A/N: Thanks to my lovely betasaStarLightFairy and QueenDiannaAgron! I also want to thank soonbuilt who gave me permission to use this wonderful doodle of Brittana for my fic. :)
"I can't-," she started, a little pause. It was almost as if she'd been running laps for Cheerios practice, the exertion leaving her breathless. "Can't do it," she sighed, dejectedly. She'd been trying for the past half hour or so - it was hard to keep track of time - but her muscles were burning with exhaustion and she had come no closer to being able to move both her legs without losing her rhythm and almost falling down to the floor after just a handful of steps. It was more of a shuffle than a stride, really. These were the first attempts without the walker to hold up most of her body weight, and it was not going too well. Thankfully, her physiotherapist had been there every step of the way, quite literally.
She felt her resolve crumble. Brittany had been a dancer by nature, and now, she couldn't even get her feet to work properly without making a mess of things. Everyone had such high hopes regarding her so-called recovery, but no one seemed to see that before it's possible to recover anything, you need to accept that you had lost something in the first place. You had to accept, and remember what it was you'd lost, first. That was the most difficult part – remembering what was the normal before, and then the normal after; the new normal, so to speak. Sometimes, it was all muddled together and left her confused. Mostly angry, though. Some days, her whole body was shaking with anger.
Sitting on a chair in the middle of her hospital room, she just wanted to go back to bed and sleep the day away. It wasn't like anything good would come out of today, anyway. Every day was like the one before, a never-ending series of treatments, therapies and the reminder that she just wasn't the old Brittany anymore. She was- whatever. Something, someone; a none-Brittany person. She crossed her arms and huffed.
"I know this is frustrating, Brittany, but it's important that you keep trying. We need you to use those muscles, alright? Come on," the therapist said, trying to sound empathetic. Brittany turned to him and studied his face. As far as she could tell, there was no fake sympathy there, just a small hint of sincere concern. At least that's what she thought the set jaw might mean. Well, that was better than the alternative, she knew.
She hated the way some nurses looked at her, and her parents; like she was some kind of small injured animal baby, helpless and broken. A little bird with clipped wings, unable to fly, forever cursed to be different to all the others. As if she'd stopped being her own person, somehow. At least this man was not treating her like that.
She sighed heavily. It was no use; she couldn't run away from this anyway. She smiled a little – a forced smile, more of a grimace – but nodded. She wouldn't give up yet. She owed it to her family to keep trying, because they kept trying, too, and they hadn't given up on her yet, either.
With his help, she stood and put one foot in front of the other. Slowly, head bowed, her gaze fixed onto her legs. She could see her muscles and tendons working to keep her upright."You're doing great. Just a few more steps and I'll leave you alone for today," he told her.
Lifting her right leg, she took a step forward before trying to pull the left one up. She could hardly support her own weight. Planting both feet on the ground, she felt it; her hard limit. Her own body telling her that this was the end of the line for today. The sign that she'd pushed just a little bit too far. She felt her legs start shaking with exhaustion and she shook her head. "No more, no more," she begged in a small voice, her breath coming out in short bursts. The therapist looked at her for a moment, calculating. Then, the shaking got even worse and he had to intervene quickly before she fell, setting her back down into the chair.
Her legs were still shaking, making her whole body rock with exhaustion.
"Alright, you're done for today. I am really proud of you, Brittany. We'll work our way up, alright?" The physiotherapist was looking at her with a smile, as if they were talking about some fun activity they would tackle together.
As if it didn't serve as a reminder of just how little she could do, and how much she'd lost. She'd become a ghost of herself, she thought. And not one of the cool ones that haunted mansions – no, one of those that got stuck in the most unfortunate places. Like that Myrtle girl in Harry Potter that had gotten stuck in a toilet. Real classy.
Brittany stared straight ahead at the wall, not even bothering to answer. She wondered how many interrupted lives these walls had witnessed. Lives that were suddenly put on hold; others cut off, right in the middle, out of nowhere. Sometimes she wondered what stories they'd have to tell, these walls. Silent observers, harbouring the broken in their encasement. The broken – like her: broken bones, broken brains –
Fractured souls.
