Although Santana had sworn she was never going to speak to Puck again, it was only about twenty minutes before he heard the shower running, and within an hour's time, approximately, she reappeared back into the main area of the basement, redressed in the clothes she had been wearing the day before, hair damp and loose over her shoulders. She didn't look at him or speak to him as she rejoined him, instead standing in a rather defensive stance, arms crossed over her chest, as she watched him slowly pace the basement floor in a circle. Puck had no real reason to be doing this; he already knew from experience that there was little hope of breaking down the door, and there was no other exit in the basement. But he felt a need to be moving, to be doing something active, even if he could not do something productive, and so he paced, arms crossed over his chest in an unconscious mirroring of Santana, avoiding looking in her direction.
They do not speak to each other, and Puck does all he can not to look at her, although he can feel Santana's eyes on him, watching his every move. Something about knowing that she's looking at him makes him feel that much more anxious and edgy, as though he is somehow expected by her to do something or say something more, and he clinches his jaw, continuing to pace while even more doggedly doing what he could to avoid looking her way. If she expects an apology or a described course of action from him, she's going to be disappointed. It's not like she would listen to it or really hear it anyway.
Puck can hear his stomach growling every so often, and this too spurs him on in his pacing. If he can just walk fast enough and make his mind empty enough, he won't be able to focus, hopefully, on the fact that he's hungry, that he has no idea and no control over when he will be able to eat. If he can just focus on putting one foot in front of the other he won't have to think that maybe that chance to do so is never going to come, that maybe the "time to think" that Remington had mentioned had been inclusive of all the time that was left in his sorry life. If he just kept going, maybe-
"Will you stop it already, Puckerman, you're making me dizzy," Santana snapped suddenly, finally breaking the silence between them, and when Puck glanced back at her, he saw that she was now leaning against a wall, shaking her head, her lips thinned out into a nearly straight line. As much to defy her as because he wanted to do so for his own sake, Puck continued to pace, only now he brought his circle closer to her, nearly brushing her body with his as he passed her.
"Thought you were never gonna talk to me again, Lopez," was his only remark to her, though he knew very well that it was hardly the most gracious or wise response. He didn't look at her again after that, but he heard her suck in her breath, as though she were fighting for self-control, fighting to suppress a flare of anger, and her tone was controlled when she spoke again.
"If you want to wear down your last bit of energy after getting beat like a redheaded stepchild in a large Mexican familia and kept without food for over a day, when you know we got four huge dudes that could bust in here and beat you some more any time they feel like it, I guess you go for it, in fact, step it up a notch, start turning friggin' cartwheels and doing jumping jacks. I'm sure being the next Jillian Michaels is totally gonna help you heal up and kick ass. Who am I to get in the way of such sound decisions?"
She had a pretty valid point, not that Puck wanted to acknowledge it aloud to her. He paced a few more times just as though to convey to her that she wasn't doing anything to affect his own behaviors, and he did have the intention of stopping- after just one more revolution around the room. But Santana's patience was on par with his stubbornness, and she reached out a hand to snag his arm, thin fingers squeezing slightly.
"Stop it already and let me look at your stupid ribs again. You're probably gonna have a bone just stab through your skin and just keep on plodding, dumbass."
"You don't need to look at my ribs," Puck pulled out of her grasp, though he did stop moving. Backing a step away from her, he scowled towards her, now able to have a new focus yet again- bickering with Santana, seizing on irritation with her, somewhat more than he really felt or was warranted- to continue to distract himself from the harsher reality of their situation. After all, what else could he do- what else did he have any control of whatsoever?
"I'm fine, Lopez. I know you can't resist touching up on this, but you're gonna have to try 'cause I ain't in the mood."
"Please, like your B cup man tits, shoulder lumps, and the five inches you're packing really got me hot and bothered," Santana rolled her eyes, grabbing at his shirt hem and attempting to pull it up over his head. Though her touch was gentle, there was irritation still in her eyes, an edge to her tone, and Puck tried to push her hands away as she continued. "I know it's near impossible for you, but try not to be a dumbass over this. You think you're fuckin' Superman and you get a beat down for it, and then you're gonna just ignore it so you can have your nonexistent pride or whatever? Don't flatter yourself, it's not that I actually care if you wanna walk around fucked over, but I do care that I need you to be able to like, actually stand up without passing out if those…"
Here she swallows, her hands stilling briefly, bravado faltering before she makes herself finish the sentence, her voice noticeably less strident. "If those assholes come back for me. So don't be stupid. Let me look."
