A/N: This story deals with mature subject matter. Subjects addressed are dissociative identity disorder, (non-graphic) abuse, and attempted suicide. Please read at your own discretion.

She'd promised.

She'd promised. It kept running through her head as Santana trudged upstairs to their apartment, her back killing her from being kicked by some eight year old brat the moment he'd heard the word "shot." It'd taken two nurses to hold him down. And it'd taken all her strength not to lay out Dr. Abrams, too, for even saying it. The last thing you needed to do was say "shot" in a pediatric clinic.

Dumbass.

She didn't bother changing out of her scrubs before she dropped her coat and bag onto the floor in the living room and crashed face down onto the couch. Dr. Abrams had seen her stormy look and had sent her home with 800mg of ibuprofen in her system, and Quinn was still at her poetry class, so Santana curled her arms under her head and tried to rest before her sister got home.

Quinn had tried to work since she was 16, and when they'd moved to NY (it had taken a LOT of convincing to Mama and Papa Lopez), she'd tried then, too. But too many calls from bosses about "your sister's cracked, dude," and Santana had put her foot down.

And as much as she didn't mind it… Santana was tired. If she really tried to think about it – and she didn't – she'd been tired since the first time it'd happened.

Her name was Beth, and she was six years old.

They hadn't named her; she'd done that herself, pouting petulantly when Santana had made the mistake of calling her "Quinn." Santana was a fast learner, and it had only taken three or four mistakes of calling the girl by the "wrong" name before she realized that something was going on.

There were other differences, some subtle and some… not so. Like the way Beth's voice was high and breathy, while Quinn's was always calm and controlled, sometimes too controlled when she was angry. Where Quinn liked cop shows and courtroom dramas, Beth's arrival always meant a flip of the channel to cartoons, or one of the 15 SpongeBob DVDs Santana had would find its way into the player.

When they lived at home, as Quinn crossed the threshold of age into double digits one side of her closet gradually became stuffed with things that Beth wanted: play-doh, crayons and coloring books, a couple of Santana's old dolls. Colley, on the other hand, never left his position on Quinn's bed, where he had been since she was seven. Santana once rolled her eyes at the fact that that bear went everywhere with her sister, but then all she had to do was think back to the night that Quinn had arrived.

She was… if Santana had been older she would have known words like "pristine," or "immaculate," but the only word she could formulate in her 7 years and 8 months old mind was…

Perfect.

Santana stood up against the wall in the hallway outside the bathroom, hands tucked in her pockets. She looked down and surveyed her hand-me-down WMHS tee-shirt, covered in ketchup and hot sauce from the night's dinner, and thought about the little girl tucked behind a door inside the small room.

Santana's family had taken in foster children for as long as she could remember; she'd asked once and Papa had just said something about he had wanted to give children what he never had. And since there were only grandparents on Mama's side, and Papa never talked about his childhood, Santana figured it was best not to keep bringing it up.

The situation was always the same: little boys and girls with battered bodies and a few belongings shoved into duffel bags or trash bags, or teenagers with their sullen faces and bad attitudes born of too many nights spent crying for mercy to a God that seemed to never hear them. Some of them, most of them, showed up in old clothes or pajamas; a couple of them were in such bad shape that Mama would hit the hall closet where all the hand-me-downs were, and soon it would be as if a pseudo-Anna or Carlos had taken up residence in the Lopez house.

In all the years that Santana remembered having foster brothers and sisters… none of them had ever shown up like the little girl locked inside the bathroom.

Not in a lacy dress without a spot of dirt on it, not in white ankle socks with tiny Mary Janes, not with perfectly curled blonde hair and a polite, frozen smile accompanying the name on her lips.

Quinn Celeste Fabray.

But there was something else Santana had noticed, too, something that had made her immediately agree to "take care" of the little girl, beyond her usual grudging acceptance of her mama's order.

It had never mattered, with the other foster kids, about their clothes or the dinners Mama would serve or the games that Santana would try to play with them. They always left. It could be a couple of days, a few weeks, or even a couple of hours in the case of that one kid who had tried to burn the house down.

Whether they went back to their homes or ran away to a crack house or simply just disappeared inside the system once more… they always left.

