i got some requests for a two-shot. originally, i wasn't going to oblige, but this started to take hold in my brain, so i wrote it all down. originally, it was going to be from brittany's pov, but i found that difficult, and puck really wanted his side of the story told. so i wrote it. i don't own glee or satellite mind by metric. hope you like. sorry to all those who desperately wanted santana to live. trust me, if she died for real, i would be just as upset as you are. thank you for all the nice reviews, keep em coming 3
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Beep. Beep. Beep.
You're so still, I don't even think it's you for a second. You were always alive, always moving. This isn't you, this bruised, broken girl in this bed. This can't be you.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Because if this is you, it means that you're broken. It means that it's you that's hooked up to a bunch of machinery and it's you the doctors are spouting technical crap about. It's your body that's so fucked up I don't even understand what the doctors are saying, except that that much trauma to the head means you'll probably never wake up.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Quinn, Brittany, Sam, and I stand near your bed, trying to think of something to say – to you, to your mom, to anyone. None of us can. Brittany looks like she doesn't even know what's going on – she just stares blankly at you. The doctors say that your brain isn't working, that you're pretty much dead; what the hell could any of us say except 'that can't be true'? This is you. This is Santana-fucking-Lopez. I thought – we all thought – that you were so hardcore bad stuff wouldn't touch you.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
But you weren't. And none of us even noticed. They say you have bruises, old and new; they say these suggest child abuse. Your dad was the one who pushed you over the stairs. And we never saw; even the people who knew you best never even guessed that something was wrong.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
After a while, we stop even trying to pretend we're going to find the right words to make this right. I take Brittany home, and never once does she say a word. I don't blame her.
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When I get home, I sit on my bed, my hands shaking. There are so many thoughts whirling through my head right now that I can't make sense of much, just a tangled jumble of words. Dad kill dead Santana girl I liked friend happening. There is only confusion and rage and helplessness, and I can't take it. A girl I had sex with, my friend, is in the hospital, brain dead. I want to find her father and kill him, make him scream in agony and beg to die. I can't.
I jump up, grab a poster off my wall and tear it down. I grab my nightstand, upend it, things crashing on the floor. I want to hurt someone, to get revenge, to save you. You were my friend, you're dead, and there is nothing I can do, and it's killing me.
I rage and scream and sometimes I'm not even saying words, just primal, guttural sounds of anger deep in my throat. I destroy everything I can lay my hands on. I put a baseball bat through the wall. I tear my posters to shreds. I don't know how long it takes. All I know is that when it's done, when my furniture is overturned or broken, when my room looks like a wild animal was caged here, I don't feel better at all. Because none of it could fix everything that went wrong.
When I'm finished, I curl up in my bed, trying to forget. But in the quiet, without rage to wipe my mind blank, the thoughts catch up to me.
I saw the bruises, and I listened to you when you told me they were nothing, just from some great sex you had the night before.
I asked you once why you didn't just get a boyfriend, and you told me being a slut and a bitch was easier, and I never asked why.
We never had sex at your house, only in my room or sometimes a motel, and never once did I question that.
After a few hours, I get up and turn on the music, hoping the earsplitting noise will make it all stop.
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I don't want to go to school the next morning, but my mom argues me out of it. I didn't break, until she told me you would want me to go. It's the sappy crap my mom dishes out sometimes, but you would. You would want me to make sure your rep stayed intact while you were gone.
So I'll do it, because I can't do anything else.
Brittany's missing in school, and so is Quinn. The rest of us in Glee just look confused. Mike just looks blankly at the person who starts in on his sexuality. Rachel, when she does a head count at the meeting, opens her mouth, and I'm sure it's to ask where you are.
We all said we hated you, that you were a bitch and we wanted you gone, but now you are, and nothing even makes sense.
"Are Quinn and Brittany okay?" Rachel asks instead.
"I called Quinn's house," Sam says quietly, clinging to something that makes sense. "Her mom said she was pretty upset. But I don't think anything's happened to her…" he trails off. We didn't think anything had been happening to you either. "I think so," he finishes lamely.
But no one knows about Brittany. Artie was the last person to call, and all her mother could say was that she was in her room and wouldn't come out or let anyone else in. "They were pretty close," he says, stating the obvious. We know. And we don't want to think about how much Brittany must be hurting right now. We're in enough pain on our own.
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I'm in your room with Brittany, trying to make the girl in the bed and you fit together, when your mom tells us that she's going to have your ventilator shut off. My mind goes blank while I try to process it.
She can't. I try to argue this, say that you wouldn't want us to give up on you, that you're strong and you'll wake up, that you can't be gone, you just can't, because that would mean we'll never see you again, that it'll be final and there will be no more hope, no turning back.
She just looks at me, tears in her eyes, and says, "She wouldn't want to live like this."
