You couldn't stay in the comfort of the bathroom forever. You figured after twenty minutes, unprofessionalism would begin to set in.
Just as unprofessional as your emotional breakdown, you suppose.
But if it isn't irony fucking with you when Dr. Yuik catches you in the hallway all blotchy-faced with pink-rimmed eyelids, you don't know what is. And now you're certain he's going to think you're one of those melodramatic girls that can't handle herself.
Yet when he walks his way up to you and scans your face, it's with a common regard that doesn't disregard. It's more of a quiet consideration, like he's not judging you; he's just entertaining thoughts.
It makes your nerves a little less apparent when he says, "Dr. Lopez, if you have just a few moments, I need to go over some things with you."
You swallow thickly and hope that the dull, dry ache of your eyes will magically go away before conversing. "Of course." And you follow him. He leads you to the hall computer and you stand behind, watching as he pulls up several different screens until he finds the one desired. At the top it reads Blaine Anderson, and below has a compilation of lab results for recently run tests.
"Dr. Kellman told me about some of your concerns this morning, so I took some time to go over things. I wanted you to know, it appears that you were correct with your diagnosis."
Your heart doesn't know what to do: sink or swim.
Maybe if it weren't so fucking sad, you could actually gloat a bit about this display of competency; but nothing about this makes you want to celebrate. You can't even find words.
So you just press your lips together and nod your head in response, ignoring the burning sensation permeating at the crevices of your eyes.
"As you know, this is very difficult to treat—nearly impossible. For now, it's best that he gets moved to ICU immediately. I'm going to leave you in charge of the hospice referral, and I'll talk with Sue about calling his family."
You almost want to tell him that he's better off on transplant—with you—but you don't. Rather, you acquiesce in a silent deference, because it's Dr. Yuik, and you trust him in the most respectful of ways.
Again, you nod. You keep your voice conditioned; collected, "Anything else, doctor?"
"No, that will be all."
The dismissal offers you a moment to walk away freely, and you're thankful for it because you feel that tinge of tears again. But your name faintly being called stops you. It seems fleeting, so you don't spin around all the way, only enough to see who is seeking your attention. And it's him. He's standing there, waiting for your concentration.
He meets you halfway and eyes you sincerely. "You know, there's an old Chinese proverb I've always enjoyed," Dr. Yuik begins. "I used to memorize them when I was little, but one of my favorites was always, 'He who is passionate is honest.'" His voice stops before it begins again. "Sometimes in this profession, you have to remind yourself of the things you enjoy."
You're a bit struck by this. You're not entirely sure what to say, or if words are required at all. So when it feels appropriate, you just offer him a slow nod.
"I looked at the rotations, and saw that you're not here tomorrow. I expect you're doing something fun? What is it you kids do these days? Zumba?"
And you laugh, because beneath his accent, zumba sounds quite hilarious, even if you know the hidden meaning behind his comment. What he's really telling you is that he doesn't want to see you in here on your day off. He wants you to "remind yourself."
You contemplate this as he gives you a half grin, which is the best you can expect from a guy who never smiles, and then he says, "Have a good day, doctor," before leaving you to your own volition.
Your world goes from black one minute, to a hazy contrast the next. Perhaps it's because something is nudging against your side, rocking your hipbone, forcing you to come to. Lazily, you swat the feeling away. It comes again though, more persistent this time, and when you finally open your eyes, attempting to find focus, you regain reality trapped under an ever-so-familiar gaze.
"Wake the hell up," she orders. "I've been trying to call you all week."
The emphasis of her voice is sharp and pithy, as if she's trying to make you perfectly aware of her frustrations. If you were more alert and less troubled, you'd probably demonstrate that bitchy aspersion you're ever so capable of demonstrating—something like calm your tits, or do I look like I give a fuck? But your mind's not yet ready. Half of it's still left in the hospital, the other half still lethargic with fatigue. And rather than use up all your insults, you produce a sigh and rub your temples in dismay. Even though you don't want to deal with this shit right now, you know what's next. You were kind of expecting it. In fact, the only thing that comes as a surprise about your current situation is that it didn't happen sooner.
