FIC: I Don't Want to Jump In (Unless This Music's Thumping) (3a/4) Rachel/Santana, Glee
Title: I Don't Want to Jump In (Unless This Music's Thumping)
Author: Misty Flores
Pairing: Rachel/Santana, implied Quinn/Santana
Teaser: Years after they were roommates in a cold loft in New York, Broadway Rachel Berry and Superstar DJ Santana Lopez reconnect on the other end of the success spectrum.
Spoilers: Through S4 of Glee
Rating: M
Note: For the Santana Anthology. Sorry I missed the deadline! Title is taken from Cake's 'Love You Madly'. Also, a Glee Girls Smut Meme fill for this gif.
Also I really REALLY didn’t want to post this as a WIP, but honestly it’s a three chapter story and it’s been my primary focus to get it done, so I figured I’d at least post the start of it so it wouldn’t any later (sorry, Kay. I had to go with instinct instead of logic). I apologize for the lateness of the other stories, honestly, there just hasn’t been time, but they’re by no means forgotten and I’ll update them all when this story is done posting.
Chapter 1a | Chapter 1B | Chapter 2a | Chapter 2b
Chapter 3a
PART 03.
I couldn't get any bigger
With anyone else beside of me
- Justin Timberland, Mirrors
--
The music video is for her album, and though Rachel isn’t used to collaborations or how they work specifically, she’s not surprised that Santana’s management has very specific ideas for how Santana should be featured in it. She’s most at home at her tables, Rachel’s most at home on a stage with a microphone and, after a lot of back and forth between the various representatives, it’s now been decided that the shoot is taking place in a dilapidated warehouse that will be transformed into a forties jazz club.
Rachel will be playing the quintessential lounge singer and gangster’s moll, trapped and treated as an object, resigned to her fate. She is a caged songbird who begins her song in the midst of all the beautiful models and extras cast as gangsters, decked out in fedoras and pinstripe suits, puffing on cigars. This will all be filmed in black and white.
Little does this trapped and hopeless singer know that one of these gangsters is Santana Lopez herself, who sneaks into the club, past the hired guns and the bodyguards and backstage, where she proceeds to tug off that fedora, unbutton that pinstripe blazer and rip those pants off to reveal modern clothes: a tight bustier paired with skin tight pants and stiletto heels. Santana is meant to be stunning and in HD color.
Santana explodes onstage with her tables, and as her beats start, the music will shift, infect crowd with the crescendo until suddenly that music is what has freed Rachel from her cage. The lounge has become a club and the color explodes, soft gels and beams of fluorescent lights. Hats are tossed, ties are loosened and the cool mobsters, who were just sitting and smoking and watching, will become a mass of dancing bodies so caught up in the music, Santana easily pulls Rachel away to safety.
Or so she thinks.
The lead mobster, the boyfriend and the only person besides Rachel who has failed to change into color, catches up to them. There is a struggle at the edge of at the dock, and then suddenly as the music stills a loud bang rings out. A moment, just a moment, and then he stumbles back, revealing a blood red wound over his heart, gushing over his desaturated body. He hurls over the dock and to a watery grave. Santana turns, and there Rachel stands with the smoking gun, dressed now as modern as Santana, cheeks rosy and blooming and a vision in color.
There’s something to be said for the imagery it instills. It tells a story, a romantic one, but her director is quick to point out that while they do expect some subtext, the truth is that they are sisters in music. Santana is determined to free her because she can’t handle someone with Rachel’s talent being so trapped.
Privately, Rachel thinks that’s a load of horseshit. If her collaboration were with a man, she would have been making out with him by the fade out, but arguing for female equality isn’t some she feels is in her best interest at the moment. So she just nods and listens and then retreats to her trailer. She’s been given a tight, slinky designer dress that does exactly what it’s supposed to do: display her cleavage a distracting amount and give one of her best features, her legs, a chance to shine thanks to the long slit that sits right at her thigh.
Her hair has been pinned back in retro fashion; her makeup is flawless. Looking into the mirror, Rachel knows she’s stunning.
It helps, honestly. She hasn’t seen Santana this morning. Rachel’s call time was earlier than hers, and though there isn’t a huge budget for this shoot, of course Santana would get her own trailer.
She expects that’s where Santana will be until she’s ready to film. While the texts they’ve exchanged have been friendly, Rachel knows that the flavor of them has changed significantly, and it’s her own doing. Santana has seemed happy to let Rachel dictate the nature of their interactions and Rachel isn’t sure if she’s disappointed or relieved by that.
When the trailer door opens and Santana stands in the tiny doorway, Rachel realizes that she’s both prepared and completely unprepared at the exact same time.
She expects to see Santana decked out in her typical stylish club wear. Instead, Santana has already been dressed by wardrobe for her initial scenes. She’s wearing black fitted pin striped pants and a tailored white button up shirt. Wrapped around her torso is a tight satin vest that makes her already tiny waist looks even tinier.
There is no tie or jacket, Santana’s not completely suited up, but God, it doesn’t matter because the open collar gives attention to the swell of Santana’s breasts that push up nicely against the vest.
Rachel’s always had a particular weakness for a well-built man in a fitted suit. It’s not the best time to discover that her attraction to that particular look isn’t limited to gender.
Santana, of course, notices her gaping. There’s an actual smirk plastered on her face when Rachel finally looks up, before her DJ Superstar friend digs her hands casually in her pockets and leans against the side of the door.
“I take it you approve?” she asks, brow arching playfully.
She’s so damn smug.
Rachel hates that she flushes. She expected that knot of conflicted emotion to twist inside of her the minute she met up with Santana again. She expected her heart to trip unsteadily. She expected the nerves, because Santana has been occupying her thoughts in a ridiculously monopolizing way.
She didn’t expect to be so… happy to see her.
Rachel’s head bows and she makes a show of keeping her attention on her own reflection in the mirror. “I thought you were supposed to look like a boy.” She goes for flippantly unconcerned. “How are you supposed to sneak into a gangster infested bar looking like that?”
Santana frowns, pushing against the doorway and coming further into the tiny trailer. “You don’t think my character has skills?”
Almost against her will, Rachel’s eyes skid over once more to the admirable sight of the top of Santana’s breasts reflected back at her.
“I think your skills aren’t as noticeable as your boobs,” she comments as airily as possible.
Santana’s mouth quirks; her arms cross in challenge. “My boobs? What about yours?”
Rachel blinks. Her fitted green dress does have a very low neckline, and yes, she had to actually be taped in, but… “I’m in character!”
