Author's Note: …I know, I know, I know. I'm sorrrrryyyy. I can make excuses until the cows come home (which I never had any cows to begin with, so that's basically going to take forever) but I'm just going to say forgive me, dear readers. It's been a harrowing journey writing this particular chapter, mostly with the holidays and being sick for about ten zillion years. I'm going to try to keep up with the chapters better, since there are only five left.

In other news, you can always find news about this story on my tumblr ( . com) and any upcoming projects underway. You can also harass me there. Like, be all "girl, update." It'll probably motivate me. I'll whine at you and write you a poem and then update. Probably.

To all of those who read, reviewed, lurked, loved, hated and suffered through till now, thank you. I love you. We should meet and be best friends. I couldn't do this without my all-star team of people who regularly hear me whine, the first being my super-ultra-megastar beta, Lyrium (squintyoureyes) and Mesa (Negative Spaces), who never has any sympathy for me. (If you aren't reading Battlesong, you probably should be.) Also Harvey, because she probably hears the most of it.

Anyway, without any further delays, I give to you: Strange Fruit.


Chapter 12: How Many Rounds For Midnight?

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck

It's not her idea of fun.

Not fun at all.

Rachel is sighing in that oh-so-dramatic way, her pointer finger upon the old coffee table, the wood almost seeming to warp around her. Her eyebrows are raised, lips pulled into a tight line and Santana can't help but find her amusing. Rachel is always amusing, in any facet. Even if the world is burning to cinders around her.

Santana's just torn another puzzle piece in half (that's the fourth one) in an attempt at silent rebellion. But Rachel keeps insisting. Because she'll always keep insisting, the obstinate mule. Scowl set deep within her face, Santana crosses her arms, eyes drawn to the large windows. How long has it been since they washed them?

Does it matter?

Probably not.

"No, Santana! You just ripped Patches' eye in half!"

"Patches is a little bastard, so he probably deserved it," she replies with a shrug. The nonchalance found there is what worries Rachel the most and the more she worries, the more she hovers; the more she hovers, the closer she gets.

Knees, unfamiliar, knock into Santana's, thighs pressed tight against one another. And when she looks back into the dark brown eyes of Rachel, she sees an empty resolve that burns with reckless abandon. Because Rachel Berry loves too much and takes too little.

"Language!"

"Oh, Christ, Berry, don't you have some sort of fire to stoke?" It's been like this ever since Terri. A woman is only as good as her man, after all. The comment had been quick and fleeting but Santana had felt it stab as harshly as any knife. If it weren't for Rachel, she would have killed her. If it weren't for fucking Rachel. If it weren't for Rachel—their knees knock together.

"You're just cranky because you're jealous of my deductive skills," she starts. Carefully, she places a piece down upon the table, positioning it just so with the very tip of her pointer finger.

"Deduce this, then: shove your puzzle," Santana picks up another puzzle piece, "up your ass." With one quick movement, she rends it in two. For a split second, she can feel the fibers turn to hair, the compressed pieces working between her fingers like the malleable skin of a man with storming eyes and a wolfish smile.

A scar is written across a window pane, somewhere, and Santana sees the reflection of blue staring back at her in the glass. The stars should be out, but instead, all she can see is the grey of the sky, where words and promises die on the tails of whipping clouds. Because she can still hear her. The taste of her is upon her lips and Santana is stained with everything that is golden. A golden silver.

And it tastes like (Brittany).

"That's not something one can deduce, Santana. It's perfectly understandable to be misinformed however, since reading has certainly fallen out of favor for the pictures and such, but allow me to educate you—I've been told that I'm an excellent teacher. I once taught a seminar on voice to the children of a small native village in Africa—"

"Oh, Africa," she interrupts, rolling her eyes. She wants nothing more than to pop Rachel in the mouth, but who would hold her back? Certainly not Rachel. Not this time. Because she'd be on the floor. "Of course, Africa. I'm surprised they let you leave. You're so full of yourself, there's plenty enough to end world hunger."

"It's rude to interrupt someone while they are speaking, but since you are a hoodlum, I will overlook this small slight and ignore the harsh words that I know you do not mean. Ahem," she says as she clears her throat, her eyes fluttering madly. Her finger still rests upon the puzzle piece, twitching it into some imaginary perfect place before she continues. "To deduce something means to solve a problem using reason or logic—like a puzzle."

"Then you should be able to deduce how to shove," she picks up one of the ripped pieces and holds it to Rachel's nose before continuing, "your puzzle pieces up your ass. Unless your asshole is so tight that it's blinked out of existence?" Red creeps along Rachel's cheeks and Santana can see the flames beginning to consume.

The tips of her fingers burn.

(How many times will it take for the darkness to embrace itself before the world collapses?)

(How many matches have been lit?)

"I understand that you feel the need to act out, right now, but there's no need for vulgarities, Santana. I'm simply trying to help you." But she doesn't want her help. She doesn't want it. Santana stares hard at the table in front of her, pushing herself deeper into the couch. What is she supposed to do?

"You should have let me kill her, Berry." Dark eyes rest upon her shoulders and they bear the weight of the world.


"Do you think the stars hide from each other?"

It's a silly question, if only to keep the silence at bay. Brittany feels like they've been driving for hours, and maybe they have, maybe they haven't. She can't say for certain because the clouds are passing in front of the moon, the pale sentinel struggling to break through the dusting of grey that chokes it.

It's a sad thing for something so beautiful to be so shrouded. How is that fair?

She winds her fingers in the hem of her coat, twirling the smooth edges, dreaming of a rough blanket that smells faintly of cinnamon and dark eyes. Because Santana is in the moon and she can't help but feel tension around her shoulders. Simon is sitting next to her, his hand upon her knee, the pads of his fingers reminding her that she is somewhere. And she is something. (But she is no one.)

That's another thought for another life for another Brittany to worry about. She remembers everything. She has to, or else it'll all be gone and then who will remember? She remembers, right? Eyes carved into the top of the car have followed her to remind her of exactly what it means to be certain.

(Real.)

"Oh, you beautiful broad," he says, his voice cool as steel. Slick, like liquid nitrogen. Simon is staring out the window, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. There's something about it, something about the way that his head nods and his nostrils flare. It reminds her of something, but she doesn't know what. She's seen him in a painting, the one with the hallowed face and black canvas and Brittany can still hear him whispering.

