105. you made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter [3/?]
Title | you made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter
Chapter | 3/?
Rating | pg-13
Characters | Santana Lopez. Santana/Rachel, Santana/Puck, hints of Puck/Rachel. Brittany, Jesse, Quinn, Finn, Mike, Kurt, Mercedes, Will Schuester [multiple pairings between all of the aforementioned].
Summary | The second this you need to know is that sometimes I forget, too.
Notes | This is an AU fic. It is based on the novel The Likeness by Tana French, which I read recently and absolutely adored. The writing is beautiful and the story is captivating. The general plot points are all credited to the author, but I have made quite a few changes based on my own ideas and/or the ships I plan on including in this story. The relationships between the various characters will become clearer as the story goes on. I do not own Glee, I only like to play with the characters.
"You are kidding me, Will."
I smirk to myself, leaning back against the wall and bumping my hip against Puck's. We both love when Rachel does this, starts talking to Schue as though they're equals. Sometimes I'm certain she really believes that it's true.
He's smirking, too. "It's an idea, Rachel, and it's not one I'm prepared to dismiss yet."
She whirls toward me, eyes bright and burning. "You're not doing it. You're not."
Aside from Schue (which goes without saying), Rachel is the best undercover agent I've ever met. Her high school dreams of making it big on Broadway mean that she can cry on command, fit any personality you throw at her, and that she always commits to whatever her role is. I would never admit it, especially not to Puck, but the reality is that Rachel is even better than me. She's better than anyone.
I don't reply to her and Puck tilts his face to get a better look at mine. His eyes widen. "You're thinking about it."
"Santana!" Rachel cries in that scandalized voice of hers, the one that years of separation from high school still have not quite done away with.
"It's like he said, Rach. It's…an idea."
"No." Her hair whips about when she shakes her head. "You have no right to mess with people's lives like that."
"You do it everyday, Rachel," Schue interjects gently. "It comes with the territory, messing with people's lives."
"She's dead." Rachel shoots him a tiny glare, tossed over her shoulder flippantly. "That girl is dead. You can't go into her life and take her place."
"It was my life first," I tell her evenly.
Her eyes widen. "I cannot believe I'm hearing this." She turns to Puck, arms akimbo. "Talk some sense into her!"
I speak again before he can. "You talk about messing up her life, Rach, but…what if they messed up hers first? What if one of them killed her?"
"It's not your responsibility to avenge the death of a girl that stole the identity you created. The world doesn't work like that."
Lips pressed together, I make myself count backwards from three. "This seems like a special circumstance," I tell her as gently as I can, what with my heart doing jumping jacks in my chest.
Schue taps a pen against his desk. "The locals don't have a single suspect," he reminds me. "Those kids kept to themselves. This is plausible, Santana."
There was a time when I knew Gracie as well as I knew myself. Still, whenever I hear a similar name called in a public place, I turn. When I see the surname Martinez on a piece of paper, I do a double-take before I remember that it isn't mine. She was a perfect combination of the things I am and the things I am not, spunky and sweet, wide-eyed yet world-weary, comfortable enough for me to be her, different enough to keep me on my toes. I used to introduce myself with a smile bright as the sun and, "Call me Gracie." It used to be instinct.
"But I don't know her anymore," I tell Schue softly. "This girl made her into someone completely different. She's Gracie, now. I'm just…" Just me.
"We can find out. We're searching the house. And those kids, they're giving away enough information in their questioning for you to work with. It's the same thing, Santana. You were Gracie before; you can be her again."
"Stop pushing her into this!" Rachel actually stomps her foot on the floor.
"Berry." Schue lifts his eyebrows at her. "You're not Santana's partner. You don't have any input in this matter."
There is a beat of silence, charged with grief. Matt was Rachel's partner; she's been working with Sam since she got back to work after his death and there's still that hint of emptiness, of missing Matt.
"But I'm Santana's…" Rachel trails off, her voice suddenly small. "It's so risky. On so many levels."
My lips quirk, unbidden, into a soft smile. "I like a thrill, Rachel."
