Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or the world in which this story is based (which is Supernatural).

Author's Note(s): This is the beginning of a story I have currently in the works. It's nowhere near finished yet, but I thought I'd post the prologue first (because it works as a standalone fic) and well…to gauge interest I guess. It is very, very AU.

In other thoughts: It's on. It was always on. That is all.

No Rest for the Wicked
Prologue - Part 1

When Santana rolls into town, it's late. Later than she was hoping it would be. She grinds her teeth in frustration and slams her hands down on the steering wheel. Absolutely fucking perfect, she thinks bitterly. She pulls over on what she predicts to be a quiet road. This is far from the first time she's slept in her car, and she's certain it won't be the last. It doesn't stop her from being positively furious at the prospect, however. It's been days since she's slept in a proper bed.

She gets out of her car and walks around it to lean on the bonnet. There's something hanging in the air; a sort of tension that Santana recognises instantly but has never found the words to describe. She loves it. It comes hand in hand with the feelings present at the beginning of a new hunt. A new challenge that Santana knows she is more than up to the task for.

Her breath is visible in front of her and Santana takes far more enjoyment from the cold night air than she usually would. She's been cooped up in that piece of crap car for far too long. If she didn't know better, she'd think she had cabin fever. Santana has seen real cabin fever and what it can do though, and until she's literally ripped out the throat of over half a dozen innocent bystanders, she confident she's just feeling a little antsy.

Not that Santana feeling a little antsy is something that should be taken lightly.

She inhales deeply before propelling herself forward; no point in wasting valuable time when she could be scoping out the place. She's such a seasoned non-sleeper by now that Santana only needs four or five hours to feel fully rested and prepared for the day ahead. Okay, so perhaps she isn't at the top of her game after three full days of traipsing around in the wilderness, searching for a werewolf or whatever beastie she happens to be hunting at the time, but she's certainly capable. Santana is badass like that.

It's time to show this sleepy town who's boss.

By the time morning comes around, Santana is rested and ready for the day ahead. Or at least she will be once she's got her goddamn coffee.

She's sitting in some crappy diner that looks like it hasn't been cleaned in about two months. The tabletops are relatively unsoiled, but the walls seem greasy and the whole room smells of fries. None of this bothers Santana; she's eaten in worse places. Got food poisoning from a couple of them too, but that's beside the point. Hustling random guys at bars and identity theft only gets her so far; she can't exactly afford to go to a classier establishment. Not that this shit-hole town appears to have a better offer.

There's only two other people in the room at the moment; an old couple who look like they should be sat in God's waiting room rather than at some questionable diner in the middle of nowhere. As of yet, a waitress or any kind of employee has yet to make an appearance.

The sound of someone being given a stern telling off to in the kitchen, however, is quite obvious over the awkward silence. Santana begins to tap her foot impatiently. Getting a cup of coffee should not be this difficult.

In what feels like an age, but is in reality two short minutes, a rather harried blonde woman scurries through the kitchen door and makes a beeline for Santana.

Santana's 'about fucking time' dies on her lips as she makes eye contact with the waitress.

"Sorry for the wait," she says, a wide smile crossing her face.

"Erm…that's okay," replies Santana, unsure why her mouth suddenly feels uncomfortably dry.

If possible, the blonde's smile widens even further and she withdraws a small notepad and pen from her pocket.

"I'm Brittany," she says brightly. "I'll be your server this morning." Santana makes an odd humming sound. "What can I get for you?"

"Um…" says Santana. "Coffee."

"Just coffee?" asks Brittany with a curious sweep over Santana's figure.

"Just coffee," Santana confirms, feeling strangely self conscious for the first time in…possibly ever.

"I'll be right back," says Brittany, spinning gracefully on her heel and sweeping out of sight.

Santana takes a deep breath and mentally chastises herself. Okay, she's going to be cool now. She's Santana Lopez for Gods sake; the Lopez's don't let themselves be distracted by pretty blondes in short skirts.

