FIC: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo) (5/?)
Title: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo)
Author: Misty Flores
Genre: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Santana (some Brittany/Santana implied)
Rating: M
Teaser: Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can’t sleep, she’ll think back and wonder why it’ll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.
Spoilers: Glee S4 through ep 10
Prompt: from Jskuriou: Santana is being too passive and Quinn decides it's her mission to get an honest reaction out of her. No matter what it takes. Looking for the real Santana under the calm, mature veneer she's hiding behind. Could be set at Christmas or New Years.
AN: Inspired very much by Maroon 5’s ‘One More Night’. Thanks for jskurious for the prompt. This is a shorter fic that should be finished up sometime this week.
Chapters 1 & 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4
Part Five. Let It All Go
Even though the train from New Haven to New York is meant to be temperature controlled, the cabin is somehow both frigid and humid at the same time. It’s the Holidays, and that means bodies packed together like sardines. Everyone seems to be going to the city for New Years. Quinn’s nose wrinkles at the body odor and condensing breath that literally hangs like a fog around her.
“God,” mutters Santana, as she shifts in the seat beside her. “It stinks like Finn’s socks in here.” She doesn’t look for Quinn for affirmation, but Quinn silently agrees anyway.
Quinn is used to not discussing things. Russell Fabray never liked to discuss; he only liked to be heard. And she’s used to understanding how little choices can mean big changes. Four long years as Santana’s best friend-slash-enemy has made her both used to not understanding Santana and understanding her completely.
What she doesn’t understand is how this is happening. She doesn’t understand why this is happening. She’s affected by Santana in a way she never was before.
But they don’t talk about it. Though Quinn wakes up early, overheated because Santana’s body is still pressed tightly against her, legs splayed over Quinn’s thigh and nose blowing breath against Quinn’s chin, they don’t discuss what happened between them.
Just like the night after they visited the bar, the moment simply exists.
It’s her fault just as much as it’s Santana’s.
What exactly would she even say?
Quinn looks down at her book. She’s more than halfway through. This particular page has been open nearly the entire train ride thus far. Quinn’s brain doesn’t seem at all interested in the world that author Jojo Moyes has crafted and refuses to be immersed.
Santana’s thigh brushes against hers. She’s listening to music that flows through little black Paul Frank Skull Candy earbuds that fit perfectly in her small ears. Santana’s distracted enough by the music to hum along to it. Based on the low, husky notes, Quinn would guess that Santana is in the middle of her Jazz Playlist on Spotify.
Not that Quinn is super into Top Forty, but she finds herself listening to Kelly Clarkson a lot lately. Today, she picks up her phone and searches until she finds a different of song. The soft, velvet voice of Amos Lee reassures her as he begins to obediently softly croon a little ditty named ‘Sweet Pea’.
It’s a sweet little tender song, and it never fails to make her think of Beth.
Her eyes sting. Quinn’s breath goes ragged.
A tingle distracts her. Santana stares off in some far off distance, but her tan index finger is very deliberately spreading against Quinn’s open palm. It’s a tentative touch; reminding Quinn almost of a scared little spider taking tiny steps away from its web of safety.
The song dies away, and Quinn is grateful. Santana’s fingers grow bolder. Her palm fits flat against Quinn’s, and immediately her fingers tangle, gripping Santana's tightly.
Though Santana never looks, her eyes close and while she hums, she squeezes reassuringly.
Amos Lee has moved on to his next track: ‘Night Train’. It’s oddly appropriate, as they go, chugging away from New Haven and on their way to New York, holding hands like shy kindergartners on a field trip.
Quinn’s heart beats unsteadily; she blinks back her tears and manages a quiet smile that she doesn’t let Santana see.
It’s quiet. It’s unspoken.
But it’s another moment that simply exists, in which Santana is here for her and her alone.
*********
"Where the hell are we?" Santana asks, and Quinn does not blame her. “Didn’t Rachel and Kurt say they live in New York? What the hell is this place?!”
She’s standing beside Quinn on a grimy sidewalk, staring up at the decrepit building that, after five minutes of verifying on Google maps, does indeed appear to be the location of Rachel and Kurt’s supposedly sophisticated New York loft.
“This is still New York.” Quinn tries to defend, but it’s a thin argument.
The audible scoff that Santana delivers isn’t sexy at all. “This is NOT New York. This is...” Santana’s face screws together, trying to come up with an appropriate insult. “This is a three hour train ride into hell. It’s like Dante’s Inferno if Dante’s Inferno featured a crack house.” She sounds so disgusted it’s almost funny.
She does have a point, however. Rachel’s boasting had Quinn picturing something that was a lot less ‘grunge’. Rachel spoke of a neighborhood with quaintness and character. A hidden gem of New York City.
The only character this block seems to have is the dirty hobo on the corner who is smoking some fairly pungent weed and offering to go buy them some more with his medical marijuana card.
“Aren’t you from Lima Heights Adjacent?” Quinn offers, smirking at the hooded glare her friend immediately sends her way. “This should be almost nostalgic for a tough ghetto bitch like you.”
Santana actually blusters for a moment, before she seems to deflate and finally mutters, “Oh shut the hell up; you know my Dad’s a doctor.”
The honestly is both amusing and refreshing, and Quinn can’t help but smile as she lightly presses against Santana’s back and urges her forward, into the building that Rachel and Kurt call home. “Come on, Bad Ass.”
Santana grumbles and whines like a cat that’s been hit with a squirt bottle, but surprisingly, she obeys.
*********
It takes several hard raps on a metal door that nearly bruises Quinn’s knuckles before she can hear the loud echo of booted heels scuttling on hardwood and a sudden screech of metal grinding.
Kurt Hummel now stands in the now open entrance, looking handsome and dapper with his perfectly chiseled jaw and precisely gelled hair. His doe eyes take them in for a moment.
"Oh my GOD!!!" he squeals, so suddenly and in such a high pitched tone that Quinn actually winces, before pale hands reach out for them both, dragging them through the door so quickly Quinn fears whiplash. “RACHEL THEY’RE HERE AND THEY LOOK FABULOUS!”
“Holy Shi-“ Santana wheezes, eyes widening with actual terror for a second when a blur of shrieking brunette hair comes flying at them and launches straight into Quinn’s arms.
It’s Rachel. Her familiarity invades Quinn with every sense; from her delicate perfume to her tiny height to the way she just seems to squeeze as though it’s a contest and she is vying for the top spot.
Warm, excited, bright and beautiful Rachel.
Quinn realizes at that moment just how much she missed her. She matches Rachel’s crazy embrace with a soft and sincere hug of her own.
“Hi, Rachel.”
“You’re finally here!!” Rachel’s smile is brilliant as she loosens her hold to lean back and stare up at Quinn, squeezing again for emphasis. “I’m so happy you guys made it!”
“Yes, welcome!” Kurt preens, and does this little dance on his booted heels that makes Santana literally twitch beside her. “Welcome to our humble abode!”
Quinn scans her eyes around the large loft; notes the bohemian aesthetic and the flowy drapes that section off parts for what is probably supposed to be bedrooms. The loft is open and airy and oddly homey. It screams Rachel and Kurt; flamboyant and ready to take on the world.
“Emphasis on humble,” Santana mutters at her and distracts Rachel, who lets go of Quinn to size up their other friend.
As always, Rachel is nothing if not an open book. She stares at Santana, and right then and there, Quinn realizes that Rachel is now regarding her friend as if she’s Eponine herself: a living, gorgeous tragedy in the throes of dramatic desperation.
“Rachel,” Quinn begins, warning in her breath, but Rachel will not be deterred.
“Santana,” she breathes with sincere emotion. “I missed you so much!”
“Oh, there she goes!” Kurt sighs, and yeah, there she goes, nearly topping Santana over with her engulfing embrace.
