Disclaimer: I do not own Glee.
Warning: minor character death
A/N: I would like to thank sapphiccharmer for taking the time and beta-ing/proofreading/improving this one-shot for me.
"Heeeeeeeeelp!"
Flames.
Every way she turns, flames.
It's sticky. Indescribably hot. The cracking of fire invades her ears, mixed with the distant sound of approaching sirens. Above it all, she can hear a baby crying and a woman screaming, but she doesn't see them. Her movements are frantic, head wiping in every direction. How she wishes she had Kurt's X-ray vision or at least Tina's regenerative healing abilities. Her costume can only do so much in keeping her skin from getting burned.
"Oh god, please. Someone, help!"
She's not a 100% sure from which apartment the voice is coming, but standing in the middle of the hallway won't get anyone saved, that's for sure. So she decides to go with her guts and rushes down the narrow corridor, throwing her body weight against the door to her left. With a loud BANG, it crashes onto the floor, her body landing on top of it.
A throbbing pain settles in her left arm and she pushes up from the ground quickly, not being to keen on scorching her outfit, let alone important body parts.
Her vision gets blurry for only a second. She crouches forward, coughing heavily from the toxic smoke. "Hello?" She yells as she stands up to look around the room. Fuck, more closed doors.
"In here!" The woman's voice grows louder – accompanied by even more baby cries – the closer she gets to the far end of the demolished room. "Please, help!"
She starts running again, this time kicking the door down because her shoulder probably wouldn't be able to take another blow.
As the door bursts open, her eyes scan the room and immediately land on a young red-haired woman, possibly in her mid-twenties, cradling a screaming newborn in her arms. The clearly scared mother is trapped, parts of a collapsed ceiling blocking her way.
"Wait! I'll be right there." She doesn't hesitate when she takes off from the floor to cross the short distance between them, flying over the burning material. At least her super powers are good for something.
The woman steps forward, trying to reach her, one arm extended in a desperate attempt to grasp for her glove-clad hand, when suddenly, a beam comes crashing down on both mother and kid.
An earth shattering scream rips through the room, followed by the sickening sound of cracking bones.
It happens in the blink of an eye.
"No!" She was so close, barely a foot away from them. "No, no, no, no, no!" This can't be happening. As soon as her feet touch the ground, she drops to her knees beside the beam. The woman's face and parts of her upper body look out from under it, some blood slowly seeping out. A tiny arm is visible as well, though it's lifeless, all earlier cries now silent.
"Fuck," she seethes, panic taking over her body, "Just...fuck!" Her eyes dart quickly back and forth, examining the scene in front of her. Almost all of the woman's body is buried under the massive beam, together with the baby, which, at this point, is probably not alive anymore. Her eyes go wide when realization dawns on her and her actions freeze momentarily. So does the blood in her veins. If she had just–
A gurgling noise draws her attention back to the woman's face where thick, red blood flows out of her slightly agape mouth. "Ma'am," her voice is shaky as she forces herself to speak, "I need you to stay calm. I'm going to..." she trails off, once again examining the beam, her left hand reaching out to touch it tentatively. It immediately starts to splutter and she quickly pulls back before the hot iron can burn a hole in her glove.
There has to be a way to get that thing off of her, she thinks, but a glance around the room tells her that there is nothing there to help her stem the beam.
"Okay...um.." She really doesn't know what she's supposed to do now, but she has to save the woman somehow. "I'mma.." The stammering sure doesn't help and there is really no other option. She has to lift the damn thing with physical strength alone.
So she stands up and carefully moves to the end of the beam, before she hunkers down again. Her throat is dry and she swallows hard, shutting her eyes for a second. "Ma'am," she says, loud and clear so that the woman would be able to understand her, "I'm going to try to lift this up now. As soon as you feel able to move, I need you to crawl out from under it. Okay?"
She draws a last shaky breath – oblivious to the fact that she didn't get the slightest hint of a response – then hooks both her underarms under the beam.
The spluttering starts again the moment her skin makes contact, but she forces herself to ignore it. A scorching hotness burns its way through her costume where she's touching the heavy beam. She starts to grunt, trying to push up from the ground.
The undersides of her arms press firmly against the searing hot metal and it's only then that she comes to fully understand the extent of her actions. She tries her best to ignore the itching, piercing pain rupturing at her skin, but she's not strong-minded enough.
Yeah, she is a superhero, but pain-resistant? Not so much.
This is not about her though. There is a woman under that beam, being crushed, bleeding out, dying. The baby is dead, she just knows it, but as long as there is still the slightest hint of hope, she has to go on. She can't allow herself to let go now, to give up. People expect her to save this woman. Family, friends, possibly a someone who is so madly in love with her that they would never be completely happy again if they knew about her cruel fate.
