Chapter Three

I feel like I'm in some kind of vortex.

For a moment, everything was spinning around me in abrupt chaos. Everyone started talking at once, tripping over each other, shouting. There was a panic of motion that had no rhyme or reason. I stayed still, too stunned by the realization of the truth to do anything much more complicated than breathe.

I saw Brittany's eyes meeting mine from a few feet away and she seemed tranquil, caught in her own stillness. We were both the only solid things, because everyone else was whirling and whirring around us.

It took a moment of solid eye contact to snap me out of my immobility. I blinked, shifted to look at Rachel and Puck – and Mr. Schue behind them, and Mercedes – and then just turned on my heel and left the choir rom.

I could hear the thundering of voices behind me, the cacophony of confusion that seemed to hover around the other kids like a dank cloud. It disappeared as soon as the door clicked shut, and I somehow managed to flit from the inside of the building into my car in a kind of blur.

I'm strangely calm. I think it's because, instinctively, I know that driving while distracted just lands you in the hospital hooked up to tubes for the better part of three months. Other than that, though, it feels like the world is jarring past me, and I'm the only thing making sense. It's kind of unnerving, because the traffic passes me by and I'm not even fully aware of where I'm going or how I'm doing it, except that my body moves on automatic. It seems surreal, but I'm pulling up the parking garage of the hospital before my mind has caught up with me. Part of it is still back inside McKinley, staring at the screen of my phone blinking Santana's name.

I have to take one elevator up three floors and then trade off for another to get to the fourth, and by then the shakes are back. My heart is pounding inside my ribcage and my pulse is roaring in my ears. My fingertips tingle and everything seems slightly unsteady. I can't feel my legs as they carry me towards Santana's closed hospital room door.

I suck in a deep breath, trying to do something to calm my nerves. But there is literally no hope of that, because I feel like one huge ball of nerves right now. I try to ignore the way my fingers tremble as I push down the stainless steel handle. The door clicks open effortlessly, and then I take a step inside.

I hear her before I see her. I can't make out the exact words, but the tone makes my heart strangle in my chest and a lump rise in my throat.

It must be the initial reaction to knowing that she's actually awake, she's actually here, because there's nothing really touching or endearing about it. It's Santana's patented bitchy, condescending tone and I can tell she's about five seconds away from blowing up on whoever else is in the room with her.

It sets my jaw on edge, but damn, it's good to hear her.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me. This is some sick joke."

I push past the curtain that separates the door from the hospital bed, and I feel like I slam into a brick wall.

Santana is sitting up in her bed, popped up by pillows. She still has tubes hooked to her hands and one going into her nose, but her hair is brushed and clean and color returned to her skin. It's sallow and pale, but with the familiar hint of cinnamon beneath the flesh. Her dark eyes flash, once towards me and then back towards Jackie, who is bent over a stainless steel tray.

"Q, thank Jesus you're here. Please get this crazy lady away from me." Santana's eyebrows are knit above her eyes, and she glares her irritation at a frazzled-looking Jackie.

"Quinn, you never told me your friend is so.. ah. Charming."

"Oh yeah? Did anyone ever tell you that you're off your damn rocker? No frickin' way is somebody named Nurse Jackie sticking me with anything!" Santana throws up her hands and then turns her head back to me. "Seriously, Q? You let this chick medicate me this whole time? I'm surprised she didn't go all Angel of Death on me."

I have no idea what's happening to my body. It's shaking, and inside my chest is a thick, wet bubble that's something between a sob and a laugh. My eyes are watering uncontrollably, but I'm smiling, and there's a hysterical mesh of emotions bouncing around so haphazardly that I can't even begin to catch ahold of one.

"Santana," I say, half-chuckling, half-sniffling, "Why do you have to be so damn rude all the time?"

"Hey, you have to be nice to me," Santana says, her eyes widening fractionally in disbelief. She raises both of her hands, palm out. "I'm sick."

"No, you idiot," I think I'm crying all the way now. I can't make sense of what's going on. My face is wet and everything is blurry. "You don't think that a more appropriate greeting after three months of being in a coma is 'Hey, how are you?'"

Now I sort of think I'm laughing. "Or anything, really, other than 'where the fuck are you? Come get me.'"

Santana shrugs. "I thought it was appropriate. I wants the hell out of this place."

"Not yet." Jackie interjects.