"But—"

"You talk as if they're people." He doesn't even bother to turn towards her, his hand upon her leg tightening.

"Aren't they?" She knows the answer, or what he will say, but how can every star in the sky be the same? Brittany peers out her own window, hoping to catch a glimpse of twinkling light, but instead is met with the harsh glare of a city rooted in red.

He lets out a sharp chuckle before shaking his head, his cool eyes reflected within the pane set before him like an offering. It blocks out everything, but Brittany wishes to simply hear the pressing whoosh of the wind against her eardrums. The bite of chill against her face would be welcome, reminding her blood within her veins to keep on pumping, because there is a man sitting next to her with a hollowed cavern in his chest and he breathes acid against her neck at night.

Her skin crawls.

A silence stretches between them, his hand a vise upon her leg, the sound of tires running over the road mixed with the purr of the engine nearly lulling her to sleep. Where are they going? Carefully, she glances over her shoulder out the back window, hoping to see perhaps any sort of visible landmark that she might recognize. But she doesn't see anything. The harsh twilight blankets the skyline in a haze.

Another car follows behind them.

Her eyebrows knit together, her teeth worrying along her bottom lip as she squints, trying to make out the driver. If it's Parsons, she should be able to tell—his head always did look like the top of a globe. But the insides beyond the windshield are like ink, pressing thickly against the panes.

Will it leak out if she opens the door?

But it's like a plague, and Brittany can already feel it sliding down her throat. She rips her gaze away, a tremor starting in her fingers. Simon says nothing if he notices, merely slides his hand along her leg, reminding her that she is still there. Reminding her that nothing is as it should be.

(How many days has it been?)

She thinks of caved skulls and bruised knuckles and her blood turns to steel. How could this have happened? How could Quinn have done this? But something nags at her, the way Quinn stared at her with something hidden within her eye, swirling about like the twisting of taffy. It's dark in nature—something metallic and harsh against the back of her throat. Because what if.

But there can't be what if's in this game, because it's all a game. And there will never be anything but this. This and Simon. Simon and Santana—the girl with the dark eyes who stares down from the craters pocking the moon's surface. The dark side of the moon. The dark side of the sun. The dark side of everything.

Gently, Brittany presses her palm against her window, the warmth being sucked straight from the marrow. She's already gone cold. She's been cold for days because there isn't anyone in the world who can save her from the slide of something silver or dark stains ripping through the canvas of a wooden wall.

The ghost of her hand creeps along the smooth pane, lingering when she pulls her hand back. Distant lights twinkle between the gaps of her fingers, the soft glow of a house catching her interest.

Brittany's never been on this side of town before—in fact she isn't even sure which side of town here is. It can all be so confusing sometimes, with the North side, South Side, East Side, and she never knows which one Simon is talking about or where she is. (If you can't see Polaris, how do you know which way you're facing?) It nags at the back of her mind.

"You like polo," Simon says abruptly. He doesn't turn to face her, his eyes hungrily staring straight ahead out the windshield. A smirk is playing along his lips, tugging at the corners of his face.

"I do?" Is this something she forgot? Brittany turns to face him, her hand leaping to fold neatly in her lap.

"Yes."

Eyebrows scrunched tightly, Brittany stares at the side of his face, tracing the smooth contours of his skin, imagining what it's like beneath his flesh. Is there blood underneath? If there is, she's never seen it.

"I guess wheelchairs can be exciting." She turns back to her window. Why would he say something like that? Polo wasn't something to be laughed at. People were seriously injured because of it. "I've always wanted to sit in one."

"Don't play daft, mollydoll." A glare burns into the side of her face, her jaw tightening. What did she do now?

"What?"

"You like polo—with horses—and you enjoy gin and tonic, you'll make nice with the lady of the house, you'll smile, you'll laugh and you'll be the perfect, happy wife they all expect you to be. Do you understand?" He's talking through his teeth.

"You aren't taking me to see the stars," she glances up at the dark clouds blanketed overhead, "are you?" She's seen them a thousand times, but through the slats of large windows and peeking out between the shingles of a familiar porch roof. But she's not there anymore. Brittany never thought for a second she was.

She wonders if Santana is seeing the same sky. (And the cracks threatening to splinter a heart burn.)

"Do not disappoint me, sugarpie." His voice is even and flat, as if devoid of any emotion. A shiver rockets down Brittany's spine, her fingers beginning to work at the hem of her coat again.

The lights bound closer, the soft halo illuminating the growing darkness. Long shadows are cast upon the trees, dark shadows like fingers extending forever. Like a road leading to somewhere deep and concealed. Where the people there wear smiles and laughs, their clothes have little frills along the edges and they talk in thee's and thou's. And Brittany wonders if, perhaps, they still drink tea there.

The thought amuses her, a smile (however empty), warming her dead lips.

Simon taps his fingers against the leather of the seat, each tip dropping like a weight against her heart. The faint smell of smoke drifts to her nose. Brittany watches him out of the corner of her eye. He looks like a wolf. The wolf in the stories her mother used to read her. The one with the calm face, with thick fur and the promise of safety. But she knows what's real and what isn't. (Eyes, thousands of eyes and they all see but don't listen.)

The door to her left opens. Heart flying straight to her throat, she whips her head around. Were they still moving? She could have sworn they were. But they aren't. When had they stopped? When had time left? When did it return?

A man is standing, the door held open, his sharply pressed black suit creased perfectly, his hair slicked and cropped close. He wears a frown and Brittany thinks that it doesn't suit him. Because everyone should be happy. Everyone should smile—there are too many sad things in the world. Too many scars upon windows and hallowed, dark eyes. There are too many names and too many carrots boiling in the sea of molten water, alive and screaming.

But they can't hear the screams.

Nobody can hear their screams.

(Sad carrots.)

The man offers her his hand. Tentatively, she looks over her shoulder to Simon. His eyebrows are raised, motioning for her to get out. An annoyed twitch works along his temple, his right index finger leaping. It has her stomach sinking. She doesn't like this place—it smells of bitter cough syrup and sulfur. But when she doesn't make to move, his eyes begin to storm and she knows that he could ruin everything.

"Where—"

"Take the man's hand."

The question dies upon her lips. She prays and hopes that she's wrong. But Brittany knows. She slides her hand into the man's, pulling herself out of the car. The smell of fried dough and sizzling meats permeates the air. Money and power rolls through the atmosphere like a tide ripping at beaten beaches. Long, winding steps extend before her, a great terrace lined with beautiful paper lanterns and dim lights strung through the eaves.

