FIC: I Don't Want to Jump In (Unless This Music's Thumping) (2b/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 | Chapter 2a
Chapter 2b
Later on she realizes that Santana has tweeted her assistant’s Mirror duet with the comment, “Talent you wish you had.”
She favorites the tweet and retweets it, and finds she can’t bring herself to care when JoAnn calls her later that night and barks at her for appearing in some random kid’s YouTube video without consulting her first.
--
She’s homeward bound to New York, with tingling nerves and actual excitement, when she’s distracted by a tabloid that one of her first class companions is happily reading.
“Sex and Music” is the headline, and on it are surprisingly clear pictures of Santana in a bikini on a yacht, hands spread possessively around another equally skimpy gorgeously toned Jessie J. ‘Santana Lopez and Jessie J put on a show in Miami’, the caption reads.
The bisexual pop star wears bright red lipstick, and for a second, that’s all Rachel sees, until the reader folds the magazine over and she’s treated to a spread of equally distracting images of Santana and her new companion all over each other on that deck, drinks in hand and hard bodies on full display.
“Do you want to read it?”
Rachel blinks, startled until she realizes the reader is actually offering the magazine to her. “I’m done.”
Wordlessly, Rachel nods her thanks.
The images are nothing like hers and Santana’s. These aren’t friendly moments caught and dissected with grainy mobile pics and over eager paparazzi. In one, Santana is actually looking right at the camera, smiling lazily and pointing her middle finger (Blurred of course) defiantly at them, while Jessie J has her red mouth planting lazy kisses on the slope of Santana’s neck.
She is putting on a show, and Rachel feels utterly sick over it.
It’s easy now, to see what the public sees, what Santana presents - this gorgeous female Lothario who is only too happy to play for the cameras that she supposedly abhors.
The Santana that’s splashed on this page wears her sunglasses and make up like a mask, and another woman like an accessory? It’s not the Santana she knows.
Suddenly disgusted, Rachel folds the magazine and shoves it into the compartment beside her that holds her designated barf bag.
She remembers the Star magazine, and the argument that resulted from it. ”It’ll be old news in like a month,” Santana had told her dismissively. Casually.
Rachel’s lips quirk in a bitter, pained smile. It’s a lesson she should have learned years ago.
Santana was always right.
--
A blonde woman with chin length dirty blonde hair, designer sunglasses, and a wicked smile holds up a hand written sign that says ‘R. Berry’ at the end of the terminal.
Rachel’s steps slow as she studies her friend, accomplished romance author and New York resident Quinn Fabray. It would be easy to be annoyed at how the years seem to only make Quinn more gorgeous. The ghost of Grace Kelly, Jesse once said.
Rachel finds she can’t fault her friend for her breathtaking looks. Quinn has earned her happiness and her beauty.
Quinn’s discovered her therapy in writing. She writes historical romance that’s both torrid and adventurous, and has been adapted into movies more than once. Privately, she’s admitted to Rachel that her novels tend to be a variation of spins on the unhealthiest and worst relationships she can think of, macho men and helpless women just waiting to be rescued. It started as a joke, and then she got published.
As a feminist, Quinn is appalled at the way women lap up these dysfunctional stories as the epitome of romance. Rachel suspects that the money more than makes up for it.
“Well,” Quinn drawls, as Rachel drags her carry on behind her. “If it isn’t Santana Lopez’s newest plaything.” The smirk she wears is simultaneously annoying and amusing.
“Shut up,” Rachel breathes, rolling her eyes and plucking the sign away from her friend. “You know that’s just crap made up by the tabloids.”
“Duh,” Quinn’s chuckles gruffly. “But you have to admit the idea is kinda amusing.” She arches a brow playfully, and then opens her arms. “Welcome home, Rachel.”
If Rachel were any less vulnerable, she’d try and be a little more difficult about this. She's in a sour mood, and she's not in the mood to be teased.
But Quinn has no idea about Santana, about what’s happened. Safe in New York, Quinn’s only seen tabloids and internet rumors and unlike Kurt, she hasn’t believed a word.
Tears sting in her eyes before she’s quite ready for it. Rachel blinks them away, and hugs Quinn back hard, resting her head against the strong shoulder and inhaling Quinn’s floral, feminine scent. “Thanks, Quinn.”
--
“So?” Quinn makes sure that the straps in her seat belt are secure before she lets the cab driver pull away from the curb. It's a nervous tick, and it's because years ago, Quinn was nearly paralyzed in an accident while texting and on her way to Rachel's teen bride wedding fiasco. "Now you have to spill."
It's the reason Quinn almost never drives, and why she prefers to fill the time with casual conversation instead of dwelling too much in silence. Rachel always feels a pang of guilt when she notices it. She had been so adamant that Finn was the love of her life and her soul mate, so head strong and so stupid, and Quinn had nearly been killed for it.
“What’s up with Pezberry?” Quinn drawls out the word, making it sound as annoying as possible.
She’s teasing, but the word settles sourly on Rachel. With a muted shake of her head, she recites a now tired mantra. "Santana and I have always been just friends, Quinn. You know that.”
“I know,” Quinn says easily. “But you’re so easy to annoy. And you didn’t exactly fill me in when you ran into her again.”
It's a softly accusing tone. Rachel glances up sharply, but Quinn’s eyes are on the rapidly changing landscape of buildings and highway around them.
“I know,” she admits. “I’m sorry. Things just got a little crazy, and you were on your book tour.”
Quinn absorbs that, nodding flippantly before she shifts in her seat and cocks her head curiously. “How is she?”
