4. FIRST DAY AFTER. (I)

You have decided that you had nothing to do on the fact that you are currently being spooned by a gorgeous lady. You have decided it must be all her doing, since you were good, you behaved yourself, you controlled the stupid teenager boy that has never seen a boob before that lives deep inside your guts, and you simply passed out on the couch after a really, really long night. What possessed Santana to leave the confines of your king size bed and crawl behind you on this small couch? You don't have a conclusion for that. Yet.

You have been awake for a while, but in your position you are not able to move without risking waking Santana up, and you can only imagine that wouldn't be the smartest decision right now. That's why the moment you can feel her slightly stirring against your back, you decide to play dead.

Well, okay, not dead, you just pretend to be asleep.

You feel her breath against your neck as she snuggles against your warm body, and then suddenly she stiffens. You try your best to keep your breathing even so it doesn't give away that you are awake. You can feel all her muscles twitching against you and for a millisecond you think she might just give in and cuddle you again. But she doesn't. Actually she starts revolting and the next thing you hear right after you lose the heat that her body was gifting you with, is a loud thud on the floor.

"Fuck." she mutters under her breath and you have to bite back a giggle. Apparently she doesn't know either how you two ended up tangled together. Maybe she is a sleep walker.

As soon as you feel her getting back on her feet, and you hear her light steps wandering off to somewhere, probably the bedroom, you roll over yourself; a smile taking over your face. This woman is doing something to you, and you know it's wrong, and immoral, you don't think it's illegal but it might as well be, but you feel like you can't fight against it. The moment you set eyes on her vulnerable figure it was like something clicked inside you, like something that had been closed off for a very long time, unlocked itself. You don't know what it is, or maybe you do, but are no way near ready to acknowledge it. But Santana is affecting you in ways that Quinn, your best friend and shrink, would not only not approve, but hold you liable of.

You take a moment to gather yourself back together before you get up and decide to go on with your routine as if nothing happened. It's already midday, which you are not surprised about, but that only means that if you are going to take care of Santana's situation, you need to make it quick. So as you wander off to your kitchen and start preparing coffee, you call the NYPD first.

"Morning, Can I speak to officer Puckerman, please?" You ask politely when the phone is picked up, and they tell you not to hang up.

"Officer Puckerman speaking" you hear after a couple minute wait.

"Noah, it's Brittany. Did you arrest Sant-...Mrs. Keating's husband?" You ask, correcting yourself mid-sentence.

"No. I'm sorry. Nathaniel Keating is MIA. We are still looking for him." He says apologetically and all you can do is thank him for all he has done for you.

"Were you talking about me?" You hear that velvety voice behind you, and when you turn around you find Santana, still in your clothes, leaning against the kitchen's door frame. How long has she been there?

"Your husband, actually." You reply sincerely as you lick your own lips trying to get some moisture back in your mouth. Apparently the sight of her makes your mouth go dry, good to know. Also you try really hard not let your eyes wander down Santana's body, and it seems like she notices, since she arches an eyebrow for a second, looking at you curiously.

"Any news?" She asks crossing her arms over her chest as a defence mechanism, you have noticed she tends to do that.

"Unfortunately, no."

"He is probably at his pop's." She says as she shrugs. "He always does that."

"Does what?" You ask, your coffee long forgotten.

"Beat me up and run away to hide under his daddy's wings." She says, flaring her nostrils in disgust. "That little bastard." She spits out.

The hatred you are feeling right now is kind of scaring you. You know she wouldn't hurt you, or you like to think so, but you are honestly worried about her hurting herself. You might not be a mental health professional, but the basics come with your degree, and years of seeing the same situations all over again have taught you that this feelings Santana is having right now, can backfire any moment and become self-loathing. Often leading to suicide.

You really need to talk to Quinn about Santana. You really need for Quinn to treat Santana. But you also know that Quinn will figure out all this feelings you are having for the brunette the moment she sees you. Yeah, she is that good. But Santana needs a kind of help that you can't give her.

"Santana..." You almost whisper as you walk closer to her slowly, trying to calm her down, but the moment you are about to put your hand over her shoulder, panic takes over her features again, and once again, she scurries away from you.

"Don't touch me."

You are utterly confused. She was the one spooning you and holding on to you not so long ago, and now she's scared of you?

"Santana, you need help." You repeat your words from the night before. "I know people, you are going to be safe, I promise. But we need to get going." You add, but you don't move, in case she panics again. You are walking on eggshells here, you know it.

"Can't we go tomorrow?" She asks in a small voice.

"I shouldn't have brought you here last night. It's against every standard procedure, and I need to fix that before I get caught." You say, rising your hand to your mouth to nibble on your nails nervously. It doesn't go unnoticed by you the way Santana's eyes flip downwards to your lips, but you decide to ignore it all together.

"Please." She pleads. "No one has to know. I won't say a word, pinky promise." She adds rising her pinky finger in the air and you can't stifle a snort-y giggle that leaves your throat. "I just need time to think, time to breathe, time to be away from him...He will never find me here. Please. Just today." She says and you find it really hard not to give in into her will.

"Okay." Your tongue gives in for you. "You hungry? I was just about to..." You trail off gesturing to the kitchen behind you.

She nods with a soft shrug and walks past you, still with her arms crossed over her chest, to sit down on one of your kitchen chairs.

"Who are you?" She asks after a few minutes of silence that you have used to pour some coffee for you both, and are now frying some bacon.

"I'm Brittany Pierce?" You answer uncertainly, not looking at her.

"I know that. I mean, what is it that you do?" She tries again.

"I'm a social worker." You say, this time turning your head towards her with a slight frown.

"Ah. So that is why I'm your new charity case." She says cockily, and there it is again, the change of demeanour that makes her the sexiest woman to walk on Earth and makes you weak at your knees.

"It's just my job." You say turning your back again to her.

"It's not. Bringing me here, it's not your job. You just said it yourself." You can almost see the way her tongue rolls inside her mouth as she drags every word out. "So what is it? Is it because you like me?" She purrs and you have to press your thighs together, hopefully subtly, to release some pressure.

Quickly you serve some bacon on a plate and plant it abruptly in front of her.

"Eat." You say, ignoring her question. You are not going to give in to the temptation. You can't. "Also, there is ice in the fridge. Your face might find it useful." You add as you leave the kitchen hurriedly, almost running towards your bedroom to lock yourself in it.

Quickly you pull out your phone and bring it to your ear after you find the number you want to call.

"Hey, Britt!" Says a cheerful female voice and you can't help but smile. "How can I serve you today?" She adds jokingly.

"Quinn, I need your help. I have a...case." You explain very vaguely. "Domestic violence. The wife is going through some kind of bipolar state or whatever you call it. She is angry, and scared, and sometimes it's like she owns the world with her confidence. It's way beyond my level of knowledge."

"Sounds pretty serious. Where is she? How can I get in touch with her?" Quinn asks and you feel your palms starting to get sweaty.

"She'satmyplace" You stutter out.

"What?" Quinn asks, and you are sure by the tone of her voice that she actually pretty much heard you.

"She is here, at my place." You repeat anyway, swallowing hard, waiting for all her wrath to fall on you. But it doesn't come.

"Lord, help me." Is all you hear, besides a deep sigh, before Quinn cuts the call. You should have seen that coming.

A soft, almost timid, knock on your door takes you back to reality.