Author's Note: So, I couldn't help but write a Christmas fic this year. This one will be four parts, plus short interludes between, and will take place over the course of a year, and is based on The Waitresses' song Christmas Wrapping (which HeMo sang in season three) and loosely inspired by Love, Actually. Enjoy!

December, 29th 2013

New York, New York—Eastern Standard Time

"Alright, T, I get it. Mike proposed. You're engaged. Big shiny ring. Big shiny wedding. I'm happy for you, like, really happy, but do you think you can just keep from shoving your hand if my face for maybe sixteen seconds?"

"Jeeze, relax, Brittany. You missed the engagement party—"

"Because a freak snowstorm cancelled my connecting flight from Boston, and I was stuck sharing a single double bed at the Holiday Inn with a hipster photo editor who doesn't shower regularly." I defended, rubbing my temple to stave off an impending headache, not only from Tina's voice, but because I'd actually invited her on what is supposed to be a relaxing ski trip, for my first full week in the United States in almost six months. With one shoe off in the middle of REI on Lafayette street, the last vestiges of Christmas still sort of hanging around until New Year's Day, I assessed the room, counting shoppers, in case I decided to clock her in the head with a ski boot. Better to wait until we get to Jackson Hole, I figured, too many witnesses lacing the new boot instead, and wiggling my toes to test it.

"I'm just making sure you know that we're getting married." Tina sighed, way too happily, shooting one of those weird, dreamy movie looks in the direction of the snowboards, where Mike was debating buying a new one. "And that you won't be in Bangladesh, or Saudi Arabia, or wherever, next January."

"I'll be there, Tina, I told you like sixty-five times. Providing some horrifying freak accident that leaves me stranded on a mountaintop with no choice but to sever my own arm—"

"Not funny. You climb mountains all the time, at least if you're missing a limb, make sure it's healed by the wedding. I don't want your bloody stump drawing attention away from me."

"I'm glad you're so concerned about my well-being." I rolled my eyes, and started on the other boot, beginning to tune her out.

The thing is, contrary to my present state of grump, I, Brittany S. Pierce, no relation to Britney Spears, am happy for them,. Please don't get me wrong, Tina Cohen-Chang and her fiancé—I'm not sure if you heard, they're engaged—Mike Chang, no relation, I checked extensively for them, have been my closest friends since they'd saved me from a mugger outside of Washington Square Park ten years ago when we were still at NYU, but to understand my frustration, you have to understand Tina. She means well, she really does, but she has absolutely no sense of what goes on around her about ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time. Which, of course, means she doesn't have the sense not to talk about flowers for her wedding—a year from now, mind you—seventeen-minutes after I'd run into my ex-boyfriend of only sixteen months with a baby on his lap. An actual human baby. His actual human baby. I mean, honestly, I thought it was kind of weird that he didn't have a wheelchair—the baby, not Artie, Artie still had a wheelchair—since even though I knew realistically that wouldn't be the case, I always just kind of pictured us having tiny babies in tiny wheelchairs, whatever. But I digress.

So Artie. Artie and I had dated on and off for years. I'd met him in that one lame required chemistry class that I'd saved for my last semester of my senior year of college. He was super nerdy, and I kind of had a thing for him. Then that thing grew into a bigger thing, and when I asked him out, he'd told me he had to wait fourteen days. Apparently he had the clap, and wanted to wait until it cleared up, in case we had sex on the first date. I know, I know, I've been hearing it for six years, how that should have been an indicator for me to not date him. But it wasn't, okay? I liked him, and then I loved him, and then, by the time he'd rolled up to me and opened a black velvet box and asked me to marry him, I couldn't stand him, like, at all. He complained constantly about my lack of availability because of my job.

