There was something maddening about a room with no windows. Santana had never really minded it before, but it struck her now that this office was unbearably stuffy. There was scarcely any room to move and everything was damp and musty. It was like being trapped in a coffin.
Shuddering at this mental comparison, she tried to focus her attention instead on the massive stack of folders on her desk. The piles had grown taller than the woman herself in her absence and she was constantly fearful of inadvertently toppling them to the ground. That morning she had started sifting through the nearest one and sorting it into three smaller categories. She was now surrounded by Yeses, No's, and Maybes up to her elbows. Santana groaned inwardly. This was going to be impossible.
Granted, she could think of plenty of other hopefuls on the council that would be all-too-happy to accept her cast-offs. However, she didn't want to give them the satisfaction. She would preside over as many promising cases as she could squeeze into her schedule and leave the good-luck-talking-your-way-out-of-that-one criminals for some other poor schmuck to handle.
The daunting, tedious work of organization made it impossible for her to leave at the usual time, so she cleared herself a small space and ate her dinner there in the office. She was so immersed in the details of the papers she was reading that the woman scarcely noticed the flavors of what she was consuming. When she was in the zone, Santana did not eat for pleasure; sustenance was merely fuel. The brunette polished off her sandwich and wiped her fingers on her pants, briefly checking them for residue before snatching the next folder off the top of the stack.
The name she read when she flipped it open nearly made her choke. She couldn't believe this. After she expressly told them to see to it that none of those bastards' names ever reached her eyes, here this sat on her desk waiting for consideration. Her rage sent her pulse into double-time and her jaw clenched furiously. She rose to her feet and marched directly out the door with the file clutched angrily in her white-knuckled hand.
"What the fuck is this?" she demanded as she slammed the papers down on her legal secretary's desk.
The young woman blanched and mouthed wordlessly, uncertain of what she had done wrong. She stood awkwardly with one arm in her coat and one out, having obviously been almost ready to leave for the evening.
"Satordi Dolohov?" Santana hissed through clenched teeth. "You are aware that he was one of the leaders of the riot earlier this year?"
"Y-y-yes, Your Honour. I recall reading about it in the paper."
"So you might also remember that several people died during that uprising. Namely, though not excluded to, my wife."
"I am so sorry," her secretary whispered sincerely. "I have no idea how that found its way onto your desk. Everyone was told to be on the lookout for any of those names and to send them on their way if they turned up. It was an oversight, surely."
"Damn straight, it was an oversight. Look, I don't care how it happened; I just want it gone. I'd tell you to burn the blasted thing, but I'm sure there's some soulless cretin that will be willing to sit there while that fleabag tries to defend his name. Just fix it. I'm calling it a night."
With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out, not even bothering to go back into her office to grab her briefcase. Screw it. She'd spent enough hours staring at those case files since the day began; she sure as hell wasn't taking any of it home with her.
As she left the Ministry, the chill evening air hit her directly in the face and took her breath away. In spite of herself, now that her initial fury was beginning to subside, she found her eyes burning with the resentment of how ghosts from that day had found yet another way to haunt her. She slowed her pace until she came to a halt. Then the brunette stood still on the sidewalk for a moment, thinking. Abruptly, she began walking once more, but back in the direction from whence she came. There was a nice little pub sitting just up the street. Her empty house would still be waiting for her in a few hours. Right now, Santana needed a drink.
... ... ...
Three times over, she had looked down the bridge of her nose to find that she could see her fingers through the bottom of the empty glass. Just as many times, the dark haired woman had barked a command at the bartender and found her drink happily refilled. She allowed its pleasant warmth to slide easily down her throat as it dulled her senses and silenced the voices in her head.
Someone settled onto the stool beside her. Santana ignored the newcomer and continued to down the fortifying liquid while hoping to evade being engaged in conversation.
No such luck.
"Santana?" a voice asked tentatively. "Santana Lopez?"
Her eyes flicked in the direction of the person addressing her. When she successfully identified the individual, it did nothing to improve her mood.
"Oh, crap."
"Wow, it's been a while," Rachel Berry remarked as the bartender set a beverage down in front of her. "I can't remember the last time you and I talked. I suppose the most recent time we even saw each other must have been -"
"-At the funeral," Santana finished with a curled lip. Then she returned her attention to her glass.
"The song you sang was beautiful, and Quinn's speech was very eloquent," the smaller brunette said politely before taking a small sip of her own drink. "It was a lovely service."
"I'm so glad it met with your approval."
