Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

A few months into their senior year, in between rehearsals for a Glee number, Rachel had asked Brittany a question that Brittany privately thought was really, really stupid.

"Don't you get jealous?" Rachel asked, arms crossed and brow furrowed. "Like, at all?"

It had come out of the blue, and Brittany, in the middle of stretching for a featured dance solo, had been taken off-guard. "What do you mean?"

"You and Santana," Rachel clarified. Brittany only stared. A flush started on Rachel's cheek, before the other girl's voice dropped as she came in closer. "You know... "she continued, like she was sharing some major secret. When Brittany arched a confused brow, Rachel's eyes rolled to the back of her head. "Aren't you guys dating? Like officially?"

Her body had begun to feel the warmth of her exertions, and when sweat prickled at the back of her neck, Brittany lifted her blonde hair off her shoulders, trying to cool herself. Across the room, her best friend was in the middle of running her finger along the collarbone of one of Glee's newest members, Jimmy Whatshisname.

Brittany only remembered his first name because the last time she had made out with him, he had been particularly peeved that she hadn't actually bothered to learn it.

Brittany hadn't quite had the heart to tell him it was because he honestly wasn't worth the effort.

Cute guy, but a horrible kisser.

Still, it wasn't surprising to see Santana play at the seduction. An exaggerated laugh that was too loud to be genuine erupted from Santana's pouty lips, and when Brittany arched a brow, Santana seemed to feel it. Brown eyes slid across the room and locked with hers.

The twinkle in them was intimate. 'He's such an idiot', they seemed to say, and Brittany found herself smiling back.

Rachel nudged her, and Brittany blinked, attention drawn back to the shorter girl. Rachel stared at her expectantly.

It took Brittany a moment to remember what the question even was.

"I guess?" she said, and it must have come off as unsure, but honestly it just seemed stupid. Dating was one of those weird abstract terms that meant flowers and sloppy kisses in the back of cars and guys getting upset when they realized just because they could watch her and Santana make out didn't mean they would have a threesome with them.

She sucked in a breath, raising her arms up over her head and exhaling, feeling her muscles stretch as she bent low and pressed her palms on the wooden floor.

"So doesn't it bother you?" Rachel said again, voice shrill even above the rush of blood to Brittany's head. "Her flirting like that with random people?"

"Why should it? Jimmy's cute."

Rachel just stared at her like she was a freak on display at the circus. "So you don't get insecure. At all."

Once again, Brittany found herself battling a sigh of irritation. "Guys are fun," she explained, and at the very least, Rachel should have gotten that, though her on-again, off-again angst fest with Finn seemed anything but.

"But you're together."

Brittany lifted up, twisting her torso as her legs spread, inhaling deeply. "So?"

"So you don't get jealous."

"Of what?"

Rachel's face grew oddly red. "Of that?!" she whispered fiercely, jabbing her hand in Santana's direction.

Brittany hands tangled together above her head, as she leaned over and stretched her side. "Of what?"

"Of that?!"

Again, Brittany looked. Jimmy Whatshisface looked like he was one step away from proposing. Or more likely, asking for a blowjob.

"Rachel, you're not making any sense."

"I'm not making any sense?!"

"And you're kind of blotchy. You should fix that before Finn sees."

When the color drained from Rachel's face, and she swiveled on her Mary Janes and stomped away, Brittany hid a smile and exhaled in relief.

Later, she mentioned the conversation to Santana.

Her best friend, super hot with her hair tumbled over her shoulders and naked except for her bikini briefs, only arched an irritated eyebrow. "Don't worry about it, Britt," she said, voice coated with sleep. "They just don't get it. You should feel sorry for her."

Brittany didn't doubt that. Rachel was a walking Gleek tragedy.

She shifted on the bed, turning into her stomach and pressing the side of her face into the pillow. "I guess."

Tan fingers skimmed along her bare arm, light as a feather, leaving goose bumps in their wake. "She doesn't get it. None of them do. They don't get that all that stupid drama doesn't matter with us."

Brittany's smile curved into the pillow. "Because we're smarter than that."

Santana's grin was smug, damned cocky and sexy as hell. "Exactly. We got past all that. We're gonna be with each other for the rest of our lives, Britt." Santana said this with certainty; it was fact. "Meanwhile Finn and Rachel will be lucky to make it to prom."

Brittany considered that. "That's true," she agreed.

She had known since she was eight that it was always going to be her and Santana, in some form or another. Brittany didn't dream about the perfect husband or houses or picket fences. Her future instead seemed a muddle of uncertainty, except for the constant presence of Santana. Ever since she wrote her name on Santana's forearm with black magic marker, pressed a kiss to the corner of Santana's mouth and bossily told a skinny, short girl with wide round brown eyes that that meant that she belonged to her now. Forever.

Santana's fingers had trailed all the way down the curve of her forearm to her fingers, and Brittany imagined the block letters stained into Santana's arm, wobbly and misspelt, but impossible to misinterpret.

Suddenly engulfed with warm, sweet emotion, Brittany trapped Santana's fingers, tangling them with hers. Pushing up to her elbows, she carefully spread Santana's hand against the pillow and with her finger, began to retrace the letters, re-branding her best friend.

Santana watched with a small, sweet smile on her face.

Brittany grinned as she scratched lightly at Santana's skin. "You know what this means?" she whispered, laughter in her voice. "This means that you belong to me. Forever and ever."

When she glanced up to look at Santana, there was moisture in those deep brown eyes.

It wasn't surprising. Santana did like to cry at the drop of a hat.

Brittany bent forward, until her mouth pressed against the open palm, and placed a loving kiss against the skin.

She kept going, dropping feather-light kisses on the underside of her wrist, up her forearm, into the crook of Santana's neck and breathing in the musty, human scent of her underarm.

Brittany wasn't smart, but she didn't think she was dumb either. There were a lot of things that she was unsure of, and a lot of the world didn't make a whole lot of sense to her. At times, it was frustrating, to feel like she knew so little.

But there were things she knew absolutely. Like how to feel the perfect pop of a beat. How to roll her body in such a way it looked like art in motion.

And she knew, without any sense of doubt, that no matter what the circumstances, it would always be her and Santana, for the rest of their lives.

With that knowledge came the freedom from everything else that seemed to bog down Rachel and Finn and Quinn and Puck and all their classmates.

They didn't have anything like that.

Brittany didn't believe in soul mates even though she knew Santana did. It just sounded way too convenient. But as her mouth opened against Santana's, and Brittany sighed in contentment, shifting against Santana, settling into the deep kiss, Brittany understood that in this, she was very lucky.

Santana was right about Rachel; Brittany did feel a little sorry for her.

—

The buzzing whir of Coach Sylvester's small protein shake filled hand-held blender was a sound that had always struck fear deep into Santana's heart.

Even as a senior, even as Captain of the Cheerios (a title she damn well deserved after literally bleeding her soul out to wrestle it away from Quinn Fabray), there was nothing quite like that sound to put a deep chill in Santana's bones, like an icy hand clasping around her throat.

And to some random nobody who didn't know better, maybe that seemed a bit dramatic, but four years under the servitude of Sue Sylvester had given Santana the distinct impression that her Cheerios Coach was an authentic bad ass mother fucker who had actually like, killed some people back in her special forces days.

When the Coach eyed her over the expanse of her cluttered desk, wrinkled her nose, and pressed her finger down onto the button on her cup that set the buzz going, Santana had to palm her knees not to wince.

"Here's the part where I'm supposed to tell you that I'm proud of you," Sue Sylvester began suddenly, fingers drumming on her desk top, "Of all the accomplishments that I've helped you achieve. Any other teacher would have told you that as captain of the Cheerios, you've assisted me in taking the squad to brand new heights and that when you begin your full ride to Berkley you'll succeed in ways you've never even imagined." Sue paused, letting the words sink in. "Except I'm not to bother because you and I both know that is a complete crock. There's only one word I can use to describe your term as captain and that would be 'FAILURE'." The cup slammed on the desk, liquid sloshing inside of it.

