The train ride back to Ohio made you sad.

Every tree and building that whipped past your window only served as a reminder of everything you are leaving behind.

Everything you used to be is over.

It's hard for you to get used to that.

Your fathers were there to greet you, with a big sign and wide smiles, you could almost pretend that this was a happy occasion. For them, it probably was. For you, a woman who has tasted everything the world has to offer only to return to this town, it makes you a little melancholy.

You put on a bright smile and nod enthusiastically along with the conversation, content to be lost in your own thoughts for a while. They have fussed over you the whole way home and now you sit, idly stirring your coffee in front of you while they continue to prattle on in a feeble attempt to offer a distraction as you all wait for the mail.

Will you be assigned a husband?

A wife?

An alien love-child? (You really need to stop watching late night movies before bed).

You hate being patient. The waiting is killing you. In only a few hours, your assignment will come and to be perfectly honest, you are absolutely terrified.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you have a brief fear (and hope) that maybe the computers scanning your DNA will reject you as some sort of mutant alien that is completely unfit to be matched with normal humans.

(You have never claimed your imagination was rational).

You try to refocus on whatever your fathers are talking about, but to be honest, you don't really care.

That sounds bad. You love your fathers. Whatever they are talking about is sure to be vastly important.

But you just can't help but feel like your world has already ended.

"So should we go?" Your Daddy asks excitedly.

Go? You think to yourself, trying to wrack your brain for any context of what he is talking about. It is only right then that you realize you must have been drowning out their conversation for longer than you thought.

You probably should have been listening.

"Hiram." Your Dad rolls his eyes playfully. "Maybe she wants to wait so that she can see the house for the first time with her husband."

Husband. You bite the inside of your cheek before another word in Dad's sentence strikes you. "Wait, what house?"

Your Daddy huffs indignantly while Dad just rolls his eyes again, this time at you. "Yes, the house. The house we bought for you."

Oh.

Right.

Your situation is different than most. For most people, just before they turn 18 their parents fill out some form that signifies whether their child will be married by selection or whether they will allow the government to make the choice for them. Parents then identify to whom their child will be married along with blood samples and the Officials prepare everything else.

You were special.

For you, just before your parents were supposed to sign the paperwork, they were notified that you had been accepted to perform. You bypassed your destiny at eighteen but now are solely at the mercy of the current officials.

Because of that, your name and DNA is already being ran through the massive databanks, filtering down the criteria down to your "perfect match" among those who are available in the small Lima community. Officials are determining your sexual preference—which kind of gives you a creepy feeling in the pit of your stomach that you push away—and charting the course for the rest of your life. You cringe at the thought that you could be the Domestic for some fifty year old drunkard who accidentally killed his last one.

Your eyes widen in horror. What if you are assigned to a murderer?

That's what you have to look forward to.

In the unlikely event you match with someone who is even remotely your age, you are guaranteed to be designated as the Domestic due to your privilege of being in New York.

It was the price you paid and now the Government is here to collect.

"Rachel?" Your Daddy prompts and it's only then that you realize you drifted off again.

Your Dad seems to understand your mood and shakes his head at your Daddy.

You should be more excited, even if it is an act.

After all, you are…were an actress.

The parents of Domestics are supposed to offer financial help for a new couple. While your fathers could have absolutely handed you a wad of cash and a wave farewell, you are touched that they have made such an effort. A house.

If you weren't consumed with thoughts of receiving the last piece of Official mail you will ever get, you might even be excited.

Things being what they are, you kind of feel like throwing up.

The doorbell rings and you nearly jump out of your chair.

Your fathers both look at you sympathetically. "The mail won't come until tomorrow." Your Dad reminds you gently.

"I know." You admit softly.

Daddy stands, aware that as a Career he has no idea what you are going through. "I'll ask whoever it is to leave."

You notice their silent communication over your head. You should be annoyed, but right now, you find it hard to care about anything.

Your live is over.

You are just going to have to get used to it.

Coming home is your favorite part of the day.

After today, when you feel the weight of everything else in your life falling apart, you cherish these moments where you can just come home.

Because what are you going to do if one day you get here and Santana's gone?

You aren't sure you can handle that.

You try not to think like that, but honestly? Most days it's all you can think of.

You barely notice the 'For Sale' sign across the street has been taken down as you bound up your front steps, taking two at a time in your excitement to get inside.

