Set the World on Fire

by Cora709

For six months Santana has been living in New York City with Kurt and Rachel, but now Brittany has received her diploma and is finally coming to join them. Can new relationships accommodate old ones? And can the past ever really be recaptured?

10. Chapter 10

Author's Note: First off, I can't apologize enough for how long the gap has been between updates this time. Due to numerous real-life things, I had a very limited amount of time each day to write. And as you can probably see, this chapter is once again even longer than the last one, so it was a slow process. I posted the first half in sections on my tumblr (link is in the profile) and there's a chance I may do the same with the next one, so if you don't mind reading it like that, you can find it there. Also, I have the anon option turned on in my ask box now, so if anyone has questions, feel free to bring them over.

There are still two chapters left, and I want to try to get the fic finished before Glee returns. This one in particular was important to me after seeing how Brittany's storyline was handled (or rather, not handled) in the last few episodes. Of course as any Glee fic writer knows, there's no way to write a 100% sustained canon Brittany. The chapter would be 50 words long. So I've taken some of her characteristics and developed them in the ways that work best for this story.

Weirdly enough, this fic is still aligning with canon in certain ways, and I swear I haven't tweaked anything to make it fit. Every plot detail has been planned since the first chapter (my fandom friends who I accidentally spoiled with detailed plot summaries will confirm that ;) With Santana and Kurt's future plans in particular, it's just a coincidence, I guess.

Anyway, I understand if this is too long to read in one sitting. All I ask is that when you do finish it, whenever that may be, you try to drop a review to let me know if you're still reading. I hope I haven't lost too many readers after such a long break. It couldn't be avoided. And the story will absolutely be finished. I would never abandon it.

Thank you so much for sticking with me!

---

Chapter 10

(amateur film footage begins. Rachel is wearing a long mid-nineties dress and jean jacket, and sits in an armchair with a baby blanket draped over it, a cradle at her feet, holding a swaddled doll in her lap)

Rachel: What a beautiful baby girl you are. Even at this early, early date, only hours after your remarkably dignified yet still suitably dramatic birth, I can tell just from gazing into your sparkling brown eyes that you're going to be enormously talented... perhaps one day surpassing even myself, your enormously talented mother.

(from behind the camera comes a muffled sigh of exasperation)

Rachel: (continuing to speak to the wrapped bundle) But alas, the time has now come for us to part, and for our lives to branch into their separate courses; you to go home with the fashionable and no-doubt nurturing and supportive gay men who impregnated me with their seed, and me to go... well, wherever the fates take me. Perhaps one day we'll meet again, maybe in sixteen years or so, when I get a job teaching show choir in a town very close to yours... but of course nobody knows for sure. The future is an unwritten page, and it would be unwise for me to... to prognosticate upon the -

Brittany: (off-camera, impatient) Okay, cut.

Rachel looked up, puzzled. "What, why? I thought that was a really good take."

Coming around from behind the camera on its tripod, Brittany crossed her arms and deliberated, trying to think of a diplomatic way to phrase what she wanted to say. "It wasn't bad. Especially since the baby's head didn't fall off this time. But, the thing is... Don't take this the wrong way, but I knew your mom. She was my coach in the Troubletones, and... she didn't talk like that."

"I know that," Rachel said with a defensive air, standing up and replacing the doll in the cradle. "But you can't blame me for taking some dramatic license with the dialogue. It makes things more interesting."

"No it doesn't." Brittany shook her head. "It makes it sound like those boring plays in English class where people are always cross-dressing and telling their hos to fetch their longswords." She paused, considering. "But, I'm actually glad to hear you say that you want the movie to be more interesting, Rachel, because..." Now she looked a little excited, biting her lip. "I've been making some notes on the script, and I wanted to run some ideas by you. Have a seat."

"Oh. Okay." Mildly surprised, Rachel returned to the arm chair and watched as Brittany grabbed a clipboard and a pen from the coffee table, then sat down on the couch across from her. Since Kurt was giving himself an avocado facial and had demanded not to be disturbed, and since Santana still wasn't home from work, they had the place to themselves.

"All right, first off," Brittany said in a business-like tone, reading from the clipboard. "Let's talk about your virginity."

"I'm... I'm sorry, my what?"

"So I know in real life, you lost it to Finn. And when my time machine is done, I want you to know that I would be glad to let you borrow it if you want to go back and fix that. For now it's still reality, though, and there's nothing we can do about it, sorry," she added with a shrug. "But, here's the thing. As your director and as a future audience member, I feel obligated to let you know that when it comes to you and Finn? It's gross. And nobody wants to see it."

Rachel opened her mouth to reply, but Brittany continued, not giving her a chance. "So I was thinking that for the movie, what if... instead of Finn, you lost your virginity to the entire baritone section of Vocal Adrenaline? Plus one soprano, just to add spice." She looked up hopefully, waiting.

"What?" Rachel was appalled by the idea. "No, we're not doing that. That isn't..." She shook her head, adamant. "No, Brittany. Absolutely not."

She continued to wait for a few seconds, but then made a note on her script. "Okay, I'm gonna put that down in the maybe column, while you take some more time to think about it."

Rachel sighed. "What else?"

"Um..." she checked the clipboard again. "Oh, okay, you're gonna love this. So, I'm guessing you were probably planning to cast a human in the role of Mr. Schuester, right? Well, what if I told you..." She paused, as if to let the excitement build, doing a little drum roll with her fingers on the clipboard. "That we may be able to get Eugene the chimp from the Sal's Mattress Emporium commercials? I've been talking to his agent this week, and though he does have some odd stipulations regarding his dressing room, I really think we could work something out with him. But you may have to pick up the bananas yourself, because Santana and I have decided that with the exception of breadsticks we're no longer going to be eating penis-shaped foods. And I just don't want to deal with the temptation."

Perplexed, and making an effort to trace back to the salient point in this speech, Rachel was able after a few seconds to ask, "I... I don't understand, you want Mr. Schue to be played by a monkey? Why?"

"Okay, first of all?" Brittany said, annoyed. "Chimps aren't monkeys, they're apes. You might want to work on your ignorance a bit, because I'd really appreciate it if you didn't embarrass me in front of Eugene." She continued to talk through Rachel's eye roll. "And second of all, come on, a chimp in a sweater vest? It's adorable. People would love it. And plus, I mean... we wouldn't even have to put a lot of time into training him, because let's face it, it's not like Mr. Schue ever did all that much. We just... put Eugene in front of a whiteboard with a marker in his hand, and whatever he scrawls up there, that's our theme of the week. And if he throws his poop we'll say it's a Nickelback tribute. Couldn't be simpler."

"All right," Rachel said, as if her cooperation might hurry things along. "I promise to keep it in mind."

"Fine, but... we can't wait too long, because Eugene's not just sitting around, you know. He's a busy chimp, he's got other offers."

"Duly noted. Now, can we get back to filming?"

Brittany checked her clipboard, running her eyes down her list. "Oh, hold on, just one more thing. This is the best one. Okay, so you know how in Harry Potter, all the Hogwarts correspondence is delivered by those sexy owls?"

A bit thrown by this description, Rachel said hesitantly, "I guess so."

"Well, I was thinking, in Scene Forty-two when you and Kurt get your NYADA acceptance letters... what if we have Monty fly in, wearing a pair of glasses and a tiny little top hat, and when he drops your letters off he says..." She looked over at the parrot cage and snapped her fingers. "Monty, say your line!" Then, to encourage him, she began "Welcome..."

He hung upside down from his perch, alert now, and continued the line. "Welcome to NYADA, motherfuckers."

Brittany looked back at Rachel, pleased. "What do you think?"

Rachel's face was a mask of dismay. "Brittany! Why would you teach him to say that?"

"What, you don't like it? I thought maybe it could be the tagline for the whole movie. And we could put it on the promotional posters with, like, a bomb exploding behind it. I think it'll really get people's attention." She nodded, agreeing with herself.

"Okay, Brittany... look." With an air of reluctance, Rachel got up and came closer, perching on the couch next to her. "I want you to know that I greatly appreciate your dedication to your job as director, and... I applaud you for taking the initiative to make such colorful, creative, somewhat unusual suggestions. But..."

Brittany waited, but with a downcast air, as if she already suspected where this was going.

Speaking carefully, Rachel continued. "I'm just not entirely sure that you and I share the same artistic vision when it comes to my movie."

"Does that mean you don't like my ideas?"

"No! Not at all. It doesn't mean I don't like them, it just means... I can't possibly use any of them without turning this entire project into a laughingstock and a farce of epic proportions. Do you see?"

She watched her, not responding to this.

"So I think maybe it would be best if, for now, we took a little hiatus from filming," Rachel went on. "That'll give us time to re-evaluate our priorities and decide if our collaboration is something we wish to continue pursuing."

With a mildly puzzled expression, Brittany asked, "A hiatus, that's like a break, right?"

"Exactly!" Pleased that the difficult part was over, Rachel patted Brittany's knee and then stood up. "After all, I'm sure you have plenty of other things you'd rather be spending your time on. Like your sticker collection!"

Brittany didn't respond directly to this, but, seeing that Rachel was preparing to leave the room, she stopped her. "Wait, do I still get paid while we're on this hiatus?"

Confused, she stopped and stared at her for a second. "What do you mean? I haven't been paying you."

"Then... who's been slipping those unwrapped sticks of gum into our mail slot?"

"I don't know," Rachel cried in alarm. "You haven't been eating them, have you?"

Slowly, Brittany stopped chewing the gum that was currently in her mouth. With an evasive glance to the side, she said, "No."

Rachel started to say something, thought better of it, and then shook her head and headed toward the hallway, presumably to begin her nightly shower regimen.

Brittany sighed. After a minute she removed the gum from her mouth, examined it critically for a few seconds, then with reluctance went to stick it on the bottom of the coffee table. But the top of the table was glass, which made the crime too evident, so she looked around for an alternative, settling on the underside of the bird cage. While she was securing it there, Monty bobbed up and down, excited by her nearness.

"Red Bull," he told her. "It gives you wings." Lately, the parrot's vocabulary had been expanding at a rapid rate, now that he'd adjusted to his new surroundings and finished molting. In particular, he seemed to have developed a fondness for advertising slogans and jingles, probably because the TV in the living room was left on at almost all hours of the day.

"Monty, you don't need that stuff, it's bad for you," Brittany said. "Besides, you already have wings." She looked at him closer. "Are you upset because Rachel didn't like your line? Because you shouldn't take it personally. She treats everyone like that."

He pondered this, cocking his head to the side. "Hello. Think outside the bun."

"Well, that's what I'm trying to do... but apparently some people don't like creative ideas." There was bitterness in her tone, but then she looked regretful. "I don't blame her though, not really. She just wants her movie to be perfect, I get that. I don't exactly know what I'm doing anyway. This is my first full-length film."

Monty hopped down onto his lower perch and jingled his strand of toy bells. "K-Y arousal gel. Makes that big moment even bigger."

Now it was Brittany's turn to ponder these words. "That's a good suggestion... and I agree that usually sex is the answer. But I don't think it would work for me and Rachel. I'm in a committed monotonous relationship, and that means I don't sleep with other people. Besides, if Rachel was gonna sleep with a girl, I don't think I would be her first choice." These last words were uttered with a hint of resentment.

"Seriously," the parrot chimed in. This phrase had likely been picked up from last weekend's Grey's Anatomy marathon, but Brittany took it as agreement.

"Wait, so you've noticed it too?" She looked around, confirming that they were alone, and lowered her voice. "I knew it wasn't just my imagination. I mean, clearly, Santana's the hottest person on the planet, who wouldn't want a piece of that? And I'm sorry, but I just don't trust people who say they're straight. They're hardly ever as straight as they think they are. Even you, Monty... I bet you'd like a lady friend, but if you saw a really smoking boy parrot instead, what would your reaction be?"

"Hello."

"Exactly. And there's nothing wrong with that. But there is something wrong with someone living with your girlfriend for six months and getting super close to her while you're in another state, and pretending to be her fiancée and thinking she's her bestest friend ever, and then always bringing up all the awesome stuff that happened that you didn't get to be a part of because you had to go to high school for an extra semester, and acting all superior while she walks around on her freakishly long legs thinking she knows everything about Santana when obviously she doesn't."

Realizing that her voice had risen quite a bit during this diatribe, Brittany drew in her breath to recover, and then looked a little sheepish. "I'm sorry," she told the parrot, who was eyeing her warily. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I know you can't get in the middle of it, because you love all of us. But just... keep your eyes open for me. Let me know if you see anything you think I should know about, okay?"

"Okay," he repeated, since this word, at least, was familiar and comforting. He said it again for good measure, sidling to the left and then back to the right on his perch. "Okay."

"Cool." She smiled at him. "I knew you'd have my back." Moving over to the side of the cage, she looked out the front window and scanned the street below. "Oh good," she said, sounding relieved. "Here comes Santana. She had to work late tonight." Brittany watched with a fond look as the small figure hurried down the dimly-lit sidewalk, head lowered, hands in pockets. "She looks so cute when she's all nervous about getting mugged."

"Maybe she's born with it, maybe it's Maybelline," Monty commented.

"Oh, she was definitely born with it, I've seen her baby pictures." She continued to watch as Santana made her way to the building, as if she could ensure her safe passage just by keeping her eyes glued to her. When she disappeared up the steps and through the front door, Brittany turned back to the parrot cage. "But you know what, that reminds me. I had a dream last night that I was trying to put mascara on while I was in a hot air balloon? And it was a total disaster. But I had to get my makeup perfect, because the balloon was on its way to the Academy Awards."

"Hello."

"I know, right? It was a big deal. I needed to look my best. And it's a good thing I did, because after we walked the red carpet and met Melissa Rivers and her great-great-grandma Joan, you'll never guess what happened." Brittany paused, and seemed almost hesitant. "I got an award. We were just sitting there, and they called my name... not Rachel's, or Kurt's, or Santana's. Mine. It was an award for directing. Can you believe that?"

The bird seemed to have tired of the conversation now, and hopped to the bottom of the cage, pecking through his poop.

"Yeah, I know," Brittany said, resigned. "It doesn't sound that plausible. And I guess it doesn't make any sense that the ceremony was taking place in Principal Figgins' basement or that those guys from the Macarena video were passing out condoms from an Easter basket. It was actually kind of creepy," she reflected. "But still... when I went up there to get that Oscar statue? It was like the most amazing feeling, Monty. I can't even describe it. It felt like... like I finally did something right. Like what I'm supposed to be doing. And nobody was laughing at me." She was quiet again for a second, then added, "Don't tell anyone about this, though, okay? It was just a stupid dream."

He returned to his perch and gazed at her. After a few seconds of deliberation, he sang in an off-key voice, "What would you do-o-o for a Klondike Bar?" He flipped upside down, pleased with himself.

Brittany stared back, contemplatively. In a tactful voice, she said, "You know, Monty, sometimes I get the feeling that you and I just aren't on the same page."

Now came the sound of the front door opening and closing, and she turned, her face lighting up as Santana appeared in the living room doorway. Abandoning the parrot without a backward glance, she went toward her to welcome her home. "Hey, you."

"Hi," Santana said, then squealed a little as she was lifted up against Brittany's body for a brief moment and spun in a half circle. When they'd separated from their kiss and with her feet set firmly back on the floor, she added with a smile, "You don't have to do that every time I get home, you know."

"I know. I just like to." Taking Santana's hand, she pulled her over to the couch.

After shedding her jacket and tossing it vaguely in the direction of the chair, Santana collapsed onto the cushions, stretching out with her head in Brittany's lap. With a deep sigh, she let her body relax, staring up at her.

"Long night?" Brittany asked.

"It wasn't too bad. These Japanese tourists kept taking pictures of me, it was actually kind of flattering. I think maybe they thought I was J. Lo." She paused, then admitted, "Of course, it could be because I told them I was J. Lo."

Amused, Brittany said, "Please, you're way more talented than she is."

Santana rolled her eyes with apparent modesty, but then couldn't help saying, "Yeah, I know." After a pause she asked, "What about you? How was your day?"

"It was okay, I guess. I had to walk this cocker spaniel in the West Village? And I set up a date for her with the mutt that lives in the alley behind her building, because they've been flirting with each other for weeks now. But... it didn't go so well. They didn't even touch the spaghetti and meatballs I put out for them. All they wanted to do was hump each other. Then they got stuck together for like twenty minutes and it threw off my whole schedule for the rest of the day."

Santana listened to this, entertained but vaguely troubled. "Britt, are you supposed to let them do that?"

Considering this idea, as if for the first time, Brittany admitted, "Probably not." Then she added, "But they enjoyed it so much."

Turning her head, Santana nuzzled against her stomach, muttering, "Well, at least someone's enjoying some romance. I feel like we've hardly seen each other lately."

"I know." She ran her fingertips lightly over Santana's forehead, then around the edge of her cheek, tracing her hairline. "I'm always working when you're here, and you're always at school or working when I'm here. And then when we're both home we're too tired to do anything fun."

With another sigh, Santana said, "Being grown up sucks." It was true that these last few weeks since spring break had been unusually hectic. Now that the weather was warming up, people wanted their dogs taken on longer walks, which meant that Brittany's hours had almost doubled. And with more people staying out later and the tourism season beginning, Santana's boss had decided to keep the restaurant open a few hours later than usual on weeknights. Also, finals were coming up, which meant more time required for studying. There had been days when the two of them only saw each other in the morning and then again late at night.

But if these late night moments were all they had, at least they could be savored. Closing her eyes, Santana lay unmoving while Brittany stroked her hair. For a long time neither spoke, basking in the rare quiet of the apartment, pretending they were the only ones who lived there.

Feeling herself in danger of falling asleep, Santana forced her eyes open again, and found herself looking at the camera on its tripod over in the corner of the room. "I forgot to ask how the filming's going," she said.

Brittany made a face that perfectly expressed how she felt about the subject, but then she elaborated with, "I don't want to talk about it." She shook her head, adding in a weary tone, "Actors."

"Do you want me to kick her ass for you?" Santana offered. "Because you know I will."

Smiling, Brittany said, "Maybe later."

"Hey, I've got an idea. Since clearly we both needs to get our fun on... how about this weekend, you and me have a picnic in Central Park? Just us, no one else. The weather's supposed to be nice, and we can spend the whole day together and do whatever we want."

Brittany considered the idea, her fingers momentarily pausing, still coiled in Santana's hair. "Can we go to the petting zoo?"

"Whatever we want," she repeated with a smile. "I'll even let you film me terrified and surrounded by goats, if it makes you happy."

Picturing this, Brittany bit her lip to keep from laughing. "That would make a really good short film. We could call it Santana's New Friends.

"Just as long as you're there to rescue me," she said. "So, what do you say? It's a date?"

"Yeah, definitely. It sounds perfect." She leaned down for a kiss, but hovered a few millimeters away, just brushing Santana's lips with her own, teasing her. Santana raised her head a bit, chasing her, but Brittany retreated just out of reach. Finally, with a grin of impatience, Santana grasped the back of her head to hold her in place. Brittany surrendered and allowed the kiss to deepen.

But now the parrot, like a child jealous of affection between its parents, began squawking and flapping against the bars of the cage, trying to get their attention. "Hello!" he shrilled at them. "Hello! Hello!"

Santana didn't seem to notice the distraction, but Brittany reluctantly broke their kiss, whispering in a tempting tone, "Santana, say hi to him. He likes you."

Without any enthusiasm, she tilted her head backward in the direction of the cage, wanting to get it over with. "Hello, Monty."

Invigorated by his success, and perhaps wanting to show off a little, he proclaimed to her, "Welcome to NYADA, motherfuckers."

Bewildered by this response, she looked up at Brittany for an explanation.

Her face the picture of blank innocence, Brittany said, "Rachel taught him that." Then, before she could be asked for further details, she resumed their interrupted kiss.

---

The next day, as afternoon edged toward evening, Santana found herself not in her own room studying biology, where she should have been and where she'd had every intention of remaining until Brittany got home from work, but instead on Rachel's bed, with Kurt leaning against her reading her private texts over her shoulder.

"You know," she said without taking her eyes from her phone, "Most people would find it rude for their sassy sidekick to get all up in their business like this without asking. But I happen to know that your own messages are so stale and boring you need the vicarious thrill of mine just to get through the day."

"I appreciate it," he muttered wryly, still reading. "Wait, go back. Was that one from Brittany?"

"Yeah." She paused, reading it again, confused. "Brittany's texts are like riddles."

Kurt read it out loud in a musing tone. "Italian or Russian? Both sexy, both hot, but one is spicy and one is not." He considered for a second. "I think that may be a haiku."

"I'm not sure whether she's talking about food or women. What should I say?"

"Well, I'm no expert, but either way, I would go with Italian," he advised.

Santana sent her reply, then glanced around her, seeming to recall all of a sudden where she was. "Remind me again what we're doing in here?"

"I'm not sure myself," Kurt said, sounding bored. "She wants our opinions on something. All I know is that she'd better not be modeling underwear again. I'm still having recurring nightmares."

She gave him a smirk, and as if she couldn't help herself, asked, "The red ones?"

"Oh God," he shuddered, remembering. "It was like Moulin Rouge acted out by Mary Katherine Gallagher."

Santana refrained from commenting, since to her horror, she'd had dreams about the red ones too, although they couldn't exactly be called nightmares. In order to keep Kurt from suspecting this, since he was eerily good at reading her, she got up and went to the doorway, stepping across the hall and smacking the door of the locked bathroom, in which Rachel had been mysteriously closeted for the last fifteen minutes. "If you don't get your ass in here in ten seconds, we're gone!"

Her voice came back muffled. "Hold on, I'm almost ready! Just... sit back down!"

Santana reluctantly returned to the bed and dropped back onto it, shoving a clump of overstuffed pillows out of her way. No sooner had she gotten re-settled than, true to her word, Rachel came out of the bathroom and announced her imminent arrival from the hallway. "Okay, here I come. Remember, I want you to be honest!"

Finally, she appeared in the room. As she came over to stand in front of them, Kurt's expression slowly transitioned from one of boredom to one of shock. His mouth fell open a little. Santana's eyes widened in bafflement. They both stared at her for a long moment, stunned into silence.

Rachel was blonde.

"Well?" she asked, impatient. "What do you think? I want your forthright, unfiltered opinions."

Kurt seemed to be making a supreme effort to come up with something honest and yet not hurtful. "It's... it's different," he said in a tentative way.

Santana looked at him with disgust. "Oh, grow some balls, Hummel." She turned back to Rachel. "You look like a bat mitzvah Hannah Montana!"

With a stoic expression, Rachel seemed to steel herself for the onslaught, because as everyone knew, once Santana got started, one insult just wasn't enough.

"No, Rachel, straight up?" she continued. "You look like what would happen if Weird Al had a baby with Marilyn Monroe's inbred third cousin." She leaned forward, getting into her stride. "I mean, seriously? You look like if one of those radioactive people from Erin Brockovich fell into a tank of bleach while conducting a bris, and then decided to have a kosher picnic with the cast of..."

