A/N: Once again, dedicated to Lolee Ann, a cave-in to her blackmail. Happy now? ;)
Just to warn everybody, I have only the first line of chapter 4 written so far so expect a little wait before the next update! We're shifting to Sam's POV here. Review if you feel like it!
Sam's the first to emerge. The pale rays that creep between the blinds land directly on his face, teasing him until he fully wakes up. His hand reaches for his eyes, fueled by an instinct to swat the light away, but bumps against a foreign object. Disgusted, he removes the warm citrus peel that has glued itself on his cheek and throws it on the now sticky table. As he stretches and takes in the devastated living room simultaneously, he finally notices his companion. She has curled up somewhere during the night, liberating his legs, and is now all bundled in the corner of the sofa.
Surely he should head out but he can't help wasting a few seconds contemplating her. She looks so different now. Tear trails on her flushed cheeks, abundant, tangled hair messily sprawled across her face. Not as hot as usual but certainly much more moving. Her expression, so focused even in sleep, reminds him of a child lost in a nightmare. He debates whether he should approach her or not, ultimately deciding not to. Just a pointless smile in lieu of a waking goodbye and he silently leaves her.
Outside, the air still has that damp undertone, so specific to dawn. It makes the freezing temperature worse. Sam hastens his steps, hoping to counter the cold with the exercise. There will be time to get warmed up; it's a long walk back to his home. A lot of things to mull over on the way too.
The old door squeaks when he closes it behind him. Normally this betrayal doesn't matter, considering the early hour. At least today it shouldn't, because he recalls his mother worked the late shift and therefore must be sound asleep at the far end of the house.
He turns around and nearly jumps out of his skin. Mary Evans is standing in the hallway, leaning against the kitchen doorway, with a mug in her hand and a tired yet amused look on her face.
"Jesus, mom!" he whispers, breathless. "You scared me half to death! What are you doing up?"
She chuckles softly and takes a small sip before replying. "You know, it's usually the mother that asks the questions when her son comes home at 6 a.m.!" She steps sideways, signaling him to follow her in the kitchen with an inviting smile. He smiles back, relieved. She carries on with the conversation as he settles in the dimly lit room. "I changed shifts with Frances, so you could have the car for your big date tonight."
Once again, his parent's consideration shines through, even in those hard times. It makes his throat tighten. Just then, surely thanks to those clairvoyant powers mothers possess, a glass of water materializes in front of him. "No coffee for you mister, it'll just dehydrate you more." Mary comments. He grabs the offered drink and downs it rapidly. A pink flush colors his cheeks. Guilt is the main cause of it, as much as he would like to blame the coldness of the water.
His mother rests her hand lightly on his arm and rubs it gently. "So…" she inquires.
Sam sighs before giving her the required information. The "Mary List", basically the price to pay for enjoying the freedom she allows.
"Alcohol, but no drugs, no cigarettes, no sex and no behavior worthy of YouTube." he recites diligently.
She acknowledges his statement with a nod and a quick squeeze of his shoulder. After a minute of silence, disturbed solely by the sound of another coffee being prepared, she sits down and hands in her sentence. "OK, well first off, you'll go to sleep. You look like you could still use some rest. Then, I'll let you go on your date with Quinn tonight, if and only if all your homework for the week is done. On top of that, you'll watch Stevie tomorrow while I shop with Stacy."
He sighs, for form's sake. He's getting off easy and knows it. "Fine, mom." He waits but no more comments are voiced. He shifts on the chair. It's not over and he knows it.
"Anything else you want to say?" Mary asks. For a mother talking to her son who just drank the night away, she sounds more curious and concerned than suspicious. Then again, Sam is aware that his mom is far from ordinary. That knowledge pushes him to confide in her.
"You remember Santana? I told you about her…" he starts quietly.
"Quinn's friend? The bitchy one?" she inquires.
He can't help wincing at the adjective, regardless of its truth. "Yeah. Well, she's going through some stuff these days, I'm trying to help her with it." he says.
