Take These Broken Wings and Learn to Fly, 1/? (Santana (Santana/Brittany), R)
Title: TakeThese Broken Wings and Learn to Fly
Author: kait1987
Character(s)/Pairing(s): This is really Santana's story, but Santana/Brittany with apperances by the Glee kids.
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,362
Spoilers: General season 1 spoilers
Warings: Angsty! This story involves a rape (non graphic).
Summary: She never said no, except this time she had but it hadn't mattered. Written for this prompt at the glee_angst_meme .
A/N: Many thanks go out to my wonderful betas abluegirl , glasheen25 ,and oh_you_dork for everything they've done. I seriously couldn't have come this far without them. Special thanks to my good friend whisper_lillies for all her support over aim! Title borrowed from The Beatles song, Blackbird.
****
"Just do what I do. Never say no." Her words to Rachel echo in her mind as she stands in the shower, the water so hot that it is turning her skin an angry red. She is frantically scrubbing herself down with her loofa in an attempt to remove any trace of him from her body. She concentrates extra hard on the area below her belly button where he'd pressed wet, sloppy kisses as she struggled against him. She watches the bubbles float down the drain as the water washes them from her body and tries desperately to imagine him being washed away as well. Except there's a dull ache between her legs and bruises on her thighs and on her wrists where he'd held her that make it impossible to forget. She can still smell him, still taste him, and it's making her so nauseous she begins to dry heave. She never said no, except this time she had but it hadn't mattered.
"Come on, Lopez," he said, pulling her into an empty bedroom upstairs, away from the noise of the party.
"You must be really drunk, Karofsky, if you think I'm going to do anything with you." She tried to pull away from him, a feeling of panic rising from deep within her when his grasp on her arm tightened. "You're hurting me, you asshole." Santana growled, twisting her wrist awkwardly as she tried to free it from his grip.
"You're kind of a bitch," he replied, pushing her down onto the bed as she struggled to get away. "I like it."
"Stop it," she hissed forcefully. "I said no."
"I know your rep. Guys talk," he lay down on top of her, pinning her to the bed. Santana shuddered as he snaked his hand up her top. "You never say no."
"Get your hands off of me or I'll fucking kill you," she threatened, squirming desperately underneath him. His massive weight was too much for her small frame and she was rendered effectively paralyzed.
"I'd like to see you try," Karofsky whispered into her ear, the smell of alcohol present on his breath as his fingers tangled roughly in her hair. "No use in screaming," he snarled, pressing a finger to her lips when she opened her mouth to yell. "The music downstairs is too loud; no one will ever hear you."
She screamed anyway, kicking her legs and trying to free her arms, but he was so damn heavy. Fighting back only seemed to turn him on more and he smirked maliciously as he slid his hand up her thigh and ripped off her underwear. The look in his eyes was so violent she feared for her life and all she could do was shut her eyes and pretend that she was somewhere else, that this wasn't happening to her.
"There," he breathed cockily, climbing off of her once he was done, "you liked that, didn't you?"
"Fuck off," she whispered, pulling the sheet over her body and wiping the tears from her cheeks.
"Don't bother telling anyone about this," he said as he stumbled drunkenly back into his pants. "They'll never believe the easy slut." Santana squeezed her eyes shut as he spat out the last word because it was true and she wondered if being a slut somehow made her responsible for what he'd done to her.
She doesn't say anything, doesn't tell anyone. The prospect of going to the police and reporting it and then letting them do a rape kit at the hospital is just too overwhelming. She knows she's not strong enough to do it alone, but she's too ashamed to admit what happened to her to anyone else, even Brittany. Especially Brittany. There is no way her friend could possibly understand. So instead she goes home and attempts to wash all evidence of Dave Karofsky and everything he'd done to her right down the drain. She's good at forgetting, and she's even better at pretending. No one ever has to know.
****
It is two days later and she's laying beside Brittany in bed, tangled safely in her arms as the blonde runs her fingers soothingly through her dark locks. "What's wrong, San?" Brittany asks so quietly Santana almost doesn't hear her. They're watching a movie together, and the fact that Santana hasn't so much as touched the bowl of popcorn is not lost on her friend for a second. She knows Brittany's a lot smarter than people give her credit for, but damn her for being so perceptive. She's studying her face intently, her large blue eyes etched in concern. Santana hates it.
"What makes you think something's wrong?" she asks, looking up only long enough to meet her eyes for a second.
Brittany shrugs casually, "Because I know you."
Her words sting because Santana knows it's true and it terrifies her. They've been best friends since they were four years old. From skinned knees to broken hearts, Brittany had been through it all with her. She can read her like an open book; lying to her feels impossible and fundamentally wrong.
"I'm okay," Santana whispers, forcing a smile before burrowing her head deep into Brittany's neck so that she doesn't have to look at her. "I'm just really tired." It's not a lie, not really - she's exhausted. It takes her forever to fall asleep at night because she can't force her mind to turn off and every time she closes her eyes, she only sees him. Once she finally manages to fall asleep, it is fitful and plagued with nightmares that are even worse than her reality.
Brittany seems satisfied by the half-truth and Santana feels the blonde's chin bump against the top of her head in a nod. "If you fall asleep now, you'll never find out if Amy Adams gets the guy." She moves her hand from Santana's hair and brings it to rest on her abdomen. "Do I need to do something entertaining so you'll stay awake?" she asks suggestively as her fingers begin to toy with the elastic of Santana's underwear.
