FIC: Say Good-Bye to This Heart Of Mine - Glee, Rachel/Santana (1/4)
TITLE: Say Good-Bye to This Heart Of Mine (1/4)
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
GENRE: Rachel/Santana, mentions of Brittany/Santana; Rachel/Finn, Santana/Puck - Glee
RATING: Mature
WORD COUNT: Around 14500
SUMMARY: It's her and Rachel Berry against the fucking world.
NOTES: AU/Future!Fic. This is gilligankane's fault. And I also blame reading 'The Zombie Survival Guide' recently.
WARNINGS: Character Death. And as much as it seems like it, this isn't really a zombie fic. But it's dark. Hopefully you'll trust me enough to read it.
QuickLinks: Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV
PART I
--
Every aching wound will cauterize and bruise
In memory of what we used to call in love
And only time will tell if violins will swell
In memory of what we used to call in love
Used to call in love
-Fell In Love Without You, Motion City Soundtrack
--
"Do you ever think about them?" Rachel's voice, barely more than a whisper, drifts through the darkness. She's quiet, but Santana still tenses, teeth grinding as she lies still and listens for any answering groans; the shuffling of steps.
There is nothing. Not crickets. Not birds. Nothing but the quiet of the night in a world that stinks like death.
She can't relax; she's forgotten how. But she exhales slowly and tightens her grip on the handle of her machete. "Who?" she finally asks, eyes open and locked onto the ceiling, feeling the brush of Rachel's arm as the other girl reaches up to scratch an itch on her nose.
Rachel is quiet for a moment, and even at barely a decibel, her tone is melodic as she quietly elaborates. "You know who."
Santana's breath catches. She swallows down hard. Rachel always gets like this at night. She's supposed to be sleeping; conserving her energy so they can move in the daytime. Instead, Rachel transforms. She stops being the woman who travels with Santana; fights with Santana, and becomes the girl she was; romantic and whimsical and dreaming of a world that doesn’t exist anymore. Of a world that seems like a god-damned dream.
The anger that she absorbs feels like a slow burn.
"No," she says sharply. "Now shut up and get some sleep."
Santana can hear an uneven breath before Rachel shifts against her. An arm smoothes across her shoulder and suddenly she feels the warmth and weight of Rachel Berry pressed into her side.
Rachel's lip brushes the outer shell of her ear as she resettles.
"It's funny isn't it?" Rachel says quietly. "How much you can forget?" Santana doesn't respond. She doesn't have to. "Santana, I'm afraid I've forgotten how to sing."
Two years ago, a lifetime ago, Santana would have sneered at such a ludicrous statement. She would have taken the heartfelt admission and given it no importance; instead of support she would have offered disdain and mockery, and everyone would be okay with it because it's just high school and Rachel Berry had it coming. In the past, she didn't need Rachel Berry, because there was a blond by her side who loved her no matter what she did.
But it's the present, not the past, and instead of all this Santana feels tears sting the back of her eyes and a hard lump form in her throat. She exhales unsteadily and with a slight motion, turns her head, until her forehead rests against Rachel's hair and her nose inhales the heavily human scent of a woman in need of a shower.
"Me too."
The word is mumbled, barely audible, but Rachel finds strength in it. She shifts in tighter until they're molded together: hips tilted against hips, breasts fitted between breasts, and Santana can feel the soft breath of another woman moist underneath her jaw.
They're clinging to each other on hard floor like Siamese twins and it's so damn vulnerable Santana wants to shudder.
She doesn't.
Rachel Berry is all she has left, and in their new horror of a world, it's exactly what she needs.
--
Santana's world changes in exactly two and a half minutes, when Rachel Berry accidentally saves her life, by pulling her into the empty Glee choir room.
Santana is a senior, head cheerleader, and aside from a spat with Brittany, on top of the damn world. She's months away from graduating, months away from leaving Lima and taking Brittany with her. Months away from the start of her brand new life.
Nothing else seems to matter when she crosses her arms and glares at the panicky diva who, has decided that now is the time to lecture Santana on her amorous ways.
"Touch me again and die," Santana snarls without greeting.
Rachel goes on, undeterred. "You can't keep doing this," she says, posture perfect even as her fingers cling to her own skirt nervously.
Santana's perfect brow furrows. It'd be amusing if it weren't so infuriating that Rachel Berry is actually attempting to tell her what to do. "Excuse me?"
"We're a week away from Regionals," Rachel's voice grows firm; bossy. "We need to be one cohesive unit if we have a prayer of beating Vocal Adrenaline." Santana doesn't bother to disguise her disgusted sigh, causing Rachel's eyes to flash in reaction. "And the last thing we need is a bi-sexual love triangle tearing Glee Club apart."
Santana's smirk stalls. Her eyes dart up and lock onto Rachel's. The other girl doesn't shrink back at all. Instead she squares her shoulders and tilts her chin up, looking damn fucking proud of herself.
The fabric of Santana's uniform suddenly itches. Her face burns. Hands curl into fists as she answers coolly, "You have no idea what you're talking about."
That's meant to be a warning, and it's more than most people would get. Santana may be pissed, but she isn't stupid. She understands that putting Rachel Berry in the hospital a week before Regionals would earn her the ire of the entire Glee Club, which she normally wouldn't give a damn about, except for that part of her that wants desperately to win too.
It's the only reason Rachel is getting any sort of leniency for daring to call her on the mess she's in with Brittany and Mike. For daring to voice it at all.
"Don’t I?" Wearing a smug expression that is just begging to be punched, Rachel only steps closer. "Mike's tripping over his steps, scared to even come near you and Brittany keeps faking about being sick; she's not even trying to sing anymore! And you're increasingly desperate attempts to break them up is evolving from disruptive to destructive. The entire Glee Club can see it, and we've had enough drama. Leave them alone."
A shudder of absolute fury ripples up her spine.
"Watch it," she manages.
"Santana, no one will say this to you because no one has the guts, but as captain, I feel you should know that you're acting like a spoiled brat who lost her toy, and it's pathetic."
The slap across Rachel's face cracks like a whip.
It's over before Santana can even register she's done it, but her palm is stinging and Rachel's eyes are wide and watering. Plump lips open in shock, a delicate hand rises to the rising welt on the side of her cheek.
Santana's throat has closed on itself as they stare at each other in stunned silence.
"Did that help?" Rachel asks, fighting her tears.
"Yes."
A piercing wail, the sound of a fire alarm, rips through the hall, decimating their tension and causing Rachel to jump closer to her.
Santana shrugs her off, turning to eye the halls with bored exasperation.
"False alarm," she snipes. "Puck playing another senior prank."
But chasing after it come the screams, the pounding of panicked footsteps, and then from the hallway, an explosion that throws them both off their feet and flings them over the piano.
Santana's head cracks against the ivory keys, and she blacks out as she lands in a crumpled heap, tangled with Rachel.
She wakes up next to an unconscious Rachel with a blistering headache, second degree burns on her arm, and a lung full of ash.
What was once the hallway is now a pile of dead bodies and rubble.