Jammed in the space between life and death; not quite belonging to either realm. Merely clinging to a trick of light: hope. These souls. Bold, and so, so brave, but most of all, terribly lonely.
Maybe, if these walls could talk, she would find out that she'd been lucky after all. Perhaps, though, she'd been one of the unlucky ones, for clinging on. She was not quite sure what answer to wish for.
All she knew was that now, in that moment, she was here, and no place else. Stuck, in every sense of the word; stuck in her head, stuck in her body – and stuck in this godforsaken hospital room.
Her musings were interrupted when the man started talking again: "If it isn't Brittany's favourite person ever? Oh, and you have perfect timing! We've just finished our session. Come on in!" His voice sounded genuinely happy.
Brittany didn't react at all. She'd been lost in her thoughts, but the rude interruption had made her lose her train of thought. She did not want to see anybody. She just wanted to sleep. She curled in on herself, trying to make her body as small as possible in the chair.
"Favourite? I don't know about that," a female voice said, politely. That did make Brittany turn around as best as she could, making an awkward half-spin in the chair, still unbalanced and clumsy.
"Santana!" she exclaimed, her spirits lifting from one second to the next. Seeing her best friend usually had that effect. Maybe the therapist was onto something there, with his remark.
They had ended up on Brittany's hospital bed, Santana and the therapist basically hauling her up the mattress. The therapy session had been too tiring for Brittany, so they'd decided against going anywhere else. Brittany preferred it that way – this way, she wouldn't have to go and face all the people in the cafeteria or in the park on the hospital grounds with their loud noise and the cacophony of voices all coming together to bash her skull in, and she wouldn't have to let Santana do all the work, wheeling her around. They had been to the park the day before, or the day before that. Anyway, she couldn't remember exactly, the days still bleeding into another with little distinction.
Santana was sitting behind her, combing through her hair. Brittany still had trouble figuring it out on her own and while that usually made her burn up with shame, it was somehow okay to let Santana do it. When she did it, it was a soothing and comforting gesture. It did help that Santana had to sit close to her to reach the hair, and Brittany would never object to that.
She was so close that she felt Santana's scent engulf her senses; her warmth was like a secure blanket shielding her from harm. Brittany felt herself relax into her friend, and she had trouble keeping her eyes open.
"They asked about you in Glee club today, Britt," Santana informed her, pulling her out of her half-asleep state. Brittany couldn't figure out if she meant it as a good thing or not. What was she supposed to do with that information?
She did miss her friends, but she was also glad that she didn't have to see them sing and dance, and be all happy and healthy and themselves. Not knowing what to say, she settled on letting out a soft sigh. "Oh."
"They miss you, you know? I miss you. It's not the same without you," Santana whispered into her ear, making her shiver involuntarily.
"Yeah," she said, shrugging it off.
Seemingly sensing Brittany's reluctance to discuss this particular topic, Santana changed the subject. "I saw this huge rainbow this morning, on my way to school, and it reminded me of you," she tried.
That caught Brittany's attention. "Why?" she asked.
"Well, you love rainbows. And it was really beautiful – like, like- uh" Santana stammered. She was uncharacteristically trailing off in the middle of the sentence, but with her back to her, not even seeing Santana's expression, Brittany didn't question it. Maybe, she hadn't even really registered it at all.
"I love rainbows," she slowly said instead and nodded her head up and down with a far-away look on her face. It appeared as if she wanted to say something else, but after a moment of hesitation, she didn't. The thought had passed too quickly to process anyway.
Running the brush through her blonde hair gently, Santana smiled. "Yeah, you do." Her smile quickly turned into a frown when she noticed the way Brittany's shoulders had dropped.
"Britt, are you okay?" she asked, concerned. She waited for a moment but when Brittany didn't answer, she put the brush aside and scooted over to sit beside her, so she'd be able to look at her and see her face.
The blonde was scrunching up her face really hard. It looked as if a million ideas were passing through her head and she was trying her best to sort through every single one of them. An exercise in futility, seeing how every flash of insight was lost quickly, like sand trickling through her fingers.
