['You're not sure what you can handle at this point, because it's been years and because you've been working hard in therapy and because maybe this new person will just—work.' Megan & Santana's backstory. lots & lots of faberry fluff in there. trigger warning for sexual abuse.]
[a/n: so, some people on tumblr asked if i would address sexual abuse in a story. thankfully, i've never dealt with it on a personal level, so i just wanted to be careful in addressing it. hopefully i was. there's nothing graphic here, and it's more a story about love & growing than it is about sexual abuse, but be aware that it's here.]
make me forget the touch of other hands (let us go & forget our ghosts)
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don't worry, i won't commit suicide & i won't burn a thing. because from now on, for you, i'll be searching for those moments of always within never. beauty, in this world.
—muriel barberry, the elegance of the hedgehog
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You meet Quinn at the gym.
The first time you see her, you roll your eyes and scoff, because she walks up to the heavy bag next to you in these tiny running shorts and a Yale hoodie and glasses, blonde hair in this sorry excuse for a ponytail that's already falling into her eyes. She's carrying this pink Nike drawstring backpack, and you just assume, in amusement, that it's going to be the most ridiculous thing you've ever seen.
She sits down on the mat and stretches a bit, takes off her glasses, then starts wrapping her hands. She's quick and precise, and, okay, maybe she looks like she sort of knows what she's doing. But you're not here to watch her, so you start working on your left hook again.
You get into the right headspace until you look over, and she has her hood up, and she's absolutely pounding the bag, bright red gloves flashing, and you're pretty sure she could take you in a fight, although you'd never admit that. And then she stops, takes her gloves off quickly, and takes her hoodie off. Her shirt rides up in the back, and you see a smattering of scars.
You look away, because now you get it.
You jab until your arms ache, and when you allow yourself to glance back over, you see she's wearing a purple Legalize Gay t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and she's got an incredible uppercut. Her hair sort of sprays sweat, and she has some of the best footwork you've seen in awhile. It's just, well, sexy.
You catch your breath and take your gloves off, put your hoodie back on and drink some water, because no matter how attractive someone is, you'd not interrupt. You head over to the speed bags after a while to cool down, and your entire body is aching wonderfully.
And then she's next to you, easily working out a rhythm. She pauses and lifts the bottom hem of her t-shirt to wipe her, now, very red and very sweaty face, and you see abs.
She glances over at your obvious staring then. "I'm Quinn," she says.
You're blushing but you're sure you're already too flushed to tell. "Megan."
You both continue to work for a bit before you say, "You've got a hell of a right hook."
She smiles, hair sticking to her forehead. "I'd say the same about your combination."
"Thanks." You look pointedly at her t-shirt and then say, "Do you maybe want to grab some coffee sometime?"
She doesn't skip a beat. "I'm very happily in a relationship," she says, but not unkindly, and you nod.
"I figured there was a very slim chance someone like you was single."
She laughs. "I'm flattered though. And, hey, we can get coffee if you want. I like friends who could help me beat the shit out of someone."
You find yourself laughing too, and you're not even really that disappointed.
You make plans to have coffee later that week.
.
"I can't believe you're a professor," you say.
Quinn lifts a brow at you, takes a sip of some green tea shit. "I'm flattered," she deadpans.
You laugh. "I just mean—you don't hit like some stuffy academic."
She has these green gold eyes that light up in what you think is enjoyment at this banter. "You don't hit like some fat chef, either."
You smile. "Touche."
You drink more of your espresso and tell her about your favorite things to cook, and you learn that Quinn went to Yale, that her girlfriend is named Rachel and she went to university in the city, and you invite them to your restaurant.
"It's impossible to get tables," you say, "so I'll make sure you're on the list."
Quinn legitimately seems excited when she says they'll be there.
.
Stacy tells you when they get there, and you make sure nothing is going to light on fire in the kitchen before you go outside and find Quinn and Rachel in the corner, lit by the city through the window.
"You didn't tell me that your Rachel was this Rachel," is the first thing out of your mouth.