"Stay out of this, Dr. Kevorkian," Santana's eyes are still on me, though, and her face is softening. "Q, don't cry."

I use the back of my hands to wipe at my face. "You're such a—"

"I know. I'm dumb. I piss you off." Santana makes impatient circular gestures with her hands, "I get it. Okay? Come here."

My knees are weak and my legs are wobbly, but I somehow manage to cross the space in Santana's hospital room to stand next to her in bed. She smiles at me when I come close, and it makes my heart lurch painfully behind my ribs. I use my fingertips to trace first the dimple winking on her cheek, and then the soft curve of her bottom lip.

My eyes start gushing tears again and Santana's face startles, and her eyebrows knit together. "No, stop it," She tangles her fingers in mine, and then pulls me close to her. Without really knowing what I'm doing, I'm climbing into the rickety, narrow bed with her and as soon as my arms snake around her abdomen, she smooths a hand down my hair – the one not hooked up to IVs – and I just completely lose it. It has to do with the sound of her heart beating in my ears (so much faster and more alive now than it was yesterday) or the way her breaths are more vibrant and meaningful. It could just be that for the first time since the accident, she smells more like herself. I don't know what could possibly affect that except for improved circulation, but it has me sobbing brokenly into her neck and clutching at her tightly.

"You're trying to kill me, here," Santana says, and it makes me cry harder. "I was just kidding!" Santana jerks her head towards Jackie. "I think she needs a sedative."

"God, shut up, Santana," I say thickly.

"I'm just trying to help." Santana's tone is slightly defensive. She keeps running her hand down my hair.

"You oughta quit while you're ahead." That's Jackie.

"Are you still here?" Santana asks derisively. "Go away."

Jackie grumbles, but I can hear the soft squeak of her rubber-sole shoes on the linoleum. The door opens and then clicks shut again.

"Quinn." Santana says after a moment. I'm not crying anymore, but I still have my face pressed against her. My own tears are making her skin damp and uncomfortable against mine, but I don't care. "Your hair is getting long."

I manage a watery laugh. I lift my head and give her a bleary smile, and she uses the back of her fingers to wipe at the mess on my cheeks. "I haven't cut it."

"It's good." Santana says with a small, crooked smile. "I like it."

A moment later there is a soft knock on the door. I felt Santana freeze beside me, and the look on her face is tense. I bite back a sigh and shift so that we aren't as close together, and by the time the door clicks open and then shut again I had my feet off the bed. She reaches up at the last moment and grabs my hand, preventing me from walking away, so I stood, cupping one of my elbows while Santana held my fingers in her grasp.

I glance at her face and can see that her eyebrows are knit slightly in anxiety. I wonder what she has to be anxious about - but then I remember, and it makes my chest go cold.

The first face to poke around the curtain is Rachel's, and I have to hide my smirk at the way I can feel Santana's hand twitch around mine. She doesn't have enough time to fully sneer, though, because Brittany follows Rachel and then Puck draws up behind them.

"Santana," Rachel's enthusiasm is low-key, even for her, and it surprises me. The smile on her face is a mile wide, though.

"Short stack," Santana replies evenly.

I use my wrist to nudge her shoulder and throw her a slanted look. Be nice.

Santana rolls her eyes.

Gradually, the three of them creep in to edge around Santana's bed. Brittany flanks her on the opposite side of me, and Santana gives her a smile that makes my heart twist and flip. Brittany's face is hard to read. It's slightly reserved and kind of hesitant, but the corners of her mouth lift upwards when her eyes meet Santana's.

Puck clears his throat and it jolts Santana. She turns to glare at him with a slightly quizzical expression. "I always told you women shouldn't be allowed to drive. Look where it got you!"

Rachel scoffs and elbows Puck in the ribs. "Don't be crass, Noah."

Santana's eyes dart between Puck and Rachel and then a look of puzzled horror breaks out over her face. "Oh my god, please tell me you aren't screwing Berry."

"What?" Rachel immediately looks alarmed, and she jerks away from Puck.

"Why?" Puck grins. "You want some of this? There's enough to share."

Santana's nose wrinkles up. "Ugh, no."

"Rachel's still dating Finn," I supply helpfully.

"Disgusting." Santana snorts. "Where is the Jolly Green Giant?"

Rachel crosses her arms and glances away. "He's out in the waiting room. They only let three of us in at a time."

Santana's face softens and then wrinkles again. "Who else is out there?"

