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.

"Are you going to tell her?"

Santana watched as Quinn closed her eyes briefly, then pinched the bridge of her nose and blew out a puff of air.

"Of course not."

She sat down next to her sister and both of them stared at Santana's phone on the coffee table. The girl had called the night before, explaining that she had mistakenly (Santana had snorted at that one, causing her sister to elbow her in the ribs) kept Quinn's phone, and would be happy to return it if they could arrange a convenient time and place the next day to meet.

This meant that in an hour's time, Quinn (and Santana, who had refused to not go) would be joining Rachel Berry at a Starbucks down the street.

Last night, Beth hadn't relinquished control to Quinn until they were safely back in the apartment, and just before, Quinn had pulled her thumb out of her mouth, regarded Santana with a calm expression, and said bluntly, "I like Ray."

The way those clouded hazel eyes had regarded her sister gave Santana an uneasy feeling. So, no, Quinn was not meeting with Rachel Berry by herself.

Quinn was, for lack of a better word, mortified that she had switched in front of Rachel. As always, she hadn't been able to give many details to Santana, except to say that her assignment partner hadn't really wanted to take no for an answer about Quinn giving him her phone number. After that, as she had every other time, Quinn had only been able to describe the feeling of being very angry, and fighting to maintain her control over Puck. Everything that had followed was hazy for her, except she remembered, very clearly, the warm touch of a small hand on her back: gentle, comforting.

This had led Santana to the question.

Are you going to tell her?

And of course Quinn had said no, and of course Santana easily caught the look resting just behind Quinn's nonchalant expression.

What if…?

She had seen that look only a couple of times before, and each time, it had spelled disaster. Despite her diagnosis, Quinn was just like any other young woman when it came to wanting love. When it came to maintaining a relationship, though… The last time, while Quinn had sobbed face down on her bed, Santana had felt all too inadequate, words like "It's not your fault," and "She just didn't get it," slipping through her lips and feeling false. Quinn had come out to her as a lesbian when they were fifteen, to their parents when she was seventeen, but she'd never really "come out" to anyone besides her family about the alters. Somehow, Quinn had said to Santana, being a lesbian was a lot easier than having five personalities.

And those were just the ones they knew of.

"You know you can't tell her."

"I know," Quinn said softly, now not looking at Santana, but toying with the hem of her tee-shirt.

"You'll just get hurt."

"I know."

"And I don't want that for you."

"I know."

They fell into an uneasy silence, then, Quinn finally getting up to go to her bedroom and get dressed. Santana just sat, figuring that Rachel Berry could deal with her scrubs. She leaned her head against the back of the couch and sighed.

Her own relationships hadn't been much better than Quinn's. True, she didn't have the DID to deal with, but… well, she was Santana Lopez. Neither guys nor girls had lasted very long under her scrutiny, and if she was being completely honest with herself, she didn't mind all that much. Her life was full: school, parents, work… and Quinn.

"Your life revolves around your sister," her last boyfriend had snarled a year ago, slamming his drink onto the table and standing up, tossing a napkin onto his plate. "Quinn this, Quinn that, I can't go out, you have to come here, I can't leave Quinn, shh we have to be quiet we can't let Quinn hear. I'm done with this."

The sad thing? Carl had been right.

Every boyfriend or girlfriend that had ever left her because she was too wrapped up in Quinn was right, had been right since a late night in October when they were sixteen.

He was tall, like a giant with a perpetual dopey look on his face. Her parents had told her his full name, but all she cared about was his last.

Hudson.

He'd spent his life in and out of foster homes, but that wasn't anything new to Santana. Most of the kids that had come to her house had been in and out of the system. No, what was new was the polite way he talked to her parents, all "Yes, ma'am" and "No, sir" as if he wouldn't even let butter melt in his mouth. Mama Lopez had pronounced him "sweet," and "a good boy, in need of a hug and a strong foundation."

Santana had immediately distrusted him.

She'd gotten up to use the bathroom that October night, shivering because summer was on its way out and there was a chill in the air. Afterward she headed back to her room, but was startled to hear muffled sniffles coming from down the hall.

