I was thinking about Brittany's career plans and this came out of nowhere.

Brittany's feet hurt.

They hurt all the time anyway, but this is different. This time they feel like they're on fire, and they send spikes of pain up her legs whenever she puts weight on them.

She doesn't have to hobble far, luckily, because her mom is waiting right outside. She loops an arm around Brittany's waist as soon as she sees her and helps her into the car.

'Oh, sweetie,' she says. 'I'll run a bath for you as soon as we get home.'

Brittany nods, turns her head to face the window.

When she gets home her dad wraps his arms around her and pulls her off the ground into a hug.

'How's my little dancing queen,' he says, and he spins her around a couple of times.

'Dad, I'm not really little anymore,' she says. He sets her down.

'How was dance class?'

'Good,' she mumbles. 'I'm just going to go upstairs. I'm really sore.' She limps upstairs and stretches cross her bed as soon as she gets in her room. She groans as her back explodes in pain as she relaxes into the mattress.

Her mom comes into her room and heads straight into her bathroom to get the bathwater running.

'Come on, up,' she says, and she sits Brittany up and leads her to the bathroom. 'It'll help,' she says.

'I know, it's just...'

'What?'

'I'm tired, that's all,' she ends lamely, and her mom smiles sympathetically.

'I know you are, cookie, but you need to take care of yourself. You have an extra class on Sunday, remember.' Her mom waits until she nods before standing up to leave. 'I'll make you a plate and bring it up for you,' she says, and she closes the bathroom door behind her.

Her contemporary dance teacher is a young, angry looking guy that likes to walk around with a long thin stick that he uses to prod dancers into the correct positions sometimes. He generally doesn't unless he is in a bad mood, but he tends to be in one more often than not.

It means that most of the dancers spend their time tense and scared, waiting for a painful jab and a hissed scolding, but Brittany doesn't. Not because she's not scared of him and his weird moustache, but because it's easy for her to block him out and just concentrate on moving, when she's in class.

The fact that he barely has to correct her seems to make him hate her even more than he hates everyone else, but she doesn't mind. Not when the music is on.

Mr Schue is late for glee again, and everyone is talking about what they're doing next year.

'I'm still waiting for my letter,' Artie says, and most of the Seniors nod gloomily.

'I'm not even sure if I want to go to college,' Sam says. 'I mean, I don't know if I'm going to get a scholarship, and I'm kind of scared about all that debt if I don't. I just don't know,' he says.

'What are you doing, Brittany?' Tina asks.

'I have an audition for Juilliard,' she says, and surprise ripples through the group.

'Wow... that's amazing, Brittany,' Rachel says. She looks like she half doesn't believe it but she's too scared to say anything with Santana sitting next to her, bristling and ready to snap at anyone who doesn't act appropriately impressed.

'Yeah, it's cool,' she shrugs. Rachel gives her the half-exasperated, half pitying look she's seen a lot the last couple of years.

'No, I don't think you understand what-' Mr Schuester chooses that moment to breeze into the room.

'Sorry I'm late guys.' He walks up to the board and writes 'Your inner diva' across it. 'Does anyone have any ideas?'

'-what this means,' her mother gushes. She's holding the Juilliard letter to her chest like she's expecting someone to run in and snatch it away.

'Really, this is amazing. So good. We're so proud of you.' Her dad stands up from the couch and he wraps his arms tight around her. 'My little Odette. You're going to be perfect.' He kisses her forehead and steps back. 'So, what do you want to do to celebrate?'

Tuesday is the only day she has where she doesn't have Cheerios or dance or core training and she drives over to the hospital as soon as she gets out of class.

Quinn can finally sit up without a million pillows behind her and she smiles and waves when she sees Brittany.

'Hi, Quinn,' she says. She drops her bag near the door and gets onto the bed. 'What did you do today?'