Santana's there.

Along with the two most perfect kids you could ever ask for.

Every moment away from them sort of feels like a waste.

You jam your thumb into the fingerprint scanner that serves as the lock to your front door and burst through it like your life depends on it.

Maybe it does.

The calm structure that undoubtedly had infiltrated your suburban home dissipates instantly into chaos.

"Momma!" Zoey cries from the kitchen and you drop your bag by the front door, squatting down to catch the spitfire just as she nearly tackles you by throwing herself into your arms. Charlie isn't far behind, running along like a little locomotive. He barrels into your knees and you wince.

"Zoey!" You shout, just as excitedly. "Charlie!"

The kids both start clamoring on about their days, their voices creeping louder and louder as they try to speak over one another.

You love it.

You follow both conversations (well, Zoey's is more like a long narrative where Charlie's is a string of words you understand followed by excited words you don't) and offer input when you can tell it's wanted.

You could spend hours like this. Most of the time, you wonder if it can get any better.

Then, it does.

Santana steps out into the foyer a soft smirk on her lips and you feel as though the entire world stops.

Even now, married for several years, you think she is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. You let the kids ramble on for a minute while you mentally capture every inch of the woman standing in the doorway, content to watch you and the kids in return.

You notice the way she is picking lightly at her fingernails in her weird nervous habit and you frown at the thought that she's had a hard day.

Santana deserves to be treated like a princess.

Luckily for you, you have already thought up a game to get the kids to help.

As soon as Zoey stops for a breath, Charlie having given up on frantic story time several minutes ago in favor of playing with his truck, you put your plan in motion.

"Oh no!" You gasp dramatically, winking at Santana who smiles back with a slight scoff. She might pretend to find your antics with the kids moderately annoying, but she also lets you love her.

She knows where this is going.

Apparently the kids do too, because Zoey starts bouncing on her feet with anticipation. "What's wrong Momma, what's wrong?"

She's in that weird stage where she repeats everything if she doesn't get an immediate answer. It drives Santana crazy, but you adore it.

"Your Mommy!" You squat down to meet your kids at their level and do your best stage whisper. You can see Santana not even bothering to hide her smirk. "She's been attacked by the aliens again."

"Sleepy Aliens?" Charlie's eyes go wide and leaves his beloved truck behind. "Again? Oh no!"

"Yep. The aliens who make your Mommy sleepy because she works so hard!" You corral your kids in front of you. "You know what we need to do, right?"

"Chocolate Milk!" Charlie screams (totally right in your ear) and sprints off to the kitchen as fast as his chubby little legs can carry him.

"I'll get her slippers." Zoey grins and darts off on her own mission.

You smirk and catch Santana's eyes. "One of these days you'll convince those kids that I am an alien." She groans playfully and rolls her eyes, reaching out her hand to help you from your crouched position.

You accept her help and gently tip her chin toward you as you stand, claiming her lips with your own. In that moment, you feel like you need her more than you need air. It's a feeling you are incredibly familiar with. Most days feel like this, on coming home, you just simply can't get enough of her.

"Momma!" You hear Charlie whine from the kitchen. You're grateful Santana was smart enough to engage the child lock because otherwise you'd probably have milk all over the floor by now.

You try to deepen the kiss but Santana just laughs against you and pulls away. "You'd better go get him before he manages to break something." She teases, slapping you playfully on the ass.

You grin and pinch her lightly before pulling away. "Well you had better go sit down so we can take care of those pesky aliens."

She laughs and follows you through the foyer. "What ever would I do without you?"

"You are never going to have to find out." You grin.

You have never meant anything more in your life.

You've been summoned to your father's study. You barely have time to shut the door before he starts.

"Rachel Berry is back from New York." Your father spits, rifling through paperwork.

"What does that matter?" You frown, sitting carefully down into the chair across from him.

He looks up from the paperwork and gives you an arched eyebrow. You shift immediately, and pull down on your top in an attempt to eliminate any wrinkles that may have inadvertently cropped up.

Everything in your life is about projecting perfection.

"It matters because now I have a deferral available and have to find someone to give it to." He rolls his eyes at you. "I used to be able to sell them to neighboring townships but everyone has extra deferrals this year."

