Chapter 4: Something Wonderful
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze
"Good morning, Brittany." His voice is hard and not at all what she thinks a Doctor's voice should sound like. Her eyelids flutter open, taking in the middle-aged man standing at the head of her chair. He gives her a half grimace, half smirk, his closely cropped dark hair and pale blue eyes scanning over yet another piece of paper. Just what did they say about her?
"It hasn't been," she replies back. He mumbles something, and Brittany is certain that he hasn't even heard her. Quinn is still dabbing at her wrist, the nurse briefly hesitating in her work, casting the other girl a glance. She pretends not to notice.
"Does it hurt?" He places the chart down onto the low counter top, making his way towards the sink in the corner of the room. He walks with a swagger, arrogance rolling off of him in waves, staining the collar of his coat yellow. Or maybe that's his perfume. Do men wear perfume? Brittany wrinkles her nose, wishing he would change it if he does. Doesn't he know he smells ridiculous?
"I heard there was a commotion in the mess this morning," he says, his voice drifting in and out of interest. There is a heavy placed sigh at the end, as if he hates these sorts of pleasantries. He probably does, she decides.
"You should really talk to Sue about her conduct, Dr. Goolsby," Quinn snaps, dabbing more at the wound on Brittany's wrist. Alcohol slides deeper, itching beneath the flesh. Beneath the healing skin. She reaches over to scratch at it, but is slapped away by Quinn. She wiggles in discomfort instead.
"Oh what did she do to earn your ire this time, Miss Fabray? Kick another puppy?" The sound of running water and scrubbing fingers pounds against Brittany's nerves. It's moments like these where she realizes that she doesn't exist. She allows her mind to wander back to apples, a tightness in her chest beginning to build. They wouldn't miss her.
"She's been jostling Brittany about, again." Brittany thinks of cinnamon, the way brown black eyes combust into a pool of everything. The hairs on the back of her neck rise.
"Oh, she looks fine," he motions towards her, droplets of water flying from the tips of his fingers. They land with soft thumps upon Brittany's dress, temporarily drawing the purple black. She thinks of the light drum of droplets on blankets. A shiver rips down her spine.
"She's a dog without a chain!" Quinn's grip upon her arm tightens, the cotton swab pressing further into the sutures. Brittany pushes the will to pull her hand back, biting her lip and staring at the medicine cabinet once more. She thinks of smoked words, whispered against her neck. Her ears begin growing hot.
"Sometimes, they need to be reminded of what they are!" Brittany. Her heart picks up in pace. The eyes in the cabinet are no longer her own.
"Need I remind you, again, who she is?" The grip on her arm tightens. She tugs back against Quinn, her lips trembling lightly.
"Who she belongs to, more like. She is nothing." She feels ghosted fingers tracing down along her spine, light presses causing another shiver. Heat begins to flood her abdomen.
"Would you like me to tell Simon that, Dr. Goolsby? Or daddy?" Quinn hisses, this time pushing the swab too hard against her swollen, broken flesh. Brittany swallows a small yelp, ripping her eyes away from the cabinet, the warmth inside of her slow to die. She tries to rip her arm out of Quinn's hand. Hazel eyes look shocked, pulling the swab away from the wound, stray tears of alcohol running in rivers around her arm. Brittany likes the way they contour.
"I'm so sorry, sugar," she quickly says, the hard edge around her eyes softening briefly. Brittany gives her a fluttered smile in response before turning her eyes fully towards the doctor. He pulls a chair up next to Quinn, grabbing her arm roughly and pulling it towards him.
"As if your father or Simon would take the word of a woman. Don't make me laugh." He pokes along the sutures, his fingers rough and invasive. Brittany doesn't think a doctor's hand should be so hard. There's delicacy with a knife. Like a dance along a wire, where the slightest misstep can lead to broken heaps of bones and sputtering muscles. She doesn't think Dr. Goolsby is actually a doctor. But rather a man, with a large knife, who knows how to sew. (She briefly wonders if Doctor might be his first name.)
Quinn bristles besides her, the harsh edge returning to her eyes. It masks the pain, Brittany knows. She offers Quinn a small smile, hoping to ease some of those dark, poisonous feelings that are easily harbored.
"You've been picking at it." He growls.
"Yes." Brittany replies without first acknowledging the question.
"Damnit, Brittany. Can you keep your stupid head out of the clouds long enough—"
"Wait—no." Hurt swells inside of her, extinguishing the last flame in her belly.
"—to stop picking at your arm?"
"But I haven't picked at it!"
"Your sutures are all mangled, thanks to your total lack of intelligence. Quinn—" He snaps, grabbing a scalpel from a tray to his left. The metal glints dangerously in the harsh light. Fear begins to flood her system.
"It was Sue. Don't go and blame this on her."
"—You're supposed to be keeping an eye on her. Look at these sutures!" He motions towards the messy work, the scalpel haphazardly coming within inches of Quinn's face. Brittany watches her jaw tighten.
"They were like that when you put them in her," she says through clenched teeth. She's beautiful, Brittany thinks. The same way that a thunderstorm is beautiful. They provide water to the land, but also decimate it with lightning. She doesn't want to be in that thunderstorm, but she loves to watch it. Sometimes, Brittany wishes she could smooth out the thunder, though, brewing on Quinn's brow. Maybe then she would smile more.
In fact, Brittany thinks Santana might be of the same breed. A thunderstorm. But maybe something darker. Something warmer. Something more subtle. She wishes she had words for it. Heat begins to flicker to life in her chest again, her eyes bouncing back and forth between the two.
"Are you challenging my ability as a doctor?" His eyes narrow, a dark shadow cast over his features. Brittany can feel the cool steel of the blade pressed lightly against her flesh. She holds her breath and dares not move. All it takes is one jerk. Tension builds along her shoulders. Please Quinn, she pleads silently, staring hard at the nurse. But nobody ever listens.
"If you weren't so damn drunk all the time, maybe I wouldn't have to." His hand jerks. Her lungs begin to burn, her eyes watching the blade intensely. It winks at her, the curve of the blade smiling. I'm thirsty, it breathes. Words, like eyes, trace over the dip of her wrist, licking against her flesh, tasting her. Brittany grips the side of the chair, grey green and cracked vinyl seeping into her palms. Her knuckles turn white.
"Shutcher goddamned mouth!" The blade jerks again. She inhales sharply, but sees no red.
"You are supposed to be a doctor." Quinn motions towards him, her eyes on fire. "And you can't even do a simple stitch, how pathetic."