'Nothing. Physical therapy. Look,' she says, and she wiggles the big toe on her left foot. Brittany gasps and claps a little and Quinn smiles.

'Is that what you did in physical therapy?'

'No,' Quinn laughs. 'I did other stuff too.'

'How're your legs?' Quinn still can't move them much but they still hurt her for some reason that she's not completely clear about.

'They still hurt a little,' Quinn says, shrugging like she doesn't really care, but Brittany can see her wincing as she tries to get herself comfortable. She reaches forward and presses down on her quadriceps.

'There?' Quinn nods, and she leans forward enough that she can dig her fingers into the muscle and try to loosen some of the stiffness. Quinn relaxes back into the bed and closes her eyes.

Sometimes Brittany wonders why people feel so comfortable being so open with her. On good days she likes to think that there's something about her that lets people know that she's not going to hurt them.

On bad days she thinks it's because they feel like there isn't any harm in telling stuff to the girl who no one thinks can actually read.

Today is a good day, though, so she works the worst of the knots out of Quinn's leg and snuggles up to her side.

'Don't let your worse half see you doing this,' Quinn mumbles. 'Or she'll break my other arm.' Brittany leans forward and kisses her cheek.

Brittany knows she's better at contemporary dance but she prefers ballet. She knows that her body is slightly wrong for ballet- she's too tall and her boobs are a bit big- but the rigid sense of control calms her like nothing else

(except for mocha-coloured-silk-soft skin under her fingers first thing in the morning)

and she spends as much time in the studio as she can.

Her ballet teacher is a lot nicer than her contemporary dance one. When she found out about Brittany's Juilliard audition she gave her a key to the studio and told her she could stay after class to practice if she wanted.

Santana usually picks her up after she's done practicing because their schedules are so much more packed this semester and they need as much time together as possible, especially since they don't know where Santana is going to school yet.

She's in the middle of working out a tricky part of the routine she thinks she's going to go with when the door at the far end of the room swings open and Santana slips through. She shoots her a grin before raising her arms again, and running through the section again and again until it's perfect.

As soon as she turns the music off Santana hurries forward and throws her arms around her. A couple of seconds after that Santana is kissing her, hot and hungry, and she staggers backwards.

'You're so good,' Santana says, between kisses. Brittany wants to kiss her back, she really does, but her muscles are starting to shake from exhaustion and she needs to eat something soon.

She pulls away and smiles at the adorable face Santana makes.

'Britt, I wants to get my lady-kisses on,' she says. 'You're so hot when you're dancing.'

'I know,' she says, and Santana giggles. She leans over to pick her bag up and jumps when Santana playfully smacks her butt.

She reaches out to grab Santana and Santana lets willingly lets herself be pulled in. She buries her face in Santana's neck and takes a deep breath in. Santana always smells so good, like clean clothes and warm bread and that flower shop around the corner from Breadstix.

'Would you love me if I wasn't a dancer,' she says into Santana's neck, and she pulls back and repeats it when Santana gives her a confused face. 'Like, if I was an astronaut or something. I think I'd like floating around in space.' She forces a laugh but Santana looks at her like she knows exactly what she's thinking.

'Babe,' she says finally. 'I'd love you no matter what.'

'Even if I was homeless like Patches?'

'Even then.' Santana pulls her back into a tight hug. 'Don't be like Patches, though. He tried to steal my shoe last night.'

'Deal,' she says, and she leads Santana outside to the car.

She gets home just as dinner is ready and she throws herself into her seat just as her dad is putting the last dish on the table.

'Oh, there you are. How was dance?'

'Fine,' she says, piling the mashed potato onto her plate. 'My routine is really coming together.'

'That's great,' her dad says. 'It's good to be prepared.'

They all eat in silence for a few minutes before her mom speaks.

'Katie called today. She wants us to go and see her soon.' Her dad breaks out into a smile as soon as Katie is mentioned.

