FIC: Got You Stuck On My Body (Like a Tattoo) (10/?)
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 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Part Ten. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 3
It’s an absolute miracle that the bathroom is empty. Callbacks is a small bar and so it comes with an even smaller ladies room. For some odd reason, the fates have decided to finally be kind. As Rachel leads Quinn through the door and into the surprisingly well kept toilet room, with its two regular and one handicapped stalls, there is only one woman drying her hands. She flashes them both a small smile before scurrying around them and towards the exit.
As she drifts through the open doorway, Santana’s haunting melody floats in. Quinn swallows hard and decides it must not be fate so much as the magnetism of Santana’s performance that keeps the bathroom empty and the Callbacks audience transfixed.
She ducks her head and heads into a stall, losing her strength the moment she sits down.
Outside, she hears Rachel’s quiet shuffles, ready and waiting for the moment that Quinn emerges after … collecting herself.
It makes her want to stay in this stupid toilet stall for as long as she can.
“It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down the rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--...”
It’s kinda funny, the way the quote comes without prompting, popping into her head like a misguided narrator.
Quinn takes a breath to steel her insides before matter-of-factly reaching for the cheap toilet paper, taking more than she needs as she lifts herself on shaky legs and cleans herself.
It’s privately mortifying, the way that tissue slides so easily through the wetness, nearly skidding against her most intimate parts.
“Quinn…”
She sucks in a trembling breath, glancing up sharply at the closed stall. Through the slight opening between the door and the stall, she catches a glimpse of Rachel, who leans her hip against the sink and awkwardly checks her make up in the mirror.
“I’ll be right out,” she calls out with a hoarse voice.
The tears that threatened to spill over so easily have receded at least, and for that she’s grateful. Away from the melodic haunt of Santana’s voice, Quinn’s aching heart seems to manage.
She finishes, flushing the toilet and straightening her posture as she heads out of the stall and towards the sink. She doesn’t speak as she starts methodically washing her hands, but she can’t help but be aware of the way Rachel is staring.
She glances up and catches the worried reflection in the mirror.
“Don’t,” she says immediately, the moment Rachel’s mouth starts to open.
Rachel blinks. She takes a moment, and then her mouth shuts and her arms cross. “Don’t what?”
The alcohol that rushes through her has lost its buzz, but her tendency to anger licks at her subconscious.
“Don’t say anything,” Quinn snaps, because she doesn’t need it. She doesn’t need Rachel following her and getting her alone and speaking to every single doubt festering in her head, giving those thoughts life and power.
But Rachel surprises her. A strong chin comes up and Rachel merely comes up beside her and turns on the tap to the sink beside her, joining her in washing her hands. “What is there exactly to say?”
Quinn’s actions momentarily stall. Rachel continues washing her hands, pressing the tab for the soap and rubbing it over here palms. “Quinn, honestly? I’m kinda at a loss for words.” Rachel’s eyes lift up and catch Quinn’s in the reflection in the mirror. “Well I’m still a little drunk,” she admits, in a way that would be funny in any other situation, “And one of my friends was literally actually fingering one of my other friends at a table less than a foot away from me,” she explains, and Quinn feels the heat immediately rise on her cheeks, making her flush horribly. “So … my mind is a little blown right now.”
Yeah…
Quinn looks up and regards herself - this Alice in the mirror. “Well, that makes two of us.”
She meant to keep Rachel’s light tone, to match it with her own, because what can she honestly say in response? She doesn’t succeed. Rachel’s eyes grow somber, and she regards her in that careful way that tells Quinn she has revealed too much.
The door opens suddenly, bringing with it a rousing burst of applause that tells Quinn immediately that Santana has finished her song. The woman who has come in hesitates, looking at them and the stalls.
“We’re not waiting,” Quinn says, and nods in their direction. The girl smiles gratefully and immediately locks herself in the nearest.
It’s awkward, listening to a stranger pee.
Rachel sidles in closer, until she’s pressed in gently to Quinn’s side. “You don’t know that she was singing that song to Brittany, Quinn.” She’s speaking low and quiet for Quinn’s benefit, but it’s a ridiculous statement and Quinn finds herself scoffing with irritation.
“Who was she singing it to?” she asks, shooting Rachel an exasperated look. “Me?”
Rachel stares at her. “Sometimes a song is just a song.”
“Is a song ever just a song to you, Rachel?”
It’s a valid point, and it shuts Rachel up, because Rachel understands. Rachel sang sonnets and ballads every week to Finn, pouring her soul out to him on a weekly, if not daily, basis.
The girl emerges, and Rachel and Quinn shift, allowing her to wash her hands. She looks at them both and offers another awkward smile. “Happy New Year!”
They respond in kind, and she leaves after a moment of quick primping, an action so uncomplicated Quinn envies her.
“Look, this is none of my business,” Rachel says, breaking into the quiet after the stranger’s exit. “But Quinn… you’re falling in love with her.” Quinn’s posture stiffens. She presses her lips together, and it’s all she can do to keep from choking at the way her heart jumps into her throat. “And I think you know that.”
Rachel’s ventured into her own form of resignation, like this is inevitable. Somehow, it makes Quinn smile - a painful twerk of her lips that feels almost like a relief. “It’s kinda funny, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Growing up,” she answers, and thinks of Alice and the rabbit hole, and Brittany and Santana, with their linked pinkies and unicorn hats. She thinks of Beth; her one perfect thing. “You think falling in love is this magical thing. You would love them. They would love you. Like a Disney movie,” she whispers, and the image returns of Brittany and her Disney DVDs, happily hopping on the couch and bouncing on Santana’s lap as she forces Quinn to choose. “A happy ending. A fairy tale. No one ever warned any of us it would be this terrifying.”
The statement dies in the thickness of the air that stays stagnant in the bathroom. Rachel absorbs that thought quietly, until she shifts beside Quinn and shrugs. “Well maybe that’s the point.” When Quinn lifts her head to eye her quizzically, Rachel adds, “If it wasn’t so terrifying, then what would be the point in feeling it?”
Quinn wishes she knew. It’s not until a hand brushes a ragged bit of paper towel against her cheek that she realizes that she has begun to tear up.
Rachel moves in closer, and it’s like an echo of junior prom, the way she tenderly smiles and presses that paper to absorb the moisture on Quinn’s cheek. “You deserve happiness, Quinn.”
The door pushes open once again, but it is no stranger that catches the intimate moment.
Santana, pupils dilated and hair mussed, stares at them both, eyes moving from Quinn to Rachel, to the way they are pressed so tightly together.
“What the hell is this?”