So, you play up the charm in your voice and feign pleasantry. "Well, good morning to you too, Quinn."
"Don't you Quinn me. Learn how to answer the damn phone."
You're happy she at least gives you the opportunity to pull yourself somewhat together. She allows you to sit up, stretch your arms, twist your back and wipe the sleep from your eyes before the interrogation begins. "Care to tell me why I had to come all the way here just to talk to you?"
"Because you were in the neighborhood?"
Her eyes roll. "Guess again."
"Because you really like the way my ass looks in pajama bottoms?" You shrug nonchalantly, looking down at your boy shorts and tank top. Her eyes tell you she's really not impressed with your attempt at humor, though.
"Stop being an inconsiderate bitch, Santana," she says. "You could've been abducted for all I know." It's a pitiful remark, and you just stand there, watching the way her arms fold across her chest. It's odd how perfectly controlled her facial features remain when she's this vulnerable—like she's trying to display every bit of confidence she has, just so you won't know she really cares.
You can't help it. You let out a short, half-choked laugh, and amid her anger brazenly say, "Fabray, this is Cleveland, not a fucking Taylor Lautner movie; I'm not getting abducted."
Her tone goes soft, the way it does when she's the most sincere, and, "I just... I worry about you, Santana. You're always working. You go in on your days off. You never eat—"
"What the hell is it with everyone lecturing me about my eating? Jesus fuck."
Even though you're playing up the drama, deep down, her concern touches you. It always has, and it probably plays a large role in why you've been friends for so long. Yet, sometimes you wish she didn't know you so well; because when she stops in her motions and contemplates your prior words, there is certain curiosity that studies you. Like you can feel the wheel as it spins. "Wait, who else has been lecturing you about eating?"
Of course, your first inclination is to lie. "No one."
But you've never been a good liar, and she knows this. Her brow lifts, her eyes find you, and the look stretched across her face offers the simplest of explanations—she doesn't believe you. Not even a little bit.
"Bullshit," is called out. Smoothly, she shifts her weight off her left side, begins to tap her front foot and stares at you readily. It's clear now that you're being scrutinized, and you weren't prepared for such events. To bide time, you turn your gaze away and silently will the gumption for plausible evasions—any equivocation that will do.
Half truths spun are usually the safest. They don't allow you to get too creative with your storytelling, or too mixed up with the lies. Like, it would be conceivable to speak of Brittany as some sweet elderly woman who brings you soup and Snickers, leaves you candy buckets and folds your laundry. She doesn't have to be nearly six feet of sex legs, somehow sweet all the while seductive when she imparts that smile—the one that you're quite certain could paint vivid imagery back into a colorless world.
Or maybe just your world. Add it to the growing list of things pertaining to Brittany Pierce you haven't entirely figured out yet.
"It's... it's no one," you answer. "Just this woman from work."
"Oh." A smirk reaches her lips."Does this woman have a name?"
Quinn's giving you the questioning eyebrow dance. It's not okay with you. You don't like the situation or the inquisition, and you still feel like it's a necessary requirement to answer:
Brittany.
"And what does Brittany say about your eating habits?"
With a sigh that implies this is not a conversation you're at all interested in having, "That they aren't habitual enough, I guess?"
Smugly, you hear a "Hmph." You know better than to ask for a meaning behind this implicit sound, or the cocky grin visible across her face. Rather than spend too much time attempting to discern it, you swing your legs in front of you and stand. You know what you need, and as you make your way over to the kitchen, you practice patience. On the counter sits your black Keurig coffee maker waiting for your arrival; and as you pull the rich hazelnut blend from the cupboard and empty the contents into the filter paper, the mere smell alone is enough to make your mouth salivate.
A familiar sound fizzles. A potent fragrance permeates. Your stomach grumbles eager as steam rises, and your lips curl into a smile when caramel hot liquid drips down. You're not sure what heaven looks like, or if everyone has their own versions, but you're positive yours would include this.
"So, what does Brittany do?"
Another sigh escapes you. Part of you thought she may have been standing there. You sensed it, and now her voice has definitely confirmed it. You also know what she's doing—digging at you, holding on to any little bit of information you'll give her.