Her senses on guard, Santana turned in the direction of the sound, and saw him.

Hudson, standing just outside Quinn's bedroom, his eyes wide as if he had just been caught… doing what?

Santana's brow furrowed.

The sobs were coming from Quinn's room.

Her fists tightened at her sides.

"What did you do?"

Her voice was low, cold. She smirked when Hudson took a step back. She was five-foot-five and he was a fucking Neanderthal, but she could make a grown man cower if she wanted to.

"I didn't do a damn thing."

In front of Quinn's door now, she peeked inside. Santana's breath stilled in her lungs.

Her sister, curled into a ball on her bed. The covers thrown on the floor, Quinn's pants on top of the pile, underwear shoved down around her ankles. Quinn was rocking herself, back and forth, and she was mumbling to herself.

"Bad girl. Bad girl."

Over and over.

"I didn't do anything to her." He backed up even more. "Nothing that she didn't want."

"Liar," Santana hissed.

In an instant she was on him.

"You – fucking – liar!" She punctuated each word with a punch.

Everything was a whirl of sound: Hudson's grunts, fists meeting stomach and bone, words of "Bastard – fucking kill you – how could you – asshole!", her parents' shouts of worry and confusion as she felt herself being pulled off…

But all Santana could hear was Quinn crying in her bedroom.

Three hours later, Hudson was on his way to the county jail, Santana had given a statement to the Lima PD, and she'd been released to her parents, which, Santana's father ranted all the way to the hospital, was very lucky for her. She'd caused a mess, one that involved police and social workers swarming her house until they'd carted the asshole off to jail in the back of a cruiser. And much to her parents' chagrin, Santana had calmly told the police officers at the station that, given the chance, "fuck yes" would she do it all again. Two hours after the "fun" lecture from her father, she sat in an uncomfortable plastic bedside chair and cradled Quinn's hand in her bandaged ones. She smiled down at the girl in the hospital bed, who stared at her with tear-filled eyes.

"I'm sorry," Quinn whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Hey." Santana squeezed her hand as best she could, making sure not to wince at the pain. "It isn't your fault."

"Mom and dad—"

"Aren't taking in any more kids," Santana said flatly. "It's not worth it."

And they wouldn't be allowed to take in any more, anyway, not after what Santana had done. She kept that to herself.

"Because of me."

"Because of you," Santana affirmed. "But that doesn't mean it's your fault. It just means we're going to protect you."

She leaned down and kissed Quinn's forehead. "No one is ever going to hurt you again. Ever."

She watched as Quinn's eyes slipped shut, and Santana drew the hospital blankets up over her sister's form.

"No one's gonna get near you."

An hour later, Santana felt a nudge on her foot and she opened her eyes, eyebrow quirking at her sister in a royal blue dress with black open-toed shoes.

"Going on a date?" she teased, ignoring the pestering feeling in the back of her mind.

"Of course, because I always take my big sister out on dates," Quinn shot back, but her hand was trembling as she toyed with a loose curl, teeth worrying her bottom lip.

She looked nervous, expectant, and that pestering feeling settled in Santana's gut.

"So tell me about this Berry chick," she said as she and Quinn wound their way through the early evening New York crowds to get to the designated Starbucks.

Quinn shrugged. "I don't know that much about her," she said nonchalantly. "She's kind of loud and she wears the strangest clothes. You should see her sweaters, they have animals on them. She talks a lot, never knows when to shut up. But when she talks she's really excited, and she's pretty smart; she knows a lot about poetry. Her favorite poet is Lorca, which she says is funny because she was born in Cincinnati, but she has a love for international poets—what?"

Santana raised her eyebrows at her sister. "Don't know a lot about her, huh?"

Quinn flushed a deep crimson and looked away. "I listen when people talk," she mumbled.

"You barely listen to me."

"Because you never shut up."

"You said she never shuts up!"

"Who doesn't shut up?"

Apparently they hadn't realized they'd walked into the Starbucks, and Santana found herself in front of – oh dear God she had a moose on her sweater – the same short girl from the other day, a bright smile on her face and expectation in her eyes.