Santana's legs clamped together, a defense mechanism to keep them from knocking together.

"This year, as captain, you only had one job, the same job you always have and the same job you always fail: destroy that rancid little tumor called Glee Club. Has it been destroyed? Quite the contrary. They nearly took Nationals this year, and meanwhile, my Cheerios Squad has remained mediocre. Instead of focusing on berating the new recruits, breaking them into the Nationally-Ranked Cheerios they were meant to be, you instead turned into a hormonal, crying, sexual predator who got a boob job, took my best dancer to prom and sang a duet with Rachel Berry that helped Glee Club win Regionals." Sue's blue eyes glittered at her. "Pathetic. I should make a call to the director at Berkley right now; take that scholarship away from you on principal alone."

Anyone else: Mr. Schuester, Principal Figgins, anyone, and Santana would have gotten up and walked out the instant they opened their mouth. If it had been Ms. Pillsbury, all she would have had to do was scowl, or lick her finger and wipe it across her desk, and the freakish guidance counselor would have burst into a hysterical germaphobic fit.

But this was Sue Sylvester, who had made the call that had gotten her recruited in the first place, and Santana already had two airline reservations and fought off four potential freshmen for a one bedroom apartment on-campus for her and Brittany.

They were so close to getting out of Lima. After four years of taking Sue Sylvester's shit; of treading the fine line between being popular and trying to actually be happy; of being ruthless and calculating and continually surprised at her own weaknesses (Show Choir. Singing. Brittany.) , freedom was less than a month away.

It would be just like the Coach, to get her the scholarship, give her the captaincy... and then take it all away from her out of sheer spite.

And she couldn't lose her scholarship. Her Daddy had been a Duke alumni, and the decision to go to Berkeley with Brittany had been a point of shame and annoyance by her father, who refused to see 'Duke's cheerleading team sucks' as a valid argument.

Santana dug her nails so hard into her thighs she could feel the tips bend into the flesh. The only time she could remember bringing herself to beg for anything was during sex (and even then, only really awesome sex, and only with Brittany), but pride had no use with Coach Sylvester. She'd get on her knees and lick her shoes if that's what it took.

"Coach Sylvester-" she began.

"Shut up," Coach Sylvester snapped. "You're nothing but a disappointment, Santana. A waste of space. And I take that personally." Sue's nostrils flared; her expression pure disgust. "But there is a way you can make it up to me, and maybe finally live up to that dust speck of potential you might still have."

A green folder suddenly slid across her desk, skidding over the edge and tumbling into her lap.

Terrified to say a word, Santana obediently reached for the file and lifted it. Her eyes narrowed uncertainly at the logo emblazed on the front. "The army?"

"The Special Forces. A very elite, very private training program that is invitation only. I train my Cheerios like soldiers, Santana, and the army takes notice. We've maintained a very cordial relationship since my service. They understand I recruit under the strictest standards, and as it saves them a bit of time, if there's a particular Cheerio with promise, my recruits become their recruits."

"You want me to join the army."

"It wasn't going to be you at first," Sue felt the need to tell her. "I had my sights set on Fabray, but she has proven to be nothing but a disappointment. Went and grew herself a heart, like the tragic demise of what would have been my personal hero, the Grinch. And while you can't keep your legs closed long enough to ride a luge, you at least know the meaning of the word contraceptive." Sue leaned back in her chair, studied her with a calculating intense look that made Santana feel suddenly as if she was on an auction block. "You're ruthless when you have to be, Santana. You take orders, but don't question them. And your loyalty to Brittany, even when she's acting like the lead character in a Sesame Street production, proves you can be trusted. You join the reserves while you're at Berkeley. Special training two weekends a month. The army covers everything this scholarship doesn't. In return, you give them and this country your heart and soul."

To say she was flabbergasted wouldn't even begin to describe her state. Santana felt as if a bomb had gone off in her brain, leaving her without even the capacity to sputter the response that Sue Sylvester was so obviously waiting for.

"You want me to join the army," she found herself repeating helplessly.

Sue Sylvester just lifted a brow. "Understand that this is an honor, Lopez. I don't recommend just anyone. The girls I send are considered to be particularly ruthless; perfect soldiers. I will take it very personally if you are anything but." A finger pressed down on the plastic bottle, and the buzzing resumed. "Now get out."

Weak-kneed and mind reeling, Santana found herself stuffing the green folder into her red and white backpack.

It was the only thing she could think to do with it at the moment.

Just outside, in the hallway, there was a figure of a cheerleader, toned and lean, head lifting and pony tail bobbing as blue eyes glinted in her direction.

Santana's shoulder fell against the closed office door; she felt the cold from the glass seep into her bare skin.

"Wha'd she say?" Brittany asked, all concern and curiosity. Her lower lip snagged between her teeth nervously.

Santana shifted the backpack on her shoulder, and though she couldn't quite manage a reassuring smile, she did find the strength to push off the door and head toward her best friend.

"I'll tell you later," she said, because to even think about trying to explain all this in the middle of a hallway in a way that even remotely made sense was beyond the scope of her imagination. Brittany's brow furrowed, ready to protest, but Santana's hand reached forward, pinkie hooking against Brittany's. "We're late for Glee."

She tugged, and then, after a moment, found herself inhaling unsteadily and twisting her palm against the smooth hand of Brittany's, until their digits tangled completely, palm against palm, in an interlocking intimate hold.

Santana's hand was sweaty and clammy; she gripped Brittany's hard. When they reached the choir room, she didn't let go.

Maybe that was her give-away to Brittany, because when she reached for the door knob, ready to turn it, Brittany kept going. Taller and stronger than Santana, Brittany used the momentum to tug hard, jolting Santana nearly off her feet .

"Britt-"

Fingers locked, clamped down. "We're ditching."

"Britt-" Santana's voice seeped with irritation, but the resistance grew weaker, mostly because Santana knew that Brittany wasn't exactly easy to dissuade once she put her mind to something.

And it was easy to let Brittany lead her, feel her strength flow from their joined hands in unseen energy, steeling Santana when she felt her very world tipped on its axis.

It was Brittany's secret power; her ability to take anything that came at her, from Coach Sylvester's most punishing workouts to a math test she had no hope of passing, with a steady breath and a crooked smile on her face. She had the strong body, all toned muscle and defined abs, built for performing backflips and splits as easily as walking.

Santana had always been the weaker one. Her form was skinny; her breasts had always been too small. Her attempt to remedy that with an augmentation had crashed and burned hard, and it got her noticed, but for all the wrong reasons. For all the rumors about her temper and her propensity for shoving girls who got in her way, uncontrollable tears had bubbled over more than once, and almost always it was Brittany's hand that enclosed hers, squeezing reassuringly.

She was led to her own car, a cherry red Volkswagen given to her by her father. Brittany fished her keys out of her backpack and pressed the button, shifting the locks open.

They were used to doing this. From the day Santana had gotten the keys from her proud papa on her sixteenth birthday, Brittany had been dragging her into the back seat of her car. Exploratory make out sessions that morphed into heavy petting and then into actual sex, Santana rocking astride Brittany, with shirts shoved up and bras shoved down, tangling limbs and bumping elbows and once, kicking out her back seat's drink holder.

This may have been the first time that Brittany had ever pulled her into her own back seat and didn't immediately plunge her tongue into Santana's mouth.

Instead, Brittany let go of her hand, and wiped her palm hard against her Cheerios skirt, gazing at her with intense scrutiny; the look of a concerned best friend, ready and willing to offer support against the worst that Sue Sylvester had to offer.

"What did she tell you?" Brittany asked, breathless. "Did she cancel your scholarship?"

A muted Santana only shook her head miserably.

Fingers reached for her own, tangled between them, until Santana's arm spread across the seat. The gentle, reassuring contact was enough to cause tears to spring into her eyes, blurring her vision and making them burn.

