Title: Cold Case Love

Pairing(s): Brittany/Santana, Brittany/OC

Rating: M.

Warning: Trigger warnings, lots of them. Abuse (verbal and physical), murder, the works. Also, I know like nothing about the American legal system, so excuse my L&O-esque proceedings.

Spoilers: AU future fic but to be safe, it may use quite a bit of canon, so anything that has been aired is fair game.

Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or the characters of Glee or any likeness to the characters. Not making any money writing this and all that jazz!

Summary: Based on a prompt from the glee_angst_meme. See where browsing through old prompts gets me? AU future fic: Santana's facing 15 to life for manslaughter but protecting Brittany is her only concern. Lots of trigger warnings.

Handcuffs bite roughly into Santana's wrists, marring thin skin like the smooth metal has somehow sprouted blunt knives. The flashes of light are almost blinding, coming one after another in a succession almost as quick as the pace with which she's being dragged through the burgeoning crowd. Questions are being hurled at her, voices melding into an indistinctive drone.

She ignores them.

She ignores them just like she ignores the microphones being thrust into her personal space and the pointed lenses of subjective cameras accompanied by the incessant jumble of words that sound more like judgments than actual language.

She tries to concentrate on the red brick of the building before her, staring at it until it blurs, until the court house sign bleeds into the building and all she can see is red.

It's everywhere.

All over her.

It reminds her of the night that got her here.

/

The house is silent.

It's eerie in a way Santana chooses not to think about because Brittany lives here—Brittany lived here—but seeing it for the first time, it's hard for Santana to imagine Brittany inhabiting any of this space.

It's too cold.

The tiles are a cloudy gray marble, too gritty for someone like Brittany who danced, barefoot, through their childhood, gliding across both linoleum and polished wood like the purpose of the floor was to assist her in her restless dance.

It's weird thinking of Brittany living here. She can't conjure up images of Brittany against the backdrop of these pristine white walls, dancing against tile that would make her delicate feet blister. She can't imagine her, every morning, slipping on socks or slippers just to dance her way through her living room or her kitchen or her life. Even worse, she can't imagine Brittany not dancing at all in the same exact way that she can't imagine Brittany dancing here and it makes her stomach churn because she knows one had to give and she's not sure which of the possibilities breaks her heart more.

It boils down to one thing.

Brittany must have been miserable.

And that breaks her heart the most of all.

It's all Santana can think about as she climbs the wooden staircase, passing framed pictures of pretense, of smiles that never reached Brittany's eyes because she was fucking miserable. All along! All the phone calls when her voice would just subtly edge to desperation and she'd say that she was fine, that she was just catching a cold or she was just watching something sad, she was miserable. All the coffee dates, where she'd make excuses about why Santana couldn't take her home and she'd check the door ever so often and hold onto Santana's hugs like letting go would break her, she was so fucking miserable.

Santana should have seen it. There were so many fucking signs; she should have recognized the misery chipping away at that open heart that once held all of Ohio. She should have fucking realized something—done something—before tonight, before Brittany knocked on her door, eyes wild like a frightened cat and tears blazing tracks down cheeks scrubbed clean of make-up.

She should have asked when Brittany wore that turtle neck in the middle of a fucking sweltering New York summer; she should have commented when she saw the reemergence of leg warmers as sleeves. Instead, she was content to just soak up what little Brittany she was given; she was content to bask in it because she was so fucking selfish that she needed Brittany to be happy! For her own fucking sake, she needed Britt to have someone else's arms she felt safe wrapped up in; she needed Britt to light up like a lantern at the edge of someone else's words; it was the only way she could move on. Knowing that Brittany was somewhere happy—maybe not with her but with someone— was the only way she could sleep soundly at night so she took the smiles that Brittany offered and she listened to the stories she weaved and she completely overlooked how fucking obvious it was that she was breaking.

Because Brittany was fucking miserable.

Santana almost lost it when she opened her door earlier tonight only to find Brittany sobbing.

She almost threw up when she actually saw the bruises.

Everywhere.

They were everywhere.

Large hands wrapped brutally around such a delicate throat shone so startlingly clear in the light of her apartment that her head spun. Open palms, fists, Santana could see it all. Pinkish blotches from where he grabbed too tightly and held on too long, deep harsh purple from walls and the edges of furniture that Brittany stumbled or was pushed into, indents pierced into skin from blunt nails.

The whole fucking time, he was hurting Brittany!

