Fic: Not a Cat Person
Santana's definitely not a cat person. But she is a Brittany person.
“Saaaan,” Brittany whined, jerking Santana out of a perfectly sound sleep.
“What, what?” she yawned, rolling over.
“Donald is sick,” Brittany said, distressed.
“Mmmff, I’ll take him to the vet in the morning,” Santana promised, burrowing under the pillows.
“Saaaan,” Brittany protested, and Santana sighed and sat up.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He threw up three times, and he won’t let me touch him, and I think he’s in a lot of pain.” Brittany’s eyes were full of tears, and Santana, who hated Donald more than anything, nevertheless swung herself out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants.
“All right, we’ll take him to the animal hospital, okay?” she said reluctantly. Donald had probably just eaten another one of Brittany’s hair ties or something, but Santana knew Brittany wouldn’t sleep unless she knew for sure he was fine.
“Okay,” Brittany agreed, and went to get the cat carrier.
Santana sat on the bed, watching Donald, who was huddled in the corner, and she thought maybe he did look like he was in pain. “You dumb animal,” she sighed, and Donald hissed. “Jesus!” she muttered.
Brittany came back with the carrier and tried to stick her pet in it, but he hissed and clawed, and she yelped in surprise. Now Santana knew Donald was really sick, because he never attacked Brittany. “All right, all right, it’s fine,” Santana soothed, managing to scruff the little beast. “Hold the carrier for me, Britt.” Donald howled and flailed, and Santana got a claw across her nose, but she grimly hung on and stuffed the cat into the carrier.
“Oh. San, your nose is bleeding,” Brittany noticed.
“It’s all right. Let’s just get Donald to the doctor, huh?”
It was two am, and the trains had stopped running, so Santana had to call a cab, but Brittany was clinging to her like she was a hero or something, so she tried to just grin and bear it. When they got the 24-hour animal hospital, they were third in line for a doctor, so Santana sat down with Donald, who was only howling intermittently, to fill out paperwork, while Brittany paced. “Babe,” she called finally, “he’s going to be fine. Come sit with me.”
Brittany plunked into the chair beside Santana, and Santana held her hand, and it was only ten more minutes before they got to take Donald in. He yowled and hissed as the vet tech tried to examine him, and so in a minute, he was taken away for an x-ray. “That is not going to be cheap,” Santana thought.
And it wasn’t. The x-ray found an intestinal blockage, which led to an emergency surgery, which eventually led to a healthier, sedated Donald and a very happy and relieved Brittany. “Oh. How much is all of this?” she worried, as Santana signed all the forms nearly two hours later.
“Don’t worry about it, Britt.”
“Santana, you can’t pay for this. He’s my cat.”
“Eh, he lives with both of us now. He’s our cat. And I’d feel better if you just didn’t worry about the money this time. Okay?”
Brittany sighed, but she smiled and kissed Santana’s nose. “Thank you,” she said, and Santana just nodded. She let Brittany pay for the cab ride home, though.
When they got back to their apartment, Santana fell into bed while Brittany coddled Donald, and she was almost asleep again when Brittany climbed in beside her, snuggling up as closely as she could. “Santana,” she whispered, and Santana’s eyes fluttered open.
“Is he okay?” Santana yawned.
“He’s sleeping. Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Britt. Really.”
“No, but. Thank you. For taking me seriously. And for going with me and taking care of-of all the important things. I got really scared.”
“I know,” Santana said gently, reaching up to caress Brittany’s hair. “I hate when you’re scared.”
“I know,” Brittany nodded. Santana smiled and pulled Brittany closer, nestling Brittany’s head under her chin. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, babe.”
“And Donald?” Brittany asked slyly.
“Don’t push it.”
Brittany giggled. Santana kissed her forehead. “Go to sleep. I have to be up in an hour.”
“I’m turning your alarm off,” Brittany decided, and even though Santana probably shouldn’t have been skipping class, she found she had no desire to argue.
