Chapter 1: Blue Smoke

Southern trees bear a strange fruit

September 18, 1941

The smoke is like a blanket, twisting against the soft, dim light. Blaine stands behind the high counter, his hands worrying over the glass, polishing it to near perfection. He's a sharp young man, wiry frame and perfect black hair, the crinkle around his eyes sometimes left checked at the door. There are no more bullets here but the shots of vodka he sneaks behind the bar when no one's looking. No more clouds of orange but of the smoke drifting from the cigarette tips. He worries the glass round and round, perfecting the imperfect. Not like anyone could tell, not in a place like this where each has their own trouble, each has their own haunt. She sits at the bar, her legs crossed, a glass of dark liquid in front of her. It's unbecoming to be in such a place, but she can't help it. There's an allure, one that had mesmerized her the second she smelled the cigarette smoke.

It's a dive, a little hole in the wall that she had happened to pass by one night, the sweet sounds of jazz bleeding through the thick New York air. There are seven tables, a long bar and never more than five patrons at one time. The lights are dim, the smoke thick, so no one bothers her. The stage is nothing more than a different colored floor, lamps placed along the edge, an old worn down piano sitting against the back wall. It's out of tune and some of the keys don't work, but the musicians make due. Everyone makes due, now.

The boys had just returned from one war, and now there's another breaking out. She never could understand such senselessness. She lifts the glass to her lips, pausing to take in the aroma. What would it be like to live under the sea. She wonders if it would be like this, where the pressure in the room is nearly suffocating, the darkness maddening. Where music worbles around you, the smokey tunes caught between swift breaths.

"Well," the bartender sets his glass down, drawing a cig from his pocket, the stick dangling out of the corner of his mouth like a hook. She turns her head towards him, brown eyes made black in the thickness of the room. Santana Lopez has been coming here for weeks now, sitting in the same place, ordering the same drink. He thinks she's beautiful, with dark hair, twisted against the side of her head, revealing the smooth curve of her neck, the red of her dress contrasting perfectly against the darker tones of her flesh. "What's in it today, Miss Santana?"

She gives him a cool stare, swirling the liquid in her glass. It sloshes against the curved edges. The hard edge of her jaw tells him everything. He shrugs his shoulder, pulling a match book from under the counter, striking one of the sticks against the bar top. The sudden flare infects her eyes with a dark smolder and he can't tell if she's inclined to speak to him, or if she finally has had enough to drink for the night. He brings the flame towards his face, cupping his smoke with his hand.

The glass is between her lips again, her throat moving with the slide of alcohol. Lipstick is left on the rim of the glass, staining it a dark red in the form of her lips. He smiles at her after taking a long drag, his smoke distinct against the rest for a couple of seconds before assimilating. She places the glass back down upon the counter top. He carries the best bourbon in the county. Just the right amount of burn. Just the right amount to forget. The wailing crescendo of a trumpet cuts between them like a knife, the cat slick, she thinks, her eyes drawn towards the stage. "Horrible," she growls, her voice raspy, thick with the natural smoke in her throat. The bartender takes another drag, his eyes glassy.

"Why you here then?" He leans, his boyish frame pressed long and lean. He slicks his hair down, the sheen reflecting the dim light. He gives her another smile, ashes falling on counter tops, peppering the wood with cinders quick to die.

"Not for the company." She shoots him a hostile stare, but his smile doesn't fade. Why can't he just leave her alone? She folds her arms over her chest, her left eyebrow quirked, daring him to speak again. It's a nightly routine, she's noticed. One where he'll laugh at her quip, push up against the bar and pull a dark bottle from the shelf. He'll pour her another glass, even though she has yet to finish the first, and then he'll tap the counter top saying this one's on him. It happens every night.

Santana can already feel the warmth around her neck, budding into her cheeks. Her vision is a little skewed, her muscles twitching along her spine. But she can handle it. Santana Lopez can handle anything. She stares down at him, waiting, surprised he still leans against the bar, his lips lose around the stick. He sucks in another breath, his eyes lazing closed.

