II: It Hurts Because It Matters

Moans filled the room, humid and hot with the two bodies pressed up against each other. Legs and fingers entangled themselves into each other. Sweat glistened on Santana's back as nails scratched along Santana's side ribs, leaving long, tender, red scrapes. It was all this wanting, all this pushing and pulling, but no real satisfaction.

Santana pulled back to catch a breath and saw… that yoga instructor's face looking back at her. And she watched, horrified, as the face turned into Leah, the bartender at Gaslamp's, her black tattoos snaking her arms in delicate spirals. And then Meredith, the TA in her International Relations class in her first year with a splash of freckles across her shoulders. Then Sara, the blonde sorority girl who got drunk and practically threw herself onto Santana at the Alpha Delta Omega annual Halloween bash her third year. Jessica, one of the models for the Nike campaign, whose skin was almost the same color as Santana's caramel tones, her toned calves firm around Santana's waist. The face changed again and again, dragging Santana down the memory lane of girls who unsuccessfully tried to fill the void in Santana's life.

The scratches weren't just on her skin. There was a hunger for something to take up space inside of her, something so ragged and sharp that Santana was surprised that she wasn't being torn from the inside out. And the one face she wanted to see was never the one looking back at her.

And as the hands pulled to drag her back into this carnal act, Santana could almost cry. This was too meaty, too crude, like the sex plunged into Santana with all the pulsing and sweating without any of the desires and beauty. It went on indefinitely, like all nightmares do.

Tears leaked out from the corner of Santana's eyes, her body imprisoned by her own past regrets until she woke up.

Santana laid quietly on her bed with her eyes closed, the fading flashes of her nightmare replaying in the back of her eyelids, the bruises of the most recent night raid fading slowly but steadily from the dark purple hues to some variation of green to yellow before finally returning to its normal state. The shattered bones from being melded back together, tiny fractures and fissures closing to form whole bones again. Slashes across her body took its sweet old time to close up, broken ends of veins reconnecting, the tissue and muscle reforming to keep its firm composition, all before the skin slowly found its way to cover her skin.

Pills are always hard to swallow but Santana managed to choke down the little white circles that saved her life more than once. Unfortunately, the thought of a particular girl lodged itself in her throat, getting stuck the way she always feared that those little pills would and it was much worse than she had ever imagined. Perotroxin, the medication that Xion developed based off of what Lara had given Santana years ago, was a little easier to swallow than heartbreak.

Iris sat beside her, brushing strands of Santana's hair away from her face, watching Santana's gaze move around her ceiling of her loft apartment. Iris hummed quietly, a strand of melody of a lullaby she learned while abroad in Spain.

It wasn't like Santana to be so reckless on night raids. Xion said that he had to pull off six sleazeball guards watching the docks for their shipments of cocaine and God knows what else. They tracked this operation over six months, letting the smaller crimes pass so that they could execute the larger sting op and climb up the hierarchy of thugs and assholes that apparently ran this. What worried Iris was that six guys was nothing to Santana and still, the Latina let the men attack her brutally; she had seen Santana plow through an entire building of guards before. They even had kept an unsaid competition on who could dismantle the most guards in an operation (mainly, because the boys were getting cocky and Iris and Santana wanted to put them in their place. Santana and Iris led the numbers by a long shot for eight consecutive months.) with Santana leading at eighty-six guards under twenty minutes. Not that they always terminated the pawns but at least, they disabled them. And for a girl who could disable and terminate eighty-six thugs under half an hour, Santana seemed to have let six measly guards kick the living shit out of her.

And it made Iris sad because there was nothing as dangerous and tragic as watching her baby sister let the world punish her again and again for something she did out of love so many years ago.

More than just being faster and stronger than even Xion, Santana was, if anything, methodical and precise; she knew what she wanted, what needed to be accomplished, and the efficient and cost-effective route to getting there. Iris could recall the ruthlessness in Santana's eyes when she had less than two seconds to decide whether or not executing a criminal was worth it, the first time she faced someone who really wreaked havoc on thousands of lives. After that first decision, Santana changed into a person with a burning house; every moment was about holding onto the most important things and finishing off the rest. Without really having to make a formal decision, SNIX had let Santana take lead because it felt natural to have someone headstrong, decisive and smart but caring to lead the way. Xion always said Iris cared a little too much, emotionally invested just a tad too much to be able to do what Santana does everyday. And considering how Iris had waited at Santana's bedside during her recovery for about an hour, despite how much of her own shit she had to get done for tomorrow's early technical strategy meetings, Iris couldn't help but agree.

