Day 02: Serial Killers
out of focus, eye to eye, 'til the gravity's too much
The first time was a mistake.
Santana got a call from Quinn at three in the morning, and it was mostly incoherent. Santana didn't know what else to do except drive over and try to see what the damage was – and, well, the damage was pretty bad.
Santana was struck, first, by the smell: thick, cloying, and coppery. She knew, then, when her stomach rolled – she knew someone was dead. She picked quietly over the carpet, eyes wide, trying not to make a sound. She was worried for Quinn. It didn't strike her as odd that that would be her first reaction, not until many weeks later.
"Quinn?"
She heard the sound of sobbing coming from the kitchen, so Santana tip-toed in that direction. It struck her, violently – the sight of blood, everywhere. She fought back the way her stomach wanted to heave, pressing her lips together tightly, clenching her jaw. It was still fresh, a brilliant red staining the white ceramic tile. Santana's eyes skittered over the body on the floor – she didn't even stop to look at it. Instead, she focused on the curled up heap of Quinn in the corner, several paces away. Santana sprinted over to her, her hands immediately going for Quinn's shoulders, her chest, her arms and hips. She needed to make sure none of the blood was Quinn's. Quinn's body had always seemed so strong and powerful to Santana, in the past; but now, huddled, she seemed small and frail, so fragile. Her skin had an ashen quality to it, sweat-slick and pale.
"Quinn," Santana said, urgently. "Quinn, listen to me, calm down."
Quinn's chest was heaving with the force of her sobs, and Santana could tell she was only a few moments away from hyperventilating. So – she did the only thing that she knew how to do. She held Quinn, tight, pushing Quinn's face against her shoulder, and started rocking.
"It's okay." She stroked Quinn's hair. "It's okay, Quinn."
Quinn's tears immediately soaked Santana's shirt. "I killed him," She whispered, and it made Santana's heart go cold.
"What happened?"
Quinn shook her head, pushing her face even harder into Santana's shoulder. "I stabbed him."
Santana nods. "We have to call the police."
Quinn choked on a sob.
"Shh, it'll be okay," Santana tightened her grip on Quinn.
"I'm not going to jail, Santana." Quinn voice was quiet but steady. "I won't."
Santana's body felt numb.
"What are you saying, Q?"
Quinn snuffled loudly against Santana, twisting her face until it was pressed into the cup of Santana's neck. "Don't call the police. I'm going to leave."
"What?" Santana was alarmed. She pulled back, tried to bring Quinn's face level with hers. "Leave? Go where?"
"I don't know, Santana. I'll disappear."
Santana let out a short, cynical laugh. "No. No way, Quinn. You wouldn't last a day."
Quinn swallows, and she looks tragically beautiful, even now, with her face swollen and tears staining her skin. "My mom won't be back for a week. No one will know I'm gone. It'll give me a head start. No one – no one will know he's dead."
Santana stopped, sat back on her heels. She looked Quinn over – really looked. Tried to see if there was some way to spot insanity, if it was something that left a physical mark. What she saw was just Quinn, the same old Quinn that she's known for years. A scared, desperate, terrified Quinn, but – still just Quinn.
"I'll know, Quinn."
Santana watched Quinn's face darken for an instant, and then a kind of hopeless slide into her eyes.
"I shouldn't have called you." Quinn said it quietly, distantly. "It was a bad idea. I just wanted – I wanted to say goodbye." Quinn shook her head. "Stupid."
Santana bit her lip, looking first to Quinn's hands, then back to her face. "I think I know what we can do."
"We?" Quinn's voice cracked.
"Yes," Santana sighed. Her heart was kicking wildly in her chest, a frantic fluttering, and adrenaline – which had been raging since Quinn woke her up thirty minutes before, sobbing – surged through her veins. "How much money do you have, Quinn?"
Quinn shrugged, slowly. "As much as we need."
"Do you have a passport?"
Quinn nodded sluggishly, and the light came back into her eyes, along with the smallest smile.
Santana mirrored Quinn's nod, and stood up. She helped Quinn up, too, and held her tightly around her shoulders as they both made their way out of the kitchen, delicately stepping over pools of congealed blood. It still stank, and made Santana's stomach clench. Quinn trembled in her arms, and Santana held her even tighter.
"Take your clothes off," Santana said, once they reached the edge of the kitchen. Quinn looked at her, curiously, and Santana shrugged. She stripped out of her flannel pajama bottoms, and reluctantly, Quinn did the same. Santana found a trash bag and shoved their clothes in it. Quinn stood, in a bra and panties, and watched as Santana used a kitchen cloth to wipe down the surfaces that she touched, and all the ones Quinn might have.