"Britt?" she repeated her question, slightly alarmed. While it wasn't unusual for Brittany to drift away, this wasn't her normal behaviour when talking to her friend. Santana put a hand on Brittany's forearm. It was only then that Brittany seemed to come back to herself, blinking furiously.
"Yeah?" she asked, confused.
Brown eyes darted from side to side, but blue eyes just gazed back noncommittally. She was probably trying to find answers on her face, Brittany mused. If only she had any; she struggled terribly to remember the questions in the first place. Santana cleared her throat awkwardly. "I asked if you were okay," she repeated.
Brittany furrowed her eyebrows and it took a moment before she responded. It seemed like she had to think about the question really hard before coming up with a response. "No," she finally said, pressed.
This wasn't what she was expecting, judging by the way her eyebrows lifted of their own accord, but the blonde couldn't muster up the energy to wonder about it too much. Taking Brittany's hands into her own – as if it could somehow anchor her to the conversation like a boat to the bottom of a lake; a safeguard against the currents of her whirling thoughts– Santana seemed undeterred.
"Want to tell me about it?"
For a moment, Brittany debated whether she should just say no and be done with it, sparing herself the ordeal, but when she locked eyes with Santana, she knew she couldn't. The girl was looking at her with so much warmth and concern. It made her feel all tingly.
"I think-" she started, and then shook her head carefully, not wanting to upset her still very vulnerable balance with brisk movements. She also still had trouble forming sentences if she didn't think it through beforehand. She tried again: "I'm- I'm sad. Really sad, San."
Santana nodded. When she noticed that the blonde wasn't going to say anything else unprompted, she asked, gently, "Why are you sad, Britt-Britt?"
"I'm just sad. The thoughts are all jumbled," she muttered, her words sounding somewhat twisted. Without being consciously aware of it, Brittany's right hand shot up to her hair, right to where her new scar was, and she started scratching her scalp there. Her hair was growing out slowly, but it would still be a good while until the scar would be hidden away by a curtain of her blonde hair.
"It's all jumbled. It's bad. Like when Lord Tub-bing-ton finds a ball of, of-" A small pause before she went on, more hesitant this time, "Of-" Further head scratching, frustration building up in her. "Of yarn to play with," she continued with furrowed eyebrows; her hands making an unsteady sweeping gesture.
Santana nodded, a sad expression etched onto her face. In that moment, she looked tired and exhausted as well. Almost like she didn't know what to say, her voice was shy and low when she talked. "I know, Britt. I know it's hard. You are working so hard, and it sucks. I just want you to know that I will always do my best to help you untangle it. Always. Pinky promise." She held out the pinky on her left hand, like she'd done a hundred times before.
The smile that formed on Brittany's face was the brightest one that had been there in days. Linking their pinkies together, she sighed contently and laid back into Santana. "I'm tired. Can I take a nap?" she asked with a yawn.
"Of course you can, Britt. I'll be here when you wake up."
Brittany felt the soft touch of Santana's fingers running through her hair again in a soothing gesture meant to help her sleep. It usually worked like a charm. There was no one else in the whole world that knew her as well as Santana did. In her arms, she felt protected and safe and she allowed herself to let the sleepiness wash over her like a wave, putting up no resistance whatsoever.
"Thank you," she mumbled almost incomprehensibly.
Then, she felt a set of soft, warm lips pressing against her cheek – and promptly fell asleep.
The next days passed in a similar fashion to the ones that came before. While she had still issues remembering the content of most conversations, she managed to recall what Santana had said about Glee club. How they missed her. And she missed them, too. And school. She missed it all.
In a way, that gave Brittany strength to carry on, despite various times where she just wanted to give up, give in and never move again. She still went to speech therapy, she did all the exercises and practised in her room with the charts she'd been given. She noticed how much progress she was making, and it was the first time she sensed something akin to accomplishment.
There was a short knock on her door before it opened, a woman peeking her head in.
"Hello Brittany! It's time for our breathing exercises right now, okay?" the language and speech therapist announced cheerfully as she entered the room, making her way to her bed.
