I posted this fic years back. In light of Naya's passing, I've been seeing lots of Brittana content on social media, and the old ship sucked me back in.

So I've given this a scrub and will continue it. The original was way too wordy in parts, and I didn't like where the commas were in terms of fluidity and flow. This isn't my best stuff (I'd have to re-write it from scratch for it to rival that) But hopefully you enjoy this.

RIP Naya. Thanks for everything, you beautiful soul.

Two passing strangers in Times Square, New York.

One glances down, reaches into her coat pocket.

The other smiles fondly to his left, waves at an old friend across the street.

Their shoulders collide.

Her dark eyes snap up with the promise of violence, and he quickly throws his hands up, palms facing away.

"Shoot. Sorry. I guess I…" His stare zips across the street, falling to his old friend's back. "Wasn't lookin' where I was goin'."

She's the kind of person who bumps you back if you bump her, and then she's going to crack you in the throat,still pissed about the infraction.

But not today.

"Just watch it next time!" she growls.

The man smiles tight, repurposing his grip around his briefcase handle as he takes off.

She stays where she is, unearths her phone from her pocket and thumbs out a text.

On my way home. Left the gym early. Thai food? X

She slips the phone back into her pocket, breaths coming in misty clouds as she rubs her palms together against the cold.

Some time later she's rounding the corner of her street, the seductive scent of Thai cuisine wafting from the bag swinging on her fingertips. Her stomach gargles with the appetite she worked up blasting kicks into the gym bag, her shins that good type of sore, and she smiles, those feel-good workout endorphins heavy in her blood.

The sudden buzzing in her pocket takes her from her thoughts.

Switching the takeout bag to her other hand, she retrieves her phone. Answers, "'sup?"

"I just saw your text. How about Greek tonight instead babe? I threw up last time we had Thai, remember?"

"Yeah, only 'cause you got blitzed tryna impress Finn, asshole. I'm never gonna get the smell out the carpet. He's gonna gimme some money so we can get new carpet, 'cause if he hadn't challenged you to that beer-off, the food would've stayed in your stomach."

There's a beat of silence.

"How close to the apartment are you?"

Her brows knit as she crosses the dead street. "Why?"

"No reason!" he says far too quickly. "Except that I... want Greek food?"

"Fuck the Greek food, Noah. Why do you sound so freakin' suspicious?"

"Suspicious? What are you talking about Santana?" A nervous chuckle. "I just want Greek –"

"And why are you breathing so hard?"

"I'm, I'm not breathing hard babe. What's with the Spanish inquisition?"

"Oh my God, did you just zing me with a racist joke?"

"What? No. Why're you always looking for somethin' that's not there?"

"I'm not. The fuck are you talking about?"

Santana's definitely not looking for the soft voice that wisps into earshot just then, but it's definitely there. "Wait, who's there with you?"

"W-What?"

That one word, spoken with undeniable panic, is all Santana needs for the cogs in her mind to grind to a slow foreboding halt.

More silence fills the line then, followed by what sounds like an exchange of whispers.

"Who are you whispering to?" Santana demands.

"Nobody's here, babe. It's probably just the TV."

Doesn't sound like the God damn TV. Sounds like you got some bitch up in my apartment.

"Okay," Santana says slowly. "Well? What do you want from the Greek place?"

A relieved sigh floods her ear. "The usual – and which Greek joint you heading to? I'm just, I'm really hungry. How long do you think you'll be?"

She slows her step. "Why does it matter how long I'm gonna be? I'm gonna be as long as it takes aren't I?"

"Why're you getting pissed? I just asked a simple question, sheesh."

"I'll probably be another forty minutes or something; you know those damn places like to keep you waiting."

"Great. Thanks babe. I love you."

Santana pulls her phone away from her ear, frowns at it for a moment before returning it. "Yeah… love you too."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Three minutes later she's stood before her apartment.

She gently sets the bag of Thai food down on the welcome mat, squinting at the door.

"I swear to God, Noah; if you're smashing some slut in there, it's your balls," she whispers, slowly twisting the key in the lock and cautiously pushing.

