TITLE: Free Falling From a Work in Progress
AUTHOR: Misty Flores

PART SEVEN

Made a wrong turn
Once or twice
Dug my way out
Blood and fire
Bad decisions
That's alright
Welcome to my silly life
-'Fucking Perfect', P!NK

If Brittany closed her eyes, and then opened them again, she could look at herself in the mirror and swear that nothing had changed.

Her Buy More uniform, pressed and cleaned, still fit her like it would an attractive tomboy. Her hair, styled and loose, fell over her shoulders in blonde waves, and she still had her Nerd Herd ID badge, affixed to her lapel.

If Brittany wanted to make believe, even for a moment, that she had never been sent an email, that Santana was still dead, she could.

"Hey." Behind her, Rachel stood in the doorway. Her face was scrubbed clean, her hair was sloppily piled on top of her head, both clear signs that she was on her way to work, ready to sit in make up and have her hair styled in that tousled, sexy way that defined her character.

"Hi," she said, and turned back to the mirror, studying her bare hands, the look in her eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to imagine," she answered, "What it would be like to still be me."

Rachel came forward to stand by her, offering a look of confusion and bemused affection. "You're not you?"

"I mean the Brittany from before," she answered, and pressed her hands to her cheeks, letting them cool the skin. "The Brittany that isn't the Intersect."

Brittany glanced towards the closed bathroom door. Muted music floated from just beyond it, and it had a harder, pop beat that Santana used as an alternative to coffee.

Through the mirror, she watched Rachel, saw the possibility flit through her mind. "Would you want to be her?"

Brittany wrinkled her nose at the thought. "No," she admitted, bringing her hands down. Even with the Intersect in her head, even with this new double life, there were things about her life now that she would never trade. "It's kind of weird, isn't it? To have this secret identity."

"You're a comic book hero," Rachel said, giggling as she nudged her. The laughter died down, and it occurred to Brittany that they looked so odd, standing there together, so much further than where they had been, and yet looking exactly the same. "You know Mercedes fainted when I told her about Santana," Rachel said suddenly. "At least I think she did. One minute she's gasping on the phone, and the next I hear a loud thump. She said it was a miracle and that it was just more proof that we all needed to pray as hard as she did."

Brittany shook her head. It felt kind of weird, honestly, to get Santana back just when she was getting used to the idea of Molly Chambers. In a way, it was like it was back when Santana had just finished her first tour of duty. Little things had to be relearned, like how to sleep with someone else without elbowing them in the gut, and sometimes Brittany would forget all over again, even for a moment, and she would wake up in her bed or go into the bathroom, and there Santana would be, like a beautiful ghost.

Those days she would attack her, push her up against a counter or fling away the sheets, embracing the joy and the relief that flooded her as easily and quickly as one of her flashes.

Those were the best kind of days.

But it came with a lot of explanations. Made up ones, huge honking lies, that came off like the plots to Rachel's soap opera, like how Santana sustained a brain injury on a super secret mission and was presumed dead, but really just lost all her memories, and just recently regained them and was honorably discharged from the army.

She got another award for it.

When they received it, Brittany put it next to her purple heart. Santana told her not to show it off.

"Too many people died for those, Brittany," she said, with a grim frown and a look in her eyes that told Brittany Santana had seen way too much of war. "I don't deserve it."

Brittany thought she did. Santana was dead and was reborn, and even though everyone thought she was just one of the two insanely hot girls working in a yogurt shop across the street from Brittany's Buy More, the truth was that Santana was her NSA handler and her wife, entrusted with saving her life and keeping Brittany's secret.

Like Batman.

A soft hand settled against her elbow, squeezing lightly, bringing her out of her thoughts.

Rachel was still there, standing beside her.

"You know, for a long time I didn't understand you guys. Especially in high school."

"It was high school," Brittany remarked. "Did we understand anything?"