It’s hard at first, to process what exactly Santana is reacting to. They’re pressed together so intimately… and Rachel understands that implication, because she backs up just a bit, eyes widening as she does so. Quinn has no strength to move. She is still so fragile, tender in the way only Rachel has really ever seen, and there isn’t time for the walls to come back up. Her eyes are still teary, her mouth still trembles and maybe that’s all Santana sees, because she stares wildly between them before suddenly launching forward like an attacking cat.
“What the fuck did you do to her, Berry?”
As Santana shoves herself in between them, nearly flattening Rachel against the wall with the force and playing a palm flat against her moist cheek, Quinn dizzily realizes that Santana isn’t JEALOUS of the intimate moment… she’s furious on her own behalf.
“What did I do to her?!” Rachel asks pointedly. She sounds incredulous.
Dark eyes seek her own with something that looks like panic. Santana’s mouth is pursed, her cheeks flushed and her upper lip a little sweaty, probably from the glaring lights of the stage. Dazed from her emotion and the buzz from the alcohol that never quite went away, Quinn almost leans forward to tongue at the droplets.
“Yes, Idiot, what the hell did you do to her?!” Santana snaps. “Five minutes ago she was smiling and happy and now she’s in this dingy crap room crying!”
“Five minutes ago you had your fingers in her-“
“Rachel!” she hisses, because even SHE knows where that sentence is going, and there’s no need to name what was, apparently, all too obvious to everyone seated at that table.
But she has to commend Rachel: it’s enough to shut Santana up. The other woman absorbs the statement, looking actually a little stupid for a second before her brain catches up and she makes the connection.
Rachel’s chin lifts defiantly when Santana’s jaw literally drops.
Santana’s eyes lock with Quinn’s, but her reaction is surprising. Well, maybe it isn’t, because Santana is shameless. “Then maybe the Green Fairy should have let me finish.”
Rachel’s eyes nearly roll out of her head. Quinn, exhausted and somehow unable to truly think with the way Santana’s hand lingers on her distractedly, can only manage a quiet, teary guffaw.
Really, all she can do is laugh.
Santana takes notice. Her touch becomes familiarly possessive as she slides her hand around Quinn’s waist before reaching for a clean and dry hand towel. “Seriously, Rachel. What did you say?!“
That accusing tone is still there, like RACHEL is to blame for this, and really, how on earth is Santana somehow both so intelligent and crushingly dense at the exact same time?!
It’s time she interjected herself into the conversation. “Santana, Rachel didn’t do anything to me other than be a friend.”
Once again, Santana stares at her searchingly, trying to unlock a puzzle of which there is no solution. “I’m your friend too, Quinn,” she says, so quietly it smacks of ridiculous insecurity.
The tiny moment of vulnerability does little to ease Quinn’s aching heart, and she grasps for the anger that keeps her standing. “Well you were otherwise occupied, weren’t you?”
“Not by choice!”
“I’m going to go back outside.” In the brief moment since she has last spoken, Rachel has actually managed to almost reach the door. It’s disconcerting, how easily Quinn lost track of her. Her eyes go soft in unspoken apology to Rachel, but her friend just flashes her a surprisingly tender smile back. “I’ve been asked to sing Auld Lang Syne and I need to get a lemon tea to loosen up my vocal chords to do it justice. My NYADA peers can be my harshest critics so I really need to be on top of my game.” As she regards them, the way Santana still holds her, the way Quinn has pressed herself into Santana’s side, her smile softens. “Take care of her, Santana.”
God, the way Rachel delivers that, Quinn can actually FEEL herself being transported into a forties black and white war flick dripping with gravitas and dramatics and Rachel selflessly giving her away at the altar to a mustache-twirling villain named Santiago.
She loves Rachel, but it takes actual effort to not roll her eyes.
“Rachel-“ Santana begins.
Rachel expels a distinctly annoyed sigh as she whirls and stares down their mutual friend. “What, Santana?”
Santana doesn’t respond at first, but when she does, it’s to offer an awkwardly gentle, “Good luck following that act.”
The line could be cutting but instead it comes off affectionate. This is Santana attempting to apologize for jumping to conclusions by offering to return to their normal, weirdly competitive friendship.
At the very least, that’s how Rachel seems to take it. “Please,” she huffs. “Like there’s any competition. There was only one star of Glee Club, and you’re looking at her. Prepare to get schooled, Santana Lopez.”
Santana arches a brow. “Looking forward to it, Fiona.” Their eyes meet, and some kind of understanding is met, before Rachel flounces out of the bathroom. The pep is back in her step, and it’s nice to see.
But Rachel’s exit leaves her alone with Santana, and though Santana is focused on watching Rachel leave, Quinn discovers she has no such urge. It’s nice that Santana isn’t looking at her. It gives Quinn freedom to linger on the perfect profile of the oddly subdued face.
The party has resumed outside, undeterred by Santana’s attempts to ‘slow it down’. Even through the closed door, the sounds of the bar float in easily. She hears laughter and the clink of glasses, the beat of the music that is meant to infect the party goers with euphoria.
Santana breathes in noisily, but the breath is caught in her throat when she shifts back and notices Quinn’s eyes on her. “What?” Santana asks when she catches her staring.
Quinn remembers the way Santana looked on that stage, effortlessly captivating and gorgeous. “You sounded amazing up there, Santana,” she admits.
And yet, somehow, it’s the wrong thing to say. Santana’s apprehensive expression grows cold. “How would you know? You didn’t even hear it.”
She noticed then… that Quinn was gone.
“I heard enough,” she says thickly, eyes dropping to the tile.
There is a pregnant pause. “Did you?”
Her heart seizes in her chest. “Santana-“ she begins, her voice thick and weary.
“I got a hotel room.”
The statement strikes her literally stupid. “What?” is all she manages, the stubby word blurted out from her throat in a way that sounds more like a squawk than anything else.
“I just… we don’t have to do anything, okay?” Santana stammers, but already, Quinn’s head is swimming with images, positions… mouths- “But I swear to God if Kurt interrupts me one more time when I’m all up on you I’m going kill him and something tells me their idiotic roommate contract doesn’t include a homicide clause.”
She’s serious. Yes, she’s serious because that IS a hotel key card she has just pulled out from her cleavage, laminated with a very professional looking logo and stylish script that spells ‘EVENTI’.
Whatever THIS is…Santana apparently wants it badly enough to go through the trouble of booking a hotel room. In advance.
The thought makes her dizzy. She reaches blindly behind her for support from the porcelain sink. “Santana…”
She’s not sure if she’s hesitant or just stuck in disbelief, but looking at Santana doesn’t help at all.
Maybe the nerves are catching. The keycard in Santana’s hand fumbles, and she actually scrambles to try and catch it, clutching it against her chest like she just dropped a baby.
It’s so oddly vulnerable, so magnetically appealing.
