Author's Note: This story takes place in an AU which diverges from canon starting in episode 3x13 "Heart." In this timeline, both Brittany and Santana graduated from WMHS in May 2012, and they never broke up. Instead, they moved across the country together and enrolled at UCLA. They live with Mercedes Jones and are currently in their sophomore year at college. Mouseverse.
It is 12:07 am, and Brittany and Santana have just turned out the lights, wished each other goodnight, and kissed toothpaste kisses through the dark. Their eyes close, and their breathing slows. Santana thinks about the group project she has coming up in Intro to Public Policy next week and also about how nice it is to have Brittany's arm wrapped around her middle.
"Maybe we should stop teasing her," Brittany says from nowhere, muttering against Santana's shoulder.
Santana doesn't know who Brittany means at first, but then she does and frowns. "Really?" she says, scrunching up her nose. "We haven't been that bad, have we?"
Brittany shrugs at her back. "Well, she never teased us," she says, disturbing her and Santana's pillows with her movement.
Santana frowns again. "Are you sure? When she was doing her whole Queen Bee of the Troubletones thing, she must have teased us at least once."
Brittany shakes her head, and the pillows shift again. "I don't think so."
Santana frowns even more deeply. "But we were so—"
"—yeah, we were," Brittany agrees, knowing the words that Santana doesn't say and snaking her hand to find Santana's hand under the blankets, "but I think she knew you would have died if she did."
Santana scoffs, "I wouldn't have died."
"You would have," Brittany says gently, starting to rub between Santana's bones with her thumb. "You would have blushed yourself to death."
"That's got to be medically impossible," Santana argues.
"Anything's possible," Brittany counters.
For a long minute, silence reigns. Brittany continues to rub the soft places of Santana's hand, and Santana hears her breath and Brittany's breath run in a cycle, an inhalation following every exhalation. Eventually, Santana relaxes, body slumping down deeper onto the mattress. She softens, accepting that Brittany is right.
There is something to say for reciprocity, after all.
The clock on the nightstand blears a red 12:09 am through the pitch.
Finally, Santana mumbles, "But we only tease her because we love her. If we stopped now, she would think we were mad at her or something."
Anyone else might not understand what Santana means, but Brittany does because she always does. She kisses the back of Santana's head through Santana's hair.
"We could tone it down a little," she suggests placidly.
Santana laughs, tangling her fingers around Brittany's under the blankets. "I suppose—maybe—but only a little," she agrees.
In the next instant, Santana rolls in Brittany's arms so that she and Brittany face each other, their breasts and bellies pressed together. She gives Brittany another toothpaste kiss, this time goodnight for real, and she and Brittany sigh against each other's mouths, contented.
It's 12:10 am, and there are two more days until Valentine's Day.
They don't tone it down—not even a little bit.
They're making farfalle with cream sauce in the kitchen, feeding each other noodles directly from the pot and laughing more than any two people have a right to do, when Mercedes comes home from her Music Industry 107 seminar at 7:52 pm.
The instant she drops her backpack at the door, Brittany pirouettes around the kitchen bar, singsonging, "I ran into Christopher at the Student Union this afternoon! He wanted me to tell you to wear comfortable shoes on Friday!"
Santana chimes in from the kitchen, calling out as she gives the pasta pot another stir, steam and bubbles rising from the water, "We think he's going to take you dancing!"
"We also think that he lo-oves you!" Brittany adds, making a kissy, fishy face close to Mercedes' cheek.
Mercedes rolls her eyes and swats Brittany away, divesting herself of her coat. "Are you two collectively five-and-a-half years old?" she grouses. "It is just a date!"
Santana sets her wooden stirring spoon down on the counter beside the stove and steps away from her cooking to lean over the bar into the dining room, making sure that Brittany and Mercedes can see her face. She wears her smuggest smile. "Britt and I went dancing for our first official couple Valentine's Day," she reminds Mercedes, "—that's all I'm saying."
"Good Lord," Mercedes groans, retreating quickly to her bedroom.
"Tell us when you're having your bachelorette party so that we can hire some strippers!" Brittany calls after her.
