Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

I saw it first before anyone else—even Quinn or Rachel—before they even had a chance to think about it. Except for maybe Brittany; my girl has a sixth sense for people like you wouldn’t believe. But she never said anything until I mentioned it, so I’m going to stick with “I saw it first.” Like I said, I have awesome gaydar.

It wasn’t like I stalked them or anything. I just happen to be very good at noticing people, especially when these people have very public, very loud blowouts in glee rehearsal. Eventually, the rest of us who aren’t drama queens are going to get bored, and we might roll our eyes and think about other things—things like why Rachel and Quinn are fighting over Finn in the first place when obviously both of them are way out of his league. Like, light-years out. They’re mysterious, exciting, unreachable Neptune, and Finn is just plain old Earth.

So it doesn’t surprise me when Rachel flips out every second Quinn doesn’t show up for the wedding that shouldn’t be happening in the first place. I wish she would, though. The hobbit is getting really antsy and even though I’m not the touchy-feely type, if she doesn’t quiet down in a few seconds I’ll go over there and hug her until she’s unconscious. I’m getting desperate.

/ 

The clock is winding down on the Finchel trainwreck.

Quinn isn’t coming, I say.

Just a few more minutes, Rachel deflects.

Can we please just wait for Quinn, Rachel stalls.

Then the decision is made for them and it really isn’t a solution that anyone was imagining.

Judy Fabray calls Coach Sylvester who calls Mr. Schuester who bursts into the room amidst Rachel’s protests—“Mr. Schue you can’t be here; it’s bad enough that Finn saw me before the wedding. I really can’t allow any males in the bride’s room”—and then nobody knows what to do after that.

It’s just a phone call that sets everything off. Just like that.

Brittany is sitting next to me, I think, and she grabs my hand. And then I’m holding two hands and Tina, right, she was on my other side—we’re all crying, in shock, everyone is too stunned to do anything more than react.

The tension, though. It’s about to explode.

Brittany looks at me and she is so sad, worse than when she broke up with Artie or when we had that terrible locker talk, and I hate that face. I hate when Brittany is sad, especially at times like this when I know there isn’t much I can do to fix it. I give her a quick, hard, determined kiss on the lips, reminding her that I am here. That she can touch me and kiss me and because of that, we can do anything. Anything is possible. She smiles at me and I break our gaze long enough to do a quick scan around the room.

Mr. Schue, for once, is speechless and I realize that sometimes adults don’t always have the answers. Sometimes when things are so bad and unexpected like this, there are no adults and teenagers or teachers and students or parents and kids. There are just people.

Rachel, for her part, is about to become extremely inconsolable, and that makes up my mind.

“Britt, baby,” I murmur. “Do you still have my keys?” She thinks for a moment then grabs them from the coat closet. I kiss her on the temple and lead her out of the room, grabbing Rachel with my other hand.

“Santana, what….?” she manages between garbled sobs.

“Don’t play dumb right now, Berry. Obviously we’re going to the hospital. Unless you’d rather stay here?”

I stop in front of my car, waiting to unlock it until I know for sure that she’s coming. She’s taking an annoyingly long time to answer.

“No,” she stutters, “no, I don’t want to stay here.”

I click the remote and scramble into the driver’s seat. “Okay. Then we’re going.” Brittany’s hand settles on my thigh and I almost give in. I almost let out the fear that’s been lurking at the edge of my mind. It’s just so easy to let go of everything when Brittany’s around. She makes me feel safe. But I can’t do that right now; I can’t let myself worry about my best friend because if I do then I’ll cry and I have to at least see a little when I start driving.

I brush my fingers over Brittany’s hand, a silent thank-you, and check my rearview mirror as I put the car into reverse. Rachel is busying herself with her fingers, pressing them into her legs in a (futile) attempt to stop them from shaking. I frown, unexpectedly touched. I used to do the exact same thing. Before Brittany, I mean.

