FIC: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo) (8/?)
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 | Chapter 7
Part Eight. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night
It’s New Year’s Eve in New York City.
The streets are flooded with people: guys with greasy, slicked back hair and shined black boots while girls dress in tight, barely there dresses, shivering in fashionable throws and leather jackets that do nothing to battle the chill of the evening. They balance on painful stilettos and carry tiny purses that Quinn is reasonably certain will be lost by the end of the night.
The mantra of the evening is ‘celebrate!’ and yet for some reason it all reeks of a familiar type of desperation that makes Quinn feel like she’ll just be one more in the crowd.
Quinn lost her taste for obscenely high heels after her accident. Her spine will not tolerate them. Instead, she picks wedges that seem almost subdued compared to the stiletto heels that Santana seems so comfortable in. She wears a dress that flares at the waist, because she isn’t a cheerleader anymore and has been told one too many times by her mother that her thighs are bigger than they should be.
Her hair, which used to be one of her best assets, feels stiff and lifeless, and though Quinn applies her makeup and knows she looks GOOD, she doesn’t feel beautiful.
It’s funny; she’s been called beautiful so many times. Quinn wonders how many times she will actually hear it before it sinks in and she actually believes it.
She stands at the mirror in Kurt and Rachel’s bathroom, uncapping her lipstick and focusing only on her own reflection. There is an energy here that practically crackles with static, and Quinn hates it. Her mind fights her, desperate to relive the events of yesterday evening.
Quinn is stubborn in her urge to forget. She ignores the cracked soap dish. She’s thankful for the fact that Kurt has taken it upon himself to scrub the entire vanity so it stinks like bleach.
“Verdict?” Santana lingers in the doorway; hand on her hip, presenting herself for inspection.
Quinn straightens, and though her chest tightens, under the guise of friendship, she is allowed to look. She does. She notes and appreciates the unforgiving stilettos that strap to Santana’s perfectly tanned feet. She lingers, journeying up Santana's strong legs, noting that Santana’s dress, like all her others, fits her like a second skin. It’s low cut, displaying that gorgeous cleavage that Santana is so proud of. She’s wears a vivid bright red, because, like everything Santana chooses to be, this outfit is meant to be noticed.
Her dark brown hair flows over her shoulder in calculated curls that remind Quinn of forties lounge singer, and the result is… perfect.
Quinn finally reaches Santana’s twinkling dark eyes.
“What?” Santana’s head tilts. Her grin widens. “No words?”
It’s not that the spell is broken, but… Quinn gets her words back.
She exhales unsteadily, and manages an unimpressed sigh as she tears her eyes away from the vision in the doorway and does her best to continue her work on herself. “What do you want me to say?” she asks airily. “You know you’re gorgeous.”
“Well, duh,” she hears, and hates how she takes notice of the way Santana steps into the bathroom. “But it’s always nice to be told, Quinn.”
“Leave the door open.”
Quinn blurts the words, and they catch Santana by surprise. She pauses, her hand on the door, before her dark eyes dart from the door to Quinn.
She remembers. Maybe she sees the ghosts too, the way Santana stood exactly where Quinn stood before… the way they wanted each other so openly.
Her hand goes unsteady, and in frustration, Quinn recaps her lipstick, searching instead for her blush. She forces herself not look into the reflection.
“Don’t trust me?” Santana’s voice is meant to be teasing, but it’s laced with something. Whatever it is… is affecting.
What does it mean when the person she doesn’t trust is herself?
Quinn waits until she can control her tone, keep her expression neutral. “I never trust you,” she says, eyes lifting as her mouth widens into a bitchy smirk. Santana rolls her eyes, and it’s good. It keeps the status quo. “But that’s beside the point.”
“God,” Santana sighs, and shuts the door anyway. “Don’t tell me you’re actually honoring Kurt’s stupid ‘open door’ policy.”
“It’s called being polite.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve!” Santana says emphatically, and presses her hips against the vanity, eyes on her friend as she continues to work on her face. “Who has time for polite?”
Quinn has to admit, she has a point. Still, she’s thankful for the fact that Santana keeps her hands to herself, crossed and over her chest as she watches Quinn sweep the blush across her cheekbones. “You look good, Quinn.”
She doesn’t say Quinn looks beautiful.
Quinn doesn’t know why she’s grateful for that. The brush comes down, and Quinn stares into the mirror, focusing on her figure… her face. “I don’t know what to do with my hair,” she admits.
Santana exhales through her nose, and pushes off the vanity, stepping up behind her to dig her fingers in Quinn’s long blonde locks and tangle them up experimentally. “You wanna put it up?” she asks.
She’s asking as a friend. Santana is doing what they’ve done for years: best friends primping and polishing each other, making sure they look their absolute best.
She hates how different it feels. How her eyes flutter at just the briefest of touches. How Santana’s breath skating past her exposed neck causes a shudder that she’s absolutely sure Santana has to notice.
She looks into the mirror and looks into Santana’s eyes.
Dark eyes regard her just as intensely, but Santana doesn’t say a word.
“I’ll need help,” she manages.
“Pass me thembobby pins, then,” Santana says after a moment, and so Quinn does. It’s sweet… in a way. They’re quiet and Quinn holds obediently still as Santana twists her hair and expertly pins it, the way she’s donefor years.
“Sometimes I think about cutting it again,” she admits, as Santana arranges a lock to fall delicately over her brow.
Distracted, Santana offers a proud smirk. “Well, I do give a fabulous haircut, if I do say so myself.”
Quinn laughs, eyes rolling at the idea and the memory. “Yeah, cause that turned out so well.”
“What? It was hot!”
Maybe. Santana isn’t looking at her. She’s got a pin in her mouth, and her brow is wrinkled, focused on the task at hand. It brings with it a vulnerability to Santana that Quinn decides she’s actually lucky to see.
She and Santana have been anything but good for each other, both as friends and… whatever this muddiness is. And yet there have been moments in between all that that have been so intimate… meant so much…
No one has ever had the capacity to wound Quinn and still warm her heart, create such extreme highs and lows with her affection the way Santana can.
It’s frightening, how similar they are.
So why was it so easy to drift apart? How did they even get to the point where she allowed her own pettiness to override her concern for a friend who was so obviously hurting?
Had Santana never shown up in New Haven, would Quinn even think of her now?
Santana tugs lightly. Quinn’s eyes close for a sacred, tender moment as she allows herself to be played with. When her eyes open, she’s greeted with Santana’s gorgeous smile.
This beautiful woman is staring at her as if she’s the only woman in the world.
Santana fingers reach over to skim across her cheek, curling an errant strand over Quinn’s dainty ear. “There. Gorgeous. They won’t know what hit them.”
She is. She’s gorgeous. They’re gorgeous, standing together in perfect contrast. “You know, sometimes I miss this.”
She means their friendship. Their closeness. The way Santana smiles at her and the sweetness of her smell. The way they can simply just BE together.
And yet what she means and what the words turn into are not the same thing.
Not when Santana’s so close, pressed in behind her, with dark smoky eyes and a perfect, kissable mouth.
Fingers brush against her the sensitive skin of her neck, and suddenly Santana’s intent doesn’t seem so innocent anymore.