“Look, it’s New Year’s Eve,” her friend huffs after a moment, her eyes deliberately on the dirty tile. “And all I have to show for it is a contract that Rachel and Kurt want me to sign in blood.”
That… is a stretch. “Blood.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding? It’s in fucking blood.” Santana says sharply, and continues to nervously fondle her slippery keycard. Slippery because of… sweaty nervous fingers? “And I’ve got one more night of freedom before I’m subjected… that full time.”
Quinn’s frame trembles. Though she’s never been as fluent in ‘Santana’ as she now admits she wishes she could have been, there are moments where she looks into those deep dark eyes and knows exactly what Santana is feeling. They are cut from the same mold, bitches on top crumpled in on themselves, and sometimes Quinn does wonder if that’s why there is so much… love here.
“So I take it that means you’ve decided you’re going to stay,” she manages. Santana’s lips press together silently. It’s stupid because she’s known all along that this is the best thing for Santana. Logically, Santana can’t hide in her tiny little dorm room forever. She has to make a choice - she has to choose New York. She has to choose herself.
But God… there’s a sadness now… an emptiness that tells her that Rachel and Brody are completely right and she’s infected herself and she’s IN LOVE with her. She’s IN LOVE with Santana, and it’s so different than being cut from the same mold and just loving her.
It’s so, so different.
“Quinn.” Quinn’s watery eyes lift, but just as Santana makes to continue whatever it is she’s going to say, a trio of girls laughingly stumble into the bathroom, nearly shoving Santana off her feet.
“Ow! What the fuck is wrong with you, Plastics?!”
“I’m so sorry!” one of them says, clearly drunk and apologetic. She immediately blinks at who she nearly ran over. “Oh my God, you are the gorgeous girl that sang that song! You were amazing!”
“Thanks,” Santana answers, in a distracted, choked voice that apparently only Quinn can hear. “But if you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of something with my girl here-“
Quinn swallows, sees those eyes now all directed at her. “Oh my GOD, yes!” one of them laughs, and gives them a thumbs up that looks actually creepy when paired with her lewd smile. “The performance before the performance!”
“That was so hot!” another one chirps and it’s infuriating how much she wants to kill them. “Seriously, you’re like the hottest lesbians here!”
“Seriously?” she sputters, and apparently that’s enough. Santana reaches forward and grabs hold of Quinn’s wrist, yanking to pull her through the scattering trio and out into the tiny hallway where the bathrooms are located.
It’s a change of scenery, at least. Quinn finds she is grateful for the absence of mirrors. With flaming cheeks, she presses back against the wall and tells herself to suck in a deep breath.
“Quinn.”
She sucks in air through her teeth, feeling her chest rise as her lungs expand with air. “What?” she asks and realizes that Santana has yet to actually let her go.
The fingers on her wrist tighten their grip, and she is tugged by Santana, manipulated gently until they’re chest to chest, shoulders pressed against the wall in that tiny hallway. “Will you just LOOK at me for like, a second?”
She doesn’t want to. She does anyway.
She sees a vulnerable brunette with moist brown eyes that look so small and insecure, and she’s staring at her with this… face… and these eyes… and GOD why was it ever a good idea to stare at Santana like this when she’s impaired by liquor?
Her lips are on Santana’s before she can quite stop herself. It rips a moan from her throat that would be embarrassing in any other situation, but somehow she can’t bring herself to care, not when Santana’s fingers tangle in her hair, head tilting to match her vibrant enthusiasm.
She gasps at the taste of her, lids fluttering as Santana breaks the kiss with a deep breath, head titled against her temple. “Quinn, you’re my homegirl,” she whispers, lips ghosting against her own. “And there’s a lot about this shitty year that I would want to take back, but you know what I realized this morning?”
Quinn simultaneously both cares and doesn’t. She closes the distance once again, burying her mouth against Santana’s, receiving a deep kiss in return before Santana once again breaks away. “Quinn just let me fucking say it.”
She shakes her head desperately. She can’t. She won’t. There’s a ticking clock above them, a man with a timer who tells her quite adamantly that whatever she has with her best friend - it’s borrowed. It’s part-time. It’s only one more night, and she doesn’t want to hear what Santana has to say because then it’ll be real and there will be CONSEQUENCES and what’s worse? What’s worse than falling in love with this unattainable, immovable force of nature?
And God, Santana just proves her point, because even though Quinn desperately wants her to shut up, fingers that actually SMELL LIKE HER touch Quinn’s face delicately and Santana whispers, “The one part I wouldn’t take back is that I’m here, right now, with you.”
It’s not fair. It’s NOT FAIR because how can she NOT fall in love?
Her eyes flutter closed, miserable in her own doubt. She feels the touch of Santana’s fingers, the way they so gently press in against her cheek, flit against her skin with such careful affection it’s hard to believe that it’s this hand that so often strikes against her face in anger.
The tears don’t seem to stop, but it’s almost okay, because Santana’s there to wipe each one away.
Her head tilts, until she’s pressed her lips to Santana’s shoulder, wrapped her arms around the slim feminine waist. They’re hugging - it’s so chaste compared to what they were doing before, and yet Santana holds her, keeps her steady in that little hallway.
Quinn feels the world drop away. A sharp corner against Santana’s cleavage brings her back to it.
Her heart thuds tellingly. “When did you even have time to run out and book a hotel room?” Her words are shaky, barely given breath against the bare skin of Santana’s shoulder.
“Don’t apply logic to Lopez,” she hears a trembling voice respond and her body shakes with weak laughter.
It’s kind of ridiculous that it’s at this exact moment that some nerd is now bouncing in front of the stage and trying to get the crowd to shout the chorus as he raps the lamest piano-bar recital of Pitbull’s ‘Hotel Room Service’ she’s ever heard. He’s got a British accent, which seems to make it even MORE ridiculous.
What’s even worse is that the NYADA crowd is actually really into it.
She lifts her head and offers Santana a watery smile. Santana’s brow quirks adorably. “So you in?”
Because that is exactly how Santana would proposition her for New Year’s sex.
Quinn can’t help but love her for it. Her head tilts and she presses one more lingering kiss against Santana’s seductive mouth. “Yeah,” she says, the moment she pulls back. “I’m in.”
****
“WE AT THE HOTEL-MOTEL! HOLIDAY INN! WE AT THE HOTEL-MOTEL HOLIDAY INN!”
Through the crowd, Quinn catches a glimpse of Rachel as she stands with Brody and Kurt. Her friend is giggling and laughing, shouting alongside the rest of the crowd as the British nerd on stage leads them through the song. Rachel stands with Brody and Kurt, giggling and laughing and shouting alongside the rest of the NYADA. It’s so crazy hyped with the excited New Year energy that Quinn actually feels pressed in because of it. She clasps Santana’s hand and lets her weave through the crowd, guiding them through the madness and toward the exit.