Santana, surprisingly, seems to tolerate it. At least for a bit. She flaps awkwardly at Rachel’s back and huffs in resignation. “Yeah, okay I missed you too - Rachel!” she snaps because it appears that Rachel has now become overwhelmed with whatever epic movie score that is playing in her head that seems to fit with Santana’s current challenges. She only grips tighter, eyes shut tight as she sniffles against Santana’s shoulder and soaks it all in.
Wild brown eyes beseech Quinn for help, but its Kurt that manages to finally give Santana room to breathe when he drolly orders, “Rachel, disengage!”
“Oh, God!” Rachel has actually managed tears, and is wiping them stoically as her hold loosens just enough for Santana get her color back, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m just…” she stares at Santana with sincere devotion. “You’re so SPECIAL, Santana. You know that, don’t you?”
“Rachel…” Quinn begins, wary and nervous. Emotion is one thing: Santana feeling patronized? That’s a problem. Quinn knows from experience that she’ll snap like a viper and Rachel, with all her gushy emotion, will not stand a chance.
Thankfully, Santana seems to more bewildered than annoyed at Rachel’s Oscar-worthy performance. “Okay, wow,” she breathes; finally managing to pry herself away just enough to clasp her hands on Rachel’s shoulders and keep her at arm’s length. “Did the hobo downstairs give you some of his weed?”
Rachel absorbs the statement and a blissful smile spreads across those teary cheeks. Once again she launches herself into Santana’s arms. “You haven’t changed at all! I knew you wouldn’t!”
Frazzled and no longer patient, Santana begins to panic.
“Oh my god, get her off!” she screeches, and Quinn lurches forward in time with Kurt.
*********
“God help me,” Santana whispers, leaning into her shoulder and brushing her lips against a sensitive lobe. “When exactly did Rachel get hot?”
Quinn has no time to answer. Kurt and Rachel, desperate to be the perfect hosts have discovered that they have neglected to pick up ice. Kurt volunteers ‘Team Gay’ to brave the corner market. Santana only agrees to go when she realizes the only liquor that Rachel and Kurt seem to have is a leftover bottle of dry red wine from one of Kurt’s eccentric boss’ charity functions. Apparently, not having a fully stocked bar with a good tequila is something akin to a mortal sin, and they’re subjected to a rant that is thankfully in Spanish before Santana drags Kurt out with her and leaves her with a Rachel Berry who is admittedly hotter than before.
Gone are the pleated skirts and the flat-ironed hair with the strappy little Mary Janes. In their place is a young woman in a perfect black and white ensemble, wearing chic heels, long wavy locks and dark-shadowed eyes that bring out their brilliance in a way that’s breathtaking.
She doesn’t look like the Rachel Berry that left Lima. It’s only when she and Rachel are left alone, and Rachel shifts her body and smiles uncertainly, that she recognizes the girl that she knew.
Quinn guesses that they’re all growing up.
“So!” Rachel says, clapping her hands and spreading her hands across the space of the loft. “Despite our abysmal tequila offerings, we have actually prepared for your visit. This is where you’ll be sleeping.”
Quinn glances down. Rachel is pointing to an air mattress that has been blown up and deposited in the middle of the floor, piled high with a mishmash of blankets and a couple pillows. Her brow arches at the offering, and Rachel immediately flushes.
“You’ll have to share,” she sighs, stating the obvious. “I’m sorry. Kurt and I keep meaning to get a pull out, but so far all of our overnight guests have been staying in our beds, and well…”
The quiet insinuation that Rachel and Kurt have been slutting it up in New York is kinda amusing. Good for them.
“This will be fine, Rachel,” she says reassuringly, toeing at the blankets with her booted foot. “If Desi Arnez, the Pillow Princess has a problem with it, she’ll just have to deal.”
The inflated airbed is a double - cozy.
Somehow, Quinn doesn’t think Santana will complain.
Not if the night before is any indication.
A brief shudder floats up her spine.
The wood on the floor groans, and it alerts to her the fact that Rachel is still staring at her and shifting uncomfortably. She’s nervous, and Quinn guesses she understands why. No matter how much time has passed, she and Santana are still, to some extent, the mean girls who tormented Rachel in high school.
God, sometimes she doesn’t even know if she can promise she’ll never be that girl again.
Quinn has sworn to be and not be so many things, and she’s failed each and every promise.
All she has now is who she is in the present. This Quinn wants to make amends.
So she smiles and takes the time to admire Rachel. “You look good, Rachel,” she says agreeably, reaching over to playfully tug at a perfectly set curl that dances over Rachel’s shoulder. “This is a new look.”
Rachel turns an adorable bright red at the attention. “Thanks,” she says, bowing her head humbly. “Yes! Kurt and his boss Isabelle helped me. I figured it was time! This is a new City, so it makes sense to have a new Rachel!” She tugs at her white silk shorts and after a moment admits quietly, “Sometimes I look in the mirror and I can’t believe it’s really me.”
There’s a mirror attached to a plank of wood across from them. Quinn catches sight of herself and lets Rachel’s words sink in.
She loses strength; sinks down against the airbed and feels it give in around her. “I know what you mean,” she admits softly.
She continues to stare at that reflection; that attractive blonde girl who looks back at her with those wide hazel eyes that seem so deep and somber.
The mattress shifts with a different weight; Rachel has joined her. “So,” she begins hesitantly. Quinn pulls her gaze off the mirror and regards Rachel and her dark and serious eyes. “How is she?”
Santana.
Quinn’s mouth twitches. She thumbs a thick blanket, feels the sheet beneath it and waits for a moment for her heart to stop hammering. She and Rachel are alone now. If she wanted to, she could admit to Rachel that Santana isn’t the only one in a confusing place. She could tell Rachel what she’s been too afraid to voice to herself - that Santana is affecting her, terrifying her, bewitching her. That Santana may be lost, but Quinn is so dangerously close to becoming lost IN her.
“She’s okay,” she breathes out instead, and curses her own cowardice. She forces a smile on her face and nods quickly. “I think this trip will be good for her.”
“It will be,” Rachel says resolutely, like a soldier who’s been given a command. “We’ll make this a New Years to remember!”
Quinn laughs despite herself, remembering quite vividly the look on Santana’s face the second Rachel latched on to her. “I think it already is, Rachel.”
Rachel nods mechanically, but her eyes are distant, as if she’s already moved on. She waits a moment, sucking on her lower lip.
“What?”
Rachel glances at her quickly, takes a breath, and turns fully toward her. “Well, Kurt and I were thinking… and we may have come up with something that may help Santana with her current problem.”
Her current problem. As if Santana losing her scholarship and squatting in her Yale dorm could even be called a PROBLEM. Quinn’s smile turns plastic, but she clenches her hands in the fabric underneath her and asks, “And what’s that?”
Rachel’s smile is muted; she’s trying to contain herself; something Rachel never does well. “Well… didn’t she say senior year that she wanted to go to New York?”
Rachel’s mouth is twitching, like she’s doing her very best not to smile. Quinn wishes she could do the same. What she feels instead, she can’t quite verbalize. Her spine stiffens, and her pulse quickens, even as her brow furrows. “What are you saying?”
Rachel shrugs. “I’m saying that this is a big place, and Kurt and I could use some help with rent. Maybe she doesn’t so much need a plan as she does … a new location.”
“You want her to move to New York with you and Kurt,” she whispers.
“I’m saying we wouldn’t be opposed.”
They wouldn’t be opposed… to Santana moving in. Here.
Quinn glances again at the apartment - notes the open space and the sectioned off bedrooms. Who is to say there wouldn’t be room for someone else? She pictures Santana moving through the space, as comfortably and as easily as she moves in her dorm.
This is New York - Santana was made for this city.
And yet, the very idea of boarding that train to New Haven alone…
It’s so ridiculous how devastating that is. Rachel’s waiting for her answer, staring at her as intensely as a Chihuahua would stare at their owner. So Quinn chuckles and moistens her lips. “That’s sweet of you, Rachel. It is,” she adds reassuringly. “But that decision should come from her, shouldn’t it?”