Later, she'll find out that Sue Sylvester was responsible for the bomb, spouting matter-of-factly about a deadly virus that's turning people into cannibals.
"I had to stop it," she says, even though the only casualties they can find the remains of teachers and students. She's arrested.
Santana and Rachel end up in an ambulance, and she's in such a fog she can't even dial a phone to try to find Brittany.
It doesn't matter.
Her world goes to hell immediately after.
--
She sees Brittany in her dreams.
It's odd, because she misses her parents as much as she misses Brittany, but they're quiet. Brittany is not.
Santana sleeps fitfully now, but when she does manage it, there remains one constant: Brittany, wearing that Angel costume that Rachel made them both put on for her horrendously bad 'Run, Joey, Run' video. Brittany always glows.
In the months after the outbreak, Brittany was vivid: every detail was crystal clear, and though Santana could never touch her, she could smell her, drink her in.
Lately, the image has grown dull; fuzzy, and privately, it scares the hell out of her.
Her eyes open the same time every morning. Santana comes out of sleep as quickly as she went into it. She's warm. Rachel's still molded against her, but her body feels heavier now. She's a deep sleeper, unlike Santana.
She untangles herself from Rachel and stretches out her stiff back. Her arms go high above her head, and she feels her vertebrate pop. She winces in reaction and brings her hands down.
Scar tissue, remnants of a burn, lines Santana's arm like one of those gloves Tina used to wear. Santana's still vain enough to hate it.
Rachel's dark hair spills over the pack they've shared as a pillow; her cheeks are pale. In this moment, she's still the girl she was: high school Rachel Berry, bossy and unconventionally beautiful.
Santana hesitates to wake her. When the errant thought flits across her mind that this is because she wants to remember, she grimaces and leans forward, gripping Rachel's shoulder and shoving.
"Come on."
Rachel stirs. Her eyes blink open, and when she stares up at Santana, her gaze is almost uncomprehending, as if she doesn't know what she's doing here.
Awareness sets in as the alertness causes her expression to darken and she pushes off the blanket. Their eyes lock and they share a small smile.
It is the only ritual they have. An unspoken acknowledgement to the truth: they've survived another night.
This morning, the look goes on too long. Santana feels herself flush, and glances away. She holds out a granola bar, and when Rachel takes it, she ignores the brush of her fingers against hers.
"We have to get moving." Rachel's voice is quiet, and it's unnerving, even now. Rachel's voice was meant to fill concert halls, not whisper into nothingness. "Have you seen them?"
Santana doesn't speak at first. She lifts her rifle into her hands and snaps the cartridge into place, glancing out the window of their temporary shack into the ghost town that they've drifted into.
It's not like it was before. They haven't run into a Crazie in days, and even then, it's just stragglers. But Santana knows better than to think they're safe, and she's made a point of staying away from any sign of people congregating.
"Not yet," she says, and hears movement behind her as Rachel puts together their things.
When Rachel starts to hum, she glances back sharply.
Rachel freezes, eyes wide as the sound cuts off in her throat. Their gazes lock, and Rachel's throat visibly bobs with her hard swallow.
It was thoughtless. Rachel hums because there's always a song inside of her. Santana knows that.
It was something that used to be celebrated.
Now, when they're the hunted, it can get her killed.
"Let's go," Santana says. Rachel ducks her head and comes forward. She slides Santana's machete into her belt, packing her like she's strapping her in for school, and offers a resolute smile.
--
Sue Sylvester's virus is real. It spreads so fast and infects people with what they eventually call 'the crazies'. Panic comes with it.
People start dying.
Then comes the quarantine.
Their ambulance never makes it to the hospital. Four blocks away, it's sideswiped by a speeding car, some maniac who is trying to get out of town.
Their driver is killed instantly. He's unwittingly driven them into the heart of the infestation.
Rachel, Santana, and an EMT named Barry stumble through a rioting section of town overrun with people in various stages of sickness. Holed up in the bathroom of a convenience store, with a stolen phone, they try to reach their parents. Brittany. Finn. Quinn. Puck.
They can't even get a dial tone. Barry, fighting a vicious cough from a bite given to him by one of the sick people rioting outside, takes a turn for a worse.
They try to take care of him. He loses consciousness after an hour, and then when Santana tries to slap him out of it, wakes up.
He turns on them with a viciousness that Santana has never seen. In a moment, he goes from hacking up a lung to lunging at her, eyes wide and bloodshot, mouth leaking fluid.
In a bloody and burnt cheerleading outfit, Santana fights for her life. She grips hard at his shoulder, keeping his teeth away from her neck, jerking up a knee between his body and her own and with a cry of absolute agony, twisting her hips to get him off of her.
It's not enough.
She hears a sickening squelch, and suddenly his eyes roll up and he drops, dead weight against her. Rachel stares down at her, frozen in shock. In her hands is a bloody bat.
"Get him off," she whispers, panting hard as she repeats the phrase, until the adrenaline gets the better of her and she begins to scream. "GET HIM OFF."
The screeching that voices her lost control seemed to regain Rachel's, and suddenly Barry the dead EMT is pulled off of her by his murderer. Rachel straddles her, grabbing hold of her, keeping her down.
"Did he bite you?"
"GET OFF."
"Stop."
"GET OFF of ME."
"STOP!" Rachel tries to hold her, but Santana's fists fly, and Rachel reels back when she connects with a fist. The other girl topples off of her.
Strangely, hitting Rachel brings her back to sanity. She's sprawled back, heart threatening to beat out of her chest, burnt body blazing in pure pain, and she has no idea what to do.
"Did he bite you?"
Sucking in a gulping breath, Santana shakes her head no. "What's happening?"
Rachel stares at her quietly.
There are no answers. Just the overwhelming panic; the pure fear.
With a jerk of her chin, Santana stares down at the dead body of the EMT. He looks like a shadow of what he was. His body is grotesquely distorted, neck swollen and veins bulging.
"Sue," Rachel breathes. "She said something about a virus…Remember? She said it was transmitting through the bite."
"That's bullshit." Sue has always been a conspiracy nut. Who else would have demanded that Brazilian Jujitsu be part of their cheerleading curriculum 'just in case'? Sue was always paranoid, but that doesn't mean she's ever right. "Goddamn," she whispers. "All those people…"
"We have to find weapons," she hears Rachel say. "Backpacks. Emergency supplies. Then we need to get to the police."
Santana's arms are raw with blisters, bandaged hurriedly by Barry and torn off again when he attacked her an hour later.
Feeling lost, Santana can only watch dumbly as Rachel gets to her knees and pulls the first-aid kit from underneath Barry's body and pulls out bandages. She crawls beside her and unwraps a gauze.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
Santana shoves her off, struggles to get to her feet. "I need to call my parents. I need to call Brittany."
"They may be dead!"
"Shut up!"
"Santana, I'm worried too, but look outside! This is real! We could die! He just tried to kill us!"
Santana stares at her, Rachel Berry with her wide, scared eyes and bossy, shrill voice. "And what, you want us to survive this together? Grab some guns and a backpack and pretend we're in the new Resident Evil movie?"