"That isn't the point, Lopez." Schue turns those raised eyebrows in my direction and I bristle just a little bit. "Something about those kids just doesn't sit right to me, but this isn't about you having fun or finding your success after everything that happened at the cove." My shackles go up even further at that, but he ignores my glare and continues: "If you go into this, you go in for Gracie."
A thick silence lingers in the room when I don't reply to him right away. This is the kind of decision that our lives are made of, the kind that you want to think over for days and days, the kind that you need to make based on your instincts in the moment.
Kurt saves me by walking in at that moment, a thick file folder held aloft in one hand. "Autopsy results," he says grimly.
Puck pushes aware from the wall, his expression eager but just as grim. "Plastic surgery?" he asks hopefully. Rachel scoffs at those words but he ignores her.
"None." He lays the file on Schue's desk and opens it, spreads out sheets and photographs all over the mahogany surface. We gather around like eager schoolchildren, Rachel just a millisecond ahead of me and Puck. In a way, we'll always be Will Schuester's students.
Puck is disappointed. "Anything good at all?" he asks, almost whining.
"Very good." Rachel, of course, has found the crucial pieces of information in a single glance. "Or very bad, depending on your perspective." She lifts her face to mine, two sets of brown eyes locked. "She was pregnant."
I actually gasp - this quiet, girly little thing at the back of my throat that I try to ignore. I cannot be Gracie if every new fact about her life is going to shock me.
Schue looks intrigued. "How far along?"
"Barely. Five weeks."
"The father?" I ask warily. "She didn't have a boyfriend, did she?"
"If she did, he's proving impossible to find." Schue rubs at his temples. "Those five kids stuck together like glue and no one else was welcome to join them."
"So one of the boys in the house, then?" Rachel bites the corner of her lip, her head tilted slightly. She's beautiful; I can't help but think it.
"Just friends." Kurt's voice is wry, making it clear that he doesn't believe a word of what he's saying. "They insist that they're all just friends."
I think back to that photograph that Schue showed me - that knowing look in the eyes of the man who owned the house, the other two flanking Gracie comfortably - and I try to think of any signs of a relationship that would have fallen under a heading other than friendship, but they looked more like a family than a group of young adults tangled up in their own relationships.
"Will," I whisper, "where is Gracie right now?"
Schue gives me a fleeting smile. "Intensive care, in a coma."
I nod. "How long until she wakes up?"
"Three days, ideally."
"Gracie's dead, San." Rachel inches closer to me, her shoulder pressed against mine, heat radiating between our bodies. "Let her die."
"She won't, Berry." Puck's smirk is lazy, like he knows me better than he knows myself. "She's gonna bring her back to life."
Three days of my life are spent learning to be Gracie again. Schue and I spend hours on end in his office with Puck drifting in and out. He asks me question after question until I can answer without thinking.
Terra Firma, I learn, belongs to Jesse St. James, which I think is one hell of a pretentious name - but Rachel, when I tell her, pouts at me and says that she thinks it sounds romantic. He is the serious man from the picture, curly brown hair and all-knowing eyes. Impossible to crack, that's what Mercedes tells me when she gets back from watching the local boys try to question him.
Mike Chang is the name of the Asian guy; apparently an easygoing dude who isn't concerned with much of anything besides when he can see Gracie again. Puck seems to like the guy; I wonder about Gracie's baby. The last man, the freakishly tall one, is Finn Hudson. He's the jumpiest - the worrier, Mercedes says with a roll of her eyes, but I can tell that he's Kurt's favourite.
I sit on top of Schue's desk, legs crossed neatly in my black jeans. "And the girl?" I ask.
"Quinn Fabray," Schue reports, handing me another small collection of photographs.
Kurt makes a face. "She's very…blonde."
I roll my eyes at him. "That explains nothing."
"Yes, it does," Mercedes insists. "Girl's a walking stereotype."
With a sigh, I turn to Schue. "This is impossible. I'm never going to know what they expect from me."
