A/N: Thanks for reading chapter 9, everyone. I'm sorry this one's a little bit shorter than usual. It was supposed to just be a scene in a longer chapter, but then it got too long and I split it into two chapters. The next one will be longer than this, I promise. lovecanbesostrange: Funny you should mention the nicknames. One of my biggest pet peeves in fanfiction is characters being called by a nickname you never hear on the show. I even hesitated with the nicknames I used in the letters, but eventually I gave in since Santana did call herself Auntie Tana once. And I just love the Q thing. Again, thank you for the insightful reviews! They give me lots of feelings. ClawingAtTheSurface: Actually, I did bawl my eyes out over the letters. I sat there writing and crying like Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give. First time I've ever reacted like that while writing fiction. But oddly enough, the letters were the easiest part of the chapter to write. Thanks for reviewing. Gypsy Babe: I agree that Lee's the most despicable of the guys, even though I think they all suck, lol. I created him with that intention. And it's funny you said that about Sebastian, because he reminded me of Lee in the "Michael" episode too. Personality-wise, anyway. Looks-wise, I picture Lee Pace; don't ask me why sweet and shy Ned from Pushing Daisies popped into my head when I was trying to envision a bigoted rapist... (well, okay, it's because of his role in the movie Possession. He was a creep in that one.) And I'm rambling. Thanks for reviewing! SadPanda13: Wish I could say the writer's block had passed, but that chapter was written before the block got really ugly, lol. Thanks, though. :) threeltlbirds: Thank you for the review. I realize that the rules might require Sue to inform someone about the suicide attempt, but we're talking about Sue here. She pretty much does her own thing, regardless of the rules. She's also arrogant enough to believe that she's going to get through to Santana better than anyone else could. And Santana didn't turn the video in because she was prepared to die and wouldn't have stopped to give it to someone else. That wouldn't be the memory she wanted to leave people with.
And speaking of leaving memories. (spoiler alert) I'm a little worried about tonight's episode and what's going to happen with Quinn. I debated on whether to post this chapter before or after the episode so it didn't turn out to be some kind of premonition. Not sure I made the right decision, but at least this way I can suggest we form a fanfiction!prayer circle for our Quinnie. I don't really believe they'd kill her off, but you never know with this show. Ugh. Hopefully I'm not jinxing it. Here we go.
CHAPTER TEN
By the way, I think you'll be a great mom someday.
Quinn reread the line for what must have been the fifteenth or twentieth time. She had pored over the entire note repeatedly, but it was that brief afterthought near the bottom which drew her eye again and again. Few people had the courage to discuss with her the baby girl she'd given up for adoption. Her own mother wanted to sweep the memory of Beth under the rug. Whenever her biological granddaughter's name was mentioned, Judy Fabray would stiffen, that phony smile plastered on her collagen-filled lips, French tipped nails threatening to shoot off and put an eye out as she clutched her bourbon glass in a death grip. She inevitably remembered some charming anecdote overheard at the salon or during bridge club, and it became absolutely necessary for her to regale Quinn with the story before it slipped her mind. In the end, Beth was always the one forgotten. People at school weren't much different, either. Though all of Quinn's closest friends had been there when she went into labor, had even gone along to the hospital and visited postpartum, most of them were uncomfortable with the topic afterwards. Nobody knew quite what to say about the little pink bundle that had left the nursery not in its mother's arms but Shelby Corcoran's.
Nobody except for Santana. And it wasn't so much what she said as it was the way she listened, allowing Quinn to bare her heart and soul without fear of judgment. At first, it had felt strange confiding in the girl she once considered the least trustworthy of her friends—or frenemies. But now she found herself compelled to tell Santana everything, every last detail, no matter how personal, nor how dark and twisted it might have seemed inside her head. One minute she could daydream aloud about what Beth was like (Did she still have fair hair? Emerald eyes? Bouncy curls, like the ones in Quinn's baby book? Was she talking yet? Walking? She was almost eighteen months old, surely she was walking), the next she could confess her biggest wish (I should have kept her) and her wildest (I want to find them and kidnap her). Nothing was off limits because there was nothing Quinn could say to shock or horrify Santana, who had the deepest, darkest secrets of them all. She shared them just as openly with Quinn, or so it had appeared, until yesterday. The statements she made while puffing away on Lucky Strikes and nibbling at her fingernails ranged from heartbreaking ("I miss my dad's laugh") to morbid ("I wonder what they would have done to me if Karofsky hadn't choked me unconscious"), but one thing was certain: the conversation was never dull. Quinn had started waking up eager to get to school each morning because Santana would be there. She had blown off the Skanks for the past two weeks in favor of her daily smoking and therapy sessions with Dr. Santana Lopez, Ph.D.