Rachel's chin come up, and after three years in Glee club, she understands the expression. This is Rachel at her most serious; her most determined.
The only difference is that Rachel's eyes are shiny with unshed tears, and her lips tremble.
"Santana, this is real. We need to get out of here, make sure we're safe before we can save anyone else. This part of town is overrun. Maybe if we can get to the hospital or my dad's house…"
"I don't need you."
"We need each other. We need to get each other out." Rachel says this like she's reciting a line in some disaster movie; all drama and imaginary score behind her. It's as dramatic as Santana's ever seen.
She swallows hard, feeling cotton-mouthed and sucking in air. Rachel's lips press together in a thin frown and then with a steadying breath, shuffles forward again, ignoring Santana's hiss of pain as she plucks off Barry's mangled bandages and applies her own.
The hospital is overrun. So is the police station.
By the time they find a car and try to get to McKinley, the quarantine has begun and they're forced into a containment unit.
The rest is a blur of chaos and a struggle to survive. People die around them, but Rachel Berry and Santana Lopez don't.
They don't get infected. They don't get raped. If they get attacked, they fight back.
One year later, their environment has turned into a standard post-apocalyptic-D-movie nightmare, complete with cannibals, bandits and America the Wasteland.
It's her and Rachel Berry against the fucking world.
In her more determined moments, Santana likes to think they're kicking its ass.
--
They've turned into drifters. Two young women, attractive and alone, are bait for not just the Crazies, but the bandits. It's never safe to stay in the same place, and so they move. They stay away from cities; by now most are overrun by either bandits or crazies. They head North. The colder it gets, the less Crazies there are. It's slow going.
By an unspoken agreement, they trust no one but each other.
It's ironic that everything that made Rachel annoying has now made her vital. Her determination, her ambition, her focus and ruthlessness; it marries perfectly with those qualities inside of her, and though even now Santana won't admit it, what made her a popular bitch and Rachel an outcast seem eerily similar.
So yeah, it's her and Rachel Berry on bicycles, heading through a forest that's surprisingly warm this time of the year. They haven't seen another person in days, and they finally start to hear birds chirping, which is a very good sign.
It lightens the mood. The heaviness.
Maybe it's because of that, because it seems like just another day and it's been a year of this, that when they find a trickling stream and stop to rest, Rachel gets too comfortable and starts talking.
"Do you think we would have won?"
Santana's crouched against the stream, filling a canteen, letting the cold water splash over her hands and turning her fingers icy. She tosses Rachel a look, but the other girl isn't looking back.
Rachel is only ten feet away from her, hopping lightly on one foot and executing a perfect pirouette. Her arms extend out in front of her. In one hand, she holds a crossbow, and she uses it to bend forward, dip in the rhythm of whatever song is playing in her head.
Santana realizes what she's doing when Rachel pivots and then pauses.
She's performing the choreography to one of their Regionals pieces, a Tom Petty song called 'You Don't Know How it Feels' that Mr. Schuester made them learn.
"What are you doing?" In the year they've been alone together, they haven't done this except at night. Reminiscing about the past is forbidden. So is god-damn dancing.
"I think we would have won," Rachel says instead, and keeps going, dancing against the edge of the stream, twisting and shifting. "Do you remember this?"
"Rachel, stop it." The moment feels bittersweet, and Santana swallows it down, hoping it'll ferment into anger. Anger's easier than the memories.
"Vocal Adrenaline without Jessie wasn't as strong, and we were stronger than ever. We would have won for sure. Especially with this routine."
Her fingers have gone numb, and it hurts. Santana grimaces and stands up, dropping in the water purification tablet and screwing on the lid of her canteen.
"Does it matter?"
"It's nice to speculate."
"Forget speculation - do you still think that matters anymore?" Because it doesn't. They're living like freaking wildmen, with rifles and shotguns and bows and arrows, and Regionals seems like another lifetime ago.
And yet Rachel dances like it was yesterday. Boldly and without reservation.
She catches Santana's glare, and those plump lips pull into a smirk. "Don't tell me you don't remember it."
"We don't have time for this."
Rachel's brow arches. "Let me run with you tonight," she begins, voice low and melodic. "I'll take you on a moonlight ride. "
"Rachel."
"There's someone I used to see -"
She dances toward Santana, and grabs hold of her wrists, pulling her into her movement.
"But she don't give a damn for me-"
Despite herself, Santana finds herself reluctantly participating as Rachel's male lead, when Rachel grabs hold of her fingers and flings herself out.
"So let's get to the point-"
Rachel reels herself back in, until she's tucked underneath Santana's arm, face inches from her own, eyes locking onto hers magnetically.
There's a pause, quiet and pregnant, until Santana finds herself rolling her eyes, and answering back, "-let's roll another joint."
Rachel's returning smile is almost blinding, and suddenly they're seventeen again, as the steps fall into place, and their voices blend into a rusty, but still on-pitch harmony.
"And turn the radio loud, I'm too alone to be proud. And you don't know how it feels. You don't know how it feels to be me."
She remembers Finn's part as instinctively as she remembers her own, and as Rachel's fingers grasp hers tight and they sing to the spring like it's a captive audience, she's transformed.
She hears the music, in sync with Rachel, and it's loud and vibrant.
Their voices fade, as Rachel twirls against in her arms and then they're flush against each other.
The music in her head stops.
Santana's eyes are wide with astonishment, but the look on Rachel's is like nothing she's seen before. A heart beats between them, loud and insistent, and Santana isn't sure whose it is.
"I guess that answers that."
Rachel's mouth quirks.
"You can still sing," Santana elaborates, and the corners of Rachel's eyes crinkle.
"You can still smile." Rachel's fingers press against her lips, and the smile fades. Rachel's touch doesn't.
It's quiet, and Santana is aware of nothing but Rachel's mouth, hovering closer.
The snap of a branch is so loud it startles her, jerks her head back, and that's when she realizes that it's TOO quiet. No birds. Nothing except for a snapping branch. And then another.
Rachel's eyes dart to hers, and the fear rises like bile in her throat as they release each other and scramble, grabbing hold of their bags and bicycles.
They do what they always do, a lesson learned from months in quarantine and running - they flee.
--
Rachel makes them stop at dusk. It's stupid to travel at night. The Crazies can see better than they can, and if they're human and normal, they'd be as blind as they are.
But there's no fire. Nothing but a dug out concave of dirt that they both lie in, pressed against each other as Santana takes first watch, hand on her rifle, staring into the blackness.
A hand presses into her shoulder. "There's no one coming."
"Shut up."
"They would have caught up to us two hours ago if they had kept up. They were on foot and they can't track us at night. Get some sleep."
Santana's eyes are burning with exhaustion, but she doesn't respond. Her body remains stiff under Rachel's touch.
She hears a soft sigh, feels the breath against her bare arm.
Rachel's fingers smooth from her back to her shoulders. Fingertips delicately move across her bicep.
"You've got goosebumps."
Her teeth grind in reaction. "Rachel, shut the hell up already. It's your god-damn singing that got us into this to begin with."
Rachel's body stiffens behind her. The touch withdraws.
