FIC: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo) (3/?)
Title: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo)
Author: Misty Flores
Genre: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Santana (some Brittany/Santana implied)
Rating: M
Teaser: Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can’t sleep, she’ll think back and wonder why it’ll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.
Spoilers: Glee S4 through ep 10
Prompt: from Jskuriou: Santana is being too passive and Quinn decides it's her mission to get an honest reaction out of her. No matter what it takes. Looking for the real Santana under the calm, mature veneer she's hiding behind. Could be set at Christmas or New Years.
AN: Inspired very much by Maroon 5’s ‘One More Night’. Thanks for jskurious for the prompt. This is a shorter fic that should be finished up sometime this week.
Chapters 1 & 2
Part Three. I'd Be Waking Up In The Morning Probably Hating Myself
Quinn isn’t quite sure what to do, but she does understand her situation and what has led them to this point. Santana is a weepy drunk and she is an angry one. Even without those two particularly annoying character traits, they have a volatile friendship, and the result was an explosion, a confrontation, and Quinn’s first foray into exploring her own apparently fluid sexuality. Still, it’s a terrible time to discover that there has been an underlying attraction to her friend brought to the surface when faced with a lapful for Santana and a lot of tequila.
Quinn’s heartbeat quickens, and she remembers now quite vividly the sensation of her mouth plundering Santana’s; how her fingers so eagerly rounded the curves of Santana’s breasts.
Her fingers twitch with phantom feeling.
She may freak out about this when she’s sober.
As it is, Quinn’s liquor-soaked brain can only concentrate on a few things. Namely, two: her inconsolable uninvited houseguest currently curled in a fetal position on her carpet, and the fact that her down jacket which keeps her rather toasty outside is now making her uncomfortably warm inside.
But that, at the very least, she can do something about. Closing her eyes for a moment, Quinn steadies herself and then with oddly uncoordinated fingers, she unzips her jacket, shrugging it off her shoulders and letting it bunch at the small of her back.
It’s a relief when cool air hits her skin. One problem has been solved.
Across the floor, Santana’s sobs have reduced to sniffles, but she seems to have not adopted Quinn’s strategy of cooling herself down, because aside from the open jacket and shirt, she remains bundled up, looking like a lewd Artic stripper.
Right.
Quinn’s teeth grind together, because honestly, the liquor is helping, but not nearly enough to not remember that this is a very serious, very screwed up situation, and she’s had way too many of those for an 18 year old young woman.
Is this what Sam meant by rich white girl problems? Because she’s going to punch him the next time she sees him.
Pushing against the door makes her head swim slightly, but it sets Quinn in the right direction, half crawling and half shuffling past Santana to get to her drawer. She’s grateful for her OCD quirks, because it’s easy to locate an extra set of fleece pajama pants and a tank top.
When she turns, Santana’s head has lifted. She’s regarding her with that same doe-eyed fearful look that prompted Quinn to open the door to her before, and this time it’s made worse with the raw swollen lids and tracks of tears.
She makes Fantine in Les Miserables looks downright chipper.
“Here,” she says, and then inches forward, determinedly not looking at Santana’s face as she grabs hold of her and pulls her into a sitting position. Santana’s purposely heavy. She sniffles slightly, but she allows herself to be manipulated. It feels so out of character, so… vulnerable, that Quinn shakes her head to avoid thinking about it and grabs hold of Santana’s jacket, shoving it ceremoniously off her shoulders.
It’s like playing with a really beautiful, really pathetic doll.
Santana’s in her arms now, upper body bare except for that damn nude lacy bra. She smells like tequila and Quinn’s perfume.
Ten minutes ago, they were almost in this exact same situation, but the result would have been very, very different.
God, this is stupid. Quinn shuts her eyes, purposely blind to the other woman and her tragic, addicting beauty.
“Put this on,” Quinn mumbles as the clothes are placed in Santana’s lifeless fingers. She turns away and fishes out a pair for herself.
She won’t abandon Santana, of course she won’t, but at this moment, drunk and out of her element, Quinn doesn’t want to think about what exactly that means.
*********
Santana is purposely placed in her absent roommate’s bed. Quinn places a glass of water by the night stand, and sucks down a bottle of it herself, despite the fact that she knows it means she’ll have to get up in the middle of the night to pee, a habit that started when she was pregnant and something she’s never been able to shake since.
The midnight breakdown has left Santana exhausted and emotionally naked. There is none of her usual bravado. She’s aware Quinn is avoiding looking at her and it’s clearly affecting her.
Quinn is too tired, too raw, to care. She turns off her lamp and invites the darkness of the night.
“Quinn.” It’s a soft voice, devoid of strength that whispers into the void. “I’m sorry.”
Normally, Quinn complains about her awkwardly shaped mattress and her scrawny down comforter. Tonight, she finds comfort in it. Her back turns away from the woman she’s hauntingly aware, and she tries to sleep.
No matter what tomorrow brings, this Christmas Eve at the very least, is over.
*********
It’s a fitful night of sleep.
Quinn’s eyes open in the early morning with an immediate urge to pee. Sluggish with exhaustion and sleep, it takes a moment for her to realize that this is because a hip connected to a warm body is pressing on the exact area.
Santana, she realizes, has joined her on the twin-sized bed. She’s curled into her side, arm splayed against Quinn’s chest as her breath flutters across Quinn’s collarbone. Brunette hair sticks to Quinn’s mouth. Her hands have unconsciously spread against Santana’s waist, and when she shifts, her forearm brushes against Santana’s breast.
She’s not wearing a bra.
Any irritation or wonder at the liberty taken is ignored over the fact that Santana is pressing on her bladder and Quinn really has to go pee.
She’s not as careful as she could be with an unconscious girl. She shoves at Santana almost brusquely, and though she hears the brunette’s breath change, awareness coming in her movements, Quinn simply pulls back the covers and grabs her keycard, heading for the bathroom.
The bathroom is stark and quiet, always creepy this time of night. Quinn’s head pounds. She’s freezing, shivering as she sits on the cold toilet.
She made out with a girl. Not just any girl. She made out with Santana against a door.
Santana’s lost her scholarship to University of Louisville, Kentucky.
She made out with Santana against a door.