"Santana," she heard Brittany begin, and it caused an actual physical reaction. Something like word vomit that clenched her stomach and caused the explanation to come bubbling up, tumbling through her lips in a slobbering, blubbering confession.

She told her everything, because she always told Brittany everything, and even as she confessed to all Sue Sylvester had told her in her office, terrifying her with the buzzing of her protein shake and calculating, cold stare, she couldn't help but think it sounded absolutely ridiculous.

It was just all too silly to believe, and when the words ended; when the explanation ran out, Santana, feeling empty and lost, tightened her trip on Brittany's hand, seeking out her anchor.

Brittany's head cocked in a move that reminded Santana dimly of a perplexed golden retriever. The folder, which had been brought out and placed in Brittany's lap, was opened, and the papers had long since spilt out, but Brittany didn't seem to make any more sense of it than she did. "Sue wants you to join the army to be like, this super soldier, because she thinks you'll be awesome at it?"

A dry, morbid laugh erupted. Santana nodded her head weakly. "Yeah."

Brittany's lips pursed. Quietly, she regarded Santana for one long moment, before a smile broke out onto her face and she said brightly, "That's awesome."

Granted, Santana was more than used to Brittany doing exactly the opposite of what was expected of her, but even so, she could only stutter dumbly, "It is?"

"Yeah, of course it is!" Crystal eyes shone brightly; the grin on Brittany's face gleamed with teeth. "Santana," she continued authoritatively, "Being a soldier is like... the most amazing thing you can do."

Once again, Santana's brain felt sluggish, refusing to compute exactly what Brittany was trying to tell her.

"It is?"

"You're protecting America!" Brittany's breathless statement, her crooked, wide smile, and the way her eyes shone at her, told her she completely believed that to be true.

And God, Santana realized, it actually made sense. Brittany had always been unflinchingly patriotic. The time they had done it with 'Team America: World Police' blaring in the background had been some of the best sex they ever had, despite the fact that Brittany humming along to 'America, Fuck Yeah' and tonguing her clit to the rhythm of the bass had been more than a little distracting.

Santana's eyes drifted down to the papers that had spread in Brittany's lap; pages and pages of fine print that probably included signing away her soul.

It suddenly hurt to breathe.

"Britt," she managed, struggling to keep her tone even, patient. "It's not like make believe." Brittany only stared. "What she wants me to do," Santana continued, fingers clenching around Brittany's. "It's dangerous. It's not gonna be like an episode of South Park or a Looney Tunes cartoon."

"I know that," Brittany snapped back, sounding insulted.

Santana shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek to hold herself together. "It's not like I'm going to get some fake package from ACME and then when it explodes just end up with singed hair and soot on my face. I'll be like, dead."

She must have given something away in the way she said that, because the bright expression on Brittany's face faded slightly. Crystal eyes darkened in thought as her gaze flitted from Santana's fingers, tight and white at the knuckles thanks to her death grip, to the tears liquid in her eyes.

"Are you scared?"

As soon as Brittany verbalized it, diagnosed the numb, overpowering emotion that was taking hold of her, Santana suddenly understood it. It blazed over her in a wave of fear that nearly made her nauseous.

"I'm not scared." It wasn't true. Santana had very few safe places in her world. One was right here, with Brittany. The other was with her father, who loved her and spoiled her and turned her into a bitchy Daddy's girl and loved her for it.

What Sue had asked her to do... actually demanded that she do... it could take away all that, and leave Santana on her own.

And she wasn't good enough for that. She wasn't strong enough for that.

Brittany regarded her, and Santana exhaled, losing her false bravado to crumple into herself. "I'm terrified," she admitted, helpless.

Hands suddenly spread across her forearms, tugging her into Brittany's space. "Come here."

"Brittany-" she whispered, head shaking slowly, breath going ragged when Brittany's mouth pressed wetly against her neck, legs opening to let Santana sink down on top of her. "Brit-"

Arms spread tightly over her shoulder blades, keeping her pressed intimately against Brittany. Santana's eyes fluttered as the muscles tightened, then relaxed, instinct overcoming emotion as Brittany's lips caught her left earlobe and bit lightly.

"I just want you to feel something else for a minute," she heard whispered in her ear with a soft puff of breath that caused an immediate prickle of goosebumps. Lips skimmed along her cheekbone in a feather-soft touch before Brittany's mouth settled against hers.

Brittany's kisses were soft; seeking. The tender way her lips fit to hers, opening and closing against her own with a soft, loving sigh, seemed borderline chaste, and the irregularity of it made Santana's insides tremble suddenly, because their kisses usually carried behind them the significance of lust. It was easier that way, to let the overtaking power of want and need dim away everything else.

When Brittany kissed her with a finesse and care that signified love, it broke her. Already emotional and fragile in a way she only ever was with this girl, Santana found herself splintering. She lost herself in a whimper and a velvet tongue, tilting her head and embracing Brittany's tenderness.

It's just making out, her mind told her. You've done this a hundred times.

And she had. With many, many people. So had Brittany.

Santana had never wanted to understand why it felt so different, fucking special, when it was Brittany shifting against her, lips sliding against hers as she pushed her back against her seat. To Brittany, an arm branded with magic marker had always seemed like an invisible tattoo that reassured them both of some hazy future together, where they could be whatever they wanted to be.

Now, the future was here, spelled out for her in a green folder and an invisible tattoo that only they could see just didn't seem good enough.

Instinct alone caused her hand to palm underneath the red polyester of Brittany's uniform top; smooth against lean muscles that flexed against her touch. Even when Brittany moaned, ground down with her hips and slid a hand between them to settle against Santana's breast, Santana found her emotion beating back her lust.

If Brittany was at all surprised by Santana's reluctance to take it any further, she didn't show it. Instead Brittany's kisses slowed, grew languid, and her hand withdrew from her breast to settle against Santana's cheek.

Santana's eyes opened. Brittany was now entirely in her embrace, curves settled heavily against her own. Her eyes were kind and sweet, as her thumb traversed Santana's swollen lips.

"You can say no," Brittany said suddenly, tone soft and affectionate. "You know that, right?"

She looked absolutely breathtaking, and Santana felt suddenly like a lovesick fool.

"You know when you were twelve," she found herself saying, "And you told Mark Peters that you liked him and wanted him to be your boyfriend?"

Blue eyes darkened in confusion, but Brittany nodded regardless. "Yeah."

Santana bit her lip, and finally just shrugged. "I was pissed. I wanted to be your boyfriend."

And there was the truth of it. It was as honest as she had ever been with Brittany. No bullshit vague 'we'll be together forever', no 'dating just means gifts and making them pay for dinner'. Just Santana and her foolish dreaming, hidden deep within her and never, ever vocalized to anyone.

Brittany took it in, tried to understand it. Her mouth creased into a sudden grin. "You're not a boy, silly."

"I know," Santana found herself snapping, embarrassed despite herself, suddenly irritated beyond belief. With Brittany on top of her, holding her face in her fingers, it was impossible to look away, and that it made her vulnerable in a way that was simultaneously terrifying and mortifying. "You know what I mean."

But Brittany, who Santana had NEVER thought to be an idiot, no matter how dim she could seem, just smiled, like she hadn't heard anything at all. "I bet you'd be hot in a uniform."

God, Brittany and her damn ADHD bullshit. Santana squirmed uncomfortably, cheeks flushed with emotion and anger. "God-dammit, Brit-"

Stronger than her, Brittany stayed put, holding her in place when Santana tried to struggle. "Santana, you're stupid."

"What?"

"You know I'm gonna marry you someday, right?"

Santana's body tensed immediately.

But Brittany only shrugged, as if this little bombshell was common knowledge. "I forgot to tell you, didn't I? That we're going to get married?"

"Yeah Brit," she snorted helplessly, "You forgot to tell me."