"Ya know," he taps the rim of her glass. "You can talk to me. I'm the bartender, what better person to talk to?" In honesty, he just wants to see her say more than a sharp one liner. She's a curious thing, entering every night with a guy wearing dark shades and black suit. He always sits three seats down, orders a bowl of shelled peanuts and waits. He picks at them until she's ready to leave, when he follows her out the door, he gives the bartender a curt nod. There is business in his face, business that reflects in her own as she watches the other patrons, voices low. She never speaks to anyone. Never applauds the performances. Never moves a muscle, aside from drinking her drink.

"A bartender with a stupid cut. Who did it for you, the man who lives under the bridge?" She flicks invisible dirt off of the bar, a sour look crossing her features.

"Isn't he blind?" He smooths his hair, looking taken aback. Blaine thinks himself smart with a crisp white shirt and silk red bow tie, but somehow she makes him second guess himself.

"Is he?" Her fingers curl tighter around the glass, her knuckles paling. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out what he wanted.

"Listen Miss Santana," He begins, pushing himself away from the bar. He reaches beneath the counter and produces a glass identical to the one she holds. "Whatever is ailing you, it's got to be serious." He turns, grabbing the dark bottle, just as she knew he would. "I mean, you come in here more often than Edgar," he motions towards a man in the back corner, wearing an old army uniform, the green faded almost into grey. His eyes are sad and downcast, looking deep into his glass. She knows he lost a leg during the war. The Great One. He couldn't be more than forty five. Blanie had told her the story before.

She keeps her lips thin as she turns back to the young man, waiting to take the free drink he offers. The glass is still empty, his dark eyes staring hard at her. She scoffs, wrinkling her nose, her glass raised to her lips. The aroma of the bourbon mixes with a musk lingering upon her fingers. Guilt settles, the liquid knocked back against her throat. What did he know anyway?

"Save it," she holds a hand up to him before he can continue any more.

"What are you so afraid of, Miss Santana?" He's far more perceptive than he lets on, she would give him that. The man in the dark suit shifts and her attention is drawn there. He nods his head towards the door. A gentleman enters, dapper in dress, removing a cap. His dark eyes scan the other patrons, finally resting upon her. He gives her a wolfish grin, but she can see the rage laced behind hidden malice. Blaine can as well.

The man in the suit stretches and stands, positioning himself between her and the gentleman, boredom stretched along his face. The gentleman makes to move by the other, reaching his hand towards her arm. "I don't think that's very smart." Her mans voice is rough, hand clamped around the gentlemen's wrist. Santana turns her attentions back towards Blaine, shaking her freshly emptied glass at him. A coolness settles around her eyes.

"Do you know who I am?" He wrenches his wrist from the man in the suit.

"Look at that, Puck," she begins, glancing over her shoulder as fresh liquid is poured into her glass. "A dog that can talk. Blessed be the stars, I think we've found our turn to fame." She gives the dapper gentleman a sly grin over her shoulder.

"You!" He fumes, spittle flying from his mouth, resting indignantly upon his chin. "You bitch!" She lets out a sigh, rolling her eyes.

"How original."

"You don't realize what you done, Santana Lopez," he's lunging against the man in the dark suit now, his thick arms easily detaining him. An expression of boredom continues to plague his features. Christ, couldn't she drink in peace without someone coming in and yelling at her? She supposes that would be too much to ask.

She turns fully in her chair, watching as he flails madly within Puck's arms. The smoke in the air seems to become thicker, rolling around her in waves. It casts an eerie shadow behind her, the gentleman's rage quickly forgotten. His brown hair disheveled, he untangles himself, straightening his jacket, knuckles white. He looks the part, his lips turned down into an extreme scowl, chin held high. He's trying to be taller and intimidating, but honestly, it just makes him look ridiculous.

"Tell me then, what did I do?" She feels acid rising in her throat, her lips twitching. Puck gives her a small glance and she can feel the sympathy there in his eyes. Her knuckles get whiter the longer she holds the glass, to the point where he's concerned that it might start to fracture. She grates her teeth, patience lost.

