Standard disclaimers for Glee and BtVS. Revised to include original chapters 1 and 2.

Brittany swung her foot out, almost catching him in the ribs, slapping against the fabric of a ruined tuxedo jacket. His retaliatory punch rolled slowly off his shoulder and she ducked it easily, sweeping his feet from beneath him and dropping to one knee on his sternum. She saw the fear glowing beneath his bumpy forehead and smiled, then drove the stake in.

Her knee fell to the ground as the corpse turned to ash; she stood up and turned to the click of a stopwatch.

"Not bad," Beiste admitted, jaw jutting forward thoughtfully. She wrote something on her clipboard, tucking the stopwatch into the pocket of her shorts.

Brittany walked over, past the headstones. "How fast was I?"

Beiste squinted at her notes in the dark. "3:26."

"That sounds kinda fast," Brittany protested cautiously, brows pushing together in a confused frown.

Beiste shrugged and picked up her bag, walking back toward the high school. Brittany fell into step. "It's not that you're not fast, Brittany," she explained. "It's that I know you can be faster. You gotta be a buffalo in a briar patch, and right now you're a goat in a cornfield, you know what I mean?"

Brittany offered an apologetic shake of the head.

Beiste chuckled and mussed Brittany's hair, pulling some from her ponytail. "You're a good kid, Pierce. I'm glad I got assigned to you."

Brittany smoothed her hair thoughtfully. "Is Coach Sue a vampire?"

Beiste faltered in surprise. "What? No." Her eyes narrowed slightly; she seemed to consider it. She glanced at Brittany sidelong. "Do you think she is?"

Brittany looked ahead, navigating the last gravestones as they neared the gate. "I just thought, if I was gonna have a Watcher, I would think it'd be her, but it's you," she said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "I thought maybe that was the reason."

Brittany vaulted over the fence. She felt Beiste's appreciative gaze as they fiddled with the latch on the gate. Once Beiste was through, she closed the gate behind her and they walked along the sidewalk. "I'm not sure what to tell you, kid," Beiste finally said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "Monster huntin's been in my family for generations. Watchers, they're generally Brits, but there ain't many of them in Ohio."

Brittany frowned. "But—I'm a Britt…" She knew she was missing something, and she watched Beiste's face for the answer.

Her Watcher grinned and chuckled. "Nah, a Brit like from Britain," she clarified. "But I got buddies in the Council who know I know what I'm talkin' about, and they offered me the gig after a four-week training sesh."

Brittany considered this, nodding. There was a long silence. She could see the high school past Durbick Street. She swallowed the nervousness in her throat and asked, quietly, "How come I didn't have a Watcher for so long?"

Beiste studied the sidewalk and her sneakers, apparently planning her answer. "I gotta be honest, Pierce: they didn't tell me." Noticing Brittany's gaze drop in disappointment, she hastily continued. "They didn't tell me much about your previous situation—just that it didn't turn out like you hoped."

Brittany was quiet, studying the familiar houses. They passed Durbick, now close to the school. "I got him killed," she whispered. It hurt to force the words through her throat.

A hand on her shoulder stopped her. She looked up to find Beiste studying her seriously. "Listen, Brittany. You did the right thing. You're alive." When Brittany said nothing, Beiste sighed, relaxing her grip. "You don't have to tell me what happened, but I'm here if you want to," she finally suggested. She glanced toward the school. "I can put your stuff back in the office if you wanna take off."

Brittany cleared her throat and nodded. She watched Beiste until she got onto school grounds.

The night was still. At midnight on a Tuesday at the end of summer, Lima, Ohio was silent as the grave. Brittany took a deep gulp of the cool air. Her blood had slowed since taking that vampire down. In three and a half minutes.

She chewed her lip, turning to look back toward the cemetery. Her parents and sister would already be asleep. She had already snuck out.

The Bronze crossed her mind. She knew Quinn would probably be there. But she felt frozen. Without realizing it, her thoughts traced back to English in the spring. They'd read about that woman, Megara or Mascara or something, who turned people to stone with a single look. She felt like that.

She felt goosebumps rising on her bare legs. Glancing down at her running shorts, she realized someone was watching her. Slowly, she raised her head, then whirled around.

Nothing. The world was frozen, like her. Not even a breeze shifted the bushes lining the sidewalk.

Unable to shake the feeling, coiling into hard truth in the pit of her stomach, she fell into a decision her body had made several minutes ago. She turned on her heel and jogged back to the cemetery.

Though she'd just patrolled with Beiste, Brittany hoped there were more vamps left. She scanned the turf and headstones. The night was cool, but muggy; the wind was still as dead as the bodies below her, making it easy to pick out movement. A shadow behind the mausoleum.

The edge of her lips twitched into a half-smile. She strode silently toward the structure, her gym shoes silent in the soft mud and damp grass. She extracted the stake from where it was tucked in the back of her waistband.

A yell. Guttural. Animal. Vicious.