Somewhere along the line, Santana had become Quinn's best friend. It went beyond their ability to tell each other anything. For the first time in her life, Quinn felt needed by someone. Neither of her parents ever made her feel that way. Before the nose job and weight loss, she had mostly been an embarrassment to them, unlike her effortlessly bright and beautiful older sister, Francesca. Then, after slimming down and prettying up, she had climbed her way to the top of the social ladder, only to discover that it was even lonelier there than at the bottom. Everyone wanted to be friends with her image, her status, but not with Quinn Fabray. Finn had never loved her, not really. Puck just enjoyed the idea of bagging another Cheerio. And Sam, though sweet, didn't have the emotional maturity to handle a mess like her—eventually, she would have eaten him alive. These days there was no benefit in being associated with Quinn, and yet Santana continued to pursue their friendship. Since that night in the Berrys' basement, the girl had latched on to her—literally—and not let go. It was a good feeling, to be needed. She knew better than to exploit it. She'd been through that too many times herself, and she had no intentions of putting Santana through it as well. Besides that, the dependency was mutual. Perhaps giving birth had awakened some maternal instinct that required an outlet, but Quinn had the strong urge to protect Santana. Despite what she said to the contrary, she liked taking care of the girl.
The kiss had complicated things, of course. It opened up possibilities Quinn hadn't thought about before. Back when she was head Cheerio and full-time Jesus Freak, she wouldn't have dreamed of allowing a girl to kiss her, let alone feeling an attraction if one did. She'd made out with Mack due to sheer boredom, drunkenness, and rebellion. But the kiss from Santana had been... interesting. Quinn sensed it coming before it happened, saw it in the magnetic brown eyes that looked at her as if she were still beautiful, in spite of her efforts not to be. For a second, she desired nothing more than to have Santana's lips pressed to hers, but the moment they were, common sense took over. She knew from experience where alcohol mixed with insecurity could lead, and Santana wasn't prepared for that. Someday she would be ready, though, and Quinn couldn't help but wonder what might happen then. What would it be like to have a relationship with someone who had no ulterior motives for being with her; who didn't want her only because she belonged to someone else, or because she was perfect on the outside, or because she was knocked up; who just wanted to be with her? It was a thrilling prospect, which she'd begun to daydream about more and more. Physical attraction wouldn't be a problem, either. Santana was gorgeous, always had been—even when they were both supposedly straight, Quinn noticed that. And now the girl's seductive charm had been replaced by a fragility that was almost as inviting. She needed to be handled gently, lovingly. Quinn was a little ashamed that the quality appealed to her so much, but at least she hadn't taken advantage of it. For now, she had contented herself with snuggling into bed beside Santana when requested, hoping each time that the girl would reach down and take her hand.
Yesterday, one short phone call from Sue Sylvester brought it all crashing down. Santana had attempted suicide. Pills. This sassy, bold, razor-tongued girl who never used to let people push her around had walked beneath the McKinley High bleachers to die, all alone out in the cold once again. Quinn didn't understand how she had missed the signs. She kept replaying in her mind their conversations from the previous days, searching for any hints Santana might have dropped about her plans. During the past week, she had seemed melancholy, but that wasn't unusual anymore. And then yesterday, it was odd to see her in an almost upbeat mood, especially after the news about Lee's pretrial. Quinn wanted to bash in more than just the guy's face, and she had spent most of the day fantasizing how she would bump him off, if given the chance; her favorite method involved trapping him in the locker room showers, releasing a toxic nerve agent and watching him writhe in agony as he bled from every orifice. But Santana had been so calm, practically relieved. Why hadn't Quinn realized something was seriously wrong? She should have pressed harder with her questions, should have confirmed that Brittany was giving the girl a ride home. The prediction in Santana's note had been correct: Quinn was pissed off. But most of her anger was directed inward. She had failed to protect her friend. And, yet again, someone she cared for deeply had tried to leave her.
