fic: lost in translation
Title: Lost in Translation
Pairing: Santana/Quinn
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Summary: from the glee_fluff_meme "Santana/Quinn, Santana takes Quinn in after being kicked out of Finn's house. Santana has a lighter side."
Spoilers: through Sectionals
Notes: Feel free to not understand Brittany's reasoning. Because it's Brittany and she's doesn't have to make sense.
When Quinn wakes up at God-knows-when in the morning to throw up, she isn’t expecting anyone to be there to comfort her. Because this is her first night at Santana’s house and Santana just… she’s just not the comforting sort. It’s just not something Santana does.
But, then again, before yesterday, before Finn found out the baby wasn’t his, before the last stone foundation of her past life got blown to pieces by a bomb named Rachel Berry… Before all of that, Quinn would've also sworn that taking in homeless, pregnant, ex-Cheerios was something Santana didn’t do either.
So, when Quinn feels hands on her neck as she’s retching out stomach acid, she’s only partially surprised when the hands sweep her hair up into a ponytail rather than try to strangle her to death for making so much noise in the middle of the night.
“You should eat something,” Santana says once the retching noises cease, and her tone isn’t altogether un-irritated, but it’s not cold either.
“I’m not hungry,” Quinn responds quickly because she feels uncomfortable enough staying at Santana’s house; she doesn’t need the girl babying her as well.
So, Quinn moves to get up, but she moves just a little too fast and she doesn’t feel ill anymore, but she does feel overwhelmingly light-headed, and suddenly the only thing keeping her up is Santana’s arms -one on her elbow, the other wrapped around her waist.
Santana is holding her.
And suddenly everything’s way more uncomfortable than it was a second ago.
“I won’t be able to keep you up for much longer,” Santana grumbles. “You put on some serious weight since your days at the top of the pyramid, Preggo.”
The venom in Santana’s voice sends a wave of relief through Quinn, and she stands on her own and swats Santana’s arms away. “Coach always said you were a weak link,” Quinn bites back, and the jab isn’t exactly true, but it feels good to see a scowl on Santana’s face before exiting the bathroom.
………
They’re in the kitchen two minutes later. Santana’s fixing her a sandwich, and the uncomfortable feeling she escaped from in the bathroom starts to come back -and Quinn’s tempted to go back upstairs. But then Santana places a stick of gum in front of her, explaining that “your breath smells like ass”, and Quinn doesn’t have to make a run for it.
Quinn chews on the gum for a minute to get the taste of vomit (a taste that she’s grown far too accustomed to) out of her mouth, before wrapping the gum back in its wrapper and warily eyeing the sandwich Santana had placed in front of her.
“What?” Santana asks accusingly.
“I wanted cheese,” Quinn pouts.
Santana narrows her eyes at the pathetic creature sitting at her kitchen table... before grabbing all four types of cheese in her fridge for the blonde, not sure which one she was referring to.
And apparently she was referring to all four. Because once Quinn’s done pouring half the can of Parmesan and half the bag of shredded cheese on her sandwich, she places three slices of cheese on top and then smothers the top slice of bread with cream cheese. And then, a second after she’s done making the thing, she’s already wolfed down half of the poor, bastard sandwich.
Santana sits down across from Quinn and rests her head on her arms and just stares because Lord, that’s more (and more disgusting) than her brothers can eat in a week and the sheer repulsiveness of it is strangely fascinating.
But when Quinn notices the staring, she swallows the bite she’s on, sets her sandwich down and glares.
“What?” Quinn hisses.
Santana shrugs. “I was just wondering exactly how many football teams you think you’re eating for, Tubby.”
The comment makes Quinn wince, actually wince, and suddenly she’s looking down at her (massacred) sandwich forlornly and Santana (almost) regrets saying it.
And suddenly Santana is backtracking.
“Look, um… I uh… understand the thing... baby thing... inside you requires… um… extra nutrition, I was just-“
“Stop it!” Quinn says -a little too loudly, and they both know it, and they both look up, listening for sounds of disturbance from upstairs…
And why the hell are they looking up to listen?
Quinn glares, and she finds that she has to glare down at Santana, because she must have unconsciously jumped up at her little outburst. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks quickly, commandingly.