Santana ventures closer, until her thigh brushes against Rachel’s bare shoulder and she leans against the counter. Dark smoky eyes gaze down at her, linger shamelessly on her cleavage.
“Yeah,” she breathes out, softer and thicker than before. “Well, I think your character looks gorgeous.”
The shiver that travels up Rachel’s spine is impossible to hide.
Santana’s quiet smile just grows wider.
Rachel finds herself concentrating on that frustrating mouth.
“Ahem.” Rachel blinks, and is suddenly horrified when she remembers they aren’t exactly alone. Margot, transplanted from Los Angeles to New York for Rachel’s own personal use, just smiles tightly and quickly gathers her brushes. “You know what? I’m going to give you two some time to catch up.”
“Margot-“
The look Margot shoots her is wide-eyed, knowing glare. “Be back in a bit.”
It would be amusing if it wasn’t so damn mortifying.
The trailer door closing, shutting out the busy set and leaving behind a thick, quiet tension. Left alone with Santana, Rachel isn’t quite sure what to do. She wants to be distant, formal. It’s the tone she’s set in her texts and she needs to be consistent.
She’s angry at Santana. She’s HURT by Santana. She’s confused by Santana.
She needs to compartmentalize her friendship with Santana.
It’s so hard to do that when Santana is less than a foot away, smelling the way she does, and looking the way she does, and it’s especially difficult when the other women’s smile fades and she exhales, “So I missed you.”
The rush of emotion floods Rachel so quickly she feels tears stinging in her eyes. God, this isn’t fair.
Rigidly, she blinks them back, turning in her chair back to the mirror so she can only focus on herself. “Did you?” she asks.
“Yeah, Shorty I did.” Santana says, laughter coating her light, easy voice. Rachel swallows, feels the heat of Santana staring at her. “Why do you sound so skeptical?”
Is this even Santana’s fault? They kissed; Rachel said it was a mistake… that’s it. That’s what happened.
Rachel lowers the brush. “I don’t know,” she admits, and shakes her head at her own stupidity. “I’m sorry,” she confesses, and turns, offering a smile for her friend. “Thanks for being here.”
Santana puffs out air indignantly. “Hell, this is gonna be a hit for me too. I wouldn’t miss it.” Rachel smiles as she watches the way Santana’s hands clasp the end of her vanity, fingers curling around the edge. “So… listen… I um… I heard from Quinn.”
Rachel’s grin immediately falters. “What?”
A lock of dark hair falls into Santana’s face. The other woman quickly pushes it back over her ear. “She… she told me that you might be a little pissed at me.”
“She what?”
Faced with the glare that Rachel sends her way, Santana looks genuinely conflicted as to whether or not she should answer that. “Rachel-“
Rachel’s brush clatters to the vanity. “I can’t believe that she did that.” The anger comes quickly, almost too quickly. “I didn’t give her your number for her to…”
“Why did you give her my number?”
The question stops Rachel cold. “Why wouldn’t I?” she asks, suddenly very unsure.
Santana shrugs. “I mean it’s fine but…”
“But what?” Santana’s jaw tightens. Her shoulders straighten. Rachel finds she’s both annoyed, confused and… a little ashamed. She never considered that Santana wouldn’t WANT to hear from Quinn. “Am I supposed to just keep you a secret from your best friends?”
“Rachel, relax,” Santana snaps, voice growing firm. “It’s fine. I was just surprised.”
It’s the tone in Santana’s voice that makes Rachel realize she’s getting upset over… nothing. God, it’s like she’s turning into the Rachel Berry circa the Finn era. What the hell is happening to her?
“Sorry,” she mumbles, and slumps back in her chair. After a moment, she glances up at Santana. “What else did she say?”
“She said she just wanted to reconnect.”
Santana is flippant and calm. Rachel discovers that her reaction is most definitely the opposite. She snorts, angry and somehow miserable, “Oh, I bet she did.”
And maybe that’s the sentence that’s too much for Santana, who pushes away from the vanity and glares at her. “Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Rachel gnaws on her lower lip, feeling like a sullen and stupid child. “Nothing, it doesn’t mean anything,” she says, and because apparently she has reverted into a love-sick teenager, she adds nastily, “Nothing means anything when it comes to you.”
That one actually seems to strike Santana speechless. “…What the fuck is your problem?!” she asks, clearly frustrated.
“I don’t know!” Rachel snaps. It’s almost as if she’s outside of herself, staring in horror while this stupid GIRL takes over her body and completely decimates every bit of the mature relationship she has managed to cobble together and build with her old friend. She scrambles for an excuse. “How about my friend completely disregarding my privacy-“
“Then yell at Quinn, don’t yell at me.”
“-FINE,” she grits, because she has no actual comeback for that. She sits in stony silence, and honestly she wonders why Santana is still here. She’s pissed, but even she understands that Santana doesn’t deserve this kind of attitude.
“Fine.” Santana shifts her balance on her heels, before thrusting her hands in her pockets, and the move is so damn sexy it’s impossible not to hate her a little for it. “But you’re still pissed at me.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m not stupid, Rachel!”
And yet Rachel can’t seem to help herself.
“I don’t like how you treat women!” she blurts, and it literally feels like she pull that out of her ass.
Santana looks at her as if she’s gone and grown a second head. “You don’t like how I treat women?” she repeats, enunciating the words in a perfect Rachel Berry mimic that is ten times more irritating than when it comes out of Rachel herself. “I’m sorry, Rachel have I disrespected you in some way?!”
Someone raps sharply on the door, so loudly and suddenly it makes Rachel jump. The door creaks open, and a curly headed PA sticks his head into the trailer. He’s momentarily taken aback at the sight of the two of them, but seems to recover quickly enough to say, “Five minutes, Ms. Berry.” He hems for a second, and then offers a quick polite smile to the other occupant. “Ms. Lopez.”
Just as quickly as he peeks in, he ducks out, shutting the flimsy trailer door behind him.
They’re alone again.
Rachel’s eyes close. She’s momentarily exhausted. There’s the telltale sound of shuffling, and when her eyes open once again, she sees that Santana has settled in a chair beside her own. She’s picking at some invisible lint on her knee.
“Is this about those stupid pictures?” Rachel’s mouth twitches as her chest constricts. That seems to be answer enough. “I did that for you.”
It’s the exact opposite of what she expects to hear. “Excuse me?”