She cut her off. "All right, Santana, I got it!"

Santana gave her an innocent shrug. "You wanted us to be honest."

"Okay, then," she said, trying not to lose hope. "If you don't like the blonde, let's try... the red."

"Oh thank God it's just a wig," Kurt gasped in relief, bringing his hand to his heart as he watched her dash back into the bathroom to switch from one color to another.

Coming back into the room, now with long, wavy auburn hair, Rachel said, "Well?" She waited, then prompted them, "First thing that comes to mind."

Santana looked at Kurt and raised her eyebrows, as if to say, Your turn.

He cringed a bit at his own thoughts, but then couldn't help himself. "Lindsey Lohan, circa 2005, hosting a Hanukkah party?"

Proud of him now, Santana gave a nod and smiled, turning back to Rachel. "Where all the dreidels have little heroin needles sticking out of them."

Kurt pressed his fingers to his mouth to keep from laughing.

With a heavy sigh, Rachel yanked the red wig off. "All right, fine! I've got one more. I saved this one until last, because I don't think there can be any disputing that it's the best and the most flattering." She ducked out of the room again, and seconds later returned, this time with a wig that was nearly waist-length and jet black. With strained eagerness, she stood in front of them, waiting for the reaction.

This time they were both quiet, looking everywhere but at each other. Santana pressed her lips together to try to control herself, but mockery shone from her eyes. Kurt was torn between pity and hilarity. The silence stretched out.

Eventually, with a look of weary resignation, Rachel seemed to accept that this wasn't going to go the way she'd planned. "You know what, go ahead and say it," she snapped, giving them permission. "I know you won't be satisfied until you get it out."

With a brief smile first to savor the anticipation, Santana told her, "Morticia Addams sitting shiva for Gomez."

"While Uncle Fester passes around the bagels and lox," Kurt added, inspiring a snort of amusement from Santana.

"That was the last one, I swear," she said through giggles, holding up her hand in surrender. "We don't even know any more Jewish stuff."

"No, we really don't," Kurt agreed, shaking his head, still trying not to laugh. "That was everything we know."

"You know what, just forget the whole thing!" Rachel said, taking off the last wig and furiously yanking the pins out of her own hair, letting clumps of it fall back down around her shoulders as she lectured them at the same time. "I guess I have to plead temporary insanity, because I can't imagine why out of all the people in the world I would have even considered asking you two for advice, or why I would have ever in a million years expected your reactions to be anything less than condescending and... vaguely racist."

Now she gathered up the wigs and stuffed them into a plastic shopping bag, looking dangerously near tears. "I'm taking these back, right now. If I get there before they close, maybe I can get a refund, even though they were on the clearance rack." Swooping her purse onto her shoulder in a melodramatic way, she made as if to head for the door. Feeling guilty now, Santana wondered if she should tell her that she'd missed about half of the hair pins and that the disheveled effect made her look like a crack addict.

But before she could make her exit, Kurt stopped her. "Rachel, wait, wait!" He grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the room, apologizing. "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. It's just that... well, she's a terrible influence."

"Hey." Santana shot him a dirty look. "The bagel thing was all you."

He pulled out the desk chair and maneuvered Rachel into it. She sat, obligingly enough, as if she hadn't actually expected them to let her leave.

"What is this about, anyway?" he asked, standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders. "What's wrong with your real hair? It's one of your best features."

"You know, he's right, it is," Santana said in what she hoped was a soothing voice as she bent forward and plucked out a few of the overlooked hair pins. "It distracts from your face."

"And your personality," Kurt mumbled.

"There's nothing wrong with it," she said. "It's just that it's so ordinary. Face it, brunettes in this city are a dime a dozen. I'm tired of blending in. I want to stand out. When I walk through a room, I want people to remember me. I want them to say Who was that girl?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure people already do that," Santana told her.

She looked hopeful. "Really?"

"Of course, it's usually because you're singing to yourself, and they're wondering if they should look for your guardian or, you know, help you find your way back to the Home."

Rachel took this in stride, since she'd walked right into it. Returning to her explanation, she said, "I just feel like... I want to try something different, something new. After being passed over for Maria in favor of Polly Lin, and after..." she trailed off, troubled, and then clamped her lips together as if she'd revealed more than she'd intended.

"After what?" Kurt asked, concerned.

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Rachel," Santana began, dropping the mockery. "How long do you think you can keep -"

"I don't want to talk about it," she interrupted. Santana and Kurt glanced at each other, holding a silent conferral in which they decided not to press her. After all, it was so rarely that she didn't want to talk about something that her wishes should probably be respected when it happened. But their curiosity was killing them.

"I just... feel like making some changes, that's all," she went on. "But obviously, judging from the number of one-liners you two were able to extract from a five minute preview, wigs are not the answer." She stared dolefully down at the shopping bag, feeling sorry for herself.

"What about a makeover?" Santana suggested.

Kurt's face lit up, and he made a praying gesture. "Yes, please?"

"I thought about that, but I can't afford any new clothes. Not until next semester."

Santana drew her feet up under her on the bed, trying to think of something else. "Well, have you considered just doing your hair differently? In all the years I've known you, I've only seen you style it in about five different ways, and all of them are boring."

"I'm just not any good at that kind of stuff," she protested. "I don't have any idea what I'm doing."

Kurt couldn't help pointing out, "I've offered to help you before."

"I know you have, Kurt, and I appreciate it, but... don't take this the wrong way. It's just that somehow you always manage to make me look like Snooki."

He glanced around, puzzled. "I don't see the problem here."

Ignoring him, Rachel gave a dramatic sigh. "Gosh, if only I knew somebody else who was skilled in this particular area, someone known for his or her sense of cutting-edge style and personal grooming." She waited, hopeful.

Kurt gave Santana a pointed look, which she returned with a tiny Hell, no shake of her head. They were becoming quite adept at having conversations entirely without words.

"I suppose it's just as well, though," Rachel went on in a martyred tone. "It probably wouldn't make any difference anyway. No matter what my hair looks like, at the end of the day, I'd still be plain Rachel Berry, just a Jewish girl from Ohio who nobody notices."

Santana couldn't restrain a sardonic glance heavenwards, but she managed to keep silent, trying to wait out the performance.

Sensing defeat, Rachel played her trump card. "Maybe I'd be able to do it myself, if only I hadn't grown up without the loving female guidance of a mother to -"

"Oh for God's sake!" Santana broke in. It always comes down to the mother thing. "Do you want me to give you hair-styling lessons? Is that what it's gonna take to get the violins to stop playing?"

Rachel brought her hand to her heart as if touched by the consideration. "Oh! I hadn't even thought about that idea, but would you?"

"I'm not doing it for free, though," she added. "Do you have any idea how much I'm busting my ass lately just to get through the day? I don't even have time to be in here right now."

"What is it with you and Brittany expecting to be paid for things?" Rachel sounded offended. "If I ask my dads for any more money they'll make me get a job."

"And if her parents make her get a job, then mine will too," Kurt said, looking worried. "These are our last years of dependency, we have to milk them while we can."

"Must be nice," Santana said, resentful. "Look, I'm not running a charity here, I have to get something out of it." She thought for a second, then hit upon an idea. "I know... you can do my laundry again. One load for every lesson."

Rachel crossed her arms, mulling over the indignity of this proposal, but not for very long. "Fine."

Pleased by the arrangement, Santana managed a haughty smile, as if the entire thing had been her idea from the beginning. "Then it's a deal."

Now Kurt brought his hands together in a gesture of finality. "Well, ladies, this has been a heartwarming session of emotional manipulation and cold, calculated bribery. I do so cherish our friendship." He gave them both affectionate looks. "But I'm afraid I must be going. Elijah and I have tickets to a foreign film in Soho. I'm not sure which country it's from, but I know it has subtitles, which means we get to feel cultured and intellectually superior while we're watching it."

They followed him out into the hallway.

"So what's the deal with this guy, anyway?" Santana asked. "You go out with him all the time, you're clearly screwing like bunnies, and yet you hardly ever bring him here."

"You know, that's true," Rachel said, like it had just occurred to her. "Why don't you ever invite him over?"

He looked at them as if doubting whether they could possibly be serious. "Because I like him, and I don't want to scare him away."

Before she could come up with a suitably snarky response to this, Santana's phone chirped to alert her to a new text. "Speaking of jobs and people who have them," she said, checking the message. "It's work. Damn it. They want me to come in right away, it says it's an emergency. Amelia must have called in sick or something."

Pulling on his jacket, Kurt sniffed. "What a shame."

"Yes, I certainly hope it's nothing serious," Rachel said in, for her, an oddly flat voice. "Like polio, or... I don't know, rabies."

"Yeah, I know, you guys aren't fans. But if you're waiting for me to jump in and defend her, you've got the wrong person." Santana glanced at the clock. "Give me five minutes to change, and I'll ride in with you," she told Kurt.

He gave her sweats and ponytail a skeptical once-over. "Better make it ten."

In actuality, it took more like twenty, because she felt she had a responsibility to the patrons of the club to look as hot as possible while performing. It was an obligation she didn't take lightly. In what she considered one of her finest moments of canny maneuvering, she'd even managed to get a special bonus added on to her paycheck at the end of every month for "wardrobe upkeep."

In the entryway she hastily buttoned up her jacket while Kurt made his I'm-too-refined-to-acknowledge-my-impatience face, or, as Brittany called it, his Pink Panther face. The thought of Brittany reminded her of the text from earlier. Shit. Once again, it would be late at night before they got a chance to see each other. She thought with longing of the weekend ahead, and the chance for an entire, uninterrupted day. But this was only Monday. There was the entire week still to get through.

"Tell Britt I'm sorry," she said to Rachel on her way out. Kurt held the door open, tapping his toe at her. "She's bringing home Italian food. Or... possibly prostitutes. Either way, I guess you can have mine."

She followed Kurt into the hallway, closing the door on Rachel's confused expression.

---

On the way into Manhattan, before they switched trains, Santana and Kurt played a rare, live subway edition of How Many Gays. This particular version of the game was their own little secret, kept just between the two of them. The secrecy was necessary, because Rachel wasn't capable of doing anything in public without drawing attention to herself, and because Brittany couldn't be trusted not to simply walk up to people and ask if they were gay. Which, in addition to being dangerous, was also cheating, in their opinions. The game had to have some standards, and if they weren't going to uphold them, who would? After spotting four definites and a possible maybe, which broke their previous record by one, they parted from each other in good moods.

On her own and finally inside the club, Santana took a few seconds, as always, to let her eyes adjust to the sudden dim lighting. Although by this point, if she had to, she could probably navigate the place in pitch darkness. It had become as familiar to her as a second home. She knew every inch of the stage, the location of every table, the paths the waiters took and how to avoid colliding with them when she occasionally wandered down into the crowd to work her magic. And she was pretty sure that even during an earthquake she would be able to find her way to the bar, where she often ended up after a long shift in order to take advantage of the free drinks she earned through unabashed flirtation with the bartender, Keith, a sweet but dense guy who couldn't seem to wrap his head around the notion that she was never, ever going to sleep with him.

She headed there now, since she had about ten minutes before she would be expected to go on. Keith saw her coming, and she smiled at him, but he gave a small wince, as if trying to warn her of something. She soon saw what it was.

Millie turned around from the bar, her signature mint julep cradled in her hand. "Howdy," she said, the word heavy with irony.

Santana stopped in her tracks, disconcerted. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, it is just so good to see you, too, shortcake."

"No, I just meant... I thought you were sick. I mean, I thought that's why they called me in." She hated the fact that she sounded flustered.

Sipping from her drink in a bored way, Millie checked her watch. "They called everyone in. Some kind of emergency meeting. I reckon someone's in trouble." She gave Santana a sly look. "You don't think they found out what we did in the walk-in freezer, do ya?"

Santana closed her eyes in brief mortification, because she'd somehow managed to forget all about that. "You know what, Amelia, how about we just skip the whole olden-days reminiscing thing, okay? It's not gonna do you any good, and it sure as hell isn't gonna do me any good."

With a tiny shrug, as if to say Whatever, Millie gazed out over the still-mostly empty tables, leaning against the bar. "So how's the roomies? Still so loud and obnoxious they'd make a deaf hound dog dunk its head in kerosene?"

Something in her bristled at the words, even though she herself had called them much worse than that. But it was different when someone else did it. "They're fine," she said tersely.

Millie continued in a conversational tone. "Saw Rachel the other day, waitin' for a cab outside some swanky little dive on 44th. She was all gussied up like she was fixin' to sell herself on the corner... had herself a boy on her arm looked like a damn used car salesman."

Skeptical, Santana considered this. "Yeah, I don't think that was her."

"If you say so. But I'm pretty sure I'd know that nose anywhere." She took another sip of her drink. "How are things with you and... oh, gosh, now what was her name? Buffy?"

Practically biting her tongue to keep from unleashing a stream of insults, Santana managed to say after a few seconds, "Brittany," adding in her head, And you damn well know it, you malicious cunt.

"That's it." She nodded. "You know, I realize I only met her just the one time? But talk about a sweetheart. Like she fell out of the adorable tree and hit every branch on the way down. I just love simple people, don't you? After a long day of thinking, you can chat with 'em and just... let your mind rest."

Santana took a slow, deep breath, trying not to rise to the bait. There was a smoldering anger coiling up from her middle, and she knew it was probably out of all proportion to what she was actually hearing. But she was well-versed in Millie's particular brand of subtle, sugar-coated bitchiness. There was no mistaking the real intent of her words.

"You don't know anything about Brittany," she said in a voice that managed to stay calm and yet still hint at a threat. "So I would strongly suggest that you keep her name out of your backwoods coal-miner's-daughter honky-tonk whistlin' mouth."

Millie could barely restrain her delight at Santana's reaction. It was almost as though she'd been nostalgic for something like this. "So I take it y'all are still together, then?"

"You take it right. In fact," she added, a new angle striking her. "If you want to get technical, I would say we were never really not together."

Managing to ignore the implications of this for herself, Millie said, "And how's that workin' out for you? Life's a bed of roses and all that shit?"

"As a matter of fact, it is." She looked away from the empty tables and turned to face her head on. "Everything is super and perfect and fanfuckingtastic. I would even go so far as to say I've never been this happy in my life."

She'd intended the words solely as a dig, but she realized as she spoke them how true they were. This truth must have been obvious to Millie as well, because finally, there was a flicker of hurt behind her facade of detached amusement. Santana was satisfied by the success of this direct hit, but at the same time, she felt a tiny pang of remorse. It wasn't like she hadn't been goaded into it, though.

Millie was quiet for a minute, examining her with the ghost of a bitter smile. Finally, she said in a softer voice, "Congratulations."

Before Santana could reply, the owner, Suresh, appeared around the corner of the bar, leading some of the wait staff behind him, all of them looking nervous.

"All right, everyone!" he called, clapping his hands for attention. "We may as well do this right here." He looked around at his assembled employees. "First of all, thank you for coming. So lovely to see all of your faces gathered before me, like my own children. Only not so much children, as people I pay the minimum wages to perform menial tasks." He beamed at them. They all gazed back blankly, clueless as to where this was going.

"So," he continued, "I will not keep you waiting in suspension. I have gathered you all here tonight because I have both good news, and bad news. The good news is that my mother is dying!"

Santana and Millie glanced at each other, mystified. Most of the other employees wore the same expression. But Suresh didn't seem to notice.

"This means, of course, that I am only a few days away from inheriting my family's substantial wealth and property in India. I know you will all celebrate with me in my good fortune." He waited a second, but when this celebration didn't prove to be forthcoming, he went on. "However. This unexpected windfall of fate means that I must leave this country and all of you immediately - the day after tomorrow, in fact, before my brothers swoop in like the insatiable vultures they are and claim my share of the inheritance. That is the bad news."

He paused, giving them a moment to digest the fact of his upcoming departure. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Oh, and also, you are all fired."

There were collective gasps and looks of dismay around the group. Keith, the bartender, leaned his elbows on the bar and cradled his head with a long drawn-out, "Fuuuuuck."

"Wait a minute, hold up," Santana said, trying to stay calm. "You can't just fire us without any warning! We haven't done anything wrong."

"It is true, I have no problem with any of you in terms of performance," he said reasonably. "You are all excellent workers. Except for you, Jessica. You were going to be fired anyway," he added to a new waitress in the back, who now glanced around her self-consciously. "But matters are outside of my hands. I can not afford to pay rent on this location while it isn't open. I can barely afford it while it is open. This is prime Midtown real estate! So," he took a deep, solemn breath. "I am afraid that tomorrow will be our last day of business. I realize this is all very sudden. But!" Now Suresh pulled a sheaf of what looked like pamphlets or plane tickets out of his inner jacket pocket. "To make it up to you, my cousin Dev has been kind enough to procure for all of you season passes to the Splish Splash Water Park on Long Island." He began passing out the tickets to them. "You will be thrilled to know that it has ninety percent fewer lightning-related deaths than other water parks of the same size!"

Santana took the season pass he held out to her, but barely glanced at it. "Okay, I'm sorry, but this is bullshit," she told him. "We deserve more than one day's notice if we're losing our jobs. I'm pretty sure it's not even legal for you to do this." Actually she wasn't sure of that at all, but it sounded good.

"Santana," he chided her in a sing-song voice, like she was a recalcitrant child. "Have you ever been on the Dinosaur Falls slide, or experienced the rush of Dr. Von Dark's Tunnel of Terror? I think you will change your tune when you have." He gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder.

She continued to stare at him like he was out of his mind.

"All right," he finally said, throwing up his hands as though he gave in. "I will continue to pay all of your wages until the end of the month, how does that sound?"

There was relief from the assembled employees, but not much. April was almost halfway over already.

The tables were beginning to fill now, and customers looked around, impatient, wondering why they weren't being waited on. "Time to get to work," Suresh said now, bringing this bewildering meeting to a sudden close. "I want you all to know that I appreciate your time here, and if any of you ever come to Bengal, I would be glad to offer you a high-paying job that may or may not involve performing sexual favors for German tourists. The details are still being worked out." With a benevolent smile, he moved off to greet his patrons.

The employees, though still stunned, began to drift off to their respective tasks. Millie took out a compact mirror to check her makeup, preparing to head toward the stage. "Well, I guess this is it for me," she drawled in a resigned way. "Tomorrow's your night." She shook her head, saying under her breath. "That son of a bitch. I always knew this job was too dang good to be true."

Santana feigned more indifference than she actually felt. "Yeah, well... it's his club, he can do what he wants with it. I'm not worried."

Millie looked at her, surprised. "You're not." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Nope. In fact, I bet I find something even better before the week is over. I've been meaning to spread my wings, anyway. I mean, this place is fine for beginners, but let's face it... in terms of star quality, I outgrew it a long time ago."

With a smile that was slightly pitying, Millie told her, "You just don't get it, do you, sugar? You know how long I looked for a job like this, where I can sing what I want and actually get paid for it? More than two years. And not only do I write my own music, but I play the piano and the guitar. You don't do any of that. Face it, you're just a glorified karaoke singer." She shrugged, as if the next words should be obvious. "You got lucky once. But I'm willin' to bet it ain't gonna happen twice."

Refusing to acknowledge the potential truth of this, Santana only smirked. "Luck had nothing to do with it. I talked my way into this job by sheer force of charisma, and I can talk my way into another one. Don't underestimate my badass powers of persuasion."

"Oh, believe me, I don't." She looked as if there was more she would have liked to add to this, but she controlled the impulse. "But you just don't know what it's like out there. You're screwed."

Santana refused to relinquish her attitude of disdainful superiority. "We'll see about that."

Amused, Millie agreed. "I guess we will." She noticed Suresh over on the other side of the room, gesturing at his watch in a dramatic way. "Well... bottom's up." She raised her glass at Santana, even though she didn't have a drink, and drained the last of her cocktail. Without another word, she headed up to the stage.

Santana turned to go, since there wasn't much reason to linger. Now she'd have to spend another half hour on the train, going straight back to where she'd just come from, only without Kurt for entertainment. She vaguely wondered if she should stop and get herself something to eat, since she'd already signed over her food to Rachel. Or maybe she should text her and tell her she couldn't have it after all? Was that too selfish, even for her?

With these minor dilemmas occupying her mind, she made it to the door, but then paused as Amelia began her first number. Oh, come on, you've got to be kidding me, she thought. The song was Patsy Cline's She's Got You.

Knowing she should continue on out the door, she hung back for just a minute, watching. As irritating as Millie could be with her honeyed drops of poison, there was no denying she was an amazing performer. She could take country music, even the oldest and corniest songs in existence, and somehow make it relevant and palatable, intoxicating even, to the most jaded, sophisticated New Yorkers. It was something of a miracle, and no matter how many times she'd seen it, Santana still couldn't quite figure out how she pulled it off. Maybe it was Millie herself, more than the music, and the tinge of earnest, desperate sadness she brought to everything she sang. Anyone who only knew her casually would assume that it was an act, put on to get the audience's sympathy. But it wasn't. Whatever made her sing like that, it was much deeper and more complicated than the surface cruelty. Maybe, aside from her longing for Brittany, that had been the problem between them all along, Santana reflected. The last thing she needed in a relationship was someone so similar to herself.

But there was no point in thinking about this now. Either the song had nothing to do with her and had simply been first on the set list, or Amelia was deliberately trying to fuck with her head. In either case, there was no point in sticking around to hear the rest of it. Pulling her gaze away, she pushed past the customers just coming into the club and headed out the door, toward home and Brittany.

---

Through the dim haze of half-sleep, Santana became aware of movement in the bed next to her, of the quilt being pushed back and a draft of air working its way in, of the slight dip in the mattress as Brittany shifted her weight and prepared to swing her legs onto the floor. Acting as quickly as she could, considering she wasn't quite awake yet, Santana hooked an arm around her waist and dragged her backwards. Brittany gave in with a smile, allowing herself to be pulled down into the bed again.

"Hey," Brittany whispered once her head was back on the pillow. "I didn't want to wake you up."

"Well, you did anyway. So now you're stuck here." Santana moved her head closer for a light kiss, then stretched and burrowed against her.

"Okay, but only for a few minutes, because the first dog on my rounds today is a collie with bowel control problems. If she can't hold it until I get there, I have to clean it up."

Santana made a face, thinking briefly of how grateful she was for her own job, but then she remembered. Oh yeah. With a sigh, she pulled back and said, "I guess I should probably get up too. I've got a few hours before class, so I might as well kick off the job hunt. I've got to start pounding the pavement sometime."

"You mean like with a sledgehammer? I don't think they would hire you, you're too tiny."

She opened her mouth to explain that pounding the pavement was just an expression, but then she saw the glint of humor in Brittany's eyes. Sometimes it was so easy to underestimate her. She smiled a little and kissed her again.

