A/N: The way that the story ends is the way that I had originally intended for it to end. However, halfway through I thought what if… and this is what spawned from it.

This is an alternate ending. It is compliant with the story up until chapter twelve when Sue Sylvester, Shelby Corcoran, and a third woman, Terri Del Monico (who is probably ooc because I never actually saw any episodes with her in them, sorry), engage in a bid war for Santana; that is where this story picks up.

This is a bit longer than the other chapters; that's because this is technically the alternate end of chapter 12 plus an alternate epilogue (which will begin at the time jump, just as the original epilogue), so I apologize for the outrageous length. It sort of got away from me.

(If anyone likes to listen to related music while they read, might I suggest the song I listened to while writing this, To Find You by Lea Michele. Also if you want to die of heartbreak, Goodbye by Avril Lavigne is a good one for this okay byyyyeeee.)

Warnings: mentions of violence, a little rough treatment, angst, major Bike brotp, and mentions of Alzheimer's disease (I don't know if that would be triggering, but just in case).

Schuester is speaking again; Shelby and Sue have conceded to the third woman.

Santana allows her tears to flow freely. A sob rips from her, and she can't find it in her to be ashamed of her emotional display.

Her heart is breaking in her chest; she would rather Pierce ripped it from her, still beating, and stepped on it.

It would be less painful than what she's feeling in this moment, watching all of her hopes, her dreams, her love get crushed.

Once Shuester stops speaking, once he bangs his gavel, that's it.

It's over.

Pierce releases her hair, and Santana drops her chin to her chest; Pierce has defeated her. After months of swearing that she wouldn't let him break her, he's finally gotten everything he wanted.

Santana gives up.

He's won.

Shuester's gavel hits the podium with a deafening crack and Santana jumps, her head snapping up.

There are guards approaching, ensuring a clean exchange. Pierce accepts the ownership papers from Shuester as a guard unlocks Santana's shackles – she considers making a break for it, briefly, but she glances at the large crowd and realizes she'd never get away with it; they'd kill her on the spot. Pierce pushes Santana down the stairs at the side of the stage where a woman stands with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. The hard look in her eyes makes Santana swallow hard and her tears being anew.

Pierce stops a few paces from the woman and grabs Santana by the front of her hoodie, spinning her to face him. She expects him to revel in her sobs, her tear-soaked face, but his face is almost as empty as Santana feels. "I always get what I want, Santana," he whispers hollowly, and her jaw clenches as he calls her by her name for the first – and probably the last – time. Santana knows that it isn't true though; he may have gotten rid of her, but his actions certainly won't be gaining Brittany's favor. "This is…for the best. I…I'm sorry." He looks over her head, towards the double doors, and Santana sobs harder when realization hits her.

He thought Brittany would come, too.

It fact, it almost seems as if he's buying time, willing the doors to burst open.

It's almost like he regrets his decision, but is too stubborn, too stuck in his ways, to change it himself.

"I love my daughter," he continues quietly, looking back to her face.

Santana chokes back another sob to reply, "If you loved her you wouldn't have done this. Her heart is going to be broken, do you realize that?"

Pierce tries to smirk, but it looks more like a grimace. "You're no good for her."

Maybe it's true, Santana thinks sadly; she's a slave. Just a slave. But she loves Brittany, and no matter what Pierce says, she knows that Brittany loves her too. They were happy.

Santana thought it was enough.

It should have been enough.

Santana sniffles and looks him in the eye. "And neither are you," she bites back, putting as much hatred behind the statement as she can muster.

She swears she sees Pierce's bottom lip tremble – he looks so much like Brittany that another miserable sob rips from Santana – before he turns her again viciously and marches her towards her increasingly impatient new owner.

Pierce stretches his hand towards the woman as they draw near. "Brian Pierce," he introduces himself.

The woman looks at his hand disdainfully and grabs it lightly with only her fingers; it appears as a dainty gesture, but it's quite obvious that she's attempting to touch Pierce as little as possible. "Terri Del Monico," she answers, voice dripping with faux sweetness.

Pierce begins to hand over Santana's ownership papers, but retracts them as Terri reaches forward, his other hand tightening in the back of Santana's hoodie. "I just have…one request."

Watching from under the cover of her hair, Santana sees Terri quirk her eyebrow. "Oh? What, do you want visitation rights or something?" She snarks.

"No," Pierce says, obviously displeased, but whether it's with Terri's tone or the jab itself, Santana doesn't know. "I want you to change her name."

Santana's head snaps up, her bloodshot eyes glaring daggers into his face, wishing that she could kill him with just her eyes. Surely he can't actually want that. Her name is the last thing she has that her mother gave her. If he takes away her name, he takes away the last little piece of her that Santana has been able to cling to.

If he takes away her name, Brittany can't find her.

Santana feels like she can't breathe; of course that's what he's doing. He wants it to be impossible for Brittany to ever find her.

She turns her head towards him. "Please," she begs, teeth clenched against the cry she wants to let out. "Please, don't."

Terri reaches forward and yanks on the leash around Santana's neck. Santana stumbles forward, gagging as the material snaps tight against her throat. Terri pushes Santana's head down. "Quiet, slave," she demands coldly.

Santana rolls her head, trying to work out the whiplash, and clenches her hands nervously in front of her.

She'd almost forgotten how to be a slave. Quiet. Head down. No sudden movements.

Terri turns back to Pierce as Shuester continues the auction. "Did you have anything in particular in mind?"

Pierce shrugs. "I don't care," he says, his voice quiet.

Terri faces Santana again and snaps her fingers where she assumes Santana's line of sight to be. "Slave, look at me." Santana swallows hard, grits her teeth, and does as she's told.

Wow this obeying shit is going to be hard to get used to again.

She's been treated like a human for so long; she's out of practice.

Terri looks her up and down, eyes appraising, before she smirks. "She kind of looks like a…Maria," she says slowly. She lets her eyes rove over Santana once more, then pushes Santana's head down again. "Maria Ramos. Ooooh, that has a nice ring to it."

Pierce grunts in what sounds like approval.

Santana hates him. She hates him more than any of her other Masters. More than the man who acted as her father for fifteen years. More than the teen girl with the skateboard that had spilled her scalding hot coffee on Santana last month at the Lima Bean and had run away without an apology.

Santana hates Brian Pierce more than she's ever hated anything or anyone in her entire life.

In fact, she's certain that there is not enough hatred in her body to hate him adequately.