“Hey.” She doesn’t as much as look up. “Hey, Berry.” Nothing. I sigh and unbuckle my seatbelt, twisting around to face the backseat. I put my hand over hers. “Rachel, stop.” I can feel them trembling still. “Rachel. Save it for later, okay? Right now we don’t know anything. Save the tears for the very slim chance that things go really wrong.” She sniffles and nods her head so disjointedly that I can’t tell if she’s actually nodding or if the shaking has just migrated upwards.

“Are you okay?” I need to make sure before I leave because I can’t handle a psychotic Rachel Berry right now. She doesn’t nod again until I give her a small (but no less genuine) smile; I think she’s surprised. She still expects Santana the Bitch, but there are no bitches or divas or ditzes or cheerleaders or choir nerds in this car right now. We’re still just people.

I pat her hand and turn back around, starting the car and driving off with far more control than I feel.

Brittany squeezes my hand, and I wish that I could just have one moment to be upset about the fact that my best friend just got hit by a truck.

/ 

It’s not like Quinn and I have been friends forever. I didn’t talk to her until a few months into freshman year, and even then I thought she was the biggest bitch in the world. Brittany and I, we’ve been friends since seventh grade. Sometimes I think about it and I wish that we’d had that little-kid friendship where you’re five years old and the entire world revolves around your very best friend and there really isn’t anything off-limits for either of you. But then I think about seventh-grade friendships and how they’re based on tough times, on finding that right person to guide you through insecurities, someone who comes back after you phase them out and actually listens to your apologies. Seventh-grade friendships are the most forgiving friendships in the world if you do them right. It’s what I’ve always needed with Brittany—forgiveness. I never really did little-kid friendships. I just went right to the hard stuff. It seems like the older I get, the more friendships focus on things you go through rather than common interests.

That’s what my friendship with Quinn is like. We’ve been through of things together, things like scary relationships and pregnancies and pink hair.

Sometimes, when I was feeling really bad about hurting Brittany, I’d drive over to Quinn’s house. She and her Jesus-family had this weird idea that everyone should feel welcome at their house and so they kept a spare key under their doormat. I’d wanted to roll my eyes every time I used it, but I only used it when I really needed to and Quinn’s house always felt more like home to me than mine. Not home like Brittany’s house did, but home like your favorite cousin’s house. Home like family. I never told her I was coming over, but there was a plate of pancakes for me every morning whether I was there or not. In the months before Nationals, I usually was.

One time I gave her a bath while she was pregnant because she was really sore and her mom wasn’t speaking to her and she was too sad to do anything for herself. So I ran her some water, helped her undress, and spent an hour reading gossip magazines out loud. She fell asleep.

So I need her to be okay. This can be another thing that we go through, but I can’t do it if it’s not together. Look, I was really good at that bath, okay? I don’t mind being nice when it’s someone I like. I would gladly do that all again and this time I wouldn’t read gossip magazines. I would make sure she was awake so we could talk and I would tell her important things.

I would say sorry for lizard babies.

I would say thank you for pancakes.

I would say, “Do you need me to rinse your hair?” and she would say, “Yes, thank you, Santana” and I’d fill a cup and I wouldn’t even make a crack about her being naked because I’ve seen her naked a million times, and because someone has got to give her a bath and her mother can be really overbearing sometimes.

“Best friends” isn’t really enough to describe what Brittany and I have, so I need Quinn back. I don’t even mind if she’s broken.

Broken is kind of my specialty.

/ 

Rachel has channeled all of her nerves into energy by the time we get to the hospital and she bursts out of the car like she’s on fire. I don’t even think she would move this fast if Barbra Streisand were the one in the hospital bed. Brittany and her long legs have no problem keeping up, but I’m straggling at the back, getting a workout fit for a goddamn Cheerios practice in these heels.

Rachel is full-on into nerd mode when I finally catch up, speaking ten million miles a minute at the poor nurse behind the desk. She’s really just saying “Quinn Fabray” every third word, like she doesn’t know any other ones, so at least it’s not hard to miss her point. The nurse directs us to the fourth floor and I never like going up in hospitals. If you’re not on the first floor—where the lobby is; where the gift shop is; where everything is that also might not be in a hospital—something is really wrong with you. Death hides above the first floor.

