Fuck her super hearing. Seriously, FUCK it.
Her super hearing can go to hell.
It takes more patience than Santana thinks she actually possesses to get through the black-tie crowd that litters the ballroom floor. Propriety suggests she moves quietly and at a snail’s pace until she can clear the room, because though Santana can move faster than a speeding bullet, this room is filled to the brim and someone will probably notice.
She smiles mutely, brushing quickly past a person who tries to engage her.
"Girl, I know you didn't just ignore me!"
Santana freezes momentarily, struck at the realization that the person is actually Mercedes Jones, who stares back at her with an lifted arch of her eyebrow that screams momentary annoyance.
"Bathroom." is what she manages, curt and quick.
Mercedes only stares at her, obviously unsure what to think. Santana does not have the luxury to indulge Brittany's friend's confusion. With a simple, strained apologetic smile, she keeps her pace, fully aware that she is walking away from Mercedes, Brittany's best friend.
In her haste, she knocks the side of a waiter's elbow. A silver tray filled with little sliders clatters loudly to the floor.
Once again, all eyes are on Santana Lopez. Clumsy, moronic Santana Lopez.
From across the room, Brittany's blue eyes flash at her.
A battle of wills rages inside of Santana. Briefly, she wonders if she has perhaps developed the capacity to be human after all. Selfishly, she wants so terribly to ignore the human voice that cries for help at a decibel that from this distance only she can hear, to turn back to Brittany and Mercedes and this room and remember what it was like to be human and admired for one simple moment.
There is so very little that Santana feels she has any right to expect. She’s an illegal alien, masquerading behind the face of a human woman. Every last part of her is a farce and a lie. But she has a humanoid body, a heart that beats and lungs that breathe and the capacity to love these humans and that's close enough, isn't it?
Santana doesn't consider herself particularly religious (although much of her 'grandmother's Catholic teachings dig deep inside of her even today) but her similar physiology is enough of a coincidence that makes her want to believe that maybe there is a part of her that's meant for Earth.
It’s so easy to forget that she is not actually one of them.
Up until this moment, Santana allowed herself to be spellbound. She has been intoxicated and overwhelmed by the sheer tremendous force of Brittany Pierce and it was too easy to be distracted by the kindling hope that erupted inside her and whispered that maybe that magnetic look in Brittany’s eyes was finally meant for Santana Lopez and not Superwoman.
So she made a mistake. She forgot, for the briefest of moments, that something so simple as a dance with someone who shares an attraction is not a luxury that she is allowed.
Not when along with her superhuman heart, her superhuman lungs, and her superhuman body, she also has superhuman hearing.
It speaks to her weakness that she is torn for even the tiniest of moments. Santana has learned how to block out the world, but there are those chosen few that will always, ALWAYS, sneak past her defenses.
And so, even when every inch of her was involved with all things Brittany, she heard a nagging whisper that became an itch: a voice calling out with such terror and panic that to ignore it is unthinkable.
This was no random civilian screaming desperately for help, a voice coated with terror, panic and desperation.
This is Quinn Fabray.
It’s Quinn’s voice she hears, calling out for help. She begs for support, to be saved, and what's all the more striking is that she shrieks not for Superwoman, but for Santana.
“Santana, please!” Quinn pleads, so faint and far away it would never reach a normal human’s ears.
There is no time for clumsiness or forced awkwardness or speculation. There is no time for regrets.
Santana whirls away from the waiter feverishly gathering together tiny buns and greasy burgers and races for the wide doors that exit the ballroom.
She doesn't look back.
She finds herself turning down a hallway, whirling quickly past the coat check in such a blur the coat check girl can only wrinkle her nose at the sudden breeze, before she finds herself in a narrow hallway, an offshoot of Mercedes' extravagant home that is closed off with velvet ropes, a polite and nearly useless way of informing guests that this part of the house is off limits.
Here, Santana wastes no time in yanking off her glasses. Off come the glasses. Off comes the mask.
She hears the grunts of the men who are with Quinn, just like she can easily make out the sound of her friend struggling, feet digging into shins and small fists batting at stronger muscle, kicking and shouting and crying out in fear and desperation for Santana until suddenly, Quinn isn’t shouting anymore.
"Fuck," she breathes, and once again thanks whatever deity granted her X-Ray vision. Though Santana can hear the chaos as loudly as if Quinn were in the next room, she only has to squint her eyes to bleed through the solid plaster of the walls that surround her to make out a scene that takes place just outside of a dark corner of the house, and the cluster of figures that surround Quinn.
