Title: The Bodyguard [Prologue]
Pairings & Characters: Santana/Brittany, Quinn/Rachel and mentions of other Glee casts and relationships.
Rating: NC-17/M
Summary: After an unfortunate injury, Santana is ordered to take a two year leave from her life, known as the military. However, where she thought her life was ending, as her career was torn away from her, really... It was just beginning.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: AU - This is set in an alternate universe where Santana is a bodyguard, Brittany is a celebrity, Quinn is her PA, Rachel is just as annoying as always, and Puck is… Well, Puck. Their lives have barely any connection to the canon story line and I don't own any characters unless stated.
A/N: Thanks to my beta, sapphiccharmer!

Word Count: 2000

Santana never had a best friend, but her close colleague Mike Chang was the closest thing she'd made to one in her military years. So when her unit had been ambushed and when one of the men ran at him with a six-inch blade, her defensive training had kicked in. Sure, the six-inch blade wasn't much, and was absolutely nothing compared to the heavy weaponry Santana and her unit were used to, but the young Afghan was incredibly skilled in the blade department.

Anderson, one from Santana's unit, had gone down first as the attacker used one quick swipe to slice his throat in half. And as he'd lunged for Chang, Santana stepped in as a protection instinct - however they'd struggled, and after being knocked to the floor, and just before the Latina could recover herself, the blade had pierced her left hand, entering through the back and exiting out the palm.

A single shot from her Desert Eagle was enough to take the attacker down, and after making sure that the rest of her unit was safe - the extent of her injury kicked in. She was rushed back to base where the camp medic examined her hand, and told her instead of removing the blade, and possibly damaging muscles and nerves which could ultimately render her incapable of using her left hand, she needed to see someone with a little more experience.

Her leading officer, Colonel St. James, took the medic's advice and gave her strict medical leave, where she'd travel back to the States within twenty-four hours.

Santana wasn't exactly pleased with this decision, for several reasons. First of all, the military was her life. Second, she still had a goddamn knife lodged in her hand (which was causing excruciating painful). And last but not least, she knew St. James was only doing this because he was her male superior, and still had irrational beliefs that the military should only be reserved for males.

Even the years of training her body to ignore pain, due to intense military drills and deep gashes from random flying pieces of debris shooting off and scarring her body, wasn't enough to fight the agony emanating from her left hand. But the knowledge that her arch nemesis was getting his way was more than the physical pain she was enduring. But, reluctantly, Santana followed her orders, hoping that'd give her some lee-way when she wanted to return. Within three hours, she was on a military plane, flying back to the States with the six-inch blade still inserted into her hand.

She'd been given some Morphine and had to take one of the medics back with her, just in case of any medical emergency, but it still wasn't comforting to know she was being ripped away from the only thing that had ever stayed consistent in her life. Santana arrived back in the States fourteen and half hours later, and by the seventeenth hour, she was being scheduled to go into the theatre for some muscle and nerve correction as the blade had damaged some of the most important tissues in her hand.

Unfortunately, she awoke the next day with bad news. Apparently, according to Doctor Holliday, a tall blonde who'd been treating Santana since she was a little girl, told her it'd be wise to take maybe one or two year leave from the military as her hand wouldn't properly heal until then. Once again, much to her dismay, Colonel St. James agreed to this over a Skype session with Dr. Holliday, and Santana had been officially discharged from service as her skills were no longer up to scratch.

Santana, obviously, was thoroughly pissed off by this, and she swore that if it wasn't for her current state, she'd punch the smug Colonel's smile off his face - despite being left handed and wounded.

After a few nights in hospital, she returned back to her home in Lima Heights - one she hadn't seen in six long years. The outside was pretty much the same. It was a four bedroom house, one she had no use for, but her father's career as a Doctor had allowed her to be spoiled as a child, well up until the age of nine anyway.

It was a duller shade of white, and several vines of ivy had set up home on the sides - but the small garage with the strong roof and large trampoline visible in the back garden from the small white picket fence still remained. That roof, damn, so many memories.

As soon as she approaches the front door wearing a dark, racing green army uniform and one hand carrying her medium sized army duffel bag containing the last six years of her life - she suddenly regrets trying to defend her colleague. But ultimately, she was a unit leader and due to her rank, she would've been looked down upon if she hadn't done such a thing. But the military was her life, there'd been nothing outside of it after her father's death, and one little injury rendered her incapable of living it.

