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Santana doesn't call Brittany right away. She figures calling someone so soon after they give you their number shows nothing but desperation on her part. So, instead, she's sitting at her desk at work, rocking her leg and staring at her phone, waiting for the right time—as if it'd come in the next few seconds.
It's been three days since Rachel's show, yet it feels like an eternity. Her mind is constantly filled with images of the blonde, her bright smile, and variations of what outfit she could be wearing. Her barista apron was cute…
Her gaze is still on her phone, the screen dark and untouched since she arrived. It's nearing nine o'clock now, and she has nothing to do until Shelby decides to come in. Santana doesn't have the woman's schedule, not that she ever sticks to it, so it's always either a waiting game or immediate chaos when she arrives at the studio.
"Hey, Santana."
She's brought out of her thoughts by a voice echoing down the hall. Mercedes Jones is walking her way, her bag held in the crook of her arm, and a bright smile directed her way.
"You look like you're having the time of your life," she jokes.
Santana scoffs and sits up straight in her chair. "Aren't I always?" she responds, crossing her arms over her chest in annoyance.
Mercedes chuckles and sets her purse down on the corner of Santana's desk, sorting through it. Santana can't see what she's looking for, but it doesn't stop her from watching Mercedes's movement. "Shelby not here yet?" Mercedes asks.
Santana shakes her head and purses her lips.
"Good," Mercedes sighs. "I need you to do me a favor."
"Sure," Santana relents. She doesn't have anything better to do than stare at her phone longingly.
"Unlock the fishbowl?" Mercedes asks, wincing as she says the words. "I know it's not exactly sensible, but I really want to get a jump start before Shelby gets here. You can even give input on the session."
Santana shakes her head. "Sorry, Mercedes, I can't do that. She's the only one with the key," she explains. "And bold of you to assume anyone's opinion is as valuable as her own," she says sarcastically.
Mercedes rolls her eyes and sighs, sitting down in a nearby chair. "Fine," she says, obviously frustrated. "I'll just have to wait."
And they do.
For nearly another hour.
When Shelby eventually walks into the studio, she doesn't carry any remorse, regret, or apologies for making her staff and client wait so long without notice. Santana wants nothing more than to light into the woman, give her a taste of her own medicine, but she knows doing so would put her job at risk. She looks over to Mercedes and can tell the girl's thinking the same thing.
Shelby holds so much power in this industry. She could make or break anyone. If Mercedes gets on her bad side, she risks getting blackballed from the music industry—and the same goes with Santana. Shelby holds all the cards, and she knows it.
Santana can't help but think of how differently she'll run things when it's her own studio in question. She'd never show up late without notice, and she'd never disrespect her staff—she knows how inefficiently the studio would run if a good staff weren't present.
"Santana." She's brought out of her thoughts by Shelby, standing about six feet away and gesturing for her to follow. Mercedes is next to her, still staring daggers into her side profile, albeit keeping quiet.
Santana grabs Mercedes's file and quickly stands to join the women in the hall. As soon as her butt leaves the chair, Shelby continues walking, only stopping once she's entered the fishbowl. Santana enters quietly, placing Mercedes's file on the panel located just outside the glass separating the recording room from where they're standing. Mercedes grabs the pair of headphones Shelby hands her before entering the room, sitting on a wooden stool just in front of a microphone.
After setting the file down, Santana wordlessly walks over to a nearby couch and takes a seat. She's Shelby's assistant—there at Shelby's beck and call if she were to need anything…and it'd be inconvenient for Shelby to walk ten yards down the hall in the event she does need something.
This is how she spends most of her days—but it's not all bad. She gets to directly witness music in the making. She watches as Shelby plays with buttons on the sound panel, how Mercedes sings verses of the music written on the sheet before her, adjusting and taking notes whenever Shelby intervenes. Sometimes, it takes nearly a week just to get a chorus of a song finished. There are backing vocals, different instrumentals, and different note variations they try for the final product.
Creating music is a very tedious process—one many people have to ease into. But Santana gets first-class access to it. So, yeah, her job sucks, but she wholeheartedly believes this struggle will be worth it in the end.