There’s no time to do anything but grip the bag she pilfered from the coat check, shift into super speed and follow the scent of Quinn, weave through the halls, and around a corner, breaking toward a narrow door that leads toward a side exit.
She tumbles out of the door as Superwoman.
She finds herself at some sort of service entrance. It's dark and deserted and smells of mildew. Thanks to her speed, she is able to assess the scene quickly and discover with a sinking heart that it is indeed as bad as she feared. Her friend Quinn is unconscious, slumped back in the arms of a heavily built man who is too absorbed in his task of dragging Quinn to a waiting car to realize they have just been interrupted.
The same cannot be said for the three men who are with him. There is a cry of surprise, a shout and a point, and that is all they have time for before Santana flies hard at them. It takes nothing more than a sharp exhale of air to send one tumbling back, denting the car door as he slams hard against it. Another raises a gun with a silencer, but gets no further than trying to point it before the wrist is broken and his windpipe is nearly crushed. The third is dispatched as easily as a roach: a shift of her balance and her heel thrusts forward, digging deep into his abdomen and nearly crumpling him in half.
Quinn's captor is smarter than most. He wastes no time in thrusting Quinn harshly away from him, before taking flight in the other direction. Santana has no choice but to catch hold of the unconscious woman before Quinn hits hard on the loose gravel that makes up the driveway.
He hurls himself into the waiting sedan. Santana watches as it slams forward, spitting gravel at them both as it veers fast toward the dark entrance.
Santana could go after him. She should. This is... random. She doesn't understand the situation, or what led to it. Just minutes ago, Quinn was on stage with her. This is a celebrity event, with guards and valets. This is a private mansion. There should be no reason why thugs are here now, accessing an alley that is clearly used so rarely there is no need for proper pavement.
Something about this just isn't right.
"Santana?" a weak, husky voice whispers up at her. Superwoman lowers her head and discovers Quinn's hazel eyes blinking blearily, struggling to focus. The lack of light in this alley do well to nearly hide her features, and Santana is momentarily distracted.
"You okay?" she asks, because Quinn's pupils are dilated and though she is beginning to squirm in her arms, her limbs are still shaky. "Quinn."
Quinn doesn't answer her.
It's at that moment that Santana, who has forgotten her mask more than once tonight, remembers that this woman has seen her at her most intimate without Chloe's magic glasses.
The glasses she is not wearing now.
"Santana?" Quinn says again, and though her eyes are clouded with pain, there is recognition in those dark eyes.
It's not like Brittany Pierce is made of porcelain. She's had her share of heartbreak, and she's a survivor of a lifetime of bullying. There's nothing about her that is delicate. This is a woman who flings herself off rooftops, and it doesn't matter that there is always someone there to catch her, the fact remains that Brittany never expects it.
She gets herself into her own scrapes and she gets herself out of them, and she doesn't need to rely on anyone for her own self-worth or her own happiness.
It's the reason she takes her pleasure where she can find it, why she prides herself on having her own bylines, and why she chooses to have bang buddies instead of a real relationship.
She's not the girl she was in high school. She's the woman who opened this party with a sensual, jaw-breaking version of 'Circus' that captivated the room and she's the drop dead gorgeous vixen who stands in this ballroom with admiring eyes, both male and female, lingering on her perfect form.
She shouldn't need anyone.
And she should NOT feel this devastated just because Santana left her.
Her insides churn; her chest is tight and there are actual tears that sting in her eyes, and it's a ridiculous, over-the-top reaction.
Why is she even this upset?
"Lose your date?" A masculine voice whispers suddenly. The breath of a figure that has invaded her personal space without her permission, tickles her ear.
Brittany shudders, whirling to discover herself face to face with a familiar, handsome man with a narrow face and dancing, malicious eyes.
"She's not my date, she's my partner." The moment the words come out of her mouth, Brittany feels almost ashamed of them. It's a reflex, automated and completely untrue.
Sebastian Smythe grins, tilting a whiskey in her direction as he nods in the direction that Santana has disappeared. "And yet here you are, looking like someone just shot your puppy. Can't say I blame you," he continues flippantly. "Hate to see her leave but love to watch her go, right?"
It's such a flippant, gross remark, and it disgusts Brittany that a man, even a gay man, can with so little effort reduce a women like Santana Lopez to nothing more than a great ass.
