Santana set her Bluetooth receiver on her ear and answered the call, "Q."
"San."
Santana couldn't help but smile, it was good to hear Quinn's voice. Besides, she was still riding a wave of bliss from the racquetball game earlier... and everything that happened after.
She was actually interested when she asked, "How's the conference going?"
"Just as redundant as I thought it would be," Quinn sighed and Santana could almost hear her rolling her eyes, "but it looks good on a resume, so I'll take it."
"Yeah, I bet."
"Look, Kurt told me about the article in—"
"Bullshit," Santana cut her off with a smirk in her voice, "I haven't told Kurt yet. I know you heard about it from Rachel, and I know she's out in San Antonio with you."
"I—um," Quinn faltered on the other end of the line.
"What I don't know is," Santana continued, "why you didn't tell me."
It was a little moment before Quinn finally answered with, "I didn't want you to think I was, I don't know, leaving you to deal with Clockwork yourself while I took some sort of... vacation."
Santana blinked, actually surprised. "That's ridiculous. I know they pulled you for that conference because you're the shit. Having you lady friend be able to drop everything and leave with you is just a bonus, I would never hold that against you, Q."
"I didn't know how you'd take it," Quinn admitted quietly. "We never talk about this kind of thing."
"That was before," Santana shrugged even though she was alone in her basement, "when you were only dating members of Douchebags Anonymous."
"Thanks."
"It's the truth," Santana laughed, "and Rachel is... alright."
"I guess that's a compliment coming from you," Quinn snorted.
"I don't really know her as much as I'd like to," Santana mumbled awkwardly, "I mean, if you guys are going to... be a thing, or whatever."
Quinn paused and Santana wondered if Rachel was in the room, "I think there's a good chance of that."
"Then," Santana's fingers paused on her keyboard, "after this feature business, we should all do something together. You, me, Rachel... and Brittany."
Quinn didn't need any more explanation than that.
"That would be great," there was a smile in Quinn's voice, and Santana almost blushed. "Really, that would be perfect, Santana."
They fell into an easy silence, picturing the future. Before she could get too wrapped up in it, Santana cleared her throat and asked, "So, about the article."
"Right, of course," Quinn's demeanor changed into a business-like attitude and their heart to heart was put behind them, "I have someone we can trust tracking it. She's going to update me daily for the next week, but if we haven't heard anything by the end of the day tomorrow, we should be in the clear."
"Good," Santana was grateful for the reassurance. She knew Quinn had people close to her in the PR department that would keep this from getting to the wrong set of ears.
"How are you?" Quinn's voice softened a little. "About everything?"
"I'm fine Q," Santana sighed, "really, I can take care of myself."
"I know... I just wish I was at that convention."
Santana raked her teeth over her bottom lip before saying, "Brittany took care of me, Q. It was fine, I'm fine."
She was fine. Even if the drama with Artie was going to keep her from sleeping tonight, even if their feature was still in danger, even if it felt like the small amount of control she had in her life was slipping from her grasp... she was still fine.
Because she had Brittany.
She might even venture to say that she was better then fine.
"So," Santana glanced at the woman sitting on her desk, "Quinn and Rachel, huh?"
Brittany smiled down at her, "Yeah, I told you they had chemistry."
"You have better gaydar than me," Santana admitted as she continued to type. She didn't know what Brittany was doing on her desk, but she was hardly complaining. It was nice to have her there. Close enough to reach out and touch if she wanted.
Brittany looked up to the ceiling, biting her lip and pondering, "I'm pretty sure I knew you were gay by the end of our first interview."
Santana's fingers stumbled over her keyboard, "Shut up."
The blonde tilted her head back to laugh, the bouncing curls caught Santana's eye.
"No, seriously," Brittany chuckled, "I did. Then I got to your house and felt like an idiot because I hadn't realized that you and Quinn were together."
"We're not—"
Brittany held up a single finger and Santana fell silent.
A sly smile came over Brittany's face and Santana blushed, because yes, that was all Brittany had to do to get her to stop talking.
"I didn't know that at the time," Brittany pointed out, "and you can't tell me it's doesn't look like you are."
"I might be able to see where you would get that idea," Santana said slowly. After a short pause she added, "If you're blind."
