Disclaimer: Any dialogue you recognise is directly from the TV show, which I still don't own.

Author's note: I know, I know, I'm awful! I'm sorry I've been so bad at updating this story, life has just got in the way more than I anticipated, but I promise I shall have the fourth and final chapter up before I go on holiday at the end of next week. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this penultimate chapter, covering the events of the Hurt Locker scene. Enjoy!

You don't notice Santana when she first appears at your locker, too busy tearing it apart in search of the history homework that you for once completed, but the look of complete vulnerability that shines through the crumbling remains of her defences once she catches your attention immediately triggers your protective instincts. You can't pretend you're not still hurt by her actions earlier in the week, the speed with which the Latina spread your pregnancy fears further damaging the bond between you that has been slowly fraying since the duets fiasco. You spent several days in the grip of a terrified haze, nausea clawing at your throat as each new day came without a sign of your period, until the secret forced its way past your lips in a reckless search for comfort. That you chose to tell Santana first, and not your boyfriend, says more about your relationship than you're willing to acknowledge right now, but in that moment the only person you could contemplate telling was your best friend, a decision you somewhat regret as you're forced to hastily concoct a nonsense story about a stork beneath the burning stares of the glee club. You felt her eyes on you as you did it, a silent reproach for choosing to feign a childish stupidity that you resolutely ignored; Santana has never understood that sometimes playing into the preconceived opinion of you is often a simpler way of easing the tension, and frankly you were too bitter over being put into that position to care what she thought. Looking at her standing in front of you now, you briefly wonder if she did it to spite you, to show you how things have changed now that you're with Artie, but all traces of anger with the brunette are quickly shunted to the back of your mind as her lower lip trembles.

It's only a small gesture, almost insignificant on anybody else, yet you've rarely seen Santana let herself be so open with her vulnerability.

"Can we talk?" she asks softly, nervous in a way you've never seen her before. Even as she pulled at the loose threads in your passenger seat, silence filling the car as you drove her to the hospital during the summer holidays, Santana still managed to emanate the same steady calm she always does, one that you've long since realised is, more often than not, merely a façade to the swirling panic threatening to consume her.

"But we never do that."

You're not trying to be rude as you turn back to your locker with a small sigh, slotting your folder back in with more force than necessary, but it's the truth. You've practically abandoned any hope that Santana may one day open up about whatever has developed between the pair of you over the last few years, that she might acknowledge that your relationship isn't a normal friendship, too much experience of the Latina shutting down conversations whenever they stray into uncomfortable territory to truly let yourself believe it might one day happen. But it's gotten worse since you've been dating Artie; you feel like you're losing your best friend. The girl who's been by your side for over ten years is slowly drifting away, tugged just as much by her own insecurities as she is pushed by your relationship with the bespectacled boy. The two of you rarely hang out as friends anymore, Santana always brushing you off with the vague excuse that she's busy, and you miss the days when the two of you would squabble playfully over the last spoon of ice-cream as she indulged your love of Disney movies. You don't understand what the brunette believes you think she's doing to keep her almost constantly occupied. You know her schedule has drastically emptied since the two of you, along with Quinn, left the Cheerios, free time no longer signed over to be spent running around the football field, encouraged only by the harsh blare of Sue's megaphone. You're starting to worry that Santana may be spending too much time in the gym to compensate, a bad habit she fell into worryingly often during your freshman year as she strove to climb the school hierarchy; she's noticeably lost weight over the past few weeks, but questioning her over it would only serve to further damage the remaining relationship between the pair of you, so you resolve simply to keep an eye on her from a distance.

All that's really left between the two of you is sex. You're not stupid; you know what you're doing with Santana is wrong, that it's cheating, but if it's the only way she'll let you have her now that you're dating Artie, you'll grab onto it with both hands.

"I know but, um, I wanted to thank you...for performing that song with me in glee club."

"Yeah," you breathe out, nodding slightly in surprise. You're still struggling to find words to describe the performance, to describe how you felt, but everything you remember about it has faded slightly in comparison with the pride that ballooned in your chest with her first note, one you feel gathering as a lump in your throat as you look at the girl in front of you. It was Santana being completely open, letting her guard down not just in front of you, but in front of the entire glee club, people she still hesitates to call friends. She was just letting herself...fall. Defenceless and vulnerable, Santana was letting herself fall and hoping somebody would catch her.

God, did you want to catch her. You want your heart to stutter everyday like it did when you wrapped your arms around her, her own fitting perfectly round your neck, breath painting goosebumps over your bare skin as she breathed a soft 'thank you' into your ear. You made sure to sit with her on the back row, not missing the look of delight that flashed through her eyes as you followed her, yet you could feel her stiffening under the weight of the glares Artie was throwing towards the two of you for the rest of practice, no amount of circles drawn subtly on her palm able to calm her. She shot off straight after practice ended, taking with her any hope that you would talk about the song as she sped from the room, and you felt a slight resentment build towards your boyfriend as you watched her leave.

