LoneGambit: Ahh, old friend. If it's worth anything, I was extremely delighted to see your name pop up once more. And I am always so grateful for your kind words. I'll do my best with this one.

aprilthewelder: I'm most certainly glad. Stress because of something I've written? No such way. Lol. As always, thank you for taking the time to read and leave your input.

4evamuzic: Is it realism, or am I simply being an asshole? Lol. I love the pain and heartbreak, and will do my best in making this piece not mimic the other too heavily. Great to see you back in the reviews. Many thanks.

pictureofsuccess: Let us. Lettuce? I forgot what I was going to say. (Thanks.)


Author's Note: I'm terribly sorry for updating so soon, but this bastard's been in the back of my mind for quite some time. Sometimes just meld together, and what else are we to do but run with them?

I'll be doubling this with my other current piece, which would be a shame to abandon. So bear with me, guys. But if it's consolation, I've got something of an idea of where I'd like this to go. Oh, and please pay special attention to the time indicators. I'm not a royal asshole, so I didn't list entire paragraphs in italics.

And as always, many thanks to those of you reading.


Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.


November- Twelve Months Earlier:

Hot water trickled down my neck. It splashed against my face, leaving a gaping area of cold to my back. The only thing that could have made a shower any better, and it did, was Santana, when she frequently covered the chilly area with her own body. Warmth. The security of two arms wrapped around me. Her chin propped up on my shoulder, saying, "Why don't you take the night off? We can go out, just the three of us."

It was quite the proposal. Lavish. A luxury that we couldn't afford. And I was forced to frequently make this clear, pulling my best friend from her dream state. "We can't afford to 'go out'," I said, reaching over and wrapping a hand around the back of her neck. "Besides, isn't tonight kind of a big deal for the diner?"

She groaned. Rolled her eyes. Though I could see neither, I could feel both against my shoulder blade as her head burrowed into my back. "Seriously, who holds an important client meet-and-greet at a diner?" She reached across me, retrieving our only can of shaving cream. I turned just as it was being lathered and formed along her chin. "Abraham Lincoln didn't have to put up with this shit."

I laughed the kind of hearty laugh that only Santana could elicit. I then took the can into my own hand, lathered the foamy emulsion, and spread it across the top of my lip. "Neither did Hulk Hogan."

Her groan quickly switched into a giggle. "You look like an out-of-work porn star."

"Yeah?" I teased.

She laughed into my ear. "Totally."

A mouth found its way to mine. Her tongue also danced alongside my own, distracting me from the real issue. The real issue having been the pair of hands that fit just on the underside of my thighs, lifting them one by one, coaxing me onto the shower's small ledge. Fingers trickled a bit lower. I could do nothing but wrap my arms around her neck, and then her back, finally settling somewhere in between.

This was a common occurrence, and not once did I protest.

A bone-chilling stream of cold water, on the other hand, did enough complaining for the both of us. It flipped in a mere instant, sending Santana's body hunkered over mine, protecting me from the showery equivalent of a snowstorm. Miniature icicles that pelted into our skin. The sound of metal clanked against our bathroom door. "LATE," a voice called out. The voice of a boy. Twelve, almost thirteen-years-old to be precise. For his age, a towering height of five feet four inches. And if I was the guessing type, I'd be almost certain that he was to blame.

Instead of yelling her once-frequent slew of Spanish curses, Santana merely started chuckling to herself. Her eyes met mine in enough time to playfully ask, "Is it too late to leave him on someone's doorstep?"

We dressed in a hurry. Barely took time to assemble the perfect outfits, as our teenage selves might have. Rather, we both skated through the one-legged pants dance, grabbing odd items needed for the day. Purses. Phones. With Eddie's boisterous, commanding orders, we found ourselves in front of the kitchen sink and brushing our teeth in a record seven minutes.

He quickly grew antsy. It was a big day in the land of middle school boys. Parent-teacher conferences. Santana and I recently played rock-paper-scissors for who would be granted the lovely task of playing parent for the day, and considering that she always picked rock, I was pardoned.

But it always saddened me when they left the apartment, and so I would do just about anything to make them stay longer. Even if it riddled Eddie with anxiety. And so, as we brushed our teeth in the kitchen sink, spitting huge globs of white where a scrap of food might go, I asked, "Do you love me, Ms. Lopez?"

It was a game we often played. Like clockwork, she snickered and responded, "Yeah, I'd say that was accurate."

Eddie tapped his foot. Crossed his arms impatiently. "How much, though?" I continued.

She cocked an eyebrow, the toothbrush dangling from her mouth, and extended both arms horizontally. Stretched out as far as they would. "Thith mush."

