Interlude II: Wonderwall

Santana Lopez had enjoyed a happy childhood and a fairly ordinary one at that.  Like many other little girls, she dreamed primarily of two things: finding true love and obtaining wealth, and more importantly all the trappings that came with it.  She wanted a big, fancy house with an indoor pool and servants catering to her every whim.  Santana wouldn’t be completely selfish, of course—she would gladly share all of it with her soulmate.

Then she turned thirteen and learned that dreams don’t often come true.  Some dreams are ripped from your very skin, and others necessitate a constant battle, fighting and sacrificing and clawing your way to the top.

That year was the hardest Santana ever had to live through, but it was also an important benchmark in her life.  It was the year she grew up and left childish dreams behind.  It was the year she set a course for her life, the year she made her own rules.

Rule Number One: Santana Lopez doesn’t want things she can’t have.  Wanting things that you can’t have makes you weak.

Rule Number Two: Santana Lopez is not a good person, but she is a person with integrity.  She will mean what she says and be what you see. 

Rule Number Three: Santana Lopez is a fighter. 

*******

It took two days: two days of trying and failing to ignore what was going on, of pretending that Brittany (who was dead, had been dead but was suddenly here) wasn’t a few floors and doors and hallways away from her.  When it became clear that disregarding reality wasn’t going to work, she decided instead to focus on Kurt.  Kurt was here too, had been her friend once, could maybe be her friend again.  It might be nice to have something easy and familiar to sink into for a little while.  Someone to talk to, even if she had to talk around almost everything she truly felt and thought.

Resigned, she headed for Anderson’s room.

When she burst through the door, Santana was greeted with the sight of the two men cuddling and kissing on the bed.  At least they were fully clothed.  She rolled her eyes and cleared her throat loudly. 

“Get out, lover-boy.  I need to have a chat with Hummel.”

Both men turned abruptly to stare at her, but neither moved.

“Excuse me?” Blaine said finally.  “This is my room.”

She crossed her arms and chuckled darkly.  “Seriously?  This is my house and you are both my prisoners.  I said ‘get out’.  I won’t ask nicely again.”

Santana watched as Kurt looked at Blaine expectedly, like he was waiting for the other man to make a move.  Blaine was too busy glaring at her with distrust to really notice.

She threw her hands up in the air, already exasperated.  “By the Source, I’m not going to hurt your boy-toy, Anderson!  I promise he’ll be back good as new and ready to play within the hour.”

Kurt was looking at her now, expression neutral, but he soon turned back to Blaine.  Santana watched as he gently touched the other man’s arm, then turned Blaine’s chin until he was looking into Kurt’s eyes.  “It’s okay,” she heard him whisper, just loud enough for her to hear.

Somehow, the exchange seemed more intimate than anything Santana had witnessed between them thus far.  It suddenly became a struggle to maintain the carefully haughty expression she always wore, and she swallowed thickly against the lump forming in her throat.

Blaine was standing now, shooting one last suspicious glance between Santana and Kurt.  He made his way to the door but paused just short of it, about a foot away from her.  He turned and looked her in the eyes, his face resolute.

“If you hurt him…”

Santana scoffed and fought off another eye roll.  “Goodbye, Blanderson,” she said impatiently, stepping forward and pushing him forcibly from the room before slamming the door closed behind him.

Satisfied that he wasn’t coming back, she spun around to find Kurt sitting up on the bed, glaring at her.

“You don’t have to be so hard on him, you know.  It’s not easy for him to leave me after what we’ve been through.  I’m shocked you’ve managed it at all; it must mean he trusts you on some level.”

Santana sighed, moving closer to him and stopping at the edge of the bed.  “We’ve reached a sort of… truce, during his stay,” she shared reluctantly.

Kurt looked down at the bed, fingering the pattern of the quilt, then up to meet her eyes.  “Thank you,” he said softly, “for not hurting him.”

Santana shrugged, forced a smile that might have been half-way genuine.  It was hard to tell these days, even for her.  “He was yours,” she said simply. 

