5. FIRST DAY AFTER (II)
You sigh deeply as you take the few steps that are separating you from your bedroom door, and unlock it swiftly, swinging it open almost aggressively. The sight in front of you surprises you so much that you can only stare. There stands Santana, her hair tied up into a messy bun, thick black rimmed glasses perched on her nose, still in the clothes you gave her, with a tray between her hands that smells all kinds of delicious. You totally didn't see that coming.
"You didn't eat anything." She mutters looking everywhere but at you. This nervous side of her? You find it utterly adorable. How this woman can go from sex on legs to sheer cuteness escapes your mind. But you find yourself liking it more than you should. If you didn't already like her more than you should, that is.
"Thank you." You reply still very much surprised as you rise your hands to take the tray from her, giving it a quick glance and seeing there is not only coffee and bacon there, but also some freshly squeezed orange juice, a bagel filled with what looks like cheese and salmon, and some hash-browns as a side to the bacon. You didn't know you even had all that in your fridge. You also store the information of Santana being a great cook in the back of your mind, it might come in handy some day, you can only hope.
"I'm...going to get that ice now. My eye is actually killing me." She says with a dry chuckle and before you can process what the hell just happened, she is gone, and you really would think that thing was just a figment of your imagination, if it wasn't for the tray full of delicious food you are still holding between your hands.
With a sigh you leave the tray on your desk, still looking at it, but not really seeing it because you are deeply lost in your own thoughts. This simple gesture of her bringing you some freshly made breakfast just feels so domestic that you almost can't stand it. You are in deep, deep trouble. You could feel it the moment she was first sitting in your car, you could sense it, your gut feeling was telling you that it was a damn bad idea. You really should trust your guts more. Not because it was a bad thing that you were finally taking a liking on someone, that fact was actually awesome, since it had been almost two years since your last break up with someone, being single ever since. It wasn't even the fact of how unprofessional of you it was to take interest in your current case victim. It was the fact that this woman, Santana, was so deeply wounded that you were not prepared to deal with it.
The last time you were with someone, it was bad. It ended worse. After that, you had chosen to put yourself first, to learn to love yourself again, since you never actually did (having a psychiatrist friend came in handy, you know, despite of that being also highly unprofessional). But your own wounds were still freshly closed. You are not ready to commit to someone so wounded that could, even if unintentionally, open your own wounds again. That was the reason why being interested in Santana was a bad choice, because she was already holding a power over you, after not even 24 hours, that you knew would end up backfiring to you. She could destroy you. And that was what scared you the most.
So you had to take Santana to a safe place, because you cared, about her and every abused woman to walk on Earth, and because it was your job. And you would hand Quinn all her information in order to be treated. Quinn was a great therapist and she had specialised in this stuff. But that was all. Once she was safe, you would forget about her and move on with your life and go back to your routine of finding juicy cases in the 911 call room's headquarters.
Poor, poor Brittany.
You are shaken out of your thoughts bu your phone ringing and you realise that you have actually drunk all your coffee, half of the orange juice, and eaten half the bagel and the hash-browns. Your brows furrow deeply in surprise. You really had lost yourself for a while there. Shaking your head you pick up your phone, Quinn is calling you back.
"Sup, Q." You mutter timidly into the device.
"So, I arranged my schedule. I'm coming to your place this afternoon to meet this woman, only if you promise me that she will be outta there first thing in the morning." She doesn't let you speak, though, you can hear her anger seething between her teeth. "Promise me or I swear to God, Brittany... Don't make me do something I really don't want to do."
You gulp nervously. She is right, you know it, she could easily report you for misconduct and you would be jobless before you could even begin to think of an excuse.
"I promise." You say, nodding furiously into you phone and she hangs up again, without a goodbye. You know she is mad at you, very much with a good reason, but she is still your best friend and your partner in crime.
When you finally leave your room, you find Santana sprawled on your sofa, her glasses lying on the coffee table, half of her face covered by an ice pack. You can't help but smile softly. In all honesty she looks terrible, and it breaks your heart. All the bruises, her puffed face, her still split lip...it's not a pretty sight. It's actually sad. So sad that even if you were just smiling, you feel like bawling your eyes out in cry right now. How can a person be so...inhuman to do something like that to another person? People are so cruel. Your own experience added to the experience you have with your years in the business has made you lose completely your faith in humanity. You love your job, but God, in moments like this you wish you could just move into the woods somewhere isolated like Lapland (you believe that is somewhere in Europe) and die alone surrounded just by nature.
Clearing your throat, you compose yourself. You are getting too emotional this morning, afternoon, whatever. You think it's because of your lack of sleep.
"Feeling better?" You ask her as she opens her good eye and she nods at you, smiling softly. Yeah, in moments like this you see past all the wounds and see her beauty. She really is a beautiful woman, and you think deep down she knows it. You want to hear her story, you really want to know how she ended up in a marriage so messed up like hers. But you don't dare ask. You are kind of scared of what she might tell you.
