Fic: No Wise Words Gonna Stop the Bleeding [Part Two]
Title: No Wise Words Gonna Stop the Bleeding [Part Two]
Rating: NC-17
Words: little over 8k
Notes in Part One
--
Quinn doesn’t see Santana for almost a full day after the party. It makes work practically unbearable as worry eats away at her appetite and settles a sharp headache behind her eyes. The clock ticks to two o’clock when her office door swings open and Rachel strolls in, a brown paper bag in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.
“What are you doing here?” Quinn asks, half standing in her chair before Rachel waves her back down. “Is everything okay?”
“I was on my way to rehearsals,” Rachel answers, coming around Quinn’s desk and dropping the bag on top of the files open there. “I assumed you would have forgotten lunch.”
It wasn’t that she had forgotten; Quinn had watched lunch tick by on the clock on her wall, the churning in her gut making food seem undesirable. The smells coming out of the bag Rachel had just sat in front of her, however, kick start her appetite.
“Thanks, baby,” Quinn replies, reaching for the bag as Rachel sets the coffee cup on the desk. “Coffee?”
Rachel moves some files over on the desk and hops up on it, crossing her legs and looking down at Quinn. “Yeah, I thought you’d be tired too since you barely slept last night.” It’s said with a pointed look in her direction so Quinn looks down at the bag to avoid eye contact.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, opening up her lunch. Her stomach growls when her eyes take in the delicious sight of a Rueben sandwich from the deli down the block. “You are so my favorite wife.”
A foot darts forward and kicks her in the thigh but they both chuckle as Quinn takes out her sandwich and bites off a large chunk and feels the food take the place of worry in her gut.
“You want some?” Quinn offers, chewing around the words.
Rachel’s face pinches together as she observes the sandwich. “No, thank you. It’s all yours.”
Quinn laughs. “You so want some.”
“I do not!” Rachel denies.
Her laughter increases as she watches conflicting emotions cross her wife’s face. It feels good for a moment, to forget about what’s going on in her life, her job and focus on something that seems in her control, safe and protected from all the nastiness swirling in her head.
Quinn reaches for her coffee cup and brings it to her lips, the liquid warming her throat comfortingly as it goes down. Then, as if realizing what she’s holding, she eyes the cup suspiciously before turning towards Rachel.
“You didn’t have any of this did you?” It’s not that Quinn can taste the difference between decaf coffee and regular except she totally can and yeah maybe she’s overly militant about the whole thing but she can’t help it, the protective instinct in her is too strong.
The eye roll Rachel gives her is exaggerated and full of exasperation but Rachel’s smiling a little as she shakes her head. “No, I had a perfectly useless cup of decaf before I got here.”
“I love you,” Quinn draws out, putting her coffee back down and bringing her sandwich back up to her lips.
Rachel hops of the desk and turns to look down at Quinn, a half smile on her lips. “I have to go, I’ll be home around nine, don’t work too late.”
“Short day today,” Quinn comments.
“That will change soon,” Rachel says, chuckling. “I’ll have full days in a few weeks.”
“Not if you tell them,” Quinn said, taking another bite of her sandwich.
Silence greets the statement so Quinn arches an eyebrow at her wife, staring at her over the sandwich clutched in her hands.
“Rachel,” Quinn intones, setting her Reuben down and swallowing.
“Quinn,” Rachel interrupts. “I’m the lead. I can’t just take time off.”
“You have an understudy for a reason,” Quinn argues.
Brown eyes go wide with indignation and Quinn can practically feel Rachel bristle. “You know how I feel about that word.”
Quinn rolls her eyes and chuckles before getting serious. Rachel’s leg is warm and smooth when she wraps her palm around it, pulling her wife towards her and looking up at her. “I just worry about you is all.”
Her eyes flutter closed when Rachel runs a hand through Quinn’s hair and her head falls forward, her forehead hitting Rachel’s hipbone and staying there.
“I love you,” Rachel whispers.
Quinn smiles and breathes easy.
--
“Hey, Quinn,” Brittany greeted, walking into Santana’s room and shutting the door behind her with a soft click. “What’re you doing up here?”
Quinn stood up abruptly from Santana’s bed and dropped the CD she was holding onto the mattress, heat rushing to her cheeks at being caught hiding.
“Nothing,” she sputtered, wide eyed.
Brittany grinned and bounced over to the bed, picking up the album she had discarded and looking at it. “Santana loves this CD,” Brittany said, her nose wrinkling as if she didn’t agree with the sentiment.
Quinn laughed. “Yeah, it was out when I got up here.”
Throwing the CD back down, Brittany turned to look at Quinn. “So why are you hiding up here?”
She scrambled her brain to try and find a decent excuse. “It was hot downstairs.”
That actually was part of the reason she left Santana’s party to hide away in the girl’s bedroom, but it wasn’t completely honest and she could tell Brittany saw right through it.
“You mean because Allie Perkins showed up,” Brittany replied, crossing her arms and cocking her hip out.
Her face felt hot all of a sudden and her eyes went wide at being found out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Quinn denied.
Allie Perkins was two years older than them - a friend of Santana’s from track camp - and had hung out with the three of them a few times over the summer. Quinn had spent nearly all those occasions trying to ignore the urge she had to stare at Allie’s long, brown hair or the runner’s legs the girl seemed to enjoy exposing at any opportunity.
