The house was quiet, but it didn't feel quiet. The echoes of the earlier turmoil seemed to be still bouncing from wall to wall, room to room. Would this place ever feel like home again? Brittany wondered, shifting on the couch so she could rest her head on the armrest and look around the darkened living room. She assumed everyone else was asleep. It was late, and Iliana had tired herself out long ago, curled up in their—in Santana's—bed in a tight little ball of cotton nightie and silky dark hair. Untouchable, unreachable. She wouldn't look at Brittany even as Brittany sat on the edge of the bed and did all but beg for her daughter's understanding. She felt like her heart was in pieces with sharp edges that cut her every time she moved. That's why she didn't look up when she heard the bedroom door close softly and the sound of Santana's socked feet padding over to the couch. Or when her wife sat down next to her and rested a hand on her bare knee.

"You okay?"

Brittany hummed a non-answer.

"She doesn't understand, Britt. She's angry because she doesn't understand and because there's nothing she can do about this. She's like me when she can't get her way, y'know? … Only she's smaller and even less rational."

Brittany opened one eye to fix her wife with a meaningful look.

"I am too more rational than an eight-year-old." After a brief pause, she shrugged, giving in a little as she muttered, "Usually."

"Sure you are, honey," Brittany conceded.

"So, ah. Iliana didn't talk much once I got her calmed down, and before she was calm she was just … sobbing." Brittany flinched at Santana's words. "But from what I did manage to gather, she's under the impression that you're ... well ... not coming home?"

Brittany froze and opened her other eye to look at Santana, waiting for her to go on because she was just too emotionally drained to do this again so soon.

"I thought ... I mean, earlier, we ..."

Santana trailed off, her head tilted to the side so that long dark locks spilled over one shoulder as she fixed Brittany with That Look she was never able to deny. "Was I wrong about that? About, like, what that meant?" Santana caught her lip between her teeth and bit down, a nervous habit she wasn't even aware of.

The silence was loud, and Brittany could hear her own heartbeat and wondered briefly if Santana could, too.

"San, I want to," she began. "You know I do."

"So what's stopping you?"

"What I want isn't what matters here, not really. Neither is what you want, or what Iliana wants. Otherwise this would be easy."

"Okay, Brittany, I give up. What matters here?"

"I need to be sure."

"Of what? Of me?" Santana's voice cracked on the last word, the hurt clear in her eyes.

"No, God no, baby, I'm always sure of you." Brittany pried Santana's hands away from her chest, where she had folded her arms in that defensive posture she had that had been her second nature since Brittany had known her. Once she got them loose, she squeezed them tightly in both of hers. Santana didn't return the squeeze, but she didn't pull away. Brittany could feel her pulling away in other ways, though, bracing herself against the blow she knew was coming.

"What are you not sure of then, Brittany?" Santana's voice was chilly, and Brittany had to clasp her wife's hands harder to keep her from shutting down completely. It was delicate business, dealing with Santana when she was hurting. Sometimes Brittany thought it was like tending to a wounded animal. You had to be careful. Ily was the same way. Brittany knew her girls.

Santana yanked half-heartedly but was unable to break Brittany's grip, so she settled for glaring down at their clasped hands as if she could set fire to them by sheer force of will.

"I need to be sure that this is for good, San. That I'm not going to move back in here and everything will be perfect bliss for a couple of weeks until ... until it's not. Until you accuse me again, or until we start fighting over the hours we're working and stop talking about real stuff. I can't do that to us. I can't do that to our daughter, and if you stopped to think about it, you'd realize that you can't do that either."

"So we won't!" Santana argued, and her voice betrayed the desperation she was trying so hard to keep from showing up on her face. "We will make it work, Britt, we always have!"

"I love you too much to just make it work, Santana," Brittany said softly. "You deserve more than that, and Iliana deserves more than that. Honey, we all do."

"What do you want from me, Brittany, I'll do anything. Okay? I'll stop being such a bitch all the time, I'll cut back on my hours, I'll prove to you every single day that you and Ily are the only priorities in my life. Is that enough? Will you just stay?"

Brittany pressed her wife's hand to her mouth and kissed it. "Baby, it's not that simple."

Santana jerked her hand back and shot Brittany a fiery look. "Don't you DARE do that, don't you talk to me like I'm Iliana and I don't get it. You know what I think? I think you're looking for reasons not to come back."

Santana Lopez and her mercurial moods. Britt couldn't say she'd never experienced them before, but they always made her head spin. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to let the anger in her wife's words show for it really was: hurt and fear.

"San, if there were a quick fix, I'd take it. You know that, right? But this is too important to rush. I love you. Do you hear me? I love you more than life, and I'm not going to give up on us. If you think that's what this is, then—"

"Just go."

Brittany's head shot up. "What?" Despite the trajectory this conversation had been taking, she still felt a painful jolt at her wife's words—and her tone, which was detached, emotionless, and utterly un-Santana. "You want me to ..."

"Damn it, Britt, you know that's exactly NOT what I want. But, I mean, if you're leaving, you should just do it. We can't just sit here pouring salt in our wounds all night, right? It'll be easier to just fucking rip the band-aid off and get it over with."

"Wh-what about Ily?" Brittany asked after clearing her throat, which suddenly felt tight and constricted.

The look she got in return could have drawn blood. "Do you want to wake her up and tell her you're leaving?" It wasn't even a question, of course it wasn't. Brittany knew that was probably the worst possible thing she could do right now. She stood up shakily, smoothing her hair and swiping at the tear tracks on her cheeks. She hoped Santana would look at her, but her wife stared determinedly at her own hands, which were picking aimlessly at some nonexistent lint on her tee-shirt.

"Tell her ... San, please tell her ..." Brittany broke off, not knowing exactly what she could say to her daughter that hadn't already been said, and rejected, by the grieving little girl.

"I've got it," Santana said, her tone not exactly warm but not as icy as it had been moments ago.

Brittany grabbed her dance bag from the countertop and started for the door, suddenly needing to make her exit before she started to really cry. She froze with her hand on the doorknob when Santana called her name, and their eyes met across the room. It seemed like Santana was struggling to find words, which in itself was a rarity, but then at last she managed a tiny, barely there smile and said something they always used to say to each other, words that meant care and concern and, in this case, reassurance: "Text me when you get home."

Britt nodded, resisting the urge to correct her wife (THIS is my home), and stepped out into the hallway.


The two mothers couldn't have known that the girl in the next room had heard it all, and even if they had known, they wouldn't have been able to predict her next move. Because as Iliana tiptoed back to her mami's bed and curled up under the covers, pretending that she'd been there all along, all she could think about was her mama saying that the reason she wasn't coming back was because of HER.

"I can't do that to our daughter, and if you stopped to think about it, you'd realize that you can't do that either." That's what Mama had said. As if Iliana were too fragile, too young and stupid to understand that couples have fights. Even couples who love each other as much as her mommies do. She just had to convince Mama that she was wrong. That Ily could handle it, that their family was worth the risk.

So she was going to take ANOTHER risk, this one of the they-might-actually-kill-her variety, and go talk to Mama tomorrow. At her studio. Face to face.

Iliana would make her listen to reason.


AN: Hey! Thanks for reading! I hope you liked this chapter. I apologize for such delays between updates. I'm writing for a living now and it's hard to come home and write more after a long day. I still have plenty of passion for this couple, though, and love for this show that will never die. Please review and know that I love you for taking the time.