The moment Santana opens her eyes, she knows this is going to be bad. Not her hangover – well, not JUST her hangover – but the whole thing. She has only the bleariest recollection of the events of the previous evening but she knows that it wasn't something she intended and it wasn't something that her – roommate? friend? whatever – is going to make easy for either of them. But then she suddenly has a flash of silky brunette locks tickling her stomach, the sensation of hot breath and eager fingers moving lower, lower ... and Santana lets out an aggrieved "Fuck."
Because what happened last night? No matter what a horrible, tequila-fueled idea it was? It was really. fucking. hot.
She risks a glance over her shoulder and is completely unsurprised to find the other half of the bed empty. Berry bailed, that wasn't predictable at ALL. Santana rolls her eyes and then sits up, grasping around for something to put on and cover her very naked top half. She snags a faded black tee from the foot of the bed and it takes way more effort than it should to turn it right-side out and pull it over her head. Rachel is going to make it so DRAMATIC, Santana thinks distastefully, and she'll just have to shut that shit down as quick as possible so it's not going to be hanging over their heads for the rest of time. Left up to Berry, that's exactly what would happen. She would get it in her head that this had to be some big Thing, capital T, and that nothing could go back to their particular fucked-up brand of normal until they "Talked It Out" or "Addressed the Elephant in the Room" or something equally ridiculous.
Santana is going to take the wheel first, though, before little Miss Berry gets her panties in a twist over something that was nothing – really. It was nothing. But now she's thinking about Rachel's panties, and even though she doesn't remember a whole hell of a lot about last night, she does remember those. And that is COMPLETELY NOT THE POINT.
Shaking her hair out until it's flowing down her back and twisting it up into a messy bun, Santana heads out of her room and into the main living space where she expects to find Berry flitting around acting like she's not about to pounce on Santana and demand an early-morning sit-down, hangover from hell be damned. But the room is empty, and Santana should be relieved, right? She can avoid the histrionics. It's not relief that settles in her gut, though, but a familiar brand of Berry-exclusive irritation. Why the fuck isn't the girl playing her role? Isn't that what she LIVES for?
Santana huffs and moves over to the coffeepot. Fortunately for everyone who is going to encounter her between here and her first class, the pot is three-fourths full and decently fresh. She pours a cup and gulps it down with no cream or sugar because that's how she likes it. Except it is pretty hot and she curses herself for burning not just her mouth, but her actual esophagus and maybe the lining of her stomach, she's not sure.
Why does she feel so off-kilter anyway? "Rach?" she yells into the empty space, as if the other girl might be hiding somewhere in the vast expanse of this shoebox they share. No answer, duh. Santana glances at the clock on the microwave and then does a double take because it's not nearly as early as she had imagined. In fact, she has missed not just her first class, but most of her second. And Rachel should have woken her up, dammit. Santana groans and takes another ill-advised gulp of the scalding coffee. It hurts again, but this time the pain satisfies her.
It's not until she's done with classes for the day and a late–afternoon shift at the diner and comes home to find Rachel sitting on the couch drinking her ridiculous daily beverage of HOT WATER AND LEMON, like she's some weird Broadway mutant whose vocal cords must be pickled to keep them functional, that Santana lets herself remember that they have scores to settle. Bones to pick. That kind of shit. She braces herself and walks over to the couch, standing in front of the TV so Rachel is forced to look at her, one eyebrow raised as if she learned from the Master Of Eyebrows herself, Quinn Fabray.
"May I help you, Santana?" she asks politely, and nothing maybe could have surprised Santana more than that distinctly NOT LOADED question, like they're just shooting the shit. She even sounds slightly amused, the little hobbit, and that's crazy because surely she's been thinking of her plan of attack all day long. But you know what? Two can play at that game, and if Rachel Freaking Berry doesn't think last night warrants an explosion of melodrama, then Santana Lopez sure as shit isn't going to be the one to set her off.
"Pizza," she says. And the hobbit has the utter nerve to keep that mildly amused eyebrow quirk that is beginning to make Santana want to scream. "I'm going to order pizza tonight and was gonna see if you want in because if you're not I'll skip the nasty vegan shit and just get the real deal."
"Oh, uh, yeah, no."
Santana scowls. "Oh uh yeah no doesn't exactly answer my question, Berry."
"Sorry, I meant no, I'm not going to be here tonight. I have plans. Thanks for asking though."
Santana spins on her heel and heads toward the kitchen area. "Suit yourself," she says, biting down on the urge to ask what exactly these plans entail. Since when does Berry have plans she doesn't tell Santana about? Since when does she have plans, period? Unless they're, like, incredibly lame plans like karaoke with the damn Glee kids who keep showing up every time you turn a corner in this city.