"Do I need to slap you to remind you where you sit, Lucy?" He jerks again, pressing the blade against her, little beads of blood breaking through the healing wound. Pain spikes through her arm, ripping up and along her left side. Quinn, hazel eyes shocked, looks at Brittany. A thick, sneaking trail of blood begins to work its way around her wrist to drip much like the alcohol had before.
Nobody notices until she's already bleeding.
Not even Quinn.
But it's not her fault. Brittany smiles at her, but she can't help the way the back of her eyes begin to throb. Or the way she lids them, head swimming against the thickness and metallic of red.
"Shit, look what you made me do!" he spits, throwing the scalpel back onto the tray. It lands with an angry clatter, disrupting the others in its wake. (If you give something feelings, does that mean it feels?)
It's easier to stare at the back of her eyelids. She can hear them moving about, the doctor (who she still doesn't actually think is a doctor) muttering insults under his breath, Quinn quietly grabbing materials from around the small room. She doesn't miss the urgency in which they both work. How deep had it gone?
It was just finishing the job.
Everyone knows you can't finish anything for yourself.
She sees white blotches, the color draining from her face. She smells it. The cool steel, the grey green vinyl. Dark thunder clouds. And then, as if out of nowhere, the soft hint of cinnamon. She releases the grip upon the chair. It's okay. And maybe it isn't, but so what?
She got to hear her name on exotic lips after all. What else did it matter?
Fucking Jesse.
Fucking Sue.
Fucking Blaine.
Fucking Puck. (For no other reason than he's not there.)
Fucking bath.
Fucking Sue.
Fucking ice.
Fucking Jesse.
Fucking JESSE.
She lays dripping upon the cold, white tiles, her blanket wrapped tightly around her. Her eyes are heavy, her fingers burning. Ice stabs through every facet of her being, coating every pore, solidifying her very blood. Could you be still alive and cold blooded? Santana was beginning to wonder if they thought so. Or if they were trying to find out.
She clutches the blanket closer, her muscles twitching and convulsing, madly trying to pump her frigid blood through her veins.
Her red dress, rumpled and discarded, lays damp in a heap upon the tiles, the cool material still not yet dry. Fuck. She really liked that dress. The lazy drip drip drip of raindrops (or was that from her) echoes throughout the room. Feet slap against tile outside the door, the vibrations causing pain to her very bones. She is cold. So extremely cold.
You could get on the bed, she suggests to herself, glancing at the inviting shelter the other blankets provide. No. She doesn't want to make it wet for when she actually is dry. Santana doesn't much fancy sleeping in a lukewarm puddle. She pulls her legs in closer to her chest, trying to hoard as much body heat as she can. Sue had said that she'd be back for group therapy at three. Does she not get lunch now?
As if the sudden reminder is all she needs, her stomach growls angrily, twisting within her. She regrets not shoving the slightly discolored eggs down her throat when she had the chance. Even if they were vile, at least they were something. Her mouth tastes like cotton, thick and slow to work.
More feet outside the door, the closer she feels her bones are to shattering. Santana closes her eyes, her breaths coming in short, choppy spurts. Are her lips blue? She hopes not. Jesse better hope not, too. Rage builds high in her chest, her hands tightening around the blanket. Couldn't the world just stop?
She barely registers the door as it opens. All she sees are pale ankles and white nylon. Too close together. She chances to look up, both Quinn and Brittany (she gasps at the golden hair, but doesn't realize it) stumbling through the door. Brittany looks pale, paler than she should, the wrapping around her wrist fresh and bright, although blood has already started to seep into the fabric. It looks bright. It looks red. And it looks angry. She has one of her arms slung around the hazel eyed nurse, her baby blues looking hollow and distant.
Quinn has one of her arms around her waist, the other gripping her right wrist. Angry bruises stare down at Santana. Guilt washes over her, her eyes drifting down towards Quinn's hand around Brittany's waist. Then a spike. Rage again. She snaps her chattering teeth shut, her eyes burning as she stares hard at the nurse. What is she doing? She can't tell if her lip is twitching because of how cold she is, or if it's curling in rage. That should be her supporting Brittany. It should be her arm wrapped around slender waist, drinking in her warmth. It should be her body the blonde leans against. It should—She grips her blanket tighter.
"Just rest until lunch, sugar. I'll come in and check up on you," Quinn says while she helps guide Brittany to her bed, slowly lowering her so her head finally meets the pillow. The nurse pulls the blanket up to her chin, then strokes her hair. Santana lets out a small growl, glaring as hard as she possibly can.
"Would you like me to subdue her?" Quinn motions over her shoulder towards Santana. Her look is protective. Another pang of rage.
"Santana?" Baby blues finally drop onto her. And she feels herself heating up again. She flicks her eyes back between the two, reluctant to drop her scowl, so Quinn would know she means business. But. Her lips tremble, the chill yet to be shaken from her bones. She hadn't even been done shaking it the first time. (Fucking Jesse.) "Why would you need to subdue her?"
Quinn gives Santana a long stare before turning back to Brittany. There is ice in her hazel gaze. And if she wasn't so thick skinned, Santana was sure that they would cut. She snorts, rolling her eyes at the nurse. At least she has nerves.
"She might be dangerous."
"She's not," Brittany says with a shrug. Again, as simple as that. Santana draws her gaze towards a particularly interesting speck of dust under the blonde's bed. Her ears begin to buzz. A smirk flicks across her trembling (and probably blue) lips. A thrill beats at the base of her throat, Brittany's words wrapping her in comfortable warmth.
Quinn notes this with hesitation. "Well…if you need me, just yell. Okay?" Brittany nods her head, but keeps her eyes trained upon Santana. She gives her one of her ghosted smiles. Santana feels the ice melting within her chest. If only she would stop trembling.
"If you do anything," Quinn threatens under her breath, staring down her nose at Santana. She gives the nurse a withering look, not trusting herself to speak quite yet. If she's going to insult her, she at least has to be respectable while doing it. And a stutter (sorry china-girl) isn't respectable. Content with her silence, she moves out the door, shutting it carefully behind her.
A violent chill rips through her, her chest convulsing, her lungs suddenly winded. Santana closes her eyes tightly, heat beginning to build along her ears. Shit. They really had to stop meeting like this. For once, can't she be decent and not a sopping mess? Santana clears her throat, nervously peeking up at baby blues.
