Archive of Our Own

Since before she can remember, Santana has always been mesmerized by fire. There's something about the way it sparks to life, the way it devours and consumes and destroys and the way it slowly fades away, leaving a wake of ruin behind it.

When she was eight, there was a fire in her house, big and bold as it turned the entire place to ash in the matter of minutes. Her parents were still inside as she stood on the lawn and watched, fascinated as the heat beat against her face and her feet sunk into cold, dewy grass. Her whole life flew to the heavens in a rush of flames and she just watched it happen with a dropped jaw and wide, shiny eyes.

It should have morphed fire into something sinister and evil and it should have invaded her nightmares and ruined her daydreams but instead all it did was turn a fascination into a healthy respect. But as the walls of her childhood came down, the walls around her heart shot up and she supposes that’s where it all really starts - that first fire. 

After that she had what some would call a troubled childhood full of fighting and arson and a whole slew of things that should have left her dead in an alleyway. Somehow, and to this day Santana's not really sure how, she managed to survive - even managed to get her head on straight, rack up some college credit and take the firefighter's exam. Life was tough but Santana was tougher and on her 22nd birthday, she passed the test with flying colors. 

But there's still a big part of her, just shifting and coiling under her skin that's all street, that's hardened to the bone and distrustful of the world but she's never thought of it as bad, never cursed the man upstairs for her shitty past. It was just a part of her and that was fine. In fact, she’s pretty sure if her life were any different she’d be much worse off - too emotional, too quick to trust, all those other sappy things that are more likely to break her than what she got into as a kid. 

She hates to admit it, but it was Puck, a friend of hers, more like a brother really, from one of her foster homes, that got her out of the hellhole that was her life. Idiot decided he was going straight and becoming a cop - totally fucked over her life of crime. How that moron actually became a cop legitimately will never be clear to her but she can't deny that without his pep talk about "not being a fuck up forever," she'd still be running through dark alleys to make shady deals and throwing Molotov cocktails through windows. She half hates him and half loves him for it.

At the lovely age of twenty-three, after a year of putting fires out instead of starting them, she learns that firefighting is about the best adrenaline rush ever and full of all the things she loved when she was a kid - only this time, it isn't getting her into trouble. Firefighting is like wrestling a really ferocious animal - it’s volatile and unpredictable and each one has its own personality, its own story. 

It's dangerous and hard and sometimes the most unglamorous thing in the world but Santana loves it. She feels more at home with the guys in the fire house or in a burning building with an axe in her hand than in her own apartment.

She meets Mike Chang in college and they become an unlikely pair of friends. Santana is all hot temper and sarcasm while Mike is more smiles and hugs and jokes, but for whatever reason, they end up hanging around each other. Santana tells him it's because he has an outdoor grill at his apartment and a refrigerator with an unending supply of beer but Mike insists it's because she can't resist his beautiful face and rocking six-pack. He becomes a firefighter right after she does and now rides next to her in their truck. They have an illegal amount of fun together and Santana is pretty sure Mike is responsible for punching her one-way ticket straight to Hell, but she doesn't really care; she knew that's where she was headed long before she met Mike.

Puck and Mike are kind of it, as far as people go. The rest of the world can frankly go fuck themselves as far as Santana’s concerned. It’s not like people have done a whole lot for her. 

--

It's an uneventful day. Which in Santana's world is the worst kind of day. At the moment, she's got her feet propped up on the corner of the table as she leans back in her chair and stares at Mike over the top of a hand of cards spread in front of her nose. Mike raises an eyebrow at her and purses his lips as he surveys his own cards before looking back at her and then back to his hand.

She yawns and picks up a cup of coffee next to her elbow, taking a slow sip as she waits for Mike to make his move. A slow stream of smoke slithers upward from an ashtray down the table as Matt Rutherford rocks his chair back and forth and focuses on a TV mounted on the wall - a football game is playing on the screen.

"Yo, Rutherford," Santana barks. "I have to inhale that shit all day. You mind?"

Matt turns to observe her, his eyes running up and down her body before he reaches for his cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing the smoke straight towards her.

Mike laughs as Santana sets her coffee down to swipe at the air. "Ass," she mutters.

"Not my fault you quit," Matt replies, turning back to the TV.

The microwave beeps and Matt bursts out of his chair to retrieve his food so Santana looks back at Mike, still studying his hand like it holds the secrets to the universe.

"To-to-to-today, junior," she stammers at him as she rocks her chair back a little. Mike rolls his eyes and she smirks, challenging him with a raise of her eyebrow.

An alarm rings across the station before Mike can say anything and Santana jerks her head up, the legs of her chair crashing down as her feet leave the table and hit the floor. Mike throws his cards on the table and shoots upward.

"Finally," she says, chucking her cards on the table. "I was about to go commit arson just to have something to fucking do."

Mike laughs. "Ten bucks says it's not even a fire. Fifty says it's burnt popcorn."

She shushes him as they walk to their truck, shoving him to the side but laughing. "Don't jinx it, asshole."

He laughs and puts his hands up defensively as they grab their jackets and helmets and Santana pulls heavy pants up her legs, tugging the suspenders over her shoulders and hopping in the fire truck after Mike.

"Whooo," Mike lets out in a low whoop, grinning like a madman at Santana. "Let's rock."

"Let's roll," Santana shouts, grinning wide as the sirens come alive and their truck moves out of the station.

--

It takes them a good ten minutes to make it to the call, but soon they're pulling up to a small, nondescript apartment building and Santana's jumping out of the truck, Mike right behind her as the rest of the crew piles out. Judging from the chaos and the smell of burning wood that hits Santana's nose, it isn't just burnt popcorn.

There's smoke steaming out of an upstairs window and a mom and her daughter huddled together on the street to her right. Santana pulls her jacket tighter around her body and sends up a small, quick prayer, crossing herself subtly as she follows Mike up the stairs and into thick, black smoke.

This is how everything changes. In a burning building full of fire and ash.

--

Santana gets to the third floor, squinting to see through smoke when she spots the longest pair of legs she's ever seen poking out from a doorway, the door only partly ajar and smoke obscuring the interior.

"Shit," she mutters when she realizes those legs are probably attached to a person. "Shit, shit, shit, Mike!"

Her friend stomps up the stairs behind her and looks over her shoulder at the pair of legs. "Shit, get in there and grab her arms, I'll take the legs."

Santana steps over the body and pushes the door open the rest of the way, bursting through the screen of smoke to reveal the rest of the body attached to the legs and squatting down to lift the torso off the ground. She grunts as she stands, Mike lifting the legs up and moving backwards as they walk the girl out.

"She's hot," Mike comments as they maneuver down the stairs. The girl stirs, moves a little and they stop a second so Santana can get a better grip on the girl's upper torso.

"What?" Santana shifts the weight under her arms and gives Mike her best disgusted look even though she knows he can't see it. "Are you kidding me?"

"What, she is," Mike replies, shrugging his shoulder as they keep moving down the staircase. "Fifty bucks."

"No," Santana says as they round the corner to the first floor.

"Dude, fifty bucks," Mike repeats. "You can't weasel."

"Bro, you're holding an unconscious girl in your hands and you want to bet on who can lay her first?"

Mike kicks the stairwell door open and walks backward out into the street. "Hell yeah I do. Fifty bucks, Lopez. Don't chicken out."

"You're so fucked in the head," she says, glancing down at blonde hair and an ash covered face. "Fine."

An EMT comes up to them when they hit the sidewalk and takes the girl from their hands, dropping her onto a stretcher and strapping an oxygen mask to her face. Santana turns at the sound of clapping from some of the guys to her left, congregated around the fire truck and smirking at them. Mike does a full turn and bows but Santana just rolls her eyes.

"Chang and Lopez," Matt cajoles, clapping his hands together. "Couple of modern day heroes."

"Don't you have a fire to put out?" Santana barks, marching back to the truck.

Mike laughs and tugs his helmet off. "How's my hair look?"

"We are so going to Hell," she mutters, shaking her head and shoving Mike into a tree.

"We already live there, baby," Mike jokes, bouncing away from the tree and spreading his arms wide, laughing at the burning building in front of them.

--

The fire doesn't give them much trouble, and aside from the girl they lugged down the stairs, the building is clear. Santana's shoving her oxygen tank and helmet into a compartment on the side of their truck when Matt walks by her, throwing his helmet next to hers. "Your girl's awake," he comments, tugging open his jacket and running his hand over his head.

"Who?" Santana pulls her hair out of its ponytail before putting it back up again and looking at Matt with a confused expression.

"That chick you and Chang manhandled out of there like champs," he says, laughing. "She's awake, over by the ambulance." He points over her right shoulder.

Whipping her head around, she looks to where Matt is pointing and sure enough the blonde she pulled out of the building is awake, sitting on the curb in front of an ambulance and talking to Mike. Shit. She claps Matt on the shoulder before turning to leave. "Thanks," she throws over her shoulder.

The blonde is laughing at something Mike is saying and her friend is grinning charmingly so she knows it's mission critical to get him the hell away from this girl before she's out fifty bucks. "Mike," she half-shouts. "Chief wants to see you."

Her friend cuts a glare to her. "No he doesn't."

"Yes he does," Santana insists, coming to a stop next to him. "Dude, he's pissed too. You better go over there."

Mike looks skeptical. "You're lying."

"You really want to take that bet?" Santana keeps her eyes on her friend but she can feel the girl on the curb observing their exchange with interest.

"I hate you," Mike bites out. He points a finger in her face. "If you're playing me, I will kung fu your ass."

"Yeah sure, Jackie Chan," she says with a roll of her eyes. "Make like a fucking tree, will you?"

Mike huffs and glances at the curb before stalking off in the direction of the trucks. Santana whirls to look at the blonde, knowing she doesn't have a lot of time, but her big plan to quickly seduce the girl into a stupor rushes right out of her when she takes a good look at her. Even with smudges of soot covering her cheeks and her hair in complete disarray, the girl is fairly breathtaking and Santana feels her eyebrows rise as she notices it.

"Uh," she says lamely, blinking down at the expectant look on the blonde's face.

"Hi," the girl replies hoarsely, stretching her hand out. "Brittany."

Santana swallows, grasping Brittany's hand briefly. "Lopez. Santana Lopez."

"Hi," Brittany repeats, a wide grin on her face. "Thanks for pulling me out of my apartment. I guess you saved my life, huh?"

"Yeah," Santana says, nodding. A shout comes from down the street and it breaks Santana out of her trance. Mike is standing next to their station chief, glaring in her direction.

Shifting around in her thick jacket, Santana uses a line she's never used before - the truth. "Look," she says. "My buddy Mike, the guy you were talking to, we have this bet going around to see who can get you to go out with them first," she explains, shrugging. "I know you don't know me, but I could use the fifty bucks and if you could just, I don't know, not go out with him that'd really do me a solid."

She gets it all out in a fast tumble, her eyes wide and pleading as they stare at Brittany's blue ones and she crosses her fingers that the move succeeds. She knows it does when Brittany laughs throatily and Santana finds herself grinning in response. "So you don't actually want to?"

Santana's eyes go wide. "Want to what?"

Brittany stands, shifting close to her and Santana takes a short step back at the sudden invasion of her personal space. "Go out."

"Where?" Santana croaks, glancing quickly to the side to see Mike fuming near one of the trucks.

Brittany laughs again and brings Santana's focus back before the blonde is grabbing a passing EMT and tugging a small memo pad and a pen out of his breast pocket. The guy shakes his head but continues on as Brittany rips a piece of paper out and scribbles something across the page.

"You're cute." Folding the paper in half, she steps even closer to Santana and presses the sheet into the palm of her hand, bringing her lips close to Santana's ear. "Call me," she whispers, hot breath brushing across Santana's face.

Santana recovers and lets out an indignant laugh. "And why do you think I'd even want to go out with you?"

A warm rush of air brushes against her cheek again as Brittany pulls back and laughs, her eyes bright and smiling as she looks at Santana. "You want to," Brittany says with no room for denial. "It'll be fun, I promise."

Brittany laughs again and winks at her before turning away just as Mike arrives back at Santana's side and punches her in the arm.

"Ow, what the fuck?"

"The chief didn't need to see me, you jerk," Mike retorts, watching Brittany retreat towards a friend that had just arrived. "That's cheating."

"Whatever dude," Santana replies, ripping her gaze away from Brittany and smirking at Mike. She holds up the small sheet of paper in front of Mike's face and waves it around. "I got her number, asshole," she jokes. "How you like them apples?"

Mike lunges for her, laughing as she evades his grasp and jumps back towards the trucks. "Shut the hell up, Will Hunting."

"You owe me fifty bucks," she sing-songs, skipping backwards - quite a feat in heavy bunker gear.

They mock fight each other all the way back to the fire engine.

--

It takes Santana three days to call Brittany. Three whole days where she dials the number around 200 times - chickening out and hanging up each and every time. It's not that she doesn't want to see the girl, it's just…well she doesn't really know what it is but she hasn't been so immediately disarmed by a woman in a long time and to be honest it's kind of freaking her out. Which is just so dumb that it makes her want to punch a brick wall.

Mike is halfway through a chicken sandwich when he looks up and notices her fumbling the piece of paper with Brittany's number on it around on the table. She's rocking back in her chair with her phone in one hand as she just stares at the numbers despite having them way past memorized.

"If you don't call her," Mike warns around the food in his mouth. "I will."

"I did call her," Santana says, not looking up from the piece of paper.

"I want my fifty bucks back."

