Drabble about Brittany telling her parents. Written pre-3x07. Standard disclaimers.

Brittany toed her sneakers off on the mat and dropped the keys in the bowl. She dislodged both backpacks—hers and Laura's; her sister didn't need her books for soccer practice—and tucked them in the corner by the kitchen doorway.

She checked her phone absently, wondering if Santana was home yet. How she was holding up. No messages. Her background seemed almost foreign without the yellow unopened envelope at the top. She hadn't gone so long without messages from San since—Artie. And then, she'd had his texts. Until. Well.

"Mom?" Brittany slipped the phone into her sweatshirt pocket and tugged the elastic band out of her hair as she peered into the kitchen. Afternoon light lit the day's mail spread across the counter; the glossy wooden table; the pictures stuck on the refrigerator with magnets. No answer. Brittany crossed the room and leaned over the table to look outside. She glimpsed her mother, arms akimbo and head hung down to face the garden that languished out of season. Her father raked leaves into a pile in the other corner of the yard.

Brittany took a breath, twisted her hair away from her neck over her left shoulder, and stepped out into the backyard. "Mom?" she called again, less aimlessly this time, and both her parents glanced her way.

She smiled at her father when he greeted, "Hey, pumpkin," with a grin, and walked over to her mother.

"Hi, sweetie," her mom said, tucking Brittany under her right arm when she got close. She redirected them to look at the garden, as she had been. "I'm thinking about planting some more tomatoes next year. They grew so well in the summer." She looked wistful.

"Yeah," Brittany breathed. Her heart was pumping harder all of a sudden. She swallowed the words she'd rehearsed all through math and history and Spanish. "Um, can we go inside for a sec?" She glanced at her father. He was humming again; he couldn't hear them.

Brittany's mother dropped her arm and shrugged. "Sure, honey." Brittany trailed behind, eyes caught on the leaves drifting in the air where her dad coaxed them happily into a haphazard stack. It seemed so powerfully, painfully normal. Another November day.

She entered the kitchen, where her mother had already plopped down at the table to leaf through the mail. "We get so much junk these days," she lamented. She'd probably already forgotten that it had been Brittany to request moving inside. She probably hadn't thought anything of it.

Brittany slipped into the chair opposite her mom. Watched her sort into junk and bills. "Look," her mom said, holding up a yellow envelope. Her voice and face were cheery. "A letter from Aunt Jennie."

Brittany smiled a little but let it fade too quickly. Her mother set the letter in its own pile. Brittany settled her hands and forearms on the table. Fingers twisting together. "Mom, I need to tell you something."

Though she stared hard at her hands, she saw her mother pause and look up, slipping instantly and easily into loving concern. "Okay," she said, and she sounded as worried as she looked. She set the unsorted papers back on the table and pinned Brittany with the same blue eyes Brittany saw in the mirror every morning. "What is it?"

Brittany tightened her fingers against each other. The skin went white under the pressure. "It's about Santana." She spoke slowly. Stared hard at her chipped nail polish. "And me."

Silence. She could feel her mother watching. Waiting.

She tugged the cuffs of her sweatshirt up over her wrists and pressed closed fists tightly together. "We're together," she said. It sounded strangely firm, even to her own ears. She finally looked up at her mother. "Like. Together together."

Her mother sighed. Eyes slanted to the right. It was Brittany's turn to wait. Finally, she shut her eyes, sighed again, and looked at Brittany with her smallest smile. She reached across the table and touched Brittany's hands. Gentle. "Thank you for telling me," she said.

Brittany bit the inside of her cheek, searching her mother's face for what else was coming, and said nothing. Still waiting.

Her mother swallowed, eyes dancing around the kitchen again. "I can't say I'm surprised," she admitted at last. Her gaze settled on their hands in the middle of the table. Then flicked up to Brittany's eyes. "The way you two look at each other." That small smile again. "How you act when you're together."

She seemed to falter under Brittany's eyes after a moment. "I can't say I'm thrilled, either." She looked back at their hands and squeezed hers around Brittany's. "I never wanted your life to be difficult, and this life—it will definitely be difficult." She took a shaky breath, like there were tears somewhere deep down, but they weren't on the surface. She wasn't about to cry. Actually, she seemed strong. As strong as Brittany felt when she'd said together like she meant it. As she felt standing up to Finn. Even standing up to Santana.

"I know, Mom," she said quietly, because maybe her mother needed some reassuring right now, too. And Brittany felt a little braver now. The first thing her mother had said was thank you.

