Here's Chapter 22! We're almost done... :( Enjoy!

Side Note: Are my old regular reviewers out there still reading? Rosetta? Caitlyn? Rosalie? I just want to know if I've lost your attention. I know sometimes it takes a while to catch up.

Santana emerged from the bathroom, her hair slicked with Moroccan oil and her body nestled in her favorite (and his too) nightgown. He was sitting upright on the hotel bed, on the right side. He always took the right; she always took the left. It was simply a routine they had fallen into. Her left-handedness complimented his right, so they could each have their elbow space. They had always operated this way, ever since they were kids, at restaurants, movie theaters, in bed.

But he was staring mindlessly at the football game playing on the television that was conveniently placed at eye level. He wondered when people had become so lazy that they no longer even needed to get out of bed to turn on the evening news or a bad reality show. She knew he was no doubt processing the events of the day, running into Kurt then Rachel like that.

"Are you going to sit there moping all night or are you going to tell me what the fuck is wrong with you?" She picked up the bottle of lotion sitting on the nightstand, and squirted some into her palms, the air in the bottle creating a suctioning sound.

"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?" he replied automatically, but the satire in his comment was lost in the monotony of his tone. Yet she was the messed up one. Or at least the more messed up one. She was the one afraid of a one-horse town and the deadbeat people living in it. He was just the slight PTSD-plagued wingman she had brought along.

"Not tonight. I know you're not watching the game, because the Browns just scored a touchdown and you didn't even do your stupid happy dance." She said this in her bitch voice, the one that automatically let people know how serious she was, in the rare occasions that she wasn't being artificial. Besides, someone once told her that football was only enjoyed by people without college degrees, and she wasn't going to let her man become the epitome of that stereotype.

He simply grunted. She finished kneading the lotion into her skin, and easily slipped off the simple gold band she sometimes wore on her ring finger. The right hand, of course. She had received it for her first communion, when she was only a girl. Her parents had said it was to save and cherish, for when she was old enough to understand the importance. Now she was old enough to understand the value of gold, but too old to understand the value of religion, or lack thereof. When she was satisfied with how smooth her skin was, she crawled into bed on her side, and sat beside him, thus completing her before bed ritual. She picked up the remote, and tossed it on the carpet.

"What's up?" she said in a gentler tone this time, scooting a little closer, and he felt her silky hand on his kneecap under the comforter.

"Was it Rachel?"

"No."

"Was it Kurt?"

"No."

"Was it the Quinn thing?"

Silence.

"You don't have to be so concerned about her. She's a grown woman now, and she's made that perfectly clear. So she wants to march across Ohio for a daughter? Fine. It's what she wants." So some of Santana's comments were rooted in concern for Puck, and absolutely none of it was rooted in concern for Quinn, but most of it? Rooted in jealously.

"What she's doing, getting a daughter just to fulfill some twisted psychological void she has, isn't fair to anyone: her husband or her four other children," he commented. It was a fair justification on Puck's part.

"It's her life." She hoped it would end the conversation.

"I don't care about her the way I care about you, you know that." He considered just telling Santana that he didn't care about Quinn, but that was a lie. He did. Quinn was his first love, and he would never forget that, but he knew that most of the time, the best kind of love was the kind that grew. That first love shit? Completely irrelevant in the context of a whole life's worth of love. So he threw in that last part, to appease Santana, even though he felt she didn't need to hear it.

"Puck…" She didn't want to start this again. They were done with Quinn drama ten years ago. They were done with Beth.

"Look, Shelby, I'm leaving town," he said into the phone, his fingers fiddling with the Rubik's Cube Sarah had left on his desk. He felt like he had to tell Shelby, even though, neither Quinn nor him had had any contact with her since the custody fiasco, which was six months ago.

"What? Where are you going?" Shelby cried from her end of the line.

"I'm joining the army. I can't stay here and watch this. Everyone's leaving or already gone."

"What do you want me to tell Beth?" Shelby asked, even though Beth was only two.

"Don't tell her anything. Don't ever mention me, or Quinn."

"No, I can't do that."

"You have to, because I might not come back, and if I do, I'm still not going to be father material."

