Lies
Title: Lies
Pairing/Characters: Santana/Rachel, Puck
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~4,000
Summary: Rachel's thirst for stardom and recognition could be the end of her and Santana.
Author's Note: Last one of the Pezberry 'verse I have in my queue. I'm open for suggestions =)
Preceded by:
Moods | Surprises | Whipped | Origins | Appendectomy
Having a famous girlfriend was pretty damn awesome according to Santana Lopez. It wasn’t because Rachel was making a really good salary from her show that could’ve easily supported them both or that she got showered with gifts and free things (that shit was totally awesome, don’t get her wrong) but it meant Rachel was happy which meant Santana was happy and life was easy. Rachel wasn’t an A-lister just yet but she was definitely getting there. After her quick role on CSI she got an offer for a six episode story arc on a medical drama being filmed in the city and then a nice-sized role in the 30th James Bond movie that had just wrapped up. Rachel was on her way up and Santana was more than proud to be right there beside her.
Santana hung her keys on the rack by the front door as she stepped into hers and Rachel’s (very, very nice) apartment after a grueling 16-hour shift in the emergency department. She loved the emergency room, she really did, but the shifts were killing her and she still had a year of residency to go. She knew if she could just stick it out that it'd all be worth it. She was eying a job with a general physician who had pretty much guaranteed her a spot if she could survive a three-year residency in the emergency room.
The sound of Rachel singing echoed through the apartment and into Santana’s ears and she smiled. Rachel always sang when she was happy which meant Santana’s evening was hopefully going to be pleasant and she might get a little something-something before bed. Santana quietly padded into the kitchen and slipped her arms around her girl; Rachel sighed happily and leaned back into Santana’s embrace.
“Smells good, babe,” Santana whispered.
“Enchiladas, is that satisfactory?”
“Sounds perfect. Do I have time to shower?”
“Of course. You know perfectly well I time these things in order to give you optimal time to wash whatever bodily fluids you may or may not have been covered in while saving the lives of your fellow New Yorkers.”
Santana pressed a kiss to Rachel’s neck before heading to the shower with a smile. Rachel was in a really, really good mood. Enchiladas were Santana’s favorite and Rachel knew exactly how to make them. The good plates were set out on the dining room table when Santana passed, along with candles and fresh flowers and she smiled even brighter before stopping dead in her tracks. Something was off. Nine times out of ten enchiladas and good plates were what Rachel used as her “I’m sorry” after a fight. The other one time was when she had news that Santana wasn’t going to like.
“Rachel,” Santana called as she turned and marched back to the kitchen. “What did you do?”
Rachel stiffed at her position at the stove and let out a muttered expletive; Santana started tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for a response.
“What did you do, Rachel?”
“I haven’t done anything.” Rachel set her sauce spoon down on the stove and turned slowly, her eyes locked with Santana’s and she took a deep breath. “I got offered to do a job.”
“And?”
“And I thought there might be the possibility that you were offended by the proposition enough to be angry with either myself or my publicist for even considering it.”
“Go on.”
“It’s a magazine spread. A cover shoot.”
Santana pursed her lips, unsure of exactly where this was going but absolutely sure she wasn’t going to like it. “Which magazine?”
“Before you say anything, it’s just an offer. I haven’t accepted nor denied it and if you oppose the idea then-“
“Which magazine?”
“Playboy.”
“No.” Not only no, but fuck no, actually. Santana didn’t say it because the tone of her voice would express her distaste at the idea. She was not going to have sleazy truckers jacking off to pictures of her girl. Santana was the only one allowed to do that, thank you very much.
“Alright.”
Santana took a startled step back as Rachel smiled and turned back to the stove. She was absolutely sure that Rachel would argue with her; that was always how these things went. Santana would say “no” and Rachel would come up with several arguments as to why she should take the opposite stance and then eventually get Santana into bed and then Santana would agree to whatever Rachel said.
“Wait, you’re not going to argue with me?”
“I clearly stated that if you had a problem with the photoshoot that I wouldn’t partake.”
“Do you want to do it?”
“Whether or not I want to do it isn’t the issue, Santana. If you’re uncomfortable with the idea then I won’t do it. After the CSI debacle I’ve always made it a point to make sure you approve of the projects I take on.”
“You always take them on whether I want you to or not, Rachel. You get me into bed and you convince me it’s not a bad idea and I only agree because you’ve got all your clothes off. Do you really think I would’ve agreed to let you be a Bond girl and go macking on that British guy if you’d just stood there and asked a few times with all your clothes on?”
“I’m not sure whether I should be flattered you find my physique that appealing or offended that you don’t find my rhetoric at all convincing.”
Santana crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. Rachel pouted a little and stepped forward to take Santana into her arms and press a kiss to her neck.
