Author Note: For a gleeks friendship request.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.


Brittany rolls on top of Kurt, pinning him down bodily to the picnic blanket they're sharing, and Kurt has to resist the urge to press up on her shoulders, knock her aside, and let out an undignified shriek because he can totally feel her boobs and that's disturbing and terrifying and a million other types of wrong. Suddenly, her hand's over his mouth and he stops squirming, relegated to grimacing, shutting his eyes tightly, and spluttering in an attempt to get blonde hair out of his mouth because she's whispering in his ear.

"Just keep your mouth shut and pretend you're really into me," Brittany orders as she bows her head and lets her hair fall like a curtain around their faces, noses bumping as she leans in closer, closing her eyes. Neither of them actually wants their lips to touch, and Kurt feels himself blushing as she tilts her head and lets out little breathy pants as she tries to fake make-out with him. It's one of the most awkward things he's ever done, and that's taking into account he's tried to pretend he's straight in a boy's locker room. After a quickly hissed prompt from Brittany to help, he tentatively rests a hand on her waist, frowning deeply as he tilts his chin up, pressing the side of his face against hers as they pause and go still, listening intently to the people on the path that had shouted at them. Kurt briefly wonders if this is how Santana feels—

No. Just, no. He's not going to go there. They can still hear the two people on the dirt path saying something about faggots—maybe the vest and fedora combination wasn't such a good idea in the late afternoon in a fairly secluded park in Lima—and Kurt winces and tilts his head back to look at the two boys approaching them from the path, realizing he has more important things to think about right now. One of Brittany's hands is gripping his shoulder tightly as she rises up on her elbows and knees, blue eyes wide as they both watch them approach.

"Hey, faggot!" they hear again, more loudly, and Brittany looks down at him, biting her lip.

"What do we do?" she whispers worriedly.

"I don't know!" Kurt admits frantically, trying to sit up, but Brittany pushes him back down. If she's trying to make him seem straight and manly by making out with him, then this whole taking-charge-and-manhandling-him thing is definitely not helping. "I usually just take it and try to move on once they've thrown me in the dumpster, but I don't think that's going to be happening right now."

Brittany nods, at a complete loss because boys like seeing hot cheerleaders kissing. This is something she's never had to deal with before. The boys step onto the grass, leering, and keep walking toward them, and Brittany squints as she moves and kneels next to Kurt and Kurt sits up, brushing his shoulders off indignantly. One of them looks like Karofsky's younger cousin, holding a bottle in a brown paper bag, and the other is some freshman football player. As the guys are busy punching each other in the arm and congratulating themselves on their witty insult, she speaks up, addressing the one who's edged closest to them.

"I know you," Brittany says suddenly. He stops sneering at Kurt and turns on her.


"Uh-huh. Karofsky's cousin, right?"

"Yeah," he says, looking at her with narrowed eyes and handing the bag to his friend, stepping closer. Brittany nods wordlessly, opening her mouth to speak, but he interrupts her, pointing accusatorily at Kurt. "Aren't you a cheerleader or something? What are you doing hanging around with this faggot?"

"Kurt's my boyfriend," Brittany lies smoothly, reaching up to run a hand through her hair, and Kurt looks quickly from one boy the other. The one holding the bag snorts, and Karofsky's cousin swaggers closer, chest out.

"Yeah, right."

"Didn't you see us making out right before you started harassing us?"

Kurt sighs internally, because really, how hard is it to use mallard right when you can use harass correctly? He's only a few feet away, and Brittany blinks in surprise as she realizes that she has a plan. It's kind of a lame one and they might have to run for it, but there's a slim—okay, very slim—chance this will work, and she doesn't want to run because she just finished her ice cream cone and really, she's wearing a bikini top as a bra. She's not exactly in running condition.

"I've got mace," she warns, dipping her hand into her pocket. She pulls out a small tube of chapstick, cupping it in her hands and hoping they can't tell the difference. It stops one of them in their tracks, but Karofsky's cousin steps closer, an arm's-length away.

"You're faking it," he says, turning to the side to hawk and spit—ew—on the grass. "You and that fucking faggot."