"Fuck off, Chang," she replies, snapping her head up to glare at him.

"Call her right now or give me my money so I can go out and show her how a girl is supposed to be treated."

Santana exhales loudly and purses her lips together. "Whatever."

"You're such a coward," he mutters with a chuckle, eying the edges of his sandwich before taking another bite.

Licking her lips and glaring at Mike, she makes a point of pressing each button of her phone loudly and with purpose, staring at him the entire time. She's still smirking at him, phone pressed to her ear when Brittany answers in a chipper voice.

"Brittany?" Santana drawls. "It's Santana."

--

Their first date doesn't go anywhere past the wall outside Brittany's hotel room. Santana doesn't even mean for it to happen, but Brittany opens the door wearing these jeans that hang just a little too low on her hips and her hair is sort of tousled in that way that looks effortless and she's smiling with these bright blue eyes and Santana's only human.

Brittany kisses her first, walks her across the hall to press against the wall and scratches her nails against the back of Santana's neck. When one of the doors open down the hall and an older couple walks out, Brittany giggles against Santana's lips and pulls them back inside her hotel room.

Later, when she's naked and breathless next to a laughing Brittany, she stares up at the ceiling and utters, "Best first date ever."

Brittany laughs harder and slaps Santana on the stomach. "You need to feed me."

She’ll ask, months later, why Brittany just decided to kiss her when she opened the door and Brittany will just shrug and smile. “Because I wanted to.”

--

The second time they go out, they actually make it to a restaurant before they end up in bed. Brittany picks the place and Santana is kind of shocked when they end up at some seedy corner bar in a bad part of town.

"I know it doesn't look like much," Brittany comments, grabbing Santana's hand and swinging it back and forth. "But it's got some of the best food in the city."

Santana eyes it with an arched eyebrow. "Whatever you say, babe."

Brittany laughs and pulls her towards the door. "Don't judge a book by its cover, Santana."

Shaking her head, Santana follows the girl inside and lets out a low breath. "Whatever you say," she repeats.

An hour later, with one of the best burgers she's ever had settling in her stomach and a pint of beer in front of her, Santana laughs at the happy expression on Brittany's face.

The blonde kicks her foot out against Santana's shin softly and laughs at her from across the table. "I told you," she drawls.

"You were right," Santana admits. "It was good."

"Don't you love surprises like that?" Brittany tilts her head to the side and her eyes sparkle and Santana feels an unfamiliar warmth swirl around in her chest.

"Yeah," Santana chuckles. "I do."

--

It's not that she's a commitment phobe or anything. It's just that girls seem to like her in bed a whole lot but once they get her out of there…well relationships don't usually stick to Santana. So it's kind of surprising when Brittany just kind of keeps calling her, keeps showing up at the station, keeps smiling at her over the dinner table or in bed.

She thinks maybe it's just that Brittany really, really likes the sex but then the blonde will say things like you're funny or I like talking to you or you should smile more and Santana gets all kinds of confused. 

Then a month passes and Brittany's still around and Santana's trying to figure out how the hell that happened. Suddenly it starts to take effort to not trust Brittany, to not let her in and it absolutely scares the shit out Santana. 

--

Their three month anniversary (Santana only knows this because Brittany told her) is pretty unremarkable as far as three month anniversaries go, but after dinner at some thai place near Santana’s apartment, Brittany asks Santana to take her somewhere.

“Where?” Santana asks, raising an eyebrow at the taller girl.

“Anywhere,” Brittany answers, smiling mysteriously and running a fingertip over the arched brow.

“Anywhere,” Santana repeats, sticking the keys into the ignition and hearing her truck roar to life.

“Yeah,” Brittany replies, settling back down in her seat and bringing her legs up to sit cross legged. “Is that hard to understand?”

“No,” Santana chuckles, putting the vehicle in drive and stepping on the gas. “Just vague and unhelpful.”

Brittany laughs and shoves her shoulder but doesn’t say anything as Santana steers the truck away from the restaurant.

It’s not actually on purpose or anything, but Santana takes them out to this old soccer field she used to hang out at when she was a kid. The goal posts are rusted away and net-less and the white lines that signify it’s a field are barely noticeable anymore, but the place is hidden away by a wall of trees around all four sides, blocking out the rest of the world and Santana kind of loves the place. When she was a teenager and she ran away from whenever she was staying that night, she’d come out here, fall down right at center field and stare at the stars for hours. Not even Puck or Mike know about it.

Brittany gives her a strange look as Santana parks the car near the line of trees and gets out. “Come on,” she orders, walking over to the other side as Brittany opens the door and holding her hand out to the blonde.

“When I said anywhere, I was hoping we’d go for ice cream,” Brittany says, sliding her palm against Santana’s and raising her eyebrows at the dark trees in front of them.

“You had ice cream at the restaurant,” Santana answers, walking them towards a path to the field.

“You can never have too much ice cream,” Brittany says brightly skipping next to her and swinging their hands. “What do you have against ice cream?”

Shaking her head and letting out a small laugh, Santana just keeps moving them forward, pulling Brittany closer to her as they walk through the trees. “You’re so weird.”

“Thanks!” Brittany exclaims, intertwining their fingers and kissing Santana on the cheek as they walk. “You say the nicest things, baby.”

The trees clear and they’re standing on the edge of field, the grass thick and dark under Santana’s boots as she walks them towards the center circle. For a second, Santana has to shove off the sudden nervousness that shoots through her at having Brittany in this place. 

“A soccer field?” Brittany asks, her head whipping back and forth between the two metal goals on each end.

“Yeah,” Santana says, shoving a hand in her pocket and tugging Brittany along until they get to about where she estimates the center to be.

“Okay,” Brittany drawls. “Is this the part of the movie when I find out you’re actually a serial killer?”

“Yup,” Santana deadpans, letting go of Brittany’s hands and sitting down on cold grass.

A foot darts out to kick at Santana’s thigh but she grabs it before it makes contact and laughs up at Brittany. “Get down here, you goof.”

Brittany huffs a little but obeys, folding her legs under her and leaning into Santana’s side when she’s on the ground. “So what is this place?”

Santana falls backward until her back is on the grass and her hands are behind her head. “A field,” she offers, trying her best to sound nonchalant. 

Following her down against the grass, Brittany puts her head on Santana’s abdomen and stares up that sky. “Okay,” she draws out.

“I used to come here,” she whispers towards the sky. “When I was kid.”

Brittany’s head turns and Santana feels her cheek settle against the fabric of her shirt. She looks down into curious blue eyes. “Yeah?” Brittany asks.

She shrugs. “Yeah, s’nice. You can’t see stars like this in the city.”

A warm laugh hits her ears and she smiles at Brittany in response. “You bring all the girls here?”

“Nope, just you.” She doesn’t mean it to sound the way it does, but it’s the truth. Turning to look back at the clear night sky, Santana tries to ignore the way Brittany just keeps looking at her but it gets hard after awhile.

“What?” Santana finally asks, looking back down at her.

“Nothing,” Brittany shrugs, pulling up a little to walk her fingers up the center of Santana’s stomach. “Just looking.”

She doesn’t want the moment to be anymore than just an empty field and an excuse to make out under the stars but with Brittany staring at her the way she is it feels way bigger than she wants it to.

“It’s just a field,” Santana bites out. “Stop looking at me that way.”

Brittany chuckles and turns back over to stare up at the sky. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“What?”

“Your favorite movie,” Brittany repeats. “What is it?”

“The Godfather, why?” Santana lets her eyes trace over Orion’s Belt as she moves her hands out from under her head and scrubs one over her face, the other settling to rest on her stomach near Brittany’s head.

A long peal of laughter shoots upward out of Brittany and Santana rolls her eyes out at the sound. “Well what’s yours then?”

“Mmmm,” Brittany hums and brings a long finger to tap at her chin in thought. “Don’t have one.”

“What, how can you not have one?”

“Just don’t,” Brittany answers simply. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Cheeseburgers,” Santana answers, a hand playing with the ends of Brittany’s hair spread out over her stomach. “Your’s?”

“Grilled cheese,” Brittany answers on a giggle. “We both like cheese.”

“It’s clearly fate,” Santana says sarcastically.

“If you could only listen to one album for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“Led Zeppelin’s Houses of the Holy,” she answers without hesitation. “Were you reading an ice breaker book or something?” Santana pokes Brittany in the cheek as she asks the question and smiles when a hand darts out to swat the finger away.

“No,” Brittany pouts. “I just want to know random things about you. You know, just in case.”

“In case of what?” Santana laughs. “It’s not like this information is on medical forms or needs to be told at funerals.”

Brittany’s eyes narrow a little bit and she shifts to look at Santana, propping a little bit up off her stomach to stare at her. “What if we’re on the Newlywed Game?”

“Uh,” Santana croaks. “Is that show even still on?”

“How is that the point?” Brittany questions.

“You’re right, the point is that we’re not getting married.”

“Well not now,” Brittany agrees.

“Not now or ever,” Santana clarifies. “Do you think we could focus on making it to our third month before you plan our wedding?”

“I’m going to ignore that because you bought me dinner and I think you’re cute, but you should really stop talking like we’re going to break up,” Brittany warns.

Santana swallows at the look in Brittany’s eyes and props up on her elbow to make a zipping motion across her lips that makes Brittany laugh.

“Favorite season of the year,” Brittany says.

“Fall,” Santana answers. “You?”

“Spring,” she chirps back, plucking at Santana’s shirt. “Best childhood memory.”

The question pulls a sharp inhale throughout her body and Brittany seems to feel it thrum past her because she sits up a little and stares at Santana quizzically.

Santana manages a smile but it feels stretched unnaturally across her face. “Ask me something easier,” she mumbles.

Brittany presses her palm against the side of Santana’s stomach were a jagged scar runs over her ribs and Santana feels a curious warmth in her chest at Brittany’s expression. The taller girl takes a deep breath and hesitation flickers across her face before she opens her mouth to speak. “Want to make out?”

She smiles and nods, chuckling under her breath because that’s definitely the easiest question in the book. Instead of answering, she reaches out to pull Brittany’s arm, jerking her off balance until she’s spread on top of Santana and their lips are pressed together.

--

They're congregated just outside the big garage doors at the station, Matt smoking his cigarette as Mike chucks cards into an upside down helmet a few feet away from him. Santana just rocks back and forth in her chair and watches the cars drive by on the street.

"You see the Giants game last night?" Mike asks absently as he flicks another card in front of him.

"Subject change," Matt orders. "Giants are playing like god damn pussies these days."

"Word," Santana utters under her breath, her eyes watching a leaf as it flutters slowly to the ground.

Mike leans back and pulls his shirt up to reveal his stomach. “You think I could make it as Mr. March this year in the calendar?” 

Santana bursts out laughing as Mike runs his hands over his abs with a contemplative expression. Matt just shakes his head and chuckles. “They let you in that thing? That calendar is so gay.” 

Mike scowls and drops his shirt back down to punch Matt in the arm. “Dude, I get so much play off of that thing,” Mike mocks. 

“Yeah, enjoy all the dick that gets thrown your way, man,” Matt laughs. 

A woman walking up to them interrupts the small fight that’s brewing and Santana lets her chair fall forward as her eyes run up the smooth legs, short skirt and small waist.

"Hello," the woman greets and Santana watches Matt's jaw drop as he runs his eyes up and down.

"Hi," Santana offers, clearing her throat. "Can we help you?"

"Yes," she replies. "I'm looking for Chief Schuester, is he here?"

Matt shoots up from his chair and smiles at her. "I'm sure he's back there, I'll take you."

Santana rolls her eyes and Mike laughs as Matt escorts their guest into the station eagerly.

"Fifty bucks," Mike comments as he shoots another card into his helmet.

"Uh, no," Santana declines, rolling her head around on her shoulders.

"Fifty," Mike sing-songs. "You don't get to say no, those are the rules."

"I'm saying no," Santana reiterates, stretching her hands up in the air and wondering what Brittany's doing right now.

"Dude," Mike starts again, turning a little in his chair to look at her.

"I fucking said no," Santana hisses, arching an eyebrow at him as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Drop it.”

"What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing, I'm just not down with the game anymore."

Mike's eyes go wide with sudden realization before he starts laughing. "Don't tell me you're like actually in a relationship or something."

Santana doesn't answer, just rocks her chair back again and focuses her eyes everywhere but at Mike.

Pushing her companionably on the shoulder, Mike lets out a surprised but happy breath. "Dude, well done. Who is it?"

"Brittany," she answers, shrugging.

"Who?"

"That chick we pulled out of the building on Lexington?"

"You serious?"

"I guess," Santana replies, still refusing to look at Mike.

"Awesome," he breathes. "She's hot shit."

Her hand darts out and smacks him in the chest. "Don't talk about my girlfriend like that," she jokes, the word girlfriend feeling strange as it leaves her mouth.

Grabbing his chest in mock pain, Mike keeps laughing, barely able to get the word, "Awesome," out again, but he manages.

She doesn't say anything but a small smile spreads across her face because yeah, it is kind of awesome.

--

Brittany meets the guys (Matt, Mike and Puck) on a Saturday night at Santana’s favorite bar near her apartment. They’re at the bar maybe an hour and Brittany’s already won them all over. It wasn’t hard once Brittany pointed to the Pac-Man arcade box near the end of the bar and humbly mentioned that she was pretty good at the game. Twenty minutes and one high score later, Brittany has Puck staring at her wide-eyed, Matt trying to get her to challenge drunken bar patrons for money and Mike laughing hysterically at the whole thing.