“Baby,” Rachel cooed, “if you don’t want me to do it then I won’t. While it would be a new and exciting experience, if you’re honestly not comfortable with it then just tell me.”
“Do you want to?” Santana sighed.
“That’s not-“
“Do you want to, Rachel?” Santana growled. Rachel looked up at her with wide eyes and a little bit of a pout.
“The experience would be fun. And I’m sure they’d let you keep copies of everything, plus the outtakes.”
“Fine,” Santana sighed. Rachel squealed and jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “But!”
Rachel froze. “Of course, terms and conditions. Why don’t you go take a long, hot shower while I finish dinner?”
Santana stretched her neck and grumbled as she headed to take a much needed shower. It was one of the rare days when she actually wasn’t sprayed in blood by a leaky artery or vomited on by a kid or sprayed with piss when an elderly person ripped out their catheter (God, she had wanted to euthanize that old bastard!) but she was still sore and tired. She’d helped lift a 530 pound man off of a gurney after he (surprise, surprise!) had chest pains. It was indigestion caused by the six fucking Big Macs he’d eaten, as it turns out, and he was sent home with a bottle of Mylanta and the number of a nutritionist he’d probably never call. She also wrapped two broken wrists, a broken ankle, and gave stitches eight times. There had been a pile up and she took on three trauma patients at once, moving back and forth and miraculously avoiding all of the blood. No one had died on her watch that day, though. She marked it as a good day based on that fact alone.
The scalding hot water felt amazing pulsating over her shoulders as she thoroughly enjoyed the multiple jets coming from the shower walls. She thought about how she’d just agreed to let her girlfriend take all her clothes off to be shot for a magazine that would be shoved under teen boys’ mattresses and hidden from men’s wives. She didn’t have to expose anything, though, right? She could keep her back turned or do a little sideboob. It didn’t have to be full frontal or anything. She’d be alright with a from behind shot. They did one for the Bond movie and it was just fine. It would all be just fine.
Santana reluctantly got out of the shower when the water started to turn warm and changed into shorts and a tanktop. She refused to call them pajamas because she slept naked most of the time. As did Rachel. Santana smirked. She was so getting some tonight
The table was set and plates were full when Santana got to the dining room and took one of the places at the meticulously set table. A glass of red wine was waiting.
“No full frontal,” Santana said as she sat down. “Sideboob is fine, so is backside. No frontal unless you’re covered. And I get to be there for the shoot.”
Rachel nodded as she spread her napkin out on her lap and took a generous sip of wine, followed by another. “Of course, Santana.”
Santana snorted. She wasn’t temperamental enough to make Rachel drink. Definitely not.
XXXXXXXXXX
“No!”
As Santana stepped in front of Rachel, the diva covered from head to toe in green body paint and only a broom and a hat on set to cover her with, the photographer dropped to a chair and growled.
It was the third set of the shoot and Santana had protested the beginning of each one until wardrobe caved and brought more clothing or Rachel was only photographed from the side or from behind. It was her girl, though, damn it. She was entitled to be protective.
“Santana,” Rachel sighed, “what’s wrong?”
“Being covered in paint doesn’t count as clothing.”
“I have cover ups.”
“Not enough.”
“Alright. I request that, while the wardrobe ladies find something else to use for cover, that you bring me a caramel macchiato with a double shot of espresso. There’s a Starbucks just around the corner.”
Santana growled at the wardrobe assistant and yanked the robe from her hands to cover her girl before retreating from the stage to go hunt down Rachel’s coffee. At least someone was finally listening to her. The bitter cold New York air bit at her as she hurried around the corner to Starbucks only to find it being closed for renovation. Normally, Santana would go back empty-handed and tell Rachel to drink something normal for once but she knew she was probably already in the doghouse for interrupting the photoshoot an uncountable number of times and so the decision was made to search for the next nearest Starbucks…which turned out to be three blocks away and absolutely packed.
It should’ve made Santana a little suspicious when she saw one of the prop masters from the shoot scramble away from the door of the building and to the stairs when she returned but considering that she’d just practically run three blocks with a scalding hot coffee in her hands, she didn’t think twice of it. When Santana returned to the set it was almost exactly as she had left it, Rachel was still wrapped up in her robe, everyone else scurrying about. The wardrobe department walked out with an extremely short and low-cut black dress for Santana’s approval.
XXXXXXXXXX
When the Playboy issue came out there were a lot of calls from Santana and Rachel's former classmates (most notably from Puck, “I'm flying in to the NY to play a gig with my band. You guys want a threesome? Berry's gotta only wear the green paint, though”) and a lot of flack from some conservative parenting council. Santana got wolf whistles at work; Rachel was bombarded with requests for other magazines.
And Santana slept in the doctor's lounge for two weeks.
It wasn't Rachel that put her there, though. It was a voluntary choice that was done very quietly but with a lot of rage.