Quiet, she bends to grab the takeout bag, carrying a stealth air into her lounge, where she's equally quiet about pushing the door closed and locking it.

The apartment is silent, everything in its place. TV black.

And it's strange how everything looks how it should, yet feels so... off.

Probably just being paranoid. Cool it.

As Santana takes a step towards the kitchen, she hears it.

A soft throaty giggle and a dull thud.

Coming from the bedroom.

Her jaw clenches. "I'm gonna kill you mother fucker."

She slings the takeout bag to the sofa, grabs the bat she keeps behind the bookcase, and approaches the bedroom door.

Her fingers curl around the handle, nostrils flared to accommodate deep slow breaths.

One.

Two.

She cranks the handle down, pushes the door ajar.

And that's when everything slows down, from Noah rolling off of the body beneath him, to the chick jolting up to pull the sheets around herself.

Santana's sheets.

And that's when she loses it; lifts the bat back over her shoulder and charges the bed roaring, "you piece of shit!"

"Wait – shit, Santana I can explain!" Noah rushes out, tumbling from the bed in his haste to evade the onslaught.

He grabs the side of the bedside cabinet, quick to his feet. Quick enough to tuck his head behind his forearms as Santana swings.

"Fuck!" he wails out, the attacked flesh quickly ballooning. "Please," he pants, holding his throbbing arm out between himself and the bat. "I'm, I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Santana shrieks. "How about you wipe that look off your stupid face and stop me decorating these walls with this whore's brains?"

As if to punctuate the threat, she hurls the bat at the wide-eyed stranger, who just manages to duck the attack.

The headboard can't say the same, sporting a deep ugly new dent.

Noah blinks at it, murmurs, "holy shit," before glancing the woman to see if her head's still on her shoulders, and when he turns back around, Santana throws her entire shoulder into a punch that turns his head.

His legs falter, feet stammering back as he clutches his jaw, and he runs his tongue along the new gash in his lip, stunned silent.

"Yeah, joto!" Santana spits, Spanish twang adding a new layer of menace. "I just clocked your jaw. What?" she challenges.

"Brittany, you need to, to get outta here. Fast."

"Brittany?" Santana spits, hating how the name tastes. "That your name, you little slut?"

The mussed-haired blonde glances at Noah, then nods unsurely. "Um, y-yeah."

"Brittany what?"

"S Pierce."

"Spears?" Santana asks, attributing the seeming pause in pronunciation to fear. "Your name's Brittany fucking Spears?" She looks to Noah, disgusted. "Of course you couldn't just fuck Jane, or a Vanessa. No, it had to be Brittany Spears, you ridiculous dumbass."

The blonde shakes her head, corrects, "it's Brittany Esss Pierce. Not Brittany Spears."

"Who are you stressing letters of the alphabet at, dickpig?"

"You asked me if –"

"Shut the fuck up."

"I – sorry."

Santana dead-eyes her, saying nothing.

Brittany takes the steely silence as cue to slip out from beneath she sheets. She grabs the white blouse from the floor and quickly shrugs it on, bleeding an apologetic gaze over Santana, who she notices is shaking. "Look, I didn't know... I'm really sorry," she offers, kicking into the pair of jeans she's just snatched from the floor.

Santana slings a knife-like hand in her direction. "You think I wanna hear you talk, bitch? Right now I don't even want you breathing. If you say anything else I'm gonna punch your face inside out, got it?"

Brittany's lips draw into a remorseful pout, and she nods, figuring silence is the least she owes the woman.

Santana's glare darts back to the piece of shit sat cradling his jaw on the bed. "What did I tell you puto, huh?" she shouts. "I told you if I ever found you fucking some bitch, I'd make sure your body turned up somewhere stinkin' right? What, you thought I was playin'? Well you're about to find out."

"Santana," Noah sighs. "I'm…" He shrugs a defeated shoulder when he realizes that nothing he says will fix this, but he tries again anyway. "I'm…"

"A piece of shit," Santana finishes, nodding her head on each syllable like Noah's retarded. "And in our bed too? Fuck you! You said you loved me on the phone just now, you fuck. Both you mother fuckers are gonna hear from me. Now get the fuck out!"

