Title: Some Things Are Meant To Be
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6.4k
Summary: She doesn't want to creep around Brittany and tread water to see if she can trust her; she wants to dive straight in because she's never met someone like Brittany. She's never wanted to know so much about a person after meeting them for the first time and she's never wanted to tell someone everything about herself either.

Warning: Girl!Peen

Notes: Just a couple of years late. But still not finished. I forced myself to sit through the last few seasons of Glee and it gave me Brittana feels. So I just had to write. Who knows if anyone even reads these anymore, but I found this unfinished and thought, why not. Enjoy!

/

Santana's going home in two days.

Two days before memories of bright blonde and sea blue can disappear again, into a box that sits at the back of her chest. Before she can breathe again, without feeling like her thoughts wrapping itself around her, squeezing uncomfortably tight. And it feels kind of odd, because she didn't come back to America to try and fix everything. She didn't come back to do anything but support Quinn, maybe get a little drunk, and then get back on that damn plane where the wounds can begin healing again.

The wedding was beautiful, albeit the last 15 minutes or so, and despite being a little pissed that the happily betrothed couple at least didn't ignore the whole dance thing with Brittany, she can't stay mad because who does that to a newly wed couple? Plus, she's not sure Quinn would have approved as such, nor would Puck have, but they just didn't stop it, so that's enough to leave a few burning embers.

Still, she's fighting the anger inside her by running around Central Park. Her legs are burning, sweat is dripping down her forehead and she can't even count on one hand how many times she's run past the same hot dog vendor who stares at her ass as she passes. There's a couple of kids playing with a soccer ball in the open area, and the sky is bright and shining and yet her mood is still as foul as the words her mouth wants to spit when she passes the food merchant.

There are also remnants of a hangover scratching at her brain, too, but a lengthy run always clears that for her. God knows she's had to deal with hangovers whilst being in London. The first month was full of dry-mouth mornings and popping painkillers to rid the thumping on her skull.

Her phone buzzes in her sports leggings, tucked into her right thigh. She slows, breaths long and shaky, and she moves on to the grass towards a bench a few meters away from her. The device lights up with Quinn and she exhales through a small 'o' formed by her lips as she slides her thumb across the screen.

"Hey, Q."

There's a pause, a little bit too long. "Why aren't you yelling at me?"

Half exhausted from her small marathon, Santana guesses she's spent so much time full of feeling everything that it takes something a little bigger than the dance situation to evoke an emotional reaction. She shrugs to herself.

"I don't think you let Bri-her," she faulters, a crack reopening inside her chest. She prays Quinn doesn't notice. " –play the song. I just don't think you prevented it, and that's not something to be mad at." It's matter of fact. "Plus, you've just got married. I don't plan on shitting on your parade just yet. Maybe after your honeymoon."

There's a breathless laughter at the end of the sentence, and she can just imagine if her friend was here, she'd be raising an eyebrow and clenching her jaw, completely unamused. Santana grits her teeth as her eyes search the faceless bodies moving around her.

"She asked the DJ to put it on," her friend confirms, like she asked. "I told her it wasn't a good idea, but she… She wanted to. She wanted to–"

Santana's face drops. No, she won't do this again. Ten months ago, she escaped this life and it's only two more days until she's going back to the pace that makes her feel a little less… Well, shitty.

There are too many memories here, ready to jump from the shadows. There are too many questions hovering in the air, ready to be plucked out and cracked open, and Santana doesn't want that. She doesn't want the answers. She's done nothing but been straight up ignorant since she stepped foot off that plane, and she knows it was a ticking time bomb, but she can keep it going until her foot returns to said plane.

"I don't want to know," leaves her mouth before she can stop it. There's a sharp breath at the end, but it's defeated, and if she didn't know any better, there'd be a shrug there too. "I'm leaving soon… The wedding's been and gone and my life is in London," her words trail off, like she's making a list of reasons why she shouldn't ask for more. She supposes she is. "There's nothing more to say."

Truth is, London isn't everything.

Shelby was right, she does miss her family. Four thousand miles and a hell of a time difference does isolate Santana a fair amount. It reduces normal conversation to next day replies and forgotten emails. Of course, she's kept in contact with Quinn and Puck, but even one topic takes days to cover because her morning is their evening and so on, and so it's not exactly a consistent friendship. Just because they still speak doesn't mean there's not hours between replies, or days, and that leaves a lot of time for Santana, alone. With her head.