Those images are still burning in Rachel's mind, and it's left her in a less than charitable mood regarding their mutual friend. “Oh she's great," she sighs peevishly. Quinn’s brow cocks, rising above her Kate Spade sunglasses. Rachel rolls her eyes and just shrugs. "She's fantastic. See for yourself." Reaching for her purse, Rachel pulls out the folded magazine that she procured on the plane.
Quinn reaches for it, but her mouth purses in a judgmental smirk that doesn’t look like it’s directed at Santana or the pictures. “Don’t tell me you actually bought this.”
“No,” Rachel spurts, flushing indignantly. “A guy gave it to me on a plane. And you're one to talk about trashy, Miss Harlequin."
"I write those ironically," Quinn snaps.
"Just shut up and look.”
Quinn looks oddly annoyed, but she does what she's told, ever the picture of a graceful lady as she carefully opens the magazine and eyes the spread that features Santana and her bisexual pop star floozy. "Well," she says, shaking her head with mirth. She snorts suddenly, and tilts the magazine to show Rachel that picture of Santana flipping off the camera. “Classy, Santana,” she says, but there’s a chuckle in her throat.
“She’s definitely given herself a reputation,” Rachel admits, quiet and still as she waits.
Quinn just laughs, catching Rachel off guard as she folds the magazine and carelessly tosses it between them. “And you’re surprised?”
Rachel isn’t sure what exactly to say. “It’s just not the Santana I know,” she answers quietly.
Quinn’s brow furrows. “What Santana do YOU know?” she asks, and it would be so much easier if Rachel could actually see her eyes instead of those dark black sunglasses that cover half of Quinn's face. “Come on, Rachel. Don’t you remember Santana?”
“Of course I remember,” Rachel snaps. “I know you two had your 'Unholy Trinity' with Brittany, but Santana and I were roommates for more than a year. Even when she was cage dancing, she wasn’t like this.”
The glasses finally come off, and hazel eyes narrow at her quizzically. “Yeah, and what about high school? Remember that boy-crazy attitude she sported? Bragging about boning Puck? Offering to take Finn's virginity? Stealing Sam from me to parade him around like a blonde monkey? Do you think THAT was the real lady-loving Santana?”
Rachel licks her lips. Her arms cross as she pushes her breath out through her nose in aggravation.
“Wearing a mask is what Santana does," Quinn says, with this even and quiet tone.
But it doesn’t make any sense. “Why would she have to do that?” she snaps, because that’s stupid. To put on act like this? For what? “She’s out now. Everyone knows she’s a lesbian. What does she have to hide?”
“God Rachel,” Quinn drawls, flat and annoyed now. “I don’t know. As a straight girl, why the hell do you put up with that farce of a relationship you have with Troy?”
It’s hitting nearly below the belt, and it’s a good sucker punch that winds Rachel. She swallows hard, unsure how this escalated into actual sniping.
The cabbie keeps driving, and Quinn puts her glasses on.
“It’s not the same thing,” Rachel finally admits.
“How would you know?” Quinn asks, eyes back on her window.
Exhausted, Rachel’s head falls back against the leather of the seat, and closes her eyes.
--
The loft in Chelsea is almost nothing like she remembers. Santana’s obviously put money in to it, and it’s less a loft now than it is a modern apartment, but the emotion that courses through Rachel the moment she tugs so familiarly on that heavy metal door and hears the screech as it opens is no less powerful.
THIS… THIS is home. Even though expensive lounge chairs and a modern sofa now face a television in the living room that would have been entirely too expensive for them when they were sharing the rent, even if the kitchen features granite counters and a kitchen island instead of a flea market table and an IKEA knife set, the space itself floods Rachel with nostalgia and sudden memories.
She didn’t live here long, in retrospect. Barely more than a couple years, and yet, New York was where she FOUND herself. She remade herself. She had pregnancy scares and break ups and this was where she found the courage to remember that she was good enough by herself, just as she was.
Quinn shuts the loft door behind her with a snap, and it’s enough to break her momentarily out of her nostalgia. “Wow,” she breathes, a ragged chuckle coming out of her as she comes to stand beside Rachel and check out the remodeled apartment. “There’s actual walls now?”
Just a few, it turns out. Santana has left the open floor plan more or less intact, but in the space where she and Kurt had sectioned off curtains there are now painted walls. “One’s her studio,” Rachel says, remembering what Nathan told her. “The other one is the bedroom.”
“I see.” Quinn steps forward, fingers running lightly over a coffee table. “It’s nice. Does it feel weird?” she asks, hair bouncing over her shoulder as she turns and takes in the fact that Rachel has yet to move. “To be here and see it so different?”
Rachel purses her lips and considers her emotions. “Not really,” she decides. “I mean it looks different but … the energy feels the same. Does that make sense?”
“I think so.” Rachel smiles, and is in the midst of placing her purse on a nearby hook when Quinn suddenly laughs. “Look at this.”
Rachel heads over to Quinn, who is now standing and staring at an area of the wall that is plastered with pictures, some in frames, others simply pinned on. Reaching up, Quinn plucks a printed photo from the wall, and shows it to her.
It’s of the three of them: Rachel, Quinn and Santana, taken on one of the few weekends that Quinn actually used the Metro pass she had purchased to come hang out at the loft. They are cuddled together, the picture of cuddly drunkenness, cheeks flushed and hair wild. Santana is the only one actually looking at the camera. Quinn has her eyes closed, head tilted against Santana’s cheek. Rachel is looking at Santana, poking at the dimple on her cheeks that she makes when her face goes scrunchy.
“Oh wow.” She takes it from Quinn, studying the image and shaking her head in bemusement. “I can’t believe she still has that.”
“That was a good weekend,” Quinn muses, and Rachel laughs breathlessly, nodding as she lets Quinn take the picture back.