It’s odd. Santana looks almost… nervous. “Look, I just… I get it, okay?” Rachel presses her lips together, watches intently as Santana keeps her focus on her wringing hands. “I’m not stupid, I know our industry sucks and I know how hard you work and… shit is finally really happening for you.” Santana may as well be speaking in code for all the sense she’s making. Her friend’s dark eyes lift up, lock onto hers briefly. It’s just enough to strike her breathless, before Santana looks away. “You can’t… there can’t be rumors and I get that so…”
And suddenly it comes together.
“… So you made out with an aging pop star on a yacht?” she asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice. “That was your big act of chivalry?”
There’s a flush that burns so deep on Santana’s tan skin, it’s frustratingly adorable. “Look, it made sense at the time,” she gripes.
Rachel wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. “That’s…” she tries to process it. Tries to understand how in Santana logic that would benefit her in any way. God, but it would make sense to Santana. This is the girl who broke up with her high school sweetheart even though they still loved each other for Brittany’s own good, not realizing how it destroyed Brittany in the process. Santana could be such an IDIOT in the guise of a White Knight. “- actually stupidly sweet if you think about it,” she admits.
Santana snorts. “Yeah, well you seem to bring that out in me.”
It’s a quiet admission, like Santana can’t quite believe it herself. This superstar DJ who had Jessie J. dragging her tongue up and down her neck and a stunning woman like Quinn Fabray aching to relive a long ago fling, is smiling at HER like she’s the only one that matters. It’s just this muted twitch of her lips that is both shy and awkward, but it’s so damn charming Rachel feels herself actually melt.
She’s hopeless. This is hopeless.
Rachel swallows and does her best to contain herself and her weakness. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I just… I don’t know what’s been going on with me,” she admits, and feels those dark burning eyes on her as she does it. She flashes a timid, sweet grin. “But you don’t deserve this attitude. Especially from me. You’re an adult and so are the… women that you’re with.” Her stomach turns at even the thought. “And for the record? I think whoever is with you at any given time is very lucky.”
A puff of air rushes out of Santana’s pursed lips. Clearly she’s a skeptic. But that gorgeous spark is back in Santana’s brilliant dark eyes, and on her features is an impish grin that makes Rachel shiver in response. “Well.” Rachel watches as Santana deliberately reaches over, until their fingers slide together and lock in a loose hold. “Right now you’re with me,” she very correctly observes, fiddling with Rachel’s grip. “So I guess that means lucky you.”
Rachel’s mouth trembles; her throat closes. “I guess so.” The fingers smooth against her, a delicate and soft searching touch that seems both tentative and bold.
The door shakes with a sudden thump. “Ms. Berry,” comes the muffled voice. “We’re ready for you!”
Rachel’s tongue sits flat at the roof of her mouth. She glances from the door to Santana, to the clasped hands that link loosely between them.
Santana’s smirk widens. “You ready to make some beautiful music together?”
God, she missed her. “Set me free, baby,” she whispers, quoting their own lyrics, and it’s never felt more right or real than at that moment.
--
It’s a long day. Santana’s schedule is crazier than her own, but Rachel knows that hers isn’t easy to work with, especially when she’s in workshop mode, completely absorbed and doing everything she can to bring something new and refreshing and different to the complex character of the Witch. So they cram as much as they can into a fourteen hour work day. Rachel’s throat is raw from singing the same song over and over again (the beginning of the song is sung live on set - the director is in love with idea of an authentic performance). Grips who had begun the day with wide eyes and wicked smiles (apparently two gorgeous women and equally gorgeous extras on set will put a perk in your step) are now slouching with exhaustion on any available surface, including the uncomfortable plastic crates that will brand diamond sized marks into their thighs, shoveling cookies into their mouths for the energy rush.
Rachel’s tired too. And yet… there’s a certain type of adrenaline that rushes deep into Rachel with the depth of a good performance. It’s an inexplicable thrill that keeps her buoyant, because this is a music video for her SINGLE, and she’s dressed up and gorgeous, and when she looks up from her mark and waits for the music, it’s not a stranger who stands across from her.
Santana’s eyes dance with this unexplainable mirth. She holds that cigar in her fingers , and has to refrain from smoking it (because this is something that has to happen on cue), and though the director is talking with wild, eccentric hand motions, it’s Rachel that Santana’s staring at.
Dark-stained lips purse together, moistening the edge of that damned cigar and still Rachel can catch the way the edges of that plump mouth tilt up.
Santana’s beautiful, but the way she’s looking at Rachel…
Rachel knows she’s beautiful too.
They’re in this together, and standing here, in this tight hallway that’s lit to make them look like they’re alone but in actuality is filled to the brim with the large group of production crew in every corner that isn’t seen by the cameras, it still feels like there’s no one else that matters.
--
It’s not that late when the wrap is finally called. But Rachel’s call time was 5AM, which means she actually woke up at 4, and these long production days do take their toll when she’s not actively used to them. The hours of live singing means her voice is hoarse. She’s been standing on a wooden stage or dock nearly the entire time, which means her feet pulse (and maybe swell) with the blood that rushes to her toes after she’s finally able to remove the painfully high stiletto heels she’s been wearing.
Even though it’s only 9PM, to say she’s exhausted is an understatement.
She has maybe enough energy to pull on a pair of boyfriend jeans, a tank and her ballet flats. One of the PA’s offers her a coffee to go, which she gratefully accepts. A long sip gives her the gumption to get up out of her chair and make her way out of the trailer.
As she gingerly heads down the trailer steps, she’s well aware that she’s walking way too tentatively for her own good, and mentally reminds herself to schedule a pedicure to deal with the blisters that she knows will be emerging after a day in those heels.
“Don’t tell me you’re limping,” says a dry voice from a dark corner just out of reach of the light blaring from the spotlight above her trailer. “You need to toughen up, Berry. Heels are a necessary evil for a pop star.”
It’s Santana, of course, who walks forward slowly, until she’s illuminated and visible.
Rachel straightens, but her mouth quirks at the challenge in her friend’s tone. “Maybe I need to start a new trend, then.”
“Good luck with that.” Like Rachel, Santana hasn’t bothered to remove her makeup, but the torn jeans and chunky boots look as casual as Rachel has ever seen her when not in the comfort of her own home. It’s always a little flabbergasting, to see the different layers of masks that Santana employs, through her hair and her makeup and her clothes. “I was wondering when you were going to come out.”
“Were you waiting for me?” Rachel’s stomach tightens; she feels a rush of pleasure at the thought.