Every muscle in Santana's body tenses reflexively, and she closes her eyes and reminds herself that it's Brittany, her Brittany, who smells faintly of cherries and vanilla and would never do anything to hurt her. But before she even realizes what she's doing, she's grabbing Brittany's hand and pushing it away. "Not tonight," she says with much more force than she intends.
"Okay," Brittany says, sitting straight up in bed and staring at Santana tearfully. "Now I know something's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just not in the mood tonight. Let's just finish the damn movie." Santana settles back down into the pillow and tries to focus on the TV, but Brittany is still staring at her expectantly. "I've got my period, okay?" It's a total lie and Santana despises having to lie to the one person she's always honest with, but it slips from her lips so much more easily than the truth.
"God, S," Brittany breathes, the look on her face a mixture of relief, amusement, and sympathy. "Why didn't you just say so? No wonder you're so tired and crabby."
"I can for you though, if you want…." Santana offers out of sheer relief that Brittany bought her blatant lie.
"Nah," Brittany snuggles in beside her and reaches her hand over to massage non-existent cramps from Santana's belly. "Cuddling is nice, too."
Santana nods and closes her eyes, breathing in the scent of Brittany's silky hair and concentrating hard on how soft her fingertips feel as they dance against her skin. Cuddling is nice because it's with Brittany, and it's gentle and familiar and everything that he was not.
****
Three weeks later she is forced out of the tiny cocoon of isolation she'd created for herself in her room for the remainder of summer vacation. "Good morning, Santana," Rachel chirps cheerfully from her locker. "How was your summer?"
She groans quietly under her breath as the number of people she has to lie to is increased by one. "Fan-FREAKING-tastic," she replies sarcastically, hoping the girl won't dare to continue the conversation.
But Rachel is oblivious to the "stay away!" signals Santana tries to send out and continues chattering relentlessly about her fabulous summer. It's torture and part of Santana misses the days when Cheerios and Rachel Berry were never seen in the same room together.
"Did you do anything fun?" "Oh, yeah, Berry, I got raped. That was a FUCKING BALL," she wants to say, but instead tells her, "Just the usual - hung out at the pool and went to cheer camp."
"Well, I was fortunate enough to go to New York with my dads. We saw so many amazing shows! There's one I think you'd enjoy called American Idiot, and its story is set entirely to Green Day's music. I'm thinking of asking Mr. Schuester if we can add a number from it to some of our set lists…"
It takes Rachel that long to notice that Santana's staring off blankly into the distance, and she begins obnoxiously waving her hand in front of her face. "Are you alright? You're not sick, are you? We can't have anyone infecting the entire Glee Club the first day back at school."
"I'm fine," Santana hisses through gritted teeth because she's already so damn tired of that question and it's only second period. "Just thinking about what a shame it is you didn't decide to move to Israel."
She watches Rachel's expression fall and is flooded with a mixture of pleasure and nauseating guilt. "Oh," Rachel whispers, moving quickly to gather the rest of her things from her locker. "Well, I trust I'll see you at rehearsal after school."
"That was mean," Brittany states disapprovingly from beside her. "She was just being friendly."
She drops her pinky and loops it with Brittany's before retorting, "I don't need any more friends."
****
Despite Santana's claim that she doesn't need any more friends (she doesn't), she ends up falling back into a pretty comfortable friendship with Quinn their first week back at school. After all, they've been friends ever since first grade when Santana shoved some bully down on the playground for breaking Quinn's favorite pink glitter crayon and making her cry. Santana's still sort of pissed about the whole Puck thing, but throwing all those years away because of a stupid boy seems pointless. Besides, Quinn pushed a freaking person out of her body and Santana thinks that is punishment enough for sleeping with Puck.
So they start hanging out together again and as much as Santana hates to admit it, it's nice. She'd missed Quinn without even realizing it.
"Hey," Quinn says, turning to Santana as they walk towards the choir room Friday after school, "want to see a new picture of Beth?"
No, she doesn't, not if she is being honest. Santana's not really a big fan of babies. They're cute and all, but they're also messy and noisy and demanding as hell. She can't exactly tell Quinn that though. "Sure."
"Okay," Quinn smiles, stopping in front of her locker and quickly entering the combination. "Shelby says she's doing really well," she tells her, pulling a picture of Beth from her locker, her face absolutely glowing as she shows off the baby. "Isn't she beautiful?"
Quinn's so incredibly proud of the baby and it immediately strikes Santana how sad it is that she will spend the rest of her life loving someone she can never have.
"She looks just like you," Santana says, studying the picture briefly before handing it back to her. "Lucky for her because that head on a baby…" she adds with a smirk.
"Oh," Quinn sighs with a disapproving roll of her eyes, "might I remind you that you slept with Puck, too."
"I know. It was poor judgment on my part." Santana leans back against the lockers and watches as Quinn carefully tapes the picture of Beth back up. She's trying to focus on what Quinn's saying (something about the baby rolling over) when she sees Karofsky walking down the hall towards them. She wants to run, wants to hide, but she is overcome with paralyzing fear.
Bumping into Karofsky is inevitable because McKinley High is a small school, but knowing it's bound to happen doesn't make it any easier when she finally sees him.
"S?" Quinn asks, her face concerned as she nudges Santana's shoulder gently. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She can feel Quinn looking at her, searching for eye contact that she is not willing or able to make, so she cuts her eyes down to the floor. "I'm alright," she says, swallowing the lump in her throat and inching closer to her friend's body for protection.