But right now, the girl lying on the bed was pale ghost of the person Santana had grown to be in the past decade, the shell of a person she was when Iris first found her.

"Hi…" Iris said to the girl who opened a dorm room door. She looked nothing like the picture Iris committed to her memory from the Nationals Cheerleading Competition winners. In that snapshot, a petite brunette stood next to a blonde, two figures just a step or two in front of the rest of the squad, clearly the leaders. The glare the brunette gave into the lens of the camera struck the very familiar feeling of fear in Iris; she knew enough cheerleaders that tortured her and her group of mathletes to last her a lifetime. Iris did her best to steer clear of cocky cheerleaders, Plastics, bitches, so on. But Santana Lopez wasn't just a cheerleader, even though the bitch expression on her face said she was just like every other cheerleader.

No, but this girl, the one who stood in front of her, looked a little broken, a little lost, and a little confused to why there was a total stranger standing in her doorway. She wore a modest black v-neck and grey jeans, no trace of make-up on her face, though her face didn't need any. Under the fragile expression was a striking face, young and maybe a little heartbroken but nonetheless, beautiful in the way that Allele could only mold. A lost expression looked back at Iris, who instantly saw the shards of hazel barely visible even to Iris' trained eyes. Allele's trademark on their mutilated bodies. This was the girl. Iris asked hesitantly, even though she already knew the answer, "Are you, uh, Santana Lopez?"

The girl searched her face and Iris searched back. She was probably an inch or two shorter, a stunning figure and face veiled by modesty and what appeared as tragedy in her eyes.

"Who are you?" She asked quietly, like she couldn't handle the sound of her own voice. By the looks of it, this girl was a touch away from shattering, anyway. A tumult of emotions seemed to be stirring inside of her.

"Sorry, this may seem random but have you…" Iris inhaled, taking a moment to pause at the risk of sounding crazy. Before her meager courage could escape her, she pushed out the rest of her question, "everheardofacompanynamedAlle le?"

The girl's eyes widened and stepped back slowly, cautiously and suspiciously. Her hand gripped the edge of door, a moment away from slamming it in this woman's face, when –

"No, wait!" Iris realized her error: Santana thought she worked for Allele. "I just… I…"

Santana softened a little at the sight of this Allele-beautiful woman stuttering in front of her, this stranger's exquisite beauty lost in her ….what looked like, nervousness. Why was she nervous of Santana? The Allele she knew was cold and calculative, so unlike the stuttering, anxious woman in front of her. What could Allele have done that–

"My name is Iris. I'm your sister. I've been looking for you."

Oh.

At those words, a flood of relief barreled into Santana; she didn't realize how much she needed a family, someone who understood her, until she finally had someone like Iris. They became like any two sisters, little girls that stayed up all night, recounting the past 18 or so years of their lives that they missed out on. Most nights, the single felt large and empty for Santana. With Iris, it felt like someone actually lived there and Santana, for the first time since she moved, felt grateful that she didn't have a roommate. Sometime, between describing what it was like to be a Cheerio (completely jumping over the Quinn-part) to being in Glee, between Iris' tales of mathlete "study parties" and getting perfect scores on the SATs, exhaustion crept slowly, unnoticeably. Santana laid awake in her bed, not opening her eyes; instead, she tried desperately to hold onto the wisps of the best dream she had. An indescribable gratitude warmed Santana when she realized she really did have a sister; her eyes landed on Iris, still hazy with sleep.

Iris quickly learned about Santana's nightmares, the ones that left wet streaks on her baby sister's cheeks. She never inquired about what tormented Santana at night. But over the years, she learned from the slips in passing, the quiet mentions of a girl, a heartbreak, someone who loved her, someone Santana saved. Bit by bit, over the course of years, Iris collected the pieces of the story, scattered wildly and far apart like torn paper blown away by a gust of wind. All the while, Iris was there for Santana, as she mended her mind and heart and became the strong woman who led them today. The broken girl that Iris' eyes landed on the first time she opened her dorm room door transformed into a brilliant strategist, a methodical and caring leader who invested more than she should have into the small family they gathered over the years. It was Santana who found Xion and Neil, grateful for the distraction of searching for their siblings that helped her forget about Quinn, even for a moment. It was Santana who mapped out how to protect people from themselves as the economy plummeted and desperate people turned to desperate solutions. It was Santana who helped Iris start her company and figure out what they needed to do. SNIX knew Santana as a pillar, strong and constant. But with one glance, one unnerving word from Quinn, that pillar crumbled to dust.