Men and women mill, champagne glasses held within the palms of their hands. Reds, blues, greens, bright colors and a family that sits behind a large table, a man in the center. He looks important with salt and peppered hair, a thick mustache bristling along his upper lip. It reminds her of a broom, but she can't say that to him, even if she wanted to. A teenaged girl sits upon his knee.

She's beautiful in red.

And Brittany remembers.

(Santana.)

"Buenos dias," the man says. "Follow me."


"You know as well as I do that you would have regretted it." Rachel doesn't turn away from the puzzle, pushing another piece into alignment with the first. And the movement, the perfect, stupid grace of all her movements, has Santana's leg bouncing.

"I wouldn't—"

"Do you know what they tell us connoisseurs of the arts—I know you don't, but I'm asking you anyway for dramatic effect, you see." Perfect posture, perfect twitch of the eyebrow, perfect hands, perfect everything. She's so little. Santana stares at Rachel's wrists, squinting at way she holds them just so. Because everything is with intent when it comes to Rachel fucking Berry.

"Was it actual advice or did they just hand you an insert and some rubbers?"

"Stick together." Rachel levels her gaze. A chill sweeps through Santana and for the first time in forever, she looks away. Because she sees something hidden behind the dark brown of Rachel's iris she's seen only once before. Yellow pools beyond Rachel's pupil, swinging a lullaby of women laid raptured at the end of a tight line—a macabre halo—and if Santana could gouge out her eyes, she would. But that would be messy.

Santana rolls her eyes, arms crossed in front of her chest. "How original."

"A worthy piece of advice when faced with the trials of the world, Santana. I'm simply trying to assist you in achieving your goals, as any loyal and trustworthy ingénue would." Rachel's bottom lip quivers (the smell—the smell of burning—the smell of burning cadavers and it's all she eats).

"What could you possibly offer me, Berry? A gas mask—oh wait, I forgot. I'm sorry." Santana directs her gaze out the window again, nestling herself deep within the comfort of the couch.

"Companionship is hard to come by in places such as these, that's something I learned while—" Rachel cuts herself off and Santana can't help but notice the way her skin pales. "While touring the West Indies three years ago. Did you know that the women there wear all sorts of beautiful silks—it really makes us seem uncouth and uncultured here in the West." Shifting another puzzle piece into place, Santana watches the tip of her fingers tremble. (It dances on a wire, suspended over a field of mines, where grenade pins have dropped and lain to die.)

"I don't need companionship. I need a couple of pistols and about three hundred bullets. So unless you've hidden one in your endlessly large mouth, I suggest you cram your fist down your throat before I do." If it weren't for Rachel, you'd be a stain on a table. If it weren't for Rachel, Terri would be out of the picture. She glances around the room, eyes resting upon an ugly, purple bruise and a fat lip.

The beating is an improvement, in Santana's opinion. It really brings out the natural color of her swill water eyes. She would be dead. She would be gone and there would be no one left to spread lies.

(The problem with rumors is…)

"You're just acting out violently because you miss Brittany." Eyes fluttering madly and brows raised impossibly high, Rachel purses her lips. Scanning the remainder of the pieces (whichever ones hadn't been torn in two yet), Rachel shakes her head.

"Miss Brittany." Santana's voice is drowned and flat, her lip twitching. "Miss Brittany?" Like broken cogs, her words begin to tighten and slow, her throat closing. Could she suffocate? Is it possible without hands pressing hard into her neck? She wants to say I don't miss anyone, but she can't. Because for the first time in Santana's life, she finds that the truth is stronger than any lie she could ever tell.

She glares hard at Rachel, who's still shaking her head. "Yes, you miss Brittany, and while most people in this facility would frown upon such a Sapphic and illicit relationship," she lowers her voice conspiratorially, leaning in closer to Santana before continuing, "I find it to be rather charming. I can't help but feel a kinship with the both of you—even if I do think that she's the better half of a poorly lopsided whole. She's much more agreeable than you are, and she doesn't bite her nails."

"I don't bite my nails!" It's the first thing she thinks of to be offended at. What the fuck does Rachel Berry know, anyway?

"I appreciate the need to be a strong, independent woman, but even a mountain has support." It's as if she doesn't even realize there's anything inherently strange about what she's just said. Pursing her lips, Rachel mutters, "If only some of us didn't have temper tantrums…"

"You shouldn't have pulled me off that bitch. She deserves what she has coming."

"Punching out your problems will solve nothing, Santana." Maybe it's the harshness in her voice or maybe it's the way Rachel breathes through her sentence, but whatever it is deflates Santana. And she realizes that she's right.

"The world would have one less air sucker," she snorts.

"But it won't bring back Brittany. You have to do that, Santana. You're the one responsible for all of your unhappiness—not Terri. You think that getting into barbaric fist fights will help? You think that demeaning women who are in unstable mental states will help you achieve your goals?" Another puzzle piece slides beneath Rachel's finger.

"Bitch should watch what she—"

"You seriously need to evaluate what is and what isn't important to you. There may not be any wayward scuffles being thrown my way, but your words are just as vicious. Perhaps you should really consider who your allies are before you go and stoke fires you aren't ready to put out. If I had not—"

"If you hadn't, she'd be—"

"—you would be left in a room somewhere with only yourself for company!" Memories of a happy buzzing light tickle the back of Santana's mind. The hum echoes in the chasms of Rachel's iris. Then there would be no one.

After a few tense moments, Rachel turns back to the puzzle. "Now, if only you hadn't ripped Patches' eye in half, we'd almost have his entire face. You really should consider sleeping with a warm washcloth on your eyes, it'll help with all of your anger."

Only Rachel.

She can't say thank you—her pride would never dictate. Instead she says nothing, arms folded neatly within her lap. Dark eyes rest upon grey clouds and watch them swirl and twist within the night sky. There's scarlet there, and the promise of fried food and a warm night upon a cantina with dark liquid swirling in a glass. Her chest expands, lungs burning with the release and for the first time ever, Santana considers Rachel, the Jewish girl with the haunted eyes.

"Patches is a little bastard," she says. Rachel doesn't say anything, but she doesn't have to. Because she understands. This is as close to a thank you she'll ever get. Smoothing the front of her blouse, Rachel stands, sternly looking at the side of Santana's face. Shaking her head, she moves towards a cabinet on the far side of the room, muttering about missing pieces.

