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“Jesus, it’s like my freakin’ scalp is sore.” Santana huffs loudly, the mattress dipping down when she settles behind Quinn to help her put her stupid cross necklace back on. She thinks it’d be kinda hot if Quinn kept it on during their... activities ...but she’s advocated to no avail. “Did you really have to pull my hair like that today?”
Quinn exhales a humorless laugh before gathering her blonde locks to the side so Santana can fasten the clasp. “You liked it fifteen minutes ago.”
“Hilarious.” They switch positions so that Quinn can zip up Santana’s Cheerio top. Then, to Santana’s surprise, she feels soft lips on her bare shoulder. “No-go on round 3, Q, I told my mom I’d pick up dinner on the way home.”
“Just lay with me,” Quinn pleads in that whiny voice that irks Santana so much she could gag. Apparently not enough, though, because she’s wordlessly burrowing under the covers seconds later, her and Quinn’s bodies curled as they face each other. “You know how fucked-up this is, right?”
As if to illustrate her point, Santana’s thumb starts stroking the same cheek her palm collided with maybe six hours ago. She nods her head; in no universe is there a good, healthy ending to this. “Yeah,” she just says, because maybe Quinn Fabray’s the only person in the world that can leave her at a loss for words.
Per their usual routine, they don’t talk much after that; they just kiss some more until Quinn starts sucking at that pulse point on Santana’s neck, and everything halts before Santana’s late for dinner.
When she gets up to leave, there are no goodbye kisses (there never are), no apologies for the words said during their explosive fight in front of half the school, and definitely no I love you ’s — because despite how messed up their relationship may be, Quinn and Santana never ever lie to each other.
*
And that’s how it goes the next few weeks: drive separately to Quinn’s house after Cheerios practice — Santana’s backpack always in tow because they live under the guise of “homework buddies” whenever Quinn’s mom is home — take digs at each other until even that gets boring and they start making out, smush a hand over Santana’s mouth when she comes loudly on Quinn’s fingers because, “my mom is having book club downstairs.” “Maybe they’ll think I’m just really enthusiastic about my math homework.”
And, yeah, there are some days where glee club will take too much out of them emotionally or Cheerios will take too much out of them physically, so all they do when they get back to Quinn’s is change out of their uniforms and into normal clothes and nap together until it’s time for Santana to go home. They don’t talk about how Santana becomes the default big spoon (but Quinn will switch it up on the days Santana really needs it) or how they start holding hands under the covers even when they’re not cuddling.
They never, ever talk about how, somewhere along the line, it became less about sex and more about just spending time together.
*
The week Kurt’s dad is admitted to the hospital is… a lot, to say the least.
Santana’s setting her backpack down in its usual spot next to Quinn’s desk when she turns around to find the blonde kneeling beside her bed, her elbows propped on the mattress and her hands clasped together. Santana’s brow furrows, because frankly, the only time Quinn should be on her knees like that is when she’s going down on her. “Um, what the—”
“I’m praying,” Quinn mumbles, as if Santana can’t fucking put two and two together, and she gets an eye roll in response.
“Yeah, thanks for breaking that down for me, but... why? ”
“God helped me a lot last year,” Quinn explains, her voice biting when she adds, “all the times you didn’t. Maybe he could do the same for Burt.”
It admittedly stings Santana badly, and she doesn’t know what to do other than wordlessly kneel next to Quinn and mimic her stance. “Is there some chant I’m supposed to recite?” she nearly snorts, earning herself a nudge in the ribs.
“This isn’t a joke to me, Santana,” Quinn’s voice is gentle as opposed to accusatory, and that’s what really gets Santana to cut the shit.
“Fine,” she whispers, shutting her eyes because that’s what Quinn does and maybe it’s easier to feel God that way or something. She doesn’t really know what to do; does she wish for things? Demand them? Either way, she knows better than to open up her mouth again and ask.
She’s on the verge of sleep, her head threatening to lull forward when she feels Quinn’s hand wrap around her own and tug her onto the bed. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her fingers working to hike up Santana’s skirt.
Maybe Santana should pray more often.
*
There’s an unspoken understanding between them that they’re not singing a duet together for Mr. Schue’s competition.
“Me?” Mercedes scoffs when Santana proposes that they team up. “What, both of your blondies said no to you?”
“Ok, first of all, not my blondies,” Santana’s clutching onto her binder as she matches Mercedes’s stride down the hall. “Second of all, everybody knows that we’re the most talented pieces of action in that club. Don’t you wanna rub that in Berry’s face?” She laughs to herself as she adds, “as much as I’d love to shove it in Quinn’s?”
Because it’s not totally a lie. The only thing better than giving or receiving an orgasm from Quinn Fabray is beating her at anything. In front of everyone.
The point must resonate with Mercedes, because she’s smirking seconds later. “You got yourself a deal.”
*
“The new kid?” Santana almost spit-takes all over Quinn’s bedsheets, having to shield her mouth with her hand before she swallows down the swig of water she just took. “C’mon, Q, be serious.”
Quinn simply smooths out her not-wrinkled skirt, which causes Santana to roll her eyes. “And why wouldn’t I be serious about that?”
“Are you into him?” Santana’s homework is fully pushed aside now as she scoots closer to Quinn on the bed, pens and pencils and erasers shuffling as she moves. “Because he looks like he could be your long-lost twin brother.”
“Knock it off, San,” Quinn huffs with an eye roll of her own. Santana swears the two of them spend more time rolling their eyes at each other than they do talking. Then again, they also spend more time getting each other off than they do talking, so— “Why are you on my case about this, anyway? Are you jealous?”
“Ew, no.” Santana bristles at that, because what the hell? Even if she was, Russell Fabray Jr. has got nothing on her. “I just didn’t think you’d throw away your chances at winning so badly.”
“And what would better those chances, huh?” Quinn challenges, an eyebrow cocked. “Singing with you ?”
“In your wildest dreams, yeah.”
“Yeah, right.” Quinn nudges her. “Can you move, please? You’re sitting all over my stuff.”
“Look, can we just fuck already? You never actually study for this long.” Santana doesn’t totally ignore Quinn’s request, because she does move — she just moves on top of her, instead of away from.
“I have a big test tomorrow,” Quinn says, and Santana groans as she leans back, wrapping her fingers around Quinn’s legs for balance.
“In what?”