Santana pauses, searching for a way past the necking couple blocking their way. Quinn uses the opportunity to look toward her friends one more time.
By some miracle, she catches Rachel’s eye. Rachel looks, notes the way their hands are clasped, notes the LOOK in Quinn’s eyes.
Quinn knows she doesn’t have to tell her they won’t be there to see her sing.
But Rachel understands. All she does is smile and mouth a ‘Happy New Year’ to her.
Though her chest is tight, her heart soars. Quinn is tugged into moving forward by Santana, but she makes a point to glance back and wave her own good-bye to Rachel.
Rachel disappears into the crowd. All Quinn can do is look forward with Santana.
****
The Eventi hotel is located in Chelsea. It’s a boutique hotel that smacks of newness. Quinn’s fingers, tangled loosely with Santana’s, twitch as her steps falter, taking in the state of it. Santana’s heels clack against the speckled blood-red marble under their feet. When they pass the check in area, she notices the expensive wooden trim, topped with the cut marble trim. Men and women in pristine black uniforms offer them polite and friendly smiles, wishing them a Happy New Year.
Quinn has never considered herself wordly, but it’s disconcerting how awed she feels by this. This isn’t New Haven or a quaint B&B with animal rugs. This is pure New York, and it makes sense that Santana looks so at home here, moving past the crowded bar towards the swanky elevators.
A handsome guy, dark-haired and tall and exactly Quinn’s usual type, catches their attention and offers up his martini in greeting. “Evening ladies,” he calls out. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Santana stiffens beside her, and Quinn briefly wonders if it feels the same for Santana - to have her and not have her at the same time… to know that at any time there’s a professor at Yale who will be more than happy to stick a dick in her at the first opportunity.
“Listen, ass-“ she hears, but doesn’t bother to wait for the rest.
She cuts her off by pulling the other woman in closer, curling her arm around Santana’s waist and shaking her head in return. “No thanks,” she says firmly. “We’re going to have a New Year’s Celebration of our own.”
It’s a testament to the magic of this night that Quinn feels nothing but pride at the way he looks between her and Santana, and puts it together. “Nice!” he says, and gets jostled by his friends as he sloshes his martini. “Happy New Year’s, hot lesbians!”
Happy New Year, indeed.
****
In in a pristine hallway, off the 23rd floor, Santana Lopez inserts her keycard into room 2307. Quinn watches, her heart in a precarious place, as the lock clicks and the light flashes green, and then a slender wrists grabs hold of the handle and twists.
Santana wordlessly pushes into the dark hotel room.
Immediately that stupid song begins to blare in her mind, but the chorus quickly shuts off the second Santana flips on the lights.
It’s not a big room - Santana obviously still has her mother’s money, but Quinn has been impressed to know she hasn’t been frivolous with it. This is a boutique hotel, so the space in this room isn’t large, but the room is adequately furnished with antique looking furniture and a King-sized bed endowed with a pure white comforter and downy fluffy pillows.
Quinn’s wedges sink into the carpet as she glances up and notices with a fierce blush that there is a mirror facing the bed, full-length and nearly shameless with its placement.
“What do you think?”
Quinn blinks, finds herself laughing hesitantly as she notices Santana’s waiting expression - hopeful and unsure... like a kid on prom night.
It’s ridiculously adorable. Quinn continues moving until she discovers the marble-tiled bathroom, and notices with surprise that it’s as large as the bedroom. It has a spa-sized tub clearly built for two and one of those rain showers with dual heads.
This is a hotel room that was handmade for late nights and sex marathons.
Quinn’s nose wrinkles when she notices the zebra trim on the complimentary robes.
“How did you find this place?” she breathes when Santana follows her. She leans against the doorway, content it seems, to just let Quinn explore.
“What did I say about me and Logic?” Santana’s brow is arched, but the cockiness quickly fades at the look from Quinn. She crosses her arms and huffs, “I googled for it when you were out with Berry, what do you think?”
… Well.
Quinn feels her chest flutter - the arousal that simmers underneath her skin bubbles in her blood. “You that hard up to get laid, Lopez?” she teases, but her voice is husky.
Santana’s eyes lock with her own. Quinn notices the visible way her throat bobs, and it gives her an amazing feeling.
She feels suddenly sexy.
“This is about me not committing a hummellcide,” Santana says, as evenly as she can. “Aren’t you anti-murder?”
Quinn swivels on her heels and glances at the large duel sinks, sturdy and stylish, with tiny name brand bottles of shampoo, conditioner and lotion. “I’m anti-having to deal with him and his weird bathroom issues.”
She glances up to discover Santana smiling. “Come on,” Santana says after a moment, and lifts her hand for Quinn to grab. “I want to show you something.”
With a wary smile, Quinn obeys, clasping Santana’s hand and allowing the woman to lead her out of the bathroom to and towards the closed curtains of the bedroom. She switches off the lights on the way. “I paid for a cityview room,” Santana says, before tugging and letting New York into their room.
It’s breathtaking. Quinn gasps, eyes roving over the colorful lights of the city, the red and white of the cars that move below them.
She steps forward and places her fingers gently against the glass. Hands press in against her hips causing her breath to go uneven as Santana steps up behind her, curling into her back as they take in the view together.
“Wow.”
Lips press delicately against her ear, a tender and light kiss that sinks Quinn deeper into the woman that holds her. “Better than the fire escape at Rachel and Kurt’s shithole, right?” Santana whispers, breath hot on her neck.
Quinn shudders. Her nerves seem alight with anticipation, because she is very, very aware of that bed, and very very aware of the way Santana’s fingers press in on her abdomen, solid and warm.
Being held by her is nothing like being held by a man, and yet Quinn feels safe… cherished. Being held by Santana is almost like petting a wild tiger - deeply satisfying but also frightening, and the result is a maelstrom of emotion that only serves to heighten her awareness of Santana’s fingers and her lips that ghost along her jaw.
Still, she manages to reply flippantly, “It’s your shithole now, too.”
Santana groans, chin dropping against her shoulder. “God, don’t remind me.”
They fall silent. Before them, New York twinkles invitingly.
Quinn is always thinking… but as she stands here with Santana, she suddenly realizes that for once since this has begun, she can’t feel ghost of Brittany at all.
In this room, on this night, it’s just her and Santana. “Santana,” she breathes, and shuffles until she can tear her eyes from the view and focus instead on the beautiful face inches away from her own. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”
Santana absorbs that. Her dark eyes seem almost black and Quinn wonders briefly if that old cliché about drowning in someone’s gaze is actually true.
“Kiss me, Quinn.”
Helpless, in love, and drugged with lust, Quinn leans in and opens her mouth hungrily against Santana’s.