Santana stares down at the incomplete jigsaw, unease setting in around her shoulders. Why the long face? It asks her, speaking words where no words should dare be spoken. She's not crazy. There's never any time for crazy.

But she can feel his hands around her neck and can see blue eyes bathed in the silver glow of a grey sky and she wonders, do fireworks sparkle still under the blanket of the clouds? A fire, dangerous and foreign, rests upon her shoulders, licking the back of her neck and singing the corners black.

"Miss Lopez," an unfamiliar voice shakes her out of her thoughts. "A word?"

"For fucks sake."

(The world is burning.)


Decidedly, Brittany doesn't much care for chorizo. Just how many little pigs had died for the single spread? A plate laden with assorted foods is held within her hand, the beautiful white china glowing against her skin. Simon stands next to her, his hand wrapped around her waist, his throaty laugh shaking her to the bones.

It's his "I have nothing else to say to you" laugh. The one he makes when daddy (real) talks about baseball—and while Brittany herself doesn't find baseball all that entertaining, she at least vaguely tries to understand who's on first and what's on second. It's all so confusing, anyway. Why can't a left handed batter run in the opposite direction anyway?

"I've heard they're just to die for!" The shrieking laughter accompanied with the statement pulls her out of her own head. Right, she's at a party. Another party. A pre-party party. Almost like an appetizer. If parties were food.

Everything is bathed in the glow of the lanterns, the salt and peppered gentleman sitting behind the table, his tired eyes scanning the crowd. The young woman in the red dress has since moved on, milling about with the other guests, her skin glowing in the dim light.

"It's a special day," Simon whispers close to her ear.

"Is this a surprise party?"

"Of sorts."

"Who's it for?"

"For you, sugarpie."

"Did I forget my birthday again?" It's a legitimate concern. She doesn't remember being born in the cold, but then again, she doesn't remember being born at all. Maybe someone decided when her birthday was one day. Maybe it's all just an arbitrary idea.

Simon doesn't reply, but instead laughs his laugh, leaving it at that. The thing is, as she's scanning the faces of the people present, Brittany doesn't recognize a single one. Except some of the men with the towels draped along their arms and carrying trays. She recognizes some of them, at least.

Maybe it's a reverse party where all of the guests dress up as the caterers and all of the caterers get to dress in nice clothing. The notion draws a smile to her lips. Santana would like that. The thought crashes around her before she can stop it. She can't think of her. Not now. Not ever.

Because there's Simon dressed to the nines and beautiful horn music drifting through the evening chill, the smell of fried dough and cinnamon snaking through the crowds. She loves to watch the flashing gold of bouncing bangles and twisted red, green, gold fabrics set upon the ladies. The curtail of dark locks and darker eyes drift within the spaces of milling bodies. And it all seems so familiar.

(Chasing a rabbit down a hole leads no one anywhere.)

"Have you seen the latest in the circuit?" At first she thinks that the question is being directed at Simon, but then she realizes a woman is talking to her. A sour frown is twisted upon her pretty face, little crows feet peaking out at the corners of her eyes. She stands with her hip jutted out, one arm draped across her midsection, a cocktail cupped within the palm of her hand.

She looks bitter and every part an older Santana.

The plate in Brittany's hand wavers, a couple of loose grapes spilling out over the side. Excitement bubbles in her chest, her head nodding furiously before she can contain herself. "You're here!" She exclaims, but it's a silly thing. Of course Santana isn't here. Of course, of course, of course.

"¿Perdóneme?" The woman cocks an eyebrow.

"I—you're—" But she's not Santana. As impeccable as her hair is, as beautiful as her skin is, this woman does not hold that shimmer. The shadows sit, dead and dull, the lipstick stain upon the rim of the glass painting it red. Brittany bites her lip.

"Si, this is my home, of course I'm here—and you are?" The woman eyes her up and down twice before letting her slightly less peeved gaze rest upon her shoulders. Suddenly self conscious, Brittany tugs at the hem of her shirt. (Bad habit, bad habit, can't you ever do anything right?)

Expectantly, the woman waits for a name Brittany is unsure if she's allowed to give. Looking to her left, Simon is talking to another man, one of the caterers, his eyes gleaming darkly. Like through a glass she can see the ocean twisting inside of him and Brittany feels her stomach dropping.

But he doesn't offer her any answers at all. Taking a deep breath, she turns back to the woman who looks so much like Santana and nods her head. "Brittany."

"Are you Maribel's friend?" She swirls the clear liquid in the glass. Brittany knows it's not water, but she likes to pretend that it is anyway. The only time she'd tried the clear liquids, it tasted like the varnish her mother used to use to clean the silverware. Or what she thought it might have tasted like. She never did get a chance to try it.

"Maribel?" What else is she supposed to say? Isn't it rude to lie? She glances at Simon again. Or where he should have been.

"You look like her sort, do you play?"

Furrowing her eyebrows and not wanting to look the fool, Brittany says the only thing she thinks is applicable. "I'm supposed to like polo and gin and tonic—but I'm not exactly sure what that has to do with anything. Am I supposed to do something?" The woman narrows her eyes, and for some reason, Brittany feels naked.

"Are you sure you like those things, you don't sound entirely convinced." She takes a pull.

"I've always wanted to ride in a wheelchair," Brittany states. The woman lets out a short snort, her shoulders shrugging. An uneasy silence falls between them, Brittany unsure if she should try to fill the gap with more conversation or if she should move away. "You look like someone," she finally blurts.

"Do I?" Interest waning, the woman is looking back over towards the salt and pepper man.

"What I mean to say, you're very beautiful." Since when had words failed her? Carefully, Brittany passes her untouched plate (save the three grapes crushed into the deck) to a server. Familiar eyes stare back at her and something creeps along the back of her neck, the hairs standing on end. He smiles slowly at her, his lip twitching.

The woman hums her acknowledgement and Brittany tears her eyes away.

"Like one of those Russian dolls, except I never understood why they were tea dolls. They don't exactly hold tea and the brew they make is quite awful. And why do they need to be placed inside of each other like that? Do all Russian people have littler people inside of them?" Maybe that's why the Warder always looks so displeased. Is it like indigestion?