"Why? Wouldn't it be better to hand them all out?" You ask before you can stop yourself.

"To whom, Lucille?" He grabs a light file off his desk. "Another Queer like Rachel Berry? I only granted her deferral to New York to get her out of town. Or maybe that Pierce girl's domestic?" He laughs as though the very thought is hilarious.

"Her name is Santana." You stiffen automatically, not certain of why you would stick up for the girl you used to count as a friend but have done nothing but torment for years.

He chuckles at your insistence. You hate it. You know he finds it cute when you stick up for your old friends.

You hate him and love him at the same time.

All you want to do is make him proud.

But something about what he said strikes you. "Why would she need an exemption?"

Your father looks at you sympathetically. "The dyke says having another kid will be too hard." His voice is full of mocking. "She even managed to trick her doctors into saying the same thing."

Your mouth dries at the thought.

People only applied for exemptions if it was a life or death choice.

You clear your throat, trying desperately to hold onto some air of indifference. "So she could die? If she had another kid, she could die?"

He doesn't seem to notice your disgust. "If the rest of us are lucky." He goes back to the papers in front of him.

He can't mean that.

Sure he's a bigot and some would call him an asshole and even you think he's a dick ninety percent of the time, but surely he can't be so callous.

"And what would be so wrong with giving the Queer what she wants?" You say the term even as you feel like you've punched yourself in the stomach.

"Quinn—you don't use deferrals for every bleeding heart story that comes across your desk." He shakes his head and puts his papers aside. "I thought I taught you better than this. Deferrals are given to people who can help you. Once they can't help you anymore, you look for the next person that can get you something. I have had to use a deferral for you since you turned 18, which severely cut into my normal profits." He winks at her, "But I was happy to do it for you Princess."

You blink for a minute.

It sounds stupid, but you've never really thought about it. You've been by your father's side for so long, you thought you knew everything he did.

This, though, seems beyond cruel.

He finally seems to clue into your hesitation and adds. "All of this is so you could take over when I retire or get promoted."

"So every year people petition for an exemption and you, what….trade them away?"

"What else would I do?" He asked, genuinely confused. "Oh, you'd rather that I keep people like Brittany Pierce's domestic from getting pregnant?" He laughed. "Don't be naive. She'll die and we'll find Ms. Pierce another partner."

You take a breath. You want to scream. This can't be happening. There was no way, no way, your father could be so cold.

You might not like Santana most of the time, but sending her to die? That was monstrous.

"Of course I knew, Lucy." He rolls his eyes again like you are some petulant child trying to stay up past bed time. "You think you've been able to stay single for this long, what, because you can put on a pretty little dress and smile politely to all the people that matter?" He laughs at the though. "Come on. I know I taught you better than that."

And there it is.

A truth you've been trying to avoid throughout this conversation.

You, in your privileged happy life, have turned a blind eye to one simple fact: your privilege sends other people to die.

Suddenly, even the potential hope that you could one day be in charge doesn't seem like enough.

You aren't sure you can live with yourself anymore.

Your voice comes out strained and you realize that you want to cry. "So I'm just supposed to sit in our mansion on the hill and watch while people die?"

"It never bothered you before." He pointed out. "If you are going to be my successor, you can't let little things like this distract you."

Little things.

Domestics.

In his world, those terms are synonymous.

Is this really how you want your life to be? You want to scream, to freak out and put him in his place.

But you are a coward.

So instead, you nod softly and accept his 'advice'.

"Lucy, I don't have time to worry about all of your little issues." He huffs, and just like that, you know you have been dismissed.

"Yeah." You shake your head, wondering how you could have been so blind. "Thank you for opening my eyes, sir."

"No problem." He turns back to his work oblivious to your sarcasm.

Leaving the room, you know exactly what you have to do. It isn't something heroic or wonderful, but you can't use that exemption anymore.

You sigh at the decision and hesitate only for a second before grabbing the keys to the car on the entry table and sneak quietly out the front door.

You are going to submit yourself for marriage.

Tonight.

God help you.

Brittany's got both of your kids tucked under each of her arms with your feet in her lap she reads them their story before bed time. Technically they are all 'telling you' a story, one of the final steps in Momma's cure against the aliens.

You don't know all the steps. Step 1 is something about making you comfortable. You also know step 4 is the kids eat their vegetables. The rest of them are some shared secret between your wife and kids. You can't help but find it absolutely adorable.