Brittany perches herself on the corner of the desk, reaches over and taps Noah's shoulder.

He looks up so sharp the computer monitor on the desk shakes. "Oh," he says, releasing a relieved breath once he sees it's just Brittany. "Hey."

"Hey."

Noah glances around the office.

Brittany tilts her head to the side, asks "you ok Noah?"

"Yeah," he breathes out, sounding nothing of the sort.

She nods at the mug in her grip and sits it on the desk. "I brought coffee. Two sugars, semi-strong."

Noah's face approaches a grateful smile, but it quickly turns into a wince once the sore muscles around his jaw engage. "Thanks Britt. Just what I need: coffee to keep me alert." He performs another glance around the office.

That's when Brittany places a gentle hand to his bouncing knee. "Noah, what are you looking for?"

"Nothin'." He bears the pain to flash her a fake smile. "Everything's great."

"Why didn't you tell me you were living with her?"

And just like that, Noah's pseudo content shatters.

"You told me you guys weren't that serious – that you had an open relationship. But it was super serious and you were living with her."

Brittany's tone is neither abrasive nor accusatory. It's soft. Curiousity tinged with slight disappointment.

"Okay, so I'm an asshole for lying to you. I screwed up – have you seen yourself? But I... I love her, Britt. We have our problems but I love her."

After a few beats Brittany shrugs, the heels of her shoes humming against the side of the desk as she casually swings her legs. "I can see why you love her. She's like, totally beautiful."

Noah frowns, knowing that look anywhere. "Britt –"

"And she's that fiery kind of passionate. Protective too, I'll bet. Probably stupid amazing in bed."

He dips his head, narrowing his eyes at her. "Seriously, are you really getting a boner for my ex girlfriend right now?"

Brittany looks to her lap, pushing Noah's shoulder when she sees there's not a tent in her skirt. "I don't have a penis, silly. I'm a girl. Everybody knows girls don't have penises." A naughty smirk captures her lips. "Not real ones anyway."

"Britt?"

"Yeah?"

"This is weird."

"This is life!" Brittany counters, playful. "I don't know why you even bothered with me when you had Santana waiting at home for you. She's gorgeous, like, beyond belief."

Noah places his hands on Brittany's shoulders, firm, as if to ground her. "Brittany, she threw a bat at your head intending to kill you – maim you for life at the very least." Satisfied he's gotten the message across, he lets go of her.

"Right, but she was upset," Brittany reasons. "Like, I totally get it. I probably would've been the same."

"No, Santana's pretty much always like that," he says, sitting up and glancing around the office again, before returning his eyes to Brittany. "Angry. If it's not one thing it's another. Do you know how exhausting it is to live with someone who's always mad? Apart from the angry sex she used to just spring on me, it's hell."

Curiosity furrows Brittany's eyebrows. "Have you ever asked her why she's so upset all the time?"

"You're not getting it. She's never upset – if only. She's angry. Always."

"But Noah, anger's just hurt with all the theatrics."

He regards her with quiet wonderment, puzzled as to how Brittany, of all people, always seems to offer such profoundly simple insights.

"So have you ever asked her why she's always so upset?"

"No."

"Why not? You should always acknowledge how your partner's feeling, right?"

"Not with Santana. She's not really a feelings kind of girl. She watches UFC."

"Me FC? What's that mean?"

"No, not you you. The letter 'u'. You know UFC, right? The Ultimate Fighting Championship, where guys punch and kick chunks out of each other? She even trains in martial arts herself." He gestures at his bruised face, indicates, "some of her handy work. Damn near took me off my feet."

"Oh, UFC. Gotcha. But maybe she just likes to watch half-naked men get sweaty together."

"Nope. She likes to watch them knock each other out, because she's an angry person."

Brittany nods, clasping her hands in the dip of her skirt and staring at them. "I almost feel like I should talk to her, or... or something. I mean, yeah you lied. But I knew you guys were together and I still let you tap this, so I kinda feel like I owe her an explanation." She looks up at Noah. "You know?"

