It's been a long time. I don't know why I'm posting this, why I'm even doing it. I checked my account for the first time in a long time and found my once-loved story, abandoned. So I'm trying to get it back. You're probably not going to get the companion. It's been a long time and things change and people change. But this story is my baby, and I think about it a lot. Trigger warnings are listed in the final AN for spoiler reasons, but don't worry - it's fairly safe, I promise. Happy reading.
They're a fucked up pair, really.
She hasn't slept in days. She lays next to Kurt in his soft bed and listens to him breathe as he fakes sleep too. Neither of them want to talk about it. Not now. Not ever.
The days following their mishap were tense. Santana could barely make it to the toilet when she finds their Sangria bottle. Kurt holds her hair back and then starts vomiting as well, and they both end up curled in the bathroom floor crying and vomiting for hours, until Rachel gets home and finds them.
She still doesn't know. She's been staying with Brody and spending every moment of the day with him. It doesn't bother Kurt. He'd rather live in this bubble of ignorance with Santana, thinking about all they've done and the mistakes they've made and how in love with their exes they are.
"I love you," she whispers softly, closing her eyes and resting her palm on Kurt's silk-clad chest.
"I love you, too," he murmurs, taking her hand in his.
"I think I'm sick," Santana says over breakfast around a month after the incident. "I feel so nauseous constantly and I can't sleep."
"Neither of us sleep at all," Kurt says dryly, handing her a slice of buttered toast. "And you haven't been eating anything to throw up so that's why you're nauseous. Your stomach is trying to eat itself."
Santana takes a bite of toast and grimaces. "This toast tastes like shit. Why is it gravely?"
Kurt scowls at her. "It's seven seed bread. It's healthy."
"What the fuck is wrong with Wonder bread?"
"It's unhealthy, chemically pumped, and produced by a homophobic mother company," Kurt snaps. "Eat the damn bread or starve, just shut the fuck up already."
Santana flinches at his words, then takes a slow bite. "Yes, ma'am…"
Kurt spins around to glare at her. "Not this shit again. You're in my house. You will respect me!"
Santana spits the bread out at his feet as she stands up. "I hate you."
"You are me," he hisses, narrowing his eyes.
Santana looks him dead in the eyes for a long moment before she keels over and vomits at his feet.
"My last few periods have been really weird," Santana says, looking up at Kurt as he rests a cool cloth on her forehead. "Can a broken heart and jet-lag do that?"
"I don't know a lot about menstruation, Tana. Hormones can do weird shit to you but vomiting on my shoes and me apologizing to you is a new one for me so I think you're period is not the weirdest thing here," he says, stroking her washed out cheeks. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."
Santana gives a tiny smile and shrugs. "I guess so," she murmurs. "I'm sorry I called you ma'am. Then spit at you. Then threw up on you."
Kurt gives a dry laugh. "Do you need more ginger ale?" Santana shakes her head no and closes her eyes. "What about toast?"
"Oh god!" Santana moans, jumping up from the couch and barely making it to the toilet before vomiting again.
Kurt comes in after her, holding her hair and rubbing her back softly. After several long moments, she pulls her head up to glance back at him. "Is my toast really that bad?" he asks, trying to make humor out of the situation.
She keels over and vomits once again.
"I think I have the flu," she whispers as they lay in bed a few nights later. "I feel like I'm dying. Emotionally and physically."
"I think you're depressed," Kurt replies sleepily, eyes closed and hand loose in hers.
Santana watches his face, soft with innocence as he lays there barely aware. "I could just finish myself off if I am dying. What's the chances of my dying if I dive off the Brooklyn Bridge?"
Kurt makes a slightly distressed face, exhaustion weakening it again. "Pretty high. Don't do that. I would miss you."
"You're the only one that would," she whispers softly.
"Go to sleep, Tana. You haven't slept in nearly two months," he murmurs.
"Three," she corrects softly. "Since I left Britt…"
Kurt opens one eye lazily. "Sleep, if you feel bad tomorrow we can go to a doctor."
Santana studies his face, then shrugs. "Okay. I'll try. Goodnight."
"I love you," he murmurs sleepily, closing his eyes once again.
"I love you, too," she whispers into the darkness.
"What are you doing up at this time of night?" Kurt asks, wondering into the loft kitchen at three, rubbing his eyes.
"I think I'm pregnant."
Kurt looks at her, eyes wide and jaw hanging open.
Santana nods, looking down into her mug of coffee. "It hadn't even crossed my mind. I stopped taking the pill when I came out and after we had sex I was more concerned with my broken heart than my womb."
"B-but you've had your period, right?" Kurt asks, shaking as he sits down in the chair across from her. "Haven't you?"
"My tia had heavy spotting every month while she was pregnant. It happens. And my periods have been lighter," she says, voice low. "I'm scared."
Kurt stares at her with a solemn expression. "Is there a way it could be something else?"
Santana shrugs, taking a sip of her black coffee. "I've been up since about one. I woke up in horror when I dreamed about being pregnant, then I got up and started pacing… Then I decided to go online and look up my symptoms on WebMD. I'm either pregnant or I have a malaria or something…"
"Let's go get a test," Kurt says after a long moment of silence. "It's New York City, there's bound to be a supermarket open somewhere. We can get the test and come back here and…"
"And what?"
"And see if the stick turns pink?"
Santana feels a solitary tear slip down her cheek. "What if I am pregnant?"
Kurt reaches over and grabs her hand tightly. "Let's go."
The stick has a little pink plus on it.
Santana cries for three days straight. Kurt keeps staring at the test over and over again, willing the plus sign to go away. At night, he paces. She wails. She cries for Brittany and for her abuela and for the baby that's growing inside of her, that she's forcing into her fucked up world.
Kurt holds her as she cries, his face rigid and his heart burning. He has a baby. A person made of a bit of him. A person made from something so painful.
"I don't want an abortion," Santana says over breakfast a week later, voice flat and weak. "This is my second chance."
"Second chance?" Kurt asks softly, meeting her eyes. "Have you…?"
"When I was fifteen," she says softly. "It was the right choice then. Now I'm an adult. I may never have another chance."
Kurt dwells on the thought for several moments, then reaches over and takes her hand. "Me too."
Santana feels tears spring to her eyes, the first happy tears she's cried in a long while. "Really?"
"Really." Kurt smiles softly, his mind reeling with this new information but a part of his heart tying a red string to the baby in Santana's belly. "We fucked up together. We can fuck up a kid together."
They're a fucked up pair, really.
A/N: Trigger warnings: Mentions of suicide and abortion.
I wrote this in about an hour tonight on an impulse. It's not perfect. It's not even good. I threw away my original drafts of this a long time ago and I started this from a whim and a maternal instinct to protect this story. As I said - the companion is highly unlikely. I may not even write it as was intended. That depends on how I feel. But if you're reading this, thanks for not giving up on me.
Lilly