No, she's going to focus on the task at hand.

"Here you go," says a voice, and Santana almost jumps.

"Thanks," Santana forces out, pulling the mug towards her with a reverence that borderlines on indecent.

After that, Santana expects Brittany to leave so she can go back to her ponderings on her planned daily activities. Bizarrely, this isn't the case. Instead, Brittany sits herself down on the chair opposite Santana's and regards her through clear blue eyes.

"You look very official," says Brittany after a moment.

Santana looks down at her fitted red shirt and expensive black trousers. It's not what she'd usually wear, but as she's pretending to be on official police business she'd thought she had better look the part. She found out the hard way once that if you don't look the way people expect, they pay a lot more attention to your alleged credentials. The last thing Santana wants is to be tailed by the CIA again. That had been a disaster, and Santana does not use that word lightly.

"Special Agent Vicky Lynn," Santana lies smoothly. "FBI."

Brittany's eyes widen comically and she tilts her head to one side. "You don't look much like a Vicky."

"Sorry about that," replies Santana, shrugging her shoulders and taking a tentative sip of her coffee. Mm, not great. Not too bad though.

"Oh no," Brittany quickly reassures her. "It's a nice name. It's just…a bit ordinary." Santana raises an eyebrow. "You don't seem very ordinary."

You have no idea, Santana thinks.

"Are you here about the deaths?" asks Brittany curiously. Santana is pretty sure she should be waiting on tables or something right now.

"I am," she replies heavily.

"Everyone says they're suicides. Or accidents," says Brittany in a way that makes Santana think that she doesn't believe her own words. "Why are the FBI interested?"

Usually, Santana would dismiss the line of questioning and send the person away with a substantial glare and a few harsh words. She somehow finds herself unwilling to do so now. Maybe this Brittany character will be useful to her in some way. Deep down, Santana seriously doubts this, but it's what she tells herself anyway to excuse her sudden verbal diarrhoea.

"It isn't every day that three women mysteriously drown," replies Santana. "I'm just here to make sure."

Brittany nods furiously, but she looks worried about something.

"Did you know any of the victims?" asks Santana, assuming that this is the reason for the woman's discomfort.

Brittany shrugs. "It's a small town. Everybody kind of knows everybody. Jessica Finkle was my teacher in high school, Harriet Burns worked at the place I buy my groceries from and Melissa Talbot was one of the few local hairdressers."

"Don't seem to have much in common job-wise then," mutters Santana, mainly to herself.

For a moment, Brittany looks like she's about to agree, but a shadow flickers in her eyes and she keeps her mouth pressed in a thin line. Santana actually misses the cheerful smile.

"There's something else?" she asks.

"They were all blonde," says Brittany after a moment. "And they all had blue eyes."

Santana blinks a couple of times and takes another sip of her coffee. That, she had not known. The black and white photographs in the newspapers she's gathered haven't really been helpful in terms of the victims' appearance. She resolves to try the internet next to see if there are any other physical similarities.

"I have blonde hair and blue eyes," Brittany then points out, just to be sure that Santana is aware.

"I see that," says Santana in agreement.

A fearful look crosses Brittany's face, but it's gone so quickly that Santana isn't even sure it was there in the first place. "I read online that serial killers always pick people that look the same," she says in a whisper. It's ridiculous because the old couple had left five minutes ago and there's nobody else in the room to hear them.

Smarter than she first seemed, Santana thinks to herself as she carefully considers the woman in front of her. If the demon or ghost or poltergeist or whatever it is, is going after women of a certain physical type, Brittany would definitely be near the top of the list. Oh well. Santana will just have to work extra fast this time to make sure Brittany makes it out alive. Although, when she thinks about it, Santana isn't quite sure why she cares so much. She usually doesn't. Casualties of war are an unfortunate but unavoidable part of her job. Supernatural beings have never been particularly responsive to Santana's desire for people not to die.

