Author's Notes: A friendship fic written around the events of S5E3, from Santana's point of view. Companion fic to, and overlaps, another empty page where I begin. The focus is on Santana/Rachel friendship, though there's references to canon pairings and Rachel/Quinn if you squint really hard.

The chain of contact goes:

The police tell Carole, who tells Burt, who tells Kurt, who tells Santana. They debate on how they should break the news to Rachel – but more importantly, who should break the news to Rachel.

"So…"

Kurt doesn't look up. "I'm sorry. I can't," he says softly, worrying the hem of his shirt in a white-knuckled grip. "I just – I can't, Santana. Please. I'm so sorry."

"Hey." Santana's hand finds his knee and stays there until he lifts his head. Her eyes lock onto Kurt's. "Okay. It's okay. I get it."

He nods. "Thank you." Kurt gets to his feet slowly, mumbling something else about coffee, and pads towards the kitchen. Santana's about to follow him when she hears the door slide open.

Both freeze where they are.

"I'm back! Kurt? Santana?" Rachel stops short when she sees them, the smile slipping from her face. "Santana? What's wrong?" Kurt makes a strangled sound. "Kurt? Oh God. Are you two okay? Did something happen?" She lets out a shaky laugh. "You're really freaking me out right now."

Kurt stares helplessly at her. Fine, thinks Santana and steels herself.

"Rachel," says Santana, gentle as she only ever is with Brittany, and Rachel's gaze swivels to her. "Burt called. Something happened to Finn."

Much, much later that night, Santana contemplates the miserable wrecks of her housemates. She can't blame them; he was Kurt's stepbrother and Rachel's person (whatever that was, but she's not in a place to judge). She can't begin to imagine losing Brittany, what it would do to her.

She's lost someone too. She took his virginity, he outed her, she slapped him, and shit like that binds you for the rest of your life. But Santana doesn't want to waste time comparing. She's Santana Lopez, and it falls to her to get them together and functioning.

Santana is up early the next morning. She has things to do; she's still a Cheerio and enforcer bitch extraordinaire, and bitches get things done. She swipes Kurt's phone from the coffee table where he dropped it last night and calls Burt Hummel. Together, they make plans.

They still have a full day before their flight back to Lima; Santana lets Rachel spend it grieving alone in bed. Kurt is a little more functional, though she does find him staring blankly out the window in the afternoon, coffee from that morning cold and forgotten.

A few hours before they have to leave, she gently bullies Rachel into showering, getting dressed, and eating some crackers while Kurt packs their things. He holds up an argyle sweater (that has mysteriously survived his purge of Rachel's high school wardrobe upon his arrival in New York), briefly meeting Santana's eyes; they exchange a small smile and he tosses it back onto Rachel's bed.

Back in Lima, Burt drops Santana off at Brittany's house first. Rachel manages to mumble a goodbye, hugging her weakly. Kurt kisses her cheek and says, "See you later". Blaine squeezes her hand.

Brittany has been waiting for her, it seems, because the door flies open the instant Santana knocks.

"Britt," she tries to say, and it comes out a whimper.

Brittany opens her arms and waits patiently for Santana to walk into her embrace. "It's okay to cry," she says into her hair, and Santana starts to sob, great dry heaves that burn her stomach and shake her shoulders.

The funeral is even worse, if that was even possible. Everyone's there, but familiar faces are drawn and heavy, eyes perpetually red-rimmed. The littlest things cause them to burst into tears, and then it gets everyone going, and it all would've been too much for Santana if Brittany hadn't been there to hold her hand.

Her eyes remain dry. Someone's got to be the strong one.

Santana can't even look at the front of the church where Burt and Carole are sitting, Kurt and Rachel flanking them. She hangs at the back. Her work is done for the moment.

Her eyes rake over the people congregated in the room – not many, his was a short life – and she notices someone isn't there.

"Where's Quinn?"

Brittany tears her eyes away from the front. "Hmm?"

She repeats her question and the blonde frowns. "Isn't she here?"

Santana looks again. "No."

Brittany's frown deepens. "That's funny. She came back last night. We talked on the phone. She said she'd be coming." Her expression changes; one free hand suddenly flies to her mouth. "Do you think – "

The pit of Santana's stomach falls away unpleasantly. "No," she says empathetically, "not again, it's too much." She desperately wishes to be anywhere but in this position.