Santana always knew what to do, except when it came to her own happiness. Iris heard that when you lose one of your five senses, the other four become enhanced; Santana suffered some version of that. Santana lost the ability to be happy and because of that, she excelled in all other aspects of her life.

If there was one thing good that came out of the heartbreak, it was that it gave Iris a chance that she wouldn't have had otherwise to be the older sister that Santana had needed. And it gave Santana the chance to save herself.

In this moment, though, she didn't feel quite saved. The multitude of what-ifs, regrets, and maybes welled up inside, threatening to crack the frail exterior, held barely together by the soft cover of her skin and sanity. The thoughts of the blonde flooded, like an over-filled glass bottle, the overwhelming notions and reflections pressing against the fragile walls, delicate as glass.

But the one thought that stood out, especially as she felt the broken pieces of her body slowly come together, was the speech she was trying to summon, the one that she knew she would have to say to Quinn, the one that left her breathless, her stomach doing somersaults, her palms slightly damp with nervousness. Thinking about approaching Quinn was both exciting and agonizing, the contradictory emotions as binary and opposite as the feeling of being burned and frozen, . But she knew in her bones, in the blood coursing in her veins, in the small ache of her mind, even this anticipation of facing Quinn was step closer to the reason most people lived this thing called life.

Santana lay still on the bed, oblivious to her body returning to some state of normal, to the cries and screams of people who needed a savior that seemed distant today, to even Iris' palpable concern as she watched Santana worriedly. Santana waited patiently for the calamity in her heart to seem beautiful again in the light of potential and possibility. Bad news had a way of stopping her ambition for a few days but hope had a way of paralyzing Santana, seeping into every vertebra of her spine until it rendered her useless.

"I never noticed these on the walls, Tina," Quinn quietly mused as she walked down the hall towards her own office, Tina walking with her, their cups of tea in hand. Tina followed Quinn's gaze to the line of framed photographs on the wall. The clean, natural walls kept photographs in modestly simple black frames, making a straight panel of frames. You wouldn't even notice them, not unless you really looked, Quinn thought as she glanced at each one.

"Mmhmm," Tina responded, not really into the pictures. "Yeah, I guess they've been here awhile. I don't know, I never really noticed either."

"How can you not," Quinn's question was full of disbelief. They're stunning…

Tina laughed at Quinn's reaction. "I don't know, it's not really my thing." Tina spun to face Quinn, glancing at her phone as she swept in for a hug, "I just got paged for rounds. Thanks for the coffee break! You know how it is." Tina hugged her with one arm quickly and was down the elevator faster than Quinn could process what had happened.

Quinn shook her head, remembering what it was like during her residency. She was just as busy as Tina, if not busier, though that all seemed like a lifetime ago. Scratch that, she was for sure busier than Tina; she had ghosts to outrun, although they seemed to have caught up to her. Sahara felt like an entirely differently world, another life, but somehow, it still had Santana. What is she doing now?

When the blonde looked up, trying to erase the image of someone she used to know from her mind, and her eyes landed on a frame on the far end of the wall facing her, all thoughts and memory flew out the window. Something about the photograph drew her in closer, until she was inches from the glass panel. A simple black frame that held a black and white photograph. As she walked closer, smaller details of the photograph came into view, inviting her until she was a few inches from the frame, scrutinizing what was captured in a photograph.

It was a black and white picture of a dancer, contemporary or ballet, it was impossible to tell. But the dancer's leg was extended forward, the flow of her clothes rippling behind her. Patches of sunlight streamed into the studio, catching light on the floating dust, a subtle but powerful effect. What was more intriguing, though, was the expression on the dancer's face. It was wistfully beautiful, a carefully balanced mix of sadness and joy of dancing. Her eyes were casted down but turned three-quarters, as if she were about to approach the camera. The shot caught her at a vulnerable moment in her movement, her eyes revealing that she was not quite back in this world yet; she was still dancing with the moon somewhere in her mind.