Why did everyone want to leave her?
She read the note one last time, the smudged ink becoming illegible as her eyes filled with tears. At the sound of rustling behind her, she blinked rapidly and turned from the computer desk to see a tousled jet black and purple-streaked head poking out of the bedcovers. Santana sat up enough to peer over the comforter, one eye scrunched shut as she looked around the room in confusion. Her gaze traveled across the collage of heavy metal band posters that were taped to the walls, concealing the pink floral designs underneath, and finally landed on Quinn, seated a few feet away in the desk chair. It took her a while to pry the other eyelid open and focus, her full lips jutting into a sleepy pout. "Hey," she said thickly.
"Hey," said Quinn. For once, she was glad her voice had a natural snuffle in it.
Santana struggled to sit forward, lethargy slowing her movements. Grimacing, she rolled her neck and shoulder until one or the other popped, then she slouched down with a sigh, half-hidden behind the puffy comforter gathered in her lap. "What time is it?"
Quinn glanced back at the clock on her computer screen. "Five after ten."
"Oh. Great. Now I'll be wide awake all night. There goes resting up for school tomorrow."
"No, 10 A.M., not P.M.," Quinn said softly. "It's already tomorrow."
Santana stared for a moment, her blank expression gradually turning to disbelief as it dawned on her that she had been asleep nearly seventeen hours straight. After Quinn had guided the drowsy girl from the school building to her car the evening before, she was given strict orders from Sue to rouse Santana every once in while and to monitor her breathing, in case she had lied about the number of pills she took. Sue also made Quinn promise not to leave Santana alone for any significant amount of time and to call immediately if there were a problem. Quinn had followed each instruction to the letter, barely getting any rest herself as she lay awake half the night, watching the rise and fall of Santana's chest beneath the blanket. By then, it would have been safe to just let her sleep, but Quinn was afraid to close her own eyes. She was afraid Santana wouldn't be there when she opened them again.
"Holy shit. Why didn't you wake me up for school?" Santana asked.
"Figured you could use the rest."
"Why didn't you go?"
Quinn arched her eyebrow, unable to resist a light, sarcastic shrug. "Guess."
Fingers combing through the jagged part in her hair, Santana raked the strands backwards on top of her head. Since the makeover, she had been constantly at war with that long slant of bangs. As usual, they won, tumbling into her face again when she released them. She gave up the fight, hanging her head and gazing down at the scrapes on her knuckles. "How much did she tell you?"
"Said she caught you under the bleachers with a thermos of booze and a shitload of pills," Quinn paraphrased. Honestly, the coach hadn't been very forthcoming with much information beyond that. Her agitation and the ripening bruise on her right eye made it clear there was more to the story, but Quinn hadn't asked questions. When Sue Sylvester was that hyped up, you didn't talk—you listened. After Quinn's arrival at the school, Sue spent five minutes barking commands at her outside the office door. But the woman was gentler—tender almost—than Quinn had ever seen her when she shook Santana from sleep, helped her up from the desk chair and handed her over with the reluctance of a mother sending a child off to the first day of preschool. At that moment, Quinn realized just how close she had come to losing her friend. Then she'd read the note, which left no question in her mind that Santana had meant business. She reached for it now, holding it out for the girl to see. "You filled me in from there."
Santana gave an indignant huff and flopped her hand onto the blanket. "She showed it to you?"
"It fell out of your pocket when I helped you get changed," Quinn said, gesturing to the hoodie and jeans piled on the divan in the corner. Santana's cheeks flared as she glanced down at the oversized shirt—Quinn's favorite, a vintage Runaways tee with the sizzling cherry bomb logo—and the Batman boxers she was wearing, and Quinn hastened to add, "I asked if you wanted pajamas, and you did. You were pretty out of it, so I just kind of handed you stuff and helped with the sling. Anyway. The notes dropped on the floor, and I saw the Q... I thought..." She cast a guilty look at the paper, folded it back up and placed it on the desk. Besides curiosity, she had no excuse.
"Did you read both of them?"
