I'll Be There for You -- Glee: Quinn/Santana -- Chapter 1/8
Title: I'll Be There For You
Chapter: 1/8
Author: perfectly_vague a.k.a. Laura
Rating: R (language, adult themes)
Disclaimer: I own zero rights to Glee, or the lyrics to "I'll Be There For You" by Bon Jovi
Word Count: 4,651
Summary: Quinn's had it with Santana being a different person out in the world than she is behind closed doors. Not a great summary, I know, but don't let it deter you! :p This is the result of one of the iTunes shuffle drabbles I posted not long ago. This prompt was one of the more popular ones, and surprisingly I got a mileage out of the first chapter alone! It's a bit lengthy, but any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated!
The popping sound of the cork flying out of the 2nd bottle of wine rang in Santana’s ears like the crack of a gunshot on a lazy Sunday night. She callously tossed the corkscrew to the side, knowing she wasn’t above crawling to find wherever the hell she’d flung it when she was ready for bottle number 3. Or 4. Or whatever amount of alcohol was required to rid her of the unrelenting ache in her chest that her slamming heart was intensifying with each beat.
She really fucked up this time.
She knew it as soon as she heard the corner of Quinn’s boxy suitcase ricochet off the doorframe of their bedroom. The blonde had stormed out more times than she could count after Santana had said something admittedly cold-hearted, but never with luggage. She took a sip of the dark purple elixir straight from the bottle, closing her eyes as it bitterly burned its way down her throat.
She had heard the same sad song over and over: the scratchy, skipping vinyl spinning the repeated broken chord of how Quinn couldn't handle being in a relationship with "two people." It had been the blonde's favorite metaphor to explain how the Santana that the world knew and the Santana behind closed doors were creatures all their own. Memories of the days and nights that this dissident tune had played the loudest now assaulted Santana's inebriated senses as she pulled a pillow tightly over her head in a futile attempt to drown out all the yesterdays she could not buy back...
On the 24th day of the 12th month in 2019, Santana half-knew she was crazy to hope that she could tiptoe inside unnoticed at 11:47 PM. Her stride inside the door was long, pressure resting on pointed toes to avoid her business heel clicking on the marble kitchen floor. Even from the bedroom, which was a good 100 feet from the entrance, Quinn’s freakishly good hearing always seemed to permeate the distance - unless she was in a deep sleep, which was what the Latina was banking on.
With a painstakingly careful merging of the door with its jamb, the barely-audible click allowed Santana to breathe a deep sigh of relief as she pressed her forehead to the door and prepared to cross the apartment just as quietly.
“So, you’re not dead.”
The sentence that emerged from the almost complete darkness of the living room dropped Santana’s heart to the floor and almost sent her body on the same descent. Internally, she cursed at Quinn for scaring the living shit out of her, but she was definitely smart enough to know that she was in no position to raise her voice in any way aloud.
The row of 3 small tea lights flickering on the coffee table that her peripheral vision must have missed at first illuminated enough of Quinn at a second glance to reveal that she was wearing the dress that Santana had left wrapped and bowed in a box for her before leaving for work that morning. Beside her on the couch were unidentifiable books, some that appeared to be photo albums, and a plate and napkin on the arm rest suggested that the blonde had long ago eaten dinner without her.
Hoping that a few sincere - albeit ass-covering - words and compliments could still save the evening, Santana moved over to the empty side of the couch, leaning in toward Quinn. “Wow. You look stunning -“
“- ‘Cause ordinarily when someone comes home almost 6 hours late after swearing on their life that they’ll be there on time, and their cell phone goes straight to voicemail, a reasonable conclusion would be that something was horribly wrong. Or the person just didn’t care about the promise they made. Whichever,” the blonde continued sarcastically.
The blood rushing under Santana’s skin started to get hot. She had to try again. “Babe, I’m here now.” Almost immediately she wished she hadn’t when Quinn raised a single eyebrow, her non-verbal way of saying “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” and stood from the couch.
“Yeah, well I’m going to bed, so good night.”
Instantly, Santana was likewise on her feet, since she knew her girlfriend enough to know that the conversation wasn’t really over.
“Quinn, I’m so sorry -“
“You KNEW how important tonight was! How much I needed you!” the hazel-eyed girl replied quickly.
Another moment of brief silence hung heavily in the air as Santana had no choice but to accept the truth that was too blatant to ignore. She couldn’t deny how important that day being both Christmas Eve and Quinn’s 25th birthday was, because there simply was no denying it. She also couldn’t deny how much she knew the blonde needed her on that birthday in particular. Quinn’s 25th was one they had both been anticipating for years.
It was an anticipation that started with Russell and Judy Fabray.
Even though she was too young to consciously recognize the unhealthiness of unrelenting parental pressure, Santana never liked the way Quinn’s parents talked to her from as early as she could remember. It was a strange combination of far too formal for a child, yet far too demeaning for a human. They were indubitably clear about their daughter’s life plans: for college, she would attend both Russell and Judy’s alma mater, Case Western Reserve University and graduate at the top of her class with a degree in Business. If unlike Judy she didn’t meet a suitable man/her future husband during her collegiate years, they of course already had sons of family friends already mentally lined up and likely a fat check away from an under-the-table arranged marriage. Married by 22, 24 at the latest, first child by 25.
For Quinn, her first child came quite a bit earlier.