When Santana received her advanced copy of the Playboy magazine featuring her girl it wasn't so bad at first. The cover was the little black dress that Santana had approved of and the first few pictures with the bulk of Rachel's interview were all things Santana had approved of. The centerfold, however, was not Santana approved. Rachel was in green paint and with a hat on her head, broomstick covering barely anything. And that was it.
“I thought once you saw it...”
“I'll be at the hospital if you need anything,” Santana mumbled, tears prickling her eyes. “I can't talk about this right now.”
“We need to talk.”
“No,” Santana looked up and shook her head. “Because I know I'll say a lot of things that I'll regret and I don't want to do that to us.”
It's how Santana found herself, fourteen days later (and on hers and Rachel's anniversary) not in bed with Rachel but at the hospital. In the doctor's lounge. And with a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Her co-workers kept nudging her to go home but all Santana did was drink and cry. She was about ten seconds from passing out when she felt herself being hoisted over someone's shoulder and carried out of the hospital.
“What the fuck?”
“Still a weepy drunk, Lopez?”
“Puckerman?”
“Go to sleep. I'll wake you up when you get back to your place so you can throw up.”
Indeed, about half an hour later, Santana was on the bathroom floor with someone holding her hair back while she emptied what little was in her stomach (cheese and crackers from the vending machine, last time she checked).
“I haven't seen you puke this much since high school.”
“Shut it, Puck.”
“Finish up and I'll throw you in bed.”
“I wanna go back to the -hic- hospital.”
“No, you're gonna stay here and fix shit with your girl or I'm taking a shot.”
“Fuck you.”
The next thing Santana was aware of was a cold washcloth on her forehead and her stomach churning. Two (very blurry) slices of toast appeared in front of her and she eagerly took them to calm her stomach.
“It's cinnamon sugar,” a soft voice spoke. “I know it's your favorite.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Santana, I believe when your hangover subsides that it's imperative we discuss what happened. And by that I mean, I have some profuse apologizing to do.”
“Understatement of the year.”
“We'll talk about it later if...”
“No, we'll talk about it while I can't move to walk out again.”
Santana finally turned her head to see Rachel on a chair next to their bed, looking like she hadn't slept in weeks and had cried for that duration. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, which is what Rachel did when she didn't shower for a couple days. She was wearing her lazy day sweats with mustard stains down the front of Santana's old NYU shirt. Vegan hotdogs with organic mustard and onions were Rachel's depressed food.
“Hi,” Rachel whispered.
“Hey.”
“Santana, I'm so sorry. What I did was stupid and inconsiderate and I should never have tricked you like that.”
“Did you have it all planned out?”
“I had remembered the closed Starbucks during the third shoot...”
“God damn it, Rachel. Why? Why would you want to do this? You think it's going to make you more popular or boost your status or whatever? That's bullshit and you know it. What the hell happened to no nudity?”
“I...I was blinded by the flattery of the offer.”
“It's a fucking sleezy magazine.”
“If you'd received that offer, you would've been flattered.”
“Yeah, when I was eighteen.”
“I still aspire to be a star. Just as I did when I was high school.”
Santana shook her head and slid down to lay and let her stomach settle, and rolled to her side, propping herself up on her elbow. This was ridiculous.
“You're on your way. If you'd just be freakin' patient...”
“Since when have I ever been patient?”
“Never.”
“We can work through this, Santana. We'll go to couples' therapy and perhaps I could benefit from a few individual sessions to deal with my craving for approval.”
Santana shrugged. She wasn't sure, honestly. She didn't know if things could get better. It wasn't like Rachel had cheated on her or anything but this was a pretty big lie. And it was after Santana had blatantly disapproved of what Rachel did.
“Santana, please. I can't lose you. I love you.”
“You lied to me, Rachel.”
“And for that I apologize. I'll make it up to you somehow, I swear I will.”
“I don't know.”
“What do I have to do?”
“I don't know, Rachel.” Santana rolled back to stare up at the ceiling, trying to conceal the tears she knew were coming.
“I love you.”
“Yeah, but do you respect me?”
The bed shifted and Santana let a single rogue tear slide out of her eye when she felt Rachel's hand on her shoulder and her hair being pushed back.
“Of course I do, Santana. Please, just tell me how to make this right.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” Santana choked. “I mean, how do I know that when you tell me you're going to work that you're not going somewhere else? That you're not fucking someone else?”
“Santana, I would never-”
“How do I know?”
“I see your point.”
The disappointment in Rachel's voice was clear, it was a tone that Santana could never stand. But she could then. She held her ground and clutched tight onto a pillow letting a quiet sob escape eliciting a whimper from Rachel. A soft hand was on her shoulder, squeezing just a bit before Santana heard the bedroom door close. She knew Rachel was on the other side of it.
XXXXXXXXXX
“You're overreacting, Lopez. Just cut the shit out.”
