The next morning, Santana woke up in the holding cell of the Lima jail. A splitting headache, even worse than the one she'd gotten the day before thundered through her skull, and she'd barely woken up before she was puking her guts out on the floor next to her. She felt dead. She smelled dead. What the hell had happened the night before?
"Glad to see you up," a too loud voice called from behind the bars, "We were afraid you were going to get alcohol poisoning, but nope, it seems only the mother of all hangovers is what you're going to have to deal with. You're incredibly lucky."
Looking up through the blurriest eyes she'd ever had, Santana tried to focus on the faceless cop, only managing a glance before her stomach cramped and she was throwing up again.
"You're going to have to clean that up yourself," the cop threatened way too cheerily. "Unless, of course, your 'one call' arrives to bail you out before the janitor comes in here."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Santana rasped, too weak to move herself very far away from the sour smell of her expulsion, "And what the fuck am I doing here?"
The cop shifted. "Ahh, one of those hangovers." Resting his elbow on one of the horizontal bars, he sobered. "I don't know what happened before, but you decided to sneak into a bar and drink yourself to the point where two cops had to pull you out." He tapped the bar. "You have a mean right hook."
"I assaulted the – ?" Santana started, having to stop and quiet herself before she made herself throw up again, "I punched a cop?"
"No, Miss Lopez. You're here for disorderly conduct and public drunkenness, not to mention underage drinking." The cop stared at her intently, then tilted his head. "The guy you punched declined to press charges, due to the fact you'd apparently only punched him after he got a little too pushy in trying to pick you up. Either that or the crazy sobbing you were doing disturbed him too much."
Oh god. Santana didn't want to remember that. "Do you know who I called?" she changed the subject. Please be Brittany. She'd be the least judgmental. Fuck. Her head and stomach hurt. "And why haven't I been picked up already?" she added, lolling her head forward, trying to take deep, non-nauseous breaths.
"I don't know who, but I remember hearing they thought you'd deserve to spend the night locked up."
Quinn? Dammit, Quinn! Why had Santana called her?
The cop insisted on blathering on some more, but Santana blocked him out as much as she could. She was thirsty, so thirsty, and hair of the dog that done bit her wouldn't probably be a bad thing…
Sometime later, the sound of the door to her cell rolling open jerked her from the light doze she'd retreated into. Expecting to meet Quinn's hazel eyes, Santana's heart almost stopped beating when she realized they didn't belong to Quinn at all. "Rachel…"
"Santana." Almost swallowed in a large coat, face red and splotchy and looking sad and disappointed and angry, Rachel opened her mouth, paused, shook her head, and turned and walked down the hall. Staring at the now empty spot, Santana struggled up. Muscles cramping and swaying, she had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself, but finally managed to start clumsily following her.
"You're lucky the janitor didn't come first," the cop from before smiled at her, and she just grunted a distracted, low, "Fuck you." Tears were already gathering in her eyes, and she knew she couldn't lose sight of Rachel. She had to catch up to her. She had to.
Going through the discharge procedure, barely paying attention and just trying to hurry it along, stuffing everything into her jacket pockets, Santana scrawled a fast, wild signature and stumbled outside into blinding sunlight. Forcing herself to keep her eyes open, she frantically scanned the front steps, looking for a sight, any sight of Rachel.
She had more luck with Rachel's car. Hurrying down the steps, willing her body to listen to her and not cripple her, she reached the Prius right as a heavily crying Rachel put the key into the ignition. No. Slapping her palms down onto the driver's side window, she did it again to make Rachel look at her. "Please," she choked out, leaning heavily on the door, "Rachel, roll down the window. Don't drive away. Please."
Rachel shook her head, swallowing and sobbing. Her hand shaking as she held onto the key, not turning it or taking it out, she was tearing out Santana's heart with every second that passed.
"Don't drive while crying, c'mon. Please. Rachel." Not caring that she was begging in public, Santana slapped the window again. She was hurt, she was angry, she was terrified, but all that mattered was that she knew she couldn't let Rachel drive away. "Roll down the window."
'No,' Rachel mouthed, Santana unable to hear her through the glass, 'No, Santana.'
"Why no?" Santana raised her voice, closing her eyes and dropping her forehead to the window. Grinding it into the glass, she curled her hands into fists. "Rachel, please," she gasped out.
"Ma'am, step away from the car."
Oh my fucking god. This was not happening. Staring into Rachel's eyes as long as she could, Santana pushed herself away from the car. "It's okay," she kept her hands up, palms out, turning towards the two cops who had just gotten out of the cruiser that'd pulled up next to Rachel's car, "I'll just go." But she couldn't make herself leave just yet.
Giving her a suspicious look, one of the cops walked around Santana. The sound of the window sliding down was loud; shutting her eyes, Santana took another step away from Rachel and her car, dropping her hands to wrap her arms around herself.
"Ma'am," the cop asked directly, "Is this woman bothering you?"
Tears started dripping down Santana's cheeks, and she blinked her eyes open to meet the other cop's gaze. Nonjudgmental, the woman was still stone-faced as she waited for her partner to proceed with the inquiry.