She's disappointed, and alarmed, to find them distant and glazed. "B-b-brittany," fucking Jesse. "W-what's wrong?" She asks, a warmth to her voice she didn't even knew she possessed. If it's Quinn (or anybody else), Santana would shove her fist down their throat. No questions asked. The blonde peeks over the side of the bed, her wrapped hand clutched closely to her chest.
"I won't be able to show you the garden, after all." A frown tugs on the corners of her lips. When had they made plans to see the garden? Santana tries to remember, her eyebrows screwing up. She can see the sunshine in her eyes fading slowly.
"T-that's okay. You can always show me l-later." I ain't going anywhere, she thinks sarcastically to herself. The frown remains upon Brittany's face. A lump forms in Santana's throat, her whole body convulsing with the cold for just a split second. She watches as Brittany moves her lips to the side, as if she wants to say something, but doesn't know how.
"Quinn says that you can't go swimming in the pond, but why do we have one if we aren't allowed to use it? Not that it's prime swimming season, but I guess if you want to go, then I think you should be able to." Brittany finally says, a wistful, sad edge to her words. She levels her gaze, long slender legs dangling over the side of her bed. Of course she hadn't been swimming. Santana's teeth clatter harder, her eyes listing closed.
She hears the sound of feet on the floor, of fabric being drawn across mattress. She can smell the natural heat of baby blue eyes and golden blonde hair. A body is slowly lowered to the ground and she knows it's Brittany. Who else would it be? Her throat tightens. She feels hands, soft and tentative, rubbing along her shoulders. Then silk soft tresses against her burning cheek.
Santana snaps her eyes open, Brittany's head resting upon her shoulder, a hand snaking its way around her waist. She forgets to breathe, losing the battle of heat that floods her system. (If she were made of glass, she was certain she would break.) She tries to hold her mouth closed, the muscles tight. The blonde presses herself closer and Santana can feel her curves. The way her tight stomach presses into her side, the way her legs shift as she tries to become more comfortable. The way her left hand is cradled against her chest.
The bourbon fled her system hours ago. But Santana feels drunk. Maybe it's a result of the bath. She tries to work her mouth, but finds that she can't say anything. That her tongue, thick and heavy against the roof of her mouth, refuses to form any sort of cohesive words. Instead, a sharp intake of breath is all she can muster. Fingers brush against her hip, and it's all she can focus on.
"I'm sorry," Brittany says, her breath hot against her rapidly heating skin. "I should have told you." (In a world where people feed off of sunshine, how can you tell it that you need it?)
She should move. Santana's mind whirls, seriously wondering if this girl has any clue. She grips the blanket tighter. But it's nice. Is there something wrong with being comfortable? She's on the cold hard ground for chrissakes. And she's noticeably warmer and less miserable than five minutes ago. She's so soft, she thinks.
No. No. She should move. She really should move. Okay. She's going to move. She's really going to do it. Santana steels herself, willing her muscles to move. Brittany lets out a sigh, her head resting comfortably on top of her shoulder. She can feel her breath, the way it draws from her lips to invade her own senses. The way her chest flutters lightly. Something catches every once and a while, though. As if Brittany is a fish on a hook, her breath struggling to come.
Santana feels her fingers twitch along her hip. Shame floods her as a shock courses through Santana's veins. She worries that Brittany can hear her heart hammering in her chest, that she can feel it where her fingers brush against her ruined clothing. Her head buzzes. She clenches her teeth tighter, trying to will her lips to stop trembling. (They were trembling from cold, right?)
Her fingers twitch again, but this time Santana hears the sharp intake of breath from Brittany. The way a strangled sob dies in her throat. She turns her head, trying to address the girl. "What's wrong?" Her voice is a lot more stable than she expects.
"I don't like the color green." Santana narrows her eyes. The thrill of Brittany (because that's what she's taken to calling it) surges through her veins once more as fingers brush against her hip. Okay. She really needed to move. But you're so comfortable. Reluctantly, Santana moves, her muscles like lead weights. She laments the way the hand draws across her waist, the way Brittany's head removes itself from her shoulder. (The noose around Brittany's heart tightens, but she doesn't tell Santana that.)
The dark haired Latina struggles into a sitting position, her back pressed against the metal frame of her bed. It bites into her. She looks at the blonde, searching her eyes for an explanation. (How can you look for answers in the universe, though?) She offers her a hesitant smile (something Santana Lopez never did).
"It's a sneaky color, isn't it," she offers. Just play along, she thinks to herself. She's rewarded with a large smile, the likes of which send butterflies throughout her veins.
"Yes." Brittany cradles her bandaged hand against her chest. The red stain seems to be growing bigger.
"Does it hurt?" Oh this is awkward. She doesn't know what else to say. (She's reminded of green eyes and broken pianos.)
"Yes, but they're trying to make it better. Quinn says that sometimes it gets worse before it gets better." Santana feels her scowl return to her face at the mention of the honey haired nurse. What was she to her anyway? (What did it matter. Jesus Santana, get a hold of yourself.)
"You must like that knife-throwing nurse," she mutters, despite herself. Brittany blinks.
"Who?"
"Quinn."
"…Quinn's a knife-thrower?" Childish excitement blooms within her iris. Santana notices the golden flecks there for the first time, suddenly enraptured by the way they catch the raindrops.
"Not literally. At least, I hope not." Santana's certain that she would make a horrible knife-thrower. The thought of Quinn failing makes a smile tug at the edge of her mouth.
"Oh." Brittany looks crestfallen, her eyes dropping to the space right in front of her. Do something. Do something, anything. But she freezes. Frustrated, Santana lets out a sigh, at a total loss. Santana Lopez doesn't freeze. At least she didn't used to. Not before blue eyes and long fingers plucked her tongue right out of her mouth. "Quinn is my cousin." Brittany shrugs her shoulders.
"What? That trollop is related to you?" It slips out before she can stop it. Santana blinks her eyes in shock at herself. Shit.
"San…" Brittany scolds, but Santana doesn't miss the resisted smile upon her lips. Her blush deepens. Santana likes the way Brittany's pupil dilates, the way she looks at her with hunger. Maybe…
"Well, Simon, actually." Brittany twists the plain band upon her finger, ripping her gaze away. Santana eyes it carefully, trying to suppress the urge to snarl. Jealousy (where had that come from?) claws at her, threatening to stain her words.
"Simon?" She says his name hesitantly, watching the way Brittany shrinks away from it, as if the very mention of his name will bring a hand upon her cheek. (She doesn't think that Santana was made to say his name.)