"Let's go then, or we'll be late and Rachel will throw another one of her famous diva hissy fits." Quinn says, her voice laced with annoyance at the mere thought of Rachel storming out of yet another practice. She starts to walk in the direction that Karofsky is coming from, but Santana grabs her arm and pulls her the other way.
"I want to walk this way instead," Santana insists firmly.
Quinn sighs in frustration, "Why? It takes twice as long."
"I, uh, want to stop by the restroom first." Santana explains, tugging at her friend's arm urgently because Karofsky is fast approaching.
"Fine," Quinn agrees, furrowing her brow and following Santana's lead. "I think you need to talk to your doctor about upping your anxiety meds because you have been a total wreck lately," she says, reminding Santana that there had been a time not long ago that Quinn had known almost as much about her as Brittany did. Like the fact that Santana's family doctor put her on anti-anxiety medication halfway through freshman year because she, as the doctor put it, internalizes everything- or some crap like that. Whatever, the pills work for her and upping the dose doesn't sound like such a bad idea given her current emotional state.
Santana's about to offer some stupid excuse for her behavior when she's jolted as Dave Karofsky slams his shoulder into her body. "Watch where you're going, bitch!" He yells behind him as he takes off down the hall.
"You watch where you're going, you Neanderthal puckhead!" Quinn shouts after him in Santana's defense. "What a jerk," she declares once Karofsky's gone. "Someone really needs to put him in his place."
"NO!" Santana yells without even meaning to. "Listen, Q, you have to promise me you'll stay away from him," she adds, lowering her voice and taking both of Quinn's hands in her own so that she knows she's serious.
There is such a sense of urgency and panic in Santana's voice that Quinn agrees immediately, no questions asked. "God, okay, I promise."
"Good," she says, linking her arm through Quinn's before taking off down the hall because she is so shaken she's not entirely sure she can walk on her own.
****
The days are hard, but the nights are almost impossible. During the day her life is full of distractions like school and glee and cheerleading and pretending like everything is okay. During the night she is stripped bare to nothing but herself and her thoughts and darkness and she can't decide which of the three is more fucking terrifying. Growing up, she'd had a love affair with the dark. She was one of the few kids in her neighborhood that didn't run inside as soon as the streetlights came on. "Everything's the same as it was ten minutes ago when the sun was up," she had reasoned with them, "it's just you can't see it now."
She'd loved the mystery that darkness brought, the thrill and exhilaration that came with not being able to see what was coming. The dark acted as a blanket of invisibility for her; it made her feel invincible because in the dark no one could see her either. Now she knows better, knows that not being able to see what's coming is dangerous, that the dark is when the real monsters come out and no one can hear you scream. She hates him for taking that love away from her, for making the dark something to be afraid of.
Santana's standing at her bedroom window, checking and double checking that it's locked even though she hasn't opened it in weeks, when she feels Brittany come up behind her. Brittany, thank God for Brittany and their traditional weekend sleepovers because at least she's not alone. "Going somewhere?" She asks jokingly as she brings her chin to rest on Santana's shoulder.
"No," Santana replies with a small laugh. "I was just making sure the window is locked since my dad is out of town."
"Mmm," Brittany hums, "but your bedroom is on the second floor."
Santana shrugs, "People have ladders you know. You lock your window, right?"
"I don't know," Brittany states, reaching up and twirling a strand of Santana's hair around her finger, clearly bored with the conversation. "I guess I do when I remember to."
"Britt," Santana tries to turn her head to look at her, but the blonde's chin is still pressed firmly against her shoulder. "You have to keep your window locked. Just don't open it and then you won't have to remember to lock it."
"But sometimes I like to hear the birds sing."
"Okay," Santana sighs, moving towards her desk where she grabs an obnoxiously pink sticky-note and quickly writes in bold, black print REMEMBER TO LOCK YOUR WINDOW! XOXO - S "There," she says, pressing the note to the outside of Brittany's duffle bag, "tape this on your bathroom mirror with all your other notes and then you'll see it at night when you brush your teeth."
"Thanks, San. I'll stick it right next to the one that says 'brush your teeth'." Brittany teases lightly before planting a quick kiss on her cheek. The notes are sort of their little joke. Her bathroom mirror is littered with post-it reminders from Santana. Reminders ranging from 'feed your goldfish' to 'charge your phone'. She doesn't even really need most of them (although the phone one does come in handy sometimes). They serve as nothing more than a reminder just how much Santana cares about her. "I don't know what I'd do without you," she adds, her tone more serious.
You'd be just fine, Santana thinks to herself, I'm the one who'd be lost without you. "Without me? Well, for one you'd probably never have a fully charged phone," she jokes before taking Brittany's hand in her own and squeezing it affectionately to convey the emotions she's feeling.
Brittany smiles so widely it makes her nose crinkle. "I guess it's a good thing I have you in my life then."
"Definitely," she says, bringing her head to rest on Brittany's shoulder. "Hey, I'm sort of tired, are you ready for bed?"
"Yeah, sure," Brittany replies with an exaggerated yawn that clues Santana in to the fact that she's probably not actually tired at all. Still, she follows Santana's lead, happily climbing into the side of the bed that has been hers for as long as they've been having sleepovers.
"Britt?" Santana asks, curling up into the taller girl's side.
"Yeah?" she replies, reaching up and around Santana's body. Her hand comes to rest on Santana's bicep where she immediately begins to trace nonsensical shapes with her fingertip.