"Don't worry," says Santana finally. "If it's a serial killer, maybe they'll be put off because the FBI are in town."

The bright smile is back and Santana literally can't stop herself from returning it. She quickly schools her features into the stern look she's appropriated for herself, but Brittany doesn't seem to be too bothered by it.

"That's good," she says happily. "I know you'll keep me safe."

Santana is astonished by the woman's blind faith in her. In anyone else, she'd have thought it was natural stupidity, but in Brittany it's oddly endearing.

"I'll try," Santana replies, her voice guarded.

"Awesome," says Brittany, unfazed by Santana's obvious uncertainty.

She leans over the table and tops up Santana's coffee. The way Santana's breath catches as Brittany draws near to her is completely coincidental, she decides.

"Thanks," Santana mumbles. Then she clears her throat and shifts uncomfortably.

Brittany chuckles a little. "You're cute," she says, much to Santana's bewilderment.

Nobody has ever called Santana cute before. Nobody in their right mind would dare.

Santana makes quick work of her coffee and gets the hell out of there.

She finds the police station easily. Well, she calls it a police station; it's closer to a small bungalow with a single man holding down the fort. At the moment, his feet are propped up on his virtually empty desk and a ridiculous looking Stetson is pulled down low over his eyes. Before he even begins to speak, Santana knows he's going to be of little use.

She clears her throat loudly and the man jumps and almost falls out of his chair. He grabs his hat and places it gently down on the desk and looks Santana up and down.

"Hi, there, ma'am," he says awkwardly. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Probably not, thinks Santana. She pulls out her fake FBI badge and flashes it in front of him.

"Special Agent Vicky Lynn," she says in her most officious voice.

"Sheriff Michael Thomas," says the man, rising to his feet and holding his hand out for Santana to shake. She reluctantly does so and resists the urge to then wipe her hand on her trousers. "Are you here about the deaths?" the sheriff then asks.

Santana nods and takes out a notebook from her jacket pocket. She doesn't need it; her memory is excellent, but she finds that it supports the illusion.

"Why are the FBI interested in my little backwater town?" asks Thomas as she flicks through the pages of her book. "A few suicides don't seem like something the Feds would care about."

Santana gazes at him sternly and he visibly falters. It's honestly a wonder this guy ever achieved a position of power in life.

"I'd like a copy of the police report and the coroners report," says Santana in a voice that books no argument.

The sheriff nods and sits back down so he can rifle through the drawer in his desk. Santana purses her lips in annoyance; this place doesn't even have an extra chair that she can sit on.

"Here you are, Agent," he says as he triumphantly pulls out two dog-eared paper files and hands it over to her.

Santana flicks through it to make sure everything is present and correct, before fixing her unwavering stare back on Thomas. His smile dims a little but otherwise he seems to have recovered from his shock at her presence.

"What can you tell me about the victims?" asks Santana.

The sheriff shrugs disinterestedly; he seems less concerned about the unexplained deaths in his town than these small time cops usually do. As a general rule in a town this small, the law enforcement take this kind of thing remarkably personally. It's both annoying and amusing in equal measure.

"Jessica Finkle was found drowned in her bathtub a couple of weeks ago," he begins. Santana nods. "Must have fallen asleep," he says.

"That's likely," says Santana. The sheriff nods and completely misses the sarcasm in her voice.

"A week after that Harriet Burns was found drowned in a sink," says Thomas. Santana frowns.

"A sink?" she says. "Isn't that a little unusual?"

"She probably hit her head," replies Thomas in an offhand voice.

Santana opens the coroners report and scans down it quickly. There's no indication of a head wound, but nor is there any sign of finger marks or anything that would suggest foul play. Oh yeah, this is definitely her kind of case.

"I see," she says dubiously. "And how about Melissa Talbot? Drowned a glass of water? That's not exactly what one would call usual, is it?"