"So many people came to pay their last respects. It was touching to see all the lives she affected," Rachel continued, either unaware of or simply choosing to ignore Santana's sarcasm. "How have you been since then?"
"Well, I'm nursing my fourth drink in the past hour and you're the only company I've had while doing so, so how do you think I'm doing?"
The other woman's lip protruded slightly. She took another drink from her glass to avoid having to respond. Santana could almost see Brittany's disapproval in her mind's eye and her stomach squirmed with guilt.
"I'm sorry," she managed to force past her lips. "That was really bitchy. You're just trying to be nice."
"That's okay," Rachel said sympathetically. "This can't be an easy time for you."
"No, it isn't," the widow confessed.
"Did you get those flowers I sent?"
"Yeah, thanks. They were great. Daisies were her favorite."
"I know," Rachel replied. "I really struggled in my Herbology classes when we were in school but Brittany was always there to help me. She had quite the green thumb. She could grow just about anything but she seemed partial to taking pots of daisies with her back into the castle."
Santana smiled softly while she remembered.
"She started a little garden in one of the corners on the roof," she explained. "It was an out-of-the-way place that nobody ever really had cause to visit, so no one touched those flowers but her. Well, except for me, on the few occasions when she asked me to help her transfer something new."
A flood of recollections tied to that beautiful bed of plantlife burst forth in Santana's mind. She thought about the way their fingers used to overlap in the soil, with her friend's gentle hands guiding her as she patted the soft earth into place. She remembered the time that Brittany had actually allowed her to pluck a few carefully selected flowers from the lot and weave them into her golden hair. It made her look like the subject of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. How could she forget the countless nights they had snuck out of their dormitories, hearts hammering at the possibility of being caught out of bed, just so they could meet in that enchanted place and look at the stars? Then, of course, there was that time in their fifth year when... She couldn't even allow herself to finish the thought.
The pub became blurry in Santana's vision. She ducked her head to hide her emotions from the woman sitting by her side. Her face grow hot with shame at how suddenly the tears spilled down the sides of her face but she couldn't control them. Then her throat began to burn and she whimpered as the familiar agony returned to that vacant space inside her chest.
Rachel didn't say anything when her former classmate's shoulders began to shake. She simply reached out and clasped the woman's hand in hers. Somewhat surprisingly, Santana did not fight the contact. Instead, she squeezed her companion's fingers gratefully, unable to voice her thanks.
However, after a few minutes, it became almost unbearably painful that the skin against hers was not connected to the one she wanted. Santana swiped at her nose with the heel of her hand and finally composed herself enough to rise to her feet. She slowly removed her fingers from Rachel's grasp and tried to put on the strongest façade she could muster.
"I have to go," she told her. "Thanks for talking to me. I'll see you around."
"Wait," Rachel urged. "Are you sure you don't want someone to take you home?"
"No, really, I'm fine," Santana protested. "The walk will do me good. It'll help me clear my head."
Her companion seemed doubtful that traveling alone in such a state was particularly advisable. Out of respect for the other woman's wishes, though, she merely nodded her head and raised her hand in farewell. The taller brunette waved back and turned toward the exit. She swung the door open wide and, with a last glance and reassuring smile over her shoulder, disappeared into the night.
... ... ...
Much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, Rachel had been right. Walking home that heavily inebriated had been a dreadful idea. Already, she had nearly twisted an ankle several times as her heels caught on cracks in the sidewalk. Her steps kept veering dangerously close to either the street on her left or the ditch along her right. She considered simply apparating to her destination, but the fear of inadvertently splinching herself put a stop to that notion pretty quickly.
After what seemed like an eternity of stumbling, fumbling, curse-laden hell, Santana's house at last came into view. She plunked down on the front stoop and yanked the accursed shoes off her feet, refusing to take another step in them. With one wince-inducing shuffle after another, she made her way into the house and back to her bedroom.
The prospect of changing was far too exhausting to even consider, so she flopped directly onto the sheets in her work clothes. Her eyelids fluttered closed and her weary limbs gradually went slack.
But sleep would not come.
The bed felt inexplicably cold - frigid, even - and the hairs on her arms stood on end as an involuntary shiver ran down her frame. She pushed herself up, reached for her covers, and tugged them up to her chin. Still, she could not get warm. Her tired eyes kept wandering to the empty place on the other side of the mattress. One hand crept carefully out of her cocoon just long enough to pull the nearest unused pillow closer to her. She pressed the slip cover to her face and breathed deeply. Yes, it was still there: the smell of wildflowers.