“What do you miss, Quinn?” she hears, in a tone so low and full of meaning Quinn can’t help the way her body responds, blood rushing hard to that ache between her legs that makes her want so badly.
The door slams open with a bang, so loud and forceful both Quinn and Santana jump, landing on opposite ends of the bathroom.
Kurt’s eyes are wild. He stares at them both with a maniacal stare that seems incomprehensible. “What’s going on in here?!” he shrieks.
“WHAT THE FUCK, KURT?!” Santana snaps.
Kurt is unapologetic. “Open Door Policy!” He snaps, and kicks a doorstop against the wooden door, wedging it open. “And stop hogging the bathroom. We were supposed to leave for the bar twenty minutes ago.”
There is one more pointed glare, and then Kurt backs out of the bathroom, looking like some sort of demented troll. “Open door!”
“I think we scarred him,” Quinn notes in the quiet that follows.
Santana stares at her, looking so furious that Quinn finds herself giggling.
“Whatever,” Santana says after a moment, so grumpy that it’s adorable. She takes one more look at Quinn, before she moves to the open exit. “I don’t know what the friggin rush is. Do I even want to know what kind of bar Kurt and Rachel consider cool?"
*********
Quinn isn’t sure why she is at all surprised that the answer to that question is a piano bar in New York near the NYADA campus called ‘Callbacks’. It’s filled the brim, and the minute they’re within sight of it, Rachel squeals and begins an animated conversation with both Brody and Kurt about the songs they’re going to sing when they get there.
Bringing up the rear, palm curled into Quinn’s elbow, Santana could not look more disgusted. She stops immediately, and emits a noise that could be a squawk or something that sounds very much like the snort that the horse she rode during her childhood equestrian classes made when he disagreed with her.
“We’re at a Karaoke Bar for New Years?” she asks, brow arched so high on her head it nearly disappears. “Tell me this is a joke.”
Quinn doesn’t have the heart to break it to her that this is all entirely sincere. She simply squeezes her hand, and offers a smirk. “Not what you had in mind?”
Rachel glances back and notices. She’s beautiful tonight. Her hair is curled in a wispy way that frames her face perfectly, and her eyes are dark and shining. She smiles and it’s a little breathtaking, before she hops over a puddle of melting snow that looks slushy enough to slip in. She grabs hold of both of their wrists and pulls, dragging them towards the madness.
“Welcome to New York, Santana,” she says, broad and stunning and looking so at home it’s disconcerting. “You’re gonna love it here.”
At the very least, it gets them walking. Rachel only lets go when Brody curls an arm around her waist, picking her up as If she were a newborn kitten and hauling her to the entrance of the bar.
“She’s demented,” Santana breathes, but there’s something in her eyes as she watches the dramatic trio in front of them.
For Quinn, the world stills.
On Christmas Eve she was alone in New Haven. There’s so much anger inside of her that it overtakes her so easily along with her bitterness. And yet… not nearly two weeks later it’s New Year’s Eve.
Quinn is in New York City and it’s frigid. Around her there are shouts of laughter and cars that honk. Quinn blinks when a snowflake lands daintily on her eyelid.
In front of her is the laughing, gorgeous form of Rachel Berry, who held her when she cried and told her it was okay to be scared. Beside her is Santana, who curls into her for warmth and support, who looks at her with a disturbed smile that is so quintessentially her.
Quinn’s confusion persists, but there is something inside her that settles in a way that makes it feel less like confusion and more like hope.
Quinn has been called evil, selfish, manipulative and callous so many times.
She wasn’t sure when she stared believing that could be true.
It’s not. Quinn is not without faults, but she has her strengths too.
She’s alive and well on New Years Eve, with friends who love her, despite everything she has chosen to be and not to be.
“Quinn?”
She meets Santana’s uncertain expression with a whisper and a grin. “She’s also right.”
It’s enough. Tonight, it’s enough.
*********
It’s only when they’ve managed to squeeze together at a tiny table that should realistically only seat four, that Kurt turns to them both and lays his elbows on the table.
"Okay, Satan,” he begins, all business despite the near shout -level decibel he has to keep his voice in the noisy piano bar. “Considering the … incidents that have already happened...” His eyes flicker accusingly between Quinn and Santana.
Quinn supposes it’s the magic of New Years that makes it so easy not to care that Santana is practically in her lap. There are legitimate reasons for the way Santana is curled into her side - there’s not much room. But she supposes that if she had to logically give a purpose for why her arm crosses over back of Santana’s chair, allowing the other woman to practically sink in against her, she wouldn’t have one other than she wants her close.
Santana smells good. She feels good. And Quinn has a promise; a reprieve that tonight is a night without consequence. There is no Brittany or David or harsh choices or smart decisions. There is only desire and want and the simple pleasure of being with someone she is attracted to; someone she loves; someone she trusts.
Rachel stares at her, clearly trying to say something with those large doe eyes, but the atmosphere of this little Piano Bar is joyous and freeing. Quinn lets her stare, as her fingers curl and rub affectionately and rhythmically against Santana’s shoulder.
A warm palm is already on her leg, spread possessively and intimately against her thigh. It squeezes, molding into Quinn’s muscles with heat and an addicting tingle that shoots up her leg.
“It’s time to talk Ground Rules,” Kurt snaps, looking a little exasperated. Quinn snorts, but the smile falters when he opens his jacket pocket and produces what looks like an actual scroll, bound by dainty little leather straps.
The scroll is unrolled before them, skidding to a stop as it flows over the wood.
“What the hell is this?” Santana asks, and Quinn curiously reaches forward with her free hand, bringing it over to their side of the table. There is an extreme amount of calligraphy on the lilac-colored page.
“It’s a contract.”
Santana, clearly suspicious, lifts her hand off of Quinn’s thigh to reach for the paper. She shoots Quinn a look that practically screams annoyance, and brings the offending article to her nose. “It’s scented!”
Quinn can’t help but huff in amused disbelief. Kurt is unrepentant. “That loft is our sanctuary, and it can be yours if you just abide by the rules.”
Santana drops the paper. Quinn, always an avid reader, picks it up gamely. "Okay, hold up, Lady Hummel. I never said I was living with you two."
Rachel, happily settled on Brody’s lap, gives Santana a look that reminds Quinn very much of an adult speaking to a child. “Santana, come on. You know you belong here.”
Quinn rolls her eyes. She continues to scan the roommate contract, and purses her lips at the prose. It begins, interestingly enough, like a mock declaration of independence.
When in the Course of human co-habitation, it becomes necessary for one people to acknowledge the bonds of friendship which have connected them with another, a decent respect to the opinions of the other...
“Shouldn’t that be my decision?”
Quinn keeps reading, skimming past the flowery declaration that makes no sense, except for the part where Rachel and Kurt declare themselves platonic soul mates forever, and moves on to the aforementioned Ground Rules.
“And it is,” Rachel’s tone is adorably patronizing, though Quinn is pretty sure Santana won’t appreciate the cuteness of it. “But if you decide on living here-”
An unexpected chortle breaks out of her mouth. “Rule 9 is that every Thursday you watch Rupaul’s Drag Race and then debate the winner.”