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 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Part Ten. But I’ll Only Stay Here One More Night, Pt. 3
It’s an absolute miracle that the bathroom is empty. Callbacks is a small bar and so it comes with an even smaller ladies room. For some odd reason, the fates have decided to finally be kind. As Rachel leads Quinn through the door and into the surprisingly well kept toilet room, with its two regular and one handicapped stalls, there is only one woman drying her hands. She flashes them both a small smile before scurrying around them and towards the exit.
As she drifts through the open doorway, Santana’s haunting melody floats in. Quinn swallows hard and decides it must not be fate so much as the magnetism of Santana’s performance that keeps the bathroom empty and the Callbacks audience transfixed.
She ducks her head and heads into a stall, losing her strength the moment she sits down.
Outside, she hears Rachel’s quiet shuffles, ready and waiting for the moment that Quinn emerges after … collecting herself.
It makes her want to stay in this stupid toilet stall for as long as she can.
“It was much pleasanter at home," thought poor Alice, "when one wasn't always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down the rabbit-hole--and yet--and yet--...”
It’s kinda funny, the way the quote comes without prompting, popping into her head like a misguided narrator.
Quinn takes a breath to steel her insides before matter-of-factly reaching for the cheap toilet paper, taking more than she needs as she lifts herself on shaky legs and cleans herself.
It’s privately mortifying, the way that tissue slides so easily through the wetness, nearly skidding against her most intimate parts.
“Quinn…”
She sucks in a trembling breath, glancing up sharply at the closed stall. Through the slight opening between the door and the stall, she catches a glimpse of Rachel, who leans her hip against the sink and awkwardly checks her make up in the mirror.
“I’ll be right out,” she calls out with a hoarse voice.
The tears that threatened to spill over so easily have receded at least, and for that she’s grateful. Away from the melodic haunt of Santana’s voice, Quinn’s aching heart seems to manage.
She finishes, flushing the toilet and straightening her posture as she heads out of the stall and towards the sink. She doesn’t speak as she starts methodically washing her hands, but she can’t help but be aware of the way Rachel is staring.
She glances up and catches the worried reflection in the mirror.
“Don’t,” she says immediately, the moment Rachel’s mouth starts to open.
Rachel blinks. She takes a moment, and then her mouth shuts and her arms cross. “Don’t what?”
The alcohol that rushes through her has lost its buzz, but her tendency to anger licks at her subconscious.
“Don’t say anything,” Quinn snaps, because she doesn’t need it. She doesn’t need Rachel following her and getting her alone and speaking to every single doubt festering in her head, giving those thoughts life and power.
But Rachel surprises her. A strong chin comes up and Rachel merely comes up beside her and turns on the tap to the sink beside her, joining her in washing her hands. “What is there exactly to say?”
Quinn’s actions momentarily stall. Rachel continues washing her hands, pressing the tab for the soap and rubbing it over here palms. “Quinn, honestly? I’m kinda at a loss for words.” Rachel’s eyes lift up and catch Quinn’s in the reflection in the mirror. “Well I’m still a little drunk,” she admits, in a way that would be funny in any other situation, “And one of my friends was literally actually fingering one of my other friends at a table less than a foot away from me,” she explains, and Quinn feels the heat immediately rise on her cheeks, making her flush horribly. “So … my mind is a little blown right now.”
Yeah…
Quinn looks up and regards herself - this Alice in the mirror. “Well, that makes two of us.”
She meant to keep Rachel’s light tone, to match it with her own, because what can she honestly say in response? She doesn’t succeed. Rachel’s eyes grow somber, and she regards her in that careful way that tells Quinn she has revealed too much.
The door opens suddenly, bringing with it a rousing burst of applause that tells Quinn immediately that Santana has finished her song. The woman who has come in hesitates, looking at them and the stalls.
“We’re not waiting,” Quinn says, and nods in their direction. The girl smiles gratefully and immediately locks herself in the nearest.
It’s awkward, listening to a stranger pee.
Rachel sidles in closer, until she’s pressed in gently to Quinn’s side. “You don’t know that she was singing that song to Brittany, Quinn.” She’s speaking low and quiet for Quinn’s benefit, but it’s a ridiculous statement and Quinn finds herself scoffing with irritation.
“Who was she singing it to?” she asks, shooting Rachel an exasperated look. “Me?”
Rachel stares at her. “Sometimes a song is just a song.”
“Is a song ever just a song to you, Rachel?”
It’s a valid point, and it shuts Rachel up, because Rachel understands. Rachel sang sonnets and ballads every week to Finn, pouring her soul out to him on a weekly, if not daily, basis.
The girl emerges, and Rachel and Quinn shift, allowing her to wash her hands. She looks at them both and offers another awkward smile. “Happy New Year!”
They respond in kind, and she leaves after a moment of quick primping, an action so uncomplicated Quinn envies her.
“Look, this is none of my business,” Rachel says, breaking into the quiet after the stranger’s exit. “But Quinn… you’re falling in love with her.” Quinn’s posture stiffens. She presses her lips together, and it’s all she can do to keep from choking at the way her heart jumps into her throat. “And I think you know that.”
Rachel’s ventured into her own form of resignation, like this is inevitable. Somehow, it makes Quinn smile - a painful twerk of her lips that feels almost like a relief. “It’s kinda funny, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Growing up,” she answers, and thinks of Alice and the rabbit hole, and Brittany and Santana, with their linked pinkies and unicorn hats. She thinks of Beth; her one perfect thing. “You think falling in love is this magical thing. You would love them. They would love you. Like a Disney movie,” she whispers, and the image returns of Brittany and her Disney DVDs, happily hopping on the couch and bouncing on Santana’s lap as she forces Quinn to choose. “A happy ending. A fairy tale. No one ever warned any of us it would be this terrifying.”
The statement dies in the thickness of the air that stays stagnant in the bathroom. Rachel absorbs that thought quietly, until she shifts beside Quinn and shrugs. “Well maybe that’s the point.” When Quinn lifts her head to eye her quizzically, Rachel adds, “If it wasn’t so terrifying, then what would be the point in feeling it?”
Quinn wishes she knew. It’s not until a hand brushes a ragged bit of paper towel against her cheek that she realizes that she has begun to tear up.
Rachel moves in closer, and it’s like an echo of junior prom, the way she tenderly smiles and presses that paper to absorb the moisture on Quinn’s cheek. “You deserve happiness, Quinn.”
The door pushes open once again, but it is no stranger that catches the intimate moment.
Santana, pupils dilated and hair mussed, stares at them both, eyes moving from Quinn to Rachel, to the way they are pressed so tightly together.
“What the hell is this?”
