Well, to be fair, Kurt is less than a week away from turning twenty six, and they don't so much announce it as Blaine whispers it excitedly down the phone whilst Kurt is safely occupied for a few minutes in another room. He says that he has Kurt's permission to tell her, but she's dubious about that. More likely Kurt had sarcastically muttered about Blaine not being able to go five minutes without blabbering, and he'd misinterpreted it as permission.

Santana knocks her head against the wall when he tells her. She's ducked out of the restaurant in the middle of a romantic dinner with Britt, and now she's stood on the street and cocooned in a little crowd of smokers, which is really doing nothing for the whole 'quitting' thing she swears she's trying. She just wants to go inside and finish her far too expensive but also sinfully delicious spaghetti, order some chocolate mousse to go, crawl back to their little flat, and see if she can beat her high score for orgasms achieved in one night. She curses herself, not for the first time, for somehow obtaining such a puppy-like best friend, who sees as much use for holding in information as he does for wearing socks. That is to say, none whatsoever. It's all indirectly Brittany's fault, but that kind of thinking isn't the kind of thinking that's going to get her spectacularly laid that night, so she blames herself for a few seconds and then pushes it to the back of her mind.

"Congrats, Blainers," she drawls, definitely not elongating the word to mask the fact that she's leaning in to a cloud of second hand smoke and trying to coat her lungs in it through force of will alone. "Here's to hoping the sprog takes after Hummel. Was there anything else?"

He manages to natter on for a few more minutes before she can make him hang up. She's vaguely happy for them, but kids are kind of completely not her thing. She uses years of practise living in an emotionally-stunted family to forget the conversation ever happened, and then goes back inside and fucks Brittany in a bathroom stall to celebrate lesbianism and the fact that there's no way in hell she can get knocked up.

She later finds that viscously ironic in a way that would be rather satisfying if it had happened to anyone else.

The next day she wakes groggily in her bed with a clump of soft blonde hair in her mouth. The covers are on the floor, she's candidly and one hundred percent naked, and Britt's limbs are clammy and goosebumped, tangled and wrapped around her in various awkward ways so that there's no possible way she can extract herself from them. Sadly, this isn't an unusual occurrence. Brittany sleep dances. It's gotten to the point where Santana has added 'never having a decent nights sleep again for the rest of my life' into the secret and ever-growing pro/con list she has hidden on her computer to decide if she should propose.

Santana finds her way out eventually, though it involves bribing an octopus-like Brittany with waffles when she wakes up and decides to go for morning sex without consulting Santana. Normally San isn't one to turn down an orgasm at any time of the night or day, but right then her limbs are kind of completely aching and the lack of coffee in her system is fighting with nicotine withdrawal to make sure she is what's known as entirely miserable.

She pads into the living room without bothering to put any clothes on, and tries in vain to kick their ancient heating system into working order. It gives a few long, loud creaks which suggest it's doing something, so she decides she's satisfied Brittany isn't going to freeze to death on that particular morning, and precedes to the kitchen. Once she's had two cups of strong black coffee and hand fed Britt a toaster waffle, she climbs back into their bed and gives herself her first orgasm of the day.

She drinks another cup of coffee, kisses Britt out the door and towards a stupid rehearsal she doesn't need. She sets the shower spray as hot as it will go with a naive amount of hope, and then stands under the glacial water it churns out, shivering angrily and wondering if she'll have to blow the landlord to get him to fix their bloody heat already. He's old and gross, but if Britt gives her permission then by this stage she thinks she'll totally do it. They've lived here for a year and they've got no plans to leave any time soon.

It's not until she reaches down for her razor and spots Britt's stupid towel in the corner that she remembers her conversation with Blaine the night before. It's a more logical jump than it sounds; the towel is from Disneyland, and features the cast of Britt's favourite film, which happens to be 101 Dalmations. Santana challenges anyone on the plant to look at that many puppies in one go without thinking of Blaine Anderson. Bloody hell, she thinks as she soaps herself up. Blainers is having a baby.