Brittany seems to understand. She fishes out her phone and fires off a quick text. The next ten minutes pass in an agony of constant checking (Brittany) and dread building (Santana).

Then the blonde breathes a sigh. "She's at home." Brittany passes the phone to Santana.

And all that worry has no outlet, so it bubbles up into anger. "What the fuck is she doing at home?" exclaims Santana, loud enough to carry. A few heads turn – mostly people she doesn't know. Those who know her also know how she can be. She ignores them all. "Why isn't she here?"

"I don't know, San," says Brittany in that soothing tone that always calms her down. "I think we should go check on her afterwards."

"You go, Britt."

"San?"

Santana's eyes flick forward to where Kurt and Rachel are. They have their arms around each other, and Rachel's head is in the crook of Kurt's neck, and it hurts to think of Finn not being there to hold her like that anymore even if they did gross out the people around them with how adorable they could be.

… did she say adorable? She meant gross. Stomach-churning, bile-inducing gross.

Funnily enough, that helps her make her decision. "I'll stay with them."

Brittany smiles, small and subdued, but it's still a Brittany smile. "Okay." She reaches for Santana's hand, squeezes it tight. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

If there was a cosmic karma scale out there, the shit she pulled in high school should have been wiped clean for this, Santana thinks. "Okay," she replies, kissing Brittany's cheek.

They're all surprised that Kurt goes to look after Quinn Fabray, of all people. But then again, Santana Lopez is staying to keep Rachel Berry company voluntarily. And by company, it mostly consists of Santana bullying Rachel through the motions of everyday life. If Snix needs to be there, then Santana has no qualms about letting her come out to play.

Annoyingly, Rachel seems to have sunk to new lows after the funeral. Whereas before she could be coaxed into doing things, now she… can't.

"Up, Berry," snaps Santana, kicking the side of the bed, "you've been in there since we got back. Move."

Rachel mumbles something into her pillow and doesn't.

"Don't make me drag you out. I can and I will, but it doesn't mean I have to like it, and so I won't be held responsible for any injuries you might sustain." Santana snorts. "Damn, we've been living together too long. I'm starting to ramble like you."

Even this doesn't get a reaction from Rachel. Santana silently counts to five and then grabs Rachel's ankles.

"The hell?!" Rachel squirms a little, attempts to kick free, but she hasn't eaten or slept properly in a week, and she's no match for Snix. Santana yanks, and Rachel tumbles to the hardwood floor with a squeak of outrage.

"We had to do this the hard way because you're so fucking stubborn, midget."

Rachel scrambles to her feet, drawing herself up in fury. It's a little intimidating even if she's only 5'2. "Fuck you, Santana," she spits, "where do you get off doing this? Just because you didn't care about him –" Her hands fly to her mouth. "Santana, I…"

"Yeah? Go on and say it, Rachel. I didn't care about him? Yeah, I'm thrilled that he's gone, because I'm just that cold bitch who slept with him to get at you, and he's that petty bastard who outed me to the whole world."

"That's not what I meant – Santana, I'm sorry."

"You didn't mean to say that I didn't care about him? That's gratitude for you," Santana yells back. "I've been making sure you and Lady Hummel continue existing out of the goodness of my heart and this is the thanks I get. But you know what? I don't give a single fuck anymore. You can die in that bed for all I care." And she storms out of the room, in true diva-fashion. The slamming of their sliding door follows shortly after.

After having the most humiliating day of her life, all she wanted was to be left alone, since Brittany was busy with cheerleading practice.

Someone knocked on her door. Santana frowned; Brittany always knew to let herself in. "Come in."

She groaned when Rachel Berry timidly peeped around the door. "Go away, Berry."

"I will, in a minute." She had a brown paper bag in her hands, which she laid on Santana's desk. "I wanted to give you this, and apologise for what Finn did."

Santana got off her bed. The slight height advantage she had over Rachel meant that the shorter girl was forced to look up at Santana, giving her the intimidation factor she had never appreciated more. "What, Finnept doesn't even have the balls to apologize?"

Rachel tilted her chin higher. "I'm not here because he asked me to. Finn doesn't even know i'm here."

"That's even worse. You cleaning up after your pet, Berry? Or are you here to beat me up for slapping your boyfriend?"