"No." Quinn shook her head quickly. "I didn't know who the other was for—"
"Oh, God." Santana threw the comforter aside and folded both legs beneath her, getting to her knees on the mattress. This time the color had drained completely from her face. "Oh, shit. I left notes in Rachel and Brittany's lockers too. They're gonna think—"
"I already talked to them. Sue told me to give them a heads-up. They know you're okay." Quinn had called to warn the girls about the notes first thing that morning. It was particularly difficult convincing Brittany not to come rushing over, but when Quinn explained how tired Santana was, the blonde agreed to wait till after school. Some of it had been selfishness on Quinn's part. All of it, probably. She wanted Santana to herself for this discussion. Brittany would cling and fuss, not comprehending that Santana needed space; Rachel would offer sage advice that sort of made you wish you could punch her in the face for being so right. At present, neither would be helpful. "They still wanna have the sleepover tonight. I didn't know if you'd be up to it, but I figured they could at least stop by to see you after school. They're worried."
Santana had settled back on her heels, looking vaguely relieved. A second later, she shot to her knees again. "My parents. I forgot to call them."
"Did it. I talked to your mom. Told her you'd had a bad day and asked if it was all right for you to hang out at my house. She said yeah."
Sinking down to the mattress, Santana hunched forward and stretched her legs out under the blanket. Forehead resting in her hand, she murmured, "Thank God." Then, craning her neck to the side, she massaged the exposed curve, her features twisted in discomfort. "She was probably glad I didn't come home."
"Actually, she sounded sad. Like she was about to cry," Quinn said, rising from the chair and moving over to the bed. She waited until Santana glanced up and nodded at her questioning look before taking a seat. Gesturing for the girl to turn, Quinn slid in next to her, one leg draped off the mattress, the other tucked inward. She left proximity up to Santana, who nestled sideways into the bend, keeping her back to the room instead of Quinn. Head lowered, she watched Quinn from the corner of her eye for a moment, then swept her hair aside. A few dark strands were tangled in the strap that crossed her shoulder, and she hissed when Quinn freed them.
"Shit. Sorry," Quinn whispered, cringing.
"She really sounded that upset?"
"Well... yeah," Quinn said reluctantly. Applying gentle pressure, she slid her palm back and forth over Santana's shoulder a few times, letting her get used to the contact. Next, as the tension beneath her hand eased away, she gave an experimental squeeze with just her fingertips. When that proved acceptable, she continued kneading up and down the slope of shoulder, her grasp no firmer than if she were testing the softness of a peach. "Did something happen with you guys?"
"You could say that." Santana sighed and relaxed some more, head tilted at a slight angle. She was quiet for a while, her index finger tracing the Skelanimal on the knee of Quinn's fleece pajama bottoms. Her voice was barely audible when she went on, "I got into it with her and my dad last night. Or the night before, I guess. Whenever. But I acted like a total mega-bitch. The stuff I said was awful. My dad walked out. And my mom..." She took a shuddering breath. "I was so mean to her, Quinn. I yelled at her and threw a wine bottle. It came really close to hitting her. I didn't even mean to do it. Think I'm going crazy."
Realizing she had paused to listen, Quinn resumed the massage and chanced a soothing stroke across Santana's back with the other hand. During chats at school, Santana's strained relationship with her parents had been a frequent topic—and one that Quinn had difficulty responding to. She'd never resolved things with her own parents; how was she supposed to counsel someone else about theirs? Maybe having Rachel around to dispense her pearls of wisdom wouldn't have been such a bad idea after all.
"You're not going crazy," Quinn said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Everyone wants to throw a wine bottle at their mom at some point. You just took it a step further."
Santana acknowledged the wry humor with a sniff, but her brow was knitted into a pained expression. Quinn bit her tongue, mentally kicking herself for the stupid comment. The Skanks might have provided her with an array of new skills, but tact wasn't one of them. Good thing she hadn't always been such a snarky wise-ass. Setting aside her tough girl persona for the time being, she focused on working her thumbs into the hard little knot she'd discovered near Santana's shoulder blade. She studied the girl's profile, gauging which touch felt best by the reaction to each. When Santana's eyelashes fluttered shut, a tiny groan escaping her parted lips, Quinn rubbed the spot in a circular motion for several moments more. "Was that what made you try to kill yourself? The fight?" she asked gently.