"Santana!"
She snaps her attention over to the direction the loud sound comes from. Shelby's sitting in her chair, turned toward Santana, and staring at her with wide, agitated eyes.
"Ma'am?" Santana responds, clearing her throat.
"What is with you today?" Shelby asks, wanting an answer. The woman's never been one to mind boundaries. "You keep spacing, and that's not acceptable for someone in your position. I need you ready, focused, and willing. You read that in the conditions when you accepted this job, did you not?"
"Yes, ma'am," Santana says, nodding. She hates being unable to say all the other words that spring to mind.
"Then act like it," she scolds. "Now, will you please go get Mercedes and me some coffee? And not that motor oil they keep downstairs," she closes her eyes and waves her hand, "but actual coffee. We may be here a while."
Santana lets her eyes slide over to Mercedes for half a second, seeing the girl roll her eyes and throw her head back at Shelby's statement.
"Yes, ma'am. Black?" Santana asks.
Shelby looks to Mercedes, who just shrugs.
"That'll work."
That's all she says before returning to face the sound panel. Santana stands in her spot for a moment, waiting to see if Shelby is finished with her request. When she gets no other response or recognition, she swiftly leaves the room.
She walks past her desk and grabs her purse before heading to the elevator, annoyed but also relieved at the thought of getting away from the studio for a while. She wracks her mind through all the nearby coffee shops in the area, frowning when the only one she can think of is the cafe Brittany works at. She glances at her phone, reading the time: 2:46 p.m.
Brittany's shift ended nearly two hours ago. If only Shelby could've asked sooner, she may have had the opportunity to see Brittany. She sulks for a moment at the missed opportunity, watching the floor number decrease as she descends to ground level. The door opens to the main lobby, where a man is leaning heavily on the receptionist's desk, smirking as he flirts with the woman behind the counter. She laughs at something he says and nervously places a strand of hair behind her ear.
Santana can practically see the hearts flying in the air between the two. She internally scowls at the pair, jealous that she doesn't have the guts to take matters into her own hands like them. No matter how hard she tries, it's like she can't shake the feeling of never being worthy. It's not that she's not attractive enough or likable enough to find someone who may be interested—it's that she can't live up to the expectations of being labeled someone's girlfriend.
Quinn calls it self-sabotage.
Is it true? Does she really sabotage any chance at a relationship she has because she thinks that low of herself? Sure, high school Santana belongs in that category of bitches, but hasn't she changed? Hasn't she made an active effort to better herself—to become this new person who strives to inflict less harm on people and more good?
Hell, she's friends with Berry now, and she never thought that'd happen.
She does deserve good things. She's made an effort to become a better person than in the past, and she has. Isn't that what life's all about? Improvement?
With a slight nod of her head, Santana pulls her phone out of her purse, determination on her face as she clicks on her contacts app. As soon as she got home the other night, she entered Brittany's number, so it's already saved.
She clicks the "call" button and raises the phone to her ear. Although walking down the streets of New York isn't the best place to make a phone call, she's determined to take an active step in her life rather than play it passively.
Plus, she needs to do it now before the motivation wears off.
The line rings for a moment until she hears a click on the other end, followed by a bright "Hello?" Santana smiles at hearing the blonde's voice.
"Hey, Brittany. It's Santana."
"Oh, hey! I was waiting for you to call," the blonde replies.
Santana feels bad about making the girl wait so long, but she shakes her head to get rid of the nerves rising up her spine. "Yeah, sorry about that. I've just been…busy," she lies.
"That's life," the blonde reassures, no sarcasm or bite in her tone. Santana can't help but admire Brittany's responses. She'd be a lot snippier if someone took three days to call her.
Santana looks down at her feet as she walks to the cafe. It's just a few blocks ahead, but she finds it easier to concentrate on Brittany's voice if she can't see all the hustle surrounding her. "Look, I'm a little short on time, but," she pauses, "when can I see you again?"
"That's up to you," she answers smoothly.
Santana smiles at Brittany's response. She can practically hear the smirk on the blonde's face. Sly talk is one of Santana's favorite ways to communicate.