Just an hour's drive away—right under her fucking nose—he was breaking her!

Santana's stomach tossed so violently and her blood pounded so viciously that even now, knowing that Brittany is safe at her apartment—knowing that once she grabs Lord Tubbington and some of Brittany's clothes, she's going to go back to her apartment and wrap the blonde up so tightly that no one will ever be able to hurt her again— she's still shaking.

Her fingers are trembling as she grabs long sleeved shirt after long sleeved shirt and stuffs them into a gym duffle bag.

She's gotta get out of here and quickly.

She feels like she's in the middle of a nightmare here except she knows that a nightmare as horrifying as this would have startled her from slumber the moment she opened her door to reveal a terrified, weeping Brittany.

Besides, it's not her nightmare.

It's Brittany's.

And it's no nightmare.

God, she's in the middle of Brittany's fucking reality.

Brittany had no respite from this; these white walls and this formal mahogany furniture were her cage and no matter how many times she blinked her eyes closed and then opened them again, this was her life.

This was the life Santana failed to protect her from.

God, she's so disgusted and angry and sad—she doesn't even know if she wants to punch something or puke or cry but when she hears the distinctive creaking of the front door opening, she's pretty sure she's gonna do all three.

Fuck!

He's not supposed to be back so soon.

Brittany said he's usually out until late supposedly giving her plenty of time to pick up Lord Tubbs and some clothes yet the telling thump of feet against hard granite says another thing completely.

"Brittany!"

Fuck, she seriously needs to get out of here quickly.

She slings the duffle bag over her shoulder, using both hands to pick up the fat Bengal cat who has been seemingly pleading with his eyes ever since she found him in the downstairs laundry room, exerting way too much effort clawing desperately at the closed door.

He's clearly going to make a quick getaway very difficult but she finds it hard to be mad at him when he looks even more pitiful than usual.

"Brittany!" The voice is louder, his anger penetrating through the walls and striking Santana head-on.

"Brittany! Where the fuck are you?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

There's a window!

There's a window and she's two stories up with a dumbbell of a cat in her arms and a heavy bag on her shoulder.

There's just no way!

"You useless bitch! You better be in this fucking house!"

But cats always land on their feet right? And there's nothing breakable in the duffle bag and she's got experience scaling walls from sneaking out so much in high school!

It's her only option.

She chances a glance out the window which is actually not as high up as she thought and the windowsill seems sturdy enough to manage even Tubbsters' weight at least while she finds a better way to get him down since leaving without him is not an option; Brittany may be getting reacquainted with Charity right now at her apartment but even though Brittany won't admit it, Lord T has always been her favorite and Santana has a feeling that leaving him here, or him breaking a couple legs on his decent will only make Brittany even more miserable.

Fuck, she can do this; where there's a will, there's a way, right?

Except when the window is bolted.

The motherfucking window is seriously bolted shut!

Santana likened the room to a cage before but now it really nauseates her how fucking right she was.

"Brittany!"

The voice is traveling now, getting closer and as much as Santana can't imagine Brittany filling this space; she can imagine this. She can imagine Brittany sitting so fucking miserable in this room, hearing the anger reverberate off of colorless walls and preparing herself for when he'll strike next.

She can imagine it; she can see his hands on her—all over it—and rage prickles through her veins, making her skin feel hot and clammy.

"I didn't give you any goddamn permission to go nowhere, Brittany!"

Her anger makes the decision to confront him before her brain even processes it.

She sets Lord Tubbs on the floor, ignoring the way his eyes bore into her—telling her to make smarter decisions— just like they used to back in high school when she'd slip out of the Pierces' household in the dead of night, still tugging random items of clothing on her body.

She's downstairs before the decision can even catch up with her but it slams into her when her eyes lock with icy gray.

The man before her pales.

"Oh, Santana," He catches himself quickly, drawing his spine straighter and curling his lips into a smile. Like this, he looks like the man Brittany first introduced her to, all smiles and carefree deposition. He looks like the man that she trusted to take care of her Britt-Britt and it really scares her how quickly he transformed from the man with so much hate in his voice that it shook her to this one.

She wonders if he changed that quickly on Brittany too.

She wonders if Britt-Britt even saw it coming.

"Brittany didn't tell me we were having a visitor,"

He's too cheerful, too quick to assume Santana hadn't heard all of that disgusting abuse he spewed since he entered the house.

"If she had told me, maybe I would have gotten home earlier, made some dinner or something. You probably know as well as I do that Brittany and cooking don't get along,"

She wants to slap him.