It was the last thing Puck wanted to think about or acknowledge right now, because although he knew Santana had a point- if he was going to stand any shot at all of protecting either of them, he would have to be in the best shape possibly to try- he also knew that it more than likely didn't matter if he was fully healthy and healed up or not. There were four of them and one of them. They were larger and stronger and had the benefit of weapons and keys and any other resources they wanted at their fingertips. If they wanted to hurt either one of them, they would, and it wouldn't much matter if Puck had healed rips and a lack of cuts and bruises or not.
He shared none of this aloud with her, however. He didn't tell Santana that he was afraid for her, that he wanted to protect her. He didn't tell her that his face and chest ached and his ribs hissed with persistent pain. He did let her take his shirt off, beginning to run gentle hands over his ribs, but as much to keep himself from yelling out at her touch from anything, he chose instead to focus on her initial insults to him, and to give them back to her in kind.
"Funny how the chick who had to slice and dice just to get outta her training bra would want to comment on someone else's supposed tits," Puck shot back at her, his eyes deliberately shifting down to regard Santana's surgically enlarged chest meaningfully. "I don't need your help, Santana. Look how much you already helped me out, trying to "help" me with a friggin' shortcut through a dark alley really "helped" me tons. What, you gonna "help" my ribs now by accidentally jabbing them with a mascara wand or something?"
He noted with no real satisfaction that Santana's hands had frozen against his chest before she snatched them back, immediately recrossing her arms over her chest. And although her tone was icy, he saw the flicker of what looked like hurt and insecurity in her eyes before she hardened her tone, biting back her reply.
"You gonna rag on my boobs, get it fucking right, Puckerman. I was an A cup, that's not a fucking training bra, and now I'm a 34C, which you would probably know something about since you probably could borrow my bras yourself. And by the way it didn't seem like you minded my boobs after OR before the surgery 'cause you about ground them into nothing in my chest pressing them down like you were rolling friggin' dough. And don't you dare start telling me how this is all my fault again, I swear I'm gonna break your fucking ribs myself if they're not already if you go down that road."
"You sure about that, 'cause they look like they're deflating over time. Kinda like air going out of tires after they get too old and overused," Puck tried to smirk at her, but the expression went flat before it left his mouth, and he could hear in his tone a harshness that he didn't entirely feel or intend. He started to comment on the second part of Santana's words, but Santana was already cutting him off, jabbing a finger in his face, her face reddening with her anger, her free hand gesturing broadly.
"Shut the fuck up, Puckerman! God, I hate you! One minute you're practically inviting me to start fucking you and the next you're talking shit, what's your fucking problem?"
"Problems, what the hell could possibly be my problem?" Puck spread out his arms, voice raising slightly, though even this simple gesture pulled his ribs painfully enough that he couldn't hide his flinch. "Here I am stuck in this basement with rapist pimp dudes beating the hell out of me, rape threating you, with the chick who was too stupid and selfish to just let something fucking go and got us both here in the first place 'cause she couldn't just let something fucking go BEFORE, when I'm supposed to be starting my life over in the fucking Air Force instead of sitting down here bitching with you! And while we're at it, no, Lopez, I ain't inviting you to fuck me, 'cause I'm pretty sure that all went out the window when you went gay and started being in love with a chick. Who, by the way, is so over you she would rather marry a dude with lips like Angelina Jolie who's basically made it with every other chick in Glee and a bunch outside it too than with you. Yeah, what could possibly be my problem here?"
Puck knew he had taken things too far when he saw the stricken look come over Santana's features, the way she literally flinched, as though he had hit her. For a second she just looked at him, her mouth slightly open, her eyes growing wet, and he thought that she was going to turn on her heels and stalk back to lock herself into the bathroom, or maybe she would burst into tears. But instead her hand shot out, slapping him across the face for the second time in two days. And as small as she was, Santana Lopez knew how to bitchslap hard.
