FIC: Free Falling From a Work in Progress - Glee (Brittany/Santana, Rachel/Quinn) - 4/7
TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress (Part 4/7)
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
GENRE: Glee, but borrows from some of the spy mythology from 'Chuck'
PAIRING: Santana/Brittany, Rachel/Quinn
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: ~ 56,000
SUMMARY: Eight years after being recruited into the NSA, Special Agent Santana Lopez, aka Molly Chambers, is given a new assignment: track down the stolen Government Intersect and protect it from harm.
SPOILERS: 3.04 'Duets' and beyond pretty much destroyed my head canon for this, but let's move on and pretend it didn't.
SPECIAL THANKS TO: zep1980 for the amazing beta job. I would have been lost without you!
CHAPTERS: Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven |
NOTES: For the Glee Femslash Big Bang Challenge. Based on this prompt from the glee kink meme.
PART FOUR
When it's good, then it's good, it's so good 'til it goes bad
'Til you're trying to find the you that you once had
I have heard myself cry 'never again'
Broken down in agony, just tryin' find a friend
-‘Sober’, P!nk
****
Her day, the time limit she had been given by Major Mathews, was nearly over. Santana knew that soon, the entire power of the US Army would be coming, and though she could hold up against Quinn Fabray and her team of Fulcrum agents, she was no match for the agents that knew her, trained her.
Santana, in the midst of reverent worship, could not focus on that. Instead, Santana gave in to her starvation. She was settled heavily against the bed, afraid to breathe, afraid to touch, as Brittany slept away her adrenaline produced exhaustion.
A blonde bang fell forward, brushing against the bridge of Brittany's nose, tickling her into scrunching it.
The action was at once so familiar, and so endearing, Santana found herself choked with emotion, shaken as she lifted a careful hand and softly smoothed back the offending lock, once again revealing the dark blonde lashes.
She remembered once, when she was young and afraid, and overtaken with Breadstix-inspired aspirations, she had told Brittany that she wasn't in love with her. She had said it coldly, a verbal lash out for Brittany daring to once again think she owned her.
Santana had gone through a phase of resentment, then. She wanted to be a free bitch, and she wanted Brittany, and she wanted her Breadstix, and in that moment, Brittany was still the bossy little kid who had taken a scrawny Santana's arm and wrote her name on it with a big black marker, like she was one of Brittany's toys.
Later, when Brittany had taken the information to heart and attempted, in her own way, to move on with Artie, Santana had panicked. Brittany, who never wanted serious relationships because she was too busy sleeping with everyone (and Santana) to care, suddenly had a boyfriend.
Santana ended that relationship with a calculated dig at Artie, and never once, in that debacle, did she have to admit that Brittany was her safe place, and she had no idea how to be without her.
It wasn't until much later, when being popular didn't matter as much as what her future might bring, that Santana admitted to Brittany that all she really wanted, since she was a kid, was to be Brittany's boyfriend.
Her needs had grown; changed as she matured. Santana would never be Brittany's boyfriend, but what she had become was so much better. She was Brittany's best friend, lover, girlfriend, and later, the woman she would marry.
While Brittany was her strength, Santana was Brittany's protector, and it was a life-long calling.
She had never imagined it would take them both to this moment, with an Intersect in Brittany's head that had been meant for First Lieutenant Molly Chambers, and the chasm of a faked death lying between them.
In this calm before the storm, Santana reveled in her weakness, taking in a ragged, overwhelmed breath and turning her palm over to brush her knuckles against the soft down of Brittany's cheek.
When Brittany shifted against the attention, Santana froze, suddenly afraid to even breathe. A low moan vibrated out of Brittany's throat.
"I'm still dreaming," she whispered, voice rough and raspy, eyes shut. "Aren't I?" The carefree tone, with its hope and sweetness, was at once heart-wrenching and sobering.
Pressing her lips together, Santana considered for a brief, crazy moment, saying yes. "No, Brittany," she admitted. "You're not dreaming. You're not crazy, either. And you're not dead. This is real life."
Her words fell into a thick silence, pregnant with intensity and the harsh punishment of waiting as they settled over Brittany, slowly working into comprehension.
Tears stung suddenly at Santana's eyes, when Brittany's eyes opened and her former best friend, her current everything, got her first good look at her.
Without the panic and distraction of the chaos at the loading dock, Santana knew what would happen the moment she did, and Brittany's Intersect-infected head would see her again.
When she saw it happen, it was like a dagger thrust into her gut. The lids that fluttered, the gasp of air that Brittany inhaled, and the way Brittany stared at her now, with all the knowledge that the government had to offer, was confirmation that this was real.
Brittany jerked up in the bed, eyeing her like she was seeing a terrifying stranger.
Unable to help herself, Santana reached for Brittany, grabbing hold of her fingers and tangling tightly. "I'm sorry, Britt," she pleaded thickly, begging for the unforgivable. "I'm so sorry."
Brittany's chest rose and fell with harsh pants, as her gaze fell dumbly to Santana's hand clenching her own, obviously trying hard to reconcile the information in her head with what she had been given, forced to live through.
"But you're dead," she whispered. "We had a funeral."
"I'm sorry."
"I have your purple heart," Brittany continued, colored eyes darting up to her face. "The president sent me a letter."
"I'm sorry," she said again, helpless. Santana had never apologized more in her life, and it was ridiculous that it was the only thing she could say now, when those two words in reality, could mean nothing in this situation.
Maybe Brittany saw it. Saw the misery, the complete self-loathing, the utter resignation to her actions in her expression, because the connection finally sunk in.
Brittany jerked her hand away. As quickly as clarity had come, so did the grief. The anger. The devastation.
"You killed yourself," Brittany choked out, accusing her with flashing dark eyes and an angry mouth. "You killed yourself. You're not even Santana anymore. You're some person named Molly Chambers."
Santana's chest tightened, a spasm of pain that literally left her breathless. She nodded thickly. "Britt-"
"You said you wanted to marry me."
"I did," she promised, aching with the futility of it. "I do." She tried to reach for Brittany again, but Brittany scooted out of her way, nearly tumbling off the other side of the bed in her haste to get away from her.
Cowed, Santana took her hand back, wrung her fingers together in her lap. "Brittany," she tried again. "You have to know-"
"Why'd you come back?"
The question was asked flatly and with a straight, angry face.
To Santana, it was one she didn't know how to answer. "What?"
"You left." Brittany climbed off the bed, stood and looked like a shadow of herself, in a wrinkled, dirty white shirt, and a cheap tie, so full of anger and grief. "You're dead. You don't exist anymore. So why did you come back? Because it wasn't for me."
Santana could only shake her head wildly. "Brittany-"
"If it was, you would have come back a long time ago," Brittany said, shoes squeaking on the hard wood floor of the apartment, rounding the bed like an angry cat. "You wouldn't have spent four years letting me think that you were gone-"
"I couldn't come back."
"Because you're dead, right?" Brittany was now only a foot away from her, staring at her with wide, angry eyes.
Even with the tears stinging, even with the reflexive need to grab hold of Brittany and demand she forgive her, Santana knew they were speaking in circles.
She flexed her hands, tried hard to control her breathing, and then began as carefully, as calmly as she could, "Brittany, what you have in your head is called the Intersect. It's a government program-"
She should have seen Brittany's fist coming. She didn't. It cracked against her jaw, snapping her head back and causing a flash of pain that was blinding.
"Shut up!"
Eyes watering from the pain, Santana acted impulsively, launching to her feet and grabbing hold of Brittany's hands, clasping them hard in front of her.
The action was enough to send Brittany flailing. "Don't touch me!"
She was still taller, still stronger, and before Santana had entered the army every single pseudo-wrestling match between them had ended up with Santana on the floor and Brittany straddling her.
They weren't kids anymore, and like Brittany said, Santana was dead.
Molly Chambers absorbed the wild blows and controlled them, twisting Brittany's wrists and hooking her leg behind Brittany's calf, shoving with her hip and throwing Brittany off balance.
Brittany fell heavily, back slapping against the wood, knocking the wind out of her.
Santana wasted no time pinning her down, hands slapping down against Brittany's, legs tangled against her own.
"Brittany, I was compromised," she snapped.
"Get off of me."
When Brittany bucked, Santana rode her, hips angling and keeping Brittany down.
"They compromised me," she continued, louder the harder Brittany struggled, fighting for dominance and the will to break through Brittany's haze of fury. "They leaked my identity! I wanted to come home. I wanted to marry you. But I was on an assignment and it got screwed up. They found out who I was and they're the type of people who come after you, and they don't just destroy you, but they destroy every one you love. They would have found out about you and they would have come after you. Stop!" she growled, digging her nails into Brittany's wrists. "I didn't have a choice! I didn't want to but they would have killed you."
Emotionally and physically spent, Brittany stopped struggling, flopping back against the floor and breathing hard, heavy pants. She was sweaty underneath Santana, and deliberately obtuse, not wanting to process the information, not wanting to believe it.
In the quiet that followed, Santana's awareness grew. The press of her groin against Brittany's, the way their hands had tangled furiously, clutching to each other in a desperate bid for control.
Brittany's chest heaved up and down, and in her eyes was the vibrant, alive intensity that had captivated Santana when she was a child and held her spellbound ever since.
Santana loved her. So desperately. So faithfully. So fruitlessly.
"And that's why you're back, right?" Brittany asked, breathless and weakened from the struggle. "To protect me?" The words made Santana wince. "Or because I have this thing in my head and you want it for yourself? Like Quinn?"
To even think Brittany would believe her capable of it was devastating. "No," she whispered, broken. "Brittany, I didn't want this for you. I didn't ever want this."
Maybe Brittany finally heard her. Maybe somewhere in Brittany's fog of hurt, she saw her again, because Brittany's head tilted, and she finally began to look, deep into Santana's eyes.
Their hands, tangled together, twitched as Brittany flexed her fingers. Santana's heart leapt with fragile hope.
"If I didn't have this in my head," Brittany began, slowly and carefully. "Would you have ever come back?"
It was a question Santana never wanted to answer, and Brittany saw it in her face. Once again, the expression hardened, and when Brittany bucked, it was with a power that Santana wasn't prepared for.
She had to scramble to regain control, hooking legs underneath Brittany's thighs and using her torso for leverage, crossing Brittany's arms and pinning them between their chests.
Red-faced, Brittany didn't stop struggling. "Leave me alone!"
"Brittany, you have to stop-"
"LEAVE ME ALONE." The animalistic scream bled the rest of Brittany's strength and fury from her body. Tears glistened, and suddenly, Brittany released a sob that was pure emotion.
"I'm sorry," Santana pleaded. "I'm sorry."
Brittany began to cry, fruitlessly pushing at her hands and then suddenly giving up, head falling against the wood and the tears drifting down her cheeks, a messy torrent that expelled emotion like bile.
"I'm sorry," she said, again and again. "I'm so sorry."
She let go of Brittany's trapped hands, smoothing caresses up Brittany's delicate neck to cradle her wet cheeks. Unable to help herself, Santana fell against her, pressing her mouth against Brittany's jaw, her temple, her mussed hair.
As Brittany's tears fell, her wrath bleeding out with them, she didn't push Santana away. Santana instead felt arms weave around her, clutching her so tightly she felt enveloped.