"Sorry." Brittany pressed a kiss against her lips, lingering and sweet, and then settled against her shoulder. She was heavy and awkward, and her arm dug into Santana's ribcage uncomfortably, making it hard to breathe. "I thought you knew. Like in The Princess Bride. You know, the movie? When Buttercup keeps telling Westley to do things, he always responds with 'As You Wish'. And what he meant was-"

"I love you." For Santana, this revelation, on a day that seemed ripe for completely insane expectations for her future that she suddenly had no say in, struck her mute.

"I should have asked you, right?"

Santana laughed helplessly. "Maybe?" she wheezed.

"Sorry," she heard, before Brittany continued with, "Santana."

"What?"

"I'll totally be your hot army wife, if you want me to be."

Feeling like she was drunk, Santana wildly wondered if she should have been offended that Brittany, who was apparently so assured of Santana that she took it for granted that they would get fucking married when they had never even technically dated, seemed so unafraid of any refusal.

Did Brittany really know her that well?

"So while I'm off saving the world," she found herself musing, "You'll be my trophy piece of tail?"

Brittany's head lifted, and then resettled against the lettered stitching of her uniform to regard her. "Do I still get to dance?"

"You get whatever you want," Santana breathed, because it was true.

Brittany's returning grin was brilliantly sincere. "I already have what I want," she said, and tapped her fingers against Santana's shoulder pointedly. The flash of blinding happiness that surged in Santana nearly choked her. "What do YOU want?" Brittany asked, soft and casual. "Besides being my boyfriend."

Having a best friend like Brittany meant living a life that was almost always just a little bit surreal, and Santana had always been okay with that. While she saw the world with all its flaws and imperfections, ripe for critique and mockery, Brittany's world was colored with bright lights and a future that seemed full of promise and security, no matter what the circumstances.

It was why they were tangled together in the backseat of her car, with Santana's head leaning against a fogged up window and Brittany's flexible body folded on top of her, speaking about getting married and being boyfriends and joining the army like they'd be talking about manicures, or Brittany's cat.

In Brittany's reality, they were getting married, and Santana was a hero, singled out and valued because she was as special as Brittany thought she was.

Fingers drifted against blonde strands, scratching nails lightly against Brittany's nape, as it occurred to Santana that Brittany had accomplished her goal: Santana no longer felt the fear.

What she felt instead was remarkably warmer, and she understood that this feeling was precious and fragile.

"Remember what we learned about in social studies? In Iran? They're like, putting people to death for doing what we do."

Brittany sighed, breath lilting across her throat. "Yeah," she mumbled against the fabric of Santana's shirt, sounding sobered and sad.

Santana didn't identify with queer, but Brittany did. Brittany, with her obsession with breasts and her hobby of making out with everyone, did it without thinking of any sort of consequences.

Even in crusty old Lima, she was safe.

Because it was freaking America, or whatever, and there were people who fought for that right, to keep her safe.

Thoughts that seemed jumbled and incomprehensible two minutes ago suddenly seemed so very clear.

Brittany, the girl she was gonna marry, had always been her safe place.

Maybe it was time to return the favor.

"It is kind of awesome, isn't it?" she asked, tone growing bolder. "In a twisted sort of way. That Sue chose me."

"Totally. But like she would really pick anyone else."

"I could like, make a difference." Her palms smoothed down Brittany's arms, tugging slightly until Brittany took the hint and resettled herself, nose buried into Santana's neck. The position allowed her to embrace Brittany, and she did, tightening her hold until she felt every inch of her. It made her feel absurdly sentimental. "So Master Planner, when are we getting married?

"I dunno." Brittany bit lightly against her jaw, a gesture of affection. She sounded relaxed and sleepy. "Eventually. You can go be an army hero first, if you want."

A lump of emotion suddenly pressed in against the back of her throat. "Thanks," she managed, and as lightly as she could, continued, "I think I will."

Just like that, Santana's future had clicked into place. The life of a soldier; a bad ass soldier with a trophy wife, her own inspiration for saving the American Free World.

Brittany absorbed it. "Awesome."

Santana's fear seemed trivial now, because there was Brittany's assurance that she would be there, every step of the way. For the rest of her life.

God-damn.

Heart seized with emotion, Santana found herself overtaken with giddy triumph and the urge to celebrate the decision the best way she knew how. "Wanna do it?"

Brittany's head lifted to study her, and when Santana smiled lewdly, laughed in delight. "Hell, yeah," she breathed and launched herself forward, bruising Santana's lips with a kiss that cemented a future together that seemed suddenly unshakable and within her grasp.

****

When Quinn Fabray chose the general elective 'Studies of the Mind' her first semester at Ohio State University, it had simply been the result of a thoughtless click of the mouse on a particularly harried day. In the midst of filling out an application for the dorm residence, choosing her major, and filling in financial aid bubbles, that class had been nothing more than an afterthought.

Since then, in pockets of quiet moments that grew increasingly rare as the years had passed, Quinn found herself wondering fleetingly how different her life might have been if she had haphazardly checked off 'Literature, Science Fiction, and the Arts' with creepy looking Professor Snyder, instead.

There would have been no Professor Andrews. There would have been no secret test. No summons to her office under the pretext of discussing her grade. There would have been no recruitment to Fulcrum.

In short, Quinn Fabray may have gone on to live her life as a completely ordinary law-abiding citizen, with a few skeletons in her closet.

That life, she had decided long ago, would have been worse than the very real possibility she now faced of dying before she ever reached thirty. Or being arrested for treason and spending the rest of her life rotting in an American prison, for actions that had been taken under the assumption that she was being a patriot.

It was almost enough to be bitter, and under normal circumstances, Quinn would be bitter as hell to discover the lies she had been fed, made to believe in so soundly.

These weren't normal circumstances. Being placed in a position to steal the nation's most critical military secret and weapon would never be a normal circumstance.

Sitting on a stone bench outside of a building she had memorized blueprints of, Quinn passed the time drinking a coffee. At exactly 3:00PM, an unlisted number buzzed through to her cell phone.

A shot of adrenaline sparked into her. Feeling light headed, she carefully and casually answered the call, fully expecting to hear an unidentified male voice with instructions, as had happened countless times before.

What she heard instead was a voice so shrill it made her wince. "Quinn?! Quinn Fabray?"

"Who is this?"

"Quinn, it's Rachel. Rachel Berry. From Glee Club in high school?"

It was a voice she hadn't heard in eight years. Hearing it now brought with it such a shock, she was reduced to babbling like an idiot, "Rachel?"

By the time her mind had caught up, snapped into place that that this was NOT who she was waiting for and she needed to hang up NOW, Rachel Berry, the bane of her high-school existence, had already launched into some sort of tirade-slash-pitch.

"-realize that this is completely unexpected, but I was wondering if you would be free in a few weeks? Brittany's birthday is coming up, and I think it would be absolutely amazing to get all the original members of the Glee Club together to do a homage to-"

She lifted her wrist, and noted with a desperate internal wince that it was 3:01PM. Without another word, she disconnected the call.

Glee Club. Rachel Berry. Brittany. Names and memories she hadn't conjured up in years, and now, they washed over her in a succession of images, barraging her and dizzying her in the process.

A choir room. A red and white cheerleading suit. A baby turning inside her, heavy and cherished. The sound of music filling her ears and spilling from her mouth, eclipsing her with vibrant joy.

When her phone rang again, she found herself coming out of a sort of a fog, shaking her head desperately to free the sudden cobweb of memories. "Hello."

"-we must have been disconnected. So Brittany-"

It was astounding how just the sound of that particular voice brought with it an emotional Pavlovian knee-jerk response that dimly resembled her reaction to the sound of nails on a chalkboard. "Rachel..." she began, teeth grinding in frustration.

"-always gets so down this time of year, missing Santana-"

The seconds clicked by on her watch, and there was no time. She disconnected again.