“It really was,” she agrees, and moves forward to look at the rest of the pictures. Some of them are familiar. There’s a few of herself and Kurt, snapshots of loft life. The three of them dancing or singing or just posing together like the oddly fitted three amigos they became. There’s a few more of Brittany, selfies and a couple of her in various locales, blow a kiss at the camera. They’ve clearly kept up their friendship - the pictures look recent.
There’s also others that show a glimpse into the life that Santana has now. Quite a few pop, hip hop and R&B stars show up in intimate moments, arms slung around Santana’s shoulder or photobombing a picture of her bending over her mixing board.
The most striking photo is one that’s been framed. It was obviously taken by a professional, and it features Santana in a club. There are a kaleidoscope of neon lights that illuminate her, and as she mixes, she has a hand thrust high in the air. Her eyes are on her tables, but the smile on her face is breathtaking.
“Is she coming into town?” Quinn asks, and Rachel blinks, remembering once again that she’s actually not alone here.
She coughs, stepping back and crossing her arms. “We still have to shoot our music video for the single, and it’s on an accelerated timeline so she’s supposed to, yes.” Rachel nods, and struggles to remember what Nathan has told her about Santana and her schedule. “Right now she’s in Hong Kong filming the latest Fast & Furious sequel, I know,” she adds, because Quinn makes an absolutely hilarious face at that little tidbit, “but that’s supposed to wrap soon and then she’ll be here.”
Quinn presses her lips together. “Good,” she says a moment later, and then nods her head. “That’s good to know.”
It’s the WAY she says it that strikes Rachel’s curiosity. Quinn’s expression is … odd. She’s wearing a smirk, and those hazel eyes that are normally so bright and open with Rachel seem almost… hooded.
It’s uncomfortable. Rachel is already on shaky ground with Santana; she’s not sure she’s ready for Quinn to start acting out of character. “Quinn,” she begins, reaching out to catch her friend’s elbow before Quinn can turn away. “What’s going on?”
Caught in the middle of chewing her lower lip as she regards Santana’s picture, Quinn just blinks at her. “What do you mean?”
“It’s been years, but it’s not like I don’t know when you’re plotting something.”
But Quinn only hums thoughtfully, and then squares her shoulders and offers brightly, “I wonder if she’s got any good wine in here.”
She heads to the kitchen before Rachel can say anything else.
--
“Did Santana ever tell you that she and I slept together?” Quinn says, as a Pink Martini album floats from the surround sound speakers that connect to the IPOD dock, and they share a Director’s Cut bottle of Coppola Red Wine they’ve discovered in Santana’s kitchen over the island.
Rachel is in the middle of a sip, and immediately chokes, coughing and spitting up the liquid all over Santana’s cherry wood table when her heart seizes and her breath catches.
“…I’m guessing by that reaction that the answer is no,” Quinn says dryly, putting her own glass of wine down to hand her napkin.
“You slept together?!” She doesn’t mean to blurt it out the way she does, and she sure as hell doesn’t mean to sound quite so… accusatory, but… this is brand new information. Quinn is looking at her so … smugly, like a cat that ate the canary, the cream, and all the ice cream …
“Mmhmm… “ Quinn nods slowly, taking another sip of wine, like this is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
“When?!”
“A long time ago,” Quinn answers, but based on the hooded look in Quinn’s eyes, she clearly remembers it vividly. “In Lima. Right after she moved to New York at Mr. Schue’s wedding on Valentine’s Day.” Quinn pauses, and a light blush paints her gorgeous cheek bones. “And maybe a couple times after that.”
Rachel remembers suddenly one particular instance, during a weekend visit from Quinn. There was a visit to a club, and the sudden disappearance of Quinn and Santana, and coming home half-drunk to Quinn emerging from Santana’s bedroom with mussed hair and dressed in only one of Santana’s shirts and her teeny tiny booty shorts…
At the time, she had been too drunk to do anything but squeal at Quinn’s inability to ‘hang’ and joke about her freshly cut ‘lion’ hair, but now… Oh god, how did she not see it before?
“Why did you guys never tell me?!” she hisses. It’s… it’s not jealousy she’s feeling. It can’t be. If anything it’s… hurt, because Quinn is just staring at her with this infuriating amused look on her face like it’s supposed to be funny.
“Because it wasn’t any of your business, Rachel,” she answers evenly, exhaling as she places her glass of wine on the granite counter, shifting her feet.
Rachel always been a visual person, and she hates that, because now she’s picturing it. She’s actively imagining what it would look like, to see Quinn and Santana together. Objectively, they’d be gorgeous together. A stunning pair.
Rachel can’t… she can’t even stomach the idea of it. “Okay, well if that’s the case then why are you telling me now?” she asks, because she liked it better, so much better, when she didn’t know.
Her glass of wine looks amazing, but Rachel doesn’t quite trust herself to reach for it.
“Because I’m wondering if maybe I should do it again.”
Her fingers jerk, nearly toppling over both glasses and causing quite a clank. “Are you serious? “
“I’m very serious.” One look at Quinn’s face tells her that yes, she is. She’s actively considering this. She wants to… revisit this … fling with Santana.
The idea is…
Santana said she liked blondes…
Panic is threatening to seize at Rachel. She tries so very hard to breathe through it. “Quinn… “ she begins, fingers clenching together as she looks Quinn, beautiful Quinn… so fucking beautiful it makes Rachel ache. “She’s our friend.”
But Quinn just laughs. “We were friends the last time, and it turned out pretty damn fantastic,” she reasons, and reaches for her wine again, heading away from Rachel and towards the living room area.
Oh God, did they do it on the couch?! Rachel shakily reaches for her own glass and follows on trembling legs after her friend.
