You pull your coat tighter around your shoulders and glare at everything you can. You shouldn't be awake at three in the morning, nor should you be two hours away from home, and frankly you probably never should've entered this building for any reason in your entire life.

But you're here. Standing on the thick red line etched into the floor tiles and waiting to be called forward. The man behind the glass window waves you on—finally, like what else has he been doing for the past ten minutes, you're the only person in this waiting room—and asks you how he can help.

"I need to post my friend's bail," your voice is gruff and angry. You've never posted a bail before, you're a little self-conscious but mostly you're worried out of your mind. You shouldn't be in a police department at three in the morning but when she had called you, there was no way you could say anything but that you would be there as soon as you could.

He clicks away on his computer and studies the screen, an odd smile worms its way onto his face. His voice is downright slimy, "Oh, you must be here for John."

You frown, not needing his presumptuous ass to prolong this any further, "No, I'm looking for a woman, Brittany Pierce."

He takes the tone of your voice for a warning and goes through the rest of the procedure as some sort of professional. There is a lot of paperwork, a lot of your personal information being filing into their system on the off chance Brittany doesn't make her court date, and a lot of money being exchanged for her ticket home. You don't know what happened, Brittany wouldn't say over the phone. You trust her to pay you back and to make her court date, that's all a given. Right now all you're worried about is finding out if she's alright.

"Thank you, ma'am," he takes back the clipboard of paperwork.

While he's making sure everything is filled out, another officer exits the heavy looking double doors at the end of the hall. There are two people behind him. One man, dark hair with an even darker look in his eye. The mohawk matches his leather jacket and torn jeans. The woman next to him is too pretty to be in this dump, she might have just walked out some high end fancy pants magazine. Her dress is a pristine sort of innocent and the wedge heels are very cute. Oddly enough, you could swear you've seen that jacket before. They're speaking softly and you catch a part of their conversation as they pass.

"This is what happens when you work off the books, Quinn," he rubs his face and growls. "Damian is going to have my ass if he ever finds out about it."

Her eyes flicker to yours for just a moment, and you see such a stark judgment it offends you. She has no right to be eyeballing you for being here when she's standing on the other side of the room. She looks away and tells the man, "I'll take care of Damian, just get me home."

You did not expect her to be the one that needed bailing out, you thought he must have been whoever the officer thought you were looking for, John something.

There isn't time to dwell on it, the officer that showed them out turns to you, "Ma'am, you're welcome to follow me, or I can bring 'em to you. Either way, don't matter none."

You'd really like to get to Brittany as soon as possible, "I'll come with you."

It's just that you need to see that she's alright. You need to get her out of this place and find out what happened. There's no doubt in your mind that this is all a misunderstanding. There is no way Brittany really deserves to be in a county jail right now. Not the Brittany you know, the one that volunteers at homeless shelters and recycles and cried when that guy ran over a squirrel in the parking lot of your office building. Not your Brittany.

No, she doesn't belong here and you need to get her out as soon as possible. This woman has the brightest smile and the kindest heart you've ever known and sitting in a jail cell is tarnishing that in a way you can't handle. Brittany is special to you. She's the light in your dreary little world and even if she doesn't know how much she means to you.

He takes you behind the door and down a concrete hall. It smells damp in here, musky, and gross. Footfalls echo uncomfortably against unforgiving walls and all the color is washed out by even harsher fluorescent lights. You see the door of bars at the end of the hall near another desk. You look around for that John character but the only one slumped on a bench against the back wall of the cell is Brittany. She's holding her face in her hands and wishing she could go back in time.

You want to hug her.

"Brittany," you wrap your arms around yourself as the man goes for the lock. She looks up, her eyes red and unfocused. She's so tired and probably been crying. She's small and scared. You want to make this better somehow.

"Bails been posted, you're good to go."

He slides the cell door open and Brittany stands slowly, crossing the cell on shaky feet. You reach for her arm as soon as she's passed the threshold—she flinches away from you, eyes on the dirty floor, lips pulled into a thin line.