Brittany hummed in a way that was probably supposed to sound encouraging but ending up coming out more admonishing than anything.
“You like her,” Brittany said matter-of-factly.
“She’s nice,” Quinn replied, not liking the direction Brittany was going.
“She’s pretty,” Brittany corrected, grinning.
Heat flashed through her face again as she looked away from her friend. It was silent for a long moment, Brittany just grinning at Quinn and Quinn looking anywhere but at Brittany’s knowing, blue eyes until she finally spoke, her voice a low, confused mumble. “She’s a girl.”
“So?” Brittany asked, head tilted to the side.
Quinn sighed and shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
A quick giggle burst out of Brittany and Quinn snapped her head up to look at her. Her friend was still smiling, clearly amused and made a step towards Quinn.
Strong hands grabbed Quinn’s hips and pulled her closer. “I probably understand better than you do.”
It probably shouldn’t have been possible for Quinn’s eyes to get any wider, but they did, stretched out in surprise and confusion as Brittany pulled them closer together.
“What are you doing?”
“Fixing you,” Brittany replied. “You need to stop being so scared about it.”
Quinn gulped as Brittany ducked her head down and nearly jumped with the sudden realization that Brittany was going to kiss her.
This was bad. Really, really bad. For so many reasons. One of them, probably the most important one, was her hot-tempered friend one story below them, probably wondering where her girlfriend and best friend were.
“I’m not scared,” she whispered, nearly going cross-eyed as she focused on Brittany’s lips as they seemed to be inching closer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Brittany was undeniably attractive in that unassuming way that made her stand out in a crowd. Quinn always thought that about her friend in a benign sort of way, distant and detached from being anything other than an impartial observation. But right now, with all the confusion in her head and the skirt Brittany was wearing and the way her hair fell forward, she was having trouble reminding herself of the important details. Details like Brittany was a girl, her best friend, and dating her other best friend, a girl, dating her best friend, and also a girl.
“It’s okay to like what you like, Quinn,” Brittany replied, pressing their lips together before Quinn could protest.
Surprise, shock, and warmth shot through her like a bullet and she nearly stumbled backwards. Brittany’s lips were soft and warm and when Quinn recovered enough to actually involve herself in the kiss she could taste strawberry vodka and diet soda.
Her brain kind of short circuited and all those warnings about how Brittany was a girl and how this was a really bad idea and how Santana was definitely going to punch her kind of flew out the window.
Kissing Brittany wasn’t all that different from the boys Quinn had kissed. Okay, well, no. It was different. Brittany pressed against Quinn in different places and her face was soft and her hands small and long hair brushed against Quinn’s face. It was all kinds of different but it was also nice.
Brittany pushed forward again and this time Quinn did stumble backwards, falling on the bed with Brittany and landing on something hard and plastic, a loud crack resounding through the room.
They broke apart and Brittany’s eyebrows came together as she tried to locate the source of the sound. Quinn reached a hand under her back and pulled out the now broken jewel case of Santana’s favorite CD.
Brittany’s eyes went wide with realization and she cupped a hand over her mouth, unsuccessfully stifling laughter as she picked herself off of Quinn and stood up.
It took staring at the cracked CD, completely smashed - case, disc and all - for Quinn to actually comprehend what just happened. She had just kissed Brittany. She had just kissed her best friend, her other best friend’s girlfriend.
And she kind of liked it. At least in the, hey girls aren’t so bad and Britt’s a good kisser kind of way.
“Santana’s going to kill me,” Quinn groaned, flopping backwards on the bed and throwing a hand over her eyes.
Brittany hummed like she agreed before pulling Quinn up by her arm and tugging her towards the door.
“Come on, now that you’re over your crisis we can rejoin the party,” Brittany said.
“What do you mean over my crisis?!” Quinn exclaimed. “Now I just have a new crisis!”
The tall girl stopped, took a deep breath and looked at Quinn. “I love Santana,” she stated.
“Yeah,” Quinn said, slightly confused at her friend’s obviousness. “I noticed.”
“Right,” Brittany agreed looking adorably serious. “I kiss her. Like, a lot. And other stuff too.”
“Yeah, Britt,” Quinn drew out, looking at her skeptically. “I know.”
“Is something wrong with me?” Brittany tilted her head to the side, the question innocent and open as she observed Quinn blankly.
Her first instinct, the instinct when she first found out about her two best friends kissing and doing…other things, is to say yes, that something is definitely wrong, that it’s not the natural order of things. But she stamped that feeling down because, really, they were her two best friends. Anyone that watched them together could never call it wrong.
“Of course not,” Quinn answered.
Brittany stepped in close to Quinn again, still holding her wrist and bringing her other hand to stroke hair off of Quinn’s forehead. “There’s nothing wrong with you either,” she whispered. “It’s okay to like girls, Quinn.”
Denial was right there, the same words she had been telling herself for a long time now as she watched Brittany and Santana publicly grope each other and tried to avoid noticing how short Allie Perkins’ skirt was that day.
But here with Brittany, for the first time, Quinn didn’t feel like lying anymore. To anyone.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she breathed.
Brittany pressed a warm kiss against Quinn’s forehead and pulled the girl in for a hug. “Let’s go back to the party.”
Quinn nodded.