"No one," Quinn said hastily, and Santana's eyebrows rose when she caught sight of her sister brushing her palms over the front of her dress, smoothing non-existent wrinkles, then raising her hand and running her fingers through her hair.

"Just um, one of my professors."

"Oh," Rachel said cheerily. "I have a professor like that, she honestly thinks she knows absolutely everything there is to know about the theatre, but she didn't even know that Barbra Streisand's name was actually spelled with an extra "A" – I mean, who doesn't know that?"

Santana moved to raise her hand and flinched when Quinn smacked it. "Ow, what the hell, Q?"

Quinn glared at her; Rachel glanced at the two of them in confusion. "So," she said, "Would you like to order some coffee or tea? Shall we sit down? I've found a table for us in the corner, although I confess I think the barista thought I was a little odd when I called and tried to make a reservation."

They ordered their drinks: Quinn her caramel macchiato, Santana black coffee, and Rachel ordering something that had six words in it, not noticing how Santana and Quinn stared at her in ill-concealed amazement. Sitting down across from Rachel – and noting that Quinn sat next to her – Santana took in the smaller girl, from her incredible (she thought) lack of height to the argyle skirt with the knee socks, the perfectly-combed brown hair and the vibrant, sparkling brown eyes.

"You… called and tried to reserve a table at Starbucks?" Santana asked, remembering what she had said moments earlier.

Rachel's eyes narrowed momentarily, but then she straightened up with another smile. "One can never be too prepared." She fastened her gaze on Quinn. "How are you?" she asked, and Santana blinked at how soft the girl's voice had become.

She also noticed the light flush that tinged her sister's cheeks, and Santana sat up straighter.

"I'm fine," Quinn said, smiling. "Enjoying time out of class."

"Quinn and I have a poetry class together," Rachel said, turning her attention back to Santana. "But I think I told you that the other day when I met you. You're Santana, right?" Santana nodded. "Well, pleased to meet you again, Santana, I'm Rachel—"

"Berry," she finished. "Yeah, I remember."

"And you're sisters?" Rachel asked, glancing from Santana to Quinn. At Quinn's nod, she added, "Well, I hope you don't mind my saying—"

"I do."

Quinn shot Santana a look, and her sister grinned.

"—you don't look anything like sisters," Rachel finished, looking flustered.

"Adopted," Santana grudgingly supplied.

"When I was eight," Quinn said. She smiled at Santana, who smiled back. "Santana's parents took me in when I was six, and then two years later, they made me part of their family."

Her heels clattered on the tile as she danced, watching as her dress rose and lifted with the motion of her feet. One hand was fisted around the brush, cleaning her teeth forgotten; golden curls floated around her shoulders. Suddenly she was swept into a pair of strong arms, and Quinn giggled at the pair of brown eyes twinkling at her in the mirror.

"Someone likes her new shoes, eh, mi'ja?"

"Yes, Papi," she nodded vigorously, resting her head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her head then settled her back on the floor. "And they make little Quinn seem like a very big girl," he said affectionately, "but let's get our teeth brushed so that we can go, okay? Even Miguel is ready before you!"

He winked at her. "Mami," she heard him call down the hall, "I think this one might like some tap-dancing lessons!"

Two hours later, with Santana on her other side, Quinn was toying with three-year-old Miguel's hand, only half-listening as the judge spoke to Mami and Papi.

"Mr. and Mrs. Lopez, you understand that by agreeing to adopt Quinn, you are pledging to raise her with all the benefits and care that you would your biological children, and that it will be fully within her right to expect those benefits?"

She heard Mami and Papi answer, and Santana shot her a grin. Then, suddenly, Miguel was pulled away and Quinn found herself in Papi's lap, staring up at the judge with wide hazel eyes.

"Hi there, little Miss Quinn," he said, smiling at her.

"Hi." Her voice was small, uncertain. Papi squeezed her waist gently.

"Do you know why you're here, Quinn?"

She nodded. "'cause I want a mommy and daddy."

The judge smiled again; he had kind eyes, and she smiled back.

"And who do you want for your mommy and daddy?"

