Doesn't really have a happy ending.
Santana's POV. A little OOC in Quinn's part.
My roommate's really get excited for Christmas so Christmas songs? I sleep on it, I wake up on it. And Last Christmas just got stuck on my head and I have to let it all out.
LUCY QUINN is 11
She never really thought she would reach this point of her life. Well, actually she did, it became inevitable a few months back, but still she likes to think it wouldn't happen.
It's her 96? no 97th chimney this evening and still counting. She thinks her best friend Brittany would have enjoyed this life. She loves Christmas. And for what's worth, Santana SHOULD too. But now, she doesn't. She hates it. Especially when she has to bear the responsibility that comes with it.
She lands in the fireplace quietly as she continues her monologue. It's ironic how Saint Nicholas's daughter hating on Christmas day.
She rolls her eyes at the decorations at House 96/97(who's counting?). Another reason why Brittany is better suited for this job is she'd love every single detail of this house. It looked like Santa threw up in this place. Must have been rich.
Santana takes this moment to look around the house. She walks silently towards the big... bright, colorful tree-she's not entirely sure if it's still a tree, considering the amount of lights, socks, and ornaments put onto it, she wonder's how it's still standing. As she places her red sack on the floor she freezes. She hears a faint sound of breathing.
There's nothing to be afraid of. Everyone breathes while they sleep.
Achooo.
Okay, no. That's not breathing. That's sneezing. And people don't sneeze when they sleep.
Thump. thump. Thump.
footsteps? Oh no. Not now. I can't handle any encounter with a human. I can't afford to be behind schedule on my first Christmas.
"Hello?" a small voice echoes through the hallowness of the room.
Hey kiddo, how about you turn away and let me be in my merry way of delivering presents so everybody could be happy?
"Who's there?"
No one.
"Grandpa? Is that you?"
Oh sweet Jesus. Really? She hears the footsteps getting closer and she knows the probably tiny human isn't turning away any time soon.
"Nope. He would've woken me up if he was here. He always does." there was a pause and the tiny human had stopped walking too. "At least he used to."
huh. At least I'm not the only one talking to myself.
Santana sighed as she shakes her head. She hears the footsteps and she knows it's only a matter of time before she gets caught. When the tiny - NO. She's not tiny at all. She's fat-(erm, chubby. Brittany tells her to be nice just for this one day of the year), has her hair on a pigtail though there's some of her hair sticking out. She could notice some pimples too on her face. And she has braces on. Oh poor child. Must have been having a hard time on school then. She wearing an oversized eyeglasses, which she pushes up her nose with her finger as she studies Santana. Santana notes that the kiddo is handling this very well, she was calm, silently looking at Santana.
"I'm probably going to call the police in, like, in twenty seconds," she informs her lightly.
Yeah sure. And I'm about to be at another continent in, like, 1/10th of a second. Santana mimics the girl's tone in her head. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Why not?" Kiddo already got her fingers on their phone.
"Because then, how would you be able to get all these amazing presents?" Her voice is now probably about as dry as a desert, if not drier. Nothing she can do about that, either.
The girl's brows furrow. "Are you a burglar masquerading as Santa Claus? Because I'm telling you now, the flaw in the plan kind of lies in the fact that you're of the wrong gender."
Oooh. Well, you look at that. I have a smart-ass. She thinks she's a genius now, with that eyeglasses and that crossing-her-arms-over-her-chest thing,
"I'd choose that over this any day."
"So...you're not a burglar?"
"Maybe." Santana is beginning to grow bored of this situation, but she forgot the funny dust that erases human memories at home, so she's going to have to humour this girl in order to get out of her house unscathed.
"What are you?"
"Santa Claus," she replies, because, well, she kind of is?
"No, but really."
She whips around to pin her with a glare that could curdle dairy. "Yes. I am Santa Claus. I may not look the part, but I sure as hell got the sled and the giant bag of presents to prove it." Everyone just had to doubt that she can be Santa.
The girl's eyes widen. "presents?"
She sniffs to herself with disdain. "That's what I said, wasn't it?"
She looks for a moment that she might actually believe her, then shakes her head. "No way. Santa Claus isn't even real." Mood swings?
"Okay," Santana replies simply, crossing over to the tree and beginning to empty the contents of her sack under it. If Brittany were here, she'd probably tell her not to leave the presents in such a haphazard pile, and make an effort to at least arrange them decently, but Santana doesn't really want to, if the rest of the family is much like the girl standing across from her.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" she grits out.
"Are those... presents?"
"Wrapped and delivered specially for you," Santana retorts in a ridiculously sweet tone without missing a beat. She gets up, dusting herself off, and looks her over. Her expression would be rather comical, if she wasn't in such a sour mood.
"You're...real," she gapes. "No way."
"I thought we'd pretty much established that," she replies tersely, already making a beeline for the fireplace.
"You're actual, genuine Santa? But... why do we all think you look like an old guy with a white beard? And that you wear red?"
At that, Santana glances down at her own entire, comprised of a black blazer over a white top, blace trousers, and shin-high boots. Oh, she didn't even notice there's nothing Christmas-y in her clothes. Oh well. "I wasn't in the mood to don the traditional costume," she mutters.
"And why is your name Santa? Or Nick? Or whatever?"
"My name isn't Nick," she corrects with a sigh. "That was my great grandfather's name. Every time the next boy in the family is old enough to take the job, he adopts the name Nick. Kinda like those popes you have here, or in Vatican City, or whatever."
"So, where's the boy in your family?"
Santana pauses. "My father died last summer," she says softly after some time, and it's easier when she can barely make out her face in the darkness, because it means she won't see the pity that she knows is there. "It's only me now." She avoids the girl's face. She's tired of the pity, of the fake sympathy.
"Oh," she says, and the word is heavy. "Well... What is your name?"
She blinks in surprise. "What?"
"Your name. What is it?"
Santana opens her mouth, only to close it again with a slight shake of her head. Names mean introductions. And talking. She doesn't do that. "I don't have time for this," she says, turning back towards the fireplace.
"Aw, c'mon," the girl says, and she doesn't like the tone in her voice, warm and teasing. "I bet it's something really pretty, like... Rose."
At this, Santana can't help but turn back around to give her a look of utter disdain. Rose? Ew. She can just make out the corners of her lips quirking upwards in the dim light. "Okay, maybe not Rose. But my point still stands. Pretty name for a pretty girl, right?"
