StphaniieC: Like I said- a pregnant Brittany irks me as much as the next person. Thanks for going to such lengths to review.

another anon: Haha, I most certainly appreciate that.

luceroadorada: Fluffy? FLUFFY? Lol, I suppose that on the scale from fluff to smut, this definitely leans to the former. I also agree that your friend is a little fucker (lol), and certainly appreciate you taking the time to read/review.

LoneGambit: Dude. Thank you so very much for your review. Honestly, it lets me know that at least one person actually reads a substantial portion of the excess wording in a fic. I'll most definitely do my best to keep up with the theme. Again, thank you for the wonderful compliments.

Author's Note: I apologize for this update being later than usual. The Fourth really put a damper on things. Especially since there were beers and well-mixed drinks that needed my attention. I hope everyone enjoyed the holiday. Updating will never take this amount of time again. (Side note: A special shout-out to The Wonder Years for their late-night inspiration.)

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

Knock. Knock. Knock. We stand and wait, wind rushing in every direction, riding out what is left of the most magical night known to man. It's easily become one of my favorites. But then again, the night is still young. I only realize this when the door barely opens, much like the last time I came looking for Santana. Two daunting eyes stand against the house's internal darkness. After a grueling standoff, it finally swings open, revealing a very petite Maribel Lopez.

The older woman wears a look of mock surprise, placing both hands on her checks. Mouth wide open. She even calls behind, "Honey, come here! There's someone at the door who looks exactly like our daughter."

Whatever joy I mentioned earlier has dissipated in a mere second. Santana must realize this as well, for she huffs and shifts underneath the weight of our luggage. When Dr. Lopez appears, he immediately plays into Maribel's charade. "Funny," he says, grabbing his chin and pointing it toward Maribel. "She does look an awful lot like Santana. But, wait. No. This can't be," he mutters, shaking his head. "The real Santana is doing fine on her own. Our daughter doesn't need us. Remember, sweetheart?"

"You've got it, dear," Maribel snickers. "Besides, when did her trusty sidekick start looking so sickly?"

Santana pulls us forward, pushing directly through her parents. "Around the same time they began making brooms in your size," she spits.

Dr. Lopez laughs this time. "We're just poking some fun. Welcome, girls. We've prepared beds. Santana, you can take the guest bedroom. And show Brittany to your old room."

Santana follows me upstairs, dropping my bags just beside the bedroom door. "You've got to be kidding me," she mumbles, surveying the barren area. "I didn't expect the Hilton, but an air mattress? Sweet hell. We can move down the hall, if you'd like."

We. I giggle, wanting to mention that my mother and I spent most nights sleeping on the ground. A blow-up mattress is about as upscale as it can get. But when Santana starts preparing for bed, I venture to say, "Maybe we should play by their rules. Just for the next week."

"Should we?" Santana pauses and asks, looking slightly deflated. "They never specifically said that we couldn't share a room," she continues pleading. I quickly realize that Santana has just begun to allow herself the occasional pleasure, and I'm snatching it away. So when she mutters a final, "Yeah. Sure thing," I catch her arm. Of course, knowing just how bad of an idea this is.

"Maybe you could sneak out of the window come morning?" I option. Santana's face transforms into a smile and she nods, clicking the door's lock before resuming our evening rituals.

At the apartment, we both keep to our respective sides of the bed. For the most part, at least. Santana on the left. Me on the right. But tonight, Santana drapes her arm over my stomach and clings on as if I might disappear in the night. Her face buried into the back of my neck. Every ounce of me screams to turn over. To look into her massive, brown eyes and assure that I'm not going anywhere. That I probably never will. Once again, though, a crumbled, frightened resolve wins out. The same fear I get every time she chokes out an "Of course" to a profession of love. A fear of scaring Santana away.

So I let her cling, knowing that aside from perennial secrecy, fear might be the only thing keeping us within arm's reach.