Brittany just rolled her eyes and fell into a comfortable silence. She was perfectly content watching the woman work, and ignoring the large amount of work she had to do herself. Her priorities might not have been exactly up to par, but there was always time to appreciate a beautiful woman. Especially when it came to this woman.
She had been thinking about last night's anger laden confession to her ex-boyfriend. It would have been easy to brush it off, as if she had only said it to get the point across to Artie about just how serious she was when she begged him to back off... easy or not, Brittany knew that she couldn't pretend that was the only reason she said it.
The words carried more truth to them than the desperation they were laced with.
She was in love with Santana Lopez.
"Mr. Hummel and guest at the door."
Brittany slipped off the desk and took her seat before Santana allowed her assistant entry into the office. He eyed the two women with a curious glance because he wasn't used to waiting for Santana's blessing before he was allowed in. He knew they must have needed a moment to become presentable in some sense. Santana didn't have the sense to be embarrassed about it, she was more interested in the guest.
He ushered a woman forward, "When I was walking through the lobby, I heard her tell the desk that she had something for you."
Brittany glanced at Santana and was curious about the look on her face.
It was a sharply calculating look that a UPS agent wouldn't normally inspire. The woman seemed nervous to approach, and Brittany didn't blame her. The way Santana looked her up and down would have made Brittany jealous if her attitude wasn't so cold. Finally, Santana stood from her desk and walked towards her, a hand outstretched for the package.
Glad for the opportunity to finish her job, the UPS agent handed Santana the object, "Here you go."
It was a thin cardboard envelope. One that was normally used to transport official documents or transcripts. Santana studied it and Brittany watched her eyes narrow. Brittany felt her stomach tense. Something was wrong.
Satisfied that her work was done, the woman turned to Kurt and smiled, "Thank you, for the help."
"You're welcome," he smiled and moved towards the couch as she headed for the door. "Have a good—"
"Computer, code two-one-one."
The UPS woman stepped back as the office door slid shut quickly in front of her, a small red light flashing over the keypad.
"What the hell?" she turned around, looking to Santana, who's command was the reason her escape was blocked. When Santana didn't offer any explanation other than a hard glare, her eyes skated to Kurt and Brittany. For help, maybe?
"Santana?" Kurt asked slowly, unsure of why they were keeping the UPS woman hostage. He didn't even know there was a special code to lock down the office.
Santana didn't answer, her jaw set in an sharp manner, she walked over to the woman. Brittany could see her shoulders tense and the line between her eyebrows darken. She was angry.
"You have two second to tell me who the fuck you are," Santana bit off in a low voice, "and who the hell told you to give this to me."
"How am I supposed to know who sent it?" she asked giving an startled shrug. "My job's just to deliver it."
"First off," Santana held up the package, an envelope that didn't look suspicious at all, "there's no post mark. There's nothing on this fucking thing that would imply that it's been through any sort of postal system."
The woman's eyes shifted around the front of the envelope. It was blank save for the small label on the front.
"Second, it's addressed to IT Barbie. Somehow, I don't think you, if you were really a UPS agent, would have known who the fuck that is. Someone told you specifically who to give this to."
"I—"
"Third," Santana waved a sarcastic hand to the woman herself, "UPS doesn't tailor their uniforms to make their employees look like tramps."
Her uniform was rather... skimpy. The shorts were too short to be regulation and the top was made to show off some cleavage. She didn't seem to have an answer for that one and looked at Brittany and Kurt again, pleading silently.
She didn't find friendly expressions on their faces.
"Remember those two seconds?" Santana's harsh voice brought the woman's attention back to her. "You have one left before I call security and tell them I have a fraudulent UPS employee, who can't produce any company ID, delivering suspiciously marked packages to a highly populated building. Do you know what the post Nine-Eleven policy for shit like that is?"
"Fine! Some guy paid me to bring it to you," she huffed, eyes darting around, expecting Brittany and Kurt to jump her too.
"What guy?" Santana wanted to know that more than what was in the package.
"I don't know," she ran a hand through her hair, "I've only met him twice, tall guy, kind of slow. He's a friend of a friend, Frank or something."
"He looks like a Neanderthal?" Santana pressed. "Big white guy, brown hair, stupid look on his face?"
"Yeah," she seemed sure, "that could be him."
"Kurt, Google a picture of Hudson. Finn Hudson," Santana tossed over her shoulder before turning back to the woman. "What else did he say to you?"