Rachel's voice was soft, incredibly exhausted. "No, she's not."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, all right then. Have a nice day, ma'am."
The responding, "Thank you," broke Santana's heart.
Walking back around Santana, joining his partner, the cop stared at her. Meeting his gaze, she could tell what he was thinking. She cursed herself and the police station, feeling helplessness well up in her body; there was no way she could continue trying to talk to Rachel without the two cops watching her closely.
Preventing herself from looking back, it took all of Santana's concentration to put one foot in front of the other. Without the urgency of racing after Rachel beating hot in her chest, her hangover was back with a vengeance, and it was combining with her shattered emotions.
It was becoming steadily clearer she had royally fucked everything up. How had this happened? What had happened? Crushing her hand over her eyes, almost slipping down with the leaking wetness, she froze when the sound of Rachel's car turning on hit her ears. Feeling absolutely numb, she watched Rachel drive past and disappear down the road. Fishing her phone out of her pocket with shaking hands, she barely managed to hit the third speed dial before sobbing out, "Quinn? Can you pick me up?"
Staring at the wall, Santana barely reacted when Quinn and Brittany sat down on either side of her. "I have one week," she remarked tonelessly.
"To make up with Rachel?" Brittany asked hopefully, her hands clasping and unclasping each other in her lap.
Santana's chin trembled, and she shook her head.
"Oh, S…" Quinn sighed, then slid her arm around Santana's waist.
Santana shrugged jerkily. "I don't know what I did…" she barely got out.
"One week for what?" Brittany tried again, "One week for you both to calm down?"
"B," Quinn gently tried to lead her away from that train of thought, but Brittany continued on, "A week to not see each other, like before someone gets married?"
Santana burst into tears. "What the hell happened?" she asked, "Why is she so mad at me? Why doesn't she want me anymore?"
"Well, you do drink a lot…" Brittany started, but Quinn reached over and put her hand to her mouth. "B, not helping right now," she said through her teeth, smiling at Santana.
What the fuck was up with people telling Santana she drank too much? Yeah, she didn't remember deciding to get shit-faced the night before, and she probably shouldn't have done that, but the past couple of days weren't normal for her.
Pulling her pillow closer to her chest, Santana buried her face into it. She just wanted Rachel.
"Hey, S?" Brittany spoke up, pulling Quinn's hand from her mouth, "You'll see her tomorrow."
"I don't want to start moving my stuff tomorrow," Santana yelled into the pillow, "I still have time! I can figure out something – I know I can!"
Insistent hands grabbed and pulled her pillow; scrabbling to keep it, Santana suddenly found herself pinned under her best friend. That meant Quinn had her pillow, but she couldn't fight for it because Brittany was on her back. "Get off afores I cuts you," she growled, struggling.
Brittany easily pinned her. "S, stop it. I'm not telling you to move out…"
"She's telling you that we have school tomorrow," Quinn finished, "It's Sunday, remember?"
Santana stopped moving. That was right. School. School. She could figure out some way to get Rachel again. To make Rachel realize how ridiculous she was being and bend over backwards to have Santana move back in. Because she was Santana Lopez, and she had pride, and she still didn't think she did anything wrong. All she had to do was convince Rachel of that.
Monday morning, Santana woke up looking and feeling like shit. She'd had trouble sleeping, tossing back and forth on the floor of Quinn's room after Quinn had kicked her out of bed for tossing back and forth. Her mouth was dry, and she had a headache that wouldn't go away. Figuring it was leftover pressure from the tears she'd been unable to stop crying, she just grumbled and slunk into the kitchen, accepting the glass of orange juice and two aspirins Quinn handed her. Then, dragging herself into the shower, Quinn finally had to bang on the bathroom door to see if she was still alive and to tell her to get her ass out twenty minutes later. A quick breakfast of an apple and coffee, her headache easing only slightly, and settling her sunglasses over her eyes, she and Quinn were on their way to WMHS.
"I'm going to ignore her," Santana announced, two blocks away from the high school.
"And why are you going to do that?" Quinn asked, keeping her eyes on the road.
Propping her elbow against the car door, Santana set her chin into her palm and stared listlessly out of the windshield as well. Quinn's disapproval of her plan was plain to hear. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
Chewing on the inside of her bottom lip, Quinn glanced over at her, then let out a breath, "That's not something I can answer." She signaled to pull into the turn lane that would take her to the senior parking lot. "But it's something you should think about seriously."
"I've been thinking, Q!" Santana threw out, jerking her head up in accent with her words and turning a glare onto the blonde, "Why the hell do you think I was awake all damn night?"
"Fine," Quinn raised her hand, then put it back on the steering wheel so she could pull into the parking lot. She glanced at Santana again. "You going to be okay with it?"
What did Quinn think? No, Santana was going to have fun ignoring the girl she'd planned to spend the rest of her life with. She resettled her sunglasses on her nose. "Whatever."
Quinn's sigh didn't fade from her ears until they'd stepped out of the car.