It was three in the morning, Santana still hadn't spoken to Rachel but Puck sure made his presence known. He refused to leave the Latina alone, constantly telling her how stupid she was. Santana almost believed him but she was still pissed. The Lopez's were known for holding grudges. Currently he was occupying the bedroom armchair with his feet propped up on the foot of the bed that Santana refused to leave.
“She lied.”
“It's not like she fucked someone else. But if you keep acting like this she just might.”
“Stay away from my girl, Puckerman.”
“I swear that if you screw this up because you're being stupid I will personally kick your ass.”
“What the hell do you care anyway?” Santana growled, throwing a pillow at the mohawked man.
Puck scoffed and swung his feet off the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“Because, you idiot, she makes you happy. You make her happy. Sappy love bullshit. You really want to lose her?”
“Wow, Puckerman,” Santana smirked, “I haven't seen you this gay since high school.”
“Yeah well I haven't given a fuck about much since then.”
Santana watched Puck drop his head, eyes focused on the floor and she knew instantly he was thinking about Beth. She hadn't given much thought to the situation after she and Rachel left for New York and Puck had never brought it up after he took off to God-only-knows-where, knowing that Beth was better off with Shelby. They'd talked a few times a month since graduation, Puck crashed on their couch a few times a year, but he'd never said anything.
“I'll talk to her,” Santana mumbled.
“Good, I'll go get her.”
“Not now, asshole. She's probably asleep.”
Puck snorted as he stood, headed for the bedroom door. “She hasn't slept in two weeks, she'll be up.”
In just a few seconds, Rachel was poking her head into the bedroom door; Santana tried desperately to avoid eye contact. She couldn't. Rachel's chocolate brown eyes were bloodshot and puffy. She'd obviously showered that night, her hair a little damp and changed into a Wicked t-shirt. Without a word, Rachel shuffled to the chair that had been occupied by Puck and took a seat, hands folded in her lap and with an eager expression on her face.
“I don't know what to say,” Santana admitted.
“May I?” Rachel whispered.
Santana nodded.
“I love you,” Rachel began, “I love you more than even I could possibly comprehend and I would never, ever intentionally hurt you, Santana. I have never asked you for much but right now I am asking you to please forgive me. I know it will be an extensive amount of time before I can completely earn your trust but please...please don't let this destroy us. I-I need you.”
“I love you, too.”
The small smile on Rachel's face made Santana's heart jump a little and her own smile cross her lips. She patted the space next to her, inviting her girl into her arms. It was like a weight had been lifted from her chest when Rachel eagerly climbed into bed and was wrapped up in her arms.
“I do forgive you,” Santana said. “I just...please don't ever lie to me again. Not like this.”
“I promise. It was selfish and stupid and it will never happen again.”
It was quiet for a few minutes, Santana was unsure whether or not Rachel was asleep until she heard whispers coming from her, Rachel's head on Santana's stomach.
“What are you doing, babe?” Santana asked, combing her fingers through Rachel's hair.
The other brunette startled, jerking to sit up with her lower lip clutched between her teeth. “I...Well...I was just...you see,” Rachel stammered. “Sometimes after you've gone to sleep I'll...talk.”
“To my stomach?”
“To our potential children?” Rachel half-asked, hope in her voice.
It wasn't like Santana hadn't thought about it. Or daydreamed about it. A lot. Nearly every day. Seeing families come into the hospital with kids she always picked out the ones that might look like hers and Rachel's if they had some but she wasn't sure if Rachel had thought about it at all.
“You want kids?”
Rachel nodded.
“Well...like...when?”
“As soon as humanly possible would be nice. I mean, we're pushing thirty and I'd like more than one. I'm aware that we're not scheduled to wed for another year, after you've completed your residency, but finding a qualified fertility physician and budgeting for the insemination process as well as finding a suitable sperm donor will be very time consuming.”
In her exhausted state only about half of what Rachel said was actually processed but she did catch a certain phrase which made a smile spread across her lips. It was close to being an insane idea and she knew there would be a lot of explaining to do that the process would not take place in the “natural” way. But Santana was pretty sure she could help out with the whole baby-making process.
“I have an idea,” Santana said, her smile growing wider.
XXXXXXXXXX
It was a shock when the smell of breakfast wafted through the apartment the next morning, not so shocking when it was the smell of waffles that woke Santana and her fiancee. The pair dressed quickly (it had been over two weeks, there was some catching up to do) and were greeted with Puck in the kitchen standing over the waffle iron with two plates piled high next to him.
“This one's your vegan stuff, Berry,” he said, pointing to one plate. “Blueberry.”
“The waffles can wait, Puckerman,” Santana said. She turned to Rachel, looking for a final confirmation. The other brunette nodded, her smile wide, before turning back to Puck.
“Noah, we have a proposition for you.”