If she's honest though… If she reaches into that sealed box and peeks in, she knows that she misses someone else here too.

The one with the ocean in her eyes.

The one that hurt her over and over, and yet she still harbours this tight-sealed box full of emotion, inside her chest that's just straining and breaking every hour she stays in the US.

But it won't stop her from knowing she deserves better.

"Shelby wants to see you."

Her eyes shift from left to right with confusion. Wasn't quite expecting that. "Right…"

"She wants to meet you before you go."

It's not a shock. Santana has her card back at the apartment. She just doesn't know what to do with it.

"I know, but I don't want any temptation." She sucks in her lips and gnaws gently for a few seconds, contemplating her words. "I already miss this place, I can't deny that– " she sighs and eyes the tree's surrounding her. Something about this place is so homely to her. "But I can't come back, Q." Heat forms behind her eyelids and she blinks it away. "Not with everything."

"But San–"

"No buts," Santana interrupts. "London may not be everything, but it saved me. It helped me move on and create something to look forward to." Brown eyes move to the floor, so her white sneakers where she's kicking the few twigs on the cement beneath her. "It helped me heal wounds I didn't know how to close."

Quinn, for her part, doesn't seem to argue. There's a resilience in Santana's tone that even she knows came from a ten month growth. "Okay," the blonde sighs in a defeated fashion. "Well, come back to the apartment. Puck and I are packing and we're gonna go soon."

They're leaving tonight on the red eye, straight to the Bahamas. Their combined salary has not only allowed for an idealistic, fairy-tale wedding, but also for an all-inclusive honeymoon for two weeks. It's a shame it's the day before Santana flies back to London, but she's also kind of excited for the additional day in the Big Apple on her own. She wants to revisit a few places to tie up loose ends before going back to her life.

(By loose ends, she means visit a few places her heart is just aching to see again.)

"No problem," she breathes, standing up and stretching her aching limbs. "I'll be back in half hour."

They say goodbye and Santana cracks her neck from left to right, stretches her left arm, then her right and hops on the spot. Her legs carry her forward back through Central Park, towards her friend's apartment.

/

The shower is borderline scorching when she steps in, but she welcomes the burn as her eyes close against the water.

She washes her hair and hangs her head down as the shampoo drops off locks of dark hair. Quinn and Puck have almost finished packing, and their taxi is pulling up in an hour. There's an ache in her heart from knowing her best friends are going, but she knows they're going to have an incredible time and she's also sort of envious because she wanted to go to the Bahamas if she ever got married–

Her thoughts cut off the last two words she wants to add to the sentence. There was always a name that followed when she thoughts of marriage, but it's a love that couldn't ever be. She's accepted that now.

(There will always be a part of her that refuses to accept it fully.)

She was naïve, and Brittany was confused. Not that anything can excuse what happened, but some things are better left behind and some things are better left unsaid.

There's a knock and she flicks off the shower, stroking her dampened hair behind her and grabbing the towel off the sink. The warmth envelopes her as she tucks the edges underneath her arms, and she shakes her head to rid the water droplets away from her eyes. The mirror is steamed over, so she can only see her blurred reflection so there's no point in seeing if she's presentable enough, and she reaches for the door handle, pulling it open a fraction to reveal Puck standing there, a glint in his eyes.

"I'm a married man now, Lopez," he jokes, a smirk playing at his lips. "But you're still hot."

Brown eyes roll. "Quinn!" She yells, smirking back. Puck's smirk drops and his eyes widen. "Your husband is hitting on me."

Quinn saunters in from the living room, coming up behind the tall man. Green eyes sizzle with mystery and Santana, momentarily, finds her kind of attractive.

"Her dick is bigger than yours," the blonde whispers into the shell of Puck's ear and his mouth drops open. He does know about Santana's… situation, but it's sort of unspoken. Especially as humour. "Good luck, hubby."

