A/N: So, this is a total redo. This was one of my first fics and so is pretty messy and poorly written; I'm cleaning it up, combining a couple of chapters to make them a little longer, and trying to arrange things to make a little more sense.
And yes, this story is purely an excuse to write a stupid, fluffy hurt/comfort fic with somebody vulnerable and somebody being sweet and protective. I'm into it. Shameless. If that's not your style, that's basically all this is. If it is, boo, you're in the right place.
Trigger Warning: this fic contains (sometimes graphic) depictions of rape and abuse. If that might trigger you, this is not safe for you, so you should probably leave. Like now. Because it starts like right now.
Late August mornings in New York City came chilly and bright; light breezes brushed through the avenues, skated over the treetops in Central Park. The sun shone with that sort of sparkling clarity that brings everything into sharper focus, and yet forces a squint if stared at too intensely. The traffic was light, the birds flittering wildly between trees along the sunny path.
It was the perfect morning for Santana, who was currently clicking down the sidewalk in her best pair of work heels. Her job at the producing company had been going well recently — all the more reason for her to take a day off, but she wasn't feeling particularly lazy today. In fact, her motivation had been increased by the fact that Kurt was attempting to start a band — she didn't think she could stand another day of being shut up in the house with an overly enthusiastic Lady Hummel. For now, she was perfectly content to walk through Central Park with her caramel-iced cappuccino and paper bag full of glazed donuts.
For Dani, it was an entirely different story.
Earlier that morning, six-thirty AM by the huge, luminous clock dangling from a nearby bank along the edge of the park, she woke for the fifth time to the angry shouts of indignant passerby. Remaining silent as the middle-aged woman bellowed in furious tones about the growing impurity of the city — how dare they allow tramps and lunatics to sleep on park benches during the autumn — Dani blinked slowly, and with baleful eyes, simply did not move. At this point, conservation of energy was crucial if she were to make it through the day. She did not even flinch, just watched as the lady ranted on and on, until a sudden jolt of her spine as she reeled instinctively backwards informed her that the woman had stepped into her personal space.
With a low, whimpering cry, Dani dove under the mahogany bench. Beneath lay her guitar case, her only chance of survival; for the last six months, she had gotten by playing at bus stops and subway stations. It was a surprisingly successful job, but had earned her no more than enough to pay for a small amount of food at the end of each day. These last few days, after developing a strange weakness in her muscles that she could only assume to be anemia, she hadn't played at all.
Now she cowered beneath the bench at the absolute edge of the park near an alleyway, trembling with fear as a result of the unwarranted confrontation. Perhaps the woman had thought she was being dim, but in reality, she simply hadn't been able to move. She listened vaguely as the woman prattled on for several minutes, curling in on herself in case she was struck again. The woman bent down, prodding at her with a cane (surely, surely she had something better to do with her time on such a fine August morning), and Dani was just about to scream when a cool, smooth voice cut into the ceaseless string of admonishments.
"Lady, lady, let it go . . . I'm sure you've got better things to do than yell at this poor girl," the voice broke in easily, tone tinged with a carefree air. The woman retreated, muttering to herself in indignation as she went on her way. Once she was sure the old hag had gone, Dani allowed herself to look up.
"Hey there sweetheart," the young man greeted effortlessly, extending a hand to pull the frightened young woman to her feet. "Giving you a bit of a hard time there, was she? I'm Christopher; buddies call me Chris." Dani's darting crystal eyes flickered back and forth from the man to the small circle of what she supposed were friends that flanked him. Young men, possibly around her own age, all dressed in black leather with shaved heads, tattoos, and what looked like about fifty visible piercings.
Dani, ignorant of the ways of the world, perceived the banter as friendliness, and regarded them with gratefulness instead of mistrust.
"Thank you," she murmured appreciatively, swinging the strap of her guitar case over her shoulder in an effort to mask the obvious unsteadiness of her slender legs. The man who had spoken, Chris, smiled effortlessly, display shimmering teeth that had all been capped in gold.
"No problem, sweetheart," he crooned, wrapping a tight arm around her shoulder casually. Dani froze at the movement, her eyes slipping shut for a brief moment before opening again to show her pupils slightly dilated in fear. "Now, you look like a pretty young thing, and times are hard, we all know that — why don't you come with us and we'll help you out?" he proposed, glancing significantly at the others when he was sure the girl wasn't watching. A short man with studded eyebrows cracked his knuckles menacingly.
At the sound, something clicked in Dani's mind, and she was suddenly aware of the danger of the situation she had placed herself in.
"Th — thank you," Dani stuttered. "B — but I really should be going — " she began to protest, desperately searching for an escape, but the grip on her shoulder merely tightened.