Santana, who began dating Quinn shortly after the birth of her daughter, recalled feeling hopeful that at the very least, the blonde would no longer have to bear the tight, at times dehumanizing grasp, of her parents any longer. That silver lining quickly turned to gray, however, when the constant harassment, both from afar and in person, began. The uninvited home visits and public approaches ended when Quinn and Santana left the prison of Lima and moved to New York when they were both 18 (as they had vowed to each other they would do when they visited for the first time for nationals), but the threatening, hurtful phone calls continued as recently as a few days earlier - detailing everything from exactly where Quinn would end up, to heartbreaking hypotheticals about her daughter Beth living life without her biological mother because of her own poor choices, to politically incorrect insults about she and Santana’s long-standing relationship. The most recent call included a bitter reminder, from Russell, about what Quinn’s life was supposed to be at age 25, including “a child of love” as he meticulously stressed.
Unable to counter Quinn’s accusation, Santana thought she’d try her hand at a different approach; one she had been considered bringing up several times before. “I know, baby, you’re right. I just wish your parents didn’t have so much power over you after all these years.”
As well-intentioned and earnest as the statement was, it only stood to ignite the emotion-fueled battle as Quinn raked her fingernails through her blonde roots in frustration. “Do NOT make this about my parents or what you think I should be feeling. That is so not the issue here, and you know it. This is about you breaking your word, and how regardless of the fact that it is both a tough birthday for me AND Christmas Eve, you should have been here when you said you would.”
Brown eyes darting back and forth at a near-immeasurable pace, Santana could feel her heart rate spike as she tried to internally console herself to calm down. She was sorry, but more than anything, she hated feeling cornered, especially since as far as reasons for being late go, she had a good one as far as she was concerned.
“Look, I know you’re pissed, and I so don’t blame you, but it’s not like I blew you off to go out on the town. I was working!” Santana responded, flirting dangerously with more trouble.
Quinn took a step toward her girlfriend, dipping her head down toward the other girl’s mouth and already cluing Santana into where this was headed. “Tell me, does work always come with cocktails on the side?”
“I was working on our priority clients account until 8:30 when Jerry announced an impromptu company Christmas party at the Marriott,” Santana said of her boss, hoping the sarcasm in her voice would indicate how she was no more thrilled with his bullshit than Quinn was. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Quinn’s laugh rippled suddenly through sound waves, but it wasn’t the genuine laugh that Santana was adored. It was somewhere between fed up and frustrated, and the expression she wore matched it perfectly. “Did you even tell Jerry before you went in that you had to be home early for a prior engagement?”
Silence. Santana was capable of a lot of shitty things in the heat of an argument, but consciously lying wasn’t one of them.
The blonde sighed this time, the answer she had feared being confirmed. “See… you always say you didn’t have a choice, and I’ve always been more than understanding in return. But I asked you for one night. One night to come home and make me the priority for once. Not work. Not Jerry. Me. I mean, I know you’ve convinced yourself that telling your co-workers about you and I is professional suicide, but since it IS a holiday all on its own, I deluded myself into thinking you could at least lie and say you had a non-descript, second cousin variety family obligation. But I guess the work Santana will always trump the home Santana, no matter how many promises you swear to keep.”
It was a theory the Latina always regarded with a scoff and an eye roll, especially since in her defense, it was nothing new. In high school, everyone knew the sass-giving, boy-teasing bitch who could reduce anyone who crossed her to nothingness with a quick, acidic tongue and sharp, piercing glare. Only Quinn knew the much-concealed truth, which was that the same venomous vixen that McKinley High feared was also an incredible painter. Mostly nature scenes and landscapes, but some still-life and portraits as well. That she loved both chick flicks and action movies and could literally watch her favorites on a continuous loop for days, sometimes even months. That her romantic expressions included singing soft, raspy love songs directly in Quinn’s ear, nibbling on the shell in between long phrases. That she was, perhaps most surprisingly, phenomenal with children, and handled her own younger brother and sister with more loving and care than Quinn had ever seen anyone duplicate. Since moving to New York, graduating from Fordham, and working her way to becoming the sole Marketing Analyst - and sole female in any position of power, for that matter - for a major software firm, the “sides” took a slightly different form. The side that her colleagues knew was a closeted, ass-kissing, ass-busting workaholic who would gladly answer “how high?” to her boss’ “jump!” The side reserved for Quinn was still infused with romanticism, only now with the means for grander gestures such as impromptu day trips, expensive meals, and lavish gift baskets on Santana’s salary which had just moved into the low 6 figures.
However, this time she saved her normal contesting of Quinn’s theory, such as her need to work 10 times as hard in a predominantly male field and how everything she’s doing is in the interest of protecting what they have, because she knew that her girlfriend was not in the mood for rehashing of any sort. Before she could come up with a reply, the blonde continued to speak.
“You know what the worst part is? When my parents started their siege of opinions on my life and its tragically downward spiral, I kept telling myself ‘It doesn’t matter what they think, as long as I’m happy, and I know I can be. I have Santana, and together we’ll show them. One day when we get our own place and get married… and have a baby of our own. A baby that will be thoughtfully and purposefully brought into this world to parents who love him or her and only want what’s best. And even though over the years, I saw the likelihood of marriage and a baby flicker more and more out of sight, even though since giving up Beth all I’ve wanted was another chance, I still clung to the thought that YOU were the one happiness that no one could touch or take away from me. Well, I didn’t feel that today. At all. And it scares me,” Quinn finished her long-winded statement with a deep breath as a single tear began a chilly decline against her cheek.
That scared Santana, too. Shitless, in fact. She couldn’t tell whether her heart was beating more quickly or slowly, but the pain of whichever irregular pattern was taking over her chest was making breathing, and thinking, difficult. There was nothing more on earth she wanted than to make Quinn happy, and based on everything she just said, there was one surefire way to prove that to be so.