Brittany herself looked not nearly half as cheerful, but it's not like anyone really asked her if she felt like doing the work anyway. She just had to. "Yeah," she mumbled.
The therapist, a woman in her mid-thirties, had a very kind voice. She spoke calmly, which made the sound of her voice quite pleasing and bearable to the blonde. It was probably on purpose, Brittany mused. "So, you remember last time where we did the mirror exercises to improve the way it sounds when you talk? So you could watch your lips and practise how to make your words sound clearer?"
Nodding her head up and down, she spoke, "I remember." She remembered how the therapist had also made her do a straw exercise to train her coordination between her lips, cheeks and tongue. How hard could it be? She'd thought before. It turned out – very hard. It irked her how everything was hard these days: talking, walking, even breathing. Most of all, thinking.
"Great! Well, I noticed that you have a bit of an issue with your breathing there. That's why today, we are going to work on it, okay? It's just that when you are talking, you are focusing really, really hard on the words. You are doing great, by the way. Your parents told me you've been talking a lot to them and your friend. I'm really happy to hear that," she said with a bright smile. "It's just that sometimes, when you are working so hard on your words, you forget to breathe, right? You kind of hold your breath and keep trying to get the words out, and you get a bit tense here," she explained, carefully touching Brittany's throat. "That's what we want to avoid."
Another nod, agreeing. Brittany knew she wasn't talking very well yet. People around her pretended not to notice and she really loved them for it, but she knew. She could hear herself after all, sadly not given the mercy of blissful ignorance. It was always difficult for her to actually get the words she had in her head out in the open. Usually, it made her feel like an anvil had been placed on her chest, the weight crushing every word before it could make its way out of her throat and onto her tongue. The few words that managed to escape didn't do so without any harm and ended up being all squashed and bruised when they finally spilled from her mouth. Only fitting, really – bruised and banged up like Brittany herself had been.
Some days, it felt like a race; how many words could she help escape the confines of her throat before she had to give up and let the rest get lost somewhere in the space between her inspirations?
"Today, we're going to be learning how you can allocate your breath correctly, where and when to pause and how to relax your vocal chords a bit. We want to be breathing from the belly. This way, you'll be able to form longer sentences without feeling too tired, okay?"
"Okay," Brittany agreed. Despite how tired she felt, she was actually looking forward to doing the work. She'd do it all if it meant that she'd be able to talk more and better. She wanted to be better for when she felt ready to tell Santana.
Her occupational sessions weren't half bad, either. She liked the activities, and it gave her something to do. They hadn't really tackled writing yet, but she was still re-learning pretty useful things. The first time she'd managed to tie her shoes completely on her own, she had felt on top of the world. It might not have looked pretty and had come undone soon after, but at least it had been her shaky hands completing the movements. It was during those moments where she dared to let herself believe that perhaps, not all was lost. Or, if it was, maybe she would find it again, in time. Perhaps it was just misplaced.
"I'm really good at scissoring, San," Brittany said with a proud smile, showing off all her teeth.
Santana almost spit out the mango juice she'd been drinking. It had been Brittany's but she didn't like mango as much as she liked coconut, so Santana had brought her some coconut water in a bottle and drank the offending juice instead.
A deep blush rose up on Santana's cheeks but the blonde seemed none the wiser.
Happily, she kept talking, "At first, when I tried to cut a straight line it would get all horrible. All wonky. But this week, I did much better. Mrs. Charleston said I'm picking it up really well." Her words sounded clipped but she wasn't swallowing more than half the vowels anymore.
Still trying to get her embarrassment in check, the other girl cleared her throat. "I'm really proud of you, Britt. You've been so amazing," she told her. Carefully, she set the juice carton down and bent forward to leave a little peck on Brittany's left cheek.
It was a bit sticky – probably from the mango juice – but Brittany didn't mind at all. The little gesture left her heart racing in all the good ways, and she felt the butterflies in her stomach doing somersaults.
Physical therapy, unfortunately, was going much slower than that. Given her talent in dancing, she had expected it to be much easier or at least hoped. It frustrated her to no end but knowing that every now and then, Santana would ask about her progress, she clenched her teeth and kept trying her best.