Quinn laughs and Rachel Berry—all big brown eyes and one of the greatest singers you've ever heard, and yeah, you like Broadway just fine—sticks out her hand. "Quinn should really brag more, shouldn't she?"
Quinn scoffs and you say, "Yes. And I'm Megan, by the way. I'm glad you guys could make it."
"Me too," Quinn says. "Rachel's new show starts in a few weeks so we're getting in as many evening dates as possible."
Rachel smiles softly at Quinn and it makes you equal parts happy and sad, and they tangle their hands without looking at each other in the slightest. You know, already, that you've never had what they do.
Some of it is not quite meeting the right person, but some of it is, well—
"What's your best vegan dish?" Rachel asks.
"And your best wine?" Quinn adds.
You laugh and promise to take care of them yourself, and besides, you have an incredible vegan truffle crusted celeriac that's to die for, so you're not really worried.
You bring out your best Anderson Valley pinot noir and some mushroom soup, and they look happy. Really, really happy.
After they've finished their main course and after Rachel profusely tells you how fabulous it is, you bring them far too many cookies and a bottle of Don Perignon on the house, and they both protest even though Quinn looks close to drunk and Rachel isn't too far away. You shake your head and promise it's not a big deal—and it isn't; you have more money than you even know what to do with, and your place is still gaining popularity and ratings—and eventually they just thank you multiple times, and, well. You've seen Quinn box, and if she can have something like this—you catch Rachel looking at her while Quinn checks the time on the watch face on the inside of her wrist, and it's like no one else exists in the world—maybe you can too.
.
"Despite the fact that I got drunk, which always clouds my food judgment, that was some of the best I've had. Like, ever," Quinn says, breathing heavily as she starts an easy cool down on a speed bag next to you. "I think I gained about five pounds, but—"
You laugh. "I like Rachel."
"Ditto," Quinn says, sobering with this sweet, goofy smile. "She's far too good for me."
"I mainly meant her boobs," you say, and Quinn grins.
She stops and stills the bag, then turns to you. "So I, uh, have a very wonderful and smart and beautiful and single and hot and gay-as-unicorns-and-rainbows best friend, and Rachel and I were wondering if, well—can we introduce you?"
You're not sure what you can handle at this point, because it's been years and because you've been working hard in therapy and because maybe this new person will just—work. "Yeah," you say, "you can."
Quinn claps her wrapped hands together once and says, "Rachel's going to be so excited and Santana's going to kill us, but—I have a feeling you'll really, really like her. Honestly. Rachel has all of these insane ideas all the time but, well, this actually makes sense."
.
She's beautiful, with black hair and this flashing smile and, god, dimples.
Her name is Santana, you know, because you caught Quinn saying it a few times, and you stand in the doorway of the kitchen and watch her roll her eyes at Rachel, perched on a bar stool. She's drinking a dry martini, and she gets red lipstick on the glass, and, well. You've not seen anyone so sexy in a long time.
You're in, obviously, your chef's attire, but you take off your hat and try to smooth down your hair. Luckily, you've worn makeup tonight, and you still look rather composed because your staff had been pleasantly competent. And you laugh to yourself because it's been a really long time since you've been nervous in a nice way.
When Rachel spots you walking toward them, she stands with a smile and gives you an excited hug, and Quinn and Santana laugh fondly. Quinn stands up too, and Rachel steps back and says, "Have you met Santana?"
Quinn adds, "Santana's a lawyer."
You smile and hold out a hand. "Megan," you say.
Santana takes a step closer to you, and she turns so that Rachel and Quinn can't see her. They high five after a kiss, and Santana says, "They're idiots."
You have the urge, immediately, to tell her that you like her, but you say, "I can't even imagine."
.
Things start to wind down thankfully early, because it's a Tuesday night, and your sous chef Henry sees you glancing more often than not out at the bar to make sure they're still there, and they are, and Santana looks amused by Rachel's gigantic gestures while telling a story, and Quinn looks both drunk and so painfully in love you want to give her shit for it tomorrow at the gym but you know you won't.
"I've got things here," Henry says, "if you want to, you know."
You worry your bottom lip and take a deep breath.