“So, why don’t we then?” Santana inquired softly.
Quinn raised an eyebrow again, this time curiously. “Why don’t we what?”
“Have a baby. You know, start a real family,” Santana clarified, the gravity of her words hitting the both of them identically.
Another less-than-joyful laugh escaped the fair-skinned girl. “Are you kidding? We both work, we’re not married, unless we count you being married to your job, where they don’t even know about me, we’d need -“
For the first time all night, Santana felt safe enough to interject. “Babe,” she began, gripping both of her girlfriend’s hands in her own, “is there any reason why we shouldn’t do this that outweighs all the reasons why we should do this?”
Visibly, the coldness melted from Quinn’s features and neither of them could repress the small smiles of excitement and relief that overcame them both. “So… you’re serious about this? You really want to consider having a baby?”
Now confident, Santana inched even closer, rubbing her thumbs over the surface of Quinn’s palms. “I don’t want to consider it. I want to do it,” she corrected with another dimpled grin.
Quinn returned with one of her own before giving way to a more serious expression. “Now, you realize that we’re going to have a lot to talk about. Logistics aside, we’ll have to work out provisions and budget and everything to make sure we’re ready for this.”
Santana held up a finger and retrieved her palm pilot from her front pocket with her other hand, turning it on and scrolling through her datebook. “How about we set up a dinner meeting for you, me, and Chelsea to go over all the legal angles and options. I’m sure she could even help us with budget,” Santana suggested, comparing her schedule against Chelsea, her lawyer’s. Upon Quinn’s eager nod, Santana saw an opening on January 21st, and made a note in her calendar immediately, hoping that it wouldn’t re-annoy Quinn that the meeting wouldn’t happen until almost a month later. It was clear, however, based on the first genuine smile of the evening, that the blonde had long since moved past timing discrepancies.
After Santana announced that the scheduling had been made, Quinn thrilled her by leaning forward and placing a feather-light kiss on her lips. “You know, this is by far the best Christmas AND birthday present I could ask for. Seriously, if there was nothing to unwrap, I would still be perfectly content.”
Bright white teeth nearly glowed in contrast to raven hair as Santana smiled and leaned in for a kiss of her own. “I’m glad, beautiful,” she charmed. “But don’t think I’m returning any of the gifts I bought you,” she jested, the mood continuing to brighten by the second. She had to keep going while she was on a roll. “Do you know what I want my gift to be?” she asked, pulling Quinn by the waist so that their hips were touching.
A contented exhale left Quinn’s lips. “Hmm?”
Santana glanced at her palm pilot to confirm that it was in fact past midnight. “A Christmas dance with the mother of my future child. Would you be so kind?”
Unable to resist her girlfriend’s dorky chivalry, Quinn locked her hands around Santana’s shoulders, pressing her forehead against the other girl’s as they swayed back and forth to the love song that Santana sang in Quinn’s ear.
Santana choked back an interrupted cry along with a larger gulp of wine as the tragic irony hit her. Neither of them had any way of knowing that when January 21st finally came, not only would they be leaving the Russian Tea Room without legal advice, options, and a plan, but that in the hour to follow, Quinn would walk out for good, with only her suitcase saying good bye…
“Jesus Christ, are you STILL ignoring me? It’s bad enough that you stormed out of the restaurant before I could even call Chelsea to cancel!” Santana shouted after Quinn who was 10 steps ahead of her to the elevator in the lobby of their apartment building.
“I TOLD you that I was NOT going to fight with you while you were driving! You are erratic enough on the road anyway, the last thing we needed was to go flying through a red light and getting ourselves killed! And I will gladly apologize to Chelsea for wasting her time, although we both know none of this was my fault!” Quinn returned with equal intensity before bolting through the opening elevator doors and again walking a good several paces ahead of Santana toward their place on the 32nd floor.
“Oh, right, I forgot, you DIDN’T completely overreact as usual!” Santana slung back.
The key only halfway in the door, Quinn couldn’t move another muscle without turning to face her darker-skinned counterpart, the disbelief readable in her eyes like a large-print book. “Overreact?! Overreacting would have been storming out when you merely knocked my hand out of yours upon seeing Jerry a few tables away, going out of your way to approach him before he could see us, and then BRILLIANTLY introducing me as your sister - I won’t even BEGIN to touch why that lie was hilarious at best. But when he objectified me with his eyes for 10 minutes and then proceeded to GRAB YOUR ASS with ZERO objection from you, I didn’t even come close to overreacting!”
Santana quickly turned the key the remainder of the way and pushed the door open, urging Quinn in a whisper “Jesus, keep your voice down!”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” came the immediate reply as Quinn slammed her keys on the kitchen counter and proceeded to dry swallow two aspirin that she finally dug out of the bottom of her purse. “Now I see exactly why no one can know about me, or even any hypothetical love interest for you at work. The office boys might not feel quite as free to sexually harass you if they knew you didn’t swing their way.”
Like a five-knuckled hard blow to the stomach, Santana felt as if the wind was completely knocked out of her. “You… have got.. to be KIDDING me. I know that I am not perfect and I clearly keep fucking up over and over again when it comes to balancing you and this job and what have you, but I have NEVER cheated on you. Ever.”
“Well, can you blame me for not knowing what to believe? Apart from the occasional ludicrous excuses and justifications, I don’t even KNOW this other Santana that these people know. You’re a different person, completely,” Quinn retorted with the theory, unaware that she released the latch on the floodgates that were on the brink of unstoppably pouring out, like rapids raging back and forth in a war of the seas.
Standing face-to-face in the living room, the battle began, pauses just short enough for breath, let alone any sort of thought.
