A/N: Do I get bonus points for a super-long update? :D?

Also, I'd just like to say how much I love my readers, especially inarticulation and JF1993. These two are the QUEENS of beautiful reviews, leaving lovely, well-thought-out comments on every chapter. I appreciate you two from every corner of my soul. Thanks for keeping me going :)

And without further ado, let's see what's going on back in LA! There is more language in this chapter, so if f-bombs bother you, read with discretion. I blame Santana.

Enjoy, my loves!

While the Angels Walk with the Lonely Ones

The skies have darkened and are looming ominously over Los Angeles when Santana makes it to work Friday afternoon, twenty minutes late.

"You're late," Kurt drawls from just inside the entrance. Santana squints at him in the dim light and flips him the finger.

"Think I don't know that? I lost track of time." She slings her bag onto the floor behind the bar.

"Doing what, I wonder." Kurt gives Santana a very obvious once-over and rolls his eyes before sauntering away. Santana's eyes drift down to her outfit in spite of herself. She's a little more dressed up for work than usual, with bangles clinking on her wrists and a thick silver necklace cascading from her neck. Her hair is still warm from the flatiron.

Because today is Friday, and tonight she's going out with Brittany. The thought sends a little tingle up her spine, and she shivers pleasantly. There are no official plans laid out; Alex figures they can leave after work and take a handful of cars with a designated driver or two. Santana had volunteered for the role after realizing that the very thought of alcohol made her nauseous - and after Brittany had made it clear that Santana didn't have to drink to impress her.

Santana is in the process of pulling her hair up into a ponytail when Alex stops by the bar. "You ready for tonight?" She asks cheerily, her silver eyeshadow sparking in the lights from the bar. Her hair is loose about her shoulders and her makeup is half done, but she still looks stunning.

"Yes ma'am," Santana replies, mouthing a bobby pin as she pulls her fingers through her thick hair. "Are you?"

Alex surprises Santana as her lips curl into a smirk. "Oh yeah," she says. "Any party at Anna's house means action for Alex." She winks coyly at Santana, who grins in return.

"Hopefully Santana'll get a little action as well," she mumbles. Alex positively beams.

"Anna and I will introduce you to some folks. You're gay, right?" Santana nods. "Cool. We'll get you plugged in to our little community here at McLaren's."

"Is Brittany coming?" The question slips out before Santana can catch it, and she tries to keep from blushing. Only a certain blonde can send her from cool to chaos in a matter of seconds.

Thankfully Alex is otherwise occupied, tugging at a strap on her shoe. "I'm assuming so. She's super late for work though. Can I get the tray of drinks she usually picks up?"

Santana fixes the drinks on autopilot, hardly noticing as Alex chirps a goodbye and returns to the dressing rooms. She's astonished she hadn't noticed anything - Brittany always stops by the bar to exchange chitchat, and her shift started more than an hour ago. Santana checks her phone, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she taps out a message to Brittany.

Everything ok?

She hits 'send' and slides her phone back into her pocket with a little twinge of worry.

Three hours later, Santana still hasn't heard from Brittany. Checking her phone has become a nervous tic; the screen is always within sight, from the bar to the bathroom and back. Watching the dancers onstage is almost too much, so she positions herself with her back to the pulsing lights and acrid-scented fog.

This is definitely not one of her better nights. Santana's twitchy as all hell, and her work is showing it. Her tips are embarrassingly low, and several particularly annoyed patrons even threaten to contact her manager. Yeah, like Oliver really cares if Santana dumps soda water on a couple of co-eds. (He probably does, but that's beside the point)

Even Robert can't manage to distract her tonight – it takes Blaine pulling her away from the bar, his hands gentle on her shoulders as he steers her to a quiet corner.

"What's up with you?" He asks softly, pitching his voice under the music throbbing through the other room. Santana breaks loose, bats at his hands and tries to stalk away, but Blaine isn't stupid. He neatly sidesteps into her path, effectively driving her back to the corner.