Blindly, Brittany nudged with her head, until her searching lips brushed against Santana's.
Without control, Santana whimpered, mouth opening as she tasted salt and Brittany's tongue. A low, agonized moan broke between them; Santana didn't know who it came from. She didn't care.
All she cared about was kissing Brittany back.
****
Rachel had taken several first aid courses, the first of many being when she had been given the position of floor safety warden in her first job as she worked her way through UCLA.
It had been a position she had taken seriously, and though the other members of the safety team obviously rolled their eyes behind her back and glared daggers at her when she asked the emergency preparedness instructors question after question, Rachel knew that it was important.
In her years as Brittany's roommate, Rachel had cleaned up too many skinned knees and elbow scrapes to count. Brittany had her moments of clumsiness, stemmed from the thoughtless way Brittany approached life, with her attention in twenty places at once.
To think that she had gone from patching up one ex-Cheerio to another was almost surreal, in a bittersweet, haunting sort of way.
Treating Brittany's superficial wounds felt almost maternal. Rachel had even gone so far as to kiss Brittany's paper cut once, patting her with a sweet smile to make it feel better. It had come from one friend to another, a genuine sisterly affection for a high school buddy who had become a roommate.
Cleaning up Quinn's wounds felt so very different.
Quinn's shirt had been discarded, peeled away by Rachel's own trembling hands. Settled against Rachel's own couch, legs sprawled open to allow Rachel to kneel between them, her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip to endure the pain. Quinn's breasts, supported by a sheer black bra that left almost nothing to the imagination, rose up and down with the rise and fall of Quinn's heavy pants.
The left bra strap had been peeled away from Quinn's bruised and bloodied shoulder, leaving one soft bauble very nearly bare.
Brittany had been taken. Quinn had been shot. Behind both of these horrific actions was Santana, proof that she really had become the monster that Quinn claimed her to be.
The circumstances were extreme, and although the knot in Rachel's stomach remained coiled so tight she felt vaguely nauseous, making her literally sick with worry, Rachel couldn't help but shudder at the intimately erotic sight before her.
It was mortifying. The discoloration that marred Quinn's toned, flat stomach was slowly going purple. Quinn had placed her trust in Rachel's care, in the process entrusting herself in a way Rachel would have never imagined. In return, she found herself aching in uncontrolled arousal, betrayed by her own body's misinterpretations of the way she was settled between Quinn's open legs, the shift of Quinn's jeans brushing against her waist, the way Quinn's hips arched, unintentionally drawing Rachel closer and deeper against her groin.
Rachel knew that with extreme circumstances came extreme emotion. It was what any classic soap storyline was all about, and after three years as Cybil on Guiding Hope, she liked to consider herself an expert.
Based on what had occurred between them in the brief time they had reconnected, it would make complete sense that she would feel an immense sort of hero worship for Quinn. She was the stereotype of the dashing hero, distractingly beautiful, strong and stoic, with eyes that burned with depth and the charisma and presence that had intimidated Rachel so much when they were kids.
The rush of fear and adrenaline brought with it heightened senses, a racing heartbeat that pumped blood into every organ, dizzying her with oversensitive stimulation as she dealt with the reality of placing hands all over the soft skin of a half-naked, gorgeous woman, who arched beneath her and moaned sounds that Rachel only ever heard during sex.
It excited her, made her feverish and too aware of her own body, nipples hardening at every sound Quinn made, embarrassingly obvious as they strained against her threadbare tanktop, legs shifting restlessly as the aroused ache between them throbbed for attention.
Humiliating, and absolutely uncalled for. Rachel was not a teenage boy, and so she pressed her lips together in a valiant smile and ignored the erotic impulses, even when she leaned forward and Quinn's cleavage, black lace and full breasts, brushed against her teasingly, causing the muscles in her stomach to jolt.
"God-dammit-" Quinn's hiss spat against her ear, teasing hot breath and a jerk of pain. Rachel jolted up immediately, wincing in apology.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, but the peroxide-soaked gauze against Quinn's shoulder stayed put, wiping at crusted blood and torn flesh. "We have to clean it or it'll get infected."
"Oh, did you figure that out all by yourself?" she heard, a nasty retort.
She faltered, reminded vividly of the old Cheerios head cheerleader, who sneered at Rachel with perfectly pouted lips and a gleam in her eye.
Fingers grabbed her bicep suddenly, squeezing. "I'm sorry," Quinn whispered, shaking her head softly. "Old habits die hard sometimes." With a noisy inhalation, Quinn shuddered and fell forward, forehead slipping against Rachel's shoulder, breathing her in for support.
The instinctive hurt faded in the face of Quinn's obvious need. Rachel's eyes once again went to the ragged flesh of the open wound inflicted on Quinn by Santana. "You're going to need stitches."
"Just bandage it. I'll get it done later."
"Okay." Tiny puffs of breath skidded by her ear. Breathless, Rachel focused on lifting off the stained gauze.
Quinn's fingers dug into her arm, nails creasing half moons into the muscle, restricting her movement.
"Quinn."
Colored eyes glanced up. Rachel arched a brow pointedly.
"Oh." The flush that colored Quinn's cheeks as she let go was amusing in a way that seemed almost sacred to Rachel. "Sorry."
"It's fine." Her smile was friendly, as comforting as she could manage. It gave her back her confidence, tamped back the horny hormones that sought to keep reminding her of Quinn's body, the flash of rosy nipples pressing hard against the lace of the lingerie, the pants of breath that raised goosebumps on Rachel's sensitive skin.
Her purpose renewed, Rachel quietly worked, pressing a fresh gauze against the cleaned wound, careful as she pulled and snapped off strips of medical tape.
Underneath her, Quinn grew quiet; still. A curious glance revealed a woman with an expression that seemed charged, but unreadable. Their eyes locked, and a small, tender smile formed on the full lips.
"You're good at this."
She bowed her head humbly. "Four years of living with Brittany, you learn to expect a few accidents."
With the mention of Brittany, came the devastating reminder of why Quinn was here, why Brittany was not. It struck her like a spike to the heart, causing a flare of pain that was impossible to squelch.
The soft press of a palm against her cheek surprised her. Rachel looked up, and realized she had begun to tremble, stricken with her loss.
Quinn's thumb grazed over the angle of her cheekbone. "I'm sorry, Rachel," she whispered thickly, eyes meeting hers in intense apology. "I tried."
"It's not your fault," Rachel replied, mechanic and polite, but sincere. "You did all you could."
The hand fell from her cheek, leaving behind it the burn of Quinn's touch. "It wasn't good enough." Dark eyes grew stormy with guilt, distant with the memory. "This is really my fault, isn't it? I started this whole mess, when I sent you that email-"
"Stop-" It was the look of pure misery, pure conflict, that battled on Quinn's face so nakedly that broke her of her own grief, caused an instinctual rise from her haunches to press her fingers against Quinn's chin, forcing blue eyes to meet her own. "You can't blame yourself."
Quinn's body sank with disbelief. "You don't know what you're talking about. If you knew half of it-"
"I know everything I need to know-"
"I sent you the file-"
"You did it because you trusted me," she said firmly, desperately.
It was meant to be reassuring, remind Quinn of her intentions, of the fact that not everything in life could be controlled. Rachel had learned that the hard way.
But instead of a relieved smile, Quinn only stared at her mutely. A flash of emotion spread over her face, gone so quickly Rachel could not name it, but it spoke of misery and conflict.
"You had no way of knowing Brittany would have seen it first." Soft and gentle, Rachel's voice came off husky with emotion. The smile she valiantly managed trembled, but her thumbs carefully smoothed at the lines of Quinn's frown, a testament to her sincerity. "You can't control everything, Quinn. That's not how life works."
And maybe, just maybe, Quinn heard her, because although she did not respond, although she did not speak, her eyes did not look away. Instead she stared at Rachel with a scrutiny that felt like she was studying every pore, every feature, memorizing Rachel like a map.
Breathless, suddenly self conscious, Rachel bit in a sigh. The heat of her body had again begun to respond, insistent in it's reminder of Rachel's own desire.
The shudder that threatened to come was enough to cause Rachel to shift, break away.
The hand that caught hers, catching hold of the dropping digits and keeping Rachel in place, startled her in it's quickness. A low whine of pain escaped Quinn like a meow, but she didn't relax her grip. Fingers tangled in hers, until Quinn had placed Rachel's warm hand just above her own bare breast, over her heart.
Rachel discovered she could feel it beating, hard and fast, against her.
"You have to promise me," Quinn whispered, voice thick with emotion. "If Brittany calls you to tell you where she is, you'll tell me. I can help her. I can save her. Rachel." The fingers squeezed, pressed harder against Quinn's body, as Quinn's eyes held hers, pleading for Brittany. "You can trust me."
In her younger days, Rachel fell into infatuation too easily. It was a weakness she had come to learn about herself, and one she had consciously tried to rectify. She considered herself wiser, these days, focused on her career, and thinking herself the lucky one, because although there was always loneliness, she had seen Brittany's devastation, her heartbreak at the loss of Santana.
But Rachel knew, she always knew, that her heart was capable of overruling her logic. It terrified her, because if that was the case, if her emotion took hold and Rachel let it, she would grow truly helpless.
And here was Quinn, proud and stoic and so obviously lonely, caught up in her mission and rediscovery, caught in a mission that was beyond her, over her head, conflicted between her duty and her own emotion. Beautiful and aware of it, but vulnerable and open in a way that made Rachel want desperately to reassure her that she was not a monster. She was not alone. She was not weak.
She captured Rachel's heart and made it beat in a way that felt truly unique, unstoppable.
It frightened her, and yet to know it, to name it, felt like such a relief, Rachel could only offer a shaky smile and a strained voice. "I know," she managed. "I know I can. I promise, Quinn."
In the wake of her epiphany, Rachel felt silly, unsure. She was both spellbound and slightly afraid of it, and more than ever, she was aware of their state of undress, of her hand curved over Quinn's skin, and Quinn's toned, beautiful body beneath it.
Shaken, unsure, Rachel disentangled herself, tore her eyes away from Quinn and her temptation.
"Can I ask you something?" Quinn asked, a moment later, as Rachel quietly began to place the contents of her first aid kit back in the box she stored them.
"Of course," Rachel said. She felt cold, exposed in her skimpy clothes, too aware of the way Quinn looked at her.
"Don't get offended or anything, but..." Rachel glanced up. In the middle of pulling her strap back over her shoulders, Quinn did not look at her. Rachel followed the movement, a knot in her throat. "Are you attracted to women?"
Rachel gasped, a startled exhalation that caught in her throat when Quinn's head came up and her eyes pinned hers.
"It's okay if you are." Quinn's knowing smile was mortifying. "I just... I caught you looking a couple times."
Oh God. The burn in Rachel's face made it impossible to negate. She tore her eyes away, hands suddenly shaking as she refocused on her supplies.
"Rachel."
"My character's brief romantic lesbian storyline was very enlightening."
Quinn absorbed that. "Okay."
Shaken, Rachel snapped the kit closed, and nearly took her own finger off in her nervous enthusiasm.