"Nothing, just get in the building, give it to someone to give to you, and leave," her voice was muffled as she rubbed her face, obviously regretting ever putting herself in this position, "I didn't expect to run into someone that could bring me right to you. I wasn't even supposed to make it passed the lobby."
"Do you work for Orbit?"
"That's none of your—"
"Don't worry about it," Santana waved her off dryly, "I'll find out when I press formal charges."
The woman paled.
"Unless you want to start cooperating?" Santana crossed her arms over her chest and pegged the woman with a disdainful look.
"Okay, yeah, I work for Orbit," she admitted finally, "They asked me to do it because I wore this outfit to a company Halloween party. They told me it was just a prank. He even paid me fifty bucks."
A prank. Santana's lips thinned dangerously. This was no prank.
"Do you know what's in here?" Santana asked evenly, holding up the envelope again.
She shook her head, "No, I swear."
"Is this the guy?"
They looked at the screen with a picture of Finn Hudson's face, she nodded, "Yeah that's him."
"Who's the other guy?" Santana had to ask. She knew, but she had to hear it for herself.
"I don't know—"
"Think about it," her voice was dark and threatening, "I can still call security on your sorry ass."
"I don't know, some guy in a wheelchair. He works up in the tech department, I've never talked to him in my fucking life. I'm just an accountant."
Santana took in a small breath and dared to glance at Brittany from across the room. The blonde looked just as pale as the fake UPS agent. She decided it was time to stop playing bad cop.
Nodding back at the screen she asked one last time, "You're sure that's the guy?"
"Yeah, positive," the woman replied with such an exhausted honesty that Santana didn't have to question it.
Santana nodded and sighed, "I'll pay you twice what he gave you to make a sworn statement to that effect. No charges, no complaint to Orbit, just give me the statement and I'll let you walk out of here like this never happened."
Her eyebrows shot up, "Um... okay."
"Kurt, call Puck," Santana slipped around her desk and stood behind it. "Computer, codeword jailbreak."
Minutes later Puckerman arrived at the office. He was quick to get the details of Santana's request and escort the woman out to make sure it was taken care of. She gave him a thin smile when he asked if she was alright. When he asked about what to do with the package, she told him not to worry about it. She would take care of it herself. It wasn't until they had left and the door slip closed that she was able to collapse into the chair behind her desk and let out a tired sigh, mentally and emotionally drained.
She rubbed her eyes, "I'm sorry you had to see that, Brittany. It probably wasn't very flattering."
Brittany licked her lips, keeping her eyes resolutely on the pen in her hands.
"Don't worry about it," she said quietly. She had a dreadful hunch that this was all her fault. Whatever was in that package was nothing but hurtful, and it was all her fault. She was barely able to contain anxiety in her voice when she asked, "Are you okay?"
"I'm so sick of this," Santana shook her head tiredly.
"Are you going to open it?" Kurt asked cautiously, eying the package with a curiosity that the women lacked.
Santana continued to stare at the package on her desk. Slowly she reached out an picked it up, testing it's weight, pliability, thickness. It felt like a an envelope full of tears and heartache. Brittany watched Santana study it. Her dark eyes weary and guarded. The corners of her lips tucked down as her eyes narrowed. She was disgusted.
"No."
Santana slipped the envelope into her computer bag and begged herself to forget about it.
The elevator felt smaller for an entirely different reason this time.
Both women had been reserved for the remainder of the workday. Lost in their own worries, regrets, and the words they couldn't quiet vocalize.
Santana guessed that Brittany's silence had been stemmed from her patients. She was waiting until Santana was comfortable enough to bring it up and Santana wasn't sure she was worth that kind of gentle temperament. Brittany was too good to her.
"Brittany," Santana knew she had to say something about it. "I... wish that I had been exaggerating when I told you this would be complicated."
Complicated was more of an understatement.
Santana continued in a small voice, "I'll understand if—"
The way Brittany took her hand was almost desperate, "There's nothing he can do that would make me rethink this."
That was the one thing Brittany knew for sure. She didn't know if this was actually her fault or not, and she didn't know how to make it better, but she knew that she would do whatever it took.
Santana took in a breath that she didn't know she had been holding. Brittany hadn't taken the out. She still wanted this. Santana squeezed her hand. She didn't know how much she needed this hand in her's until it was there, and the world around her seemed vastly more stable.
