A/N: Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? This story has proven more difficult to write than I imagined, and my muses took a vacation. I'm sorry. I'd like to thank everyone for sticking around, and I hope this chapter is worth the wait. I can't make any promises as to when the next chapter will be posted.
Triggers/Warnings: Allusions to physical, mental, and sexual child abuse; bad language.
"Beth, please."
The storms had been non-stop for three days. There was a brief respite of thirty minutes, just long enough for Quinn's eyes to come into focus and for Santana to shove her into the bathroom for a shower. But just as soon as the last bit of warm water had circled the drain, grey, hard water had come tumbling back from the skies, accompanied by a tympani of thunder. That had been a day and a half ago, and Quinn – Beth – hadn't left the hall closet since.
Santana tried again. "Bethie… please? For San?"
Nothing.
She wasn't surprised. It had been this way for twelve years. No amount of coaxing or outright demanding would get through to Quinn when she was switched, to the point that when they were younger, Papa would just hoist Quinn in his arms, kicking and screaming, to be bathed or put in bed… everyone in the Lopez family had worn bruises from Beth at one point in time, and Santana was no exception.
But she was twenty and she had no desire to fight anymore. Her voice was tired, cracked… old.
She leaned her head against the wall next to the closet.
"I have to go to work," she said. She'd been out for the past three days, and Dr. Abrams had told her in no uncertain terms when she'd called in that morning that if she was out for one more day, that would be her last at the clinic.
"If I don't go to work, I'll be fired, and then I won't have money for your crayons and your coloring books and your cartoons. You don't want that, do you, Beth?"
Oh, she loved her sister, but she wasn't above some good old guilt… not that it ever worked. And it didn't work then; the only response was another loud clap of thunder and the sharp intake of breath from behind the closet door. Santana thumped her head against the wall in frustration.
Always it was the same. You could tell just by looking at Quinn, the minute rain started to stream down the windows of their tiny apartment. What was lithe and free would suddenly become coiled, stiff; eyes of bright hazel would darken to almost brown, wide and fearful. Santana would watch as a film reel of distorted, fuzzy memories would shift their way through Quinn; fingers would clench and unclench in a steady rhythm as slowly those hazel eyes would blink, would blank, and Quinn was gone. The twenty-year-old would be encircled by a six-year-old protector, and a gang of split emotions coexisting in her head to make up the whole, to guard the whole from her own reality. All this by the time the first roll of thunder capped the sky, and Santana barely had time to register before Quinn-as-Beth had darted to her safe haven.
They only had inklings about what had happened to Quinn during her time with her other… well, thosepeople, as Papa was found of calling them, punctuated with a spit on the ground. That first night, Santana had seen the bruises on Quinn's legs, some fresh, some fading into a mosaic of green, blue, and purple that spoke of weeks of the same treatment. She didn't understand it. Mama and Papa didn't spank, they didn't even yell. They didn't need to. One look from Papa was enough to send his children scurrying to do his bidding, and no one wanted to see disappointment in Mama's blue eyes. But it hadn't taken long for Santana to discover that Quinn's previous "family" had been very, very different, each time she bumped something or did something any normal six year old would do, and it resulted in her backing up against the wall with wide, fearful eyes, tiny hands held protectively over her bottom.
Only minor details had come out over the years. Things about a big house, porcelain dolls, Daddy's mechanic and Mommy's tv shows. It wasn't until Quinn was fourteen or fifteen that she was able to process her mother had "smelled funny" because of alcohol. It was easier for Quinn to talk about her mother, she'd explained to Santana. But every time a therapist pressed her to talk about her father they'd be met with the terrified personality of a six-year-old.
And then there were the nightmares.
"No! Daddy, no!"
Santana sat bolt upright in bed just as the hall light switched on.
"Mama?"
Mama poked her head inside her daughter's room. "Go back to sleep, it'll be all right."
Papa lingered in Santana's doorway with a mournful smile to his youngest. Quinn hadn't yet warmed to him; in fact, she seemed deathly afraid of him, something that Santana knew bothered her gentle Papa. She didn't understand, Daddy was the best Papa ever. But no matter how much she tried to get Quinn to hug him, sit on his lap or play a game with him, Quinn never would. (The words "play a game" seemed to terrify her, actually, and Santana and her family quickly learned not to use them.)
