I literally dreamed this fic.
Santana doesn't even look at Kurt as they make their frantic but painfully slow way over to the address she has scribbled in permanent marker on the back of her right hand, even though the subway is fairly deserted this time of night and she can feel him fighting the urge to say something to her. If he does, she's most likely going to hit him. Hard. And she doesn't think she can be blamed for that, especially if what he wants to say sounds even remotely like "It's not my fault," because yes, it fucking is.
He was supposed to be on Rachel Watch tonight. That's what they'd begun to call it. Granted, for the few weeks since the funeral, Rachel Watch has consisted mostly of bringing her tea and water and trays of food and then hovering to make sure she actually eats something and doesn't just spread it around on her plate to make it look like she did. It's not a difficult job—but it is a horrible, gut-wrenching one.
Rachel Berry is no enigma. She is melodramatic on her best day, prone to bursts of eye-popping enthusiasm and baffling torrents of overreaction, both good and bad. That's not what this is, though. This isn't even in the same universe. This is raw, sickening, seeping, festering grief. Plain and simple. This is Rachel Berry caught in a riptide hellbent on destroying her. And all that's keeping her from being swallowed whole by it is her roommates.
Or they were, until Kurt dropped the fucking ball.
As they emerge onto the sidewalk and begin to speed-walk down the dark, nearly empty street, Kurt can't hold his tongue anymore. "Look, Santana, I'm sorry. I'm worried too, but I don't see how this is all on me. I mean, she hasn't shown any signs of getting out of bed in two weeks; how was I supposed to know she was—"
Santana doesn't miss a stride, but the glare she slides off of him is easily sharp enough to draw blood. "Don't," she cuts in, her dark eyes flashing so dangerously that he actually falls back a step.
Okay, then. Maybe now's not the time to defend himself.
When he'd first realized Rachel was gone, he debated texting Santana at all. Rachel is an adult, after all, and if she decided she wanted to get out of the apartment for the first time in ages, then who was he to stop her? Bringing an overprotective Santana into the mix would only result in unnecessary worry, hysteria, and discord for all of them. Not to mention yelling. Lots of yelling. Besides, she was at work and couldn't do anything anyway.
But then he went into Rachel's room (if you can call a space cordoned off from the rest of the apartment by nothing more than flimsy curtains a room, and they all do) and saw the half-empty bottle of cheap tequila on her nightstand, the discarded clothing—including one of Santana's dresses, and that's possibly the biggest red flag of them all—littering the bed, the floor, the desktop and chair. And then he called her—Rachel, that is—and her phone began to buzz from underneath a lacy black bra that he's surprised she even owns, and that's when he decided to call in reinforcements.
His text reads: "Don't panic, prob nothing. Rach gone. Ideas?"
Less than a minute later, his phone rang in his hand and wasn't it just like Santana to skip some crucial steps. He lifted the phone to his ear, bracing, and before he could say anything: "The fuck d'you mean gone?"
Thus began a two-hour-long search. Once it was established that she couldn't have been gone more than three hours (Kurt saw this as a plus; Santana saw it as a fairly compelling reason to disembowel him with her freshly manicured fingernails), they split up and concentrated their efforts in a relatively comprehensive series of places they were all familiar with. Karaoke bars, music shops, parks—even despite the late hour—the dance club down the street that Santana had occasionally dragged Rachel to because their regular crowd consisted of a disproportionate percentage of lesbians to other people. The longer they went without a sign of the petite brunette, the more frantic—and pissed—Santana became.
Back at the loft to regroup, Kurt was putting out an APB on Rachel to the Glee Club group text thread when Santana's phone rang. She scowled at the screen for a moment as if it had offended her, then answered it with a clipped "Yeah?" that came out sounding bitchier than you might think possible for such a short word.