Kurt had never needed big words or long-winded explanations to understand her. 

“Yeah,” Kurt smiled too, but she could tell it wasn’t for her.  “Is, um… is it safe for you?  Letting us… be, like this?  I don’t want to put you in any danger, Santana.”

“It’s… I’ve got it under control.  Don’t worry about that.”  She was a little worried about it, actually, but for right now the situation was manageable.  “Look, Kurt.  I know…” she stopped, then took a deep breath.  “I know it’s been a long time for us, but… can we just pretend that this is high school again?  It’s… I need…” she trailed off, unable to find the right words.  Santana Lopez was never this inarticulate, hated herself for being this vulnerable.

But when she forced herself to look at Kurt again, his eyes were full of that old, familiar compassion and understanding, and she knew it would be okay.

He scooted over, patting the bed beside him.  “Come up here,” Kurt said encouragingly when she didn’t move.

“You and Anderson have had sex here, I can smell it,” she commented, wrinkling her nose and glaring at the bed in disgust before climbing up to settle against him.

Kurt laughed.

And then it was silent.

“Will you tell me about her?” Santana asked, her voice so soft she hardly heard it herself.

Kurt sighed, reached out to stroke her hair.  Santana flinched at the touch before giving into it.  It had been years since she’d allowed anyone to touch her with any sort of intimacy.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” she answered without thinking, and in one sinking moment the fear became heavier than the want.  “Nothing.  I don’t know.”

She wondered if he knew her even now enough to sense the weight of that, to know how lost and uncertain she really was.  Santana Lopez didn’t want things she couldn’t have, had lived it and breathed it and recited it like a mantra for the past ten years.

Brittany was hers.  But she couldn’t have Brittany.  She’d crossed too many lines already, let her loyalty take her too far.

“Brittany is… special.  In so many ways, Santana.  Did you know she’s a Daughter of the Source?”

“I don’t even know what a ‘Daughter of the Source’ is, Kurt.”

“Oh.”  He said, sounding surprised.  “It’s kind of like she can channel the Source, you know, the power that gives us our soulmates?  She has it inside of her.  But she’s so much more than that, too.  Brittany is kind and funny—in her own way—and so innocent, it’s heartbreaking sometimes.”

Santana snorted.  “That’s really saying something, coming from you.”

She laughed when he slapped her playfully on the arm, catching herself a moment too late.  It was nice how happy and normal she’d felt for a few seconds, allowing herself to get caught up in Kurt’s pretty words when she couldn’t afford to allow herself anything at all.

It was dangerous sitting here, confiding in Kurt like this as she used to when they were kids. But she was already over-sharing, anything at all was over-sharing…

“I thought I’d lost her,” she said, cursing the brokenness of her voice with every word.  “I thought…”

“I always thought you were a no-name.”  Kurt interrupted.  “You were always so bitter, so unhappy, even the few times it was you and me and the others.  Even the few times someone managed to make you smile or laugh…”

“I wish I’d been a no-name,” Santana said before she reminded herself that she didn’t, not really.  She’d be just as alone then, and she wouldn’t be here, the queen of a cold stone palace with her many material desires on-demand and much of the world under her control.  Or it would be, soon.  That was the plan.  She was a fighter.

She sat up suddenly, smoothing down her hair.  “I can’t do this,” she said, more to herself than to Kurt.  “I can’t let you in, and with you two being here, it’ll all go to hell…”

Santana stood up, began to pace.

“It’ll be okay,” Kurt said, watching her warily from the bed.  “Once you get to know Brittany…”

“Source, what kind of fairy tale have I brought you into!?  I can’t ‘get to know’ Brittany, Kurt.  It’s not as simple as you and Blaine, all cozy and together under my protection.  I don’t have anyone to protect me.  I only have these walls and all my rules…”

“Have you thought about how she feels in all of this?”  There was a little edge now in Kurt’s voice, enough to fuel the fire.  “Brittany won’t understand, Santana.  When you ran away from her, it broke her heart!”