Pairing/Characters: Santana/Rachel, Puck
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~4,000
Summary: Rachel's thirst for stardom and recognition could be the end of her and Santana.
Author's Note: Last one of the Pezberry 'verse I have in my queue. I'm open for suggestions =)
Preceded by:
Moods | Surprises | Whipped | Origins | Appendectomy
Having a famous girlfriend was pretty damn awesome according to Santana Lopez. It wasn’t because Rachel was making a really good salary from her show that could’ve easily supported them both or that she got showered with gifts and free things (that shit was totally awesome, don’t get her wrong) but it meant Rachel was happy which meant Santana was happy and life was easy. Rachel wasn’t an A-lister just yet but she was definitely getting there. After her quick role on CSI she got an offer for a six episode story arc on a medical drama being filmed in the city and then a nice-sized role in the 30th James Bond movie that had just wrapped up. Rachel was on her way up and Santana was more than proud to be right there beside her.
Santana hung her keys on the rack by the front door as she stepped into hers and Rachel’s (very, very nice) apartment after a grueling 16-hour shift in the emergency department. She loved the emergency room, she really did, but the shifts were killing her and she still had a year of residency to go. She knew if she could just stick it out that it'd all be worth it. She was eying a job with a general physician who had pretty much guaranteed her a spot if she could survive a three-year residency in the emergency room.
The sound of Rachel singing echoed through the apartment and into Santana’s ears and she smiled. Rachel always sang when she was happy which meant Santana’s evening was hopefully going to be pleasant and she might get a little something-something before bed. Santana quietly padded into the kitchen and slipped her arms around her girl; Rachel sighed happily and leaned back into Santana’s embrace.
“Smells good, babe,” Santana whispered.
“Enchiladas, is that satisfactory?”
“Sounds perfect. Do I have time to shower?”
“Of course. You know perfectly well I time these things in order to give you optimal time to wash whatever bodily fluids you may or may not have been covered in while saving the lives of your fellow New Yorkers.”
Santana pressed a kiss to Rachel’s neck before heading to the shower with a smile. Rachel was in a really, really good mood. Enchiladas were Santana’s favorite and Rachel knew exactly how to make them. The good plates were set out on the dining room table when Santana passed, along with candles and fresh flowers and she smiled even brighter before stopping dead in her tracks. Something was off. Nine times out of ten enchiladas and good plates were what Rachel used as her “I’m sorry” after a fight. The other one time was when she had news that Santana wasn’t going to like.
“Rachel,” Santana called as she turned and marched back to the kitchen. “What did you do?”
Rachel stiffed at her position at the stove and let out a muttered expletive; Santana started tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for a response.
“What did you do, Rachel?”
“I haven’t done anything.” Rachel set her sauce spoon down on the stove and turned slowly, her eyes locked with Santana’s and she took a deep breath. “I got offered to do a job.”
“And?”
“And I thought there might be the possibility that you were offended by the proposition enough to be angry with either myself or my publicist for even considering it.”
“Go on.”
“It’s a magazine spread. A cover shoot.”
Santana pursed her lips, unsure of exactly where this was going but absolutely sure she wasn’t going to like it. “Which magazine?”
“Before you say anything, it’s just an offer. I haven’t accepted nor denied it and if you oppose the idea then-“
“Which magazine?”
“Playboy.”
“No.” Not only no, but fuck no, actually. Santana didn’t say it because the tone of her voice would express her distaste at the idea. She was not going to have sleazy truckers jacking off to pictures of her girl. Santana was the only one allowed to do that, thank you very much.
“Alright.”
Santana took a startled step back as Rachel smiled and turned back to the stove. She was absolutely sure that Rachel would argue with her; that was always how these things went. Santana would say “no” and Rachel would come up with several arguments as to why she should take the opposite stance and then eventually get Santana into bed and then Santana would agree to whatever Rachel said.
“Wait, you’re not going to argue with me?”
“I clearly stated that if you had a problem with the photoshoot that I wouldn’t partake.”
“Do you want to do it?”
“Whether or not I want to do it isn’t the issue, Santana. If you’re uncomfortable with the idea then I won’t do it. After the CSI debacle I’ve always made it a point to make sure you approve of the projects I take on.”
“You always take them on whether I want you to or not, Rachel. You get me into bed and you convince me it’s not a bad idea and I only agree because you’ve got all your clothes off. Do you really think I would’ve agreed to let you be a Bond girl and go macking on that British guy if you’d just stood there and asked a few times with all your clothes on?”
“I’m not sure whether I should be flattered you find my physique that appealing or offended that you don’t find my rhetoric at all convincing.”
Santana crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. Rachel pouted a little and stepped forward to take Santana into her arms and press a kiss to her neck.