The laughter loudly erupts amongst them, bar Puckerman who stands there half confused – probably wondering how his wife knows that – and half in wonderment. It wouldn't surprise Santana in the least if Puckerman wanted to give it a go with her. He's slept his fair share of women – actually, his fair share of other people's women, too – and it's not a secret between them. Half the arguments that happened between Quinn and Puck over the years were because of past lovers sauntering into his life and attempting a second seduction, much to Quinn's disgust. He was always a one-night stand kind of guy.

Well, until Quinn.

Who naturally slid into his life and knocked the man-whore crap out of him. He fell head over heels and look, they're here today, about to be whisked off to their honeymoon.

At least some people get their happy endings.

"How would you know, babe?" He asks, eyes sliding between them as if he's answering his own question. "Because if you two…" he dips his head, replacing the words with a wiggle of his eyebrows. "That's kinda hot." His nose scrunches. "I think."

Santana and Quinn look at each other, momentarily stopping the laughter to see if the guy's being real. Which, he is, because he's a pervert, and then they're throwing themselves about hysterically laughing again. The thought of them together is just… No. Definitely not. Santana would rather stick her hand in a blender.

"You don't need to know that." The blonde throws a wink at Santana.

There was one drunken night out where Santana decided to get changed in the middle of the apartment when the three of them had got home, and Quinn walked in, to topless Santana with a bulge in her boxers and Brittany had chortled at the other blonde and made a comment about how if she's surprised at that, she would be shocked at it without anything covering.

Not that Brittany had known prior to sleeping together, but they'd had a few half-naked run ins living together and all.

Puck seems to accept it and nods his head approvingly. "I think we need to get going before my manhood gets offended," he says through a chuckle, and Santana turns around rolling her eyes for like, the millionth time and laughs. "Get dressed and come say goodbye."

She nods and heads towards her dresser to throw on a few items of clothing, settling for grey sweatpants and an old band t-shirt, and heads back out into the common area with wet hair dripping down her back. There's a towel on the side and she throws it over her shoulder and wraps it around her hair, ruffling with her hands to get the moisture out as her friends are moving their suitcases to the front door.

"The taxi's here," Quinn eyes Santana. "Come give me a hug."

There's a sense of affection that grips her chest when she hugs the blonde. Her friend smells like vanilla and softness and she can feel her eyes welling up at the thought of not seeing her again for a while. It's been good to be back. It's been good to be in this apartment and not have a drama filled day to hover over them.

Although, there's definitely something hovering between them, it's just better not to highlight it.

"It was so good to see you, Q," Santana mumbles her palms stretching across her friends back, fingers lightly pressing into the fabric of her coat. "I promise I won't leave it so long next time."

There are hands pulling her back and hazel eyes meeting her own. "Please don't," she half-smiles. "It's been good to have you back home."

Home. It feels right still, but Santana can't help but flinch because she's not sure it's the city that's home. It's something in it.

"Move your butt, Mrs Puckerman," she grins, toothily. The name flows like it was meant to be. "The taxi's gonna put a waiting charge on."

Quinn giggles and squeezes her biceps, partially shifting her towards her husband who takes Santana into a hug and lifts her off the floor.

"Come back soon, Lopez," he grunts, dropping her back to her feet. "And don't leave without talking to Brittany."

For the second time that day, Santana's shocked by something said to her. But she shakes it off, trying not to seem too affected and meets his stare. "I'm not sure there's more to say," she shrugs.

There's something in his eyes. Concern, she thinks. "Just don't go back to London wishing you'd said something you haven't"

See, Puck isn't exactly the most emotionally developed guy. He barely registered any females' feelings prior to Quinn, and after a million and one break ups early on in their relationship, he decided it was time to stop being a boy and start being a man. Santana's almost glad she was a part of that, purely because she's here now, living their relationship with them. It's going to be something she tells their kids one day.

But this, him staring down at her with a thousand unsaid words flitting behind his eyes, is unusual. Almost like he knows something she doesn't.

"I won't," Santana says, almost adamantly. "But I'm still going back."

The air changes and Puck drops his hands, stepping back and rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, I better get going," he mutters, eyes flickering from the floor to the suitcases. "I'll take these down."

He leaves without another word, with nothing more than a sad smile thrown at Santana. Quinn hovers by the door and Santana walks towards her, hand reaching up to grab the door as she leans against it.

"Be safe, and text me when you get there," she smiles. "And please don't get pregnant."