She furrowed her brow. "Mami and Papi?" she asked uncertainly. She reached out her hand and Santana caught it quickly, linking their fingers together.

The judge's smile grew wider, mirroring the Lopezes'. Mrs. Lopez was holding a squirming Miguel; Papi sat next to Quinn. Carlos and Juan sat behind them; Anna was in the middle of finals week and hadn't been able to leave Ohio State.

"Okay, and if your Mami and Papi adopt you, do you know what your name will be?"

Quinn giggled. "Quinn Celeste Lopez!" she pronounced proudly, kicking her legs a little. Papi patted her back and she settled down, chewing on her lower lip and staring up at the judge.

"Well, I think that's absolutely a lovely name, and I think that you are an absolutely lovely girl to have that name. So, I see no reason why Quinn Celeste Fabray should not now be known as Quinn Celeste Lopez, and I approve of this adoption."

The judge raised his gavel.

"Hey, I wanna bang that!"

"Santana!" Anna hissed as Mami and Papi stared at her in disapproval.

"What?" she said, folding her arms across her chest. "I wanna do it like they get to on tv."

"Your honor," Papi started to say, but the judge was laughing.

"Come on up, you."

Grinning, Santana ran up to the bench. He handed her the gavel; Quinn watched as her sister – her sister – cradled it in both her hands, and then smacked it against the table.

And just like that, Quinn became a Lopez. Her life quickly became a whirlwind of hugs and kisses, being swept up in Mami's arms and held tightly, then handed off to sixteen-year-old Juan. That's when Quinn froze.

The woman wore yellow, bright as the dress Quinn had on; one hand played nervously with the cross at her neck as she watched the girl being snuggled in the embrace of her "new" family. Hazel eyes met familiar-yet-strange blue, and Quinn whimpered, burying her head in Juan's neck.

"What is it, little sister?" he asked, making a little half-turn. She knew he knew when his arms stiffened around her, and she heard him whispering something to his father in Spanish.

"It's her."

And then Quinn was being ushered with Santana out into the hallway of the courthouse; Juan set her on his feet and knelt by her, his hands on her shoulders to calm her shaking.

"I don't want to go back," Quinn babbled, staring at him with tear-filled eyes. Her voice was high-pitched, almost baby-like, and Santana clutched her hand firmly. "I don't want to go with her, Juan, I'll be good, I promise I'll be good, don't make me go!"

"Hey, hey," Juan said softly, reaching his large hands up to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

"You're not going anywhere, little one, okay? You're ours now."

From the corner of her eye she saw the woman in yellow exiting the courtroom, a very angry-looking Mr. and Mrs. Lopez following close behind. She saw the woman pause, then move down the hallway until she was out of sight.

Quinn took a deep breath, the words of her brother echoing in her head.

"You're ours now."

"That's absolutely amazing," Rachel said, and Quinn grinned at Santana in relief. Santana was glad that Quinn wouldn't have to answer the usual questions.

Why are you adopted? Why were you in foster care? Why didn't your parents want you?

(That one had been asked by one of Santana's Cheerios teammates; her locker had gone up in flames an hour later. Complete coincidence.)

"I'm adopted too, but I was only two days old when my fathers adopted me."

"Wait," Santana said. "Fathers?"

The smile dropped from Rachel's face, replaced by an expression that Santana could only describe as steely.

"Yes, I have two fathers. I hope that's not a problem?"

"Relax, Berry, of course not. It's kind of cool," Santana admitted.

"I think so too – it's Rachel, by the way – my fathers had been looking to adopt for a while and my mother Shelby wasn't in a stable position to raise me, and she felt my fathers were the best parents for me. I think it's simply wonderful that a person in her situation would choose to give her daughter to two gay men."

"Do you talk to her at all?" Quinn asked. "Your mother?"

Rachel shook her head, and once again Santana didn't fail to notice how Quinn's hand reached out and brushed Rachel's when the other girl's eyes saddened slightly. When Quinn saw her sister looking, she reddened and retracted her hand immediately.

"She has another family now, and unfortunately I don't think I… well, I don't think I fit."

"It's her loss," Quinn affirmed, offering Rachel a smile.

