I'll Be There for You -- Glee: Quinn/Santana -- Chapter 4/8
Title: I'll Be There For You
Chapter: 4/8
Author: perfectly_vague
Rating: R (language, adult themes)
Disclaimer: I own zero rights to Glee.
Summary: Quinn's had it with Santana being a different person out in the world than she is behind closed doors. Same sucky summary... same request that you don't let it deter you! :p This is the result of one of the iTunes shuffle drabbles I posted not long ago. As always, any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated! Enjoy!
Brittany Pierce never made it out of Lima. The saddest part was, denseness aside, her talent alone really could have taken her places: New York, LA, or virtually anywhere that called for a professional dancer. But her gullibility, lack of street (or book) smarts, and youthful need to be taken care of kept her firmly planted where she was.
That's the part that had Santana feeling slightly guilty about using Brittany as a pawn in this quintessential Lopez versus Fabray battle for dominance, but on the other hand, despite being stuck in a two-stoplight town, the brightly blue-eyed girl was doing pretty well for herself. She was a full-time gymnastics and aerobics instructor at the only youth sports club within a 50-mile radius, and the over-zealous stage parents who were determined to ride on their children's coat tails out of Ohio were always thrilled with her work. So, while it may not have been the life that many agreed she could have, it was always in true Brittany fashion to find happiness in things others didn't understand.
In fact, one of those things was her interesting-at-best friendship with Santana in high school. To onlookers it was bizarre, controversial, even scandalous. To Brittany and Santana, it was simply convenient. Santana loved sex, Brittany loved sex. Santana preferred girls, Brittany went either way. Santana liked to lead, Brittany liked to follow. And neither of them found anyone special enough to commit to long-term and thwart their occasional hook-ups -- no one who reciprocated, anyway. That was of course until a moment of long-hushed honesty brought Quinn and Santana together after a lifetime of friendship, ironically prompted by the former queen bee's discovery of Brittany and Santana's friendship with benefits:
"WHAT the fuck is your problem?" demanded a fiery, teenage Santana on the Fabrays' front doorstep on the first day of summer, the year the Glee club came in 3rd at Regionals. "I come here trying to be nice --"
"And I said thank you," Quinn replied quietly, "now can you please go before you wake my mom? She's napping --"
"You mean she's passed out, drunk, as usual!" the Latina shouted, continuing on despite the hurt look etched on the blonde's face. "Oh, come on, you know it's true and I know it's true, I just thought I'd offer you an alternative to boozy the clown's not-so-fun-house since you refused to stay at Weezy's place."
"Okay, I already feel bad enough for turning down Mercedes' offer, but I just wasn't comfortable. I only met Mr. and Mrs. Jones once and I kind of got the sense that they had already made a lot of judgments about me. It just wouldn't feel like home," Quinn countered, her eyes roaming the same downward trail that the volume of her voice did.
"Which, again, is why I made my offer," Santana retorted haughtily. "Your ass practically has its own groove marks in all of our furniture, and my parents call you 'honey', which they don't even call me. They would obviously make you feel at home."
Quinn took a deep breath, something obviously weighing on her mind. "I'm sure they would..."
"Then WHAT is your problem?!" Santana interrogated.
"It's not them I'd feel uncomfortable around.." Quinn's voice trailed off, her failure to finish the sentence still speaking volumes of its own.
While the blonde's telltale unimpressed face involved the singular raised eyebrow, Santana, too, had a look all her own that made her dissatisfaction crystal clear. "ME? You're not comfortable around ME? Are you that fucking weak that you have to run home to Mommy whenever somebody hurts your feelings?"
A sarcastic laugh rumbled low through Quinn. "Yeah, like I really wanna live with this."
"Well, what do you want me to say? I'm sorry for being the same old bitch I've always been? I'm sorry for sexting with your baby daddy, who you stole from me?"
Before Santana could say any more, Quinn cut in. "I'm surprised you're so worked up about Puck, since you're with Brittany and all."
For the first time the whole conversation, the two girls' eyes deadlocked.
"Yeah," the blonde continued, "Mercedes told me."
This time, Santana released her own brand of unamused laughter. "Okay, first of all, I'm not 'with' Brittany. We have sex sometimes, that's it. And second of all, I knew you were prudish and uptight, but I had no idea you were completely brainwashed by that Catholic bullshit."
"You're wrong," Quinn all-but-whispered.
"So, you think that The Riz is all fine and good with teenage pregnancy, but not down with a little rainbow love? God, you're twisted."
"You're WRONG, Santana!" she insisted once more.
"Then fucking enlighten me!" the shorter girl shouted, at her wits end. When she received no reply from the other girl, her fire only became increasingly wilder, as she took 3 steps forward until she was practically nose-to-nose with the blonde. "Seriously, grow a pair and explain yourself, because I may be a bitch, but I don't back down like one! You have a problem, you tell it to my face!"
Quinn's body visibly shook and her normally bright eyes became dark. "Fine! You want the big, ugly secret? The truth? I wasn't disgusted that you and Brittany were involved." A long hush overtook the air, and this time Santana kept quiet. "I was jealous. Of her. Satisfied?"
For at least 5 seconds, Santana was almost certain her heart had stopped.
Suddenly, Mrs. Fabray appeared in the doorway, the shouting likely having woke her. "Quinn. Inside. Now."
Whatever was about to happen behind closed doors, Santana knew it wasn't going to be good, and it was going to be big. She very well knew how to read behind the eyes of the Fabrays by now.
Although things certainly got worse before they got better, the outing of Quinn's feelings for Santana brought Quinn from her mother's home to the Lopez' instead, and subsequently gave Santana the courage to disclose her mutual feelings for Quinn. So, in a weird, indirect way, Brittany played a role in actually bringing the two together.