A soft smile floated on Rachel's face, nodding her agreement. "Yeah, but, honestly I kind of felt sorry for you." The way she said it, with the condescending inflection and the way she kind of shrugged, was such a mimic of high school Rachel, that Brittany almost stepped away. "It's just that you were so obviously in love with her and Santana was so... Santana. I honestly didn't know what you could see in someone that..."

"Beautiful?"

"Calloused," Rachel corrected. "She just seemed to hurt you. Hurt everyone, and just not care."

High School Santana and Brittany, with linked pinkies and Cheerios uniforms, who walked through Lima like they were destined for and deserved something better.

"Santana cares," was all she said, and Rachel nodded.

"I know that now." Her smile was kind, but the sadness in Rachel's eyes didn't go away. "How did you forgive her? When she did to you what she did? You know... dying."

Rachel looked so desperate to understand, and it reminded Brittany suddenly of a long forgotten conversation, when Rachel came to her and asked her how she could watch Santana flirt with other boys and just not care.

Brittany remembered feeling sorry for her then, thinking she and Santana were the lucky ones.

Maybe they didn't turn out so lucky in other ways, but she understood that Rachel wasn't asking her because she didn't understand her and Santana.

It was because of Quinn. Lately, in the past month since things had settled, every high and low that Rachel had been feeling had to do with Quinn.

She was now Santana's new frozen yogurt shop co-owner, and a her new NSA partner.

Though Quinn hadn't said it, Brittany was sure that a large part of the reason she had requested to be placed with the Intersect task force was because of the Intersect's roommate, Rachel Berry.

"Quinn didn't run for a reason, Rachel," she said, and Rachel blinked, flushing as she laughed self consciously.

"Am I that transparent?"

"A little," Brittany admitted. "But I get it. What Quinn did is almost impossible to forgive."

"It's not just that..." Rachel whispered. She shifted on her feet, trying hard to put what she was feeling in words. "How can I ever respect myself if I even consider forgiving her? She made a fool of me, Brittany. She nearly killed all of us."

And that was true. Those were the simple facts.

But there were other facts to consider. Like how Quinn had turned her back on Fulcrum, and refused witness protection in order to work with the Intersect. Like how she was still a bitch, but always got a little softer every time Rachel came around.

Quinn wouldn't admit to being in love, not to any of them, but Santana hadn't told Brittany she loved her for years.

Brittany still knew. Just like she knew she would marry her, someday.

Maybe it wasn't the way she had dreamt it before, but Brittany had come to accept her terms.

Life was too short to do otherwise.

But that was her life. Her choice.

Rachel's decision was hers to make.

Brittany was done pushing anyone to any sort of destiny.

With a small, supportive smile, Brittany wrapped her arm around Rachel's shoulders and pulled her into her side, squeezing in sympathy.

Luminous eyes searched hers for some sort of direction.

"I don't even know her," Rachel whispered. "I don't know if I ever did."

Brittany rested her chin on the top of Rachel's head. To her, it seemed very simple. "Quinn seems to think you did."

Rachel exhaled loudly against her. "I should go," she whispered. "I'll see you tonight?"

"Totally."

In the wake of Rachel's departure, Brittany found her attention shifting from her movements in the mirror to the suddenly rising volume of the music that drifted from the bathroom.

The door had opened, bringing with it not only clear sounds of a softer, acoustic ballad, but Brittany's hot NSA wife, criminally sexual in tight black shorts and a tank top with the name of a Frozen Yogurt shop pasted across the chest.

Santana was always so, sohot.

"You're so hot," Brittany whispered, with a cocky, proud smile.

Santana didn't respond. Instead, the other woman simply crossed her arms and regarded her, wearing a soft expression in place of her usual blasé smirk.

"What?" she asked self consciously.

Bony shoulders shifted up in a shrug, but Santana's smile was poignant. "You were dancing," she said, and nodded to the mirror. "It was nice."

That she hadn't even realized it was almost frightening. "I was?" she asked, and then turned back to the mirror, as if to confirm it.

