Nightcrawler (A Slimecicle FF)

TWELVE

A/N by the way this chapter is in Santana's POV.

Santana trusted Charlie. At least, she trusted him enough to let her guard down. So, when she woke up in his arms, she wasn't as angry as she could've been.

As she would've been.

If it were anyone else, she would've probably punched him in the face. The way his arm was draped so innocently across her waist, or the way his face rested inches from her, she knew if he'd woken up first, he would be a blushing mess. He always was.

It was why she was so comfortable around him.

She slowly pulled herself away from him and glanced at the clock in his room, seeing that it was 5 AM. He never woke up before 11, which meant she had time.

Time to clear her head.

Santana went into her room and changed clothes, glancing over at the white hoodie that Charlie had given her. She'd never admit it to him that it was the most comfortable thing she'd ever worn, purely because it smelled like him. Yet, she had the feeling he figured as such, anyway. He was clever.

But not clever enough to know what she'd be doing.

Why would she tell him? She'd done as he asked up until that moment; she stayed out of trouble. In fact, she'd locked herself away in hopes that she wouldn't mess anything up.

But, in doing so, she'd gone soft.

She just needed the fresh air. So early in the morning, the cool air was crisp and was a perfect drug to help clear her head.

She turned away from the hoodie, knowing that if she wore it, she wouldn't be able to think straight. Her conscience wouldn't be clean.

So she wore what she always did. Dark clothes, unbelievably uncomfortable clothes, but clothes all the same.

As she slid on her jacket, she couldn't help but glance across the hall. He was a quiet sleeper, but occasionally she heard him stir on the blankets and she would worry he was awake.

Santana knew he wouldn't get angry if he found out. But seeing disappointment on his face wasn't exactly something she'd be thrilled about. After all, he'd given everything he had to help her.

But she was helpless. There was no saving her.

She pulled open the door and slid out of the apartment, quietly closing it behind her before flipping her hood up over her head. She knew she wouldn't be able to blend in with the shadows for long, since the sun was starting to rise. But she didn't need long, anyway.

She strode through the streets, hands in her pockets, aimlessly wandering around.

She found herself walking down the alleyway she was in every night. She went deep inside, admiring the mural that she'd been painting for months. That was why she was always there. It was one thing that she could lose herself in, but unfortunately, she didn't bring any of the cans of spray paint with her. So she just stared at it, letting out a long sigh.

"You never could stay away from here for long," Santana didn't even jump at the voice speaking from the shadows. "It's a new picture every month."

She turned slightly, careful to make sure she knew who it was before taking off her hood. "Did Razor send you after me?"

Oz shrugged. "Saw you coming from a block out. He's been looking for you for a while."

"Don't I know it," Santana muttered, looking down at the ground. She didn't get too comfortable, though, since she knew Oz would do anything Razor told him to. Anything. "Is that why you followed me? To warn me?"