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Price of Omission

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To say that this had all started off innocently enough would be a lie.

Santana had been having one of her "bad days."  That wasn't too rare of an occurrence by itself, or really even too big of a deal.  They would happen every few weeks – days when Santana would essentially lock herself in the apartment and drink herself into a stupor.  They were the only days when Dani was not to come around, as had been discovered when she had come by out of worry for her girlfriend, and Santana had reacted by... well...

Suffice to say, it didn't happen again.  Dani would just say "ah" now when she'd call the apartment and Rachel or Kurt would have to explain that it was one of those days.  It was always a short but fierce argument between the two of them as to who would have be the one to tell Dani, but it usually evened out (Kurt being one of the few people who was rather evenly matched to debate with Rachel).

As it was, Dani still had no idea why her girlfriend had to have those days without her, but she accepted it.  Santana would always try her best to make up for it in the following days, apologizing profusely even though it never stopped her from suddenly cutting off all contact on another day.  Rachel and Kurt knew of course, but they had been sworn not to tell a single soul.  The only thing they were to do is make sure Santana didn't seriously hurt herself or anyone else, and to keep her away from any form of long-distance communication no matter what; as long as they followed those rules, everything would turn out well – well enough, at least.

The problems arose after Kurt started having his own bad days.

Rachel was careful not to let anything slip about what had prompted Kurt's new intermittent behavior of complete avoidance.  She was too afraid that Dani would put the pieces together and realize why Santana and he were acting the same.  It hurt Rachel to do so, especially since she was friends with Dani and thought that she was lovely and great for Santana and many other things, but she determined it to be necessary.

However, it was now solely up to Rachel to serve as caretaker for both of them.  Whereas she and Kurt had used to tag-team Santana before, Kurt now found it too painful to be around her during those times, and Santana couldn't bear the reminder when she saw Kurt acting the same way.

So Rachel was left on her own to take care of both of her best friends at their lowest moments.

It stood to reason that she eventually started having her own bad days.

Eventually, all of those days would coincide.


Bottles were littering the floor and furniture.  The customary blare of music pervaded the apartment.  Santana and Kurt, alternating between phases of crying and yelling, sat together on the couch, bodies too laden with alcohol to provide any poise for movement.

It was the same sight Rachel had come home to an hour ago, bags of groceries in hand.  The only difference was the addition of Rachel limply hanging over the edge of a chair with glossy eyes.

It had been inevitable.  She couldn't handle being the sole caretaker for her two best friends for so long without eventually needing to take comfort in the same vices as them.  Normally, she would try to keep that at a separate time, but seeing the state of the apartment as she had walked in had eliminated any fortitude she had at the moment.

They were all talking – as much as they could with their current clarity of mind at least.  It was more like ranting really, all punctuated with tangential declarations of love for the ones no longer with them.

That was the reason both Kurt and Santana were there, after all.  They never used names, but there was never the need.  They all knew who the girl Santana cried over was, just like how they all knew whose bowties it was that Kurt would lovingly describe.  They were their persons, and they would never let go of them.  Rachel had her own, but talks of him were too depressing for all of them.

They were currently in the "support" phase of the event, where they would convince themselves that they were going to be "okay" and that everything would one day be "okay", for as much good as it did them.  This time was turning out slightly different, what with the current level of inebriation between all of them.

"I mean, I-I'm fucking hot!" Santana cried out, to which Kurt and Rachel nodded (Kurt fervently, Rachel a bit more dazed).  "Anyone would be lu-lu-lucky to get up in this!  I've got girls fucking lined up, you knows what I'm saying!?  But I wouldn't—I don't—I mean, Dani's so fucking—but I could, you know!"

"You totally could!" Kurt agreed, still too fervent for any sober person to wholly believe.  Rachel gave a sound, obviously meant to be affirmative even if it didn't sound like much of anything.  Her status as a lightweight was proving itself tonight.

"I mean, I had everyone willing to give me a shot!  Fuckin' anyone!  Bi, gay, even straight!  I got straight girls sexing me, that's how—how mmm I am!"

"Mmm," Rachel agreed.

"I mean, even god damn Mary Margaret wanted—I mean, come on, if that ain't proff of shit, I don't know—"

"Wasn't Mary Margaret a hooser?" Kurt asked, a look of deep confusion on his face.

"Mary Magdalene.  Get it right, Hairspray—"

"But then who's Mary Marga—"

"I don't fuckin' know, why are you asking me!?"

