next would be still more steps forward.