"This is all my fault," Brittany breathed in harshly. "Santana, this is all my—"
"Brittany, it's not your fault," Santana cut her off in a gently firm tone. "This is between Artie and I, it's always been between us. You're just collateral damage... just like Tina, you're getting the brunt of our shit."
"Please don't be a martyr and break up with me."
Santana's sudden burst of laughter wasn't something she was expecting. Brittany's heart fell for a second, until Santana shook her laughter off and pegged her with a genuine look of adoration.
"I couldn't—" she scuffed her shoe against the cheap tile floor, "Brittany, I... couldn't break up with you if I tried."
She felt the weight of Santana's words. Those chocolate eyes were saying that she was already in too deep to brush this off so easily. She wouldn't let an old grudge come between them if she could help it. This was worth fighting for. Brittany felt her stomach tumble. Did Santana feel the same way? Could she maybe be in love too?
The elevator stopped, the doors opening automatically to the dimmed hallway. Neither woman made the move to exit, they were too lost in their own moment. The large metal door slid closed.
Love aside, she still had other things to confess, "No, really Santana. At the convention, when I was talking to Artie—I told him—he knows that I'm interested in you."
"He knows we're seeing each other?" Santana's shoulders tensed visibly.
"Not exactly," Brittany corrected her in an embarrassed mumble. She explained what had happened, how he assumed they were sleeping together and she had deflected it into just a one-sided crush. She couldn't bring herself to repeat what she had said at Artie's apartment.
Santana's eyes were shifting across the glossy wall, thinking about the pieces and how they fit together.
"He's trying to get between us," she sighed softly. "I—he did it with Tina, and I let him. He must have really liked you, Britt," she joked lightly, "not that I blame him."
"I'm so sorry," Brittany's voice was quiet and dejected.
"This still isn't your fault," Santana said firmly, "you could have told him to roll off a fucking cliff and this still would be about how much he hates me. I pissed him off too by making fun of his office or whatever. So trust me, I don't blame you for a thing."
A small amount of the guilt on her shoulders fell off, and Brittany almost smiled. Santana fingered the straps of her computer bag. She could almost feel the weight of the package.
"Honestly, I'm surprised that it's taken this long to have everything dredged up again."
"Are you..." Brittany needed to know, "going to open it?"
Santana's eyes fell to the floor.
"I don't really need to," Santana mumbled, "it's not going to be anything good. I'm just glad that it's Friday."
Brittany assumed she was glad because if it really was that bad, she would have some time to get over it before she had to come back to work. Santana was planning to take this hard and Brittany wished she could make it better.
"I'll open it tonight," Santana gave a small half shrug. "Go home, have a beer, deal with some demons. No big deal."
"I don't like that idea."
She didn't like that idea at all. Brittany hated the idea of Santana dealing with Artie's torment alone. She felt like she should be there, to help shoulder the burden, to make sure Santana was okay. If she hadn't went to Artie's last night... maybe none of this would have happened. She should have known better than to hope he left them alone.
"I'll be fine, Brittany," Santana's eyes looked up to Brittany's, seeing the concern in her features, then skated to the wall. She couldn't promise she would be fine. "It's probably just a prank, like she said. I'm a grown woman, I can take care of myself."
"Still," Brittany squeezed her hand a little harder, "I'm worried... I don't want you to be by yourself—I could—"
"Remember, when you said that you wouldn't push about this?" Santana asked softly, there was a trace of a pleading quality to her tone.
Brittany's jaw snapped shut, and her expression crestfallen for a moment. She had to admit, "Yes."
"I have to do this by myself," Santana met her eyes, a trace of defiance there. She wanted to keep her secrets. She wanted to keep her dignity.
"There's nothing that could ever make me think less of you," Brittany whispered breathlessly.
Santana's hand stiffened in her own, just for a brief second, "That's... really nice to hear Brittany, but I'm just not... there yet. Please, let me take care of this myself."
Brittany couldn't find it in herself to argue. She didn't want to make anything any worse. If Santana wanted her space, Brittany felt it was the least she could do.
"Will you call me if you need anything?" Brittany asked quietly. Everything instinct she had was telling her this was a bad idea. "With Quinn being out of town and everything."