All she saw was herself staring back at her, and the seductive form of Santana, who seemed content to just watch.

"You're gorgeous when you dance," she said, voice husky and eyes brilliantly moist.

The way Santana expressed it, with such obvious love and none of her old qualifications, caused a delicious tumble in Brittany's stomach.

"You make me feel like dancing," she said, because even though it was cheesy, it was true.

Though Brittany was sure she had heard, Santana did not move. Not at first. When she did, it was to head to her dresser and grab hold of a thick marker.

"What are you doing?"

"Something I've wanted to do for a while," Santana answered, with such a bossy tone she looked a picture of her high school self. "Ever since we were twelve and you had the gall to ask Mark to be your boyfriend instead of me."

Dark eyes glared at her pointedly, as slender fingers grabbed hold of her, turning her wrist until Brittany's forearm was exposed. With the concentration of an artist, Santana carefully pulled the cap off the marker and paused with the black felt tip against her skin.

Brittany's heart skipped a beat. "Santana..."

"Shut up," Santana twittered, focused entirely on her task.

Feeling lightheaded, Brittany obeyed, watching breathlessly as the letters formed, clean block letters that spelled out the name SANTANA from her wrist to her forearm.

Brittany had been branded. Santana inhaled in satisfaction, inspecting Brittany's arm to admire her work.

The way she was doing it, with such possession and obvious affection, was affecting. Brittany couldn't resist a teasing, trembling smile. "You didn't think a marriage certificate was good enough?"

"The marriage certificate says Molly Chambers and Brittany Pierce," Santana said matter-of-factly, and spread her fingers reverently over the marked skin, tracing her name. "This is for Santana Lopez." A moment later, her eyes lifted. "There's a lot of uncertainty in what we do, Brittany. I know that. But, after all we've been through... I'd rather you know."

Santana wasn't branding her for her own sake, but for Brittany's. It was the promise Santana made to never leave her again, in a contract signed with printed block letters and a marker on her skin.

"You're going to do this every day?" she whispered, a laugh in her voice.

"If you want me to," Santana confirmed. "But it'd be a bitch to wash off."

Brittany wondered suddenly if her Intersect-infected brain stood a chance of overloading like an over-heated hard-drive, because her heart felt ready to burst.

Deliberately, she slid her fingers against Santana's, entwining digits and smoothing her free hand against her lover's waist, drawing her in.

The beat of Santana's music had slowed, and Brittany felt it, as certainly as she felt the love she carried for her own immortal, who had died and been reborn.

Santana's eyes were liquid, full of warmth, and it was like a cherished gift, to see her this way, this vulnerable.

"Dance with me."

In their own tiny bedroom, amongst clothes and hidden guns, and the video cameras and bugs that had been planted courtesy of the US government, Brittany led Santana into an intimate series of steps.

There was still so much about the world that Brittany did not know, even with a brain full of government secrets. Things confused her more than ever, because even though Brittany could flash on something and almost immediately be able to fly a helicopter or hack a secure firewall, she could still confuse a calorie with a canopy. Math still made her cross-eyed.

But what she knew, absolutely, without a doubt, was that second chances were a rare and beautiful thing, and even with Intersects, spies, and double lives, she was very lucky indeed.

No matter what the future held for her, or Santana, Brittany would not forget this. Her arm would forever be branded with Santana's name, and in her heart she knew, just like Buttercup, that she would never doubt again.

When she twirled Santana in her arms, and led her into a bow, it was she who supported Santana with her strength.

As their heads lowered, Brittany suspected that if there really were a list of top ten kisses in the world, as had been described by The Princess Bride, theirs would have left them all in the dust.

They were bad ass like that.

Quinn had suspected that life as a reformed good guy would be painfully boring.

It wasn't. Not usually.

Not when she and Santana Lopez of all people had been charged with both the protection of the Intersect and the execution of her missions. Not when Brittany was the damn Intersect, who still was as dim as a Looney Tunes cartoon.