For a while they lay without speaking. While their schedules remained so busy, these early morning times, like the late night ones, had to be savored. And deep down, if she had to choose, these were Santana's favorites. There was something about the intimacy of lying beside her in those lazy moments just after waking up, of letting Brittany see her in the first vulnerable seconds of consciousness, of beginning her entire day with the sight of those blue eyes gazing back from the other pillow, the warm, familiar scent of her in the sheets, the way she could reach across and brush Brittany's hair out of her eyes before she even bothered with her own. Of course, it wasn't like they hadn't had plenty of practice. Since middle school, they'd spent almost every weekend and a good portion of each summer sleeping next to each other; in their own bedrooms, at camp, in motels, in sleeping bags on Quinn's floor. But somehow, it wasn't the same. No matter how much they pretended otherwise, those were sleepovers, and they existed in the realm of the temporary. But this? This was real. This was what it felt like to live with someone, to share everything, to wake up in a bed that belonged to both of you and to know that after the long day was over, you were both going to return to it.

And the amazing part, in Santana's opinion, was that they had fallen into the whole thing with such ease that the transition had hardly been noticeable. It was like they'd been waiting for this chance all their lives, like all that time spent sleeping in separate beds, in separate homes... that was the awkward, unnatural arrangement, and now they could finally restore things to the way they were meant to be. Did other couples really stress out over sharing space, over how soon to stay all night, over the right time to move in together? She pitied them.

"So tonight's really your last night?" Brittany asked after a minute, sounding a little sad. "I can't believe it."

"Yeah, it looks that way. This whole thing just sucks so much. You know, I hope his mother doesn't die. It would serve him right." She made an effort to keep the bitterness out of her voice, since it felt like a bad way to start the day. "You're gonna be there, aren't you?"

"If you want me to be."

"Of course I do. I want to do a song with you, for my last number. I already know which one."

"Then... I can't wait." Brittany looked pleased, as though she'd already been convinced that she wouldn't be the one chosen for this particular duet. "And you know what else? I bet you'll find a new job today. Actually, I'm surprised that people aren't already lined up at the door, as soon as they heard you were available. Maybe they're all having some kind of secret meeting and it's like an NFL draft, only they're fighting over you."

Santana smiled, amused and yet flattered by the image. "I kinda doubt that, but... thank you." To show her appreciation, she raised her head and pressed her lips gently to the hollow of Brittany's throat. Then, because she was so close anyway, she let her mouth drift downwards, where the tops of Brittany's breasts swelled out of the tight tank top she wore to sleep in. Her skin was still warm from sleep, and the pre-shower scent of it was quite possibly the most intoxicating thing in the world.

"Hey, before I forget again, can I talk to you about something?" Brittany suddenly asked, contemplative.

"Anything." But her words were muffled, because she didn't raise her head or stop what she was doing.

"Santana."

"What? I can listen while I do this."

"Yeah, but... I can't talk while you do that. Or if I do, it won't be words appropriate for daylight hours."

Regretfully, she pulled herself away and leaned back onto her own pillow again. "Okay, okay. I'm all ears."

Brittany pulled the comforter up to her armpits, as if to prevent Santana's eyes from wandering. "So... I was talking to Mr. Bloom yesterday after I helped him carry his groceries up the stairs? And it turns out he's gonna be driving to Illinois soon to visit his daughter. He'll be gone till, like, the end of summer."

"Wow," Santana said, having no idea at all where this was going. Mr. Bloom didn't have any pets he wanted them to look after, did he? Because that was the last thing they needed to take on right now.

"And on his way there, he'll be driving right through Lima. Or not through it, exactly, but... really close to it."

"Okay," she said slowly, with a slight feeling of unease.

"Well, anyway... he said that if we wanted to ride along with him and make sure he stays sober, he'd take us for free. So I was thinking that maybe we could go home for a visit? My parents have been bugging me lately. It's been three whole months, and they never really expected me to stay this long. I didn't even bring all my stuff."

"Oh." Santana's mind raced, but she managed to keep an outward appearance of calm. "I mean, yeah, it's really awesome of him to offer and everything. But it's just... I've got classes for another six weeks, Britt. I can't really go anywhere until June."

"Yeah, I know." She looked disappointed, but not surprised. After a brief pause, she went on in a careful tone, "Maybe I should just go on my own. It would only be for like a week or two... I could take the bus or the train back. I hate to pass up a free ride."

Santana sat up in the bed now, with the pretext that it was getting late and they needed to get a move on, but really because she needed a bit of distance and she didn't want Brittany to notice how worried she suddenly felt. Had she really been thinking, just moments ago, that they were above the kind of petty issues other couples dealt with? Oh, the irony.

"I guess you could do that," she said in what she hoped was a reasonable voice. "But um, if you waited, we could go together. After I land myself a kickass new job, maybe I can even splurge on round-trip plane tickets. We could join the Mile High club," she added temptingly. "Just think how much better that would be than riding with a guy who takes up half the car and smells like a discount winery."

"That's true," Brittany acknowledged, amused. But she couldn't help adding, "It's just, my sister's Girl Scout troop has their spring overnight coming up, and she really wants me to come. I've never missed one before."

Santana stared at the pattern on the bedspread, unable to come up with any kind of argument against this that didn't make her sound like the most selfish bitch on the planet.

"And also," Brittany went on, reluctant now. "My mom took Lord Tubbington to the vet for his checkup last week, and they said that... that he may not live that much longer. Apparently the Atkins diet was not the way to go."

"Sweetie." Santana gave her a sympathetic look, running her hand down her arm. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I'm trying not to think about it. I just really want to get him and bring him back here. He must think I abandoned him. I mean, I love Monty and everything, but... it's like how that old saying goes, Once you go cat you never go back."

Pressing her lips together and wrinkling her brow a little, Santana said with delicacy, "Actually, Britt, I don't think that's how that saying goes. But I know what you mean." After a few seconds of quiet, she said, "You really want to go, don't you?"

Brittany shrugged, but couldn't deny it. "Sort of."

Santana took a deep breath, trying to steady herself against the sudden paranoia that was threatening to overwhelm her. She should have known this homesickness thing wouldn't just go away, that it would rise up to freak her out yet again, even when she thought it had been laid to rest. Everything had felt so perfect lately, so settled. Maybe too settled. Was this some kind of lesson from the universe against getting too comfortable?

Stop being ridiculous, she lectured herself. This is not a big deal. Even if she goes, she'll come back.

Brittany still seemed to be waiting for her blessing, and Santana opened her mouth to give it, but her courage failed her. The fear of losing her was just too strong. Instead, she pretended to check the clock. "Damn it, it's really getting late. You should probably get ready."

The distraction seemed to work. Brittany glanced at the clock, and realizing it was true, she got out of bed and started her preparations to go, sitting at the vanity mirror to pull her hair back, still in her underwear. Santana watched her, already regretting what she was about to say, but saying it anyway. "Can you just promise me you won't decide anything until we have the chance to talk about it some more?"

Brittany turned back toward her, a glimmer of understanding in her features, as if maybe, after all, she did have some idea of why this whole thing scared Santana so much. "I promise."

She breathed an inward sigh of relief, watching as Brittany stood and propped her shoulder bag open on the desk chair, filling it with some of the things she always carried with her during the day, including her camera. The sight of it prompted Santana to ask in what she hoped was a casual way, "What about the filming and everything? If you leave now, wouldn't it put a kink in Rachel's deranged plans to take the cinematic world by storm?"

"Oh, that." Her voice was strangely flat. "I don't think that's much of an issue... I'm pretty sure she fired me."

Santana stared at her in disbelief. "She did what?"

"Yeah, she says we don't see eye to eye or something... only she used much bigger words. We were supposed to be on a hiatus, but then last night while she was eating the pasta I bought for you, she said that she's thinking about going in another direction."

"Oh, she is, is she?" Letting these words sink in, Santana was reminded of Millie's similar condescension toward Brittany from last night. She hadn't been able to do anything about that, but this was different. And suddenly the combined frustration of that encounter, of losing her job, of the fear that Brittany would go back to Lima without her... all of it coalesced into one unified, smoldering core of fury. Now, finally, she had a target for it. "We'll just see about that." Without another word, Santana threw the covers off and began looking around for some clothes.

As she slid her laptop into the shoulder bag, Brittany turned, worried. "It's not really a big deal. Technically, she's right, I don't have any experience as a filmmaker."

There was no response to this, but Santana's expression foretold danger. She yanked last night's dress back over her head with a vengeance, since it was the closest thing to hand.

"Santana. " Brittany watched her, increasingly alarmed by what she'd set in motion. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." She gave an exaggerated innocent shrug, her hand already on the doorknob. "I'm just gonna have a little chat with her, that's all."

"Santana." But she was already out the door, and Brittany hurriedly pulled her shirt on, not bothering with pants. "Shit," she muttered as she followed her out, a word she only used when she really, really meant it.

She caught up with her just as she entered the kitchen. Kurt was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper, and one look at Santana's face caused him to pull his cereal bowl in toward his body, as if to protect it from her wrath.

Rachel stood near the window to the balcony, talking on the phone. "No, Dad, I mean it. The performance is this weekend, but there's no need for you guys to come up. My lovely roommates will all be there to support me. And like I told you, I'm just an understudy. Although if you wanted to send some kind of giant bouquet to show your love, preferably with a check inside, I wouldn't say no to -"

Her words were cut off as Santana jerked the phone from her hand. She raised it to her own ear, saying with ironic pleasantry, "Hi, Mr. Berrys? She'll have to call you back. It's tantric yoga time." She hung up with an exaggerated flourish and put the phone in her cleavage for safekeeping.

"Santana!" Rachel stared at her in shock. "What are you doing? I was about to get money!"

"Did you tell Brittany she wasn't a good director?" she demanded.

She looked guilty, as though she'd been caught at something. "No, I most certainly did not." She paused, trying to think of the safest way to phrase it. "I may have questioned the wisdom of the two of us continuing our artistic partnership for reasons of -"

"Oh my God, stop talking!" Santana held up her hand, already bored. "You know, the funny thing is, Brittany didn't even want to be a part of your stupid project to begin with. She got roped into it so that we could get the bigger bedroom, which should have been ours anyway. But, because she's a woman of her word, she stuck to the agreement to help you with your demented vanity project, in the process working her ass off for you! And this is the thanks she gets?"

Brittany was quiet during this exchange, clearly torn between wanting to stop the violence but also enjoying the hell out of it.

Rachel attempted to defend herself. "I understand why you would feel that way, but I have an obligation to my financial backers..."

"What financial backers?" Santana interrupted her. "Your parents? Because, newsflash, Princess Toadstool! Other than Brittany, no one gives a shit about your busted-ass ego trip of a movie, except you and your dads!"

Trying to find a way around this obvious truth, Rachel said in a quiet voice, "That's not true, both Quinn and Kurt have also requested advance tickets."

"Leave me out of this," he said warningly, keeping his eyes glued to the paper.

"You are unbelievable, you know that?" Santana continued. "Where the hell do you get the nerve firing somebody who was working for your ass for free? Are you actually cracked enough to think you're gonna find somebody else willing to put up with your pathetic delusions of grandeur?"

At this, Rachel couldn't resist a haughty reply. "As a matter of fact, I already have some candidates lined up."

"Oh, really." Santana crossed her arms, skeptical. "Is one of them that guy from the R train who pretends his belt buckle is a camera?"

"No," Rachel said with insulted emphasis, in a way that indicated Shows how much you know. But then in the interest of full disclosure, she added, "I did accept his application, but under the references section he listed his penis, so I don't think it would have worked out."

Santana scoffed. "Yeah, well, good luck finding somebody more qualified." Lying through her teeth, she added with finality, "But I guess this is all for the best, since Britts and I have been talking about it, and it occurs to us that maybe we should just make our own movie about the life of Rachel Berry. And then when they're both finished we can have a double screening and let the audience decide which one is better." Obviously, she had no intention of following through on this absurd threat, but it was worth it just to see the expression on Rachel's face, which was a mixture of alarmed and flattered.

After a few seconds of intrigued deliberation, she asked, "Who would play me?"

Santana looked at Brittany to see if she had any input.

As if they had indeed already been planning this project, Brittany replied without hesitation, "Rhonda." Santana nodded her approval of this idea.

Now the flattery tipped all the way toward alarm. "All right, this is getting out of hand," Rachel protested. "You know, this film project is causing me enough drama already without having to worry about my personal production decisions coming under fire from outside parties. I've already gone way over budget, thanks to Brittany's insistence on using a real placenta for the birth scene, which I had to buy on the black market. And did you know I was asked not to return to the Sunset Park playground?" she said, offended. "Apparently my method of scoping out little girls to find the perfect one to play the five-year-old me was making some of the parents uncomfortable."

"I told you not to bring the binoculars," Kurt muttered.

"Well, how I was I supposed to know people would be so unreasonable? It's not as if I look threatening. Honestly, what kind of child molester would wear knee socks?" Shaking her head and forcing herself back on track, she added, "Anyway. I would really appreciate it if the two of you would stop being so juvenile, and maybe recognize how stressful all of this has been for me."

Santana stared at her in bafflement for a few seconds, and appeared to be on the verge of lunging, but Brittany grabbed her arm and held her back.

Turning to her, Santana ranted in a helpless voice that verged on hysteria, "Que diablos le pasa! Debería ser ilegal ser tan irritante y egocéntrico! ¿Por qué no hay leyes en contra de eso?"

"I know," Brittany said soothingly, rubbing her back. "I know. I mean, I don't actually know, because I have no idea what you just said. But if I did, I bet I would agree with you."

While Brittany still held onto her other arm just in case, Santana pointed at Rachel with malevolence, like a witch placing a curse, switching back to English to say, "You are dead to me, Berry! Dead!"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "I see someone woke up on the melodramatic side of the bed this morning. Okay fine, I'm dead to you. But you know what, Brittany?" she added, turning to her. "I thought you would appreciate the fact that I respected you enough to tell you the truth. And if I hurt your feelings, I'm truly sorry. That was never my intention." To her credit, these words did seem sincere.

Brittany gave a tiny shrug, a little embarrassed by all the fuss. "It's fine. I get it." Then, inspired with a new surge of confidence from Santana's support, she couldn't help adding, "But I hope you know, your movie's gonna suck without me."

Kurt stood from the table, clearing his throat to get their attention. "As entertaining as this has been... and believe me, I wish we could start every morning this way, it's like breakfast theater," he added as an aside. "Rachel, we really need to go."

She nodded at him, then turned to Brittany. "Look, maybe I was too hasty. We can talk more about this after the revue this weekend, okay?"

"Yeah."

They started to head out, and Santana bit the inside of her lip, with a look on her face that indicated she needed to say something but was trying her hardest to resist it. You could practically see the two sides of her nature at war with each other. Finally, the caring side won out, just as they left the room.

"Wait."

They turned to look at her.

"Don't forget your phone."

She grudgingly pulled it from her boobs, and Rachel came back to take it. There was no need for her to say the words out loud, since the exultant lift of her eyebrows so clearly said, But I thought I was dead to you?

Santana continued to glare at her until she was out of the room.

When they heard the front door of the apartment close, Brittany turned to her, seeming almost shy, but pleased. "You didn't have to do that, you know. Even though it was totally hot."

Taking her hands, Santana pulled her closer. "Actually, I did. You know I can't control myself when the rage takes over. It just pisses me off so much when people can't see how brilliant you are. It makes me want to kill somebody."

Brittany was quiet for a minute, staring down at their linked hands in front of her. "Santana." She looked like someone delivering unwelcome news. "Other people don't see me the way you do."

The words made her heart give a funny little pang, because even though she knew they were true, she didn't want Brittany to have to know they were true. "Well, then... it's my job to make them. And if that job requires verbal assault or a little asskicking on occasion, then so be it."

Brittany smiled, finally looking up to meet her eyes, touched by the fierceness of Santana's protective instincts, in spite of her own pacifist nature. "Okay."

"Did you really think it was hot?" Santana asked flirtatiously, pulling her even closer.

"I like watching you yell at people," Brittany admitted in a soft voice, letting her hands settle on Santana's hips. "Especially Rachel. And you know I love it when you talk Spanish."

Santana pressed her body against her, standing up on her toes. "El Español es el idioma del amor," she breathed hotly, nipping at her earlobe.

Brittany shivered a little, grinning. "It's so sexy even when it's gibberish." She pushed Santana backward just a bit, until her thighs met with the resistance of the table behind her.

Continuing to trail her lips in a delicate, maddening pattern from her ear down the side of her neck, Santana whispered, "Britt, you really need to leave for work."

She considered this, and seemed to attempt to move away, but nothing happened. Instead she closed her eyes to better appreciate the sensation of Santana's mouth on her skin. "I can stay a few more minutes."

A few minutes? Confident she could do better than that, Santana ran her hands in a meandering arc down the dip of Brittany's waist, envious as always at the perfect curve, even though Brittany had told her a thousand times that her ass more than made up for her lack of curves elsewhere. Now bringing one hand around to the front, she slipped it into the tight space between their bodies and then back up, cupping with gentle but firm pressure between Brittany's legs, her underwear the only resistance. "What about the collie?" she murmured in a dreamy, distracted voice.

Brittany took a long time to answer, already starting to move against her in a subtle, almost unconscious way. When the pressure increased, she gasped a little. "What collie?"

A slow smirk appeared on Santana's face, the mark of triumph. She gripped the table behind her and hopped up onto it. In almost the same fluid motion, she pulled Brittany down on top of her.

Some days, being late was worth it.

---

10:15 PM.

Where the hell were they? Santana checked the front entrance again, but the only people coming in to the club at the moment were a hipster-looking gay couple in their forties. She scanned the room, wondering if she'd somehow missed them.

Suddenly, a voice came from just behind her shoulder, causing her to jump a little. "Aww, all alone on your very last night? Ain't that a shame."

She turned to see Millie, again. Suppressing a sigh of frustration, she said, "Am I gonna have to get a restraining order on you?"

Millie gave her a dry smile. "Don't flatter yourself, pumpkin. I just came to pick up my last check. I'm not staying."

The front door swung open again and Santana turned, hopeful. But it was just more strangers.

"Weren't you supposed to go on, like, fifteen minutes ago?" Millie asked. "You're wastin' your last chance to impress. Who knows, maybe there's some big name record producer in the crowd, and he'll take a shine to ya and get you to sign on the dotted line before the night is over. Isn't that how it always works in the pictures?"

"The pictures?" Santana turned to her in disbelief. "What century did you grow up in? Do they even have talkies yet in Kentucky?"

"Tennessee," Millie corrected her, as if it wasn't the first time. "And yes ma'am, we just got those, couple years back. You shoulda seen the ruckus, the whole town turned out. Billy Joe Pritchard was so excited he forgot his pants."

Santana studied her for a few seconds, and found herself actually suppressing the urge to smile. "You haven't changed a bit."

Now the hint of bitterness returned. "Unfortunately, that's not true. Look, do you want me to go on for you? Because if someone doesn't get up there an start enterainin' these folks, then..."

"Then what, we're fired?" Santana interrupted.

Before she could respond, there was commotion at the door again, someone coming in. Santana tried to resist the urge to look, knowing that it gave Millie too much satisfaction, but she couldn't hold out. To her immense relief, she saw that this time, it was Brittany. Santana waved a little, getting her attention, and Brittany crossed the space to her.

"Hi," she said in a warm voice, watching her approach.

"Hey." She leaned in for a quick hello peck, but Santana gripped the front of her jacket and pulled her forward into a more aggressive kiss, making a bit of a display out of it. Even before she pulled away from Brittany, she could sense Millie's discomfort. Okay, so it was petty as hell, but she couldn't help the fact that it gave her a little thrill to flaunt her relationship. It was a million times more fun than being ashamed of it.

Brittany took a few seconds to catch her breath from her unusually enthusiastic welcome. "I'm so sorry I'm late." She went on, explaining in a low, confidential tone, "I missed my stop because this old Korean lady was telling me all about these rats that live on Staten Island, and according to her they can shoot lasers out of their eyes, because they were involved in some kind of nuclear accident a few years ago. Yeah, and apparently this guy named Giuliani was responsible? I don't know who that is, but he could be related to the family who owns that pasta place we like near Bryant Park. If so, I think we should stop going there, because I'm opposed to all forms of nuclear testing. Even though I have to admit, it would be pretty amazing to have an army of rats that can blow things up. We could use them against the terrorists. And the aliens." She trailed off a little, envisioning this grand spectacle, then got herself back on track. "Anyway, I think there's about a seventy percent chance that she was either lying or crazy, but it was still really interesting. And I didn't want to be rude."

"It's fine," Santana said quickly. For the love of God, Brittany, please stop talking. "Hey, Britt, you remember Amelia, right?"

"Millie," Millie corrected, in a repeat of last time.

"Oh, yeah, hey!" Brittany said, only noticing her now for the first time. "Are you singing tonight too?"

She smiled at her. "No, hon, I was just on my way out." Santana couldn't help hearing the hon as patronizing, even though Millie called everyone some variation of this.

"Oh. Well, you could stay and hang out with me, if you wanted to," Brittany offered.

"Really?"

"Yeah, cuz... I usually have to sit by myself while Santana sings. You could keep me company."

"Britt, she really has to go," Santana interrupted, desperate.

Seeing how much she wanted to get rid of her, Millie said, "Oh, I suppose I could hang around for a while. It'd be fun."

"What about Kurt and Rachel, where are they?" Santana pressed.

Brittany seemed evasive. "Um...they had another meeting, or rehearsal or something, for that musical thing this weekend. And besides, didn't you tell Rachel that she was dead to you?"

It seemed to take her a second to remember. "Well, yeah, but... that was this morning. In our time scale, that's like three months ago." She tried not to sound disappointed. "You told them it was my last night, right?"

"Yeah," Brittany said slowly, but without making direct eye contact. "I mean, I think I did. Things were kind of chaotic... Kurt lost one of his leather shoes and he accused Rachel of hiding it to make some kind of vegan statement, and she swore she didn't but said that even if she did it would serve him right for wearing mutilated cow carcass on his feet... They were pretty much fighting like a married couple when they left. They might not have heard me."

"Oh. Okay." She shrugged a little, casual. But then she couldn't seem to help adding, "It's just that it's weird for Rachel to pass up the opportunity for a sappy duet. She loves last performances, of anything. One time we were in the park and she started crying because some juggler said he was going into retirement after his final act of the day."

"I was there, I can attest to that," Millie spoke up, sardonic.

But Brittany didn't seem to hear her. She was still watching Santana, and unusually for her, she seemed to be trying to keep her patience. Her voice tight, she asked, "Do you want me to call her?"

Santana seemed to consider saying yes, but then changed her mind. "No. No, it's fine. You're here, that's all that matters."

Though she smiled in response, Brittany's face still betrayed the slightest trace of tension.

