Your mind sits at the edge of consciousness, and even though your eyes aren't quite ready to open, your back is feeling a little stiffer than normal—confined, pressed down, almost like there is an unfamiliar weight on your upper chest. It's not uncomfortable, but you wouldn't define it as comfortable either; so you shift. You dig your heels into a softer than usual cushion and scoot yourself downward, only to feel an insistent soft tickle brushing across your neck. An audible rolling purr fills your ears, and when your eyes flutter open, you take a long look at the scenery before you. It's nothing but gray and black stripes, thick fur, and thin whiskers only a few short inches from your face. Some kind of eye patch covers one of its green eyes.
Your own eyes widen. Your throat burns. Your usual surroundings have vanished, and nothing about this is ideal. Not at all.
You will your mind to move backwards, but concentration is taken from you when you hear a sharp sizzle in the background. Grease pops. A delectable smell of smoke-cured apples and salted bacon permeates the air, leaving a wistful salivation to pool beneath your tongue.
Well, you're definitely not at home.
Your memory travels through the haze and recollects your previous day's happenings. You were with Brittany. You drank. You played video games. And when you went to go leave in the early morning, you dawdled—partially because you found a shelf full of Brittany's high school cheerleading photos, but also because you weren't in any shape to drive. You figured you would bide your time looking at her in that cute red skirt, and leave once you sobered up just a little bit more.
This was not good planning on your part.
Because now you're here. You're on her couch, and you're trapped beneath who you can only assume to be Lord Tubbington—and judging by the celestial aroma surrounding you, you're quite certain an adorable blonde is patiently awaiting you in the kitchen with those dangerous legs.
Your heart flutters nervously at the thought.
You push the cat off of you abruptly and he lands flat on his paws, but still offers an audible dissatisfaction of the gesture. The sound apparently prompts curiosity from the other room, and you hear an approaching soft shuffle of footsteps.
You wish you could control the way your pulse quickens from just knowing she's sharing the same vicinity as you.
You can't though. Not when only seconds later she's standing directly before you, apron tied around her waist, spatula in hand, the curve of her ass perfectly rounded in a pair of black skinny jeans. The plaid button up she wears hangs loosely off her shoulders. Your mind fills with visions of what tomorrow's outfit could be, or the day after that, or the day after that.
It's impetuous. Your mouth drops; your abilities falter. Consequently, you stare.
She smiles.
"Hi."
In a sleep controlled haze, you smile, too. "Hi."
"I hope Tubbs didn't wake you up. I told him not to. He's been trying to show you his Halloween costume all morning. Did you still sleep okay?" You look over at the cat who's insistently attempting to remove the eyepatch from his face.
You have to laugh in spite of everything, because oddly enough, you slept amazing. You still haven't quite pinpointed why, but you think you may have a theory. When you look around, your mind in compare and contrast mode, you notice Brittany's apartment isn't any nicer than yours. The walls are scuffed, the cupboards are old and worn, and the window actually allows more street traffic sound; but unlike your place, hers has color. It's vibrant. There's decor, crazy lava lamps, worn furniture, and a feeling of settled.
Still, it's kind of a silly notion, and you shake it off by just nodding in her direction. "I did. Thank you."
"Good. I'm making breakfast. I hope you like eggs and bacon."
You momentarily smile bigger, because you like bacon. A lot. But something inside your mind is tugging at you, like a voice of reason, urging your thoughts somewhere else.
When she leads you to the kitchen, you try not to let her see how your eyes are flitting about for a clock, narrowing in on the time. You note how the little hand is already striking twelve, and you can't ignore the slight panic working its way inside you. You didn't go into work yesterday. You didn't get to make sure Blaine is being properly taken care of in ICU, or that he got an appropriate analgesic, or double check that latest midline incision in room 9.
It's even more unsettling because you know she's supposed to be at work, too.
You should've went home last night. It never should've went this far.