A small voice in the back of her head, the one that kept asking, 'What if my best isn't good enough?' - that was her worst enemy. Sometimes, she tried to drown it out - her insecurities - blasting music at the highest levels her earphones would go, but that quickly proved to be a massive failure as it made her head throb for hours, and her ears ring like a busy telephone line. She wasn't supposed to expose herself to loud noises, and she paid a steep price whenever she did.
It was probably a Saturday, or a Sunday, though Brittany couldn't be quite sure. Santana was visiting. She was reading a book for school and Brittany was bored out of her mind. Not that having Santana keeping her company could ever bore her, it was just that she had nothing to do; apart from staring at Santana covertly, hoping that the girl wouldn't notice. She was just too beautiful and Brittany's feelings for her best friend were as strong as ever. Stronger, even.
Right now, she had to let her read. Santana would have ditched the book in an instant if she asked, she was certain, but she was already feeling bad for monopolising so much of her time already.
It was quiet – too quiet, and Brittany was increasingly feeling restless. After a few more minutes, she couldn't bear it anymore.
"Do you hear it?" she asked, annoyed. The buzzing, humming background noise that accompanied her day and night was getting on her nerves.
The black-haired girl looked up, surprised, clearly not understanding. "Do I hear what?" she asked to clarify, closing her book.
"The radio. It won't stop. It's making humming noises." She imitated some humming, feeling the vibration along her jaw as she did. It felt like her bones were itching from the inside.
Following Santana's gaze as she looked around the room, both came to the same conclusion at the same moment. There was obviously no radio there.
Their eyes met.
"No, I don't hear anything," Santana added, unhelpfully, with a small apologetic smile. It was one reserved specifically for her. She'd have ripped anybody else a new one for asking such a ridiculous question.
"Right," Brittany said, sheepishly.
She clumsily turned around in the bed and cuddled into her pillow, her back to Santana. She didn't want to see whatever pity or sadness she was sure to find in her eyes. She couldn't bear more humiliation like that; not from Santana, she couldn't.
She heard some paper rustling, probably from Santana picking her book back up, but no further comment reached her ears. It was for the best, she told herself. Tears pricked at her eyes but she squeezed them closed as hard as she could, determined not to let a single drop spill over.
It was a few days later that she finally had a visitor different from Santana or her parents: Quinn Fabray, the last third of the infamous Unholy Trinity. It had been her mother's idea. Apparently, Quinn had been phoning her parents every couple of days, asking for updates, and if it would be possible to come visit. Brittany had finally relented, feeling that if there was anyone from school she would like to see, it might be Quinn.
The only other person she liked even half as much was Mike Chang, and she was a hundred percent certain that she did not want to see him. It might not be fair to him, but she really couldn't face that yet. What it all meant.
"You know, Rachel wanted to come and visit, too, until Santana threatened her, of course. Something about her shrill voice being a risk to your delicate ears; a vicious attack on your well-being. It became this huge fight between them. Santana was super pissed. You know what they are like," Quinn told her, with a smirk.
A small smile blossomed on Brittany's face. Of course she knew about Santana's protectiveness when it came to her. Secretly, it was one of her favourite things in the whole world. It made her feel so safe, so cared for. Although, mind you, sometimes, she did go a bit overboard. She laughed lightly, "Poor Rachel. Was she scared?"
It was good, having this conversation with Quinn. She had requested, before, that no one visit her, but she was realising more and more that she missed her normal life – and that included normal people, and her friends. It included Quinn. And maybe, perhaps, even people like Rachel Berry. But she wouldn't say that out loud, ever.
"She sure was! In the end, she even stopped babbling, and she didn't say much at all during the whole Glee lesson. It was hilarious to see," was Quinn's comment on the situation. Lighthearted; fun. Exactly what she'd missed for far too long.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. And then, Quinn turned a bit more serious, "I don't think you need her incessant babbling right now, do you?"