Millie watched this entire exchange carefully. There was a shrewd, somewhat calculating expression on her face.

All of a sudden Suresh materialized just behind them. "Excuse me, ladies," he said with exaggerated politeness. "But perhaps you could help me with a problem I seem to be having with my watch. You see, it says that it is now twenty minutes past ten o'clock, but I am thinking that cannot be possible, because I employ a singer and a band that is supposed to be performing for paying customers at that precise time."

"All right, all right, I'm going," Santana said, rolling her eyes. "Don't strain your acting muscles." But in a way, she would sort of miss his sarcasm. What if she got stuck with a boring boss next time?

Before she moved off to sit down, Brittany gave her hand a squeeze. Santana smiled and whispered to her that she'd bring her up for the last song. Hopefully Millie would be gone by then. Gritting her teeth, she watched them move toward a table off to the side together. Millie glanced back at her once, smug.

On stage, Santana pretended she needed a few minutes to fine tune her set list, even though she'd already got it nailed down on the subway ride home the night before. The full band was here, but they didn't mind waiting. They were already on the clock, so it didn't much matter to them when they started. Even though they liked her just fine, Santana wasn't quite self-obsessed enough to believe that playing backup for a nineteen-year-old at a third rate nightclub was what they'd really dreamed of doing in their careers as musicians. She was simply what they'd ended up with when everything else had failed. And even though she'd never told them herself, she knew they had to be well aware of the fact that they made much less money than she did at this gig. But she was, after all, the star attraction.

While she made fake notes on the sheet music that she wasn't even positive she knew how to read, she kept a covert eye on the table at the back where Brittany and Millie sat. From what she could tell, they were chatting amiably enough. But of course, it would look that way from a distance, wouldn't it? That was the role that Millie played, and she played it to perfection. The secret conviction that she was mocking Brittany, no matter how much she smiled or how intently she seemed to listen to her... it gnawed a hole in Santana's heart. She wanted to warn Brittany, to let her know what Millie was really like, but at the same time, she hoped she never found out.

And now she had to stand up here and sing, all the while knowing exactly what was going on at that table, but unable to do anything about it. She had to pretend that it was just another night, she had to convince everyone that she didn't have the overpowering urge to stride across the room and knock Millie's teeth out of her head with the microphone, in much the same way she'd "accidentally" dropped a girl from the pyramid in Cheerios sophomore year when the bitch had circulated a false rumor that Brittany didn't know how to use tampons.

But she was just going to have to try to ignore them. She had to focus on what she was here to do. Taking a deep breath, she signaled to the band that she was ready to begin. Just like on the first night, she'd decided to start with some Amy Winehouse, You Know I'm No Good, which always helped her get her mojo back. Thank God, it worked. By the end of the first song she felt more like herself, and even though the lighting made it difficult to see that side of the room, she thought it looked like Millie and Brittany had stopped talking in order to watch her sing. That was good. The less they talked to each other, the better.

After Amy, she ran through some more of her favorites, the ones she always came back to, the ones that the crowd never seemed to tire of hearing. Adele, obviously. A few other current artists, like Alicia Keys. But mostly the older stuff. Billie Holiday. Etta James. Dusty Springfield. She tried to ignore the nagging reminder of Millie's words from the night before - glorified karaoke singer. But it was basically true, wasn't it? Maybe she should have made more of an effort to make the songs her own, to mix up the arrangements, be more original. But she had no real musical training, so she hardly knew where to begin. She'd always been loath to ask for Rachel's help due to her extreme overenthusiasm and her tendency to take over everything. And now it was too late, for this place anyway.

She tried to force herself to stop thinking about the regrets, and instead just enjoy her time up here. And now, for the first time, she let herself truly absorb the notion that this was her very last performance on this stage. It had happened so suddenly, and she'd been so busy today that she hadn't really given herself time to think about it. But now, looking out at the assembled crowd, at the almost-full tables and even toward the bar on the periphery where the loner drinkers sat with their stools swiveled towards her, it was really beginning to sink in. This was it. After this set list was done, she would never stand up here again. She would never see these people again. And though there were always a good number of total strangers - tourists or travelers or people dropping in just once, never to be seen again - there were also the regulars, the ones who showed up over and over, night after night. She liked to think that she had something to do with it, though for all she knew they could have been coming here long before she even arrived in New York.

She realized now with a strange feeling, midway through a jazzy Nina Simone number, that she didn't even know any of their names. She'd chatted with a few of them, but nothing much beyond banter, the kind that was expected of her. Once she left here tonight, she would probably never see any of them again. They would be swallowed up by the vast city, or from their perspective, she would be swallowed up by it. But, after all, it was probably delusional to think of it that way. That was the kind of self-dramatizing image Rachel would conjure up. Santana liked to think she had a slightly better grip on reality than that. Because in all likelihood, by the end of the week, these people wouldn't even remember what she looked like. Or what she sounded like. As attentively as they seemed to listen most nights, she knew they probably wouldn't experience more than a few minutes' irritation when they showed up tomorrow or the next night only to find the door locked and a closed for business sign hanging on it. They'd move on, they'd find somewhere else to have their cocktails and their nightcaps. Maybe the new place would have live entertainment, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe they didn't care much either way.

Despite her best efforts, she couldn't keep the tinge of melancholy out of her thoughts. She thought it probably bled through into the performances, but most of these songs were sad anyway, so it didn't matter. She sang through her break, trying to make the most of the time left, continuing on acapella while the band members retreated to have their cigarettes. Then they were back, and the songs in the second half of the set were gone through one by one, until before she knew it, there was just one solo left. She stood there for a second, looking out at the room, wanting to say something. But Suresh had been firm on the fact that he didn't want any hints about the imminent closing of the business. He wanted the last night to be just another night, probably because he didn't want to deal with the disappointment of the regulars. So she couldn't even tell them thank you, or explain what this job had meant to her, without giving it away.

Instead, she smiled at Brittany, who was gazing at her as if she understood what she wanted to say and why she couldn't say it, and then launched into the final song. It was Nancy Sinatra's These Boots Are Made for Walkin', chosen because she wanted her last solo to be somewhat upbeat, and because she did a damn sexy version of the song. It generally included flirting with both the audience and the guitarist, and this time was no exception. She made the most of it, and then before she knew it, it was over.

Finally, she gestured to Brittany, who stood and came to join her. To the room at large, she said, "I hope you don't mind, but I'm gonna bring my girlfriend up for the last song tonight." Nobody seemed to mind, but it wasn't like it mattered. She would have done it anyway.

She pulled the extra stool out from behind the drums, where she'd stashed it earlier. Brittany came up onto the stage and sat down, looking completely relaxed and at ease. Santana wondered if Millie had bought her a drink, or if it was just her natural lack of self-consciousness that ensured she wasn't bothered by stage fright.

Without bothering with any additional words of introduction, she sat down next to Brittany and waited for the music to start. The song she'd chosen was Falling Slowly, from Once, even though she knew it was overperformed and that there was a good chance the crowd would find it cheesy as hell. But just for tonight, she wasn't concerned about it. She'd wanted something that was a true duet, and it was a song Brittany loved. And even though they'd had to adjust it slightly so that it was within their range, she knew they sounded good on it. Maybe even good enough to make people cry.

Obviously enough to make her cry, she found, when they were barely into the first chorus. It wasn't just the lyrics, or the music, although that contributed. More than anything, it was the way Brittany looked at her when they sang together, the way their eyes locked, the way they seemed to exist, temporarily, in some kind of separate dimension from the rest of the world. It was the kind of thing you would never believe was possible until you'd experienced it for yourself. And though there was a tiny part of her that was still wary about displaying this kind of vulnerability in front of other people, of letting them see what Brittany did to her heart, the experience of connecting with her like this made up for the risk. It was like a drug that was worth any price. Maybe that wasn't the best analogy, but that was pretty much what it felt like. It was intoxicating.

When the last guitar chords faded away, she got off her stool first and moved over to her. Brittany stood and wrapped her arms around her. Against her ear, Santana whispered "Thank you," hoping she heard it over the sound of the cheers and applause, which was considerably louder than usual. Brittany squeezed her harder in response, then finally pulled away. Santana still stared at her, having a hard time, as usual, turning off the current that kept their eyes locked.

Eventually a voice cut through their absorption, and it was, of course, the last voice she wanted to hear.

"Nice job," Millie said, looking up at them. "Not even a bit cliché."

"Thanks," Brittany told her with a smile.

Forcing herself not to say anything, Santana guided Brittany through the band's equipment and down off the side of the stage.

Millie continued, in a thoughtful voice. "You know, if all else fails and you can't find another job, you oughtta look into the cruise ship circuit. The Fixodent crowd would just eat up those standards you're addicted to. And who knows, maybe there'd even be some blue-haired ladies who always meant to come out of the closet and just never got around to it."

Santana took a deep breath. She'd had just about as much as she could be expected to take. But before she was able to let the insults fly, Brittany spoke up, enthusiastic.

"Oh, that could be fun! I could live on the ship with you. And in between shows we could search for buried treasure."

Santana continued to give Millie a level, threatening stare for a few seconds before she turned to Brittany, smiling. "It's something to keep in mind."

Apparently realizing that she was on thin ice, and that it was probably best not to push her luck further, Millie now announced, "Well, I think it's about time for me to head out. My cat's probably gettin' lonely. Maybe I'll see y'all around?"

Before Brittany could reply, Santana jumped in with a hasty, "I wouldn't count on it." And since when does she have a cat?

"It was so good to talk to you, hon," Millie said to Brittany as she turned to go, with what sounded like actual sincerity this time. "You take care, now."

"Bye," Brittany called after her, waving. "Watch out for the laser rats."

Santana watched to make sure she was actually gone, trying not to let Brittany see how relieved she was when the door closed behind her. She turned back to her. "You want to get a drink before we leave?"

"Sure."

They went to the bar, where Keith was more than happy to get them free cocktails, even though the place was closing up and emptying out. In fact, it looked like he may have already had a few drinks himself. Not that it mattered at this point. Even if customers got offended, what was the worst they could do? They would all be out of a job tomorrow, regardless.

"So what did you guys talk about?" Santana said, sipping from her daiquiri. She knew she shouldn't ask, but she couldn't help herself.

"Nothing much." Brittany shrugged. "Cats, mostly. It turns out she has one named Lady Fluffington. Isn't that weird?"

"That is weird," she said wryly, staring down into her drink. "Almost hard to believe, actually."

Brittany sensed the tension, but misinterpreted the source of it. "I know things are awkward when she's around, because of... you know," she said. "Your history and everything. But you don't have to worry about it, because I like her. She seems really sweet."

"I know she seems that way. But, Brittany..."

"All right ladies, I'm out," Keith said, interrupting her, which was probably for the best. "You want anything else you'll have to get it yourself."

"Well, good luck," Santana told him, realizing it was the last time they'd talk. "I'm sure you'll land another job right away. Every place needs a bartender."

He seemed grateful to hear this, even though it probably wasn't true. Leaning against the bar, he asked one last time, "So, can I get your number?"

She gave him an amused look, of the Nice try variety. "I don't think so."

"That's what I figured."

Now he turned to Brittany, hopeful, but before he could say anything, Santana spoke up. "Nope."

Brittany gave him an apologetic smile, but didn't offer anything.

Thwarted, Keith raised his hands in a gesture of gentlemanly defeat, then took off toward the back.

After a few more minutes, Brittany tipped her glass up and drained the rest of it, giggling a little when the ice cube bumped against her nose. She put it back on the bar, then looked at Santana, a bit tentative. "You ready?"

She hesitated. But there wasn't any reason to linger. No more point in delaying. "Yeah," she said, trying not to sound depressed. "I just need to get my sheet music."

She had more copies of the music at home, so it wasn't essential. But she wanted an excuse to climb onto the stage one more time. Aside from a few waitresses and Suresh, who was likely in the back, going over the books, the place was empty. But that didn't matter. It was probably better that way.

Brittany followed her over, but waited down below while she mounted the steps. She picked up the music from where it had been scattered on the floor after the band left. She only realized now, with a pang of regret, that she'd been so distracted by Millie's annoying presence she hadn't even bothered to say goodbye to them. If they hadn't thought she was a diva before, they sure as hell did now. She shuffled the papers together and rose up, facing out over the dim, shadowy club.

By this point she'd delayed as much as possible, and it was really time to go. But for just a second, she stood there, in the same, familiar spot where she always stood, and stared out at the empty room. It wasn't her small-scale fame she was thinking of now, or all the countless nights of successful, routine performances. Instead, it was the very first one. She remembered the terror in the pit of her stomach when she'd ascended those steps, the growing panic as the room went silent and still nothing seemed to happen, the mortification of realizing how much she'd overestimated her own bravery. And then the reprieve when she'd heard that shocking and yet completely familiar voice coming out of the sea of strangers.

She smiled a little, remembering her astonishment and her joy at finding the very two people she'd been so determined to avoid. And then the way she'd very nearly ruined everything when she'd chased them away. But it had all worked out, in the end. It had worked out better than she ever would have believed. Now she stared at the darkened table where they'd sat, the chairs already upside down on top of it. She wished they'd been able to make it tonight. They should have been here.

"You ready?" Brittany asked softly.

Coming out of her reverie, she moved over toward her, letting Brittany take her hand to lead her down from the stage.

"Yep." She swallowed hard against sudden emotion that threatened to well up, and made herself sound casual. "Let's blow this joint. I'm ready for the big leagues, anyway."

Brittany pulled her close as they headed toward the door, comforting her without needing to say anything.

---

Friday night. Friday night of a gorgeous, mild, springtime evening in the greatest city in the world. And this is where she was spending it.

Santana handed her NYADA season ticket to the man behind the counter, halfway hoping he would get distracted and forget to return it. But no such luck. He put it through some sort of scanner and then passed it back to her, telling her to enjoy the show. She refrained from offering any sarcastic commentary, but only with a great exercise of willpower. She still wasn't even sure why she was here. It was habit by now to attend all this stuff, since even when Kurt and Rachel weren't on stage, she knew most of the other students who were. And she'd been so distracted lately she hadn't bothered to come up with an excuse, which it occurred to her now that she probably should have done, just for pride's sake.

Because the fact was, she was still pissed at the two of them. For the past few days she'd tried to avoid them as much as possible while she waited for an apology or at least an explanation as to why they'd missed her very last show on Tuesday. Was that too much to ask for? But none had been forthcoming. They hadn't even inquired how the job hunt was going. She'd known they were self-involved, but this was a whole new level of obliviousness. And though she hated the fact that it bothered her as much as it did, she couldn't deny that it hurt.

But yet, here she was, preparing to sit through at least an hour of an Arthur Laurents tribute that the two of them weren't even directly involved in. And the horrifying thing was, she'd sort of been looking forward to it today. Was this what being in show choir had done to her? Made her secretly crave musical theater? It was like some kind of slow-building disease she hadn't even been aware she was infected with. What was next? A burning desire for tap shoes? Belting out Good Morning Baltimore on the way to the subway stop? Maybe she should have paid closer attention to the warning signs.

She stepped into the back of the rapidly filling theater and looked down over the rows of seats. Toward the front, but not too close to the stage, she spotted Brittany. Funny how even the back of someone's head could become so familiar that you could zero in on it in a crowd. She started toward her, but then stopped herself without knowing exactly why. Brittany was turned a little to the side now, watching a two or three-year-old girl who was entertaining her family by doing some sort of simplified ballet routine in the aisle. With a wistful smile, Brittany watched the entire thing and then clapped along with the girl's parents when it was finished.

Santana kept her eyes on Brittany, hardly registering the kid, who was really too young to be here and would probably start screaming in the middle of the performance. The words that rose unbidden to her mind were She would make such a great mom. Then, realizing that her brain had conjured up this thought all on its own with no prompting, she had a moment of sheer terror. Where the hell had that come from? Giving herself a little shake, she hurried down the aisle to take her seat.

Brittany looked up as she approached from the end of the row. "Hey. I was just getting ready to text you."

She gave her a quick kiss as she sat down. "They made me wait like an hour at the last place, and then the assholes decided to move the interview to next week."

With a sympathetic face, Brittany asked, "Any luck at the other places?"

She sighed. "Let's just say that the most promising interview I had today included the question 'Do you think you can sing while dancing on a pole?'"

"Oh." Brittany was quiet for a second, not wanting to say the wrong thing. "I totally think you could do that, because you're really talented. But," she hesitated. "I don't want you to. You would get groped. And not the good kind."

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna take it," she assured her, feeling a weird stab of joy at the protectiveness implied in this fear. "I'd rather go back to waitressing. Which is looking like a pretty real possibility at the moment."

Brittany studied her closely. "You don't seem all that upset about it."

"I don't know." She shrugged. "After everything that happened last month, with Pete, and with... that girl." She dropped her gaze, pausing. "This doesn't seem like such a big deal. I'm trying to just... take it in stride, you know? People lose their jobs all the time."

With a proud smile, Brittany said, "That's so mature of you."

Pleased by the support, Santana still felt the need to issue a caveat. "Yeah, well, the last thing I said to the guy at the poledancing place was that I hope he gets ass cancer and then walks in on his wife sixty-nining the elevator man. So I'm not positive that mature is the right word."

Brittany laughed a little. "Baby steps."

"Yeah," she said, smiling.

They fell silent for a minute, and Santana checked the time. They were early; it was still almost half an hour till the revue was supposed to begin. And as she'd expected, the toddler in the row next to theirs was already starting to get fussy. On impulse, Santana suddenly said, "You know what, screw this. What are we even doing here? Rachel's just an understudy, and Kurt's not even in the cast. They couldn't bother showing up for my very last night of work, so I don't see why I should have to waste time at some lame tribute to a dead guy who wrote some Broadway shows back in the dark ages." At this, an older woman a few rows ahead of theirs turned around to give her a dirty look. Ignoring her, but lowering her voice, Santana continued, "What do you say we bounce and go see a movie?"

Brittany seemed doubtful. "I don't know."

"Come on," she urged her, trying to convince herself as much as Brittany. "You know this whole thing is gonna be super gay."

Again, the woman turned to glare at her, and this time Santana responded. "Seriously, untwist your panties, Auntie Em. I play for the team, I'm allowed to make fun of the game."

Maintaining her supercilious dignity, the woman now stood up and moved off to another row.

But Brittany didn't seem to notice the exchange at all. She was staring down at her fingernails. "Santana. I would rather go to the movies, but... I have to tell you something first."

"Okay." She waited, confused.

Brittany drew in her breath, delaying a few more seconds, but then reluctantly seemed to force herself to say, "I didn't tell them that it was your last night. They didn't even know you got fired." She looked up, meeting her eyes. "I know I said I did, but I didn't."

Baffled, Santana waited for the punch line, or for further clarification. But Brittany was quiet now. "I don't understand," she said. "Why?"

Brittany sighed, glancing ahead at the still-closed curtain. She appeared to be struggling to find the right words. "I guess... I wanted it to be just us. It feels like they're always around. Especially Rachel. I know we have our picnic this weekend, but let's face it, most of the time our plans fall through. For one night, I just wanted you all to myself." She paused, looking sheepish. "Are you mad at me?"

"No," she said after a brief hesitation, uncertainly. She wasn't sure how to feel. Part of her was annoyed, but another part experienced a lift of euphoria at the words wanted you all to myself. In a careful voice, she said, "It's just that it doesn't seem like something you would do. I'm surprised, that's all."

"I know. I couldn't believe I did it, I felt really bad afterwards. I blame New York. I think living here is making me more selfish."

Santana laughed a little, even though, at the same time, there was something vaguely troubling about those words. What exactly did that mean? Was she trying to say that living here was bad for her? Or was that reading too much into it?

"Thank you for telling me," she said. "I've been so mad at them the past few days."

"I know," Brittany said, guilty. "I should have said something before. But it's been kind of nice to have a break from them, hasn't it?"

Santana wasn't quite sure what to say to this. She was experiencing a strange sense of divided loyalty, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling. But before she could reply, Brittany's phone alerted her to a new text. Santana waited while she pulled it from her shoulder bag.

"I guess I spoke too soon," Brittany said with irony. "It's from Rachel." She stared down at her phone, reading the message silently.

"What does it say?" Santana prompted her.

Unwillingly, she read it out loud. "Emergency. Exclamation point. Come backstage immediately. Exclamation point, exclamation point. Both of you. Exclamation point, exclamation point, excla-"

Santana cut her off. "Okay, Britt, I got it." She stood up, worried. Emergency? What kind of emergency? She had a sudden morbid vision of Kurt, trapped under some kind of scenery backdrop, taking his last breath before she got the chance to tell him that she wasn't really pissed at him after all.

She maneuvered down to the end of the row as fast as possible, pulling Brittany behind her.

"Isn't it this way?" Brittany gestured toward the exit.

"I know a short cut," she said, heading toward a stage door that she knew was officially off limits to audience members and the general public. But fuck the rules. Kurt was dying.

She closed the door behind Brittany, ushering her into the backstage area. There they paused in the dimness, a sudden quiet enveloping them now that the steady murmur of the audience was cut off. She looked around the wings, noting the lack of activity. This close to show time, the place should be bustling with energy and last-minute preparations. But there seemed to be hardly anyone around. It only confirmed the sense that something dire had happened. Agitated, she began to search, sticking her head into a small green room just around the corner, where as luck would have it, Rachel was lurking.

She rushed up to them, breathless. "Santana!"

"What happened?" she demanded. "Where is he?"

Rachel stopped. "Where's who?"

She looked at her like she was an idiot. "Kurt."

Puzzled, Rachel glanced around. "He's helping out in wardrobe. Why?"

Santana let her breath out in relief, closing her eyes for a second. With barely restrained impatience, she asked, "Then what's the emergency?"

"Oh." She shrugged. "There isn't one, really. I just had to share my news with someone."

Brittany rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in front of her, as if she should have expected no less.

Now Rachel came closer to them, like she needed to impart a secret. "You won't believe this." Her voice was low, but not any less dramatic because of it. "It's a total disaster. Half of the cast has been hit by some kind of epic stomach flu. Apparently one minute you're fine, and the next you're throwing up everything you've ever eaten." She lowered her tone even further, just above a whisper. "I think Polly may have it... when I saw her in makeup about ten minutes ago she looked a little green."

There was no response, and Rachel gave them both a pointed look, as if wondering why they weren't catching on. "Do you see what I'm saying? I may get to go on as Maria."

Santana stared at her for a few seconds in disbelief. "That's why you called us back here?"

Checking the time, Brittany said in a meaningful way, "Santana, if we leave now, we can still make it to the movies."

"The movies? What? No!" Rachel was horrified. "You can't leave! You have to wait with me until I find out. Please?"

Santana's first instinct was to say no, but then she reminded herself that the lingering sense of resentment she'd been carrying around since Tuesday night had no basis. She glanced back at Brittany, who seemed to be edging toward the door, with her eyebrows raised a bit as if to say You wanted to get out of here, remember?