Hazel eyes roll. "Goodbye, Santana."

There's a brief hug and then she's gliding out the door and Santana's left, slowly closing the door.

/

Barely even ten seconds later, there's a knock at the door.

Spinning on her feet, Santana furrows her brow and opens the door, revealing Quinn standing there, hair tousled and eyes wide like she's bursting to say something.

"What did you forg–"

"She didn't marry Jason."

Her heart drops straight to her stomach, her chest squeezing uncomfortable and vision shuddering. She blinks away the sudden heat that spreads across her feet and forces her mouth to shut.

"They never got married, and you have to know that."

Quinn tugs on the bottom of her sweatshirt, straightening up and composing herself. In a flash she's gone from desperate to calm, and it strikes Santana that she's been itching to tell her since the second she landed. It strikes her that maybe that had been weighing on her, and half of her would be pissed if she thought Quinn just wanted to rid herself of an emotional burden. But there's something else in her face. Despite the seriousness in her eyes, there's an… annoyance?

Santana stands up straight, mirroring her friend's stance. "Thank you, Quinn," she manages to get out, realising how thick her throat is. "But that doesn't change anything."

And it doesn't.

Not really.

Like she said, she didn't come back to fix anything. She didn't come back for some sort of redemption. She came back to celebrate her friend's wedding and fly back to London to continue her life.

Sure, she might feel like she got sucker punched in the stomach by Muhammad Ali, and maybe this cool wave of emotion might wash through her veins, something she can only relate to as relief, but it doesn't really change anything. If anything at all, it makes it worse. Ten months without a single person telling her, without letting her know that the person she had to get away from, for making a poor decision and marrying a total jack ass, didn't do that at all.

And suddenly she's pissed. Pissed at this situation. Pissed at Brittany. Pissed at Quinn and Puck.

But she doesn't want to feel like that, because this isn't a damn movie, and she still means everything she said last night. Because Brittany didn't even care. She told Santana that she was lost. That she was the person that needed finding.

As if Santana hadn't been there for years?

But then it hits her.

Everything she was saying to her last night, all those horrible, horrible things, weren't even entirely true.

When she told her she was scared… When she called her a chicken shit. It didn't bring the expected reaction out of the blonde, and it had puzzled Santana last night, but with all the emotions flying around, she didn't notice as much. But now she does and the cold, hard drop thumps inside her chest and she squeezes at her shirt, trying to relieve some of the guilt that pangs inside of her.

"So," Quinn interrupts her thoughts. "For the sake of everybody," she steps forward into Santana's space, eyes hard but voice soft. "Fucking speak to her."

There are lips on her cheek and then her friend is flashing the same damn sad smile her husband did and disappearing into the hallway.

Santana's left in the quiet apartment, thousands of thoughts flitting through her mind.

/

She spends the afternoon in the apartment, watching some crappy reality TV show and trying to sway her mind away from cerulean and decisions she doesn't want to make, and it gets to sundown before she's grabbing her coat and wandering into the streets of the city. The lapels on her jacket are pulled around her ears and she's shivering into the cold air. It's dropped about ten degrees, and the sun is setting behind the skyscrapers surrounding her.

Her hands dig into her pockets for warmth, and she wanders past the shops and the people, eyes never landing on anything specific as her mind thumps with questions. There are so many questions she has, but she's promised herself not to open the box in her chest. There's no way she can ask one without wanting to follow up with a thousand more and even considering one might pop the straining lock on that box.

Man, she's going to have a headache later. This isn't how she wanted to spend her last twenty-four hours here.

She's standing beside the small refreshment stand before she can register where her feet are taking her.

It hasn't changed much since she came here all these years ago. There are fairy lights everywhere, dangling from the few trees surrounding her and the bitter smell of cold air flooding her nostrils. The ice rink is bigger than she remembers, and her hands fall upon the cold railing leading to the box office as she wanders towards the middle.

There are small flecks of snow falling from the sky, unusual for this time of year, and it brings her mind back to the snowy New York nights she's had in the past. One specific snowy night.

She's shaking her head against the invading thoughts as she moves to the box office. There isn't anyone there, something if she was friends with Brittany still, she'd be telling her to tell her brother-in-law, and she moves down the wooden steps that lead to the outside of the rink.