By morning, sunlight pokes through the far window, burning into my face. We're both still succumbed with tiredness when a voice cracks, "Breakfast is ready." My eyes shoot open, locking onto Maribel, who's twirling a set of keys around her finger. Santana merely grumbles when I give her a hard nudge. A few violent shakes later and she rolls over, hair splayed in every direction. Maribel still stands in the doorway. When Santana recognizes the situation, she groans and buries her head back into the pillow.

Downstairs, smells of exotic breakfast foods fill the air. I sit across from Dr. Lopez, who pours himself into the morning newspaper, while Santana prepares coffee. The meal ensues, equally filled with my embarrassment, pointless small talk, and growing tensions between the Lopez trio.

Afterward, Santana insists that she accompany me to work. It's the weekend, so I don't have to wait until tonight after the center closes. She's only looking for an excuse to get out of the house, but I let her tag along anyway.

Since a handful of classes are in progress, we can't blare her iPod over the studio speakers. But it doesn't stop Santana from reaching into the arsenal of songs she's committed to memory and belting them from upstairs. Her voice booms throughout the corridors and well into individual rooms. I sometimes lean against a wall and bask in the electricity of it all.

This carries on for the better part of three hours until our mops finally meet in the studio room. An individual space set aside for private lessons. Complete with a much smaller stereo system, a ballet barre, and slick, hardwood floors. Every dancer's dream. I goofily skate across the ground, mop in tow. "Dance with me, Santana," I say, extending a hand.

She shakes her head and hops onto the barre, which I'm surprised doesn't break under her full bodyweight. "I'm more content in watching."

So I cradle the mop handle like a dance partner and move across the room. Santana hums a tune for us to move to. We do until I'm out of breath, leaning against the barre. "Your mom seemed pissed this morning," I mention in between exhales.

Santana scoffs. "Menopause does that to a person."

In the walk home, I mentally prepare for dinner alone with her parents. I could probably just follow Santana's lead and go to her work, but she's still trying to hide the whole "I'm a waitress" thing. Besides, her parents are doing me a solid. The least I can do is share a meal with them.

Tonight, when Maribel finishes preparing some rice dish, I say, "Thanks a bunch for helping me out. It really means a lot."

They both look painful in smiling, like when you have to use the bathroom but can't. Maybe I should have skipped dinner. We cover the basics as far as the social worker is concerned. My story about Mom. Living with Santana. The works. I leave drinking and visiting Dr. Johnston out of the narrative. Dr. Lopez and Maribel's faces don't budge throughout my entire spiel.

Before coming here- each night, as I pour through the apartment's front door and into bed, Santana meets me with two white tablets and a tall glass. Where most people would expect a cup of warm milk or water, I know to expect vile liquid. It's the same routine in the mornings. A routine that is becoming more of a chore with each passing day. An annoyance. A regiment that Santana is adamant I keep to. If my time machine would ever start working, I'd go back six months from now and give Mom a firm "no" at her offering.

I could always tell Santana "no". Mention how the toilet beckons after like clockwork. But it's not that easy. Though we both received the same medical advice, it seems that two different messages came across in Dr. Johnston's office. Santana focused on the quitting aspect. The potential for its "detrimental" effects. Her concerns are strictly warranted by the doctor's orders. Stabbing pains in my abdomen, however, don't adhere to any external code.

She'll know if I don't medicate before bed. I have no idea how she does, but she does. And makes me double up in the morning if I don't. Since I finished off this week's bottle last night, (and slightly out of boredom) I decide to go searching. Dr. Lopez has a liquor cabinet in his study. I only know this because Santana used to raid it when I'd come spend the night.

I finally ninja my way into the dimly-lit office, finding that the cabinet's latch isn't sealed. So I have my pick of dark and white liquors, opting for a darker kind. All systems are a go when something catches my eye. On Dr. Lopez's desk lies a long, yellow legal paper of some sort. At the top, in bold letters, it reads: Official Testimonial Annulment. Dated nearly two years ago. I barely skim over it, spotting the italicized word "recant" multiple times.