She examines the table for an instant, looking up to meet Sam's eyes. She tilts her head to the side, an amiable smile on her face. "Sure it's a good idea?" she asks.
"What? How could be a friend to her not be a good idea?" he replies.
"Well, she's your girlfriend's friend. You spent the night at her place." She continues. Sam is on the verge of protesting, she raises her hand to stop him in his tracks. "I know, nothing happened. But you and Quinn, it's still recent. She doesn't know you that well yet, and girls that age, they're sensitive and little things can hurt their self-esteem."
"Man…" Sam whispers, his head dropping to rest on his crossed forearms on the table. "I just wanted to help…"
Mary chuckles in response. "I know, it sucks." She goes back to the coffeemaker, pouring herself another cup before resuming the conversation. "You're so caring, Sammy, and it's one of your best qualities. It's just… You have to consider how it can be seen by the people around you. You get tunnel vision sometimes and you might end up in a sticky situation because of that."
He keeps his head down anyway, although he can feel the words make their way and their logic helps, somewhat. "You said it mom, it sucks. But I can't let it go, she needs me."
Another quiet laugh makes itself heard and next thing he knows, she's hugging him from behind. It's a nice, supportive feeling. She gives him a quick peck on the top of his head before letting him go. "You're such a good person, you know? Don't worry about it, OK? Just… Tell Quinn about it, what you can at least. Make sure she knows you're not hiding from her, and that she's got nothing to worry about. Then everything'll be fine, you'll see."
He nods mutely. Getting up to put his glass away, black spots flash before his eyes and a sudden nausea floods his senses. "Whoa…" he mutters. The back of the chair provides a welcome stability to his failing equilibrium.
In a second his mom is back next to him, helping sit back in the seat. "What's going on, Sam? You didn't walk all the way here, did you?"
"Well, yeah…" he admits.
"My God, Sammy! It's like 4 miles! At dawn! Hung over!" Her voice goes shriller with each exclamation mark.
"Mom, mom, volume, please!" he whines. "Like you said, hung over here…"
"Yeah, hung over… Well, okay, Mr. Hung-over, you are going to go to bed before you either pass out or puke all over my breakfast!"
He has to look up now, because, no matter how much he knows his mother, he has to make sure she's not seriously pissed. Relief partially replaces the dizziness he's feeling when he sees the sparkles in her eyes that contradict her ominous tone.
"Yeah, guess I should." he mumbles.
She pulls him up, shooing him out in a low voice. It takes a good minute for him to fumble his way to his bedroom, the weight of his half-night and of the many drinks consumed hindering his steps.
By a force of habit, he slumps down in front of his computer, opens his browser and clicks rapidly on the bookmark leading to his email account.
He blinks rapidly while the page loads, the brightness of the screen a harsh test on his tired retinas. Once his focus adjusts, he is surprised, to say the least, to notice a message from Santana in his inbox, sent a few minutes ago. Once the email opened, its content makes the whole thing even stranger.
No subject, no greeting, no signature. Just a link to a YouTube video, with one directive:
Skip to 1:21. And thank you.
Without thinking, his hand guides the mouse to the blue line, clicking on it. The new page opens, a simple music video, both the title and artist unknown to him. He doesn't let the music go on, instead obeying Santana's demand and advancing the song to the 1:21 mark. A folksy beat and a sincere voice echo in his room.
I'm sinking, I'm drowning
I'm so afraid of losing
My head's been spinning round and round
Since you've been around
I'm foolish and crazy
I just think that maybe I got a lot of things to figure out
I'm winning, I'm losing
I'm afraid of never choosing
This heart of mine was so beaten down
Before you came around
The song is over, the room is back to its previous silent state and the usual "related videos" are parading over and over again in front of him. He barely sees them. He's not there. His eyes are looking beyond the screen, his thoughts are turned back to last night and a huge grin is now displayed on his face. He leans back on his chair, amazed beyond words. While he doesn't know how much weight he should give to this message, it's clear he got through to here, more than he thought. It's a warm, pleasing feeling, much more rewarding than he hoped it to be. The fact that she chose to tell him the Glee way, through a song, is all the more astonishing, since she's always so dismissive of those methods. "Let's play along then" he thinks merrily.