Mama's soft voice floated through the house, singing quietly, with the little blonde girl's tears as accompaniment, and Santana sighed. Many moments later, the tears subsided and Mama appeared back in her doorway.
"Santana?"
It was the same routine, always.
Instantly her daughter was up out of bed, pillows under one arm, her favorite stuffed dragon under the other. She padded into Quinn's room and maneuvered herself into the girl's bed, under the covers. Lying on her back, her hand reached out until she found another, and squeezed gently.
"Quinnie?"
"Monsters," the little girl muttered. "Just monsters."
Santana squeezed harder. "Not anymore. Not while I'm here."
In time, Quinn had stopped being afraid of Papa, or the older boys in the house. She still mostly clung to Santana or Mama, but one of her favorite things eventually became being swung high up into the air and down onto Papa's shoulders, where he'd bounce around singing a song from his childhood and Quinn would laugh merrily.
The nightmares, though… they never stopped.
They hadn't once heard from Quinn's biological parents, up until the day Quinn was officially adopted, and that was just fine by Santana. She knew that Quinn's father had hurt her – mentally, physically, and... well… other ways – and if she ever saw the man she was pretty sure she'd kill him. Slowly and methodically. Still, a part of her perversely wished Quinn's parents could see what they'd done to their beautiful daughter, now reduced to hiding in closets when it rained.
She'd given up joking about Quinn choosing the closet for her safe place. She'd given up joking about it at all. She was scared, because for the first time in her life Santana had glanced at the closet door a day and a half ago and contemplated leaving her sister there and just going… somewhere. Out into the city, into the peace and the rain and the crashing bright sky. Anywhere but there, with a sister out of control of herself.
If anything, lately Santana had realized she'd started to hate New York. Hate the clinic, hate her classes at the university, hate the tiny apartment that always seemed to stink of yesterday's leftovers, hated the constant battle of worry and happiness her sister's… what, condition? Illness? Disorder? Whatever the fuck it was. Santana didn't resent Quinn, she could never resent her sister for something that wasn't even her fault (and if Santana ever had the pleasure of meeting Russell Fabray she'd see to it the asshole paid for what he did to her sweet blonde sister) but that didn't stop her from resenting the situation they both found themselves in.
She hadn't seen Brittany in as many days as the storm had decided to assault New York City. She hated that, too; it had gotten to the point where Santana needed to be near Brittany as much as possible. And Brittany… Brittany made it all easier. She made it better. She'd cruised into Santana's life on her long dancers legs and promptly took up residence, bringing relief in the form of a smile or a beer tipped back on a Friday night at Mike's. Santana wasn't ready for love, she didn't want love, or so she'd told herself, but it was as if Brittany knew her resolve and simply laughed in the face of it. And now it had been three days, and Santana was feeling the strain. But at the same time she was grateful for it, because Brittany was attached to something that unnerved and fucking annoyed Santana.
Rachel Berry.
Her phone had rang at 3:30 a.m. and Santana rolled over in her bed, swearing under her breath until she saw the light on her iPhone and smiled at the picture id. "Hey baby," she said into the phone. "You okay?"
Outside she could hear the faintest sound of a calm rain flitting against the window, and she tried to keep her brow from creasing with worry. Just rain, she told herself. That's all. Just rain.
"Mm," Brittany hummed sleepily. "Rachel just got home."
"Okay?"
"She just got home from the library. Her phone's dead or she would have called Quinn herself."
Santana was wide awake then; she tried to ignore the tightness in her palm as she held the phone closer to her ear.
"Okay, and?"
"Said she was doing… research. Fell asleep in the library. She wants you to tell Quinn.. wouldn't let me go back to sleep until I promised to call."
Santana shook her head. "Go back to sleep, Britt."
"So you'll… mm… tired. You'll tell her? That Rachel was… hold on, can't remember." A pause, as if Brittany was thinking. Just as Santana was about to hang up, thinking her girlfriend had fallen asleep on the phone, she heard Brittany clear her throat.
"Make sure you tell Quinn that Rachel was researching what they had discussed and that she fell asleep in the library. It is imperative that Quinn know that Rachel isn't afraid."
Fuck.