"I'm really glad you're here tonight."
"Silly," Brittany laughs, "you're always glad I'm here. You love me."
Santana smiles against Brittany's neck. "I do," she agrees before closing her eyes and allowing the familiar scent of Brittany's shampoo on her still damp hair to begin to lull her to sleep.
"I love you too," she whispers, tracing the shape of a lopsided heart on Santana's arm.
It feels like she's only been asleep for a few seconds when Santana awakens in the pitch black darkness of her room. She hears someone breathing, but it's not the light and slow breaths that Brittany takes when she sleeps. It's deep and heavy and fast.
"Brittany?" She calls out, groping frantically in the dark for the lamp on her nightstand.
"Guess again, bitch," Karofsky's voice growls in the darkness. Before she can move, he's on top of her, his weight crushing her as he grabs the back of her knee, pushing his hand up her thigh. "Ready for round two?"
"Get off of me, you bastard," she screams, and when he brings a hand to her mouth to shut her up, she bites him hard. "Help me," Santana pleads, hot, salty tears stinging her cheeks as she feels him pressing against her. All she can hear is her pulse pounding in her ears and Karofsky's erratic panting, but then a voice breaks through the quiet.
"Santana, Santana, San!" Someone is shaking her shoulder but she can't see because it's so goddamn dark. "Wake up!"
She pulls her eyes open, expecting to see him but instead she finds Brittany's terrified face hovering above hers. "God," she gasps, reaching up desperately and wrapping her arms around Brittany's neck, like a drowning person reaching for a life preserver floating on the surface of the water. Her chest heaves and her breaths come in such rapid succession that she actually starts to get dizzy.
"Shhhhh," Brittany murmurs against her ear, cradling Santana close to her body and rocking back and forth gently. "It was just a bad dream. You're okay, you're okay, you're okay."
"I thought I locked the window," Santana mumbles practically incoherently into Brittany's shoulder, her voice muffled by tears and sleep and the fabric of her friend's shirt. "I thought I locked it."
"You did," Brittany reassures her, reaching up to stroke her hair.
"Then how did he get in?" Santana manages to choke out in between sobs.
"How did who get in?" Brittany asks in confusion. "No one else is here; it's just you and me."
"No one else is here," Santana repeats as the fog of sleep begins to lift from her brain and she picks up her head to look into the area of her room behind Brittany and finds nothing but emptiness. "Oh, thank God," she breathes before pressing her face back into the softness of Brittany's shirt.
"Are you okay now?" Brittany asks, her voice shaking.
"Yeah," she whispers, "I'm really sorry I scared you."
Brittany swallows hard. "It's alright. I'm just glad you're awake now," she says before lying back down without even bothering to break their embrace.
Santana sniffles, "Yeah, me too."
"Do you want to tell me about it?" Brittany pries gently, drawing back a little from Santana so that she can look at her.
"There's nothing to talk about," Santana answers, quickly closing the gap between them by nuzzling her head into the crook of Brittany's neck. "It was just a really horrible dream."
Brittany's quiet for so long that Santana thinks that maybe she's drifted off back to sleep, but then she feels Brittany's fingertips begin to rub at the base of her neck and she hears her whisper. "Who were you so afraid of, San?"
Santana doesn't answer, instead allowing the silence to speak for her and convince Brittany that she's already gone back to sleep.
****
At first, it's easy enough to ignore the blaring red circle on her calendar marking what should have been but wasn't. She's never been terribly regular thanks to grueling Cheerios practices and a diet that alternates between consuming nothing but Coach Sylvester's terrible concoction and binging on every carbohydrate she can find. She's lulled into a false sense of security by incredibly sore breasts and an occasional twinge low in her belly. She easily convinces herself that she's just late because she's stressed as hell and exhausted. But then the crippling nausea sets in and she's so incredibly tired that she resorts to curling up on chairs during glee practice and resting her head in Brittany's lap. One month turns into two and suddenly the blaring red circles on her calendar are all she can think about.
"Shit," she mumbles early one morning, untangling herself from Brittany's tight embrace before running to the bathroom. She barely gets the toilet lid up before she starts to gag violently, mentally adding chicken salad to the list of things she no longer eats.
"San?" Brittany's voice is groggy and confused, but she's behind her almost immediately, pulling back her hair and tracing light, soothing circles on her back.
"Ugh," Santana groans, pressing her body to the cool tile floor once she's done. "Must be that virus that's going around." Brittany swallows hard and nods in agreement, but even through her bleary eyes Santana can tell she's not entirely convinced so she adds, "Fuckin' Puck."
This elicits a slight smile from Brittany and she reaches over to push a sweaty strand of hair off of Santana's forehead. "Only bad things come from making out with Puck."
She catches Brittany's hand in her own. "I hope I don't get you sick," Santana says, even though she knows her nausea is not contagious.
Brittany shrugs and lies down beside her on the floor, absently running her hand up and down Santana's back. "It doesn't matter." It comes out so earnestly that a lump rises in Santana's throat and, for a minute, she thinks that maybe lying to Brittany is more painful than telling her the truth.
It takes another week of exhaustion, vomiting, sore breasts and the lovely added bonus of having to pee every five minutes before Santana finally works up the nerve to take a test. She locks herself in her bathroom and digs to the very back of the cabinet where she knows there's still one of Quinn's unused tests left over from the year before. The blonde had given up on praying for a negative result after her fifth positive and left the final test unused.
"Fuck," she curses, staring at the glaringly obvious positive test. Suddenly, forgetting doesn't seem so easy.