Terri and Pierce converse for a short period; Terri hands over a wad of cash thicker than Santana's bicep, and Pierce steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets, watching.

Terri leans in and runs a rough hand down Santana's chest, and Santana tenses; she's not quite sure what Terri meant to accomplish with the action, since it wasn't really a grope, but Santana squeezes her eyes shut as tightly as she can anyways, dreading…well, dreading the rest of her life.

"I'm not going to bind your hands," Terri says, mouth close to Santana's ear to be heard over Shuester, sounding like she's doing Santana a huge favor. "But if you attempt anything, I will not hesitate to strike you. Nod if you understand." Santana jams her tongue to the roof of her mouth, fighting tears, and nods numbly. Satisfied, Terri takes the leash in her hand again and turns to Pierce. "Good day, Mr. Pierce. Come along, Maria."

Terri drags Santana through the crowd, and Santana chances a look over her shoulder to Pierce. His shoulders are hunched, his expression unreadable.

Santana frowns deeply at him and turns her head forward again. She crosses her arms defensively over her chest, remembering that someone had had the balls to grope her the last time she'd made this trek.

Terri pushes the right door open and the cold night air hits Santana like a wall. Terri's car is parked at the furthest end of the parking lot, and as she's led to it, Santana's head pivots wildly, searching for any sign of Brittany's car.

For any sign of Brittany.

Terri opens the back door of her car and steps aside, allowing Santana the opportunity to get in herself, instead of being shoved in.

Santana tries to look around one last time, buying time, just in case, but Terri snaps her fingers impatiently and points to the backseat of the car. Santana sighs in defeat, shoulders slumping, and crawls in.

If she had a tail, she knows that it would be between her legs.

Terri prattles on about Santana's duties as she maneuvers out of her parking space and through the lanes of poorly parked cars. When she reaches the exit of the parking lot, stopping to wait for traffic, she pauses her chattering to curse loudly and angrily at a speeding car that nearly takes out her mirror as it turns into the parking lot. She continues less than a second later, and Santana knows that she should listen to avoid possible future punishments, but she can't focus.

The car that had nearly side-swiped Terri's had been Brittany's car.

Santana swivels quickly in her seat, chin propped on the top of the backseats as she watches the car jerk to a stop in the middle of the parking lot. She stares longingly at it, holding her breath, torn between hoping Brittany emerges and hoping that it's someone else.

What little is left of her heart shatters when a blonde head pops from the driver's seat, face frantic as her head whips around, searching the parking lot.

Brittany seems to spot Pierce's car, and she races towards the front doors of the auction house.

All that Santana can do is watch. Terri's windows are tinted, so Brittany had not seen Santana. She can't yell out, knowing that Terri would probably beat her. And even if she did, Brittany would never hear her anyways. She could jump out and make a break for it, she thinks, but how far would she get? And would there be anything that Brittany could even do?

Besides, she doesn't belong to Brittany anymore.

She belongs to Terri.

Brittany disappears into the auction house and Terri finds a big enough gap in the traffic to pull on to the road. Santana turns to face the front of the car again. She curls into herself, burying her face in her hands, and sobs silently.

She never thought she'd hurt this much, feel this burning pain in her chest, ever again.

As Terri jabbers on, Santana takes solace in one thing.

Pierce was all wrong.

She may have been too late, but Brittany does still care.

At least, Santana thinks, she can go knowing that Brittany truly does love her enough to follow.

She just hopes Brittany knows how much Santana loves her back.

Brittany slams through the front doors of the auction house and works her way through the tight crowd, shoving bodies left and right. She'd initially planned to burst in a make a scene, but had changed her mind at the last minute, figuring that it wouldn't do her any good.

Instead, she runs up the stairs to the stage. Mr. Schue notices Brittany and cuts his sentence short. He waves away the guards that begin to advance and steps away from the microphone.

"Britt?"

Brittany's former Glee Club teacher grips her arms tightly, as though he's afraid she may keel over. "Mr. Schue," she gasps, adrenaline stealing her breath. "My dad…Santana…where…" His hands tightening on her biceps makes Brittany halt her attempts to form a coherent sentence.

The look on his face worries her.

He gestures to the side of the stage, and Brittany doesn't wait for him to speak before turning and running in that direction.

Part of her hopes her dad changed his mind.

Part of her hopes there's still time.

But the biggest part of her, the part that she's adamantly ignoring, knows the truth: she's too late.

Even with the waiting area in the back thinning out, it takes Brittany longer than she'd like to find her father. He's sitting in a corner, his head in his hands.

Alone.

Brittany clenches her jaw and marches right up to him. "Where is she?" She demands.

Pierce's head snaps up at the sound of her voice. "Britt," he mumbles. He stands and reaches out, attempting to make contact, but Brittany slaps his hand away.

"Where is Santana?" Her blue eyes bore into his matching set so intensely that he's only able to stand her stare for a few seconds before looking down to the floor.

"She's gone," he says quietly, gesturing vaguely with his hand.

Tears well in Brittany's eyes and she has to press her hand to her mouth to hold in an anguished cry.

She can't believe this is happening. Santana is her world, her everything. Without her, Brittany doesn't think she can function properly.

She feels a gaping hole open within her, feels an emptiness that she hasn't felt in months.

Pierce reaches out for her again when he sees her cheeks glisten with tears, but Brittany steps away from him. "Britt, baby…" He pulls a roll of money from his pocket and Brittany feels her lunch rise to the back of her throat; that's really all that's left of Santana? She was there one minute only to be replaced so easily by a thick roll of bills?

How can that be possible?

Pierce thrusts the money out. "We can get a new one, Britt," he pleads. "A…a more obedient one-"

He breaks off, flinching when Brittany swats the money from his hand, leaving the bills to flutter to the floor around them. "You don't get it," she seethes, voice barely above a whisper. "You just don't understand."

"Brittany, she was no good," Pierce says desperately, tears springing to his eyes. "She was…" He flaps his hand, frustrated that he can't think of a proper word quick enough. Finally, he says, "She was defective."

Brittany recoils, her face scrunched up in disgust; Santana is perfect. How dare he suggest that there is something wrong with her. "What is defective about her?"

