This is just a short Rachel/Santana friendship one-shot I wrote after "We Are Young." Enjoy.
Santana is like, eight sheets to the wind. She knows that the phrase is technically "three sheets to the wind," but she feels way drunker than just three. She's not fall-down drunk, not yet. She's a little can't-stand-up drunk, but there is totally a difference and she totally wouldn't fall down if she got up from her stool.
She's basically drinking whatever anyone will buy her. And since she's smoking hot, Santana's got boys and girls getting her all kinds of alcohol-filled glasses and cups before she sends them on their way. Plus, Santana's out now so she could even make out with some of those girls without having to worry about stupid things like implications and perceptions and other big words that she can't really remember right now.
(She could but she's not going to because she finally got Brittany and even she isn't that bad. She put in all that fucking work and had her heart stomped on a couple of times and shit, she's not going back down that path because it sucks.)
Santana figures that words aren't really important anyway. It's all about the picture. As long as she looks good, people will keep buying her drinks. She had even flashed her YMCA card along with a very generous view of her cleavage in order to get in the bar. Santana will just keep being really hot and people will give her alcohol and it'll dull the stupid ache in her chest that started after the Troubletones lost Sectionals. It's a totally solid plan.
And it works like a fucking pro for a while. (The ache doesn't really dull but when she hits ten sheets to the wind, she barely even feels it anymore.) Santana tries to text Quinn and she doesn't know why, but whatever, Quinn's had a serial killer look to her lately and Santana kind of relates to that feeling sometimes.
Then Quinn starts texting back lots of big words and complete sentences and shit, Santana is not down with that.
"Stop," she texts. It ends up more like "stiooop" but it's the closest thing she can put together.
"Santana, I must ask you to inform me of your whereabouts," Quinn texts back.
"wut" is all she can say.
"Underage drinking is a serious danger, as last year's Alcohol Awareness Week should have taught you."
"omg q sttp"
"Santana, where are you?"
Her eyes blur a little bit and Santana drops her phone. It lands in her drink and she just watches it for a second. She shrugs. Her dad will just buy her a new one and really, Quinn's talking at her way too much. It's harshing her buzz and the last thing she wants to start doing is sobering up.
Somewhere around twelve sheets to the wind, the feelings start to hit her. Santana stumbles and almost falls on her ass (even though she's sitting down) and the room starts spinning. The floor moves up to the ceiling for a second and it makes Santana cry. It's not because she's emotional or anything. The floor's just not supposed to be up there, okay? It's supposed to be underneath her feet and it's supposed to win Sectionals because it's awesome. She's supposed to win Sectionals because she's awesome.
There's a guy sitting with her when she breaks down, the twenty-something guy with gelled hair and a popped collar. (Seriously? Guys still do that?) She looks at him and his hair is styled and she Santana can practically see the product in his hair, slicking it back and slightly up. It reminds her of Blaine, that bow-tied hobbit, and his stupid singing voice and his stupid first-place trophy with the New Directions.
And somehow they did it without Rachel Berry, and yeah, Santana's not Berry's biggest fan, but the girl can fucking sing. The Troubletones couldn't beat a Berry-less Nude Erections? It's the dumbest thing Santana's ever heard and she starts throwing back shots.
She just wanted to win. Santana wanted to lead a group to victory. Because she's a total bad-ass and a way better singer than everyone else. It totally sucks and the next thing she knows, she's bursting into tears in front of a guy she doesn't know, sobbing and thinking about losing Sectionals and getting kicked out of her abuela's house.
Fuck everything.
Santana sits there for a while, sobbing, tears clouding her vision as she curses to herself. And then she spots her phone and holy fuck, how did that end up in her drink? It's ruined and she just cries harder.
She hears a voice behind her and she groans. Is she hallucinating?
"Santana, there you are! I have lied my way into a half dozen seedy-looking establishments looking for you," she hears.
Nope. Definitely not hallucinating.
Rachel Berry comes up beside her, eyeing the half-full glass that her cell phone is still sitting in. Santana turns away and wipes at her eyes because god, she's not crying about losing fucking Sectionals. And she's not doing it in front of Rachel Berry.
There's a hand on her back and it's warm. It totally doesn't feel kind of nice. Santana grabs at another shot sitting in front of her, but Rachel pulls it out of her hands before she can throw it back.
"That's mine, Berry," she practically growls. "Give it back."
"I think you've had enough, Santana," Rachel replies, sliding her shot just out of reach.
Santana tries to reach out for it but Rachel is standing right next to her, and okay, maybe she's a little too drunk because the bar is suddenly really long and everything's really far away for a second.
"But that's my shot," she says. Her voice even sounds weak to her own ears and she feels really lame and pathetic when she cries a little bit more. Stupid alcohol. Stupid Rachel. Stupid being gay and having an abuela who won't even look at her. Stupid Sectionals. Everything is just stupid and Santana just starts crying again.
She feels an arm look underneath hers, a hand running across her back. Rachel manages to get her to stand up. It's not Rachel, though. It's not the look of understanding that crosses her features or the gentle way she holds on to Santana. It's not Rachel; Santana just decided that it was time to stand up, okay?
Santana sways for a second, but Berry's stronger than she looks, guiding her out through the bar and towards her car. Fuck it, she decides. She's like, eight-hundred sheets to the wind, and Rachel's car is really warm when she turns the heat on.
They don't say anything for a while. Santana totally doesn't cry anymore (except for when she kind of does.) And Rachel totally doesn't hold her hand (except for when she kind of does.)
Santana definitely doesn't let Rachel help her inside her house and upstairs to her room. Rachel doesn't come in and help her change out of her dress and into a t-shirt that she can sleep in. And Rachel sure as hell doesn't fucking tuck her in and kiss her forehead and whisper, "sweet dreams" while she smiles kindly.
Santana doesn't thank her for all of this, either.
(Except for the fact that they do all of these things and yeah, okay, maybe Santana kind of cries all over Rachel for a bit before she leaves and Rachel brushes the hair out of her face and tells her that everything will be okay.)
Santana's just really drunk. She's so drunk that she doesn't realize that Q and R are right next to each other in her phonebook and that she was never texting Quinn. (She doesn't realize it until the next morning when she wakes up with her limbs tangled up with Rachel Berry's.)
The next day, the Troubletones are singing with the New Directions and Rachel takes her hand and pulls her along until she rejoins their friends. (She wonders for a second if she can blame that moment on alcohol, too, but maybe Rachel's not so bad and there are worse things than letting Rachel carry her home.)