"There's something to be said for the female form. There's a certain eroticism when you're with a woman that can be quite different than with a man. More intimate, if you're open."
"Rachel." A warm palm pressed on her shoulder, stopping her spastic movements.
Mortified, Rachel kept her head down.
"It's okay." She sounded almost amused at Rachel's discomfort, and it caused a jolt of anger in Rachel that gave her the courage to face Quinn Fabray, out and proud and without worry of judgment.
"I know it's okay," she snapped.
But on Quinn's face there was only a smile, quiet and knowing. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't know what you meant."
The implication, both in what was said and what was not, was so astounding, Rachel found herself knocked breathless.
"Really?" she squeaked dumbly, and then flushed, unable to ignore the way Quinn tried to laugh, the action cut short by a wince and a press of her hand against her bruised ribs. "Quinn-"
"I'm okay," Quinn said, but didn't move away when Rachel settled beside her, thigh pressing against hers as Rachel reached for the bruise. "Girls are hot."
The sentence was said flippantly, almost in jest. It might have been taken as such if Rachel's palm wasn't currently pressing flat against Quinn's stomach, warm and feeling the twitch of muscles underneath.
Quinn's smile faded. A finger brushed encouragingly against Rachel's.
The arousal that jolted within Rachel shocked her, causing an impulse that jerked her own hand back as if it had been burnt.
In that one movement, Quinn had made her intentions clear.
She wanted her. Quinn Fabray wanted to seduce Rachel Berry.
Feverish, dizzy with the implication, Rachel felt both thrilled and suddenly thrown. Quinn's cocky assurance, her deliberate movements, it spoke of such certainty, a calculated, by the books seduction.
Quinn had done this before, and Rachel wasn't sure she wanted to be just another conquest. After all this time, maybe it would mean more to just be a friend.
She placed her hands in her lap, purposely did not meet Quinn's expression.
"Thank you, Quinn."
Beside her, Quinn shifted. Her thigh pressed closer, bare arm rubbing against Rachel's. "For what?"
"For what you're doing for Brittany," she whispered, eyes on her fingers, tangling them restlessly together. "I can't say I've ever been betrayed by someone to the extent of what Santana has done to Brittany, but I remember what it felt like when Jesse left me for Vocal Adrenaline." Quinn's movement against her, distracting and full of purpose, stopped. Her smug smile faltered. "I thought he loved me, but he used me. I was gutted. I thought I would never ... trust anyone ever again." The memory was a harsh one. Since then, she had run into Jesse St. James, in her years at UCLA. There, he fought alongside of her for the school leads and it was clear that he struggled for his star just as she did. He had asked for forgiveness, for a second chance.
Rachel had been able to give one, not the other. There was no trust, and truthfully, Rachel's heart had hardened considerably against him.
"I can't imagine what it would feel like to be used at that level," she whispered. "I don't know if Brittany can ever get over it."
"Rachel." Quinn sounded odd, strained. "I know I wasn't always the nicest person to you know in high school-"
Rachel shook her head, mouth quirking in a phantom smile. "Stop. I wasn't a saint either."
"I'm still sorry."
That strain, that guilt, was still there. Rachel's head lifted. Quinn looked at her. Just looked. That seductive smirk, the knowing smug smile, it had disappeared, and in its place was an expression with no expectation, and genuine remorse.
It affected Rachel profoundly.
Without hesitation or insecurity, she turned into Quinn, fingers creasing against Quinn's slender neck and lips pressing firmly against Quinn's mouth.
She shocked her. It was obvious in how Quinn stiffened, absorbed the kiss.
Intoxicated, Rachel allowed it, until Quinn's mouth opened against hers with a gasp, body sinking into the couch.
She kissed her intimately, tasting Quinn's tongue as she scraped fingers against Quinn's neck and pushed in closer. Breathless pants inhaled and exhaled through her nose as Quinn pushed back, moaning into her mouth and causing within her such a desperate need for more she couldn't stop herself from lifting up, throwing a leg over Quinn's lap and sitting astride her.
Fingers clamped hard against her waist, Quinn's body arching against her. The kiss broke with a rough moan.
"Are you okay?" Rachel asked, remembering suddenly Quinn's ribs, the wounded shoulder.
"Fine," Quinn mumbled, head shaking fervently as her head tilted forward, seeking eagerly to reestablish contact with her mouth.
Rachel was overtaken by her senses: the warmth of Quinn underneath her, the feel of Quinn's lips sliding hotly against hers, the aching awareness of her own groin, grinding down hard in Quinn's lap, desperately seeking friction through the flimsiness of her shorts and the rough zipper of Quinn's denim.
Quinn's hips bucked, roughly dragging fabric against her. Rachel cried out, buried the moan into Quinn's mouth, tangling against her tongue.
"Rachel," Quinn mumbled, the sound of her name blurred against her mouth, hands spread hotly underneath Rachel's tank, riding it up to press against Rachel's stomach. "Rachel-"
Alive, desperately aroused and consumed only with need, Rachel didn't want to listen. Her body splayed against Quinn's, sinking them both into the couch, hips shifting into Quinn. Her palm slid deliberately between them, dragging fingers over prickled skin, until she covered the breast she had been so desperately distracted by, thumbing the hard nipple through the lace.
Quinn broke away with a hard hiss, forehead tilted against Rachel's, eyes scrunched together in aroused frustration.
"Rachel," she growled, even as she arched into Rachel's touch, pressed herself into Rachel's fingers. "You don't have to do this-"
"I know I don't have to," Rachel responded thickly. She rocked astride Quinn, frantic and seeking rhythm, as her head dipped and she found Quinn's earlobe, tonguing it, breathing in the musk and sweat. "I want to," she confessed, hearing Quinn's whimper, the erotic helpless groan that came out of her that sparked Rachel and made her wetter. "I want you."
Warm hands against her back, underneath her shirt, in the midst of kneading into the skin, exploring, stilled suddenly. "I want you, too," Quinn confessed, and there was such quiet wonder in her tone, Rachel found herself pausing as well, pulling back to stare down.
The look on Quinn's face was one of absolute astonishment. When Rachel shifted, Quinn's nails dragged against her, keeping their lower bodies connected and Rachel in place. "You don't have to sound so surprised about it," Rachel pointed out, feeling almost petulant at the thought.
Quinn's eyes widened, her head shook. "No, Rachel, it's just-"
The insecurity that threatened to rise up within Rachel was deliberately controlled when Rachel bent down and swept her tongue into Quinn's mouth, burying the words, and distracting Quinn just enough to allow Rachel to sneak her hands between Quinn and the couch, discovering the clasp of the black bra.
Breaking the maddening kiss, Rachel pulled back when Quinn arched against her, moaning at the loss of contact.
She heard the whine of frustration, saw the glaze of lust in Quinn's eyes, and found herself smiling. "In case you haven't noticed," she whispered, brushing another kiss against Quinn's swollen lips. "I'm trying to seduce you. Don't kill the mood."
She unsnapped the clasp. Quinn's breasts, free of the support, sank against her own. Dragging the straps carefully over Quinn's shoulder, Rachel gently cupped them, feeling the fullness, thumbing across the areola, watching Quinn's eyes flutter from the contact.
"You're seducing me?" Quinn asked breathlessly, disbelieving laughter escaping as she opened her eyes.
Rachel smiled. "It's not obvious?" Settling back, she carefully reached for the ends of her own shirt, and pulled it over her head.
The action struck Quinn dumb. The other woman could only stare, eyes fixed on Rachel's small breasts, hands sliding around Rachel's waist and journeying upward.
"You're gorgeous," she said, again with that note of surprise, like Quinn couldn't really believe it was happening, like she couldn't believe how much she wanted it to. "Rachel, I don't want to hurt you-"
"Shhhh." Rachel bent forward, until their hands were trapped between them, until their nipples brushed against each other, and they both trembled with the sensation. "You won't. Let me take care of you."
She pushed up, rising to her knees, lifting her soaked shorts from Quinn's jeans, until her nipple bumped against Quinn's chin and settled against her mouth.
Quinn sighed raggedly, and closed her lips around it, sucking on Rachel's breast with a lustful enthusiasm that was intoxicating to witness. Rachel watched, captivated, until the sensation of Quinn's tongue sliding against her became too overwhelming. She closed her eyes, pressed a kiss to the top of Quinn's head.
Quinn slid arms around her waist, held her so tightly with trembling arms and a bruising grip.
Rachel let her.
****
In Santana's kiss was a devastating power that Brittany once thought could take over the world.
In Santana's touch was a burn that was so intense it could bring a man to his knees.
In her stare was a magic that could suspend time and make slaves of kings.
In Santana's arms was a security that made Brittany want to weep, because although she still sparked with grief, her mind swam with accusations and hurt and fear, her heart had betrayed her along with her body, and they pulled towards Santana with a neediness that had resulted in this:
Santana's mouth sunken against hers, engaged in a deep, soul-sucking embrace. Santana's naked body, heavy and familiar, writhing and moving. Her own fingers, digging deep into dark glossy locks, tangling into curls and scraping into Santana's scalp. Her legs, wrapped around Santana's, opening herself to her lover, and allowing those long fingers to sink inside her.
She felt the hard wood floor against her back. Felt the burning, sensational ache of Santana's invasion, heard the squish of the wetness and as she entered her and pulled back, fucking her hard, trembling from the exertion.
The tension, four years of it, coiled deep inside of her, building with each thrust, with the feel of Santana's swollen, bitten lips sucking on hers, the sensation of their sweat soaked bodies rubbing against each other.
Brittany had never stopped having sex. But her body knew the difference, had always known the difference, between a heavy petting session with a random stranger, and the true burst of emotion that only erupted during intimacy with Santana.
It was something Brittany never thought she would feel again, and the intensity of it made her want to weep, claw at Santana's back and grab hold of her, until Santana had no choice but to drop flat against her.
"More," she begged, frantic as she nipped at Santana's ear, sucked on the salty, sweaty neck. She wanted to be filled, needed to be overwhelmed, needed so much more. "I need- Fuck-"
Santana filled her, thicker now, more fingers, more everything, and the burn was exactly what she wanted. She thrust her hips wildly, taking her in deeper, felt the tears prickle in her eyes and then felt Santana's mouth against them, licking them away.
"I love you," she heard, a hoarse, rusty voice, stained with lust and love and everything Santana used to be.
Brittany's eyes opened. Santana caught her mouth, thrust her tongue in time with her fingers, and Brittany whined softly, feeling her body shudder, the tension become something closer to torture.
"I love you," she heard, again, blazed into her brain, scorching her soul. "I love you, Brittany."
"FUCK," she snapped, because it was overwhelming, too much. Santana's fingers, Santana's mouth, Santana's body, and Santana's love, lost and found and fuck- "Fuck-Fuck-"
"Brittany. Brittany. Brittany, look at me." She did, eyes opening as she stared into Santana's face, saw a gash on Santana's cheek and the tears that sparkled in her eyes, felt the fingers that curled inside of her, and the friction against her clit. "It's me," Santana whispered, on top of her, inside of her, overtaking every barrier, every sensation. "It's me."
