FIC: Lovers In a Dangerous Time - Glee, Rachel/Santana (1/2) - Complete
TITLE: Lovers in a Dangerous Time
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
GENRE: Glee
PAIRING: Rachel/Santana
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: ~14,400
SUMMARY: The feeling that's begun to spread is so fragile Rachel doesn't want to name it, not at first. But as time has passed, days have fallen into months, she recognizes it as hope.
NOTES: A follow-up to my previous Rachel/Santana effort Say Good-Bye to This Heart of Mine, in which, in a Post-Apocalyptic world overrun by zombies (yes, zombies), Rachel and Santana lost everyone, but found each other.
__
I had some nightmares,
Clawing at my skin and bones
I nearly did explode
You smoked the demons
Gave me back my feelings
Now I am good to go
- This is For Real, Motion City Soundtrack
Since she was a toddler, chubby-legged and too short, Rachel Berry has known who she is.
That knowledge has been her constant companion for years, holding her posture straight and keeping her mouth from trembling, even when she is told no, over and over again. No, she's too tiny to be a dancer. No, her nose isn't quite right. No, the role requires a blond. No, she's too loud. No, she's too young. No, she's too earnest. No, she's too annoying.
The no's never stop, and Rachel doesn't either, because instinctively she knows what she is: a survivor.
She survives auditions and she survives high school, even with the melting ice of slushies trickling down her neck, pornographic pictures scribbled on the girl's bathroom wall. She survives the heartbreak of Jesse St. James and the sudden appearance and disappearance of a woman who would be her mother only in the vaguest sense of the word.
She survives all that for no other reason than that is what she does. It's clear that these are all trials and tests because Rachel Berry is meant for something better.
She never imagined that the term would ever become so literal.
Rachel Berry is a survivor, one of very few who have lived through an infestation of sickness that has been nicknamed 'the Crazies' and torn her very world apart.
Instead of the stage she had always imagined would be her home, Rachel Berry has a class room in a campus that has been turned into a military base. Trickling in and out of her room are the hope of the future: children, some feral and wild, others traumatized and frightened, who have survived, just like her. Just like her, they've lost parents and friends and family.
They're lost and scared, but in them, Rachel sees the exact same traits as she saw in herself.
Chaos has enveloped her life so thoroughly and it has given her the mixed blessing of never dwelling on the future. So much of her energy has been focused on the present, on surviving, that whatever quiet moments, however few they were, have usually been spent on mourning for the past.
Now, it's different. She's no longer sleeping on hard ground, clutching a rifle, huddling close to Santana, desperate to survive yet another day.
Now there's this base, heavily armed, protected from Crazies and Bandits and within it, there's a community; small but growing every day with people like her. Civilians who've put down their rifles, shot guns and cross bows and are struggling to remember exactly how it is to live again.
The feeling that's begun to spread is so fragile Rachel doesn't want to name it, not at first. But as time has passed, days have fallen into months, she recognizes it as hope.
"Hey."
Rachel's thoughts break easily, distraction coming in the welcome form of Santana Lopez, who strides across the grass towards her in combat boots, green cargo pants and a faded green tank top, a semi-automatic rifle slung over her shoulder.
For a moment, just a moment, Rachel sees a Cheerios uniform, red and white and plastered to her just as tightly, in its place.
She blinks and the vision fades, and it's her Santana still headed to her, with dark sunglasses and dark hair held loosely in a ponytail that falls over her shoulder, the outline of a tattoo peaking out underneath the tank top, ink spanning against her shoulder and over her bicep.
The image is both feminine and butch, but it's what Rachel knows. It's who Rachel knows.
She breaks into a smile, and shifts automatically on the blanket, making room as Santana lets the rifle drop from her shoulder and places it on the grass beside them, settling down.
"Hi," Rachel says, and then Santana's leaning over, until their mouths meet. Santana's kisses have never been chaste or just friendly. She kisses with purpose. She always has, because Rachel understands that Santana's kisses say everything Santana never will say with words.
The light press of her tongue swiping gently against Rachel's, the heady breath Santana takes in as she presses in further, the way Santana's lips stay clung to hers, drawing out the embrace, it all tells Rachel quite clearly that Santana's happy to see her, that she missed her.
Two years of traveling with Santana, sleeping with Santana, running with Santana, surviving with her has given Rachel fluency in Santana's own language, but this… the physical intimacy that comes with the recognition of being in love with her… this is new.
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes shine, but she feels oddly shy, smile bashful as the kiss breaks.
It means something, something desperately important, that almost every moment of pure happiness that has flooded through Rachel in the last couple of years has been directly linked to her ever evolving relationship with Santana.
"Sorry I'm late," Santana says, but she's not really, and Rachel just rolls her eyes, because Santana's already reaching for the wrapped paper in front of them.
"You're always late," Rachel says, but she stretches out her hand and grabs hold of the bottled water and pieces of fruit she's been able to find, letting Santana pick apart one of the paper-wrapped sandwiches and take a hearty bite.
In another lifetime, another world, Santana was a cheerleader, who didn't eat because being light meant the difference between being Sue Sylvester's favored cheerleader, and being shoved off the squad.
Now, Santana's slender form is toned with wiry muscle and she's stick-thin, but it isn't from choice. Compared to the scavenged scraps of food they lived on during their months on the run, this is a feast.
"How was training?" Rachel asks, and it's absurdly domestic and almost silly, to have this conversation with Santana. The other woman seems to think so as well, because she just swallows hard and winces, grabbing hold of the water bottle Rachel hands to her and chugging.
"It was bullshit," Santana answers. A grimace curls onto her lips as her arm slides against Rachel's back, until she's loosely pressed against her, eyes on the grassy knoll before them. "How were the brats?"
"Trainable." Another day, Rachel might argue with Santana, because her kids aren't brats. They're deeply traumatized and scarred, and many of them lack the social skills that they need to interact with other students, to learn in a healthy environment. "Actually, I'm thinking of putting together a musical for them."
Santana's head turns as she takes another bite of her sandwich, and even through her dark sunglasses, Rachel can see the dramatic eye-roll.
"It'd be good for them," she says, flushing hotly, more defensive than she wants to be. "It'll give them something to focus on, and teach them to have confidence in themselves. The therapeutic merits of performing-"
Santana's arm squeezes at her waist. "Rachel," she says, low and quiet and almost bored.
"What?" she snaps.
"Shut up." Santana glances at her; a quiet smile flits onto her lips. "It's a good idea."
It takes a moment to sink in, but the sudden elation fills Rachel, quiets her with pride that pulses through her and makes her feel somehow cherished.
"Really?"
"Really. But if there's a kid in there that signs her name with a gold star, run."
Santana's smirk is infectious, and despite Rachel's need to huff, pinch Santana in her side, and knock into her with her shoulder, she feels her cheeks burning with affection.
They fall into quiet, eating their shared lunch, watching the activity on the glass before them. It's habit with them. Rachel's way has always been with words, but survival instinct has tamped it down inside of her. There have been too many instances when being absolutely still is what saved their lives.
At her most comfortable, Santana doesn't speak, so it is a surprise when Santana is the one to break the silence.
"Finn's getting married."
She says it so quickly, in a rush of air and Rachel is almost sure it's meant to come off as casual. When Rachel glances at her girlfriend, her… lover, really, Santana is picking at what's left of her sandwich.
Suddenly unable to eat, Rachel puts hers back on the blanket. "I know," she begins, careful in her intonation. Santana's head swivels, gaze heated on hers. "He told me," she explains, pushing her bangs back over her ear. "When he was planning on proposing. Well," she amended, because Santana's still staring at her and it feels like Rachel's holding back. "He asked me." Her smile erupts quickly, gone in a flash. "How I would feel about it."
It had been an awkward conversation, in all actuality. One that Rachel never quite expected to have with Finn, her high school sweetheart, the boy she once thought she might someday marry, who told her about a girl he had grown close to before he had rediscovered Rachel, grown close to again in the short time since, when it became clear that Rachel's heart had been seized already.
She doesn't linger on the memory, because she's aware now of Santana's posture, stiff against hers, as if ready to pull away. "How do you feel about it?"
Santana's insecurity, her obvious jealousy would be silly if it wasn't for the fact that this is Finn.
Rachel's movements are deliberate, even as her heart trips unsteadily, as she leans into Santana's shoulder and tilts her forehead against Santana's cheek. It's intimate and loving, and though Santana doesn't respond, Rachel can hear the hard swallow that bobs down Santana's throat.
"Relieved, honestly," she sighs, and feels the way Santana's breath exhales unsteadily, feels it brush against her nose. "It's good that he's moved on." Her fingers thread the pattern of the blanket between them. "I'm happy for him. It seems fast, but it sounds like he's been on the verge of falling for this girl for a while and just kept holding back, and now..."
"Now what?"
"Now there's no reason to." Because even though Finn never quite said it, the reason why he was holding back was Rachel. And now, even though Rachel was alive and through some God-given miracle, they were reunited, the muddiness had cleared. Whatever hope that was in Finn's heart, in hers, it was dead and buried because Rachel had been able to live without Finn.
It had been a surprise and a revelation to discover that the one person she can't live without is Santana Lopez.
And maybe she is getting good at this: Santana's unspoken language, because even though Santana doesn't say that she's nervous, that she may have been afraid that Rachel would suddenly decide she has chosen wrongly, Rachel feels those emotions in the way Santana's head turns ever so slightly against hers, in the way she presses in just a little bit tighter.
In the way Santana suddenly exhales loudly, like she has been holding her breath.
Santana shifts, suddenly dropping back, until she's splayed back on the grass. Without looking, she reaches for Rachel, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her down with her, until they fit together in a way that seems almost instinctual.
For the longest time, being in this position, with her head on Santana's bony shoulder and her leg tangled up in hers, was the only way Rachel truly felt safe.
"There's a lot of that going around," Santana says a moment later, tone casual and indifferent. "The marrying thing."
"It's the new pastor," Rachel responds softly, distractedly stroking the faded fabric of Santana's tank, painting circles against her stomach with her index finger. Bob Baker, who had arrived only a month earlier with his ragged band of Christians and his Bible, had set up a small church in the compound. With his arrival, came a mini revival of faith.
