FIC: What is Done in the Dark (Part 4)

[losdosmos]

Finn has the horse tied to the railing next to Clementine and Charlie, and Puck is just swinging down out of the saddle when Santana arrives, Brittany close on her heels. Puck is shorter than Finn but brawnier, and even if she hadn’t known a thing about his background, she would have been able to tell immediately that he comes from money. A bowler hat is cocked at a rakish angle on his head, and his black pinstriped jacket and pants have obviously been tailored to fit his body. The white, stiff-collared shirt he’s wearing is snowy white, and the fine gold chain that disappears into a discreet front pocket of his black button-down vest indicates that he’s carrying a pocket watch, and probably a very expensive one at that.

Santana is standing directly behind him as he dismounts, so that when Puck turns around, he has to pull up short. His eyes immediately spark with interest when they meet Santana’s, and his lips curve up into a smile. “Well, hello there. You must be--”

Santana punches him straight in the mouth.

Puck’s grunt is more surprised than pained, but the blow still knocks him back several steps and sends the hat tumbling from his head. “Hello yourself, asshole.”

Brittany’s arm hooks around Santana’s waist and she feels herself being pulled back against the other girl’s body, something she’s become very familiar with over the past couple of days. Finn has already moved between Santana and Puck and is helping to steady the other man, so Santana doesn’t even bother to struggle and try and get in another few hits. Instead, she relaxes against Brittany, who seems content to hold her there.

Puck wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood. “You must be Santana.”

She bares her teeth in an unpleasant grin. “You must be smarter than you look.”

“He isn’t,” Brittany tells her mildly, “your reputation precedes you.”

Finn glares at her. “Jesus, Santana, what’s wrong with you?”

“So I’m not excited to meet the bastard who wrangled my brother and my friend into robbing banks for him,” she retorts. “Can you blame me?”

“There was no wrangling involved.” Puck snatches his hat from the ground and starts in Santana’s direction only to be knocked back again when Finn flings out an arm to block his path. “I had an idea and they went for it, and considering how much money we’ve made, I’d say it was a pretty damn good one!”

“And I say you’re full of shit.”

“Santana, will you shut up a minute?” She reluctantly complies, and Finn looks back to his friend. “Puck, what are you doing here?”

“I came to warn you.” With one last baleful glance at Santana, he turns his attention to Finn. “I got to town not long after you shot the place to Hell and split. I don’t know what you thought they’d do, but the Marshals didn’t stick around to lick their wounds. They’re coming after you.”

“Damn it, I was afraid of that.” Finn passes a hand over his eyes. “I was so careful not to leave a trail. How’d they pick me up?”

“Oh, they’re not following you,” Puck says. “They’re following Brittany and your little sister.”

Santana hears Brittany sharp intake of breath and immediately feels like she’s been punched in the gut. “How?”

“Blood.”

“Shit,” Brittany breathes.

“Blood.” Finn’s gaze flicks back and forth between Santana’s and Brittany’s faces. “One of you was hurt?”

“Brittany got shot as we were leaving the bank,” Santana confirms.

“It’s nothing,” Brittany says quickly. “Just a flesh wound in my arm. Santana took care of me; I’m fine. ”

“But if you bled so much you could be tracked--”

“Not all the way,” Puck interrupts. “Just enough to figure out which way the girls were going. Then they used common sense and followed the creek.”

“Okay, stop.” Santana holds up a hand for silence and eyes Puck suspiciously. “How do you know all of this?”

“Like I said, I got there right after the three of you had your little shoot-out in the bank,” Puck replies. “Naturally, as a Puckerman, I was concerned, so I took it upon myself to question Sheriff Schuester and Marshal Sylvester about how they planned to proceed.” He shrugs. “I rode with the posse until they hit the creek, then told Sylvester I knew they had things under control and that I had more pressing business to attend to back in town. I knew you’d be at the safe house, so I rode straight here to warn you.”

Finn tugs thoughtfully on his beard. “How long do you think we have?”

“If they keep following the creek, they might find our campsite tonight,” Brittany says, “but I don’t think they’ll take the chance of traveling through the night to try to find us. Chances are none of the Marshals are too familiar with this area, and they’d be fools to risk bumbling into us in the dark in our territory.”

“Have any of you met this Sylvester woman?” When everyone answers in the negative, Puck continues. “She’s a stone bitch, and she is obsessed with catching you, Finn. She’d push her horse till it died if that meant she could get her hands on you.”

“Maybe Finn should ask permission to court her,” Santana mutters.

Finn gives her a tired look but ignores the comment. “I don’t like the feel of any of this,” he says. “Puck, I want you to help me keep watch tonight. Santana, Brittany, you two stay here.”

“Like hell I will!” Santana grabs the stock of the rifle that Finn is still holding and hangs on when he tries to yank it from her grasp. “I’m not going to stay here and hide while you go out and take all the risks!”

Puck looks blandly at Finn. "You never told me your sister was such a pain in the ass."

Santana's temper flares hotter, and all of her simmering dislike of Puck comes bubbling to the surface. "Keep talking, you son of a bitch, and I'll show you a pain in the ass--"

Brittany slides one hand up Santana’s arm from her wrist to just above her elbow and tightens the arm she still has around Santana’s waist, and it's so distracting that Santana loses her train of thought mid-rant. She settles for clamping her jaw shut and glaring up at Puck as she tries to focus past the hot tingling sensation radiating up and down her arm from where Brittany is touching her. To his credit, the expression on Puck's face seems to indicate that he thinks Santana is thoroughly crazy.

Brittany speaks to Finn as if Santana and Puck aren't even there. "Come get us and we'll relieve you. You look exhausted, Finn. You need to sleep."

"You were shot, Brittany; you need rest more than I do." He carefully unwraps Santana's fingers from the stock of his rifle one-by-one. "Stay here," he repeats gently. "Take care of Brittany. I won't worry about either of you as much, and if I know where you are, I'll be able to keep my mind on my business and I'll be safer."

Santana scowls up at him. "That's low."

"I figured out a long time ago that I can't beat you if I fight fair." Finn covers Brittany's hand with his own where hers is resting on Santana's arm, linking the three of them. "Stay inside the cabin, okay? Try and get some rest. It'll be morning before you know it."

Puck unties Charlie from the hitching post and hands Finn’s the reins. “How do you want to do this?”

He swings up into the saddle. “If they arrive tonight, they’ll probably come from the same direction that you and the girls did, so I’ll keep watch down that way.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “You do sweeps along the rest of the perimeter and check in with me every fifteen minutes or so, and we’ll go from there.”

“Sounds good.”