Author: kait1987
Character(s)/Pairing(s): This is really Santana's story, but Santana/Brittany with apperances by the Glee kids.
Rating: R
Word Count: 4,362
Spoilers: General season 1 spoilers
Warings: Angsty! This story involves a rape (non graphic).
Summary: She never said no, except this time she had but it hadn't mattered. Written for this prompt at the glee_angst_meme .
A/N: Many thanks go out to my wonderful betas abluegirl , glasheen25 ,and oh_you_dork for everything they've done. I seriously couldn't have come this far without them. Special thanks to my good friend whisper_lillies for all her support over aim! Title borrowed from The Beatles song, Blackbird.
****
"Just do what I do. Never say no." Her words to Rachel echo in her mind as she stands in the shower, the water so hot that it is turning her skin an angry red. She is frantically scrubbing herself down with her loofa in an attempt to remove any trace of him from her body. She concentrates extra hard on the area below her belly button where he'd pressed wet, sloppy kisses as she struggled against him. She watches the bubbles float down the drain as the water washes them from her body and tries desperately to imagine him being washed away as well. Except there's a dull ache between her legs and bruises on her thighs and on her wrists where he'd held her that make it impossible to forget. She can still smell him, still taste him, and it's making her so nauseous she begins to dry heave. She never said no, except this time she had but it hadn't mattered.
"Come on, Lopez," he said, pulling her into an empty bedroom upstairs, away from the noise of the party.
"You must be really drunk, Karofsky, if you think I'm going to do anything with you." She tried to pull away from him, a feeling of panic rising from deep within her when his grasp on her arm tightened. "You're hurting me, you asshole." Santana growled, twisting her wrist awkwardly as she tried to free it from his grip.
"You're kind of a bitch," he replied, pushing her down onto the bed as she struggled to get away. "I like it."
"Stop it," she hissed forcefully. "I said no."
"I know your rep. Guys talk," he lay down on top of her, pinning her to the bed. Santana shuddered as he snaked his hand up her top. "You never say no."
"Get your hands off of me or I'll fucking kill you," she threatened, squirming desperately underneath him. His massive weight was too much for her small frame and she was rendered effectively paralyzed.
"I'd like to see you try," Karofsky whispered into her ear, the smell of alcohol present on his breath as his fingers tangled roughly in her hair. "No use in screaming," he snarled, pressing a finger to her lips when she opened her mouth to yell. "The music downstairs is too loud; no one will ever hear you."
She screamed anyway, kicking her legs and trying to free her arms, but he was so damn heavy. Fighting back only seemed to turn him on more and he smirked maliciously as he slid his hand up her thigh and ripped off her underwear. The look in his eyes was so violent she feared for her life and all she could do was shut her eyes and pretend that she was somewhere else, that this wasn't happening to her.
"There," he breathed cockily, climbing off of her once he was done, "you liked that, didn't you?"
"Fuck off," she whispered, pulling the sheet over her body and wiping the tears from her cheeks.
"Don't bother telling anyone about this," he said as he stumbled drunkenly back into his pants. "They'll never believe the easy slut." Santana squeezed her eyes shut as he spat out the last word because it was true and she wondered if being a slut somehow made her responsible for what he'd done to her.
She doesn't say anything, doesn't tell anyone. The prospect of going to the police and reporting it and then letting them do a rape kit at the hospital is just too overwhelming. She knows she's not strong enough to do it alone, but she's too ashamed to admit what happened to her to anyone else, even Brittany. Especially Brittany. There is no way her friend could possibly understand. So instead she goes home and attempts to wash all evidence of Dave Karofsky and everything he'd done to her right down the drain. She's good at forgetting, and she's even better at pretending. No one ever has to know.
****
It is two days later and she's laying beside Brittany in bed, tangled safely in her arms as the blonde runs her fingers soothingly through her dark locks. "What's wrong, San?" Brittany asks so quietly Santana almost doesn't hear her. They're watching a movie together, and the fact that Santana hasn't so much as touched the bowl of popcorn is not lost on her friend for a second. She knows Brittany's a lot smarter than people give her credit for, but damn her for being so perceptive. She's studying her face intently, her large blue eyes etched in concern. Santana hates it.
"What makes you think something's wrong?" she asks, looking up only long enough to meet her eyes for a second.
Brittany shrugs casually, "Because I know you."
Her words sting because Santana knows it's true and it terrifies her. They've been best friends since they were four years old. From skinned knees to broken hearts, Brittany had been through it all with her. She can read her like an open book; lying to her feels impossible and fundamentally wrong.
"I'm okay," Santana whispers, forcing a smile before burrowing her head deep into Brittany's neck so that she doesn't have to look at her. "I'm just really tired." It's not a lie, not really - she's exhausted. It takes her forever to fall asleep at night because she can't force her mind to turn off and every time she closes her eyes, she only sees him. Once she finally manages to fall asleep, it is fitful and plagued with nightmares that are even worse than her reality.
Brittany seems satisfied by the half-truth and Santana feels the blonde's chin bump against the top of her head in a nod. "If you fall asleep now, you'll never find out if Amy Adams gets the guy." She moves her hand from Santana's hair and brings it to rest on her abdomen. "Do I need to do something entertaining so you'll stay awake?" she asks suggestively as her fingers begin to toy with the elastic of Santana's underwear.