"Nothing," Santana spits, her eyes flashing with frustration as she tries to dodge past him again. "Get out of my way, Blanders. I have work to do."

"Not the way you're moving tonight, you're not," Blaine replies calmly. "I mean, I've certainly seen you spill drinks before, but never twelve in one night. By accident, anyways," he amends after a moment's pause.

The number hits Santana where Blaine's words hadn't, and she deflates visibly. "I was supposed to have a date with Brittany tonight," she says, her voice so soft that Blaine has to lean in to catch her words. "But she stood me up."

Blaine makes a noise of disbelief. "I'll believe that when I see it. Want me to go talk to her?" He makes a motion towards the dressing room. Santana shakes her head.

"She's not here tonight, though she's supposed to be. And she's not answering my texts." She could kick herself for how forlorn she sounds, but right now that's not the most pressing thing on her mind.

Blaine arches an eyebrow. "So…you think she skipped work to blow off your date?"

Santana immediately stiffens. "Well, it sounds stupid when you say it like that, but…yeah."

Blaine has opened his mouth to respond when Santana's phone buzzes in her pocket like an insistent hornet. She dives for her pocket and ends up elbowing Blaine in the jaw before she comes up successful.

"Is it from Brittany?" Blaine asks, wincing and rubbing his jaw ruefully.

"Yes," Santana breathes, her fingertips trembling as they hover over the incoming text. She's about to shove her phone at Blaine and make him open it when her fingers dip a little too low and inadvertently touch the screen.

Ehh, not really, but thanks for asking! I woke up wicked sick this morning, so I've been spending my day on the sofa :/ Sorry for not answering your text earlier!

Santana lets out a deep, long breath that's so fraught with relief, she gets dizzy.

"See? She wasn't standing you up," Blaine says, chin on her shoulder in an affectionate gesture that Santana almost brushes off based purely on principle. But she has a glowing text message from Brittany in her hand, and all is now right with the world.

"Okay, Blanders, back to work," Santana says, her eyes not leaving her phone as she absently ducks Blaine and heads back to the bar.

"You're welcome!" Blaine calls from over her shoulder, but Santana's state of awareness has shrunk to the rectangular screen in front of her.

It's no problem! I was just worried is all.

She eyes the last phrase critically before continuing on.

Anything I can do? Like bringing soup after work or something?

SEND. Santana pockets her phone and slides back into position in front of the familiar rows of glistening bottles.

This time, Brittany replies within seconds. Santana pauses halfway through wiping down the counter to check the reply.

Haha thanks but no thanks. Don't think I could keep down soup anyway. (TMI? Lol)

Santana is midway through typing an answer when another text from Brittany lights up her phone.

Ahh, fuck. Sorry about the party tonight. I guess there's no way I'm going :/

The fact that Brittany is the one to bring it up makes Santana's heart beat just a little bit faster. She wasn't planning to mention it (no use making Brittany feeling guilty – she couldn't help being sick, after all), but the fact that Brittany had remembered was enough to make her absolutely giddy.

Santana pauses mid-excited-bounce and actually slaps her palm to her forehead. "I'm a lovesick idiot," she says flatly. She smacks herself a couple of times for good measure before going back to work, this time with her phone on silent. Now that her love life is all straightened out, she has tips to earn.

Her shift passes in a blur. By the time Alex returns to the bar, Santana's wired with anticipation and late-night adrenaline.

"Are you ready?" Alex chirps, leaning against the counter. Santana stacks the last couple of shot glasses and wipes her hands on a dishtowel, nodding.

"Is it okay if I just wear this? I wasn't planning to change." She glances down at her outfit. It's nice, but she's been wearing it all evening, and it's getting a little wrinkled.

"Yeah, no, you look lovely." Alex flashes her a smile. "Come on – the other girls are waiting out front."

"Who's coming?" Santana grabs her purse and obediently follows.

Alex purses her lips, tapping out people on her fingers. "Me, Olivia, Rose, Meghan, and Meghan's fiancé. And I think Anna's invited a few more people."