And now she’s woken up with an armful of Santana, and you don’t have to be Freud to understand what she has become to the other woman.
A replacement.
“God,” she whispers, a frustrated and frantic groan, and palms her face roughly. Her heart is hammering now. The goosebumps that prickle on her skin aren’t just from the cold anymore.
In her haste to leave her room, Quinn forgot to wear slippers, and her toes curl against the cold linoleum.
This is stupid.
Her shoulders square when she finishes. She sucks in her breath and she heads back to her room, swiping her keycard with practiced quickness.
She has her resolve, ready to push Santana up and off her bed, reclaim her space and reestablish her boundaries.
The order dies in her throat when she realizes her bed is empty. Momentarily stunned, Quinn feebly searches the room until she sees a lump buried in her roommate’s mattress. Santana’s turned away from her. All Quinn can make out is a mound of blankets and a mass of black hair.
It’s disorienting, to say the least.
Did she imagine it?
She shakes her head, tries to rid herself of the insanity, and rushes her to bed, suddenly freezing.
The spot on her bed is still warm, emanating a body heat that shouldn’t just be hers.
Quinn curls into her side, and eyes her roommate’s bed. She has no strength to ask the unspoken question, and in the end it doesn’t seem to matter, because Santana never moves.
*********
It’s a rude awakening on Christmas morning; loud blaring digs into her brain and causes a frustrated growl because her alarm clock is apparently unaware that her weekday 6:30AM preset does not count when Christmas falls on a Tuesday.
Still, it gives her something to focus on besides the ringing in her head and the immediate unpleasant flashback to the night before and her very glaring present problem: How Do You Solve a Problem Like Santana?
Quinn doesn’t have the foggiest clue.
She can, however, slap at her Iphone and make it stop the horrendous noise.
Once she makes the noise stop, she immediately wishes she hadn’t. With the quiet comes lucid sober reality, and her present reality is unlike any reality that has existed before it.
Once again, Quinn has thrown herself deep into a rabbit hole without any regard for how she is supposed to get herself back out.
If she wants to thank God for small favors, at the very least her hangover isn’t quite the bear it could be. Quinn has learned the benefits of hydration since high school.
Hydration doesn’t help with a sexual identity crisis, however. She won’t figure out what to do with Santana by drinking more water.
All it’ll do is make her pee more.
Santana. Shit.
Bleary eyes widen as she settles her gaze on her roommate’s bed and finds it empty and made.
There’s exactly enough time to manage a very private and very huge internal freak out over that fact when her door opens.
Santana.
Quinn’s eyes close; her body sags with relief.
“God-dammit,” she breathes and drags her fingers through her hair, a habit picked up when her hair was short, and much easier to muss.
“Hey.” Santana’s been up for a while. She’s dressed in a pair of skinny black pants and a camo blazer, because like always the girl dresses for fashion and never actual weather. She’s stays by the door, though why the hell she would decide she needs an invitation NOW is beyond Quinn’s comprehension, considering she’s been in and out of Quinn’s dorm since she arrived and nearly made it in and out of Quinn herself.
“Hey.”
Quinn has a habit of overthinking things. She’s well of aware of that, and mostly she doesn’t consider it a weakness. Life requires a strategy, especially a life such as hers. The moment she goes with instinct, she gets hit by a car or pregnant.
Santana, as always, is her exception to that. Quinn has always reverted to impulse with her, and the result is an uneasy friendship that is both fiercely intimate and chaotic.
Despite that, it’s always remained a friendship. There was no room for sexual uncertainty in the midst of unplanned teenage pregnancies and joining a gang and being paralyzed from the waist down.
God, what the fuck is Quinn’s life? Seriously? She should have been on Oprah with a self-help book by now.
Now a line has been crossed now that hasn’t been crossed before, and in the face of it, Quinn doesn’t know how to react. Maybe Santana doesn’t either. She stays by the door, gorgeous and stoic, in her hands a brown paper bag with a ‘Willoughby’s Coffee & Tea’ logo.
Quinn is aware that her make-up must be smeared. She’s sure her mascara has caked and run and her hair is always wild in the morning. She must look like a mute idiot clown, covered in her blankets and splayed across her bed as she stares dumbly at Santana.
Instinct is no one’s friend this morning and Quinn has no idea what to do or what to feel.
“That German chick told me about the coffee house.” Apparently her lack of action is permission enough for Santana to come forward. The paper bag crinkles as Santana opens it, ruffling through the contents as she moves. “Can’t believe they’re actually open on Christmas! You Yale geeks must really like your coffee.”
Quinn isn’t sure if that’s meant to be a joke. Santana swallows.
“Anyway, I got you a muffin, and some coffee, and um… some water with some pills,” she says. Quinn watches as Santana’s manicured hands place each of the pilfered items on the desk next to Quinn’s bed, lining them up like little soldiers ready to go to war. “Cause you used to be a total baby about hangovers in high school and… “
She’s rambling and nervous. Santana.
It’d be amusing if Quinn was in any sort of mood to find amusement in anything.
As it is, she’s so overwhelmed all she can do is look at those items, at Santana’s hands; watch the way those fingers wring against each other now that the bag is empty and Santana has run out of things to do.
“Santana,” she starts, voice rough from a rough night. “Listen-“
“Quinn, wait.” Santana settles on her desk chair. Her mouth is tight. Dark eyes that Quinn remembers so vividly watery with unshed tears are now dry, but what flickers behind them does so so rapidly Quinn doesn’t understand it. Santana glances away from the searching stare, focus instead on her fingers. “Look, obviously I’m really screwed up right now and you didn’t-“ Santana stops herself midsentence, huffs in frustration and tries again. “You DON’T,” she emphasizes, “deserve any of my madness. I know I just kinda threw stuff at you and it’s put you in a really awkward position. I just… sorry.”
Quinn is absolutely sure she’s never gotten so many ‘I’m Sorry’s from Santana in the course of their entire friendship.
Santana’s lost her scholarship. She’s in Quinn’s dorm room and they had a drunken make out session and Brittany’s an idiot and there’s no answers to anything.
“We need to talk about what you told me last night,” she begins, but she’s shut down almost immediately by the panicked expression that floats immediately on Santana’s face.
“No.”
Quinn rubs at her eyes, a moment of weakness because it’s not her fucking problem to deal with. “Santana, I’m serious. You can’t stay here forever.”
