Ship: Quinn/Rachel, Brittany/Santana
Rating: Nc-17/M
Summary: Quinn and Santana have known each other for some time now. Their stories are different and their characters aren't exactly complementary, yet one look has been enough for them to find the perfect travel partner. Who would have believed that a simple trip through the beautiful landscapes of Argentina, however, would eventually turn out to be much more, up to weave hopelessly their lives with those of two other girls?
Beta: Cryztalline.
A/N: Hi, here's the first of 7 chapters! The plot is based on a 1971 (And soon the darkness indeed), but I'll totally take other directions with my story. Enjoy and I hope you like it and let me know what you think about it.
Catch you soon!
-BB
/
Chapter 1
Indistinguishable noises.
Maybe it's just some football match commentary. Indistinguishable noises.
Maybe it's not.
She's been hearing this spasmodic succession of Spanish words for days now, maybe even months.
She can't tell for sure.
Rachel isn't sure about anything, not anymore.
She still remembers a time when certainties were her daily bread, her lifeblood, the reason why she woke up to persevere her climbing towards a goal that had looked like Olympus itself.
Her voice.
Her voice was a certainty.
It was the talent with which she could succeed in the consecration of a lifelong dream.
Now her voice sounds shrill and inhuman while she screams out rancor, fear and desire for a freedom that has gradually gathered into her.
Her voice.
Her perfect voice is breaking, almost as if it bends before the impending terror of a new night in this place.
Not that the day is any better anyway.
In fact most of the time she can't even tell them apart. So at least in her mind, her stay in that filthy place is limited to a succession of moments, as heavy as boulders on the chest of a dying man.
This annoying sour smell is her only companion.
It leads her back to the almost total lack of hygiene she's has been reduced to, sweat beading her forehead, neck, chest, legs.
Maybe even her face.
Maybe.
Because after all, she cries, but she isn't sure she still has enough tears to dampen her now pale cheeks.
Rachel isn't sure about anything, not anymore.
Yet she still feels something: it's pain.
But is it physical or psychological?
The rope tight on her wrists would remove all of her doubts, but it doesn't. It can't be possible.
Unsure of anything, Rachel continues to struggle and, eventually, even to hope.
The only door on the room opens, leaving a ray of light beam enough to shake her eyes, something they where no longer accustomed to.
But a second later, it's already taken from her.
Once again, the light gets shunned. The shadows prevail and, this time, one shadow took like the shape of her hunter.
She isn't sure if she'd ever laid eyes on him. She doesn't remember his features; she can't recognize his face nor eye color.
She knows that her own eyes never had the courage to peek, looking for a fight that she fears she won't be able to handle.
It's a huge submission for someone like her to let her gaze wander free, proud and yes, sometimes even contemptuous of what appears in her sight.
It's just the first of many defeats.
Maybe it's not even the most painful one.
Maybe it is.
She isn't sure.
Rachel isn't sure about anything, not anymore.
She doesn't see him coming, but she hears the unmistakable scrape of his shoes against the remains of the earthy floor.
Suddenly new sound is heard.
Something has collided with the ground.
A bowl.
Her meal ... Or what should be consider one anyway.
Her stomach is tight, unable to stand this torture. With an uncontrollable reaction, it twitches after a few bites only, denying further access to food. If it is actually food because, even in this case, Rachel can't tell for sure if this crap is actually edible.
She gives a quick look at the 'food' that she's supposed to swallow and curses, for the thousandth time, her personal demon when he lets the bowl, containing the water, fall heavily. Some of the liquid overflows the boundaries of the bowl and got poured on the ground.
A groan of disappointment crosses the girl's lips. The moan is soon replaced by an animalistic growl in the exact moment when a laugh comes to her ears.
She thinks that a laugh should bring joy, but the only feeling that is building in her is hatred. And she is surprised because Rachel Berry doesn't hate, she has never learned how to do it.
She can't remember exactly when she's started to hate so strongly his laugh or the rough touch of his hands, nor does she know what she would be able to do if only she had a chance for revenge.
"Cállate niña!"
That voice creeps into her brain, as an annoying and irritating chorus. At least for a few moments she ignores his hand pressed upon her head, it wants to punish her with a slight push.
The gesture is repeated many, many times and on each occasion she wonders, how dares the man use an approach as confidential on her? As time had pass, she has come the realization: even if she doesn't open her mouth, her attempts of opposition are so pitiful that they amuse him greatly, they push him to become the thorn in her side. As if the fact that she's his prisoner is not a big enough penance.
She screams, again and again.