Brittany leapt around the corner, stake raised, and watched a dark blur wrestle a vampire to the ground. So close and so fast, Brittany could see the dirt-stained suit of the vamp, a wave of dark hair, and a flash of a stake before a cloud of dust settled before her and this whirlwind stranger.

Brittany cleared her throat and the tornado's head turned toward her. Dark hair and dark eyes. Suspicious eyes. Brittany blinked as she realized she still held the stake poised to puncture.

Bashfully, she dropped her arm and blushed. "Um, hi," she managed to utter around the cotton in her mouth. Those eyes.

"Who're you supposed to be?" The harshness surprised her. This was the voice. The battle cry.

"Brittany," she stammered. She forced the words around her teeth and through her lips. The hurricane was looking her up and down and she suddenly felt childish in her shorts and Cheerios t-shirt. Whirling dervish wore a black tank top and black skinny jeans, like she meant business. "Brittany," she repeated. "I'm—" She stopped herself, wondering if she could safely say the vampire slayer to someone who had just slain a vampire. "Are you okay?"

Cyclone pursed her lips, unimpressed. "I'm fine, Brittany Brittany." Her brows crushed together. "You're not Brittany Pierce, are you?"

Brittany felt the air leave her lungs. She forced in a deep breath and tucked her stake in the back of her shorts. "How did you know that?" she asked, voice breathy and quiet. She struggled to mimic Coach Sue's authoritative tone, but it only thinly veiled the wonder underneath: "Who are you?"

The typhoon's lips quirked upward. "You're famous, Britts. You're the freakin' vampire slayer." She gestured with the wicked stake in her hand. "And so am I."

Brittany blinked. "What?"

"I'm the other one." A shaped eyebrow arched. "Don't tell me you didn't know there's another Slayer in this town."

Brittany's eyes drifted, following the curve of the stranger's muscled shoulder. The air, tolerable moments before, felt sticky and hot. "I didn't," she answered softly.

The thunderstorm seemed surprised by the honest answer. Brittany caught the glint of hard eyes softening under the moonlight. "Oh," came the voice, low and lovely. "They told me you were coming, I just…" Brittany traced her way back to the girl's face. Muscles twitched near her ears, forcing words into order. "I figured they'd tell you about me." Brittany could sense something else in the words, something coiled in the spaces between them, but before she could digest it, gale wind offered a hand. "My name's Santana."

Brittany was stunned. "You—you know Quinn," she blurted. Santana blinked, clearly taken aback, and her hand wavered in the air.

"I do," she said slowly. Her arm drew back when Brittany made no move to shake. Her fingers hooked on the edge of her pocket. "How do you know her?"

Brittany watched Santana's face. "Cheerios camp." Recognition filtered through Santana's dark eyes. Brittany vaguely realized she had never held eye contact with anyone for quite this long before. "She mentioned your name. You're on Cheerios too, right?"

Santana nodded, her movements fluid again. She seemed to have gotten past her surprise at needing an introduction. "Yeah, I was just at my dad's all summer," she explained casually.

Her words echoed Quinn's from June. Brittany nodded, asking, "He lives in Cleveland or something, right?"

Santana's eyelid twitched, just slightly. Brittany felt her cheeks flushing lightly under such attentive scrutiny. She hoped the moonlight hid it. "How'd you know that?" Santana said. The words were like a mousetrap clicking into place.

"Quinn," she said, as if it were obvious. Santana seemed to realize that it was, and laughed.

Brittany breathed out in a gush, smiling. The tornado had a beautiful laugh. Santana stepped forward, finally breaking their frozen standoff to touch Brittany on the shoulder with a gentle squeeze. "Of course," she said. "I'm an idiot."

Brittany wanted to protest—No, you're not, you're not that at all—but the words seemed to leach into Santana's hand, warm and firm on her shoulder. She chewed the inside of her cheek, allowing Santana to guide her among the graves toward the western gate. "Did you just get back?" she asked.

Santana nodded, looking ahead of them. "A couple hours ago. I unpacked and headed here," she said with a small smile. Brittany studied the curl at the corner—like it was twisted around some secret meaning—and almost tripped on a tree root gnarled near a flat stone.

Santana seemed not to notice, but Brittany covered by asking, "First thing you wanted to do was patrol?"

Dark eyes trapped hers. Santana smirked. "'Patrol'? I came to kick vamp ass, and look hot doing it."

Brittany felt her blush bubbling up again. "I just meant—you didn't want to see your mom?" Santana's face clouded over and Brittany quickly added, "Or Quinn or anybody?" She wet her lips, trying nervously to dissipate her apparent mistake. "Puck?"

Santana snorted and looked away. Her fingers slipped away from Brittany's shoulder, finally, and Brittany found she missed the tense grip. "Why the fuck would I want to see him?" Santana chided.

Brittany realized she must have misinterpreted something. "Quinn said you were—" She struggled to recall the word. "She said you two were…"

"We are," Santana cut her off mercifully. "But that doesn't mean Mohawk's the first thing I wanna see."