“That’s non-negotiable.”
Santana’s hand once again lands on her thigh, though the squeeze she delivers seems less affectionate and more a plea for sanity. “Are you serious? Even Donkey the Ken Doll?”
Brody opens his mouth and then closes it, head lowering in what Quinn can only presume is shame. Her suspicions are proven correct when Rachel wordlessly pulls out her cellphone and cheekily flashes them a picture of the very handsome Brody, posing quite prettily in one of Rachel’s dresses, puckering his cherry red made-up lips and batting his impeccable gorgeous false eyelashes.
“Wow,” she laughs, and Brody sighs in defeat.
“Dude, where are your balls?!” Santana squeaks.
“I get really drunk on Thursday nights,” he admits.
It’s clear that Santana one step away from either going ‘All Lima Heights’ or slipping into a catatonic shock. "I think I need to get really drunk right now.”
It’s a rare occasion where Quinn can understand Santana’s pain. “I’m on that,” she says, pressing reassuringly against Santana’s shoulder before she begins the tricky process of scooting out her chair.
“I’ll go with you!” Brody says quickly, ready for a break from the embarrassment.
“See? That’s my fucking girl,” Santana quips proudly, which Quinn supposes is just as good as thank you. The palming slap she receives on the ass, however, is less than complimentary.
Quinn nearly trips on the chair. She whirls, ready to deliver an affronted glare but Santana only smiles and blows her a sweet little kiss. “Love you, Q.”
What a bitchy brat.
And yet she still grabs her purse and turns on her heel, ready to head in the general direction of the bar. “Which brings up Clause #1: Sex in the Loft,” she hears.
“Holy shit - are you kidding me?”
“There are drapes instead of doors,” Kurt snaps. “We do not kid about this.”
“QUINN!” Santana cries after her desperately. “I need like… five shots.”
*********
Yes, absolutely, there is a freedom that’s associated with tonight, and Quinn is fully aware that she has own rationalization about acting purely on will without worrying about the consequences. It’s the magic of New Year’s Eve.
Despite that, Quinn has no wish for the resurgence of Weepy!Santana OR Angry!Quinn.
Instead of ice cold Patron shots, she chooses to order Santana a Cadillac Margarita, and sticks with her usual glass of wine. But the bar is packed with thirsty drinkers, and the bartenders are overloaded. She and Brody can only wait patiently until they can be noticed.
“So is she always that… spirited?”
Rachel’s boyfriend is looking quizzically back at the table, where Quinn discovers Santana with the scroll now crumpled in her hand, and a lighter underneath it, shouting empathically in Spanish. Kurt and Rachel are squealing, lunging for their precious contract.
“No,” she admits, but she can’t help the smile on her face, as Santana abandons the lighter and instead reaches for a tube of lipstick. “This is actually her subdued. I’m actually kind of amazed that she’s taking this so… calmly.”
Santana smears a line of red across the parchment, shaking her head emphatically. Kurt nearly faints. “This is calm?!”
Santana crosses out yet another line of the contract she doesn’t agree with, and Rachel’s jaw drops open. “Let’s just put it this way,” Quinn says, attempting to sound reasonable. “If freshman year Santana time traveled to now, and realized that she was about to cohabitate with Kurt Hummel and Rachel Berry? There wouldn’t need to be an intervention because she would have already checked herself into an asylum.”
Brody frowns. “Rachel and Kurt are cool though.”
“Rachel and Kurt are very cool,” she agrees immediately. “Unfortunately, Santana and I didn’t always quite see it that way.”
The bartender finally sees them, and Quinn places her order, alongside Brody who goes for the typical beer on tap for himself and two Cosmos for Rachel and Kurt.
Quinn watches the bartender work, oddly fascinated with the easy way he reaches for the glasses, digs for ice and begins pouring.
“So how long have you and Santana been together?”
Her blood runs cold. Quinn’s head whips, pinning Brody with such a flabbergasted stare she seems him literally step back in surprise.
“Santana and I aren’t together,” she says immediately.
“Oh…” Brody licks his lips and shifts his gaze, clearly trying to look anywhere but right at her.
“I’m not gay,” she feels the need to say rather emphatically.
Brody blinks, and yes, it sounds ridiculous, because as far as Brody knows, she was nearly knuckle-deep in Santana just the night before, and there is an open door policy because Santana and Quinn can’t be trusted not to maul each other in the bathroom. And she has been attached at the hip with Santana since this morning, and yes, they are now standing at the bar getting drinks for their girls, and …
Dammit.
“Allright,” he says, and drums his hand on the bar, looking very thankful when his beer is being sloshed toward him. “That’s cool.” He nods mechanically. Quinn has no idea what to say. Brody takes a swig and apparently can’t quite stand the uncomfortable silence. “I mean I guess I just assumed-“
“-I’m confused.” Quinn blinks, and mentally groans, because that was a very unintentional word vomit.
To his credit, Brody takes it in stride. “Fair enough.”
Quinn stares, but Brody’s expression doesn’t change. He just simply regards her, and continues to drink his beer, like she’s just told him the latest superbowl score… or whatever it is guys talk about.
At the table, Kurt has finally regained possession of his scroll, and is rerolling the stained parchment for safekeeping. He’s pointing a finger angrily at Santana, and Rachel apparently has given up altogether. Her head is literally flat against the table.
Santana shrugs at them stonily. Rachel, without lifting her head, raises her hand, as if she’s waiting to be called on.
Santana’s eyes shift and capture hers. She arches a brow, but the smirk she gives is quiet and secret, as if it’s reserved for Quinn and Quinn alone.
Quinn’s insides flutter. She inhales unsteadily. “I just… things are happening really, really fast,” she admits quietly. Brody’s lips quirk, but he nods silently. Quinn’s fingers twist against each other as she leans against the bar. “And I’m not sure if they should happen, but I also don’t know…” Quinn hesitates. Brody isn’t Kurt, or Rachel. He isn’t going to bring up Brittany, or Quinn’s sexuality or she and Santana’s nasty habit of dissolving into slapfights. He doesn’t know any of that.
Quinn doesn’t know why it makes it easier, but it does. “I just love her.” She once again spares a glance for Santana. Her gorgeous best friend has apparently gotten control of her temper; she has reached over the table and is attempting to fluff Kurt’s carefully made up pompadour. He’s batting her away like she’s a gnat. “Lately I’ve been realizing how much.”
“Well yeah, I mean… that’s obvious.”
The quiet introspection dissipates immediately. Quinn immediately turns her attention back to Brody. “What’s obvious?”
Brody is in a middle of another gulp, and he puts up a finger, signaling for patience before he exhales in satisfaction and continues conversationally, “That you love her.”
Holy fuck. “That’s obvious?” she squeaks.
He frowns, head tilting as he considers it. “Pretty obvious,” he says easily, shrugging as if this isn’t absolutely devastating.
And it is. It’s devastating. Quinn suddenly feels so exposed she may as well be naked. Her face flushes hot, and Quinn seeks shelter, turning into the bar and burying her head in her hands. “Shit.”
“Hey, it’s cool.” A heavy, male hand lands on her shoulder, patting awkwardly. Brody’s odd attempt at comfort.