"Seems stupid to me."
"What do you mean?"
Santana's fingers dip lightly into her neck, tangling into her hair, massaging lightly at her nape. "Does marriage even exist anymore?"
The question is a strange one. "Of course it exists."
"Why? Because this guy says it does? Even if the government does recognize the licenses, we barely have a country anymore. What the hell does it all matter, anyway?"
It's classic Santana: dryness and skepticism wrapped in one attractive package. Pressed in against her, breathing her in, Rachel's heart throbs inside of her, thumps matter-of-factly at her nearness.
She sighs unsteadily. "Maybe it's the symbolism of it," she manages. "People are starting to move on with their lives. They're starting to think of the future."
"You don't need a piece of paper to know you're going to be with someone for the rest of your life."
Rachel suddenly discovers she can say nothing at all.
"Besides," Santana continues. "This nutcase wouldn't have even married your dads."
And that is true. While Rachel has nothing against faith, might have attended the worship service for the music alone, Bob Baker's views have been made clear. The infection had come to them as punishment from God, to devastate America as it had become a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah. Among the United States' many sins? Homosexuality.
It's frightening how not even an apocalypse can stamp out the utter ludicrousness of homophobia.
She finds herself suddenly overwhelmed, filled with conflicting emotions and a sudden fear for a future where some will actually share these views, searching for something, anything to blame the wreckage of their civilization on.
She reaches up and grabs hold of Santana's cheek with her palm, pulling slightly. Head lifting, she meets Santana's lips forcefully, demanding reassurance with a flick of her tongue, an open mouth and a hungry kiss.
She presses against Santana, fingers fanning against Santana's neck as her head tilts and her kiss deepens. The moan Santana emits goes through her, makes her shudder, and when she pulls away and buries her face in Santana's neck, she's afraid she might cry.
"Rachel."
Breathless, in love, and suddenly frightened beyond belief, Rachel blinks back her tears and smiles. "I should go," she whispered thickly. "Will you walk me back to class?"
Santana's mouth quirks, her gaze almost suspicious, but Rachel just brings another kiss to her mouth and detangles herself to get to her feet.
After a beat, Santana nods.
--
Though they've been assigned bunk beds; have had them since the first night they followed Finn to this base, the top bunk nearly always stays empty.
Not to say Santana doesn't have her surly, bitchy moments, or that Rachel herself doesn't have a rather crippling habit of being too dramatic or too sensitive in any given situation, but the fact remains that before she and Santana were lovers, they had been partners on the run, and in that instance, sleeping together, no matter how annoying or mean one found the other, meant the difference between life or death.
The need to be together, the need to touch each other, the itchy unsettling feeling that happens when they're away from each other is 'PTSD-bullshit', according to Santana. Rachel prefers to see it as an unbreakable bond, because somehow, all of this has tied her to Santana so intimately that Rachel wonders how she ever felt complete without her.
It's thoughts like these that sometimes come to Rachel in the night, when Rachel is awake (because her mind never stop working, even when she desperately wants it to) and Santana sleeps against her, warm and soft, chest rising and falling with noisy breaths that puff up against Rachel's ear.
In underwear and a threadbare tank, Santana's form is impossibly skinny, all angles and olive skin. In the barely there view afforded by the darkness, she looks younger and more vulnerable than Santana will ever confess to being when she's awake.
Rachel has never admitted it, not out loud, but seeing Santana like this is what tumbled Rachel's already complicated feelings into a solidified, undefeatable cascade of overwhelming love.
And yes, she's fixated on Santana, because she genuinely loves her and that's just what Rachel does with what she loves. She obsesses. She questions. She touches and worships and it's what she does now, pushing to her side and delicately moving her fingers over the blank ink of Santana's etched shoulder, tracing the rough imprint of the eagle that flies from her bicep over her shoulder, claws stretched out, ready to pounce on whatever unseen prey dances unseen along Santana's body.
The tattoo itself is new; the result of a drunken night with Santana's unit. At midnight, Santana flopped into their bed with an inked sore shoulder, muttering about being 'one of the guys' and a 'fucking bad ass'. Rachel had been appalled, until the next morning, when she saw both Puck and Finn sporting identical markings, along with other members of their military team.
She understood, then, that it was about camaraderie, soldiers-at-arms, and considering how inebriated Santana had been, she had decided to just be grateful that they had chosen a striking eagle and nothing mortifying, like a women with bare breasts.
Now, it exists as a part of Santana, and Rachel finds herself oddly protective of it, because witnessing it, tracing it, she recognizes it as part of the woman she loves, a battle scar to match the wrinkled skin on Santana's forearm, remnants of a burn.
"Stop it." The words are said thickly, slurred with sleep. Rachel's fingers still, spread against Santana's shoulder. Santana's eyes don't open. "You're doing that creepy stalker-stare thing. Stop it. Go to sleep."
There's a bite of annoyance in Santana's tone, but it's less than effective when Santana shifts in her sleepiness, keening into her touch and slinging her arm over Rachel's waist.
Unashamed, Rachel simply smiles, smoothing her fingers over Santana's prickling skin, towards Santana's strong jaw.
"Technically it's not stalking if I'm doing it in front of you."
Santana snorts, a loud rush of air that's pushed through her nostrils, making them flare. "Stalking is stalking is stalking," she mumbles, scrunching her eyes shut. "Doesn't make a difference if we're together when you do it. You're still a freak, Rachel."
The sentence is said without malice, but it comes from Santana's pouty lips, moving underneath Rachel's questing thumb, and it sounds so much like something Santana would have said to her in high school, it causes a sudden flare within her.
When her fingers stall, grow rigid over Santana's mouth, dark eyes blink open. "What?"
Santana's palm feels heavy on her waist. In her movement, she has pushed a leg between Rachel's knees and now they're tangled together, facing each other.
It's an absurdly intimate moment.
Rachel finds herself speaking before she can quite stop herself. "Do you think… if all of this hadn't happened… if there had been no infection and we hadn't been in the same room at the same time…"
"Rachel…" Santana sighs. It smacks of annoyance and growing wariness.
"Do you think there would have ever been a chance that we would have been together?"
Santana's eyes grew wider, more alert. Rachel let her fingers fall from Santana's face, because the other woman is looking at her now, really looking at her, with a flat line on her mouth and a quiet, somber expression.
It's a foolish question to ask, and it's foolish of Rachel to want to know the answer, because it doesn't matter anyway. Things did happen. The end result is this.
Santana's fingers grip lightly at her elbow, keeping her closer as she quietly speaks, honest and to the point. "I don't think so."
And of course Rachel knows that. She does, because it's no secret that the love of Santana's life was meant to be Brittany. Santana's hopes and dreams had been fixated on the blonde best friend she had loved since childhood.
Her life with Rachel has been built together by a shared nightmare.
"Hey…" Santana's grip tightens. "Come on. Don't do that."
"I'm not doing anything," she mutters, but her eyes sting and she knows that she looks like a pathetically kicked puppy. Her head drops, an attempt to hide her devastated expression.
Fingers grab hold of her chin, tilting up. When Rachel sees Santana, blurry through watery vision, she sees a frustrated woman who stares at her like she's been struck mute. Like there are words in the back of her throat, sentences even, and Santana just can't get them out.
"It doesn't change anything," she finally blurts, and it DOES. It does change things because Rachel wants to dream. She wants permission to hope without the fear of devastation behind it.
She wants permission to love, because it seeps from her pores and she's drowned in it; so in over her head she's let go of her old dreams, of Finn and a life of stardom and her new dreams all rest on Santana Lopez.
And she wants so badly to think that maybe this isn't all just because Brittany is dead and they were in the same room when a bomb exploded and now Santana has settled.
"Rachel." Santana's fingers grip her chin so hard it almost hurts. "It doesn't change anything."
She swallows hard, and tries to nod, tries to smile. It all comes off shaky and awkward and not at all convincing.
"God-dammit," she hears, and then Santana's pressed her lips hard against hers, exhaling loudly through her nose, fingers bruising against her jaw.
Rachel's heart spikes inside her chest, but her body remains still, shocked into stiffness. Santana's kiss seems almost angry; her movements jerky as she reaches for Rachel's shoulders and tugs her in against her.
"It doesn't fucking change anything," Santana mutters against her lips, and then her head tilts, and her tongue slides into Rachel's mouth.
It's Santana's way. Her very own language, where she tells her what she can't say with words and Rachel wants so badly to understand what Santana is saying, because she's in love and it's never felt like this before, it's never been like this before.
Her mouth becomes pliant, her breathing heavy as her body responds to the feel of Santana against her, the wetness of Santana's dominating kiss and the burning touch of Santana's palm spread wide on her ass, pulling her in so they're plastered together, hip to hip, side by side.
Rachel feels the arousal, is achingly aware of the sudden pulsing between her legs, feels her body writhing against Santana's as her tongue touches Santana's, darts away to sweep in again. It's deep, wet, lewd kisses, given to her in a way that would seem almost like a fight, like Santana trying to prove a point.
But it's Santana that shudders against her, damn near shaking as she whimpers against Rachel's mouth, fingers sliding underneath Rachel's shirt, palming up her flat stomach and dusting across her nipple.
Rachel breaks the kiss with a gasp, head falling back as Santana takes advantage, nipping and sucking at her mouth, her jaw, until her nose is buried in the crook of Rachel's neck.
They're riding each other now, hips pushing, grinding, and making these aroused grunts and groans like they're teenagers screwing around at camp.
The fact that doing this… rutting… that this is considered making love… that the very act itself feels so dirty and overwhelming and compellingly intimate at the same time, seems to defy Rachel's sense of logic, because this isn't just making love, this is SEX.
And it's a language Rachel's learned with Santana, only her second lover. She's discovered what it means when fingers press inside her, when a tongue slithers around a hard nipple, when an open mouth descends on her sex and closes around her swollen clitoris.
Rachel's tank top is hiked up between them and Santana is licking and biting her way past Rachel's collarbone to her cleavage, when Rachel heart throbs and she sucks in a harsh breath. Her hands snap around Santana's head, pulling up roughly until Santana's flopped against her. She feels heavy, real, and it's exactly what Rachel needs when she opens her mouth hotly against hers.