"What plans?" she blurts. (Damn it.)
"I'm sorry?" Rachel asks with a certain studied off-handedness that makes Santana sure she had heard her perfectly clearly. "What plans?" she repeats. "Lady Hummel and Lord Warbler at Korner Karaoke again?" She's aiming to infuse her tone with "not that I actually care or anything," but she's pretty sure she's missing the mark. She opens the refrigerator and sticks her head inside, looking for ... something.
"Um, no, actually. Just meeting someone from school for drinks."
Santana yanks the top off a bottle of beer that she didn't even know she was reaching for. "You have a date?" she asks, not even able to disguise the disbelief her tone belies. Rachel laughs. Santana drinks.
"I don't see what's funny, Berry. Tell me about this 'someone.' Is he hot?"
"He's ... I don't know. Sort of, I guess. That's not why I'm going out with him."
"Ah. But it's why he's going out with you."
"What does that mean?"
"You're hot. Or, you know, you're a lot hotter than you used to be, which I realize is damned with faint praise considering that you were a walking fashion felony when I met you."
"Well, thank you, Santana. I think there was a compliment in there somewhere."
"Yeah. I mean, you're going to want to keep it down to one drink, you know, like a beer. A glass of wine. Stay far away from the hard stuff."
Rachel looks amused. "You think I can't handle my liquor?"
Santana barks out a humorless laugh. "You're kidding."
"Well, thank you for your ... I'm sorry, was that your iteration of concern? But I think I can handle myself."
"Fine then," she gestures vaguely toward the bathroom. "Condoms in the medicine cabinet."
There is a brief pause before Rachel actually shrieks, "What is THAT supposed to mean? Santana Lopez, you had better not be suggesting what I think you're suggesting, because you know good and well that I am not the kind of girl who does – THAT – on the first date!"
Santana allows a smirk to play at the corners of her mouth. There's her girl. Wait, what? THE girl. Not HER girl. Whatever. "Simmer down, Berry, I'm not implying anything except for the obvious. It's just a matter of precaution. Hard liquor plus Rachel Berry equals bad choices, it always has, and this guy more than likely wants up your skirt. So I'm just saying cover your bases. And for God's sake cover his –"
"Santana!" Rachel snaps before she can finish the thought. "I am NOT going to find myself in any sort of compromising position tonight and I resent the implication."
"Still recovering from last night, are we?" Shit. She didn't mean to say that.
There is a drawn-out pause as Rachel's mouth opens and closes like a fish. It would be amusing to watch the ordinarily verbose girl struggle to find words but Santana is internally cursing herself for showing her hand so easily. Rachel should have been the one to bring this up, damn it. She just gave the other girl all the damn power here. Rookie mistake, and Santana was no rookie.
"All right. I was trying to approach this delicately, and appropriately, but that doesn't seem to be an option anymore. Do you want to talk about this now?" Rachel asks at last, her tone low and deadly.
"There's nothing to talk about as far as I'm concerned," Santana says, finishing her beer and going back for another. "Too much tequila, close quarters, shit happens. I'm just saying you might want to watch yourself if you're going to get wasted again tonight, so you don't end up in some dude's bed who's just 'sort of' hot and is more than likely just looking to get lucky." She clears her throat. "I mean, at least I'm actually hot, and we were both looking to get lucky, and hey, now you get to cross something off your bucket list! Yaaaay!" Sarcastic hand-clapping.
"That's ... wow. Okay, I don't know what I expected from you, but WOW."
"Come on, Berry, I'm just trying to clear the air. I've been waiting all day for you to ambush me and demand to know why I got you liquored up and lured you into my bed for a night of sloppy–drunk girl fucking that was clearly so uninspired that neither one of us bothered to remember. Isn't it your job to make a big deal out of things? I was helping you get started." God, Santana thinks. She sounds so mean.
Rachel shakes her head. "It was nothing, just like you said. It was too much tequila and close quarters and TEMPORARY INSANITY. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go get ready for my date." Rachel stands up and shoves past Santana on her hurry to escape to her bedroom, but Santana catches her by the crook of the arm and yanks her back and around until they are face to face. Rachel doesn't protest, she just waits, but Santana doesn't say anything. So after a few moments, Rachel extracts her arm from the taller girl's, rubbing her arm where Santana's fingers left red marks, and disappears into her room. The door slams behind her. Hard.
"Fuck," Santana mutters.