“It’s cool?” she hisses, head lifting to glare at him.
“Yeah!” he says, because he’s an idiot. “It’s cool. So you love her. What’s the big deal?”
Her champagne is finally placed in front of her, along with Santana’s margarita. Quinn hastily hands over her card and with trembling hands, reaches for the glass thankfully.
“You obviously do not know our history,” she mutters.
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he muses. Quinn’s eyes narrows, but he only smiles his big dopey handsome smile, unaffected. “Maybe you need someone who doesn’t know you or your history to tell you that what you’re feeling is okay.” Quinn doesn’t quite know how to respond. That seems to be okay. Brody clinks his beer against her glass companionably, and continues softly, “Everyone gets confused Quinn. But love is love, and everyone deserves to be happy. And honestly?” he adds, straightening and puffing out that big burly chest of his. “It’s pretty obvious that that girl loves you right back.”
It’s inappropriately wise and deep, considering the source. “What are you, some kinda hot stud Yoda?”
“Me?” Brody’s breath flushes out between his pursed lips and shakes his head emphatically. “Nah. That was from a monologue I memorized for a workshop.” Quinn’s eyes close, and her shoulders shake in relieved mirth. “I mean I had to change a couple of the pronouns, but… it’s deep, right?”
Quinn exhales, laughing in exasperation and resigned amusement. “Yeah, it’s deep.”
“Cool,” he says, obviously proud of himself. He grabs hold of Rachel and Kurt’s cosmos, and then glances at her own two drinks. “Want me to get take that for you?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He smiles, ready to turn when a hand smacks him hard on his shoulder. Quinn straightens, confused until she sees Santana come around him, placing herself neatly between herself and Brody.
“That’ll do, Donkey. That’ll do.”
Santana’s hand slips around her waist, and Quinn frowns as Santana pulls at her, nestling Quinn firmly into her side. She doesn’t even look at Quinn as she does it. Her brown eyes are firmly fixed on Brody.
Quinn frowns, unsure what to make of it. Brody appears to be in the same boat. “What?”
Santana lips purse. Her elbow rests against the bar, and she makes an actual show of inspecting Brody from head to toe before she huffs, unimpressed. “The only fun Rachel is a drunk Rachel,” she announces without preamble. “So how ‘bout you stop getting all up on my girl Quinn here, and get your girl some booze?”
Holy crap, Santana’s jealous.
Startled, Brody offers Quinn a wild glance before he immediately begins shaking his head. “I wasn’t-“
Santana’s brow rises in challenge. Her arm only tightens around Quinn, staking her claim.
Quinn isn’t sure if she’s annoyed or pleased, but what she is sure of is that this is not a battle Brody is quite up for, especially considering the way the last battle of wills between Santana and Brody turned out. When he stares at her for obvious help, she only shakes her head in subtle warning.
He takes the hint. “Right… I’m gonna take these to Rachel and Kurt.”
“Yes, you do that,” Santana says, and keeps her gaze pinned on him until he physically turns from them. “Fiona and Lord Farquad are waiting.”
Even as Brody leaves, Santana’s possessive hold doesn’t give. She merely rearranges herself to better reach the bar, taking her margarita with a happy smirk. “Fuck, that’s good.”
Quinn regards her, watches in the lowlight of the bar how Santana seems suddenly innocent and sweet, wrinkling her nose at the taste of the tequila and offering her a happy squeeze.
“He wasn’t hitting on me,” she says flatly.
“Pfft,” Santana says, rolling her eyes at her presumed naivety. “Whatever. That dude is sketchy. I don’t like him.”
Quinn reaches for her champagne and takes a resigned sip. “Please don’t be one of those man hating lesbians,” she sighs.
Santana offers an indignant huff. “Offensive!” she snaps. “I don’t hate all men! Just the ones who are macking on my girl.”
There it is again. Quinn’s heart jumps in that agonizing, annoying way. It goes right into her throat, and Quinn’s eyes close for a brief moment, before she gains the strength to swallow it back into place. “You keep saying that,” she says carefully, easily. “You have no girls, Santana,” she reminds her flatly.
She stares hard at Santana, but Santana keeps her gaze on her margarita. She raises the salted glass to her lips and drinks for a long time. “Who says I don’t?” Santana asks in a husky, uneven tone.
Quinn’s lips press together.
Santana waits, and suddenly her expression changes. “Fine,” she says after a moment, and removes her arm from Quinn. “God, Sorry.”
“Santana-“
“I said Sorry! Shit.”
She could start a fight now. She could outright accuse Santana of jealousy; accuse her of unfairly painting Brody in a bad light. She could resent the way Santana took hold of her and demand some sort of explanation. She could tell Santana that this isn’t fair, because they haven’t figured any of it out, and who says she has any right to want Quinn right now when she obviously still wants Brittany?
She could do so many things.
Their night will end in a fight, as usual. They will scream at each other and hurt each other and never resolve anything.
They’ll probably slap each other again. Quinn will board that New Haven-bound train angry and resentful, and when David calls, she will probably answer, falling back into her bitterness and resigned apathy.
It’s tempting even now, because at least THEN Quinn will understand how this will all turn out.
“It’s just a fucking joke, Quinn,” Santana snaps, because Quinn still hasn’t said anything and it’s clearly affecting her. “Go flirt with as many plastic Ken blow up dolls as you want, okay?”
“Oh will you get over yourself?!” Quinn angrily retorts, because she can’t help but get really pissed off.
“You first,” Santana snarls, and Quinn winces in frustration, because here they go again.
“Love, love, love.” The piano has begun to play, and with it is a blend of familiar voices that catch Quinn’s attention. She glances up towards the stage, and discovers Brody, Rachel and Kurt crowded on the small stage. Brody’s smile is broad, and his smile is for her as he winks in their direction. “Love, love, love.”
“There's nothing you can do that can't be done,” Rachel begins with that gorgeous voice of hers. “Nothing you can sing that can't be sung - Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game,” she leans back into her studly boyfriend. “It's easy!”
Quinn blinks, unsure what to think of it.
Santana seems to agree. “Are they kidding?!” She huffs in disbelief.
“All you need is love,” Kurt croons, arm slung around Rachel. “All you need is love.”
It’s… sweet.
“No,” Quinn says, unexpected laughter coating her words. “I don’t think they are.” And God, it makes sense.
Yes, Santana is a jealous, possessive bitch when she has absolutely no right to be, this is absolutely true.
But she loves her. And it’s New Year’s Eve.
And so Quinn exhales slowly, and places her champagne back on the bar. “Santana,” she whispers, just loud enough for only her friend to hear. Dark brown eyes stare curiously at her, somehow unsure and a little afraid, if Quinn really wants to look for that emotion.
Quinn decides.
She leans in, eyes fluttering closed as her forehead tips against Santana’s brow, soaking in the words as her friends sing. Santana exhales, nearly trembles against her, as Quinn just breathes her in.
Quinn’s forehead tilts, just until her lips brush softly against Santana’s mouth.
“All you need is love, love, love. Love is all you need.”
She will let Santana claim her, if only for this one night.
But Quinn is selfish, and she has one caveat.
In exchange, she’ll give in to temptation and claim her right back.
