I've had this plot bunny for a while and I've finally got off my arse and written it. There will be a lot of familiar faces in here. There will be smut, later on. Also, I've never been to a club/been to Vegas or any of that so I'm sorry for any details that are off. I'm taking creative liberty here and creating Vegas in the way I think it fits best for me to write this fic.

Dedicated to Beth (thelilacfield) and Bobbi (ihavearedvine). You're both wonderful, and I hope you enjoy! :)


In the city that never sleeps, there are more than several clubs of the sort that Santana Lopez works in. They call the people who work there 'exotic dancers', mainly; but everyone knows that calling the girls who work at clubs such as Trouble Tones 'exotic dancers' is merely a ploy to make their work seem a little less sleazy. The title doesn't really work, though—everyone refers to them as strippers, or something of the like, anyway.

Santana doesn't really class herself as a stripper; technically, she doesn't really strip, per se. She's just there to give guys at the Trouble Tones a good time. Dance a little; pay attention to them when no one else does. She's more of a performer, she thinks. The title seems a little less sleazy than stripper, but still has an edge that makes it seem as though it could mean a lot more than the word was originally meant to.

The music still pounds in Santana's head as she makes her way off the stage—if it could be called such a thing. Santana has seen stages in her time, and a thin little platform with all types of horny men surrounding it does not really qualify as one in her opinion. A stage is for real performers, for those on Broadway and the like. Not for girls who are only there as objects, not as people.

She seats herself in front of the mirror that she has claimed as her own and switches on the light bulbs that surround the mirror, illuminating her face so she can see well enough to remove her make-up and then reapply it, less liberally. The amount of make-up she wears on stage is hardly welcome outside—even in Vegas.

Her eyes move over to the mirror next to her and a look of confusion crosses her face as she notices the sink and the area below the mirror is clear. None of the usual make-up bags, costumes or drinks that are usually there remain and Santana is almost worried. Quinn is always there after the show, laughing and chatting, bitching about all the douches who were out in the audience that night. But she isn't there.

Ignoring the fact that her lipstick is only half removed, Santana gets up from her area and searches the dressing room for Quinn. She smiles a half-hearted smile at Sugar along the way, dodging around various girls who are running around, a lot of them trying to find misplaced lipsticks and the like. Wherever she looks, she can't find Quinn. Santana thinks that she may be out in the club and so she makes her way back onto the 'stage', walking along it and hoping that there are no stragglers still left in the crowd.

Almost immediately, she sees Quinn sitting on the edge of the stage, her feet dangling down and swinging. She's looking up at the lights, but looking as though she's not really there. Santana hopes that the sound of her heels on the stage alerts Quinn of her presence and then sits down next to her, hoping to find out what's up with Quinn. She's usually the first one off the stage and into the dressing rooms, trying to remove her make-up and costume as soon as possible so she can get out into the real world, a world not made up of sequins and sparkles, seduction and sex appeal. She's often told Santana that everything seems so fake in the club.

"Hey." Santana says, swinging her legs off the stage, trying to get comfortable.

Quinn sits there in silence for a moment, before turning her head to acknowledge Santana's presence. She doesn't say anything, merely moves her lips enough for it to qualify as almost a smile, but not as though she really, truly wants to smile.

"What's going on?" Santana asks. "You're acting weird."

Quinn looks as though she is about to laugh, but she stops herself just in time. "It was my last night here, tonight," she says. She turns her head again to look out, avoiding Santana's gaze at all costs. "I just wanted to say goodbye to the stage."

"What're you talking about?" Santana asks, shocked. "Why?"

"I've had enough." Quinn says. "I need to get out. You know I can't do this forever."

"You can't just leave." Santana tells her. "This is your life, Quinn. You can't just ditch that all in because you're sick of it."

"I am, though." Quinn says. "You know, you're supposed to be my best friend but you're surprisingly quick to ditch me when things don't turn out the way you want them to."

"You're just quitting?" Santana yells. "After all this?"

"After all what, Santana?" Quinn retorts. "I'd like to have a life that isn't dependent on my looks. I thought you'd understand that. After Beth, I just…" she pauses, looking down for a moment. "I just like to think that maybe I can have my own family one day."

"A family?" Santana asks. "I thought we were your family?"

"Can't you see how stupid that makes me look?" Quinn says.

Santana just stands there, biting her lip to try and stop herself from saying something she'll regret.

"And that means you have to quit the job right now?" Santana replies, calming down her tone a bit. No matter how angry she is, Quinn is her friend. And she does understand, she really does, it's just that she doesn't want to see her go.

"Yes." Quinn replies. "I've already packed, so I guess…"

"This is goodbye?" Santana replies, all anger suddenly wiped from her system. Instead, a hollow feeling in her stomach replaces it, along with a feeling of shame and regret.

Quinn stands up and gets off the stage. "Not forever." she laughs. "I'll be around. You'll call me?"