“God, I fucking hate it when you say that! Could you sound any more self-righteous?”
“ME?! This has nothing to do with you in comparison to me, this is about who you, as a person, should WANT to be regardless of anyone else!”
“Well, guess what? I don't want to!”
“Yeah, big surprise there. Santana Lopez doesn't give a damn, alert the media.”
“Oh, real nice, how about Quinn Fabray has a stick up her ass, alert the fucking media!”
“Listen to you! The ONLY thing you have against me is that I call you out and don't let you get away with whatever the hell you want!”
“And we're back to self-righteous again. If you think that's the ONLY thing I have against you, you are SADLY mistaken, sweetheart.”
"Well, then enlighten me, will you please? Will you please tell me what I've done to make you so fucking mad?" The combination of tears welling up in Quinn's eyes and the use of an expletive from the normally straight-laced girl prompted a break in the rapid fire, Santana taking a few deep breaths, but not quite letting herself count to ten before launching back into it.
“You've changed! When we were at McKinley, you said that you LIKED the fact that you got to see a side of me that no one else did, that it made you feel special!” the Latina attempted to justify.
“We’re not in high school anymore, Santana!" Quinn's voice was less angry and more wistful now. Disappointed. Sad. "And as much it was nice being the only one who got to see certain things, it didn’t take away the hurt I’d feel when during the day I was practically invisible to you! When you were falsely accusing me of stealing your man and ratting you out and shoving me into lockers! When I lost my best friend over your bizarre obsession with your image! Falling from grace for me was mostly a curse, but it was also a blessing in the clarity I received in realizing that it really doesn’t matter who thinks what of you, and even though you couldn’t see it then, I told myself that once we got out of high school, things would be different. The problem is, they ARE different, and not in a good way. They’re different in a way that’s affecting me and us and you just refuse to take any ownership or responsibility! We were supposed to talk about starting a family tonight… making a baby. Right now I can’t even trust you to commit to a dinner.”
In an instant, what was once the proverbial blow to the stomach turned instead into the penetrating blade of a knife, driving its way through Santana’s midsection and through her back, or so it felt. Part of her wished that Quinn was still yelling at her. That they were still screaming back and forth in a fruitless attempt to be heard. But this, this moment of what Quinn called honesty quickly turned into what Santana called bullshit - it had to be. There was no way she could actually have made Quinn feel those things and not be a complete monster. Santana knew she was a lot of things, but a monster was not one of them.
Instead of attempting charm, or even an apology like she did normally, dark features only continued to darken, harden even. With a near-threatening step toward the blonde, she exhaled so deeply that Quinn could practically taste her hot breath. “No one’s twisting your arm, Fabray. The door goes both ways.”
Quinn had obviously chosen the exit.
Right as the last drops were evaporating on Santana’s tongue, her chest tightened at the familiar sound of key and lock joining and twisting in synchronicity as the only person who had a copy came through the door.
‘Quinn. And luggage. This is a start. This is good. Time to make it better.’ Santana thought.
Despite the slightly-rotating room, Santana all but leapt to her feet, taking two steps forward toward Quinn who was already 5 feet away from her in the living room.
She reached out both hands for Quinn to take, both affectionately and in hopes that she could steady her tipsy self at least in part. “Oh, baby, thank God. I’m so sorry, I -“
“Don’t,” Quinn warned, holding her hands away from the other girl and causing Santana to stumble backward into a sitting position on the couch. “I’m not here for good. Steve and Jess aren’t back from their honeymoon until tomorrow, and even so I don’t think they would appreciate me crashing their newly wedded bliss, and Hannah barely has extra space now that she got custody of her kids, so I don’t really have anywhere else to go for the moment.”
‘Yes, you do. You have your home, here, with me,’ Santana thought, but the best she could manage was, “Quinn -“
“I’ll probably need a good 3 months to find a place of my own, and since the lease is your name, I’ll take the couch, and until then I can continue to pay my share of the rent if that’s okay,” she interrupted emotionlessly, referring to the fact that she had always paid about $400 less in rent per Santana’s insistence, since Quinn’s job and hours were far less demanding and subsequently rewarding.
‘Come on, you fucker, step in, be the hero, do SOMETHING.’ “You don’t have to pay anyth -“
“Yes, I do,” Quinn cut in sternly. “This is not you doing me a personal favor, and we are not back together.” She averted her eyes briefly from the Latina, who now looked so small and almost childlike. “Although I think for tonight I’ll take the bed since you look so… settled there.”
As Quinn left the living room, Santana understood the “two different people” theory. There was something about the hurt in Quinn’s eyes that made her practically unrecognizable. The coldness in her girlfriend of 9 years’ voice that was robbed of the sweetness she used to find there. She felt the pain of both confusion yet complete cognizance all at once that this feeling evoked, and she could only imagine how painful it had been for Quinn every time she had to navigate between her many different sides and only finding the god, loving side about a third of the time.
She finally came to this pivotal realization - about 60 minutes too late.
Maybe if she could just tell Quinn. Explain for the first time ever how she truly understood, and how she’d do things differently. That’s all Quinn had ever wanted, right?
She laboriously lifted herself off the couch once more and made her staggering way across the apartment. When she finally steadied herself on the doorknob to the bedroom, the brass crackled sharply against her hand.
Locked.
For as long as they had been together, and as awful as some of their fights had been, Quinn had never once locked her out.
Dejectedly, Santana released the doorknob, cautiously lowered herself to the ground, and squinted as she slid across the carpet on her hands and knees until she found the metal apparatus she knew she’d be back for. Shortly after followed another resounding pop as the third cork of the night was once again cast to the floor.