Smiling proudly, Brittany waves them off and bounces back over to Santana, wrapping her arms around Santana’s neck and bumping their hips together. Matt, Mike and Puck descend on the now-vacant arcade game to try and beat Brittany’s score.

“Your friends are funny,” Brittany whispers into Santana’s ear.

“They like you,” Santana laughs, kind of shocked by it all.

Mike slaps the side of the arcade box as Matt slides his quarters in and Puck strides over to them, bumping his fist on Santana’s shoulder and smiling at Brittany in a way that makes Santana instantly uneasy.

“So Brittany,” Puck starts, waving a beer bottle in the blonde’s direction. “Has Santana ever told you about the time-,”

“Shut it, Puck,” Santana orders.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” He exclaims, his eyes roaming the bar as he talks. “We should do shots.” 

Chuckling at Puck, Brittany bumps their hips together again and taps her fingers against the bone of Santana’s shoulder. “How do you two know each other?”

Santana tries to stop herself from stiffening up as she searches quickly for a subject change but Puck, her idiotic best friend opens his stupid mouth and spouts complete inanity. “We were in the same foster home when we were... how old were we?” He bumps Santana’s bicep again with the fist clutching his beer. “Ten?”

She doesn’t make eye contact with Brittany but she can feel the way her girlfriend’s body perks up in interest. “You were in foster care?”

Halfway through nodding and then suggesting they order those caramel apple shots on special, Puck decides to open his stupid mouth again and really, Santana is going to punch him. In the teeth.

“Yeah, she never told you?” Puck takes a long swig of his drink.

Two sets of eyes are on her, one amused and the other curious and when Mike turns and catches her eye she gives him her best save me expression.

“No, she hasn’t,” Brittany mutters her fingers still tracing shapes over Santana’s shoulder, her body still snug into Santana’s side.

“Dude, those stories are fucking golden,” Puck says, laughing. “So this one time, we had these two bastard foster parents right?”

Santana’s stomach drops and she crosses her fingers that the story Puck’s about to tell doesn’t involve weapons, drugs or arrest records, but Mike interrupts them before the other guy can finish his tale.

“How’s it going?” Mike interjects, stepping in front of them with a cheery smile. “We should do shots.”

“Totally!” Santana exclaims, feeling both Brittany and Puck jerk away slightly at her loud outburst.

“I think Matt’s going to beat your high score,” Mike adds, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans and gesturing to Brittany with a subtle thrust of his hips.

“Nooooo,” Brittany jokes.

Puck straightens up quickly and his gaze darts to Mike’s furiously moving form near the arcade box. “He’s not really,” Puck says, turning a suspicious gaze to Mike.

“Dude, no joke,” Mike continues, cocking a thumb to Mike’s back. “You’re about to be out a dime.”

“Fuck,” Puck breathes, breaking away and weaving through the crowd of people.

Then it’s just the three of them and Mike kind of rocks back and forth on his heels while Santana tries to avoid the way Brittany’s looking at her.

“Soooo,” Mike drawls. He smiles crookedly at Brittany. “I hear you can dance.”

Brittany laughs and lets go of Santana’s neck to slide her arm around her waist. “Who did you hear that from?”

Shrugging, Mike chuckles along with her and tips his head towards a jukebox in the corner, a low bass beat thumping out of it already. “Dance off?”

“Dude,” Santana says, kicking out as his shins. “You can’t just hijack my girlfriend.”

“Who says?” Mike challenges, grinning at her. “I saw her first anyway.”

It gets Brittany to laugh again and Santana can feel the tension from earlier start to flow out of them. She brings her hand down to tangle with the one perched on her hip, twisting a ring Brittany wears around on her index finger.

MIke takes his hands out of his pockets and throws his arms up in defeat. “Okay, okay. How ‘bout shots?”

“Shots are good,” Santana says definitively.

“Shots!” Mike announces in a loud voice. He lifts his arm up in the air and twirls towards the bar.

That’s when she realizes maybe sending Mike away was the wrong plan because now she’s like alone with Brittany and she can feel the tension and curiosity creeping its way back into Brittany’s limbs.

But Brittany squeezes the hand she’s holding on Santana’s hip and brings her lips to Santana’s ear. “You called me your girlfriend,” she says in an awed whisper.

Santana jerks away to look into bright blue eyes and laughs. “Well yeah.”

Brittany leans forward to press their lips together and they stay that way until Mike breaks them up with purple colored shot glasses and a drunken grin.

--

Santana meets Brittany’s best friends (Quinn, Rachel and Finn) a week later only because Brittany insists it’s only fair after their night with Matt, Mike and Puck. Santana’s not much for friends - at least not the ones that aren’t hers - but Brittany gives her this pout that Santana can’t resist and sure enough she’s pretty much agreeing to whatever it is Brittany wants.

The whole meeting is somewhere between awkward and hilarious. Santana blames it partly on her own naturally surly attitude, partly on the way Quinn keeps glaring at her from across the table and partly on the way watching Rachel is like watching a dwarf hopped up on speed.

“So you’re a firefighter?” Rachel, this short, brown haired thing, asks, bouncing around a little in her seat.

“Yup,” Santana says, nodding before taking another swig of her beer. Brittany runs a finger down the seam in the side of her jeans and bumps their shoulders together.

Quinn, Brittany’s high and mighty doctor friend with an arrogance that Santana can smell about a mile away, sets a martini glass back down on the table and leans back in her chair a little. “Make a lot of money doing that?”

There’s a scathing reply right on the tip of her tongue but before it can be vocalized, Quinn sucks in a pained breath and jerks away from Rachel. “What?” Quinn shoots at the shorter girl.

“Quinn,” Rachel reprimands. “You can’t just ask stuff like that.”

Quinn rolls her eyes but stays silent and sinks a little further into her chair. Turning back to Santana, Rachel grins triumphantly and looks like she’s going to say something, but Finn leans forward before she can open her mouth. “Firefighters are so cool,” he breathes, his eyes wide and shiny.

Santana can’t help but laugh, mostly because Finn looks like a giant overgrown man-child but partly because he’s twirling a pink umbrella in his electric blue cocktail as he says it.

Because she’s feeling buzzed by the three whiskey sidecars she’s consumed and by the childlike gleam in Finn’s eyes, she makes an effort to be nice for one of the few times in her life. “Come by the station,” she offers, shifting around in her seat. “I’ll show you around.”

It shouldn’t be possible but Finn’s eyes go wider and he smiles all bright and happy at her as Brittany chuckles beside her. “That would be like so awesome,” he says, popping a cherry in his mouth from the stick of them in his drink.

“Kind of a dangerous job,” Quinn adds, joining the conversation again and leaning back forward. “Firefighting. You into that? Danger, I mean?”

A hand squeezes Santana’s thigh as Rachel elbows Quinn again and another gasp of pain leaves her mouth. “Quinn, stop being a bully.”

“How is that being a bully?! I’m making conversation,” Quinn argues, her arm on the back of Rachel’s chair as she turns to the other girl.

“You know how,” Rachel replies, turning to face Quinn and steeling her shoulders back. “Honestly, Quinn, Brittany is our best friend and she obviously really likes Santana and it’s our duty as friends to make her feel welcome into our circle and,” Rachel takes a deep breath as she gets ready to continue and Santana watches as Finn laughs.

“Hey,” Finn interjects, leaning towards Santana. “Do you guys have those firefighting dogs at the station?”

She arches an eyebrow at him. “Firefighting dogs?”

“You know,” Finn continues, waving his hand around like she should get it. “Those dogs with the black and white spots.”

“Uh, no,” Santana says. “We don’t.”

It’s like she just told the kid Santa Claus isn’t real - Finn does his best aw shucks motion and stands up. “I’m going to get another one of these,” he announces, shaking his now-empty glass in the air.

Turning to Brittany, she observes Quinn and Rachel, still locked in a heated argument about Quinn’s attitude, with a skeptical eye. “Your friends are weird.”

“They like you,” Brittany whispers, her lips close to Santana’s ear.

“That’s weirder,” Santana replies, watching Quinn pretend to be annoyed with Rachel as she tries to hide a smile.

--

When six months rolls around, Santana doesn’t really know what to do with herself. She’s never been in a relationship that’s lasted this long before and she has this sneaking suspicion that six month anniversaries are kind of a big deal. Mostly because Mike tells her as much.

“Six months?!” Mike practically shouts, shooting up from her couch.

She throws a can of beer at him as she walks into the living room and he catches it easily as he blinks at her. “Yup,” she replies, pushing his legs over so she can sit on the couch.

“What are you going to do?”

Santana shrugs. “Dunno, probably go eat somewhere and maybe fuck on my balcony.”

“Dude,” Mike says, popping the top of his beer and holding it out as the foam sprayed out a little and he tried to simultaneously catch it with his tongue and keep it away from his clothes. “It’s six months,” he says. “That like means stuff to chicks.”

“It doesn’t mean anything to me,” Santana counters even though it’s a total lie. She’s kind of in shock Brittany’s stuck around this long.

“You’re not a chick,” Mike throws out, kicking his legs up and flipping the channels on the TV to find the football game.

“You’re a moron,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “You know I have boobs, right?”

Mike lifts an eyebrow and turns to her, his gaze flickering to her chest and the back up again with a crooked smile on his face. “Yeah, but you’re gay.”

“Gay,” she deadpans, putting her beer on the coffee table. “Not a man.”

“Whatever,” Mike says, throwing the remote down and turning back to the TV. “It matters to girls like Brittany.”

“You don’t know that,” she argues, shifting to face the TV too and sighing to see the Giants were already behind a touchdown.

“Okay fine,” Mike says. “How about you should do something to celebrate the fact that Brittany’s dumb enough to want to hang out with you for this long?”

Santana thinks about that, tilting her head to the side as her eyes notice one of Brittany’s sweatshirts, thrown over another chair near the television. “You may have a point there.”

--

She takes Brittany out to that old abandoned soccer field they went to around month three. Brittany recognizes the place as soon as they pull in. “Santana Lopez, all sentimental,” she jokes.

“It’s just a field,” she argues, pulling holding the bag of Chinese takeout and a blanket under one arm. She holds a hand out to Brittany and leads them through the woods until they’re back at center-field.

“You’re pretty cute, you know that?” Brittany settles down and grabs the takeout bag to set it aside.

She shrugs. “I like this place,” she explains, the palms of her hands feeling clammy all of a sudden and her throat unnaturally dry. “And you know, I like you. So.”

“Yeah,” Brittany laughs. “Okay. Happy sixth month anniversary to you too, baby.”

“Whatever,” she says, but she can feel a smile start to stretch out across her face. “Maybe I just want to fuck under the stars.”

“Okay!” Brittany exclaims brightly, perking up and clapping her hands together.

Santana laughs loud and free and doesn’t stop even when Brittany fists her hand in the front of her shirt and pulls Santana on top of her.

Their food goes cold but Santana can’t find it in her to care. Plus, when they’re finally satisfied, Brittany sprawled lazily on top of her and Santana tracing the constellations with her eyes, Brittany reaches for the bag of takeout with one arm and smiles. “I love cold Chinese food?” 

“Are you serious?” 

Brittany nods against Santana’s collarbone. “Yup, it’s so good,” she laughs. 

“Weirdo,” Santana mumbles, running a hand up under Brittany’s shirt. 

Her girlfriend shoots up off of Santana and shifts around to get better access to the bag. “Have you ever had it?” 

Santana sits up a little and watches as Brittany pulls an egg roll out from the bag, holding it out to Santana with a soft smile. “Uh, no.” 

“Don’t be afraid,” Brittany teases, waggling the egg roll around. 

Santana rolls her eyes and grabs for the thing. “Fine,” she sighs. 

The food is actually pretty good, much to Santana’s dismay and Brittany spends the entire time laughing at Santana as she stuffs more chicken into her mouth and devours a second egg roll. 

“Whatever,” Santana says. 

“You need to trust me more,” Brittany replies. “Have I ever steered you wrong?” 

“Just because you haven’t, doesn’t mean you won’t,” Santana jokes. 

Brittany’s smile drops just a fraction and Santana gets the sneaking suspicion that the conversation is about to get a whole lot more serious. “Do you really believe that?” 

“Believe what?” She throws the empty takeout cartons back in the bag. 

“That you can’t trust me,” Brittany clarifies. 

“Britt, we were talking about Chinese food,” Santana laughs. 

“Yeah we were,” Brittany says, shrugging. “But now I’m asking something different.” 

“Hey,” Santana whispers. “Stop being so serious.” She tugs Brittany over until they’re closer together and kisses her quickly. 

It pulls a small smile out of Brittany, but it’s not enough for Santana so she tries a different approach. 

“Favorite condiment,” she says, smiling. 

Brittany lets out a surprised laugh and looks down before smiling and kissing Santana on the lips. “Ketchup,” she mumbles against Santana’s lips. 

--

Brittany says I love you first somewhere around seven months and it blindsides Santana like a freight train.

Part of the reason it so surprises Santana is how anti-climactic the whole thing is. They're standing in Santana's kitchen, Brittany sitting on the counter eating pickles out of a jar as she swings her legs back and forth, her heels thudding dully on the counter behind them.

Santana's twisting a cap off a beer and chucking it into the garbage as she listens to Brittany explain why Tom & Jerry is the greatest cartoon of all time. Halfway through her theory, she just stops and cocks her head to the side, watching Santana take a long pull of her beer.

"What?" Santana asks, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her hoodie and putting her beer on the counter.