However, all of this can't help her when she realizes that the beam won't move, no matter how hard she tries. Desperation soon settles in and the undeniable need to scream becomes too much for her. So she gives in, her mouth opening wide with the first outcry of pure agony. It's as if something is devouring her flesh, digging through it and reaching her bones.
She wants it to end. Right now. She wants to pull away, to flee, to get rid of the responsibility. But she can't...and she won't. The voice in her head pleads with her to get out of that building before it buries all three of them under its debris, but her body stays in its position.
Her thoughts are so messed up that she doesn't even notice a man entering the room, his movements frantic, mouth moving as he yells.
Something pervades her ears, the sound of someone calling out for her "..tana..." It grows louder and louder, "Santana," until the voice is right beside her. "SANTANA!" Someone shouts, "We have to get out of here!"
Her underarms hurt terribly and she can feel her flesh getting burned more and more with each passing second, but she won't stop. She can't stop. All strength is slowly but steadily leaving her body, the beam's position remaining unchanged.
A strong hand is on her right shoulder, fingernails digging into her skin. Someone is pulling her backwards, begging her to "...let go! The building is about to collapse!"
She screams something in return, but once the words leave her mouth, she can't remember them anymore. Hot tears slowly prickle down her cheeks...and god, why is this thing not moving?
She's torn between letting go to save her own life or staying, trying against all odds to lift the beam and possibly dying in the flames. In the end, the decision is taken from her when a strong arm wraps itself around her midsection and pulls her away.
Everything that happens next is a blur of hazy images and the discovery of something that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Something she had never experienced before. The feeling of falling.
Glass is shattering. She vaguely remembers catching a glimpse of short, blond hair. She's being dragged to a window, hears people shouting, feels herself being lifted up. It's so fast, everything moves so very fast. Her arms hang limp, numbed by pain. The smoke makes her throat dry and sore. Hot. It's so unbearable hot. Her body is about to melt. She's being flooded with sensations until suddenly, the only thing she feels is a state of weightlessness.
Falling.
She's falling. And for the first time in her life, she can't stop it.
Santana wakes up with a start, upper body shooting up from the bed. She's covered in cold sweat, her t-shirt completely drenched.
It's been a week now. A week full of nightmares and regret. She's still falling. Every second of her life, she's falling... and she doesn't know how to catch herself again.
The days pass by too slowly and they are shrouded in darkness; in nothingness. Her heart is aching with something she can't describe. She has stopped eating. The tiny bites she forces herself to take from whatever it is that Kurt and Blaine are cooking for her almost always end in some bag or the sink, half-digested. She has lost weight, some of the color has drained from her face, replaced by an unnatural tone of gray. There are dark circles under her eyes from the nights she has spend lying mostly awake due to her restless dreams.
She tenses for just a second when a hand starts to rub at her back. "Bad dreams again?" Brittany asks, tiredness and concern evident in her voice.
Santana nods dumbly and lets herself be pulled back into a lying position. A moment later, Brittany presses her body into her side, hand slipping under the bunched up t-shirt to draw lazy circles on her stomach.
In the past, Santana had loved the closeness she shared with the blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty she calls her girlfriend, but lately, all she feels when Brittany touches her is an unsettling indifference. She can't even look her in the eyes anymore. For some reason, everything that was once beautiful to her has lost its magic. There are no sparks anymore. She's numbed by apathy.
Life continues without her. She's standing at the sideline, watching as everything takes its course. The people around her are moving like there is nothing wrong. Yet for her, it feels like the world has somehow stopped spinning.
She's standing still.
"Brittany?"
"Yes?"
"Would you please talk to her?"
"Why? What's wrong?"
"She won't let me touch her. I'm not even allowed to just take a look at her arms."
They probably think she can't hear them from where she's sitting on the hood of some police car because they keep on whispering. However, they are standing too close for her not to understand every single word they are saying.
"Okay, I'll see what I can do."
Ten sets of eyes are watching from where the ambulances are parked, as Brittany slowly walks up to her, an uncharacteristically sad smile adorning her oh so beautiful and perfect face. It's somehow annoying and even though she tries to shake it off, she can't help but feel resentful...angry...and inexplicably lonely.
"Hey," Brittany's voice is ever so soft, too soft for her liking.
She doesn't answer, but instead looks on with unfocused eyes, not even bothering to turn her head and acknowledge the approaching girl. She can't deal with this right now, she just can't. They have to give her a moment. Just one little moment to herself. Without someone interrupting her, mothering her, pitying her. Because now is not the time for that.