Her tongue tangles with Santana's the moment her hand goes between them, cupping Santana with so much force it causes a moan to break from the back of Santana's throat. The wetness seeps from the cloth of Santana's underwear, Rachel can feel it when she rubs in circles, feeling Santana's hips grind into her.
"Fuck, Rachel." Santana sounds broken and dizzy with desire and it makes her shudder, capturing Santana's mouth desperately as she slides up and down again, beneath the barrier and into wet folds.
Santana's hands flail, landing finally on her bicep, whimpering like she's sobbing when Rachel curls in her fingers and circles Santana's clit, keeping her tightly against her as Santana's hips buck.
I love you, Rachel thinks, screams it with her mind. I want to marry you. I want to feel this for the rest of my life.
Santana's grip tightens, her arms shake; she's panting in and out against her neck, biting at Rachel's shoulder desperately, and it's when the curse words start to run together, when Rachel's forearm starts to ache with exertion and Santana's body stiffens that Rachel shifts her fingers lower and plunges inside her.
"FUCK," she hears, and then the Santana's grip loosens and she rolls at the waist, pulling her in deeper.
Santana comes with a tortured sigh, buried against her neck, pulsing around Rachel's fingers and trembling in her embrace.
It doesn’t change anything, Santana said, and it's at this moment that Rachel thinks that might be true, because Santana has tears in her eyes when she looks at her, when she kisses her with those deep, soul-shattering kisses, when she fumbles her way down Rachel's body, tugging at Rachel's shorts.
She wants to badly for it to be true.
But her mind, her mind just refuses to stop working, and even as Santana's tongue flattens against her, even as her head knocks back against the pillow and she gasps raggedly, she can't help the overwhelming tightness, the ache that saturates everything else.
Suddenly she can't bear it.
Heartbeat racing, blood pounding in her ears, Rachel's eyelids flutter when Santana finds her clit.
"Santana," she manages, and her lover groans in response.
The tears sting her eyes.
"Santana," she breathes. "No." She fumbles with shaky hands, grabbing hold of Santana's shoulders with weakening resolve. "NO."
The word, nearly a shout, finally breaks the spell. Santana's head lifts and Rachel bites her lip, trying to keep her body from betraying her when her hips threaten to arch, try and reestablish contact with Santana's mouth.
"What?" Santana asks. She looks drugged, lips glistening with wetness.
They stare at each other, and Rachel's heart explodes in a painful throb.
"It shouldn't change anything," Rachel whispers. She can't help herself. Can't help the stung emotion, the wounded hurt. She can't help any of it, and she hates it, because she wants more than anything to believe in this. "But it does."
She stuns Santana, and it's disappointingly easy to scoot out from underneath her, curl herself into the corner of the tiny bunk bed and pull up her shorts.
"Rachel, are you serious? This is ridiculous-"
"I know," she snaps, and faces the wall, unwilling to face Santana. She can't deal with this just yet. She isn’t even sure how. "I know it's ridiculous, and I'm being silly and over dramatic. I know. Just… I can't. I need… can you just give me some time alone, please?"
Her eyes stay open, staring hard into the wall inches from her face, as she holds her breath and waits for the telltale shift that will signal Santana moving off the bed, jerking up to the top bunk.
"God-dammit. Fine."
She expects the anger, but her heart seizes when she realizes that Santana's not heading for the top bunk, but for the dressers instead. Wood clanks, fabric rustles, and suddenly Santana has slammed the dressers, then the door, leaving her alone in the darkness.
--
Through the years, through a maturity that feels forced on her, Rachel has learned to curb her own instincts. Although certain parts of her will never change, it does feel at times that two versions of her do exist: the one that existed before the infection, and the Rachel Berry that exists now.
This Rachel Berry feels sadder, wiser… quieter.
But one thing that Rachel Berry will never be able to change is the way her mind processes things. The way it never stops working, never stops twisting and turning has been a benefit during this fight for survival.
Now, she's survived, and it seems at times that her brain has yet to get the message.
It's begun to sabotage her, and Rachel has never wished so valiantly that her extreme sensitivity, her dramatic impulses had stayed with the old Rachel.
She hasn't seen Santana since last night.
"You know how I know there's a god?" Noah Puckerman's voice, loud and sudden, startles her, causing her to crunch her papers and whirl around. Standing in the doorway of her tiny classroom, Noah grins lewdly. His eyes are not on her face. "Because we may not have fucking cellphones, but you still managed to find yourself some miniskirts."
The smirk, the lingering glance at her bare legs, causes a flush of irritation. "Noah, I'm busy."
"Doing what? There's nobody here." Puck lets himself in, closing the door as he saunters into the room, every inch the cocky boy she remembers from high school.
Any other morning, Rachel would be charmed, just like she has been ever since their brief fling, so many years ago.
This morning, she has shadows under her eyes, and her body feels frail, fragile, her chest tight and aching with resentment and hurt and regret.
She is far from charmed.
"I have a class in twenty minutes," she tells him tersely. "I need to prepare."
Puck crosses his arms, and Rachel finds herself suddenly drawn to the inked etch peeking out from underneath the faded t-shirt.
She's never been able to mask her emotions all that well, and when Puck notices, catches the crestfallen expression as she lingers on the tattoo that matches Santana's, he offers a knowing lift of a brow.
Rachel blushes, eyes flitting to the floor as she jerks back towards her desk.
"You know she came to me last night."
Something about the way he says it, so offhand and almost as a warning, strikes Rachel with a bolt of fear. She whirls, eyes wide, breath hitching.
Her look must be downright murderous, because Noah actually seems to shrink from her glare. "Well, where the hell was she supposed to go? You kicked her out of your room!"
Frazzled, over-heated, Rachel slams her papers on the desk.
"I did not kick her out," she snaps. "I asked her for some time alone. I didn't ask her to leave."
"That's not what she thought you said."
Heat blazes up the sides of Rachel's face, burning her cheeks bright red, as the conversation is relived one more time, at least the hundredth since Santana had slammed the door.
"Regardless of that," she says, unwilling to concede that there was any sort of mystery meaning in her request, "She was obviously upset. And God help me, Noah, if you took advantage of her-"
And Noah surprises her. His expression morphs from indignant to wounded, and it's so sincere and telling Rachel finds her jealous anger faltering in the face of his sudden jerk from her desk.
"Really?" Noah towers her over, all brawn and tattoos and flashing brown eyes. "Seriously? That's what you think of me after all this time? She shows up half naked with your pussy juices on her face and you think I'm gonna fuck her?"
And when he puts it that way, so crudely and admittedly, quite descriptively, with so much hurt in his tone, Rachel feels a sudden humiliating flush of shame.
"Noah…"
"I'm a dick, but I’m not an asshole."
He's not. At the moment, he seems to be Santana's best friend, and Rachel knows it.
It doesn’t stop the insecurity; the occasional stab of jealousy when confronted with the blunt honesty of their friendship, and the knowledge that they fell into bed together nearly the minute they were reunited.
It's too easy, Rachel knows, to face this insecurity than to face a ghost.
But the knowledge doesn't make feeling it any less shameful.
With a deep indrawn breath, Rachel crosses her arm and approaches him, until she's settled carefully beside him. She taps his shoulder gently with her own.
"I'm sorry."
Puck's eyes drift from the floor to search hers heatedly, then back down again. He grunts. "And besides, it's not like she would have. Gets in my bed and won't stop whining about you. For a minute she sounded like fucking Finn." His frustration is almost comical. "And I'm lying there, listening to her rant about your diva ass, and you know what I realized? I'm a total lesbro." Puck shakes his head in disgusted wonder. "This hot ass chick is in my bed, one that I know for a fact gives great head, and instead of wanting to fuck the pain away, I'm like her fucking brother." With a petulant frown, a kick to the linoleum with his booted foot, Puck looks rather pathetic. "This is some twisted shit."
It makes Rachel smile, because it's these moments of total honesty that have endeared Noah to her so completely.
"I do admit," she begins haltingly. "I sometimes can't help but wonder how we all got here."
From cheerleaders to show choir to zombies and everything in between, she and Noah Puckerman are now seated side by side in a school room, discussing Rachel's lesbian love quarrels with Santana Lopez.
"Well, maybe that's your problem." She blinks, head turning to toss Puck a confused look. "You can't pull this shit, Rachel," he explains, head tilting towards her. "Dragging up ghosts. Comparing yourself to Brittany."
Catching her breath unsteadily, Rachel feels a flush of shame and glances away.
"It's going to drive you crazy."
Her head shakes empathically. "I'm not comparing myself to Brittany," she says, lost and unsure how to even begin to express herself. "I wouldn't dream of… that's not what I'm…" she huffs in frustration, for once, failing herself with words."Haven't you ever wanted to be sure of something?"
His brow arches. "And what, you're not sure about Santana? Cause she's crazy about you, Rachel." He says it matter-of-factly, and Rachel blinks, unsure why that has as much impact as it does. "Hell, she'd have to be to put up with your special kind of drama insanity."
Only Noah Puckerman could ever say something like that with as much layered affection as she hears.
Her knuckles curl around the desk, clinging tighter. "I guess I was a bit dramatic."
"Oh, you think?" Rachel's mouth pulls into a ghost of a smile, but the choked feeling in her throat doesn't dissipate. "So as the official lesbro," Puck says suddenly, "Mind if I give you some advice?"
Noah Puckerman doling out advice on her relationship with Santana like some sort of love sage is a comical idea at best.
But he's also here. He's here, beside her in a time when there is precious little that Rachel can rely upon.
Her fathers, Quinn, Mercedes… her old confidantes from high school have been dead and buried for years, and since then, Rachel's lived a lifetime of horrors fit together in two and a half years.
Vision suddenly blurry, Rachel presses her lips together and nods.
"You got your happiness," he tells her. "So be happy."
And it's so simple. So beautifully Puck.
Rachel wants to kiss him for it.
Instead, she manages a shaky smile and a half-hearted shrug. "I wish it were that easy."
"I know." His shoulder brushes hers, profile is handsome and strong. His jaw ticks with emotion. "You don't think every day I don't wonder what would have happened if I had just been a fucking man and stepped up to take care of Beth?" His mouth pulls into a snarl, his muscles tense. "I could have saved her, I know it."