It was Santana, here with her, fucking her, making love to her in a fast, frenzied, frantic way, possessing her on the floor, and it filled every part of her, obliterated every piece of darkness that had weighed her down before, her partner in this intricate dance, matching her move for move, to the music only they could hear.
With tear-streaked eyes, Brittany looked at her, recognized her lover. "Santana," she whispered, a broken greeting, cupping her face and offering a shaken greeting.
The burst of happiness, the sudden loving, relieved smile that was so familiar and signified what home was, was followed immediately by a surge, fingers working deep inside of her and curving to scrape against the part of Brittany that would shatter her.
It ripped a sobbing cry from her throat, as the long-dormant coil that had tensed inside her released, sending her tumbling over the edge into her climax, with only Santana to hold on to.
She emerged a trembling, boneless entity, ever aware of Santana's fingers curled inside of her, body collapsed on top of her, heavy and sweaty.
She felt her mouth skimming, pressing kisses against her shoulder, her cheek, her throat, her mouth.
It's then she realized that Santana was crying. Santana, who always cried, no matter how stoic or bad ass she pretended to be.
It's was another reminder that Santana wasn't dead, but instead alive and here, inside of her, making love to her, crying into her arms with emotion that whispered to Brittany that despite her own angry protestations, Santana really, truly loved her.
Instinct and affection moved her, and Brittany soothed where in her passion, she had clawed before, flat palms against the welts she raised on Santana's back, rubbing circles against the other woman's skin, feeling the shuddering of a silent weeping that mimicked her grief and sudden relief.
When Santana finally lifted her head, Brittany's neck was wet with tears, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the feeling that eclipsed everything else, of finally feeling whole, of greeting a lover who had been gone for far too long, of inviting in a best friend who, no matter the circumstances or the reasons, she still loved beyond reason.
Brittany lifted her head and pressed a gentle kiss against Santana. "Can we get on the bed?" she asked softly, wincing when she rolled her shoulders and felt the stiffness. "This was okay before but-"
"Oh, God, Britt-" Santana sounded both exasperated and ashamed, scrambling up and breaking contact, making Brittany wince with the sudden absence. "Come on."
She grabbed hold of Brittany's hand. Brittany felt the wetness that coated Santana's fingers.
She didn't mind it.
As she slid into cool sheets, felt the nakedness of Santana behind her, the reality of the situation felt far away, hard to face or even believe it was actually happening.
"I'm still mad at you," she offered lamely, even as she sunk herself further into Santana's embrace. "But don't leave me again. If you leave me, I won't forgive you."
"I won't leave you," she heard immediately. Eyes fluttered closed, and Brittany felt dizzy with relief. She turned her head, reaching back to accept the soft kiss from Santana, cementing her declaration. "I promise."
"What's going to happen?" she found herself asking as she settled again, Santana's mouth pressing against her shoulder, breathing her in.
"Well, I'm not going to let Quinn find you, obviously," Santana muttered, soft and deliberate, as if she were thinking out loud. "And if the NSA discovers that you have the Intersect in your head..."
She didn't finish that sentence. Santana's hands reached around, found hers and tangled tight, spooning her. Brittany's eyes closed, trembled from the sensation.
"I can get us out of the country tonight." Santana's mouth skimmed her earlobe. "I've already talked to a guy about passports-I've got some money offshore-"
Brittany's eyes opened. "Wait, what? What do you mean?"
Santana paused, looking almost startled. "Brittany, we can't stay here," she said, and it caused a shudder of irritation, the way Santana talked to her like she didn't get it. "Fulcrum will never stop looking for you. And if the NSA finds you, it won't be any better. We have to run."
"Just leave. Just like that? Leave everything behind?"
To even consider it was a terrifying thought. Brittany wasn't deluded enough to think she had an amazing life, but what she had forged in her years without Santana was hers. Her job at the Buy More, her life with Rachel, her holidays with her parents and the moments that had made her laugh and smile-Xbox with Bob, softball with Dani, the lesbian down in storage...
"Brittany, we have to."
She swallowed hard. It was too easy to give into the anger, to look at Santana and remember. "I'm not like you," she snapped. "I can't just up and leave everyone just because I feel like it."
She regretted it as soon as she said it, because Santana looked like she had been slapped, hit hard right across her face, sucker punched in a way that winded and wounded her.
Still, in her panic, Brittany could not apologize. Not when the hurt blazed so badly.
"It wasn't like that," Santana whispered, like she had lost her breath. "You think that was easy for me? It fucking killed me, Britt." She was getting angry now. Her dark eyes flashed and the softness that had overcome her in the aftermath of their fierce coupling faded. Painfully obvious now were the welts, scratches and bruises that littered Santana's body like a road map of her life without Brittany.
It told a story of a person who hadn't celebrated life, but worked solely for the purpose of saving others. Being a hero.
Just like Brittany wanted her to.
Chest tight with emotion, Brittany closed her eyes, settling back against the pillows.
Behind her, Santana stayed quiet. Brittany could feel the dark gaze on her.
"I need to call Rachel," she finally whispered. "I know she'll be worried."
"No," Santana snapped immediately.
"She should at least know-"
"Quinn's got her hooks into her." Santana sat up, rubbed at her face hard. "I know you love her, and she's like your bff now or whatever, but you can't trust her now. Not with Quinn behind her, pulling her strings, like a god-damn puppet master."
"You don't know that!" Brittany snapped. For Santana to even think she did was insulting. "You don't know her. Not anymore."
But Santana was unmoved. "And you don't know Quinn," she said, her smile a grimace, tired and resigned. When Brittany didn't respond, Santana shifted in her direction. "Brittany," she began, the sheets sliding away from her naked torso as she pulled her legs between them and regarded her seriously, "Do you love me? Do you trust me?"
She asked those questions in a point blank, matter-of-fact tone. There was no wiggle room, and had Santana asked Brittany those same questions four years ago, the answer would have come without hesitation.
The hurt that still flared inside Brittany blocked any initial response, but it was so very telling that even with the lies, the faked death, the barrier of emotional fallout between them, Brittany still had that one truth inside of her: that she loved Santana, that she trusted her.
The realization and admission defeated her, caused her eyes to lower as she nodded quietly.
A rush of air fluttered suddenly across her forearm. Santana had her eyes closed, and she looked exhausted, almost pale, like she had been holding her breath.
"Brittany." The four years that had passed between them became suddenly apparent. In the lines on Santana's face, the gash on her cheek and the rough, calloused fingers that didn't touch her now. Dark eyes shined at her, haunted and wearing an expression that Brittany hadn't seen since senior year, in high school. "I'm sorry."
Brittany remembered that expression.
"You're scared," she breathed.
Santana's eyes grew wide, thrown at the sudden accusation. "Of course I'm scared," she spat, almost incredulous. "I'm fucking terrified, Brittany. I'm scared of what will happen if they find you. I'm scared of losing you again. I'm scared of what I'll do if I ever find Quinn. Mostly I'm terrified that you'll never forgive me for what I've done." Santana's fingers played destructively with the sheet between them, on the verge of tearing it to bits. "That you'll never love me again."
The quiet, gentle admission tore at Brittany, broke through the last of her barriers like a bull charging through a splintering fence.
Her fingers covered Santana's, stilling her spastic, nervous movements. On her face was a reassuring, sweet smile. "I love you," she whispered, with perfect intonation, no room for misinterpretation. "I've never stopped loving you. I'll go with you. Wherever you want to go."
She waited only a moment for the words to sink into Santana, before she caught the brief flicker of understanding and leaned forward.
When she pressed her lips against Santana's jaw, she heard a ragged inhalation, felt a slight stiffening against her mouth, proof of her effect on Santana.
To know it, to remember it, gave her a ridiculous burst of adrenaline; her body literally began to hum.
"Brittany." Brittany ignored the throaty, helpless moan. She closed her eyes, inhaled the sweaty, musky smell of sex that mingled with Santana's own scent, and opened her mouth wetly against the most sensitive part of Santana's neck. "Brittany-"
"Shhh." Taking the sheet between them, Brittany lifted it away, baring them both. Brittany paused, content for the moment to simply look at Santana, from manicured toes to a tousled, brunette head and eyes clouded with naked, conflicted desire.
There had never been a more seductive sight.
"I just want to make you feel something else for a minute." Maybe Santana recognized the sentence; she swallowed hard, trembled against her.
Brittany kissed her, and it felt like the first time, when she was a little bossy kid who had just branded Santana for her very own, because back then, she had been taught that writing her name on things meant they belonged to her.
Her innocence was gone. Brittany was no longer a child, and the grief she had suffered had taken away much of her child-like innocence. What remained had been stolen by the Intersect in her head, and the events surrounding it.
Still, in that moment, she felt almost glad for it. It was like she was reborn, like she had been jolted awake after a very long sleep, and could rediscover everything, as if it were the first time.
She coated her fingers with the slick wetness between Santana's legs, hiked in her breath as she slowly probed swollen flesh, felt Santana cry out and submit to her, body and soul.
Brittany needed it. She needed it more than she needed anything. She needed Santana, with her enigmatic expressions and haunted demeanor, to open herself in a way she only ever had with Brittany.
She left a smear as she spread Santana's legs, shuddered with desire and longing as she pressed an intimate kiss against Santana's breast, her trembling, toned stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps edging toward her thighs.
It was with the relief of an addict that she tasted Santana, moaning into her movements, hearing the cry and pushing back against the jerk of Santana's hips.
She didn't close her eyes. She didn't want to. She wanted to watch the way Santana writhed above her, looking tortured and in rapture at the same time, making those wordless moans and sighs that grew higher in pitch the closer she got, the harder Brittany stroked with her tongue.
Towards the end, when Santana was actively bucking and Brittany had her fingers inside her, Brittany felt fingers tangling with her hand, the one pressed flat against Santana's hip, keeping her pinned down.
She grabbed them, kept them close, and felt them clench, locking with hers as Santana flew over the edge, muscles clamping hard around Brittany, flooding her mouth and chin with the proof of her effect on Santana.
Afterward, Santana lay there, trembling, with her eyes closed and teardrops on her eyelids, absorbed in the experience.
To Brittany, she looked reborn.
With a kiss against Santana's lips, Brittany turned the sated and pliable body into herself, letting Santana sink into her curves, expel tufts of hot breath against her neck.
"Fuck," she heard, and she smiled. Santana's fear was gone, and in its place was a curious sedation, like Santana had been drugged. Her eyes fluttered, her body stretched against Brittany's like a cat.
Brittany's mouth brushed against Santana's temple. "Get some rest."
"There's no time," Santana mumbled, but the argument was a weak one, because already, she was growing heavy in Brittany's arms.
"Yes there is," Brittany insisted. "You're safe for a few minutes."
If Santana were lucid, she might have argued. Instead, she mumbled something Brittany couldn't quite make out, and drifted off.
It was the beginning of the rest of their lives, and when Brittany looked at it that way, with Santana's naked body settled so safely against hers, and the taste of her on her lips, being infected with the Intersect virus didn't seem so bad.
Not if Brittany and Santana were there, keeping each other safe.
But in the quiet, Brittany couldn't help the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she considered the sacrifice that meant.
Where she couldn't even say good-bye.
With wide-open eyes, Brittany shifted against Santana. Her clothes had been ripped away, and next to the pile that included Santana's leather jacket, was her cellphone.
