Santana isn't sure how the Berry-feelings trajectory had gotten her here—from seething hate to prevalent annoyance to grudging tolerance to resigned affection to ditching work and turning Bushwick upside down in a base panic to find the girl next to whom she is now lying in some frat boy's bed—but she's not dismissing the theory that it involved some sort of voodoo on Rachel's part.

But really, it might have been set in motion the day Santana showed up at their loft, dropped her bag on the floor, announced "I'm movin' in"—and was met, against all probability, with nothing but a slightly puzzled smile and a comfy place on the couch.

It might have been the first time Santana went on an audition and was roundly rejected and Rachel left the apartment with unasked questions burning in her eyes and returned with a pint of Rocky Road and a bottle of Cabernet. (She eventually asked those questions, of course—this is Rachel Berry we're talking about—but she managed to wait until Santana was sufficiently plied with ice cream and wine.)

Or when Santana took up smoking, briefly, in the days following her breakup with Brittany because it gave her a solid excuse to cry on the fire escape when she needed to without anyone being the wiser. Until that one night she climbed back in and came face to snot-and-tear-streaked face with Rachel, and the girl she'd once teased so mercilessly had caught her hand and pulled a smoky, heartsick Santana into a bone-crushing hug as a fresh wave of sadness threatened to buckle her knees.

However it had started, though, Finn's death three weeks and two days ago had cemented Santana as Rachel Berry's fiercest protector, and as a certain blonde dancer could tell you, that's not a role she takes lightly, nor one that she will ever, ever relinquish. (Even after everything that's happened, Santana would still drop everything to beat the shit out of anyone who so much as looks at Britt wrong, and everyone who went to McKinley knows that, cold.)

Rachel had seemed to be dealing fairly well, at first, making it through the funeral and the few days that followed in Lima, surrounded by friends and family who were also grieving and in shock at the sudden, cruel, unthinkable turn of events that had torn one of their own away from them, just ripped him from the fabric of their lives like so much tissue paper. She cried, of course, like they all did, and said the things you say and squeezed hands and hugged everyone who came within arms' reach. She even smiled the right way, with bright teeth and sad, glistening doe eyes. But something about it had left Santana cold. This wasn't Rachel Berry mourning her first love; this was: RACHEL BERRY, as "Rachel Berry Mourning Her First Love." It couldn't be healthy, Santana thought. She knew something of denial, after all. Not the same, exactly, but it gave her at least a bit of insight.

When they got back to New York and Rachel summarily retreated into her curtains, into her bed, into herself, Santana wished she'd thought to get some notes from Mr. Schue on how to give one of those annoying, treacly, but somehow effective speeches of his. The ones that always left his captive audience somewhere between the verge of tears and the desire to feed him to the jazz band whose names no one knew.

"Don't you have class this morning?" Santana said one Monday when she found a pajama-clad, bleary-eyed Rachel leaning up against the counter and staring blankly into a steaming mug of coffee. (She didn't have to ask; she knew full well that Rachel had her dance theory class at 10 a.m. and, furthermore, that she had missed the past two of them. But she didn't want to lead with bossy.)

"Oh, um. Yeah, I guess I do," Rachel muttered. "I don't really feel like getting out today, though. I might be coming down with something."

Santana's eyes rolled of their own accord, probably. They did that sometimes.

"Yeah. You're coming down with hermit-itis, Rach. The only cure is to get out of those damn pajamas that are on at least their sixth wearing since they've seen laundry detergent, put on some regular-people clothes, and get your ass to class."

So much for not leading with bossy.

Rachel just stared at her blankly for a few moments. "I washed these pajamas on Thursday," she said calmly, fanning the flames of Santana's frustration because the capital-P point? Clearly hadn't found its mark.

"Look," she said after taking a few calming breaths and hoping that would be enough to make her sound reasonable. "You keep this up, the whole semester is going to be a wash. That's not fair to your dads; they're paying a shitload of money for you to be here. They deserve better, and, I can't believe I'm saying this, Berry, but you do too. You've been working your infuriating little diva ass off since birth to get here. It's what you've always wanted. Everybody who's ever met you knows that."

There was such a long stretch of silence that Santana decided that Rachel was just simply not going to answer, and that might actually be a first for her, but then she blew gently on the steam from her coffee and said softly, carefully: "Things changed."

And what can Santana say to that? Of course things changed; things always change as you grow up. But that was not even what she was talking about because Lord knows only one thing has transpired that's earth-shattering enough to shake Rachel Berry off her dementedly determined journey toward future stardom. Santana's mouth, every bit as defiant as her eyes, spilled the words without getting permission from her brain.

"He wouldn't want this for you."

She flinched when Rachel's eyes snapped up to meet hers, and beneath a sheen of unshed tears was a simmering fury that Santana had never seen before in the other girl and would never have dreamed she was capable of generating. If she weren't Santana Fucking Lopez, she might have taken a step back.

The girls stood facing one another for an eternity, the only sounds coming from traffic on the streets below and the ticking of the stupid grandfather clock Kurt had dragged home excitedly from some rummage sale the week they moved in. Santana was just opening her mouth to say something—probably "I'm sorry," or a decent approximation thereof, which would have been kind of a big deal—when Rachel spoke first, her voice eerily calm and measured.