Both of them were waiting for her to say something. She hated being in this position, but there was a clear choice to make here. After hesitating, she turned back to Rachel, her mind made up. "Yeah. We'll stay."

Though it was obvious that she was less than enthusiastic about this decision, Brittany didn't say anything. Resigned, she came back into the room and flopped down on a tattered sofa that was pushed back against the wall. Santana went to join her, but Brittany didn't look at her when she sat down. Instead, she reached underneath her and pulled out something that she'd sat on without noticing it. It was a Rubik's cube. After examining it, curious, she started twisting the pieces and trying to align the colors.

Rather than sitting down with them, Rachel began pacing nervously up and down the length of the room, wringing her hands together, muttering her lines to herself. After a minute it was tiresome. After a few minutes it was irritating. After five minutes it became unbearable.

Without looking up, Brittany said, "She's making me dizzy."

Santana watched as she passed by the couch once again. "Rachel, would you calm the hell down? You're acting like my abuela's chihuahua right now. I'm afraid you're gonna start leaking pee all over the floor."

Just then, Allison DuPont came into the room, looking official and directorial and carrying a clipboard.

Rachel flew at her. "Allison! Any news?"

She peered over the clipboard and, noticing Santana and Brittany, seemed about to object to their presence backstage, but Brittany gave her a friendly little wave. So instead she self-consciously raised a few stiffened fingers, and as though it were the first time she'd ever tried it, waved back. Finally she turned to Rachel, who looked to be on the verge of a heart attack. "It's bad," she admitted. "Cast, crew, hair and makeup... it's hitting us everywhere. I just came from the girls' bathroom. It's a total Bridesmaids scenario in there." She paused, and then elaborated in her typical deadpan, humorless way. "By which I mean that everyone is vomiting and having explosive diarrhea."

Santana made a face. "Yeah, thanks Allison, I think we had it at Bridesmaids."

"What about Polly?" Rachel asked, a desperate tinge to her voice.

"Polly's one of the worst. Let's just say she was having trouble deciding which part of her body to aim at the toilet." Allison sighed, scanning her clipboard as if searching for any way out of the current predicament. But apparently she found nothing, because with zero enthusiasm she seemed to have no choice but to tell Rachel, "Looks like you're up."

Even though she'd been anticipating this news, Rachel didn't seem to know how to react to it. She was frozen, stunned.

Santana stood up and went toward her, smiling in spite of herself. "Holy crap. You actually got it. And you didn't even have to poison anybody."

Trying to take it in, Rachel said slowly, "I can't believe this. It's really happening. This is the moment every understudy lives for. Someday I'll write about this in my memoirs."

"It's so sad." Brittany's voice came from behind them, on the sofa.

They both turned to look at her, confused.

"About Polly," she elaborated. "She must have been looking forward to this for so long."

"Oh. Yeah," Santana said, guilty. She arranged her face into a chastened expression. "It totally sucks for Polly."

"Of course," Rachel added, making her own effort to look solemn. "So, so sad. A tragedy, really." They waited another few seconds, as if to make the performance more convincing. Then, the moment of silence over, Rachel turned back to Santana, urgent. "Kurt can handle makeup and wardrobe, but you have to help me with my hair. We need to get started."

"Is there even time for that?"

Allison spoke up. "We'll have to delay the opening number by about fifteen minutes. I'll get someone to announce it. And I'd better go check up on the rest of the cast. We're dropping like flies. I just hope we have enough replacements."

"Of course we do, this is NYADA," Rachel said. "It's an entire school of replacements!" She ushered her out like with cheerleader-like passion. "Go, go!" When Allison was gone, she took a deep breath, and looked around the room, trying to restore herself to calmness. But it was useless. So instead she grasped Santana's hand and began pulling her out of the room. "We have to find Kurt. There's no time to waste."

"Rachel..." Santana stopped, forcing her to stop too. She gave her a strange look. "You're kinda hot." Brittany looked up from her Rubik's cube, alarmed.

Surprised, Rachel said after a few seconds, "Well, I... I'm very flattered, but is now really the best time?"

"I meant your skin, you narcissist," she said, with a massive eye roll. She pulled her hand from Rachel's grip, then reached out and felt her forehead. "You're burning up!"

"You do look sort of pale," Brittany said, getting up and coming to join them. "Are you sure you're not getting sick, too?"

"Of course I'm sure! It's just because I've been pacing back and forth, and I'm all worked up. I never get intestinal viruses." She gave an adamant shake of her head. "It's because I'm a vegan. My stomach is naturally healthier than the average person's."

"That doesn't even make sense," Santana said.

"Yes it does!" she snapped. "And I'm fine. So let's not mention this silly little suspicion to anyone else, okay?"

Brittany and Santana looked at each other, but it wasn't like it really mattered. If she wanted to perform while sick, it was her business. Santana said, "Whatever."

In the wardrobe area, they located Kurt, who Santana was happy to confirm with her own eyes was perfectly healthy and very much not dead. Though he didn't seem to know how to respond to the brief and out-of-nowhere hug she gave him, he took it in stride. At the moment he was busy trying to make costumes fit understudies who hadn't originally been intended to wear them, but since he was a loyal friend, Rachel took priority, and after she was dressed for the first number, he accompanied her to the makeup area. While he worked on her face, Santana did her hair. Brittany sat in a nearby swivel chair, looking bored, but still focused on the daunting task of the Rubik's cube.

"Rachel, you have got to stop sweating," Kurt told her. "What is wrong with you? I feel like I'm putting makeup on a jellyfish."

"I've done that," Brittany murmured.

Offended, Rachel said, "Well, it's not my fault that it's sweltering in here. Brittany, go and find the janitor and ask him to turn the air conditioning down. If he refuses, offer him a hand job."

Brittany ignored her, not even looking up.

Rachel didn't seem to notice. She was busy examining herself in the mirror, increasingly alarmed. "Kurt, you have to try harder! I can't go out there like this, I am dripping wet."

Immediately, Santana smirked and prepared to speak, but Rachel beat her to it, spinning around and pointing up at her fiercely. "Do not say wanky!"

Undaunted, she raised one shoulder. "I don't have to now, you said it yourself." She put the finishing touches on the corny 1950s Maria hairstyle. She'd wanted to jazz it up a little, but she had a feeling that wouldn't go over well. In the mirror in front of her, Rachel seemed to be getting more pale by the minute. "You know, throwing up on stage isn't such a big deal," Santana offered, trying to be supportive. "Me and Britts have both done it before, and we lived to tell the tale."

"Yes, believe it or not, I do seem to recall that instance," Rachel said. Her queasiness appeared to increase at the memory.

"Of course, if you have another kind of accident, I'm not quite sure it would be so easy to live down," she added, unable to help how amusing the thought was. "Do you want us to make a Depends run while there's still time?"

"Santana, please?" She held up her hand for mercy. "Just stop talking about it. I'm not sick, I already told you."

Kurt started to say something, but then changed his mind. Using a towel, he tried to blot the moisture around her hair line.

"Maybe you'd feel better if you ate something," Brittany suggested. She finally glanced up, giving Rachel an innocent look. "I could order a pizza. Extra mushrooms. Olives. All that slimy green stuff you like."

Now Rachel closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears. Feeling like a traitor, Santana tried not to laugh.

Allison came back into the room with her clipboard, flustered and distracted-looking. She stopped, staring at Rachel. "What is she doing?"

"Oh, she's um... She's meditating," Kurt explained. He smacked Rachel on the knee to alert her. "It helps her focus her creative energies."

"Well, there's no need for that," Allison told them briskly. "We're going to have to cancel. This is ridiculous. I've got upperclassmen filling in for more than half of the roles in a freshman revue. And even with backups, we're still down two dancers. As the senior advisor to this production, I can't in good conscience sign off on a performance of this quality. This goes on my record!"

"What?" Rachel dropped her hands, her nausea forgotten. "No, no, we are not cancelling. I am here, I am ready to go on... I've done everything I'm supposed to do. You will not take this away from me!"

"Believe it or not, Miss Berry? There's more at stake here than just your personal career. This could reflect badly on the entire school."

She stood up and moved closer to her. "And how do you think it reflects on the school to cancel a performance at the very last minute? Look at all those people already out there, waiting! Isn't the very first lesson we learn here that the show must go on... no matter what?"

Allison sighed. She didn't seem to want to admit it, but she couldn't deny the truth of this. "We don't have enough female dancers. Adam Kellerman is willing to put on a dress and fill in... and to be honest, I think he's been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. But that still leaves one."

Rachel looked around, frantic, and then her face lit up. "Brittany!"

Everyone waited for her to elaborate, Brittany included.

"Brittany is an amazing dancer. You know it firsthand, Allison, you can't deny it." She lowered her voice a bit. "I know about the private lessons she's been giving you."

Allison's face turned just the faintest shade of pink. "Those are supposed to be secret."

"It's Brittany," Rachel said with spread hands, as if this explained everything. She looked around, trying to draw on the support of the rest of the room. "Everyone knows she can't keep secrets."

"That's not true, I keep secrets all the time," Brittany spoke up for herself, realizing that no one else was going to do it. "For example, I've never told anyone about that smutty Bomb Girls fanfiction that Santana writes under the username IheartBrittBritt4life."

Santana looked shocked. "Brittany!"

"Oh crap, I just did, didn't I?" she said in a guilty voice. It was impossible to tell whether it had truly been an accident or not. "It's really good, though," she added. "And really smutty."

Kurt seemed to be attempting to make a covert note of the username on his phone.

"Don't you dare read it!" Santana threatened him, mortified.

Rachel was fast losing patience with the turn the conversation had taken, and made an effort to draw the focus back to herself. "Allison, look, I don't care about your secret lessons. In fact, I admire you for taking steps to improve in an area where you lacked confidence," she added, throwing in some flattery for good measure. "The only reason I brought it up is to remind you of how good she is! She can do this, I know it."

"She's not even a student here," Allison pointed out. "There are all kinds of legal problems with this."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures!" Rachel moved over to Brittany now, as if realizing that she hadn't even asked her yet. "You'll do it, won't you, Brittany? It'll be so much fun! Like being in high school again."

"I don't know." She seemed tempted, but extremely hesitant.

"Please?" Rachel reached out and grasped both her hands. "This means so much to me, you have no idea. This could change everything. I know it's hard for you to understand with your laidback, blowing-in-the-wind lifestyle, but this is my future. I can't afford to play around here."

At this mildly insulting description of her life, Brittany looked over at Santana, as if maybe hoping for a protest, or some defensiveness. But this time, there was nothing. Santana stood next to Kurt, both of them silent, waiting for her decision, not taking sides. It was obvious, however, what they wanted her to choose.

"I know!" Rachel exclaimed. She appeared to have had the proverbial light bulb moment. "If you agree to do this, I'll give you full creative control over my movie. You can call all the shots." Coaxingly, she said, "We'll get the top hat for the bird, and I'll have sex with Vocal Adrenaline, and... and the monkey! We can have the monkey."

Santana was staring at her like she was insane. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Rachel ignored her. "What do you say?" she asked Brittany.

Brittany considered this proposal. She seemed on the verge of accepting, but then a crafty look touched her features. "I'm willing to negotiate," she said slowly. "But that's not what I want."

"What, then?" Rachel was getting more agitated. "What do you want?"

She bit her lip, contemplative. After glancing at Santana, and then around the room, and then finally back at Rachel, she said, "I don't know yet. But when I think of it, you have to do it. No matter what it is." She nodded, confirming the terms. "That's the deal."

"Fine!" Rachel cried, not even taking a second to think over the implications. "Anything. I'll do anything."

"Okay." Brittany smiled at her. "I'll do it. But I want to be a Shark this time. The Jets are just... so white."

Rachel glanced back at Allison to see if this was possible, a pleading look in her eyes. Allison shrugged, as if to say Why not? She seemed to be of the opinion that the night was going to be a disaster, and so the details no longer mattered.

"Thank you. Thank you so much, Brittany," Rachel gasped in relief. She moved as if to hug her, but Brittany leaned away, alarmed.

"Oh. Right," Rachel said, restraining herself. "But I'm not sick," she couldn't resist adding.

Now everything seemed to happen in a blur, and Santana found herself standing on the sidelines. Brittany was whisked off to get a crash course in the performance routine, and Santana barely had time to get in a quick kiss and a whispered good luck before she disappeared. The room began to fill up as the rest of the cast trickled in and last-minute hair and makeup adjustments were made for people who had had no plans to be on stage tonight. Kurt was busy in wardrobe again, where he would likely have his hands full until the final curtain call, and Rachel had gone off somewhere to warm up her voice. Santana had the sense that she should be doing something useful, but there was really nothing she could help with. So she stood back and watched it all.

At last, the backstage area had that buzzy energy that had been missing before. And unexpectedly, it made her feel more lonely than she'd felt in a long time. Out of the four of them, she was now the only one who had no real part in it. She watched the last-minute preparations with a mixture of sadness and mild jealousy. It had been less than a week since she'd lost her job, so how could it be possible that she already missed it this much? But somehow, it was possible. Standing here, on the outside looking in, it was brought home to her in a visceral way just how much she loved performing, how much she needed it. How long would it be until she found something else? What if she never found anything else? The thought made her feel hollow inside.

Unusually for her, Allison seemed to notice her gloominess. Maybe spending time with Brittany had developed her ability to respond to human emotion. She came up to her. "You're not a dancer, are you? If you are, I could try to squeeze you in somewhere."

She was tempted to say yes, but it probably wouldn't be the best idea. "Not really," she admitted. "There's no way I could learn the steps fast enough." Then a different idea struck her. "You don't happen to need an Anita, do you?"

"No. Our Anita's fine. She claims she could eat a raw pig and it wouldn't make her sick." Allison added, in what for her was probably her closest attempt at a joke, "And I believe her."

"Oh," Santana said, trying not to show her disappointment. "Well, that's good."

The lights backstage flickered once, the signal that show time was imminent. "You might want to return to your seat now," Allison suggested.

To her surprise, she was reluctant to go, to return to the mundane world of the audience and leave behind this backstage realm that was both enchanted and entirely familiar, this rarefied, electrified atmosphere, that mysterious yet still tangible sense of competitiveness mixed with love and solidarity that existed among any company or cast or choir. If she couldn't be part of it, then she could at least absorb it through proximity. "What if I hang around back here and help out? I'm sure there's something I could do," she offered.

Allison gave her a skeptical look. "Do you know how to mop up puddles of vomit?"

Santana thought about this for a few seconds. "Actually, you know what, I think I'll just go back out front."

When she emerged into the theater again, she was amazed to see that it was nearly full. The seats she and Brittany had occupied earlier were taken, so she was forced to search for another vacant one. Almost right away the music started up, and the only option was to duck into the first open seat she found, which fortunately was on the aisle, but unfortunately was next to a sweating fat man who appeared to overflow from his own seat into the one she'd intended to take. Just my luck, she thought. But she squeezed into the space remaining, since now the lights were dimming and she didn't want to stumble over people in the dark. You never knew whether you would be the groper or the gropee in that scenario. It was better not to take chances.

The curtain opened, and the revue finally began. She couldn't tell whether the audience noticed or cared that many of the intended actors had been replaced by their understudies, or that many of the group numbers and dance interludes seemed suspiciously light on players. For some bizarre reason, she found herself hoping that nobody minded and that the production would meet a warm response. Even though she wasn't a student here, she felt a bit of a proprietary attachment to the place. And of course, she wanted Brittany's first post-high school gig to be a good experience.

But it seemed that it would be a while before Brittany went on, so Santana settled back to wait and tried to enjoy the other segments of the revue. First were some selections from La Cage aux Folles, which were good, though she couldn't help thinking that Kurt should have been involved, and she felt vaguely annoyed on his behalf. He would knock this flamboyant shit out of the park, she thought. But he hadn't particularly seemed to care, and she wasn't even sure if he'd auditioned. Also, he'd seemed perfectly happy working behind the scenes, backstage.

Next up was a Gypsy segment, and she spotted Eli in the role of Herbie. The guy was almost too good at playing straight. Maybe that was why she found him so boring. She made a mental note to try to get to know him better, especially if things really were getting serious between him and Kurt. After all, he couldn't possibly be more uninteresting than Blaine.

Finally, when she was starting to get impatient, the West Side Story portion of the revue began. The entire crowd seemed to perk up, so obviously it had been saved till last for a reason. After some brief and shortened expository scenes, they launched into the first featured musical number, which was, as luck would have it, Dance at the Gym. Santana sat forward on the edge of her seat, searching for Brittany. She spotted her right away, in an emerald green dress that flared out around her legs with every whirl.

She bit her lip to try to keep in check the ridiculous, no doubt-dopey smile that wanted to break over her face, but it was no use. As always, Brittany was fucking incredible. She moved with such ease and grace, yet with such beautiful precision. Somehow she managed to dance with her entire body, totally losing herself in the performance, in a way none of the others on that stage seemed capable of doing. How could anyone keep their eyes off of her? Maybe it was her bias showing, but Santana was pretty damn sure she was the best one up there. It was almost inconceivable that she'd had so little rehearsal time. She danced with perfect fearlessness and confidence. And even from here, Santana could tell that whether she'd joined the cast willingly or not, Brittany was enjoying the hell out of herself. Not just her face, but her whole being seemed transported, lit from within by the glow of exhilaration.

As she continued to watch her, the sense of admiration and awe she felt was nearly overwhelming. She was so proud that it was impossible to keep it to herself. She had to share it with somebody, it didn't even matter who it was. So she turned to the fat man next to her, who for all his girth was at least dressed well, in a pricey-looking tailored suit. He also smelled like expensive cologne, which earned him points in her judgment scale. Poking his arm to get his attention, she waited until he turned a questioning look toward her, then whispered, "That's my girlfriend, in the green dress. She's filling in for someone who's sick."

He glanced at the stage, then gave her a polite nod.

But this wasn't enough to satisfy her, so she added, "She just learned this whole routine tonight, like an hour ago. She doesn't even go to this school. That's how much of a natural she is."

Another nod and a tiny distracted smile, but otherwise, nothing. He clearly didn't seem to be grasping the magnitude of Brittany's awesomeness.

Santana waited a few seconds. Then, unable to help herself, she leaned toward him again and whispered, "I get to have sex with her tonight."

Now the man turned his full, surprised attention on her. After studying her briefly, he said in a dry tone, "Congrats."

She smirked with triumph and returned her focus to the stage, feeling like she'd accomplished her mission.

After an alarmingly pale Rachel trilled her way through Tonight, Brittany was back on stage again for America. Santana kept her eyes glued on her, suffused with pride. But for this number, her enjoyment was somewhat marred by an uncomfortable, nagging sense of envy - not toward Brittany, but just toward the cast in general, and especially the blocky, plodding Anita, who had about as much stage presence as a mule and who kept distracting Santana's attention despite her best efforts to focus only on Brittany. Who the hell was this broad, anyway? She looked like Cheech. Or Chong. Whichever one was uglier. Santana watched her dubiously, arms crossed with resentment. That should be me up there. She couldn't help the bitterness of the thought, even though it made no real sense.

The show continued, and even from here, it was clear that Rachel seemed to be getting weaker in each scene she was in. It was fortunate that due to the nature of the revue itself, most of the songs and all of the dialogue interludes had been shortened. Many had been cut altogether. Still, though, by Somewhere, she was as white as a sheet and visibly sweating. But if you weren't looking too close, it would be hard to tell, since there was no change in her voice or in the emotion she poured into the song. Santana couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration.

She turned to the man next to her, feeling the need to share once again. "That's my roommate playing Maria," she whispered to him. "You can't tell, but she's trying really hard not to puke on Tony right now." She watched for a few more seconds, then added fondly, "She's a total pro. She's gonna be famous someday." And she knew the words were true by the stab of jealousy that hit her as she said them.

The fat guy acknowledged her shared confidence by checking his watch.

She'd been dreading A Boy Like That, and halfway hoping it would be cut from the production entirely, since it wasn't as iconic as the other songs. But no such luck. Those familiar, dramatic opening chords struck up, and now, without the distraction of Brittany's spectacular talent to make her weak in the knees (among other parts), there was nothing to keep her from dwelling on her indignation over the actress playing Anita. Lacking any other options, she decided to voice her frustrations to her new friend.

"Come on," she scoffed in a loud whisper, leaning toward him. "Where did they get this skank, from some cracked-out Kids Incorporated knock-off? I could do a better Anita in my sleep. She has no game. Not to mention the fact that I can see her mustache from here."

The guy now turned to her with an air of irony, and paused for a second, as though relishing what he was about to tell her. "That's my daughter."

"Oh." She raised her eyebrows, freezing as she took this in. Shit. After a few seconds of strained silence, she whispered, "I like that she went with the New Jersey accent. And you know, I always thought Anita should be a little on the heftier side. It makes her more maternal."

She slowly leaned back in her own seat again, deciding that from this point on, it would probably be wisest to enjoy the performance in silence.

And thank God, there wasn't too much longer to wait. Two more numbers, including a grand finale medley, and it was over. Partly so that she could avoid facing her seatmate once the lights came back on (since she now suspected he might be part of the Italian mafia), she ducked into the aisle before the final curtain call was over, heading toward the stage door again.

On the other side, predictably, things were chaotic and jubilant. There was the collective euphoria at a successful show, especially in the face of such odds, and the amped-up nostalgia now that it was all over. But on the whole, everything was more subdued than she would have expected. Some of the exhausted cast members seemed simply relieved that they'd pulled it off. And more than a few now stumbling out of the wings looked to be headed straight for the bathrooms.

Santana stepped up onto a riser to make it easier to scan the dimly-lit space. Without too much effort, she spotted Brittany chatting with one of the other dancers. Coming up behind her just as the other girl moved off, she wrapped her arms around her and breathed against her ear, "Hey, you. Do you have any idea how hot you made me?"

"Allison?" Brittany asked.

Santana dropped her arms and came around from behind her. "No, it's me."

"I know," she laughed, pulling her forward for a kiss.

Leaning back just slightly after their lips parted, Santana remained standing on her toes in order to look straight into Brittany's eyes. "I can't even describe how good you were. There aren't enough words in the language."

Brittany rolled her eyes a little, pleased. "Come on."

"I'm serious. I guarantee you every person in that audience was jealous of whoever gets to go home with you tonight. In fact," she spoke even softer now, flirtatious. "I'm not sure I can wait until we get home. Maybe we should just get a hotel room, right here in Midtown?"

"We can't afford that," Brittany said. But she seemed tempted.

"Then how about we find us a dark storage room, right here?" She pressed against her, tantalizingly. "I know where they keep the stage sets for the bedroom scenes."

Brittany grinned at her, and was on the verge of replying, when they noticed someone coming toward them. Regretful, they turned. It was Rachel. But for some reason, she was silent. She looked at Brittany and gave her a thumbs-up gesture, with a tight, closed-mouth smile.

