(Author's Note: Thanks again to my chère beta, terriblemuriel, her beautiful brains and eyes and impeccably sage counsel. Kudos also to JJ over at themostrandomfandom, for her inspiring brilliance and generous insights.)
During the two weeks that she and Santana barely speak a word to each other, Brittany can never get used to it. It's weird to see her around the halls and not know what she had for dinner last night, which teachers and classmates are driving her crazy at the moment, what she's planning to do this weekend. She didn't realize how much she knew about Santana until now. Or how many times a day she texts San or dog-ears a thought to tell her later when they're alone. It's like a piece of her is missing. She never remembers being this lonely.
Sure, there's Artie. But he's nothing like Santana. For one thing, he doesn't know about things like cheese and jam sandwiches or Dr. Peanuts, Brittany's ratty old stuffed elephant from when she was a baby, hidden in a shoebox in her closet in a spot only she and Santana know so her mom won't throw him away. For another, she can talk to Artie about all sorts of things without him understanding what she means at all. He smiles and laughs like she's the sweetest thing ever, which does make her feel good, but she knows he's humoring her. It's like she's speaking another language and he's praising her pretty accent.
That's why she's so surprised when Artie asks her to join the Brainiacs so they can qualify for a quiz show.
"I mean, you don't have to answer any questions," he says, quickly, after she wrinkles her brow. "We just need a warm body in the fourth seat."
She feels her heart plummet. "What, you don't think I can answer anything?"
"Oh, no, of course you can." Artie retreats. He gives her a soft, sorry smile and pulls a fresh box of Dots from his backpack. "I got these for you. You know, to woo you." He pauses, holding them out to her; she doesn't take them. "Not like that. I mean, I just wanted to do something little for you, to show you it would mean a lot to me. To do this together."
Brittany sighs and takes the candy. "You could have just told me it would mean a lot to you."
"I know. That's why I love you, baby."
"When's the show?"
"Tomorrow night. We're having a hardcore study session tonight, but you don't have to come if you don't want. Like I said, we just need"—he seems to realize he's about to hurt her feelings again and walks it back—"well, I mean, I just don't want to put pressure on you this late in the game."
"Where and what time? I'll be there."
Mike and Tina are actually really glad to see her. Brittany had kind of expected them to groan at Artie for bringing her, since she's sure they think she's stupid, but they already know Artie asked her and thank her as soon as she and Artie join them in the empty classroom. They pull out their study books and notes. Artie opens his and slides it over so she can look on. It's full of highlights and smudges and margin notes. She likes this: to see into Artie's mind. She's never been invited in before.
In the math part, she's a total goner. History and English, though, she's okay. Lately they've been doing poetry in her English class, and while all of the other students are hating it, she finds she kind of likes it. You have to bend your mind around it, to curl yourself around the words and let them warm to your temperature. It's like you can smell poetry. Like it's a living thing. Brittany does best with things that don't come straight at you. As for history, she has Santana as a tutor, and Santana likes history so much that Brittany's started to like it too. It's like a giant soap opera, Santana says, and it's kind of true. The names and dates never quite stick right, but it's like there are a hundred little threads she can follow, threads with people and feelings and thoughts, and she tries to string and clamp facts along them like little beads.
She hardly says anything as Artie and Mike and Tina quiz each other. But she listens and soaks it in. The quiz bowl, Artie explains, isn't the same kind of thing as the decathlon will be, if they get there. It's out loud and it goes fast, and the questions can be weird. He tells her, again, that she doesn't have to talk if she doesn't want to. Tina and Mike nod. She kind of wants to slap them.
It's funny, but since she's lost Santana, her protection, she's started to let herself get angry. There's no one to stick up for her when people laugh or call her stupid, no one who can whip up a rage to save her from having to do it herself. Brittany's body was always strong, but now, without her crutch, she's starting to realize how strong her mind is. And it turns out her mind is kind of angry. Like little scraps of it have been stacking up for years, in some hidden room that only Santana could get to, and when she left, she hid directions and a key under the doormat.
After the review session, she can't resist sending a quick text to Santana, even though she hasn't replied to a single one in two weeks.
im gonna be on tv w brainiacs tmrw wish me luck
Two minutes later, San's chime rings from her nightstand.
good luck britt i know youll do great
Brittany feels so thrilled and brave all of a sudden her throat is tight. Too lightheaded for sleep, she rolls, restless, for hours, like her body is floating off the bed and she can't anchor it down.
