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After the fiasco of their senior election, Santana definitely wasn't expecting Britt to walk into their dorm room in late January, plop down her My Little Pony backpack and announce, “I want to run for student council.”
Santana put down her copy of The Fingersmith (so she'd been exploring the subculture—sue her) and stared at Brittany. College had been good to them both so far, with a little more acceptance, and a lot fewer judging stares, even if that smear ad had beaten her there. Britt was in her element, still a special little snowflake, and Santana was enjoying finding out how exactly to go about becoming the biggest bitch on campus.
It was a life, and it was theirs.
Britt's political ambitions, though? She figured this would blow over. In a week, Britt wouldn't even remember what student council was, let alone want to be on it.
A week later, Brittany was designing posters on her computer.
“Shouldn't you be doing homework or something?” Santana asked, lying on her stomach, curled up in their bed. Dorm mattresses were hard to fit two people on, but they'd rented the other mattress to a pot dealer down the hall who wanted a flop pad for his stoner friends, and Santana was enjoying a tidy profit. Plus, extra snuggle time with her Britt was always welcome, not that she'd ever cop to it.
Brittany dragged and dropped a picture of a unicorn into the poster, and turned it to face Santana. It was fluorescent, covered in clip art, and ugly as sin. But it said those magic words: Brittany S. Pierce for Student Council. And Santana never could let Brittany down.
Well, not any more. Not since she was getting regular sex out of the deal. And emotions, and stuff.
Whatever.
“It's...nice,” she managed. Brittany glared (sort of, in the sense that Brittany was capable of glaring). Santana sat up fully and leveled with her. “Do you want this?”
Brittany toyed with a strand of hair (pink, today—since lesbianism was out, Britt had had to find something else to experiment with in college), and nodded. “Ever since the McKinley elections I just thought I could, you know, do it.”
“Do what?”
“Run things. Make stuff better. People like me, and I like talking to them and trying to help. And we've had too much patriarchy in this school.”
“Do you even remember what patriarchy is?”
“I remember it has to do with penises. And since I'm not allowed to like them anymore, I figure I'm against it.”
God Santana loved her.
“But mostly, I think that I could be good at it. Don't you think so, Santana?”
Huh. Santana lay back on the bed and chewed on that for a second. The McKinley election had been kind of a lower priority for her, what with all of the personal crap she'd been going through at the time. But she had to admit, Brittany's little “Girls Run the World” song and dance had gotten her going. It had gotten everyone going. If they'd managed to keep up the momentum, she might have won.
It was just...She looked over at Brittany, who had fallen back to reorganizing the photos of her cat on the wall. It was just that Brittany, no matter how much she loved her, and oh did she love her (she had to, at this point), her Britt wasn't very bright.
Brittany seemed to punctuate her thoughts right then by poking the touchpad on her computer and asking, intently, “Do they call it a mouse because you have to pet it like you do a little mouse?”
Well, George Bush was stupid too, but he had advisors to keep him in line.
Huh.
Santana could do that.
So, if she made a few adjustments to Brittany's poster, coached her girlfriend on appropriate school policies, and intimidated a few key people into not running, Santana figured it was all going to a very good cause. Brittany was ecstatic when she won, and as far as Santana was concerned, victory sex was a very, very good cause.
She was a little less surprised when Brittany kept running for student council and kept winning, but at this point she had tenure on the board, and people hate learning new names, so it wasn't a big deal.
Brittany changing her major from dance to law was kind of a big deal.
“I'm still going to minor in it.”
“Didn't you tell me that you've wanted to be a dancer since you were five?”
“I've wanted to be a lawyer since I saw that documentary about the fashion girl who went to Harvard and saved her friend from being sent to prison.”
What the...?
“Britt, are you talking about Legally Blonde? The Reese Witherspoon movie?”
“I want to be a lawyer. And I think I can do it.”
So Santana just shrugged and opened her arms to Britt could climb in. At least her future was getting off to an okay start, since Britt's seemed ready to crash and burn. The Women's Studies department was practically worshipping at her gay latina feet, and Professor Leibowitz was already writing her recommendations for grad school. Brittany could go play lawyer for a while, and Santana would still be around to catch her when she decided it was enough, and she wanted to dance. Or cook, or make outfits for dogs, or whatever.
With all of her recommendations, and a particularly strongly worded paper on the discriminatory sexism of the gay community that had been slated for early publication, even though she was still an undergrad, Santana easily got into Brown's grad program.
Brittany got into their law degree.
“It was either this or Yale,” she said, toying with the pompoms on her sweater, “and I figured you wouldn't be at Yale, so this was better.”
What. The. Hell.