"I won't ask if you're okay, because I know that you're not." She thinks she can discern the slightest hint of a quiver as Brittany speaks. "And I know that you don't want anyone to come near you right now." Damn straight, she doesn't. "But your arms look really bad and I don't want you to be in pain." Brittany moves closer to her, hesitantly reaching out to take her hands in her own, but she flinches away immediately.
"Don't," she warns, for the first time staring directly into ocean blue eyes.
A look of sheer horror crosses Brittany's face when she sees how cold and callous her pupils are and she herself can feel it too. She has never, ever looked at Brittany like this before. Like she wanted her to disappear, wanted to be everywhere else but in this place with her right now. Like Brittany wasn't her girlfriend, but some unwelcome guest. And even though it shouldn't be this way, she can't stop staring Brittany down.
"I'm fine," she croaks out, eventually averting her gaze again. It's a lie. They both know it. Her arms feel like dead weight. Dead weight that is resting in her lap and hurting like a bitch. "Just go."
Brittany's eyes gloss over with the first little semblance of tears and it makes her clench her fists as more anger rises in her chest.
"I beg you," she seethes through gritted teeth when Brittany won't move. "Leave me alone and tell the others to do the same."
Long moments of silence pass between them, no one daring to make a move. Brittany opens and closes her mouth a few times, but no words would come out.
In the end, her own words are the ones that cut through the heavy atmosphere surrounding them. "If you truly love me," her voice wavers with the unbearable sadness that overcomes her. "You will walk away."
And after another long moment, Brittany does.
The moment she silently begged Brittany to give her somehow never ended. She's living in her own personal hell of monotony. At some point, she stops being herself and instead becomes a ghost. A lifeless, loveless copy of the once feisty superhero she was.
She remembers the days when kids would run up to her and ask her for autographs. She would randomly grab one of them, usually the most adorable one and then take off, flying a few yards above the ground, laughing as the kid squealed happily or looked completely terrified. It was always one of the highlights of her bad days.
Being able to fly always gave her a sense of freedom. Sometimes, when she felt restless, she would leave their headquarters and take a break from life. It was only her, floating in the sky for a fragment of eternity, content to be nothing more than a leaf dancing in the wind.
Whenever someone asked her how it felt, being a superhero and all, what it was like to be able to fly, she would struggle to find words for it. "Indescribable," was usually her answer. That and nothing more. Because that's what it was: indescribable.
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Quinn's voice sounds loud and screechy, as if someone was writing with chalk on a blackboard.
They are all there, standing in a semicircle, watching her, studying her, with their curious and concern-filled eyes. She's surprised that out of all the people, Rachel, Finn and Kurt are the only ones not talking. Rachel looks oddly pale, her eyes glued to the burned flesh of her underarms. It makes her feel like a freak. Finn and Kurt, on the other hand, look at her face, their own expressions somber. She thinks that on some level, they understand. They see what the others can't. And she knows that Finn can read her thoughts, which is why he quietly steps aside and lets her pass without commenting on it.
"Santana, I really need to look at those wounds," Artie wheels after her with Tina in tow.
She really wants to give them her best death glare but when she turns around, her eyes display nothing but emptiness. Both Artie and Tina stop then, eventually realizing that she doesn't want their help. That she is not ready for all of this. At least not right now.
They let her go.
As she leaves the fire site, she never looks back. The building had collapsed, apparently burying five people under its debris. She hears people crying behind the cordon, mourning their losses.
Apologizing, that's what she wants to do, to the bereaved families, to all the people she couldn't rescue. She's a superhero for christ's sake. She should've saved them all. She should've been better. And she shouldn't just walk away from her responsibilities.
Yet she does exactly that. She flees from the scene, trudging down the sidewalk until she stumbles into a small alley. Her body throbs with exhaustion and she never felt more ashamed of herself than in this very moment.
Eventually, she breaks down behind a dumpster, trying to hide herself from the rest of the world.
It takes a few hours until Rachel and Puck find her. They are worried sick, talking to her and asking her things. The answers they are waiting for never come. Her body is limp, aching everywhere, so she doesn't even attempt to speak. When Puck eventually picks her up to carry her towards their car, she doesn't protest.
Instead, she faints.
She doesn't fly anymore. What was once a gift is now nothing more than an insuperable barrier. It's not that she doesn't know how to. After all, she had this ability her whole life. It's a part of her. In some weird way, it is her.
It's just that it doesn't feel right anymore. She can't go back to being a superhero. She can't go back to being herself. It's too much for her to handle, guilt and shame weighing her down. And so, she becomes someone else instead. Someone none of her friends recognize anymore.
