You don't have much time, but Christmas is coming, and you want to go all-out. Together, you and Brittany decorate like you've always dreamed, tinsel on the tree, garland on the banisters, stockings hanging over the mantle, mistletoe, so much mistletoe. Your mom is coming down on Christmas Eve, and she's so excited to see the house. Before she comes, you and Brittany put your new kitchen to good use. Brittany, the real cook, absolutely loves it. The space, the multicolored flashing light timers she hadn't had in the apartment. She feels safer, cooking there, she tells you, and you don't need mistletoe to kiss her then. You just spin her around in front of the stove, and you hold her close. You kiss her breathless, until her cheeks are rosy, and those universe eyes, they dance. Your wife, she's beautiful, she's so beautiful, but when she's happy like that, she surpasses even radiant.

The week is cold and wet. It's not supposed to snow, like you'd hoped. Instead it stays just above freezing, and ever since the snow stopped on the night you'd moved in, it seems to rain constantly. Though the snow had been brutal last year, you're pretty sure you'd take that over the ice cold rain that makes everything entirely impossible. It's the day before Christmas Eve, and it's still raining. You grumble when you get out of bed. Your head is a little light, and your nose feels stuffy, but, you have to go to work, and you have a few last minute things to do after. It's four-fifteen, and the plinking on the bedroom window is driving you crazy, it's making your head ache like crazy. But still, you go to roll out of bed, before you feel Brittany grasp you by the arm.

"You're sick." She murmurs, letting her eyes slowly open and look over at the window. "You're sick. Don't. Don't go out in this."

"I'm fine, Britt." You tell her, and though your throat feels scratchy, you really are. You don't get sick. You've never taken a sick day from work in your life, and you're not about to start now, not the day before your two-week holiday vacation. Not the day you have so much to do.

"You were up coughing all night, the whole bed was shaking."

"It's just really dry in here." You argue, and she rolls her eyes. "Or something."

"Santana, please?"

"Sweetheart, if I was sick, I'd stay home. But I'm not. Don't worry."

You hear her sigh. But really, you're okay. You roll out of bed and you blink your eyes rapidly, trudging to the shower. You let the hot water seep into your skin. It's really cold in the house, you notice, and you shiver when you get out, wishing, kind of, that you'd spent that ridiculous amount of money on heated bathroom floors. You don't feel like drying your hair, the cold, it's making you feel particularly lazy. Trying to avoid the disaster it'll become though, untamed, you pull it into a braid. You put on your jeans and a purple button up shirt, trying to look professional, though you might look twelve, with your hair that way. You shiver again, and you go to the thermostat, turning it up. Both you and Brittany are careful about the cost of heating oil. But it's freezing, and you need to warm up before you go out in the never-ending rain. Brittany is sitting at the table when you go into the kitchen. Otis nudges your thigh a little. You'd been so distracted by the cold, and the weird foggy feeling, that you'd forgotten to say good morning to him. You lean down and scratch his ears, before you sink into your chair. You must have had a really bad night of sleep, because you feel completely exhausted.

"You're not cold?" You sip your coffee, letting it warm you inside, and you look at her, wearing sweats and a t-shirt. She shakes her head. "It's freezing in here. Are you getting sick?"

"Really, Santana? Baby." She uses the term of endearment, and it's rare for her. She knows how her saying your name gives you butterflies, so she usually just calls you that. "Are you really still in denial about being the one who's sick? I love you, but you don't look good. If you get back into bed, I'll. I'll cuddle you all day and I'll make you alphabet soup."

"You can't bribe me into saying I'm sick with cuddles and soup." You sneeze, and she raises an eyebrow. "I've got an important stop to make after work, and then we've got the rest of the cookies to bake. I promise, I'm totally good."

