DISCLAIMERS: I do not own Glee.
Okay. So, this story just popped in my head about two hours ago, and I just had to write it down.
It's going to be a two-shot. I am going to do another one where the roles are reversed, so I just want to ask. Do you think I should post it here as chapters three and four? Or just post another fic? Please, help me with this haha.
WARNINGS: This includes MAJOR character death.
Santana was laying down on her sofa, her eyes drifting from the black and white movie she was watching to the big golden clock hanging from the wall. 6:13. Rachel should already have arrived. Sighing, the tall girl turned her eyes once again towards the TV.
Ten minutes later, the Latina couldn't stay still anymore. Lifting herself from the couch, the lawyer went to the bedroom she shared with her girlfriend, and picked her phone. Nothing. Not even one fucking message telling her to not worry, that Rachel was going to be home soon.
Ooh, she would be in so much trouble when she arrived.
Okay girl, don't get fucking worked up, ok? Just…try not to rip Rachel's damn head off when she comes home.
Letting out a humorless chuckle, Santana dialed Rachel's number, and waited (im)patiently.
When she heard her lover's voice mail go off for the sixth time, the Latina lost it.
"Rachel! ¡Que coño pasa! ¡Deberías haber estado aquí desde hace casi una hora!" The girl moved the phone away from her ear and took a deep breath. Pinching the bridge of her nose, the woman tried to be rational for once in her fucking life. "Listen, I'm…I'm sorry. You know I don't like it when I don't know where you are. This was movie night, baby." Santana looked towards the forgotten black and white movie, her stomach doing a little funny thing that wasn't funny at all. "You never ditch our movie night. Call, please." Finished the tan girl. She had poured too much of herself into that message already.
Fifteen minutes later, the girl hadn't been able to concentrate on the movie, so when her phone went off, she didn't even look at the caller ID before picking it up.
"Oh god Rachel, you fucking had me-"
"Santana?" wait. That wasn't Rachel. Oh, shit.
"Yeah. Who is it?"
An anguished sob drew her out of her thoughts about Rachel for a moment. Shocked, the girl moved her phone quickly, looking at the screen to know who possibly could be sobbing while calling her.
Oh God.
Hiram Berry.
The receptionist at the New York Central Hospital hadn't even had time to put down the telephone when a hysteric woman in her early twenties or so came rushing to her; her mascara was running down her face, and was clad in a pair of workout pants and a white tank top, covered only by a cardigan. Neither could the old woman finish her thought of "This youth, running around almost naked in mid January" when said Latina girl standing in front of her started shouting, her face the one of pure desperation.
"Rachel Berry! I need her room number! I need to see her! Is she ok! God, can you fucking look at your fucking papers to see if my fucking girlfriend is fucking alive! What room! Rachel Berry!" By the time the girl had stopped shouting, a burly security man was holding her by her arms, the face of the lawyer sickeningly red as the veins in her neck had popped up from exertion. A few people, most of them of the hospital staff, had stopped by and stared at her, until finally a big looking nurse approached her and signaling the man to let her go, situated herself in front of the woman.
"Young lady, if you want to be properly attended, I'm afraid that first you'll-"
"I just want to see my fiancée!" Roared Santana, the tears streaming down her face already running down her swollen neck. "I need her room! Hiram! He called me! Please, look it up, I need to see her! Rachel! Rachel Berry!"
At those words, the huge nurse moved her head towards the receptionist and said "Rachel Berry and her diagnosis, please."
The moment the tall girl heard "Rachel Berry, uuumm… Oh yeah, here it is." The receptionist looked up at the nurse, asking silently if it was ok for her to read the patient's cause of internment. The nurse just nodded, and the old woman turned her head back to her computer.
"Ok. Rachel Berry, 22, run over by a taxi in New York City at approximately-" Santana had broken down sobbing once again, the nurse sending the receptionist a pointed look.
"Room 142" the words hadn't even left her mouth completely before the raven haired woman had found herself running through the big hospital, ignoring the various calls and wheelchairs the girl had intercepted.
Finally, three floors later, the hysteric woman spotted a tall black man. Leroy hadn't even noticed the Latina until she was twenty feet from him, tripping over her own feet.
"Leroy!"
At this, Leroy Berry, lifted his head from his hands, his slouched sitting frame and tear streaked face sending a kick at the woman's guts.
"What happened" whispered the woman, her face now turned an unusually white color.
"Oh God" murmured the tall man, rising from his chair and flying towards Santana, his huge arms circling her. Santana, whose head barely reached Leroy's shoulder, gripped the back of his sweater as tightly as she could, her knuckles turning white, her body completely supported by the big man's.
"What happened" murmured the former Cheerio, her voice muffled by the man's chest. "What happened" repeated, moving her head so that Leroy could hear her voice clearly.
"Half…half an hour ago…Hiram and I were…we were taking dinner…we were at the hotel…and they called us…" Santana pressed the side of her head against Leroy's chest, her eyes closed tightly at the pain she knew the next words would cause her.
"She was heading home…and, and…" Santana moved her head, as if nudging him to continue. "And you know how New York City gets…" Yeah. She did. "And… god Santana, there's witnesses…a couple… they said the taxi came out of nowhere." And Leroy broke down. Santana felt her own body giving in to the sobs that had been asking to escape since Leroy started talking, so she led them to the raw of chairs where the black man had been sitting when she arrived.
Suddenly, Hiram came out from a door a few feet away from them.
"Ooh sweetie" he muttered as he approached Santana, the lawyer shooting up and into Hiram's arms.
"She was going-" "Yeah, I know" sniffled the Latina. "I just want to know how she is. I just want to-"
"She's in a coma." The girl wailed in his arms at the news, even though that was the best case scenario she had been able to imagine since she had been called 45 minutes ago.
"She's in surgery right now. I don't… I don't know how much it's going to last."
Five hours and twenty three minutes. Three hundred and twenty three exact minutes. That's the time Santana and the Berry men had to prepare themselves for the worst news of their lives.
They had been rocking on their chairs, crying on and off, going to the bathroom and telling their friends and relatives about the horrible news.
Just when Santana ended the third call of her mother, a tall thin man appeared at the end of the hall, removing his surgery suit which was stained with blood. The three people waiting there looked up hopefully, but deflated once again when they saw the man stopping to talk to a couple at the beginning of the hall. Just two minutes later, the same man approached them, looking wary.
"Are you Leroy Berry?" asked the doctor, looking at Hiram's impatient face.
"No, I'm Leroy Berry" spoke up Leroy, just when Hiram said "Doesn't matter, just tell us."
Santana just stood frozen on her chair, her eyes pleading with the man's to please, just tell me she's okay.
Suddenly, the man looked like he didn't know what to do, as if he were a butcher working in a grocery's store. He worried his chin, his shoulders dropping the slightest bit. It would have gone unnoticed by anyone passing by, but not by the three people waiting anxiously for his words.
Leroy clutched his husband's right hand, trapping it in a vice grip that was instantly reciprocated.
The man looked up from the papers in his hands, and Santana instantly felt the urge to vomit at the way the man blinked more than was necessary. Way more.
"Mr. Berry's, I'm sorry. We couldn't do anything."
Almost one quarter of New York was able to hear the anguished wail Santana let out.
Translations:
¿Que coño pasa?: What the fuck is going on?
¡Deberías haber estado aquí desde hace casi una hora!: You should've arrived here an hour ago!
Sorry, I forgot to post the translations the first update. So. I'm Spanish, so I read English and Spanish as the same language, so I tend to mix them. TT