Biting your bottom lip and feigning bravery, you lean your palm against the flat surface of the counter, your voice steady and ready to inform her that your departure is imminent. Yet, as she's scooping bacon, buttering toast and sliding eggs on two separate plates, the thought loses itself on the tip of your tongue. It's something to do with the way she's carrying on with perfect equanimity—like there isn't a worry in the world—that stops you. The time she spends, the effort she exerts doing these thoughtful things for you is vastly overwhelming. The feeling becomes even more so when her gaze carries over to you, blue eyes leaving a warm stirring in the crux of your chest, urging you to stay just a little bit longer.
Because right now you're looking at her, and no amount of time doing so could ever be time wasted.
She doesn't say anything, so you don't either. Rather, you practice patience. You sit down at the table and wait until she sets a plate down before you, your fingers fiddling with your fork as she finds the seat across from you. It's then that you inspect your food—steam rising from your flawlessly scrambled eggs, a lump of melted butter sliding across your hot toast. The smell triggering your olfactory senses makes you think this may end up being the best breakfast of your adulthood.
You're so not wrong.
It's actually a little bit embarrassing how fast you end up eating the bacon. It's savory, greasy and everything delicious in this world. You have zero shame.
This isn't something missed on Brittany's part, because she starts chucking softly when you take a bite of your toast and butter drizzles down your chin, onto your t shirt. Your cheeks blush. Real fucking smooth.
"Got somewhere to be?" She teases.
You raise your brow, now acutely aware of the speed of your movements. You make sure to slow your hands drastically. "Kind of. Don't you?"
Her lips press together tightly, but her demeanor is full of merriment. "I don't have to be to work for another two hours, so no, not really."
Your eyes go wide in surprise. "Oh. I thought you had to work this morning." It's more of a question than it is a statement.
She shrugs. "I usually like to go in early, but we don't have set schedules or anything. I can go in late if I want to."
You drop your eyes to your plate while your mind gathers past scenarios in picture form. It makes sense. You've seen her at the hospital plenty of times later in the day.
You just want to make sure she's not doing things because of you. Complicated things.
When your gaze lifts from the table and meets hers, it's like she knows what's on your mind.
Smiling, "It's not a big deal," she reassures. "Totally worth working late for. Last night was awesome. I haven't had that much fun in a long time."
The same is true for you as well. You hadn't had a night that good since a cold evening in March; and well...you try to think about that as little as possible.
Keyword: try.
You shift in your seat, and she looks at you. She can tell that you're getting antsy, and her stare softens and her mouth moves, "Your shift starts at six, right?"
You nod.
"But you need to go in early?"
You bite your bottom lip and nod again, this time more slowly.
"Okay. Do you think you can have dinner with me later? During your break?" Her pitched voice is almost as hopeful as her glistening eyes.
You sigh at the sight.
"I want to, Britt. I really do. But I might not have time, and I don't want you waiting on me." You're trying to figure out why all of the sudden people are wanting to monopolize your lunch breaks. They're pretty much few and far between as it is.
"I won't wait. Just text me and let me know if you have time. If you don't, you don't. I'll go by myself." You catch the way she smiles and shrugs just as she says it.
Like...everything is that simple.
How you admire her simplicity. It's not an outlook you could ever possess.
You grin softly and say okay just as easily as she requested dinner, finding yourself rewarded with a quick turn of her lips. Her eyes shine, her smile stretches wide, and you can't help but fashion ideas of how much you want this to be a regular occurrence, if only aimed at you. You've grown to love the way your stomach flutters and responds to her reactions.
Yet, what you fear is the underlying reality—the knowledge of knowing, that you just fucking know her happiness has somehow become essential to your own.
Or worse, that hers relies on you.
That concept stays in the back of your mind when she smiles after you offer assistance in doing the dishes, but she declines. What she does do, however, is walk you to her front door. She stands just a few short inches behind you as you slip on your shoes, and eyes you carefully as you meet her gaze. It's a look you recognize, but it's also laced with something else you can't quite name. Your heart lightly pounds against your ribcage, your breath expels slower than usual, and you try so fucking hard not to stare at her lips.