He would try to blame the pain that flared through his face then on his already acquired injuries, but even so, it was almost embarrassing that he actually had to lift his hand to his face to touch his stinging cheek as Santana went off on him. She was standing even closer than she had been before, almost close enough that he could have leaned in to kiss her- not that he had any inclination whatsoever to do that in the moment. Chest heaving, her breathing slightly fast and shallow, she tilted her face up towards him, her voice intent with feeling, nearly a hiss.
"You want me to stop giving a shit about you, you want me to leave you alone? You've got it, FUCKERMAN, ain't nothing you can do to make me care anymore. You can walk around with half your guts and your entire skeletal structure hanging out and I'm gonna sit back and whistle Beyonce tunes, you hear me? You think I'm the worst person in the world to be stuck down here with, well, FINE, next time those assholes come down here, you can ask one of them to lock you up with them in a room all to yourself. Let them beat the shit out of you, let them fuck you in every hole you got, who cares, as long as you're not with me? You want to sit back and hate me and act like I'm some stupid worthless whore, you do whatever the hell you want, but don't you DARE bring Brittany into it."
She finally backed away from him then, arms now tightly recrossed over her chest, head down as she turned away from him, facing the wall. She wasn't pacing or sitting, or doing anything in particular other than repeatedly scuffing the toe of her shoe into the wall, the sound of it against the concrete floor very much annoying Puck to hear.
Puck tries to ignore her. The last thing he wants is for her to think that he in any way was affected by her hitting him, that he is at all bothered by her words or even by her being upset. He knew he had said too much, that he should never have brought Sam and Brittany into it. He knew, deep down, that even if Santana had in a roundabout way resulted in his being here with her, he couldn't genuinely blame her for what had happened. In a way he was even sort of glad that he was there too- for at least the very small reason that he could, by being here with her, know what was happening to her, in some small way try to protect her. He wasn't glad that he was here for his own sake, but for Santana…
It was very strange, that any part of him could still want to be here with her, for her sake, even sort of glad that he was, given the circumstances and what was currently occurring between them. But it was true, and this was the reason he kept watching her, not yet saying anything, even as she did all she could to completely attempt to block out his existence without actually leaving the room.
He could see that she was shaking slightly, her legs twitching, and wondered with begrudging concern whether this was because she was so tired still or because she was upset. He could see her fingertips, again digging into her arms, and as she continued to scuff her foot, he noticed that she was now beginning to kick it into the wall rhythmically and with increasing force.
Reluctant guilt gnawed at his thoughts, compressing his chest, and Puck watched her for a few more moments, debating whether or not to say or do something in response to it. She had started this, after all. It was her fault they were here…sort of. And she had hit him. And she had kept trying to boss him around and touch him and "fix" him when she couldn't, and he had just wanted her to leave him alone. This was totally her fault, if she ended up getting her feelings hurt or getting pissed off because of it.
Still, without quite wanting to, Puck found himself repeatedly glancing at her all the same, wanting to say something- what, he didn't know. Wanting to stand up and walk to her, wanting to at least partly take back what had happened. As infuriating as she could be, she was still the only person here with him, and he did have an obligation towards her. So taking a slow breath in, running a hand through his hair, Puck took a step towards her, though he knew better than to come within striking range. Sighing, he spoke to her, his tone somewhat irritable, but holding a note of concern.
"Whatever, Lopez. You're the one calling yourself a whore, not me." He paused, then asked reluctantly, "You're not gonna cry, are you? 'Cause that would really be a friggin headache right now."
"Leave me alone, Puckerman," Santana ground out, but he could hear the slight unsteadiness to her voice, and he saw from her profile that she was swallowing, raising her chin higher as though to try to ward back unwelcome emotion. "You don't want me to help, then get off my ass. You think it's all my fault, don't talk to me. You don't want to be here with me, then just go lock your own fucking self in the closet and let whatever happens happen. I don't need you feeling like you have to do shit for me if that's the way you feel. I'm a big girl, I can fucking handle it. If I got something coming to me then what the fuck ever, I'll deal like I always do."
