FIC: I Don't Want to Jump In (Unless This Music's Thumping) (1b/3) Rachel/Santana, Glee
Title: I Don't Want to Jump In (Unless This Music's Thumping)
Author: Misty Flores
Pairing: Rachel/Santana, implied Quinn/Santana
Teaser: Years after they were roommates in a cold loft in New York, Broadway Rachel Berry and Superstar DJ Santana Lopez reconnect on the other end of the success spectrum.
Spoilers: Through S4 of Glee
Rating: M
Note: For the Santana Anthology. Sorry I missed the deadline! Title is taken from Cake's 'Love You Madly'. Also, a Glee Girls Smut Meme fill for this gif.
Also I really REALLY didn’t want to post this as a WIP, but honestly it’s a three chapter story and it’s been my primary focus to get it done, so I figured I’d at least post the start of it so it wouldn’t any later (sorry, Kay. I had to go with instinct instead of logic). I apologize for the lateness of the other stories, honestly, there just hasn’t been time, but they’re by no means forgotten and I’ll update them all when this story is done posting.
Chapter 1a
Chapter 1B
--
When Rachel’s phone rings and she immediately recognizes the ringtone as Kurt’s, she knows it’s either an emergency or Kurt is drunk. A Madrid party goes all night, and Kurt has adapted as readily and eagerly as any gorgeous, successful gay man would.
Rachel’s driving to Santana’s, but thankfully, she’s never lost that responsible edge and so she easily answers via her voice automated Bluetooth. “Kurt, why are you calling? It’s four AM in Madrid!”
“Bitch, I know what time it is!” So… drunk then. “And don’t try to distract me! I’m so pissed at you!”
“Kurt, I’m driving,” she warns, and signals for a left turn. “Can you be pissed at me tomorrow when you’re sober?”
“No! I wanna be pissed right now! Why didn’t you tell me you had met up with Santana?!”
“Because the time zones suck and you never answer your emails or texts during Fashion Week?” she sputters, and then blinks, making the turn. “And how did you find out?!”
“Tina Cohen-Chang-Chang sent me a link to some VERY steamy pictures.”
Rachel would roll her eyes extra hard for emphasis, but unfortunately, she has to keep her attention on the road. Los Angeles drivers suck. “Doesn’t she have anything else to do other than send everyone every bit of New Directions gossip she can get her hands on?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not!” Rachel’s head shakes with annoyance. “It’s just sad and a little stupid!”
“What’s stupid is that I had to find out from TINA that my two old roommates are hooking up!” he squeals, words slurring a bit in his drunkenness.
Rachel comes to a stop sign and sighs, eyes closing in frustration. “Kurt, we’re not hooking up. Don’t be ridiculous. You of all people should know better.”
“I see… and this picture of you hoover-latched on to her mouth-“
“I was going for her cheek!”
“Why didn’t you call me?!” he pouts, genuinely put out by it all. “You know I miss her too!”
“You’re on a whole other continent,” she reminds him, but oddly, she finds herself wondering why she hasn’t called him. It should have been her first impulse. She and Kurt may not be as close as they used to be, distance will do that to any friendship, but they still try to maintain their monthly SKYPE gossip-fest. Considering their history and the fact that he and Santana had their own special gay-friendship, he should have been the first to know that they had found each other again.
But she hadn’t told him. She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Quinn, who still calls often and randomly talks about Santana and how annoying it is to see her and her abs splashed on different posters around New York.
This thing with Santana, random texts that make her smile and give her a giddy, wonderful feeling, she’s kept to herself.
Maybe Rachel hasn’t been ready to let the rest of the world in. They’ve invaded enough of their privacy.
“That is no excuse.”
“I’m sorry,” she relents, because there’s nothing else she can say. “Honestly, it’s just happened so quickly. We ran into each other at Drew’s party, and then now we’re working on a song together-“
“Oh My God, does Quinn know?”
“… No,” she responds, because that’s random.
“She’ll want to know,” he twitters. “Oh! Tell that Santana bitch to call me! And ask Santana if she’s got ab implants! And whether or not I can confirm that boob job!”
“Oh for the love of God, Kurt!” Rachel shakes her head, and reminds herself once more than her chatty best friend is also drunk as hell. Her GPS warns her that she’s approaching the residence of one Santana Lopez. “Look, I have to let you go-“
“-but-“
“I promise I will call you and tell you EVERYTHING, but right now I have dinner plans.”
“Oooh, what does Troy think?!”
“I’m hanging up!” she snaps and follows through, cutting off the call even though Kurt sputters in complaint.
Santana owns a gorgeous place in a quietly expensive part of West LA, in an area where parking can be a real pain unless you have a garage or a permit. Santana, thankfully, has already given Rachel permission to use her driveway, and so she easily pulls up behind Santana’s now recognizable red metallic Mercedes G 63 AMG. Rachel makes a note to bite her tongue in order to keep from scolding Santana on the gas-guzzling, presumptuous monstrosity.
She sits in the car for a brief moment, and considers her situation. There’s a tense knot in her stomach.
Rachel equates it to nerves. She’s been reminded of the stakes once again by her publicist, who has told her in no uncertain terms that she needs this. Rachel’s wrapped up her recurring guest stint, and is now treading water in that horrible limbo that comes with waiting for different prospects and projects to pan out and hoping her headshot is the one that lands on top.
There’s also a very real possibility that she’ll be back on Broadway soon; her old producer who launched her career with Cinderella has begun working on a modern revival of Into the Woods, and Rachel’s her first choice for the role of the Witch.
Provided, of course that she can ‘get her investors in line’.
Rachel’s worked in the business too long to be ignorant about what that means; it’s not her talent that’s in question. Apparently, Leighton Meester has also expressed interest, and has a hot new drama on TNT that gives her cache.
There’s real pressure to deliver something good with Santana, something that will get her noticed and put her on the charts with a solid hit or at least the right kind of buzz. Enough buzz will sell tickets, put asses in seats and will give investors the incentive to cast Rachel in the part.
Rachel glances up to eye herself in the mirror. She’s determinedly casual, but she makes a point of fluffing out her bangs and rechecking her eyeliner before she opens her car door and begins the significantly long walk up the sidewalk.
It’s hard not to wonder what Santana is getting out of this. Her friend’s fame may be a little more scandalously earned than her own (her rise to fame is predictably boring in comparison), but she’s appreciated for more than just her sex tape. Santana has worked with some of the most recognized music artists in the industry. She’s Stephen Soderbergh’s current muse, and though Santana seems to genuinely prefer music to acting, she’s in that very fortunate place where she’s hot and marketable and able to pick her projects.
It takes more humility than Rachel thinks she has to admit that Santana doesn’t actually need this. The fact that Santana has agreed to this collaboration so readily has had Rachel wondering quite a bit what Santana’s true motivations are.
It’s unfair to Santana, really. They had their differences, and yes Santana used to be manipulative as hell when she wanted something, but what could she possibly gain here other than a chance to sing and work with an old friend?
She knows Santana cares about her. They forged a genuine and real connection in New York; Santana was there for her when even Kurt couldn’t begin to know how to help her. God, Santana even confessed to genuinely loving Rachel, and that was during the period of time when Rachel kicked her out of her apartment for trying to expose her man whore boyfriend, making Santana’s ‘breasts ache with rage’ in the process.
This is an opportunity, and a good one. The fact that it’s with Santana? It’s icing on the cake.
Bolstered, Rachel heads up the stone steps to Santana’s impressive home and raises her hand, ready to knock on the heavy wooden door when suddenly it bursts outward, flying open and making her nearly trip back down the stairs in surprise.