"Where's the knife?" Santana asked, breathing through her mouth to prevent herself from vomiting.
"Um—" Quinn's voice broke. "On the floor. By his – uh. His head."
Santana gave her a look that was disbelieving, but then she picked back towards the corpse. She used two fingers to pluck the knife and shove it deep in the trash bag. Santana wiped down the floor where Quinn had huddled, wiped down drawer pulls, cabinet handles, the sink spigot.
She knew she was being haphazard at best, but she figured it couldn't hurt.
"Let's go put some clothes on, Q. You need to pack."
Quinn was almost docile, allowing Santana to lead her up the stairs to her own room. They both got dressed in Quinn's pajamas, and Santana watched as Quinn packed a week's worth of clothes, an extra pair of shoes, a toothbrush. She hesitated, but then went ahead and packed her makeup bag. It was a small gesture, but it made Santana smile.
"Let's go," Santana said, taking her hand.
It wasn't until they had made a trip to Santana's house, stealing through the night and packing a similar bag for her, that Quinn thought to ask where exactly they were going.
"We're going to Mexico, Quinn." Santana told her. Santana's parents were still sleeping, and would be for hours to come. "I left my parents a note. I'll call them in a few hours."
"What are we going to do in Mexico, Santana?" Santana could tell Quinn was starting to panic, because she had that wild look in her eye.
"Everything is going to be fine. I have family in Mexico. There won't be any trouble. By the time they figure out he's dead, we'll already be there."
Quinn nodded, reluctantly. "I don't want – Santana. I don't want you to be in any trouble." She let out a strangled breath, tears creeping into the corners of her eyes. "I did this. You don't have to—"
"Hey, it's all right." Santana shrugged. "Just clean out your trust fund, Quinn, and we'll be fine. Have you ever been to Mexico?"
Quinn shook her head.
Santana smiled, then, and for the first time since this whole crazy night began, she felt a bit like her old self.
"You're in for a treat."
That was two very busy days ago, and Santana never stopped feeling anxiety, even though she knew they were safe. Quinn had been able to fake it with her mother, keeping her happy and oblivious through a series of telephone calls and text messages. Nobody had even been alarmed when Quinn took out several thousand dollars from her trust fund, and then transferred the rest of the money over to Maribel Lopez's account. Quinn had been a little startled, at first, that Santana involved her parents, but Santana knew there was no other way to make this work.
"My mom will get us the rest of the money once we're there," Santana tells her, sitting in the airport in Houston. They have a connecting flight to Acapulco, where her aunt Graciela will pick them up. Santana is actually kind of excited to see Graciela and her cousins and the babies. It's been a few years since her family made it down that way.
Santana is determinedly not thinking about the things she left in Lima, or how soon it will be before she'll see her mother again. She isn't thinking about anything else, really, than landing safe in Mexico and figuring it out from there.
Santana doesn't have a plan, exactly, except that she knows she's going to be drunk on the beach – after a very long nap and a long, hot shower – in approximately eighteen hours.
Santana's family makes fun of her accent, and her Spanish is rusty and horrible, but they're family and they love her and, in some ways, living in Acapulco is like sliding a hand into a glove for Santana. She always thought she was better suited to the beautiful climate and the beaches, and since Acapulco is a tourist city, she doesn't lack the amenities of the States. She misses her mother and father, but – they Skype every so often, and send her money, and say that they'll visit for Christmas. Mexico is not the worst place in the world to live in exile, if you're Santana Lopez.
Quinn, on the other hand, has had a harder time adjusting. In the last five months, she's made a valiant attempt to learn Spanish – and, well, she can say basic things, like where is the bathroom? and thank you very much. Dora the Explorer probably taught Quinn that much. But she doesn't have a natural aptitude for learning languages (finally, something Quinn isn't good at), and it's tough for her. She's become withdrawn. She spends a lot of time reading, or on the internet, holed up in the guest house that Tia Graciela gave over to them to use. It's really not as luxurious as all that; it's one open room, with a tiny kitchenette and a bathroom. Quinn spends a lot of time in the hammock hanging off the side of the structure, a book curled in her lap.
For all her malaise, living in Mexico has been good to Quinn, at least physically. Her skin is several shades darker than Santana has ever seen it, and her hair takes on a perpetually honeyed hue, lifting with exposure to sunlight. She likes the way the sea air makes Quinn smell, and – Santana has to admit it – Quinn is stunning in the tropical clothes that best suit this atmosphere.