"No." Santana replies. "You'll call me." she smiles, confidently. At least she still has her banter with Quinn—even if she doesn't have her beside her at the club anymore.

Quinn laughs. "'Course I will."

"You're not off the hook, you know." Santana says. "How are we going to fill your spot?"

Quinn smiles; picking up her handbag from the stage. "You'll find someone. Like when Mercedes left. I found you."

"Do you reckon another straggler will come along, then?" Santana asks.

Quinn smirks. "They always do."

Santana remains seated on the stage as she watches Quinn walk out. She knows they'll be able to find someone to replace Quinn in the show, but it's Quinn they're talking about. She was practically the star of the show. Santana sighs. It's not going to be easy. Besides, she doesn't want Quinn to leave. Quinn is her best friend—it won't be the same without her.

After a while of staring out into the darkness, she heads backstage to let the others know about Quinn's departure. They'll have to arrive extra-early tomorrow to try and figure out how they are going to cope until they've got a replacement for Quinn.

For a moment, Santana stares at her phone, wondering if she really should call Quinn first—even beg her to come back. How can they do the show without her, anyway? But after a few seconds of staring, Santana throws the phone back into her handbag. They can survive without Quinn.

The girls fall silent as Santana walks back through.

"Hey, guys." she says. "Quinn's quit. Get here at seven tomorrow, we've got a lot of rehearsing to do. We need to figure out how we're coping without her and try and find a new recruit."

There's a collective groan among them all and a bunch of whispers, speculating about why Quinn left. Everyone knows why, really, though. She had enough. She wanted a better life, a more appropriate life. And the girls can't really blame her, but it kind of feels like a personal insult, an attack from the inside. It would probably hurt less if Quinn had slapped all of them across the face. It's as though she's said to them all that they're nothing, that their life is useless. The girls of the Trouble Tones know how it is. They know what people think of them. They even think that way about themselves, sometimes. But nobody ever says it out loud. But when a girl leaves, they don't need to say it—it's right there in their actions, what they really think.

Santana isn't the only one who can honestly say that Quinn's departure hurts.

.

Santana's apartment is only a few blocks away and so she usually walks home. For some, it would seem daunting to walk the streets alone in Vegas, but Santana has lived Vegas—she knows it well enough to stay safe. It's refreshing, after being inside the club for hours, the music pounding so loud she can barely hear herself think. Vegas is far from asleep when she heads home, but the night air hits her, letting her cool down and think for a while. Most nights, she walks home most of the way with Quinn, but not tonight. Quinn made it clear what she wanted, and that was the club and all the girls who worked there out of her life. Santana doubts she'll get a call anytime soon from Quinn. The girls who leave always say they'll keep in touch, but it's all just a lie, at the end of the day.

She worries about how they'll find a new dancer. Of course, Sandy or Holly will find someone eventually, but they may have to go a night with one less girl than usual, and it always causes problems.

When she finally reaches her apartment, she's convinced that she's completely worried herself out. She gets her keys out her handbag, clicking the lock open before walking inside, feeling around for the light switch so the apartment isn't completely dark. She takes her phone out of her bag before dumping it on her tiny kitchen table, then walks through to her room.

She wants to just collapse onto her bed and go to sleep but she decides to shower first, turning the water on before dropping her clothes and stepping in, letting the water cover her and wash away everything. It doesn't exactly work, though—the water doesn't wash away her anger at Quinn, or her doubts about finding a new dancer, about her future. Some day, Santana does want to leave, just as she suspects all the other girls do, too. It's not exactly a dream career for any of them; it's merely where they ended up. One day, Santana wants to be a performer, but a real performer, not just someone in a sleazy bar in Vegas, but someone with a reputation—a good reputation—and reviews and maybe even an album. At the Trouble Tones, there isn't any opportunity to sing, only to dance. Perhaps it is shallow of Santana, but she wants to be famous. She wants to be out in the world and known, not just some girl who dances in and out of the shadows and is only a mystery face of a gorgeous stripper for the guys who drift in and out of the club.

Santana stays in the shower long after she is finished, simply letting the water glide down her body, drops glistening on her arms, her breasts, her legs. But then the water starts to run cold and she curses loudly, jumping out of the shower. She slips on her pajamas and gets into bed, realising that the comfort and security she had felt with the water washing over her was just too good to last.

.

The sound of a glass bottle being thrown near her apartment wakes Santana before the sun rises. There's a part of her that just wants to stay in bed but she knows that she can't just lie there—she hasn't yelled at anyone in a while, not properly, and she's not going to lie and say that she doesn't miss it.

"Hey!" she yells out the window. "Ever heard of this thing called not waking people up at five am?"

"It's Vegas, baby!" one of them yells back, wearing a look on his face that shows he surely isn't just drunk, but stoned too.