It didn't stop Quinn from getting jealous of the way Brittany always found a way to touch Santana at school, or the drunken come-ons, both in person and via text. Santana always assured Quinn that it was harmless flirting, and she was mostly right. The only real trouble being that for Brittany, the lines of relationships (or friendships, or hookups) were often blurred, and so boundaries were never crystal clear for the slow-on-the-uptake dancer. Even the last time they saw Brittany, almost 3 years ago when they returned to Lima for Mr. Schuester's wedding, the green-eyed girl had to practically be talked down from a ledge after the other blonde pulled Santana onto the dance floor and all but put on a show for everyone by effortlessly, yet salaciously, grinding against her. Santana always consoled Quinn with rare, yet true, sincerity: that she would never cheat on her. Unlike various other hearts that she fumbled, dropped, and broke, she simply loved Quinn too much to ever hurt her like that.
But now, post-break up and post-Becca, all bets were off.
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Even the deep-reaching yawn that temporarily paralyzed her lethargic form couldn't stop Santana from smiling proudly as she left the office at a record-setting 3 PM. It had been quite some time, likely as far back as before she and Quinn had started dating, since she had manipulated, pulled strings, and meddled. For picking up where she left off after so many passing years, she simply had to congratulate herself.
Her victory was especially sweet considering that her plan was almost thwarted altogether when Brittany insisted she had to be back to Ohio for her 4 PM shift the day after Valentine's Day. When Santana asked why, Brittany replied:
"Well, my boss is kind of mad at me, 'cause 2 weeks ago when we went to competition, I kind of lost a few of the kids, but only for a little while. I don't know why she's so mad, the kids were totally fine, but still, I have to be really good or I'll get fired."
Santana sighed. Oh, Brittany. Some things never change.
But no, she wasn't going to relent that easily. Every time she closed her eyes, images of either Becca or Quinn or the wine or her first visit to their work flickered through her senses like a candle that refused to be snuffed, and it made her want to shout and cry all at once. If there was one thing she thought she had made perfectly clear in her young life, it's that no one messes with the queen bee. And despite what anyone else had to say about it, Santana was about to prove once and for all that SHE was the one who owned the throne.
At 6:00 sharp that morning, Santana sauntered confidently and far earlier than usual into Jerry's office and smiled. With an extra few bats of her temptingly long lashes, she convinced him that she was "oh-so-close" to signing a business contract with a client she insisted was a notorious hold-out: a "big time" sports club in the Midwest, and that a business dinner, courtesy of the company jet and town car, would lock things down "for sure."
For someone as sickeningly rich and indubitably respected throughout the Northeast as Jerry was, he was notoriously for being both cheap and bitter. Santana privately conjectured that his anger revolved around even his millions being unable buy away his impotence, heaviness, or the fact that he never married, and her faint flirting was a subtle, yet hopefully final touch. After moments of grumbling about short notice and budget questions, Jerry begrudgingly agreed, warning Santana that if she failed to close the deal, she would be taking his business trip to Arizona at the beginning of March so that he could attend a golf tournament. While Jerry made the arrangements for that evening, Santana silently blocked off her calendar from March 1st through the 7th, citing "AZ trip" as the reason for her unavailability.
She glanced at her watch as the elevator doors opened, reaching her floor exactly at 3:36 PM. The Manhattan streets were especially buzzing that afternoon as she had watched, more wistfully than she would admit, couples of all ages and kinds stroll the city sidewalks as she was in stand-still traffic. Now she had to make up for lost time and find something smokin' to wear before both Brittany, in the company town car, and Quinn arrived at the apartment a little after 4. She did bait Brittany with the promise of lots of sex, after all, so she had to look the part.
She tossed her keys and purse by the door and alternated between the bedroom and the bathroom, contemplating whether or not she would have time to shower. Deciding against it, she instead plugged her straightener into the bathroom vanity and began applying make-up as she waited for it to heat. She considered eyeshadow colors for a moment before realizing she would need to decide on an outfit first in order to coordinate.
Once in the living room, Santana found it odd that the bedroom door was shut, and upon moving closer, heard a familiar love song playing, and not the usual depressing shit that both she and Quinn had admittedly been playing a lot of since their split. Without warning, Santana's breath hitched tightly in her throat: it was one of the songs Quinn sometimes played when they were intimate.
She was in there, fucking that bitch!
Before Santana knew it, her fist was against the door, pounding to the point of redness against her dark knuckles. "Quinn!" she shouted, the name burning in her mouth like spice.
In a matter of seconds, a slightly startled, but calm Quinn opened the door, hair framing her face and a soft smile pushing against her lips. "Hey, I wasn't expecting you," she said, causing Santana to fight the urge to remark sarcastically. "Happy Valentine's Day."
Wow. Quinn really thought she could play cute and innocent and get away with this. She'd see. There was no way Becca could escape without getting through Santana, and she wanted to make sure to save the bulk of her rage for that whore, just in case her fist were to act on its own in search for a face. She had hit Quinn before in high school, and her promise to never hit her again was one she didn't want to break, even in her near-blinding rage. "I need to get in there."
Eyebrows furrowed, Quinn took a discouraged step back. "Okay, just give me a second to get decent."
Santana was certain this was a dream. There's no way this was really happening, that after all this time of seeing what she thought was the truth, Quinn really was the ultimate, unfeeling, beyond evil queen bee that everyone in days of old used to fear. Feeling numb, she kicked over the large pewter coffee table in one fell swoop, registering the pain in her toes and reinforcing that this was in fact real life.
From behind her, the bedroom door opened, and she whirled around to see Quinn emerging from the darkness in a maroon, crushed velvet dress with an empire waist and a skirt that fell just below the knee. She went from being the ugliest person Santana had ever seen to the most stunning in a matter of seconds, but she quickly blinked and folded her arms, determined to not let it distract her.
Putting in a gold earring as she walked, Quinn cleared a path to the bedroom, "Sorry about that, I thought you'd still be at work."