Santana shrugs, like this is no big deal. “Too tired for dinner?”
Her feet are killing her and her throat is sore and her mind is exhausted, and two minutes ago, the only thing she really wanted was to head home and soak in Santana’s gorgeous spa-style bathtub.
Rachel can’t think of one thing she’d rather do than spend time having dinner with Santana Lopez.
--
Santana has a car and a driver at her disposal, and it’s a reminder again of the scope of Santana’s success in relation to Rachel’s.
It should sting, because who would have guessed that out of their entire Glee Club, it would be Santana that’s the paparazzi darling and the filthy rich pop artist?
Even so, Rachel has to admit, it suits her. It’s always suited Santana to live just a little larger than life. It was how they connected in New York, and it’s what makes her feel quietly close to her now, as Santana directs the driver to an Ethiopian restaurant that they used to frequent in Chelsea all those years ago.
They stay quiet in the car. Rachel wonders if this is actual sexual tension, because even though she’s exhausted, she’s very AWARE of Santana, and finds she has to actually fight the impulse to keep looking at her, to keep her hands to herself, and not focus on the smooth caramel of Santana’s tanned forearms or slender fingers and the way they slide over the seat.
For once, her exhaustion seems to work in her favor. All that angst, all that confusion and paranoia and FEAR that has been bottled up inside her and caused her to act so stupidly when it comes to her roommate has simmered.
Maybe that’s all still inside of her, but Rachel finds there’s no energy to waste on it. Instead, Rachel can lounge in this car, head leaning back against the comfortably cool leather of the back seat, and just absorb and appreciate this special connection that she shares with Santana Lopez.
Maybe Santana’s of the same mind, because she’s quiet too, legs crossed, regarding Rachel with this hooded gaze. The smirk that plays on her lips, like she’s got some unspoken secret, is devastatingly sexy.
“So…” Rachel finds herself finally saying, foot bobbing as she resettles herself to face Santana. “If you’re back in town, where exactly are you staying?”
Santana’s secret smile goes deeper still, but she just says with a deadpan droll, “Well, there’s a squatter in my apartment…” Rachel rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “So, I booked the Omni.”
Normally, a comment like that may have put Rachel in this wicked spiral of self-doubt, because why wouldn’t Santana even entertain the offer of staying with her?
Rachel discovers that the magic of the music video hasn’t quite faded yet. At least that’s what she attributes her self-confidence to, as she sighs and huffs, “Santana, that’s stupid. It’s your place.”
Santana’s brow arches. “So you want me to kick you out so you can get a hotel room?”
“Or,” Rachel says a moment later, because Santana’s being determinedly thick about this. “We could just… stay there together.”
She doesn’t mean to lick her lips as she says that. She doesn’t mean for her eye lids to flutter the way they do or for their eyes to lock so… intensely. She doesn’t MEAN for this sexual tension to be so… thick. But it’s there, and it’s maddening, and maybe it does sound like Rachel’s propositioning her.
Rachel isn’t sure she cares.
Santana still might. “I only have one bed, Rachel,” she points out, but her voice is thicker, lower than it was a second ago, and just noticing that makes Rachel’s insides clench.
She takes a deep breath, tries to force the color off her cheeks and keep her beating heart quiet as she adds conversationally, “You also have a couch.”
It’s an option. Rachel could argue quite validly that her intentions are honorable. And she thinks they are. There’s no reason why Santana should feel like she should have to stay somewhere else just because Rachel is subletting her apartment.
She doesn’t look at Santana as she waits for her friend to respond.
“You’re putting me on the couch in my own apartment? You are a bitch, Rachel.”
Rachel snorts before she can stop it. “Shut up,” she snaps, trying and failing to keep the amusement out of her voice. “I’m serious.” Santana continues to just look at her, indecision painted on her face, along with that scampy half smile that tells Rachel that she won’t be able to resist much longer. Deliberately, Rachel reaches across the leather of the backseat and slides her fingers over Santana’s, an arguably friendly gesture. “Come on, it’ll be like old times!”
Dark eyes flutter slowly away from Rachel’s face and down to their entwined hands. Santana’s attention stays there for a long minute, before her head lifts and that devastating gaze pins her once again. “You sure?” Rachel presses her lips together, and Santana’s fingers squeeze against hers meaningfully. “I mean, we wouldn’t want people to think you’ve caught the gay.”
There’s a coil that’s tightening inside of Rachel. She feels the pressure, the way it twists. It’s sensitive to Santana, twitches with the deliberate touch. She’s so aware of the way Santana’s fingers move between her own, flicking and sensitive.
Just the movement of those searching digits reminds Rachel of a questing tongue, searching for purchase in a deep kiss.
It’s… erotic.
“Maybe I’ll take my chances,” she manages.
Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe she’s stupid. Maybe she’ll regret this in the morning.
But she’s already had so many regrets, and in the face of the way of this, of the tingles that erupt when Santana strokes her fingers, of the breathless way she absorbs Santana’s smoldering stare, Rachel decides that ‘maybe’ is not a good enough excuse to deny exploring whatever this is.
Not tonight.
--
A good excuse finds her when literally two minutes after they decide to forgo the restaurant and head straight back to the flat for ‘take out’, Rachel and Santana’s phones ring at the exact same time.
“It’s Kurt,” she says with surprise, just as she hears Santana murmur, “Quinn?”
Their fingers untangle, and Rachel pretends not to notice how Santana doesn’t seem to care, pressing the answer button on her phone and bringing it to her ear to take their mutual friend’s call.
It delays Rachel for two seconds before she realizes she should be doing the same.
She works quickly to keep the call from going to voicemail. “Kurt, it’s like… 3AM in Spain,” she snips, not in the mood for whatever madness that has Kurt calling at this hour. “Are you drunk again?”
“…Yes,” Kurt snaps, with that high pitchy squeal that would have told Rachel he was severely imbibed regardless. “But that’s besides the point. Guess where I am, right now!”
Rachel doesn’t want to. “Hugh Jackman’s penthouse?” she tries, a lame attempt.
“Oh fuck,” Santana breathes beside her, and then Rachel doesn’t have to guess.
The sedan pulls in front of the very familiar apartment building and standing on the curb, waiting for them with red noses and wide, idiotic smiles, bundled together to protect each other from the cold are Quinn, Kurt, and a gaggle of her old NYADA friends.
Kurt, who should be in Spain and not here in New York, just grins gleefully.
