FIC: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo) (7/?)
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.
Chapters 1 & 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
Part Seven. I Know I Said it a Million Times
She dreams.
It's that terrible type of dream where one knows it is a dream, and yet somehow one still forgets. She wears a tight high pony and a perfectly fitted Cheerios uniform, blood red letters pasted over her chest, branding her as one of the elite.
Her head is held high; her walk is proud and powerful. She parts the hallway full of faceless, nameless students with a thoughtless regality that proves she owns them all.
Santana walks with her, just behind on her right. She matches her stride for stride, and her imposing beauty is a perfect compliment. Where Quinn is light, she is dark. Where Quinn cuts, she slices, and every step is full of swagger and authority.
Lucy would have never dreamed herself worthy enough to befriend someone like Santana Lopez. She would have been one of the nameless, lost in the crowd as the world passed her by.
But she's not Lucy, not anymore. She's Quinn, and Quinn is WORTHY. Santana walks by HER side, her imposing and gorgeous general.
This high school is theirs. The world is theirs.
The hallway seems never ending, but Quinn is in no mood to escape it. She relishes this walk. There are eyes on her that are full of admiration and envy. They look at her perfectly manufactured nose and her sharp defined chin, her hard won figure and the perfect woman beside her and she knows they are as perfect as any two bitches can be.
She turns a corner, and they keep walking. Though the hallway remains the same, Quinn discovers a sudden shift. She's not sure what it is, or why it makes her uneasy, until she glances back to ask Santana if she feels it too and discovers that dark figure has fallen out of step.
She's staring at someone on Quinn's left.
It's Brittany, who hooks her wrist along Quinn's elbow and shines bright blue eyes at her. She's wearing that same Cheerios uniform. It fits over her dancer's body in such a way it looks it was tailor-made for her figure, and she walks beside Quinn and Santana as if she had been there all along.
She's pretty, but her features seem too angular to be particularly striking. Her breasts are small. Her best feature are those blue, blue eyes and her long, athletic legs that seem to go on forever.
But Brittany wears her imperfections with pride, and it makes her beautiful. And though she walks with a different sort of sashay, she matches their stride with effortless grace. And those bright blue eyes are alluring and friendly without a hint of malice, and so Quinn smiles because Brittany is no threat.
The smile only fades when she discovers the way Brittany's attention moves away from her to inspect Santana who exists just out of reach on Quinn's left.
They stay a step behind her; happy to let her lead them. The crowds continue to part, even with the three of them. Quinn's heart trembles oddly; she feels an uncertain sense of dread, but it feels silly so she pushes it away.
She's Quinn Fabray, and this hallway belongs to her. It belongs to them.
She keeps walking. The lockers never change, and the faces never seem recognizable. They stare. Quinn keeps her perfect posture and remembers her mother's words: the world is always watching.
But something changes. Quinn doesn't understand it, not at first, but the crowds begin to part less easily. Her claustrophobia begins to kick in, causing her heart to pound and her breath to quicken.
Still, Quinn keeps her composure. Her fingers tighten into fists, and she keeps walking. But still the wide berth seems to shrink.
She gets bumped, and so she snaps, whirling to tell Santana to keep her guard.
Santana isn't there.
Quinn's step falters. She nearly trips on the uneven linoleum.
Quinn loses her focus. She stops moving forward, and instead searches frantically. The crowd has closed in behind her, but by some miracle she catches sight of Santana, some ten feet down the hallway.
She's just standing there.
"Santana," she snaps, because this is ridiculous.
But Santana appears to not hear her. She doesn't appear to see or hear anything but Brittany, who stands beside her and smiles so beautifully at Santana. They're holding hands, unaware of the crowd, unaware of this hallway, unaware of the fact that they've left Quinn behind.
"Brittany!" she tries, but Brittany only smiles a friendly, sweetly happy grin and waves distractedly at her, before taking hold of Santana's hand and leading her away from Quinn.
"Bye Quinn!" Brittany says, and then disappears into the crowd, taking Santana with her.
Quinn feels the crowd closing in. Her shoulder gets knocked. She falls back, catches herself from hitting the floor and tries to move forward. The hallway, so open and clear before, is now a mass of teaming bodies that don't seem to care about the blood red of those Cheerios letters or the position of her high pony.
"Santana!" She's trying so hard not to sound desperate and pleading. "Brittany!"
They don't hear her. God, of course they don't.
Someone plows into her back, nearly mowing her over. She whirls, determined to put him in his place, to recognize the high pony and the uniform when she realizes there is no pony and there is no uniform.
Instead, her hair cascades over her shoulders in dull strands, and in place of her flat stomach is a swollen rounded belly.
She panics.
She wakes to a hand pressing down on her shoulder. It's a gentle nudge that seems out of place with her disoriented senses. Quinn's chest rises and falls. Her vision, initially blurry, begins to focus, until she realizes the person who hovers over her now is none other than Rachel Berry, who kneels against the inflated airbed and stares at her.
Quinn's stomach is flat. There is no high pony, and there is no hallway.
She is in Rachel's New York loft, and she is not alone.
Pressed in beside her, deeply asleep with fluttering eyes and an arm slung across her chest is Santana.
There is no Brittany.
The hand on her shoulder squeezes again. Quinn sucks in a breath and drags her eyes back to Rachel. "Are you okay?" Rachel whispers.
Quinn isn't quite sure. Her heart, struggling to keep up with her awareness, still thuds in her chest. She can taste the layer of filmy sweat that dots her upper lip.
Still, she nods. She's awake, and not pregnant, and that means she's okay.
It's early morning. There's still a crispness in the air, but sunlight has begun to filter in from the windows, and Rachel, by some miracle, seems completely unaffected by both the drug or liquor she consumed last night. She's awake and alert and kneeling at her bedside staring at them both like some sort of creeper.
"I'm going to go grab some bagels and coffee," she says after a moment, in a quiet tone Quinn didn't realize Rachel was actually capable of. "Why don't you come with me?"
It sounds like a request. It's not. Despite the light voice, Rachel eyes are somber, and her mouth is tight.
The last time Rachel looked this disappointed in her was when she discovered Quinn intended to tell Principal Figgens about Puck and Shelby.
So yeah, the very last thing Quinn wants to do at this moment is go get coffee and bagels with this Rachel Berry.
"Please," Rachel says, and it must be really early in the morning, because Quinn somehow does not have the common sense to disregard her oh-so-polite request and turn it down with a sweet 'no thank you'.
She is in the midst of trying to figure out how to untangle herself from the warm and heavy body that's wrapped against her, when Santana's breathing changes, and she shifts. "Rachel?" Quinn hears a sleep soaked voice murmur as Santana digs deeper into her side and half-glares up at their friend. "What the hell?!"
"Good morning, Santana," Rachel says with prim sweetness, as if it's every day she wakes up to Santana cuddling Quinn like an over-sized teddy bear in the early morning after discovering that they had almost-rough-sex in her bathroom.
Santana, stuck in that half asleep state where a brain does not want to become fully alert, seems less concerned about Rachel being witness to her affection to Quinn than she is being woken up at all. She uses Quinn's t-shirt as a makeshift blindfold, burying her face in the fabric of Quinn's shoulder as she growls, " What the fuck time is it? Are you seriously waking us up? What's wrong with you? Were you raised by Jewish wolves?!"
"Santana-"
"God-dammit, Rachel go the fuck away until at least noon or I'm going to go all Lima Boyle Heights on your ass."
And... that's new. Rachel frowns, also thrown at the upgraded term. And it seems she can't help her own curiosity. "Lima Boyle Heights?" she asks tentatively, as Quinn rolls her eyes.
"It's like... the dump behind Lima Heights," Santana grumps because this apparently makes perfect sense to her. She remains in her same position, face buried in Quinn's shoulder, mewling in aggravation as she tugs at Quinn's waist and throws the blankets over her face. "Quinn tell her to fuck off."
It shouldn't be half as adorable as it actually is.
Rachel, however, doesn't seem to share her amusement. Her brow lifts and she stares at Quinn meaningfully. "Quinn," she hisses, which starts Santana growling again, and this will be a blood bath if there's no intervention.