You feign stoicism, and reply like it doesn't matter. "She's a hospice social worker."
You're searching for another coffee cup when you hear that hrmph again. It tells you everything you need to know about the moment—that your apprehension is giving you away, that she clearly recognizes your need for diversion.
You pour a bit of cream into a mug for Quinn and reach for sugar, and when you scoop the first spoonful, your smile reaches high, and your heart fills full...
And fuck, it's like she's now a permanent fixture in your periphery.
"Is she hot?"
You scoff some sort of audible disregard. Because dammit, she's already taking up a majority of your head space, and you really don't want to think about what that means right now. You've got enough on your mind as it is.
"Don't give me that. Just answer the question."
Your immediate internal thought is dear god yes, while your immediate external reaction is to display nothing other than apathy. But still, you end up setting your spoon down a little harder than your initial intent, and you deflect a little more blatantly than you would like to publicly exhibit.
"I don't fucking know, Quinn."
But you do know. She knows you know.
"Really?" She challenges.
You compile your best impressionable word choice. "Like I said, I don't know."
She squints and eyes you carefully. "Well, it's a shame you don't know, because it just so happens that a Brittany has called you twice since I got here. And apparently, she even likes to give wink faces in her text messages."
Your stomach ascends before it descends while Quinn dangles your Blackberry between her fingers, displaying two missed call prompts across the bright lit screen. Slowly you become cognizant of how heavily darkness is prevailing around you, and the 10:15 flashing on the stove tells just how long you've been out. It's then that realization hits you in the most revealing of fashions. You bite your bottom lip, face palm your forehead, and let out an elongated self-whisper.
"Shit."
You forgot. You fucking forgot.
Well, you didn't forget; you just slept through your dinner plans with Brittany.
Forgetful or sleepy—you're not actually sure which one sounds more pathetic.
Hastily, you reach for your phone, but Quinn retracts her hand too quickly. "Ah ah," she sounds mischievously.
"Quinn, give me the fucking phone."
"Not until you tell me who she is."
Lacking patience, "I already told you, she works with me. We've been talking about a patient I had to refer down to hospice. Now give me the fucking phone."
It's not a bold-faced lie. You did write a referral for hospice this morning, you just didn't consult a certain blonde social worker about the matter yet.
If you're being honest, you don't think it's a conversation you could have with her. Your mind can only handle a finite amount of emotions at once.
Quinn isn't put off when you stare angry daggers at her, and beneath your gaze, you're able to tell she still isn't convinced. It makes perfect sense why. You've never been one to interact with your coworkers and share phone calls, especially at this hour, with this amount of elusiveness.
Yet, there's something about this—some push or pull that makes you feel like it isn't necessary to divulge information. You're still not sure what's happening, or what could even possibly manifest itself into existence; yet, whatever you're feeling, whatever it is, you know it's meant to be between you and Brittany, and no one else.
"Yeah, okay," she spits sarcastically, and you know she isn't happy with your lack of telling.
You begin flipping through your messages, and scan for the missed ones. The first text: Hey San, are we still on for tonight? And another, sent just over an hour ago: Are you working now? Should I wait up?
Something in your lungs sink. Or you sink. Either way, it pretty much leaves you feeling like the world's biggest dick.
Quickly, you type back: I fell asleep. Just woke up. I'm really sorry. Should we try again for later this week?
A weight of disappointment hits you as your thumb taps send. The truth is, you were really looking forward to her making you dinner. A lot. And after this act of douche-baggery, you seriously doubt she's going to be asking you again.
"You look pretty concerned over 'some woman' right now,'" Quinn teases.
"Fuck off, Fabray."
She throws her hands up in defeat. "Your words, not mine." While the tone is teasing, you know she's only half-joking.
"Look, some of us actually work normal hours," she says, throwing back the last bit of coffee you made her. "I have to go, but seriously San, we need to talk. No more avoiding me. Can you do lunch next week?" Her eyes tell you she's serious, so you refrain from an inappropriate joke and nod your head in response.
She gathers her purse and swings it over he shoulder in one quick motion. "Well, since you seem to be responding to your work Blackberry these days, I'll text you on that tomorrow." You don't miss the way she gives you a wry, forgiving smile and winks just as she's walking to the door. You may even blush a little bit.