"I-it's not something to discuss in-"

"Then leave." She begins sliding her body back into the same position as it was before, her glass clutched, Blaine notes, in her hands. He doesn't know what to say to her, instead placing a cigarette upon the counter top in front of her. He'd never seen her smoke, but it was worth a shot. She stares down into the glass, smoke rolling from her shoulders. She wonders if this is what it would be like to live down in the sea. It's a silly idea. Reserved for silly girls in silly dresses.

"Atilio will hear about this humiliation, Santana Lopez. I will see you burn." She hears the shuffle of feet, the snarl of a man defeated. The door opens, the cool autumn breeze brushing against her skin. He won't stand by his threat. He's a coward, that one. Unease settles on her shoulders, a feeling she just can't shake. What if he did go to her family? She chooses to ignore the shake in her joints and the lump in her throat, favoring instead more alcohol.

The man in the suit now sits next to her, his face inclined towards her, his peanuts in front of him. He gives her a small pat on the shoulder, her body rolling forward with the sentiment. She would never admit it, but she liked him. He gives her a boyish grin, breaking the business that had settled in his eyes.

"I never knew St. James to be so bold. 'Why Santana Lopez, what have you done?'" He's mocking the man, clutching his chest as a woman would. A smile threatens to spread across her lips, but she holds it back, her muscle twitching instead. "A right bastard he is. Thinking he can come in here and mess with you." Blaine looks back and forth between them, uncomfortable.

"What was that about?"

"Oh the shit thinks just because he ain't married means he owns the whole litter of bitches." Puck throws his arms in the air, his eyebrows crinkled tightly. "Little prick should right know who he's addressing before he lets his mouth run wild." The bartender pulls a fresh glass from beneath the counter and places it before the young man in the suit.

"What'd you do to piss him off, then? Taste one of his girls?" Blaine asks, mirth in his eyes. Santana shoots him a glare, one that dares him to say more. His voice catches in his throat. He turns back towards the bottles, looking for something to give his new found, what's more, talkative friend Puck.

"Me? No way. I wouldn't be caught dead touching his girls. They're full of nasty little diseases, them incurable ones that addle the brain. Santana thou-" He's interrupted by a swift kick to the shin, her eyes dripping venom. He mouths Ow, rubbing his leg, face twisted into a childish scowl. Smugly, she sips at her drink.

"Oh ho ho? What's this? Miss Santana!" Blaine turns, ready for the gossip. He's leaning against the bar top, a smile on his face, hoping to finally break through that icy exterior.

"She thinks they ain't sick, is all."

"Puck," her voice is low. She sucks against her teeth, her ears on fire from drink.

"What'll you have?" Blaine motions to the empty glass.

"Beer, nancy!" Puck's smiling now, the first time since they started coming here. Santana growls deep in her chest, rounding upon him.

"And what good are you going to be to me if you're lying dead drunk in a ditch?" She snatches the glass away from him, her own fingers beginning to feel numb.

"Oh Santana, one drink ain't gonna harm! I always watch you get plastered and I have to sit there eatin' them damn peanuts and I'm tired of it!" He makes to grab the glass back but is met with her other hand coming down a top his head.

"Are you the one in charge here? No." She holds the glass further away from him.

"Why can't he have a drink, Miss Santana. This is a bar, it's sad that a man escorts a beautiful lady like yourself every night and has to stay sober three seats away," Blaine says, motioning towards the now vacant seat.

"I like to watch him suffer." She places the glass further away, balancing it precariously upon the edge of the bar.

"Don't be such a tramp, Santana." Puck has his arms crossed.

"Eat you're damn nuts before I find them and crush them, Puck." She takes another swig of her drink. Her chest burns, guilt hiding within her eyes. She just won't let them see. They sit in silence for another half hour, but she notices the look Blaine is giving Puck. The way that his eyes beg the question, the way Puck shrugs his shoulders, eyes rolling. She turns her head away, towards the stage, a young woman striking up song softly. Her teeth bite down upon the inside of her cheek, her stomach twisting as she listens, fingers clasped tightly around the glass still.