"No, and no," said Rachel firmly – though her mouth twitched at Santana's words. "He deserved what he got; what he did was reprehensible and completely out of line, and you have every right to be upset with him. I'm here because I wanted to make sure you're okay; it has nothing to do with Finn."

Santana scoffed, but backed away. "We aren't even friends. Hell, we're in different Glee clubs."

"Well, I consider you my friend, and that counts." She smoothed down the hem of her skirt. "I'm sorry you had to go through all that, Santana."

"Whatever," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "Can you go now, please?"

Santana had half-expected Rachel to throw a diva tantrum, but the shorter girl merely nodded. "Okay," she said, backing out through Santana's bedroom door. "I'll see myself out, you dont have to come. See you in school?"

"Yeah, okay."

When the door clicked shut before her, Santana allowed herself to indulge her curiosity and opened the paper bag. There was a small bag of cookies (the words 'I'm Sorry' neatly iced on each one) and a pint of rum and raisin ice cream.

Santana blinked. She had no idea how Rachel Berry found out her favourite ice cream flavour for when she was sad, but she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth; especially not when there was – Santana checked the time – about two hours until Brittany would arrive, and she had to keep herself occupied until then.

Santana doesn't know where to go immediately after. When the adrenaline and anger wears off shortly after, she finds that she's exhausted, so the nearest coffee shop looks inviting. She curls her fingers around a venti caramel cappuccino and stares into the foam as though willing it to share its secrets.

She kind of wishes she hadn't left. Santana hasn't realised how exhausted she is until this moment, and how empty she actually is.

Much as she hates to admit it, Finn has never been an integral part of her life – less so, after he'd outed her – but he was still there, and his absence has cut a hole out of her that can't be filled. They are so young, and Santana realises that she's had the notion that they were immortal and invincible.

She was right, in a way. He'll always be young and incorruptible, long after the rest of them are dust. The thought doesn't make her feel any better.

Santana blinks rapidly. She's not crying. She doesn't cry. But her eyes are still tired and sore, and she rubs at them with her sleeve.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologise," she mutters without looking up, "I should be the one apologising. I'm sorry for saying all that shit."

Rachel offers her a weak smile as she slides into the seat opposite her. "We're both sorry then."

"You'll be sorrier if you haven't showered yet. I can smell you from here, Berry." But Santana gets up and heads to the counter to buy Rachel's usual drink. Rachel accepts the cup gratefully.

"Do you think it'll ever be okay?"

Santana snorts. "Shit happens," she says, avoiding the question. "Life is full of shit. I never imagined something like this would happen, not in a million years or at least until we're old and drooling in nursing homes. It sucks." She reaches for Rachel's hand. "You're tough though, Berry. You made Tibideaux take you in. You made Crazy Cassie July your bitch. You stood up to Snix who makes grown men wet their pants – " Rachel gives a watery chuckle, " – and you're gonna own that Broadway bullshit so hard. You'll make it through."

A smile starts at the corner of Rachel's mouth and though her eyes are brimming over again, she squeezes back. "Thanks, Santana."

"We'll be fine," she promises them both.

The call from Kurt was unexpected; the reason for his calling even more so. Santana couldn't believe her ears when he explained the situation.

"Q, you up for a weekend trip?"

Quinn looked up from her magazine with a frown. "What's the occasion? The holidays haven't started yet."

"It seems like Little Miss I'm-Gonna-Be-The-Biggest-Broadway-Star is trying to take the shortcut to fame, and is going to bare all in a student film," said Santana, lip curling.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb, Fabray; you may be blonde, but you're not a stereotype." Santana tossed her phone onto the bed. "Hummel's getting his boxers in a twist because he can't talk Berry out of eternal notoriety, and he's resorted to calling in the big guns." She gestured between them; Quinn arched an eyebrow.

"Since when do you care about Berry?"

"Since when do you?" Santana sniped back, crossing the room to yank clothes out of the chest of drawers. "Hey, lend me some of your stuff; all my things are dirty."

"Do your own laundry, you lazy bitch; it won't kill you, but I might." Quinn snatched her shirt out of Santana's hands. "And I don't give a single fuck about Berry."

"Yeah? 'Cause if I remember right, you gave the fucking Prom Queen tiara away to somebody who wasn't even in the running. Sounds like someone who doesn't give a fuck indeed."

Quinn glared at her. "Shut up. I don't need to explain myself to you."

"Whatever." Santana placed her hands on her hips. "So. You going or no?"