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 | Chapter 7
Part Eight. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night
It’s New Year’s Eve in New York City.
The streets are flooded with people: guys with greasy, slicked back hair and shined black boots while girls dress in tight, barely there dresses, shivering in fashionable throws and leather jackets that do nothing to battle the chill of the evening. They balance on painful stilettos and carry tiny purses that Quinn is reasonably certain will be lost by the end of the night.
The mantra of the evening is ‘celebrate!’ and yet for some reason it all reeks of a familiar type of desperation that makes Quinn feel like she’ll just be one more in the crowd.
Quinn lost her taste for obscenely high heels after her accident. Her spine will not tolerate them. Instead, she picks wedges that seem almost subdued compared to the stiletto heels that Santana seems so comfortable in. She wears a dress that flares at the waist, because she isn’t a cheerleader anymore and has been told one too many times by her mother that her thighs are bigger than they should be.
Her hair, which used to be one of her best assets, feels stiff and lifeless, and though Quinn applies her makeup and knows she looks GOOD, she doesn’t feel beautiful.
It’s funny; she’s been called beautiful so many times. Quinn wonders how many times she will actually hear it before it sinks in and she actually believes it.
She stands at the mirror in Kurt and Rachel’s bathroom, uncapping her lipstick and focusing only on her own reflection. There is an energy here that practically crackles with static, and Quinn hates it. Her mind fights her, desperate to relive the events of yesterday evening.
Quinn is stubborn in her urge to forget. She ignores the cracked soap dish. She’s thankful for the fact that Kurt has taken it upon himself to scrub the entire vanity so it stinks like bleach.
“Verdict?” Santana lingers in the doorway; hand on her hip, presenting herself for inspection.
Quinn straightens, and though her chest tightens, under the guise of friendship, she is allowed to look. She does. She notes and appreciates the unforgiving stilettos that strap to Santana’s perfectly tanned feet. She lingers, journeying up Santana's strong legs, noting that Santana’s dress, like all her others, fits her like a second skin. It’s low cut, displaying that gorgeous cleavage that Santana is so proud of. She’s wears a vivid bright red, because, like everything Santana chooses to be, this outfit is meant to be noticed.
Her dark brown hair flows over her shoulder in calculated curls that remind Quinn of forties lounge singer, and the result is… perfect.
Quinn finally reaches Santana’s twinkling dark eyes.
“What?” Santana’s head tilts. Her grin widens. “No words?”
It’s not that the spell is broken, but… Quinn gets her words back.
She exhales unsteadily, and manages an unimpressed sigh as she tears her eyes away from the vision in the doorway and does her best to continue her work on herself. “What do you want me to say?” she asks airily. “You know you’re gorgeous.”
“Well, duh,” she hears, and hates how she takes notice of the way Santana steps into the bathroom. “But it’s always nice to be told, Quinn.”
“Leave the door open.”
Quinn blurts the words, and they catch Santana by surprise. She pauses, her hand on the door, before her dark eyes dart from the door to Quinn.
She remembers. Maybe she sees the ghosts too, the way Santana stood exactly where Quinn stood before… the way they wanted each other so openly.
Her hand goes unsteady, and in frustration, Quinn recaps her lipstick, searching instead for her blush. She forces herself not look into the reflection.
“Don’t trust me?” Santana’s voice is meant to be teasing, but it’s laced with something. Whatever it is… is affecting.
What does it mean when the person she doesn’t trust is herself?
Quinn waits until she can control her tone, keep her expression neutral. “I never trust you,” she says, eyes lifting as her mouth widens into a bitchy smirk. Santana rolls her eyes, and it’s good. It keeps the status quo. “But that’s beside the point.”
“God,” Santana sighs, and shuts the door anyway. “Don’t tell me you’re actually honoring Kurt’s stupid ‘open door’ policy.”
“It’s called being polite.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve!” Santana says emphatically, and presses her hips against the vanity, eyes on her friend as she continues to work on her face. “Who has time for polite?”
Quinn has to admit, she has a point. Still, she’s thankful for the fact that Santana keeps her hands to herself, crossed and over her chest as she watches Quinn sweep the blush across her cheekbones. “You look good, Quinn.”
She doesn’t say Quinn looks beautiful.
Quinn doesn’t know why she’s grateful for that. The brush comes down, and Quinn stares into the mirror, focusing on her figure… her face. “I don’t know what to do with my hair,” she admits.
Santana exhales through her nose, and pushes off the vanity, stepping up behind her to dig her fingers in Quinn’s long blonde locks and tangle them up experimentally. “You wanna put it up?” she asks.
She’s asking as a friend. Santana is doing what they’ve done for years: best friends primping and polishing each other, making sure they look their absolute best.
She hates how different it feels. How her eyes flutter at just the briefest of touches. How Santana’s breath skating past her exposed neck causes a shudder that she’s absolutely sure Santana has to notice.
She looks into the mirror and looks into Santana’s eyes.
Dark eyes regard her just as intensely, but Santana doesn’t say a word.
“I’ll need help,” she manages.
“Pass me thembobby pins, then,” Santana says after a moment, and so Quinn does. It’s sweet… in a way. They’re quiet and Quinn holds obediently still as Santana twists her hair and expertly pins it, the way she’s donefor years.
“Sometimes I think about cutting it again,” she admits, as Santana arranges a lock to fall delicately over her brow.
Distracted, Santana offers a proud smirk. “Well, I do give a fabulous haircut, if I do say so myself.”
Quinn laughs, eyes rolling at the idea and the memory. “Yeah, cause that turned out so well.”
“What? It was hot!”
Maybe. Santana isn’t looking at her. She’s got a pin in her mouth, and her brow is wrinkled, focused on the task at hand. It brings with it a vulnerability to Santana that Quinn decides she’s actually lucky to see.
She and Santana have been anything but good for each other, both as friends and… whatever this muddiness is. And yet there have been moments in between all that that have been so intimate… meant so much…
No one has ever had the capacity to wound Quinn and still warm her heart, create such extreme highs and lows with her affection the way Santana can.
It’s frightening, how similar they are.
So why was it so easy to drift apart? How did they even get to the point where she allowed her own pettiness to override her concern for a friend who was so obviously hurting?
Had Santana never shown up in New Haven, would Quinn even think of her now?
Santana tugs lightly. Quinn’s eyes close for a sacred, tender moment as she allows herself to be played with. When her eyes open, she’s greeted with Santana’s gorgeous smile.
This beautiful woman is staring at her as if she’s the only woman in the world.
Santana fingers reach over to skim across her cheek, curling an errant strand over Quinn’s dainty ear. “There. Gorgeous. They won’t know what hit them.”
She is. She’s gorgeous. They’re gorgeous, standing together in perfect contrast. “You know, sometimes I miss this.”
She means their friendship. Their closeness. The way Santana smiles at her and the sweetness of her smell. The way they can simply just BE together.
And yet what she means and what the words turn into are not the same thing.
Not when Santana’s so close, pressed in behind her, with dark smoky eyes and a perfect, kissable mouth.
Fingers brush against her the sensitive skin of her neck, and suddenly Santana’s intent doesn’t seem so innocent anymore.
