luceroadorada: I certainly appreciate it. Thanks for reading and the review.

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Author's Note: I've got far too much time this week and quite a few ideas, so the updates will probably be frequent. To all of the new followers and former ones, thanks for taking the time to read. God bless.

Also, for the sake of spoilers, all replies and notes will be included at the bottom of each chapter.

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

"You really should ask her, Brittany," Mr. Schuester urges. "A voice like Santana's will guarantee that we place at Nationals."

This is becoming a routine for the glee instructor. Every day, right after practice, he corners me and delivers the same lines. And while I agree with everything that he's saying, the timing has to be perfect when asking Santana for favors. Fresh off our five-day stint at the Lopez's, we're trying to acclimate back into a life of normalcy at the apartment. It's been a stressful week. So I say, "When the timing's right, I will. We've had a rough week, Mr. Schue. I hope you can understand that."

He nods considerately, greasy curls following suit.

I hurry to the apartment, sure to change from my school clothes as quickly as possible. This is only because after fourth period, I found a note taped to my locker instructing that I do so. Get dressed. Going to Carey's for a surprise. I'll pick you up at five. The words cycle through my head.

Santana barrels through the door at precisely four fifty-six, grabbing my arm and pulling me from the bathroom mirror. "We've got places to go. People to see," she announces as we rush downstairs and across the courtyard.

"It's not even Sunday," is the only protest I manage before we're speedily moving back upstairs, two steps at a time.

The lack of Italian fragrances hits me before the scenery does. Hanging from the ceiling are various banners reading "Happy 70th". A massive chocolate cake on the countertop reads the same. Christmas music plays faintly in the background. "But I'm only seventeen," I inform Santana.

"It's Bernadette's birthday, you ass," she laughs, placing candles in rows atop chocolate icing. "Carey's bringing her back from the doctor's office in a few minutes and suggested that we do something nice."

Within minutes, Carey ushers Bernadette inside, astonishment filling both of their faces. Bernadette clasps her hands over her mouth, eyes shifting from corner to corner. She notices me and smiles, pulling me into a hug. "Brittany. So good to see you."

Santana is forced to introduce herself, as always, but doesn't seem to mind. She's too busy being proud of her handiwork. Which, if I do say so, is quite the setup. We all gather around the cake, lighting the candles and letting Santana take the reins on singing. It's all very relaxed. Carey wanders into her bedroom and returns with something wrapped. When Bernadette tears into it, her eyes well up.

"Wishing you a happy birthday from the Cayman Islands. Mom, I hate that I can't be there. Look forward to seeing you soon and hope all is well. Love, Roz," she reads aloud, clutching the framed postcard to her chest. Looking to Carey, she says, "I love it."

As Santana escorts Bernadette into the living room, I lean over to Carey and ask, "How'd you manage that?"

She laughs and grabs my arm, pulling me to one of the hallway closets. Inside sit columns of framed postcards, each bearing the same message. In the same handwriting. "I keep a few different types, should she get suspicious or ask questions. But they're all there. When she forgets about today's, I sneak it back into the closet for next year."

"What if she finds them?" I ask.

"Then she's upset for all of one- maybe two-days," Carey explains. "I can handle that. But to feel like your only child didn't remember your birthday? That takes a bit longer to get over."

I nod in agreement, understanding how lonely I would be if Santana didn't surprise me with something every year. Last year was the most difficult. You see, my mother is a lot like Bernadette. She has trouble remembering the important stuff. "Speaking of birthdays," Santana calls, maneuvering into the hallway. "I think someone I know has one coming up."

I'm about to refute when Bernadette comes along, insisting that I follow her to the back room. I oblige, allowing myself a Christmas indulgence. The stories are the same. About Roz when she was little. The picture of her parents. But Bernadette doesn't seem as lively in telling them. A bit off-kilter. Eventually, she clutches the postcard to her chest and squeezes her eyes tight. Bearing into me, she asks, "Why won't they let me leave? Why won't Roz come back already? I hate it here. I'm ready to go home."

Bernadette looks on the verge of tears, and I am completely lost as to what exemplifies an appropriate reaction. Neither Carey nor Santana burst into the room, saving me from the confrontation. So I panic, ditching out and rushing into the living room just as soon as I can. Carey must notice my alarm, for she immediately darts toward Bernadette. "Is everything okay?" Santana asks, catching me in her arms.