Every muscle in Santana's body tenses reflexively, and she closes her eyes and reminds herself that it's Brittany, her Brittany, who smells faintly of cherries and vanilla and would never do anything to hurt her. But before she even realizes what she's doing, she's grabbing Brittany's hand and pushing it away. "Not tonight," she says with much more force than she intends.
"Okay," Brittany says, sitting straight up in bed and staring at Santana tearfully. "Now I know something's wrong."
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just not in the mood tonight. Let's just finish the damn movie." Santana settles back down into the pillow and tries to focus on the TV, but Brittany is still staring at her expectantly. "I've got my period, okay?" It's a total lie and Santana despises having to lie to the one person she's always honest with, but it slips from her lips so much more easily than the truth.
"God, S," Brittany breathes, the look on her face a mixture of relief, amusement, and sympathy. "Why didn't you just say so? No wonder you're so tired and crabby."
"I can for you though, if you want…." Santana offers out of sheer relief that Brittany bought her blatant lie.
"Nah," Brittany snuggles in beside her and reaches her hand over to massage non-existent cramps from Santana's belly. "Cuddling is nice, too."
Santana nods and closes her eyes, breathing in the scent of Brittany's silky hair and concentrating hard on how soft her fingertips feel as they dance against her skin. Cuddling is nice because it's with Brittany, and it's gentle and familiar and everything that he was not.
****
Three weeks later she is forced out of the tiny cocoon of isolation she'd created for herself in her room for the remainder of summer vacation. "Good morning, Santana," Rachel chirps cheerfully from her locker. "How was your summer?"
She groans quietly under her breath as the number of people she has to lie to is increased by one. "Fan-FREAKING-tastic," she replies sarcastically, hoping the girl won't dare to continue the conversation.
But Rachel is oblivious to the "stay away!" signals Santana tries to send out and continues chattering relentlessly about her fabulous summer. It's torture and part of Santana misses the days when Cheerios and Rachel Berry were never seen in the same room together.
"Did you do anything fun?" "Oh, yeah, Berry, I got raped. That was a FUCKING BALL," she wants to say, but instead tells her, "Just the usual - hung out at the pool and went to cheer camp."
"Well, I was fortunate enough to go to New York with my dads. We saw so many amazing shows! There's one I think you'd enjoy called American Idiot, and its story is set entirely to Green Day's music. I'm thinking of asking Mr. Schuester if we can add a number from it to some of our set lists…"
It takes Rachel that long to notice that Santana's staring off blankly into the distance, and she begins obnoxiously waving her hand in front of her face. "Are you alright? You're not sick, are you? We can't have anyone infecting the entire Glee Club the first day back at school."
"I'm fine," Santana hisses through gritted teeth because she's already so damn tired of that question and it's only second period. "Just thinking about what a shame it is you didn't decide to move to Israel."
She watches Rachel's expression fall and is flooded with a mixture of pleasure and nauseating guilt. "Oh," Rachel whispers, moving quickly to gather the rest of her things from her locker. "Well, I trust I'll see you at rehearsal after school."
"That was mean," Brittany states disapprovingly from beside her. "She was just being friendly."
She drops her pinky and loops it with Brittany's before retorting, "I don't need any more friends."
****
Despite Santana's claim that she doesn't need any more friends (she doesn't), she ends up falling back into a pretty comfortable friendship with Quinn their first week back at school. After all, they've been friends ever since first grade when Santana shoved some bully down on the playground for breaking Quinn's favorite pink glitter crayon and making her cry. Santana's still sort of pissed about the whole Puck thing, but throwing all those years away because of a stupid boy seems pointless. Besides, Quinn pushed a freaking person out of her body and Santana thinks that is punishment enough for sleeping with Puck.
So they start hanging out together again and as much as Santana hates to admit it, it's nice. She'd missed Quinn without even realizing it.
"Hey," Quinn says, turning to Santana as they walk towards the choir room Friday after school, "want to see a new picture of Beth?"
No, she doesn't, not if she is being honest. Santana's not really a big fan of babies. They're cute and all, but they're also messy and noisy and demanding as hell. She can't exactly tell Quinn that though. "Sure."
"Okay," Quinn smiles, stopping in front of her locker and quickly entering the combination. "Shelby says she's doing really well," she tells her, pulling a picture of Beth from her locker, her face absolutely glowing as she shows off the baby. "Isn't she beautiful?"
Quinn's so incredibly proud of the baby and it immediately strikes Santana how sad it is that she will spend the rest of her life loving someone she can never have.
"She looks just like you," Santana says, studying the picture briefly before handing it back to her. "Lucky for her because that head on a baby…" she adds with a smirk.
"Oh," Quinn sighs with a disapproving roll of her eyes, "might I remind you that you slept with Puck, too."
"I know. It was poor judgment on my part." Santana leans back against the lockers and watches as Quinn carefully tapes the picture of Beth back up. She's trying to focus on what Quinn's saying (something about the baby rolling over) when she sees Karofsky walking down the hall towards them. She wants to run, wants to hide, but she is overcome with paralyzing fear.
Bumping into Karofsky is inevitable because McKinley High is a small school, but knowing it's bound to happen doesn't make it any easier when she finally sees him.
"S?" Quinn asks, her face concerned as she nudges Santana's shoulder gently. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
She can feel Quinn looking at her, searching for eye contact that she is not willing or able to make, so she cuts her eyes down to the floor. "I'm alright," she says, swallowing the lump in her throat and inching closer to her friend's body for protection.
