Anonymous asked: 66. "Please don't go."
Brittany kind of thought that living together would be more of an adjustment than it is. There's a few kinks they have to work out, like shower schedules (which they still take together more often than not; Brittany can raise her arm above her head now but not for very long — something that she does exploit just a little), and getting Brittany's name on the lease (which is more complicated than either of them thought it would be due to their landlord's homophonic husband hanging around, and Brittany ends up soothing more than a few tears), and figuring out chores (Santana does laundry far more than Brittany does, due to her coming home covered in bits of flowers and fresh drywall more often than not), and what shows they want to binge (Santana likes to watch mindless shows that she doesn't need to think too hard about, Brittany loves watching horror movies and thriller shows, in the end they both accomplish the same thing: More cuddles).
But Brittany loves that; she loves figuring out all the little things about living with Santana, she loves that they have a home together now, that she never has to sleepily stumble out of Santana's apartment at six in the morning because she forgot to grab more than one change of clothes, that she never has to belatedly realize that she left her phone charger plugged in beside Santana's bed, that she never has to lay in her empty room and try to fall asleep to the silence that echoes around her room and miss her girlfriend on the other side of the city.
She just loves that she gets to come home to the love of her life every single day.
Brittany's back at work by now, just on desk duty. She gets off right at four thirty every day now and goes to help out at the flower shop for an hour before her and Santana walk home, their fingers intwined. They have their own little schedule worked out, a system that works flawlessly, and Brittany is a little bit in love with every tiniest aspect of her life now.
It's a Friday when Santana catches an awful flu, and Brittany spends her day at work constantly checking her phone. Santana sometimes drifts away from Brittany in the middle of the night, but she usual never ends up very far. However, this morning, Santana had kicked off the blankets and her hair was matted to her face with a light sheen of sweat. Brittany had reached out to brush the dark hair from Santana's eyes and winced at the heat she felt against her hand. She leaned over her girlfriend to press her lips to Santana's forehead, and Santana woke with a croaking groan. "Hurts," Santana had mumbled, and Brittany's heart broke. Santana insisted she was fine, despite calling in sick for the first time since Brittany's known her, and sent Brittany off to work, holding her blanket around her like a cape, her eyes fever-bright and her nose bright red and dripping.
When Brittany gets home, barely fifteen minutes after she got off at four thirty on the dot, she finds Santana curled up on the couch, fast asleep. Her wheezing, breathy, snores fill the apartment, and there's a nearly empty Kleenex box on the coffee table, contrasting with the too full bathroom garbage can beside the couch. A half full cup of cold tea sits beside Santana's glasses (the ones Brittany found out about nearly three months into dating Santana, the ones she thinks are absolutely adorable on her girlfriend). A bag of sodacrackers is open, but it looks like Santana only nibbled on a couple throughout the day.
Brittany's chest cracks open and aches at how miserable her girlfriend looks, and she crouches beside the couch and brushes Santana's hair to the side. Santana stirs and cloudy brown eyes flutter open. "Hey, honey," Brittany murmurs, "How are you feeling?"
"Like I just crawled up from hell," Santana croaks.
Brittany pouts and keeps stroking her fingers through Santana's hair. "Do you want me to make some soup?"
Santana's nose wrinkles. "Not hungry," she whines childishly.
Brittany can't help it: She leans forward to softly kiss Santana's forehead, feeling dark eyelashes flutter across her chin. "You should eat something today," she says. "Or at least start drinking."
"Mami always says to drink water," Santana rasps.
Brittany bites back a smile. "That's the nurse in her talking," she agrees, "But she's right. You need to get hydrated."
Santana grunts in agreement but makes no move to move. Brittany goes to kiss Santana's forehead again, but suddenly finds herself shoved backwards onto her heels; she's confused for all of a second before Santana's in the middle of a coughing fit, the painful one that sounds like it's being torn right out of her chest. "Honey," Brittany coos once the fit subsides and Santana's left looking more exhausted than before. "Let's get you to bed, I'll bring you some soup, okay?"
Santana turns tired, fever-bright eyes on her and nods pathetically. Brittany urges her up, catching her as soon as her knees start to buckle. Santana sighs as Brittany just scoops her up into her arms, blanket and all, and carries her into their bedroom. She lays her down on the bed and helps her rearrange her blankets before promising to be right back and heading to the kitchen to heat up some soup. She quickly changes into her pajamas while the soup's heating up, and chugs a mug of her own before shutting all the lights off and double checking the lock on the front door and heading back to the bedroom.
Santana's dozing off when enters the bedroom, and she coaxes her awake and slides in behind Santana, holding her soothingly while Santana sips at the mug of soup Brittany's urged into her hands. Once she's finished it, Brittany slips out from behind Santana and sets the empty mug down on her bedside table.
Santana's fingers curl into Brittany's shirt and are surprisingly strong when they start tugging insistently at her. "Please don't go," she mumbles.
Brittany melts and sinks into the bed to draw Santana into the circle of her arms. "Of course I won't," she promises quietly, "I'd never leave you. You're my home."
Santana lets out an airy sigh and cuddles closer to her, pressing her lips softly to Brittany's neck, the pressure so light that it's only Brittany's hyperawareness regarding all things Santana that she feels it. Santana's curled into a ball against Brittany, one arm thrown over Brittany's stomach and the other clutching her shirt, her face buried in the space between Brittany's shoulder and neck. "Love you," Santana mumbles.
"Love you too," Brittany whispers. She slowly trails her fingers up and down Santana's arm, coaxing her to sleep. Santana snores almost all night, her nose so stuffed up it sounds painful, broken only by Santana's awful cough; Brittany's uncomfortably warm the entire night, but Santana just keeps cuddling close to Brittany, the furrow in her brow and the frown on her face only relaxing under Brittany's gentle caresses. Brittany doesn't really care that she doesn't get much sleep that night, Santana's clinginess while she's sick is pretty cute and it makes Brittany's insides all warm and fluttery at how loved and needed she feels.
On Monday, Brittany wakes up feeling achy and sweaty, with Santana's lips on her forehead. "You have a fever, Britt-Britt," she whispers.
"Fuck," Brittany groans.
Santana smiles against her forehead. "Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll take care of you this time."