Per the norm, Rachel is not discouraged. “So feel her out. See what she thinks. Kurt and I love it here and… I think she would love it too.”
Quinn looks at Rachel, who smiles brightly and looks so effortlessly gorgeous and confident here.
Rachel may not be wrong.
*********
They order take-out while they wait for Santana and Kurt, after Rachel explains that though her cooking skills have vastly improved, she’s still not willing to wager a dinner for five against the possibility of burning down their mostly wood loft.
Quinn thanks her for her consideration, and then has a brief moment of confusion when Rachel orders nearly every dish with meat in it but the rice.
“Aren’t you a vegan?” she asks, and Rachel blinks at her for a moment, gasps, and then scrambles for the phone once again.
*********
It’s frigid in New York, but Quinn finds she doesn’t mind the cold. Though she shivers as she leans on Rachel’s fire escape, the view is more than worth it.
From her perch, mid-town Manhattan and imposing sky scrapers gleam at her, proud figures who stand up straight and tall, daring her to look at them and not be thoroughly impressed.
This is New York; a place she once thought of as a salvation. Cars honk in the distance; a pigeon crows. The iron beneath her fingers is cold and frosty. She closes her eyes and remembers skipping through Central Park, dancing on stage in the theater district.
She sucks in a lungful of New York air and considers a bleak moment in a hotel room, and two friends on either side of her, as lost as she was and yet still desperate to help in whatever way they could.
And what came out of that?
God, Quinn Fabray and her big plans.
Here they are two years later, just as lost as they were. The Unholy Trinity, who may as well be the blind leading the blind.
But they’re close to figuring it out… Quinn thinks they could be. She looks over the city and she can see it…
It’s on the cusp; attainable.
Movement alerts her to someone behind her; the scuff of shoes and then a breathy huff. Quinn turns, then smiles wordlessly at Santana, who blows a brunette bang out of her eye and shimmies through the open window. Quinn shifts back again, eyes on the landscape and waits for the other woman to join her.
She feels the warmth of a human body as it presses up against her. Her eyes flutter closed. Her own coat is being draped across her back. Immediately, Quinn feels warmer.
She shivers anyway.
“Thanks,” she whispers, and holds her breath for the moment that Santana lingers. Palms round over her bicep and shoulders, molding the fabric against Quinn’s skin. Santana rubs against her; warming her skin, presumably to get the chill out.
It’s fascinating, that Santana the lesbian is so… chivalrous.
It’s also disconcerting. In high school, that protectiveness was usually reserved for one girl and one girl only: Brittany S. Pierce.
“I have to admit,” Santana says suddenly, letting go to press in against her. She eyes the expanse of the skyline, and though her expression is half hidden in shadows, Quinn can tell she’s as enamored of it as she is. “Gay/Berry may live in a hell hole, but even when it reminds me of the inside of Oscar the Grouch’s garbage can, New York still makes Louisville look like absolute shit.”
A softness enters Quinn, because Santana’s bring to memory familiar words. “New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal, its politics are used to frighten children, its traffic is madness, its competition is murderous,” she quotes airily, a bemused smile tilting up her lips. “But there is one thing about it - once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough.” Santana stays quiet. She’s staring at her wordlessly, and Quinn feels suddenly exposed. “It’s a quote. Megan McCafferty,” she explains quickly, trying to will away the embarrassment.
Santana surprises her when she offers a soft chuckle instead. “Damn, Quinn. Sometimes I forget how smart you are.” Her cheeks burn. She finds herself flustered as she realizes that Santana is staring at her intensely - too intensely. “You know you’re amazing, right?”
The way Santana’s looking at her now… it’s too much. Quinn’s overheated in her jacket. Her heart begins to hammer. “Come on, Santana.”
“What?” Santana’s beginning to tease her now. She can hear the laughter in her voice. “If you got it, flaunt it, Hot Stuff.”
She can’t do this. She can’t. “My point is,” she says, louder and more forceful than before. “If it feels like home, why shouldn’t it be?”
The teasing smiles fades from Santana’s mouth. That sparkle in her eyes, so affecting and intoxicating, loses just a bit of its shimmer. Santana’s looks away.
Whatever just happened - the moment is gone.
Quinn glances back over the city and tells herself not to regret it.
“So New Rachel’s Man Meat is here. He looks like a Ken Doll and Donkey from Shrek morphed together.” That particular description causes Quinn’s face to scrunch in confusion. She glances back and watches Santana smirking at her quietly. “He looks like a douche,” Santana adds, and shrugs. “Rachel’s taste in men has not gotten better.”
Quinn laughs softly. “Can’t wait to meet him, then.” Assuming that’s a hint, she begins to move back inside, but finds herself lingering when Santana doesn’t follow. Santana stares at her, and that beautiful smile has now grown impish. Quinn has known Santana far too long to not recognize the devil perched on Santana’s shoulder. “Why are you smiling like that?” she asks warily.
Sucking in air between her teeth, Santana rubs her finger along the post and then explains, “On the way back from the liquor store, we passed a medical marijuana place. And guess who was standing outside? King Hobo.”
Oh, no. “You didn’t.”
That smile widens - Santana could be the real life version of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, if she wanted to be. She reaches for Quinn with her black polished fingernails and grabs her wrist, pushing off the railway and headed for the window. “Come on.”
But no. No, this isn’t what they need. They need introspection. They need conversation. They need Santana to come up with a plan.
They don’t NEED WEED.
“Santana,” she groans, because Santana is fucking adorable with that way she’s grinning at her; a kid with her hand in the cookie jar and not caring who sees.
“Come ON, Quinn!” Santana laughs, tugging her like she owns her. “Let’s get this party started.”
*********
She’s not uptight. She’s not. Quinn is no stranger to marijuana. She goes to YALE. Everyone does weed. It’s kinda like a thing, especially in the arts programs.
Quinn was a Skank. Of course she’s smoked weed.
But inside of Quinn, there is still that Christian girl who wants so terribly to make good. The responsible Quinn, the angel on her shoulder who tells her that weed is weed and drugs are bad, and it would be so much easier to say no to this if Santana didn’t look as hot as she did teaching Kurt how to roll a joint.
Even Quinn’s metaphorical angel is drooling a bit.
And focusing a little too closely in how the white little joint looks wrapped around Santana’s gorgeously plump lips.
She’s also reasonably sure the tequila was a bad idea.
But they’re in New York, not New Haven, and the Santana that giggles as she sips at the margarita in her hand is not the same girl who downed shot after shot in sad desperation on Christmas Eve.
Something feels… different, and it’s that feeling, so hard to pinpoint and yet so tantalizing, that keeps Quinn’s mouth shut and her worries silent.
Maybe it has something to do with Santana’s gorgeous laugh. Or the way Santana brushes her knuckles against Quinn’s thigh, lingering and thoughtless, like she can’t quite help herself. Or the way Santana seems to just be WITH her and this group, enjoying life and this moment.
Just another moment.
Quinn wants to experience this - she wants to sit in New York and not think of Lima or New Haven or David or Brittany or what any of it could mean. She wants a college experience - experimenting with friends and cuddling with her bestie, with Kurt and Rachel and even her new manbo.
“It’s a life experience,” says Rachel, who is clearly trying to talk herself into being okay with her loft becoming an illicit drug den. She’s sitting with perfect posture as the rest of them lounge on blankets dragged from the airbed, half-eaten take out spread around them and a newly opened tequila bottle already half-empty. “After all, Quinn, we’re performers, and if we have any prayer at all of delivering a real, tangible performance-“
“Oh My God, Donkey,” Santana pleads, snapping her fingers at Brody. “Stick your tongue down her throat to shut her up, will you?”
Rachel looks affronted at the request, but Brody, who Quinn will admit, does look eerily look like a very handsome humanized Donkey from Shrek, seems to be a laid back, serene type of guy if not all that bright, and is only too happy to take Santana’s orders.
“Whatever you say!”