"Thanks," Brittany said, puzzled.

"Well, I don't know how you did it, but you did," Santana told her. Right now, she was happy enough to give credit where credit was due. "You were amazing."

"Yeah, you really were," Brittany seemed forced to admit. "I don't know how the Tony Awards work, but you should definitely get nominated for best understudy."

They waited for her to reply, but she continued to give them the strained smile, lips pressed together.

After a few seconds, Santana realized why. "You're gonna hurl, aren't you?"

"Mm-hm," Rachel nodded, still not opening her mouth. She pushed between them, frantic, headed for the trash barrel in the corner.

Though it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, Santana followed her, pulling her hair out of the way just before she started throwing up. Grimacing, she turned her head away and gave Brittany an apologetic look. "Sorry," she told her.

"That's okay." She gave a weary, understanding shrug, as though even in her current state of pique with Rachel, she couldn't blame her for getting sick. Then a strange look flitted across her face, and she put her hands on her stomach. "Actually, I'm not feeling that great myself."

While Rachel continued to retch, Kurt came into the room behind Brittany. His skin was even more translucent than usual, and now he was sweating too.

"You've got to be kidding me," Santana said, looking him over.

He nodded, confirming it. "I suppose it's only fitting that any stomach bug that hits NYADA would be just a bit more overdramatic and show-offy than your average virus." He paused, wincing a little. "Under the circumstances, we should probably take a cab home."

Rachel raised her head weakly up out of the trash barrel. "One with a bucket in it," she added, then doubled over again.

---

Even behind her closed eyelids, Santana could see the bright sunlight that poured onto her face. In the breeze the light flashed and flickered and dappled through the new blossoms of the cherry tree she lay under, quick contrasts between shadows and the red of her own blood. She exhaled deeply, tilting her head back against the blanket and letting the scent of green grass and the warmth of the sun lull her into something very close to sleep.

Not actual sleep, of course. That probably wouldn't be the best idea here in Central Park, even with the safe and sanitized reputation the place had these days. But the drowsy post-picnic state she felt herself drifting into was close enough. Without opening her eyes, she reached out to feel the warm pressure of Brittany's body next to hers, knowing, of course, that she'd find her there but feeling reassured all the same. She inched a bit closer to her, and felt Brittany's hand come to settle on her hip. Contented, she let her whole body relax.

They'd finally made it here, for their longed-for day at the park. Although it wasn't the weekend any longer. They'd missed this past weekend, completely, as though it had been wiped right off the calendar. So had Kurt and Rachel. By the time they'd all arrived back at the apartment on Friday night, Brittany was a greenish color, and Kurt's stomach had been making ominous gurgles from the front seat of the taxi. It was all Santana could do to usher them up three flights of stairs to the fourth floor. She was thankful that she felt fine, herself. Someone had to take care of the rest of them.

But then, after getting them all to bed and crashing on the couch, she'd awakened at about 1:00 in the morning with the strangest sense that she'd been on a boat, a boat that was being tossed around like a toy in a storm-ravaged ocean. And for some reason, the entire boat smelled like the memory of Finn Hudson's deodorant. She'd clamped her hands over her mouth, barely making it to the bathroom in time.

So it was official, then. They all had it, whatever it was. Santana had staggered back to her own bed, weak and already achy. She'd drifted in and out of feverish consciousness, chilled and thankful for Brittany's warmth against her back. At one point, she'd felt Brittany come back from the bathroom and slide into bed next to her, and by instinct she'd draped an arm around her to pull her close. But wait a minute. Brittany's arm was already draped around her. From the other side of the bed.

Santana raised up and peered down at the newly-arrived form on her left side. "Rachel?"

"What?" came the faint and pitiful reply.

"What are you doing in here?"

"This is my room."

"No, it's not. We switched, remember?"

There was a long, confused pause before the answer. "Oh." But she didn't open her eyes or make any motion to leave.

Santana flopped back down and rolled over to face Brittany, already fading into sleep again.

Soon after this, or maybe longer, since it was hard to tell with that strange, elastic shape that a fever gives to ordinary time, she became aware of more shifting in the bed, and she forced her eyes open only to find Kurt climbing in on Brittany's side. Brittany obligingly made room for him, without seeming to wake up.

"What the hell are you doing?" Santana asked him in a whisper.

"It's freezing in here," he said, teeth chattering for emphasis. "Why should everyone get to cuddle without me?"

She wanted to point out that cuddling should be the last thing on anyone's mind, particularly considering that all of them now smelled faintly of vomit, but it was too much trouble. She closed her eyes and within seconds was asleep again. And that was how it came to pass that the four of them spent the remainder of the night in the same bed, huddled together like fairy tale peasants. Santana vowed to herself that when she was feeling better, she would draw up a contract exacting severe financial penalties if any of them ever breathed a word about it to a living soul.

All through Saturday, they shivered, groaned, battled each other for the toilet, and when that was occupied, the kitchen trash bin. Their fevers went up and down, and Santana became especially alarmed when, during the early afternoon hours, Brittany's temperature neared 103. Santana pressed a wet cloth to her forehead as she tossed and turned in the bed, delirious. "Mom?"

"She's not here, sweetie." She turned the cloth over to the cool side. "I'm here, though."

"I want my mom," Brittany pleaded. "Will you go get her?"

"Yeah, I'll go and call her right now," she promised.

But she hadn't. She knew this made her a terrible person. Even to herself, she wouldn't attempt to deny it. It was the fear that stopped her - the fear that Mrs. Pierce would march right out her front door in Lima and be on a plane within the hour. What if having her here made Brittany realize how much she missed her? What if her mom tried to take her back home? It felt like too big of a risk. To her relief, though, Brittany's fever had abated soon afterwards, and she didn't even seem to remember that she'd made the request. Within a few hours she was propped up on the couch, drained of energy but coherent, watching Will and Grace reruns with Kurt.

At some point, they received word via text that the remaining performances of the NYADA revue had been cancelled, but even Rachel was beyond caring. Her only response to the news was to burrow deeper into the arm chair and pull an afghan over her head. It also didn't escape Santana or Brittany's notice that, true to Brittany's earlier worries, their picnic plans had fallen through. Just another thing they would have to reschedule.

The four of them did their best to take care of each other over the course of the miserable weekend, but since they were all suffering from the same flu, there was only so much they could manage. Somehow, the neighbors became aware of what was going on, and they picked up the slack. Rhonda stopped by twice a day to look after the parrot, since the fruity scent of the bird seed meant that none of them could go near the cage without gagging. Mr. Bloom came by with a case of Gatorade to keep them hydrated, proving that he did, on occasion, drink non-alcoholic beverages. And Mrs. Nguyen brought over a pot of some kind of Vietnamese soup that looked appalling, but tasted like heaven, and which they miraculously managed to keep down, for the most part.

Even with the windows wide open to let in the brisk spring air, it went without saying that by the end of the weekend the smell in the apartment was, to put it delicately, less than pleasant. For once, Santana didn't protest or blow out the vanilla-scented candles that Rachel lit in every room.

By Sunday afternoon the worst seemed to be over, although they decided to stay home from their respective jobs and classes on Monday anyway, to take an extra day to sleep and recuperate, as well as to scrub the apartment clean and catch up on laundry. Monday night, finally, they all managed a regular meal.

On Tuesday morning, Santana had watched Brittany pull herself from bed to prepare to face her normal, regularly scheduled day. She had classes later, herself, and a job interview. It was time to get back to life as usual. But the sun was shining through the window, so bright. Birds were singing, one of them even perching on the windowsill for a few seconds, like something in a cartoon. It looked like a perfect spring day. How could they waste it? So she'd suggested that they play hooky for just one more day and go to the park. Who cared if it wasn't the weekend? Even better, since it would mean the place would be less crowded. And they already had the perfect excuse, since they could say they were still sick and no one would question it.

It hadn't taken much persuading to convince Brittany. So she'd called in to the dogwalking agency, and Santana had emailed her teachers. Invigorated by their rebellion, they'd fallen back into bed for a while, making up for lost time. Then they'd had a light breakfast of bagels out on the fire escape balcony as they waited for Kurt and Rachel to leave for classes, hoping they wouldn't ask to tag along. (They hadn't, since Rachel was eager to soak up the praise she expected to get at school for saving the musical.) Once they had the place to themselves, they took their time getting ready to leave, enjoying a leisurely bubble bath, a nice contrast to the quick showers they usually grabbed in the morning. It was already past noon when they got off the subway in Manhattan at Fifth Avenue and 59th, deciding to start at the south end of the park and work their way into the center. As promised, Santana made no protests when Brittany made a beeline for the zoo, dragging her by the hand to hurry her along the few blocks north.

Once inside, Brittany dove delightedly into the chaos of the petting zoo, wanting to touch everything that moved. Santana hung back at a distance, trying not to step in anything, clutching the edges of her expensive jacket to keep it out of the mouths of goats. "No, no! ¡Vete!" she commanded, pointing her finger warningly at a sheep that approached her. But then she felt a little bad when it lowered its head and moved away, obviously with its feelings hurt.

After about fifteen freaked-out minutes, she'd decided to see if Brittany would consider leaving yet. She found her crouched down with a tiny, spotted fawn, giggling as she let the deer lick up and down the inside of her forearm.

"Brittany," she said, alarmed. What it if had a disease or something? What if deer spit was toxic?

"What?" She looked up at her. "Don't worry, I still like your tongue best."

Santana turned her head and gave an awkward smile to the elderly couple and their grandchildren who were standing next to her. When they'd moved off, she pulled Brittany to her feet and managed to convince her, with a little sweet talking, that they needed to get moving if they wanted to have time for all the other things they'd planned to do today.

Out in the park and wandering around again, Santana had found to her surprise that she didn't get to play the role of tour guide to the extent that she'd anticipated, since it turned out Brittany's job often brought her here. It was the perfect spot to walk the dogs owned by the rich people who lived in the neighborhoods surrounding the park. So, in many respects, she was more familiar with the place than Santana was.

"C'mere, I want to show you something really cool," she said as they neared a playground a few blocks north of the zoo. Excited, she led Santana to a stop in front of an elaborate Alice in Wonderland statue, complete with toadstools and Mad Hatter. "I found this a few weeks ago."

"Wow," Santana said, not even having to feign being impressed. "I've never even seen it before."

"And you know what else?" Brittany asked her, nudging her temptingly. "You're allowed to climb on it."

Santana smiled at her, trying to resist the persuasion. "I'm pretty sure it's for kids."

"So?" She considered, looking around, and then handed her shoulder bag and her camera over. "Well, I'm gonna do it. Here, hold these."

So Santana stood there, laughing and feeling like a tourist, watching Brittany climb up onto the monument.

Once on the toadstool, Brittany examined the cast-bronze Alice's face close up. "I sort of want to make out with her," she admitted.

"Brittany!" But then Santana glanced around, to make sure there was nobody else in the immediate vicinity other than a few women with baby strollers who seemed to be absorbed in conversation. "Okay, go ahead," she told her, holding the camera up. If her girlfriend was going to make out with a literary monument, she wanted to capture it for posterity.

After they'd finished molesting the statue, they headed deeper into the park, backtracking south just a bit, because Santana claimed she had a surprise. As they approached, she made Brittany close her eyes for just a second, leading her by the hand along the pathway.

"Okay, now," she told her, giving her permission to look.

Brittany opened her eyes and gasped in wonder, taking in the old-fashioned carousel in front of her. "It's beautiful. Can we go on it?"

"No, I thought we'd just stand here and stare at it for a while."

"Oh." Brittany looked down at her shoes.

"I'm kidding," she said, giving her a playful shove. "Come on."

They paid the fare and then chose two horses, side by side. "God, these horses are so ghetto," Santana remarked. But other than this observation, she gave in to the thrilling cheesiness of it. Even though it was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing she'd done since arriving in the city (well, at least the most ridiculous sober thing), Santana found that she didn't give a damn. She didn't even care if people stared at them, or at their linked hands that bridged the short gap between their bodies as they were lifted slowly up and down, around and around the circle, to the soundtrack of the calliope music. Maybe she was at risk of losing any badass cred she'd ever possessed, but it was worth it to see the joy on Brittany's face. She didn't even protest when Brittany wanted to go around again, and then one more time for good measure.

After the carousel, they headed toward the boathouse on the lake. This was Brittany's idea, and Santana was a bit hesitant. "I don't know about this," she said, looking out at the water.

"Come on," Brittany urged her. "You can't have a romantic day at Central Park without a boat ride. It's like a law or something."

So she let herself be guided down into the rowboat, tense and trying not to tip it over. Once they were seated and headed out to the middle of the lake, however, she relaxed a bit. This wasn't so bad. Once you figured out the knack of paddling in the opposite direction from where you wanted to go, it was pretty easy. And there was no questioning that the day was perfect for it. A light breeze rippled the surface of the water, and all along the rim of the lake, the trees with their new leaves had that gauzy, pastel, airbrushed quality of early spring. Most of the flowering trees and bushes were likewise in bloom, providing a splash of riotous color against the weathered city buildings in the background. It was like the essence of New York City distilled into one perfect image. She took a deep breath, feeling the sun warm the top of her head.

At one point, drifting out from under the shadows of Bow Bridge and into the renewal of bright light, she caught Brittany staring at her in a peculiarly intense way.

"What?" she asked.

Brittany smiled a little and looked away, self-conscious. "Nothing."

In response to this bit of cuteness, Santana dipped her hand into the water and gave her a tiny splash.

"Hey, do you think it's warm enough to swim yet?" Brittany asked.

"No," she said in a pointed way. "And you're not allowed to swim in this lake, anyway."

"Well... you would be if your boat tipped over, because then you wouldn't have any choice," she reasoned.

"Don't you dare."

"I'm just kidding," she said with a grin. She continued to stare down into the water, thoughtful. After a few seconds she asked, "Can Rachel swim?"

Santana gave her a confused look. "I don't know. Why?"

"No reason," she said quickly.

They stayed out for almost all of their allotted hour, then headed back to the boathouse. By this point, they were both beginning to feel tired, the lingering weakness from being sick all weekend catching up with them. So it was decided that now would be the perfect time for the actual picnic. They hadn't brought anything with them, so they bought sandwiches from a nearby food cart, then headed to Cherry Hill, overlooking the lake. To complete the picturesque nature of it all, Santana shook out a thin blanket that had been crammed into her purse before they left this morning, and they settled themselves down on it.

They took their time over their late lunch, the calm marred only once when a wayward frisbee smacked into Brittany's video camera. She smiled and told the embarrassed guy who came to fetch it back from them that it was no big deal. But Santana noticed a mild sense of alarm on her face when she checked to see if it was still working, which, mercifully, it was.

After eating, they'd stretched out in the sun to rest, and that was where Santana now found herself, the late afternoon light beginning to slant over the western side of the park. Still with her eyes closed, she felt a strange sensation on her leg. Squinting through half-opened lids, she laughed and relaxed again when she realized it was only Brittany, sitting up now and walking her fingers idly up and down the length of her thigh.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." The walking fingers paused, and she rested her palm flat. "I was just thinking about that weird phobia you used to have about people touching that spot above your knee. You were so ticklish there you freaked out if anyone even acted like they were gonna do it."

"Oh, yeah." She made her voice deliberately casual. "That was a long time ago. I'm not ticklish there anymore."

"Really?" There was the slightest trace of amusement in her eyes.

"Yes, really. Just take my word for it."

"Okay." Then, a few seconds later (because who could resist that kind of temptation?), she reached for the spot above her knee, and, as expected, Santana went into full self-defense mode trying to block her. For a minute they tussled and squealed and shrieked as they wrestled on the blanket. Eventually, in a maneuver she wasn't sure how she'd accomplished, Santana wound up on top, pinning Brittany's hands above her head.

"That's more like it," she panted. Because their faces were already so close anyway, she leaned in a few inches to kiss her. When she began to pull back, Brittany raised her head, following her, so she gave in to it and let it draw itself out into one of those kisses that feels like it could potentially keep going forever, a kiss like a Russian novel, made up of long chapters and epochs and a million words all linked together in one breath. They lost track of time and the world around them.

When she finally came up for air, drawing Brittany's lower lip with her before reluctantly releasing it, she glanced around. "People are staring," she murmured.

"Does that bother you?" Brittany seemed curious, but not too worried.

To her own surprise, she didn't even need to think about the answer. "Not anymore. Not here."

Brittany smiled in response, reaching up to kiss her again, while at the same time her hands moved up under Santana's shirt, lifting it a bit. She felt the light breeze on her bare skin.

Breaking their kiss with regret, Santana pulled it back down, smiling. "Okay, let's not get carried away. Just because I'm not ashamed doesn't mean I want to get arrested."

Brittany sat up again, reaching for her bag. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot. Look what I have." Digging down into the bottom of the bag, she drew out a bottle of cheap champagne, still cool enough to be beaded with moisture. She held it up like a showcase model.

Santana gasped in delight. "You've been carrying that around all day?"

"Mh-hm. And that's not all." She produced two drinking flutes from the bag, passing one over to her.

"You are such a stud," Santana told her in an admiring tone.

Brittany grinned in reply, but modestly admitted, "They're just plastic." She gestured toward the bottle. "You have to open it, though. It scares me."

Santana obligingly took the bottle, and as she prepared to pop the cork, Brittany stuck her fingers in her ears and winced, jumping a little when the inevitable pop came. Passing the bottle back to her, Santana waited while she poured some for each of them. "So, what are we celebrating?"

"I don't know." She gave it some thought. "A perfect day, I guess?"

"It has been perfect, hasn't it?" She smiled a little, wistful. Then they clinked, or rather tapped, the plastic glasses together, drinking at the same time.

"Oh, I do have some news, though," Brittany said. "Guess what I found out yesterday. It turns out? My uncle is leaving me his farm when he dies."

Santana thought about this, puzzled. "Your uncle with the goats?"

"Yep," she said, taking another sip of the champagne. "He has other stuff too. Horses and some pigs. And a turkey that thinks it's a Republican senator."

Suddenly realizing that this bequest might imply bad news for the Pierce family, she asked, "Wait, is he dying right now?"

"No, not that I know of." Brittany was unconcerned. "But with his paint-huffing addiction and just the one lung, it may only be a matter of time."

"Wow. Then, congratulations," she said, raising her glass. "That land will be worth a fortune."

Brittany lowered her glass after another sip, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, when you sell it." She said it like it should be obvious.

"Why would I sell it? I love that place. I thought we could live there someday."

"On a farm in Ohio?" She scoffed a little before she could think better of it, then regretted it immediately when she saw the hurt look on Brittany's face.

"I said someday." She paused, as if the thought had just occurred to her. "I mean... do you want to live in New York forever?"

Santana didn't answer right away. She felt like she should proceed with caution, not say the wrong thing again. "I don't know," she finally ventured. "Maybe." In her head, though, she was surprised to find that the answer wasn't maybe. It was absolutely.

"Oh." Brittany stared down at the blanket. There was an uncomfortable silence.

Santana swallowed against a sudden feeling of mild panic. Trying hard not to show it, she forced herself to say in a calm voice, "I thought you liked it here?"

"I do. I mean, there's a lot that I like about it. But then, there's a lot that I don't like, too. I don't like the way that everyone's always in a hurry. I don't like the way the rich people who own the dogs I walk act like I'm invisible. I don't like how strangers look at me like I'm crazy when I try to start a conversation on the subway."

"Britt, you've got to stop doing that," she said gently.

"I know, I know." She rolled her eyes, since it wasn't the first time she'd heard it. "I guess it's just hard to get used to people being so different. And I feel like I don't have that many friends here. Pete's gone." She paused, sad. "I guess I could count Allison, even though I'm not sure she would agree. It's hard for me to meet people. For you guys, it's different. You've got school, and you know people from work. But all I do during the day is walk dogs. And, I mean, they're really good listeners... but it's not like they talk back, you know? Except for this one Yorkie from the Lower East Side, but he has such a thick Yiddish accent I can hardly understand him."

"I get that, I do," Santana said, sympathetic. "I guess I just didn't realize." She probably should have realized it, though. Brittany liked having a lot of friends. In high school, it had come so naturally to her. Everyone loved her, and she made no distinctions based on the categories that kept other people in their respective cliques. It stood to reason that she might feel a little lonely now that she'd left all that behind. Their world here must feel a bit insular to her, which was ironic considering how huge the city was. As if it had only just occurred to her, she said, "We don't really hang out with that many people, do we?"

"Not really," Brittany said. "But it's okay. I'm working on branching out." As an aside, she added, "Oh, I'm having lunch with Millie this week, so that's a start."

Santana looked up in shock. "Millie? As in, Amelia? From the restaurant?"

"Well, yeah." She gave her a strange look. "Do you know more than one?"

"Brittany, no." Her tone was adamant, indignant. "You are not hanging out with her. Forget it."

Her eyebrows went up, her expression taken aback. It took her a few seconds to reply. "Um, okay."

Realizing she'd been too abrupt, Santana tried to backtrack. "No, you're right, that came out wrong. What I meant to say was, you can't hang out with her, so please forget it." She waited, hopeful. But this correction didn't seem to have the desired effect.

"I get that maybe it seems weird," Brittany said. "But... you can't really tell me who to hang out with. What's the big deal?" A troubling idea seemed to occur to her. "You don't still have feelings for her, do you?"

"God, no. I'm not even sure I had any to begin with."

"Then what are you worried about?" Brittany was genuinely trying to understand. "Do you think I'm gonna sleep with her?"

"Of course not!" she protested. "That's not it, at all."

"What, then?"

She was stuck for a minute, unsure of what to say. She couldn't tell her the truth, that Millie was mocking her right to her face and she wasn't even aware of it. She just couldn't. She knew how much it would hurt her. So she tried to edge around it with a more general description. "Millie's insane, okay? She's really, really messed up, Britt." She enumerated the list, counting it off on her fingers. "She's fake. She's a pathological liar, she's addicted to painkillers. She's not even out of the closet yet. Her religious freak parents have warped her mind so much that I think she's still convinced she's going to hell."

"Yikes." Brittany took all this, considering it. But it only caused her stubbornness to reassert itself. "Then it sounds like she definitely needs a friend."

Santana sighed, frustrated. "Brittany. You're such a good person. But sometimes, I just worry that you trust people too easily."

"Well, sometimes I worry that you don't trust people enough." Under her breath, she added, "Except for certain people."

Santana didn't appear to notice the last part. Plaintively, she asked, "So, it doesn't even matter to you that I don't want you to see her? You're just gonna do it anyway?"

"Santana." Brittany seemed to be trying to keep her patience. "You don't want me to go home to Lima for a visit. You don't want us to live on a farm in Ohio. You don't want me to hang out with Millie. It just seems like a lot of the decisions we make lately are based on what you want."