"She refused to listen to orders, she-"

"She was never given orders!" Brittany yells in outrage, not caring that they've gained the attention of the handful of people left in the room. "I never gave her orders because I didn't see her as a slave. She is a person; a beautiful, kind, loving person!" She glares at him, daring him to try to defend himself, but he remains silent. When Brittany continues, her voice is quieter. "You bought her to make me happy. But as soon as I finally was happy, you took her away from me." She touches her sternum, pressing the tips of her fingers into it lightly. "It hurts. It hurts as bad as when mom died. Do you remember how I told you then that it felt like the sun would never shine again? That it hurt just to be awake? Just to breathe?" His face crumples as he recalls the conversations where Brittany had repeated the words, crushing his hopes that her depression was easing every time. "It feels like that again. Except this time it's your fault. How could you do this to me?"

His mouth works wordlessly for a few moments and she shakes her head at him, disbelieving, and an overwhelming feeling hits her, nearly crushing her lungs with the sudden realization.

"I hate you," she whispers brokenly, voicing her inner turmoil. His face falls immediately, a tear finally escaping the corner of his eye.

While uttering the words relieves some of the weight from her shoulders, it's not nearly enough.

It will never be enough.

Pierce falls to his knees in front of her. "Britty," he chokes out, his voice thicker than Brittany's ever heard. "You…you don't mean that."

Brittany steps back as he shuffles forward on his knees. "I'm…so in love with her," she admits to him finally. "She's my everything. And you took her away from me. I hate you."

"Please," he manages to squeeze out between clenched teeth, but when he can't continue, he begins gesturing vaguely with his hands once more.

"I freed Shannon," she says, and his shocked face only marginally satisfies her. "She's moving out and so am I, so don't come home tonight." She moves to turn and walk away, but he grabs her hand. She rips away from him as though his touch is scalding. "If you come home, I'll call the police." His eyes widen comically. "You sold Santana illegally and I could easily have you prosecuted."

Then, she turns and strides away, sobbing and ignoring her father wailing her name.

Brittany doesn't remember the drive to her father's house.

She sits in the driveway, hands wrapped tightly around the wheel as she stares blankly out the windshield.

She doesn't want to go in. The silence…she won't be able to bear it.

And packing. Sorting through her things. Santana's things.

At the prospect of doing these things alone, she almost starts the car and drives to Rachel's empty handed. Maybe it would make it easier to deny, easier to pretend that Santana is still with her if she leaves their things in the house.

But she can't. She has to make sure Shannon made it out. She has to get Lord Tubbington. She has to get Sir Waddlesworth…

Brittany blinks rapidly against new tears. She clicks her seatbelt off and kicks open her door. Her limbs feel like lead as she slugs up the front path. She swallows thickly when she reaches the door, staring blankly at the wood, willing herself to open it.

The door knob is cold against her palm, and the door creaks open, revealing the entryway. The house, as she'd predicted, is silent, but the lights are still on.

"Shannon?" Brittany whispers, though she'd meant to call out. She clears her throat as she lets the door slip closed behind her. "Shannon?" She's successful in raising her voice this time, though there is no answering call in return.

When she checks the basement and sees that Shannon's meager possessions are gone, Brittany's not sure whether to be happy that Shannon is already gone and safe or sad that the woman isn't present to hold her.

She could really use a hug from Shannon right now.

Brittany sighs sadly and turns, heading first back to the first floor, then up to the second floor to pack her bags.

Unlike she did at the front door, Brittany doesn't pause at her bedroom door. She shoulders through, wanting to treat this process like a Band-Aid; get through it as quickly as possible.

Don't think about it, just do it.

She retrieves her suitcases and duffle bags. She grabs handfuls of clothes, underwear, and hats and throws them in blindly, not stopping to sort her things from Santana's.

She packs the full bags into her car, then returns to herd Lord Tubbington into his cat carrier. She stuffs her laptop – along with Santana's Freedom Contract – in its designated bag, then shoulders it before grabbing the cat carrier in one hand and Sir Waddlesworth in the other.

The car carrier is placed gently in the back floorboard where Brittany hopes the tight quarters won't allow for Tubbs to slide around. She moves to put Sir Waddlesworth in the front seat and something catches her eyes.

Santana's shoes.

Brittany's heart lurches painfully, her lungs constricting as she sobs. The vomit that she's managed to keep at bay so far finally surfaces, and Brittany runs to the bushes and wretches.

Brittany leans back, her palms on her knees as she catches her breath. She wipes her nose, then hurries into the house to wash her mouth out.

When she's finished, she returns to her car and begins her journey to Rachel's, wondering how she's going to tell her friends that she's failed them.

That she's failed Santana.

Shannon is pacing in Rachel's driveway when Brittany pulls up, and all of her friends are either sitting or standing in various states of disarray.

When she pulls in, those that had been sitting jump up, and those that are already standing look as though their legs are suddenly failing them.

Brittany can see that Shannon's knees are seconds from buckling; she dreads the moment that she'll pass under the bright floodlight on the side of Rachel's house, the moment they'll all see a fucking stuffed duck in her passenger seat instead of Santana.

She parks the car under the light ad cuts the engine, mere feet from her friends, but doesn't exit the car. She sits and stares at their faces as they look through her windshield, taking in their varied expressions.

Disbelief. Confusion. Sadness. Rage.

Shannon looks like her world is ending.

She looks like Brittany feels.

Finally, she opens her door and steps out slowly into the cold night air. Everyone stands, silently rooted their spots as she comes to stand in front of them. Her arms wrap protectively around her mid-drift.

Shannon is the first to break the crushing silence. "Britt…?" Her voice trembles; she's barely holding it together.

Brittany's chin quivers, and she looks to the side, not being able to stand meeting their eyes for another moment. "I…I…"

"Brittany," Quinn's voice cuts through, calm and steady. "Where's Santana?"

Her name is all that it takes for Brittany to break. Her face scrunches up and she shakes her head vigorously. "I was too late," she whispers. Her knees wobble and Shannon jumps forward, her arms wrapping under Brittany's armpits, steadying her before leading her safely to the ground. Shannon pulls Brittany's shaking frame into her lap. She cradles Brittany's head to her chest, stroking her blonde hair, and attempting to whisper comforting words. "Santana's gone," Brittany wails out as Shannon's rocks her. "Oh god, she's gone!"

Shannon's words stop abruptly as she hears sobs coming from all around her and her resolve breaks; she'd tried to be strong for all of these kids, but it was too hard. They'd lost a friend, Brittany lost her love, and Shannon? Shannon lost a daughter. She manages a final, "I'm so sorry, baby girl," before she can speak no more.