"They don't expect anything from you, Santana," he tells me steadily. "They expect Gracie."
Rachel and I spend my last night of living my own life - for now, anyway - curled up on the couch at my apartment with a pint of Ben & Jerry's between us, watching videos that Gracie recorded on her iPhone.
The latest one, the last before she died, shows the other four in the attic of Terra Firma, laughing at all the silly heirlooms of the St. James family and teasing each other incessantly.
Mike speaks first, grinning at someone just off-camera. "Hey, Q, check this out."
Her laugh is pretty, melodic and tinkling. Gracie moves so that Quinn's face appears in her shot. Her hair is gathered up off her face and she's holding an old, tattered book. "This is a first edition. Jesse!" she calls, and the camera moves again.
Jesse is sitting by a box, his smile lazy and content. "My aunt was a packrat," he explains, and that statement makes Quinn laugh again.
"So are you," she says, and there's something so untouchable about this moment, something very pure about their friendship.
Finn laughs and there's a squeal as the camera jerks around, like he's wrapped Gracie up in his arms, surprised her by sneaking up behind her.
"Put me down!" she cries, all giggles, and Rachel and I gasp in unison at the sound of her voice.
He clearly does not put her down, since the camera is suddenly focused on the floor. "Remind me why we're up here, again?"
"Jesse's gonna make us supper." The camera swings up again to focus on Mike's grin, which widens even more. "What the eff are you doing, Gracie?"
"Documenting." Her voice is a little airier than mine. "For posterity. The night Jesse agreed to cook for us," she intones.
"Give me that." Quinn's tone is firm, just barely bordering on bossy. "I'll document, you be helpful."
"Gracie's always helpful."
Jesse scoffs. "I beg to differ."
"Apologize!" Gracie demands immediately. The camera moves around again, in Quinn's hands now, and shows us her face - my face.
"You know this is pointless?" The camera swings toward Finn, who is now standing by Jesse. "I don't understand what you're trying to find. Let's throw out the useless stuff. We'll order some pizza, have a good night."
"Finn." Someone else grabs the camera, probably Mike, and then it's trained on Quinn's face, a little too zoomed in at first. "This is his heritage."
Disgruntled, Finn says, "I thought we weren't allowed to have pasts."
Quinn doesn't say a word, but the look she throws toward Gracie speaks volumes. Gracie smiles as though she hasn't noticed the tension thrumming between the two men; she steps right into it, right between them.
"It's paaaaast dinnertime." She drawls out the words, sweet and playful. Her smile doesn't falter as she leans down, hands on Jesse's knees. "C'mon."
"Gracie." He touches her cheek and they share a look; a silent, incomprehensible conversation.
"Jesse." Quinn says his name the same way he just said Gracie's, reaching out to them both. "I'll help you cook," she offers, a laugh tucked into her words.
It ends there, cutting off to abruptly - they must have all abandoned their attempt to clean the attic and decided to eat.
But it's enough, that little snippet of their lives, and I know that Rachel senses it to from the way she cuddles up close to me, her chin perched on my shoulder. There are so many nuances in relationships, so many secrets that aren't really secrets, exactly, but just pieces of information that are so well known that they don't need to be discussed. The way these five people define themselves and their relationships with Gracie, as lovers or friends or something that I've never even known - those are the things I will never be able to learn simply from observing them.
"What do you think?" Rachel whispers, lips grazing my jaw.
I tilt my head away from her touch and say, "I don't know," on an exhale.
"San…"
I turn my head to look at her, our eyes locked. "Rachel." It's a problem for us sometimes, the stubborn way we're always both so sure that our own opinions are the right ones. "Don't do this."
She holds my gaze for a moment, thinking it over, and I hold my breath while I wait for her to make a decision. I don't want to fight on my last night with her but I can't back down any more than she can.
Rachel sighs softly. "Do you think any of those boys are the father?"
My body feels like it is uncoiling, tension seeping away. "The five of them don't seem to have friends - acquaintances, even - outside their group."