It’s Santana of course, with her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and her bright brown eyes shining brightly with mischief. “Guess what I picked up at Pavilions,” she says in a tone that’s almost CHIPPER, like it hasn’t been at least a month since they’ve last seen each other. She holds up a copy of STAR. “We’re not just digital anymore.”
It takes Rachel a moment to gather herself. She narrows her eyes and focuses on the magazine that Santana is shaking at her. And oh wow… she’s actually looking at a recently snapped shot of her and Troy at his movie premiere, with a dramatic line splitting the two of them. ‘Hollywood Homewrecker?” is the question in bright white font. Nestled meaningfully between the two is one of those ridiculous shots of her and Santana intimately standing together at Drew’s party. ‘Inside the torrid Bi-sexual love triangle’, reads the caption below it.
Rachel’s eyes widen and her breath quickens in horror. “Oh God,” she breathes, snatching the magazine out of Santana’s hands to get a better look. “Are you kidding?”
Santana just looks fucking amused. “Apparently, I rocked your world and ruined you for all penises everywhere,” she preens, which is really aggravating.
“This is so stupid,” Rachel breathes, stepping into the house and keeping her fingers and eyes glued to the glossy pages, turning and skimming until she finds the cover story. There she is, plastered all over the spread. Supposed confirmed sources ‘close’ to her and Santana state confidently that she’s infatuated with her high school friend and ready to leave Troy.
“Well obviously,” Santana says, shutting the door behind her. “But it’s also pretty damn funny.”
It’s really, really not.
“Why is it funny?” she snaps.
Had Santana not presented her with this piece of trash the second she walked up to her door, Rachel might have taken the time to notice Santana’s house, compliment her on the dark tones and tasteful decorations clearly placed there by an interior decorator and not Santana herself, who Rachel remembers as always being somewhat of a messy roommate.
Instead, Rachel thoughtlessly sinksdown onto Santana’s black vintage couch, scanning the article with an increasing sense of dismay.
“Why is it not?”
“These people are telling lies about us, Santana!”
Santana seems distressingly unperturbed. “Oh come on,” she says, in that same dismissive tone she always used to use when Rachel was trying to actually be sincere about something and she never gave a shit. “They’re just excited. It’ll be old news in like a month.” She’s sipping on a glass of red wine, legs crossing as she settles in a lounge chair, regarding Rachel like some dame from a forties flick. “Do you know how many girls I’ve reportedly corrupted?”
It’s the blasé tone that pushes the irritation into actual annoyance at her old friend. “I do actually,” she snaps, slapping the magazine down and tossing it on the cushion beside her. “And I’m not exactly itching to become one of them.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Santana asks after a moment, with a defensive hitch in her throat that Rachel immediately recognizes, because of course NOW Santana decides she’s insulted.
Rachel’s eyes flutter closed. She’s heated and blushing, and there’s a panicky fluttering in her chest that makes it difficult to breathe.
Still, she tries her best to calm herself, pressing her palm against her face and breathing in deeply. “Nothing,” she mumbles, because it’s just a stupid magazine and it’s lies and it’s not worth it.
But of course, now that Santana’s hurt and pissed off, it’s apparently completely worth it to her.“No really, you’re actually complaining about this?” The boots Santana wears kick in the direction of the stupid magazine. “What happened to any press is good press, Rachel?”
“Santana,” she moans, because this isn’t what she came for. Not now. “Can we not-“
“When’s the last time you’ve been on the cover of Star, Rachel?”
Rachel winces.
Santana still knows how to slice where it hurts. Though she and Santana have texted frequently since their reconnection, they’ve never discussed career beyond the first night. It’s been a subject that’s been avoided because it seems to be a sensitive subject for both of them.
At least until one of them gets pissed off.
With stiff shoulders and a cold glare, Rachel finds herself drawling to her glaring friend, “Well it’s nice to know that all these years haven’t made you any less of a bitch, Santana.”
She regrets this turn of events immediately. She’s been looking forward to today. She’s wanted to see Santana again for weeks now, and honestly all that she wanted when she came to the doorway is to see Santana’s beautiful face, hug that gorgeous figure, and smile and chat over a glass of wine. She didn’t want… petty arguing over something that shouldn’t mean anything at all.
And God, she knows better.
Rachel knows how easily Santana’s feathers get ruffled. She’s always been annoyingly delicate, like an armadillo that’s been turned over, with that soft squishy belly hidden under those armored plates.
“Fine,” she snaps, and knocks her glass so hard on the table beside her it nearly sloshes over the cup. “Whatever Rachel.” She rises and it makes Rachel stand too. “You know if this is bothering you this much we don’t have to work together.”
Of course, that’s exactly where Santana goes. “Santana,” she sighs, tired of this now. “Come on.”
It’s almost annoying how even after all these years, Rachel can recognize the hurt that flashes in Santana’s suddenly vulnerable eyes before she’s met with that stone-faced expression.
“No seriously!” Santana’s hair falls forward, hiding her face from Rachel as she whirls, snapping up the stupid magazine and shaking it at her. “If you’re so afraid of your pussy getting Santana’d then we can just quit this right now. I don’t want you to catch the gay!”
And God, wouldn’t that be delicious tabloid fodder? The Broadway Diva and the temperamental Superstar DJ can’t even spend five minutes with each other without wanting to claw each other’s eyes out? Collaboration dissolves over personality conflicts!
She needs to stop thinking in headlines.
Rachel isn’t sure how the anger has faded. It seems to have ebbed away as quickly as its come. Rachel is glad for it. It gives her perspective, and now she’s feeling both guilty and apologetic. Clearly, she’s hit a sore subject with Santana, and maybe Santana’s encountered this before. It can’t be easy to be such an easy target with the media, to be seen with a woman and immediately be painted as a harlot or a home wrecker.
Maybe Santana thought Rachel would be the one person to not care about any of it. Who would look at that magazine and just laugh, because it’s not true and Santana is just Santana to her.
No more, no less.
With an indrawn breath, Rachel palms against her thighs and steps forward. She guides herself with instinct, edging forward until she’s carefully moved into Santana’s space. Santana stiffens, but doesn’t move away. It’s a good sign.
“You know I don’t want to do that,” she says quietly, almost a whisper against Santana’s cheek.
She hears Santana’s breath go uneven. Dark eyes turn and study her intensely. “So what do you want?” she asks, soft and quiet. Rachel feels her heart thud with affection because she knows that Santana doesn’t really want to see her go, any more than Rachel wants to leave.
She offers a smile that Santana once called ‘infuriatingly charming’, and presses in closer. “I want to sing with you,” she admits, quiet and to the point. “And I want to not give a shit what the rest of the world thinks about it.” Santana’s mouth twitches at her crassness. She always did like it when Rachel swore. Rachel tilts her head, drags the toe of her heels on Santana’s hardwood floor. “Do you want to sing with me?” she asks, quietly vulnerable.
There it is, that sweet smile that forms on Santana’s lips when she’s amused or affected against her will. “Fuck you Rachel,” she sighs, and Rachel’s mouth stretches into a genuine grin when she continues grumpily, “God help me, I really do.”
That giddy, happy feeling that’s Santana’s managed to bring out of her so easily lately with just a text or a call comes back in full force.
“Then let’s start over,” she says, and clears her throat, shaking her hands to rid herself of the negative energy and offers her well-practiced mega-watt best smile for her friend. “Hi Santana, it’s good to see you. I’ve missed you.”
Santana’s brow rises, clearly amused against her will, and she rolls her eyes and mutters, “Berry, it’s good to see you too.”
“I’m going to hug you now,” Rachel warns, because she’s close enough and she wants to do it. She doesn’t wait for Santana’s permission; just takes in that extra half step to slide her hands around Santana’s tiny waist and bring her in close.
