Chicken and dumpling soup has quickly risen to the top of your things to love list. You're not quite sure why or how it happened, you just know that after working thirteen hours, you're standing in line at the quaint little bistro not far from the hospital, breathing in that smell of fresh baked bread and herbs. The aroma permeating your vicinity has left you with an appetite that you forgot even existed until about nine days ago. You crave it.
"Back again?" the woman behind the counter asks, and you blush.
"So it seems," you reply.
This may or may not be your fourth appearance this week. You're not sure; you haven't been counting.
You impart a thoughtful smile and order your normal—dumpling soup and fresh baguette—while feeling your stomach grumble in anticipation. You've spent the last two hours dreaming about the rich broth and hearty vegetables you're about to consume. You're now also eyeing the blueberry scone that's sitting all by itself in a scant display case, subtly imploring you to purchase it.
It's getting late though, and decidedly, you pass on the sweets. You hand over your debit card to the cashier and scan your surroundings, eyes flickering from the steaming soup wells to the door. Every time it opens, you half expect a certain blonde to walk through, flashing that wicked smile and wrapping you up in her gaze all over again.
What an exquisite way to keep warm that would be.
You think perhaps if you sat at the little corner table and waited out the next fifteen minutes before they closed, she just might surprise you. Maybe she would walk through those doors, all brash and sure, leaving you to blush under her stare. Only this time you wouldn't be so you. You'd lick your lips, meet her gaze, collect your courage...
Maybe you'd surprise yourself.
Yet, you shouldn't. You know you shouldn't.
It's just that she's been taking up more space in your head than you'd prefer. You have ridiculous visions of holding her hand while you do entirely meaningless things together—like singing in the car, or buying laundry detergent. This is a fearful notion for you because she's a distraction, one that could be devastating to your career, particularly because you know your body loses its sense of free will whenever she's in a close proximity; but you also recognize the curious draw that reels you in. This innate part of you wants to find out more. You want to discover who she is, who you are when you're with her; and already you can tell, you like yourself a little bit more when she's around.
But you like being Dr. Lopez, too.
Which is why when the cashier scoots your bag over to you, your eyes only flit over that table once more. Anything else would leave the ache in your chest to linger just a little too long.
Your third week on transplant, two things happen: one, you get moved to midnights; and two, the floor is assigned another resident doctor. It would be accurate to say you're not exactly thrilled about either. Late nights tend to draw in the crazy, and the fellow resident? Well, it's not that you don't want the help (or extra day off a week it allots you), you just don't want the individual selected to do the helping.
He is...many things.
Including a total dick.
Dave Karofsky. 28. Chubby, but not necessarily unattractive. Average height. Strong jaw. Brown hair. Even eyes. Pale skin. Thick lips.
Basically, he's the All-American boy. The exact prototype of what a doctor should be.
And yet, you are entirely scared for those entrusted in his care.
It bothers you on a visceral level, because this predetermined ideology of what classifies as a proficient practicing physician is utter bullshit, especially since you know how lazy Karofsky is. All through med school you noticed his incompetence; you watched him trail behind others while you lead. His performance was below standard on a regular basis, but his dad—some yuppie that knows people in high places—swept his fuck ups under the rug. It used to make you seethe to the point of rage. And if you're honest, it still does. As a doctor, when people seek out your care, they rely on your competence. Your knowledge and training is meant to ensure this competence. It's development is not meant to be easy. You're not wrapping Big Macs; you're saving lives.
Some people tend to disagree with that logic, and it scares the shit out of you.
Every time you've tried to recall a time when in which Karofsky's exhibited any real type of capability, you can't; you've only been privy to his weaknesses. At this point you're fairly acclimated with them, and the further along the both of your careers go, the more prevalent they become. It's like clock-watching; you just stand there, holding a certain amount of expectancy, waiting for the hand to strike. Every time he forgets an imperative detail or his fingers fumble, it constitutes as further justification.
Kind of like right now. He's walking up to you, holding an injection tubule with doubtful eyes, and your fear travels to new depths. It's such a basic task, one that he should have mastered eons ago, and the fact that it's still causing inhibitions just...