You call out bye, and after Quinn leaves, you look around your apartment, kind of lost. You wish Dr. Yuik hadn't subtly reminded you to stay home. You don't normally have this much time on your hands, and it's been even longer since you've had over eight hours of sleep.
Sleep really does make you feeling fucking glorious, energized. Hungry. You think you may even go somewhere, perhaps do something semi-normal—like some domestic grocery shopping kind of shit.
Why the fuck not?
You're contemplating what you would actually buy at the grocery store when your phone buzzes again.
It's cool. I just finished making dinner. You can just come now if you want.
You close your eyes and reopen them, still making sure you read the text correctly.
Because the time on your phone reads 10:46 PM.
Um.
Dinner? Now? Don't you work early in the morning, though?
A response immediately follows, and you can't help but smile at it.
Just come, silly.
Nerves. Relief. Apprehension. Fluster—all accurate depictions of your current state.
You don't know why you do, but you don't even think twice when you send back Ok. Rather, you concentrate on time, and how much she's probably already spent waiting on you. Your shower is one with quickness—six minutes. You're not even certain you legitimately wash anything, but the water is hot enough to at least give off the illusion you're clean. You make yourself presentable. Another twelve minutes of blow drying your hair. Dressing takes three. The ripped jeans and tight shirt you throw on don't smell like hospital, so you figure they're already a step above the normal attire she sees you in, yet still adequate enough to appear like you put forth effort.
Besides, it's just Brittany, right?
Just...
her.
Seven minutes of driving gets you to your desired location. She lives in a nicer area than you; it has a little more curb appeal and a lot less graffiti. When you pull in the driveway and smell some sort of lingering teriyaki aroma, you smile because you know you're in the right place. You pull out your Blackberry and tell her so.
I'm here.
Slowly your feet make their way across the dew-glistened grass, and the bottom of her wooden entry steps is where you wait. You feel a bit awkward as your ass hits the cold surface and your fingers trace the splintered handrail; but when she comes trotting down the stairs on bare feet, with disheveled hair and low-hip-placed pink pyjama bottoms, everything aligns. Her eyes find you, and as if to encourage your courageousness, she imparts a grin that wraps you up in the paradox you know she is.
Or maybe it's her lingering look that makes you feel like that.
One more thing added to the list.
She stops a step before you, lips curled wide, eyes genuinely happy to be looking into yours. She's not even mad that you almost missed this... thing. In fact, you wonder if she's ever been angry at all.
"Hey San." Your knees weaken under her stare.
"Hey Britt." You really hope you're not blushing. It kind of feels like you are, so you avert your look to the ground—anything other than her eyes and lips.
She grins again, and while you know it's just... her, just doing indefinable things to you, you're entirely positive that there's something really unfair about the way she smiles.
Especially when it's aimed at you.
Because when you think about things deserved, things earned, and you measure the worth of her lips turned up in that flawless manner, you know it's far past anything you're capable of deserving. In fact, you're at a variance with your mind over the cause. You want to be worthy of her affections. You want to reach a level of adequacy that would allow for you to feel such sentiments.
Yet, you're painfully aware of just how lovely she is, and what she's rightfully procured in this lifetime. You're sure her heaven looks a lot like the perfect aberration, and when it comes to what's deserved, she's entitled to a world built on an axis that spins just for her.
And you just can't with that; you just fucking can't.
"Let's go up," she suggests.
She's grabbing your wrist and pulling you forward, leading you to the unknown. Contemplative, you look at her fingers wrapped around your skin, engrossed with the warmth that ensues. It leaves you a bit fluttery; hesitant; timid. But it's not a placed feeling; the only thing you're certain of is uncertainty and the undistinguished discourse playing in the back of your mind—because you can't figure out what you fear more: the fact that you're completely unaware of your surroundings, or that you trust her enough to lead you anywhere.
And lead she does. She leads you past her front door, through the foyer, into what looks like a small living space. You're stopped, standing there, waiting to see where else she is going to take you. You try to make your nervousness subtle as you shuffle your weight from one heel to another, thankful that the softness of the carpeting beneath your feet doesn't make too much sound.