Santana made a bee-line through the door to her room, flicking the lights on and tossing through, over, and aside every plausible place that a person could hide. "I could say the same for you."
Having moved into the bathroom to examine her hair, Quinn raised her voice so that Santana could still hear. "Work a full day on Valentine's Day? You know that's against the law for me," she replied warmly, a trace of the girl she once knew finally returning to her voice.
After trashing the entire room, Santana had enough. She quickly threw on one of her most revealing cocktail dresses, one she had previously reserved only for Quinn, and stormed back into the living room, standing in the blonde's eyesight from the open bathroom door. "Where's Becca?"
Quinn turned her head to make eye contact, her expression confused. "Uhh... I don't know? Probably still at work, I'd imagine."
Not buying on it, Santana pressed on. "Is that who you're all dressed up for?"
Walking out of the bathroom and back into the living room, Quinn looked more perplexed by the second. "Santana," she began, "what is it that you're trying to imply?" In that moment, she glanced sideways at the open bedroom door to see the wreckage the other girl had just created. The moment of realization visibly registered on her face. "Oh my God, did you think -- we were involved?!"
Santana started to feel flushed, uncertain as to whether it was true disbelief or simply denial in Quinn's voice. "Come on, the wine, the couch, the music, the night time..."
Quinn put her hands over her face. "Oh, God, oh God, oh God," she repeated regretfully, "I swear, it didn't even occur to me how that must have looked! If you hadn't taken off so fast, I would have told you what was really going on." She paused to pick up a packet of papers off the floor that had been on the coffee table moments before and held it up for Santana to see. It was a contract. "Becca wanted to meet with me about taking over her old shift leader position. It's one set schedule, salary pay... she just got promoted and they want someone internal to take over, but since I've been there the least amount of time, her boss suggested we meet privately to make sure I'm right for it before making the announcement."
What could be described only as a sharp, prodding ache in Santana's stomach started to swell deep within her. This was all starting to make sense. Believable, logical sense.
The first thought in Santana's mind escaped her mouth. "Wow," she cleared her throat. "So... you're not... going out with her tonight?"
Quinn emitted a quiet laugh and for the first time in a long time, Santana saw a beautifully genuine smile remain on fair-skinned lips for more than just a fleeting moment. "Well, while I'm officially a little offended that you would even think so, no, I'm definitely not going out with her tonight, or at all. I kind of had a feeling she wanted to ask me last night, but I feigned tiredness and rushed her out before she could ask to not make it awkward."
The ache in Santana's stomach turned into a pulsating throb. She was wrong. She was so fucking wrong. A subconscious part of her knew that she should tell Quinn what she had done right then, but the other part of her was enjoying this long-lost degree of closeness way too much to even sacrifice a second of it.
The unfamiliar tug of a smile broadened Santana's mouth. "Oh," she laughed sheepishly, "well, you look so amazing, I figured you had someone to impress."
With a step forward, Quinn tossed the contract on the couch, fiddled with the cross around her neck like she always did when she was nervous, and locked her army green eyes with Santana's tawny brown. "Well, actually, I was hoping maybe we could get some dinner together, and catch up? We haven't really talked since, you know... and I think we've been through too much together to have to spend this day alone."
All of the weighted pain that beat at the bottom of Santana's stomach suddenly shot up, straight to her heart like a hollow-point bullet when there was a knock at their front door.
The blonde regarded the door quizzically, since as an alternative to "buzzing someone in," their apartment had the option of a pass code in the lobby. "I didn't give out our code to anybody, did you?" she asked, walking toward the front door.
"No, wait --" Santana heard herself practically whisper, cut off by --
" --Who is it?"
"It's Brittany," the voice stated officially, almost robotically, "Brittany S. Pierce."
She thought she'd be used to it by now, but the microsecond it took for the happiness in Quinn's eyes to turn to betrayal never failed to floor Santana.
"Brittany?" she asked Santana, her voice quiet and gritty, "What is Brittany doing here?"
Frantic desperation consuming her body, Santana moved toward the door but kept her eyes fixated on Quinn, "Okay, look, please don't go anywhere, just let me get the door and give me a chance to explain, okay? She's just here for the night, as a friend, nothing more."
As soon as Santana's hand turned the doorknob, any lasting thread she had to hold on to rapidly began unraveling when Brittany, dressed in what could only be described as black lingerie under an overcoat that left practically nothing to the imagination, flung herself into Santana's arms, hands gripping the Latina's ass tightly. Santana did her best to shake away from the tall, muscular girl's tight grasp, not even daring to cast a look at Quinn, who was likely obliterating them both with an icy stare. She finally freed herself and quickly used Brittany's coat and suitcase as a physical barrier between them. "Uh, hi, Brit, Happy Valentine's Day," she managed with faux cheer and nonchalance.
Bright blue eyes widened as she smiled. "Oh my gosh, do you know what this reminds me of? When we were in the tenth grade and you had to explain to me over and over again that Valentimes day isn't just about telling the time over and over again all day like I used to think, and then instead we saw how many times we could have sex in one day! Do you remember that?"
Quinn's laugh cynically sounded from the living room as she bent down to pick up her contract and headed for the bedroom. Santana cursed internally; It was time for her to step it up if she ever wanted to make this right.
"Quinn, wait, please..." Santana begged as she ran across the living room and placed a hand on her shoulder from behind.
"No, I'm really more than done with this, Santana, okay? Please," she replied, not even able to bring herself to turn around.
Unsurprisingly oblivious to the tension, Brittany shouted from the kitchen, "Hi, Quinn! It's me, Brittany, from high school!"
As she turned around, Quinn's teeth were so firmly gritted together that Santana could practically feel it in her own. Her breathing and words were choppy as she feigned what could barely be called a smile. "Yes," she exhaled, "I know."
Since her life already had a knack for horribly ironic timing that could rival that of a fucking TV drama, Santana plead to whatever higher power would listen that she could somehow will what was happening to a halt when she saw Brittany reach into her bag and walk toward Quinn with a card.
