Word of Warning, or a heads-up, if you will, but this chapter is one massive trigger warning.

Santana massaged her shoulder and snatched a bag of ice off the counter, placing it on her jaw. She shuffled into the main room and laid down on the couch with her head on Rachel's lap. She closed her eyes and tried to relax.

Naturally, Santana let Williams get the first hit. She was a gentleman after all, but the second hit was a cheap shot that knocked her into the pole, dislocating her shoulder. It wasn't the first time she'd dislocated it, but that didn't make it hurt any less. So, with one arm, Santana bounced and dodged her way through the underground, fight club style that Williams used. It was a hit first, hit hard, and hit fast mindset, but Santana was the opposite. She blocked every punch when she could, biding her time, and when she found a good opening, Santana ducked and swiped at Williams's legs with a roundhouse kick. The redhead twisted to break her fall but couldn't quite keep her balance. Santana waited until the woman tried to stand up before she kicked her again in the face. Williams's head snapped back against the concrete. She was dazed, but still spewing out a bunch of curses.

Santana wished she had the use of both arms as she grabbed Williams by the hair. Williams punched and scratched at her arm, but Santana was running on pure adrenaline and anger. She bent over to look the woman in the eye.

"She's mine," she growled. With every next word, she slammed Williams's face into the pole. "You. Will. Never. Touch. Her. Again."

Blood stained the metal, and Santana dropped the dazed, Irish woman to the driveway. There was still fight blazing in Williams's green eyes, and Santana felt that familiar red haze as it clouded her vision. Her anger overwhelmed her.

She kept thinking about Rachel post-Hiram, the drug-addicted alcoholic on the verge of self-destruction. Then she imagined what would have happened had she woke up one morning to the news of Rachel dead. The image of going to Rachel's funeral, even as nothing more than a former tormentor, flashed through her mind. Santana fell on top of Williams and screamed out. She grabbed the woman by the collar and punched her over and over and over again. Pieces of Williams's bones tore into her knuckles, but Santana not only appreciated the pain but needed it. Part of her thought the damage done to Williams was enough, knowing the guard was as good as dead, but the other part of her, the darker part, wanted to watch the life leave those disgustingly attractive green eyes.

She wanted to make her unrecognizable. With the last hit, Williams was long gone. Santana was covered in blood and panting.

"Baby?"

Santana opened her eyes. "What?"

"I said do I need to carry you?" she asked.

"Why would you need to carry me?"

"I thought you heard me ask if you wanted to go lie in bed for a bit."

"Oh." Santana sat up. "I can walk," she muttered.

A flash of hurt went through Rachel's eyes but it was gone. The journey to Rachel's bedroom was short, walked in silence, and Rachel laid down first. Santana was careful not to lie on her right shoulder. She put space between them subconsciously.

"I'm sorry," Rachel whispered.

"What happened at that end of year party the summer before your sophomore year?"

"How do you know about that?" Rachel asked.

"Are you saying you weren't going to tell me?"

Rachel shifted beside her. "No. Not yet," she confessed. "I wanted to wait as long as possible before we had the conversation."

"Why?"

"You remember that senior Derrick Hallows? He graduated that year."

Santana stiffened. "Who told you about him?" she asked.

"No one." Rachel sighed. "At the party, I was hanging out in the room upstairs with Derrick and some others. We were… getting high. He, uh, started talking. Bragging. Others had passed out. Derrick, his friend, and I were the last ones awake. That's when he started bragging about a party at Finn's house that he'd gone to a few weeks before."

"I still don't see what this has to do with the conversation."

"Don't do that," Rachel whispered. "I saw the pictures."

Santana closed her eyes. "Who else knows?"

"My Dad and I."

"Wait… your Dad knew?"

"Yeah. He did."

The dam around that memory broke, and Santana blurted, "I didn't even have a drink that night. I'd been nursing the same glass of water because I knew I had to get up early the next morning. The next thing I knew, I was upstairs with him. Everything was fuzzy, and I couldn't feel my head anymore. I recall bits and pieces, vaguely hearing his laughter when I tried to fight him off." Santana laughed through the tears. "The crazy part is how much I pretend my only experience was with that cheerleader, and some days, it's the only thing I believe. Unfortunately, I have my moments where I remember what Hallows did to me, and I feel dirty, used. What's even worse is that I didn't know he took pictures until he started sending them to me randomly over the next couple of days. I didn't even remember going upstairs with him, but seeing those pictures filled in the blanks. I was so angry, disgusted, and what's worse is that I don't even know what he did with them."

Rachel leaned off the side of her bed. She picked something off the floor and turned around. In her hand was a manilla folder. She handed it to Santana.

"What's this?"

Rachel frowned and played with the sleeves of her shirt. "Before the next school year, I took a trip to Los Angeles with my Dad. I told him what happened, what Derrick did to you, and he understood. We watched Derrick for a few days, got a handle on his schedule, and the night before our flight home, we broke in. Long story short, I stole his laptop and his hard drive. These were under his mattress. I am giving them to you because they are not mine to dispose of. Plus, I think there are a few in there that I think you need to see."