"This is my place," she says proudly as your eyes scan the vicinity.
It's exactly what you expected it to be—small and quaint, yet charming with peculiar color schemes and oddly placed furniture. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't even find it to be discernible, but it's so unmistakably her, so entirely fitting, treading that line of halfway incomprehensible.
And for whatever reason, it just... makes sense to you. She makes sense to you.
"It's nice," you say, peering at the zebra-patterned lamp in the corner.
"Thanks."
Silently, you follow her into the kitchen where a cold breeze is blowing in through the wide open window. It smells a bit odd, and you can almost taste a burnt bitterness, yet you see no source of the odor. You only notice the counter where a plate filled with apple slices resides, and what looks to be a stack of sandwiches piled next to it.
She blushes as you grin questioningly at her. "I uh..." her voice is shaky, almost embarrassed as it trails off. "I tried to make enchiladas, and it didn't quite work out."
Because how can you not laugh at that—you do. You chuckle lightly, and try not to gaze at her adoringly, and you just...
"You didn't have to do all that," you say, touched by the effort. "Really, I'm easy to please."
"Good," she says, laughing at herself, "Cause PB and J is all you're getting tonight."
"Wanky."
She smirks over at you, maybe even a bit astounded at your unabashed sexual innuendo, and you really are too. She has this uncanny ability to make everything that's weighty feel like less, and everything that's lighter feel like more.
"You know San," she says in a voice that sounds a lot like a warning, "talking like that, some girls might think you're flirting with them." She hands you a plate with food and a sly grin, leaving a blush to pink your cheeks and spread to the tips of your ears.
And she's nudging your hip with her hip. "The table's over here, if you wanna sit there." It's almost more of an inquiry than anything else, probably to make you feel at ease, and you just shrug in response.
She's walks like she's leading you, but you don't follow immediately. Momentarily still you stand, letting the flush leave your face, and then go to find her in the living room. She's on the couch, her knees spread far apart from one another with her feet tucked under, but she's made sure to leave a vacant space. When she eyes you, she pats the spot softly, and you swallow enough courage to step forward, ignoring the growing palpitations in your chest.
Her smile allows you the comfort of settling in your seat, but you're still unable to comfortably mimic the way she's sitting. Rather than try, you cross your legs and gaze in her direction, equally fascinated with her eating habits as by her sitting preferences. You're intently watching the way she licks the tips of her fingers after every apple slice disappears into her mouth. It reminds you of all the reasons your mother scolded you at the dinner table as a child.
Yet when she does it it's so impossibly fucking cute that you can barely stand it.
"What?" She catches you. You thought you were being subtle, but she's looking at you wide-eyed, maybe even a bit bashful now.
You shake your head. "Nothing."
Your facade remains intact while you quietly eat your sandwich (which surprisingly, is still one of the better meals you've had in a while). Her knee nearly touches your hip and you scoot just a little further away. Twice you attempt to discreetly flicker your eyes in her general vicinity, and twice you catch her staring at you. On both occasions, she blushes and averts her gaze. You've never seen her this shy, and the general feeling it's giving you isn't one you can completely fathom.
Admittedly, you kind of like it.
She pushes her plate away with the remaining crumbs and pats her belly like she's full. "I'm gonna get a drink. Do you want one?"
You bite your lip and momentarily consider this. It's honestly a bad idea, especially when you consider how uninhibited you're going to be after a bit of alcohol, and what that might mean...
As if to persuade you, she fires off a list. "I have beer, red wine, white wine, Stoli, Bailey's..."
Your eyes widen and you laugh. With a touch of sarcasm, "Oh, is that all?"
"I might've bought a few things while I was at the store."
"You may have?"
"Okay, I totally did. I promise though, I'm not an alcoholic."
You raise your brow. "Sure about that? You know what they say, Britt; admittance is the first step."
When she glares at you, you almost wish it wasn't too cute to take seriously. Yet, when she's playfully slapping you on the knee and using it as leverage to bring herself to a stance, you take that entirely seriously.
Because she's just touched you, and there was really no rhyme or reason for it to occur.