My head is spinning a million miles per hour. Everything seemed to be going great. So perfectly. Your run-of-the-mill birthday celebration. All smiles. Presents. Decorations. Cake. Then she caught me off guard, and I freaked. I eventually level out, taking deep breaths. "Great," I lie. "It's just really stuffy back there."

We're soon gone from the apartment per Carey's request. Wind blows through the setting sun. Small trees rustle all around. It's seemingly perfect weather, but my mind can't tear away from how everything appeared perfect earlier, too. And then it shifted to horrible in a matter of seconds.

"She's doing better, isn't she?" Santana asks. "Carey said the doctors were extremely pleased with Bernadette's health."

"A completely different woman," I half-heartedly agree.

Minutes pass. "You didn't answer my question," Santana chimes, nudging into me. "Any idea of what you might want for your birthday?"

I haven't given it much thought, but an idea presents itself. So I shake my head free of all negative thoughts, flash a toothy grin, and say, "I've got something in mind."

"No, no, no. A thousand times no," Santana says.

"Oh, come on," I beg. "We could invite everyone to come and watch. Bernadette. Carey." And then I'm laughing, considering just how few friends and family we have. "Okay. Maybe just those two. But still."

We're both getting ready for school, and I've dared to mention standing in at Nationals to Santana. She's ignoring me at this point, so I persist. As she pulls on a hoodie, I say, "Come sit in on one practice. And when you see how much you've missed it…"

"I highly doubt that'll happen," Santana brushes off. "But if it'll get you off my ass. One practice."

But I'm already squealing and jumping, wrapping my arms around her. "You won't be sorry," I assure. And then we're off, trekking toward school. The sun shines a bit brighter today. The flowers more pungent in smell. It's one of those days when you just know things are starting to look up. I'm restless with excitement throughout class until the last period bell rings. Since it's Santana's study hall, I don't think they'll care if she skips to participate in glee.

The time comes. I don't know what I expected, but entering the choir room provides something I most certainly have not. Much like when I first returned to the club, individual pairs of eyes beam at Santana. Registering the shock value on each face, I assume that Mr. Schuester didn't mention his change in plans. "Class," he announces. "I've asked Santana to return and help us at Nationals. She'll be taking the lead on 'Edge of Glory'."

Mercedes's eyes widen. "Oh, hell no," she sing-songs.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Wheezy," Santana returns, dropping into a chair on the floor, as opposed to our old back row spots.

Rachel clears her throat, making direct eye contact with Mr. Schuester. "What Mercedes is trying to say is that Santana hasn't performed in a very long time. I believe I speak for the masses when I say that she's far too out of practice to tackle such a difficult arrangement. We have plenty of capable performers who work hard every day."

Mr. Schuester starts up with, "I understand the concern, but-"

Santana crosses her arms and throws her head back, cutting him off. Taking no tie to respond, she spits, "It must have hurt, right?"

"This is no time for Sapphic pick-up lines, Santana, though I do appreciate the gesture," Rachel says, gazing up to Finn with longing eyes.

"You're a competitive girl," Santana scoffs. "And the last time I checked, losing to Grumpy for title of 'Dwarf With the Biggest Nose' doesn't set well with most aspiring Broadway starlets."

Since it seems that everyone wants a dig at the group's newest addition, Quinn pipes up with a, "You can't just come in here and torment everybody. Rachel included."

Santana squints both eyes and cranes her neck, as if listening to something off in the distance. "Does anyone else hear a baby crying?" She extends both hands, looking around the room. "Anyone else got something to say? Wheels? Lips? What about you, Finnocence?"

No one mutters a word.

Tonight, as Santana cooks dinner, I hear the slightest hum from beside the stove. Then the rare chorus line. I hide away, listening before poking around the corner. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but was that Lady Gaga?" I ask in mock surprise.

The Latina playfully points a wooden spoon at me. "Careful. Word on the street is that I'm something of a loose cannon."

We both laugh. "Today was eventful, huh?" I ask, wrapping my arms around her.

Santana continues stirring and then tastes the concoction. "To say the least," she huffs. "Couldn't you have just asked for a puppy? Or anything else? Anything at all."

I'm to explain how my last birthday puppy request didn't fly over so smoothly with Mom when a cellphone rings. Santana looks at the number, confused, before answering and listening intently. I try to make out various words, but the entire conversation is muffled. After a minute, Santana hangs up. She looks dumbfounded. Caught off by whatever Mysterious Phone Person said. "Parole officer," Santana shrugs, returning to the stove.