You wouldn't notice her rocking nervously on her toes if it didn't make her that much taller than you. It's pretty obvious though when you randomly have to look up an extra inch to keep her eyes.
"San, I'm..." her voice trails softly.
You try not to fall in love with the way she says your name, or the way she seems to lose her thought process amid every attempt of stringing San together in a sentence.
I'm...what?
It's then you realize the uncertainty fluctuating in your mind. You don't know if you want her to finish that statement or let it dissipate, because your heart already stops and starts whenever you look at her.
Yet, when she links her pinky with yours and leans in closer, resting her forehead against your cheek, you don't fight it. The heightened awareness allows you to become so very cognizant of distance, smell, touch. You feel every gust of her shaky breath just as it barely touches the line of your jaw, or the light fluttering in your stomach when her words get lost against your skin.
"...I'm really glad you stayed."
And when her lips brush your cheek and her mouth whispers have a great day, you can't help but feel nothing but fortune for such a blissful, serendipitous occurrence.
You kinda wish you weren't smiling like a dummy, but it's unwavering. Your stomach is content, your freshly shaven legs are like silk against the inside of your scrub bottoms, your hair has cooperated in the most accommodating of fashions today, and you can still feel the warmth of the softest lips you've ever had the luxury of experiencing against your cheek.
Never has your heart been higher.
You're reading log notes from the day prior when a familiar voice cuts through the silence. Your gaze flits over and finds Kurt making quick strides to the nurse's station. The first thing you notice is the yellow cape draping from his back, the green spandex traveling up his legs, and the thin black fabric covering his eye region. A giant R is plastered across his chest, green boots reside where normally white canvas sneakers would be, and you can't help the way your mouth drops upon staring.
It takes a really comfortable man to wear leggings that tight. Just sayin.'
He stops before you without animation, like his wardrobe is totally commonplace and within normal everyday measures.
So you ask. You just have to. "Um, why do you look like you're getting ready to star in Batman's gayest porno?"
His eyebrows arc with a squint, but his smirk tells you he finds your joke endearing. "Not that I would expect you to understand things like spirit and happiness, but just because you choose not to participate in events like Halloween does not give you the right to make fun of others."
"Because happiness is completely intertwined with impersonating Robin Hood, men in really tight tights?" You pause for a moment, contemplative. "And also, are those even sanitary?"
His eyes roll. "Sue said I could wear them."
"Sue's an idiot."
"You know, If you're not nice to me, I'm making you wear a princess crown."
"Like hell you are."
He places his hands on his hips, and looks at you with a flushed face. "As much as I'm enjoying your candor right now, today has been a shit-storm." Between the strain of his voice and the sullen demeanor, it's painfully obviously he wants you to inquire about whatever seems to be the problem.
Alright. You'll bite. "What's your deal, Hummel?"
"That woman—she's the antichrist. I'm not going back in there," Kurt asserts, nodding towards Rachel Berry's room. "Not unless you're bringing me a cross and a priest."
You can't hide your laughter.
"That bad, huh?"
His words are quick, hands animated as he steps away from you and motions to the computer. "Seriously. This is exactly why I'm gay. Never trust something that bleeds for seven days and doesn't die." He stops for a moment, pulling meds from his station before he picks back up again. "She's on a no liquid or food diet until her ultrasound tomorrow morning, and Santana, sweet Jesus, she's a Kathy Bates monologue away from scaring me shitless."
You smile and continue flipping through pages, watching Kurt watch you. "What, is Karofsky off today?"
Kurt scoffs. "Useless is on his lunch and leaves at six, so I'd say he's about done doing work for the day."
You have no comment for this, because any that you would provide certainly wouldn't fall under the professional category.
So you ask, "How is Berry doing?"
"Define doing."
You roll your eyes. "Her infection, of course."
"So-so. Still waiting for labs."
