Part 8: [Closer Than We Think]

You wish this was one of those Disney movies that Brittany likes to force you to watch (and that you in turn pretend to be disgusted by). If this were a Disney movie, with the confession of love from both of you, you'd be far off into the sunset on a carriage with predictably white horses. Unfortunately, life is not a Disney movie.

Despite your now open mutual love for each other, not much has changed around the apartment. It's not as though either of your schedules allow much time for dates. You both still sleep in different beds and barely see each other during a normal day.

Nothing has changed and everything is exactly the same until one morning you press a quick kiss to Brittany's mouth when she hands you your coffee and books in the morning.

You start coming home earlier. You tell yourself it's because you want to study but really it's so that you have enough time to cook dinner for Brittany most nights.

At the end of two weeks you're having dinner together nearly every day (although dinner is usually served anytime later than midnight). You begin sharing a bed again even though you're just cuddling because both of you are too tired for much else.

She does your laundry and the dishes and generally cleans the house while you're out at class. You cook dinner for her and pack her a lunch and a snack every day. You're beginning to think that this domestic lifestyle really fits the both of you. Of course life has to prove you wrong.

-/-/-/-/-/-

Brittany's in the shower after practice when her phone begins to ring and vibrate like mad

"Answer it for me?"

You press answer, "Hello? … No, this is her girlfriend….What?...Oh. Alright….Yes…Thank you. Goodbye."

You stare at the phone for a good thirty seconds processing the new information before calling out, "Hey Britt, that was your manager."

"Oh. What did he want?"

She emerges from the bathroom in her pajamas with her hair up in a towel.

"You know he said something funny to me. He said that you declined the chance to go on tour with Gaga?"

"Oh. Yeah that."

She looks vaguely uncomfortable as she begins to dry her hair with her back towards you.

"You passed up Gaga," you deadpan to her back trying to think of any reason that she would ever give up one of her dream jobs.

"Of course. I have you now."

She finally turns to look you in the eye as she says that. You give her your best 'what the fuck are you face' as you reply,

"Britt. It's Lady Gaga. We're talking about the same thing right?"

"Yes I know. Why are you getting so worked up about this?"

"Because you freaking declined a chance to go on tour with Lady Gaga because…"

"For you, Santana."

"For me. You can't just do that kind of thing for me. You put your career second to me. You gave up your dream for me?"

You realize that you sound completely insane. Every other girlfriend would be happy with their significant other if they gave up their career as a romantic move to spend more time with them. But of course not you. Even after all this time, you still have some insecurities that amplify your protectiveness of Brittany to a ridiculous degree.

You know that you're afraid that she's going to resent you. You're afraid that the best thing that's ever happened to you is going to turn against you. You believe that you could handle it if you lost her because at least she still loved you. But if she began to resent you? That would kill you slowly from the inside out. It would eat and gnaw you alive to know that Brittany hated you.

"That was never my dream. Not completely anyway."

"It may not have been your dream but it was a once in a lifetime opportunity. How could you–"

"Because I love you Santana."

"Then we should break up."

"What?"

"I'm clearly holding you back."

"Santana."

"No. Do not 'Santana' me. You gave it up without even talking about it with me?"

"Because this is exactly how you would have reacted."

"Is it so bad that I want you to be successful?"

"No. It's that you would choose for me to go after my career rather than choose you."

"Because I'll still be here in three months or a year. That tour won't."

"Will you though Santana?"

Both of your chests are heaving. You look anywhere but her eyes. And she just stands there awkwardly her hands loose at her sides, unsure of what to do.

Then, still avoiding that blue gaze, you grab the extra sheets from your dresser and turn towards the living room.

"I'll be on the couch," you mutter at the door before crossing the threshold and slamming the door on your way down the hall.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

The next couple of days you barely see each other. You're back to avoiding your apartment and hanging out at the library until it's closing time. It's not as though Brittany is even at home much with her show finishing up and her lining up auditions.

Then on the third day of avoidance you come home to a fully cooked, now cold, meal on the table and about a dozen candles that have burned out.

Her tall frame is sprawled out on the couch, feet hanging over one edge, arms wrapped tightly around an empty bottle of wine.

You try to close the door as quietly as possible but as soon as you hear the metallic click of the lock setting in place, the wine bottle's crashed to the carpeted floor and she's sitting up.

"Hey," you mumble with your eyes cast downwards.

"You're home late."

"Yeah, I had a study group today."

"Oh. Well there's dinner if you want some."

By her tone of voice you can tell that she's not happy with you. She seems off to you. The usual even, easy going temperament isn't present.

"Should we talk about this Britt?"

"Talk about what?"

"About how I know you're not happy that I'm home so late but you're not gonna say anything and about how that wine bottle is empty."

"Why do we need to talk? You seem to know what's going on."

"What's up with you Britt?"

"Nothing Santana. I'm fine. I'm fine with giving up a tour for a girlfriend who doesn't appreciate it. I'm fine with the fact that no one is looking for choreographers or even back up dancers right now. I'm fine."