"She's sexy as hell, Megan," he says. "And you work too hard."
"Just this once," you relent, and he grins.
You go to your office and change into one of the four dresses you keep in your tiny wardrobe, put on a modest pair of heels, let your hair down out of its bun.
Santana glances up and down your whole body when you walk out of the kitchen, and you know by most standards you're very attractive, but Santana is honestly one of the most startlingly beautiful women you've ever seen, but she turns to Rachel and Quinn and says something you can't make out. Rachel squeals and Quinn nods seriously, and then Santana gets off of her stool and walks up to you.
"Do you want to go to the roof?" you ask.
Santana's dimples appear again. "Sure."
Rachel blows you a kiss and Quinn flips Santana off, and you take Santana's hand and turn down the hall.
She lets you.
.
"So how long have you been washing dishes here?" she asks you.
You smile. "I own this place."
"I know," she says. "It's pretty sexy, really."
You've had a bottle of wine by this point, and you're laying back on a quilt you'd grabbed on your way up. Santana's head is right next to yours, hands laced by your hips.
"How long have you been a lawyer?"
"Three days," she says.
You laugh, and Santana laughs. "That's quite a tenure."
"Quinn was excited I passed the bar," she says.
"Hey," you say, turn to her. "It's exciting. I'm sure you worked hard."
"Thanks," she says seriously.
You take three deep breaths, because you really, really like her, and things like this are easier than they used to be but you're still scared.
But when Santana leans forward to kiss you, she is gentle—gentler than you expected—and there is no bravado there. Her hand stays softly on your cheek the entire time, and you open your eyes a second before she does. Her eyelids are fluttering just barely, and she's gorgeous.
She kisses you softly once more and pulls back, then fits her body into yours.
You're quiet for a few minutes before Santana gestures loosely upward and says, "These are the most stars I've seen in the city in years."
You kiss her forehead. "Me too."
.
You hit things harder than normal the next day, and Quinn sort of glances over worriedly.
Later, she wipes sweat off her face with the bottom of her shirt, and she says, "Santana said everything went really great last night."
You hug the heavy bag tight to your chest, put your forehead against it. You've seen Quinn's scars in flashes for months now, and you've talked to her enough that you know she has a past, things that Rachel's patient about. Maybe she'll understand. "It did," you say miserably.
She nods knowingly. "Well," she says, putting her glove against your shoulder so, so softly. "Santana is fiercer and braver and kinder than anyone I know but Rachel."
You take a few deep breaths and nod against the bag, not meeting Quinn's bright eyes under sweaty, tangled bangs.
She gets it, you know she does, because she waits a few more seconds before she goes back to her own bag, and there's a lot of anger in her wrists.
.
Santana can sing, you discover, because you agree to go on a second date with her to a karaoke bar.
She's brilliant, and sexy, and fun, and sort of an asshole, but then she says things like, "I want to go into the public sector because law's not about money to me," so casually while downing a greasy mozzarella stick.
You like her so, so much.
It scares the hell out of you.
.
You don't even have sex, not all the way, because Santana's good at reading you and she stops taking your clothes off after your bra. You start to apologize and she shakes her head, lightly pushes your hip so that you turn over.
She holds you all night.
.
Quinn cancels her office hours because you start crying that Friday at the gym, and she collects you gently and takes you to lunch at this absurd vegan cafe—"I panicked," she says, "and this is Rachel's favorite place so it's the first that came to mind"—and you sit sullenly before she says, "I have bipolar disorder," like it's her coffee order or something.
You blink at her because you're not entirely sure where this is going or what to say.
She sits back and drinks a bit of her tea. "I was diagnosed in undergrad. Long story short, I've been stable for years now."
You smile when she smiles gently.
"But Rachel knows, and she deals with me on bad days, or when I can't handle certain things. I have issues with food and childhood stuff and I have to take a mood stabilizer every morning, and Rachel just—" Quinn shrugs— "is so, so patient and loyal."
You nod.
"I'm not saying, well, you know."
You laugh because it's a rare incoherent sentence for usually eloquent Quinn. "Yeah."