"Wow so it turns out you're not just a bigot, but a misogynist," she finds herself snapping, determined to remain unimpressed. "You really are the whole package, aren't you?"
He quirks an eyebrow, absorbing the annoyed statement. "Careful, Ms. Pierce. You and Ms. Lopez won't ever get your interview if you don't play nice."
A chill runs down her spine. God, of course that's why he's here. He's an asshole and he thinks he has what Brittany wants. An hour ago, he'd be right. Brittany's hunger for her story would have overridden anything else, and she would have played his game.
She's not sure if it's her own frustration or just pure exhaustion from all the emotions that have been flitting through her, but she can't think of anything she can desire less than giving Sebastian Smythe one quote in her paper.
"What makes you think that the Daily Planet would have any interest at all in anything you have to say?"
He stares at her, somewhat surprised. "Oh, are you saying they wouldn't?"
"I'm saying we have standards."
He chuckles, finding what she just said to be oddly amusing. "I've read your work, Brittany Pierce. I wouldn't be so quick to boast about standards."
It's a cheap shot, and Brittany hates that she's feeling so vulnerable right now to be actually stung by it. She takes a breath and states, "I saw your performance. I wouldn't be so quick to boast about anything."
He absorbs that with the easiness of a man expecting such a response. "You know you're right." Sebastian takes a swig of whiskey and sneaks in closer, like they're old friends and he's confessing a secret. "I have been thinking about branching out. A man can only be a rich playboy for so long before that shit gets boring, right?"
Brittany doesn't want to play his game. Her eyes remain on the exit through which Santana has disappeared. A passing waiter offers her a flute of champagne and Brittany takes it without hesitation.
"I always thought I had a flair for reporting. None of the super hard hitting stuff, but I'd be a kick ass gossip columnist, doncha think?"
He's still here. Brittany tilts the flute up and lets the champagne run into her mouth, surrounding her tongue with little carbonated tingles. She finds it to be a terrible source of comfort. "I'm not sure you have the instincts."
"I disagree," he answers flippantly. "Gossip is all about people, and if it's one thing I'm an expert at, it's people." Brittany doesn't answer, but Sebastian doesn't seem the least bit annoyed. He creeps in closer, pressing in just as her shoulder as he lowers his tone. "For example, a person who knows people would find this evening VERY interesting."
"I don't care, Sebastian."
"Don't you? Who wouldn't find the makings of a tawdry lesbian love triangle completely delicious?"
Brittany blood runs cold. She can't help but look, and discovers Sebastian's self-confident grin growing wider still.
"It's got all the players. A gorgeous debutant, closeted for fear of losing her Republican father's bid for senate seat and her trust fund. A shy but gorgeous reporter - the quintessential ugly duckling just waiting to transform into a swan. And to round it all out," he continues skimming a finger over her bare shoulder in such a gentle, sleazy way she breaks out in disgusted goosebumps, "the slutty bisexual journalist who is so used to getting what she wants anytime and anyway she wants it, that she finds herself absolutely floored when for once, she may find herself on the losing end."
It's a low, terrifying blow. The way Brittany's stomach knots herself is so unpleasant she nearly gags. "You don't know what you're talking about."
Sebastian just stares at her, reading her so easily. Brittany hates this. She can't stand the uncertainty, the insecurity, the way Sebastian sees it and seems to feed off of it like some sort of vampire. With a wink and a grin, he leans forward and merrily clinks his glass against Brittany's flute.
"Don't take it personally, Ms. Pierce. Sometimes girls just prefer a little brains over a Circus Shimmy, that's all."
"It was nice to meet you."
And he's gone, moving away from her as quickly as he came, disappearing back into the crowd and leaving Brittany with a muted, stupid expression.
"Dammit," she snaps, so angry now she swears she can hear the glass crack in her hands.
This is not who she is. This... feeble woman who is affected so easily, who cares so much...
Tonight was meant to be a triumph. Tonight she should have been at the top of her game. She should have been the hunter, the hard-hitting reporter who took Sebastian's penchant for dry sarcastic words and thrown it back at him, used his weakness and exploited it for her own purposes.
She should have gotten quotes that humiliated him, ammunition and the lead for her next investigative piece.
Instead she was merely a passing distraction, displayed herself so openly lovesick that he actually saw it, used it for his own amusement.
He played her like one of those idiots in high school and it makes her feel so foolish...
And for what? For a woman who isn't even here? A woman who pretended to be her friend but turned out to be a complete stranger? A woman who can't even be bothered to give her one dance?