Humans, she thinks with mild disgust. Always ready to flirt at a moment's notice. She doesn't bother to dignify her words with an answer, choosing instead to step into the fireplace and place a foot on the brick of the chimney.
"Hey, wait, don't go! We, uh, we've actually got cookies and milk and stuff – wait, let me just go get them – please don't leave in the five seconds it'll take me to go get them! I promise it's worth it!"
Santana listens to the sound of her footsteps receding into the kitchen, and purses her lips. Now is, theoretically, the best time to leave. But for some reason, her body just doesn't want to. What is wrong with her today?
"I've got them!" she can hear her voice, far closer now, and sighs to herself, knowing she'll regret this later. "You know, I kinda thought you would take off just now..."
"Believe me, it was tempting," Santana mutters, backing out of the chimney and stepping out of the fireplace. She turns around, and finds herself suddenly face to face with her. A few long, drawn-out moments pass, and she can make out the faint smell of cinnamon on her, and the flecks of grey in her green eyes, and the way her chest rises and falls steadily, methodically, and then she clears her throat and takes a step back.
"Uh, here," she holds out a plate piled high with biscuits towards her. "I made them."
Santana takes them from her carefully, and almost lets her eyes widen when she can see them more clearly, because even she has to admit that they're beautiful, swirled with red, green, and white patterns, delicate pictures of reindeer and elves and holly. Brittany would love these, she thinks to herself, and she's almost reluctant to eat them and destroy the handiwork.
(Almost. The whole jumping down chimneys thing isn't exactly easy work, and there aren't many families who actually do the cookies and milk thing anymore, which is what Santana really thinks is the only benefit to the entire job anyway.)
She thinks maybe she should compliment her, or at least thank her, but all that she can think to say as she grabs a cookie from the plate is: "I thought you didn't believe in Santa Claus?"
She only grins. "You know, you are nothing like I'd expect Santa Claus to be."
"Oh?" Santana says with dry amusement. "What's different? The lack of the beard? The wrong coloured clothes? The age? Maybe the gender?"
"Well, there is that, yes," she agrees, holding out the plate to her once more when she sees that she's already finished off her second cookie. "But it's more that you're probably the least Christmas-y person I've ever met."
"I'll take that as a compliment," she mutters around a mouthful of shortbread (which tastes as good as it looks, if not better. She doesn't think she's tasted such good biscuits since...ever.)
"So," the girl watches her finish her fourth cookie with what she thinks is amusement. Despite herself, Santana feels her cheeks burn with embarrassment, and reaches for the glass of milk on the table, drinking around half of it in one gulp. "You never told me your name."
Santana frowns into her milk. This again? But she gave her cookies, she reasons. She owes her for that.
"I'm Santana," she says, a little hesitantly.
"Santana." the girl repeats, and she doesn't like the look of the smile inching its way back onto her lips. "For real?"
Santana fights the scowl about to appear on her face. Is she... is she teasing her? She remembers that this kiddo made the cookies made from heaven so she fights the urge to scowl.
"I'm Lucy," she says, even though she didn't ask. Santana nods, almost reluctant to acknowledge her. What kind of name is Lucy anyway?
"Did you like the cookies?" she asks teasingly, a knowing glint in her eye. She only huffs at her, getting up from the table and crossing once more to the fireplace.
"They were... okay," Santana replies, even though there are probably a thousand better words to describe the cookies, with their intricate icing and the way they melted in her mouth. "Thank you," she manages. She can almost feel Brittany patting her back for saying that. It's Christmas so...
The smile on Lucy's face is almost as bright as the lights on her family's tree. "Least I could do. Considering you left us our presents and all."
Santana studies her for a moment, then looks away quickly. "I should go," she says abruptly.
"Oh," she's not looking at Lucy, but she can hear the disappointment in her voice. "Right. Of course. I bet you've still got loads of houses to get through, right?"
"Right," she glances over at her, and watches as she shifts awkwardly.
"Okay," she says quietly, offering her a hesitant smile. "I guess I'll see you next year, huh?"
"Yeah."
She climbs the chimney, trying desperately to ignore the hint of warmth inside her at the memory of her smile.
Lucy Quinn is 14
Santana has all but forgotten Lucy by the time she jumps down to her 214th chimney three years after their encounter. Brittany had wanted to do the sled-ing and ho-ho-ing thing the year after Santana's first try, and Santana just can't say no to her, so Brittany had her way. Last year, she was sick. Who gets sick on Christmas day anyway?
"You're back."
Santana freezes in her spot. She turns slowly towards the familiar voice. It was small, and soft, but Santana heard, 'cause she knows it was meant for her. When she glances to the tiny-no she's grown up now. And Santana does a double check to the girl now standing in front of her. She looks around, wondering if there's another person in the room, and she notices there's none. She narrows her eyes at the human across her. She's not Lucy. This girl is probably about Lucy's age. She's blonde, her hair done in a curly locks, no acne, slimmer body, no eyeglasses, and hey, she stands with confidence now too. No. She's not Lucy. But on the faint light the Christmas lights can offer, Santana could register the same hazel eyes she saw three years ago. How is that possible? It must be her sister then.
"I... You weren't here the year after. And last year... I thought... I thought you'd never come back."
This human smiles again, so bright and warm, Santana had to step back. It all comes back in a tumble of thoughts and memories; cinnamon, cookies, hesitant smiles and steady heartbeats.
She feels a little dazed. God knows why.
No way. She opens her mouth and closes it without words coming out.
"I made cookies," she tells her, sounding for all the world like a kindergartner proudly showing off a finger-painting she'd made in class.
"Again?" she asks, but she lets her drag her to the table.
"I made a few more than usual," Lucy(?) informs her, nodding towards the plate, which, sure enough, is piled high with biscuits. Santana frowns.
"Why?"
"Well, apart from the fact that someone almost finished them off single-handedly last time..." she says. Santana turns to face her, fully expecting bitterness and annoyance to be plastered on her face, only to let her frown deepen when she sees only amusement and a hint of teasing.
She doesn't like it.
And how...
"I thought your bestfriend might like some too," Lucy(?) continues, oblivious to her confused thoughts.
"Brittany?" Santana says without thinking. Lucy(?)'s smile appears again though it is somehow contained, like she's not sure whether she should be pleased or not.
"Is that her name?" she asks.