“I know, okay?” Santana’s voice wavers, but it’s just for a moment before the other girl… woman… sucks in her breath and offers a stiff, valiant smile. “But not today. It’s fucking Christmas,” she says, like it should mean something.
It’s Christmas Day.
“Yeah, it is,” she agrees with a sigh.
This is her Christmas this year. A bottle of pills, a muffin , water and Santana shaking out two pills in her palm and holding them out to Quinn like some sort of twisted peace offering.
They’re not going to talk about last night.
Okay then. That’s better. That’s good. If they pretend it didn’t happen.
Quinn shuffles into a sitting position and without a word digs the pills from Santana’s outstretched fingers. If there’s a tingle when she brushes against the other palm, she ignores it.
Quinn does the only thing she can do. She pops the pills and drinks the water.
*********
Apparently pre-med displaced Germans are Christmas nuts because Nina shows up like a freaking jolly Santa Claus with Sees candy, gabbing about Christmas movies in the common room. Quinn isn’t sure when she and Santana have had time to actually bond, but apparently they’re friendly.
That’s a relief. The morning, despite Santana and her peace offering of a muffin and pills, has been awkward thanks to both efforts to ignore the very blatant problems they are both facing.
Nina doesn’t ask questions, another good thing. She seems just genuinely happy to have the company. They pile onto the threadbare, dirty abandoned couch in the common room, sharing a blanket pilfered from Quinn’s bed and watch A Christmas Story on TNT. Santana cracks jokes and Nina finds them hilarious, and if Quinn allows herself to not think, then it really does feel like the night before didn’t happen.
Except it did happen. She remembers every time Santana’s hand accidentally brushes against her own, every moment she tilts her head a certain way and catches a whiff of Santana’s scent.
It affects her. Her stomach sours and her body tingles and Quinn forces herself to ignore it because Gay Panic or unseated attraction to her very screwed up best friend is not something she has time for at this very moment.
She takes a call from her mother and ignores a text from David and a call from her father. Rachel texts to wish her a Merry Christmas, even though she texted to wish her a Happy All Religion Holidays a few days ago when Hanukah began, and invites her to New York for New Years Eve.
Quinn feels Santana’s shoulder shift against hers and doesn’t respond to the invitation.
A Christmas Story ends and they move on to Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation. Santana whines about how no one is playing Elf and when Nina has a moment of ignorance, they have to listen to a five minute diatribe about how Elf is the best Christmas movie to ever exist and that Will Ferrell is a comedic genius.
Santana in her conviction seems to glow. She’s heard it before. Santana almost got into a fist fight with Puck last Christmas when he dared challenge her with Home Alone.
“He slaps them with a fucking hot iron!” he screamed.
“He tries to hug a fucking raccoon!” Santana spat back.
Just the memory makes her laugh.
Brunette hair tosses over her shoulder in perfect curls as she shifts and in that moment, her eyes lock with Quinn’s.
She’s just so damn beautiful.
Quinn’s laughter chokes. Santana’s smile stalls. Eyes flicker, focus, and Quinn is reasonably suddenly certain that Santana’s attention is now on her lips.
The lurch that drops into the pit of Quinn’s stomach is almost sickening.
“I think we’re low on popcorn,” she mumbles, and excuses herself.
*********
She’s by the microwave near the entrance to the Common Room popping a bag of Orville Redenbacher she found in the kitchen that looks so old she’s pretty sure it’s radioactive, when her phone once again vibrates.
The name of the picture that pops up is that of a Brittany S. Pierce. The picture that represents features Brittany with her arms splayed around Santana, giggling happily as Santana puckers a kiss in her cheek.
Puck swears that life ebbs and flows, much like a record. Many moments of her pregnancy and time afterward were spent in Puck’s bedroom with his record player, listening to Bowie or ACDC and hearing Puck’s impassioned pleas that if she listened carefully enough she could hear the static of the needle.
She never quite got it. It always seemed like Puck just being Puck, but she thinks she gets it now.
If life were a record, this would be the moment when the needle scratched.
Quinn’s eyes blink up to Santana, who seems to sense her hesitation. She stares back, until Nina distracts her with some giggle about a Chevy Chase antic on the screen, grabbing onto Santana and forcing her to look.
The phone keeps vibrating.
Quinn isn’t sure what possesses her to step out into the hallway to answer it.
“Hello?” she asks, voice purposely low.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!” she hears, twin voices so loud and boisterous it makes her wince. It’s Brittany, but there’s a male voice that tunes in with her.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who that is.
“Merry Christmas, Brittany,” she responds, because she’s not exactly sure what else to say. Brittany’s voice is so happy and full of life; this is her favorite time of year.
“Quinn, it’s so good to hear from you! Did you get my Christmas card?” Quinn’s chest tightens at the carefree nature of her tone.
Brittany is an adult, even if she acts like a toddler. She’s not dating Santana anymore. It’s not any of Quinn’s business who the hell she dates and it shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter.
She sucks in her breath and expels it slowly. “Did you remember to mail it?” she asks, as polite and neutral as she can be.
There’s a moment of hesitation. “… No,” she hears finally, and her mouth twitches. “I did lick the stamp though!” Brittany says assuredly, but her voice tapers off as she shuffles in the background. She hears her muttering to someone who is not her. “Not sure where I put it because it’s not on the card.”
“Then no,” Quinn says. “I wouldn’t have gotten it.”
“Bummer,” Brittany mumbles. “It was totally cute.” There’s noise in the background, Brittany speaking to someone else before Quinn hears, “Sam says hi. Say hi, Sammy!”
That is something Quinn is NOT in the mood for. She distinctly remembers the urge to punch him the night before. “No, Brittany-“
“Hi!” booms Sam’s thunderous, happy voice.
Quinn’s eyes shut in frustration. She slumps against the hallway and once again edges further away from the Common Room. “Hi, Sam.”
“Did Brittany tell you what happened? It was totally hilarious! We thought the world was ending so we got married-“
“Sam!” Quinn hears, Brittany’s complaint loud and intrusive. “Don’t-“
“No, but that’s what’s funny!” Sam insists. There’s a scuffle on that side, distorting his voice slightly as he obviously struggles. “Turns out it was fake! The world isn’t ending for like, two more years!- Hey stop!“
Quinn stays quiet, her mouth clamped shut as she waits out the lover’s quarrel. Brittany’s hissing intelligible words; Sam’s arguing back, and suddenly there’s a yelp and the loud slam of a door.