Rachel spots Mrs. Fabray first and she goes all shy, twisting her engagement ring and hanging back, looking to Brittany and me for guidance. It’s not like I really know what to do here—Quinn’s mom is not Brittany’s mom. Quinn’s mom is not genuinely warm and fuzzy; Quinn’s mom hides behind her husband; Quinn’s mom makes brownies from a box.

(Then I shake my head and remember that Quinn is warm and fuzzy on occasion, that Judy Fabray left her husband, and Quinn must have gotten it from somewhere).

She is frazzled, her hair sagging near her temples. I find a group of three seats across from her; I don’t want to crowd her right now. It’s not like we know her any better than Rachel does anyway. Brittany sits on my left and immediately takes my hand. Rachel takes the other side and parks her hands resolutely in her lap, fiddling with her trembling fingers again.

I grab her left hand with my right because the shaking makes me nervous. Her grip is tight and her hand is small like mine and she’s sitting in a chair worried about Quinn like I am, and I guess I’ve never really considered that Rachel is an actual person, and I start to cry.

I want to hold Quinn’s hand.

/ 

I know we all look ridiculous sitting in the waiting room. Bridesmaids and groomsmen all out of place.

My tears have ebbed and I concentrate on people. I make a list in my head of all the different ways Quinn is important to everyone in the room.

Mercedes put her up for a bit during the pregnancy.

Sam gave her a promise ring.

Mr. Schuester would be good at being her dad.

Kurt and Blaine and Rory and Tina and Mike and Artie did the play with her, and plays make you closer. I know that. Plays are sort of like things you go through and common interests.

Finn loved her first.

Puck loved her better.

Rachel.

(If Brittany was the one in the hospital bed , banged up and unconscious, less than fifty-fifty on whether she’s going to wake up again, I’d look a lot like Rachel does right now).

Rachel is in love with Quinn.

The doctor comes by an hour later and his face is grim and his words sterile. Even though I know what they mean—multiple surgeries, internal bleeding, very cautious with her spine, waiting game, lucky girl—I can’t really understand them. They’re buzzing around in my head at breakneck speeds and it feels just like when I did shots at Puck’s house right around the time Brittany was still happy with Artie. It’s that whirlwind before the crash. I feel like I’m drunk on worry and fear and what-ifs, and there’s really only one thing I’m awesome at when I’m drunk.

The tears are back again, full-force and ugly.

/ 

The next few hours are like one of those movie montages where everything is fast and then slow and then fast again, and people are walking around blurry but their fingers and eyes are totally clear and they notice the fly on the wall and the ticking of the clock.

Kurt paces around the room until Blaine grabs him and takes him for a walk. They don’t come back.

Finn is too big for any of the hospital chairs but he tries to sit in one anyway. I think he’d try to kick it if they weren’t all bolted together. I don’t blame him for wanting to.

Puck’s fists are clenched and when he leaves I know he’s going to find the one piece of Quinn that is still perfect.

/ 

Five hours later and mostly everyone has left. They keep coming back in spurts.

The doctor comes back to an audience of five—Brittany, Rachel, Mrs. Fabray, Puck and me—and tells us that Quinn isn’t out of the woods yet, but she is out of surgery and stabilizing.

Mrs. Fabray’s hand flutters somewhere near her chest; Puck sags in his seat; Brittany buries her face in my neck; Rachel rests her head on my shoulder.

I wish Quinn would wake up so I’m not the only one hugging everybody. Santana Lopez is not a hugger.

/ 

I tell Rachel to call her dads when the doctor leaves. The worst is over, I tell her, even though I’m not completely sure that’s true.

She gets out the word “Daddy…” before she dissolves into incomprehensible squeaking, and I can feel Brittany laugh a little next to me. I roll my eyes and tap Rachel on the shoulder, gesturing for her to hand the phone over. I take a breath and get into my “I am Santana Lopez and parents love me” character.