Finn looks down at Santana and Brittany. “Try not to get into any trouble while I’m gone.” He offers them a cheeky smile, then wheels Charlie around and rides off, disappearing into the night.

Puck has taken his seat atop his own horse, but before he can ride away, Santana steps forward and grabs the horse’s bridle. "If you let anything happen to Finn,” she growls, “I swear to God I will scalp you."

"While you're conscious," Brittany adds, her cheerful tone making the statement even more threatening.

Puck's eyes are wide as they flick back and forth between the girls. "You two are nuts," he declares fervently, and hastens away.

As the sound of the horse’s hoofbeats fade in the distance, Brittany slides her hand across Santana’s waist to her hip, and Santana is suddenly very aware that they’re alone together in the darkness.

“We can follow Finn if you want,” Brittany murmurs.

She wants to. Santana knows that the chances of the Marshals stumbling upon the cabin in the middle of the night are slim, but then so were the odds that Terri and Shelby would show up in the town where she was staying, or that she would walk in on Finn and Brittany robbing a bank in that same town. Either a staggering number of coincidences have occurred over the past two days, or there’s something bigger going on, some connecting thread running through everything that Santana can’t see.

If she’d been alone, Santana would have gone after Finn no questions asked, but there is Brittany to consider, and despite her bravado, the other girl is far from being one-hundred percent. “Finn’s a big boy; he can take care of himself. Besides, I want to look at your arm.”

Brittany’s sigh is inaudible, but Santana can sense it anyway. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

Santana leads her inside the cabin. The kerosene lamps that Brittany left burning illuminate a single large room, sparsely furnished with a wood-burning stove, a table and two benches, and a bed pushed up against one wall. A fireplace made of rough-cut stone is set into the wall opposite the door, a small stack of wood piled beside it. Seeing it makes Santana realize just how much the temperature has dropped since sunset.

“Sit down and rest while I get a fire going,” she says, nudging Brittany toward the bed. “I won’t be long.”

“It’ll be quicker if you’ll let me help you,” Brittany begins, then rolls her eyes at Santana’s expression. “Fine, I’m not going to argue, we’ll do it your way.”

“Thank you.”

There’s book of matches an a small oil can filled with kerosene sitting on top of the stove, so almost as quickly as Santana has a stack of kindling ready in the fireplace, she has a fire going. She builds it up with a few larger pieces of wood, then finally chunks in a couple of heavy logs. Besides giving off plenty of heat, the fire should have enough fuel not to require any attention for a while.

When she finishes, Santana turns around to see Brittany seated on one of the benches, her good arm propped on the table and her chin propped on her hand, watching Santana. Her duster and shirt are laying across the table behind her, leaving her clad in just her trousers and thin camisole undershirt. Santana feels a blush creep across her cheeks and doesn’t even try to pretend it’s from standing too close to the fire.

Brittany raises her eyebrows. “I’m sitting down and resting just like you ordered, boss. Do I get a prize?”

Santana swallows in an attempt to work some moisture back into her suddenly-dry mouth. “Yeah, I get to disinfect your arm so you get to keep it.”

Brittany blanches. “Better get it over with, then.”

Santana straddles the bench and sits down so close to Brittany that their knees bump. Brittany’s whiskey flask, the remaining strips of her old shirt, and one of the kerosene lamps are on the table along with her clothes, and Santana slides the lamp closer for more light as she carefully unwinds the bandages that are wrapped around Brittany’s arm.

The entrance and exit wounds are both raw and ooze a bit of blood once the pressure from the bandages is gone, but neither looks or smells infected. Pure relief courses through Santana and she nearly laughs as she looks up to meet Brittany’s worried gaze. “Everything looks good,” she says, grinning.

“Thank God.” Brittany leans over and rests her forehead on the table. “I was a little worried.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Santana says dryly. She checks to make sure that the flesh around the wound doesn’t feel hotter than the rest of Brittany’s body, then gently prods to see if it’s particularly tender. “Does this hurt?”

“Well it doesn’t feel good,” Brittany grumbles. “But if you mean does it feel like you’re shoving a hot poker into my arm, no. It’s just sore.”

“That’s normal.” Santana doesn’t know that for sure, of course, but it seems sensible to her, and she wants to reassure Brittany in any way she can. “I’m going to disinfect it and wrap it again.”

Brittany cuts her eyes in Santana’s direction to glare at her. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“I’m just trying to keep you from getting sick.”

“I know.” Brittany’s expression softens as she lays a hand on Santana’s knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s not fun for you either, I know.” She closes her eyes and sighs. “Might as well get it over with.”

Santana reaches for the whiskey and the bandages, unscrewing the lid of the flask. “Try not to tense up, okay?” Brittany nods, and Santana quickly splashes the liquor onto her wound.

Brittany howls and bangs the fist of her uninjured arm on the table a few times, nearly upsetting the lamp in the process, but overall her reaction is much less severe than it had been the day before. It adds to Santana’s hope that the gunshot is already beginning to heal on the inside.

Seeing Brittany in pain still makes Santana’s heart twist painfully in her chest. She scoots closer on the bench, putting her hand over Brittany’s and threading her fingers between the other girl’s. “Shh, it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re doing great,” she soothes. “Just relax, you’re going to be fine.”

Brittany’s fingers clamp down on Santana’s and for long moments she continues to whimper, clearly in pain. After what seems like an eternity to Santana, Brittany’s whimpers trail off, leaving her winded and panting.

She turns her head to look at Santana. “That,” she says breathlessly, “hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” Santana strokes sweat-damp hair off Brittany’s forehead, fingertips lingering against her brow. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Brittany reassures her. “You’re not the one who shot me. Some asshole Marshal did that.”

“Still.” Santana brushes the pad of her thumb across Brittany’s cheekbone. “I’m going to go ahead and rewrap it, okay?”

“Sure.”

Santana begins to wind fresh strips of the old shirt around Brittany’s arm. “Finn told me about how you two met,” she says quietly. “I’m so sorry about your parents.”

“That’s not your fault either,” Brittany replies, her eyes drifting shut. “But thank you.”

“Why did you stay with him?”

Brittany sits up, turning to look at Santana with a puzzled expression. “What?”

“With Finn.” The question sounds abrupt and awkward in her own ears, but it’s too late to take it back now, so Santana plunges ahead. “You could have left,” she says. She keeps her gaze firmly on her work, purposefully avoiding Brittany’s eyes. “Finn told me he didn’t make you stay with him, that he would have given you your share of the money and let you go whenever you wanted. But you didn’t; you stayed. Why did you do that?”