Another squeeze on her hands. Brittany uncurled her fingers to clutch her mother's. They made eye contact again. Her mother spoke again, stronger and clearer. "Are you happy, Brittany?"

Brittany smiled, soft and sure, and she didn't need to think about the weight of Santana in her arms or the ring against Santana's chest or "Songbird" or "Landslide" or making pancakes or birthday cards or cuddling through Lilo and Stitch or the first time they held hands or their first kiss or the third day of kindergarten when they drew that blue dragon. It seemed silly, even, to say it out loud. "Yes, Mom. So happy." She squeezed her mother's hand. "I love her."

Her mom smiled so big—bigger than at Laura's soccer tournament when she scored a goal; bigger than at Brittany's first recital; bigger than when she opened hand-drawn Christmas cards or woke up to breakfast in bed on Mother's Day; bigger than when she talked about how she met Brittany's dad or how much Laura weighed when she was born—that Brittany smiled back. "Good," her mother said, and her voice shook a little, like it was hard to balance on that big wide smile.

After a second's pause, her mother stood, chair bumping loudly against the floor, and pulled Brittany up out of her seat and into a tight, warm hug. Brittany clutched back, cheek flat against her mother's shoulder, smelling the clean flowers and laundry soap that always meant home.

She took two deep breaths, letting the scent of love and warmth fill her lungs up, then pulled gently back. She brushed her grown-out bangs back over her ear and offered her mother a nervous, flickering smile. "Sorry. I've gotta tell Dad today, too." Her gaze shifted to the window and the pile of leaves.

Hands squeezed her shoulders. "Okay, honey." That worried look again. "Britt, sweetheart—" Her mother's brow furrowed. "I'm glad you told me, but… why today?" She looked at Brittany so carefully. Again, Brittany saw her own eyes staring back. She swallowed. Her mother knew. "Did something happen?"

Brittany looked aside, at the pile of mail. At the cat cozy on the floor next to the food and water dishes. At her sister's Bop It, discarded on the corner of the counter. At her father twirling the rake. "Somebody at school outed San," she said softly. She felt her mother's hands tense against her shoulders. But she was quiet. Waiting for the rest. "So she has to tell her abuela and her parents and stuff."

Her mother sighed. Her grip loosened and her palms skated down Brittany's arms. "They won't like that much, I imagine." She'd met Santana's parents. Spoken with them on the phone. She was perceptive—where Brittany had gotten it from, Brittany's father had said once—and she knew. Knew how it would be.

Brittany shook her head. Honesty made her words tight and strained. "I don't know how it's gonna go, Mom." She breathed deep. "So—I wanted you to know. What's going on. In case." She couldn't bring the rest past her lips. In case—it all goes wrong.

Her mother was nodding and pulling her close again. "Of course." She petted Brittany's hair. After another moment—not long enough—she relaxed, letting Brittany rock back onto her heels. Her expression grew serious. "We'll be here for you and for her, okay?" A grim smile. A deep breath. "Now go ahead and tell your father."

Brittany eyed her mother's calm face. "You think—I mean, he'll be—okay, right?" She'd felt sure earlier, over breakfast and during school, but all that certainty had seeped out of her once she set foot in the house. She'd felt like Santana. Afraid of every shadow. That feeling crept back into her now.

Her mother smiled at her, almost sadly. She touched Brittany's hair again and kissed her on the forehead. "He will. I'm sure of it."

In the yard, her mother's prediction proved right. Brittany offered him the same staggering sentences. Voice firm on together, all three times. His eyebrows and lips and cheeks had twitched, almost sadly, like a picture sagging after falling into a puddle, but he pulled her into the tightest bear hug he'd ever given her. His shoulder smelled like leaves and fresh air and that same laundry soap.

"I love you," he said once he let her go, staring so hard into her eyes she almost shivered. "Nothing will ever change that." His eyes looked strained, like tears were clutching at their edges. Brittany sucked her lips into her mouth. "Your mother and I will always be here for you," he promised. When words failed her, and she just gave him a watery, dopey smile, he gathered her in his arms again and kissed the top of her head.

"Is there anything else you need to tell me?" he asked, gently, when she drew back. She watched his face and shook her head. He smiled at her again. Proudly. He looked at the kitchen window—Brittany's mother smiled at them and turned away—and back at Brittany. A beat. He grinned. "Do you wanna play leaf lava until your mom makes us set the table?" He wagged his eyebrows.

Brittany grinned and crossed her arms over her chest. "Only if you're ready to lose," she sniffed.

Her father laughed. He teased, "We'll both lose once Laura gets home," and poked her in the ribs.

She laughed and dove into the leaves. Another November day.