--
Santana was standing in the kitchen, mixing drinks and fiddling with the controls of a new music system she had set up last week. She threw an exasperated eye roll at both of them when they walked in.
“Where the hell have you been?” Santana asked in Quinn’s direction.
“Quinn’s all better now,” Brittany answered and Quinn turned to glare at her friend. So much for keeping a secret.
She expected Santana to look confused and ask her what the hell Brittany was talking about but instead her friend just looked relieved as she tugged Brittany closer and handed her a red plastic cup.
“Good,” she said to Quinn.
Now it was Quinn’s turn to be confused again as she stared at her two friends, both grinning at her.
“You both are crazy,” Quinn said finally, shaking her head and reaching for the cup Santana was handing her.
Brittany bounded over and wrapped her arms around Quinn’s neck. “You’d be lost without us,” she said, laughing happily and bouncing to the music.
Quinn let out a deep exhale and stared at Santana, letting her body get tossed around slightly by Brittany’s dancing. “Yeah, I probably would,” she laughed.
Santana smiled, took a sip of her drink and moved towards the crowd of people grinding to the beat in the living room.
“Let’s dance,” Santana threw over her shoulder.
Brittany jumped excitedly and pulled Quinn with her.
She spent the rest of the night letting Brittany manhandle her into new dance moves as Santana laughed at them. It took a few more rum and cokes (more rum than coke with the way Santana mixed them), but she finally stopped trying to ignore just how good Allie Perkin’s legs looked in her skirt.
--
Around six that evening, her phone rings and Quinn practically drops the book she’s pulling off her shelf. Fumbling it around in her hands, she manages to stumble to her desk, pull her cell out of her briefcase and flip it open.
“Quinn Fabray,” she clips out into the phone.
“Where are you?” Quinn recognizes the angry, biting tone of Santana almost right away.
“Santana?”
“I need a drink, Fabray,” Santana says, the sound of rushing cars and rain coming through the phone. “Where are you?”
“At work,” Quinn answers.
“I’m coming up,” Santana replies, hanging the phone up and leaving Quinn to listen to the repeating sound of a dial tone.
About ten minutes later, a soaking wet Santana Lopez is pushing open the door to her office and striding towards her desk. Looks like the hope of no rain tonight had been futile.
“Let’s go,” Santana barks out, coming to a stop in front of Quinn’s desk and placing both palms on its surface.
“It’s only six,” Quinn replies, not looking up from the file she’s scribbling across.
“Yeah, I should be halfway to drunk right now,” Santana shoots back, leaning towards Quinn and slapping her hand on the desk. “Fabray, let’s go.”
“Jeez,” Quinn says, looking up and tugging her glasses off. “What happened to you?”
Dark, wet hair is plastered across Santana’s forehead and her eyes are narrowed, pain crinkling the skin around them.
“You showed me that stupid fucking case about Brittany which I took from Rutherford and fucking Finn Hudson and I went over to her stupid fucking apartment where she’s living with that stupid fucking dance teacher Tina who is out walking my fucking dog and it’s all your fucking fault and you owe me a damn drink. Now.”
Anger blasts out of Santana’s expression and Quinn feels herself jerk back, guilt seeping into her bones even though she knows Santana’s not actually angry at her. Part of her thinks maybe Santana has a right to be. Then again, Quinn thinks, bitterness threatening to break through, Santana could have stopped Brittany from leaving, she just…decided not to.
It’s quiet then, Santana’s harsh breathing and the rain outside the only noise in the whole office. Quinn stands slowly, picks her glasses up and folds them closed, sticking them in her briefcase before starting to collect her files.
“Okay,” she says, moving to grab her coat. “Let’s go. I’ll call Rach on the way.”
--
Rick’s is practically empty when they get there, the low buzz of music playing from the old jukebox in the corner the only life in the whole place. Joe comes walking out from the back room, a towel slung over his shoulder and a box of glassware in his hands, the glasses clinking against each other with each of his steps. He sets it down on a table and walks behind the bar as they get near, smiling at them as they take their places on two stools.
He opens his mouth to greet them, but before he can speak seems to notice Santana. His jaw snaps shut as he reaches under the counter, throwing a knowing look at Quinn. Before she can say anything, two shot glasses are in front of them, and Joe’s twisting the top off a bottle of top shelf tequila Quinn keeps behind the bar, setting it in front of them and walking away.
Santana reaches out and grabs the bottle, pouring it to the brim in her own glass before doing the same to Quinn’s. “I love this place,” she says.
Quinn pulls her glass towards her. “So you took the case,” she starts.
“Yup,” Santana replies, picking up her glass and taking a large sip, half the liquid disappearing.
“That was stupid, S,” Quinn continues, taking a much smaller sip of her own tequila.
“Yup,” Santana agrees, swallowing the rest of her drink and reaching for the bottle again.
Quinn raises an eyebrow. “Slow down,” she commands. “If you puke on me I will smack you.”
Santana turns a glare at her. “I saw Brittany today, you get that, right? I saw Brittany,” she repeats.
It tugs at her heart, the way Santana looks and the memories of Brittany flashing across her brain. It took a long time for her to get used to seeing Santana without the blonde, months really. Even now, after six of them, it’s still strange to see Santana alone and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get totally used to it. The three of them, so swiftly cut to two. It still feels slightly unnatural, the way she’d imagine losing a limb would feel.