Shelby stayed silent for a moment, as if she was processing this information. Ever since Santana Lopez left town, Puck had done some serious maturing. "Alright then. Stay safe, Noah."

"Take care of Beth."

"Should I have left Beth?" he said randomly, turning to look into her eyes. If he hadn't given up on Beth like he did, Quinn wouldn't have taken it so hard, and she wouldn't have turned into some crazy emotionless woman.

"You did what you could," she replied coldly. She was starting to feel the familiar sting in her heart again. She could not force herself to care about the infant, who was now surely a teenager, or a tweenager at least.

"So that's a no?"

"No, that's a yes," she asserted, "Beth has a fantastic life. And I one million percent know for a fact that you know you did the right thing. It's just this new Quinn talk that's bringing up all this shit again."

"Yeah," he nodded, "Yeah, I suppose."

More time elapsed, but the silence only grew. The Beth situation was handled, as it had been a decade ago, but the Quinn thing still hung in the air, as it most likely would for the rest of their lives.

He was fine with not being a father. He tried it once, for a few months or whatever, and it wasn't for him. It was too much, and he believed those who were not fathered well couldn't possibility have the ability to father well themselves. It may have been a misconception on his part, but he did not care enough to change his mind. He only wished Quinn could mimic his respectful indifference towards Beth.

"Do you want to pray for her?" Words could not express how awkward and foreign it felt to say those words, especially to him. Nonetheless, she grabbed the gold band off the nightstand and slipped it right back on.

"Since when do you pray?" he asked. It was almost a joke.

"Just because I'm not religious doesn't mean I never forgot how to. And besides, how do you know I don't pray?"

"How could you not with a mother like yours?" he bit back.

She scoffed. But if it worked for Quinn, it would work for her. Besides, it wasn't Santana they were praying for. They were praying for Quinn. She was praying for her ex-best friend/enemy/lover's babymama. God had to give her some brownie points for that.

She clutched his hand under the blanket, forcing him into it before they had no choice.

"Dear Saint Jude, please watch over our friend Quinn on her crusade. Please guide her so she can see that she is taking advantage of her God-given gift as a mother for the wrong reasons. Give her husband and children strength while she embarks on this spiritual journey under your protection. Amen."

"Amen," he mumbled, not really understanding the significance of it all.

"You know you can't help everyone, baby."

"Yeah."

"You tried once."

"Yeah."

"And we've done all that we can."

"Yeah."

"So let's just leave it at that, okay?" she said, stroking his leg. For some reason, he felt as if she was cornering him into a confession of sorts, as if she was tricking him into feelings he wasn't sure he understood. But he wasn't sure what she was doing, or if she was doing anything at all, so he only said, "Sure."

"So two days left in Lima, what are we going to do next?" she said a little too enthusiastically, hoping to change the subject.

"You know I have to like, have dinner with my ma before we leave, right?"

She sighed. "Yeah."

"And you know you have to come with, right?"

She cringed at the thought.

"Come on, Santana. It'll be fine."

She sighed again.

"It's Friday…" he teased, "And you know you've never been to Shabbat…"

She really didn't know why the Puckermans even called Friday Shabbat. They didn't ever do anything remotely Jewish, even. They should have just called it Friday dinner with wine. Or any form of alcohol Allison might have conveniently stored in the pantry. She remembered the only time she came over for Shabbat; she must have been fifteen or so, one of the early years, before either of them realized how unfit she was for Jewish home life. They had run out of alcohol, so they had saluted the Lord's day of rest with vodka. Somehow, she thought the old guy would appreciate it. Allison? Not so much.

"So Santana, Noah tells me you're trying out for the cheerleading squad," Allison said, as she set the silverware down on the table. Her son didn't bring home girls often, well, more like ever, and this was a particular treat.

"Yeah, hopefully I make it."

"Well, if a skinny little thing like you can't, I don't know what kind of school they're running Figgins is running over there," Allison said.

"You'll totally make it, Santana. I believe in you," chirped Sarah, who had a slight lisp at the moment because she had just lost her front tooth.

Puck smiled, and realized that maybe he should do this more often. If this went smoothly, his ma would be happy and would quit bugging him after looking for a Jewish girl.