“Spanish,” it comes out as a quiet mumble, like she’s embarrassed. Santana throws her hands in the air.
“What, are you struggling? Why didn’t you just ask me for help?”
“We don’t do that with each other,” Quinn shrugs simply, and Santana guesses she has a point. “Like, ever.”
“God, you’re infuriating,” Santana un-mounts her and leans over the side of the bed to grab her own Spanish textbook from where it lays on the floor. “Let me help, ok?” When Quinn gives her a reserved look, “What? I wanna take you in the shower, and the more I help you, the sooner you’ll be done studying.” It’s simple and it makes sense.
“Fine.”
*
“I just don’t get it,” Santana leans against the locker next to Brittany’s, minutes after Sam and Quinn stroll out of the choir room with that Breadstix gift card that belonged to her. “I mean, you and Wheels didn’t even perform, and I would’ve voted for you before them.”
“Same,” Brittany agrees with an incredulous shake of her head. “You know how it works, though. The glee club will always root for who could be the next golden couple.”
That makes Santana scoff. “Golden couple, yeah right. The only thing golden about those two is their hair color, and even then, it’s not natural on Quinn.”
Brittany shuts her locker closed and nudges Santana’s shoulders as they make their way to Cheerios practice. “C’mon, San, don’t be upset,” she urges, and Santana sighs because she’s right. She doesn’t even know why she’s so hot and bothered. It’s not like she loves Quinn or anything, but seeing her sing up there all sweetly and smiley with Big Mouth was just so...unsettling. But whatever. Quinn is still all hers after school.
*
Except, not today.
“Sam wants to go out for some ice cream,” Quinn explains as they walk to their cars. Santana grimaces.
“Ice cream before dinner, that makes so much sense,” she deadpans, nearly tripping on herself when Quinn abruptly stops walking.
“Are you upset?” she asks, half-smug, and Santana doesn’t really know how to answer that. “Because if you are, you should just say so. Not that I’ll change my plans, but it’s just nice to know that you actually do like spending time with me.”
“God, you’re so loud,” Santana complains through gritted teeth, even though she’s really not and no one’s even around. “I’m not— I don’t know. I’m just...used to our routine, that’s all,” she shrugs, her voice softer than she means for it to be.
Quinn smiles a little. She scans the parking lot before grabbing Santana’s hand. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. I promise.”
*
And she does, and Santana has the best orgasm(s) of her life. She doesn’t even care how quick she is to curl into Quinn’s backside after, her face hidden in watermelon-scented blonde locks.
Quinn just laughs, loosely threading their fingers together.
“Does it scare you?” she asks after minutes of listening to the ceiling fan whir above them.
“What?” Santana plays dumb.
“You know what.”
A loud sigh. “Yeah, it does,” she mumbles. Because she knows it’s not normal how hot and cold she and Quinn act with each other. It doesn’t make any sense. Who in their right mind spends hours laying in bed with the same person they’ve been actively trying to destroy for the past year?
“I had a good time with Sam yesterday.”
Santana audibly scoffs. “Not exactly what I wanna hear right now, Q.” Or ever, for that matter.
“I just don’t know what to do.” Quinn rolls over so that they’re facing each other, and suddenly Santana feels cold.
“Well, what do you wanna do?”
Quinn’s eyes flicker down to Santana’s lips, then back to her eyes. “I want to…be able to kiss someone outside of my bedroom,” she says. “And hold their hand, and love them out loud.”
Santana’s heartbeat feels so loud against her ribcage. She isn’t even totally sure where this conversation is coming from, why it’s even happening. Just a week ago she was ridiculing Quinn for joking about kissing her goodbye. “So, the right thing to do would be for us to stop.”
“Maybe,” Quinn murmurs breathily. “But when have you and I ever done the right thing?”
*
So they keep at it, even though Quinn’s kind of dating Sam, and Santana pretends her blood doesn’t boil whenever Quinn sits next to him in the choir room.
She wishes she could say even a small part of her feels a little guilty whenever Quinn tells Sam she has to cut a hangout short because she volunteered to help her mom with a Bible Study thing, but really it was just so he would leave and Santana could come over.
“He’s not my boyfriend or anything,” Quinn reasons as she’s pulling a pajama shirt over her head one night. “So it’s not cheating, is it?”
“Spoken like a true cheater,” Santana mutters, and Quinn shoots her a thin look. “I mean, yeah, you have a point,” she resigns a little, because Quinn always has a point. “Still feels kinda slimy, though. Not that I give a fuck.”
Quinn just pulls her hair back into a ponytail. “I never told Sam we were exclusive,” she says, and Santana figures she’s just saying the words out loud to convince herself she’s not in the wrong. “If you’re so concerned with it, you don’t have to keep coming over.”
“You don’t have to keep inviting me,” Santana bites back, unafraid. Then, she sighs, tugging on Quinn’s wrist so they can lie down. “Can we just drop it? I’m too tired to fight today.”
“What do you wanna do?” Quinn reaches a hand forward to massage the nape of Santana’s neck, and Santana’s eyes flit closed.
“Be with you.”
*
“What did you mean by that?”
“Nothing. Just that I wanted to nap with you or whatever, I don’t know.”
*
It only makes sense they get double-casted as Magenta for Rocky Horror.
“I’m totally better than you, by the way,” Santana says after rehearsals one day when they’re the last two in the auditorium and Quinn’s hand is wandering up her dress.
“Do you always have to talk so much?” Quinn mutters against the skin of Santana’s neck, and they only go at it for another few more minutes before the identical wigs and outfits get the best of them and it feels too much like a weird branch of masturbation.
*
Santana’s splitting a pouch of sour gummy worms with Brittany on the hood of her car a week later after school when Quinn’s out somewhere with Sam. Wherever the hell they are, Santana doesn’t know or care.
Brittany chews off the orange half of a worm and hands Santana the green half when, “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, Britt. Anything.”
“Are you and Quinn, like, totally getting it on?” she asks casually, popping another gummy into her mouth when Santana tenses a little. “Because, if so, I think that’s super hot. But also super sweet. You know, like in a star-crossed lovers way.”
Santana chuckles, fishing the bag for a blue and red one. “Um, yeah. We are,” she says quietly. She looks up at Brittany, her eyes squinting against the sun. “You really think it’s ok?”