"No – I mean, yes, but – we don't need your cookies," she tells her, tone growing hard. Lucy(?), for her part, looks more surprised than anything.
"I mean, sure – of course you don't, I just meant she might like them, is all," she explains earnestly.
She eyes the plate doubtfully. Lucy(?) is right. Brittany would like the cookies. In fact, Santana can already hear the resounding squeals that would ensue if she ever set eyes on Lucy's biscuits. She picks one off the plate and bites into it, chews and swallows slowly. They're no less delicious than they were the last time she tasted them. "I've never mentioned I her" Santana says after some time, eyeing her carefully.
"Who?"
"Brittany."
"Oh." Lucy(?) shifts uncomfortably, almost as though guilty of something. "I... I saw her the year after we met."
Oh. right.
"I thought it was you, then I noticed... she wasn't. And I... I offered her cookies, and she likes it so I thought-"
"And what? You assumed she's my bestfriend?"
Santana isn't exactly a friendly person, in fact she only had Brittany. She thinks it's enough though. And Lucy(?) doesn't know that so, why did she assume Brittany was her bestfriend?
Lucy looks down embarassed. "I... I said your name and she looked surprise that I know you. And she told me you couldn't come because she wanted to be Santa that year. And she's your bestfriend so you can't say no."
Really Britt? So you knew I can't say no and you still use that pout on me? Sneaky bi-. Nope. She's not. And it's Christmas.
"You weren't here last year too. 'Cause you were sick. I... Are you okay now?" She looks concerned and Santana had to fight back the comeback which is at the tip of her tongue.
She was about to touch your forehead but she pulls back before you can. Talking to a human is another thing, physical contact will be a whole lot more.
"Of course you are. You're here." She whispers like she can't believe it.
"But... you're not exactly 'you'." Without noticing, Santana had blurt it out. Well the whole uncertainty whether this is Lucy or not is frustrating so she just had to let it out.
She smiles again, shyly this time, and she looks at the ground, and Santana thought it would've been cute, only Lucy is not a kid anymore so it's annoying. Santana raises her eyebrow waiting for an explanation, though Lucy(?) doesn't owe her anything if it comes down to it.
"I'm Quinn now."
Quinn? So new name comes with a package?
Santana looks over Quinn once more. She notes every change that occurred to Lucy. Wait, does that mean she should stop calling her Lucy now?
"Why?"
"Quinn is my middle name."
"So why did you start going with it?"
She thinks Lucy is just fine.
She notices Lu-Quinn blushed while looking away. "Well, you're the only who thinks that way."
Santana realized she must have said it out loud. Oops.
"Kids made up mean nicknames."
"Like what? Juicy Lucy?" Santana snorts.
Quinn was silent and Santana thought she might have stepped over the line.
Quinn bites her lip then says, "Lucy Caboosey."
Oh.
Before Santana can stop it, she looks at Quinn from head to toe. It's like her eyes can't believe it.
"I hated the way I looked."
Santana frowns at Quinn's voice. Lucy is a cheerful kid. and she smiles brightly and so warm Santana thought it would rival Brittany's. She never heard her sound so small.
"I had zits. I was chubby. I felt terrible about myself."
Santana feels guilty-which is a rare feeling. She had judged Lucy the first time she met her in her mind. Well, she wasn't exactly friendly either but still. She liked Lucy. She quickly looked at Quinn just in case she said that out loud. She's not sure if she should be relieved or not because she didn't seem to say that out loud but Quinn still looks insecure.
"I didn't have friends. No one would talk to me."
I would. I did.
"I was the only kid at school who had to dissect their own frog because nobody would be my lab partner."
She crying.
Oh crap.
Santana feels a panic in her heart, she doesn't know she's able to feel. Nobody cries in her world. Nobody cries in Christmas (rarely, but you get my point)
She feels her body moves in its own accord. Her hand reached for Quinn's face.
No.
NO.
NOOOOOO.
Before her brain could stop it, her thumb had wiped the tears on Quinn's face.
She gulped audibly.
She touched Quinn.
It's not like she's gonna burn or anything. Or disappear like a bubble. But she had never touched a human before.
And she's not about to start anything now.
Quinn is stunned as well but she remains calm, unlike Santana who's freaking the hell out. If Quinn noticed Santana's internal struggle she didn't show it.
Quinn is... warm. What happens when you touch something warm for so long? You get burnt. So Santana retract her hand, but before she could, Quinn had placed her hand over Santana's.
Santana's eyes widen. Okay no. You don't get to touch my hand. Please let go.
"I joined ballet, lost a little bit of weight, found out I was athletic, joined gymnastics, then cheerleading. 'Went on Proactiv for my acne. And when my dad got transferred and got a raise, I asked if I could get a nose job. And he said yes."
Transferred? Oh. right.
She looks around and noticed that it indeed wasn't the same house she's been three years ago. It's probably why she didn't expect Lucy-or Quinn for the matter to confront her.
"So you hated yourself?"
"No. I love myself so I did those things." Quinn shakes her head, puts Santana's hand down and holds it with both hands rubbing it, to keep it warm. She must have noticed it was cold. Santana forgot her gloves this time.
"I was a miserable little girl. I've been that girl and I'm never going back." Santana frowns, and this time she wasn't about to glare at her.
She looks at Santana and forced a smile out.
"You... You don't like it?"
Santana shakes her head slowly. "No-yes... I... I just... I was hoping..." Quinn waits for her to continue. Always with the patience. And the thought of being behind schedule didn't even cross Santana's mind. Santana smiles sadly. "I just... I was at your house, 10 minutes ago. Well, your old house anyway. And you weren't there. So I thought, I would never get to see you again. And it turns out... I really wouldn't see Lucy again."
Her hold on your hand tightens and you look back to that hazel eyes again. Why is she pulling you? What is drawing Santana in?
"I... I'm still me. Sort of."
Santana pulls her hand back, without realizing the effect it had on Quinn.
"Thanks for the cookies." Santana says as she moves towards the Christmas tree to put Quinn's presents. She looks back at the lack of response and she noticed Quinn looking anywhere but her and silently sobbing.
What did I do now?
"Be nice."
Santana hears Brittany's voice behind her head.
How?
She rolls her eyes. See? This is why Brittany does this job better than her. She considers letting Brittany do the work for the following years. Santana clearly sucks at it.