"And, Megan," she says, "Santana was there for me through the very worst things. And we don't talk about them because I don't think either of us wants to ever really think about them now, but—she's fucking amazing."
"Okay," you say. "And thank you."
Quinn smiles and pays for lunch without a word.
.
You were twenty, and you'd just moved to the city from Denver, on a cigarette break from your job as a short-order cook at a shitty diner. You'd gotten one good punch in before—
You still taste his blood in your mouth when you fall asleep.
.
You don't usually say anything because relationships for you mean a fuck here or there, because you don't do intimacy, you don't do more than fucking, you don't kiss like you have time, like your lungs aren't on fire and your breath is cloaked in smoke and racing out naked because it doesn't care, because it's just trying to make it out alive.
Santana kisses like you have lifetimes.
.
Santana calls you one night and invites you to Quinn and Rachel's brownstone because, apparently, Quinn had had a panic attack and Santana hates being a third wheel.
It's sweet, even amid a plethora of insults, the she cares so much about them, and it starts to click that if Santana lets you in, she's the kind of person that would die for you.
Their apartment is predictably classy and lovely and full of soft colors and clean lines, and you know they both make a decent amount of money, so you're not surprised.
Quinn has seen better days though, and you give her a tight hug. She looks exhausted and older and younger at once, and maybe it's because her face is drawn and pale and she's curled in on herself, in one of Rachel's old sweatshirts.
You end up cooking and then drinking, and when Rachel gets home they do their heartbreaking, wonderful thing of just—they take care of each other, you realize. Rachel touches Quinn gently and carefully as often as possible tonight, touches just for the sake of a reminder of presence, and you catch sight of a book on the counter that is by none other than Quinn Fabray. When they're not paying attention, you open it. It's poems, and of course Quinn is a poet, and it's dedicated to Rachel.
When you and Santana, decently drunk, make it into their guest room after some wonderful making out on the couch after Rachel went to join Quinn in bed, she says, "I'll sleep with you next time because it just weirds me out to have sex here."
You laugh and kiss her jaw, wrap your arms around her waist. She's a few inches shorter than you, maybe fifteen pounds lighter, and you kiss the back of her neck.
"Plus I'd like to be sober," she whispers, and then laces her fingers with yours over her chest.
You've never had your heart broken in a lovelier way.
.
Santana punches the couch, and you absently wonder if she'd gotten Quinn into boxing.
It'd come out jumbled, like it always does, because words aren't what you're good at, and you've shut down so many parts of yourself for so long that you don't realize you're crying until Santana stops pacing around your living room and rockets over to you.
"I'm not mad at you," she says, softly. "God, Megan, it's—fuck." This is followed by a string of Spanish you can't understand in the slightest before Santana says, "What do I need to do?"
When you start weeping, Santana quietly asks, "Can I touch you right now?"
You nod, and for hours, she doesn't move, doesn't stop holding you, doesn't go anywhere.
.
Santana is really, really smart, even though she tries to play it down—"I'm not some academic bastard like Lucy Q over there," she explains when you catch her hiding Camus under the latest Vogue—and so when she slips into bed next to you one night and says, "I've been reading about, well. Um—"
"Rape," you say, very very quietly.
Santana's still for a while before she says, "Yeah. Just—I know I can't ever understand and I'm so angry and so sorry but, look. I want you. I want to stay."
You cry these silent, gentle tears that roll down your temples because you stay on your back, staring at her ceiling, and you tell her, "I don't want you to leave."
"Yeah, you're damn lucky to have this fine piece of ass," she says, but none of her usual bite is there.
But you play along and you laugh and you take her hand and you say, "And don't I know it."
.
It slips out in the middle of a conversation about the presidential primaries—in between Santana's, "Shut up, Q, you're a Marxist," and Rachel's, "I don't know why animals aren't more of a priority"—because Santana says something completely stupid about traffic ordinances, and then you say, "I love you."
Quinn and Santana stop immediately and look at you with wide eyes, and Rachel talks for about two more seconds before she says, "This is fantastic!"
You look at Santana because you mean it, because you've meant it for months. "I love you," you tell her again.