Also, Santana's cuddled so close to her she's actually getting really warm.
Quinn pulls back at the blankets to reveal the scrunched, grumpy face. "Santana." She ignores the near hiss she receives and the way Santana tries to fruitlessly tug the blanket back up in favor carefully smoothing away a dark strand of hair that's managed to lodge itself into the side of Santana's mouth. "Get some sleep. Rachel and I will be back."
Being the lazy and sleepy bitch that she is, Santana doesn't complain too much. "Promise me that I get to kill her when you come back," is all she says behind her closed eyes. "We can hang her by her toes off the fire escape."
"That's so uncalled for," Rachel huffs and Quinn disagrees.
"I promise," she says, causing Rachel to roll her eyes and Santana to smile sleepily.
"That's my girl," she purrs and blindly reaches for her hand to press a lingering kiss against her fingers.
It's a thoughtless act of affection, but it causes such a jolt within her that Quinn is momentarily frozen.
Swallowing down any emotion she may have, Quinn quickly rearranges herself and slides out of the bed and Santana's embrace.
She is unfortunately aware of the way Rachel watches them closely the entire time.
*********
Rachel is oddly quiet as they descend the stairs.
"Quinn?"
"Yes, Rachel?" Quinn responds sweetly, pulling open the door that will let them out onto the chilly street and into the bustle of New York city.
"You're not actually going to let her hang me by my toes."
"I don't know, Rachel, I did promise," she answers gravely.
The pale look on Rachel's is almost enough to make the morning just a little bit brighter.
*********
The bagel shop nearly two blocks over is crowded and dingy, even for this time of day. It looks like a hovel, but Rachel insists that these are where they make the best bagels in the neighborhood.
Still, no matter how delicious bagels are, Quinn isn't sure it's worth the carbs to have to stand for twenty minutes just to get a grimy little table for two that is so close to the others she keeps getting elbowed in the head by the jerk sitting behind them.
And yes, the lox spread is actually very good and spreads like whipped butter over her appropriately chewy and nicely toasted onion bagel, and the coffee is surprisingly tasty considering the muck of a coffee maker it's poured from, but it's hard to enjoy any of it when one is partaking with Rachel Berry and that look she keeps giving her in between dainty bites of her everything bagel topped with vegan spread.
She seems to be biding her time, in no hurry to begin what will more than likely be the most awkward conversation that Quinn's had in a while, and that is very unlike the Rachel she knew. Waiting for her to actually say something feels a little like torture.
With a sigh, Quinn puts down her bagel. "Just get it out, okay?"
When Rachel, in the middle of a sip of her coffee, nearly chokes on the liquid, Quinn realizes that Rachel is dreading this conversation as much as she is. The woman actually shakes as she tries to hack her way into breathing.
It would be infinitely more amusing if little coffee droplets hadn't flown out of her lips and landed on her bagel.
Quinn supposes it's for the best. She has no appetite at all.
"Sorry!" she rasps, and Quinn rolls her eyes and takes her own bitter gulp of coffee.
It's unsatisfying. She's tired... What little she did sleep was overtaken by that horrible dream, and even though she didn't drink enough to get an actual hangover, she can feel the effects of dehydration.
Water would have been a better bet than this coffee.
Staying home in New Haven would have been a better bet than this bagel.
Rachel's choking fit has reduced to a bit of a snivel, and now that it looks like she may actually live, Quinn wordlessly hands over a stray napkin that Rachel accepts with a sweet word of thanks.
"Okay then," she breathes, inhaling deeply and exhaling again. "Now that I'm okay... we can get started."
Oh geez. Her brow arches in annoyance. "We can?"
Rachel's fingers twitch in front of her. She wants to bring it up. It's written all over her face. Rachel is struggling for a way to introduce the fact that Quinn has had a big gay moment in her bathroom with Santana Lopez.
So they can discuss it.
Process it.
It would amusing if this wasn't actually happening to Quinn.
"Right," Rachel says when her courage is sufficiently built, "So... what happened last night-"
"Is absolutely none of your business," Quinn says smoothly, which is true and logical and of course will do nothing to stop Rachel Barbra Berry from sticking her imperfect nose right in the middle of this already very complicated situation.
"Um, Kurt and his antiques would very much disagree." Rachel's lip twitches, because apparently there is some part of this that's amusing to her too.
Quinn isn't ready to share in the laughter. "I'll replace the stupid antiques."
"Are you gay, Quinn?"
"Are you serious?!" she sputters, because really, that is so not appropriate.
"Or is just Santana that you're attracted to?" Rachel is staring at her with that same infuriating concerned look, asking her this fucking question when less than a foot away, the jerk who nearly brushed her boob on his way to sit down gives her a long stare.
"Rachel, stop."
"I just want to help!" Rachel is of course infuriatingly diplomatic. "I don't know for sure but I can't imagine you've discussed this with Santana and... I just... I may not be gay but I was obviously raised in a very open and loving environment, having two gay dads and all, and though I'll never rule out falling in love with the fairer sex-"
It's too early in the morning to hear an opening monologue on Rachel's supposed sexual fluidity. "Rachel-"
"Santana IS very beautiful and has very cushy lips-"
"Oh My God," Quinn breathes, and wonders briefly if this is some sort of karmic injustice for never allowing her mother to have the 'birds and the bees' talk with her before she fell pregnant.
Rachel has apparently been distracted by day dreaming about the scenario and now has a faraway, glassy look on her face that is starting to be more than a little disturbing. "I mean, the both of you are just so very attractive... just picturing it was like, the hottest thing that Brody and I-"
OH GOOD GOD.
"Rachel! Shut the hell up!" Quinn snaps, loud enough to not only shut up Rachel, but everyone in the little dingy bagel shop. Now the every customer is staring, and Quinn, cheeks flaming and head aching, has had enough.
She gets up and shifts around Rachel, leaving her bagel and her coffee and heading for the door.
Quinn walks furiously, doing her very best to NOT picture Rachel and her boytoy engaging in some very kinky roleplay with she and Santana as guest stars, when Rachel catches up to her.
"I'm sorry!" she snaps, hooking her hand on Quinn's wrist and holding her back. "Just stop!"
Quinn doesn't stop. She keeps her gaze forward as she snaps, "Rachel, I'm only going to say this once. Butt out. What happened last night was because we were drunk and high and-"
"And it's not the first time it's happened."
Quinn stumbles on a crack of concrete she swears wasn't there before. Rachel catches her, keeps her upright and lets her regain her balance. Quinn is forced to keep hold of Rachel's wrists, and when she looks, she sees stern brown eyes that stare at her, daring her to contradict that statement.
Quinn can't. But she wants to. She's not ready for this. Not now.
Maybe Rachel can sense it. "You and I have been through too much to lie to each other, Quinn."
"Then don't make me lie," she whispers, her voice aching with a silent pleading. Rachel is a relentless force, and as strong as Quinn knows she is, Rachel has always known how to make her crumble.
She can't do that now, not when she's not sure she has the will or the strength to build her walls up again.
But Rachel just keeps staring, and it's horrible. She's looking for something to hold onto, seeking out every twitch of Quinn's harsh expression, waiting for the moment when she will see Quinn and understand.
But how can Rachel understand what Quinn doesn't?
She doesn't understand these feelings. She doesn't understand why Santana is such a maelstrom of emotion and why she's so vulnerable to it. She doesn't understand why she wants to kiss her all the time or why she's so terrified. She doesn't understand why she can hate Santana and love her so much and she doesn't understand how she can so selflessly want Santana to be happy and so selfishly want it to be WITH HER.
She doesn't even understand what that even means.
Rachel's fingers rub against her own.
It's chilly in New York. Pedestrians walk around them without a second glance. They are just two strangers and in the grand scheme of things, they mean nothing. Quinn and her inner turmoil seems to small... so insignificant.
"You know you can talk to me, right Quinn?" Rachel's voice is soft; soothing. "I care about you, okay, and I promise, I won't judge. We all make mistakes-"
Mistakes.
The word causes an angry shiver to race up Quinn's spine, so electric it nearly scalds her. "Oh really?" she snaps, because damn, Rachel really can't help being such an annoying ass sometimes, can she? "This is you not judging? Because you suck at it!"