The closer it draws to Valentine's Day, the more obnoxious Brittany and Santana become.
On Thursday night at 9:22 pm, all three roommates sit together in the living room watching a rerun of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, Brittany lounging on the floor, her head leaned back into Santana's lap, Santana and Mercedes sitting adjacent to each other on the sofa. Santana runs her fingers through Brittany's hair, dragging her nails between the strands in long, careful pulls.
When Mercedes' phone buzzes atop the coffee table, Brittany's mouth drops open in her happy Here it comes! grin, and she claps, and Santana wags her eyebrows at Mercedes from across the sofa. Mercedes rolls her eyes and answers the call as Brittany and Santana hiss whispers at both her and each other.
"Is it Christopher?"
"I think it's Christopher."
"Why doesn't she have a special ringtone for him yet? Get on that, girl."
Brittany hurries to mute the television, but Mercedes stands to leave the room anyway, turning her back on Brittany and Santana.
"Hey," she says, smiling with the phone to her ear.
"It's Christopher!" Santana whisper-cheers, offering Brittany a down-low high-five, which Brittany quickly accepts.
Mercedes shakes her head when she hears the slap of their hands. "No, I'm not doing anything," she says into the phone, dimples deepening in her cheeks. She motions for Brittany and Santana to keep watching the show without her, but there's not a chance that they will.
Brittany grins and waves at the phone. She mouths out Hi, Christopher! and wiggles her fingers.
Mercedes shakes her head again and starts down the hall in the direction of her bedroom.
Santana tut-tuts as she goes. "When are we going to get to have a nice, long chat with that boy so we can properly grill him?" she frets. "We need to know what his intentions are for our dear Wheezy."
"I think his intentions are to marry her and have her babies," Brittany says, giggling and climbing up off the floor to steal a place on the sofa beside Santana.
The girls sit crisscross-applesauce with their knees pressed together. They take each other by the hands, and when Santana feels the tremor of Brittany's giggling run down Brittany's arms, she starts giggling, too.
Something in her look must delight Brittany because, in the next second, Brittany grins and ducks forward to peck a kiss to Santana's lips, and both she and Santana collapse, laughing out loud, Santana's face buried in Brittany's lap, and Brittany's body shrouded over Santana's, her face at Santana's shoulder. Brittany's warmth blankets Santana, and laughter and fabric surround her. When Brittany laughs, her chest quakes over Santana's head, and Santana hears her voice resound along her breastbone.
Footfalls pad across the carpet, and Mercedes speaks, though Santana can't see her. "You two need to get your own damn Valentine's Day plans so you can quit being so interested in mine," she scolds.
Brittany peels away from Santana, her warmth and laughter and fabric shifting back, and wipes her eyes with her sweatshirt sleeve. Santana sits up, following suit. Mercedes stands in front of the sofa, hands on hips, expression a tight scowl.
"We do have Valentine's Day plans," Brittany protests, still giggling.
"—standing ones," Santana clarifies, still giggling as well.
Mercedes raises an eyebrow. "Really? Because last I heard, y'all hadn't made any restaurant reservations or bought special dresses or ordered flowers or anything."
Santana smirks, sly, "Don't worry, Wheezy—we've got it covered."
Brittany nods, scooting closer to Santana on the sofa to make room for Mercedes at her other side. "Totally," she confirms.
By 5:17 pm on Friday, Mercedes is nearly ready for her date.
Brittany and Santana are in their pajamas.
Over the last hour, they have sung no fewer than twelve renditions of "Mercedes and Christopher Sitting in a Tree" as they helped Mercedes to curl her hair and perfect her makeup. They've also assigned names to all of Mercedes and Christopher's seven future children and two dogs and preemptively declared themselves said future childrens' godmothers.
Now Mercedes emerges from her bedroom, ready to show off her dress and stylish yet comfortable shoes. Brittany and Santana wait for her on the sofa. She calls down the hallway to them, "If you two ruin this for me, I am going to move out!"
"In the middle of the semester?" Santana challenges. "Phssst, yeah, right."
