Title: my favourite place was me and you
Author: Kiki
Fandom: Glee
Pairing/Character(s): Puck/Rachel/Santana, Rache/OMC undertones
Rating: M
Word count: 2483
Spoilers: None, futurefic
Summary: Rachel is forced to leave the spotlight and return home to face the people she sold for her dream.
Disclaimer. None of this is mine.
}{
It's not meant to be like this.
She was meant to make it out of this loser town, out of this loser state, and most of all out of her loser life.
For five weeks she barely sleeps, barely eats, and kicks the mailbox irritably at least once a day.
Her letter arrives in a pathetically thin package.
"NYU invites you to reapply for our second semester…something, something, fuck you and your dreams too."
She doesn't make it through the first paragraph before tossing it in the trash, burying it as deeply as she can manage, so she never has to see it again.
Rachel shows up three days later, once the rumour mill has worked the rounds. She has every state, national, and world report on university rankings available to cite her argument.
When she lays out accommodation options for Ohio State across the dining table, Santana comes back to her senses. "Look I don't know how you found out where I live, but you willforget my address, and any of your cracked out ideas about talkin' Foucault with the cool kids. I'm not going to farmer's college, and I'm sure as fuck not going with your Juliard-flunking ass."
Rachel's face does that crazy intense thing that should scare anyone with any sense.
Two months later she throws her suitcases into Rachel's perfectly ordered townhouse in the middle of Colombus and demands a second lock on her bedroom door.
}{
She tried, she really did.
She made it from her demi-plies all the way to her frappes without giving in to her body's very real need to give up (if she clung a little tightly to the barre, no one would know in the empty dance studio).
It only took one grand jete for her to end up an awkward heap on the timber floors.
She stretches out, not bothering to control her panting.
Both Julian and her doctor had told her she was ready. They lied.
The huge bright daisies Julian sent her this morning had forced her to this.
She wants to beat her hands against the floor and rage about ligaments that never seem to sew back together. Instead, she closes her eyes and pretends it's all one big stage production.
(There's nothing visible on the darkened stage. The dramatic thump of her cane on the floor will echo through the audience. The light deepens and the bitter, wizened crow ambles around her shambling cottage, waiting for someone to break the spell.)
"I think you're doing it wrong."
Santana ruins her daydreams with her usual eloquence.
Rachel clenches her eyes shut. As much as she wants to continue last night's lecture-there are thirteen bullet points she still hasn't covered-she's well aware of how little energy she has these days. Keeping herself clothed and showered has proven to be enough of a challenge.
Santana just nudges her in the ribs with her foot.
"What?" she snaps, struggling to her feet.
Santana watches on, fighting every instinct to help her ex-friend up, curiosity at the other girl's artless movements eating her up. But she can't ask, can't, because then she'd have to admit to caring.
She holds her hand out, keys dangling from her fingers.
"Thank you," Rachel says uneasily. She didn't expect Santana to actually bring them in herself. And she didn't expect anyone to find her at the Anglican Church's dance studio behind her house. (She knows her father's would never step foot inside, even if it's not actually the church, and she kind of needs them to stop asking questions.)
Before she can take them, Santana lifts them a tad higher. "See, here's the thing..." Rachel sighs immediately. "Somebody, maybe, threw something at your back window…You know, smashing it," the brunette informs her, not feeling even the tiniest inkling of guilt.
"Santana!"
"Chill! It's fine. I worked out a deal with Finn."
Rachel just crosses her arms, glaring hotly. "Oh, I'm sure you did. Finn was always interested in your deals." She was so, so angry. Santana was here out of guilt. Not for her. Never for that. Shame burnt through her body, leaving her oddly numb at once again being so easily forgotten.
Santana's lids lower dangerously. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean? And don't think I won't knock you on your ass just 'cause you're a cheap drunk."
"I meant that I don't need your dollar a dance favours," the smaller girl bites back.
Santana's mouth falls open. "Oh, I know you did not just accuse me of being a stripper again. You better watch yourself, Berry, 'cause I might have made a damn good stripper, but you are one lousy whore."