Brittany is silent for so long that Santana begins to think that she isn’t going to answer. “At first it was because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. My parents sold the farm when my grandparents died, and when my parents died, I didn’t have anyone left. If Finn hadn’t let me tag along with him, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Santana finishes securing the bandages but doesn’t move away. “You said at first,” she prompts. “What about later?”

“Loyalty, I guess. Finn could have abused me a thousand different ways but he never laid a hand on me. All he’s ever tried to do is take care of me, and I love him for that.” Brittany flashes a crooked smile. “Like he’s my brother.”

“I know.” Santana brushes Brittany’s long sweep of hair away from her neck. “How are you feeling? Are the bandages too tight?”

“Like I’ve been shot,” she says wryly. “And no, they’re fine.” Brittany’s smile fades, her expression turning serious as she watches Santana roll up the unused bandages. “I stayed for you.”

Santana freezes. Her heart feels like it skips a beat and then doubles, and she sets the bandages aside before turning back to Brittany. “What?”

“I wanted to help Finn get back to you,” Brittany explains. “He talked about you all the time, and he made you seem so wonderful that I knew I had to meet you. So I stayed.”

“You thought I was wonderful?” Santana echoes skeptically. She forces a chuckle, determined not to read anything into Brittany’s words. “It must have been a disappointment when you finally did meet me.”

“No.” There’s color riding high on Brittany’s cheeks and a new vulnerability in her eyes, but her gaze never wavers from Santana’s. “In the bank, when that clerk got the drop on me, I said I was distracted by the family reunion, but I lied. I was only distracted by you.”

Santana can hardly hear anything over the sound of her pulse roaring in her ears. “You were distracted by me,” she manages.

Brittany nods, and Santana can see her throat bob as she swallows. “I find you very distracting, Santana.”

Her heart is racing so quickly that if Santana had any mental energy left to spare, she’d worry about the possibility of it exploding out of her chest, but all of her focus has narrowed down to Brittany and what she’s just said. She’s incredibly grateful for having met Quinn and Rachel, because without seeing firsthand that two girls can feel that way for one another, Santana is pretty sure that she’d think the feelings she’s been developing for Brittany over the past two days are a sign of impending insanity. They’re completely foreign and utterly petrifying as it is, and part of her is afraid that this is Brittany’s idea of some colossal joke.

Then Santana looks closer, and she sees that beneath her blush, Brittany has gone stark white. Her hands are curled into fists and she’s worrying her lower lip between her teeth, and Santana realizes that Brittany is terrified.

Somehow that loosens the knot of fear in Santana’s own chest. She wraps her fingers around Brittany’s wrist and feels the other girl’s pulse hammering there. “You distract me too,” she admits.

For a moment Brittany looks absolutely bewildered, as though every coherent thought has been blasted out of her brain. Then, slowly, she smiles, her face suffused with stunned delight. “You feel this,” she says wonderingly, and Santana knows she’s talking about that strange pull that’s existed between them since that moment in Puckerman’s when she first placed her hand in Brittany’s. “I thought it was just me.”

“It’s not just you,” Santana assures.

She closes her eyes as Brittany lifts her hand to brush Santana’s face, fingers trailing along her cheek and the edge of her jaw to the back of her neck, where they slide into the fine hair at her nape. “I’m so scared.” Santana doesn't think she could admit as much to anyone else, but with Brittany, the words come easily.

“Me too.” It isn't what Santana expects to hear, and she opens her eyes to see Brittany swinging one leg over the bench and turning to face her head-on. Her blue eyes are at once hazy and resolute. “Come here.”

She’s still scared, but she moves closer, because Santana has never let being afraid stop her from doing anything. Brittany leans forward to rest her forehead against Santana’s and for a long moment they stay that way, sharing breath and space. Then Brittany’s hand exerts light pressure on the back of Santana’s neck, tilting her head, and she brings their mouths together in the lightest of touches.

Brittany’s lips are impossibly soft and sweeter than anything Santana has ever tasted, and she can’t help but push forward, seeking more contact. Her hands find Brittany’s back, fingers twisting in her shirt, as Brittany wraps her bandaged arm around Santana’s waist and pulls, hoisting Santana into her lap.

She’s astride Brittany’s thighs, knees dangling on either side of Brittany’s hips, and the shock of such intimate contact steals Santana’s breath. She clutches tightly to Brittany, feeling Brittany’s breasts rise and fall against Santana’s own as she breathes, feeling the heat of Brittany’s core against her own as the other girl arches up. Santana automatically presses down against her, a low moan escaping at the sparking sensation the movement creates.

Brittany rocks her hips up again, somehow managing to pull Santana closer as she does so. “Is this okay?” she murmurs against Santana’s lips.

Santana manages an affirmative noise that has Brittany smiling into their kiss. She slides her hands up Brittany’s back, feeling the smooth movement of her muscles and the fine bones of her ribs and spine through the thin material of her top. Santana gasps as one of Brittany’s hands slips under her own shirt to rest against her bare back and Brittany’s tongue is at her lips, wet and warm as it brushes against Santana's own before sliding into her mouth.

The wild pounding of Santana’s heart is matched by the throb between her legs that has her bringing her hands up between her own body and Brittany’s to the buckle of the gun belt that Brittany wears slung low on her hips. She works blindly at it, her frustrated growl when Brittany pulls her mouth away transforming into a breathless groan when Brittany’s lips find her neck, gently licking and sucking and biting.

It takes longer than it should because her coordination seems to have fallen by the wayside, but Santana finally, finally, gets the damn buckle unfastened. The entire belt, pistols and all, falls away from Brittany’s hips and tumbles heavily off the bench to land on the wooden floor. Santana thinks belatedly that she should probably be more careful with loaded guns, but then she moves her hands underneath Brittany’s top to skim the smooth plane of her stomach. The noise Brittany makes in response stirs something inside of Santana, and all she can think about is what she can do to hear that sound again.

She yelps as Brittany bucks up, arm tightening around Santana’s waist and holding her close as she’s dislodged from her lap. Brittany stands and backs away from the table and bench, pulling Santana along with her. Santana follows willingly, moving in close to taste her lips again.

Brittany’s body is warm and long and lean pressed against Santana’s. She latches on to the other side of Santana's throat, sinking her teeth into the junction of Santana's neck and shoulder. Panting, desperate, Santana moans and finds the hem of Brittany’s top, impulsively yanking it up and over her head and tossing it aside.

Santana’s gaze roams hungrily over Brittany’s body, and she’s perfect. Santana trails one hand down Brittany's shoulder, over her collarbone, and down her chest to her breasts. She palms one, feeling the nipple harden, and Brittany whimpers, rearing back to crush their mouths together again and try to pull Santana even closer. Perfect.