"Mercedes, Artie.." Brittany murmurs. "Mike and Tina."

"Mr. Schuester." Rachel says. "I heard Kurt is coming, too."

Santana groans.

"How do you feel?" Brittany asks, drawing Santana's attention back to her. Her eyes are worried, and it makes Santana reach out and squeeze her hand.

"Fine." Santana shrugs. "Like I took a nap."

"Longest nap ever," Brittany smiles.

"And I'm pissed," Santana says, looking back to the room. "Everyone told me I missed Christmas. This is not okay. I wants my presents."

Everyone sort of chuckles, but I'm watching the way Rachel's face is slightly worried. She keeps glancing between Santana and Brittany and her expression is hesitant. I swallow, and for once I feel like maybe me and Rachel are on the same page.

It could be that I'm imagining things – but no, Rachel is definitely a bit concerned by the way Brittany won't take her eyes off Santana.

It gets a little bit awkward after that, and Santana glances around at everyone nervously. "Okay, guys, chill. I feel like a zoo exhibit or something."

Puck uses his palm to rub the back of his head. "It's good to see you awake and not, like, brain damaged."

"Noah!" Rachel chastises.

Santana rolls her eyes. "It's nice to see you too, Puckerman."

"I'll go let somebody else in," Puck says. He glances at Rachel, who raises her eyebrows and then turns back to Santana.

"I'm very glad that you're doing so well, Santana." Rachel says with a small smile.

Santana nods, and I can see her chewing on her lips.

Rachel looks like she's waiting for some kind of response, but when it's clear Santana won't give one, she follows behind Puck and out into the hallway. I catch a glimpse of her looking back at Brittany, but Brittany isn't even watching her go.

"Good use of restraint, there," I comment once they've left the room.

Santana smiles slightly. "I thought so."

Brittany brushes a hand over Santana's forehead, swiping back a stray lock of hair.

I bite my lip and tug my hand out of Santana's. She gives me a curious look, but I wander over to sit down in one of the chairs beneath the window.

The door swings open again and then Mike and Tina enter.

"This is gonna be a long night," Santana says under her breath.

It takes hours, but eventually all of our friends have come to see Santana. A few people I didn't expect to showed up, like some of the girls on the Cheerios squad. I didn't think Santana was friends with many of them, but she smiled more brightly at them than she did at Finn or Kurt.

It's well past ten o'clock by the time the last visitor filters out, and it left just me, Santana and Brittany in the room.

I wonder if Brittany's knees are stiff from standing for so long. She hasn't moved from Santana's side since she came in all those hours before. My backside is getting sore because these chairs aren't very comfortable.

"Where are your parents?" I ask finally. My mind is buzzing with questions, but more, I'm aching with the need to be close to Santana. But there's Brittany between us. Before Atherton, before everything, Brittany was like a bridge between Santana and I, making us friends when we might have been enemies. But now I feel like she's a barrier, and it sort of hurts.

"My mom came in right after I woke up.." Santana says idly. She looks tired. She runs a hand through her hair and I can see that it's a motion she's repeated several times in the past hour, from the way her hair slicks back. "My dad checked in just before you got here, and he said he'd come back when his shift was over. Pretty soon."

Brittany lifts her thumb to her lip and chews on the cuticle.

"Your mom isn't here now?" I say curiously. I don't claim to know a lot about Santana or her family, but I'm sure if I had been in a coma for an entire season, my mother wouldn't have left my side until she passed out from sheer exhaustion.

"Uhh.." Santana shrugs. "I made her leave. She was driving me loco."

"When can you get out of here?" Brittany asks.

Santana shrugs again and leans her head back against the pillow. Her face sags and looks ashen in the dim yellow light. Her eyes are sunken and the area beneath them is purple and wrinkly. I have the strongest urge to climb into bed with her and hold her until she falls asleep.

"Not until you're better," I say quietly. Santana cracks an eye open and smiles at me, a tiny, warm smile that spreads warmth through my body.

Just then, Santana's dad walks into the room.

He's a tall, severe man with dark hair. I didn't have a lot of contact with him before Santana's accident, but I remember his hair had less silver in it and his forehead was less lined. When he smiles, his cheeks flash the same dimples that Santana has, and he looks at her with her same almond-shaped eyes.

Brittany looks at him with an openly guilty expression, but he ignores her and walks over to Santana's bedside. "How are you feeling?"