“Ew, no! Stop it!” Kurt snaps, distracted from his attempt to make a joint when Brody grabs a suddenly shrieking Rachel around her waist and pulls her back into him to deliver the said tongue-kiss. “It’s bad enough I have to see it when you guys aren’t here! Do not encourage this!”
Quinn finds it amusingly adorable. She only chuckles as Santana, who has had more than a mouthful of that bitter smoke, actually chortles. She’s… slinkier now, pliable with liquor and the drug, and seems to have erased any boundary issues.
She curls against Quinn, chin leaning on her shoulder as she rolls her eyes. “Oh, whatever, Lady Fae. Just because you don’t get any…”
“Who says I don’t get any?” Kurt squeaks, insulted. “I get plenty!”
It’s a bluff if Quinn ever saw one, but Santana seems more inclined to believe him. She sucks in her breath with a happy cluck. “I knew it! You’ve been visiting bathhouses, Kurt! Be safe!” she admonishes, pointing the lit roach in his direction. After a moment, she bolts upright. “Want me to teach you how to roll a condom on his winkie with your mouth?”
“Oh my God!” Rachel breathes, scandalized, and Quinn doesn’t blame her.
“Ew.” Quinn takes another gulp of a margarita to wash away the resulting image that now haunts her.
Santana’s hand presses in against Quinn’s waist, keeping her still. “What?” she asks, as if that isn’t the most inappropriate question ever. “It’s not like I’ll ever have to use it again,” she adds, reasonable even in her drugged placid state. “Might as well pass on my good technique.”
“Why wouldn’t you use it again?” Brody wears a confused expression on his face, eyes moving from Quinn to Santana and back again. Apparently the ‘dumb but pretty’ moniker doesn’t just apply to Finn.
Rachel has a type after all.
“She’s a lesbian,” she explains patiently. “A big one.” Santana ‘hmms’ and agrees. Her hand clasps Quinn’s, and she’s even closer now.
Quinn is so much more sensitive to that than she should be.
“A super big one,” her friend enunciates.
Brody absorbs that, and grins a mouthful of perfect white teeth. “Cool.”
Kurt, who up until that moment has been eerily silent, finally speaks up. “I want to learn,” he says meekly.
Quinn snorts, as Santana pumps her fist proudly, before she turns and offers Quinn her lit roach. Quinn sighs, but when a perfect brow arches in challenge, she finds herself shaking her head and closing her mouth over the little stick. She tastes the smoke immediately. It’s bitter and thick, but it’s Santana and her look that intoxicate her as she takes in the hit.
“Me too!” Rachel shrieks, and Brody’s grin widens to the point that it looks like he’s stuck a hanger in his mouth.
Santana doesn’t look away. Her brown eyes stay poised on Quinn.
The weed is good weed. Not that Quinn is super experienced, but she recognizes the feeling as it courses through her. It’s mellow and sweet, and Santana is gorgeous. Blissfully gorgeous and only inches away.
“Santana!”
The world is calling. Quinn runs her tongue over her lower lip, notes that Santana watches the movement before she slowly turns her gaze on Rachel and Kurt. “I need a condom and a banana!”
“So, is this like an audience participation thing?” Brody asks, clearly enjoying the fact that he’s the only straight dude at this particular fiesta. “Do you take volunteers?” Rachel guffaws and smacks him. He laughs. “Ow, I’m kidding!”
“Not funny!” Rachel whimpers, and yeah, there she goes. Drunk Gropey Berry makes her appearance.
“Woah!” Santana whistles against her, thoroughly impressed with how Rachel is currently straddling her male stud. “Normally I’d be disgusted but… Geddit, Berry.”
Kurt seems much less amused. “Rachel, this is not performance theatre. If you do not disengage I’m getting the squirt bottle.”
Rachel pays him no attention. She just keeps going at it, and Quinn finds herself wrinkling her nose at the sight. Not even the weed induced mellow is enough to keep her from being at least mildly disgusted.
“I warned you!” she hears, and suddenly a stream of water is sprayed at the cavorting couple, causing Rachel to squeal and topple off of Brody, and Santana to burst into hysterical peals of laughter.
“KURT!” Rachel sounds livid.
“I WARNED YOU!” he blusters again, but the laughter has weakened him, and it makes him easy prey for both Rachel and Brody, who turn on him like drowned cats. “ACK!”
It’s pure pandemonium. The trio runs around the loft like kids in a playground, chasing each other and hollering vengeance for one thing or another.
Quinn feels no inclination to join them. It’s enough to sit here, with Santana beside her. She giggles and laughs and offers the occasional commentary, but Quinn doesn’t care to hear it. Instead, she wants to focus on what’s in front of her. On gorgeous brown hair and brown eyes so deep they can drown a soul.
She wants to touch. She does. Her fingers reach up and press against smooth skin, drag against an olive cheek, and shudder at the press of bee-stung lips against her thumb.
And apparently touching someone’s face like they’re a painting will catch their attention.
Santana’s eyes lock on hers, and they’re brilliantly magnetic. She lets her touch, and Quinn’s grateful. So grateful.
Also so high.
It’s kind of amazing.
Fingers skim against her shoulder, bringing her in closer, until Santana quietly lifts the joint to Quinn’s lips. Entranced, Quinn has no choice but to obey. She takes in the smoke; holds it in her mouth.
Santana whispers, “Come here, Q,” and then her mouth opens against Quinn’s, receiving her offering with a breathless sigh that brings liquid heat between her thighs.
“Holy shit, that was hot.”
Brody. Quinn’s spine stiffens. The reminder of the real word is a shot in the arm, and it’s literally painful for her to lift her head, and note the way the other three stare at them. Rachel is the one she truly sees. Rachel, with her mouth open and her eyes glassy, trying to make sense of it.
If she were sober, Rachel would be concerned. She knows she would be. She can see it in the way Rachel stares, trying to fit the pieces together and trying to find the brain cells to remind herself that she should care.
“Oh fuck you, Donkey!” Santana barks, and it’s enough.
Rachel is distracted, particularly when Brody the Donkey makes it worse by saying, “What? It’s attractive!” He bobs his head like a toy. “You’re both very attractive.” Rachel pinches him, and he winces. “Not as attractive as Rachel here, but- “
Kurt is the one that stops it. His hair is now soaked with what Quinn hopes is water. “Brody, buddy,” he sighs, moving past the bickering pair to splay out next to Santana on the blanket. “Quit while you’re ahead.” He has apparently given up on making his own joint and steals Santana’s.
A slow chuckle sinks into her right shoulder. Santana’s weight is warm. The attention may have shifted off of them, but Quinn remains no less entranced, as a bold touch slips underneath her shirt to trace alongside her trembling abdomen.
Quinn’s vision clouds. She inhales unsteadily as hot breath skims along her ear and a velvety voice speaks slowly and quietly. “He’s right though. We are hot together.”
Quinn’s lids flutter. She curls the fabric underneath her fingertips and forgets to breathe.
Across the way, Rachel’s staring at them. Quinn should care.
She doesn’t. She doesn’t have the capacity to care.
Every inch of her, every possible cell is pulsating with absolute desire. It’s buoyed by the drug and haunted by absolute awareness that Santana is looking at her with the exact same need.
They want each other.
Santana’s touch brands her, and when it slips away, Quinn bites down her own anguished moan.
“Where are you going?” Kurt asks, as Santana stands unsteadily.
“Bathroom,” Santana says, but her eyes stay on Quinn, lingering; tempting.
Drugged and besotted, Quinn has no control. She watches Santana go.
She’s a temptress. She’s Santana.
I want no blood from you--not until we're both sweaty and naked and you're screaming my name.
The words whisper in her brain. In a fog of smoke; of love, Quinn is helpless.
She gets up and follows.
*********
AN: Quinn’s last quote is by author Nalini Singh.