There's nothing new in the song. Nothing that hasn't already been said. Yet, Santana finds her gaze locked with that of the sultry green eyes twinkling against the abrasive light. Watches the lips form words, full and drawn, moving in harmony with a throat still pink with fresh heat. The melody, whispers on her neck, draw up the hairs, her drink forgot. She can smell the woman on stage. Can already taste the sweat and tears she's shed trying to get to this moment. Maybe that's the drink. She tears her eyes away, looking down into the glass, her own scowl staring up at her. She feels the need to convulse. To wrench out everything. To burn it.

Instead, she sips at her drink, the burn once again reminding her.

Blaine turns to Puck, whispering beneath the din of the room so that she might not hear. "What is wrong with her?"

"There's this fella," Puck starts, but is interrupted.

The door opens again, this time, five men in suits entering, their eyes all trained upon her, the smooth barrels of their guns leveled towards the bar. Her breath catches in her throat, she chooses to ignore them, instead placing her glass down onto the bar top and standing. Her knees buckle, but she refuses to allow herself to sway. Santana Lopez can handle anything.

He's up in a second, his pistol drawn, pointed towards the intruders one at a time. Heart leaping, he stands close to her, a cool sweat beginning to take hold of his body. He wants to see her. She knew that this would come, eventually. Rat bastard St. James made good on his promise. Quick work. She holds her breath, moving out from behind the man in front of her. They had to find her eventually, right? All good things must eventually come to an end. And like strange fruit, she dangles from a wire high in the trees where everyone watches.

Look and watch her fall.


Brittany S. Pierce had woken one morning in the small twelve by ten white room. She still isn't sure how she got there, considering she went to sleep in her bed at home the night previous, but she chalked it up to her memory. Her daddy had always said that she was lacking. She stares up at the now familiar ceiling, the white paint peeling back to reveal the dark grey of the ceiling bricks underneath. She likes to make meaning out of them. The two just above the watermark next to her tiny window, those look like a face with hollowed eyes and a mouth with lips that melt to the left.

It's lonely here and she doesn't much like it, but Simon keeps telling her that she's sick. That she needs to stay here in order to get better. Every time he visits, the face in the wall gets sadder. There isn't much in this room, save for her small bed, barely able to contain her long legs and restless sleeping. There's another bed opposite hers, but she suspects it's never been used. Everything is white, which is boring, but sometimes they let her put the pictures she draws on the walls. She doesn't fancy herself a Pinocchio, but she thinks that Aristotle would be proud. At least she can bring reds and blues and yellows and greens to live on paper stuck to her wall with a bit of stucky.

The doctors tell her a lot of things, mostly things like "you're just confused," but she doesn't really see herself as such. Perhaps they're the confused ones and that's why they need to write everything down on their papers. They've been talking to her for days. For months. For years. Is it years? Brittany can't tell. She's seen snow fall outside her window, when she was pretty sure it was supposed to be summer and has felt the swelter of August in the dead of December. Maybe the snow is shreds of mattresses, maybe the heat added sauce to her carrots, again she can't tell.

Simon is supposed to come and see her today. He said that he would. She smiles lazily, staring into the eyes of her watermarked friend, nodding her head. "He'll come," she says, her back flat against the mattress. "Maybe he'll bring a friend." Her voice is distant and listless, her eyes dropping back towards the other corner of the room. She isn't a stupid girl, she's just different. A hurt begins to well in her chest as she sits herself up onto her bed. The nurses tell her otherwise. Dr. St. James tells her otherwise.

She had been sitting in his office two days prior, her hair pulled back nicely, her clothes (colorful) pressed neatly. She'd overheard some people say that yellow doesn't go with magenta as she had picked her blouse and skirt previously, but she didn't really care what they said. They didn't know that yellow loved magenta and that magenta had once told yellow that it would never hurt yellow. It didn't matter because only she was privy to that conversation. It didn't matter because those other patients didn't know that green was jealous of yellow. They didn't know that their colors were sad and despondent. She didn't have the heart to tell them.