“Hey Quinn.” Brittany’s voice is out-of-breath, overly cheery.
God is it even appropriate to be as pissed off as she is?
This isn’t about her. She shouldn’t have anything to do with this. This is Brittany’s dumb mistake. She shouldn’t have any feelings about this at all.
Santana is in the Common Room. Santana, who sobbed on her floor last night and lost her scholarship so she could crash McKinley plays.
“You got married,” she breathes, and thank God for Yale’s drama program because it actually sounds like she’s not itching to tear Brittany’s head off right the fuck now.
“Fake married,” Brittany says hurriedly. “It wasn’t even legal - I mean I thought the world was ending so… “ She fades off, losing strength in her words.
Maybe Brittany does realize how horrible this sounds right now.
Quinn doesn’t have the patience to coddle her or even be polite. “Okay, well, Merry Christmas, Brittany. Thank you for the call-“
“No, wait!” Brittany’s voice is suddenly high-pitched, almost desperate. “Listen, Quinn.”
Quinn collapses against the wall in frustration. “What, Brittany?” she sighs.
“Have you heard from Santana?” God-Dammit. Quinn’s chest tightens; her breath goes uneven. “Cause I’ve been trying to text her and call her to wish her a Merry Christmas but she hasn’t responded or anything.”
Quinn jaw is so tense she feels the ache in her teeth. Santana’s voice filters from the Common Room. She’s singing. The acoustics in the bare hallways are surprisingly good because the beauty of Santana’s Christmas Carol comes through so clearly.
Quinn doesn’t have the energy for this. Not right now.
Quinn covers the receiver with her palm and moves further away. “I’m sorry Brittany, I haven’t,” she lies.
“Oh.” Brittany’s voice is soft and disappointed. “Well if you hear from her can you not tell her about me and Sam getting fake married?”
Really? How the hell did she get stuck in the middle of this?
Because they’re the Unholy Trinity. Starting together, ending together.
Right?
God.
Brittany must not like her lack of response, because she begins to ramble. “I mean, I know she said it was okay to see other people and it totally doesn’t mean anything but I kinda… I’d want her to hear it from me. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.”
Quinn sucks in her breath, and tries very hard not to throw her phone at the wall. “Brittany, you posted about it on Facebook.”
“What? No I didn’t.”
“You did,” Quinn snaps because she fucking did. “Sam posted about it and tagged you. It’s on your timeline. So I can pretty much guarantee you Santana already knows.”
It sinks in. “Oh.” In one word, Brittany comes off as both devastated and terrified. “Do you think she’ll be mad?” she asks in a tiny voice, like Brittany crossed the street without asking or something equally idiotic.
“Mad? About what? That you married a guy you’ve dated for a couple weeks even if it totally didn’t mean anything in the state where it’s illegal for her to marry you and then posted a paragraph on your facebook apologizing to all her angry lesbian friends? Why would she pissed about it?”
There’s a pregnant pause. “Okay you sound like you’re pissed about it.”
Quinn can’t take anymore. “I’m sorry, I have to go. Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, Ok. Bye Quinn. Merry Christmas.”
Quinn disconnects the call.
For a moment, she is beaten.
They were the Unholy Trinity. Besties for life.
Wow.
She presses against back against the cool wall, stares at the stark white of the ceiling. Santana’s voice grows more powerful. It floats to her with the beauty of a haunting angel.
“I've got to know where do lonely hearts go.”
Quinn closes her eyes and lets it seep into her.
“Because nobody ought to be all alone on Christmas.”
*********
“Where the hell did you go?” Santana asks, when she steps back into the Common Room. She’s cuddled up on the couch with Nina, who is picking at the burnt popcorn and wrinkling her nose at the smell.
Quinn looks at her. “I got a call from David,” she says after a moment.
“Ew.” Santana’s eyes roll with distaste before she says quickly, “There’s nothing on TV. We’re singing Christmas Carols. Let’s sing Nina our version of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’.” To Nina, Santana says, “It’s freaking awesome.”
And that’s all there is to that.
*********
They give up on singing when some scrooge on another floor files a noise complaint.
That leaves Netflix on Nina’s 18 inch Macbook, and a host of bad ABC Family Christmas movies. They lose Nina to a Christmas nap halfway through this Jenny McCarthy movie called Santa Baby 2.
She slumps back on the couch and sleeps with her mouth open, pinning them in such a way that they can’t actually move.
The movie is horrendous, but Santana actually seems invested, so Quinn eyes the Common Room, notes the green and red ‘wreath’ cobbled together out of strips of construction paper and a popcorn garland someone tried to make before they clearly lost interest and just slung it over the doorway.
The little sputter of Christmas spirit makes her smile. Someone tried, at least.
It’s a day of respite, and Quinn’s glad for it. It’s the three of them in the Common Room, and just for today, that’s okay.
Beside her, Santana shifts under the weight of Nina, who now has her legs over both their laps. The movement causes Nina to sputter something in German that makes them both jump. Her bootied foot nearly kicks Quinn in the face.
“God,” Santana giggles, a quiet laugh. “Merry Fucking Christmas, right?”
Quinn stares at her, looks at the dark brown eyes what wrinkle at the corners with the small smile on Santana’s face.
“Yeah,” she says, and something settles inside of her when Santana rearranges herself on the couch to better accommodate Nina’s weight. Her head falls against Quinn’s shoulder.
The movie plays on. Santana’s fingers flicker against Quinn’s forearm, an absent caress.
“What do you think about going to New York for New Years?” Quinn finds herself asking suddenly.
Santana’s head lifts only momentarily. Quinn’s eyes stay on the screen, watches Jenny McCarthy take a pratfall with a Santa hat on.
The weight of Santana resettles against Quinn. Santana sighs deeply.
“I think that sounds cool,” she says quietly, so deceptively casual it’s hard to believe it’s not that easy all the time for them.
She decides that today, she’ll take the illusion.
It’s Christmas. So Quinn closes her eyes and allows herself to just breathe.