Brittany looks back at Kurt at then the boys, and asks herself what would Coach Sylvester do. That only gets her a half-baked plan about hand-springing into a karate kick and then pummeling them once they're on the ground, which is basically impossible. Mr. Schuester would try some sort of diplomacy—sung, no doubt—but that isn't going to happen, and she's not big enough to try anything Puck would do, so she asks herself what would Santana do, and after thinking about it for a second, she chucks the tube of chap stick at the other guy before she launches herself at the nearest boy, who happens to be Karofsky's cousin.

He breaks her fall as she lands heavily on top of him, otherwise Brittany's pretty sure she'd have the breath knocked out of her, just like him. She turns her head away and closes her eyes as she makes a fist and starts hitting downwards randomly, but she's saved from having to do any real damage by Kurt, who's up and kicking the guy in the side with his polished Italian loafers although he looks equally as squeamish about it before there's a palm in her face, crashing into her nose and shoving her back.

She lands on her side on the grass, dazed, but sees the guy scramble up and toward his friend, the two of them retreating quickly toward the path and shouting threateningly about crazy bitches and faggots, but it doesn't matter what they say because they're leaving. The two of them probably could have taken her and Kurt, but apparently it's not worth the effort or the bruised ego.

Brittany shakes her head as Kurt grabs her hand and hauls her upright, but it only makes her nose throbs, and she stops abruptly. Kurt bends down to pick up his hat off the grass and drop it back on his head as he reaches into the discarded picnic basket, coming up with a bag with a few watery ice cubes in it that they had used to keep their cans of Diet Coke in. He hands it to her, and Brittany presses it gingerly to her nose and he crouches beside her.

"Britt, that was amazing!" Kurt says excitedly. Wincing, Brittany decides not to touch her nose anymore and stands up, frowning at a grass stain that mars her shirt sleeve.

"Uh, sure," she says, grabbing his hand and fishing in her pocket for her keys. "So, I know you got a taste of violence and all and you'll probably show up at Puck's fight club sooner or later, but I really just want to go home."

Kurt's mouth snaps shut and he nods almost sheepishly as she starts to gather their things.

"Want to stop by my place and get cleaned up? I can make victory coffee," he offers, and she looks back over her shoulder to smile at him as she slings the grassy blanket over her shoulder and hands him the picnic basket.

"Yes, please."


Mr. Hummel is a kind man, even if he doesn't quite know how to show it sometimes. He takes one look at them sneaking silently in through the back door after dark, grass-stained and with Brittany's nose still swollen, and shakes his head as he gets up and drops his Sport Fishing Magazine on the La-Z-Boy, heading for the kitchen. He comes back with a real ice pack, electric blue and prickly with frost, and hands it to Brittany as they stand in the living room.

"I hope you got the bastards," he says solemnly as Brittany takes the ice pack. Kurt nods quickly beside her.

"She did, Dad."

Mr. Hummel doesn't look at all surprised. He just shakes his head and addresses his son.

"We're going to have a talk," he says. Kurt cringes next to her, and Brittany suddenly finds something interesting to look at on the wall to her right, wondering just how awkward this could possibly get. But Mr. Hummel gratefully adds, "tomorrow," before pulling Kurt in for a bone crushing hug. Kurt's eyes go wide and he takes in a sharp breath before his dad lets him go, and then Mr. Hummel turns to her, holding out his hand.

Brittany hands him the ice pack back, even though she's sorry to see it go. Mr. Hummel looks at her blankly before Kurt reaches out and plucks the ice pack from her hand, leaving it empty for his dad to grasp.

"Thank you for standing up for my son," he says gravely, shaking her hand, and Brittany nods. Mr. Hummel lets go, points at his son, and says, "tomorrow," again before heading up the stairs to his room. A muttered request to keep it down is the last they hear from him before there's the far-off sound of the bedroom door shutting, and Brittany can finally sprawl out on her back on the couch. Kurt hands her back the ice pack and disappears into the kitchen, and Brittany can hear him dragging things out of cabinets, possibly to make that coffee he was talking about. She balances the ice pack on her nose before reaching down into her front pocket with both hands.

She holds her phone up above her face, arms out held, and frowns. A long and slightly caved-in crack mars the screen, presumably from when Karofsky's cousin knocked her back and she fell on her side. Santana probably called her too, considering she promised to come over as soon as she was done hanging out with Kurt, but without the phone, Brittany can't contact her. She never really memorized her number because she always had her phone.