“What do you miss, Quinn?” she hears, in a tone so low and full of meaning Quinn can’t help the way her body responds, blood rushing hard to that ache between her legs that makes her want so badly.
The door slams open with a bang, so loud and forceful both Quinn and Santana jump, landing on opposite ends of the bathroom.
Kurt’s eyes are wild. He stares at them both with a maniacal stare that seems incomprehensible. “What’s going on in here?!” he shrieks.
“WHAT THE FUCK, KURT?!” Santana snaps.
Kurt is unapologetic. “Open Door Policy!” He snaps, and kicks a doorstop against the wooden door, wedging it open. “And stop hogging the bathroom. We were supposed to leave for the bar twenty minutes ago.”
There is one more pointed glare, and then Kurt backs out of the bathroom, looking like some sort of demented troll. “Open door!”
“I think we scarred him,” Quinn notes in the quiet that follows.
Santana stares at her, looking so furious that Quinn finds herself giggling.
“Whatever,” Santana says after a moment, so grumpy that it’s adorable. She takes one more look at Quinn, before she moves to the open exit. “I don’t know what the friggin rush is. Do I even want to know what kind of bar Kurt and Rachel consider cool?"
*********
Quinn isn’t sure why she is at all surprised that the answer to that question is a piano bar in New York near the NYADA campus called ‘Callbacks’. It’s filled the brim, and the minute they’re within sight of it, Rachel squeals and begins an animated conversation with both Brody and Kurt about the songs they’re going to sing when they get there.
Bringing up the rear, palm curled into Quinn’s elbow, Santana could not look more disgusted. She stops immediately, and emits a noise that could be a squawk or something that sounds very much like the snort that the horse she rode during her childhood equestrian classes made when he disagreed with her.
“We’re at a Karaoke Bar for New Years?” she asks, brow arched so high on her head it nearly disappears. “Tell me this is a joke.”
Quinn doesn’t have the heart to break it to her that this is all entirely sincere. She simply squeezes her hand, and offers a smirk. “Not what you had in mind?”
Rachel glances back and notices. She’s beautiful tonight. Her hair is curled in a wispy way that frames her face perfectly, and her eyes are dark and shining. She smiles and it’s a little breathtaking, before she hops over a puddle of melting snow that looks slushy enough to slip in. She grabs hold of both of their wrists and pulls, dragging them towards the madness.
“Welcome to New York, Santana,” she says, broad and stunning and looking so at home it’s disconcerting. “You’re gonna love it here.”
At the very least, it gets them walking. Rachel only lets go when Brody curls an arm around her waist, picking her up as If she were a newborn kitten and hauling her to the entrance of the bar.
“She’s demented,” Santana breathes, but there’s something in her eyes as she watches the dramatic trio in front of them.
For Quinn, the world stills.
On Christmas Eve she was alone in New Haven. There’s so much anger inside of her that it overtakes her so easily along with her bitterness. And yet… not nearly two weeks later it’s New Year’s Eve.
Quinn is in New York City and it’s frigid. Around her there are shouts of laughter and cars that honk. Quinn blinks when a snowflake lands daintily on her eyelid.
In front of her is the laughing, gorgeous form of Rachel Berry, who held her when she cried and told her it was okay to be scared. Beside her is Santana, who curls into her for warmth and support, who looks at her with a disturbed smile that is so quintessentially her.
Quinn’s confusion persists, but there is something inside her that settles in a way that makes it feel less like confusion and more like hope.
Quinn has been called evil, selfish, manipulative and callous so many times.
She wasn’t sure when she stared believing that could be true.
It’s not. Quinn is not without faults, but she has her strengths too.
She’s alive and well on New Years Eve, with friends who love her, despite everything she has chosen to be and not to be.
“Quinn?”
She meets Santana’s uncertain expression with a whisper and a grin. “She’s also right.”
It’s enough. Tonight, it’s enough.
*********
It’s only when they’ve managed to squeeze together at a tiny table that should realistically only seat four, that Kurt turns to them both and lays his elbows on the table.
"Okay, Satan,” he begins, all business despite the near shout -level decibel he has to keep his voice in the noisy piano bar. “Considering the … incidents that have already happened...” His eyes flicker accusingly between Quinn and Santana.
Quinn supposes it’s the magic of New Years that makes it so easy not to care that Santana is practically in her lap. There are legitimate reasons for the way Santana is curled into her side - there’s not much room. But she supposes that if she had to logically give a purpose for why her arm crosses over back of Santana’s chair, allowing the other woman to practically sink in against her, she wouldn’t have one other than she wants her close.
Santana smells good. She feels good. And Quinn has a promise; a reprieve that tonight is a night without consequence. There is no Brittany or David or harsh choices or smart decisions. There is only desire and want and the simple pleasure of being with someone she is attracted to; someone she loves; someone she trusts.
Rachel stares at her, clearly trying to say something with those large doe eyes, but the atmosphere of this little Piano Bar is joyous and freeing. Quinn lets her stare, as her fingers curl and rub affectionately and rhythmically against Santana’s shoulder.
A warm palm is already on her leg, spread possessively and intimately against her thigh. It squeezes, molding into Quinn’s muscles with heat and an addicting tingle that shoots up her leg.
“It’s time to talk Ground Rules,” Kurt snaps, looking a little exasperated. Quinn snorts, but the smile falters when he opens his jacket pocket and produces what looks like an actual scroll, bound by dainty little leather straps.
The scroll is unrolled before them, skidding to a stop as it flows over the wood.
“What the hell is this?” Santana asks, and Quinn curiously reaches forward with her free hand, bringing it over to their side of the table. There is an extreme amount of calligraphy on the lilac-colored page.
“It’s a contract.”
Santana, clearly suspicious, lifts her hand off of Quinn’s thigh to reach for the paper. She shoots Quinn a look that practically screams annoyance, and brings the offending article to her nose. “It’s scented!”
Quinn can’t help but huff in amused disbelief. Kurt is unrepentant. “That loft is our sanctuary, and it can be yours if you just abide by the rules.”
Santana drops the paper. Quinn, always an avid reader, picks it up gamely. "Okay, hold up, Lady Hummel. I never said I was living with you two."
Rachel, happily settled on Brody’s lap, gives Santana a look that reminds Quinn very much of an adult speaking to a child. “Santana, come on. You know you belong here.”
Quinn rolls her eyes. She continues to scan the roommate contract, and purses her lips at the prose. It begins, interestingly enough, like a mock declaration of independence.
When in the Course of human co-habitation, it becomes necessary for one people to acknowledge the bonds of friendship which have connected them with another, a decent respect to the opinions of the other...
“Shouldn’t that be my decision?”
Quinn keeps reading, skimming past the flowery declaration that makes no sense, except for the part where Rachel and Kurt declare themselves platonic soul mates forever, and moves on to the aforementioned Ground Rules.
“And it is,” Rachel’s tone is adorably patronizing, though Quinn is pretty sure Santana won’t appreciate the cuteness of it. “But if you decide on living here-”
An unexpected chortle breaks out of her mouth. “Rule 9 is that every Thursday you watch Rupaul’s Drag Race and then debate the winner.”