Santana’s arms press in against her shoulders, and Rachel can hear her friends heartbeat, unsteady thanks to their little spat, bopping against her chest like one of those bass speakers that Santana loves so much.
Lips brush against her forehead and Rachel sighs in contentment.
“You know it’s been years,” Santana mumbles against her temple, “You don’t have to warn me every time you hug me. I’m used to it by now.”
Rachel laughs and reaches back to slap her friend lightly across her shoulder. Santana smiles sweetly, and Rachel is so, so glad that they’re okay.
--
She finally gets a tour, of the first floor at least, and some hot tea instead of wine, because she is going to be singing after all, before they venture downstairs to Santana’s basement and into Santana’s sound-proofed, professional and intimate recording studio. In here, Rachel sees Santana’s true self. Piles of records and pinboards tacked with old pictures and notes litter the area. There’s an award or two there, because Santana’s only released a couple albums but there’s been a few hits on both, and a little mini-fridge that hums and makes Rachel think of a dorm room.
It’s such a leap from the tiny computer and huge headphones that Santana used to wear sitting on the couch back when she took that music theory course, and Rachel discovers she’s actually choked up with pride.
“Impressed?” she hears, and turns from the expensive equipment to Santana, smug as hell as she leans against the doorway, content it seems to just let Rachel discover the place.
“Um… wow,” she laughs, because this is an amazing space to work and honestly she is jealous as hell. “ I am impressed.” Her fingers skim against the table that features the audio interface, all the knobs and levels and dials that will fine tune the sound.
“I usually have a few assistants and my producer but I thought since we’re just brain storming, it can be just me and you.”
“Do you work from out here a lot?”
There’s a small stool in the center of the room, poised with a microphone fitted loosely in its own stand. It looks quiet and lonely, all by itself.
Rachel’s distracted from the image when she feels the brush of Santana, who settles in beside her, fiddling with the levels, flipping on switches that turn lights green and red. She’s gentle as she works with her equipment, and Rachel finds it quietly fascinating.
“I still go into the studio to record the big label stuff, but this is home to me.” Santana pauses, and glances at her, and seems to reconsider that. ”Well… New York is home,” she amends. “But when I’m here… here I am.”
It explains the cold, impersonal house. Santana makes her living hopping continents. Rachel would venture a guess that when Santana is in town, she spends more nights on that raggedly old leather couch that’s settled in the corner than in the pristine thousand dollar mattress in her bedroom upstairs.
“I know what you mean.” Rachel drags her fingers along the equipment, careful not to disturb anything. With an exhalation of breath she didn’t realize she was holding, she steps away from Santana to head for that stool. She settles down onto it, oddly content and passive as she watches Santana in her element, manipulating all those little buttons and grabbing hold of the giant headphones that look more expensive than Rachel’s designer watch.
“You know I bought that loft.”
Rachel blinks, eyes lifting to witness Santana’s suddenly shy smile. She finds her smile widening, a laugh of disbelief falling out of her. “Are you serious?”
“Mmmhm.” Santana turns away from the interface, and leans up against it, arms crossed, regarding Rachel. “Don’t get too excited. It’s not exactly the same. I put in actual walls,” she drawls with a sly, mischievous smile.
Rachel fights the urge to roll her eyes as she shakes her head and replies just as flippantly, “Well I’m sure there’s quite a few ladies that are happy to hear about that.”
If it was something she constantly heard Santana complain about, it was the fact that they lived like hippies and all knew exactly when and how often the other roommates got laid.
She also once told Rachel that she was living out her own nightmare because she now knew that Rachel was as loud in bed as she was in the shower, and then proceeded to do an eerily accurate imitation of Rachel having an orgasm.
It was mortifying.
The heated blush that tints her cheeks doesn’t fade because following that memory comes another one, when during a visit from MIT genius Brittany, Rachel heard sounds coming from Santana’s curtained room all night (and all morning) that sounded like she was being murdered by pure pleasure.
God, she knows exactly what Santana sounds like when she comes.
Rachel has no idea why the very idea makes her so breathless.
“Not as many as you’d think,” Santana says suddenly. Rachel glances up heatedly, but Santana doesn’t face her. She’s lost in her work, and Rachel’s glad for it.
Goosebumps have prickled on her arm and there’s an image of Santana naked that it entirely too easy to conjure up, because that bathroom was SMALL, and they had surprisingly little boundaries for a lesbian, a gay man and a woman who is mostly straight. Probably.
She’s not really sure anymore right now.
“Right,” she says, and nearly kicks herself when she realizes how strained her voice sounds. “I’ll have to text Kurt. I know he loved that place as much as I did.” She manages a smile. “It might be nice to see it sometime.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” Santana says, low and quiet, absorbed in whatever program she’s pulling up. Rachel is struck by how… husky her voice sounds in this small room. Rachel has always admired the raspy quality of Santana’s tone, but it’s never felt this… thick before. She attributes it to the padding on the walls, engineered so no sound can escape it. “Sometimes I sublet.” There’s a smirk on Santana’s face; it’s sexy in a way Rachel doesn’t ever remember it being.
She realizes she’s staring the moment Santana’s dark eyes lift and connect with her own.
The sudden emotion that erupts within her so unsettling Rachel nearly spills her tea. She fumbles, eyes skimming away, bringing the cup to her lips and drinking deep.
“So…” Rachel begins, once she’s regained her poise. “Music?” she tries, because there’s a reason why they’re here, and it’s not to contemplate on why Santana seems to be suddenly leaking pheromones.
“Right,” Santana says after a moment, and Rachel’s quietly grateful when she turns away, back to her dials and headphones. “Well… I’ve been thinking about style, and working on a few beats.”
Rachel’s done a little preparation of her own. She’s heard Santana’s albums. It’s surprising; Santana doesn’t sing on her tracks as much as she would expect. Santana’s instead put her talent in mixing the music. She’s chosen certain artists to match the different songs, clearly experimenting with genres and different voices. Still, they all have their own unique pulsing rhythm; Santana’s mixed beats are intoxicating and perfect for a dance floor or a work-out routine.
Rachel has always known her own strengths and her own weaknesses. Even in high school, she knew what her voice was suited for. It’s a remix of Amy Winehouse’ Rehab. “Okay,” she answers unsteadily, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “I’m not sure how good I am at disco music.”
Santana pauses long enough to shoot a hard glare over the console. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you called my shit disco music,” she says, with enough exaggerated offense to make Rachel giggle, “And instead say that I have something else in mind.”
“Oh?”
Santana grins this secret smile that is more charming than it should be. She pauses, brushing bangs out of her face as she glances back up at her. “Yeah. Remember when you sang that David Guetta song ‘Without You’ in Glee Club?”
“I do.” Of course she does. She remembers that day vividly. It comes back so quickly, young Rachel perched on a stool so similar to this one, pouring her heart out to Finn Hudson, because at that moment he was her very world and she needed desperately for him to know that.
A knot suddenly locks into the back of her throat.
She didn’t think she could live without him, and now… when was the last time she’s even thought about Finn?
“I liked it.” Rachel exhales, shaken out of her memory to find that Santana isn’t facing her as she makes her confession. Instead her friend seems oddly shy, like a kid who’s just admitted a crush.
The painful nostalgia is replaced with heartwarming affection, because honestly, what are the odds that this person would be the one that’s still around after all this time?
“Thank you, Santana,” she breathes, as sincerely as she can.
Santana finally looks at her. “I want to do the same thing here,” she explains. “With us.” Santana settles into the large swivel chair, and leans forward, eyes on Rachel as she speaks in a tone that is confident and firm. “I want to hear you raw and emotional… no one does it like you do, Rachel.” Santana’s palms open and she straightens, motioning to her mountain of equipment. “And then I do what I do with the beats and a harmonizing chorus.”