Santana feels her stomach clench, and she can't resist a nasty, "We would have lost."
Rachel remains quiet.
"Regionals," she goes on, unable to stop herself. "We would have lost. Do you know why?"
Rachel's body shifts against hers. "Tell me."
Santana's fingers twitch against her rifle. "You had some nerve, you know that? Lecturing me about Brittany." The name brings with it a stab of pain; she almost stumbles over it, but it helps. "When you had a fucking harem."
Rachel snorts behind her. It's undignified and so anti-Rachel Berry, it throws her off. "I have no idea what you are inferring."
"I'm inferring that you whored around like a slut," she snaps, very nearly losing her impulse to keep herself quiet. "Jesse, Finn and Puck? You went between them like a ping-pong ball."
"That's not true. I cared for them all deeply."
"You didn't give a shit about anybody. All you cared about what was how they made you feel."
"It's interesting to hear the pot calling the kettle black," Rachel responds a moment later. "Isn't that why you were so desperate to break up Brittany and Mike?"
Her eyes close as she winces. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"I know more than you think. You just assumed she'd always be there, didn't you? There for you to take advantage of. Always loyal to you like a dog until you realized Mike might someday mean more to her than you."
"Go fuck yourself."
"You got scared because you knew that no matter what Brittany was the only person in the world who could ever love you."
When the tears spill onto her cheeks, it surprises her. Her vision has gone watery without her notice, and suddenly Santana feels her head dipping, her rifle lowering, the hurt flaring deep within her to such a crescendo she can't breathe.
"… Santana."
"Go to hell," she manages, and sucks in a lungful of breath, trying hard to get herself under control.
"I'm sorry." Rachel's hips angle forward, hands against her shoulders to pull her back into a sudden crushing embrace. Santana fights it. Her eyes shut tight and her muscles flex, but then a warm mouth presses to her shoulder. She feels another kiss, open and wet, angled into the crook of her neck. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes flutter open, and she exhales raggedly. Rachel's breasts press into her back, and fingers smooth dark hair from the nape of her neck before lips slowly press just underneath her jaw, the moist swipe of a tongue against her skin causing a shudder that isn't from cold.
Hauntingly aware of the contact, Santana can't suppress the agonized moan that rips from her throat when it suddenly goes away. Rachel only shifts back to pull at her right shoulder, gently forcing Santana to shift; turn over.
Their legs tangle, and through the darkness, Santana stares with wet eyes into Rachel's dark orbs and flushed face. Delicate fingers reach up to trace Santana's bone structure, smoothing from her angled cheeks to her mouth.
The touch pauses, and Santana feels quietly overcome, until the other woman hooks her calf with her foot, and pulls her in closer.
Rachel kisses like Brittany: open and without reservation. Santana's head tilts, and when Rachel's tongue delicately swipes against her lower lip, it causes such a jolt inside her she moans, hand reaching immediately for Rachel's nape, fisting at Rachel's hair and tugging hard.
She kisses Rachel without finesse. She is clumsy and sloppy and out of practice, but Rachel sighs against her mouth and slides her arms around her, clawing at her back and drawing her closer.
She pushes, until Rachel is flat on the dank earth and she's on top, settling into Rachel's curves and kissing her deeply.
Fumbling lower, Santana reaches underneath Rachel's thighs and grabs hold of the cotton fabric of her pants, pulling wide until she is pressed intimately against Rachel's groin. When she rocks into her, Rachel breaks the kiss with a soft cry that goes deep inside her, electrifying her.
She surges forward again, grinding herself against Rachel, swallowing their mingled moans with her mouth. Rachel's hips tilt with her, finding her rhythm.
Rachel's arms press down at her back, keeping her plastered against her as they move. "Fuck," she hears, feels it against her lips, and she finds herself smirking, because maybe some part of her is rubbing off.
She breaks off the kiss to lick her way down Rachel's neck, and she feels like a flustered boy as she fumbles between them and jerks up Rachel's shirt to find her breast. The nipple is already hard, and Santana isn't gentle as she jerks with her fingers, flipping the cup over until she's palming the bare breast, rolling the dark nub between her fingers. Rachel arches into it, and Santana groans, because it's been a long time since-
Dull nails rake down her shoulders as she shifts, lifting and lowering just as quickly to blindly find the exposed breast with her mouth. Her tongue swipes against the nipple greedily.
Rachel's clawing fingers finally manage to do their work. Santana's shirt is up to just underneath her shoulders, and when Rachel whines softly, Santana jerks up, allowing Rachel to yank it over her head.
"Thank you," Rachel whispers with a hint of aggravation, like she's been trying to undress her for a while, and Santana only smirks, biting down at Rachel's petulant frown and thrusting forward again, fumbling for Rachel's shirt and skidding up, taking Rachel's bra with it as she jerks it over Rachel's head, catching Rachel's chin in the process. "Ow!"
"Sorry," Santana says immediately, but she's not, and it doesn't matter because Rachel just grabs hold of her head and brings her back down to french her, sucking her tongue so deeply into Rachel's mouth Santana feels like she's deep throating her.
Rachel shoves her bra straps down her arms with such enthusiasm it leaves scratches on her arms, and when she fumbles at her back, Santana loses patience and reaches behind to unsnap the clasp herself.
"I'll do it," she hisses against Rachel's lips, and then the bra breaks free and she presses down and shudders, as Rachel's nipples drag against hers.
It's been two fucking years, and Santana hasn't even thought about sex in that long. It's weird and unnerving, but true, because there's been nothing but death and fear and running like scared animals, and yet she feels bare breasts against hers and Rachel's tongue in her mouth and a blazing pussy pushing and grinding against her own and she realizes now that she's starved.
She's THROBBING between her legs, and it's making her movements jerky, losing her momentum as she fumbles blindly between them, snapping at the clasps of Rachel's pants and shoving down. When her palm finally presses against the damp curls between Rachel's legs, Santana freezes. Her eyes shut tight, forehead tipping against Rachel's as she groans, low and rough.
"You're so wet," she whispers, and hears Rachel whimper, fingernails digging deep into her biceps when she ventures between the folds, knuckle curving down into searing heat. She trips against Rachel's hardened clit, and Rachel spasms against her.
Her mouth finds Rachel's, lips pressed lightly to hers, eyes open and watching carefully as she dips lower, until she's sinking into Rachel Berry.
A soft sound, something like a meow, whimpers from Rachel's open mouth, before she erupts in huge, loud pants, chest rising and falling against hers. Her eyes stay focused on Santana, and she looks both lost and found and overwhelmed.
Rachel's tight. So fucking tight.
It sets off a small, insistent warning in her head. "Have you done this before?"
It's more curiosity than actual concern. Her finger shifts, rubbing against Rachel, and Rachel utters a groan, head tilting back, body rocking against her.
"Once," Rachel answers, eyes fluttering open. "Don't stop."
She doesn't. She lowers her head, swipes her tongue against Rachel's sweaty neck, and presses in another finger.
Five minutes later, impaled on Santana's fingers and tangled with her in their tiny little foxhole, Rachel comes hard. It occurs to Santana that even in orgasm, Rachel sounds like she's singing.