Two people are skating around the ice. They're not here together, Santana can tell by the lack of eye contact and how they're almost exactly halfway across the ice from each other. Their movements are graceful, legs springing and skates clanging against the ice as they fly in a practised routine, fluttering the scarves wrapped around their necks.

It's peaceful in a way Santana didn't know she needed, and she has this strange urge to head on to the cold floor, so she does just that, steadying herself with outspread hands as if she can grab invisible rails to stop her from falling.

There's a large tree in the centre of the ice rink, something she assumes is used as a Christmas tree in December, and she shoots a small smile at the skaters for not skidding into her and sending her on her ass. They barely even register it.

Clouds of her own breath form in front of her, and she blinks against the snowflakes settling on her skin. That fear she used to have, of falling over and requiring stitches, is dull in her mind, but still renders, but she pushes it away and shrugs off her coat, placing it on the ice and carefully lowering until she and pull her legs out in front of her. Her back meets the coldness, shivers tickling at Santana's spine, and she places her hand underneath her head for a makeshift pillow.

The last time she did this, she was with Brittany.

Memories of the first night they met flood her brain, and she can almost smell the coffee they had that night whilst they searched the sky for constellations.

"Cassiopeia," she breathes to herself, shivers thrumming through her body for a different reason now, eyes settling on the small batch of stars in the sky.

The story of the sea people as Brittany used to call them plays in her mind and she shifts, suddenly becoming aware of a lump beneath her right shoulder. She shifts into a seated position, face scrunching uncomfortably and reaches into the pocket of her jacket, pulling out a single black glove. Her eyes flicker over the item, dropping it momentarily to feel across the rest of the fabric for another lump but nope, there's only one, which kind of sucks because she could do with a pair right now.

There's a light chuckle that fills her ears and she's suddenly hot, fear slicing in her chest because it's unmistakable.

After all these years, she'd think that it wouldn't have the same effect on her, but it does.

"I think this is yours."

Brown eyes slide up, meeting shining blue ones staring at her from across the ice. With the distance, she's not sure how she heard Brittany so clearly, but when she looks around, she wonders how long she was staring at the stars for because the two dancers are no longer here, and some of the lights near the refreshment stand are off.

"I found it."

Santana is still speechless. How does the blonde even know she was here?

"I found it ten months ago, when I was trying to find you before you left."

Footsteps come towards her, and she looks back down to the glove in front of her, just to look at something else.

"I went to the coffee shop, and it was on the seat," Brittany explains, answering an unasked question. "And I came to the apartment to tell you about Jason."

The name cuts Santana deep. Her chest seizes a little and she grabs at the glove, wondering what she's supposed to say. She fucking hated that guy, to the point where hearing his damn name makes bile rise in her throat, and she almost goes to say that… but she has this feeling it's not her time to speak, so she just bites her lip and waits.

"Quinn and Puck told me to let you go." Santana winces at the words, appreciation for her friends fading in this moment. Her brain knows she should be gaining it, not losing it, but her brain is malfunctioning currently. "They told me I needed to stop hurting you, and I never wanted to hurt you."

A scoff pushes through Santana's lips, and she sucks it straight back in, knowing the blonde heard her because she's now like, really close to her.

So close, in fact, that she can smell soft vanilla and the sweet perfume Brittany used to wear. Some things don't change.

"I felt like I had to let you go," Brittany carries on, her hands gripping at the bottom of her shirt. She's not dressed for being in the snow, and Santana pushes back the urge to offer out the coat she's sitting on. "I felt like I had to let you live your life, and so I kept the glove, as a reminder that one day you'd be coming back. Maybe even with the other glove."

It's meant as a joke, but it doesn't even make Santana's lips twitch because she doesn't get it.

"See, San," the blonde shifts on to her other leg and her hand moves to her sleeve, pulling at a loose thread. She's anxious, and the urge to pull her hands down and drag Brittany into her lap surges through her hands. She flexes them to release it, but it only quells it. "We're a lot like these gloves. We don't have to have another one, and neither one of us really works 100% of the time if we didn't because we need each other to be a pair to use properly, you know? To cover both hands, but we could still cover one just by ourselves."