Brown eyes flash. Rachel's jaw squares. "I'm concerned," she snaps, a biting at the word in such a way it makes Quinn's eyes roll even harder. "There's a difference. Because you're scared and hurting and confused and I can't just see that and not do anything about it!"
Quinn has been so focused on being angry that she hasn't realized she's got actual tears in her eyes. "Why are you doing this?!" she asks, whirling and pinning Rachel with that liquid stare.
She hates that Rachel sees the moisture; hates how Rachel winces at the hurt, softens in the face of Quinn's obvious torment.
It makes her weak. It makes her foolish.
Rachel's fingers link with hers, and its just enough support to make Quinn feel like she's beginning to fail. She tries to pull away; Rachel doesn't let her.
"Because I love you!" Rachel says, quietly and fervently. "Because you've been trying so hard to be a friend to Santana, that you've forgotten that you need a friend too."
And she can't...
She can't...
Quinn's face crumples; she has no strength to fight the words.
When Rachel's arms come up around her, Quinn has no will to do anything but bury her face in Rachel's neck and silently sob.
*********
There's a neighborhood garden that sits between two concrete building a block away. Rachel finds a bench that's colored with graffiti and there they sit quietly, in this little bit of paradise that Rachel assures her should be much more impressive in the spring, when the tomato plants fruit and the chill mellows to let the green things grow.
Quinn's sobs have reduced to tears. The tears that streams have left behind wet tracks though Quinn does her best to wipe them away.
A diner napkin, maybe even the same gross one she gave to Rachel, is now crumpled in her palms damp with her tears.
To her credit, Rachel has not said a word. She has simply sat and waited, shivering ever so slightly as she watches the way the New York denizens go about their day in front of them.
Quinn fingers at the graffiti, traces along the lines of a bright green letter. “I'm afraid I can't explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?”
Rachel blinks, unsure what to make of it. "What?"
Quinn smiles painfully. "It's a quote. From Alice in Wonderland."
"Oh." Rachel doesn't seem to know what to do with that. "Okay."
Quinn exhales slowly. "I don't know what I'm doing," she admits quietly.
Rachel absorbs that, and offers a soft, dry chuckle. "Yeah," she agrees. "No offense Quinn, but... duh."
Quinn feels almost empty and almost outside of herself at the same time. It's an odd feeling, but it allows her to appreciate Rachel's amusement. "Yeah, look who's talking, Mrs. Finn Hudson."
Maybe it's a cheap shot, but Rachel's a good enough sport to laugh along with her. "I never said I was any better off."
The admission makes her feel better.
"Quinn... we may have had our differences but you know I adore Santana." Quinn swallows hard. She doesn't look at Rachel, but she listens, even as the napkin in her hand becomes tangled in shreds from her nervous rubbing. "But, she's in a very emotionally vulnerable state-"
"You don't think I know that?" she hisses, because she does. Of course she does. "I can't believe we're talking about this."
"And she's still in love with Brittany."
Quinn's eyes flutter shut. She takes in a harsh breath. "Rachel, it's not-"
"I don't know if you guys are just messing around or if you've even talked about what you're doing, but... you and Santana have always had a complicated relationship and I just don't know if you should make it more... complex."
Quinn can't help the hurt, hysterical bit of laughter that pounds out of her chest. "Don't you think it's a little too late for that?"
Rachel regards her silently. "Maybe. But maybe you also need to hear it out loud. If you're just experimenting with a friend..."
"Rachel," she whispers. The tears are stinging again and Quinn CAN'T DO THIS NOW. "I can't-"
Maybe Rachel has actually discovered a tiny iota of empathy, because she doesn't finish her sentence. "Okay," she says instead, and squeezes Quinn's hand reassuringly. "I'm shutting up. Just know I'm here, if there's anything you'd like... to get off your chest. Though based on what Kurt said, it was the other way around."
Quinn blinks, thrown by the statement until she actually looks at Rachel and sees the impish smile growing on the other women's face.
It's infectious, and Quinn wants so badly to laugh. "Shut up," she rasps.
They're sitting here on this bench in New York, and Quinn is being teased about Santana's breasts by Rachel Berry.
She has no idea why it makes it all okay, but it does.
Rachel's smile widens into a full on grin. "... So is she as good a kisser as Brittany said she was?"
"Oh My God," Quinn breathes, because this is an actual conversation they're actually having and not make believe.
"I'm sorry!" Rachel's shoulder bumps companionably against her own. "Inquiring minds want to know!"
Quinn's cheek flush pink, but she can't help but admit, "She's better."
Rachel sucks in a lungful of air. Quinn can't tell if she's scandalized or turned on. "What do her boobs feel like? Can you tell they're fake?!"
"RACHEL!" she gasps, but she's laughing despite herself. Sometimes she really loves inappropriate Rachel. "I'm not answering that!"
The sun is growing more powerful, and some of the early morning chill has faded away. Quinn discovers herself able to breathe without wanting to crumple inside herself and though her eyes ache, they're dry. She finds the strength to rise off the bench. Rachel goes with her.
"One more thing," she hears as Rachel falls into step beside her.
Quinn shakes her head emphatically. "No more. Oversharing. TMI. Stop it."
"Relax," Rachel says dryly. "It's about Kurt's Antique Soap Dish."
Quinn blinks, and offers her friend a curiously raised brow. "Yes?"
Rachel doesn't look at her. "Let's just say that someone may already broken something very similar and found the replacement at Pottery Barn."
Quinn nearly stumbles in surprise, but when Rachel nods knowingly at her, she finds herself exploding in laughter.
*********
"Oh My God," they hear the moment Rachel pulls back the metal door at the entrance of the loft. "Are you some kind of Devil woman?!" The cry is anguished and weary.
"Less talking, more pumping. Let's go, Donkey! Man up!"
Santana, still in her tiny cotton shorts and wearing a 'Yale' tank top that belongs to Quinn, stretches out over the floor, doing military style pushups beside a bare-chested Brody, who huffs and puffs as he counts along beside her.
Quinn's steps falter, taking in the scene that is presented to her. "What are they doing?" Rachel whispers, and Quinn has absolutely no idea.
"Come on!" Santana snaps, features contorting with effort as she leads Brody into another set. They've clearly been at this for a while. Santana's muscles are tight, moving like sinew under her shining skin as she inhales and exhales, tossing Brody a scathing glare between sets. "You are SUCH a pansy."
Brody emits an enraged squeak that sounds a bit like neutered Chipmunk as he shoves himself up one more time, struggling to keep up with Santana's relentless pace. "Seriously, what the hell!? Where the hell-"
Quinn can no longer contain her curiosity. "Santana," she says in what she hopes is a sweet and civil manner. "What exactly are you two doing?"
The brunette head lifts, and Santana's dark eyes fall on her as she blows a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead. "This asshole had the stupidity to say Cheerleading isn't a real sport and Cheerleaders aren't real athletes."
Oh.
Quinn's mouth presses into a firm line, doing her best to contain her amusement as Rachel issues a dramatic gasp. "Ohhh, Brody!" Rachel whispers, hand to her mouth at his stupidity. "Honey." She looks very sorry for her meathead boyfriend.
Quinn has absolutely no pity. Santana is a thin, small woman, but her body is obviously all muscle. The only fat on her body appears to be on her actual boobs and it's not as if Santana doesn't wear clothing that doesn't accentuate that. Brody would have to be an idiot not to recognize Santana's athletic potential.
Sexism is what put Brody in this pickle, and it's only sheer pride that's keeping him in the game. It's almost comical to see the way his heavily muscled frame struggles to keep up with the lighter, quicker, and it seems, stronger, Santana.
"COME ON!" Santana barks, and Brody whines in annoyance.
"What?!" he huffs indelicately, wheezing with the strain. "It's cheerleading!"
A former cheerleader herself, Quinn can't help but take offense. She shakes her head, shifting the bag of bagels on her hip. "Yeah, well, it kinda looks like that cheerleader is kicking your pansy dancer ass," she comments ruefully. Brody shoots her an unappreciative glare. It loses it's effectiveness when she realizes that that's pretty much all he can do. His arms have begun to tremble now, and enough of the athlete in Quinn still exists to note he is over-exerting himself and will injure himself soon.