"Alright, we can go over those when I get back. I need to get to the ICU. Have you been up there yet?"
His eyes sink and you can see his effervescence dissipate.
"No," he answers bleakly.
You just nod your head, understanding all that really isn't being said. "I'll be back," you offer, and make your way to the stairs, silently leaving behind a weighted path. Once you're hidden from Kurt's gaze, you take a moment's time. You lean against the wall and collect your composure, trying to let the feeling that floods you dissipate.
The settling silence helps.
But the short stair climb ends quicker than you anticipated, and you're not nearly prepared to enter those double doors. Only now that you're standing before them do you wish you would've come up with a better executed plan to experience an emotional barrage.
You can't just stand around forever though, so you slide your badge through the wall-mounted card reader and wait for the electronic doors to open. Once you move through the corridor and down the hall, you don't hear the same sounds you're used to; rather, you feel a quiet intensity. The light-quick shuffled footsteps are an oxymoronic additive to the silent heavy.
Your movements are slow, elongated as you make your way to the clerks station to obtain room numbers, and once you're standing outside the one desired, you're still not ready.
Because you know it's going to hurt.
And even though you knew it from the start, you don't think you'll ever be fully prepared for this particular brand of pain.
Your pulse beats in a rhythm that mimics his heart monitor, and it's oddly soothing. It gives you enough courage to make small steps into the room, yet you cowardly avert the eyes that rendered you fearful just a few days prior. Instead, you pinpoint your gaze to the patches of skin on his arms and study the blotched patterns that have formulated since your last encounter.
It's not any better, but it's not any worse. From your point of view, that means something—somethings based in numerical facets that take, tell and trade with time.
Minutes that equate into hours and days and weeks that can't just merely be counted.
When you finally work yourself brave enough to find his face, you see his eyes are closed and his head rests against the headrest, chest slowly rising and falling with ease. The sight allows you let go of your own restless sigh, and you reach for the chart hanging near the foot of the bed. Technically, Blaine Anderson isn't your patient anymore, so really, any information on this chart is not your concern.
But you are concerned, and a mere technicality isn't going to stop you from looking.
You peer down and scan for information, and narrow in on the the name of attending doctor M.D T. Schuester.
As in related to Will Schuester? Or possibly married?
For their sake, you hope not. That would be fucking tragic.
You keep your eyes fixed on the page and continue to read. Diagnosis - Stage 3 Acute Graft Versus Host Liver Disease.
Upon inquiring of recent lab results, you see that the patient's red blood cell count has continued to drop. It's not a good sign on your end, because chance of survival drastically decreases after the severe set of pancytopenia. When your eyes shift lower, you also notice the pharmaceuticals dispersed. The physician added Prednisone to the prophylactic regimen, but it's only a preventive that reduces incidence of the disease. You're not sure why Schuester would do that. There are no steroids prescribed in drop form to help with his eyes, and you just feel like this is a pre-death certificate. It's ignoring new steroids and breakthrough medications that have been better proven than previous results.
After standing there for a few more moments reading things over, you grow anxious. Your right foot taps up and down. Your left fingers drum the clipboard in tandem to the beat. For some reason, it's like the blood in your veins is now traveling at liquid speed and your pulse is racing to catch up with the tempo you've created.
On a restless whim, you gingerly make your way over to the nurse's station, stopping before a cute redhead in patterned scrubs. The smile you've painted on your face is one based in fallacies, and the voice you inflect is of an exuberant nature. "Hi. I'm Dr. Lopez from L6. I was looking for Dr. Schuester?"
"Oh, she just went into the conference room. Can I take a message?"
You shake your head, thinking better of it. "No, thanks anyway."
When you make it back down to your floor, immediately, you ensconce yourself in work to distract your inner thoughts. You had a feeling this would happen—that there would be differentiating opinions in proper care and decision making, and you wish he could've just stayed on transplant all along...