“Okay,” Rachel says when they reach the couches. “But… why now?”
Quinn settles back in the lounge chair, and considers the question. “Why not?” she asks. Rachel swallows hard and forces herself not to speak. Quinn must notice her trepidation, because her expression softens, and suddenly that infuriating glass of wine is put down on the coffee table. “Look,” Quinn says, quieter than before. “When it happened with Santana all those years ago, I wasn’t ready to be honest with myself about who I was and what I wanted. So… even if it was amazing, I didn’t have the courage to really… pursue it. I let her think it was just sex and… we moved on.” Rachel presses her lips together. Quinn’s right. She’s come a long way since she was that scared girl in high school. The woman on the couch now who can freely admit she slept with Santana and liked it is someone who had therapy and time to absorb her old wounds… become comfortable in her own skin. “But it could have been more. I’m pretty sure of that.“
Quinn is so … confident. It turns Rachel’s stomach. “So why now?”
“Because I have too many regrets in my life, Rachel,” Quinn answers, matter-of-fact and to the point. “And this is one of the few I can actually try and mend.”
There’s a … weight… that settles on Rachel. It keeps her motionless, sedated almost, as she considers what Quinn is telling her in confidence.
And what can Rachel say in response? That she’s got her own conflicted feelings about Santana? That she and Santana have shared a kiss and possibly a connection?
Is that even what it is?
Rachel isn’t sure, because Santana certainly doesn’t seem to think so. Whatever it is they’ve been doing, it hasn’t stopped her from landing in the Tabloids again with another woman sucking on her neck.
The hurt flares deep.
“But Quinn…” she begins, trying hard to keep her voice steady. “The way you’re talking… you’re talking about a relationship with her.” Quinn just looks at her. Rachel’s mouth is dry, her voice is raspy, and her chest is tight, but she presses on. “Do.. you… Quinn I showed you the tabloid pictures. Santana isn’t exactly the picture of monogamy.”
It’s a lesson she’s learned herself the hard way.
Quinn, however, doesn’t seem to share her concern. “That’s your argument?” she asks, skeptical. “Santana’s tabloid reputation?”
Rachel reminds herself not to take offense. To be quiet and calm. Quinn doesn’t know. Quinn doesn’t understand. Quinn is an author. She’s lived on the fringe of entertainment and her profession lends itself to seclusion. “This is a crazy industry,” she says, as kindly as she can. “Relationships are difficult enough in real life, but when you’re in that bubble? You don’t see the way people throw themselves at her.”
“Mmm,” Quinn says, mouth full of wine as she mulls the thought over. Her throat bobs, and then her eyes sparkle oddly. “Do you know many internet lesbians threw themselves at Santana in high school, especially after that sex tape got released?” Rachel rolls her eyes, because she doesn’t have to know. She remembers that fiasco of a sex tape. “They would follow her to her cheerleading competitions. Brittany almost got into a fight at nationals because some girl actually managed to sneak into their hotel room and tried to have a threesome with them.”
“Why is this relevant?” she asks, because this isn’t information she needs to know.
But Quinn just regards her. “Do you how many times Santana cheated on Brittany? Even in Kentucky? Zero.”
She’s telling her that Santana was monogamous.. That Santana was faithful. That no amount of temptation could lead Santana to stray from her true love Brittany.
Rachel used to think the same of her and Finn.
“Fair enough,” she allows. “But it’s been a long time, Quinn.” Her eyes float up to Quinn’s, pinning her with her sincerity. “People change.”
“Circumstances change.” Quinn shakes her head lightly. “ Elements change. Beliefs change. People don’t.”
Pink Martini is crooning their cover of Bitty Boppy Betty. It seems too light and cheery, openly mocking of her suddenly somber mood.
Rachel takes in a long drink of wine. She knows she’s upset. She knows she has absolutely no right to be. They’re speaking in theory, ruminating on possibilities, and Rachel has no claim on Santana.
There’s no reason why she would, regardless. Her career has no place for a lesbian relationship. She has a boyfriend. And whatever connection that resulted from their song and that kiss… Santana obviously doesn’t think much of.
There’s nothing here for her, not even the rounds of supposedly fantastic sex that Quinn is basing her interest in.
“You don’t even know if she’s looking for a relationship” she says finally. “I would still be careful.”
But Quinn just rolls her eyes. “Well, it’s a good thing that it’s me that wants to be with her and not you, right?” she asks, and lifts off the couch, taking her empty wine glass with her. “I’m getting a refill.”
Rachel remains on the couch. “Right,” she breathes.
--
She’s in workshops nearly all day, but Rachel has become a multi-tasker, and there’s still a single to promote. It’s got a title now ‘I Don’t Want to Jump In’, and a music video concept that’s slowly coming together.
The lyrics are haunting, in retrospect. When she and Santana wrote them, they spoke of a jaded woman who had fallen in love almost against her will, who needed and craved that love even if she didn’t want to jump into that precipice, and so that women was stuck, caught in a riptide of emotion that was personified by the pulsing beat that Santana added in around her voice.
When Rachel listens to it, she can hear the swell of the emotion, can feel how the words seem to meld and blend and drown within the percussion and the sirens.
Santana texts her sporadically, and Rachel is now distant and calm, determined not to get sucked into that same game. Maybe Santana gets the message, because she never brings up lingering kisses or a preference for blondes or brunettes.
Then the music video is scheduled and Santana sends her one more text that says, I’m coming into town. See you soon.
Her broadway agent gushes over the song. He tells her it speaks of Kpop influences and a deeper manipulation of the BPM and that he’s proud of Rachel for taking a chance on something so outside of her comfort zone.
She can only smile and nod her thanks. Truthfully? Rachel just feels like a coward.