Nervousness sets in. "And?"

"Meetings are being pushed back. Once a month, now," she explains. Is this good? The meetings were formerly bi-weekly, an she's action especially blasé, so I take it as a decent sign. That she's not in trouble. "Said if I'm diligent about coming in and keep a clean record, they can get the parole dropped a few months early."

"That's good, right?" I ask. She nods, dipping into the pot and tasting our dinner again. "Then we should celebrate. Go out and paint the town red."

Santana laughs and cocks an eyebrow at me. "Should we?" And then I'm nodding like an idiot.

The post gallon-of-soup tiredness kicks in before we're up from the table. I leave Santana with the dishes, moving sluggishly to bed. I'm beaming in front of the bathroom mirror like an idiot, too, and don't cease until the familiar tune from earlier surfaces just outside the door. Santana sneaks in from behind, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist and settling her chin on my shoulder. "So I'm thinking we should go out this Friday. To celebrate," she murmurs. "I don't know if you've heard, but I'll be a free woman soon."

And then she places a kiss to both the back of my neck and shoulder. I must seem taken aback by the gesture, for Santana cocks her eyebrow again. "You said I didn't have to get on one knee anymore," she laughs. "But I will if necessary."

It seems that grinning like an idiot is the only thing I know how to do anymore.

After the most peaceful night's rest, I wake up to an empty left side of the bed. Santana reenters with the usual large cup and two tablets, humming like last night. "Someone's excited," I chuckle.

She kneels onto the bed, placing both items on her nightstand. "Am not," she dismisses. And when the Latina hints toward the medication, I shake my head.

"I don't want to anymore," I admit. "I'm tired of always feeling sick. I'm tired of feeling like I'm running at twenty-five percent capacity."

"And you're going to keep feeling that way if you don't listen to the doctor," she chides.

But I keep shaking, as if continuously moving my head from left to right is the best bargaining option. Santana's face tenses at the revolt. She sighs before looking to the stand and back to me. "I'd rather have you at twenty-five percent then not at all."

I don't have the heart to tell her how terrified I am. Of falling ill. Of being vulnerable to the itch again. We both remember how bad I was. And with everything that's finally looking bright, I don't want to ruin it. And this "tapering off" business, it's doing nothing to help the cause.

"Trust me on this, okay?" I implore. "Nothing bad is going to happen. I promise."

Today is blessed with yet another fun-filled glee practice, complete with snide remarks from both sides of the classroom. Mr. Schuester signals me to the piano again. I've recruited Santana back into the New Directions, so I can't imagine what else he might want. The look on his face says that whatever he needs isn't good.

"We've got a bit of a problem, Brittany," Mr. Schuester begins, fiddling with the piano keys. While they're spotless, the entire instrument is painted a horrendous purple color. "Some of the parents aren't comfortable with Santana performing at Nationals."

I fade out, trying to put a finger on who complained. Maybe it was one of Rachel's dads. They both seem wound up pretty tight for men of their age. It could've been Artie's mom, but she's far too relaxed for such a low blow. I'm about to start pleading Santana's case. She has seemed so uplifted recently. Like someone with a purpose. Like someone who's returning to the one thing they were born to do. "She's been preparing, though," I protest. "And we just found out that her parole is about to be up. So that shouldn't be a concern for much longer."

Mr. Schuester frowns. "It doesn't negate the fact that she's done some distasteful things. I'm truly happy for her, but in light of what happened…" his voice trails.

Of course, I think. It always comes back to this. "And I suppose you want me to tell her?" I snap. "Inform her that sometimes, hard work and a good attitude aren't enough to be part of glee club?"

"She hasn't exactly been Ms. Cheery the past few days."

I mimic Santana's ironic laugh. "It's Santana, Mr. Schue. She's trying to figure out this just as much as everyone else."

He sighs. "I'm so sorry. I should have seen this coming."

"I'm sorry, too," I spit, hurrying out of the choir room.

I feel seven years-old again. Back when I went through a year-long magic phase. Every night, I would spend hours practicing tricks. Pulling stuffed rabbits from a top hat. Slyly rearranging a deck of cards. One act in particular stands out from the rest.

Snatching a loaded table cloth seemed so effortless on television. The difficulty cloaked under behind-the-scenes visual trickery. The magician always pulled it free, dishes remaining intact. My attempts always proved less fortunate. Each time I tugged, plates and bowls came tumbling down.