She flickers her gaze back to Santana, and discovers the other woman smirking at her. Her mouth is open and she is breathing heavy, but her movements remain fluid and strong.
A by-product of the Cheerios harsh training regime, and a testament to Santana's stamina.
God, that should not be as sexy as it is.
A brush of Rachel's hand against her elbow breaks her from her dangerous daze. "Quinn, please," Rachel whispers. Quinn recognizes it as a plea for leniency.
Brody huffs and puffs like a demented wolf. It's clear Santana has proved her point. "Santana," she calls out dryly. "Heel."
Santana's body jerks sharply and the smirk fades immediately. Quinn's smile grows, because even though it's obvious Santana resents being commanded like a dog, there's enough of Quinn's Head Cheerio authority still instilled in her to stop what she's doing and push to her feet.
"God, fine," she growls and leans into a stretch, soothing the aching muscles. "We're done, Donkey."
Brody flattens against the floor with a dull thud and a whimper. "Ow."
Quinn has to work hard to resist laughing, and gets a pinch from Rachel in punishment before her friend heads to her crippled boyfriend. "Oh he had it coming," Quinn grumbles. Rachel ignores her.
"That's how we do it in Lima Heights, bitch." Santana's flushed with both exertion and victory. Her eyes shine and she pumps her fist like a dork as she watches Rachel kneel against her crippled boyfriend.
She's proud in a way she hasn't been proud since she's shown up in New Haven. It's a silly victory, but it's a victory all the same, and Quinn understands why it would mean something to her.
So she offers her a smile as she comes forward, aware of how the damp tank top clings to Santana in a way it doesn't quite seem to on Quinn, stretching fabric out in front thanks to the rambunctious twins, who make themselves even more prominent thanks to the way Santana pants.
She stares at Quinn like she's expecting some sort of medal.
"What?" Quinn asks, in the mood to be stubborn. "You're all sweaty. I'm not touching you."
It pisses Santana off a little. "Really, that's how you're going to reward the victor, bitch?"
Quinn's chest tightens, suddenly unsure, until Santana's eyes dance with mischief and her hand lifts for a high five, like they're dudes. Resisting every urge to roll her eyes, Quinn slaps a bagel into the palm instead.
"Congratulations," she drawls. "I will admit, as lesbian and butch as that was, it was impressive."
And a little hot.
Her eyes linger on Santana's, note the way the moisture gathers on Santana's upper lip, and the way Santana's tongue darts out to taste at the salt.
Right.
Sucking in a harsh breath, Quinn averts her eyes and looks instead toward Rachel, who has adopted a different strategy to appease her boyfriend and his wounded ego. She places his head on her lap and brushes her hand through his damp hair. "Brody, honey," she says, with patience and exasperation. "Santana had a full athletic scholarship to the University of Louisville and is a three-time national cheerleading champion. Do you not remember me telling you that?"
Brody's eyes widen. He stares uncertainly at Santana, who arches a challenging brow in return. "Yeah, no, I didn't remember you telling me that."
"What you think these abs are just for show?" Santana asks, and actually goes so far as lifting Quinn's Yale shirt up to display her (yes, admittedly) impressive six pack.
Quinn's not sure she can handle that right now. "Santana, put that away. You're acting like you're on Jersey Shore and it's not cute." Not trusting Santana to do it herself, she yanks the shirt down to a respectable distance, and ignores the way Santana's fingers attempt to cling at hers possessively.
It does little to keep Santana from soaking in her victory over the straight dude. "Rachel, if this is the kind of stamina the donkey displays on a regular basis, I pity you. I really do."
And of course she made it about sex.
Donkey-Brody looks affronted, but it's Rachel and the way that her eyes linger on Santana's fingers clasped against her own that cause Quinn to shake off the grip and drop the bag of bagels on a nearby table. "Where's Kurt?"
"In bed. Dry heaving and cursing God," Santana says, lifting a water bottle to her lips and sucking down a good gulp. "I gave him a honey sandwich and made him drink two bottles of water with a multivitamin. He should be fine tonight to go out."
It's an absurdly cohesive statement coming from Santana.
"What?" she snaps when she realizes they are all staring. "He needs the calories and that sandwich is easy to digest."
"And you know this how?" Rachel asks.
Quinn admits she's mildly intrigued.
"I was a candy striper in high school!" Santana snaps, clearly insulted. "Assholes. I can be nurturing."
Not that Quinn is ever one to throw a fellow Cheerio under the bus (most of the time), but she has her suspicions. "I remember seeing that outfit exactly once, and that was right before you gave me mono."
Santana freezes mid-drink. She absorbs that statement, and after a beat, lets a scampy grin float across her face. "Sharing is caring, Quinn."
Bitch.
"Do you still have the outfit?" Brody is apparently over how they do it in Lima Heights enough to go back to being a guy.
Rachel has no words, and merely smacks at her pervy boyfriend's shoulder hard.
"Ouch! So you can borrow it!"
*********
It's a lazy New Years Eve. Though the loft is crowded, it's surprisingly quiet. Quinn sits on the sofa with her books. She fingers her cell phone idly, and notes that it has been three days since she's heard from David.
Have they broken up?
Quinn discovers that she doesn't exactly care.
It's odd, considering how only a few weeks ago she considered him the center of her world.
Perspective is a tricky, funny thing.
"You okay?" It's Santana who sinks down beside her. Her hair is damp, combed through and ready to be styled for the night's festivities. She's devoid of make up and wears only a pair of sweats and a grey tank top.
She's so beautiful she takes Quinn's breath away.
For some reason, the realization just makes Quinn's sad heart grow sadder still.
But Santana is watching with an expression that is dangerously close to worry, so for her Quinn manages a tight, reassuring smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Santana looks unsure. "You were out for a long time with Rachel," she says, stating the obvious.
"I was," Quinn acknowledges. She lets her fingers trace over the pages of her textbook, feeling the sharpness of the page's edge dig slightly into her skin. Not enough to give her a paper cut, but enough to remind her that it could.
"Do I have kick Rachel's ass? Cause I do remember promising to hang her by her toes."
Santana, protective and sweet. Quinn's smile trembles just a bit. "I think she's earned a reprieve," she says, and presses a gentle hand against Santana's forearm, squeezing lightly before letting go.
She feels... passive in the wake of her release with Rachel.
Quinn isn't sure if it's a good thing or not. "Quinn." Her eyes lift once again to Santana, and discovers a serious expression on a gorgeous face. "Seriously, are we okay?"
Santana has no joke for her. No snarky comment to alleviate the tension. Instead of being that snarky bitchy Quinn can usually count on, she's sitting beside Quinn with genuine concern and worry. Right now she isn't a sexpot or a bitch, but a true friend who is afraid that they've been too affected to move past this.
Rachel is right. Their relationship is complex.
But she cares, and Santana cares, and that's more than most people have in a lifetime.
She puts down her book and shifts her body, until her hands are tangled with Santana's and she's only inches away. "We're good, Santana," she promises. Santana looks at her intensely, unsure whether or not to believe her. Quinn's heart trembles at the insecurity, and so she allows herself to lift her palm and press it softly against Santana's warm cheek. She notes the way Santana's eyes flutter; how her breath goes slightly uneven for just a moment before she regains the steady rhythm. "Look," Quinn begins, her expression sweet and optimistic. "It's New Years Eve and we're in New York, so why don't we spend today and tonight celebrating the fact that we have survived this crap of a year..." Santana's mouth twitches, a phantom smile that is a start at least. "And we worry about the rest later?"
An unsteady breath floats across her finger tips. Santana's hand covers her own, squeezing tightly. She's looking at Quinn with such tenderness, it breaks her heart. "You know I love you, Quinn, don't you?"
And she does. Quinn knows that absolutely. Santana loves her as much as she is capable.
"Yeah," she admits. "I know." With fondness and a lover's touch, Quinn allows her smile to reach her eyes. "I love you, too."
*********
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.