The next day is worse, despite the progress she thought they made, Rachel still refuses to get out of bed, but Santana doesn't have the heart to strongarm her out. She's still raw from emoting yesterday.

"Okay."

Rachel shifts to look at her, blinking bemusedly. Santana meets her eyes.

"Okay, Rachel. You don't have to get up if you don't want to." She sits down. Her hand smooths over Rachel's hair. "Do you… want to talk?"

She doesn't move for quite a while. Santana is about to think she's broken Rachel when her lips part, and she rasps, "Yes". Santana nods. She lets Rachel crawl into her lap as she continues to stroke Rachel's hair, much like she soothes Brittany.

"I'm not used to you being… well, like this," says Rachel eventually, voice muffled against Santana's thigh.

"Like what exactly, Berry?"

Rachel snorts. "Are you going to make me say it?"

The other girl chuckles despite herself. "Don't get used to it. This is a one-time event for you and me, and if you ever breathe a word about this to anyone, Snix will not hesitate to end you."

"Okay," says Rachel, and promptly bursts into tears.

Much later, Rachel says: "I'm sorry. I do want to talk, but…" She gestures helplessly at herself, at her shining eyes and trembling lip.

"It's okay. Seriously."

"It hurts so much." She rubs her nose in a very unladylike manner. "We weren't even together when he – we hadn't spoken in months, god – but he's no longer here, and I never got to tell him I love him before he – " Rachel's eyes are shimmering again.

"I'm sure he knew, Rach."

"I'm so glad you came," slurred Rachel.

Santana rolled her eyes. "That's the fifty-seventh time you've said that, Berry."

"You like me saying it," said Rachel, "you like that I was wrong and you were right, and you like winning."

She laughed. "Can't argue with that logic," agreed Santana. She passed Rachel another drink.

Quinn scowled. "Stop giving her drinks; she's already dead drunk, you moron. I don't want to have to drag her back to the loft."

"Awww, Quinnie, chill; I'm only doing you a favour," cooed Santana, mockingly blowing a kiss. "You and your repressed lemon sexuality need all the help you guys can get."

"Great. You're drunk too," said Quinn. She paid the bill and hauled Santana upright. Together, they guided a giggling Rachel out of the bar. "Why do I let you talk me into these things?"

"Oh, come on. You're Quinn Fabray; you don't let yourself get talked into shit unless you didn't secretly want it." Santana paused. "Deep, deep down. Though I'm now having trouble with that theory because Puckerman. Euw."

"Noah? Is he here?" Rachel peered around blearily.

"No, Rach."

"Aww. Too bad. I wanted to tell him to shave off that hawk of his. He thinks it makes him look so cool, but actually," her voice dropped to a shout which she clearly thought was a conspiratorial whisper, "he looks like a scrubbing brush. Or a punk hedgehog."

"Shut up, Berry. God, if I knew you talked this much, I wouldn't have gotten you drunk."

"Shut up, the both of you!" Quinn snarled, giving them both a shove.

Rachel giggled madly as she lurched forward, slinging both arms around Santana's neck for support. "Whoopsie. Hi there."

"Ugh, Berry, personal space much?"

"I'm drunk," she declared. "I just got talked out of making the worst decision of my sure-to-be long and illustrious career by my two best friends in the whole wide world. I'm entitled to a little celebratory libations."

"Okay, how are you managing to talk like that after consuming that much booze?"

Rachel's eyes went wide with astonishment. "Speech classes and breath control. I have to be able to say my lines clearly even if I'm playing a drunk character. If you like, I'd be happy to teach you some of the exercises; it's really easy; it's all about proper lip and tongue movements."

"God, no, that sounds like a porno." They rounded the corner and found themselves outside Rachel and Kurt's building. "Oh, look."

"Thank god," groaned Quinn, looking a little flushed in the face. She pushed the door of the loft open and bundled them in, disappearing into the bathroom not long after.

Santana and Rachel, left to their own devices, collapsed on the couch, Rachel still clinging to Santana.

"'Tana?"

"What, Rachel?" grunted Santana, too tired to argue the use of that nickname.

"'M really glad you're here. You and Quinn. I've missed you."

"Fifty-eight."

Rachel does get out of bed the following day, but she doesn't do anything except sit on the couch and stare at a particular section of wall in the apartment. It's kind of creepy, but Kurt's told her the reason for that, and Santana can tolerate it. Mostly.