It doesn't take a long research to find a proper reply, just a rapid run through his music library. Two minutes to write a few lines below the link, (You're welcome. Listen from 1:28 to 2:03, hopefully you'll like this one better.) and he just clicks on it for confirmation, skipping to the right verse.
For someone to rely on and a shoulder to cry on
You can depend on me
If you're in need of some kindness
And you can't seem to find it
You can depend on me
Well there ain't no need to worry you know we'll get along
Those dark clouds may surround you
But together we'll be strong
Kind of cheesy, but at least it gets the message across. In a really obvious manner. Plus it's absolutely what he feels. Gosh, Mr. Schue would be so proud!
Once the response sent, he doesn't even have a smidgen of doubt, surprisingly. Sam Evans, the best example of a second-guessing, insecure guy, is actually confident and comfortable. Not for the first time ever, however, it's definitely the first time with a girl. When he slips into his bed, sleep finally getting the better of him, his big goofy grin just won't fade away. As he drifts into oblivion, it disappears, albeit his face keeps its relaxed air.
It's 3 p.m. when he wakes up. There is no way he could keep on resting, not with Stacy and Stevie engaged in a fierce lightsaber battle in the next room. He groans, stretching his arms out to pull the covers over his head, because each whoosh sound effect (both kids are sticklers for authenticity) is making his forehead throb. God, he will always regret showing them Star Wars.
He reluctantly gets out of bed, sloppily making his way to the bathroom to try to get back to human form. A long shower, fresh clothes and already his brain feels lighter. A snack and 4 glasses of orange juice added to that and he's completely back. The rest of the afternoon is spent on catching up on his homework, making sure he's in the clear for his evening out.
While he's not exactly giddy at the prospect of two hours of algebra problems and English essays, his mood remains good. Why shouldn't it, after all? He has helped her, really helped her, even if she hasn't told him anything really, not yet. She trusts him now, he reached her. That comforting thought lingers on his mind, bringing a smile on his lips on occasion.
Around 7:30, he's all clear and free to go. Leaving the driveway in his parent's car, he grows more serious and suddenly regrets agreeing to meet Quinn at the restaurant. The drive alone, with just his thoughts, is not a good idea. Delaying facing his girlfriend is the bad idea, actually. His hands become clammy on the wheel. No matter how innocent the past night has been, guilt is one rampant feeling, and an inevitable one too. She will have questions, and he will have to find a way to present the events in the right light, in order to prevent an explosive public fight on the most romantic day of the year.
In a curious change of opinions, he figures that having some time ahead doesn't look so bad.
Time, he's got plenty, as he finds out. 9 o'clock rolls around and still no sign of his date. In a last resort, he texts her, for the fourteen time. He leaves the phone in front of him, willing a reply with all his heart. I'm tired of the rehearsal, either call or get here so I can get it all out! he thinks, irked.
His hands link on his nape, his elbows on the table to support his weariness. When the electronic beep of the incoming message pulls him out of his trance, he doesn't budge, merely shifting a bit to get a clear view of the screen.
2 sick 2 b ther, flu i think. sorry. xxx
A flush of anger floods him. He regrets it within seconds and grabs his phone back, quickly sending Quinn a heartfelt "get well" message. There's no point in keeping it close, so he slides it in his coat pocket.
A choir of acapella voices suddenly covers the rumor of conversations. Lifting his gaze, he sees all the Warblers standing in the entrance, singing the overture to Silly Love Songs, if he's not mistaken. Great, couldn't have a better timing! he thinks, bitterness souring his mood.
He glimpses back and forth between his appetizer and the other tables, trying to stay clear of the lead singer, Kurt's friend he thinks, who's now shimmying around in the restaurant. If there is one thing he doesn't need, it's a serenade after being stood up on Valentine's Day.