And it stings.

"Britt," your voice is quiet, more pleading than you'd like. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Can we get out of here?" she breathes tightly, edging around you to get to down the hall.

You just drove to the city in the middle of the night and gave up an entire paycheck to get her out of jail and she won't even look at you?

Well, fine.

You cross your arms again, a little stiffer this time, and follow her out of the building. She's already at your car when you walk out of the police station, grabbing the passenger's side door handle, and waiting so very impatiently. Her shoulders are shaking and you're not sure if it's from the cold or because she's so out of it. You notice she isn't wearing a jacket.

"Where's your car?" you unlock the car with your remote. The lights flash in the dark parking lot, she flinches.

Her breath is visible when she says, "It's safe. I'll deal with it in the morning."

Brittany slips into the car before you can ask another question. You get the hint. She doesn't want to talk to you about this. You can tell that she didn't even want to have to call you. So you get in the driver's seat, start the car, crank up the heat, and making sure to point the vents her way when they start to warm. She doesn't take her eyes away from the window, or sing to the radio like she usually does. You're not even sure she's awake until she whispers, "I'll pay you back for the bail money. By the end of the week, I promise."

"I know you will," the words sound rough in the stretched space between you, in the void of all the things she's not telling you. "I trust you, Brittany."

Her fists clench into tight balls on her thighs, offended by your choice of words and how it implicates her.

If you trust her so much, she should trust you with this.

You give her time, just in case she wants to offer an explanation. She doesn't. She sits staring out the window, stone silent. It bothers you. She's a good friend of yours, admittedly your closest. You didn't think that you had secrets from each other. Granted, you're not the most open person in the world, but Brittany is the only person that's ever been able to get past that, to help you open up. She's kind and friendly and she makes you feel like you're someone worth knowing.

Why doesn't she want you to know her?

"What's this all about?" you ask softly, as if the volume of your voice will help.

She doesn't answer. She doesn't even look your way. You let her sit, you think about all the things she could have been arrested for. You think of the worst case scenarios and ones that don't even make sense.

"Seriously, should I be worried about you?"

That's all you want to know, if there's something wrong.

"Are you in trouble? Is there something I can do to help?"

This time she shakes her head, giving you an answer while explaining nothing.

"No, I can't help? Or no, I shouldn't be worried?"

Again, she doesn't answer. You've never seen her like this, prickly like a cornered animal. Tension floats around the car with as much grace as a tornado. For the first time, you don't know what to say to her, you don't know how she'll to react to all the words bubbling inside your breath. You don't really know anything. Miles pass and now you're driving through her subdivision, this is your last chance.

"Britt?"

She turns herself even further from you and mumbles, "You can't help me, but you shouldn't be worried about it. There's nothing you can do."

You're not so sure, "What were you doing out there?"

"Nothing, Santana. Please, just drop it," her voice is clipped in a way she never uses with you.

It hurts.

A tiny house of cards falls from your heart and lands in the pit of your stomach.

You put on an angry face to keep the wounded feeling away, "Don't tell me it's nothing when I just bailed you out of jail. It's going on four in the morning, what the hell kind of nothing lands you in jail at three in the morning?"

Glancing away from the road, you see her jaw strained and her frown in the reflection of the window.

"Drugs?" you throw out into the space between you. "You did that shit in college and I know work's been crazy, is that what this is?"

She turns sharply, her blue eyes catching the light from the dashboard clock and it's such a warning—you ignore it.

"Well?" you lift a hand from the steering wheel for a frustrated huff. "Did you pick a fight with someone?"

"Stop it."

"Did it have something to do with that girl that walked out with your jacket? Did she catch you in the corner of a bar with her mohawked boyfriend? Did she get you into this mess?"

Her expression changes, her eyes harden and her shoulders stiffen and you know you've gotten somewhere. You want to keep up with the questions, you almost pass the entrance to her apartment complex on purpose, but the way she's acting with you... it scares you to push too far. So you pull into her lot and Brittany's hand is on the door before you even come to a complete stop.