This time, the sheriff does notice her tone and frowns with confusion. His display of incompetence makes Santana's fist twitch angrily.

"No," he concedes. "But what else could it be if not an accident?"

Santana snaps the file closed and the sheriff's frown deepens.

"That's what I'm here to find out," says Santana. He gazes at her doubtfully but says nothing as she tucks the files under her arm. "Thank you for your time, Sheriff Thomas."

The next step in any successful hunt is to find out what connects all the victims. In this case, Santana already has a pretty good idea about what that connection may be, but she is nothing if not thorough. Her perusal of the police file, which is a generous way of describing the random bits of paper loosely held together, has given her the addresses of the victims' family, and thus Santana has spent most of her morning questioning devastated husbands and parents. It's bringing her down, quite frankly.

"I just don't know why she'd kill herself," the old woman sobs through ill-fitting false teeth. She blows her nose disgustingly and Santana grimaces. "She was always so happy and full of life!"

Santana nods sympathetically. "Okay, I think that will be all."

The woman sniffs and nods. Santana rises to her feet and quickly adverts her gaze as the woman also stands and looks like she's about to hug her. As it happens, Santana is well well versed in the art of escaping and she's out of that door inhumanly quickly.

Santana isn't good with crying people. On the rare occasion she's attempted to comfort someone, they just seem to cry more. Her father had told her more than once that she wasn't a 'people person'. Admittedly, Santana hadn't really understood what being a 'people person' really entailed. She was a person and she spoke to people. What else was there to it? When she'd explained this to Papa Lopez, he'd smiled wryly at her and patted her on the head. It isn't one of her favourite childhood memories.

The streets are fairly busy by the time Santana has finished talking to the victims' families. It's a bit of a relief; it had been scarily quiet earlier, and Santana has endured more than one bad experience with supposedly empty towns.

It's now time for the bit of the job that Santana really hates. Research.

She sighs and smoothes down her shirt before turning in the direction of where she's been told the library is. Ugh. The library.

Ever since that time in school, she can't remember which school it was, that she'd been forced into isolation for two weeks for beating up that kid for telling her she looked homeless, she's not been the biggest fan of empty libraries and their dusty shelves. They make the back of her throat itch.

Sadly, it doesn't take her long to find. It's the relatively small building next to the town hall that looks like it's about to fall down. Always a good sign, Santana thinks sardonically.

Santana groans and allows her head to drop to the desk. She bangs her forehead gently on the old wood. Research is far too time consuming. This freaky town doesn't have fucking wireless; how the hell is Santana supposed to work in these conditions? The library computers look like they haven't been updated in about twenty years and it took Santana about thirty minutes just to switch the piece of junk on.

Old newspapers are scattered on the table in front of her with no obvious semblance of order. She'd given up trying to keep stuff in the right place over an hour ago. She doesn't much care about keeping this crap-hole library in pristine condition; the people that work there don't seem to care so why should she? Besides, by the time she's done in this town, they're going to fucking owe her, so cleaning up after her is the least they can do.

"Hi!" says a cheerful voice behind her. Santana stiffens and raises her head. No way did someone just sneak up on her without her realising. Her dad would kill her if he'd been there. Or something else would kill her. Santana is supposed to be on high alert at all times.

"Hi," replies Santana, peering up at the blonde wearily. "Are you like a ninja or something?"

"Huh?" says Brittany, her brow furrowing in confusion. She looks painfully cute and Santana resolves to berate herself later for thinking so.

"Never mind," says Santana dismissively.

"Okay," says Brittany brightly. She takes a seat next to Santana and curiously regards the mess of papers in front of her. "How's the investigation going?"

The old newspapers stare at her mockingly and Santana forces a smile. "It's going well."

"That's good," said Brittany in a hushed voice. "I saw Jessica's husband before and he looked upset."

Santana nods but elects not to comment on this. She's well aware of how upset he is and may or may not have been the cause of something of an emotion breakdown. "What are you doing here?" she instead asks.