She wants to slap him so fucking hard that he feels every single bit of pain he inflicted on Brittany.

He does not get to make jokes about her!

He does not get to just stand here and pretend like nothing has happened when Brittany is at her apartment covered in his abuse.

"Where is Brittany anyway?" He asks, all too casually for someone who keeps her locked in this fucking house with the windows fucking bolted.

Santana's fist comes down against the granite of the kitchen counter so hard she's sure it cracks—or her bone cracks, she's not so sure which but anger floods so thoroughly through her that she barely feels a thing.

"She's gone, Greg,"

"What?" He asks, too careful not to break his façade even though Santana so desperately wants to break it for him.

Along with his face, she wants to break that too.

"Brittany's gone," she growls. "She's leaving you. And don't think for one second your apologizes or your sweet talk or even your threats are gonna bring her back," she's closer now; so close that she can see the destructive glint in his eyes. He doesn't even look contrite; he's destroyed her! He has destroyed her Britt-Britt and he's fucking happy about it.

"You're disgusting," She breathes and she doesn't think she's ever said anything truer in her whole life; he's disgusting; he's a scumbag; he never deserved Brittany and he doesn't deserve Santana wasting any of her time on him.

"Now, I'm gonna leave with her stuff; in fact, I'll probably be back soon to get all of it and if you for a second even think of trying to contact her, I swear to God, Greg," she's in his space, menacing with all her 5'5 frame can muster. "I'll make your life a living hell,"

She tries to push past him, intent on getting the Tubbsmiser and leaving, but he steps in her way and for the first time— with his 6'3 frame hovering above her, his teeth gritted and the veins of his forearm straining beneath his skin from the force with which he's holding onto the counter to barricade her—she sees how much damage he could do.

She sees how easy those bruises could have formed; she sees exactly what could have happened if he pressed too hard—if punched, kicked, and grasped too hard—and she seethes.

"Get the fuck out of my way!"

"And what?" He leans so close that his breath runs cold against her skin and all Santana can imagine is Brittany—is Brittany trapped between him and a wall; Brittany terrified as his hands grasp for her; Brittany's reality!

"You think this is it, Santana?" He's mocking her, lips so close to her skin that it sends shivers down her spine in all the wrong ways. "You think she's gonna be with you now? Is that it? You come here, pack her stuff, give me a good "Lima Heights" telling off and you can have her?" His tone is dropping dangerously close to a threat. "Well, she's my wife so kindly tell my wife that she better be home by tomorrow morning,"

He eases up, leaving just enough space between him and the counter that Santana can slide by but she doesn't. He has lit a fire now; he's encased her in flames and she's not leaving until he burns too.

"And if she's not?" she challenges. "What are you gonna do? Hunt her down so you can slap her around some more, Greg?" His jaw clenches and Santana's well aware that she probably shouldn't be pissing off a guy who apparently takes pleasure in beating on women but all she can see in him right now is the guy that hurt Brittany—her Brittany—and her anger takes over where her common sense ends.

"Is that how you get your rocks off, Greg? Beating up women?" He growls, low in his throat, and within an instant, he's on her again, so close that she can practically smell the testosterone he's oozing. "You wanna hit me right now, too Greg?" she patronizes, watching the vein in his neck beat against his skin. Knowing Brittany, that's what she fixated on when he was this close; she fixated on the beating, on the rhythm—she fixated on what made him living, breathing, what made him human.

Santana doesn't see anything but a monster.

"Or do I need to be more defenseless for it to get you off?" she asks and that seems to be the last straw because when his hand comes down against the counter, she's sure it breaks this time and she laughs, right in his face because he's pathetic. So fucking pathetic picking fights with people he knows won't fight back.

She shakes her head.

"If I had known you were such a scumbag—"

"You would have what?" He asks, tone forceful.

She's honestly not sure what she would have done. Two years ago was such a long time ago that she can't even recall who she was then. The only thing she's sure about was that she was without Brittany; she was a Santana without Brittany and that's never a good Santana.

"What would you have done, Santana?" He asks again, mocking because they both know the answer.

"Nothing! You would have done nothing!"

He's right.

She would have done nothing because the Santana two years ago was a Santana still trying to navigate a friendship with a Brittany that wasn't hers. She was trying to navigate the seas of their friendship without sailing to heartbreak so she let go of the steering and drifted to despair instead.