Chapters 1 & 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
Part Seven. I Know I Said it a Million Times
She dreams.
It's that terrible type of dream where one knows it is a dream, and yet somehow one still forgets. She wears a tight high pony and a perfectly fitted Cheerios uniform, blood red letters pasted over her chest, branding her as one of the elite.
Her head is held high; her walk is proud and powerful. She parts the hallway full of faceless, nameless students with a thoughtless regality that proves she owns them all.
Santana walks with her, just behind on her right. She matches her stride for stride, and her imposing beauty is a perfect compliment. Where Quinn is light, she is dark. Where Quinn cuts, she slices, and every step is full of swagger and authority.
Lucy would have never dreamed herself worthy enough to befriend someone like Santana Lopez. She would have been one of the nameless, lost in the crowd as the world passed her by.
But she's not Lucy, not anymore. She's Quinn, and Quinn is WORTHY. Santana walks by HER side, her imposing and gorgeous general.
This high school is theirs. The world is theirs.
The hallway seems never ending, but Quinn is in no mood to escape it. She relishes this walk. There are eyes on her that are full of admiration and envy. They look at her perfectly manufactured nose and her sharp defined chin, her hard won figure and the perfect woman beside her and she knows they are as perfect as any two bitches can be.
She turns a corner, and they keep walking. Though the hallway remains the same, Quinn discovers a sudden shift. She's not sure what it is, or why it makes her uneasy, until she glances back to ask Santana if she feels it too and discovers that dark figure has fallen out of step.
She's staring at someone on Quinn's left.
It's Brittany, who hooks her wrist along Quinn's elbow and shines bright blue eyes at her. She's wearing that same Cheerios uniform. It fits over her dancer's body in such a way it looks it was tailor-made for her figure, and she walks beside Quinn and Santana as if she had been there all along.
She's pretty, but her features seem too angular to be particularly striking. Her breasts are small. Her best feature are those blue, blue eyes and her long, athletic legs that seem to go on forever.
But Brittany wears her imperfections with pride, and it makes her beautiful. And though she walks with a different sort of sashay, she matches their stride with effortless grace. And those bright blue eyes are alluring and friendly without a hint of malice, and so Quinn smiles because Brittany is no threat.
The smile only fades when she discovers the way Brittany's attention moves away from her to inspect Santana who exists just out of reach on Quinn's left.
They stay a step behind her; happy to let her lead them. The crowds continue to part, even with the three of them. Quinn's heart trembles oddly; she feels an uncertain sense of dread, but it feels silly so she pushes it away.
She's Quinn Fabray, and this hallway belongs to her. It belongs to them.
She keeps walking. The lockers never change, and the faces never seem recognizable. They stare. Quinn keeps her perfect posture and remembers her mother's words: the world is always watching.
But something changes. Quinn doesn't understand it, not at first, but the crowds begin to part less easily. Her claustrophobia begins to kick in, causing her heart to pound and her breath to quicken.
Still, Quinn keeps her composure. Her fingers tighten into fists, and she keeps walking. But still the wide berth seems to shrink.
She gets bumped, and so she snaps, whirling to tell Santana to keep her guard.
Santana isn't there.
Quinn's step falters. She nearly trips on the uneven linoleum.
Quinn loses her focus. She stops moving forward, and instead searches frantically. The crowd has closed in behind her, but by some miracle she catches sight of Santana, some ten feet down the hallway.
She's just standing there.
"Santana," she snaps, because this is ridiculous.
But Santana appears to not hear her. She doesn't appear to see or hear anything but Brittany, who stands beside her and smiles so beautifully at Santana. They're holding hands, unaware of the crowd, unaware of this hallway, unaware of the fact that they've left Quinn behind.
"Brittany!" she tries, but Brittany only smiles a friendly, sweetly happy grin and waves distractedly at her, before taking hold of Santana's hand and leading her away from Quinn.
"Bye Quinn!" Brittany says, and then disappears into the crowd, taking Santana with her.
Quinn feels the crowd closing in. Her shoulder gets knocked. She falls back, catches herself from hitting the floor and tries to move forward. The hallway, so open and clear before, is now a mass of teaming bodies that don't seem to care about the blood red of those Cheerios letters or the position of her high pony.
"Santana!" She's trying so hard not to sound desperate and pleading. "Brittany!"
They don't hear her. God, of course they don't.
Someone plows into her back, nearly mowing her over. She whirls, determined to put him in his place, to recognize the high pony and the uniform when she realizes there is no pony and there is no uniform.
Instead, her hair cascades over her shoulders in dull strands, and in place of her flat stomach is a swollen rounded belly.
She panics.
She wakes to a hand pressing down on her shoulder. It's a gentle nudge that seems out of place with her disoriented senses. Quinn's chest rises and falls. Her vision, initially blurry, begins to focus, until she realizes the person who hovers over her now is none other than Rachel Berry, who kneels against the inflated airbed and stares at her.
Quinn's stomach is flat. There is no high pony, and there is no hallway.
She is in Rachel's New York loft, and she is not alone.
Pressed in beside her, deeply asleep with fluttering eyes and an arm slung across her chest is Santana.
There is no Brittany.
The hand on her shoulder squeezes again. Quinn sucks in a breath and drags her eyes back to Rachel. "Are you okay?" Rachel whispers.
Quinn isn't quite sure. Her heart, struggling to keep up with her awareness, still thuds in her chest. She can taste the layer of filmy sweat that dots her upper lip.
Still, she nods. She's awake, and not pregnant, and that means she's okay.
It's early morning. There's still a crispness in the air, but sunlight has begun to filter in from the windows, and Rachel, by some miracle, seems completely unaffected by both the drug or liquor she consumed last night. She's awake and alert and kneeling at her bedside staring at them both like some sort of creeper.
"I'm going to go grab some bagels and coffee," she says after a moment, in a quiet tone Quinn didn't realize Rachel was actually capable of. "Why don't you come with me?"
It sounds like a request. It's not. Despite the light voice, Rachel eyes are somber, and her mouth is tight.
The last time Rachel looked this disappointed in her was when she discovered Quinn intended to tell Principal Figgens about Puck and Shelby.
So yeah, the very last thing Quinn wants to do at this moment is go get coffee and bagels with this Rachel Berry.
"Please," Rachel says, and it must be really early in the morning, because Quinn somehow does not have the common sense to disregard her oh-so-polite request and turn it down with a sweet 'no thank you'.
She is in the midst of trying to figure out how to untangle herself from the warm and heavy body that's wrapped against her, when Santana's breathing changes, and she shifts. "Rachel?" Quinn hears a sleep soaked voice murmur as Santana digs deeper into her side and half-glares up at their friend. "What the hell?!"
"Good morning, Santana," Rachel says with prim sweetness, as if it's every day she wakes up to Santana cuddling Quinn like an over-sized teddy bear in the early morning after discovering that they had almost-rough-sex in her bathroom.
Santana, stuck in that half asleep state where a brain does not want to become fully alert, seems less concerned about Rachel being witness to her affection to Quinn than she is being woken up at all. She uses Quinn's t-shirt as a makeshift blindfold, burying her face in the fabric of Quinn's shoulder as she growls, " What the fuck time is it? Are you seriously waking us up? What's wrong with you? Were you raised by Jewish wolves?!"
"Santana-"
"God-dammit, Rachel go the fuck away until at least noon or I'm going to go all Lima Boyle Heights on your ass."
And... that's new. Rachel frowns, also thrown at the upgraded term. And it seems she can't help her own curiosity. "Lima Boyle Heights?" she asks tentatively, as Quinn rolls her eyes.
"It's like... the dump behind Lima Heights," Santana grumps because this apparently makes perfect sense to her. She remains in her same position, face buried in Quinn's shoulder, mewling in aggravation as she tugs at Quinn's waist and throws the blankets over her face. "Quinn tell her to fuck off."
It shouldn't be half as adorable as it actually is.
Rachel, however, doesn't seem to share her amusement. Her brow lifts and she stares at Quinn meaningfully. "Quinn," she hisses, which starts Santana growling again, and this will be a blood bath if there's no intervention.