"I have to tell you a secret," Brittany says, twisting the lid back on the jar of pickles and sliding it down the counter.

"What about this whole life-changing cat-mouse chase thesis?" Santana jokes as she walks up and settles in between Brittany's legs, her hands running up the outside of Brittany's thighs.

Brittany twists her arms around Santana's neck and smiles down at her, leaning forward a little to kiss her briefly and squeezing her legs together around Santana's hips. "This is more important."

"Well I don't know what could possibly be more important than that," she says with a smile, kissing Brittany again and wrinkling her nose in mirth. "You taste like dill."

Blonde eyebrows shoot up and down on her face and Brittany laughs against Santana's lips, her fingers tugging strands of black hair. "So you're saying I taste delicious."

"I'm saying," Santana says, ghosting her lips over Brittany's in a way she knows annoys the blonde and running her fingertips over the waistband of Brittany's shorts. "That you should brush your teeth, or suck on a mint."

Still laughing softly, Brittany darts forward and captures Santana's bottom lip between her teeth and pulls it a little before pressing their lips together and sliding forward off the counter. Santana enjoys the way their hips are snug together, how Brittany's fingers sift through her hair and the feel of Brittany's shirt bunching up in her hands.

"You're lucky I love you," Brittany whispers before letting go of Santana and slapping her on the ass as she moves to leave the kitchen. "After I brush my teeth we're having sex on the kitchen table."

It's like Brittany doesn't even realize what she said or how gobsmacked Santana looks because she just leaves the kitchen for the bedroom and Santana sort of keeps standing there, jaw slack as she blinks slowly. She's never had anyone say those words to her in any capacity. She has vague memories of her parents, fleeting sounds of three syllables whispered into the night when they put her to bed but nothing more than that. There's certainly never been an instance where someone she's sleeping with has said it to her and she's never said it to anyone else and it's just three insignificant, flippant words, but Santana is totally freaking out. 

Brittany returns, breath minty fresh as she presses back up against Santana. "What's wrong?"

Wrapping her arms around Brittany's hips and trying to brush off her quickly spiraling thoughts, Santana kisses her and smiles. "Nothing. Kitchen table you said?"

Giggling, Brittany walks backward until she's butt up against the small wooden table. "Yup, what do you say?"

Santana nips a path down Brittany's jaw to her collarbone. "You're so smart," she murmurs against soft skin.

It's easy to forget those stupid words when Brittany's squirming underneath her and Santana's got her fingers in slick heat but when Brittany comes and whispers a breathy I love you into her ear as she arches upward, Santana's eyes go wide and the breath leaves her for an entirely different reason.

--

The next time they have sex, Santana spends nearly the entire time waiting to hear the three words again. She’s so distracted by her nervousness that she feels like she can’t stop shaking. Brittany notices right away.

“Where are you right now?” Brittany whispers, hands warm against Santana’s cheeks. “I feel like you’re miles away.”

Heat flares up in her cheeks and she glances away for a brief second, her hips snug between Brittany’s legs.

“I’m right here,” she says, trying to bring her head down to kiss Brittany, but her girlfriend holds firm.

“No you’re not,” the girl underneath her argues.

“Brittany,” Santana sighs, closing her eyes. “Can we just get this over with?”

Silence falls and Santana winces at the way the question sounds. She didn’t mean it like that. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she utters.

Brittany slides her fingers into Santana’s hair and pulls through it, bringing her leg up to put her foot on the bed next to Santana’s hip, her smooth thigh running warmth over Santana’s skin. “I know you didn’t,” she whispers and Santana swallows at the weird feeling she always gets when Brittany just understands all her psychosis. “What are you freaking out about?”

“I’m not,” she denies, biting her lip when Brittany scratches her nails into her hair.

“Yes, you are,” Brittany laughs. “You’ve been spacey all night. Is this because I said that I love you yesterday?”

Santana’s whole body tenses. “What?”

“Yeah, I thought that might have been it.”

“No,” Santana starts, but one of Brittany’s hands moves to cover Santana’s mouth as the blonde smiles softly up at her, hair spread all over the pillow and blue eyes shining with amusement.

“It’s okay,” Brittany says. “Stop freaking out.”

Somehow, it suddenly feels like a trap and Santana swallows as her eyes go wide and she does exactly the opposite of what Brittany told her to do. She freaks out even more. She tries to get more words out but Brittany’s hand is firm against her mouth and the, “Britt,” comes out muffled and incomprehensible.

“I love you,” Brittany intones firm and sure. “I like, really, love you.”

Her whole body jerks in response and she bites down on the sudden and completely irrational urge to jump out of bed and run. Brittany brings her free hand down to clutch at Santana’s back as if she can feel the desire to flee all through Santana’s body.

“You don’t have to say anything back to me,” Brittany says, but there’s something melancholy right behind the words that Santana hates instantly. How does she tell her that’s it not so much the words that are freaking her out, though the idea of saying I love you to someone is certainly scary enough, it’s the fact that she’s never actually learned how to let someone love her that’s making her so out of sorts. Her brain can’t wrap around the concept, can’t figure out what it all means and it hurts just to try.

She blows out a long breath through her nose and sags into Brittany’s body, trying to figure out what to say. Her heart starts beating erratically beyond her control and the moment feels way too intense, but before she does something stupid, Brittany removes her hand and settles it low near Santana’s hip, powering upwards until they’re twisting on the bed and Brittany’s straddling her hips.

“It’s okay,” she mumbles, her eyes a sad shade of blue that cuts right into Santana’s chest. Brittany runs her fingers down the center of Santana’s chest and smiles. “It doesn’t change anything.”

Santana is stupidly happy for the reprieve so she lets herself lift upwards and grab into Brittany’s hair until they’re kissing again. But in the back of her mind, with Brittany’s hands splayed over her back and their chests pressed together she feels like it changes just about everything.

Later, when Brittany snuggles into her side and whispers incoherent mumbles into Santana’s shoulder, I love you is all Santana can think about.

--

Santana has put about as much thought into love as she’s put stock into the idea. Love was just never really something on her radar. She loves Puck; that much she can acknowledge. He’s like a brother to her and he’s proven time and time again that he’s got her back. She guesses she probably loves Mike too. He’s her best friend and she knows he’d do almost anything she’d ask him to. She’d take a bullet for both of them, no problem.

Other than that. Santana doesn’t really think about love, doesn’t take time to really feel it for anyone.

But then Brittany happens and now, after their incident in the kitchen and later when Brittany said it again, it’s all Santana can think about. It’s like this constant obsession that’s so completely consuming she can’t focus on anything else.

Every time Brittany looks at her, smiles at her, moves an inch in any direction, Santana thinks about it. Tries to deal with the idea that someone could love her. Or even that she could be in love with someone. She never considered herself lovable, much less capable of loving.

It becomes an overpowering fear out of nowhere because she knows just how much of a fuckup she is. She learned it sometime after she got kicked out of her fifth foster home and before one of her junkie girlfriends tried to knife her for cash.

The weird thing about it all, Santana thinks, is that she kind of believes Brittany. There’s something about her girlfriend that fails to make her doubt the words. And then there’s the part where Brittany laughs or dances like a lunatic in Santana’s truck or sings really loudly to the radio and Santana can’t help but think she’s maybe in love with Brittany too.

She thinks about it more and more until she thinks maybe she’s warming up to the idea, but she can’t figure it out - it all feels foreign and confusing. It gets easier to hear Brittany say the words, she stops flinching when she hears them at least, so she thinks that’s something. And eventually she actually gets halfway to saying them back before the words get caught in her throat and she’s choking against hesitation and uncertainty.

The thing that makes Santana totally sure she’s in love with Brittany is the same thing that made them meet.

It hits her clear as day right smack dab in the fire house. Brittany stops by in the middle of her shift with a brown paper bag and a can of Santana’s favorite soda. Aside from the fact that Brittany brought just about the best bacon double cheeseburger Santana’s ever had, she also thoroughly enjoys the way Brittany’s jeans hug her hips and her hair is loose and wavy on her shoulders. When Matt practically runs into the fire engine when he spots Brittany, Santana smirks with pride.

After taking the burger and throwing it on the table, she pulls Brittany towards the back door of the station and out into the alley. She presses her girlfriend against the brick there and kisses her in thanks.

“Thanks for the food,” she mumbles between kisses. Her thumbs hook into the belt loops on the side of Brittany’s jeans and tug their hips together.

“Of course,” Brittany chirps brightly. “I love you.”

She’d be lying if she said there isn’t a part of her that’s shocked to hear the words, but the shock comes with this curious warm feeling, coiling in the pit of her stomach and tightening her chest with the strangest kind of pain. Looking into Brittany’s bright blue eyes she just, she doesn’t even understand how, but she knows.

Brittany presses their lips together again for a long moment and it’s like electricity shooting through Santana with a spark. She suddenly needs them to be anywhere but the back alley at the firehouse.

Touching her, kissing her, pressing her against every horizontal surface in her apartment is like fire, crackling over Santana's skin wildly and without direction. It's explosive and difficult to control and Santana can't get enough of it - she feels Brittany all over her like a burn.

Everything about being together is like adrenaline shooting straight into her heart. It's a rush of endorphins every time followed quickly by fear; hot, white, blinding fear because fires burn out, fires end and Santana feels the time ticking away on an invisible clock every time Brittany turns to smile at her.

They pull apart and Santana smiles at her, for the first time acknowledging that Brittany said the words with a curious, “Yeah?”

Surprise shows all over Brittany’s face and her head jerks back a little hitting the brick wall as she furrows her brow at Santana. “Yeah, totally.”

“Cool,” Santana breathes, smiling softly.

Brittany laughs and wraps her arms around Santana’s neck, bringing them closer together and Santana feels like maybe they bridged an ever bigger gap than the one between their bodies. They hug each other until Mike bursts out the back door and breaks them apart with a frantic warning that Matt is eating her burger.

Brittany just laughs as Santana goes racing back into the building and pushes Matt’s face right into the table viciously.

--

It actually gets worse after that.

Somehow, Brittany becomes that much more despondent each time Santana doesn’t say I love you back. Sometimes, it pisses Santana off because she can tell the only reason Brittany pouts about it is because she knows Santana feels it.

Brittany says I love you to her like she's saying hello or something equally benign but Santana feels it like a bomb dropped in the space Santana's silence leaves. She wants to say it each time, wants to feel it as effortlessly as Brittany seems to but the words get lost somewhere and she ends up kissing Brittany just to get the sad expression off her face, pushes her against whatever surface she can find and lets the fire between them consume all her fear and worry.

She knows that won't work forever.

--

Late at night, snuggled under the sheets of Santana's bed and with moonlight and streetlights breaking over the bare skin of Brittany's back, long fingers trace the scars on Santana's body and it's in these rare times that Santana lets a little bit of her past creep through.

"This one?" Brittany whispers as she traces a small line over Santana's rib cage.

Santana runs her hand up Brittany's back, shifting down in bed until her lips are at her girlfriend's forehead. "Broken glass," she answers.

It's never anything more than that. The answers are always short, usually a weapon, or a person or an age but Brittany never asks for more, never pushes her to say anything else, just continues her aimless tracing.

The sheet around Brittany's waists falls down as the taller girl scoots upward, her head next to Santana's on the pillow. "This one?" A finger traces a small white line near Santana's left eyebrow.

"Last year," Santana answers and she tries not to remember the way they lost a guy in the fire that gave her that scar.

Brittany presses her lips to Santana's eyebrow and her eyes flutter closed at the sensation. The kisses move down, over Santana's cheek and down her neck, trailing over her collarbone and down further until they're pressing against small, circular scars at the base of her stomach.

"These?" Brittany mumbles into the skin there.

"You don't want to know," Santana says just as she says every night. It's never the truth but just like the rest of the marks on her body, Brittany never pushes, never insists that she say anything else. Brittany never demands the truth, but she repeats the question every time without fail.

“Do you ever get scared?” Brittany asks, shifting up until she’s draped across Santana, her head against Santana’s collarbone. 

“Of what?” She runs her hands through Brittany’s hair, twisting it around her fingers. 

“Your job,” Brittany explains, the words ghosting over the skin of Santana’s neck. “Fighting fire.” 

“No,” Santana laughs without hesitation. “It’s fire.” 

“Yeah,” Brittany agrees. “Fire is pretty scary.” 

“Nah,” Santana says, turning over to look out at the moon through the window. “It’s not really.” 

“No?” Brittany walks her fingers up Santana’s arm. 

She shrugs a little, wrapping her arm more snugly around Brittany’s waist and taking a deep breath. “I don’t think so. I mean, fire just makes sense to me I guess.” 

“It doesn’t make any sense to me,” Brittany whispers. 

“My parents died in a fire,” Santana confesses and she tenses up as soon as the words leave her mouth. Brittany's head comes up and her eyes are a concerned blue, the skin around them crinkling in curiosity. “I don’t know why I just said that.” 

“Is that why you became a firefighter?” Brittany asks, clearly not acknowledging the panicked expression Santana knows she’s wearing. 

“No,” she denies. “I became a firefighter because I get it.” 

“Get what?” Brittany’s brow furrows in confusion. 

“Fire,” Santana answers. 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Brittany laughs, her skin shifting over Santana’s. 

“I know,” she says, shaking her head. “You couldn’t understand.” 

“Maybe not,” Brittany admits, running her finger down Santana’s jawbone and then down her neck. “But I want to try.” 