She froze then, unwilling to hear or process Kurt’s words.  Squeezing her eyes shut, she remembered: breathe in, breathe out.  Breathe in, breathe out.  She knew how to do this.  Santana was always in control, she just needed to trust that.  She had never let herself down before.

Opening her eyes again, she fixed Kurt with her usual empty glare.  “You need to leave.  Both of you.  I’ll say you ran away, or better yet that I killed you.  Just get out.”

Kurt stood slowly, eyes boring into hers, and walked carefully towards her, stopping mere inches from her face.  She could hear his every breath: breathe in, breathe out.

“You can shut me out, Santana, but you can’t turn your back on her.  Give her a chance!  Have dinner together, or… or take her for a picnic outside.  Brittany would love that!”

“I’m going to leave now,” Santana told him carefully.  “I’ll give you three days to be out of my house.  Secretly, please, as much as possible.  Take Brittany with you.”

“Santana…”

“Goodbye, Kurt.”

Holding her head high and mask securely in place, Santana left the room.

******

It had always been easy before to dismiss Brittany Evans, the girl whose name had imprinted itself onto Santana’s palm and into her heart ten years ago.  The girl who had died only weeks later, as far as Santana was concerned.  Don’t want things you can’t have, Santana told herself every night, and it had always worked.  

Until now.

Now the only words echoing through her head were an endless repetition of it broke her heart.  Now, when hours into the night she finally won the battle and settled into a fitful sleep, her dreams were haunted by a perfect, pale face.  The girl’s eyes were like the little blue flowers Santana used to pick as a child—just as pretty and just as fragile.  Santana’s tortured mind conjured an image of her thirteen-year-old self, crushing the delicate petals in her hand…

*******

Santana avoided the others like the plague after that, only narrowly dodging confrontation with the hobbit on a few occasions, as he appeared to have taken up a personal quest to hunt her down.  Her eyes and ears around the building were ever watchful, however, and she gleaned enough information to know they were tentatively making plans as ordered.

Three days.  Such a short amount of time, but it seemed an eternity to her—held captive in a prison of her own making, driven mad by the conflicting desires of her mind and heart.

By day three Santana had to see her, told herself that another glimpse couldn’t hurt—could be healing and closure—even as her mind screamed the truth of her deceit.

Brittany looked every bit as sweetly innocent asleep as she had awake, stretched and curled around a spare pillow with wispy clumps of yellow hair fanning around her face like a halo.  Santana was close enough to see clearly as her back rose and fell, hear each intake of breath, and suddenly she wanted more than anything to press a hand there between her shoulder blades, feel the warmth of her skin through her nightgown and move with the slightest shift of her body.

Suddenly Brittany’s eyes opened, and Santana gasped.  Brittany didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her, only watched as she stood there, begging her feet to move when they seemed stubbornly glued to the floor.

They stared at one another in silence for an endless moment, then finally Brittany began to unfurl herself, stretching languidly and yawning before turning back to consider her.  “Santana?” she said tentatively, looking very much like she wanted to do or say something but wasn’t sure what would be welcome.

“Have lunch with me?” Santana blurted out, and where the hell did that come from?

Brittany blinked at her, perplexed.  “I…”

“The back patio, at noon.  There’s a lovely view of the gardens.  I’ll send Terri for you.”

Brittany’s mouth opened as if she meant to speak, a gleam of hope lighting in her eyes that made Santana fiercely afraid.

She was speeding out the door before the blonde girl could utter a reply, leaden feet as heavy as her heart, but pounding away just as quickly.

*******

Santana survived the next few hours by allowing herself to operate on auto-pilot and refusing to think too deeply about anything—not why she was suddenly giving in to the urge to spend time with Brittany, nor why she was being so fussy and particular about everything from the menu to her own appearance, and certainly not what all of this could mean. 

She allowed herself one tense, panicked moment to reconsider, hiding in the doorway to the patio and staring at Brittany, who was already seated alone at the table there, looking pensive and so pretty in a bright floral sundress.  Taking a deep breath, she shook it off and approached.