"He's my—" Brittany stops, looking puzzled. Her lips tremble, eyebrows crinkled. "—my, uh. He's—" (She knows the words, but just can't seem to force them out.) Without thinking, Santana shakes her head.
"What a horrible name." She watches as the blonde removes the ring from her finger, a green line left in its wake. Cheap bastard didn't even get her gold. She doesn't like the color green anymore either.
"It is rather horrible," Brittany says, laughter (music) sneaking from between her lips. She moves closer, her hip now firmly pressed against Santana's. Brittany rests her head upon her shoulder. "He likes to hear himself talk, and his teeth are abnormally white, but both Quinn and daddy say that he's a nice man, so I should be grateful." The buzz in her head returns, giving Santana silly ideas. Silly ideas, for silly girls in silly dresses. She stares at Brittany's lips.
"I like you," Brittany says. She watches the way the words form, completely drawn in.
"You've known me for six hours," she says harshly, the strain obvious in her voice. (What does sunshine taste like?)
"And I've liked you for three hundred and sixty minutes of those six hours." She feels Brittany shrug against her shoulder. Move away. You need to move away. Brittany drops her right hand, gently sliding it within the confines of Santana's soaked blanket.
What is she doing?
What? Why? Yes?
This is good.
No.
No. This is not good.
Santana tries to beat back her quickening pulse, that same stoked fire from earlier beginning to lick at the base of her stomach. Her muscles twitch, but she isn't sure if it's from the cold anymore. Her teeth have long since stopped chattering. Desire strips her, pulsing at her lips, tingling along her thighs, reaching up with hungry claws into the very center of her. Brittany's eyes are dark. A beautiful dark blue, swirling in a vast cosmos that belongs only to her. Only to Brittany. Only to me, Santana thinks possessively before she can stop herself. She knows that's not true, jealousy spiting at the back of her throat.
She feels fingers curl around her balled hand, leaving scars she knows will never fade in their wake. Brittany tugs until her palm is flat against the floor, the cool tiles sucking all of the heat from her skin. She shivers. She feels fingers twine together, but only their little ones. Brittany leans back against the bed, her throat exposed as she stares at the ceiling.
Santana watches her pulse throb there. Is her heart beating fast? She can't tell.
"You're my first friend, here, really," she says, smiling at the dark haired Latina (her heart almost stops).
"I find that hard to believe."
"The other girls don't really talk to me. Unless it's Rachel, but she talks too much about how she doesn't actually want to talk to me...It's so confusing." Brittany wrinkles her nose at the mention of the girl's name. Santana studies the freckles dropped like kisses upon her face. She leans closer, lips jumping with static.
"We could always put a sock in her mouth?"
"But that would ruin a perfectly good sock." Brittany shrugs, squeezing the pinky finger still held in her grasp.
"They don't deserve you." Santana continues to lean forward. Brittany lifts her head to look at her, and the dark haired woman can already taste blue eyes and raindrops. Is the blonde giving her a look? Santana can't tell. Not with Brittany's breath so near to her, dancing currents tugging at her lips, drawing them closer. "They're all ignorant tramps who deserve scabies instead of your presence." She doesn't mean to say it, but finds the words filling the questioning silence.
"I love crab." It's sweet and simple, but Santana shakes her head. Where had that come from? She shouldn't be doing this. She really, really shouldn't. She brings her right hand around, gently cupping Brittany's cheek, her thumb stroking just beneath her eye. She's soft. Softer than Santana had first thought. Brittany hums, leaning into her hand. Santana's breath hitches, their noses almost touching. She can feel the static sparking between their lips. Brittany's eyes are dark, pupils asking so many questions, begging so many different things. (Is it her imagination?) Desire pools again as she struggles to hold back a wanting whimper.
"I like you." Brittany says again, her eyes closing. Santana can feel Brittany's heart humming at the base of her jaw beneath her little finger. Her lips are nearly to the blonde's, her tongue tingling for the taste of the other woman.
"You don't know me." She regrets the words the instant they slip out. Brittany pulls back. Fuck. Santana's heart throbs madly in her chest. The blonde smiles at her, then turns to place her head upon her shoulder once more. Santana groans, tension coiled in her stomach like a spring.
"I know enough." What did that mean? Upon recognizing her confused expression, Brittany shrugs again. "I know you smell like cinnamon, and you have a smoky voice that pretends to be harsh, and that your name is Santana and you don't really like eggs, and you like swimming, but not knife-throwing, and that you're beautiful."
You're beautiful.
And it was as simple as that. It really was something wonderful.
Quinn isn't happy to say the least. In fact, Brittany can't think of a time she's been more cross. She had entered the room shortly after to find both women sitting upon the floor, Brittany's head on Santana's shoulder and Santana looking like she had just committed a murder. (She hadn't though, because Brittany was with her the entire time.)
Brittany had smiled at her, her heart feeling as if it was about to burst. She just wanted to share that feeling with Quinn. But before she could say anything, the honey blonde grabbed her by her right arm (careful of the bruises) and pulled her out the door. Brittany didn't like the way her finger had slipped out of Santana's. It reminded her of that morning, the noose around her heart cinching tighter and tighter until the rope snapped with the shut of the door.
She stands now, looking very much like a caught child, a pout on her lips. She doesn't like to make Quinn mad, but by the fury written across her face, she can tell she's flying off the handle. Hazel eyes search Brittany's face, scanning for any irregularities. But she knows Santana would never hurt her.
Not like Simon.
She flinches.
"What are you doing, Brittany?" Quinn hisses. Brittany watches as a couple of orderlies move by, giving the two an annoyed glance.
"Talkin' is all." She shrugs her shoulders.
"You can't do that!"
"You keep telling me that, but never explain why." Brittany crosses her arms in front of her chest, her pout deepening.
"I told you. She's not a good person!" Quinn says through gritted teeth.
"I don't need you to tell me who is a good person and who isn't! I can decide for myself."
"Sugar, you can't decide anything for yourself!" Quinn has taken her by the shoulders, feeling her resolve beginning to crumble. Blue eyes harden, Brittany's chin jerking up slightly, her chest puffing out. How could Quinn say that? Hurt swells inside of her, replacing that feeling of warmth. Melted eyes pool in around her, words whispered through the void.
We told you.
Can't trust anyone.
They'll all leave eventually.
All of them.
Everyone.
(Not real.)
"I can so! It's just nobody ever lets me try, not Simon, not daddy, not you!" She balls her fists, her heart a pin cushion.