“I’m just good at it,” Santana tries to explain. “It’s really nothing more than that. Fire is simple, it’s easy to control and destroy and it just...I like it.” 

Santana opens her mouth to say more but she can’t figure out the right words and just the thought of saying more is making her feel raw and vulnerable. She looks away but Brittany puts a finger under her chin and pulls their mouths together. 

“I love you,” Brittany mumbles, but it doesn’t make Santana feel any more comfortable.

--

They’re on Santana’s couch watching a Giants game on TV when they have their first really terrible fight. The Giants are so horrible this year that Santana actually falls asleep about halfway through the 2nd quarter.

It’s an old dream, one she had when she was a kid a lot but she hasn’t had it in years. She had this friend in one of her first foster homes, Alice. She was probably Santana’s first real friend and they spent nearly every moment together.

She was nine years old when she watched Alice die and she’s never forgotten it; the scene haunted her for years. This afternoon it’s particularly vivid; She feels everything as if she’s right there, inches, seconds from saving her best friend but crippled by fear and uselessness.

She’s towards the end of the dream, looking into Alice’s eyes and knowing what’s coming when the next thing she’s aware of is Brittany’s hands shaking her shoulders and whispering her name.

Jerking awake and upward off the couch, Santana scrubs a hand over her face and tries to shake the memory out of her system. Her vision is a little blurry as it focuses on the TV, the players running down the field and an announcer’s voice becoming more frantic but she can’t actually process what’s going on. She blinks a little and feels Brittany’s hand rub down her back.

“You okay?” Brittany asks softly.

Santana stands up abruptly, but her legs are a little shaky and she has to put her arms out to balance herself so she can start walking.

“Santana?” Brittany calls out.

“I’m fine, sorry,” she croaks, running a hand through her hair and taking in a deep breath.

“Who’s Alice?” Brittany asks.

Santana spins and cuts a look to her girlfriend. “Who?”

“Alice,” Brittany repeats. “You were mumbling her name.” 

“S’no one,” she answers. “Don’t worry about it”

“Santana,” Brittany reprimands.

The dream is still too vivid and there’s still adrenaline thrumming in her veins so she just snaps. “Shut the fuck up about it,” she bites out. “It’s none of your business what the fuck I dream about.”

Brittany jerks back and gasps a little at the outburst, but all Santana feels is pain and anger and the need to lash out.

“Santana,” Brittany tries again.

“Did I fucking stutter?” she interrupts, walking towards her kitchen.

“Well maybe if you’d clue me in, I’d stop asking,” Brittany argues, her voice rising. “You’re covered in scars, you have bad dreams nearly every night and now you’re mumbling random women’s names while you sleep. None of these things will you ever explain to me.”

“Because you don’t need to know!” Santana shouts. “How is that fucking hard for you to understand?”

“I want to know,” Brittany exclaims, following Santana into the kitchen and crossing her arms. “I want to know you.”

“No you don’t,” Santana argues, ripping open the fridge and searching for a beer.

“Yes I do,” Brittany says.

“No. You don’t,” Santana enunciates, twisting off the cap and taking a long pull.

“Don’t tell me what I want and don’t want,” Brittany warns.

“Don’t tell me to tell you things I don’t fucking want to tell you,” Santana mocks.

“Are you ever going to tell me?” Brittany’s voice is covered in exasperation and it spikes pain in Santana’s head as she chugs the rest of her beer down.

“No,” she answers. “Because it’s none of your goddamn business.”

Brittany rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say a word as she turns to walk out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Santana shouts after her, slamming her empty beer bottle on the counter and feeling kind of ridiculous for pushing Brittany away and then wanting to pull her right back in moments later.

“Leaving,” Brittany throws over her shoulder as she grabs her jacket and keys near the door.

This time, Santana rolls her eyes. “Why?”

“You clearly don’t want me here,” Brittany answers, her voice sounding scratchy and on the verge of tears.

“Don’t be like that,” Santana implores. “Come on.”

“Be like what?”

“You know what.”

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t even know you and you don’t want me here and why I’m sitting around here waiting for it all to change one day I don’t know, but I do and it’s stupid and I’m leaving.”

It hits Santana that when Brittany says leaving she’s not just talking about the apartment. All the breath in her lungs floods out of her and she feels her chest empty out painfully.

“Babe, whoa, wait,” she half-shouts, springing into action and stepping in between Brittany and the door.

“What?” Brittany asks, wiping at her eyes a little.

“I do want you here,” she says. “I promise.”

“Don’t lie,” she replies.

Santana steps forward and wraps her arms around Brittany’s waist trying desperately to shift from the past to the present and hold on to the one normal thing in her existence, the one good, untainted, happy thing in her life.

“I want you here, it can be different,” she promises. “I can be different.”

“Santana,” Brittany breathes, her eyes focused downward.

“And you do know me, babe,” she continues. “In all the ways that count. You know my favorite foods and my favorite movies and what songs I sing in the shower and how to make me hot with just your lips.”

The last bit gets Brittany to smile a little and Santana knows she’s won. “That’s true,” Brittany admits.

“The rest is just gravy,” Santana argues. She chances a short, quick kiss against Brittany’s lips and feels crushing relief when it’s not rebuked.

“Come on,” Santana says. “Why don’t you come back to the couch and I can show you how well I know you.”

Brittany laughs, looks up and Santana feels like she can breathe again.

--

On a crisp fall day, blue skies overhead and cool breeze ruffling the leaves on the street, Santana almost dies. If she were keeping track, this would be about her sixteenth close encounter with death, but when the beam comes falling down and takes her to the floor, she isn’t really thinking about that.

Pain is the first thing that registers but anger takes its place as she realizes a huge burning wood beam just fell on her and she’s probably going to be in the stupid hospital for weeks.

Mike, who is right in front of her when it happens, twirls at the crashing sound and rushes to push the beam off of her. He’s totally, completely freaking out and Santana almost laughs at him despite the searing ache in her chest.

“You’re such a girl,” she manages to gasp out as he yells at Matt to alert the team and tries to pick her up.

“Shut up,” he orders, gripping at her jacket and shuffling her out of the burning room. They’re not far from the exit and absently, Santana’s grateful for it, but the pain starts to increase and her vision feels like it’s going to give out as she struggles to get air in her lungs to no avail.

Groaning, she tries to swipe at her eyes to get her vision to clear but suddenly the strangest feeling comes over her and she feels Mike shake her as her head starts to fall backwards. It’s like falling even though she knows she’s not - Mike’s arm is solid behind her back and she can feel his hand gripping her neck as he yells at her to stay awake.

But his voice sounds muffled, like they’re swimming underwater and she can’t keep a hold on her consciousness. She blacks out to the sight of Mike’s face above hers, framed by fire.

--

When she wakes up, it’s blonde hair and blue eyes above her instead of the dark hair and dark eyes from before. Her vision is hazy and she has to blink several times to get it to clear, but as soon as the edges sharpen and the face comes into view, her face stretches into a smile.

“Hey,” she mumbles.

“Hi,” Brittany says. “How are you feeling?”

Her head lolls to the side and she realizes she’s in a hospital. “Where’s Mike?”

“He’s outside,” Brittany answers. “With the rest of the guys.”

Looking back at Brittany, she tries to get her brain to function at its normal speed. “They’re all here?”

Brittany nods. “Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What kind of question is that?” Brittany pulls back from the bed and obvious hurt flashes across her face, making Santana feel like such an asshole as she watches Brittany step away. But her chest aches and the sound of beeping is making her head hurt and she hateshospitals and she just can’t deal with Brittany’s feelings right now.

Thankfully, before she has to answer Brittany’s question, a doctor strolls in holding a large folder with Mike, Matt and Puck on his tail.

“Santana,” the doctor greets cheerfully, dropping the folder into a holder on the door. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Like a wall fell on me,” she deadpans, lifting her chin to acknowledge her friends.

“Ah,” the doctor clucks. “That’s to be expected I suppose.”

She rolls her eyes and watches Mike walk over to Brittany, an arm slinging around the blonde’s shoulders and Santana feels her brows come together in confusion. When did her best friend and girlfriend become friends? How long as she been out?

“Yo,” Puck says, twisting a sucker around in his mouth and bumping his fist against her shoulder softly. “Sup?”

Mike whispers something in Brittany’s ear and tugs her to the door which only makes Santana more confused, but Puck moves his face in front of hers and blocks her view before she can protest. “What?” Santana snaps out.

“Dude,” Puck laughs. “Wall, one. Lopez, zero.”

“Fuck you,” she spits out as Matt laughs and moves to her other side.

“You need anything?” Matt asks, leaning his hands on the railing of her bed and looking at her curiously. The doctor walks over to a computer by her bed and studies the numbers.

Studying Matt like maybe he grew another head, Santana doesn’t say anything as she tries to figure out the punch line of Matt’s offer.

“Jesus, Lopez. I was serious,” he laughs, looking at Puck and back down to her.

She still feels skeptical, but her stomach growls and she eyes the doctor before turning back to Matt. “Double bacon cheeseburger,” she whispers out the side of her mouth.

A grin spreads over Matt’s face as he nods slowly. “Jello not doing it for you?”

“I’ve been unconscious, moron.”

“Oh,” Matt says, like he just realized this. “Right.”

“You heard the lady,” Puck orders. “Get a move on.”

Matt mock salutes them both before flipping them off and bouncing out of the room. The doctor laughs at the display and slides a multicolored folder into a slot near the wall before turning to her. “I’ll send the nurse in later to administer some pain meds, but you’re doing great, Santana.”

She smiles at him briefly and nods, but remains silent so Puck turns and removes the sucker from his mouth. “Thanks, doc,” he says making it sound more like a command to leave than anything else.

The doctor seems to sense the dismissal and turns without another word.

“How long have I been out?” Santana asks, looking out the doorway to see if she can spot where Mike and Brittany went.

“A few days,” Puck answers, back to sucking on his candy. “Britt was pretty worried about you.”

The nickname seems weird coming out of Puck’s mouth but she brushes it aside in her mind. “She was here the whole time?”

“Well yeah,” Puck says. “Why are you so surprised? She’s like your girlfriend or whatever.”

Santana shrugs but the movement shoots pain through her chest. “Fuck,” she gasps. “What happened to me?”

“Dude,” Puck laughs, throwing his head back as the sound leaves him. “Beam punctured a lung. Like, poof! Bye bye lung.”

“What?!” She had no idea it had been that bad. The thing hurt like a motherfucker, but she doesn’t remember blood or her breathing going out or anything that would have indicated she did real damage.

“Yeah, legit,” Puck says, nodding and rolling the sucker around in his mouth. “You have this wicked scar on the side of your chest now probably.”

Rolling her eyes, she shifts around a little. “Well what’s one more, right?”

Puck’s eyebrows go up and down on his forehead. “And this one you can actually tell people what happened.”

“Funny,” Santana mocks. “Can you take Brittany home?”

Shaking his head, Puck chuckles and Santana glares at his obvious refusal. “Bro, I don’t think she’ll go. Mike’s been trying to get her to leave since she got here.”

“Then pick her up and move her,” Santana orders, getting agitated half from pain, half from the vulnerable feeling of being stuck in a hospital bed.

“Yeah, pretty sure she’ll just come back, San,” he says, laughter leaving his voice all of a sudden. He bites down on his sucker and breaks the hard candy off, throwing the now-useless white stick towards a trash bin in the corner.

“I’m no expert,” Puck says. “But I kind of think she’s in love with you.”

Pain shoots into her chest but she kind of suspects it has nothing to do with her healing lung. “Yeah,” she breathes. “It’s so messed up.”

A bitter laugh escapes Puck. “You’re so damaged.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Takes one to know one,” she mutters.

He moves his face in front of her and stares, his expression hard and serious. “Yeah, Santana,” he says lowly. “It does.”

--

After three more days in the hospital Santana is about ready to stage a breakout with Mike but Puck threatens to give her a real reason to stay in a hospital bed while he flashes his gun and well, Puck’s not one for empty threats so she stays put. She at least gets Brittany to go home and change and sleep so she kind of considers it a win.

Then, out of nowhere, Brittany’s friend Quinn waltzes into her room like she belongs there and takes a seat on one of the chairs on the side of her room. She’d only met Quinn a handful of times, all of them relatively frosty but this Quinn seems different. For one thing, she actually looks the part of a medical professional, scrubs and a lab coat and her hair is pulled away from her face.

“Santana Lopez,” she greets.

“Quinn,” Santana counters, sitting up a little in her bed. “What are you doing here?”

“Brittany mentioned you were hurt,” she says, crossing her legs and tilting her head to the side. “I told her I’d stop by and check on you.”

“Nice of you,” Santana deadpans, rolling her eyes. “Well, be sure to give her a good report.”

Quinn stands and walks over to a metal board mounted to the wall, flipping a switch to illuminate the square surface. Santana eyes her warily but she doesn’t say anything.

“How are you feeling?” Quinn asks as she searches the room for something.

“Fine,” Santana answers.

“You know, Brittany tells me a lot about you,” Quinn says absently, walking over to pull a file out from the end of Santana’s bed. She pulls out a black, glossy sheet and mounts it on the board, revealing the x-rays of Santana’s ribs.

“Thanks for the update,” Santana says, watching Quinn’s back as the blonde stares at the black photos.

“She tells me a lot, but do you know what she talks about the most?” Quinn pulls out another x-ray and mounts in next to the other one revealing some shots of her wrists.

“Are you supposed to have those?”