Quinn had told her? And now the petite argyle freak was doing research into it?
Live my life for a couple of days, Santana thought bitterly. That's all the research you'll need.
"San?"
"Yeah, Britt."
"You'll tell her?"
"Yeah. I'll tell her. Go back to sleep."
"Night San."
"Night baby."
A knock sounded at the door just as it thundered again and Quinn let out a small shriek. "Jesus Christ," Santana muttered, listening to her joints pop as she pushed up off the floor and crossed the living room to turn the knob.
"Hi!" Brittany chirped happily, oblivious to the fact that she was drenched head to toe, because her raincoat was wrapped around something she held tightly in her arms.
"Brittany, damn, what… get in here, you'll catch a cold." Santana pulled the girl inside and left her dripping on the mat as she retrieved a towel from the bathroom. "You're supposed to wear your raincoat, B."
"Oh, I know," Brittany said. "But then dinner would have gotten wet!" She dropped the raincoat on the floor and triumphantly held up a bag of takeout from Santana's favorite restaurant.
"Oh my god, you are such a dork," Santana laughed affectionately, dropping a kiss to Brittany's lips before taking the bag out of her hands and shoving the girl in the direction of the bathroom. "Go dry off. You've got a pair of sweats and a tank top in the bedroom."
"Yup yup. Hey... where's Quinn?" Brittany looked around, her brow furrowed. "She doesn't have class tonight, does she? 'cause Rach doesn't, and I know her and Quinn have them together. Rachel talks about her all the time."
Bet she does, Santana thought. She talks about everything all the time.
"No, she doesn't have classes. She's ah… she doesn't feel very well."
"Oh, I hope she's not getting sick!" Brittany bounced into the living room again, toweling off her hair and flopping onto the couch. "I'm starving," she added, digging into the bag. "Come sit, Santana, you look tired."
"I am," her girlfriend – it was so strange to use that word now – admitted. "It's been a long few days."
"The weather's nasty," Brittany agreed around a mouthful of lo mein. "Business at the studio's dropped; I think the rain makes the grannies' arthritis flare up, and they can't dance."
Santana snorted. Brittany never hid the fact that she hated giving dancing lessons to octogenarians ("Rachel says she thinks there's no such thing as people who only eat octopus, San…"); her girlfriend knew that the blonde girl longed to be a choreographer. But so far, no gigs had panned out except for the one that was off-off-offx3 Broadway, and that show had folded after 45 minutes when the lead actor was booed off stage.
"He had really bad eyebrows," Brittany explained, as if that statement of fact summed it all up. As much as it discouraged her, though, Brittany pressed on, and seemed to find her greatest joy in teaching the littlest of her students, including one two-year-old who was just learning to tap. Santana had gone to the studio one afternoon to find Brittany dancing around with the little girl standing on her toes and holding onto Brittany's hands, laughing and squealing loudly. The smile on Brittany's face as she'd looked toward her girlfriend had been breathtaking.
"Hey San?"
"Yeah, B?"
"Do you have a ghost? Or a kid?"
Santana furrowed her brow and put down her forkful of noodles. "I don't have either, why?"
Brittany shrugged. "I'm not dumb, you know."
"I never said you were! But I don't understand your question."
"You have coloring books on the dresser in your room. And there are pictures hanging on the refrigerator. And all the Spongebob DVDs… can I borrow one? Anyway, I thought maybe you had a kid. Or maybe there's a little kid ghost that haunts your apartment because he can't find his way home through the Stargate because his gas mask doesn't fit right."
Santana blinked. "Uh, no, Britt," she said slowly, and then sighed.
What to do? Her mind was filled with the same images of boyfriends past, who took one look at her sister, or heard one word about her, and ran for the hills as fast as they could. It seemed that none of them were enough, either brave enough or strong enough to approach things like foster families, adoption, abuse, multiples… And if she was being honest about it, Santana hadn't minded all that much, when they were younger. It was Santana and Quinn against the world, badass superheroes "occasionally a little fucked in the head," was their motto. No matter what, even if there were never boys or girls to love them the way people were loved in the fairy tales Mama told them at night… they had each other and that, for 2 years, had been enough.