****
Part Five
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
GENRE: Glee, but borrows from some of the spy mythology from 'Chuck'
PAIRING: Santana/Brittany, Rachel/Quinn
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: ~ 56,000
SUMMARY: Eight years after being recruited into the NSA, Special Agent Santana Lopez, aka Molly Chambers, is given a new assignment: track down the stolen Government Intersect and protect it from harm.
SPOILERS: 3.04 'Duets' and beyond pretty much destroyed my head canon for this, but let's move on and pretend it didn't.
SPECIAL THANKS TO: zep1980 for the amazing beta job. I would have been lost without you!
CHAPTERS: Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven |
NOTES: For the Glee Femslash Big Bang Challenge. Based on this prompt from the glee kink meme.
PART FOUR
When it's good, then it's good, it's so good 'til it goes bad
'Til you're trying to find the you that you once had
I have heard myself cry 'never again'
Broken down in agony, just tryin' find a friend
-‘Sober’, P!nk
****
Her day, the time limit she had been given by Major Mathews, was nearly over. Santana knew that soon, the entire power of the US Army would be coming, and though she could hold up against Quinn Fabray and her team of Fulcrum agents, she was no match for the agents that knew her, trained her.
Santana, in the midst of reverent worship, could not focus on that. Instead, Santana gave in to her starvation. She was settled heavily against the bed, afraid to breathe, afraid to touch, as Brittany slept away her adrenaline produced exhaustion.
A blonde bang fell forward, brushing against the bridge of Brittany's nose, tickling her into scrunching it.
The action was at once so familiar, and so endearing, Santana found herself choked with emotion, shaken as she lifted a careful hand and softly smoothed back the offending lock, once again revealing the dark blonde lashes.
She remembered once, when she was young and afraid, and overtaken with Breadstix-inspired aspirations, she had told Brittany that she wasn't in love with her. She had said it coldly, a verbal lash out for Brittany daring to once again think she owned her.
Santana had gone through a phase of resentment, then. She wanted to be a free bitch, and she wanted Brittany, and she wanted her Breadstix, and in that moment, Brittany was still the bossy little kid who had taken a scrawny Santana's arm and wrote her name on it with a big black marker, like she was one of Brittany's toys.
Later, when Brittany had taken the information to heart and attempted, in her own way, to move on with Artie, Santana had panicked. Brittany, who never wanted serious relationships because she was too busy sleeping with everyone (and Santana) to care, suddenly had a boyfriend.
Santana ended that relationship with a calculated dig at Artie, and never once, in that debacle, did she have to admit that Brittany was her safe place, and she had no idea how to be without her.
It wasn't until much later, when being popular didn't matter as much as what her future might bring, that Santana admitted to Brittany that all she really wanted, since she was a kid, was to be Brittany's boyfriend.
Her needs had grown; changed as she matured. Santana would never be Brittany's boyfriend, but what she had become was so much better. She was Brittany's best friend, lover, girlfriend, and later, the woman she would marry.
While Brittany was her strength, Santana was Brittany's protector, and it was a life-long calling.
She had never imagined it would take them both to this moment, with an Intersect in Brittany's head that had been meant for First Lieutenant Molly Chambers, and the chasm of a faked death lying between them.
In this calm before the storm, Santana reveled in her weakness, taking in a ragged, overwhelmed breath and turning her palm over to brush her knuckles against the soft down of Brittany's cheek.
When Brittany shifted against the attention, Santana froze, suddenly afraid to even breathe. A low moan vibrated out of Brittany's throat.
"I'm still dreaming," she whispered, voice rough and raspy, eyes shut. "Aren't I?" The carefree tone, with its hope and sweetness, was at once heart-wrenching and sobering.
Pressing her lips together, Santana considered for a brief, crazy moment, saying yes. "No, Brittany," she admitted. "You're not dreaming. You're not crazy, either. And you're not dead. This is real life."
Her words fell into a thick silence, pregnant with intensity and the harsh punishment of waiting as they settled over Brittany, slowly working into comprehension.
Tears stung suddenly at Santana's eyes, when Brittany's eyes opened and her former best friend, her current everything, got her first good look at her.
Without the panic and distraction of the chaos at the loading dock, Santana knew what would happen the moment she did, and Brittany's Intersect-infected head would see her again.
When she saw it happen, it was like a dagger thrust into her gut. The lids that fluttered, the gasp of air that Brittany inhaled, and the way Brittany stared at her now, with all the knowledge that the government had to offer, was confirmation that this was real.
Brittany jerked up in the bed, eyeing her like she was seeing a terrifying stranger.
Unable to help herself, Santana reached for Brittany, grabbing hold of her fingers and tangling tightly. "I'm sorry, Britt," she pleaded thickly, begging for the unforgivable. "I'm so sorry."
Brittany's chest rose and fell with harsh pants, as her gaze fell dumbly to Santana's hand clenching her own, obviously trying hard to reconcile the information in her head with what she had been given, forced to live through.
"But you're dead," she whispered. "We had a funeral."
"I'm sorry."
"I have your purple heart," Brittany continued, colored eyes darting up to her face. "The president sent me a letter."
"I'm sorry," she said again, helpless. Santana had never apologized more in her life, and it was ridiculous that it was the only thing she could say now, when those two words in reality, could mean nothing in this situation.
Maybe Brittany saw it. Saw the misery, the complete self-loathing, the utter resignation to her actions in her expression, because the connection finally sunk in.
Brittany jerked her hand away. As quickly as clarity had come, so did the grief. The anger. The devastation.
"You killed yourself," Brittany choked out, accusing her with flashing dark eyes and an angry mouth. "You killed yourself. You're not even Santana anymore. You're some person named Molly Chambers."
Santana's chest tightened, a spasm of pain that literally left her breathless. She nodded thickly. "Britt-"
"You said you wanted to marry me."
"I did," she promised, aching with the futility of it. "I do." She tried to reach for Brittany again, but Brittany scooted out of her way, nearly tumbling off the other side of the bed in her haste to get away from her.
Cowed, Santana took her hand back, wrung her fingers together in her lap. "Brittany," she tried again. "You have to know-"
"Why'd you come back?"
The question was asked flatly and with a straight, angry face.
To Santana, it was one she didn't know how to answer. "What?"
"You left." Brittany climbed off the bed, stood and looked like a shadow of herself, in a wrinkled, dirty white shirt, and a cheap tie, so full of anger and grief. "You're dead. You don't exist anymore. So why did you come back? Because it wasn't for me."
Santana could only shake her head wildly. "Brittany-"
"If it was, you would have come back a long time ago," Brittany said, shoes squeaking on the hard wood floor of the apartment, rounding the bed like an angry cat. "You wouldn't have spent four years letting me think that you were gone-"
"I couldn't come back."
"Because you're dead, right?" Brittany was now only a foot away from her, staring at her with wide, angry eyes.
Even with the tears stinging, even with the reflexive need to grab hold of Brittany and demand she forgive her, Santana knew they were speaking in circles.
She flexed her hands, tried hard to control her breathing, and then began as carefully, as calmly as she could, "Brittany, what you have in your head is called the Intersect. It's a government program-"
She should have seen Brittany's fist coming. She didn't. It cracked against her jaw, snapping her head back and causing a flash of pain that was blinding.
"Shut up!"
Eyes watering from the pain, Santana acted impulsively, launching to her feet and grabbing hold of Brittany's hands, clasping them hard in front of her.
The action was enough to send Brittany flailing. "Don't touch me!"
She was still taller, still stronger, and before Santana had entered the army every single pseudo-wrestling match between them had ended up with Santana on the floor and Brittany straddling her.
They weren't kids anymore, and like Brittany said, Santana was dead.
Molly Chambers absorbed the wild blows and controlled them, twisting Brittany's wrists and hooking her leg behind Brittany's calf, shoving with her hip and throwing Brittany off balance.
Brittany fell heavily, back slapping against the wood, knocking the wind out of her.
Santana wasted no time pinning her down, hands slapping down against Brittany's, legs tangled against her own.
"Brittany, I was compromised," she snapped.
"Get off of me."
When Brittany bucked, Santana rode her, hips angling and keeping Brittany down.
"They compromised me," she continued, louder the harder Brittany struggled, fighting for dominance and the will to break through Brittany's haze of fury. "They leaked my identity! I wanted to come home. I wanted to marry you. But I was on an assignment and it got screwed up. They found out who I was and they're the type of people who come after you, and they don't just destroy you, but they destroy every one you love. They would have found out about you and they would have come after you. Stop!" she growled, digging her nails into Brittany's wrists. "I didn't have a choice! I didn't want to but they would have killed you."
Emotionally and physically spent, Brittany stopped struggling, flopping back against the floor and breathing hard, heavy pants. She was sweaty underneath Santana, and deliberately obtuse, not wanting to process the information, not wanting to believe it.
In the quiet that followed, Santana's awareness grew. The press of her groin against Brittany's, the way their hands had tangled furiously, clutching to each other in a desperate bid for control.
Brittany's chest heaved up and down, and in her eyes was the vibrant, alive intensity that had captivated Santana when she was a child and held her spellbound ever since.
Santana loved her. So desperately. So faithfully. So fruitlessly.
"And that's why you're back, right?" Brittany asked, breathless and weakened from the struggle. "To protect me?" The words made Santana wince. "Or because I have this thing in my head and you want it for yourself? Like Quinn?"
To even think Brittany would believe her capable of it was devastating. "No," she whispered, broken. "Brittany, I didn't want this for you. I didn't ever want this."
Maybe Brittany finally heard her. Maybe somewhere in Brittany's fog of hurt, she saw her again, because Brittany's head tilted, and she finally began to look, deep into Santana's eyes.
Their hands, tangled together, twitched as Brittany flexed her fingers. Santana's heart leapt with fragile hope.
"If I didn't have this in my head," Brittany began, slowly and carefully. "Would you have ever come back?"
It was a question Santana never wanted to answer, and Brittany saw it in her face. Once again, the expression hardened, and when Brittany bucked, it was with a power that Santana wasn't prepared for.
She had to scramble to regain control, hooking legs underneath Brittany's thighs and using her torso for leverage, crossing Brittany's arms and pinning them between their chests.
Red-faced, Brittany didn't stop struggling. "Leave me alone!"
"Brittany, you have to stop-"
"LEAVE ME ALONE." The animalistic scream bled the rest of Brittany's strength and fury from her body. Tears glistened, and suddenly, Brittany released a sob that was pure emotion.
"I'm sorry," Santana pleaded. "I'm sorry."
Brittany began to cry, fruitlessly pushing at her hands and then suddenly giving up, head falling against the wood and the tears drifting down her cheeks, a messy torrent that expelled emotion like bile.
"I'm sorry," she said, again and again. "I'm so sorry."
She let go of Brittany's trapped hands, smoothing caresses up Brittany's delicate neck to cradle her wet cheeks. Unable to help herself, Santana fell against her, pressing her mouth against Brittany's jaw, her temple, her mussed hair.
As Brittany's tears fell, her wrath bleeding out with them, she didn't push Santana away. Santana instead felt arms weave around her, clutching her so tightly she felt enveloped.