The details were exquisite. The timelessness of the sadness on her face resonated deeply with Quinn, even though she couldn't pin down the exact emotion. The timing of the shot couldn't be more perfect. It was modest, unembellished by the colors and intricate frames that the other works seemed to need. Quinn felt drawn not to the dancer in the photograph but to the photographer who caught it and felt generous enough to share it with the people who couldn't find it in themselves to search for beauty in the cracks and details of the mundane world.

And then she knew what this picture was about, what this dancer was dancing about: loss.

Iris walked down the hall to Xion's office, two coffees in hand. I need one of these…Iris mused over the line of photographs that the center had commissioned Santana for. Even though Iris had bugged her sister relentlessly for something to put on her walls, she was taking her sweet old time. Santana promised to give her a framed photograph, signed and all, as soon as she snapped the perfect shot but it seemed that waiting for perfection would take a long time.

Unlike most art pieces that needed ornate frames to complement it, Santana's art was striking all on its own. Its modest black frames took nothing away from the exquisite photographs she took.

Iris smiled when she saw the familiar favorite at the end of the hall, a few feet from Xion's office, her personal favorite of a black and white photograph of contemporary dancer. Melissa, Brittany's friend, wanted to know what she looked like when she danced so Santana offered to photograph her. Iris tagged along with the three of them on their photography adventure. Santana dressed Melissa in various outfits, had her twirl around in a bunch of places but Santana wasn't happy with any of those images.

"They don't capture it," Santana had pouted, frustrated that her shots weren't perfect. Iris thought they were beautiful but hey, she thought a screen of scrolling binary code was all the art anyone needed; what did she know?

"They don't capture what? They're so pretty, Tana," Brittany had asked tiredly; Santana was making them walk all over without a real direction.

"These are great," Iris declared, determined to end this wandering walk. She may be superhuman and all but that didn't mean walking miles in heels didn't hurt at all. "Let's go-o-o-ooo." Iris hated the whine that crept into her voice when she was tired. Sometimes, she forgot she was the older sister.

"You'll know when you see it," Santana muttered as she tinkered with the buttons on the camera. Santana sighed as she flipped through the shots, completely unsatisfied.

Four miles and twelve outfits later, they ended up back in Melissa's studio, just to watch her rehearse. Santana and Brittany watched her perform the contemporary piece she was doing for their fall tour which Santana bought tickets for. The minute Melissa fell into her routine, Santana saw it and had her camera at hand in a flash. The sound of camera shutters snapping didn't reach Melissa in her movement.

Snap.
Snap.
Snap.

Brittany saw it, the picture Santana meant to capture, and then never doubted her vision again. Staring at the snapshot, Iris felt everything that Santana saw in that moment Melissa danced and it sent chills down her spine every time, no matter how many times she saw it.

Melissa looked delicate, ethereal and timeless in that black and white. In the flicker of an expression on the dancer's, Santana caught all the wistfulness and sadness of the movement, one moment in a piece about, what else but, lost love. She recognized the movements, the expression, the emotion written all over Melissa in a few steps; she understood that feel of lost love too well, having measured her life and time in two categories: time spent with Quinn and time spent without Quinn.

For years after Iris had found Santana but before they found Xion and Neil, Iris lived with Santana. What she learned was that Santana was private, private with her happiness, private with her sadness. She shared enough with Iris, mentioned things here and there, but there was so much of her life she never spoke about. Sure, she cried for a long time about a girl named Quinn when Iris first found her but details were always lacking and there were more to the story than Santana ever divulged. It was obvious from the nightmares Santana had every night. Sometimes, Santana would thrash silently in bed, like she was being held down. Sometimes, she would whimper. But in almost every nightmare, Santana unconsciously spilled one name in her sleep: Quinn. Iris seriously doubted even Xion or Neil knew anything.

Yes, Santana had known heartbreak very well and kept it to herself for the most part.

But, whether subconsciously or explicitly, it translated eloquently into her personal photography. The flashy advertisements she photographed for featured the very effect a client wanted, like seduction or sweet, but in her personal photography, like this one, Santana poured herself without inhibition into the images, like she had nowhere else to put all these emotions she never really shared. Santana is so talented, Iris thought as a small proud smile played on her lips. She couldn't help be proud that even though Allele had done everything it could to produce the perfect soldier, a warrior who didn't flinch from emotions, they produced a beautiful artist, one that laid her heart out in every photograph she took.

