The only thing more traumatic for Rachel than seeing Brittany pressing Santana up against the wall of Santana’s dressing room was seeing Santana with her head between Brittany’s thighs a couple days later; isn’t that right, Rachel?
—Quinn Fabray, in the most awkward interview I, Brad Ellis, have ever conducted.
"They never stop," Rachel hisses at Quinn, who she never should have let convince her to use the spare key. "They, They’re in the kitchen—in flagrante," Rachel continues, shaking her head in an attempt to clear the image.
"Good for them," Quinn smiles. "Let’s put on a record or something while we wait."
"Quinn, this is the second time in four days I’ve walked in on their sexual escapades; I fail to see how ‘putting on a record’ will help the situation," Rachel sniffs.
"Brittany assures me music is the best way to distract Santana from wanting to attack somebody; she can’t not listen. She won’t be able to have at us for walking in every time Brittany loves her. Here, she’s wild this one," Quinn says gently placing the disc on the gramophone.
"She was loving Brittany," Rachel corrects without thinking before shaking the images from her head all over again.
The first thing Brittany hears when she can hear again is ‘Careless Love’.
"Quinn and Rachel must be here," she sighs, holding tighter to Santana on top of the kitchen table.
"One of them walked into the kitchen in the middle of… everything," Santana whispers in shame. "Probably Rachel; if it weren’t for bad luck, she would have no luck at all…"
"Really? The only screaming I remember is my own," Brittany grins stupidly. "I like this song."
"Papi liked this song too," Santana whispers back, resting her head on Brittany’s shoulder. "He saw King Bolden’s band in New Orleans once before he came to Chicago. Put your clothes back on, Sweets."
"I suppose we should go and say hello," Brittany giggles.
"You go say hello; I’ll hide in here and make coffee," Santana suggests.
"It’s no use being bashful now, little mouse," Brittany says kissing Santana’s nose before sitting up and sorting out her clothing. "They’re just here to discuss Rachel going back to part time Vaudeville scheduling."
On nights Rachel has Vaudeville gigs, Santana is the only performer at Prancy’s. Now that Kurt has such great connections in France they basically have a full service bar seven days a week, and Santana finds herself singing her ass off. She stops talking when she doesn’t have to, and drinks hot lemon water like it’s going out of style.
Brittany becomes insanely good at putting everything into ‘yes or no’ questions so Santana only has to nod or shake her head. Brittany does her best to pick up the conversational slack for the both of them, but really is just as happy sitting in complete silence. It grates on Santana’s nerves some; where if talking were an option silence wouldn’t bother her, forced quiet annoys her. Brittany has told her every funny story from home she can remember,including the time the bank officer came while her father was having his bath and singed the forms from the galvanized tub in the back yard.
They sit on the sofa in the parlor, Santana’s head on Brittany’s shoulder, until Brittany has to work or Santana has to go to the club. It is Santana’s favorite non-musical part of the day.
Today is different somehow, though. Brittany is not relaxed when she gets home, and there will be no sitting on the sofa.
"I said no, OK? Know that before you get crazy."
“Said no to what?" Santana gestures calmly.
"I may have been approached to be the driver of a getaway vehicle for a bank job. I said no, straight away I said no, little mouse—"
“I am no longer calm.”
"I said no. That’s that. Will you run a cold bath for me, little mouse?"
“Yes, why? Oh my God, are you hurt? Did they hurt you, Brittany?”
"I’m gonna be fine. C’mon, to the tub."
Santana gasps at the sight of the dark bruises appearing on Brittany’s pale skin as she sheds her clothing. Santana can feel her heart breaking as Brittany winces while lowering her battered body into the cool water.
"Can you spare some ice from the box, do you think? Just to cool down and dull the pain til the aspirin kicks in?" Brittany asks sheepishly. "Nothing’s broken; Thumbs had the Doc check me out and all. Thumbs also said to go ahead and take a vacation, so there’s nothing to worry about there, either," Brittany adds, forcing as much silver-lining as she can into the moment. Santana kisses her temple and goes for the ice, leaving Brittany unsure of whether she has been at all persuasive.
Santana returns with a chunk of block ice in a bowl, slipping the chunk delicately into the water.
"Shh, little mouse whispers," Brittany reminds her, reaching out and taking her hand. Santana inspects Brittany’s fingers, not sure what the lack of evidence of Brittany punching back means.
"I’m scared. I’m scared for you," Santana whispers. "I don’t know what to do."
"You tell me, that’s what you do. We’ll sort it out together," Brittany promises.
"They’re not going anywhere, Sweets. They’ll be there after your ‘vacation’ is over. This can’t happen again, Brittany… I can’t take it…"
"It’s alright, baby. Kurt’s been thinking about sending you to France too, you know? Hiring a couple boring, skinny white girls to entertain the chumps here in America. We go to France, you go to work, I’ll go look at pretty pictures in the loo," Brittany smiles.
"No, I’m your lov-er, little mouse. You should know that word by now."
"Quiet you," Santana whispers her command before leaning over the side of the tub to kiss her not-at-all-careless lover.