But then the little girl opened the door to the bathroom and stepped out again, arms clutched tightly around her teddy bear. And it was on the tip of her tongue to laugh at Quinn, to call her a baby because she didn't need a teddy bear, had never needed one.

But Quinn had tilted up her head, chin resting on the soft fur of the bear in her arms, and her hazel eyes met Santana's.

And maybe Santana Lopez was only seven years old, maybe she hadn't seen enough of the world or all its pain yet, but the look in those eyes chilled her, and she suddenly had the desire to murder whoever had put that hurt there, in a little girl with perfect clothes and perfect hair.

That's when Santana knew.

Quinn wouldn't be leaving.

As the years went on, Santana learned how to catch the different quirks that her newfound foster sister had. For instance, Quinn was right-handed, her penmanship clear and concise, much like the girl herself.

Quinn C. Lopez

Beth was left-handed, and Santana's eyes had widened, the first time she'd seen the… girl's? name scratched out on the edge of a Hello Kitty coloring page.

b e t h f a b r a y

Then there were the storms.

The first time Santana had found the little girl in the closet during a storm, she hadn't thought much of it. Not everyone could be Santana Maria Lopez, wanting to run outside and play in the rain even as the thunder rolled and the lightning struck a tree in the yard next door. (Smoke and fire were kind of really cool, she thought, as long as it wasn't her house.)

Santana's parents didn't think anything of it when they started getting calls from Quinn's elementary school teachers after the little girl disappeared during storms, only to be found in the coat room or in the bathroom, huddled in the corner. And for those times when she was in a different class, the only way the teachers could coax her out was to shake their heads and say to another student three simple words.

"Go find Santana."

The tan-skinned girl would walk into whatever classroom her sister was in with her head held high, all flesh and bone and skinned knees, lip curled in defiance and an attitude to match. But then the most curious transformation would happen, teachers would tell each other over coffee in the break room.

Santana would peer around the corner of a wall or a door, then step in and drop to her knees next to her sister. Her normally abrasive (smartass, her braver teachers would say) voice would soften. Hands that usually hurled rocks at Mr. Azimio's son would be infinitely gentle as she'd pull Quinn's thumb out of her mouth and stroke blonde hair out of her eyes. She would sit with Quinn talking to her until Papa or Mama would arrive, and then would pout when Quinn could leave school and she had to stay.

But always she would watch until the car pulled out of the parking lot, seeing a little hand plastered against the back window as a small face stared back at her. Only when the car was out of sight would Santana Lopez square her shoulders and go back to class as if nothing happened.

When they were sixteen years old, Santana and her parents realized that they could no longer call Quinn's "episodes" just a quirk, or what her counselors had deemed "anxiety," "just depression," or "phobias." They weren't able to consider her just a little girl afraid of thunderstorms.

"I need a hit, baby, give me it… you're dangerous, I'm lovin' it…"

Santana's hips moved against Mike's in a way that would get her grounded for the rest of her natural life if Papa Lopez caught her, but she didn't care. The music was loud in her ears, the WMHS gym was dark except for the strobe, and her head was hazy with her first shot of vodka ever. Karofsky's older brother had scored a bottle and Mike had dared her.

And Santana Lopez never backed down from a dare, even if it had burned going down, causing her to splutter and the guys to laugh, thumping her in the back.

It'd taken some convincing, but Quinn was on the other side of the gym, talking and laughing with some of Santana's Cheerios friends. The Latina had gone out for the squad the first week of classes, but Quinn had shaken her head at the suggestion she join as well. Santana was glad, partly because both she and her parents thought Quinn wouldn't be able to handle it, and partly because her position as co-captain was enough to protect Quinn from the hierarchy of high school.

Things had calmed down with Quinn somewhat, even if she'd amassed a weird collection of toys and coloring books in that dark, farthest corner of her closet, that her brothers and sisters teased her about being too old for. She still hated thunderstorms and would still hide in the closet, but Mama (after Santana had bitched to her for the hundredth time) had put a stop to the other Lopez kids ragging on her about it.

The look in her eyes hadn't changed, though.

