When Santana high-tailed it to New York, there were a few things she definitely overlooked: 1) If the heat went out at home, all it took was a simple match to re-ignite the pilot light. In the city that never sleeps, especially in Santana's warehouse-turned-loft apartment, a busted radiator meant living in parkas and Uggs for at least two weeks until the Super finally caved and called for a fix. 2) The snow in New York is an entirely different beast. In Lima, the winter wonderland is soft and fluffy, something out of a fairytale. New York snow is literally frozen ice that sticks to the ground in hopes of sending city-dwellers to the ER. And 3) The cost of flights during the holidays was ludicrous. Sure, Santana could attempt to scrounge up enough money to foot the bill, but that would also mean not eating for a week. And while she loved her mom's cooking and the way her family seemed enthralled by her stories of the Big Apple, Santana just couldn't justify dropping $700 for three nights in Lima. She'd be home for Christmas anyway. At least that's what she told herself to fend off the impending loneliness of spending Thanksgiving alone eating microwavable Fettuccini Alfredo and binge watching The Walking Dead.
Rachel left on Wednesday night, her Bambi-eyed apology making Santana roll her eyes and submit to a tight hug goodbye. Kurt would still be in New York with Elliot, but Santana refused to be the third wheel of that queercycle. And Dani? Well, Dani hadn't returned any of Santana's calls since she came clean about kissing Brittany on her trip home for the fourth of July. What a mess. Maybe Santana did need this time alone.
Thanksgiving morning wasn't so bad. Santana created a blanket cocoon and semi-watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade as it traveled the length of Central Park. She was snacking on dark chocolate Milanos when her phone vibrated against her thigh. She had been texting Quinn all morning about how wanky the balloon Spiderman's hand pose looked. Quinn criticized her gutter mind, but Santana knew she was smiling at her phone.
By 2 o'clock, Santana had ventured from the warmth of her bed and walked laps around her living room and kitchen. She'd called her mom, the whole family shouting on speaker phone to wish her a Happy Thanksgiving in a mix of English and Spanish.
"I'm great, mom. Honest. Es la verdad," Santana soothed, laying back on the couch and hooking her legs over the arm. "I'm having dinner with Kurt and Elliot later, so I have to start getting ready," she lied, trying to put her mother at ease. Maribel wasn't easily fooled. "Feliz dia de Accion de Gracias, mami," Santana chimed, ready to hang up. A loud rap on the front door aided in ending her call. "Gotta go mom, Kurt probably forgot his key again." Santana mumbled another quick goodbye before disconnecting and shoving her phone into the pocket of her sweatshirt.
"You know, I should start charging a fee for every time I have to open this damn door for you, Mary Kay," Santana warned, throwing back the lock and wrenching the door open. But it wasn't Kurt standing on the other side.
"Actually I use MAC," Quinn retorted, a playful smirk tugging the corner of her mouth upwards. "If we're being technical," she added, her smirk blossoming into a full blown smile.
"Always a sassy asshole," Santana volleyed, stepping forward to wrap her arms around Quinn. "What the hell are you doing here?" she questioned, squeezing just a bit tighter before pulling away.
"Coming from the queen of sarcasm…that's saying something," Quinn hummed, adjusting the shoulder strap of her duffle. "And that's the greeting I get for schlepping my ass all the way from Connecticut? Rude." Quinn followed Santana into the loft, dropping her bag next to the couch.
Santana's eyes rolled as she shook her head. "Can it, Fabray. It takes you two hours by train. You can even nap on the way," she called over her shoulder from the kitchen. Santana grabbed two water bottles from the refrigerator before joining Quinn on the couch. "No, but seriously. What are you doing here? I thought you were headed home for turkey day." Santana handed Quinn a water and leaned back against the plush sofa.