Rachel's heart flares in sudden pain, because she remembers Puck and Quinn's baby girl, who Puck had wanted so desperately for his own but who had eventually gone to Shelby.
Puck's daughter, who would have been a toddler at the time of the infection.
Given up as a newborn, Puck had never gotten pictures of Beth growing up, but Santana did tell Rachel that a picture of Beth's sonogram had been packed carefully in the bottom of Puck's duffel, wrapped in plastic.
He never looks at it, but it's guarded like a treasure.
The sudden reminder of his loss feels like a well-deserved punch in her gut.
With hesitant fingers, she digs around his forearm and leans against him.
There was nothing she can say to make it better.
"Life's too short for regrets, Rachel. I told Santana the same damn thing."
With a ragged sigh, Rachel tilts her head and presses her lips to his shoulder, breathing him in.
"So if I'm Santana's lesbro, does that mean I can take her to Finn's bachelor party?"
The statement cuts through the somber stillness so effectively, Rachel finds herself snorting helplessly, eyes rolling at Noah's wicked smile. "The last time she went out drinking with you guys you brought her back to me scarred," she points out, poking at his tattooed bicep.
Puck shrugs. "Fuck that. This shit is sexy and you know it." At Rachel's narrowed glare, he continues, "It's a sign; we've got each other's back. You should be grateful. Matching tats means that Santana's one of us. Like a dude. This really hot dude that I've banged a thousand times."
He's doing it to tease her, and emotionally spent, Rachel doesn't have it in her to be offended at the reminder of Puck and Santana's special history.
"She is really amazing in bed," she concedes, and it's worth it, because Puck looks shocked at the easy response.
His teeth glint at her from underneath his wide, thrilled smile. When she pats him companionably, he lifts a muscled arm and curls it around her side, squeezing. "I can't believe you got so upset that you didn't let her go down on you. Fuck that, she had already gone down on you and you stopped her," he says suddenly. "Chicks, man."
--
She sees Santana again at the end of the day, as she gathers her things with shaky hands, slips her bag over her shoulder, and glances outside the window of her classroom.
The lawn is almost deserted, and the whole place exudes an eerie sense of calm.
She resists the urge to shudder, and instead heads for the direction of the door. She nearly gets her nose crushed in the process when it flies inwards, flung open by her girlfriend.
Santana's eyes look almost wild, glancing frantically around the room before they settle on Rachel, standing right in front of her.
"I've been looking for you everywhere," she snaps angrily.
Rachel finds herself offended at the inference that she has been very hard to find. "Well, where have you been looking?" she snits back. "Because I've been right here the whole day."
Santana doesn't answer. Instead, what Rachel gets is an enigmatic stare and a subtle pout that's coupled with suddenly flashing eyes.
It unnerves her. "What?"
"I'm just…" Santana rubs at her eyes, looking simultaneously exhausted and exasperated. "I'm looking at you and I'm suddenly pissed off all over again."
And honestly, Santana has every right to be. She's insensitive and honest to a very idiotic fault, but Rachel can understand, objectively, how Santana can feel she has done nothing wrong.
But it means something that Santana is here. That she cared enough to find her, even though she was furious enough to storm out the night before.
"Santana," she manages, though her throat has gone tight and her insides seem as fragile as glass. "I'm sorry."
Thin shoulders square in obvious rage. "What are you sorry about?" Santana's voice is flat. Husky. "Seriously, Rachel. What the fuck did I say that was so damn horrible you had to kick me out of my own damn room?"
Rachel can't help herself. "Technically, I didn't kick you out of the room; I only kicked you out of the bed. I'm just saying," she hurriedly responds, when Santana's glaring eyes go wide in disbelief. "I'm well aware that I was vague-"
"Oh my God," Santana interrupts, hands coming to her hips. "Seriously?!"
Rachel bites her lip, forces her hands to keep to her sides. "You're right," she concedes, flushing. "That's not what's important."
Her girlfriend offers an unattractive snort in response. "No what's important is your fucking diva fits, apparently."
Maybe she deserves that, but Rachel feels like there's an open wound inside of her, seeping pain, and it flares at the cutting comment. "Santana," she manages, winded. "Stop."
"You kicked me out," Santana snaps, unrepentant. "You made me spend the night with PUCK."
"I'm sorry."
"You didn't let me finish going down on you!"
"I'm sorry!"
She feels small and helpless, and never so far away from Santana, despite the fact that they are standing in the same room.
Combat boots shift on the tile; dark brown eyes close and open again. Santana exhales noisily, her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose and then go to her hips.
"I'm trying," she says suddenly. "Rachel, I'm trying." Shoulders come up in a half-hearted shrug. "But I'm not going to lie to you. I don't do that. At least Brittany-"
It shouldn't hurt so much to hear it. Rachel knows what the sentence will be once it's finished. "-Brittany understood that," she answers quietly, and Santana's eyes jerk up, startled.
Rachel can only offer a miserable smile, because she does understand. High school seems like a lifetime ago, but Rachel remembers Brittany and Santana. The linked pinkies. The best -friends-and-so-much-more vibe they put out that was so saccharine it was almost nauseating. Like nothing else mattered but each other.
Santana's head falls, and the grief is there, etched on her face. "Rachel, I'm not doing this," she begins, gentler than Rachel expects. "I'm not comparing you to her."
Rachel's head shakes, even as her eyes begin to glisten, her throat to catch. "I'm not asking you to."
Santana doesn’t seem to believe her. "We were different people back then," she says, as her voice hardens. "And it doesn't fucking matter because Brittany's dead."
"This isn't about Brittany," she quietly insists.
"Well, then what the hell is it about, Rachel?"
"It's about the fact that I love you, Santana."And then she can't hold it in anymore. It blurts from her mouth before she can stop it; the words tumble out like water rushing from a broken dam. "It's about the fact that that's the only thing I'm sure of. It's about the fact that I can't stop being scared, because there's CRAZIES and homophobic preachers and a future that terrifies me and you know what? I can handle all that. I can. But the one thing I don't know how to deal with is how much I love you."
It all comes out in a rush, accented with dewy tears and a voice clouded with sobs. At once outside of herself, Rachel finds a thought flitting through her mind that this is herself at her most dramatic, and it's all so helpless because she's known for so long that this is exactly how she is.
She's known who she is.
She's Rachel Berry, former ingénue, current school teacher, who survived an apocalypse and came out of it desperately in love with a cheerleader who before all this, had only ever been in her show choir.
And now, here she is, standing with Rachel, her lover and her best friend and everything in between, and Rachel can't imagine a time when she wasn't this much in love. When she wasn't this helpless.
Her head shakes; tears trickle from her cheeks.
"You're a bitch, Santana." Her smile is small and sincere. "You're abrasive and you're emotionally stunted, and you never say the right things, and the only reason you ever stayed with me in the first place is because you had no other choice." Santana only stares at her, and Rachel wonders if it's because Santana knows there's no use: Rachel's having a diva moment. "But you're also sweet. The way you hug me, with your whole body? It makes me want to cry, and when you sing? Your face lights up and you take my breath away. Even when we were sleeping on dirt floors and hard rocks you always made sure I was the one in the least amount of danger and I never doubted for a second that you would have risked your life to save me. You kiss me like the world is ending; when I'm away from you I can't breathe and when I'm in your arms; that's the only time I feel safe."
It could be amusing, to see how flabbergasted Santana is. It could be, but it isn't. Santana should know this. She should have known this already. Rachel knows there's no use hiding her bleeding heart because Santana already owns it.
"I know my insecurity is dumb," she finds herself admitting. "It's stupid and unreasonable and I know all that. I know I'm over-sensitive and I know this is selfish. But that's what you get when you have me and I have to believe some part of you loves me because of it, because of who I am, and not just because I was there and you got stuck with me."
In the wake of her grand monologue, Rachel doesn't know what to expect. There's no one writing this script. Rachel has no life plan ahead of her other than to survive, and so there are no expectations, but a desperate hope in its place.
Santana doesn't move. She stares at Rachel so intensely, but her expression looks lost, dumbfounded.
"I just got deployed," she says suddenly.
It makes no sense at first. Rachel can't seem to process it, and she feels stupid because of it. "What?"
Santana comes to life. "A rescue mission. About 50 miles away. Some idiots who thought it would be a good idea to keep some Crazies locked up. Thought they could control them or something. It's some sort of massacre." She exhales raggedly, and stops pacing, turning and catching Rachel's stare heatedly. "I was supposed to be at the gate ten minutes ago. Instead I went to find you. All that mattered was finding you," she reiterates, as if this is somehow very important. "Do you get that?"
She gets it. She does. Rachel's heart begins to pound, and suddenly every emotion that is seeping out of her rushes back in, making her breathless.
She swallows hard. "I realize nothing is fixed and we're still upset. You're still upset." Santana's mouth flattens into a thin line. "But for the moment, I'd like to call a truce."
Santana's brow furrows, her eyes narrow, but suddenly she seems to understand. Her head bobs in a fervent nod, and then Rachel's things fall to the floor as she steps forward meets her halfway.
Their lips mash together clumsily. Santana's teeth bumps against her lower lip and it causes a wounded hiss. Rachel absorbs the pain; relishes it. She tastes copper in her saliva and she only whimpers without complaint, arms flung around Santana's shoulders as they stumble back.
When they crash against Rachel's desk, the hard wood jams against Rachel's back, and Santana uses it to her advantage, trapping Rachel as she pushes her hips against her, hands tangling in Rachel's nape and tugging hard to kiss her deeply.
Santana kisses her like it's the end of the world.
The very thought is enough to break her, and her heart seizes, causing a gasp of emotion as she shudders and pulls Santana close, eyes shutting and head burying into Santana's sweaty neck.
"I love you," she whispers, before she presses adoring kisses along the salty skin of Santana's throat. She feels the tendons tense underneath her teeth, and then Santana's hands tighten at her waist and Rachel is crushed against her.
"I'm coming back," Santana whispers in her ear. "Okay? Rachel, I'm coming back."
She says it like it's the most important thing in the world. In their desperate embrace, Rachel can feel Santana's heart, thumping against her with the beat of frenzied emotion.
