A/N: We're almost at the home stretch, patient readers. Just a couple more chapters to go. Thanks for reading and being so wonderful while I take nearly 3 years to finish a fic!

TRIGGERS/WARNINGS: Child physical and sexual abuse, violence, attempted suicide. Please use discretion while reading.

Brittany held open the door for Santana and offered her a sad smile, in addition to the kiss as she ushered her inside.

"How is she?"

Brittany shrugged. "You know, not good. What about you, how are you?"

She led Santana over to the couch and sat down, unceremoniously grabbing her girlfriend and pulling her down onto her lap. Santana's eyes widened in surprise before she relented and rested her head on Brittany's shoulder. She smelled like rain, which was interesting because it had been sunny the last three days and there was no chance of thunderstorms.

"It's bad," Santana admitted. "I've been thinking about calling my parents."

"Maybe you should."

"Yeah but that means them finding out I couldn't do it on my own."

Brittany raised an eyebrow as she looked at Santana. "I could be wrong, San, but I thought the whole purpose of having parents was so we didn't have to do things on our own. Not everything, anyway."

Santana smiled a little and wrapped her arms around Brittany's waist. She wasn't used to this. Well, cuddling was nothing new – Brittany was one hell of a cuddle monster. But curling up on Brittany's lap and clinging to her? Definitely not something Santana was used to. But after the last three hours… yeah, she'd take all the cuddling she could get.

She thought about what it would mean, if she called Mami and Papi. She knew the entire Lopez clan – and that meant mom, dad, siblings, and grandparents – would swoop into New York City like a crowd of hyper-concerned vultures. Maybe it was what both she and Quinn needed, a chance to just chill out with the family and rest. But Santana knew that it would also mean more than chilling out. It'd mean… what? Leaving New York for Lima? Quitting her job? Worse, Quinn going back to Lima without her?

Santana knew that was Quinn's worst fear. Not being without her, but being back in Lima, cared for by their parents. It'd be like she was 16 again, not allowed out of the house unless she was with one of the others because things had gotten just too volatile for her to be out on her own. Endless doctors and psychiatric appointments, hospitalization? Things had never gotten that bad, but after today? It didn't seem as if things could get any worse.

"I might have to leave if I call them."

Brittany's arms tightened around her. "You're an adult, San," she said quietly. "I mean sure, you watch cartoons with me and you play with Beth whenever she shows up but you're an adult. They can't make you leave."

"I can't leave Quinn."

"Maybe… you need to."

Santana jerked out of Brittany's arms but didn't stand up. "What the hell does that mean?"

Brittany stared at her with wide, sad eyes and sighed. "How many years have you taken care of Quinn? Since she was seven? When are you going to take care of yourself?" She shrugged and looked away from Santana, her voice quiet when she spoke again.

"When are you going to let me take care of you? I mean I think I'm starting to love you, San."

The tears rushed to Santana's eyes as she sank back against Brittany and let out a shuddering breath. She'd told Brittany everything. Well, almost everything, there were things she didn't understand all that well, or things she knew Quinn would kill her if she found out Santana had told. But Brittany knew enough, and she was incredibly perceptive about the toll everything was taking on her girl.

"I think... I'm starting to love you too," Santana whispered. "But Britt, this is my sister."

"She's always going to be your sister," Brittany pointed out. She fixed her gaze on Santana. "But I might not always be your girlfriend."

Santana stared at Brittany for a long time, before she finally nodded. She didn't say anything, except "I'm going to go see Berry." Brittany didn't answer, just gave Santana a hug before letting her up off her lap.

"I don't need anything, Brittany, I'm all right," Rachel called when Santana knocked on the door. She turned when the door opened, and Santana froze.

Rachel's lower lip was swollen and split, though not enough for her to need stitches. Thank goodness for small blessings? Santana wondered. Still, the angry red line defining her mouth had Santana swallowing past the bitterness that rose, and she closed her eyes momentarily.

"I'm sorry."

Rachel turned and faced her desk again. "No, Santana, you're not, so please don't embarrass yourself by pretending when we both know the truth."

Santana's mouth dropped open and she had to restrain herself from walking out and slamming the door behind her. Instead, she took a deep breath. "Berry…" She walked over to the girl's chair and stood at her side, looking down at her.

"I'm sorry."

Rachel's eyes were red; she'd clearly been crying and it clearly wasn't going to stop anytime soon because tears were still trickling down her cheeks, though maybe not as fast as they had been, Santana guessed. She knew showing up wasn't exactly making things any better. Rachel shook her head.

"What else did she do?"

"You know as well as I do Quinn didn't do it."

"I think I know better than you do."

"Of course, I forgot, no one knows her better than you. All hail Santana."