I did the same. "Thah muth?"

"Stop. Just stop it," Eddie interjected, not making it as far into the exchange as he did yesterday. "Cut it out before I vomit everywhere."

Santana rinsed her mouth out and looked to the boy, water dribbling down the front of her shirt as she asked, "Wuth wong, Eddie?" Her arms extended again. "Do you not luth uth thith mush?"

He grumbled, trying to duck as she extended the sink-side hose, dousing him. "Payback's a bitch," she said, hiding behind the nearest wall. Very James Bond-esque. Another spray. "But the taste of justice is so terribly sweet."

Around that time, his entire shirt was soaked. And when he mumbled a snappy return, one consisting of the terms "dick" and "asshole", both Santana and I flashed a glance at each other. I intercepted his storming out. Bear-hugged him. Lifted his scrawny frame. Santana accompanied me, grabbing one of Eddie's legs and assisting in turning him upside down. We proceeded to administer a spur-of-the-moment kitchen sink swirlee. When all was said and done, we were all soaked.

"Now go change," Santana said, her voice taking on a serious tone. She then thumped him on the ear, finishing with, "And no cussing, dipshit."

A devilish smile crept across her face as she tore off down the hallway and into our room. Eddie stopped momentarily, pleading a child's innocent plea. "Can't you come with us? She's going to embarrass me."

"Better get used to it sooner than later," I said, placing a kiss to his temple.

He went to protest further, but was cut off by Santana's butt as it effectively nudged him out of the way. "LATE," she called out, almost laughing.

"They're going to make fun of me," he grumbled.

"Just tell them that you live with a fiery Latina who hasn't gotten laid in, like, a week," Santana continued. "They'll understand." Her attention then shifted to me as she smiled, giving me a hurried kiss. And as they reached the door, Eddie's backpack slung over her shoulder, she asked, "Wait up for me tonight?"

I smiled, poked my tongue out, and teased, "Always."


We were having plenty of sex back then. Making love, rather. Representing it in its truest, rawest, most innocent form. Sometimes quick, sometimes slow. Sometimes rough, sometimes gentle. But forever involved. Santana and I, we'd finally tapped into that special something. The "something" that allows a person to be free if nothing more. Free to move within the other. Free to love as openly and honestly as one can. It was a glorious balance to hang in.

That night, as I fell hard against the sheets, burrowing into Santana as deeply as physically possible, she seemed content. Breathing the slow, methodical cadence that she'd developed specifically for me. For us. It was warm. It was safe. It was secure. It was the puzzle I wanted to spend the rest of my life piecing together.

"You are quite possibly the most beautiful human being I've ever seen," she sighed into the night. What made it so special was that her eyes were closed. She couldn't see me. But she still made a point of letting me know. Santana was always doing this.

"Not so bad yourself," I said, playfully pinching her backside.

She winced. Opened her eyes, cocked an eyebrow at me, and placed a kiss on my nose. At that point, my head was creeping along her chest. Finding its usual place just underneath her jaw. Her hand skated just below my own mouth-to-face fixture, tracing the curvature. Two fingers gently lifted my mouth to hers. And when both pairs of lips finally met, we each gasped.

The old Brittany and Santana had that effect on each other. We were able to transform the most mundane, trivial occurrences into moments as special as their breathtaking firsts.

Her eyes softened. She dared to crack a smile. Such signs of joy were still new to my best friend, who'd still yet to fully trust anything that didn't come with a catch. Any act that didn't have profound consequences. They say that hindsight is twenty-twenty. If I'd known then what I do now, I just might've reveled in these simple moments a bit longer.

Anyway, I'd believed us to be in for the night. And we were, for the most part. Eddie had long since gone to bed. Carey was in her respective apartment just down the hall. We had no intruders that threatened to diminish our serenity. Santana must've sensed this, for after a quick breath, she reached across me. Her left hand fumbled along our nightstand while the right remained firmly wrapped around my back.

I immediately recognized the Crayon box as it came into my field of vision. How could I forget? That box had seen many a heartbreak. It once held the key that, should I have fully accepted the circumstance, would've made this scene unimaginable. Nonexistent.

"You know," she began almost painfully, words catching on her lips as they fought to fall free, "we're really fucking broke. As we probably should be, considering that the boy eats enough for the both of us."

I couldn't tell you why I laughed, but I did. Maybe it was her nervousness. The way she referred to Eddie as "the boy", even though she only did that on rare occasions. Maybe it was the truth of her statement. His growth was in full swing, draining our bank accounts as we tried suppressing his appetite. Santana even resorted to "indefinitely borrowing" food from the diner. Stealing was beneath her, but I didn't have the heart to explain that Lord Tubbington, before cancer claimed all nine of his lives, frequently "borrowed" cigarettes from his hoodlum feline counterparts.