But then… Rachel. And as much as Santana hated it there was a light in Quinn she hadn't seen before. Or at least there had been, before the night that Rachel hadn't called. Santana stowed away the guilt gnawing at her stomach and brought her mind back to Brittany.
Brittany, Brittany with her simplicity of how the world worked, how things were black and white and the grey in between just meant the world hadn't made up its mind yet. How on earth would she understand any of this?
"Is there someone else?"
Santana snapped back to reality with a lurch. "W-what?" she croaked, panic rising within her.
"I mean, maybe they have a kid, and that's why you haven't been able to see me and-"
"They're Quinn's."
It was out, then, out before she could take it back, and Santana shook her head.
Brittany tilted her head, looking for all the world like a confused puppy.
Santana sighed again. "Do you remember how I told you Quinn was adopted? Well… her family before ours… they weren't good to her, Britt. They hurt her, a lot."
"Oh." Brittany's voice was tiny. "So, bad people."
"Yes. Really bad. And Quinn… she has a different way of dealing with it. Sometimes she gets really mean and mad, and sometimes she's… like a little girl."
"Oh!" Brittany nodded. "So the movies and the coloring books are hers, then? … but where is she, really?"
"She's… in the closet." Santana pointed towards the hall. "She gets really scared of thunderstorms and when there's one she won't come out of it. She's been in there three days, Brittany, and I can't leave her and I can't get her out, and I don't know what to do…"
Santana drew in a shaky breath and Brittany slipped her arm around her girlfriend and squeezed gently. Santana watched as Brittany got up and walked to the hall, slowly opening up the door and peering down at Quinn, who was huddled against the back wall, arms wrapped around herself.
"Hi, Quinn," Brittany said. There was, of course, no response.
"Do you want to come out and watch some television? We can watch Spongebob?"
Furious tears dotted her eyelashes as Santana watched Brittany talk quietly to her sister, trying every manner of coaxing and cajoling. Nothing worked, but she was trying. For so long it'd been just Santana and her family… seeing Brittany's attempts made the load on Santana's shoulders seem a little less… heavy.
After about five minutes, Brittany closed the closet door, leaving it cracked, and came to sit next to Santana on the couch.
"Do you think she'd mind if I used her crayons? I like coloring."
Santana's laugh was interrupted by the loud, insistent knock on the door. Santana got up to open it and groaned inwardly.
"Hello!" Rachel said brightly, oblivious to the fact that she was shaking her umbrella all over Santana's carpet. "We, ah, well we're out of power at the studio and I didn't want to go all the way back to campus, it's such a ride, you see, and I'd rather not attempt—"
"Do you possibly have a point?"
Rachel pursed her lips before continuing. "I have a paper due tomorrow, and I was merely wondering if I could borrow your internet for a while. Quinn has said you have wireless."
"No," Santana said, at the same time Brittany said, "Of course, Rach!"
Rachel beamed and went off to the kitchen, beginning to unpack her bag. Santana glared at Brittany who just grinned.
"Where is Quinn, by the way?" Rachel asked, sounding cautious. "I… haven't heard from her in a few days."
Brittany cast Santana a confused look and she shrugged, feeling the hairs rise on the back of her neck.
"She's out," Santana said, once again at the same time Brittany announced, "Oh, she's in the hall closet, and she's scared."
Rachel came back to stand in the living room, her eyes on the hall closet door. She turned to Santana.
"She's in there?"
Against her better judgment, Santana nodded.
"Why is she scared?"
The slightly accusatory tone in her voice didn't escape Santana. "I haven't done anything to her!" she snapped. "She just… she's afraid of storms, and she reverts back to Beth."
"Who's Beth?"
"That's... what Quinn likes to be called when she's scared like this."
"Oh," Brittany said, nodding thoughtfully. "So it's like pretending."
"Kind of."
"How long has she been in there?" Rachel asked.
"Three days," Brittany confirmed, and Santana rested her forehead on her hand.
"Three days! You've let her stay in there for three days?"
"I can't get her out!" Santana exclaimed. "You've known her for a month or two, Rachel; I've been dealing with this for twelve years, okay? God."
Rachel huffed (and Santana would swear that she saw the girl stomp her foot) then stalked off back to the kitchen, only to grab her laptop, notebook and papers, then come back and park herself on the floor next to the closet.