"So, I'll be honest with you, I'm pretty mad at you for deciding to become a nun and breaking Santana's heart, especially since she's so hot, but on the other hand, I wouldn't have my license if you didn't stick up for me in driver's ed that time I crashed the instructor's car, so, I brought you a Valentime anyway," she said, hopelessly earnest, and unknowingly sealing Santana's fate by revealing exactly what her motives were for the evening, and how she had lied to set them in place. Santana couldn't bear another syllable.
"Brittany! Can you, um, wait out in the hallway for a few? Quinn and I need a minute," she cut in, sweat beads forming miniature pools on her face and neck.
"Oh, okay, but don't be long, 'cuz it's gonna take us forever to fly to New Jersey," Brittany urged as she walked back toward the kitchen.
Thinking she should probably leave it alone, Santana couldn't help but correct her, for Quinn's sake, too. If she found out that Santana had used the company plane to fly Brittany out, she wouldn't stand a chance. "Um, no, Brit, we're not flying to New Jersey, we're driving."
"But I thought New Jersey was in India, won't that take us like 100 hours to drive to?" she inquired with concern.
"Jersey..." Quinn interjected spitefully, "Really, Santana?"
Santana's resolve was weakening as she exhaled deeply. New Jersey had always been the chosen destination for the nights Quinn and Santana wanted to go out dancing, since the work Santana was too paranoid to go anywhere within the city in fear of someone seeing her at a gay bar. "Brittany, hallway. Now."
"No, Brittany's right," Quinn insisted firmly, "you guys really should get going." Her iced-over eyes bore into Santana's. "We have nothing to talk about anymore."
The bedroom door slam jolted Santana's shoulders before clawing her fingers up her forehead and through her hair, head still spinning from the tempest of destruction that only further broke what she was convinced couldn't possibly get any worse.
From behind her, she heard Brittany clear her throat, and she turned to see her wearing the same empty expression she was famous for in high school. "Wait, I thought if Quinn was a nun, she was supposed to wear that black hood thing..." she whispered, as if it were an inappropriate question.
Without responding, Santana gripped Brittany's wrist and pulled her toward the front door. When a moment ago, words were the only thing she wished for to try and explain this all away to Quinn, now she couldn't seem to find them, as she was burdened with the weight of Valentine's Day, and the 3 people she just ruined it for.
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By the time they returned to the apartment at 2:45 in the morning, Santana had counted 64 instances of Brittany asking, "Are you mad at me?" As much as nothing irritated her more than the repetition of the same question or statement, Santana couldn't help but pity the girl she once called her best friend. After all, Brittany was promised a much different evening than the one that occurred, which consisted of Santana lost in tormented thought, contributing few words to conversation, and barely able to uphold her own body on the dance floor. Even so, she knew it was better to just reaffirm Brittany's question with her own repeated "Of course not" rather than go into how everything actually ended up unfolding. She already ruined her night, there was no point in telling her she had used her, too.
Tiptoeing inside, when Quinn was nowhere to be found in the living room despite the blanket on the couch, Santana assumed she had (rightfully) taken the bedroom for the evening. It wasn't until Brittany came dashing from the bathroom in the same split second that she had entered, practically ashen.
"Quinn's puking her guts out," she shouted across the living room tactlessly, "Is she throwing up a demon or something?"
Santana ran over, gently pushing Brittany to the side to tend to Quinn, who was in fact sprawled out on her knees on the cold linoleum, her hair framing her face in various sticky clumps from her messy ponytail, sorely streaked cheeks, and her pale, limp form shaking drastically with each awful retch. The pungent smell of vodka filled the room, and suddenly, Santana's heart began to race. Quinn had never drank to this extreme, and it wasn't looking good.
She likewise knelt to the floor, gathering dirty blonde hair away from the other girl's damp face with one hand and rubbing her back with the other. "Hey, hey, I'm here," she began, knowing how Quinn hated vomiting more than just about anything else, "how much did you have to drink?" No response, just more horrible sounds. "Quinn? Talk to me so I can help you, sweetie..."
After another few moments of silence, her words finally came, teary, slurred, and loud. "You can't help me, this is your fault! This whole.. all this feelings and crying and I thought the drink and then it would make me forget and then now there was just crying some more and puking and I just I wanna die!"
"Shh, you know that's not true, come on, take deep breaths," Santana attempted at comfort, hoping to God that Quinn's statement was only that of a belligerent drunk and nothing substantial.
With a few final spits and deep breaths, it appeared Quinn's bout of sickness was finally over. She emitted what could only be described as an upset growl and changed her mind. "No, I wanna kill HER, she came.. and she took," she finished, clearly referring to Brittany despite the incoherence.
Santana helped Quinn into an upright position and cleared away the moisture from under her eyes before looking deeply into them. "Hey, hey, none of that's true, either. Brittany is your friend, and she didn't take anyone or anything, okay? I promise. And I'm so sorry. For all of this."
Brittany poked her head back in the bathroom door cautiously, and when she saw that Quinn was no longer sick, spoke up. "Santana, is it bedtime yet? I'm seeing those tired color spots whenever I blink."
The Latina took a deep breath before remembering that she was the one who created this mess, as fucking usual. "Okay, Brit, why don't you go lay down on the couch and I'll be there in a minute to tuck you in? I'm gonna get Quinn settled in the bedroom."
"We can still cuddle, right?" Brittany asked innocently.
Santana swallowed hard. "We'll see."
Lifting Quinn onto her feet and then carefully into a threshold position in her arms, her own heartbeat pounded sharply in her ears with each step, trying to suppress Quinn's intoxicated sobs. The two parts of her own brain that always seemed to contradict were, as always, at odds, as one side thought things could not possibly get any worse, the other side found just enough of a shred of hope.
As much as she hated to see Quinn cry, again, on her account, it spoke a truth that could not be denied: Quinn still cared about her.