"We're all trying to protect you!"
"I don't need protecting, Quinn! Santana isn't dangerous." She knew that the moment she saw her smoldering that night. Santana will never hurt her. She saw it in the way her eyes had dropped to her lips, the way her thumb had rubbed against her skin. She likes Santana. She likes Santana so much it almost hurts. Why can't Quinn see that?
"She is, though. If you knew what I knew—"
"You're like a dog, Quinn! You're loyal and sweet and kind, but you don't notice anything until it's already happening. You don't notice scraps of food until they're already on the floor. You whine at the door, but never tell me, as much as I ask, what's on your mind. It's silly and pointless and I like Santana. So whatever you say doesn't exactly matter." Brittany doesn't like being angry. Simon does that enough for the both of them.
"Fine." Quinn raises her eyebrows, obvious hurt in her hazel eyes. She's only trying to protect her. "You want to know the truth?"
Brittany nods her head, her jaw feeling like iron. Nervousness creeps into her stomach, rooting and taking shelter there. What if it's something bad? What if Santana doesn't like Christmas or puppies? What if she hates the way the sun beats down upon skin, rubbing it to a glow? What if she's a secret member of the S.S.? Granted all of those things are preposterous, but the threat still lingers.
What if she doesn't like what Quinn has to say.
Quinn leans in close to Brittany. "She's The Spaniard's granddaughter."
What does that have to do with anything? The Spaniard is millions of miles away, huddled up beneath a cardboard box, drinking out of an old coffee tin. At least, the one she knows of is. Lord Tubbington has done some shady dealings with him in the past, but Brittany's pretty certain that he's on the straight and narrow again. She briefly wonders if Simon is keeping his promise to keep him out of trouble. Considering his last promise, Brittany pushes her tongue against the side of her cheek, her eyes wandering up and around the top of the wall. (Is that mold?) He probably isn't.
"So?" Brittany says. The nurse pulls back, serious.
"Simon—"
"Let's not talk about him." She interjects, her eyes darting back and forth nervously. Quinn's face contorts, rage and impatience steering her actions.
"Don't say you want to know the truth, then shut it out the next moment!" She turns away from the blonde, stamping her foot upon the ground. "It's childish!"
"I'm not a child!"
"Then act like an adult!"
So caught up in their heated argument, Brittany doesn't notice footsteps, or a cold presence invading, her mind whirling. So what about Simon? He doesn't matter. He doesn't know anything. Only about horses and money. A cold dead weight lands upon her left ring finger. (She doesn't think Santana and Simon can exist in the same universe.)
"Q," her voice snakes its way down her back as Brittany turns to look at the Warder. "Crayola." She drops her hands upon Brittany's shoulders, gently pushing her thumbs into her muscles. Quinn looks between them, giving Brittany a long, hard stare indicating that their conversation was not yet over.
"Sue, what are you doing here?" She says in that mock sweet voice. The one that makes her eyes look dark, and a smirk curl along her lips.
"Ladies, ladies, ladies." With each rendition of the word, she drops a light smack onto Brittany's shoulder. They're heavy with restrained force. "What I'm trying to figure out is why there are two perfectly capable people with semi-functioning legs yelling about my corridor when we all know that no one wants to hear your ridiculous voices." She looks over Brittany's shoulder, a fond expression buried deep within her eyes.
"We were just—"
"Crayola, you look whiter than a hog dangling from a tree. Has the little man been sneaking into your room again?" She drops another hand on her shoulder. Brittany gives her a blank look. It had only been one time. At least, he said it was only going to be one time. He'd worn the most peculiar clothing. Maybe they were robes. He did sort of remind her of the Wizard.
"No, not today. He said that he had to go flip his turnips." She isn't exactly sure what that meant, but it doesn't really matter.
"Right." Sue gently taps the side of her cheek now. "Well if you two armadillos are done twisting each other's lingerie, why don't you move along? I hear they're making rainbow and sparkle sandwiches for lunch today."
Brittany narrows her eyes. Rainbows and sparkles would taste horrible on bread. She's already tried. Acquiring the sparkles had been easy, however the rainbow? That takes tact and cleverness only afforded to those gifted in the art of subterfuge. She rolls her eyes. She isn't that stupid. No one is.
She opens her mouth to protest such a ridiculous menu, hoping that they aren't actually going to be serving such extreme food. Before she can, Quinn is pulling on her arm, muttering something under her breath. Sue stares with a fiery indifference before turning on her heel and walking back the way which she had came. She always seems to appear at the most inconvenient times. And it always seems to leave Brittany that same, sinking feeling. Like she has disappointed someone important.
"How does she do that?" Brittany quietly wonders. It's like Sue materializes out of the walls. Melting mouths and hollow eyes claw from the deep recesses of her mind and she's reminded of Santana. The girl with the sun kissed skin and chocolate eyes. You're beautiful.
So are you.
Santana hadn't said it. But Brittany wanted to pretend she had. Her heart flutters, her conversation with Quinn lost down the hall, pinned to the collar of Sue's shirt. It was lost. It was gone. And it didn't matter anymore. She was in a stone grove of painted flowers, and nothing could be more beautiful than dark eyes and cinnamon.
Brittany twists the copper reminder around her finger, thinking nothing but exotic lips speaking common words.
Who'd've thought group therapy to be a sham?
After Brittany left, Santana had remained upon the floor, her heart still caught in her throat. Certainly she was warmer, but she couldn't keep her mind off of blue eyes and blonde hair. Not that she could keep it off of it to begin with. She didn't know how long she had sat there (probably a long time) before Sue had decided to show up and pull her up off of the tiles. She didn't even have the energy to refute the constant misnomers about her ethnicity.
Her heart was beating to another drum in another place, with baby blue eyes and ghosted smiles. Would it be weird to chart the stars in her eyes? Santana couldn't decide. She had been so wrapped up in everything Brittany (she was certain that she was running a fever by the time Sue arrived) that she didn't even notice when the Warder shoved her into a chair.
And that's where she sits, her legs crossed at the knee, a scowl upon her lips. Mercedes is sitting two seats down, Anna Wong (haha hilarious, she knows) sits to her left, giving her nervous, shifty glances every two seconds out of the corner of her eye. The simple metal chair bites into the back of her legs, her eyes wandering out the window directly in front of her outside of the circle.
"—and that's how I figured out I had a twin." Everyone gives the speaker a round of applause (she doesn't know who it was because, let's be honest, she doesn't care), but none as enthused as the girl sitting directly in Santana's line of sight.