She plays with my hair, spinning strands around her fingers. "Maybe Gracie did. Maybe that was the problem."
I arch my eyebrows. "You think they killed her because she was with someone who wasn't one of them? Really?"
Rachel purses her lips. "Never rule anything out, baby."
That makes me roll my eyes at her. "You're such a cop."
She laughs, pretty and musical. "You love it."
My breath catches in my throat. "Yeah."
That surprises her, and I knew it would. "Yeah?" she asks, cautious eyes fixed on my face like she can't quite decide if I'm trying to trick her.
"Well." I feel grumpy about having this emotional conversation when I already know all the tricks to getting Rachel into bed. "It's obvious that you love me."
Her eyes widen. "Obvious?"
"Yes, obvious." I flash a quick grin at her. "I'm a cop, too, remember. I've seen the evidence."
She grins back, that bright smile I adore. "Oh, and what is this evidence?"
"You were singing Don't Go Breaking My Heart in the shower yesterday morning."
"Before I was rudely interrupted."
"You didn't seem too upset."
"I didn't want to hurt your feelings." She touches my cheek with her fingertips. "I know how sensitive you are."
It's not quite a joke and I could almost cry. "I'll miss you."
"Santana." The way she says my name is a sympathetic hum. "You're coming back to me."
I nod instead of saying something.
"San." Her hand finds mine, fingers threading together. "What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know." That is my biggest truth right now. "Say…that we'll have lots of phone sex."
She laughs again, shaking her head. "Are you really going to make me say it first?"
I shake my head, angling my body towards hers on the couch. "Let's not talk."
"But - "
I slip my fingers into her hair and lean in closer to her. "Shh. I know."
Rachel and I say our goodbyes at HQ, in the corner of Schue's office, while everyone else politely pretends not to spy. She's not coming with me to Terra Firma - it would be awkward, it would be too easy for me to be thrown off guard, it would be…hard.
"You'll be awesome," she tells him softly, stamping a final kiss against my cheek. I can feel her brave smile against my skin.
"Obviously."
Will clears his throat. "Ready, Santana?"
I breathe Rachel in for one last second, the scent of her shampoo and her skin, before I turn to him and wink, cheeky and sweet. "That's Gracie to you, Schuester."
He grins back at me proudly but I catch the slightest hint of something (it can't be regret, it can't) in his eyes. "Let's get you home," he says quietly.
The guys go with me - Sam drives and Will rides shotgun, Puck and I sit in the backseat. He holds my hand, which is one of those things that embarrasses us so that we can't look each other in the eye and will never, ever speak of it again.
But I'm thankful for it, anyway.
The road to Terra Firma is long and winding, picturesque yet desolate. It's quaint, in a way, like the path toward a New England boarding school - only certain people with certain pedigree would ever bother to travel it. However, there's something strange about this, this group of college students who have excluded themselves from society.
Schue catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "You'll be great. You always are."
Sam pulls into the driveway and stops the car. Three of the house's residents are sitting on its steps, awaiting our arrival, which I hadn't counted on. I thought I'd have another second or two to become the girl they were waiting for.
"I'll walk you," Schue says.
Puck squeezes my hand so hard it hurts. Out of the corner of his mouth, he asks, "You've got your gun?"
I nod.
One last squeeze of my hand, and then he lets go. "Go kick some ass, Lopez."
When I step out of the car I realize that the three of them are now standing - Finn and Mike are still back by the steps, hovering uncertainly, while Quinn has moved forward a few paces, looking at us with anxious eyes.
I can feel Will's presence - he's standing close by, just within my peripheral vision - but all I can see is her face, her pretty blonde hair, her blue dress and her white cardigan. All I can hear is the way she says that name, my name, with all the care and hope and love in the world -
"Gracie?"
Tears pool in her eyes but she blinks them away, finds a smile somewhere inside of her and plasters it on for my sake. Her fists are clenched and the wind is playing her dress, lifting the hem of it daringly. I can tell, just by looking at her, how very much she wants to hug me.
"Hi," I breathe.