Rachel smiled back. "So I think I heard you say once that you're from Ohio, too?"

"Yeah, Lima."

"Oh, my goodness," Rachel exclaimed. "I lived in Cincinnati! I can't believe we grew up less than two hours away from each other, and here we are together in New York!"

"Yeah," Santana said drily, nursing her coffee. "Small world, isn't it, Berry?"

Rachel pursed her lips. "Would you mind calling me by my name?"

"Sure thing, Berry."

"Santana!" Quinn scolded, a note of amusement in her voice.

Santana smirked. "What? She said call her by her name. So I did."

"Is she always like this?"

"No—"

"Well, good, because if this is the way she normally—"

"She's usually worse."

Rachel huffed and Santana fought back a laugh, thinking she resembled a very angry Oompa-Loompa. But then it was her turn to feel angry, because suddenly Rachel was looking very uncomfortable as she regarded Quinn, her hand pulling out the iPhone and sliding it across the table as she asked, "I hope I'm not being too rude, but are you okay, Quinn, after what happened the other day?"

"Hey, not your business," Santana snapped, at the same time Quinn managed a very embarrassed, "I, I'm fine, Rachel, it was just—"

A third voice joined the fray.

"Hey, Rach, there you are!"

Santana turned to look over her shoulder and she blinked as a tall blonde in a tank top and shorts waved at Rachel, a bright gleam in her blue eyes and a smile on her face. Shit, Santana thought, her eyes travelling, girl's got legs that go on forever… Her hair was long and pulled into a ponytail; her tank top was tight over… crap, perfect curves… and it had a duck on the front – seriously, what was it with these people and animals on their clothes?

"Brittany!" Rachel said happily. "This is Brittany Pierce, my roommate. Come sit, I'll introduce you to my new friends!"

Santana drew back a little, staring at Rachel incredulously. She caught Quinn's eye then, at the set, thin line of her lips, and Santana groaned to herself.

Something told her that Rachel Berry wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Dammit.

The girl Rachel called Brittany grabbed a chair and twirled it backwards with her hand, moving to straddle it, sitting next to Santana, and the Latina drew in a breath. Bad decision, because something fruity with a little spice hit her nose, and the scent, combined with the – okay, she was gorgeous – gorgeous girl next to her practically made her drool.

"Friends," Brittany said, "I like new friends. What're their names?"

"This is Santana," Rachel said, gesturing.

Santana just gave a curt nod. "Hey."

"And this is her sister, Quinn, who is in my poetry class."

"Hey, Quinn," Brittany said, waving again even though she was only across the table. "Wait… Quinn. The Quinn? The one that you keep saying is pretty?"

"Brittany!" Rachel gave a short, embarrassed laugh, and Quinn's face had flamed red to the tips of her ears. Santana gritted her teeth.

"No need to divulge things that are said in confidence, Brittany."

"What?"

"Don't repeat things I tell you!"

"Well, you're right though, she is really pretty."

"Britt—"

"I need some air," Santana said suddenly, and before anyone had time to protest she was out the door. She took a deep breath and fumbled in her jacket pocket until she found her pack, drawing it out and smacking it against her hand before pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

Blue eyes. They were kind of mesmerizing, even though she'd seen them only for a split second. She had no idea why she was thinking of them, really, only that they were…

Well, as eyes went, they were pretty much the most beautiful she'd ever seen.

She stood on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of the Starbucks and feeling the rough of the brick bite into her back even as she took a slow drag of her cigarette.

The shadow looming at her side unnerved her.

"You shouldn't smoke," Brittany said. She plucked the cigarette from Santana's hand and took a puff herself before handing it back.

Santana stared at the cigarette. It was fully on her mind that the minute she put her lips around it again, it would be like she and the tall blonde girl had shared a kiss.

"So what do you do?"

"Do?"

"Y'know, are you a student like Rachel, or do you have a job or…?"

"Both," Santana answered. "Taking classes at NYU, then working at a pediatric clinic part-time. Working on my nursing degree."

Why am I telling you all this? Santana wondered.

"Oh. I dance."

"Dance?"