Brittany was her best friend after Santana. Brittany had been around since the beginning, as early as grade school and it hurt to have her just walk away, leave their lives as quickly as she appeared. It’s painful but she knows it’s only a fraction of what Santana’s feeling. Santana who had been so attached to Brittany her entire life, bordering on co-dependency.
There are things she wants to say to Santana, things she wants to tell her and sense she wants to smack into her, but all the words get mixed together and nothing ends up coming out.
Instead, she plucks the bottle out of Santana’s hands and pours the liquid in the glass herself, setting it back on the bar with a dull thud. Then she slides her own shot of tequila towards Santana and raises a finger at Joe, standing at the end of the bar wiping down glasses.
“What are you doing?” Santana asks.
“Getting a beer. One of us has to find our way home,” she answers.
Santana seems to accept that, tugging the other shot of tequila towards her and throwing it back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as Joe sets a bottle of beer in front of Quinn. There’s something about the way Santana’s acting, the way she’s staring straight ahead and they way her eyes blink slowly as if she’s not really focusing on what’s in front of her.
“What else happened?” Quinn asks because it all suddenly feels suspicious. Santana doesn’t really get sad or scared or worried. Santana gets pissed, all her emotions get angry. But Quinn can see her friend’s fists clenching on top of the wood of the bar and the wrinkles in her forehead showing a seed of fear, of doubt.
“What do you mean? I fucking told you,” Santana says. “I saw Brittany in her goddamn perfect life without me.”
Shaking her head, Quinn tips her beer against her lips. “So why aren’t you out with Puck right now punching frat boys at that college bar across town?”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Santana doesn’t look at her, just pours more tequila into her glass.
It’s clear the direct tactic isn’t going to work - the agitation all over Santana’s face a good indication - so Quinn switches gears, taking another pull of her beer as Santana pours more tequila. “Get any interesting hits tonight?”
Quinn sees it work, sees the way Santana’s leg jumps in surprise and her hands clench around the shot glass tighter. A barking, bitter laugh comes out of Santana.
“Some dancer over at the nightclub on 9th got popped,” her friend comments, almost nonchalantly.
“Oh yeah?” Quinn twists her beer bottle around on the bar, observing her friend with narrowed eyes.
“Yeah,” Santana says, pouring more tequila down her throat.
She reaches for the small dish of peanuts in front of her and pulls it towards them. “Got a good lead?”
“She was blonde,” Santana mumbles under her breath and Quinn can almost hear the tequila starting to take root in her friend’s blood system.
“What?”
“Why can’t I just move on? I just want to stop thinking about it,” Santana says, staring at a spot behind the bar for a long moment before shooting more tequila.
It’s more clear then, what’s eating away at Santana. Understanding her friend in a way few people ever do, Quinn reaches a hand out and sets it on Santana’s shoulder, squeezing briefly.
“Britt’s okay, San. She’s happy and she’s okay.” It’s not totally the truth; Quinn can’t imagine Brittany actually being happy without Santana, can barely imagine one without the other even after six months. Even now, when she sees Santana, there’s a moment of instinct that she has to fight to control, a moment that’s hard to resist where she almost asks Santana where Brittany is, almost looks over her shoulder hoping to see a tall blonde with clear blue eyes.
“Yeah,” Santana agrees, chuckling darkly. “Without me. Without you,” she says, turning to face her. “Without us. Brittany’s got this whole life without us.”
Quinn takes a long pull of her beer and doesn’t say anything.
--
Rachel bowed, front and center on stage, and the audience erupted in applause, the sound deafening and excited and Quinn felt a proud grin spread across her lips. Brittany jumped up and down, hooting and catcalling as Rachel bowed again before stepping off stage.
“She was good,” Brittany said, grinning as she turned at Quinn.
“Yeah,” Quinn agreed, smoothing out her playbill and staring down at Rachel’s face on the cover.
They’d been dating for just a few months and it took a little to get used to realize how accomplished Rachel was in the world of musical theater.
Usually she’d drag Santana to the shows but tonight she was working a longer shift and couldn’t make it. Brittany, good friend that she was, agreed to go along in her place. Quinn was starting to think that maybe Brittany was a better choice anyway because there was certainly less stifled laughter and eye rolling throughout the whole production.
“Come on, let’s go see if we can catch her backstage,” Quinn said, standing up and walking out with the rest of their row.
They made their way backstage, through a few hallways and past security and smiling when they remembered her, until they got to a door with a large star and the name Rachel Berry emblazoned across it.
“Cool,” Brittany breathed. Quinn felt a strange pride flow through her again.
The door flung open after Quinn rapped her knuckles against it to reveal a flushed Rachel, still in costume but her face washed clean of the layers of makeup it usually sported.
“You came!” Rachel exclaimed, tugging them inside and shutting the door.
“Of course,” Quinn said, smiling at her girlfriend.
“Thanks for the tickets, Rachel!” Brittany interjected, practically bouncing over to the shorter girl and wrapping her in a big hug. Quinn laughed at Rachel’s shocked expression, knowing the girl was much more used the tepid reception she’d get from Santana - crossed arms and a begrudging it was okay, I guess.
“No problem, Brittany,” Rachel said as they broke apart. “I’m glad you both could make it.”
“It was really good,” Brittany continued, nodding solemnly. “You’re really good.”