She really fucked up this time.
Chapter: 1/8
Author: perfectly_vague a.k.a. Laura
Rating: R (language, adult themes)
Disclaimer: I own zero rights to Glee, or the lyrics to "I'll Be There For You" by Bon Jovi
Word Count: 4,651
Summary: Quinn's had it with Santana being a different person out in the world than she is behind closed doors. Not a great summary, I know, but don't let it deter you! :p This is the result of one of the iTunes shuffle drabbles I posted not long ago. This prompt was one of the more popular ones, and surprisingly I got a mileage out of the first chapter alone! It's a bit lengthy, but any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated!
The popping sound of the cork flying out of the 2nd bottle of wine rang in Santana’s ears like the crack of a gunshot on a lazy Sunday night. She callously tossed the corkscrew to the side, knowing she wasn’t above crawling to find wherever the hell she’d flung it when she was ready for bottle number 3. Or 4. Or whatever amount of alcohol was required to rid her of the unrelenting ache in her chest that her slamming heart was intensifying with each beat.
She really fucked up this time.
She knew it as soon as she heard the corner of Quinn’s boxy suitcase ricochet off the doorframe of their bedroom. The blonde had stormed out more times than she could count after Santana had said something admittedly cold-hearted, but never with luggage. She took a sip of the dark purple elixir straight from the bottle, closing her eyes as it bitterly burned its way down her throat.
She had heard the same sad song over and over: the scratchy, skipping vinyl spinning the repeated broken chord of how Quinn couldn't handle being in a relationship with "two people." It had been the blonde's favorite metaphor to explain how the Santana that the world knew and the Santana behind closed doors were creatures all their own. Memories of the days and nights that this dissident tune had played the loudest now assaulted Santana's inebriated senses as she pulled a pillow tightly over her head in a futile attempt to drown out all the yesterdays she could not buy back...
On the 24th day of the 12th month in 2019, Santana half-knew she was crazy to hope that she could tiptoe inside unnoticed at 11:47 PM. Her stride inside the door was long, pressure resting on pointed toes to avoid her business heel clicking on the marble kitchen floor. Even from the bedroom, which was a good 100 feet from the entrance, Quinn’s freakishly good hearing always seemed to permeate the distance - unless she was in a deep sleep, which was what the Latina was banking on.
With a painstakingly careful merging of the door with its jamb, the barely-audible click allowed Santana to breathe a deep sigh of relief as she pressed her forehead to the door and prepared to cross the apartment just as quietly.
“So, you’re not dead.”
The sentence that emerged from the almost complete darkness of the living room dropped Santana’s heart to the floor and almost sent her body on the same descent. Internally, she cursed at Quinn for scaring the living shit out of her, but she was definitely smart enough to know that she was in no position to raise her voice in any way aloud.
The row of 3 small tea lights flickering on the coffee table that her peripheral vision must have missed at first illuminated enough of Quinn at a second glance to reveal that she was wearing the dress that Santana had left wrapped and bowed in a box for her before leaving for work that morning. Beside her on the couch were unidentifiable books, some that appeared to be photo albums, and a plate and napkin on the arm rest suggested that the blonde had long ago eaten dinner without her.
Hoping that a few sincere - albeit ass-covering - words and compliments could still save the evening, Santana moved over to the empty side of the couch, leaning in toward Quinn. “Wow. You look stunning -“
“- ‘Cause ordinarily when someone comes home almost 6 hours late after swearing on their life that they’ll be there on time, and their cell phone goes straight to voicemail, a reasonable conclusion would be that something was horribly wrong. Or the person just didn’t care about the promise they made. Whichever,” the blonde continued sarcastically.
The blood rushing under Santana’s skin started to get hot. She had to try again. “Babe, I’m here now.” Almost immediately she wished she hadn’t when Quinn raised a single eyebrow, her non-verbal way of saying “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” and stood from the couch.
“Yeah, well I’m going to bed, so good night.”
Instantly, Santana was likewise on her feet, since she knew her girlfriend enough to know that the conversation wasn’t really over.
“Quinn, I’m so sorry -“
“You KNEW how important tonight was! How much I needed you!” the hazel-eyed girl replied quickly.
Another moment of brief silence hung heavily in the air as Santana had no choice but to accept the truth that was too blatant to ignore. She couldn’t deny how important that day being both Christmas Eve and Quinn’s 25th birthday was, because there simply was no denying it. She also couldn’t deny how much she knew the blonde needed her on that birthday in particular. Quinn’s 25th was one they had both been anticipating for years.
It was an anticipation that started with Russell and Judy Fabray.
Even though she was too young to consciously recognize the unhealthiness of unrelenting parental pressure, Santana never liked the way Quinn’s parents talked to her from as early as she could remember. It was a strange combination of far too formal for a child, yet far too demeaning for a human. They were indubitably clear about their daughter’s life plans: for college, she would attend both Russell and Judy’s alma mater, Case Western Reserve University and graduate at the top of her class with a degree in Business. If unlike Judy she didn’t meet a suitable man/her future husband during her collegiate years, they of course already had sons of family friends already mentally lined up and likely a fat check away from an under-the-table arranged marriage. Married by 22, 24 at the latest, first child by 25.
For Quinn, her first child came quite a bit earlier.