The woman, with her attention drawn back to Brittany, gives her a puzzled look. Lips thin, she shakes her head, her shoulder trembling. For a moment, Brittany worries that perhaps she's drunk too much, that it's about ready to come up and get all over her beautiful dress. (A golden feather is pinned to the right strap and Brittany wonders if perhaps she's a peacock after all.)

"Mija, you are most peculiar," the woman says, placing her hand upon Brittany's shoulder. Beneath the static of her palm, she can feel something coursing. A softness around the woman's eyes starts and perhaps she isn't as hard as Brittany thought.

"You speak like music." She'd told Santana that once.

Through a veil of shadow, Santana looked at her and Brittany wondered if she could actually see anything. The dim moonlight leaking into the room was nothing more than a sliver of slightly lighter shadow and did little to illuminate the soft contours of Santana's face.

"How?" Santana asked.

"Have you ever seen a bluebird in the middle of winter?" Brittany laced her own fingers together, staring across the room at the vaguely darker shape she recognized as Santana.

"Bluebirds don't stay that long."

"Sure they do, you just have to know where to look." She smiled and hoped that Santana could feel it.

"I'm not sure…"

"They speak like you do. But only in the winter. It has to be cold, because all other times makes their voices all warm and sticky. Tubbs had a bluebird friend once; her name was Gretchen." Soft laughter filled the room, heat bursting in her chest. This was all it had to be. This was all it ever had to be.

"I'll speak you a song sometime, if you'd like."

The noose around her heart tightens. But Brittany can't feel it anymore. (The noose or the heart? Did it matter? Because one is now the other.) A hand snakes around her waist, the familiar scent of steel and pomade coating the back of her throat.


"…and relax."

Santana wants to put her fist through his chest. Or maybe his head. His nose is too wide, the pink in his cheeks probably from some sort of frost bite and she hates him already. She's seen him before directing the privileged circle of group therapy, his eyes rolling whenever Terri has something to say. At least that's something.

But now he sits next to her, reclining back within the recesses of the ugly orange couch, his legs crossed in a very effeminate manner. Heat spreads along the tips of her ears, her eyebrows drawing into a tight line. This is supposed to be her free time, just after dinner. Yet, here he sits, another doctor in another white coat, lounging upon his throne of superiority.

Get better, Sam had told her. You can't keep throwing punches.

But it's just so hard when she's constantly surrounded by idiots. Santana scowls, folding her arms in front of her chest. "Go away," she snorts. The twitch of annoyance pulls along her forehead. What could this buffoon possibly offer her?

The rain finally let up, little breaks of splashing color parting the grey expanse of the clouds blanketing the sky. She thinks of a bedroom bathed in silver and a shadow weighs upon her chest. Throat closing, Santana rips her eyes away from the emerging horizon to stare back down at the half finished jigsaw puzzle upon the coffee table before her.

It isn't her idea of fun but Rachel had insisted.

And Santana's pretty sure half the pieces are missing (eaten by the lesser few), while the remaining are from different puzzles. Coolly, she picks one up, inspecting the cut edges, the spaces between her fingers burning. Her lips twist into a solid frown.

(There are too many pieces, with unfamiliar faces that scream, laugh, cry, and not a single one that fits.)

"Don't be snarky with me, Missy, we both know I can play that game as well as any sailor." The lisp in his words is subtle and it hisses like the neck of a steaming kettle. It rakes against her ears, her fingers gripping the material of her clothing tightly, teeth grinding against each other until she's worried they might break like porcelain.

She doesn't even know what he wants, other than he's there—sitting. Watching. Like everyone else. The Warder paces the hallways, the sharp click of her hard soled shoes bantering back and forth with the silent cries of the forgotten.

Santana rubs her fingers against the puzzle piece, catching along the imperfect edge and she wishes to tear it apart. Blue eyes burn within the pit her heart has made a home, the fires scorching her insides like acid. All she smells is sulfur. All she sees is pock marked craters where faces once stood. Puck is standing not five feet away, but Finn is with him.

It's been weeks since she's seen the whites of his eyes (they look more yellow now than anything). The perpetual state of shock is still plastered upon his face and Santana doesn't wonder after his intelligence. Not anymore.

The skin beneath her fingernails ache, anger draping over her shoulders, lips twitching as she attempts to ignore the incessant mouth breathing by the soon to be late Doctor Nancy. But it grates like a file, long and thin, against the ends of her nerves, working its way beneath her flesh and into the corridors of her veins. Santana bites the inside of her cheek, calm eyes watching the flicking movement of Finn, her thumb picking at the edge of the puzzle piece.

"What do you want," she snaps. The doctor flicks his wrist, a scowl plastered upon his face. It's as if he's brushing away something unsightly from the back of the couch. As if there is a taint, a poison within the orange fibers.

"Well certainly not to take your advice, Lisa Lippy. You might be interested to know that I have been doing research—"

Before he can even finish his sentence, a sharp laugh—bitter and braised—rattles her chest. Her thumb slides easily between the grains of the puzzle piece, the cardboard beginning to split in half.

"On what, the effects of pork up the ass?" He starts for a moment, his lips pulling down into a contained frown. She can feel the rage beginning to bubble beneath his pasty skin. Good. Let it.

Let it try to match her own. (Because like a squall, she will swallow the ocean.)

"Sammy suggested you might be interested in what I had to offer, he so clearly forgot to mention your attitude." The doctor shifts again, his chest sticking out, lips drawn into a tight line. Though he works to keep his demeanor calm and collected, Santana knows she's struck a nerve.

"What you have to offer? Don't make me laugh, we both know that you offer up to no one but the little boys behind Cat's Cradle."

"Oh please, is that the best you can come up with?" He shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle, but Santana doesn't miss the way the tones catch along his throat. "I came here with an olive branch, Missy, not a branding iron." But she can't stand the sight of him.

It makes her stomach churn because Santana knows. She knows what he is and who he is and why he's talking to her. But her dark eyes are burning holes into Finn's skull. (It's too thick to break, but nothing can stop a ballpeen.) Finn's eyes scream nothing. They're dead at the pupil and Santana wishes to push her fingers through them. Tension swims between her shoulders, the ache in her head intensifying until it's blinding and hot.

As if her silence is some sort of acquiescence the doctor begins shuffling through his papers again, his lips smacking as he forms his idea. "I've been dabbling with cases like..." he gives her a once over before continuing, "yours, and I would like to try something." His forehead creases, his thin lips drawn into a straight line, his fingers gently brushing against her skin.