You're nervous until Santana's mouth lifts into a smile, and she says, "I'm not saying this because you said it, but—I love you too."
Rachel claps and Quinn laughs and orders champagne and Santana rolls her eyes, but she holds your hand and rubs her thumb over the top of it in little, soft circles and then kisses you on the mouth.
Rachel and Quinn surprisingly don't tell you to stop, and when Santana breaks the kiss and you look over at them, Santana grumbles, "Of course they'd take this opportunity to make out."
"You have to come up for air sometime," you say to them across the table, and Quinn's blushing profusely and the tips of Rachel's ears are bright red.
"We like being successful at this kinda stuff," Rachel says.
"Overachievers," Santana says, and you flip them off with a laugh for good measure.
.
You go see the opening of Rachel's latest show, and of course you have front row seats. Quinn is there with a bouquet of gardenias, which Santana gives her so much shit for before Quinn looks pointedly at her and says, "Fuck off, San," and then they both start laughing—and you'll never really get their friendship but it's endearing.
You spend the half hour you're waiting for the show to start staring at Santana's boobs, mostly, while pretending to look at your program, and whatever things you struggle with, it's certainly not how much you're attracted to Santana.
She catches you just before the show starts, and she gives you this dirty, suggestive smile.
And then there's Rachel, and yeah, you get it now, watching Quinn watch her perform, because sometimes people heal each other. Quinn's told you about how Rachel had almost been willing to give this up when they were younger for some boy, but then there's Quinn and her bright eyes and messy hair and pretty dress, sitting on the edge of her seat and never looking away.
You're quick to stand after the last act, and Santana's trying obviously not to cry.
Quinn, however, is crying, and Rachel blows a kiss during her final bow, and Santana rolls her eyes fondly, and you think, for the first time in so many years, that you're lucky to have people. These people. Who push and fall and catch, over and again.
.
Santana asks for verbal consent with everything that night, after the show, after you watch Quinn and Rachel walk off after the cast party, slightly unsteadily, arms wrapped each other. You've been dating Santana for months, and you only say you're ready because you mean it.
She's the gentlest person you've ever been with, and she's sexy and beautiful and slow enough to make you beg for it.
In the morning you go out to brunch after a shower together, and she says, "That was okay, right?"
You can't help your bark of a laugh, and you know Santana's being serious and so good to you, but you'd both come five times in the past twelve hours, and—"Baby," you say, "that was the best I've had."
Santana smiles smugly and warmly and you snake your hand up her thigh under the table.
She works very, very hard to order waffles without moaning.
.
You have bad days still though. Quinn does too, you know, because you watch her beat the shit out of the heavy bag next to you probably once a month, and you box, in so many ways, to make your body strong again, to reclaim this powerful essence of yourself. You're angry sometimes, which is why you started, but you're not so angry anymore.
Today is a terrible day for you, because you'd had nightmares the night before and you exhaust yourself for two hours before spending all night at your restaurant because the idea of Santana seeing you like this makes you want to throw up.
.
The next morning you show up at Santana's new office—she's an ADA, and you have to admit that power lesbian looks fantastic on her—with black coffee and a cranberry orange scone, her favorite.
She kisses you gently after you nod, and she sits back on the edge of her desk and says quietly, "I talked to Rachel this morning." She takes a bite of her scone and then adds, "Which you owe me for on principle because Rachel Berry at seven am after she'd come eight times last night is an absolutely horrible thing."
You laugh softly, and stand by her side so that your hips are touching slightly.
"I talked to her about—well, Quinn has shitty days and nightmares and stuff and so—"
"I'm sorr—"
"—Don't apologize," she says and levels you with something between a scary glare and the warmest, saddest expression. "I know it's hard to talk about, okay? What you need, what helps. Rachel's dealt with Quinn for years so that's why I asked. I didn't tell her details, just that I wanted to know what helps Quinn."
"Okay," you say, and you reach over and take her hand. She squeezes back.
"So, can you come over tonight?" she asks. "After work or whatever. I'd just like to—" she takes an uncharacteristically shaky breath and says, "do not ever tell Quinn what I'm about to say, but—Megan, I really just want to hold you."