Rachel beamed. “I am, aren’t I?”
Quinn kept laughing, Brittany nodded.
“We just wanted to say hi,” Quinn said, stepping forward. “I know you probably have to go. There are a lot of people at the stage door.”
Nodding, Rachel moved closer to Quinn as well. “Thanks for coming,” she replied.
The brunette arched upwards on her feet, pressing a long kiss to Quinn’s lips and she would have forgotten Brittany was standing right there if the other girl hadn’t started giggling at them.
They broke off, Rachel tugging Quinn’s bottom lip with her teeth appealingly before they stepped away from each other.
“Call me later?” Quinn got out, putting a hand on Rachel’s hip.
“Yeah, I will,” the shorter girl agreed, head bobbing up and down rapidly.
Brittany giggled at them but all Quinn could do was grin.
--
Thankfully, it wasn’t raining that night as they walked the two blocks to the subway that would take them back towards their apartments. The sky was dark and cloudy but the streets were dry as they strolled along them and found their way to the station.
“I like her,” Brittany said out of the blue as they walked down the steps to the underground.
Quinn turned her head to the side. “Yeah?”
It struck her for probably the millionth time in her life how different Brittany was from Santana. Where Santana was a mess of subtext and hidden meanings, Brittany was always straightforward, brutally honest in a way that sometimes startled people. It was like God forgot to give her a filter when he made her.
“Yeah, she’s awesome, Quinn. Her voice is like,” Brittany started, bringing her hands up to her ears and shaking them. “Crazy.”
“Yeah,” Quinn agreed, chuckling softly and looking down.
“I’m glad you’re dating her,” Brittany continued. “We get free tickets.”
They stepped up to the platform to wait for the train. “Me too,” Quinn replied, still laughing.
“And you’re happy,” Brittany said. “I’m happy you’re happy.”
It was kind of weird, to hear Brittany’s perspective on things. It wasn’t that she needed anyone’s approval but it felt nice regardless. It was something that’d never come from her parents, this much she knew, and getting Santana to say something nice about anyone that wasn’t Quinn or Brittany (and even that was a stretch) was like pulling teeth.
Brittany was her oldest friend, family in all the ways that counted and just to have her so openly approve of Rachel sent warmth through her stomach.
Rachel felt right to her, in a way few other things had in her life and even after only a few months of dating she knew that she wanted the other girl to stick around for a long time. It was absurd and irrational and so un-Quinn of her to think but she couldn’t help it. It was sappy and sometimes Quinn hated herself for it, but she would look at Rachel and feel like that’s all she wanted, all she needed, like Rachel was her future.
And it was big and scary but it was awesome at the same time, and the feeling she got when Rachel kissed her or held her hand made her want to do crazy, ridiculously sappy things that Santana would smack her for.
Which is why she could never tell Santana about all this stuff. Santana would just glower and roll her eyes and make some scathing comment about midgets or freakshows and Quinn would end up having to punch her in the arm.
Standing there with Brittany, as a warm gust of air blew past them and their train rolled in, made her feel free in a way she didn’t feel very often.
“I think I love her,” Quinn admitted, soft and low. She hadn’t told anyone - there weren’t many people she could tell and just getting it out there, speaking it out loud felt like a huge weight lifted off her.
They stepped on the train and grabbed onto the ceiling to floor poles as the doors closed. “She loves you too,” Brittany said, leaning in conspiratorially towards Quinn. With a lump in her throat, Quinn recognized that Brittany filtered out the ‘think’ part of the statement. “I can tell,” Brittany stated and a sudden rush of affection for her friend flew through Quinn.
The train started to move and they were silent after that, Quinn enjoying the unsteady rhythm of her heartbeat as she thought about Rachel. She hoped Brittany was right. She was falling for this girl, really fast and really hard.
Brittany looped her arm through Quinn’s and shifted closer, pressing a kiss to Quinn’s temple and smiling. “She does, trust me.”
Quinn quirked her lips up and bumped her shoulder into Brittany’s. “Thanks, B.”
--
“Give me back my fucking handcuffs!”
Quinn gives a deep sigh and tries to ignore the looks of the few people walking their dogs in the middle of the night (New York is a strange city sometimes), and steers Santana further down her street.
“I don’t have your handcuffs, S,” she mutters, prompting Santana to snort and stop dead in her tracks to turn and face Quinn. The other woman drunkenly waves her finger around in her face, her eyes glazed over and wild.
“You always take my handcuffs. If your midget sidekick isn’t satisfied by normal shit like normal fucking people, buy your own damn handcuffs! It’s not hard!”
Quinn blinks rapidly at Santana before she shakes her head and starts moving them again, trying to ignore the many memories of Santana’s handcuffs floating through her mind.
“Where’s my gun?” Santana suddenly asks, breaking away from Quinn and flailing around.
Quinn rolls her eyes and takes a step towards her friend, tugging her towards the steps. “What do you need that for?”
“To shoot someone, what the fuck else do you do with a gun?” Santana answers.
“I took it,” Quinn replies, trying to maneuver Santana up the stairs.
“Give it back!” Santana exclaims, eyes wide.
“Let’s go, S. The last thing you need right now is your gun,” Quinn says, finally able to get Santana up the stairs and to the front entrance.