"You wouldn't have done shit except pined over how much you couldn't have her! Is that why you didn't come to our wedding, Santana? Too pissed that you couldn't have her anymore?"

She clenches her fist at her side and she's positive that the counter is safe this time because she wants nothing more than to connect her fist with his face.

"Do you know how broken she was that her best friend in the whole in entire world was too" busy" to come to her wedding? Hmm? Do you know that she cried, Santana? Because of you," He's laughing now, honest to God amused and Santana is so closed to just driving her knuckles so far into his face that she sees bone. "It's a shame you missed our vows! Good thing I remember them though. You know, "in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, as long as we both shall live; till death do us part," He recites, breath ghosting across Santana. "That's my favorite part, you know, "till death do us part." Do you know what that means, Santana?"

She desperately wants to push him away from her but he has her trapped, strong thighs digging into her hips, keeping her pressed against the counter.

She doesn't answer him.

"It means that the only way you're getting her again, Santana, is in a body bag," His words weight against her chest, trapping her in place even more than his body is. "I don't want that," he holds her cheeks between his palms, forcing her to look at him, forcing her to feel him, forcing all these images of him hurting Brittany into her brain—forcing all these images of him killing Brittany into her brain.

"I don't want to have to do that, Santana. I really don't! So why don't you be a good little girl and bring her back to me, ok? For her sake,"

She doesn't know how she musters the strength to push him stumbling backwards but it probably comes from the same place that allows her to stretch for the stainless steel knife poking out of its storage block.

The steel handle is cool against her clammy palm and she grips it harder, feeling her pulse pound through it.

He seems unaware of her sudden advantage because he stalks closer, his anger burning through his eyes.

"Did I piss you off?" He murmurs, both hands resting on the counter behind her, enveloping her in his fury. "Too much to take, is it? It just fucking kills you that she bound herself to me and not you," He presses even closer and Santana's head spins because he really is getting off on this, she can feel it against her and it makes her dizzy with the rage that soars through her. "It fucking kills you that she's mine. That I can do whatever I—"

His cry of pain cuts him short as the knife penetrates his thigh. He stumbles backwards and Santana tugs at the handle, pulling the blade from skin.

"Fucking bitch," he howls, face pale as he presses his hand against the wound.

The knife goes through his hand next, the sickening sound of skin tearing slicing through the room as she digs the knife deeper.

Into his hand.

His hand that has been all over Brittany. That has pressed and tugged and slapped and punched and strangled.

She pulls the knife out and drives it in again with so much force that he stumbles and falls, yelping as he hits the ground.

She can't stop herself.

There's blood on her hands now. He's bleeding into her but she presses the knife in again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

He's quaking beneath her, his face sweaty and his eyes unfocused.

Again.

He goes still.

/

She feels like everyone is watching her.

It's quiet, for once, and there's only one camera in here in comparison to the hundreds outside, still, there are eyes.

Some are sympathetic, some are judgmental. The eyes of the people at her table are nervous, scared even. None of the stares are as steely as the ones looking down at her, piercing into her from his bench.

His voice is booming as he speaks, lifting past her even, and touching that very back of the gallery.

He asks the question to which an answer has been weeks in the making and the room dies into a steady, unnerving silence.

Everyone wants to know the answer.

It's what they're waiting for.

She's not sure she's ready for it.

She is sure she has no choice but to become ready for it.

The judge repeats his questions.

"In the case docket ending 3811, People v. Santana Lopez on the charge of voluntary manslaughter, how does the defendant plea?"

/

"Self-defense,"

Quinn Fabray—Quinn fucking Fabray—looks up from the large book she's been buried in, casting her boss, Phillip Georgiou—one of the most successful defense attorneys in the country—a sideways glance.

"Look, I know you said it'd be too hard to prove but I really think that it'll be just as hard to disprove. It's something we should at very least consider,"

Phil nods and Santana watches him carefully as he jots something down on his legal pad.

He's an older man, probably in his early 60s, with thinning white hair and a very round exterior.

He's jovial too, probably too jovial for someone in his line of work but Santana likes him a lot.

She asked him once, very soon after meeting him, if he ever regretted choosing to defend criminals as a career, he said no and asked her if she regrets stabbing that man twelve times, she answered no and that was really the end of that.

He's been all paternal concern and well-timed jokes ever since.

She wonders sometimes, when she in lock-up with nothing else to wonder about, if that's why he has such a great success rate; if maybe he just charms the judge and jury into an acquittal. Then she sees him like this—pensive with his pen in hand and his notebook close—and she knows he really just works damn hard at what he does and because he's at a point in his career where he can be as selective as he chooses, she knows that he's working damn hard for her and that puts her at great ease with him.

