"You shouldn't have another coffee, Ms. Lopez. It's getting late,"
Santana has been stood by the bay window watching Manhattan turn its lights off for two hours, drinking coffee and hanging her head out into the cold night air to smoke.
"Hannah, I don't give two shits. I need to get this presentation done," she replies harshly, rounding on her assistant as if it's her fault her deadline was shortened. And this is really, really important. "I won't lie to you, I want the promotion."
"I understand –"
"Then shut up."
She doesn't mean to be so rude, it just comes out. Her assistant reels, blinking behind her terribly fashionable oversized glasses.
"Ms. Lopez… It's almost twelve," Hannah looks at her watch nervously, discreetly glancing down at her phone in her pocket. Santana clocks it, and calculates her reply.
"Hannah, you can go. I know you have some midnight movie marathon with fucking Jim from advertising tonight," Hannah's eyes widen in shock. "I do actually listen to you sometimes. And you can go, honestly."
"Joe, from accounting…" Santana flicks her wrist, rolling her eyes at Hannah's words. "You have to leave in half an hour anyway, because that's when I ordered your cab for," Hannah winces in preparation for the Lopez onslaught detailing how even though she was her goddamn assistant it doesn't mean she can get involved in her life, who is she to tell Santana how much sleep she should be getting, who is she to tell her that her coffee intake isn't healthy and that a pack of cigarettes isn't a substitute for lunch, who is she to pass judgement on the little bottle of whiskey that sits in the second drawer of the desk they share.
It doesn't come. Santana sighs. "Fine. I'm only not murdering you because you organise my files colour-coded and I like that and no other PA has ever done it the way I like."
She was too tired to care, really, and that was why she hadn't shouted her dissent. Perhaps it was because she knew Hannah was right; she could hardly keep her eyes open, and she could barely walk in a straight line despite the caffeine fuelled desire to work. It wasn't going to be coherent, it wasn't going to blow anyone away, and it certainly wasn't going to be as imaginative or creative as everyone knew she was capable of. She needed to sleep, there and then.
Hannah smiles, biting her lip. "Thanks, Ms. Lopez. Email me what time I have to be in tomorrow. And for the record –"
"Hannah –"
"- even if you're practically a dead woman walking, your presentation will easily be the best."
She turns and leaves then, leaving Santana stood by the window, watching. She didn't know why she just said that. It's true, of course, she thinks as she calls the lift in the empty corridor and waits, tapping her foot. She couldn't imagine a better boss; not only was Santana already director of communications for one of the daughter branches of Avery Design and Execution – a nothing name, she thought – she was smart, fair and she made Hannah laugh. And it was little things; like Hannah would mention she loved After Eights, so for her birthday (which she wasn't expecting Santana to take notice of anyway) a huge box of them appeared on the desk. They didn't have a note, but she knew they were from Santana. Yeah, she's not as bad as everyone thinks, Hannah muses as she pulls her coat around her and swipes her card through the exit and sets off down the vast street to her cab.
Santana smacks her head against the window frame and groans.
This is bullshit. Why am I even here? she wonders, tapping her dry-marker on her left palm. She didn't actually know why she was there. She had a business degree with a side major in creative writing from NYU obtained last summer, and somehow she had ended up at some forgettable business producing forgettable presentations and winning forgettable grants to design fucking forgettable toys, cars, magazines… Her name would appear sometimes in the small print on the list of contributors, but the difference she made was the polar opposite of paramount, and it certainly didn't do anyone any good, really.
"I can't do this." She speaks out loud, like there's someone in the room listening to her. What can't you do? her subconscious asks, this, or this? The presentation, or the whole corporate life bullshit.
She was going to get the fuck out of here, go to a bar, drink until she forgot her own name, and the name of the woman underneath her. Discarding her last cigarette butt and slamming the window shut, she types a quick message to Quinn, her roommate.
Won't be home until late tonight, fucking shitty ass day. Don't wait up x
She tidies around the office and grabs the bottle of whiskey from her second drawer, shoving it in her bag. Yes, she was going to go to that new bar in lower east Manhattan Quinn and Kurt always talk about. She quickly googles the address as she strides down the corridor, jabbing the lift button several times over like she always does when she's in a rush. When it heaves into place and the doors slide open, she sighs again, but differently. Something close to content, she guesses, as she sinks further and further away from her office and her laptop and the rest of her stupid work. If she was drunk, she'd probably sing her goodbye.
The lift grinds to a halt on the 17th floor. What the fuck? It's half twelve, she thinks, wondering if there's been some malfunction with the calling system. Her meandering thoughts are interrupted and her mouth drops open at the woman who bustles into the tiny metal box, standing on her left side. Santana looks her up and down. From the heels that are a little too high for the office, to the slightly laddered tights and the strange tartan-y skirt, to her little black vest and plaid shirt over the top, to the bird charm hanging on a silver chain around her neck and the blonde curly hair bouncing around her shoulders. There's pen on her cheek and her lipstick is slightly smudged, and her beautiful blue eyes are darting around from side to side, betraying just how stressed this woman is. Wait, beautiful? You're Santana Lopez, you don't crush on girls in lifts. You just don't. Your heart never, ever beats as quickly as it does – she shakes her head abruptly when the woman looks away and reminds herself that this is a lift. There are rules. If it weren't for the fundamental ideal of complete silence, everything Santana knew would be in jeopardy.