“Mr. Berry? Hi, it’s Santana Lopez; we met at the wedding.”

He clears his throat on the other end and hesitates. I think he’s trying to place me. “Right, you were the one in the pink dress.”

“Um…”

He chuckles nervously. “Sorry, bad joke,” he says, and I think I’m talking to the nervous one with the glasses. "What happened to Rachel?”

“She’s a little…upset,” I say delicately. “I just thought you’d want to know that Quinn is out of her first surgery and she’s not perfect yet, but she’s stabilizing. I thought maybe you’d want to call Finn’s parents and let them know or something. And can I send Brittany to get some clothes? We’re all kind of sweating through our dresses here.”

There is a faint click on his end. I think he snapped his fingers. “You’re the Hispanic girl on the Cheerios with the ‘fiery yet misguided passion,’ aren’t you?”

“Uh.”

“You should come around for dinner when this is all over. I think you’d get along with Leroy fabulously.”

“Okay?”

“And bring your lovely girlfriend. Rachel is always talking about both of you.”

If Rachel weren’t such a mess right now, I’d shoot her a glare so hot her face would melt. Brittany cocks her head, asking me what’s going on, and I shrug. I don’t really know.

“Sure, Mr. Berry. We’ll come up with something. Um, I’ll send Brittany over for some clothes, and, uh, Rachel’s fine; she’ll probably stay here for a while so I’ll make sure she calls you sometimes and stuff…”

Maybe now I understand why Finn is the way he is all the time.

I listen to Rachel’s dad give me directions to their house before I can remind him that we don’t need directions—we have iPhones. Nervous-Mr. Berry thanks me and I hang up, not wanting to prolong the awkward silence that was already starting to build. I deposit Rachel’s phone in her lap and turn to address Brittany.

“Britt, could you pop over to Rachel’s and get some clothes for her? And some for us, too; her house is closer to yours. I think I still have some sweats in your dresser.” She nods and gives Rachel a small smile. I grab her wrist before she leaves the room. “Um, try not to spend too much time there. You know how Rachel’s weird? Her dads are even worse.” Brittany giggles and kisses me on the forehead, and I know that Quinn is down the hall, bruised and battered, but I’m sure I’m grinning like a fool.

I pull Rachel up from her chair and drag her in the direction of the elevators.

“Santana, I’m not sure—”

“You’re going to go crazy if you stay in that waiting room all day, Berry. Hell, I’m going to go crazy if you stay in that waiting room all day.”

We find a Starbucks-knockoff in the food area. I get the largest hot chocolate I can for me. Rachel wants a chai tea, and she is surprised when I ask if she wants that with soy milk, like I haven’t noticed one of her gazillion ‘vegan food is the best food’ rants.

We sit at a tiny table in the corner and she keeps looking around, like Quinn is going to materialize just behind her shoulder any minute.

“Rachel. Cool it, would you?”

“Sorry,” she mumbles into her tea. “You’re very good with Brittany.”

“She’s not a child, Berry.”

Her cheeks flush and she immediately shakes her head. “No, I just mean…I can see why she loves you. You’re good when you’re with her. I know she’s not a child.”

I clear my throat. “Thanks. I think.”

There is a heavy silence. Rachel, I think, is waiting for me to speak. She turns her head to look over her shoulders so much that I wonder if I’m going to be in a remake of The Exorcist. I play with the rim of my cup, waiting for words to come.

“Maybe we should get back—”

“Last year,” I interrupt, “when I was a bigger bitch than normal, it was because I was so scared of being with Brittany. I didn’t tell anyone about it. I barely spoke to my parents; I cut off all contact with Quinn. I didn’t want to talk about it because I felt so ashamed—not ashamed of being with Brittany, but ashamed of my fear. I was miserable. And then about a month after Valentine’s Day, I told Brittany how I felt. She shot me down, and it sucked. But I started feeling better because I’d finally told someone. I realized that the whole time I was keeping everything in, a part of me really just wanted to spill it all. Even though I didn’t get the response I wanted, I was relieved that I wasn’t alone.”