Santana sucks in her lips and moves her vision up the blonde's jean cladded legs, up to meet her stare. It doesn't make sense, but it kind of does, and her head tilts in a way that shows Brittany she's tired. She's tired of these explanations, and these monologues she gives, and Brittany gives, and Puck and Quinn. She's tired of being repeatedly punched while she's down, and she only has a matter of hours in this town, this country even, and she doesn't feel like taking it again.

"Britt–"

A pale hand shoots out in a stop motion. Santana breathes out heavily and rests her forearms on top her knees, willing to listen.

"I don't really know why I took it," Brittany shrugs and plays with the glove in her hands. "I didn't even know it was yours for sure, but I just wanted to keep it," she explains and it's honest. The blonde sucks in her bottom lip and narrows her eyes. "It was just kind of with me for those ten months, sitting there and I never even really thought about it… Never really wanted to see where the other one was… And I realised I treated this glove kind of like how I treated you before you left."

Its true, and it hurts, because that's exactly what Brittany did. Santana was always there with her, always fucking there beside her, supporting. Shit, she even agreed to plan her damn wedding and bit her tongue at the sheer heartache, and yet Brittany never even considered her. She just wanted her there and didn't want to see what the other side could be.

"And I've spent ten months punishing myself, trying to make myself better for you, trying to figure out a way to apologise for everything," the blonde continues, slowly lowering herself and meeting Santana's gaze with a question of whether it's okay to settle beside her.

Santana nods slowly and drops her arms to wrap around her legs in almost a seated foetal position. It's defensive, and on purpose. This isn't something she's going to take with her arms open.

"Because I've been wrong and so fucking lost–" Santana winces at Brittany swearing. It's always sounded so dirty coming from her. She was everything that was good and innocent in the world and swearing always seem too below her. " –all along, and now I've found the other glove…" She offers it out and Santana moves slowly, taking the item but making sure not to touch the blonde. It could be her downfall. "I want to find you."

Their eyes meet and Santana knows that Brittany's opening herself up to her. Opening up her heart. But there's a guard so high, a guard she has spent every single day for almost a year building, cradling her own heart, unwilling to crumble with these words, because they're just that – words, and she focuses on the lights in front of her.

"I've been lost since the day I met you," the blonde seems to realise Santana's guard and doesn't try to move any closer. "Because you came into my life and made everything so colourful."

The words sink into Santana's chest. She knows the feeling.

"But I thought I wanted something else," Brittany's head drops, and eyebrows pull together in the middle of her forehead. "I thought I wanted everything that was bad for me, and I lost sight of what was real, and I thought I was mad when I found out you knew about Jason but really–"

Santana bites down on her tongue, words curdling in her throat, but the blonde catches it and opens her mouth.

"I was mad at myself," she admits, eyes finding brown ones. "I was mad at myself for waiting until he gave me a reason to leave him."

It makes sense, but it's still not good enough and Santana finds herself wanting to get up. She's up on her feet before she even realises, and Brittany's reaching for her hand. It doesn't even register in her mind that there's fingers wrapping around her wrist until the blonde is in front of her, tears filling blue eyes and Santana clenches her jaw, fighting the prickling at her own eyes.

"I should have done better," the blonde's almost pleading. "I should have been better, but I want to be now."

The tightness in Santana's chest is only getting worse, and there's an indecision sitting at the forefront of her brain. She's been here before, she's done this with Brittany, and she wanted to convince herself that she could get through these two weeks and get back to her new life as she promised herself, but she knows she was kidding herself.

Because this is what she wants.

This is all she's ever wanted. Here, standing and listening to Brittany tell her everything she's wanted to hear since she laid eyes on the girl in the club. But it still feels like there's so much between them.

Still, there's an itch at the back of her throat, words bubbling up and they're leaving her before she knows.

"I forgive you."

It's not what she wanted to say, she's not even entirely sure she means it fully, but it's somewhere to start. It's not taking away anything that's happened between them, and she knows it's not going to stop her from getting on that plane tomorrow night. It's not going to be a magical fairy tale where Brittany kisses her and they live happily ever after.

But it's what her heart says. It what her heart wants.

"What?" Brittany squeaks, tears flooding down her face, but there's no happiness there. "But you can't, San… I don't think you know–"

She's shaking her head, but Santana's right there, squeezing her hands, the urge that surged through her earlier breaking through her restraint. Fuck. Why did she have to touch her?