Frowning, Brittany realizes she's not sure what her own home phone number is, if she really thinks about it, but there's not much time to contemplate it because Kurt's calling her name and as she sits up and pulls the ice pack off, she can smell coffee.

Kurt wasn't kidding about victory coffee. Brittany takes a seat at the kitchen table but doesn't touch anything because it looks like Kurt's about ready to host a tea party. There's two cups of coffee steaming on coasters, cute little napkins set out, and even some biscotti. Brittany promptly picks one up and drops it in her coffee, letting it soak. Kurt sits across from her and makes a disgusted face. He handles his cup gently, sipping, and they fall into a comfortable silence until Kurt finally speaks.

"Do you love her?" he asks quietly, setting down his cup, and Brittany can sense a Serious Conversation coming. Really, it gets out that she has regular sex with Santana, and suddenly she's the Lima gay guru.

Well, the guru with any experience.

"Yes," Brittany says simply, because Kurt probably wouldn't appreciate the sarcasm in no, we just have sex. This makes him smile, although it's a sad smile, so Brittany reluctantly sets aside her soggy piece of biscotti, staining the napkin. Kurt doesn't seem to mind, so that's a sure sign something's troubling him.

"That must be nice," he says wistfully, and Brittany shrugs, sensing something else behind it.

"Is this about tonight?" she asks, and while Kurt does a good job of hiding his startled expression, she still sees it, reaching across the table and patting his hand.

"Aw, Kurt. Don't let them get you down."

"They're not getting me down," Kurt says defensively, although he sniffs loudly. He doesn't move his hand, though. Just curls his fingers over hers and sniffs again, so Brittany shakes her head, picks up a piece of biscotti with her free hand, and holds it out, aimed at his mouth. Kurt glares at her, retracting his hand and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"No. It's full of carbs and fat."

"And you put them out for me to eat?" Brittany asks, waving the piece of biscotti temptingly. "Thanks. Eat it, Kurt."

"I hate you," Kurt mumbles, eyeing it.

"You love me. Now, eat it. And if they ever bother you," Brittany adds, leaning forward to jab the biscotti at Kurt, "I'll kick their asses. Again."

Kurt rolls his eyes but opens his mouth, and around a mouthful of biscotti—Brittany takes the uneaten half and dips it in her coffee before eating it—he chuckles. "Yeah. Because that worked so well the first time."

"We're here, aren't we?" Brittany asks offhandedly, and Kurt has to admit with more than a hint of gratitude that it's true.


Brittany climbs the trellis outside Santana's window, avoiding the bougainvillea best she can, and slides open the window after she knocks on it, because Santana's mother has started cracking down on midnight visits and it's way past midnight. Santana's lying in bed, awake and texting, and Brittany guiltily realizes it's hours past the time she agreed to come over. Santana's up and yanking her forward by her shirt, a hand fisted in the fabric before she can speak.

"Christ," she whispers harshly, a hand reaching up toward Brittany's nose. Brittany catches it and twines their fingers together, more to stop her from touching it than anything else. "What happened, B?"

"I kind of got in a fight because these guys were calling Kurt names," she admits. Santana heaves a weary sigh and tugs her forward, walking backwards until they hit the bed and climb in, and Brittany sheds her grass-stained jeans before Santana rests her head against her shoulder.

"I can make it better," Santana says confidently, breath puffing against her skin, and Brittany stills the hand that's already sliding down her side.

"I'd like that," Brittany says, although she knows Santana won't like this next part. "But my nose still kind of hurts."

Santana huffs, and Brittany can feel her pulling away. Her hand slides from Santana's hand to her wrist, tugging Santana to her before she has a chance to roll over stubbornly, and she nuzzles at that one ticklish spot under Santana's jaw.

"Can you make me feel better tomorrow?"

There's a fraction of a pause before Santana answers where Brittany smiles against Santana's skin and she knows she's got her eating out of her hand.

"Of course. And then you can tell me how Hummel made me miss out on a whole night of sex. It better be a good reason, or I'm kicking his ass."

"Go to sleep, Santana," Brittany mumbles, pulling the blankets up over Santana's head.

"Love you, B," comes the muffled reply, and Brittany rolls her eyes before ducking under the covers, too.

"Love you, S."