I'm about to read more thoroughly when the overhead light flips on. Dr. Lopez stands by the switch, eyes tearing into me. "What's going on in here?" he asks, probably knowing the answer.

I clutch the bottle's neck behind my back. "Nothing," I tremble. "Thought this was the bathroom." Which is obviously a lie. I've only been to this house a million times.

"Run along," Dr. Lopez huffs, flipping the switch and stepping outside.

Time in the Lopez house is measured by days endured. Considering we've been here for all of one and it feels like a lifetime, minutes creep by at a painstakingly slow pace. Mostly, I lay on the air mattress for hours on end, waiting for Santana to scale through the window. Tonight, when she does, I don't mention earlier.

En route to Carey's apartment, a sickening feeling hits me. Probably the aftermath of my run-in with Dr. Lopez. Shot nerves. Queasy stomach. Dry throat. I clutch onto Santana's arm, feeling as if I might be carried away by a swift breeze. Smells of spaghetti once again penetrate our senses in the Washington home. It's odd, though, for after a quick hello with Carey, Bernadette gestures to me with a quizzical look. "George, who is your friend?"

I suddenly realize the issue. Bernadette has been doing so well about remembering, that it's hard for me to grasp when she suddenly can't. During the meal, the older woman wears the same face I get when my stomach is upset. The same face Santana's parents had at dinner. But I don't mention it.

Afterwards, I help with cleaning up when Bernadette doesn't invite me to her Christmas haven. "You're pretty fluent in legal jargon," I mention to Santana as we slave over the mess.

Santana dips her hands into the sink. "I'm no expert," she dismisses.

"Recant, though," I explain. "You know what that means, right?"

A plate crashes into the water and suds fly every which way. Santana grimaces, eyes fixated straight ahead. "I have no idea," she mutters, not once looking to me. "Why would you ask such a thing?"

"No reason," I shrug. "Heard it on Law and Order. Figured you might know."

In returning to the Lopezs', Santana's parents are arguing over something. Which is a long shot, for it's undoubtedly about last night. My snooping. When the door opens, however, they both put on smiles and cease to bicker.

The muffled quarrels resume once we're getting into bed. Santana pulls the covers over my head and says, "Just wait underneath here. I'll be back shortly," before tearing off downstairs.

After glee practice, Mr. Schuester calls me over to the piano, where he is reviewing over a handful of potential Nationals set lists. "We're in need of another member for Nationals this year. A stronger voice to tackle "Edge of Glory". You think Santana might be interested in a comeback?"

"I could ask," I say. "But there's no promising she'll agree."

Mr. Schue smiles and nods before saying, "Fair enough."

Outside the choir room, Santana waits like every other day, only her face is more somber than usual. "You're especially cheery," she points out. I feel my face contort at the comment. "Don't tell me you forgot what today is."

Nervous as to what I could have forgotten, I shake my head. It's not her birthday. Not my birthday. An of anniversary of some sort, perhaps? Hopefully the trip to wherever will jog my memory.

It doesn't take long for the jogging to begin, for a weight is dropped onto my chest at the realization. How could I have forgotten?

Cemeteries generally creep me out. But today, in regard to my lapse in judgment, Lima Memorial Cemetery is especially unsettling. We venture down the winding path, in between a sea of weathered headstones. When we near a block of marble reading "Pierce", I have to take multiple deep breaths to keep my composure.

Though it has been nearly ten years, visiting my dad's grave is still an emotional experience. I'm thankful that Santana regularly accompanies me on the trip. I would have never forgiven myself for forgetting.

We stand, soaking in the gentle breeze that flows past, staring at the pair of headstones. My dad's and Lord Tubbington's. When he died, it took an hour of violent sobbing for the owners to agree to allowing a cat's remains be buried alongside humans. Though with the shenanigans Lord Tubbington regularly pulled, he was as human as anyone else.