--
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 | Chapter 2a
Chapter 2b
Later on she realizes that Santana has tweeted her assistant’s Mirror duet with the comment, “Talent you wish you had.”
She favorites the tweet and retweets it, and finds she can’t bring herself to care when JoAnn calls her later that night and barks at her for appearing in some random kid’s YouTube video without consulting her first.
--
She’s homeward bound to New York, with tingling nerves and actual excitement, when she’s distracted by a tabloid that one of her first class companions is happily reading.
“Sex and Music” is the headline, and on it are surprisingly clear pictures of Santana in a bikini on a yacht, hands spread possessively around another equally skimpy gorgeously toned Jessie J. ‘Santana Lopez and Jessie J put on a show in Miami’, the caption reads.
The bisexual pop star wears bright red lipstick, and for a second, that’s all Rachel sees, until the reader folds the magazine over and she’s treated to a spread of equally distracting images of Santana and her new companion all over each other on that deck, drinks in hand and hard bodies on full display.
“Do you want to read it?”
Rachel blinks, startled until she realizes the reader is actually offering the magazine to her. “I’m done.”
Wordlessly, Rachel nods her thanks.
The images are nothing like hers and Santana’s. These aren’t friendly moments caught and dissected with grainy mobile pics and over eager paparazzi. In one, Santana is actually looking right at the camera, smiling lazily and pointing her middle finger (Blurred of course) defiantly at them, while Jessie J has her red mouth planting lazy kisses on the slope of Santana’s neck.
She is putting on a show, and Rachel feels utterly sick over it.
It’s easy now, to see what the public sees, what Santana presents - this gorgeous female Lothario who is only too happy to play for the cameras that she supposedly abhors.
The Santana that’s splashed on this page wears her sunglasses and make up like a mask, and another woman like an accessory? It’s not the Santana she knows.
Suddenly disgusted, Rachel folds the magazine and shoves it into the compartment beside her that holds her designated barf bag.
She remembers the Star magazine, and the argument that resulted from it. ”It’ll be old news in like a month,” Santana had told her dismissively. Casually.
Rachel’s lips quirk in a bitter, pained smile. It’s a lesson she should have learned years ago.
Santana was always right.
--
A blonde woman with chin length dirty blonde hair, designer sunglasses, and a wicked smile holds up a hand written sign that says ‘R. Berry’ at the end of the terminal.
Rachel’s steps slow as she studies her friend, accomplished romance author and New York resident Quinn Fabray. It would be easy to be annoyed at how the years seem to only make Quinn more gorgeous. The ghost of Grace Kelly, Jesse once said.
Rachel finds she can’t fault her friend for her breathtaking looks. Quinn has earned her happiness and her beauty.
Quinn’s discovered her therapy in writing. She writes historical romance that’s both torrid and adventurous, and has been adapted into movies more than once. Privately, she’s admitted to Rachel that her novels tend to be a variation of spins on the unhealthiest and worst relationships she can think of, macho men and helpless women just waiting to be rescued. It started as a joke, and then she got published.
As a feminist, Quinn is appalled at the way women lap up these dysfunctional stories as the epitome of romance. Rachel suspects that the money more than makes up for it.
“Well,” Quinn drawls, as Rachel drags her carry on behind her. “If it isn’t Santana Lopez’s newest plaything.” The smirk she wears is simultaneously annoying and amusing.
“Shut up,” Rachel breathes, rolling her eyes and plucking the sign away from her friend. “You know that’s just crap made up by the tabloids.”
“Duh,” Quinn’s chuckles gruffly. “But you have to admit the idea is kinda amusing.” She arches a brow playfully, and then opens her arms. “Welcome home, Rachel.”
If Rachel were any less vulnerable, she’d try and be a little more difficult about this. She's in a sour mood, and she's not in the mood to be teased.
But Quinn has no idea about Santana, about what’s happened. Safe in New York, Quinn’s only seen tabloids and internet rumors and unlike Kurt, she hasn’t believed a word.
Tears sting in her eyes before she’s quite ready for it. Rachel blinks them away, and hugs Quinn back hard, resting her head against the strong shoulder and inhaling Quinn’s floral, feminine scent. “Thanks, Quinn.”
--
“So?” Quinn makes sure that the straps in her seat belt are secure before she lets the cab driver pull away from the curb. It's a nervous tick, and it's because years ago, Quinn was nearly paralyzed in an accident while texting and on her way to Rachel's teen bride wedding fiasco. "Now you have to spill."
It's the reason Quinn almost never drives, and why she prefers to fill the time with casual conversation instead of dwelling too much in silence. Rachel always feels a pang of guilt when she notices it. She had been so adamant that Finn was the love of her life and her soul mate, so head strong and so stupid, and Quinn had nearly been killed for it.
“What’s up with Pezberry?” Quinn drawls out the word, making it sound as annoying as possible.
She’s teasing, but the word settles sourly on Rachel. With a muted shake of her head, she recites a now tired mantra. "Santana and I have always been just friends, Quinn. You know that.”
“I know,” Quinn says easily. “But you’re so easy to annoy. And you didn’t exactly fill me in when you ran into her again.”
It's a softly accusing tone. Rachel glances up sharply, but Quinn’s eyes are on the rapidly changing landscape of buildings and highway around them.
“I know,” she admits. “I’m sorry. Things just got a little crazy, and you were on your book tour.”
Quinn absorbs that, nodding flippantly before she shifts in her seat and cocks her head curiously. “How is she?”