Show time.
fin
Chapter | 3/?
Rating | pg-13
Characters | Santana Lopez. Santana/Rachel, Santana/Puck, hints of Puck/Rachel. Brittany, Jesse, Quinn, Finn, Mike, Kurt, Mercedes, Will Schuester [multiple pairings between all of the aforementioned].
Summary | The second this you need to know is that sometimes I forget, too.
Notes | This is an AU fic. It is based on the novel The Likeness by Tana French, which I read recently and absolutely adored. The writing is beautiful and the story is captivating. The general plot points are all credited to the author, but I have made quite a few changes based on my own ideas and/or the ships I plan on including in this story. The relationships between the various characters will become clearer as the story goes on. I do not own Glee, I only like to play with the characters.
"You are kidding me, Will."
I smirk to myself, leaning back against the wall and bumping my hip against Puck's. We both love when Rachel does this, starts talking to Schue as though they're equals. Sometimes I'm certain she really believes that it's true.
He's smirking, too. "It's an idea, Rachel, and it's not one I'm prepared to dismiss yet."
She whirls toward me, eyes bright and burning. "You're not doing it. You're not."
Aside from Schue (which goes without saying), Rachel is the best undercover agent I've ever met. Her high school dreams of making it big on Broadway mean that she can cry on command, fit any personality you throw at her, and that she always commits to whatever her role is. I would never admit it, especially not to Puck, but the reality is that Rachel is even better than me. She's better than anyone.
I don't reply to her and Puck tilts his face to get a better look at mine. His eyes widen. "You're thinking about it."
"Santana!" Rachel cries in that scandalized voice of hers, the one that years of separation from high school still have not quite done away with.
"It's like he said, Rach. It's…an idea."
"No." Her hair whips about when she shakes her head. "You have no right to mess with people's lives like that."
"You do it everyday, Rachel," Schue interjects gently. "It comes with the territory, messing with people's lives."
"She's dead." Rachel shoots him a tiny glare, tossed over her shoulder flippantly. "That girl is dead. You can't go into her life and take her place."
"It was my life first," I tell her evenly.
Her eyes widen. "I cannot believe I'm hearing this." She turns to Puck, arms akimbo. "Talk some sense into her!"
I speak again before he can. "You talk about messing up her life, Rach, but…what if they messed up hers first? What if one of them killed her?"
"It's not your responsibility to avenge the death of a girl that stole the identity you created. The world doesn't work like that."
Lips pressed together, I make myself count backwards from three. "This seems like a special circumstance," I tell her as gently as I can, what with my heart doing jumping jacks in my chest.
Schue taps a pen against his desk. "The locals don't have a single suspect," he reminds me. "Those kids kept to themselves. This is plausible, Santana."
There was a time when I knew Gracie as well as I knew myself. Still, whenever I hear a similar name called in a public place, I turn. When I see the surname Martinez on a piece of paper, I do a double-take before I remember that it isn't mine. She was a perfect combination of the things I am and the things I am not, spunky and sweet, wide-eyed yet world-weary, comfortable enough for me to be her, different enough to keep me on my toes. I used to introduce myself with a smile bright as the sun and, "Call me Gracie." It used to be instinct.
"But I don't know her anymore," I tell Schue softly. "This girl made her into someone completely different. She's Gracie, now. I'm just…" Just me.
"We can find out. We're searching the house. And those kids, they're giving away enough information in their questioning for you to work with. It's the same thing, Santana. You were Gracie before; you can be her again."
"Stop pushing her into this!" Rachel actually stomps her foot on the floor.
"Berry." Schue lifts his eyebrows at her. "You're not Santana's partner. You don't have any input in this matter."
There is a beat of silence, charged with grief. Matt was Rachel's partner; she's been working with Sam since she got back to work after his death and there's still that hint of emptiness, of missing Matt.
"But I'm Santana's…" Rachel trails off, her voice suddenly small. "It's so risky. On so many levels."
My lips quirk, unbidden, into a soft smile. "I like a thrill, Rachel."