To her surprise, a light blush appears on Brittany's face. "Nothing," she says evasively.

"Did you follow me here?" says Santana, folding her arms.

An apologetic smile crosses Brittany's face and she nods once. "Well…not exactly. I saw you come in here before and thought I'd come and see how you were doing while I'm on my break."

"Oh," says Santana, not quite sure what to make of this. "Well that's…normal."

Brittany nods absently and picks up one of the newspapers that Santana has set aside because it was actually vaguely useful. Santana resists the urge to snatch it away as Brittany scans down the page with an increasingly confused expression on her face.

"What are you doing here?" asks Brittany, looking up at Santana over the paper.

"Just doing a bit of research on the town," Santana only partially lies.

"Holly Brookes found drowned in her home…" Brittany reads aloud. She stops and gazes at Santana in wonderment. "This was fifteen years ago. I kinda remember it."

Santana made a small noise of question. "What a coincidence."

Brittany looks at her blankly and for some reason Santana can't tear her eyes away.

"What did you say your name was again?" asks Brittany. Her voice is tinged with suspicion and Santana feels an odd prickling sensation on the back of her neck. Who the hell is this girl?

"Vicky Lynn," Santana lies immediately. She tries not to feel offended that Brittany hadn't remembered it.

For a moment, Brittany says nothing and Santana considers nudging her to bring her back to reality.

"It's weird," says Brittany thoughtfully. "She wasn't the only one who drowned then."

"Oh?" Santana prompts.

"Yeah," she says slowly. "My mom's friend died too."

Santana sits back in her chair and considers the beautiful blonde before her. Wait, did she just think beautiful? The average looking blonde before her; not that she's really noticed, because she's on a job.

"What happened?" asks Santana.

A strange look crosses Brittany's face; it's a look that Santana associates with someone who has something to hide. It's difficult to imagine that the sweet waitress has some kind of deep, dark secret that pertains to the hunt, but Santana had learnt at a very early age that appearances can be deceptive. Santana herself is a prime example.

"She drowned," says Brittany simply.

"There's something else," Santana says encouragingly.

Brittany hesitates and glances around the room to make sure nobody is listening. It's not really necessary; nobody but Santana has come into the library for the entire time she's been in there. The librarian disappeared shortly after Santana had entered.

"You're not going to believe me," says Brittany finally. She looks sadly down at her hands. "Nobody else did."

"Tell me anyway," Santana suggests. She has a feeling that whatever Brittany is about to say is going to be a great deal more use to her than anything she's read in the library so far.

A doubtful look remains on Brittany's face but she shuffles closer to Santana. It suddenly becomes very difficult for Santana to focus on the words being spoken to her.

"Don't laugh," says Brittany sadly.

"I won't," Santana promises, swallowing back her nervousness at the close proximity.

"My mom was there when she died," says Brittany; her voice is quiet, and not just because they're in a library. "She said that before it happened, she saw something."

Oh yes, this is definitely what Santana wants to hear. She suppresses a smirk and gestures for Brittany to continue.

"She said," says Brittany, her voice dropping even lower, "That it was a woman."

"That doesn't seem too unusual," Santana remarks.

"It was a ghost," Brittany whispers; then she cringes as though she's waiting for Santana to laugh. She doesn't.

"I see," says Santana carefully. "Did she say what the ghost looked like?"

Brittany's head shoots up and Santana almost recoils against the pure joy in her eyes. "You believe me?" she asks, her mouth spreading into a wide smile.

Stunned, Santana nods mutely. Brittany's smile grows even wider and she lunges forward and pulls Santana in a tight hug. A surprised gasp escapes Santana's lips and she instinctively braces herself; it's been a long time since she's had such close physical contact with someone that wasn't trying to kill her. When Brittany pulls away, she doesn't seem to mind Santana's unresponsiveness.