Author: Misty Flores
Genre: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Santana (some Brittany/Santana implied)
Rating: M
Teaser: Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can’t sleep, she’ll think back and wonder why it’ll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.
Spoilers: Glee S4 through ep 10
Prompt: from Jskuriou: Santana is being too passive and Quinn decides it's her mission to get an honest reaction out of her. No matter what it takes. Looking for the real Santana under the calm, mature veneer she's hiding behind. Could be set at Christmas or New Years.
AN: Inspired very much by Maroon 5’s ‘One More Night’. Thanks for jskurious for the prompt. This is a shorter fic that should be finished up sometime this week.
Chapters 1 & 2
Part Three. I'd Be Waking Up In The Morning Probably Hating Myself
Quinn isn’t quite sure what to do, but she does understand her situation and what has led them to this point. Santana is a weepy drunk and she is an angry one. Even without those two particularly annoying character traits, they have a volatile friendship, and the result was an explosion, a confrontation, and Quinn’s first foray into exploring her own apparently fluid sexuality. Still, it’s a terrible time to discover that there has been an underlying attraction to her friend brought to the surface when faced with a lapful for Santana and a lot of tequila.
Quinn’s heartbeat quickens, and she remembers now quite vividly the sensation of her mouth plundering Santana’s; how her fingers so eagerly rounded the curves of Santana’s breasts.
Her fingers twitch with phantom feeling.
She may freak out about this when she’s sober.
As it is, Quinn’s liquor-soaked brain can only concentrate on a few things. Namely, two: her inconsolable uninvited houseguest currently curled in a fetal position on her carpet, and the fact that her down jacket which keeps her rather toasty outside is now making her uncomfortably warm inside.
But that, at the very least, she can do something about. Closing her eyes for a moment, Quinn steadies herself and then with oddly uncoordinated fingers, she unzips her jacket, shrugging it off her shoulders and letting it bunch at the small of her back.
It’s a relief when cool air hits her skin. One problem has been solved.
Across the floor, Santana’s sobs have reduced to sniffles, but she seems to have not adopted Quinn’s strategy of cooling herself down, because aside from the open jacket and shirt, she remains bundled up, looking like a lewd Artic stripper.
Right.
Quinn’s teeth grind together, because honestly, the liquor is helping, but not nearly enough to not remember that this is a very serious, very screwed up situation, and she’s had way too many of those for an 18 year old young woman.
Is this what Sam meant by rich white girl problems? Because she’s going to punch him the next time she sees him.
Pushing against the door makes her head swim slightly, but it sets Quinn in the right direction, half crawling and half shuffling past Santana to get to her drawer. She’s grateful for her OCD quirks, because it’s easy to locate an extra set of fleece pajama pants and a tank top.
When she turns, Santana’s head has lifted. She’s regarding her with that same doe-eyed fearful look that prompted Quinn to open the door to her before, and this time it’s made worse with the raw swollen lids and tracks of tears.
She makes Fantine in Les Miserables looks downright chipper.
“Here,” she says, and then inches forward, determinedly not looking at Santana’s face as she grabs hold of her and pulls her into a sitting position. Santana’s purposely heavy. She sniffles slightly, but she allows herself to be manipulated. It feels so out of character, so… vulnerable, that Quinn shakes her head to avoid thinking about it and grabs hold of Santana’s jacket, shoving it ceremoniously off her shoulders.
It’s like playing with a really beautiful, really pathetic doll.
Santana’s in her arms now, upper body bare except for that damn nude lacy bra. She smells like tequila and Quinn’s perfume.
Ten minutes ago, they were almost in this exact same situation, but the result would have been very, very different.
God, this is stupid. Quinn shuts her eyes, purposely blind to the other woman and her tragic, addicting beauty.
“Put this on,” Quinn mumbles as the clothes are placed in Santana’s lifeless fingers. She turns away and fishes out a pair for herself.
She won’t abandon Santana, of course she won’t, but at this moment, drunk and out of her element, Quinn doesn’t want to think about what exactly that means.
*********
Santana is purposely placed in her absent roommate’s bed. Quinn places a glass of water by the night stand, and sucks down a bottle of it herself, despite the fact that she knows it means she’ll have to get up in the middle of the night to pee, a habit that started when she was pregnant and something she’s never been able to shake since.
The midnight breakdown has left Santana exhausted and emotionally naked. There is none of her usual bravado. She’s aware Quinn is avoiding looking at her and it’s clearly affecting her.
Quinn is too tired, too raw, to care. She turns off her lamp and invites the darkness of the night.
“Quinn.” It’s a soft voice, devoid of strength that whispers into the void. “I’m sorry.”
Normally, Quinn complains about her awkwardly shaped mattress and her scrawny down comforter. Tonight, she finds comfort in it. Her back turns away from the woman she’s hauntingly aware, and she tries to sleep.
No matter what tomorrow brings, this Christmas Eve at the very least, is over.
*********
It’s a fitful night of sleep.
Quinn’s eyes open in the early morning with an immediate urge to pee. Sluggish with exhaustion and sleep, it takes a moment for her to realize that this is because a hip connected to a warm body is pressing on the exact area.
Santana, she realizes, has joined her on the twin-sized bed. She’s curled into her side, arm splayed against Quinn’s chest as her breath flutters across Quinn’s collarbone. Brunette hair sticks to Quinn’s mouth. Her hands have unconsciously spread against Santana’s waist, and when she shifts, her forearm brushes against Santana’s breast.
She’s not wearing a bra.
Any irritation or wonder at the liberty taken is ignored over the fact that Santana is pressing on her bladder and Quinn really has to go pee.
She’s not as careful as she could be with an unconscious girl. She shoves at Santana almost brusquely, and though she hears the brunette’s breath change, awareness coming in her movements, Quinn simply pulls back the covers and grabs her keycard, heading for the bathroom.
The bathroom is stark and quiet, always creepy this time of night. Quinn’s head pounds. She’s freezing, shivering as she sits on the cold toilet.
She made out with a girl. Not just any girl. She made out with Santana against a door.
Santana’s lost her scholarship to University of Louisville, Kentucky.
She made out with Santana against a door.
And now she’s woken up with an armful of Santana, and you don’t have to be Freud to understand what she has become to the other woman.