It blows your fucking mind.
You scan the empty room, like maybe another sweep-through will magically make your attending doctor appear, able-bodied and ready to witness whatever fatuous comment is sure to emit from Karofsky's mouth. He's a mere two feet from you, lips parted, as he begins to frankly ask, "Dr. Lopez, how much glucose do you recommend I give a patient with a blood sugar level of 41?"
You can't help it. It's an involuntary reaction. Everything goes red.
Heat coils in your chest. You bite your bottom lip and dip your eyes low, too professional to show your frustration. Even though the selfish part of you wants to leave him to fend for himself, just to put on a full display how inept he really is, you can't. The risk is too weighty. People shouldn't suffer because he doesn't understand the gravity of his occupation.
You sigh heavily, making sure he hears the pitch of slight irritation. "Are you not familiar with the standard glucose injection, doctor?" The taste left in your mouth from calling him "doctor" is not one you care to remember.
"Well, she's a five-foot-seven female, one hundred and sixty four pounds—"
"That information is irrelevant," you interrupt him.
"What do you mean?"
"What I mean is that the standard dose for glucose is 1 amp of D-50. The dosage of dextrose is diluted; body type doesn't matter."
"Oh," he mumbles.
"Oh" is apparently the standard response for him, because it directly follows your answer to the next three questions he asks as well. By late evening, you're over it. If anything, you're encouraging the crazy people to come in. You'll even hold the shaker board if it'll help.
When Dr. Kellman makes his way to the floor, you pray that he'll notice Karofsky's incompetence.
You quickly learn however that Dr. Kellman isn't really interested in semantics. He brushes off Karofsky's stupidity like anything else, and in the limited time you do find yourself in his company, you hold your tongue. You don't like him. In fact, you can't stand him. While admittedly medically brilliant, he's incredibly boisterous, ignorant, and chauvinist. It's just a vibe that radiates for some reason. Your theories have no basis of course, and are only assumptions, but his demeanor tells you that he really enjoys the status that his job title affords him; like he's the type of guy who knows the value of his money and where it can get him in the world. You imagine the women he fucks aren't his wife, that he takes them to 700 dollar a night hotel rooms with high thread count sheets, and his self-esteem is built upon these cornerstones alone.
You've also caught him staring at your ass.
Twice.
The third time happens when you're at the nurse's station, leaning over to read the flow-sheet, and you see him from across the way, eyeing you intently. You clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms when Kurt comes up to you.
"Lopez, what the hell are you still doing? It's almost midnight. This princess needs to eat."
You're still burning with anger, but you chuckle at him slightly, not letting the comedic value of the moment pass you by. He thinks you don't notice how he's been purposefully waiting to take his break, acting as if it's some grand coincidence that your lunches are now in sync with one another's. It's kind of adorable. You'll even admit to enjoying the company and the witty banter that Kurt offers, but most doctors don't have personal relationships with their staff. It could be seen as highly unprofessional, and for this reason alone, you're not sure you want to solidify such a daily routine.
But something tells you Kurt isn't going to go down without a fight. He's pretty adamant on being your new BFF.
With a voice tracing sarcasm, you answer: "Calm yourself. You're not going to wither away, I promise."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," he teases. He then cranes his neck, like he's noticed something, and finds Dr. Kellman sizing you up again. From a close distance, you hear his light snicker.
"Don't even...," you warn him.
With a tickle of tease, he says, "Well, this would certainly be one of the perks of coming out to your coworkers."
You furrow your brow. "Hush."
He shrugs his shoulders. "I mean, maybe if he knew that you only rode the vagina wagon, he wouldn't be giving you creepy eyes."
"And how do you know what wagon I ride?"
"Oh please," he scoffs. "I've got a twenty that says you own every Alanis Morissette album ever made."
You shoot him a glare. "Another comment and I'm deleting every Lady Gaga track on your iPod."
His mouth agape, he looks at you inquisitively. "You wouldn't dare."
"Oh, I would," you challenge.
With a hurt expression, he squints, "So you're committing musical blasphemy because I'm speaking the truth?"
"Lady Gaga herself is already musical blasphemy."