"But you said—"

"I know I said it, but I meant fucking Quinn!  I mean, fucking Quinn.  I fucked Quinn, I mean—"

"Santana, honey, you've got to stop calling yourself mean.  You're not that mean, come on—"

"Quinn's nice!" Rachel shouted at full volume.  She threw herself upwards off the side of the chair, resulting in her now being doubled-over in the seat and staring happily at a Santana that looked suspiciously like a lamp.  "Except when she's mean.  Then she's not nice."

"Yeah, she was nice in my pants," said a lamp sitting next to Kurt on the couch.  "When we were having sex.  Fuckin' Grade-A les, let me tell ya."

"I thought she was straight," Kurt noted, his expression of confusion increasing by the second.  "Wasn't that why you brought her up?"

"What?  No!" Santana said, bopping Kurt on the head ("My hair!") after having switched places with the lamp.  "Why the fuck would you think that!?"

"Quinn's nice!" Rachel shouted again.

"Weeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllllllllllll," Kurt said, drawling the word out over the course of a good ten seconds (or hours; Rachel wasn't sure).  "She did have sex with Fuck—I mean Puck.  Puck.  She fucked Puck—"

"I fucked Fuck, you fucking fuck!  What the fuck is that supposed to mean!?  Am I not gay if I was Puck-fucked!?"

Kurt seemed to think this over for a minute as Sanlampa glared at him.

"Noooooooo...?"

"Quinn's nice!"

"I mean, no.  Nope," Kurt reaffirmed at the random Latino girl's soul-crushing, hell-freezing, Quinn-sexing glare.

"Damn straight!"

Rachel screamed, an ear-shattering sound.

Santana and Kurt glanced over at her.

"Quinn is very nice, and you shouldn't talk about her not being nice," Rachel said to the wall as those two other people were looking at her or something.  "That's not nice, Humpez."

"She's not that nice—" Kurt began, but was cut off by a loud... noise from within Santana's throat.

"Humpez?  Fucking Humpez!?" Santana demanded, trying and failing to lunge off the couch and strangle Rachel (which would not be good for Rachel, Rachel noted).

"But why did you puck Quinn?" Kurt asked, feebly shaking his leg, Santana's limp form draped over his knee.

"'Cause she was, like, pucking hot and—"

"And why would Quinn puck you?" Kurt asked, now looking confused enough that someone might think he was trying to unravel the secrets of the universe.

"Quinn's nice!" Rachel reminded the wall.

Also, the lamp was now crying again, so there was that.


"So I pucked the pucking fuck out of Puck—I mean, Mary Magdalaga—Quinn," Santana slurred out from the floor, several years later.  Or it might've been seconds—hours, whatever.

Rachel mumbled something incoherent from the lumpy object she was laying on.

"And Fuck pucked you because..." the lumpy object said, trailing off as it forgot what it was and became a real boy again.

"It was Quck I pucked!" Suck shouted at Pinocchio.  "Listen, don't you want to qucking know why we had sex or not!?"

"Yes?" Pinuck said, just as Tuck Yorke was chanting "no" in the background.  She wasn't sure what Radiohuck song it was, since he seemed to do that in a lot of them.  Or it might've been just the one.  Or two.  There were songs and he said "no" in the songs, shut up.

Quinn liked Radiohead—Radiohuck.  Rachel wondered if that was where Santana had picked it up.

"Wait, no," Kurt amended, shaking his head so fast that it looked like it was going to fly away and explode and turn into a star that she would name after herself and then she could point out to all her friends like headless-Kurt that that star up there was named after Quck—

"I want to know why Quinn fucked you?" he said, seeming to test out the words before nodding.  "I want to know why Quinn luckersucktucked you."

"It's the same thing," Santana said, waving a hand around aimlessly.

"What?"

"It's the same thing."

"What?"

"It's the same thing."

"What?"

"It's the same thing."

"What?"

"It's—I didn't want her!" she cried out, suddenly sobbing again.

"What?"

"I wanted her, not her!" Santana said like it explained everything (which it really would have to Rachel had she understood anything at that moment).  "I wanted her, but I couldn't have her, and her was there—"

"And Quinn wanted her as well?" Kurt asked.  For some reason, his voice didn't seem as slurred as it was a second ago.  Rachel forced her eyes open to look at him, seeing his eyes desperately trying to focus.  It made her dizzy, though she flipped over on to her other side to look at Santana instead.  "'Cause you said it was the same thing.  A lot of times.  You said it a lot—"

"Her didn't want her, her wanted her her, but her couldn't have her her," Santana rambled.  Kurt's limbs were stiffening, trying to recover from their limp state as he straightened up, but Santana didn't seem to spare any notice.  "I wanted my her, and her was blonde and strong and looked like her, so I could think it was her, you know?  And her wanted her her, and I was short and brunette and—"

"Oh shit," Rachel heard Kurt gasp out.