Santana has always been attracted to Quinn, in varying degrees, since she met her when they were gangly fourteen-year-olds, but now – both of them tipping over the age of twenty-two, with eight years' worth of tears and slaps between them – it seems to have taken on a life of its own, and Santana can't control it. Living with Quinn is easier to do than Santana imagined it would be, though she suspects it has more to do with the fact that Quinn is listless and morose than with the fact that they're actually compatible roommates. They sleep in the same bed (a plush queen –sized pull out), and sometimes Santana wakes up long before Quinn does. She always watches the way the morning light plays over Quinn's face, casting dappled shadows; she watches how dreams leave their wrinkly footprints all over Quinn's forehead. Sometimes, Santana's overwhelmed with the urge to kiss her awake, and then continue kissing her until every one of her senses is steeped in Quinn – and that always results in the long, liquid tug down the center of her body, which makes Santana restless and, somehow, sad.
She isn't the type of person to tiptoe around sexual tension. If anything, Santana has always taken the bull by the horns when it comes to her own hormones. But – there's something wistfully tragic about Quinn, lately; something so gorgeous and broken that Santana can't bring herself to push. She wants Quinn, in the visceral, primal way that has everything to do with Quinn's breathtaking beauty and her own sexual appetite. But she also wants Quinn in the kind of soft, painful, longing way that has everything to do with wanting to make her laugh and feel loved, and banish the sadness that hangs around Quinn like a cloud.
Santana would be worried about these feelings, if they were for anyone else. But Quinn is – well, she's Quinn, and it doesn't make her feel anxious or panicky when she thinks about loving Quinn that way. It's more like a natural extension of the way Santana already loves Quinn; the way she's always loved her.
Santana runs a hand down the length of Quinn's hair, which is shaggy, now, past her shoulders, before she slides into the hammock, snugging their bodies close together. Wordlessly, Quinn shifts, making space for Santana without having to be asked. Santana's legs tangle with Quinn's, and she slides until her head rests comfortably on Quinn's shoulder. Quinn holds a novel in her hands, and doesn't look away from it, but Santana swears she can see the faint beginnings of a smile on her lips.
Santana lies still, and the midday heat makes her drowsy; she feels herself slipping into a daze while Quinn reads, lulled by the sound of Quinn's breathing.
Quinn's fingers play idly with the weight of Santana's hair, occasionally brushing along her scalp. It relaxes Santana even further, and she feels her eyelids getting heavy.
It takes Quinn an hour or so, but eventually she folds the book closed, and shifts until her face is pressed against Santana's hair. Santana stirs, turning into Quinn, and Quinn closes an arm around Santana's body.
"Our visas expire next month," Quinn whispers.
Santana lets out a sleepy hum. "My tio says he knows some people who can get us residential visas without us having to return to the States. It's not a problem."
Quinn lets out a quiet breath. "Maybe we could go back?"
Santana shifts, tilts her face. Her eyes are still sleepy and dry, but she can tell that Quinn has closed herself off. She's looking into the distance and biting her bottom lip.
"We can't go back, Quinn."
Quinn closes her eyes. "I haven't been charged with anything yet."
Santana sighs. "But you will be. Eventually. When the Lima police get off their asses. He dies, and you disappear? They'll put the two together."
"What's the statute of limitations?"
"On murder? Quinn, I don't know. It's definitely not six months." Santana shifts, pulling herself away from Quinn. Her easy warmth is gone, replaced now by the irritation of having this conversation again with Quinn. "It may be never. We're in for the long haul, here, princess."
Quinn doesn't move, exactly; but just the same, Santana can see the way she deflates and folds into herself. It makes Santana's heart ache – she wants so badly to pull Quinn close and kiss the sadness from her. Santana bites her lip, and tugs Quinn's hand into her lap. "I'm sorry, Quinn. I really am."
Quinn nods, and doesn't say anything at first. Santana plays with the knuckles of her hand, rubbing them between her fingers. She waits for Quinn to be ready to talk – just as she's been waiting, all along, for Quinn to be ready.
"I was so close, you know?" Quinn says, her voice small. "It was only a year until I would have been ready for law school. It wouldn't have been very long before –" Quinn's throat closes, and she pauses for a moment. Santana squeezes her hand. "I would have been free of him eventually. If I had been more patient. If I had just – dealt with it, a little longer. I would have been free." Quinn closes her eyes. "Now I never will be."