Blindly, Brittany nudged with her head, until her searching lips brushed against Santana's.
Without control, Santana whimpered, mouth opening as she tasted salt and Brittany's tongue. A low, agonized moan broke between them; Santana didn't know who it came from. She didn't care.
All she cared about was kissing Brittany back.
****
Rachel had taken several first aid courses, the first of many being when she had been given the position of floor safety warden in her first job as she worked her way through UCLA.
It had been a position she had taken seriously, and though the other members of the safety team obviously rolled their eyes behind her back and glared daggers at her when she asked the emergency preparedness instructors question after question, Rachel knew that it was important.
In her years as Brittany's roommate, Rachel had cleaned up too many skinned knees and elbow scrapes to count. Brittany had her moments of clumsiness, stemmed from the thoughtless way Brittany approached life, with her attention in twenty places at once.
To think that she had gone from patching up one ex-Cheerio to another was almost surreal, in a bittersweet, haunting sort of way.
Treating Brittany's superficial wounds felt almost maternal. Rachel had even gone so far as to kiss Brittany's paper cut once, patting her with a sweet smile to make it feel better. It had come from one friend to another, a genuine sisterly affection for a high school buddy who had become a roommate.
Cleaning up Quinn's wounds felt so very different.
Quinn's shirt had been discarded, peeled away by Rachel's own trembling hands. Settled against Rachel's own couch, legs sprawled open to allow Rachel to kneel between them, her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip to endure the pain. Quinn's breasts, supported by a sheer black bra that left almost nothing to the imagination, rose up and down with the rise and fall of Quinn's heavy pants.
The left bra strap had been peeled away from Quinn's bruised and bloodied shoulder, leaving one soft bauble very nearly bare.
Brittany had been taken. Quinn had been shot. Behind both of these horrific actions was Santana, proof that she really had become the monster that Quinn claimed her to be.
The circumstances were extreme, and although the knot in Rachel's stomach remained coiled so tight she felt vaguely nauseous, making her literally sick with worry, Rachel couldn't help but shudder at the intimately erotic sight before her.
It was mortifying. The discoloration that marred Quinn's toned, flat stomach was slowly going purple. Quinn had placed her trust in Rachel's care, in the process entrusting herself in a way Rachel would have never imagined. In return, she found herself aching in uncontrolled arousal, betrayed by her own body's misinterpretations of the way she was settled between Quinn's open legs, the shift of Quinn's jeans brushing against her waist, the way Quinn's hips arched, unintentionally drawing Rachel closer and deeper against her groin.
Rachel knew that with extreme circumstances came extreme emotion. It was what any classic soap storyline was all about, and after three years as Cybil on Guiding Hope, she liked to consider herself an expert.
Based on what had occurred between them in the brief time they had reconnected, it would make complete sense that she would feel an immense sort of hero worship for Quinn. She was the stereotype of the dashing hero, distractingly beautiful, strong and stoic, with eyes that burned with depth and the charisma and presence that had intimidated Rachel so much when they were kids.
The rush of fear and adrenaline brought with it heightened senses, a racing heartbeat that pumped blood into every organ, dizzying her with oversensitive stimulation as she dealt with the reality of placing hands all over the soft skin of a half-naked, gorgeous woman, who arched beneath her and moaned sounds that Rachel only ever heard during sex.
It excited her, made her feverish and too aware of her own body, nipples hardening at every sound Quinn made, embarrassingly obvious as they strained against her threadbare tanktop, legs shifting restlessly as the aroused ache between them throbbed for attention.
Humiliating, and absolutely uncalled for. Rachel was not a teenage boy, and so she pressed her lips together in a valiant smile and ignored the erotic impulses, even when she leaned forward and Quinn's cleavage, black lace and full breasts, brushed against her teasingly, causing the muscles in her stomach to jolt.
"God-dammit-" Quinn's hiss spat against her ear, teasing hot breath and a jerk of pain. Rachel jolted up immediately, wincing in apology.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, but the peroxide-soaked gauze against Quinn's shoulder stayed put, wiping at crusted blood and torn flesh. "We have to clean it or it'll get infected."
"Oh, did you figure that out all by yourself?" she heard, a nasty retort.
She faltered, reminded vividly of the old Cheerios head cheerleader, who sneered at Rachel with perfectly pouted lips and a gleam in her eye.
Fingers grabbed her bicep suddenly, squeezing. "I'm sorry," Quinn whispered, shaking her head softly. "Old habits die hard sometimes." With a noisy inhalation, Quinn shuddered and fell forward, forehead slipping against Rachel's shoulder, breathing her in for support.
The instinctive hurt faded in the face of Quinn's obvious need. Rachel's eyes once again went to the ragged flesh of the open wound inflicted on Quinn by Santana. "You're going to need stitches."
"Just bandage it. I'll get it done later."
"Okay." Tiny puffs of breath skidded by her ear. Breathless, Rachel focused on lifting off the stained gauze.
Quinn's fingers dug into her arm, nails creasing half moons into the muscle, restricting her movement.
"Quinn."
Colored eyes glanced up. Rachel arched a brow pointedly.
"Oh." The flush that colored Quinn's cheeks as she let go was amusing in a way that seemed almost sacred to Rachel. "Sorry."
"It's fine." Her smile was friendly, as comforting as she could manage. It gave her back her confidence, tamped back the horny hormones that sought to keep reminding her of Quinn's body, the flash of rosy nipples pressing hard against the lace of the lingerie, the pants of breath that raised goosebumps on Rachel's sensitive skin.
Her purpose renewed, Rachel quietly worked, pressing a fresh gauze against the cleaned wound, careful as she pulled and snapped off strips of medical tape.
Underneath her, Quinn grew quiet; still. A curious glance revealed a woman with an expression that seemed charged, but unreadable. Their eyes locked, and a small, tender smile formed on the full lips.
"You're good at this."
She bowed her head humbly. "Four years of living with Brittany, you learn to expect a few accidents."
With the mention of Brittany, came the devastating reminder of why Quinn was here, why Brittany was not. It struck her like a spike to the heart, causing a flare of pain that was impossible to squelch.
The soft press of a palm against her cheek surprised her. Rachel looked up, and realized she had begun to tremble, stricken with her loss.
Quinn's thumb grazed over the angle of her cheekbone. "I'm sorry, Rachel," she whispered thickly, eyes meeting hers in intense apology. "I tried."
"It's not your fault," Rachel replied, mechanic and polite, but sincere. "You did all you could."
The hand fell from her cheek, leaving behind it the burn of Quinn's touch. "It wasn't good enough." Dark eyes grew stormy with guilt, distant with the memory. "This is really my fault, isn't it? I started this whole mess, when I sent you that email-"
"Stop-" It was the look of pure misery, pure conflict, that battled on Quinn's face so nakedly that broke her of her own grief, caused an instinctual rise from her haunches to press her fingers against Quinn's chin, forcing blue eyes to meet her own. "You can't blame yourself."
Quinn's body sank with disbelief. "You don't know what you're talking about. If you knew half of it-"
"I know everything I need to know-"
"I sent you the file-"
"You did it because you trusted me," she said firmly, desperately.
It was meant to be reassuring, remind Quinn of her intentions, of the fact that not everything in life could be controlled. Rachel had learned that the hard way.
But instead of a relieved smile, Quinn only stared at her mutely. A flash of emotion spread over her face, gone so quickly Rachel could not name it, but it spoke of misery and conflict.
"You had no way of knowing Brittany would have seen it first." Soft and gentle, Rachel's voice came off husky with emotion. The smile she valiantly managed trembled, but her thumbs carefully smoothed at the lines of Quinn's frown, a testament to her sincerity. "You can't control everything, Quinn. That's not how life works."
And maybe, just maybe, Quinn heard her, because although she did not respond, although she did not speak, her eyes did not look away. Instead she stared at Rachel with a scrutiny that felt like she was studying every pore, every feature, memorizing Rachel like a map.
Breathless, suddenly self conscious, Rachel bit in a sigh. The heat of her body had again begun to respond, insistent in it's reminder of Rachel's own desire.
The shudder that threatened to come was enough to cause Rachel to shift, break away.
The hand that caught hers, catching hold of the dropping digits and keeping Rachel in place, startled her in it's quickness. A low whine of pain escaped Quinn like a meow, but she didn't relax her grip. Fingers tangled in hers, until Quinn had placed Rachel's warm hand just above her own bare breast, over her heart.
Rachel discovered she could feel it beating, hard and fast, against her.
"You have to promise me," Quinn whispered, voice thick with emotion. "If Brittany calls you to tell you where she is, you'll tell me. I can help her. I can save her. Rachel." The fingers squeezed, pressed harder against Quinn's body, as Quinn's eyes held hers, pleading for Brittany. "You can trust me."
In her younger days, Rachel fell into infatuation too easily. It was a weakness she had come to learn about herself, and one she had consciously tried to rectify. She considered herself wiser, these days, focused on her career, and thinking herself the lucky one, because although there was always loneliness, she had seen Brittany's devastation, her heartbreak at the loss of Santana.
But Rachel knew, she always knew, that her heart was capable of overruling her logic. It terrified her, because if that was the case, if her emotion took hold and Rachel let it, she would grow truly helpless.
And here was Quinn, proud and stoic and so obviously lonely, caught up in her mission and rediscovery, caught in a mission that was beyond her, over her head, conflicted between her duty and her own emotion. Beautiful and aware of it, but vulnerable and open in a way that made Rachel want desperately to reassure her that she was not a monster. She was not alone. She was not weak.
She captured Rachel's heart and made it beat in a way that felt truly unique, unstoppable.
It frightened her, and yet to know it, to name it, felt like such a relief, Rachel could only offer a shaky smile and a strained voice. "I know," she managed. "I know I can. I promise, Quinn."
In the wake of her epiphany, Rachel felt silly, unsure. She was both spellbound and slightly afraid of it, and more than ever, she was aware of their state of undress, of her hand curved over Quinn's skin, and Quinn's toned, beautiful body beneath it.
Shaken, unsure, Rachel disentangled herself, tore her eyes away from Quinn and her temptation.
"Can I ask you something?" Quinn asked, a moment later, as Rachel quietly began to place the contents of her first aid kit back in the box she stored them.
"Of course," Rachel said. She felt cold, exposed in her skimpy clothes, too aware of the way Quinn looked at her.
"Don't get offended or anything, but..." Rachel glanced up. In the middle of pulling her strap back over her shoulders, Quinn did not look at her. Rachel followed the movement, a knot in her throat. "Are you attracted to women?"
Rachel gasped, a startled exhalation that caught in her throat when Quinn's head came up and her eyes pinned hers.
"It's okay if you are." Quinn's knowing smile was mortifying. "I just... I caught you looking a couple times."
Oh God. The burn in Rachel's face made it impossible to negate. She tore her eyes away, hands suddenly shaking as she refocused on her supplies.
"Rachel."
"My character's brief romantic lesbian storyline was very enlightening."
Quinn absorbed that. "Okay."
Shaken, Rachel snapped the kit closed, and nearly took her own finger off in her nervous enthusiasm.
"There's something to be said for the female form. There's a certain eroticism when you're with a woman that can be quite different than with a man. More intimate, if you're open."