"That's rich." The storm on the back of her throat rages.

"Aversion therapy has been proven—"

"You come to me and preach? Are you sure you want to go down that dark alley, doctor?" Santana leans, her knuckles showing white against her flesh. His breath snakes from between his teeth, his eyebrows raised in disinterest.

"Oh, cut the shit, Miss Lopez. Do you want my help or not?"

Tension, spanning the breadth of a lifetime, bridges between them, the soft, click, click, click of the Warder's shoes like driving nails. A chill passes over her and Santana's heart gives a twist, a blackness staining and seeping from the crumbled edges.

"Don't patronize me, I know your type and you're just as much of a disgrace as the man who sits outside of the Cradle, jerking the chain and begging for handouts," she snaps, her voice brimming with venom. A snake constricts along her throat, a forked tongue licking down the back of her mouth to feed into the hell fire scorching her from the inside out. Because this is all his fault.

With white coats and yellowed eyes, they watch her. With a click, click, click, the Warder paces, hawkish eyes piercing through her blackened veil and Santana can still feel little shocks of electricity sparking along her flesh. It arcs along her teeth, her muscles twitching and pulling in accordance to something not of her own, and she wonders if perhaps it's the devil.

"I was under the impression you wanted to get out of this place, but you so clearly are not. I suppose I'll have to break the sad news to Sammy—he was so very eager to see you out of this place, after all. Said something about Miss Colt." The doctor waves his hand flippantly at her, eyes disinterestedly scanning his cuticles for any sort of neglect. (He knows they're flawless, but he looks none the less.)

"Would you like to run that by me again, you rat-faced, snake-lipped dog?" Santana hisses. Easily, her nails rend the puzzle piece in two. Eyes burn into her back and she can feel Rachel before she can hear her. (For a moment she's center stage and the world is her audience.)

"San-tana!" Rachel's chipper voice is the last thing that she needs to hear. In fact it spurs her anger. "How are we supposed to complete the puzzle if you keep ripping the pieces in half? Didn't anyone ever teach you proper jigsaw etiquette?" Santana can read the exasperation in her voice. It's the same lilt that overtook her tones in the cafeteria when she was prying Santana off of Terri.

"And didn't anyone teach you how to shut your damn mouth?" she shoots back. Fingers slide along her shoulders, grounding her to the fabric of the couch. (She's reminded of slivers of moonlight and a scar writ along a window pane.)

"My father always says it was prudent for a rising diva—such as my self—to speak from the diaphragm and exhale through words. However, a lady always knows when to hold her tongue, and as such, I'm certain that this is not one of those times." The muscle just below Santana's eye leaps, the carnal need to shove her fist in Rachel's mouth almost overpowering.

"Miss Berry, this discussion is not meant for you, if you would please excuse yourself?" The doctor motions towards one of the empty tables lining the edge of the room, his eyebrows raised, a superior sneer upon his face. (And Santana is surrounded by the masks of men and knows not how they bleed underneath.)

(Do they whisper when they scream?)

(How many times does the clock chime?)

"You fail to see the flaws in your reasoning and while that is completely understandable, I simply cannot stand by and allow such an injustice to take place. Allow me to educate you." Glancing over her shoulder, Santana catches Rachel's eye, a scowl ripping along her face as she tries to shrug her hands off. They are firm and unyielding, a near extension of her own muscles and Santana can feel them twitching.

"In order for privacy—and I know all about the art of subterfuge, if you recall I played Delilah Perkins on To Catch a Criminal," Rachel gives them both a proud and expectant look, but all Santana can muster is lifeless eyes and dead lips.

"Who?"

"Oh, come on, Santana. I understand that you are an uncultured hooligan, but even you have to listen to the programs!" Rachel squeezes her shoulders to accent her point.

"You mean that garbage on the radio?" Biting laughter rings hallow in her ears and Santana finds blue eyes reflected in Rachel's brown. Whatever comment she had on her lips dies there, a grave dug by beautiful fingers and constellations of a girl she once knew.

"It's not garbage," the doctor says, shaking his head. "I happen to find To Catch a Criminal to be a riveting experience."

"Thank you!" Rachel says, her smile slicing through the blackened shroud roiling about Santana's shoulders. She shouldn't allow this woman to do this to her. This isn't how it's supposed to be. But here she is—Rachel fucking Berry—with her hands anchoring her to the world and kneading deep into her muscles, pushing the poison out.

(But the poison will never be out, it'll never go away because…)

"Anyways, as I was saying," Rachel begins again, motioning between Santana and the doctor, "—there is a certain amount of tact that must be present. If you so wished for this colloquy to be confidential, perhaps you should have arranged for it to be held in a less public area. You are in the recreational quarters, after all, doctor."

"I'm merely here to offer a cure, Miss Berry."

"A cure?" Santana whips her head towards him, her teeth gnashing and a demon in her eyes. Her bones are blackened, heat radiating from the very pits of the abyss. "Don't feed me that load of shit." A pair of dopey eyes lands on her and Finn is crossing the room, Puck following close behind.

"It works, truly it does! There have been numerous studies conducted—"

"If it works, why haven't you taken it, then?" Her fingernails itch and she can already taste the metallic tang of blood. Because if she could only…

But Rachel continues to ground her, and words, familiarly unfamiliar seep over the rising scuffle like molasses. "Miss Santana, I really think you ougtta calm down, yer gonna make another scene." Finger twitching, Santana almost wishes Finn would try to place a hand on her. She would love to see the light leave his eyes, after all.

"You people really should recognize the power of the scene more. It's an accomplishment of the theatrics which draws people—"

"Touch me, I dare you," Santana warns, her eyes raking over Finn slowly.

"Will you cutcher bickerin'?" Puck interjects, his hand clapped tightly around Finn's bicep.

"Are you all blind, or did your mothers forget to slap you when you were all younger?" The doctor starts.

"I didn't have a mother, she died tragically in a staging accident just after she gave birth to me." It almost startles her out of her rage, but Santana shrugs off Rachel's ridiculousness, focusing on the way her thumbs press into the grains of her muscles.

"Miss Santana, you need help. I ain't here to make you angry."

(Brittany, Brittany, Brittany...)

"What do you want, then, Finn?" she spits.

"For you to get better," he says, offering a lopsided smile and a small, awkward shrug.