It’s hard at first, to process what exactly Santana is reacting to. They’re pressed together so intimately… and Rachel understands that implication, because she backs up just a bit, eyes widening as she does so. Quinn has no strength to move. She is still so fragile, tender in the way only Rachel has really ever seen, and there isn’t time for the walls to come back up. Her eyes are still teary, her mouth still trembles and maybe that’s all Santana sees, because she stares wildly between them before suddenly launching forward like an attacking cat.
“What the fuck did you do to her, Berry?”
As Santana shoves herself in between them, nearly flattening Rachel against the wall with the force and playing a palm flat against her moist cheek, Quinn dizzily realizes that Santana isn’t JEALOUS of the intimate moment… she’s furious on her own behalf.
“What did I do to her?!” Rachel asks pointedly. She sounds incredulous.
Dark eyes seek her own with something that looks like panic. Santana’s mouth is pursed, her cheeks flushed and her upper lip a little sweaty, probably from the glaring lights of the stage. Dazed from her emotion and the buzz from the alcohol that never quite went away, Quinn almost leans forward to tongue at the droplets.
“Yes, Idiot, what the hell did you do to her?!” Santana snaps. “Five minutes ago she was smiling and happy and now she’s in this dingy crap room crying!”
“Five minutes ago you had your fingers in her-“
“Rachel!” she hisses, because even SHE knows where that sentence is going, and there’s no need to name what was, apparently, all too obvious to everyone seated at that table.
But she has to commend Rachel: it’s enough to shut Santana up. The other woman absorbs the statement, looking actually a little stupid for a second before her brain catches up and she makes the connection.
Rachel’s chin lifts defiantly when Santana’s jaw literally drops.
Santana’s eyes lock with Quinn’s, but her reaction is surprising. Well, maybe it isn’t, because Santana is shameless. “Then maybe the Green Fairy should have let me finish.”
Rachel’s eyes nearly roll out of her head. Quinn, exhausted and somehow unable to truly think with the way Santana’s hand lingers on her distractedly, can only manage a quiet, teary guffaw.
Really, all she can do is laugh.
Santana takes notice. Her touch becomes familiarly possessive as she slides her hand around Quinn’s waist before reaching for a clean and dry hand towel. “Seriously, Rachel. What did you say?!“
That accusing tone is still there, like RACHEL is to blame for this, and really, how on earth is Santana somehow both so intelligent and crushingly dense at the exact same time?!
It’s time she interjected herself into the conversation. “Santana, Rachel didn’t do anything to me other than be a friend.”
Once again, Santana stares at her searchingly, trying to unlock a puzzle of which there is no solution. “I’m your friend too, Quinn,” she says, so quietly it smacks of ridiculous insecurity.
The tiny moment of vulnerability does little to ease Quinn’s aching heart, and she grasps for the anger that keeps her standing. “Well you were otherwise occupied, weren’t you?”
“Not by choice!”
“I’m going to go back outside.” In the brief moment since she has last spoken, Rachel has actually managed to almost reach the door. It’s disconcerting, how easily Quinn lost track of her. Her eyes go soft in unspoken apology to Rachel, but her friend just flashes her a surprisingly tender smile back. “I’ve been asked to sing Auld Lang Syne and I need to get a lemon tea to loosen up my vocal chords to do it justice. My NYADA peers can be my harshest critics so I really need to be on top of my game.” As she regards them, the way Santana still holds her, the way Quinn has pressed herself into Santana’s side, her smile softens. “Take care of her, Santana.”
God, the way Rachel delivers that, Quinn can actually FEEL herself being transported into a forties black and white war flick dripping with gravitas and dramatics and Rachel selflessly giving her away at the altar to a mustache-twirling villain named Santiago.
She loves Rachel, but it takes actual effort to not roll her eyes.
“Rachel-“ Santana begins.
Rachel expels a distinctly annoyed sigh as she whirls and stares down their mutual friend. “What, Santana?”
Santana doesn’t respond at first, but when she does, it’s to offer an awkwardly gentle, “Good luck following that act.”
The line could be cutting but instead it comes off affectionate. This is Santana attempting to apologize for jumping to conclusions by offering to return to their normal, weirdly competitive friendship.
At the very least, that’s how Rachel seems to take it. “Please,” she huffs. “Like there’s any competition. There was only one star of Glee Club, and you’re looking at her. Prepare to get schooled, Santana Lopez.”
Santana arches a brow. “Looking forward to it, Fiona.” Their eyes meet, and some kind of understanding is met, before Rachel flounces out of the bathroom. The pep is back in her step, and it’s nice to see.
But Rachel’s exit leaves her alone with Santana, and though Santana is focused on watching Rachel leave, Quinn discovers she has no such urge. It’s nice that Santana isn’t looking at her. It gives Quinn freedom to linger on the perfect profile of the oddly subdued face.
The party has resumed outside, undeterred by Santana’s attempts to ‘slow it down’. Even through the closed door, the sounds of the bar float in easily. She hears laughter and the clink of glasses, the beat of the music that is meant to infect the party goers with euphoria.
Santana breathes in noisily, but the breath is caught in her throat when she shifts back and notices Quinn’s eyes on her. “What?” Santana asks when she catches her staring.
Quinn remembers the way Santana looked on that stage, effortlessly captivating and gorgeous. “You sounded amazing up there, Santana,” she admits.
And yet, somehow, it’s the wrong thing to say. Santana’s apprehensive expression grows cold. “How would you know? You didn’t even hear it.”
She noticed then… that Quinn was gone.
“I heard enough,” she says thickly, eyes dropping to the tile.
There is a pregnant pause. “Did you?”
Her heart seizes in her chest. “Santana-“ she begins, her voice thick and weary.
“I got a hotel room.”
The statement strikes her literally stupid. “What?” is all she manages, the stubby word blurted out from her throat in a way that sounds more like a squawk than anything else.
“I just… we don’t have to do anything, okay?” Santana stammers, but already, Quinn’s head is swimming with images, positions… mouths- “But I swear to God if Kurt interrupts me one more time when I’m all up on you I’m going kill him and something tells me their idiotic roommate contract doesn’t include a homicide clause.”
She’s serious. Yes, she’s serious because that IS a hotel key card she has just pulled out from her cleavage, laminated with a very professional looking logo and stylish script that spells ‘EVENTI’.
Whatever THIS is…Santana apparently wants it badly enough to go through the trouble of booking a hotel room. In advance.
The thought makes her dizzy. She reaches blindly behind her for support from the porcelain sink. “Santana…”
She’s not sure if she’s hesitant or just stuck in disbelief, but looking at Santana doesn’t help at all.
Maybe the nerves are catching. The keycard in Santana’s hand fumbles, and she actually scrambles to try and catch it, clutching it against her chest like she just dropped a baby.
It’s so oddly vulnerable, so magnetically appealing.