"Rachel." A warm palm pressed on her shoulder, stopping her spastic movements.
Mortified, Rachel kept her head down.
"It's okay." She sounded almost amused at Rachel's discomfort, and it caused a jolt of anger in Rachel that gave her the courage to face Quinn Fabray, out and proud and without worry of judgment.
"I know it's okay," she snapped.
But on Quinn's face there was only a smile, quiet and knowing. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't know what you meant."
The implication, both in what was said and what was not, was so astounding, Rachel found herself knocked breathless.
"Really?" she squeaked dumbly, and then flushed, unable to ignore the way Quinn tried to laugh, the action cut short by a wince and a press of her hand against her bruised ribs. "Quinn-"
"I'm okay," Quinn said, but didn't move away when Rachel settled beside her, thigh pressing against hers as Rachel reached for the bruise. "Girls are hot."
The sentence was said flippantly, almost in jest. It might have been taken as such if Rachel's palm wasn't currently pressing flat against Quinn's stomach, warm and feeling the twitch of muscles underneath.
Quinn's smile faded. A finger brushed encouragingly against Rachel's.
The arousal that jolted within Rachel shocked her, causing an impulse that jerked her own hand back as if it had been burnt.
In that one movement, Quinn had made her intentions clear.
She wanted her. Quinn Fabray wanted to seduce Rachel Berry.
Feverish, dizzy with the implication, Rachel felt both thrilled and suddenly thrown. Quinn's cocky assurance, her deliberate movements, it spoke of such certainty, a calculated, by the books seduction.
Quinn had done this before, and Rachel wasn't sure she wanted to be just another conquest. After all this time, maybe it would mean more to just be a friend.
She placed her hands in her lap, purposely did not meet Quinn's expression.
"Thank you, Quinn."
Beside her, Quinn shifted. Her thigh pressed closer, bare arm rubbing against Rachel's. "For what?"
"For what you're doing for Brittany," she whispered, eyes on her fingers, tangling them restlessly together. "I can't say I've ever been betrayed by someone to the extent of what Santana has done to Brittany, but I remember what it felt like when Jesse left me for Vocal Adrenaline." Quinn's movement against her, distracting and full of purpose, stopped. Her smug smile faltered. "I thought he loved me, but he used me. I was gutted. I thought I would never ... trust anyone ever again." The memory was a harsh one. Since then, she had run into Jesse St. James, in her years at UCLA. There, he fought alongside of her for the school leads and it was clear that he struggled for his star just as she did. He had asked for forgiveness, for a second chance.
Rachel had been able to give one, not the other. There was no trust, and truthfully, Rachel's heart had hardened considerably against him.
"I can't imagine what it would feel like to be used at that level," she whispered. "I don't know if Brittany can ever get over it."
"Rachel." Quinn sounded odd, strained. "I know I wasn't always the nicest person to you know in high school-"
Rachel shook her head, mouth quirking in a phantom smile. "Stop. I wasn't a saint either."
"I'm still sorry."
That strain, that guilt, was still there. Rachel's head lifted. Quinn looked at her. Just looked. That seductive smirk, the knowing smug smile, it had disappeared, and in its place was an expression with no expectation, and genuine remorse.
It affected Rachel profoundly.
Without hesitation or insecurity, she turned into Quinn, fingers creasing against Quinn's slender neck and lips pressing firmly against Quinn's mouth.
She shocked her. It was obvious in how Quinn stiffened, absorbed the kiss.
Intoxicated, Rachel allowed it, until Quinn's mouth opened against hers with a gasp, body sinking into the couch.
She kissed her intimately, tasting Quinn's tongue as she scraped fingers against Quinn's neck and pushed in closer. Breathless pants inhaled and exhaled through her nose as Quinn pushed back, moaning into her mouth and causing within her such a desperate need for more she couldn't stop herself from lifting up, throwing a leg over Quinn's lap and sitting astride her.
Fingers clamped hard against her waist, Quinn's body arching against her. The kiss broke with a rough moan.
"Are you okay?" Rachel asked, remembering suddenly Quinn's ribs, the wounded shoulder.
"Fine," Quinn mumbled, head shaking fervently as her head tilted forward, seeking eagerly to reestablish contact with her mouth.
Rachel was overtaken by her senses: the warmth of Quinn underneath her, the feel of Quinn's lips sliding hotly against hers, the aching awareness of her own groin, grinding down hard in Quinn's lap, desperately seeking friction through the flimsiness of her shorts and the rough zipper of Quinn's denim.
Quinn's hips bucked, roughly dragging fabric against her. Rachel cried out, buried the moan into Quinn's mouth, tangling against her tongue.
"Rachel," Quinn mumbled, the sound of her name blurred against her mouth, hands spread hotly underneath Rachel's tank, riding it up to press against Rachel's stomach. "Rachel-"
Alive, desperately aroused and consumed only with need, Rachel didn't want to listen. Her body splayed against Quinn's, sinking them both into the couch, hips shifting into Quinn. Her palm slid deliberately between them, dragging fingers over prickled skin, until she covered the breast she had been so desperately distracted by, thumbing the hard nipple through the lace.
Quinn broke away with a hard hiss, forehead tilted against Rachel's, eyes scrunched together in aroused frustration.
"Rachel," she growled, even as she arched into Rachel's touch, pressed herself into Rachel's fingers. "You don't have to do this-"
"I know I don't have to," Rachel responded thickly. She rocked astride Quinn, frantic and seeking rhythm, as her head dipped and she found Quinn's earlobe, tonguing it, breathing in the musk and sweat. "I want to," she confessed, hearing Quinn's whimper, the erotic helpless groan that came out of her that sparked Rachel and made her wetter. "I want you."
Warm hands against her back, underneath her shirt, in the midst of kneading into the skin, exploring, stilled suddenly. "I want you, too," Quinn confessed, and there was such quiet wonder in her tone, Rachel found herself pausing as well, pulling back to stare down.
The look on Quinn's face was one of absolute astonishment. When Rachel shifted, Quinn's nails dragged against her, keeping their lower bodies connected and Rachel in place. "You don't have to sound so surprised about it," Rachel pointed out, feeling almost petulant at the thought.
Quinn's eyes widened, her head shook. "No, Rachel, it's just-"
The insecurity that threatened to rise up within Rachel was deliberately controlled when Rachel bent down and swept her tongue into Quinn's mouth, burying the words, and distracting Quinn just enough to allow Rachel to sneak her hands between Quinn and the couch, discovering the clasp of the black bra.
Breaking the maddening kiss, Rachel pulled back when Quinn arched against her, moaning at the loss of contact.
She heard the whine of frustration, saw the glaze of lust in Quinn's eyes, and found herself smiling. "In case you haven't noticed," she whispered, brushing another kiss against Quinn's swollen lips. "I'm trying to seduce you. Don't kill the mood."
She unsnapped the clasp. Quinn's breasts, free of the support, sank against her own. Dragging the straps carefully over Quinn's shoulder, Rachel gently cupped them, feeling the fullness, thumbing across the areola, watching Quinn's eyes flutter from the contact.
"You're seducing me?" Quinn asked breathlessly, disbelieving laughter escaping as she opened her eyes.
Rachel smiled. "It's not obvious?" Settling back, she carefully reached for the ends of her own shirt, and pulled it over her head.
The action struck Quinn dumb. The other woman could only stare, eyes fixed on Rachel's small breasts, hands sliding around Rachel's waist and journeying upward.
"You're gorgeous," she said, again with that note of surprise, like Quinn couldn't really believe it was happening, like she couldn't believe how much she wanted it to. "Rachel, I don't want to hurt you-"
"Shhhh." Rachel bent forward, until their hands were trapped between them, until their nipples brushed against each other, and they both trembled with the sensation. "You won't. Let me take care of you."
She pushed up, rising to her knees, lifting her soaked shorts from Quinn's jeans, until her nipple bumped against Quinn's chin and settled against her mouth.
Quinn sighed raggedly, and closed her lips around it, sucking on Rachel's breast with a lustful enthusiasm that was intoxicating to witness. Rachel watched, captivated, until the sensation of Quinn's tongue sliding against her became too overwhelming. She closed her eyes, pressed a kiss to the top of Quinn's head.
Quinn slid arms around her waist, held her so tightly with trembling arms and a bruising grip.
Rachel let her.
****
In Santana's kiss was a devastating power that Brittany once thought could take over the world.
In Santana's touch was a burn that was so intense it could bring a man to his knees.
In her stare was a magic that could suspend time and make slaves of kings.
In Santana's arms was a security that made Brittany want to weep, because although she still sparked with grief, her mind swam with accusations and hurt and fear, her heart had betrayed her along with her body, and they pulled towards Santana with a neediness that had resulted in this:
Santana's mouth sunken against hers, engaged in a deep, soul-sucking embrace. Santana's naked body, heavy and familiar, writhing and moving. Her own fingers, digging deep into dark glossy locks, tangling into curls and scraping into Santana's scalp. Her legs, wrapped around Santana's, opening herself to her lover, and allowing those long fingers to sink inside her.
She felt the hard wood floor against her back. Felt the burning, sensational ache of Santana's invasion, heard the squish of the wetness and as she entered her and pulled back, fucking her hard, trembling from the exertion.
The tension, four years of it, coiled deep inside of her, building with each thrust, with the feel of Santana's swollen, bitten lips sucking on hers, the sensation of their sweat soaked bodies rubbing against each other.
Brittany had never stopped having sex. But her body knew the difference, had always known the difference, between a heavy petting session with a random stranger, and the true burst of emotion that only erupted during intimacy with Santana.
It was something Brittany never thought she would feel again, and the intensity of it made her want to weep, claw at Santana's back and grab hold of her, until Santana had no choice but to drop flat against her.
"More," she begged, frantic as she nipped at Santana's ear, sucked on the salty, sweaty neck. She wanted to be filled, needed to be overwhelmed, needed so much more. "I need- Fuck-"
Santana filled her, thicker now, more fingers, more everything, and the burn was exactly what she wanted. She thrust her hips wildly, taking her in deeper, felt the tears prickle in her eyes and then felt Santana's mouth against them, licking them away.
"I love you," she heard, a hoarse, rusty voice, stained with lust and love and everything Santana used to be.
Brittany's eyes opened. Santana caught her mouth, thrust her tongue in time with her fingers, and Brittany whined softly, feeling her body shudder, the tension become something closer to torture.
"I love you," she heard, again, blazed into her brain, scorching her soul. "I love you, Brittany."
"FUCK," she snapped, because it was overwhelming, too much. Santana's fingers, Santana's mouth, Santana's body, and Santana's love, lost and found and fuck- "Fuck-Fuck-"
"Brittany. Brittany. Brittany, look at me." She did, eyes opening as she stared into Santana's face, saw a gash on Santana's cheek and the tears that sparkled in her eyes, felt the fingers that curled inside of her, and the friction against her clit. "It's me," Santana whispered, on top of her, inside of her, overtaking every barrier, every sensation. "It's me."
It was Santana, here with her, fucking her, making love to her in a fast, frenzied, frantic way, possessing her on the floor, and it filled every part of her, obliterated every piece of darkness that had weighed her down before, her partner in this intricate dance, matching her move for move, to the music only they could hear.