Except it isn't, not really, because the throb between Santana's legs has turned into an ache that is so distracting that all she can think is that she needs more. Brittany seems to know how she feels, because suddenly she's pulling Santana's shirt off, yanking at the button of her pants, tugging them down her hips. The cool air hits Santana's overheated flesh and raises goosebumps, but isn't what makes her shiver.

Brittany slides her palms up Santana's hips, her stomach, her ribs, her breasts, fingers coming up to gently tweak and tease. Santana moans into Brittany's mouth and feels the other girl's lips curve. "Good?" she murmurs.

Santana barely has the breath to speak. "Touch me," she says on a shaky gasp, trembling with nerves and want.

Brittany backs her to the bed, pushing Santana down when the backs of her knees hit the edge. She pushes off her own pants, allowing Santana one brief glimpse of the rest of her gorgeous golden body before Brittany is pressing down on top of her, skin to skin.

The blonde kisses her again, tongue dipping inside to find the heat of Santana's mouth, hips rolling as she grinds down. Santana feels a long, liquid pull in her stomach and knows instinctively that she's close to something. "Touch me," she says again. "Please."

Brittany shifts until she's lying on her uninjured side, stretched out along the length of Santana's body. She trails the fingertips of one hand down Santana's quivering stomach to rest against her thigh. Brittany kisses her jaw, her chin, her nose. "Don't be scared," she whispers against Santana's lips.

Santana is about to say that she isn't, but then she feels Brittany's hand sliding between her thighs, fingertips pressing against hot, slick flesh, then pressing in, and she gasps and bucks her hips upwards, seeking more even as the intrusion burns. Brittany's fingers are inside of her, and as Santana adjusts to that, those fingers begin to move. She moans, reaching for Brittany, clutching her desperately as she's overwhelmed by unfamiliar sensation.

Brittany kisses the shell of her ear. "Relax," she breathes, fingers stroking and curving. "Just relax and feel this."

As if Santana could feel anything else. She seeks out Brittany's mouth with her own, for some reason needing to kiss the other girl, to be connected to her in every way possible. She finds herself moving to Brittany's rhythm, stroking her tongue and canting her hips in time to Brittany's thrusts. When the heel of Brittany's palm presses against her, something inside of Santana breaks open, flashes, explodes, and she cries out, arching up into Brittany's waiting body.

Brittany cradles her head and holds her as she comes down, kissing her mouth and murmuring affection against her lips. She’s shaking, and the only thought in her exhausted mind is getting closer to Brittany, getting inside her, making her feel what Santana just felt.

It takes everything she’s got, but Santana manages to shift to the side, rolling Brittany onto her back. Brittany looks up at her, cheeks pink, mouth swollen, eyes dark and glazed and heavy-lidded, and Santana can’t do anything but kiss her until they’re both breathless. When Brittany turns her head away, searching for air, Santana slides her lips to Brittany’s ear and her fingertips to Brittany’s entrance. “Let me.”

Brittany nods, gasping as Santana slips inside of her. She is hot and wet and soft, and is the most amazing thing that Santana has ever felt. She moves her fingers, doing her best to mimic what Brittany did to her, and bites back a smile as the other girl cries out and arches up, seeking more contact. She watches as the blush on Brittany’s cheeks spreads along her skin, as her eyelids flutter shut, as she buries her teeth in her lower lip and whimpers and grinds up into Santana’s hand. She lets her thumb wander, grazing sensitive flesh, and groans when Brittany tightens around her fingers as her entire body reacts. That’s when Santana knows she was wrong.

This, being inside Brittany when she breaks apart and clenches, is most amazing thing she’s ever felt.

---

Santana doesn’t even know she’s fallen asleep until she’s waking up to the sensation of Brittany’s lips gliding over her collarbone, up her throat, along her jawline, to the corner of her mouth. She cracks open one eye just as Brittany pulls away and her lips curve up into a smile that she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. “Hi.”

Brittany’s answering grin is dazed and delighted. “Hi.” She lowers her lips back to Santana’s and kisses her, long and slow and heated. “Hi.”

She’s lying on top of Santana, body warm, muscles firm, skin soft, and Santana lets her hands wander the smooth plane of Brittany’s bare back as she smiles in response. “You said that already.”

“Good news is worth repeating,” Brittany says, tossing Santana’s earlier words back at her.

Santana’s answering chuckle turns into a strangled groan as Brittany shifts to slide a thigh between Santana’s own and press up. “Saying hi isn’t really news,” she manages to point out.

“You got me there,” Brittany says. She rests her forehead against Santana’s and releases a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t know what to say,” she admits softly. “This is so much more than I--I mean I never thought that you would--I thought when I said something you would hit me.”

“I don’t know why you’re so convinced I’m going to do that,” Santana grumbles good-naturedly, pulling Brittany close. “Especially since you’re the one who pulled a gun on me.”

Brittany grunts in annoyance. “You’re never going to let that one go, are you?”

“Nope,” Santana agrees cheerfully. “But it makes for a great how-we-first-met story, don’t you think?”

“Since I didn’t actually shoot you, absolutely.” Brittany shifts and stretches out on her side next to Santana, resting her injured arm on Santana’s hip and fixing her with a serious look. “What are we going to tell Finn?”

Hearing her brother’s name is like being dunked in a freezing river. Santana is pretty sure that when he’d teased her about liking Brittany, this wasn’t what he’d had in mind. She forces a smile. “We’re not going to worry about that,” she says. “Tomorrow morning we’re leaving, all three of us--and no, I don’t give a shit where that asshole Puckerman goes or what he does--and we’re going start fresh. No more stealing, no more running, and most of all, no more getting shot.” She brushes a hand over Brittany’s shoulder. “How’s your arm?”

Brittany ignores Santana’s attempt to change the subject. “Finn’s not going to like this,” she says, blue eyes full of worry. “He won’t like us being together like this. It’s not normal.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she cringes and rushes on. “That’s not what I meant. I--”

“I know.” Santana brushes a reassuring kiss across Brittany’s lips, because she does know. “It’s not usual,” she says carefully. “But do you remember me telling you about Quinn and Rachel, from Emma’s?” Brittany nods. “They love each other like this. We’re not the only ones who feel this way. We’re not alone.”

Brittany’s entire being seems to soften as she reaches out to cup Santana’s face in her hand. “Do you love me, Santana?”

Logically, Santana knows she should be frightened. She’s known Brittany barely two days, and even if Brittany were a man and their situation was usual, this would all be too much too soon. It would be too much for anyone, let alone someone who has spent the last two years wandering alone, too hurt and jaded to trust anybody.