Santana took a step back, surprised once again by the venom in the girl's voice. She clenched and released her fists, and moved until the back of her legs hit Rachel's bed and she sat down. Or, well, she sat down on a playbill; she pulled it out from under her and glanced at it. Wicked.

"Good show," she said, tossing the playbill back onto the bed; Rachel narrowed her eyes and Santana cleared her throat, making a note to be more careful about those in the future.

If there was one.

"What else did she do to you, Rachel?"

The name sounded foreign on her lips, and judging by the expression on Rachel's face it had surprised her too. Santana could barely stand to look at her; though there was no blood, it was making her sick to think that Quinn was the one who had done it, it was because of her sister that Rachel was sitting there looking like a girl lost and alone in a huge city.

"Nothing," Rachel said quietly. She glanced away from Santana. "She just hit me."

She just hit me. Santana winced, but clarified, "Puck hit you."

"Fine, Puck hit me."

Santana groaned inwardly and rubbed her forehead with her hand. Why couldn't this just be simple? She thought to herself. God, she was so old.

"Rachel… this isn't going to get easier."

Her phone rang as she was out getting groceries; Santana brightened at the Ke$ha ringtone signaling a call from her girlfriend. Her smile disappeared though when she answered and heard the worried voice on the other end.

She knew she looked like a crazy person, but she didn't care as she left the full cart behind in the store, and ran the three blocks to her apartment.

She threw open the door and stopped in her tracks. Quinn was stood in the middle of the floor, staring at her hand. Her hair was disheveled, her shirt and her pants unbuttoned. The knuckles of her right hand were stained red.

"Q?" Santana said uncertainly. She didn't know if it was really her sister standing there.

She looked up, and Santana was relieved to see that even though there were tears in those hazel eyes, they were clear.

"D-did I hurt her?"

She didn't remember. That was just wonderful, Santana thought. Sometimes, Quinn was "lucky enough" to remember enough details for her to put together the things that had happened, or that she'd done, while she was switched. It appeared that this time, she had no clue.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Santana moved over to Quinn and buttoned her pants, followed by her shirt. She took Quinn's left hand and led her to the bathroom, picking up her right hand and beginning to wash the blood from her skin. She'd have a pretty good bruise, but no bones were broken, fortunately.

At least there was one bright spot in this whole mess.

"We were trying to…" Quinn flushed, and Santana nodded; she'd figured that much. She didn't say anything, like how it was too fast too soon. Pretty sure Quinn knew that. "And she was being so sweet, San, so perfect, and she said I was beautiful."

"You are beautiful."

"Santana… what did I do?"

Santana took Quinn into her room, intent on putting her to bed. "That can wait until the later, baby sis. Right now you should take a nap."

"No," Quinn said, pulling out of Santana's grasp. She turned to her sister. "Tell me. What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything."

"Yes, I did, Santana, whether I was switched or not it was still me! What did I do?"

"You punched her!" Quinn gasped, and Santana pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a puff of air from her lips. She met Quinn's gaze. "You punched her, Q. You saw your hand. Sometime during you two doing whatever it was you were doing – which I don't want to know, by the way – you switched to Puck, and you punched her. She left and ran to the studio; Brittany called me and here I am." Like a fucking St. Bernard rescue dog, she thought bitterly, then immediately felt guilty.

"I-is she hurt?"

"You busted her lip, Quinn."

"And she left?"

"Yeah."

"Because I scared her."

"Yeah."

She wasn't sure what reaction she expected. Tears, maybe. A scream. Anger, with Quinn wanting to punch a wall or kick over a chair. Or maybe Quinn would sink to her knees in shock, asking Santana to leave her alone. Which Santana would never do. She'd seen a lot of Quinn's reactions to things over the years, except… this one.

Because there was nothing. No tears, no screams. No anger, no running to the closet with a high pitched cry and slamming the door, locking herself away from the world and into her mind. There was just… silence. Her eyes stayed focused as they looked at Santana, but all she could hear was the slow ticking of the clock on the wall. Then, finally…

"Okay."

"Is she all right?"

"Considering? Yeah, I guess," Santana said. Quinn hadn't said much else to her, but she'd actually seemed fairly okay. Santana had insisted she get into bed, which she'd done, and for her to eat something, which she had. They didn't talk about it; Santana figured Quinn would open up to her when she was ready. But she hadn't, not yet, and Santana felt that it was as if Quinn had finally decided… that it was over. What Santana had predicted had come true.

Quinn was accepting that it would never work with Rachel.

