I've been getting a lot of reviews and alerts to this story, and they absolutely make my day. They're really inspiring and encouraging because I'm always really nervous about things. I hope that this chapter will provide you with just a few more answers, and maybe some more questions, too. Haha. Enjoy and let me know what you think.

Coa: Who's to say that their interaction thus far hasn't been "real"? Reality is pretty subjective. ;)

FoxyLocke & unnamed anon: Thank you very much. I'm working as fast as I can.

Chapter Five

"The dark is generous, and it is patient, and it always wins.
It always wins because it is everywhere.
It is in the wood that burns in your hearth, and in the kettle on the fire; it is under your chair and under your table and under the sheets on your bed. Walk in the midday sun, and the dark is with you, attached to the soles of your feet.
The brightest light casts the darkest shadow."
Matthew Stover, The Lone Candle

Rachel's fathers refused to let her leave the house for the rest of the day. She had tried to convince them to let her leave when school was ending, to go see her teachers before they left so that she could get her homework. She tried telling them that she should be allowed to go to glee, because after all, she was the lead and she needed to be there or else they would be directionless and without their best voice. But her fathers remained absolute.

Rachel was surprised then, when the doorbell rang in the afternoon. She didn't answer it, because she was confined to her room, but after a few minutes, her father opened the door. Rachel was surprised to see Brittany wander in.

Rachel stood up from her desk. "Brittany, hello," she said kindly. "What can I do for you?"

Brittany's hair was in disarray, half in a ponytail and half in stringy tendrils down over her face. The top of her uniform was on backwards and she was wearing socks of two different colors. Rachel was surprised that Coach Sylvester allowed her to walk about with her uniform so messed up.

The tall blonde was bouncing on the balls of her feet and picking at her fingernails. She shrugged. "Mister Schue told us why you couldn't come to school today," she said, unzipping her backpack. She pulled out a stack of papers and held them out to Rachel.

Rachel took them from Brittany, who went back to picking her nails. There were a couple of worksheets and some written directions scribbled on a couple of post-its. "You brought me my homework?" she asked, more than a little flabbergasted.

Brittany nodded. "Mister Schue told me to. He gave it to me in glee club."

"Well, still, it was very sweet of you to deliver my schoolwork to me," she said.

"You're welcome," Brittany said simply, looking around at Rachel's room. "I like your room."

"Thank you, Brittany," Rachel responded, seeing how awkward Brittany looked, awkward and uncomfortable and more than a little sad. It was the way Brittany always walked around, like her puppy was continually being kicked. And perhaps it was, Rachel mused, thinking about Santana. Brittany had no idea that she was still in the cemetery, lingering beyond death. "How was glee club?" she tried.

Brittany frowned, biting her lip. Her face fell. "It was okay. Mister Schue said that we need to start looking for a new member. You know, to replace –" she stopped, her brows furrowing and her lips trembling. "S-s –"

Rachel moved closer to her and put a hand on her back. "I know, Brittany," she said. "You don't have to say it."

Brittany nodded, wiping at tears falling down her face. "I don't want to replace her!" she cried. "This is all my fault. I'm so stupid."

Rachel shook her head adamantly. "No, Brittany, it's not your fault at all," Rachel answered. "You had no way of knowing what would happen. And Santana wouldn't want to hear you talking like this."

"It doesn't – it's – she shouldn't have been outside," Brittany sobbed. "If she hadn't come to my house…if I hadn't sent her home, she would still be alive."

"Brittany –"

"But I did and now she's gone and someone has to replace her," Brittany said with a deep sob. "I don't want a new Santana."

"Brittany, this is not your fault," Rachel repeated, rubbing her back. "No one can ever replace Santana Lopez –" Brittany interrupted her with a sob at the use of Santana's full name. "Mister Schuester just means that we need to find enough members to compete at competitions. We're going to win this year, and we're going to do it for her, okay?"

Brittany sniffled. "Glee club was her favorite part of the day. Santana's been singing since she was like, three. We used to put on shows together," Brittany told her, trying to stop her tears.

Rachel smiled softly, a few tears leaking out of her eyes. She didn't have the heart to correct Brittany's tense change. "And that's why we're going to work hard and win Nationals this year. And if I have my way, which I will because I always do, we'll sing something that she loved and you can dance to it," she said. The idea hadn't occurred to her until that moment, but as soon as she thought it, she knew it was the right idea. It would be healing for all of them, Brittany most of all.

"Perhaps you can help us decide what songs we should use?" she asked the blonde patiently.