He scoots his chair towards her, eyes flitting around the office as he leans in close. "Come closer."

When Brittany leans in he whispers a harsh: "Are you crazy?"

A slow grin creeps over her features. "A little bit."

"She wanted to murder you last week. I still haven't worked out why she didn't. So just..." Noah sucks in a large breath, blows it back out again. "Lay low and stay out of her way."

"So you want the woman you love to just go through life angry, without ever talking to anyone about why she's so upset all the time?" Brittany asks.

"She's dangerous!" Noah blurts, frustrated. "Okay? She's the niece of Alsarvio Lopez. One of New York's most notorious organized mobsters. All she has to do is make a phone call, and I could be murdered without anybody ever hearing the gunshot. You too."

Brittany raises her eyebrows. "Shit, that's insane. Really?"

"Yeah. And you gave her your name, which means she can find out where you live. So just, please, stay out of her way and be careful. It was a stupid idea for me to take you back to the apartment in the first place. I guess I just got lost in my boner."

He half sighs half groans, wanting to bang his head against the desk.

"Want something to eat?"

"No," Santana bites back, bent on destroying the kitchen table's surface with her glare.

"A drink?"

"No."

Mercedes looks her friend over, clicks her tongue. "Come on Satan, you gotta eat. You vanish off the face of the earth for two weeks, then I come round to find you like this?" She slings a disgusted hand at the overflowing bin, and various other filthy hotspots. "Come on, let me make you something."

"No. What I need to do is find out where this bitch lives so I can give her the facial reconstructive surgery she's always wanted. Bitch looks like a God damn cat."

Mercedes shuts the fridge door, puts the milk on the kitchen counter, and sighs. "You know that skank probably didn't even know you existed."

"Oh, she knew alright," Santana growls to herself, trembling with quiet fury. "I spoke to him on the phone like five minutes before I caught them, heard the bitch say something in the background, but I wasn't sure. Fucking asshole said he loved me and called me babe a bunch of times. She was there. She knew about me and didn't give a fuck. Bitches like that aren't right." She slams her palm to the table and explodes up out of her seat, the chair legs screeching against the tiled floor. "So I'ma fix her with my fists."

"Santana, look at me," Mercedes says. "Santana!" she demands after a while.

The latina lifts her glare from a knot in the table's wood, something glassy about her dour coffee hues.

"Puck's the one who screwed up here, man. Let that little skank live. It's not worth going back to jail over. Feds just sit around waiting for you Lopez's to fuck up; they'll love locking you up."

Santana doesn't respond, prompting Mercedes to ask, "what are you thinking, mama?"

"I..."

Santana's stony expression cracks under the weight of the pain she's suppressing, her shoulders slumping.

Mercedes is there in seconds, tugging her shuddering friend into a hug. "Shh. Everything's gonna be okay. His lyin' ass is gone. You'll be back to regular old Santana, 'beat a bitch down,' Lopez in no time, you hear me?"

Santana nods, sniffling into Mercedes shoulder. "Tell anyone I broke down like this, and I'll set fire to your weave."

Mercedes holds her closer, smirks. "Do that and I'll rip the strands out your head with such ferocity, your thoughts'll come with 'em."

Another watery sniffle. "Thanks."

"Anytime Satan. Now," Mercedes begins, pulling back with an encouraging smile, "go sit your ass down and get ready to eat this soup I'm about to make."

Santana sniffs, drags her inner elbow across her wet eyes. "Cool. Lemme just go make a quick phone call."

He mounts the sofa and leans into the window sill, cautiously peaking through a slat in the blinds.

"Puck, relax. It's been over a week. If she was gonna do anything she would've done it by now."

Puck takes his finger from the blinds and they slink back into formation. "You obviously don't know Santana, bro. Here." He turns around, extends a wrinkled twenty dollar bill to his friend. "Get me some cigarettes and a bottle of vodka from the liquor store."

"But...I'm not going to the liquor store."

