Graduation is soon.
I've spent most of my free non-Cheerios, non-glee, non-B time at Q's bedside, both hospital and home. Someone has to keep her perked up through recovery, after all, but she's still so fucking broken. Not just her legs and shit - because duh - but this whole paraplegia deal has, like, sapped her will to live. Maybe singing at her some Bee Gees song about dancing wasn't exactly the best idea but I'll just blame that shit on Blaine the wonderboy. Still though, I go hang with her almost everyday and it's like she's just giving up. She won't talk about glee or Yale or even hot guys at the mall or whatever.
The spark's just...gone.
"Your shows are boring. Give me the remote."
That doesn't stop her from being a royal bitch when she wants to be, though.
I give her my patented side eye-and-smirk combo. My deadliest weapon. "No."
"Excuse me?" I can feel her glare from across the room. Her bedroom, that is, where we chill everyday after school and practice and shit.
"You heard me. You're whiny and annoying so no, I won't give you a damn thing."
"Excuse me?"
Okay, fine, so we're going to play indignant. I mute the tv and turn to give her my full attention. "I saw you at therapy today, Q. All woe is me and I can't do this. Fuck your noise. Your doctors said you have a good fucking chance at walking before you ship off to college and you're just sitting here all mopey because it's so hard. So you know what? You can have your remote when you walk over here and take it from me. Until then, we watch what I want to watch. How's that?" She growls and launches some old paperback she'd been reading. It slaps me clean across the face and I can't help but laugh. Guess her arms still work just fine, at least.
"Fuck you, Santana. You have no idea-"
"You're fucking right I have no idea and I never will because unlike you, [i]I'm[/i] not braindead enough to screw with my phone while driving."
Her face is on fucking fire now.
"That's right, Q. Get mad - at me, at your legs, at that truck, at your own fucking self. Maybe there's still some of that old Quinn Fabray left in there." Yeah, she's about to just rip my head clean off now. "Maybe she'll actually bust her ass instead of throwing herself fucking pity parties all day."
I swear I can see smoke just pouring out of her ears. "Get out," she grits. "Get out now."
I just smirk and shake my head as I stand to leave. "See you tomorrow, Q."
Of course, I totally set the remote up on her dresser before I bounce. Messing with her is still pretty fun and her, "Dammit, Santana!" roar carries me on out her front door. She'll get there. She just needs her spark back.