In hopes to give her desire for redemption a voice.
To prevent herself from becoming a new Rachel.
Because if she becomes capable of hate, she'll be capable of anything.
An ogre is swallowing everything she's always believed in, and she fears that monster is tearing her very essence away.
She wonders how long it will pass and if she'll still remembered who she was long before living this nightmare.
Details are starting to blur, memories are fuzzy, lacking of a real consistency.
She's no longer sure she has really lived those moments.
She's no longer sure she has really lived that life.
She's no longer sure she was that person.
Had it really happened?
Had she really lived?
Maybe that life was all part of a dream.
Maybe even these moments are part of a dream.
Maybe not.
She can't tell for sure.
Rachel isn't sure about anything, not anymore.
The most beautiful landscapes she has seen in her entire life.
These are the words which, from a few hours, have kept repeating into Quinn Fabray's mind, preventing her from developing new and more substantial thoughts.
Not that 24 years where that long of a lifetime, but it certainly can't be said that her life has been devoid of adventure stories. Yes, she is 24 years old, but she has lived fully, using every opportunity to escape from the reality of that little corner of Ohio that went by the name of Lima.
She loves her life.
And there are no doubts she loves herself.
Or at least, she has learned to do so after hard and complicated stances against a despotic father, far too "old-fashioned" for her taste.
But she loves her new self anyway.
She isn't afraid to create it, to build it based on shards that someone else, without any right, had taken the trouble to break.
It isn't easy, but what the challenge is actually easy? Victory wouldn't be equally amazing if the end of the battle is already written somewhere, right?
She has known how to reinvent herself, keeping the shining light in her eyes that has always distinguished her. She won't let anyone take it away from her; her precious light, this flicker of freedom and hope that have accompanied her, even when there wasn't even the slightest shadow of freedom and hope.
Everything had changed.
Suddenly she had known that she could accomplish everything that she had always dreamt of and keep hidden from the eyes of, a way too selfish, world ready to tear it all away.
Suddenly, the casket she had carefully buried in her heart resurfaced, opening and hatching as wings do, magically appearing and ready to make her stand. Taking that flight that she has coveted for a long, long time.
Quinn hasn't missed the chance.
She has begun to fly.
And her eyes have begun to see and discover and rate and admire.
They were no longer heavy or fearful, but rather greedy and curious.
Researching has turned from fun to necessity.
In a fit of madness or, as she's used to say, in an exaltation of her own spirit, she's begun to travel, touching and breathing in what, for years, has only been seen in books of study for her.
She knows the United States.
And America.
And the world.
It is up to Argentina now: last stage of a long adventure, lived on the saddle of a bicycle. Because being an integral part of the world also includes things like this and it doesn't matter if the warm rays of the sun are breaking onto her skin. She'll take all of this and more for the grand spectacle that stands majestic in front of her eyes: long slopes show themselves on both sides of the one and immense street, lined with small glimpses of grass, sometimes peeking.
These images seem to repeat themselves endlessly, yet they're never dull or boring on her eyes. This does not mean, however, the sight of a decent descent is less pleasant. Her legs have finally found relief and she can now enjoy the feeling of the breeze against her body.
But someone, at her side, doesn't seem to be of equal judgment: she feels distinctly the shooting the bike to her right undergoes and she knows that another challenge has begun.
"You'll never beat me, Fabray! Deal with it!"
Santana.
The friend of a lifetime.
They had met in Texas: both were directed to the south. Eventually they found themselves in Vegas casino, with lighter pockets and hearts a bit more full. And they hadn't separated since then, because sharing with someone experiences that they were going to live individually would taste much better.
They had become an inseparable duo.
Constantly competing.
Constantly with an outstretched hand, one toward the other.
So similar and yet so different.
A laugh shakes Quinn's chest just as her legs are starting to make more pressure on the pedals, allowing her to catch up, and Santana smiles back. She would never admit it, but Quinn's laughter warms her heart like nothing else.
"I wouldn't be so sure, San!"
/
It isn't unusual for them to run into small towns like this one: a few small houses, even less shops and one hotel. That's why they're not surprised about the glances - sometimes curious, sometimes wary - which are addressed to them. They are tourists in a place where everyone knows everyone, a novelty in ah habitable place.
With a little luck they manage to find the only available refuge.
The lobby of the hotel - this is always the appropriate definition anyway - seems rather humble, sparsely furnished and leaves no hope for better in certain rooms. The owner, an elderly woman, seems too busy to fill out some paperwork to notice them.