I mean, okay, I can't totally blame him for that, but it's not like I didn't tell him on our first date that I wanted to be a famous photojournalist who traveled the world taking pictures of cool shit. What, did he not want my dream to come true? No, apparently he didn't. He resented my job at Discover magazine, he resented my restlessness, and the fact that I was quick to take any assignment I could, no matter where it was, even if it meant missing his great-aunt Frieda's ninetieth birthday party, and I think, most of all, he resented my success.. He pretty much wanted me to sit in some palatial apartment in East Midtown with those cute babies of his, while he brought home the bacon. I did not want that, and when he offered me a ring, and this promise of "financial security," I may have laughed in his face. But still, I really didn't expect him to give someone else the ring and the financial security and the babies so soon. I may not have wanted them, but he was my ex, it was basically the law that I could be bitter that he had them, while I was still waiting for Mr. or Ms. right to come and actually sweep me off my feet.

"Are you even listening to me?" Tina huffed, interrupting my thoughts about Artie and his really cute little ball of baby smell.

"Are you talking about band versus DJ? Band. Always band. I know I guy."

"We know the same guy, and I'm not having Puck's Van Halen cover band at my wedding. Nice try on his part, recruiting you to the cause. But no, I wasn't talking about that, I was just going to point out the hot doctor over there." She cocked her head to the side, and I turned mine slowly, not expecting much until—my jaw dropped. Like actually fell open, not just in my head, but for real, at the dark haired goddess in navy scrubs,—which she was wearing in the totally sexy Grey's Anatomy kind of way, with a long sleeved grey t-shirt underneath, sleeves rolled up and everything—and white sneakers, trying out ski poles that were like four sizes too big for her. "Ho-ly Saint Raphael."

"Saint who?"

"Saint Raphael, patron saint of medical professionals."

"It's really weird that you, of parents who celebrate the solstices, break out the saints after that month you spend at the convent in Argentina."

"The more you know." I shrugged, but didn't tear my eyes off my future wife...or, some other less creepified term.

"I'm sure he appreciates his name being associated with your dirty thoughts. Why don't you go over there and introduce yourself?"

"Look, I know you straights meet people in the grocery store, or whatever, but it's beyond weird if I just go up to her hi, I'm Brittany, Brittany Pierce, if you read anthropological magazines, you might recognize my name. I almost won a Pulitzer, but that bitch Rachel Berry stole it right out from under me, then sent a consolation gift basket."

"Do you have to overthink everything? I'm surprised you haven't already made excuses about how hard it is for you to date in between vaccines for rare diseases and work traveling. You can't complain about being single and cry over Artie's baby if you have a thousand excuses."

"Rude. Also, I didn't cry. At least, not a lot."

"Just go help her with the skis. You grew up on the things, and she looks like she's never seen a pair."

"That's weird."

"Go, or I'm going to talk about the menu." So maybe Tina knows me really well, and that was exactly the motivation I needed to run away and talk to the hot girl in scrubs. "Also, leave out the Rachel bitterness! Just be you, you're hot, she's hot…"

So maybe I was a little creepy—I blame it on my job completely, since ninety-percent of my time I spend watching and waiting for opportune moments to snap away—but I stood there watching her mess around with the ski poles for awhile, snapping occasionally at a very colorful and very gay man, and a black woman, the latter, having absolutely none of her incredibly sassy attitude. But really, I could totally listen to her sass. I could listen to her recite the phonebook, if she wanted to. Her voice was sexy, a little raspy…and it suited her, with her darting black eyes, and her, well, everything.

It wasn't until her friends left her in a huff, and I was sure she'd hurt herself, the way she was holding them, blood I could not have on my hands, before I stepped into the periphery of her space, smiling sort of weirdly when she looked up at me.

"Uh, can I help you?" Both of her eyebrows raised, in what was obviously irritation. I almost turned away and went back to what I was doing, but then Tina mouthed salmon to me, and I reconsidered that.

"No...I, uh...I was thinking maybe I could help you?"

"Do you work here or something? Because I gotta say, if you do, I've been waiting like forty-five minutes for Ted to find boots in my size, and I've got a patient coming at two-o'clock, so if he could hurry up, that would be beautiful."