Without warning, Rachel darts forward, slapping Santana with enough force to leave her hand stinging.
For a second Santana is left blinking in absolute confusion. She's hoping to God that any moment she's going to wake up, because this cannot be her life. Before her mind can shudder at the thought of what she's about to do, she hits Rachel back twice as hard. Everything gets hazy when she grips huge chunks of silky brown hair as Rachel's nails go straight for her face. She shoves the smaller girl just hard enough to get away from those vicious looking claws.
Santana's almost certain she's the one most surprised when Rachel tumbles down. Hard.
"Bitch! What the fuck?" She's having a lot of trouble processing what just happened, and the fact that Rachel is glaring up at her from under recently tussled hair, looking like a pained victim, is just making things twice as confusing. "You did not just attack me over Finnocence, did you? Because I will get you committed."
And it must have been a long time since her bitch-fighting days, because she forgot a very basic rule. Even when someone's down, keep your distance.
Rachel's leg shoots out, and that tiny yoga pant covered, dancer's leg knocks her ankle out from under her.
Santana sails forward, barely managing to catch herself before landing like a stack of bricks on top of Rachel.
Huge dark eyes stare up at her with fear. Small hands are just below her shoulders, as if to stop her fall. She can feel Rachel's chest moving under hers frantically. She grabs both of Rachel's wrists, pressing them into the floor beside her face. "This stops right here. Last warning." Rachel nods, but can't help squirming between Santana's knees. "Ugh." Santana rolls onto her back, forearms killing from the hard wood, face smarting like a bitch. She honestly thinks about punching Rachel, because, seriously, girl needs a lesson on not starting shit just because she's bat shit crazy.
The smaller girl is hunched over, touching her left leg gingerly, like there's a real chance it might fall off. Santana thinks she spots a tear fall onto the floor, but the wild chocolate locks (that aren't now wrapped around her fingers) are hiding the other girl's face.
Santana, deciding to play the role of the girl who isn't insane, crawls to the nearest wall to collapse instead.
There's a long silence where the only sounds are the ceiling fans whirring lazily above.
Rachel scrubs at her face and pushes her hair back. There's no excuses for what she just did. She's always abhorred violence and she can't comprehend how she ended up rolling around on the ground barbarically. She's just so sick of that awful frustration that haunts her.
There's nothing quite like the bitter taste of useless anger.
"I hate you so much sometimes," she whispers.
(She can't talk about those other times. The times when she loves the girl curled up against the wall in front of her-the only real friend she ever had.
Those times are so much worse.)
It's not the apology Santana was expecting.
Rachel stares at the floor, too ashamed to meet Santana's eyes. "You know what sucks? I always knew Puck would leave me eventually. I knew there'd be someone else prettier than me, someone more fun, someone more like you and I knew I couldn't compete. I was just so happy when we were together that I thought it was worth it."
She stares out the window, frowning at nothing in particular. "But never once did I think you'd leave me."
Santana swallows, but there's nothing to say to that.
She follows Rachel to the garage, not entire sure why she's the one feeling guilty after nearly getting mauled.
After Burt died nearly three years ago, Finn dropped out of Miami University, giving up his football scholarship to take over the garage and help out his mother.
Rachel clings tightly to her keys.
She knows she's a mess. She has a pair of tight shorts over her leotard and an old cardigan she hasn't worn in years. Her whole face is stinging and probably bright red. She couldn't put her hair up because it decided to rebel, probably in fear of Santana's proximity. Between the exhaustion and pain, her limp is worse than ever, Santana trailing a few steps behind makes her feel even worse about her ridiculously slow pace. She actually wishes she had her crutches, because she's not sure she can make it the twenty feet from the parking lot to the garage.
She lets out a sigh of relief once reaching the cold darkness of Hummel's garage.
Almost immediately that relief gets wiped away.
Finn's there, smiling nervously in his oversized navy jumpsuit.
More importantly, Puck's there, sitting on a desk covered in grimy looking car parts, chewing viciously on a sandwich and staring straight ahead like he can't even see her.
It's his usual work outfit, dark pants and a white shirt.
