Title: Truth Can't Hide, Chapter 4/?

Author: Bladed Darkness

Category: Glee

Summary: Whenever Santana gets mad or frustrated she always takes it out on Rachel. After Santana and Quinn have the fight in the hallway Santana takes what's left of her anger out on Rachel. Rachel feels like she deserves it, after what she did to Sunshine (Rachel always think she deserves it, from years of slushies and verbal abuse). Brittany is the one that finds out when she notices some bruises on Rachel's wrists and when Rachel yelps in pain when she gets a Brittany hug, she pulls Rachel's shirt up to see fresh bruises on her stomach. Prompt at the Glee Feme Meme. Title comes from the song Truth Can't Hide by Karen Therese off her album, Warrior of the Heart.

Pairing: Hints of Brittana and Finchel, possible Pezberry and/or Pieberry (Brittberry).

Length: 1000+

Rating: PG-13, possible NC-17

"Do you want Santana to kick their ass?" Brittany's serious with this question, but the brunette just snorts and lets out a peal of laughter. "I'm certain she could do it." Rachel laughs even harder.

"You think Santana would help me?"

"San will understand." Brittany's never been more sure of anything. If she can get Rachel to finally talk, and get Santana involved, then everything would be all right and Rachel can be safe again.

Rachel doesn't meet her eyes, just continues to fiddle with her sandwich. "While I admire your optimism, I do not think it's that simple, Brittany."

"Once she knows what's going on, she'll understand."

Rachel looks at her before shaking her head slowly. "No she won't."

"Rachel," Brittany starts, and Rachel can't help but look up at the usually cheerful blonde that is full of optimism and quirkiness. "San's a good person. She just hides it well. She'll help." The taller girl is adamant, determined to get her point across, resolute in her belief that Santana can make everything better.

Rachel just looks at her sandwich, mouth firmly shut, before setting it down. If only it were that simple. If only Santana showed that side to a person other than Brittany. "I can't eat this." If only.

"Rachel." She hears the firm yet gentle rebuke in the word. The name she hears so rarely.

RuPaul.

"No, I really can't. It's tuna." She's already compromised who she is on so many points this year, but this is one thing that she isn't willing to change about herself.

Treasure Trail.

If you'd asked her to change anything about herself last year – minus the makeover – she would've refused.

Rachel watches Brittany observe her for a minute before the taller girl nods with a glint of understanding that Rachel's never noticed before. "Okay. How about I make you a Sylvester Smoothie? I'll even add in marshmallows although we're not supposed to. Coach says they cause ulcers and counteract the cleansing effect of the sand as it scrapes down your throat and clumps in your tummy."

She bites back the retort that is on the tip of her tongue, the one that goes "Do you want to finish off what's already been done to me?" and instead just shakes her head in the negative, too aware of Brittany's watchful eyes on her to mention the mildly hazardous concoction that the cheerleading coach requires them to consume.

Brittany's innocent. Unlike some others. And she won't take that from her.

Manhands.

The cheerleader isn't quite back to her usual level of perkiness, as evidenced by the serious expression crossing her face, but it's with an audible skip in her step and a twinkle in her eyes that she asks, "How about a bath?"

Rachel pauses, rolling her shoulder and fighting off a wince as a wave of pain lances through it and down her side, spreading out amongst the mottled bruises over her ribs. "That's a good idea." Perhaps soaking will make everything hurt less noticeably tomorrow, will ease the aches and pains that have been plaguing her since they were inflicted, and Brittany will forget everything.

Rachel knows it's not likely, that she's not really that forgetful yet rather frequently distracted, but it's preferable to the blonde continuously bringing up the Latina and offering to get Santana to help.

Stubbles.

Before she can stop her – not that Rachel had much of a chance of doing so anyways – the blonde is up the stairs and instinctively making her way to Rachel's room, then zipping across the hall into the bathroom. Rachel gets up to follow her, slightly anxious, when a chirp sounds from the other side of the table. She freezes, apprehensively looking over at the device.

Brittany's phone.

Rachel's so focused on the harmless hunk of instant communication sitting across the kitchen that she jumps when her own phone vibrates in her pocket. She slowly pulls it out, a feeling of dread falling over her.

Stay away from her Hobbit.

A second message.

And dont u dare tell her anything.

"Hey, you have this wicked cool bubble bath – what's wrong?" Brittany skips into the room, sudsy bottle in hand – she idly notes that she seems to have dropped it in the bathtub and spilled about half the bottle in the process, and Rachel fights back the tremble running through her and the spike of terror as she snaps the phone shut and hides it behind her, fumbling with it until it drops onto the table.

"Nothing." Rachel knows the blonde doesn't believe her, but she doesn't elaborate any further. Can't elaborate.

Brittany reaches forward, and – gently, Rachel notices – wraps her hand around her wrist, tugging softly. "C'mon, let's go upstairs."

She follows, pausing only for a second to look back at the two innocent phones, her own uneaten sandwich and Brittany's empty plate between them.

It feels weird being led into her own bathroom. It hasn't happened in several years. She lets Brittany position her in the middle of the small space and watches as she slips passed her, turning the taps off. Rachel's relieved that the tub hasn't overflowed, although the bubbles wave at her from above the edge.

The relief vanishes when hands wrap around her neck. Rachel's eyes lock onto their reflections in the mirror, a non-descript buzzing drowning out Brittany's voice speaking softly, noting the distinct, sharp, difference of Brittany's paleness against tan and for a second she wants to laugh hysterically against the surge of panic, appreciating the irony of the fact that Brittany's ivory skin is frequently pressed against a different shade of bronzed flesh.

Damaged by a devil and murdered by an angel.

Rachel welcomes the darkness that oxygen deprivation brings, barely aware that she's slipping downward to slowly rest on the cool tiles of her bathroom floor.

"Rachel?"