Eyes still closed, Santana lolled her head in what may or may not have been a nod. "And everything else," she said after a while. "My life is a mess, and I just keep screwing it up even more. I feel like all the shit that's happened is my fault. I've made so many mistakes. Maybe if I hadn't been such a bitch and a slut before, the guys would've left me alone. Or at least they'd be getting punished for what they did. And now my parents are miserable all the time. I thought they'd be better off without having me around to fuck up their lives too. I just feel so..." She shrugged helplessly and turned to Quinn with tears glistening in her eyes. "Worthless."
Quinn's heart gave a sharp twinge, as if one of Sheila's switchblades had been jammed into her chest and twisted by a vicious hand. Months of pretending to be aloof didn't make holding back her emotions any easier now, but she kept it together as best she could for Santana's sake. She hadn't known how deeply affected Santana was by the malicious talk surrounding her reputation. In the past, the girl had treated the titles "bitch" and "slut" almost like they were compliments. And in the past, Quinn had called Santana both names behind her back and—more than once—to her face.
There went that knife again.
"Okay, first off," Quinn said in the most authoritative tone she could muster, "none of this is your fault. None of it. I don't care what those guys said to you then or what kind of bullshit they're spreading now, you didn't cause this. That's just an excuse they're using to get away with being a bunch of lowlife rapists. You could've been the biggest virgin on the planet, and they'd still find ways to blame you, because that's what rapists do. Look at what Lee did to you and Rachel..." Another wave of guilt came crashing in as the words left her mouth. Since the slumber party at Berry's, she had tried to change Santana's mind about keeping the choir room incident a secret—but not hard enough. Truth be told, she didn't want Rachel to be seen as the more reliable friend. She had let the subject go to save face, like some fourth grader who wanted to be the favorite. Anything to be number one. Same old Quinn.
She forced the thoughts aside, her voice strengthened by the effort. "Did either of you do anything to provoke that? No, but he took advantage of you both because you were there. And he and those assholes would've done the same thing to Rachel or me or any other girl they'd gotten their hands on that night. Because they're scum." While she spoke, her palm glided over Santana's back, the heel lightly rubbing out kinks as it found them. She went no lower than the waist, no higher than between the shoulder blades.
"And second," she said, walking her fingers in place on a stubborn spot near the girl's spine, "Everyone makes mistakes. We're in high school—we're dumb. We're supposed to make mistakes. And, honey, no offense but you haven't pulled half as much shit as me. I've been just as mean as you ever were, except I did it wearing an innocent little smile and a gold cross around my neck. I cheated on, like, every guy I was with. I got pregnant, lied my ass off about who the father was, and gave the baby up for adoption. Now my mom considers me a tattooed freak like the one my dad cheated with. Do you think I'm worthless?"
Santana glanced up as if she'd been caught off guard by a unexpected turn in a captivating tale. Weeks of anxiety, fatigue and poor appetite had given her an anemic look, but her chestnut-brown eyes shone brighter than ever. They were wider than usual, enhanced by the dark remnants of yesterday's makeup, and momentarily seemed capable of penetrating the surface, seeing what lay beyond. "No," she said in a resolute whisper, shaking her head with conviction.
Warmed by the response, Quinn couldn't help flushing with pleasure, her features softening into a tender smile. She reached up to stroke Santana's hair, running her fingers through the choppy layers and watching as the heavier ones drifted fluidly back into place, the finer ones clinging to her skin by static electricity. "Then there's no way you are, either," she said, and leaned in for emphasis. "So, don't let me ever hear you call yourself that anymore. Capiche?"
Santana gave a faint snort of laughter, and it sounded genuine. "Yeah."
"As for your parents. They're unhappy because what you went through is horrible, and it hurts them too. Which means they love you." Quinn's hand paused behind Santana's head, fingers gently flexing in time with each word of the latter sentence. She brought if forward again and continued sifting through silky strands, the movement accompanied by a scent of Lucky Strikes and cinnamon shampoo. "Take it from someone whose parents kicked her out of the house and whose dad ran out on her: the problem only gets worse when you don't stay and work through it. Your parents would be devastated if they lost you. It'd probably destroy them, and that would be way worse than anything you could do by sticking around."