Brittany smiled at her shakily, still crying. "Okay," she agreed. She pulled Rachel into a hug suddenly, resting her chin on Rachel's shoulder. "Thanks, Rachel," she said. "You're a good friend."

"We're all your friends, Brittany," Rachel told her, squeezing her tightly. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask me or anyone else from glee."

Brittany nodded, pulling away. Her eyes were watery and she still looked unbearably sad, but there was a small smile on her face and it gave Rachel hope.

Brittany eventually left, realizing that she was supposed to be at cheerleading practice. Rachel tried several times after her departure to convince her fathers to let her leave, but Rachel was confined to her room – they wouldn't even let her wander through the rest of the house. She went to the bathroom at one point and her father darted upstairs as soon as her door opened to make sure she wasn't trying to go anywhere.

The only time she was allowed to leave the house was to go to her weekly therapist appointment.

Rachel's therapist was young, a thirty-something woman with calm green eyes and light brown hair. She asked, in what Rachel assumed was bid at making herself seem "cooler," that Rachel called her by her first name, Amelia. Rachel didn't care what she was called; the fact that her parents thought she needed to talk to someone made her uneasy. The idea that she might need outside help was ludicrous and a little insulting. Rachel had always taken care of herself.

Mostly, it was the notion that she was somehow not okay that bothered her. Cradling Santana's dying body in her arms had rapidly told her everything she needed to know about the ideas okay and not okay: she was alive and that meant that she was okay. The only alternative Rachel had been seeing of late was death, and that was distinctly not okay; watching the life slip out of someone who had been fiery and passionate while alive was definitely not okay. And Rachel could breathe and she could sing and that already made her more okay than Santana would ever be.

Well, the present notwithstanding, she thought. Santana might not breathe, but Rachel reckoned that she could probably sing if she really wanted to.

Amelia cleared her throat and looked at Rachel expectantly. She had a notepad sitting on her lap and she was smiling. She seemed nice enough, but Rachel hated the feeling that she was always being watched for signs of craziness. If she was being watched, it should have been because she was stealing the spotlight on a stage and impressing people with her voice.

"I'm not crazy," she muttered.

"Did anyone ever say that you were?"

Rachel pursed her lips. "They don't have to. I am neither blind nor oblivious to the looks that people keep giving me. I know when people are trying to monitor me."

All she could think as she sat there was that Santana was waiting for her. Rachel had promised that she would return and she had every intention of keeping that promise. She remembered the look of sadness in Santana's face when she had to leave. Their positions were so precarious, both in general and with each other. Rachel had to get the cemetery. This appointment was wasting time.

"It makes you uncomfortable that people might be worried about you?" Amelia asked.

Rachel sighed, rubbing her fingers across the seam of her pants. "It's not that I don't understand their concern. More than anyone, I understand their worry. But they fail to realize that I'm not a child and I'm not losing my mind."

It was petulant, she briefly thought, for her to be acting childish about being treated like a child. "My fathers won't even let me leave the house today. I heard them talking earlier about making a schedule so that one of them can be with me at all times."

"Well, where did you want to go today, Rachel? Maybe we could talk to them together about letting you hang out with your friends."

Friends, she mused. More like dead people in cemeteries. Rachel had been caught in a lie before. Perhaps if she were honest, her therapist would understand and tell her fathers that she had to go to the cemetery. She needed to be there; more than anything, she had to be there. "Actually, I wanted to go back to the graveyard."

"I don't know that they would allow that right now," Amelia said kindly. Rachel scowled; of course she didn't understand. "They're worried that you're spending too much time there. Do you not agree with that?" she asked, seeing the look on Rachel's face.

"Of course I don't agree with them," she said. "I'm just trying to find peace," she tried. And that was true: she wastrying to find peace. She had just shifted her priorities towards helping Santana before she did so.

"Is that why you went to the cemetery last night?" Amelia asked, writing something down on her notepad. "To find peace?"

"Last night?" Rachel wondered. Oh, she thought, that's right. She remembered that she did go to the cemetery in the middle of the night. What had it been again? There was something she was looking for? Something she was trying to get? Or was it trying to get her? What was it that -

"I'm sorry, what were you inquiring about?" she said, looking at her therapist curiously. Her therapist, she realized. That was right, Rachel thought; she was at her appointment.

Amelia stared at her for a moment, assessing her probably, before she made another note. "The cemetery, Rachel. I was asking why you snuck out of your room in the middle of the night and stayed in the cemetery."

