A/N: I am sincerely sorry for the delay but I am back and committed. More updates soon.
Internal Affairs
Chapter 3
Your feet are flat on the floor but that isn't keeping your right leg from bouncing up and down as you check out the latest news or flip to your Facebook page. _You aren't really reading what's on your phone though, let's not kid ourselves. You're really checking the time.
Again.
You are sitting in the small waiting room just like you were two days ago but there is no Rachel here today. It's Sunday and the offices on this floor are fairly empty. You didn't see a single person when you entered the building said for the guy who mans the help desk right by the front doors. The building is next door to the police station. There is actually a skyway between them via the 3rd floor but you didn't want to use it because that would mean going into the station and risk being seen. You just don't want to explain why you're there again when you were given the weekend off.
You look down at your phone again.
It's 3:56.
You keeping telling yourself you aren't nervous because you're meeting with Santana. You're nervous because you aren't sure what's in store for you during this scheduled conference. Obviously they are recruiting you for something. They have been watching and documenting you for several years now. You feel like you are a sleeper spy or something and have just gotten the call to begin your true mission. You are nervous about what all this means for you. Long term.
But you can't help but admit….
You haven't felt this alive in a long time.
Sure you get an adrenaline rush when you are solving a case or chasing down a bad guy but this seems different. You seem on the precipice of a life changing event. You don't know that you want to take the next step and yet you don't know how you could choose otherwise.
Your leg is almost sore from the bouncing but you hardly notice.
3:57.
You almost thought about being late on purpose. Give her a little taste of her own medicine but that was an idea you squashed pretty quickly. While you haven't known her but for a few days you find yourself not wanting to disappoint her. Plus you feel a little guilty about sneaking around and ending up at 'Nowhere' last night.
That makes you think again about the man she was with. The man watching her sing. You wondered a lot this morning about who he was to her. Maybe he wasn't her boyfriend. Maybe he was just a good friend? No matter how long you think about this you know you are fooling yourself. The way he looked at her was full of love. But in your haste to get out of there you didn't really see how she looked at him. Was the adoration returned?
3:58.
You are a good detective. A very good detective. You are prepared for whatever she throws your way. You only wish you knew what it was. You don't like going into a meeting blindly. No case file to review before discussing. No reports of blood spatter or witnesses to get your thoughts flowing. The only thing you can focus on is the memories of the limited time you have spent with her. Santana. The unreadable expression on her face as she drank the tequila. As she looked you dead in the eye in her office the first time when she said she needed your help. "We" need your help, you correct yourself. But the way her eyes bore into you made you feel this was more than a 'we' situation. Those eyes that made your heart race a little faster when they were trained on you.
3:59
You stare at your phone. You never knew on the iPhone that the second hand of the clock on the dash actually moved. That reminds you that you need to go ahead and pay your cell bill so you reach for your purse and open the app on your phone. Flipping open your wallet you see the empty spot where your debit card usually resides. Instant confusion takes over your face.
"Where the hell…" you begin but then you stop mid thought and sentence.
'Nowhere.'
You started a tab at the bar with Puck but in your haste to avoid being spotted you left it there. You didn't have any plans to go back any time soon but now you realize that wasn't going to be an option. You would have to go by and pick up your card and the sooner, the better. Perhaps when this meeting was over you could head over there and slip in and out before….
You hear the door open a split second before you look up. Your eyes move toward the sound and you find yourself meeting hers. It really feels like she can take your breath away with a simple glance.
"Afternoon Detective," Santana states simply and walks back out of view leaving the door open as a gesture that you should follow her in.
You gather your belongings and mentally challenge yourself to remember that this is a professional situation and one that undoubtedly has some element of importance and perhaps danger associated with it. Regardless of the individuals involved you know it is time to get your game face on.
And when you close the door behind you, you feel composed and confident.
You take a seat back on the couch that you first found yourself on two days ago. Seems like it should be a longer span – so much has happened since -but really less than 48 hours – and after pulling out a small pad of paper and pen you cross your legs and lean back ready for whatever comes next.
Santana is sitting in the chair again and opening up the laptop. You smile at the sight of her dressed casually like you are – slacks that are not too formal and a shirt that is not too fancy. Sunday wear. Off duty clothes. Perhaps what she would be in if she were meeting you for a drink.