"'Cause it's made me do a lot of thinking. What I've realised is why I'm such a bitch all the time," she sighs. The denial on your lips, ready to reassure her that she's not a bitch, dies at the hitch in her voice, the tremor driving a spike of pain through you. You never knew it was possible to feel so intensely, to suffer so much because of another's hurt, until you compared how you feel around Santana to around others. Words fail you at the look on her face and it's only by swaying on the balls of your feet that you can stop yourself from throwing your arms around her; she looks as if she could use the comfort, but there's a new determination crackling around Santana, one you've never seen before yet you know not to disrupt, the words that swarm behind her eyes finally ready to be let loose.

"I'm a bitch because I'm angry. I'm angry because I have all of these feelings," she continues, warily eyeing the member of the football team casually strolling past yet blind to the way the breath has been punched out of your throat. "Feelings for you, that I'm afraid of dealing with because I'm afraid of dealing with the consequences."

The tears are evident in her voice, and it's getting harder to keep still, but you force yourself to fight the urge to cradle her in your arms and shush away the pain. It's important for Santana to say this, even more important than it is for you to hear it; you've known how she feels for a long time, clues in the actions she can't hide no matter how hard she tries, but you're willing to guess this is the first time the brunette has acknowledged any of the feelings that linger confusingly beyond the boundaries of friendship for you. If you were to stop her now, you have no idea when, or even if, such an opportunity would be handed to you again.

Still, you have to remember that this isn't just about Santana's feelings for you. You hope that whatever revelations she's having about you have prompted something similar for herself; you hate seeing the brunette as a shadow of what she could be, everything that she is limited as she holds herself back, desperate to hide herself from any wandering eyes. As much as it would hurt, you would happily forfeit any feelings Santana has for you if she could learn to love herself anywhere near as much as you love her. That's all you've ever wanted, for Santana to see herself as you see her, to understand why it is you will always be there at her side (however she lets you be), to realise how brilliant she could be if she stopped holding herself back.

"And Brittany, I can't go to an Indigo Girls concert. I just can't," she mutters, a touch of her usual snark dripping into her voice as she rolls her eyes.

"I understand that," you reply softly, because you do. You get that this is Santana's unique way of saying she's not ready for any grand declarations, which you never expected, but the corner of your mouth still twitches, threatening to break into a smile at the Indigo Girls reference that says more about Santana than the girl probably realises.

She bites her lip and looks down, eyelashes fluttering as sentences build in her head, and your knuckles turn white as you clench your fists around the straps of your bag, preparing yourself for whatever is about to launch itself from her tongue.

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say here?"

"No, not really," you breathe, furrowing your eyebrows in what you hope passes as a look of confusion. You can see what's coming reflected in her eyes, a similar look to one that shines from your eyes in any photographs of the pair of you where you're looking at her. You know what's about to spill from her lips, but you don't tell her that; you need to hear this, unable to go back to living off half-truths and unspoken words after everything that's happened since she approached your locker.

Your grip tightens further as she takes a shuddering breath, head tilting to the side as if she's weighing up her options.

"I want to be with you," she eventually confesses, the words hitting you like the softest of kisses, ones Santana presses to your cheeks late at night when she thinks you're sleeping. Indescribable warmth builds up in your chest, blossoming much like your pride did during your glee club performance, and your fingers itch maddeningly to reach out and tangle with hers. "But I'm afraid of the talk and the looks. I mean, you know what happened to Kurt at this school."

Your pride in the girl in front of you, baring herself emotionally for the first time, slides over your face, pushing the corners of your mouth up into a smile. Even Santana admitting that she's afraid is a novelty; she's been wracked by a fear of something or other her entire time at McKinley, though you're the only who catches glimpses of it as the Latina stalks through the corridors clad in the perfect image of the invincible head of the high school hierarchy.

You're not sure if you've ever loved her more than in this moment.

"But honey," you start, determined to show Santana that she needn't be as scared as she is, "If anyone were to ever make fun of you, you would either kick their ass or slash them with your vicious, vicious words."

It's not different to the way she's protected you for over a decade, but you know that the greater part of McKinley is enthralled by too great a combination of fear, awe, and respect to cause her any serious trouble were any of this made public. She's not Kurt, clinging to the fringes of the vicious high school world; she doesn't have to worry about giving the bullies another thing with which to beat her down. You would never suggest that she would have a completely easy ride – the corridors are still littered with enough students for whom the term 'narrow-minded' isn't nearly enough of a description – but you don't want her to base her experience on Kurt's.

"Yeah, I know," she sniffles, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as she looks at you, and you soften your gaze, hoping to give her any comfort you can. "But I'm so afraid of what everyone will say behind my back. Still, I have to accept...that I love you."

