She comes awake in stages, and it takes her flu-adled brain a second to realise that Brittany isn’t lying next to her. She still feels like crap, and she coughs to try and clear her throat, licking over her cracked lips as she wonders where Brittany is.
She can’t believe she feels like she’s about to die and her girl isn’t there to listen to her whine. Like, how is she supposed to get better if she’s got no one to nurse her back to health? She’s fairly sure that’s against the girlfriend code, and if it isn’t then it should be.
(Like she’d ever hold it against Brittany. She’s fairly sure she’ll melt the second she sees that smile.)
She rolls onto her back and stretches her hands into the sheets next to her, feeling the warmth that means Brittany hasn’t been gone long and smiles into the pillow. “Britt?” Her voice comes out a lot more croaky than she intended and she swallows hard, then sucks in a breath, sniffing a little as she does so.
There’s no answer, and she huffs out a breath, burrowing further into the covers and then kicking them off her, because she’s somehow too cold and too hot all at once. She flops onto her back and reaches for the glass of water next to her bed, sipping the tepid water slowly before putting it back. Since no one’s there to hear her, she coughs again and then whimpers, sad and pathetic in the quiet of the room.
Fuck, she hates being sick. Stupid freshman with their stupid diseases. She didn’t even get sick when she was a freshman, so how is it fair that she can’t breathe right now? She’s pretty sure sophomores are supposed to be immune, just by definition or whatever. She totally didn’t sign up for this shit. She’s never going to let Brittany talk her into going to a bar during orientation week ever again.
“Britt?” Her voice is a little louder now, but no less croaky. Her whole body aches, and getting out of bed isn’t something she wants to think about, even if Brittany is waiting in their tiny kitchenette and would probably give her a hug if she found her. She’s embarrassed by how good a Brittany hug sounds right about now.
She wishes she could remember Brittany’s class schedule just in case Britt has gone to class and left her, but it’s the start of the semester and she has enough trouble remembering her own classes to remember someone else’s too, even if that someone else is her super hot girlfriend.
Whatever, she blames the sudafed.
She’s pretty sure she’s already a week behind on her reading, and if she ever finds out which one of Brittany’s gross Berkeley friends gave this to her she’s not even gonna stop herself from gloating the next time Stanford kick their asses at something.
“Britt?” She calls again, whinier than before as she reaches for the tissues on the nightstand, glad they’re closer than when she fell asleep. (And okay, if Britt left them there before she went to class, she totally gets points for that.)
She can hear noises coming from down the hall, and even through her drug and flu haze she realises it means Brittany must still be there, and she’s just debating whether or not to get out of bed when Brittany pokes her head round the door. “Hey you,” she grins and Santana can already feel her momentary grouchiness at her not being there drift away. “How are you feeling?”
“I hate you and your friends,” Santana says softly, without any malice in it, and then coughs again, hoping she sounds as pathetic as she feels. Brittany giggles, actually giggles and Santana huffs and rolls over, away from her and towards the empty side of the bed.
Brittany pads around to her and reaches down to press her hand to Santana’s forehead, and then laughs again with Santana grouses and tries to pull away. “Shh,” Brittany murmurs, “I’m seeing if you’re still hot.”
“Duh,” Santana manages to grin back, and Brittany rolls her eyes and gives her a shove.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Brittany leans over her and brushes some of her hair out of her eyes, and Santana swallows in a way that has nothing to do with the thickness in her throat as Brittany’s eyes settle on hers, light blue and shining in the gloom.
Brittany bites her lip and glances down at Santana’s lips, and it’s kind of nice to know that even when she’s sick and probably looks like crap Brittany wants to kiss her.
“Gonna die,” Santana murmurs, reaching up to tangle her hands into Brittany’s hair and pull her closer. “You should probably kiss me now in case you can’t later. Y’know, when I’m dead.”
Brittany shakes her head and presses a kiss to her forehead and then her cheek before she straightens up. “Come on, Germs. I made you breakfast. If you’re done being dramatic.”
“Ooh what did you make me?” Santana grins and shuffles up into a sitting position, forgetting for a moment that she’s supposed to be pretending to be near death.
“You’ve got to get out of bed,” Brittany says, reaching for her hand and tugging, “Come on.”
Santana grips her hand and climbs out of bed, swaying into her side for a moment on shaky legs. She pulls Brittany’s Berkeley sweatshirt over her head and then reaches for her glasses on the nightstand, blinking a little when everything gets crisper round the edges, and then she lets Brittany pull her the two steps down the tiny hall and into the rest of their apartment, shivering against the cold on her bare feet.
Brittany gestures at their tiny kitchen table, just big enough for the two of them, and Santana grins when she sees the pancakes and orange juice set for two.
“You made me pancakes?” Santana leans in to kiss her but Brittany turns her head away at the last minute so Santana’s kissing her cheek instead, and then she points at the table until Santana looks again.
It takes a minute for her brain to realise that her pancakes are grinning at her, and then she looks closer and laughs as she realises that all of the pancakes have different expressions on them, some grinning, some winking, some sticking their tongues out. “How the hell did you make those?”
“With the pan my mom gave us when we went home for Christmas,” Brittany says, like it should be obvious, and Santana just turns to stare at her because she has no idea what pan Brittany is talking about.
“It’s like a mould, or whatever. You just pour the batter in,” Brittany pushes her towards the seat. “You were there when my mom gave it to us.”
“I don’t remember,” Santana says as she sits down and pulls the plate towards her, and usually it’d be sort of weird that her food was smiling at her but the fact that Brittany made them makes them adorable instead of creepy so she takes a bite and grins. “These are good.”
Brittany trails her fingers over Santana’s shoulders as she walks round behind her to get to her seat, and Santana grabs her waist to pull her closer, sliding her fingers up under her t-shirt until they’re brushing against skin. “You’re the best wife ever.”
Brittany laughs and tries to pull away. “I think the sudafed is making you crazy.”
“S’all you, baby,” Santana says, putting a little bit of attitude into her voice until Brittany laughs and presses a kiss to her cheek, a little closer to her lips than before. “I love you,” Santana murmurs, nuzzling closer and ghosting her lips against Brittany’s jaw, kissing her way towards her mouth, “Thank you for the pancakes.”
“You’re welcome,” Brittany whispers softly, right before their lips meet.