“Baby,” Rachel cooed, “if you don’t want me to do it then I won’t. While it would be a new and exciting experience, if you’re honestly not comfortable with it then just tell me.”
“Do you want to?” Santana sighed.
“That’s not-“
“Do you want to, Rachel?” Santana growled. Rachel looked up at her with wide eyes and a little bit of a pout.
“The experience would be fun. And I’m sure they’d let you keep copies of everything, plus the outtakes.”
“Fine,” Santana sighed. Rachel squealed and jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “But!”
Rachel froze. “Of course, terms and conditions. Why don’t you go take a long, hot shower while I finish dinner?”
Santana stretched her neck and grumbled as she headed to take a much needed shower. It was one of the rare days when she actually wasn’t sprayed in blood by a leaky artery or vomited on by a kid or sprayed with piss when an elderly person ripped out their catheter (God, she had wanted to euthanize that old bastard!) but she was still sore and tired. She’d helped lift a 530 pound man off of a gurney after he (surprise, surprise!) had chest pains. It was indigestion caused by the six fucking Big Macs he’d eaten, as it turns out, and he was sent home with a bottle of Mylanta and the number of a nutritionist he’d probably never call. She also wrapped two broken wrists, a broken ankle, and gave stitches eight times. There had been a pile up and she took on three trauma patients at once, moving back and forth and miraculously avoiding all of the blood. No one had died on her watch that day, though. She marked it as a good day based on that fact alone.
The scalding hot water felt amazing pulsating over her shoulders as she thoroughly enjoyed the multiple jets coming from the shower walls. She thought about how she’d just agreed to let her girlfriend take all her clothes off to be shot for a magazine that would be shoved under teen boys’ mattresses and hidden from men’s wives. She didn’t have to expose anything, though, right? She could keep her back turned or do a little sideboob. It didn’t have to be full frontal or anything. She’d be alright with a from behind shot. They did one for the Bond movie and it was just fine. It would all be just fine.
Santana reluctantly got out of the shower when the water started to turn warm and changed into shorts and a tanktop. She refused to call them pajamas because she slept naked most of the time. As did Rachel. Santana smirked. She was so getting some tonight
The table was set and plates were full when Santana got to the dining room and took one of the places at the meticulously set table. A glass of red wine was waiting.
“No full frontal,” Santana said as she sat down. “Sideboob is fine, so is backside. No frontal unless you’re covered. And I get to be there for the shoot.”
Rachel nodded as she spread her napkin out on her lap and took a generous sip of wine, followed by another. “Of course, Santana.”
Santana snorted. She wasn’t temperamental enough to make Rachel drink. Definitely not.
XXXXXXXXXX
“No!”
As Santana stepped in front of Rachel, the diva covered from head to toe in green body paint and only a broom and a hat on set to cover her with, the photographer dropped to a chair and growled.
It was the third set of the shoot and Santana had protested the beginning of each one until wardrobe caved and brought more clothing or Rachel was only photographed from the side or from behind. It was her girl, though, damn it. She was entitled to be protective.
“Santana,” Rachel sighed, “what’s wrong?”
“Being covered in paint doesn’t count as clothing.”
“I have cover ups.”
“Not enough.”
“Alright. I request that, while the wardrobe ladies find something else to use for cover, that you bring me a caramel macchiato with a double shot of espresso. There’s a Starbucks just around the corner.”
Santana growled at the wardrobe assistant and yanked the robe from her hands to cover her girl before retreating from the stage to go hunt down Rachel’s coffee. At least someone was finally listening to her. The bitter cold New York air bit at her as she hurried around the corner to Starbucks only to find it being closed for renovation. Normally, Santana would go back empty-handed and tell Rachel to drink something normal for once but she knew she was probably already in the doghouse for interrupting the photoshoot an uncountable number of times and so the decision was made to search for the next nearest Starbucks…which turned out to be three blocks away and absolutely packed.
It should’ve made Santana a little suspicious when she saw one of the prop masters from the shoot scramble away from the door of the building and to the stairs when she returned but considering that she’d just practically run three blocks with a scalding hot coffee in her hands, she didn’t think twice of it. When Santana returned to the set it was almost exactly as she had left it, Rachel was still wrapped up in her robe, everyone else scurrying about. The wardrobe department walked out with an extremely short and low-cut black dress for Santana’s approval.
XXXXXXXXXX
When the Playboy issue came out there were a lot of calls from Santana and Rachel's former classmates (most notably from Puck, “I'm flying in to the NY to play a gig with my band. You guys want a threesome? Berry's gotta only wear the green paint, though”) and a lot of flack from some conservative parenting council. Santana got wolf whistles at work; Rachel was bombarded with requests for other magazines.
And Santana slept in the doctor's lounge for two weeks.
It wasn't Rachel that put her there, though. It was a voluntary choice that was done very quietly but with a lot of rage.