Behind them, the others cling to each other as they collectively mourn the loss of one of their own.

A week later, Brittany stands between Mike and Tina in Rachel's driveway, watching as the last of their friends' belongings are loaded into Puck's borrowed van. Mercedes, Sam, Rachel, Quinn, Puck, and Kurt stayed long enough to get their affairs in order; now, they're leaving for New York, ahead of Mike, Tina, Shannon, and Brittany.

If her heart weren't already so heavy and broken, Brittany knows that it would hurt more than it does seeing most of her friends leaving her behind.

Not that she blames them; finding Santana is her responsibility, her fight. Brittany knows that she has no right to ask them to put their lives on hold.

But Mike refused to leave without her, and Puck had wanted desperately to stay too, but she wouldn't let him.

She loves Puck and Kurt, but she knows that Mike and Tina will be way more helpful in this situation.

Puck will just want to blow shit up. Or burn her father's house to the ground.

Not that Brittany would particularly mind setting fire to something right about now, but, while it would help relieve a little frustration, it wouldn't be particularly helpful to the situation as a whole.

Rachel clasps her hands in front of her and approaches cautiously, and Brittany stuffs her hands into the pockets of her basketball shorts. Rachel's dads are letting her and Shannon occupy their basement for a small amount of rent until Brittany's business in Lima is finished, and she couldn't be more grateful.

"Have you given any further thought to pressing charges?" Rachel asks as softly as she knows how.

Most of her friends had relentless encouraged her to have her father arrested for what he did, leaving arguments such as it would speed the process of finding her up ringing in Brittany's ears for days. Brittany had entertained the thought for a while – stealing a slave was a felony, and he would easily do time – but had ultimately decided against it.

Bringing charges against him would only distract from the effort of finding Santana.

Brittany shakes her head. "I'm not going to," she admits quietly.

Rachel purses her lips, clearly unimpressed and disappointed with Brittany's decision, but nods curtly anyways; she's learned in the last week not to push Brittany.

Brittany is thankful for everything that Rachel has done, but she's only had a couple of hours of sleep total in the last week, and Rachel has a special way of grating against her exhausted, heartbroken nerves.

Brittany reaches forward and takes Rachel's hand in hers briefly, squeezing it affectionately. "Thank you," is all that she whispers.

Rachel smiles and squeezes her hand in return before turning to head towards her car.

One by one the others approach to say their farewells, knowing - hoping - that the separation is only temporary, and with the promise to keep them all updated, Brittany, Mike, and Tina wave them all off.

Brittany tucks her head into the crook of Mike's neck, Tina slips under Brittany's opposite arm, and Shannon envelopes the three of them from behind as the van disappears from sight.

Shannon allows the three friends another silent moment together before patting their shoulders and ushering them back inside; she knows that Brian probably won't come looking for them after Brittany's threat to call the police, but she still feels insanely paranoid.

She's lost Santana, she can't stand the thought of losing Brittany too.

Brittany sits heavily on the couch, Mike on her right as Shannon and Tina head upstairs to give them some privacy. Brittany stares across the room, and Mike doesn't have to ask to know what she's looking so intensely at.

Santana's red and purple roses.

Mike slips his hand into Brittany's, holding it loosely. "It's not your fault."

Though her face remains stoic, Brittany's insides burn painfully. "I know," she says simply, voice low. "It's his." Mike nods, though he's unsure if she can see the action. "I'm gonna get her back, Mike," she swears, turning her head towards him. "I have to."

Her hand tightens around his and he tries to match the pressure. "We will, Brittany," he says, voice strong and sure. "We'll find Santana."

Her smile is small but grateful. She turns to face the flowers again.

Just like her heart, they wilt a little more every day.

Five Months Later

Boredom.

She is going to die of boredom in fucking Louisville, Kentucky.

Santana sighs and folds another of Mr. Del Monico's shirts, irritated that the large mustard stain is still on the front. She considers just throwing the shirt out; there's a very high probability that he won't remember owning it anyways.

He can barely remember who Santana is sometimes.

She sets the shirt aside and decides to leave the rest of the laundry for later. Mr. Del Monico has been quiet for a little longer than she's comfortable with, and she knows that if he's died because she was even a little bit neglectful, Terri will see to it that Santana meets the same fate.

Santana pads slowly down the stairs and takes a moment to stick her nose in the collar of her hoodie, inhaling the comforting faint scene that still lingers. The hoodie had been Brittany's, and Santana had been wearing it the day Pierce sold her. Now, five months later, the hoodie swamps her thin frame; it's almost too unbearably hot to wear it, and it has several questionable stains on it, but as long as Brittany's scent clings to it, Santana refuses to wash it or take it off any longer than necessary.

When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she turns to find Mr. Del Monico right where she'd left him: in his recliner, mouth slightly agape as he watches The Price Is Right. Santana rolls her eyes when she sees drool on his chin and steps forward to wipe it off with the unused napkin from his lunch.

Unused because…yep, he's been using his shirt again. Great.

Mr. Del Monico is Terri's father; he's pushing eighty years old and has the early stages of Alzheimer's disease, and since Terri no longer wanted to be burdened with him, she'd bought Santana to be his caregiver.

So all-in-all he's not the worst Master; he doesn't have the strength to hit or manhandle her, and he's so old that there's nothing that he can do with his equipment. Plus, he's only yelled at her once, when she'd accidentally mixed his medications up – before he'd gotten to the point where he either didn't know the difference or didn't care – and nearly killed him as he so dramatically put it.

But god if she has to rub Bengay on him one more time, she's going to rip her eyeballs out.

Suddenly he grunts, and Santana raises a disgusted eyebrow as he says, "That's a hot piece," while palming his useless crotch through the khaki pants he always insists on wearing. Santana turns to the TV, expecting to see one of the models; instead, she sees a commercial for LifeAlert featuring an older woman lying on the floor in agony, and she rolls her eyes and turns away. "Maria," he says, calling her back and okay that is another thing that really needs to stop.

Her goddamn name is Santana, but no matter how many times she's told him that, he still calls her Maria.

Fuck Brian Pierce.

Santana clenches her fists and turns back to him on her heel. He's attempting to lift the lunch tray from his lap. "What?" She asks, trying to keep her voice calm, but fully aware that she still sounds impatient. "You done?" He nods and gestures for her to take the tray away.