"She was middle-aged," Brittany says as though there had been no interlude in the conversation. "She had dark hair and she was tall. But that wasn't what was so weird," Brittany continues; she stares at Santana beseechingly so she nods. "My mom said that she was wet."

"She was wet," Santana repeats faintly. Brittany nods furiously.

"There was like…water dripping from her hair and stuff," says Brittany. "And mom said she was super pale."

"I see," says Santana. "Did she say anything?"

Brittany shakes her head. "I don't think so."

Santana makes a thoughtful noise and looks unwillingly at the mess she's made on the table. "Do you think I could talk to your mom?"

Brittany's face falls and Santana knows exactly what she's going to say before the words leave her mouth. "My mom's dead," says Brittany softly.

"I'm sorry," says Santana guiltily.

"It was a few years ago now," says Brittany with a shaky breath. "I'm okay."

Santana nods but isn't sure how to respond.

"Most people don't really believe that my mom saw a ghost," says Brittany eventually. She shoots Santana a fond smile.

"I'm not most people," says Santana with a wry smile.

Brittany looks at her thoughtfully. "No, I don't think you are."

An uncomfortable feeling settles in the pit of Santana's stomach; it feels like Brittany's eyes are looking directly into her soul. She clears her throat nervously and looks away.

"Anyway," says Brittany after an awkward silence, "I should probably get back to work." Santana hums in agreement. "It was nice talking to you, Agent Lynn," says Brittany. The name sounds odd on her lips and Santana has an overwhelming urge to correct her.

"Yeah," she says instead. "Thanks for the help."

Brittany gives her a bemused look before standing up and leaving the library. It's not until a few minutes later that Santana realises that if she had been a real FBI agent, what Brittany had told her would have been of no help at all.

By the time Santana finds the article she's looking for, she's absolutely starving. She's sat back at the library's computer, which has crashed no fewer than four times, and tapping her fingers in a steady, staccato rhythm against the side of the dirty white keyboard. The feeling of accomplishment that usually follows this kind of discovery is somewhat lessened by the way her stomach is making uncomfortable growling noises. She hadn't realised it was so late.

Thankfully, it seems like a pretty open and shut case. She's seen hundreds of hauntings like this one. Catherine Swanson, thirty-nine, found dead in her bathtub, twenty-first of January, year nineteen-eighty. No suspected foul play, but there's an interesting photograph of her husband being consoled by a young woman who bears a striking similarity to all of the victims. Blonde hair, blue eyes, attractive. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what actually happened. A small article dated a few months later announces that the grieving Mr. Swanson has found happiness again and has become engaged to a lovely young local woman. Yeah, 'cause that's not suspicious at all, Santana thinks disparagingly.

She closes down the computer and pushes herself up; stretching like a cat as she does so. Her joints are stiff from sitting down for so long and she groans a little as her spine protests against the movement.

A glance at her watch tells her that it's far too early to put the next part of her plan into action, so instead she resolves to go and get something to eat and then try to catch a couple of hours sleep in the seedy motel she's booked for the night.

What she needs to do next is not something that should be done at a time when there are still people around. Not if she doesn't want to be thrown in a mental institution or maximum security prison at least.

She stretches again, this time feeling her muscles loosen a little, and begins her way back to the diner. And if Brittany happens to be there, that's just a sacrifice Santana will have to make. She'll most likely be gone by morning, so she decides that there's no harm in indulging a little. It's not often Santana speaks to somebody who she genuinely likes. Well, likes may be a strong word; doesn't want to punch in the face, is probably more accurate. As she was contemplating earlier, Santana is not a people person.

As a general rule, people tend not to be a Santana person either.

It's a mutual dislike. Mostly.

As she strolls through the dark town, the cold air bites at her skin and she pulls her jacket closer to her body. She's just come from hunting a werewolf in the bizarre location of Orlando, so going from the heat to this chill in such a short space of time is a bit of a shock to her system. Rapid changes in temperatures that comes from spending her whole life in a car is one of the few things that Santana has failed to adjust to. She makes a mental note to fish out something warmer for later tonight; she isn't hunting down ghosts in pitch black graveyards in her suit and unnecessarily high heels.