The sobs she had scarcely managed to fight back in the pub that night finally took hold. Her convulsing body curled into the fetal position and jerked oddly as she tried to choke back the sounds that were tearing up from the depths of her soul. Her fists clutched the sweet-scented pillow to her chest, but it was paltry in comparison to the familiar form that her quivering arms sought in vain.
It doesn't have to be this way, she found herself thinking. An idea slowly took root in her mind. On wobbly knees, she climbed out of bed and walked toward the sewing kit that sat atop her dresser. Santana pushed aside the needles, spools, and pins until she found what she needed: a wound-up length of leather cord. With that obtained, she went to her nightstand and tugged open the uppermost drawer. There, inconspicuously nestled among pill bottles, magazines, her glasses, and other clutter was the small pouch that currently housed the Resurrection Stone.
Santana overturned the cloth and allowed the object to fall onto her palm. The starlight coming through her window gave it an eerie sheen. Not wanting to waste another moment, she carefully set to work weaving the cord securely around the rock. When it was successfully enclosed, she cut the cord in two and used the remainder to fashion a necklace to which she could attach the treasure. As she slid the circle over her head and the stone's cool touch settled onto her collarbone, she knew that at last it was time. With two fingers, she turned the Hallow over three times and held her breath.
She was there. Calm, quiet, and with a concerned expression on her face, Brittany stood before her once again. The woman's feet carried her swiftly to Santana's side as she immediately gave her a bracing hug.
"What's wrong?" she asked, having required only a mere fraction of a second to detect her wife's agitation.
"I can't sleep," Santana replied with a laugh at how childlike her complaint sounded when spoken aloud.
"Do you want me to lay down with you again?"
The brunette nodded as her lip trembled. Brittany pulled aside the covers and allowed Santana to settle down comfortably before tucking her in. Then her eyes fell on her spouse's shoulders and noted the day's outfit that she still wore.
"You didn't even get dressed for bed," she said, clicking her tongue.
Without another word, she strode over to their wardrobe and pulled out a lightweight nightgown. Then the blonde returned and perched on the edge of the mattress. She rolled the covers back down off the dark haired woman's body and slapped her knee encouragingly.
"Here, come on, sit up. We've got to get you changed."
Santana did as she was told. Brittany tugged her pants down her hips, and the brunette pushed off the bed enough to allow them to be slid past her legs. Once they were tossed aside, she pulled off her own jacket and added it to the pile. Next came the white shirt beneath, which they both worked to unbutton and discard along with the rest. Then the dark haired woman lifted her arms and the her spouse lowered the gown into place.
Their faces were only a few inches apart as the blonde smoothed out the fabric. Santana decided on impulse to close the gap. She leaned forward and caught Brittany's lips with her own, surprising the other woman slightly. Her wife's gaze lifted to meet hers and tried to discern what was going through her thoughts. When she saw the warmth and longing in the look that the brunette was leveling on her, it was not difficult for her to guess.
The taller woman drew closer again and returned the kiss with her own, but she broke it off before it could become anything more. With one hand held out to silence any protestations from her wife, Brittany circled around the bed and climbed in on the other side. She wrapped Santana in her arms, with the brunette's back to her front, and rested their temples together. Momentarily, the blonde allowed herself to savor the simplicity of resting cheek-to-cheek.
"So, are you going to talk to me about what happened?" Brittany murmured into Santana's ear.
"The first part of the day was fine. I honestly thought everything was going to be okay, but then this file showed up on my desk," she said, pausing to take a deep breath before she continued. "It was one of them. Not the one that took you away from me, but still I couldn't handle it. The next thing I know, I'm four drinks in at the pub and having a heart-to-heart with Rachel bloody Berry, of all people."
"That is unexpected," the blonde said. "What did you talk about?"
"You."
"Oh," the other woman murmured quietly. "Did it help? Talking to someone about it, I mean?"
"No," she replied while a few tears trickled out of the corners of her eyes. "It just made me miss you that much more, so I came back here."
"Well, I'm with you now," Brittany said as she snuggled closer. "I'll keep you company until you go to sleep."
Santana shook her head.
"I can't sleep."
"Sure you can. I'll be right here," the blonde reassured her. "Just give it time."
The brunette turned onto her other side to face her wife. She pressed their foreheads together and closed her eyes.
"I just need you to be with me."
"I will; I promise," her spouse insisted. "I won't budge an inch until you drift off."
Again, Santana moved her head from side to side.
"I don't want you to disappear again," she whispered. "Please, just stay with me."