Santana feels a little coil of anxiety beginning to wind in her stomach. Those are the girls from The Element on Tuesday night. When she had proved herself a total lightweight. Also, the fact that Olivia is on the list doesn't make her any more comfortable. The blonde had been straight-up bitchy when they'd all gone out, but then she'd had her total 180 and started trying to get her hands up Santana's skirts.

It's all very confusing.

Santana bites back a sigh as they step into the warm night air. Alex immediately takes charge, directing the assembled dancers into two groups like she's a crossing guard.

"Okay, Rose and Meghan have volunteered to be designated drivers, so the rest of us are free to booze it up, as long as we're riding with one of them. Are we clear?" There's a murmur of assent, and Alex claps her hands together with a grin.

"All right, then! Let's go get some." She skips off towards the parking lot, arm-in-arm with two girls Santana doesn't recognize from the back. Santana falls in line behind Meghan (she vaguely remembers her being sweet, plus she has a fiancé so she's less likely to hit on her) and crosses her fingers that the evening will be okay, even without Brittany.

Olivia spins and sends Santana a wink so salacious it sends chills of disgust up her spine. Nope. Definitely not going to be okay.

Warm. Warm and sticky and cold alcohol, spread all over her tongue but also other places – like the floor, why the fuck is her drink on the floor? Kneeling, rough carpet and torn kneecaps, then touch - Sparks and tongue and a warm mouth on hers, filling Santana with lust and power and blood (why is there blood? maybe she's bit her lip) It's incredibly intoxicating – more so than the alcohol ever could be, and Santana spirals down into a simpler world where nothing matters but touch.

She is nothing more than a nerve cell, vibrating with anticipation in the void of cold and of dark uncertainty and loneliness.

Santana is most fluent in the language of touch.

"Mornings after" are always excruciating. Santana may party like a rock star, but she certainly lacks the alcohol tolerance of one. At least she has a talent for getting back home.

The sun is like a grenade, hissing into her foggy mind and leaping into an explosion without so much as a warning. Santana bites back nausea and rolls over, burying her head under her pillow. Maybe if she closes her eyes, it will go away.

The door to her bedroom creaks open, dashing her hopes with a sound like Rachel Berry's voice.

"Santana, are you awake?"

Oh, crap. That is Rachel Berry's voice. A groan slides from Santana's lips and she burrows more tightly under her covers. Maybe this is all a dream. An awful, Berry-infested dream. If she closes her eyes, she'll go away.

Rachel doesn't seem to be getting the memo. "Santaaaanaaaaa," she draws it out into a melody and – goddammit – she continues, trying to harmonize with herself and everything. Santana rouses in an instant, slinging a pillow across the room in half the time it takes her to think about it.

"Fuck off, Berry," she rasps, her voice hangover-ragged.

"Sorry, Santana – Quinnie sent me to make sure you're not dead," Rachel replies, ducking another pillow and straightening her beret with haughty dignity.

"Don't call me that!" Quinn's voice grates through the walls like a wood chipper, and Santana can feel her morning slowly going down the tubes.

"I'm up, I'm up. Go tell your girlfriend and leave me alone." She heaves herself out of bed and ushers Rachel out, slamming the door on her half-formed protests.

"She's not my girlfriend!" Rachel tries once more, before giving up and storming away - Santana can hear the dramatic thud of her patent-leather shoes against their floorboards.

"Yeah, you're just fucking each other," Santana breathes, too tired and hung-over to raise her voice to proper shouting range.

Speaking of fucking…

Crap.

Santana sinks back onto her bed, clapping her hands over her face with another moan. It's not that she doesn't remember last night; she wasn't blackout drunk, but it was dark and loud enough that she isn't sure exactly whose collarbones she was nibbling on. Or who she kept making out with.

Santana scrunches her face against a stabbing headache and rolls over to reset her alarm. She can worry about that later. At work.

…fuck.