"Oh, but darling," Chris crooned smoothly, "we insist." And with that, he jerked his shoulders as a signal, and the others surged forward. One seized Dani by the legs, tucking them beneath his arm and hoisting her into the air. Another moved swiftly to stuff a rag in her mouth, muffling her surprised cries for help.
Chris merely laughed ruthlessly, shaking his head as his buddies carried the screaming girl off into the darkness of the nearby alleyway, where nobody would see or question what they were about to do.
Santana was on her way home late that night, hurrying along the edge of Central Park through the torrential downpour, grumbling to herself about the indignance of having to walk through a thunderstorm in a mere trench coat, when a low whimpering caught her ears. She halted at the entrance to the alley, squinting through the rain in an attempt to see anything beyond the tip of her own nose. She sighed. She really should've listened when Rachel tried to convince her to buy those glasses. Even if they were really seven dollars just for a pair of magnifiers from the pharmacy down the block, she could use them. Maybe then she wouldn't get such awful, splitting headaches.
"Hello?" she called out grumpily, her voice echoing off the walls of the derelict apartment houses that lined the narrow passage. A scuffling, followed by another whimper. Sighing to herself, Santana shook the rain droplets from her eyes, and took another tentative step into the area. "Hello? Is somebody there?" she probed loudly. When her inquisitions were met only by more pitiful cries, she grew curious.
She entered the alley cautiously, knowing full well to be on her guard. She had lived in this city for almost two years now, and was only too familiar with its various human dangers. The splashing of her boots in puddles echoed off the wet brick walls in the semi-dark. She had only stepped forward several yards when the whimper came again.
Santana jumped about a foot in the air, startled by the fact that she had nearly stepped on the source of the noise, and moments later knelt to the ground in shock at the sight that met her eyes.
A young woman was curled in a soaked, muddy heap on the ground against the wall, shivering and whining in a truly pathetic manner. Dark streaks of blood were smeared all down and across her clothes and skin, her left wrist hung limp, and one of her ankles was twisted in an awkward position beneath her. She lay curled in a fetal position, sheltering her vital organs in a way that Santana recognized. She had seen this before in Rachel, in Quinn, and in Kurt, and she knew at once that the girl had been mistreated. She only caught a glimpse of platinum hair and a bruised, battered face before the words spewed from her mouth without permission.
"Oh my god! Are you all right?" she exclaimed. Immediately after, she brought a hand to her mouth; her words had startled the young woman so that she let out a small scream, skittering backwards against the wall in a frantic attempt to escape. Her eyes were wide and frenzied, honey brown, Santana noticed — not that she was paying any particular attention to details at that very moment. Almost in a panic, she attempted to stand before collapsing to the ground with a weak cry as Santana drew closer with the intention to stop her.
"Hey, hey, whoa there, honey! I'm sorry!" Santana gushed, babbling slightly in her haste to calm the frightened girl. "I'm not going to hurt you, I swear! Where do you live? Do you have a family? What's your address? Do you need help? I mean, obviously you need help, but should I call someone, or . . ." she trailed off, realizing at the sight of a slight, crinkling frown in the other's girl's forehead that she had been rambling. Sighing, she dropped her hand.
"I'm getting you help, okay?" Those captivating eyes merely blinked. "Okay?" Not even a blink this time; the blonde merely stared. Santana sighed. "I'm getting help." With a sharp intake of air, she reached into her pocket and speed-dialed.
"Berry, Lady Hummel, get down to the Central Park alley by West Seventy-Fourth as quickly as you can. I really need your help."
"They're just the kind of injuries you would expect from an attack like this," Blaine was saying as he returned from Santana's bedroom, removing the stethoscope from around his neck in a far too professional manner for what Santana was used to. "Even though I'm not technically working right now, I still have to follow confidentiality agreements, so I can't tell you the extent of her injuries, but she's had a rough time of it. From what I've seen, it appears as though she was thrown into a wall and hit her head more than once; she's got a few bruises, a bad ankle, and a couple of nasty broken ribs," he concluded, setting down his medical kit on the coffee table. "All-in-all, she's in pretty bad shape, but nothing seems critical. Speaking optimistically, she ought to make a full recovery."
The reaction to his proclamation was stunned silence as Kurt, Rachel, and Santana all stared at him in disbelief. He looked back in confusion.
"What?"
"There is no way that's all that happened to her!" Santana finally exclaimed explosively, halting her agitated pacing by the apartment window. "When I found her, there was blood everywhere, the poor girl was sobbing like there was no tomorrow, and all you have to give me is a few bruises? Santa Maria fancy pants, you're a doctor, aren't you? Why don't you just go fix her up and — "
"Training to be a doctor," Kurt cut in quietly. Santana shot him a devil's glare.