Not when her best friend was Rachel Berry, who avoided Quinn like she had the damn plague and looked at her with those soap opera eyes that struck Quinn breathless and reminded her all over again that she was the world's worst spy.

She had been seduced and hopelessly enamored by the same girl she abhorred in high school.

On busy days, it was manageable. Brittany's role as the Intersect meant missions that were both dangerous and intricate. The new partnership had been tested, and Quinn's immunity was based entirely on the success of keeping both Brittany and Santana alive.

In between missions, she was tasked with keeping her and Santana's cover—a self serve yogurt shop (with their base of operations underneath) that attracted more than a few nerdy Buy More employees thanks to the skimpy outfits.

That meant manual labor, with the world's laziest employee: Santana Lopez.

"So how long are you going to be playing the lovesick fool angle? Because it's boring enough in here without having to watch you mope."

For Quinn, being forced to partner with Santana in anything was sometimes worse than a prison sentence.

Now that Santana was a happy newlywed, with a cover that allowed her to be exactly who she was, and not a silly identity lifted off a Kings of Leon song, the haunted hero that Quinn had run into had dissolved into the Santana that Quinn recognized: a cocky bitch who had a snarky comment for damn near everything.

It was so irritating that Quinn had begun grinding her teeth again.

"God," she sighed, wiping furiously at the white plastic covers that held their marginally delicious frozen yogurt toppings. "It's so much harder to ignore you and not kill you when I have a gun and a license to do it," she mumbled.

Leaning against the counter, in the midst of filing her nails, Santana watched her work. "You do realize that this is just a cover, right?" Santana drawled. "The government could give a shit if the plastic stays shiny."

"I give a shit," Quinn snapped, and rubbed harder, trying hard to drown out the sound of Santana's snarky comments. "Gives me something to do while we wait for your wife to get a flash."

"Well," Santana sighed in agreement. "At least it's a switch from watching you sitting around watching Rachel's soap opera, looking like a pathetic puppy."

The irritation was hard to hide. "Look," she snapped, pausing to turn and offer a murderous glare to her partner. "It's not like you're twice as pathetic as I am over Brittany."

In high school, such a comment would have thrown Santana into a classic gay panic.

Now, Santana just absorbed it breezily, arching a smug brow. "So?" she asked, filing away at her nail. "I own that shit. I'm a fucking romantic hero." Quinn was nearly blinded by the white teeth Santana flashed at her. "You're just a bitch," she commented. "An emotionally stunted bitch at that. Seriously," Santana continued, lowering her hand to study her like she was a zoo animal. "When's the last time you had an actual meaningful relationship that didn't involve fucking them for Fulcrum?"

The heat that was blazing on Quinn's cheeks was mortifying. "Santana," she growled, slamming the plastic bin closed. "Don't."

"Sam? Finn?" Santana continued, determined to piss her off. "That's high school! That's pathetic, Quinn."

Had Quinn not been warned by Major Matthews that laying a hand on Santana would result in her getting locked up for the rest of her life, she would have already been planning on where to bury the body.

"I'm going downstairs," she muttered, determined to get away before her instincts got a hold of her and she tackled Santana like a linebacker.

"You want some advice?"

Quinn paused, turning back to cast the other woman an incredulous look. "From you?"

Santana rolled her eyes. "Look, I admit it's fun to torture you with this-" Quinn hitched in an exasperated sigh. "But I'm not exactly opposed to this you-and-Rachel thing." And that was unexpected. At her look of bewilderment, Santana simply shrugged. "The way I see it, it keeps her annoying ass busy, and it keeps you honest." The brunette extended her fingers and inspected her manicure. "Win-win."

Santana's simplistic reasons for dictating her lovelife were so damn... superficial, Quinn couldn't help but shake her head in annoyance, turning the knob and opening the door.