"That isn't the point, Lopez." Schue turns those raised eyebrows in my direction and I bristle just a little bit. "Something about those kids just doesn't sit right to me, but this isn't about you having fun or finding your success after everything that happened at the cove." My shackles go up even further at that, but he ignores my glare and continues: "If you go into this, you go in for Gracie."
A thick silence lingers in the room when I don't reply to him right away. This is the kind of decision that our lives are made of, the kind that you want to think over for days and days, the kind that you need to make based on your instincts in the moment.
Kurt saves me by walking in at that moment, a thick file folder held aloft in one hand. "Autopsy results," he says grimly.
Puck pushes aware from the wall, his expression eager but just as grim. "Plastic surgery?" he asks hopefully. Rachel scoffs at those words but he ignores her.
"None." He lays the file on Schue's desk and opens it, spreads out sheets and photographs all over the mahogany surface. We gather around like eager schoolchildren, Rachel just a millisecond ahead of me and Puck. In a way, we'll always be Will Schuester's students.
Puck is disappointed. "Anything good at all?" he asks, almost whining.
"Very good." Rachel, of course, has found the crucial pieces of information in a single glance. "Or very bad, depending on your perspective." She lifts her face to mine, two sets of brown eyes locked. "She was pregnant."
I actually gasp - this quiet, girly little thing at the back of my throat that I try to ignore. I cannot be Gracie if every new fact about her life is going to shock me.
Schue looks intrigued. "How far along?"
"Barely. Five weeks."
"The father?" I ask warily. "She didn't have a boyfriend, did she?"
"If she did, he's proving impossible to find." Schue rubs at his temples. "Those five kids stuck together like glue and no one else was welcome to join them."
"So one of the boys in the house, then?" Rachel bites the corner of her lip, her head tilted slightly. She's beautiful; I can't help but think it.
"Just friends." Kurt's voice is wry, making it clear that he doesn't believe a word of what he's saying. "They insist that they're all just friends."
I think back to that photograph that Schue showed me - that knowing look in the eyes of the man who owned the house, the other two flanking Gracie comfortably - and I try to think of any signs of a relationship that would have fallen under a heading other than friendship, but they looked more like a family than a group of young adults tangled up in their own relationships.
"Will," I whisper, "where is Gracie right now?"
Schue gives me a fleeting smile. "Intensive care, in a coma."
I nod. "How long until she wakes up?"
"Three days, ideally."
"Gracie's dead, San." Rachel inches closer to me, her shoulder pressed against mine, heat radiating between our bodies. "Let her die."
"She won't, Berry." Puck's smirk is lazy, like he knows me better than he knows myself. "She's gonna bring her back to life."
Three days of my life are spent learning to be Gracie again. Schue and I spend hours on end in his office with Puck drifting in and out. He asks me question after question until I can answer without thinking.
Terra Firma, I learn, belongs to Jesse St. James, which I think is one hell of a pretentious name - but Rachel, when I tell her, pouts at me and says that she thinks it sounds romantic. He is the serious man from the picture, curly brown hair and all-knowing eyes. Impossible to crack, that's what Mercedes tells me when she gets back from watching the local boys try to question him.
Mike Chang is the name of the Asian guy; apparently an easygoing dude who isn't concerned with much of anything besides when he can see Gracie again. Puck seems to like the guy; I wonder about Gracie's baby. The last man, the freakishly tall one, is Finn Hudson. He's the jumpiest - the worrier, Mercedes says with a roll of her eyes, but I can tell that he's Kurt's favourite.
I sit on top of Schue's desk, legs crossed neatly in my black jeans. "And the girl?" I ask.
"Quinn Fabray," Schue reports, handing me another small collection of photographs.
Kurt makes a face. "She's very…blonde."
I roll my eyes at him. "That explains nothing."
"Yes, it does," Mercedes insists. "Girl's a walking stereotype."
With a sigh, I turn to Schue. "This is impossible. I'm never going to know what they expect from me."
"They don't expect anything from you, Santana," he tells me steadily. "They expect Gracie."