Also, Santana's cuddled so close to her she's actually getting really warm.
Quinn pulls back at the blankets to reveal the scrunched, grumpy face. "Santana." She ignores the near hiss she receives and the way Santana tries to fruitlessly tug the blanket back up in favor carefully smoothing away a dark strand of hair that's managed to lodge itself into the side of Santana's mouth. "Get some sleep. Rachel and I will be back."
Being the lazy and sleepy bitch that she is, Santana doesn't complain too much. "Promise me that I get to kill her when you come back," is all she says behind her closed eyes. "We can hang her by her toes off the fire escape."
"That's so uncalled for," Rachel huffs and Quinn disagrees.
"I promise," she says, causing Rachel to roll her eyes and Santana to smile sleepily.
"That's my girl," she purrs and blindly reaches for her hand to press a lingering kiss against her fingers.
It's a thoughtless act of affection, but it causes such a jolt within her that Quinn is momentarily frozen.
Swallowing down any emotion she may have, Quinn quickly rearranges herself and slides out of the bed and Santana's embrace.
She is unfortunately aware of the way Rachel watches them closely the entire time.
*********
Rachel is oddly quiet as they descend the stairs.
"Quinn?"
"Yes, Rachel?" Quinn responds sweetly, pulling open the door that will let them out onto the chilly street and into the bustle of New York city.
"You're not actually going to let her hang me by my toes."
"I don't know, Rachel, I did promise," she answers gravely.
The pale look on Rachel's is almost enough to make the morning just a little bit brighter.
*********
The bagel shop nearly two blocks over is crowded and dingy, even for this time of day. It looks like a hovel, but Rachel insists that these are where they make the best bagels in the neighborhood.
Still, no matter how delicious bagels are, Quinn isn't sure it's worth the carbs to have to stand for twenty minutes just to get a grimy little table for two that is so close to the others she keeps getting elbowed in the head by the jerk sitting behind them.
And yes, the lox spread is actually very good and spreads like whipped butter over her appropriately chewy and nicely toasted onion bagel, and the coffee is surprisingly tasty considering the muck of a coffee maker it's poured from, but it's hard to enjoy any of it when one is partaking with Rachel Berry and that look she keeps giving her in between dainty bites of her everything bagel topped with vegan spread.
She seems to be biding her time, in no hurry to begin what will more than likely be the most awkward conversation that Quinn's had in a while, and that is very unlike the Rachel she knew. Waiting for her to actually say something feels a little like torture.
With a sigh, Quinn puts down her bagel. "Just get it out, okay?"
When Rachel, in the middle of a sip of her coffee, nearly chokes on the liquid, Quinn realizes that Rachel is dreading this conversation as much as she is. The woman actually shakes as she tries to hack her way into breathing.
It would be infinitely more amusing if little coffee droplets hadn't flown out of her lips and landed on her bagel.
Quinn supposes it's for the best. She has no appetite at all.
"Sorry!" she rasps, and Quinn rolls her eyes and takes her own bitter gulp of coffee.
It's unsatisfying. She's tired... What little she did sleep was overtaken by that horrible dream, and even though she didn't drink enough to get an actual hangover, she can feel the effects of dehydration.
Water would have been a better bet than this coffee.
Staying home in New Haven would have been a better bet than this bagel.
Rachel's choking fit has reduced to a bit of a snivel, and now that it looks like she may actually live, Quinn wordlessly hands over a stray napkin that Rachel accepts with a sweet word of thanks.
"Okay then," she breathes, inhaling deeply and exhaling again. "Now that I'm okay... we can get started."
Oh geez. Her brow arches in annoyance. "We can?"
Rachel's fingers twitch in front of her. She wants to bring it up. It's written all over her face. Rachel is struggling for a way to introduce the fact that Quinn has had a big gay moment in her bathroom with Santana Lopez.
So they can discuss it.
Process it.
It would amusing if this wasn't actually happening to Quinn.
"Right," Rachel says when her courage is sufficiently built, "So... what happened last night-"
"Is absolutely none of your business," Quinn says smoothly, which is true and logical and of course will do nothing to stop Rachel Barbra Berry from sticking her imperfect nose right in the middle of this already very complicated situation.
"Um, Kurt and his antiques would very much disagree." Rachel's lip twitches, because apparently there is some part of this that's amusing to her too.
Quinn isn't ready to share in the laughter. "I'll replace the stupid antiques."
"Are you gay, Quinn?"
"Are you serious?!" she sputters, because really, that is so not appropriate.
"Or is just Santana that you're attracted to?" Rachel is staring at her with that same infuriating concerned look, asking her this fucking question when less than a foot away, the jerk who nearly brushed her boob on his way to sit down gives her a long stare.
"Rachel, stop."
"I just want to help!" Rachel is of course infuriatingly diplomatic. "I don't know for sure but I can't imagine you've discussed this with Santana and... I just... I may not be gay but I was obviously raised in a very open and loving environment, having two gay dads and all, and though I'll never rule out falling in love with the fairer sex-"
It's too early in the morning to hear an opening monologue on Rachel's supposed sexual fluidity. "Rachel-"
"Santana IS very beautiful and has very cushy lips-"
"Oh My God," Quinn breathes, and wonders briefly if this is some sort of karmic injustice for never allowing her mother to have the 'birds and the bees' talk with her before she fell pregnant.
Rachel has apparently been distracted by day dreaming about the scenario and now has a faraway, glassy look on her face that is starting to be more than a little disturbing. "I mean, the both of you are just so very attractive... just picturing it was like, the hottest thing that Brody and I-"
OH GOOD GOD.
"Rachel! Shut the hell up!" Quinn snaps, loud enough to not only shut up Rachel, but everyone in the little dingy bagel shop. Now the every customer is staring, and Quinn, cheeks flaming and head aching, has had enough.
She gets up and shifts around Rachel, leaving her bagel and her coffee and heading for the door.
Quinn walks furiously, doing her very best to NOT picture Rachel and her boytoy engaging in some very kinky roleplay with she and Santana as guest stars, when Rachel catches up to her.
"I'm sorry!" she snaps, hooking her hand on Quinn's wrist and holding her back. "Just stop!"
Quinn doesn't stop. She keeps her gaze forward as she snaps, "Rachel, I'm only going to say this once. Butt out. What happened last night was because we were drunk and high and-"
"And it's not the first time it's happened."
Quinn stumbles on a crack of concrete she swears wasn't there before. Rachel catches her, keeps her upright and lets her regain her balance. Quinn is forced to keep hold of Rachel's wrists, and when she looks, she sees stern brown eyes that stare at her, daring her to contradict that statement.
Quinn can't. But she wants to. She's not ready for this. Not now.
Maybe Rachel can sense it. "You and I have been through too much to lie to each other, Quinn."
"Then don't make me lie," she whispers, her voice aching with a silent pleading. Rachel is a relentless force, and as strong as Quinn knows she is, Rachel has always known how to make her crumble.
She can't do that now, not when she's not sure she has the will or the strength to build her walls up again.
But Rachel just keeps staring, and it's horrible. She's looking for something to hold onto, seeking out every twitch of Quinn's harsh expression, waiting for the moment when she will see Quinn and understand.
But how can Rachel understand what Quinn doesn't?
She doesn't understand these feelings. She doesn't understand why Santana is such a maelstrom of emotion and why she's so vulnerable to it. She doesn't understand why she wants to kiss her all the time or why she's so terrified. She doesn't understand why she can hate Santana and love her so much and she doesn't understand how she can so selflessly want Santana to be happy and so selfishly want it to be WITH HER.
She doesn't even understand what that even means.
Rachel's fingers rub against her own.
It's chilly in New York. Pedestrians walk around them without a second glance. They are just two strangers and in the grand scheme of things, they mean nothing. Quinn and her inner turmoil seems to small... so insignificant.
"You know you can talk to me, right Quinn?" Rachel's voice is soft; soothing. "I care about you, okay, and I promise, I won't judge. We all make mistakes-"
Mistakes.
The word causes an angry shiver to race up Quinn's spine, so electric it nearly scalds her. "Oh really?" she snaps, because damn, Rachel really can't help being such an annoying ass sometimes, can she? "This is you not judging? Because you suck at it!"