“Uh-huh. I mean, does it feel ok?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Santana stretches out her legs so they dangle off the side of the car. “Just weird sometimes. Like I don’t really know what to do or how I feel. Especially with whatever she’s got going on with Sam.”
Brittany nods because she understands. She always understands. “Would you be mad at me if I told her you might love her?”
Santana blinks a couple times, her throat feeling dry, then she shakes her head. “No, I- I wouldn’t be mad at you. Never.”
“Ok. Then I think you might love her,” Brittany says simply, swiping her tongue over the pads of her fingers to get rid of the stickiness from the gummy worms.
“Why do you say that?” Santana asks, because to her, Brittany’s opinion on the matter weighs more than anyone else’s.
“You wouldn’t keep putting yourself through whatever you are if you didn’t.”
Maybe Brittany really always was the smartest out of the three of them.
*
“He asked me to be his girlfriend.”
Santana halts the small circles she’s been tracing on Quinn’s lower back. “You know, for as smart as you are, you bring up the worst things at the worst times.”
“San,” Quinn reprimands softly as she flips onto her side. She doesn’t follow up with anything right away, and annoyance pricks at Santana’s temper.
“Well? Are you gonna expand on that, or—”
“I said maybe.”
Santana laughs dryly. “Well that does us so much good, doesn’t it, Q?”
“Don’t act like you know what exactly you’d do in this situation,” Quinn snaps, her face hard. “Seriously. You give me so much shit, like you have any idea how hard it is.”
“Oh, give me a break,” Santana laughs again, louder this time. “Could you say that one more time? I’m sorry, I just- I couldn’t hear you between you lying to your little boy toy so that I could come over to finger fuck you while your mom is downstairs probably under the impression we’re rehearsing our Cheerios routine up here for hours on end.”
“Santana, what do you want from me here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Quinn huffs, propping herself up against her headboard. The loose t-shirt that was bunched up at her sides falls over her stomach. “I think, maybe, I want to be with you.” Her voice is so low, Santana has to scoot closer to hear her clearly. “Like, the way that Finn is with Rachel, or the way Sam wants to be with me.” She starts fumbling with her fingers. “If that makes me… if it makes me... gay, or bi, or whatever, I don’t know.” Her voice trembles a little, but Santana can’t really bring herself to move a muscle to comfort her. “I’d be eaten alive. And not just at school.”
After a few moments, Santana just extends her hand, grateful when Quinn takes it between both of her own.
*
They don’t fool around as much the days following, and Santana’s not really sure if it’s because of the conversation that occurred or because of Sam’s dumb relationship proposal. Like, really? A promise ring?
She still hangs at Quinn’s, and they still talk and act like everything’s normal even though it isn’t.
She’s painting Quinn’s toes for Burt and Carole’s wedding when Quinn asks softly, “Do you think you’ll ever get married?”
Santana nearly tips over the bottle of nail polish in her hand. “Um, yeah,” she replies. “If I can find someone who doesn’t make me wanna pull my hair out after spending more than two hours with them, then yeah.” (And so what if she willingly spends at least three hours at Quinn’s house after school nearly every day, knowing she could easily stay longer if it weren’t for having to be home for dinner? That’s irrelevant.) She knows better than to ask the same thing, because Quinn’s marriage and motherhood timeline was laid out to her several times during their many sleepovers the summer before freshman year.
(Needless to say, the latter timeline got derailed months later.)
*
They don’t talk much at the wedding, Quinn on Sam’s arm most of the time and Santana seated at the singles table sneaking drinks with Puck and Mercedes. And like, shit, even Artie has Brittany all over him during these unnecessarily long speeches about love and together-ness and forevers.
Santana reprimands herself for looking whenever she glances at the other table of her friends to find Quinn giggling at something Sam whispers into her ear.
“You know, your neck’s gonna be sore tomorrow, with all that staring you’re doing,” Mercedes chimes in with an entertained laugh. “What the hell is over there, Satan?”
Santana forces out an eye roll and an empty laugh. “Just the incestuous-looking blondes, is all.” It’s the right answer, because Mercedes is laughing even harder in response, and Santana makes an escape to the bathroom for some air.
Like a scene plucked out of a romantic comedy, Quinn is reapplying lip gloss at the counter when Santana swings the door open.
“Did you follow me in here?” she asks, her eyes teasing.
“Yeah, right,” Santana folds her arms over her chest as she leans against the counter next to her friend. Then, gentler, “you look beautiful, Q.”
Quinn blushes a little bit, a smile spreading on her lips. She dips her head down to make sure no one’s occupying any of the stalls before tugging Santana against her and pressing a sweet, short, innocent kiss to her lips. She giggles as she swipes some smeared lip gloss off the corner of Santana’s mouth with her thumb. “You, too.”
“Are you having a good time?” Santana reaches forward to straighten out one of the straps on Quinn’s dress.
“Yeah,” Quinn shrugs easily. “But, not as good of a time as I could be having.”
“And what would help that?”
“Getting to dance with you.” Quinn looks shy all of a sudden, her gaze flickering back to her reflection in the mirror, and the two of them immediately create a foot of space between them when the bathroom door swings open again. Rachel stumbles in; all smiley and lovestruck, no doubt from Finnocence’s dramatic speech.
“Why aren’t you guys out on the dance floor?” she playfully pokes them in the ribs, and Santana nearly cuts her arm off, a laugh almost escaping her when she smells the white wine off Rachel’s breath.
“Good question,” she says, flicking some hair over her shoulder. “Quinn needed help readjusting her hair piece,” she lies, wanting to grab Quinn’s hand on her way out but settling for an acknowledged head nod instead.
*
To no one’s surprise, they don’t dance together, unless you count standing next to each other when the entire glee club decides to get up and finally dance to some group numbers.
Quinn ends up slow dancing with Sam, and Santana with Puck, and neither of them tell each other how they end up just counting the seconds until the song is over.
*
They end up at Santana’s house after, because it’s closer to where the reception was held and Quinn doesn’t want to sleep alone or have to answer any of her mom’s questions about how beautiful and amazing the ceremony was.
They’re in Santana’s bathroom, and she’s brushing her teeth while Quinn rinses her face, when, “I’m gonna tell him no.”
“Wha’d’say?” Santana muffles through toothpaste, holding up a finger as if to tell Quinn to wait before finishing her brushing routine. “Huh?”