Santana quirked an eyebrow at Brittany, who just shrugged and continued working on the Care Bears picture. Santana pressed her fingers against her forehead once more and considered where her life was going.
She'd never imagined this, not when they were trying to convince their parents to let them move to New York. It'd resulted in a family meeting – the whole family, and Quinn and Santana had sat on the couch in front of them like they were on trial. Santana had outlined their plan, slowly, carefully (She'd even written it down on paper. Quinn had color-coded it.): they would move to New York. Santana would get a part-time job. Quinn would try a part-time job. They both would go to college. After, Santana would be a nurse and Quinn would be a writer. They'd share an apartment, two sisters, always.
And above all, Santana would take care of Quinn.
Santana was losing count of how many times she'd failed, on all of it. She tried to flip through her textbook but all she could hear was the scritch-scritch of crayon against paper, and Rachel's soft humming as she chewed her lip and concentrated on her laptop while her finger idly pushed open the closet door inch by inch.
Santana froze.
Rachel peeked into the closet, her lips pressed into a tight, concerned line. The concern in her eyes was evident and Santana felt a small – very small – pang of guilt before the worry took over again.
"Rachel, don't-"
But Rachel ignored her as she simply rested her right hand on the floor of the closet and turned back to her homework. Minutes passed as her humming grew louder until she was softly singing, nearly under her breath but loud enough for Santana, Brittany, and most importantly, Quinn could hear her.
Little child, be not afraid
The rain pounds harsh against the glass
like an unwanted stranger
there is no danger
I am here tonight
Santana had never heard the song, and she snorted to herself at the lyrics, but Brittany glared at her and Santana sighed. When had she started becoming chastised by a tall blonde dancer? And when had she started listening to her? Ugh. If she allowed herself to think it, though – and she totally didn't – Rachel's voice was soothing. Kind of like the beginning of the rain, right before it gained momentum. Soft and slow, gentle and falling around the roof, making you want to curl into your bed and fall asleep.
Rachel's hand stayed on the floor as she sang, and Santana's eyes nearly bugged out of her head when a second hand slid across the carpet, pale fingers moving tentatively until they met darker ones, and Quinn clutched hard. Rachel smiled, never looking up from the computer on her lap.
Little child
be not afraid
though thunder explodes
and lightning flash
illuminates your tearstained face
I am here tonight
It slid across Santana like ice then, down her shoulders and to the middle of her chest, finally settling in her stomach like a weight, a dinner eaten too much, too soon, too fast; and all she could think of was, Why?
Why couldn't she do that? For three days she had tried, had struggled. Had begged, had pleaded, fussed, coaxed, cried… and Quinn wouldn't do a thing for her. But some little four foot midget waltzes into Quinn's life and suddenly it was like Santana didn't exist, hadn't existed…
She tried to tell herself she was being irrational; she pressed herself into Brittany's side and was rewarded with a kiss, while all around them was nothing but Rachel's voice, singing to Quinn.
And someday you'll know
that nature is so
this same rain that draws you near me
falls on rivers and land
and forests and sand
makes the beautiful world that you see
in the morning
And as if Rachel was some kind of damned weather-controlling goddess, fifteen minutes later the storm stopped. It took another ten minutes, but soon Quinn was in the living room, hair disheveled and eyes tired, looking incredibly embarrassed to have switched back with Rachel holding her hand and Brittany waving merrily at her from the couch, clutching a red crayon.
As always, Santana hugged her gently. "Welcome back, you."
"What are they doing here?"
"Brittany came over, and then Rachel. Something about needing our internet."
"I haven't heard from her…"
There was that twinge again, but Santana forced it down and nodded. "I know."
"How long this time?"
Santana kissed her cheek. "It doesn't matter. Go shower, sis, you stink."
Quinn rolled her eyes. "How long?"
"Three days."
"Fuck." Quinn's eyes filled up with tears, and Santana grabbed her in a hug.
"It's all right, Quinn. You know it's all right."
"No. No it isn't all right; I'm so fucking sick of this!"
Santana nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. Metoo. "I know. Just… go shower. I'm going to fix you something to eat."
Quinn grinned ruefully. "Burger? What would I do without you?" she added in response to her sister's nod.