She doesn't goad you about it any longer, but she wraps an extra scarf around you when you're leaving, and she hands you a second thermos, filled with tea. You appease her, because you would never not take something she made for you, and you do have to admit, when you take a sip, that the lemon feels really, really good on your dry throat. You're about thirty-five minutes into your show, when you start sneezing uncontrollably. Jonas takes your microphone away, and you scowl at him when he asks if you've heard yourself talk. In total contrast to your house, the studio feels hot and stuffy, and considering your co-host refuses to let you speak on air, you step out into the lobby, and you find yourself a chair to sink down into. It's not until Jonas shakes you awake, hours later, holding your cellphone in your hand with a dozen texts from Brittany, checking on you, that you realize that you'd fallen asleep. And maybe, that isn't exactly the best indicator of good health. Maybe, you'd been trying so hard to believe you weren't, that you'd conveniently excused every single symptom you'd had.

When you stand again, your lightheadedness has gotten worse, and you feel pretty disoriented. You forget about the Christmas tasks you have to do, and Jonas drives you home. He tells you he'll bring you back whenever you're feeling well enough to get your car, and you don't even argue, you don't even remember to wish him a merry Christmas, because you won't see him again before. You're not yourself, not at all. You really can't remember ever being sick in your adult life, and, it feels like there's a weight pressing down on your whole body. When you get to the front of the house, you wave off Jonas' attempts to help you inside, but when you walk in and remember all of the stairs you have, you suddenly wish that you hadn't. You kick your heels off, and, for a moment, you really consider just falling asleep right there in the entryway. But, Otis heard you come in, and Brittany comes down the stairs before you can collapse there. Her smile, it's so soft, and her body, it just looks so warm and comfortable, that you immediately fall into her embrace. Even with your stuffed up nose, you still breathe her in. She holds you, she rubs your back, and, she doesn't gloat. She doesn't say she told you so, about being sick. She just holds you, and helps you up the stairs.

"Britt, I think you were right." You groan, sliding out of your damp jeans and crawling into bed half clothed. Brittany climbs up over you, and she presses a soft kiss to your forehead, before covering you up with a blanket.

"I wish I wasn't. You're warm though, and you look so tired. What can I get for you?"

"I don't know." You wonder if she can tell that you're whining, though you can't really stop yourself. "Tomorrow's Christmas Eve. I really don't want to be sick for Christmas."

"I know." She soothes, brushing your hair out of your face and holding your cheek in her hand. "But I did go to the store early this morning. Because I. I didn't want to get caught in the rush when you decided you were sick. And. I guess you can't smell the soup on the stove."

"You already started making me soup?" You melt, and she knows it. You melt, and she looks at you, those universe eyes brimming with her love for you. "You're too good to me."

"No better than you are to me. I also got you cough medicine, so hopefully we can knock this all out of you as quick as possible. But even if you're sick, we'll still be together. And, we're here, in our pretty decorated house." She assures you, and you nod weakly. "Otis, you want to keep Santana company. While I go make her some more tea?"

Otis climbs up onto the bed with you. He rests his head on your stomach, keeping you warm, since you're cold again. You close your eyes, and you pet his head. You're tired, so tired, you can't even believe you'd managed to drive yourself to work feeling like this. The bed, it's so soft and warm and comfortable. Brittany, she put new sheets on it, the winter flannel ones, that you surround yourself in, and before she comes back, with the medicine, with the tea, you're sound asleep. When you wake up, you have no idea how long you've been out, but your chest, it feels like someone's sitting on it. You cough, you cough hard, and it aches, everything aches. Brittany, whom you hadn't noticed was lying beside you, sits up, and she furrows her brow in concern when you grimace in pain. For someone who doesn't get sick, you're not used to this, and as you blow your nose, you cry a little.

My chest hurts. You sign to her, and she runs her thumb over the button row on your shirt. Everything hurts.

"You can't be comfortable like this. I didn't want to wake you. But. Let me get you pajamas."

"Your sweatshirt." You mix signs and spoken English, and you try, you try to enunciate, though your throat is raw. No pants.