Those images are still burning in Rachel's mind, and it's left her in a less than charitable mood regarding their mutual friend. “Oh she's great," she sighs peevishly. Quinn’s brow cocks, rising above her Kate Spade sunglasses. Rachel rolls her eyes and just shrugs. "She's fantastic. See for yourself." Reaching for her purse, Rachel pulls out the folded magazine that she procured on the plane.
Quinn reaches for it, but her mouth purses in a judgmental smirk that doesn’t look like it’s directed at Santana or the pictures. “Don’t tell me you actually bought this.”
“No,” Rachel spurts, flushing indignantly. “A guy gave it to me on a plane. And you're one to talk about trashy, Miss Harlequin."
"I write those ironically," Quinn snaps.
"Just shut up and look.”
Quinn looks oddly annoyed, but she does what she's told, ever the picture of a graceful lady as she carefully opens the magazine and eyes the spread that features Santana and her bisexual pop star floozy. "Well," she says, shaking her head with mirth. She snorts suddenly, and tilts the magazine to show Rachel that picture of Santana flipping off the camera. “Classy, Santana,” she says, but there’s a chuckle in her throat.
“She’s definitely given herself a reputation,” Rachel admits, quiet and still as she waits.
Quinn just laughs, catching Rachel off guard as she folds the magazine and carelessly tosses it between them. “And you’re surprised?”
Rachel isn’t sure what exactly to say. “It’s just not the Santana I know,” she answers quietly.
Quinn’s brow furrows. “What Santana do YOU know?” she asks, and it would be so much easier if Rachel could actually see her eyes instead of those dark black sunglasses that cover half of Quinn's face. “Come on, Rachel. Don’t you remember Santana?”
“Of course I remember,” Rachel snaps. “I know you two had your 'Unholy Trinity' with Brittany, but Santana and I were roommates for more than a year. Even when she was cage dancing, she wasn’t like this.”
The glasses finally come off, and hazel eyes narrow at her quizzically. “Yeah, and what about high school? Remember that boy-crazy attitude she sported? Bragging about boning Puck? Offering to take Finn's virginity? Stealing Sam from me to parade him around like a blonde monkey? Do you think THAT was the real lady-loving Santana?”
Rachel licks her lips. Her arms cross as she pushes her breath out through her nose in aggravation.
“Wearing a mask is what Santana does," Quinn says, with this even and quiet tone.
But it doesn’t make any sense. “Why would she have to do that?” she snaps, because that’s stupid. To put on act like this? For what? “She’s out now. Everyone knows she’s a lesbian. What does she have to hide?”
“God Rachel,” Quinn drawls, flat and annoyed now. “I don’t know. As a straight girl, why the hell do you put up with that farce of a relationship you have with Troy?”
It’s hitting nearly below the belt, and it’s a good sucker punch that winds Rachel. She swallows hard, unsure how this escalated into actual sniping.
The cabbie keeps driving, and Quinn puts her glasses on.
“It’s not the same thing,” Rachel finally admits.
“How would you know?” Quinn asks, eyes back on her window.
Exhausted, Rachel’s head falls back against the leather of the seat, and closes her eyes.
--
The loft in Chelsea is almost nothing like she remembers. Santana’s obviously put money in to it, and it’s less a loft now than it is a modern apartment, but the emotion that courses through Rachel the moment she tugs so familiarly on that heavy metal door and hears the screech as it opens is no less powerful.
THIS… THIS is home. Even though expensive lounge chairs and a modern sofa now face a television in the living room that would have been entirely too expensive for them when they were sharing the rent, even if the kitchen features granite counters and a kitchen island instead of a flea market table and an IKEA knife set, the space itself floods Rachel with nostalgia and sudden memories.
She didn’t live here long, in retrospect. Barely more than a couple years, and yet, New York was where she FOUND herself. She remade herself. She had pregnancy scares and break ups and this was where she found the courage to remember that she was good enough by herself, just as she was.
Quinn shuts the loft door behind her with a snap, and it’s enough to break her momentarily out of her nostalgia. “Wow,” she breathes, a ragged chuckle coming out of her as she comes to stand beside Rachel and check out the remodeled apartment. “There’s actual walls now?”
Just a few, it turns out. Santana has left the open floor plan more or less intact, but in the space where she and Kurt had sectioned off curtains there are now painted walls. “One’s her studio,” Rachel says, remembering what Nathan told her. “The other one is the bedroom.”
“I see.” Quinn steps forward, fingers running lightly over a coffee table. “It’s nice. Does it feel weird?” she asks, hair bouncing over her shoulder as she turns and takes in the fact that Rachel has yet to move. “To be here and see it so different?”
Rachel purses her lips and considers her emotions. “Not really,” she decides. “I mean it looks different but … the energy feels the same. Does that make sense?”
“I think so.” Rachel smiles, and is in the midst of placing her purse on a nearby hook when Quinn suddenly laughs. “Look at this.”
Rachel heads over to Quinn, who is now standing and staring at an area of the wall that is plastered with pictures, some in frames, others simply pinned on. Reaching up, Quinn plucks a printed photo from the wall, and shows it to her.
It’s of the three of them: Rachel, Quinn and Santana, taken on one of the few weekends that Quinn actually used the Metro pass she had purchased to come hang out at the loft. They are cuddled together, the picture of cuddly drunkenness, cheeks flushed and hair wild. Santana is the only one actually looking at the camera. Quinn has her eyes closed, head tilted against Santana’s cheek. Rachel is looking at Santana, poking at the dimple on her cheeks that she makes when her face goes scrunchy.
“Oh wow.” She takes it from Quinn, studying the image and shaking her head in bemusement. “I can’t believe she still has that.”
“That was a good weekend,” Quinn muses, and Rachel laughs breathlessly, nodding as she lets Quinn take the picture back.