Everything went as planned, perfect down to the last detail, but Santana didn’t taste the food or spare a thought for the elegant spread of the table.  She didn’t—couldn’t—worry herself over maintaining her usual defenses, or allow her mind to fixate on the implications of sinking too deeply into the pleasure of Brittany’s company.  She wasn’t capable of any of these things, because Brittany was so purely and wholly captivating.

Brittany was magic.

The entire occasion was like a fanciful return to her long-repressed childhood fantasies, a dangerous and easy slip back to feelings of simple contentment and faith in the goodness of the world around her.  Brittany’s laughter was musical, her conversation light-hearted and childlike and whimsical, her eyes sparkling and happy and trusting.

Later, in the darkest hours of the night, Santana would lay alone in bed and weep for the false hope of it all, the intoxicating innocence and beauty of this perfect girl and the loss of the last of her own gullible belief that she wouldn’t give in.  And more than all of these—the fear.

It was a sudden and jarring turn in their discussion when Brittany looked up at her with sad eyes and the barest of frowns, and asked: “why are you sending me away?”

Santana stared at her for a long moment, mouth gaping open but unable to speak.

“Kurt told me we had to leave tonight.  He said you asked us to go, that it wouldn’t be safe for you if we stayed.”

Santana fumbled, reached blindly for the blonde girl’s hand and almost dropped it in shock when she felt the smooth slide of Brittany’s skin beneath her fingers.  “Stay.  Please stay.”

“I want to,” Brittany said, looking down at the table.  “But Kurt said—“

“He’s wrong.  I can make it safe.  I will make it safe.  Stay.”

She expected Brittany to ask why, to demand an explanation for all of this that Santana wasn’t ready to give.  But Brittany was perfect, easy and gentle and shining and giving.  She didn’t seem to need to take, didn’t seem to consider or even know to demand a justification for this cruel twist of fate that she was rightfully due.

“Okay,” she said, smiling in a way that made the world seem full of song and dance.

Brittany picked up on her former topic of choice as if she never left it, telling Santana about the rabbits she raised back home and how they would turn different colors if she fed them the right flowers, and did Santana think that she could make a rainbow bunny if she tried?

“I have to go,” Santana said, hating the words as they fell from her lips.  “There are some… things… I need to take care of.”

“Okay,” Brittany said quietly.

“Would you like to take a walk with me tomorrow?” Santana asked, already wanting to see her smile again.  “I know a park nearby, it’s pretty secluded…”

“I would love that.”

They stared at each other in silence for a few long moments, and then Santana reluctantly dragged herself to her feet.

Brittany looked up at her, cornflower blue eyes both hopeful and hesitant in a way that tugged at Santana’s heart.  “Could I maybe… hug you?  Please, Santana?”

Santana’s mind was screaming no even as she knew she would agree, aware that this small act might be the catalyst to an inevitable surrender, yet ignorant of all that it could be at the same time.  Her posture relaxed and she opened her arms a little in invitation, frowning at Brittany as she waited for her to react.  It took only a moment before the blonde was sinking into her embrace, Santana’s arms folding around her slowly and then keeping her there, feeling a gentle smile curling unwittingly on her own face.

Holding Brittany, as it turned out, was everything.

******

Santana did have important business to attend to that afternoon, but it would have to wait a bit longer.

“Sandy,” she addressed the man in front of her.  “I need a list of all the guards in my security detail and where they’re assigned.  I also need you to find a way to determine who is most loyal to me.”

“Ma’am?  I’m not sure how…”

Santana gritted her teeth.  “Are you going to remember our rule about questions, or do I need to reconsider my decision to allow a known drug dealer to slip through the system…”

“I’ll be on that straight away, ma’am.”

“Right,” Santana said, smirking.  “I bet you will.”

*******

While she waited for information from Sandy, Santana grudgingly went to find Blaine.  She wasn’t sure what to say, especially since he’d undoubtedly be unhappy with her, but some type of communication was a necessary evil.