"That isn't fair." She spoke softly, hurt. But it was fair. She knew it was. And there was that warning voice in her head again, the one saying You're smothering her, you fucking dipshit. She had the strangest sense of herself trying to catch a butterfly, only instead of a net, she was using a heavy-duty tarp.

They sat there on their picnic blanket for a minute without speaking, while the routine sounds of the beautiful springtime afternoon drifted to them; laughter of kids just out of school for the day, pigeons cooing, the distant noise of traffic mixed with irritated honking. But the peacefulness seemed to have been shattered. Already, the beginnings of the conversation were lost to Santana. She couldn't even remember how things had taken such a wrong turn.

"I'm sorry," Brittany said in a low voice, like she was thinking the same thing.

"Don't be sorry. You're just being honest."

She was quiet for a second, still contrite. "Did I ruin our perfect day?"

"No. Definitely not." Santana smiled at her. Then she looked up, over and past Brittany's head, and her expression changed to annoyance. She sighed. "But it looks like Daphne and Velma might."

Brittany turned to see what she was staring at, and was disappointed to find not the Scooby-Doo characters, but only Kurt and Rachel, the two of them moving down the slope of the hill in their direction. "You've got to be kidding me," she said. "How do they even know where we are?"

Santana suspected that the simple answer to this question was that, like an idiot, she'd chosen the exact spot for their picnic that the three of them had used more than once in the fall, before the weather turned cold. And apparently they'd predicted, correctly, that she'd return to the same familiar place. But Brittany had a different theory.

"Okay, I didn't want to say anything before," she said in a confidential tone, leaning forward. "But I think we have to look at the possibility that Rachel may have secretly implanted you with some kind of tracking device."

"What?"

"I think later you should let me examine every millimeter of your body to see if I can find it."

She started to protest, but actually, that didn't sound so bad. "Okay," she said.

Now she looked up as they came closer. Rachel was already speaking, holding up her hand defensively as they approached. "I know, I know," she said off of their incredulous looks. "We're not here to interrupt your adorable little lesbian picnic... I promise we won't stay. It's just that we have some really exciting news, and we wanted to deliver it in person." She looked at Kurt, as if they'd agreed to take turns.

He continued, clasping his hands together in front of him. "All right, well, prepare yourselves, because we just came from campus, and -"

"We ran into Professor Barrett!" Rachel interrupted him, unable to contain her excitement. "She's the head of the dance department, and her background is to die for. Not only has she choreographed for multiple Tony-winning musicals, but she's friends with Laura Bell Bundy!" she exclaimed, caroling the last part in a sing-song voice.

Brittany thought about this. "That girl from Married With Children?"

"She's hot," Santana supplied.

"Totally," Brittany agreed. "Did you see the one where she bought a motorcycle?"

"What... what?" Kurt sputtered. "Who is that? Who are they talking about?"

"Not Kelly Bundy, Laura Bell Bundy," Rachel clarified. "The Broadway star? She was the original Elle Woods in Legally Blonde: The Musical!"

Brittany and Santana both continued to stare at her, blankly.

Kurt shook his head in bafflement. "Why are we friends with them?" he asked Rachel.

"All right, well, leaving aside the appalling state of your theatrical knowledge," Rachel continued, undaunted. "I think even you two will be able to appreciate this news."

"Are you sitting down?" Kurt asked, excited again.

Confused, Brittany glanced down at their bodies as though to confirm that they were, in fact, sitting down. "Yes."

Rachel went on. "It turns out, Brittany, that the faculty saw you dancing in the revue the other night, and they were very impressed, to say the least. They couldn't stop gushing about you today. And not only that, but with a little prompting from yours truly - "

Kurt cleared his throat.

"Ours truly," Rachel corrected, gesturing to both of them. "Professor Barrett would like to offer you an audition." She stopped, waiting for the reaction.

Brittany still seemed to be waiting for something, though. "An audition for what?"

"For admittance," Kurt explained. "To NYADA."

"Oh my God." Santana turned to her, stunned. "Britt... that's amazing."

"It's very rare," Rachel added. "This is not a school that seeks people out. They're inundated with overqualified applicants every year."

"But the fact that you've already been involved in a production will give you a major leg up," Kurt said. "Not to mention that you have the two of us as references, and I don't want to toot my own horn, but... we do have a little pull there. Your chances of getting in are really good."

"Of course, you wouldn't start until next fall. You'd be in the class below ours." Rachel paused, as if realizing that Brittany still hadn't said anything. "So... what do you think?"

"I... I don't even know what to think." The expression on her face was a mixture of wonder, bewilderment, but also a slight hint of something almost like dread. She looked like somebody who'd just gotten news of an unexpected pregnancy.

"I have to say, I thought there'd be a little more enthusiasm," Kurt chuckled, trying to sound good-humored, but obviously a bit perturbed.

"No, I'm sorry, you guys, it's awesome." Brittany stood now, moving toward them for a hug. "Thank you so much." Pulling away, she added, "It's just, like, a huge surprise, you know? I never even considered going to that kind of school."

Rachel smiled at her. "Well, I guess it's time to consider it."

"I will." She nodded. "I'll think about it."

"This is a huge opportunity for you," Kurt added.

Just then, a carriage drawn by two thin, tired-looking horses appeared on the nearby path, circling around the fountain. Rachel watched the driver, her gaze turning from pleasant to murderous.

Seeing what she was about to do, Kurt put a warning hand on her arm. "Restrain yourself," he cautioned her.

She forced herself to look casual. "I'm fine."

"We need to go anyway, it's getting late," he said, trying to distract her. "I wants to get my Downton Abbey on."

Santana gave him a skeptical, mildly pitying look.

"I can't pull that off, can I?" he asked, self-conscious.

"You really can't," she assured him.

"Well, we'll let you get back to your picnic," Rachel said. "We just had to share the good news. We'll see you guys at home."

Santana raised her fingers in a brief wave as the two of them took off down the path, arm in arm. But before they'd made it too far, predictably, Rachel broke away and headed after the carriage driver to give him a piece of her mind. "Rachel," Kurt hissed, having no choice but to chase her. "Rachel!"

Shaking her head as she turned away from their slapstick spectacle, Santana watched Brittany as she sank back onto the blanket, processing the news she'd just received.

"This is just... wow," she said to herself, her gaze turned inward.

"See, what did I tell you?" Santana insisted. "You were the star of the show."

With an effort, Brittany brought herself back to her surroundings. She gave Santana a searching look. "Do you think I should do that audition?"

"Well, yeah. I mean... why not?" She tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible. If Brittany was at NYADA, it would solve so many of her problems. Or maybe not problems, so much as fears. "And hey, you'd finally have a place to make tons of friends, like you were talking about before. Of course, they're all freaks of nature, but you don't care about that."

Brittany smiled, but there a tinge of reserve in it, or possibly worry. She took a deep breath. "I guess I'll do it, then."

Gazing at her, Santana suddenly looked down fast, as if battling emotion, or at least trying to hide it. "I'm so proud of you," she said, just above a whisper. "And, okay, maybe just the tiniest bit jealous. The way things are going, you'll probably have a stage career before I even get another job."

Brittany laughed a little. They both seemed to have agreed to pretend that the earlier conversation had never taken the darker turn that it had. For once, Kurt and Rachel's uninvited interruption had proved to be a blessing in disguise.

Santana picked up the still mostly-full champagne bottle. "Let's finish this." She poured fresh glasses for each of them, then raised hers in a toast. "To my insanely talented girlfriend."

Smiling, Brittany raised her own glass. "And mine too."

They drank.

---

For the rest of the afternoon and evening they were very careful to edge around any mention of the words that had nearly soured their perfect day at the park. Exhausted after the long hours spent out in the open air, they went to bed early, knowing that tomorrow, there was no putting off the real world any longer. So Santana was more than a little concerned when she woke up in the middle of the night to find that the spot next to her in the bed was empty. She reached over to feel it by instinct, checking to see whether it was still warm or not. It wasn't.

She got out of bed and went searching, worried that Brittany had had some kind of relapse and was sick again. But the bathroom was empty. So she continued on into the living room. Relieved, she saw that she was on the couch, watching TV. Or no, not TV. The glow wasn't bright enough for that, and it was coming from a source closer to her. It was her laptop, propped open on the coffee table.

"Hey." She approached as Brittany looked up at her. "What are you doing? It's like three in the morning."

"I couldn't sleep," she explained. "I thought it was because I had to pee, but then after I did, I still didn't feel like going back to bed."

Santana came nearer to settle next to her on the couch, turning her attention to the laptop screen. For a minute she stared at it in astonishment. "Britt, is this what I think it is?"

Brittany only grinned in reply.

"Oh my God, is this Pioneer Chat?" Santana couldn't repress her delight. "I forgot all about this."

"Last fall when you were gone, I put some of our old stuff onto my laptop, so I could watch it at school when I felt lonely," Brittany confessed. "Including all five episodes of Pioneer Chat. Plus the Fourth of July special."

"This show was like the Fondue for Two prototype," Santana recalled fondly. "And I seem to remember that I was always your guinea pig."

"Well, who else would do everything I told them to?" She nudged her. "Even my little sister wouldn't wear some of those outfits."

Santana shook her head wearily, acknowledging this truth. "I was whipped from day one."

On the laptop screen, the picture was shaky and out of focus. But then it seemed to settle on one spot, a pair of lawn chairs in a middle-class backyard. A thirteen-year-old Brittany appeared in the frame; tall, a bit gawky, wearing braces, but with an exuberance that overshadowed everything else, even the fact that she was dressed in a long, floral-printed calico dress with an apron.

"Hi, I'm Brittany S. Pierce, and welcome to this week's episode of Pioneer Chat, the show that takes you back in time to a land where cowboys and Indians fought each over the right to be NFL mascots, and where if you felt a funny burning down there, it was probably syphilis." She glanced off screen for a second, then went on. "I'm pleased to announce we have a very special guest with us today, so why don't we go ahead and bring her out? Fresh from her adventure of saving the Lewis and Clark expedition even without the benefit of affordable child care, please welcome my good friend... Sacajawea."

She waited, then made a gesturing motion with her hand, then hissed, "Santana." But still no one appeared.

"Just a minute." She smiled at the camera, then disappeared briefly. There were sounds of a whispered argument in the background, then Brittany returned, dragging the miserable and reluctant thirteen-year-old Santana by the hand. She was dressed like a stereotypical Indian maiden, in a fringed deer-skin tunic and matching leggings, with beaded moccasins on her feet. Her hair hung in two dark braids, and there were feathers above her left ear.

"Brittany, it doesn't fit," she complained. "The dress is too tight."

"Well, you didn't have boobs yet when I started making it in Home Ec last semester. They just came out of nowhere."

"I know." Santana stared down at them, pleased but also a bit doubtful. "I think one of them might be bigger than the other one," she confided.

"Really?" Brittany's interest was piqued. "Can I see it?"

"No!" Then she cast a suspicious look at the camera, before she looked away again, muttering after a few seconds, "Maybe later."

The two of them now sat down in the lawn chairs, and Brittany turned to the side a bit, facing her guest. "Okay so, Sacajawea, would you like to tell the viewers at home what you learned from your awesome expedition into the wilderness?"

Santana rolled her eyes a little. "The most important thing I learned is that men are stupid and useless, and you should never travel with them. Oh, and try not to get knocked up at fourteen."

Brittany shook her head slightly, then whispered, "That's not the line." But since it didn't appear that Santana was going to become more cooperative, she smiled at the camera again. "Let's move on to the quiz portion of the show." She took a sheaf of index cards out of her apron pocket, reading the one on top. "Question one. Which animal would be the most fun to shoot from a stagecoach window; a buffalo, or a bison? Sacajawea?"

"I don't know." Santana sighed, clearly bored. "A bison?"

"It was a trick question, they're the same thing. Your ancestors would be ashamed of you."

"My ancestors were from Puerto Rico! There's no buffalo there." Uncertainly, she added, "At least I don't think there are."

Undaunted by Santana's attitude, Brittany now dragged a plastic storage container over toward them, saying with enthusiasm. "Okay, now is the portion of the show where we make dolls out of cornhusks. And then, we'll have a funeral for them when they all die of yellow fever and dysentery."

"Brittany, can't we just go swimming? It's really hot."

On the couch in New York, Santana couldn't help feeling vaguely annoyed at her preteen self. Smiling, she turned to look at Brittany. "Sorry about that," she said.

"It's okay." She now seemed a bit distant, though, like something was on her mind.

Santana looked at her closer, at her wistful features illuminated in the glow of the computer screen. The room beyond the circle of light was black, which trapped them inside it and gave it an isolating quality, causing Santana to shiver a little. "Is everything all right, Britt? What made you want to watch this in the middle of the night, anyway?"

"I don't know," she said softly, not looking away from the laptop, where the two younger versions of themselves were now busy making cornhusk dolls. In a musing tone, she asked, "Do you ever think that you can know your whole life what you want to do, but you don't know that you know it? Until something happens and then all of a sudden you realize... even though it may be too late?"

Puzzled, Santana tried to make sense of this. She thought she caught a glimmer of what she must be referring to, but she wasn't sure. "You mean, like, dancing?"

Brittany waited a second before responding. But she seemed somehow disappointed. "Yeah. I guess so."

"If you're worried about that audition, you shouldn't be. You're gonna do amazing. There's no doubt in my mind."

She finally looked over at her, appreciative. "Thank you."

They turned their attention back to the screen, where the dolls had now been completed and then honored with a proper burial. The setting had changed from the backyard to a rural area, a wooded creek bank, probably the one a few blocks from Brittany's house. On the ground near the water was a pile of firewood.

Brittany was addressing the camera again. "Today Sacajawea and I are going to demonstrate to you at home how to light a fire using only sticks. That way, if you're ever trapped in a mountain pass during a blizzard, you can cook your friends and neighbors before you eat them."

She gestured Santana over to the pile. Still looking like she'd rather be anywhere else in the world, Santana nevertheless squatted down obediently and began swiveling one of the sticks between her palms, trying to ignite a piece of wood with the friction.

Watching from the couch, Santana couldn't help laughing at her irritated image on the screen. "I remember you tried to get Mr. Boyd to let us do this in history class in 7th grade."

"Yeah... they made me talk to the guidance counselor after that. They thought I was a pyromaniac."

"Morons," she said with scorn. Had anybody even been paying attention to the fact that Brittany actually liked learning, if only she could do it in her own way, and not the way the teachers insisted on? What kind of difference might it have made to her school career if someone had taken all that passion and curiosity and tried to make use of it? If someone had even bothered to try to figure out how her mind worked? Santana felt a little bit to blame, herself, but she knew there was only so much another kid could be expected to notice. It was the adults who were at fault. She wanted to go back in time and give them all an epic Lima Heights rant.

"You always had the most creative ideas," she told her, realizing how true it was.

Brittany seemed skeptical. "That's one word for them."

"It's the right word," she insisted firmly.

Now Brittany leaned over against her, settling into her lap and resting her head there. Santana stroked her hair as they watched the remainder of the video.

Increasingly frustrated by the fire that refused to light, thirteen-year-old Santana exclaimed, "Brittany, I can't do this anymore, my hands are starting to bleed!" They weren't, of course.

"Okay, well, let me find a better stick. Maybe that one was damp."

When her back was turned, Santana pulled a box of matches out of a backpack lying nearby on the ground, swiftly lighting the gathered leaves underneath the woodpile. By the time Brittany returned, the flame had caught and was crackling, spreading to the rest of the pile. Santana concealed the matches in her deerskin leggings, just in time.

"You did it!" Brittany said proudly. "See, I knew it would work." She pulled her to feet and swooped her around. Finally coming out of her petulant shell, Santana giggled and squealed a little, gazing at Brittany with unadorned affection. Then she remembered the camera and became self-conscious again, stepping away to put some distance between them as she smoothed the tunic down.

Now Brittany faced the screen again, delivering her closing words. "Well, that's all for today's episode. Join us next time on Pioneer Chat, when we'll be attempting to ford a raging river in a covered wagon filled with children. I'm still working on getting the necessary permits." She gave one final parting smile. Then, since there was no one else to do it, she disappeared from the picture, and the camera was lifted, the image going wobbly.

But before the power could be turned off, Santana appeared in the frame again. She was facing in the opposite direction, standing on the edge of the bluff that overlooked the creek, her silhouette backlit against the rosy sunset. Brittany lowered the angle back down again, so that she was filming her almost as if from below. Zooming in now on her profile and shoulder, the picture revealed the breeze lifting a few tendrils of her hair that had come loose from the braid. A ray of the sinking sun caught in one of the hoops of the feathered earrings she wore, refracting and shimmering off the edge of it. Unaware that she was being filmed, her expression was serene and thoughtful.

But eventually, she noticed that Brittany had been silent for a while, so she turned to see what was taking so long.

"Is it off yet?"

"Just a second. Stay right there, don't move."

"What?" She looked confused. "Why?"

Brittany waited a minute before answering, getting in a few more seconds of footage. "You look really pretty."

Now Santana rolled her eyes, pleased but embarrassed. "That is so gay."

"So?"

Impatient, she sighed. "If you turn it off, I'll show you my boob. The big one."

There was a brief hesitation, then the screen went blank.

Now, on the laptop, Brittany's background wallpaper appeared, a photoshopped image of Lord Tubbington on a jet ski. (At least Santana assumed it was photoshopped. With that cat, you never knew.)

She stretched a bit, realizing she'd been more absorbed in the video than she'd thought. Amused, she said, "I can't remember if I showed you the boob or not, can you?" She waited a second, but there was no response. "Brittany?"

She seemed to have fallen asleep. Santana gazed down at her, still stroking her hair. She had the sudden disturbing feeling, or rather premonition, that there was something going on with her, something that wasn't just going to go away on its own. She'd seen little glimpses of it lately, but as was usual when something unnerved her, she'd been trying to ignore it. Something was bothering Brittany, though, that much was clear. Something was on her mind. It wasn't just homesickness, though that was obviously part of it. But what?

Maybe she should wake her up right now, and they should get it all out in the open, whatever it was - right here, in the middle of the night. Say everything they'd been holding back for too long, deal with all the insecurities, or whatever the hell it was that seemed to be coloring, just slightly, just a tinge, so many of their interactions lately. She paused, her fingers twined around Brittany's hair, and almost did it. She almost woke her up. But in the end, she couldn't. Because that was the thing about fears. Once they were spoken, once they were out there, you couldn't put them back. And the truth could change everything.

So instead, she reached out, careful not to move too abruptly or wake her up, and lowered the lid of the laptop, cloaking the room in darkness.

She bent her head forward, pressing her lips into Brittany's hair as she breathed, "I love you so much." Then she settled into the couch, content to spend the rest of the night there.

---

Friday afternoon, finally. The last three days of the week, after so much downtime, had seemed to stretch out forever. But now it was officially weekend, for all of them. No more dogwalking or classes for two glorious, hopefully puke-free, days.

Brittany sat at the kitchen table, slouched down a bit in her chair, her bare feet propped on the seat of the chair across from hers. Her application materials for NYADA were spread out on the table in front of her. She was supposed to be filling them out, but instead, at the moment, she was focused on the dilemma of the Rubik's cube which she'd stolen from the backstage green room the previous week. She was no closer to solving it than she had been then.

Kurt came into the room to get a bottle of water from the fridge and noticed what she was doing. "Really, Brittany?" he asked, doubtful but sympathetic.

She sighed. "I know." She laid it on the table, deciding to take a break.

"Actually, that reminds me," he said. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about something."

But before she could reply, two argumentative voices drifted toward them from the hallway.

"Forget it!" Santana was saying. "I'm not going out with you dressed like that. You look like an Old Navy commercial!"

They came into the kitchen, just in time for Rachel to reply. "I don't have time to change, we're already late! And how do you think I feel? You look like the Kardashians' barrio stepsister!"

Santana crossed her arms in grudging respect for this insult. "Did you just now come up with that?"

"No," Rachel admitted, sheepish. "I thought of it two weeks ago. I've been waiting for the right chance to use it."

"I thought so." Santana circled the table and wrapped her arms around Brittany from behind. "I guess we're off," she said with regret, acting as though she didn't want to leave. But she wasn't fooling anyone; it was obvious that she was looking forward to the chance to sing.

The two of them were headed to a wedding reception in ritzy Westchester County, where Santana had been booked, with Rachel's influence, as the official entertainment. Once she'd received the belated news about Santana's job loss, she'd seemed to want to make up for lost time, practically assigning herself the role of talent agent. To everyone's surprise, this job had come along almost immediately. For two hours of singing, give or take, Santana would earn as much as she earned in a month at the club. It was too much money to pass up.

"I still don't understand why I can't go," Brittany said.

"Brittany, it's somebody's wedding, you can't just tag along. It's rude," Rachel explained to her, in a tone that indicated it wasn't the first time she'd said it. "Don't worry, I'll look after her for you."

Brittany managed to give her a strained, somewhat ironic smile. "Why do you get to go?"

"Because they're friends of my parents, and I was invited. Haven't we been over this?"

"I'll try to steal some of those little pastel mints for you, okay?" Santana promised.

"Okay," she said, giving her a sincere smile. "You look hot, by the way." She tilted her head backwards for an upside down kiss.

"None for me?" Kurt asked.

Obligingly, Santana and Rachel circled around the table and delivered simultaneous smooches to each side of his face. He cringed. "When will I learn that joking about it makes it happen?" Grabbing a napkin from the basket on the table, he went to work wiping the lipstick off.

"Bye," Brittany said, as they headed out. "Have fun."

From the front entryway, their voices drifted back into the kitchen again. "You're taking an umbrella? What are you, ninety? It's not even cloudy out."

"Oh, okay, good, I guess that means that if it rains, you won't be expecting to share it."

Finally, the door closed, and the apartment fell silent.

Brittany picked up her Rubik's cube again, already bored, but then noticed that Kurt seemed to be enjoying some kind of private amusement. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing." But of course he couldn't resist sharing. "It's just that Santana is going to lose it when she finds out precisely what this gig entails."

"What do you mean?" Brittany looked concerned. "I thought she was just the wedding singer."

"Oh, she is. But it's a gay wedding. Two men."

Brittany shrugged. "And?"

"And... apparently, they want her to pretend to be a drag queen." He paused, enjoying this too much. "A Cuban drag queen, named Tess Tosterone. With a Carmen Miranda fruit hat."

At this bit of information, Brittany raised her eyebrows and then after a second pressed a hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh.

"Exactly," Kurt said. "Rachel's not planning to tell her until they're on the train. That way she can't escape."

"Oh my God." Brittany couldn't seem to help finding the idea hilarious, in spite of herself.

In agreement, Kurt mused, "To be a fly on the wall when that little detail is revealed."

She laughed, picturing it. Then she couldn't help adding, "I never understood that expression, though. Like, why would anybody want to be a fly? If you're gonna be lurking around on the wall, you might as well be something fun, like a monkey. Or a ninja. Or a ninja monkey." Her words trailed off and her gaze became faraway as she contemplated the potential awesomeness that a ninja monkey would present to the world.