Quinn dries her face with one of Santana’s towels, and Santana takes the time to admire how pretty she is without all the prim and proper make-up. “I’m going to tell Sam that I won’t be his girlfriend,” she says, specifically and clearly so that there’s no room to read in between the lines. “This doesn’t mean that I’m gonna start waving a flag above my head everywhere I go, but—“
“It’s something,” Santana finishes for her, and Quinn nods carefully. “What does this mean for us?” she asks, because she doesn’t seem to know the answer herself, or what she even wants the answer to be.
“It means,” Quinn’s voice trails as she watches Santana trade her contact lenses for her glasses, and she lets Santana be the little spoon as they crawl into bed together. “Baby steps.”
*
So, they’re not publicly dating or anything — the only other person who knows about them is Brittany, and they still only ever do couple-y stuff when they’re in either of their cars or bedrooms.
But they also drop the “wanting to kill each other” act at school and glee and Cheerios practice, and it feels like the start of something to the both of them.
*
And they both get solos for Sectionals.
Quinn’s is part of a duet with Sam, which is kind of awkward, but Santana couldn’t care less when she’s the one Quinn spends extra hours practicing with.
“Jesus, I can’t do this,” Quinn tosses the brush she’s been using as a stand-in microphone onto her bed, and Santana looks up from Quinn’s desk where she’s been filing her nails, her eyebrows raised.
“Do what?” she wants to cower at the fact she has no idea what Quinn’s talking about — frankly, she’s been in her own little world for the past ten minutes.
“I can’t, I can’t do this duet.” Quinn takes a seat on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap. “And it’s not because of Sam, it’s- it’s because I’m not strong enough. We’re not gonna win.”
Santana’s on red-alert now, rising from her seat and taking one next to Quinn because surely this is the time she’s supposed to go into comfort mode, right?
(This whole….kind-of-secretly-dating her former best friend turned arch rival turned whatever-they-are-now business still has some tricky waters to navigate, to say the least.)
Santana reaches into Quinn’s lap to interlace their fingers together. “Well, I love your voice.”
“No, you don’t,” Quinn murmurs. “You once told me it sounded like someone was pinching the airways to my nose shut every time I opened my mouth.”
Santana’s at a loss for words for a split second — God, she’s a bitch, and leave it to Quinn to remember each of her insults verbatim. “Ok, well that was before,” she defends lamely. “Hey, listen.” She waits till Quinn looks up at her to continue. “I love it when you sing, ok? I was wrong before. Your voice is so special. Like you, Q. You can do this.”
“You think I’m special,” Quinn repeats quietly, a small smile sitting on her lips. Santana wants to roll her eyes, but just knowing Quinn as well as she does, it’s probably something she genuinely has trouble believing sometimes.
“Don’t make me say it again,” she jokes, a laugh escaping her when Quinn pushes her back on the bed and smushes their lips together.
*
The actual week of Sectionals is a mess, and fine, maybe Santana shouldn’t have stirred shit until it hit the fan just for the sake of it, but Rachel has been acting entitled as fuck lately, and for what?
“Did you really have to go there? Again?” Quinn asks, irritated, minutes after everyone disperses the Rachel pile-on in the green room.
Santana draws out her eye roll as she reapplies a layer of lip gloss. “Don’t act like she didn’t have it coming.”
“Ok, maybe she did, but minutes before we’re supposed to perform, Santana? Seriously?”
“I’m sorry, who let my mother backstage?” Santana furrows her eyebrows and feigns confusion. “I didn’t know they let just anyone give out free lectures back here.”
Quinn is unimpressed, flitting her eyes closed before she takes a deep breath. “Sorry, I’m just a little stressed,” she mumbles. Santana shrugs it off, because in the grand scheme of things, whatever. It’s not a big deal. “How are you feeling about your solo?”
The butterflies in Santana’s stomach and Santana’s chest say one thing, but her mouth says, “Fine.”
Quinn sees right through her, of course, and she squeezes her hand briefly. “You’re gonna be amazing, San.”
“I know that.”
“You are,” she repeats, catching Santana’s gaze in the mirror. Santana shoots her a smile laced with gratitude and nerves.
*
Quinn’s right; she is amazing — they both are — and they help lead the club to a first place victory. Even Berry can’t taint how full Santana’s heart feels. She nearly kisses Quinn right on that stage when their name is announced as the winners.
But, her sense returns to her, and she saves it for later, when they’re safe under the covers of Quinn’s room, limbs tangled together.
“I like you so much, you know,” Quinn’s cupping the side of her face, her thumb stroking Santana’s cheek.
Santana wraps her fingers around Quinn’s wrist, as if Quinn will float away if she ever lets go. She thinks back to what Quinn said before about being able to love someone out loud, and she hopes that can be the case for the two of them one day. “Yeah, Q. Me too.”
*
Santana knows she’s in love with Quinn by Christmas, and her only Christmas wish is to find the strength to tell her. Also, to have enough money to buy her a present, because God knows that girl is picky as fuck when it comes to gift-giving.
“I think the worst part is she doesn’t even know how to pretend to like a gift she actually hates,” she muses during a mall trip with Brittany’s enlisted help. “What the hell am I supposed to do then?”
“What if you got her Beth back?” Brittany asks. “That’d be pretty cool. Except, she was Quinn’s before she was Shelby’s, so maybe that actually just makes it a return. So, never mind.”
Santana breathes out a laugh. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Might not be the easiest gift to get, either.”
“Spanks? She’s always sad or angry about her stretch marks.”
“Huh. Maybe we’re getting somewhere, Britt.”
*
She ends up buying a couple records for Quinn’s record player, and Quinn gets her new nail sets, and it’s all fun and sweet until they remember that they can’t share this joy with anyone else.
“When do you think we’ll be brave enough to do that?” Santana asks, fingers fumbling with the pom pom on her Santa hat.
Quinn lifts her shoulder in a shrug, and she shoots Santana this look like she knows her answer isn’t going to be helpful at all. “I don’t know.”
*
Other than that, things go pretty smoothly for them the next month or so.
Then they quit the Cheerios.
They wanted to, and Santana will back the decision any day of the week, but it also complicates things, because the Cheerio uniform was like this layer of armor they could wear to protect themselves from the school’s social hierarchy, and they don’t have that anymore. If she and Quinn were to come out with their relationship now ....that’s asking for so much more than slushies between periods.