“She talks about how she feels like she doesn’t really know you, that you’re hiding some deep dark secret,” Quinn continues, ignoring Santana completely as she crosses her arms and tilts her head in front of the x-rays.

“Everyone’s hiding something,” Santana counters, rolling her eyes. She knows all this already. She doesn’t need Brittany’s stuck-up friend to tell her any of this.

“She thought you were cheating on her for a while there,” Quinn says, turning slightly to the side but not facing her.

“That’s ridiculous,” Santana snaps.

“Mmmm, yeah,” Quinn agrees. “Your chart definitely paints a different picture.”

“Can you get to it?” Santana swallows dryly. “I’d like to maybe sleep sometime this century.”

Quinn doesn’t turn to face her, just keeps her eyes on the x-rays and runs her fingers over the white bones there. “These marks?” Quinn starts as if relaying to Santana last night's football scores. “These are old.”

Santana resists the urge to retort with your face is old as she grapples at the side of the bed for the button that shoots pain killers into her blood stream.

“They’re all over you,” Quinn continues, this time turning to face her. “You’d have to take serious beatings to have these kinds of scars. So I’m thinking your deep, dark secret isn’t so much the infidelity kind. Who was it, huh? Parents? Abusive lover?”

“That’s none of your fucking business,” Santana sneers. Isn’t there some kind of medical code of ethics to prevent whatever it is Quinn is doing?

“Brittany,” Quinn hisses and one look at Quinn Fabray’s eyes tells Santana that this moment is so not about medical professionalism. “Is my business.”

“What’s your god damn point?” Santana bites out, clenching her jaw.

Quinn shakes her head and walks closer to her. “I don’t have one. But you’re not being honest with my best friend. She acts like it doesn’t bother her, but she tells me things. You don’t tell her what’s going on and she’ll just make up crazier and crazier scenario in her head.” The blonde leans close to the bed and stares at Santana. “If you hurt her, I will kill you and make it look like an accident.”

Her first instinct is to lash out and smack Quinn across the face but considering all the factors involved, Santana doesn’t exactly have the upper hand in this scenario. So instead she takes a deep breath and looks away. “I wouldn’t do that,” she confesses, hating the way her voice shakes a little. She doesn’t want to hurt Brittany; it just keeps happening for some reason. 

A pregnant silence falls over them and Santana can feel Quinn’s unwavering gaze against her temple. She swallows and clenches her fist in the coarse fabric of the blankets over her legs.

“You know what,” Quinn replies, walking backwards and dropping Santana’s chart back in the slot at the end of the bed. “I think I believe you.”

For big moments, it feels a little anti-climactic, but she has this small inkling she just won Quinn Fabray’s approval and she hates the way that kind of makes her feel a little triumphant. 

--

Brittany comes to pick her up on the day she gets discharged and Santana feels terrible nearly the instant she sees her girlfriend. 

“You look terrible,” she says without thinking. She winces when the words come out. 

Brittany laughs and runs a hand through her hair. “You say the nicest things, baby,” she jokes, walking to kiss Santana on the cheek and set a duffel bag on the bed. “You ready to go home?” 

Santana hates the way Brittany’s avoiding her eyes and the way her hands are shaking and she feels this overpowering need to make it all better. “What’s wrong?” 

Brittany shakes her head and keeps her gaze on the duffel bag, unzipping it and pulling out some sweatpants for Santana to wear home. “Nothing,” she denies. 

Santana darts a hand out to grab Brittany’s wrist, tugging softly to get her girlfriend’s attention. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, eyes searching Brittany’s face. 

She picks her head up and stares straight at Santana. “For what?” 

“Whatever I did,” Santana answers quickly. 

“You didn’t do anything,” Brittany denies, her hand coming up to cup Santana’s cheek. 

“Feels like it,” Santana whispers, leaning into the warmth a little. 

Brittany sighs and looks down Santana’s body, around the room and runs her thumb over Santana’s cheekbone before making eye contact again. “I’m trying really hard not to hate your job.” 

Santana’s eyes go wide because she was expecting a lot of things, but not that one. “Why would you hate my job?” 

Brittany laughs, but her face is incredulous as she brings her other arm up to Santana’s opposite cheek. “You almost died, you get that right?” 

Shrugging, Santana glances away for a second. “But I didn’t. You shouldn’t hate my job for that.” 

Suddenly, Brittany’s face is right up next to Santana’s and she nearly goes cross eyed trying to focus on Brittany’s wide blue eyes. “Someday you’re going to stop being surprised when someone cares about you.” 

It shocks her into silence but she doesn’t need to say anything because almost immediately Brittany moves away and shoves sweatpants into her hands with a soft command of, “Let’s go.”

--

Brittany starts to ask more questions and it’s like Quinn told Brittany her suspicions, but there’s no sort of knowing behind any of the inquiries so Santana thinks maybe she’s in the clear. Nevertheless, Brittany asks her about things all the time - about who her parents were and where she went to high school and what it was like growing up - but Santana never answers. Deflection is so ingrained in her makeup that she doesn't know how else to react. It frustrates Brittany, she can tell, but there are just some things she doesn't talk about.

She doesn't need Brittany to hear about how she watched her best friend die when she was nine, or how foster care was more like a brutal initiation into gang life, or the time she nearly killed a guy in the back alley near one of her high schools.

"How come you never tell me how you got those scars on your stomach, or the ones over your ribs?" Brittany asks occasionally, half curious, mostly frustrated.

"Because you don't need to know," Santana answers, jaw clenched.

Her past is dark and terrible and the last thing she wants is to pour that all over her sunshine and rainbows girlfriend. Two dead parents and a body covered in scars is enough, Brittany doesn’t need to know the rest.

People leave, they always leave. Once Brittany gets a real taste of Santana’s dark side, she’ll be right out the door. And if she’s not smart enough to go running, all that darkness that walks one step behind Santana will consume them both and destroy Brittany in the end. Whatever good part of Santana still exists just can’t see that happen.

Keeping things separate, keeping Brittany an arm's length away is the only way she knows how to love her.

--

The one flaw in her epic plan to keep Brittany in the dark is that she has nightmares. Not every night but often enough to be concerning and they always send her shooting up in bed gasping for air.

Sucking breath back into her lungs, Santana tries to wipe the memory of the nightmare out of her brain enough to go back to sleep, hating the way the images still linger on the backs of her eyelids.

"You okay?" Brittany mumbles sleepily from the bed, a long arm reaching out to stroke over Santana's back.

"Fine, babe, go back to sleep," she orders.

Brittany sits up, like she does every time, and puts her chin on Santana's shoulder, her arm wrapping around her waist. "You're getting these more often."

"Yeah," Santana agrees. She's getting them more often and the memories are starting to shift in the most absurd ways. It's no longer just an endless stream of past memories - getting beaten behind that warehouse when she was 15, running from the cops when she was 18, or cutting open her side climbing out of a burning building - now Brittany seems to show up in every single dream. Sometimes it's Brittany where Santana should be, others Brittany just watches things happen to Santana.

"You wanna talk about it?" Brittany's fingers trace the long scar on the side of her stomach as if the blonde knows exactly what Santana sees when she closes her eyes.

"It's nothing," Santana replies, shaking her head. "Don't worry about it."

"You should talk about it, San, they're getting bad."

"I said it's nothing," she snaps, turning to glare at Brittany, fear and adrenaline making her punchy.

Brittany huffs but she doesn't say anything, just kisses Santana on the cheek before snuggling back down into the covers.

A warm palm stays on the small of her back and despite the damp chill that’s settling in the rest of her body, Santana can’t help but push back slightly into Brittany’s hand and take a deep, calming breath at the touch.

--

On the days when the nightmares are the worst, or when she feels like she can’t see a fire without seeing something else, she goes to Puck’s place. Mike knows all her horror stories and he’s a better friend that Santana feels like she deserves but Puck was there. He gets her on a level that only the two of them can understand.

When she shows up at his door, jeans and a black hoodie, he takes one look at her and grabs his coat from inside the door, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and walking her out of the building.

They go to this old abandoned warehouse outside of the city. It used to be some lumber factory aside some train tracks but no one has used the place for years. When they were kids, they used to hang out here all the time, playing all kinds of weird games. It was their version of a treehouse, just with broken glass and death traps all over the place.

Puck walks over to old run down truck that’s parked not too far away and pulls a brown paper bag out from under its carriage. It’s a bottle of whiskey they keep there for emergencies. The first pull of that bottle does more to settle Santana’s nerves than anything else in her entire life.

He laughs at her as she tips the bottle back twice and picks up an empty beer bottle from the ground. “You want the first throw or shall I?”

Wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, she holds the whisky out to him and breathes out the harsh taste of liquor on the back of her throat. “Me,” she answers.

He trades her, the full bottle for the empty one and she throws the brown glass bottle up in the air a few times, eying the decaying side of the warehouse. “Right, upper window,” she calls, rearing her arm back before flinging it forward and watching the bottle fly upwards in a long arc. There’s a little tug in her side where a newly healed scar resides but it feels good as she rotates her arm around a little and an ache starts to settle.

Puck whistles as he watches the flying bottle, handing the whiskey back over and she lets her head drop back sharply on her shoulders when the bottle smashes against the side of the building, missing her mark by a few inches.

“Not drunk enough,” Puck chastises, picking up another bottle and twirling it in his hand. “Center window, bottom row.”

The bottle zings past her as he chucks it in the air and she pushes his shoulder as it smashes into the window and clatters into the old warehouse with a loud crash. She kicks at the ground until she finds another bottle and picks it up, taking a long swig of whisky before announcing to Puck, “Roof.”

“Aim for the stars!” Puck exclaims with a laugh, grabbing the alcohol from her and watching as she holds the bottle like a football before letting it fly.

“So I gotta ask,” Puck says after the bottle smashes against the tin roof.

“Yeah?” Santana swipes the whisky back and arches an eyebrow at him.

“Brittany is your girlfriend, right?” He picks up a rock this time and eyeballs the warehouse, slinging it towards the windows and blowing out a long breath as he watches it fall.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I mean,” Puck says, moving backwards to sit on an abandoned tractor tire behind him. The lot’s full of the most random equipment ever - which is what made it so fun to play in as kids. “You’re all pissy and moody with me, which is fucking fine. But that’s like the best ticket to free pussy ever and you’ve got a waiting and willing body back in your apartment. What the fuck?”

Rolling her eyes she takes another sip of whisky and observes the stars. “Well I’m here. What’s the fucking problem?”

“Nothing,” Puck says, sounding defensive. “I’m just saying, pretty as I may be, if I had Brittany waiting at home I’d probably be crying on her shoulder right now.” He pauses. “And by shoulder I obviously mean boob.”

She sends him an incredulous look.

“Fake crying,” he clarifies. “Because I don’t cry. But I’d do it to get play. And she’s gotta wonder why you come out with me instead of curling up to her. I’m just saying.” He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and pats his jacket for a lighter. “I know women.”

“She doesn’t know,” Santana mumbles, setting the whisky on the ground and picking up a rock. She turns it around in her hand as she looks at the large side of the warehouse.

“Doesn’t know what?” Puck asks, the sound of his lighter flicking open breaking the nighttime silence.

“Anything,” Santana answers, cocking her arm back and throwing the rock at the farthest door on the bottom left side of the building.

The smell of menthol hits her nostrils and Puck lets out a long stream of smoke above her head. “Why the fuck not?”

Santana purses her lips and picks up another rock. “Do you know what Brittany did for fun as a kid?”

Puck shrugs and takes another drag. “Uh, no.”

“She played with her little sister, dressed up their dolls, went to the playground, fucking played with ducks,” Santana answers. “Her darkest memory as a kid was the one time she broke her mother’s favorite vase and she got a timeout for an hour.”

“So?” Puck stands and grabs the whisky from the ground while Santana chucks another beer bottle at the warehouse.

“So?” She twirls to face him with her arms outstretched at her sides. “So when I broke a fucking plate when I was twelve, Roger held my face over a gas stove!” She shouts.

“Yeah thanks, genius. I was there. What’s your point?”

“My point?!” Santana shouts. “My point?”

“Yeah, that’s what I asked,” Puck replies patiently, handing over the bottle.

“My point is that how am I supposed to talk to this girl who’s fucking perfect; whose life was fucking Leave it to Beaver?”

“Babe,” Puck laughs. “No one is perfect.”

“You don’t understand,” Santana says, deflating and taking a long pull of the whisky.

“I understand just fine,” Puck says, picking up a rock and throwing it. “You need to stop being a pussy about it.”

“Oh fuck you,” Santana snaps, running her forearm across her mouth and glaring at her friend. A cold breeze rustles through her hair and she rolls her head on her shoulders and she paces around the lot, kicking rocks and trash under her feet.

“I think she can handle a couple of bad stories,” Puck says, flicking ash to the side. Santana watches the orange glow of his cigarette with a dull expression.

“Bad stories,” she repeats, putting the whisky on the ground and taking a long breath of cold air. “Bad stories.”

“So what, you’re going to go your whole life with this chick and just never tell her anything about yourself?”

“She just doesn’t need to know this stuff,” Santana explains, gesturing between them. “She doesn’t need to hear about my nightmares.”

“But she wants to,” Puck adds with this knowing tone in his voice that makes her throw her next rock particularly viciously.

“Even if I wanted to tell her,” Santana bites out. “Which I don’t. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Puck nods a little like he’s taking it all in as he ashes his cigarette again and picks up the whiskey. “Hey, Lopez,” he says after a long silent moment. “Where did you get that scar on your forearm?”

