What Do I Stand For? (Most Nights, I Don’t Know-Anymore)
Title: What Do I Stand For? (Most Nights, I Don’t Know-Anymore)
Pairing: Santana-centric, vague Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer:Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through On My Way. Trigger warning for Quinn and mentions of Karofsky.
Summary: Her best friend is fighting for her life, and she is waiting in Rachel Berry’s goddamn living room.
A/N: Title from fun.’s “Some Nights.”
She’s numb in a way she never knew her body could go. Totally numb. Grossly numb. Jack-off-the-Titanic-while-that-bitch-Rose-hogs-the-door numb. Her fingertips are tingling, and her eyes convince her that both feet are still on the floor, but otherwise…
Santana can’t feel a damn thing.
It’s been like this for hours, ever since the news came crawling across the line. A truck. An intersection. Critical condition. It doesn’t look good. “News” makes it sound like she has a fucking clue what’s going on right now, but she doesn’t. Not really.
All she knows for sure is, she is sitting in the Berry living room, wearing a bright pink bridesmaid dress, and her best friend is not here. Her best friend since eighth grade is not here, even though everyone else is, because her best friend is lying in a hospital bed. Or on a surgical table.
Her best friend is fighting for her life, and she is waiting in Rachel Berry’s goddamn living room. With the fucking Glee Club. Wearing a Pepto-Bismol bridesmaid dress.
If she could feel her stomach, Santana’s pretty sure she would be throwing up about now.
People have been trudging in and out of this room for longer than she can recall. She sees them, from the corner of her eye-Artie, nudging his chair repeatedly into a wall until Hiram gently asks him to stop; Tina, pacing with her head buried in her hands, tripping over her own heels; Mike, staring into the glossy photos on the Berry mantle like they hold an answer. Any answer.
She can hear the steady rhythm of Finn’s fist against the banister, followed by his mother’s shaky voice pointing out split knuckles. She can sense the thud-thud-thud of Puck’s shoe through the carpet, each vibration coming from a thousand miles away. She can smell Mercedes’ perfume, too heavy for the circumstances, clinging thick in her nostrils.
Everything suggests this is real, but that can’t be right. Real is winning a Regionals trophy. Real is the sensation of Brittany’s arms squeezing around her middle, lifting her from the ground. Real is even sitting at the damn Justice of the Peace, waiting for Berry to drop the diva drama and get her harebrained show on the road.
She’s already had to rewrite her world once this week, to adjust the boundaries until real included Dave Karofsky being cut loose from a ceiling beam. There’s no way she can do it again. Not for this.
Rachel’s voice sways in from the hallway, muffled from Sam’s shirt, the same words slinking into the living room over and over again. Why Sam is the one comforting her, Santana can’t say. It should be Finn, right? They’re meant to be, after all. That’s the game plan, the whole argument that got them here in the first place. Friggin’ Rachel Berry and Finn Hudson, parading around with their cheap ring and their hasty plans. Without Rachel Berry and Finn Hudson, she wouldn’t be sitting on this pristine sofa, unable to tell if her arms are still attached to her own shoulders. Without their so-called soulmate situation, Rachel wouldn’t be weeping into anyone’s shirt. Finn wouldn’t be bleeding all over the Berry family banister.
Quinn wouldn’t be in a hospital somewhere.
She thought, when the news first came, that she would be itching to meet her there. That every limb, every nerve, would stand up and take charge. She thought it with such vehemence that she actually made it halfway to the parking lot before Brittany caught up with her, arms snagging around her middle. Squeezing again, holding her tight. Strange, how an identical embrace can feel so different three hours later.
She thought she would be scrambling for her keys, adrenaline pumping shockwaves through her system until she reached the ICU, but now…truth be told, she’s not sure she can really remember how to move. Her arms are disconnected. The heart beneath this abysmal dress belongs to someone else. It has to. Hers has already taken enough aches this year.
Outed on public television.
