A/N: This is the last of the school shooting stuff.

Please note: This is a work of FICTION. I hadn't plotted out a school shooting; it simply happened (if you're a writer, you know what I'm talking about). I did quite a bit of research on the long term effects that traumatic events like this have on survivors. I'm not trying to gloss over any of it or make it seem like these mass shootings are a breeze but I won't be focusing on these. I may not even mention them again. It doesn't mean they're not suffering the effects; it just means that I'm not writing about them.

We're back to the story being primarily Brittany's POV.

TW: slight homophobic content

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Chapter 14

A month later

It was Sunday and, instead of spending it with Santana, Brittany was hard at work; she had two overdue papers and an overdue mid-semester project. The weeks following the shooting were … difficult. She was in a fog, she wasn't sleeping well, she was going through the motions but there were days she couldn't muster the energy to go to class.

When everything had been investigated, and all had been said and done, it turned out the shooter was a scholarship art student who had lost his scholarship and failed out due to drug use. He blamed the Art Director. Twenty-three wounded including Dr. Black, the Art Director; miraculously, no fatalities.

The University had provided trauma coaches and she'd started seeing one right away. Three times a week; two days alone, one with Santana. It had helped. More than Brittany had expected it to. She wasn't having nightmares but she would startle awake; she spent almost every night with Santana because sleeping alone meant not sleeping at all.

She was angry and frustrated; she just wanted to get over it or past it or something. She just wanted to be normal again. The trauma coach helped her realize that there was a "new" normal. That the trauma would always be a part of her and her task was to learn how to live within the new normal of her life. That her feelings and thoughts were normal. That she had lived THROUGH something horrific … and now she had to learn to live WITH it. It was the trauma coach's job to help her navigate the trauma and its effects.

Santana seemed to recover quicker and that frustrated her. They talked though. A lot. With the trauma coach and without. Santana told her that while she had experienced the event, Brittany had actually lived it. Santana … whether it was healthy or helpful or whatever … disassociated from the shooting; she'd convinced herself it was part of a student film, something she could do because she didn't see or hear anything beyond a single round of gunfire and some shattering glass after seeing the shooter. She didn't see the people at the triage area, or the ones being taken away in an ambulance. She wasn't stuck in the building, hiding, for over an hour. She wasn't stuck sitting with the wounded until someone took her statement. Of course it was different for Brittany who had witnessed it all. Who had helped someone who'd been shot. Brittany couldn't pretend it hadn't been real because it had been all too real for her.

Santana told her she had her own difficulties. She hated being away from Brittany; worried that she might never see her again. Loud noises startled her. Nights away from Brittany meant little sleep. She'd had trouble, at first, focusing in class. She'd fallen behind in a few of her classes. These were things she was working on in her single sessions with the trauma coach.

It had been a month and, finally, Brittany was feeling "almost normal" … the fog had lifted, mostly. Her apathy about school had abated and she was attending classes again. Which led to her realizing that, even though the professors had all been exceptionally understanding, she was behind. Two papers. Mid-semester project. They needed to get done so she could study for finals and work on her end-of-semester project.

She looked at the calendar and sighed. Thanksgiving was in two weeks. There was no way she was going to be able to go home. Her housemates would all be gone as of that Tuesday night so she'd have almost five days of quiet to work. She'd be able to finish her papers and her project and get a start on her end-of-semester project.

She'd called her mother earlier and let her know that she wouldn't be coming home.

"Why are you so far behind? Are you spending too much time with that … girlfriend … of yours?"

"No, mom, I'm behind because I went through a traumatic event that impacted my daily routine." Brittany was trying not to get angry. Trying to be patient. She did a few of the breathing and visualization exercises the trauma coach had taught her.

Her mother … god, her mother.

"Well, I don't see why you can't just bring all your work home with you. Your grandparents are going to be here and I haven't seen you since the start of the semester."

"I know, mom, but I really don't feel like flunking out. I have too much to do and I need some of the equipment here at the school for my project. It's been … hard going into the photo labs."

"Fine, Brittany. Just fine. Don't come home. Will we see you for Christmas or will you have another excuse then? Maybe if you'd have come home that weekend like you were supposed to you wouldn't have even been there when the event happened. You'd have been home. Or maybe if you'd have gone to MIT like you should have …"

"MOM!" Brittany interrupted her, "I'm not talking about this again. I didn't want to go to MIT so I didn't. I'm happy here, happier than I ever thought I could be. I'm getting help to deal with the trauma. I'm in love with an amazing woman who loves me. Overall? My life is amazing. I think I'm entitled to have a rough time after being involved in a mass shooting. Not an event … god, you make it sound like a concert or something. It wasn't a fun time, mom. I'm doing the best I can which means I can't come home for Thanksgiving. I was just calling to let you know."