"Let's go then, or we'll be late and Rachel will throw another one of her famous diva hissy fits." Quinn says, her voice laced with annoyance at the mere thought of Rachel storming out of yet another practice. She starts to walk in the direction that Karofsky is coming from, but Santana grabs her arm and pulls her the other way.
"I want to walk this way instead," Santana insists firmly.
Quinn sighs in frustration, "Why? It takes twice as long."
"I, uh, want to stop by the restroom first." Santana explains, tugging at her friend's arm urgently because Karofsky is fast approaching.
"Fine," Quinn agrees, furrowing her brow and following Santana's lead. "I think you need to talk to your doctor about upping your anxiety meds because you have been a total wreck lately," she says, reminding Santana that there had been a time not long ago that Quinn had known almost as much about her as Brittany did. Like the fact that Santana's family doctor put her on anti-anxiety medication halfway through freshman year because she, as the doctor put it, internalizes everything- or some crap like that. Whatever, the pills work for her and upping the dose doesn't sound like such a bad idea given her current emotional state.
Santana's about to offer some stupid excuse for her behavior when she's jolted as Dave Karofsky slams his shoulder into her body. "Watch where you're going, bitch!" He yells behind him as he takes off down the hall.
"You watch where you're going, you Neanderthal puckhead!" Quinn shouts after him in Santana's defense. "What a jerk," she declares once Karofsky's gone. "Someone really needs to put him in his place."
"NO!" Santana yells without even meaning to. "Listen, Q, you have to promise me you'll stay away from him," she adds, lowering her voice and taking both of Quinn's hands in her own so that she knows she's serious.
There is such a sense of urgency and panic in Santana's voice that Quinn agrees immediately, no questions asked. "God, okay, I promise."
"Good," she says, linking her arm through Quinn's before taking off down the hall because she is so shaken she's not entirely sure she can walk on her own.
****
The days are hard, but the nights are almost impossible. During the day her life is full of distractions like school and glee and cheerleading and pretending like everything is okay. During the night she is stripped bare to nothing but herself and her thoughts and darkness and she can't decide which of the three is more fucking terrifying. Growing up, she'd had a love affair with the dark. She was one of the few kids in her neighborhood that didn't run inside as soon as the streetlights came on. "Everything's the same as it was ten minutes ago when the sun was up," she had reasoned with them, "it's just you can't see it now."
She'd loved the mystery that darkness brought, the thrill and exhilaration that came with not being able to see what was coming. The dark acted as a blanket of invisibility for her; it made her feel invincible because in the dark no one could see her either. Now she knows better, knows that not being able to see what's coming is dangerous, that the dark is when the real monsters come out and no one can hear you scream. She hates him for taking that love away from her, for making the dark something to be afraid of.
Santana's standing at her bedroom window, checking and double checking that it's locked even though she hasn't opened it in weeks, when she feels Brittany come up behind her. Brittany, thank God for Brittany and their traditional weekend sleepovers because at least she's not alone. "Going somewhere?" She asks jokingly as she brings her chin to rest on Santana's shoulder.
"No," Santana replies with a small laugh. "I was just making sure the window is locked since my dad is out of town."
"Mmm," Brittany hums, "but your bedroom is on the second floor."
Santana shrugs, "People have ladders you know. You lock your window, right?"
"I don't know," Brittany states, reaching up and twirling a strand of Santana's hair around her finger, clearly bored with the conversation. "I guess I do when I remember to."
"Britt," Santana tries to turn her head to look at her, but the blonde's chin is still pressed firmly against her shoulder. "You have to keep your window locked. Just don't open it and then you won't have to remember to lock it."
"But sometimes I like to hear the birds sing."
"Okay," Santana sighs, moving towards her desk where she grabs an obnoxiously pink sticky-note and quickly writes in bold, black print REMEMBER TO LOCK YOUR WINDOW! XOXO - S "There," she says, pressing the note to the outside of Brittany's duffle bag, "tape this on your bathroom mirror with all your other notes and then you'll see it at night when you brush your teeth."
"Thanks, San. I'll stick it right next to the one that says 'brush your teeth'." Brittany teases lightly before planting a quick kiss on her cheek. The notes are sort of their little joke. Her bathroom mirror is littered with post-it reminders from Santana. Reminders ranging from 'feed your goldfish' to 'charge your phone'. She doesn't even really need most of them (although the phone one does come in handy sometimes). They serve as nothing more than a reminder just how much Santana cares about her. "I don't know what I'd do without you," she adds, her tone more serious.
You'd be just fine, Santana thinks to herself, I'm the one who'd be lost without you. "Without me? Well, for one you'd probably never have a fully charged phone," she jokes before taking Brittany's hand in her own and squeezing it affectionately to convey the emotions she's feeling.
Brittany smiles so widely it makes her nose crinkle. "I guess it's a good thing I have you in my life then."
"Definitely," she says, bringing her head to rest on Brittany's shoulder. "Hey, I'm sort of tired, are you ready for bed?"
"Yeah, sure," Brittany replies with an exaggerated yawn that clues Santana in to the fact that she's probably not actually tired at all. Still, she follows Santana's lead, happily climbing into the side of the bed that has been hers for as long as they've been having sleepovers.
"Britt?" Santana asks, curling up into the taller girl's side.
"Yeah?" she replies, reaching up and around Santana's body. Her hand comes to rest on Santana's bicep where she immediately begins to trace nonsensical shapes with her fingertip.
"I'm really glad you're here tonight."