You wouldn't. But you didn't want to die, either.
Though this, Brittany just sits there, staring at you, her face blank. And then it's not, and then it crumples and she starts to scream.
She leans over you, trying not to disturb the machines, trying to protect you, wailing and keening and holding you so close.
"Don't take her away from me no please don't please," is what she shrieks, tears running down her face. "You can't kill her don't take her please please please."
The orderlies come rushing in, and this time she speaks to you. "Don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me," she chants, trying to make you understand, to make you come back. They pull her away, and she doesn't stop. She fights, trying to get back to you. She always did; you were the one person who understood her, who didn't make fun of her, who protected her.
When they sedate her, she begs not to be taken away from you. But she is anyway.
I stay there, for you and for her, when they turn off the machine and your heart stops beating.
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Your funeral is nothing like what you would have wanted. I don't even know what you would have wanted; I would have thought you would just live forever. But it's quiet and still, it smells of roses, and people cry all through the ceremony. You hated all of that.
Brittany just stands there, swaying, dazed. Someone whispers to me that she's still sedated. That you would have hated most.
Not that many people are there. Glee club and their families. Some teachers. Your mom. Some cheerleaders. No one dared fuck with you, but you're dead; they're not mourning either. But it feels like everyone else grieves harder to make up for it.
Or maybe it's just guilt. For not knowing. For not saving you. For not loving you like we should have when you were alive.
It's a closed casket – your face hadn't healed. But I bet they buried you in some pink flouncy dress that you would have hated. If I'd been there, I would have told them to put you in your cheerleading uniform. You loved that thing.
I can't believe we're putting you in the ground without it.
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The day after, I do stay home from school. You're dead. Everyone else can protect your reputation. I can't get up and do homework. When I'm home, I'm numb. When I'm at school, I'm angry – at everyone who looks sad for being pathetic, at everyone who looks happy for not wailing at having lost you, at everyone who acts normal because the world should have died with you. You ruled that school – it shouldn't be able to go on without you. And yet it does. And I can't stand it.
Berry drops by after school, pretending she can't see the wreckage around the room as she turns off my music and sits down on my bed. "Are you okay, Noah?" she asks, sounding concerned.
Am I okay? No. Should she care? No. I think you're a bit worse off than I am right now, thanks.
"What the hell are you doing here, Berry?" I growl, refusing to move.
"You and Santana were friends, and even though you profess not to care, you did have sex, and I was worried when you didn't show up at school today," she blabbers. I just want her to turn back on the music. If I turn it on loud enough, it drives out all the noise in my head, the thoughts that I don't want to think.
"Go away," I say.
"We had an assembly today," she blathers on, ignoring me. "It was grief counseling. Principal Figgins got some expert to come in and talk to us. He wants us to sing a song at the assembly about child abuse. I've been looking for a song. It has to be perfect – do you think I should write one? I mean, I don't really think there's any other way we can express what we feel completely, but I wasn't friends with her so I'm not really su-"
"Berry." I say, sitting up to try and scare her away by glaring. "I don't care. I'm not singing some stupid song, and I'm not helping you write one or whatever, and if they have some stupid assembly about child abuse I'm not going. This is bullshit." What I don't say is that I can't sing a song about you. That there are no songs to express you, and there are no words to express my – our – grief at losing you. Even if you were rude, even if some people didn't really like you, we never wanted to lose you.
She looks at me, pity all over her face. "They said at the assembly that just because Santana's dead doesn't mean we have to stop living."
"And?"
"You stayed home today. Your mom says you didn't get up all day. You didn't eat. You don't want to play football. You don't want to sing. All you're doing is sitting in your room, trying not to think. You're upset, Noah. I know. But it was Santana who was buried yesterday. You're not in that grave with her. Don't follow her." she says, drawing on some previously untapped well of wisdom or drama or whatever.
She still doesn't listen when I tell her to go away. Instead, she tells me, "Brittany hasn't come to school since…it happened. She won't let anyone in. Do you think you could convince her?"
I am about to refuse, but then I remember her face when she begged for your life. For you to come back to her. I remember all the times you defended her, you helped her when she was lost, you yelled at anyone who tried to make her miserable. So I agree.
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When I walk into Brittany's room, the first thing that hit me is the silence. My music has been playing anytime I can listen to it since I found out what happened. Brittany…she's just alone in the silence.
I'm a little scared when I walk in. Brittany is still and silent, a lump under the covers. She used to be almost as alive as you were. Now, what comes to mind when I look at her is Rachel's little speech.
"Hey," I say.
"Go away," she replies.
"So…people are worried about you," I tell her, not sure what else to say.
"Go away," she repeats. "I can't hear her when you're here."
"Her?" I ask, not sure what to think.