"Thanks Sarah," Santana said, forcing a smile. She felt more than uncomfortable sitting here, waiting for dinner to start. She wasn't the kind of girl boys brought home to mama. She was the kind of girl mamas warned their boys about.

"Alright, everybody, eat up," Allison said, setting the last of the dishes down after finishing with the silverware. On the table was a hamburger casserole that Santana was certain every woman in this town made, a Caesar salad, and a loaf of bread that was shaped like a long braid. Sarah promptly helped herself to a large portion of the casserole, dropping a few chunks on the plastic tablecloth.

Santana was worried for a moment about what she would eat. She could do the salad, but she was sure there was tons of fat in the dressing, just looking at the amount of oil slathered on the iceberg (eww) lettuce. But it would be impolite to refuse the main course. If she had just one serving, maybe she would only have to do half an hour of interval training tomorrow. Or maybe forty-five minutes. She would ask Quinn tomorrow about it; Quinn always knew these types of things. This only left the bread, which was sure to be plain empty carbs. She sent a glare in Puck's direction. He owed her big time for dragging her here on a Friday night. He only shrugged.

Santana ripped off a small piece of the bread, and placed it in her mouth carefully. The rich texture of the bread fused with her taste buds, and she suddenly had a revelation, wondering why on earth she had been wasting her time at Breadstix when there was obviously better bread at Puck's house.

She accidently let out a small moan, and she could hear him snicker from the corner of the table.

"Oh my god, what is this?" Santana groaned, her eyes closed in a zen, blissful state.

"Why, it's challah, dear. Don't you know? I thought you were Jewish!"

"There's going to be homemade challah…" he continued, tracing his fingers up her side.

That motherfucker.

"Are you going to make me French toast with it the day after?"

"Maybe."

"Fine." She relented, and turned out the lights in the bedroom, hoping to end the conversation. At least now he wouldn't mention visiting her own mother. She slid down so that she was no longer in a sitting position but lying on the bed for slumber. He followed suit, and she turned on her side so that she faced away from the center of their bed. He turned on his side too, to mirror her movements.

"But don't think you're off the hook for visiting your mom," he sniped.

"Just shut up and go to sleep."

"Beth, I swear to God, just shut up and go to sleep," Quinn screeched, violently rocking the toddler from side to side. Her arms felt like they were going to fall off any second. Beth continued to cry violently, grabbing at Quinn's long blonde tendrils, which had grown out.

"Jesus fuck, Quinn. You can't talk to her like that!" he exclaimed, like he was doing any better.

"Who says? She's my daughter."

Oh right.

"Why did you do this, Quinn? Why did you take her? It's obvious we don't know what the fuck we're doing."

"We cannot give our daughter away to some woman who claims she knows what's best. I mean, she's Rachel's mom, how good at parenting can she be?" Quinn gritted through her teeth.

Puck sighed and leaned his head backwards on the Fabray's couch, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. A couple of days ago, when Santana had come over to relieve some of the stress this custody thing was giving him, she had told him something as she was leaving. He hadn't really paid attention, but now he knew what she meant.

"The more you try with Beth, the more you hurt her."

She woke the next morning to the pitter-patter of the angry spray of the shower beating against the wall that separated the bathroom from the rest of the hotel room. Her phone buzzed at that moment, and found that it was a call from reality. She'd been tuned out of her New York societal life for the last week. She'd resisted reading internet blogs, trashy tabloids, all of it. For all she knew, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt could have adopted another child by now. Yet she kind of enjoyed this peace. She had not had to carry the burden of keeping up her celebrity lifestyle here in Lima.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Katie. How's vacation?"

"Anything but actually. It's really weird. I mean, like I'm in the middle of nowhere, and that's relaxing in its own sort of way, you know? But it's super stressful too." Like that made any sense.

"Huh. But you're having a good time?"

"Yeah, I guess. How are you? How's work?" She knew Katie was still in New York, filming extra shoots for the Victoria's Secret website. Santana had declined on that project. The bonus part of being a veteran Angel was getting to pick which projects to work on.

"Yeah, that's kind of what I'm calling about."

"Oh god, Daniel wants me to go on that awful bra tour with you guys, doesn't he?" After the campaign launched, Katie and Coral would tour the country promoting the bra all over the nation, to the average American consumer. All Santana had to do was the easy media press. Go on talk shows, talking about the Invincible bra at parties, that kind of thing.