"You take that back," he orders.
You shake your head and close the flow chart book, rocking on your front toes, preparing to answer the call light that just went off. "Nope."
As you begin to walk away, Kurt calls out to you, "I'll meet you downstairs in thirty?"
With careful footing, in one swift motion you pivot on your heels, giving you the opportunity to look at him while slowly walking backwards. You shrug unceremoniously and say, "Duty calls, Hummel" just before twirling back around.
Maybe it's wrong when you sneak away without him, but you just want to eat a meal without explanation and judgement from your colleagues. So you make your way downstairs, finding a little corner booth the furthest away from the world. It doesn't take long for him to find you, though. Almost as if he knew where you were all along, he strolls over as you're picking the crumb topping off your muffin, and slides into the floral cloth covered cushion beside you.
"Way to sneak down here without me," Kurt whines playfully, eyeing you curiously. You bestow him a faint smirk and try to play it off gingerly. "You know, for being a gay man, you sure are needy with women."
"Whatever," he rolls his eyes.
He's scooting himself closer to you, unwrapping some sub concoction that smells like ass when you see another figure sit down across from your current position—one more familiar. Taller. Slighter. A bit more fragile.
Yet not fragile at all.
Even though it's been less than two weeks, your memory doesn't do the tangible representation of her justice, and her pinstriped pencil skirt only reiterates that fact. Your gaze lingers just a moment too long, allowing those blue eyes to catch you in your proclivity. Heat ascends through you, scaling up your neck, threatening to reach your cheeks. Despite your best efforts to keep a level face, you falter. The expression you offer treads the line of modesty, and you're inclined to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from blushing.
Kurt unsubtly clears his throat and says, "Brittany was just upstairs looking for you. I told her she should eat lunch with us. I hope that's okay."
You internally scoff at him, but say, "Of course."
As though she's been waiting for your approval all along, Brittany shakily exhales and begins making seemingly meaningless fluctuations. They're entirely incomplex gestures, but they allow you to discern the slow unfolding of her beauty—a simple shrug of a light jacket from her shoulders, a twist of movements, a flicker of a gaze and the slightest of smiles—you mentally record every bit of it, storing it in the most concealed of places.
And when she settles in the seat across from you, never leaving your eyes, you watch her mouth "hi" quietly; like a secret. Your heart flutters slightly. You blink. You shiver. You study the wetness left on her lips after she licks them unconsciously. An innate part of you wants to say something back. You want to reciprocate the stolen glances and silent whispers, but you don't know how to get to that place; it's too far away from where you are.
You avert your eyes. You're not sure if it's eons or seconds, but silence becomes prevalent.
You laugh at your lack of response. Life is kind of funny like that. You're capable of so many things. You can treat a bullet wound without flinching, make perfect sutures and immediately pick through lies; yet, in the adult world, you still can't seem grasp the art of flirting.
Breaking the silence, Brittany inquires: "So...transplant, huh? That seems crazy. You guys are like...giving people new hearts and stuff?"
You concentrate on her hands. They're ripping and tearing open sugar packet after sugar packet, pouring the contents into the small paper cup of tea sitting before her. You count ten altogether before the lid goes back on. The odd quirk makes you smile and she carries on like it's the most common thing in the world.
Kurt finally answers, but not without an inkling of irritation directed at you. "Uh, sometimes. Heart transplants aren't as typical as kidney transplants, but they're not uncommon. Actually, Santana assisted Dr. Yuik in a heart and lung transplant earlier this week. Right, San?"
You forgot you were supposed to be having a conversation and find yourself with a mouthful of muffin. That's when a swift kick comes underneath the table, slamming into your shin. You furrow your brow and look over at Kurt, watching as he silently mouths: talk to her.
Brittany eyes you with interest. "Oh, wow. You actually get to do that stuff? That's amazing. Is it gross, though? Seeing people's insides? I always thought it might be..."
The question is obviously directed at you, so you can't avert it. You swallow your food, clear your throat, and muster up a bit of confidence that always seems to be lacking when she's near. "I wouldn't say it's gross. Some people might think so. I don't know; I guess I just find it fascinating more than anything else."