But not ten seconds after she had finished speaking Puck saw her suck in a long, shuddering breath, her arms adjusting to hold herself even more tightly, and he knew that she more than likely didn't mean at least three quarters of what she was saying. He didn't take time to analyze his reply; it was automatic, flat, and final.
"No. Like hell am I leaving you alone. I said I wasn't gonna leave you, no matter how big of a bitch you are or how much you piss me off, and I don't back down from that, Santana. Not even an option. Besides, you know damn well you can't handle shit with these dudes on your own. You're a twig, you ain't ate or barely slept all day, and there's four of them. So let's cut the crap here and get to the real deal, okay? We don't gotta like each other, we don't gotta be cool with each other in any kinda way, but we do gotta have each other's backs, because if we don't we're fucked, and I ain't talking the fun way. Literally fucked, Santana, so we gotta get this straight."
He saw her take another breath, her head incline slightly, one hand rising up to steeple her temples, shoulders slumping. He watched her, and then certain words of her replayed themselves in his mind, suddenly sticking out with all too important meaning.
"Wait a second. What do you mean, if you got something coming to you? What do you mean, you'll DEAL with it? You think it's cool that you would just DEAL with them beating you or…jesus, Santana, maybe we ain't exactly singing kumbaya together but there's no way in hell I'm sitting back twiddling my thumbs while they pound you through the fucking bed, whether that be with their fists or their dicks or both!"
Her breath escaped in a loud exhalation then, almost a gasp or a cry more so than a breath, and he watched her shoulders slump forward even more. Even from only seeing her profile he could see her face working, could tell that she was struggling to hold back tears, and her voice was considerably more choked than before as she replied.
"Stop…just…don't say that, please don't say that, Puck."
He watched her take a deep breath, blinking frequently, seeming to be trying to pull herself together before she spoke again. Shoulders squared now, she went on with more control to her expression and tone, though she remained turned away from him.
"Look, there's no point in playing around like we don't know what's coming, okay? The guy said it himself. We know who they are. We know why they're here, and what they want to do. They didn't put me down here just to stand around looking at me. They're gonna fuck me, Puck," she stated, and her voice was very flat then, almost dead in tone, as though she had forced herself to stamp on any emotion she might have been experiencing as she said this statement. "Whatever they have to do, they're gonna. They'll fuck me, or they'll send someone else to, but one way or another, they're gonna make it happen. We can say or do whatever we want, but really, you tell me, Puck. How exactly are we gonna ward them off? What do you have to beat them with here, your hands? Didn't work out the last time, did it? The bed? You gonna pick up this whole bed and throw it at them? By the time you managed to get it an inch off the ground they'd already have you on the floor missing your balls."
She chuckled, but the noise was tired, with absolutely to humor to it. "People've been calling me a whore in one way or another for years. Guess it was inevitable it would become official."
She was still facing away from him, her face carefully turned to the wall, and Puck knew her eyes must be fixated on it with great determination, unwilling to let her focus sway for a second- for fear of what? That the careful mask she had managed to place over herself would crack, that if she were to falter for just a second, she would crumple entirely, unable to go on standing?
Her words were hitting him hard, almost causing physical discomfort, and he felt his body react as though she had pushed or hit him, stiffening all over. He could not, would not accept her words as truth. It was simply not possible that this would happen to Santana, that he could ever let it happen. He had promised her. He had promised her, and he had to do whatever it took to insure he kept that promise. Nothing else was in any way an option.
"Don't talk about that, 'Tana," he said gruffly, taking a few more steps towards her, now just behind her. He saw her eyes slide towards him without her turning her head, but she didn't move, nor did she ask him to step back. "Just…don't even think about it. Never gonna happen, so…don't."