"You need to convince her she saw the real you." Eyes locked straight ahead of her, Quinn swallowed hard. With a deep breath, she turned back. Santana's hand was down, and her eyes were frank, as honest as Quinn had ever seen her. "She gave it up to you in less than 10 hours, Quinn. Obviously she saw something she liked."

"Seriously?" she asked, both disbelieving and a little suspicious.

Santana's attention span had already got the better of her, and she was back on her nails. "If that's the person you were, then that's who Rachel needs to see. She's looking for a reason to trust you, so give it to her." There was a beep of her cellphone. Santana blew on her nails and reached for the mobile. "It's Brittany."

Immediately, all thoughts of Rachel flew out of Quinn's mind. "Did she flash?"

"No, she's got a lunch break." Hopping off the stool, Santana headed for the exit. "She's coming over and we're gonna hook up. Stay out of the interrogation room, okay? The last thing we need is you watching us again."

Quinn flushed horribly. "That was an accident!" she yelled after her. "I'm still having nightmares!"

Santana twiddled her finger. "Right. Whatever. You know it was hot."

Quinn bit her lip and sighed.

Maybe jail would have been a better option.

When Rachel first dreamed up the idea for the Glee Club Reunion Concert, it had been for Brittany's sake.

It had been an attempt to allow Brittany to move on from Santana, in a way that would keep her memory cherished.

Now, as Rachel waited in the wings and watched Santana lift her head toward the bright lights and belt out that glory note that blended perfectly with Mercedes, she decided it was for all of them.

Rachel wasn't a secret agent, and she didn't hold all the government's secrets in her head. She was just a soap actor, and her show was probably getting canceled if the ratings didn't keep up. For the first time in her life, Rachel was devastatingly aware of her normalcy.

Oddly, it didn't bother her at all. In a way, it almost felt like she had her own special power. She could be the one with the level head. She could be the one who could remind them of where they all came from, who they had been, and retain that bond that had miraculously managed to stay strong in all of them.

Who would have thought a high school show choir had instilled enough heart and loyalty to withstand death, an evil terrorist organization, and a government conspiracy?

"You know, she's still the cockiest bitch I've ever met." Quinn, emerging from the shadows to stand beside her, watched Mercedes and Santana wail through their rendition of 'River Deep, Mountain High'.

Rachel's heart thumped in traitorous response. "She's also one of the most loyal," Rachel admitted, and as the words hung in the air between them, she realized how Quinn took them.

Rachel swallowed. The statement wasn't meant to be pointed at Quinn. Strangely, Rachel had lost the heart to be cruel to Quinn.

Though Rachel's heart still twinged from the heartbreak, at the very least, Quinn had proven a loyal guardian to Brittany, despite being the reason she needed a guardian in the first place.

"Look," Quinn began, voice more ragged than before. "Rachel-"

Panic disrupted any attempt Rachel would have made to listen. "I should really be saving my voice for my performance-"

Quinn's hand landed on her shoulder, stopping her escape. "This will just take a second. Okay?"

The way Quinn looked at her, with that sharp, pleading gaze and that soft, unsure pout, was a problem. It was a big problem, because it reminded Rachel so much of the person she had thought she had known, the one who had kissed her and made love to her and was flawed and lonely and exactly the person Rachel could love so easily.

Rachel didn't want to give in to her. Quinn had proven how good she was at lies.

Still, she was trapped. Ahead of her, Mercedes and Santana still moved through their best Tina Turner impressions, and behind them was a gaggle of New Directions alumni, including the awkwardness that came from associating with her ex, Finn Hudson.

Even with the lies, standing here with Quinn was where Rachel wanted to be. And it was frightening.

Flushed, Rachel crossed her arms and wordlessly nodded.

Now that she had stayed, she seemed to have rendered Quinn speechless. The devastatingly beautiful woman just looked at her, and it was so awkward, but Rachel didn't know how to make it better. All she could do was battle the lump in her throat and the pitter-patter of her heart, and tell herself to wait it out.