(He's so beautiful she can barely breathe).
Finn's eyes flick warily to his friend, because everyone in the room knows that huge ball of anger could explode at any second.
"Hey, Rach. When'd you get back in town?"
"Yesterday," she tells Finn in a tiny voice, her eyes are fixed on Puck and only years of theatre training let her look away. Or at least pretend to.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Even now all she wants is his arms around her. Just one touch. That's all she needs.
Realising that there was no more information forthcoming, Finn gave up on pleasantries. There were no safe subjects to talk about. Mainly because "Rachel" was the most unsafe subject there was around Puck. "Santana called me and I tracked down a rear windscreen in Fort Shawnee that matches your model. Got it for a steal, too. It should be here by this afternoon. I can get it done tonight, so you can pick it up in the morning."
Rachel nods. "Thank you, Finn, but you really shouldn't work late. There's no emergency." She hasn't seen Finn all that much since high school, and even then they only talked through Puck, really. It doesn't feel right to accept favours, especially when Puck's there, looking at Finn disgustedly.
"Don't sweat it, Rachel. These guys here have already profited enough from my slave labour." He gives a charmingly lopsided grin and Rachel can't help but beam back. Finn always had that effect on her.
Without preamble Puck storms out of the garage. He doesn't once look at Rachel.
Santana merely looks bored when he scowls furiously her way.
Seriously, weren't diva storm-offs Rachel's thing?
He probably wanted to know what Rachel was doing here, and why she was with her, but whatever. She's not responsible for handing out real-time play-by-plays.
Even Finn can tell how embarrassed Rachel is.
"Don't feel sad, Rach. You know how Puck is: his head's always three moves behind the rest of his body."
She nods like she believes him.
They argue a little about payment, but he refuses to take any more from her than the price of the windscreen, and she's pretty sure he's lying about that.
Her leg feels absolutely dead, but before she can take a single step, Santana grabs one of her hands, pulling it around her neck and holding it tightly, her right arm wraps around Rachel's waist casually.
She'd really love to push the taller girl away, no matter how good she feels pressed up against her side, but in the end she accepts her pity, because it might be the only way she's getting home.
Santana drives them quietly back to Rachel's house.
Rachel searches her bag desperately till she finds a bottle of pep pills. She chews two and lets them dissolve under her tongue.
She thinks about those judgmental daisies frowning at her in disappointment from the kitchen bench.
"What happened to your leg?"
She knew this was coming.
"None of your business."
Santana doesn't ask any more questions.
When they get to her house she bounds out of the car and ignores Santana's attempt to help her. Her leg barely bothers her and the need to move overwhelming. She slams her front door closed, leaving Santana alone in the driveway.
She grabs that beautiful bouquet and drops it into the trash.
}{
It doesn't start like this, but it's the only beginning Santana remembers.
They've settled into some routine, mainly because Rachel's first love is timetables and her second is flowcharts. It's way too easy to avoid her roommate when the obnoxiousness gets too much to handle.
Puck stays over more nights than not. She's pretty it's just because his friends left en masse and his pool cleaning business sucks over the colder months.
Her back is pressed into her headboard while she flips through the glossy pages on her lap. That Hayden Panettiere skank totally got fat during winter hibernation. Before she can point out the cankles, she notices Puck isn't staring stupidly at her bedroom television like she expected.
It's totally weird, because she only lets Puck touch the remote three days a month (when her favourite magazines come out) and usually he's drooling into her comforter while weirdos in spandex beat each other with chairs. Instead, he's staring at her doorway, watching the hallway hawkishly. Before she can grab his attention, a door opens and Rachel steps out of the bathroom in a pool of steam, wearing nothing but a tiny white towel.
The small brunette doesn't look their way, just walks briskly down the hall, one arm braced over her breasts to secure the towel, dark hair falling slickly over her olive skin.
Rachel's bedroom door closes and Puck turns back to the television, not noticing Santana's lazily narrowed eyes.
She would have to be a lot stupider than she is to believe Puck's eyes are swirling with confusion and intensity because of the juiced-up losers on the screen.
}{