She leans forward and asks,"What's so fascinating about it?"
You lick your lips because they suddenly feel really dry. "Um..." You stumble; you're having a hard time articulating words when she's eyeing you like that. "I guess it's just...everything? How the human body works, knowing what can cause this or what might cause that. I like being able to figure out what's wrong with people. But surgery? It's kind of like being the repair man. After you figure out what's wrong, you get to fix it. It makes me feel like I'm doing something and not just handing out prescriptions to everyone. I've always wanted to do it, ever since I was a kid."
"That's so cool. You guys should be proud of yourselves. Seriously. I don't think I could do it," she admits.
"Everyone's got their thing. I'm sure you've got yours," Kurt says. It's laced with bait, and you sit back, waiting to see if Brittany will bite.
"I would think so. I work here, actually."
Your mouth hangs open. You stare, wide-eyed.
"Oh?" Kurt asks.
"Yeah. I'm a social worker, specialized in hospice."
Kurt flails a bit, jazz hands and all. "Wait, what? Britt! You've been holding out on us. That's fucking amazing. And it's such a hard job."
"I love it," she blushes.
"Talk about awesome. You're it, lady," Kurt encourages.
And you feel a kick against your shin again.
"Uhh..." you're fumbling for a second time—"what sort of hospice work do you do? Are you interacting with patients, or more behind the scenes, or...?"
You didn't want to ask it, but when she grins at your question, you're suddenly glad for doing so.
"Most clients are kind of past that interacting point. I just find ways to make them more comfortable. Like, I talk with families and figure out what kind of stuff they like; that way, I can set up their room for them, surround them with things that make them happy. I like knowing that I was the last person to make someone smile. And how many people get to do that? It's awesome, you know?"
You scan her face with a newfound quiet admiration before your voice perks up. "I can only imagine."
And then you appreciate the rosy blush that spreads across her cheeks.
"So you work late, Britt?" Kurt asks.
"Sometimes. Depends when people need me. I kind of make up my own hours, but I'm here mostly during the day."
"Well, if you're around with us night time folk, you should totally eat with us more often."
With a hint of play in her voice, "Really? What do you think about that, Dr. Lopez?" The question catches you off guard.
You try to scrounge up a response without a stammer. "Well, I don't always have time for lunch breaks..."
But that look on her face tells you just how relentless she can be. "And the days that you do?"
Because you sense the slightest amount of hope in the question, you can't bear to squander it. "I suppose I don't mind the company," you concede.
And when she gives you that warm, genuine smile again, you swear, you've never felt like you've mattered more. It allows you for even the briefest of seconds to return it.
"So...I have this thing. I have to do it. It's probably just because of my job, but like, I feel like I don't know someone unless I know their favorite things." Brittany admits.
You look at her quizzically. "That's kind of random."
"But informative," Brittany retorts. "Knowing the things that matter to someone tells you a lot about them."
Kurt's lips curl up in cocky grin. "Showtunes."
You roll your eyes. "No one here wants to talk about your obsession with Liza Minnelli, Hummel"
"Hey, hey. She is a legend, thank you very much."
"Congratulations, Brittany; you've officially established that Kurt is an idiot."
"And incredibly gay," he declares.
Brittany laughs lightly. "Well, I already knew that, silly. What about you, San? Any favorites?" The partial use of your name doesn't go unnoticed, and it leaves a general warmth to flood your chest.
"Um...I don't really have favorite things."
She furrows her brow and looks at you. "You've got to have favorite things. Everyone does."
You shrug nonchalantly, but she's insistent. "Well, tell me something that you love—something you really look forward to."
You pucker your lips together and count time as you contemplate. "Uh, Halloween, I guess."
Kurt laughs comically. "Halloween? Of all the things you pick, you pick that?"
With a slight blush, you admit that you just really like Halloween candy. And you shrug again. Perhaps the need to do so was prompted by a false reality. You had expectations about your revelation being deemed as stupid; yet when you look over at Brittany, she's telling you otherwise. The grin across her face doesn't leave you embarrassed or remorseful, but rather warm and curious. So much, in fact, you're seconds away from parting your lips. Your mouth is prepared to ask all sorts of questions about her favorite things, and why and —
"Shit," you mutter as your side pocket begins to buzz, practically making you jump out of your skin. Your blackberry alerts you that three new messages are awaiting, the first one marked urgent. "I've gotta get back. They're paging me," you inform.