You're collecting lab results for early morning rounds when you get the slightest glance of Karofsky. He nods in your direction upon noticing you.
"Lopez," he says, offering a half wave.
You just nod rather than address him back. You hate not attaching earned acronyms to names, and while it's still technically "earned," you still can't bring yourself to give him such a title.
Upon entering the Hummel forbidden room, the first thing you notice is the fact that Berry is sitting up in her bed, watching MTV, drinking a bottle of orange juice, and like...
the fuck?
"Excuse me!" she calls out for your attention once she notices you, but you're already out of the room, searching for Karofsky.
You find him at the nurse's station, feet propped up on the counter, smile aimed at one of the certainly too young for him female care partners. You tap his shoulder and beckon him to follow you. Once he stands and you feel him trailing behind you, your feet urge him a little farther along toward a secluded area.
"Lopez, what's your deal?" he asks as you finally come to a halt.
"Um, you do realize that your patient is drinking juice, right?"
He squints his eyes in attempt to focus, like he's trying to understand. It's a sign that you've clearly underestimated his incompetence, and when he finally begins, the tone of his voice is enough to make you vehemently angry. "Well, yeah. She complained that nobody gave her anything to eat or drink all day, so I went downstairs and got her a juice."
You feel a trembling liquid frustration begin to travel through your blood, and it makes your voice turn that much sharper than usual. "Yes, that's correct. She wasn't supposed to have any food or liquid today. She's supposed to have an ultrasound in the morning. Her pancreas levels are elevated, Karofsky. How can you not know this? She's your patient. You ordered the test."
His mouth drops, and fuck—you can't even deal with the way he looks right now, all stuck on stupid. You're two seconds away from losing it.
He continues to just stare at you. He has no response.
"You know what?" You wave your hands in the air in defeat. "Your patient, your problem. This isn't my deal." You narrow your shoulders in attempt to slip out of the way, but he catches your arm.
"Lopez, come on. Help me out here," he pleads.
You scoff. "There's nothing to help. This is basics 101, and I'm not gonna be the one that explains to the docs why your V.I.P patient still doesn't have an ultrasound tomorrow."
He licks his lips and nervously tugs on his fingers, like he's trying to regain control of the situation. "Well," he trails off... "How would they know I'm the one that even gave it to her? It could've been anyone else. I was at lunch, and it was only you and Kurt..." The fact that he looks you directly in the eyes when he says it just makes the temperature of your blood reach new levels, and a dark force entice a snap in your control.
Brashly, you take a step closer to him, never allowing your stern gaze to waver.
"You really are a special kind of shitbag, aren't you?" You keep your voice low in case anyone walks by. "You wanna put this on someone else to save your own ass, so be it. But the difference between you and me is that I know what I'm doing, and at some point, everyone else is going to figure out that you don't have a fucking clue. So you might as well save yourself from the future embarrassment and just deal with it now, rather than later, before you really hurt somebody."
You move back and find his shrunken eyes avoiding yours, you know you made your point. His reaction tells you that he really wasn't expecting you to say so much, and to be honest, you don't quite think you had planned it, either.
Yet when you walk away first, leaving him alone in the hallway, you're not sure if you feel better or worse.
It's just after nine when your phone starts buzzing, but you keep it hidden in the confines of your pocket. You've been in the middle of rounds since seven, and it doesn't appear your meeting is going to end any time soon. As a matter of fact, you haven't even gotten around to discussing relatively important issues yet.
Dr. Yuik has been uncharacteristically quiet this evening, Karofsky abundantly annoying, and you're trying not to get frustrated at the fact that midnights have become more of a hindrance than a help to your career. Because he primarily works day shifts, Karofsky always seems to be the one getting more surgical experience and recognition. It's been a month now since you've been transferred, and you feel like more of a babysitter than you do a doctor.
After Dr. Kellman tells Karofsky that yet again he will be assisting him with a kidney transplant tomorrow, your fists tighten and your jaw clenches. You shift uncomfortably in your entirely too firm chair, just trying to make it through this day without losing your composure for a second time.