"I just wanted to say that I think it's amazing how you've overcome such grand obstacles, despite the fact that you're colored. You're an inspiration to most, and I feel like I can personally identify with you, coming from a Jewish background." She's chipper. She's loud. And worst of all, she's white.
Off white.
Like she can't make her mind what she wants to be. Santana stares hard at her, those big brown eyes and large nose. She probably would be cute, if it weren't for that big mouth of hers. (And Brittany.) Santana lets out a sigh, rolling her eyes once again. What's she doing here, anyway? Isn't there some sort of rule about not mixing? Like mixing vegetables and pasta?
"Thank you Rachel, for your great words of encouragement," the therapy doctor says, his voice sounding worn and tired. He's been through this a lot. She can tell. He's a middle aged man, with slicked hair and tired green eyes. He's relatively attractive, with a dimpled chin and carefully shaved jaw. His name is Dr. Schuester. And it sounds to Santana like he does this far too often. Rachel bats her eyes at him. Big doll eyes. But he's already looking again around the circle. "Anyone else want to share?"
It's not a suggestion. Her scowl deepens.
Tossing a glance over her shoulder, she looks at the other circle, the doctor there sporting glasses on the tip of his nose, his balding head pink with embarrassment as he tries to reign in another patient. Blue eyes peek over a shoulder, Brittany casting her a secret glance. Santana's flesh heats. Nobody has ever called her beautiful before. Maybe they were too scared. Or too boozed.
Hi, Brittany mouths.
Hi, Santana mouths back.
A ghosted smile. She wonders what it would feel like beneath her fingers. Would it be warm? Soft? Her dark eyes burn, ears blocking out the superfluous noise that the people around her are making. Quinn stands by a pillar, hazel eyes hard on her. Her heart twists. Maybe she's a knife-thrower after all. But Brittany doesn't notice. A genuine smile floods across her lips, her eyes crinkling, the endless deep blue crashing over her like a wave. She can feel breath along her skin. Fingers inching along her back, splaying themselves in the dip. She can taste sunshine. And she needs it.
(How do you covet something endless?)
"—Santana Lopez." Everyone around her is suddenly clapping, Trina (that's her name right?) looking at her expectantly.
"I knew it!" Rachel is sitting perched on the edge of her seat, looking like a puppy that's been injected with sugar cane. Her smile is wide, if not crazy. "I knew it was you the second you walked into the dining room this morning! I'm so glad that there's finally another, albeit less talented, famous woman. It's so hard being at the top, even if we are all—"
"What's she doing here?" Santana asks, flicking her wrist towards Rachel. Her voice is grating the last nerve she has. To her immense relief, Dr. Schuester speaks first, cutting off the words that had begun to spill out of Rachel's enormous mouth.
"Santana, don't you think that's rude?" He gives her a long stare.
"No? What I think is rude is that there's some white girl over here telling Aunt Mary that she sympathizes because she's a Jew." She shrugs her shoulders. She looks back towards Brittany, sad to find her staring at the woman she had previously mentioned by the name of Terri. Quinn shakes her head out of the corner of her eye, but she pays it no mind.
"Have you not heard about the war in Germany?" Rachel gasps.
"No, bush brows, I've been too busy sipping sherry and discussing Mrs. Tennerman's affair down the street—of course I have. Do you think I'm a daft?"
"Then you should know how sensitive this time is for my people!"
"Well, then, why don't you do us all a favor and go join them, bolts."
"Santana!" Dr. Schuester exclaims, shocked by her outburst.
"She does that, Dr. Schue," Mercedes says, shrugging her shoulders. He gives her an incredulous look, still obviously shocked. (How could he still be shocked while working in this place?)
"Coping mechanism," Santana says with another shrug. She can't wipe the smirk off of her face. Rachel's pallor is dismal. Mercedes rolls her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
"Santana—" Dr. Schuester starts before Rachel cuts him off.
"It's fine, Dr. Schuester. Obviously, Santana has yet to adjust to these amiable surroundings and is just lashing out. I'd rather it be at my expense than some of the more unfortunate girls here. It all rolls off my shoulders, since I know no matter what she says, I'm a star. She's simply just aiming at the brightest and most carefully put together person here, jealous of my great appeal and brilliant talent. I can't fault her for that." God, does she love to hear herself talk or something? It's like a spewing volcano. Once it starts, it just won't stop. Santana grabs her left ear, pulling on it in annoyance.
"Actually, I was just thinking how good you'd look with one of those stars pinned to your shirt. As a shining beacon, or something, just so I know to avoid you in the future." She lets her hand drop, glancing over her shoulder again. Brittany is biting her lip, a secret smile only belonging to Santana hidden within her eyes. She shakes her head slowly, blue eyes motioning towards Rachel.
"Your hurtful words won't find purchase here," Rachel has turned away, her arms crossed. There, behind her iris, something dark crawls. Santana knows it eats her alive while she sleeps. Whispers not-so-sweet nothings into her ears when she's alone.
Do you think they fall like snow still screaming? She wants to ask, but even that seems too cruel, even for her. (They are the same, after all.) No. Ideas, like slivers, snake their way beneath her flesh, smarting against the back of her eyes.
Do children build men out of skin flecks and tongues? Of neighbors and classmates?
Do they cry when they hear familiar voices on thermals?
(Who chooses the chosen but the strong?)
(Who are the strong, but the chosen.)
"Shouldn't someone else be sharing?" Santana finally spits, afraid of what she might say if left to confront Rachel herself. She glares long and hard at the dark haired girl before another woman begins speaking. But Santana doesn't listen. (Something dark crawls.)
The rest of the therapy goes by quickly. Nobody addresses Santana after that, much to her satisfaction, and nobody makes eye contact. Her stomach growls at her, angry for skipping both breakfast and lunch. Not like she had a choice. She stares out the window for the remainder of the time, her own reflection staring back at her in some twisted shadowed way.
They creep and crawl along the floor, the branches of the trees, the hidden sun working its way around in the sky. (In a place hidden from the world, did time still exist?) She stands when everyone else stands, ignoring the hurt way Rachel glances at her out of the corner of her eye. Brittany.
A hand slides down her arm, her muscles tensing, her body jumping. A body presses itself close, breath lingering against the back of her neck. She feels fingers, running against her palm, making as if to twine them with hers, but finds only her pinky caught. "Would you like to see the garden? I love it when it sings. It's magical." Santana clears her throat, trying to stuff her heart back down into her chest before nodding her head. (How do you say no to heartstrings and secret promises?)