Chapter: 4/8
Author: perfectly_vague
Rating: R (language, adult themes)
Disclaimer: I own zero rights to Glee.
Summary: Quinn's had it with Santana being a different person out in the world than she is behind closed doors. Same sucky summary... same request that you don't let it deter you! :p This is the result of one of the iTunes shuffle drabbles I posted not long ago. As always, any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated! Enjoy!
Brittany Pierce never made it out of Lima. The saddest part was, denseness aside, her talent alone really could have taken her places: New York, LA, or virtually anywhere that called for a professional dancer. But her gullibility, lack of street (or book) smarts, and youthful need to be taken care of kept her firmly planted where she was.
That's the part that had Santana feeling slightly guilty about using Brittany as a pawn in this quintessential Lopez versus Fabray battle for dominance, but on the other hand, despite being stuck in a two-stoplight town, the brightly blue-eyed girl was doing pretty well for herself. She was a full-time gymnastics and aerobics instructor at the only youth sports club within a 50-mile radius, and the over-zealous stage parents who were determined to ride on their children's coat tails out of Ohio were always thrilled with her work. So, while it may not have been the life that many agreed she could have, it was always in true Brittany fashion to find happiness in things others didn't understand.
In fact, one of those things was her interesting-at-best friendship with Santana in high school. To onlookers it was bizarre, controversial, even scandalous. To Brittany and Santana, it was simply convenient. Santana loved sex, Brittany loved sex. Santana preferred girls, Brittany went either way. Santana liked to lead, Brittany liked to follow. And neither of them found anyone special enough to commit to long-term and thwart their occasional hook-ups -- no one who reciprocated, anyway. That was of course until a moment of long-hushed honesty brought Quinn and Santana together after a lifetime of friendship, ironically prompted by the former queen bee's discovery of Brittany and Santana's friendship with benefits:
"WHAT the fuck is your problem?" demanded a fiery, teenage Santana on the Fabrays' front doorstep on the first day of summer, the year the Glee club came in 3rd at Regionals. "I come here trying to be nice --"
"And I said thank you," Quinn replied quietly, "now can you please go before you wake my mom? She's napping --"
"You mean she's passed out, drunk, as usual!" the Latina shouted, continuing on despite the hurt look etched on the blonde's face. "Oh, come on, you know it's true and I know it's true, I just thought I'd offer you an alternative to boozy the clown's not-so-fun-house since you refused to stay at Weezy's place."
"Okay, I already feel bad enough for turning down Mercedes' offer, but I just wasn't comfortable. I only met Mr. and Mrs. Jones once and I kind of got the sense that they had already made a lot of judgments about me. It just wouldn't feel like home," Quinn countered, her eyes roaming the same downward trail that the volume of her voice did.
"Which, again, is why I made my offer," Santana retorted haughtily. "Your ass practically has its own groove marks in all of our furniture, and my parents call you 'honey', which they don't even call me. They would obviously make you feel at home."
Quinn took a deep breath, something obviously weighing on her mind. "I'm sure they would..."
"Then WHAT is your problem?!" Santana interrogated.
"It's not them I'd feel uncomfortable around.." Quinn's voice trailed off, her failure to finish the sentence still speaking volumes of its own.
While the blonde's telltale unimpressed face involved the singular raised eyebrow, Santana, too, had a look all her own that made her dissatisfaction crystal clear. "ME? You're not comfortable around ME? Are you that fucking weak that you have to run home to Mommy whenever somebody hurts your feelings?"
A sarcastic laugh rumbled low through Quinn. "Yeah, like I really wanna live with this."
"Well, what do you want me to say? I'm sorry for being the same old bitch I've always been? I'm sorry for sexting with your baby daddy, who you stole from me?"
Before Santana could say any more, Quinn cut in. "I'm surprised you're so worked up about Puck, since you're with Brittany and all."
For the first time the whole conversation, the two girls' eyes deadlocked.
"Yeah," the blonde continued, "Mercedes told me."
This time, Santana released her own brand of unamused laughter. "Okay, first of all, I'm not 'with' Brittany. We have sex sometimes, that's it. And second of all, I knew you were prudish and uptight, but I had no idea you were completely brainwashed by that Catholic bullshit."
"You're wrong," Quinn all-but-whispered.
"So, you think that The Riz is all fine and good with teenage pregnancy, but not down with a little rainbow love? God, you're twisted."
"You're WRONG, Santana!" she insisted once more.
"Then fucking enlighten me!" the shorter girl shouted, at her wits end. When she received no reply from the other girl, her fire only became increasingly wilder, as she took 3 steps forward until she was practically nose-to-nose with the blonde. "Seriously, grow a pair and explain yourself, because I may be a bitch, but I don't back down like one! You have a problem, you tell it to my face!"
Quinn's body visibly shook and her normally bright eyes became dark. "Fine! You want the big, ugly secret? The truth? I wasn't disgusted that you and Brittany were involved." A long hush overtook the air, and this time Santana kept quiet. "I was jealous. Of her. Satisfied?"
For at least 5 seconds, Santana was almost certain her heart had stopped.
Suddenly, Mrs. Fabray appeared in the doorway, the shouting likely having woke her. "Quinn. Inside. Now."
Whatever was about to happen behind closed doors, Santana knew it wasn't going to be good, and it was going to be big. She very well knew how to read behind the eyes of the Fabrays by now.
Although things certainly got worse before they got better, the outing of Quinn's feelings for Santana brought Quinn from her mother's home to the Lopez' instead, and subsequently gave Santana the courage to disclose her mutual feelings for Quinn. So, in a weird, indirect way, Brittany played a role in actually bringing the two together.