Brown eyes flash. Rachel's jaw squares. "I'm concerned," she snaps, a biting at the word in such a way it makes Quinn's eyes roll even harder. "There's a difference. Because you're scared and hurting and confused and I can't just see that and not do anything about it!"
Quinn has been so focused on being angry that she hasn't realized she's got actual tears in her eyes. "Why are you doing this?!" she asks, whirling and pinning Rachel with that liquid stare.
She hates that Rachel sees the moisture; hates how Rachel winces at the hurt, softens in the face of Quinn's obvious torment.
It makes her weak. It makes her foolish.
Rachel's fingers link with hers, and its just enough support to make Quinn feel like she's beginning to fail. She tries to pull away; Rachel doesn't let her.
"Because I love you!" Rachel says, quietly and fervently. "Because you've been trying so hard to be a friend to Santana, that you've forgotten that you need a friend too."
And she can't...
She can't...
Quinn's face crumples; she has no strength to fight the words.
When Rachel's arms come up around her, Quinn has no will to do anything but bury her face in Rachel's neck and silently sob.
*********
There's a neighborhood garden that sits between two concrete building a block away. Rachel finds a bench that's colored with graffiti and there they sit quietly, in this little bit of paradise that Rachel assures her should be much more impressive in the spring, when the tomato plants fruit and the chill mellows to let the green things grow.
Quinn's sobs have reduced to tears. The tears that streams have left behind wet tracks though Quinn does her best to wipe them away.
A diner napkin, maybe even the same gross one she gave to Rachel, is now crumpled in her palms damp with her tears.
To her credit, Rachel has not said a word. She has simply sat and waited, shivering ever so slightly as she watches the way the New York denizens go about their day in front of them.
Quinn fingers at the graffiti, traces along the lines of a bright green letter. “I'm afraid I can't explain myself, sir. Because I am not myself, you see?”
Rachel blinks, unsure what to make of it. "What?"
Quinn smiles painfully. "It's a quote. From Alice in Wonderland."
"Oh." Rachel doesn't seem to know what to do with that. "Okay."
Quinn exhales slowly. "I don't know what I'm doing," she admits quietly.
Rachel absorbs that, and offers a soft, dry chuckle. "Yeah," she agrees. "No offense Quinn, but... duh."
Quinn feels almost empty and almost outside of herself at the same time. It's an odd feeling, but it allows her to appreciate Rachel's amusement. "Yeah, look who's talking, Mrs. Finn Hudson."
Maybe it's a cheap shot, but Rachel's a good enough sport to laugh along with her. "I never said I was any better off."
The admission makes her feel better.
"Quinn... we may have had our differences but you know I adore Santana." Quinn swallows hard. She doesn't look at Rachel, but she listens, even as the napkin in her hand becomes tangled in shreds from her nervous rubbing. "But, she's in a very emotionally vulnerable state-"
"You don't think I know that?" she hisses, because she does. Of course she does. "I can't believe we're talking about this."
"And she's still in love with Brittany."
Quinn's eyes flutter shut. She takes in a harsh breath. "Rachel, it's not-"
"I don't know if you guys are just messing around or if you've even talked about what you're doing, but... you and Santana have always had a complicated relationship and I just don't know if you should make it more... complex."
Quinn can't help the hurt, hysterical bit of laughter that pounds out of her chest. "Don't you think it's a little too late for that?"
Rachel regards her silently. "Maybe. But maybe you also need to hear it out loud. If you're just experimenting with a friend..."
"Rachel," she whispers. The tears are stinging again and Quinn CAN'T DO THIS NOW. "I can't-"
Maybe Rachel has actually discovered a tiny iota of empathy, because she doesn't finish her sentence. "Okay," she says instead, and squeezes Quinn's hand reassuringly. "I'm shutting up. Just know I'm here, if there's anything you'd like... to get off your chest. Though based on what Kurt said, it was the other way around."
Quinn blinks, thrown by the statement until she actually looks at Rachel and sees the impish smile growing on the other women's face.
It's infectious, and Quinn wants so badly to laugh. "Shut up," she rasps.
They're sitting here on this bench in New York, and Quinn is being teased about Santana's breasts by Rachel Berry.
She has no idea why it makes it all okay, but it does.
Rachel's smile widens into a full on grin. "... So is she as good a kisser as Brittany said she was?"
"Oh My God," Quinn breathes, because this is an actual conversation they're actually having and not make believe.
"I'm sorry!" Rachel's shoulder bumps companionably against her own. "Inquiring minds want to know!"
Quinn's cheek flush pink, but she can't help but admit, "She's better."
Rachel sucks in a lungful of air. Quinn can't tell if she's scandalized or turned on. "What do her boobs feel like? Can you tell they're fake?!"
"RACHEL!" she gasps, but she's laughing despite herself. Sometimes she really loves inappropriate Rachel. "I'm not answering that!"
The sun is growing more powerful, and some of the early morning chill has faded away. Quinn discovers herself able to breathe without wanting to crumple inside herself and though her eyes ache, they're dry. She finds the strength to rise off the bench. Rachel goes with her.
"One more thing," she hears as Rachel falls into step beside her.
Quinn shakes her head emphatically. "No more. Oversharing. TMI. Stop it."
"Relax," Rachel says dryly. "It's about Kurt's Antique Soap Dish."
Quinn blinks, and offers her friend a curiously raised brow. "Yes?"
Rachel doesn't look at her. "Let's just say that someone may already broken something very similar and found the replacement at Pottery Barn."
Quinn nearly stumbles in surprise, but when Rachel nods knowingly at her, she finds herself exploding in laughter.
*********
"Oh My God," they hear the moment Rachel pulls back the metal door at the entrance of the loft. "Are you some kind of Devil woman?!" The cry is anguished and weary.
"Less talking, more pumping. Let's go, Donkey! Man up!"
Santana, still in her tiny cotton shorts and wearing a 'Yale' tank top that belongs to Quinn, stretches out over the floor, doing military style pushups beside a bare-chested Brody, who huffs and puffs as he counts along beside her.
Quinn's steps falter, taking in the scene that is presented to her. "What are they doing?" Rachel whispers, and Quinn has absolutely no idea.
"Come on!" Santana snaps, features contorting with effort as she leads Brody into another set. They've clearly been at this for a while. Santana's muscles are tight, moving like sinew under her shining skin as she inhales and exhales, tossing Brody a scathing glare between sets. "You are SUCH a pansy."
Brody emits an enraged squeak that sounds a bit like neutered Chipmunk as he shoves himself up one more time, struggling to keep up with Santana's relentless pace. "Seriously, what the hell!? Where the hell-"
Quinn can no longer contain her curiosity. "Santana," she says in what she hopes is a sweet and civil manner. "What exactly are you two doing?"
The brunette head lifts, and Santana's dark eyes fall on her as she blows a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead. "This asshole had the stupidity to say Cheerleading isn't a real sport and Cheerleaders aren't real athletes."
Oh.
Quinn's mouth presses into a firm line, doing her best to contain her amusement as Rachel issues a dramatic gasp. "Ohhh, Brody!" Rachel whispers, hand to her mouth at his stupidity. "Honey." She looks very sorry for her meathead boyfriend.
Quinn has absolutely no pity. Santana is a thin, small woman, but her body is obviously all muscle. The only fat on her body appears to be on her actual boobs and it's not as if Santana doesn't wear clothing that doesn't accentuate that. Brody would have to be an idiot not to recognize Santana's athletic potential.
Sexism is what put Brody in this pickle, and it's only sheer pride that's keeping him in the game. It's almost comical to see the way his heavily muscled frame struggles to keep up with the lighter, quicker, and it seems, stronger, Santana.
"COME ON!" Santana barks, and Brody whines in annoyance.
"What?!" he huffs indelicately, wheezing with the strain. "It's cheerleading!"
A former cheerleader herself, Quinn can't help but take offense. She shakes her head, shifting the bag of bagels on her hip. "Yeah, well, it kinda looks like that cheerleader is kicking your pansy dancer ass," she comments ruefully. Brody shoots her an unappreciative glare. It loses it's effectiveness when she realizes that that's pretty much all he can do. His arms have begun to tremble now, and enough of the athlete in Quinn still exists to note he is over-exerting himself and will injure himself soon.