Finally, Quinn shifted on her feet and spoke. "What I said to you before?" she blurted. "That day? I said it because I was scared. Because it was what I thought it was I believed, but it was all lies, Rachel. Because somewhere in the midst of what happened, in between giving up my baby and trying so hard to never get hurt again, I lost control of myself. I didn't know who I was anymore, and I wanted that. I didn't want to have to feel that vulnerable ever again." Quinn sucked in her breath, looking terrified. "Except when that happens, Rachel, you get what you ask for. You're alone. And when you're the kind of person that I became, you don't even like yourself. It took you reminding me who I could be for me to see how lonely I really was."

Rachel didn't know what she could say. She was rendered speechless, and found her mouth dropping open in surprise when crystal eyes sparkled at her, and Quinn held out her hand.

"My name's Quinn Fabray," Quinn said unsteadily, a smile forming on her lips. "And I'd really like to get to know you, Rachel. If you would like to get to know me."

Rachel stared at the hand, at what Quinn was offering.

"How can I get to know someone who lives a double life?"

It was a valid question. Quinn was still a spy. She still lied, cheated and stole for what she wanted. The only difference was that now, it was with the government's authorization.

Quinn understood it. It showed in her faltering expression, and for the moment she looked awkward and desperately hopeful, with her hand still sticking straight out. Until her gaze hardened, and her chin lifted."What?" she asked, her voice growing sharp. "You think you and I can't pull off what Brittany and Santana have? They're emotional midgets, Rachel. Yesterday, we were infiltrating a gala and Brittany knocked over a priceless marble statue because she thought it was a mime."

The visual it produced was so Brittany and so comedic Rachel found herself chortling.

Quinn's smile grew, and her expression was brilliant and breathtaking.

The effect she had on Rachel was terrifying.

Rachel's laughter died. "Is that what this is about?" she asked carefully. "Beating Santana? Again?"

Quinn's eyes floated down to her hand, then to Rachel. "It used to be. It's not anymore."

"So what is this about?"

There was a moment, and then Quinn shrugged. "I want to win for once."

"What do you want to win?"

Blue eyes met hers with all the confidence and presence of a trained secret operative.

"You."

Rachel found her curiosity overcoming her hesitation. With a slow smirk, she uncrossed her arms and looked back, oddly combatant.

"Is that your way of saying you're in love with me?"

"Yes." Quinn's response was immediate. It knocked Rachel's haughty confidence askew. "Is this your dorky Rachel Berry way of saying you're not opposed?"

The hand was still there, unwavering, waiting for Rachel to take it. "It's my way of saying I want you to prove it," she admitted. With her heart in her throat, she waited.

Quinn smiled; an honest, beautiful smile that could have inspired sonnets. "Challenge accepted."

Rachel felt like a fool, but not the same fool as before.

This fool was a fool for love, and when she exhaled and slowly took hold of Quinn's palm, she felt it warm and strong, secure in her own.

Suddenly, she wasn't afraid anymore.

Santana and Mercedes' voices filled the hall with their powerful love song, and in the wings, Rachel found the strength to take that one momentous step towards a person who could very possibly become the love of her life.

Maybe thinking that was a bit over dramatic.

But it also felt so very real.

The 'McKinley Show Choir Reunion—starring Rachel Berry from Guiding Hope!' had a surprisingly full audience. Somewhere in the midst of it all, Santana knew, was her father, with his thick, full head of hair and his third wife on his arm, watching Santana's wife with a gleam in his eyes and a proud, familiar smirk on his lips.

It was surreal, to think that this was her reality now.

"You got so many colors make a blind man so confused," Santana heard, blaring over the auditorium, to the beat of a strumming electric guitar and a synthesized drum beat. "Then why can't I keep up when you're the only thing I lose?"

It was a little cruel that 'I Don't Feel Like Dancing' by the Scissor Sisters had such a criminally enthusiastic beat.