"Brittany?" Kurt snapped his fingers.

"Sorry," she said, forcing herself back to reality. "What did you want to talk about, anyway?"

To get them started, he began in a roundabout way. "Here's a question for you. What would you say you're most afraid of?"

"Me? Um... gosh, that's a tough one." She reflected for a minute. "I guess it would probably be those automatic-flush toilets in public bathrooms. Because it's like... how do they know when you're done? Is there some tiny man in there whose job it is to keep track of everything that comes out? And if so, how come sometimes he flushes it right when you're in the middle of going? Is that his idea of a joke?" In a confiding tone, she told Kurt, "Sometimes, I just pee a little in each stall, to try to trick him. It takes a lot longer, but I think it's worth it. And don't even get me started on the sinks that know when your hands are there."

She paused. "So, yeah, I guess that's what I'm most afraid of. Either that, or... you know, dying alone because Santana realizes that she can do better than me, and she falls in love with someone who's smarter and more talented and more driven and who never wants to leave New York, and I spend my whole life trying to find another person who understands me the way she does. Which is impossible, because nobody could ever understand me the way she does." She finished up and stared at the table for a second. "That, or the toilets. It's too close to call. Why, what are you most afraid of?"

Kurt continued to look at her for a long drawn-out moment, baffled into silence. Finally, he forced himself to speak. "Suddenly it doesn't seem that important."

"Well, then... this was a really weird subject for you to bring up, Kurt," she told him casually, preparing to stand up from the table.

"Wait." He held up his hand to stop her. Trying to collect the thoughts that had been scattered during her unexpected confession, he began again. "Why don't we try this again. I guess I just wanted to ask for some advice, if you don't mind."

She settled into her chair again, surprised. "You want advice from me?"

"Well, you and I do have a history of helping each other out." He thought for a second, then in the interest of truthfulness, revised this to, "All right, technically, you have a history of helping me out."

"That's true," she acknowledged. "Okay, lay it on me."

He laid his palms flat on the table, looking nervous. "What would you say if I told you that I'm seriously considering not returning to NYADA next year?"

Her eyes widened a little, but she seemed more thoughtful than surprised. "I'd say... why? I mean, you worked so hard to get in there. I thought it was like your dream."

"It was. But... I think I'm starting to realize that dreams can change. Lately I feel more at home when I'm behind the scenes, or working on my own projects... sometimes I'm even resentful when I have to spend time in class. It just doesn't feel right there, anymore. Not to mention that there's so much competition, for every little thing. You have no idea how cutthroat it is, Brittany. Oh sure, everyone's ready to burst into song at the drop of a hat, and there's no shortage of people who can understand even my most obscure Judy Garland references, which is always nice. But when it comes to fighting for roles, it's like a dogfighting ring. Kill or be killed."

At this, Brittany stared down morosely at her application materials. Kurt didn't seem to notice.

Then, as if it had just occurred to him, he added, "And by the way, don't mention any of this to Rachel. I haven't told her yet. That's a conversation I'm not looking forward to."

"Rachel," Brittany repeated with distaste. "I'm so sick of everything being about her. You know, sometimes I think we would all be better off if we just pretended she didn't exist."

Kurt was a bit taken aback by this.

"No, hear me out," she went on. "We all just start ignoring everything she says, and we put bottles of pills all over the apartment, so she'll think that all along she was just a figment of our imaginations, and now that we're taking the right medication, we can't see her anymore."

"Brittany Susan Pierce, that is completely cruel and twisted. And I have to admit, it does sound like a lot of fun."

She gave him an innocent shrug. "Just something to keep in mind, that's all I'm saying."

"Anyway." He sighed. "What I'm trying to say is, I think I'm a decent performer. But I don't want something that I love to be ruined by the stress of constantly fighting for scraps and, most of the time, not getting them. That's what I'm most afraid of. And I want to do something that I can be great at, not just decent. Even if I'm not sure what that is yet."

Brittany smiled at him. "Then I think that's really brave."

"Really? You're not just saying that because I'm your unicorn?"

"Nope," she shook her head. "That's why I'm telling you the truth." She went on, contemplative. "Yeah, cuz... you shouldn't do something that doesn't feel right, just because it's what everyone else expects you to do. Even if it is something you're good at." Then she paused, hearing these words out loud, as if listening to them for the first time, herself.

"Thank you," he said, not noticing her distraction. "I guess I just needed to hear it from someone else."

She gave him a friendly nod of acknowledgement.

"Well," Kurt said, changing the subject. "Since you've helped me with my little dilemma, I was thinking that I could... reciprocate now."

She thought about this, giving him a strange look. "Don't you need to be alone for that? I mean, I don't mind, but- "

"What?" He was alarmed. "No, no, Brittany. To reciprocate means..." He shook his head. "Never mind. I was just curious about what you said earlier, about Santana." He gave her a concerned look. "Did you really mean all that? Are you honestly worried that she might fall for someone else?"

Brittany waited a beat before replying. It looked as though she was debating with herself about what to reveal. After a minute, she said with deliberate casualness, "Nah, I was just kidding. You know you can't take everything I say seriously."

He waited, not entirely believing it, but not knowing how much to press her. "Well, good," he said slowly. "Because you have to know that's insane. I've never seen anyone so head over heels for another person."

She smiled a little, grateful. "Thanks."

He stood, preparing to head back into the living room. "If you ever do feel like talking about it, though... or anything for that matter, you know where to find me."

"Kurt?" she said, stopping him before he left the room. She stared down at the application on the table, and then seemed to make up her mind. "Actually, there is something I want to talk to you about."

Intrigued, he sat down again, waiting.

---

Monday afternoon, Santana and Brittany were walking close beside each other down the busy sidewalk of 60th Street, heading toward the main NYADA classroom building.

"It's still frizzy, isn't it?" Santana asked. "Just tell me the truth."

"Santana, it's not." Brittany pulled her hand away from her hair. "Stop messing with it."

Santana reluctantly restrained herself from raising her hand to her head again. She was still convinced her hair had been damaged by the five stubborn minutes she'd delayed before agreeing to share Rachel's umbrella during the freak downpour on the way home Friday night.

They'd reached the front entrance. "Okay, well, here we are," she said with anticipation in her voice, holding the door open for Brittany.

Brittany ducked inside, looking nervous. The door closed behind them, the sounds from the street suddenly cut off in the dim, cavernous hush of the front foyer. Classes were over for the day, but even so, there was faint music to be heard coming from various rehearsal studios.

"Um, I'm supposed to go to the Greenberg room?" Brittany said uncertainly, looking around.

"Oh, I know where that is, it's upstairs. It's a smaller theater. Perfect for auditions."

Santana led the way, taking Brittany's hand as they reached the top of the stairwell. When they'd found the miniature theater and entered through the backstage door, she checked her watch. "We're a little early. Are you just supposed to wait here?"

Brittany was looking around, distracted. "What?" she asked. "Oh, yeah. Probably."

Santana made sure they were alone, then said, "Okay, so, if you ever tell anyone about this, I'll never speak to you again. But I have a good luck charm for you." She pulled out her compact mirror and opened it up, extracting from it what looked like a tiny, fragile green leaf. "It's a real four-leaf clover," she explained. "I saw it in a flower bed on my way to class this morning. And even though I'm not down with this superstitious stuff, I know you are. So... here." She held it out.

But Brittany just stared at the clover, looking guilty. She started to say something, then stopped.

"What?" Santana asked, awkward now. "This is too corny, even for you, isn't it." Humiliated, she started to put the clover away. "God, I should have known it would be..."

"No, it's not," Brittany protested, stopping her. "It's so, so sweet." She paused, then forced herself to go on. "And you're gonna be so mad at me. But try not to be, okay? Because I've been thinking a lot about this, and I know it's the right thing."

"What are you talking about? Why would I be mad?"

"Okay, here's the thing." Brittany took a deep breath and let it out before she continued. "We didn't come here today for me to audition for NYADA."

"What?" Santana looked at her like she was crazy. "Of course we did."

"No." She shook her head. "We came here... for you to audition for NYADA." She cringed a little, waiting for the response.

"Brittany." Santana looked like someone trying to understand a foreign language. "That doesn't make any sense. They don't want me."

"They do, though. Kurt helped me put together a reel of you performing. We used some stuff from high school, and some from your job at the club. Oh, and this one clip I'd never seen before from the fall, where you were belting Out Tonight from Rent up on the fire escape. I think you must have been super drunk, but it was still fierce."

It took a second for her to call up the memory. "Oh my God, they were filming that?"

"Well, it's a good thing they were, because apparently it impressed the faculty here. They said they'd love to see you. And you can fill out the rest of the application stuff later."

"But... this doesn't make any sense, though." She was still bewildered. "This whole thing was about you. You were amazing the other night. They asked for you."

"I know." She looked down and sighed. "It's hard to explain." But then, when Santana still seemed to be waiting for some attempt at an explanation, she continued. "I love dancing, I do. I hope I can do it until the day I die. Maybe I'll drop dead in the middle of crunking or something." She paused, trying to think of the right words. "But... the thing is, it doesn't matter to me if I'm dancing in front of people, or if I'm completely alone, in my bedroom, in my underwear. I don't care if people are watching. I just do it because I love it. But you..." she stepped closer, to emphasize her words. "Santana, you're a performer. I've seen how you work an audience. You just come alive when you're on stage, it's like watching magic." She corrected herself. "It's not like magic, it is magic."

"Okay, yeah," Santana admitted. "I like an audience. I like people watching me. But seriously, NYADA?" She gestured around the room, then lowered her voice. "This place is ridiculous."

"I know you make fun of it all the time, but you know you love it here," Brittany persisted. "You know where everything is, you know all the people... Kurt said that before I came to New York, you hung around here more than some of the students did."

Embarrassed, she shifted her gaze away, muttering, "I was lonely."

"Yeah, but... there's a reason it keeps drawing you back. Some people are just meant to be up there, on stage, under the lights. You miss it," Brittany said coaxingly. "I know you do."

"But I already have a school."

"I know, and if you still want to take those classes, you could do it at night, or in the summer. You don't have to choose."

It was obvious that Santana was tempted. But then she called herself back to her senses, "Brittany, no," she said, still baffled by this unexpected offer. "I can't let you do this. I won't let you give this up for me. It's too much."

"I'm not giving anything up." Her tone was firm. "I thought about it, and I just, I don't want to go to school here. I don't." She shrugged. "It wouldn't be just dancing. It's singing, and acting, and... being around Rachel every day. And there's so much competition. You know I hate it when people are mad at me. It's just not the right place for me."

Santana continued to stare at her, searchingly, trying to detect any crack in the armor. "Are you sure about this?"

"I'm sure," she nodded. "It was so cool to be asked, but it's not the right fit. But..." she added, with a slight air of mystery. "I'm starting to figure out some other things that might be."

"Yeah?" Santana asked, interested.

Before Brittany could elaborate on this, though, a man poked his head around from the front, wearing a scarf that even Kurt would probably consider too gay. "Santana Lopez?" he said, checking his clipboard. "We're ready for you."

"She'll be right out," Brittany said.

The man disappeared, but Santana still didn't seem convinced.

"Look, it's up to you," Brittany said. "I mean, maybe being a wedding singer is enough to satisfy you. I hear that your Tess Tosterone persona was a big hit."

She closed her eyes for a second, embarrassed, but as if she'd known this news would leak. "I will kill her."

Brittany smiled, unable to help the amusement. "I just want you to know, I totally understand if you don't want to do this. I'll support you no matter what."

Santana sighed, staring at the closed curtain that divided the backstage area from the theater. In a quiet voice, she finally admitted, "I do want to."

Brittany smiled, vindicated. "I know."

Then a shadow of doubt passed over her features. "But I don't have anything prepared."

"I should have given you more warning, I know, but I was afraid you wouldn't come." Trying to instill confidence, she said, "Come on, you're a pro. Just pretend you're at work. Or maybe you could show 'em how Anita's really supposed to be done," she suggested.

A sly smile played around Santana's lips as she contemplated how potentially satisfying that could be. Eventually, she looked back up at Brittany. Just above a whisper, she told her, "I don't deserve you."

"Yeah, that's probably true," she said jokingly.

They laughed and pressed together for one of those smiling, wrinkled-nose kisses. But it had to be quick. "You'd better get out there," Brittany murmured to her.

She turned, but then looked back at her to add. "I'm gonna make this up to you."

Brittany smiled after her. "Go knock 'em dead."

Santana neared the curtain, then stopped just behind it. She drew in a deep, calming breath, gathering herself together, reminding herself that she was a star. This was it. This was her shot. This moment could change her entire life. Then she pushed the curtain aside and stepped out onto the stage.

---

"Come on down!" The words were coming from the living room, shrill and insistent. "Come on down!"

Brittany closed the front door behind her, dropping her shoulder bag in the entrance hall, and poked her head around the doorway.

"Hey, Monty," she said to the parrot, who was perched on top of the flat screen television.

"Come on down!" he repeated to her in welcome.

She came closer. "I see you've been watching The Price is Right again."

As if to elaborate on this, he did a pitch-perfect imitation of the game show's signature wheel spinning and then slowing down.

"Wow, that's very impressive," Brittany told him, flopping onto the couch. But her enthusiasm seemed to be forced. Worried that he would be offended, she said, "I'm sorry if it seems like I'm in a bad mood. It's not you. Some lady on the street just told me to go F myself again. And all I did was ask if she was related to Aunt Jemima, the pancake lady, because she looked just like her. But I guess she didn't want to talk about it."

Monty bent forward and pecked the surface of the television, which was tuned to an afternoon soap opera. "Playtex Gentle Glide. So comfortable you can't even feel them," he intoned.

She looked at him askance. "Are you trying to say that because it's that time of the month, I'm being sensitive and irrational? Because I find that really condescending, Monty. I would expect better from you."

He cocked his head at her, chastened.

"And besides, that's not the real reason I'm upset." She sighed, glancing around to make sure they were alone. "I had lunch with Millie today. I know Santana didn't want me to, but I'd already made plans, and I can't just cancel on somebody, it's not right." She paused, looking gloomy. "But I sort of wish I had, because..." She looked up at the bird. "Do you remember all that stuff I was telling you before, about how I thought something weird was going on with her and Rachel? Well, it turns out I was right. Back before you and me got here? Something did happen. It's the reason Santana started dating Millie in the first place, because it freaked her out so much."

At this news, Monty made a disturbingly realistic vomiting sound, picked up from the weekend when they were all sick.

"Yeah, I know," Brittany agreed. "That's pretty much how I feel when I think about it. I just don't understand why she didn't tell me. We tell each other everything. But it must have happened. Because I mean, why would Millie lie? I think she really likes me." She sighed again.

"Mike's Hard Lemonade," the parrot said. "Always different, always refreshing."

"That sounds good, but I think it's too early to drink," she said, sounding glum. "I hope you haven't had any. You shouldn't drink and fly. Just in case, why don't you go back in your cage."

She got up and let him climb onto her hand, then walked him over to the cage, closing the metal door after him. He regarded her from his perch, like a therapist waiting for the patient to continue.

Brittany moved to the side of the cage and stared out the window. "I know I shouldn't be stressing out about this," she said. "It was a long time ago, and it probably didn't mean anything. But it's just... once something like that happens, you never know when it could happen again. That's how it works with people," she clarified, turning back to the bird. In a defeated tone, she added, "And if there's one thing I know about Rachel Berry, it's that if she wants something, she won't stop until she gets it."

Returning to an old favorite at the mention of this name, Monty said, "The Tony Award goes to Miss Rachel Berry."

"Yeah. That's exactly what I mean." She leaned her forehead against the narrowly spaced bars of the cage, heedless of the indentations they would make against her skin. "Anyway. I think I'm gonna go back to Lima with Mr. Bloom. I know Santana doesn't want me to, but I just feel like I could use a little break from this place. And then if I come back..." she stopped, looking guilty. "I mean, when I come back, I'll be able to look at everything with a clearer head. Sometimes you just need some distance, you know?"

Out of nowhere, the parrot began singing the Meow Mix cat food jingle. "Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow..."

"Aww, that's so sweet, you're trying to cheer me up," Brittany said, smiling a little. "You're looking forward to meeting Lord Tubbington, aren't you? I think you guys are gonna be best friends. And in the worst case scenario that he tries to eat you? Just offer him some drug money. I think he'll listen to reason."

Suddenly, a short squeal and then a loud female laugh came from the direction of the bedrooms. Brittany turned, confused, then looked back at Monty again. "Wait, are they home? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Uh-oh," he said, clenching and unclenching his talons around his perch. "Uh-oh. Uh-oh."

"What?" She looked worried. "What's that supposed to mean? Are you trying to tell me something?"

But no more information proved to be forthcoming from the bird, so with an air of reluctance, she headed toward the hallway to investigate.

Another laugh rang out as she neared Rachel's bedroom door, which was closed. From behind it now came two distinct voices. The first was Santana's. "Have you ever even used one of these before?"

Then Rachel's awed reply. "Not one that big or fancy. How much did that cost?"

"I don't know, this one is Brittany's, actually."

From behind the door, Brittany's eyes widened slightly in alarm.

"I don't know about this." Rachel now sounded uncertain. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Do you even have to ask?" She waited, then sounded impatient. "Look, I thought you said you wanted to experiment."

"I do, but..."

"Then you're gonna have to move your fingers!"

Bewildered now, and heedless of the consequences, Brittany grasped the handle and pushed the door open... only to find Rachel seated in front of her vanity mirror, both hands protectively wrapped around her pinned hair, while Santana stood behind her with an upraised curling iron. Brittany's own curling iron, to be precise.

Startled by the sudden intrusion, Santana put one hand to her chest. "God, Britt... you shouldn't sneak up on someone with a rod of scorching metal in her hand."

Oblivious to any kind of problem, Rachel turned to showcase the small portion of her hair that was already done. "Brittany, what do you think? Is this too extreme? Does it make me look sexy?"

Santana forcibly shoved her down into the chair and turned her back around. "Okay, first of all, Gidget? I'm not finished. And second of all, I didn't promise any miracles up in here. There's only so much I can do."

Brittany stood there watching them for a second, perplexed. "What's going on? Did they reschedule the musical?"

"Oh, no, this isn't for Maria," Rachel explained. "It's just for me. I've decided that I need to try make my personal style more sophisticated and alluring. Without wigs," she added.

"Great," Brittany said, her tone ironic.

"Maybe you could help me with accessorizing, Brittany?" Rachel offered. "You have such a unique sense of style. I really admire it."

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know, I'm pretty busy lately."

"Oh." She tried not to sound hurt. "That's okay, I understand."

"Oh, that reminds me," Santana said. "I've got something for you." She laid the curling iron down on the vanity, instructing Rachel, "Don't touch that. I'll be right back."

Rachel reached toward it tentatively. "Maybe I could just -"

"Don't. touch. it," Santana repeated.

She sighed. "Fine."

Santana took Brittany's hand and led her across the hall into their own room, closing the door behind them. She looked excited about something. In general, she'd been in a pretty good mood for the last few days. Her NYADA audition had gone amazingly well, and even though she wouldn't know anything for certain for a few weeks, she had a good feeling about it.

Brittany hung back a little, observing her as she dug through her backpack. When Santana had found what she was looking for, she straightened up and came back toward her. But before she could reveal what she had, a shadow flickered across her face as she studied Brittany's expression.

"Is everything okay?" she asked. "You look sort of... I don't know. Sad, or something."

"It's just been a long day," Brittany said. "I'm tired, that's all." She smiled at her to prove it.

Relieved, Santana said, "Well, maybe this'll cheer you up." She took a deep breath, just the slightest bit nervous, and then after a brief hesitation passed over the pile of papers she'd taken from her backpack.

Brittany took them and turned them around, studying the embossed seal at the top of the first page. Out loud, she read, "Maurice Kanbar Institute of Film and Television." She looked up at Santana, startled. "What is this?"

"It's an application, and a course catalogue. For film school, Britt," she said gently. "It's an undergrad program at Tisch. It's for people who want to make movies, like you do."

Brittany looked down again at the materials, bewildered. "I don't understand. You actually think I could get into something like this?"

"Yeah, I think you can." She stepped closer. "I know you can. I mean, it'll take some preparation. You have to have a whole portfolio and everything. But I can help you with that. And Kurt and Rachel will too, I know they will."

She waited a minute, giving Brittany time to process the news. Then she continued. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said, about dancing. And I think you're right. You're an incredible dancer, Brittany. Probably the best I've ever seen. You make everybody next to you look like they're auditioning for Yo Gabba Gabba."

Brittany couldn't help smiling. "I love that show," she said.

"Yeah, well... even so. You blow everyone else out of the water. But I think you should be doing something where you can use that wonderful, creative, offbeat mind of yours. Because I want people other than me to be able to see how brilliant you are."

A faint blush of pleasure touched her cheeks. "What made you think of film school?"

Santana considered for a second before she answered. "I've been trying to pay more attention to things lately. Like the reason you were watching that video the other night. It was because you were afraid you wouldn't get to do stuff like that anymore if you took that audition, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Brittany said, as if only now realizing it herself. "I guess it was."

"I don't think I've been a very good girlfriend."

"Santana- " she started to protest.

"No, it's okay," she stopped her. "I haven't been. I've screwed up a lot of things. But I'm trying to do better. I want to help you do whatever it is you want to do. And..." she leaned forward and touched the application. "I think maybe this is what you want to do."

Brittany pressed her lips together, contemplative. "I think it is too," she after a minute, nodding. "Thank you," she whispered.

Santana looked at her more closely. "Brittany, are you crying?"

"No," she said, while wiping a tear away. "I just..." She stopped. "I don't know what I would do without you."

Touched by this, but also a little concerned, Santana moved in closer to pull her into her arms. "Then let's never find out," she said against her ear. They held each other tight, arms wrapped around each other, pressed as close as they could possibly get, both with their eyes squeezed shut.

Eventually, a voice broke into the stillness from outside the closed door. "Oh no. Oh no. Santana!"

Apologetic, Santana pulled away with a weary sigh. Rolling her eyes, she muttered, "She touched the curling iron."

There was a pause, and then Rachel's lifted voice came again from the room across the hall. "I touched the curling iron!" There was a brief, guilty silence. "I know you said not to, but I was only trying to help. I think I may have ruined the whole thing. Now I look like a Jewish Cindy Brady."

Shaking her head, Santana said with mild amusement, "I guarantee you she did it on purpose so that I have to stay in there with her longer."

But Brittany didn't seem to find it funny.

"Do you mind?" Santana asked.

"Of course not," she said. "Go ahead."

When she got to the door Santana looked back one more time. "You're sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah." She smiled again. "I'm sure."

But when she was gone, the troubled look returned to Brittany's face. She stared after her for a few seconds. Then slowly, she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. For a long time she sat there, staring at the application materials in her lap.