If your eyes hadn't watched her lips form the words, you're not sure you would have believed the soft confession that filters into your ears in Santana's tear-thickened voice. It's clichéd to say so, but you've been praying for those words to slip from the Latina's mouth for God knows how long, countless tears muffled by your pillow as you slowly lost hope over the possibility of ever hearing them. Something tries to fight its way up your throat, though whether it's a sob or a laugh, you're unsure. Your response builds on the tip of your tongue, ready to tell Santana that you love her too, but you're forced to swallow it, the sight of a freshman in glasses somewhere over the other girl's shoulder reminding you why you can't be with her.

Artie.

"I love you," she continues, unaware of the despair slowly crushing your happiness as you fight to keep your face neutral, the realisation slipping like an ice-cube down your throat. "And I don't want to be with Sam, or Finn, or any of those other guys...I just want you. Please say you love me back. Please," she gasps, shaking her head to hold back the tears threatening to fall.

It's the sound of your strong Santana begging, pleading for you to love her, as if she doesn't think she's worthy of it, that breaks your silence; a desperate need to make her see just how much you love her, how long you've loved her, consumes you. She sounds powerless, small, and the depth of her feelings shocks you.

"Of course I love you, I do," you tell her, eyes gazing into hers imploringly, and the way her features soften in relief makes you hate yourself for what you're about to do. "And I would totally be with you if it weren't for Artie."

"Artie?" she asks, relief ripped away from her at the boy's name.

"I love him too," you murmur, forcing yourself to keep your eyes on Santana's face, as much as it hurts, some sort of perverse punishment for doing this to her. "I don't want to hurt him, that's not right. I can't break up with him."

Your parents always praise you for having good morals, but in this moment you can't help but resent them for bringing you up that way. You do love Artie, you're not lying about that, and he's the safe option; he'll never spurn you because of what other people think, he'll never hook up with somebody else if someone sees the two of you...it makes sense to stay with him, but he can't compare to the draw you have to Santana, one that's fixed you to the girl from the moment you met her.

"Yes, you can. He's just a stupid boy," Santana urges, hurt and anger combining to give her voice the most painful tone you've ever heard it take.

"But it wouldn't be right," you argue gently. "Santana, you have to know if Artie and I were to ever break up, and I'm lucky enough that you're still single..."

You're unprepared for the painful rejection that stings you when she pushes away the hand you rest on her arm, a rejection you know must be coursing through her with every word you add.

"I am so yours. Proudly so," you mutter softly, truth ringing through every word. She shrugs it off, but you need her to understand. You'll always be hers, you always have been hers, from before you understood that the tingles you felt when she grabbed your hand meant something special. Artie might be the one you're with, but he'll never have all your love, he'll never even have most of it. How can he, when so much of it has been taken by the girl in front of you?

"Wow. Whoever thought that being fluid meant you could be so stuck?" she spits bitterly, the words piercing you like knives.

Anything you say at this point will only make it worse, so you do the only thing you know how to at this point and reach out for her.

You're not surprised when she pushes you away, your apologies ignored by ears that don't want to listen, but it doesn't stop the burn of rejection.

You don't chase after her as she walks away.

You're still stood by your locker when Artie finds you ten minutes later, your forehead pressed to the cool metal in an effort to stave off the tears. You work your face back into the neutral position you've forced it into too many times today and turn to look at him as he begins to speak, but few of his words pierce the fog clouding your mind. You're struggling to hold it together, the despair of having everything you've wanted offered to you only to have to turn it down crashing over you in ferocious waves that refuse to abate, and the only reason you haven't already sped home to break down in the safety of your own bedroom is because you promised your boyfriend a ride home.

You slam your locker shut, unable to care about whether you have the correct books, and grip onto the handles of Artie's wheelchair, needing something to ground you as his words wash over you in an unheard babble. You don't remember much of the journey to Artie's house, the kiss you give him once you've set him back in his wheelchair nothing more than an automatic brush of your lips against his cheek (rougher than Santana's, you note, suddenly unable to stop comparing them). You're surprised you stay on the road on the way home, mind too busy contemplating everything that's happened over the past few days; recalling the look of pure joy that sprung into Santana's eyes when you told her you loved her, and the way Artie's concern for you only lasts a matter of seconds before he's back to talking about something funny one of the AV guys did at lunch. You can't stop yourself from wondering if Artie is happier that you're his girlfriend than that you're his girlfriend. It's something you've never questioned before, but you can't stop the doubts from slipping unbidden into your mind.

You can't help but wonder if you've made a mistake.

Author's note (2): What did you think? I love hearing from you guys, so if you have thoughts at all (good, bad or indifferent, I honestly want them all) or any questions, don't hesitate to drop me a review. As always, thanks for reading!