A woman who she thought she knew and thought she could love and instead is a complete stranger?
Brittany can't stand it. She turns, ready to flee to the bathroom when a blurry figure of her old friend steps in the way. "Girl you are on FIRE. You got the girl AND your interview with Sebastian Smythe? You're working overtime!"
It's then that Mercedes notices the moisture in Brittany's eyes; the way she looks so desperately miserable. The smile immediately fades. "What happened?"
Brittany has no capacity to even begin to explain. Quietly, she shoulders her way past Mercedes and stalks for the bathroom.
Crickets chirp at them, louder even than the music that wafts at them from inside the house, and the occasional shriek of laughter or shout from a louder-than-average party guest. It's a little ridiculous how ignorant the group still is to what almost transpired just outside.
"What is this, some sort of service entrance?" she asks, breaking the silence.
"Deliveries, more than likely," Quinn answers, voice rough from the shouting she had done before. "Houses like this usually have them. Only the Help ever really uses them."
They're sitting on the steps just outside of the house. Quinn has wrapped herself in the blazer of one of the unconscious thugs that Santana has carefully tied together with the garden hose she found just around the corner and tucked into a nearby garden shed: a perfect parcel for the cops when Santana is ready to give them to them.
But her first priority is Quinn. Her old friend is clearly shaken. She is not ready to face the ballroom crowd quite yet, and Santana doesn't blame her. A reddish bruise will slowly go purple on Quinn's cheek, and the woman, who Santana has always known to be a little bit crazy and a deceptively strong, is carefully applying concealer. She's dotting the same on her puffy lower lip, split from an overenthusiastic smack from the idiotic who tried to shut her up.
Quinn is reapplying her mask, and because Santana understands it, she lets her. But she can't help but feel naked beside her.
Santana's usual rescues tend to be very much like one-night stands. In and out, with a quick explanation for the cops and a reassuring smile for the victim, before she's flying off again to dive into some corner and put herself back together as Santana Lopez, mild-mannered reporter.
Even her interactions with Brittany, her metaphorical Achilles Heel, have been quick and concise, though for a very different reason. She's never trusted herself to spend more than a few minutes with the other woman and not give something away. The way Brittany looks at her when she's Superwoman... it's both tempting and honestly, heartbreaking, especially when minutes later those same eyes fall upon Santana Lopez and see nothing but a friend.
"Thank you for saving me."
But that isn't the problem here. The problem is that Quinn knows who she is. Quinn, it appears, has known all along.
Santana doesn't even know how to address it. She settles for addressing the other pressing matter. "What happened, Quinn?"
Quinn's movements pause. She licks her lips. A puff of air floats out of her wounded mouth as she exhales. "I don't know," she answers. "I honestly don't know," she insists, when Santana continues to stare. "One minute I was heading to the bathroom to freshen up after you and I performed, and the next some guy caught me in the hall, said that he was security and he needed me to come with them because there had been some sort of threat and before I knew it... I was being dragged out here."
Santana's mouth twitches. "So you have no idea who those men are."
A soft, exasperated chuckle is Quinn's only reaction. "I'm the daughter of a bigoted asshole who is running for Senate. My Dad spews so much vitriol to so many different oppressed groups in favor of the rich white man I couldn't even begin to tell you where to begin, Santana." Hearing her name and wearing this suit... it's startling. Santana can't help the wince that overtakes her. Quinn notices. "Sorry, should I have said Superwoman?"
Santana closes her eyes and allows herself one moment not to panic. "How long have you known?" she asks, lifting her head and leveling her stare at her friend.
Quinn's teasing smirk fades. "I suspected the second I knew you were in town," she answers seriously. "But I didn't know for sure until tonight." When Santana's brows furrow, Quinn's smile returns. "I mean, let's be honest, the Santana Lopez I knew in college wouldn't be caught dead running around in skin-tight red and blue spandex saving total strangers."
God... she's right though. Santana shakes her head at the wonder of it all.
"The outfit's cute, though," she hears, and finds herself battling the urge to laugh hysterically. "I like the boots."
"Oh God, shut up, bitch," she snaps, and palms her face to save herself from having to see Quinn's smug expression. "I know, it's awful. No need to rub it in."
"I think it's hot, actually."
Santana can only blush. "Thank you," she sighs, and lifts her shoulders, examining the ridiculous outfit and the proud 'S' that curves onto her cleavage. "I didn't pick it, but I do admit, these boobs are gravity defying in this top."
