New York, New York, 1983
As the music pumps through tinny speakers, and the strobe lights above her head flash, Santana Lopez sits at a high-top table, raising and lowering her second Cosmopolitan from her lips. The girl sitting across from her, her cousin's friend, in town, only for the weekend, flips her blue hair as she talks about her band, a Madonna cover band, Santana thinks she said—though she refrains from offering her opinion on why one shouldn't exclusively play covers of an artist who's had exactly four singles to date, and as catchy as she may find Lucky Star,who's to say she won't be just another flash in the pan, effectively killing the band this girl seems completely obsessed with. And truth be told, even ifshe'd decided to do that, Santana has scarcely been able to get a word in edgewise, so she wouldn't have the opportunity.
When Santana finishes her Cosmo, her date is quick to her feet to order her another. Santana gives credit where credit is due, and that she can absolutely give the girl credit for, and it's something that'll probably bring them both back to the Hotel Chelsea tonight, despite her complete lack of conversational skills. Santana's not dead, after all, and doing her cousin Carlos a favor and bringing his friend out for the evening, well, that doesn't mean Santana will break from what she does every Saturday, despite the fact that she thinks maybe, just maybethe girl is a little strange, choosing a place to stay, solely for it's Sid and Nancy connection. But Santana digresses, even in her mind. Saturdays are about unwinding for Santana. Monday through Friday, she slides into a suit and heels that click against the tile floor of her office at Chemical Bank, asserting her dominance over her underlings, but Saturdays, even on the weekends where she lacks the courage to get on stage at Rose's Turn and sing her heart out, are all for letting her hair down, both literally, and metaphorically. Santana doesn't date, that's a rule for her, too messy, too stressful, and she gets enough of that in her day job, but that certainly doesn't mean she can't enjoy the company of women, and enjoy that, she does.
Her date returns with her drink, smiling when Santana nods, graciously, as the girl lets her eyes wander down to the vin her yellow dress. Santana smirks a little, quirking an eyebrow, and takes a sip of her drink. She looks bangin' in her dress, and Santana relishes the appreciation of her body, before turning her attention, wistfully, to the dance floor. Her date, she doesn't like to dance. She'd told Santana as much, when Donna Summer came on an hour earlier, and she'd declined the offer to dance. Santana's fingers drum on the table, only half paying attention to the story being told to her, as she watches, fairly envious, as a crowd of people dance to Billie Jean.Beneath the table, Santana's sneakered foot taps along to the music, and then, as her eyes meet those of one dancer who stands out among the rest, her breath catches in her throat.
The dancer is gorgeous. Her blonde ponytail whips around as she mouths—or sings, perhaps, Santana can't be sure, from her vantage point—told my baby we'd danced 'til three, then she looked at me.Though the smiley face that emblazons the dancer's white t-shirt would typically be off-putting to her, Santana is mesmerized, and she's not the only one. The crowd seems to part, and even over the music, the whooping of women and men alike spurs the girl on. When she's finished, the music releasing her from it's hold, the girl looks up, and catching Santana's eye, she grins, all of her teeth making an appearance.
It continues like that for the rest of the night. Santana's stuck with her date, since she'd promised Carlos that she'd hang with her, but that doesn't mean she doesn't split her attention with the dancer girl, who hangs out with an equally good Asian dancer—though, Santana's entirely uninterested in him—and a guy who pops wheelies in his wheelchair. While the girl across from her continues to talk, accepting Santana's monosyllabic answers as an invitation to continue, she assesses the dancer and her friends. It's clear she's touchy, as dancers usually are, Santana would know, absolutely, from many a wild night with one, but this girl seems to be particularly so. She drapes herself over the guy in the wheelchair, she holds hands with the Asian—though the two men are a couple, it seems— she strokes the arms of people who surround her, and Santana wishes, wishes that should could be out there with her too.
But her date still talks, about the struggles of finding a guitarist now, Santana thinks. She's barely listening by this point. Dancer girl, whose friends have left together, is now on the floor, doing the worm to Another One Bites the Dust.As her ass, clad in hot pink pants, bobs up and down on the floor, Santana feels her throat go dry. She can't believe, really, that the girl she's with us entirely oblivious. The next time she sees Carlos, she'll need to remind him that simply being interested in women doesn't give them a lot in common, especiallywhen she can't appreciate the incredible show right before her eyes. Slurping the rest of her fourth martini, Santana stands up and excuses herself to the bathroom. It's getting late, the club will close in a half-an-hour, and warm, not just from the liquor, she splashes her face in the sink. She shimmies down the corridor, interested in getting back to watch, when she feels a soft hand on her bicep.