"Oh."

Amelia made more notes and Rachel listened to the sound of her ballpoint pen scratching across her paper. At the rate she was taking notes on her, Rachel assumed that she was never going to make it to see Santana. "Rachel, what do you usually do at the cemetery when you go there?"

Rachel tried to remain straight-faced. What she did at the cemetery was certainly a complicated question; one with an answer that she was sure would get her locked in her room forever. And then she could never go back, could never see Santana or the cemetery ever again.

"I merely do the things one is expected to do at the cemetery," Rachel answered politely, crossing her legs and resting her hands on her knees. She smiled. Rachel Berry was a consummate actress and if she had to play a role in order to convince people that they should give her more space, then so be it. Today, I will play a typical teenager who hasn't been conversing with her dead friend, she thought.

"And what would that be?"

"Grieving," she answered simply.

Amelia nodded. "How do you grieve, Rachel?"

Rachel faltered only slightly. "What do you mean? I grieve the same way you do, the same way anyone does."

"Actually, everyone reacts to tragedy and death differently," Amelia told her kindly. "Your fathers tell me that music is an important part of your life, but you haven't been singing lately. Tell me about that."

Rachel faltered more now before steeling herself again. An idea came to her and she grasped it as tightly as she could. "That's what I've been doing," she said. "I go to the cemetery and I sing."

"Oh?" Amelia questioned again. Rachel nodded without hesitation.

Rachel's plan didn't work, unfortunately. She had assumed that since they wanted her to be healing, her fathers would be comforted when they heard that she was singing. And while it was true that they were pleased to find that out (the fact that it was a lie made her only a little guilty) it did little to ease their discomfort at Rachel spending her time in a cemetery at the grave of a girl who had mostly been her enemy while alive. After they had spoken with Amelia privately, they had agreed to allow Rachel visits twice a week.

It wasn't enough. Rachel had a very immediate and pressing need to get to the cemetery. She could see Santana's lonely and confused eyes pleading with her, asking her if she would come back. She could see Santana's wide and confused eyes pleading with her, begging her to take away the pain of dying. Rachel couldn't take it if she let those eyes down again; she wasn't going to allow it.

Perhaps it was unhealthy and they had a right to be worrying, Rachel thought, lifting her leg up and over the windowsill. She tentatively found purchase on the branch outside her window. Maybe they were right to keep an eye on her.

She lifted her other leg out the window and took a deep breathe. Rachel had never really climbed a tree, not that she could recall, and she could only assume that what she was about to do would end with her lying dead on the ground. Well, she mused, perhaps she would come out on the other side like Santana.

Rachel swallowed thickly and reached her arms out, bringing her full weight off of her windowsill and on to the tree branch. She balanced precariously and unsteadily for a moment before slowly crouching down and managing to sit on the branch. She looked down and was suddenly aware of how high off the ground she was. Rachel knew that if she leaned back, just a little bit, and let her grip on the branch waver and fail for a only moment, then she would fall and likely hit her head at least one branch on the way down.

And then it would be over: all of the looks and the pity and the discomfort and the tightening feeling in her chest when she looked the left of her and found Tina instead of Santana. Maybe she wouldcome out in the other side like Santana. Or maybe she wouldn't come out on the other side at all. But perhaps that wouldn't be so –

"Oh sweet Barbra, what am I thinking?" she muttered to herself. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

Rachel slid down the branch she was on slowly, finding the closest one below her. Her progress was slow and laborious and there were more than a few times that she had to stop and rethink her choices. Eventually, though, Rachel made it to the lowest part of the tree outside her window and dropped to the ground with a thud. She took a few steadying breathes and smiled at herself as she stood up straight. Rachel smiled, tightening her jacket around her.

"Santana?" she whispered into the cool night air. She was glad that she had brought a flashlight; the only light that made it into the cemetery was at the edge closest to the road where the streetlights could just barely permeate the darkness. She needn't whisper, she knew, but it was dark and all she had was a flashlight and somehow whispering felt appropriate for the stillness of the night.

Rachel spun around slowly, craning her head in all directions and looking for Santana. She swung her flashlight about, leading its beam over the tops of the grave markers around her. She paused when she reached Santana's grave, letting her flashlight linger on the name there. There was movement near her (she could feel it) and she turned around. There was a spark, a brief shot of something blue off to her left. And then it was gone. Where did it - oh, she thought suddenly, what am I doing? Santana. Right.