"Oh Christ, have you not been listening to the words coming out of my mouth?" the doctor snaps, rolling his eyes. Santana shoots him a withering glare, her fingers pressing half-moons into the flesh of her arms, writing scripts across her skin.

"You think that this is making me better?" She motions around the room. Sharp blue eyes observe from the corner of the lounge and thin lips twist like the branches of gnarled trees. Somewhere, a bird takes flight, dotting the dreary sky with black mass and Santana is pointing to each woman in turn. "Do you not see what they do in here, or are your eyes still stinging from the shit you rubbed in them earlier?"

"I didn't come here to argue with you!"

"No—you came because abuelo couldn't be bothered enough to trust me. How does his dick taste—"

"Santana," Rachel warns lowly in her ear.

"—please regale us."

Veins spider along Finn's temples, his smile melting away into a strained grimace. His eyes stare hard at her. Puck's knuckles show white, his dark eyes flicking back and forth between them. He wets his lips as if he's about ready to say something, but Finn cuts him off before he could.

"I came here outta the goodness of my heart and you haven't done nothing but scream and yell at me!"

"You sound like you're running a charity!" She makes to stand, but Rachel holds her tight to the orange couch. "If you don't want to lose your hands, Berry, you'll get them off me."

"Remember the breathing exercises? In—" The sound of rushing air being sucked causes her eye to twitch. Of course she remembers the breathing. What does Rachel take her for? A child? She shrugs her shoulders, attempting to disengage.

"There isn't anything to be ashamed about with your sickness, Miss Santana. Let the good doctor help you!"

"Are you fucking blind?" She shrieks.

"—And out! In and out, Santana!"

"I have to sit here and listen to the garbage coming straight out of your mouth and you don't even have sense enough to realize that he's just as perverse as me?" It's the first time she's said it. But it isn't perverse is it? But all Santana can see is blue eyes, dancing in the reflections of others. Her lips are buzzing, the side of her head throbbing where bruises stain her skin dark and deep.

"You're just scared, Santana. You need to get over yourself and do something with your life or else Chief was right in saying you should die. This ain't the way you're supposed to be acting. How am I supposed to follow you if you can't even keep your shit together!"

"Whoa, you need ta be checkin' yer goddamn mouth, Hudson," Puck threatens.

"In and out! Are you even listening to me?" Rachel's grasp tightens, the sound of her frantic (it's supposed to be encouraging) breathing concerning Santana briefly. At least if she passed out there wouldn't be anyone left to hold her back.

"You expect me to take the help of a nancy? That's fucking ridiculous, and you know it!"

"I'll have you know that I have a wife and two children, Miss Lopez. The accusations flying about this room are outrageous!"

"In!"

"It's not his fault that you like eating women!"

"Out!"

"Why is it he gets to walk free while I'm sitting in this prison with leather burns around my wrists? Why don't you clap him in irons, Finn—I'm sure he wouldn't mind if it was your blubbery hands choking his cock!"

"You disgust me," Finn snarls, his voice low.

"You don't get to be disgusted with me!"

"Well, if you're all done throwing your temper tantrums like three year olds—"

"No," Santana rounds, pointing at the doctor. "You know what you can do? You can stick your aversion therapy right up your ass. Shouldn't be too different than what you're used to."

"You stubborn broad, why won't you take the help? The good doctor is obviously trying to get you better!" Finn strains to get at her again, and Santana isn't too certain that he wouldn't try to kill her. A knowing smirk lights her face.

"You believe him because he's a man." Like the coals of a fire, her eyes are blackened pits. Finn stares into them and Santana knows that the roof of his mouth is dry, his tongue cracked and parched. But blind is he in his conviction and Finn opens his mouth to speak once more.

"I-I don't—you don't know what you're talking about."

"Everybody! Everybody, we all just need to remember that this is a dialogue and as such, it is with words! Calm collected words. Now, in and out. Everyone together, there's no need for such barbarism, we are all adults here!"

"Rachel, if you don't shut your dumb mouth this very second, I'll make sure you never move again." Shadows strike across Santana's face, the wispy clouds outside cast like finger prints against the large windows, extending their way into the very core of the woman on the orange couch.

(She hears casings dropping on hardwood floors and feels the fingers of a girl she once knew and just Santana sits somewhere murdered on cold tiles in a clawed bath tub filled with iced water.)

Santana has never felt crazy, then again, she's never lost everything either. A wicked smile curls along her lips, her eyebrow quirking as she watches Finn's face grow redder with each passing second. She wishes to see his blood burst from his cornea, to watch his tongue stutter with a dying breath, because no one will ever hear his parting words. Beneath her fingernails, her skin crawls and all she can think of is Brittany, Brittany, Brittany.

And for a brief moment, golden hair catches out of the corner of her eye. Her heart stops, face falling, but the relief is nothing because there is the Warder, with eyes always watching (because Brittany thinks she's built from the walls). And it's that and Rachel's hands that ground her. Again and again and again. Because Rachel is still there, with her thumbs working painfully into her shoulders and her breath against her hair and Santana feels like she could crumble to pieces.

You've got to stop throwing punches.

Santana rips her eyes away, staring back down at the jigsaw in front of her. Something once whole, now laid broken. How is she expected to put it all back together again if she doesn't have the correct pieces? How many has Simon already ripped apart? Bitterness crops in the back of her throat. Because there will always be Simon. But he is of no consequence, with his large hands and vacant smile the moonlight doesn't reach.

With a voice made of shards, Santana begins to push. "If you're finished acting like bastards, I'd like to finish the puzzle." Finn makes to argue, but Puck's tight grip breaks through his thick skull for once. He shakes his head and walks down the corridor. Because force is the only thing a brute like him will ever know. "Don't be such a bitch, Finn, it's unbecoming of a lady," she yells after him.

"What would you know about being a lady," his answering yell before he turns the corner, disappearing from her sight. Finally. She wishes the tension would ease, that the throb behind her eyes would dissipate, but it won't. (Sometimes she feels the slide of metal and remembers a swinging light.) Santana stares at the scattered pieces upon the table and feels the weight of the stars upon her shoulders.

There is no lady.

Not anymore.

"I don't have time for you to be lolly-gagging about, Miss Lopez. Either accept my help or rot in here for the rest of your life, the world is probably a better place with you out of the picture anyway. The choice makes no difference to me." The doctor shakes his head, gathering himself as he rises from the couch. He taps her shoulder twice, peering at her over the top of his spectacles.