"Oh, no, nothing like that. He wouldn't dare piss you off like that, especially since the media has already claimed you're going to quit." Needless to say, Santana was not going to leave New York to sell a stupid piece of underwear. Across the nation. In a tour bus. With Coral.

"Well, what's the problem then?"

"That guy keeps showing up at shoots, you know, your person…" Katie said, trailing off at the end. Santana immediately woke at that comment.

"What person?" she said rapidly. The whole incentive for coming to Lima was to avoid the media frenzy that would no doubt turn her little fan into a stalker.

"Your, uhm, ex-boyfriend? The Italian guy?"

Oh.

That guy.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh thank God."

"Wait, you like him?"

"No! Never mind. Anyways, what does he want?"

"Well, you. Duh. He keeps asking for you, but no one will tell him where you are, because no one really knows. I mean, except for me."

"Okay, good. Don't tell him where I am. And I'll tell him to tell him to quit bugging you guys."

"Kay, thanks. I just thought you might want to know. Enjoy the rest of your vacation. See you in a few days."

"Yup! Bye!" She ended the call as he came out of the bathroom. She started to compose a text message, but paused briefly to drink in the sight of his chiseled body, which was only wrapped in a towel.

"Who are you texting?" he asked, shaking the droplets of water from his hair, as little hair as there was.

"Ilario."

Now Noah Puckerman was not a particularly cultured or sophisticated man, but he knew that name was male and most likely foreign.

"Who's he?" he quipped. It came out sounding more like a growl than he intended.

"Oh, just this guy from Italy. He's before you, so don't get your panties in a twist, tiger. He's obsessed with me, and keeps showing up in the studio in New York so I'm telling him to fuck off."

"Shit, Santana. Just because you fucked him once or twice doesn't mean he can stalk you too."

"He's not stalking me!" she said melodramatically.

"Fine. Tell him that just because we can't sue his ass in court for harassment doesn't mean I won't kick the shit out of him if I ever see him on the street." Wait, we? Sue? Harassment?

"Jesus Christ, Puck. He's not a stalker. He's just some douche. Calm down," she said again, mocking him silently as she tapped away, holding the phone directly over her face. She wondered why she even bothered to tell him anything if he was just going to jump to conclusions over everything.

"Well, I don't like him bugging you all the time," he said, carefully choosing another verb this time around.

"Ooookay then," she said, finishing her text. She lifted her arm up in the air from her reclined position in bed, and showed him the screen, "See? Totally harmless."

He glanced at the screen, standing over her body. It read, "Stop trying to contact me. I have moved on with my life, and you should too. Santana. "

"What the fuck is that smiley face thing?"

"So I can't even be cordial?"

"It's a text message. There's no such thing as cordial."

"Fine, I'll take out the damn smiley," she grunted, pushing the send key in a final act, "Done."

"Excellent," he replied, collapsing on the bed, caging her body with his and dropping the towel. He started to run his palms up the side of her body, feeling the contours through the silky fabric of her nightgown. He leaned his head down to meet hers, and kissed her.

"Ooh, I like this jealous you," she squealed, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. He crouched on his forearms, taking the weight onto his arms, as to not hurt her.

"Who says I'm jealous?" he snarled.

"Me."

He dropped another kiss, this time on her temple, the spot where she felt her skin was the thinnest.

"Oh yeah. I definitely like this." He settled himself between her legs.

And the last thing she remembered saying to him before he made her forget every one of her troubles was, "What a waste of a perfectly good shower."

Questions to think about and answer if you want. I know some of you LOVE these, and some of you maybe not...

1) Is Santana's concern for Quinn genuine or is she being selfish? And is the action justified?

Bonus: Who's St. Jude? And how does it relate to Quinn's situation? While we're on that note, is Quinn being irrational and selfish too? Regardless, can Santana and Puck even judge her for it; they barely know one another anymore!

2) Can you say Puck is a father? Do you agree with his sentiment, those who aren't fathered well cant father well themselves?

REVIEW! Rate it even if you hate it. I love hearing from you all. My goal is 200 reviews eventually. Think we can make it happen? :)