--
End Part I | Part II
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
GENRE: Rachel/Santana, mentions of Brittany/Santana; Rachel/Finn, Santana/Puck - Glee
RATING: Mature
WORD COUNT: Around 14500
SUMMARY: It's her and Rachel Berry against the fucking world.
NOTES: AU/Future!Fic. This is gilligankane's fault. And I also blame reading 'The Zombie Survival Guide' recently.
WARNINGS: Character Death. And as much as it seems like it, this isn't really a zombie fic. But it's dark. Hopefully you'll trust me enough to read it.
QuickLinks: Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV
PART I
--
Every aching wound will cauterize and bruise
In memory of what we used to call in love
And only time will tell if violins will swell
In memory of what we used to call in love
Used to call in love
-Fell In Love Without You, Motion City Soundtrack
--
"Do you ever think about them?" Rachel's voice, barely more than a whisper, drifts through the darkness. She's quiet, but Santana still tenses, teeth grinding as she lies still and listens for any answering groans; the shuffling of steps.
There is nothing. Not crickets. Not birds. Nothing but the quiet of the night in a world that stinks like death.
She can't relax; she's forgotten how. But she exhales slowly and tightens her grip on the handle of her machete. "Who?" she finally asks, eyes open and locked onto the ceiling, feeling the brush of Rachel's arm as the other girl reaches up to scratch an itch on her nose.
Rachel is quiet for a moment, and even at barely a decibel, her tone is melodic as she quietly elaborates. "You know who."
Santana's breath catches. She swallows down hard. Rachel always gets like this at night. She's supposed to be sleeping; conserving her energy so they can move in the daytime. Instead, Rachel transforms. She stops being the woman who travels with Santana; fights with Santana, and becomes the girl she was; romantic and whimsical and dreaming of a world that doesn’t exist anymore. Of a world that seems like a god-damned dream.
The anger that she absorbs feels like a slow burn.
"No," she says sharply. "Now shut up and get some sleep."
Santana can hear an uneven breath before Rachel shifts against her. An arm smoothes across her shoulder and suddenly she feels the warmth and weight of Rachel Berry pressed into her side.
Rachel's lip brushes the outer shell of her ear as she resettles.
"It's funny isn't it?" Rachel says quietly. "How much you can forget?" Santana doesn't respond. She doesn't have to. "Santana, I'm afraid I've forgotten how to sing."
Two years ago, a lifetime ago, Santana would have sneered at such a ludicrous statement. She would have taken the heartfelt admission and given it no importance; instead of support she would have offered disdain and mockery, and everyone would be okay with it because it's just high school and Rachel Berry had it coming. In the past, she didn't need Rachel Berry, because there was a blond by her side who loved her no matter what she did.
But it's the present, not the past, and instead of all this Santana feels tears sting the back of her eyes and a hard lump form in her throat. She exhales unsteadily and with a slight motion, turns her head, until her forehead rests against Rachel's hair and her nose inhales the heavily human scent of a woman in need of a shower.
"Me too."
The word is mumbled, barely audible, but Rachel finds strength in it. She shifts in tighter until they're molded together: hips tilted against hips, breasts fitted between breasts, and Santana can feel the soft breath of another woman moist underneath her jaw.
They're clinging to each other on hard floor like Siamese twins and it's so damn vulnerable Santana wants to shudder.
She doesn't.
Rachel Berry is all she has left, and in their new horror of a world, it's exactly what she needs.
--
Santana's world changes in exactly two and a half minutes, when Rachel Berry accidentally saves her life, by pulling her into the empty Glee choir room.
Santana is a senior, head cheerleader, and aside from a spat with Brittany, on top of the damn world. She's months away from graduating, months away from leaving Lima and taking Brittany with her. Months away from the start of her brand new life.
Nothing else seems to matter when she crosses her arms and glares at the panicky diva who, has decided that now is the time to lecture Santana on her amorous ways.
"Touch me again and die," Santana snarls without greeting.
Rachel goes on, undeterred. "You can't keep doing this," she says, posture perfect even as her fingers cling to her own skirt nervously.
Santana's perfect brow furrows. It'd be amusing if it weren't so infuriating that Rachel Berry is actually attempting to tell her what to do. "Excuse me?"
"We're a week away from Regionals," Rachel's voice grows firm; bossy. "We need to be one cohesive unit if we have a prayer of beating Vocal Adrenaline." Santana doesn't bother to disguise her disgusted sigh, causing Rachel's eyes to flash in reaction. "And the last thing we need is a bi-sexual love triangle tearing Glee Club apart."
Santana's smirk stalls. Her eyes dart up and lock onto Rachel's. The other girl doesn't shrink back at all. Instead she squares her shoulders and tilts her chin up, looking damn fucking proud of herself.
The fabric of Santana's uniform suddenly itches. Her face burns. Hands curl into fists as she answers coolly, "You have no idea what you're talking about."
That's meant to be a warning, and it's more than most people would get. Santana may be pissed, but she isn't stupid. She understands that putting Rachel Berry in the hospital a week before Regionals would earn her the ire of the entire Glee Club, which she normally wouldn't give a damn about, except for that part of her that wants desperately to win too.
It's the only reason Rachel is getting any sort of leniency for daring to call her on the mess she's in with Brittany and Mike. For daring to voice it at all.
"Don’t I?" Wearing a smug expression that is just begging to be punched, Rachel only steps closer. "Mike's tripping over his steps, scared to even come near you and Brittany keeps faking about being sick; she's not even trying to sing anymore! And you're increasingly desperate attempts to break them up is evolving from disruptive to destructive. The entire Glee Club can see it, and we've had enough drama. Leave them alone."
A shudder of absolute fury ripples up her spine.
"Watch it," she manages.
"Santana, no one will say this to you because no one has the guts, but as captain, I feel you should know that you're acting like a spoiled brat who lost her toy, and it's pathetic."
The slap across Rachel's face cracks like a whip.
It's over before Santana can even register she's done it, but her palm is stinging and Rachel's eyes are wide and watering. Plump lips open in shock, a delicate hand rises to the rising welt on the side of her cheek.
Santana's throat has closed on itself as they stare at each other in stunned silence.
"Did that help?" Rachel asks, fighting her tears.
"Yes."
A piercing wail, the sound of a fire alarm, rips through the hall, decimating their tension and causing Rachel to jump closer to her.
Santana shrugs her off, turning to eye the halls with bored exasperation.
"False alarm," she snipes. "Puck playing another senior prank."
But chasing after it come the screams, the pounding of panicked footsteps, and then from the hallway, an explosion that throws them both off their feet and flings them over the piano.
Santana's head cracks against the ivory keys, and she blacks out as she lands in a crumpled heap, tangled with Rachel.
She wakes up next to an unconscious Rachel with a blistering headache, second degree burns on her arm, and a lung full of ash.
What was once the hallway is now a pile of dead bodies and rubble.
Later, she'll find out that Sue Sylvester was responsible for the bomb, spouting matter-of-factly about a deadly virus that's turning people into cannibals.
