The insistent buzz from your phone drags you out of sleep. As you sit up, you rub your eyes with your knuckles and try to think of who would be calling you this late. After Babygate, the number of 2AM friend emergencies had slowly dwindled until your phone sat silent for most of the day, not to mention the night.
"Santana?" Your voice is rough from sleep, rumbling softly in the back of your throat. When she cuts in, however, Santana is far from calm. Her voice is strung tight; trembling on the cusp of breaking. You can hear tears in the single syllable of your name.
"What happens when you die, Quinn?"
Your spine immediately stiffens, and the sleepy blur that was coating your consciousness burns off in an instant. "Santana, what are you talki-"
She talks over you as if you hadn't spoken at all, "I mean, when I go to heaven, or h- the other place, will I still be awake?"
"Santana-"
"Answer me, Quinn."
"It's said that you'll still be conscious, if that's what you're talking about," you whisper while trying to wiggle into some jeans, "Where are you, Santana? Why are you asking me this?"
The noise of frustration she makes sends static into your ear as she replies, "I'm so tired, Quinn. I can't do this anymore, I just want to sleep. I need to sleep." She sobs, and something important dislodges inside of you, sending a sharp ache echoing through your ribcage.
"I'm going to come get you, Santana, just tell me where you are. Please, San." The nickname that you haven't used in years slips into your pleading, shocking both of you. For a second you hold your breath, afraid that Santana won't answer, that she'll hang up, that something really bad is going to happ-
"I'm at the park. The one near Brittany's house." The line goes dead, but you don't notice. You're already shoving your arms into the sleeves of your old Cheerios jacket and slipping out the window.
When you pull into the park and don't see her right away your heart shoots up into your throat, choking you. Then, movement on top of the dome shaped jungle gym catches your attention. What you assumed to be a shadow turns its head and moonlight catches on a sharp cheekbone and shines across inky black hair.
"Santana!" You half whisper, half shout her name as your dewy-wet sneakers slip on the jungle gym bars.
"Why are you whispering, Fabray?" Her voice is much calmer then it was on the phone. So calm, in fact, that you're flustered and you splutter for a second before she pulls you down next to her and tucks herself under your arm. You tighten your arm around her by instinct and try to find a comfortable perch on the latticework of metal.
You eventually recover your words and say, in a normal tone this time, "I'm whispering because it's like two in the morning. What are you doing out here, S? Why were you talking like that on the phone?"
You pause for a second, before nervously adding, "You scared me."
She turns her face and you get a good look at her for the first time. Her eyes are black, brooding pools and there's a line of wetness glistening in a slick track down to her jawline. She sees you looking and scrubs it off with the back of her hand.
"I shouldn't have called. I just freaked out for a minute, I'm fine." She tries to pull away but you tighten your arm around her shoulders and hold her still. She is so small. It's something everyone tends to forget, or never even notice at all. Santana is usually larger than life. She never seems tiny when she's howling out insults and tearing at people like her life depends on it. Maybe that's why she does it. Keep people at a distance so they never see how truly small she really is.
"Hold on, Santana. Where were you? Did you fight with your mom?" Even as you say the words, you know your guess is wrong. Santana lives on the other side of town, nowhere near this park. You take in her shoeless feet and notice for the first time she's wearing one of Brittany's old cheer sweatshirts. Her hair is tousled in the back and a strand of it sticks to her neck.
She doesn't answer your question; instead she tips her head back, closing her eyes to the swath of night sky above, and whispers, "She was asleep when I left. Just lying there, so damn perfect. Still smiling, even. She never stops smiling, Quinn."
A soft ghost of her own smile flits across her face. You've never seen her look so soft; it blurs her outline until you're not sure if you're looking at Santana or a stranger. The smile falters and fades quickly, almost as fast as your stomach dropped when you guessed where she was.
You know. You've spent half your life with these two people, of course you know. It's always been shoved away, though, squished into a hollow in the back of your mind. Every time their pinkies thread together, every glance, every secret exchange is just pushed away and forgotten. Except it's getting harder to ignore, harder to forget. Your own eyes slip shut as you fall into a memory.
The flames flickered and danced, throwing light on football players and cheerleaders alike, most of which are rendered unrecognizable by the shadows blurring across their faces. The bonfire is going strong, but the mosquitoes are brutal tonight and you've had just about enough of this whole thing. All of the people here are drunk and shallow, and the ones that aren't hateful are just plain stupid. After what seems like hours you finally manage to slip out from under Puck's arm and seek refuge in the gloriously insect-free house.
You're rummaging around in the cupboards for a glass when you hear giggling down the hallway. A small voice in your head tells you to turn around, get your water, and go back to the damn bonfire but some strange force pulls you towards the noises. When you think back on it, maybe the force wasn't so strange at all. Maybe all the things you had shoved away and ignored were escaping their carefully crafted prison. Some part of you wanted to know, to just finally understand.