All questions aimed at you are answered shortly and to the point, and when Rachel Berry finally comes up in conversation, your ears pique with interest and your eyes travel to your fellow peers.
"How were her vitals today? Have we received ultrasound results yet?" Kellman asks Karofsky.
Your eyes lock on his, and his chin slightly trembles as he fumbles. "Uh, well, yeah..."
Jesus fuck, out with it already.
Finally, after listening to him stutter for long enough, you intervene. "Berry had liquid intake today. The ultrasound will have to be pushed back..."
Dr. Kellman gives you a confounded look. "Wait, what? Why?"
"I'm not sure what happened. You'll have to ask Dr. Karofsky about that," you simply state.
He gives you a fearful expression as everyone in the room studies him. "I uh, I don't know what happened, either. When I came back from lunch, she had juice, and..." Karofsky fabricates.
Anger seems to be your heightened emotion of choice today, but this time it comes in heavier waves that before. So you bite your lip until you taste wrought iron and your flesh tears hotly, and you concentrate on the pain rather than anything else. It helps a little more when you dig your nails into your upper thigh, embracing the sharp burn.
"Who was in charge while you were gone?" Kellman inquires.
"The head nurse, I guess."
"What do you mean, you guess?"
You dig harder, because you swear to god, if he tries to pin this on Kurt, you will take him down.
Dr. Kellman's face is red as he stands and leaves the room, presumably to inquire about this afternoon's staff. You watch as Karofsky sits quietly in his seat, being sure to never meet your focus. Perhaps he knows you're planning to eye him disgustedly.
Fucking coward.
Nothing about the error with Berry is addressed upon Kellman's return. The latter is possibly worse, because for the remainder of the meeting, it mostly feels like you're being patronized. You're quite certain that your attending doctor is going to begin micromanaging you from this point forward, and even though it wasn't explicitly stated that error was your fault, by the way he keeps looking at you, you think he's implicitly blaming you.
At 10:30 when you're finally leaving the conference room, you stand by the door and wait for Dr. Yuik. Just as he's stepping through the threshold, you grab his attention.
"Doctor, I was wondering if I could have just a minute of your time?" He peers down at his watch momentarily, as if he's deciding.
Finally, "A brief one, yes," he says.
You pull him to the side and begin talking quickly, not wanting to waste a second. "I just wanted to talk to you about our recent patient transfer, Anderson. He's up in the ICU now."
Yuik nods. "Yes. What about him?"
With a deep exhale, "Well, I saw him today, and I'm not sure about the treatment plan."
"Dr. Schuester has been around for many years," he explains, his thick accent punctuating certain syllables in the recognizable only to him fashion. "ICU has a great team. I'm sure he is in good hands."
"Yes, but they're using old methods. ECP and Ciclosporin are fine, but there have been really good results with signal transduction inhibitors—"
"Dr. Lopez, while I don't disagree with you and I admire your passion, it's out of our hands."
Before he can walk away, you try one last time. "Look, can't you just talk to her? See if she'll try something a little more modern? It can't hurt..."
You know what you're asking him and you understand the complication. Established relationship or not, telling another doctor how to treat their patient isn't really exactly ideal.
"I'll see what I can do," he finally says after a moment's time.
Your smile lifts and you make certain to eye him appreciatively enough that he can notice. You're sure he does when his own lips turn to match yours, and in some peculiar way, you think it reminds you of the way your own father used to smile at you.
"Thanks."
"Good night, Dr. Lopez," he says, moving past you.
Once he's out of distance, you begin looking around, thinking of all the things you still have yet to do. It's strange how verbal communication like today can exhaust you to the point of physical labor seeming insurmountable.
Just as you're going into a patient's room, it's your Blackberry that begins buzzing against your hip for the fifth time this evening. You fish it out of your pocket and begin scanning your missed alerts, making sure nothing imperative needs to be addressed. It's then that you remembered someone kind of important, and their kind of sweet request this morning.