But then Santana quiets because Mercedes steps into the living room wearing a gorgeous maroon party dress that looks way too fancy and way too sequined to have come off the rack. It would take a person much meaner than Santana to make a joke about such a beautiful girl in such a beautiful dress, so Santana is entirely serious when she mouths Wow!, just like Brittany is entirely serious when she wolf-whistles at Mercedes from Santana's side.
Mercedes giggles and turns in a circle, showing off the whole ensemble. "So it works?" she asks, grinning because she already knows that it does.
Brittany and Santana nod vigorously.
"You look so fierce," Brittany praises.
"You have the Queer Lady Roommate Seal of Approval," Santana says reverently.
Mercedes beams, a bright giddiness in her eyes that Santana knows very well for herself. Mercedes would never let on, but she's pretty excited about spending Valentine's Day with Christopher because she's liked the guy for a very long time.
Thinking about Mercedes liking Christopher and finally getting to be with him plucks a sweet string in Santana's heart, and she has to lean over to kiss Brittany on the cheek. Brittany responds by nuzzling her head against the crux of Santana's neck, obviously feeling the same.
"So you two are seriously just going to stay in tonight? You're not going out on Valentine's Day?" Mercedes asks suddenly, real concern showing through.
"Yup," Brittany says. "The restaurant scene will be crazy tonight. We just want to be able to talk and hang out and stuff."
"We've got some wine in the fridge," Santana adds, nodding toward the kitchen. "As long as we can be together, we'll be just fine."
Her statement comes out sounding much more precious than she had intended it to, but she doesn't mind.
After all, it is Valentine's Day.
Mercedes shakes her head, somewhere between incredulous and impressed. "You're a couple of old-marrieds!" she laughs.
If she meant for her remark to ruffle Brittany and Santana, it doesn't at all. They grin at its near-truthfulness, sweet and sweet again—gratified, in a way.
"Since kindergarten," Brittany confirms, adoring, sneaking a kiss to Santana's collarbone, her head still rested at the crook of Santana's neck.
By now it's 5:23 pm, and a knock sounds at the door.
"Ooooooh!" Brittany and Santana chorus. "It's Christopher!"
Mercedes shoots Brittany and Santana a warning look as she snatches up her clutch from the kitchen bar and retrieves her jacket from its hook on the wall. She mouths out Behave! and answers the door to Christopher, changing from severity to sunshine in an instant.
"Hi, Christopher."
"Hey. Wow. Mercedes, you look amazing. I got you some—"
"Oh, they're beautiful!"
Brittany and Santana singsong from the sofa, "You kids have fun and be good!"
Once Mercedes leaves for her date, Brittany and Santana commence their own Valentine's Day celebrations.
They turn down the lamps and light a million scented candles even though their landlady doesn't allow them to have open flames in the building. Then, in the dimness of the bathroom, they undress each other, Santana peeling the hem of Brittany's t-shirt from Brittany's skin with a careful nail and edging the shirt up Brittany's body and over her head, doffing it; Brittany neatly unribboning the drawstrings of Santana's pajama bottoms until the bottoms drop, pooling on the floor at Santana's feet in a heap of soft, sleep-worn cotton.
The girls kiss, half-naked before the bathroom mirror, their reflections doubling every nod and little nudge. Small votive flames cast the room a dull red. When their lips pop apart, Brittany leans over and starts the bathwater running, plugging the stopper in the tub. Santana burrows under the sink for bubble bath, selecting the lilac scent that Brittany likes so well.
Once the tub fills, Brittany drops her bottoms, and Santana snakes free from her shirt. They lose their underwear and help each other into the water, Santana holding Brittany's hand as she steps over the edge, seating herself against the back of the tub, Brittany holding Santana's hand as Santana steps over the edge, settling down against the sling of Brittany's body.
Both girls sigh, their bodies rested and home.
"Happy Valentine's Day, BrittBritt," Santana whispers.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Santana," Brittany whispers back.
Going out for dinner or dancing would have been nice, but it wouldn't have been this, so.
They make love in the bathtub and then twice in their bed, and, afterwards, they dress in fuzzy bathrobes and have a little bit of wine with supper—though not too much because both of them have to work Saturday shifts at their jobs. They laze on the sofa, kissing stupid, sloppy kisses, listening to a playlist of old-fashioned love songs from Brittany's iPod speakers.