"Hey. For what it's worth. I think Lucy's great. I mean, yeah sure. Being human sucks, 'cause no matter how great you are, how talented you are at baking those cookies, the first thing people notice is how much weight you put on. Which is pathetic because what does your weight tell about you anyway?"
Oh Brittany, how's that?
Quinn looks at her, unsure if she should believe Santana.
"But you don't like me."
"Of course I do."
Santana puts her hand on her mouth just as she realized what she had done. She had said that out loud. No way.
"You don't mean that." Quinn shakes her head, biting her lip. "You said you don't."
I did?
She replays the past 5 minutes in her head.
Okay, maybe she had given the wrong impression. Geez. Humans and their sensitivity.
"You're the first person who made me feel like I'm not a nobody. You made me feel like a somebody. So it gave me courage to change, to be better. And now... Now that I've changed. And that people are noticing me... You... You don't like it."
Santana shakes her head in protest. She moves forward towards Quinn and she wonders if she should touch her. This time though she doesn't. She tries to minimize the physical contact as much as possible.
"My opinion doesn't matter-"
"It does. It does to me."
Santana was speechless.
She can't have that effect on a human. It's just not meant to be.
"Did you bake those cookies?"
Santana turns her eyes on the... now empty-plate on the kitchen counter, and Quinn slowly nods her head probably wondering why the sudden change of subject.
"Then we're still good." Santana smiles at her, and she hopes it's as sincere as she hopes it would be. "I don't care if you're Lucy... or Quinn, or if you're blonde, or your chubby. As long as you keep those cookies coming, I'll always like you."
"Really?"
"Yup." Santana unintentionally pops the 'p' as she steps back and puts out the gifts the same way she did three years ago. Quinn may have noticed it and lets out a small laugh.
Santana walks towards the fireplace, then turns around to look at Quinn once more. She notices though that Quinn was looking back at her.
"Will I see you again?"
"Will you rearrange that?" Santana points to the gifts messily on the floor near the Christmas tree. She wonder if Quinn fixes the arrangement because it would really be weird if the other kids see their gifts scattered on the floor on Christmas day. Not a Santa-way to do it.
"No. It's my only reminder that you're real."
Santana's heart skips a beat.
What the hell? Shut up. You don't get to say that.
"That and the empty plate?"
Quinn smiles. "That, and the empty plate."
Santana finds her self smiling back. Without answering Quinn, she went to the fireplace and disappear.
Lucy Quinn is 15
"Where's your red and white jumpsuit?" she asks, and there it is again, the warmth and the teasing and the utter ease, and she realizes why she doesn't like it – she doesn't like it because she doesn't have it, this complete comfort that Quinn seems to practically radiate. She can't remember ever having it.
"I left it at home," Santana tells her shortly, taking another cookie and biting into it before she can do something stupid like continue the conversation.
"I see," if Quinn's picked up on her attempts to close up the interaction between them, she doesn't seem to show it. "Well, at least you're kind of there," she points out, gesturing towards her sweater, which is a deep crimson. Her boots and trousers remain unchanged from last year.
"Next year it'll have white stripes," she comments dryly before she can stop herself. To her surprise, Quinn lets out a laugh, even though she isn't all too sure it's that funny.
"I look forward to it," she informs her with a smile, and she notices for the first time that her cheeks dimple when she does that. It reminds her almost immediately of Brittany, and for the first time, Santana notices how similar Quinn is to Brittany, all smiles and goodness even for a complete stranger.
Complete strangers. That's what her and Quinn are to each other, she realizes. So why does it feel like she already knows her?
"So... What do you do when you're not whizzing around the planet at top speed once a year?" The smirk has returned with a vengeance, as has the dazed feeling that hit Santana earlier. What is wrong with her?
"Nothing of that much interest," she says brusquely, getting up as she does so.
"Aw, come on," she follows her to the fireplace. "There must be something."
"Not really," she replies, and she starts to step into the fireplace, but she catches her wrist, and the contact makes her freeze, rooted to the spot. What is with this girl and physical contact? On a second thought, the whole burning this must have come handy at this situations. Also, she keeps a mental note to wear gloves next time.
"Don't you have a setting on your sled that can make you go round super fast, or something?" she asks with another warm smile. Santana says nothing. "Stay," she says hesitantly after a bit. "Please?"
"How long?" she asks, and she's pretty sure that isn't the right thing to say, but she isn't good with talking to humans. She's pretty sure Quinn's the first one her age she's actually conversed with in at least fifty years.
"As long as it takes for you to tell me what you do when it's not Christmas," she quips, and she hasn't let go of her wrist yet, and she doesn't even know whether she wants her to. She sighs. She should probably get used to this stuff. She looks up to see her waiting patiently with a small smile on her face.
"I..." she trails off, and she doesn't know if it's because she can't think of anything that she does outside of Christmas, or if it's because she can't think at all, with the way she's looking at her.
"You...?"
"Dance," she says suddenly.
Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Dance?"
"Yeah," Santana knows that it's childish of her to let the defensive tone slip into her tone, but she can't help it. "What do you do, bake cookies?"
"Well," Quinn says with a smile that shows how little she's offended by her comment, "Yeah. I've been baking cooking for the bake sale at school. And I'm pretty good at it." And Santana could hint the teasing tone in her voice again. "Other than that, I'm the head cheerio!" Quinn seems so proud at the said achievement. Thought Santana doesn't get it.
Say what now?
"Right. It's the leader of the cheerleading squad. And I'm the first sophomore to be ever on the top of the pyramid." Quinn explains as she drags Santana back to the couch.
"And I'm guessing that's a good thing." Santana says as she was forced to sit down. She wonders if she should just bolt because staying for a chat is not really part of the job description.
Quinn chuckles as she plays with Santana's hand. Santana didn't even notice Quinn was still holding her hand. "I forgot, those things doesn't matter to you anyway."
Santana's eyebrow furrow. Why does everything has to matter to me anyway? Right. 'Cause it matters to you. Santana could probably never understand Quinn.
"I'm in Glee club too!"
"You sing?"
Quinn looked offended and she lets go of Santana's hand to cross her arms, something Santana had noticed Quinn had been doing a lot-if not touching her. "Yes. And my friend Rachel said I'm good at it too!"
Santana snorts. Apparently, Quinn is good at everything she does. Santana decides to focus on the other new found information. "So you have a friend now?"
Quinn was silent, and Santana wonders if it's the wrong thing to say, considering the conversation they had last year. Is it too late to take it back?