“It really was,” she agrees, and moves forward to look at the rest of the pictures. Some of them are familiar. There’s a few of herself and Kurt, snapshots of loft life. The three of them dancing or singing or just posing together like the oddly fitted three amigos they became. There’s a few more of Brittany, selfies and a couple of her in various locales, blow a kiss at the camera. They’ve clearly kept up their friendship - the pictures look recent.
There’s also others that show a glimpse into the life that Santana has now. Quite a few pop, hip hop and R&B stars show up in intimate moments, arms slung around Santana’s shoulder or photobombing a picture of her bending over her mixing board.
The most striking photo is one that’s been framed. It was obviously taken by a professional, and it features Santana in a club. There are a kaleidoscope of neon lights that illuminate her, and as she mixes, she has a hand thrust high in the air. Her eyes are on her tables, but the smile on her face is breathtaking.
“Is she coming into town?” Quinn asks, and Rachel blinks, remembering once again that she’s actually not alone here.
She coughs, stepping back and crossing her arms. “We still have to shoot our music video for the single, and it’s on an accelerated timeline so she’s supposed to, yes.” Rachel nods, and struggles to remember what Nathan has told her about Santana and her schedule. “Right now she’s in Hong Kong filming the latest Fast & Furious sequel, I know,” she adds, because Quinn makes an absolutely hilarious face at that little tidbit, “but that’s supposed to wrap soon and then she’ll be here.”
Quinn presses her lips together. “Good,” she says a moment later, and then nods her head. “That’s good to know.”
It’s the WAY she says it that strikes Rachel’s curiosity. Quinn’s expression is … odd. She’s wearing a smirk, and those hazel eyes that are normally so bright and open with Rachel seem almost… hooded.
It’s uncomfortable. Rachel is already on shaky ground with Santana; she’s not sure she’s ready for Quinn to start acting out of character. “Quinn,” she begins, reaching out to catch her friend’s elbow before Quinn can turn away. “What’s going on?”
Caught in the middle of chewing her lower lip as she regards Santana’s picture, Quinn just blinks at her. “What do you mean?”
“It’s been years, but it’s not like I don’t know when you’re plotting something.”
But Quinn only hums thoughtfully, and then squares her shoulders and offers brightly, “I wonder if she’s got any good wine in here.”
She heads to the kitchen before Rachel can say anything else.
--
“Did Santana ever tell you that she and I slept together?” Quinn says, as a Pink Martini album floats from the surround sound speakers that connect to the IPOD dock, and they share a Director’s Cut bottle of Coppola Red Wine they’ve discovered in Santana’s kitchen over the island.
Rachel is in the middle of a sip, and immediately chokes, coughing and spitting up the liquid all over Santana’s cherry wood table when her heart seizes and her breath catches.
“…I’m guessing by that reaction that the answer is no,” Quinn says dryly, putting her own glass of wine down to hand her napkin.
“You slept together?!” She doesn’t mean to blurt it out the way she does, and she sure as hell doesn’t mean to sound quite so… accusatory, but… this is brand new information. Quinn is looking at her so … smugly, like a cat that ate the canary, the cream, and all the ice cream …
“Mmhmm… “ Quinn nods slowly, taking another sip of wine, like this is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
“When?!”
“A long time ago,” Quinn answers, but based on the hooded look in Quinn’s eyes, she clearly remembers it vividly. “In Lima. Right after she moved to New York at Mr. Schue’s wedding on Valentine’s Day.” Quinn pauses, and a light blush paints her gorgeous cheek bones. “And maybe a couple times after that.”
Rachel remembers suddenly one particular instance, during a weekend visit from Quinn. There was a visit to a club, and the sudden disappearance of Quinn and Santana, and coming home half-drunk to Quinn emerging from Santana’s bedroom with mussed hair and dressed in only one of Santana’s shirts and her teeny tiny booty shorts…
At the time, she had been too drunk to do anything but squeal at Quinn’s inability to ‘hang’ and joke about her freshly cut ‘lion’ hair, but now… Oh god, how did she not see it before?
“Why did you guys never tell me?!” she hisses. It’s… it’s not jealousy she’s feeling. It can’t be. If anything it’s… hurt, because Quinn is just staring at her with this infuriating amused look on her face like it’s supposed to be funny.
“Because it wasn’t any of your business, Rachel,” she answers evenly, exhaling as she places her glass of wine on the granite counter, shifting her feet.
Rachel always been a visual person, and she hates that, because now she’s picturing it. She’s actively imagining what it would look like, to see Quinn and Santana together. Objectively, they’d be gorgeous together. A stunning pair.
Rachel can’t… she can’t even stomach the idea of it. “Okay, well if that’s the case then why are you telling me now?” she asks, because she liked it better, so much better, when she didn’t know.
Her glass of wine looks amazing, but Rachel doesn’t quite trust herself to reach for it.
“Because I’m wondering if maybe I should do it again.”
Her fingers jerk, nearly toppling over both glasses and causing quite a clank. “Are you serious? “
“I’m very serious.” One look at Quinn’s face tells her that yes, she is. She’s actively considering this. She wants to… revisit this … fling with Santana.
The idea is…
Santana said she liked blondes…
Panic is threatening to seize at Rachel. She tries so very hard to breathe through it. “Quinn… “ she begins, fingers clenching together as she looks Quinn, beautiful Quinn… so fucking beautiful it makes Rachel ache. “She’s our friend.”
But Quinn just laughs. “We were friends the last time, and it turned out pretty damn fantastic,” she reasons, and reaches for her wine again, heading away from Rachel and towards the living room area.
Oh God, did they do it on the couch?! Rachel shakily reaches for her own glass and follows on trembling legs after her friend.