"You'd rather see Dawn of the Dead?" Brittany asked, cringing when she realized she had already settled into familiar banter. She and Santana weren't familiar. They had just met.

Those eyes. Embarrassed, Brittany glanced down. Santana's lips had parted in surprise. Brittany found her eyes caught on them—on the flash of white teeth she could barely glimpse, on the sound of Santana's sharp breath in the muggy summer air. A smile tugged across Santana's face and Brittany swallowed her relief. "Touché, Britt-Britt." A nickname. Why did it feel right?

They were near the fence when Santana spun around, pushing Brittany behind her in an instinctive—protective?—gesture. Hurricane's fist coiled around the stake and Brittany squinted over Santana's shoulder at a figure in a black hoodie. She was about to tell Santana to stop—to touch her arm and explain that it was a kid, not a vampire—when she saw the ridged brows jutting past the hood's shadow.

Santana was gone. Brittany blinked and sprinted after her. She caught up when, several yards away, Santana dove at the vamp like a swimmer diving into a pool—or maybe more like a bolt of lightning—and pinned him between her knees against the grass. When the corpse turned to dust beneath the wooden point, Santana sat back on her heels and examined a small metal plate, cradled in her palm. Brittany eyed it curiously and offered her hand to sandstorm. "What's that?"

Santana shrugged, letting Brittany pull her upright. "Dunno," she said, turning the piece over in one hand and tucking her stake into her back pocket. "It was in his hand."

Brittany reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the medallion and the crease of Santana's palm, and glanced into Santana's dark whirlpools as she asked, "Can I see?" Santana tipped her hand in wordless assent and Brittany caught the coin gently. She looked at strange markings, brushing them with her thumb, and suddenly realized how close she was to the tornado, quieter at a standstill but never just a girl.

Brittany wet her lips. "We should show Coach Beiste," she said. To Santana's curious frown, she added, "My Watcher."

A shadow passed Santana's face, aligning her eyebrows straighter above her dark eyes. "Oh," she said. "Yeah." Santana looked up at the moon, high overhead. She turned abruptly and began walking back toward the fence. "It can wait 'til tomorrow, though."

Brittany jogged after her, closing her fist around the medallion. "It is late," she acknowledged. "And she already left."

"She was here?"

They had reached the fence at a middle section. "We were training." Brittany glanced at the gate, several yards away, but before she could walk that way, Santana gripped the top crossbar and flipped over the fence's pikes. Brittany gaped in surprise—maybe because she was used to Beiste, but maybe because she was seeing the tornado again, all whipping black hair and tight pants.

Santana stood on the other side, watching her expectantly. "You need the gate?" Brittany realized she had stood still too long. "I thought you were a Slayer. In training," she added, pointedly.

Brittany forced a smile, but it didn't look as confident as she wanted it to. "No, it's just—gonna be hard to get used to you."

It wasn't what she had intended to say, but the words tasted right, so she let them hang as she darted at the fence. The ball of her foot pressed the grass; her torso twisted; two hands gripped one iron spire; her legs curved over the top like pole vaulting and she landed in a crouch. Her legs straightened easily, like a spring uncoiled. She adjusted the stake in the elastic band of her shorts and felt Santana's eyes. She looked up into the hurricane and enjoyed the expression from minutes before—eyes a little too wide, mouth not quite closed.

A grin tore across Brittany's face. "What?"

Santana regarded her, eyes flickering down from Brittany's face and back up again. "Impressive," she admitted, her glance darting back to the muscles of Brittany's exposed legs.

Brittany felt her cheeks warm. "Where are we going?" she asked, walking to where Santana stood.

Santana paused a second too long. "Have you been to the Bronze?" she asked. Brittany nodded. Santana smiled again, a half-smile this time. She plucked the medallion from Brittany's hands and tucked it into her back pocket, then looped her arm around Brittany's waist. Her steps guided them toward town. "Sweet, let's go. I wanna gets my dance on."

Her hand rested lightly on Brittany's hip, and Brittany folded her arms across her stomach carefully. She knew if she brushed those fingers, they'd curl away, and she didn't want them to.

The thought interested her. To cover the tickle of uncertainty spreading from Santana's fingertips, Brittany murmured, "I love dancing."

Santana shrugged. "Explains your moves."

Brittany grinned too wide. She forced it into a smaller smile, one that wouldn't split her face in half. "Like you said," she suggested, "I'm a Slayer."

"I got Slayer moves, and I ain't got moves like that," Santana said appreciatively, poking Brittany's elbow.

Brittany hoped the dim light still hid her blush. "Thanks," she said, her tone more serious and honest than intended.

She glanced left, and those soft brown eyes stared back. Swallowing her. "You're welcome," Santana said. Her voice was quiet, but in a way it sounded like that raspy cry from before—full of emotions, too full to pick them all out.

Brittany wished she could pick them all out.