Disowned by her own grandmother.
Best friend in a car wreck everyone is calling an obliteration.
She just can’t do this anymore.
The only thing she can feel, the only thing she is truly certain of, is the presence of Brittany beside her. The weight of Brittany’s hand wrapped around her own, fingers filling spaces that have never felt so vast. The drift of Brittany’s breath as it hitches against her neck, soft hair tickling here and there in some obscenely distant way. She can see the room around her, can sense what’s going on, but the warmth of Brittany’s shoulder as it fits in against her own is the closest to reality she can come. Brittany is real. Nothing else is.
Because if what they’re saying is real honestly is? She can’t do this. If the hushed, furtive exchanges between adults-and Santana has spent years wanting to be one of those, a true-blue adult, but if this is what happens to adults, she thinks she’s changing her mind-if that's what can stand as truth…
If she genuinely has to believe that she will wake up tomorrow to find Quinn Fabray-strong, bitchy, assertive Quinn Fabray, the same Quinn who scammed on Santana’s boyfriend and got knocked up, the same Quinn who once had the gall to shove Santana into a locker, the same Quinn who looped a trembling arm around her when they lost Nationals and whispered, Why can’t we have our dreams come true?-in a hospital bed…
In a coma…
In a body bag…
Brittany breathes against her ear, a strangled little sound like a kitten being stepped on, the kind of sound a tiny, insignificant creature makes when it has nowhere left to run. It’s the kind of sound Santana has been hearing inside her own head for too long now, bouncing and jigging around and around, looking for a window. An outlet. A chance to tilt her head back and scream until the world begins spinning backwards. Until it starts over.
If the day starts over, she promises herself she will change things. She will tell Rachel Berry to stick her stupid fucking bridesmaid dress where the sun don’t shine. She will take it upon herself to punch Finn Hudson in his manchild face until he grasps the stupidity of the sitation he’s put them all in. She will haul Quinn in by the elbows and shout into her face that she was right, all along, that none of them should be going along with this. And then Quinn won’t be on that forsaken road, at that intersection, scrambling to reach the wedding of a girl she has never been able to figure out. Rachel won’t be sending those frantic text messages, and Quinn won’t be responding like a fucking dumbass, and that truck can sideswipe somebody else’s best friend, anybody’s, because she can’t-she can’t-
She doesn’t realize the air isn’t leaking into her lungs until Brittany gives her a sudden, sharp shake. Brittany jolts her hard, fingers jerking loose from Santana’s to grip at her shoulders, and the next wave of oxygen hits her like a blast of cold water. Her chest expands with a ferocity she isn’t quite ready for, her lips parting to gulp a breath. This is what a panic attack feels like, she realizes, averting her gaze when it accidentally meets Burt Hummel’s. This is what it feels like to have your world explode around you in a fit of screaming metal and shattered glass.
She thought she could take anything, before now. She thought…
Brittany’s hands are on her face, cupping her cheeks with a desperation Santana is too exhausted to match. Worried eyes bore into her own, tears welling again-Brittany cries, Brittany has been crying; Santana wonders how she missed that---until she nods. One brief bob of a head that doesn’t fit quite right on her neck, and Brittany is dragging her in, lips finding hers feverishly. Not an I love you kiss, or an I want you kiss, but an I need this kiss. All madness, bumping noses and edging teeth, like she believes this one graceless motion will somehow breathe liveliness back into Quinn by proxy.
It’s inappropriate, and insane, and still Santana finds her hands clawing at familiar shoulders, her nails digging in through the dismal excuse for a dress. Brittany is real, the only real thing in this room. Brittany is real, and maybe, if she lets herself sink into this moment long enough, this will all end differently. If she lets herself go, maybe it will be enough to pluck Quinn from that cab before the bomb drops, before the scene dissolves into firemen and EMTs hauling her from the wreckage. Maybe, if she falls far enough and long enough into Brittany, she’ll come out the other end feeling…
They break, Brittany’s forehead crunched against her own until her brain pounds against the inside of her skull. She can see the others casting furtive glances their way: Burt, looking embarrassed. Sugar, biting her lip. Will’s head shaking. The others probably think they are-she is-losing it, and she can’t find the words to tell them otherwise. This has to be what losing it feels like. She can’t imagine it getting any worse.