He hesitated, gauging her response, and then slowly put his hands on her shoulders, only giving light pressure at first, testing her tolerance for it. When she didn't try to shrug him off or move away, and in fact gave a slow, slightly shaky sigh in response, leaning back slightly into his touch, Puck squeezed her lightly, aware with a sense of discomfort and protectiveness how small she felt to him, almost…breakable. It was a weird adjective to apply to Santana Lopez, but as he held onto her thin shoulders, feeling the bones beneath, it struck him that he more than likely could easily break them, if he wanted to. And if he could, then certainly any one of their captors and certainly a combination of them working together could do so.
He had to protect her. He just HAD to.
"You're not a whore, Santana," he said quietly, seriously. "You're not. You ain't never gonna be. And you're gonna be okay."
He felt her shoulders rise and fall with her sigh beneath his hands, saw her lick her lips, blinking several more times, and he lightly rubbed his thumbs in circles at the nape of her neck, feeling the knots of her tension beneath and attempting to ease them. After another minute or two she sighs again, slowly beginning to lean more fully back into him, until her back is making contact with his chest. They are silent for a few more moments, Puck's thumbs working her skin, and he does not try to overthink the situation, or her reaction. Although a glance at her watch tells him that it is still early evening, he can feel the tiredness in her posture against him, and he himself feels weary and old. And hungry…already, he feels hungry.
"Let's chill, okay?" he muttered, finally releasing her, and instead taking her by the shoulder to turn her to face him. Santana lets him willingly, looking up at him, and he slides an arm around her shoulders from the side, loosely pulling her against him in a casual half hug. "Don't think we actually slept too much and I don't know about you but I kinda do feel like shit. Let's just lay down and we'll figure out some shit later, right?"
She nodded, sighing, but as he started to let go of her, to walk towards the bed, she stopped him with a hand to his arm.
"We need to drink," she said seriously, and when Puck raised eyebrows at her, as if to ask exactly how she expected to do that, she rolled her eyes, a flash of the Santana he was used to returning to her expression as her lips curved into a half smirk. "Not alcohol, dumbass, you wish. Water. We don't know how long they're gonna keep us off food, so we have to be drinking a lot of water if you don't want to get way dehydrated and start really losing it. There aren't any cups in the bathroom so drink…like, at least ten handfuls."
Puck could understand the logic of that. Having played football and basketball, and spent a lot of time and energy learning choreography in Glee as well, he had seen it get pretty ugly when people dehydrated even with enough food available to them. Nodding his acknowledgement to her, he followed her into the bathroom and let her drink first, mentally counting each of her swallows to make sure she was following her own advice. He drank after her, feeling his stomach's grumbling subside only slightly, the water sliding down with some discomfort to fill its emptiness. Then the two of them returned to the main area of the basement, Puck gesturing towards the bed for Santana to lie down first.
It was a double bed, with enough room for the two of them, and as he lay down beside her, he was careful not to touch her more than was absolutely necessary, only his shoulder pressed into hers. At first Santana too lay still, and he listened to the sound of her breathing beside him, gradually slowing down, evening out, and it was almost enough to slow his own racing thoughts, to begin to lull himself to sleep. Almost.
But then Santana was shifting beside him, seeming to be moving closer, her hip and leg now pressed into his as well. Puck lay still, thinking it to be possibly and accident, and tried to give no reaction, though a slow warmth rolled through his body at the contact. But although he dismissed it at first, he then felt Santana's hand reach out and wrap around his forearm, then her entire arm snaking through his slowly as she pressed herself even closer against his side.
"Are you awake?" she whispered, her hair brushing his shoulder, her breath warm against his cheek. When he grunted an affirmative, half turning his head to face her, she remained close enough that he could hear her swallowing before she continued. "Puck? I'm…I'm sorry I hit you."
"'S'ok, 'Tana," he muttered back to her, and though his arm was trapped in her grasp, he lifted his other hand to somewhat awkwardly pat her opposite arm. "Over it. Go to sleep, okay?"
He was almost asleep when he heard her speak again, her voice so quiet now he wasn't sure at first he heard her, until she repeated herself.
"I'm…I'm sorry we're here."
He didn't have the energy then to try to respond back to her, to try to tell her something that was somewhere between the truth and a lie, something that would give her reassurance. Instead he just turned his head, just enough that he could kiss the top of hers, and within a few more moments he felt himself settle into sleep.