The song ended and Mike smiled at her, asking her if she wanted anything to eat or drink. As he headed off to the refreshments table, her brows furrowed, seeing her sister talking to Karofsky. Quinn was still against the wall with an unreadable expression on her face as Karofsky leaned into her, one arm on the wall next to her head. Unlike Santana, who seemed to have a date every night of the week (home by nine, of course), Quinn hadn't even seemed to notice guys. She seemed to like it better that way, anyway, staying at home with her nose buried in a book. That was the only thing Santana would ever tease her about, and every once in a while it would cause Quinn's smile to reach her eyes.

But Quinn's smile was gone now, Santana saw as Mike showed up at her side and handed her a can of Coke, because Karofsky had moved so that he was almost flush with her.

"Shit," Santana swore, recognizing the panicked look that was now on her sister's face.

Not here, she silently asked God, please not here.

How many people had she beaten up after school, for calling Quinn a freak? How many times had she held her sister as she'd cried into Santana's shoulder, after a slushie had made contact with her face and the word "retard" had reached her ears? How fucking tired was Santana sometimes, having to coax Quinn out of the bathroom – with the teddy bear that she kept in her locker – as soon as thunder boomed outside?

But as tired as she was, she handed Mike the Coke, advancing across the floor… only to stop dead in her tracks when she heard, over the music, the pop of a fist meeting flesh, and the crack of bone. She stood, dumbfounded, watching as Karofsky yelped and grabbed his nose, blood spurting from between his fingers, watching as her sister threw back her head… and laughed.

This was different. Santana's sister, in her dark blue dress, wasn't cowering in fear. She wasn't cringing with her arms wrapped around a toy, or standing with her eyes searching the crowd, looking for the protection that was another girl a mere two months older.

No, this Quinn was sneering, drawn up to her full height, fists clenched at her sides, glaring at Karofsky with fire blazing in her eyes. Eyes that were hard as steel, but cloudy at the same time, Santana noticed as she walked cautiously the rest of the way to her sister. The gymnasium had fallen silent, teachers were coming towards them, and when her sister turned to her, hearing the sound of her footsteps, Santana's breath caught in her throat.

This… wasn't Quinn.

Santana folded her arms across her chest. "So," she drawled carefully, "What's your name?"

Quinn flashed her teeth in an almost feral grin as she surveyed the blood on her fist with pride, not caring that now they were surrounded by angry school officials demanding an explanation.

"Puck."

Two hours and a one-week suspension later, Quinn had her first appointment with a new therapist, and at the age of 16, words that Santana really never thought she'd have to learn began swirling around in her head.

Schizophrenia? Verbal and auditory hallucinations?

They'd ruled that out quickly, and then the barrage of other things that made Quinn cry, alone in her bed at night, while Santana listened across the hall in her own bed. Eventually Quinn would come to join her and Santana would just drape an arm around her, listening as her sister spouted off every word the therapists threw at her.

Alters. Switching. Children from abusive homes. Post-traumatic stress.

Dissociative identity disorder.

Santana raised her head enough to glance at her watch. 5:30 p.m. She'd fallen asleep on the couch, she guessed. A quick survey of the apartment told her that Quinn wasn't home yet, and an uneasy feeling began to settle in the back of her mind. Quinn's class ended at 4:35, and it didn't take the girl longer than a half hour to get home, even if she took the long way through the park. Her sister picked up her phone and dialed Quinn's number, rolling her eyes at the Lady Gaga "Telephone" ring back tone, but her eyebrows knitted together when Quinn didn't answer.

"Mija, you have to stop coming home with black eyes."

Santana shrugged, wincing as Mama placed a Ziploc bag full of ice over her eye.

"Get 'em to stop calling Quinn a freak, then," she muttered.

Mama sighed heavily and slumped into the chair next to Santana at the kitchen table.

"Still?"

"Every day."

"But it doesn't happen every day," her mother pointed out.

Santana nodded. "I know, Mama, but…" She trailed off and shook her head, thumping her head against the back of the chair and closing her eyes.

"But what?"