Her head snaps down to her left arm where she had rolled the sleeve of her sweatshirt up to reveal a thin pink line running down the outside of her arm. “Bobby Masters,” Santana answers, shooting him a look. “You were there, idiot.”

“He cut you?” Puck asks, unperturbed by her confused expression. He tips the bottle against his lips as he watches her.

“Yeah,” she says. “Bastard fucking turned on us. What the hell? You know all this.”

“What happened?”

“Dude,” Santana starts, but Puck shrugs and stubs his cigarette out against the ground as he repeats the question.

“I wrestled the knife away and shoved it in his leg,” Santana deadpans. “Were you hit on the head recently?”

Puck walks forward and hands her the bottle. “You were trying to kill him?”

“I was trying to survive,” she shoots back, whipping the bottle out of his grasp.

“That’s how you tell her,” Puck says, his eyes intent as they stare at hers. “One story at a time.”

Santana swallows her surprise and thinks about what he just said. The idea of telling Brittany the same things she just said to Puck makes her stomach turn over and the back of her throat start to ache but she attempts a deep breath and picks up another empty bottle from the ground, tipping the whisky against her lips.

“Are we done with the sharing and caring portion of the evening?”

Puck laughs and nods as he fishes out his pack of cigarettes again. “Never change, Lopez. Never change.”

The laugh that falls past her lips feels slightly faked but she manages to chuck her bottle high into the air, calling out, “Top row, middle window,” and hit her mark.

--

She doesn’t actually take Puck’s advice. She doesn’t tell anything to Brittany and nothing changes. 

Except, it kind of does. It’s like Brittany knows Santana wants to tell her and it’s made her just a tad more pushy, more inquisitive than ever

They’ve fought before, but suddenly it escalates out of nowhere. Santana thinks maybe it has something to do with the accident or the fact that even years later, Brittany’s still asking Santana questions and not getting answers. It probably has something to do with just Santana’s general suckiness as a girlfriend, but whatever the reason, they start fighting more often.

They fight about stupid stuff like Santana drinking the OJ straight out of the carton or Brittany leaving the cap off of the toothpaste but they fight about real stuff too like Santana's job and her inability to open up and the way Brittany pouts when Santana can't say I love you too despite feeling it with every fiber of her being.

The fighting is intense and passionate, exploding all around them and causing chaos and Santana loves every single, painful second of it. It punches into her and she feels her body thrum to life, every part of her anticipating the next argument with relish.

It's hard though, because fighting with Brittany is like kicking a puppy sometimes and Santana knows that that part of her deep down that thrives on fighting, falling and fire will push Brittany away in the end. She knows it but she can't seem to stop it.

--

They break up two years after they first meet. Well, actually, they break up just about every other week, but this one is bigger and feels scarily permanent to Santana; it's been weeks since they've seen each other instead of the 36 hours they usually last. Brittany went back to an apartment she rarely slept at anymore and Santana had taken to spending more time at the station and with Mike than is really necessary. She thinks maybe Mike is getting kind of sick of her, especially since now that Mike is seeing some new girl Tina and gets kind of pissed when Santana insists he go out drinking with her instead of seeing new-girl.

Then, Brittany starts dating some friend of her friend's that Santana thinks maybe she met once at a bar or a party Brittany dragged her to. Santana spots them one night on a drive-by that she does not take by Brittany's building every night. Nope. No way.

Okay, whatever. She's worried about her, okay?

When she sees Brittany kissing some guy goodnight on the front steps of her building, Santana's jaw drops open and she nearly crashes into a parked car.

She shows up for her shift in a rage and heads straight to the hanging bag in the corner, punching it furiously over and over and over and over again.

"Jesus, Lopez," Matt says, walking up next to her and observing the way the bag swings back and forth with her punches. "That little blonde thing finally get over you?"

"Shut the fuck up," she seethes, punching the bag harder.

"Yo, Chang," Matt shouts over his shoulder. "Come put a leash on your girl before she breaks something."

She catches the bag on the next swing and stops it, turning to glare at Matt as Mike comes trotting up behind him.

"What's wrong with you?" Mike asks.

"Britt finally wised up and left this damaged fool," Matt jokes, laughing.

"Kiss my Puerto Rican ass, Rutherford," she seethes, half-lunging at him.

Mike pulls Matt behind him and steps in front of her. "Dude," he says, chuckling. "Find the calm within," he intones, pressing his hands together and bowing slightly.

Santana rolls her eyes but can't help laughing at her friend. "I hate you."

He slings an arm around her shoulders and grins at her. "No you don't."

She shoves him a little bit but he just keeps laughing and she'd punch him if he weren't making her laugh right now. He steers them towards the kitchen in the back and plops her in a chair before heading towards the coffee machine and pouring a mug. "So why are we clearly getting our money back on those anger management classes you went to?"

Santana accepts the coffee he hands her and leans back in her chair, the front legs rocking up a bit. "I think Brittany's seeing someone."

Mike plops down into a chair across from her. "No shit?"

"Yeah," Santana breathes.

"Okay," he replies. "Let's go out tonight."

"What?"

"Let's go out and you can "see" someone too," he offers, making air-quotes with his hands. "Tina's got some hot friends I can invite."

The chair falls forward and she stands up. "I don't want to go out and fuck someone, jeez."

"Okay, okay, damn. Fine. Then call Puck."

Her eyebrows come together as she sits back down. "What?"

An expression crosses over Mike's face that clearly says don't be stupid. "You want to get rid of the new dude, right?"

"Yeah," she draws out, still skeptical at what he's saying.

"Call Puck," he orders. "Think about it."

He stands to get back to cleaning the engine and leaves her staring at the far wall as she mulls over his words. When realization dawns on her, she grabs for her phone.

--

"What are you wearing?" Puck's voice is muffled, probably by whatever disgusting meal he's devouring.

"I need you to run a check," Santana says, shifting her shoulder up to keep her phone against her ear. She pours herself another cup of coffee and eyes the rest of the empty room.

"On who?"

"Brittany's dating some dude," she hisses, the words nearly making her see red as she says them.

"The fuck?"

"Yeah," Santana agrees, dropping her shoulder down and grabbing her phone with her free hand. "So can you do it?"

"Didn't you guys like just break up?" The sound of a car door opening and closing resounds through the phone.

"Can you focus?" Santana huffs.

"'Course I can do it, who do you think I am?"

Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah okay, well then do it."

"What do you want me to do?" Puck asks.

"I just told you, moron."

"No," Puck replies. "I mean when I find the guy."

"The usual," Santana answers as she kicks a chair out to sit on. "Just make him gone."

"Awesome, I'll keep in touch."

"Whoa, I didn't even tell you who he is," Santana interrupts, twirling her coffee mug around on the table.

"Dude, are you for real right now? We have met, right?"

"Goodbye."

"You're going to owe me a blow job for this," Puck cajoles.

"Why are we friends?" Santana laughs.

"Because of my nine inch-"

She hangs up before he can finish.

A week later, Puck doesn't give her all of the details, though she hears something about random drug testing and a car repossession, but on the next few drive bys, Brittany walks into her apartment alone and Santana sleeps easier.

--

An alarm rings through the station same as any day but by the time they pull up to their destination and Santana jumps out to grab her gear, it's no ordinary call at all. In fact, looking over her shoulder briefly, she takes notice of the absence of smoke or fire or any of the normal indications that firefighters are actually needed. Shit, she hates calls like these. 

"Yo, Lopez," Matt says, coming around the side of the truck and nudging her. "Ain't that your girl?"

Santana jerks back in surprise, but she suddenly understands why Mike kept looking at her weird the entire drive over and her eyes are wide before she even turns to confirm Matt's words. She twirls away from the side of the engine and looks at the tall blonde standing on the sidewalk. Mike walks up to stand next to her. "Brittany?"

"Hey," the blonde girl says. "Hi Mike!"

"Hey, Britt," Mike greets, shifting around in his gear. "You rang?"

Brittany laughs and crosses her arms, shifting back and forth on her feet before jerking her head up over Santana's left shoulder. "My cat's stuck in a tree."

Mike turns to look at where she's indicating but Santana furrows her brow as her jaw drops open. "You don't have a cat."

"Yes I do," Brittany argues. "It's in that tree."

Santana finally decides to look up at the tree Mike is now staring at wide-eyed and rolls her eyes when she sees what he's looking at. "That's a stuffed cat, Brittany."

"It's my cat."

"It's not real," Santana deadpans, turning back to look at her ex-girlfriend. "You called the fire department because your fake cat is in a tree?"

"Pancakes is not fake, Santana!" Brittany exclaims. "He's my cat. And he's stuck in a tree."

"Right," Santana says her brow furrowed.

"That's what the fire department is for, isn't it? You're the only guys with ladders," Brittany argues, raising an eyebrow.

Mike laughs beside her so Santana cuts a glare in his direction. This is ridiculous. She almost doesn't want to ask the next question.

"How did it get up there exactly?"

Brittany bites her lip and cocks her hip out a little bit before jutting her chin forward slightly. "I put him there."

"You…put him…there?" Santana's eyes are wide and really she knows Brittany is crazy but this, this is a whole different realm of insane.

"Yes," Brittany says, more confident as she nods. Mike continues to laugh next to Santana.

"So let me get this straight," Santana says, pointing at the stuffed animal. "You climbed this tree with your fake cat. You put the fake cat in the tree. You climbed down. And then you called 911."

"Yes."

Mike claps her on the back and moves away. "I'll go get it," he says, grinning at the two of them. "You deal with this."

Santana gives him her best you're a dumbass expression before turning back to Brittany and crossing her arms over her chest. They stare at each other silently and it's then that Santana notices the sweatshirt Brittany is wearing. There's a patch on the arm and the right breast and on the left side the name S. Lopez is embroidered there. It's weird, but there's just something about the way Brittany constantly stole her clothes, sweatshirts more often than not, and wore them around all the time. The sight of it never failed to surge affection and arousal straight through Santana.

"That's my sweatshirt," she accuses like a child, trying not to reveal how much she loves the way it settles over Brittany's shoulders.

"So?" Brittany pouts.

"So that's my sweatshirt and you have it."

"Yup," Brittany agrees.

Santana takes a step towards the blonde and lowers her voice. "Britt, why did you call the fire department?"

She expects evasion and lies but this is Brittany and why Santana expected any of that she has no idea. "I miss you."

Eyes wide, her heart suddenly beating hard against her chest, Santana has no idea what to say to that. "Um, okay."

"Did you tell Puck to arrest Jason?"

The question comes out of nowhere and Santana doesn't have to fake surprise. "Who's Jason?"

"Santana," Brittany reprimands.

She holds her arms out. "What?"

"You're such an idiot."

Santana rolls her eyes. "I'm not the one that stuck their fake cat in a tree," she points out.

“Jason’s just a friend,” Brittany explains.

“A friend you make out with,” Santana counters.

“Well, yeah,” Brittany says like this is something she does with her friends all the time.

“Whatever,” Santana says, shaking her head. “I really don’t care.”

Brittany catches the lie right away. "If you want to be with me, you should just say so."

Throwing her hands up in the air, Santana gives Brittany her best incredulous expression. "I fucking did say so, you're the one that walked away, you're always the one walking away."

"Saying something and meaning it are two different things," Brittany argues.

"You're ridiculous. What does that even mean?"

Brittany steps closer and Santana watches Mike grab the stuffed cat out from its perch from the corner of her eye, Matt directing the ladder towards the tree.

"Why did you have Puck arrest Jason instead of just coming to talk to me?"

"Britt, I told you," Santana says, gulping as the smell of Brittany's perfume hits her nose. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Santana," Brittany draws out, stepping even closer and her eyes travel over her favorite sweatshirt as she tries not to get distracted by imagining the toned body just underneath it.

"You're the one with the phony 911 call, that's a crime you know," she mutters.

"It wasn't phony," Brittany says, reaching out to tug on the flashlight clipped to Santana's bunker jacket.

Santana grabs her hand and holds it. It’s instinct more than anything.

When Brittany smiles at her, Santana can't hold it in anymore. She pulls Brittany's arm and tugs her even closer until she's pressing their lips together. Brittany responds with a low groan, pushing back harder and bringing her hands to Santana's cheeks.

But then she's pulling away abruptly and frowning. "We broke up."

"It'll be different this time," Santana blurts out, not really knowing what she's saying. "Promise." It’s actually what she says every time they break up and for a second she’s afraid Brittany will throw that right back in her face.

It's not clear what exactly will be different and to be honest, Santana can barely remember what it was that broke them up in the first place, but she's spitting lines out in a desperation for Brittany to take her back. She glances to her side to make sure Mike and Matt and the rest of the crew can't hear the conversation.

Brittany's eyes go wide and bright with hope and Santana kind of hates how she knows that despite her words, she will fuck up again, but she smiles at the expression and readjusts her grip on Brittany's hand.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, babe," Santana reassures her. "Promise."

Brittany surges forward and wraps her arms around Santana's neck, pressing against her bunker gear in a way that can't be comfortable but Santana settles her hands on the girl's hips and lets herself breathe in a scent that's all Brittany.

"I love you," Brittany whispers into her ear and Santana feels elation and pain at the same time. The right thing to do would be to let Brittany go, to let her get over Santana and find someone better. A good person would stop pulling Brittany back in when she's only going to push her away sooner or later. A good person wouldn't be smiling into Brittany's shoulder but Santana's never been very skilled at being a good person.

--

They're back together a week before it all goes to Hell again.