My words are never as eloquent or put-together as they should be for speaking graveside, so I typically keep quiet. Santana always helps, saying a few nice comments to Dad. She's even cordial with Lord Tubbington. Eventually, though, she breaks my trance and asks, "A penny for your thoughts?"

Since lying and fear have become our mutual ground to walk on, I figure pain can only strengthen the bond. The three are like our own communal Unholy Trinity. Besides, misery loves company, right? If that's the case, then I suppose Santana and I are each other's best bet. Equally miserable company. So I decide to spill, hoping that a momentary confession of burdens will somehow make the visit less dreary. Or calm the emotional whirlwind that engulfs me. Thoughts of Bernadette. Dr. Lopez and Maribel. Angela, the social worker.

"I've been thinking about my mom a lot recently. About where she is. Where she isn't. How she just took off without a goodbye. Her funeral could be tomorrow, and I would never know. She'll be here soon enough, I suppose. I really try to feel upset about thinking like that. Any kid should, right? But as much as I try, I can never seem to shake the relief that overcomes me. Every single time I think of my mother, buried six feet in the ground, a massive weight lifts from my shoulders."

I pause, waiting for a vocal tremble to surface. It doesn't. Instead, I feel a cold bitterness take over. "And then I see your parents. They're still around, sure, but harbor so much malice. Toward you. Toward me. Over what I did. It just makes me think. Which is worse: someone who doesn't bother sticking around or people that do, but subject you to all of their internal frustrations?"

The sun reflects off of Dad's headstone. Only now does a knot form in my throat. I inhale deeply, waiting for the gray slab to take on some sort life form. For my father to dig from the ground, laughing as if the past ten years have been one massive practical joke. "I just feel like the weight of everything is pulling me under," I confess. "Life is drowning me one fucking day at a time."

Santana shifts her gaze to match mine. She's biting her lower lip again. And a single tear falls down her cheek before she snaps to, trying to shake free of it. "Hey," she says, reaching just below my mouth and tilting it to the clear blue sky. "Chin up, and maybe you'll drown a little slower."

Wednesday night, as Dr. Lopez and Maribel's post-dinner confrontation begins, I lay in bed and look to Santana. Searching for answers that her face usually projects. She's let me have a third cup tonight, purely because of their arguing and how difficult it is to fall asleep with such distractions.

Santana's about to head downstairs for an intervention when I catch her arm. "Let them work through it."

"There's no need for all of this," she explains, shaking her head. "Some things never change."

I swallow, considering the territory that I'm about to venture into. No Man's Land. This is always the primary concern when walking on eggshells around other people. The speaker is exposed. Bare and vulnerable to the reality of their situation. In constant pain. Reminded with each step. Each jagged, fractured truth. I'm fully aware of my run-in with Dr. Lopez, and how he's yet to mention it to Santana. Besides, I'm in the business of giving second chances.

"Maybe they have, Santana. Give them some credit. They're still here, you know. They're changing. Or trying to, at least," I say. It's undoubtedly the last thing she wants to hear.

Surely enough, she looks entirely betrayed by my observation. And as expected, her features tense when she snaps, "Oh, like you've always been the best judge of character?"

It's reflexive but still stings. She could be referring to a mass of people, but I'm afraid that she only means one. The very one who has become nothing more than a ghost in my life. That fact hurts, too. But defensive-Santana doesn't recognize it. Defensive-Santana has tunnel vision. A narrow mind. "Need I remind you that this was your idea? I didn't ask to come here," I return.

"You're the only reason we had to," she sneers, pointing a finger in my direction.

Santana's temper would thwart off anyone else, but I know better. Fueled by the extra glass, I stand firm. "Are you trying to hurt my feelings? Because you're doing a damn good job."

