Hi all. This is just a little piece I did about a month back when I was bored. I finished it, but never uploaded it until now. I'm planning on continuing it, just to help get rid of my writer's block. Anyway, hope you enjoy. :)
Today was not her day, definitely- definitely not her day. As she stared at the ceiling, she'd never wanted to hit herself as much as she did now. Alas, that desire was utterly smashed by the urge to throw up. She scrunched her eyes, resisting the impulse to crawl to the nearest toilet and puke her guts out, and perhaps skip the first part entirely.
"Ungh," a low grunt escaped her lips, not exactly the most dignified sound in the world. Quinn was drunk, and not only that, she was drunk with Santana, of all people. The fact that she was with her at all after the latest incident made her doubt her sanity, let alone that they were sharing a bed and practically cuddling. Her stomach apparently agreed, chiming in every now and then with a loud grumble or two.
Speaking of her stomach, she was pregnant, which made it all the more unbearable. Not only was she guilty of being a complete moron, being with Santana, she was a terrible mother to boot. That's just great, she thought, Just great. It's not even born yet and here you are drinking yourself to oblivion because of some stupid end of the year party. Real smart, Quinn, yes, you're such a genius. Not. She moaned, flipping over on her belly and continuing her mental self depreciation. She knew one thing: her body was aching.
Santana's slender fingers rubbed small circles into the skin of her back, soothing the aching temporarily. Quinn shivered as they dipped just a little lower than they should have. Was that supposed to feel as good as it did? She wasn't sure, but the momentary pleasure was replaced with the pain of a massive headache, throbbing every once and a while to remind her of her stupidity.
Through the haze, she could vaguely feel the soft cloth of the sheets beneath her fingertips and before she knew it, she was shooting up and racing for the bathroom, stumbling the whole way. She just barely made it to the toilet before discovering that it was merely dry heaving, which in her opinion, was just as bad. Her ribs were screaming for relief by the time she'd finished, and she knelt on all fours for a minute or two before she attempted to stand again.
She failed, succeeding in bumping her head on the toilet seat. "Great . . Headbutting a toilet - smart move, Fabraysky, smart move," she chided herself. Of course, the words slurred together so much that they were nearly irrecognizable, coming out more as an unintelligible grunt than anything. That was the general thought behind it though. She winced.
How a simple argument in the halls had led up to this, she wasn't sure, but she was determined to try and remember it anyway. Her mind was pretty well shot to hell from the alcohol and delirium, but she made the attempt. The cloudy memory hit her as a wave of nausea, her conscious mind floating away in a sea of confusion and pain. She blamed the pregnancy hormones.
"Hey Preggers," Santana taunted as she walked across the parking lot towards her, giving her an amative sort of look, which was weird, considering the situation. She said the word as if it were Quinn's actual name, cracking her knuckles as she often did during such confrontations. "Ready to settle this?"
The blonde flinched at the name-calling, looking at her 'friend' with a mixture of anger and apathy. As they prepared to square off, it started to rain. As much as it pained her to admit, she'd love to be with Rachel watching that obscure musical right about now, even taking into consideration how horribly scarring it would probably be – anything but this drama.
"Oh, you're giving me the silent treatment now?" Santana asked, interrupting her thoughts with a harsh quip, "I bet you weren't so quiet while you were busy getting knocked up, Mrs. former president of the Celibacy Club, were you?"
The cheerleading captain sneered at her. Quinn felt a mind numbing rage boiling up inside of her, never mind the fact that Santana was looking her up and down with the most wantonly attracting gaze she'd ever seen on a girl her age. She looked almost amorous, but Quinn tried to put that part out of her mind.
Her fists clenched at her sides. She knew Santana was trying to provoke her. She gave her the fiercest glare she could muster, though it was more of a wistful grimace than anything.
Santana waved a hand dismissively, "Don't worry, Quinnie, I didn't come here to fight." She drew closer to the blonde, leaving only a few feet of space between them.
Quinn took a step back, gasping with wide eyes. "You didn't?" She asked, obviously shocked. Her mouth hung slightly open. Santana looked at her like her next statement would be the absolute most obvious fact known to man, putting a hand on her hip.
"Just because I'm not afraid to hit a pregnant girl doesn't mean I want to."