"Good afternoon to you as well Santana," you comment as she settles back in her chair like you did on the couch. "And while it has been a day since we have seen each other, please remember that given our new working relationship you are welcome to call me Brittany," you finish with a smile.
"Two," she replies.
You look at her with slight confusion.
"It's been two days since we have seen one another but yes, I do recall you saying I can call you Brittany," she continued. "I just like to keep my bearings in more public settings such as the outer office and the waiting room. You never know who can wander in and I don't want to seem overly friendly with the Detective I am supposed to be counseling."
You know she is two steps ahead of you when it comes to this kind of game but you don't want to look like a novice. "Got it. Makes perfect sense."
"May I offer you something to drink before we get started?" She gestures again to the small refrigerator located close to her desk.
You decline with a shake of your head silently noting from her demeanor that this is not a friendly conversation. This is business and she is ready to get down to it. You haven't forgotten what this is about – even though you can't really say you know anything at all.
Santana takes a deep breath, moves the laptop to the side table and straightens in her chair.
"Brittany, we need you to go undercover."
You figured it was going to be something like this but you still don't know exactly what she means.
"This is not something that will mean the change in your daily life as a Detective. This is an undercover assignment within the department and will involve some work on the streets. You can tell no one, not even your partner Sam. You will check in with me on a daily basis via phone or email and we will meet a minimum of weekly face to face under the guise of this counseling session in connection with the shooting."
She pauses for a moment allowing you time to process her statements and for you to ask questions.
"You want me to be a narc in my own fucking department?," disbelief evident in your words.
You can tell Santana doesn't quite know how to reply but she sits quietly, the words forming in her head before she responds with…
"Yes."
You don't really know how to keep the anger from coming.
"I need a lot more detail as to what I am supposed to be looking for in order to report it back to you. What is going on here Santana? You aren't giving me any information but you are asking me to keep tabs on people I work with and I don't even know what you are looking for!," you are loud and frustrated but looking at her eyes you gather yourself.
"I don't understand what you expect from me Santana," you finish softly.
Her eyes soften in response to the tone of your voice but only for a moment.
"I know Brittany. It's a lot to take in and I honestly don't know all the information either. I am a rung on the ladder and am being told information and advising you. The powers that be said it was time to make contact and I have. That it is time for our relationship to begin. That's why you are here. Right now to listen and be aware that you are going to be called on from time to time to give information that you may know. Or you may not know. When we meet face to face I will have questions to ask you and you may know the answers or you may not. This part is the beginning for us. To learn routines and compatibility and adherence to schedules that we set. To begin to foster trust between us. Implicit trust. You and I."
You watch Santana move herself to the edge of the chair as she continues, "To an extent we are partners now too. Perhaps even more intimately than you and Sam because we are the only ones who know each other in this capacity. I know more from my standpoint than you do about how this works and I am sorry for that. It isn't exactly fair to you but it has led us to this moment and to something that is bigger than either of us. Something that has meant all these months of watching and recording from a distance were worth it. That you have what it takes. That you are the one that can help. Can you do this? Can you help us? Can you help me?"
You feel like you would jump in front of a train for her if she asked you to after that speech but you try to remain in control. It isn't easy seeing her eyes wide and her chest rising and falling as she tries to catch her breath from her impassioned plea. You know this must be important. Equally you know it is important to her. It is written all over her face. You can feel it in your gut. And even before the words come out of your mouth you know there is no way you aren't going to see this through.
You tell her, "I'll help in whatever way I can Santana. But I need to trust you and to do so I need information. I need questions answered. I need to know that you have my back like any partner would. Can you do that? Can you commit to it? Can I trust you without question?"
You know that if the answer is no then this will be over before it has even begun.
And you know she knows it too.
"Of course," she replies letting out a breath that she was seemingly holding. "I will answer whatever questions you throw at me and we will build this together."
"And Brittany," she says looking you square in the eyes, the intensity and electricity hitting you all at once, "you can trust me. I will do whatever it takes to make you know that."
You lean back and check your watch.
It's 4:07.
"Let's get started."