"Go shower," she snaps from the kitchen. "I can smell you from here."

"No, you can't," says Rachel. Santana takes a moment to appreciate the fact that she is, at least, communicating, before going over to her and grabbing her hand.

"Bathroom, now."

"Santana!"

"Look at you," she snarls, pushing Rachel in front of the mirror. "You're a mess."

She determinedly avoids looking her reflection in the eye. Santana can see why; the hollow-eyed, dishevelled, and filthy girl there is something out of her own nightmares. "Stop doing this."

Santana throws her hands up, begs a higher being for patience in profane Spanish. "Look, Rachel," she starts, "I'm trying. This isn't you; this droopy bullshit isn't you. You need to snap out of it and – "

" – and what? Forget him?"

"I never said that!"

"You implied it!" It seems an infuriated Rachel is much less verbose. She looks like she wants to stop talking and simply launch herself at Santana.

"Oh, get over yourself, Berry. You think he'd want to see you like this?"

"Fuck off!"

It falls to her to be the bigger woman – figuratively and literally. Santana takes a steadying breath and lets her shoulders drop. "He's gone, Rachel," she says. "He's gone and he isn't coming back. You can't wait for him forever, it'll break his heart."

And then Rachel's face crumples. "I know," she whispers. "But I'm afraid I'll forget him."

Santana lets her cry into her shirt. She doesn't like it that much anyway.

The next day, Santana takes a hands-off approach. She plans to leave breakfast in the fridge with an expletive-filled note (tough love, Santana Lopez style) for Rachel to find when she gets hungry.

But then she's utterly shocked to find Rachel already seated at the kitchen table, sipping her peppermint tea. "Hi," she says, dropping her gaze almost immediately afterward. "I wasn't sure when you were getting up, so I didn't make you coffee. Your mug's already there, though." Rachel points. Santana's eyes follow dumbly.

"Okay."

"I was thinking… there are a few errands I need to run; go down to NYADA and sort out some administrative matters. Taking a leave of absence and all." Rachel's eyes are still firmly fixed on her mug. "Grocery shopping afterwards, there's nothing left in this house to eat. I, um, was wondering if you'd like to come along? We could have brunch at that diner you like."

Santana snaps her jaw shut. She knows exactly what diner Rachel's talking about; it serves the best pastrami in the world. It also has precisely zero options for vegans, and a limp salad for vegetarians. But she smiles at Rachel, accepting the peace offering for what it is. "Nah, it's way too greasy. I feel like having Thai."

The corner of Rachel's mouth quirks. "You hate Thai on account of it being weird and not having any real meat. Plus you said you'd rather dance naked in Times Square than eat something that smells of dishwashing liquid."

"Yeah, whatever. So I eat Thai on occasion. Big deal. Let's get going already. You said you're buying, yeah?"

"Sure," beams Rachel, and it's like the sun coming out after the storm.

Another day Rachel wakes early – too early. It's still dark outside. She's about to roll over and go back to sleep when something catches her attention.

A muffled sob.

She doesn't hesitate. Rachel climbs out of bed, padding over wooden floorboards, towards Santana's curtained-off part of the loft. The wood creaks under her feet despite her size, meaning that the sobbing has stopped by the time she spots the dark outline of the bed.

Rachel's hand gropes around until it finds the edge of the bedclothes, and she slides in; the other hand has landed on Santana's shoulder (thankfully). She settles behind her friend. Her thumb rubs over smooth skin.

There is a long silence before Santana says, "If you ever tell anyone about this…"

"I know, you'll cut me."

"Damn straight." But Santana's hand reaches back to draw Rachel's arm closer. "Come closer, Rachel. This bed's tiny. I don't want your midget ass falling off in the middle of the night."

"It is the middle of the night," Rachel points out, and then yelps when Santana pinches her, hard.

Brittany arrives unexpectedly the day before they are supposed to go to Lima and Santana has never missed her so much. She says as much before letting the blonde wrap her up in one of those massive hugs of hers. "I've missed you too, San," says Brittany in her ear, before moving to hug Rachel (the much shorter girl lets out a surprised squeak when she is completely lifted off her feet, but clings tightly back once the shock wears off).

They are halfway through dinner when Santana remembers.