She’s going to sing with her then. Rachel smiles. “Sounds like a winning combination,” she answers honestly and is rewarded by an excited, gorgeous smile.
They share a quiet moment of appreciation, before Santana turns once again to her interface. “Listen to this.”
Rachel waits, literally on the edge of her seat as she watches Santana in her element, slender fingers flying. Suddenly little waves begin to pulse on the monitor and the bass speakers thump with notes, a melody that is synthesized into a catchy, quick beat. Santana lets it play, bobbing her head to the rhythm, and then reaches for a piece of paper that she leans forward to hand to Rachel.
It’s scribbled with lyrics, half written. “I figured we could work on that together,” Santana say. “Since I got myself a genius lyricist right here.”
Rachel can’t tell if she’s kidding or being sincere, because yes, Rachel wrote Get it Right, but she also wrote My Headband, and she knows Santana’s never quite forgiven her for that.
Still, the music is inviting, and Rachel discovers herself humming along to the notes that Santana’s inscribed, feeling the melody out with her vocal chords, sounding out the words on her tongue.
It’s a surprisingly soothing tone, dipping over the mixed beats a little like a surfboard slipping serenely through waves.
“You like it?” Santana asks.
Rachel’s head lifts. “I like it,” she rasps, but it feels like an understatement.
Santana’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. There’s a moment where Santana just smiles at her, so pleased and perfect, and then suddenly she lifts her hand and offers her the floor. “So sing it for me.”
Santana turns up the speakers, and matches the power of Rachel’s voice as she looks down at the half scribbled lyrics and lets the music flow.
Her heart trembles, her eyes shine, and as Santana nods happily. She joins in, taking the harmony, matching her voice so beautifully Rachel wonders if it’s possible that feeling like she’s gone back home can come from a person… from a song… not a place at all.
--
They didn’t write the world’s most amazing love song. It’s a pop song with an infectious beat and a chorus that’s so simple it almost feels TOO simple, but the power comes from the fact that they’ve written a ballad matched to a dance song.
It’s late and they forgot to eat.
Rachel’s throat is scratchy. She’s worn out and her body is sluggish, but when Santana plays the finished rough cut of the song one more time, it fills her with such a sense of pride she finds herself sinking into Santana’s side, giggling with happiness.
“Fuck,” Santana laughs, sliding an arm around her waist to keep her curled up against her, and Rachel knows she feels it too.
--
She’s taking slow, tired steps toward Santana’s foyer. The song demo has been sent to the suits and her agents. Rachel decides she doesn’t want to think about what the inevitable notes will be. Even if they hate it, she thinks it’s been worth it.
Tonight has been incredible.
“You know it’s funny.” Rachel’s got her purse on her shoulder, she wavers in the hall. Santana’s walking with her, and Rachel thinks it’s terrifyingly sweet, how carefully Santana’s guiding her to the door, considering she’s sure Santana’s just as exhausted as she is.
“What is?”
Rachel hums, mouth flattening as she considers her words. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re insanely talented,” she concedes, and shrugs her shoulder in apology. “But I never took you for a song writer.” Santana’s eyes narrow, debating whether or not to take offense. Rachel grins. “Well you know, except for ‘Trouty Mouth’.”
Santana snorts good-naturedly, and it makes Rachel chuckle, pressing back against the empty wall of the hallway. “Well, you know, not everyone can match the brilliance of ‘My Headband’.”
“My Headband is a classic,” she retorts. “And your ex-girlfriend LOVED it.”
“If you start singing it I’m going to kill you,” Santana warns. “Brittany wouldn’t stop playing that damn song on loop in high school. Drove me fucking nuts.”
Rachel’s mouth quirks again, but that smile fades. It really is late. Rachel has a meeting tomorrow, and she knows Santana is due to be on a plane to Florida for some concert event.
The crickets battle with the occasional vroom of a car passing by. Rachel stares at the closed wooden door, and yet can’t quite bring herself to push off the wall.
She doesn’t want to go yet. Instead, Rachel gnaws quietly on her lower lip, and once again stares at her friend. “This is a good song, isn’t it?”
Santana’s lips purse. She possibly notes the vulnerable expression on Rachel’s face, because her expression softens and she comes closer to slip fingers slip in her own, tugging lightly, until she breaks the loose hold over her chest and their interlocked hands hang between them.
“Look,” Santana says, firm and quiet. “This may be a hit and it may not be.” Thumbs slide delicately over her fingers. Rachel sighs raggedly and studies the way their fingers mold together, rubbing gently together, skin against skin. “I’m not a mind reader, but every song is like a person. It has to have a soul. And this song has soul. It’s got a little bit of me,” she whispers, bringing their hands to rest briefly against her chest, “And a little bit of you.” The fingers now press against Rachel’s breast, right where her heart beats.
As it on command, Rachel’s heartbeat trips unsteadily. She smiles mutely, eyes blinking with moisture because she gets what Santana’s trying to say. She does. What they’ve done is special. Santana’s taken the best part of them both and created a song from the pieces. Because songs, Santana explained flippantly, are like people. And if people are like songs, then Rachel is a ballad. Bold and dramatic and maybe a little too sappy for her own good.
As for Santana? Well, Santana is just a crazy mix of all the right beats. Rachel studies the beautiful face intensely; notes the way their fingers have interlocked, how close Santana is to her now. There’s solid wall at Rachel’s back, but Santana is now less than a foot away. She smells her perfume; feels her heat. “So if a person is like a song, then what’s a duet?” Rachel asks in a low, careful voice.
Santana’s breath goes a bit unsteady. Rachel swallows at the reaction, and lowers her attention to the fingers that play idly with her own, smoothing delicately over the tip of her digits, until there’s a thread of sensation against her sensitive inner wrists.
“I don’t know,” Santana murmurs, eyes on their fingers and the way they dance together. Dark eyes lift and connect with her own. “What does it feel like to you, Rachel?”
What does it feel like?
Santana’s fingers drift away from her own. Hands smooth against her bare forearms, and suddenly the palms are pressing in on either side of her. Rachel’s fingers are now lightly pressing against Santana’s flat stomach. She skims instinctively, and feels the muscles underneath the shirt jolt in reaction.
Rachel licks her lips. The air is thick around them, and Rachel wonders if it should be suffocating, to have Santana so close. “Honestly?” she half whispers, as she catches the fabric of Santana’s shirt between her knuckles, elbows sliding back to pull her in that much closer.
“Do we do anything else?” Santana asks, but that mouth is so much closer than it was before, and Rachel sees hooded eyes and long lashes, and then nothing at all, because her eyes have drifted shut at the brush of lips against her own.
The jolt strikes inside of her like flint. Her fingers flex, her mouth opens, and Santana partakes greedily, kissing her with an experienced hunger that inflames Rachel’s arousal.
Fingers drag into Santana’s nape, drawing her in closer, and Rachel’s tongue slips wetly between Santana’s parted lips, sighing when Santana groans in reaction. Rachel’s heart pounds; her head pulses and when an open palm boldly slides against her clothed breast, catching against her erect nipple, the buck of her hips brings her back to reality.
She gasps harshly, so intensely Santana breaks away.
The silence is deafening. Rachel blinks, breathing deeply. She looks at those swollen lips, feels the way her mouth tingles, the way her heated and aroused body throbs for more.
But Santana just stares at her, eyes brown and wild, expression hooded and impossible to read.
Suddenly Rachel can’t feel anything but panic.
“I should go,” she whispers unsteadily.
Santana doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything, when Rachel breaks free from her hold and heads shakily to the door. She lets Rachel leave and never says a word, and Rachel can’t even begin to comprehend why it matters, but it does.