It didn't stop Quinn from getting jealous of the way Brittany always found a way to touch Santana at school, or the drunken come-ons, both in person and via text. Santana always assured Quinn that it was harmless flirting, and she was mostly right. The only real trouble being that for Brittany, the lines of relationships (or friendships, or hookups) were often blurred, and so boundaries were never crystal clear for the slow-on-the-uptake dancer. Even the last time they saw Brittany, almost 3 years ago when they returned to Lima for Mr. Schuester's wedding, the green-eyed girl had to practically be talked down from a ledge after the other blonde pulled Santana onto the dance floor and all but put on a show for everyone by effortlessly, yet salaciously, grinding against her. Santana always consoled Quinn with rare, yet true, sincerity: that she would never cheat on her. Unlike various other hearts that she fumbled, dropped, and broke, she simply loved Quinn too much to ever hurt her like that.
But now, post-break up and post-Becca, all bets were off.
**********************************************************************
Even the deep-reaching yawn that temporarily paralyzed her lethargic form couldn't stop Santana from smiling proudly as she left the office at a record-setting 3 PM. It had been quite some time, likely as far back as before she and Quinn had started dating, since she had manipulated, pulled strings, and meddled. For picking up where she left off after so many passing years, she simply had to congratulate herself.
Her victory was especially sweet considering that her plan was almost thwarted altogether when Brittany insisted she had to be back to Ohio for her 4 PM shift the day after Valentine's Day. When Santana asked why, Brittany replied:
"Well, my boss is kind of mad at me, 'cause 2 weeks ago when we went to competition, I kind of lost a few of the kids, but only for a little while. I don't know why she's so mad, the kids were totally fine, but still, I have to be really good or I'll get fired."
Santana sighed. Oh, Brittany. Some things never change.
But no, she wasn't going to relent that easily. Every time she closed her eyes, images of either Becca or Quinn or the wine or her first visit to their work flickered through her senses like a candle that refused to be snuffed, and it made her want to shout and cry all at once. If there was one thing she thought she had made perfectly clear in her young life, it's that no one messes with the queen bee. And despite what anyone else had to say about it, Santana was about to prove once and for all that SHE was the one who owned the throne.
At 6:00 sharp that morning, Santana sauntered confidently and far earlier than usual into Jerry's office and smiled. With an extra few bats of her temptingly long lashes, she convinced him that she was "oh-so-close" to signing a business contract with a client she insisted was a notorious hold-out: a "big time" sports club in the Midwest, and that a business dinner, courtesy of the company jet and town car, would lock things down "for sure."
For someone as sickeningly rich and indubitably respected throughout the Northeast as Jerry was, he was notoriously for being both cheap and bitter. Santana privately conjectured that his anger revolved around even his millions being unable buy away his impotence, heaviness, or the fact that he never married, and her faint flirting was a subtle, yet hopefully final touch. After moments of grumbling about short notice and budget questions, Jerry begrudgingly agreed, warning Santana that if she failed to close the deal, she would be taking his business trip to Arizona at the beginning of March so that he could attend a golf tournament. While Jerry made the arrangements for that evening, Santana silently blocked off her calendar from March 1st through the 7th, citing "AZ trip" as the reason for her unavailability.
She glanced at her watch as the elevator doors opened, reaching her floor exactly at 3:36 PM. The Manhattan streets were especially buzzing that afternoon as she had watched, more wistfully than she would admit, couples of all ages and kinds stroll the city sidewalks as she was in stand-still traffic. Now she had to make up for lost time and find something smokin' to wear before both Brittany, in the company town car, and Quinn arrived at the apartment a little after 4. She did bait Brittany with the promise of lots of sex, after all, so she had to look the part.
She tossed her keys and purse by the door and alternated between the bedroom and the bathroom, contemplating whether or not she would have time to shower. Deciding against it, she instead plugged her straightener into the bathroom vanity and began applying make-up as she waited for it to heat. She considered eyeshadow colors for a moment before realizing she would need to decide on an outfit first in order to coordinate.
Once in the living room, Santana found it odd that the bedroom door was shut, and upon moving closer, heard a familiar love song playing, and not the usual depressing shit that both she and Quinn had admittedly been playing a lot of since their split. Without warning, Santana's breath hitched tightly in her throat: it was one of the songs Quinn sometimes played when they were intimate.
She was in there, fucking that bitch!
Before Santana knew it, her fist was against the door, pounding to the point of redness against her dark knuckles. "Quinn!" she shouted, the name burning in her mouth like spice.
In a matter of seconds, a slightly startled, but calm Quinn opened the door, hair framing her face and a soft smile pushing against her lips. "Hey, I wasn't expecting you," she said, causing Santana to fight the urge to remark sarcastically. "Happy Valentine's Day."
Wow. Quinn really thought she could play cute and innocent and get away with this. She'd see. There was no way Becca could escape without getting through Santana, and she wanted to make sure to save the bulk of her rage for that whore, just in case her fist were to act on its own in search for a face. She had hit Quinn before in high school, and her promise to never hit her again was one she didn't want to break, even in her near-blinding rage. "I need to get in there."
Eyebrows furrowed, Quinn took a discouraged step back. "Okay, just give me a second to get decent."
Santana was certain this was a dream. There's no way this was really happening, that after all this time of seeing what she thought was the truth, Quinn really was the ultimate, unfeeling, beyond evil queen bee that everyone in days of old used to fear. Feeling numb, she kicked over the large pewter coffee table in one fell swoop, registering the pain in her toes and reinforcing that this was in fact real life.
From behind her, the bedroom door opened, and she whirled around to see Quinn emerging from the darkness in a maroon, crushed velvet dress with an empire waist and a skirt that fell just below the knee. She went from being the ugliest person Santana had ever seen to the most stunning in a matter of seconds, but she quickly blinked and folded her arms, determined to not let it distract her.
Putting in a gold earring as she walked, Quinn cleared a path to the bedroom, "Sorry about that, I thought you'd still be at work."
Santana made a bee-line through the door to her room, flicking the lights on and tossing through, over, and aside every plausible place that a person could hide. "I could say the same for you."