It takes much longer than usual to get Santana in her building and Quinn nearly loses her grip on her friend twice on their way there. But, soon enough, they get through the front door, Quinn kicking it closed behind her and moving to the living room to drop Santana on the couch.
There’s a rustling behind her as Santana throws her jacket off and works the shirt off underneath it so Quinn goes to the lockbox they keep in the corner and throws Santana’s badge and gun inside, locking it and turning around to see her friend half undressed and passed out on the couch.
Shaking her head and chuckling under her breath she walks over and tugs Santana’s shoes off, pushing the rest of Santana’s body on the couch. Her chuckling cuts off abruptly at the soft, unconscious sound of Santana mumbling Brittany’s name in her sleep.
She swallows and throws a blanket over her friend before walking out of the living room and finding her way to her bedroom.
Her chest tightens painfully as she makes her way through darkened hallways and rooms and she struggles to push the pain out of her brain - Santana’s and her own.
The bedroom is dark and cool when she gets there and she can make out Rachel’s bundled form on her side of the bed. A long breath escapes her and she just kind of stares at the bed for a little bit, the patter of rain hitting the window across the room lulling her into inaction.
A few moments later she gets a hold of herself and starts to strip, dropping clothing on the floor and shuffling towards the bed, sliding under warm covers until she’s pressed against Rachel, her front against her wife’s back and a hand sliding over a bare stomach.
Rachel shifts and turns slightly, greeting Quinn with a sleepy smile. “Hi,” the brunette croaks out, leaning up to peck Quinn on the cheek.
“Hi,” Quinn repeats, smiling slightly before burrowing into Rachel’s shoulder. “Santana’s staying the night.”
She feels Rachel nod in recognition, lips pressing against her cheek again. Quinn’s palm rests flat against Rachel’s stomach as her nose buries further into Rachel’s neck and pain and exhaustion sweep through her on a shaky exhale.
“Hey,” Rachel murmurs, a hand coming up to grip in blonde hair. “You okay?”
All Quinn can do is shake her head and swallow. Rachel wraps her other arm around her, turning over completely and pulling Quinn further into her embrace, mumbling incoherent affection into her hair until Quinn falls asleep.
--
When Brittany left, Quinn didn’t have any time to deal with her own feelings, Santana’s depression took up too much time. How could she tell her devastated friend that she was in agony too?
And then there was the part she couldn’t tell Santana under any circumstances, the part where Brittany showed up at her doorstep, just a few days after she left.
Rachel answered the door, but Quinn could hear the surprised gasp from the kitchen. When she rounded the corner to the front door, Rachel and Brittany were just pulling away from a hug.
After two seconds of staring at Brittany’s form in shock, Quinn finally reacted, pulling the blonde in and glaring at her. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I’m staying with Mike,” Brittany said, looking sheepish and sad. Quinn glanced over to see Rachel walking towards the kitchen, leaving the two blondes alone.
“Brittany,” Quinn started, still holding on to her friend’s wrist.
“I’m staying with Mike, until I get my own place,” she repeated, interrupting Quinn.
It was hard to believe. The idea of Brittany leaving Santana spoken aloud like that, like it was just as easy as buying a new apartment. “Why are you here?”
Brittany scuffed her toe against the floor and looked down. “Don’t tell Santana I was here.”
“Brittany,” Quinn said again, stepping closer and lowering her voice. She hated this feeling, the heavy pressure of tension between the three of them that they’d never experienced. Their friendship was almost seamless, too good to be true really. It shouldn’t have worked as well as it did - Santana and Brittany and then Quinn, the should-be third wheel.
But they were always so good about figuring it all out. Until now, when things didn’t make sense anymore, when Brittany was asking her to keep things from Santana and Santana was holed away in her apartment, snuggled up to a bottle of scotch most likely.
“You need to call Santana,” Quinn said, her breath feeling shaky and unsteady as she stared at Brittany.
The other girl lifted her head and looked at Quinn, pain etched in the skin around Brittany’s eyes that made Quinn’s heart skip a beat. It all felt so final in that moment, so bleak, like a chapter of her life was ending whether or not she wanted it to.
“If she wanted me, she’d come after me,” Brittany replied, her voice nearly a whisper.
Her throat felt dry and thick as she swallowed but she couldn’t find the words to deny what Brittany had said. The image of Santana at the bar was still present in her mind. The way her friend had looked so defeated, so resigned like she knew it was coming and was content to just accept her fate. Santana had no plans to chase after Brittany and right then, staring into sad, blue eyes, Quinn felt an irrational urge to smack Santana. Hard.
Instead, she tugged Brittany closer, wrapping both her arms around her and squeezed tightly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered into the skin of Brittany’s shoulder. Hating how broken it all felt, how her whole life was shifting and reforming. The rug was being swept right out from under her.
A stuttered exhale left her friend as long arms wrapped around her and clutched at her back. “Me too.”
Brittany left a few moments later and it was the last time they saw each other for six months.
--
Sunlight breaking through the clouds outside hits Quinn straight in her eyes, the warmth and light forcing her to wake up much earlier than she really wants to. Her head is pillowed on Rachel’s chest, her leg wrapped around a toned calf and she can feel Rachel’s hand still clutched in Quinn’s hair.
She shifts upward, reaching up to disentangle Rachel’s hand from her hair and her wife wakes up with the motion, eyes wide and alert almost immediately.