With that, she stumbles as clumsily as you've ever seen, back into your room and unsuccessfully tries to slam the door. When you make up your mind a couple minutes later to join her in bed, she's already dead asleep.

You change and climb into bed careful not to disturb her, but it seems like she's really out this time. You tentatively wrap your arms around her waist and pull her body against yours. When she doesn't wake you hold her tightly as if your life depends on it.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

You start to notice the little things. When you come home she's usually passed out, sprawled either on your bed or the couch fully clothed. Every night there's a new bottle of something to remove from her unconscious grasp.

It began with wine and beer. It isn't until you're taking out the recycling a month later when you finally find the time that you realize exactly how bad it's gotten. There are enough bottles of various alcohols to fill the bottom half of your staircase.

When you go to confront her about it, she's not there. In fact she doesn't come back at all that night, not even to pass out. It leaves you calling every one of your friends at four in the morning to find out if she's okay, until Quinn calls you and tells you that Brittany's at her place. You breathe deeply for about a minute before gathering you wits, pushing down your anger, and thanking Quinn for being a good friend.

The next two weeks are crazy for you between classes and dissections and preparing for your first clinical rotation. One night in the middle of a study session you get a call from a bartender asking for you to pick Brittany up. It isn't until you're dragging Brittany's once lean dancer frame up the four stories to your apartment that you make up your mind that something has to change.

You watch her through the night to make sure she makes it through and leave only because you have to go to this class. But you leave a note for her on her phone telling her that you two need to talk.

For the first time in weeks when you get home she's not passed out on the couch or the bed. The door to the bathroom is closed though. You decide to sit on your bed and wait. When fifteen minutes pass by and you still hear no sounds from within the dimly lit bathroom you call out to her.

No answer.

You call out again. This time you're more demanding.

Still no answer.

You knock and shout her name.

But there's still no answer.

You threaten to tear down the door.

Silence.

You basically knock down the door as you barrel into the bathroom. The only light in the room comes from a single flickering candle sitting on the counter.

All you can hear are the sounds of Brittany's labored breath as her body is wracked with sobs that disturb the otherwise peaceful water. Without even pausing to think, you climb into the tub behind her and just sit there holding her, rocking her back and forth as she cries.

You can feel your pants getting heavier with the water and you feel the material begin to cling to your skin. Her cold fingers press into your arms just holding your arms close to her chest. You've never had to deal with this kind of thing before.

"I'm so sorry."

You shush her gently, "It's not your fault. It's not your fault."

Her fingers press harder into your skin, her fingernails biting into the soft skin of your forearm and the pads of her fingers numbing the skin they touch.

You shift slightly so that one of your arms holds her protectively over the chest and the other is halfway submerged in water caressing the creamy too-pale skin of her stomach.

There's no handbook on what to say or what to do when you find your girlfriend sobbing in a tub full of cold water. So you just go with your gut and whisper to her how much you love her and all the different ways you love her. Eventually you're just pleading the words, "I love you," over and over again mumbling them with your cheek pressed against the soft skin of her neck.

She breaks your mantra, "I think I need help Santana. Help that I don't think you can give me."

You swallow hard and pause for a breath, "Okay."

There's silence before you speak up again, "I'd do anything you asked me to do. You know that right?"

"Yeah. Of course. I just…I don't know how to keep going anymore. I'm out of control."

"I'll start calling places in the morning," you whisper into her wet hair.

You both stay in the tub until you're shivering more than you're rocking and she's fallen asleep. You carefully carry her to the bedroom wrap her in a towel and tuck her into bed before retiring to the couch with your laptop.

By the time she's made it out to the kitchen for coffee you've figured out the details of this rehab thing.

"There's a place up north, about three hours north. They'd be ready to take you whenever, I'd have to go there to drop you off and check you in and everything. After that, it's six months in there."

"Okay. Do we go today?"

"Sure. I'll let you pack up and I'll get the car ready and we can go."

"Thank you San."

You just nod silently and continue bustling around the kitchen.

-/-/-/-/-/-

The drive up is silent save for the sounds of the car and the soft tinny music coming from the car speakers. "Landslide" comes on and you reach to turn off the wretched sounds of the song that reminds of you so much, but her hand is there pulling your wrist back tugging you fingers away from the dial. Neither of you say anything but you can feel her watching your face.

You make sure not to cry.

Three excruciating hours later you're standing in front of a clinically clean building holding one oversized suitcase.

You check her in with the woman at the desk who leaves to give you two a moment for goodbyes. Her arms are around your shoulders immediately her silent tears soaking into your hair, your tears darkening her shirt.

"No matter what happens I'll be here for you when you get out," you whisper as you let her go down the hall and out of your sight.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

A/N: So shit went down in the chapter. I can't say that I'm completely happy with my characterization of Brittany, but I wanted to make it apparent in her behavior and attitude that she may have an alcohol problem.

Also, I didn't mean to make Britt have an alcohol problem. I meant for this to be a nice happy chapter but instead I wrote a chapter full of job loss and poor coping mechanisms.

Thank you all for the reviews (I still have to reply to all of them…I know.).

And as always,

If you've got the time, drop me a line. (…I'm trying to be creative here…).