Sure, Britt had gotten pretty good at law. Her mock trials tended to draw crowds when people realized that the ditzy blonde exterior hid a only slightly less ditzy but way better with laws. Who knew? Santana always got a front row seat at the trials, and Britt'd stopped waving at least. Though people had started referring to Santana as Britt's wife.
Dickbags. Not that they were exactly wrong, Santana was thinking of proposing, but if anyone was a wife in this relationship, it was the one of them whose wardrobe was half pink and loved ponies.
So they were going to grad school together. Great! Right?
Kurt and Blaine shipped down from New York the weekend they moved to give a hand and help them settle in. Santana took one look at them and rolled her eyes, because, honestly, did they really think she was going to buy the “we're just a little tired today” excuse? Rough sex + not wanting to ruin their nails = the lesbians putting up shelves while the gays criticized her shower curtain.
Brittany bought her a cookie to make it better. Santana started composing her next paper in her head, about the unfairness of stereotyping in homosexual relationships, even when it was really, really true.
Blaine cornered her in the kitchen when Brittany and Kurt started getting into the wine. He placed a friendly hand on her shoulder, which she promptly shrugged off, and leaned in. She whispered in his ear, “If you're thinking of changing teams, it's a little late, and you're barking up the wrong lesbian.”
He laughed and got out of her face. Good. “I'm happy for you,” he said, handing her a plate to put away. “You seem settled and grown up.”
“Shut up, bitch.”
“And there's the Santana we know and love.” He shoved her playfully, before handing her a big salad bowl for the cabinet. A present from her abuelita, who still didn't want to see her, but sent the occasional gift to show she hadn't forgotten Santana and still cared in her own way. Her own judgmental, incredibly depressing way.
“I'm glad you found something that makes you happy. Even if it is yelling at men.”
“Hey. I yell about men, not to them. I am under no illusions that men read my papers.”
He laughed again and rummaged through her plates. “You have such a lesbian sense of style. You really need a color scheme here.”
“Could you be more stereotypical?”
“I'm a gay struggling Broadway actor in New York. Stereotypical is kind of my schtick.” Well, she did have to give him that. “Which reminds me. Kurt won't ask, because he's embarrassed, but his show is starting up next week.” He handed her two tickets. “He wants you there.”
She smiled. “We'll be there.”
And they would. Not that she and Britt would miss Kurt's New York debut, but it was probably going to be a glee-reunion. Rachel and Finn would be there, of course, and Mercedes, who she actually wanted to see. Tina and Mike would hopefully show, Artie, maybe a few others, but it would be good to see them. Better than she'd thought it would be at first. When they'd graduated she figured it would be nice to escape everyone. But it was surprising how fast memories became nostalgia, and she started to look back on high school as some of the best days of her life. Meeting Britt. Falling in love with her. Not coming out, but the days after that, when she came into herself. Senior year.
Yeah, she'd come.
Blaine nodded towards their increasingly drunk and sleepy partners. “Never expected her to go to law school.” She listened carefully for a hint of sarcasm, but as usual Blaine was sickeningly sincere.
“Me neither.”
“Is this what she wants, then? I kind of thought she'd be a dancer, but she wants to be a, what? A politician or something? I don't see Brittany being a lawyer forever.”
Neither did Santana, and she was a little afraid to ask what the next step was. Suddenly, though, some things were looking a little clearer.
That night as she crawled into their new bed (brand new sheets, courtesy of Kurt, color-matched to their curtains for all that mattered, crap she was such a lez), a drunk Brittany wrapped her octopus limbs around Santana, and she felt like she was home. She poked her Britt for a sec and woke her, just a little.
“Hey. Britt.”
“Do you wanna gedda kitty, Sanny? I wanna kitty.”
“Are you gonna run for office or something? Is that what this is about?”
“Kitty's are preddy. So're you. I like you.”
“Britt.”
“I wanna be president.”
Well, guess that answered that question.
For Christmas, Santana got Brittany a kitten. Brittany got Santana a ring. They called it even, though Santana was a little pissed that this meant all their college friends were right and she was the wife.
The wedding was small, with so much of Santana's family either unwilling or unable to attend, they didn't want to make it a big thing. They got a nice function hall in Boston for a Saturday, a judge to marry them, and did the deed. The glee club came, all of them, from Kurt and Blaine (exuberantly showing their support in matching tuxes with purple cummerbunds-rainbow would have been too much, apparently), to Quinn and Puck who were probably on their fifth go at a relationship together, but might have gotten it right this time. Even Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury flew in from Ohio just for the weekend. They serenaded Santana and Britt down the aisle, then crooned out their first dance. Landslide, of course.