Once again, almost immediately, the phone rang, caller ID blocked.

Quinn's skin prickled in nervous bewilderment. It could be Rachel Berry, exhibiting every bit of that annoying personality that had made her so damn tiresome when Quinn was a teenager.

Or it could be her superior, calling in her orders, and sending her on one of the most important missions of her life.

With no choice, but also a bit of dread, she picked up the cellphone, and pressed the button to receive the call. "Fabray."

"You have such a horrible connection. Do you have AT&T?"

Her eyes scrunched closed, head falling in defeat. "Rachel, how did you even get this number?"

"It wasn't easy to get!"

"I don't have time for this right now."

"It's just that since Santana's been gone-"

She was about to attempt to steal the military's greatest asset, and Rachel Berry was babbling into her ear about Brittany and Santana's relationship issues.

The worst part of it was, she found herself actually wondering about it, mind blazing with sudden questions: What the hell was Brittany doing with Rachel? Where did Santana go? And God, why did she even friggin' care?!

This did not belong in her head. Not now.

What. The Fuck.

The phone buzzed, signaling another caller. The display revealed another blocked number, and a prompt to either end the call, or place the current caller on hold and switch lines.

"It would be so uplifting-"

Eyes lifting up to the building in front of her, Quinn switched the line. "Fabray."

"You're a go," said the male voice, and Quinn's breath hitched. "Enter the building, check in with security and be in the lobby by 3:08PM. There will be a distraction. You'll have exactly two minutes."

The line disconnected. Rachel's blocked number still blinked on the screen, alerting her that the call was being held.

Taking a moment to quiet her nerves and steady her suddenly shaky limbs, Quinn slowly rose to her feet. When she began to walk towards the building, careful to keep an easy, casual gait, she took notice of the entrance. Stationed at the front, men in black stood about casually, eyes sharp behind their tinted sunglasses. They were elite, trained to spot anything out of the ordinary; anything suspicious. If they stopped her for even a moment, it would throw off everything. Should the distraction come before she was actually through security and in the lobby, there would be no other chance.

There was a knack to this kind of work; to doing it well. Much of it came with the ability to improvise. She brought the phone to her ear.

"Hello?! Hello!? Quinn?!"

"Rachel," she breathed, and forced the smile in her voice, tone smooth as honey. "Sorry about that. It's so good to hear from you!"

"Quinn!"

"I had no idea that Brittany and Santana had broken up-"

From Rachel came a pregnant pause. "Quinn," she began, voice sounding suddenly strange. "Brittany and Santana didn't break up."

"Well, whatever happened-"

"Santana's dead, Quinn."

Her feet suddenly turned to lead; her ankle twisted, causing her to pitch forward, sprawling towards the pavement. Quick hands reached out, grabbed hold of her, keeping her upright.

Santana's dead, Quinn.

"Miss? Are you all right?"

Speechless, Quinn glanced up to the man who had saved from her tumble. She was in the strong embrace of a man in black, who studied her behind his dark glasses, noted the stricken expression, the lost eyes.

"I'm fine," she whispered, and pushed herself up, wincing as her tone grew unsteady. "I just... I just got some bad news."

Quinn prided herself on keeping her head during a mission. No matter what the circumstances, she never, ever lost her composure. It meant the difference between a failed mission and a successful one, and in her line of work, a failed mission meant death.

She hadn't thought of Santana Lopez in years. When she had, it was always with a bittersweet pang, because the girl who had been her best friend in middle school had turned into her greatest nemesis in high school, who tore the captaincy of the Cheerios from her with a viciousness that Quinn had almost admired.

"Excuse me," she whispered, and shouldered her way past the man. Her phone rose shakily back to her ear. "Rachel."

"I'm so sorry. I thought you knew. It happened a few years ago. She was killed in action when she was stationed overseas."

"Oh," she managed, voice gone ragged.

"She died around Brittany's birthday. Brittany always gets so depressed, I thought maybe-"

Fuck. Shutting her eyes, Quinn shook her head and fisted her palm around the phone, gritting her teeth as she forced her feet to drag forward.

"Okay, Rachel," she snapped, cutting the other woman off. "I'll go."

"You will? Quinn, that would mean so much!"

"Just text me your information, okay?" Her heels were scuffed, her eyes were burning, but she was in the lobby.

"That'll be great! I'll send you my email address and you can get all the details! You have no idea how much this will mean to Brittany! Ever since Santana-"

The irritation hit her harder than the shock or her unexpected grief. "That's great, Rachel. I have to go."

She straightened her posture and disconnected the call, forcing a smile onto her face that had never been so difficult to muster. "Hi there!"

It was a deliberate expression that Quinn was used to painting onto her pretty face; naïve, with just a little bit of the nerves to charm a security guard and nurture his John Wayne-ish protective instincts. She meant to have him think her sweet; just an idealistic nervous intern checking in for her first day on the job in one of the most highly secured buildings in the nation.

He was meant to look at her, appreciate her, and then forget her just as quickly.

"Fifth floor," he told her, a small smile playing on his lips as he handed back her ID. "Through the security scanner, and then check in with the front desk to fill out your documents."

"Thank you so much." Quinn's breathless enthusiasm got an 'Aw Shucks, Ma'am' kind of expression from the tubby man.

She walked away from him, and headed for the security gate, and wiped furiously at a tear that was threatening to slip onto her cheek.

It was 3:05PM.

****

Pecking the digits dutifully into her cell phone, Rachel Berry hit 'send', and watched as her text to Quinn Fabray faded from her screen in favor of Quinn's contact information.

She took a moment for herself, turning the conversation and the awkward direction it went over in her mind, and then, with a sigh, she lifted the black pen and carefully scratched a check mark next to Quinn's name on her list.

Any feeling of validation she might have had at a) actually reaching Quinn, and b) getting her to agree to join them, had been tamped down significantly at the fact that she had had to be the one to deliver the news about Santana.

"Who were you talking to?"

Brittany's voice was soft, but the sheer unexpectedness of it caused Rachel's heart to skid into her throat, nearly choking her in the process.

Scrambling in sudden panic, she shoved her paper underneath her laptop. "You scared me," she told her roommate, trying desperately to sound casual and not desperate and dramatic.

Brittany, leaning into the doorway of her bedroom, only shrugged. "I wasn't trying to."

And that was true enough. Living with Brittany the last couple of years had taught Rachel that the woman was as graceful as a cat, and as quietly intrusive. More than once, Rachel had been happily lost in her own world, only to turn and trip over a suddenly appearing Brittany.

Rachel pushed up, and, remembering the notes she had received from her drama coach, attempted a relaxed slouch. "You're home early."

"It was a slow day." Still clad in her work uniform, Brittany's palms pushed into the back of her black pants. Her 'Nerd Herd' ID badge was clipped haphazardly onto her wrinkled white shirt, and the black necktie that hung loosely around her neck had been clearly tugged and wrestled with.

It didn't speak much of Buy More's reputation, Rachel thought, that Brittany had been hired as a computer tech when in high school, she literally tried to feed her computer 'mouse' to her cat.

"Oh," she said, and then smiled brightly, walking towards Brittany. "I'm actually on my way out. I have a rehearsal—"

Brittany didn't smile back. "I know what you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Rachel..." Bright blue eyes that used to shine only looked at her frankly. With a stretch of her long, lean body, Brittany reached around her and took hold of Rachel's list of names. She studied them, silently noted the checks and the x's marked besides them. "I don't want this." Brittany said suddenly. "It's sweet that you're trying, but I don't want this."

Rachel could have continued the play at ignorance. It was a trick she had long ago learned from Brittany herself, who often liked to frustrate her for her own amusement by talking nonsense in circles that she only half believed.

But this was different. There was no humor in this, and Brittany, as dim as she could be, had proven to be quite sharp about the little things. Rachel had expected she would put the pieces together, and she decided that it was time.