--
Author: Misty Flores
Pairing: Rachel/Santana, implied Quinn/Santana
Teaser: Years after they were roommates in a cold loft in New York, Broadway Rachel Berry and Superstar DJ Santana Lopez reconnect on the other end of the success spectrum.
Spoilers: Through S4 of Glee
Rating: M
Note: For the Santana Anthology. Sorry I missed the deadline! Title is taken from Cake's 'Love You Madly'. Also, a Glee Girls Smut Meme fill for this gif.
Also I really REALLY didn’t want to post this as a WIP, but honestly it’s a three chapter story and it’s been my primary focus to get it done, so I figured I’d at least post the start of it so it wouldn’t any later (sorry, Kay. I had to go with instinct instead of logic). I apologize for the lateness of the other stories, honestly, there just hasn’t been time, but they’re by no means forgotten and I’ll update them all when this story is done posting.
Chapter 1a
Chapter 1B
--
When Rachel’s phone rings and she immediately recognizes the ringtone as Kurt’s, she knows it’s either an emergency or Kurt is drunk. A Madrid party goes all night, and Kurt has adapted as readily and eagerly as any gorgeous, successful gay man would.
Rachel’s driving to Santana’s, but thankfully, she’s never lost that responsible edge and so she easily answers via her voice automated Bluetooth. “Kurt, why are you calling? It’s four AM in Madrid!”
“Bitch, I know what time it is!” So… drunk then. “And don’t try to distract me! I’m so pissed at you!”
“Kurt, I’m driving,” she warns, and signals for a left turn. “Can you be pissed at me tomorrow when you’re sober?”
“No! I wanna be pissed right now! Why didn’t you tell me you had met up with Santana?!”
“Because the time zones suck and you never answer your emails or texts during Fashion Week?” she sputters, and then blinks, making the turn. “And how did you find out?!”
“Tina Cohen-Chang-Chang sent me a link to some VERY steamy pictures.”
Rachel would roll her eyes extra hard for emphasis, but unfortunately, she has to keep her attention on the road. Los Angeles drivers suck. “Doesn’t she have anything else to do other than send everyone every bit of New Directions gossip she can get her hands on?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not!” Rachel’s head shakes with annoyance. “It’s just sad and a little stupid!”
“What’s stupid is that I had to find out from TINA that my two old roommates are hooking up!” he squeals, words slurring a bit in his drunkenness.
Rachel comes to a stop sign and sighs, eyes closing in frustration. “Kurt, we’re not hooking up. Don’t be ridiculous. You of all people should know better.”
“I see… and this picture of you hoover-latched on to her mouth-“
“I was going for her cheek!”
“Why didn’t you call me?!” he pouts, genuinely put out by it all. “You know I miss her too!”
“You’re on a whole other continent,” she reminds him, but oddly, she finds herself wondering why she hasn’t called him. It should have been her first impulse. She and Kurt may not be as close as they used to be, distance will do that to any friendship, but they still try to maintain their monthly SKYPE gossip-fest. Considering their history and the fact that he and Santana had their own special gay-friendship, he should have been the first to know that they had found each other again.
But she hadn’t told him. She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Quinn, who still calls often and randomly talks about Santana and how annoying it is to see her and her abs splashed on different posters around New York.
This thing with Santana, random texts that make her smile and give her a giddy, wonderful feeling, she’s kept to herself.
Maybe Rachel hasn’t been ready to let the rest of the world in. They’ve invaded enough of their privacy.
“That is no excuse.”
“I’m sorry,” she relents, because there’s nothing else she can say. “Honestly, it’s just happened so quickly. We ran into each other at Drew’s party, and then now we’re working on a song together-“
“Oh My God, does Quinn know?”
“… No,” she responds, because that’s random.
“She’ll want to know,” he twitters. “Oh! Tell that Santana bitch to call me! And ask Santana if she’s got ab implants! And whether or not I can confirm that boob job!”
“Oh for the love of God, Kurt!” Rachel shakes her head, and reminds herself once more than her chatty best friend is also drunk as hell. Her GPS warns her that she’s approaching the residence of one Santana Lopez. “Look, I have to let you go-“
“-but-“
“I promise I will call you and tell you EVERYTHING, but right now I have dinner plans.”
“Oooh, what does Troy think?!”
“I’m hanging up!” she snaps and follows through, cutting off the call even though Kurt sputters in complaint.
Santana owns a gorgeous place in a quietly expensive part of West LA, in an area where parking can be a real pain unless you have a garage or a permit. Santana, thankfully, has already given Rachel permission to use her driveway, and so she easily pulls up behind Santana’s now recognizable red metallic Mercedes G 63 AMG. Rachel makes a note to bite her tongue in order to keep from scolding Santana on the gas-guzzling, presumptuous monstrosity.
She sits in the car for a brief moment, and considers her situation. There’s a tense knot in her stomach.
Rachel equates it to nerves. She’s been reminded of the stakes once again by her publicist, who has told her in no uncertain terms that she needs this. Rachel’s wrapped up her recurring guest stint, and is now treading water in that horrible limbo that comes with waiting for different prospects and projects to pan out and hoping her headshot is the one that lands on top.
There’s also a very real possibility that she’ll be back on Broadway soon; her old producer who launched her career with Cinderella has begun working on a modern revival of Into the Woods, and Rachel’s her first choice for the role of the Witch.
Provided, of course that she can ‘get her investors in line’.
Rachel’s worked in the business too long to be ignorant about what that means; it’s not her talent that’s in question. Apparently, Leighton Meester has also expressed interest, and has a hot new drama on TNT that gives her cache.
There’s real pressure to deliver something good with Santana, something that will get her noticed and put her on the charts with a solid hit or at least the right kind of buzz. Enough buzz will sell tickets, put asses in seats and will give investors the incentive to cast Rachel in the part.
Rachel glances up to eye herself in the mirror. She’s determinedly casual, but she makes a point of fluffing out her bangs and rechecking her eyeliner before she opens her car door and begins the significantly long walk up the sidewalk.
It’s hard not to wonder what Santana is getting out of this. Her friend’s fame may be a little more scandalously earned than her own (her rise to fame is predictably boring in comparison), but she’s appreciated for more than just her sex tape. Santana has worked with some of the most recognized music artists in the industry. She’s Stephen Soderbergh’s current muse, and though Santana seems to genuinely prefer music to acting, she’s in that very fortunate place where she’s hot and marketable and able to pick her projects.
It takes more humility than Rachel thinks she has to admit that Santana doesn’t actually need this. The fact that Santana has agreed to this collaboration so readily has had Rachel wondering quite a bit what Santana’s true motivations are.
It’s unfair to Santana, really. They had their differences, and yes Santana used to be manipulative as hell when she wanted something, but what could she possibly gain here other than a chance to sing and work with an old friend?
She knows Santana cares about her. They forged a genuine and real connection in New York; Santana was there for her when even Kurt couldn’t begin to know how to help her. God, Santana even confessed to genuinely loving Rachel, and that was during the period of time when Rachel kicked her out of her apartment for trying to expose her man whore boyfriend, making Santana’s ‘breasts ache with rage’ in the process.
This is an opportunity, and a good one. The fact that it’s with Santana? It’s icing on the cake.
Bolstered, Rachel heads up the stone steps to Santana’s impressive home and raises her hand, ready to knock on the heavy wooden door when suddenly it bursts outward, flying open and making her nearly trip back down the stairs in surprise.
It’s Santana of course, with her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and her bright brown eyes shining brightly with mischief. “Guess what I picked up at Pavilions,” she says in a tone that’s almost CHIPPER, like it hasn’t been at least a month since they’ve last seen each other. She holds up a copy of STAR. “We’re not just digital anymore.”