Apparently coherent speech was not going to be her strong point today. She could hear Berry – god that girl was loud – even outside, talking animatedly to Quinn.

"Yeah, dance." Brittany grabbed Santana's hand and pulled her into a little half-twirl, grinning when Santana shrugged off her hand and settled back against the brick again, eyes narrowed at her.

"You should go out with me."

In her surprise Santana took too long of a drag; her lungs revolted against the onslaught and she coughed loudly, dropping the cigarette and grinding it out with her foot.

Brittany slapped her back casually and Santana squeaked in protest.

"That's why you shouldn't smoke."

"Why," Santana croaked, "would I go out with you?"

Brittany shrugged, her lips spreading into a grin. "Caramel macchiatos and venti decaf non-dairy organic shit in a cup is nice, but sometimes," she shrugged again and glanced at Santana, who was still struggling to regain her breath.

"Sometimes you just want to sit in the darkest corner of the oldest bar you can find, and have a beer." Plus," Brittany leaned in, her lips practically brushing Santana's ear, and the Latina shivered as the blonde fairly whispered the last two words.

"I'm hot."

"And anyway," Brittany straightened up. "Rachel sings at Mike's on the weekends, and I try to go every so often to give her support."

"She sings? She doesn't look like she can sing anything except on the Small World ride at Disneyland, Disney World, whatever."

Brittany rolled her eyes. "Rachel's little, but her voice isn't. She'll be on Broadway once people get their heads out of their asses and hear how talented she is. But right now, the guys at the bar sometimes give her a hard time, so I try to even it out when I can. She says she needs applause to live."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Santana muttered.

Brittany laughed, and Santana found it hard to breathe again, though this time not from the cigarette smoke.

"Rachel can be obnoxious. But she's got a good heart." Brittany glanced back into the Starbucks; Santana followed her gaze, sighing inwardly when she saw Quinn laughing merrily at something Rachel had said.

"Besides, it looks like Quinn likes her."

Exactly what I'm afraid of.

"Come on, come with us tomorrow," Brittany said. "One night, and you'll never have to talk to me or Rachel again if you don't want to."

Santana considered this. Never having to see Berry, her hideous sweaters or her gigantic nose again? It was an enticing prospect… except Quinn was still smiling in the window, seemingly hanging on Rachel's every word.

"It's not me I'm worried about," Santana pointed out, but shook her head at Brittany's confused look.

"Never mind. Fine, I'll go, and if Quinn wants to, she can come too. But I swear to God if that midget starts singing show tunes I'm outta there."

Brittany laughed again and linked her arm through Santana's; the Latina stared in shock but didn't protest as Brittany propelled them both back in through the door and to the table.

"Good news!" she said happily. "Santana and Quinn are coming to the bar tomorrow to hear you sing!"

Rachel gasped in surprise at the same time Quinn arched an eyebrow at Santana and said "We are?"

Santana pointed at Brittany wordlessly.

Brittany grinned and slipped back into her chair. "I'll take the blame. You guys will have fun though. I promise, you'll love it when Rachel sings. And the drinks are all on me."

Rachel's eyes shone with excitement as she began to babble on about song selections and asking what Quinn's favorite artists were, and Santana shook her head when she saw that Quinn's cheeks were tinged pink again, and she was smiling at Rachel.

Yeah. Exactly what she was afraid of.

"You can't tell her," Santana said to Quinn again as they walked back towards their apartment, after having agreed to show up at the Starbucks tomorrow night so that Britt could take them to the bar. They'd exchanged numbers, and Santana was all too aware of the way Quinn had softly spoken to Rachel, fingertips lingering over the other girl's phone as she punched in the digits.

"I know, Santana."

"I don't want you to get hurt."

"Who says I will?" Quinn snapped.

Santana stopped and turned in front of her sister, hands shoved in her pockets. "Who says you won't?"

Quinn shook her head. "Maybe Rachel's different."

"And if she's not? None of the others were."

There'd only been a couple, but they'd still left Quinn broken-hearted, crying face-down on her bed as her sister struggled to pick up the pieces.

Quinn met Santana's eyes. "I don't know," she confessed.

"I just don't know."