This was for Brittany, after all. An attempt to bring her closer to the thing that made her happy, as happy as Santana had made her. To heal the wounds with the salve of old friends and memories.

With a hard swallow, Rachel delicately extracted her list from Brittany's fingers. "How do you know," she began, as gently as she could. "What you want?"

The expression on her best friend's face hardened considerably. "I know."

Ignoring the cold tone, Rachel managed an easy smile. "You don't always. You didn't think that we'd be good roommates, and look at us now!" She spread her arms wide and motioned about the room. "A beautiful townhouse in West Los Angeles, where we can pursue our dreams!"

"You work on a soap that's about to get cancelled and I barely make more than minimum wage at a Buy More."

The devil was in the details, and Rachel shrugged off her friend's pessimistic frustration. "A marvelous starting off point," she pointed out. "Many actors have launched hugely successful careers after a tenure on a soap. And with the way the economy is, it's good to have a job at all."

"Rachel-"

"I think it might be good for you," she blurted, before Brittany could once again refute her request. "To be around people who knew her." Her. She didn't even say Santana's name, and already she could see Brittany's eyes flutter, her mouth crimp. "Who loved her like you did."

"No one loved her like I did." The heated, dark way that Brittany expressed that struck a pang deep in Rachel's heart that made her eyes water and her mouth tremble.

Rachel was an actress, a bona fide actress who prided herself on her empathy, her ability to dig deep into her character and truly feel what her character was experiencing. And although her character Cybil had been buried alive, survived an evil twin, a brain transplant, and a brief but enlightening lesbian romance, Rachel still could not, would not imagine what it would feel like to be in Brittany's situation: twenty-six and practically a widow.

"Fair enough," she whispered. Her list crinkled in her hand. Helplessly, she tried again. "I just think it might be nice to celebrate-"

"I don't want to celebrate."

"-to celebrate Santana's memory with something that we both know she loved," Rachel deliberately finished. "She loved to sing, Brittany," she reminded her, even though she knew Brittany didn't need to be reminded. Carefully, hesitantly, Rachel tried to push. "Just like you love to dance."

"I don't love to dance."

And that was a lie. And not a very good one.

Rachel thought that, considering the circumstances, Brittany had actually managed quite well with the tragedy that had befallen her. There was no comfort in the fact that Santana had died a war hero; Brittany blamed herself for Santana's enlistment. She told Rachel that she had been the one to convince Santana to join the army, and therefore her death was her fault. No amount of reasoning would convince Brittany otherwise.

Even in that grief, that guilt, that sorrow, Brittany was still Brittany.

But she was a Brittany without a Santana, and Rachel didn't even know how someone could seem incomplete without someone else until Santana had been cleanly clipped away from her lifelong best friend and sweetheart.

And this Brittany? This Brittany didn't dance.

The parts were all still there: her toned, lean body, her graceful, poetic movements, her love of music.

But the will had faded, as if Brittany had decided that to allow herself this one joy, the joy of the one thing she did brilliantly, would be a betrayal to Santana.

Instead of dancing, Brittany worked at a Buy More. Any ambition beyond that had died with Santana.

"Well, she loved to sing," Rachel said, breaking into the quiet awkwardness. "And she was good at it." Brittany bit her lower lip, but did not answer. "Never as good as me of course," Rachel couldn't help but admit. "But we can't all have perfect pitch."

Brittany's eyes rolled, but there must have been something in what she said, because the stiff posture relaxed, and though Brittany was close to chewing her bottom lip raw, she seemed to almost hear her.

Rachel allowed herself to hope. "Just think about it, okay?"

Blue eyes locked with hers intensely. After a long moment, she was rewarded with a slight nod.

The joy at seeing just the tiny hint of approval was hard to contain. The words and enthusiasm threatened to explode out of her, and suddenly afraid of pushing too far, Rachel kept her mouth shut long enough to press a kiss against Brittany's soft cheek.

"I have to go."

Ducking her head, she maneuvered around her and headed for the kitchen.

She really did have a rehearsal to get to.

****

Logically, Quinn understood that she had been pretzeled into the corner of a vent for only an hour.

She had to remind herself of that as time ticked by slowly, locking her in the same curled position for what felt like an eternity. Her muscles had long since stiffened. The heat had caused her to sweat, and that perspiration had soaked into her clothes, making the pantsuit she wore itch and plaster to her skin uncomfortably.

These were simple physical tests. Quinn had endured things like this before, including torture at the hands of her very own trainers, who promised that they were simply breaking her in order to show her how to withstand much worse at the hands of her enemies.

Strength was not ruled by the physical, but by the mental.

That wouldn't have been a problem, if Quinn's brain hadn't taken this opportunity to spontaneously combust, mind swirling with memories and song and every single emotion that had coursed through her during her high school years.

Quinn had been raised ruthless, but it had been a different kind of ruthless. She had been naïve and over dependent on her parents. She had believed that God had blessed her, given her some sort of charmed life .

Glee Club and an unexpected teen pregnancy had shattered all that. Her family, who she had believed to be so faithful, had kicked her out of her house, and instead, her family became a group of misfit Mouseketeers, who held her hand and accepted her without expectation or reservation.

It seemed kind of impossible that Quinn had forgotten what that all felt like. When she had left for school, she remembered only the shame, the disappointment, and despite an occasional call with Mercedes, had promised herself she would never look back. It was what made the decision to join Fulcrum easy, almost desirable. They saw her as she wanted to be: ruthless, confident, and without any regrets.

Rachel Berry, one phone call, and the ill-timed news of the death of Santana Lopez had brought that scared, shaken girl back and there was simply no place for her anymore.

Not now, not ever.

Rachel Berry's email address blinked at her from her phone, taunting her, daring her to lose her focus, her confidence.

God-damn Rachel Berry if it was going to be that easy.

Sucking in a harsh breath, Quinn glanced again at her watch, and waited for the seconds to tick down.

Major Mathews, her intended target, was late. Locked into the vent, Quinn had no choice but to wait for her.

Finally, she heard footsteps, loud and clear, heels that indicated that the blonde haired, slender government worker was making her way to her daily meeting, in the process passing a critical door that only her badge could access.

The click-clack of her heels, the way she nearly sprinted down the hall indicated she was late, and that she was alone.

Quinn's body tensed and she waited.

Five. Four. Three. Two... One.

The vent jerked open, as Quinn executed a powerful kick, enough to slam the other woman hard into the other wall.

Hands splayed out with the force, her head cracked hard against the wall. Quinn wasted no time in rolling out of the vent and bringing her fist down hard on the downed woman's temple.

She hadn't even had time to scream.

Quinn didn't waste a moment. Wrapping fingers around the cuff of the other woman's collar, she dragged her quickly into one of the many rooms littering the pristine hallway.

Her name didn't matter. Who she was mattered even less. Whether she lived or died was inconsequential.

The disabling of this woman was just another step in a plan that had taken months to put together, hundreds of hours of diligence, paid informants, and even then, much of it relied on luck.

There was no room for mistakes.

As Quinn shrugged off her blazer and pulled the ID badge off the blonde woman's lapel, she thought of her cell phone, and Rachel Berry's contact information, sitting smugly among her messages. Of the news of Santana, who she remembered as a bitch, a confidant, and a thorn in her side. Of Brittany, unexpectedly alone without her best friend and lover.

When she realized what it was she was doing, Quinn grimaced and shut the thoughts down, locking them deep into a part of her brain that she would not touch at the moment.

In eight years, this was what had become of her. Quinn was no longer pathetic. She was no longer obliged to take scraps of kindness in the face of unspeakable betrayal and unplanned pregnancies.

She no longer harbored any confusion about who she was and what she was capable of.

She was a killer. She was a traitor. She was a liar, and she was a thief, trained by the very best.

Pilfering the gun from the other woman, Quinn tucked it into her waist and checked her watch.

Rachel Berry, she thought to herself, reaching for the doorknob and heading into the hallway, can suck it.