You kiss her softly. It's a thank you. "Secret's safe with me, babe."
.
You bring a lot more vegan Chinese food than any of you can actually eat, but you hate hospitals because they smell a lot like having to talk to cops afterward and the sixteen stitches you don't like to remember, so you'd sort of panicked when you ordered.
Santana and Rachel have snagged this corner of the surgical waiting room, and you sit next to Santana after dropping a kiss on the top of Rachel's head. Santana is still in a suit, and Rachel's in jeans and a big sweater, but they both kind of look like messes.
"What'd they say?" you ask.
"She should be fine," Rachel says, and there's an edge to her voice that you've never heard before. You can't imagine what you'd do if Santana just stopped breathing, and your chest actually aches when you see Rachel pick at the sleeve of her sweater.
"She's resilient," you say, and you offer her chow mein, which you know is her favorite, and she takes a deep breath and nods, offers a tiny smile in thanks.
Santana holds your hand hard, but other than that her face is mostly calm.
Quinn does fine, though, you find out when you Santana wakes you up from her shoulder in the middle of the night. The two of you go home because she'll be in the ICU and only Rachel gets to stay, but you promise to bring some clothes and breakfast as soon as visiting hours start the next day.
Santana cries into your shoulder than night, gently and beautifully and with shaking breaths, and she says, "It was so scary And then every time it's just like, they cut her open."
"Honey," you say, and you kiss her tears instead of wiping them. You don't have words to dispute, so you just hold her tightly, and it's nice, despite the circumstances, because Santana hasn't had anyone to take care of her in a long, long time, you know, and you realize that you're capable.
You pick up bagels and coffee the next morning, and Rachel is asleep, draped across Quinn's stomach. Quinn is wearing an oxygen mask and blinking very, very groggily, and she's ashen and in an obvious amount of pain. But she smiles gently at you and then nods at Santana, and it's one of the prettiest, saddest, loveliest things when she steels herself with a grimace just so she can run a hand—oxygen monitor and IV and all—gently through Rachel's hair to wake her up.
.
It's apropos that you have their engagement party at your restaurant, but tonight you trust Henry with everything during the actual party.
They're happy, and at one point Quinn starts crying which makes Rachel burst into tears and laughter simultaneously, and of course she sings.
Santana tugs on your hand a while later, and you smile when she leads you toward the roof. You grab a bottle of Cristal and two glasses—and, okay, Rachel and Quinn are paying for that and you owe them for a lot of wonderful things in your life but they have plenty of money and you figure someone would've drunk it anyway—and Santana kisses your cheek.
She's beautiful and you slap her ass with a wink when she walks ahead of you on the stairs, and she says, "You're going to pay for that later, sweetheart."
She doesn't give you flashbacks. You've talked about them, what would happen and what she would need to do, and you've gone to a few joint sessions with your therapist. But—
"You're such an ass," you say, setting down the glasses while she pops the bottle of champagne.
"God, don't let Quinn's terrible puns be of any influence," she tells you, tugging you down to the quilt for a kiss.
You laugh into her mouth and then you pour the champagne.
"I suppose we should toast to them, shouldn't we?" she says.
You raise your glass. "To Quinn and Rachel, for tolerating you long enough to pass you off to me."
Santana says, "Hey," and nudges you in the side playfully. She raises her glass and says, "To Quinn's anger issues," and clinks it with yours.
You toast to a lot of things that night—the stars, Santana's fingers, more chances to love fully, modern medicine, safe people.
Santana lies back eventually, and she rests her head on your chest, traces little random designs over your heart.
"I think I wanna marry you one day," she says softly, slurring a little.
It's the scariest, most wonderful thing you've ever heard. "I think I'd like that."
She sighs in what might even be relief. "Plus, can't let Rachel and Q have a better wedding. Bitches."
You laugh softly and kiss her forehead. "You're sweet when you're drunk."
"Shut up, Megan," she says.
"Sleep, sweetheart."
She nods. "The stars are still awesome up here," she mumbles.
"They really are."