"Come on, San ... Give me proof of your magnificent Spanish," Quinn breathes in her friend's ear, with a smile on her lips, it's so obvious that it can be perceived even without the aid of sight.
Santana looks up at the ceiling and she would also pull out a sigh but it would mean letting Quinn win and she doesn't really want it. She walks to the front desk fast, as if she wants to take her of the matter quickly and rests your hands on the counter to lean over to the woman: "iHola!" She mutters after moments of unusual hesitation.
A few steps away, Quinn is enjoying the scene way too interested, ready to seize upon the first mistake she's friend is going to make.
Santana prays that the girl hasn't picked up that unusual voice because, she herself, has realized how hesitant to appear. Who doesn't seem to care is, instead, the owner of the cabin that looks like she's suddenly awakened by the most beautiful of dreams. She raises her face filled with a smile that, in some ways, makes the two girls startle.
"Buenas noches," the exclamation is gladly accepted by Santana, who looks much more relieved. She proved her skill in communicating to the bitch of her friend.
"Hmm... me llamo Santana..." She says still a bit hesitant. The woman nods and at that exact moment she feels distinctly Quinn's smile widen, making space on her face, already modeled in the most classic complacent expression. No, she's not going to let her win this. "...y nosotras tenemos una..."
"Do you have a reservation?" The old lady starts then, interrupting her. These words come to Santana's ears of as clear as Quinn's laughter. A laughter that she tries clumsily to contain when Santana's gaze tries to burn her down.
"Are you kidding me?" Santana's snappy accusation comes straight to the woman who opens her eyes, as if she hasn't understood her words completely.
And in a second the young and naughty girl feels pulled by a powerful slap. As usual, it's up to miss Fabray to fix the situation: "Excuse her ... Traveling sometimes makes her particularly surly, but I'm sure she was going to tell you that yes, we have a reservation by the name of Fabray."
The intervention of the girl seems to work to the point that a new smile appears on the lady's face just like a new snort comes from the Santana's lips.
"You're staying only for 3 days, right?" She asks, controlling the reservation in the registry.
"Exactly," Quinn replies instantly.
"It's a pleasure to have you here!" The woman says with a hint of emotion in her voice. It's been too long since they've had reservations, "Can I have your papers?"
Santana is the first to lean her passport, turning to the other girl that, for some undefined reason, seems to stall.
"Come on Q, I'm sure that the lady ..." Santana turns to the woman, opening her hand as if to let her speak.
"Carmen!" She replies, taking the invitation.
"I'm sure that Ms. Carmen won't pay attention to the picture of questionable beauty in your passport," she teases, turning a knowing smile to the woman behind her.
"I can't find it," Quinn justifies herself by continuing to rummage in the bag.
By now impatiently, Santana grabs her friend's backpack roughly and, without any difficulty, she manages to find her passport. She looks at it for a moment, curious to understand the fuss and when she has identified the cause for it, she turns to Quinn who still looks embarrassed.
"Assport? Q ... Seriously?" She asks, looking at the adhesive, glued to cover the P.
Quinn doesn't reply. She simply lets out a laugh, aimed at dampening the embarrassment that is still quite evident from the redness on her face.
"Well! I'll accompany you to the room ... Follow me," Carmen says, she finished her work.
The room is far better than what they had expected, but that doesn't stop them from examining it.
"The bathroom is mine," Santana says, running to the bathroom, ready to enjoy a relaxing shower.
Quinn shakes her head: she's to the way Santana behaves, even if it means she'd probably wait an hour before she can give herself a nice bath. She sits on the bed, crossing her legs, and untying the bandana tied around her head. She puts everything on the table with so little grace that she risks dropping the small mirror that stands on it. She places it with great care, not before, taking a glance at herself. She notices with satisfaction that the cheeks, a little more colorful thanks to the sun of those days, successfully hide her tiredness. She scans every corner of her beautiful face, without avoiding dwelling on the hair. Cutting it was a good idea... pink-dyeing it? Well, if nothing else, Santana would have recognized her even at a considerable distance.
She hopes that her friend gets out fast, but the water keeps flowing incessantly, making her sigh. She opens the drawer of the bedside table, looking for something to read that possibly isn't the Bible, and she finds the tourist brochures.
"Villa Del Lago…" She says in a whisper.
Judging from the photos, the place looks amazing and it would have been equally amazing to take Santana there.
A rang sounded.
Her phone.
Sarah hasn't given her any peace for days and well, Quinn would have picked up if it weren't for Santana... But she's not there...