“It’s party time, bitches!” he crows, the phone in his hand and his voice reverberating in Rachel’s ear.
--
Chapter 3B
Author: Misty Flores
Pairing: Rachel/Santana, implied Quinn/Santana
Teaser: Years after they were roommates in a cold loft in New York, Broadway Rachel Berry and Superstar DJ Santana Lopez reconnect on the other end of the success spectrum.
Spoilers: Through S4 of Glee
Rating: M
Note: For the Santana Anthology. Sorry I missed the deadline! Title is taken from Cake's 'Love You Madly'. Also, a Glee Girls Smut Meme fill for this gif.
Also I really REALLY didn’t want to post this as a WIP, but honestly it’s a three chapter story and it’s been my primary focus to get it done, so I figured I’d at least post the start of it so it wouldn’t any later (sorry, Kay. I had to go with instinct instead of logic). I apologize for the lateness of the other stories, honestly, there just hasn’t been time, but they’re by no means forgotten and I’ll update them all when this story is done posting.
Chapter 1a | Chapter 1B | Chapter 2a | Chapter 2b
Chapter 3a
PART 03.
I couldn't get any bigger
With anyone else beside of me
- Justin Timberland, Mirrors
--
The music video is for her album, and though Rachel isn’t used to collaborations or how they work specifically, she’s not surprised that Santana’s management has very specific ideas for how Santana should be featured in it. She’s most at home at her tables, Rachel’s most at home on a stage with a microphone and, after a lot of back and forth between the various representatives, it’s now been decided that the shoot is taking place in a dilapidated warehouse that will be transformed into a forties jazz club.
Rachel will be playing the quintessential lounge singer and gangster’s moll, trapped and treated as an object, resigned to her fate. She is a caged songbird who begins her song in the midst of all the beautiful models and extras cast as gangsters, decked out in fedoras and pinstripe suits, puffing on cigars. This will all be filmed in black and white.
Little does this trapped and hopeless singer know that one of these gangsters is Santana Lopez herself, who sneaks into the club, past the hired guns and the bodyguards and backstage, where she proceeds to tug off that fedora, unbutton that pinstripe blazer and rip those pants off to reveal modern clothes: a tight bustier paired with skin tight pants and stiletto heels. Santana is meant to be stunning and in HD color.
Santana explodes onstage with her tables, and as her beats start, the music will shift, infect crowd with the crescendo until suddenly that music is what has freed Rachel from her cage. The lounge has become a club and the color explodes, soft gels and beams of fluorescent lights. Hats are tossed, ties are loosened and the cool mobsters, who were just sitting and smoking and watching, will become a mass of dancing bodies so caught up in the music, Santana easily pulls Rachel away to safety.
Or so she thinks.
The lead mobster, the boyfriend and the only person besides Rachel who has failed to change into color, catches up to them. There is a struggle at the edge of at the dock, and then suddenly as the music stills a loud bang rings out. A moment, just a moment, and then he stumbles back, revealing a blood red wound over his heart, gushing over his desaturated body. He hurls over the dock and to a watery grave. Santana turns, and there Rachel stands with the smoking gun, dressed now as modern as Santana, cheeks rosy and blooming and a vision in color.
There’s something to be said for the imagery it instills. It tells a story, a romantic one, but her director is quick to point out that while they do expect some subtext, the truth is that they are sisters in music. Santana is determined to free her because she can’t handle someone with Rachel’s talent being so trapped.
Privately, Rachel thinks that’s a load of horseshit. If her collaboration were with a man, she would have been making out with him by the fade out, but arguing for female equality isn’t some she feels is in her best interest at the moment. So she just nods and listens and then retreats to her trailer. She’s been given a tight, slinky designer dress that does exactly what it’s supposed to do: display her cleavage a distracting amount and give one of her best features, her legs, a chance to shine thanks to the long slit that sits right at her thigh.
Her hair has been pinned back in retro fashion; her makeup is flawless. Looking into the mirror, Rachel knows she’s stunning.
It helps, honestly. She hasn’t seen Santana this morning. Rachel’s call time was earlier than hers, and though there isn’t a huge budget for this shoot, of course Santana would get her own trailer.
She expects that’s where Santana will be until she’s ready to film. While the texts they’ve exchanged have been friendly, Rachel knows that the flavor of them has changed significantly, and it’s her own doing. Santana has seemed happy to let Rachel dictate the nature of their interactions and Rachel isn’t sure if she’s disappointed or relieved by that.
When the trailer door opens and Santana stands in the tiny doorway, Rachel realizes that she’s both prepared and completely unprepared at the exact same time.
She expects to see Santana decked out in her typical stylish club wear. Instead, Santana has already been dressed by wardrobe for her initial scenes. She’s wearing black fitted pin striped pants and a tailored white button up shirt. Wrapped around her torso is a tight satin vest that makes her already tiny waist looks even tinier.
There is no tie or jacket, Santana’s not completely suited up, but God, it doesn’t matter because the open collar gives attention to the swell of Santana’s breasts that push up nicely against the vest.
Rachel’s always had a particular weakness for a well-built man in a fitted suit. It’s not the best time to discover that her attraction to that particular look isn’t limited to gender.
Santana, of course, notices her gaping. There’s an actual smirk plastered on her face when Rachel finally looks up, before her DJ Superstar friend digs her hands casually in her pockets and leans against the side of the door.
“I take it you approve?” she asks, brow arching playfully.
She’s so damn smug.
Rachel hates that she flushes. She expected that knot of conflicted emotion to twist inside of her the minute she met up with Santana again. She expected her heart to trip unsteadily. She expected the nerves, because Santana has been occupying her thoughts in a ridiculously monopolizing way.
She didn’t expect to be so… happy to see her.
Rachel’s head bows and she makes a show of keeping her attention on her own reflection in the mirror. “I thought you were supposed to look like a boy.” She goes for flippantly unconcerned. “How are you supposed to sneak into a gangster infested bar looking like that?”
Santana frowns, pushing against the doorway and coming further into the tiny trailer. “You don’t think my character has skills?”
Almost against her will, Rachel’s eyes skid over once more to the admirable sight of the top of Santana’s breasts reflected back at her.
“I think your skills aren’t as noticeable as your boobs,” she comments as airily as possible.
Santana’s mouth quirks; her arms cross in challenge. “My boobs? What about yours?”
Rachel blinks. Her fitted green dress does have a very low neckline, and yes, she had to actually be taped in, but… “I’m in character!”