Really, it's just another Brittany S. Pierce take on the standard nightly routine.

You love it.

You bat Brittany's hand away with your foot when she purposefully touches a particularly ticklish spot.

She winks at you and returns to firmly massaging your feet while she reads to your two kids.

Zoey holds the book for her but you know Brittany doesn't need it.

Neither of you do.

You have this story memorized.

But Brittany doesn't bother. She makes up her own story, different each time with voices and plot twists that would make even the best author proud.

It's just a normal bed-time for your kids.

When Brittany's around, you wonder how life could get any better. She is what matters in this awful world. She's bright and beautiful and smart and happy. She makes your world lighter just by walking in the room.

And moments like this, you can't help but feel like everything is perfect.

You know there is still so much wrong.

Brittany's job is stressful. Raising kids in this world sometimes makes you sick. Getting pregnant again—you don't know what you are supposed to think about that.

But with Brittany by your side it all seems manageable.

She finishes the story and shoos the kids up to bed. You stand to follow her but she pushes you back down gently. "I've got this, take a break."

You smile at the love you feel from her and wonder how you possibly could have been so lucky.

This world sucks. Being a domestic sucks. Having the fear of your life loom around every corner sucks.

But Brittany doesn't suck.

She comes back a few minutes later and plops down beside you. "How are the aliens, Mommy?"

You can't help it. You laugh delightedly. "All gone, I'm sure."

"Hmmm." Brittany muses, tapping her chin playfully and moves your feet back to her lap. "I'll be the judge of that."

You sit quietly for a minute. "How was work?" You prod.

She's not supposed to tell you. Her job is important and a little bit nerdy. When she was in training, she'd bring home all of her books and teach you what she was learning.

You've met some of the people she works with, and you know that if it wasn't against the law, the two of you would make an incredible team.

"I'm working on cleaning up the conduit lines for the new project." She admits with a yawn. "The guys think it's dumb to care because that's the way it's always been done, but it's so—" She waves her hand in the air and adorably tries to think of the right word.

"Messy?"

"Yeah." She bites her lip thoughtfully. "I think if we can get the lines all cleaned up, we can increase efficiency by three percent."

You nod appreciatively. Three percent doesn't seem like a lot, but the Officials gave her a huge bonus for half a percent.

Three percent would mean a lot.

"Did you look at the release valve?" You ask gently, trying to keep the hope out of your voice.

Sometimes it's nice just to feel useful.

You don't mean to make it seem like you've been waiting all day to find out if your suggestion had merit. (Even though that is totally true.)

Brittany's always busy, so if she hasn't had time yet, it would totally not be a big deal.

No, that is a lie.

She would be devastated.

Brittany doesn't skip a beat and nods with a wide grin. "I think you pushed us forward a couple of weeks." She pinches your toe lightly. "Great job Miss Engineer."

You blush at the praise and roll your eyes. "That's Mrs. Engineer to you."

"Ooo, role play anyone?" She chuckles.

"You bet." You scoff.

She seems to sense your discomfort because she looks you directly in the eyes. "No. Seriously San, I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out." You echo her familiar words, well aware that most likely they aren't true.

This is how it has always been between you. It may not be exactly lawful, but Brittany knows you sometimes feel weak and insignificant. She lets you in on her projects, listens to your suggestions, and tries her best not to make you feel like a discarded member of society.

Sometimes it almost works.

She smirks, but you notice that it doesn't touch her eyes.

Crap.

You've reminded her. You know that she's been applying for exemptions for you, but you are oddly at peace with it. Maybe it's that you grew up knowing Russell Fabray hated you, but you don't really have hope for an exemption.

You're pretty certain that your days are numbered.

You just try on most days to keep her from thinking the same thing.

You swing your legs off her lap and snuggle close, pulling her in tightly against you. Her body fits so effortlessly against yours, you wonder if you were actually made for each other.

"We'll figure it out, Britt." You assure.

You see her gulp and pull her even tighter. She doesn't respond and you have a suspicion that she's trying not to cry.

"I love you." You insist firmly.

She doesn't say it back because she doesn't need to.

You try and say it often enough that if you don't make it, she'll never have to wonder how you felt.

It's a small comfort, but for now, it is all you can do.