"And I've said time and time again that you deserve the very best. The world, if I can manage," she continued, wrestling the ring I'd given her months before from her finger. It fit snuggly onto mine. "But I currently cannot manage, due to the fact that we live in a hillbilly town filled with hillbilly people that tip poorly enough to make a hillbilly grimace."

I laughed again. The times in which she was least put-together were my favorites.

"One day, though, homegirl here will give you everything and then some. More than you could possibly fathom. Shit that makes receiving the world look like child's play."

Another laugh.

She looked down, the outside moonlight radiating inside and reflecting off of the most gorgeous pair of brown eyes. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" she asked.

"No, not really," I answered half-heartedly. Santana was always giving me odd gifts. Always showering me with heartfelt compliments. This was just another Friday in the world of BSP.

She sighed, barely emitting a gust of breath. It fluttered against a lone tuft of hair. Rise then fall. "Marry me, Brittany Pierce," she finally worked up the courage to say. "Argue with me, fight me, hate me, and cuss me to the high heavens. But for the absolute love of God, just promise that you'll do it all in sickness and in health, until death do us apart."

I was extremely taken aback by her abruptness. It was playful, sure. But it took the strength of a thousand Spartans. And while strength was always Santana's strong suit, the strength to be emotionally vulnerable terrified her to no end. In fact, I was firmly convinced that while some people had nightmares about being kidnapped or murdered, the idea of professing love was enough to shake Santana from her deepest slumber.

This, though. This. It frightened me. Yes, I'd always envisioned spending the rest of my life at her side. Countless nights in this bed. Days spent doing whatever it is that older couples do. Play bingo, or something. But we were so young. So unstable. Security, financially or within our four walls, was a foreign concept. And so I muttered, "Santana."

She immediately sensed my apprehension. Jumped to the defense by way of a broken smile. Squeezed me tightly. Placed a kiss to my temple. "Just give it some thought. And should you have any doubts, please remember that above all else, I will always love you the most. Always."

"How much?" I tried joking, attempting to make light of my hesitance.

Thankfully, she grinned, extending both arms wide.


The morning after, I awoke to the familiar sounds of rustling in the kitchen. Santana was up, undoubtedly cooking for Eddie. Music blared over the portable radio. I groggily got up, still donning Santana's ring, and ventured toward my two favorite people.

Why don't you say goodbye while you have someone to say goooooooooodbye to…

They both dance, skating along the tiled floor. Using wooden spoons as makeshift microphones. Not bothering to end their impromptu concert on my arrival. If anything, an audience only intensified their efforts.

Let's see how far we've come. Let's see how far we've come.

Their heads banged repeatedly as the chorus droned on. I took a seat, cheering them on with a hefty grin. It was a Saturday, and since the smells of chocolate chip pancakes penetrated my senses, but one thing remained to come. And it did. Just as soon as the song ended, as did their stamina. So we plopped down on the couch, plates stacked high. And while Tom and Jerry horsed around on-screen, Santana took her time in carefully administering glob after glob of syrup to the back of Eddie's ear.

"Not fair," the boy griped after our usual program ended. He'd lost yet another thumb-wrestling match to Santana, promptly earning kitchen-cleaning duties. "It's. Not. Fair. You always win."

"And I wouldn't always win if you didn't always suck," she taunted, smearing a last bit of maple syrup across his cheek.

Considering that I was already elbow-deep in a vat of warm water, busily tending to the dishes, I took the moment to prepare a rag. I'd learned to always keep rags by the sink. Because when you have two children under one roof, things are bound to get messy. Sticky, as that morning would have it.

He wiped clean, playfully retrieving the sink's water hose in Santana's approach. She used a plate as shield. What Eddie didn't fully comprehend was the scientific law that clearly stipulated that when one Latina traveled toward a much smaller version of herself, circular plate extended affront to combat the oncoming stream of water, physics would eventually win out. Surely enough, by their exchange's end, our adopted little one was one big sticky, soggy grouch.

Santana took Eddie's trip to the bathroom as a moment to sneak up behind me, threading both arms underneath mine. She breathed deeply, placing a kiss on my neck. Then, in the gentlest voice, she whispered into my ear, "Marry me, Brittany Pierce." When I hesitated once more, she smiled against my neck. "Thankfully, I've developed an ounce of patience, living with two hoodlums." She smiled again. Kissed me again. Squeezed me tight, as if I was the only person that could keep her feet planted firmly on the ground. "Because 'always' is a long fucking time."