'I guess I can take a few days off in April,' he says. 'The dean owes me some extra days after the mess with that last symposium.'

'It'll so nice to see what she's been doing with all that scholarship money.'

'Something great, by the sounds of it. That girl's a genius. Chip off the old block,' her dad says, patting his stomach, and her mom laughs.

Brittany is seven and going to her very first dance class ever because her teacher told her parents that some extra activity might get rid of some of her energy and help her settle in class. She does her best to copy the moves the teacher shows the class and flushes as pink as her leotard when the teacher compliments her in front of everyone. That's never happened before.

She is twelve and her teacher is telling her parents that Brittany is the best she's seen in a while. She suggests that Brittany should be moved into the advanced class as soon as possible.

Brittany sits in her chair and flushes uncomfortably under the intense attention she almost never gets from her parents. They take her out to dinner, just the three of them, and she gets to order whatever she wants.

Her parents actually keep the conversation on things that she can talk to them about and she wonders if this is what it's like to be Katie, who's taking classes in the community college even though she's still in high school. Katie always knows what to say when her dad talks about his research or her mom wants to discuss the books her graduate class is reading. Her dad touches her arm.

'What are you thinking about, Coppelia?' he asks, and she frowns in confusion.

'It's a ballet,' he explains. 'I'll take you to see it.'

He actually does take her, and as she does better and better in her new class the lectures and discussions about her grades slowly fade away. They still hire her to a tutor and make her study all the time but they stop taking her to child psychology specialists. She also stops trying to intercept her report cards before they can see them.

She knows that they would probably have been happier if she was like Katie, but they are just so happy she's good at something that none of them let it bother them too much.

She shows her solo piece to her ballet teacher.

'Good. Really, really, good, Brittany,' she says. 'Just…'

'What?'

Her teacher look at her for a second before shaking her head.

'Nothing. Nothing. Just… smile a little, that's all. Dancing is your joy, remember.'

'Yeah,' she says.

The more she practises the less she hears the music, and soon it's just her locked inside her head and her body doing what she tells it to, even when the muscles in her thighs feel like they're going to snap and she gets so tired black spots start to swim in front of her eyes. She also picks up a few extra classes to make sure that she'll be ready for the non-solo parts of the audition.

She's so wrapped that she accidentally says weirder things than usual, and Santana has to snap and growl louder than she normally would to keep people from teasing her.

When they are alone Santana rubs her feet and legs and tries to kiss her out of herself, but the tension and need to practice pulls her back into her head every single time.

In three days exactly she'll be driving to Chicago with her parents for her audition, and she hangs around the studio after class to practice.

'Don't forget to lock up,' her teacher reminds her as she leaves.

'I won't,' she says. As soon as the door is shut she scrapes her hair into a bun. She holds herself in first position and moves through her routine painfully slowly. She does it again and again, but the roaring pressure in her ears just gets louder and louder.

Her head is going to explode.

She reaches for her phone.

She doesn't know why she's calling Santana, except she's starting to feel like she's spinning away and Santana's the only person who can catch her.

'Santana, you need to come,' she says. The corners of her phone cut into her fingers.

'Where are you?'

'At the studio. The ballet one. Come quick,' she says, and the turns the stereo on. A sticky, thumping dub step track comes on and she winces as the bass vibrates in her chest. She can hear that Santana is still talking but the music is so loud that she can't hear what she's saying.

She puts the phone down and presses the disconnect button before moving to the middle of the floor.

Her feet still hurt, and she stretches up onto her toes, once, twice, until she feels the tendons in the back of her legs stretch hot and thin. Her sore knee twinges.

She counts herself in with her feet at first position, and sweeps into an arabesque. She holds it until her muscles begin to tremble and piques around the room, faster and sloppier than she usually would so she can keep up with the tempo of the music.

She spins until she hurts again, and she stops to catch her breath.

