Chapter Text
Brittany asks Santana to marry her for the first time when she’s six years old, toeing the ground with the tip of her sneaker and holding out a red ring pop shyly as Santana’s eyes widen and sweep down to stare at it.
“Only grown ups get married, Britt,” Santana says, moving a little so she can close her fingers around the candy and fiddle with it.
“Only people who love each other get married,” Brittany corrects her gently, wrapping her hand around Santana’s to pull the ring pop closer and lick her tongue out to taste it. She hums happily and grins at Santana, who pulls the candy back and sucks on it thoughtfully.
“Okay,” she says after what seems like a long time. “I’ll marry you Britty.”
Santana asks Brittany to marry her for the first time when they’re sixteen years old and halfway through the fifth of tequila Puck swiped from his mom and has somehow managed to keep from the rest of the football players at Matt Rutherford’s house.
She tastes like tequila when Brittany kisses her, and she murmurs into Brittany’s mouth happily, unintelligible things that Brittany can’t decipher but likes the sound of, like secrets Santana is hiding in her kisses and only she gets to know.
She stumbles a little when Brittany pulls her into a bathroom and bursts out laughing when she nearly trips into the bathtub, holding onto the side as Brittany fits herself against her back and wraps her arms around her waist, swaying a little with the effort of holding herself up.
“S’dangerous in here, Britt,” Santana giggles again and turns her head to bump against Brittany’s.
“We should find a bed,” Brittany suggests, sliding her hand up Santana’s stomach under her shirt.
“We should get a bed,” Santana says like the idea is only just occurring to her. “It wouldn’t be dangerous if we had our own bed.”
“We’d need, like, a house to put it in,” Brittany giggles against her neck, dragging her lips over Santana’s pulsepoint and feeling her shiver a little in response.
“We should just get married,” Santana whispers, like it’d solve everything, and Brittany’s yes is lost against her lips.
The second time Brittany asks Santana to marry her, they’re eighteen and tangled up together on a sun lounger by Quinn’s pool towards the end of the summer, watching the way the string of lights around the deck glint off the water in the dusk. Quinn is inside ordering pizza and Santana keeps edging closer, until there’s no space between their bodies and they’re breathing the same air.
“The lights are really pretty,” Santana murmurs softly, and Brittany can feel the words vibrating through her skin from where Santana’s forehead rests against her cheek.
“You’re really pretty,” Brittany says back through a smile, and watches Santana blush prettily.
“Britt…” Santana murmurs, and presses a kiss to her cheek. Brittany turns her head to find her lips, kissing her sweet and slow, until Santana’s smiling so much she has to break the contact.
“We should have lights like that when we’re older,” Brittany says into her hair, like there’s been no break in the conversation, then lowers her voice a little. “Or, like, at our wedding. We should totally get married in the summer. The summer’s the best.”
Santana looks up at her through her eyelashes, eyes shy and dark, “We should?”
Brittany nods and brushes a lock of hair out of Santana’s eyes, “We should.”
“Okay,” Santana says shyly, finding her eyes and smiling for a second before she looks away.
Santana thinks she asks Brittany to marry her at a gas station in Wyoming, and it takes them two whole days to sort out the mess.
The second time Santana asks Brittany to marry her, Brittany’s dragged Santana with her to some sort of mixer in the Theater, Dance and Performance Studies department, because she didn’t want to go alone. Brittany introduces Santana to some of her friends, and then Santana excuses herself to go to the bathroom and takes forever to come back.
At first, Brittany thinks that maybe Santana’s got lost, because this is only the second time she’s visited Berkeley since they matriculated, but then Brittany spots her cornered by the bar, talking to some guy and looking like she’s desperately trying to get away. She edges closer, close enough so that Santana can grab her and breathe, “Just be my wife for a minute,” into her ear.
The guy looks like all his Christmases have come at once, and Santana rolls her eyes so hard Brittany thinks they might fall out of her head. She’s about two seconds away from punching him in the middle of the bar when Brittany pulls her back towards her friends, lacing their fingers together and holding her hand tightly so she can’t go back for him.
“So I’m your wife now?” Brittany asks, just before they find her friends and Santana smirks a little as she puts some swagger into her steps.
The third time Brittany asks Santana to marry her, Brittany’s exhausted from rehearsals for the TDPS’s latest musical and all her limbs feel too heavy, so that it was a chore just to walk and she nearly missed her bus home. Santana’s sprawled on the couch with a book in her lap, open to whatever page she’s supposed to be reading, but her glasses are pushed up on her head and she’s watching the food network instead.
“Hey babe,” she says, pulling her knees up to her chest to give Brittany room to sit next to her. “How was rehearsal?”
“Painful,” Brittany says, stretching her legs out in front of her and then sitting cross-legged so she can pull at her own feet, attempting to get the kinks out.
“C’mere,” Santana says, leaning over the arm of the couch to drop her book on the table, and then reaching to pull Brittany’s feet into her lap and rub them, working her fingers over them slowly and rubbing at all the places they ache, well practiced from years of cheerleading in high school.
Brittany groans with how good it feels and settles her head back into the cushions, letting her eyes flutter closed. “Oh my God, marry me.”
“Sure,” Santana says with a laugh, and even though Brittany’s eyes are closed she can practically hear the self-satisfied smirk she knows is on Santana’s face.
The last time Santana asks Brittany to marry her, they’re standing in the middle of their brand new and still empty post-college apartment, with a pile of boxes by the door waiting to be unpacked.
“Where do you want to start?” Brittany asks, eyeing the boxes for a second before she turns back to Santana, and it takes her brain a minute to register the way Santana’s grinning and biting at her bottom lip.
“Here,” Santana says, sinking down so she’s on one knee and pulling a ring box from the inside pocket of her jacket. “I want to start here.”
It’s empty, and Santana smiles shyly when she tugs the silver ring her abuela gave her off her finger and slides it into the ring box in her hand. “I did it wrong before,” she says and Brittany remembers Wyoming and Utah four years before. “And I want to do it right.”
“I said yes when I was six,” Brittany whispers hoarsely, and Santana swallows past the lump in her throat. “Do you want me to say it again?”
Santana nods and Brittany whispers, “Yes,” as she pulls Santana to her feet and kisses her, “Yes,” as she kisses her again, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”