For her part, the woman breathes heavily, looking down at the ground. Wow, she must be even more stressed than I am. She pulls out her phone and writes a message to Kurt, asking if he's out tonight.
She kind of wants to ask her if she's okay. But then she remembers that it doesn't really matter, nothing does, because there are millions of people who aren't okay and the comfort of a stranger is something that makes her own flesh crawl.
So they stand, side by side, eyes trained above them or below them as the lift bings with each floor it travels down. That is, until the lights dim and the lift itself stops moving abruptly and shakes a little between the 7th and 8th floors.
"Oh, for fucks sake," Santana says out loud before she can stop herself, and the blonde turns to look at her before looking worriedly at the staunchly closed lift doors.
"Fuck," she curses again. Fucking brilliant. Stuck in a goddamn lift with an absolute stranger at twelve in the morning.
Brittany S. Pierce is not happy. Nobody's listening to her in the big room with the stupid table, even though she knows exactly what she's talking about. They just have to listen properly.
"Right, Brittany… I understand what you're saying, it's just not possible!" the man on her left with the dumbest glasses she's ever seen raises his voice a little, belying his frustration.
His colleague nods. "It's just not feasible. You can't just use the same facilities and provide the same services people pay thousands of dollars for their children to benefit from for free to kids who can't afford it."
For the life of her, Brittany doesn't understand why not. She was a dance teacher, and the studio was free on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday nights. Why wouldn't they use it to teach more children how to dance?
"I'm sure that the parents at school would have something to say about the best dance teacher in New York offering her advice to people paying 80 dollars less than them per lesson,"
"It's not about that, Mark," she slams her hands on the table in a rare burst of anger. "It's about giving everyone the opportunity to try anything they want! If you really want, you can –"
"No, Brittany. It's not going to happen,"
"Manifest it as a charity project if you really want," she taps her pen agitatedly. "God knows it would do wonders for your PR. Mark Adams helps out the little guy. Mark Adams has a heart. Mark Adams is not just a greedy –"
"Brittany!" Jack almost shouts from across the table. "Enough."
And frankly, she has had enough. A job one of the finer private performing arts academies, teaching dance to talented pupils all day every day was, on paper, her absolute dream. But having been thrown in at the deep end of all the complex politics, and 'it's not what you know, it's who you know', and 'it's not how you dance, it's how much money your father has', left her completely disillusioned and dispassionate about what she does.
She wants to help people, help people realise their dreams; and the way she sees it, that's all most people want. So why would she only help those whose parents can pay twenty thousand dollars a term?
"Mark Adams taken for a mug. Mark Adams lets down those who pay for his proffered services in the best performing education a child can have."
"Whatever, Mark." Grow up, you pathetic little man, she thinks, but she can't say it. Have some foresight. What about when you're an old, old man, sitting alone in your huge apartment in Soho, drinking an incredibly expensive Scotch and knowing that your actions denied the happiness of hundreds of people. Yeah, she's really mad.
"Look, Britt," Jack starts from the other side of the stupidly big conference table, the voice of reason. "If you can put together a proper application and logistics folder we can give it some proper thought. You're just not giving us enough to go on,"
She doesn't see why it's necessary, but she kind of gets it at the same time.
"Right. Okay. I'll just fit that in between classes with New York's most talented and precocious brats," her outburst comes before she can stop it, and she claps a hand over her mouth in shock.
"Go home," Jack replies, but not unkindly. "Get some sleep. I'll call Mike to cover your morning class. Don't worry about it," Mark sniffs, but inclines his head in agreement. She's guesses they're going to sleep in the plush lounge further down on their floor financed by the stupidest parents in New York, waiting on the call detailing the new entries for this term. It's coming from Paris, so they have to stay beside the phone anticipating its ringing when the sun comes up.
"Fine," she violently pushes herself away from the table, her mouth set in a thin angry line.
She sets off almost at a run down the corridor of the 17th floor, feeling the rhythm in her feet calm her down. She doesn't like to get mad, and she's happy to find the wave has passed by the time she reaches the lift. Not that she's expecting to share it with anyone; of course, it's twelve in the morning. She catches her reflection in the polished metal of the sliding doors, and sighs. She looks kind of squinky, and when the lift comes she bows her head as she steps in. She doesn't really like the enclosure.
Holy shit. I'm not alone, and she sneaks a look to her right and the poised woman who's staring steadfastly ahead of her. She catches a glimpse of dark hair trailing down her back, and of manicured nails tapping out a text message to somebody called Kurt. The tip for her right thumb is missing, Brittany notices, and she realises why as the woman finishes her text and chews it distractedly.
She wants to ask what she's doing here so late, and why she's fiddling with her own fingers like she's preoccupied. But she knows that women like this don't take kindly to being bothered or asked questions off the cuff by some unburdened liberal dance teacher, so she loudly sucks in her next breath and looks down to the ground, wishing that she could be out of there within a minute.
Suddenly, the lift darkens and Brittany's head snaps up as her companion curses. "Oh, for fucks sake," she says, before wincing and sharing eye contact with Brittany.
She has pretty eyes, Brittany thinks, before looking away desperately roving the lift to try and work out what's happening. It shakes and stops moving altogether, and the woman next to her with the dark eyes swears again.
"Fuck," this time, and Brittany's close to agreeing with her because she's properly realised that she's stuck, stuck in a lift with a woman she doesn't know in the small hours of the morning and there's nothing she can do about it. And she really, really hates small spaces.