LXIX

Santana reaches for Brittany's hand. Brittany stops at the door and turns – Santana has a small frown on her face; she opens and closes her mouth a few times, blinks, and sighs. She cups Brittany's jaw with her left hand and joins their lips.

Brittany lets the kiss go on for as long as Santana wishes.

Santana looks into her eyes and it's almost like she's saying something – Brittany hopes she's changed her mind, she hopes she wants them to have something, she hopes she wants Brittany – but she isn't and silence is heavy.

"See you," Brittany says, kissing Santana's forehead, and she leaves the apartment.

LXX

Four long days go by.

LXXI

Mike looks at Brittany and they settle into position. "Thanks for helping me with this."

Brittany smiles at him. "Five, six, seven, eight," she counts, and Mike begins to lead her around the dance floor. He's been having trouble with the end of this sequence - he keeps placing his weight on the wrong foot when the steps become complicated, turning them into a mess that's impossible to untangle.

"Stop," Brittany commands. She kneels down and takes his left shoe off. "Pay attention to those last three steps. Let's do it in slow motion."

They repeat it three times. It's slow and awkward, because Mike keeps losing balance and awareness of his own body, but Brittany knows that being self-conscious is a good thing. He puts his shoe back on.

They get in position. "Five, six, seven, eight," Brittany counts yet again. It takes them a few more times, slow and careful, but Mike smiles and they're getting somewhere.

For a moment, she wishes Santana could have been there.

There is no one to watch.

LXXII

Brittany paces back and forth. The tall black man at the door looks at her expectantly. She calls Santana. "Hey, are you on your way? The play is about to start and you're—"

"I don't think I'll make it," Santana says. "Tell Rachel I'm really sorry. I'll try to meet up with you guys for drinks later."

Brittany sighs. She doesn't bother with a reply, throwing the phone in her purse instead.

Rachel's performance is amazing, as Brittany knew it would be. It's a supportive role, but it's an actual role with actual lines and it's Broadway – Rachel has built her whole life towards it.

Santana's empty seat bothers her through the entire performance.

LXXIII

Everyone's laughing when Santana walks into the bar. Brittany sees her immediately – hair up in a tight ponytail, complimenting her leather skirt and red blouse. Brittany wets her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

"Look who's here!" Rachel turns around and takes someone's beer. "Better late than never."

"I had to come and say hello," Santana nods in Brittany's direction before turning to Rachel once more. "Even though I missed the main event."

Rachel gestures for her to stop. She looks radiant as she smiles at Santana. "Don't be silly. I'm not holding a grudge. We're celebrating tonight."

Only then does Santana go to Brittany's table. She greets Mike and Kurt and is properly introduced to Blaine and Tina. She's charming and conversational, and it bothers Brittany that it's taking so long for her to be acknowledged.

When all eyes aren't on her anymore, Santana takes a seat next to Brittany. "Hey," Santana says, tentatively, and reaches for Brittany's hand.

"Hey." Brittany answers. She doesn't sound overly excited. She wonders if she has a right to be upset, considering Santana has a workload she can't help and she does look apologetic.

Santana places a lock of Brittany's hair behind her ear. "Are you mad?"

"No, it's okay," Brittany answers, kissing Santana's lips softly. Tonight should be about Rachel.

Santana cups Brittany's face and lingers on the kiss. "I was so worried you'd be upset with me."

Brittany blushes at the sweetness in Santana's voice, feeling guilty. "Don't worry," she tells Santana, and kisses her one more time.

LXXIV

Santana pays the bill. "Take it as an official apology to Rachel," she tells everyone as she gives her credit card to the waiter.

LXXV

When Santana opens the door to her apartment and lets Brittany in, it's late and it's dark. As soon as Brittany reaches the living room she can hear Quinn's whimpers and groans in her room. She's saying something, but Brittany can't understand it properly.

Santana seems to be half expecting it. "She's having a nightmare," she says, serious and alert, as she drops her purse on the table and heads to Quinn's room.

Brittany follows. She doesn't understand.

Quinn is thrashing around on her bed, a pained look on her face. The sheets are white; her nightgown is black. Santana takes off her shoes and lies down by her side. Quinn groans and sobs – the strangled cries cut through Brittany's skin and she holds her breath, worried.

Santana gently runs her hand along Quinn's arm. "Please," Quinn says, still asleep.

"Wake up, Quinn" Santana says softly again and again, until Quinn opens her eyes with a gasp; she's shaking. She looks right at Brittany – it's deep and exposing.

Santana holds Quinn in her arms. "You're okay. You're alive. You're real. You're with me," Santana says to Quinn, pausing between every sentence.

Quinn clings to Santana's shirt, her face in Santana's neck, her entire body shaking.

Brittany stands by the door – she's intruding, she doesn't belong there, she shouldn't be watching. She should leave, leave them be while there is still time, while Quinn is not looking at her – Quinn is like Santana; a fortress not to be occupied, a breakdown not to be witnessed.

Santana gestures for Brittany to come closer. "Brittany is here, too. You're with us." She says to Quinn. Brittany hesitates, but Santana repeats the gesture. Brittany takes a few tentative steps and lies down on the bed as well, unsure. Santana takes her hand and places it on Quinn's waist. Quinn feels warm. "Can you feel Brittany's hand, Quinn? Can you feel the weight, the pressure? You're okay. You're alive. You're here."