"I was. Until your mom told my mom that you were staying in the city. So I just altered my schedule a little bit," Quinn shrugged, carefully sipping from the plastic bottle. "My mom didn't really mind. I saw her a couple weeks ago when she came to visit. Besides, Frannie is bringing home her new flavor of the month and I have no patience to deal with that fiasco after the quarter I've had." She pushed back into the couch, tucking her feet beneath her hips. "I figured take out and a marathon of Meg Ryan movies with you wouldn't be half bad." Quinn smiled over the rim of the bottle before swallowing another sip.
"You and your fucking Meg Ryan movies," Santana goaded. She always teased Quinn about her penchant for the blonde actress, but rom-coms were Santana's guilty pleasure too. Quinn already knew that.
"Oh please. I bet you a hundred bucks that you have 'Sleepless in Seattle' and 'You've Got Mail' illegally downloaded on your computer right now." Quinn raised a challenging eyebrow. She knew Santana better than she knew herself.
"Shut up," Santana huffed, gently kicking Quinn's thigh. "Way to flaunt your dough in front of the poor," Santana chastised, earning an eyeroll from Quinn. Sharp wit and blunt truth, that's what their relationship had morphed into. High school was behind them, and so were the days of petty secrets and vicious backstabbing. They were both tiny fish in an unfathomable pond; it was stick together or die alone.
"Uh huh. Knew it." Santana's muttering didn't faze Quinn in the slightest. She merely leaned back against the arm of the couch and nursed her water in cocky silence.
After finishing their drinks and bickering about what food would suffice for the night, they finally reached a decision and trekked across four city blocks to order from the Mediterranean restaurant that Santana swore by. They split the cab fare back to Santana's loft and blustered through the door with takeout that was still warm. Quinn pulled off the sage green scarf that was draped around her neck as she watched Santana shrug off her coat. Once their outerwear was shed, Santana kicked off her boots and padded across the hardwood floor to pour two glasses of red wine. Multiple white Styrofoam containers were propped open on the coffee table when she got back to the living room and 'City of Angles' was set up in the DVD player.
An hour and a half later, the kabobs and basmati zafran rice were demolished and Quinn picked at the cucumber salad that was left on Santana's plate. "You had to choose this movie," Santana sniffled, swiping at the tear trails that glistened on her face. She had cried in front of Quinn on numerous occasions, so losing her shit during a movie wasn't a big deal anymore.
Quinn half snorted, her own eyes wet with tears. "You're the one who owns the damn dvd," she defended, chasing the last bite of salad with the remainder of her wine. Quinn's skin was flushed and her movements were less coordinated due to the two bottles of merlot that she and Santana had polished off. It was moments like this that allowed both women to let their guards down, at least until the buzz wore off.
"Whatever," Santana breathed, tipping her glass vertically until the last maroon drop disappeared between her full lips. She honestly didn't care what they watched; it was just nice not to spend Thanksgiving alone. Santana set her wine glass on the coffee table and slumped back into the sofa. Quinn followed suit, shifting to lay her head on Santana's lap. It was almost immediate that Santana's nimble fingers were threading through Quinn's honey locks, massaging her scalp and scratching at the base of her neck.
"Mmmm yeah," Quinn hummed, completely at the mercy of Santana's skillful hands. "That feels really good, Tana." She was practically purring, her eyes closed and her breaths slowing; the erotic moan of approval made Santana shiver. They'd crossed the line from friends to lovers before, after Miss Pillsbury re-enacted Runaway Bride and left her wedding guests to party into the night on Mr. Schue's dime. According to Quinn it was a one night deal, but Santana always wondered if there was potential there. They never dealt with post-sex awkwardness. Everything just felt…normal.
In her inebriated state, Santana couldn't bite back her retort. "I can make you feel even better," she husked, her nails digging lightly into the nape of Quinn's neck. It was a cheesy line, sure, but it was Quinn. Santana knew that if she was game, it was on…simple as that.
Quinn stilled, the pulse in her neck jumping to a faster beat as her eyes blinked open. The room was silent, save for the last few lines of the movie that promptly faded into credits. She looked up into darkening mahogany eyes and waited three breaths before sitting up and capturing Santana's lips in a bruising kiss. It was definitely on.