Dr. St. James had been sitting at his desk, his eyes scanning a file. He wore a white coat, his lips set into a firm frown as he read over his previous notes. She liked his office. There were pictures of elephants and the deep African jungles, pictures of Irish castles and Germanic villages. She wanted to go someday. She wanted to touch a lion and feel how soft its fur was. Simon always insisted that they would have fur courser than Lord Tubbington's, but she always argued stating that there was more of it, so it should be softer. He didn't like it when she spoke of such nonsense. Her fingers brushed her cheek, eyes quickly darting away from the elephants.

"Good morning, Brittany," he had said, finally putting the papers aside and picking a pen from his pocket. He smiled at her, his brown hair falling against his forehead like feathers, his face trying to appear trustworthy. She had returned his smile with her own.

"Good morning." He couldn't have been more than a couple years older than her. Perhaps this was some sort of game.

"How are you feeling today?"

She wrung her hands before answering, trying best to describe her feelings. "Watermarked." He paused, writing something down onto his piece of paper. He gave it a moment of consideration, his face drawn into a look of concern.

"What does that mean?" He tapped the pen on top of the paper, looking back up at her.

"It means what it means, Dr. St. James. I feel watermarked." By the way he wrote on the paper, she knew that she had said something wrong. The smile fell from her lips, her teeth beginning to worry at the bottom one.

"Why don't you tell me what you did yesterday?" His smile had returned, but she could see the strain in his jaw.

"Well, I ate breakfast in the morning, because I'm told you can't eat breakfast at night, which doesn't really make all that much sense considering it shouldn't matter what sorts of food you eat when and at what time. I had some eggs, but they looked a little pink and tasted a little more like ham than eggs, but the sign had read eggs, so it couldn't have been anything other than that, rather." Simon had told her that if she could start remembering better, then she would get to go home. "Then I went to morning therapy with Quinn and she told me that I looked really nice. We talked about things that have been bothering me, mostly about Lord Tubbington, since I'm pretty sure he's started getting mixed up in some gang related activities as of late, he reads too much of the news. After that, I ate lunch and it was alright, but I'm starting to think that they're putting too much sauce when they make our food because I got really warm after that. Then it was time for arts, which is my favorite part of the day. I made some more pictures to put on my wall, since I'm trying to be better. Then I went to bed."

She hadn't gone to bed. She looked down, her gut twisting at her lie. She pulled her blouse down over her wrist, blue eyes tantamount with anxiety. "I've remembered everything, Dr. St. James. I'm getting better. Can I go home with Simon next he comes to see me?" The cold hands of apprehension gripped at her heart, turning it to ice while he finished his sentence.

"You haven't forgotten anything, Brittany? Anything at all?" He scrutinized her for what felt like days, her mouth running dry. The chill had spread to her stomach, her breath coming short. She felt dizzy.

"S-surely I'm to forget somethings. Like the second I sat to eat or which foot fell to the ground first as I crawled out of bed. Little things like that I forget…" She pulled her hands behind her back, fingers drawing the edge of her sleeve down further.

"I see," he scribbled something else down upon his paper. "What happened in crafts yesterday, Brittany?" He had spoken to her softly. He was serious and she had to tell him, but he wasn't demanding.

"N-nothing!" The lie rang hollow in her ears, her eyes beginning to sting. The doctor had let out a sigh, pulling a sheet of paper from under all of his notes. They hadn't let her keep that drawing. Quinn told her that it wouldn't go well in her room anyway. He lays it upon the table, his eyes hard and serious, the black bold letters scribbled and angry. Red screams up at her, beading up from the page as dark and thick as blood. There's a single line of it dripped diagonally across the page.

He doesn't want you. He hates you. He isn't coming back.

You are alone.

The pencil had pressed so hard in her finger that it had snapped. Like a little bone it shattered, sharp splinters jagged against the grey page. Tears sprung to her eyes, fogging her vision.

"Please don't send me back, Dr. St. James." Her muscles had still been twitching from the night previous, the ache in her jaw unbearable that morning. Her skin around her wrist was still raw, beating alongside the trob of her heart. Reminding her.

"It will make you better, Brittany." He picks up the piece of paper. "All Simon wants is for you to get better so you can be a better wife. We're trying to help you." Did he believe his own words? Not a chance. Simon had asked him as a friend for this and he had agreed. Her family was loaded, her father desperate to get her a good husband since he was afraid no one would take her. The good Dr. St. James couldn't help but feel a little responsible, but business was business. He had to keep it afloat somehow.