It had been a terrible day, a bad fire across town and Santana had watched as a young woman took a nose dive out of her tenth-story apartment to splat on the pavement. The scene keeps replaying in her head over and over again and though she knows she couldn't have stopped it, guilt’s swimming in her head.

Brittany had already been already there when she got home and Santana doesn't even know how it all escalated. One minute they're just talking in Santana's kitchen, going over what had happened in their respective days and sure, Santana’s being evasive about everything but Santana is always evasive so she doesn't think anything of it.

She can’t stop seeing her day replay and she knows exactly what she’s going to dream about tonight, who she’s going to see jumping out of a building instead of the woman from earlier. The idea of it is putting her on edge, making her punchy and irritable. Brittany picks up on it fast, like she always does, but Santana does nothing to answer her questions. It’s not like she really wants to say I’m pissed that I’m going to dream about you committing suicide all night.

So instead she falls back on her old favorites: “It’s nothing,” she repeats. “Just drop it.” 

The next thing she knows Brittany is throwing her arms up in the air and walking out the front door. It takes her two seconds, two moments where Santana seriously considers doing the right thing and letting her go before she’s running after her.

"What the hell is your problem?" Santana shouts after her, taking the steps out of her building two at a time. Brittany stops and twirls to face her on the sidewalk.

"What are we doing?" Brittany asks. All the telltale signs that Brittany's about to cry are spread across her face and Santana wants to punch whatever caused it. Her fists clench and she imagines hitting herself in the teeth.

"I have no idea, you're the one freaking out right now!"

"Why do you even want to be with me?" Brittany puts her hands on her hips and looks at Santana expectantly.

"What kind of question is that?" Santana counters even though she knows exactly what Brittany's searching for. "You know why!"

"Why don't you ever tell me anything about your life? Why don't you ever tell me anything? Why is it so hard for you to open up to me?" The questions come out one after the other sounding more like accusations than anything else.

"What are you talking about? I tell you shit," Santana replies, glaring at her.

Brittany shakes her head. "You don’t, you're not open to me, you're not open to anything. You're closed up in your little room of pain and torture and you won't let anyone else get close enough to help you. Well I'm done trying. For good.”

Blonde hair nearly smacks Santana in the face as Brittany twirls on her heel and starts to walk away. "Goodbye," she throws over her shoulder.

Fear, like a bucket of cold water, douses the anger within her and her eyes start to sting as she watches Brittany walk away from her down the sidewalk. Before she can think to do otherwise, her feet are running after her girlfriend, sprinting until her hand is darting out and wrapping around Brittany's wrist, spinning Brittany around to face her.

There are tears in Brittany's eyes and her face is shrouded in pain and Santana feels every scar on her body burn into her skin until it’s like a slow simmer all over her. She lifts Brittany's hand up and presses it to her stomach right above the waistband of her pants and over the small circular marks that sit there.

"Cigarette burns," she whispers, staring into Brittany's eyes.

A gasp breaks through Brittany's mouth and she jerks back a little but Santana presses Brittany's fingers harder into her stomach, taking a step closer.

"I was 18," she continues, swallowing hard and forcing herself to stay in the present. “Behind the garbage cans at my high school.”

Brittany exhales and takes a step closer. Swallowing, her eyes dart over Santana's face. "Did it hurt?"

A short, loud laugh bursts out of her. "Yeah," she admits. "It hurt."

"Okay," Brittany says with a smile and a small nod. "Okay."

It's over like that and Santana knows that Brittany really means it when she says okay but for whatever reason she's so sick of this game they play, sick of the push and the pull and the unpredictability of it all and she's saying the words before she can think to say anything else. She just needs it to be different.

"I love you."

Brittany's whole face shifts and changes and Santana feels a warmth spread from Brittany's fingers at her stomach all the way over her chest. She feels it spread through her like a slow-burning fire and all of a sudden she senses her world changing and shifting.

Swallowing hard, Santana continues. "This is who we are," she says. "We fight all the time, but I love you and you love me and we need to stop walking out on each other. You need to accept that it's the way it's supposed to be." What she means is you can't keep leaving meand you're the only person who's ever loved me and I love you so much I can't lose you, but she thinks maybe Brittany understands that.

It doesn't even sound like her voice when the words come out and she kind of can't believe she's saying them but she knows that she needs Brittany to stay, she knows that she'll fuck up again and she needs Brittany not to leave. "I can tell you stuff about myself. I can do it if that's what you want."

Brittany shakes her head. "It's okay, it's okay."

"I'm sorry," she mumbles. "I know that I'm messed up and stuff and -" Brittany cuts her off with a finger on her lips.

"Say it again," she whispers.

"Say what again?" Santana mutters around the finger.

"You know what," Brittany replies her eyes wide with wonder as she brings her finger down.

It hits her and she gulps but the words don't get lost as she tries to get them out. "I love you," she says with confidence. "I've loved you for a long time."

"That's all I need you to tell me," Brittany replies. "The rest is just details."

The blonde practically leaps forward into Santana's arms, their mouths crashing together as Santana repeats the words against Brittany's lips over and over again, the more she says them the easier it becomes until she feels like it's the only truth she's ever known.

--

About three months after Santana says I love you, she takes Brittany to that soccer field again. 

“You and this field,” Brittany jokes, sprawling out on the grass and smiling up at Santana. 

She shoves both her hands into her pockets and shifts around as she looks down at Brittany. “I used to come here as a kid,” she says, kicking out at the grass a little. 

Brittany lifts up and props her elbows into the ground behind her. “Yeah, baby,” she laughs. “I know.” 

A chill wind blows through the trees and she turns to watch them sway around the sides of the field before opening her mouth again. “No one knows about it,” she says. 

Brittany tilts her head, still smiling. “Well I do,” she argues. 

“Yeah,” Santana laughs. “You and me, that’s it.” 

“Come down here,” Brittany orders, cocking her head to the grass. 

Santana squints out across the field and stares at the rusted goal posts for a second, trying to get the unpleasant feeling of nervousness out of her stomach. “That scar on my back,” she starts, looking back at Brittany. “The one that goes down my shoulder blade?” 

Brittany’s face sobers with realization and she sits up a little. Santana swallows and rocks back and forth on her heels. “One of my foster fathers threw a broken plate at me,” she says. “It uh, it got stuck in my back. Obviously.” 

She laughs but Brittany’s face stays serious, eyes wide and jaw dropped a little bit. 

“Anyway, I used to come here when bad stuff would happen, you know? Just to get away. I never told Puck or Mike or anyone about it.” 

“Santana,” Brittany says, soft and sweet. She sits up all the way and wraps her hand around Santana’s shin, stroking against the denim there and looking up at her. 

“That’s probably the nicest childhood memory I have,” Santana jokes. “That’s why I never told you.” 

Brittany's expression is sad and Santana hates it, but her girlfriend just tugs at her leg and orders her to sit on the ground again. She obeys, taking her hands out of her pockets and maneuvering her body next to Brittany’s. 

“I can handle the bad stuff,” Brittany whispers. “You can trust me.” 

Santana bites down on her lip and leans her side into Brittany’s before turning to face her and laughing a little. “I know that,” she says, smiling. “That’s why I’m telling you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Brittany says, her hand covering Santana’s where it’s flat against the grass. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.” 

“Don’t be,” Santana replies, turning her hand over to intertwine their fingers. “I wouldn’t change a thing.” 

Brittany’s head jerks back a bit and her brows come together. 

“It all brought me here,” Santana explains, her voice soft. She looks up over the field and the trees. “I don’t want to be anywhere but here.” 

Warm lips press against the skin under her ear and she smiles as she leans into it. “I love you,” Brittany mumbles into Santana’s neck. 

“Yeah,” she says, smiling at the way the words send heat through her limbs and into her chest. “Me too.” 

--

Santana was born of fire, she was raised in fire, she lives in fire and she’s fairly certain she’ll die in a fire - just like her parents. She’s never been afraid of it. There were times in her life, some recently, when she would have welcomed death with open arms. She’s going to die, she’s as certain of it as she is of time passing. For that matter, most people would argue that she should have died years ago. Death isn’t scary, it’s an inevitability.

So when she wakes up from her afternoon nap to the smell of something burning flaring up her nostrils, her first thought isn’t fear or surprise. Her first thought is well, this is it.

It’s a fleeting, quick thought that disappears when realization bursts through. Because she’s not alone in her apartment and despite the fact that she’s completely and totally resigned to her own mortality the idea that Brittany is in danger pumps white hot adrenaline straight through her.

The kitchen is already filling with smoke when she gets there. She rounds the corner and the first thing she sees are half the contents of her kitchen strewn across all the counters and the floor and the table. The second thing she sees is Brittany, a hand over her mouth as she waves at a quickly building fire near the stove and reaches for the thick table cloth on the kitchen table. It’s literally straight out of every nightmare Santana has at night - all the terrible dreams she doesn’t tell Brittany, all the dark thoughts that keep her up at night. Her own personal damnation right in front of her about to consume the one bright spot in her universe.

She freezes. For the first time ever in her entire life, she looks at a fire and just...stops. The flames are wavering in the air and as Santana’s eyes watch as it burns the dishtowels they keep near and the duck shaped oven mitts Brittany uses before it licks higher to darken the cabinets.

There’s an extinguisher under the sink and even if there wasn’t, Santana’s spent her entire life putting out fires - she’s trained to do this. But against all her training, when her body finally unlocks and she springs to action, she doesn’t go for the fire extinguisher or for anything else to put it out, she goes straight for Brittany, grabbing her around the waist and nearly three years after the first time she did this, she carries Brittany away from the fire.

Brittany looks completely shocked as Santana sets her back down in the hallway outside her apartment and looks at her seriously. “Don’t move,” she orders. “Just, don’t move.”

Her girlfriend nods and Santana gulps as she takes a deep breath and turns back into the apartment. She gets back to the kitchen again and it’s the weirdest sensation. Here she is, standing in front of something she’s had such a close relationship with her entire life and all she wants to do is run back towards Brittany, grab her, and take them both as far away as possible.

She doesn’t know how to deal with the way her heart starts beating too fast and her hands are shaking and she can feel herself break out into a sweat for reasons unrelated to the orange flames flickering against her face.

Thankfully, her training kicks in and despite a nearly crippling need to run away, her body shifts into gear, grabs the extinguisher from her kitchen and sprays the entire area. She keeps spreading the foam all over her kitchen even long after the flames disperse. The slamming of a door open and closed makes her stop and she turns to see Brittany walking back in, observing her with a cautious expression.

“I told you to stay outside,” Santana says in a low, scratchy voice.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m a fucking firefighter, Brittany, of course I’m okay, Christ,” she intones, throwing the red canister against the floor with a loud crash. Brittany jumps back in surprise. “Fuck.”

It all feels out of control, her emotions, her life, everything and she’s helpless to contain it all. In that one, insignificant moment, when she froze, when she worried about Brittany being in danger, Santana felt like she didn’t know who she was anymore.

“How did that even happen?!” Anger is replacing fear and she can’t stop the rise in her voice and the way her jaw clenches almost painfully as she twirls to face at her girlfriend.

“I was cooking,” Brittany offers in a small voice, wringing her hands together.

“The fuck, Brittany, you could have fucking died,” she shouts.

“It was a small fire,” Brittany argues, confusion wrinkling the space between her eyebrows.

“It’s fire,” Santana counters, pointing at the now blackened area that was once consumed by flame.

“Are you okay?” Brittany walks forward and puts a hand on Santana’s cheek, her eyes darting around Santana’s face as if she’s looking for something.

“I’m fine,” Santana snaps. “I’d just like for you to be fucking careful.”

“You don’t look fine,” Brittany replies.

“I said I’m fucking fine,” Santana retorts before stepping backwards and pinching the bridge of her nose as a sudden headache pierces through her forehead. “Fuck.” The adrenaline leaving her is making her shaky and unstable and she’s having a hard time focusing on the here and now.

Until Brittany steps forward and tugs Santana’s wrist, pulling their bodies together and wrapping long arms around Santana’s back. Her face gets shoved into Brittany’s collarbone and even though she can still smell burning cloth and smoke and gas she breathes in deeply against Brittany’s skin and suddenly feels steady again.

“It’s okay to be afraid,” Brittany mutters into her hair.

“I wasn’t afraid,” she lies, shaking her head, but bringing her hands up to grip Brittany’s shirt.

“Yeah you were,” Brittany says. “It’s okay. The fire was really just my secret evil plan to get you to buy a new place with me by burning down yours.”

A laugh bubbles up and pours out of her and her chest lightens as Brittany starts laughing too, hot breath beating against the side of Santana’s head. She pulls back and looks at her girlfriend, bringing her hand up to wipe away a smudge of soot on Brittany’s cheek.

“Good plan,” she utters, blowing out a long breath.

Brittany bounces up a little bit on her toes and smiles. “I thought so.”

Santana sobers again and she stares at Brittany, her legs still a little shaky but the warm body against her own rejuvenating slowly but surely. “I love you,” she says.

“Yeah,” Brittany says, swiping a hand over Santana’s brow. “I can tell.”

She pulls their hips in together and pouts at her girlfriend. “Hey,” she whines, feeling the now-unfamiliar void of absent affection.

The laugh is low and deep and Santana feels it vibrate up through Brittany’s body. The blonde presses their lips together and grips her fingers in Santana’s hair before pulling back slightly.

“I love you too,” Brittany whispers, their breath mingling between them.

This is how it ends. In a ruined kitchen full of promise.