Santana, who began dating Quinn shortly after the birth of her daughter, recalled feeling hopeful that at the very least, the blonde would no longer have to bear the tight, at times dehumanizing grasp, of her parents any longer. That silver lining quickly turned to gray, however, when the constant harassment, both from afar and in person, began. The uninvited home visits and public approaches ended when Quinn and Santana left the prison of Lima and moved to New York when they were both 18 (as they had vowed to each other they would do when they visited for the first time for nationals), but the threatening, hurtful phone calls continued as recently as a few days earlier - detailing everything from exactly where Quinn would end up, to heartbreaking hypotheticals about her daughter Beth living life without her biological mother because of her own poor choices, to politically incorrect insults about she and Santana’s long-standing relationship. The most recent call included a bitter reminder, from Russell, about what Quinn’s life was supposed to be at age 25, including “a child of love” as he meticulously stressed.
Unable to counter Quinn’s accusation, Santana thought she’d try her hand at a different approach; one she had been considered bringing up several times before. “I know, baby, you’re right. I just wish your parents didn’t have so much power over you after all these years.”
As well-intentioned and earnest as the statement was, it only stood to ignite the emotion-fueled battle as Quinn raked her fingernails through her blonde roots in frustration. “Do NOT make this about my parents or what you think I should be feeling. That is so not the issue here, and you know it. This is about you breaking your word, and how regardless of the fact that it is both a tough birthday for me AND Christmas Eve, you should have been here when you said you would.”
Brown eyes darting back and forth at a near-immeasurable pace, Santana could feel her heart rate spike as she tried to internally console herself to calm down. She was sorry, but more than anything, she hated feeling cornered, especially since as far as reasons for being late go, she had a good one as far as she was concerned.
“Look, I know you’re pissed, and I so don’t blame you, but it’s not like I blew you off to go out on the town. I was working!” Santana responded, flirting dangerously with more trouble.
Quinn took a step toward her girlfriend, dipping her head down toward the other girl’s mouth and already cluing Santana into where this was headed. “Tell me, does work always come with cocktails on the side?”
“I was working on our priority clients account until 8:30 when Jerry announced an impromptu company Christmas party at the Marriott,” Santana said of her boss, hoping the sarcasm in her voice would indicate how she was no more thrilled with his bullshit than Quinn was. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Quinn’s laugh rippled suddenly through sound waves, but it wasn’t the genuine laugh that Santana was adored. It was somewhere between fed up and frustrated, and the expression she wore matched it perfectly. “Did you even tell Jerry before you went in that you had to be home early for a prior engagement?”
Silence. Santana was capable of a lot of shitty things in the heat of an argument, but consciously lying wasn’t one of them.
The blonde sighed this time, the answer she had feared being confirmed. “See… you always say you didn’t have a choice, and I’ve always been more than understanding in return. But I asked you for one night. One night to come home and make me the priority for once. Not work. Not Jerry. Me. I mean, I know you’ve convinced yourself that telling your co-workers about you and I is professional suicide, but since it IS a holiday all on its own, I deluded myself into thinking you could at least lie and say you had a non-descript, second cousin variety family obligation. But I guess the work Santana will always trump the home Santana, no matter how many promises you swear to keep.”
It was a theory the Latina always regarded with a scoff and an eye roll, especially since in her defense, it was nothing new. In high school, everyone knew the sass-giving, boy-teasing bitch who could reduce anyone who crossed her to nothingness with a quick, acidic tongue and sharp, piercing glare. Only Quinn knew the much-concealed truth, which was that the same venomous vixen that McKinley High feared was also an incredible painter. Mostly nature scenes and landscapes, but some still-life and portraits as well. That she loved both chick flicks and action movies and could literally watch her favorites on a continuous loop for days, sometimes even months. That her romantic expressions included singing soft, raspy love songs directly in Quinn’s ear, nibbling on the shell in between long phrases. That she was, perhaps most surprisingly, phenomenal with children, and handled her own younger brother and sister with more loving and care than Quinn had ever seen anyone duplicate. Since moving to New York, graduating from Fordham, and working her way to becoming the sole Marketing Analyst - and sole female in any position of power, for that matter - for a major software firm, the “sides” took a slightly different form. The side that her colleagues knew was a closeted, ass-kissing, ass-busting workaholic who would gladly answer “how high?” to her boss’ “jump!” The side reserved for Quinn was still infused with romanticism, only now with the means for grander gestures such as impromptu day trips, expensive meals, and lavish gift baskets on Santana’s salary which had just moved into the low 6 figures.
However, this time she saved her normal contesting of Quinn’s theory, such as her need to work 10 times as hard in a predominantly male field and how everything she’s doing is in the interest of protecting what they have, because she knew that her girlfriend was not in the mood for rehashing of any sort. Before she could come up with a reply, the blonde continued to speak.
“You know what the worst part is? When my parents started their siege of opinions on my life and its tragically downward spiral, I kept telling myself ‘It doesn’t matter what they think, as long as I’m happy, and I know I can be. I have Santana, and together we’ll show them. One day when we get our own place and get married… and have a baby of our own. A baby that will be thoughtfully and purposefully brought into this world to parents who love him or her and only want what’s best. And even though over the years, I saw the likelihood of marriage and a baby flicker more and more out of sight, even though since giving up Beth all I’ve wanted was another chance, I still clung to the thought that YOU were the one happiness that no one could touch or take away from me. Well, I didn’t feel that today. At all. And it scares me,” Quinn finished her long-winded statement with a deep breath as a single tear began a chilly decline against her cheek.
That scared Santana, too. Shitless, in fact. She couldn’t tell whether her heart was beating more quickly or slowly, but the pain of whichever irregular pattern was taking over her chest was making breathing, and thinking, difficult. There was nothing more on earth she wanted than to make Quinn happy, and based on everything she just said, there was one surefire way to prove that to be so.
“So, why don’t we then?” Santana inquired softly.
