Title: a strange condition
Author: timorous-scribe
Length: ~2.7k
Rating: T (language, brief mentions of sex)
Pairing(s): Santemma
Summary: A few brief interludes to illustrate the odd little creature that is Santana and Emma's relationship. Pretty sure that creature is the bunny that attacked me after i saw this gifset on Tumblr.

Pinkies linked and close enough that their shoulders touch, Santana crouches beside Brittany outside the window of the history classroom, just off the walkway between the gym and south building. They're trying to be covert about peeking through the window to watch Schue and Em-Miss Pillsbury 'practice' with an impromptu performance of Touch-a Touch Me.

It's pretty fucking hilarious.

"I've only ever kissed before..." Miss Pillsbury sings the line at Mr. Schue with this demure expression all looking up through her lashes, and Santana's stomach tightens at the memory of what falls under 'kissing' by Emma's definitions.

"I-I don't think this... ohh, Santana." The weak protest faded off in a sigh and Santana allowed herself a smile against the practical peach-colored Hanes Her Ways separating her mouth from Emma's heat.

"What was that?" She licked another teasing stripe over the damp cotton, grunting unconsciously when Emma bucked into the motion. "You said I could kiss you..."

"You mean she's—" Brittany whispers in disbelief.

"Uh-huh..." Santana nods with a devilish smile, turning back to watch the pair drowning in sexual tension in the classroom. She ignores the vacant feeling under her ribs at the half-truth to Brittany, but the girl can't keep a secret to save her life and honestly there's just some things she's better off not knowing.

Why Santana knows exactly how virginal Emma Pillsbury is (or isn't), she figures is on the 'do not share' list. It would devastate Brittany to know that Santana's 'lady-kisses' are not exclusively hers, and she just wouldn't understand what this...thing... between Santana and Emma—Miss Pillsbury, fuck, she really needs to remember to call her Miss Pillsbury—really is.

Santana doesn't understand it, how could she possibly explain it to Brittany?

Emma leans back and slowly unbuttons her cardigan, singing the racy lyrics with that breathy sort of tone that most people don't know she's even capable of using. Schue's choking on his tongue and following her around like a panting puppy and Santana's not doing much better. She's got her eyes glued, both she and Brittany entranced enough by the surprisingly not awkward strip to hum along with the "more, more, more.." of the song while the sweater gets tossed to the side.

Emma is exuding this confident sexuality that is so uncharacteristically provocative it's enthralling. She scratches her nails down Schue's back and presses against him with a wiggle that has to have him popping wood, and Santana clenches her jaw watching Emma flip in his embrace to press back into his body. Emma pulls Schue's hands over her breasts and heaves her chest, then uses their joined fingers to drag one of his hands down her abdomen.

Santana immediately flashes to late yesterday afternoon in the guidance counselor's office, the redhead bent forward over her own desk letting Santana's hands grope up under her sensible sweater.

"It's okay to admit you want me," Santana rasped in her ear, pinching a nipple between her fingers while she ground her pelvis into Emma's ass. Emma just whimpered in response, rolling her hips back into the pressure of Santana's body.

"It's not the wanting that's not okay," she whispered back, then grabbed one of Santana's hands and pulled it down her body, pressing their joined fingers against herself.

It's a little too close to the move she just watched Emma pull on Schue's gnarly hairy ape hands, and Santana feels her stomach churn as soon as it registers. Her smile falters and she glazes in disgust watching her teacher's o-face as Emma drops down and straight stripper rolls her way back up his body.

She only realizes she's scowling when she feels Brittany's gaze shift to her.

The blonde scrunches her nose and bats her eyelashes—mocking Ginger Bambi's blink-blink stare—and Santana chuckles a little despite the acidic jealousy percolating in her gut.

"Whoa, Mr. Schue's got abs." Brittany is now staring and Santana feels like she might scream. She rolls her eyes, dramatically running her hands over herself in her own mockery of OCD Barbie's (and maybe Brittany's) fawning.

"Take me, Will! OH, TAKE ME!"

She gets Brittany giggling and they both duck away from the window before they get caught by the pair inside. The blonde's tinkling laughter is just enough distraction to ignore the feelings she's definitely not having about Emma dry humping Mr. Schue six feet away from her.

— — —

If she's being honest, Santana's kind of surprised to find herself at Emma's door tonight.

She hasn't been here since the hot dentist moved in (that whole husband thing complicates matters), especially since the only times she'd ever been over before were to fuck the chick he still thinks 'has qualms' with anything more than hugging. How Emma manages to keep that fine piece of ass—what? she's gay, not blind—without tagging it is just one more mystery of the neurotically hypnotic train-wreck that is Emma Pillsbury.