"I think this has been our best Valentine's Day yet," Brittany notes, tracing out the shape of a heart on Santana's thigh, exposed through a gap in her robe.
"It's because we just get better with age," Santana agrees. "Like, we're going to be the most kickass old ladies ever. Our grandkids will love us."
"We do, and we will, and they will," Brittany says, "—because we love each other more all the time."
Santana concurs with a kiss and shifts in Brittany's arms, twisting to bury her face in the deep-soft of Brittany's fuzzy robe. Though everything is slow and easy, her heart gives a quick squeeze in her chest, and she sighs into the warm plush.
Lifting her face just enough to speak, she says, "I love you so much. Do you want to get the box?"
Brittany says, "I love you so much, too," and, "Yes, let's, please."
When Mercedes comes home, Brittany and Santana have lost track of time.
They glance at the clock—10:41 pm—and startle because, for one, they're not sure where all the hours went, and, for two, they can't figure why Mercedes is back at the apartment so early.
It's a Friday night Valentine's Day, for god's sake.
Mercedes doesn't slam the door behind her or move like she's angry or sad, so her date with Christopher probably didn't end too badly. However, she does jump when she sees Brittany and Santana sitting on the floor, the contents of the box strewn out all around them, and them wearing nothing but robes.
"Um, what is that? What are you doing?" she asks, pointing at the box and everything that's come out of it.
Santana frowns. "Why are you back so early?" she volleys. "Your date's not over already, is it? Please say that Christopher is waiting for you back in the car and that you're just here to grab something—"
Brittany interjects, "—like maybe an overnight bag so you can drive to Vegas and elope—"
"—because otherwise that is just sad," Santana finishes.
Mercedes sighs, hassled. "You stayed in on Valentine's Day, but I'm sad? Look, I'm here to change out of this dress because the first club we went to was too crowded so now we're going to a swing joint instead, and I need a skirt that can move," she says. "Seriously, though, what is all this stuff?" She gestures at the pink, purple, and red detritus spread out around Brittany and Santana on the floor.
"They're all the valentines I've ever given to Santana since we were five and a few she wanted to give me but didn't, like, when we were in middle school and stuff," Brittany shrugs. She snatches up one particularly crude pink construction-paper heart, holding it up for Mercedes to see. "And this one is the first valentine Santana ever gave me."
Mercedes cocks an eyebrow. "Why does it just say LO?"
"Because I couldn't figure out if I wanted to write my last name or LOVE, and writing my first name was too hard," Santana explains.
"I couldn't read anyway, so," Brittany shrugs.
The clock on the wall reads 10:44 pm, and now would be the perfect opportunity for Mercedes to finally pay Brittany and Santana back for teasing her so mercilessly about Christopher all week. The truth is that Brittany and Santana were hopeless even back in kindergarten, just like they're hopeless now, and Mercedes could call them on it, if she wanted to.
She doesn't, of course.
Her expression sweetens, eyes softening and shrinking behind her smile. "Since kindergarten, huh?" she says, a little bit in awe.
"Yeah," Santana says, meek.
Santana reaches for Brittany's hand on the floor, sweetening over herself. She smiles first at Brittany and then at Mercedes, glad in a way that she never could have imagined during all those sad Valentine's Days of early high school.
Without thinking, she blurts out, "You know we like Christopher, right? Like, unless he hurts you or you decide you don't like him—in which case, we never liked him, like, even a little bit. But, for now, we like him. And we could even love him, if you decide that you love him, because we—"
"I love you, too, Santana," Mercedes says, genuine. "And you, too, Brittany."
Brittany grins, rising from the floor and giving Santana a tug up after her. "Aw, we love you, too, Mercedes. And I think we have to hug now," she says, wrapping an arm around Mercedes on her one side and Santana on her other, pulling them towards her, despite Mercedes' protests.
"You guys, I really have to go. Christopher is waiting down by the curb—"
"Christopher can wait, Wheezy."
"Yeah, you can marry him tomorrow."
It's 10:48 pm, and it feels like a really good Valentine's Day.