She doesn't say anything.


"I hope you haven't made a fool of yourself in my absence, sugarpie," But the woman is staring at Simon, the harshness in her eyes returning.

"Who's this? Didn't your mother ever teach you how to address a lady?" The corner of her lip twitches, revealing a strand of beautiful teeth.

"Forgive me, Abuelita, my manners seem to have escaped me." He draws himself closer to Brittany so that her back is flush against his chest. The woman's muscles tense, her knuckles around her glass beginning to turn white. She stares hard at Simon, and Brittany is once again reminded of Santana. "I'm Stuart Sinclair of Sinclair Solutions—I'm sure you've seen our ads—and this is my wife."

(White bed, bruised knuckles and the sound of ripping hair.)

"A man with manners? How rare, should I perhaps draw up a reward for you or should I let it rot like the lies in your throat?" She takes another sip of her drink.

Confused, she tries to look between them, but finds that she can't. Something harsh presses into her shoulders. The shaft of something metal, the faint smell of smoke and Brittany's heart is on the ground.

"Excuse me?" He asks.

"Don't take me for a fool, I know your type." She places her glass upon one of the tables before she advances. "You leave her alone. I find out you've so much as touched her, my husband will come for you." Vodka stains her breath, but her eyes are anything but muddled. Brittany can feel Simon's smile. She can feel it trembling within his chest with a giddy sort of excitement.

The woman makes to move past them, Brittany catching her eyes for just a brief moment before Simon speaks. "She's just like you, Abuelita." Simon pushes Brittany away from himself. Pain spiders up her arm as she catches herself against the corner of a table, glass shattering against the soft underside of her arm.

It's not like the pencil. It's not like the mirror or the needles or the shocks. They're nothing, because Brittany's head is swimming, a soft red beading up from between fractured skin slowly beginning to spill. It burns. She burns.

Her insides burn.

And it's getting all over the white of her ermine wrap. He'll be mad. He'll be so mad. She's supposed to go to dinner and she's already messed everything up. Apologies begin to spill from between her lips, but no one is listening to her. In fact, no one is speaking. Their eyes all turn to stare and Brittany can see his smile.

That self-same smile that's ruined everything a thousand times before. Because her world is a building block teetering without a foundation. She clutches at the pooling blood, hoping to keep it from him. Hoping to save her coat.

Her coat.

"You dare disrespect this celebration!" She advances on him.

"We're family, Abuelita, don't you want to know what your dear nieta has had her hands in?" Simon slicks back his hair with the palm of his hand and produces a cigarette from his pocket. He holds it loosely within the confines of his teeth, his eyes dark and storming.

"You do not speak of my granddaughter that way." Her voice is even and flat.

"What is this?" The man with the salt and peppered hair stands, his wizened features looking drawn and tired. About fifty feet away, he begins to make his way towards the shouting, drawing with him a sense of power. Shadows shimmer upon his shoulders.

"No," Brittany whispers it softly. Movement upon the outskirts of the party and her heart, laid forgotten somewhere upon the deck, pounds. It might be caught in her throat, but maybe that's just her tongue.

"Ah, Atilio!" Simon speaks. "Have you met my wife?" He motions towards Brittany with his unlit cigarette. "She fucks your granddaughter, I thought you'd want to meet her, it's only polite, after all."

"Simon, stop." Brittany is reaching towards him, but all eyes are on her and she feels like she's just walked out on a stage without knowing her lines.

"You son of a bitch, leave," The woman growls, pointing back towards the steps. A light drizzle of rain begins to mist along the yard, swirling the darkness within the fine droplets.

"But we have so much to discuss, don't you want to know—"

"Colt?" It's spat, like it's the scum of the earth.

"Sugarpie, why don't you tell them what happened?" Simon turns to her. The woman's eyes are black as coal and she can feel the fires beginning to burn.

"The stars, you said we'd see the stars!" Brittany looks up at the sky, but sees nothing.

"Tell them."

"If you don't remove yourself from my home this instance, Colt, I will kill you and yours where you stand." The salt and peppered man is standing on the edge of the crowd now, his finger pointed straight at him.

"Go ahead, kill her. I don't care." He rolls the cigarette between his fingers. "Santi already made sure to ruin her, I'm not a man for leftovers—never could stomach Christmas ham the next day."

A chill passes through Brittany's body, like the blackened fingers of something shrouded.

"Leave. I don't wish to scrub the blood off the floor on my niece's birthday." The salt and peppered man sweeps his hand towards the way they came before continuing. "But the next time I see you, I will not be so generous. Get out of my fucking sight."

"Big words, Atilio." He pauses briefly, flashing Brittany a secreted smirk. "Alright, let me just take what's mine—I'll let Santi know you give your warmest regards." Brittany is filled, the pain in her arm subsiding enough for her to smile, if only to be polite. The woman looks straight at her, her face paling before she turns back to Simon. There's something caught on her lips. Words.

Forever unspoken.

Just before a pop. And it shatters the stars like the harshness of nothing. The woman with the feathered pin and dark eyes gapes. Between her eyes, a thickness drips like a red stream, rending her face in two. And it's like she's reading her, the woman with no name—the woman who might be Santana. (From another time, another life, another world.)

The sound of hammers pulling reminds her of a clock. A clock, a clock, a clock. And eyes, thousands of them, watch from the shadows in the ceiling, some of them twisting and turning within sockets, but none of them sparked with life. Simon holds a gun, the barrel smoking with blue jazz. The same kind she once saw in a bar downtown while they walked by.

And the bullet is between the woman's eyes like a third portal to a place beyond. She stares at Brittany, her words frozen on her lips. A twitch sparks along her cheek, something new and terrifying shaking her chest. Santana.

Before she has a chance to move, the sound of gunshots riddle the air. And it's all that she can hear. The harshness of something automatic and the smooth cracks of pistols. She's never heard it this way before. And no one has time. Flesh is shredded like paper lanterns casting a pooling yellow, the girl in the red dress falling beneath a man, falling beneath the world.

Blood soaks the floorboards.

And Simon watches her, his cigarette lit, that satisfied gleam in his eye. The smoke drifts up to meet with stars she can't see. Brittany wonders if they're shattered.

But then she decides she doesn't care.

Simon smiles.