She checked his room first.  After listening at the door to ensure there was no indication of unsavory activity, Santana pushed it open without bothering to knock.  Blaine wasn’t there, but Kurt was, sprawled out on the bed and fast asleep.  She barely spared him a glance before leaving again, relieved that she wouldn’t be confronting them both at once.

After searching over half the house Santana’s patience was beginning to wear thin, but just as she’d decided to send Terri to find him instead, she came across Blaine in the library, reading intently from what appeared to be one of the older reference books.  Approaching him, she was about to speak when he beat her to it.

“There’s quite a lot of information here about the history of the Source—and the initial development of rehabilitation,” Blaine said without looking up.

The comment caught her off-guard, but she decided to humor it.  “Yes, well, someone in a position such as mine needs to be well-informed.”

“But they don’t teach this in the schools,” Blaine continued, finally looking up at her, his expression strangely blank.  “They’re too afraid to make it public knowledge.”

Santana sighed, moving closer to seat herself in a chair across the table from where Blaine was still sitting.  “That’s right,” she acknowledged.

“But if you know, if you understand why, how can you…?”

He was so sincerely curious, and for the first time Santana felt something building within her, creeping consciously and guiltily to settle in her mind, a feeling that she had shut herself off from long ago—regret.  “I didn’t come here to have this conversation,” she said plainly.  “You have plans to leave tonight?”

Blaine raised his oddly-shaped eyebrows.  “Yes,” he conceded.

“You won’t be taking Brittany with you.  I’m taking her to the park tomorrow; it seems she’s really looking forward to it.”

Blaine’s mouth dropped open in surprise, but he quickly shut it and composed himself.  “That’s… unexpected.”  He said carefully.  Santana could see it in his eyes, the slightest flicker of hope, could tell that he was fighting it.  “I don’t think Kurt will feel comfortable leaving her here alone, not after the way you treated him.”

Santana had to bite back an insult, her usual defensiveness rising swiftly.  She knew it would only lead to a deeper conversation that she wasn’t ready for, and she knew too that Kurt was justified in feeling that way.

She stood up slowly, focused on projecting her usual air of control.  She felt Blaine’s eyes follow her all the way to the door.

Santana turned around when she reached the doorway, regarding him only briefly.  “Then stay,” she said quickly, forcing the words out before she had time to reconsider.

*******

Santana stayed up late into the night, reviewing the file Sandy had put together for her and doing her best to reassign people accordingly.  The anxiety didn’t leave her completely when she finally finished and went to bed, but she was satisfied at least that she’d done the very best she could to surround herself with only the most trustworthy of guards.  She trusted further that the moment there was the slightest hint of betrayal, she would see that person personally taken care of.

******

It was a lovely day for a walk, and Santana was finding Brittany’s company just as delightful as the day before.  It was a struggle, though, because the very thing Santana had been most grateful for mere hours ago was increasingly more evident—Brittany was not the type to push.  No demand for any kind of explanation or future commitment.  She’d barely reacted when she’d caught Santana’s hand in hers, turning it over to examine the blankness of her palm where by all rights there should have been Brittany’s name. 

The blonde had merely stared at it for a moment, eyes soft and sad and compassionate, and then pressed a gentle kiss there that burned pleasantly against Santana’s skin.

Brittany wouldn’t push, and Santana really, really needed her to. 

“I feel like I owe you something,” Santana said, voice raw as she unintentionally interrupted Brittany’s happy chatter.  It was probably rude, but she hadn’t heard a word the girl was saying for at least the past five minutes.

“San,” Brittany stopped, looked at her with so much affection that it physically hurt.  “It’s okay.”

Very little was actually okay, Santana knew, but she wasn’t about to say as much.  For starters, nobody had called her “San” since she was a little girl.  Nobody had been brave enough to try out a nickname, she supposed, or maybe nobody had been able to see her that way, as somebody friendly and approachable.  Not even Kurt, not even her other grade school friends.  She had been careful to make it that way, had deliberately crafted her own reputation.  Santana had thrilled at the whispered murmurs of “Satan” that sometimes followed at her back. 

Now—suddenly and inexplicably—it was not okay.

