Forever (sequel to The Hostage)

5

Brittany's POV
I have a nightmare that night. But it's not about the shooting. There's not even a vague image of the shop, or the owner, or Santana trapped under a fallen shelf. Instead, I have the usually nightmare.

Santana in the swimming pool. Her eyes closed.

I take a breath, hold it, then release slowly. Santana is asleep, an arm thrown over her eyes. Even now, she looks beautiful.

I get out of bed, and go through to my office, closing the door quietly behind me. I stand at the window, and look across Lima Heights. There are cars driving, people laughing in the streets. I can hear the heavy bass coming from a party somewhere.

It's not pretty, but it's alive.

I sit down at my desk, open up the private document again, and type in this nightmare. Then I add in yesterday, and how I felt. Then I talk about my parents, and what going back to their house felt like.

I need to confide in Santana about all of this. We're a team, we tell each other everything. I've never loved anyone that much. The only subject we avoid is my upbringing, because it's a mess. But even then, I've told her snippets. I've explained the scars on my hands (broken window), why I hate sleeping in the dark, and how I don't think I could ever be a mom. We have these conversations late at night, when neither of us can sleep.

So why can't I talk to her about this?

I finish typing, and read over my words. Satisfied with what I've said, and the weight that has been lifted, I close my computer and go back through to the bedroom.

As I climb into bed, Santana half-opens her eyes.
S-"You okay?"
B-"Yeah. Go back to sleep."

She turns over, pressing herself into me. Our bodies fit together perfectly, molding into one. I wrap an arm around her, pulling her in closer. Finally, I feel tired again. I slip into a dreamless sleep.

I wake up to Santana singing. It's an old pop song, the kind that gets played on the radio and you spend weeks trying to get it out your head. But when Santana sings it, there's a difference. She adds more character to it.

She doesn't sing much. I don't know why. Her voice is beautiful, something uniquely Santana. I could listen to her all day.

She breaks off at the end of the chorus, and finishes running the brush through her hair.
S-"Are you awake Britts?"
B-"Yeah."
S-"Do you want to maybe look at picking a date for our wedding?"
B-"Wait, really? I would love to."
S-"Get dressed, and I'll find a calendar or something. And Kurt. He's good at these things."

I dress quickly, pulling on the first things I see. That's one of the positives of having an all black wardrobe- everything goes with each other. As I yank my jeans over my hips, I look around my room. It's changed a lot, since Santana started living here.

Before, my room was plain and clean. And I liked it. I had so much in my head, I couldn't have my world in a mess as well. I kept white walls, and wooden floors. No pictures, posters, letters. The room barely looked lived in.

But Santana changed it, slowly and subtly. She stuck a couple of pictures of us up on the wall. She found a vintage movie poster for one of my favourite movies, and put that up as well. She wound fairy lights around the headboard, and started to leave her clothes and makeup around the room.

Sometimes we argue over the mess, and it ends with her stomping around and putting clothes away. Then I feel bad, like Santana has been shoved in the cupboard along with her hoodies and jeans. So I say sorry, and she kisses me and we end up having makeup sex.

I wander downstairs, now dressed, and go into the kitchen. Santana and Kurt are at the table, and Quinn is sitting on one of the countertops.
Q-"What is it with the gays and getting married. Is it some sort of revolution I missed? We've just had a wedding, we don't need another one."
B-"It's just setting a rough date. We'll have a while before we get married."
Q-"Either way, I'm out of here. Is there anything you want me to do?"
B-"Just check up on all our accounts."
Q-"Okay boss."