Rachel and I spend my last night of living my own life - for now, anyway - curled up on the couch at my apartment with a pint of Ben & Jerry's between us, watching videos that Gracie recorded on her iPhone.
The latest one, the last before she died, shows the other four in the attic of Terra Firma, laughing at all the silly heirlooms of the St. James family and teasing each other incessantly.
Mike speaks first, grinning at someone just off-camera. "Hey, Q, check this out."
Her laugh is pretty, melodic and tinkling. Gracie moves so that Quinn's face appears in her shot. Her hair is gathered up off her face and she's holding an old, tattered book. "This is a first edition. Jesse!" she calls, and the camera moves again.
Jesse is sitting by a box, his smile lazy and content. "My aunt was a packrat," he explains, and that statement makes Quinn laugh again.
"So are you," she says, and there's something so untouchable about this moment, something very pure about their friendship.
Finn laughs and there's a squeal as the camera jerks around, like he's wrapped Gracie up in his arms, surprised her by sneaking up behind her.
"Put me down!" she cries, all giggles, and Rachel and I gasp in unison at the sound of her voice.
He clearly does not put her down, since the camera is suddenly focused on the floor. "Remind me why we're up here, again?"
"Jesse's gonna make us supper." The camera swings up again to focus on Mike's grin, which widens even more. "What the eff are you doing, Gracie?"
"Documenting." Her voice is a little airier than mine. "For posterity. The night Jesse agreed to cook for us," she intones.
"Give me that." Quinn's tone is firm, just barely bordering on bossy. "I'll document, you be helpful."
"Gracie's always helpful."
Jesse scoffs. "I beg to differ."
"Apologize!" Gracie demands immediately. The camera moves around again, in Quinn's hands now, and shows us her face - my face.
"You know this is pointless?" The camera swings toward Finn, who is now standing by Jesse. "I don't understand what you're trying to find. Let's throw out the useless stuff. We'll order some pizza, have a good night."
"Finn." Someone else grabs the camera, probably Mike, and then it's trained on Quinn's face, a little too zoomed in at first. "This is his heritage."
Disgruntled, Finn says, "I thought we weren't allowed to have pasts."
Quinn doesn't say a word, but the look she throws toward Gracie speaks volumes. Gracie smiles as though she hasn't noticed the tension thrumming between the two men; she steps right into it, right between them.
"It's paaaaast dinnertime." She drawls out the words, sweet and playful. Her smile doesn't falter as she leans down, hands on Jesse's knees. "C'mon."
"Gracie." He touches her cheek and they share a look; a silent, incomprehensible conversation.
"Jesse." Quinn says his name the same way he just said Gracie's, reaching out to them both. "I'll help you cook," she offers, a laugh tucked into her words.
It ends there, cutting off to abruptly - they must have all abandoned their attempt to clean the attic and decided to eat.
But it's enough, that little snippet of their lives, and I know that Rachel senses it to from the way she cuddles up close to me, her chin perched on my shoulder. There are so many nuances in relationships, so many secrets that aren't really secrets, exactly, but just pieces of information that are so well known that they don't need to be discussed. The way these five people define themselves and their relationships with Gracie, as lovers or friends or something that I've never even known - those are the things I will never be able to learn simply from observing them.
"What do you think?" Rachel whispers, lips grazing my jaw.
I tilt my head away from her touch and say, "I don't know," on an exhale.
"San…"
I turn my head to look at her, our eyes locked. "Rachel." It's a problem for us sometimes, the stubborn way we're always both so sure that our own opinions are the right ones. "Don't do this."
She holds my gaze for a moment, thinking it over, and I hold my breath while I wait for her to make a decision. I don't want to fight on my last night with her but I can't back down any more than she can.
Rachel sighs softly. "Do you think any of those boys are the father?"
My body feels like it is uncoiling, tension seeping away. "The five of them don't seem to have friends - acquaintances, even - outside their group."
She plays with my hair, spinning strands around her fingers. "Maybe Gracie did. Maybe that was the problem."
