When she woke up, there was pain.
Santana's eyes opened cautiously into narrow slits—a slumbering blur lay beside her, arm draped delicately over her waist. Her head was pounding and her throat felt like the Sahara; the light that filtered in through the window seemed blinding. Recollection of last night's events slowly trickled into consciousness, her mind grasping onto each moment one at a time.
Sleep had greeted her reluctantly last night; she had lain still and awake for what seemed like hours after Brittany fell asleep. Never before had she been so mystified by her best friend's actions. Sure, they had kissed before, but it was usually for the sole purpose of titillating a drunken Puck. There was nothing emotional or tender about it, it was just part of their image.
So she thought.
Surely it was just Brittany being- well, Brittany. That had to be it. Their friendship had always been a handsy one, and the two of them never hesitated to link pinkies or give each other backrubs in public. The alcohol was just working her system; she hadn't realized what she was doing. Maybe she meant to place the kiss on her cheek or forehead, but missed.
Yeah, that had to be it.
She wouldn't bring it up, Brittany had probably forgotten anyways. It didn't matter, and it was a wasteful thing to dwell on. Besides, it wasn't like the kiss was horrible or anything; despite smelling like a brewery, Brittany's lips were soft, and the speed of the contact made it feel like it never actually happened. Maybe it hadn't.
Just as the thought of Brittany entered her mind, the blonde laying beside her began to stir; the tranquil tangle of limbs under the covers started to unwind. Santana hadn't realized how much of Brittany's skin was against her own until she moved away, leaving the air to bring shivers to her legs.
"'Tana."
It came out as a breathy grumble rather than a greeting. A small smile met her lips, in turn causing Santana to smile back.
"Mornin', Britt."
She was surprised how scratchy her voice sounded; both of them could use a glass of water and some aspirin, she guessed.
Santana splayed her arms out behind her and lifted her head and chest up, trying to keep the room from spinning around her. It was easier said than done. Brittany, who wasn't one to take forever getting out of bed in the morning, practically sprung herself out of the covers and sprawled her endless legs off the bed. She only sat for a few seconds before toppling back over, a disoriented groan escaping her throat. The scene made Santana's smile grow wider—nothing about it was surprising.
"I'll go get us some water."
Performing a slower version of Brittany's movements, Santana allowed her legs to dangle off of the bed for a moment before daring to stand. She trudged into the bathroom—conveniently connected to her bedroom—feeling like her legs were encased in jell-O. She faltered over the toilet for a moment, thinking that her dinner might be about to make a second appearance.
It didn't seem like Brittany was acting any differently—well, except for being hung-over. Relief spread over her, she hadn't even realized she was carrying the weight of last night on her shoulders. She was beginning to think her mind really did make the whole thing up in a drunken stupor.
Not that her mind would do that. It wouldn't have a reason to.
She filled up two glasses of water, drank from one and sloshed the liquid around in her mouth, swiftly spitting it out in the sink afterwards and cursing Puck as she did so. At least she finally had some leverage over him. Unbelievable. Rolling her eyes at the increasingly vivid memory, she padded back into the bedroom with a glass in each hand.
Brittany seemed to have found her purchase on the room, as she was sitting up now, watching Santana come back with thankful eyes. She drank greedily before attempting to speak.
"It's Saturday…" Brittany spoke in a tone reserved only for topics of the utmost importance, "that means pancakes, right?"
Of course that would be the first thing she thought of. Santana struggled to suppress a grin.
"Coach wouldn't allow it. We need to be in shape." Santana spoke with authority, surprising Brittany with her seemingly harsh tone. "So yeah, it means pancakes." Finally the grin broke out of her lips; her face lit up with laughter.
…
Once the prospect of pancakes was brought up, it didn't take long for Brittany to get showered and put some clothes on. It wasn't unusual for them to shower at each other's houses, and neither of them thought it strange to get dressed in front of the other.
This morning, however, Santana had noticed Brittany's wandering eyes. It didn't even seem like the girl was making any attempt to conceal what she was doing—she felt her gaze run down her body, taking in every detail, every nook. It was the first time she had ever felt bashful or self-conscious about not wearing any clothes in front of her best friend. She had never scrambled to put her clothes on so fast.
Had it always been this way? Had she just not noticed?