Santana is the table. A sturdy, reliable frame. Once fresh and new, but now bearing scuffs and scratches gained over the years. Many of which are unseen to the naked eye, for a beautiful, more appealing cover masks each. More importantly, so many delicate items hang on her balance. That's the thing about yanking the cloth away from my best friend. Everything around her comes crashing down.

If this is the "growing up" business Finn keeps rambling about, count me out.

On the journey back to Lima Heights, there is an obvious change in Santana's mood. She's kicking at blades of grass. Frolicking around. Being subtly giddy, even by my standards. "I've been thinking, and you were right," she chimes. "We should invite Bernadette and Carey. Lord knows they could both use a night out."

"Why don't we hold off on saying anything? The competition isn't for a couple of months," I suggest.

She laughs. "So? The news will at least give them something to look forward to."

I don't believe that I've ever seen my best friend so worked up. So optimistic about something that isn't physically right in front of her. Not fully prepared to burst that bubble, I veer in another conversational direction. "You really care about her, huh? Bernadette, I mean."

Santana nods without hesitation. "She's a lot like you, B. Living in her own little world. The woman can't remember her granddaughter's name, but is willing to cook for total strangers every weekend? That shit's special," she chuckles.

"Even if she doesn't know who you are half of the time?" I ask.

"Even if she doesn't know," Santana chuckles. "Besides, it's a fresh start every time."

The afternoon air is suddenly denser. Harder to breathe in. "Then I'm sure her and George will be excited to watch us perform," I mutter.

Come morning, I'm not sure if the twinge in my stomach is from my recent bout of courage. The cold-turkey ploy. Or for the conversation with Santana that lies ahead. When Santana reenters with a chocolate chip muffin, she me on the cheek before placing it in my hands.

Before parting to our first period classes, I blurt out, "Let's skip glee today. Before the workload becomes too much. For old time's sake." It's rambling and sporadic and Santana can surely see through the front.

"We've got to rehearse," she says. "You need to nail the routine and I've got a high note that needs fine-tuning. I even considered doing run-throughs with Hobbit."

Damn it. "You'll be fine. Trust me on this one," I answer, disgust filling my mouth with each word.

Santana wavers at the proposition, but nods anyway. The heart-breaking, trust-filled kind. A kind that could make the evilest of people hate themselves. "Sure thing, Britt. We'll meet underneath the bleachers."

I spend the entire day preparing. Running through possible scenarios. Santana's handful of reactions. My responses. There are seventeen million ways of approaching the situation, and I can't settle on a single one. By the time the bell rings, signaling our rendezvous by the football field, it feels as if a wad of cotton has been shoved down my throat. I zombie through the halls, delaying the painfully inevitable for seconds longer.

Rounding the corner, Puck catches my eye and darts over. He looks frantic. "Ms. Pillsbury's office. Now. Santana's flipping her shit."

So I take off, sprinting down the hallway, mentally vowing to roundhouse whoever broke the news to her first. She's pacing around the room, shouting at Mr. Schuester and Finn, who stand as barricades in front of the door. Mr. Figgins is outside, looking on through the glass. I pause, witnessing as something terribly wrong unfolds, for Santana resorts to writing in the palm of her hand. A comfort I haven't seen her partake in for the longest while. Ms. Pillsbury stands petrified in the corner. Evidently there isn't a pamphlet for an in-office meltdown.

Ms. Pillsbury's eyes widen with relief when I enter. Santana repeats, "I need to go. Please, just let me leave." Then she looks to me. "Tell them, Brittany. Tell them to let me go."

"I'm sorry, Santana. Mr. Schuester gave me the news yesterday, and I-" but Ms. Pillsbury shakes her head, cutting me off. If the issue isn't Nationals, then what could possibly be the matter? Everything's been going so well. Her parole. Glee. Santana pours into a seat, bending over the table where we first played cards together. Back hunched. Body racking hysterically.

I lift her, grabbing hold on both shoulders. "Look at me," I coo. "What's wrong?"

She merely breaks into sobs once more, clutching a cellphone at her chest. I try prying it away. Unfortunately, Santana's vice grip is like any other. I hold on to her, allowing tears to soak my shirt before assessing further. Crying like this is a stretch for her. "You have to talk to me," I urge. "I can't help if you don't let me."

Santana drops the phone but doesn't move. Eventually, the crying slows, but she keeps shaking her head. "Bernadette," she chokes out. It's strangled. "Something's happened."