"Santana," Brittany says, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I open my mouth to tell her that that's ridiculous. But then I remember Artie's hoax with the comb. I remember going to see Santa to preserve her faith in him. I remember something you told me when we talked about her once – "sometimes you've just gots to let her think whatever, you know? She's happier that way."
Instead, I sit in some chair. "What does she say."
Brittany sniffs. "Go away. I'm not supposed to tell you."
"Come on, Britt," I coax. "She wouldn't mind. She told me lots of stuff."
"I'm not supposed to say."
"What aren't you supposed to say."
"That she loves me." The lump shifts, and I think it's Brittany's hands clapping over her mouth.
"I knew that," I say, trying to ease her mind. "We all did. She loved-loves you. Always did."
"But she didn't want to."
"Didn't want to love you?"
The lump shifts in a nodding motion. "Go out with me. But then she did. And then…" Brittany chokes.
And then this happened.
"My fault," she chokes out.
I shift to the bed. Santana would never have allowed me and Brittany to be together, so the closeness feels…weird. That and that I'm not even going to have sex with her. But I hold her anyway, because she needs it. Even I know that. "No it's not," I say firmly. "It's not your fault." It's mine. "This just happened. Okay?"
"But she didn't want to tell her dad and then she said okay and then she was in the hospital-"
"It's not your fault," I repeat. "Santana wouldn't want you to think that."
A pause. "Does she talk to you too?"
In a moment I decide to lie. "Yep. She talks about you all the time. She says she loves you and doesn't want you to be sad. She says she wants you to be happy like always. She always talks about you. See how much she loves you?"
Another pause, this one longer. "Puck?" she says tearfully.
"Yeah?"
"How do I get where she is?"
"What?" I say, trying not to panic.
She finally pokes her head out of the blanket. "I don't want to be here without her," she says, crying. "I want to be with her."
"Oh shit, Brittany, no," I say, my arms tightening like I can hold her here. "Santana wouldn't want you to do that, you can't do that-"
"She wouldn't want me to be with her?" she asks, voice breaking.
"No, no," I say, trying to find the words that will make sense to her without hurting her. "Brittany…you know what they did yesterday at school?" I ask her, trying to remember what it was Rachel said to me. "They had an assembly on grief. And they said that just because Santana was dead didn't mean we should die too." Close enough. "She said that it's okay to be sad and miss her a lot, but we should keep living our lives, 'cause Santana wouldn't want us to be sad forever. She'd just want us to remember her. Right?"
"But…"Brittany says softly.
"Santana wouldn't want you to die, Brittany," I say. "She'd want us to make sure she's remembered as the most kick ass bitch in the school, right?"
Brittany sniffs again. "She was nice," she says tearfully. "San was nice to me."
"Hey, Britt, they want us to sing a song for her at another assembly. What do you think we should do for her?" I ask, trying to keep her motivated. Trying to make her forget that she doesn't think she can live without Santana.
So we sit. And we think. And I pray that I can do something that you would want me to do.
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The next day, Brittany's at school. Lackluster, tearstained, and defeated, but she's still there, and she's alive, which is enough for me.
I know this is going to be hard. I know that it's going to be hard to get through the day and act like everything's normal when all I want to do when I see people looking happy and shit – maybe even flourishing without you to keep them in their places – is hit something. They shouldn't be happy, taking advantage of the fact that you're dead and gone. Even when we bitched about you, we never imagined this. In a way, you're more with us now than when you were in our faces. We can't forget you now, and at least for me, it's killing me.
I always knew it would be hard. But I didn't think it would be like this. I get through the day anyway. Most of it.
I have to go to the bathroom during Spanish to breathe because your seat is still empty and I can't look away, and I still looked for you when we got study time and I needed help. It happens to everyone in Glee – you attract more attention now than you did when you were alive. And it's that thought that gets me back into class – that would have been exactly what you wanted.
But I can't bounce back from the next test.
You always defended Brittany. You never let anyone call her names or pick on her – one of the reasons why she never got slushied or pushed around, the other being Sue Sylvester. You listened to her crazy observations and protected her from people who would have hurt her. Which is why, when Brittany mumbles something about elves and some moron laughs and shouts "you retard!" the first thing I do is look around for you.
When I remember you're not there, I'm the one who goes after him.
It feels good, my fist hitting his face. I want to hurt him more, not just for Brittany, but for having the gall to insult someone you made it your mission to protect. And to vent my anger on someone who might actually deserve it. Who, in some small way, is benefitting from your death.
Coach pulls me off and marches me down to the principal's office, me shouting all the way that anyone who fucks with Brittany answers to me and I'll make them pay for it. When we get there, we wait for my probie officer and some cop, and Mr. Schue. He tells them about you, how you're dead and I'm upset and should go home. Coach adds about what that fucker said to Brittany, and Mr. Schue tells them about how sad she is, how close you two were.