A replacement.
“God,” she whispers, a frustrated and frantic groan, and palms her face roughly. Her heart is hammering now. The goosebumps that prickle on her skin aren’t just from the cold anymore.
In her haste to leave her room, Quinn forgot to wear slippers, and her toes curl against the cold linoleum.
This is stupid.
Her shoulders square when she finishes. She sucks in her breath and she heads back to her room, swiping her keycard with practiced quickness.
She has her resolve, ready to push Santana up and off her bed, reclaim her space and reestablish her boundaries.
The order dies in her throat when she realizes her bed is empty. Momentarily stunned, Quinn feebly searches the room until she sees a lump buried in her roommate’s mattress. Santana’s turned away from her. All Quinn can make out is a mound of blankets and a mass of black hair.
It’s disorienting, to say the least.
Did she imagine it?
She shakes her head, tries to rid herself of the insanity, and rushes her to bed, suddenly freezing.
The spot on her bed is still warm, emanating a body heat that shouldn’t just be hers.
Quinn curls into her side, and eyes her roommate’s bed. She has no strength to ask the unspoken question, and in the end it doesn’t seem to matter, because Santana never moves.
*********
It’s a rude awakening on Christmas morning; loud blaring digs into her brain and causes a frustrated growl because her alarm clock is apparently unaware that her weekday 6:30AM preset does not count when Christmas falls on a Tuesday.
Still, it gives her something to focus on besides the ringing in her head and the immediate unpleasant flashback to the night before and her very glaring present problem: How Do You Solve a Problem Like Santana?
Quinn doesn’t have the foggiest clue.
She can, however, slap at her Iphone and make it stop the horrendous noise.
Once she makes the noise stop, she immediately wishes she hadn’t. With the quiet comes lucid sober reality, and her present reality is unlike any reality that has existed before it.
Once again, Quinn has thrown herself deep into a rabbit hole without any regard for how she is supposed to get herself back out.
If she wants to thank God for small favors, at the very least her hangover isn’t quite the bear it could be. Quinn has learned the benefits of hydration since high school.
Hydration doesn’t help with a sexual identity crisis, however. She won’t figure out what to do with Santana by drinking more water.
All it’ll do is make her pee more.
Santana. Shit.
Bleary eyes widen as she settles her gaze on her roommate’s bed and finds it empty and made.
There’s exactly enough time to manage a very private and very huge internal freak out over that fact when her door opens.
Santana.
Quinn’s eyes close; her body sags with relief.
“God-dammit,” she breathes and drags her fingers through her hair, a habit picked up when her hair was short, and much easier to muss.
“Hey.” Santana’s been up for a while. She’s dressed in a pair of skinny black pants and a camo blazer, because like always the girl dresses for fashion and never actual weather. She’s stays by the door, though why the hell she would decide she needs an invitation NOW is beyond Quinn’s comprehension, considering she’s been in and out of Quinn’s dorm since she arrived and nearly made it in and out of Quinn herself.
“Hey.”
Quinn has a habit of overthinking things. She’s well of aware of that, and mostly she doesn’t consider it a weakness. Life requires a strategy, especially a life such as hers. The moment she goes with instinct, she gets hit by a car or pregnant.
Santana, as always, is her exception to that. Quinn has always reverted to impulse with her, and the result is an uneasy friendship that is both fiercely intimate and chaotic.
Despite that, it’s always remained a friendship. There was no room for sexual uncertainty in the midst of unplanned teenage pregnancies and joining a gang and being paralyzed from the waist down.
God, what the fuck is Quinn’s life? Seriously? She should have been on Oprah with a self-help book by now.
Now a line has been crossed now that hasn’t been crossed before, and in the face of it, Quinn doesn’t know how to react. Maybe Santana doesn’t either. She stays by the door, gorgeous and stoic, in her hands a brown paper bag with a ‘Willoughby’s Coffee & Tea’ logo.
Quinn is aware that her make-up must be smeared. She’s sure her mascara has caked and run and her hair is always wild in the morning. She must look like a mute idiot clown, covered in her blankets and splayed across her bed as she stares dumbly at Santana.
Instinct is no one’s friend this morning and Quinn has no idea what to do or what to feel.
“That German chick told me about the coffee house.” Apparently her lack of action is permission enough for Santana to come forward. The paper bag crinkles as Santana opens it, ruffling through the contents as she moves. “Can’t believe they’re actually open on Christmas! You Yale geeks must really like your coffee.”
Quinn isn’t sure if that’s meant to be a joke. Santana swallows.
“Anyway, I got you a muffin, and some coffee, and um… some water with some pills,” she says. Quinn watches as Santana’s manicured hands place each of the pilfered items on the desk next to Quinn’s bed, lining them up like little soldiers ready to go to war. “Cause you used to be a total baby about hangovers in high school and… “
She’s rambling and nervous. Santana.
It’d be amusing if Quinn was in any sort of mood to find amusement in anything.
As it is, she’s so overwhelmed all she can do is look at those items, at Santana’s hands; watch the way those fingers wring against each other now that the bag is empty and Santana has run out of things to do.
“Santana,” she starts, voice rough from a rough night. “Listen-“
“Quinn, wait.” Santana settles on her desk chair. Her mouth is tight. Dark eyes that Quinn remembers so vividly watery with unshed tears are now dry, but what flickers behind them does so so rapidly Quinn doesn’t understand it. Santana glances away from the searching stare, focus instead on her fingers. “Look, obviously I’m really screwed up right now and you didn’t-“ Santana stops herself midsentence, huffs in frustration and tries again. “You DON’T,” she emphasizes, “deserve any of my madness. I know I just kinda threw stuff at you and it’s put you in a really awkward position. I just… sorry.”
Quinn is absolutely sure she’s never gotten so many ‘I’m Sorry’s from Santana in the course of their entire friendship.
Santana’s lost her scholarship. She’s in Quinn’s dorm room and they had a drunken make out session and Brittany’s an idiot and there’s no answers to anything.
“We need to talk about what you told me last night,” she begins, but she’s shut down almost immediately by the panicked expression that floats immediately on Santana’s face.
“No.”
Quinn rubs at her eyes, a moment of weakness because it’s not her fucking problem to deal with. “Santana, I’m serious. You can’t stay here forever.”