You stand and Kurt quickly takes another mouthful of sub before following suit. The moment kind of hangs heavily. You can tell by the way Brittany crosses her arms and presses her lips together that she's trying to avoid that look of disappointment from reaching her face. You wish it wouldn't matter to you, but something about it tugs at your insides, prompting you to avert your stare. You end up looking again though, and after a second glance, you're actually quite certain that look will be the death of you. Now that you've witnessed it, felt its ramifications, you're terrified of the lengths you'll go just to never see it again.
She is...
Beyond so many things.
Kurt leans over the table and holds out his hand. "It was really nice talking to you, Britt. I'm looking forward to seeing you more." She beams as her gaze flits from him to you, patiently waiting to hear your next words. You feel as though there is a heaviness your reaction holds, knowing that however you choose to respond will be pivotal in either moving forward or backwards.
Neutral is all you need. Just stay neutral.
"Thanks for sitting with us."
Friendly. Nothing more, nothing less. Right where you need to be.
"Thanks for having me," she grins.
Just as you are, you're prepared to walk away. You're nearly a step in motion with Kurt only a beat behind you, but her gaze won't allow it. Those eyes hold you down, drawing you to the earth, tilting the universe's equilibrium.
And you don't feel neutral at all.
You feel...
Like a pendulum
swinging between you
and your falling
And there is nothing you can do to stop it.
You pull yourselves away, and once you and Kurt are alone in the elevators, you choose that as your moment to speak freely.
"Kurt, what the hell was that?"
With wide eyes, he looks at you flabbergasted. "Are you kidding me right now? I just did you a favor."
You scoff with a bit of anger. "Putting me in awkward situations is not doing me any favors."
"You're crazy. That woman is fantastic. If you don't want to date her, I will."
You raise your eyebrow, and with a taste of sarcasm, bite: "Yeah. You go ahead and do that."
"Well, obviously she's missing...essentials, but you get my point, Santana. She adores you. Give her a chance."
You sigh, a bit defeated. "Look, I appreciate you trying to help me out and all, but I don't have time for this kind of thing. You of all people should know that."
His face falls. "San..."
The elevator dings and the door opens. You take the opportunity as an end to your conversation without having to verbalize it. Rather than remain bitter, immediately you fall back into work mode, ignoring Kurt's shooting glances and subtle messages. You're done talking about Brittany, about him, about everything.
The rest of the night goes by quickly, and the minute you open up your apartment door at half past eight, you walk in and collapse on your couch. Your body still hasn't adjusted to sleeping when the rest of the world is awake. At this time, you're used to fighting traffic and standing in long lines for overpriced coffee, but you're tired enough now that when your head hits the cushion propped against the armrest, it only takes seconds for you to drift.
Eight hours of glorious sleep follows. It's the longest you've slept in two weeks, and you wake feeling stiff, yet refreshed.
Your afternoon doesn't exactly start off the way you want it, though. You're out of milk, so you can't have that bowl of Cheerios as planned, and then your washing machine won't spin. You end up having to make a call down to the front office, requesting maintenance. When the woman on the other end tells you no one can come out until Tuesday morning for repairs, you lose your shit, unleashing that sharp tongue; and even though it doesn't help your cause, you do feel a bit better after you call her a useless twat.
This is the part where you wish you'd spent a little bit more money to live in a nicer apartment complex. At the time, logically, you couldn't persuade yourself to do so. Resident doctors make only slightly more than a nurse's salary, and you've already had to begin paying back some of those pricey student loans. It's not like you're living the dream. In all honesty, you won't begin making real money until you either start your own private practice or take on a surgical unit position somewhere.
You don't really want to do either. The thought of becoming a glorified tit surgeon just so you can own a ninety-thousand dollar BMW isn't exactly on your list of wants; and neither is working eighty hours a week.