"I had to stop it," she says, even though the only casualties they can find the remains of teachers and students. She's arrested.
Santana and Rachel end up in an ambulance, and she's in such a fog she can't even dial a phone to try to find Brittany.
It doesn't matter.
Her world goes to hell immediately after.
--
She sees Brittany in her dreams.
It's odd, because she misses her parents as much as she misses Brittany, but they're quiet. Brittany is not.
Santana sleeps fitfully now, but when she does manage it, there remains one constant: Brittany, wearing that Angel costume that Rachel made them both put on for her horrendously bad 'Run, Joey, Run' video. Brittany always glows.
In the months after the outbreak, Brittany was vivid: every detail was crystal clear, and though Santana could never touch her, she could smell her, drink her in.
Lately, the image has grown dull; fuzzy, and privately, it scares the hell out of her.
Her eyes open the same time every morning. Santana comes out of sleep as quickly as she went into it. She's warm. Rachel's still molded against her, but her body feels heavier now. She's a deep sleeper, unlike Santana.
She untangles herself from Rachel and stretches out her stiff back. Her arms go high above her head, and she feels her vertebrate pop. She winces in reaction and brings her hands down.
Scar tissue, remnants of a burn, lines Santana's arm like one of those gloves Tina used to wear. Santana's still vain enough to hate it.
Rachel's dark hair spills over the pack they've shared as a pillow; her cheeks are pale. In this moment, she's still the girl she was: high school Rachel Berry, bossy and unconventionally beautiful.
Santana hesitates to wake her. When the errant thought flits across her mind that this is because she wants to remember, she grimaces and leans forward, gripping Rachel's shoulder and shoving.
"Come on."
Rachel stirs. Her eyes blink open, and when she stares up at Santana, her gaze is almost uncomprehending, as if she doesn't know what she's doing here.
Awareness sets in as the alertness causes her expression to darken and she pushes off the blanket. Their eyes lock and they share a small smile.
It is the only ritual they have. An unspoken acknowledgement to the truth: they've survived another night.
This morning, the look goes on too long. Santana feels herself flush, and glances away. She holds out a granola bar, and when Rachel takes it, she ignores the brush of her fingers against hers.
"We have to get moving." Rachel's voice is quiet, and it's unnerving, even now. Rachel's voice was meant to fill concert halls, not whisper into nothingness. "Have you seen them?"
Santana doesn't speak at first. She lifts her rifle into her hands and snaps the cartridge into place, glancing out the window of their temporary shack into the ghost town that they've drifted into.
It's not like it was before. They haven't run into a Crazie in days, and even then, it's just stragglers. But Santana knows better than to think they're safe, and she's made a point of staying away from any sign of people congregating.
"Not yet," she says, and hears movement behind her as Rachel puts together their things.
When Rachel starts to hum, she glances back sharply.
Rachel freezes, eyes wide as the sound cuts off in her throat. Their gazes lock, and Rachel's throat visibly bobs with her hard swallow.
It was thoughtless. Rachel hums because there's always a song inside of her. Santana knows that.
It was something that used to be celebrated.
Now, when they're the hunted, it can get her killed.
"Let's go," Santana says. Rachel ducks her head and comes forward. She slides Santana's machete into her belt, packing her like she's strapping her in for school, and offers a resolute smile.
--
Sue Sylvester's virus is real. It spreads so fast and infects people with what they eventually call 'the crazies'. Panic comes with it.
People start dying.
Then comes the quarantine.
Their ambulance never makes it to the hospital. Four blocks away, it's sideswiped by a speeding car, some maniac who is trying to get out of town.
Their driver is killed instantly. He's unwittingly driven them into the heart of the infestation.
Rachel, Santana, and an EMT named Barry stumble through a rioting section of town overrun with people in various stages of sickness. Holed up in the bathroom of a convenience store, with a stolen phone, they try to reach their parents. Brittany. Finn. Quinn. Puck.
They can't even get a dial tone. Barry, fighting a vicious cough from a bite given to him by one of the sick people rioting outside, takes a turn for a worse.
They try to take care of him. He loses consciousness after an hour, and then when Santana tries to slap him out of it, wakes up.
He turns on them with a viciousness that Santana has never seen. In a moment, he goes from hacking up a lung to lunging at her, eyes wide and bloodshot, mouth leaking fluid.
In a bloody and burnt cheerleading outfit, Santana fights for her life. She grips hard at his shoulder, keeping his teeth away from her neck, jerking up a knee between his body and her own and with a cry of absolute agony, twisting her hips to get him off of her.
It's not enough.
She hears a sickening squelch, and suddenly his eyes roll up and he drops, dead weight against her. Rachel stares down at her, frozen in shock. In her hands is a bloody bat.
"Get him off," she whispers, panting hard as she repeats the phrase, until the adrenaline gets the better of her and she begins to scream. "GET HIM OFF."
The screeching that voices her lost control seemed to regain Rachel's, and suddenly Barry the dead EMT is pulled off of her by his murderer. Rachel straddles her, grabbing hold of her, keeping her down.
"Did he bite you?"
"GET OFF."
"Stop."
"GET OFF of ME."
"STOP!" Rachel tries to hold her, but Santana's fists fly, and Rachel reels back when she connects with a fist. The other girl topples off of her.
Strangely, hitting Rachel brings her back to sanity. She's sprawled back, heart threatening to beat out of her chest, burnt body blazing in pure pain, and she has no idea what to do.
"Did he bite you?"
Sucking in a gulping breath, Santana shakes her head no. "What's happening?"
Rachel stares at her quietly.
There are no answers. Just the overwhelming panic; the pure fear.
With a jerk of her chin, Santana stares down at the dead body of the EMT. He looks like a shadow of what he was. His body is grotesquely distorted, neck swollen and veins bulging.
"Sue," Rachel breathes. "She said something about a virus…Remember? She said it was transmitting through the bite."
"That's bullshit." Sue has always been a conspiracy nut. Who else would have demanded that Brazilian Jujitsu be part of their cheerleading curriculum 'just in case'? Sue was always paranoid, but that doesn't mean she's ever right. "Goddamn," she whispers. "All those people…"
"We have to find weapons," she hears Rachel say. "Backpacks. Emergency supplies. Then we need to get to the police."
Santana's arms are raw with blisters, bandaged hurriedly by Barry and torn off again when he attacked her an hour later.
Feeling lost, Santana can only watch dumbly as Rachel gets to her knees and pulls the first-aid kit from underneath Barry's body and pulls out bandages. She crawls beside her and unwraps a gauze.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
Santana shoves her off, struggles to get to her feet. "I need to call my parents. I need to call Brittany."
"They may be dead!"
"Shut up!"
"Santana, I'm worried too, but look outside! This is real! We could die! He just tried to kill us!"
Santana stares at her, Rachel Berry with her wide, scared eyes and bossy, shrill voice. "And what, you want us to survive this together? Grab some guns and a backpack and pretend we're in the new Resident Evil movie?"
Rachel's chin come up, and after three years in Glee club, she understands the expression. This is Rachel at her most serious; her most determined.