Rachel believes her.
--
Go to Part II
AUTHOR: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
GENRE: Glee
PAIRING: Rachel/Santana
RATING: M
WORD COUNT: ~14,400
SUMMARY: The feeling that's begun to spread is so fragile Rachel doesn't want to name it, not at first. But as time has passed, days have fallen into months, she recognizes it as hope.
NOTES: A follow-up to my previous Rachel/Santana effort Say Good-Bye to This Heart of Mine, in which, in a Post-Apocalyptic world overrun by zombies (yes, zombies), Rachel and Santana lost everyone, but found each other.
__
I had some nightmares,
Clawing at my skin and bones
I nearly did explode
You smoked the demons
Gave me back my feelings
Now I am good to go
- This is For Real, Motion City Soundtrack
Since she was a toddler, chubby-legged and too short, Rachel Berry has known who she is.
That knowledge has been her constant companion for years, holding her posture straight and keeping her mouth from trembling, even when she is told no, over and over again. No, she's too tiny to be a dancer. No, her nose isn't quite right. No, the role requires a blond. No, she's too loud. No, she's too young. No, she's too earnest. No, she's too annoying.
The no's never stop, and Rachel doesn't either, because instinctively she knows what she is: a survivor.
She survives auditions and she survives high school, even with the melting ice of slushies trickling down her neck, pornographic pictures scribbled on the girl's bathroom wall. She survives the heartbreak of Jesse St. James and the sudden appearance and disappearance of a woman who would be her mother only in the vaguest sense of the word.
She survives all that for no other reason than that is what she does. It's clear that these are all trials and tests because Rachel Berry is meant for something better.
She never imagined that the term would ever become so literal.
Rachel Berry is a survivor, one of very few who have lived through an infestation of sickness that has been nicknamed 'the Crazies' and torn her very world apart.
Instead of the stage she had always imagined would be her home, Rachel Berry has a class room in a campus that has been turned into a military base. Trickling in and out of her room are the hope of the future: children, some feral and wild, others traumatized and frightened, who have survived, just like her. Just like her, they've lost parents and friends and family.
They're lost and scared, but in them, Rachel sees the exact same traits as she saw in herself.
Chaos has enveloped her life so thoroughly and it has given her the mixed blessing of never dwelling on the future. So much of her energy has been focused on the present, on surviving, that whatever quiet moments, however few they were, have usually been spent on mourning for the past.
Now, it's different. She's no longer sleeping on hard ground, clutching a rifle, huddling close to Santana, desperate to survive yet another day.
Now there's this base, heavily armed, protected from Crazies and Bandits and within it, there's a community; small but growing every day with people like her. Civilians who've put down their rifles, shot guns and cross bows and are struggling to remember exactly how it is to live again.
The feeling that's begun to spread is so fragile Rachel doesn't want to name it, not at first. But as time has passed, days have fallen into months, she recognizes it as hope.
"Hey."
Rachel's thoughts break easily, distraction coming in the welcome form of Santana Lopez, who strides across the grass towards her in combat boots, green cargo pants and a faded green tank top, a semi-automatic rifle slung over her shoulder.
For a moment, just a moment, Rachel sees a Cheerios uniform, red and white and plastered to her just as tightly, in its place.
She blinks and the vision fades, and it's her Santana still headed to her, with dark sunglasses and dark hair held loosely in a ponytail that falls over her shoulder, the outline of a tattoo peaking out underneath the tank top, ink spanning against her shoulder and over her bicep.
The image is both feminine and butch, but it's what Rachel knows. It's who Rachel knows.
She breaks into a smile, and shifts automatically on the blanket, making room as Santana lets the rifle drop from her shoulder and places it on the grass beside them, settling down.
"Hi," Rachel says, and then Santana's leaning over, until their mouths meet. Santana's kisses have never been chaste or just friendly. She kisses with purpose. She always has, because Rachel understands that Santana's kisses say everything Santana never will say with words.
The light press of her tongue swiping gently against Rachel's, the heady breath Santana takes in as she presses in further, the way Santana's lips stay clung to hers, drawing out the embrace, it all tells Rachel quite clearly that Santana's happy to see her, that she missed her.
Two years of traveling with Santana, sleeping with Santana, running with Santana, surviving with her has given Rachel fluency in Santana's own language, but this… the physical intimacy that comes with the recognition of being in love with her… this is new.
Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes shine, but she feels oddly shy, smile bashful as the kiss breaks.
It means something, something desperately important, that almost every moment of pure happiness that has flooded through Rachel in the last couple of years has been directly linked to her ever evolving relationship with Santana.
"Sorry I'm late," Santana says, but she's not really, and Rachel just rolls her eyes, because Santana's already reaching for the wrapped paper in front of them.
"You're always late," Rachel says, but she stretches out her hand and grabs hold of the bottled water and pieces of fruit she's been able to find, letting Santana pick apart one of the paper-wrapped sandwiches and take a hearty bite.
In another lifetime, another world, Santana was a cheerleader, who didn't eat because being light meant the difference between being Sue Sylvester's favored cheerleader, and being shoved off the squad.
Now, Santana's slender form is toned with wiry muscle and she's stick-thin, but it isn't from choice. Compared to the scavenged scraps of food they lived on during their months on the run, this is a feast.
"How was training?" Rachel asks, and it's absurdly domestic and almost silly, to have this conversation with Santana. The other woman seems to think so as well, because she just swallows hard and winces, grabbing hold of the water bottle Rachel hands to her and chugging.
"It was bullshit," Santana answers. A grimace curls onto her lips as her arm slides against Rachel's back, until she's loosely pressed against her, eyes on the grassy knoll before them. "How were the brats?"
"Trainable." Another day, Rachel might argue with Santana, because her kids aren't brats. They're deeply traumatized and scarred, and many of them lack the social skills that they need to interact with other students, to learn in a healthy environment. "Actually, I'm thinking of putting together a musical for them."
Santana's head turns as she takes another bite of her sandwich, and even through her dark sunglasses, Rachel can see the dramatic eye-roll.
"It'd be good for them," she says, flushing hotly, more defensive than she wants to be. "It'll give them something to focus on, and teach them to have confidence in themselves. The therapeutic merits of performing-"
Santana's arm squeezes at her waist. "Rachel," she says, low and quiet and almost bored.
"What?" she snaps.
"Shut up." Santana glances at her; a quiet smile flits onto her lips. "It's a good idea."
It takes a moment to sink in, but the sudden elation fills Rachel, quiets her with pride that pulses through her and makes her feel somehow cherished.
"Really?"
"Really. But if there's a kid in there that signs her name with a gold star, run."
Santana's smirk is infectious, and despite Rachel's need to huff, pinch Santana in her side, and knock into her with her shoulder, she feels her cheeks burning with affection.
They fall into quiet, eating their shared lunch, watching the activity on the glass before them. It's habit with them. Rachel's way has always been with words, but survival instinct has tamped it down inside of her. There have been too many instances when being absolutely still is what saved their lives.
At her most comfortable, Santana doesn't speak, so it is a surprise when Santana is the one to break the silence.
"Finn's getting married."
She says it so quickly, in a rush of air and Rachel is almost sure it's meant to come off as casual. When Rachel glances at her girlfriend, her… lover, really, Santana is picking at what's left of her sandwich.
Suddenly unable to eat, Rachel puts hers back on the blanket. "I know," she begins, careful in her intonation. Santana's head swivels, gaze heated on hers. "He told me," she explains, pushing her bangs back over her ear. "When he was planning on proposing. Well," she amended, because Santana's still staring at her and it feels like Rachel's holding back. "He asked me." Her smile erupts quickly, gone in a flash. "How I would feel about it."
It had been an awkward conversation, in all actuality. One that Rachel never quite expected to have with Finn, her high school sweetheart, the boy she once thought she might someday marry, who told her about a girl he had grown close to before he had rediscovered Rachel, grown close to again in the short time since, when it became clear that Rachel's heart had been seized already.
She doesn't linger on the memory, because she's aware now of Santana's posture, stiff against hers, as if ready to pull away. "How do you feel about it?"
Santana's insecurity, her obvious jealousy would be silly if it wasn't for the fact that this is Finn.
Rachel's movements are deliberate, even as her heart trips unsteadily, as she leans into Santana's shoulder and tilts her forehead against Santana's cheek. It's intimate and loving, and though Santana doesn't respond, Rachel can hear the hard swallow that bobs down Santana's throat.
"Relieved, honestly," she sighs, and feels the way Santana's breath exhales unsteadily, feels it brush against her nose. "It's good that he's moved on." Her fingers thread the pattern of the blanket between them. "I'm happy for him. It seems fast, but it sounds like he's been on the verge of falling for this girl for a while and just kept holding back, and now..."
"Now what?"
"Now there's no reason to." Because even though Finn never quite said it, the reason why he was holding back was Rachel. And now, even though Rachel was alive and through some God-given miracle, they were reunited, the muddiness had cleared. Whatever hope that was in Finn's heart, in hers, it was dead and buried because Rachel had been able to live without Finn.
It had been a surprise and a revelation to discover that the one person she can't live without is Santana Lopez.
And maybe she is getting good at this: Santana's unspoken language, because even though Santana doesn't say that she's nervous, that she may have been afraid that Rachel would suddenly decide she has chosen wrongly, Rachel feels those emotions in the way Santana's head turns ever so slightly against hers, in the way she presses in just a little bit tighter.
In the way Santana suddenly exhales loudly, like she has been holding her breath.
Santana shifts, suddenly dropping back, until she's splayed back on the grass. Without looking, she reaches for Rachel, grabbing hold of her arm and pulling her down with her, until they fit together in a way that seems almost instinctual.
For the longest time, being in this position, with her head on Santana's bony shoulder and her leg tangled up in hers, was the only way Rachel truly felt safe.
"There's a lot of that going around," Santana says a moment later, tone casual and indifferent. "The marrying thing."
"It's the new pastor," Rachel responds softly, distractedly stroking the faded fabric of Santana's tank, painting circles against her stomach with her index finger. Bob Baker, who had arrived only a month earlier with his ragged band of Christians and his Bible, had set up a small church in the compound. With his arrival, came a mini revival of faith.
"Seems stupid to me."