Santana gives a half-shrug. "Estoy bien."

"Need any pain medication?"

"Yes." Santana replies immediately.

Doctor Lopez's eyes narrow, but only for a moment, before he shrugs and nods. He turns towards the door and then pauses, looking over his shoulder into the room. His eyes rake over me and then Brittany, and his face hardens. "Visiting hours are over."

"Papa." Santana's voice is hushed.

"It's time to go home, Brittany," He says sternly.

"Okay." Brittany whispers.

I glance between Santana and her dad, and then Brittany. Her face is stoic, but I can tell – for once – that she's affected by him. Her fists are clenched at her sides and I can see that the knuckles are white.

Doctor Lopez leaves and the door whishes shut. Brittany reaches over to squeeze Santana's hand, and Santana squeezes back.

"I'll come back tomorrow," Brittany promises.

"All right, Britt." Santana's voice is quiet and slightly contrite. I can tell she wants to apologize for her dad, but Brittany only shrugs and then steps away.

"Are you coming?" Brittany asks when she faces me.

I glance at Santana uneasily.

"Give us a minute, Britt." Santana says. There's a strange, almost commanding quality to her voice, and I haven't ever heard her use that tone with Brittany before.

Brittany doesn't say anything, but I try not to wince as she drifts out. I don't want her to be mad, or for feelings to get hurt. I can't tell if they are, but I imagine so. I know if Santana talked to me like that right now, I would probably be a little upset.

It's a bit different for Brittany and me, though, because I'm used to Santana's scathing, biting words. Sometimes I think it's a game between us. She never speaks that way to Brittany, however, and I don't know if Brittany is equipped to handle it.

"Come here, Q," Santana's voice is soft and I can hear the strain in it. She looks more tired than I've ever seen her, and I've seen her in various states of exhaustion – when we've both been so drained from Cheerios practice that our muscles quiver and shake, when we've preformed nonstop for competition after competition, all-night sessions with the glee club that left us sore and sleep deprived.

Santana shifts in the small, rickety bed and I almost slide in beside her, but then her dad comes back with a small syringe in his hand.

"Jackie said you refused medication earlier," His voice is low and slightly scolding. He gestures to her impatiently, and she rolls on her side, facing away from us. I raise my eyebrows and look away, because it's a hospital gown that doesn't have a back to it. Her father is quick and precise and doesn't seem the least bit embarrassed to be jabbing the needle into the meat at the base of Santana's spine.

"That woman looks like she belongs in a circus," Santana mutters.

"You need to behave yourself, mija," Doctor Lopez says.

"Let me go home," Santana shifts onto her back.

"A few days."

Santana sighs. "Have you talked to Mama-?"

"No," He replies immediately, and his whole face darkens. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

"Bye," Santana doesn't watch him go. Once the door shuts, I crawl beneath the thin hospital sheet, and Santana sighs again, but the sound is full of contentment. Her body sags, and I realize how thin her arms are when I slide mine around her.

"You didn't need any pain medication," I say quietly into her hair.

Santana smirks. "No, but I deserve it,"

I frown at her and she just chuckles quietly. "You didn't have to go through all that."

"It wasn't so bad," I say. It's strange, but I feel like I was the one injected with some kind of drug. My limbs feel heavy and my eyelids are drooping.

"Everybody acting like I rose from the grave." Santana's words are slurred, and I realize she's fading fast. I run my fingers through her hair and kiss her temple.

"You did."

Santana shakes her head. "Missed you."

"You need a shower." I tell her.

Santana's eyes are closed, but I see the grin on her face. It makes me grin back.

"With you?" She asks slyly.

"If you want." I kiss her cheekbone, now.

"Mmm. I like you being nice to me." Santana murmurs.

"Don't get used to it." I smile while I say it, though. "Just until you're better. Then I'm going to kick your ass."

"Bring it, blondie,"

At least I think that's what she says. The next thing I hear is her breath whistling quietly through her nose. I take a moment to look at her, now that she's actually sleeping and not just almost-dead. It scares me how much alike they both are. It makes my heart kick in my chest, and I hold my breath, tucking my lips in my mouth.

I use a finger to poke Santana gently in the ribs, and her face scrunches up. I let out the breath I was holding. It's a relief to get some reaction out of her.

I'm almost afraid to go to sleep. I'm afraid that any moment now Jackie will nudge me and I'll startle awake, and Santana will be just as unresponsive as she has been the last four months.