Santana meets, and returns her glare, but she doesn’t answer for what feels like a very, very long time. But neither girl backs down, because Quinn wants her answer (to make sure Santana isn’t planning on going psycho killer on her in the middle of the night) and because Quinn is challenging Santana and Santana knows that backing down would be a sign of weakness.
“We’re friends. That’s what friend’s do,” Santana eventually answers, lamely.
Quinn knows better than to believe her. “You don’t have friends, S, you have competition.”
Santana snorts. “Like you are competition anymore.”
“You’re right,” Quinn narrows her eyes, “I’m not. Now stop avoiding my question.”
“You’re good,” Santana praises.
“I know,” Quinn nods. “And I also know that the answer to my question must be pretty spectacular judging by how long it’s taking you to answer.” Quinn crosses her arms over her chest and, although she’s out of practice, she somehow manages to stare Santana down. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Santana is turned in her chair now, with her scowl aimed at the dishwasher, and, after some hesitation, her words are slow and deliberate when she answers.
“You know, we’ve both slept with Puck.”
Quinn immediately rolls her eyes at the statement and cradles her growing baby bump. “Yeah, S, I think I might be aware of that fact.”
“Jesus, Quinn, let me finish, will you?” Santana redirects her scowl back to Quinn for a moment. “And sit down for Christ’s sake,” she commands.
Quinn wants to smack herself for obeying instantly.
There’s another long, uncomfortable pause as Santana gathers her thoughts again, and Quinn’s about to give in and go back to bed because she’s just too tired to care anymore (and being murdered in her sleep doesn’t sound half bad, on second thought), but then Santana’s speaks.
“Brittany’s my friend,” are Santana’s words of wisdom this time, and Quinn rolls her eyes and gets up to leave because whatever, but Santana grabs her arm. “You said I don’t have friends, but you’re wrong. Britt’s my friend.” Santana sighs. “And she thought I should be nice to you because we’ve both slept with Puck.”
Quinn looks at Santana (who’s gone back to scowling at the dishwasher) and she furrows her eyebrows in confusion because she’s sure that’s exactly what Brittany said. But unfortunately Quinn doesn’t speak Brittany. “Care to translate?” she asks.
And Quinn’s pretty sure she hears Santana mumble “not really” before she’s pulled down onto the other girl’s lap.
And Quinn only half fits on the chair like that, so she’s really only half-sitting, half-standing, and she has to prop herself up with her arms against the wall behind Santana to keep herself from falling. And it’s the most uncomfortable position she’s ever been in, but it’s still not the most uncomfortable part about the moment.
Because Santana is kissing her. Passionately, and with a level of skill that only comes with practice. Practice that Santana probably got with Puck, Quinn notes, and the thought makes her want to go wash her mouth out with soap. But, then again, she’s making out with Santana right now and that alone should be making her want to wash her mouth out with soap.
Santana’s just about to slip her hand up Quinn’s shirt when Quinn pulls away like she’s been burned. Quinn eyes are narrowed and she opens her mouth to speak only to close it again.
And then she’s gone.
………
Santana sits by herself in the kitchen for a while before locating her cell phone. She trips on one of her kid brother's action figures on her way down the hall, but she still doesn’t bother turning on the light when she walks into the living room and crashes on the couch. The dark is just too inviting.
Staring at the blackened ceiling, Santana contemplates what being the school lesbian will feel like come the end of the school day when everyone knows about this fiasco. And, as she finds Brittany’s contact and starts typing, she wonders how the lovable, but easily manipulated blonde will fair once the title of Head Cheerio falls to her, and she hopes the girl can at least hold on to it until Quinn pops and accordingly gets reinstated because otherwise that freshman bitch, Casey or Kelsie or whatever, will try to take over and there’s just no fucking way that can happen.
Santana has just finished her message to Brittany (“prep ur kitchn for battle. beach ball’s staying w/ u as of tmrrw”), and she’s just about to hit “send” when she feels her cell being yanked out of her hands, and suddenly she has a lap full of pregnant girl.
And Santana’s pretty sure she hears Quinn mumble “fuck it” before the former Celibacy Club president has her pinned down against the couch and is kissing her with a level of skill that only comes with practice.