As Santana does the dishes, listening to Drew Carey's voice float in from the living room, she fights off the memories that always bombard her when she does mundane things. Washing dishes, watching TV, getting ready for bed…every day, they conjure up memories, always reminding Santana of how utterly empty and alone she feels.

Tears swell in her eyes as she recalls Pierce's words.

I always get what I want, Santana.

In the end did he get what he wanted? She's out of the way, and Santana knows that Brittany was probably pissed at first, but really how long would that have lasted? She loved Santana, sure, but Brian Pierce was her father.

Has she forgiven him?

Has she moved on?

Santana grips the edge of the sink tightly, her wet hands dripping water all over the floor.

Brittany gave her so much in their limited time together. She taught Santana to read, to write…she taught her what real love feels like.

Even though they'll likely never see each other again, she'll always love Brittany.

Santana breathes in and out deeply, forcing the thoughts back once again.

Brittany stares at the front of the house that she hasn't seen in five months.

She hadn't told Shannon where she was going, merely letting the woman sleep on, risking the lecture she's sure to get; Shannon would only try to talk Brittany out of this, or at the very least insist on coming with her.

No. This is something that Brittany needs to do alone.

Her search has hit a dead end; no one at the packed auction houses that she's scouted have seen or heard of a Latina slave by the name of Santana Lopez, and the sales records for her mysteriously end the day that Pierce bought her; for some reason, the last transaction five months ago had not been recorded for Santana, though the others from that night were all there.

She knows that he's done something to keep Santana off of the radar, she just can't figure out what it is.

As much as she hates it – hates him - she needs his help.

She's tired of paying rent to the Berry's. She's tired of sharing a cramped sofa bed with Shannon. She's ready to move on from Lima, and she can't do that until Santana is in her arms again.

Taking one last deep breath, Brittany knocks on the door firmly. She knows he's home by the car in the driveway, so when he doesn't come to the door after several moments, her temper flares. She beats the flat side of her fist against the door, over and over again until the door finally bursts open.

Her father is disheveled, as though he's just woken up, and it hasn't occurred to her until this moment that it's seven on a Saturday morning.

His eyes widen when he sees her, taking in her appearance, and she allows it. She hadn't worn makeup for this exact reason; she wants him to see how miserable he's made her.

She's pale, deathly so, with sunken cheeks and dark bags under her eyes. The t-shirt she's wearing used to fit her perfectly; now it hangs heavily from her frame, swamping her and giving the illusion that she's smaller than she actually is.

She can't remember her last shower, and yeah okay the smell that had bothered her in the car might actually be her, now that she's thinking about it.

When his shocked eyes find her face again, she gestures past him. "Can I come in?" She asks, voice hollow.

He nods quickly and hurries to step aside. "You know you didn't have to knock," he says quietly. Once she's passed him, he closes the door. She sweeps the house quickly with her eyes, noting how nothing has changed before turning towards him.

Brittany shrugs one shoulder. "This isn't my home, so…"

He wrings his hands nervously and swallows. He looks like he's been drinking, Brittany notices, but other than gaining a bit of a beer belly and dark eye bags, he still looks the same as he did five months again.

It pisses her off.

"This will always be your home," he whispers. He moves to hug her, tears in his eyes, but she steps back, holding her hand up.

"Don't fucking touch me," she warns, and he steps back in surprise. "You know why I'm here."

He casts his eyes to the floor solemnly; he'd known this day would come, he had just thought it would have happened sooner. He glances back up to her, then flits his eyes around the entryway, not meeting her eyes.

"Do you really hate me?"

Brittany thinks this is a waste of time, but she doesn't hesitate to nod. "A little more every day." His eyes drop to the floor again. "I'm not going to stop looking for her," she says, low, dangerous, so unlike her. "It won't completely fix things, but it would be a good start if you would make this easier for me…if you would tell me where she is." She thinks a part of her is still hoping that he's just…hiding Santana.

He shakes his head, looking regretful. "I don't know." A tear hits her cheek; it had been a long shot, but she couldn't help but get her hopes up. She moves to leave, but Brian grabs her elbow lightly. She tenses and resists the urge to jerk away from her father. "But I can tell you one thing, baby."

"If it pertains to anything other than Santana, I don't care." He looks her straight in the eye for the first time in months; he is obviously a haunted man, and she can't help but feel a little satisfaction. He breathes a deep sigh, and she's growing increasingly impatient with his silence. She's moving to leave again when he speaks again.

"Her name is Maria Ramos."

Santana looks out into the jeering crowd. She's not sure how she'd gotten here, on the auction house stage, it had all happened so fast; she thought they were going to the pool for a family day.

But now she's here, separated from her mother.

Santana looks around the guard that's holding onto her arm tightly as the auctioneer jabbers on. She can't see her mother anywhere, and she begins to panic again.

"Mami?" She yells out frantically. It only manages to encourage the laughter of the crowd. "Papi?"

And there he is, backlit by the stage lighting. She smiles, relieved to see him; maybe her papi can explain what's going on.

"Papi," she calls out to him, fighting against the strong man still holding her arm. "Papi, what's going on?" He steps forward, allowing her to finally see his face.

Only this man isn't her papi.

It's Brian Pierce.

He looks at her with cold, dead blue eyes. "I always get what I want, Santana."

Santana widens her eyes and shakes her head slowly as the guard begins to pull her away. "No!" She screams, and her words echo around her. "No! Brittany!"

And there she is, struggling against Pierce and another guard, her face desperate as she reaches out for Santana. "Santana!" She yells. She begins to cry, tears seeping from her shimmering eyes. "No, Santana! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. I love you! Don't you ever forget that I love you, Santana!"

Santana struggles harder, her efforts tearing her eyes from Brittany's, but when she realizes that it's hopeless, her eyes look up, trying to find Brittany's again; her girl is gone, but Brittany's pleading voice remains, echoing around Santana, and Santana wants so desperately to tell her that she loves her too, that she'll always love her, but –

Santana jerks awake, her breaths coming in heavy, labored pants. She's kicked her sheet off, exposing her bare legs to the bedroom, but the hoodie she's wearing – Brittany's hoodie – is making sweat pour down her body.

After she's regained her bearings, remembering that she's in her bedroom – alone – at Mr. Del Monico's house, Santana glances at her bedside clock.

1:03 a.m.

She's only been in bed for a couple of hours, but she knows that she won't be going back to sleep anytime soon.