It is almost 5:30p when you walk out of Santana's office. Your mind is spinning from the information she has given you. She talked for nearly an hour and you only listened, taking it in and ask a few questions here and there. She talked a lot about how she came by the information she had on you – mostly from word of mouth backed up with facts and surveillance over the past 10 months. The surveillance part bothers you a bit but there was no sense in arguing about it. The personality tests you took as a police officer and then as a detective provided a lot of insight as well Santana had told you. She shared that you would be amazed on how much information you can glean off the web as well through social media such as Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.
You made a mental note to watch your posts from here on out.
You hold a small Nike duffel bag as you walk to your car, the sun just beginning to set behind the trees that line the parking lot. In it holds a file of information which includes an email address that you are to use and hers as well for you to be able to send items without worrying about a trace. There is a burner cell phone as well. The only number programmed in it is hers. She told you to only to use the phone from your house or your car. You should not carry it with you.
You told her you felt like Carrie Mathison in Homeland but she didn't seem to get the joke. Maybe she doesn't watch that show.
Maybe she doesn't like jokes.
You didn't learn much about her which is what you were hoping might happen but there was only so much she was willing to share. You wanted to explain to her that part of trust between partners means knowing who they are. What makes them tick, their hobbies, their dreams, even their secrets. It's more than a friend. It is someone who is willing to put their life on the line for you. And you for them in return. You know Santana is aware of this but you know it doesn't happen in the course of one conversation. That kind of trust is earned, built and demonstrated with actions.
It takes time and it takes interaction. A lot. Of both.
She told you she would be in touch when you left but you didn't ask her in what manner. She didn't volunteer it so you find yourself walking to your car trying to rehash all of the conversation in her office. You're mentally exhausted and ready to go home. You have to report to work tomorrow at 1p.
You also have to go get your debit card.
You open the trunk with your key fob and place the duffel bag inside. Closing it you make your way to the driver's side door more and more acutely aware of your surroundings. Your senses are heightened remembering her last words to you before you left the safe realm of Dr. Chase Strathorn's office…
"Be safe Brittany," she had reminded you. "I know you are an excellent detective but we don't know everything we are dealing with here yet."
You start the car with the push button and head out of the parking lot. As you make the turn toward the exit from your row, you glance up. The lights are still on in her office.
'Nowhere' is only about a 20 minute drive considering it's Sunday and traffic is light. Most people are in for the night gearing up for work and school tomorrow. Normal people , you think to yourself. You wonder what that life must be like.
You pull into the parking lot of the bar and see there aren't a lot of patrons as you walk inside. There are a few guys hanging by the pool table and a few others at the bar where a large screen TV is showing two sports teams squaring off. You glance toward the swinging doors that you went through last night but there is only darkness. The back of the bar must be closed considering it's not a Friday or Saturday. No open mic tonight.
"Hey there Blondie!" Puck is behind the bar with a big shit eating grin on his face.
His grin is contagious given he seems glad to see you. But then again you are the only woman in the bar right now.
"What'll be?," he asks as you lean against the bar considering there are no stools.
"Nothing tonight. Just stopping by to get my debit card," you tell him. "I left it here last night when I opened my tab with you."
He looks at you puzzled. "We don't keep the cards when a tab is opened. We swipe and then give them back. Are you sure you didn't drop it?"
Now you are starting to panic a bit because you vaguely do remember him handing it back to you when he gave you that Bacardi.
"Can you check and make sure no one turned it in? It's an orange card – first name Brittany."
He turns behind him by the cash register and rummages through a small box filled with what appears to be cards and IDs. One of the teams must have scored because there is some cheering from guys watching the game. Puck turns back to you empty handed.
"Sorry Brittany, doesn't look like its here."
You really don't want the hassle of having to deal with this right now and will need to check your jeans from the night before when you get home. But you also remember you were back in the corner last night. Maybe it fell when you were shocked by the evening's entertainment.
"I went into the back showroom there to watch the open mic performances," you tell Puck. "Do you mind if I run back there to see if I dropped it?"
"No problem, Brittany. Lights are right inside the swinging doors on the right when you walk in. Sure I can't fix you a drink for when you come back?"