Puck sighs, ruffles the overgrown strands of his mohawk. "Dude, come on man. I can't go out there and I'm gasping for a cigarette."

"If it's this serious maybe you should, I don't know, go to the cops," Finn says, like the solution's stupid obvious.

"I'm no snitch. I'm not going to the cops; that's a bitch move."

"What, and moving in here and jumping every time me or Rach flip a light switch isn't?"

"Finn, come on."

Finn rolls his eyes, begrudgingly takes the money. "Rachel's gonna be home soon, so wash your dishes," he says, shrugging on his jacket. "I don't need her bitching at me about you staying here again."

The moment he opens the front door there's a large gloved hand pressed to his chest, pushing him back inside the apartment.

He stumbles the kind of stumble that'd make any grown man look stupid, shoulder crashing into the hallway wall.

The impact knocks him to the floor, where he grimaces up into dark sunglasses, a sharp nose, and lips framed by a dark handle-bar moustache.

"Where is he?"

"W-Who, uh..." Finn gulps down a frog, throat a desert. "W-Who are you t-talkin' about?"

The man kicks the door shut with the corner of his polished black shoe, crouches down next to the stuttering fool cowering before him. He sniffs with a cold nonchalance, bumps Finn's quivering knee with his elbow as if they're just two friends messing around. "If I gotta ask you again, there's gonna be a problem. You receiving me?" The man nods slowly, as if to hurry Finn's comprehension along. "So where is he?"

Finn feebly jerks his head in the direction of the lounge. "I-I-In there."

"Good man."

The intruder slams his palm down on Finn's kneecap, rises to his feet, and then enters the lounge.

Behind his shades his eyes veer around the room, stopping at the open window and rattling blinds.

He smirks, taking out his phone to speed dial his partner.

"Hello?"

"Little bastard got out through the front window. You guys got him?"

"What do you think this is? The amateur leagues? He's in the back of the van."

"I'll be out in two ticks. Let me just make myself a sandwich. I'm famished."

Suddenly there's kids everywhere, more and more pouring out of the building's double doors by the second.

Santana smiles at a few, slipping her brass-knuckle-clad fist behind her back as she leans back into the building, real casual.

Like she's not gonna have to drive home with blood on her clothes.

Patient as a detective tailing a mark, she waits. Watches child after child burst through the doors and flock into the arms of a parent – sometimes even two.

They're lucky, Santana internally laments. Especially those with a mother and a father.

When the steady flow of children ceases, she breezes through the double doors with a confidence that suggests she's supposed to be there – even attracts a smile from the lady at the reception desk.

As if scripted, she immediately spots Brittany in a room a little down the hall.

Blonde hair thrown up in a bun so loose it's almost silly. Loose yellow t-shirt and baggy grey sweats that spill into white sneakers.

Santana figures the kids must've cleared out entirely, because the only body moving around the small dance studio is Brittany.

Fist still concealed behind her back, she steps into the doorway, stands there watching the flush-faced blonde tidy up.

"Give me a reason not to murder you in here today."

Brittany's fingers still on her duffel bag's zipper. She slowly rises from her crouched position and turns around.

"Santana," she states.

"That doesn't sound like a reason."

Santana ventures inside then, pushes the door in with a soft but menacing click.

She crosses the modestly-sized space, stopping once she's eye to eye with Brittany. "Do you have any idea what I'm gonna do to you, princess?"

"Look, Santana, Noah's a total idiot for ever speaking to me when he already had such a beautiful girlfriend."

"You tricks were doing way more than talking when I put a pin in your little fuck party, puta. I had to buy a new bed. Next day delivery."

Brittany looks to the floor, mumbles, "I'm super sorry about what happened. Noah said you had an open relationship. Here." She reaches into the pocket of her sweats, and when her hand re-appears, there's a pink lollipop in her palm. "Want a lollipop?"

Santana nods her head back sharp, frowning. "You think compliments and offering me candy's gonna stop me killing you in here today, perra?" She slaps Brittany's hand away, the lollipop rolling out across the floor.