“Look, it’s New Year’s Eve,” her friend huffs after a moment, her eyes deliberately on the dirty tile. “And all I have to show for it is a contract that Rachel and Kurt want me to sign in blood.”
That… is a stretch. “Blood.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding? It’s in fucking blood.” Santana says sharply, and continues to nervously fondle her slippery keycard. Slippery because of… sweaty nervous fingers? “And I’ve got one more night of freedom before I’m subjected… that full time.”
Quinn’s frame trembles. Though she’s never been as fluent in ‘Santana’ as she now admits she wishes she could have been, there are moments where she looks into those deep dark eyes and knows exactly what Santana is feeling. They are cut from the same mold, bitches on top crumpled in on themselves, and sometimes Quinn does wonder if that’s why there is so much… love here.
“So I take it that means you’ve decided you’re going to stay,” she manages. Santana’s lips press together silently. It’s stupid because she’s known all along that this is the best thing for Santana. Logically, Santana can’t hide in her tiny little dorm room forever. She has to make a choice - she has to choose New York. She has to choose herself.
But God… there’s a sadness now… an emptiness that tells her that Rachel and Brody are completely right and she’s infected herself and she’s IN LOVE with her. She’s IN LOVE with Santana, and it’s so different than being cut from the same mold and just loving her.
It’s so, so different.
“Quinn.” Quinn’s watery eyes lift, but just as Santana makes to continue whatever it is she’s going to say, a trio of girls laughingly stumble into the bathroom, nearly shoving Santana off her feet.
“Ow! What the fuck is wrong with you, Plastics?!”
“I’m so sorry!” one of them says, clearly drunk and apologetic. She immediately blinks at who she nearly ran over. “Oh my God, you are the gorgeous girl that sang that song! You were amazing!”
“Thanks,” Santana answers, in a distracted, choked voice that apparently only Quinn can hear. “But if you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of something with my girl here-“
Quinn swallows, sees those eyes now all directed at her. “Oh my GOD, yes!” one of them laughs, and gives them a thumbs up that looks actually creepy when paired with her lewd smile. “The performance before the performance!”
“That was so hot!” another one chirps and it’s infuriating how much she wants to kill them. “Seriously, you’re like the hottest lesbians here!”
“Seriously?” she sputters, and apparently that’s enough. Santana reaches forward and grabs hold of Quinn’s wrist, yanking to pull her through the scattering trio and out into the tiny hallway where the bathrooms are located.
It’s a change of scenery, at least. Quinn finds she is grateful for the absence of mirrors. With flaming cheeks, she presses back against the wall and tells herself to suck in a deep breath.
“Quinn.”
She sucks in air through her teeth, feeling her chest rise as her lungs expand with air. “What?” she asks and realizes that Santana has yet to actually let her go.
The fingers on her wrist tighten their grip, and she is tugged by Santana, manipulated gently until they’re chest to chest, shoulders pressed against the wall in that tiny hallway. “Will you just LOOK at me for like, a second?”
She doesn’t want to. She does anyway.
She sees a vulnerable brunette with moist brown eyes that look so small and insecure, and she’s staring at her with this… face… and these eyes… and GOD why was it ever a good idea to stare at Santana like this when she’s impaired by liquor?
Her lips are on Santana’s before she can quite stop herself. It rips a moan from her throat that would be embarrassing in any other situation, but somehow she can’t bring herself to care, not when Santana’s fingers tangle in her hair, head tilting to match her vibrant enthusiasm.
She gasps at the taste of her, lids fluttering as Santana breaks the kiss with a deep breath, head titled against her temple. “Quinn, you’re my homegirl,” she whispers, lips ghosting against her own. “And there’s a lot about this shitty year that I would want to take back, but you know what I realized this morning?”
Quinn simultaneously both cares and doesn’t. She closes the distance once again, burying her mouth against Santana’s, receiving a deep kiss in return before Santana once again breaks away. “Quinn just let me fucking say it.”
She shakes her head desperately. She can’t. She won’t. There’s a ticking clock above them, a man with a timer who tells her quite adamantly that whatever she has with her best friend - it’s borrowed. It’s part-time. It’s only one more night, and she doesn’t want to hear what Santana has to say because then it’ll be real and there will be CONSEQUENCES and what’s worse? What’s worse than falling in love with this unattainable, immovable force of nature?
And God, Santana just proves her point, because even though Quinn desperately wants her to shut up, fingers that actually SMELL LIKE HER touch Quinn’s face delicately and Santana whispers, “The one part I wouldn’t take back is that I’m here, right now, with you.”
It’s not fair. It’s NOT FAIR because how can she NOT fall in love?
Her eyes flutter closed, miserable in her own doubt. She feels the touch of Santana’s fingers, the way they so gently press in against her cheek, flit against her skin with such careful affection it’s hard to believe that it’s this hand that so often strikes against her face in anger.
The tears don’t seem to stop, but it’s almost okay, because Santana’s there to wipe each one away.
Her head tilts, until she’s pressed her lips to Santana’s shoulder, wrapped her arms around the slim feminine waist. They’re hugging - it’s so chaste compared to what they were doing before, and yet Santana holds her, keeps her steady in that little hallway.
Quinn feels the world drop away. A sharp corner against Santana’s cleavage brings her back to it.
Her heart thuds tellingly. “When did you even have time to run out and book a hotel room?” Her words are shaky, barely given breath against the bare skin of Santana’s shoulder.
“Don’t apply logic to Lopez,” she hears a trembling voice respond and her body shakes with weak laughter.
It’s kind of ridiculous that it’s at this exact moment that some nerd is now bouncing in front of the stage and trying to get the crowd to shout the chorus as he raps the lamest piano-bar recital of Pitbull’s ‘Hotel Room Service’ she’s ever heard. He’s got a British accent, which seems to make it even MORE ridiculous.
What’s even worse is that the NYADA crowd is actually really into it.
She lifts her head and offers Santana a watery smile. Santana’s brow quirks adorably. “So you in?”
Because that is exactly how Santana would proposition her for New Year’s sex.
Quinn can’t help but love her for it. Her head tilts and she presses one more lingering kiss against Santana’s seductive mouth. “Yeah,” she says, the moment she pulls back. “I’m in.”
****
“WE AT THE HOTEL-MOTEL! HOLIDAY INN! WE AT THE HOTEL-MOTEL HOLIDAY INN!”
Through the crowd, Quinn catches a glimpse of Rachel as she stands with Brody and Kurt. Her friend is giggling and laughing, shouting alongside the rest of the crowd as the British nerd on stage leads them through the song. Rachel stands with Brody and Kurt, giggling and laughing and shouting alongside the rest of the NYADA. It’s so crazy hyped with the excited New Year energy that Quinn actually feels pressed in because of it. She clasps Santana’s hand and lets her weave through the crowd, guiding them through the madness and toward the exit.