****

First Lieutenant Molly Chambers had always been punctual. The need to be on time had been drilled into her even before her time in the army, by a militant cheerleading coach who might as well have been running a special forces unit.

Boot camp, she remembered thinking, was a cakewalk when compared to some of Sue Sylvester's more intensive sessions.

It was for that reason that she found herself more than a little annoyed when she was directed into Major Matthew's office and found it empty.

In between assignments, and already cranky, there was little that frightened Molly Chambers more than an empty room and time to think.

Muscles feeling suddenly stiff, Molly forced herself to sit, settling into the purposely uncomfortable chair that faced the Major's desk.

An old fashioned clock mounted on the Major's wall clicked with every second.

Careful to keep her spine straight, posture perfect, Molly stared hard at the Major's desk. She noted the scattered papers; the half eaten protein bar.

Fingernails tapped hard on the wood of the chair she was sitting in. Long tan legs crossed and re-crossed themselves, as Molly struggled not to grow restless. Not to regress.

Molly Chambers had been brought into the army as a perfect soldier. Trained to be elite from the very beginning, it was only in the last few years that her psychologists noted an increased anxiety, particularly when she was left to her own devices, without a goal or a command.

They thought perhaps it was claustrophobia, a result of a mission that had gone particularly bad. Molly had been confined into a dark, dank room for six months.

Molly let them think it, but privately, she thought them idiots.

She knew the reason for the anxiety. It was the same reason she had become an insomniac and relied on pills to make it through the worst of the lonely nights.

It was stupidly simple. When there was no assignment, nothing to distract her, to immerse herself in, Molly Chambers' carefully built mental walls would collapse, and she would lose herself.

Her eyes would close, her heart would clench, and in those moments of weakness, she would be overtaken with thoughts of Brittany S. Pierce.

Blonde hair, a blinding smile, the sweetness of a perfect kiss, and the stinging clarity of a carefree laugh, it all seeped into her, soaking her in Brittany's essence, filling her with a loss so deep she found even taking a breath painful.

The psychologists never once asked her how it felt to be expected to give up the love of her life for the sake of the country.

When Sue Sylvester had told Santana that she would give up her heart and soul and her entire self to serve, it hadn't been an exaggeration. She had just never imagined it would have ever been meant so damn literally.

Plucking her security badge off the lapel of her fitted suit, she studied the face that smiled stiffly back up at her, beneath the blue blocked letters that identified her as NSA. It was the face of Santana Lopez, but the name was Molly Chambers, a new identity granted to her the night 'Santana' died on an overseas assignment.

If she had been given a choice as to when it would happen, she wouldn't have chosen to die a month before she was supposed to marry Brittany. She wouldn't have chosen that her last phone call to Brittany be rushed, in which she could only wish her a happy birthday, and lie that she would be home in time for her own fucking wedding.

Even if she had been given a choice, Santana wondered if she would have ever had the heart to make that crushing decision.

Save the world, save Brittany.

Give the ultimate sacrifice in order to do it.

Lose yourself.

Lose your life. Lose your entire reason for doing it in the first place.

Abandon all your hopes and dreams. Don't ever go back to the little apartment with the girl who had become a woman beside you.

Promise to protect her, but do so by breaking every other promise you've ever made.

Don't marry her. Don't see her. Kill yourself and never wonder about her again, because she's dead to you and you made the choice, no matter what the consequences.

No matter that you can't breathe, can't live, can't be anything but a soldier without her.

No matter that you still count down the weeks until her birthday, and dream an impossible dream where you marry her like you promised you would.

No matter that sometimes at night, you still take a black pen and etch her name on your arm, branding her into your skin.

The wetness on her cheeks shocked her. Santana lifted her hand, pressed fingers to her skin and discovered the moisture.

Goddammit, this was why she HATED waiting.

Breath sucking in harshly, Santana rose unsteadily to her feet, charging for the door and wrenching it open.

"Lieutenant?" Already, Major Mathew's assistant, a nerdy looking Private who was recruited more for his ability to suck up than any actual talent, rose from his desk. "Can I help you?"

"I need a minute," was all she said, blinking the wetness from her eyes and focusing on which door would make for the quickest escape.

"I'm sorry, but you just can't leave." Private Morris rounded the desk. "Major Mathews—"
"-isn't here," Santana finished.

"She'll be here soon," Private Morris insisted. "And she doesn't like to wait."

"Neither do I." Santana headed for the closest exit.

A surprisingly strong hand gripped onto her elbow, holding her tight.

"I'm sorry," he began.

To be polite was simply past Santana's capabilities at this particular moment. Without hesitation, she reached for his thumb with her free hand, and pried it off her skin, jerking the joint back hard enough for the Private to whine in a supremely satisfying way.

His expression morphed from firm arrogance to that of a struck puppy. Santana flashed him a perfect, frightening smile.

"Private," she began, as sweetly horrifying as she could. "Do you know who I am?"

"You're First Lieutenant Molly Chambers, a special agent in the NSA," he babbled immediately. "Who is currently on the short list of being considered by Major Mathews as the next host for our recently upgraded government Intersect. Who is also going to break my thumb if she doesn't let go."

"Breaking your thumb would mean you got off lucky," she pointed out. "You know that, don't you?"

His eyes floated briefly down to her waist, where a Beretta fit snugly in a holster against her ribs.

"Y-yes," he managed.

"Yes, Lieutenant," she corrected sharply.

"Yes, Lieutenant!" Gulping hard, he nodded enthusiastically. "Sorry. Lieutenant."

"I've given my life to this country. Literally. The least I expect in return is for our mad scientist Major to be on fucking time so I don't have to think about what that means. Unless you want me to choke you with your tie, and not care about any squeaky choking noises you might make, you're going to let me walk through that door and take a moment to walk off all this extra anxiety."

"But you can't be late!" he squeaked. "She's running a final test in her lab! It's almost ready and ..."

He shut his mouth and reddened, very aware that he had revealed far too much.

The information was quietly staggering.

Santana knew very little about the Intersect project. It was one of the government's most classified. The fact that she knew anything about it at all was only on account of being one of very few chosen elite agents that had been groomed for this very purpose.

What she did know was abstract at best. The Intersect was a unique type of supercomputer, enriched with all of the government's most hidden secrets and files, designed to be downloaded into a person's brain, making them a literal human super weapon.

The very idea felt like it had come out of some bad seventies Bond movie, and yet, here they were. Santana had sacrificed her life, her very identity, for it.

Suddenly dizzy, Santana released the Private's thumb.

Immediately, he hissed in grateful thanks, rubbing at the abused finger and glaring at her like a disgruntled cat.

"I'll be right back," Santana muttered. There was a small door to the right of the office, unmarked and hopefully, leading to some sort of unoccupied space where Santana could revert to form and lick her wounds in private.

"Please, Lieutenant, just wait here! It'll reflect badly on your candidacy! The Intersect can't be pouty!" he added, with a touch of exasperation. "Not that way!"

The little bastard actually followed her into the hallway.

"Please, Lieutenant," he pleaded. "This is a highly secured area. You can't be here. Major Matthew's left very specific instructions-"

The hallway exploded in a cacophony of sound, startling them both so much Private Morris nearly jumped into her arms. The high-pitched, ear splitting alarm echoed off the walls, setting her head ringing.

"What the hell?"

"It's the alarm!" Private Morris, apparently, had a gift for stating the obvious. "It's coming from the lab. The Intersect! Major Mathews was in there!"

The implications were damn serious.

"Crap," she breathed, and unclipped her holster. "Come on-"

Instead he shook his head, edging back to the office. "I should call security."

She glared at him in disbelief. "There's an alarm!" she pointed out, wincing at the noise. "That's already fucking called security!"

He opened his mouth, ready to argue, when his eyes widened and his face went white. "Lieutenant!"

The sound of a gunshot blasted above the sirens, just as plaster exploded inches from her arm, scratching debris into her skin. Whirling, Santana jerked up her gun.