"You have to tell me by the time I get to the fridge, or I'm choosing for you," she warns.
You mean to tell her you want beer, but you can't. Your mind's still lost in sixty seconds ago.
Yet you still watch her across the kitchen, standing with the door open, deciding what to bring you. You assume the red wine she's pouring into a coffee mug is meant for you, but when she strides back over to you holding the mug in one hand and a bottle of beer in another, she's giving you the beer.
Reclaiming her seat, her ass plops down on the cushion, her back hits the armrest and her feet land across your lap. You flinch a bit, not expecting it.
More unwarranted touching.
Yet, you can't bring yourself to ask her to stop.
You offer a brief, "Thanks," and she mutters something like no problem, but you barely register it. All you're fathoming is how the weight of her legs is pressed against your hip, how her knee resides against your arm, or how the heel of her foot is digging into your inner thigh. You're suddenly hyper-aware of all bits of personal contact.
"San?" she asks.
"Huh?"
"I said you can set that down on the table if you want to."
"Oh."
You lean forward to set the cold bottle on the coffee table, careful not to lose the warmth of her on you. Maybe she senses it, because she shifts just a little closer after the glass finds surface. More contact ensues. You're getting increasingly nervous as her eyes are on you, studying your movements, contemplating the way you wipe leftover perspiration from your hands to your jeans, or how unsure you are of where to place said hands with her feet taking up a majority of your lap.
And it feels like she totally just set you up.
Because now it's a natural reaction to want to put your hands on her. You're resisting the urge to take hold of her heel and knead every tender spot until she lets out those collapsed, breathy breaths you remember, or run your fingers across the back of those lengthy legs, if only to feel the tightening of the muscles in her calves.
Just her, you tell yourself.
She leans her head back comfortably against the armrest. "Any big plans on your day off? I don't think I've ever not seen you at work."
You're half-listening, half-focused on the location of touching body parts. The need to assure everything is still at a safe distance is entirely too important. "I dunno. Laundry for sure. A few errands. I was thinking about going grocery shopping."
Her lips tighten as she tries not to laugh. "Well, that's... not what I was expecting."
"Hey, you're the one who said I need to eat more," you tease back.
"No, it's not that. I'm just... impressed, is all."
And that smile again. It tells you about all things that you've never been able to name before. Things like admiration, beauty, understanding; everything that makes you wish for a single moment you could exist on the same plane of worth.
If she were one of your random college collectibles, you'd probably answer something like, I can be very impressive; but she's not. And unlike those girls, what she thinks of you matters, and you don't want to come across like an egotistical bastard.
Your moment ends when she nudges you with her foot. Her toes poke your side. You look over, and she's just finished taking a sip of wine when she says to you, "So, tell me stuff."
You smirk. "What kind of stuff?"
"I dunno. Like, stuff that matters."
You look at her a bit lost. "Like..."
"Like... do you have any brothers and sisters?"
Smiling nervously, you shuffle your hands. You reach for your beer because you really need something preoccupying you again, and alas, it's there. You take your time amid the hidden comfort, consuming small, lengthy sips.
And she looks at you. She waits patiently.
She's good at that.
"Um, yeah. I do." You'd leave it at that, but those blue eyes are clearly asking for elaboration, so you slowly comply. "I... have a brother."
"Older?"
"Younger," you correct.
"What's he like?"
"An asshole," you answer honestly, your voice treading the line of discomfort.
"Oh," she says. "I'm sorry to hear that."
You lift your shoulders high and tight, and you shrug. With a designed purpose, your focus lingers on places that aren't Brittany. You don't want to admit that family is a sensitive topic, one you don't really plan on diving into any time soon. The old saying really reverberates with you here that some things are just better left unsaid.
You half expect some sort of comment, but find relief when she doesn't press the topic. What she does do, however, is move. She shifts her weight off of you, swings her legs in front of her, and gets to her feet.
You feel her absence more than you feel her presence.
And when she disappears for a moment, you almost wonder if you should go and look for her; it's plausible that you were just being a total dick, and you should apologize.