"I have you, so..."
Santana looks back at Quinn and she wonders how Quinn can manage to turn the tables effortlessly.
"So," Quinn moves closer to Santana, if that's even possible. Santana realizes she's already at the edge of the couch and she can't move away, unless she wants her butt to hit the floor. "Tell me about dancing. How do you dance? Do you always listen to Christmas carols?" Quinn giggles and teasing was back again. Santana never knows with this girl.
Santana bristles slightly, thinking that she's probably just making fun of her, but the look in her eyes is frustratingly sincere, and her mouth ends up forming the words of its own accord. "Is there much to tell?" she asks, and she really hopes she's imagining the light bordering on joking tone in her voice.
"More than there is to tell about cheerleading," she offers in return. She's got her there, she thinks.
"I don't know. My dad taught me when I was younger. I guess it turned into something I liked doing a lot. And Brittany loves to dance, so there's that." She adds the last part just so Quinn wouldn't pity her. Now, with all the lights in the room turned on, Santana is fully expecting for the pity to come seeping into Quinn's expression at the mention of her father. To her surprise, it doesn't; in its place is a carefully trained set of features, almost as if – almost as if Quinn knows what it feels like. How being sorry isn't enough and the look of pity digs into your skin, doesn't do anything else.
"That's cool," she says, and her tone is bright. "You any good?"
"I guess I'm alright."
"I bet anything you're better than alright."
"Does it matter?" she asks, almost irritated.
"It does." Quinn pauses, before adding: "to me."
"I should go," Santana mutters, barely audible as she pushes herself up.
"Okay," and there it is, the disappointment she thought she heard last year and can definitely hear this year. She deposits the presents quickly underneath the tree and heads to the fireplace without looking at her.
Just go. Just go.
When she's about to leave, she just can't help but look once more, and not surprised to see Quinn staring at her. "You should sing to me next time."
"What?"
"I don't know. So I could tell if you're really good. There's no way you could be good at everything."
"Yeah sure. Next time." Quinn's smile brightens at the hope of seeing her again next year.
Santana doesn't reply, but she thinks her silence is probably more than enough.
Lucy Quinn is 17
This year, Quinn has fallen asleep on the rug in front of the fireplace.
Santana takes the opportunity to study her carefully, and is rather surprised by what she sees – it seems in the year since she last saw her, Santana has moved from being a girl and is heading to becoming a lady. Her features have sharpened and, she notes as she tries desperately to ignore the heat rising to her cheeks, it would seem that cheerleading is doing its job (according to Quinn) for her biceps seem to have defined themselves a little more too. What really gives her pause is how much more tired she looks, dark circles clear under her eyes and hair far too messy to be acceptable. The fact that she's fallen asleep on the floor is probably a hint, too. She remembers Quinn telling her about early admissions to Yale, her dream school in New Haven.
Santana doesn't have the heart to wake her, and besides, she isn't sure what she would do about a conversation this time. Probably something stupid. Like just stop talking, or, even worse, let her cheeks go pink when she looks at her in a certain way. No, she thinks to herself, best to leave now while she can, because she knows if Quinn wakes up she'll manage to rope her into staying. She moves noiselessly to the tree, leaves the batch of presents underneath it, before heading back to the fireplace. Something on the table across from her catches her eye, and she's already looking before she can stop herself. There's the normal plate of cookies, the tall glass of milk, and something else – what looks like a sketchbook that's been left open, a pencil lying across its pages. Santana's feet move closer to the table of their own accord, and she can just make out the drawing in the pale and fleeting light of the early morning.
It is a drawing of her.
She supposes she should have known that there was more to Quinn than cookies, cheerleading, and good marks, but even so, the picture almost knocks the breath out of her lungs, the girl far more beautiful than she could ever be. Santana swallows slowly and gives the sketchbook one last long look, before taking soft, quick steps towards the girl, she placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. And before she could contemplate on the pros and cons of her actions, she drags herself towards the the fireplace and hauling herself up the chimney.
Lucy Quinn is 18
"I didn't see you last year," Quinn says quietly as Santana dusts the residue from the chimney off her clothes.
"You were asleep," she replies shortly in explanation, leaning over to take the bag from the fireplace. "I didn't want to wake you."
"What if I wanted to be awoken?"
"You looked terrible," Santana turns to her with a frank expression on her face. "What you want isn't always what you need."
The words however between the two of them, static but crackling with something she can't name. She drags her eyes away from Quinn's caught off guard expression, turns her attentions instead to the tree, walking over and beginning to arrange the presents underneath it.
"Well, this is a first," she hears Quinn's voice after some time, far closer than she thought it would be, enough for it to rustle the strands of hair that have come loose from her braid and tickle the back of her neck.
"What is?" Santana asks, having to ball her hands into fists to keep herself from turning around.
"You actually putting an effort into making the presents not look like they've just been thrown there," she replies, and she can hear the laugh in her voice, not needing to turn around.
At this, she can't keep staring at the bottom half of the Christmas tree any longer, and compulsion to turn around is too much to bear – so she gives into it, twisting her upper body enough to give Quinn an unamused look. Santana can't keep it up for long, though, when she realises that she hadn't been anticipating her complete unawareness of personal space. The two of them are almost nose to nose, and she can just make out the blush on Quinn's cheeks. They simply stare at each other for a few moments that seem to drag on for far longer, but eventually Quinn clears her throat, backing away slightly with a muttered; "Sorry."
The two of them sit in silence for a few brief moments, legs sprawled across the carpet in front of the tree, before Santana blurts out: "tell me about your sister."
Quinn looks at her sharply, clearly bemused. "What?"
"These can't all be for you, right? And I'm guessing Frannie isn't exactly a boy's name. I don't have sister, but I do have Brittany, and you know about her. So, tell me about your sister."
She gives her another look, and somehow, something she can't name was there again. She remembers Quinn telling her about how people always projects her sister to her. That growing up, Quinn always had to follow Frannie's footsteps but not outstand her because she's the younger sister. It tugs something in her; for all her ease and charm, it seems Quinn doesn't have many people who do this, take the time to sit and listen to her talk about herself and only herself. Santana isn't sure she's best qualified for the job, but she convinces herself that she has time that she doesn't have at all, and before she can do something like tell herself not to, she moves so that she's sitting next to her, presses her side against her.
Quinn exhales slightly, and does what she's asked, relates to her funny anecdotes, informs her of personality traits and tells her long winded stories about her and her sister.