Santana still doesn't know what the fuck they're doing, but she raps her knuckles against the door anyway because Emma isn't Brittany and she doesn't ask for public declarations or private labels. Besides, Quinn is back to being up Finn's ass—Santana gets a good laugh out the fact that Quinn actually thinks no one knows—and Brittany's the exact person she's trying to escape tonight.

It's not like she has a tons of other options for refuge, either.

The door swings open and Emma stands there looking bewildered—when does she not look bewildered, though, really—dressed in what must be the latest full-body coverage sleepwear from the Mormon collection, with thick yellow rubber gloves covering up to each forearm.

"Santana?"

The brunette pushes past Emma into the condo, walking directly through the living room and into the kitchen.

"Well of course you can come in, thank you for asking." Emma mutters under her breath, closing and locking the door before following after Santana. She finds the girl in her kitchen, dumping out the soapy water Emma was using to scrub an already pristine refrigerator.

"What are you—" Emma's tone is just shy of a shriek and Santana whirls around, cutting off the protest.

"Look," she unbuttons her jacket and tosses it haphazardly on the counter as she speaks, "you wanna clean something, Em?"

"Santana, this is very-I think you..."

Emma trails off as Santana pulls her top over her head, dropping it on the floor and stepping backwards until she can feel the edge of the dining table against her ass. "C'mere, this should be dirty enough for you."

She slides the zipper down at the side of her skirt, then wiggles her hips—so it drops to pool around her ankles—before lifting onto the edge of the table and spreading her knees.

Emma's mouth goes dry and for once she's not thinking about the microscopic contaminants on the table's surface, now pressed against all that beautiful tanned skin. She clears her throat and forces her eyes away, peeling off the gloves and laying them neatly over the divider in the sink.

Santana swings her legs back and forth, waiting almost patiently for Emma to complete whatever ritual she has before she allows herself the pleasure of touch.

She's figured out it's one of the ways this whole thing works between them—sometimes Santana just needs to let go of things, and Emma to control them. It's not something they've ever acknowledged verbally and it's not even their normal dynamic, but every now and then Emma's fingers will dig in instead of caress and Santana will let it happen.

Actually provoking it isn't something Santana's ever tried before, but with the way everything else is so fucked up today it just feels right. She tries not to think about what it does for her, how much it loosens the knot she keeps wound tighter than her old Cheerio pony. Santana considers herself an HBIC, she doesn't want to know why it feels so good sometimes to let this meek little churchmouse take whatever she wants.

The redhead steps up into the space between Santana's knees, slowly walking pale fingertips up each of Santana's thighs and watching their progress intently.

"Carl is staying in a hotel tonight," she whispers, "because I won't have sex with him."

Santana doesn't know what to think of the statement; they don't do this, they don't talk about their shit. They fuck, because it feels good and it hurts in all the right ways of each, and she tells Emma as much in a rough tone.

Those honey-colored eyes darken, and Santana watches from under her lashes with her chin tilted down as Emma seems to grow in stature with her attitude shift.

"Of course," her tone is liquid, slender fingers ghosting down Santana's neck and over her shoulders, "we shouldn't pretend like this is anything even resembling an equilateral partnership."

Santana rolls her eyes at the monologuing—ignoring the sharp ache from the actual words—but can't suppress the shudder that runs up her spine from the light touch.

"After all, you're only seventeen, and I'm an authority figure, right?" Emma presses her palms against Santana's upper chest, pushing her flat on her back. Even if Emma heard the little whimper that came out with the huff of air, Santana wouldn't cop to it. Instead, she throws out one more jab.

"You're ruining this with your complete inability to dirty talk. Just,"

"Shut up." Emma's voice is sharp and Santana feels her lower belly twist in pleasure at the sound. There it is.

— — —

It's almost ironic, how she realizes she's in love with a teenager—a teenage girl—while she's being sung to (Rihanna is certainly romance) by said teenage girl as a proposal. A proposal from her boyfriend, who teaches that teenage girl in her high school classes.

Emma ignores the slithering guilt and her completely rational paranoia that what she's been doing with this girl—and letting this girl do to her—in secret is going to end up with Emma losing her career, her friends, her boyfriend. She swallows the sensation prickling in her chest that makes her ears buzz, and forces herself to look away from Santana's adorably scrunched nose and deep dimples.

She can't be in love with her.

Instead, she looks at Will with his Prince Charming smile and his cocker spaniel eyes and can't help but hope that maybe in time it won't feel like settling. Maybe it will feel right at some point. Like the way she felt when this crass, hot-tempered, completely inappropriate eighteen-year-old brushed warm and full lips against the nape of her neck to wake her up last Saturday.