Pairing: Santana/Quinn
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Summary: from the glee_fluff_meme "Santana/Quinn, Santana takes Quinn in after being kicked out of Finn's house. Santana has a lighter side."
Spoilers: through Sectionals
Notes: Feel free to not understand Brittany's reasoning. Because it's Brittany and she's doesn't have to make sense.
When Quinn wakes up at God-knows-when in the morning to throw up, she isn’t expecting anyone to be there to comfort her. Because this is her first night at Santana’s house and Santana just… she’s just not the comforting sort. It’s just not something Santana does.
But, then again, before yesterday, before Finn found out the baby wasn’t his, before the last stone foundation of her past life got blown to pieces by a bomb named Rachel Berry… Before all of that, Quinn would've also sworn that taking in homeless, pregnant, ex-Cheerios was something Santana didn’t do either.
So, when Quinn feels hands on her neck as she’s retching out stomach acid, she’s only partially surprised when the hands sweep her hair up into a ponytail rather than try to strangle her to death for making so much noise in the middle of the night.
“You should eat something,” Santana says once the retching noises cease, and her tone isn’t altogether un-irritated, but it’s not cold either.
“I’m not hungry,” Quinn responds quickly because she feels uncomfortable enough staying at Santana’s house; she doesn’t need the girl babying her as well.
So, Quinn moves to get up, but she moves just a little too fast and she doesn’t feel ill anymore, but she does feel overwhelmingly light-headed, and suddenly the only thing keeping her up is Santana’s arms -one on her elbow, the other wrapped around her waist.
Santana is holding her.
And suddenly everything’s way more uncomfortable than it was a second ago.
“I won’t be able to keep you up for much longer,” Santana grumbles. “You put on some serious weight since your days at the top of the pyramid, Preggo.”
The venom in Santana’s voice sends a wave of relief through Quinn, and she stands on her own and swats Santana’s arms away. “Coach always said you were a weak link,” Quinn bites back, and the jab isn’t exactly true, but it feels good to see a scowl on Santana’s face before exiting the bathroom.
………
They’re in the kitchen two minutes later. Santana’s fixing her a sandwich, and the uncomfortable feeling she escaped from in the bathroom starts to come back -and Quinn’s tempted to go back upstairs. But then Santana places a stick of gum in front of her, explaining that “your breath smells like ass”, and Quinn doesn’t have to make a run for it.
Quinn chews on the gum for a minute to get the taste of vomit (a taste that she’s grown far too accustomed to) out of her mouth, before wrapping the gum back in its wrapper and warily eyeing the sandwich Santana had placed in front of her.
“What?” Santana asks accusingly.
“I wanted cheese,” Quinn pouts.
Santana narrows her eyes at the pathetic creature sitting at her kitchen table... before grabbing all four types of cheese in her fridge for the blonde, not sure which one she was referring to.
And apparently she was referring to all four. Because once Quinn’s done pouring half the can of Parmesan and half the bag of shredded cheese on her sandwich, she places three slices of cheese on top and then smothers the top slice of bread with cream cheese. And then, a second after she’s done making the thing, she’s already wolfed down half of the poor, bastard sandwich.
Santana sits down across from Quinn and rests her head on her arms and just stares because Lord, that’s more (and more disgusting) than her brothers can eat in a week and the sheer repulsiveness of it is strangely fascinating.
But when Quinn notices the staring, she swallows the bite she’s on, sets her sandwich down and glares.
“What?” Quinn hisses.
Santana shrugs. “I was just wondering exactly how many football teams you think you’re eating for, Tubby.”
The comment makes Quinn wince, actually wince, and suddenly she’s looking down at her (massacred) sandwich forlornly and Santana (almost) regrets saying it.
And suddenly Santana is backtracking.
“Look, um… I uh… understand the thing... baby thing... inside you requires… um… extra nutrition, I was just-“
“Stop it!” Quinn says -a little too loudly, and they both know it, and they both look up, listening for sounds of disturbance from upstairs…
And why the hell are they looking up to listen?
Quinn glares, and she finds that she has to glare down at Santana, because she must have unconsciously jumped up at her little outburst. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks quickly, commandingly.