She grabs the phone and allows herself a few moments to contemplate the figure that appears on the screen. She's really beautiful, even more beautiful than how she looks in her thoughts: her red hair, these brown eyes, they're so special; her mouth, the one that Quinn has kissed so often and-
"Don't even try it!"
In a second her hands are empty and her eyes clash with stern expression on the other girl's face.
Thank God there's Santana.
/
She isn't the kind of girl who stays locked in the room, even this tiny town doesn't look like the funniest place on earth either. During the afternoon bike ride, they had the chance to admire not only nature, but also the very, very few pubs and bars. Eventually they'd chosen the only pub with more than three customers. At their entrance, they're greeted with different looks. Quinn cleverly pretends nothing has happened, but Santana feels excited.
"iHola, gente! Mi amiga ... está soltera." She says, spacing out these words with a nod apparently aimed at Quinn.
Fabray, having heard the voice of her friend, turns to her with a completely unaware expression, "What did you say?"
"Nothing you need to worry about ..." Santana says hasty while taking a seat at one of the tables.
The place is undoubtedly her natural habitat: low lights, music relatively high, loads of alcohol and eyes focused on her. In particularly a pair of eyes that she notices almost immediately, considering the huge smile that crosses her face.
"Okay ... I like the potential," She says, turning a look at Quinn that, however, shakes her thick pink hair and gets the attention of the waitress who, in a moment, it's available for them, "¡Hmm...two beers... por favor!"
Another ring.
One more.
Quinn silently pleads God that it isn't Sarah, but her prayers are in vain and she knows it well.
She grabs the phone without pressing any button.
The indecision about what she should do is wearing out slowly, but Santana is there, in front of her, and she's never going to allow her to take a step towards her ex-girlfriend.
She thinks that somehow, Santana is disrespectful. Why does she stop her from doing what her heart suggests?
It's too easy.
It's too easy to hide to escape awareness that, moreover, she has already acquired some time ago: Santana is protecting her.
She finds it weird and a bit disturbing that this young woman, who doesn't look trustable on anyone's eyes, is protecting her.
"It's Sarah..." She confesses as she's looking for an device that she is probably not going to get.
Santana understands.
Because, after all, Santana always knows what's going on.
"Oh, come on Q! You can't reply! She's an idiot!" She pulls out honestly.
"I know... I know..." Quinn admits, probably for the first time. But Santana knows it's not over yet, "... but... maybe I should just talk to her..."
She knows that Santana is never going to give her positive feedback about it and maybe that's why she sounds so hesitant while speaking.
"No. No, no, no! Don't even think about it!" She doesn't even let her finish. Sarah is a curse that has befallen her friend and she's not going to let the massacre continue again and again and again; but the pain on Quinn's face reminds her that the hard way is not going to solve anything, "It's not worth it, Q. We've come down to this like a lot time ago..."
"I know, but... you know I can't stand being alone for long..." It's probably the most stupid sentence of the century and Quinn herself realizes it, but it had seemed as a good justification to the harsh words of her friend before she spoke it out loud.
"It's not a problem, Fabray ... I'm sure we'll be anything but alone!" Santana proclaims, winking at that pair of eyes that hadn't stopped starting, not even for a moment, since they've walked in.
"I don't think that's my type..." Quinn comments amused by the exchange of fiery glances.
Black eyes.
A lit black.
A black that you can't forget.
Just as blacks as the hair.
Rebel curly hair.
He looked at them like a hunter watches his prey, but Santana doesn't notice, she's too busy enjoying the sculpted jaw, the obvious biceps and outlined pecs.
She's so busy that she almost missed the entrance of the most beautiful creature she's ever had the opportunity to see in a lifetime: a pair of legs, bandaged from some simple and a bit bland jeans, so long that she believes they could reach the moon, thin waist to create a slender line that stretches at the height of small, charming breasts.
She's believed that harmony and magnificence couldn't exist.
She has to change her mind.
She's never imagined that shades of blue even existed, until she's seen them painting the eyes of that masterpiece of a woman. And she finds himself thinking that if there's a heaven, well ... It must have the color of these sapphires.
It all happens in a few moments.
Suddenly Santana is no longer a prey.
And the first to notice is Santana indeed, who loses no opportunity to take vengeance with a witty and poignant observation: "I suppose that is your kind?"
"You know what?" She tells her, turning suddenly to her friend, but not seriously expecting an answer from her, "I'm going to powder my nose!" She finishes with a smile on her face, as disarming as fake.
A new, amused expression on springs on Quinn's face as she does what she had done the best the entire evening: she shakes her head.