Looks like the girl at the table near him is just as non-receptive as he is, given Blaine (that's the singer's name, right?) mocking face. Blaine actually saunters away, and his most recent victim drops her head. She turns around, probably sensing Sam's indiscreet staring. It happens too fast for him to react, but the uneasiness doesn't last.
When his eyes are met by Santana's, he can't even qualify the emotion that washes over him. It's agreeable, that's for sure. Something akin to hearing the right song, at the right moment. He's briefly reminded of that car scene in Jerry Maguire. It prompts him to smile affectionately, sending her a timid wave at the same time. She responds, although she doesn't seem quite as sincere.
He lifts one eyebrow questioningly, earning a basic shrug for an answer. Now that won't do…
Picking up his plate, glass and coat, he heads for Santana's table, sitting down in front of her without waiting for an invitation.
"Hi." he says, turning on the sweet Evans charm to its limits as an excuse for his intrusion.
"Hey." she replies flatly. She doesn't seem that bothered by his imposed presence, countering it by casually stealing a potato skin from his entrée. "Where's your other half?" she inquires, her mouth full.
"Home. She stood me up." he answers, unable to keep his tone cheery. Even if Santana is kind of looking like a squirrel right now, with her cheeks puffed by the over-sized bite she just took. He clears his throat, awkwardly. "So… Did you get my, you know…"
"Yeah, I did. It… It was very sweet. Thank you." She stammers. Her gaze shifts away from Sam's concentrating on what's left of the food in front of her, her fidgety fingers playing with it.
"San…Don't do this." he warns her. His hands rest on hers, trying to calm them, while he tries to make eye contact. "You're slipping back, aren't you? You're gonna act all distant, like yesterday didn't happen, right?"
"What? No!" she protests vigorously. A few heads turn their way at the exclamation, forcing her to lower her voice. "I'm not gonna pretend, it's not my style!" Her hands evade his grasp, plunging under the tablecloth, out of reach.
"But hiding is." he gently states. "Look, I'm not gonna do this dance with you. I'm here, like I said I would. And, while I don't recall everything that happened, I remember you saying that you'd explain who her is today…." he presses.
A look of pure terror is the only response he gets. For a fleeting second, he second-guesses his insistence, before his confidence comes back.
"If that face is any sign, you seriously need to tell someone. Whatever it is. Nothing capable of scaring you like this should be carried alone."
She finally looks up. Fear retreats from the depths of her brown eyes, while her hands creep back from underneath the table. His are still extended, offered. Their fingertips graze and settle there. It's not quite a touch, not quite a distance either.
She sighs. While it doesn't sound much relieved, it doesn't sound upset either. It's more like a signal, the opening act. "You're right." she admits. Nervously, she tightens her ponytail. "Damn, you're always right!" she adds.
He feels no need to defend himself and therefore he flashes a small, encouraging smile. Enough to get her started.
"Her, it's my sister, Cristina. She's dead." She drops the bomb in a clear, sharp voice. It doesn't lessen the impact.
"Shit, San I'm so s-" Sam jumps out of his seat, only to be forcefully pushed back by Santana's hand on his shoulder.
"Don't, don't come nearer. Stay there, it's actually easier with you in front of me." she assures him.
He nods, even if he's not sure if she can see it. There's an unmistakable faraway look in her eyes. He knows then that, even if it seems like she's talking to him, she's more than likely reciting an inner monologue instead.
"Cristie was like, the best sister. Well, I thought. I mean, she was so much fun. Always ready to play with me or help me… And she never acted like I was annoying or pestering her, even when I was."
She seems so small, all of a sudden. Sam can't help it and once again his fingers reach out to her. This time though, hers retreat before any sort of contact is achieved. In fear of breaking the spell of the moment, he doesn't insist, letting her continue her story with that sure tone.
"She left Lima years ago. She never really liked the people here, she kept saying they didn't know how to have fun. So, when she graduated, she moved to Chicago, looking for fun. I was ten." Her voice quavers, and she keeps silent. Staring at him.
Once more, he tries to touch her, and practically yelps from surprise when she latches on his hands, grabbing them forcefully. «And?" he tentatively offers, moving his fingers around to find a comfortable, and comforting, grip.