"I do know, Britt," she breathes, too tired of fighting to resist the need to press their foreheads together. Brittany's now so close to her she can count every freckle dusted on her face. So close she can feel the warmth of the blonde's breath on her lips, and she licks them, cursing herself for even considering kissing her.

"I do know that you're sorry, and that you wished you'd done something different," she carries on and Brittany's crying is thickening Santana's throat. "I do know that–"

"You don't know I love you."

Three words and eight letters late. If Santana was the same person she was ten months ago, she'd break at it them and fall to her knees. But she's spent months doing the same as Brittany, preparing herself for this moment because it was always going to come. It was always going to come to this, to this admittance and Santana feels herself pushing the blonde away because she can't take it.

She's not sure she ever could.

All that preparation has given her the strength she needs to stand back and up for herself.

"And you knew that Brittany," she utters, voice strong and stern. "You knew you loved me and you still put me through hell."

If she hadn't shut her eyes with her words, unable to meet Brittany's stare, Santana would've seen the other woman wince.

"You blamed me for your shitty fiancée," Santana snarls in a way the blonde isn't privy too, evident by the reaction of a flinch. "Cheating on you after you fucked me."

Heat flares down her body, her mind unable to resist the memory of their skin burning against each other in the throes of passion. She wants to punch something, someone, preferably Jason, because she knows the blonde is chipping away at her the ignorance she's been forcing on herself since she got off the plane.

"I did." Brittany's small, her shoulders squeezed in, and Santana can tell the blonde is cold. Her nose is pink, her cheeks flushing the same colour, and she can't help but find herself admiring the woman's beauty. Brittany's beautiful in this light, in the snow. She's beautiful in the fucking dark, to a blind man for God's sake. "And I want you to know, I know I was wrong. I was wrong and I'm so fucking sorry, Santana…" There's a hitch in her breath, a sign she's going to sob. "And I'm so fucking in love with you, I honestly don't know how I ever didn't notice, because it's always been there. You've always been there and I just…" Brittany offers the smallest of shrugs, devastation flashing across every feature on her face. "I just love you. Always have, and I think I always will."

It breaks Santana's resolve.

I'm so fucking in love with you.

It blasts through the wall she's built around her heart, and she steps towards the blonde, tears flooding her face as she reaches for the blonde, hand grabbing at her shirt as she pulls her into her. Their lips hover for barely a second before they're meeting and it's electric. Everything goes black around her, until all she can feel is the other woman flowing over her like a wave crashing into the sea.

Old wounds split open, pain and regret punches through her as she feels every kiss, she's missed for the past ten months against her lips. Brittany's tongue is sliding in, stroking her mouth and her knees buckle embarrassingly, fists gripping at the shirt before her, just to find some grounding.

A whimper comes from one of them, and Brittany's hands are sliding up Santana's neck, tangling in the fine hairs there and pulling, sharp yet pleasurable pain pulsing at her scalp. Her teeth find their place on the blondes' lips, nipping gently and it feels like there's something significant in this moment. Her hips move forward, finding a pressure she's been begging to release, and the blonde softens her grip, hands sliding to Santana's cheeks where they perch, thumbs stroking too softly at tanned skin.

It makes Santana pull back, not knowing what to do with this affection. It feels too good to be true, and to be honest, there's so much more to them than right now. This isn't the end. This is just the beginning of a very long journey, and it's not going to be easy but, Santana thinks it might just be worth it.

She thinks that this could be something again, and it punches through her chest, the box that was once tightly sealed, stored in centre, burst open, everything she's repressed freeing itself and allowing her to feel. To feel the blonde's skin on hers, to feel her lips thrum where Brittany's just were. To feel her fingertips press into cold, pale perfection as Brittany's hands clutch to her like she never wants to let go.

(Santana doesn't want her to.)

But as she pants, chest heaving, letting her know how damn breathless she is, something springs into her mind that she didn't think would poke its head out at that moment.

And then she's grabbing Brittany's hand silently, a soft smile playing at her lips and she's wordlessly asking the blonde to go with her. Like she's always been able too, Brittany reads this and nods, fingers tightening as they leave the bubble they've just created.

/