I arch my eyebrows. "You think they killed her because she was with someone who wasn't one of them? Really?"
Rachel purses her lips. "Never rule anything out, baby."
That makes me roll my eyes at her. "You're such a cop."
She laughs, pretty and musical. "You love it."
My breath catches in my throat. "Yeah."
That surprises her, and I knew it would. "Yeah?" she asks, cautious eyes fixed on my face like she can't quite decide if I'm trying to trick her.
"Well." I feel grumpy about having this emotional conversation when I already know all the tricks to getting Rachel into bed. "It's obvious that you love me."
Her eyes widen. "Obvious?"
"Yes, obvious." I flash a quick grin at her. "I'm a cop, too, remember. I've seen the evidence."
She grins back, that bright smile I adore. "Oh, and what is this evidence?"
"You were singing Don't Go Breaking My Heart in the shower yesterday morning."
"Before I was rudely interrupted."
"You didn't seem too upset."
"I didn't want to hurt your feelings." She touches my cheek with her fingertips. "I know how sensitive you are."
It's not quite a joke and I could almost cry. "I'll miss you."
"Santana." The way she says my name is a sympathetic hum. "You're coming back to me."
I nod instead of saying something.
"San." Her hand finds mine, fingers threading together. "What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know." That is my biggest truth right now. "Say…that we'll have lots of phone sex."
She laughs again, shaking her head. "Are you really going to make me say it first?"
I shake my head, angling my body towards hers on the couch. "Let's not talk."
"But - "
I slip my fingers into her hair and lean in closer to her. "Shh. I know."
Rachel and I say our goodbyes at HQ, in the corner of Schue's office, while everyone else politely pretends not to spy. She's not coming with me to Terra Firma - it would be awkward, it would be too easy for me to be thrown off guard, it would be…hard.
"You'll be awesome," she tells him softly, stamping a final kiss against my cheek. I can feel her brave smile against my skin.
"Obviously."
Will clears his throat. "Ready, Santana?"
I breathe Rachel in for one last second, the scent of her shampoo and her skin, before I turn to him and wink, cheeky and sweet. "That's Gracie to you, Schuester."
He grins back at me proudly but I catch the slightest hint of something (it can't be regret, it can't) in his eyes. "Let's get you home," he says quietly.
The guys go with me - Sam drives and Will rides shotgun, Puck and I sit in the backseat. He holds my hand, which is one of those things that embarrasses us so that we can't look each other in the eye and will never, ever speak of it again.
But I'm thankful for it, anyway.
The road to Terra Firma is long and winding, picturesque yet desolate. It's quaint, in a way, like the path toward a New England boarding school - only certain people with certain pedigree would ever bother to travel it. However, there's something strange about this, this group of college students who have excluded themselves from society.
Schue catches my eye in the rearview mirror. "You'll be great. You always are."
Sam pulls into the driveway and stops the car. Three of the house's residents are sitting on its steps, awaiting our arrival, which I hadn't counted on. I thought I'd have another second or two to become the girl they were waiting for.
"I'll walk you," Schue says.
Puck squeezes my hand so hard it hurts. Out of the corner of his mouth, he asks, "You've got your gun?"
I nod.
One last squeeze of my hand, and then he lets go. "Go kick some ass, Lopez."
When I step out of the car I realize that the three of them are now standing - Finn and Mike are still back by the steps, hovering uncertainly, while Quinn has moved forward a few paces, looking at us with anxious eyes.
I can feel Will's presence - he's standing close by, just within my peripheral vision - but all I can see is her face, her pretty blonde hair, her blue dress and her white cardigan. All I can hear is the way she says that name, my name, with all the care and hope and love in the world -
"Gracie?"
Tears pool in her eyes but she blinks them away, finds a smile somewhere inside of her and plasters it on for my sake. Her fists are clenched and the wind is playing her dress, lifting the hem of it daringly. I can tell, just by looking at her, how very much she wants to hug me.
"Hi," I breathe.
Show time.
fin