It takes Rachel a moment to gather herself. She narrows her eyes and focuses on the magazine that Santana is shaking at her. And oh wow… she’s actually looking at a recently snapped shot of her and Troy at his movie premiere, with a dramatic line splitting the two of them. ‘Hollywood Homewrecker?” is the question in bright white font. Nestled meaningfully between the two is one of those ridiculous shots of her and Santana intimately standing together at Drew’s party. ‘Inside the torrid Bi-sexual love triangle’, reads the caption below it.
Rachel’s eyes widen and her breath quickens in horror. “Oh God,” she breathes, snatching the magazine out of Santana’s hands to get a better look. “Are you kidding?”
Santana just looks fucking amused. “Apparently, I rocked your world and ruined you for all penises everywhere,” she preens, which is really aggravating.
“This is so stupid,” Rachel breathes, stepping into the house and keeping her fingers and eyes glued to the glossy pages, turning and skimming until she finds the cover story. There she is, plastered all over the spread. Supposed confirmed sources ‘close’ to her and Santana state confidently that she’s infatuated with her high school friend and ready to leave Troy.
“Well obviously,” Santana says, shutting the door behind her. “But it’s also pretty damn funny.”
It’s really, really not.
“Why is it funny?” she snaps.
Had Santana not presented her with this piece of trash the second she walked up to her door, Rachel might have taken the time to notice Santana’s house, compliment her on the dark tones and tasteful decorations clearly placed there by an interior decorator and not Santana herself, who Rachel remembers as always being somewhat of a messy roommate.
Instead, Rachel thoughtlessly sinksdown onto Santana’s black vintage couch, scanning the article with an increasing sense of dismay.
“Why is it not?”
“These people are telling lies about us, Santana!”
Santana seems distressingly unperturbed. “Oh come on,” she says, in that same dismissive tone she always used to use when Rachel was trying to actually be sincere about something and she never gave a shit. “They’re just excited. It’ll be old news in like a month.” She’s sipping on a glass of red wine, legs crossing as she settles in a lounge chair, regarding Rachel like some dame from a forties flick. “Do you know how many girls I’ve reportedly corrupted?”
It’s the blasé tone that pushes the irritation into actual annoyance at her old friend. “I do actually,” she snaps, slapping the magazine down and tossing it on the cushion beside her. “And I’m not exactly itching to become one of them.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Santana asks after a moment, with a defensive hitch in her throat that Rachel immediately recognizes, because of course NOW Santana decides she’s insulted.
Rachel’s eyes flutter closed. She’s heated and blushing, and there’s a panicky fluttering in her chest that makes it difficult to breathe.
Still, she tries her best to calm herself, pressing her palm against her face and breathing in deeply. “Nothing,” she mumbles, because it’s just a stupid magazine and it’s lies and it’s not worth it.
But of course, now that Santana’s hurt and pissed off, it’s apparently completely worth it to her.“No really, you’re actually complaining about this?” The boots Santana wears kick in the direction of the stupid magazine. “What happened to any press is good press, Rachel?”
“Santana,” she moans, because this isn’t what she came for. Not now. “Can we not-“
“When’s the last time you’ve been on the cover of Star, Rachel?”
Rachel winces.
Santana still knows how to slice where it hurts. Though she and Santana have texted frequently since their reconnection, they’ve never discussed career beyond the first night. It’s been a subject that’s been avoided because it seems to be a sensitive subject for both of them.
At least until one of them gets pissed off.
With stiff shoulders and a cold glare, Rachel finds herself drawling to her glaring friend, “Well it’s nice to know that all these years haven’t made you any less of a bitch, Santana.”
She regrets this turn of events immediately. She’s been looking forward to today. She’s wanted to see Santana again for weeks now, and honestly all that she wanted when she came to the doorway is to see Santana’s beautiful face, hug that gorgeous figure, and smile and chat over a glass of wine. She didn’t want… petty arguing over something that shouldn’t mean anything at all.
And God, she knows better.
Rachel knows how easily Santana’s feathers get ruffled. She’s always been annoyingly delicate, like an armadillo that’s been turned over, with that soft squishy belly hidden under those armored plates.
“Fine,” she snaps, and knocks her glass so hard on the table beside her it nearly sloshes over the cup. “Whatever Rachel.” She rises and it makes Rachel stand too. “You know if this is bothering you this much we don’t have to work together.”
Of course, that’s exactly where Santana goes. “Santana,” she sighs, tired of this now. “Come on.”
It’s almost annoying how even after all these years, Rachel can recognize the hurt that flashes in Santana’s suddenly vulnerable eyes before she’s met with that stone-faced expression.
“No seriously!” Santana’s hair falls forward, hiding her face from Rachel as she whirls, snapping up the stupid magazine and shaking it at her. “If you’re so afraid of your pussy getting Santana’d then we can just quit this right now. I don’t want you to catch the gay!”
And God, wouldn’t that be delicious tabloid fodder? The Broadway Diva and the temperamental Superstar DJ can’t even spend five minutes with each other without wanting to claw each other’s eyes out? Collaboration dissolves over personality conflicts!
She needs to stop thinking in headlines.
Rachel isn’t sure how the anger has faded. It seems to have ebbed away as quickly as its come. Rachel is glad for it. It gives her perspective, and now she’s feeling both guilty and apologetic. Clearly, she’s hit a sore subject with Santana, and maybe Santana’s encountered this before. It can’t be easy to be such an easy target with the media, to be seen with a woman and immediately be painted as a harlot or a home wrecker.
Maybe Santana thought Rachel would be the one person to not care about any of it. Who would look at that magazine and just laugh, because it’s not true and Santana is just Santana to her.
No more, no less.
With an indrawn breath, Rachel palms against her thighs and steps forward. She guides herself with instinct, edging forward until she’s carefully moved into Santana’s space. Santana stiffens, but doesn’t move away. It’s a good sign.
“You know I don’t want to do that,” she says quietly, almost a whisper against Santana’s cheek.
She hears Santana’s breath go uneven. Dark eyes turn and study her intensely. “So what do you want?” she asks, soft and quiet. Rachel feels her heart thud with affection because she knows that Santana doesn’t really want to see her go, any more than Rachel wants to leave.
She offers a smile that Santana once called ‘infuriatingly charming’, and presses in closer. “I want to sing with you,” she admits, quiet and to the point. “And I want to not give a shit what the rest of the world thinks about it.” Santana’s mouth twitches at her crassness. She always did like it when Rachel swore. Rachel tilts her head, drags the toe of her heels on Santana’s hardwood floor. “Do you want to sing with me?” she asks, quietly vulnerable.
There it is, that sweet smile that forms on Santana’s lips when she’s amused or affected against her will. “Fuck you Rachel,” she sighs, and Rachel’s mouth stretches into a genuine grin when she continues grumpily, “God help me, I really do.”
That giddy, happy feeling that’s Santana’s managed to bring out of her so easily lately with just a text or a call comes back in full force.
“Then let’s start over,” she says, and clears her throat, shaking her hands to rid herself of the negative energy and offers her well-practiced mega-watt best smile for her friend. “Hi Santana, it’s good to see you. I’ve missed you.”
Santana’s brow rises, clearly amused against her will, and she rolls her eyes and mutters, “Berry, it’s good to see you too.”
“I’m going to hug you now,” Rachel warns, because she’s close enough and she wants to do it. She doesn’t wait for Santana’s permission; just takes in that extra half step to slide her hands around Santana’s tiny waist and bring her in close.
Santana’s arms press in against her shoulders, and Rachel can hear her friends heartbeat, unsteady thanks to their little spat, bopping against her chest like one of those bass speakers that Santana loves so much.