She flickers her gaze back to Santana, and discovers the other woman smirking at her. Her mouth is open and she is breathing heavy, but her movements remain fluid and strong.
A by-product of the Cheerios harsh training regime, and a testament to Santana's stamina.
God, that should not be as sexy as it is.
A brush of Rachel's hand against her elbow breaks her from her dangerous daze. "Quinn, please," Rachel whispers. Quinn recognizes it as a plea for leniency.
Brody huffs and puffs like a demented wolf. It's clear Santana has proved her point. "Santana," she calls out dryly. "Heel."
Santana's body jerks sharply and the smirk fades immediately. Quinn's smile grows, because even though it's obvious Santana resents being commanded like a dog, there's enough of Quinn's Head Cheerio authority still instilled in her to stop what she's doing and push to her feet.
"God, fine," she growls and leans into a stretch, soothing the aching muscles. "We're done, Donkey."
Brody flattens against the floor with a dull thud and a whimper. "Ow."
Quinn has to work hard to resist laughing, and gets a pinch from Rachel in punishment before her friend heads to her crippled boyfriend. "Oh he had it coming," Quinn grumbles. Rachel ignores her.
"That's how we do it in Lima Heights, bitch." Santana's flushed with both exertion and victory. Her eyes shine and she pumps her fist like a dork as she watches Rachel kneel against her crippled boyfriend.
She's proud in a way she hasn't been proud since she's shown up in New Haven. It's a silly victory, but it's a victory all the same, and Quinn understands why it would mean something to her.
So she offers her a smile as she comes forward, aware of how the damp tank top clings to Santana in a way it doesn't quite seem to on Quinn, stretching fabric out in front thanks to the rambunctious twins, who make themselves even more prominent thanks to the way Santana pants.
She stares at Quinn like she's expecting some sort of medal.
"What?" Quinn asks, in the mood to be stubborn. "You're all sweaty. I'm not touching you."
It pisses Santana off a little. "Really, that's how you're going to reward the victor, bitch?"
Quinn's chest tightens, suddenly unsure, until Santana's eyes dance with mischief and her hand lifts for a high five, like they're dudes. Resisting every urge to roll her eyes, Quinn slaps a bagel into the palm instead.
"Congratulations," she drawls. "I will admit, as lesbian and butch as that was, it was impressive."
And a little hot.
Her eyes linger on Santana's, note the way the moisture gathers on Santana's upper lip, and the way Santana's tongue darts out to taste at the salt.
Right.
Sucking in a harsh breath, Quinn averts her eyes and looks instead toward Rachel, who has adopted a different strategy to appease her boyfriend and his wounded ego. She places his head on her lap and brushes her hand through his damp hair. "Brody, honey," she says, with patience and exasperation. "Santana had a full athletic scholarship to the University of Louisville and is a three-time national cheerleading champion. Do you not remember me telling you that?"
Brody's eyes widen. He stares uncertainly at Santana, who arches a challenging brow in return. "Yeah, no, I didn't remember you telling me that."
"What you think these abs are just for show?" Santana asks, and actually goes so far as lifting Quinn's Yale shirt up to display her (yes, admittedly) impressive six pack.
Quinn's not sure she can handle that right now. "Santana, put that away. You're acting like you're on Jersey Shore and it's not cute." Not trusting Santana to do it herself, she yanks the shirt down to a respectable distance, and ignores the way Santana's fingers attempt to cling at hers possessively.
It does little to keep Santana from soaking in her victory over the straight dude. "Rachel, if this is the kind of stamina the donkey displays on a regular basis, I pity you. I really do."
And of course she made it about sex.
Donkey-Brody looks affronted, but it's Rachel and the way that her eyes linger on Santana's fingers clasped against her own that cause Quinn to shake off the grip and drop the bag of bagels on a nearby table. "Where's Kurt?"
"In bed. Dry heaving and cursing God," Santana says, lifting a water bottle to her lips and sucking down a good gulp. "I gave him a honey sandwich and made him drink two bottles of water with a multivitamin. He should be fine tonight to go out."
It's an absurdly cohesive statement coming from Santana.
"What?" she snaps when she realizes they are all staring. "He needs the calories and that sandwich is easy to digest."
"And you know this how?" Rachel asks.
Quinn admits she's mildly intrigued.
"I was a candy striper in high school!" Santana snaps, clearly insulted. "Assholes. I can be nurturing."
Not that Quinn is ever one to throw a fellow Cheerio under the bus (most of the time), but she has her suspicions. "I remember seeing that outfit exactly once, and that was right before you gave me mono."
Santana freezes mid-drink. She absorbs that statement, and after a beat, lets a scampy grin float across her face. "Sharing is caring, Quinn."
Bitch.
"Do you still have the outfit?" Brody is apparently over how they do it in Lima Heights enough to go back to being a guy.
Rachel has no words, and merely smacks at her pervy boyfriend's shoulder hard.
"Ouch! So you can borrow it!"
*********
It's a lazy New Years Eve. Though the loft is crowded, it's surprisingly quiet. Quinn sits on the sofa with her books. She fingers her cell phone idly, and notes that it has been three days since she's heard from David.
Have they broken up?
Quinn discovers that she doesn't exactly care.
It's odd, considering how only a few weeks ago she considered him the center of her world.
Perspective is a tricky, funny thing.
"You okay?" It's Santana who sinks down beside her. Her hair is damp, combed through and ready to be styled for the night's festivities. She's devoid of make up and wears only a pair of sweats and a grey tank top.
She's so beautiful she takes Quinn's breath away.
For some reason, the realization just makes Quinn's sad heart grow sadder still.
But Santana is watching with an expression that is dangerously close to worry, so for her Quinn manages a tight, reassuring smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Santana looks unsure. "You were out for a long time with Rachel," she says, stating the obvious.
"I was," Quinn acknowledges. She lets her fingers trace over the pages of her textbook, feeling the sharpness of the page's edge dig slightly into her skin. Not enough to give her a paper cut, but enough to remind her that it could.
"Do I have kick Rachel's ass? Cause I do remember promising to hang her by her toes."
Santana, protective and sweet. Quinn's smile trembles just a bit. "I think she's earned a reprieve," she says, and presses a gentle hand against Santana's forearm, squeezing lightly before letting go.
She feels... passive in the wake of her release with Rachel.
Quinn isn't sure if it's a good thing or not. "Quinn." Her eyes lift once again to Santana, and discovers a serious expression on a gorgeous face. "Seriously, are we okay?"
Santana has no joke for her. No snarky comment to alleviate the tension. Instead of being that snarky bitchy Quinn can usually count on, she's sitting beside Quinn with genuine concern and worry. Right now she isn't a sexpot or a bitch, but a true friend who is afraid that they've been too affected to move past this.
Rachel is right. Their relationship is complex.
But she cares, and Santana cares, and that's more than most people have in a lifetime.
She puts down her book and shifts her body, until her hands are tangled with Santana's and she's only inches away. "We're good, Santana," she promises. Santana looks at her intensely, unsure whether or not to believe her. Quinn's heart trembles at the insecurity, and so she allows herself to lift her palm and press it softly against Santana's warm cheek. She notes the way Santana's eyes flutter; how her breath goes slightly uneven for just a moment before she regains the steady rhythm. "Look," Quinn begins, her expression sweet and optimistic. "It's New Years Eve and we're in New York, so why don't we spend today and tonight celebrating the fact that we have survived this crap of a year..." Santana's mouth twitches, a phantom smile that is a start at least. "And we worry about the rest later?"
An unsteady breath floats across her finger tips. Santana's hand covers her own, squeezing tightly. She's looking at Quinn with such tenderness, it breaks her heart. "You know I love you, Quinn, don't you?"
And she does. Quinn knows that absolutely. Santana loves her as much as she is capable.
"Yeah," she admits. "I know." With fondness and a lover's touch, Quinn allows her smile to reach her eyes. "I love you, too."
*********