"Oh. Yeah, no, I don't work here. I was just watching you. Not in a creepy way or anything." I smacked my hand to my head, mentally, at least, and shook it. "My dad's a professional skier, is what I meant to say. I've been skiing my whole life, and I'm a little concerned you're going to hurt yourself. These poles are way too big for you, and...I don't know, forget it. I'm not very good with people I'm not shooting."

"Okay, what?" She dropped the poles and put her hands up in front of her. Oops. I could absolutely see where she'd misconstrue that. "What kind of psycho are you? Is this a joke? Did Lady Hummel put you up to this? Because I swear, I will go all—"

"No, no, no, oh God." Really, I was a disaster. Certified. Disaster. Maybe I should have accepted Artie's shitty proposal and had his babies, because at the rate I was going, I was most definitely going to be single for the rest of my life. "With a camera! I'm a photographer. A real one. Not like...amateur porn or anything. Okay, I'm just going to stop talking and walk away right now. Hearing about chicken or fish is less painful than the fool I'm making of myself."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're even saying. Are you okay? Are you having a stroke or something?"

"No, I'm not having a stroke." I couldn't help myself, I rolled my eyes at her, though...she was a doctor. Maybe I was having a stroke, a prolonged one that made me entirely incapable of talking to women. Men were much easier, they saw boobs, I didn't make a fool of myself, but girls had boobs, I needed to actually string together coherent sentences, and— "Can we just start over?"

"Start what over?" Her eyebrows were still raised, but I noticed that she was sort of looking me over, and not in the Mean Girls kind of way, in the maybe-she-likes-ladies kind of way. So. Progress...ish.

"I'm Brittany. Brittany Pierce. I wanted to offer to help you with your skis. Also, beautiful woman make me nervous, so I'm sorry."

"Wait, are you hitting on me?" I sort of expected her to start laughing really bitterly at me, so I was super shocked when she actually smiled and cocked her head to the side. "Oh, honey, it's a good thing you're cute."

"I mean...I really did want to offer you some help too. You can get really hurt on the slopes if you're not adequately prepared."

"To be honest with you, Brittany." Okay, so my name sounded really sexy coming from lady doctor's lips, I would absolutely take that over the sass or the phonebook, but I kept that to myself. "Mercedes, my best friend over there, the one in the power suit, met some douchebag ski instructor in Williamsburg last weekend and now she's dragging our asses up to Hunter for the weekend. Kurt and I are already planning on not skiing, and sitting in the lodge judging people. I mean, I give it three hours before he finds a douchebag guy and ditches me for him, but I can tell you this, I won't be on the slopes. My winter activities include brunch at because they have a fireplace, and bitching about store owners who don't shovel their sidewalks."

"So I don't have to be concerned that you'll hurt yourself out there? Not even if some douchebag guy turns your head?"

"Ha!" She laughed out loud, and wow, she had dimples for days, and crinkly eyes, and she flipped her ponytail, the absolute trifecta of sexy laughter. Sex on legs, really. Sex on legs who apparently wasn't into douchebag guys. "That will never happen."

"So you're just going to sit in the lodge and judge by yourself?"

"Why not? There's warmth, there's alcohol. That's my kind of skiing. I mean, I assume not for you?"

"If I sit in the lodge, I'll inevitably end up talking to someone, and you see how well that goes for me."

"Hey, you're doing fine now." The teasing way her mouth curled was kind of adorable, and I was trying like, way hard not to stare at those lips incredible lips of hers. "You haven't made me want to run in the other direction in almost two whole minutes!"

"Well in that case—" I tried to turn my rusty flirting skills on for real, for real, hoping they didn't fail me miserable again, and I glanced down at the script on the left breast of her scrubs. flicking my eyes up really quickly, so she didn't think I was ogling her books or anything. They were nice, duh, but I was absolutely not putting myself on the level of one of those—in her words—douchebag guys. "Do I get to find out your name? Or do I have to call you S. Lopez? Or Dr. Lopez? Or just S, like you're on Pretty Little Liars?"

"I'm actually not a doctor. I hate doctors, my father's one, and it's the biggest thorn in his side that I decided to become a nurse practitioner instead." She stuck her tongue through her teeth, kind of like she was letting me in on some big secret of hers. It was cute, really cute, and I really hoped I wasn't blushing.