“But maybe…” Quinn trails off as they sip on milkshakes in the car one day (because being off the Cheerios means they can eat and drink whatever they want now). “Maybe that wouldn’t be...you know, the worst thing.”
Santana nearly chokes on her straw, eyebrows pinched together as she reaches over to rest the back of her hand on Quinn’s forehead. “Are you feeling ok? Who the hell are you right now?”
Quinn swats her arm away. “San, I’m serious.” She pauses. “I think.”
“Quinn,” Santana breathes out, because she doesn’t know what else to say.
“Isn’t that what we both wanted? Eventually?”
“I mean, yeah, but,” Santana wracks her brain for the right words to say. “I’m just thinking about, like, your mom...and your-your dad, and—“
“He’s not in my life enough for me to care about what he thinks anymore,” Quinn says surely, and Santana scans her face for any hurt, but all she sees is hardness. It occurs to her that they don’t talk enough about Quinn’s relationship (or lack thereof) with her dad, but maybe there just isn’t much to say. “And my mom…” she shrugs. “She’ll get over it. Whatever.”
Santana sets her milkshake down in one of the cup holders between them. “You really want to do this?”
“Only if you do, too,” Quinn angles herself in her seat so they can better face each other. “I don’t know, I just- I thought being kicked off the Cheerios would be one of the worst things to ever happen, but. Just walking the halls this week in normal clothes and normal hairstyles has made me feel ...like me.” Her eyes dance with possibilities. “But, I mean, if you’re not ready, then I’m not pushing anything.”
Santana wants to laugh. Not at Quinn; just at the fact that never in a million years would she envision Quinn fuckin’ Fabray encouraging her that them going public with their relationship would be a good idea. Instead, she leans over, holds Quinn’s chin in place with her hand, and kisses her on the mouth. Then, to lighten the mood a little, “you just want a nice Valentine’s Day gift, don’t you?”
Quinn just starts laughing. “I mean, if the shoe fits.”
Santana joins in before clasping their hands together. “No, but seriously. You’re right. And, whatever and whoever comes at us...you’re worth it. We’re worth it.”
God, sometimes she hates how she sounds nowadays.
*
Telling the glee club is...entertaining, to say the least.
Brittany’s up and clapping before anyone else, the girls are frozen in shock before squealing and ambushing them with hugs, and the boys just stare at them, mouths agape, and Santana rolls her eyes knowing she and Quinn probably just gave them even more artillery for their lonely Friday nights.
*
Santana’s immediate family goes surprisingly without a hitch.
Her mom is hugging her and cradling her face and murmuring things like, “thank you for telling us, mija,” and her dad just sets his glass of whiskey down to kiss her on the forehead and tell her that he loves her.
She sends a text to her older brothers in Philly and Columbus, respectively, and they shoot back with comments like “at least you can’t accidentally get pregnant” and “I knew you weren’t actually into that Puckerman guy.”
And Santana wonders, with all her jagged edges and bitter attitude, how she ended up with a family like this. She’s sure she’s not the only one.
*
Quinn calls her after she tells her mom.
“We might just have to hang out at your house for a little bit.”
*
“Are you ok?” Santana asks when Quinn’s on her doorstep hours later.
Quinn shrugs her shoulders with a smile that’s disappointed but unsurprised. “She needs time,” she murmurs, fighting an eye roll when she adds, “she always does.”
They go upstairs and Quinn rummages through the bottom drawer of clothes that’s wordlessly become the one she can go to when she needs to borrow something to wear, and they’re lying on top of Santana’s comforter minutes later.
“I never expect anything from her, especially after how she dealt with everything when I was pregnant with Beth. But I guess there was a hidden part of me that was giving her the benefit of the doubt.”
Santana runs her hands through Quinn’s hair to softly untangle the long locks. For a while, she felt greedy being one of the only people who got to see it down, cascading over and around Quinn’s shoulders, but now she’s glad everyone else gets to see how pretty it is. “I mean, it’s like you said- she just needs time, right?”
Quinn nods her head, but there’s silent tears rolling down her cheeks. Santana catches them with the sleeve of her hoodie before they can reach Quinn’s pillow. “I love you,” she mumbles, her chest heaving in a sigh. “Maybe that’s what makes all of this ok. Because I love you.”
Santana’s heart feels so full, it hurts. “I love you, too, Q.”
*
She’d be lying if she said things got easier, because even though they have the glee club and Santana’s family in their corner, they’re all outnumbered by — well, everyone else.
Santana’s forced to shrug off unwanted offers of threesomes by guys she’s never even seen before, and Quinn’s nearly programmed to tune out conversations she overhears of people insisting she decided to date girls now just so that she can avoid another unplanned pregnancy.
“You don’t regret it, do you?” Santana asks her during a passing period at Quinn’s locker one day. “Telling everyone?”
Quinn slides the books she needs into her backpack, shuts her locker closed, and timidly extends her hand with outstretched fingers. “No, I don’t.”
Santana smiles, then takes her hand swiftly.
And for once, she’s thankful for how far away Quinn’s locker is from Spanish class.
*
Finn sets up a stupid kissing booth for Valentine’s Day, Puck spends the entire week trying to woo Zizes, Rachel keeps trying to convince everyone (including herself) that she doesn’t want to drop all her bat mitzvah money on aforementioned kissing booth, and for once in her life, Santana’s content with just chilling in the background.
She and Quinn mutually agree that they won’t go big on presents, so when she strides over to Quinn’s locker the morning of, she’s able to conceal her gift behind her back. “Hey.”
An automatic smile finds Quinn’s face. “Hey, you.”
Santana wordlessly pulls out the custom-made pamphlet she requested from Ms. Pillsbury’s office. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Quinn starts giggling when she reads the front of the pamphlet out loud. “Congrats - we no longer hate each other!”
“C’mon, open it up,” Santana urges. Quinn complies, then reads again, her voice softening.
“Who knew that you driving me crazy could keep me so sane? I wouldn’t have it any other way — give or take a slap or two. Love you. -Santana.” She lifts the pamphlet to shyly cover her face. “San.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m super awesome,” Santana smirks. Quinn looks like she wants to kiss her, but since they’re in the middle of a crowded hallway, she settles for a squeeze of the hand instead before hanging up the pamphlet on the inside of her locker.
“Yes, you are, and I love my gift. Yours is coming later, I promise.”