I have Rachel’s full attention now. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you’ve been miserable for a long time. This is your chance to tell someone.”

She takes a sip of her tea and appraises me, a look that absolutely belongs on Quinn Fabray’s face but seems a little out of place on Rachel’s. And then the words start.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Santana, I really don’t; Quinn has always hated me and there’s Finn but it seems like she’s so interested in my life lately and she told me that I’m destined for bigger things and she tried to stop my wedding and it would so unbearably romantic if it wasn’t so confusing, and this is all so sudden, all these things that I’m feeling; they’re things I should be feeling for Finn but he’s just getting smaller and I don’t know what I’ll do if Quinn isn’t okay.” She sighs and trains her eyes on the table, blushing. “I don’t even think I’m gay, Santana. It’s just…it’s all very confusing.”

I give her an exasperated look. “You of all people, growing up in the house that you did, shouldn’t need me to tell you that you don’t have to be gay to love a girl.”

She nods. “I know, I just—it feels so unfair and selfish of me to be pining after Quinn when she’s hurt and Finn…” She scratches her nose nervously. “I don’t know what to do about Finn.”

“Oh, please, Berry. Of course you know what to do. You just don’t want to do it.” She glares at me and if we were in the choir room right now, she’d be storming out. But we’re not; we’re in a hospital and the only place she can storm to has the two people she doesn’t want to deal with for a while. So instead she purses her lips and listens. “Here’s how I look at this, Rachel: you’re going to end up hurting Finn no matter what you do, so you might as well be honest about it. I’m not saying it’s going to end up perfectly with Quinn. It might not. I can’t speak for her. But I’ve been where you are and I can tell you that even if things don’t work out the way you want them to, it’s better that you get everything out there. It’s always better with feelings.”

“You figured that out while you were miserable?”

“No, Brittany taught me that.”

“Right.” She looks forlornly at her cup of tea. “My tea’s kind of cold. We should go back.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll buy you another one. I have to get some hot chocolate anyway.”

“Why? You’ve got half of yours left.”

“Yeah, but Brittany doesn’t have any, does she?” There is a small smile playing at the corner of Rachel’s lips. It’s the first smile that I’ve seen from her in hours, even when she was getting married, which is why I bite back a snarky retort. “What, Finn never bought you a drink because he thought you’d like it?”

Okay, I almost bite back a snarky retort.

“That’s very sweet,” she says, definitely smiling now. “And now that you mention it—I guess small romantic gestures weren’t always Finn’s forte.”

We get back in line behind a woman as wide as both of us put together. I wonder if she’s a relative or a patient trying to get all the bad stuff in before she sees the doctor. “Well, Quinn would buy you a hot chocolate and a gluten-free muffin. I’m just saying.” Okay, a crestfallen face isn’t exactly what I was going for. “That was a joke, Berry. I joke sometimes.”

I order a hot chocolate for Brittany and bully the barista into giving me another chai with soy, this time for free. Santana Lopez is not a hugger and Santana Lopez does not apologize.

(But Santana Lopez will always make it up to you somehow).

Rachel’s steps are lighter as we walk away. “Is that how you got Brittany to date you—plied her with free food?” She’s expecting my glare, but this time she accepts it with a smile. “I can joke sometimes, too, Santana.”

I think I chuckle involuntarily. “Well it works, doesn’t it?”

We walk down the hall toward the elevators and as she takes Brittany’s hot chocolate from my hand so she can link our arms, I think that maybe Rachel Berry isn’t so bad.

/ 

There are no happy faces waiting for us when we get back to the waiting area. Apparently Quinn crashed while the doctor was giving Mrs. Fabray a status report, and it took him fifteen minutes to come back and say that she was okay again. This explains why Brittany flings herself at me the minute I’m in her line of sight, and now I’m really glad Rachel was carrying her drink.

I grab the hot chocolate from where Rachel has put it on the table and sit with Brittany in a sort-of-private-corner.