The other laughs. "Why don't you come out here and have some fun, honey?"

Santana swears that she almost snarls at them. "I'd rather get Type Two diabetes," she hisses.

"We're just looking for a bit of fun!" one of them laughs. "Surely you wouldn't mind getting laid?"

"Listen, you horny bastards," Santana yells. "I have razor blades in my hair. And I will go all Lima Heights on your asses."

The two guys look at each other and turn tail and run for it—clearly worried by Santana. She smirks, looking out her window until she's satisfied that they're gone and then tucks herself back into bed. She doesn't get back to sleep, though. She tries for what seems like hours and finally gives up when the sun rises, deciding that instead she should try and contact Holly or Sandy about finding a replacement for Quinn.

She decides to phone Holly. She really can't deal with Sandy when she's only gotten about two hours sleep. Perhaps she'll manage to sleep later in the day—God knows she can't last the night shift at the Trouble Tones with only two hours sleep—but for now she has things to sort out.

Dialling Holly's number, she makes her way through to the living room-esque area and throws herself down onto the sofa, cringing a little as she sinks down a little further than before. She hasn't exactly got prime furniture in her flat—since Marley got her own place Santana has been living alone and hasn't been able to afford better furniture. She's still a little pissed at Marley moving to live with Kitty, actually, but she doesn't blame her. No one really sticks around with Santana, not once they've gotten to know her. Not that she cares or anything.

After the phone ringing for a while, Holly picks up. "What's up?" she says.

"It's Quinn," Santana sighs. "You know she quit, right?"

"No." Holly replies. "Then again, Sandy never tells me anything."

Santana feels inclined to laugh but doesn't. "I was wondering if you could try and find a replacement?"

"I'm on it." Holly says, a hint of regret in her voice. "Shame Quinn left, though."

"Yeah." Santana replies. "Bigger things, though, you know?"

"That's what they all say." Holly reminds her. "And you know what?"

Santana thinks that it's probably a rhetorical question so she doesn't' reply. She knows what, anyway.

"They never get bigger things. Or better ones. Soon enough, Quinn will come crawling back."

"I hope not." Santana says sharply. "She deserves better. You know that, Holly."

"'Course I do." Holly sighs. "But we don't get happy endings. Not in this business."

.

The day passes slowly, Santana walking herself through the routines. Sometimes, she experiments, changing it a little so that the setting of the dance is more a Broadway stage than the platform that they somehow use as a stage at the Trouble Tones. She tries to stop herself from doing that, though—she has to focus on her job. It's all she has and, to be honest, she's pretty certain that it's all that she'll have for the foreseeable future.

And maybe that's okay.

She's distracted and thinking about how they can patch up the routine tonight if they don't get a replacement when her phone rings. Seeing Holly on the Caller ID, she picks up, half still dancing for a moment before she feels a little stupid and stops.

"Found someone." Holly informs her.

Santana smiles. "That's great. Thanks."

"If you come now, you can meet her." Holly says.

Santana glances at her clock, noting the fact that it is six o'clock. She decides that she may as well go an hour early to meet the new girl and start sorting things out. It's not as if she has anything to do and so she shoulders her bag, quickly grabbing her make-up and things for the night, before she walks out the door, heading to the Trouble Tones.

When she arrives, the club looks empty, but she knows the right door to push and so she steps through into the dressing room. It's empty, with only a few bags stashed under sinks, personal belongings of the girls that they have left there overnight. She makes her way through the stage door onto the stage, thinking that Holly might be in the main area of the club with the new recruit. She walks through and can see Holly standing there, talking to a blonde that she presumes is the new dancer.

The girl's head turns a little and her eyes meet with Santana. A smile crosses the blonde's face and Santana smiles back, suddenly aware of every single part of her body. She freezes for a moment, taking in every aspect of the girl. Her hair, currently worn in a scraped back ponytail. Her smile, so filled with innocence. Santana thinks that the girl looks rather out of place. She wonders how it will be, the girl up on the 'stage', dancing for men who will only see her as a nameless fantasy. Santana feels an instinct to push the girl away from the club, to let her live a life somewhere else, but she knows that they need anyone they can get.

She forces herself to remember that they're waiting for her to acknowledge their presence and so she walks over to them, smiling. The girl's hands rest delicately on the bar, as though it is an actual ballet bar and not one that men gather round every night, jeering and leering at the girls on the stage.

"Hey," she says. "I'm Santana."

The girl smiles and their eyes meet once more. Santana can't be certain, but it feels like a jolt of electricity passes through her. The girl doesn't seem to acknowledge it, but there's a sort of depth in her eyes that makes Santana wonder. Wonder what, she doesn't know.

"I'm Brittany," the girl says. "It's nice to meet you."

And maybe it's stupid but it feels like the world turns upside down.


If you enjoy this enough to favourite, I'd really appreciate a review. Thanks! :3