"Silly," Brittany laughs, "you're always glad I'm here. You love me."
Santana smiles against Brittany's neck. "I do," she agrees before closing her eyes and allowing the familiar scent of Brittany's shampoo on her still damp hair to begin to lull her to sleep.
"I love you too," she whispers, tracing the shape of a lopsided heart on Santana's arm.
It feels like she's only been asleep for a few seconds when Santana awakens in the pitch black darkness of her room. She hears someone breathing, but it's not the light and slow breaths that Brittany takes when she sleeps. It's deep and heavy and fast.
"Brittany?" She calls out, groping frantically in the dark for the lamp on her nightstand.
"Guess again, bitch," Karofsky's voice growls in the darkness. Before she can move, he's on top of her, his weight crushing her as he grabs the back of her knee, pushing his hand up her thigh. "Ready for round two?"
"Get off of me, you bastard," she screams, and when he brings a hand to her mouth to shut her up, she bites him hard. "Help me," Santana pleads, hot, salty tears stinging her cheeks as she feels him pressing against her. All she can hear is her pulse pounding in her ears and Karofsky's erratic panting, but then a voice breaks through the quiet.
"Santana, Santana, San!" Someone is shaking her shoulder but she can't see because it's so goddamn dark. "Wake up!"
She pulls her eyes open, expecting to see him but instead she finds Brittany's terrified face hovering above hers. "God," she gasps, reaching up desperately and wrapping her arms around Brittany's neck, like a drowning person reaching for a life preserver floating on the surface of the water. Her chest heaves and her breaths come in such rapid succession that she actually starts to get dizzy.
"Shhhhh," Brittany murmurs against her ear, cradling Santana close to her body and rocking back and forth gently. "It was just a bad dream. You're okay, you're okay, you're okay."
"I thought I locked the window," Santana mumbles practically incoherently into Brittany's shoulder, her voice muffled by tears and sleep and the fabric of her friend's shirt. "I thought I locked it."
"You did," Brittany reassures her, reaching up to stroke her hair.
"Then how did he get in?" Santana manages to choke out in between sobs.
"How did who get in?" Brittany asks in confusion. "No one else is here; it's just you and me."
"No one else is here," Santana repeats as the fog of sleep begins to lift from her brain and she picks up her head to look into the area of her room behind Brittany and finds nothing but emptiness. "Oh, thank God," she breathes before pressing her face back into the softness of Brittany's shirt.
"Are you okay now?" Brittany asks, her voice shaking.
"Yeah," she whispers, "I'm really sorry I scared you."
Brittany swallows hard. "It's alright. I'm just glad you're awake now," she says before lying back down without even bothering to break their embrace.
Santana sniffles, "Yeah, me too."
"Do you want to tell me about it?" Brittany pries gently, drawing back a little from Santana so that she can look at her.
"There's nothing to talk about," Santana answers, quickly closing the gap between them by nuzzling her head into the crook of Brittany's neck. "It was just a really horrible dream."
Brittany's quiet for so long that Santana thinks that maybe she's drifted off back to sleep, but then she feels Brittany's fingertips begin to rub at the base of her neck and she hears her whisper. "Who were you so afraid of, San?"
Santana doesn't answer, instead allowing the silence to speak for her and convince Brittany that she's already gone back to sleep.
****
At first, it's easy enough to ignore the blaring red circle on her calendar marking what should have been but wasn't. She's never been terribly regular thanks to grueling Cheerios practices and a diet that alternates between consuming nothing but Coach Sylvester's terrible concoction and binging on every carbohydrate she can find. She's lulled into a false sense of security by incredibly sore breasts and an occasional twinge low in her belly. She easily convinces herself that she's just late because she's stressed as hell and exhausted. But then the crippling nausea sets in and she's so incredibly tired that she resorts to curling up on chairs during glee practice and resting her head in Brittany's lap. One month turns into two and suddenly the blaring red circles on her calendar are all she can think about.
"Shit," she mumbles early one morning, untangling herself from Brittany's tight embrace before running to the bathroom. She barely gets the toilet lid up before she starts to gag violently, mentally adding chicken salad to the list of things she no longer eats.
"San?" Brittany's voice is groggy and confused, but she's behind her almost immediately, pulling back her hair and tracing light, soothing circles on her back.
"Ugh," Santana groans, pressing her body to the cool tile floor once she's done. "Must be that virus that's going around." Brittany swallows hard and nods in agreement, but even through her bleary eyes Santana can tell she's not entirely convinced so she adds, "Fuckin' Puck."
This elicits a slight smile from Brittany and she reaches over to push a sweaty strand of hair off of Santana's forehead. "Only bad things come from making out with Puck."
She catches Brittany's hand in her own. "I hope I don't get you sick," Santana says, even though she knows her nausea is not contagious.
Brittany shrugs and lies down beside her on the floor, absently running her hand up and down Santana's back. "It doesn't matter." It comes out so earnestly that a lump rises in Santana's throat and, for a minute, she thinks that maybe lying to Brittany is more painful than telling her the truth.
It takes another week of exhaustion, vomiting, sore breasts and the lovely added bonus of having to pee every five minutes before Santana finally works up the nerve to take a test. She locks herself in her bathroom and digs to the very back of the cabinet where she knows there's still one of Quinn's unused tests left over from the year before. The blonde had given up on praying for a negative result after her fifth positive and left the final test unused.
"Fuck," she curses, staring at the glaringly obvious positive test. Suddenly, forgetting doesn't seem so easy.