With tear-streaked eyes, Brittany looked at her, recognized her lover. "Santana," she whispered, a broken greeting, cupping her face and offering a shaken greeting.
The burst of happiness, the sudden loving, relieved smile that was so familiar and signified what home was, was followed immediately by a surge, fingers working deep inside of her and curving to scrape against the part of Brittany that would shatter her.
It ripped a sobbing cry from her throat, as the long-dormant coil that had tensed inside her released, sending her tumbling over the edge into her climax, with only Santana to hold on to.
She emerged a trembling, boneless entity, ever aware of Santana's fingers curled inside of her, body collapsed on top of her, heavy and sweaty.
She felt her mouth skimming, pressing kisses against her shoulder, her cheek, her throat, her mouth.
It's then she realized that Santana was crying. Santana, who always cried, no matter how stoic or bad ass she pretended to be.
It's was another reminder that Santana wasn't dead, but instead alive and here, inside of her, making love to her, crying into her arms with emotion that whispered to Brittany that despite her own angry protestations, Santana really, truly loved her.
Instinct and affection moved her, and Brittany soothed where in her passion, she had clawed before, flat palms against the welts she raised on Santana's back, rubbing circles against the other woman's skin, feeling the shuddering of a silent weeping that mimicked her grief and sudden relief.
When Santana finally lifted her head, Brittany's neck was wet with tears, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the feeling that eclipsed everything else, of finally feeling whole, of greeting a lover who had been gone for far too long, of inviting in a best friend who, no matter the circumstances or the reasons, she still loved beyond reason.
Brittany lifted her head and pressed a gentle kiss against Santana. "Can we get on the bed?" she asked softly, wincing when she rolled her shoulders and felt the stiffness. "This was okay before but-"
"Oh, God, Britt-" Santana sounded both exasperated and ashamed, scrambling up and breaking contact, making Brittany wince with the sudden absence. "Come on."
She grabbed hold of Brittany's hand. Brittany felt the wetness that coated Santana's fingers.
She didn't mind it.
As she slid into cool sheets, felt the nakedness of Santana behind her, the reality of the situation felt far away, hard to face or even believe it was actually happening.
"I'm still mad at you," she offered lamely, even as she sunk herself further into Santana's embrace. "But don't leave me again. If you leave me, I won't forgive you."
"I won't leave you," she heard immediately. Eyes fluttered closed, and Brittany felt dizzy with relief. She turned her head, reaching back to accept the soft kiss from Santana, cementing her declaration. "I promise."
"What's going to happen?" she found herself asking as she settled again, Santana's mouth pressing against her shoulder, breathing her in.
"Well, I'm not going to let Quinn find you, obviously," Santana muttered, soft and deliberate, as if she were thinking out loud. "And if the NSA discovers that you have the Intersect in your head..."
She didn't finish that sentence. Santana's hands reached around, found hers and tangled tight, spooning her. Brittany's eyes closed, trembled from the sensation.
"I can get us out of the country tonight." Santana's mouth skimmed her earlobe. "I've already talked to a guy about passports-I've got some money offshore-"
Brittany's eyes opened. "Wait, what? What do you mean?"
Santana paused, looking almost startled. "Brittany, we can't stay here," she said, and it caused a shudder of irritation, the way Santana talked to her like she didn't get it. "Fulcrum will never stop looking for you. And if the NSA finds you, it won't be any better. We have to run."
"Just leave. Just like that? Leave everything behind?"
To even consider it was a terrifying thought. Brittany wasn't deluded enough to think she had an amazing life, but what she had forged in her years without Santana was hers. Her job at the Buy More, her life with Rachel, her holidays with her parents and the moments that had made her laugh and smile-Xbox with Bob, softball with Dani, the lesbian down in storage...
"Brittany, we have to."
She swallowed hard. It was too easy to give into the anger, to look at Santana and remember. "I'm not like you," she snapped. "I can't just up and leave everyone just because I feel like it."
She regretted it as soon as she said it, because Santana looked like she had been slapped, hit hard right across her face, sucker punched in a way that winded and wounded her.
Still, in her panic, Brittany could not apologize. Not when the hurt blazed so badly.
"It wasn't like that," Santana whispered, like she had lost her breath. "You think that was easy for me? It fucking killed me, Britt." She was getting angry now. Her dark eyes flashed and the softness that had overcome her in the aftermath of their fierce coupling faded. Painfully obvious now were the welts, scratches and bruises that littered Santana's body like a road map of her life without Brittany.
It told a story of a person who hadn't celebrated life, but worked solely for the purpose of saving others. Being a hero.
Just like Brittany wanted her to.
Chest tight with emotion, Brittany closed her eyes, settling back against the pillows.
Behind her, Santana stayed quiet. Brittany could feel the dark gaze on her.
"I need to call Rachel," she finally whispered. "I know she'll be worried."
"No," Santana snapped immediately.
"She should at least know-"
"Quinn's got her hooks into her." Santana sat up, rubbed at her face hard. "I know you love her, and she's like your bff now or whatever, but you can't trust her now. Not with Quinn behind her, pulling her strings, like a god-damn puppet master."
"You don't know that!" Brittany snapped. For Santana to even think she did was insulting. "You don't know her. Not anymore."
But Santana was unmoved. "And you don't know Quinn," she said, her smile a grimace, tired and resigned. When Brittany didn't respond, Santana shifted in her direction. "Brittany," she began, the sheets sliding away from her naked torso as she pulled her legs between them and regarded her seriously, "Do you love me? Do you trust me?"
She asked those questions in a point blank, matter-of-fact tone. There was no wiggle room, and had Santana asked Brittany those same questions four years ago, the answer would have come without hesitation.
The hurt that still flared inside Brittany blocked any initial response, but it was so very telling that even with the lies, the faked death, the barrier of emotional fallout between them, Brittany still had that one truth inside of her: that she loved Santana, that she trusted her.
The realization and admission defeated her, caused her eyes to lower as she nodded quietly.
A rush of air fluttered suddenly across her forearm. Santana had her eyes closed, and she looked exhausted, almost pale, like she had been holding her breath.
"Brittany." The four years that had passed between them became suddenly apparent. In the lines on Santana's face, the gash on her cheek and the rough, calloused fingers that didn't touch her now. Dark eyes shined at her, haunted and wearing an expression that Brittany hadn't seen since senior year, in high school. "I'm sorry."
Brittany remembered that expression.
"You're scared," she breathed.
Santana's eyes grew wide, thrown at the sudden accusation. "Of course I'm scared," she spat, almost incredulous. "I'm fucking terrified, Brittany. I'm scared of what will happen if they find you. I'm scared of losing you again. I'm scared of what I'll do if I ever find Quinn. Mostly I'm terrified that you'll never forgive me for what I've done." Santana's fingers played destructively with the sheet between them, on the verge of tearing it to bits. "That you'll never love me again."
The quiet, gentle admission tore at Brittany, broke through the last of her barriers like a bull charging through a splintering fence.
Her fingers covered Santana's, stilling her spastic, nervous movements. On her face was a reassuring, sweet smile. "I love you," she whispered, with perfect intonation, no room for misinterpretation. "I've never stopped loving you. I'll go with you. Wherever you want to go."
She waited only a moment for the words to sink into Santana, before she caught the brief flicker of understanding and leaned forward.
When she pressed her lips against Santana's jaw, she heard a ragged inhalation, felt a slight stiffening against her mouth, proof of her effect on Santana.
To know it, to remember it, gave her a ridiculous burst of adrenaline; her body literally began to hum.
"Brittany." Brittany ignored the throaty, helpless moan. She closed her eyes, inhaled the sweaty, musky smell of sex that mingled with Santana's own scent, and opened her mouth wetly against the most sensitive part of Santana's neck. "Brittany-"
"Shhh." Taking the sheet between them, Brittany lifted it away, baring them both. Brittany paused, content for the moment to simply look at Santana, from manicured toes to a tousled, brunette head and eyes clouded with naked, conflicted desire.
There had never been a more seductive sight.
"I just want to make you feel something else for a minute." Maybe Santana recognized the sentence; she swallowed hard, trembled against her.
Brittany kissed her, and it felt like the first time, when she was a little bossy kid who had just branded Santana for her very own, because back then, she had been taught that writing her name on things meant they belonged to her.
Her innocence was gone. Brittany was no longer a child, and the grief she had suffered had taken away much of her child-like innocence. What remained had been stolen by the Intersect in her head, and the events surrounding it.
Still, in that moment, she felt almost glad for it. It was like she was reborn, like she had been jolted awake after a very long sleep, and could rediscover everything, as if it were the first time.
She coated her fingers with the slick wetness between Santana's legs, hiked in her breath as she slowly probed swollen flesh, felt Santana cry out and submit to her, body and soul.
Brittany needed it. She needed it more than she needed anything. She needed Santana, with her enigmatic expressions and haunted demeanor, to open herself in a way she only ever had with Brittany.
She left a smear as she spread Santana's legs, shuddered with desire and longing as she pressed an intimate kiss against Santana's breast, her trembling, toned stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps edging toward her thighs.
It was with the relief of an addict that she tasted Santana, moaning into her movements, hearing the cry and pushing back against the jerk of Santana's hips.
She didn't close her eyes. She didn't want to. She wanted to watch the way Santana writhed above her, looking tortured and in rapture at the same time, making those wordless moans and sighs that grew higher in pitch the closer she got, the harder Brittany stroked with her tongue.
Towards the end, when Santana was actively bucking and Brittany had her fingers inside her, Brittany felt fingers tangling with her hand, the one pressed flat against Santana's hip, keeping her pinned down.
She grabbed them, kept them close, and felt them clench, locking with hers as Santana flew over the edge, muscles clamping hard around Brittany, flooding her mouth and chin with the proof of her effect on Santana.
Afterward, Santana lay there, trembling, with her eyes closed and teardrops on her eyelids, absorbed in the experience.
To Brittany, she looked reborn.
With a kiss against Santana's lips, Brittany turned the sated and pliable body into herself, letting Santana sink into her curves, expel tufts of hot breath against her neck.
"Fuck," she heard, and she smiled. Santana's fear was gone, and in its place was a curious sedation, like Santana had been drugged. Her eyes fluttered, her body stretched against Brittany's like a cat.
Brittany's mouth brushed against Santana's temple. "Get some rest."
"There's no time," Santana mumbled, but the argument was a weak one, because already, she was growing heavy in Brittany's arms.
"Yes there is," Brittany insisted. "You're safe for a few minutes."
If Santana were lucid, she might have argued. Instead, she mumbled something Brittany couldn't quite make out, and drifted off.
It was the beginning of the rest of their lives, and when Brittany looked at it that way, with Santana's naked body settled so safely against hers, and the taste of her on her lips, being infected with the Intersect virus didn't seem so bad.
Not if Brittany and Santana were there, keeping each other safe.
But in the quiet, Brittany couldn't help the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she considered the sacrifice that meant.
Where she couldn't even say good-bye.
With wide-open eyes, Brittany shifted against Santana. Her clothes had been ripped away, and next to the pile that included Santana's leather jacket, was her cellphone.
****
Part Five