When Santana received her advanced copy of the Playboy magazine featuring her girl it wasn't so bad at first. The cover was the little black dress that Santana had approved of and the first few pictures with the bulk of Rachel's interview were all things Santana had approved of. The centerfold, however, was not Santana approved. Rachel was in green paint and with a hat on her head, broomstick covering barely anything. And that was it.
“I thought once you saw it...”
“I'll be at the hospital if you need anything,” Santana mumbled, tears prickling her eyes. “I can't talk about this right now.”
“We need to talk.”
“No,” Santana looked up and shook her head. “Because I know I'll say a lot of things that I'll regret and I don't want to do that to us.”
It's how Santana found herself, fourteen days later (and on hers and Rachel's anniversary) not in bed with Rachel but at the hospital. In the doctor's lounge. And with a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Her co-workers kept nudging her to go home but all Santana did was drink and cry. She was about ten seconds from passing out when she felt herself being hoisted over someone's shoulder and carried out of the hospital.
“What the fuck?”
“Still a weepy drunk, Lopez?”
“Puckerman?”
“Go to sleep. I'll wake you up when you get back to your place so you can throw up.”
Indeed, about half an hour later, Santana was on the bathroom floor with someone holding her hair back while she emptied what little was in her stomach (cheese and crackers from the vending machine, last time she checked).
“I haven't seen you puke this much since high school.”
“Shut it, Puck.”
“Finish up and I'll throw you in bed.”
“I wanna go back to the -hic- hospital.”
“No, you're gonna stay here and fix shit with your girl or I'm taking a shot.”
“Fuck you.”
The next thing Santana was aware of was a cold washcloth on her forehead and her stomach churning. Two (very blurry) slices of toast appeared in front of her and she eagerly took them to calm her stomach.
“It's cinnamon sugar,” a soft voice spoke. “I know it's your favorite.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Santana, I believe when your hangover subsides that it's imperative we discuss what happened. And by that I mean, I have some profuse apologizing to do.”
“Understatement of the year.”
“We'll talk about it later if...”
“No, we'll talk about it while I can't move to walk out again.”
Santana finally turned her head to see Rachel on a chair next to their bed, looking like she hadn't slept in weeks and had cried for that duration. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, which is what Rachel did when she didn't shower for a couple days. She was wearing her lazy day sweats with mustard stains down the front of Santana's old NYU shirt. Vegan hotdogs with organic mustard and onions were Rachel's depressed food.
“Hi,” Rachel whispered.
“Hey.”
“Santana, I'm so sorry. What I did was stupid and inconsiderate and I should never have tricked you like that.”
“Did you have it all planned out?”
“I had remembered the closed Starbucks during the third shoot...”
“God damn it, Rachel. Why? Why would you want to do this? You think it's going to make you more popular or boost your status or whatever? That's bullshit and you know it. What the hell happened to no nudity?”
“I...I was blinded by the flattery of the offer.”
“It's a fucking sleezy magazine.”
“If you'd received that offer, you would've been flattered.”
“Yeah, when I was eighteen.”
“I still aspire to be a star. Just as I did when I was high school.”
Santana shook her head and slid down to lay and let her stomach settle, and rolled to her side, propping herself up on her elbow. This was ridiculous.
“You're on your way. If you'd just be freakin' patient...”
“Since when have I ever been patient?”
“Never.”
“We can work through this, Santana. We'll go to couples' therapy and perhaps I could benefit from a few individual sessions to deal with my craving for approval.”
Santana shrugged. She wasn't sure, honestly. She didn't know if things could get better. It wasn't like Rachel had cheated on her or anything but this was a pretty big lie. And it was after Santana had blatantly disapproved of what Rachel did.
“Santana, please. I can't lose you. I love you.”
“You lied to me, Rachel.”
“And for that I apologize. I'll make it up to you somehow, I swear I will.”
“I don't know.”
“What do I have to do?”
“I don't know, Rachel.” Santana rolled back to stare up at the ceiling, trying to conceal the tears she knew were coming.
“I love you.”
“Yeah, but do you respect me?”
The bed shifted and Santana let a single rogue tear slide out of her eye when she felt Rachel's hand on her shoulder and her hair being pushed back.
“Of course I do, Santana. Please, just tell me how to make this right.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” Santana choked. “I mean, how do I know that when you tell me you're going to work that you're not going somewhere else? That you're not fucking someone else?”
“Santana, I would never-”
“How do I know?”
“I see your point.”
The disappointment in Rachel's voice was clear, it was a tone that Santana could never stand. But she could then. She held her ground and clutched tight onto a pillow letting a quiet sob escape eliciting a whimper from Rachel. A soft hand was on her shoulder, squeezing just a bit before Santana heard the bedroom door close. She knew Rachel was on the other side of it.
XXXXXXXXXX
“You're overreacting, Lopez. Just cut the shit out.”