But instead of making her feel triumphant or vindicated, it just left Santana feeling old and sad. It didn't help that Rachel was looking at her with her lower lip jutted out. It made her wish things were different. Quinn had been different, with Rachel. There'd been a light in her eyes Santana hadn't ever seen before, and she'd laughed more, seemed happier. But when she'd left the apartment just a half an hour earlier – and Quinn knew she was going to Rachel's – Quinn had only just waved, not even looking up from the tv at her.

"It's not going to get easier, Rachel," Santana said again.

"I know."

She shook her head. "No, you don't. This?" She stood and picked up a few of the books on dissociative identity disorder from Rachel's desk. "This doesn't tell you what it's like. Not to live, breathe, eat, sleep, feel it."

"Santana, I know-"

"No, you don't!" She threw the books back onto the desk and began to stalk around the room, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jeans. She turned back to Rachel. "You don't know what he did to her, Rachel."

"What did he do to her? She won't tell me."

"He'd beat her. For any little thing. She was just a kid, she'd spill stuff – you saw her when she spilled that drink at the bar. But if she had the wrong dress on, if she said the wrong thing, if she had one fucking curl out of place on that perfect head of hers… She was seven years old and she showed up with bruises, Rachel."

Both of them had tears flowing fast and hard then, and Santana took a deep breath before she continued. "But he did more… god, Rachel, fill in the blanks, you're smart even if your fashion sense is dumb as hell." Rachel didn't even huff or stomp her foot at the insult; instead, Santana was surprised when the petite brunette reached out and seized her hand. She was even more surprised when she squeezed it.

"She never got a break, you know?" Santana said, using her other hand to wipe the tears off her face. "First her dad, and then there was this guy… foster kid… broke his fucking nose."

"Good for you," Rachel said, and Santana could hear that she meant it. She grinned a little.

"She's never got a break, Rachel, and she's never going to get a break. This isn't going away."

"I didn't think it would, Santana, I'm not delusional."

Santana quirked an eyebrow, taking in the bright pink pajamas the girl was wearing, and how her hair was pulled into pigtailed braids, but she decided to say nothing. Instead, she took another deep breath, let go of Rachel's hand, and stared resolutely at her.

"She could do it again, Rachel. She could do it again."

"M-maybe not," Rachel stuttered, taking a step back. "We could work on it, both of us, together. I-it might take a while, but I can do it. We can do it."

"That's a nice sentiment," Santana said gently. "But Rachel… this isn't going away."

"You just don't want me with her," Rachel accused. "You're content to have Quinn all to yourself, even though you think she's a freak!"

Santana winced; so Quinn had told Rachel that. Wonderful.

"You think I don't want Quinn to be happy?" she asked, and was irritated when her voice cracked with the strain of the question. "This little girl shows up on the doorstep of my house when I was 7 years old, and she looked so alone, Rachel, I swore to myself that I'd do anything to make her happy."

"Then let me—"

"You don't get it, Berry! Okay? You just don't get it. I called her a freak, and believe me I'd take every single personality she has if I could, because she doesn't deserve it. Nobody does. But I can't, and you can't, because it's not going away."

"I know it isn't! I know I'm not going to heal her, Santana."

"Do you?" she tilted her head. "Can you tell me that deep down you haven't thought that you'd be different, you'd be the one that she wouldn't be scared of, you'd be the one to protect her from the demons inside and out of her head, that you'd be the one to fix her?"

Rachel was silent, and Santana could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. All the research Rachel had read, Santana had read the same. She'd heard the stories from people who thought they could change things, make it go away, cure it. But there wasn't any cure, no absolution, for something that the majority of the world still believed didn't even exist. Santana watched as the realization began to dawn on Rachel's face.

"I don't want to be her savior, Santana…"

Santana nodded. "She's always going to be like this, Rachel. She's got five personalities that we know of already, but you've read the books, you know there could be as many as 10, 15. What are they all going to be like? Cute and sweet like Beth, or an asshole like Puck? How are you going to react when you meet a new one? Or when an old one won't listen to you or even recognize you?"

"I-I don't know, we'll just deal with it as it happens…"

"Like you dealt with it today?" She knew the words stung, and all the color drained out of Rachel's face. Santana sat wearily back down on the bed and folded her arms across her chest. "This could happen again, Rachel. She could go into the closet and not come out for days. Or she could hit you again. Or one of the other personalities could do something she's never done before. And you can't… you can't run from it, Rachel. Okay? The monsters aren't under the bed, they're not hiding in the closet and they're not going to turn out to be good-hearted after all. And she's not a monster, I don't even know where I'm going with this. I'm just saying, this isn't a fairytale, Rachel. You can't kiss her and she'll wake up."