Do you think you'll have time for dinner?
The message was sent two hours ago, but you figure better late than never.
Just got finished with rounds. You still awake?
You slide the phone back in your pocket and begin moving quickly, logging notes from your rounds and checking up on patients that are still awake. One ends up needing a new dressing that takes more time than anticipated, and when you find your way back into the hall twenty minutes later, you're greeted by a familiar smile.
"Hey, San," she offers, and your head turns.
And it's not like you haven't seen attractive women before, because you certainly have. Falling into that category yourself has helped in earning such a privilege, and college was good to you in that respect. But the fact that this woman who happens to be vastly amazing and incredibly attractive is standing before you in some kind of...getup, well, it does things to you.
You lick your lips and swallow thick. "Uh, hey, Britt..."
You're staring because with the pink high heeled boots and tight leather matching suit, you think you know what she's meant to be, and you think it may be fulfilling every childhood fantasy you never had the right of having.
With a weak voice you guess, "...Power ranger?"
She nods with flushed cheeks, and it's quite evident she's privy to your leering. You force your gaze away and clear your throat, as though such a gesture would make it seem like it never happened.
It's just...people like her are tremendously unfair to less fortunate looking society.
And she might be the most delicious exudate of sex appeal you've ever seen.
"I've never worked in a hosptial that lets the staff dress up for Halloween," you admit. "It's kind of awesome."
She shrugs that shrug again—the one that you've begun to understand is meant to downplay her accomplishments. "Well, it's kind of a tradition for hospice. On holidays we generally do something themed and visit all the kids on each floor. Halloween is usually one of my favorites," she smiles. "This year, we each dressed up—"
"Like a different Power Ranger," you finish for her.
"Yeah." She grins before eyeing you curiously, almost like she wants you to know she is. It makes you fall silent, leaving you to continuously fight the urge to look at her.
"So, do you have time to go downstairs and eat, or..."
The gentle urgency dispels your trance and your eyes check the time. "Um, yeah, just let me tell my staff I'm heading out for a bit."
After letting everyone at the nurse's station know you're going to lunch, she follows you to the elevator, and you stand there, waiting to take the slow ride down to the main floor.
Softly in the background you hear the swinging melody of Ho Hey, and you note the way she's elusively tapping her foot and gently humming to the chorus—like if it's soft enough, you won't be able to notice it.
You belong with me
You're my sweetheart
Yet you have to smile, because she couldn't possibly be any fucking cuter, and when she realizes just how very cognizant you are of the moment, a soft blush reaches her cheeks.
And you feel it again.
The perfect sway of a pendulum.
Like heightened awareness,
or
Convolution's intricate confusion,
or
The weightless force of falling.
And it's complicated enough to make your stomach twist inexplicably, yet simple enough for you to know you just need to be closer.
So you do. You give your heart this one small victory, sidestepping a few short feet into her vicinity, linking your left pinky finger with her right—but you can't tell if the cascading sensation in your stomach is derived from the drop of the elevator, or the Brittany Pierce elevated experience.
When a sound dings and the door opens, you drop your reach. Her face doesn't show any sign of disappointment though, and you can't tell if that bothers you or not.
As you begin walking to the cafeteria, she asks, "Did you get any good candy this Halloween, Dr. Lopez?"
You roll your eyes, but keep the smile on your face. "Well, someone gave me a whole candy bucket last week, and then kept bringing me Snickers. I think they're trying to make me fat," you nudge.
"Oh. Then I guess you don't want this Snickers?"
She holds the candy bar up before you, almost like some sort of temptation exercise.
A chuckle escapes your lips. "You're cruel."
"Oh, you love me," she pokes.
And your heart stops for a moment, because she put you and her and love in the same sentence, and it's just not something you're ready to wrap your head around.
When you get to the cafeteria and notice the whole five people in the place, it's then that you remember the whole eleven o'clock at night thing, and that normal people have already eaten at this point. Normal of course excluding you.