The music picks up, faster and louder, and she stops trying to choreograph herself. She lets herself tear around the room until she is moving so fast and she's so dizzy she can't feel anything but her blood overheating in her body and her breath scraping out of her throat and a voice in her head saying faster, faster, go now, faster.

Her knee buckles a little and she thinks this is it this is it, now now now and it's so loud she leaps into the air, higher than she's ever tried before. She tries to twist in mid-air but her body can't take anymore, and she drops back to earth like a rock.

It takes her a second to realize that she's not standing; she's crumpled on the ground. Another couple of seconds after that pain screams up her leg and tightens around her knee and her temple, where her head struck the floor. She twists around so she can touch where it hurts and as soon as her fingertips brush her knee the pain rushes through her so fast she can feel it in her hands.

There is a distant bang somewhere and Santana's face swims into view.

'Oh, God, Brittany, what the hell happened?' She tries to point to her leg but pain is still pulsing through her body and making it impossible to move much. She gives up and slumps back against the floor.

Santana's face moves closer and she feels something warm and soft on her cheek, turning her head gently until she has to look straight at her.

'What happened,' Santana whispers, and Brittany thinks about how weird it is that she can hear her when the music is still loud enough to make the floor shake. She blinks and tears stream down her temple, into her hair. She blinks again and Santana's face goes blurry.

'-Hurts-' she manages. She waves weakly at her leg and Santana glances over. Her eyes widen when she sees her leg and Brittany watches as she tries to smile, make it seem not so bad.

'I'm going to take you to the hospital, okay,' Santana says, and she slides a hand under Brittany's neck. As soon as she starts to sit her up Brittany screams in pain.

'No, stop, stop-' and she tries to lock her muscles to stop from moving more but that only moves her leg, and she screams again. Santana stops moving and eases herself behind Brittany so she can lean on her.

'Sorry, sorry, love, I'm so sorry,' Santana whispers into her hair. Brittany feels and hears her pulling her phone out and dialling 911. She hears her shouting down the phone and she lets her body relax completely into Santana's when she puts the phone down and wraps an arm around her waist.

She closes her eyes and lets Santana whisper nothings into her ears and press kisses along her sweaty neck, and she tries to concentrate on the thumping bass music instead of the pain that's throbbing in time to her pulse.

Soon Santana is moving away from her and laying her back on the floor and someone is strapping something all the way along her leg. It doesn't hurt as bad as it did before but she still bites her lip and squeezes Santana's hand until they are done.

The ambulance makes her feel sick and swirly and when she's in a waiting room a nurse injects her with something to make the worst of the pain go away. She does all the things the doctor asks her to do, and after a while he nods and tells her they're going to put her under. She nods and lets the mask over her nose and mouth take her away.

Patellar dislocation is what they say it is. It's what the doctor tells her mom and what her mom sobs out to her dad when he manages to leave work and come to the hospital.

It doesn't mean anything to her at first, except an uncomfortable numbness in her knee and a dry mouth from the anaesthesia.

Later on it means a painful throbbing and a cast that's too hot around her leg, and she tries not to pick at it as the doctor tells her what the plan is.

'You were lucky. You had a pretty clean dislocation and it was fairly easy to get back into place. We're going to keep you overnight to keep an eye on your concussion but you should be fine to go by tomorrow. You're going to have to be in the cast for at least six weeks but I think that complications are unlikely.'

When no one in the room says anything the doctor hangs around for another awkward minute before excusing himself. Her mom gives him a half hearted thanks on the way out.

When he is gone she places a hand on Brittany's good leg, right below her knee.

'You don't have to worry about Juilliard. You don't have to... you just worry about getting better.'

'Okay,' she whispers. Her mom is looking at her like she's afraid that if she stops Brittany will disappear or float away or something and she makes an extra effort to smile.

'Oh, my brave girl. We're going to be okay. I don't want you to worry. Just get better.' Her mom moves to her head and strokes her hair off her face.