Looking around again, all Rachel saw was granite tombstones and flowers, fake flowers made of cloth and plastic that could last long enough that they only had to be replaced once a year. A hollow feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and she thought of real flowers – white roses for the girl she loved. White roses with buds that shook as the hand holding them clenched and convulsed; that lost some their petals in the midst of the chaos; that were the only living thing left in dark alleys where one girl dies on the inside and one girl just dies. Rachel and Santana.

"Go away," she heard Santana say and suddenly the other girl was standing before her. Rachel's eyes adjusted to the lack of light and she could see Santana's form in front of her, could trace the curve of her lips and the angles of her cheekbones. And Rachel thought of moonlight and death and flowers and took a protesting Santana in her arms. She wrapped them around Santana, engulfing her in the biggest hug she could. She let the cold wrap around both of them together.

"Go away," Santana said again, struggling against Rachel's tight grip on her.

Rachel pulled away. "I'm so sorry that I didn't come earlier," she said quickly. Santana was glaring at her. "My dads wouldn't let me leave the house at all today. I had to go to my appointment and I tried to convince my therapist to help me but she didn't. And then I had to wait for my dads to go to bed to sneak out of the house."

Santana's glare didn't soften at all as she spoke. She rolled her eyes. "Therapist?" she asked.

Rachel nodded. "Yes, but she was no help at all. I started leaving a while ago, but I underestimated how long climbing down the tree in our yard would take," she told Santana. "But I'm here now, so certainly that should count for something."

"I kind of figured you just weren't going to come," Santana shrugged. "Your dads have you under lock and key because of last night, huh?"

There it was again. Last night. Last night and that nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she was forgetting something important. Rachel nodded.

"What the hell was that, by the way?" Santana questioned. "You show up here in the middle of the night, acting like you're strung out, and then you collapse and don't wake up?"

"I - I don't -" she stuttered. "I don't know."

And that was very true. She remembered that she came to the cemetery for a reason; there was something important. She tried to focus, tried to find the memory of the previous night in her mind. She had to dig deep and then she almost had it, it was just there and she could barely brush it with her fingertips. It was warm and it shifted in her mind's eye.

She could see Santana looking at her worriedly. Was that her memory? No, Santana was standing over her, her brows furrowed as she reached down to help Rachel sit up. "Okay, seriously. What the fuck, Rachel?"

"I don't know!" Rachel cried. "I don't know what's happening. How did I get on the ground?"

"You just kind of fell over," Santana said. "It was kinda funny, actually."

Rachel looked at her, exasperated, and went to say something. But then she realized how close they were, that she was on the ground and Santana was right next to her, a hand braced on her back to keep her steady. Rachel had dropped her flashlight and it landed with its beam pointed at the two of them. Santana's eyes were dark in its artificial glow.

"Funny?" she asked softly.

"Only just a little," Santana admitted, her voice as quiet as Rachel's own. "Last night wasn't funny, though."

"No?" she whispered.

Santana shook her head. Rachel watched her bite her bottom lip, taking it between her teeth and worrying it. "I stayed with you all night, you know," she eventually said.

Rachel pulled back. "You stayed with me?" she questioned. And then she remembered; she remembered shaking her head and finding herself in the cemetery. She remembered that it was cold and the moon was bright and she felt like she could see everything in the world until the end of time. Rachel remembered Santana, yelling and grabbing at her, trying to get her on her feet and send her home.

Santana swallowed and she pulled back, too, taking her hand from Rachel's back and glancing around. "Yeah, I stayed over there," she said, pointing to a spot nearby. "I remembered that you said that I make you cold. And if you were gonna freeze to death or whatever, I wasn't going to help you out."

Rachel smiled. "Thank you," she murmured. Santana shrugged again, but Rachel caught the hint of a small smile playing at her lips, too. Her back started to warm again after Santana took her hand away, but Rachel almost missed the weight of it there. "I wish I knew what to do about you."

"I wish Iknew what to do about me," Santana said.

Rachel reached out tentatively and put a hand on Santana's leg over her dress. The material was rough and Rachel could feel the dirt that clung to it. She wondered whether Santana would wear any other clothes if Rachel brought them to her. She wondered if Santana even could. But Santana hadn't commented on her dress and so Rachel didn't ask. "We'll figure it out," she assured Santana. "I just - I just need to think."

Santana smirked. "Careful now. Last time you did that, you fell over."

Rachel laughed, surprised. Her life had been so strange lately, alternating between moments of confusion and odd happenings and moments where she was smothered and over-cared for. She couldn't remember when she had last laughed at something.