Brittany sighed. It had been so nice, trying to block out reality, but it had a way of catching up with her. "No. My head hurts," she told her and drifted off of a moment, looking at the walls of her hospital room. It was always the walls. Sometimes, it felt like a cell.
She saw some of the charts which were still up in her room. One, black letters on white paper, laminated so it wouldn't get damaged, read: What happened?
The one directly below said: You had a car accident. You have had a brain injury. Big, black letters, like the top row of the optometry charts you had to read at the doctor's to know if you needed glasses. If only her problems had such a simple solution. Quickly, she averted her eyes.
Quinn was patiently waiting for her to say something else.
"I don't like how Rachel treats Santana," she said, carefully sounding out the words. "She's really hard to-, uh," Brittany trailed off, struggling to describe what she thought of the self-centered Glee club member. "Like, when you have to listen," she clarified, pointing to her right ear, tapping slightly at the outer shell. "So people don't get pissed off? That thing," she told her, gravely.
"Tolerate?" Quinn offered, amused.
Befuddled, Brittany asked,"Tolerate what?" She couldn't quite follow.
For a short moment, the head Cheerio looked dumbfounded, her eyes wide, but soon enough, she schooled her features into a neutral expression. "Tolerating Rachel and her bossiness, it's hard sometimes."
Brittany nodded, totally getting it. "Oh, yeah. It is." She looked around, trying to recall where the conversation had started out but it kept coming up blank. Instead, she looked down into her lap.
"Thanks for the card, Q. It's lovely," she added, fiddling with the 'Get Well' card in her hands. It was a cute little thing, very colourful and it even had a unicorn in the middle of it, but she couldn't bring herself to open it and read what Quinn had written inside. She'd do it once she was alone.
Quinn smiled at her. "Of course, Britt. You know, we were really worried about you, about- ," she started and trailed off mid-sentence.
The blonde just nodded. "Yeah, I know," she said, and then looked away. It was still difficult to accept people's sympathy – or pity. It felt like a slap in the face, at times.
Suddenly, she felt a hand taking her own and holding it tightly. It wasn't actually unpleasant at all, quite the contrary. She appreciated it a lot. Besides Santana, Quinn was one of her closest friends. She regretted not spending more time with her when she could. Back then, as Cheerios. When Quinn got pregnant with Beth.
And now? Who knew if she'd ever-
"I missed you," she said in a small voice.
Quinn looked at her with so much compassion, it was hard to bear. She almost looked away again, but she resisted the urge. She needed to feel the connection, she needed to feel close to her friend.
"Me too," the head cheerleader answered, hoarsely. It was such a crass contrast compared to her usual soft voice. Where Santana's voice had a raw raspy quality, Quinn's was usually the touch of a feather. Apparently, this was what having a life-changing accident did to the people around you – it made their voices do funny things. It happened with her mother a lot, too.
She didn't even notice how it happened, but the next thing she knew, she was being hugged tightly. Tentatively, she put her own arms around her friend, and allowed herself to relish in the warmth Quinn's proximity brought. It wasn't just a physical thing – it was way more important than that. It meant, I will be here for you. It said, I have your back. It also let her know: I won't leave you behind.
"I'm sorry, Quinn," she whispered into her neck. "I am sorry I left you. When you needed me. And us, with Beth. I was no good friend."
The arms around her tightened even further. "I'm just glad you're here now, Brittany. When we didn't know-" she had to clear her throat before continuing, "Santana was a mess. We all were, but I've never seen her like that."
For a moment, silence stretched out between them.
"Quinn?" she asked timidly.
"Mh?" Being so close, Brittany felt more than heard her friend's humming response.
She swallowed, trying to calm her sudden nerves. "I'm in love with Santana."
Quinn let out a little chuckle. "I know, Brittany." Quinn's hand was ghosting soothingly over her back, "I know you are."
Brittany nodded. It figured; if anyone knew, it would definitely be her. After all, thanks to Sue Sylvester and the Cheerios, there was hardly any week the three of them hadn't been hanging out together.
"I want to get better. And then I will tell her," she promised – and meant it with everything she had. It was a promise to herself, to Quinn, and to the world.