The lyrics were more than a little haunting, and they meant more to Brittany than they should have. Santana could see it in her face, as an older Artie with weird facial hair crooned the high lyrics and Mike and Brittany twirled and popped around him.

"So I'll just pretend that I know which way to bend, and I'm gonna tell the whole world that you're mine." Artie's eyes drifted to Brittany. Santana couldn't help the small, petty thrill of possessiveness that coursed through her. Inked on Brittany's inner wrist, were the opening notes to 'Black Magic Woman', by Santana.

The long haired hippie singer. Not her. But still. It was awesome.

The backstage was blustering with activity, and from the audience came shrieks of approval, and a wolf whistle that Santana was sure came from either Dani or Bob, Brittany's lovesick Buy More employees. Every time Santana walked into the store in her skin-tight Yogurt Time outfit, she would get both glares and looks of appreciation.

It was amusing, but Santana's smirk quickly stalled when a sharp voice cut through the music, directly behind her.

"Well, isn't this a disappointment?" It was Sue Sylvester, wearing a Cheerios red jumpsuit and a scowl. In her hand was a plastic hand held blender, filled with protein shake. "I send you off to be a secret agent and eight years later, I find out you're gay married, scooping ice cream and playing back up in Rachel Berry's own Variety hour." Her old coach eyed her up and down, and the disdain on her face was hardly subtle. "Pathetic."

She pressed the button, and a whir buzzed, filling the air with a sound that used to put a chill down Santana's spine.

"It's frozen yogurt, actually," she corrected, and the sneer on Sue's face was almost comical to witness. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in Los Angeles picking up one of my many lifetime achievement awards when one of my very loyal alumni told me about this," Sue said, slurping a bit from her protein shake as she glared at her. "I had to see it to believe it," she snarled, stepping up close and studying every inch of Santana. "I should call the President and have that Purple Heart revoked. What a waste."

And of course, Sue Sylvester would see it that way.

Anyone who looked at Santana's life at the moment, with no knowledge of what hid in Brittany's brain and underneath the yogurt shop, would have the same reaction.

"But I don't feel like dancin' when the old Joanna plays," Finn blasted out, dancing as spastically as he did in high school. "My heart could take a chance but my two feet can't find a way."

Brittany twirled fast in Mike's arms, a smile growing on her fast as the sweat beaded on her forehead.

She was lost in the moment.

"You think that I could muster up a little soft shoe gentle sway, but I don't feel like dancin', no sir, no dancin' today."

"Coach Sylvester," she began, turning away from the stage to face the unknowing catalyst in her life. "Why did you pick me? Why not Quinn?"

Sue's stiff upper lip curled snidely, looking almost the very picture of an animated Grinch. "Because I tossed a coin, Santana," she snapped, "And you were heads. Plus," she continued, shaking her protein shake at her. "I had a diversity requirement to fill."

Santana's jaw dropped open. It couldn't have been that simple. The decision that changed the course of her life so drastically could not have been based on a simple coin toss and the tan color of her skin.

"Seriously?"

Sue Sylvester wore the ultimate poker face. "Did you think you were special?"

The music swelled, and Santana was distracted by the view on the stage. Brittany, body twisting as she flew into a perfect jump, caught safely in Mike's arms. Her heart swelled.

"Only compared to some," she quoted.

The glare she received from Sue Sylvester rivaled some of the worst she had received in her tenure as a Cheerio.

"Thank you, Coach," she said, as sincerely as she could. "For everything."

Maybe Sue had been expecting one of her old breakdowns, because her face dropped. She studied Santana suspiciously.

"You're welcome," was the wary response, before Sue decided to have nothing more to do with her, and turned on her heel, pushing aside a poor stage hand, barking about the terrible music and wasted investments.

Biting down a grin, Santana didn't bother to watch Sue Sylvester go.

Her life didn't depend on Sue Sylvester, and there were far more important things that could be done with something as precious as time.

Like watch Brittany dance.

FIN