Maybe Brittany was just checking to see if she was dressed yet… and maybe she was too hung-over to realize she was staring. There couldn't have been anything sexual about it. Brittany wasn't—that way. Neither of them were.
…
Brittany's legs hung impatiently over the edge of the counter, her face glowing cheerfully. Santana stood next to her, pouring pancake batter over the stove. Before the two of them joined the Cheerios squad freshman year, having pancakes on a Saturday morning was a commonplace ritual for them. Now they considered it a treat—they were really only supposed to be eating (or drinking, rather) Sue's Master Cleanse, but there was no way that a human being would actually be able to sustain themselves on a diet of that alone. That didn't stop Brittany from trying though—Santana actually had to intervene last year when she found out that the girl was adding sand and rocks to her shake.
The memory made her lips curl into a subtle smile.
"What're you thinkin' about?" Brittany's usual innocent tone.
"Nothing." Though her response seemed cold on the surface, there was warmth to be found in her voice, and Brittany no doubt picked up on it, as she smiled back with curiosity gleaming on her face. It was like she knew.
Santana wasn't sure why she didn't just tell Brittany that she was thinking about the shake incident. It was no secret. She supposed she just wanted to focus on the pancakes. There was still plenty of batter left.
The finished ones were flipped on to a plate, and Brittany looked at them like they were the first morsels of food she had seen in a month. She was going to wait for Santana to finish though.
Santana poured more batter, methodically connecting three of the batter globs together by failing to put distance between them. She glanced at Brittany through her peripheral, a smirk emerging on her lips. As if on cue, Brittany launched herself off of the counter and engulfed Santana in a tight hug, excitement radiating off of her.
"You're making me a mouse!"
"Mhm!" Santana was quite proud of her pancake-making abilities; she knew Brittany was also impressed.
So impressed that she was still hugging her. One of Brittany's arms disappeared behind Santana's shoulder—she was sure she felt her hand playing with her hair, coiling a strand around her finger. Her other hand was close to her thigh. Uncomfortably close. Their faces were inches apart, and she could feel Brittany's breath on her cheek. Brittany's eyes darted to her lips for a moment. The embrace began to feel constricting; heated, and Santana wasn't sure how to escape it.
"I need to flip the pancake." Her voice was distant, metallic.
"Oh, okay…" Brittany's arms dropped to her sides and she took a step back, eyes seeded with something that resembled disappointment.
Santana gripped the spatula as if her life depended on it; the grip on the handle was hurting her fingers. It scratched against the pan as it flipped the mouse over; the noise acting is a momentary distraction. The room was silent otherwise, and she could sense Brittany standing a few feet behind her.
She put the mouse on the pancake plate and poured the remaining batter on the pan. Last one. Once this one was done they would look at each other.
Santana felt a gentle hand brush against her shoulder, settling itself lightly over where her shoulder joined her neck. Her eyes widened.
"Did I… did I do something wrong, San?"
Her chest moved as if sighing, but she didn't feel herself take a breath. Guess they were going to do that talking thing that Brittany loved so much. Santana spun around, hesitantly, and looked at the floor.
"No, of course not."
And she hadn't. Brittany's behavior hadn't been at all abnormal in the past couple days—she suspected the issue was her own, for some incomprehensible reason. She was just acting strange because she was imagining things between them that probably weren't there. It was ridiculous. Ridiculous and frightening.
"Then why won't you look at me?"
The sadness in Brittany's voice forced Santana to do just that. Her brow was furrowed in confusion, like a little kid who didn't understand how something complicated worked.
"I'm looking at you now", she paused, "you didn't do anything wrong." She felt it necessary to repeat herself—both for her own benefit and Brittany's. Unfortunately, the frown was still lingering on her face; Brittany knew something was wrong, and she was saddened by it. She could read Santana like a book, and Santana knew it. There was probably no use lying or hiding things.
"Let's just eat, okay?" Santana forced a smile onto her lips, knowing that Brittany wouldn't easily be fooled into thinking that it was the real thing. Still, she hoped that she would let it go for now. It wasn't even like it was a big deal; Santana was sure that within a couple days everything would be back to normal. Then Brittany could hug her to her heart's content. She was positive the problem was in her mind, drummed up out of boredom and her recent failed hook up with Puck. It was so obvious.