Santana ventures closer, until her thigh brushes against Rachel’s bare shoulder and she leans against the counter. Dark smoky eyes gaze down at her, linger shamelessly on her cleavage.
“Yeah,” she breathes out, softer and thicker than before. “Well, I think your character looks gorgeous.”
The shiver that travels up Rachel’s spine is impossible to hide.
Santana’s quiet smile just grows wider.
Rachel finds herself concentrating on that frustrating mouth.
“Ahem.” Rachel blinks, and is suddenly horrified when she remembers they aren’t exactly alone. Margot, transplanted from Los Angeles to New York for Rachel’s own personal use, just smiles tightly and quickly gathers her brushes. “You know what? I’m going to give you two some time to catch up.”
“Margot-“
The look Margot shoots her is wide-eyed, knowing glare. “Be back in a bit.”
It would be amusing if it wasn’t so damn mortifying.
The trailer door closing, shutting out the busy set and leaving behind a thick, quiet tension. Left alone with Santana, Rachel isn’t quite sure what to do. She wants to be distant, formal. It’s the tone she’s set in her texts and she needs to be consistent.
She’s angry at Santana. She’s HURT by Santana. She’s confused by Santana.
She needs to compartmentalize her friendship with Santana.
It’s so hard to do that when Santana is less than a foot away, smelling the way she does, and looking the way she does, and it’s especially difficult when the other women’s smile fades and she exhales, “So I missed you.”
The rush of emotion floods Rachel so quickly she feels tears stinging in her eyes. God, this isn’t fair.
Rigidly, she blinks them back, turning in her chair back to the mirror so she can only focus on herself. “Did you?” she asks.
“Yeah, Shorty I did.” Santana says, laughter coating her light, easy voice. Rachel swallows, feels the heat of Santana staring at her. “Why do you sound so skeptical?”
Is this even Santana’s fault? They kissed; Rachel said it was a mistake… that’s it. That’s what happened.
Rachel lowers the brush. “I don’t know,” she admits, and shakes her head at her own stupidity. “I’m sorry,” she confesses, and turns, offering a smile for her friend. “Thanks for being here.”
Santana puffs out air indignantly. “Hell, this is gonna be a hit for me too. I wouldn’t miss it.” Rachel smiles as she watches the way Santana’s hands clasp the end of her vanity, fingers curling around the edge. “So… listen… I um… I heard from Quinn.”
Rachel’s grin immediately falters. “What?”
A lock of dark hair falls into Santana’s face. The other woman quickly pushes it back over her ear. “She… she told me that you might be a little pissed at me.”
“She what?”
Faced with the glare that Rachel sends her way, Santana looks genuinely conflicted as to whether or not she should answer that. “Rachel-“
Rachel’s brush clatters to the vanity. “I can’t believe that she did that.” The anger comes quickly, almost too quickly. “I didn’t give her your number for her to…”
“Why did you give her my number?”
The question stops Rachel cold. “Why wouldn’t I?” she asks, suddenly very unsure.
Santana shrugs. “I mean it’s fine but…”
“But what?” Santana’s jaw tightens. Her shoulders straighten. Rachel finds she’s both annoyed, confused and… a little ashamed. She never considered that Santana wouldn’t WANT to hear from Quinn. “Am I supposed to just keep you a secret from your best friends?”
“Rachel, relax,” Santana snaps, voice growing firm. “It’s fine. I was just surprised.”
It’s the tone in Santana’s voice that makes Rachel realize she’s getting upset over… nothing. God, it’s like she’s turning into the Rachel Berry circa the Finn era. What the hell is happening to her?
“Sorry,” she mumbles, and slumps back in her chair. After a moment, she glances up at Santana. “What else did she say?”
“She said she just wanted to reconnect.”
Santana is flippant and calm. Rachel discovers that her reaction is most definitely the opposite. She snorts, angry and somehow miserable, “Oh, I bet she did.”
And maybe that’s the sentence that’s too much for Santana, who pushes away from the vanity and glares at her. “Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Rachel gnaws on her lower lip, feeling like a sullen and stupid child. “Nothing, it doesn’t mean anything,” she says, and because apparently she has reverted into a love-sick teenager, she adds nastily, “Nothing means anything when it comes to you.”
That one actually seems to strike Santana speechless. “…What the fuck is your problem?!” she asks, clearly frustrated.
“I don’t know!” Rachel snaps. It’s almost as if she’s outside of herself, staring in horror while this stupid GIRL takes over her body and completely decimates every bit of the mature relationship she has managed to cobble together and build with her old friend. She scrambles for an excuse. “How about my friend completely disregarding my privacy-“
“Then yell at Quinn, don’t yell at me.”
“-FINE,” she grits, because she has no actual comeback for that. She sits in stony silence, and honestly she wonders why Santana is still here. She’s pissed, but even she understands that Santana doesn’t deserve this kind of attitude.
“Fine.” Santana shifts her balance on her heels, before thrusting her hands in her pockets, and the move is so damn sexy it’s impossible not to hate her a little for it. “But you’re still pissed at me.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m not stupid, Rachel!”
And yet Rachel can’t seem to help herself.
“I don’t like how you treat women!” she blurts, and it literally feels like she pull that out of her ass.
Santana looks at her as if she’s gone and grown a second head. “You don’t like how I treat women?” she repeats, enunciating the words in a perfect Rachel Berry mimic that is ten times more irritating than when it comes out of Rachel herself. “I’m sorry, Rachel have I disrespected you in some way?!”
Someone raps sharply on the door, so loudly and suddenly it makes Rachel jump. The door creaks open, and a curly headed PA sticks his head into the trailer. He’s momentarily taken aback at the sight of the two of them, but seems to recover quickly enough to say, “Five minutes, Ms. Berry.” He hems for a second, and then offers a quick polite smile to the other occupant. “Ms. Lopez.”
Just as quickly as he peeks in, he ducks out, shutting the flimsy trailer door behind him.
They’re alone again.
Rachel’s eyes close. She’s momentarily exhausted. There’s the telltale sound of shuffling, and when her eyes open once again, she sees that Santana has settled in a chair beside her own. She’s picking at some invisible lint on her knee.
“Is this about those stupid pictures?” Rachel’s mouth twitches as her chest constricts. That seems to be answer enough. “I did that for you.”
It’s the exact opposite of what she expects to hear. “Excuse me?”