"I thought 'forever' was?" I teased.

"Now you're just being technical." She then kissed me one final time, dressed for work while announcing that the "bills need a'paying," and frolicked to the door. "Wait for me, Ms. Pierce?"

I chuckled. "Need you even ask?"


Present Day:

It's around dusk when I'm permitted to leave work. Call me crazy, but I speed home in hopes of catching Santana before she's too sucked into the bad place. Maybe she'll be cooking, I allow myself to hope. Maybe she'll be preparing dinner and singing and poking fun at Eddie. Just maybe.

I'm clearly no psychic and an even shittier guesser, it would seem. Because as the sun has been setting, slowly falling from the sky, deteriorating into nothing more than a soft glow, as has Santana's mental state. Because as I tiptoe into the apartment, making sure to close the door as noiselessly as possible, she is in the kitchen, attempting to microwave a can of carrots. Not a bowl of canned carrots. The actual can.

I sprint over and sling the door open, burning my hand on scorching tin as I retrieve the object. Santana blinks dumbly at me. "Where's Eddie?" I breathlessly ask, hand continuing to sting. We've agreed that he's the interim babysitter while I'm at work, and he's currently nowhere to be found. She ignores me. In fact, she continues in doing so until I say more loudly, "Santana."

"Rehearsals," she quickly dismisses, focusing on yet another can of vegetables.

I'm instantly thrown into a frenzy. Yes, Eddie enjoys participating in school plays. Yes, he frequently stays after to school to practice for said performances. But both points are moot considering that the holiday schedule hasn't even been released, let alone cast. That won't occur for at least a couple of months. I don't bother reprimanding her for not picking him up from school. Instead, I huff, roll my eyes, and sprint back outside.

When you're in a hurry, the drive to Lima Middle School takes roughly six and a half minutes.

Eddie's sitting where he usually does when this happens. At the elementary school playground, dead center of the merry-go-round-looking equipment. Where the bars run perpendicular. I pull in, flash my headlights twice, and wait for his arrival.

This is our routine. For going anywhere near the playground would be far too painful. Memories of Santana and I as children aren't something I can handle at the moment. After all, you wouldn't visit a person's sight of conception to commemorate their death, would you?

"She got caught up with something," I explain before Eddie steps foot into the car. This is routine, too. Me making excuses on the drunkard's behalf.

"If that's what they're calling it," he says, propping both feet on the dashboard.

We ride in silence as I adhere to the speed limit. The drive takes a bit longer. Grows more tense with each mile that the vehicle presses on. Eventually, though, as I turn into the complex's parking lot, nearing our building, Eddie says, "I'm staying at Carey's tonight." It's not a question but a demand.

"Umm, yeah, sure," I say hesitantly, driving a couple hundred yards further. "Just need to get out of the apartment for a while?"

"Something like that," he mutters, grabbing his pack.

It's bothersome, seeing him in such a funk. So I throw the car into park and grab his underdeveloped arm. "Hey, are you okay?" It's a dumb question. Questions are always dumb when you already know the answer.

But because he's a trooper, Eddie smiles and nods. Even if I can see through both, knowing that he's still trying makes everything hurt a little less. So I let go, purely on the basis of knowing he'll be safe with Carey. Knowing that he'll be safe away from—well, knowing he'll be safe with Carey.

"Promise that you'll come over if she gets too bad," he says, leaning through the driver's side window.

"Eddie, I'll be fi—"

"Promise."

I gulp and swallow in a cartoonish manner, but eventually agree with a simple head nod. "Yeah, I promise," I say unsteadily. Two arms then latch onto my neck, squeezing for dear life.


If a girl sits in a car, bawling her eyes out for the better part of an hour, does she really make a sound?

When I finally muster the courage to wipe my eyes clean and fight the uphill battle that's become of returning home, Santana is just as I left her. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, tending to a murky brown concoction. Over ice, of course. Even with her glasses dulling my direct line of vision, it's easy to see that her eyes are bloodshot beyond belief. "Awful lot of trouble, that kid," she casually points out when I gently shut the door, resting my head against the wood.

"Don't do this," I breathe, words echoing off of the hard surface.

"I'm just saying," she absently hums, "he's more effort than he's worth."

"Wasn't what you said back—oh, I don't know—when you suggested that we adopt him," I snap. An uphill battle. A losing battle. Whatever the case may be, I still fight, convinced that if Santana could just understand, her attitude would change.

"And look where that bright idea got me." Of course, I've been wrong before.

It's amazing how quickly a migraine can surface. Just behind my left eye, it thumps with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Pulsating in the most painful way. A quickly building Santana headache. "You knew what you were getting into," I suggest, as if the increasingly common suggestion makes any difference at this point. Same argument, different night.