"It's exquisite."

Iris turned to the voice that breathed out the words like this was the photograph for which the word "exquisite" was made for. A blonde woman was staring intently at the picture, like she just said the words out loud but not really to Iris. She seemed frozen, with her cup of tea in one hand and her face close to glass panel. The folders in her hand indicated she worked here but Iris didn't recognize her at all.

"It is, isn't it?" Iris replied, curious about this stranger of a woman who disrupted Iris' understanding and arrangement of her universe and all the beings in it. At least, Iris approved her taste in art. The blonde woman glanced at her, her green eyes startling Iris with the particular shades of green and hazel mixed in her eyes.

The blonde turned back to the frame and replied at the photograph, "I love that expression... it's wistful and...somewhat heartbreaking. The way her legs are about to take off, her arms held out like that, the slight bent in her figure." She used a finger to trace the curve of the dancer to the expression on her face, finger hovering a hair's breadth away from touching the frame, utterly mesmerized by emotion on the dancer's face. A faint hint of pink touched her cheeks as the woman blushed, recognizing how strangely she was behaving in front of a total stranger.

"It's okay," Iris smiled good-naturedly; her fascination with the image was much like her own response when she first saw the photograph. "I know exactly what you mean. The photographer speaks volumes in her shots, doesn't she?"

The blonde woman turned to her and settled her focused gaze onto Iris. Something indescribable was stirring behind those green eyes, searching Iris' face like she recognized Iris from somewhere. It was like this woman–

"Hey, there you are," a deep voice pulled them both out of their reverie. Iris felt the lips land on her cheek, the comforting smell of clean, shaven skin brushing against her as strong arms wrapped around her small frame. "I need that, you know." Xion reached for the cup of coffee in her hands, still warm in Iris' hands. "Seriously, if you keep missing my office 'cause of this photograph and deprive me of my caffeine, I'm going to harass Santana until she gives you the negatives."

The blonde, who had been watching curiously at their intimate interaction, flinched a little at the sound of Santana's name, her reaction irking Iris just the slightest. Xion picked up on the moment (for once, he wasn't completely oblivious) and started, "Oh, hey, Quinn, this is Iris." He didn't really have to say girlfriend; it was pretty obvious. "Iris, this is Quinn. She's the new face of Oceanside." He winked at Iris as he continued, "And quite a beautiful one at that." Quinn chuckled when the petite and gorgeous woman, so polished and refined, spun and punched him in the arm like a child. Xion laughed as he rubbed his arm; he drew her into a tight hold and laughed to Iris, "But there's no one like you."

You couldn't tell but the dots were connecting so quickly in Iris' mind. New doctor. Quinn. Blonde. Striking. New doctor here. Santana's Quinn. Xion looked at her expectantly as Iris paused to take in the situation. Quinn extended a delicate hand forward and offered a polite smile, "It's nice to meet you, Iris."

"Hi, Quinn," Iris shook her hand and smiled at her. "It's nice to finally put a name to the face. I've heard a lot about you," she said vaguely. Quinn knitted her brows at the words, confused at why this woman would know her. How does she know Santana? How does she know me?Before she could ask, Iris turned and spoke a little more quietly, a little more discreetly. "Babysis is coming up to... talk."

Xion raised his eyebrows. Iris explained, to some degree, the complicated past that his little sister shared with his newest coworker. It was a little hard to connect Santana's Quinn to this Quinn but who was he to doubt Iris and her powers of observation? Her hint was enough to indicate that they needed to clear the way; Santana was headstrong and somewhat dangerous when she set her mind on something. That "something" was now a conversation with Quinn. He cleared his throat, "Hey, Quinn, we're going to head back to my office. We'll catch you later, yeah?"

Without really waiting for an answer, he put an arm around Iris' shoulder and walked her down the hall. Iris turned back once to catch another glimpse of a woman who meant, apparently, everything to her sister. Even in that fleeting glance, her almond shaped eyes, the near-black of them sent a flash of familiarity through Quinn's mind; her confidence and protectiveness was...familiar.