The figure that shot at her seemed almost a blur. Blonde hair, a black suit and the smoking muzzle of a gun was all Santana could begin to see before another bullet blasted in her direction.

Diving into a roll that bruised her shoulder when she smacked against the hard tile of the floor, Santana felt the heat of the lead burn past her ear. She shot without looking, clipping off another two as she rolled to her feet and nearly twisted an ankle in the process.

"Oh God," she heard. Private Morris was down, clutching at his leg, blood seeping from a wound he had sustained on his thigh.

Already the woman was skidding around a corner, leaving her behind.

"God-dammit," Santana muttered, and without another look at the injured, but alive Morris, sprinted after the intruder.

****

Stealing the Intersect would not come without its expected hiccups. Quinn had known that.

She hadn't counted on her mind being a fragmented mess. She hadn't counted on just one second of unsteadiness that tripped the wrong motion sensor, sending an alarm blaring through the building.

She hadn't counted on an agent standing in a secure access hallway that she had been told was usually empty at this exact time.

She hadn't counted on suddenly seeing ghosts.

Running for her life would have been so much easier if it could have been done in Cheerio-issued white sneakers.

Quinn jerked into a dark corner behind a stack of crates, fighting hard to keep her breath even, even as a blond bang stuck to her sweat-soaked forehead.

God, her heart wouldn't stop beating.

This was supposed to be her escape route. This large supply room held a chute that would lead her straight out of the building via the old and crumbling tunnels that ran underneath Washington D.C.

It should have been easy.

A flash of light illuminated into the darkness just as a bullet bit a chunk out of the wooden crate beside her, digging a splinter into her cheek. Quinn ducked her head and dove into a rolling sprint, skidding quickly through the grime to find safety behind another stack of boxes.

God-dammit.

There was a quiet crunch. It was pitch black; the other woman was momentarily unsure of her position. She was waiting, quietly and carefully searching around the edge of every box, gun ready and waiting to put a bullet into Quinn the minute she found her.

And she was smart. She didn't waste all her ammunition with potshots the minute she heard her. No, she took her damn time. Placed them precisely and dangerously close, no matter what Quinn shot back at her.

She knew time was on her side. If they kept playing this cat and mouse game, eventually the other agents would catch up to them both, and then Quinn would be surrounded.

There would be no way out.

Fuck, Quinn thought, head falling back against the rough wood. Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Taking in a steadying breath, Quinn counted back each and every shot she had fired. Each and every time she had failed to down her target was a wasted chance to make her escape. And there were only two bullets left.

If she was caught, Fulcrum would lose the Intersect, and it would be the end of her. She would be disowned by Fulcrum. Burned. She would be tried as a traitor to the United States Government and be executed - or worse, left to rot in a cell.

There would be no hope. She knew that.

If she was getting out of this, she needed leverage. She needed more than just an escape route and an Intersect in her pocket.

Quinn was in danger of losing her greatest asset, and it was all Rachel Berry's fault. It was ridiculous and revolting and real, because somehow, that call had gotten into her head and screwed her, hard.

Because Quinn Fabray could almost swear that the woman who was currently chasing her down was none other than the supposed-to-be-very-dead Santana Lopez.

Seriously, fuck Rachel Berry.

Wiping sweaty palms against her skirt, Quinn fumbled for her phone, and hid the LED light underneath her blazer. Her fingers thumbed through the messages until she found what she was looking for.

She pressed send.

She waited, agonizing seconds, for the bar to slowly reach the right of the screen. A heel scuffed in the dust, closer than Quinn was comfortable with.

Immediately after, the phone flared in her hand, self-destructing. A shot rang out; scathing heat flaring past her neck as she ducked her head and winced.

The woman spoke, calling out to her in the darkness. "This is First Lieutenant Molly Chambers. I'm an NSA Officer."

Quinn immediately lost all train of thought. The voice went through her, settled into her with a familiarity that was unmistakably Santana Lopez.

"Other agents will be here soon. There's no way out," the Santana-voice on the Santana-look-alike said. "So don't be an idiot. Give yourself up, give me back what you stole and maybe I won't shoot your bitch ass."

Calm down, Quinn thought miserably. Stop freaking out and think this through. If it looks like a Santana and it sounds like a Santana, then, as crazy as it would be, it's a Santana.

Her eyes squeezed tight. But Rachel said Santana was dead. She's been dead for years. Britt's a mess because of it. Santana died on assignment overseas.

Santana died on an assignment overseas.

Quinn's eyes flew open.

Or maybe she didn't. Maybe, that's just what everyone believed. What everyone had been told.

The explanation came together quickly, so simple and unbelievable it was almost laughable. Quinn's shoulders shook in half-crazed mirth.

God, this was just so fitting. And it was a gift. This was a beautiful, beautiful gift.

"Are you listening to me?" she heard, Santana's voice rising in anger, losing her patience.

Quinn glanced at her exit point, and braced herself. Her smile grew wide. "Really, Santana?" she called out. "When the hell have I ever listened to you?"

She was answered with silence. It was confirmation enough.

"You look pretty good for a corpse," she added, unable to help herself. "Makes sense. I always thought you were a little dead inside."

"Quinn." Santana's voice was stained with shocked realization.

It was the chance she needed.

Pushing hard against the wood, Quinn expelled her last bullet and ran like hell.

****

Rachel's spreadsheet had a title that read 'Original New Directions Reunion'. It had eleven names, all familiar to Brittany. Beside each was an address, a telephone number, and a column that, Rachel's legend said, could either be a yes, no or a maybe.

So far, Rachel's spreadsheet contained not one 'no'.

Brittany's lips pursed. Her eyes read the list of names, over and over, until the letters ceased being letters and morphed into black meaningless squiggles.

The sheet seemed like a lie, because even though Rachel had included herself and even Brittany, Rachel hadn't bothered to include all twelve members.

Santana's name was nowhere on the list.

It made Brittany want to take Rachel's stupid spreadsheet and crumple it into a ball, send it through a shredder.

Her inner Santana, the one that felt almost like an imaginary friend, the one that never left her even when the real Santana did, told her not to be stupid.

Santana was dead. She wasn't coming back, not even to do Rachel's stupid reunion concert.

There was no logical reason Santana should have been included on Rachel's stupid spreadsheet, and even if she was, she would have been Rachel's only 'no'.

So she didn't crumple it. Instead, Brittany put the sheet back where she had found it, slipped underneath Rachel's keyboard.

The motion caused Rachel's mouse to move, and that brought Rachel's monitor to life, computer suddenly buzzing and whirring, excited to be noticed.

There were still a great many things about this world that Brittany did not understand. The one thing she thought she knew absolutely, she hadn't really known at all, and in the wake of that, Brittany found she trusted none of her instincts.

But she had learned to trust computers. Brittany had discovered almost by accident that computers didn't lie. They didn't know how to. If she wanted to, if she worked hard enough, she could make a computer do anything she wanted to.

There were no surprises.

What was a surprise, though, was the unread email sitting in Rachel's inbox, waiting to be opened.

It was from Quinn, with a subject line that said, "Surprise."

What Brittany did NOT trust was a surprise. She had received the worst surprise anyone could ever receive, and since there was only one surprise Brittany knew of that Rachel was planning, she didn't think it would be a terrible invasion if she read Quinn's email.

Brittany wasn't trying to be a bitch or a snoop. She just wanted to be prepared.

Hovering over it with the mouse, she double-clicked.

'Intersect Downloading', it said, and then faded away to a stack of images. They came at her slowly, then faster, and then suddenly the images blurred into text. It seemed to jump off the screen, like some sort of giant mosaic, and Brittany watched, fascinated, and suddenly kind of dizzy.

The dizziness became something else. It felt like a fizzle in her brain, some itch she couldn't scratch, and then Brittany couldn't think at all.

She passed out instead.