Lips brush against her forehead and Rachel sighs in contentment.
“You know it’s been years,” Santana mumbles against her temple, “You don’t have to warn me every time you hug me. I’m used to it by now.”
Rachel laughs and reaches back to slap her friend lightly across her shoulder. Santana smiles sweetly, and Rachel is so, so glad that they’re okay.
--
She finally gets a tour, of the first floor at least, and some hot tea instead of wine, because she is going to be singing after all, before they venture downstairs to Santana’s basement and into Santana’s sound-proofed, professional and intimate recording studio. In here, Rachel sees Santana’s true self. Piles of records and pinboards tacked with old pictures and notes litter the area. There’s an award or two there, because Santana’s only released a couple albums but there’s been a few hits on both, and a little mini-fridge that hums and makes Rachel think of a dorm room.
It’s such a leap from the tiny computer and huge headphones that Santana used to wear sitting on the couch back when she took that music theory course, and Rachel discovers she’s actually choked up with pride.
“Impressed?” she hears, and turns from the expensive equipment to Santana, smug as hell as she leans against the doorway, content it seems to just let Rachel discover the place.
“Um… wow,” she laughs, because this is an amazing space to work and honestly she is jealous as hell. “ I am impressed.” Her fingers skim against the table that features the audio interface, all the knobs and levels and dials that will fine tune the sound.
“I usually have a few assistants and my producer but I thought since we’re just brain storming, it can be just me and you.”
“Do you work from out here a lot?”
There’s a small stool in the center of the room, poised with a microphone fitted loosely in its own stand. It looks quiet and lonely, all by itself.
Rachel’s distracted from the image when she feels the brush of Santana, who settles in beside her, fiddling with the levels, flipping on switches that turn lights green and red. She’s gentle as she works with her equipment, and Rachel finds it quietly fascinating.
“I still go into the studio to record the big label stuff, but this is home to me.” Santana pauses, and glances at her, and seems to reconsider that. ”Well… New York is home,” she amends. “But when I’m here… here I am.”
It explains the cold, impersonal house. Santana makes her living hopping continents. Rachel would venture a guess that when Santana is in town, she spends more nights on that raggedly old leather couch that’s settled in the corner than in the pristine thousand dollar mattress in her bedroom upstairs.
“I know what you mean.” Rachel drags her fingers along the equipment, careful not to disturb anything. With an exhalation of breath she didn’t realize she was holding, she steps away from Santana to head for that stool. She settles down onto it, oddly content and passive as she watches Santana in her element, manipulating all those little buttons and grabbing hold of the giant headphones that look more expensive than Rachel’s designer watch.
“You know I bought that loft.”
Rachel blinks, eyes lifting to witness Santana’s suddenly shy smile. She finds her smile widening, a laugh of disbelief falling out of her. “Are you serious?”
“Mmmhm.” Santana turns away from the interface, and leans up against it, arms crossed, regarding Rachel. “Don’t get too excited. It’s not exactly the same. I put in actual walls,” she drawls with a sly, mischievous smile.
Rachel fights the urge to roll her eyes as she shakes her head and replies just as flippantly, “Well I’m sure there’s quite a few ladies that are happy to hear about that.”
If it was something she constantly heard Santana complain about, it was the fact that they lived like hippies and all knew exactly when and how often the other roommates got laid.
She also once told Rachel that she was living out her own nightmare because she now knew that Rachel was as loud in bed as she was in the shower, and then proceeded to do an eerily accurate imitation of Rachel having an orgasm.
It was mortifying.
The heated blush that tints her cheeks doesn’t fade because following that memory comes another one, when during a visit from MIT genius Brittany, Rachel heard sounds coming from Santana’s curtained room all night (and all morning) that sounded like she was being murdered by pure pleasure.
God, she knows exactly what Santana sounds like when she comes.
Rachel has no idea why the very idea makes her so breathless.
“Not as many as you’d think,” Santana says suddenly. Rachel glances up heatedly, but Santana doesn’t face her. She’s lost in her work, and Rachel’s glad for it.
Goosebumps have prickled on her arm and there’s an image of Santana naked that it entirely too easy to conjure up, because that bathroom was SMALL, and they had surprisingly little boundaries for a lesbian, a gay man and a woman who is mostly straight. Probably.
She’s not really sure anymore right now.
“Right,” she says, and nearly kicks herself when she realizes how strained her voice sounds. “I’ll have to text Kurt. I know he loved that place as much as I did.” She manages a smile. “It might be nice to see it sometime.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” Santana says, low and quiet, absorbed in whatever program she’s pulling up. Rachel is struck by how… husky her voice sounds in this small room. Rachel has always admired the raspy quality of Santana’s tone, but it’s never felt this… thick before. She attributes it to the padding on the walls, engineered so no sound can escape it. “Sometimes I sublet.” There’s a smirk on Santana’s face; it’s sexy in a way Rachel doesn’t ever remember it being.
She realizes she’s staring the moment Santana’s dark eyes lift and connect with her own.
The sudden emotion that erupts within her so unsettling Rachel nearly spills her tea. She fumbles, eyes skimming away, bringing the cup to her lips and drinking deep.
“So…” Rachel begins, once she’s regained her poise. “Music?” she tries, because there’s a reason why they’re here, and it’s not to contemplate on why Santana seems to be suddenly leaking pheromones.
“Right,” Santana says after a moment, and Rachel’s quietly grateful when she turns away, back to her dials and headphones. “Well… I’ve been thinking about style, and working on a few beats.”
Rachel’s done a little preparation of her own. She’s heard Santana’s albums. It’s surprising; Santana doesn’t sing on her tracks as much as she would expect. Santana’s instead put her talent in mixing the music. She’s chosen certain artists to match the different songs, clearly experimenting with genres and different voices. Still, they all have their own unique pulsing rhythm; Santana’s mixed beats are intoxicating and perfect for a dance floor or a work-out routine.
Rachel has always known her own strengths and her own weaknesses. Even in high school, she knew what her voice was suited for. It’s a remix of Amy Winehouse’ Rehab. “Okay,” she answers unsteadily, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “I’m not sure how good I am at disco music.”
Santana pauses long enough to shoot a hard glare over the console. “I’m going to ignore the fact that you called my shit disco music,” she says, with enough exaggerated offense to make Rachel giggle, “And instead say that I have something else in mind.”
“Oh?”
Santana grins this secret smile that is more charming than it should be. She pauses, brushing bangs out of her face as she glances back up at her. “Yeah. Remember when you sang that David Guetta song ‘Without You’ in Glee Club?”
“I do.” Of course she does. She remembers that day vividly. It comes back so quickly, young Rachel perched on a stool so similar to this one, pouring her heart out to Finn Hudson, because at that moment he was her very world and she needed desperately for him to know that.
A knot suddenly locks into the back of her throat.
She didn’t think she could live without him, and now… when was the last time she’s even thought about Finn?
“I liked it.” Rachel exhales, shaken out of her memory to find that Santana isn’t facing her as she makes her confession. Instead her friend seems oddly shy, like a kid who’s just admitted a crush.
The painful nostalgia is replaced with heartwarming affection, because honestly, what are the odds that this person would be the one that’s still around after all this time?
“Thank you, Santana,” she breathes, as sincerely as she can.
Santana finally looks at her. “I want to do the same thing here,” she explains. “With us.” Santana settles into the large swivel chair, and leans forward, eyes on Rachel as she speaks in a tone that is confident and firm. “I want to hear you raw and emotional… no one does it like you do, Rachel.” Santana’s palms open and she straightens, motioning to her mountain of equipment. “And then I do what I do with the beats and a harmonizing chorus.”