For a long time, Quinn understood the world in terms of Santana. As in "that girl looks like Santana" or "she would have loved this" or "it's like that time we…." The brunette drinking tea at a cafe in New York. That breeze of cinnamon and something familiar that wrapped around Quinn occasionally. A melancholic sunset, streaked with pink and orange. Each elevator ride that brought a moment of weightlessness. A serene silence, like the one after a song has finished playing. Any snippet that reminded her of Santana raised her heart high with hopes; when the moment of recognition passed, her heart made a reverse trajectory and plummeted back down to the pit of her stomach. It was a struggle, trying to forget. Every person, at one point or another, encounters someone who becomes a city, a nation, a world, no matter how long or well they knew that person. Santana was the person by which Quinn measured the rest of the world.

And she understood Iris' curiously protective glare as the one Santana bestowed on anyone who made fun of Brittany, undermined the Unholy Trinity. She tried to shrug off the feeling of a familiar plunge after having seen a snippet of Santana in Iris' eyes as Quinn shook her head and turned back towards her own office.

The two paper cups of burning tea seared her hands as Santana waited anxiously in the elevator, the quiet dings echoing in her ears as they passed each floor. Dread and excitement settled in her gut, making her grateful for the second-degree burns that healed and burned, healed and burned, in some sick cycle. God, elevators are so fucking slow, she thought, while also being grateful that it was delaying the conversation she never thought she would have.

In that sick way only the universe can plan, the elevator music reminded her of why she was here, as if her own thoughts weren't reminder enough. The upbeat notes of Edward Sharpe's Home seemed to contradict the very nervousness Santana felt, the very serious reasons she had for coming to this office, the very important girl she'd rather have in her life in some way, in any way, really.

Ah, home,
Let me come home,
Home is wherever I'm with you.
La la la la, take me home,
Baby, I'm coming home.

The elevator doors opened just as the song entered into a cheerful whistle.

Santana inhaled, preparing herself for the unpredictable, long journey home.

Quinn drained the last bit of her tea from her cup as she caught up on Dr. Warner's –damn it, I mean, Sarah– patients. Quinn leaned against the desk, the open folder in her hand, her other hand setting down the cup on the desk supporting her. It may or may not be professional to sit on her desk but half-standing, half-leaning helped her stay focused in a way that sitting in a chair couldn't.

And there was this particular patient that perplexed Quinn. This girl didn't quite seemed to have opened up to Dr. Warner, even though the parents paid for it. The notes said, "clear absence of parents and strong guidance growing up, seems reluctant to share, parents seem to pass her off like a burden". This girl, Tessa, tugged at Quinn's heartstrings, reminding her of why she started on this path in the first place. There was so much hurt in the world that Quinn felt the need to do her part of relieve some of that pain. Quinn sighed, wishing she had more tea in her cup as she considered that some of the worldly pain, maybe a lot of it, was her own pain and—

"Hey." A quiet voice cut through Quinn's thoughts.

An average human heart weighs roughly 250 grams. Quinn had seriously doubted this fact, despite what her medical books told her. She thought about the many lives she carried with her in her heart, the people she cared for in her heart, the stories she heard and held dearly, all these things carefully tucked away in her heart. She thought about the curves, the contours and dips, the quiet smiles and laughter she carried in her heart. When she thought about it, she seriously doubted that all these things amounted to only 250 grams. I suppose it could be true, she had considered at one point in her life. But she looked up at the voice that said "hey" and knewit couldn't be true. The ocean of… something inexplicable that existed in her heart when she looked at Santana in her door frame, with its tsunamis and hurricanes, couldn't weigh only 250 grams.

Santana didn't know what she wanted to hear back. There wasn't really much you can say in reply to "hey," especially after ten years of being absent. But she wanted to hear that voice, even if it was screaming at her.

Instead, Quinn stared at her so intensely that Santana lost herself, for a moment, in the stripes of gold and emerald alternating in her hypnotic irises. Looking at the infinity in her eyes suddenly dwarfed the swirling galaxies of fears and anxiety that existed just below that pseudo-confidence, just below the skin. She put down the two paper cups of tea at the nearest available surface.

"Do you have a minute to talk?" Santana was sure that what she needed to say was going to take more than a minute, even though she didn't quite know what she was going to say. The words had drowned in the perplexed gaze looking at her, a faint veneer of masked anger. It made the brunette wish she was still holding onto the cups, holding onto anything, really.