Santana dumped the contents onto her lap. There were several polaroid pictures of her lying on a bed in various stages of undress. She stared down at them, tears prickling the corner of her eyes, and Rachel dug through the pictures until she pulled out the few that weren't of Santana.

"Is this Derrick?" she stammered.

"Yes," Rachel answered.

Santana picked through the graphic pictures in her lap. Derrick had been tortured to death. She felt conflicted. "I'm not sure what you want me to say," she admitted. "This is a lot to take in at the moment."

Rachel climbed off the bed and said, "I know. Today has been a day of buried secrets coming to light, and I know you need time to work through it all. However, I need to make something clear. I will not apologize for what I did. I would do it again. Every time. No one gets away with hurting you. No one."

Santana watched her girlfriend walk out of the door. Despite her brain telling her to run after Rachel and tell her nothing had changed between them, she remained on the bed.

Something did change.

Santana just didn't know what.

Rachel sat in her Dad's old office, swirling her finger over the rim of an empty glass with a bottle of unopened Evan Williams resting on the counter. She was too lost in her thoughts to hear the door open and close.

"I do believe you are the first person I have seen to drink Evan Williams." Stone pulled out the chair in front of her and sat down. "In my opinion, Crown Royal tastes way better."

"What do you want, Stone?" she murmured.

Gordon Blackstone was a hard man to read, but even she could see the shadows bouncing in his eyes as he stared at her. They were the same shadows Rachel saw when she looked in the mirror. "For the record," he said. "The more you fight it, the harder it gets, Boss."

"Eva," she corrected. "I think in this instance, Eva would be appropriate."

"Not Rachel?"

She shook her head. "Rachel is not the one with the drinking problem," she said.

"Are Eva and Rachel not the same person?"

" Rachel's demons wear cheerleading uniforms and carry cups of sugar ice. Eva's demons come with Russian accents, the sound of bullets, and too many nights crying over a sadistic bitch."

Stone snorted and took the bottle off the table. "Bullshit," he said, "your demons are one in the same. You're just unwilling to see that."

"Is that so?"

"Rachel is Eva and Eva is Rachel. You keep them separated like it truly makes a difference, but it doesn't. When you wake up in the morning, you may be used to putting on Rachel's clothes and Rachel's attitude, but Eva is the one who keeps you going. Eva is the one sitting down here in this office with a million voices telling her to drain this bottle and grab another. Eva is the one wishing her fathers were still alive. Eva is the one fighting a losing battle within herself. You can't run from her anymore because you'll be running for the rest of your life."

"I can't let go of her," she whispered.

"Which one?"

"Rachel. She's who I am."

"Is she?" he asked. "Or are you holding on to her because it's easy?"

She tightened her grip on the glass. Stone patted her on the shoulder and took the cup from her with a sad smile. He leaned down so that they were eye to eye.

"Your lives are no longer interchangeable. Not after Father Berry died. You know that. You feel it. You can either hide out as Rachel, future Broadway superstar, or you can live as Eva, demons and all. Because sooner or later, you will lose one, and you better hope it's the one you can live without."

Taylor found Santana searching through the keys. "There you are," he said. "Where you trying to sneak off too?"

"Anywhere that isn't here," she muttered.

"Okay." Taylor snatched the keys to a F-150 off the rack and gently led her to the truck. "I know a great place we can go."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise."

"Aren't you going to get in trouble?"

"I'd be in more trouble if I let you go somewhere by yourself after today." Taylor opened the door for her and jerked his head. "Get in. I promise you'll have fun."

"Fine."

Santana gingerly got in the truck and Taylor ran around to the driver's side. He hopped in and started the engine.

Brittany sat outside on the patio wrapped in a blanket. Puck came out there with two mugs of tea. He handed one to her and sat on the other side.

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

"Rachel still hasn't come out of the office."

"Oh. I take it this isn't usually a good thing?"

"Not with her. It means something's wrong."

Sam poked his head out of the door and said, "Tana just like with Taylor."

"What?" Brittany twisted around and frowned. "Where the hell are they going?"

"No idea, but Santana was in a weird mood when she came downstairs after Rachel."

"You think that trip to Aruba still a good idea?" Puck asked.

Brittany sighed and rubbed her temples. "I've already booked the tickets and the hotel. They're just going to have to get their shit together before Wednesday."

"I can't believe you took me to the park."

Taylor drank from his tea and smiled. "This is where I go to decompress, but it's too cold to sit out there so I figured we'd sit in the truck and have the same experience."

"Decompress"

"This world will swallow you whole if you aren't careful. See, when I first got into this line of work, I became a bodyguard for someone I'll call Damien." Taylor smiled wistfully. "He was the most handsome man I'd ever seen. I was smitten, and somewhere down the line, he became smitten with me as well. We took on in secret. Rushing around the halls, sneaking me into his bedroom, and whisking me away on these incredible dates. One night, this guy screamed at Damien and I. Called us faggots. Damien pulled out a knife and stabbed him so many times the man's stomach spilled over into the street. He then grabbed my hand, blood all over the place, and we ran. He laughed the entire time."