Santana pauses, searching for a way past the necking couple blocking their way. Quinn uses the opportunity to look toward her friends one more time.
By some miracle, she catches Rachel’s eye. Rachel looks, notes the way their hands are clasped, notes the LOOK in Quinn’s eyes.
Quinn knows she doesn’t have to tell her they won’t be there to see her sing.
But Rachel understands. All she does is smile and mouth a ‘Happy New Year’ to her.
Though her chest is tight, her heart soars. Quinn is tugged into moving forward by Santana, but she makes a point to glance back and wave her own good-bye to Rachel.
Rachel disappears into the crowd. All Quinn can do is look forward with Santana.
****
The Eventi hotel is located in Chelsea. It’s a boutique hotel that smacks of newness. Quinn’s fingers, tangled loosely with Santana’s, twitch as her steps falter, taking in the state of it. Santana’s heels clack against the speckled blood-red marble under their feet. When they pass the check in area, she notices the expensive wooden trim, topped with the cut marble trim. Men and women in pristine black uniforms offer them polite and friendly smiles, wishing them a Happy New Year.
Quinn has never considered herself wordly, but it’s disconcerting how awed she feels by this. This isn’t New Haven or a quaint B&B with animal rugs. This is pure New York, and it makes sense that Santana looks so at home here, moving past the crowded bar towards the swanky elevators.
A handsome guy, dark-haired and tall and exactly Quinn’s usual type, catches their attention and offers up his martini in greeting. “Evening ladies,” he calls out. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Santana stiffens beside her, and Quinn briefly wonders if it feels the same for Santana - to have her and not have her at the same time… to know that at any time there’s a professor at Yale who will be more than happy to stick a dick in her at the first opportunity.
“Listen, ass-“ she hears, but doesn’t bother to wait for the rest.
She cuts her off by pulling the other woman in closer, curling her arm around Santana’s waist and shaking her head in return. “No thanks,” she says firmly. “We’re going to have a New Year’s Celebration of our own.”
It’s a testament to the magic of this night that Quinn feels nothing but pride at the way he looks between her and Santana, and puts it together. “Nice!” he says, and gets jostled by his friends as he sloshes his martini. “Happy New Year’s, hot lesbians!”
Happy New Year, indeed.
****
In in a pristine hallway, off the 23rd floor, Santana Lopez inserts her keycard into room 2307. Quinn watches, her heart in a precarious place, as the lock clicks and the light flashes green, and then a slender wrists grabs hold of the handle and twists.
Santana wordlessly pushes into the dark hotel room.
Immediately that stupid song begins to blare in her mind, but the chorus quickly shuts off the second Santana flips on the lights.
It’s not a big room - Santana obviously still has her mother’s money, but Quinn has been impressed to know she hasn’t been frivolous with it. This is a boutique hotel, so the space in this room isn’t large, but the room is adequately furnished with antique looking furniture and a King-sized bed endowed with a pure white comforter and downy fluffy pillows.
Quinn’s wedges sink into the carpet as she glances up and notices with a fierce blush that there is a mirror facing the bed, full-length and nearly shameless with its placement.
“What do you think?”
Quinn blinks, finds herself laughing hesitantly as she notices Santana’s waiting expression - hopeful and unsure... like a kid on prom night.
It’s ridiculously adorable. Quinn continues moving until she discovers the marble-tiled bathroom, and notices with surprise that it’s as large as the bedroom. It has a spa-sized tub clearly built for two and one of those rain showers with dual heads.
This is a hotel room that was handmade for late nights and sex marathons.
Quinn’s nose wrinkles when she notices the zebra trim on the complimentary robes.
“How did you find this place?” she breathes when Santana follows her. She leans against the doorway, content it seems, to just let Quinn explore.
“What did I say about me and Logic?” Santana’s brow is arched, but the cockiness quickly fades at the look from Quinn. She crosses her arms and huffs, “I googled for it when you were out with Berry, what do you think?”
… Well.
Quinn feels her chest flutter - the arousal that simmers underneath her skin bubbles in her blood. “You that hard up to get laid, Lopez?” she teases, but her voice is husky.
Santana’s eyes lock with her own. Quinn notices the visible way her throat bobs, and it gives her an amazing feeling.
She feels suddenly sexy.
“This is about me not committing a hummellcide,” Santana says, as evenly as she can. “Aren’t you anti-murder?”
Quinn swivels on her heels and glances at the large duel sinks, sturdy and stylish, with tiny name brand bottles of shampoo, conditioner and lotion. “I’m anti-having to deal with him and his weird bathroom issues.”
She glances up to discover Santana smiling. “Come on,” Santana says after a moment, and lifts her hand for Quinn to grab. “I want to show you something.”
With a wary smile, Quinn obeys, clasping Santana’s hand and allowing the woman to lead her out of the bathroom to and towards the closed curtains of the bedroom. She switches off the lights on the way. “I paid for a cityview room,” Santana says, before tugging and letting New York into their room.
It’s breathtaking. Quinn gasps, eyes roving over the colorful lights of the city, the red and white of the cars that move below them.
She steps forward and places her fingers gently against the glass. Hands press in against her hips causing her breath to go uneven as Santana steps up behind her, curling into her back as they take in the view together.
“Wow.”
Lips press delicately against her ear, a tender and light kiss that sinks Quinn deeper into the woman that holds her. “Better than the fire escape at Rachel and Kurt’s shithole, right?” Santana whispers, breath hot on her neck.
Quinn shudders. Her nerves seem alight with anticipation, because she is very, very aware of that bed, and very very aware of the way Santana’s fingers press in on her abdomen, solid and warm.
Being held by her is nothing like being held by a man, and yet Quinn feels safe… cherished. Being held by Santana is almost like petting a wild tiger - deeply satisfying but also frightening, and the result is a maelstrom of emotion that only serves to heighten her awareness of Santana’s fingers and her lips that ghost along her jaw.
Still, she manages to reply flippantly, “It’s your shithole now, too.”
Santana groans, chin dropping against her shoulder. “God, don’t remind me.”
They fall silent. Before them, New York twinkles invitingly.
Quinn is always thinking… but as she stands here with Santana, she suddenly realizes that for once since this has begun, she can’t feel ghost of Brittany at all.
In this room, on this night, it’s just her and Santana. “Santana,” she breathes, and shuffles until she can tear her eyes from the view and focus instead on the beautiful face inches away from her own. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”
Santana absorbs that. Her dark eyes seem almost black and Quinn wonders briefly if that old cliché about drowning in someone’s gaze is actually true.
“Kiss me, Quinn.”
Helpless, in love, and drugged with lust, Quinn leans in and opens her mouth hungrily against Santana’s.