Santana rolled her eyes, pushing the button that would open the doors of the elevator. That was probably the worst part of the entire thing. She needed Quinn in this moment.
"I'll be fine Brittany, really."
"Santana, please, just promise."
"I promise."
Brittany called around eight that night.
She knew Santana should have been awake. She could picture the woman sitting in her basement, listening to music, and working at her desk. Or at least that's what she hoped was happening. She hoped that whatever Santana found in that envelope was nothing worth worrying about and they could all get on with their lives.
Santana's phone went straight to voicemail.
She was worried.
She tried again, then about twelve more times—just in case. She got the same response every time. She only left three messages, they all said the same thing.
"Santana, it's Brittany... look, I'm really worried. So give me a call, okay? Talk to you soon."
That was an hour ago. The next call went to Quinn.
"Hello?"
"Quinn, it's Brittany," she didn't waste any time updating Quinn to the situation, what happened at Clockwork, how Santana was at home alone and not picking up her phone. "I'm not sure if I'm freaking out about nothing, but I'm really worried, Quinn."
"No," she heard Quinn shuffling around in her hotel room, "no, I'm worried too. She should have fucking called me. Are they sure it was Artie who sent it?"
Brittany squeezed her eyes shut, "The woman said it was Artie and his friend."
Why did she have to verbally assault the one man that hated Santana more than anyone in the world? Why did she have to rub salt in his wounds? What had she been thinking? The answer was that she hadn't been thinking. She had been upset, and angry, and made a horrible mistake.
She heard Quinn take in a slow breath, and after a studded silence she said, "I'm taking the next flight back."
In the background she heard Rachel ask what was wrong.
"Let me check on her first," Brittany was already slipping into her shoes. "I'll go over to your house and—"
"Use the garage door," Quinn cut her off, "there's a keypad on the right side, I'll text you the code."
"I'll call you as soon as I find her," Brittany grabbed a jacket hanging across the back of her couch.
"Brittany..." Quinn's voice stilled her, "you're a sweet girl, and Santana really, really likes you."
"She means a lot to me too," Brittany breathed, a deep sense of dread twisting around her chest.
"Please don't—whatever you might find, please, don't hold it against her."
Brittany had to try a few times to hit the right buttons because her hands were shaking so badly. Santana hadn't answered the door either. It was freaking her out. She ducked under the garage door as soon as she could fit because it was taking to long to open to her full height. The door into the house was unlocked like Quinn promised, she barely had the frame of mind to close the garage door behind her.
The house was dark. She tried to remember what she knew of the layout to get her to the basement the fastest.
She tired the first option which was to call out, "Santana! Santana it's Brittany, where are you?"
There was no response. Brittany's heart was thudding wildly in her chest. Santana wouldn't have done anything crazy would she? She wouldn't of done something—
"Santana!"
Brittany pushed through a hall and found herself in the living room. Nothing. The kitchen was empty too, but now that she had her bearings she knew how to get to the basement. The door at the top of the staircase was ajar, the area beyond it dark.
That didn't stop her from tearing down the steps. Her flats hit the floor and she looked around. Dim light was pooling at the floor from the computer screens. The number of beer bottles on the desk weren't a good sign.
"Santana?"
The name came out a bare whisper. Somewhere between the top of the stairs and the bottom, she had lost her voice, and her nerve. Brittany was now entirely too scared of what she might find. She looked around to the back of the basement. Quinn had told her that Santana's second bedroom was past the large shelving unit that divided if from the lab area. She crossed past the desks and moved around the shelving unit.
"Santana?"
She peered around the cozy little nook Santana created; one wall covered in thick computer textbooks, the other in shelves of tools and spare parts. Tucked into a corner was another desk. This one looked like it was much more personable that the workstation in the front. It was cluttered and there were photos tacked onto the wall behind the laptop, a small reading lamp offered a warm glow over the area.
The last thing of significance was the small bed tucked into the corner.
"San..." Brittany moved across the room, her eyes finding a familiar shade of dark hair falling over the pillow at the head of the bed. She approached cautiously, lowering herself to sit on the edge of the bed. She pulled the comforter down a little further so she could she the woman a better.
Santana was laying on her side, facing away from her, but she could see rhythmic rise and fall of her ribcage. Brittany's heart beat started to level out, Santana was fine. Seemingly passed out after a large amount of alcohol, but fine enough.