She lets her talk until she falls asleep.
Before she leaves, she smiles to herself, before kissing Quinn on her forehead.
Lucy Quinn is 19
"We really need to stop meeting like this," Quinn jokes as Santana bends over to step out of the fireplace, and she almost falls over, because her voice is low and almost husky... and when did that happen? "My girlfriend's just upstairs."
"Girlfriend?" Santana repeats, maybe a little too quickly.
"Relax," Quinn grins at her, helping her out, and maybe it says something, how she doesn't immediately refuse the assistance and lets her palm stay clasped with Quinn's for a few seconds longer than necessary. "I was kidding."
"Right," perhaps Santana sounds a little disbelieving, but can anyone blame her? Quinn goes to college, and she's sweet and charming and, well, good-looking. Why wouldn't she have a girlfriend? Wait what? GIRLfriend?
It's different in her world, they don't really care about that. But she's pretty sure things are different in Quinn's world.
"Girlfriend?"
"I don't," she laughs.
"You... you're interested in girls?" Santana looks at her like she had just grown two heads.
"What's not to like?" Quinn said defensively as she holds Santana's gaze. Somehow, Quinn had learned not to look away when she had Santana's attention. Clearly, Lucy was gone and Quinn is here to stay.
"I don't know. I just... You're beautiful, and I think every guy would want you-"
"You think I'm beautiful?" Quinn says, is Santana imagining the smirk playing on her lips? She certainly isn't imagining the sudden urge to slap it right off her face.
no violence on Christmas day! Brittany would say.
Santana rolls her eyes, she decides the only way to wipe the stupid smirk and that stupid eyebrow-raise is to not honor that with a response. "So. No girlfriend waiting on the bedroom?"
"Nope."
"Yale is a big place. No one got your attention? how about Rachel? You talk about her a lot."
"I guess you could say I've got my sights set on someone else," she responds lightly. Santana' stomach feels bottomless, and she has to pinch the heel of her hand to stop feeling all... weird.
"Got any cookies?" she asks, changing the subject with about as much subtlety as a gun.
"Looks like someone's developed a craving," Quinn teases, but she's already sliding a plate across to her, so it doesn't have much bite.
"Whatever," she rolls her eyes, already bringing one to her lips.
"Oh!" Quinn says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "I almost forgot."
"What?"
She doesn't reply, only gets up and goes into an adjoining room quickly. She watches after her for a moment, before returning to the plate of cookies."You're going to get me fat on these," Santana comments to the blonde without turning around.
"With all the chimneys you're jumping down, I think you're okay," Quinn replies, and suddenly her hands are coming down over her eyes, skin soft against her face.
"What are you doing?" Santana asks sharply, already beginning to lean away.
"Relax," she says, her tone light enough to comfort Santana a bit. "I knew you wouldn't close your eyes if I asked you to, so I thought it would probably be best to skip that part just in case we got into some argument that meant I couldn't show you at all."
"Show me what?"
"Your present!" she chirps, and at that she removes his hands, lets her eyes fall onto the wrapped gift sat in front of her on the table.
"I didn't get you anything," Santana says stupidly, staring at the package as though it's about to explode.
"Sure you didn't," Quinn deadpans, giving the presents under the tree a pointed look.
"That's different," she protests, and she's not just saying this, she needs Quinn to understand – "you don't owe me anything."
Quinn frowns. "Of course I don't. It's a gift, Santana. It's not about owing."
"What is it about, then?" she retorts, and she knows that this is stupid, that she's getting angry over nothing, but she doesn't understand Quinn, and she isn't sure she understands her, either, the way she thinks she can just accept a gift, but it's not like that, does she not know? That she'll always owe her, that every biscuit and glass of milk and shy smile is a debt she can't repay?
Quinn averts her eyes. "I think you know," she says, voice calm and quiet.
"Well, I don't," she lies furiously, standing up from the table. "Mind telling me?"
"Santana – "
"No!" and she knows her family is just upstairs, that any louder and they'll probably wake up, but she can't help it. "You can't just – just do – "
"Do what?"
"This!" she lets out in a hoarse, hushed voice equivalent to a thousand decibel scream. "The biscuits and the food and the waiting up and now presents – "
"It's not like I don't want to," Quinn rises with her now, letting her tone become defensive. Santana almost welcomes it, this angriness that she never gets out of her, the way it makes her feel less like such a sinner in comparison to her saintliness. "No one's making me."
"Then why?" she raises her arms in question. "Why bother? Why take the time – "
"God, Santana, is it really that hard?"
"What?" and now she's furious, livid with the way he's acting like she's stupid, a child, stumbling naïve and clueless in his footsteps.
"I like you!" she cries. "I didn't know how else I could make it more obvious without writing it across my forehead in permanent marker!"
Santana stands and stares silently at her and says nothing because she has nothing to say. Quinn's confession sparks something in her, a curl of fear deep in her belly that takes root when she realises that she might like her too. And she can't. It's not something she can do.
So she stands and stares silently at her, and she tries to open her mouth and say something, anything, but the words get stuck in her throat – not that there were very many in the first place. So Santana shakes her head and moves to the fireplace and hauls herself up the chimney, trying desperately to push the look on Quinn's face out of her head.
Lucy Quinn is 20
Quinn is not there when she lands in her living room with ash covered boots and lips pressed into a thin line.
There is still a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. Beside them is her present from last year, still in pristine condition, wrapped perfectly, and she feels the sight of it grate against something inside of her.
She slips the present under her sweater and takes the plate for good measure. Brittany will enjoy the biscuits, she tells herself.
Lucy Quinn is 21
"I'm sorry," Quinn murmurs into Santana's hair after pulling her into an embrace before she can react.
"I missed you," Santana whispers back into Quinn's shoulder.
Lucy Quinn is 22
Santana has always told herself that she will not let it happen. Not ever.
But Quinn.
She watches the world take its toll on her as she sits on the sidelines, coming in only one night every year, stealing hours with her to make up for the days she misses. Her fingers grow longer, she grows taller, fills out more, her smile still not easy but not like it was before. She's becoming a woman. A gorgeous beautiful woman that is.
Quinn, she realizes, is growing up.
And Santana is not.
And herein lies the real problem. Quinn, she knows, is no longer a girl. She is a woman, an adult, with a life ready to have, wife(or husband, she can never reallybe sure with humans) and children and a Christmas tree of her own. And as long she keeps looking at her that way when she thinks she can't see her, what can she do?