These are the things no one tells you when you decide to become a doctor.
This is your life though, and at the moment, you have no clean scrubs or the means to wash them. You'll have to stop at that run down 24 hour laundromat across the street from the hospital. Maybe it won't be entirely awful. Maybe you can curl up in a chair and sleep for the few hours you're stuck there.
To bide your time before work, you clean your apartment and listen to Pride and Prejudice on audio. You purposefully leave the accent setting to British for authenticity reasons. Or because you really like the way it sounds. You admit to nothing.
When you do get to work, there's a plastic orange bucket shaped like a pumpkin with black handles sitting on the counter. It's filled to the brim with assorted candy, and written in black sharpie is your name neatly across the back.
You smile wide. "What's this all about?" you ask Mercedes as she steals a piece of candy corn fleetingly. She shrugs. "A woman from hospice dropped it off, said it was for you."
Trailing your fingers through the bucket of wrapped sweets, your mind can't help but imagine Brittany standing in the candy aisle at the grocery store, trying to hand select something just for you. It leaves you smiling because you love so many things about the gesture—the loss of time meant on your account, the thoughtfulness, the conscious effort to get a variety of chocolates and sour candies, almost like she understands your indecisiveness. You're certain it may be one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for you.
You'll never eat all that candy though, so you leave the bucket on the counter, but not before abstracting all the Snickers bars. Those you store in the side pocket of your lab coat, and every time your hand periodically reaches for one, you feel another soft smile threaten the lines of your face.
And every time you feel that threat, you attempt to learn its texture, understand its capabilities and constancy. Because gravity seems to be at work here, pulling you in a direction your body is not accustomed to going in. It's taking you to a realm of fixed levitation, suspending a weightless worry, and if you're not careful, your feet may never touch the ground.
You fear it like nothing else, yet want it like nothing before.
Your mind is sorting through such thoughts as Kurt comes up to you, holding up an almond joy and giving you a face that says: I told you so.
As if to reiterate his previous statement, "Could she be any more adorable? Seriously. San..."
You eye him intently. "Stay out of my shit, Hummel."
"Oh, come on. Even you have to admit how sweet this was."
You nod your head in agreement and peer down at your watch. "Yes, it was an incredibly nice gesture. Don't you have rounds to be making?"
He grumbles, then points his finger at you as he begins to walk away. "Don't you dare fuck this up."
Disregarding his warning, you finish the last note on a patient's chart and head over to the locker room. It's nearly eight in the morning, and you want nothing more than to go home, eat another Snickers bar, and crawl into bed with Saturday morning cartoons softly filling the background. The slow pace of the night shift is almost making you more exhausted than the chaos of days.
But the bright sun beating against the window serves as a reminder that the world awaits. There's still laundry to be done and a stack of unpaid bills sitting on your bedside table. And despite having zero initiative, you change out of your hospital smelling scrubs and throw on a pair of jeans with a raggedy t-shirt. It's sloppier than your usual neat attire, but you're not exactly seeking to impress anyone at the laundromat.
You're nearly out the door when the BlackBerry in your pocket lets out a quick buzz. You stop abruptly, not wanting to look at it, let alone answer it. This is a scene you're all too familiar with: you—on your way out the door—but some minor crisis that requires your presence has become imminent; or your attending doctor suddenly deems it necessary for you to help with some last minute, but entirely necessary surgery.
Brazenly, you click on the home screen, prompting a number you don't recognize to light up. At that point, you have to laugh, because the message presented before you isn't even remotely close to the one you were expecting.
Good morning, Dr. Lopez. Have breakfast with me? - Britt
You're not positive how she got your work number, but you have a general idea.
I can't. I have to do laundry. Thank you for the offer.
It's less than a minute later when the next text comes through.
Oh, well that's not a problem. I'll bring breakfast to you. Where are you doing laundry? - Britt
A rush of blood goes to your head.
The laundromat, but I'm sure you have better things to do with your Saturday. Thanks though.
You're not surprised by the immediate response.
Let me be the judge of that - Britt
You should've gone to the laundromat before work, because apparently nine on Saturday morning is a popular timeframe for washing clothes in the Cleveland community. You kind of feel left out. You were not privy to this information.