“Are you okay, Brittany?” I ask softly, rubbing calming circles in the space where her index finger meets her thumb.

“That’s a silly question, Santana. Of course I’m not.”

“Sorry,” I murmur. “I just don’t really know what to say.”

“Me either.” She takes a loose strand of my hair and twists it around her finger, pulling it tight enough for it to tug uncomfortably at my scalp. I realize that we’re still in our bridesmaids dresses even though Brittany is back and that means she’s got a change of clothes. I have a sudden, aching need to be at Brittany’s house. We would sit on her couch and watch romantic comedies because even though the wedding was the worst idea ever, it still had a little bit of wedding magic. Even the most ill-timed, impromptu weddings have wedding magic. And whether or not Finn and Rachel had gone through with it, Brittany and I would be cuddled up on her couch, watching sappy marriage movies and thinking that getting married is kind of a big deal and it’s scary and forever and maybe it’s not completely out of the question. And when I’d look over at her, head resting on my chest, longs legs covered by oversized sweatpants, I’d know that it was the only question for me.

“Santana?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“The doctors said that Quinn was texting someone when she…when it happened.”

“Okay.” I sweep a patch of hair from her forehead and wait. Brittany always has a point. She just makes it in a roundabout way sometimes.

“Well, I was just thinking that she was probably texting Rachel about the wedding, and that means she has to wake up. Because, well, it’s kind of like one of those movies where everything bad that can happen to the main character does, but you know that it can’t all be bad because there’s still half an hour left in the movie. The story isn’t over so it kind of has to get better. Kind of like how we weren’t over even though I didn’t break up with Artie right away.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever be over, Brittany,” I say softly.

“Right, but I don’t think Quinn and Rachel are done with their story yet either because Quinn hasn’t told Rachel the real reason she was so against the wedding and Rachel hasn’t told Quinn that she should have listened in the first place. So Quinn has to wake up.”

I press a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I think you’re right, Britt-Britt.”

She relaxes her grip on my hair. “What did you and Rachel talk about?”

I pull Brittany close to me and rest my cheek on the top of her head. “I told her that she’s got a story to finish.”

Brittany looks up at me and smiles. “You willingly had a conversation with Rachel Berry about feelings?”

I smile back. “Well, some really smart blonde taught me that it’s better to be honest. I just thought Rachel could do with a little reminding.”

This time last year, I thought being strong meant being guarded. Being so tough that no one could shatter the stone face I’d perfected. But Brittany came and blew it to pieces anyway, and she taught me that being strong is being resilient, being confident in everything you do especially when it’s easier to be afraid. Strong does not mean keeping love at bay. Strong means embracing it.

Right now—as I realize that Brittany depends on me just as much as I depend on her; as I wrap a protective arm around her shoulder; as I recognize that love is really something you are rather than something you do and I can finally be all of me because of one brilliant lady—I am the strongest I’ve ever felt.

/ 

Seven hours later and Quinn is finally stable enough to have visitors. She’s in a medically-induced coma and her body is contorted, enlarged in some places and sunken in others, but she is alive. Mrs. Fabray practically ran to the room when the doctor said she could, and after ten tense minutes of waiting, Brittany and I walked in to find her asleep in a chair, body positioned so that she had a constant visual on Quinn’s face (or she would if her eyes were actually open).

But the other side of Quinn is free of people, and Brittany drags the only other chair over. She gestures for me to take a seat, but I much prefer to sit on the edge of Quinn’s bed.

Her ribcage is thick with bandages; her face is pale and speckled with bruises, deep purple like the sky when it’s still deciding whether it should be night and day. It is the deep purple of a question no one can really answer.

Brittany raises her eyebrows, prompting me to say something, but I shake my head. I don’t want to wake Quinn’s mom, and besides, there will be plenty of time later for words and tears and apologies.

There is a pulse monitor on Quinn’s middle finger, but her left hand is relatively unscathed. It is warm and lonely and just waiting for someone to hold it.

So I do.