The only difference is that Rachel's eyes are shiny with unshed tears, and her lips tremble.
"Santana, this is real. We need to get out of here, make sure we're safe before we can save anyone else. This part of town is overrun. Maybe if we can get to the hospital or my dad's house…"
"I don't need you."
"We need each other. We need to get each other out." Rachel says this like she's reciting a line in some disaster movie; all drama and imaginary score behind her. It's as dramatic as Santana's ever seen.
She swallows hard, feeling cotton-mouthed and sucking in air. Rachel's lips press together in a thin frown and then with a steadying breath, shuffles forward again, ignoring Santana's hiss of pain as she plucks off Barry's mangled bandages and applies her own.
The hospital is overrun. So is the police station.
By the time they find a car and try to get to McKinley, the quarantine has begun and they're forced into a containment unit.
The rest is a blur of chaos and a struggle to survive. People die around them, but Rachel Berry and Santana Lopez don't.
They don't get infected. They don't get raped. If they get attacked, they fight back.
One year later, their environment has turned into a standard post-apocalyptic-D-movie nightmare, complete with cannibals, bandits and America the Wasteland.
It's her and Rachel Berry against the fucking world.
In her more determined moments, Santana likes to think they're kicking its ass.
--
They've turned into drifters. Two young women, attractive and alone, are bait for not just the Crazies, but the bandits. It's never safe to stay in the same place, and so they move. They stay away from cities; by now most are overrun by either bandits or crazies. They head North. The colder it gets, the less Crazies there are. It's slow going.
By an unspoken agreement, they trust no one but each other.
It's ironic that everything that made Rachel annoying has now made her vital. Her determination, her ambition, her focus and ruthlessness; it marries perfectly with those qualities inside of her, and though even now Santana won't admit it, what made her a popular bitch and Rachel an outcast seem eerily similar.
So yeah, it's her and Rachel Berry on bicycles, heading through a forest that's surprisingly warm this time of the year. They haven't seen another person in days, and they finally start to hear birds chirping, which is a very good sign.
It lightens the mood. The heaviness.
Maybe it's because of that, because it seems like just another day and it's been a year of this, that when they find a trickling stream and stop to rest, Rachel gets too comfortable and starts talking.
"Do you think we would have won?"
Santana's crouched against the stream, filling a canteen, letting the cold water splash over her hands and turning her fingers icy. She tosses Rachel a look, but the other girl isn't looking back.
Rachel is only ten feet away from her, hopping lightly on one foot and executing a perfect pirouette. Her arms extend out in front of her. In one hand, she holds a crossbow, and she uses it to bend forward, dip in the rhythm of whatever song is playing in her head.
Santana realizes what she's doing when Rachel pivots and then pauses.
She's performing the choreography to one of their Regionals pieces, a Tom Petty song called 'You Don't Know How it Feels' that Mr. Schuester made them learn.
"What are you doing?" In the year they've been alone together, they haven't done this except at night. Reminiscing about the past is forbidden. So is god-damn dancing.
"I think we would have won," Rachel says instead, and keeps going, dancing against the edge of the stream, twisting and shifting. "Do you remember this?"
"Rachel, stop it." The moment feels bittersweet, and Santana swallows it down, hoping it'll ferment into anger. Anger's easier than the memories.
"Vocal Adrenaline without Jessie wasn't as strong, and we were stronger than ever. We would have won for sure. Especially with this routine."
Her fingers have gone numb, and it hurts. Santana grimaces and stands up, dropping in the water purification tablet and screwing on the lid of her canteen.
"Does it matter?"
"It's nice to speculate."
"Forget speculation - do you still think that matters anymore?" Because it doesn't. They're living like freaking wildmen, with rifles and shotguns and bows and arrows, and Regionals seems like another lifetime ago.
And yet Rachel dances like it was yesterday. Boldly and without reservation.
She catches Santana's glare, and those plump lips pull into a smirk. "Don't tell me you don't remember it."
"We don't have time for this."
Rachel's brow arches. "Let me run with you tonight," she begins, voice low and melodic. "I'll take you on a moonlight ride. "
"Rachel."
"There's someone I used to see -"
She dances toward Santana, and grabs hold of her wrists, pulling her into her movement.
"But she don't give a damn for me-"
Despite herself, Santana finds herself reluctantly participating as Rachel's male lead, when Rachel grabs hold of her fingers and flings herself out.
"So let's get to the point-"
Rachel reels herself back in, until she's tucked underneath Santana's arm, face inches from her own, eyes locking onto hers magnetically.
There's a pause, quiet and pregnant, until Santana finds herself rolling her eyes, and answering back, "-let's roll another joint."
Rachel's returning smile is almost blinding, and suddenly they're seventeen again, as the steps fall into place, and their voices blend into a rusty, but still on-pitch harmony.
"And turn the radio loud, I'm too alone to be proud. And you don't know how it feels. You don't know how it feels to be me."
She remembers Finn's part as instinctively as she remembers her own, and as Rachel's fingers grasp hers tight and they sing to the spring like it's a captive audience, she's transformed.
She hears the music, in sync with Rachel, and it's loud and vibrant.
Their voices fade, as Rachel twirls against in her arms and then they're flush against each other.
The music in her head stops.
Santana's eyes are wide with astonishment, but the look on Rachel's is like nothing she's seen before. A heart beats between them, loud and insistent, and Santana isn't sure whose it is.
"I guess that answers that."
Rachel's mouth quirks.
"You can still sing," Santana elaborates, and the corners of Rachel's eyes crinkle.
"You can still smile." Rachel's fingers press against her lips, and the smile fades. Rachel's touch doesn't.
It's quiet, and Santana is aware of nothing but Rachel's mouth, hovering closer.
The snap of a branch is so loud it startles her, jerks her head back, and that's when she realizes that it's TOO quiet. No birds. Nothing except for a snapping branch. And then another.
Rachel's eyes dart to hers, and the fear rises like bile in her throat as they release each other and scramble, grabbing hold of their bags and bicycles.
They do what they always do, a lesson learned from months in quarantine and running - they flee.
--
Rachel makes them stop at dusk. It's stupid to travel at night. The Crazies can see better than they can, and if they're human and normal, they'd be as blind as they are.
But there's no fire. Nothing but a dug out concave of dirt that they both lie in, pressed against each other as Santana takes first watch, hand on her rifle, staring into the blackness.
A hand presses into her shoulder. "There's no one coming."
"Shut up."
"They would have caught up to us two hours ago if they had kept up. They were on foot and they can't track us at night. Get some sleep."
Santana's eyes are burning with exhaustion, but she doesn't respond. Her body remains stiff under Rachel's touch.
She hears a soft sigh, feels the breath against her bare arm.
Rachel's fingers smooth from her back to her shoulders. Fingertips delicately move across her bicep.
"You've got goosebumps."
Her teeth grind in reaction. "Rachel, shut the hell up already. It's your god-damn singing that got us into this to begin with."
Rachel's body stiffens behind her. The touch withdraws.
Santana feels her stomach clench, and she can't resist a nasty, "We would have lost."
Rachel remains quiet.