Brittany got drunk at the reception, and Santana ended up doing the rounds by herself while Quinn and Berry surreptitiously tried to sober up her wife. Turning the corner to her parent's table, she was shocked to find her abuelita there, sitting calmly next to her dad, like nothing was strange about this at all. Like she wasn't ending eight years of silence without any explanation.
Santana felt like crying. She didn't. She smiled, hugged her parents, thanked her abuelita for coming, then grabbed Puck and went outside.
“Gimme,” she said, as they hit the cooler air of the reception hall's porch. “I know you have some.”
He held out for a sec then gave in and handed over his pack of cigarettes. Unfiltered—good. She grabbed one and viciously lit up. “Doesn't Britt hate smokers?”
“First lie of the marriage.”
He laughed, and she lightened up a little. It was good to be here. So what if her family hadn't really supported it, or approved in any real way. She was married, and she was happy, damn it.
“I can't believe you were a lesbian this whole time. Even when we were dating.” In her defense, Puck was really good at what he did with his penis. It wasn't his fault that she'd just happened to find a more persuasive argument.
“Too much dick in the world. I had to even the scales.” He laughed. She took another drag on the cigarette, and pretended she couldn't feel it blackening her lungs. Britt was going to kill her for this. Worth it, though.
She snuck a glance at Puck, who was gazing out wistfully into the distance. Oh for crying out loud. “You should just tell Quinn how you feel,” she said, feeling suddenly like everyone's fairy gaymother. Wasn't this Kurt's job or something? She didn't do emotions. “I'm sure she'll be thrilled.”
Puck winced, and turned back to face her. At least he'd gotten rid of that stupid mohawk by now. She could take him a little seriously. But only a little. She had seen him naked, after all.
“Quinn's pregnant.”
Again?
“Mazel tov.”
“I'm not the father.”
Santana burst out laughing. It wasn't one of her better moments, she admitted that, but it was honest.
“Sorry, it's just...irony.”
“I know.”
She considered for a second, then thanked her lucky stars that Britt was a girl and thus neither of them would be in this position any time ever without their express consent, and hopefully some legal documents. Probably. She was married to a lawyer, after all.
“If you want it, go for it. If you don't, don't. If you love Quinn, raise the kid. If you don't, then what the hell are you doing sighing over it?”
Because what did it boil down to in the end, but love and what to do about it?
Santana left Puck on the porch and went back into the party. She had a wife to dance with, after all.
Seven years into their marriage, Santana had to remind herself of what she'd said to Puck back then (it had been very good advice, thank you very much—the Puckerman wedding had been tasteful and elegant, even if the bride definitely didn't wear white), when Brittany slouched into her office one afternoon and held up two pictures.
Two pictures of Jackie Kennedy.
“I think you'd look better with this one,” Britt pointed at one of the photos. “But you probably like the other.”
“What are you talking about?” Santana didn't have time for this. It was finals season and her students had been particularly dumb on their essays this year. Grading was both an enjoyable romp through her bitchiest moments, and a strain of hopelessness as she realized how little her students actually learned. So she wasn't in her best condition for more of Brittany's insanity.
“Your hair.”
Right. Her hair. Her hair was fine, she got it cut regularly, and if it was a little shorter now than it had been, so what? She didn't need a Jackie bob or anything. She wasn't a politician's wife—
“You're running for office again, aren't you?”
Brittany was staring intently at the pictures. “He said he needed a Jackie, not a Marilyn, but you don't look like Jackie or Marilyn. Or Nancy or Michelle. You could look like Hillary.”
Santana suppressed a shudder.
“Honey.”
Britt looked up. Santana smiled. The years had been good to both of them. Brittany's razor features had softened over the years, but she still looked striking. In her pants-suits and heels, she was hell in the courtroom. A shoo-in for partner next year. And Santana knew she'd mellowed a lot. Even allowed a few caftans into her wardrobe (she made them fabulous, of course, just by existing in them).
“You want to run for Congress, don't you?”
“Senate.”
Of course. Never aim low, that was her Britt.
“And you're worried that no one will like me because I'm not a Jackie?”
“She's very popular.”
Okay, the Jackie Kennedy thing wasn't going to work, that was for sure. But they did have a lock on the Democrat vote, in a way. Young, interracial lesbian couple. Settled, neither of them with a particularly wild past. Santana a well-respected academic in her field, Britt an up and coming lawyer specializing in constitutional law...this could work.
And if the law of the universe was anything like it had been when she was in college, this had to happen. If only because Santana refused to live in a world where Brittany's dreams didn't come true.
Twenty years later, watching her wife being sworn in as the 53rd President of the United States of America, Santana just smiled. Now it was time for the hard part: running the world.
She was pretty sure they could handle it.