"What do you mean?"
Santana's fingers dip lightly into her neck, tangling into her hair, massaging lightly at her nape. "Does marriage even exist anymore?"
The question is a strange one. "Of course it exists."
"Why? Because this guy says it does? Even if the government does recognize the licenses, we barely have a country anymore. What the hell does it all matter, anyway?"
It's classic Santana: dryness and skepticism wrapped in one attractive package. Pressed in against her, breathing her in, Rachel's heart throbs inside of her, thumps matter-of-factly at her nearness.
She sighs unsteadily. "Maybe it's the symbolism of it," she manages. "People are starting to move on with their lives. They're starting to think of the future."
"You don't need a piece of paper to know you're going to be with someone for the rest of your life."
Rachel suddenly discovers she can say nothing at all.
"Besides," Santana continues. "This nutcase wouldn't have even married your dads."
And that is true. While Rachel has nothing against faith, might have attended the worship service for the music alone, Bob Baker's views have been made clear. The infection had come to them as punishment from God, to devastate America as it had become a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah. Among the United States' many sins? Homosexuality.
It's frightening how not even an apocalypse can stamp out the utter ludicrousness of homophobia.
She finds herself suddenly overwhelmed, filled with conflicting emotions and a sudden fear for a future where some will actually share these views, searching for something, anything to blame the wreckage of their civilization on.
She reaches up and grabs hold of Santana's cheek with her palm, pulling slightly. Head lifting, she meets Santana's lips forcefully, demanding reassurance with a flick of her tongue, an open mouth and a hungry kiss.
She presses against Santana, fingers fanning against Santana's neck as her head tilts and her kiss deepens. The moan Santana emits goes through her, makes her shudder, and when she pulls away and buries her face in Santana's neck, she's afraid she might cry.
"Rachel."
Breathless, in love, and suddenly frightened beyond belief, Rachel blinks back her tears and smiles. "I should go," she whispered thickly. "Will you walk me back to class?"
Santana's mouth quirks, her gaze almost suspicious, but Rachel just brings another kiss to her mouth and detangles herself to get to her feet.
After a beat, Santana nods.
--
Though they've been assigned bunk beds; have had them since the first night they followed Finn to this base, the top bunk nearly always stays empty.
Not to say Santana doesn't have her surly, bitchy moments, or that Rachel herself doesn't have a rather crippling habit of being too dramatic or too sensitive in any given situation, but the fact remains that before she and Santana were lovers, they had been partners on the run, and in that instance, sleeping together, no matter how annoying or mean one found the other, meant the difference between life or death.
The need to be together, the need to touch each other, the itchy unsettling feeling that happens when they're away from each other is 'PTSD-bullshit', according to Santana. Rachel prefers to see it as an unbreakable bond, because somehow, all of this has tied her to Santana so intimately that Rachel wonders how she ever felt complete without her.
It's thoughts like these that sometimes come to Rachel in the night, when Rachel is awake (because her mind never stop working, even when she desperately wants it to) and Santana sleeps against her, warm and soft, chest rising and falling with noisy breaths that puff up against Rachel's ear.
In underwear and a threadbare tank, Santana's form is impossibly skinny, all angles and olive skin. In the barely there view afforded by the darkness, she looks younger and more vulnerable than Santana will ever confess to being when she's awake.
Rachel has never admitted it, not out loud, but seeing Santana like this is what tumbled Rachel's already complicated feelings into a solidified, undefeatable cascade of overwhelming love.
And yes, she's fixated on Santana, because she genuinely loves her and that's just what Rachel does with what she loves. She obsesses. She questions. She touches and worships and it's what she does now, pushing to her side and delicately moving her fingers over the blank ink of Santana's etched shoulder, tracing the rough imprint of the eagle that flies from her bicep over her shoulder, claws stretched out, ready to pounce on whatever unseen prey dances unseen along Santana's body.
The tattoo itself is new; the result of a drunken night with Santana's unit. At midnight, Santana flopped into their bed with an inked sore shoulder, muttering about being 'one of the guys' and a 'fucking bad ass'. Rachel had been appalled, until the next morning, when she saw both Puck and Finn sporting identical markings, along with other members of their military team.
She understood, then, that it was about camaraderie, soldiers-at-arms, and considering how inebriated Santana had been, she had decided to just be grateful that they had chosen a striking eagle and nothing mortifying, like a women with bare breasts.
Now, it exists as a part of Santana, and Rachel finds herself oddly protective of it, because witnessing it, tracing it, she recognizes it as part of the woman she loves, a battle scar to match the wrinkled skin on Santana's forearm, remnants of a burn.
"Stop it." The words are said thickly, slurred with sleep. Rachel's fingers still, spread against Santana's shoulder. Santana's eyes don't open. "You're doing that creepy stalker-stare thing. Stop it. Go to sleep."
There's a bite of annoyance in Santana's tone, but it's less than effective when Santana shifts in her sleepiness, keening into her touch and slinging her arm over Rachel's waist.
Unashamed, Rachel simply smiles, smoothing her fingers over Santana's prickling skin, towards Santana's strong jaw.
"Technically it's not stalking if I'm doing it in front of you."
Santana snorts, a loud rush of air that's pushed through her nostrils, making them flare. "Stalking is stalking is stalking," she mumbles, scrunching her eyes shut. "Doesn't make a difference if we're together when you do it. You're still a freak, Rachel."
The sentence is said without malice, but it comes from Santana's pouty lips, moving underneath Rachel's questing thumb, and it sounds so much like something Santana would have said to her in high school, it causes a sudden flare within her.
When her fingers stall, grow rigid over Santana's mouth, dark eyes blink open. "What?"
Santana's palm feels heavy on her waist. In her movement, she has pushed a leg between Rachel's knees and now they're tangled together, facing each other.
It's an absurdly intimate moment.
Rachel finds herself speaking before she can quite stop herself. "Do you think… if all of this hadn't happened… if there had been no infection and we hadn't been in the same room at the same time…"
"Rachel…" Santana sighs. It smacks of annoyance and growing wariness.
"Do you think there would have ever been a chance that we would have been together?"
Santana's eyes grew wider, more alert. Rachel let her fingers fall from Santana's face, because the other woman is looking at her now, really looking at her, with a flat line on her mouth and a quiet, somber expression.
It's a foolish question to ask, and it's foolish of Rachel to want to know the answer, because it doesn't matter anyway. Things did happen. The end result is this.
Santana's fingers grip lightly at her elbow, keeping her closer as she quietly speaks, honest and to the point. "I don't think so."
And of course Rachel knows that. She does, because it's no secret that the love of Santana's life was meant to be Brittany. Santana's hopes and dreams had been fixated on the blonde best friend she had loved since childhood.
Her life with Rachel has been built together by a shared nightmare.
"Hey…" Santana's grip tightens. "Come on. Don't do that."
"I'm not doing anything," she mutters, but her eyes sting and she knows that she looks like a pathetically kicked puppy. Her head drops, an attempt to hide her devastated expression.
Fingers grab hold of her chin, tilting up. When Rachel sees Santana, blurry through watery vision, she sees a frustrated woman who stares at her like she's been struck mute. Like there are words in the back of her throat, sentences even, and Santana just can't get them out.
"It doesn't change anything," she finally blurts, and it DOES. It does change things because Rachel wants to dream. She wants permission to hope without the fear of devastation behind it.
She wants permission to love, because it seeps from her pores and she's drowned in it; so in over her head she's let go of her old dreams, of Finn and a life of stardom and her new dreams all rest on Santana Lopez.
And she wants so badly to think that maybe this isn't all just because Brittany is dead and they were in the same room when a bomb exploded and now Santana has settled.
"Rachel." Santana's fingers grip her chin so hard it almost hurts. "It doesn't change anything."
She swallows hard, and tries to nod, tries to smile. It all comes off shaky and awkward and not at all convincing.
"God-dammit," she hears, and then Santana's pressed her lips hard against hers, exhaling loudly through her nose, fingers bruising against her jaw.
Rachel's heart spikes inside her chest, but her body remains still, shocked into stiffness. Santana's kiss seems almost angry; her movements jerky as she reaches for Rachel's shoulders and tugs her in against her.
"It doesn't fucking change anything," Santana mutters against her lips, and then her head tilts, and her tongue slides into Rachel's mouth.
It's Santana's way. Her very own language, where she tells her what she can't say with words and Rachel wants so badly to understand what Santana is saying, because she's in love and it's never felt like this before, it's never been like this before.
Her mouth becomes pliant, her breathing heavy as her body responds to the feel of Santana against her, the wetness of Santana's dominating kiss and the burning touch of Santana's palm spread wide on her ass, pulling her in so they're plastered together, hip to hip, side by side.
Rachel feels the arousal, is achingly aware of the sudden pulsing between her legs, feels her body writhing against Santana's as her tongue touches Santana's, darts away to sweep in again. It's deep, wet, lewd kisses, given to her in a way that would seem almost like a fight, like Santana trying to prove a point.
But it's Santana that shudders against her, damn near shaking as she whimpers against Rachel's mouth, fingers sliding underneath Rachel's shirt, palming up her flat stomach and dusting across her nipple.
Rachel breaks the kiss with a gasp, head falling back as Santana takes advantage, nipping and sucking at her mouth, her jaw, until her nose is buried in the crook of Rachel's neck.
They're riding each other now, hips pushing, grinding, and making these aroused grunts and groans like they're teenagers screwing around at camp.
The fact that doing this… rutting… that this is considered making love… that the very act itself feels so dirty and overwhelming and compellingly intimate at the same time, seems to defy Rachel's sense of logic, because this isn't just making love, this is SEX.
And it's a language Rachel's learned with Santana, only her second lover. She's discovered what it means when fingers press inside her, when a tongue slithers around a hard nipple, when an open mouth descends on her sex and closes around her swollen clitoris.
Rachel's tank top is hiked up between them and Santana is licking and biting her way past Rachel's collarbone to her cleavage, when Rachel heart throbs and she sucks in a harsh breath. Her hands snap around Santana's head, pulling up roughly until Santana's flopped against her. She feels heavy, real, and it's exactly what Rachel needs when she opens her mouth hotly against hers.