She glanced up and saw that Rachel wasn't even looking at her, but was staring out the window as rain began to stream on the glass. In the distance, Santana heard thunder, and she swore under her breath. Stupid New York City meteorologists, they'd predicted good weather. She needed to get home.

"If you stay with her, and something happens and you get scared and run, you're going to hurt her, and she doesn't need any more of that. She needs people around her who will love her when she's beautiful and love her even more when she's ugly as fuck. If you're going to do this, you have to be in it all the way. You have to take the worse with the bad and hang on while you wait for the good."

"… I can't."

The words hung in the air as Rachel turned around and looked at Santana. Tears flowed steadily down her cheeks again as she shook her head.

"I can't do it," she whispered with a shrug. "I thought I could but after today…" She gestured toward her lip. "And I don't want to hurt her anymore, Santana. I just want her to be happy, like you do."

"I know," Santana said. She surprised herself by crossing the floor to hug Rachel, holding the girl to her for a moment.

"You'll tell her… tell her that I'm sorry?" Santana nodded, and Rachel sniffled. "I know it's not enough but I am sorry, Santana."

"I know," Santana said again, as thunder clapped outside. She let Rachel go and turned towards the door, but Rachel's voice stopped her.

"Take care of her."

She wanted to roll her eyes, because seriously, how was that an appropriate thing to say? Of course she'd take care of her.

"I always do, Rachel." Like she'd promised.

Once again Rachel stopped her on her way out of the bedroom.

"Will you tell her…" She trailed off.

"Tell her what?" Santana said, a little impatiently. The thunder was closer now. She had to get home.

"Tell her I…" Rachel shook her head. "Never mind."

"Yeah." She felt like she should say something else to Rachel, something to make the girl stop looking as if her puppy had just gotten kicked, but Santana wasn't sure she had the words for something like this. Still, she tried.

"Look, for what it's worth… thank you." She offered Rachel a half-hearted smile. "You made her happy, and you were good with Beth, and I know she won't forget that. I won't either. So thanks."

Brittany was still sat on the couch, watching the news, when Santana came back into the living room. "You have to go home to Beth, huh?" she said.

"Yeah, babe, I'm sorry."

"I know how it is," Brittany shrugged. She stood up and hugged Santana to her, brushing her girlfriend's hair back from her face. "Don't leave," she said.

"Britt, I have to get h-"

"No, don't leave New York," Brittany said. "Call your parents, San, and get some help for you and Quinn. But don't leave. Don't leave your home and your job, don't leave me." She leaned down and kissed Santana gently. "I love you. And as much as Quinn deserves Rachel, you deserve me. You deserve to be happy. Just… think about it."

Santana didn't have the heart to tell Brittany that Rachel wasn't going to be a part of Quinn's life anymore, and as the thunder grew louder and the rain began to pound against the glass, she realized she didn't have time. She gave Brittany another brief kiss and for the second time that day she was running for her apartment.

Today, she loathed rain. She didn't take a moment to look at her reflection in the windows she ran past; even if she had she'd have seen herself as grotesque, deformed, a freak. She didn't bother lighting a cigarette, didn't even bother saying excuse me to the people she plowed past – who said excuse me in New York anyway? She could barely concentrate on anything but her steps, the thoughts warring inside her head. Quinn, Rachel, Brittany… for a second she wondered perversely if this is what Quinn felt like all the time, having a constant battle inside her mind, a thousand different feelings and people battling for dominance.

She wondered how her sister didn't go insane. That thought made her stop dead in her tracks, and Santana started laughing. She laughed at the absurdity of it, at the pain of it, she laughed so hard her sides shook until she was sobbing, and she sobbed all the way home.

The door banged against the wall as she slammed inside her apartment, wet and dripping on the landing. One look at the closet door in the hall and… she furrowed her brow. The door was wide open. No Quinn. Every single door was open, her bedroom, her bathroom, Quinn's bedroom.

But there was no Quinn.

Santana stood in the living room, glancing around in confusion, wondering where her sister was. She thought about how she had left Quinn, how quiet and peaceful her sister had been, even after everything that had happened that day. There was something in the back of her mind, something… Her eyes widened.

She retraced her steps to Quinn's bedroom, where the door and the door to the closet stood wide open with no sign of her sister. Only the door to Quinn's bathroom was pulled partly closed; an inch of light silhouetted the room in an eerie glow as thunder once again crashed outside.

"Quinn?" Santana said in a near whisper, wrapping her fingers around the door. "Quinn, you in here?"

No answer.

"Beth?"

Slowly, she pulled the door open.

"Oh god… oh god, Quinn."

Santana fumbled in her pocket for her phone. She dropped it on the floor and screamed in frustration; she picked it back up and numbly her fingers dialed the three numbers.

"Quinn, oh god, no…"