When Santana spins around, there she is, the dancer she's been watching all night. Up close, she's even more striking, blue eyes, boring into her, appraising and appreciating every inch of her. She's stunning, really, taller than Santana, and all muscle, with this face that seems to bubble with emotion. As Santana's eyes widen a little, the dancer bites back a smirk, knowing exactlythe effect she's having on the girl she looks down at.
"I saw you watching me." She tells her, twisting the long ponytail in her fingers. "Looks like you liked what you saw."
"I—I'm here with someone." Santana stammers, alcohol and a pretty woman making her tongue heavy.
"And you looked like you were having a totallygood time." The girl rolls her eyes in response. "Just come dance with me, we both know you want to."
At her cockiness, Santana has to resist the urge to pinch her thighs together. She's seen women before, exuding confidence on the dance floor, and it not translating outside of that, but this certainly isn't the case here. This girl knows what she wants, she knows that out of all the other women in the room, she wants Santana.Entirely forgetting about her date, about her cousin Carlos, about anything but this bombshell trailing her fingers down her arm, and eventually taking her hand, Santana allows herself to be led to the dance floor, making her best effort to keep up with her partner as Sweet Dreamsfills the room. Everybody's looking for somethingthrumming, thrumming through her veins. What she didn't even know she was looking for, apparently right in front of her.
She's breathless, when the song is over, but she doesn't stop dancing, not with this gorgeous, nameless woman tracing her curves with lithe fingers, not with deep blue eyes, never leaving her, not with music and this intoxicating scent invading her senses, Pert and Raffinee, but something else, something carnal, something that makes her head spin. Santana doesn't stop, not until the lights go on, not until the brightness reminds her that she'd totally blown off her cousin's friend for a woman whose name she doesn't know—and she doesn't regret it, not in the slightest. She looks around, back to the table she'd left, but it's empty, it's empty, and before another thought crosses her mind, the fingers of the mysterious dancer are on her neck, redirecting her attention. Again, when fingers slip through hers, Santana follows the woman from the bar and out to the sidewalk, no questions asked. Drunk club-goers mill about, but all of the alcohol that Santana consumed throughout the night seems to have left her system as soon as they step into the crisp fall air.
"Wanna go somewhere with me?" The woman asks, looking at her, looking intoher.
"I don't even know your name." Santana says, though she knows she'll go, she knows that she'll go anywhere with this woman, like she's compelled,somehow.
"Brittany. It's Brittany. And what's yours, babe?"
"Santana." She croaks, the word babebringing the same dryness to her throat that this woman, Brittany's,dancing had. Like she's possessing her, almost, that thought, weakening her knees. "Where are you going?"
"To get something to eat, probably. I'm half-starved. You in?"
"It's three in the morning, where're you even gonna go?"
"You sure ask a lot of questions." Brittany stops in front of a Katana and grabs the leather jacket strewn over the handlebars. "Put this on, you're gonna freeze your ass off if you're coming with."
"Brittany, you can't just steal someone's jacket." Santana's brow furrows, but Brittany just laughs at her, pulling a key out of her bra.
"Whose bike do you think this is? It's your call, but if you want to come, get that tight little ass on the back and let's book."
"Holy shit." Santana sucks in a breath, Brittany's attractiveness dialing up about a hundred notches when she effortlessly hops on a motorcycle. After slipping into Brittany's jacket, she catches the helmet that's tossed her way, and once it's secured, flattening out her hair, she climbs up behind Brittany and wraps both arms around her waist.
Santana can't believe she's doing this, really. Sure, she's no stranger to going home with women, she'd been considering going home with her terrible date not two hours ago, after all, but this is something completely new, and not just being on the back of a motorcycle, tight dress creeping up her thighs, as she feels the strung back muscles of a gorgeous woman tense against her front. But no, leaving a bar to go share a meal with a woman, that's far more frightening to her than Brittany speeding down Houston Street, taking full advantage of the stillness of the late night. It's frightening, but it sends a chill of exhilaration straight through Santana's veins, and even clad in Brittany's tight leather jacket, she leans her body further into her driver, seeking something, though she's not quite sure what.