"I-I didn't do anything." The tears began to stream down her cheeks, spearing through the red that had been collecting there. She felt hot again. "My pencil broke and all I could see were the words over and over again."

"So you tried to kill yourself?"

"No! Why would I ever-"

"Brittany the pencil was jammed-"

"But I'm not unhap-"

"Quinn saw it!" He burned, his eyes dark. Her eyebrows crinkled, a crease forming between them. Why would she do anything like that? She was trying to get better, not trying to die. She pulled her hands back out from behind herself, staring down at the lines in her palm, staring at the creases made in the bandage. Funny how similar they were.

"But I don't want to die, Dr. St. James."

"And I don't want you to die. I want you to talk to me, so that way I can help you." He looked sincere.

"They're words." She motioned towards the paper, the tips of her fingers numb. "Words can cut too."

"But you wrote them. Why would you write them if you knew they were going to hurt?"

"They aren't mine." She shrugged, a pain beginning to beat behind her eyes.

"How? You wrote them, didn't you?" He was on the edge of his seat, knuckles white. He had to keep her here, it was all part of the deal. If she fell into madness, then he wouldn't have to make things up anymore. She had always been a little bit touched.

"He wrote them." She rubbed the back of her hand against her nose, the bright bandaged wrapped around her wrist a stark contrast against her skin.

"But Simon wasn't there, he was at home, praying for the day he'd have a healthy wife who could come home and take care of him, just as he has taken care of you." He gave her his best smile, but she had always thought that he looked a little creepy when he squinted his eyes and flashed his teeth. She wasn't sure if he wanted to eat her or puke. It had put her on edge.

It still put her on edge, her bare feet flat against the cool ground of her room. Her wrist still burned, stitches pulling against her tender flesh. They had put her in here and taken away what little belongings she had, in case she fashioned a weapon out of one of them. A nurse had been sitting outside of her room the entire night. She'd heard them call it "Wack Watch." She wishes she knew what a wack is.

Outside of her window, it smells like rain, condensation gripping lightly to the pane of glass, bullets sliding down, causing streaks against it. She can barely see through it, her nose reaching the sill only when she stands on her tip toes. She brings a pad of her finger and draws a line down, making her own river amongst the fog. The bricks are cool against her heated flesh, her muscles tight in her stomach. There's something calming in the rain, the way it patters against the ground outside, the freshness it adds to the air. She glances at the empty bed opposite her own, a frown tugging on her lips. They'd told her that no one deserved to be stuck with her. At least some of the other patients had. She doesn't understand their hostility. Doesn't understand why they look at her the way they do when she talks to them.

A brisk knock on the door has her head whirling, a smile lighting her face. He's supposed to come and see her today. He told her that he would. She shoves her feet into the slippers provided, smoothing the corners of the same yellow blouse she had worn to her meeting with the doctor a few days previous. The door creaks open, weight in the hinges, a petite blonde woman standing in the door. Brittany always thought Quinn pretty, with perfect skin and perfect nose. She motions towards the hallway and she steps out, wafting the scent which she thinks is her favorite. Quinn always smells of the clean of soap and promise of a good meal.

"Good morning, Brittany." Quinn's green eyes sparkle, her lips rose colored, her fingers grasping more papers to her chest.

"Quinn!" It's a short and quick greeting before she falls in line behind the other woman. They never really speak much, but Brittany likes her all the same. She's never mean and she always has a smile ready to give her. The nurse leads her through the corridors, the white walls peeling in places, much like her room, the chill of autumn beginning to set into her bones. It makes her feel alive, the way the warmth drains from flesh. The way her breath manifests when she's allowed outside.

They move past the activities room, books placed behind locked cabinets, cards neatly stacked within another. Three couches sit positioned around a low table where most will sit and talk to one another when allowed. She likes to draw there best, sitting on the orange couch that she suspects is made out of gooseflesh. It tickles the bare skin when you sit on it, scratching when you move. It faces the large windows, all looking out over the field below. The grounds are kept green, though she does wish that the leaves would stay on the trees instead of moving to the ground. Don't they get cold?