Rachel leaned forward and grabbed the flashlight. She thought maybe that she saw something catch the light, but it was gone before she could remember it. Santana stood up and walked over to her grave, coming back to Rachel with the books she had left and handing them to her.

"Did you find anything?" Rachel asked, knowing what the answer would be.

"Not really," Santana shrugged, kneeling in front of Rachel. "A couple of things looked interesting, but I don't know, all that stuff sounds really stupid, you know? Like, ghosts and vampires and the boogeyman?"

Rachel nodded. "I understand that it all sounds unusual, but all things considered, you don't think we should be looking at those kinds of things?"

Santana ran her palms over the skirt of her dress. "I guess. It's just that that's the kind of stuff our parents tell us to make sure we stay close to home and don't wander away. Oh no, what if the monsters get us?" she mocked.

Rachel stared at her for a moment. "That's very true, for our culture at least," she said. "But for some cultures, stories that we might consider to be the occult or unbelievable are widely accepted as truth."

"Whatever, I'm from Ohio," Santana huffed. "I'm not a monster, I can't fly through walls, and I don't want your blood."

"No, you're not a monster," Rachel exclaimed. "You're not -"

She leaned towards Santana excitedly, running her hands over Santana's face quickly. She felt the cold slip into her fingertips, but she pressed on. Santana's skin was soft; it was of an unnatural pallor, but it was still smooth. Santana protested and tried to get away from Rachel, swatting at her hands. "What the hell, Rachel?"

"You're not decomposing," she said. "I didn't even think about it. I mean, you've been dead for almost a month now. But your skin is still soft."

Santana eyed her warily. "And that tells you what exactly?"

Rachel sat back on her heels. "Well," she started, "nothing specifically. But if we're ever going to figure this out, we need all the information and details that we can get."

"Yeah, I guess. Just warn me next time you decide to get hands-y with the merchandise," Santana said, standing up. Rachel stood up with her.

Leaves rustled around them, which was odd, Rachel thought, because no wind had blown. The sound shot by them in the next aisle, crunching and breaking and tearing the leaves somewhere nearby. Rachel held her flashlight up, pointing it in the direction the leaves were blowing. She twisted her wrist, letting the flashlight illuminate the neighboring graves. There was nothing there, which shouldn't have been as much a surprise to her as it was. She exhaled gratefully.

"What was that about?" Santana asked her.

"I don't know," Rachel breathed, letting her flashlight point back at the ground between them. "Did you hear it, too?"

Santana frowned. "Hear what?" she said. "I was talking about your little light show."

Rachel's flashlight flickered and she hit it, making a note to buy new batteries the next time she was out. "I guess I just got spooked by the wind," she answered.

When she looked up, there was no one there.

"Santana?" Rachel called out. She looked around, shining her flashlight about her in all directions. She heard more leaves crunch from behind her and she turned around, finding no one. "Santana, this isn't funny!"

Rachel stomped her foot. Leave it to Santana Lopez to take advantage of her nervousness and attempt to tease and scare her. "Santana, if you don't come out this instant, I'm leaving. And I'm on probation with my fathers. So there's no telling when I'll be able to come back."

There was definitely movement near her and Rachel crossed her arms. "Santana Lopez, get out here this instant!"

A burst of cold wind blew by her and she spun around once again, jumping and almost dropping her flashlight in the process. A little girl stood before her, wearing a blue sweater with a carousel on it and a matching plaid skirt. Her hair was brown, falling down her back, and held out of her face with two small clips. Her hands were clasped in front of her. She said nothing; she stood there with wide brown eyes and stared blankly at Rachel.

And Rachel ran, turning away and sprinting as fast as she could.

She knew that outfit; it had been her favorite when she was a little girl. And she knew those clips, the little blue butterfly clips that her fathers had given her for her birthday and that someone had taken from her at school, pushing her in the mud and running off. Rachel knew her clothes and her hair and her deep brown eyes and the way she held her own hand because no one else would.

Rachel knew them because they were her; the little girl was her.

She ran all the way home, using her key and slipping in the front door as quietly as she could. It was risky (the door and the stairs creaked rather loudly) but she had neither the patience nor energy to climb the tree again, especially not when she could feel the night pressing against her back and her own eyes staring at her from far away.

Rachel locked both her window and her bedroom door, sliding to the ground and bringing her knees up to her chest. She watched the wind blow the leaves and branches in the tree outside and didn't even try to sleep that night.