*
They’re at Santana’s house after school, sitting across from each other on her bed as Santana unwraps a DVD copy of the newly-released film Mean Girls 2 . When she glances up, Quinn is looking at her expectantly. “Is this a prank?” she asks, genuinely.
Quinn just laughs, pulling Santana into her lap. “You always tell me that you hate the movies I pick out because I spend too much time actually watching them and less time doing... other things. ”
A grin starts to stretch onto Santana’s lips. “So you bought this, because it’s a movie you’d never actually watch. Which means more time for... other things. ”
“Exactly.”
“That...is so dumb. And also the best thing ever. I love you so much right now.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, San.”
*
“Just to be clear — we’re doing jewelry for birthdays, right?”
“Yes, definitely.”
*
Two things Santana couldn’t have imagined would happen her junior year: being Quinn Fabray’s girlfriend, and getting drunk in Rachel Berry’s basement. Let alone both at once.
But here she is, lulled against the bar counter with tequila swirling in her stomach, in near tears as she rambles to Mike Chang of all people how lucky she is to tap that piece of ass as Quinn chews out Puck about who-knows-what across the room.
Mercedes is giving an impromptu performance of some Alicia Keys song when Quinn stumbles into Santana’s lap. “Hi, baby,” she mumbles tiredly, and Santana knows Quinn’s due for a nasty hangover tomorrow because she only ever calls her that when they’re sober and alone.
Fighting the throbbing in her own head, Santana shuts her eyes and hides her face in Quinn’s hair, one arm supporting Quinn’s back while the other rests lazily on Quinn’s knee, wrinkling the hem of her dress.
“You’re so pretty,” Quinn digs the heels of her hands into her eyes, leaning forward. “Prettier than me. Maybe that’s why I hated you so much.”
Santana breathes out an exhausted laugh. “Not a chance, Q.” Neither of them are ever the slightest fans of PDA, but there’s something so safe about being in Rachel’s basement with just their friends, and Santana’s feeling bolder than usual, so she sweeps Quinn’s hair to the side and presses a long kiss to the juncture of Quinn’s neck.
Everyone’s too busy cheering on Mercedes, so Santana keeps going, dipping lower to Quinn’s collarbone until her dress gets in the way.
Quinn’s breath hitches, and she’s gripping onto Santana’s thigh for balance before mumbling, “Wait.”
*
Number three on Santana’s unpredictable list: going down on Quinn Fabray in Rachel Berry’s laundry room.
*
They wake up the following morning sprawled across Santana’s bed, clad in the same clothes with messier hair.
“Oh God, we did what? ”
“Yeah, I’m gonna hurl.”
*
“I’m gonna run for Prom Queen,” Quinn tells her on a day they’re baking cupcakes in Santana’s kitchen.
Santana sucks some icing off her finger, then releases it with a pop . “Yeah?” she smirks, entertained. “Are you about to ask me to run for prom king for you? Because I’m totally down with smashing those gender norms, but I just don’t think that’s my speed right now.”
“No — no, I’m not asking that.” Quinn’s mixing the batter absentmindedly, and Santana slowly pries the bowl and spatula from her hands because she’s getting hungry and this process needs to move along. “I just need you to be in my corner helping me campaign here and there.”
Santana nods. “Ok, yeah sure, whatever,” she says, because it’s freakin’ Prom Queen . What the hell can even happen? “Just don’t go crazy on me.”
*
She’s sitting in the library the following week, mindlessly flipping through the rhyming dictionary Mr. Schue distributed to everyone when Quinn takes a seat next to her, her demeanor apprehensive as her knee bounces beneath the table. “You good?”
“My mom is inviting you over for dinner tonight,” Quinn tells her, and Santana isn’t sure if she’s supposed to feel nervous or relieved, but her gut tells her it’s definitely the former.
But to lighten the mood (and to Quinn’s dismay), she utters, “Maybe I’ll be able to write a song about it.”
*
So, she’s pulling into Quinn’s driveway that night in a modest outfit and a bouquet of flowers in tow because even though she kinda hates Judy Fabray, she loves Quinn and wants to relieve as much stress for her as she can. At least, that’s what she tries to remind herself when she drags her feet to the front door, kicking at rocks that dare stand in her way.
Quinn’s opening the door seconds after she knocks, a tight smile on her lips. “Hi,” she greets, softly, but her eyes look stressed and Santana hates how Quinn’s parents make her feel, and she hates herself for how she probably wasn’t helping things when she and Quinn were at each other’s throats.
As if to make up for it, she presses a quick kiss to Quinn’s cheek before Quinn lets her in. “Mom, Santana’s here.”
“Hello,” Judy tries to shoot her a smile that really just comes off as a grimace, and Santana offers an awkward head nod in response.
“These are...for you,” she sets the flowers down on the counter just to her left, then she wishes she didn’t because now she doesn’t really know what to do with her hands. “Thank you for having me,” she says, genuinely. She may be a bitch but she knows a thing or two about basic manners.
“And thank you for the flowers.” Judy makes herself busy by transferring plates of food from the stove to the table, Quinn fills water into glasses, and Santana wishes she were literally anywhere else in the world right now.
“Go ahead and sit down,” Quinn saves her by handing her two glasses of water to carry to the table, and Santana does so, scooting into the chair that she knows is the one that’s usually reserved for Quinn’s sister when she’s in town.
The first half of dinner fills itself with empty small talk about glee club, Cheerios, Santana’s brothers, and Burt and Carole’s wedding — and, like, does Judy seriously care that much what color the bridesmaid dresses were? — Santana has absolutely no appetite at all, but the chicken parmesan Judy prepared isn’t half bad.
She’s scraping marinara sauce off the side of her plate when, “Girls, I just have to say…” oh God. “I’m...I don’t...I don’t fully understand this lifestyle you have chosen,” she rubs at the white pearls that sit around her neck, and Santana bites back a comment along the lines of it’s not a choice . “But, I do want to understand how to be a better mom.” She looks at Quinn, who’s staring down at her food. “And if that means accepting you two, and- and your relationship, then it’s something I’m willing to work on.” She clears her throat as if she swallowed a bunch of rocks, but the look on her face is genuine, and Santana doesn’t know what to do other than offer her a smile.
A few more moments pass before Quinn finally moves, covering Judy’s hand with her own for a brief second. “Thanks, Mom.”