There's a knock on the door and she turns her head to see Santana standing just outside the room, playing with her hands.

'Mom, dad,' she says. 'Can you give us a minute?' They look at her, then Santana, then each other, and they turn and walk out at the same time. It looks pretty weird, and she bites her lip to keep from laughing.

As soon as they are out Santana pushes the door shut and steps closer to the bed.

'How are you feeling?' she asks. It takes Brittany a second to answer because Santana's eyes are guarded and almost suspicious, and she hasn't dealt with this Santana for so long she doesn't know what to do for a second.

'I'm fine,' she says. 'They gave me some painkillers before my parents came in.' Santana is just far enough away that Brittany knows she wouldn't be able to touch her if she reaches out, so she stays still and watches Santana stare at her leg.

'You called me,' Santana says eventually.

'What?'

'You called me, and you told me to come quick. You didn't sound... you called me and I came as fast as I could because you sounded weird. I told them it was an accident,' Santana says.

The next thing Brittany knows her eyes are stinging and tears are streaming down her face before she figures out why her vision has blurry.

Her crying turns out to be the thing that makes Santana break down the invisible wall she's put up around them, and she rushes forward and holds Brittany's hands in hers.

'Brittany, please, tell me what happened,' she says, her voice soft as snow suddenly. One hand moves up to cup her cheek, gently, like Santana is afraid she'll break her.

'I'm sorry,' she manages. 'I didn't want to make you so scared.' Santana wipes the tears from her face.

'You didn't have to do this,' Santana says. 'I would have helped you. I would do anything for you.' She can tell that Santana is trying to be angry but she's hurt, more than anything. It only makes her cry more.

'I didn't mean to, I swear,' she says, almost pleading. She feels like a kid who's been caught breaking a vase.

'Shh,' Santana says. She climbs onto the bed and cuddles into Brittany's side, and Brittany wraps her hands around her as tight as she can, until she gets the crying under control. 'You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to,' Santana says.

She remembers her mom standing over her hospital bed, crying over her and saying dancing is all she has over and over again because she thought that Brittany was asleep, and she slips out before she can stop it.

'I didn't want to be Coppelia anymore,' she says. 'I just wanted to be Brittany.'

The day of her Juilliard audition comes and she spends the day in her room because she doesn't feel like talking to her parents. They give her space because they assume she's sad.

She's just settled back in bed with Lord Tubbington and a new season of the Dog Whisperer when her phone buzzes and Quinn asks if she can come over.

It takes a bit of manoeuvring to get Quinn's wheelchair into the house but her porch only has a couple of steps and they manage it, even though Brittany's on crutches. They move quickly past the living room where her parents are watching TV and trying to look like they aren't paying any attention to them into Brittany's temporary room on the ground floor.

'Sorry about the mess,' she says, trying to sweep clothes and stuff aside with one of her crutches so Quinn can actually come in.

'My room's worse,' Quinn says, and she stops neatly by the bed.

'You're so much better at that now,' Brittany says. Quinn shrugs.

'Yeah, well. Artie,' she says, and she smiles. Brittany giggles and Quinn leans over and tosses one of her pillow at her head. 'Shut up.' Suddenly the smile is gone from her face and she looks all serious again. 'But I came to check on you. Santana said you had a pretty hard fall.'

It's really hard to shrug when you're supporting yourself on crutches so Brittany sits on the bed and takes her time arranging her crutches next to her. 'The doctors say I'll heal and stuff. It could have been worse.'

Quinn rolls forward again and stops right next to Brittany's foot. She reaches out and runs a finger along one of the spokes. 'I guess that means no Juilliard,' she says quietly, like she's afraid Brittany will break down into tears, but she only nods.

'It means no dancing. This year, anyway,' she says. She twinges with the familiar mix of guilt and relief she gets every time she thinks about how long it will be before she can dance properly again.