It’s odd. Santana looks almost… nervous. “Look, I just… I get it, okay?” Rachel presses her lips together, watches intently as Santana keeps her focus on her wringing hands. “I’m not stupid, I know our industry sucks and I know how hard you work and… shit is finally really happening for you.” Santana may as well be speaking in code for all the sense she’s making. Her friend’s dark eyes lift up, lock onto hers briefly. It’s just enough to strike her breathless, before Santana looks away. “You can’t… there can’t be rumors and I get that so…”
And suddenly it comes together.
“… So you made out with an aging pop star on a yacht?” she asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice. “That was your big act of chivalry?”
There’s a flush that burns so deep on Santana’s tan skin, it’s frustratingly adorable. “Look, it made sense at the time,” she gripes.
Rachel wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. “That’s…” she tries to process it. Tries to understand how in Santana logic that would benefit her in any way. God, but it would make sense to Santana. This is the girl who broke up with her high school sweetheart even though they still loved each other for Brittany’s own good, not realizing how it destroyed Brittany in the process. Santana could be such an IDIOT in the guise of a White Knight. “- actually stupidly sweet if you think about it,” she admits.
Santana snorts. “Yeah, well you seem to bring that out in me.”
It’s a quiet admission, like Santana can’t quite believe it herself. This superstar DJ who had Jessie J. dragging her tongue up and down her neck and a stunning woman like Quinn Fabray aching to relive a long ago fling, is smiling at HER like she’s the only one that matters. It’s just this muted twitch of her lips that is both shy and awkward, but it’s so damn charming Rachel feels herself actually melt.
She’s hopeless. This is hopeless.
Rachel swallows and does her best to contain herself and her weakness. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I just… I don’t know what’s been going on with me,” she admits, and feels those dark burning eyes on her as she does it. She flashes a timid, sweet grin. “But you don’t deserve this attitude. Especially from me. You’re an adult and so are the… women that you’re with.” Her stomach turns at even the thought. “And for the record? I think whoever is with you at any given time is very lucky.”
A puff of air rushes out of Santana’s pursed lips. Clearly she’s a skeptic. But that gorgeous spark is back in Santana’s brilliant dark eyes, and on her features is an impish grin that makes Rachel shiver in response. “Well.” Rachel watches as Santana deliberately reaches over, until their fingers slide together and lock in a loose hold. “Right now you’re with me,” she very correctly observes, fiddling with Rachel’s grip. “So I guess that means lucky you.”
Rachel’s mouth trembles; her throat closes. “I guess so.” The fingers smooth against her, a delicate and soft searching touch that seems both tentative and bold.
The door shakes with a sudden thump. “Ms. Berry,” comes the muffled voice. “We’re ready for you!”
Rachel’s tongue sits flat at the roof of her mouth. She glances from the door to Santana, to the clasped hands that link loosely between them.
Santana’s smirk widens. “You ready to make some beautiful music together?”
God, she missed her. “Set me free, baby,” she whispers, quoting their own lyrics, and it’s never felt more right or real than at that moment.
--
It’s a long day. Santana’s schedule is crazier than her own, but Rachel knows that hers isn’t easy to work with, especially when she’s in workshop mode, completely absorbed and doing everything she can to bring something new and refreshing and different to the complex character of the Witch. So they cram as much as they can into a fourteen hour work day. Rachel’s throat is raw from singing the same song over and over again (the beginning of the song is sung live on set - the director is in love with idea of an authentic performance). Grips who had begun the day with wide eyes and wicked smiles (apparently two gorgeous women and equally gorgeous extras on set will put a perk in your step) are now slouching with exhaustion on any available surface, including the uncomfortable plastic crates that will brand diamond sized marks into their thighs, shoveling cookies into their mouths for the energy rush.
Rachel’s tired too. And yet… there’s a certain type of adrenaline that rushes deep into Rachel with the depth of a good performance. It’s an inexplicable thrill that keeps her buoyant, because this is a music video for her SINGLE, and she’s dressed up and gorgeous, and when she looks up from her mark and waits for the music, it’s not a stranger who stands across from her.
Santana’s eyes dance with this unexplainable mirth. She holds that cigar in her fingers , and has to refrain from smoking it (because this is something that has to happen on cue), and though the director is talking with wild, eccentric hand motions, it’s Rachel that Santana’s staring at.
Dark-stained lips purse together, moistening the edge of that damned cigar and still Rachel can catch the way the edges of that plump mouth tilt up.
Santana’s beautiful, but the way she’s looking at Rachel…
Rachel knows she’s beautiful too.
They’re in this together, and standing here, in this tight hallway that’s lit to make them look like they’re alone but in actuality is filled to the brim with the large group of production crew in every corner that isn’t seen by the cameras, it still feels like there’s no one else that matters.
--
It’s not that late when the wrap is finally called. But Rachel’s call time was 5AM, which means she actually woke up at 4, and these long production days do take their toll when she’s not actively used to them. The hours of live singing means her voice is hoarse. She’s been standing on a wooden stage or dock nearly the entire time, which means her feet pulse (and maybe swell) with the blood that rushes to her toes after she’s finally able to remove the painfully high stiletto heels she’s been wearing.
Even though it’s only 9PM, to say she’s exhausted is an understatement.
She has maybe enough energy to pull on a pair of boyfriend jeans, a tank and her ballet flats. One of the PA’s offers her a coffee to go, which she gratefully accepts. A long sip gives her the gumption to get up out of her chair and make her way out of the trailer.
As she gingerly heads down the trailer steps, she’s well aware that she’s walking way too tentatively for her own good, and mentally reminds herself to schedule a pedicure to deal with the blisters that she knows will be emerging after a day in those heels.
“Don’t tell me you’re limping,” says a dry voice from a dark corner just out of reach of the light blaring from the spotlight above her trailer. “You need to toughen up, Berry. Heels are a necessary evil for a pop star.”
It’s Santana, of course, who walks forward slowly, until she’s illuminated and visible.
Rachel straightens, but her mouth quirks at the challenge in her friend’s tone. “Maybe I need to start a new trend, then.”
“Good luck with that.” Like Rachel, Santana hasn’t bothered to remove her makeup, but the torn jeans and chunky boots look as casual as Rachel has ever seen her when not in the comfort of her own home. It’s always a little flabbergasting, to see the different layers of masks that Santana employs, through her hair and her makeup and her clothes. “I was wondering when you were going to come out.”
“Were you waiting for me?” Rachel’s stomach tightens; she feels a rush of pleasure at the thought.
Santana shrugs, like this is no big deal. “Too tired for dinner?”