She slowly rises from her lying position to a sitting one, groaning softly, probably due to her most likely fractured rib, and she takes the ice pack away from her face. It has done wonders, you must say. Her swell has subsided almost completely and even if her eye is still black, she can now fully open it without dying in terrible suffering. Okay, you really are out of the loop today.
You sit next to her, but not too close so you won't scare her. You can't say you are not surprised when she is the one that closes the gap between you two and hugs you. The smell of her dark skin catches your nose and you try your best not to inhale deeper. She smells delicious. She looks and sounds like some sexy dark men's club from the 30's where they smoked cigars, drunk fine whiskey and talked business, but she smells like summer. She smells fresh, something like coconut and passion fruit, with a tint of spicy cayenne pepper, also a bit like an ocean breeze. It's glorious.
"I'm sorry for being a bitch to you." She says into the crook of your neck and you all but swoon. "I actually am kind of a bitch, but yeah, sorry. It was uncalled for." She adds pulling away with a shrug and you are awestruck. The lack of sleep is really taking a toll on you. So much so, that you are starting to believe that all this stuff with Santana is just a wicked dream and you are about to wake up and she will be gone. You even pinch yourself to make sure you are awake. Turns out you are.
"It's okay." You say, choosing your words carefully, not that you ever were a mastermind on that, but you try. "I don't think you are a bitch."
"Oh, believe me, Blondie. I am." She replies wickedly and you have to lick your lips again because the thought that just crossed your mind was extremely inappropriate. You should be ashamed of yourself.
"You are just..." You trail off, not really sure what you say. Your brain is creating a disturbingly long list of adjectives you could use to describe her, but non of them are valid in this situation. You nervously look away from her, and then back again, to find her eyes locked on you intently.
"I am what?" She asks in that sultry, low, raspy, husk of hers, and you can only nibble on your own lower lip at a loss of words.
"You are confusing." You finally confess looking down at your own lap. You miss how Santana rises both her eyebrows, intrigued.
"How do I confuse you, Brittany?" She asks and when you look back up at her, you find her tilting her head to the side, her eyes filled with curiosity and something dark you can't pinpoint yet.
"You touch me, but you won't let me touch you..." You start slowly, swallowing again hard. "You look frightened a moment and the next one you turn into some kind of sexy vixen, and I am not made of stone, Santana." You ramble on. "It looks a lot like you are flirting with me, like heavily and heavenly full on flirting with me, yet you do have a husband..." You add running your hands through your own hair, but you stop talking as you see a playful smirk set on her delicious looking lips.
"Is that what worries you, Brittany?" There it is again, the way she modulates her voice to make it sound so fucking sexy. You can only assume she must have a great singing voice. "Well...F Y I..." She adds dragging every word way longer than necessary. "I am."
"You are what?" You ask tilting your head confusedly. Your own train of thought made you lose the point in the conversation again.
"Full on flirting with you." She winks with her good eye and you nearly die.
"B-but you are married." You stutter out, shifting on your seat anxiously. You don't like where this is going. Or maybe you like it too much.
"What on Earth makes you think I am happy in said marriage?" She asks rising her perfect eyebrow and you squirm. That was definitely a stupid thing to say, yet her answer surprises you. It's rare to find a woman with her attitude. Most of them are usually moping about how much they love their man, and how they promised they would change. It's nice for a change, even if you are not entirely sure that you actually believe her.
"I am a woman..." You mutter, not pushing further into the marriage thing.
"And that is a problem because...?" She trails off as she starts getting closer to you again. The tension in the room is so thick right now, that you can feel her body against yours even if she is still some inches appart. She does have a strong energy.
"Because you are straight?" Your answer comes out more like a question. She simply gets closer and closer to you, like a hunter stalking it's pray.
"Who says so?" She whispers, her eyes drifting between your eyes and your lips. It's making you nervous.
"You are married, to a man." You try to reason, but she is finally in front of you. Damn, her eyelashes are long. Her face is so close to you that you can feel her hot, heavy breathe against your lips and it's taking all your damn willpower not to take her right there, right then.
"Maybe I just want a hot stroll on the wild side..." She whispers looking at you lustfully and you really don't understand what she just said. You were never too good with metaphors, even if you make like a ton of your own in your mind; they usually don't make that much sense, though. But it sure sounded like an open invitation.
Thank God, the moment you are sure she is about to kiss you, your doorbell rings obnoxiously, breaking the moment completely, and making you let out a heavy breathe you didn't know you were holding.
Santana is going to be the death of you.
"Saved by the bell." You mutter as you, pretty much unceremoniously, crawl backwards over the armrest of your couch and off of it, almost running to the door. You could totally marry the person behind it right now from saving you from doing something absolutely stupid.
