I've been experiencing some rather brutal writer's block and to slowly work my way through it I'm now writing drabbles. Some of these will be stand alone, others might make it to a full blown story, it all depends.

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Cutting Room Floor

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As the time ticked on, Quinn grew more and more anxious. Granted, it wasn't like Santana was late, seeing as Quinn had arrived fifteen minutes early, but she at least thought she would be punctual. This was apparently what she wanted, so where was she?

Turning on the spot and pacing back and forth, it became harder and harder to believe this would happen. Maybe it was foolish to be so full of optimism, but Santana had made it seem possible, like this could and would work, and maybe that was going to be Quinn's downfall; believing her.

Yes, it had been her idea to finally take the plunge, to clear the air and confess what they had both been thinking, but Quinn hadn't been expecting to hear that Santana was in the same boat, with the same feelings, the same need to be together. So they were to meet, instead of talking over the phone, over Skype, over states; they were to do this in person.

Yet Quinn was there, and Santana was nowhere in sight.

Just when she was so close to giving up, to leaving, to walking away, she saw what she needed to see, and the rest fell into place.

"You came," Quinn murmured, unbelieving her in view of Santana standing there, looking as calm and as natural as she'd ever seen her. There were no gimmicks, no attempts to impress, they were past that, it was just them now.

Stepping closer, Santana reached forward and took a hold of Quinn's hands, caressing the skin beneath her fingertips, soaking up the sensation of even being able to do just this.

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't?" Santana asked, taking a page out of Quinn's book and raising her eyebrow in question.

How could there have been doubts. Was in not obvious since day one how Santana felt about her. Yes, there was Brittany, and Dani, and all the other girls afterwards, but none of them compared to the one standing before Santana.

That night together, even in the drunken haze at the Bushwick apartment, Santana could remember it all; from the feel of Quinn's lips against her own to the sound Quinn made when she came beneath her tongue. All of it was ingrained in Santana's mind, and she had just been waiting, waiting for the moment to finally come clean, to let it be known that she hadn't forgotten, she could never forget.

So why would Santana have ditched on this? Why would she have turned down Quinn's offer? Why, after all these years, full of tears and heartache, love and loss, would Santana now decide that she had had enough?

Smiling at her response, Quinn leant forward, her forehead leaning against Santana's, both looking in the other's eyes, before Santana could wait no longer. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against Quinn's, slowly, softly, and then kisses her again, and again, welcoming Quinn's arms around her neck.

Holding the other close, breathing the air in their lungs, brushing their tongues against the other, becoming intoxicated by the scent of the other, they stood together as one, ignoring the outside world, the one that had tried so hard to pull them apart. But it didn't matter, they were finally together. They couldn't be stopped. They weren't going to let it dictate to them.

No, standing in the other's arms, both were in agreement; no more, no more running, no more hiding, no more playing it safe. They were going to go for what they wanted, no matter what.

Thankfully, it just so happened that what they wanted was each other.

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