Santana's so gentle, so soft, so concerned – Brittany wishes she could read her face in the dark and understand her emotions.

Quinn breathes heavily for a long while. "It was just a dream," she finally says.

"It was just a dream," Santana repeats, covering Brittany's hand with her own.

LXXVI

Santana drinks a glass of water in the kitchen, barefoot.

Brittany stares at the ground. "That was intense."

The glass clinks when Santana sets it on the counter. "Quinn has nightmares," she says. She lets her hair down and runs her fingers through the tangles. "She was in a car accident in our senior year. Got stuck in the wreckage for hours, until help came and managed to get her out. She was paralyzed from the waist down for almost a year."

Brittany stares at Santana, wide eyed.

"She has bad dreams sometimes, especially when she's under stress. She still doesn't drive." Santana looks at Brittany and, for a moment, they don't say anything. Santana goes to Brittany and wraps her arms around Brittany's waist.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Brittany says, running a hand through Santana's hair. Santana closes her eyes to her touch, leaning against Brittany's hand. "You're a good friend."

Santana nods and kisses Brittany's pulse. "Let's go to bed."

LXXVII

Brittany wakes up and Santana's screaming in the living room.

"And how did that fucking happen, huh? How did that get out, Sam Evans? I wonder." She sounds angry and irritated. Brittany gets up and Santana's in the living room, talking on the phone and pacing around in her pajamas. Her hair is messy, like she has just woken up. The TV is on and some news channel is on the screen.

"¿Si teníamos la información en un contrato de sigilo absoluto? Yo me pregunto, ¿qué tipo de brecha legal dejamos pasar? Yo me pregunto, ¿qué mierda están haciendo en mi equipe?" Santana listens for a few seconds. "Oh, ¿no habla español? I don't fucking care if you can't do your fucking job in another language. Get a fucking dictionary." She listens some more. "You better. If I were you, I would fix this, Evans, and I would do it by the next time I call your fucking cell."

Santana throws her phone on the couch like she can't stand holding it a second longer.

Brittany coughs.

Santana curses and looks at Brittany. "You scared me." She sits on the couch and hides her face in her hands. "Fucking awful start to the day."

It's amusing to see Santana so natural, without her put-together attitude. Brittany walks to her, sitting on the armrest by her side. "Someone woke up with a dirty mouth."

Santana groans and pulls Brittany onto her lap; Brittany straddles her. "People are fucking idiots." She runs her hands along Brittany's thighs. "Sam Evans is fucking naïve." Her hands inch up Brittany's back, under her shirt, firm and strong. "I could have woken up in bed next to you, but my day had to be ruined." She kisses Brittany's cleavage, open-mouthed and wet.

Brittany closes her eyes and grabs Santana's hair. Santana's nails sink into her lower back.

The phone rings. Brittany whines; Santana sighs and takes the call.

"He told me." She says, throwing her head back when Brittany's lips meet her neck. "I know." Brittany sucks and Santana opens her mouth, trying to control her breathing. Brittany runs her teeth over the same area. "I'll be there in a few," Santana says, throwing her phone aside and kissing Brittany, tongue against hers in no time.

They part for air and Brittany asks, blonde hair a curtain around Santana's face, "are you sure you have to go?"

"I do, unfortunately," Santana nods, stealing a quick kiss. "I'll take you home first, though. Give me just ten minutes to put some clothes on."

Brittany sighs and gets up.

LXXVIII

The taxi stops in front of Brittany's building. "When will I see you again?" she asks Santana.

She is always the one who asks, isn't she?

"This might take the whole day. So not today." Santana looks at the calendar on her phone. "I actually don't know." There are lots of red marks indicating appointments, meetings and whatever else. She puts the phone back in her purse. "I'll have to see how it goes. I'll call you."

Santana is always saying that, isn't she? She'll call Brittany. When she can. If she can. If she wants.

LXXIX

Rehearsal is about to start. Dancers are stretching and chatting, and Brittany and the choreographer are discussing a few moves.

Her phone rings. She jumps in surprise, having forgotten it was in her pocket.

The choreographer doesn't look too pleased.

It's Santana. Why would she be calling in the middle of the day? Brittany excuses herself and finds an empty room where she can take the call.

"I need to see you," Santana says instead of a greeting.

Brittany is having none of it. "Wait a second."

Santana waits.

Brittany rests her weight against the door. She checks her watch. "Yesterday you cancelled our day together because of some Sam Evans thing. You didn't go to Rachel's play. You cancel at least one date every week, always last minute, and we're always working around your schedule and your needs. You never know when you can see me. You don't even have a general idea. You keep me in the dark about yourself, about your life, about your schedule. Maybe I happen to be the one who's busy right now."

"I don't—" Santana stops short. She lets out a drawn-out sigh. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

"I'm sorry, Santana, but I can't come running every time you call." Brittany runs a hand through her hair. Her heart beats without rhythm, with desperation – what had she just said? "I can't keep on like this."

Silence – long, unbearable silence.

"Okay," Santana says. She sounds so serious - it's so short – Brittany can't quite process what she has just heard. She's silent again, but Brittany's mouth feels dry and she can't bring herself to say anything else. "I just wish you had told me that in person."

Santana hangs up.

Brittany stares at the phone.

Had they just—