*
The tension isn’t exactly lifted after that, and the kitchen is mostly silent when Santana helps Quinn with the dishes.
But, on her way out, she eyes Judy fixing the flowers she brought over into a vase placed in the center of the dinner table, and she takes it as a sign of progress.
*
Quinn walks her out to her car. “Thank you for coming, San.”
“Of course.” Santana starts rubbing her hands up and down Quinn’s folded arms. “You can relax now, Q,” she says with a smile, and Quinn chuckles with an eye roll, but her shoulders visibly release the tension they’ve been holding in for the past couple hours. “That was a start, right?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“Oh, hold on a sec.” Santana unlocks her car door before dipping down and reaching into the passenger’s seat. “I saved one just for you.”
Quinn grins as she holds a single daisy in her hand, twirling its stem absentmindedly. “Santana Lopez, what am I gonna do with you?”
“Just kiss me.” A sigh escapes her when Quinn presses their lips together; close-mouthed, sweetly.
And out of all the different ways (and places) they’ve kissed each other, this one is, by far, Santana’s favorite.
*
They totally have the best sex ever after Regionals, doubling over and cackling loudly when Quinn’s sliding Santana’s underwear off and stray strands of confetti fall out with it.
*
But when it’s not sunshine and rainbows, it’s really not sunshine and rainbows. Because it’s Santana and Quinn.
“Why are you literally fuming right now?” Santana’s barely able to keep up with Quinn’s strides as they traverse across the parking lot after school one day, minutes after she joked that Quinn should put Aversion to Sex Toys on her t-shirt for their upcoming Gaga number. “It was a freakin’ joke!”
“You’re not funny, Santana.” The door handle to Quinn’s car nearly unhinges itself when she swings it open, and when Santana glances at the other end of the lot to find Mike and Tina talking, she wonders if they might be the safer ride home.
Instead, she huffs and gets into the passenger’s seat next to her very angry girlfriend. “Jesus, what’s stuck up your ass today?” she mutters, not really liking how their bickering feels too much like how they would talk to each other last year but knowing that if this door is open, she has to come out on top.
“Your immaturity,” Quinn answers before backing out of her parking spot, and Santana keeps her eyes trained out the window. Yeah, she definitely should’ve snagged a ride from Mike and Tina.
“Hm. Hey, after you drop me off at home, would you mind putting together a spreadsheet of what I can and can’t joke about? I think I might’ve missed it the first time.”
Quinn clicks her tongue, annoyed. “Not a problem.”
The next minute or so is filled with silence.
“Is it a bad time to mention that our free dessert voucher for Breadstix expires tonight?” Santana speaks up reluctantly. Quinn shakes her head.
“Great, let me know what you order.”
“Oh, Jesus, c’mon Quinn. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not about being sorry,” Quinn says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, tapping the steering wheel with her thumb. “It’s just...you know I hate the sex jokes.”
Santana furrows her eyebrows. “What? What are you talking about?” she presses, because sometimes Quinn will think things in her head and forget to say them out loud, and then forget that she forgot to say them out loud and blame Santana for it. It’s a vicious cycle, really.
“I get insecure sometimes,” Quinn mumbles as she flicks on her turn signal. “I don’t know.”
Santana’s still kind of annoyed, but her demeanor softens. A little bit. “Is it something I do?”
“No, no, of course not. I think it’s just in my head, but — I don’t know. It’s like I get nervous that I’m...that I’m boring you or something . ”
Santana’s eyebrows raise at that. Boring. Coming from the girl who will eat her out when her mother’s down the hall praying the rosary front and back. But then she remembers how warped Quinn’s vision of herself can be when it comes to things like love and sex, especially after the pregnancy — and the knot in Santana’s gut reminds her that she was one of the assholes that tried pegging her down multiple notches. “Q…”
“Whatever,” Quinn tries to shrug it off. “We don’t have to talk about it, seriously.”
“But we should,” Santana reasons. “Right? Isn’t that what makes us different from who we were last year? Hell, even earlier this year?”
Quinn sighs. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Listen, I’m sorry. I had no idea that was something you thought about. Because in my mind, you’re the hottest, sexiest, prettiest woman in the world. No doubt about it. I mean, fuck, even when you’d dish the dirt right back to me and chew me out every chance you got, maybe I was secretly turned on then, too.” She’s thinking out loud now, so she dials it back to make her point. “Anyways. I genuinely do not feel as though anything is missing from our sex life. Seriously. And even if my mind did wander to this or that, I would never, ever joke about or pressure you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. Ok?”
“Ok,” Quinn murmurs, her eyes still on the road when she reaches for Santana’s hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m sorry, too. I know that I snap at you out of the blue sometimes, and that’s not fair of me to do.”
“Thank you,” Santana gives her hand a squeeze. And she doesn’t say this part out loud, but hearing an apology from Quinn Fabray feels as good as getting an orgasm from her does; just in a completely different way.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Quinn stifles a giggle, and Santana’s ears perk a little bit.
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve always kinda wondered what it’d be like to have car sex.”
“During the day? Ooh, girl, you nasty. But also, are you gonna pull over? Because I could totally take you right now.”
*
The Prom Queen candidacy heats up more than it ever should have — like c’mon, what’s the point of fighting over a tiara that isn’t even made of real diamonds? — and Santana has been just fine in the backseat playing the supportive girlfriend role while Quinn spirals into promzilla, but when Zizes decides to play dirty on her girl, she needs to make some things known.
And believe her, she starts to, but then she learns how Lauren earned her starting spot on the wrestling team, and then she learns how it feels to be slammed into the McKinley lockers for the second time this year.
“Maybe you should have attitude-checked your girlfriend a long time ago,” Lauren tells her, and Santana huffs as she takes the hand extended to help her off the ground.
“Keep her name out of your mouth, Zizes.” Santana tries to sound threatening, but it’s hard to do when she’s still trying to catch her breath. “I got all my eyes on you,” she adds for good measure, but Lauren just waves her off, unaffected, before hanging up more Lucy Caboosey posters.
*
But, things end up turning around, and the whole debacle boosts Quinn’s numbers in the polls — Santana thinks that’s the right terminology, at least. But Quinn’s still pretty shaken up by the whole thing, so the past few days have just been about treading water carefully.
“I told you not to go crazy on me,” Santana says as Quinn waits for her to exchange her books at her locker. “With the whole campaign.”