"Britt…"

Her girlfriend has never been the sharpest pencil in the box academically, but Brittany is a genius when it comes to Santana Lopez (theoretical mathematics is a close second). "Quinn is fine," she says, taking another bite of her sandwich. "Kurt's fine too."

"Okay." There are a lot more questions she wants to ask, but Brittany has just turned to Rachel, chatting happily about the merits of introducing ducks into dance, since it worked well for Asian martial arts which are practically a dance form themselves (the Cheerios routines are too easy now, so she's taken up capoeira in her free time). Rachel looks torn between amusement and incredulity but she's still participating in the discussion, and it's a welcome change from the silent deep-seated grief Santana has become familiar with.

And so she spends most of dinner eating and watching them talk, nodding when Brittany turns to her to confirm a point, and laughing when Rachel looks confounded by some fantastical leap in logic.

They agree that Rachel should stay at Brittany's while Santana goes over to Quinn's.

It's not like she's tired of Rachel (it's the complete opposite, though she'll never admit it out loud). She just doesn't know whether Quinn is okay enough to be around Rachel, who is only just beginning to heal. "I don't know if depression is contagious," says Brittany succinctly, and Santana smiles at that.

"It's fine, Britt. I'll go check on them. You stay with Rachel, okay?"

On Santana's last day with her, Rachel hangs around her like a child seeing off a favourite aunt, which amuses and depresses Santana in equal parts (not that she'll ever admit it anyway). "Give my love to Kurt and Quinn," she says, drawing Santana in for one of those bone-crushing hugs she seems to have learned from Brittany.

"Of course."

"And take care of yourself."

"Duh, Berry."

Rachel is silent for a moment, and then she impulsively hugs Santana again. "I'll miss you."

She doesn't reply because of the lump in her throat and the suspicious wetness of her eyes that threatens her reputation, but she hugs back extra-tight.

She intended to be nice to Kurt and easy on Quinn. She wanted to because she was unsure after Rachel (though, admittedly, Rachel Berry did tend towards the dramatic). But when she sees that familiar Fabray mansion, memories resurface with an intensity that startles her; Santana bangs and hollers like the Lima Heights hooligan she claims to be.

Kurt opens the door. He looks unkempt and disheveled, dressed in sweatpants and a Cheerios T–shirt (she bites back a laugh). She's never seen him so casual.

His appearance, however, is completely at odds with his expression. Kurt looks… at peace, of sorts. Calm. Quinn looks much the same (in attire and demeanour).

They're still broken, but Santana can see them healing, too. An invisible weight lifts off her shoulders.

There is a moment in which they don't know what to say, but then the insults that count as concern to her come easily, and they respond in kind.

When Kurt disappears to make them coffee, Santana turns to Quinn. "How are you?"

"I've been better," says Quinn, and chuckles dryly.

"So you'd rank this lower than being preggers and that skank phase?"

"Obviously, you dumb bitch."

Santana reaches for her hand. It feels a lot thinner than it looks; worry flares in Santana's stomach. But much like Brittany, Quinn seems to be able to sense thoughts.

"Kurt's been making me eat. I'll be fine."

"Good. I'd hate to kick your skinny white ass back into shape like I've had to do throughout high school. Besides, my foot is sore after kicking Berry's back into gear."

Quinn's amused expression dissipates. "Rachel? Is she okay?"

Santana considers the question, the asker, and the subject, in that order. Finally, she settles on Santana Lopez bluntness. "Not right now, but she's tough. She'll get there."

"Good."

Kurt chooses this moment to return with their coffees – Santana feels only a tinge of annoyance at being interrupted because he's remembered how she likes her coffee, and she really needs caffeine in her system. She answers his questions about Rachel with much less candidness than she did Quinn's because the coffee needs her attention more than he does.

Until she remembers to remind them of the memorial at McKinley and spots the veil that draws over Quinn's face. "I'm not going," she finally says, after some prompting.

Santana contemplates her for a moment. They all process grief in different ways; Rachel tackles it head on, she locks it in a box to be dealt with in private. But Quinn Fabray could be a goddamned Olympian for all the running away she does. There are a million reasons why she should go for the Glee club's memorial thing (first and foremost because it will help her express her feelings in a healthy manner) but Quinn is good at running away from the painful and necessary things.

"Okay," she says at last, and pretends she doesn't see Quinn's tiny grateful smile.

"Thank you."

"For what, Tubbers?"

"First, that name should have died a long time ago. For not making me go."