Author: Misty Flores
Genre: Glee
Pairing: Quinn/Santana (some Brittany/Santana implied)
Rating: M
Teaser: Later, months later, when Santana is splayed naked against her, heavy with sleep and with limbs so tangled Quinn can’t sleep, she’ll think back and wonder why it’ll never be marshmallows and fluff for them.
Spoilers: Glee S4 through ep 10
Prompt: from Jskuriou: Santana is being too passive and Quinn decides it's her mission to get an honest reaction out of her. No matter what it takes. Looking for the real Santana under the calm, mature veneer she's hiding behind. Could be set at Christmas or New Years.
AN: Inspired very much by Maroon 5’s ‘One More Night’. Thanks for jskurious for the prompt. This is a shorter fic that should be finished up sometime this week.
Chapters 1 & 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4
Part Five. Let It All Go
Even though the train from New Haven to New York is meant to be temperature controlled, the cabin is somehow both frigid and humid at the same time. It’s the Holidays, and that means bodies packed together like sardines. Everyone seems to be going to the city for New Years. Quinn’s nose wrinkles at the body odor and condensing breath that literally hangs like a fog around her.
“God,” mutters Santana, as she shifts in the seat beside her. “It stinks like Finn’s socks in here.” She doesn’t look for Quinn for affirmation, but Quinn silently agrees anyway.
Quinn is used to not discussing things. Russell Fabray never liked to discuss; he only liked to be heard. And she’s used to understanding how little choices can mean big changes. Four long years as Santana’s best friend-slash-enemy has made her both used to not understanding Santana and understanding her completely.
What she doesn’t understand is how this is happening. She doesn’t understand why this is happening. She’s affected by Santana in a way she never was before.
But they don’t talk about it. Though Quinn wakes up early, overheated because Santana’s body is still pressed tightly against her, legs splayed over Quinn’s thigh and nose blowing breath against Quinn’s chin, they don’t discuss what happened between them.
Just like the night after they visited the bar, the moment simply exists.
It’s her fault just as much as it’s Santana’s.
What exactly would she even say?
Quinn looks down at her book. She’s more than halfway through. This particular page has been open nearly the entire train ride thus far. Quinn’s brain doesn’t seem at all interested in the world that author Jojo Moyes has crafted and refuses to be immersed.
Santana’s thigh brushes against hers. She’s listening to music that flows through little black Paul Frank Skull Candy earbuds that fit perfectly in her small ears. Santana’s distracted enough by the music to hum along to it. Based on the low, husky notes, Quinn would guess that Santana is in the middle of her Jazz Playlist on Spotify.
Not that Quinn is super into Top Forty, but she finds herself listening to Kelly Clarkson a lot lately. Today, she picks up her phone and searches until she finds a different of song. The soft, velvet voice of Amos Lee reassures her as he begins to obediently softly croon a little ditty named ‘Sweet Pea’.
It’s a sweet little tender song, and it never fails to make her think of Beth.
Her eyes sting. Quinn’s breath goes ragged.
A tingle distracts her. Santana stares off in some far off distance, but her tan index finger is very deliberately spreading against Quinn’s open palm. It’s a tentative touch; reminding Quinn almost of a scared little spider taking tiny steps away from its web of safety.
The song dies away, and Quinn is grateful. Santana’s fingers grow bolder. Her palm fits flat against Quinn’s, and immediately her fingers tangle, gripping Santana's tightly.
Though Santana never looks, her eyes close and while she hums, she squeezes reassuringly.
Amos Lee has moved on to his next track: ‘Night Train’. It’s oddly appropriate, as they go, chugging away from New Haven and on their way to New York, holding hands like shy kindergartners on a field trip.
Quinn’s heart beats unsteadily; she blinks back her tears and manages a quiet smile that she doesn’t let Santana see.
It’s quiet. It’s unspoken.
But it’s another moment that simply exists, in which Santana is here for her and her alone.
*********
"Where the hell are we?" Santana asks, and Quinn does not blame her. “Didn’t Rachel and Kurt say they live in New York? What the hell is this place?!”
She’s standing beside Quinn on a grimy sidewalk, staring up at the decrepit building that, after five minutes of verifying on Google maps, does indeed appear to be the location of Rachel and Kurt’s supposedly sophisticated New York loft.
“This is still New York.” Quinn tries to defend, but it’s a thin argument.
The audible scoff that Santana delivers isn’t sexy at all. “This is NOT New York. This is...” Santana’s face screws together, trying to come up with an appropriate insult. “This is a three hour train ride into hell. It’s like Dante’s Inferno if Dante’s Inferno featured a crack house.” She sounds so disgusted it’s almost funny.
She does have a point, however. Rachel’s boasting had Quinn picturing something that was a lot less ‘grunge’. Rachel spoke of a neighborhood with quaintness and character. A hidden gem of New York City.
The only character this block seems to have is the dirty hobo on the corner who is smoking some fairly pungent weed and offering to go buy them some more with his medical marijuana card.
“Aren’t you from Lima Heights Adjacent?” Quinn offers, smirking at the hooded glare her friend immediately sends her way. “This should be almost nostalgic for a tough ghetto bitch like you.”
Santana actually blusters for a moment, before she seems to deflate and finally mutters, “Oh shut the hell up; you know my Dad’s a doctor.”
The honestly is both amusing and refreshing, and Quinn can’t help but smile as she lightly presses against Santana’s back and urges her forward, into the building that Rachel and Kurt call home. “Come on, Bad Ass.”
Santana grumbles and whines like a cat that’s been hit with a squirt bottle, but surprisingly, she obeys.
*********
It takes several hard raps on a metal door that nearly bruises Quinn’s knuckles before she can hear the loud echo of booted heels scuttling on hardwood and a sudden screech of metal grinding.
Kurt Hummel now stands in the now open entrance, looking handsome and dapper with his perfectly chiseled jaw and precisely gelled hair. His doe eyes take them in for a moment.
"Oh my GOD!!!" he squeals, so suddenly and in such a high pitched tone that Quinn actually winces, before pale hands reach out for them both, dragging them through the door so quickly Quinn fears whiplash. “RACHEL THEY’RE HERE AND THEY LOOK FABULOUS!”
“Holy Shi-“ Santana wheezes, eyes widening with actual terror for a second when a blur of shrieking brunette hair comes flying at them and launches straight into Quinn’s arms.
It’s Rachel. Her familiarity invades Quinn with every sense; from her delicate perfume to her tiny height to the way she just seems to squeeze as though it’s a contest and she is vying for the top spot.
Warm, excited, bright and beautiful Rachel.
Quinn realizes at that moment just how much she missed her. She matches Rachel’s crazy embrace with a soft and sincere hug of her own.
“Hi, Rachel.”
“You’re finally here!!” Rachel’s smile is brilliant as she loosens her hold to lean back and stare up at Quinn, squeezing again for emphasis. “I’m so happy you guys made it!”
“Yes, welcome!” Kurt preens, and does this little dance on his booted heels that makes Santana literally twitch beside her. “Welcome to our humble abode!”
Quinn scans her eyes around the large loft; notes the bohemian aesthetic and the flowy drapes that section off parts for what is probably supposed to be bedrooms. The loft is open and airy and oddly homey. It screams Rachel and Kurt; flamboyant and ready to take on the world.
“Emphasis on humble,” Santana mutters at her and distracts Rachel, who lets go of Quinn to size up their other friend.
As always, Rachel is nothing if not an open book. She stares at Santana, and right then and there, Quinn realizes that Rachel is now regarding her friend as if she’s Eponine herself: a living, gorgeous tragedy in the throes of dramatic desperation.
“Rachel,” Quinn begins, warning in her breath, but Rachel will not be deterred.
“Santana,” she breathes with sincere emotion. “I missed you so much!”
“Oh, there she goes!” Kurt sighs, and yeah, there she goes, nearly topping Santana over with her engulfing embrace.