You poke your head around the corner into the living room and immediately wish you could go back in time. Not just back far enough to kick the stupid not-so-strange force back to wherever it came from, but back to the time when Brittany was all legs and knobby knees and innocent hugs and Santana was still wearing boy clothes and begging you to play catch with her. It was so easy back then. Best friends forever.
The world wobbles on its axis and your heartbeat thunders in your ears, but it's not loud enough to drown out Brittany's gentle moans and Santana's giggles as she straddles her. You can't tear your eyes away, it's like some horrible car accident and you're the rubbernecking passerby.
It doesn't make sense. How can Santana be smiling as she's kissing her way across the sweep of her best friend's collarbone? How come Brittany is tangling her fingers in Santana's hair instead of freaking out about how this is going to ruin everything Quinn has worked so hard to build for them?
You shove your palm over your mouth and bite down on the skin to keep from crying out in, shock, or anger, or something else. Fear? Yes, fear is probably the best word for it. Up until now the world has been a safe, predictable place. High school kids get drunk on the weekends, football players hook up with cheerleaders, and life plods on like usual. Safe. Safe is not two girls together on the living room carpet of some random party house.
You spin around and force yourself to walk calmly all the way down the hall and back outside. You tuck yourself back under Puck's arm and shove away what you just witnessed. Banish the images because everyone knows if you don't think about something, it's not real. Right?
The night air seems heavy now. You drop your arm from Santana's shoulder and shift backwards a little bit so you can face her. You're shaking your head gently, side to side, when you ask her, "What are you doing, S?"
Santana doesn't flinch. She doesn't even move at all, except for her eyes, which are flicking back and forth between yours.
"I've tried to stop it Quinn. I can't do it. I can't stop feeling the way I do about her. It's impossible for me not to love her, and God knows I've tried."
You stiffen at the word. "No. This is not ok, Santana. You can't love her. You can't." You started off intending to discipline her, to be strong and cold like you are always seen, but by the end you're pleading with her. It's that that makes her eyes fill with tears again.
"I can't not, Quinn." She shifts and pulls her feet up underneath her. Her fists are clenched, but to you, she looks frail. Like a bird; perched and about to fly away. She continues, "You think I don't know what this means. I do know. I know what will happen if this gets out. I don't want that, Q. I don't want any of this. I didn't ask for this and I sure as hell didn't choose it." She glares at you and for some reason this comforts you. You're familiar with Angry Santana.
You snarl back at her, "Ok, so you're gay? What are we supposed to do with that? How do we fix this?" This time she does flinch. She cringes so hard at the word 'gay' that you shoot out your hand to grab her in case she tumbles backwards off of the jungle gym. She swats it away and then sits still and silent for so long you begin to get restless.
Goose bumps trace paths down your arms but they're not just from the cold air. The feeling of fear that you had when you caught them together at that party is back. Your heart is beating an unsteady sprint in your chest and you feel flushed and hot all over despite the goose bumps. Being gay is a sin, and sinners go to Hell. Even before they die, gay people catch enough hell here on earth. The fear you feel is not for yourself, it's for Santana. Brittany, too. This world is not a kind place for people like them and you know it. It's preached to you every Sunday morning. Before you can think more on it, Santana's voice tugs you back into the open air. It takes you a second to pick up the thread of the conversation again.
"I'm not like…that. I don't want all that; I don't want the labels, or the expectations and the judging. I'm not all that. I'm not gay," her mouth contorts into a sneer and she spits out the word like it tastes bad. "I just want Britt. It's different with her, it's not words or labels or anything definable at all. It's just us. I don't want anything else. I don't need anything else." She finishes and juts her chin forwards, daring you with her eyes to defy her.
You can tell she's itching for a fight. You are almost tempted to give her one because you know it will make her feel better to fall back into her usual anger and comfortable insults, but you don't. Instead, you rake your fingers through your hair and sigh. You don't know what to do. This wasn't part of the plan. Cheerleaders aren't supposed to fall in love with cheerleaders. This was not normal, not safe, and most definitely not part of the plan. You reach out and grab Santana's wrist.
"No one can know about this." You tighten your grip on her arm and shake it, once, for emphasis.
Santana nods, "No one."
She flips her hand over and wraps her slim fingers around your forearm. You sit there, on the jungle gym under the stars, face to face, arms clasped in each other's grip. You whisper, "And you're not dying, Santana, do you hear me? I don't care how tired you are; you're not going anywhere." Her lips twitch, but she doesn't smile. You narrow your eyes at her until she nods and then you release her and lay back on the hard metal of the jungle gym. The stars glow overhead, soft and steady.
You think of Brittany sprawled out on her bead back home, smiling in her sleep, and something inside of your chest feels like it's splintering. It aches, but you shove it away. Bad things can't hurt you if nobody knows about them. Right?
Author's note: I'm now sure where this strange POV came from; I just love writing Brittana from Quinn's perspective. We know how they feel about each other, but I imagine it must be hard for Quinn, too. Not sure if this fits entirely with canon, so take it as you will. Also, reviews really do make my day (and make me want to write more) so please let me know what you thought if you have time!