This is enough to soften Santana's expression. Make her step back and reevaluate where the conversation is going. "I'm not trying to hurt you, B. It's just-" she stops, mulling over the next lines. "I'm not always going to be around. But people like my parents- they will. They'll put on a sincere face to hide the fact that they are sucking the marrow out of everything decent in this world. They're conniving. I'm just trying to open your eyes, while you're busy being stubborn and insistent on keeping the damn things closed. That's all."

"They're wide open," I explain. "And maybe I'm seeing more of certain individuals than I'd like to."

Santana's face drops. She huffs, extends her arms, shrugs, and then storms downstairs. I follow, shouting after her. "Quit running from me, Santana."

Dr. Lopez and Maribel carry on below, and Santana chimes into their grudge match while actively participating in ours. Heads dart from side to side, mouths quip in all directions. Then the doorbell rings, silencing each of us.

Never before have I seen a group of people collect themselves so quickly. Maribel straightens her shirt before opening the door, ushering Angela inside. I knew the visit would be a surprise, I just had no idea it would be this…surprising.

We settle on the couches and the meeting goes along well enough. Actually, it goes off without a hitch. For every question the social worker has, Dr. Lopez and Maribel have the perfect response. Toward what I assume to be the end, like icing on the cake, Maribel throws in a, "Any friend of Santana's is family to us. We love having Brittany around."

Angela eats the line up, closing her manila folder and signaling for me to follow. "You're a lucky girl, Ms. Pierce," she explains, standing in the doorway. "Most kids in your position aren't so fortunate."

I smile, feeling that 'lucky' might be a stretch. Tolerable? Sure. When she leaves, I turn to find that my tolerable roommates have evacuated the room. Everyone's sulked off to their rooms. Santana passes me on the stairs with her work bag and doesn't so much as breathe in my direction.

It shouldn't surprise me that later, there is no shuffling through the window. No dip in the mattress. So I grow restless. Tossing and turning because of everything I currently lack. A bodily tingle. Cloudiness of mind. The meeting completely sobered me up, making a chance at sleep nonexistent. And there's no protective arm around my body. Even pulling the covers over my head works to no avail.

The fidgeting becomes so irritating that I jump from bed and venture downstairs. More careful than last time I went on a late night adventure, of course. It's quiet and eerily dark, mind a lone lamp in the den's corner. Maribel sits in an armchair, skimming through a book. I cough once, not wanting to frighten the old woman.

"I- uh. Thanks again for tonight. With Angela," I ramble.

Maribel shifts her eyeglasses and places the book down. "Take a seat, Brittany," she says, patting the opposing recliner. When I do, she uprights like earlier. "I want to be very clear on something." Her words are cutting, making the room suddenly feel ten times colder. "Nothing from these past few days has been for you. No. You're being here was purely on Santana's behalf. For our stupid, stupid daughter."

"I don't understand," I mutter. "I-"

"Thought that Santana's friends are our family. I vividly remember. Make no mistake," she begins, "my daughter has far too much going for her. Potential. Had, at least, until you wandered in. Don't believe that for one second, we're going to step aside as you further ruin that potential."

I'm too speechless to respond. My silence must be taken as acceptance, for Maribel says, "Go to bed, Brittany," and reaches for her book.

Mr. Schuester keeps pestering me about Santana after practice. Making our need for her powerful voice sound urgent. Each time, I merely explain that the timing's bad. I don't have the heart to confess that I can't get a word across to her right now. Much less ask for a favor.

I walk home and to work alone, passing the Friday night diner on my way back. As hoped, Santana is inside, tending to a table, and sporting the biggest faux smile I've ever seen. Today passed especially slow, so I bee-line for bed, praying that sleep will speed things along. Once again, it avoids me. For the longest time, I yank the covers overhead and pretend that Santana will be back shortly.

Only she never does. Around three in the morning, I climb out on the roof, silently praying that she's out there, too. I'm alone. That is, until shadows form on the ground below, just outside of Dr. Lopez's office. Thankfully, he smokes cigars, thus leaving the window cracked open. I perch on the ledge, craning my neck to listen as three figures battle it out.