Quinn couldn't quite believe it, even though Santana stood in front of her, so clearly present in her life. Even as she stared at her, Quinn imagined this for so long that she couldn't quite believe it when the brunette was standing at her door. The rush of anger, longing, weariness all crowded inside her mind, fighting to take control. In the struggle of emotions, Quinn gave the slightest nod.

Santana moved swiftly and confidently at that slight movement. Not that she was cocky. Looking at the blonde, she knew what she had to do and she had to do it before the courage slipped away. She stopped a few feet in front of Quinn as the blonde made the mental decision to hold tightly onto the anger that made her writhe inside and lash out at Brittany.

"I'm sorry."

Or not.

The symptom of the cancer of first loves was the tendency to completely melt when they said the words you wanted to hear. Two words that spilled from Santana's lips were the faint drizzles that would snuff out Quinn's anger. Someday, if not today.

But Santana's voice cracked, the drizzle that worked to smother her anger turning into a sprinkle. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Q, for everything and anything I did to you. I'm so sorry that I couldn't stay for you. I'm sorry that I didn't give us a chance. I'm sorry that– " A steady stream of apologies hit Quinn's deaf ears. The apology wasn't in the words. It was in faint track of the one tear making its way down Santana's cheek, the cracking voice, the defeated posture, the way she looked into Quinn's eyes and then looked away like she would shatter if she stared too long. The words continued out of her lips but fell silent before they reached Quinn, stoic in her quiet, carefully controlled anger.

Santana's words came to a slow stop. The apologies emptied out of her like water from a cup. The apologies weren't just for what she did to Quinn; it was what she did to herself. What she put herself through. How much she hated herself for what she did and deprived herself of. So even though Quinn's glazed eyes told her she wasn't really listening, Santana couldn't stop herself from apologizing until all the guilt emptied out of her.

It was silent at the end of Santana's river of guilt. Quinn didn't really have anything to say. Santana didn't know what to expect, really.

But she did get up from the desk, stood close enough to hug or slap Santana. The wave of jasmine made Santana flinch inwardly, even though she didn't let her anxiety reach her face. Quinn stood there, unsure of how to respond, torn between the polar opposite feelings struggling to push her body one way or another.

Until Santana let out the words that meant something to her, quiet as her breath: "I haven't been able to fly. Not since I last…. saw Lima." She didn't have to say it but they both knew she meant the last time Quinn saw Santana, the last time Santana stood in Lima, the last time Quinn would hear from Santana.

"I'm so sorry, Q," Santana whispered as she stood at the edge of Lima, Ohio. The sun glared down like it was condemning her. She didn't need the sun's judgment; a seed of regret already inched its way into Santana's heart. It would soon blossom into a full-fledged tragedy.

Santana took a step away. One foot, then the other. For awhile, Santana walked away from Lima, almost willing someone to stop her. Mentally, she begged for a sign from the universe telling her that this was wrong, leaving Quinn was wrong. Quinn was… the best thing she never really quite had. But Santana always circled back to the fact that it was the best thing, the best thank-you, she could give Quinn: to not take the angel down with Santana's fucked-upness. Yes, fucked-upness. Because that's what Allele had made her life into: a series of fucked-up moments and fucked-up people.

And there was only so much of that explanation that could fit into a voicemail.

The brunette sighed, a multitude of emotions mixed in there. The asphalt felt foreign under her feet.

She bent her knees, crouched…. And jetted off. The wind blasted her tears, making them creep across her face and disappear like they were never there. It was the last time she flew.

And it made sense and satisfied Quinn in a way that slapping Santana wouldn't have. Santana lost something, broke something inside of her. The blonde felt some sort of justice in the world that Santana lost something that was as easy as breathing when she lost Quinn, just as Quinn broke when Santana left her.

Quinn took a step towards her.

Smack.

Without even realizing it until her hand met Santana's cheek, Quinn looked startled at the sharp crack in the air when she slapped Santana suddenly and unexpectedly. But the itch of anger felt finally scratched, relieving Quinn. The swift movement emptied her of anger and made room for Quinn's regret, anguish and the flood of emotions that was too much to understand.

Santana looked surprised as Quinn, though, the red of her cheek disappearing before it even turned a slight pink.

Quinn's demeanor hardened, unable to fathom what she just did, what Santana just said. She replayed the entire encounter moment by moment as she turned away, facing the windows, the setting sun streaming warm light that cut through her coldness. "I think you should go."