She collapses back against the couch, pulling Brittany with her until they are both supported by solid cushions. One hand is lost between Brittany’s breasts, caged by ten long fingers that pinch until her bones hurt. The other dangles, mindless, over the edge.
She is waiting, it occurs to her after a moment, for Quinn to tangle her fingers with Santana’s. Waiting for their little circuit to close, the completion of their trio. Their sense of always.
Quinn’s hand doesn’t come. How could it? This world is without her.
Her eyes close, her face burying in Brittany’s hair as her body goes shockingly boneless. Quinn Fabray, lying in a hospital bed, never thinking once about what that could do to a person like Santana Lopez. Like Brittany Pierce. Like Rachel Berry, and Kurt Hummel, and Sue Sylvester, and Sam Evans. Quinn Fabray, threatening the world with her absence in a way that is too low, even for her.
Maybe it's cliched, to hate Quinn a little bit for this, but she doesn't know how to do anything else. She doesn't know who she is in this moment without hazel eyes guarding her every move, without that wicked arch of a taunting eyebrow, without Quinn's ever-present affectionate judgment. Maybe it's cliched to hate Quinn for doing this to her, but she does it anyway. She hates every little thing about this. It's all she's got, for now.
The only other thing she can do is squeeze Brittany's fingers until the blood stops pumping through her hand and pray that she doesn’t wake up tomorrow to find their sense of real has to become hers, too. Because, if it does? She’s really not sure what comes next. She hasn’t had to be Santana-without-Quinn in a very, very long time. She hasn’t had to consider the options that come with a best friend wiped clean off the table. This isn’t supposed to be happening.
Nothing has ever made less sense in her life.
Pairing: Santana-centric, vague Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer:Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through On My Way. Trigger warning for Quinn and mentions of Karofsky.
Summary: Her best friend is fighting for her life, and she is waiting in Rachel Berry’s goddamn living room.
A/N: Title from fun.’s “Some Nights.”
She’s numb in a way she never knew her body could go. Totally numb. Grossly numb. Jack-off-the-Titanic-while-that-bitch-Rose-hogs-the-door numb. Her fingertips are tingling, and her eyes convince her that both feet are still on the floor, but otherwise…
Santana can’t feel a damn thing.
It’s been like this for hours, ever since the news came crawling across the line. A truck. An intersection. Critical condition. It doesn’t look good. “News” makes it sound like she has a fucking clue what’s going on right now, but she doesn’t. Not really.
All she knows for sure is, she is sitting in the Berry living room, wearing a bright pink bridesmaid dress, and her best friend is not here. Her best friend since eighth grade is not here, even though everyone else is, because her best friend is lying in a hospital bed. Or on a surgical table.
Her best friend is fighting for her life, and she is waiting in Rachel Berry’s goddamn living room. With the fucking Glee Club. Wearing a Pepto-Bismol bridesmaid dress.
If she could feel her stomach, Santana’s pretty sure she would be throwing up about now.
People have been trudging in and out of this room for longer than she can recall. She sees them, from the corner of her eye-Artie, nudging his chair repeatedly into a wall until Hiram gently asks him to stop; Tina, pacing with her head buried in her hands, tripping over her own heels; Mike, staring into the glossy photos on the Berry mantle like they hold an answer. Any answer.
She can hear the steady rhythm of Finn’s fist against the banister, followed by his mother’s shaky voice pointing out split knuckles. She can sense the thud-thud-thud of Puck’s shoe through the carpet, each vibration coming from a thousand miles away. She can smell Mercedes’ perfume, too heavy for the circumstances, clinging thick in her nostrils.