"Oh, she found it!" she spats bitterly. "Partying, getting drunk off her ass every 2 days. At least she was still coming home once in a while, spending some weekends with me, you know." She looks up from their joined hands, her gaze now hardened. "But it wasn't enough. So she amped it up. Ecstasy, speed, coke. Still not enough, so she upped to heroin. We didn't see much more of her around here after that. We heard that she was stripping. Then no more news until the call that informed us she had OD'd."
Big fat tears that cannot be contained anymore start rolling down her cheeks. She doesn't even attempt to hide them, or wiped them away. He can't tolerate it any longer and, without letting go of her hands, moves around the table to sit next to her. No argument, not a word escapes her lips when he scoots closer. One hand breaks free and snakes around her waist. Riding up her back, it brings her head to rest on his shoulder, where the thin material of his shirt becomes the finish line for her breakdown.
It's a highly compromising position. Wrapped around his girlfriend's best friend, in public, on V-Day… He does scan the restaurant rapidly, to appease the minuscule part of his brain that actually cares about that. Nobody's looking, or wants to look maybe. His entire attention returns to Santana, who's quietly melting in his embrace. Her distress seems to subside, leaving a few heavy breaths and sniffles behind as evidence of her pain.
He risks a comment. "That's what you're afraid of? Ending up like that?" He feels her nodding, bump her head against his chin.
"That's what they all wait for." she whispers harshly. "My parents, the teachers, everybody else if Berry is to be relied on. It's bound to happen."
"Are you fucking serious?" he exclaims, pushing her away to force eye contact. "Didn't you say that Rachel's opinion didn't matter? How can you even believe that?"
She shakes her head, avoiding his gaze as much as possible in the confined space of his arms. "I'm just like her…" she whines. "I'm going to be…"
"No, you're not! Because you're nothing like her! Besides, from what you told me she didn't even know who she was!" he replies.
"Well, neither do I!" she cries. She stops talking, fighting, all at once. She locks eyes with him, an air of defeat darkening her face. "Neither do I." she repeats, so softly he almost has to read her lips.
"You do. I do. Hell, I'll tell you who you are." His voice rises, firm. "You're Santana Lopez. You're beautiful and you're aware of it. It has no value to you but you pretend like it does, so people won't think you're weird."
She stares at him like he's a madman, messily running her palms over her cheeks to dry them. He goes on.
"You're not really thin, you're frail, actually. You try to be spunky, but you end up being combative. And you like it when people fight around you because then they're too caught up in their emotions to start asking about you. It freaks you out, thinking they'll find out that you're actually a good person."
He stops, breathless, almost bracing himself for the slap to come. It does come. A fierce collision between her hand and his cheek, one he withstands bravely despite the pain it brings.
"See, I knew you'd do that." he simply says, getting up.
"Jerk!" she spats. Her face is red from anger and, he hopes, a bit of guilt. Or at least embarrassment, because it'd confirm that he was right.
"No, I'm not. And neither are you, no matter how hard you try." He rubs the side of his face gingerly, almost feeling the mark of her fingers on it. "Thank you, not for the slap, but for trusting me with your sister's story. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I meant what I sent you this morning."
He picks up his coat on the chair, sending her one last look as he drops some money on the table. "We can go back to square one." he tells her slowly. "Or not, it's up to you. I know I don't want to. I'm not giving up on you. Ever."
As he pronounces those words, he realizes that he's afraid. He fears that she might change her mind, leave things like this and never talk to him again. Why? Now that's a really good question. When did she become so important? Why does her friendship, out of everyone else's, matters so much? All good questions, if only he was in any state to answer them…
"Goodnight Santana. Happy Valentine's Day." he lets out, a last resort to separate on a positive, if ironic, note. She doesn't reply, her fixed stare still on the untidy table.
Her slumped form is the last vision of his evening and he leaves Breadstix in a blur.
A/N: First excerpt was from Since You've Been Around, by Rosie Thomas, second was from Depend On Me, by Bryan Adams (again, I know!)