'Before I got pregnant,' Quinn says quietly, 'I was going to go to Ohio State, do a degree in art history and marry a business studies major. Now... I'm going to Yale. To do whatever.'

'And that's amazing, Quinn,' she says automatically. 'You're so smart and stuff.' Quinn grabs the hand that's still playing with the wheels of her chair.

'Hey, B, that's not what I'm trying to say.' She waits until Brittany locks eyes with her before she goes on. 'I thought I could only live my life one way because of who I was, and who my parents were. Then I had Beth and it turned out that I wasn't the person I thought I was.'

'This was an accident,' she says.

'So was Beth,' Quinn says. 'But now I'm going to Yale. So don't count yourself out yet.'

Quinn is so much like Santana, she thinks. She hides all the best parts of herself down deep, so deep that most people will never see it. It only makes Brittany feel more special when they show her what good people they are.

She pulls Quinn's wheelchair closer and climbs into her lap, and Quinn stiffens for a second before relaxing. Brittany wraps her arms around her shoulders.

'You're one of my very best friends,' she says. 'I love you so much.'

'More than Santana?' Quinn asks, but Brittany can feel her smile against her neck.

'As close as anyone will ever get,' she says.

She has her very first real fight in a while with her parents that night.

'Just take a year off,' her mom pleads. 'You can help out at the studio and get your strength back. They're bound to give you another audition.'

'I don't want to audition again,' she says, and her parents exchange an understanding look.

'Oh, sweetie, you don't have to be nervous. We'll just monitor your-'

'No!' She tries to stand up and winces when her leg buckles under her. Her dad leaps up to catch her.

'Careful, your leg-'

'I don't care about my leg!' She tries her best to calm down. Her parents aren't going to listen to her if she's not calm. 'I don't want to do this anymore. I don't. It's not fun anymore.'

'Brittany, life can't be all about fun,' her mom says, giving her a pitying look.

'Maybe not your life. But I'm not gonna do it.'

'What are you going to do, then?' her dad asks. 'Do you have any plans?'

She shifts uncomfortably.

'Yes. Maybe,' she says. 'I'll figure something out.'

'Can you?' her dad asks, and it is the compassion and worry in his voice that makes tears spring to her eyes.

'I'm gonna go to my room,' she says. She grabs her crutches and limps out of the room.

She is laying on her bed with Lord Tubbington snoozing on her stomach when there is a rap at her window. As soon as she's got the window open Santana tumbles in and flops onto her bed.

'Sneaking into your room is so much easier when you're on the ground floor,' she says, shooting Brittany a playful smile. She pats the space next to her. 'Come lay down.'

Brittany gets back on the bed and Lord Tubbington immediately crawls back on top of her, sprawling himself out like he thinks she's a rug.

'Your cat is fucking huge, B,' Santana says. She almost sounds impressed. Brittany shoves him off of her so she can roll over and kiss her. Santana kisses back for a while but she seems to sense that something's wrong, and she pulls back.

'I had a fight with my parents,' she says quietly, because she's not supposed to have people in her room this late. Santana's eyes widen.

'What happened?'

'I told them I wasn't going to dance anymore.'

'I thought you were going to wait until after to tell them.'

'I was going to. But I think I needed to now,' she says. 'Did you bring them?'

Santana grins and reaches into her backpack. She pulls out her laptop and a bunch of papers.

'Here's a list of schools that have rolling admissions,' Santana says, handing her the paper on top, 'and these might have scholarships that you're eligible for, and these are really good for the stuff you said you might be interested in-'

'Slow down,' she says. She peers at the last piece of paper that has editing and journalism and clothes written in Santana's strong, spiky writing followed by a list of colleges. 'Can we go through this slower?' Santana tucks herself into her side and flips her laptop open.

'Sure, B,' Santana says, and she presses a kiss to her neck. 'Take all the time you need.'

Please tell me what you think. My tumblr is mariathepenguin if anyone wants to find me there.