Everything suggests this is real, but that can’t be right. Real is winning a Regionals trophy. Real is the sensation of Brittany’s arms squeezing around her middle, lifting her from the ground. Real is even sitting at the damn Justice of the Peace, waiting for Berry to drop the diva drama and get her harebrained show on the road.
She’s already had to rewrite her world once this week, to adjust the boundaries until real included Dave Karofsky being cut loose from a ceiling beam. There’s no way she can do it again. Not for this.
Rachel’s voice sways in from the hallway, muffled from Sam’s shirt, the same words slinking into the living room over and over again. Why Sam is the one comforting her, Santana can’t say. It should be Finn, right? They’re meant to be, after all. That’s the game plan, the whole argument that got them here in the first place. Friggin’ Rachel Berry and Finn Hudson, parading around with their cheap ring and their hasty plans. Without Rachel Berry and Finn Hudson, she wouldn’t be sitting on this pristine sofa, unable to tell if her arms are still attached to her own shoulders. Without their so-called soulmate situation, Rachel wouldn’t be weeping into anyone’s shirt. Finn wouldn’t be bleeding all over the Berry family banister.
Quinn wouldn’t be in a hospital somewhere.
She thought, when the news first came, that she would be itching to meet her there. That every limb, every nerve, would stand up and take charge. She thought it with such vehemence that she actually made it halfway to the parking lot before Brittany caught up with her, arms snagging around her middle. Squeezing again, holding her tight. Strange, how an identical embrace can feel so different three hours later.
She thought she would be scrambling for her keys, adrenaline pumping shockwaves through her system until she reached the ICU, but now…truth be told, she’s not sure she can really remember how to move. Her arms are disconnected. The heart beneath this abysmal dress belongs to someone else. It has to. Hers has already taken enough aches this year.
Outed on public television.
Disowned by her own grandmother.
Best friend in a car wreck everyone is calling an obliteration.
She just can’t do this anymore.
The only thing she can feel, the only thing she is truly certain of, is the presence of Brittany beside her. The weight of Brittany’s hand wrapped around her own, fingers filling spaces that have never felt so vast. The drift of Brittany’s breath as it hitches against her neck, soft hair tickling here and there in some obscenely distant way. She can see the room around her, can sense what’s going on, but the warmth of Brittany’s shoulder as it fits in against her own is the closest to reality she can come. Brittany is real. Nothing else is.
Because if what they’re saying is real honestly is? She can’t do this. If the hushed, furtive exchanges between adults-and Santana has spent years wanting to be one of those, a true-blue adult, but if this is what happens to adults, she thinks she’s changing her mind-if that's what can stand as truth…
If she genuinely has to believe that she will wake up tomorrow to find Quinn Fabray-strong, bitchy, assertive Quinn Fabray, the same Quinn who scammed on Santana’s boyfriend and got knocked up, the same Quinn who once had the gall to shove Santana into a locker, the same Quinn who looped a trembling arm around her when they lost Nationals and whispered, Why can’t we have our dreams come true?-in a hospital bed…
In a coma…
In a body bag…
Brittany breathes against her ear, a strangled little sound like a kitten being stepped on, the kind of sound a tiny, insignificant creature makes when it has nowhere left to run. It’s the kind of sound Santana has been hearing inside her own head for too long now, bouncing and jigging around and around, looking for a window. An outlet. A chance to tilt her head back and scream until the world begins spinning backwards. Until it starts over.