She gives you the clothes, and you sigh a little in relief when you manage to take your bra off. Mostly, you want to go back to sleep, you want Brittany to hold you in her arms, but after you swallow the cupful of Robitussin, she tells you, gently, that you should eat something, or you might throw up. She made you alphabet soup from scratch, and, if you weren't so miserable, you know, you know, that you'd kiss her silly. This woman, she's just, she's really something else. She brings you soup in bed. She holds the bowl for you, since your hands feel shaky, and slowly, slowly, you manage to finish half of it. You don't feel better, not physically, you're achy and sore and you can't stop coughing, but somehow, in some weird magic way, she manages to make you feel so much more comfortable, just by being close by.

You text your mom. You still want her to come, no matter what, but you're just warning her, you don't know if you're contagious. Brittany, she doesn't think so. She thinks you're just run down, it's been an incredibly busy month, and you've hardly had a moment to breathe, but she takes the phone from your hands, she takes over texting, just because, you think, she's her, and, talking to your mom, it reassures her that she's doing everything right. The cookies you'd planned to make, Brittany nixes, she's not going to leave you, and the last minute things you were supposed to pick up, you know they're not going to happen, and you know that Brittany will understand. Instead, you're isolated from the chaos of December twenty-third. It's just the two of you, and Otis, all by yourselves in your new home. You lean on her, you sip your tea, you let her rub that horrible smelling camphor beneath your nose, on your chest. You let her fuss over you, help you pull sweatshirts and blankets on and off as needed, and a little high on cold medicine, watching A Flintstones Christmas Carol— her favorite, you know, she used to watch it on Christmas Eve mornings— you finally manage to fall into a dreamless sleep.

When you wake up again, there's grey light streaming through your windows. It's morning again, and it's still raining. It's morning, and it's Christmas Eve. Apparently, that cough syrup had really knocked you out, and you'd slept for more consecutive hours than you can remember sleeping. You roll over, and Brittany's gone, along with Otis, but on the nightstand, she's left you more medicine, more tea, and a note. You don't care what she argues, not really, because your wife, she really is too good to you. Your wife, she's the most amazing caretaker in the world, and just for a minute, even feeling like absolute death, you manage to envision her as the caretaker for someone else. You envision her, in this role that you know will come so perfectly naturally to her, though you hear her reservations, her insecurities, in the words she doesn't speak.

She's so sweet in her note. It wishes you your first merry Christmas as her wife, and it tells you that Jonas sent her a message and offered to take her to pick up your mom, and then, to your car, so your mom could drive it back to the house. At those words, you take a moment, just to be thankful for your friend. You may not have them knocking down your doors, but the very few people you keep close, they're good, so good, to you both. After you manage to down some more medicine, you decide that you're going to make an attempt to get out of bed. Even if you know you're not really up for the festivities that you've been so looking forward to, you don't want to stay shut up in the bedroom, and you definitely don't want your wife to be torn between caring for you and entertaining your mother.

So you figure you'll shower. Brittany, because she's Brittany, left you shower tablets on the bathroom sink. She knows how desperately you want to be well, and you're pretty sure that she may have bought out half of Walgreens in her effort to make that happen. The vapors from the tablet definitely help to open up your nasal passages, but your chest is still heavy, and your head still aches a little. Because of that, you're more than glad to get out of the steamy shower, to pull on dryer fresh sweatpants, and another of Brittany's sweatshirts. You think, you think you should probably make sure everything is straightened up, but when you come out of your room, you remember who you're married to. You can't smell the bleach like you usually can, not stuffed up, but you know that Brittany had been up early. You're hit with another swell of love for her, and you reheat your tea, before flicking on all the Christmas lights and curling up beneath a throw blanket on the couch. You're just getting yourself comfortable with your tissue box, when you hear the door downstairs open, and you smile, because you know, it's your two favorite people in the entire world.