"What about justifiable homicide?" Quinn asks, highlighting larges passages from the book. "She prevented harm to someone else,"

Phil stares at his notebook for a moment, worrying his lip between his teeth before shaking his head.

"It'll seem like a God complex," he reasons. He turns to Santana, smiling brightly. "You don't have a God complex, do you, dear?"

Quinn snorts back laughter.

"Santana Lopez has a lot of complexes. I can honestly say that a God complex isn't one of them,"

Santana rolls her eyes.

She's actually kind of happy that Quinn is here though; she doesn't always have to explain things when Quinn is here because Quinn just knows; she understands.

"Ok, so we move back to procedural," Quinn insists, head right back in her book. "There has to be a mistake somewhere along the way,"

"And if there is, it'll be good for a mistrial, not an acquittal. We have to think broader,"

"Provocation?"

"Doesn't justify murder,"

"Urban survival?"

Phil raises an eyebrow and Quinn shrugs.

"She did go all "Lima Heights Adjacent" on him,"

Santana hides a smirk behind her forearm when Quinn catches her eye knowingly.

"Ok," Quinn highlights some more passages. "Abuse defense?"

"Since the abuse wasn't directly to her, it won't work, unless there's a history of abuse then—"

Quinn's head snaps up so quickly that even Phil appears startled.

Quinn looks at her.

Stares at her.

Fucking bores into her with her eyes.

"Santana?"

Santana shakes her head instantly. She knows what Quinn is insinuating. She knows what Quinn wants her to say and she won't do it.

"Santana," her voice is soft, lifting at the edges. She's treading on the surface of it, threating to break it.

"I don't want to talk about it, Quinn,"

"Santana," It's Phil this time, treading curiously on the subject. "If there's something that could help your case, then please help me help you,"

"San,"

They're double teaming her; it isn't fair.

Quinn's fingertips brush against her folded hands and when she glances up at hazel eyes, she somehow knows what Quinn is going to say before she says it.

"San, you're not helping her in here,"

Brittany.

She's not helping Brittany while she's locked up 20 hours per day in solitary confinement.

She won't be helping Brittany if she gets locked up 15-20 to life.

All she ever wanted to do was help Brittany.

"Fine," she agrees even though she shudders at just the thought of talking about it. She fully trembles at the thought of having to relive it. "Use it,"

Quinn nods even though her eyes ask her if she's sure and she nods because she is sure; she'd relive thousands of her worst nightmares if it meant she could get out of here—if it meant she could wrap her arms around Brittany again and tell her that she'll be ok; they'll be ok.

"Her step-father," Quinn reveals. "There's a long standing history of abuse,"

Phil looks at her and there's as much apology in his eyes as there is hope.

"We can work with the history," he nods, jotting down more notes. "It could work for an insanity defense. Temporary insanity even,"

Santana pales.

"The success rate is low. It's damn near impossible if there isn't a previous diagnosis of mental illness, Phil. I think it's too risky," Quinn reasons.

Santana shakes her head.

This isn't the route she wants to go.

Any other direction and she'd follow; plea bargain even but not this.

"I'm not crazy," she insists.

Phil nods slowly, taking her in beneath the frame of his glasses.

"I'm not crazy, Phil," she repeats.

"We're not saying you are," he says. "Maybe we'll move towards an irresistible impulse; a skewed sense of right and wrong even," he murmurs. "But when it comes down to it, do you regret stabbing that man twelve times, Santana?"

"No," her answer is instant; she doesn't even have to think about it because he hurt Brittany—he threated to kill Brittany—and if she were there again, having been here now, she may just have staked that knife through his heart once more for affect.

He shrugs.

"Then I think we should at least consider insanity a viable defense,"

/

Everyone is watching her.

Some sympathetic, some judgmental, most just questioning.

Phil leans forward, catching her eye.

She nods, giving him permission.

"My client pleads not guilty, your honor," he speaks. "Not guilty by reason of temporary insanity,"

She's pretty sure she hears a collective gasp.

To be continued…

I dunno. Maybe? What do you guys think?

I'm thinking of continuing it with the case—and of course, Brittany— with continued flashbacks to how she got here, including why she and Brittany were broken up.

But I dunno guys lol dunno. It's a whole lotta crazy so tell me what you think!