Santana, surprisingly, seems to tolerate it. At least for a bit. She flaps awkwardly at Rachel’s back and huffs in resignation. “Yeah, okay I missed you too - Rachel!” she snaps because it appears that Rachel has now become overwhelmed with whatever epic movie score that is playing in her head that seems to fit with Santana’s current challenges. She only grips tighter, eyes shut tight as she sniffles against Santana’s shoulder and soaks it all in.
Wild brown eyes beseech Quinn for help, but its Kurt that manages to finally give Santana room to breathe when he drolly orders, “Rachel, disengage!”
“Oh, God!” Rachel has actually managed tears, and is wiping them stoically as her hold loosens just enough for Santana get her color back, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m just…” she stares at Santana with sincere devotion. “You’re so SPECIAL, Santana. You know that, don’t you?”
“Rachel…” Quinn begins, wary and nervous. Emotion is one thing: Santana feeling patronized? That’s a problem. Quinn knows from experience that she’ll snap like a viper and Rachel, with all her gushy emotion, will not stand a chance.
Thankfully, Santana seems to more bewildered than annoyed at Rachel’s Oscar-worthy performance. “Okay, wow,” she breathes; finally managing to pry herself away just enough to clasp her hands on Rachel’s shoulders and keep her at arm’s length. “Did the hobo downstairs give you some of his weed?”
Rachel absorbs the statement and a blissful smile spreads across those teary cheeks. Once again she launches herself into Santana’s arms. “You haven’t changed at all! I knew you wouldn’t!”
Frazzled and no longer patient, Santana begins to panic.
“Oh my god, get her off!” she screeches, and Quinn lurches forward in time with Kurt.
*********
“God help me,” Santana whispers, leaning into her shoulder and brushing her lips against a sensitive lobe. “When exactly did Rachel get hot?”
Quinn has no time to answer. Kurt and Rachel, desperate to be the perfect hosts have discovered that they have neglected to pick up ice. Kurt volunteers ‘Team Gay’ to brave the corner market. Santana only agrees to go when she realizes the only liquor that Rachel and Kurt seem to have is a leftover bottle of dry red wine from one of Kurt’s eccentric boss’ charity functions. Apparently, not having a fully stocked bar with a good tequila is something akin to a mortal sin, and they’re subjected to a rant that is thankfully in Spanish before Santana drags Kurt out with her and leaves her with a Rachel Berry who is admittedly hotter than before.
Gone are the pleated skirts and the flat-ironed hair with the strappy little Mary Janes. In their place is a young woman in a perfect black and white ensemble, wearing chic heels, long wavy locks and dark-shadowed eyes that bring out their brilliance in a way that’s breathtaking.
She doesn’t look like the Rachel Berry that left Lima. It’s only when she and Rachel are left alone, and Rachel shifts her body and smiles uncertainly, that she recognizes the girl that she knew.
Quinn guesses that they’re all growing up.
“So!” Rachel says, clapping her hands and spreading her hands across the space of the loft. “Despite our abysmal tequila offerings, we have actually prepared for your visit. This is where you’ll be sleeping.”
Quinn glances down. Rachel is pointing to an air mattress that has been blown up and deposited in the middle of the floor, piled high with a mishmash of blankets and a couple pillows. Her brow arches at the offering, and Rachel immediately flushes.
“You’ll have to share,” she sighs, stating the obvious. “I’m sorry. Kurt and I keep meaning to get a pull out, but so far all of our overnight guests have been staying in our beds, and well…”
The quiet insinuation that Rachel and Kurt have been slutting it up in New York is kinda amusing. Good for them.
“This will be fine, Rachel,” she says reassuringly, toeing at the blankets with her booted foot. “If Desi Arnez, the Pillow Princess has a problem with it, she’ll just have to deal.”
The inflated airbed is a double - cozy.
Somehow, Quinn doesn’t think Santana will complain.
Not if the night before is any indication.
A brief shudder floats up her spine.
The wood on the floor groans, and it alerts to her the fact that Rachel is still staring at her and shifting uncomfortably. She’s nervous, and Quinn guesses she understands why. No matter how much time has passed, she and Santana are still, to some extent, the mean girls who tormented Rachel in high school.
God, sometimes she doesn’t even know if she can promise she’ll never be that girl again.
Quinn has sworn to be and not be so many things, and she’s failed each and every promise.
All she has now is who she is in the present. This Quinn wants to make amends.
So she smiles and takes the time to admire Rachel. “You look good, Rachel,” she says agreeably, reaching over to playfully tug at a perfectly set curl that dances over Rachel’s shoulder. “This is a new look.”
Rachel turns an adorable bright red at the attention. “Thanks,” she says, bowing her head humbly. “Yes! Kurt and his boss Isabelle helped me. I figured it was time! This is a new City, so it makes sense to have a new Rachel!” She tugs at her white silk shorts and after a moment admits quietly, “Sometimes I look in the mirror and I can’t believe it’s really me.”
There’s a mirror attached to a plank of wood across from them. Quinn catches sight of herself and lets Rachel’s words sink in.
She loses strength; sinks down against the airbed and feels it give in around her. “I know what you mean,” she admits softly.
She continues to stare at that reflection; that attractive blonde girl who looks back at her with those wide hazel eyes that seem so deep and somber.
The mattress shifts with a different weight; Rachel has joined her. “So,” she begins hesitantly. Quinn pulls her gaze off the mirror and regards Rachel and her dark and serious eyes. “How is she?”
Santana.
Quinn’s mouth twitches. She thumbs a thick blanket, feels the sheet beneath it and waits for a moment for her heart to stop hammering. She and Rachel are alone now. If she wanted to, she could admit to Rachel that Santana isn’t the only one in a confusing place. She could tell Rachel what she’s been too afraid to voice to herself - that Santana is affecting her, terrifying her, bewitching her. That Santana may be lost, but Quinn is so dangerously close to becoming lost IN her.
“She’s okay,” she breathes out instead, and curses her own cowardice. She forces a smile on her face and nods quickly. “I think this trip will be good for her.”
“It will be,” Rachel says resolutely, like a soldier who’s been given a command. “We’ll make this a New Years to remember!”
Quinn laughs despite herself, remembering quite vividly the look on Santana’s face the second Rachel latched on to her. “I think it already is, Rachel.”
Rachel nods mechanically, but her eyes are distant, as if she’s already moved on. She waits a moment, sucking on her lower lip.
“What?”
Rachel glances at her quickly, takes a breath, and turns fully toward her. “Well, Kurt and I were thinking… and we may have come up with something that may help Santana with her current problem.”
Her current problem. As if Santana losing her scholarship and squatting in her Yale dorm could even be called a PROBLEM. Quinn’s smile turns plastic, but she clenches her hands in the fabric underneath her and asks, “And what’s that?”
Rachel’s smile is muted; she’s trying to contain herself; something Rachel never does well. “Well… didn’t she say senior year that she wanted to go to New York?”
Rachel’s mouth is twitching, like she’s doing her very best not to smile. Quinn wishes she could do the same. What she feels instead, she can’t quite verbalize. Her spine stiffens, and her pulse quickens, even as her brow furrows. “What are you saying?”
Rachel shrugs. “I’m saying that this is a big place, and Kurt and I could use some help with rent. Maybe she doesn’t so much need a plan as she does … a new location.”
“You want her to move to New York with you and Kurt,” she whispers.
“I’m saying we wouldn’t be opposed.”
They wouldn’t be opposed… to Santana moving in. Here.
Quinn glances again at the apartment - notes the open space and the sectioned off bedrooms. Who is to say there wouldn’t be room for someone else? She pictures Santana moving through the space, as comfortably and as easily as she moves in her dorm.
This is New York - Santana was made for this city.
And yet, the very idea of boarding that train to New Haven alone…
It’s so ridiculous how devastating that is. Rachel’s waiting for her answer, staring at her as intensely as a Chihuahua would stare at their owner. So Quinn chuckles and moistens her lips. “That’s sweet of you, Rachel. It is,” she adds reassuringly. “But that decision should come from her, shouldn’t it?”