You hesitate for a moment since you really should be getting home but one drink won't hurt right? Something to take the edge off. "Bacardi and Diet coming up," Puck says repeating the order you give him over your shoulder as you head back to the showroom.
You turn the lights on but the room has a totally different feel than it did 24 hours ago. The lights are too bright and make the stage seem too small. When Santana was on it last night singing it seemed huge, larger than life. Dark and full of secrets. Like the aura she gives off. You don't know anything and you want to know everything. You also want to know who the man is that held her as she left the stage. You are a detective after all.
You look to where you were sitting last night and glance around the floor hoping against hope you'll find it. No dice. You take one last look at the stage as you walk back through, hitting the lights behind you.
Puck is looking at you when you push through the swinging doors and offers a sympathetic shrug when you shake your head. He has your drink ready when you get back to the bar.
"Not your fault," you tell him after he apologizes. "I was the one that left it or dropped it. I obviously didn't put it back in my wallet like I should have. I am going to cross my fingers and hope I left it in my jeans pocket. I'll check when I get home."
You lift the glass and take a drink. It's strong but it feels good right about now. You're glad you ordered it.
Puck walks over to take an order from the pool table guys and you face out for a moment into the place, elbows against the bar behind you. It's homey and small for a more intimate setting during the week and yet the backroom is large enough to accommodate a small band or DJ – even a decent sized dance floor if the tables were moved. It isn't anything unique or special - just your neighborhood bar like 'Seasons' that you enjoy. Maybe you should mention something to your bartender John about them having an open mic night or something like that every once in a while….the regulars would like that.
Regulars.
You remember what Rachel told you in the bathroom – if Santana is anywhere on Saturday night it was 'Nowhere'. You immediately wonder if Santana is a regular here on Saturdays… and if that might mean she lives somewhere nearby.
You see from the corner of your eye as Puck walks over to where you are standing and you turn sideways to him. "Are you ready for another?" he asks a little amused since you have consumed nearly all of it.
You make a quick decision and it isn't about the drink.
"Sure I'll go another," you say with a slight smile. "I really enjoyed the open mic night last night. It was my first time in here. Do you guys do that every Saturday?"
"Sure do," Puck replied. "Sometimes it lasts longer than others given the people who might sign up but we usually have it done by midnight. Every now and then the owner will book a well known band and then we might cancel it. But we have some really good people who sing so most of the newbies that might sign up don't go up after they see some of the regulars."
He chuckles a bit as he hands you round two. "It ain't karaoke for drunks!"
You stir drink for a moment watching the ice cubes swirl. "I gathered that with the few performers I heard in there. They were really good!"
You know from your years as a detective that most of the time people love to talk. By that you mean people who have nothing to hide. People who are quiet are usually secretive for a reason. You only need be a good listener to learn more than you need to know.
You listen to Puck talk about how he wishes he could sing as well as some of the people who come in on Saturdays. You listen to him talk about how his real passion is playing the guitar but that those gigs are few and far between and certainly don't make the money that tending bar does. You listen and sip your drink.
A guy from the group comes up to order another pitcher and gives you a sly glance when Puck goes to fill one up.
"Wanna watch the game with us?" His smile is as sloppy as his slurred words.
"No thanks," you reply. "Sports are just not my thing."
You can tell he isn't going to be able to take the hint.
"You just need a man to tell you about the rules," he practically hiccups.
"I don't need a man for anything," you tell him with the emphasis on need and man.
Puck thankfully comes back with a full pitcher and Sportsl Dude trips on back to his friends spilling a quarter of the pitcher along the way.
"Tough day?" Puck asks with a slight smirk having heard the conversation.
"You don't know the half of it," you reply. "I wish I could be carefree like the people that come in here and sing. Just forget about life for a while and unleash."
Puck smiles at you in agreement.
"I saw a woman in here the other night that sang quite well," you continue simply laying out the worm so Puck will take the bait. "She belted out some song in a way that made me think she should sing professionally."
3, 2, 1….
"You must mean Santana," Puck began wiping down some glasses with his bar towel. "She is a helluva singer and comes in most Saturdays. She usually does one song and is done but the place loves her so sometimes she can be encouraged to do two. She has been coming here for at least as long as I have been around – 3 years. She is an interesting read."