Quinn raised an eyebrow again, this time curiously. “Why don’t we what?”
“Have a baby. You know, start a real family,” Santana clarified, the gravity of her words hitting the both of them identically.
Another less-than-joyful laugh escaped the fair-skinned girl. “Are you kidding? We both work, we’re not married, unless we count you being married to your job, where they don’t even know about me, we’d need -“
For the first time all night, Santana felt safe enough to interject. “Babe,” she began, gripping both of her girlfriend’s hands in her own, “is there any reason why we shouldn’t do this that outweighs all the reasons why we should do this?”
Visibly, the coldness melted from Quinn’s features and neither of them could repress the small smiles of excitement and relief that overcame them both. “So… you’re serious about this? You really want to consider having a baby?”
Now confident, Santana inched even closer, rubbing her thumbs over the surface of Quinn’s palms. “I don’t want to consider it. I want to do it,” she corrected with another dimpled grin.
Quinn returned with one of her own before giving way to a more serious expression. “Now, you realize that we’re going to have a lot to talk about. Logistics aside, we’ll have to work out provisions and budget and everything to make sure we’re ready for this.”
Santana held up a finger and retrieved her palm pilot from her front pocket with her other hand, turning it on and scrolling through her datebook. “How about we set up a dinner meeting for you, me, and Chelsea to go over all the legal angles and options. I’m sure she could even help us with budget,” Santana suggested, comparing her schedule against Chelsea, her lawyer’s. Upon Quinn’s eager nod, Santana saw an opening on January 21st, and made a note in her calendar immediately, hoping that it wouldn’t re-annoy Quinn that the meeting wouldn’t happen until almost a month later. It was clear, however, based on the first genuine smile of the evening, that the blonde had long since moved past timing discrepancies.
After Santana announced that the scheduling had been made, Quinn thrilled her by leaning forward and placing a feather-light kiss on her lips. “You know, this is by far the best Christmas AND birthday present I could ask for. Seriously, if there was nothing to unwrap, I would still be perfectly content.”
Bright white teeth nearly glowed in contrast to raven hair as Santana smiled and leaned in for a kiss of her own. “I’m glad, beautiful,” she charmed. “But don’t think I’m returning any of the gifts I bought you,” she jested, the mood continuing to brighten by the second. She had to keep going while she was on a roll. “Do you know what I want my gift to be?” she asked, pulling Quinn by the waist so that their hips were touching.
A contented exhale left Quinn’s lips. “Hmm?”
Santana glanced at her palm pilot to confirm that it was in fact past midnight. “A Christmas dance with the mother of my future child. Would you be so kind?”
Unable to resist her girlfriend’s dorky chivalry, Quinn locked her hands around Santana’s shoulders, pressing her forehead against the other girl’s as they swayed back and forth to the love song that Santana sang in Quinn’s ear.
Santana choked back an interrupted cry along with a larger gulp of wine as the tragic irony hit her. Neither of them had any way of knowing that when January 21st finally came, not only would they be leaving the Russian Tea Room without legal advice, options, and a plan, but that in the hour to follow, Quinn would walk out for good, with only her suitcase saying good bye…
“Jesus Christ, are you STILL ignoring me? It’s bad enough that you stormed out of the restaurant before I could even call Chelsea to cancel!” Santana shouted after Quinn who was 10 steps ahead of her to the elevator in the lobby of their apartment building.
“I TOLD you that I was NOT going to fight with you while you were driving! You are erratic enough on the road anyway, the last thing we needed was to go flying through a red light and getting ourselves killed! And I will gladly apologize to Chelsea for wasting her time, although we both know none of this was my fault!” Quinn returned with equal intensity before bolting through the opening elevator doors and again walking a good several paces ahead of Santana toward their place on the 32nd floor.
“Oh, right, I forgot, you DIDN’T completely overreact as usual!” Santana slung back.
The key only halfway in the door, Quinn couldn’t move another muscle without turning to face her darker-skinned counterpart, the disbelief readable in her eyes like a large-print book. “Overreact?! Overreacting would have been storming out when you merely knocked my hand out of yours upon seeing Jerry a few tables away, going out of your way to approach him before he could see us, and then BRILLIANTLY introducing me as your sister - I won’t even BEGIN to touch why that lie was hilarious at best. But when he objectified me with his eyes for 10 minutes and then proceeded to GRAB YOUR ASS with ZERO objection from you, I didn’t even come close to overreacting!”
Santana quickly turned the key the remainder of the way and pushed the door open, urging Quinn in a whisper “Jesus, keep your voice down!”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” came the immediate reply as Quinn slammed her keys on the kitchen counter and proceeded to dry swallow two aspirin that she finally dug out of the bottom of her purse. “Now I see exactly why no one can know about me, or even any hypothetical love interest for you at work. The office boys might not feel quite as free to sexually harass you if they knew you didn’t swing their way.”
Like a five-knuckled hard blow to the stomach, Santana felt as if the wind was completely knocked out of her. “You… have got.. to be KIDDING me. I know that I am not perfect and I clearly keep fucking up over and over again when it comes to balancing you and this job and what have you, but I have NEVER cheated on you. Ever.”
“Well, can you blame me for not knowing what to believe? Apart from the occasional ludicrous excuses and justifications, I don’t even KNOW this other Santana that these people know. You’re a different person, completely,” Quinn retorted with the theory, unaware that she released the latch on the floodgates that were on the brink of unstoppably pouring out, like rapids raging back and forth in a war of the seas.
Standing face-to-face in the living room, the battle began, pauses just short enough for breath, let alone any sort of thought.
“God, I fucking hate it when you say that! Could you sound any more self-righteous?”
