11pm-12am

The songs all began the same. A pulsing backbeat, an upbeat melody, a throng of bodies thrashing to the music. The melody usually built slowly, with just a few notes or lyrics looping, then building, looping, building. Mouths uneasily turned upright as dancers found a recognizable phrase or collection of notes. The climax of each song ratcheted up to 140 beats per minute. Sirens crushed the melody. Sharp notes set a dour mood, contrasting with the continued movement of bodies keeping to the rhythm. Sweat beaded against closed eyelids, streaming down faces like tears. People were lost in the crowd, lost in themselves, lost in the effortless rhythm of the beat.

She was just one body amongst hundreds. Santana figured that the masses probably recognized her golden tresses before they saw her face or her eyes. She, instead, first recognized that sliver of glistening skin left bare between the hem of her shirt and the waist of her skirt. It was pale, untouched by the sun. It was toned, the result of daily workouts, dancing until dawn, or both. The strobe of lights burned against it, reflecting into Santana's eyes. It would be soft, with just a bit of give. It would be warm against her skin. Santana imagined that it felt like Elysium against her fingertips. Against her lips, like Canaan. Against her own body, Zion.

Her name would be something that fell from her lips like a last wish. She'd whisper it again and again into the thick night air like a mantra, growing louder and louder until it carried her into the heavens.

"What you looking at?"

Startled, Santana shook her head and looked back at Quinn, studying her. Quinn's pupils were dilated. "What are you on?"

"Guy near the bathroom has E. If I'm gonna die at dawn, I'm gonna die in the best way possible." Quinn's eyes closed as she inhaled the musk of the crowd. Her fingers toyed with the back of her arm, running to her bicep and back.

Santana looked back to the dance floor below.

A moment of panic flashed across her face as she searched the room for the sliver of skin, the golden tresses, the rapture painted across the mysterious dancer's face. Quinn swayed to the music as Santana felt herself melt down internally, eyes frantically scanning the warehouse. Her fingers absentmindedly gripped firmly to the metal restraining bars of the balcony, knuckles whitening by the second. Hysteria wracked her brain. An angel had come and gone before her eyes. She felt the air suck out of her lungs. Surely this moment was the apocalypse.

"Let's gonna get another drink." Quinn's eyes slowly moved over the crowd below. "Down there. And then, we'll dance."

"Ok." The word mangled in her throat and tore out her breath. She didn't want another drink. She wanted salvation.

She could feel Quinn grabbing for her fingers as she led them through the crowd. Quinn probably thought that she was looking over her shoulder to make sure she was behind her. Instead, she kept glancing for that flash of skin.

"Two vodka tonics," she heard Quinn say to the bartender. Her back was to the bar, her eyes to the crowd, scanning.

When Quinn turned back with her drink, Santana was gone - one body among many.

Minutes later, she handed Santana a thoroughly watered-down drink and leaned up against the wall next to her. "Couldn't find you for a minute there. Get started on that and we're gonna dance." Quinn scanned the crowd, too.

Long legs that had materialized from beyond the crowd caught Santana's eye. That glint of skin made her palms sweat and nearly drop her glass. Celestial blue eyes took her breath. She'd missed those from on high. A moment passed and she lost them as the girl closed her eyes and throbbed to the music.

"Santana!" Quinn stepped in front of her and blocked her view completely. "What's wrong with you?"

"Huh?" She pushed Quinn to the side and her eyes caught the girl once again.

"Santana!" She felt her face twist involuntarily. Quinn had grabbed her jaw and pulled Santana's face toward her.

"Ow!" She pushed Quinn's hand away from her face and turned back. "You see her?" She pointed toward the girl.

"Who?"

"Her. You see her?"

"Yeah."

"Ok." She could feel Quinn's eyes on her still.

"Well, what about her?"

"I don't know."

"You looking for an apocalyptic hook-up? A hook-up that rocks your world, literally? You wouldn't do that, would you? That's more fitting for me, if you ask me. You got your shit together too much."

Santana turned. "I didn't ask you, so shut up." Santana met Quinn's eyes and raised an eyebrow in jest.

Quinn grabbed her hand and pulled. "Let's dance."

Santana's eyes were back on the girl in an instant. For the last three songs, no one had approached her. She'd rocked her hips with precision to a thunderous beat. She'd twirled her hair, crowning her head like a halo. Santana looked around to see if other people were studying her, too. No one paid her any mind. No followers but one. Santana assured herself she would meet an early death with this fallen angel's cult.

"Santana. Let's dance." She felt Quinn's hand grab at her shirt now, pulling her. "C'mon. If you're out there, she might actually dance with you."

"Not yet."

"What're you afraid of? She's gonna reject you?" Quinn's fingers played at the hem of Santana's shirt until Santana pried them away.

She had been too wrapped up in watching the girl to think about the possibility of approach, much less rejection. She'd been rejected. It had tempered her every interaction with girls since. There was that girl in her senior year of college. The first girl she'd been interested in since the giant meltdown of sophomore year. (Since the day her first girlfriend had left her numb and wondering who she was.) There was that girl she'd met at her orientation for Columbia, too. She'd thought about calling home to talk about that one, but there would be no one on the other line. She'd called Quinn at work instead.

"Give it a break Quinn. You want to find some guy, go do it on your own." Santana's eyes cut at her.

"You know I do it on my own all the time, I don't need you. If this is how tonight's going to be – with all this bitching – I don't want you around. I'm not trying to hang out with brooding high-school-Santana here."

For a few seconds, all she saw was Quinn's back as she walked away and onto the dance floor.

Not a minute later, Quinn was facing her again, this time more distantly; her eyes on a blonde man a head taller than her. Santana measured him for a moment. A quarrel with Quinn wouldn't stop her from playing guard with one eye open, even if it was a two-eyes forward kind of night. His hands were above Quinn's waist and his eyes on her face. All was okay with the world for a few more hours. She reminded herself to check back at the pair after a few more drinks.

She turned back. Blue eyes were three steps closer. Santana felt three steps closer to salvation.