Her mother huffed into the phone. "Whatever, Brittany. I'll see you when I see you, I guess." and she hung up.

Brittany shook her head. Unreal. Her mother was unreal.

"YO BRITT!" Puck yelled from, she assumed, the living room.

She sighed. She'd told them she needed to be left alone. It was Sunday and she'd asked Keith for the day off so she could get a jump start on her overdue papers and project. He'd given her the day, told her to take whatever time she needed. So she'd locked herself in her room to try and get it started.

She stood up and went to the door, pulling it open and stepping into the hallway.

"What the …" she stopped as she saw a very small looking Santana in front of her. She was looking down and wringing her hands. "Baby?" She wrapped her arms around her girlfriend. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Santana just shook her head as the tears started silently sliding down her cheeks.

"Okay. Okay, honey. Come on." She led Santana into her room and sat down on the bed, pulling Santana into her lap.

They sat there for awhile until Santana's tears stopped. Brittany handed her a box of tissues, got up and left the room, coming back a few moments later with several bottles of water.

She handed one to Santana before sitting back on the bed, her back against the headboard, legs in the lotus position beneath her.

Santana took several long drinks from her water bottle before leaning her back against the wall, mirroring the way Brittany was sitting.

She cleared her throat and wiped at her eyes, which were still leaking the occasional tear.

"Just talked to my mom and … um … my father and grandmother have decided that until I give up this 'ridiculous rebellious homosexuality phase' … I'm not welcome at home anymore." She sniffled again and the tears started slipping faster down her face. "So, I'm … I don't know. I guess I'm not technically homeless … I'm an orphan? I mean, normally I could just go home with Quinn but she's going home with Daniel this year. My mother …" she cleared her throat again, "she said she tried to talk to them, get them to understand, but … they didn't listen. Of course, I don't know how hard she tried."

"Oh, honey …" Brittany pulled Santana back into her lap and cradled her close. "Well, while I'm sorry this happened to you, it's actually … good news for me?"

Santana pulled back and looked at Brittany questioningly.

"I'm not going home for Thanksgiving. I actually called my mom earlier today to let her know. I, uh, figured everyone will be gone and it'll be quiet and I can get caught up. So … we can have our own Thanksgiving." She smiled at the brunette. "We'll get a small turkey breast and make mashed potatoes – the real ones, not from a box – and gravy, and stuffing – from a box – and maybe corn or green beans or whatever vegetable you want. Oh! I can make my world famous cornbread from scratch! And real cranberry sauce but we have to get one of the cans of cranberry sauce too. It's tradition."

Santana giggled.

Score! Brittany thought.

"I thought you couldn't cook anything but real mac-n-cheese in the oven and pasta?"

"I may have failed to mention my world famous, from scratch, cornbread because I don't make it that often and I only make cranberry sauce at the holidays." Brittany grinned. "So, what do you think?"

"I think … that I love you. Like, a lot. And I would love to have Thanksgiving with you."

"Good. Because honestly? I have a lot to be grateful for." Brittany pressed a kiss to Santana's forehead.

"But, I don't want to disrupt you getting your work done." Santana looked at her seriously.

"You can work in the living room while I work in my room. Otherwise, yeah, you will distract me." Brittany smiled brightly. "But! You'll be here when I take a much needed study break. So we can … I dunno … make out or something."

Santana laughed. "Is that right?"

Brittany nodded vigorously.

"I also have to go to the photography department, too," Brittany was a bit hesitant; it had been hard walking in there the first time. It had gotten easier but it still wasn't "easy".

"I'll go with you. I'll hold your hand and keep watch outside the door." The Latina smiled softly at her.

"You know … I love you a lot, too."

Brittany leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Santana's lips. "Now. I have work to do … why don't you let me give you a pair of sweats … you can go wash up in the bathroom then slip into my bed and take a nap while I finish what I have to do and then I'll join you and we'll start this day all over again."

Santana smiled and nodded, getting off Brittany's lap. Brittany handed her a pair of sweatpants and Santana went to clean up. When she came back, her face was scrubbed clean and her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail.

"God, you are so beautiful," Brittany couldn't help saying.

Santana bit her lower lip and ducked her head. "Britt … I don't have any make-up on, my eyes are all red and puffy …"

Brittany stood up and pulled Santana into her arms, kissing the top of her head. "But … it's not about make-up or your eyes or whatever … it's about you. And you're beautiful."

"Brittany," Santana's voice was impossibly soft and sweet. "Britt?" Brittany looked at her questioningly. "I have a lot to be thankful for, too, this year. I love you."

"I love you, too. Now, go get comfy and let me get this stuff done so I can join you."

Santana kissed her lips softly and slipped under the covers; burrowing in until just the tip of her nose was showing.

Brittany grinned and went back to work; the sooner she got this done, the sooner she could cuddle her girl.