Yet, when she returns with a worn box in hand, her expression alludes to nothing of the sort. She sets it down on the table before you, lips slipped into a smile, and you peer over curiously. Your eyes pinpoint the graphics on the top lid and on its own volition, your face shifts to mimic hers.
"Super Nintendo?" you ask with, admittedly, a delighted tone.
"Yup," she states, unraveling a set of grey controller cords. "And Super Mario World, of course."
You don't even try to hide it this time when you look at her; it's deliberate. You feel that push, that swing—a back and forth rocking of your heart. And when she looks up and finds your gaze, holding it there, you give her an appreciative glance that silently tells all that you cannot say.
Because despite only knowing each other a short while, you think, maybe she kinda gets you too.
Yet, there are things in the back of your mind that won't go away. You keep thinking about how fragile life is, and that there are other people that can't be enjoying themselves like this, and you swallow it down.
Two things happen at 2:49 AM: You've just gotten past the first world, and you've just downed your fifth beer.
And you like how much less you feel.
It's her turn to hold the controller now because you got ate by one of those stupid fucking plants in the tubes. If you're being honest though, it's mostly her that's gotten you this far. She's a Super Mario machine that's been killing it all night long.
You kind of adore that she's a closeted video game dork. You would've never pegged her for it.
There's a lot of things about her you wouldn't necessarily have guessed from the start. She likes to surprise you.
Kind of like your current dilemma. You didn't think she was going to be this...touchy, and you'd love to leave here tonight saying that you didn't break any rules, but that's really difficult to imagine right now. Not when her feet are in your lap again, and her heel is so dangerously close to places it shouldn't be close to...
With a lot of shame, you're welcoming the feeling. Perhaps it's because you're a little drunk, and you so badly want to feel her, no matter how small of a feeling it is.
And when she shifts ever so slightly and her skin brushes the palm of your hand, you falter. Your fingers tense, the muscles in your wrist flex, and you touch. With a slow appreciation, gently you drag your nails down the side of her foot, feeling the softness of flesh under your control.
"Hey, no fair," she whines, immediately retracting her foot. "That's like, sabotage."
It takes you a second to register Mario's demise and indeed realize—it was kind of sabotage.
She isn't even the least bit bothered, though. Her smile never sways. She just extends her arm and hands you the controller, saying You're up. And when her reach lingers, and the tip of her finger touches your finger, it creates a path of tingles traveling up your spine, and down lower...
And you think of neuroscience at its finest. Even when the gentlest part of her touches you here, you feel it there.
"Another beer?" she asks. You don't even think twice. You nod.
She saunters over to the kitchen, and your expectancy concludes that she will go straight for the fridge. Yet, she doesn't. She begins opening up cupboards high above her head, her toes raising straight to tip forward as her arm reaches. You admire the display of her taut back muscles in that tight tank top. And her ass; it's just there in all its glory and perfect roundness, reminding you with vivid imagery of those adorable underwear she had on. Drunk enough to stare shamelessly, you lean back a little more in the seat that allots a flawless view, biting your bottom lip, digging your nails into the skin of your thighs.
It's evident what's happening here. God is obviously playing a hand in slowly driving you mad.
The funny thing is, you don't have a fucking clue what she's looking for. You just hope it's lost in the abyss of nowhere.
A moment later she's still rummaging and you're still gaping. You know you can't stay in this position forever—with your head resting behind your linked hands and your eyes pinpointed in her direction—but another few seconds seem necessary.
And of course, it's that moment she chooses to turn around and catch your gaze, leaving your stomach to flutter endlessly.
Fuck.
With an accusing smirk, "Were you just staring at my butt?"
A thousand awkward fucks.
"No," you lie. But it isn't a lie that's believable. Especially with cheeks that can't possibly be any fucking redder, or when your answer is beyond any reason of belief.
Casually she grins, and this time she does open the fridge. She grabs a single beer and dangles it between her first two fingers, letting the condensation drip off the sides. And as she begins that slow walk towards you, your awareness is challenged with heavy spins. It's so much like every fantasy you've had in the last few months—long strides and confident hips which sway in an entirely effortless manner. And when she stops just before your knees, hovering above your gaze, you hold your breath. A cold bottle is offered to you, and you take it, praying that some form of pity will be taken on you.