It's all in Spanish for the first little while. "Fine," Santana eventually spits, leaning over Dr. Lopez's desk. She clicks a pen and furiously scribbles on a long, yellow document. The same one I was caught looking at Saturday night. "I've signed the fucking papers. Are we free to go now?"

"It doesn't do any good now," Dr. Lopez admonishes.

Santana cackles. "Of course it doesn't, Dad. And it wouldn't have made any difference two years ago. Because I would still be with Brittany, and you'd still be in here, pouting over everything that could have been. Am I right?"

He takes a deep breath, much like Santana does when her blood rages. "As a parent, it's difficult watching your child make a mistake."

She cuts him off again. "A mistake?" Santana's voice is elevated even higher now. "I made a choice. Tell me, exactly what was this mistake? Was it taking the fall for her, or simply being with Brittany?"

A smaller voice chimes in this time. I assume it to be Maribel. "What your father is trying to say is that maybe Brittany isn't who she used to be. She's got a lot of baggage, Santana. And we're afraid that it's only going to drag you down." She then mumbles softly in Spanish before finishing with, "Come back to us, mija. Come home."

Santana drops the pen on the desk. "We'll be gone by morning," is the last thing I hear.

I rush inside and dive back into bed. In seconds, the door creaks. It closes. The guest room's door shuts. More shuffling. I peek from underneath the covers and watch as billows of smoke appear outside the window. I rush downstairs in hopes the adults are asleep and raid the freezer, hoping that upstairs, the gray clouds remain. They do.

"I thought you were quitting," I say, poking through the window and onto the roof.

Santana takes a long drag. "I did, too." Another drag, this time deeper. "I thought we were fighting," she says.

"Seems like you've had your fill of it. A peace offering," I say, extending a fudge popsicle. Santana nods and we playfully bump the frozen treats together, simultaneously saying, "Truce."

After a few silent minutes, she chuckles and examines my offering. "Dad's going to flip when he notices these are missing. Bastard loves his fudge pops."

"To hell with him," I reply too quickly. "Your mom, too."

Santana looks down. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough," I admit. "So much for no more secrets, huh?"

"Brittany, I-"

"Was just trying to help," I finish. Having been in that position before, I know how difficult it is owning up to your actions. How, somewhere deep in your conscience, withholding information is easily rationalized. You want so terribly to believe that what you're doing is best for everyone, at some point, you convince yourself of it.

We sit in silence again, gazing at lone dots trickled across vast blackness. Santana lights another cigarette. "To recant something means to withdraw," she begins. "To take a statement back. Dispel a previous affirmation." My mind runs with the snippet of detail. Grateful for anything, really, but careful enough as to not pry too far too quickly. But if Santana isn't willing to provide further clarification, maybe I shouldn't be so hell-bent on digging.

"You're always saving me," I say. "Always helping out. Like a superhero." This elicits a smug grin from Santana. "You could wrap that apron around your neck, like a cape. Very diner-chic."

Santana chuckles and shrugs, taking another drag from the cigarette. "Fine, fine. You caught me."

"Hell, I'm just glad that you're not a stripper."

She coughs now, shooting me a questioning glance. Okay, maybe those weren't the best choice of words. But she's a good sport, for she says, "J.B.I. keeps giving me shit for the other night. Keeps calling me 'bride to be'." And then we're both laughing on the roof, into the welcoming abyss. Just like old times. "No worries," she says, putting the cigarette out. "Jew Fro knows what's good for him."

"I sure hope he does," I say, getting up. "Well, I do believe that there is medication to be taken." I then squat next to Santana, soaking in the remains of yet another realm we've created on this ledge. "And since we're allies again," I whisper. "Just know one thing. Don't worry about proposing any time you feel the need to kiss me."

Santana nearly chokes on air as I climb back through the window.