“That’s non-negotiable.”
Santana’s hand once again lands on her thigh, though the squeeze she delivers seems less affectionate and more a plea for sanity. “Are you serious? Even Donkey the Ken Doll?”
Brody opens his mouth and then closes it, head lowering in what Quinn can only presume is shame. Her suspicions are proven correct when Rachel wordlessly pulls out her cellphone and cheekily flashes them a picture of the very handsome Brody, posing quite prettily in one of Rachel’s dresses, puckering his cherry red made-up lips and batting his impeccable gorgeous false eyelashes.
“Wow,” she laughs, and Brody sighs in defeat.
“Dude, where are your balls?!” Santana squeaks.
“I get really drunk on Thursday nights,” he admits.
It’s clear that Santana one step away from either going ‘All Lima Heights’ or slipping into a catatonic shock. "I think I need to get really drunk right now.”
It’s a rare occasion where Quinn can understand Santana’s pain. “I’m on that,” she says, pressing reassuringly against Santana’s shoulder before she begins the tricky process of scooting out her chair.
“I’ll go with you!” Brody says quickly, ready for a break from the embarrassment.
“See? That’s my fucking girl,” Santana quips proudly, which Quinn supposes is just as good as thank you. The palming slap she receives on the ass, however, is less than complimentary.
Quinn nearly trips on the chair. She whirls, ready to deliver an affronted glare but Santana only smiles and blows her a sweet little kiss. “Love you, Q.”
What a bitchy brat.
And yet she still grabs her purse and turns on her heel, ready to head in the general direction of the bar. “Which brings up Clause #1: Sex in the Loft,” she hears.
“Holy shit - are you kidding me?”
“There are drapes instead of doors,” Kurt snaps. “We do not kid about this.”
“QUINN!” Santana cries after her desperately. “I need like… five shots.”
*********
Yes, absolutely, there is a freedom that’s associated with tonight, and Quinn is fully aware that she has own rationalization about acting purely on will without worrying about the consequences. It’s the magic of New Year’s Eve.
Despite that, Quinn has no wish for the resurgence of Weepy!Santana OR Angry!Quinn.
Instead of ice cold Patron shots, she chooses to order Santana a Cadillac Margarita, and sticks with her usual glass of wine. But the bar is packed with thirsty drinkers, and the bartenders are overloaded. She and Brody can only wait patiently until they can be noticed.
“So is she always that… spirited?”
Rachel’s boyfriend is looking quizzically back at the table, where Quinn discovers Santana with the scroll now crumpled in her hand, and a lighter underneath it, shouting empathically in Spanish. Kurt and Rachel are squealing, lunging for their precious contract.
“No,” she admits, but she can’t help the smile on her face, as Santana abandons the lighter and instead reaches for a tube of lipstick. “This is actually her subdued. I’m actually kind of amazed that she’s taking this so… calmly.”
Santana smears a line of red across the parchment, shaking her head emphatically. Kurt nearly faints. “This is calm?!”
Santana crosses out yet another line of the contract she doesn’t agree with, and Rachel’s jaw drops open. “Let’s just put it this way,” Quinn says, attempting to sound reasonable. “If freshman year Santana time traveled to now, and realized that she was about to cohabitate with Kurt Hummel and Rachel Berry? There wouldn’t need to be an intervention because she would have already checked herself into an asylum.”
Brody frowns. “Rachel and Kurt are cool though.”
“Rachel and Kurt are very cool,” she agrees immediately. “Unfortunately, Santana and I didn’t always quite see it that way.”
The bartender finally sees them, and Quinn places her order, alongside Brody who goes for the typical beer on tap for himself and two Cosmos for Rachel and Kurt.
Quinn watches the bartender work, oddly fascinated with the easy way he reaches for the glasses, digs for ice and begins pouring.
“So how long have you and Santana been together?”
Her blood runs cold. Quinn’s head whips, pinning Brody with such a flabbergasted stare she seems him literally step back in surprise.
“Santana and I aren’t together,” she says immediately.
“Oh…” Brody licks his lips and shifts his gaze, clearly trying to look anywhere but right at her.
“I’m not gay,” she feels the need to say rather emphatically.
Brody blinks, and yes, it sounds ridiculous, because as far as Brody knows, she was nearly knuckle-deep in Santana just the night before, and there is an open door policy because Santana and Quinn can’t be trusted not to maul each other in the bathroom. And she has been attached at the hip with Santana since this morning, and yes, they are now standing at the bar getting drinks for their girls, and …
Dammit.
“Allright,” he says, and drums his hand on the bar, looking very thankful when his beer is being sloshed toward him. “That’s cool.” He nods mechanically. Quinn has no idea what to say. Brody takes a swig and apparently can’t quite stand the uncomfortable silence. “I mean I guess I just assumed-“
“-I’m confused.” Quinn blinks, and mentally groans, because that was a very unintentional word vomit.
To his credit, Brody takes it in stride. “Fair enough.”
Quinn stares, but Brody’s expression doesn’t change. He just simply regards her, and continues to drink his beer, like she’s just told him the latest superbowl score… or whatever it is guys talk about.
At the table, Kurt has finally regained possession of his scroll, and is rerolling the stained parchment for safekeeping. He’s pointing a finger angrily at Santana, and Rachel apparently has given up altogether. Her head is literally flat against the table.
Santana shrugs at them stonily. Rachel, without lifting her head, raises her hand, as if she’s waiting to be called on.
Santana’s eyes shift and capture hers. She arches a brow, but the smirk she gives is quiet and secret, as if it’s reserved for Quinn and Quinn alone.
Quinn’s insides flutter. She inhales unsteadily. “I just… things are happening really, really fast,” she admits quietly. Brody’s lips quirk, but he nods silently. Quinn’s fingers twist against each other as she leans against the bar. “And I’m not sure if they should happen, but I also don’t know…” Quinn hesitates. Brody isn’t Kurt, or Rachel. He isn’t going to bring up Brittany, or Quinn’s sexuality or she and Santana’s nasty habit of dissolving into slapfights. He doesn’t know any of that.
Quinn doesn’t know why it makes it easier, but it does. “I just love her.” She once again spares a glance for Santana. Her gorgeous best friend has apparently gotten control of her temper; she has reached over the table and is attempting to fluff Kurt’s carefully made up pompadour. He’s batting her away like she’s a gnat. “Lately I’ve been realizing how much.”
“Well yeah, I mean… that’s obvious.”
The quiet introspection dissipates immediately. Quinn immediately turns her attention back to Brody. “What’s obvious?”
Brody is in a middle of another gulp, and he puts up a finger, signaling for patience before he exhales in satisfaction and continues conversationally, “That you love her.”
Holy fuck. “That’s obvious?” she squeaks.
He frowns, head tilting as he considers it. “Pretty obvious,” he says easily, shrugging as if this isn’t absolutely devastating.
And it is. It’s devastating. Quinn suddenly feels so exposed she may as well be naked. Her face flushes hot, and Quinn seeks shelter, turning into the bar and burying her head in her hands. “Shit.”
“Hey, it’s cool.” A heavy, male hand lands on her shoulder, patting awkwardly. Brody’s odd attempt at comfort.