Brittany just stares at her.

That anger Noah told her about; she can see it. Feel it wafting off the pretty woman in large oppressive waves.

It intrigues her, breathes sadness and unimaginable curiosity into her. Like when a particularly beautiful flower calls, and you just have to go investigate.

So she asks. Asks the question nobody else ever seems to. "Why are you so angry?"

Santana steps into her, trying to get her to take a step back. But Brittany's sneakers don't move an inch, and it calls a sick smirk about Santana's lips.

"You're one of those stupid bitches, aren't you?"

Brittany's brows knit and she reprimands, "hey! I'm not stupid!"

It's what Santana wants; a rise out of this whore.

She grins. "That's right, feel froggy – hell, leap! I'll beat the breaks off of you," she husks, shoulders rolling with a delighted shiver. "Let's see who's gonna teach those sweet kids to dance when you're a vegetable."

Brittany rolls her eyes, bends to grab her duffel bag, which she hoists up on her shoulder once she's vertical again. "Call me stupid all day long if you want." She shrugs. "I get that you're mad at me and Noah – and rightfully so. But I'm telling you I'm sorry, and I didn't know you guys were serious. You could pull those knuckledusters out from behind your back and put me on my ass, but you're only gonna feel better for a second. Then you're gonna go home, think about finding me with Noah, and feel miserable all over again."

Santana glances around, acknowledges all of the mirrors for the first time.

Shit.

She pulls her fist out from behind her back, feeling like she's lost face for having been out-smarted by someone she's just called stupid.

"I'd like to explain what happened. I mean, you must have questions right? We could totally go to Starbucks. I'll buy you a coffee and a muffin and we'll talk. You can even bring your brass knuck's."

"Are you retarded or something?"

Brittany parts her lips to respond, but Santana shakes her head, not finished. "You really think I wanna sit down and drink coffee with you? – And hold up." Santana shakes her head again, like what she suspects can't be true. "Are you fucking hitting on me?"

Brittany dares to entertain a shy smile. "Like I said, I really don't know how Noah even managed to see me when he already had you."

Suddenly feeling invaded by their proximity, Santana steps back, the brass knuck's slipping slightly as the uncertainty of the situation tugs her fist loose. She runs a hand halfway through her hair and leaves it there, staring off into the far wall. "Oh my God. This is so fucked up," she murmurs.

Recovered somewhat, she lets her arm fall back to her side and peers at Brittany, now seeing the situation for what it is. "I should beat you like a drum, you dyke. But I'm afraid you'd enjoy the contact."

"I'm not a dyke," Brittany states softly, and her tenderness only fuels Santana's ire. "Labels are for canned food, like tuna."

"You're up in here tryna take a chica out for coffee and a God damn muffin! I say that makes you a fucking fruit."

"I don't even really like fruit. I'm attracted to people, not gender."

"I don't give a fuck!" Santana roars, right back up in Brittany's face again. "Save the public service announcement for someone who gives a fuck."

Brittany's blue-eyed gaze falls to her lips, and Santana clocks it, instantly the most uncomfortable she's been in a while.

She trips slightly in her haste to step back again.

"Are you okay Santa–"

Santana quickly bats Brittany's outreaching hand away before it makes contact with her. "Don't touch me unless you wanna pull back a bloody stub, fuckface!"

"I just want you to be okay, Santana. I feel crummy about what happened. How can I make you feel better?"

It's in that moment, with that question and all of its implications hanging between them, that Santana realizes this isn't gonna go the way she wants – that she's too ruffled to pull the trigger on this clown.

At least for now.

"Santana, are you okay?"

"You know what?"

"What?"

"It's your lucky day. You know why? 'Cause I don't think beating your brains out is worth the jail time anymore. So here's what's gonna happen: I'm gonna continue to live my life in this big beautiful city, and if I ever see your vacuous face again, it'll be the last time anybody does, got it? Nod for me."

"Santana –"

"No, no, no. I said nod. Now."

"Fine," Brittany sighs, giving a small stiff nod.

"Perfect."

Tell me your thoughts :)