Brittany's nose crinkled.
"San, what's that smell?"
Santana took a whiff of air and realized what Brittany was talking about—smoke was beginning to rise in small billows from the stove.
"Fuck!"
Santana's eyes widened in surprise, and she shook her remaining Brittany-related thoughts from her head as she darted to the stove, ready to throw the smoldering pancake. The fire alarm hadn't gone off yet; hopefully it wouldn't. With astonishing speed, the pancake, now resembling a hockey puck, became airborne as Santana sent it spiraling into the sink with her spatula. With a sigh of relief, she slid open a window, hoping that it would get rid of the offensive smell.
Brittany observed all of this with her head cocked.
"That's not how we usually make pancakes."
…
Brittany dragged a wedge of pancake through the syrup on her plate, glancing between her food and Woody Woodpecker with less enthusiasm than usual. She lifted the bite to her mouth with an expert twist of the fork and chewed. She risked a glance at Santana.
She froze. Santana was looking at her. Laser eyes.
Syrup leaked under her tongue inside her mouth. Brittany forced her jaw to chew, tugged back the corner of her lip, swallowing the pancake and the blush that threatened to rise on her cheeks. "What?" she asked. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd caught Santana looking at her. Even Lord Tubbington could count how many times, and he always got confused with numbers higher than nine.
Santana just shook her head and turned back to her plate.
A loud crash came from the television. Brittany knew Woody had just mashed some guy's feet in the stadium chairs at a baseball game. She'd seen all the episodes before.
Santana didn't even look up at the noise. She dipped a bite-size square of pancake in her small, controlled puddle of syrup. Her eyes were dark like the clouds outside. Brittany wondered which one would rain first.
"What's wrong?" Brittany asked. The words came out strained and scared. She'd seen Santana upset before, but never like this. Never at her. "You look like my sister did when she found out the tooth fairy is actually Stuart Little."
Santana's lips dipped into a small smile, despite the obvious chaos going on in her head. Brittany saw the shadow of a dimple—a bit of a relief—but her forehead stayed pinched in a frown.
She watched Santana's eyes glaze over. Scrutiny turned inward. Choosing a response from a lot of options. The thought made Brittany feel nervous, but she couldn't risk tearing her eyes away, even to saw off another bit of pancake. She couldn't risk missing anything Santana said, and that meant keeping watch over every inch of that smooth, conflicted face.
The smile had faded already. Santana drew in a deep breath, more ragged than she would have admitted, and met Brittany's eyes with a small, clearly forced smile. "I'm just—distracted," she said. Lie. Santana was clearly distracted, but that wasn't the question. Brittany waited. "Last night," Santana began—or maybe finished, because she seemed to think better of explaining and instead let her pause seep into silence.
"Puck?" Brittany asked.
Santana's dark eyes flashed to hers. Lie, they said. "Yeah," Santana lied back. Like it was payback. Like the lie mattered. Like they needed to say what they meant to understand each other. Like the real conversation wasn't happening underneath.
Brittany studied every twitch and flicker. "You weren't up there long," she said. Something went wrong, her eyes whispered. But that's not why you're upset.
Only Santana could answer all three at once. "Puck was not on top of his game," Santana answered with a smirk of condescending distaste. But her eyes darted away. Back to her pancakes. Back to Woody Woodpecker. Puck did something wrong, Brittany read in the crease by her eyelid and the line of her mouth. And then you…
Brittany forced her eyes back to her pancakes. She could feel her heart in her throat, so she ate another bit of pancake and tried to swallow both down. Should she say something? Words were never their strength. Maybe that was why she…
Brittany turned her head and looked at Santana in profile. She had it. The layered words Santana would understand. The only way she was allowed to say it. "I could tell."
Dark eyes. They flicked between Brittany's—right and left, as if her eyes weren't sending the same message, as if going back and forth would speed up the translation—and she could see them soak it all in. I tried to make you feel better, Santana could read. The real reason—I just wanted to kiss you—could be buried. Like she knew it would be.
A small smile. Something lingered beneath—something responding to Brittany's Real Reason—but the smile was better than the sickening shock of Santana stiffening in her arms, the burned pancake, Santana bothering to turn away to put a bra on in the morning. Maybe it wasn't all ruined. "Yeah," Santana finally said. "I guess you could."