Kurt froze when Santana's expression changed from annoyed to alarmed in an instant as she listened to the person on the other end of the line. "I'm her roommate, who are you? How'd you get my number? What? Is she okay? No, I know, but is she like—? You know what, never mind, just gimme the address." She snapped her fingers sharply in Kurt's direction and made the universal gesture for "Get me a pen." He ran to the kitchen and rummaged in the junk drawer, coming up with a half-dry Sharpie and tossing it to Santana. "Okay, go," she ordered the phone person once she'd uncapped the marker with her teeth. Kurt watched her scrawl something on the back of her right hand, his heart beating harder than seemed healthy. "I'm coming. Tell her—just don't let her leave, got it? I'm coming."
Santana is practically climbing out of her own skin by the time they finally make it to the building, catching the door as someone leaves and slipping inside. They take the stairs two at a time, Kurt breathing heavily by the time they reach the fourth-floor landing but Santana not even looking winded. They don't have to check door numbers, because the door at the far end of the hall is hanging wide open, people spilling out into the hallway, drinks in hand. She elbows past several of them who are too drunk to care that she's not exactly gentle, and enters a nightmare-scape of party ubiquity: a crush of bodies, red plastic cups, thumping bass, piercing laughter, tangles of inane conversation.
Kurt watches her practically bulldoze her way through the crowd, her eyes narrowed and her focus razor-sharp. He pities anyone who steps into her path before she finds Rachel. He follows a few paces behind, shooting apologetic glances at the ones who look indignant at Santana's rough handling.
When she begins flinging open closed bedroom doors, Kurt becomes concerned that they're going to get kicked out, but the third door turns out to be the right one. It bangs against the wall and ricochets into his face. He catches it and catches his breath as his eyes land on Rachel, huddled in a ball on the unmade bed. She appears to be asleep, or unconscious. A rather large, blandly attractive guy who looks unsettlingly like Finn is sitting next to her, holding a washcloth to her forehead.
"Who the hell are you?" Santana snaps at him. "Move, I got her. Rach? Rachel?"
"Are you her roommate?" the guy asks, standing up and handing the washcloth to Santana without hesitation.
"You the one who called me?" She perches on the edge of the bed he has vacated and strokes the cloth against Rachel's temple, the gentle motions belying the hard, guarded tone she directs at the stranger.
He nods. "She … your number is the only one she could come up with. She didn't give me your name, but said you'd—" he smiles, thinking of her phrasing, "be the most likely of her friends to come for her even though you would no doubt swear profusely and give me the third degree. This girl's a trip."
Kurt shakes his head. "You have no idea."
"How long has she been out?"
"About an hour. She was already trashed when she got here, and for a while it was fine, she was dancing with everyone and seemed to be having fun. But she kept drinking, and started getting kind of sloppy. I pulled her in here when a few of the guys in the living room seemed to be taking advantage of how drunk she was."
Santana's head whips around. "Taking advantage how?" she demands. "Who were they? Are they still here?"
"This is my apartment; that kind of stuff's not cool by me so I kicked them out. She puked a few times and then—" he gestures toward Rachel's still form.
"Did they do anything to her?" Santana presses, her voice cracking in a way that only Kurt recognizes as emotion peeking through her tough veneer.
"No, no, nothing like that," the guy assures her, and she looks only mildly placated. "It was more trying to get her to agree to hook up, to go back to their place, shit like that."
"What did she say?"
He shuffles his feet uncomfortably. "A lot of stuff that didn't make much sense. She uh—when she started crying is when I got her out of there."
There is a long silence, and Santana goes back to gently wiping Rachel's brow. "Well thanks," she says so quietly it's almost inaudible over the party noises from the other room. "For taking care of her. For calling me."
The guy nods. "No problem," he says. "I'll leave you guys to it, now. If you need to like, stay here, you can have the bed. I don't know if she's waking up any time soon."
Santana and Kurt meet each other's gaze across the room and have a silent conversation.
Kurt will go home. Santana will stay with Rachel.
He knows it would be useless to argue.
Next up: Consciousness, crying, comfort. And talking. Lots of talking.