The next day, San doesn't dart away when she spots Brittany coming toward the lockers. Instead, she closes her eyes, shuts the locker door, takes a deep breath, and twists her hands together. Brittany approaches, quiet, stepping lightly, as if she's approaching a skittish animal.
"Hi, Britt," says San, and shines on her the first smile Brittany has seen since that one time at the lockers. She leans on her back foot and keeps her hands crossed and twined in front of her, but the smile feels like it's filling Brittany with liquid light. Brittany smiles back—carefully. "I just—I wanted to say break a leg. Tonight." She looks at her feet, then back to Brittany's eyes, shifting her gaze from one eye to the other the way she did when she told Brittany she loved her. "I'll be watching."
Brittany's heart thuds so hard she can't hear. It's like the moment, that time she sprained her ankle and couldn't dance, when the doctor told her it was finally okay to go back to the studio. That spring-loaded relief from knowing that everything is the way it should be.
Then Santana flinches, and the reason why happens so fast that Brittany hardly sees it until San's face and neck and white sweater are a patchwork of red ice, clinging to her eyelashes and dripping into her shocked, open mouth. Karofksy. He's jeering back at her. Brittany thinks about running after him to punch him right in that potato face—her anger really is starting to get the best of her. But instead she just takes Santana's arm.
"Come with me," she says, and leads her to the girls' bathroom. She keeps her eyes shut so the sugar won't leak in, and lets Brittany test the tap, lean her head over the sink, and wash the sticky red mess from her face.
"Ugh," says San, spitting out a mouthful of water. "This is so gross. I'm going to fucking kill that gorilla. Maybe have Sam do it."
Brittany doesn't say anything. Her heart dips a little at the mention of Sam's name.
Once she's handed San a wad of paper towels—she guesses San would rather dry off her own face—Brittany leads her into a stall and sits her down on a toilet lid. She starts to unbutton Santana's sweater, but San grabs her wrist.
"What are you doing?"
"It's gonna stain. I just want to wash it out."
"I'll do it." San drops Brittany's hand and finishes the unbuttoning quickly. She's got a spaghetti strap camisole underneath, black, and Brittany can't help staring for a moment as Santana's shoulders stretch back, shaking off the sweater. Santana sees her looking and her eyes shift to the floor as she slips the second sleeve from her wrist.
"Thanks for helping, Britt, but can you just go now?" Her voice isn't angry: just small and sad. Brittany nods. She backs out of the stall and goes back to the splashed-over sink to soap the last of the sticky syrup off her hands. She glances at the mirror and spots San watching her, sweater limp and dead in her hands, waiting. Brittany's eyes dive back to the tap, to the coursing hissing water. She finishes quickly and dabs her hands with a paper towel. Just when she's about to push the door open, Santana's voice from the stall stops her.
"Britt. Just—text me the channel and the time, okay?"
Hand pausing against the door, Brittany smiles.
"Okay."
In the studio, when Brittany sees those cameras and lights pointing straight at her, she feels a lot less strong and angry. She shrinks and feels glad that the others told her she didn't have to answer anything. But then she looks at Artie and Tina and Mike, swallowing and wide-eyed, and realizes they're just as nervous as she is. She lines up a row of Dots, since chewing keeps her from getting too nervous, and then they're off with a crack. She pictures Santana watching her from her bed, lying on her belly with her chin on her folded hands, ankles crossed in the air.
Brittany doesn't know much about academic decathlon, but she does know pretty fast that their butts are getting kicked. That Sunshine girl keeps looking at her rows of Dots, which she keeps replacing so she doesn't have to watch the score getting cranked up on the other side. She feels the excitement the way she would if she was just watching instead of sitting in the hotseat. Then she glances over at her teammates, who are starting to look green and clammy, and pops another Dot between her molars. Her jaw is getting sore.
Then she sees it: a new category just flashed up. Cat diseases. She thinks about last week, when Lord Tubbington started limping and she picked up that veterinary manual at the library and ended up going through the entire section on cat diseases. And suddenly, she knows just what to do.
When she hits the buzzer, she feels Artie's panic. She can almost hear him stop it in his throat. But she doesn't care.
As she racks up points, inching closer to Carmel, feels her fist getting sore from pounding the button as the answers pour out of her and pump her full of something like smart, she thinks again about Santana watching. San's probably sitting up, squeezing her legs to her chest and burrowing her chin between her knees.
When they win, she jumps up and down and squeezes her teammates. Artie pulls her down for a kiss and chirps into her ear, "I'm so proud of you."
And something in his eyes, the way his black pupils look deep and clear like glass, makes her believe him. For a moment she almost—almost—forgets about Santana as she kisses him back.