She’s going to sing with her then. Rachel smiles. “Sounds like a winning combination,” she answers honestly and is rewarded by an excited, gorgeous smile.
They share a quiet moment of appreciation, before Santana turns once again to her interface. “Listen to this.”
Rachel waits, literally on the edge of her seat as she watches Santana in her element, slender fingers flying. Suddenly little waves begin to pulse on the monitor and the bass speakers thump with notes, a melody that is synthesized into a catchy, quick beat. Santana lets it play, bobbing her head to the rhythm, and then reaches for a piece of paper that she leans forward to hand to Rachel.
It’s scribbled with lyrics, half written. “I figured we could work on that together,” Santana say. “Since I got myself a genius lyricist right here.”
Rachel can’t tell if she’s kidding or being sincere, because yes, Rachel wrote Get it Right, but she also wrote My Headband, and she knows Santana’s never quite forgiven her for that.
Still, the music is inviting, and Rachel discovers herself humming along to the notes that Santana’s inscribed, feeling the melody out with her vocal chords, sounding out the words on her tongue.
It’s a surprisingly soothing tone, dipping over the mixed beats a little like a surfboard slipping serenely through waves.
“You like it?” Santana asks.
Rachel’s head lifts. “I like it,” she rasps, but it feels like an understatement.
Santana’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. There’s a moment where Santana just smiles at her, so pleased and perfect, and then suddenly she lifts her hand and offers her the floor. “So sing it for me.”
Santana turns up the speakers, and matches the power of Rachel’s voice as she looks down at the half scribbled lyrics and lets the music flow.
Her heart trembles, her eyes shine, and as Santana nods happily. She joins in, taking the harmony, matching her voice so beautifully Rachel wonders if it’s possible that feeling like she’s gone back home can come from a person… from a song… not a place at all.
--
They didn’t write the world’s most amazing love song. It’s a pop song with an infectious beat and a chorus that’s so simple it almost feels TOO simple, but the power comes from the fact that they’ve written a ballad matched to a dance song.
It’s late and they forgot to eat.
Rachel’s throat is scratchy. She’s worn out and her body is sluggish, but when Santana plays the finished rough cut of the song one more time, it fills her with such a sense of pride she finds herself sinking into Santana’s side, giggling with happiness.
“Fuck,” Santana laughs, sliding an arm around her waist to keep her curled up against her, and Rachel knows she feels it too.
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She’s taking slow, tired steps toward Santana’s foyer. The song demo has been sent to the suits and her agents. Rachel decides she doesn’t want to think about what the inevitable notes will be. Even if they hate it, she thinks it’s been worth it.
Tonight has been incredible.
“You know it’s funny.” Rachel’s got her purse on her shoulder, she wavers in the hall. Santana’s walking with her, and Rachel thinks it’s terrifyingly sweet, how carefully Santana’s guiding her to the door, considering she’s sure Santana’s just as exhausted as she is.
“What is?”
Rachel hums, mouth flattening as she considers her words. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re insanely talented,” she concedes, and shrugs her shoulder in apology. “But I never took you for a song writer.” Santana’s eyes narrow, debating whether or not to take offense. Rachel grins. “Well you know, except for ‘Trouty Mouth’.”
Santana snorts good-naturedly, and it makes Rachel chuckle, pressing back against the empty wall of the hallway. “Well, you know, not everyone can match the brilliance of ‘My Headband’.”
“My Headband is a classic,” she retorts. “And your ex-girlfriend LOVED it.”
“If you start singing it I’m going to kill you,” Santana warns. “Brittany wouldn’t stop playing that damn song on loop in high school. Drove me fucking nuts.”
Rachel’s mouth quirks again, but that smile fades. It really is late. Rachel has a meeting tomorrow, and she knows Santana is due to be on a plane to Florida for some concert event.
The crickets battle with the occasional vroom of a car passing by. Rachel stares at the closed wooden door, and yet can’t quite bring herself to push off the wall.
She doesn’t want to go yet. Instead, Rachel gnaws quietly on her lower lip, and once again stares at her friend. “This is a good song, isn’t it?”
Santana’s lips purse. She possibly notes the vulnerable expression on Rachel’s face, because her expression softens and she comes closer to slip fingers slip in her own, tugging lightly, until she breaks the loose hold over her chest and their interlocked hands hang between them.
“Look,” Santana says, firm and quiet. “This may be a hit and it may not be.” Thumbs slide delicately over her fingers. Rachel sighs raggedly and studies the way their fingers mold together, rubbing gently together, skin against skin. “I’m not a mind reader, but every song is like a person. It has to have a soul. And this song has soul. It’s got a little bit of me,” she whispers, bringing their hands to rest briefly against her chest, “And a little bit of you.” The fingers now press against Rachel’s breast, right where her heart beats.
As it on command, Rachel’s heartbeat trips unsteadily. She smiles mutely, eyes blinking with moisture because she gets what Santana’s trying to say. She does. What they’ve done is special. Santana’s taken the best part of them both and created a song from the pieces. Because songs, Santana explained flippantly, are like people. And if people are like songs, then Rachel is a ballad. Bold and dramatic and maybe a little too sappy for her own good.
As for Santana? Well, Santana is just a crazy mix of all the right beats. Rachel studies the beautiful face intensely; notes the way their fingers have interlocked, how close Santana is to her now. There’s solid wall at Rachel’s back, but Santana is now less than a foot away. She smells her perfume; feels her heat. “So if a person is like a song, then what’s a duet?” Rachel asks in a low, careful voice.
Santana’s breath goes a bit unsteady. Rachel swallows at the reaction, and lowers her attention to the fingers that play idly with her own, smoothing delicately over the tip of her digits, until there’s a thread of sensation against her sensitive inner wrists.
“I don’t know,” Santana murmurs, eyes on their fingers and the way they dance together. Dark eyes lift and connect with her own. “What does it feel like to you, Rachel?”
What does it feel like?
Santana’s fingers drift away from her own. Hands smooth against her bare forearms, and suddenly the palms are pressing in on either side of her. Rachel’s fingers are now lightly pressing against Santana’s flat stomach. She skims instinctively, and feels the muscles underneath the shirt jolt in reaction.
Rachel licks her lips. The air is thick around them, and Rachel wonders if it should be suffocating, to have Santana so close. “Honestly?” she half whispers, as she catches the fabric of Santana’s shirt between her knuckles, elbows sliding back to pull her in that much closer.
“Do we do anything else?” Santana asks, but that mouth is so much closer than it was before, and Rachel sees hooded eyes and long lashes, and then nothing at all, because her eyes have drifted shut at the brush of lips against her own.
The jolt strikes inside of her like flint. Her fingers flex, her mouth opens, and Santana partakes greedily, kissing her with an experienced hunger that inflames Rachel’s arousal.
Fingers drag into Santana’s nape, drawing her in closer, and Rachel’s tongue slips wetly between Santana’s parted lips, sighing when Santana groans in reaction. Rachel’s heart pounds; her head pulses and when an open palm boldly slides against her clothed breast, catching against her erect nipple, the buck of her hips brings her back to reality.
She gasps harshly, so intensely Santana breaks away.
The silence is deafening. Rachel blinks, breathing deeply. She looks at those swollen lips, feels the way her mouth tingles, the way her heated and aroused body throbs for more.
But Santana just stares at her, eyes brown and wild, expression hooded and impossible to read.
Suddenly Rachel can’t feel anything but panic.
“I should go,” she whispers unsteadily.
Santana doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything, when Rachel breaks free from her hold and heads shakily to the door. She lets Rachel leave and never says a word, and Rachel can’t even begin to comprehend why it matters, but it does.
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