It was three in the morning, Santana still hadn't spoken to Rachel but Puck sure made his presence known. He refused to leave the Latina alone, constantly telling her how stupid she was. Santana almost believed him but she was still pissed. The Lopez's were known for holding grudges. Currently he was occupying the bedroom armchair with his feet propped up on the foot of the bed that Santana refused to leave.
“She lied.”
“It's not like she fucked someone else. But if you keep acting like this she just might.”
“Stay away from my girl, Puckerman.”
“I swear that if you screw this up because you're being stupid I will personally kick your ass.”
“What the hell do you care anyway?” Santana growled, throwing a pillow at the mohawked man.
Puck scoffed and swung his feet off the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“Because, you idiot, she makes you happy. You make her happy. Sappy love bullshit. You really want to lose her?”
“Wow, Puckerman,” Santana smirked, “I haven't seen you this gay since high school.”
“Yeah well I haven't given a fuck about much since then.”
Santana watched Puck drop his head, eyes focused on the floor and she knew instantly he was thinking about Beth. She hadn't given much thought to the situation after she and Rachel left for New York and Puck had never brought it up after he took off to God-only-knows-where, knowing that Beth was better off with Shelby. They'd talked a few times a month since graduation, Puck crashed on their couch a few times a year, but he'd never said anything.
“I'll talk to her,” Santana mumbled.
“Good, I'll go get her.”
“Not now, asshole. She's probably asleep.”
Puck snorted as he stood, headed for the bedroom door. “She hasn't slept in two weeks, she'll be up.”
In just a few seconds, Rachel was poking her head into the bedroom door; Santana tried desperately to avoid eye contact. She couldn't. Rachel's chocolate brown eyes were bloodshot and puffy. She'd obviously showered that night, her hair a little damp and changed into a Wicked t-shirt. Without a word, Rachel shuffled to the chair that had been occupied by Puck and took a seat, hands folded in her lap and with an eager expression on her face.
“I don't know what to say,” Santana admitted.
“May I?” Rachel whispered.
Santana nodded.
“I love you,” Rachel began, “I love you more than even I could possibly comprehend and I would never, ever intentionally hurt you, Santana. I have never asked you for much but right now I am asking you to please forgive me. I know it will be an extensive amount of time before I can completely earn your trust but please...please don't let this destroy us. I-I need you.”
“I love you, too.”
The small smile on Rachel's face made Santana's heart jump a little and her own smile cross her lips. She patted the space next to her, inviting her girl into her arms. It was like a weight had been lifted from her chest when Rachel eagerly climbed into bed and was wrapped up in her arms.
“I do forgive you,” Santana said. “I just...please don't ever lie to me again. Not like this.”
“I promise. It was selfish and stupid and it will never happen again.”
It was quiet for a few minutes, Santana was unsure whether or not Rachel was asleep until she heard whispers coming from her, Rachel's head on Santana's stomach.
“What are you doing, babe?” Santana asked, combing her fingers through Rachel's hair.
The other brunette startled, jerking to sit up with her lower lip clutched between her teeth. “I...Well...I was just...you see,” Rachel stammered. “Sometimes after you've gone to sleep I'll...talk.”
“To my stomach?”
“To our potential children?” Rachel half-asked, hope in her voice.
It wasn't like Santana hadn't thought about it. Or daydreamed about it. A lot. Nearly every day. Seeing families come into the hospital with kids she always picked out the ones that might look like hers and Rachel's if they had some but she wasn't sure if Rachel had thought about it at all.
“You want kids?”
Rachel nodded.
“Well...like...when?”
“As soon as humanly possible would be nice. I mean, we're pushing thirty and I'd like more than one. I'm aware that we're not scheduled to wed for another year, after you've completed your residency, but finding a qualified fertility physician and budgeting for the insemination process as well as finding a suitable sperm donor will be very time consuming.”
In her exhausted state only about half of what Rachel said was actually processed but she did catch a certain phrase which made a smile spread across her lips. It was close to being an insane idea and she knew there would be a lot of explaining to do that the process would not take place in the “natural” way. But Santana was pretty sure she could help out with the whole baby-making process.
“I have an idea,” Santana said, her smile growing wider.
XXXXXXXXXX
It was a shock when the smell of breakfast wafted through the apartment the next morning, not so shocking when it was the smell of waffles that woke Santana and her fiancee. The pair dressed quickly (it had been over two weeks, there was some catching up to do) and were greeted with Puck in the kitchen standing over the waffle iron with two plates piled high next to him.
“This one's your vegan stuff, Berry,” he said, pointing to one plate. “Blueberry.”
“The waffles can wait, Puckerman,” Santana said. She turned to Rachel, looking for a final confirmation. The other brunette nodded, her smile wide, before turning back to Puck.
“Noah, we have a proposition for you.”