The way it felt the first time Emma sank her fingers inside Santana, or the first time she heard the high choked-off cry Santana always makes just before she comes—like this is where she's strong, where she's powerful.

She loves Will, she has since she first set eyes on him years ago. But she has to wonder... why doesn't it burn?

Emma watches him walking towards her over the aquamarine water in his cream white suit and life goes into slow motion. His smile is confident and loving, she can feel Santana's dark eyes trained on her intently from the pool, and it strikes her that this is an epiphany moment.

Her brain sketches out temporarily with the realization and the next thing she knows he's standing in front of her, dripping wet and beaming with all the love and joy Emma wishes she could return.

Oh, goodness—he's talking and she's not ready for it.

He's telling her he can be her balance and that she's the one and a warmth spreads in her stomach at his genuine affection, only to twist into acute nausea at the idea of Santana watching this exchange. What does she think? Will this be the end of them? It should be, Emma knows. They never should've been to begin with.

Will reaches into his jacket and she has to take a deep breath to steady herself and not flee. He's really doing this. What she's always wanted, he's doing, and there's a ring and he's kneeling and all she can think to say...

"Oh, Will. I love you so much."

It's the only speakable truth that comes to mind, and it's abstract to her how just a few seconds can stretch on forever—every detail magnified and so intense—while still speeding by so quickly all she catches is a blur of color. He's still grinning and Emma can still see (and feel) Santana watching in her peripheral.

"Is that a yes?" Will asks on a laugh.

Santana wraps her limbs around Brittany from behind in the pool, setting her chin on the blonde's shoulder and Emma feels herself nod with the action. She's still following the young brunette's lead, even when it comes to one of the biggest decisions of her own life.

"Yes." She licks her lips, breathing deeply again and reminding herself that this may not be what she feels when Santana touches her, but it's still a warm and pleasant feeling and it has to be right. "Yes." She repeats, nodding again as her expression crumbles under the weight of so many conflicting emotions.

Will leans in to kiss her and she returns it, swallowing the tears and letting the whoops and hollers from the rest of the glee kids surround her.

There's different kinds of love. What she feels for Will is good enough. It has to be.

— — —

"Brittany applied me for the cheerleading scholarship at Louisville."

The statement is delivered without preamble from the doorway to Emma's office, the redhead's back turned as she fiddles with a file folder on the shelf. Her hands freeze in motion and her spine stiffens.

"Did you get accepted?" It's a careful even tone and Santana 'mm-hmm's in confirmation, waiting for a reaction. Slender shoulders lift slowly in a deep sigh, then Emma's turning around with her crazy wide-eyed show smile that doesn't actually reach the honey color. "Congratulations, Santana, that's great news."

The tone is tight and obviously faked enthusiasm and they stand in silence for a few moments, the ten feet of space between them somehow feeling like it's stretching into miles, right before their eyes.

"Yep." Santana shoulders herself upright from the door jamb she was using to look nonchalant. She can't pretend like the response is surprising, but a stupid part of her thought maybe Emma would...

Well, she's not sure what she thought Emma would do. Try, maybe? Even a little. Show her the past two years between them had actually happened, they weren't just fantasies of a high-school girl learning her own sexuality.

"Just wanted to let you know." Santana's tone is dry and hollow and Emma still won't meet her eyes, staring down at her desk and nodding with that same tight smile.

It was definitely real, and it's now definitely over, and Emma is trying to figure out how to be okay with that fact and not crumble right here in the middle of the afternoon at work.

She hasn't let herself think too much about this day, even though she knew it was coming, because Santana is eighteen, and she has a whole future in front of her, and potential that will take her out of this tiny Ohio town, and it would be wrong—in so, so many ways—to try and hold onto that fire. Even though for the last two years, its heat is the only thing that's kept her from compartmentalizing every organ in her body in a separate labeled freezer bag.

The idea of Santana staying, of watching the girl's flame turn tepid with bitterness and lost dreams, is what finally does it for her.

"I'm-I'm happy for you, Santana." Honey colored eyes finally lift and Santana feels the knot in gut loosen, just barely. "Really. You're going to be amazing."

Santana lets the corner of her mouth lift in a soft smile and they have a silent conversation from across the room.

You're really okay?

I'm really okay.

….Okay.

"I'm already amazing, Em." The snap is back in Santana's voice, and the tiny familiarity of the nickname soothes over Emma's ache of loss. This is how it should be; she catches the twinkling of the engagement ring on her finger out of the corner of her eye and it seems to confirm the thought.