“It’s cool?” she hisses, head lifting to glare at him.
“Yeah!” he says, because he’s an idiot. “It’s cool. So you love her. What’s the big deal?”
Her champagne is finally placed in front of her, along with Santana’s margarita. Quinn hastily hands over her card and with trembling hands, reaches for the glass thankfully.
“You obviously do not know our history,” she mutters.
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he muses. Quinn’s eyes narrows, but he only smiles his big dopey handsome smile, unaffected. “Maybe you need someone who doesn’t know you or your history to tell you that what you’re feeling is okay.” Quinn doesn’t quite know how to respond. That seems to be okay. Brody clinks his beer against her glass companionably, and continues softly, “Everyone gets confused Quinn. But love is love, and everyone deserves to be happy. And honestly?” he adds, straightening and puffing out that big burly chest of his. “It’s pretty obvious that that girl loves you right back.”
It’s inappropriately wise and deep, considering the source. “What are you, some kinda hot stud Yoda?”
“Me?” Brody’s breath flushes out between his pursed lips and shakes his head emphatically. “Nah. That was from a monologue I memorized for a workshop.” Quinn’s eyes close, and her shoulders shake in relieved mirth. “I mean I had to change a couple of the pronouns, but… it’s deep, right?”
Quinn exhales, laughing in exasperation and resigned amusement. “Yeah, it’s deep.”
“Cool,” he says, obviously proud of himself. He grabs hold of Rachel and Kurt’s cosmos, and then glances at her own two drinks. “Want me to get take that for you?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He smiles, ready to turn when a hand smacks him hard on his shoulder. Quinn straightens, confused until she sees Santana come around him, placing herself neatly between herself and Brody.
“That’ll do, Donkey. That’ll do.”
Santana’s hand slips around her waist, and Quinn frowns as Santana pulls at her, nestling Quinn firmly into her side. She doesn’t even look at Quinn as she does it. Her brown eyes are firmly fixed on Brody.
Quinn frowns, unsure what to make of it. Brody appears to be in the same boat. “What?”
Santana lips purse. Her elbow rests against the bar, and she makes an actual show of inspecting Brody from head to toe before she huffs, unimpressed. “The only fun Rachel is a drunk Rachel,” she announces without preamble. “So how ‘bout you stop getting all up on my girl Quinn here, and get your girl some booze?”
Holy crap, Santana’s jealous.
Startled, Brody offers Quinn a wild glance before he immediately begins shaking his head. “I wasn’t-“
Santana’s brow rises in challenge. Her arm only tightens around Quinn, staking her claim.
Quinn isn’t sure if she’s annoyed or pleased, but what she is sure of is that this is not a battle Brody is quite up for, especially considering the way the last battle of wills between Santana and Brody turned out. When he stares at her for obvious help, she only shakes her head in subtle warning.
He takes the hint. “Right… I’m gonna take these to Rachel and Kurt.”
“Yes, you do that,” Santana says, and keeps her gaze pinned on him until he physically turns from them. “Fiona and Lord Farquad are waiting.”
Even as Brody leaves, Santana’s possessive hold doesn’t give. She merely rearranges herself to better reach the bar, taking her margarita with a happy smirk. “Fuck, that’s good.”
Quinn regards her, watches in the lowlight of the bar how Santana seems suddenly innocent and sweet, wrinkling her nose at the taste of the tequila and offering her a happy squeeze.
“He wasn’t hitting on me,” she says flatly.
“Pfft,” Santana says, rolling her eyes at her presumed naivety. “Whatever. That dude is sketchy. I don’t like him.”
Quinn reaches for her champagne and takes a resigned sip. “Please don’t be one of those man hating lesbians,” she sighs.
Santana offers an indignant huff. “Offensive!” she snaps. “I don’t hate all men! Just the ones who are macking on my girl.”
There it is again. Quinn’s heart jumps in that agonizing, annoying way. It goes right into her throat, and Quinn’s eyes close for a brief moment, before she gains the strength to swallow it back into place. “You keep saying that,” she says carefully, easily. “You have no girls, Santana,” she reminds her flatly.
She stares hard at Santana, but Santana keeps her gaze on her margarita. She raises the salted glass to her lips and drinks for a long time. “Who says I don’t?” Santana asks in a husky, uneven tone.
Quinn’s lips press together.
Santana waits, and suddenly her expression changes. “Fine,” she says after a moment, and removes her arm from Quinn. “God, Sorry.”
“Santana-“
“I said Sorry! Shit.”
She could start a fight now. She could outright accuse Santana of jealousy; accuse her of unfairly painting Brody in a bad light. She could resent the way Santana took hold of her and demand some sort of explanation. She could tell Santana that this isn’t fair, because they haven’t figured any of it out, and who says she has any right to want Quinn right now when she obviously still wants Brittany?
She could do so many things.
Their night will end in a fight, as usual. They will scream at each other and hurt each other and never resolve anything.
They’ll probably slap each other again. Quinn will board that New Haven-bound train angry and resentful, and when David calls, she will probably answer, falling back into her bitterness and resigned apathy.
It’s tempting even now, because at least THEN Quinn will understand how this will all turn out.
“It’s just a fucking joke, Quinn,” Santana snaps, because Quinn still hasn’t said anything and it’s clearly affecting her. “Go flirt with as many plastic Ken blow up dolls as you want, okay?”
“Oh will you get over yourself?!” Quinn angrily retorts, because she can’t help but get really pissed off.
“You first,” Santana snarls, and Quinn winces in frustration, because here they go again.
“Love, love, love.” The piano has begun to play, and with it is a blend of familiar voices that catch Quinn’s attention. She glances up towards the stage, and discovers Brody, Rachel and Kurt crowded on the small stage. Brody’s smile is broad, and his smile is for her as he winks in their direction. “Love, love, love.”
“There's nothing you can do that can't be done,” Rachel begins with that gorgeous voice of hers. “Nothing you can sing that can't be sung - Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game,” she leans back into her studly boyfriend. “It's easy!”
Quinn blinks, unsure what to think of it.
Santana seems to agree. “Are they kidding?!” She huffs in disbelief.
“All you need is love,” Kurt croons, arm slung around Rachel. “All you need is love.”
It’s… sweet.
“No,” Quinn says, unexpected laughter coating her words. “I don’t think they are.” And God, it makes sense.
Yes, Santana is a jealous, possessive bitch when she has absolutely no right to be, this is absolutely true.
But she loves her. And it’s New Year’s Eve.
And so Quinn exhales slowly, and places her champagne back on the bar. “Santana,” she whispers, just loud enough for only her friend to hear. Dark brown eyes stare curiously at her, somehow unsure and a little afraid, if Quinn really wants to look for that emotion.
Quinn decides.
She leans in, eyes fluttering closed as her forehead tips against Santana’s brow, soaking in the words as her friends sing. Santana exhales, nearly trembles against her, as Quinn just breathes her in.
Quinn’s forehead tilts, just until her lips brush softly against Santana’s mouth.
“All you need is love, love, love. Love is all you need.”
She will let Santana claim her, if only for this one night.
But Quinn is selfish, and she has one caveat.
In exchange, she’ll give in to temptation and claim her right back.