Santana grunts as she sits up and pulls off the hoodie. She lays it on the pillow that she'd been hugging, planning to leave it off only long enough for her body to cool down – she'll probably have to end up washing it soon, she thinks regretfully. She lays flat on her back, staring at the dark ceiling as her naked chest heaves, attempting to return her breathing to normal.

The nightmares had returned, and they were the same as always, forcing her to relive her first time on the auction house stage, the fear and confusion and heartbreak.

Only, it was no longer her mother that she was being ripped from, no longer her mother screaming that she loves Santana while Santana couldn't even say it back.

No, now it's Brittany. Brittany she's being ripped from. Brittany struggling to reach her. Brittany screaming that she loves her, begging her to never forget.

Brittany not getting to hear the words returned one last time.

A sob rips through her before she can control it. She reaches over for the hoodie and slips it over her head. She pulls the sheet back up to her hips, covering her bare legs and underwear, then turns to her side.

She sinks into the collar of the hoodie, letting the familiar scent envelope her as she cries herself to sleep once more.

Brittany sits in her car, air conditioner on full blast, and glares up at the house that – prior to today – she's only seen on Google Maps.

She swallows hard; she'd debated for a long time over whether to ask someone else to do this (Tina, maybe, or Sam), fearing that her temper would get the better of her or that she'd lose her composure.

Crying hysterically, decking the occupants of the house, or all of the above would not bode well for the situation.

In the end, she had made the decision to do this herself; Brittany wants to make sure, to see it with her own eyes. She wouldn't be able to stand pacing in the hotel room, waiting for the news.

Taking one last deep breath, Brittany moves to open her door.

A hand lands lightly on her forearm, and Brittany pauses curiously. "Can I come with you?" Her passenger asks eagerly, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Please?" Brittany stares into dark brown eyes, so different yet so familiar; she's going to cave, staring into their depths. She's going to agree to allow them to come with her. Unless…

To her immense relief, Mike slides forward in the back seat, his kind eyes capturing the other's. "I think that it would be best if Britt and I went in alone," he says softly, and Brittany reminds herself to thank him later for saving her.

Their passenger seems to want to argue, but thinks better of it, knowing that they are lucky to even have been allowed to tag along; Brittany had wanted them to stay in the hotel room, and the trio had wasted nearly ten minutes arguing about it. Their hand leaves Brittany's arm and reaches back for Mike. He takes the hand and squeezes it comfortingly.

"We'll be as quick as possible," Brittany promises.

They nod, and Mike and Brittany quickly exit the vehicle, stepping into the sweltering Kentucky heat.

Mike adjusts his suit jacket, Brittany her blouse, and they meet at the end of the paved pathway leading to the front door.

"How's my makeup?" She'd worn a little more than she normally would to hide the signs of stress and heartache she's accumulated over the past five months, and she's afraid that it will literally melt off in this goddamn humidity.

Mike inspects her face carefully as he tightens his tie. "Its fine, but it won't be for long," he jokes, and Brittany groans miserably; it's so hot.

Once they're in front of the door, Mike asks, "You ready for this?" He smoothes his hair down, then re-checks first his shirt collar, then the lapels of his suit jacket. She can tell that he's nervous, and she's relieved that she's not the only one; they've never done anything like this before – Rachel's the actress of the group – and they have no idea what sort of conditions await them inside the house.

Brittany draws a deep breath before answering. "I have never been more ready for anything in my life."

She reaches out and presses the doorbell.

Oh god this soap opera could not get any more boring and contrived if it tried. Santana stretches along the couch, reaching for the remote on the coffee table. It's too far away for her fingers to grasp and she huffs in annoyance; she's too comfortable to move, her head resting on her rolled up hoodie, so she resigns herself to tuning the drama out and catching a quick nap.

With Mr. Del Monico napping upstairs, Santana has the entire first floor of the house to herself. Just the way she likes it.

And all she wants to do is sleep.

(And hopefully never wake up.)

Just as Santana is drifting off, the doorbell rings.

She pops her eyes open, now thoroughly irritated. She runs through the list of possible visitors in her head.

It can't be the mail carrier or a package delivery; she's already seen both trucks go through today.

It's not Terri; she always calls ahead of time with an outrageous list of demands. It's entirely possible that it could be Kendra, Terri's sister, but Santana knows that there's only a small chance; her kids have school, so it makes no sense for her to make an unannounced appearance in the middle of the day.

The doorbell rings again and Santana jumps up to answer the door before it wakes Mr. Del Monico.

Santana shucks her hoodie on, fixes her face into an annoyed glare, and swings the door open.

Brown eyes find blue, and her breath catches, her glare falters.

Did she fall asleep? Is this another dream?

Or could it be that Brittany is actually standing on Mr. Del Monico's doorstep, dressed smartly in a black mid-thigh pencil skirt and white blouse, her hair in a high ponytail?

Even though she's holding a pretty good stony façade, Brittany looks like she could fall at Santana's feet sobbing, and Santana knows that she wouldn't be far behind. Her makeup is quite heavy, but Santana can see her dark eye bags, her sunken cheeks, both matching Santana's own.

She's been hurting just as much as Santana.

This isn't a dream, then; in her dreams, Brittany is always the Brittany from five months ago, healthy and well-rested.

This is real.

Reluctantly, she slides her eyes to Brittany's equally silent companion. Mike is dressed just as sharply, his hair gelled down instead of spiked like she's used to, his black three-piece suit and red tie fitting him perfectly, and his briefcase swinging by his side. He smiles at her briefly and winks before his hard mask falls over his face once more.

Santana looks back to Brittany, completely speechless and baffled. Is she allowed to hug Brittany? To jump into her arms and never let go? To beg her to please, please take Santana with her? She doesn't know since she doesn't belong to Brittany anymore, and Brittany…is acting strangely professional right now.

She has so many questions she wants to ask, so many things she wants to do, but she senses an angle of some sort here, a game so delicate that it could be ruined with the tiniest wrong move.

She doesn't care what's going on as long as she gets to leave with Brittany.

As they stand staring at each other, Brittany begins to feel insecurity creep in, wondering if this plan will actually work. She's read that the man – Mr. Del Monico – has the beginnings of Alzheimer's disease, and she hopes that he's not too far gone to understand what is happening here.

After coming so close – the closest she's been in five months – and actually physically seeing her beautiful Santana, failing now will kill her.

She can't lose Santana again.