"How so," you feign vague interest when really you want to jump over the bar and grab Puck by his mohawk in an effort to get him to talk faster.
Puck leaned into the bar, eyes on the game but still talking with you. "You can always tell what mood she is in by what she orders after she finished her song. If the song is more upbeat it is always a martini of sorts. If it is a more mellow, introspective number it's something on the rocks. And if he is with her it's always a beer."
"He? Her boyfriend?" you ask, dying slightly on the inside.
"I'm not sure," Puck replies. "They never seem to go home together. Even when he's here she always has the one drink and leaves and he sticks around often having a few of his own."
You could almost kiss Puck for this tidbit of information but refrain yourself, hiding your slight smile behind the glass as you take another drink.
"Well she sang awesome," you tell him as if he doesn't already know.
Puck picks up another glass to dry. "Must have been a tough day for her as well last night."
You try to stay silent but you find the words out before you can stop them.
"How do you figure?"
"Because last night when she finished the song and came over for her normal beer with him she looked a bit perturbed. Agitated I guess."
Puck continued.
"And then she ordered a shot of tequila."
After you finish your drink, you slap a twenty dollar bill down for Puck and thank him for the company and for trying to find your card. Then you get the fuck out of there before you start asking more questions that are glaringly inappropriate even to a bartender named Puck.
Driving home flashes by and you find yourself pulling into your spot in front of your place and sitting with the engine running for a minute, staring at nothing and thinking of everything. You turn off the key, pop open the trunk and take your newly acquired Nike bag out before hitting the button for the automatic close.
You open the door and come through it, dead bolting it like you have done a million times. Safety first. Lord Tubbington is there to greet you with a loud meow to welcome you home and remind you he's hungry.
"Give me a second Lord T.," you absently mumble.
You walk into your room and place the duffel bag on your bed, unzipping it to remove the contents. The file is in a manila folder. You flip it open and see some papers but the inside flap shows an email address. The one you are to use. The cell phone lies on the bed.
You pick it up and want so bad to look up the only number programmed and dial it but you don't. You open the drawer to your nightstand and place it inside.
Walking to the laundry room, you hope your debit card is in your jeans from the night before. You pick them up and search through all the pockets only to come up empty handed. Shit.
You feed Lord T and grab yourself bottled water from the refrigerator. It's early so you pick up your iPhone and text Sam that you're sorry you have been unavailable but that you have been relishing in the quiet of your first weekend off in forever. Lies of course but you don't want your partner to think he hasn't been on your mind.
You lie against the pillow and flip the TV on, muting it though so while the light provides the background the noise doesn't distract you. You are pulling your iPad out in order to sign into your back account and report your card as lost when your phone dings back at you.
Sam has replied advising no problem and asking if you want to stop buy his place tomorrow to eat and catch up. You shoot him back a "sure" followed by a cheesy emo-smiley face which you both abhor so that he knows you haven't lost your sense of humor. Or your obnoxious personality. Whichever.
After advising the bank to place a hold on your card – and noting with a grateful sigh that there have been no unauthorized charges – you almost close up the tablet.
But instead you stare at the manila folder for a moment before opening it. Getting the email address and password and committing it to memory you type it in on-line.
Fully expecting there an empty folder – jeez she just gave it to you mere hors ago – you are surprised to see that there are 2 unread messages.
You sit up a little higher on the bed, not wanting to admit your heart is beating a bit faster as you click on the first email that was sent at 6:47p – little more than an hour from when you left her.
There is no subject and no salutation.
"Please meet me tomorrow at 3p in the office. Rachel will be there but just tell her you are there to pick up a file for a case. She will show you in. It shouldn't take more than 5 minutes."
No greeting. No goodbye. All business.
You feel deflated in one regard and yet elated all the same that you will get to see her again tomorrow, even for 5 minutes. Even a second would be enough.
You delete the email and go to open the next. It was sent only 15 minutes ago.
"It is impossible to go through life without trust; that is to be imprisoned in the worst cell of all, oneself.' ~ Graham Greene
I have your back Brittany. One day you'll know it without question.
Sleep well.
Santana"
Your heart is still racing when you turn off the light.