/
The rest of the afternoon, Santana is particularly giddy. When she brings Mercedes and Shelby their coffees, she also offers a wide smile. Mercedes looks at her questionably, and Shelby doesn't even glance in her direction, but Santana's okay with it.
She has a date with Brittany. And that's all that matters.
Well, technically, it's not labeled as anything. They're just getting together this weekend to walk through Central Park and maybe try out a new bakery—simply getting to know each other.
But in Santana's opinion, labels don't really matter. She doesn't understand the constant pressure to have a label on everything in life. Who cares who Brittany is to her right now? Who cares if she's friends with Rachel or Quinn? It all boils down to the relationships you have with those people, not what title they have. You can label someone as your friend or significant other, but if you don't treat those people well, the whole label becomes a lie.
That's partially why she's never been one to label herself. Does she like girls or guys? Who is she attracted to? Who's her type?
Why does it matter?
"You're being creepy."
Santana brings her attention from her plate to Quinn and Rachel sitting across the table. They're both giving her the same expression Mercedes had earlier.
"How?" she asks, taking a sip of her water.
"You're acting…" Rachel starts but pauses, searching for the right word. "Happy."
Santana shrugs nonchalantly. "Well, did it ever occur to either of you that I am?"
"Oh, it did." Quinn nods her head fervently and looks over at Rachel for reinforcement. "It's just…not normal."
"What's got you so excited?" Rachel asks.
The three are having dinner at an Italian place Rachel recently discovered. She has a break from Funny Girl just for tonight, so Quinn suggests they celebrate and make good use of the time.
Santana's still wondering how Quinn connected Rachel with a good time, but that's not for her to worry about.
"Just made plans," Santana says cryptically. She's not completely comfortable letting them know she's hanging out with Brittany this weekend. Part of her feels it's justified, but the other thinks she's being ridiculous.
It just feels like this thing with Brittany is new—friends or not. Having everyone around and poking their nose into their relationship seems like an invasion of privacy.
"Wow. That information was so helpful," Quinn says sarcastically.
"I literally just have plans. Is that so bad?" Santana argues.
"Absolutely not," Rachel defends. "It's nice that you're meeting more people in the city. Not that it was depressing that you only know two people," Santana narrows her eyes at the girl, "but it's nice to know you have more of a social life than we're aware of."
Santana holds back the smart remark toward Rachel—the Hobbit isn't going to ruin her good mood. She just feigns a sweet smile and continues eating her pasta. Rachel and Quinn strike up a conversation, which she half listens to, but for the rest of dinner, she mostly keeps to herself.
That's how she prefers her time anyway. Quiet, reserved, and lost in her own thoughts. It's ammunition Quinn uses to tease her, but she's not motivated to change just because of some passive-aggressive comments. She's dished enough of them out—she knows how to take them as well.
Not long after, everyone finishes eating, and Rachel pays the check—partly why Santana agreed to go out tonight. Who's she to say no to a free dinner? She's walking down the street, arm linked with Quinn's, as they call a taxi to transport them to their apartments. Santana avoids the subway past five pm, unsure of what exactly goes down there at night and not willing to learn. The driver charges each girl as they get out, so the fair isn't too big—it's evenly split between the three of them.
When Santana enters her apartment, she grabs the half-drank bottle of wine from the fridge and sits down on her couch. She turns on the cooking channel and sips her wine, mentally and physically unwinding from her day.
She's exhausted.
Her day didn't start off to too much of a great start, but it certainly took a turn for the best. A smile comes to her face as she remembers her weekend plans. She visualizes the day with Brittany, unable to escape the butterflies that fill her stomach at the thought of the blonde.
/
"When you eat cereal, do you have more milk than cereal or more cereal than milk?"
Santana scrunches her brows and looks over at the blonde walking beside her. She's looking up at the trees, a calm expression on her face as she waits for Santana's response.
"What?" Santana laughs. They've been walking through Central Park for nearly fifteen minutes now, and the past few have been in silence, viewing the scenery around them contently.