She moved gently, reaching out to push some of Santana's hair out of her face. What she found made her heart ache. Even in sleep Santana's face donned a frown, eyebrows knitted restlessly. Her eyes were red and puffy from obvious tear shed. Even her posture was a dejected version of the fetal position, curled into herself and buried under the covers.
Wishing she could just disappear.
Brittany pulled out her phone and called Quinn, quietly updating her to Santana's condition. She could tell that Quinn was still worried, and she tried to be as reassuring as possible. Only after Brittany promised to stay the night, and have Santana call in the morning, did Quinn decide to not fly back that night.
"I'll take care of her Quinn," Brittany said honestly. It was the least she could do.
"I know," Quinn sighed, "call me if anything else comes up."
"I will."
Brittany sighed after she disconnected the call. She looked down to Santana again and watched her sleep for a moment. She stood and slipped out of her shoes, glad that she had ran out of her apartment in her sweats. Brittany eyed the liquor bottle that was balancing on the headboard, she took it from its perch and moved to the desk next to the head of the bed. She wanted to set it down on the desk, but there wasn't a spot for it. The entire desktop was covered in pictures.
Large and glossy eight by elevens, of Santana Lopez.
Brittany nearly dropped the bottle. Her eyes shot to the floor, her face flushed and breath hitched. She glanced back to the photos, then to the woman in the bed; the small, fragile, broken woman in the bed. Brittany took a hit from the bottle in her hand. Then slowly lowered herself into the chair at the desk, keeping her bottle handy. She looked again and her stomach turned. They were all very explicit, very graphic, very nude. These were dirty pictures of Santana...
She was able to keep her eyes on one of them long enough to realize that it was a fake. Santana's breasts were not that large, not by a long shot. She started focusing on the necks in each picture, looking for the subtle change in skin tone, or irregularity to shape. Someone had taken different head shots of Santana and photoshopped them, quite convincingly, on the bodies of women from pornographic magazines.
Possibly Maxim.
Even if she knew they were fakes, Brittany still felt wrong about looking at them in any manner. She started flipping them over so they were facing down. She couldn't imagine Santana down here by herself, opening the envelope to find this. She felt violated and she wasn't even the one in the photos. She felt despicable because she was probably the reason Artie had lashed out.
She flipped another over and paused, there was some writing on the back of this one.
"This is all the proof I need."
Brittany hesitantly flipped the photo back over. It was different from the rest of them. It wasn't a posed figure with Santana's face. This was the only image where the woman had on any clothes. Clad in a bra and jeans, she was kneeling on the floor, still between the legs of a man. Brittany didn't have to guess to know why she had that grimace on her face, or what was making her chin shine in the harsh light.
A bitter wave of bile rose up in her throat and Brittany was just barely able to keep it down. She washed it down with another swig from the bottle.
She glanced back down, in a last ditch effort to see if this was a hoax, but there it was... a small splotch of ink on the woman's ribcage, Santana's ribcage. Brittany set the photo down with the rest of them. She thought about calling Quinn back. She wasn't sure if she could deal with this.
Somehow, Artie had come to possess a picture of Santana giving some guy head.
Her blood ran cold at the thought. She grabbed the picture frantically, this time focusing entirely on the second person featured there. Most of his face was cut off, but the slope of his jaw. The frame of his body was slim, he was sitting on a bed, his legs hanging off the edge at an awkward angle—
"God—" Brittany threw the photo back onto the desk cursing between her teeth, "Fuck!"
Her gut was telling her that man was Artie. Her gut was also threatening to heave again. She gripped the edge of the desk to steady herself and took another drink.
Artie and Santana.
Santana and Artie.
Her mind was reeling. She didn't understand. How was this possible? How could they keep this from her? She ran her hand over her face and tried to think it through. There was no way it was that simple. There had to be more to it. Santana and Artie? There was no way. She would have to find out the truth from one of them. Was this what Jesse St. James held over her head? Who else knew about this photo? What was it's context?
Had they been dating?
Was it some sort of drunken fling?
Or worse?
She took in a deep breath. No matter what happened in their past, Santana was the one hurting right now. She was the one that had drank herself into a alcohol induced coma. Brittany set the bottle down, no longer caring if it was sitting on the pictures. She stood from the desk and moved to the bed, determined to do whatever it took to pick up the pieces and make this right.