Her father's revelation - of course he'd changed Santana's fucking name, that is so like him – had made her search significantly easier; it had taken less than a week for Brittany and Mike to track down Maria Ramos.

Though obviously tired and having lost some weight, Santana looks very much unharmed, and Brittany allows a sigh of relief.

Now she has to somehow remain upright and control her tears and her urge to jump forward, wrap Santana into her arms, and refuse to let go.

She'd known that all of her emotions would hit her once she saw Santana, she just hadn't counted on them being this…strong.

And oh god Santana is still wearing Brittany's hoodie.

Oh god Brittany's going to cry.

Oh god.

A clatter on the stairs distracts them all, and Santana's head snaps around to watch Mr. Del Monico fumbling down them. She glances at Brittany one last time, afraid that if she looks away for too long she'll disappear, before rushing up the remaining stairs to assist her goddamn elderly Master before he falls and breaks his fucking neck.

Her eyes never leave Brittany's, though, and when Mr. Del Monico asks, "Who was that, Maria?" she sees Brittany's jaw clench. Santana's jaw works soundlessly for a few seconds, unsure of what to tell him, but she's saved when they reach the bottom of the stairs and he sees his guests. "Can I help you?" He asks them, eyes squinting, like he's trying to remember if he knows them or not.

No one speaks for long seconds, and Santana sees Mike elbow Brittany subtly. She shakes her head slightly, tears her eyes away from Santana, and sticks her hand out. Mr. Del Monico shakes it as she says, "Hello, Mr. Del Monico, my name is Brittany S. Pierce, and this is my attorney, Michael Chang." Santana raises her eyebrows; really, what angle are these two playing? "We have an important matter to discuss with you."

Mike thrusts a business card out a little too enthusiastically, and Mr. Del Monico jumps back slightly before taking it. "And what would that matter be?" He asks while looking over the card; Brittany hopes that he doesn't notice that it's not professionally made.

"Your slave," Brittany says, and Santana catches her faltering over the words, struggling to remain professional.

Mr. Del Monico turns to narrow his eyes at Santana briefly; she shrugs internally, completely unaffected, knowing he can't physically do anything, and he'll more than likely have forgotten all of this by the next time he talks to Terri. "What has she done?"

"She hasn't done anything," Brittany says, her words clipped, not liking the way he's looking at Santana. "But unfortunately, your daughter has. May we come in?"

At the mention of Terri – whom Mr. Del Monico loves unconditionally despite her constantly foisting him off onto others – he rushes them into the house and towards the kitchen.

"Could we maybe…" Brittany trails off, her eyes cutting to Santana, who had been following close behind her. "Could we do this privately?" She asks him pointedly; she doesn't want Santana around if this plan fails; she couldn't bear seeing the heartbreak before she can come up with a Plan B.

Mr. Del Monico turns and snaps his fingers in Santana's direction before gesturing upwards. "Go to your room," he orders, and wow okay he's not her father so that's not gonna fly.

Santana stands her ground, her gaze shifting from her Master to Mike and finally to Brittany. After a few seconds, Brittany nods discreetly, her face cracking finally into a very tiny smile, and Santana relents, turning on her heel slowly.

"But first," Brittany rushes out before Santana can leave the room. "May I use your restroom?"

Mr. Del Monico breaks from his small talk with Mike and grunts. "Maria," he says. "Show Miss…show her to the bathroom."

Santana tenses as Brittany follows her closely out of the kitchen, unsure of what to expect, from Brittany or from herself.

As soon as they're out of sight of the kitchen, though, Brittany latches onto her hand tightly and Santana nearly crumbles.

She feels like she's finally home.

Santana drags Brittany up the stairs, slowly losing her composure with each step she takes.

When they reach the top, Brittany tugs on Santana's hand, forcing her to face her, trusting Mike to keep Mr. Del Monico occupied.

Tears are already spilling down Santana's cheeks, her chin trembling pitifully, and the sight makes Brittany's tears well to the surface. "I don't have to use the bathroom," she admits quietly, and Santana spins around quickly and begins to drag Brittany down the hall.

Once they reach her bedroom, she closes the door as quietly as possible and locks it. When she turns around, Brittany has Santana wrapped up in her arms instantly.

Santana clings to her tightly, sobbing into Brittany's chest. "I miss you so much," she chokes out as Brittany strokes her hair. "Oh god, please Brittany, don't leave me here. Please."

"I don't know what he told you," Brittany says, her voice strained. "But whatever it was, it's a lie. I love you. I love you so much and I never, never stopped looking for you." Brittany pulls away and cups Santana's cheeks.

Santana smiles brightly at her, her chest finally feeling light, like it used to so many months ago. "I love you too, Britt," she sighs, laying her hands over Brittany's to keep them on her face.

Brittany's face suddenly turns serious. "Has he touched you?" She demands. "In any way?" She sighs when Santana smiles and shakes her head. "Okay. Good." She lays her forehead on Santana's, pressing against her tightly.

Santana's eyes slip closed, reveling in having Brittany near her once more. "Britt," she breathes. "Please kiss me. It's been so fucking long."

Brittany whines low in her throat, her hands slipping down to grip Santana's hips roughly, holding her body closer. "I want to," she whispers. "I want to so bad, but if I mess up my make-up-"

"Fuck Britt he won't fucking notice," Santana cries. She wraps her hand around the back of Brittany's neck and tugs her down.

When their lips finally meet, they moan in sync, and where Santana would normally be shy with such an act, she thrusts her tongue forward, not asking permission before delving straight into Brittany's waiting mouth.

She just needs Brittany so much closer.

Suddenly, Santana feels tears that are not her own wetting her face, and Brittany tears her mouth away from Santana's to sob. She bends over, pressing her face into Santana's warm neck and ghosting her hands under Santana's hoodie and shirt to lay flat on the hot skin of her back. Santana grips at the back of her head, holding Brittany close as they cry into each other's necks.

"One way or another," Brittany says lowly, pulling back to look Santana in the eye. "You are going home with me today. I swear it. Because I can't lose you again. I can't." Santana nods eagerly, more than ready to go home. "Okay." She takes a deep breath and turns her eyes to the ceiling to push her tears back again. "You stay here." Santana shakes her head, panicking, afraid that if Brittany leaves the room without her she'll never see her again. "Please. I promise you, with everything that I am, I'll come back for you."

Santana whimpers and tightens her hold on Brittany slightly. "Please, just…hurry back," she begs.