That was all her clouded mind could remember. The rest was a blur. She noticed Santana out of the corner of her eye, swaying in the doorway. Her hair was a tousled, half-ponytail, but somehow, she managed to look beautiful. She could imagine how pathetic she must have seemed to her. Quinn looked over her shoulder to meet the latina's gaze.
Santana stood there for a moment before returning the favor, wavering back and forth. "You feeling okay?" she asked, mentally slapping herself afterwards. Of course Quinn wasn't feeling okay - she just finished dry heaving! Nevertheless, she was surprised to find that Quinn didn't snap at her. She sounded more tired than annoyed. Santana sighed at her own state of inebriation.
She moaned indignantly, sighing, "Does it look like I'm feeling okay? I'm drunk, I'm pregnant and . . hold on a second-" She leaned over the toilet, heaving again, same as last time, dry as a bone. She could barely sense Santana's hand stroking her back. When she managed to catch her breath, it was resting on her shoulder.
"Is it over?" Santana asked, catching the blonde off guard.
Quinn nodded in response, prompting the girl to help her up. She couldn't believe how sober Santana was acting, especially considering that she'd had at least twice the number of drinks Quinn did, maybe more. Then again, Santana was known for her ability to hold liquor. A tinge of envy boiled in the pit of her stomach - if only she were so lucky.
At that moment, a heavily inebriated Rachel Berry burst into the room, singing off key about horseflies and orange toilet paper and just being annoying in general. How anyone had managed to get her drunk was a total mystery, one that Santana had no urge to unravel. The brunette collapsed on the carpet, tongue lolling in and out of her mouth as she rolled around, rambling. The chorus of one of Monty Python's sketches was being sung somewhere else in the house, more audible now that the door was open. It was only a matter of time before Rachel would join in.
"How the hell did she get here?" Quinn hissed, groaning as her stomach began to turn again. Between the heaving, delirium, and Rachel, she didn't know which she hated most.
Santana sighed as Rachel began wailing the lyrics to 'The Penis Song,' which, quite frankly, she was surprised that the girl knew. As one could imagine, having the most undesirable girl in school drunkenly screaming about how wonderful it is to have a penis could get quite nerve wracking. She turned her attention back to Quinn, "It's a long story. Hold on a second." She got up and approached the unwanted guest, raising her voice, "Rachel, I'll give you ten seconds to shut up and get out of here before I pound your pretty little face into a pancake, you got that? Get your ass out-"
Rachel protested with a moan as the cheerio pushed her on her side with a lazy foot, "but Santanaaa, I just wanted to say hi to Quinnnn!" The brunette crossed her arms, pouting in a way that was so sad it was almost cute.
Santana looked back to Quinn with an expression that said, 'you talk to this thing?' Her foot was poised to kick the crazy girl in the back, and at that moment, Quinn's digestive tract took the liberty of flipping on its side. Then, just as soon as she'd started, Santana gave up.
"Who am I kidding . . We're all drunk and I really couldn't care less if you're here or not. Better you than Mercedes any day. She's just . . ugh." She sighed, closing the door and slumping against the wall. "Still, if you puke on my floor, I swear to every deity that is, was, and ever will be, Rachel Berry, I will end you... and when we get back to school, don't even think that anything's changed here, you got that? and - are you even listening to me?"
Rachel moaned, flopping on her side and draping her arms over Santana.
"Get off of me. Now."
"You said my face was pretty . . haha," Rachel drawled, hiccuping and pulling herself closer into her lap. Quinn sighed, giving up on having any semblance of a pleasant evening.
"In your dreams, Berry, now get off of me! You liking Quinn is more than enough unwanted attraction for one household," Santana scolded loudly. However, resistance was futile. Rachel was practically cemented onto her, and all the pushing was only making their position more compromising, if that were possible. The brunette's face was only an inch or two away from being stuffed into Santana's chest.
By that time, Quinn had already crawled out of the bathroom and out into the middle of the floor, watching the two amusedly. Santana glared at Rachel with disgust, pressing against her shoulders in earnest. Meanwhile, Rachel tried her damnedest to squeeze her to death, giggling like a five year old. The whole thing was like one giant Vitamin-D flashback. The blonde rolled over, then did a double take as she processed the information.
Wait . . did Santana just say . . . Rachel likes me?
To be continued... R&R would be appreciated!