“Okay,” Rachel says when they reach the couches. “But… why now?”
Quinn settles back in the lounge chair, and considers the question. “Why not?” she asks. Rachel swallows hard and forces herself not to speak. Quinn must notice her trepidation, because her expression softens, and suddenly that infuriating glass of wine is put down on the coffee table. “Look,” Quinn says, quieter than before. “When it happened with Santana all those years ago, I wasn’t ready to be honest with myself about who I was and what I wanted. So… even if it was amazing, I didn’t have the courage to really… pursue it. I let her think it was just sex and… we moved on.” Rachel presses her lips together. Quinn’s right. She’s come a long way since she was that scared girl in high school. The woman on the couch now who can freely admit she slept with Santana and liked it is someone who had therapy and time to absorb her old wounds… become comfortable in her own skin. “But it could have been more. I’m pretty sure of that.“
Quinn is so … confident. It turns Rachel’s stomach. “So why now?”
“Because I have too many regrets in my life, Rachel,” Quinn answers, matter-of-fact and to the point. “And this is one of the few I can actually try and mend.”
There’s a … weight… that settles on Rachel. It keeps her motionless, sedated almost, as she considers what Quinn is telling her in confidence.
And what can Rachel say in response? That she’s got her own conflicted feelings about Santana? That she and Santana have shared a kiss and possibly a connection?
Is that even what it is?
Rachel isn’t sure, because Santana certainly doesn’t seem to think so. Whatever it is they’ve been doing, it hasn’t stopped her from landing in the Tabloids again with another woman sucking on her neck.
The hurt flares deep.
“But Quinn…” she begins, trying hard to keep her voice steady. “The way you’re talking… you’re talking about a relationship with her.” Quinn just looks at her. Rachel’s mouth is dry, her voice is raspy, and her chest is tight, but she presses on. “Do.. you… Quinn I showed you the tabloid pictures. Santana isn’t exactly the picture of monogamy.”
It’s a lesson she’s learned herself the hard way.
Quinn, however, doesn’t seem to share her concern. “That’s your argument?” she asks, skeptical. “Santana’s tabloid reputation?”
Rachel reminds herself not to take offense. To be quiet and calm. Quinn doesn’t know. Quinn doesn’t understand. Quinn is an author. She’s lived on the fringe of entertainment and her profession lends itself to seclusion. “This is a crazy industry,” she says, as kindly as she can. “Relationships are difficult enough in real life, but when you’re in that bubble? You don’t see the way people throw themselves at her.”
“Mmm,” Quinn says, mouth full of wine as she mulls the thought over. Her throat bobs, and then her eyes sparkle oddly. “Do you know many internet lesbians threw themselves at Santana in high school, especially after that sex tape got released?” Rachel rolls her eyes, because she doesn’t have to know. She remembers that fiasco of a sex tape. “They would follow her to her cheerleading competitions. Brittany almost got into a fight at nationals because some girl actually managed to sneak into their hotel room and tried to have a threesome with them.”
“Why is this relevant?” she asks, because this isn’t information she needs to know.
But Quinn just regards her. “Do you how many times Santana cheated on Brittany? Even in Kentucky? Zero.”
She’s telling her that Santana was monogamous.. That Santana was faithful. That no amount of temptation could lead Santana to stray from her true love Brittany.
Rachel used to think the same of her and Finn.
“Fair enough,” she allows. “But it’s been a long time, Quinn.” Her eyes float up to Quinn’s, pinning her with her sincerity. “People change.”
“Circumstances change.” Quinn shakes her head lightly. “ Elements change. Beliefs change. People don’t.”
Pink Martini is crooning their cover of Bitty Boppy Betty. It seems too light and cheery, openly mocking of her suddenly somber mood.
Rachel takes in a long drink of wine. She knows she’s upset. She knows she has absolutely no right to be. They’re speaking in theory, ruminating on possibilities, and Rachel has no claim on Santana.
There’s no reason why she would, regardless. Her career has no place for a lesbian relationship. She has a boyfriend. And whatever connection that resulted from their song and that kiss… Santana obviously doesn’t think much of.
There’s nothing here for her, not even the rounds of supposedly fantastic sex that Quinn is basing her interest in.
“You don’t even know if she’s looking for a relationship” she says finally. “I would still be careful.”
But Quinn just rolls her eyes. “Well, it’s a good thing that it’s me that wants to be with her and not you, right?” she asks, and lifts off the couch, taking her empty wine glass with her. “I’m getting a refill.”
Rachel remains on the couch. “Right,” she breathes.
--
She’s in workshops nearly all day, but Rachel has become a multi-tasker, and there’s still a single to promote. It’s got a title now ‘I Don’t Want to Jump In’, and a music video concept that’s slowly coming together.
The lyrics are haunting, in retrospect. When she and Santana wrote them, they spoke of a jaded woman who had fallen in love almost against her will, who needed and craved that love even if she didn’t want to jump into that precipice, and so that women was stuck, caught in a riptide of emotion that was personified by the pulsing beat that Santana added in around her voice.
When Rachel listens to it, she can hear the swell of the emotion, can feel how the words seem to meld and blend and drown within the percussion and the sirens.
Santana texts her sporadically, and Rachel is now distant and calm, determined not to get sucked into that same game. Maybe Santana gets the message, because she never brings up lingering kisses or a preference for blondes or brunettes.
Then the music video is scheduled and Santana sends her one more text that says, I’m coming into town. See you soon.
Her broadway agent gushes over the song. He tells her it speaks of Kpop influences and a deeper manipulation of the BPM and that he’s proud of Rachel for taking a chance on something so outside of her comfort zone.
She can only smile and nod her thanks. Truthfully? Rachel just feels like a coward.
--