“I need to tell you,” Santana said almost frantically.  The ground beneath her feet was rapidly losing solidity, her knees weak and she was sliding.  She was going down, and Source, what would be waiting at the bottom?

But Brittany was there, hands taking both her wrists, voice sweet and face in focus while the rest of the world was beginning to blur.

Santana felt herself being led, being gently pushed to settle onto something—a bench, it must be a bench.  Brittany’s hands returned to hers and she gripped them too tight, taking a moment to remember: breathe in, breathe out.

“I’m listening,” Brittany said.

And miraculously, Santana started to talk.

Santana’s life had been a long stream of successes, one after another that she proudly shared with anyone who would listen.

She told Brittany a very different story.

She told Brittany the story of a little girl who had dreamed big of the finest things and the deepest love, who was enchanted by the world around her as much as others were enchanted by the girl herself.

She told her about the girl’s thirteenth birthday; about waking up to find that by some twist of luck, she’d gotten her soulmate’s name almost immediately.  The girl thought it was the most beautiful name in the world, had traced it endlessly and stared at it longingly before tearing through the house in her eagerness to find her parents, and to share her joy with them.

Santana stared at their joined hands. 

She described to Brittany in detail the look of nausea that overtook her mother’s face, the look of paralyzing fear on her father’s.

She told her about the trip to the marking office, about the big white van that came for her the next day.  About narrow beds and terrifying videos and people that were made of stone, people that ripped away dreams.  About the pain and the screaming and the pressure that never eased.

“And then the girl died.  She welcomed it, because they made it so good and so easy to give in.  They offered her power and wealth, if she surrendered.  They promised an end to all the hurt, told her she could go home, that it would all be better. 

The next day she was reborn, and she was one of them.  And her palm was smooth and perfect, and she didn’t ache anymore, and she didn’t need anymore.   She was something new, something better, and it was all thanks to them.  They’d won her allegiance.”

Santana looked back up at Brittany, saw the girl’s tears and marveled at her own.  It had been ten years since Santana cried.

She lifted shaky hands to the blonde girl’s face, wiping at the wetness there before framing it in her hands, looking into Brittany’s eyes and speaking the words that she was most terrified to say.

“Until now.”

*******

They didn’t talk as they made their way back to the mansion, Santana dismissing the guard that had been trailing carefully behind them as soon as they stepped through the door.  Brittany didn’t protest or comment when Santana led her straight to her rooms, only sank happily against Santana’s body when Santana kissed her the moment they were fully alone.

Kissing Brittany was like breathing air after spending far too long underwater; Brittany hummed into the kiss and wrapped slender arms around Santana’s neck and the warmth of her was like sunshine.  Santana was blossoming, no longer hiding in the dark.

They ended up on the bed somehow, bodies spread and naked and always touching.  Brittany’s skin was milk-white against the dark sheets and it seemed there were miles of freckles—too many for Santana to kiss them all—but Brittany laughed when she tried and Santana didn’t ever want the sound to stop.

Nothing stopped.  They carried on for minutes, hours, maybe days.  There was warmth and happiness and endless, breathless pleasure and Santana wanted more than anything for it to go on forever.

When they had contented themselves they lay together, Santana curling around Brittany’s body and resting her head on the taller girl’s shoulder, fingers stroking gently across her stomach.

“Have you had other lovers, Brittany?”

“Yes,” Brittany answered after a moment, voice soft.  “A lot.  I’m sorry, Santana—I didn’t understand at the time and I—I liked it.  But then my grandmother found out and she told me what it meant.  I haven’t since, I swear!”

For a long time, Santana didn’t speak.  When she did, her voice was strained.  “I have too, so many.  I knew what it meant, but I didn’t care.  I didn’t care about you.”  She lifted up a little, turning to meet the other girl’s eyes.  “I care now, Brit.  They tried to keep us apart, but you still found me.  I promise you, whatever it takes, that I’ll never let them come between us again.”  She found Brittany’s hand, squeezed it in her own.  “We’re going to change the World.”