Quinn laughs lightly. It dies into silence, and Quinn waits only a moment before asking in a serious, careful tone, "Does Brittany know?"
The half-smirk that settled on Santana's features fades, and she discovers herself unable to look at her friend as she battles the sudden lump in her throat. "No," she answers, quietly and carefully.
"Oh," she hears, before Quinn exhales softly. "Well then that's awkward." Santana turns her head and studies her friend carefully. "She doesn't exactly keep her ladyboner for Superwoman a secret, you know?" Quinn says, and Santana's jaw clenches at the reminder. "It bleeds all over her articles. It must suck to know you can have her... but not as yourself."
If there is something Quinn has always been good at, it's twisting a knife. It's kinda admirable, really, the way it's almost unconscious. "No one's supposed to know, Quinn," she snaps, because it stings to know that that may have changed if it wasn't for what happened to Quinn. "It's called a secret identity for a reason."
She wrings her hands together and closes her eyes in frustration. After a moment, a soft touch lightly skids across her thumb, before retreating just as quickly.
She looks. Quinn smiles softly. "Don't worry, Superwoman," she whispers with a reassuring nod. "I've kept your secrets and you've kept mine. We're good."
And it's true. If it's one thing she and have between each other, it's a lifetime of secrets. Quinn and she wears their masks, and it makes sense then, that Quinn would see through hers so easily. She's so adept at creating her own.
"And judging by the daggers one Ms. Brittany Pierce was glaring at me during our little performance tonight, I highly doubt her lady boner will remain exclusive to just one Superhero."
It's Quinn being reassuring, and it's silly that after being nearly kidnapped and knocked unconscious, she's even attempting to comfort Superwoman, of all people.
Santana isn't sure how to even begin to convey how much she appreciates it.
Instead, she launches to her feet and with strong hands, carefully lifts Quinn to her feet. "Come on, Gorgeous. Let's get you back. Then I have a session with an unconscious group of thugs who have a lot of explaining to do."
And they aren't the only ones. As she follows Quinn inside, Santana's own heart sinks, because she isn't sure how she will even begin to explain to Brittany why they won't get their dance.
"Damn," she breathes. Quinn offers her a quick glance back. "Being a superhero sucks ass, you know?"
"No," Quinn says, in such an incredulous dry tone that Santana can't help but chuckle in response.
Mercedes has a private bathroom on this floor that is usually locked, and for very good reason. It's immaculate and gorgeous, and so delicate that Mercedes does not trust Sam to ruin it with his farting and Man-Poop. It is fitted with a gorgeous vanity that is kept so perfect and free of streaks that Brittany hates it right now.
She can see herself so clearly, and what she sees is frightening. Her perfect posture has been overtaken by a pathetic slump, and her eyes, so perfectly made up just minutes ago, are swollen and red with her crying. She's smeared practically all her mascara, and it's no wonder Mercedes is as furious as she is.
Brittany hasn't been this ... broken in a while.
"I'm going to kill 'em," Mercedes says, seconds before she hands Brittany another tissue.
"Who?" she huffs miserably, and crumples the tissue in her hands, trying to stop the liquid as it runs from her nose.
"It doesn't matter who. All of them. I'm going to start with that little asshole weasel who thinks he can come to MY house and insult MY best friend. Then I'm going to go after that closeted Diva bitch who thinks it's okay to steal my girl's date out from under her nose and THEN I'm going to take that four-eyed reporter and teach her how to properly appreciate my girl's heart when it's handed to her like the delicate flower it is."
Mercedes didn't even stop to take a breath. Brittany sniffles, and discovers that she actually does feel a tiny bit better. Still... "That's a lot of people to kill, Mercedes."
"So?" Mercedes asks stubbornly. "I'm an over-achiever. And they all deserve it. Especially Santana and her fake-sincere ass."
The way she nearly spits out Santana's name doesn't quite sit well with Brittany. Yes, she has just spent the better part of ten minutes blubbering the confusing events of the last half hour to her friend and of course she's hoping for sympathy and a push in the right direction, but...
She's known Santana for a year, and Santana is not flippant.
Santana is anything but flippant. She is fierce and loyal, and she has gone so far as to prove it by sticking pills up her cat's ass.
That is the Santana she knows, and that is the Santana she saw when that beautiful stranger pressed fingers against her cheek and told her that she was here for Brittany... just Brittany.
The same Santana who called their friendship a partnership.