“Morning,” Quinn greets, her voice husky with sleep.
“Hey,” Rachel drawls, twisting her hands above her head and stretching out her whole body, arching up into Quinn in just about the most distracting manner possible.
Heat floods through Quinn’s body and suddenly all that emotional exhaustion from last night drains out of her, replaced by deep affection and warm arousal settling in her gut.
Tension droops out of Rachel’s body as she flops back onto the bed and smiles at Quinn, reaching out to trace an eyebrow with her fingertip. “How are you doing?”
When Quinn smiles it’s wide and easy, genuine in a way she hadn’t felt last night. Walking up tangled in Rachel often did that to her. “Fantastic,” she answers. “Fantastic.”
It gets an answering grin out of Rachel who runs her hand through the tangles in Quinn’s hair and bites her lip. The gesture is half adorable, half sexy and Quinn feels a jolt in her heart at the sight.
Her hand slides under the covers and palms Rachel’s thigh, sliding back up over soft skin as she moves further on top of her wife, her leg settling in between Rachel’s.
Rachel arches her neck when Quinn bends down and presses her lips against the skin of her collarbone, following a path up to her jawbone slowly.
Her thumbs are hooked in the sides of Rachel’s underwear when her wife tugs her head away so they can look at each other.
“Santana’s here,” Rachel says, her voice low and deep in a way that makes Quinn want to keep it that way forever.
“So?” Of all the things that would put a stop to this, and that’s a short list, Santana being in the near vicinity is not one of them. In fact, that’s usually all the more reason to continue rather than stop. Annoy her best friend and have awesome sex with her wife? Pretty much par for the course.
Rachel smirks and wrinkles her nose. “Good point,” she says.
Quinn chuckles, her hand tracing the underwire of Rachel’s bra. Her eyes shift downward, observing the way their bodies are pressed together before looking back up, taking in the sight of dark hair spread out on the pillow. “Have I mentioned today how gorgeous you are?”
“We just woke up,” Rachel replies, her hand running down Quinn’s back before scratching her nails back upward.
“You’re gorgeous,” Quinn intones pressing her thigh against Rachel and feeling her breath hitch at the gasp it gets out of her wife.
“Yeah?” Rachel asks, arching up to press wet, open-mouthed kisses against Quinn’s neck.
“Yeah,” Quinn gulps.
“Show me,” Rachel whispers against Quinn’s ear, hot breath sending a shiver down her spine.
Quinn smiles wickedly, pulls down Rachel’s underwear with her thumbs and proceeds to do just that.
--
Quinn wakes up for the second time that morning about two hours after the first time. The sheets next to her are cold and empty when she spreads her hand across them and she shoots upward in bed, trying to locate Rachel in the room.
When she realizes, through the cobwebs of sleepiness still in her brain, that her wife has clearly left the bedroom, she reaches for her discarded underwear and tank top. Tugging them on, she makes her way out of the room and heads towards the kitchen.
The sound of singing puts a smile on her face, as does the smell of coffee. Sure enough, Rachel is standing in their kitchen, dressed only in her underwear and singing absently as she pours coffee into a cup.
Quinn comes up behind her and slides her arms around Rachel’s waist, snuggling up to her and pressing her lips against a bare shoulder. “Did you forget to put clothes on this morning?”
“I was warm,” Rachel answers, giggling as she sets her mug down and turns to face Quinn. “Is that a problem?”
Quinn looks down between them, presses Rachel against the counter and laughs. “Nope, no problem.”
Rachel returns the laugh and reaches upward, pulling Quinn into a kiss by a hand at her neck. The moment feels light and happy and Quinn struggles to remember what felt so dark and hopeless about last night. It’s hard to think with Rachel’s hips against her own and her tongue tracing her lips and when Quinn’s hands reach down to grab her ass and pull her even closer, Rachel laughs into the kiss and Quinn feels lighter than air.
“Ugh, don’t you two like ever stop? I’m going to have to bleach my brain.” Santana’s voice breaks through the kitchen but Quinn can’t find the will to pull away from her wife. Instinct guides her and she answers Santana in the manner she has hundreds of times in the same scenario. Fight fire with fire.
“Shut up, Lopez,” she snaps out, her eyes never leaving Rachel. Quinn pushes her hips forward and smiles at the way it makes Rachel bite her lip. “You’re just pissed because you haven’t been laid in months.
If she had been paying attention, she would have noticed Santana’s glare, the sneer Santana’s throwing in her direction and she probably would have realized how insensitive she’s being. But Rachel’s got her nails against Quinn’s scalp and rational thought is pretty far from her brain.
“Whatever, Fabray,” Santana shoots back. “Just tell your midget to put a goddamn shirt on, will you?”
Defense of Rachel is instinct too so she pulls away this time and takes a menacing step towards her best friend. “Santana,” she warns, but Rachel grabs her wrist and pulls her back.
“It’s okay, baby,” Rachel whispers. The brunette fists the front of Quinn’s tank top and pulls her down, pressing their lips together long and hot before breaking away and striding out of the kitchen.
What started out as a halfway decent morning was turning into just opposite as dark reality punctured back into Quinn’s life. The memories of Santana at the bar last night and all the craziness surrounding the whole situation push back into her brain and really, all Quinn can feel right now is irritation. Irritation at Santana for making this whole thing one big mess.