Santana wouldn't remember, though. She's typically too far gone to remember what we had for dinner, let alone a heated conversation that arose hours later. Not like her memory really matters, either. Not when she possesses a temper to make up for whatever else might be lacking. "Spare me," she says, venturing into the kitchen for a refill. "It's not exactly like I agreed to these terms and conditions." A cap is unscrewed. Liquid pours. She slurps. "Sometimes it feels as though I was never given a fucking choice."

"Listen to yourself, Santana," I argue. "If memory serves, you've made plenty of decisions. Ones that we've never second-guessed."

"Ones that had nothing to do with you," she sarcastically mumbles under her breath. "Either of you."

This is it. This is the road she's chosen for the evening. Though it's becoming more of a too-beaten path, considering that if Santana's behind the wheel, this is where we always head. Barreling forward at full speed. Sparing no casualties. And what's saddest of all is that when I go to yell, my voice is far too weak. Hoarse, almost. If it serves as any indication. "They had everything to do with us," I crack out, sounding like a fifteen-year-old boy first experiencing the drawbacks of puberty.

She merely laughs.

"But it doesn't matter," I continue, face undoubtedly turning a harsh red. "You're not listening. You never are." And this time, as Santana again laughs that cruel, ironic snicker, I spit, "I'm going to Carey's."

Only now does her demeanor shift. From lax and apathetic to panicked within a split-second. She ventures across the living room. Nears me as I reach for the doorknob. "Hey, hey," she coos, grabbing my upper arm. "Don't be upset. Please don't. Because then I'll start crying, and you'll start crying, and we'll both just be ugly sacks of slobber and tears." I fight the urge to crack a smile. I lose. "I am listening, okay? Always."

Outstanding, the act she can put on. To the point of my almost falling for it. Each and every fucking night. But then the harsh fumes always trickle across the inched-out expanse, snapping me back to an even harsher reality. Biting back tears, I cannot even properly respond. Instead, I stand, shaking my head.

Santana's face falls, too. It always does when I'm most in pain. She's yet to fully grasp that she is, in fact, the source of our pain, but at least my best friend still possesses the foresight to recognize human emotion. Some nights, even that's asking too much. But tonight is different, and she further proves that by searching fervently for my eyes. As both pairs meet, Santana insists, "We'll work this out."

"Sex doesn't solve anything," I grumble too quickly.

"Doesn't hurt to try," she jokes.

I squint, searching for the slightest amusement backing her last comment. Not the inevitable. Not what, just as our arguments, comes every night. But if the Santana of late has taught me anything, it's that what you cannot prevent, you must prolong. Can't beat them? Slow them down. Distract them. And so I ask, "Did you at least go to today's session? The doctor said it was important that you make the meetings."

She didn't.

"Tomorrow. I promise."

She won't. Tomorrow never comes. Never has and probably never will.

And this is the end of our adult conversation. At this point, all I can do is feel grateful for Eddie's absence. These are precisely the kinds of interactions that my psychology professor says destroys families. Builds resent. And it bothers me purely because, somewhere deep inside of my chest, despite all current distaste for Santana's destructive ways, I want nothing more than for Eddie to love her as I do.

Once did.

My back is then pressed against the wall, Santana's front meeting mine and the image from earlier dominates my thoughts. Of the playground. Not of the mouth that currently and furiously works against my throat, but of children gathered, playing as children do. On that merry-go-round-looking toy, more specifically.

So desperately I desire to reach out to them. Warn their frail, believing spirits. It might seem like a source of entertainment now, but you guys wait. Just fucking wait. Because one day, ten, twelve years down the road, you'll understand how cruel that belief can be. I sure as hell have. The belief that you can step off of the contraption at any given moment. That this life is yours for the choosing. It's such a tease.

No, you'll spend every waking minute of your adult life trying to get off. Helplessly moving in circles. Chasing your tail. Utterly unaware of where you've started and where you're bound to finish.

Given the chance, I'd tell them, "Only the lucky ones make it off. And only the luckiest fall anywhere close to the category of 'lucky'."

Santana slips a hand under my shirt.

As you've probably gathered, Brittany Susan Pierce belongs to neither group. She's merely a victim of the hoax; the lure of prosperity and bright, flashy colors. She's completely and totally trapped by love's appeal. Drilled into the ground by its reality.

My pants are unbuttoned.

"For how long?" you might ask. "For what ungodly amount of time must you endure this insufferable pain?"

Well, dear friend, if we're being completely honest, there is but one unit of measurement capable of properly encapsulating my agony. One worth mentioning.

"Always."