She uses the towel to dry herself off, and thinks about Kurt and Blaine for a while. Her hobbit-esque best friend has been pathetically in love with Hummel since he was barely sixteen years old. They'd moved in together the second Blaine arrived in New York, though Santana imagines having Berry eternally belting out heartbroken ballads in the next room discouraged them from diving into a particularly wild sex life at that stage. But then they'd gotten married fresh out of University in some small but still ostentatious ceremony that she's sure Blaine had absolutely no say in, and Rachel had found another roomate to torment with her endless drama, so they'd turned her room into some pathetic imitation of a study that Santana likes to loudly tell everyone is actually just code for 'secret sex dungeon' just to see them blush a shade that matches her lipstick. She guesses that room will be redesigned into a nursery, now. She has absolutely no problem picturing Kurt marching Blaine around parenting stores with a carefully marked colour wheel in one hand and a foot-long list of obscure 'necessities' in the other. He's probably already customised an Alexander McQueen scarf into a babygro.

She kind of wants to scream at them not to do it, but at the same time it's really perfect. They'll be great parents, without a doubt. Kurt'll organise everything and make sure everyone always has gourmet food and cutting edge clothes and everything else he's convinced they need, and Blaine will bounce around being puppy-like and eternally amusing, like a toy that never wears out and eventually the most embarrassing dad on the planet.

Her schedule is a gaping hole of bitter unemployment that day, so she dresses herself in something inappropriate and shells out for a cab to Kurt and Blaine's apartment.

"Hey Hogwarts," she says by way of greeting, letting herself in with the key they constantly regret giving her. "Hands where I can see them."

Blaine is stretched out on the sofa his pyjamas, wearing his goofy glasses and intently studying some pieces of paper she assumes are for work. His face lights up when he sees her, like he's genuinely surprised she's there. Hummel is nowhere to be seen, so she gives up on interrupting anything dirty that day. It's her eternal quest to catch them in the throes of sodomy, just once, so she has sufficient blackmail material for the rest of her life. Like a pension on her friendship; to make sure she always has something to fall back on.

"Hey Santana," Blaine says warmly, and he shifts over so she can collapse onto the sofa next to him. She's about to launch an attempt to steal his mug of coffee when Hummel marches in from the bedroom, perfectly dressed in some too-fancy suit and Doc Martens.

"Hey Kurt," she greets him with a smirk. He wisely seems unsurprised to see her there. She's a permanent fixture in both their lives and apartment by now, no matter how much he dislikes it. "Blainers knock you up yet?"

He gives her a slightly strange look.

"You do know that's not biologically possible, right?"

Oh. Of course. In her defence, she'd been on her third glass of wine when Blaine had called and told her the night before, so she hadn't really been thinking at her sharpest. Besides, Hummel is so freaking girly she sometimes forgets he's sporting a pair of testicles inside those skin tight trousers. She still feels like a bit of a moron now that he mentions it, but they don't have to know that.

"Whatever," she replies, feigning indifference. Kurt rolls his eyes and grabs his bag from beside the sofa, leaning down a bit further to press a kiss to Blaine's forehead.

"Okay, honey, I'll be back by five," he says, and then shoots a glare in Santana's direction. "Satan."

"Mom," she acknowledges. He rolls his eyes and marches out of the door.

"Don't let her in the liquor cabinet, Blaine!" comes the echo of his voice, and then the door shuts.

"Love you!" Blaine calls to the door, before turning to Santana with a characteristically sugar-sweet smile.

"So are you guys adopting some Tibetan war orphan or what?"

She's not sure if there's been a war in Tibet recently, or indeed ever, but it seems like the kind of thing Blaine would do, in his completely innocent I-want-to-help-everyone kind of way. She's surprised when he shakes his head.

"We talked about it, and we might adopt in a few years, but for our first child we want someone who's properly ours, y'know? So it really feels like starting our own family, just like a regular couple."

If she was a little bit nicer, she'd chime in then with some speech about how they were a regular couple, they had the same rights as anyone else, being gay made no difference to their love, yada yada yada. If she was a little bit meaner, she would point out that with Hummel constantly on the edge of a spontaneous sex change and Blaine's unhealthy obsession for bow ties and giving horrible advice, they'll never in their dreams be regular.

The Santana of high school, the one Blaine had originally befriended, might have pointed that out. But she's making a thing out of trying to be nicer these days, mostly for Brittany, so she keeps her mouth shut on both counts.

"- so we're going to start looking for a surrogate!" Blaine finishes, giving her the most hilariously dopey smile she's ever had the misfortune of seeing. Her heart sinks as her mouth opens without consulting her brain, and she realises what she's about to say a half second before it slips out. Damn it.

"Stop looking," she says, with a sigh of resignation so deep the apartment nearly shakes. "I'm doing it."