Brittany, her beautiful, perfect girlfriend, the woman she loves and wanted to spend the rest of her life with before all of this happened, is no longer welcome in her room at daytime. Santana simply can't deal with it and only allows contact in small doses. It's all she can do without crumbling.
Her days are spent in her dark room, blinds always shut to keep the light out. In the confinement of those walls, she allows herself to fall apart. Day after day.
She begins to question everything she used to believe in. She questions the purpose of herself, of her ability, of the New Directions.
Four years have gone by now since Rachel and Finn started their quest to unite all the hidden superheroes living in the States. Finn, with his mind reading power, was able to find them all, one after another. And Rachel... well, the fact that she is able to survive without air was the reason every single one of them gave in and joined them at the end of her twenty minutes long speech, which she held without a break, of course.
At the end of their journey, the New Directions were born.
They fight crime, rescue people, and wear the most ridiculous outfits designed by Kurt and fabricated by their resident genius, Artie. They are superheroes. Real superheroes whose identities are being kept from the public. Hell, there are even freaking action figures of them.
At the beginning, Santana had been thrilled. Fighting for the greater good, putting her life on the line to save others, having men and women lusting after her. This sounded like the perfect job for her. After all, she had always been kind of badass.
When the New Directions moved to New York and she finally met the other people of their group, which also included a bubbly, blond-haired girl no older than her with the ability to talk to animals, Santana thought her life couldn't get much better. How naive she had been back then.
With each failed rescue attempt, each hostage-taking gone wrong, a piece of her vanished along with the lives of the victims.
She hates the way Artie's machines keep beeping every two seconds. The sound is not only making her head hurt, but it's also making her angry. She clenches her jaw as Artie wheels past her, checking monitors and scribbling away on his notepad as he makes the rounds.
She's lying on a doctor's couch, arms at her sides. They are dipped into two elongated tanks that are filled with a green, scentless liquid. It's one of Artie's inventions. He likes to call it God Juice. If she thinks about it, that sounds wrong on so many levels.
But it works. Granted, she doesn't know why or how, but it does. Her underarms are healing fast. When she woke up a few hours ago in Artie's lab, her injuries already didn't hurt anymore and now, most of the skin has been regenerated.
"Two or three more hours," Artie whispers to her, careful not to wake Brittany, who is sleeping soundly in a chair a few feet away from her.
She nods at Artie and waits until he leaves the lab again before she closes her eyes and exhales a breath. She tries to fall asleep. Not only to escape Brittany's sad expression, but also because she can't deal with more unwelcome visitors. Some of the New Directions had already stopped by to see how she was doing and she isn't sure if she can handle any more of their pitiful looks.
But no matter what she tries, she simply can't fall asleep. She can't, because every time she closes her eyes, she finds herself back in that building. Flames flicker everywhere, no matter which way she turns or where she runs to. They are already there, waiting for her, engulfing her and burning her to ashes, a wall of screams surrounding her as her whole being fades away.
Tears spill from her eyes when she reopens them. They fall down her cheeks and soak into the blanket covering her naked body. She bangs her head against the slightly raised head piece of the couch, her face scrunching up in misery. How much she wishes she could go back in time and changes one little detail. One detail that would save her the two seconds she could've used to push the woman with her baby aside.
It's all she can think about until she notices Brittany stir. Quickly, she turns her head into the opposite direction, where her eyes fall onto a metal table that holds the remains of her burned costume. Next to it is already the new one Artie has made for her. The black and purple fabric taunts her, neatly folded with a black mask on top.
Movement to her right makes her tense. She can't see Brittany, but after four years, she knows by the draft of air and the sound of her footsteps how close she is. And Brittany is getting closer.
She wills herself to take even breaths and reluctantly closes her eyes. Brittany is standing directly next to her now. She feels hot breath tickle her face before a kiss is placed on her still wet cheek. But she barely notices it.
The fire is back, raging inside her mind. It pains her so much to ignore it, to ignore the screams. And the worst thing is that she knows she can't ignore them for long. But Brittany won't go. She won't leave her side.
And as much as it pains her to relive this hell, it's better than having to look into Brittany's eyes.
Crime doesn't sleep. The world doesn't wait for her. With every new day, there are new tasks for the New Directions, but not for her. She refuses to leave her room. She refuses to partake and help. She refuses to entirely fall apart.
"There's an emergency, Santana," Kurt hammers his fist against her bedroom door. "We need you. Please."
She manages to block the voices out. Every single one of them. Of Puck, who pushes Kurt aside and almost smashes her door while screaming her name; of Brittany, who desperately pleads with her to come out; and of Finn, who tells them all that it's no use and that they should leave her alone.