“ME?! This has nothing to do with you in comparison to me, this is about who you, as a person, should WANT to be regardless of anyone else!”
“Well, guess what? I don't want to!”
“Yeah, big surprise there. Santana Lopez doesn't give a damn, alert the media.”
“Oh, real nice, how about Quinn Fabray has a stick up her ass, alert the fucking media!”
“Listen to you! The ONLY thing you have against me is that I call you out and don't let you get away with whatever the hell you want!”
“And we're back to self-righteous again. If you think that's the ONLY thing I have against you, you are SADLY mistaken, sweetheart.”
"Well, then enlighten me, will you please? Will you please tell me what I've done to make you so fucking mad?" The combination of tears welling up in Quinn's eyes and the use of an expletive from the normally straight-laced girl prompted a break in the rapid fire, Santana taking a few deep breaths, but not quite letting herself count to ten before launching back into it.
“You've changed! When we were at McKinley, you said that you LIKED the fact that you got to see a side of me that no one else did, that it made you feel special!” the Latina attempted to justify.
“We’re not in high school anymore, Santana!" Quinn's voice was less angry and more wistful now. Disappointed. Sad. "And as much it was nice being the only one who got to see certain things, it didn’t take away the hurt I’d feel when during the day I was practically invisible to you! When you were falsely accusing me of stealing your man and ratting you out and shoving me into lockers! When I lost my best friend over your bizarre obsession with your image! Falling from grace for me was mostly a curse, but it was also a blessing in the clarity I received in realizing that it really doesn’t matter who thinks what of you, and even though you couldn’t see it then, I told myself that once we got out of high school, things would be different. The problem is, they ARE different, and not in a good way. They’re different in a way that’s affecting me and us and you just refuse to take any ownership or responsibility! We were supposed to talk about starting a family tonight… making a baby. Right now I can’t even trust you to commit to a dinner.”
In an instant, what was once the proverbial blow to the stomach turned instead into the penetrating blade of a knife, driving its way through Santana’s midsection and through her back, or so it felt. Part of her wished that Quinn was still yelling at her. That they were still screaming back and forth in a fruitless attempt to be heard. But this, this moment of what Quinn called honesty quickly turned into what Santana called bullshit - it had to be. There was no way she could actually have made Quinn feel those things and not be a complete monster. Santana knew she was a lot of things, but a monster was not one of them.
Instead of attempting charm, or even an apology like she did normally, dark features only continued to darken, harden even. With a near-threatening step toward the blonde, she exhaled so deeply that Quinn could practically taste her hot breath. “No one’s twisting your arm, Fabray. The door goes both ways.”
Quinn had obviously chosen the exit.
Right as the last drops were evaporating on Santana’s tongue, her chest tightened at the familiar sound of key and lock joining and twisting in synchronicity as the only person who had a copy came through the door.
‘Quinn. And luggage. This is a start. This is good. Time to make it better.’ Santana thought.
Despite the slightly-rotating room, Santana all but leapt to her feet, taking two steps forward toward Quinn who was already 5 feet away from her in the living room.
She reached out both hands for Quinn to take, both affectionately and in hopes that she could steady her tipsy self at least in part. “Oh, baby, thank God. I’m so sorry, I -“
“Don’t,” Quinn warned, holding her hands away from the other girl and causing Santana to stumble backward into a sitting position on the couch. “I’m not here for good. Steve and Jess aren’t back from their honeymoon until tomorrow, and even so I don’t think they would appreciate me crashing their newly wedded bliss, and Hannah barely has extra space now that she got custody of her kids, so I don’t really have anywhere else to go for the moment.”
‘Yes, you do. You have your home, here, with me,’ Santana thought, but the best she could manage was, “Quinn -“
“I’ll probably need a good 3 months to find a place of my own, and since the lease is your name, I’ll take the couch, and until then I can continue to pay my share of the rent if that’s okay,” she interrupted emotionlessly, referring to the fact that she had always paid about $400 less in rent per Santana’s insistence, since Quinn’s job and hours were far less demanding and subsequently rewarding.
‘Come on, you fucker, step in, be the hero, do SOMETHING.’ “You don’t have to pay anyth -“
“Yes, I do,” Quinn cut in sternly. “This is not you doing me a personal favor, and we are not back together.” She averted her eyes briefly from the Latina, who now looked so small and almost childlike. “Although I think for tonight I’ll take the bed since you look so… settled there.”
As Quinn left the living room, Santana understood the “two different people” theory. There was something about the hurt in Quinn’s eyes that made her practically unrecognizable. The coldness in her girlfriend of 9 years’ voice that was robbed of the sweetness she used to find there. She felt the pain of both confusion yet complete cognizance all at once that this feeling evoked, and she could only imagine how painful it had been for Quinn every time she had to navigate between her many different sides and only finding the god, loving side about a third of the time.
She finally came to this pivotal realization - about 60 minutes too late.
Maybe if she could just tell Quinn. Explain for the first time ever how she truly understood, and how she’d do things differently. That’s all Quinn had ever wanted, right?
She laboriously lifted herself off the couch once more and made her staggering way across the apartment. When she finally steadied herself on the doorknob to the bedroom, the brass crackled sharply against her hand.
Locked.
For as long as they had been together, and as awful as some of their fights had been, Quinn had never once locked her out.
Dejectedly, Santana released the doorknob, cautiously lowered herself to the ground, and squinted as she slid across the carpet on her hands and knees until she found the metal apparatus she knew she’d be back for. Shortly after followed another resounding pop as the third cork of the night was once again cast to the floor.
She really fucked up this time.