If the day starts over, she promises herself she will change things. She will tell Rachel Berry to stick her stupid fucking bridesmaid dress where the sun don’t shine. She will take it upon herself to punch Finn Hudson in his manchild face until he grasps the stupidity of the sitation he’s put them all in. She will haul Quinn in by the elbows and shout into her face that she was right, all along, that none of them should be going along with this. And then Quinn won’t be on that forsaken road, at that intersection, scrambling to reach the wedding of a girl she has never been able to figure out. Rachel won’t be sending those frantic text messages, and Quinn won’t be responding like a fucking dumbass, and that truck can sideswipe somebody else’s best friend, anybody’s, because she can’t-she can’t-
She doesn’t realize the air isn’t leaking into her lungs until Brittany gives her a sudden, sharp shake. Brittany jolts her hard, fingers jerking loose from Santana’s to grip at her shoulders, and the next wave of oxygen hits her like a blast of cold water. Her chest expands with a ferocity she isn’t quite ready for, her lips parting to gulp a breath. This is what a panic attack feels like, she realizes, averting her gaze when it accidentally meets Burt Hummel’s. This is what it feels like to have your world explode around you in a fit of screaming metal and shattered glass.
She thought she could take anything, before now. She thought…
Brittany’s hands are on her face, cupping her cheeks with a desperation Santana is too exhausted to match. Worried eyes bore into her own, tears welling again-Brittany cries, Brittany has been crying; Santana wonders how she missed that---until she nods. One brief bob of a head that doesn’t fit quite right on her neck, and Brittany is dragging her in, lips finding hers feverishly. Not an I love you kiss, or an I want you kiss, but an I need this kiss. All madness, bumping noses and edging teeth, like she believes this one graceless motion will somehow breathe liveliness back into Quinn by proxy.
It’s inappropriate, and insane, and still Santana finds her hands clawing at familiar shoulders, her nails digging in through the dismal excuse for a dress. Brittany is real, the only real thing in this room. Brittany is real, and maybe, if she lets herself sink into this moment long enough, this will all end differently. If she lets herself go, maybe it will be enough to pluck Quinn from that cab before the bomb drops, before the scene dissolves into firemen and EMTs hauling her from the wreckage. Maybe, if she falls far enough and long enough into Brittany, she’ll come out the other end feeling…
They break, Brittany’s forehead crunched against her own until her brain pounds against the inside of her skull. She can see the others casting furtive glances their way: Burt, looking embarrassed. Sugar, biting her lip. Will’s head shaking. The others probably think they are-she is-losing it, and she can’t find the words to tell them otherwise. This has to be what losing it feels like. She can’t imagine it getting any worse.
She collapses back against the couch, pulling Brittany with her until they are both supported by solid cushions. One hand is lost between Brittany’s breasts, caged by ten long fingers that pinch until her bones hurt. The other dangles, mindless, over the edge.
She is waiting, it occurs to her after a moment, for Quinn to tangle her fingers with Santana’s. Waiting for their little circuit to close, the completion of their trio. Their sense of always.
Quinn’s hand doesn’t come. How could it? This world is without her.
Her eyes close, her face burying in Brittany’s hair as her body goes shockingly boneless. Quinn Fabray, lying in a hospital bed, never thinking once about what that could do to a person like Santana Lopez. Like Brittany Pierce. Like Rachel Berry, and Kurt Hummel, and Sue Sylvester, and Sam Evans. Quinn Fabray, threatening the world with her absence in a way that is too low, even for her.
Maybe it's cliched, to hate Quinn a little bit for this, but she doesn't know how to do anything else. She doesn't know who she is in this moment without hazel eyes guarding her every move, without that wicked arch of a taunting eyebrow, without Quinn's ever-present affectionate judgment. Maybe it's cliched to hate Quinn for doing this to her, but she does it anyway. She hates every little thing about this. It's all she's got, for now.
The only other thing she can do is squeeze Brittany's fingers until the blood stops pumping through her hand and pray that she doesn’t wake up tomorrow to find their sense of real has to become hers, too. Because, if it does? She’s really not sure what comes next. She hasn’t had to be Santana-without-Quinn in a very, very long time. She hasn’t had to consider the options that come with a best friend wiped clean off the table. This isn’t supposed to be happening.
Nothing has ever made less sense in her life.