Because you're only human, and god help you, she is some inhuman sort of sexy.
And she doesn't say anything at all.
But she doesn't need to, because heat is still rising. Your knees quiver. Between your legs pulsates. Your mind flashes holograms of you grabbing her by the hips and fast-fucking her against the wall, and your eyes stare at her partially glistened lips.
She's staring at yours.
You think, if only you were just a little bit better, you might kiss her.
It's a notion you've continually contemplated, and it dives further into your cognition until all confidence is lost. Your gaze falters and you become unable to tell where and how she's looking at you.
She notices, though; after several minutes of sitting next to you, she notices your denial of noticing.
"Everything okay?" she asks.
You bite your lip and nod, recognizing that she knows you're not. But you also think she knows better than to prod.
This time, she doesn't surprise you.
Her smile delicately dissipates any worry of inquiry, and between the alcohol fully coursing in your system and the resumption of Mario, life gets easier. Her laugh returns when you get your ass kicked by a big ass ghost, and your mind feels like fresh snow. Sounds are less pronounced, but feelings are vastly clear.
You like the levitation. It allows you perceive things in a different way. Under normal circumstances, you would have never considered the fact that she has never once looked at you with disappointed eyes. You think it's part of what perpetuates your level of comfort; like she knows that you would never purposefully let her down, and if you could, you'd paint her an existence that only consisted of all her favorite things.
You don't love many things, but you really, really love her eyes.
And you love those eyes even more when she's struggling to keep them open at half past four in the morning. You forgot that unlike yourself, she actually gets up at normal hours of the day; and with it being a weekday, it's likely that tomorrow is one of those days.
"Britt," you affectionately call to her. With fluttering eyelids and bent knees, she groans. She's not actually answering you; not really. What you get is more of a hum of an intonation, a general half-wakened inquiry, and you smile at her slumberous state.
You stand over her, offering a touch of your hand. "Britt, I'm gonna help get you to bed and go, okay?"
Another groan and she grips your wrist. She holds you tight and hard, and makes a sound that echoes a lot like no. It's confirmed when she tiredly shakes her head and pulls you closer.
And after she mumbles something barely comprehensible against your ear. "Don't let me fall asleep, San."
You chuckle. "A little late for that."
"Not yet," she pleads, eyes open again, but this time, fighting against falling.
"It's going on five in the morning. Come on. Let me help you to bed," you insist. Again, her head shakes.
"No, no, no. Keep me awake."
"And how do you expect me to do that?" Your voice traces sarcasm.
"Mmmm. Sweet lady kisses."
"I think you're drunk and exhausted," you explain.
"I think you're pretty," she replies.
And you blush. You bite your lip and you fight a smile that feels like it means something. "I..." It's there on the tip of your tongue: I think you're pretty, too. But you stop yourself.
"Just wrap your arms around my neck. I'll help you," you command.
She's not really complying, but mostly because she's having too hard of a time staying awake. So you take her hands and you do it yourself. You pull her up to you, and like a sudden wave, the weight is there. She's entirely leaned against you, and she hasn't been this close since...
And it's a lot like a drunken slow dance.
Hip against hip, knees against knees. Her breasts press up against you, her nose nuzzles the crook of your neck, and against it she half-awake requests "Will you stay?"
"Britt..." You sigh. She clutches. Her hand finds the fold of your shirt, and with a pull, she begs.
You're probably in no position to be carrying her anywhere, so it's not like you're completely disregarding the offer. You're just worried about the implications of sleeping here. You worry over what she might consider it to be, or what you might want it to mean. And you worry about what you should be thinking about, rather than how easy it would be for you to lean in and touch her lips with yours.
You'd rather worry about dancing.
So you do. You lead her down the hallway and into her bedroom. Her knees hit the side of the bed, her back falls backwards. You don't mean to set her down that quickly, and if you weren't feeling your own version of fuzzy, you'd probably be more concerned. But it doesn't really matter. Her breathing is already finding a steady rhythm that tells you she's going to pass out quickly, and by the time you pull the covers back and get her on top of the sheets, she does just that.