Santana snorts. "I'm not your keeper. You can decide for yourself what you wanna attend."

Quinn is silent for a moment. "You're braver than me."

"I'm not, believe me. If I had a choice, I would stay in bed with Britt. I'm just going because someone has to keep an eye on Kurt and Rachel."

"And that's why," says Quinn, "you're braver than me."

She brought groceries with her to cook them a proper meal (she's glad she did that, because she spotted the pile of empty microwave dinner boxes in the trash). Nothing fancy; they have chicken pie (ready-made crust from the store but she makes the filling herself) and some vegetable casserole Brittany's mom made. But they eat with gusto and make jokes about her hidden domestic goddess – quite a few of Kurt's at Rachel's expense.

Santana's missed this.

But she catches the newfound ease between Kurt and Quinn – she's more relaxed around him, he's less prissy with her – and declines to impose any further. Citing Brittany and her reluctance to let any spare moment pass without her, Santana brushes off their invitations to stay the night. "Don't let me get in the way of your lovefest," she drawls, "and threesomes aren't my thing without Britt."

Kurt flushes maroon. Quinn rolls her eyes and flips her off, making Santana chuckle and make a comment about the quality of a Yale education.

Back at the Pierces' house, Brittany greets her with a tired-looking Rachel sitting beside her. "Her flight got in a couple of hours ago," says the blonde.

"Berry. You didn't tell me you were coming tonight." Her voice carries an edge of warning; Brittany, accustomed to it, moves closer. Rachel – much less accustomed – shrinks back.

"I didn't want to be alone," she admits, and Santana melts. Brittany throws her a quick smile before wrapping an arm around Rachel's shoulders.

"We're glad you came earlier. We missed you."

Santana would like to throw a few choice barbs at Rachel to echo the sentiment, but she's tired. She simply nods, settling on Brittany's free side and resting her head on her girlfriend's shoulder.

"How's Quinn?" asks Rachel timidly.

"She's fine. So's Kurt." Santana pauses. "They're surprisingly good with each other."

"Well, duh. They would totally have been best friends in school if they hadn't been so scared of being themselves," says Brittany.

Rachel looks skeptical. "Really?"

"Yeah. I talked about it on my show."

"Rachel was too busy making MySpace videos nobody watched to follow your show, babe," says Santana, enjoying the tiny bristle from Brittany's other side.

Brittany pouts. "You could have totally been a guest if you wanted to, Rachel," she says. "I heard there's vegan fondue. We could try that one day."

"I'd love to."

She can't look any of them in the eye. Kurt drives her car to Quinn's house first. He gets out of the car and won't let Santana or Rachel out; he exchanges a few words with Brittany when she bounces down the walkway to greet them.

Santana keeps her eyes fixed outside and her hands clamped together in her lap. She was doing so well but she isn't strong.

"Santana?"

"What."

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Rachel watching her. She's chewing on her lower lip, worrying it with her front teeth. "It's okay to grieve."

"As though I don't know that," she snaps. It's almost gratifying to see Rachel flinch; Rachel's gotten a free pass to annoy her over the past few weeks because she was the one hardest hit, but she's reached the threshold. But this Rachel's developed a backbone after her experiences in (and out of) NYADA, so she firms her jaw and dives right back in. "You should be aware that you're not fooling anyone. You like to push people away when you're hurting – though Quinn is, arguably, worse – and don't think I don't know that."

"Then you probably know that I don't want to talk about it."

Rachel folds her arms across her chest. "Fine. We won't talk about it now. But I do want you to talk about it eventually. Not necessarily to me – " she interjects upon seeing Santana's expression, " – but to Brittany, or even Quinn. Or even Kurt."

"I've done enough awkward bonding with Quinn, thanks very much," mutters Santana. Rachel pretends not to hear.

Brittany gets into the driver's seat, beaming at them both, and then pulls out of Quinn's driveway. Kurt has had the audacity not to bid them both farewell.

It's only the third night after she's moved back into the loft, and she is completely swamped with home-iced 'I'm Sorry' cookies ("I'll bake you a proper batch this weekend after my shift, I promise") and offerings of cooked dead animal flesh. The latter touched Santana the most, because while Rachel has relaxed into vegetarianism since moving to New York, she didn't have to buy meat for her.

She gets it. People fucked up all the time, people realised they fucked up. They apologised, life went on.