"Hey," you grab her wrist over the center console. She stops, one foot on the pavement, hair falling over her face and still refusing to speak. "Who is she? Did she hurt you?"

"No," she tugs at her wrist, frustrated with you. "She wouldn't hurt me. Let go."

You do. Thankfully, she stays in the car.

"She's your friend?"

Brittany shakes her head, her hair swaying with the movement, catching the streetlights and turning the usually golden color orange. You don't know what is going on, how to help, you don't know... her. You don't know who she is right now, in this moment. Why is she so withdrawn from you? So cold? Can't she see you're scared for her? That you're worried?

"Then she's your..." your heart feels like ice when your mind swings to the next conclusion. You remember the conversation overheard by the woman in Brittany's jacket. Quietly you repeat the name the officer gave you at the desk. "You're her John—she was a hooker."

Brittany disappears, the car door slamming in your face startles you out of your seat. You're scrambling around the hood and after your friend.

"Britt, wait," you catch her arm and again she jerks away from you. It wounds you, and the hurt must show on your face because she hesitates, for just one moment she hesitates, then she's turning back towards the building's door.

You have to stop her because somehow you know that if she walks away she'll shut you out. You will never find out why this happened.

So you throw out the first thing on your mind, "I don't get it, you could have anyone."

By anyone, you mean you.

Brittany is… she's so special to you. She's a dream and you've—you've always wondered if you stood a chance, but she's taking up with prostitutes. The ones with perfect blonde hair and regal wardrobes and are the exact opposite of everything you are. It's a rejection you weren't prepared for.

Your voice trembles a little when you ask, "Why would you need to get a call girl?"

"You don't know anything about what I need," she throws the reply over her shoulder and keeps heading for the door. "You have no idea."

"Obviously, it's something only money can buy."

Reproachful blue eyes flash at you, "That's real nice, Santana. Thanks."

You're getting angry, because how the hell does she not know that people are lined up for her. You flush, ashamed of yourself, "I know you don't date much and you've always been shy but–"

She pauses in front of her building's door, putting her hands over her face, "Please, let this go."

"—that doesn't mean you can't try for something real with people that care about you."

"You don't get it—"

"You don't have to waste your time with some streetwalker when you could have anyone you want—"

"No one would want me!" her voice breaks and her hands tremble when she pulls them away from her face. "No one has ever wanted me once they—they knew me like that! Jesus, that woman—she's the only one that's ever given me a chance. I can be myself with her and fucking god," she shakes her head, tears brimming in her eyes, the most defeated expression on her face. "I just never—I don't get that with anyone else."

In the cold night, with your breath fogging the air, you feel like you're finally seeing her clearly. How did you miss this profound sadness she's drowning in? How did you miss the shadows in her eyes? The ever present tension in her shoulders? The skittish way her shyness slips into severance?

How did you miss her isolation?

While you try realign the world around you, she's rambling, bitter and embarrassed, to fill the silence, "And even if it is for one hour, and I have to fucking pay for it, you don't know what that means to me—you don't have any idea."

You're small and crest fallen. Your words barely make it beyond the wind, "You don't feel like you can be yourself around me?"

Behind her eyes, there's a trace of recognition. Maybe she can see what's going on in your head. Maybe she knows how much she means to you, that you have no idea how she can think so little of herself when you think the world of her and you would be that person for her and...

She closes her eyes and looks away from you.

"It's different. We're friends from work, that's it. You have no right to question—or judge me about this."

Your shoulders crumple and you drop your eyes to the ground. That hurt more than the idea of her with a hooker.

"I really... thank you, for getting me home," she tells you as she turns away. "If you wouldn't say anything to anyone..."

"You don't have to ask."

Shoving your hands in your jacket pockets, you hunch against the wind and watch her unlock the door of her building. She pushes through without looking back and you're left on her porch, wishing you knew... anything at all.

Try as you might, you can't make sense of this. The world is wrong and you don't want to be a part of it anymore.