She knows all this, but she doesn’t feel it. What she feels is the tender brush of Brittany’s thumb against her cheek, the gentleness of Brittany’s smile, and the warmth in Brittany’s eyes. Santana was happy as a child, but when she tries to remember the last time she felt this good, this happy and whole, she can’t.

“Yes,” Santana says. “I love you.” And it isn’t frightening at all.

Brittany kisses her, and it’s so good that Santana doesn’t even notice when the cabin door opens. She’s so wrapped up in Brittany and what they’ve found together that she doesn’t hear the tread of familiar footsteps, or feel the intrusion of the cold night air, or see the flickering shadows cast by the dancing flames.

But the sound of a gun being cocked registers clearly in her ears, and even before the hammer has finished being pulled back, Santana is rolling Brittany over and covering the other girl’s body with her own, because she knows. Without even having to look up, she knows, and dread fills her heart and spreads through her body like spilled ink across paper.

“Well, well, well,” Terri del Monaco says. “Look what we have here.”

When Santana does look up, it’s to find herself looking down the barrel of the gun held in a smirking Shelby Corcoran’s hand. Terri is standing beside Shelby, her expression mirroring her sister’s, and as Santana feels Brittany’s body go rigid with fear beneath her own, years-old fury replaces the dread in Santana’s chest and licks up the back of her throat. “Fuck you,” she snarls. “Fuck both of you--”

Warm blood sprays as Shelby strikes Santana with the gun, opening a gash across her left eyebrow. The blow leaves Santana stunned and she’s only just able to hold Brittany back when the other girl bucks her off and lunges for Shelby, who laughs and simply pulls the gun out of her reach . “Brittany, don’t,” she says urgently.

“It looks like Santana’s little friend here has some bite,” Shelby says to Terri. “I wonder if any of it has rubbed off.”

“How about it, Santana?” Terri puts her hands on her knees and bends to peer into Santana’s face. “Do you have any fight in you, or are you still just a coward at heart, always looking to run?”

Santana blinks away the blood trickling through her eye to smile unpleasantly at her former tutors. “You’re still as pathetic and obvious as you've always been,” she says. “And since you’re here now, you must still be under Sandy’s thumb. You’re a joke.”

Terri’s eyes darken with rage and her nostrils flare, reminding Santana of nothing so much as an angry bull. She nods at Shelby, who points her revolver directly at Brittany’s forehead. Brittany doesn’t react visually, but Santana can feel her muscles go rigid with fear, and it wipes away all traces of her own anger and defiance.

“I don’t like your attitude, Santana.” Terri has herself under control again and from the gleam in her eyes as her gaze goes briefly to Brittany, she knows that as long as Brittany is threatened, she has Santana under control too.

Terri puts a hand to Santana’s face, and her touch is so different from Brittany’s that Santana is barely able to repress a shudder. She runs her fingers through the blood running down Santana’s cheek, smearing it on her way to the edge of Santana’s eyebrow. “I think Shelby and I need to take you home and punish you.”

As if to emphasize her words, Terri lays her thumb against the laceration on Santana’s brow and pushes down with all her strength. Blackness creeps in around the edges as Santana’s vision begins to swim, but she clamps her jaw shut and keeps her gaze locked with Terri’s, refusing to show any weakness.

Beside her, Brittany somehow tenses even more. Santana still has an arm hooked around her shoulders from when she’d had to restrain the other girl, and slowly, trying not to draw Shelby’s attention, she strokes her thumb back and forth across Brittany’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure her.

Tears are welling in Santana’s eyes--whether from the pain or the strain of staring down Terri, she’s unsure--when Terri finally tires of the game. She reaches over to wipe her hand against Brittany’s shoulder, Santana’s blood leaving a bright red stain against the paler girl’s skin.

“You disgust me.” With Shelby’s gun still trained on Brittany, Terri retrieves Santana’s shirt from the floor and Brittany’s from the table and throws them at the girls. “Cover yourselves up. I can’t stand to look at you.”

“You girls put on quite a show,” Shelby says nastily as Santana slides her arms into the shirt and buttons it. “It was a regular Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Santana can’t help it; the thought of Terri and Shelby invoking any kind of religious doctrine to try and shame or demean her is so ridiculous that a snort of laughter escapes. “You murdered my father and framed my brother for it.” Brittany finishes with her own shirt and Santana deliberately returns her arm to the blonde’s shoulders. “If God decides to strike anyone with lightening tonight, you bitches are first in line.”

“Actually, it was Sandy who murdered your father,” Terri corrects. Her features assume a mockery of sympathy. “Poor Santana. You never were a very good student.”

That slight seems to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. “What do you want?” Brittany blurts. “Why are you here?”

“My sister already answered that question, Brittany.” The sound of Shelby saying Brittany’s name has a combination of anger and disgust boiling beneath Santana’s skin, and even with the very obvious presence of the gun, it’s all she can do not to lash out. “We’re here to take Santana home.”

It doesn’t make any sense. Santana has avoided thinking about how and why Terri and Shelby could wind up in her town since catching sight of them outside of Puckerman’s, but now, with both sisters standing in front of her, she doesn’t have a choice. “I don’t have a home,” she says. “You both made sure of that.”

“Wrong again,” Terri replies. “Your home is with Sandy. He was very upset when you ran away, but he’s willing to forgive and forget after you’re married.” Her lip curls up in a sneer as she looks at Brittany. “We just won’t tell him about this little incident.”

Finn told her once long ago that Sandy wanted to marry her, but it’s inconceivable to Santana that Sandy’s desire for her could be at the root of everything that’s happened. “I don’t understand. Why did you help him then? Why are you helping him now?”

“He pays better than your father,” Shelby says with a shrug. “A girl has to do something to make her way in the world.”

It’s only been a few scant hours since she chastised Finn for his desire to kill Sandy, Shelby, and Terri, but Shelby’s callous manner almost overwhelms Santana’s self-control. She fairly vibrates with the desire to launch herself off the bed and claw Shelby’s eyes out, and if it wasn’t for Brittany’s presence, she probably would. She feels Brittany’s knuckles brush her bare leg and struggles to rein herself in. “I’m not going with you.”

“You need some convincing; that’s fair,” Terri says, eminently reasonable. “Shelby, kill the blonde.”

“No!” Santana lunges forward to knock Shelby’s hand aside, filled with such sudden, all-consuming terror that she doesn’t even occur to her to try to grab the gun; the only thing in her mind is to get it away from Brittany. Shelby smirks and pulls the trigger anyway, the sound ripping through the cabin like a thunderclap, deafening and overwhelming, as Santana gathers Brittany into her body and presses Brittany’s face into her neck.