She knows too well what Santana's intentions are and the make-up right now is the last of her thoughts. So she isn't surprised when she finds out that, in fact, Santana's is following the trail of a pair of long legs.
By the way, Santana gets surprise because of course she wasn't expecting to be completely ignored by the mysterious girl. In fact the blonde barely notices her presence. It's as if she doesn't exist, even when she gets next to her, leaning on the washbasins.
It's even worse.
It's as if the other's eyes, fixed on her, make her uncomfortable.
Unacceptable.
It's unacceptable and unbelievable, for Santana Lopez, to get unnoticed.
"You're not from around here, are you?" She asks in a tone that implies a curiosity that is actually false.
The answer is obvious: her colors and features are certainly not typical of the area. These wonderful blue eyes, blond shining hair, almost unnatural, and her skin ... So soft and pale that it could be compared to silk. Santana could have found a much better way to start the conversation.
In fact she gets no answer. The girl gives her a grim look through the mirror and then just walks out, leaving her with a bitter taste in her mouth.
It doesn't end here, but not tonight because running after someone isn't her style. She's going to make her moves with precision and the next step involves the seducing a dark-haired guy that – she's sure about it – is going to enjoy what she has to offer.
Two beers and several chupitos later, Quinn realizes that she's been staring at the leaflet in her hands for the past minutes. It's about a missing girl.
Santana!
Where the hell is Santana?
She looks around frantically until she finds her friend at the counter, narrowed in the passionate grip of a guy.
Santana's speed of action is impressive, in some even frightening ways, but as usual, she ignores the personal considerations to get up and head unwillingly toward the duo, which shows no intentions to move away from each other.
"You're my prisoner now..." The boy says, shaking Santana's hand against the counter. Not that she wants to run away, on the other hand.
"Really? So apparently I'm in trouble." Santana says in a tone of fake shock.
"Yeah... In serious trouble!" He agrees with an expressive smile.
Disgusting.
Yes, Quinn would have defined the show before her eyes as nothing more than disgusting. In some ways, she's surprise that Santana doesn't find it disgusting as well, but she decides to gloss over the consideration and try to attract the attention of her friend with a measly, however, improbable cough.
Luckily for her, it's enough because Santana looks at her, at least until the boy whispers something in her ear.
"What? What does that mean?" She asks, this time really confused.
"It means that you... your friend... and I..." He doesn't finish and there's no real need for that, but Santana takes a moment to realize what really is his offer.
"Oh, no, no, no, José... No way... Not with her!" She says, choking a big laugh hardly.
On the other hand it doesn't seem to be a major blow to José since goes back to paying attention to the girl's neck as if nothing had happened, Santana is definitely revved up, but at least she mimics at her friend a whispered "I'll meet you at the hotel..."
And Quinn is really hoping that's not an empty cliché.
/
The full moon is high in the sky.
She has seen it before she returned to the hotel.
In fact, she has been admiring it for several minutes.
She had believed that during these trips of pure pleasure, full of adventure, she would have gotten plenty of time to stop and think, to appreciate the little things, but she's soon discovered that time is never enough and too often the space for her usual reflection gets swept away by the desire for knowledge. For this reason she never lets go on an opportunity to carve out a bit of time for herself.
She needs it.
She needs to dig so deeply into her soul, enough to be able to free her mind from thoughts, feelings and innermost emotions.
Not that she particularly adores coming to terms with her conscience.
It's a beautiful bitch, her conscience... and most of the times it sounds suspiciously as Santana's voice... but she knows which are the right moves to continue her climb to a new and higher maturity. And Sarah isn't included in this plan.
She needs to look ahead, but she's always wondered how it was possible to delete or ignore a looming presence like hers.
She asks the moon, muse of every dreamer, but she doesn't get an answer and now these doubts overlap ferociously in her mind, as they're the protagonists of some kind of struggle, where every blow was a blow to Quinn's head and heart.
In these conditions, sleeping is impossible, especially when a sudden heat begins to wrap her face, and then her shoulders, torso, and her entire body. And suddenly the light white sheet, placed the good on her legs becomes incredibly suffocating.
Her eyes move frantically from side to side of the room, not meeting anything but the darkness of the night. In that irregular motion her gaze falls on the bed right next to her, and she finds it empty and clean. And then she looks at the alarm clock, which keeps on scoring an indecent time.
Sleep.
She needs to sleep.
Her head is relaxed against the pillow again.
A forced smile, she tries to pretend she's calm.
Half-closed eyes.
And then a new noise, this time it's neither her head nor her heart.
This is real life.
A noise.
Indistinguishable noises.