If she had gone after Brittany that first night, if she had chased after her, none of them would be here right now. Santana made her choice. She needs to learn how to fucking live with it. Maybe then, Quinn can start to get over it too.
Santana moves to get coffee so Quinn just stares at her, cocks her hip out and arches an eyebrow at her friend.
“What?”
“When are you going to stop doing this?” Quinn asks, getting more sick of Santana’s attitude by the second.
“Stop what? Harassing your wife?” Santana replies. “Because if that’s what you’re waiting for, don’t hold your breath.”
It’s kind of amusing for a second, because yeah, Quinn gets naturally irritated at the way Santana antagonizes Rachel, but she understands there’s more to that relationship than meets the eye. She knows that Santana will probably poke at Rachel like a kid on the playground until they’re old and grey.
It’s not so much that that’s bothering her right now. It’s the bigger picture, the reason Santana’s attacks have more bite these days, the reason her friend spends more nights passed out on their couch than at her own apartment.
“No,” Quinn denies. “I know you too well Santana. I'm talking about coming over here and getting blitzed because you're still depressed about Britt leaving. It's been six months. You need to stop."
Santana walks out of the kitchen with her coffee at that, just as Quinn expects. “Ugh, I don’t need to hear this,” she says.
Quinn follows her, the urge to get her point across to her friend thrumming through her. “Yeah, you do need to hear it,” she argues. “Look, I know it’s hard-“
Santana cuts her off with a firm, “No,” as she opens the lockbox and retrieves her gun and badge from inside. “You don’t know,” she bites back. “You’ll never know. So just shut the fuck up about it, okay?”
“Santana,” she starts, stepping forward and feeling her annoyance mix with sympathy in a manner both confusing and unsettling.
“If Berry left? Tomorrow,” Santana argues, straightening and looking at Quinn with wide, blank eyes. “If she walked out tomorrow and never came back. Would you be over it in six fucking months?”
Pain makes her chest squeeze at the thought and she can feel her face twisting to reflect the feeling. Then again, she thinks, if Rachel walked out Quinn would run after her. Would run across the country if that’s what it took to get her back. She swears to herself never to make the same mistakes Santana has.
Still, just the thought that Rachel would leave, that she would want to, makes Quinn’s knees feel weak, like they’re incapable of holding up the rest of her body. For a brief second she realizes that maybe the reason that Santana didn’t run after Brittany wasn’t because she didn’t want to, but because her legs were too weak to work.
Rachel strides back into the room before she can say anything else, this time a long shirt Quinn recognizes as her own covering her body. “Whatcha talking about?”
“Nothing,” Quinn says, darting an arm out to wrap around Rachel’s waist and pull her close. She presses a long kiss to Rachel’s head and closes her eyes, tries to block out a future filled with pain and darkness.
“Yeah,” Santana says, before walking out of the room and out of the apartment. “That’s what I thought.”
Rachel pulls back and looks up at Quinn as the door slamming shut resounds through their living room.
“What was that about?”
Their grandfather clock chimes loudly as Quinn bends down and presses their lips together, tasting the strange combination of toothpaste and coffee on Rachel’s lips.
“Don’t ever leave me,” Quinn pleads. “Please.”
“Baby,” Rachel coos, wrapping her arms around Quinn’s waist and pressing in closer. “What’s wrong? Did Santana say something?”
Shaking her head, Quinn just presses her forehead against Rachel’s and repeats the plea, whispers the words between them.
Rachel chuckles, but there’s confusion laced in the sound, before releasing her left arm from around Quinn’s waist and waggling her fingers in front of Quinn’s face, a large diamond on her fourth finger.
“You’re kind of stuck with me,” she says. “Remember that thing where we signed papers and made vows and you ripped that pre-nuptial agreement your father had drawn up in half?”
Quinn presses her forehead harder against Rachel’s as her eyes focus on the diamond ring.
“Yeah,” she breathes. Her heart gets it. Her heart sees the ring on Rachel’s finger and feels how permanent Rachel is like something tangible between her ribs. Her heart isn’t worried.
But her head, her brain full of Santana’s depression and too many classes and cases on divorces and lover’s quarrels thinks differently, feels like their rings, their vows, their contracts aren’t enough to stop her whole life from slipping through her fingers. Every moment of happiness, every ounce of hope she ever feels is fleeting, like it’ll all break in just a few moments.
Rachel brings her hand back down and settles it on Quinn’s hip, tracing the bone.
“I made a promise, Quinn,” Rachel whispers. “I keep my promises.”
Quinn nods. Swallows. “I know,” she croaks, picking her head up and looking at her wife.
“I love you, you know,” Rachel says, a grin tugging at her lips.
“Yeah,” Quinn says, unable to resist smiling too. Because above any and all doubt, her heart trumps her brain on this one. It’s something she can’t ever not believe in. “I know.”
“Good,” Rachel says with a nod. “Now,” she says, her voice changing from soothing to seductive. “Take me back to bed.”
A laugh bubbles up from Quinn as she turns them around, backing Rachel up towards the couch and throwing her on it.
“I said bed,” Rachel chastises, a glare she doesn’t mean on her face.
“Too far away,” Quinn says, settling her body on top of Rachel’s and pressing their lips together, silencing all further protests.
Part Three