Gaze growing distant, Santana rested her head against Quinn's palm. Slowly, she nodded.
"Besides that, I'd miss you too much if you were gone, you big dope," Quinn said affectionately, grazing her thumb back and forth on the girl's temple.
"You would?"
"Mm-hmm. You said it yourself." Quinn stretched out her leg, big toe pointing at the desk where Santana's note resided. "We've done everything together these past few years. Without you, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. And who knows what we'll come up with next. Could be something... incredible. But we both have to be here for it."
"I guess that means you kinda need me, huh?" Santana said with a small, lopsided smirk.
"Oh, definitely. We're connected now." Sliding her hand lower, Quinn brushed her thumb along the silver ring in Santana's bottom lip, then tilted down and traced the corresponding scar in her top lip. They were close enough for Quinn to feel a warm breath from the girl's mouth on her own. Her eyes flickered over to Santana's, searching for even the slightest hint of misgiving. Finding none, she pressed a feather-light kiss to the still upturned corner of Santana's mouth. She lingered only a moment, not wanting to seem like she expected any reciprocation. For the most part, it was a harmless and platonic kiss she could have given anyone, ranging from friend to relative. So why were her cheeks turning approximately the same shade of pink as the wallpaper she had covered in the most demonic-looking posters she could find?
She sat back and gave Santana a nervous, tight-lipped smile, jiggling her foot until she realized it was shaking the bed. The lengthy silence that followed did nothing to calm the butterflies in her stomach. She was beginning to think she had made a huge mistake, especially since Santana hadn't moved a muscle and kept right on staring at her with that hard to read expression. Not quite happy, not quite sad. Something nameless in between, which trembled into life like a candle flame and would have been just as easy to extinguish. Quinn withdrew her hand and let it sink into her lap, careful not to disturb whatever it was she had awakened. When she started to apologize, Santana cut her off with a signal to move over; obediently, she made room as the girl turned and settled in next her. Santana lay back against the pillows and looked up expectantly for Quinn to do the same. Then she guided Quinn's arm under her head and nestled into the space below, fitting their bodies snugly together. Face to face on the same pillow, they gazed at each other for a long time without speaking.
Finally, Santana murmured, "It might take a while."
Quinn's heart gave an eager little flutter, her breath catching. She hoped that meant what she thought it did. Otherwise she really was about to make a fool of herself. "I'm in no rush," she said in her softest voice—a soothing tone she could have used to comfort a child, if she had one. Santana cuddled closer yet, nuzzling at the shoulder she rested on and allowing Quinn to drape the other arm around her in a loose embrace. It was the most contact Santana had permitted so far, and more intimate than Quinn had been with anyone in months. She felt her insides rapidly turning to mush; but before all that hardness she had built up through a rigorous course of summer extracurriculars—every disgusting cigarette smoked, every hash brownie baked, every spray paint can emptied onto the side of public property—could be shot to hell by the pretty girl in her arms, she had a serious matter to discuss: "Promise me one thing, though."
Santana peered up through a thicket of dark eyelashes when Quinn tapped her under the chin.
"Promise me you won't ever try to hurt yourself again," Quinn said, sounding like the bossy old cheerleading captain who had once reveled in ordering around her fellow Cheerios—especially Santana. She didn't care how it came out, as long as it got through to the girl.
And Santana did nod in agreement.
However, Quinn was not satisfied. "No, you have to say it. Look me in the eye and swear to God."
Santana heaved a testy little sigh, but when she followed the instructions, her expression and her voice were sincere. "I swear to God."
"Now swear on my life. And say the whole thing." Quinn knew she was pushing it. She didn't even believe in the superstition of swearing on someone's life. But if Santana didn't mean what she said, Quinn was convinced she would be able to tell.
After another much lighter sigh, Santana started to oblige. Before she could get the words out, her bottom lip began to quiver. It took a few attempts for her to get control of her shaky voice and look up at Quinn with tear-filled eyes. "I swear on your life that I won't try to hurt myself again," she said in a tremulous whisper. And the very next moment, her resolve crumbled.
Quinn held her tight as she cried.