Santana is selfish for savoring the brush of her fingers against hers, her soft smile and her funny stories. Quinn is waiting, subconsciously, for something she will never be able to give her.
"I can't," she says suddenly. Quinn looks up from a sketch she's making of the fireplace to look at her questioningly.
"Quinn..." Santana attempts weakly, before trailing off, shaking her head. "You... I..."
"Santana?"
"I know what you want," she mutters eventually. "And I can't give it to you."
"Do you?" she looks up and, to her surprise, Quinn is wearing a small smile.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not stupid, Santana," she says softly. "You think I don't notice that you look exactly the same as you did the first time we met?"
Santana' breath catches at the use of the time phrase.
"I know what I want," she tells her, and suddenly she's closer than she was before, fingers slipping under her chin to push it up so she's looking at her. "What do you want?"
She's better than she is with words. She's never been good with the things anyway; they're always blurted out or said too quickly or not said at all. But actions, she can do. Santana can manage actions. So instead of answering her, she moves forwards and presses her lips to hers before she can tell herself that it's a bad idea.
Maybe Quinn wasn't all too sure of herself after all, because it takes a few moments for her to respond, and she keeps pressing pressing pressing until she feels her pressing back, the two of them sat by the tree, and she doesn't realize they're moving until her back presses against the bottom of the couch, lets her hands tangle in Quinn's hair and moves the heels of her boots up and down the back of her calves. The shiver she feels resonate through her spine makes her toes curl with something warm and inexplicable, makes her hungry for more.
"You're so difficult and stubborn" Quinn mumbles through kisses she's pressing down her neck.
"Yeah?" she gasps, tugging at the back of her shirt as she finds a spot that makes her muscles tense and release of their own accord.
Santana thinks she hears Quinn mumble something along the lines of sexy as hell, and it's enough to deepen the dark pink of her cheeks to a light red. She gives her a grin, one that makes her heart skip slightly in a way she forces herself not to think about. To force it out of her mind, she leans forward, fits her lips to Quinn's more than willing ones. Her kisses and touches will be enough for now, she thinks.
Lucy Quinn is 23
"Isn't it strange to you?" she questions in an almost whisper as they both sit by the tree.
"What?"
"Staying up for Santa Claus."
"I don't stay up for Santa Claus. I stay up for Santana."
Quinn's hand finds hers in the darkness, and with that she knows. All it's taken for Quinn is nine days, nine years, nine Christmas Eves, to find a way of slipping into her heart and staying there, feet planted firmly in pride of place next to Brittany and her father.
Where are you now, Papa? she questions silently. She wonders what would've happened if he were still here. Quinn would be nothing more than another girl in another house, another tree to leave presents under and another chimney to jump down. Santana would know nothing about her sister, how flexible she is to be the best cheerleader in Ohio, her soft angelic voice, her plans with her ambitious bestfriend Rachel, or the taste of her cookies, or the taste of her lips, the feeling of her skin against hers or the way she bites her lower lip when she's thinking.
"Quinn," she says hoarsely, because she's been thinking about it for a long time. "The first time I saw you... as Quinn."
"Yeah?"
"You promised you'd sing to me." She sees Quinn's lips turn upwards.
"I was hoping you'd ask me to dance first"
She remembers.
She shrugs her shoulders then pushes herself up. She offers her hand to Quinn and Quinn looked at her confused but still takes her hand and let herself be pulled up by Santana.
Slowly, Santana leads her in a small open space in the living room. She positioned both their hands to their waist and their shoulder and Santana starts swaying.
Quinn laughs as she realizes what's going on. "There's no song."
"So sing. It's like killing two birds in one stone or whatever."
Quinn smiles and puts her arms around Santana's neck instead pulling her closer. Santana may have been used to the physical contact and repositions her arms.
Quinn starts to hum tune Santana recognizes. Last Christmas. how ironic. Quinn seems to hum the first part of the song, and before Santana could ask if she's just gonna hum or actually sing, she hears Quinn's voice.
"Once bitten and twice shyed
I keep my distance but you still catch my eye
Tell me baby
Do you recognize me
Well, it's been a year, it doesn't surprise me"
Santana pulls back and raises her eyebrow to Quinn in response.
"Merry Christmas, I wrapped it up and sent it
With a note saying 'I love you', I meant it"
"Oh, Quinn."
Quinn in response, just smiles warmly at her and instead of singing the next part, she just hums the tune.
Santana realizes, Quinn knows. Quinn is aware this is not a tale with a happily ever after at the end.
Santana starts to pull away, but Quinn holds onto her tighter. Santana feels her chest tighten too. And she feels herself tearing up, something she had never felt since her father dying.
"Merry Christmas, Quinn." Santana says softly, and she realizes it's the first time she had ever said it.
"Merry Christmas, Santana."
Her fingers squeeze hers again. Santana thinks about hows she stays up waiting for her every Christmas eve, how she's getting older, but decides to save that talk for next time.
Lucy Quinn is 25
Quinn and Santana are lying on Quinn's couch in New York. It is an apartment and though there is no chimney, there'a roof deck on top, and well... Santana is practically able to move in a speed of light so why the hell not make it happen? Santana runs her finger on Quinn's back as Quinn continues to place small kisses on her jaw. Santana traces the scar on Quinn's back which she got from an accident some time in the middle of the year on her friend Rachel's supposed to be wedding. She feels guilty for not being there. She feels guilty for not taking care of her when she needed her the most. And that what's Santana been ignoring all this time, until now it just cannot be ignored.
"You can't do this anymore," she tells her.
"Hmmm" She can feel Quinn smile as she presses herself more into Santana. "I like leaving a mark on you" Quinn says as she makes sure she does leave a mark on Santana again.
Santana sighs. She doesn't want to end it like this. Santana panicked and freaked out about Quinn's accident but Quinn brushes it off and played it off like it was nothing. And that she's better now so Santana should just start stripping off and make up for the 364 days they didn't see each other. Of course, before Santana could say another word, Quinn had removed her robe and had started on removing Santana's clothes as well so there's really nothing she could do but give in. it's not like she wasn't looking forward to it anyway.