They're uptown, Santana realizes, when Brittany hops off the bike, offering Santana a hand off, then kicking down its stand. It's far further west than Santana would usually go, her small studio on the Upper East Side safely tucked away from the grittiness that seems to pervade the rest of the city. They stand beneath the long abandoned elevated train line, graffiti working its way up every metal support, continuing to the beams over their heads, and the smell of the Hudson River creeping into her nostrils. Looking around warily, at the unfamiliar place, Santana startles a bit, when Brittany rests a hand on her lower back, but somehow, in the early morning hour, she's quick to relax into the touch, she's quick to allow this woman that she's shared a mere five sentences with to usher her into a grody looking diner, all the way to a booth in the back corner. Santana looks around, taking in the sound of the bells as they enter, in the faded leather booths, in the old man by the door, sipping a cup of coffee, the only other person in the place, it seems, besides the waitress who slips through a swinging door, taking orders for their own coffee.
"Thanks for grabbing a bite with me." Brittany smiles at Santana, who just shrugs. "I'm always starved after dancing like that all night."
"You're good, like, totally good. The whole place was staring at you."
"Thanks. Didn't really notice, I guess I was too busy staring back at you."
"Is that a line?" Santana tilts her head, but she can't help the genuine smile that sneaks it's way onto her mouth. She's still in Brittany's jacket, and though she briefly considers giving it back, she's throughly enjoying the warmth of it, and the vague scent of it, that same Brittanyscent she'd inhaled in the club, and then more, the entire time she had her face practically buried into the back of her neck.
"Is it working?"
"Well, I came with you here, didn't I? Seems like you don't really need lines."
"Truth." Brittany laughs, and Santana, tired from the night, from the alcohol, from thinking too hard on their way over, rests her head on her hand, watching the way Brittany's eyelashes flutter as she speaks. "Looks like you could really use that coffee. Not used to running all night?"
"Usually in a bed by this point in the night." Santana tells her honestly, and Brittany quirks an eyebrow. "What? Need something to relieve the pressure of my job, so I like alcohol and ladies, sue me."
"No ones judging but you, babe. So what is it you do, big shot?"
"I'm the branch manager at the Chemical on Pine."
"No fake? You really area big shot! That's a big deal for anyone, but especiallya woman."
"It's whatever." She shrugs, sort of blanching at the unfortunate yuppification of her former self that she so despises. "Pays the bills, I wanted to be a singer, but couldn't break into the biz."
"I hear you on that. I'm a chorus girl so…"
"No fricking way! Are you working right now?"
"Right nowI'm sitting here waiting for coffee with you." Brittany teases. "But yeah, I'm in that new Rachel Berry musical. Townsperson number four. And yes, the rumors are true. This is my fourth show, and she's the biggest diva I've ever worked with. Someone got fired last week because they moved one of her gold stars. No one's allowed to have fun, like, ever.She's totally lame."
"Good to know. That impressive though, I think you'rethe big shot. Also explains those outrageous dance moves,"
"Well, I dance like that, just like you've got your alcohol and ladies.I can't exactly get down how I want on stage, so I get some relief from doing the same thing over and over again by dancing on my own."
"So no alcohol or ladies for you?" Santana asks, taking a long sip of black coffee from her cup, when the waitress drops it off.
"Alcohol bloats me, and that's the last thing I need when I've gotta zip my costume."
"Playing coy on the other, cute. I'm sure you just tap girls on the shoulder all the time and they follow you right onto the dance floor."
"I usually don't leave the floor, actually. Youwere a special case."
"Oh was I?" Santana twirls her hair, leaning over a little to give Brittany a better view.
"You were. You just looked so miserable not dancing that I couldn't help myself. I have to say though, your date had some bitchin' hair."
"Want her number? She's from San Fran, but if you feel like calling long distance, maybe next time she's in town, she can tell you all about her band. They cover Madonna and only Madonna."
"Madonna like HolidayMadonna? Doesn't she have like five songs?"
"Not even, please. Worst date ever, but I was doing my cousin a favor. They went to Berkeley together, and she was in town. He thought we'd have something in common. All we had in common is that we both like girl's asses, and even that's questionable, since she didn't even look at youon the dance floor."
"Are you saying you like my ass, Santana." Brittany winks, and Santana, despite her bravado, feels her cheeks flush.
"I mean, have you seen yourself?"
"Duh. And you've got a pretty fine one yourself. I'm glad Violet Beauregard bored you."
"Violet Beauregard? Like from Willy Wonka?"
"The one and only, that was the first movie I ever saw in the theater. But yeah, good news about her bring lame. Nice Iget to be the one who takes you home."
"Oh, so you're taking me home then?"
"Well unless you're walking."