"Regionals," she goes on, unable to stop herself. "We would have lost. Do you know why?"
Rachel's body shifts against hers. "Tell me."
Santana's fingers twitch against her rifle. "You had some nerve, you know that? Lecturing me about Brittany." The name brings with it a stab of pain; she almost stumbles over it, but it helps. "When you had a fucking harem."
Rachel snorts behind her. It's undignified and so anti-Rachel Berry, it throws her off. "I have no idea what you are inferring."
"I'm inferring that you whored around like a slut," she snaps, very nearly losing her impulse to keep herself quiet. "Jesse, Finn and Puck? You went between them like a ping-pong ball."
"That's not true. I cared for them all deeply."
"You didn't give a shit about anybody. All you cared about what was how they made you feel."
"It's interesting to hear the pot calling the kettle black," Rachel responds a moment later. "Isn't that why you were so desperate to break up Brittany and Mike?"
Her eyes close as she winces. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"I know more than you think. You just assumed she'd always be there, didn't you? There for you to take advantage of. Always loyal to you like a dog until you realized Mike might someday mean more to her than you."
"Go fuck yourself."
"You got scared because you knew that no matter what Brittany was the only person in the world who could ever love you."
When the tears spill onto her cheeks, it surprises her. Her vision has gone watery without her notice, and suddenly Santana feels her head dipping, her rifle lowering, the hurt flaring deep within her to such a crescendo she can't breathe.
"… Santana."
"Go to hell," she manages, and sucks in a lungful of breath, trying hard to get herself under control.
"I'm sorry." Rachel's hips angle forward, hands against her shoulders to pull her back into a sudden crushing embrace. Santana fights it. Her eyes shut tight and her muscles flex, but then a warm mouth presses to her shoulder. She feels another kiss, open and wet, angled into the crook of her neck. "I'm sorry."
Her eyes flutter open, and she exhales raggedly. Rachel's breasts press into her back, and fingers smooth dark hair from the nape of her neck before lips slowly press just underneath her jaw, the moist swipe of a tongue against her skin causing a shudder that isn't from cold.
Hauntingly aware of the contact, Santana can't suppress the agonized moan that rips from her throat when it suddenly goes away. Rachel only shifts back to pull at her right shoulder, gently forcing Santana to shift; turn over.
Their legs tangle, and through the darkness, Santana stares with wet eyes into Rachel's dark orbs and flushed face. Delicate fingers reach up to trace Santana's bone structure, smoothing from her angled cheeks to her mouth.
The touch pauses, and Santana feels quietly overcome, until the other woman hooks her calf with her foot, and pulls her in closer.
Rachel kisses like Brittany: open and without reservation. Santana's head tilts, and when Rachel's tongue delicately swipes against her lower lip, it causes such a jolt inside her she moans, hand reaching immediately for Rachel's nape, fisting at Rachel's hair and tugging hard.
She kisses Rachel without finesse. She is clumsy and sloppy and out of practice, but Rachel sighs against her mouth and slides her arms around her, clawing at her back and drawing her closer.
She pushes, until Rachel is flat on the dank earth and she's on top, settling into Rachel's curves and kissing her deeply.
Fumbling lower, Santana reaches underneath Rachel's thighs and grabs hold of the cotton fabric of her pants, pulling wide until she is pressed intimately against Rachel's groin. When she rocks into her, Rachel breaks the kiss with a soft cry that goes deep inside her, electrifying her.
She surges forward again, grinding herself against Rachel, swallowing their mingled moans with her mouth. Rachel's hips tilt with her, finding her rhythm.
Rachel's arms press down at her back, keeping her plastered against her as they move. "Fuck," she hears, feels it against her lips, and she finds herself smirking, because maybe some part of her is rubbing off.
She breaks off the kiss to lick her way down Rachel's neck, and she feels like a flustered boy as she fumbles between them and jerks up Rachel's shirt to find her breast. The nipple is already hard, and Santana isn't gentle as she jerks with her fingers, flipping the cup over until she's palming the bare breast, rolling the dark nub between her fingers. Rachel arches into it, and Santana groans, because it's been a long time since-
Dull nails rake down her shoulders as she shifts, lifting and lowering just as quickly to blindly find the exposed breast with her mouth. Her tongue swipes against the nipple greedily.
Rachel's clawing fingers finally manage to do their work. Santana's shirt is up to just underneath her shoulders, and when Rachel whines softly, Santana jerks up, allowing Rachel to yank it over her head.
"Thank you," Rachel whispers with a hint of aggravation, like she's been trying to undress her for a while, and Santana only smirks, biting down at Rachel's petulant frown and thrusting forward again, fumbling for Rachel's shirt and skidding up, taking Rachel's bra with it as she jerks it over Rachel's head, catching Rachel's chin in the process. "Ow!"
"Sorry," Santana says immediately, but she's not, and it doesn't matter because Rachel just grabs hold of her head and brings her back down to french her, sucking her tongue so deeply into Rachel's mouth Santana feels like she's deep throating her.
Rachel shoves her bra straps down her arms with such enthusiasm it leaves scratches on her arms, and when she fumbles at her back, Santana loses patience and reaches behind to unsnap the clasp herself.
"I'll do it," she hisses against Rachel's lips, and then the bra breaks free and she presses down and shudders, as Rachel's nipples drag against hers.
It's been two fucking years, and Santana hasn't even thought about sex in that long. It's weird and unnerving, but true, because there's been nothing but death and fear and running like scared animals, and yet she feels bare breasts against hers and Rachel's tongue in her mouth and a blazing pussy pushing and grinding against her own and she realizes now that she's starved.
She's THROBBING between her legs, and it's making her movements jerky, losing her momentum as she fumbles blindly between them, snapping at the clasps of Rachel's pants and shoving down. When her palm finally presses against the damp curls between Rachel's legs, Santana freezes. Her eyes shut tight, forehead tipping against Rachel's as she groans, low and rough.
"You're so wet," she whispers, and hears Rachel whimper, fingernails digging deep into her biceps when she ventures between the folds, knuckle curving down into searing heat. She trips against Rachel's hardened clit, and Rachel spasms against her.
Her mouth finds Rachel's, lips pressed lightly to hers, eyes open and watching carefully as she dips lower, until she's sinking into Rachel Berry.
A soft sound, something like a meow, whimpers from Rachel's open mouth, before she erupts in huge, loud pants, chest rising and falling against hers. Her eyes stay focused on Santana, and she looks both lost and found and overwhelmed.
Rachel's tight. So fucking tight.
It sets off a small, insistent warning in her head. "Have you done this before?"
It's more curiosity than actual concern. Her finger shifts, rubbing against Rachel, and Rachel utters a groan, head tilting back, body rocking against her.
"Once," Rachel answers, eyes fluttering open. "Don't stop."
She doesn't. She lowers her head, swipes her tongue against Rachel's sweaty neck, and presses in another finger.
Five minutes later, impaled on Santana's fingers and tangled with her in their tiny little foxhole, Rachel comes hard. It occurs to Santana that even in orgasm, Rachel sounds like she's singing.
--
End Part I | Part II