"But you love her," Brittany innocently stated as a matter of fact.

Quinn narrowed her eyes at the glass of wine in her hands. Even though she was half-unpacked, she managed to dig up two wineglasses from her cardboard boxes for the wine that Brittany brought over the minute Iris told her that Quinn and Santana were having a talk. Brittany didn't mention that Iris told her that Quinn would probably need a friend tonight.

Brittany came without a moment's hesitation, not letting their last emotional encounter stand as a barrier in their friendship. Brittany had a beautiful way of forgiving people: she accepted it, chose to love anyway and moved on. Quinn was grateful that Brittany's generosity was enough to consume her own awkwardness; it helped her forgive herself for viciously directing her anger at Brittany who was so undeserving of it. Even now, as Quinn stewed in some emotional cocktail of bitterness, desire, and anger, it was laced with gratitude for Brittany.

"I was in love with her," Quinn murmured at the wine. "But things change. I've changed." She stared at her open palm, still unable to believe she slapped Santana.

Brittany blinked her eyes blankly. People changed but love didn't change. Love was strong. Love was patient. And Quinn didn't seem to recognize that even her own anger was born out of love.

Quinn sipped, letting the taste of alcohol and grape sink into her tongue before she admitted, "I don't need that kind of pain again."

And from Brittany's mouth, Quinn heard the wisest thing the blonde ever say (perhaps, she hid all these gems away in her mind until the right moment): "It's always going to hurt. Whether it's love, change, whatever, it's always going to hurt because it matters, Q."

"How are you," Iris asked cautiously. Her legs dangled over the edge of the roof, twenty-three stories of air separating Iris and Santana's legs from the concrete of the city below. Xion and Neil offered so kindly, taking Santana's personal issues into consideration. Besides, Santana did take over Neil's when he had a wicked hangover (alcohol affected them differently due to their individual body composition) or his body went into uncontrollable spasms. Or when Xion decided to treat Iris out to a romantic getaway in Bolivia.

Santana inhaled and exhaled steadily, feeling grateful as each breath drew in clean, cool sweeps of air. She didn't need to have her watches covered; in fact, she needed those raids because of the answer to Iris' question.

How was she, really?

"I feel frozen, standing, waiting for the lights to change. I hear nothing. I feel irrelevant."

This was what purgatory must feel like, she thought. To be stuck in limbo, waiting for someone's judgment.

And with the last of her words, Santana pushed herself off the edge into the chaotic mess of people below, knowing that if Quinn didn't need or want her, there was a poor soul somewhere who did. Someone who was being attacked. Someone who was being exploited. Someone who was hurting. Someone in the world needed her.

It's a headache, Quinn diagnosed the ache in the back of her eyes as she climbed between the cool sheets of her bed. It wasn't just a headache, though. Her eyes hurt. Her heart ached. Her skin prickled with discomfort. Her body felt heavy, weighing her down with an ocean of…. of what?

She had gone for so long without a part of her that felt so essential. Phantom limb, they say. The act of feeling and searching for what is not there. She didn't know what to do, how to feel, when her phantom girl came back into her life.

Except that she needed Santana to figure out how she felt.

She needed to see Santana to know what she wanted.

She needed Santana.

Hi, guys,

I am so so so so sorry for the slow update. It was because I actually wrote the story going one way (incredibly intricate details and everything) and then, when I had it all ready to upload, I erased it and changed the direction entirely. I had to really think about how someone recovers from a heartbreak but thought you guys might appreciate a little insight into what happened to Santana in the ten years. And you know, school and stuff.

And thanks so much for your patience & kind words/reviews/pms.

Things to come: Quintanna, obviously. I told you, happy endings, always. And perhaps, it may be slower than you'd hope for but just know that it's partially your anxious anticipation (some of you mentioned that you wish you could just read the whole story at once but the anticipation is the best part!) and partially because I want to make this as rich, as long, as beautiful as possible.

By the way, once this all ends, the big plot of it, at least, I'm thinking of continuing this as short excerpts of their lives, of SNIX, etc. What say you? Or I can start a new quintanna fanfic if anyone has any suggestions.

Anyway, thanks again! Leave some love, reviews, whatever your heart desires, dear reader. You guys are the best readers I could ever ask for.

With muchmuchmuch love,
C.

(aka notcallingyoualiar)