You really wish you had been.
And among other things you wish for, your iPod is one of them.
Forgetting it was the worst possible scenario, because some little boy is currently running around with a plastic airplane, making swishing noises as it floats a mere two inches from your object has already hit you in the nose once, and you can't back into your chair any further than you already have. Even with the pure discomfort written across your face, he still holds it before you, leaning further in every time you tilt away. Since this has been happening for the better part of fifteen minutes, you just assume his parent is absent or useless. You're hoping for useless; babysitting was not on the docket for today.
And you kind of hate kids. A lot.
When he starts pointing the airplane at you, spittle escaping from his mouth as he makes fake shooting sounds, you prop your feet onto your chair and pull up your knees in attempt to guard your face.
"Hey, that's not nice," a soft voice echoes.
And there you see Britt, standing before you, holding a familiar white paper bag with a lovely smell emanating from its contents. The little boy grows still, eyeing her just as inquisitively as you are, scanning her make-up free face and tousled hair. You adore that she's in pink stretch-pants rather than strolling in all radiant, making you feel inferior in your comfortable jeans and loose shirt.
She has a sense for these things though; she always does.
"Tyler!" The booming voice of his mother comes from across the way, and immediately he bolts. You're half tempted to walk up to her and ask her where she's been the last goddamn twenty minutes, but Britt's taken the scuffed, plastic seat next to you, and watching her has taken all the attention you have to offer.
"Thank God. Baby Hitler was trying to kill me."
She smiles wryly, giving you a hint of sarcasm."Yeah. He definitely looked intimidating, holding that plastic airplane."
With a need to defend your pride, you explain: "He was. Did you see the mini mustache? He probably has a swastika tattoo hidden somewhere. Look at him."
You nod your head in his direction, and the both of you look over to the little boy, who's not a day older than five, now sitting next to his mother. His cheeks are puffed out while he continues to make swishing sounds, holding the plane midair, leaning back and forth.
Chucking softly, she says: "Yeah. Pretty scary. Good thing I showed up when I did. Who knows what would've happened otherwise."
"It's a mystery," you grin.
Returning the warmest of smiles, she opens up the bag and begins handing you carry out containers of food. First you get a paper container filled with strawberries and granola. Next comes some type of egg, bacon and cheese sandwich on a bagel. It smells so delicious you may cry real tears of joy.
"Wow, this is...thank you." You're at a loss. She needs to stop doing these nice things for you when you haven't done a single nice thing for her. You're not even sure you know how to do nice things for other people.
As if she can see your wheels spinning, she nudges you softly with her shoulder. "It's nothing. I had the day off and wanted breakfast, but I didn't have anyone to keep me company. You can't have breakfast without company. I should be thanking you."
Her smile is...
You have no words.
All you can fathom are differences.
Differences that are beginning to accumulate in your mind, and you compel yourself to store them in a secret place no one can reach. It's now so dauntingly apparent to you that it forces the air from your lungs; because if you think about it too much, if you really let it sink in, you'll recognize she is everything you aren't—honest without ever needing to be mean, compassionate even when she's hurt, beautiful without ever taking credit for it—and it only further validates your original notion that she is indeed much too good for you.
"San?" It's more of an are you with me kind of question than anything else.
You smile soft and reassuringly while eating your sandwich in comfortable silence. You even stay perfectly collected when she shuffles slightly, leaving the outside of her thigh to press against yours in the most glorious way possible.
You don't move for the whole three minutes and twenty-seven seconds it stays there.
The need to cross her legs requires a shift in position though, and it forces you to become aware of your surroundings outside of her again. More people pool in. More children. They're running about, screaming and hopping, completely immodest.
Fatigue begins to set in after a while, and your body doesn't understand the disarray. Every attempt you make to mentally drown out their sounds falter, and your eyes are begin pleading for sleep. A now satiated stomach only makes you grow more tired.
She notices your heavy lids fluttering. You knew she would.
"You look exhausted," she says gently, lips curled into the most perfect curve you've ever seen.
"A little," you admit.