"When you eat cereal, do you have more milk than cereal or more cereal than milk?" Brittany repeats, this time glancing at Santana.
Santana looks down at the coffee cup in her hand as she ponders the question. "Um…an equal amount of both?" she says it as more of a question than a statement. There's a slight chuckle in her voice as she finds Brittany's randomness amusing.
"Really?" Brittany asks. "I'd totally peg you as the more milk than cereal type."
"How come?" Santana replies.
"I don't know. Just a vibe, I guess." Brittany playfully bumps shoulders with Santana as they continue walking.
"What about you?" Santana returns the question, sipping her warm latte as she waits for Brittany's response.
The girl hums for a moment as she ponders. "More cereal than milk. I can't stand it when the cereal gets soggy."
Santana nods. "That's fair." There are people all around, some walking dogs or strollers, others jogging, but as far as Santana's concerned, they're completely alone. Being in Brittany's presence feels easy—there's no effort.
She picked Brittany up nearly an hour ago, the blonde greeting her with a bright smile outside of her apartment complex. They got coffee before heading to Central Park, and the time's flying faster than Santana thinks it ever has before. There's no pressure on anything—they're just spending time together. Unlike the rest of her friends, Brittany doesn't seem to have a particular topic or issue to address, and she's not berating Santana about some aspect of her life. She knows Quinn and Rachel have the best intentions, but it's honestly relieving to get to know someone new. There are no expectations, no knowledge of her past, and nothing to base their time together on.
"What are you thinking about?" Brittany asks, seeing Santana staring down at her feet as they move along the sidewalk. She must've spaced out for a few moments.
Santana shrugs and smiles. "Imagining what life would be like if I had superpowers." She's not being serious, but it's a response Santana thinks would make the conversation interesting.
"Mm," Brittany replies, tilting her chin up to the sky. "And what would that life look like?"
Santana purses her lips and smirks. Other than the badass outfit she'd totally wear all the time, she thinks of the superhero movies she's watched in the past and places herself inside that universe. "Well, first, I'd totally have an archnemesis," she answers.
"Hero or villain?"
"Maybe a vigilante?" Santana responds. "I can handle people who want to cause trouble or those who want to be good. But, I don't like people who just straddle that line." She holds out her hand and tilts it back and forth. "Just make up your damn mind." She takes a sip of her coffee.
"Definitely," Brittany agrees. "Continue.
"I'd have superhero friends that help keep the city secure and regular friends that I'd ensure to keep safe," she pauses, thinking over her next words carefully. "But there'd be that one person…one who comes before anything and everybody else. I'd make it my life goal to keep them safe—maybe have an epic battle when their safety is compromised, because when is it ever not," she muses, picturing an epic battle scene on some hilltop with a masked individual standing across from her. She doesn't stop herself from picturing Brittany there as well—maybe as the person she's trying to save.
"You sound like you fantasize about that a lot," Brittany teases.
"Call me a nerd if you want," Santana responds, shrugging, "but Marvel is my jam."
Brittany winces and sucks in a deep breath of air. "I think I'm more of a DC girl."
Santana stops in her tracks and glares at Brittany's retreating figure. When the blonde realizes she has stopped, she takes a few steps forward before turning around, a smile in place—she finds the conflicted glare on Santana's face amusing.
"Kidding," she admits.
Santana's shoulders soften at the clarification, and she continues walking until she reaches Brittany.
"But it's cute to see you get so bent out of shape over something so mundane," the blonde reveals.
Santana raises her eyebrows and raises a finger in protest. "Say what you want, but this comic rivalry is anything but mundane," she feigns seriousness. A smile breaks through her expression, giving away her whimsical attitude.
"Sure," Brittany agrees. She takes Santana's finger into her hand and pulls her closer. When Santana reaches Brittany, the blonde snakes her arm through Santana's and continues walking. "Care to elaborate?
Santana can feel the heat creep up her cheeks at Brittany's move, but she nods her head and continues talking about the world that is Marvel. With the conversation this easy and her heart feeling so full, Santana can't think of a better place, or person, to spend her Saturday with.