Brittany nodded, still not quite understanding. Then her eyes travelled down to the necklace Santana was wearing. The Resurrection Stone was still in contact with her skin; however, she no longer had to keep hold of it with her hands. Comprehension dawned on the blonde's face but, before she could say anything, the other woman dragged her open mouth along the side of her neck.
"Santana," she said weakly. "I'm really not sure if this is the best-"
The dark haired woman cut her off with a kiss.
"- Idea," she finished, but it was too late to express any concerns.
The brunette yanked her nightgown back over her head and tossed it in the general direction of her pile of clothes. Without sparing a second, she slid off her underwear and unhitched her bra to drop them over the edge of the bed as well. Brittany still looked terribly troubled. Regardless, she was hard-pressed to actually give voice to those thoughts when her resplendently bare bride was crawling toward her across the sheets.
The blonde reluctantly acquiesced as the dark haired woman reached for the buttons on her shirt and pushed them through the holes one by one. She slid the cloth back from Brittany's shoulders, pressing their torsos together as she did so. Her wife enveloped Santana in her arms and embraced her so lovingly that she almost wanted to stop, just to cherish that moment of being held. However, something inside drove her on. She moved back to her side of the mattress and allowed the other woman space to remove her pants. Her spouse's undergarments followed shortly thereafter, and the brunette nearly wept at the perfection she had once thought was lost to her forever.
Brittany leaned back against the pillows and watched her with wide eyes full of vulnerability. Santana grabbed one of her wife's knees in each hand and slowly eased her thighs apart. She was just starting to lower herself when the press of fingers against her shoulders made her pause. Looking up, she saw that the blonde was shaking her head. Her brow furrowed, but then the other woman gently pushed her back against the bed.
The brunette made room between her own legs for her spouse to get situated. To her surprise and slight disappointment, Brittany did not begin straight away. Instead, she climbed a little farther up the bed so that she could lie down directly on top of the other woman's body. She gripped the sides of Santana's face and kissed her passionately while trying to press every possible inch of their flesh together, as if they could somehow fuse into one being.
One palm left the dark haired woman's cheek as that arm strayed between the two of them, and she felt the blonde's hand slip carefully backward toward its target. The abrupt, icy shock of Brittany's slender fingers inside of her made Santana gasp. Her eyes widened and her back arched. The contact made her shiver unexpectedly, but she dug her nails into the other woman's back to bring her closer. She leaned her head against her wife's shoulder as they established a steady rhythm, and a series of hissed curses and inhuman moans tumbled past her parted lips.
Brittany shifted her hip to rest against her working hand and ground down against it to push herself even farther. A few moments later, Santana's ragged cry echoed through the silent house and resounded off the walls. Her limbs tensed and then went limp as she shook uncontrollably. One trembling hand reached up to grasp the back of the blonde's neck. She pulled the other woman down to rest against her chest while she waited to recover from the aftershocks.
After a few minutes in which the brunette struggled to regulate her breathing, Brittany sat up to begin again. Santana pushed herself upright as well and stilled her wife's movement with one palm pressed flat over the other woman's heart. It struck her for just a moment how strange it was not to feel the familiar thumping beneath the skin. However, before her thoughts were able to remind her why it was absent, she flipped the blonde over onto her back.
She swung her right leg over the other woman's left thigh. As she shifted to readjust herself, her wife's fingers reached out to intertwine with hers. They clasped each other's hands almost painfully. Santana used that hold to keep herself steady as she ground down and Brittany's hips bucked up to bring them together. The brunette's eyes rolled up to the ceiling and the sound of her own uneven panting filled her ears. The moon's touch fell softly on her fair features, cool and feather-light. Close as she was to surrendering, she had enough clarity to realize that something was wrong.
Brittany's presence was missing from this moment. She was still there, holding onto Santana's hands, but her spouse's body was not radiating any heat. Nor was the blonde making any of the usual sounds that indicated her mutual pleasure. The dark haired woman at last lowered her gaze and locked it on her silent lover. She nearly asked what was wrong, but the look on her wife's face stilled the words on her tongue. There was so much love there, a self-sacrificing devotion that could never truly be put into words. The expression caught the brunette off-guard and she found herself starting to cry. She threw herself into their contact with all that she had, fighting both for the finish and to prevent herself from losing all control.
The whiteout oblivion came shortly thereafter. Santana rode it out on quaking legs, scarcely able to keep from toppling over. Exhausted, she dropped down into Brittany's outstretched arms. Her body was glistening with sweat. She forced one arm under the blonde's back and wriggled until it emerged on the woman's other side. Then she locked her hands together at her wife's hip.