Her head is already aching from the blow she’d received from Shelby, and the gunshot sets up a pounding so severe that Santana is afraid she’s going to pitch over and pass out. Brittany’s arms tighten around her, anchoring her, as Terri begins to shout.

“You were supposed to shoot the girl, not the wall!” she yells. “Now you’ve stirred up a ruckus and she’s not even dead!”

“And who’s out here to hear?” Shelby demands.

Brittany’s nose skims up the side of Santana’s neck to nuzzle against her ear. “Finn,” she breathes.

If Shelby and Terri don’t know that Finn and Puck are around, that means that they haven’t hurt or killed either man. They’re sure to be investigating the shot; all Santana has to do is buy enough time for them to get there.

“Hey.” The barrel of Shelby’s revolver digs into the cut on Santana’s brow as she pushes against her forehead, putting space between Santana and Brittany. Santana’s vision goes blurry and she sways, only managing to stay upright because of Brittany’s arms around her waist. “Why don’t you fill us in on your conversation?”

Santana smiles thinly. “It’s private.”

“Private conversations aren’t allowed here. And if you don’t believe me, there are five more bullets in this gun.” Shelby taps the gun against the crown of Brittany’s head. “If I can’t get it through your skull, I bet I can get it through hers.”

Brittany turns to glare at the older woman. “I told her I love her,” she says. “Before you kill me, I thought she should know.”

“How touching,” Terri sneers. She looks at Santana. “Time to say goodbye.”

“I’m not going with you,” Santana says again. Brittany’s declaration has rocked her, and while there’s a good chance that neither one of them will be leaving this cabin alive, Santana is determined to do everything she can to keep Brittany safe. “Not unless you let Brittany go.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you won’t get me back to Sandy alive if you don’t,” Santana says steadily. “If I can’t find a way to kill you two, I’ll find a way to kill myself. And if Sandy is so desperate to have me that he murdered my father and sent you to hunt me down, well.” She smiles. “Just imagine what he’ll do to you if you don’t bring me back.”

Shelby pulls the gun away from Brittany’s head and glances at her sister. “She’s got a point, Terri.”

Terri’s eyes narrow to slits as she studies Santana, who simply stares back, willing the other woman to believe that she’s capable of murder or suicide if Brittany is harmed. When Terri rocks back on her heels and looks to Shelby, Santana has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Gotcha.

“Fine,” Terri says dismissively. “We’ll leave your little girlfriend here.”

It doesn’t escape Santana’s notice that while Terri says here, she doesn’t specify alive.

Shelby waves her away with the gun, gesturing to the clothes that are strewn across the floor. “Get dressed.”

Brittany tightens her grip around Santana’s waist as she tries to rise from the bed, fear shining in her eyes. “Santana.”

She brushes her knuckles against Brittany’s jaw and smiles at her. “It’ll be okay,” she says, and thinks, please don’t do anything stupid.

“This is nauseating,” Terri says.

Santana shoots her a glare, then gently extricates herself from Brittany’s grasp and heads for the rest of her clothing. Brittany’s undershirt, their trousers, and their boots are in a messy pile near the table, and there, hidden out of sight beneath the bench, is Brittany’s gun belt and revolvers.

Santana knows that she can’t trust Terri to keep her word, knows too that this might be her best and only chance to get Brittany and herself out of this alive. When she bends as if to reach for her pants, she bypasses the clothing to grab the nearest gun.

Santana’s adrenaline makes up for her blurry vision and general wooziness. She’s already spinning by the time the gun is in her hand, cocked and ready to fire, and snaps off a shot at Shelby. Caught completely unprepared, the bullet strikes her in the right shoulder, spinning her around and jolting the gun out of her grasp.

Ignoring her sister, Terri dives for the gun as Santana cocks her own revolver in preparation for another shot. Before she can take it, the front door crashes open and Finn bursts in, rifle in hand, Puck close on his heels.

Santana doesn’t see what happens after that (though the two quick shots that follow don’t leave much to the imagination) because Brittany springs off the bed and tackles her, hands cradling the back of Santana’s head to keep it from striking the floor. She presses her mouth to Santana’s over and over again in a series of messy, desperate kisses.

“Why did you do that?” Brittany demands, on the verge of tears. “I told you Finn was coming; I meant for you to wait for him. You could have been killed!”

Head aching and body overflowing with adrenaline and giddy disbelief that the only people dead are the ones who deserve to be, Santana is more honest than she means to be. “I wasn’t going to let them hurt you,” she says. “I’m not worth it.”

Brittany chokes back a sob and buries her face in Santana’s neck. “Yes you are.”

“What happened?” The creaking of the floorboards as Puck crosses over to them is deafening in the silence of the aftermath of the shooting. “I hope neither of you liked them, because those bitches are dead.”

Santana wraps her arms around Brittany, holding her close as the other girl’s shoulders shake. “Do you like people who hold you at gunpoint?”

“I can see some merit in it if by people you mean good-looking women. Too bad Finn blew the heads off of these two before I could check them out.” Puck crouches down, hat in his hands, his eyes belying the nonchalance of his words. “Are you okay?”

She starts to nod, thinks better of it when her head throbs, and says, “Thanks to you. Your timing is impeccable.”

Puck winks. “That’s what the ladies tell me.”

Brittany kisses Santana’s collarbone, and when she raises her head, her eyes are red-rimmed but clear. “You’re kind of a jerk, Puck.”

“The ladies tell me that, too.” He touches Brittany’s shoulder affectionately and stands up. “Get yourselves together and we’ll talk.”

Santana remembers then that she and Brittany are still mostly naked, and God only knows what Finn and Puck think of what they saw before making their entrance. As Brittany stands and helps her up, she can see Puck talking quietly to Finn as they stand over the bodies; neither man looks back at them. They’re blocked from her line of sight by Brittany as she gently smooths Santana’s hair back from her bruised and bloody brow, and Santana decides she doesn’t care what they think.

They dress quickly, Santana careful not to move her head too much in an attempt to stave off another spell of dizziness. When they finish, she tangles her fingers with Brittany’s and crosses the room to Finn.

He’s standing over the bodies of Terri and Shelby, head bowed, rifle dangling loosely from one hand. The scent of gunpowder and blood is a nauseating combination that hangs heavily in the air. Santana can’t help taking a quick glance down at the bodies.

Shelby is lying on her back, a surprisingly neat hole in the middle of her forehead. Her brown eyes stare unblinkingly at the ceiling, somehow still managing to portray surprise. A few feet away, Terri is lying twisted on one side. There’s not a blemish on the side of face her that Santana can see, but a still-spreading pool of blood underneath her head indicates the location of the kill shot.