"Never again, Santana. I swear to God, I'll—never again."

Placing her coffee mug ever so gently on the counter, Rachel stepped pointedly around Santana and disappeared into her curtain-walled retreat.


The party starts to die down after 3 a.m., and Rachel still hasn't shown any signs of waking up. Santana has finally given in to her own exhaustion and simply climbed into the bed next to her roommate, trying not to think about the fact that she's lying on Random Boysheets and all the varying angles of ew that might potentially encompass.

Just to avoid touching any more of the bed than she has to, Santana rests one arm protectively across Rachel's body, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest, hearing her soft little sleep noises. She drifts off.

And is jolted awake some time later when Rachel shoots up next to her with a sound like a wounded animal. Santana's heart jumps into her throat. Rachel's eyes frantically scan the unfamiliar surroundings, and her breathing is starting to come in panicky sobs until she finally realizes who it is who has a hold of her. Santana's hands grip her upper arms and shake her firmly but gently, and she realizes she's repeating her name over and over, along with "Look at me."

"San—Santana? What are you doing—what am I—oh God, I'm going to be sick."

She clutches her stomach and leans forward, and a small bathroom-size trash bin magically appears under her face before she has even finished the first dry heave. A torrent of sour-tasting liquid spews forth, and when she's done, a cool washcloth wipes at her mouth and a glass of water is placed to her lips.

"Small sips, 'k? Not too much. That's it. Good." Santana waits until Rachel's fingers close around the water glass before pulling the trash can away and placing it on the floor by the bed. "Better?" she asks after Rachel has managed a few sips of water and shown no signs of pulling another Linda Blair. She gets a wordless nod in return. "Okay then, how about you lie back down. You're looking kinda green still, and if you barf on my diner duds I'ma have to punch you. They take these uniforms out of my tips, ya know."

Rachel blinks slowly at her, looking weirdly like an alien baby trying to make sense of its surroundings. "How did you get here?" she asks, her whispery voice scratchy and hoarse. "And … where is here?"

Santana rolls her eyes. "You don't remember anything? Jesus, Berry, how much did you drink?"

"I don't know," she admits, averting her gaze. "I mean, I remember drinking back at the loft—sorry, I borrowed your tequila; I'll replace it—and then I think I took a cab here? A girl in my vocal projection course told me there was a party. I don't … remember deciding to come."

"So you left the apartment wasted, without telling anyone, without leaving a note so that Kurt and I wouldn't jump to the worst possible conclusions, to go to some party and hang with a bunch of people you don't know? Smart, Berry, very smart." Santana can't help the scolding tone that colors her words; her natural protective nature comes with a built-in mother hen tendency.

"I'm sorry, Santana," Rachel says, her voice small. "I'm sorry you had to come all the way out here. It was inconsiderate of me."

"Oh cut the crap, Rachel. Is that why you think I'm angry? Because I was inconvenienced?"

Rachel's head tilts slightly in confusion. "You're angry?" she asks. "You're usually more—well, loud—when you're angry."

Santana puts on her best scowl and is satisfied when Rachel averts her gaze. "I'm containing myself because I don't want you to start puking again. And because I'm pissed but I'm also tired. It's—" she raises up on one elbow to squint at the clock next to the bed. "Fucking early. We can talk about all this once we're home and we've got some real sleep that's not on nasty boysheets. Here, drink some more of this. You're going to finish the whole glass before I clear you for travel. I ain't gonna be the girl who drags the puker onto the train. Nobody likes that girl."

Rachel obeys. After a few small sips, she finds the courage to ask timidly, "Why are you being nice to me?"

"If you keep asking stupid questions that's gonna stop real quick," Santana warns half-heartedly with an eyebrow quirk Quinn would be proud of.

"Why didn't Kurt come?"

"He did. I sent him home."

"Why?"

"God damnit, Rachel, will you just drink the water and try to finish sobering the hell up so we can get out of here."

"I'm sorry."

Something in her tone pierces Santana's anger, which, if she's being honest with herself, isn't all that hot anyway. She's definitely something … but anger is just a small part of it. "Hey," she says, and waits for Rachel's eyes to meet hers again. "Stop saying that, okay? I don't need you to be sorry."

"What do you need from me?" Rachel asks. Silence greets the question as Santana swallows the response that immediately surfaces.

"I need you to drink the water, Berry," she says.

I need you to be okay, she doesn't.


So, confession: I'm one of those writers who just goes where the words take me. This isn't exactly what I'd planned for this chapter, but it's on the right path. I see one or two more chapters to get where I *think* I'm going. If the story has other ideas, then so be it. I hope you'll keep reading. Thank you for reviewing and following/favoriting, and just generally existing, because I fell into the Glee-verse supremely late and am just happy there are still a few of you out there who are still captivated by these characters. And a little disclaimer: I'm a Brittana girl at heart but also have a weakness for Pezberry friendship-plus. Basically, start with badass-but-soft-hearted Santana, add ANYONE ON EARTH, and I'm a happy Gleek.