"Quinn can… she's not that scared little kid anymore, you know?" Santana said. "She can be mean, she can be a bitch. Not all the time," she hastened to add, seeing Mama's face darken. "But she can protect herself. But at the end of the day, she's still a seventeen-year-old girl who keeps a teddy bear in her locker."

"Surely they don't pick on her for just that," Santana's mother said with an amused smile as she got up to begin fixing dinner.

Santana growled in frustration and slammed the bag of ice onto the table. "No, they don't pick on her just for that. They pick on her because she spaces out during class sometimes, because she looks terrified every time a guy gets too close. Because they remember what she did at the dance to Karofsky. Because sometimes when she talks, it's not Quinn, but Beth. We might not think it's freaky, Mama, but they do. We understand it, but they don't. And sometimes…"

Santana got up from her chair, the frustration threatening to overwhelm her, and landed a solid punch against the fridge.

"Sometimes I get so fucking tired of having to defend her. I promised you I'd take care of her, but I didn't sign up for this!"

Santana and her mother heard the whimper at the same time; Santana whirled around just in time to see a flash of blonde hair disappear around the corner, and moments after a bedroom door slammed.

Santana deflated and leaned against the counter. "Fuck."

"Language," her mother warned. She walked over and took her daughter in her arms, hugging her, and for once, Santana melted into the embrace.

"You're not her keeper, mija," Santana's mother said gently. "She belongs to this whole family, not just you, you know."

Santana shrugged and pulled away from her mother. "I promised. Not just you."

Her mother tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

Santana shook her head and made her way down the hall, stopping in front of the closed door that led to her sister's bedroom. She took a deep breath, and knocked.

She'd promised. The night that a shaking and a tearful Quinn had shown up in her bedroom, and Santana had held her while she'd cried… she'd promised. She'd promised, and Quinn had calmed down enough to go back to her own room. And when Santana had gotten up later that night to use the bathroom and she'd seen the tall, hulking figure of the newest foster kid lurking just outside Quinn's open door…

She'd made good on that promise.

Santana sat bolt upright on the couch as her phone began to rattle off Quinn's familiar ringtone. Seizing it up, she answered it.

"Hey, baby sis, I was wondering where you—"

"Excuse me, is this Santana Lopez?"

Santana gritted her teeth, standing up and putting on her shoes and looking around for where she'd dropped her keys. "Yeah, who's this?"

"Do you know a Quinn Lopez?"

"Yeah," she said again. "Who're you?"

"Oh, good, I was so afraid that I would call someone who didn't know her, and I wasn't sure what I should do after that, because even though I pride myself on always being prepared, I—"

"Hey! Who the fuck are you and why are you calling me from my sister's phone?"

"Well, really, there's no need for such language. I'm a classmate of Quinn's, and I'm here with her."

Santana flexed her fingers, swearing softly to herself; her face brightened when she saw her keys glinting on the table by the door. Clutching the phone to her ear, she seized them up, pacing the floor of the living room.

"So put her on the phone."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, I'm sorry."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Could you not swear—"

"Lady, I swear that you are going to regret it if you do not put my sister on the phone or explain to me what the fuck is going on!"

"I think there's something wrong."

Santana took a deep breath. "Put her on the phone, please."

There was a shuffling, then, quietly, it came.

"Santy?"

Santana sighed. "Hey, Bethie."

"I want to go home."

Santana opened the door to her apartment and headed down the hall, to the stairwell that led to the parking garage. "Okay, sweetheart. Can you put your friend back on the phone for me?"

More scuffling.

"Hello?"

"Who are you?"

"Can you tell me what to do? I'm not sure what I can—"

"Where are you?" Santana gritted her teeth as she climbed into her truck and put it in reverse, backing out of the parking space and nearly speeding out of the garage.

"We're at the school, on the quad. I'm a fellow student in her poetry class, and Quinn and I are acquaintances, well, not really acquaintances, though I've always wanted to get to—"

"Quad, school," Santana interrupted, wondering if the girl on the other end had ever learned the concept of shutting the fuck up. "I got it. Now, who are you?"

"Rachel. Rachel Berry."

"Okay, Berry," Santana said, making a right and pointing the truck in the direction of NYU.

"Stay with her. I'm on my way."