Her tongue tangles with Santana's the moment her hand goes between them, cupping Santana with so much force it causes a moan to break from the back of Santana's throat. The wetness seeps from the cloth of Santana's underwear, Rachel can feel it when she rubs in circles, feeling Santana's hips grind into her.
"Fuck, Rachel." Santana sounds broken and dizzy with desire and it makes her shudder, capturing Santana's mouth desperately as she slides up and down again, beneath the barrier and into wet folds.
Santana's hands flail, landing finally on her bicep, whimpering like she's sobbing when Rachel curls in her fingers and circles Santana's clit, keeping her tightly against her as Santana's hips buck.
I love you, Rachel thinks, screams it with her mind. I want to marry you. I want to feel this for the rest of my life.
Santana's grip tightens, her arms shake; she's panting in and out against her neck, biting at Rachel's shoulder desperately, and it's when the curse words start to run together, when Rachel's forearm starts to ache with exertion and Santana's body stiffens that Rachel shifts her fingers lower and plunges inside her.
"FUCK," she hears, and then the Santana's grip loosens and she rolls at the waist, pulling her in deeper.
Santana comes with a tortured sigh, buried against her neck, pulsing around Rachel's fingers and trembling in her embrace.
It doesn’t change anything, Santana said, and it's at this moment that Rachel thinks that might be true, because Santana has tears in her eyes when she looks at her, when she kisses her with those deep, soul-shattering kisses, when she fumbles her way down Rachel's body, tugging at Rachel's shorts.
She wants to badly for it to be true.
But her mind, her mind just refuses to stop working, and even as Santana's tongue flattens against her, even as her head knocks back against the pillow and she gasps raggedly, she can't help the overwhelming tightness, the ache that saturates everything else.
Suddenly she can't bear it.
Heartbeat racing, blood pounding in her ears, Rachel's eyelids flutter when Santana finds her clit.
"Santana," she manages, and her lover groans in response.
The tears sting her eyes.
"Santana," she breathes. "No." She fumbles with shaky hands, grabbing hold of Santana's shoulders with weakening resolve. "NO."
The word, nearly a shout, finally breaks the spell. Santana's head lifts and Rachel bites her lip, trying to keep her body from betraying her when her hips threaten to arch, try and reestablish contact with Santana's mouth.
"What?" Santana asks. She looks drugged, lips glistening with wetness.
They stare at each other, and Rachel's heart explodes in a painful throb.
"It shouldn't change anything," Rachel whispers. She can't help herself. Can't help the stung emotion, the wounded hurt. She can't help any of it, and she hates it, because she wants more than anything to believe in this. "But it does."
She stuns Santana, and it's disappointingly easy to scoot out from underneath her, curl herself into the corner of the tiny bunk bed and pull up her shorts.
"Rachel, are you serious? This is ridiculous-"
"I know," she snaps, and faces the wall, unwilling to face Santana. She can't deal with this just yet. She isn’t even sure how. "I know it's ridiculous, and I'm being silly and over dramatic. I know. Just… I can't. I need… can you just give me some time alone, please?"
Her eyes stay open, staring hard into the wall inches from her face, as she holds her breath and waits for the telltale shift that will signal Santana moving off the bed, jerking up to the top bunk.
"God-dammit. Fine."
She expects the anger, but her heart seizes when she realizes that Santana's not heading for the top bunk, but for the dressers instead. Wood clanks, fabric rustles, and suddenly Santana has slammed the dressers, then the door, leaving her alone in the darkness.
--
Through the years, through a maturity that feels forced on her, Rachel has learned to curb her own instincts. Although certain parts of her will never change, it does feel at times that two versions of her do exist: the one that existed before the infection, and the Rachel Berry that exists now.
This Rachel Berry feels sadder, wiser… quieter.
But one thing that Rachel Berry will never be able to change is the way her mind processes things. The way it never stops working, never stops twisting and turning has been a benefit during this fight for survival.
Now, she's survived, and it seems at times that her brain has yet to get the message.
It's begun to sabotage her, and Rachel has never wished so valiantly that her extreme sensitivity, her dramatic impulses had stayed with the old Rachel.
She hasn't seen Santana since last night.
"You know how I know there's a god?" Noah Puckerman's voice, loud and sudden, startles her, causing her to crunch her papers and whirl around. Standing in the doorway of her tiny classroom, Noah grins lewdly. His eyes are not on her face. "Because we may not have fucking cellphones, but you still managed to find yourself some miniskirts."
The smirk, the lingering glance at her bare legs, causes a flush of irritation. "Noah, I'm busy."
"Doing what? There's nobody here." Puck lets himself in, closing the door as he saunters into the room, every inch the cocky boy she remembers from high school.
Any other morning, Rachel would be charmed, just like she has been ever since their brief fling, so many years ago.
This morning, she has shadows under her eyes, and her body feels frail, fragile, her chest tight and aching with resentment and hurt and regret.
She is far from charmed.
"I have a class in twenty minutes," she tells him tersely. "I need to prepare."
Puck crosses his arms, and Rachel finds herself suddenly drawn to the inked etch peeking out from underneath the faded t-shirt.
She's never been able to mask her emotions all that well, and when Puck notices, catches the crestfallen expression as she lingers on the tattoo that matches Santana's, he offers a knowing lift of a brow.
Rachel blushes, eyes flitting to the floor as she jerks back towards her desk.
"You know she came to me last night."
Something about the way he says it, so offhand and almost as a warning, strikes Rachel with a bolt of fear. She whirls, eyes wide, breath hitching.
Her look must be downright murderous, because Noah actually seems to shrink from her glare. "Well, where the hell was she supposed to go? You kicked her out of your room!"
Frazzled, over-heated, Rachel slams her papers on the desk.
"I did not kick her out," she snaps. "I asked her for some time alone. I didn't ask her to leave."
"That's not what she thought you said."
Heat blazes up the sides of Rachel's face, burning her cheeks bright red, as the conversation is relived one more time, at least the hundredth since Santana had slammed the door.
"Regardless of that," she says, unwilling to concede that there was any sort of mystery meaning in her request, "She was obviously upset. And God help me, Noah, if you took advantage of her-"
And Noah surprises her. His expression morphs from indignant to wounded, and it's so sincere and telling Rachel finds her jealous anger faltering in the face of his sudden jerk from her desk.
"Really?" Noah towers her over, all brawn and tattoos and flashing brown eyes. "Seriously? That's what you think of me after all this time? She shows up half naked with your pussy juices on her face and you think I'm gonna fuck her?"
And when he puts it that way, so crudely and admittedly, quite descriptively, with so much hurt in his tone, Rachel feels a sudden humiliating flush of shame.
"Noah…"
"I'm a dick, but I’m not an asshole."
He's not. At the moment, he seems to be Santana's best friend, and Rachel knows it.
It doesn’t stop the insecurity; the occasional stab of jealousy when confronted with the blunt honesty of their friendship, and the knowledge that they fell into bed together nearly the minute they were reunited.
It's too easy, Rachel knows, to face this insecurity than to face a ghost.
But the knowledge doesn't make feeling it any less shameful.
With a deep indrawn breath, Rachel crosses her arm and approaches him, until she's settled carefully beside him. She taps his shoulder gently with her own.
"I'm sorry."
Puck's eyes drift from the floor to search hers heatedly, then back down again. He grunts. "And besides, it's not like she would have. Gets in my bed and won't stop whining about you. For a minute she sounded like fucking Finn." His frustration is almost comical. "And I'm lying there, listening to her rant about your diva ass, and you know what I realized? I'm a total lesbro." Puck shakes his head in disgusted wonder. "This hot ass chick is in my bed, one that I know for a fact gives great head, and instead of wanting to fuck the pain away, I'm like her fucking brother." With a petulant frown, a kick to the linoleum with his booted foot, Puck looks rather pathetic. "This is some twisted shit."
It makes Rachel smile, because it's these moments of total honesty that have endeared Noah to her so completely.
"I do admit," she begins haltingly. "I sometimes can't help but wonder how we all got here."
From cheerleaders to show choir to zombies and everything in between, she and Noah Puckerman are now seated side by side in a school room, discussing Rachel's lesbian love quarrels with Santana Lopez.
"Well, maybe that's your problem." She blinks, head turning to toss Puck a confused look. "You can't pull this shit, Rachel," he explains, head tilting towards her. "Dragging up ghosts. Comparing yourself to Brittany."
Catching her breath unsteadily, Rachel feels a flush of shame and glances away.
"It's going to drive you crazy."
Her head shakes empathically. "I'm not comparing myself to Brittany," she says, lost and unsure how to even begin to express herself. "I wouldn't dream of… that's not what I'm…" she huffs in frustration, for once, failing herself with words."Haven't you ever wanted to be sure of something?"
His brow arches. "And what, you're not sure about Santana? Cause she's crazy about you, Rachel." He says it matter-of-factly, and Rachel blinks, unsure why that has as much impact as it does. "Hell, she'd have to be to put up with your special kind of drama insanity."
Only Noah Puckerman could ever say something like that with as much layered affection as she hears.
Her knuckles curl around the desk, clinging tighter. "I guess I was a bit dramatic."
"Oh, you think?" Rachel's mouth pulls into a ghost of a smile, but the choked feeling in her throat doesn't dissipate. "So as the official lesbro," Puck says suddenly, "Mind if I give you some advice?"
Noah Puckerman doling out advice on her relationship with Santana like some sort of love sage is a comical idea at best.
But he's also here. He's here, beside her in a time when there is precious little that Rachel can rely upon.
Her fathers, Quinn, Mercedes… her old confidantes from high school have been dead and buried for years, and since then, Rachel's lived a lifetime of horrors fit together in two and a half years.
Vision suddenly blurry, Rachel presses her lips together and nods.
"You got your happiness," he tells her. "So be happy."
And it's so simple. So beautifully Puck.
Rachel wants to kiss him for it.
Instead, she manages a shaky smile and a half-hearted shrug. "I wish it were that easy."
"I know." His shoulder brushes hers, profile is handsome and strong. His jaw ticks with emotion. "You don't think every day I don't wonder what would have happened if I had just been a fucking man and stepped up to take care of Beth?" His mouth pulls into a snarl, his muscles tense. "I could have saved her, I know it."