Santana first spotted Rachel at her locker. Feeling like she'd been socked in the solar plexus, she stared at her through the sea of students. She was facing away from Santana's direction, small and thin, the slump of her shoulders radiating a muted exhaustion. Rachel…
The small girl pushed open the door of her locker, Santana's attention immediately drawn to the large photo of herself and Rachel Mr. Schuester had taken at the last Sectionals that was taped to the inside, right underneath an I Heart Santana sign. When hesitant fingers stroked down the picture, then curled around one corner of the sign, Santana turned and sprinted down the hall. No. She couldn't watch Rachel tear down their… Them. She couldn't watch Rachel tear down them.
…Where was Puck? Or Aiden? Either one was guaranteed to have something she could use right that minute, fuck, even if it was something Rachel or the others wouldn't approve of. Well too fucking bad. The tears pricking at her eyes and the hollow cavern in her chest needed to be dealt with. And, aside from Rachel herself, there were only two things she could think of.
She found Puck first. Catching him coming out of the boys' room, she pushed him back inside with her palms on his chest.
"Whoah! Fuck! Let a guy zip up his fly first, why don't you?" he frowned at her, her barely catching it as she looked around to see if they were alone, wrinkling her nose and grunting at just how gross it was, "Unless, of course, that's why you're here…? Wantin' to get at what's inside?"
It was only luck they were alone. Santana grimaced and stepped back, crossing her arms. "No, not right now. And god, eww. You do that inside, Puckerman."
"Then why the hell with the violence?" Puck tugged his shirt back into order, crossing his own arms at her and leaning one hip on the nearest sink, "And shut up. You're a girl. You know nothin' of how dudes operate."
Whatever. "Okay, I'mma gonna cut to the chase. Puck. You haves what I need."
His eyebrows rose. "I thought you said you didn't want the Puckster."
"I don't." Glaring at him, Santana lowered her voice. "I. Needs. What you gots."
"Oh! Oh fuck." His eyes widening, Puck sat back on his hip to stare at her. "You serious?" he asked, "Because ever since you and the Jewish American Princess hooked up, you've been lame." He looked unimpressed.
"Then un-lame me," Santana gritted out. "You got it or not?" God, she didn't need talking.
Puck's eyebrows rose. "Well…" he drew out the word, "Depends."
"God fucking dammit," Santana took a menacing step forward, "Puck, I do not have time."
"God, chill, crazy chick." Puck flipped his gay-ass mohawk bangs and raised a judging eyebrow at her. "You hard up or something?"
Her headache really couldn't deal with this. And the more time that passed meant the more Rachel could be tearing them down. "Look." Running a trembling hand through her hair, Santana dropped part of her shield. "Puck. No bullshit. If you don't have it, I'll fucking go to Ryerson myself." Fuck, maybe Aiden was the better shot. After all, he still owed her a six-pack for that time she'd saved his ass by distracting Coach Beiste long enough for him to escape.
"You really screwed up, huh?" A heavy hand settled on her arm, and a small paper envelope was pushed into her hand. "Even more than Friday?"
Blinking, Santana looked up at Puck, and she shrugged jerkily, sliding what she had came for into her pocket. Ignoring the slight feeling of shame by concentrating on what she'd be feeling quite soon, Santana didn't even bother thanking him before turning to head for the door, "None of your business. I'll pay you back."
Puck raised his voice. "You better! And, hell, pick up some chips and dip when the munchies hit?"
"Yeah. Whatever." Yanking the door open, Santana held her head high and stepped out of the boys' bathroom as if it wasn't an incredibly skanky thing to do. She glanced at the hall clock. Good. Ten minutes until class started. Stopping at her locker to pick up her extra rolling papers and perfume and breath mints left over from the year before when she'd gotten kinda pot-crazy to deal with her parents' pretty much knee-jerk disowning of her before Rachel had not-so-subtly encouraged her to stop, Santana sighed and closed her eyes before shutting the door.
A flash of anger hit her, and the door slammed shut louder than she had meant it to, but she just growled and stomped off down the hall. Fuck that. Another illustration how Rachel insisted on changing her. Maybe it was a good thing, this breaking up –
The straps of Santana's backpack cut into her palms. Forcing her feet to speed up, she ignored the greetings of Tina and Mike and Mercedes and Sam as she stalked past them, bitterly happy she could get away with wearing sunglasses in school. Pushing her way outside, she scouted the field before making her way around the track and behind the bleachers. Alone. Great. She didn't have to share. Bending down to pick up one of the millions of discarded lighters, she made her way to the furthest corner, and, before she could talk herself out of it and ignoring the voice that sounded uncomfortably like a disappointed Rachel, she was soon doing something she had once promised Rachel she'd stop doing. Another broken promise, but it wasn't like that mattered anymore.
But as the smoke warmed up her lungs and the familiar feeling of loosening stress starting to flow out of her coiled in her body, she was almost violently dismayed to realize that even if this was better, it wasn't enough.
God, Rachel'd taken this away, too?
Dropping the joint, Santana buried her head into her hands, shoving her sunglasses up to get tangled in her bangs, and started sobbing. Sinking to her knees, all she could think about was that split second of watching Rachel starting to tear down that single, stupid, useless piece of paper in her locker.