Santana is motionless, waiting to see if there is more; she likes to let Quinn completely exhale before she starts giving her things to inhale.
"I get that you're sad, Q, I do. I know you miss your mom and your friends and your life in New Haven." Santana swallows. "But as far as prisons go – Quinn, this is the best kind of incarceration."
Quinn closes her eyes against Santana's words, letting them wash over her. Santana just looks at her, and waits.
"I hate hiding. I was going to be somebody, Santana. I really was. I would have done it right." She slides her head against the cup of the hammock, letting the sun warm her face. "I messed up so much of my life, before. I wanted to do something right."
Santana's heart throbs for Quinn. She moves, and presses a kiss to the corner of Quinn's forehead.
"It'll get better." She hesitates, but she knows she has to say it – "You have to forget that life, and those dreams, Quinn. This is the reality."
Quinn just shakes her head.
Santana looks upwards, studies the weathered boards of the porch overhang. "If you want to get into a university here, I'm sure – I'm sure we could get you a new identity. I'm sure we could find a way. You could still be a lawyer, Quinn, or.. anything. There's still time."
Quinn gives Santana the smallest of smiles. "Thanks for trying to cheer me up."
Santana nods, thoughtfully. "Do you know what we need?"
Quinn regards her. "What's that?"
"Tequila."
Santana likes it when Quinn drinks – even when it makes her mean. Santana thinks that Quinn, drunk on tequila, is a lot like tequila itself; acidic, burning, bitter. They both have the same effect on Santana: they make her loose, and warm, and wild with want. Santana loves the hot rush of liquor sliding past her lips and down her throat, scalding her insides. She also loves the way Quinn's eyes glitter, the angry cast of her face; the snarl on her lips. They both make Santana's stomach clench and tighten, and her whole body thrums, pulsating in an incessant, building rhythm.
Tonight, Quinn doesn't shy away from matching Santana shot-for-shot, and the challenge in Quinn's spackled eyes just makes the blood pound in Santana's ears. They sit on a piece of driftwood on the beach, surrounded by a score or more other young, reckless, hot people dancing and grinding and kissing. Music blares from speakers in the distance, and someone has a bonfire lit; it casts dancing shadows on the sand.
Quinn is the one who changes the tone of things between them. She grasps at Santana's hand, pulls it to her mouth – Santana's heart nearly stops in her chest when Quinn locks eyes with her, and then runs her tongue over the soft inside of her wrist. Santana remains still, her teeth digging into her bottom lip, while Quinn pours a handful of lime salt onto Santana's wrist. She has to swallow, because her mouth has gone dry, when Quinn licks the salt away from Santana's wrist and then pulls a swig of tequila from the bottle. Santana stares, hard, at Quinn's hand when she offers the salt shaker to Santana.
Santana takes it, and then scoots closer to Quinn, and uses her left hand to push Quinn's hair over her shoulder. She leans in, carefully, and then draws the length of her tongue over the divot in Quinn's collarbone; she feels a rush of excitement at Quinn's sharp intake of breath. Santana sprinkles the salt delicately over Quinn's skin, and then takes her time licking it away before she pulls back, and tugs the bottle out of Quinn's fist. Santana keeps her eyes glued to Quinn as she washes down the alcohol, and – somehow – she knows that tonight will end differently than the countless other nights she and Quinn have spent drinking on the beach.
She thinks that she might be done waiting for Quinn.
Quinn moves in, next, and takes Santana's jaw in her fingertips. Santana tries to control her breathing when Quinn's face draws near, but her heart starts jackhammering in her chest. Quinn's breath on her neck makes goosebumps break out on Santana's skin, and she curls her fingers into tight fists, trying to control the way her body wants to melt into Quinn. Quinn hovers her face a whisper from Santana, and just when she thinks the waiting will kill her, Quinn presses first with her lips to the skin of Santana's neck, directly below her jaw. Santana shudders when Quinn's tongue slicks out, hot and wet, and slides down the line of Santana's neck to end at her shoulder. Santana wants to buck and moan, but instead she trembles and holds her breath. Quinn pours the salt on Santana's skin, and Santana braces herself for the second time – but this time, she can't stop herself from moaning, because Quinn fuses her mouth to the place where Santana's neck meets her shoulder and she sucks, hard.
Santana is almost panting when Quinn pulls away, and she can see the fight in Quinn's eyes – the exaltation, the triumph. She grins openly at Santana as she sips tequila. Santana's entire body throbs, and she only grunts when she slides away from the driftwood to pull Quinn down onto the sand.