Per the norm, Rachel is not discouraged. “So feel her out. See what she thinks. Kurt and I love it here and… I think she would love it too.”
Quinn looks at Rachel, who smiles brightly and looks so effortlessly gorgeous and confident here.
Rachel may not be wrong.
*********
They order take-out while they wait for Santana and Kurt, after Rachel explains that though her cooking skills have vastly improved, she’s still not willing to wager a dinner for five against the possibility of burning down their mostly wood loft.
Quinn thanks her for her consideration, and then has a brief moment of confusion when Rachel orders nearly every dish with meat in it but the rice.
“Aren’t you a vegan?” she asks, and Rachel blinks at her for a moment, gasps, and then scrambles for the phone once again.
*********
It’s frigid in New York, but Quinn finds she doesn’t mind the cold. Though she shivers as she leans on Rachel’s fire escape, the view is more than worth it.
From her perch, mid-town Manhattan and imposing sky scrapers gleam at her, proud figures who stand up straight and tall, daring her to look at them and not be thoroughly impressed.
This is New York; a place she once thought of as a salvation. Cars honk in the distance; a pigeon crows. The iron beneath her fingers is cold and frosty. She closes her eyes and remembers skipping through Central Park, dancing on stage in the theater district.
She sucks in a lungful of New York air and considers a bleak moment in a hotel room, and two friends on either side of her, as lost as she was and yet still desperate to help in whatever way they could.
And what came out of that?
God, Quinn Fabray and her big plans.
Here they are two years later, just as lost as they were. The Unholy Trinity, who may as well be the blind leading the blind.
But they’re close to figuring it out… Quinn thinks they could be. She looks over the city and she can see it…
It’s on the cusp; attainable.
Movement alerts her to someone behind her; the scuff of shoes and then a breathy huff. Quinn turns, then smiles wordlessly at Santana, who blows a brunette bang out of her eye and shimmies through the open window. Quinn shifts back again, eyes on the landscape and waits for the other woman to join her.
She feels the warmth of a human body as it presses up against her. Her eyes flutter closed. Her own coat is being draped across her back. Immediately, Quinn feels warmer.
She shivers anyway.
“Thanks,” she whispers, and holds her breath for the moment that Santana lingers. Palms round over her bicep and shoulders, molding the fabric against Quinn’s skin. Santana rubs against her; warming her skin, presumably to get the chill out.
It’s fascinating, that Santana the lesbian is so… chivalrous.
It’s also disconcerting. In high school, that protectiveness was usually reserved for one girl and one girl only: Brittany S. Pierce.
“I have to admit,” Santana says suddenly, letting go to press in against her. She eyes the expanse of the skyline, and though her expression is half hidden in shadows, Quinn can tell she’s as enamored of it as she is. “Gay/Berry may live in a hell hole, but even when it reminds me of the inside of Oscar the Grouch’s garbage can, New York still makes Louisville look like absolute shit.”
A softness enters Quinn, because Santana’s bring to memory familiar words. “New York is an ugly city, a dirty city. Its climate is a scandal, its politics are used to frighten children, its traffic is madness, its competition is murderous,” she quotes airily, a bemused smile tilting up her lips. “But there is one thing about it - once you have lived in New York and it has become your home, no place else is good enough.” Santana stays quiet. She’s staring at her wordlessly, and Quinn feels suddenly exposed. “It’s a quote. Megan McCafferty,” she explains quickly, trying to will away the embarrassment.
Santana surprises her when she offers a soft chuckle instead. “Damn, Quinn. Sometimes I forget how smart you are.” Her cheeks burn. She finds herself flustered as she realizes that Santana is staring at her intensely - too intensely. “You know you’re amazing, right?”
The way Santana’s looking at her now… it’s too much. Quinn’s overheated in her jacket. Her heart begins to hammer. “Come on, Santana.”
“What?” Santana’s beginning to tease her now. She can hear the laughter in her voice. “If you got it, flaunt it, Hot Stuff.”
She can’t do this. She can’t. “My point is,” she says, louder and more forceful than before. “If it feels like home, why shouldn’t it be?”
The teasing smiles fades from Santana’s mouth. That sparkle in her eyes, so affecting and intoxicating, loses just a bit of its shimmer. Santana’s looks away.
Whatever just happened - the moment is gone.
Quinn glances back over the city and tells herself not to regret it.
“So New Rachel’s Man Meat is here. He looks like a Ken Doll and Donkey from Shrek morphed together.” That particular description causes Quinn’s face to scrunch in confusion. She glances back and watches Santana smirking at her quietly. “He looks like a douche,” Santana adds, and shrugs. “Rachel’s taste in men has not gotten better.”
Quinn laughs softly. “Can’t wait to meet him, then.” Assuming that’s a hint, she begins to move back inside, but finds herself lingering when Santana doesn’t follow. Santana stares at her, and that beautiful smile has now grown impish. Quinn has known Santana far too long to not recognize the devil perched on Santana’s shoulder. “Why are you smiling like that?” she asks warily.
Sucking in air between her teeth, Santana rubs her finger along the post and then explains, “On the way back from the liquor store, we passed a medical marijuana place. And guess who was standing outside? King Hobo.”
Oh, no. “You didn’t.”
That smile widens - Santana could be the real life version of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland, if she wanted to be. She reaches for Quinn with her black polished fingernails and grabs her wrist, pushing off the railway and headed for the window. “Come on.”
But no. No, this isn’t what they need. They need introspection. They need conversation. They need Santana to come up with a plan.
They don’t NEED WEED.
“Santana,” she groans, because Santana is fucking adorable with that way she’s grinning at her; a kid with her hand in the cookie jar and not caring who sees.
“Come ON, Quinn!” Santana laughs, tugging her like she owns her. “Let’s get this party started.”
*********
She’s not uptight. She’s not. Quinn is no stranger to marijuana. She goes to YALE. Everyone does weed. It’s kinda like a thing, especially in the arts programs.
Quinn was a Skank. Of course she’s smoked weed.
But inside of Quinn, there is still that Christian girl who wants so terribly to make good. The responsible Quinn, the angel on her shoulder who tells her that weed is weed and drugs are bad, and it would be so much easier to say no to this if Santana didn’t look as hot as she did teaching Kurt how to roll a joint.
Even Quinn’s metaphorical angel is drooling a bit.
And focusing a little too closely in how the white little joint looks wrapped around Santana’s gorgeously plump lips.
She’s also reasonably sure the tequila was a bad idea.
But they’re in New York, not New Haven, and the Santana that giggles as she sips at the margarita in her hand is not the same girl who downed shot after shot in sad desperation on Christmas Eve.
Something feels… different, and it’s that feeling, so hard to pinpoint and yet so tantalizing, that keeps Quinn’s mouth shut and her worries silent.
Maybe it has something to do with Santana’s gorgeous laugh. Or the way Santana brushes her knuckles against Quinn’s thigh, lingering and thoughtless, like she can’t quite help herself. Or the way Santana seems to just be WITH her and this group, enjoying life and this moment.
Just another moment.
Quinn wants to experience this - she wants to sit in New York and not think of Lima or New Haven or David or Brittany or what any of it could mean. She wants a college experience - experimenting with friends and cuddling with her bestie, with Kurt and Rachel and even her new manbo.
“It’s a life experience,” says Rachel, who is clearly trying to talk herself into being okay with her loft becoming an illicit drug den. She’s sitting with perfect posture as the rest of them lounge on blankets dragged from the airbed, half-eaten take out spread around them and a newly opened tequila bottle already half-empty. “After all, Quinn, we’re performers, and if we have any prayer at all of delivering a real, tangible performance-“
“Oh My God, Donkey,” Santana pleads, snapping her fingers at Brody. “Stick your tongue down her throat to shut her up, will you?”
Rachel looks affronted at the request, but Brody, who Quinn will admit, does look eerily look like a very handsome humanized Donkey from Shrek, seems to be a laid back, serene type of guy if not all that bright, and is only too happy to take Santana’s orders.