“I know, okay?” Santana’s voice wavers, but it’s just for a moment before the other girl… woman… sucks in her breath and offers a stiff, valiant smile. “But not today. It’s fucking Christmas,” she says, like it should mean something.
It’s Christmas Day.
“Yeah, it is,” she agrees with a sigh.
This is her Christmas this year. A bottle of pills, a muffin , water and Santana shaking out two pills in her palm and holding them out to Quinn like some sort of twisted peace offering.
They’re not going to talk about last night.
Okay then. That’s better. That’s good. If they pretend it didn’t happen.
Quinn shuffles into a sitting position and without a word digs the pills from Santana’s outstretched fingers. If there’s a tingle when she brushes against the other palm, she ignores it.
Quinn does the only thing she can do. She pops the pills and drinks the water.
*********
Apparently pre-med displaced Germans are Christmas nuts because Nina shows up like a freaking jolly Santa Claus with Sees candy, gabbing about Christmas movies in the common room. Quinn isn’t sure when she and Santana have had time to actually bond, but apparently they’re friendly.
That’s a relief. The morning, despite Santana and her peace offering of a muffin and pills, has been awkward thanks to both efforts to ignore the very blatant problems they are both facing.
Nina doesn’t ask questions, another good thing. She seems just genuinely happy to have the company. They pile onto the threadbare, dirty abandoned couch in the common room, sharing a blanket pilfered from Quinn’s bed and watch A Christmas Story on TNT. Santana cracks jokes and Nina finds them hilarious, and if Quinn allows herself to not think, then it really does feel like the night before didn’t happen.
Except it did happen. She remembers every time Santana’s hand accidentally brushes against her own, every moment she tilts her head a certain way and catches a whiff of Santana’s scent.
It affects her. Her stomach sours and her body tingles and Quinn forces herself to ignore it because Gay Panic or unseated attraction to her very screwed up best friend is not something she has time for at this very moment.
She takes a call from her mother and ignores a text from David and a call from her father. Rachel texts to wish her a Merry Christmas, even though she texted to wish her a Happy All Religion Holidays a few days ago when Hanukah began, and invites her to New York for New Years Eve.
Quinn feels Santana’s shoulder shift against hers and doesn’t respond to the invitation.
A Christmas Story ends and they move on to Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation. Santana whines about how no one is playing Elf and when Nina has a moment of ignorance, they have to listen to a five minute diatribe about how Elf is the best Christmas movie to ever exist and that Will Ferrell is a comedic genius.
Santana in her conviction seems to glow. She’s heard it before. Santana almost got into a fist fight with Puck last Christmas when he dared challenge her with Home Alone.
“He slaps them with a fucking hot iron!” he screamed.
“He tries to hug a fucking raccoon!” Santana spat back.
Just the memory makes her laugh.
Brunette hair tosses over her shoulder in perfect curls as she shifts and in that moment, her eyes lock with Quinn’s.
She’s just so damn beautiful.
Quinn’s laughter chokes. Santana’s smile stalls. Eyes flicker, focus, and Quinn is reasonably suddenly certain that Santana’s attention is now on her lips.
The lurch that drops into the pit of Quinn’s stomach is almost sickening.
“I think we’re low on popcorn,” she mumbles, and excuses herself.
*********
She’s by the microwave near the entrance to the Common Room popping a bag of Orville Redenbacher she found in the kitchen that looks so old she’s pretty sure it’s radioactive, when her phone once again vibrates.
The name of the picture that pops up is that of a Brittany S. Pierce. The picture that represents features Brittany with her arms splayed around Santana, giggling happily as Santana puckers a kiss in her cheek.
Puck swears that life ebbs and flows, much like a record. Many moments of her pregnancy and time afterward were spent in Puck’s bedroom with his record player, listening to Bowie or ACDC and hearing Puck’s impassioned pleas that if she listened carefully enough she could hear the static of the needle.
She never quite got it. It always seemed like Puck just being Puck, but she thinks she gets it now.
If life were a record, this would be the moment when the needle scratched.
Quinn’s eyes blink up to Santana, who seems to sense her hesitation. She stares back, until Nina distracts her with some giggle about a Chevy Chase antic on the screen, grabbing onto Santana and forcing her to look.
The phone keeps vibrating.
Quinn isn’t sure what possesses her to step out into the hallway to answer it.
“Hello?” she asks, voice purposely low.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!” she hears, twin voices so loud and boisterous it makes her wince. It’s Brittany, but there’s a male voice that tunes in with her.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who that is.
“Merry Christmas, Brittany,” she responds, because she’s not exactly sure what else to say. Brittany’s voice is so happy and full of life; this is her favorite time of year.
“Quinn, it’s so good to hear from you! Did you get my Christmas card?” Quinn’s chest tightens at the carefree nature of her tone.
Brittany is an adult, even if she acts like a toddler. She’s not dating Santana anymore. It’s not any of Quinn’s business who the hell she dates and it shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter.
She sucks in her breath and expels it slowly. “Did you remember to mail it?” she asks, as polite and neutral as she can be.
There’s a moment of hesitation. “… No,” she hears finally, and her mouth twitches. “I did lick the stamp though!” Brittany says assuredly, but her voice tapers off as she shuffles in the background. She hears her muttering to someone who is not her. “Not sure where I put it because it’s not on the card.”
“Then no,” Quinn says. “I wouldn’t have gotten it.”
“Bummer,” Brittany mumbles. “It was totally cute.” There’s noise in the background, Brittany speaking to someone else before Quinn hears, “Sam says hi. Say hi, Sammy!”
That is something Quinn is NOT in the mood for. She distinctly remembers the urge to punch him the night before. “No, Brittany-“
“Hi!” booms Sam’s thunderous, happy voice.
Quinn’s eyes shut in frustration. She slumps against the hallway and once again edges further away from the Common Room. “Hi, Sam.”
“Did Brittany tell you what happened? It was totally hilarious! We thought the world was ending so we got married-“
“Sam!” Quinn hears, Brittany’s complaint loud and intrusive. “Don’t-“
“No, but that’s what’s funny!” Sam insists. There’s a scuffle on that side, distorting his voice slightly as he obviously struggles. “Turns out it was fake! The world isn’t ending for like, two more years!- Hey stop!“
Quinn stays quiet, her mouth clamped shut as she waits out the lover’s quarrel. Brittany’s hissing intelligible words; Sam’s arguing back, and suddenly there’s a yelp and the loud slam of a door.