Brittany pecks her on the lips, then on the forehead, then on the lips once more before reluctantly pulling away. Santana opens the door and swallows hard as she watches Brittany descend the stairs.

Before she's out of sight, she turns and blows Santana a kiss, her smile small and sad.

She turns back when Santana's face crumples and makes her way forward; god, she hopes this works.

"So you see, Mr. Del Monico," Mike says, summarizing their meeting. "Maria Ramos was stolen from my client by her father." He pauses, letting his words sink in, and Mr. Del Monico furrows his brows and nods, listening intently. "Terri bought Maria from Mr. Pierce, and since she's stolen property, the transaction is void."

Mr. Del Monico clasps his hands together on top of the kitchen table, and Brittany holds her breath as he begins to look over the documents spread before him once more. "So what you're saying is…"

"Legally, Sa-" Brittany catches herself before she can tell him Santana's real name; their plan was to refer to her as Maria, hoping that once she was back with them and they changed her name back, she couldn't be tracked by Terri. "Maria still belongs to me." He's silent for long moments, and Brittany loses her patience; they've been going over this for well over two hours, and though she knows that he needs a little more time to let this absorb with his condition, all she wants is to get Santana and go home – plus the person waiting in her car is probably getting pretty antsy. "We could take this to court, Mr. Del Monico, I have no problem with that. But I think that you are fully aware that that will not end in your favor."

Mike kicks her hard under the table, but she ignores him and the pain in her shin, choosing instead to watch the gears turn in Mr. Del Monico's head.

"My father is guilty of theft of a slave," she tacks on when he doesn't reply. "A very serious crime, punishable by many years in prison. A judge will not hesitate to see this and force you to return Maria to me."

Mr. Del Monico chuckles and leans back in his chair, appearing impressed with her attitude. "You came all the way from Lima, Ohio?" Mike and Brittany nod and he chuckles again. "Why do you care about this slave so much, Miss Pierce?"

Brittany clenches her jaw. "Does it matter?" He raises an eyebrow and she sighs irritably; he reminds her a bit of her grandfather, and she feels guilty being mean to him. "She's…she's special, can we just leave it at that?"

Mr. Del Monico rubs his face, attempting to hide a smirk. "I just want one thing." Brittany's heart drops, dreading his demand; it could be any number of things, and it worries her. "Would it be possible…for me to get my daughter's money back?"

Brittany sighs, relieved, and nods. Mike produces a wad of cash from his suit jacket.

As she had been leaving her father's house, he stopped her at the door, pressing the bills into her hand with remorseful eyes.

He hadn't spent a penny of what he'd received for Santana, and Brittany knows that he had been expecting instant forgiveness, but she'd only gotten angrier.

All of this nonsense had been for absolutely nothing.

Mr. Del Monico rises and leaves the room, and Brittany clutches Mike's hand under the table, both silent as they wait for him to return. When he does only a minute or so later, he lays something on the table and slides it towards them.

Santana's ownership papers.

Brittany scoops them up quickly at the same time that Mike hands over the money. She folds the papers and hands them to Mike, since she doesn't have pockets. They shake hands with Mr. Del Monico and clean up their documents, leaving one envelope out addressed to Terri Del Monico; it contains documents explaining the situation, something they'd thought of ahead of time due to Mr. Del Monico's condition.

When they're finished, Brittany rushes from the room and up the stairs.

She's ready to get her girl and go home.

Santana's pacing nervously, hands wringing together, when there's a strong knock on her bedroom door. She rushes to it and flings it open, not caring when it bounces loudly off the wall.

Brittany's glowing face tells her all she needs to know and Santana pounces on her, wrapping her arms around Brittany's neck and head, and her legs around Brittany's waist. Brittany holds her up by her thighs and presses a kiss to the side of Santana's neck as she cries.

"Let's go home, baby."

Mike and Mr. Del Monico are waiting by the door when they descend the stairs hand in hand. Mr. Del Monico smirks knowingly and offers Santana a small nod. She returns the gesture, but offers him no other acknowledgments; she'd been slightly worried at first about what would happen to him once she was gone – sure he was a Master and not the friendliest person, but he had never hurt her, so she thinks he must be at least half-decent – but Brittany had assured her that he would be taken care of.

He bids them farewell and all but shuts the door in their faces. They step away from it a bit before Santana turns to face Brittany and Mike. "What happens if he calls the number on that business card?"

Brittany claps a hand over her mouth and giggles, eyes twinkling mischievously. "Then Rachel's acting skills will really be put to the test."

"Or Mr. Del Monico's patience will," Mike grumbles, and Brittany only laughs harder.

Santana rolls her eyes and grips Brittany's hand tighter. "Okay, okay, well wait. What if this little plan hadn't worked?" She quizzes again; she's eager to find out everything she's missed in the last five months, but she really wants to know about this plan of theirs.

Brittany waves her free hand in a noncommittal gesture. "Oh, that's easy," she lies. "Mike and I were going to storm the house in ski masks and kidnap you."

Santana forces down a grin. "How romantic," she deadpans.

Suddenly, Mike and Brittany go very still, both staring at something over Santana's shoulder with unreadable expressions. Her eyes widen as fear rises in her. She turns quickly to find the threat, but only finds someone standing several feet away by Brittany's car.

Santana's eyes bulge, her mouth drops open.

"Mami?"

Brittany glances at Santana and Maribel in her rearview mirror as she drives them back to their hotel.

She wants to catch up with Santana, to hold her and love her.

But Maribel has been away from Santana longer. And no matter how much Brittany needs Santana, Santana needs her mother more right now.

Santana's eyes light up even more when she looks in the floorboard and spots her shoes – the same pair she'd left at Brittany's five months ago. She slips them on, then reaches forward to squeeze Brittany's arm affectionately in silent thanks.

"We did it," Mike says quietly over the center console, not wishing to disturb the excited chatter from the back seat.

Brittany nods, her eyes on the road. "Yeah," she breathes. "We did it." She reaches over to take his hand. "Thank you for everything you've done. Thank you so much." He squeezes her hand and remains silent.

Later, once everyone has calmed down, and she and Santana are the only two awake, Brittany will pull the Freedom Contract from her bag and give it to Santana.

And they'll finally begin their lives. Together.

A/N2: A few people have requested one-shots from the universe of scenes that were omitted that they wanted to see, so look for those in the near-ish future. Once again, I want to thank everyone for sticking with me through this journey; it's been incredible!