Decisively, she pulls an iPod out of her hoodie pocket, and you look curiously at the set of headphones neatly wrapped around it. After being unraveled, she places a single bud in her ear before handing you the other. She commands you to take it.
Apprehensively, you proceed, catching it from her fingers and placing it in your ear. In a moment's time, familiar, soft music begins to play. It's not loud enough to be overbearing, but it is just enough to drown out a little of the chaos surrounding you.
You curl yourself into a ball and lean your head against the back of your chair, trying to situate yourself into the most comfortable position possible. It isn't exactly ideal, but it works because seconds later, you're blank. You're not in that world of dreamless sleep, but you're close enough that your body recognizes it as just that.
You're unsure of how time passes or the length in which it does, but when you wake up, you're much more comfortable than you were before. The chills you experienced just before drifting are gone. The plastic of the chair that was digging into your forehead no longer feels harsh, but soft and enticing. Even the atmosphere smells better, like warm caramels and faint wind. You're not positive where you are, but it may be the most comfortable place you've ever been.
You lick at the dryness of your lips and swallow the sleep in your mouth. Fabric tickles your chin, and when your eyes flutter open, you're welcomed by the smoothest, softest skin you've ever had the privilege of finding. Your gaze follows the pale neckline up to the curve of a long jaw, and then back down. A faint pool of moisture has collected in that neck dip where your lips were just residing.
Then, it clicks.
In embarrassment, you immediately pull away.
You're entirely afraid to look over, but when you do, you see her head leaned back against the wall, eyes shut softly as her chest rises and falls naturally. Loose hairs have fallen against her face, and you think even amid sleep, she's some deviated version of perfection.
And sitting next to your feet is all of your laundry—clean, dry and neatly folded. You run the tips of your fingers across the shirt atop the stack, and feel a rush to your head.
"Britt," you call out, gently.
When she doesn't move, you say it again.
And this time, she hears. She blinks. She stretches her arms and looks around quizzically in her waking, questioning the venue. She studies you briefly, as if you're the only thing allowing her to reenter the land of reality.
Groggily, she asks, "What time is it?"
Your watch indicates it's after one, and you tell her so.
"Wow," she exhales.
"You let me sleep too long," you say.
"You needed it," she deadpans.
"And you did my laundry," you state, rubbing your temples.
"You needed that, too."
"So you're just going to give me everything I need?"
She shrugs nonchalantly. "Maybe." You can't help but scoff and chuckle awkwardly.
You contemplate the words before asking, but it's pretty much an inevitable question at this point. "Why?"
Perfectly level and unabashed, she gazes at you. "Why not?" Her frankness has no bounds. You're not sure how you fair under it.
With the honesty approach, you answer: "Because I haven't exactly given you a good reason to do nice things for me."
She bites her bottom lip and considers your statement while time plays slowly in the background. "I just..." her voice trails.
"You just what?"
"I just like doing things for you."
You can't help it; you sigh frustratedly. "Yeah, but why?"
"I didn't know I needed a reason," she says.
You just want answers. None of this is logical.
Bitterly, you say, "Yeah, I guess you don't." You never meet her gaze. Rather, you just begin packing up your things quietly. The need for air and space has become overwhelming.
"Look..." she offers after a moment. Her eyes challenge you, daring you to meet them. You give her your focus.
"I know that it's probably weird that I'm doing all this, and you think you haven't done anything for me, but..." Her voice stops and starts again. "But I guess I'm not really that worried about it. I just have this feeling...like it doesn't matter; like you're worth it."
And she catches you—your look, your breath, your bravery. You gaze at her and feel a soft stir deepening in you. You think about all the things it might mean, but your thoughts have become broken visions and possibilities that cannot be unraveled.
And only her you can fathom.
Enraptured in a world where Brittany Pierce has evaluated your worth.
She has thought about it, assessed it, decimalized it, ranked it, named it.
She has named you something worthwhile.
And when you think about what that might mean, you become so uncertain that it scares you. Because that soft stir has grown less timid. It's reaching out with confidence—a newfound valor that's tugging at your heartstrings, vocalizing to you what it wants.
And it wants you to be worth it.