It's yet another day where the New Directions march out without Santana at their side. And it's yet another day where they come back home exhausted and bruised.
Tonight is different from all the other nights though. Because when Brittany knocks softly on her bedroom door this time, she doesn't open it. For the first night in two weeks, she doesn't open her door. Instead, she waits until Brittany's pleas die away.
"It's always been harder for you," Finn tells her matter-of-factly, just as she leaves the lab. "You act like you don't care, but I can hear your mourning every time we can't save a life." He points at his head and tries to give her his signature dopey smile, but even he can't hide the sadness that is mixed in with it.
She pushes past him, not bothering to respond. He knows what's on her mind anyway.
"Brittany is worried, we all are. But Brittany especially." When she ignores him thoroughly, Finn adds, "Don't shut her out." Then he leaves her alone because he knows that it's all she wants right now.
She silently pads up the stairs to the second floor. When she walks by the common room, she stops for a second and looks inside. Kurt and Blaine are playing some board game with Rachel and Tina, while Puck, Sam, and Mike jam away to 'Every Rose Has It's Thorn' on their Band Hero set. Brittany is sitting on the couch, looking at their plasma TV with empty eyes until she notices her standing in the door frame.
Blue eyes instantly light up and before she knows it, Brittany has crossed the room to engulf her in a meaningful hug. What Brittany doesn't realize then is that it hurts her. The embrace hurts her, because this is the first time that it can't erase the scary thoughts in her head.
She blinks away her tears when she grabs Brittany's hand and leads her to her room. She swallows the lump in her throat when she lays Brittany down on her bed and settles down behind her. And she closes her eyes when after three hours of listening to Brittany snoring, her eyelids grow too heavy to keep them open.
Not an hour later and she wakes up again, soaked in sweat and screaming for her dear life.
It's hard to believe that her life fits into a single backpack. Twenty-two years crammed into a space not bigger than, let's say, a small cardboard box. She doesn't take much clothes with her. Mostly, the stuff she packs away are pictures or items, like a teddy bear Brittany had given to her for their one year anniversary. Her burned costume also makes it into her backpack. She wants to keep it to remind herself why things are the way they are.
Her new costume lies untouched on her bed, still neatly folded from the time Artie had handed it to her. She never wore it, not only because she didn't need to, but because she couldn't. This costume represents her previous life and she just can't go back to that.
She places a small piece of paper on top of it, slings the backpack around her left shoulder and exits her room. The house is dark and the digital clock in the hallway reads 2:34. Slowly, she sneaks down the staircase until she reaches the front door. Her hand lingers on the door handle and it's in this moment that she reconsiders her decision.
The seconds tick away until she shakes her head. Moving on, running away, whatever one wants to call it, it's better than staying. Because she knows that if she stays, it will destroy her. She has finally reached her breaking point. And she has to get away before she drags the others down with her.
She knows that it's going to be hard for the others, especially for Brittany. She never wanted it to be this way. Leaving the love of her life behind was never something she had wanted to do. But Santana can't be the one who keeps Brittany from being happy. It may take some time for Brittany to understand and to move on, but Santana knows that some day, she will. Some day, Brittany will be truly happy again.
Quietly, she opens the door and steps outside into the chilly night. It's only when she closes the door again and stalks towards the street that she feels safe enough to speak. "You can't stop me."
A tall figure emerges from the shadows to her left. "I'm not here to stop you," Finn tells her, "I'm just here to say goodbye."
She smiles to herself. "What are you going to tell them?"
"That I was too consumed in searching for crime to concentrate on your thoughts," he explains as he walks towards the front door.
"Sounds good," Santana chuckles.
She's about to walk further into the night when Finn suddenly speaks up again. "But what am I supposed to do when they want me to track you down?"
"Tell them I'm not in the States anymore so you can't hear my thoughts." A pause. "And Finn," she adds, this time turning around to face him. "Tell Brittany I loved her, okay?" A single tear rolls down her cheek when she sees him nod.
There should be more to say. The least thing she could do is bid him farewell. But there is no need for that. Finn will hear all the things she could never say to them and when the cool night breeze carries his Goodbye, Santana all the way to her disappearing silhouette, she knows that it's okay.
In the morning, long after she has left, someone will find the door to her bedroom unlocked. Some clothes will be gone, as well as various items from her drawer. They will find her bed empty and freshly made. A framed picture of the New Directions will lie on her pillow and right next to it, her costume. And eventually, someone will pick up the note on top of it and read it.
I can't. Not anymore.
- A fallen hero