And yes, Brittany is a blubbering mess, and yes, she's been reduced to an insecure idiot, but none of that has been Santana's fault. All Santana has done is look gorgeous and sing and run away, and maybe... maybe Brittany owes her a little leniency.
She sniffles, and tosses the tissue with the others. "We don't even know what happened, Mercedes."
"She ran out on my girl, that's what happened."
God, should it be that simple?
No... of course not. It's never that simple.
"Yeah," she agrees haltingly, "But, why?" Why: the word that was the lifeblood of a reporter. Brittany straightened, swiveling from the mirror and facing her friend. "I mean... Santana does stuff, but she's always had a reason."
Mercedes is not a reporter. She is a professional singer with a professional singer's attitude. "You say reason, I say excuse."
"No..." That itch... that itch that buried itself in Brittany's brain; it starts moving again, and it calms the tears, settles her emotions. Brittany discovers herself gnawing her lower lip with concern, rather than self-pity. "Mercedes, what if there's something that's actually wrong?"
"Oh, now you're worried about her?"
Brittany huffs, eyes rolling at Mercedes' skeptical nature. "Look, you said yourself that I have to open my eyes, right? Well, I'm doing that. And I just... I'm a reporter, you know?" Brittany considers Santana and her curious ways... the way she smiles, the way she carries herself so carefully and carelessly at the same time. "I shouldn't have a blind spot when it comes to my friends."
Mercedes, God bless her, is still in her furious 'the Bullies Made Brittany Cry' mode. "That doesn't excuse -"
"That doesn't excuse me not knowing she could sing," she admits sadly. "It doesn't excuse me not realizing how gorgeous she is when she smiles. It doesn't excuse me not knowing where the hell she goes when she goes running off like this."
Mercedes opens her mouth, ready to refute that, when she's struck by another thought instead. "... She does this a lot?"
Brittany licks her lips, and remembers instances, so many of them, when she's seen that exact same look on Santana's face, seconds before she... runs off.
God... it happens so often.
How has Brittany not noticed it?
"Yeah," she breathes. "You know what? Come to think of it? She does this a lot."
There's a moment of quiet, before Mercedes shuffles another chair nearer to Brittany's and places the box of tissues on the vanity. "You think there's something she's not telling you?"
Suddenly somber, Brittany nods quietly. "I think there's something she doesn't trust me enough to tell me."
Mercedes sighs. "I still get to kick Sebastian and Quinn's asses, right?"
She seems so put out that Brittany can't help but give her a hug. "Yes," she whispers, squeezing hard. "Please have at it. But leave Santana to me."
"What are you going to do?"
Brittany swivels back in her chair and inspect herself. With a resolute sigh, she grabs hold of another tissue and begins to dab at her eyes, doing her very best to make herself presentable again. "I'm going to find her," she begins, because that's the simplest and most important part of the plan. "Make sure she's okay. And then I'm going to yell at her for walking out on me again."
"Sounds solid," Mercedes quips dryly. "And then?"
Brittany works the wand of the mascara she pilfered from her purse and gently works the wand on her lashes. "And then I'm going to shove my tongue down her throat," she decides quite sincerely. "And after I hit that, we are going to go back to writing Pulitzer Prize winning articles together, because it's Brittany, bitch, and I deserve the job and the girl."
She puts the mascara down. She's not perfect, but she's presentable.
"Hell, yeah you do," Mercedes says, and pumps her fits in the air for emphasis.
Brittany grins. "Thanks. Come on," she says, after a deep breath for strength. "Help me go get my girl."
"Oh," Mercedes tuts, as Brittany opens the bathroom door and leads them into the secluded hallway it's nestled in. "So now she's your girl? An hour ago you were just friends."
"Oh shut up," she snaps. This is not the time for teasing.
"And what about Superwoman?" Mercedes asks, brow raised.
Brittany grins, looking back as she turns the corner, because she knows the correct answer to this one. Finally. "Superwoman who?"
And that's how she plows directly into Superwoman herself, who steadies her as best she can considering her other arm is currently wrapped around the waist of one Quinn Fabray.
"Brittany!" Superwoman says, dark brown eyes narrowed with concern. "You okay?"
Brittany has no words. At tall. None. No sentences to form.
"Wow, Superwoman," Quinn Fabray says, in her stupid husky sexy voice. "Looks like she's forgotten you already."
Superwoman; gorgeous, beautiful, unbelievably perfect Superwoman.