Quinn is smiling and breathless when Santana settles on top of her, her legs bracketing Quinn's hips. She doesn't hesitate to press her lips to the space beneath Quinn's ear, and she can't help the way her pelvis grinds downward into Quinn when Quinn sucks in a breath and presses her nails sharply into Santana's shoulder. Slowly, painstakingly, she drags her tongue down the curve of Quinn's neck, and then to the soft, pliant skin just above Quinn's breasts. She fumbles for the salt shaker, but Quinn stops her by grabbing a fistful of her hair and dragging Santana's face parallel with Quinn's. They pant, staring at each other for one fierce, brutal moment, before Quinn crashes their mouths together. Immediately, the kiss is full of fire and passion, all teeth and battling tongues. Santana gasps and grunts, and Quinn claws at her, trying to pull her as close as she possibly can.
Santana's body rocks into Quinn, and Quinn responds by arching upwards into her. Santana moans, the sound vibrating against Quinn's mouth. Quinn tastes like lime salt and tequila, and something else – something intrinsically her, and it's everything Santana ever dreamed it would be; it's altogether dark, and powerful, and full of life. Quinn scrapes her teeth along the flesh of Santana's bottom lip, and Santana whines, low in her throat, at the ache it creates between her legs.
Santana becomes aware that they're making out like animals in the sand, in full sight of every other beach occupant, when she hears hooting and whistling in the distance. She doesn't want to stop, because the sensation of being on top of Quinn is sort of the same dangerous, tingling feeling she has while riding a rollercoaster – but Quinn draws back, and blinks up at her, so Santana makes herself pull away.
She doesn't stop to ask; instead she merely rolls away from Quinn, into a standing position, and she doesn't bother to dust the sand off. She reaches for Quinn, who lifts herself up, and as soon as they're upright, Santana begins jogging towards their cabin, their linked fingers dragging Quinn behind her.
They barrel through the door and Quinn's laugh rings out, strained and airy, when Santana rounds on her, using their momentum to fling the door closed. Their bodies collide with it in a rapid staccato, Quinn's back connecting solidly against the door, and Santana's with Quinn. They're kissing, again, blindly, and Santana almost growls at the way Quinn pulls at her clothing, trying to rip it from her body.
Quinn has brought out a desperate hunger in Santana, and Santana realizes it's a hunger she's been living with for most of her life – she's always ached for Quinn, to have Quinn this way, all ravenous heat. Her lips feel swollen and bruised, and she knows that the places where Quinn's fingers find her skin will bear marks the next day. She doesn't care. She breaks away to suck the flesh of Quinn's neck into her mouth; she's rewarded with Quinn moaning and arching into her, gripping her almost painfully on the shoulders.
"Santana," Quinn whispers, she says it like a mantra, over and over again. Santana's body tightens urgently at the sound of her name on Quinn's lips – she breaks away from Quinn with a groan, and then she drops to her knees.
Quinn is panting, and she lets out a grateful breath when Santana drags her shorts and underwear down and then off. Quinn's hips move, and she grunts, slapping her hands against the door, when Santana yanks one of Quinn's legs over her shoulder. Santana doesn't wait, or hesitate, or tease; instead she pushes her tongue as deep inside Quinn as she can, fusing her mouth to the slick, wet center of her.
Quinn bites hard on her lip, moving her pelvis in time with Santana, and Santana's fingers dig into Quinn's thigh. Quinn tugs at Santana's hair, impatient, pulling her mouth upwards, and Santana gives in to Quinn's wishes by rolling Quinn's clit beneath her tongue. Immediately, she sinks two fingers into Quinn, pumping hard. Quinn's body bucks and writhes, thudding against the door. She rides Santana's fingers shamelessly, and Santana moans at the sensation of Quinn squeezing tightly around her. She sucks Quinn's clit into her mouth, and it only takes a moment before Quinn freezes, and then arches sharply, her spine forming a perfect bow. Santana can't help the way she moans with Quinn's clit in her mouth, and Quinn's body quakes, shuddering hard around Santana's fingers. It seems to last half a lifetime; a trembling, clenching heartbeat that leaves them both breathless and gasping.
Santana climbs to her feet, but she doesn't have a moment to steady herself before Quinn pulls her into a kiss, her tongue slipping out to lick first over her lips and then into her mouth. Santana's lungs strangle on air, because her body feels like a volcano on the brink of eruption; she doesn't think she's ever felt so desperate.