Rachel's heart flares in sudden pain, because she remembers Puck and Quinn's baby girl, who Puck had wanted so desperately for his own but who had eventually gone to Shelby.
Puck's daughter, who would have been a toddler at the time of the infection.
Given up as a newborn, Puck had never gotten pictures of Beth growing up, but Santana did tell Rachel that a picture of Beth's sonogram had been packed carefully in the bottom of Puck's duffel, wrapped in plastic.
He never looks at it, but it's guarded like a treasure.
The sudden reminder of his loss feels like a well-deserved punch in her gut.
With hesitant fingers, she digs around his forearm and leans against him.
There was nothing she can say to make it better.
"Life's too short for regrets, Rachel. I told Santana the same damn thing."
With a ragged sigh, Rachel tilts her head and presses her lips to his shoulder, breathing him in.
"So if I'm Santana's lesbro, does that mean I can take her to Finn's bachelor party?"
The statement cuts through the somber stillness so effectively, Rachel finds herself snorting helplessly, eyes rolling at Noah's wicked smile. "The last time she went out drinking with you guys you brought her back to me scarred," she points out, poking at his tattooed bicep.
Puck shrugs. "Fuck that. This shit is sexy and you know it." At Rachel's narrowed glare, he continues, "It's a sign; we've got each other's back. You should be grateful. Matching tats means that Santana's one of us. Like a dude. This really hot dude that I've banged a thousand times."
He's doing it to tease her, and emotionally spent, Rachel doesn't have it in her to be offended at the reminder of Puck and Santana's special history.
"She is really amazing in bed," she concedes, and it's worth it, because Puck looks shocked at the easy response.
His teeth glint at her from underneath his wide, thrilled smile. When she pats him companionably, he lifts a muscled arm and curls it around her side, squeezing. "I can't believe you got so upset that you didn't let her go down on you. Fuck that, she had already gone down on you and you stopped her," he says suddenly. "Chicks, man."
--
She sees Santana again at the end of the day, as she gathers her things with shaky hands, slips her bag over her shoulder, and glances outside the window of her classroom.
The lawn is almost deserted, and the whole place exudes an eerie sense of calm.
She resists the urge to shudder, and instead heads for the direction of the door. She nearly gets her nose crushed in the process when it flies inwards, flung open by her girlfriend.
Santana's eyes look almost wild, glancing frantically around the room before they settle on Rachel, standing right in front of her.
"I've been looking for you everywhere," she snaps angrily.
Rachel finds herself offended at the inference that she has been very hard to find. "Well, where have you been looking?" she snits back. "Because I've been right here the whole day."
Santana doesn't answer. Instead, what Rachel gets is an enigmatic stare and a subtle pout that's coupled with suddenly flashing eyes.
It unnerves her. "What?"
"I'm just…" Santana rubs at her eyes, looking simultaneously exhausted and exasperated. "I'm looking at you and I'm suddenly pissed off all over again."
And honestly, Santana has every right to be. She's insensitive and honest to a very idiotic fault, but Rachel can understand, objectively, how Santana can feel she has done nothing wrong.
But it means something that Santana is here. That she cared enough to find her, even though she was furious enough to storm out the night before.
"Santana," she manages, though her throat has gone tight and her insides seem as fragile as glass. "I'm sorry."
Thin shoulders square in obvious rage. "What are you sorry about?" Santana's voice is flat. Husky. "Seriously, Rachel. What the fuck did I say that was so damn horrible you had to kick me out of my own damn room?"
Rachel can't help herself. "Technically, I didn't kick you out of the room; I only kicked you out of the bed. I'm just saying," she hurriedly responds, when Santana's glaring eyes go wide in disbelief. "I'm well aware that I was vague-"
"Oh my God," Santana interrupts, hands coming to her hips. "Seriously?!"
Rachel bites her lip, forces her hands to keep to her sides. "You're right," she concedes, flushing. "That's not what's important."
Her girlfriend offers an unattractive snort in response. "No what's important is your fucking diva fits, apparently."
Maybe she deserves that, but Rachel feels like there's an open wound inside of her, seeping pain, and it flares at the cutting comment. "Santana," she manages, winded. "Stop."
"You kicked me out," Santana snaps, unrepentant. "You made me spend the night with PUCK."
"I'm sorry."
"You didn't let me finish going down on you!"
"I'm sorry!"
She feels small and helpless, and never so far away from Santana, despite the fact that they are standing in the same room.
Combat boots shift on the tile; dark brown eyes close and open again. Santana exhales noisily, her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose and then go to her hips.
"I'm trying," she says suddenly. "Rachel, I'm trying." Shoulders come up in a half-hearted shrug. "But I'm not going to lie to you. I don't do that. At least Brittany-"
It shouldn't hurt so much to hear it. Rachel knows what the sentence will be once it's finished. "-Brittany understood that," she answers quietly, and Santana's eyes jerk up, startled.
Rachel can only offer a miserable smile, because she does understand. High school seems like a lifetime ago, but Rachel remembers Brittany and Santana. The linked pinkies. The best -friends-and-so-much-more vibe they put out that was so saccharine it was almost nauseating. Like nothing else mattered but each other.
Santana's head falls, and the grief is there, etched on her face. "Rachel, I'm not doing this," she begins, gentler than Rachel expects. "I'm not comparing you to her."
Rachel's head shakes, even as her eyes begin to glisten, her throat to catch. "I'm not asking you to."
Santana doesn’t seem to believe her. "We were different people back then," she says, as her voice hardens. "And it doesn't fucking matter because Brittany's dead."
"This isn't about Brittany," she quietly insists.
"Well, then what the hell is it about, Rachel?"
"It's about the fact that I love you, Santana."And then she can't hold it in anymore. It blurts from her mouth before she can stop it; the words tumble out like water rushing from a broken dam. "It's about the fact that that's the only thing I'm sure of. It's about the fact that I can't stop being scared, because there's CRAZIES and homophobic preachers and a future that terrifies me and you know what? I can handle all that. I can. But the one thing I don't know how to deal with is how much I love you."
It all comes out in a rush, accented with dewy tears and a voice clouded with sobs. At once outside of herself, Rachel finds a thought flitting through her mind that this is herself at her most dramatic, and it's all so helpless because she's known for so long that this is exactly how she is.
She's known who she is.
She's Rachel Berry, former ingénue, current school teacher, who survived an apocalypse and came out of it desperately in love with a cheerleader who before all this, had only ever been in her show choir.
And now, here she is, standing with Rachel, her lover and her best friend and everything in between, and Rachel can't imagine a time when she wasn't this much in love. When she wasn't this helpless.
Her head shakes; tears trickle from her cheeks.
"You're a bitch, Santana." Her smile is small and sincere. "You're abrasive and you're emotionally stunted, and you never say the right things, and the only reason you ever stayed with me in the first place is because you had no other choice." Santana only stares at her, and Rachel wonders if it's because Santana knows there's no use: Rachel's having a diva moment. "But you're also sweet. The way you hug me, with your whole body? It makes me want to cry, and when you sing? Your face lights up and you take my breath away. Even when we were sleeping on dirt floors and hard rocks you always made sure I was the one in the least amount of danger and I never doubted for a second that you would have risked your life to save me. You kiss me like the world is ending; when I'm away from you I can't breathe and when I'm in your arms; that's the only time I feel safe."
It could be amusing, to see how flabbergasted Santana is. It could be, but it isn't. Santana should know this. She should have known this already. Rachel knows there's no use hiding her bleeding heart because Santana already owns it.
"I know my insecurity is dumb," she finds herself admitting. "It's stupid and unreasonable and I know all that. I know I'm over-sensitive and I know this is selfish. But that's what you get when you have me and I have to believe some part of you loves me because of it, because of who I am, and not just because I was there and you got stuck with me."
In the wake of her grand monologue, Rachel doesn't know what to expect. There's no one writing this script. Rachel has no life plan ahead of her other than to survive, and so there are no expectations, but a desperate hope in its place.
Santana doesn't move. She stares at Rachel so intensely, but her expression looks lost, dumbfounded.
"I just got deployed," she says suddenly.
It makes no sense at first. Rachel can't seem to process it, and she feels stupid because of it. "What?"
Santana comes to life. "A rescue mission. About 50 miles away. Some idiots who thought it would be a good idea to keep some Crazies locked up. Thought they could control them or something. It's some sort of massacre." She exhales raggedly, and stops pacing, turning and catching Rachel's stare heatedly. "I was supposed to be at the gate ten minutes ago. Instead I went to find you. All that mattered was finding you," she reiterates, as if this is somehow very important. "Do you get that?"
She gets it. She does. Rachel's heart begins to pound, and suddenly every emotion that is seeping out of her rushes back in, making her breathless.
She swallows hard. "I realize nothing is fixed and we're still upset. You're still upset." Santana's mouth flattens into a thin line. "But for the moment, I'd like to call a truce."
Santana's brow furrows, her eyes narrow, but suddenly she seems to understand. Her head bobs in a fervent nod, and then Rachel's things fall to the floor as she steps forward meets her halfway.
Their lips mash together clumsily. Santana's teeth bumps against her lower lip and it causes a wounded hiss. Rachel absorbs the pain; relishes it. She tastes copper in her saliva and she only whimpers without complaint, arms flung around Santana's shoulders as they stumble back.
When they crash against Rachel's desk, the hard wood jams against Rachel's back, and Santana uses it to her advantage, trapping Rachel as she pushes her hips against her, hands tangling in Rachel's nape and tugging hard to kiss her deeply.
Santana kisses her like it's the end of the world.
The very thought is enough to break her, and her heart seizes, causing a gasp of emotion as she shudders and pulls Santana close, eyes shutting and head burying into Santana's sweaty neck.
"I love you," she whispers, before she presses adoring kisses along the salty skin of Santana's throat. She feels the tendons tense underneath her teeth, and then Santana's hands tighten at her waist and Rachel is crushed against her.
"I'm coming back," Santana whispers in her ear. "Okay? Rachel, I'm coming back."
She says it like it's the most important thing in the world. In their desperate embrace, Rachel can feel Santana's heart, thumping against her with the beat of frenzied emotion.
Rachel believes her.
--
Go to Part II