"What are you getting?" she asks as you approach the refrigerated display case.
"Well, it's obviously going to be a tough decision between the stale blueberry muffin or that gourmet bag of peanut butter combos," you point.
She flashes a wry smile at your sarcasm, but gives you a stern look. "Really?"
You nod. "Honestly, I'm not that hungry. I had a pretty awesome breakfast." The candid comment earns you another blush.
She settles on a bottle of water and a bag of pretzels. You get the biggest cup of coffee available and skip the muffin for today, admittedly, still satiated from earlier. Together you find a table, and after a three minute argument about who is meant to sit in the booth and who is meant to sit on the other side, an unanimous vote determines you can both slide in next to each other.
And you're sure that for appearance purposes—the two of you sitting really close to one another in a basically empty cafeteria—one would get the impression that you're on a date, but it doesn't feel that way to you. There's no effort in this. You can't explain the likes of it, but you get the impression that even if you hadn't met that night in March, you'd still be here anyway, and she'd still be lighting up the room.
When the leather material of her costume rubs up against the leather of the booth, you laugh.
"Britt, that thing can't be comfortable. Didn't you bring a change of clothes?"
She finishes chewing a handful of pretzels before answering. "Actually, it's kind of comfy."
You press your lips together and roll your eyes playfully. "Okay, if you say so."
"What? It is!"
"Yeah, no..."
She furrows her brow at you and challenges your statement. "Are you calling me a liar?"
You feign hurt. "What, me? Never..."
"All of this coming from the worst liar ever."
"Oh, is that so?"
She nods. "Pretty much."
"Color me intrigued. Please, do explain." You prop your elbow up on the table and use your hand to cradle your jaw, watching her intently.
"I can't tell you all my secrets," she claims, smiling at you wickedly.
You scoff. "I think the secret's out, Britt."
"I mean, I can tell you that you usually stick to three different ways of lying."
You raise your brow.
"Like, the one you do the most is when you're just trying to be polite to someone because you have to—kinda like that lady who just rung us up. You told her it was no big deal that she took forever to give you back your change, when in reality, you were kind of ticked off."
"Fair enough. What about the other two?"
She bites her bottom lip slowly, taking her time. You try not to fixate on it. "Sometimes you avoid subjects so you don't have to talk about them, which is just another way of lying..."
You watch her in serious wonderment, trying to figure out when she became so astute in all things Lopez.
"And the third?" You inquire brazenly.
"Well..." Her body language signals that perhaps she isn't one hundred percent comfortable answering the question; yet, when your eyes meet hers and you don't allow your gaze to falter, it seems to bring a newfound confidence. "You have a habit of acting like things don't matter when they do," she finally says. "And you spend so much time trying to convince yourself that they don't, you don't even realize you're lying about it."
Your chest tightens and your throat goes dry. You swallow hard. "I do?"
She nods slowly.
"Like...how?"
Her tongue sweeps over her bottom lip again, and you're beginning to find it greatly distracting.
"Like..." Her voice trails as her smile becomes sinful. "Right now."
Your eyes challenge her curiously.
She shifts closer, completely unaffected by your gaze. The outside of her thigh touches yours, and in a hushed voice, "I bet you're telling yourself how much you don't want to kiss me."
A warm sensation flushes your neck, your arms, between your legs.
Her breath hits your neck, and you don't remember her being this close just a few seconds ago.
"Am I wrong?"
You don't say anything. You just flit your gaze from her eyes, to her lips, and back to her eyes. Your pulse quickens when she shifts just a little bit more, creating very little distance from her mouth to yours.
You shouldn't let her kiss you. You can't keep letting your body have these small victories when it could end up making everything so disastrous.
And just when her lips are about to hover over yours, she stops. Her hands still your shoulders, her eyes meet yours, and you just give a confounded stare in what feels like a half-drunken stupor.
"You know what they say, San," she whispers. "Admittance is the first step."