“Saaaan,” Brittany whined, jerking Santana out of a perfectly sound sleep.
“What, what?” she yawned, rolling over.
“Donald is sick,” Brittany said, distressed.
“Mmmff, I’ll take him to the vet in the morning,” Santana promised, burrowing under the pillows.
“Saaaan,” Brittany protested, and Santana sighed and sat up.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He threw up three times, and he won’t let me touch him, and I think he’s in a lot of pain.” Brittany’s eyes were full of tears, and Santana, who hated Donald more than anything, nevertheless swung herself out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants.
“All right, we’ll take him to the animal hospital, okay?” she said reluctantly. Donald had probably just eaten another one of Brittany’s hair ties or something, but Santana knew Brittany wouldn’t sleep unless she knew for sure he was fine.
“Okay,” Brittany agreed, and went to get the cat carrier.
Santana sat on the bed, watching Donald, who was huddled in the corner, and she thought maybe he did look like he was in pain. “You dumb animal,” she sighed, and Donald hissed. “Jesus!” she muttered.
Brittany came back with the carrier and tried to stick her pet in it, but he hissed and clawed, and she yelped in surprise. Now Santana knew Donald was really sick, because he never attacked Brittany. “All right, all right, it’s fine,” Santana soothed, managing to scruff the little beast. “Hold the carrier for me, Britt.” Donald howled and flailed, and Santana got a claw across her nose, but she grimly hung on and stuffed the cat into the carrier.
“Oh. San, your nose is bleeding,” Brittany noticed.
“It’s all right. Let’s just get Donald to the doctor, huh?”
It was two am, and the trains had stopped running, so Santana had to call a cab, but Brittany was clinging to her like she was a hero or something, so she tried to just grin and bear it. When they got the 24-hour animal hospital, they were third in line for a doctor, so Santana sat down with Donald, who was only howling intermittently, to fill out paperwork, while Brittany paced. “Babe,” she called finally, “he’s going to be fine. Come sit with me.”
Brittany plunked into the chair beside Santana, and Santana held her hand, and it was only ten more minutes before they got to take Donald in. He yowled and hissed as the vet tech tried to examine him, and so in a minute, he was taken away for an x-ray. “That is not going to be cheap,” Santana thought.
And it wasn’t. The x-ray found an intestinal blockage, which led to an emergency surgery, which eventually led to a healthier, sedated Donald and a very happy and relieved Brittany. “Oh. How much is all of this?” she worried, as Santana signed all the forms nearly two hours later.
“Don’t worry about it, Britt.”
“Santana, you can’t pay for this. He’s my cat.”
“Eh, he lives with both of us now. He’s our cat. And I’d feel better if you just didn’t worry about the money this time. Okay?”
Brittany sighed, but she smiled and kissed Santana’s nose. “Thank you,” she said, and Santana just nodded. She let Brittany pay for the cab ride home, though.
When they got back to their apartment, Santana fell into bed while Brittany coddled Donald, and she was almost asleep again when Brittany climbed in beside her, snuggling up as closely as she could. “Santana,” she whispered, and Santana’s eyes fluttered open.
“Is he okay?” Santana yawned.
“He’s sleeping. Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Britt. Really.”
“No, but. Thank you. For taking me seriously. And for going with me and taking care of-of all the important things. I got really scared.”
“I know,” Santana said gently, reaching up to caress Brittany’s hair. “I hate when you’re scared.”
“I know,” Brittany nodded. Santana smiled and pulled Brittany closer, nestling Brittany’s head under her chin. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, babe.”
“And Donald?” Brittany asked slyly.
“Don’t push it.”
Brittany giggled. Santana kissed her forehead. “Go to sleep. I have to be up in an hour.”
“I’m turning your alarm off,” Brittany decided, and even though Santana probably shouldn’t have been skipping class, she found she had no desire to argue.