“Hey Quinn.” Brittany’s voice is out-of-breath, overly cheery.
God is it even appropriate to be as pissed off as she is?
This isn’t about her. She shouldn’t have anything to do with this. This is Brittany’s dumb mistake. She shouldn’t have any feelings about this at all.
Santana is in the Common Room. Santana, who sobbed on her floor last night and lost her scholarship so she could crash McKinley plays.
“You got married,” she breathes, and thank God for Yale’s drama program because it actually sounds like she’s not itching to tear Brittany’s head off right the fuck now.
“Fake married,” Brittany says hurriedly. “It wasn’t even legal - I mean I thought the world was ending so… “ She fades off, losing strength in her words.
Maybe Brittany does realize how horrible this sounds right now.
Quinn doesn’t have the patience to coddle her or even be polite. “Okay, well, Merry Christmas, Brittany. Thank you for the call-“
“No, wait!” Brittany’s voice is suddenly high-pitched, almost desperate. “Listen, Quinn.”
Quinn collapses against the wall in frustration. “What, Brittany?” she sighs.
“Have you heard from Santana?” God-Dammit. Quinn’s chest tightens; her breath goes uneven. “Cause I’ve been trying to text her and call her to wish her a Merry Christmas but she hasn’t responded or anything.”
Quinn jaw is so tense she feels the ache in her teeth. Santana’s voice filters from the Common Room. She’s singing. The acoustics in the bare hallways are surprisingly good because the beauty of Santana’s Christmas Carol comes through so clearly.
Quinn doesn’t have the energy for this. Not right now.
Quinn covers the receiver with her palm and moves further away. “I’m sorry Brittany, I haven’t,” she lies.
“Oh.” Brittany’s voice is soft and disappointed. “Well if you hear from her can you not tell her about me and Sam getting fake married?”
Really? How the hell did she get stuck in the middle of this?
Because they’re the Unholy Trinity. Starting together, ending together.
Right?
God.
Brittany must not like her lack of response, because she begins to ramble. “I mean, I know she said it was okay to see other people and it totally doesn’t mean anything but I kinda… I’d want her to hear it from me. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.”
Quinn sucks in her breath, and tries very hard not to throw her phone at the wall. “Brittany, you posted about it on Facebook.”
“What? No I didn’t.”
“You did,” Quinn snaps because she fucking did. “Sam posted about it and tagged you. It’s on your timeline. So I can pretty much guarantee you Santana already knows.”
It sinks in. “Oh.” In one word, Brittany comes off as both devastated and terrified. “Do you think she’ll be mad?” she asks in a tiny voice, like Brittany crossed the street without asking or something equally idiotic.
“Mad? About what? That you married a guy you’ve dated for a couple weeks even if it totally didn’t mean anything in the state where it’s illegal for her to marry you and then posted a paragraph on your facebook apologizing to all her angry lesbian friends? Why would she pissed about it?”
There’s a pregnant pause. “Okay you sound like you’re pissed about it.”
Quinn can’t take anymore. “I’m sorry, I have to go. Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, Ok. Bye Quinn. Merry Christmas.”
Quinn disconnects the call.
For a moment, she is beaten.
They were the Unholy Trinity. Besties for life.
Wow.
She presses against back against the cool wall, stares at the stark white of the ceiling. Santana’s voice grows more powerful. It floats to her with the beauty of a haunting angel.
“I've got to know where do lonely hearts go.”
Quinn closes her eyes and lets it seep into her.
“Because nobody ought to be all alone on Christmas.”
*********
“Where the hell did you go?” Santana asks, when she steps back into the Common Room. She’s cuddled up on the couch with Nina, who is picking at the burnt popcorn and wrinkling her nose at the smell.
Quinn looks at her. “I got a call from David,” she says after a moment.
“Ew.” Santana’s eyes roll with distaste before she says quickly, “There’s nothing on TV. We’re singing Christmas Carols. Let’s sing Nina our version of ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’.” To Nina, Santana says, “It’s freaking awesome.”
And that’s all there is to that.
*********
They give up on singing when some scrooge on another floor files a noise complaint.
That leaves Netflix on Nina’s 18 inch Macbook, and a host of bad ABC Family Christmas movies. They lose Nina to a Christmas nap halfway through this Jenny McCarthy movie called Santa Baby 2.
She slumps back on the couch and sleeps with her mouth open, pinning them in such a way that they can’t actually move.
The movie is horrendous, but Santana actually seems invested, so Quinn eyes the Common Room, notes the green and red ‘wreath’ cobbled together out of strips of construction paper and a popcorn garland someone tried to make before they clearly lost interest and just slung it over the doorway.
The little sputter of Christmas spirit makes her smile. Someone tried, at least.
It’s a day of respite, and Quinn’s glad for it. It’s the three of them in the Common Room, and just for today, that’s okay.
Beside her, Santana shifts under the weight of Nina, who now has her legs over both their laps. The movement causes Nina to sputter something in German that makes them both jump. Her bootied foot nearly kicks Quinn in the face.
“God,” Santana giggles, a quiet laugh. “Merry Fucking Christmas, right?”
Quinn stares at her, looks at the dark brown eyes what wrinkle at the corners with the small smile on Santana’s face.
“Yeah,” she says, and something settles inside of her when Santana rearranges herself on the couch to better accommodate Nina’s weight. Her head falls against Quinn’s shoulder.
The movie plays on. Santana’s fingers flicker against Quinn’s forearm, an absent caress.
“What do you think about going to New York for New Years?” Quinn finds herself asking suddenly.
Santana’s head lifts only momentarily. Quinn’s eyes stay on the screen, watches Jenny McCarthy take a pratfall with a Santa hat on.
The weight of Santana resettles against Quinn. Santana sighs deeply.
“I think that sounds cool,” she says quietly, so deceptively casual it’s hard to believe it’s not that easy all the time for them.
She decides that today, she’ll take the illusion.
It’s Christmas. So Quinn closes her eyes and allows herself to just breathe.