"Otis, let's get you all dried off." You hear Brittany's voice from downstairs.

"Brittany, it's so much bigger than in the pictures." The pride in her voice, it makes your heart just squeeze. It makes you feel like a little girl, when she'd look at you, when she'd say baby girl, all these big dreams of yours will come true some day, you're going great places. And now, now she's standing in the home you just bought with your wife, on Christmas Eve, and you're suddenly feeling incredibly emotional.

"You're only in the foyer. Wait until. Until you see the rest. But I think Santana's really been looking forward to showing you. So. Hopefully she'll be feeling up to it a little later."

"I hope so too. My poor girl. You know, when she was little, and she'd get sick, I used to take her into my bed with me, and I'd lay her against my chest and I wouldn't sleep, not for a minute."

"That explains why she loves to be cuddled so much when she's sick. Actually—" Brittany's laughter rings out, as you hear them, unzipping coats and taking off shoes.

"She's always a cuddler." Your mom finishes for her. "It was a security thing for both of us, when she was little. I spent a lot of time fearful she'd be taken away from me. Especially during the time we spent in the shelter, and it was also the most I could give to her, so I think I created a more snuggly than normal child, holding her so close."

"Well. I. I appreciate it." She's blushing, you think. "My family, they were never really. Into that. I guess. So I like it. A lot."

"Come here." You're sure your mom is pulling her in for a hug, and then smoothing down her shirt, when she pulls back. You're so proud of the way Brittany accepts someone else in her space, truly. She's meticulous and guarded, but, your mom, she's gotten past that, your mom, she's allowed to give her affection. And they're close. Even through just monthly visits and shared text messages, they're closer than you could have ever hoped for. "Your family is into that now. And if you and my daughter have children, I'm sure they will be too."

"We will." It's soft, like Brittany can barely get the words from her throat, but you hear it, and you shiver. Not from the fever, but because those future thoughts, they get you every time. "I'm not sure when. Just yet. But. It's in our plan. Santana, she. She makes me feel like I can do anything."

"And you can. You'll be a really great mom, Brittany. Both of you will be."

"You really think that, Maribel?" The hopefulness in her voice, it fills you up. You know it. She knows you know it, but you think, for her, hearing your mother say it, that's something else entirely.

"I know it. You'll know it too, the minute you are. I questioned a lot of what I was doing, a lot of the time, but whenever my little girl was in my arms, and whenever she looked at me with those big brown eyes, my concern faded, even if just for a moment."

"I think you're a really great mom. And I know Santana thinks so too."

"That means a lot, thank you. Now come on, let's go see if that sick daughter of mine is still in bed."

"Hold on. Your room is down here. We liked the idea that you'd have a little more privacy in this place. I know Santana wanted to show you everything. But. I think it's okay to show you this. So you can— can put your things away before we go up."

You swallow hard, not just from the phlegm that seems to clog your everything, but because you were able to witness such an intimate moment between your mother and your wife, and your heart feels really swollen. When their feet are on the stairs, you sit up, though your head feels heavy, and you blow your nose again, just as they reach the top. They're smiling. Brittany, she's just, she's beautiful. Her rain damp hair, her cheeks red from the cold, and her eyes, clear, dancing. They're beautiful, always, that universe inside of them turns your insides, even when it's stormy. But unadulterated joy, it's something else. She catches sight of you, and she smiles, she smiles so softly, so gently, and you just, glow inside. You're not sure if there's ever been a person in the world so affected by the one they love as you are, but you're perfectly okay to keep that title for yourself.

"You're up. How are you feeling?" She comes to your side, nudging Otis, who'd beat her, to let her in, and she sits down, unable to help but kiss your forehead to feel if you're still warm.

Little bit better, you sign. Thank you.

For what?

Cleaning. Going to the train. You attempt to remember the signs for what you want to say, but sometimes, you think, you just can't express them the way you want to. "Just for being you."

"Well I'm glad I can be me for you." She laughs a little, and you laugh too.