"What—" Santana started, but then her mouth snapped shut with such force Rachel could hear it.  She could also see it, since she was looking directly at her, but it really was that loud.  Very loud.  Rachel couldn't believe how loud it was.

The CD had ended.  They'd have to start another one.

"No," Santana whispered, shaking her head.  "No.  No, no, no—"

"Oh my God, Santana—"

"No!" Santana screamed, leaping off the floor and stumbling over to Kurt.  She grabbed him by the shoulders, and stared at him with wild, panicked eyes.  "No, no, that wasn't—that was not what I—"

"Rachel!?" Kurt asked in disbelief, suddenly sounding very lucid.  Rachel tried to say something, to ask what Kurt needed from her, but it looked like him and Santana were holding a grown-up talk, and Rachel had forgotten she was a grown-up for the moment.

"Kurt, please, no.  J-Just forget about it, just—Please."  Santana was begging for some reason, and looking absolutely terrified to boot.  Rachel was never quite sure what that phrase meant, but it seemed like the right time to use it.  If that was the right phrase.  She wasn't sure about that either.

"But she—Quinn was always—Oh my God, that's why, isn't it?  It's like with Dave—"

"Kurt, you can't!  You can't know!  We promised, we swore to each other we would never tell!" Santana sobbed.  She would always cry so much during her bad days.  "You can't."

Kurt seemed to be in a state of shock.  He wasn't saying anything (not really, just repeating "oh my god" under his breath), and his eyes were unfocused again.

Meanwhile, Santana was leaned in close to Kurt, so her tears were falling directly on Rachel's face.  It was somewhat uncomfortable, so she raised a hand up to rub them off her nose.

Her roommates suddenly stopped moving.

Both of their gazes were locked on to her face, she realized after a moment.  She looked between both of them, frowning at their horrified expressions.

"Do you want me to set a new CD?" she mumbled.


"So," Kurt said from behind her.  "How are you?"

Rachel blinked, slowly turning her head around to peer at her friend through her mostly closed eyelids.

"I'm not doing so great," she said.  A bit of understatement; the apartment was just so bright.  The Sun obviously hated her today.

It was unfair too that her roommates both looked mostly fine – better than Rachel, at least.  The two of them were at the table, though Santana had jumped to her feet the second Rachel had come into the room.

"O-Oh?" he asked, suddenly very concerned.  He glanced over to his side where Santana was standing awkwardly, her body screaming tension.  "Why would that be?"

She blinked again, though the gesture was muted with how little her eyes were open.  "Well, I have an exceedingly massive hangover, Kurt," she explained, not quite sure why his tone was so cautious, or why he now looked relieved.

"Oh.  Oh!  Yes, of course," he said, nodding and trading glances with Santana.  "Yes.  Lots of drinking last night, after all."

Rachel nodded and immediately winced at the pain that shocked through her head.  "Yes," she groused, gingerly leaning back against the couch.  "Lots of drinking.  We should really diminish our alcohol intake, you know.  It is incredibly hypocritical of me in particular considering my other health conscious hab—"

She groaned loudly, cutting herself off as she draped an arm over her eyes.  Kurt and Santana immediately snapped to attention.

"What?" Santana asked, voice shaky.  "What is it?"

Rachel feebly waved their concern off, flattering though it was.  "Nothing.  Just... talking too much.  My head doesn't like it very much," she said with a heavy pout.

Santana laughed.  It was awkward and high-pitched and incredibly forced, but Rachel was too focused on her own suffering to pay it any mind.

Kurt shot the Latino girl a look which shut her up.

"So, uh, yeah," Santana mumbled, shuffling in place.  "I'm gonna go, like, call Dani or whatever, so..."

Santana trailed off, leaving only the sound of her steps as she carefully waded through the mess that covered the floor of their apartment.

Ah, blissful quiet.  It gave Rachel a moment to relax and try to clear the pain from her head.  This was by far the worst hangover she had ever gone through in her entire life, though she luckily did not have the same level of experience with that as her friends.  Presumably this would be nothing to Santana, but really all Rachel wanted right then was peace and—

"Fuck!"

Rachel groaned.

"Santana!" Kurt hissed, bottles and cans rattling as he leapt up.  Loud profanities were erupting from Santana, the phone in her hand being flailed wildly about.

"That fucking—pucking—god damn—piece of shit—"

"What?  What is it!?" Kurt demanded as Rachel buried her head in a pillow.

"That fucker Puck is holding a party before the idiot ships off!"

"Wait, what?  Why are you so mad about—"

"Because it's a pucking Glee reunion party!"

"What—Oh God."