But Santana knows Quinn's trying to play dumb, but she's not going to humour her any longer. "Wait for me," she says while finally leaning away from Quinn. "Get older and live your life on a day that comes once a year." She sits up and runs her hand through her hair. She looks back to Quinn, and a glance at her face makes her want so badly to take it back. But she can't, she tells herself. This is for Quinn. She stands up even with wobbly legs.
"What if I want to?" Quinn asks as she sits up from the catch her eyes following Santana's movements.
Santana shakes her head. "You can't, Quinn. You can't carry on like this." She says, stopping in front of Quinn.
"Why not?" Quinn takes Santana's hand and runs her hand over the back of it.
"When do you stop? Will you still be sat here when you're old?" Santana kneels down so she's in level with Quinn, her eyebrows furrowed.
Santana needs her to understand. She can't be the girl she was before. She's not a girl any more, waiting up for Santa Claus. Don't you know that? she thinks. Don't you see that I'll never forgive myself if you stay like this, waiting for this one day you can only have me? It's not enough. You deserve more.
"Santana," Quinn presses her forehead to hers, and she knows what's coming, feels the confession curl up through her before it leaves her lips. "Don't you see? I love you."
"I know," she whispers, and she can't bring herself to pull away from her, not yet. "So you have to do this, Quinn. For me."
"But – "
"I know what you want," Santana does pull away now, averts her eyes. "You want a wife. Probably want kids. I can't give you that. You know that."
"I don't need it. I don't want it any more. I want you." Quinn pulls Santana towards her, her arms around her neck.
"Quinn," she says, and she hates how her voice shakes. "You want me, but how often can you get me? Once a year for a few hours?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes," she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Of course it does. You can't spend your life just waiting. And how about the times that you need me? I can't be there. And you... You deserve better. "
"Well maybe I don't want someone better. Maybe I just want someone who would love me when I stop loving myself." Please stop looking at me like that. Then this will be so much harder than I though.
She knows now what she has to do. She's played all her cards. She's only got one left. Swallowing the heavy feeling that resonates through her, and willing her voice to keep from wavering, she says; "It wasn't going to last anyway. You know that. I need kids, Quinn. I..."
The look on Quinn's face is one Santana knows will be etched permanently onto her memory. "Santana – "
"Quinn, I know you – I know how you feel about me. But I don't... it's not like that for me. I care about you differently." The words sound hollow even to her, empty and emotionless.
"Differently?" Quinn echoes faintly.
"I..."
"Tell me something, you mean it? You don't love me?"
"Not like that," Santana replies, trying to keep her voice steady, but it's a whisper, hesitant and unsure. "I'm not... I'm not made to love like that. You... You're going to find someone who would give you that love that you deserve."
And that much is true. Isn't it?
Quinn exhales slowly, shakily. "Okay."
"Quinn – "
"It's okay. I'm sorry I... I'm sorry you... I'm sorry."
They stand in silence until it's too much for her to take.
"I should...I should go..." Santana slowly, hesitantly takes a step back. She gathers her clothes.
"Right."
In a swift motion, she's all dressed up.
She looks back at Quinn who is still naked, her arms around her body, her hands rubbing her arms for warmth.
But there is no until next year, no I'll see you next Christmas Eve, then? All she sees in Quinn's eyes is an emptiness, one that scares her.
Quinn'll be fine, Santana tells herself. She will be.
She hesitates, moves forward, and just like the first time she met Quinn, she runs her thumb to wipe Quinn's tears. The way Quinn flinches at the gesture near tears Santana's heart in two.
She might as well be the mermaid that disappeared like a bubble.
Or a human who got burnt once she sees the true nature of a god/dess.
She holds Quinn's gaze for a while, as if both were memorizing each other's features.
She knows it's wrong. And probably the last thing Quinn needs is her giving her mixed signal. But she needs this. Her goodbye.
She pulls Quinn, and gives her a kiss on her forehead.
Then, she walks towards the fireplace, without looking back at Quinn for her reaction because she knows. She knows even a slight glance would do her no good. Then she climbs up the chimney.
Annie is 5
Santana had been to Quinn's house for nine years, and Quinn, to her promise, wasn't there waiting for her. If Santana would've been given another chance, she still would have done the same thing. She lets her go so she could have the happy life she deserves. She misses her. Every day of her life. And how she wished she has some magic ball that can show her how Quinn is doing all these years.
On this year though to her surprise, she finds it somehow nostalgic to see a plate of cookies and a glass of milk waiting on the table on the living room by the fireplace at her... 56643rd? house. She sets down her sack of presents by the tree and slowly walks towards the table.
She grabs one cookie hesitantly, the smell of cinnamon overpowering her sense, memories of the girl she used to know flooding her mind, fills her.
"Santa?"
She nearly drops the cookie she was holding as she hears a little girl's voice.
"I can't believe it, you're real! Mom said you weren't but Mommy-oooh!"
Don't turn back.
She slowly put her hand on her pocket as she reach for her magic dust. She brings it with her now, just in case this happens.
You promised no to do the same mis- (she can never consider Quinn a mistake) again.
She has a fistful of dust ready for action, when she feels the little human hugs her legs, she does not dare look down. She has a soft spot for kids. Because Christmas is for kids! It's like every Santa's weakness.
Unexpectedly, she feels the little human reach for her free hand with both of her (also) little hands.
Little human giggles, "Mommy is right, you do have a cold hand! You should wear mittens, Santa!" Little human rubs her hand.
No. Stop it.
The little human offers her the plate of cookies as high as she could and offers Santana a warm smile. "They're your favorite! Do you like it? Do you like it? I helped my mommy do it!"
Mommy?
She feels her eyes water as the impact of her words hit her. Suddenly, she's on the floor, probably because her leg is suddenly too weak, or so she could see her.
"Are you okay?" Little human's eyebrow furrow, concern written all over her cute face.
Santana feels the little girl's right hand to the side of her face, her left hand wiping her tears.
She has her eyes.
She opened her mouth to say something... anything at all.
Stop. You don't cry, Santana. You don't.
She leans in to put a chaste kiss on Santana's forehead. And Santana had to fight herself from recoiling.
Quinn, what have you been teaching your child?
"Mommy does that when I cry, then I stop crying." Then she puts her small arms around Santana's neck and she remembers her hand on the magic dust in her pocket.
She promised herself to not be in this situation again.
"It's gonna be okay, 'Ana. I'm here."
She loses it. She puts her arms around the little girl and she hugs her back.
I've let you go for this.
Check out This Time Around for an alternative ending.