“Don’t need a lecture right now, San.”
“I’m not lecturing, I’m just saying.” She stumbles back a bit when Quinn’s abruptly reaching across her face and tugging something down from the inside of her locker door. “What the hell?”
“What is this?” Quinn holds up a small, wallet-sized printed copy of the picture that’s been gracing the school walls for the past week — glasses, braces, big nose, and all.
“That’s my girlfriend.” Santana plucks the photo out from between Quinn’s fingers and hangs it back up where it was. “She’s the coolest girl I’ve ever met. And the prettiest. No matter what color her hair is, no matter how many zits are on her face, and no matter how many pounds she weighs. And no matter how goddamn competitive she can be.”
Quinn laughs a little, her face softening. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
“Oh, every day,” Santana confirms with a laugh of her own. “But I like everything about her. About you, Lucy Q.”
Quinn gently squeezes Santana’s arm. “Thank you, San.”
*
When she goes with Quinn to the motel Sam’s currently living in, she hands him a duffel bag filled with her older brothers’ old clothes.
“Santana, I can’t accept these,” Sam sighs, but Santana shakes her head.
“It’s cool; they haven’t touched this stuff in years, and my mom has been wanting to clear out our basement anyway.”
Sam shoots her a grateful look before setting it down on the armchair in the corner, and as Santana scans the room, she can’t help but feel guilty about all the things she said and thought about the guy earlier this year. And for what reason? Liking Quinn? It’s not like she can blame him. “Thank you guys for coming over, seriously — it means a lot,” he nods his head. “And just… for not telling anyone. This has been really hard on us, so I really appreciate it.”
The smile Santana shoots him is warm and genuine.
Then, he’s outstretching his arms with a dopey grin, and oh God, is he gonna hug them? Santana fights the urge to squirm away, Quinn’s already pulling her into the group hug, and yeah, that’s her nose getting smushed against Sam’s chest, but after a couple seconds she sinks into it and laughs a little because she guesses Sam Evans isn’t half bad.
*
Quinn loses Prom Queen. To Kurt.
Santana finds her in the choir room afterwards, pacing back and forth in front of the piano as tears streak her cheeks. “Q—”
“Don’t, Santana.” Quinn shakes her head, her voice cracking. “I don’t need another sympathy speech from you, ok? So just drop it.”
Taken aback, Santana’s mind immediately switches gears, and she folds her arms over her chest. “Alright, you know what? Maybe Zizes was right when she said you were overdue for an attitude check.”
“What—”
“Quinn, I love you, and I understand this is something you really wanted, but just because you didn’t win doesn’t give you an excuse to act like a brat. I mean, think about Kurt, how do you think he’s feeling?”
“If you care so much about him—”
“Nope, nuh-uh, you’re not guilting me right now,” Santana interrupts. “I mean — maybe it is partially my fault, you know, maybe I should’ve been the one to speak up when your...campaigning or whatever was getting out of hand. But you...you cannot let things like this define you. The world is not gonna end because you didn’t get elected Prom Queen your junior year of high school, Q. It’s not. And when I try to talk to you because I know how important it was to you, I don’t wanna be snapped at.”
Quinn just stands there with her neck held high, but her eyes are downcast to the floor, and Santana knows that she got her point across. That being said, she grabs a tissue box off one of the shelves, and Quinn takes it gratefully. “You’re right.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m sorry,” Quinn murmurs, sullenly but genuinely. “I have this...messed-up notion that my worth is defined by public recognition, and when I don’t get my way, I take it out on the people around me. Especially you.”
Santana scoffs a little. “Yeah, you do.” But then she’s helping Quinn wipe the streaks of eyeliner down her cheeks, and Quinn’s sighing softly.
“Will you dance with me out there?” she asks, and Santana plants a quick kiss on her lips.
“Duh. I need to remind the school that I get to bang this hot piece of action.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Sorry.”
*
They drive back to Quinn’s from Jean’s funeral together, their hands never unclasping from where they lay over the center console.
Neither of them have ever really experienced a big loss like that before, and Santana gets this urge to call her parents and text her brothers and just tell them that she loves them.
“You’ll never lose me,” she tells Quinn, who tightens her grip on Santana’s hand. “I don’t know what this next year looks like for us, or even what the rest of this year does, but. Whatever it is, I just want it to be with you.”
“Me, too.” Santana doesn’t have to turn her head to know that Quinn is crying again. It’s not that she knew Jean at all, but just something about the funeral and seeing Sue grieve like that hit them both harder than they expected. “And I’m- I’m sorry for all our stupid fights last year, San. I am. I don’t want us to be like that again.”
Santana knows there’ll be a countless amount of fights in the future just based on their personalities alone, but she nods her head in agreement. Because Quinn’s right — the number of lines they crossed with each other in the past is something even she’s not strong enough to relive. Who knew her heart could hold all this space, for all this love, for this one girl? It scares her if she thinks about it for too long. “I still…” she sighs. “I still like you so much, Q,” she reminds her, because it’s different than when she tells Quinn she loves her.
Quinn sniffles, exhaling a laugh. “I like you so much, too.”
*
“So, we couldn’t have just taken a bus there?”
“That would’ve taken forever.”
“At least we wouldn’t have to leave the ground.” Santana huffs as she continues to roll her carry-on luggage throughout the airport because Quinn just has to look for this specific flavor of Naked Juice before they board the plane to New York. “I would’ve put on my Fit Bit if I knew all this extra walking I’d be doing.”
Quinn expertly ignores her unnecessary comment, browsing through a magazine selection at the convenience store when she turns to look at Santana, a smirk on her face. “Are you afraid of flying?”
Santana hates that smirk sometimes. “So?”
“Don’t worry. You can hold my hand, baby.” Quinn’s voice is gentle and smug all at once, and as Santana watches her proceed to describe the flavor of her stupid drink to the cashier who looks at her like she has 3 eyes or something, she automatically starts smiling to herself like some kind of lovestruck weirdo.
And when Quinn tugs on her coat because, “They should have it in stock at the first store we went to,” she wants to chew her out because oh my God, they were literally just there, but instead she lets her girlfriend take her hand and lead her there without a single complaint because maybe letting Quinn Fabray drive her crazy is one of the best things about her.
But, Santana swears, if they walk twenty gates down to find out that the goddamn juice isn’t actually there, she’s asking someone to switch seats with her on the plane.