“Whatever you say!”
“Ew, no! Stop it!” Kurt snaps, distracted from his attempt to make a joint when Brody grabs a suddenly shrieking Rachel around her waist and pulls her back into him to deliver the said tongue-kiss. “It’s bad enough I have to see it when you guys aren’t here! Do not encourage this!”
Quinn finds it amusingly adorable. She only chuckles as Santana, who has had more than a mouthful of that bitter smoke, actually chortles. She’s… slinkier now, pliable with liquor and the drug, and seems to have erased any boundary issues.
She curls against Quinn, chin leaning on her shoulder as she rolls her eyes. “Oh, whatever, Lady Fae. Just because you don’t get any…”
“Who says I don’t get any?” Kurt squeaks, insulted. “I get plenty!”
It’s a bluff if Quinn ever saw one, but Santana seems more inclined to believe him. She sucks in her breath with a happy cluck. “I knew it! You’ve been visiting bathhouses, Kurt! Be safe!” she admonishes, pointing the lit roach in his direction. After a moment, she bolts upright. “Want me to teach you how to roll a condom on his winkie with your mouth?”
“Oh my God!” Rachel breathes, scandalized, and Quinn doesn’t blame her.
“Ew.” Quinn takes another gulp of a margarita to wash away the resulting image that now haunts her.
Santana’s hand presses in against Quinn’s waist, keeping her still. “What?” she asks, as if that isn’t the most inappropriate question ever. “It’s not like I’ll ever have to use it again,” she adds, reasonable even in her drugged placid state. “Might as well pass on my good technique.”
“Why wouldn’t you use it again?” Brody wears a confused expression on his face, eyes moving from Quinn to Santana and back again. Apparently the ‘dumb but pretty’ moniker doesn’t just apply to Finn.
Rachel has a type after all.
“She’s a lesbian,” she explains patiently. “A big one.” Santana ‘hmms’ and agrees. Her hand clasps Quinn’s, and she’s even closer now.
Quinn is so much more sensitive to that than she should be.
“A super big one,” her friend enunciates.
Brody absorbs that, and grins a mouthful of perfect white teeth. “Cool.”
Kurt, who up until that moment has been eerily silent, finally speaks up. “I want to learn,” he says meekly.
Quinn snorts, as Santana pumps her fist proudly, before she turns and offers Quinn her lit roach. Quinn sighs, but when a perfect brow arches in challenge, she finds herself shaking her head and closing her mouth over the little stick. She tastes the smoke immediately. It’s bitter and thick, but it’s Santana and her look that intoxicate her as she takes in the hit.
“Me too!” Rachel shrieks, and Brody’s grin widens to the point that it looks like he’s stuck a hanger in his mouth.
Santana doesn’t look away. Her brown eyes stay poised on Quinn.
The weed is good weed. Not that Quinn is super experienced, but she recognizes the feeling as it courses through her. It’s mellow and sweet, and Santana is gorgeous. Blissfully gorgeous and only inches away.
“Santana!”
The world is calling. Quinn runs her tongue over her lower lip, notes that Santana watches the movement before she slowly turns her gaze on Rachel and Kurt. “I need a condom and a banana!”
“So, is this like an audience participation thing?” Brody asks, clearly enjoying the fact that he’s the only straight dude at this particular fiesta. “Do you take volunteers?” Rachel guffaws and smacks him. He laughs. “Ow, I’m kidding!”
“Not funny!” Rachel whimpers, and yeah, there she goes. Drunk Gropey Berry makes her appearance.
“Woah!” Santana whistles against her, thoroughly impressed with how Rachel is currently straddling her male stud. “Normally I’d be disgusted but… Geddit, Berry.”
Kurt seems much less amused. “Rachel, this is not performance theatre. If you do not disengage I’m getting the squirt bottle.”
Rachel pays him no attention. She just keeps going at it, and Quinn finds herself wrinkling her nose at the sight. Not even the weed induced mellow is enough to keep her from being at least mildly disgusted.
“I warned you!” she hears, and suddenly a stream of water is sprayed at the cavorting couple, causing Rachel to squeal and topple off of Brody, and Santana to burst into hysterical peals of laughter.
“KURT!” Rachel sounds livid.
“I WARNED YOU!” he blusters again, but the laughter has weakened him, and it makes him easy prey for both Rachel and Brody, who turn on him like drowned cats. “ACK!”
It’s pure pandemonium. The trio runs around the loft like kids in a playground, chasing each other and hollering vengeance for one thing or another.
Quinn feels no inclination to join them. It’s enough to sit here, with Santana beside her. She giggles and laughs and offers the occasional commentary, but Quinn doesn’t care to hear it. Instead, she wants to focus on what’s in front of her. On gorgeous brown hair and brown eyes so deep they can drown a soul.
She wants to touch. She does. Her fingers reach up and press against smooth skin, drag against an olive cheek, and shudder at the press of bee-stung lips against her thumb.
And apparently touching someone’s face like they’re a painting will catch their attention.
Santana’s eyes lock on hers, and they’re brilliantly magnetic. She lets her touch, and Quinn’s grateful. So grateful.
Also so high.
It’s kind of amazing.
Fingers skim against her shoulder, bringing her in closer, until Santana quietly lifts the joint to Quinn’s lips. Entranced, Quinn has no choice but to obey. She takes in the smoke; holds it in her mouth.
Santana whispers, “Come here, Q,” and then her mouth opens against Quinn’s, receiving her offering with a breathless sigh that brings liquid heat between her thighs.
“Holy shit, that was hot.”
Brody. Quinn’s spine stiffens. The reminder of the real word is a shot in the arm, and it’s literally painful for her to lift her head, and note the way the other three stare at them. Rachel is the one she truly sees. Rachel, with her mouth open and her eyes glassy, trying to make sense of it.
If she were sober, Rachel would be concerned. She knows she would be. She can see it in the way Rachel stares, trying to fit the pieces together and trying to find the brain cells to remind herself that she should care.
“Oh fuck you, Donkey!” Santana barks, and it’s enough.
Rachel is distracted, particularly when Brody the Donkey makes it worse by saying, “What? It’s attractive!” He bobs his head like a toy. “You’re both very attractive.” Rachel pinches him, and he winces. “Not as attractive as Rachel here, but- “
Kurt is the one that stops it. His hair is now soaked with what Quinn hopes is water. “Brody, buddy,” he sighs, moving past the bickering pair to splay out next to Santana on the blanket. “Quit while you’re ahead.” He has apparently given up on making his own joint and steals Santana’s.
A slow chuckle sinks into her right shoulder. Santana’s weight is warm. The attention may have shifted off of them, but Quinn remains no less entranced, as a bold touch slips underneath her shirt to trace alongside her trembling abdomen.
Quinn’s vision clouds. She inhales unsteadily as hot breath skims along her ear and a velvety voice speaks slowly and quietly. “He’s right though. We are hot together.”
Quinn’s lids flutter. She curls the fabric underneath her fingertips and forgets to breathe.
Across the way, Rachel’s staring at them. Quinn should care.
She doesn’t. She doesn’t have the capacity to care.
Every inch of her, every possible cell is pulsating with absolute desire. It’s buoyed by the drug and haunted by absolute awareness that Santana is looking at her with the exact same need.
They want each other.
Santana’s touch brands her, and when it slips away, Quinn bites down her own anguished moan.
“Where are you going?” Kurt asks, as Santana stands unsteadily.
“Bathroom,” Santana says, but her eyes stay on Quinn, lingering; tempting.
Drugged and besotted, Quinn has no control. She watches Santana go.
She’s a temptress. She’s Santana.
I want no blood from you--not until we're both sweaty and naked and you're screaming my name.
The words whisper in her brain. In a fog of smoke; of love, Quinn is helpless.
She gets up and follows.
*********
AN: Quinn’s last quote is by author Nalini Singh.