"Me too." You tear your eyes away from her, and you look to your mother, who's eying the room, looking at the open kitchen, smiling at your giant Christmas tree. She's already seen her room, since you really do expect that she'll be your only overnight guest, and both you and Brittany have taken to calling it that. "Hi Mama. What do you think?"

"Oh, Santana." She turns back to you, eyes full of tears. Good tears. The best tears. "You got your big Christmas tree."

"I did. We did." You nod, and you find Brittany's hand, weaving your fingers through hers. There's so many words you know your mother wants to say, but somehow, those cover it all. They cover the dreams of a little girl, and they cover a mother who gets to witness them all come true. "Biggest one on the lot, do you remember—"

"The year Mrs. Pershing let me take you with me to get their tree." Your mom nods, and Brittany squeezes your hand. You've told her the story so many times, about you as a nine-year-old, picking out a tree that wouldn't be yours, that would go to the fancy home your mother worked in on swanky Sutton Place and be decorated in blown glass ornaments by a design team. A day that brought you so much joy, just because it was you and your mom picking that tree together. "I'm glad you didn't decorate it like the rich people though."

"No way! You know my dog bone reindeer needs its place on the tree. It wouldn't really fit in with a bunch of crystal balls. Plus, Brittany has a pretty big collection herself."

"I like the artsy ones." She shrugs. "I always buy them when I see them."

"Well it's a nice mix of both of you. As is what I've seen so far of your home."

"That's what we tried for. Do you like your room?"

"I do. And I'm sure that garden view you gave me will be even more beautiful in the summer."

"I'm going to plant tulips." Brittany tells her. She's so excited for that. It was one of the first things she'd said, once you'd signed the contract, and there's just, something about the image of her gardening that does something to you. You both like simple things. Coffee and flowers. Good food, good wine. Your own forms of art. Each other. And this place, this home of yours, it seems to give you a place for all of that. "And then sunflowers. And herbs. And maybe vegetables too."

"We're pretty excited about it." You kiss her temple. "Here. Let me get up so we can show you the other rooms."

"No, no, baby girl, rest. We have plenty of time, and I smell Brittany's coffee, so I'm going to get myself a cup and then, if you'll let me, light a fire in this fireplace before I come sit down and talk."

"I can—" Brittany starts, but your mother shakes her head.

"Brittany, stay, I'm perfectly fine to get my own coffee. Just point me in the direction of the mugs,"

"Above the sink." You wrap your arm around Brittany's waist when you feel her attempt to stand anyway. "Britt, you've done so much. Don't think I didn't spot the cinnamon crunch muffins when I warmed up my tea. What time did you get up anyway?"

"Four-thirty." She shrugs a little as she says it and you shake your head. "I figured I'd make something for breakfast that you might be tempted to eat."

"You spoil me, you know,"

"Maybe just a little." Her whole being seems to sparkle with delight, and you snuggle into her side. You still feel like crap, in a pretty big way, but Brittany and your mom are right, you are sort of a cuddle monster, and you like- no, you love- being close to her like this. She positions herself so you can lay your head against her chest, and still look up at her eyes, and she beams down at you, still. "You don't need anything?"

"Just you. I might try to eat something in a little while, but right now, this is good, really good. My head doesn't feel so heavy."

"I'm glad." She strokes your hair, and even after you sneeze, she brushes your nose with hers, and she kisses you, she kisses you softly, her eyelashes fluttering against you skin. "You know. This. This right here. It kind of feels like the best kind of Christmas."

"I think." You breathe all of her in, as best you can, though you grasp your chest after you do. You watch her face, those tree lights reflecting, just faintly on her cheeks, bathing her in rainbow. "I think you're really right, sweetheart. Even sick, there's nothing, nothing, could make this a happier Christmas than spending it just like this, with you. Happy first Christmas, my wife."

"Happy—Merry first Christmas to you. My love."