Santana meets, and returns her glare, but she doesn’t answer for what feels like a very, very long time. But neither girl backs down, because Quinn wants her answer (to make sure Santana isn’t planning on going psycho killer on her in the middle of the night) and because Quinn is challenging Santana and Santana knows that backing down would be a sign of weakness.
“We’re friends. That’s what friend’s do,” Santana eventually answers, lamely.
Quinn knows better than to believe her. “You don’t have friends, S, you have competition.”
Santana snorts. “Like you are competition anymore.”
“You’re right,” Quinn narrows her eyes, “I’m not. Now stop avoiding my question.”
“You’re good,” Santana praises.
“I know,” Quinn nods. “And I also know that the answer to my question must be pretty spectacular judging by how long it’s taking you to answer.” Quinn crosses her arms over her chest and, although she’s out of practice, she somehow manages to stare Santana down. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Santana is turned in her chair now, with her scowl aimed at the dishwasher, and, after some hesitation, her words are slow and deliberate when she answers.
“You know, we’ve both slept with Puck.”
Quinn immediately rolls her eyes at the statement and cradles her growing baby bump. “Yeah, S, I think I might be aware of that fact.”
“Jesus, Quinn, let me finish, will you?” Santana redirects her scowl back to Quinn for a moment. “And sit down for Christ’s sake,” she commands.
Quinn wants to smack herself for obeying instantly.
There’s another long, uncomfortable pause as Santana gathers her thoughts again, and Quinn’s about to give in and go back to bed because she’s just too tired to care anymore (and being murdered in her sleep doesn’t sound half bad, on second thought), but then Santana’s speaks.
“Brittany’s my friend,” are Santana’s words of wisdom this time, and Quinn rolls her eyes and gets up to leave because whatever, but Santana grabs her arm. “You said I don’t have friends, but you’re wrong. Britt’s my friend.” Santana sighs. “And she thought I should be nice to you because we’ve both slept with Puck.”
Quinn looks at Santana (who’s gone back to scowling at the dishwasher) and she furrows her eyebrows in confusion because she’s sure that’s exactly what Brittany said. But unfortunately Quinn doesn’t speak Brittany. “Care to translate?” she asks.
And Quinn’s pretty sure she hears Santana mumble “not really” before she’s pulled down onto the other girl’s lap.
And Quinn only half fits on the chair like that, so she’s really only half-sitting, half-standing, and she has to prop herself up with her arms against the wall behind Santana to keep herself from falling. And it’s the most uncomfortable position she’s ever been in, but it’s still not the most uncomfortable part about the moment.
Because Santana is kissing her. Passionately, and with a level of skill that only comes with practice. Practice that Santana probably got with Puck, Quinn notes, and the thought makes her want to go wash her mouth out with soap. But, then again, she’s making out with Santana right now and that alone should be making her want to wash her mouth out with soap.
Santana’s just about to slip her hand up Quinn’s shirt when Quinn pulls away like she’s been burned. Quinn eyes are narrowed and she opens her mouth to speak only to close it again.
And then she’s gone.
………
Santana sits by herself in the kitchen for a while before locating her cell phone. She trips on one of her kid brother's action figures on her way down the hall, but she still doesn’t bother turning on the light when she walks into the living room and crashes on the couch. The dark is just too inviting.
Staring at the blackened ceiling, Santana contemplates what being the school lesbian will feel like come the end of the school day when everyone knows about this fiasco. And, as she finds Brittany’s contact and starts typing, she wonders how the lovable, but easily manipulated blonde will fair once the title of Head Cheerio falls to her, and she hopes the girl can at least hold on to it until Quinn pops and accordingly gets reinstated because otherwise that freshman bitch, Casey or Kelsie or whatever, will try to take over and there’s just no fucking way that can happen.
Santana has just finished her message to Brittany (“prep ur kitchn for battle. beach ball’s staying w/ u as of tmrrw”), and she’s just about to hit “send” when she feels her cell being yanked out of her hands, and suddenly she has a lap full of pregnant girl.
And Santana’s pretty sure she hears Quinn mumble “fuck it” before the former Celibacy Club president has her pinned down against the couch and is kissing her with a level of skill that only comes with practice.