Eventually, Quinn leads her towards the eating hall, little tables set up with groups of five chairs settled around each. The nurse motions towards one of the tables, other patients already waiting. Brittany sets herself down, a toothy grin, her position that closest to the window. The gravel of the main drive is damp with the rain still falling, the smell over powering here. She can hear songs in the droplets, can see a waltz as they splash against the windows. She closes her eyes and waits.

Quinn sits in the corner of the room, looking sadly at the girl next to the window, blue eyes scanning. Waiting. She's only worked at Dalton for five months, but she can't help but feel sorry each day the blonde sits staring out the window. She always looks so sad, like she's searching for meaning in the clouds that are painted above them. It blankets the blue, Brittany had once told her, so that way the sky doesn't get cold. But she's scared, scared that someday, the other blonde will have to face the truth and will come to the same realization that they all must at one point or another. The sky is already cold.

It's proven in the way she sits at the table, a rose to her cheek. Just one more minute, until that minute turns into an hour and that hour turns into the next. The other patients hug their loved ones and leave one by one. Its dark outside by the time Brittany stands from her seat, her eyes downcast. Quinn stays. Always stays until she's ready to leave. She stands now, moving towards the girl, offering her some food left over from the dinner she so clearly missed.

"Next time," Brittany says, smiling up at her. The laughter is never far from those blue eyes. "Next time he'll come for sure, Quinn. He must have just forgot."

But Quinn knows. She'll wait and wait and wait. And Simon?

Simon will never come.


"Siéntate, nieta." He sits within his parlor, a glass of wine clasped in his hand, the red liquid still. Shelves of books line the walls, a fire crackling within the confines of the stone place, the flames dancing, casting an eerie shadow against the walls. It smells of cigars and old books, a smell Santana has taken to associate with him.

His eyes look tired, the bags underneath them adding more darkness to the already vast void. Her stomach turns. Her grandmother stands at his side, her features hard, jaw set in a tight line, hair pulled back into a perfect bun, the pearls dangling around her neck reflecting the dance of fire. Her lips are thin, thinner than Santana has ever seen before. Puck is at her side, his hands folded neatly in front of himself, his eyes downcast. The man before her motions towards the chair sitting across from him, urging her to sit again.

Cautiously, she does as is asked, wary of the five man escort which has been provided. Her stomach begins twisting, a burn kindling in the back of her throat. It's not because of the alcohol.

"Yes?" Her voice sounds so much more certain than she feels. She tries to hold her chin high, but she feels as though she's been caught doing something wrong. Rubbing her hands against the material of her dress, she hopes to mask her guilt.

"Where were you, Santana?" Her grandmother speaks, the older man opening his mouth to let out a sigh. Looking over to her, he shakes his head, but allows the question to stand.

"She was at Cat's Cradle, sir," one of the men pipe up. She shoots a glance over her shoulder, blood beginning to simmer.

"I can speak for myself." He grows ridged, jaw snapping shut.

"Again? Nieta, how many times do I have to tell you. That is no place for a Lopez," her grandmother says, arms thrown into the air. "Let alone a lady!"

"A lady, abuela? I'm tired of this cat and mouse game. I'm a grown woman, where I chose to spend my evenings should be of no concern to you." She crosses her arms.

"Santana!" Her grandfather's eyes darken, the liquid in his glass rippling slightly. "That is no way to speak to her. We are merely concerned for your well being!"

"Well being? Well being?!" She stands now, her skin beginning to flush a deep red.

"I will not have you turn harlot!" The other woman has leveled her finger now, waggling it as she approaches, stopping only when she stands toe to toe with the slightly taller woman.

"I haven't don-"

"What am I supposed to think when you come home reeking of sex and booze!"

"Will you-"

"You are a Lopez, Santana! We have to have standards! Your papi has arranged so many nice young men for you to suit, but you scorn every one of them. If you're going to be going out every night and fucking the rest of the red district, then you shouldn't be allowed to call yourself a Lopez!" She's grown red in the face. Santana's breath hitches, a passion growing in her own eyes.