Santana looks away, stomach heaving. She resists the urge to cover Brittany’s eyes and settles for muttering, “Don’t look,” from between clenched teeth. Brittany makes a quiet, acquiescent noise and tightens her grip on Santana’s hand.

Puck shrugs helplessly as they near, clearly at a loss. Santana rests her free hand on her brother’s back. “Finn?”

“Santana.” Finally he looks up at her, brows drawn together in puzzlement. “You’re right. I don’t feel better.”

She feels completely helpless. “Finn, I--”

“No, don’t.” He lifts a hand to forestall her argument. “I had to. I saw them through the window; they would have killed Brittany and taken you away. I had to kill them.” His frown deepens. “I just don’t feel as good about it as I thought I would.”

Maybe it’s just the combination of exhaustion and relief and pain, but Santana hold back a smile. “I told you so.”

Finn stares at her in consternation for a long moment before his lips finally quirk up in a reluctant smile. “You’re a pain in the ass, Santana Lopez. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Just about everyone who’s met me.” She leans into him. “Thanks for coming, Finn.”

“I’ll always come for you,” he replies. He touches the side of Santana’s face and glances between her and Brittany. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Brittany says, answering for both of them. She taps her own forehead in the area of Santana’s wound. “Shelby hit Santana, though...”

Puck peers into her face. “I think I can see your brain. Good thing you don’t use it much.”

“You’re a riot, Puckerman,” Santana says without malice, batting him away. She straightens up. “What are we going to do?”

“You’re going to let Brittany look at that cut,” Finn says. “Puck and I’ll go find the horses these two rode in on and see if we can scavenge any supplies. Then we’ll talk.”

She doesn’t like being ordered around, but Santana can see that Finn needs to reestablish some kind of control. She doesn’t feel up to arguing anyway. “Fine with me.”

The two men head outside and Brittany leads Santana to the table, away from the bodies, and boosts her up onto it. She squints at Santana’s wound. “You really can see your brain, you know.”

Santana manages a tired smile and swats her. “Don’t you start too.”

Brittany smiles briefly before turning away to fuss with the makeshift bandages and whiskey that are still on the table. “I knew right before you went for the gun that that’s what you were going to do, and I knew you wouldn’t be able to get both of those women before one of them shot you. I knew you were going to die, and I was so angry at you.”

“Brittany.”

“It’s okay.” Brittany’s smile is tremulous but genuine. “I understand why you did what you did, and if the situation had been reversed I would have done the same thing. It’s just--I waited for you for so long, and I thought I was going to lose you--”

“Brittany,” Santana says again. She takes the other girl’s hands in her own, stilling their nervous movements. “You have me, okay? For however long it ends up being, you have me.”

“I love you,” Brittany says, and kisses her. When she pulls away, there’s a wicked gleam in her eyes. “And that’s why it’s going to be so hard for me to disinfect this cut.”

Santana narrows her eyes. “Liar. You’re looking forward to getting me back.”

“Maybe a little bit,” Brittany admits. She unscrews the lid on the flask of whiskey and takes a swig, holding it to Santana’s lips for her to do the same. Then she pours some of it on one of the bandages. “Close your eyes. This is going to sting.”

Santana follows her directions and tries to focus on the pleasant sensation of the whiskey as it flows through her, warming her from the inside out. When Brittany presses the bandage to the gash on her brow, Santana bellows and nearly bites through her own tongue. “Fuck!”

“Language,” Brittany trills, amused, but she drops a comforting kiss on the crown of Santana’s head. “It’ll be over in just a minute, hang on...”

Santana grips the edge of the table so tightly she can practically feel her knuckles go white. “I understand why you don’t like this,” she grits out.

Brittany swipes the rag across Santana’s face, wiping away the blood. “There you are. So much less gruesome.”

Santana cracks open one eye and glares at her suspiciously. “You can’t really see my brain, can you?”

Brittany laughs, just as Santana hoped she would; it’s her new favorite sound. “No, silly. You’re going to have a knot on your head for a few days, though, and maybe a scar too.”

“That’s not a bad price to pay,” Santana says. “Besides, a scar would make me look tough. Think maybe we could get people to start calling us Scarface and the Sunshine Kid?”

“No,” Brittany says pointedly. “I’m retiring that nickname. You said no more stealing, remember? The Sunshine Kid is a thief, Brittany Pierce isn’t.” She leans back to look critically at Santana’s forehead. “The bleeding’s stopped. I think you’ll be okay as long as we keep it clean.”

Santana loops her arms around Brittany’s waist and pulls her in close. “Thanks for taking care of me.” She kisses Brittany soft and slow, like they have all the time in the world, and for the first time since Terri and Shelby showed up, begins to feel like they’re both going to make it through the night.

Brittany steps back and takes Santana’s hand, tugging her off the table. “Let’s go see what’s holding up Finn and Puck. I’m ready to get out of here.”

“We might have a problem with that.” Finn stands in the doorway, a dejected-looking Puck at his shoulder. “I’ve got someone here who says he knows you, Santana.”

They shuffle further into the cabin and Santana catches a glimpse of firelight reflecting off a pair of glasses. “Artie?”

“Santana.” The deputy inclines his head to both her and Brittany, Finn’s rifle held in his hands. “I’m glad to see you’re all right.”

She couldn’t have been more surprised if her father’s reanimated corpse had staggered into the cabin and tried to eat her brains. “What the hell are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“Tina told me how you two accidentally interrupted the robbery at Puckerman’s,” he replies. “She said it was because you’d seen the two women who used to be your tutors, so when we saw them start to follow the Marshals’ posse, Tina asked me to follow along and look after you.” He glances down at the bodies on the floor. “Doesn’t look like you needed my help after all.”

“Exactly how many people do you know, Lopez?” Puck says. “I’m only asking because I’d like to know how many more people we can expect to barge in here tonight.”

Santana shakes her head. “I don’t know. Terri said that she and Shelby were going to take me back to Sandy, but I don’t know why he wants me so badly or how long they’d been following me or how they found me here or anything.”

“I told you, Sandy wants to marry you,” Finn says patiently. “You inherited your father’s ranch when you came of age. He knows you’d never sell out to him, so he can’t get your land unless he marries you or can prove that you’re dead and buy the property at auction. He could’ve killed you, but, well, look at you.” He gestures at her. “Of course he’d rather marry you.”

“But it’s just land,” she protests, choosing to ignore the unpleasant implication. “It can’t be that important.”

“He must know something about it the rest of us don’t,” Finn says. “Probably something that will make him even richer than he already is.”

“And making more money is worth killing my papi and framing you and all the rest of this mess?”

Puck shrugs. “Can you think of a better reason?”