"Whatever. What I'm trying to say — "
"I think what Santana is trying to say," Rachel cut in smoothly (Kurt shot her a grateful look). "Is that you're withholding important information from us, Dr. Blaine, because a girl in that state must have sustained much worse injuries than you're explaining. So please, enlighten us." Santana grumbled to herself before tossing herself down on the couch and downing an entire glass of vodka in one go.
Blaine, nervous, turned to his fiancé for help.
"Don't look at me," Kurt responded apologetically, raising his arms in defense. "I think the Lady Loudmouth said it all. Santana's right for once — even though she did just down the last glass of my expensive new Dutch vodka," he added sternly, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow pointedly at his roommate. Santana merely scowled, and snapped her fingers impatiently at Blaine.
Blaine sighed in defeat, and sat down on the arm of the couch.
"All right, so basically, beside the bruises, cuts, sprained ankle, and bumps on the head, you're looking at a girl who's probably been severely abused throughout her entire life," he gave reluctantly, meeting eyes seriously with each of them in turn. "Not just physically, either. I really — I shouldn't be telling you any of this; legally I can't. All I can say is that what happened to her tonight wasn't the first time. It'll take about a month and a half for all of her external injuries to heal completely, but with physical evidence of her history . . . the emotional toll is going to be huge."
"Blaine," Rachel spoke up hesitantly. "Why . . um," she trailed off, looking a little hesitant, and Santana understood just how bad the situation was. Apart from at the death of her fiancé, Rachel Berry had never been lost for words. "I know you can't answer this — properly — but . . . was she — you know — " she gave up again, seemingly unable to finish her sentence.
Blaine's eyes were troubled.
"Definitely," he said uncomfortably. "Probably . . . more than once. Maybe by all of them, and — definitely in the past."
Santana felt herself go pale, choking back the bile in her throat that had risen at the graphic mental imagery that had accompanied Blaine's words. Rachel was gripping the edge of a chair with white knuckles. From some unidentifiable source — probably Kurt by the sound of it — there came a low, muffled groan of horror.
Santana's eyes were squeezed shut tightly; she drew long, deep breaths in an effort to get ahold of herself. She had to focus. This strange girl had been beaten to a pulp so many times, and all it took was the suggestion of it for them all to lose it completely. She needed to do something, anything.
Blaine, seeing the desperation in his friends' pained expressions, quickly provided an out.
"Guys, listen up," he called out over the noise. Immediately, they all settled down. He looked each of them straight in the eye as he spoke, his voice leveled and stern. "Look, this girl is going to need more than just a doctor, okay? I already asked her for contact information; she says she doesn't have any. Now I don't want to impose upon you in any way, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to." At Rachel's sound of confusion, he sighed.
"She's going to have to stay here, Rach. Maybe for a very long time," he said quietly. In any other circumstance, Rachel would have been known to raise a fuss. Yet something in the younger boy's tone stopped her, and she remained silent, merely nodding meekly in agreement. "I know it's not ideal; she ought to have professional help, but the suggestion of a hospital terrified her so much that she nearly passed out. She needs human contact; gentle human contact. I'm not comfortable with leaving her here alone, so one of you is going to have to stay with her. All of the time. Not necessarily be around her, but be in the apartment just in case she needs something."
Kurt looked up, staring first at his fiancé, and then at the two girls beside him. He shook his head apologetically.
"Ladies, I'm sorry, but I've got to be at work for this new project," he said softly, his eyes darting back and forth between the two. "I'd love to help her out, but — "
"I'll do it."
Santana wasn't sure what had possessed her to say such a thing; the words had slipped from her mouth without invitation. However, the instant they passed her lips, she understood just how true they were. She raised her head slowly to see all three of them staring at her in amazement, from a shocked-looking Blaine to an open-mouthed Rachel Berry. But she wasn't looking at them; she wasn't even completely aware of their presence. The only thing she could remember clearly was the beautiful, battered woman on the pavement, and that pair of sparkling eyes that, no matter how many times she blinked, refused to be cleared from her vision.
Back in her high school days, Santana had been, no matter how much she despised it, the vulnerable one. Despite her fierce exterior, she'd been small and lonely and needy; Brittany had helped her to see that. In return, she'd lashed out at the ones who were small and vulnerable in the exact same way that she was.
How times had changed.
With growing up had come a level of maturity that Santana wasn't quite sure how she'd obtained. It had also come along with the recognition that, having grown enough to no longer feel vulnerable, she had come to love those who did. She felt bigger now, stronger; powerful, and she felt the undeniable urge to protect and give and help heal. She'd already made peace with her old enemies, and they'd insisted that it was all water under the bridge. Far from blaming her, they'd been understanding and kind.
She couldn't go back and undo how badly she'd treated people in the past, but maybe this could be her chance to pay it forward.