"How old were you?" she asked.

"Twenty. I grew up in this world. I was actually a late bloomer if you asked my father."

Santana knew that feeling all too well.

"That night, all I could think about was how his hand, the hand I thought was crafted just for mine, was so warm and sticky. And despite all of that, I was on top of the world. He'd killed for me, for us, for our love. And I was still so madly in love with him. What did that say about me?"

Santana stared off at the swings, watching the wind blow them back and forth.

"I panicked," he said, picking up where he left off. "I quit the next morning once it all hit. I ran. It wasn't until three years later, after I'd taken up the job with Leroy, that I ran into Damien again. He was married, happy, and I realized in that moment, I'd made a mistake. At twenty-three years old, you could ask me how many men I've gutted on the streets. Or how many men I've carved into pieces. How many men I've wrapped my bare hands around and squeezed the life out of their bodies until there was noting left. And I'd tell you I don't know. Having that kind of power is exhilarating. It's also scary. And to be in love with someone like that is frightening because it's like looking into a mirror. You see yourself in them and you can't help but be a hypocrite. Then again, you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Santana blinked at him. "No, I don't."

"Don't do that here. Don't hide. Because we both know you got that taste today. I saw it, Stone saw it, and Rachel saw it. We watched you from inside of the house. We saw the look in your eyes when you screamed." Taylor turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat. "Rachel cried. While you were outside, she stood there and cried. And I mean tears flowing down her cheeks. She's the one who pushed Stone out there to grab you. She ran off when you can in because she didn't want you to see her like that."

"She… she did?"

"Like I said, it's one thing to acknowledge it in yourself, but to see it in someone else? Someone you love? It hurts. It's beautiful, but it hurts. Especially in our world. Knowing that the person you're sharing your bed with, the person you might be spending the rest of your life with is capable of doing something so grotesque and brutal can be as romantic as it is terrifying.."

Santana closed her eyes and rested her head against the window. "When I was nine, my brother used to sneak me out of the house and take me out into the woods. Deep into the woods. He would hand me a gun and tell me to shoot whichever tree he'd marked for night. At first, it was a hobby for us. Then I started really getting into it. He worked me with handguns, then shotguns, and then rifles. Then the distance became further and further away. Then it became morning, afternoon, evening, or midnight. Whenever he was available, he'd drag me out there and make me do it over and over again because he knew I loved it. That I fell in love with it. It got harder to do these little outings because once he graduated from college, he didn't really know what he wanted to do with his life. He didn't want to follow Dad's footsteps, he didn't want to become a photographer like our Mom. He was just… here.

"He worked part-time at this convenience store trying to find his way, you know? The week of my fall break, some idiots decide they want to rob the place. My brother and his coworker did everything they asked. Until the cops showed up. Bullets started flying. My brother died saving his coworker. She had three kids. I went out to the woods, not knowing my Dad followed me, and I shot at whatever I could. I was so angry. That anger never really went away. It just… grew. I was angry that I'd lost someone else. I was angry that those idiots chose that store. I was angry that I didn't say goodbye. He was supposed to come home and ask me about my day. He's supposed to be here, dammit!"

Santana punched the dashboard. She banged her head against the headrest, tears flowing down her eyes, and she rubbed her knuckles. "I am well aware of who I am, what I can do, and that isn't the issue. Today, I learned that Rachel and her Dad did something for me that most people would be disgusted with, but all I could feel was this overwhelming love. And it scared me because how can I love someone who kills so easily? Kills for me? Especially since I-

"Would do the same for her," he guessed quietly.

"Yes." Santana looked down. "Williams was the first person I've killed. And it was for Rachel. It was in the defense of someone that I love."

"And that makes you a hypocrite," he said. "We all are. The difference is can you live with it?"

"What?"

"Our world is a paradox. As much as you hate being apart of something so demoralizing, you love being apart of something so freeing. We willingly look men and women in the eyes as we kill them simply for a cause that only we believe in. We drink champagne with mobsters and share war stories with gangsters. We go swimming with the Triad and dance with cold-blood killers. The best part of it all? Finding love in it. Love is the most beautiful thing we can have in this world, and not all of us are lucky to find it. Some of us have to leave this world to be happy. But you found someone in it who knows your demons, who sees them in the same mirrors as you. Someone who can hold you late at night and kiss away your tears. Someone who sees your bleeding heart and loves it all the same. That's what I'm asking if you can live with."

Rachel looked up when Santana walked into the kitchen.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Santana held out her hand. Rachel noticed the fresh cuts on her knuckles but said nothing. She grabbed Santana's hand and let her lead her out onto the patio.

"I'm a hypocrite for running earlier," she said. "And I'm sorry."

"You aren't the only hypocrite," Rachel whispered. "And I'm sorry too."

Santana pulled Rachel close and kissed her cheek. They swayed together under the December moon.