I can't help it, though. I fall asleep holding Santana close to me, and she's warm, just like I remember her being before, when we slept in a bed that wasn't in a hospital.

"I can't believe they let you go home already." I really can't. It's been less than two days.

"I can be very persuasive." Santana says. She traded out a hospital bed for her own, but she looks much better here. It's been a long time since I've been in Santana's room, but it doesn't look anything like I remember it.

"Danika's been in here," Santana says, as if she can read my mind. I nod, wandering over to the dresser. I pick up a paperweight and then put it back down. I feel restless and I don't know why.

"I think you should have stayed another few days," I say finally. I realize that's why I'm so uneasy – because it doesn't feel right, that Santana is already out of the hospital. "You can't even walk."

"Hey, I can walk." Santana mutters, her eyebrows crinkling.

"No, you can't." I scowl at her. "And don't try."

"You need to quit hovering, Grandma," Santana retorts, crossing her arms.

We're interrupted by the door opening. Both of us turn and Santana smiles at the busty blonde woman who enters.

"Oh, Santana," She has thick red lipstick on and her hair is in a bun. I'm a little taken aback by the maid uniform she wears – seriously? People still wear that? – and I notice immediately her accent.

"Hey," Santana says with a self-effacing smile.

It's fascinating to see her smiling shyly at this older woman, who bustles around and makes cooing noises. I can only understand every other word out of her mouth, but she starts getting misty eyed and making weepy noises after a moment.

Santana's cheeks darken and it's utterly adorable.

"Stop the waterworks," Santana says. I can't believe she's being so passive and kind to this lady. She was brusque and cold to her own mother, and only slightly more receptive around her dad. It's a side of Santana I've never seen before.

Finally, Danika pulls a lace hanky out of one of her many pockets and she dabs at the corners of her eyes – which are plastered with thick, black mascara – and, sniffling, she leaves the room. I stare after her, jaw slightly agape.

"What ethnicity is she?" I ask, slightly awed.

Santana just shrugs, picking at her bedspread. "I don't know, white."

"No, I mean.. where is she from?"

Santana's eyebrows crease. "She's Swedish or German or Icelandic. I don't know, all you white people look the same to me."

I roll my eyes at her.

"I'm so tired of everybody crying over me." Santana's face is stormy, like she's on the edge of some kind of rant. I sit down carefully on the edge of the bed.

"Santana, everyone thought.." I trail off, and look down at my lap. "I mean, you were just gone for four months. We're happy you're okay."

"Yeah." Santana scratches awkwardly at her neck. "But I feel like Rip Van Winkle or something. The last thing I remember is saying goodbye to you in the snow at Atherton. Next thing, I'm waking up in a hospital and not only did I miss Christmas but also Spring Break and everything is different but for me, I just remember.. the snow. And you."

Santana's voice trails off, and when I look up at her, her eyes are soft and a little faraway. She picks at the skin around her thumbnail and takes a deep breath. "You didn't stay."

"No." I let out a loose, breathy laugh. "You think I would?"

Santana stares at her hands and pauses a beat before she says, "It took me almost dying for you to come back here."

Her words cut into me like a knife. "Santana."

I hear her suck in a sharp breath, but she's shaking her head. "No, I know. It was a long time ago for you. You're probably past it. But for me, it was literally the day before yesterday."

I swallow and watch her face, even though she isn't looking at me. It's always hard for me to see her like this, like she's fighting some internal struggle or warring with her own emotions. I know that Santana lives a daily battle with herself, and that's hard enough, but it's worse when I realize that it's over me, or something that I've said or done.

"I'm sorry." It's all I really have to offer.

"It's okay." Santana whispers. She glances at me from under her eyelashes and her eyes are like liquid dark chocolate. "I'm glad you're here now."

"Yeah." I try to smile, but I feel my face spasm and I know that something inside me wants to cry. "Just, don't go driving into ditches to get my attention anymore, okay?"

Santana laughs a short, almost startled laugh, and gives a nod. "Sure thing."

I know that we have a lot to talk about. It hangs heavy between us and the silence is potent and tense. But I can tell that this isn't the time. Santana continues picking at her cuticle and she looks so small and fragile beneath her thick black comforter that I just want to smooth my hands over her face until all her worries melt away.

I take a deep breath and attempt another smile. "How about that shower?"

Santana looks up at me and I can see her dimples again. "I'd like that."