"Thank you," she whispered softly.
She craned her neck to kiss the blonde's jaw. Brittany tucked her chin against her chest to look at Santana. She pressed her lips to her spouse's full mouth and smiled contentedly. Her hand rubbed the space between the dark haired woman's shoulder blades. Then they rested together for a time, neither wanting to be the first to break the flawless silence.
The brunette's eyes roamed around the room and settled on her wife's rumpled clothes on the floor. Without really meaning to, she found herself reflecting on the last time she had seen Brittany wearing them - that last morning before she died.
...
"Rise and shine, honey," she had purred into Santana's ear at some ungodly pre-dawn hour. "I want to make sure you're up and about before I go."
"Mmpf," came the muffled response from the pillow in which the other woman was burying her head.
"Come on," she urged. "I can't risk leaving you to sleep the day away."
The blonde's arm draped over Santana's side and the tips of her fingers trailed around the brunette's navel. Her wife rolled over to squint up at her but still showed no signs of budging. With a playful smirk, Brittany slid one hand up and over her spouse's hip to squeeze her rump with an open palm.
"Keep that up, and I'm never leaving this bed again," Santana told her huskily.
They kissed, and the dark haired woman gently tried to part the blonde's lips with the tip of her tongue. Brittany groaned and pulled away.
"Seriously, I have to go," she said as she crawled toward the foot of the mattress.
Santana chased her, throwing her arms around her wife's shoulders and locking her into place with a bent leg on either side of her ribcage. Her fingers undid the top buttons of the blonde's cornflower blue blouse. She plunged her hand through the gap in the fabric and under the black bra beneath, enjoying the way she felt Brittany's pulse quicken at her touch. For a moment, the other woman allowed herself to remain motionless. She turned her head and caught her spouse's lower lip between her teeth, biting it teasingly before granting her one last deep kiss.
Then she disentangled herself from Santana's embrace and readjusted her appearance as she stood. The brunette sulked and looked up at her through her dark lashes. She trailed her bare foot up Brittany's gray slacks and toyed with the zipper with her toes.
"Ever consider taking a mutual sick day?"
"Yes," the blonde admitted as she flicked her eyes over her wife's too-tempting body. "But not today. They must really need me if they called me in this early."
"All right," Santana conceded with a pout. "But you'd better be ready to make it up to me when we both get home."
"It's a deal," her spouse agreed with a wink as she pulled on her coat. "You sure you're awake?"
"Yeah, I'm okay," she assured her. "Good luck today, with whatever it is they have you doing."
"Thanks," the other woman said. She smiled and gave the brunette a quick peck on the cheek while she fixed her collar. "You, too."
"I love you," Santana said as the blonde backed toward the door.
"I love you, too," Brittany replied.
With a waggle of her fingers and a blown kiss across the room, she stepped through the doorway and left the house. The brunette listened to the sound of the front door closing. Then she wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her knees against her chest as she tried to ward off the chill of the early morning.
...
"Hey," Brittany said softly, catching Santana's attention as she blinked the memory away.
The blonde's forefinger pressed to the dark haired woman's mouth and gently brought the lower half back into view. Santana frowned slightly; she had been sucking on her lip again.
"You okay?" her wife asked as she searched her face worriedly.
"If I'd known then that it was the last day of your life, I would have forced you to stay."
"If I had known then that it was the last time I'd be with you alive, I would have let you," Brittany replied.
The brunette pulled her arm free so that she could bring both hands up to grab the sides of the other woman's face. She kissed her wife so hard it left her lips swollen, ignoring the salty taste of her own tears as they dampened both their faces. A heartbreaking whimper escaped her, and the blonde hugged Santana to her chest as she gave herself over to the sadness.
The dark haired woman sniffled and pressed her mouth along each inch of her wife's collarbone as she caressed her tenderly. Brittany rested her chin on Santana's hair and hummed a soothing melody. In time, the sobbing widow's movement stilled and she gradually relaxed in the blonde's comforting arms.
When her shallow breathing confirmed that she was in fact asleep, the other woman carefully released her hold. She pried herself free and strode across the room to gather her clothes and pull them back onto her body. After she had dressed, she climbed back onto the bed and looked down at Santana.
Her blue eyes filled with all the overwhelming pain and regret that she had hidden while her wife was awake. She leaned down and pressed a fleeting kiss to the brunette's forehead. Carefully, Brittany took the cord around her spouse's neck between her fingers and eased it up over her head.
With a final tug, she pulled the necklace free. Then she let the Resurrection Stone fall onto her side of the bed and was gone.