Thought admittedly, snooping on your (involuntary) flatmate's boyfriend and calling in her ex-boyfriend to beat him up was a whole new level of fucked up.

Santana was totally justified. Gigolo was a step lower than drug dealer, and she had totally called that shit. But still, nothing justified Rachel's throwing her out of the flat. That was a low blow, and she knew Rachel knew it.

She rolled her eyes when Rachel entered the loft, a brown paper bag in her hand. "Rach, I get it; you're sorry for not believing me about Brody, you're sorry for throwing me out, you're sorry you ever doubted my psychic Mexican third eye. I swear, I am going to be so fat after all this, and I will cut you for it."

Rachel flushed scarlet and said, "Yes, well. As you've so concisely put it, but this isn't just for that."

"Oh?" Santana's moved to take Rachel's coat automatically; she smiled as she shrugged out of it, and put the bag into Santana's hands once they were free. "Fuck, that's cold." She opened it and pulled out a pint of rum and raisin ice cream, the smirk falling from her face. "Rachel…"

"I don't know when's the last time you had some," pointed out Rachel, "but I thought motifs would be good. It's a metaphor for completion, and…"

"... metaphors are important; we know, Rachel," said Santana with an eyeroll.

"Good. So you accept?"

"Oh my god, this is you groveling for being completely and utterly wrong, not a contract." Santana went to the kitchen to rummage in the drawers, returning shortly with two spoons. "Sit down. I hope you've got nothing on tomorrow, because I needs my Veronica Mars marathon, and I needs it now."

Rachel got that watery, wobbly happy grin on her face, the one Santana saw every time she was included. "Don't hug me," warned Santana, waving her spoons at her. "I'm holding ice cream."

"Maybe later?"

"Don't push it."

They've planned to fly back to New York together a little earlier than they need to. Quinn will be spending the weekend with them before taking the train back to New Haven. It's clear from the way she glances at Santana that Quinn has had no say in this plan.

This is the best way Santana keeps the most important people in her life (again, a secret) together in one spot where she can watch over them and worry about them and look after them.

The advantage in this is that Quinn and Rachel get to mend their newly-rekindled friendship. They sit together on the flight, with Kurt on Rachel's other side, Brittany and Santana beside him. After they've hugged and cried it out, Rachel has yet to stop apologizing for losing touch, Quinn has yet to stop telling her it isn't her fault. Kurt and Santana want to strangle them both. Brittany's opinion of them as being completely adorable has yet to change.

"They should date," she muses, watching Rachel fuss over Quinn's seat, the latter quietly resigned to her fate. Kurt and Santana turn identical horrified expressions to Brittany.

"You have got to be kidding me," says Santana just as Kurt says, "Dear Gabbana, no. They'd kill each other."

"They won't. They're good for each other. Quinn helps keep Rachel grounded, and Rachel's good at getting Quinn to express her feelings. They're totally obvious unicorns."

"I think the word you want is 'oblivious', Britt."

"That too," says Brittany, undeterred.

Santana has been afraid that Quinn's indolence (as reported by Kurt) and Rachel's grief will multiply because of the other's presence, but they turn out to be good for each other. They function almost normally; Rachel seems driven to be the perfect host to Quinn and to repair their friendship, Quinn just looks happier away from Lima and her own devices.

"She's exhausting. I almost wish she'd go back to spending the whole day in bed," grumbles Santana after a long day of being out and about.

Kurt huffs a laugh. "No, you don't," he says, kicking off his boots with a sigh.

"Fine. Maybe I don't," she concedes, "but you tell me whether you want to be out the entire day with a bunch of lesbians."

He considers this, shudders a little, then excuses himself to call Blaine.

Brittany leaves first. Her flight back to Lima is in the afternoon.

All the goodbyes have been drained out of Santana by the time Quinn's train leaves in the evening.

Rachel doesn't need to ask. Kurt (and a reluctant Santana) join her in her bed that night, sandwiching her in the middle.

When Santana wakes in the middle of the night to the sensation of Rachel pulling the blankets over herself and Kurt, and then wrapping her arms around them, she thinks it wasn't entirely for her. That crafty little minx.

Just before she drifts back off, she resolves to repay the favour. She'll make sure Quinn and Rachel receive early Christmas presents in the form of train passes, and then enforce the usage of said passes.

She makes the tough decisions so no one has to.