Her feet are killing her and her throat is sore and her mind is exhausted, and two minutes ago, the only thing she really wanted was to head home and soak in Santana’s gorgeous spa-style bathtub.
Rachel can’t think of one thing she’d rather do than spend time having dinner with Santana Lopez.
--
Santana has a car and a driver at her disposal, and it’s a reminder again of the scope of Santana’s success in relation to Rachel’s.
It should sting, because who would have guessed that out of their entire Glee Club, it would be Santana that’s the paparazzi darling and the filthy rich pop artist?
Even so, Rachel has to admit, it suits her. It’s always suited Santana to live just a little larger than life. It was how they connected in New York, and it’s what makes her feel quietly close to her now, as Santana directs the driver to an Ethiopian restaurant that they used to frequent in Chelsea all those years ago.
They stay quiet in the car. Rachel wonders if this is actual sexual tension, because even though she’s exhausted, she’s very AWARE of Santana, and finds she has to actually fight the impulse to keep looking at her, to keep her hands to herself, and not focus on the smooth caramel of Santana’s tanned forearms or slender fingers and the way they slide over the seat.
For once, her exhaustion seems to work in her favor. All that angst, all that confusion and paranoia and FEAR that has been bottled up inside her and caused her to act so stupidly when it comes to her roommate has simmered.
Maybe that’s all still inside of her, but Rachel finds there’s no energy to waste on it. Instead, Rachel can lounge in this car, head leaning back against the comfortably cool leather of the back seat, and just absorb and appreciate this special connection that she shares with Santana Lopez.
Maybe Santana’s of the same mind, because she’s quiet too, legs crossed, regarding Rachel with this hooded gaze. The smirk that plays on her lips, like she’s got some unspoken secret, is devastatingly sexy.
“So…” Rachel finds herself finally saying, foot bobbing as she resettles herself to face Santana. “If you’re back in town, where exactly are you staying?”
Santana’s secret smile goes deeper still, but she just says with a deadpan droll, “Well, there’s a squatter in my apartment…” Rachel rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “So, I booked the Omni.”
Normally, a comment like that may have put Rachel in this wicked spiral of self-doubt, because why wouldn’t Santana even entertain the offer of staying with her?
Rachel discovers that the magic of the music video hasn’t quite faded yet. At least that’s what she attributes her self-confidence to, as she sighs and huffs, “Santana, that’s stupid. It’s your place.”
Santana’s brow arches. “So you want me to kick you out so you can get a hotel room?”
“Or,” Rachel says a moment later, because Santana’s being determinedly thick about this. “We could just… stay there together.”
She doesn’t mean to lick her lips as she says that. She doesn’t mean for her eye lids to flutter the way they do or for their eyes to lock so… intensely. She doesn’t MEAN for this sexual tension to be so… thick. But it’s there, and it’s maddening, and maybe it does sound like Rachel’s propositioning her.
Rachel isn’t sure she cares.
Santana still might. “I only have one bed, Rachel,” she points out, but her voice is thicker, lower than it was a second ago, and just noticing that makes Rachel’s insides clench.
She takes a deep breath, tries to force the color off her cheeks and keep her beating heart quiet as she adds conversationally, “You also have a couch.”
It’s an option. Rachel could argue quite validly that her intentions are honorable. And she thinks they are. There’s no reason why Santana should feel like she should have to stay somewhere else just because Rachel is subletting her apartment.
She doesn’t look at Santana as she waits for her friend to respond.
“You’re putting me on the couch in my own apartment? You are a bitch, Rachel.”
Rachel snorts before she can stop it. “Shut up,” she snaps, trying and failing to keep the amusement out of her voice. “I’m serious.” Santana continues to just look at her, indecision painted on her face, along with that scampy half smile that tells Rachel that she won’t be able to resist much longer. Deliberately, Rachel reaches across the leather of the backseat and slides her fingers over Santana’s, an arguably friendly gesture. “Come on, it’ll be like old times!”
Dark eyes flutter slowly away from Rachel’s face and down to their entwined hands. Santana’s attention stays there for a long minute, before her head lifts and that devastating gaze pins her once again. “You sure?” Rachel presses her lips together, and Santana’s fingers squeeze against hers meaningfully. “I mean, we wouldn’t want people to think you’ve caught the gay.”
There’s a coil that’s tightening inside of Rachel. She feels the pressure, the way it twists. It’s sensitive to Santana, twitches with the deliberate touch. She’s so aware of the way Santana’s fingers move between her own, flicking and sensitive.
Just the movement of those searching digits reminds Rachel of a questing tongue, searching for purchase in a deep kiss.
It’s… erotic.
“Maybe I’ll take my chances,” she manages.
Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe she’s stupid. Maybe she’ll regret this in the morning.
But she’s already had so many regrets, and in the face of the way of this, of the tingles that erupt when Santana strokes her fingers, of the breathless way she absorbs Santana’s smoldering stare, Rachel decides that ‘maybe’ is not a good enough excuse to deny exploring whatever this is.
Not tonight.
--
A good excuse finds her when literally two minutes after they decide to forgo the restaurant and head straight back to the flat for ‘take out’, Rachel and Santana’s phones ring at the exact same time.
“It’s Kurt,” she says with surprise, just as she hears Santana murmur, “Quinn?”
Their fingers untangle, and Rachel pretends not to notice how Santana doesn’t seem to care, pressing the answer button on her phone and bringing it to her ear to take their mutual friend’s call.
It delays Rachel for two seconds before she realizes she should be doing the same.
She works quickly to keep the call from going to voicemail. “Kurt, it’s like… 3AM in Spain,” she snips, not in the mood for whatever madness that has Kurt calling at this hour. “Are you drunk again?”
“…Yes,” Kurt snaps, with that high pitchy squeal that would have told Rachel he was severely imbibed regardless. “But that’s besides the point. Guess where I am, right now!”
Rachel doesn’t want to. “Hugh Jackman’s penthouse?” she tries, a lame attempt.
“Oh fuck,” Santana breathes beside her, and then Rachel doesn’t have to guess.
The sedan pulls in front of the very familiar apartment building and standing on the curb, waiting for them with red noses and wide, idiotic smiles, bundled together to protect each other from the cold are Quinn, Kurt, and a gaggle of her old NYADA friends.
Kurt, who should be in Spain and not here in New York, just grins gleefully.
“It’s party time, bitches!” he crows, the phone in his hand and his voice reverberating in Rachel’s ear.
--
Chapter 3B