Santana was pretty sure that's what attracted her to the military, and what made her excel in her ranks in such a short amount of time. She had no responsibilities, nothing waiting for her back in Lima, so it didn't really matter if she died or lived out in Afghanistan. As depressing as it was to admit it, she kind of hated the fact that no one would miss her; no one would really know she was dead because no one knew she was even there. Sure, she'd made friends in middle school and her freshman year, but as soon as she'd moved to Buckland with her Aunt, they'd lost contact. Noah Puckerman had been one of her best friends for those difficult six years of looking after her father, but even they hadn't kept in contact after she moved.

Santana shakes herself back into present day, and exhales heavily after realising how alone she really was. It's an uncomfortable feeling, but it wasn't anything she hadn't been able to wrap her head around in the past few years. She slides the key into the lock, and with a single turn the door creaks open.

Her eyes take in her surroundings and allow the foreign air to sink into her lungs. Her feet are currently buried in mounds of letters, envelopes and magazine subscriptions, blocking the door from opening completely. The brunette twists her body and slides through the gap, into the grand foyer with a rather large staircase and dulled white marble banisters.

It was exactly how she'd left it, the furniture covered with thick white sheets preventing and dust damage in the living room to the left of the foyer, and the floors were no longer shiny hardwood, they'd dulled down to rough floorboards. To her right is the dining room, which used to hold a six seated mahogany table with matching, fabric upholstered chairs - but now it's vacant.

She assumed it was her aunt that'd done all this whilst she was away, considering she'd just moved to Buckland with a small bag and locked the door behind her like she was returning later, furniture still in place and TV on standby upstairs. After graduating from university with her degree, she joined the military and was off to Afghanistan before she could even go back to Lima and sort out arrangements there. So her Aunt had taken up this duty and obviously cleared everything up.

Arriving home was a pretty big deal. Instead of reminiscing over the painful memories of her dead father and abandoning mother, she shrugs off her bag, leaving it to collide with the floor with a satisfying thud as she moves into the kitchen to find some cleaning supplies.

A couple of hours later, the house is a lot cleaner. The furniture is no longer covered, the dust is no longer plaguing the house under several layers, and the house doesn't smell of moth balls. Santana lazily walks around the house, brushing her fingertips over the newly polished photographs of her as child, around five or six with her mother and father in the back yard. She smiles at the memory - it was the first day of summer and the sun was making a heated appearance - and it was before everything got fucked up.

She inhales and exhales deeply, dipping her head as heat pricks at her eyelids. Her legs make an unconscious decision and mope around the house, leading her to the kitchen as her stomach growls with hunger. Santana opens the fridge to see absolutely nothing inside, not that she's surprised. Why would there be groceries? The house has been empty for God knows how long.

Next thing she knows, she's changed into army sweats and a thick strapped tank top, and walking out into the night sky of Lima, Ohio.

Luckily, her leg muscles still have a map of Lima programmed into them, and she walks straight to Seven-Eleven where she picks up a packet of chicken noodles and a six pack of beer. The teenage attendant looks up at her with wide eyes, almost in recognition, but it fades as she pastes a don't-talk-to-me expression and waves her injured hand in the air.

She pays for the items and leaves, her body covering in goose bumps as chilled air collides with her olive skin. Her legs start moving faster in reaction, and within a few minutes she's back at her house, settling into her sofa with a can of beer and a bowl of piping hot noodles. She flicks through the channels on the TV, realising her Aunt must not have cut off the cable as it still has over 500 channels. Pretty stupid considering Clarissa (her aunt) has probably been paying the bills for no-one, but screw it, she was always a bitch.

There's a comforter hanging over the back of her sofa, and she decides to grab it, settling down her half-full bowl and snuggles inside the cotton blanket, suddenly becoming very nostalgic with the presence of familiar surroundings. A random cartoon flickers on screen, she must have rolled on the remote or something, but she can't be bothered to change it. Plus, it helps with the nostalgia, kind of. Okay, not at all. It is Scooby-Doo after all, her and... Her favorite program as a kid.

About four beers later, she feels the sleep pulling her body into a slumber and looks around the empty house, examining the moonlight highlighting her backyard through the kitchen doors. A few family memories race through her mind as darkness tugs at her eyelids, leading her into what she's expecting to be a deep sleep. It's a long time coming, and the combination of exhaustion and repressed thoughts has certainly taken it out of her.

"I guess this is my life now," she breathes into the desolate house, feeling the loneliness sink into her chest as sleep overcomes her.