She tugs them along, Quinn not far behind.
"You need to stop encouraging her."
It's dinner time and Quinn is standing right behind Santana (who looks at her roast beef, wondering if it's edible). Her voice is a low murmur, ensuring no one else can hear. Santana frowns, though she can't decide which is less appealing. The roast beef or Quinn's presence.
"Why does everyone keep telling me that?" She stabs the slab of meat with her spoon (because heaven forbid they provide forks). It attempts to stick to the dull metal, but flops down onto her plate with a dull slap. It smells like an old shoe. Her potatoes fare no better.
"Because they're smart. Being raised a Lopez, I thought you would be as well."
"How many times do I have to tell you people, I haven't done anything!" She pushes peas around, trying to muster up enough courage to shove them into her mouth.
"Like hell you haven't!" Quinn hisses. "What game are you trying to play? Did Atilio send you?"
At the mention of her grandfather, Santana looks at Quinn, confusion written across her face. The honey blonde's lips are thin, eyes searching her face for any clues. "Yes, because that's a brilliant plan. Send his only grandchild into a—hello—insane asylum to what? Set up a drug ring within all of the influential crazies? Because they'll be so useful once they're out of here." She twirls her fingers in the air for added emphasis before rolling her eyes and picking her spoon up again. She chases some of her peas around before finally getting them onto the utensil then shoves them in her mouth with a grimace.
So they could be worse, but they could be better. They were in that grey area, bordering on horrible and edible, the skins like puckered prunes, dry against her tongue. Aren't they supposed to be boiled or something? She swallows them.
"I could always send for the Warder again. Would you like another bath? I heard your second one was even better than the first. Really got you all nice and clean." The threat licks over Quinn's words, coating them with a deadly venom. As much as she hates the idea of Quinn sticking her nose into business that didn't concern her, she hates the idea of another bath even more.
"What do you want?"
"Why are you here?"
"Because I'm crazy! Like the rest of them!" The people at the end of her table all snap their attention towards her, eyes beady and cold. Is she crazy? A lead weight drops in her stomach, her mind beginning to fold in upon itself. She isn't crazy. She is still capable to live in society. She doesn't talk to herself, or mumble or eat her shirts. She hadn't try to drown any of her family members, doesn't have any post traumatic depression. She likes to drink. She likes to drink and she likes the sun a little more fervently than a woman should.
A woman can't love the sun.
Only Icarus can love the sun.
Icarus is a man.
You can't love the sun.
"You're snappy and insufferable, but you aren't crazy," Quinn mutters.
You're beautiful.
"Then talk to fucking St. James. He's the whole reason behind this fiasco." She shoves her spoon into some of her potatoes, sliding it into her mouth reluctantly. She tries not to think of the thick consistency, of the little lumps of peels and poorly mashed mess. Not for the first time since she started eating, she wishes that she had salt. Apparently, that can be used as a weapon too.
"I guess he could have you moved—"
"No!" Santana says louder than she intends. She can't lose. At least let her be near the sun. If she can't touch it, then why can't she at least bask in its presence?
"There is something!" Quinn raises her eyebrows, a smug grin upon her face. "A reason. Talk." Santana glances over to the other side of the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of baby blue. She sees none. No golden blonde hair. Or starlit eyes. Only people. People eating. People talking. People crying over grey slops and chewed clothing. People crying.
"Where did you take her?" Santana demands, turning back to Quinn.
"So it is Brittany. I knew it. Atilio never could mind his business."
"Abuelo has nothing to do with this," she stresses. Although, that's not entirely untrue.
"Why else would you be in here. Thrown into a cage with her, it's all rather convenient." The nurse turns away from her, pacing to the wall and then back. One of her arms is thrown around her mid section, while the other is drawn up to her mouth. Her eyebrows crease.
"Bitch, do you have honey in your ears or do I have to spell it out for you?"
"Simon will not be pleased…" Quinn bites the tip of her thumb.
"Simon Simon Simon, who the fuck is Simon. Everyone keeps talking about him like he's some Don Giovanni, but as far as I can tell, he's some pussy willow throwing a temper tantrum. He never seems fucking pleased." She slams her spoon down onto the table top. The girls at the end of the table jump before vacating their seats. Santana glares hard at Quinn.
"Oh please. Save your drama for Rachel." Quinn rolls her eyes. Santana casts another glance over towards the other side of the mess, hoping that she might have overlooked Brittany earlier. She comes up short again. (Her heart gives a rather large and painful tug.) Her fingers burn, remembering where Brittany's had been earlier. She balls her fist. No. No. No. She's supposed to be getting better. No. Santana rips her eyes from her search carefully turning back towards the food set before her. She attempts to cut the meat with her spoon, but fails horribly, instead mangling the slab beyond recognition. Now it looks predigested. She wrinkles her nose.
Quinn's silence is a blessing. She hopes that the nurse is done prying.
"Honestly, though, who throws his wife into the crazy bucket and doesn't even buy her gold. How cheap can you get? Please, explain that to me, Quinn." Her voice constricts around the word wife, making it near impossible for her to push out. Brittany isn't a possession. Only Atlas can own the world. (Santana begins to think that her and Simon were never meant to exist in the same universe.)
The hazel eyed nurse stares at Santana. She doesn't speak for a long time, the dark haired Latina having nearly enough time to finish her meal (gagging around the roast beef). "You really have no idea." Quinn's sudden revelation startles Santana.
"No, Sherlock. What gave me away? The fact that I literally said 'I don't know what you're talking about' or that I don't know what you're talking about?" She vengefully puts her spoon down onto the table (again), crossing her arms and turning towards Quinn. The incredulous smirk plastered upon Quinn's lips does not lighten her mood. Santana hates being left in the dark, especially when it has something to do with her. It makes her feel ignorant, like it is now. She grinds her teeth, the after taste of barely passable roast beef on the back of her tongue.
Breasts press up against her back, Quinn's hands resting lightly on her shoulders. She can feel her smile, can smell the rain on her hair. Santana averts her gaze, trying to draw her head away, suddenly alarmed by the woman's proximity. It's wrong, the way Quinn leans in close to her ear. Wrong when she feels her breath wash over her. She balls her fists tighter.
"Brittany is married to Simon, Santana. Simon Colt."
Her blood turns still as the grave.