Santana doesn’t have an answer for that. She closes her eyes and tries to collect herself, infinitely grateful for the support of Brittany’s arm when it slides around her waist. When she opens her eyes again, she looks at Artie. “What now?”

“I’ve got two infamous bank robbers and two dead bodies,” he says. “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve got it all wrong,” Finn says. He turns to look at Artie. “You’ve got me. Everyone knows I’m a thief, and I admit that I killed these two women. But Santana and Brittany are innocent. I forced them here at gunpoint. They didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Finn, that’s not--”

“And I just wandered up at the wrong time,” Puck says loudly, talking over Santana. “Total coincidence.”

“So you’re telling me that she--” Artie points at Brittany ”--isn’t the Sunshine Kid, and that she--” he points at Santana ”--didn’t go with you voluntarily?”

Finn nods. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“And you’re suggesting what, exactly?”

“That you let them go.”

“Finn!” Only Brittany’s restraining arm keeps Santana from marching over to her brother and punching him in the face.

“Deputy, why don’t we give Finn and the ladies some time alone?” Puck suggests. “He did kidnap them, after all; I think it’s only fair that they be allowed to beat the shit out of him, don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh.” It’s obvious that Artie isn’t buying anything that the other men are saying, but allows Puck to escort him outside. He looks straight at Santana. “I’ll be right outside.”

As soon as they’re alone, Santana gives in to her temper and slugs Finn in the shoulder. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m giving you a way out.” He takes both of her hands in his, holding them tight when she tries to pull away. “I am a thief, and I did kill Terri and Shelby, and if I have to pay for that, that’s fine. But you shouldn’t have to, and neither should Brittany.”

“But Finn, I helped you rob--”

“No, listen to me.” Finn cuts Brittany off and releases one of Santana’s hands to take one of Brittany’s. “I know why you helped me, okay? I know why you stayed.” He looks back to Santana. “All I ever wanted was for you to be happy, and you are. I can see that. So I want you two to take this out that this deputy is giving you and do what we talked about and leave.”

“No.” Santana shakes her head, ignoring both the ache the movement causes and the tears she can feel burning in her eyes. “I’m not letting you sacrifice yourself for me, Finn. None of this is your fault, it’s not fair--”

“And who ever told you life was fair?” he asks gently, turning her words back on her. “I’m your big brother. It’s my job to take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to be a hero for me, Finn,” she says. “Heroes die.”

Finn gives her a dopey, crooked smile that reminds Santana so forcefully of their childhood days that she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Just as long as the heroines don’t.”

It’s too much. After everything that’s happened tonight--discovering Brittany, the appearance of Terri and Shelby, being certain of losing Brittany to them, Finn’s timely arrival and good aim--Santana simply can’t take any more. She wraps her arms around Finn’s waist and burrows against his chest, not even bothering to hide her tears. “You’re such a goddamn idiot.”

His long arms come around her and he holds her close. “I always told you you were the brains.” He kisses the top of her head. “Brittany, you know where the money is hidden. Use it to go somewhere safe, okay?”

Brittany nods. “I’ll take care of her for you, Finn. I promise.”

“I know you will. I probably should have done this earlier, but better late than never, I guess.” He pulls a knife from the sheath on his belt and drags the blade across his left palm, bisecting the old scar and making an X. “You’re like a sister to me, Brittany. I’d like it if we could make it official.”

Brittany smiles tearfully. “I always wanted a brother.” She takes the knife from Finn and slices her left hand, then places her hand in Finn’s. “Thanks for giving me somewhere to belong.”

“I hate to break up the love fest,” Puck calls from the doorway, “but the good deputy’s patience is running thin.”

“Send him in.” Finn resheathes his knife as Santana fetches one of leftover strips of shirt from the table and binds Brittany’s hand. When Artie follows Puck inside a moment later, he gives them all a dry look. “I have to hand it to you ladies. You really beat the shit out of Hudson.”

“I have a favor to ask, Deputy.” Artie turns an exasperated look on Finn, who holds up his hands defensively. “Just hear me out. I want my sister to be safe, but she won’t be as long as Sandy thinks she’s still alive. Would you be willing report Santana as dead so he can buy the Lopez land and be done with it?”

Artie looks at Santana. “You know that means you can never come back.”

“I know.” With Finn either in prison or swinging from the gallows, there’s no reason for her to return.

“Fine.” Artie sighs. “Any other favors?”

“Yes,” Finn says immediately. “That you do the same for Brittany.” He gestures at the corpses on the floor. “There are two bodies here. Let everyone think that Santana and the Sunshine Kid are dead. They’ve never hurt anyone; let them go and live their lives. I’ll take the blame for everything.”

Artie stares down at the two dead women for a long moment before finally looking up at Santana. “I know everything that’s happened to you,” he says. “Tina told me everything you told her. She sent me to help you. That’s why I’m here instead of with the Marshals.” He sighs and turns back to Finn. “We’ll have to burn the cabin down with the bodies in it. They can’t be recognizable by anyone, at all.”

“I can take care of that.” Puck swoops in and picks up the can of kerosene that’s sitting on top of the stove. “The rest of you should move outside. It won’t take long for this place to go up once I get started.”

Feeling dazed and numb by the events of the night and how quickly things are moving, Santana lets Brittany take her hand and lead her outside of the cabin. Clementine is still hitched to the porch, with Charlie and Puck’s and Artie’s horses milling around nearby. Terri’s and Shelby’s are nowhere to be seen.

Finn leads Charlie to Santana as Brittany unties Clementine. “Take good care of him for me, all right?”

She nods, miserable. “You took care of him for me.”

When Puck comes out of the cabin a few minutes later, Santana can already see flames starting to lick up the walls and grimaces as she imagines the smell of burning flesh. “We should get out of here,” he says. “The Marshals are sure to come running once this fire really gets going.”

Santana blinks back tears as she looks up at Finn and tries one last time to talk him out of his plan. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Yes I do. I love you.” He brushes his knuckles against her cheek, a bittersweet smile on his lips, and hoists her into Charlie’s saddle. Brittany walks Clementine over, and Finn gives her a boost as well.

He backs away towards Artie, who is waiting beside his own horse. “Now go on, get out of here,” Finn says waving them away. “Go somewhere new and be happy. And Santana? Don’t look back.”

She doesn’t have to. She wheels Charlie around and rides off into the night, unable to stand another moment with Finn when she knows what awaits him and knows that he won’t let her stop it. When the cabin and the fireball it's become have faded far into the distance, Santana slows Charlie to a walk and allows Brittany to bring Clementine alongside her. “I’m going back for him,” she says.

Brittany reaches out and takes her hand. “We both are.”

fin