She rounds a corner and lets out a sigh of relief as the bright lights and noisy bustle of the diner comes into view. It seems a lot busier than it had in the morning.

The bell above the door jangles as she pushes it open and meanders into the room. A few of the customers stop their conversations to look at her curiously, but they quickly lose interest and go back to their meals.

From the corner of the room, Brittany spots her and waves. Santana raises a hand in greeting and then makes her way over to one of the small booths in the corner. Her father always taught her to sit with her back to the wall; it's harder to be caught off guard when you have a full view of the room and all of its occupants.

It doesn't take long for Brittany to finish handing out plates to the table she's currently serving, and she immediately heads in Santana's direction. Her heart clenches a little and Santana almost laughs at how ridiculous she's being over this. A girl, for fucks sake.

"Fancy seeing you again," says Brittany cheerfully. "Are you stalking me or something?"

Santana lets out a short laugh. "You wish."

There's a sudden twinkle in Brittany's eyes and Santana feels heat rise to her cheeks. Pull it together, Lopez! Brittany laughs and poises her pen above her little notepad.

"What can I get for you this fine evening, Agent?" she asks playfully.

"What do you recommend?" replies Santana, having not actually looked at the menu.

For a moment, Brittany looks rather hesitant, as though in reality she'd recommend that Santana not eat anything at all. "The veggie burger is safe," she says finally.

Santana grimaces. "Well…that inspires confidence. I guess I'll have that then."

Brittany jots something down and smiles at her. "Do you want coffee or something else?"

"Coffee will be fine," replies Santana.

Brittany nods and then disappears into the kitchen.

The rest of Santana's evening is spent surreptitiously watching Brittany's every move. She learns that yes, Brittany really is that chipper with everyone she speaks to. She's reluctant to admit that it disappoints her a little, but then she chastises herself. Why would Brittany be so nice so some random stranger if she wasn't like that with everybody?

She also learns that the diner has quite a sea of regulars. More than half of the people who have entered since Santana sat down were brought their food before they'd even ordered. The idea of such monotony sets Santana's teeth on edge; she's never been very good at staying in one place for too long.

Brittany seems happy though so Santana guesses it can't be too bad if you get used to it.

Except that it probably is.

In between waiting on the occupied tables along with another woman who Santana doesn't care enough about to learn the name of, Brittany wanders over to her and engages her in mindless chitchat. She has a strange way of making inane conversation about what Santana's favourite colour is (red; Brittany's is blue) and what her favourite fizzy drink is (Sprite; Brittany's is Cherry Coke) not mind numbingly dull. It's quite a skill, Santana thinks. Or maybe it's to do with the fact that she's able to stare between Brittany's crystal clear eyes and lips for the entire conversation. Santana isn't sure either way, but is positive that she doesn't care.

When it's time to leave, Santana actually feels a twinge of sadness. She hasn't enjoyed talking to somebody so much in a very long time. In fact, she's pretty sure that nobody has ever been so friendly to her before. Most are scared away by her prickly nature and if they aren't, they certainly are when they find out what Santana does by way of a job.

"You're going?" asks Brittany as she closes in on the door. Damn. She was kind of hoping to escape before having to say goodbye. Santana hates goodbyes of any kind.

She turns around and smiles weakly at the waitress. "Yeah, I'm gonna head back to the motel," she says.

"Oh," says Brittany. Was that disappointment that Santana could detect? "Okay then. I'll see you tomorrow maybe?"

"Yeah," Santana lies with a reassuring nod. Brittany smiles at her and her heart sinks just a little bit. "I'll see you around, Brittany."

"Bye!" Brittany calls after her as she leaves the diner.

Author's Note(s): Part 2 coming up soon. Thanks for reading!