She waits in the lounge, her legs drawn up close to her upon the orange couch. The rough material tickles her skin, pricking along her flesh whenever she shifts. It's a soft color, although most avoid it, they just can't seem to understand it like she does. Brittany runs a hand over the material a warm smile spreading along her lips.
The other girls sit sporadically around the living area, some doing puzzles, others playing cards or games at the tables. Some sit and talk on the other couches, but no one sits next to her. It doesn't really bother her though. Not anymore. It used to. But they all avoid her like the plague. Like she has a disease easily caught. Like she is the disease. She doesn't like making to feel the leper. She isn't, is she?
She twirls the pencil in her hand, wholly aware of Sue's hard gaze. Quinn hadn't come for her after dinner. The shift in routine was disorienting at first, but the Warder had assured her that she would be along shortly. Brittany keeps glancing towards the door, the hallway looking longer than normal. Looking whiter. Looking harsher. What about Santana?
She doesn't dare ask the Warder.
She stares down at the piece of paper in front of her, sighing. A few thick strokes of the pencil, a couple light. Brittany begins to draw, easing the tension from between her shoulders onto the page, writing the pain in her wrist upon an off white sheet. As if it can do it justice. (Can anything?) Thoughtfully, she draws her thumb across the sheet, smudging the lines, blurring them into a new contour, creating something from nothing. Nothing can't come from something. Eyes. Eyes stare up at her from the page.
Eyes of unspoken words and radiating heat. Of things never needing to be said and things that matter, but don't at the same time. Eyes that captivate her. She needs them. She just doesn't know how to do them justice. She doesn't know what it means to be just. (Brittany doesn't think anyone does.)
"Pierce." Sue's voice pulls her out of her thoughts, a bitter frown tugging at her lips. She glances over at the Warder, the woman shaking her head no. How long has she been staring at the paper? The older woman mouths Don't think about it, motioning towards the pencil. Brittany crinkles her brow.
She didn't mean to do it the first time.
It was an accident. Why can't anyone understand that?
She looks back down at the paper, drawing another line. The curve of a chin. Beautiful chin, the perfect place to hook a finger. The perfect place to write love against flesh. She secrets another smile, drawing her thumb over this as well. She wants to touch it. Wants to feel the way the grains move and sink at her beck and call. The paper slides beneath her skin, staining her white flesh black.
Brittany flips her palm up, inspecting the fruits of her labor upon her fingers. The way the graphite shines in the light. The way the lines in her palms curve, marking her destiny upon the path of her skin. She traces them lightly with her left hand, the pencil carefully placed upon the table next to her drawing.
"Why do you think Santana is here?" The conversation pulls her out of her reverie. Her eyes fall upon the group of women sitting on the couches next to the orange one. If they notice her watching, then they don't say anything. Or rather, they don't care. Brittany suspects that they don't care.
Terri is lounging against the arm rest, her legs drawn up underneath her, her lips tight, eyes looking wild. Brittany can tell she's trying really hard not to speak, but is having a really hard time containing herself. If Santana's not here to defend herself, then anything is fair game. Brittany picks up the pencil again, holding her breath and waiting for one of the girls to answer.
"I heard she had a complete mental break down," one of the women says. (She never could remember their names. Only Terri's.) She has brown hair, looking just as every bit as a mouse as a door.
"That's what I heard too. Did you hear her screaming last night down the halls?" a second woman gossips, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She had a nervous twitch that kept pulling her head to the side. Brittany only knew that because the first time they met, she had thought the woman was dancing. She hadn't really liked it when the blonde had grabbed her by the shoulders and begun twirling her about. (How was she supposed to know?)
"She sounded horrid!" the third laughs, hiding her mouth behind her hands. She looks like a pig. A pig with really bad teeth and wild, unkempt blonde hair. It makes Brittany uncomfortable whenever she looks at her. So she avoids her.
"What was that she was saying?" The mousey woman asks, mirth in her eyes. An unfamiliar feeling begins to spark in the base of Brittany's neck, her hand tightening around the pencil. She doesn't even bother pretending to stare at the paper in front of her.
"That's called pleading." (Pig.)
"Oh, is that what it sounds like?" (Twitch.)
"The Warder even called for Beiste. She must have been kickin' somethin' fierce!" (Pig.)
"It's sad to see someone with so much prestige fall so low," Terri finally drawls. There's a harshness to her words, a frantic edge. Like she must be the center of attention all the time. (And typically she is.) "What a poor excuse of a woman." She waves her hand lazily, eyes settling upon Brittany.
"Oh it is. It is indeed—" Terri cuts off the mousey woman with her palm.
"Do you want to know the most interesting part of the story, though?" A devilish smirk lights her lips then. They all stare at her in rapt attention. Brittany is suddenly aware of the rage building inside of her.
"I heard that she's sharing a room with the Ice Princess, herself." All of the women gawk, their jaws seeming to come unhinged. "And that the reason she's been put in here is not because of a man."
"What? What did you hear, Terri?" Brittany doesn't even care enough to identify the speaker. She grips the pencil tighter.
"Well if you would shut up, I could tell you." She levels her stare with one of her ilk.
"Sorry," one of them mutters. Terri's eyes draw back to Brittany, a smirk playing upon poisonous lips. Brittany has to remind herself to never listen to Terri. She's a liar. A liar. She never speaks truth. She's a liar. (She's a liar.)
"I have it on good authority that she wasn't brought here because of a man," she pauses for dramatic effect. (She's a liar.) "But rather because of a woman." Terri's eyes blaze.
The pencil in her hand snaps.
And here it is. Another exciting installment of this thing that I write. :D So, tell me, dear readers, what you are thinking. I'm curious as to your speculations, especially concerning Simon and the like. What about Quinn? Do you like her? Do you hate her? Do you want to see more of Nurse Fabray? Ooo~ The romance, the intrigue, the mystery! What about Terri? Bitch needs to step off, right?
Thanks for all of you who put up with me, I appreciate those who read and especially those who review. You are the foundation of my world.
I've also decided that I don't really have a set update schedule planned. It'll happen sometime during the week so, I guess, expect one over the weekend sometime. My poor beta is busy and I basically work her to death. Special shout out to Swinging Cloud, because without her, apostrophe's man. I don't know what it is about them, but for some reason they are the bane of my existence. And only recently too. .-.
For those of you interested, I also now have a tumblr account. So follow me if you want, or don't that's okay. You can find me at x-roulette-x .tumblr .com (remove the spaces).
Anyway, review! (If you want) but seriously do it. ;-; (If you want.)
Kay…I'll see you all next week. /heart