Having moved into the bathroom to examine her hair, Quinn raised her voice so that Santana could still hear. "Work a full day on Valentine's Day? You know that's against the law for me," she replied warmly, a trace of the girl she once knew finally returning to her voice.
After trashing the entire room, Santana had enough. She quickly threw on one of her most revealing cocktail dresses, one she had previously reserved only for Quinn, and stormed back into the living room, standing in the blonde's eyesight from the open bathroom door. "Where's Becca?"
Quinn turned her head to make eye contact, her expression confused. "Uhh... I don't know? Probably still at work, I'd imagine."
Not buying on it, Santana pressed on. "Is that who you're all dressed up for?"
Walking out of the bathroom and back into the living room, Quinn looked more perplexed by the second. "Santana," she began, "what is it that you're trying to imply?" In that moment, she glanced sideways at the open bedroom door to see the wreckage the other girl had just created. The moment of realization visibly registered on her face. "Oh my God, did you think -- we were involved?!"
Santana started to feel flushed, uncertain as to whether it was true disbelief or simply denial in Quinn's voice. "Come on, the wine, the couch, the music, the night time..."
Quinn put her hands over her face. "Oh, God, oh God, oh God," she repeated regretfully, "I swear, it didn't even occur to me how that must have looked! If you hadn't taken off so fast, I would have told you what was really going on." She paused to pick up a packet of papers off the floor that had been on the coffee table moments before and held it up for Santana to see. It was a contract. "Becca wanted to meet with me about taking over her old shift leader position. It's one set schedule, salary pay... she just got promoted and they want someone internal to take over, but since I've been there the least amount of time, her boss suggested we meet privately to make sure I'm right for it before making the announcement."
What could be described only as a sharp, prodding ache in Santana's stomach started to swell deep within her. This was all starting to make sense. Believable, logical sense.
The first thought in Santana's mind escaped her mouth. "Wow," she cleared her throat. "So... you're not... going out with her tonight?"
Quinn emitted a quiet laugh and for the first time in a long time, Santana saw a beautifully genuine smile remain on fair-skinned lips for more than just a fleeting moment. "Well, while I'm officially a little offended that you would even think so, no, I'm definitely not going out with her tonight, or at all. I kind of had a feeling she wanted to ask me last night, but I feigned tiredness and rushed her out before she could ask to not make it awkward."
The ache in Santana's stomach turned into a pulsating throb. She was wrong. She was so fucking wrong. A subconscious part of her knew that she should tell Quinn what she had done right then, but the other part of her was enjoying this long-lost degree of closeness way too much to even sacrifice a second of it.
The unfamiliar tug of a smile broadened Santana's mouth. "Oh," she laughed sheepishly, "well, you look so amazing, I figured you had someone to impress."
With a step forward, Quinn tossed the contract on the couch, fiddled with the cross around her neck like she always did when she was nervous, and locked her army green eyes with Santana's tawny brown. "Well, actually, I was hoping maybe we could get some dinner together, and catch up? We haven't really talked since, you know... and I think we've been through too much together to have to spend this day alone."
All of the weighted pain that beat at the bottom of Santana's stomach suddenly shot up, straight to her heart like a hollow-point bullet when there was a knock at their front door.
The blonde regarded the door quizzically, since as an alternative to "buzzing someone in," their apartment had the option of a pass code in the lobby. "I didn't give out our code to anybody, did you?" she asked, walking toward the front door.
"No, wait --" Santana heard herself practically whisper, cut off by --
" --Who is it?"
"It's Brittany," the voice stated officially, almost robotically, "Brittany S. Pierce."
She thought she'd be used to it by now, but the microsecond it took for the happiness in Quinn's eyes to turn to betrayal never failed to floor Santana.
"Brittany?" she asked Santana, her voice quiet and gritty, "What is Brittany doing here?"
Frantic desperation consuming her body, Santana moved toward the door but kept her eyes fixated on Quinn, "Okay, look, please don't go anywhere, just let me get the door and give me a chance to explain, okay? She's just here for the night, as a friend, nothing more."
As soon as Santana's hand turned the doorknob, any lasting thread she had to hold on to rapidly began unraveling when Brittany, dressed in what could only be described as black lingerie under an overcoat that left practically nothing to the imagination, flung herself into Santana's arms, hands gripping the Latina's ass tightly. Santana did her best to shake away from the tall, muscular girl's tight grasp, not even daring to cast a look at Quinn, who was likely obliterating them both with an icy stare. She finally freed herself and quickly used Brittany's coat and suitcase as a physical barrier between them. "Uh, hi, Brit, Happy Valentine's Day," she managed with faux cheer and nonchalance.
Bright blue eyes widened as she smiled. "Oh my gosh, do you know what this reminds me of? When we were in the tenth grade and you had to explain to me over and over again that Valentimes day isn't just about telling the time over and over again all day like I used to think, and then instead we saw how many times we could have sex in one day! Do you remember that?"
Quinn's laugh cynically sounded from the living room as she bent down to pick up her contract and headed for the bedroom. Santana cursed internally; It was time for her to step it up if she ever wanted to make this right.
"Quinn, wait, please..." Santana begged as she ran across the living room and placed a hand on her shoulder from behind.
"No, I'm really more than done with this, Santana, okay? Please," she replied, not even able to bring herself to turn around.
Unsurprisingly oblivious to the tension, Brittany shouted from the kitchen, "Hi, Quinn! It's me, Brittany, from high school!"
As she turned around, Quinn's teeth were so firmly gritted together that Santana could practically feel it in her own. Her breathing and words were choppy as she feigned what could barely be called a smile. "Yes," she exhaled, "I know."
Since her life already had a knack for horribly ironic timing that could rival that of a fucking TV drama, Santana plead to whatever higher power would listen that she could somehow will what was happening to a halt when she saw Brittany reach into her bag and walk toward Quinn with a card.