In the end, I have to go home, but no one presses charges. I should feel bad. But I don't. I don't feel happy, but I feel a kind of sick pride. If you can't be around to protect Britt, I will. Maybe this is what I'll do with my life – do what you would have done.
In that moment, I can see what Britt was talking about. I can almost hear you laugh.
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The next time I go to Brittany's house, I don't hear silence. It's good – at least she's not sitting alone, waiting to hear your voice while she plans how to get to you.
The odd part is that when I'm about to knock on her door, the song ends, and instead of going to a new one, it just restarts. When I ask Brittany about it, she looks at me like the answer should be obvious.
"It reminds me of her," she says.
Maybe she's sitting up here trying to hear you after all.
I tune out the music while I try to talk to Britt, but one line gets through to me – I hear your ghost when I'm alone.
"Hey, Britt, can we start this song over again, I want to listen to it," I ask, wondering. We have an assembly to prepare for in two weeks. We have no song, and Berry's been on my back about it. Maybe this one has a shot.
It does, mostly, but it has a few parts that are…not school appropriate and Figgins would not approve of. Or at least I don't think so. I go to the bathroom and call Rachel, hoping to get a yes before I ask Brittany. "Rachel. Have a song, but it's got some swearing in it. Can we use it?"
"No, probably not. But I'd be happy to do some editing in the name of making it more school friendly," she says.
"Is that even legal?" I ask.
"I think it is if you're using it for educational purposes and not making money off it…anyway, I don't think anyone will care. Song?"
"Satellite Mind. I dunno the band. Hey, can Britt sing the lead on this one?"
"I had thought I would…but she was quite close to Santana, I suppose that would be most appropriate. As long as I get full credit for my creative edits."
"Right. Bye."
I walk back into the room. "Hey Britt, do you want to sing lead on that song for Santana?"
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"Noah, Brittany, I have my final draft of your song. You may suggest other changes."
We look at the paper she holds out to us. "You changed bored," I say.
"I felt that didn't convey the right feeling," she explains. Okay, I can get behind that. And she changed 'fuck' to 'cry' which should be fine. At the very least it might make some people feel bad for you, which you would hate, but I think should happen. At least for people to think about you and not have some smug sense of karma.
I look at Brittany. She studies the paper, muttering, "So many lyrics…" but finally, after much consideration, nods. "I think she'll like it." Rachel gives me a confused look, to which I shrug. If she wants to think you're listening, if that makes her feel better, whatever. It might even make me feel better if I believed in that.
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The assembly hall is full, and yet I don't feel nervous at all. Granted, I'll be harmonizing in the background, and we won't be dancing – we didn't think Brittany could handle it – but still. We don't need to impress them. You're the only one that matters, and you'd just be happy we were paying attention to you at all.
Brittany peers out of the curtains like she always does. "Guys, do you think she'll like it?" she asks. When she talks about you like that, we all just go with it. None of us wants to be the one to tell you that you're never going to talk to her again.
"Of course she will," Quinn reassures.
"We got your back," I tell her. "It's gonna be great."
And then we hear Figgins – "and now, the New Directions. They recently lost a member, and they are here today to sing a song in her honor."
We all step out, forgoing the flashy entrance we usually go for. Today isn't a day for flashy. It's just to tell everyone that we miss you.
Brittany walks up to the mike. "Um, hi," she says. "I'm Brittany."
Silence.
"Santana was my girlfriend, and this is a song I want to sing to her. It's not like, sad, but I think she'll like it and I just want to tell her that I love her and miss her very much," she says. I hope they'll ignore her talking about you in the present tense, and at least accept that you're dead so you two dating is not a big deal. I glare at them just to get the message across. No fucking with Brittany.
The music starts, and I can see the surprise on everyone's faces. Like Brittany said, this isn't a sad song, at least not in sound. This is just how we feel about you.
When she starts to sing, I think everything will be fine. She can do this, we can harmonize, and if we're going to break down, we can do it afterwards, in private.
But then you start to stumble. The first time, you recover, and we all stare at you, willing you to do this. But then you start again. "I'm not suicidal I just can't g-get out of bed I-I" and then you pause. You start again, but the tears are starting to drip down your face. You're losing it.
And then Berry, of all people, steps up next to you and takes your hand, and starts singing along with you. And then Quinn. And then all of us fuck the rehearsal, fuck the way the song is supposed to be sung. We all sing along with you, because we all feel that way, and we all want to help you.
When we finish, there is a moment of silence, before the applause starts. Brittany leans over to the mike and whispers through her tears, "Love you, Santana."
Figgins orders a moment of silence in your memory – kind of ironic, given that you never respected one of those in your life – and then we leave the stage. A few of the girls are crying. The guys all look tired, like they ran a marathon instead of just singing. I feel that way too.
But it was worth it, because you got what you wanted in your life. No one in this school will ever forget your name.