"You mean actuallytaking me home?"
"What do you think? I might be on a dancer's salary, but I always buy someone dinner before u take them home like that, and this crappy coffee and overcooked eggs doesn't count. And also, no thanks to that number. I'm not sure she'd want to go out with me anyway, I kind of stole her date, didn't I? Besides, I think I'd much rather have yours, then I can call you about that dinner."
"You're pretty smooth, aren't you?"
"We'll see if it works." She presses her tongue between her teeth, sliding a napkin and a crayon from the cup that sits by the ketchup across the table to Santana. "If it does, I guess so."
Santana laughs at Brittany, purposefully holding off on writing down her number. Not because she won't, she actually finds herself hoping that Brittany actually willcall. It's rare that a girl gets her like that. She's usually achingly serious, and mostly intolerant of other humans, but there's just something about this woman. The way she combines the sexiness she exudes, what with the cockiness and the leather jacket and the bike, with what can only be described as cute—her smiley face shirt, the way she talks about her fat cat and the escapades she has with her four roommates, the two men from the club included, it seems—it's unreal. The eggs are as overcooked as Brittany had warned Santana about, but they don't bother her. Not when blue eyes are dancing, and she finds herself having far more fun than she'd ever expected to have when a warm hand brushed her arm in that dingy bathroom corridor.
The sun is just on the brink of rising when they finally leave the restaurant, and when they leave the diner, it's much cooler than it was just an hour earlier. Santana hugs Brittany's jacket to herself as goosebumps rise on her bare thighs, and Brittany just smiles. She seems unaffected by the cold, even in just her t-shirt, but Santana takes a breath to steel herself from the bite of the air and makes to give back her jacket. Brittany simply shakes her head, squeezing Santana's forearm, and hops on her bike, waiting for Santana to put the helmet on and follow suit. This time, she presses further into Brittany's back, resting her chin on a tight shoulder, noticing the wingtips of a small bird that peek out from beneath the white t-shirt, inked into her skin. Santana sucks in another breath of Brittany's scent, and something about it just calms her, unwinds further the tight coil that is her very being.
It's strange for Santana, the twisting in her lower belly when Brittany turns off Park, and glides onto morning-quiet Eighty-Third street. Many a Sunday morning, she's crept home at this time, head held high, even with smudged makeup and rumpled clothes, but she's always alone, and she's always content to be. She carries on her affairs outside of her home, never letting any of the women she'd seen see any of her life beyond the little they'd gleaned in a few short hours together. Even Santana's closest friends, they rarely make it behind the white marble face of the townhouse she lives in, it's an oasis for her, away from the world. But yet, here Brittany is, pulling up in front of Santana's home, and here Santana is, low ache thrumming through her body at the thought of saying good night. She wonders, vaguely, if it's because she hasn't slept with her that changes things, but she immediately knows that's not the case. The sparks she'd felt when Brittany had first touched her arm, they've grown stronger now. They seem to tingle sharply all throughout Santana's body, they seem to be telling her something, something she's actually listening to.
"Thanks for the ride." Santana gets off the bike as smoothly as she possibly can, feeling the rush of cool air against her front, with the absence of Brittany's body heat. "And for breakfast too."
"No sweat. Thanks for having it with me." Brittany watches as Santana slips out of her jacket, folding it over her arm, before offering it up. Slowly, Brittany takes it, her eyes on Santana's face, drifting down to her lips. Santana takes a step closer, feeling the gaze on her, and she doesn't hesitate, before she leans in, leaving only an inch of space between her face and Brittany's.
"I had a really good time." She breathes. "Maybe I'll even give you that napkin before I go inside."
"I sure hope you do." Brittany runs her tongue over her lower lip, and Santana can almost feel the way she swallows. Not wasting another moment, Santana takes a deep breath of all that Brittany is, and finally leans in, catching her lips. It doesn't last long, they're on a public street, after all, and even in the early morning hours, it's probably not the best idea. When Santana pulls back, those blue eyes searching her face, she's breathless. "Wow."
"Yeah." Santana laughs nervously, before she reaches down the front of her dress, pulling out the napkin she'd placed there, neat red numbers written across it. She trails her fingers down Brittany's arm and presses the folded napkin into her hand. Santana Lopez doesn't leave bars to go to diners in the middle of the night. Santana Lopez doesn't look into girls eyes while she slips phone numbers into their open palms. Santana Lopez doesn't hope that said girls call. And yet, here she is. "I'll talk to you soon."
"Yeah. Yeah you most definitely will."