Santana smiled, trying not to think about why the question was like a knife in her heart. "I really don't know," she joked. "Probably never shower and never eat."
Quinn laughed and swatted her arm as she walked off towards the bathroom.
Santana's smile faded when she walked into the kitchen and saw Rachel sitting at the table, writing.
"You should probably go."
Rachel nodded absent-mindedly. "I'm finishing up anyway. I'll wait to talk to Quinn when she gets out of the shower, then go."
"I don't think you should talk to her. Not after what she's been through."
Rachel looked up. "Why?"
"Well, she's... fragile."
"She doesn't look fragile."
"Well she is," Santana said hotly. "I think I know her better than you do."
Rachel shook her head and put her books in her bag. "Just let me say goodbye to her, Santana, then I'll stay out of your way for the evening."
"Fine," Santana said through gritted teeth. "But could you please wait in the living room? I have to fix Quinn dinner, and this kitchen is way too small without your head filling it up."
Rachel's mouth dropped open in shock; Santana smirked as the smaller girl in the bright red skirt and red sweater stalked off to the living room and sat on the couch with her arms folded over her chest.
The triumphant feeling, however, faded only moments later when, coming out of the kitchen with Quinn's dinner, she spotted her adopted sister talking quietly with Rachel. Quinn glanced toward Santana, her face pinched white with anger. Santana winced.
"You'll tell her?"
"Yeah. I'll tell her. Go back to sleep."
"Night San."
"Night baby."
Santana hung up her phone, staring at it until the light flickered out. She thought about her sister, lying in the bed with tear-stained cheeks, her own phone clutched in her hand until Santana had removed it and laid it on her bedside table. She stayed awake until light peeked over the horizon.
When Quinn came into the kitchen to make breakfast that morning, Santana smiled at her over her coffee cup… and said nothing.
Fuck.
She tried not to watch as Rachel reached up and gently touched Quinn's face, tried not to feel the ice settling in the pit of her stomach as Quinn lowered her lips to Rachel's and kissed her softly, their hands squeezing together in front of them. But ice was Quinn, cold, hard ice as Rachel and Brittany left and she rounded on her sister.
"W-why?" was all she asked.
"Why what?" Santana said, holding out the plate of food.
In a swift move Quinn had knocked it to the floor.
"She called," Quinn whispered. "She called… she's been researching, Santana. And you let me… you let me think she didn't care."
"She doesn't, don't you get it? You're a project or something for her, I don't know."
"You're right, you don't know!" Quinn began pacing the room, her hands balled into fists. "She called, she was researching… for once in my life I have someone who's not afraid of me, and you tried to ruin it!"
"I wasn't ruining anything, I was trying to save you," Santana protested, going for the broom to clean up the broken glass from the plate. "Quinnie, you don't—"
"No!" Quinn held up her finger and jabbed it into Santana's chest. "Don't you dare 'Quinnie' me. I'm… I'm trying to be happy, Santana, and you… you kept it from me. I'm not this fragile piece of china that you seem to want to make Rachel believe I am."
"It's better than her knowing you're a freak!"
The air in the room became stifling. Quinn stopped mid-stride, staring.
"Oh… oh god," Santana muttered. "Quinn, I don't mean that, that's not what I meant, I-"
"Just shut up," Quinn snapped. "At least now I know what you really think of me."
"You're my sister; I don't think you're a freak! I love you, dumbass."
She hoped it would make Quinn laugh; it always had in the past. But not this time. Quinn was on the couch, arms wrapped around herself, her hazel eyes cloudy… but perfectly in control.
"I'm just tired, Quinn," Santana said helplessly, sweeping up the broken glass. "I don't know how to deal with this. Not this time. And you just… you don't need her. She'll only hurt you."
"You have no idea what I need."
"The fuck I don't. My entire life is you."
Quinn looked up at Santana, an expression on her face as if she was seeing her sister for the first time.
"Well," she said softly, getting up and crossing the floor to her room.
"I'm sorry I've ruined your life."
Santana watched as her sister closed the door, the telltale click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. She stared down at the broom and dustpan in her hands and back at the closed door. Angrily she tossed them down on to the floor.
Grabbing her jacket, she headed out of their apartment into the night, not caring where her feet were taking her.