Quinn flips them, pushing Santana against the door, hard, and Santana cups the back of Quinn's neck to give herself something to hold onto. Quinn doesn't hesitate to slide a hand down Santana's abdomen, and then into Santana's underwear. Santana moans, her hips jerking forward, when Quinn's fingers slip against her. She knows she's wet – she can feel it, thick and hot, collecting between her thighs. She whines, wriggling her hips, because Quinn's strokes are gentle and tentative and Santana doesn't have the patience, she wants Quinn now, so she digs her teeth into Quinn's neck and tugs at her, viciously, until Quinn finally slides her fingers in.
Santana gasps, and her body trembles and quakes with the rhythm that Quinn starts up, a fast, brutal pace. The sounds between them are sharp, slick, and wet; Santana grunts and moans, her body twisting and pushing and pulling against Quinn in a desperate, erratic frenzy. Quinn breathes against her ear, and then slides her tongue out, tracing the edge of it – Santana bucks when Quinn draws her earlobe into her mouth and sucks.
"Fuck," Santana's voice is hoarse. She feels like her body is on fire, and the heat begins and ends with Quinn. "Fuck me, Quinn."
Quinn's teeth scrape along the curve of Santana's neck, and then her tongue soothes the spot. Santana writhes, and it only takes a few more sharp, brutal thrusts of the heel of Quinn's hand against her clit to send her over – everything inside of her clenches, strangling, until it ends in a wave of sound and movement. She clings to Quinn while her body shakes and quakes, her heart drumming in her ribcage. When it's over, she gasps for breath, trying to slow her rapid pulse. Quinn holds her, pressing soft, hot kisses to her neck and chin and cheeks.
They spend the next week wrapped up in white linen sheets, and each other. Santana comes to learn all the contours of Quinn's body, from the soft, secret creases between her fingers to the dimples in her back. Santana learns all the flavors of Quinn, from the early morning bitterness to wine-soaked aftertaste, and everything in between. She learns what each of her different sighs mean, and the way she whispers in her sleep.
After a week of learning and absorbing everything about Quinn that Santana has always wanted to know, she murmurs the words I love you into the cusp of Quinn's neck.
Quinn surprises her by kissing her, hard, and then repeating it back to her, word for word.
Santana smiles, and Quinn mirrors it; it looks like daybreak, the sun coming over the hills.
"Say it again," She whispers.
"I love you." Quinn runs the palm of her hand down Santana's cheek, brushing her thumb against Santana's dimple. "I love you, Santana."
The second time, it was not a mistake.
The second time, Santana comes back from a trip downtown with her aunt and cousins, her arms full of groceries. She doesn't notice anything is amiss – not at first. She moves to put the bags on the little counter in the kitchen, and she's humming as she does it.
Then a sound, some kind of rustle in the stillness, alerts her. She hears a soft whoosh, a sigh, a creaking floorboard. She spins, looking around the room, and sees no one; she tilts her head, listening. She hears it again – this time with a muffled thump. Her heart pounds painfully in her chest, and she dashes around the kitchen island. She takes less than a second to pick up the heavy, cast iron metal poker that leans against the doorjamb; she grabs it and sprints outside, around the corner of the porch, towards Quinn's hammock.
Santana takes it in in an instant; the black mop of hair, the torn white t-shirt, the glint of his gold wristwatch. She sees Quinn, pressed against the side of the house, with the man's hand over her mouth. Quinn's eyes are wide and terrified – Santana has no time to think, or react.
She barrels forward and draws the iron poker over her shoulder, bringing down with as much strength as she can manage. It connects with a sick, wet thump with the man's skull, spraying blood and bone and brain in a wide arc. Quinn screams, then clutches at her own mouth to silence herself. Santana doesn't stop, though the man fell down instantly in a weightless heap; she yanks the poker back, and then brings it down again, and again, until his face is a mushy, pulverized mess.
"It's enough," Quinn chokes, her voice thick with tears. "Enough. Santana."
She hears her name, dimly, and it makes her pause; she realizes that she's covered in blood, and the muscles in her arms burn. She's heaving out breaths, thick, painful ones, and she wants to scream because she's so angry and terrified all at once. The metal weight falls away from her, crashing to the ground, and she turns to Quinn, her eyes wide and worried.
"I'm fine," Quinn says, but her voice trembles. "Santana, the blood—"
"I don't care." Santana pulls Quinn close to her, holding on as tightly as she can; her arms are weak and wobbly, and her hands are numb, but she squeezes Quinn with all of her strength.
No, the second time was not a mistake.
Santana would do it again, a hundred times. A thousand.