"Okay so...not-Dr. Lopez, what do your patients call you?"

"By my first name." She winked at me. She was totally flirting, or, at least I thought she was. Winking is flirting, isn't it? God, I really needed to get out more, and like, out to a bar, with other humans who speak to each other, not out to check out the ruins of old churches or something.

"So since you're not telling me your name then, can you tell me if you have a specialty."

"If you promise not to make a lesbian joke."

"I mean, I obviously have absolutely no control of what comes out of my mouth, so I'm not sure I can make that promise. Why, do lesbian jokes offend you?"

"Please, I'm awesome at lesbian jokes. It's just lesbian specializing in gynecology, the jokes were old before I even got out of school."

"Ew." I couldn't help but wrinkle my nose, and she looked at me, kind of...pissed maybe? "No, not ew about the gynecology. Ew that people make jokes like that. It's your job, it's a medical speciality, why would they even sexualize it? I mean, I guess I kind of understand what you're saying though, I take pictures of topless women regularly, so I know about the jokes."

"You take pictures of topless women? I thought you said your shooting wasn't amateur porn."

"Oh! It's totally not. I promise, I'm not about to get weird. I work for Discover, the magazine, not the crappy credit card that no one accepts. Double major in cultural anthropology and photography, so I travel all over. I'm actually going right from Wyoming to Nepal."

"And not to ski Everest, I assume."

"Definitely not." I laughed really loud, and then reminded myself to dial it back. It was finally not going disastrously, and hey, bonus, she totally said she was a lesbian, so maybe I actually had a shot at getting her number. "Doing a story on the people that live Everest."

"Sounds pretty awesome. I don't exactly subscribe to Discover, reading trashy magazines I steal from the waiting room is more my thing, but maybe I'll have to pick up a copy."

"Or maybe you'll let me take you to lunch when I get back, and I'll tell you all about it person?

"Ooh, someone has stepped up her game. Look at you." She teased me, laughing as she took her phone out of her back pocket—hello, even I should have noticed that lesbian calling card when I'd been checking her out. "I think I'll have to take you up on that."

"For real?" Okay, so I definitely actually smacked myself in the head after I said that. "So close."

"Like I said before, you're really cute, Brittany. And it's Santana."

"I'm pretty sure that's Coldplay." I furrowed my brow, listening to the music overhead that was most definitely Clocks, while I pulled my old phone out.

"My name. My name's Santana."

"Oh! Wow, that's a nice name. it's really nice to officially meet you, Santana." I grinned really wide, and then dropped my phone, because of course I couldn't get through putting her number in without one final misstep, and bent down super awkwardly to pick it up. "Okay, shoot."

"It's 917-555-5123." I typed it quickly, then read it back, then immediately sent her a text so she had mine, the opening notes of some Amy Winehouse song I couldn't quite name tinkling through her speakers. "So, when should I expect you to call and ask me out?"

"First week of March, I'll be back. But, I mean, I've got satellite service while I'm there, so you can text me, or whatever. Is that weird, that I asked you on a date two months from now?"

"No weirder than any other part of this conversation. I've gotta run though, I've got a patient in twenty-minutes."

"You didn't even get what you needed!"

"I've got jeans and sweaters, I'm set for the lodge. I mostly just came to act interested in this trip, and for them." Her thumb points over to her two friends, who'd apparently been staring at us the whole time.

"Alright, as long as it wasn't my fault. Have fun not skiing."

"And you have fun in Wyoming, freezing your ass off out there." She cast her eyes down, and made some sort of noise of approval, which, of course, made me blush way more. "And good luck in Nepal."

"Thanks!" I smiled at her one last time, then just as she was turning away, I felt like I couldn't let her go without one more thing. "Hey, Santana?"

"Yeah, Britt?" It was fine, I was fine, I definitely didn't hyperventilate a little because she used a nickname.

"Just wanted to say happy New Year."

"Oh." That smile again. Those dimples. "Happy New Year to you too."