"So, I'll be honest with you, I'm pretty mad at you for deciding to become a nun and breaking Santana's heart, especially since she's so hot, but on the other hand, I wouldn't have my license if you didn't stick up for me in driver's ed that time I crashed the instructor's car, so, I brought you a Valentime anyway," she said, hopelessly earnest, and unknowingly sealing Santana's fate by revealing exactly what her motives were for the evening, and how she had lied to set them in place. Santana couldn't bear another syllable.
"Brittany! Can you, um, wait out in the hallway for a few? Quinn and I need a minute," she cut in, sweat beads forming miniature pools on her face and neck.
"Oh, okay, but don't be long, 'cuz it's gonna take us forever to fly to New Jersey," Brittany urged as she walked back toward the kitchen.
Thinking she should probably leave it alone, Santana couldn't help but correct her, for Quinn's sake, too. If she found out that Santana had used the company plane to fly Brittany out, she wouldn't stand a chance. "Um, no, Brit, we're not flying to New Jersey, we're driving."
"But I thought New Jersey was in India, won't that take us like 100 hours to drive to?" she inquired with concern.
"Jersey..." Quinn interjected spitefully, "Really, Santana?"
Santana's resolve was weakening as she exhaled deeply. New Jersey had always been the chosen destination for the nights Quinn and Santana wanted to go out dancing, since the work Santana was too paranoid to go anywhere within the city in fear of someone seeing her at a gay bar. "Brittany, hallway. Now."
"No, Brittany's right," Quinn insisted firmly, "you guys really should get going." Her iced-over eyes bore into Santana's. "We have nothing to talk about anymore."
The bedroom door slam jolted Santana's shoulders before clawing her fingers up her forehead and through her hair, head still spinning from the tempest of destruction that only further broke what she was convinced couldn't possibly get any worse.
From behind her, she heard Brittany clear her throat, and she turned to see her wearing the same empty expression she was famous for in high school. "Wait, I thought if Quinn was a nun, she was supposed to wear that black hood thing..." she whispered, as if it were an inappropriate question.
Without responding, Santana gripped Brittany's wrist and pulled her toward the front door. When a moment ago, words were the only thing she wished for to try and explain this all away to Quinn, now she couldn't seem to find them, as she was burdened with the weight of Valentine's Day, and the 3 people she just ruined it for.
*****************************************************************
By the time they returned to the apartment at 2:45 in the morning, Santana had counted 64 instances of Brittany asking, "Are you mad at me?" As much as nothing irritated her more than the repetition of the same question or statement, Santana couldn't help but pity the girl she once called her best friend. After all, Brittany was promised a much different evening than the one that occurred, which consisted of Santana lost in tormented thought, contributing few words to conversation, and barely able to uphold her own body on the dance floor. Even so, she knew it was better to just reaffirm Brittany's question with her own repeated "Of course not" rather than go into how everything actually ended up unfolding. She already ruined her night, there was no point in telling her she had used her, too.
Tiptoeing inside, when Quinn was nowhere to be found in the living room despite the blanket on the couch, Santana assumed she had (rightfully) taken the bedroom for the evening. It wasn't until Brittany came dashing from the bathroom in the same split second that she had entered, practically ashen.
"Quinn's puking her guts out," she shouted across the living room tactlessly, "Is she throwing up a demon or something?"
Santana ran over, gently pushing Brittany to the side to tend to Quinn, who was in fact sprawled out on her knees on the cold linoleum, her hair framing her face in various sticky clumps from her messy ponytail, sorely streaked cheeks, and her pale, limp form shaking drastically with each awful retch. The pungent smell of vodka filled the room, and suddenly, Santana's heart began to race. Quinn had never drank to this extreme, and it wasn't looking good.
She likewise knelt to the floor, gathering dirty blonde hair away from the other girl's damp face with one hand and rubbing her back with the other. "Hey, hey, I'm here," she began, knowing how Quinn hated vomiting more than just about anything else, "how much did you have to drink?" No response, just more horrible sounds. "Quinn? Talk to me so I can help you, sweetie..."
After another few moments of silence, her words finally came, teary, slurred, and loud. "You can't help me, this is your fault! This whole.. all this feelings and crying and I thought the drink and then it would make me forget and then now there was just crying some more and puking and I just I wanna die!"
"Shh, you know that's not true, come on, take deep breaths," Santana attempted at comfort, hoping to God that Quinn's statement was only that of a belligerent drunk and nothing substantial.
With a few final spits and deep breaths, it appeared Quinn's bout of sickness was finally over. She emitted what could only be described as an upset growl and changed her mind. "No, I wanna kill HER, she came.. and she took," she finished, clearly referring to Brittany despite the incoherence.
Santana helped Quinn into an upright position and cleared away the moisture from under her eyes before looking deeply into them. "Hey, hey, none of that's true, either. Brittany is your friend, and she didn't take anyone or anything, okay? I promise. And I'm so sorry. For all of this."
Brittany poked her head back in the bathroom door cautiously, and when she saw that Quinn was no longer sick, spoke up. "Santana, is it bedtime yet? I'm seeing those tired color spots whenever I blink."
The Latina took a deep breath before remembering that she was the one who created this mess, as fucking usual. "Okay, Brit, why don't you go lay down on the couch and I'll be there in a minute to tuck you in? I'm gonna get Quinn settled in the bedroom."
"We can still cuddle, right?" Brittany asked innocently.
Santana swallowed hard. "We'll see."
Lifting Quinn onto her feet and then carefully into a threshold position in her arms, her own heartbeat pounded sharply in her ears with each step, trying to suppress Quinn's intoxicated sobs. The two parts of her own brain that always seemed to contradict were, as always, at odds, as one side thought things could not possibly get any worse, the other side found just enough of a shred of hope.
As much as she hated to see Quinn cry, again, on her account, it spoke a truth that could not be denied: Quinn still cared about her.