"I'd rather fuck a herd of donkeys than be in a family where grand daughters are nothing more than sacks of meat, moving from one place to another. Where a mother can offer up her own son for the betterment of the family and do nothing as she watches him pull the trig-" A palm stings against her cheek, her head whipping around. Eyes wide, she stares deeply into her grandmothers, the venom almost infectious. "As she watches him pull the trigger, the note burned to ashes in the fire. What did it say, abuela? What did that note say?"

"You think this is funny, Santana? Your Uncle is dead."

"Does it look like I'm laughing?"

"That is enough." Atilio "The Spaniard" Lopez lowers his glass, placing it upon the rich end table next to the morning paper. People have seen her come and go there, or else he would have let the matter rest. But they simply can't afford to allow this to become a spectacle. His father always taught him that once the public can see it, so can the police. And once the police see it, they'll never stop watching. It's not a matter of freedom, but rather a matter of safety. A matter of love.

"Nieta," he begins, grabbing his wife by her other wrist, trying to get them to calm down. "You are a beautiful woman and I understand that you want to live your life, but you have to understand, what you do does have consequences. We just want you to be safe and happy." There's unspoken threat in his eyes, his jaw clenched tightly.

"Abuelo, I can't sit in this house and listen to you and papi talk about the things men are want to do. I can't be like mami and shackle myself to the first man who offers to buy me a rose. It's ridiculous." So much drama, she thinks, moving towards the fireplace. She watches the fire dance, the heat licking across her skin.

"And what do you do every night, huh? A new horn player or the same one?" The words hurt more than the slap.

"You don't know what I do."

"I don't? Are you so sure?" Atilio feels the situation leaving his grasp. If this were to become public, it would be a mockery of the family. Of his family.

"I go to the same bar, order the same thing, drink two drinks, and then leave, abuela." It's not entirely untrue. Too bad she was just beginning to enjoy her buzz when she was taken away.

"Do you know who came to me this evening, Santana?" Her grandfather speaks, the paper in his hand. He scans the words unceremoniously, a grim expression upon his face. The headline, bold and abrasive, screams up at her 'The Spaniard Acquitted for 33 Counts of Murder.' It's final. It's definite. "St. James. Jesse St. James," he says, his voice disinterested. Her stomach sinks, blood freezing in her veins. So the little rat had made good on his promise.

"What did a cretin like him want?" She rubs her hands together, wishing she would have been able to wash them before coming into their presence. Memories of kisses on her neck make her skin prickle, a lump stuck in her throat.

"He told me the most peculiar thing and I need you to tell me, nieta, that it's not true." He places the paper down again, the vastness of his eyes deepening. They know. It's all she can think as she sinks back down into the chair, sweat beginning to form along her spine. What was she supposed to say? That she was drunk and thought her for that horn player? That she was out of her senses? Did it for the family? That didn't make any sense.

She notes the tears beginning to form in the corner of her grandmothers hardened eyes. The way the older woman's jaw tightens, her fingers wringing around themselves. What is she supposed to say to a woman who has already lost so much? Bitterness sweeps over, drowning the guilt. Her muscles tighten, eyes locked with her grandfather.

"Were you with another woman?" The words fall from his lips and Santana feels her world pull sideways. She's not breathing, a silence falling over the room, deafening them all. The silence is their answer. It's the only other thing that need be said. She doesn't hear her grandmother's screams, doesn't feel the tears rushing down her cheeks because she doesn't have any left.

She feels fingers wrap around her arms. They'll leave a bruise, but that's nothing. Dark eyes watch and wait through the blue smoke filling the sitting room. His smile is wolfish and filled with rage.


Author's Note: Here it is. I'd like to thank you for reading and hopefully you enjoyed it. I'd also like to thank my favorite and long time beta Swinging Cloud because without her rad-ness I definitely wouldn't be back in business. Oh also: My Spanish is rusty at best, so if I ever misspell something or do something crazy, just let me know. Just don't be mean about it, I haven't had to speak it in seven years.